#like. its one thing to have the constant lingering 'IS he a murderer? we don't knooow'

[dennisboobs]

@absolutely-not-my-main-blog

god YES precisely. the point of no return. and it makes it even more bizarre because of the episode's placement in the season, imo. like this wasn't a finale ep, it's not a two-parter. we watch this and are just expected to move past it as if there wasn't just a list of arguably the gang's worst crimes committed to date. which like, its no surprise that they're terrible people, but they almost always experience karmic justice or some form of consequences for their actions. i think new wheels shifts the show to a place where you are just. unable to enjoy the characters. and latter seasons have this pervasive feeling of... idk. being unable to enjoy anything, because not only do these characters suck, but they don't even feel like friends who (occasionally) like each other anymore. there's no humanity left in them. you rewatch early seasons and they all still feel like they're stupid idiots who could actually plausibly exist. they're terrible people, but they're still relatively grounded, and the show is fun to watch. something about the series (and for me it actually starts in 11, lets up for 12, and goes down hard in 13) just stops working for some reason i cannot put my finger on. it's like. the feeling of fun was drained out of everything. with the exception of a few episodes (suburbs.), i genuinely believe season 1 is better than 11 or 13.

it's really hard to watch when shit keeps pinging back and forth between clearly wanting you to genuinely empathize with the cast (dennis' arc throughout 12 with ptsdee, tends bar, dennis' double life, and an ep like mac finds his pride) when it goes so far beyond a group of friends who keep taking something stupid, oftentimes mundane and normal, then accidentally making shit catastrophic for themselves and having to deal with it:

kidnapping a critic that gives them a bad review -> only getting away with it because he decided not to press charges

impulsively selling drugs they happened to find -> being forced to deal more drugs (and dennis is forced into sex work) to pay back the gangsters

burning down a family's house after attempting to give it a makeover -> dee is forced to give up her mom's mansion for the family to stay in

and then it just becomes. you killed a child? you banged a kid? oh, okay, no worries. everything's fine, let's just reset things. frank and dee get a little bit banged up in their accident and lose the 2018 range rover, but that's it.

dee bangs a kid because she wanted to "cuck a bitch" -> she loses the car but gets away with the crime

mac and charlie beat up a group of children who stole mac's bike and kill one of them -> they get away with killing a child

the gang accidentally blew up an empty building and were tracked down and made to do community service. dennis was implicated in maureen's apparent suicide. we know they all have existing criminal records. and yet here, not only do they get away with it, but they're also content to ignore that it ever happened, and so is the show. usually when a more serious crime is committed it's at LEAST the focus of an episode. the structure of this episode positions everyone in a place where it's just business as usual for them. and then no one even fucking reacts or points out how horrific the crimes that've been committed are. which... they usually would. they do in the future and have in the past.

new wheels is absolutely my least favourite episode in the entire series, and while there are episodes that suck more on a technical level, or some that aren't super fun on a rewatch, nothing has left me as genuinely upset as new wheels did lol

and then the script. good god. the fact that new wheels was WORSE before it was edited down. i already hated it with a passion but knowing that they planned to insinuate that dennis killed his fucking son makes me furious 💀💀💀

Yes! Someone who shares my opinion of New Wheels! I’d seen mostly positives for it around but I never liked it much for the exact reasons you said!

Oh I have.... definitely expressed my hatred for it. I was surprised by the results of the poll I did, and I've seen a lot of love for it too; rewatching I honestly can really only say Why. Why does this episode exist, and why does it play out like that. Like, surface level it's an alright episode, rewatching all of s13 I can maybe understand why people would say it's the best episode of the season, but it's just... perfectly exemplary of the weirdness of the entire season. I know RCG doesn't like having to deal with continuity in most seasons (s2 was an exception because they were trying to integrate Frank into the gang, and it ended up fucking them over bc the network reordered the episodes creating weird continuity errors) but there's a difference between basic continuity (adhering to previously established lore) versus writing a semi-continuous story that carries throughout the season. Glenn has talked before about preferring to keep the show more grounded rather than allowing it to be cartoonish (arguing against the inclusion of little things like adding SFX for Frank firing the gun in post when they hadn't planned for that in a scene, which means that there's a complete lack of reaction from people in the restaurant = unrealistic) and I have to wonder if it's a coincidence that for the seasons he wasn't in the writers room for, shit got. wild. I think at some point you have to draw a line and say, okay, there is no way in fucking hell these are real people anymore. Not that they haven't been getting away with absolutely despicable shit for years now, but it used to be that the designated straight man of a scene would at LEAST point out how fucked up something is, have some sort of objection, something to ground the show in reality and remind us that these characters are in the real world who could face consequences (injury, community service, arrest). I feel that's what missing from New Wheels. WE as the audience knows how fucked up it is for Mac and Charlie to kill a child, or for Dee to sleep with a minor, but to have Dennis, completely removed from the situation, not react with shock or horror, is...... a weird choice. Especially with how grounded his arc is, and how grounded HE is, relative to the rest of the gang in the episode. It feels off. Even if it was like, Mac and Charlie saying YOU DID WHAT? to Dee, and she and Frank doing the same back after hearing that they're unsure if they killed a kid. Zero judgement at all? Unlike the gang <3 They can generally recognize when the OTHERS pull something that's completely batshit,they just lack self-awareness when they're the one committing the acts yknow?? not always, but usually.

[springsylph]

Touch and Agree | Charles x Reader

charles smith x f! reader | no warnings | 2.1k | ao3 |

was trying to get back into writing but i was struck with an indescribable sadness once i thought about how useless charles must’ve felt after burning his hand in blackwater. so. i raise you unknowingly touchstarved reader versus Charles™

The horses have slowed to a trot by the time you press your cheek to the frosted window.

You hear Arthur shout some muffled declaration of success as he and Charles’ shadows curl around the front of the stable. The gang is likely aware of their return, senses now heightened by hunger and the frigid winds of Colter. But you feel the need to relay the message to the few still silently huddled in the corners:

“If you’ve been praying, today’s your lucky day.”

Tilly, arms crossed tight over her torso, is the first to pipe up from her spot near the fireplace. “Micah finally saw his sorry behind off the nearest cliffside?”

“Miss Tilly!” Grimshaw hisses, scandalized. The only thing stronger than Grimshaw's personal gripes are the exigencies of the gang. “No more of that. You know we need all the hands we can get.”

Karen, squished next to Mary-beth and a now slumbering Sadie on a wooden bench, scoffs. “Didn’t think we counted meat hooks as hands.”

That gets a snort out of John, who realizes too late that his body isn’t quite healed enough to handle said snort. A flick to the forehead from Abigail quiets him down in his cot before she turns to find you still gazing out the window.

“I’m assimin’ Arthur and Charles are back?”

You nod. “With one…two deer, by the looks of it.”

Your inhale is sharp when Charles pulls his catch over his shoulder with a jerk, beckoning Arthur to follow after him to mask his discomfort. The tension leaves your spine only after the last dregs of his shadow disappear into the stable.

Half-turned to Abigail, you mumble, “Does Charles look a little...off to you, these days?"

"Off," she repeats. The darkness under her eyes colors her words. "Off how?"

"You know," and you make as though to say something of substance before your eyebrows pinch together, "off.”

Abigail looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “If you’re waitin’ on Charles to scream bloody murder, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a burn to do him in.”

Another brick is slotted into a broken wall. 

“I’m just worried.”

“About?”

“Charles. I think his hand is botherin’ him again.”

Abigail’s sigh dusts the cold air with its warmth. “I…suspect most things might look a little off since we've been cooped up like this. But we’ve got O’Driscolls and Pinkertons on the prod." She looks at Jack, now sitting cross legged at her feet and fiddling with the corner of John's blanket. Abigail had given up on herding him toward the fireplace some time ago. She strokes a featherlight hand over his head. "No sense in stressing yourself out over somethin’ Charles would’ve told us ages ago. It's good that he’s up and movin' though, ain't it?"

Your momentum stalls.

It should be. It should be.

Blackwater has left none unchanged. If you weren’t dead, you were shot, and if you weren’t shot, you were waiting for it. Hands bound. Body trammeled by fear and constant surveillance. From anyone else, this haste would be a blessing. A miracle, even, in light of all that'd been lost.

From Charles, it reads more like a warning.

But you don't think your feet have been planted here long enough to question their habits.

You say nothing and return your still numb cheek to the window. Will it always be like this, you wonder? The second guessing. The wary eyes. There’s a certain degree of trust that you aren’t privy to yet. Somehow, it feels worse knowing that everyone is making an effort to be so kind to you despite it. You know plenty who wouldn’t do the same.

Better dead than dead weight. 

The creed still lingers. Subsisting on what little you've gleaned in the short time you've been running with Dutch's group. Perhaps that's the root of this peculiar sense of worry. Of pity. You and Charles don’t speak often—there's a general lack of overlap in duties, for one, and he mostly keeps to himself. But you've always been one for actions over words. Charles was frighteningly capable, and more than willing to prove it time and time again.

