#music from behind the iron curtain

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

GUILTY AS SIN...? - PART II

summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.

pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader

word count: 9.1k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). explicit sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hi everyone! here's the second part, finally. i had lots of fun writing this one, happy reading <3

part one

After staying at Cillian's for awhile, you decided to go to the place you had rented. The truth is, you didn't want to leave, but you had already extended your stay longer than planned, and you wanted to give him space with his kids. And you also wanted to give him time to process the event that took place four nights ago in his bathroom. Or you wanted to give yourself time to process it.

At this point, you weren't sure who needed the space more.

It was all very confusing because, yes, you've had feelings for him for God knows how long, but you've squashed them down like a stubborn bug for the sake of your friendship and, most importantly, his family. Those two things were always at the forefront of your mind, guiding every action and decision. But now that his family is no longer a factor and the two of you almost crossed a line, it's hard to ignore those feelings.

Those feelings that crawl up your spine every time he smiles at you or brushes against your hand accidentally. Those feelings also make you feel like the worst person in the world, as if you're betraying his ex-wife and their children by even entertaining the idea of something more with him.

It's all so delicate.

The cottage is nestled between rolling green hills and the glimmering blue of a distant sea. The place is like a warm embrace. The floors are laid with wide, honey-colored wooden planks, their surface worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Exposed wooden beams crisscross the ceiling, their rich, dark wood adding a sense of history and sturdiness to the space. The walls are painted in a soft, creamy white. The master bedroom is a haven of tranquility, with white linen curtains billowing softly in the breeze from the open window. The bed, with its wrought iron frame, is piled high with quilts and pillows in soft shades of blue and green. It's the best sleep you've had in months.

It rained earlier today. You've stayed inside all day, not wanting to venture out into the wet weather. The gentle pitter-patter of raindrops against the window was a soothing backdrop to your day, but it stopped around mid-afternoon, leaving behind a fresh, clean scent in the air.

Now you’re sitting at the rustic wooden table beneath the pergola, one leg tucked under you, grapevines overhead casting dappled shadows on the weathered wood. The garden around you is alive with color—wildflowers in every shade imaginable sway gently in the soft breeze, and the lavender and rosemary release their fragrant scent into the air.

Bon Iver’s voice drifts softly from your phone, which lies next to your notepad on the table. The music is haunting, its melancholy tones matching the weight in your chest. You’ve been here for hours, or maybe it’s only been minutes—time seems to blur together lately.

The notepad lies open beside you, filled with half-written lyrics, fragments of thoughts and emotions that you can’t quite bring yourself to finish. The pages are messy, scribbled lines crossed out, some words barely legible, as if your hand couldn’t keep up with the rush of thoughts.

You’ve been chasing this dream for so long—touring, recording, performing in front of thousands of people—but somewhere along the way, you’ve lost sight of why you started. The music that once brought you so much joy now feels like a burden; the words that once flowed effortlessly are now tangled up in doubt and frustration. The applause, the fame, the success—it’s all there, but it feels hollow. It feels lonely.

The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water, but you’re too tired to move. You prop one leg up the chair and rest your chin on your hand. You focus on the water, trying to find some solace in its steady flow. But all you can feel is a deep, gnawing sense of unfulfillment, a yearning for something you can’t even name.

How pathetic.

You’re tired, so tired, and the dream that once seemed so bright now feels like a chore.

The door creaks open behind you, and you catch the faint sound of footsteps on the stone path. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. Cillian moves with a certain quietness, a soft presence that you’ve come to recognize. The footsteps grow closer until they stop just to your left.

"You should lock your door," he says, his voice low, carrying a hint of amusement but also concern.

You let out a small, tired laugh, not bothering to look up. "Didn’t think anyone would come by," you reply, your gaze still fixed on the stream; its gentle flow is the only thing that seems to make sense right now.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there, his shadow blending with yours. Then he pulls out the chair next to you, the wood scraping softly against the stone, and sits down. You can feel his eyes on you, but he doesn’t press, just lets the silence settle around you both.

You hear him shift beside you, and from the corner of your eye, you see him glance down at the notepad on the table. His gaze lingers on the unfinished words, but he doesn’t say anything about them. Instead, he just leans back in his chair, looking out at the water with you.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice softer, almost reflective. "I know that look. The one that says you’re miles away, stuck in your own head."

You don't respond, knowing that he understands you more than most people. The music on your phone shifts to another Bon Iver song, this time Beach Baby.

He continues. "You know, sometimes I think about all of it—this life, the fame, the roles I play. It’s bizarre, isn’t it? I spend so much time being someone else, living in someone else’s skin, that it’s easy to forget who I am when the cameras stop rolling."

His words hang in the air, and you turn your head slightly to look at him. His expression is thoughtful, his blue eyes distant, like he’s lost in his own memories. "It’s like… sometimes, I feel more like myself when I’m acting, when I’m being someone else. That's what made me fall in love with it in the first place. I just loved being somebody else. It’s easier, somehow. But then there are those moments, when the lights go out, and I’m just… me. And that’s when the loneliness creeps in."

You nod, understanding more than you’d like to admit. "It’s the same with music, I guess," you say quietly. "There’s this rush, this high, when you’re on stage, when everyone’s looking at you and you’re giving them everything you’ve got. But then it’s over, and you’re left with the silence, the emptiness. It’s like… who am I when it stops?"

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you can see the shared understanding in his eyes. It’s a strange comfort knowing that someone else gets it, that you’re not alone in this feeling of being lost.

You take a deep breath, the weight of the words you’ve been holding back suddenly becomes too heavy to keep inside. "I guess that's why I'm here. To escape. To escape the pressure, the expectations and…just be," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Everything is a performance. Everything. When we're out in the world, we're expected to act a certain way, to fit into a mold. We have to edit ourselves. As honest as we try to be, there's always a part of us that remains hidden. And it's exhausting."