To him, the burn he’d suffered may as well have been a bullet to the leg.

Your only issue is that no one else seems to see it.

You’re tracing shapes into the windowpane when movement just outside startles you. Charles, bow in hand, stalks toward one of the smaller cabins before veering off toward the small stream that lies just behind the stables.

You're springing up and stumbling out the front door before your brain has time to temper your heart. Someone shouts after you—likely Grimshaw, from the way it rakes over your ears. But you ignore it in favor of grabbing handfuls of your skirts and pushing through the powdery snow.

When you round the corner of the stables, breath short and chest tight, you find that Charles hasn’t gone very far at all. He's leaning against a crooked tree, face all taut lines as his fingers fumble with the grip on his bow. A frown plays at your lips when you notice the path of his footprints, stretching a few paces farther before it loops back to where he stands.

“Charles?”

You think you hear him exhale through his nose before he meets your gaze with the same smile he usually does. Bright. Unwavering. A little squinty, since the sun is in his eyes. “You good?”

Right. The usual pleasantries. You've conversed with him in your head for much longer than you have in person.

“I’m uh, fine." You blink stupidly. "Are you?"

“Mhm. Right as rain.”

Your eyes can't help but slide to the bow he clutches just out of sight. He doesn’t look ashamed in the slightest.

“…I’m just holding it, for now. Till my hand heals up, at the very least.” Charles holds up the offending appendage. “Not like I have anything better to do."

It's hard to tell if he's intentionally skirting around the point, or if he really does think there aren't any better uses for his time. The frown you'd been fighting off finally gets the better of you once Charles returns to adjusting his injured hand on the bow's grip.

"I don't think you should be doing that," you insist. Because he really shouldn't be. At all.

"Afraid I can't do that," he replies. "I'm one of the few here who can hunt worth a damn in this weather. I get sloppy, we starve.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’s what I know.” He says it with enough certainty to make you almost believe him. “Go back inside and warm yourself up. 'Preciate you checking on me, but if you freeze to death, they’re gonna laugh knowing you came out here without any gloves on.”

You clench your fists. Feel the ice that's settled there begin to splinter under the pressure and breach the thick skin of your palms. Fine, then. You’ll speak to him in a language he can understand.

Though your march over is less than graceful, he parts with the bow with surprising ease. Charles’ warmth, much like the rest of him, is tailored to perfection. Your fingertips graze remnants of the finery on the parts of the parts of the bow that his hands have warmed.

His eyes flick over you. Placid. Confused, too, on account of the ever-tightening grip you have on what you hope isn't a prized possession. His vexation becomes clearer once you step away, full hands now hidden behind your back. You have to take an extra step back for your own peace of mind.

“Charles Smith,” you begin, “I’d like to strike up a deal.”

“A deal.”

“I won’t repeat myself. We’re losin' daylight here.”

Chin tipped upward, you don your favorite facade.

Confidence.

"You focus on takin’ care of that hand, and I won't tell Arthur and Hosea you've been messin' with your bow."

His face belies a slew of unvoiced expletives. But you know Charles to be the—somewhat—gentle sort, so there’s no need to brace yourself. Even if he isn’t entirely convinced, you can at least hope that he’s found a little amusement in all this.

“You said ‘strike a deal,’” he says slowly. “This smells like a threat.”

“Deal, threat, whatever strikes your fancy.” It didn’t matter so long as he stopped stretching himself so thin.

He seems to mull over your words for a bit, no longer leaning up against the tree. There is, however, a small chance that he’s trying to find the right assortment of words to get you off of his back.

“We’ve got two deer.” You continue. “If Pearson is as frugal as I remember, that’ll keep us all for about a week. Should be more than enough time to get your hand back in order, right?”

“Hm.”

There’s a moment where Charles’ uninjured hand begins to stretch towards you. You just barely remember to lean out of the way before he drops his arm with a defeated sigh.

“So no bows—”

“No knives or guns, either. Unless absolutely necessary.”

“—Then how’m I supposed to keep up my strength? Can’t just sit idle, you know. We’ve got people here who need taking care of.” He takes three steps forward, and you take three steps back. “We’ve all got weight to pull out here. I’m of no use to anybody if I’m sitting out over a little burn like this.”

There goes that nasty word again.

Use.

You can joke all you want, but that’s what this boils down to.

“Well, you…just need something to pull on, right? Keep your hands busy?”

You hold out your hand.

The corner of Charles’ lips twitch downward. "I’m keeping my knives on me—"

"Take it."

"…What?"

You laugh. Loud and exaggerated enough to shake the snow off the trees. "Some gentleman you are, lettin’ a lady’s hands grow cold.” You flex your fingers. “My hand. Take it."

You use the awkward silence that follows to explain yourself.

"I figure it's got a little more give than a bow. And it’s got enough resistance to scratch that itch. You ever feel like shooting, ask for me. Hopefully it’ll have you feeling stupid long enough for your hand to heal up."

He brings a hand up to block the sun from his eyes, and you find yourself strangely missing the gold it cast on him. "That's not something I should be asking of you."

"Works out great, don't it? You're not asking, I'm offering, so there's no problem." Or, at least there wouldn't be if things go the way you know they will. It's no well-kept secret that Charles isn't too keen on extra company during his downtime. No one faults him for it, either.

Any chance of him taking you up on your suggestion is slim.

The wind is thunderous where Charles is quiet, snaking through the empty trees.

"Whether you take it or not, I'm walking off with this bow. But I'm not about to let you run yourself into the ground."

You flex your fingers again, and they tremble.

Charles shakes his head, and you're sure you've won—

"Alright. I'll do it."

Well, that's not good.

Violently off track and suddenly very unsure of how to proceed, you drop your hand. Charles, evidently resolute in his decision, says nothing more as he approaches.

You stumble back a bit as his body nears, wishing that the head you house on your shoulders was screwed on a little tighter. You think it's begun to spin when he takes your hand into his own; gently, as if scooping up a wounded bird from the forest floor.

He opens his mouth, then promptly closes it, brows furrowing as he inspects your palm.

Something is loud.

It's your heart, you realize. Stuttering with each squeeze of his bandaged fingers. Consequences are not beneath you, it seems.

You allow him a few more experimental squeezes than you would've liked, but you can't quite shake the strange tremor that races up your throat the longer he holds you.

Nothing is said until he pulls his hand away.

“And I can do this, whenever?”

Your tongue is miles away. “I, uh. No.” Wait. Voice crack. “I mean—yeah. Yes. Whenever.”

Charles makes no note of your vocal blunder, instead taking one last look at the bow you hold before beginning to make his way back to camp.

He taps the hand at your side as he passes. Leans to talk right into your ear. “Keep these wrapped up for me, will you?”

He’s gone before you have a chance to tell him that you would’ve done it without his say-so.

(Damn it, you think. Palm tingling. I’m in some deep shit.)

[fraugwinska]

Chapter 14 - Anachronism

Anachronism (noun) 1. a person, thing, or idea that exists out of its time in history, especially one that happened or existed later than the period being shown

Tags & Warnings: Depressive thoughts, Violence, Murder

Day 1

“I see, okay, cool cool cool... But - when will you be back?” The princess asked, her hair still frazzled from the night. Granted, he had woken her up, but really, as the founder and owner of the Hazbin Hotel, she shouldn't sleep in like that – 6 a.m. wasn't that early when you had business to attend.

“Ah, well, my dear, that's the tricky part – I can't say for sure. Could be a day, could be a week – but there's something urgent that needs to be dealt with. So I regrettably cannot postpone this leave of absence.”

“Hold on, shithead.”, Vaggies voice penetrated his ears, rough and deeper than usual. She joined Charlie at the door, and Alastor smirked at the chagrin in her face. “You're supposed to help the hotel. You have obligations here, as much as I hate it, but we don't run on well wishes.”

Alastor tutted at her, his smile never fading. “Well, what better time to make use of our darling (Y/n)? That's what assistants are for, won't you agree? She is more than capable of taking over my workload until I return.”

Vaggie snarled at him, but Charlie put her hand on her shoulder, watching Alastor with a worrisome expression. “Well, I suppose she could, but even so, what about safety? Alastor, if the hotel is in trouble we are...”

“...not without protection. I'll know when things get out of control here, and shall return if my assistance is needed. Does that sound fair?”

The princess and her pet exchanged looks, he could practically hear their wheels turning. Aggravating, those two. He tapped his foot, impatiently.

“Okay then... well, yeah. I guess that works for...”, the blonde girl said at last, slowly and with a lingering hesitancy, but it was enough for him.

“Wonderful, now, I'll take my leave, let you ladies freshen up in peace. Ta-ta!”

He didn't give them time for a retort, his urgency driving him to travel with his shadows rather than by foot. He needed to get away, the sooner the better.

He needed to get a grip.

And that wasn't going to happen around her.