Cillian nods, his gaze never leaving yours. "And when you’re alone, you can let go of that and let your mind just be still," he says, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s thought about this a lot. "It’s quite peaceful, isn’t it? But it’s also… terrifying. Being alone with your thoughts, with no distractions, no one to perform for. It’s like staring into a void sometimes."

You swallow hard, the truth of his words hitting you square in the chest. "Yeah, it is. But it’s also when I feel the most myself. When it’s just me, and I don’t have to be anything for anyone. Just… here, in the quiet, letting my mind rest."

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The garden around you is alive with the soft sounds of nature—the rustling of leaves, the gentle murmur of the stream, the distant call of a bird. Bon Iver’s music still plays from your phone—Holocene.

You break the silence. "Sometimes I think about it. I think about letting go of it." It's a terrifying thought but also strangely liberating. You don't know what it means completely yet, but just saying it out loud brings relief. Cillian just looks at you, his eyes reflecting understanding and empathy.

It was so easy, existing with him.

In this moment, you feel a little less lost, a little more understood. And as the sun dips lower in the sky, a mix of orange and pink hues, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you thought.

The next day dawns softer, brighter. You wake up with a sense of calm that had been missing for a while. There’s a lingering warmth from yesterday, the conversation with Cillian still playing in the back of your mind. As you sat at the same wooden table this morning, you found yourself scribbling lyrics that flowed easier, more naturally. They’re different—slower, more deliberate. There’s a depth to them that feels right, as if you’re finally tapping into something real, something honest.

Last night had ended quietly. After that heavy talk in the garden, Cillian stayed for dinner. The two of you kept the conversation light, avoiding the unspoken tension. It was there, hovering between you, but neither of you brought it up. Instead, you talked about mundane things and watched Punch-Drunk Love in the quaint living room. He pointed out every little detail he liked in it, and you listened, soaking in the emotion in his voice.

When the movie ended, he promised to see you the next day, and you reassured him it was fine, that you understood his absence. You meant it, even though a part of you always ached for more of his presence.

Today, with that newfound energy, you decided to venture out. An early morning walk turned into a drive to the nearby town. You pulled on a cap and sunglasses—a funny and somewhat ineffective disguise, but it was something. The town was charming, with narrow cobblestone streets, quaint shops, and a relaxed pace. Most people didn’t give you a second glance, and for that you were grateful. It was nice to blend in, to be just another person out enjoying the day.

You wandered through the market, admired the local crafts, and even picked up a few things—a handmade bracelet, a small painting of the Irish countryside. Lunch was at a cozy little café, tucked away from the main street. You ordered a hearty bowl of seafood chowder, rich and warming, with fresh bread on the side. As you sat there savoring the meal, your phone buzzed. It was Cillian, asking if you wanted to grab drinks tonight. You hesitated, your mind running through a dozen reasons to say no, but in the end, you agreed. You wanted to see him again, even if you couldn’t quite admit how much.

Back at the cottage, you took your time getting ready. You set the atmosphere, lighting a few candles, playing some soft music in the background. It felt good to take care of yourself and put a little effort into how you looked. You chose a pair of jeans that fit just right, a black top, and your favorite leather jacket. Casual but confident. A swipe of red lipstick added a touch of boldness.

You didn’t know where the night would take you, but you felt ready.

Cillian arrived right on time, his car rolling up the gravel drive just as you slipped on your jacket. When you stepped outside, he was already out of the car, leaning casually against the door. He smiled when he saw you—a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

“Ready?” he asked, his eyes flicking over your outfit with an appreciative glance.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied, a hint of nerves bubbling up but quickly pushed aside.

The drive to the pub was easy, the conversation flowing effortlessly. You talked about your day, the town, the little things you’d picked up. He told you about his new movie coming out later this year, based on a novella set in the mid-1980s in a small Irish village. There was a comfort in the exchange, in the way your words mingled with the sound of the tires on the road.

When he pulled up outside the pub, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight. It was a small, unassuming place, the kind of spot that felt like a well-kept secret. The sign above the door was weathered, the windows glowing warmly from the inside. It looked cozy, inviting.

“Do I need to bring out my disguise?” you asked, amused, as you glanced at him.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, you’re safe here. No one’s going to bother us. I’ve been coming here for years. They don't give a shit about me.”

He was right. The pub was perfect—dimly lit, with a mix of old and new music playing in the background. The crowd was relaxed, more interested in their conversations than in who might be sitting at the next table. You found two empty stools at the bar and settled in.

Close to the drinks. Perfect.

You ordered beers—the kind that tasted awful but somehow fit the atmosphere. Cillian took a sip of his beer, and the reaction was immediate. He groaned, his head falling back as if in defeat, eyes closed as he savored—or perhaps endured—the taste. The dim light from the pub’s old-fashioned fixtures cast a warm glow on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jawline and the shadow of stubble that had begun to form. His lips, still wet from the beer, parted in a wry smile that spoke volumes of his disdain for the drink. His brow furrowed slightly as he kept his eyes closed, letting out a deep, exaggerated sigh as if the beer was the worst thing he’d ever tasted.

It was a dramatic performance, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how absurdly handsome he looked even in that moment. There was something endearing about it—the way he could make something so ordinary seem so intense. His dark hair, slightly tousled, fell over his forehead, and you found yourself staring longer than you meant to.

“Bloody hell, that’s awful,” he muttered, finally opening his eyes and giving you a side glance. His blue eyes sparkled with trouble, the corners crinkling as he caught the expression on your face. “You should’ve seen yourself, though. Looked like you were trying to swallow glass.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, please. You looked like you were about to keel over from one sip,” you shot back, sarcasm lacing your voice.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and the amusement in his eyes deepened. “Can’t argue with that,” he admitted, taking another sip with a grimace. “Piss beer, this is. I’d almost prefer water.”