He only stopped when he felt the freezing air of the outskirts of the pride ring. Shadow travel was fast, insanely fast, but traveling this far exhausted even him. When he finally materialized, he was greeted by the peaceful darkness of the void.

The void.

The great nothingness.

Alastor's first memories of hell started with the void, the constant, roaring humm that filled the air after he fell. He didn't know why he returned to the very place he'd begun his afterlife, but he had learned to not question his instincts. At least until some time ago. He stared at the ever growing darkness and felt the pull. No sinner or hellborn had managed to venture into the void, the barrier around the seven rings of hell. Alastor was sure it wasn't possible either way, but his first day in hell were spent listening to it's call while he reformed his body and explored the new, wide set limits of his power. This place felt like an old friend, a retreat where he could clear his mind and level himself, just like the day he died and woke up here.

Alastor had always prided himself to be one of the rare few sinners who landed at the void. Normally, as he learned through his decades in hell, sinners would fall close to bigger cities, near civilization, closer to their peers. He knew that Zestial, one of the more ancient overlords and acquaintance of his also fell at the outskirts of the ring. He normally hated sharing a trait he deemed special, but he respected Zestial too much to be offended.

Now he had time and space to really think. The hotel was too full, full of noisy occupants, full of pestering ears, full of her scent and her confusing energy. He had stayed all through the night, hypnotized by the radiation of her energy she still emitted, even in slumber. And he had struggled, more than he had anticipated, to peel himself from her room came morning, to detach his gaze from her sleeping face, with that unholy smile that he was sole owner of still on slightly parted lips.

The void called him, and he greedily listened to it, using the sounds of the emptiness to calm his accelerating beating heart.

Day 2

He hated that he felt. He hated the fragility of them, their infuriatingly weakening effects they had on the mind. His back started to hurt, so he conjured himself a seat, a round and soft one.

There were feelings he accepted, even welcomed. Joy, for example, in the right context and circumstances, was a rather gratifying feeling he often embraced when he slaughtered his victims. Or danced to a good tune, which happened less than the other. Anger, controlled and in moderation was also useful.

But then there were the crippling ones he detested. Sadness was one of them. He despised the way it made the chest hurt and the mood sink, how it made him long for past days, the days where his mother was alive. But that was something he had always been able to control, trained himself to masterfully surpress to the point where he didn't even have to try.

And the new one he couldn't get a hold on. That strange, new feeling that left him weak, confused and vulnerable, started by a mere touch of gray skin.

Desire. For the first time in his life he felt the need to want somebody . He wanted , and that want drove him to actions he wasn't used to, and the more he got, the more he desired, an endless circle, a cycle he was trapped in. Desire was an abhorrent child of love. Ha. Love. The only love he had ever needed died just months before he became of age. Never again did he feel something like it, nor did he want to. Love was a liability. It easily, naively opened doors that should better remain locked for not to fall prey to predators. And Alastor surely wasn't prey .

But now, there it was. Desire. Infecting him like a common, disgusting virus with no antidote. He desired her. He had to make this conclusion, as much as he wanted to deny it. He just didn't know if he desired her power, or something more.

Day 3

Alastor was hungry. But no food would satiate this feeling of craving. He craved her. No. No, he reminded himself. That was preposterous. He didn't crave her, he hungered for her energy. That one, tiny taste of her power had left him wanting more, had him addicted like the most potent drug. His shadows felt the yearning too, they were restless and swirled agitated around him. Especially one. He had Ozul bound, and his shade let him know how much he hated it. Relentlessly he tugged and pulled and twisted himself, but he knew without Alastor's permission, he wasn't going anywhere. He had become bold, that one. Which was truly unfortunate, since he was the oldest of his shadow companions. The original specter.

He hasn't slept at all. The coolness a refreshing chance from the heat of the city and settling down in his bones. Still, he had yet to have a revelation – his mind fought with him. Hunger fought with him. A longing he needed to be for power, and not... trivialities. Another strong tug made him growl.

“Stop it this instant, you fool.”

Ozul hissed at him. He hissed. Alastor's fury was instant and intense as he forced him back with a yank. It whined and struggled against his grasp.

“m̵̳͋̀ĩ̷̻s̸̡̻͊͘s̵̝̏ ̵̤̻͋̌g̴̢͍͐e̸͎̿̎m̴̖̆.̶̨̅̿ ̸̟̩́̉w̸̬̏à̷̼̎n̸̡͉̈́͝t̷̫̟̂͝ ̷͔͎̄̿t̷̥͑ơ̸̡ ̸̺̤́s̸̛͚͖è̷̳̯͑è̶͖͎ ̸͙̭̀g̴̠͖͌ė̷͈̯m̶̭̭͑.̷̦̐” (miss gem. want to see gem)

“You are acting like an insolent child.”

“y̷̼̓o̸̮̎u̸̯̺͂͂ ̴̘̠̃̎m̸̘͕̅ḭ̴̺̎s̸͚̙̐s̷̬͊ ̷͍͕̈g̴̦̑̊e̴̼̣̽m̶̙̺͑̽.̵̳̿ ̴͙͐̓y̷̢͕̏o̶̲̮͝ủ̴̝ ̵͛̀͜m̴̮̖̐e̴͉̋ ̸̝͇̉̂s̵̠̄ǎ̸̞͕̏m̴̲̪̍̽ȇ̷̛ͅ” (you miss gem. you me same.)

His antlers sprouted like weed as his body exploded with crushing cracks and hurtful rips. The other shadows roared in pain and anxiety, swirling around the feet of their master.

“ɨ ɖօռ'ȶ ʍɨֆֆ ǟռʏȶɦɨռɢ, ɨ ǟʍ ʏօʊʀ ʍǟֆȶɛʀ ʏօʊ աօʀȶɦʟ��ֆֆ, աɛǟӄ, ɖɨֆօɮɛɖɨɛռȶ...”(I DON'T MISS ANYTHING; I AM YOUR MASTER YOU WORTHLESS; WEAK; DISOBEDIENT...)

In his rage, he slashed at his own shadow, tearing the ground with every word he spat. Ozul dodged his claws, his teal maw and eyes glowing brightly at him in a grimace of pity. He didn't miss that woman. She was nothing more than a servant. Just another soul he owned. A chip in the long game. A tool to be used. To be exploited. Disposable.

His clawing stopped, his arms heavy and aching. Ozul stared at him, and he stared back.

Disposable.

That word tasted sour and rancid on his tongue. He took heavy breaths, taking in the stinging pain of his elongated limbs that he grew far too quickly.

Disposable.

What would he do if he harnessed her power and she would vanish? Her spirit broken? Her will cease to exist? Why does it even matter? Why does he care? Does he care? Ozul slithered to him, slowly, carefully. Alastor let him creep up his arm and onto his shoulders. He closed his eyes and let visions of Ozul play on his mind. He saw her, dutifully reading what he provided her, sighing now and again. He saw her watching out the window, waving him goodbye as he left his mansion for some errand. He saw her at his doorstep in the middle of the night, a cup of warm milk in hand meant for him. He saw her cold, disgusted glare at Vox's incredulous remarks about him. He saw her hand on his cheek, golden eyes fixed on his as she managed to snap him out of his transformation.

Disposable.

What a wretched word.

Day 4

For the first time since being the radio demon, Alastor truly felt cold. The edges of hell lacked the heat humans so foolishly attributed to the place of eternal damnation. Not that hell wasn't warm. It had it's seasons, and temperatures rarely fell so much as to truly give it's inhabitants a chill.

But he felt freezing. He had thought it would be comforting. Alastor was always warm, like an old cathedral radio that ran for too long, emitting a steady heat, whether he was wearing a coat, a shirt, or nothing at all. But the cold had crept into his innermost being, numbing his body to the point where it hurt to move. But it did not numb his mind. The hum of the void felt no longer serene, but noisy and disturbing. He stared into the void for hours without finishing a thought before the next one began. He felt trapped in his own train of thoughts. A prisoner of his feelings he didn't want. He felt he was failing to manage himself like he used to. And most of all, Alastor felt lonely.

His legs cracked from lack of usage as he stood up. Rosie. He needed to see Rosie. He couldn't be seen like this, by anyone, so he shadowtraveled again, his unstable state making him stumble into a shelf in Rosie's backrooms. He pulled himself upright and sent a shade to get her. Mere seconds later, she was storming through the door.

“What in the world?! Alastor, what happened? You are cold as ice!”

The demoness caught him by his arms, holding his deteriorated form upright.

“I need your help, my friend.”

Rosie only nodded, guiding him to the nearest chair.

“Of course, my dear.”

Day 5

Alastor slept for more than 16 hours. A testament of his friendship with Rosie, that he was able to leave himself this vilnerable in her care. His sleep, however, had been haunted, blurring the lines between reality and fiction, depicting scenes of his life and intertwining them with mementos of her, phasing fast in between horrific, enigmatic and blissfull.