“Almost,” you teased, lifting your glass to take another drink. The foam clung to the rim as you sipped, and you made a point to keep your expression neutral, though you could feel the bitterness spreading across your tongue.

Cillian leaned in a bit closer, his Irish accent growing thicker with each drink. “But then, what would we have to complain about, eh? I think the shite beer is half the charm of this place.” His voice was smoother, more relaxed, and you noticed the way his words seemed to roll off his tongue, rich with the lilting cadence of his heritage. It was endearing, undeniably so, and you found it increasingly hard to focus on anything else.

“Is that what they call charm here? I must’ve missed the memo,” you quipped, smirking as you met his gaze. The clever back-and-forth felt natural, easy, and it warmed you more than the alcohol ever could.

“You’re lucky I’m here to explain it to ya,” he said, leaning in just a bit more, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Otherwise, you might’ve gone your whole life without knowing the joys of terrible Irish beer.”

“Oh, I’m so grateful,” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from your words, but your smile gave you away. “I’ll add it to the list of things you’ve taught me.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying the banter, and you noticed how close he had gotten. His arm was now resting casually on the back of your seat, and every so often, your knees would brush, those accidental touches sending a small, electric thrill through you. The pub’s atmosphere, once filled with distant conversations and the clinking of glasses, now seemed to narrow down to just the two of you. The world outside the booth blurred away, and all that was left was Cillian’s presence, the sound of his voice, and the faint, intoxicating scent of him that mixed with the pub’s woody, earthy aroma.

The more you drank, the closer you both seemed to get, each sip loosening the barriers that had been in place. His laughter grew louder, more infectious, and his accent, more pronounced with every word, sent a shiver down your spine. It was more than just the alcohol—there was an ease between you that you hadn’t felt before, a sense of connection that went beyond the usual playful exchanges.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he leaned in even closer. “I think I’m starting to like this beer.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a smirk, feeling a little more brave. “Is that so? Or is it just the company?”

He chuckled, his breath warm against your ear as he replied, “Maybe a bit of both.”

A familiar flutter stirred in your chest—the undeniable pull that you’d been trying to ignore for days. But tonight, in this pub, with its terrible beer and terrible lighting, you decided you didn’t want to fight it anymore. Not here, not with him.

You moved on to something stronger, whiskey that burned going down but left a warmth spreading through your chest that felt as intoxicating as the alcohol itself. With each sip, the edges of your nerves smoothed out, and you felt looser, braver, and a little sexier. You sat on the bar stool with your body angled slightly toward Cillian. The leather of your jacket creaked as you shifted, the red of your lipstick standing out against the dim light. You felt his gaze on you, not just looking, but really seeing you, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck down to where your top dipped, lingering just a moment longer than usual.

His look was hungry, but it wasn’t just that—it was curious, intrigued. He rested his elbow on the bar, leaning closer, his knee brushing against yours as he picked up his glass, watching you over the rim as he took a sip. The whiskey seemed to bring out the blue in his eyes, making them sharp and piercing, but there was softness there too, an openness that had grown.

“You know,” you began, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “I was just thinking about the first time we met.”

His eyebrow arched in curiosity, and he leaned in a little closer, his interest piqued. “Oh yeah? That was… what, 7 years ago? At the Globes, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink, the liquid courage giving you the confidence to broach the subject. “Yeah, that’s right. And you… well, let’s just say you weren’t exactly my biggest fan.”

Cillian looked taken aback, a surprised smile curving his lips. “What? I don’t remember it like that.”

“Oh, come on, Cill,” you said, playfully nudging his shoulder. “You kind of hated me."

He laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t hate you. I just… I guess I had some preconceived notions about you."

“Preconceived notions?” you asked, a teasing glint in your eyes.

He hesitated, looking almost sheepish as he ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly? I thought you were this… I don’t know, shallow, self-absorbed person. Just someone who was there for the attention, you know?”

You let out a mock gasp, placing a hand over your heart in faux offense. “I’m wounded! I can’t believe you thought that about me, really.”

He chuckled, but there was a hint of regret in his voice as he added, “But I was wrong. I figured that out pretty quickly.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, leaning in a little closer, your voice dropping to a flirtatious whisper. “When exactly did you figure that out?”

“The first time we really talked,” he said, his voice equally soft, the words carrying a weight they hadn’t before. “After I saw you in the hall, crying. I don't know. You were so real, and I realized you weren’t what I thought. Not even close.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Wow, so I had to have a full-on breakdown just to convince you I wasn’t a shallow, self-absorbed diva? Good to know, Cill. I’ll make sure to cry more often around you.”

He laughed, bringing his fingertips to his lips, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Not quite what I meant, but I guess it did the trick, didn’t it?”

You remembered that night vividly, how everything had seemed to spiral downward so quickly. “I was having the worst night,” you said laughing, a slight bitterness creeping into your tone as the memories resurfaced. “I’d just been dumped by the world’s biggest asshole that morning, and then there you were, tearing down everything I said with some esoteric joke.”

Cillian winced slightly, the regret more pronounced now. “Yeah… I wasn’t exactly charming, was I?”

“You were a bit of a jerk,” you admitted, but there was no malice in your words. “But you made up for it with that burger offer.”

A grin spread across his face as he remembered. “I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“Well, I figured a burger with you was better than sulking alone,” you replied, smiling at the memory. “And it was. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was exactly what I needed.”

His expression softened. “I’m glad I asked, then.”