He awoke with a raging headache, the morning sun already turning into full bloom of a mid-day heat. Apparently Rosie had managed to drag him into her personal suite above her emporium, resting him on her biggest chippendale settee. The blanket he was draped in was made out of finest cream cashmere and smelled new and unused. His darling friend really knew him well.

“Oh my stars, you're awake! I almost thought you'd gone into hibernation.”

Rosie entered the room, a tray with a teapot and two cups in her hands. Alastor recognized the green and gold pattern – it was the china he had bought her after his last visit. He quickly sat up, straightening his jacket (which Rosie hadn't removed and he was grateful for).

"I apologize for my unseemly display yesterday, my dearest Rosie.” He waved away the blanket, bringing it up just enough to return his coat to it's intended fold. She took place in a matching seat across from him, her flowing dress and skirts billowing with every movement, and offered him a cup, filling it with deep brown liquid.

He was too exhausted to even ask for a cup of coffee - he somehow had a feeling it wouldn't taste right anyway. But the tea smelled spiced and earthy, which was unusual for his companion, so he decided to trust her judgment and drink it.

They sipped their tea in quietude, but he knew that, just like himself, she had the need to break the silence. He also knew she was carefully, consideringly waiting for him to speak. A feat only she possessed to get out of him things he would otherwise choose to remain untold.

Rosie was another exception, very similar to her . Rosie was his oldest friend, a confidant he didn't expect to have when he became an overlord. Rosie had gained his trust, not by the usual tit-for-tat hellish society loved to practice, but by proving him time and time again, from te very beginning, that she didn't feel the need to use him for anything, instead just enjoying his presence, no strings attached, so to say.

So Alastor spoke, and started to tell his story.

He told her about the night in the Lava lounge, sparing no detail, describing the way she dealt with Vox, the satisfaction he felt watching her on stage. He told her about his percieved solution of her puzzle, what he deducted to be the answer – that she had fallen for him, and his intent to use it to his advantage. He knew she would disapprove of the predicament of invading (Y/n)'s privacy, more so catching her in one of most private moments, but he needed to paint the full picture. He told her about the jeweled copy, how he thought that it would act like a container of her energy just to be proven wrong. That instead, it had guided him to her, and at his touch she had spilled with flowing power like a freshly broken spring, flooding him with it to the point of loosing control over his thoughts and body. How she, miraculously, brought him back through carefully chosen words. That he fled to relieve himself of the overpowering force he was still filled with. How he found himself regretful of the way he harmed her and returned to apologize. About how she instead tried to take the blame, to monopolize the guilt and how he refused her. He told Rosie about her wish for him to keep her company, and that he took her plea to stay the whole night, only to leave before she awoke to get space to sort this whole mess out. When he finally recounted the past four days at the void, the tea in his cup was cold and stale.

Rosie had listened quietly, not once attempting to interject. The tick-tock of the mounted wall clock in the corner of the room marked the ending of an age until she set her teacup down. Alastor swallowed dry, waiting for her assessment. A deep, measured breath left her nose and she leaned back in her seat, her expression seemingly in deep contemplation.

Something else played in those coal dark eyes, and Alastor didn't like it one bit. Was that pity? Was it condescention? Rosie wasn't prone to neither.

“Oh, Alastor...”, she started, shaking her head. “For all the astuteness, intelligence and eloquence you possess, you truly can be a righteous blockhead.”

Alastor's eye twitched.

“While I cannot deny that it seems the little dove has indeed feelings for you – you gravely misinterpreted my little puzzle. I must say, I now come to regret not being any clearer, I feel I took part in the way things escalated to this. “, she sighed with a frown. Then, she looked directly at him, a small, crooked smile on her lips. “But what's done is done. Let's try it again, my dear, and this time, stop denying yourself the path to the true answer – you are better than that. Think, Alastor. Think about what you've told me before answering: What is the protective lie, and what the obvious truth?”

Alastor stared at her.

He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to think it. He didn't want to accept it.

Rosie's smile widened, reading him like a well-known book. The protective lie: That she was just like any other soul he owned. The obvious truth: That she wasn't the only one who fell victim to forbidden feelings.

Day 6

He knew he had to return. The last day was spent in Rosie's company. He knew she had been holding back a lot of things she wanted to say, for the sake of him coming to terms with his uncomfortable new insights. Instead, she gave him space to initiate conversation when he decided to, making herself busy in her apartment. She only told him she closed the shop for the day, and to not worry about missing business, since she could do what the hell she wanted.

In the evening, after a fabulous meal Rosie cooked (serving finest intestines in a hearty stew), she broke her self-imposed silence to ask him

“I don't want to pry, sweetheart, but what do you plan to do?”

Alastor dabbed his mouth with a napkin, removing the last remnants of the tasty demon flesh.

“In all honesty, Rosie, I am at odds.”

Rosie tilted her head at him, her face that of incredulity. “Really, what would be the harm in entertaining the idea that you are fond of a beautiful, talented, devoted girl?”

He remained silent, his wide smile fading into a barely curved line.

“You know as well as I do I am these things are foreign to me, impossible even.”

“And yet you feel something for this girl. You may have never for another, but now, for her, you do, Alastor. Would a parched man in a desert deny himself of drinking when he finds an Oasis?”

Alastor sighed. Rosie was nothing but a true romantic at heart, but he? The concept of fondness, of courting and romance had always abstract and revolting to him. Yes, he felt things for her, but they could be fleeting, a lapse in judgment, a loss of control he was deeply uneasy to sacrifice.

She had dropped the issue, but the question still hung between them as she went to bed.

Now it was morning, and he prepared himself to face her again. That night he decided to keep his distance, to slowly detach himself from the need he felt when it came to her. Knowing her compliance and steadfast determination to please him, she wouldn't question or fight him if he'd dismiss what happened without much explanation.

When he told Rosie, she gave him a disapproving look, sadness in her voice as she told him that he was  a fool and on his best way to hurt her favorite dove deeply. He knew she was right, of course, but he needed to do what he deemed best. It was better this way.

So, he bid her farewell, this time walking the distance from Cannibal Town back to the hotel. He heard Ozul whine and fizz in apparent discontent, but he too, had to accept his masters decision.

He entered the hotel quietly, his cat companion dozing at the bar. What luck, he thought, glad to not be stopped by rude comments or displeasured banter. He made long strides, taking the stairs up to his radio tower. He felt the need for soothing blues. On the third flight of stairs, he almost crashed into Angel Dust who rounded the corner from the other side. The spider jumped at the sight of him, clutching his over-exaggerated breast in overly dramatic shock.

“Jesus Christ on a stick, Al!” Alastor sneered at the cursing demon. “Fuck, popping up like the worlds most haunted jack-in-the-box. 'Ya almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Why, my effeminate fellow, that would only mean you'd have a heart in the first place, how joyous that would be?” He grinned widely at the scowling expression his little remark resulted in. “I'd love to stay and chit-chat, but I have a lot to catch up with.”

He started walking past him, when he heard Angel's muttered response.

“Not much to catch up with, buckboy, since Rocky had to shoulder all your fucking work like the boss-bitch she is. You betta make sure 'ya thank her on 'ya knees.”

He didn't reply, keeping his pace. Yet, he couldn't help but notice how quickly his smile threatened to slip with the reminder of his gem's adversities.

... He had made himself comfortable on the extravagant sofa, pouring himself another glass of whiskey and downing it without the usual enjoyment and moderation. He still felt tense, and the alcohol wasn't working in taking the edge off. A few hours back and he still was cooped up in his broadcasting room, unsure on how to proceed. He was about to pour his third glass when he heard three knocks on the hatch.

Three slightly angry knocks.

He moved to open the door to maybe Vaggie, who always had an excuse to be agitated with him, readying to tell her off, when the faint smell hit him.

Not Vaggie. It was her.

He took a deep breath. Showtime.

With nimble fingers he pulled the hatch open, revealing his beautiful assistant looking up to him with burning eyes like two golden suns. His darling girl. His precious gem.

"Ah, hello, kitten! You look absolutely dashing this morning."

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[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Agneepath (Anand, 1990)

This review contains mild spoilers.

Having only seen this in pan-and-scan versions previously, I was struck on this rewatch by how damn good the movie looks. Every surface seems to shimmer, perfectly catching the perpetual magic hour lighting. Every frame feels huge. We don't just look at things, we look at them throw imposing low angles, imposing crane shots, and imposing low angles that turn into imposing crane shots and vice versa. Interiors are captured with the full weight of the deep focus cinematography and smoky blue lighting. Characters wear flashy suits and hide behind designer sunglasses. Imagine an entire movie shot like the opening scenes of Beverly Hills Cop II and you get the idea.