The bartender interrupted your conversation to ask if you wanted another round, and without a second thought, you both nodded in agreement. It seemed neither of you were ready to call it a night. The place was warmer now. As you waited for your drinks, your eyes drifted to the ceiling. Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" played softly in the background, the gentle melody weaving through the low murmur of conversation.

You glanced over your shoulder and noticed that a few couples had begun to dance, swaying gently to the music. There was something so natural, so easy about it, that you couldn’t resist the urge that bubbled up inside you. Turning back to Cillian, who was taking a sip of his drink, you couldn’t help but smile. “Come on,” you said, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “Dance with me.”

Cillian raised an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of amusement and skepticism. He muttered something in reply but you couldn’t quite make it out. It only made you more determined.

“I didn’t catch that,” you teased, leaning in closer as if trying to decipher his words. “But I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh, do you, piano woman?” he shot back, his tone light but with a challenging edge.

“Yes,” you said, grinning. “You’re going to say that you don’t dance.”

Cillian chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “You’re right about that. I don’t.”

You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a low, persuasive tone. “I know, but you’ll indulge me anyway.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours as if weighing his options. Then, with a small, resigned sigh, he downed the rest of his drink in one go and set the glass back on the bar with a decisive thud. Before you could react, he grabbed your hand and stood up, pulling you along with him.

It caught you by surprise, the suddenness of it, especially considering he had just insisted he wasn’t the dancing type. As he led you toward the makeshift dance floor, he leaned in and said with a grin, “You’re lucky I like you.”

You laughed, a loud, genuine sound that felt as freeing as the night itself. “Oh, am I now?”

He smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, because otherwise, there’s no way I’d be making a fool of myself like this.”

You shot back with a playful, “Well, let’s see just how much of a fool you really are, then.”

As you reached the space where others were already swaying to the music, Cillian took your hand and pulled you in close. You could feel the warmth of his body, the solidity of his frame as he moved with you, the two of you finding a rhythm that was surprisingly in sync. It wasn’t anything fancy—just simple, slow movements to match the easy tempo of the song—but it felt intimate, like you were the only two people in the room.

Cillian leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Did you know I'm a failed musician?”

You couldn’t help but smirk, the alcohol loosening your tongue.

“Failed, huh? So, what happened? Couldn’t hack it with the rest of us rockstars?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. "Something like that. I was in a band, actually."

You leaned back slightly, raising an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “You? In a band? Color me shocked.”

It was kind of hot, imagining him on stage with a guitar in hand.

"We even had a record deal and everything."

"What happened?"

Cillian’s expression softened as he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of nostalgia. “My brother was still in school at the time, and my parents basically told me I could fuck up my life if I wanted, but I couldn’t take him down with me. So, it fell through.”

As you continued to sway together, the story of his past unraveled between you, each word carrying a hint of regret mixed with fond memories. “Those were great times, though,” he continued, his eyes distant as if he were seeing it all again. “I’d be out late, drinking, playing music in small pubs, thinking we were going to make it big. It was a bit of a rush, you know?”

You could imagine him there, young and reckless, with that same intensity in his eyes that he carried now, but wilder, untamed by the years. “So music was your first love, then?” you asked, your voice soft, genuinely curious.

He nodded, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, I suppose it was. I had been playing instruments since I was little. There’s something about it that just… gets into your blood. But then, acting came along."

“When exactly did you know that's what you wanted?” you asked, wanting to peel back more layers of him.

His smile turned almost bashful, as if recalling a secret he hadn’t shared in a while. “There was this guy who ran the Cork theater company—had a huge man crush on him. He was brilliant, and I ended up doing a workshop with him. After that, I just pestered him for an audition until he gave in.”

You chuckled softly at the thought of a young Cillian, determined and probably a bit of a nuisance, chasing after something he wanted so badly. “And that was it?”

“Well, there was a drama module in school when I was about 16, 17—during the transition year. That’s when I first got the bug. Ended up starring in A Clockwork Orange. It was sexy, dangerous, unlike anything I’d ever seen. I loved playing someone else, losing myself in the character.”

He paused, then flashed a self-deprecating grin. “There’s not much to look at, but if you give me a minute…"

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his modesty. “You’re selling yourself short,” you teased, leaning in closer, your bodies moving in sync to the music. "Cill, you literally have an Oscar."

“Ah, the Oscar... just a glorified doorstop, really,” he quipped, his tone light but with that familiar undercurrent of humility.

"It's the work that matters, blah blah blah," you joked, rolling your eyes playfully. His eyes were crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. "Exactly," he agreed, before pulling you into a twirl.

"Do you miss it? you ask, hands circling his neck as you sway. "Music, I mean."

Cillian blew out a slow breath, his eyes growing thoughtful as he considered your question. “Sometimes,” he admitted. "But life has a way of taking you where you need to be, not where you want to be.”

His words settled over you like a blanket, warm and heavy, as you mulled them over. Is this where I need to be? The question echoed in your mind, reverberating through the deeper corners of your thoughts. You weren’t sure you had an answer. You were a successful artist, living the dream so many could only imagine, but there was always that lingering sense of something missing, a quiet ache that you couldn’t quite place.

Where do I need to be?

The thought spiraled, unfurling like an endless thread, pulling at the edges of your consciousness. You started questioning everything—your choices, your path, the very essence of who you were. Those words seemed to tap into something deep inside, a reservoir of doubts and desires that you hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, almost like you were talking to yourself more than to him.

You rested your head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, swaying slowly. See, this is the thing about Cillian, he had a way of making you feel seen and understood, even when you didn't fully understand yourself, even without saying a single word.

The warmth of Cillian's arm around you, the subtle way he moved—it all felt so natural, like this was where you were supposed to be. But then, the memory of four nights ago crept in—the way his breath had hitched as you said you weren't going to stop him from going further, the tension that crackled between you both like a live wire.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. Heat flushed through your body, a dizzying sensation that made it hard to focus on anything other than the way he was looking at you. A knot formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing pulse.