This flashy style makes more sense when you realize the movie uses as its primary inspiration the plot of Scarface, but making it distinctly Indian. The film is less concerned with anti-capitalist satire (for one thing, it's not clear what business the protagonist is in - he's against drugs and presumably against prostitution, leaving the only criminal activities we see him commit to be the murder of other criminals) and more concerned with familial bonds, and perhaps implicitly, nationalist fervour. The Sosa stand-in villain conducts his business from the Mauritius, happy to exploit his homeland from abroad, and has in his employ a white man, whom the hero derides for being a foreigner. This was made in the years before India underwent economic liberalization, and there's a sense of a country that's crumbling, especially when the high gloss visual style is directed towards the decaying slums the movie periodically detours into.

That sense of decay also manifests in the lead performance by Amitabh Bachchan, whose presence has always felt bigger than the movies and here seems to be a symbol as much as an actor. Bachchan is past his Angry Young Man prime from the '70s and before his patriarch phase starting in the 2000s, and his decision to play his character as a grotesque (not unlike Al Pacino in this movie's inspiration, replete with extremely distinct speaking voice) feels like the uglier dimensions of his persona corroding, warping his formidable star power into something more monstrous. The movie doesn't want us to dislike him too much. There's the no drugs policy, the fact that he's shown to help the community and is in fact so popular that when he ends up in the hospital, the locals riot so they can donate blood (despite the hospital being well stocked). But the fiery quality of his performance has a way of burning through the aesthetic trappings of the movie around him and lingering beyond the confines of the narrative. It's one of his best performances, and one of his weirdest. (Interesting, the villain is played by Danny Denzongpa, who was a friend of Bachchan's wife but avoided appearing alongside him earlier for fear of being outshined. I'd say he acquits himself well here, playing his role with sinister understatement. The super cool sunglasses help, of course.)

The movie does not have the cleanest of narratives (the stuff involving Mithun Chakraborthy in village idiot mode feel at odds with the overall tone) and clearly doesn't care about the musical numbers (one of them has Chakraborthy, best known for Disco Dancer, dancing in a disco but not exactly disco dancing, despite what the lyrics claim). But the constant presence of violence (this is quite a bit bloodier than the average Bollywood movie from this era) and the gangster story arc give this both a sense of sprawl and forward momentum. And there's an undeniably elemental power to the imagery, the hero being driven to revenge as blood drips from his father's face onto his own, the sea of bodies during the festival when the hero is ambushed, and the village going up in flames like the fires of hell during the climactic assault on the villain's mansion.

[lysteriaposts]

-and considering how people romanticize the Hawk and Demetri friendship after how badly Hawk fucked him over, or how everyone loves that Daniel made peace with his attempted murderers... I don't know why people draw the line at Robby becoming friends with Miguel and Hawk, or Sam and Tory not hating each other anymore. (Sorry this ask got too long)

Hello anon,

Definitely not too long, I've seen longer... just put it all in one ask next time haha. See, my issue is that the show felt completely different s1-2 and much more grounded (despite s2 and the cringe teen drama making it one of my least favorite seasons). Not to mention a smaller cast. And I felt like these relationship issues between characters were lingering and building for longer than it took for them to be resolved, and it feels like a cop out. As well as just lazy, rushed writing.

For one, I did like how Miguel and Robby resolved things... although the constant exaggerated romanticism of violence on CK is getting kind of weird, it keeps escalating with every season. Especially if the main message of the show is to argue against extreme violence in the form of the Cobra Kai mentality.

I don't need them all to throw around apologies to each other... but then... write around that and use that for the story. Why does every character need to be great or even best friends, if the execution is going to fall flat or not feel earned? Is this Disney? Instead, make Hawk and Robby carry this half tension to the next season, have Hawk and Sam be reluctant allies, have Robby get along well with Miguel but not Sam - switch it around! Different dynamics especially in such a big cast will actually bring more to the show, and not take you out of its already ridiculous storylines. We need to ground it somewhere again because to me s5 just made everything above and beyond - in a bad, excessive way.

The Demetri and Hawk "reconciliation" (if you can even call it that) was horrible, they completely dropped the ball with both characters there and that relationship. During that time Demetri was my #1 favorite character so it really disappointed me, he was growing into a new person and they made him a doormat again. And Hawk remained a *slightly less psychotic* arrogant asshole.

If you are going to center stories around certain relationships and conflicts within those such as Sam/Tory, Demetri/Hawk, Miguel/Robby... for seasons... you better make the resolution satisfying. That's just how I see it. I want them to treat those relationships like they treated Daniel/Johnny throughout the show, maybe not to as great of an extent but give them that nuance.

Either you let the characters drive the story, or the story drive the characters... and to me it seems like the writers of CK are doing the latter which is why some of them will make questionable decisions and out of character things because the plot demands it. It was so evident in s5 and a bit in s3+4 as well.

[wordsbymae]

MINORS DNI

Title: The Viking

Pairing: Male OC x reader

TW: Violence, murder, generally bad things, implied non/con, no explicit smut but heavy Non/con groping!!, discussion of sexual slavery, mention of cannibalism, Christian elements but it is because I am and I am less afraid of stuffing up Christian stuff than other religions. If you are uncomfortable with any of that move on This man is not nice. Pet names: little mutt, little one and little lamb. Let me know if I missed anything let me know

ALPHABET HERE

Also, I tried to do Gn but as I am a woman, I automatically write with a female reader in mind. But!!!!! I have tried my very best to not mention gender. If something doesn't work please tell me. Reader discretion is advised! Also, I hope I don't need to say this but I will just in case, I do not condone these sorts of actions!!! Or any actions in any of my work. This is pure fiction. Also, all my OCs and the reader are over the age of 18+. and I'm not gonna add google translate because that takes forever and you guys won't even be able to read it so he conveniently speaks the same language as the reader.

Notes: Aaaaa! I have 21 followers! You guys are absolutely amazing! I never thought anyone would want to read my stuff let alone like and reblog. This doesn't take place in any place in particular, if anything I heavily rely on the climate of my home. I was though heavily influenced by Vikings and their nordic culture of that time, however, I had originally planned to make the oc a barbarian of sorts and not a Viking. But my inspiration dive into Pinterest left me with Vikings so here we are. I might write a nomadic barbarian fic later on cause I do see them as quite different in my mind but it depends where this goes, I usually write the notes and triggers before I start writing as a way of planning my thoughts so it might change halfway through.

Also the climatic event in the beginning, in my mind, is the cause of a volcanic eruption somewhere on earth, there was a year of just constant winter due to a massive eruption a few centuries ago and I wanted to include that and showcase how superstitious the people of this time were, seeing the winter as a foreshadowing of terror. And hell they were right.

Lots of love Mae xx

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It was far too early in the season for the cold winds to be here. Your father pretended to not be frightened but you could see it in his eyes. There was a fear lingering. You could hear your parents whispering in worry when they thought you were asleep. You could hear your mother sob as they discussed what it could mean. Your homeland was one of sun and thunder, but never frost, never snow. Yet, a chill had descended onto your lands. A frost had spread across the summer grass. Your bare feet crunched upon what should have been dried pasture, instead, they were chilled by a wicked frost. The sun that you would curse for its harsh warmth was now hidden behind constant grey clouds and you begged for it to return. The floods and storms you ragged against never came. No seasonal thunderstorms after the humidity of the day. There was just darkness. Travellers and merchants from far-off lands, journeying to the capital came through your village, speaking of the darkness that had spread. It seemed like no kingdom or empire was safe. The frost and darkness had come for all.

The first omen of their arrival was the frost itself. It seeped into everything and made the ground as solid as rock, the summer pastures shrivelled up and left nothing but dirt behind.

The second omen was the famine. The harvest failed and the livestock starved. Your father was forced to sell the heifers and cows and slaughter all calves and steers to provide for your family. Still, it wasn't enough. You heard gruesome tales of far-off villages butchering each other for scraps of meat from their bones. Your village was lucky, the sea still provided as much as it could.

The third omen was the dragons. Firey images in the night sky, leaving streaks of light hanging in the air. As soon as they appeared men cried out and women fell to their knees. It was a sign of a terror to come.

The final omen was a raven.

The skies had begun to clear and the winter rains had soothed the harsh scars left behind. Crops had been sown and the frost retreated in the face of the reappeared sun. You had all thought that the struggles of the last few months were over. Your father had been able to buy a cow with calf last week with money you made weaving baskets. She was a skinny thing even with the calf in her belly, but with the winter rain healing the land, you could see her regaining strength.

You had thought it was a crow when you first saw it. It did seem to be a bit bigger than the crows that waited patiently for your fish scraps by the pier. But you had never seen a raven before, so why think anything of it. It had flown in from the sea, flew over the village before fixing its gaze on your mother's garden. Your mother prized her garden, especially her roses, and had cried bitter tears when the frost killed the flowers, leaving thorny masses behind, but they had begun to regrow, leaving your families house surrounded by a beautiful arrangement of daisies and violas, butterfly pea flowers and lilacs. You had your favourites of course. In fact, you were picking them right now, happy to make a bouquet for your ancestors' burial place. As you were sitting and deciding which flowers to choose, the raven landed beside you, you watch in amazement as it plucked a flower from your hand and rose into the air and back towards the sea. Standing up with a giggle you chased after it in play until you reached your property's fence. You watched until it was nothing but a black dot in a sky of blue. If you had known what it had foreshadowed you would have wrung its neck.

They themselves came in the night.

They landed on the beaches and in silence drifted into town. Axes drawn and blood-hungry. The first death was the blacksmith. He was stumbling from the inn, stomach filled with ale. He saw them first, and let out a cry of warning, but it did not save him from a dagger sliding across his throat. The killer let out a howl. His comrades followed. The screams began.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You had lost sight of your mother in the smoke of the burning village. Fire ragged towards the heavens. The smell of charcoal and blood ravaged your senses. The yelling and screaming were just a constant now. Like how a bird song drifts into the background. You stood immobile calling for your mother, begging her to reveal herself. Out of habit, you called for your father, but you were harshly reminded that dead men can't answer. You watched as the savages ripped men to the ground and let blood flow. They hadn't noticed you yet it seemed. A lone wraith shaking in the centre of town. In the centre of all the murder and mayhem. For a moment you thought you were dead. That the arrow your father had taken for you had indeed struck you and now you were wandering the mortal realm alone and afraid until St Peter called for you.

Your eyes reached towards the heavens and you began to beg for the angels to pluck you from this horror. Your arms wrapped around yourself as tears flowed down your soot-covered cheeks. You were broken from your prayers when you heard your name being called, your mother perhaps? Your eyes rushed to find her. No, you can't see her. But it was enough to have you moving towards the darkness and away from the light of the fire. With your arms still holding you tight, you began to stumble towards the outskirts of town. Once in the fields outside town, you could hide. Wait till they grew bored of your village and left in their ships to torment another village. You were reminded of a time when you were fearful of the dark. But now it was your salvation. Tripping over your feet you struggled to remain standing, leaning on the walls of yet-to-be-destroyed houses and holding onto the rungs of fences. You kept rushing forward, eyes onto the safety of darkness. You were close, only a few more steps.

A beast emerged from the darkness. His face burned with the light of the fire, and his axe shined with delight. His furs were matted with blood and encompassed his shoulder. His arms were bare save for strips of leather circling them. There was blood on his arms and hands as well, dripping onto the handle of his axe and onto the dirt below. You stood still, hoping perhaps you were dead. That he would just pass by and you could remain nothing more but a spirit. If death was without pain you would prefer it to the horrors the beast in front of you was capable of. His face was marked with blood, lines travelling over his forehead and down through his eyes. His eyes flickered with hunger and his mouth was turned up into a grin. He stood feet wide as if he was ready to battle, but his hand was loose on the axe, allowing it to dangle from his palm. He saw no threat in you.

A strange mix of sounds came from his mouth, while his voice was rough and stern, his words were lyrical and filled with rounded sounds and quick sharp notes. It left you confused and almost enchanted, like a deer in the gaze of a hunter.

His voice stopped and his eyes drifted down and then up. He gave a deep laugh at the site of your cowering.

"Come little mutt, stand tall" he chuckled with amusement. You whimpered at the sight of him, a beast of a man denying your freedom. He began to march towards you his axe swinging in his hold. You try to take steps back but he is quicker. You yelp as he pushes you towards a wall, his thick forearm resting against your neck as he peers down at you. You could see the scars littering his face and could smell the stench of blood dominating his body. You could feel the warmth of the blood from his arm smearing all over your neck and chest. You hated to think whose blood it once was.

"Little mutt has no teeth huh? What about claws? hm?" he questioned, joy in your torment in his eyes.

"If I was to fuck you now would you fight me? Would you claw at me or bite at my fingers?" he laughed at your obvious fear. He brought his head down to your neck and sniffed loudly. You cringed as his nose met your skin.

"You smell sweet little mutt. I wonder if you taste just as good"

you struggled as his tongue run up your neck, tears tumbling down your cheeks.

"As sweet as honey!" he cheered. His forearm dug into your neck further as you struggled to escape. He began to shush you, giving out soothing sounds like you would a crying baby as his body stepped forward to meet yours.

" Please don't kill me" you choked, eyes red with fear.

"Never little one!" he bellowed, his face of mock hurt. "Why would I kill you? hm?" he comforted, releasing his arm if only by a fraction. "You will fetch me a high price at the slave markets, little lamb. Men will go mad trying to buy you for their beds" he grinned, showing off his sharp canine teeth. You struggled once more, this time clawing at his arm and chest.

"So the little mutt has claws! Maybe I will keep you for myself. Use you to warm my cock. Would you like that little one?" he teased, he moved his face closer, his tongue darting out to catch the tears on your cheek.

" Get off me" you grunted, desperately trying to remove his arm. he teased you by feigning pity.

"Poor little lamb, you must be so scared. Trapped by a beast like me" he cooed, pushing his arm further into your skin. You watched as his eyes drifted to your chest below his arm. He dropped the axe in his other hand to the ground, it falling flat with a light thud. He looked you in the eyes once more. You could see mischief in them.

"I am torn between keeping you for my bed slave and making a small fortune on another man's desires. Let me see your wares and then I shall decide" he sang, his grin reaching higher and higher with each word. You could only watch in horror as his hands reached for the front of your night smock and ripped it. You tried to grab his wrists but he was too strong. In a mere moment, your smock lay tattered on the ground and you stood bare in the night air. His eyes drank you in, and his hands drifted over your body. He gripped tightly in some places and softly in others. Blood from his hands was left smeared all over you, like rivers on a map. His eyes found yours once more and glee was evident on his face.

"I have decided little mutt. You shall warm my bed and most importantly me" he proclaimed, laughing at the end. "I am to be your master and you the little mutt at my heels. But first, let me dull those claws, hm?"

You stood arms covering yourself confused at his words. You had no claws to dull.

You gave a shriek as he began to drag you into the darkness. His hand was tight against your wrists. You tried to use your body weight to stop him, but it only ended with you falling to the ground and him dragging you through the dirt. You screamed and kicked, shouted and cried. He just laughed.

The dirt turned to soft grass as released you from his grip. You shot up to your bare feet, only to be thrown to the ground and a foot thrown on your stomach.

"I admire your fight little mutt, but as your master, I cannot in good conscious allow you to disrespect me. it would not be natural." he cooed at you, his hair falling into his eyes. You choked out a sob at the thought of what he planned to do. You were both far enough from the town your screams would not be heard and you were both hidden by lush pasture. You began to pray, your words drowning in sobs.

"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kin-"

"Enough!" shouted, falling onto his knees above you, a dagger glinting in his hand.

"Keep your God, fine, but do not expect kindness from me when you beg for his mercy" he sneered. You watched in terror as the dagger raced towards your head, only for it to land safely in the soil next to you.

"Now little lamb moan sweetly for me, will you?" he smiled, his grin one of filth. You lay there looking up at him in fear. "I said moan" he barked, his hand reaching for your throat. You gave him what he wanted, although it was tarnished by your terror.

"Like the music of the gods" he praised. He removed his hand from your throat and brought both to your knees, lifting them up and slotting himself in between them.

"Look at you little mutt, shaking and cowering in fear and yet I haven't even fucked you yet. You Christians are strange folk. If you knew of pleasure you would be moaning on my cock by now. You yourself would have begged for it. Begged for me to fuck your tight little hole on the ashes of your ho-" you slapped him with a furry. A rage releases from you, with you reaching for the dagger beside your head. His hand reached for yours first and punished it with his strength. He gave off a terrifying laugh as you were forced to drop the knife and he quickly threw it behind him.

"Maybe you aren't a little mutt but a little wolf instead. That fire in you will warm my cock and balls for years to come. But first, let me break you in"

You really did wish that arrow had found its mark in you.

[jamespotterthefirst]

For A Long Time Now (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart, Book 3

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende)

Words: 2K

Warning: Implied adult situations

Premise: He can finally tell her the three words he meant to say for a long time.

Author’s Note: The non-premium Ethan love confession is supreme and nothing will convince me otherwise. This is named after it. 

I.

The bright beams of moonlight illuminated the small, charming bedroom when Ethan awoke. One glance at the digital clock on her bedside informed him it was almost two in the morning. With a sigh that sounded louder in the still darkness, he sank back into her pillows, his heart beating a content, steady beat at the prospect of having just a few more hours by her side. 

A few hours, though a miserable consolation, were welcomed if it meant having her in his arms, peaceful and beautiful. Ethan glanced down at her, unable to avoid feeling awestruck. Her steady breath ebbed and flowed gently, caressing his skin as she slept against his chest, her ear pressed against the heart that beat for her. A few hours were a small but welcomed triumph.

Soon, dawn would break across the sky, announcing the beginning of a new day and bringing them closer to their inevitable end. 

It was as though his misery was a force so strong, it pressed into her because at that moment, she stirred 

“Mmmm.” She let out a small hum of protest twisting and tangling her limbs further in the sheets. When she opened her eyes, she blinked slowly at first then rapidly, pushing away sleep.