The memory was like a current running through you, making you hyper-aware of every point of contact with him. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. Your mind was swirling with thoughts, the alcohol making you bolder, more aware of the things left unsaid.

"I can't stop thinking about what almost happened the other day."

“What almost happened?”

He let out a low, almost inaudible chuckle, his lips dangerously nuzzled in your hair. “Don’t play coy with me, love. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach, the way your body reacted to his nearness. “I’ve tried to stop thinking about it,” he continued, his voice a hushed murmur that only you could hear, “but I can’t.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken desire. You wanted to let go of the restraint you’d been holding onto all night, but you were still aware of where you were, of the people around you—even if they weren’t paying you any attention. The thought of crossing that line, right here in the middle of the pub, was both thrilling and terrifying.

But Cillian, sensing your hesitation, didn’t push.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression serious but laced with that familiar smirk. “Wanna head out of here?” he asked, his voice low but with a note of urgency.

You didn’t need to think twice. “Yes,” you breathed, the word escaping your lips before you could stop it.

The night air hit you like a shock to the system as you stepped outside, the cool breeze carrying with it the faint scent of rain. The streets were quieter now, the lively noise of the pub fading into the background. You were drunk, the world tilting slightly with each step, and neither of you could drive.

Cillian pulled out his phone, his fingers deftly dialing the number for a cab. You watched him as he made the call, the way his jaw tensed slightly as he spoke, his voice low and calm despite the alcohol humming through his veins. There was something undeniably attractive about the way he carried himself, even in this moment of mundane practicality.

“What about your car?” you asked, your words slightly slurred but still coherent.

He glanced over at you, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll pick it up in the morning,” he replied smoothly, his accent curling around the words in that familiar, endearing way. “Don’t worry, love.”

The cab arrived not long after, the headlights cutting through the night as it pulled up to the curb. Cillian opened the door for you, and the two of you slid into the backseat, sitting close together but not touching. Not yet. The space between you crackled with unspoken tension, the thrill of anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

You found yourself playing with your ring-clad fingers, the cool metal a small distraction as the silence stretched out between you. The driver turned up the music a bit, and the opening chords of Inhaler’s "Dublin in Ecstasy" filled the car. The song was somehow fitting, its pulsing beat and haunting lyrics adding to the electric atmosphere.

It started to rain, the droplets tapping against the windows and turning them foggy, adding a sense of intimacy to the small, enclosed space. The outside world became a blur of lights and shadows, the city fading away as the cab sped through the streets. You could feel Cillian’s gaze on you, the weight of it almost tangible as you sat there, both of you lost in your own thoughts.

You turned to look at him, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The music became more intoxicating, the beat syncing with the rapid thudding of your heart. He noticed you bopping your head slightly to the rhythm, and a small, surprised smile crossed his face.

“You know this?” he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

You smirked, leaning back against the seat as you replied with playful confidence, “I know every song ever made, actually.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Is that so? A human jukebox, then?”

“Something like that,” you teased, the conversation light but charged with something more, something neither of you could ignore any longer.

The cab’s interior felt smaller, more suffocating as you neared your destination. When you finally arrived at his place, Cillian paid the driver, and the two of you got out, raising your jackets over your heads to shield from the rain, which had grown heavier. You both ran to the entrance, your footsteps echoing in the quiet night as you giggled like teenagers, the spontaneity of it all making you feel light, carefree.

He fumbled with his keys for a moment, the sound of metal clinking against metal filling the air before he managed to unlock the door. You stepped inside, the warmth of the house a stark contrast to the chill of the rain outside. The living room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the faint glow of the night sky through the large windows. The shadows played across the walls, casting everything in a soft, almost ethereal light.

You tossed off your jacket, letting it fall to the floor, your clothes clinging to your skin from the rain. You could feel the fabric sticking to your body, the dampness making you shiver slightly, but the heat in the room—and the heat between the two of you—kept you from feeling cold. Cillian wandered off somewhere for a moment, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding in your chest as you waited, the anticipation almost unbearable.

When he returned, his eyes locked onto yours, a predatory glint in his gaze that made your breath hitch. He took a step closer, the distance between you shrinking to almost nothing as he asked, his voice low and laced with a hint of something dangerous, “What should we do now?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with suggestion, and you felt a rush of heat flood through you, your pulse quickening. You moved toward him, your steps slow and deliberate, closing the gap until you were inches away. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly despite the bravado in your words.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing against your cheek before trailing down to remove a stray piece of hair stuck to your face. His touch was light, almost reverent, but it sent sparks of electricity through your skin, making you feel like you were on fire. His hand continued its path down your arm, and you followed it with your eyes, watching as his fingers traced the outline of your veins, the simple action making your breath catch in your throat.

He moved his hand up to your shoulder, his fingers ghosting over the strap of your top before slowly sliding it down, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your skin burned under his touch, a mix of desire and something else—something that felt like shame, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It felt too good, too right.

His hand slid up to your neck, his grip firm but not painful as he held you there, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. You clung to his black t-shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric as you tried to steady yourself, but the room seemed to spin around you, the intensity of the moment making you dizzy.

Cillian’s eyes bore into yours, his expression dark and filled with an unspoken promise as he whispered, his voice rough and filled with desire, “Tell me what you want.”

You wanted him—every part of him. You wanted to forget everything else, to lose yourself in this moment, to give in to the desire that had been simmering between you for days. And as his grip tightened slightly on your neck, pulling you closer until your lips were just a breath away from his, you knew there was no turning back.

"Kiss me," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

So he did. He kissed you, long and slow. His lips were soft yet urgent, and you melted into his touch. Your hands found their way to his damp hair, tangling in the strands as you deepened the kiss, savoring every moment. His breath mingled with yours, warm and laced with the faint taste of whiskey, his hands still cradling your face as if you were something fragile, something to be cherished.

But then the kiss deepened, the restraint unraveling as the need between you grew too powerful to contain. His hands slid from your face down to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss became more urgent, more demanding, as if he was trying to consume you, to lose himself in you. You responded in kind, your own hands gripping his t-shirt, pulling him closer, wanting more—needing more. The heat between you intensified, the tenderness giving way to something hotter, something that felt like it had been a long time coming.

The rain continued to patter softly against the windows, a distant sound that seemed to fade into the background as your focus narrowed to just him—to the way his hands gripped your waist, to the way his breath hitched when you bit down softly on his lower lip.

You started moving backward, the need to feel him against you overwhelming any thought of where this might be going. Your feet stumbled slightly as you both moved toward the couch, the dim light from the windows casting your entwined shadows across the floor. He guided you, his hands firm and sure, but there was a tenderness in the way he led you, as if he was still holding back, still trying to keep a grasp on the control that was slipping away.

You reached the edge of the couch, and he paused for a moment, his gaze intense as he looked at you, his chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath. “You're in control here,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, thick with the weight of the question, with the possibility of what was about to happen. "We stop whenever you want to, okay?"

Ever so polite, you thought. You answered him by pulling him down with you, your lips finding his again with a renewed urgency. The cushions gave way beneath you, the soft fabric enveloping you both as you sank into it. His body pressed against yours, the weight of him grounding you.

As the kiss deepened, became more frantic, more desperate, you could feel the tension in him—the barely restrained control he was struggling to maintain. His hands roamed over your body, landing on your jeans and slowly playing with the button, a silent request for permission.

"Don't stop now," you teased, your voice barely audible against his lips. He responded by deepening the kiss even further, his hands moving with purpose as he unbuttoned your jeans. He stopped for a moment, lowering himself to his knees in front of you, his hands taking off your shoes before sliding your jeans down your legs. He positioned himself between your legs once again, kissing you rough this time.

The couch was vast and soft underneath you as one of his hands traveled up your thigh—still not as high as you wanted it. You let out a needy moan, encouraging him. When his fingers brushed against the edge of your already wet panties, you couldn't help but arch your back in anticipation. He pushed them aside, his eyes never leaving yours. When his fingertips made contact with the wetness of your folds, he groaned too, in a way you found very satisfying.

"I've thought about this…a lot," he murmured, slipping a finger inside you, making you gasp with pleasure. "What you might sound like. What you might taste like. What you might feel like."

He pulled away from you swiftly, and you moaned at the loss. He kneeled down in front of you, his gaze intense as he leaned in to kiss your inner thigh, sending shivers down your spine. He pulled down your panties. You went stiff, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. He opened your thighs a little more, as if he wanted to see more. "I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "Let me taste you."

"Yes," you breathed out.

You couldn't stop looking at him as he pleasured you, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. Each flick of his tongue and gentle bite made you arch your back in ecstasy, completely lost in the moment. His hands tightened around your thighs, pulling you closer to his face. He groaned in pleasure, and you opened your thighs wider. His tongue was thorough and deliberate, exploring every inch of you with precision. Your hands grabbed the couch cushions, trying to ground yourself as you felt yourself spiraling into pure bliss. And just when you started to roll your hips, he slid two fingers inside you, hitting that perfect spot that made you gasp and moan uncontrollably.

It was too much. Pleasure consumed you as you arched your back violently against his touch and you moaned his name over and over again, letting go. You were drunk on him— his touch, his mouth, his scent—lost in the euphoria of the moment.

"Fuckin' incredible."

Well, yes, fucking incredible indeed. But not as incredible as it would feel to have him inside you completely, filling every inch of you. To reduce him to the whimpering mess he had just turned you into.

Before Cillian could do anything, you sat up and pushed him flat to the floor. You were both drunk and too eager to make it to the bedroom, so you might as well just do it right there on the living room rug.

He grunted in surprise, but his hands quickly found their way to your hips as you straddled him, pulling you closer. You removed your top, your breasts spilling out as you leaned down to capture his lips in a hungry kiss. His fingers gently tangle in your hair as you pull away from his mouth, pulling his black t-shirt over his head and tossing it aside.

He stopped breathing as you worked your way down his chest, leaving a trail of kisses and nibbles until you reached the waistband of his jeans. Your hands made quick work of the button and zipper, and you eagerly slid them down his legs, revealing his growing arousal.

When your fingers wrapped around it—fuck—his skin felt hot and smooth against your touch, his breath hitching. You positioned yourself to take him in your mouth, savoring the taste of his desire as you licked a slow, teasing path along his cock. Cillian let out a ragged moan, his hands tangling in your hair.

You lifted your eyes. He had propped himself up on his elbows, watching you with his lips parted, pupils blown.

You had him.

You took him deeper, relishing the way he arched into your mouth, his groans spurring you on. With each flick of your tongue, you could feel him losing control, surrendering to the pleasure you were giving him. "Fuck, stop," he gasped, his voice strained with need. "I need to be inside you."

“Condom?” you asked, the question hanging in the thick air between you.

“Upstairs,” he said, his voice rough, almost pleading.

You hesitated for just a second. “I don’t mind… if you don’t.”

For a moment, he froze, his blue eyes darkening as they searched yours, as if to make sure he’d heard you right. Then, with a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, he nodded.

You released him with a smirk and sat up, swung over him. You positioned yourself so that his hands were on your hips, guiding you down onto him. The anticipation was electric, every nerve in your body alive with the need to be closer to him, to feel him, completely and without anything between you.