“Hi,” she greeted, her fogged expression melting into a tired but breathtaking smile.

“Hey,” he returned with a small smirk. 

Lilac bit her bottom lip against a second smile, this one playful and coquettish. And just like that, they were drawn to one another again, plucking kisses with hot, languid strokes of their mouths. Their movements became slow, lazy, as though they had all the time in the world. 

His heart ached when he realized how untrue that was.

Lilac, lips bruised from his kiss, beamed at him when they broke apart. 

“Why are you awake this early? Don't tell me you actually get up at two in the morning to start your day.”

“Three thirty, actually.”

Lilac made a sound of faux disgust that made him laugh. “If you made me get up that early daily, I'd murder you.”

His stomach gave an involuntary swoop at the implication. She meant if they spent many nights together, not just one night before their return to attending and intern. If they woke up next to each other every morning, stealing kisses as they prepared for their day. If they had more than just mere hours left to be together. 

Lilac seemed to catch the meaning of her words because she blushed. She opened her mouth, mortified, perhaps to dissuade the tension in the quiet bedroom with characteristic rambling. Ethan summoned a crooked smirk before she could get the words out. 

“Not even if I woke you up to do this?” 

In one graceful stroke of movement he had her on top of him, straddling his waist. His lips trailed slow, delicate kisses along her throat, inspiring the most delicious of moans. By the time he reached her jaw, she was breathless. 

“Ethan,” she whimpered, begging him for more. 

He was happy to oblige, fulfilling every one of her panting pleas until, with mingled cries and moans, they collapsed against the heap of pillows. 

“You can absolutely wake me up like that in a few hours.” She snuggled against his chest as she said this, this time listening aptly to his frenzied pulse. 

Ethan chuckled, pulling her close. 

They remained silent for a moment, contently listening to the distant lull of the city. As his breath slowly returned to normal, his eyes scanned the space of her bedroom, taking in every detail he could commit to memory. 

There were many pictures of whom Ethan assumed were her family—lively, kind-faced people, some who shared her same nose, others her smile, few her eyes. Then, in the many frames cluttering the desk, were the familiar faces of her friends, laughing and smiling in just as familiar places: Donahue's, the coast, even Edenbrook. For a wistful moment, he allowed himself to imagine a photo of the two of them framed and placed at her bedside. Lilac would be kissing his cheek and Ethan would fail to fight back a smile, no doubt looking the happiest he'd ever look in his life. 

For a moment he imagined they were just Ethan and Lilac, not Dr. Ramsey and Dr. Allende. 

A swirl of dark clouds slowly floated away, leaving the moon unobstructed. 

In the full light of the moon, he realized they could be both. Ethan wasn't her direct supervisor. If he pulled some strings and asked another attending to be her supervisor, perhaps they could… 

Lilac shifted slightly and hummed meekly, tilting her face up to him. “What are you thinking about?” 

Her voice was thick with exhaustion, both from her trial earlier and from the celebration after. 

Her lids appeared heavy with sleep, already halfway closed. Ethan almost chuckled at the sight, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. 

“You.”

Lilac smiled despite the veil of sleep starting to overwhelm her, savoring the single word. With another small sigh, she snuggled against his chest, her hand sliding up to rest by his collarbone. 

God, he loved it when she did that.

Ethan paused. 

Love. 

A foolish concept he once scoffed at or tried to explain away with scientific facts. Yet, he loved many things about her, he knew that as extensively as he knew medicine.

Ethan swallowed, fingers absently playing with her silky hair.

He loved her.

There was no point in denying what he had known for weeks, what he had felt since perhaps the moment she held his hand on the loveseat of the NICU. As he held her then, Ethan doubted that was an accurate estimate of when his feelings started. He was already in the middle by the time he was forced to accept the undeniable fact that he was in love with Lilac Allende. 

I love you. 

Thinking the words felt like an echo. Merely replaying them in his mind was no longer enough. Simply thinking them felt like a travesty, a complete lack of respect for the beautiful, brilliant woman in his arms. He had to say them, professionalism and propriety be damned. 

He could figure the rest out later. 

She had to know. 

“Lilac?” 

“Hmm?” 

The sound was soft, distant. When he glanced down, she was asleep, breathing peacefully against his chest. With a sad but resigned smile, he pulled her close and kissed her forehead instead. 

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

II.

June and Baz filed out without a backward glance. Lilac, however, lingered behind as was her custom. Of that much, Ethan was certain before he even turned around to face her. His eyes locked with a pair of curious green ones and his stomach dove, an involuntary reaction to her.

“Can I help you with something, Dr. Allende?” 

She arched an eyebrow at him. “So formal,” she commented as she stepped into his embrace. “That's not what you called me last night.”

The false innocence she injected into that little whisper drove him insane. His fingers clenched her hips, wishing for nothing more than to fold her over his desk. Instead, he smirked down at her. 

“I don't believe I called you anything last night.”

“Mmm, you didn't. You were too distracted making out with me. I doubt you could string two words together.”

Lilac kissed him again, this time taking great care to push her body against his. Ethan groaned into her mouth, convinced this type of torture was worse than any other. They had only shared hungry kisses on several occasions, but Ethan never allowed it to proceed any further, even if his body protested that decision often. 

He didn't think he could bear the pain of separation when she inevitably moved on next year. 

“Maybe I’ll let you call me that in bed,” she murmured.

Ethan groaned again. 

Luckily for him, her pager interrupted their moment and Ethan was spared from making a fool of himself by trying to stammer out a reply. Lilac glanced down and sighed wistfully.

“I have to go,” she lamented, making little effort to move away. “They’re going to have the results for the Senator’s lead testing soon.” 

Ethan barely heard her, too busy memorizing the curve of her lips, the cluster of freckles on her nose, the exact shade of forest green with flickers of gold from her eyes. 

“Are we still doing dinner at your place tonight?” she asked, completely unaware of his lovestruck admiration. “You owe me that Gregorian stuffed chicken from last time.”

Overwhelmed, Ethan merely nodded.

With one last smile, she craned her neck to kiss him goodbye, her hand lingering on his jaw when they broke apart. 

Ethan watched her approach the door, a sense of urgency gripping him. After everything they had been through that year, his heart beat just as relentlessly for her. That much was clear from their recent slip in conviction. If Ethan was being honest, his heart had never faltered once, not even when he tried to put distance between them by escaping to Brazil. 

Every kiss since the one they shared outside his apartment was proof of one irrevocable truth. 

He never stopped loving her.

He doubted he ever would. 

“Lilac?”

“Hmm?” 

She halted right as she reached the door, looking over her shoulder curiously. 

I love you. 

Ethan opened his mouth, throat straining against a sudden knot. Before the words formed, that constant, miserable thought pushed its way to the forefront of his mind.

She might leave at the end of her residency. She deserves the entire world at her feet and you could never tie her down. 

“Ethan?”

“See you tonight.”

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

III.

The real celebration occurred at Lahela's apartment later that evening. At least, that's what the surgeon deemed in a loud and almost incomprehensible cheer when they arrived. When his eyes landed on Ethan by Lilac’s side, however, a small moment of surprise pierced the silence, before he cheered louder than ever, proclaiming, “The Chief is here. Now, it's a real party!” 

Ethan had to admit that this cohort of young doctors knew how to celebrate in style. It didn’t take long before they broke into the impressive selection of drinks at the kitchen counter. The only regrettable aspect of the whole affair was the music. 

“Don Julio 1942, bitches,” Lahela proclaimed, brandishing two sleek bottles of tequila. He seemed to remember Ethan was in the room for he grimaced briefly. “Sorry, Dr. R!”

“The only thing you have to apologize for, Lahela, is taking so long to serve us our shots,” Ethan returned without missing a beat. 

“Amen to that,” Lilac responded enthusiastically from his side. 

After many rounds of high quality shots, their group grew in numbers as other hospital staff arrived and crammed the small apartment. Though no one excluded Ethan from their small cliques—quite the opposite, everyone was too eager to talk to the new Chief—he was happier observing from the sidelines. 

No, he was happier observing her, laughing and celebrating with her friends, from afar. It was like being a spectator to the most beautiful and moving art piece he had ever seen. She deserved all the revelry and acclaim pouring over her that night. This was an exciting chapter in her life that she had fought hard to earn. Ethan did not believe the sun itself could contain the pride blooming in his chest. 

After a couple hours, the late evening found Ethan at the terrace of Lahela’s apartment, a blanket of the deepest purple overhead. 

“Too important to hang out with us plebeians now that you’re Chief of Medicine?”

It was Lilac, standing at the sliding door, cheeks flushed and smile radiant in the moonlight. 

“That has literally never been true about any administrator,” he returned, though smiling just as brightly. He couldn’t contain the elation now that the floodgates had opened. 

Their bodies found each other, as they always would, joining in an embrace. Ethan kissed her forehead, the movement something close to second nature. “I’d argue your new job is more worthy of such praise,” he murmured. With a small nod toward the party, he added, “And theirs.”