As you sank onto him, his eyes rolled back in ecstasy, a low moan escaping from both of you. The feeling of being filled by him sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire between you that burned hotter with each thrust. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you matched his rhythm, lost in the intensity of the moment.

This was going to end you.

His movements became more urgent, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name. The room was filled with the sound of your mingled gasps and moans, a symphony of pleasure that seemed to echo off the walls. He felt so good, so right. His thrusts became more deep and harsh—you wanted even more. As if he read your mind, he sat up against the couch and kissed you deeply, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"Bloody hell," he murmured against your lips, both his hands grabbed your face as he looked deeply into your eyes, and you circled your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and circling your hips in rhythm with his. Your breasts pressed against his chest, the heat between you both rising as your bodies moved in perfect synchronization. He was close—you were close. His hands roamed your back, your ass, and your breasts, and you threw your head back when his mouth found its way to your nipples.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, "Yes, oh—" you screamed as white-hot pleasure shot through your body, causing you both to reach the peak of ecstasy together. You felt his cock swell, filling you completely as he released with a guttural groan.

The intensity of the moment left you both breathless, bodies entwined in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. He had leaned back to the floor, and you had gone with him. He was rubbing your back, and your face was pressed to his chest.

"You okay, love?" he asked softly, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your skin. You hummed, feeling content and safe in his arms, basking in the afterglow of your shared pleasure.

You stayed like that for a moment, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath you, the quiet rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. His fingers kept tracing those gentle patterns on your back, grounding you, reminding you that you were still here, still connected. The afterglow wrapped around you both, a warmth that made you feel safe, cherished. You could still feel him inside you.

“How bad would it be if we just stayed here?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the moment. There was a part of you that didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the spell.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, and you could feel the rumble against your cheek. “Well, love,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “I’m not sure how comfortable the floor will be in about twenty minutes, but I’d say it’s worth a try if you are.”

You laughed, the sound light and free. “Fair point,” you conceded, shifting slightly to look up at him. His eyes were warm, a little teasing, but there was an underlying tenderness that made your heart skip a beat.

“Come on,” he said gently, his hands sliding down your sides as he carefully helped you up. “Let’s get cleaned up. I promise the bed is much more inviting.”

He rose to his feet, extending a hand to help you up. You accepted, your legs feeling a little shaky as you stood, still a bit lightheaded from everything that had just happened. His hands lingered on your hips, steadying you, and you couldn’t help but smile at the care in his touch.

Together, you made your way upstairs, his arm draped around your shoulders as he guided you toward his bedroom. The space was warm, cozy, with a lived-in feel that made it undeniably his. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled, as if he’d just gotten out of it before coming to find you.

He led you to the bathroom, where the soft glow of a single light illuminated the space. He turned on the shower, testing the water temperature before gesturing for you to step inside. You did, letting the hot water cascade over you, washing away the remnants of the night, though the memory of it clung to your skin. He joined you a moment later, his hands gentle as he helped you rinse off, his touch tender, almost reverent. You stood under the water together, letting the steam envelope you both.

When you were both clean, he handed you a towel, wrapping another around his waist. He left the bathroom for a moment and returned with a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, offering them to you.

“Here,” he said with a soft smile. “This will do.”

You took the clothes, slipping them on. The fabric was soft, worn in, and it smelled like him—woodsy, with a hint of something earthy and warm. You found yourself breathing it in, the scent comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.

When you were both dressed, he led you to the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping in beside you. He held the blanket up for you, and you slid in next to him, the cool sheets a welcome contrast to the warmth of his body. He immediately pulled you close, his arm wrapping around your waist as you nestled into his side, your head resting on his chest once more.

The room was dark, but the faint light from outside filtered in through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls. You could hear the rain still pattering against the window, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy between you. His hand found yours under the covers, fingers intertwining as he held you close, his breath warm against your forehead. You could feel his heartbeat under your palm, steady and reassuring, and it lulled you into a state of deep relaxation.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he heard you. You don't know for what exactly you were thanking him, but it felt like the right thing to say in that moment.

He responded with a gentle squeeze of your hand, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your hair.

You didn’t need to say anything more. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. You both knew that tonight had changed something between you, something profound and unnameable, but for now, it was enough to just be here, together.

a/n: there you have it, i hope you guys liked it!! please like, reblog and comment. i wanna hear your thoughts! and as always, thank you for the support <3

[kaylopolis]

Alastor's Shadow (18+) Chapter Five

Alastor x F!Reader, Alias: Thestral

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months sooner than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. Afterall, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plans brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down, but also challenge your grab for power… 

Tag List: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

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Author note: Dear Hoteliers, This was my first attempt at smut (I giggled posting this, I am so excited!). I am new, but any advice is welcome! I tried something different with formatting (you'll see when you get there). I didn't want anything to be spoiled while ya'll rode the emotional rollercoaster that is this chapter. Let me know if it was weird and didn't work (or if it did that would be great!). I also added a link to the music found in a later part of this chapter in case you wanted to listen while you read.

<3 Stay smutty

Chapter Five - Night's Mistress

Content Warning: Blood, Blood Play, Murder, Choking, Graphic Sexual Scenes Involving Violence, Smut, MINORS DNI! (let me know if I missed anything else!)

The pull behind your navel felt foreign. 

It didn’t come with the taste of honey or the scent of daffodils like Rosie’s summons normally did. It didn’t come with a hint of sass or flood your mouth with spice like Carmilla’s. Crimson’s tasted of red pepper flakes and copper - a disgusting combination - but he was no longer an issue. 

This pull, however, was new and terribly, terribly… boring. 

Has one of your cards fallen to a rogue with sticky fingers? Has one of your holders died and a new holder taken their place? 