Lilac pulled her chin back to survey him with pride. “Spoken like a true leader.”

A rumble of collective groans and cheers erupted from inside the apartment as a new song blurred through the speakers. 

“Bryce is on an eighties-only lockdown,” she explained with a laugh. “He does that when he’s had too much to drink.”

Ethan scrunched up his nose. “Then we got out just in time.” 

Lilac laughed, the sound a comfort to Ethan. They stood there in each other’s embrace, overlooking the twinkling lights of the city, reminiscent of another time long ago on a different balcony. Even then, his heart beat fiercely, desperately for her. Back then, he fought so courageously (and foolishly) against the three words that seemed the only truth in the universe. 

He didn’t have to deny himself of happiness anymore.

At long last, he didn’t have to fight them anymore.

“Lilac?”

“Hmm?”

She glanced up at him.

“I love you.”

 Her smile rivaled the stars above their heads.

“I love you, Ethan,” she replied without hesitation. 

He didn’t dare believe he could ever be happier. Then she kissed him, pouring her feelings into every movement of her lips, and he realized his happiness was boundless by her side. When they pulled apart, breathless and grinning like teenagers, Ethan let out a low chuckle.

“It’s an outrage to tell you that with Starship playing in the background.”

Lilac laughed, her eyes sparkling with unshed, happy tears. “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now is a fitting song if you think about it.”

Ethan made an exaggerated face of disgust that he was sure would make her laugh. Pure satisfaction coursed through him when it did.

 “Luckily for you, you can tell anytime you want now,” she told him.  

He kissed her again, spurred on by uncontained elation. 

“You can rest assured I will.”

------------

Author’s Note: I am not okay after that confession. I had to write something. Part I takes place right after her trial in book 1; Part II is right before her attack in book 2; Part III after that confession kljdlkfk

A few notes:

I still plan to write for Lilac and Ethan as time and creativity allows. If anyone still wishes to read them, then they’ll be here for you <3. If anyone still wants OPH content, you can count on me for that. I don’t plan on letting go of this story for a while. 

I’m going on a trip to the East Coast next week, including Boston (eeeek). I will leave a queue of random stuff but also two fics. One will be Chapter 1 of my OHTY Rewrite. The second will be a short ficlet I wrote a while ago

I am currently working on the next chapter of both Pictagram series. Hopefully I can post those when I come back!

Whether you leave the fandom or stick around (or something in between), I want to sincerely thank everyone who has supported this crazy journey of mine for the past year. Writing has always been my passion, but I stopped doing it for years before Open Heart. It was this book, these characters, and YOU who motivated me to write my little heart out. You guys gave me my happiness back and for that I am extremely grateful.  

I love you guys! 

*Tagging in a reblog*

[theangrypokemaniac]

Normal Raichu's tail serves as a ground to avoid auto-shock, meaning this one is constantly frazzled from its own voltage.

Doesn't carrying his fat self hurt? Are they tears of liquid gold welling up from the strain?

Or is it the punishing light ever reflected, burning his black eyes blue and blind?

The modern obsession with softness, of symbolically filing down all corners as a message of intent, gets right on me wick.

Raichu had sharp ears and a jagged tail, being, you know, a bolt of lightning, but now he's as swollen and inflated as a balloon animal.

And what are these visible veins in his paws? Is he tapping 'em like Amy Winehouse in her bloodied-ballet-pump prime?

So 'getting high' doesn't mean levitation?

Hours of work went into this drastic image change of the same thing but with three hairs.

The Pokédex says he prefers a subterranean life, wilting under excessive heat, rendering him entirely suitable to thrive in the tropics.

Diglett's become a slaphead concealing the truth with an unconvincing comb-over.

Oh no! How shall I live in such a savage climate?

I know! Blond frizz in the midst of brown fur! That'll block heatstroke!

Dugtrio once featured in many a budding Trainer's squad, so beloved was Dig as the finest move around.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

If hairy moles made the final games, what horrors were rejected?

Such beauty in the Kardashian family.

Sweaty proximity of triplets is a trial itself, but consider all the strands coming loose, wedged and itching in the crevices, yanked right from the roots by constant friction, wrapping round their necks like cheese wire, and you unable to brush the damp cascade away, on account of having No Bloody Arms.

Oooh, make yer beady eyes weep, it would, and Dugtrio daren't move in case it slits throats like razor blades.

Born to die garotting himself and all those he knows!

That's why Oasis were so furious.

Plus, Geodude carrying eight hairs gives the opposite impression: that of a baldy desperately clinging on to the last paltry vestiges of a once-crowning glory.

It'll be those iron filings you always see lying about.

There Geodude and Graveler go, ready to flaunt hirsute manliness to their bearded womenfolk, only for it to involve social disgrace in the shape of gorilla arms, sideburns, and monobrows.

Why stop there? Why are they not coated in spines like a furled hedgehog?

Now magnetic, iron ravished their bodies, meaning they also share the pain of moles in sprouting a wig.

But they're Electric, not Steel. Nature avenged Pikachu by removing their invincibility.

And that molten sun's only gone and fused their fingers together!

Geodude salvaged a single digit, but Graveler's gotta make do with mittens!

What hope for mere fleshy beings, when Alola weather melts stone?

It's gonna boil yer inter soup, man!

Even Pa, master of the art, would look enviously on such achievement.

That said, I feel for Lady Golems having a shave every morning.

A diet of electrical rocks somehow erased the Ground element, and with it the resistance enabling Golem to eat 'em in the first place.

But didn't he have more toes than that? And some arms?

Of the three, Golem boasts the best sense of style, proudly displaying a hairy shell passing for a chest, besides a most debonair moustache.

Oh! Removing his earthly powers now makes him vulnerable to electrocution. It's blackened and blown bits of him off!

How's Golem meant to go wee-wee with malformed stumps?!

That's not claws, that's the jagged splinters of his humerus bones.

Marowak died during evolution. Must've got bone cancer from all the radioactive Muks slithering about.

It's based on the ghost from Pokémon Tower.

Quaint bit of euphemism, using 'based' rather than 'ripped off'. Yer'd burst if troubled with an original idea.

Ah, memories: traipsing up the many levels of said stacked sepulchre, brandishing me trusty Silph Scope, ready to tackle whatever spectre blocked the stairs to the summit.

He's got No Bloody Arms!

There I becalmed Marowak's anger as her soul passed to Heaven.

It was special.

Well that's gone. Turns out Marowak was sucked into the septic tank of Alola instead.

Bit of a downer, assuming I'd gifted eternity, only for this humdrum retcon to saunter up, stripping away the mystery.

Has she not suffered enough, man?!

Anyway...

How can one murder matter to the breed living thousands of miles away?

And up til then, all Alolan Marowak looked normal, then mutated in tasteless tribute, with their weapons spontaneously combusting?

UV rays will be the death of us!

The bone wielded is from its mother. Her spirit acts as protection.

Eh? But Ghost Marowak was the dead mom. She can't be both bereaved child and maternal avenger, else Cubone didn't just lose Ma, but Nana too!

In my day we were happy with the simple pleasures, like wearing Momma's head, and we were glad of it.

I don't know why Millennials have a prissy reputation. It certainly wasn't like that in me youth.

I well recall sitting in the back of Pa T.A.P.'s car, looking out the window, and seeing two lads playing catch with a human skull, since we had to make our own entertainment then.

But oh no, that's not good enough for today's entitled kids, they dug up Momma's mouldering corpse and rifled through her vitals, because it's just take, take, take with them.

And what bone is that meant to be, so casually set alight? Femur?

How bloody big was she, man?! It's longer than Marowak's entire body!

Don't you lie to me! That's a human leg if ever I saw it.

Eee, it ain't half hot.

You can say that again.

I wish I knew a way to cool down.

Well I find growing another head outta me arse does the business.

Exeggutor shot up via the sunshine overload, but his bonus coconut is green, unable to ripen thanks to extreme temperatures.

Marowak's been raiding hospital bins for amputated limbs!

Make yer mind up!

All this time, Exeggutor's suffered a secret head in his arse, just bustin' to be free, and I was none the wiser?

Yer think yer know someone, and then BAM! It's upon yer: illusions shattered.

Am I to understand Proper Exeggutor's walking around belaboured by arse coconuts?

Yer can get cream for that. Modern medicine is a miracle.

And it's buried for eternity, unless exposed to equatorial light?

But that's precisely where the sun don't shine!

I assumed two Exeggcute merged into one face, but this is a sign the remaining couple are secreted somewhere.

Specifically in his arse.

Poor Exeggutor hasn't completed puberty yet. If we linger we may well witness the emergence of the final duo to complete the sextet.

Out of his arse.

Many Alolans consider this its ideal form.

I bet they do. Perverts.

Besides haemorrhoids, it's not so ideal when Eggy can't fit in the living room and has to sleep outside, or its neck snaps during hurricane season.

O Game Freak, thou knows not what thee do!