Whomever it was, the pull made you pause atop your perch overlooking V Tower. With Vox’s new Angelic Security soon to be released, you didn’t know how close you could get to the media demon’s headquarters. So you sat a few buildings away, scanning the horizon for any newfound technology that might impede your nighttime endeavors. 

There was another tug. 

Jesus, impatient much? 

You stood, stretching the stiffness from your legs. It was late, you’ve been out here for hours watching absolutely nothing happen. All the Vees like to do is sit, drink, and talk shit. Seriously what did they get out of their friendship? Was it friendship? Or were they all fucking? Ugh, you did not want that picture in your head.

Okay, time to go. 

You jumped, allowing the smoke to envelop your form. Feeling the pull, you headed toward the inner part of the city. Circling Heaven’s Clocktower, you broke off back toward the Magne District - the district that held the Hotel. Except you weren’t headed for your new home. The pull brought you left, almost to the border town but not quite, to an old tower.

In a plume of smoke, you landed on a balcony, the black swirls twirling about the landing before pooling over the sides. You were probably twenty stories up, the tallest building around. Not nearly as tall as V Tower - which the balcony gave you a great view of - but still, Pentagram City was striking. 

The balcony was connected to an apartment, reachable to the world only by an elevator at its center. Behind you was a wall of glass, heavy curtains preventing you from peering inside. On the balcony sat a small table, framed by two iron chairs. The setup was empty, except for your card which sat atop the table, a single drop of blood at its center. 

You took a step, your feet finding a puddle of red before you finally noticed the body. It was face down, scarlett flooding from a wound which wasn’t visible to you. It didn’t appear to be anyone you knew. Definitely a Human Sinner, but not one particularly interesting. 

So who in Hell summoned you? 

As if on cue, a zip of static runs across the back of your neck. 

Of-fucking-course…

“Ah, there you are,” Alastor emerges from the darkened apartment, shutting the door behind him with a kick of his heel, a smooth jazz playing on his radio.

Your heart skips a beat as his eyes find yours. Half-lidded, he smirks, a bottle of wine in one hand and a pair of glasses in another. 

Your eyes flit between the dead Sinner on the floor and the red demon before you. “You did not use your own blood?" This was a first. Cardholders always used their own blood. Although not directly stated, it was implied. 

“Heavens, no!” The demon places the glasses on the table, next to the obsidian calling card, as he uncorks the bottle using the tip of his claw. “We barely know each other. That would be too…” His eyes slid to yours. You feel his gaze rake over your form eliciting a blush beneath your cloak. “Intimate.” 

Jesus. 

You stifle a sharp intake of breath. 

Get your shit together. You’re a fucking Overlord for Christ’s sake. 

You drop his gaze, eyeing the half-dead pile of blood beneath your feet. 

“Ah, apologies for the mess,” Alastor snaps and the Sinner, along with the blood, disappears. “Wine?” The red demon holds a glass out to you, liquid sloshing in its basin. 

You look at your boots before moving, noticing he even wiped the blood from their leather. How thoughtful. 

Goblet in hand, you finally join the Radio Demon in the chair adjacent to his, and gaze out to the City. 

It was quiet, the hustle of Pentagram City’s nightlife drowned out by his jazz. Funny, you thought it almost peaceful. Could Hell be peaceful? No. That would be an oxymoron. Hell was designed not to be peaceful by definition. Yet all the way up here, tucked far back from the rest of the chaos, you could pretend it was. 

The demon sits back in his chair, crossing his legs at his knees. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his shoes have a print on the bottom - a deer’s hoof. How fitting. 

The obsidian calling card sits between you, a drop of scarlet crusting on its surface. Letters in white slowly fade from the card’s edge, signifying the death of the card owner. Whoever the Hell Stanley Jenkins was, Alastor had killed him and used his blood instead. Smart actually, for the card comes with its own parameters…

And to the Sinners without a card? That was a bit trickier. Only a handful of obsidian calling cards were in circulation, and only cardholders could summon you at will. To the lower rung demons without the honor, they had to go through back channels. That’s what you used Rosie for. The Cannibal Queen knew all the best gossip in town, her network of information reached every edge of the Pentagram. She was your starting point for potential hits - you took care of the rest. 

“A toast,” Alastor holds his glass out to you. “To power and chaos.” 

You freeze.

The demon clinks his glass with yours.

You had not heard that phrase in a very long time. 

You look to the Radio Demon and watch as he sips his wine, the red liquid kissing his lips as he drinks.  

More importantly, where had he heard that phrase? 

And then it clicks. 

Lilith. You last heard that from Lilith. 

“It isn’t poisoned. I assure you,” Alastor purrs, bringing your thoughts back to the wine. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.” The demon chuckles.

You shudder at the sudden static vibrating through your bones. 

You put a pin in this conversation - a mental note. You had more homework to do. 

You swirl the red around the glass, noting the alcohol crystals sticking to the sides. It was an older wine, a heavier red by the color. The liquid wooed you in scents of dark berry, cloves, and cedar. You could taste the tannins on your tongue before the liquid even hit your teeth. God, was it a thick red, so dry it left your mouth parched for more. Alastor couldn’t see your face beneath the hood, but if he could, he would see the moan you stifled behind closed lips. 

God, it was almost Heavenly. 

“One of my more everyday favorites,” Alastor smiled at the world below, his eyes sparkling with the reflection of City lights. “Although, I have far better in my cellar.” 

In my cellar. Your ears perked up at that, although you tried to hide it, the twitch of Alastor’s lips told you he had noticed. The Radio Demon knew something about you now: you liked wine. 

Was that what this meeting was all about? He wanted to gather more information on the Shadow? The way he made it seem at Carmilla’s was that there was a deal to be made. He thought you two could benefit from some sort of… partnership. Yet, you sit here and drink. 

This wasn’t how your deals often went. Usually, you showed up, and Sinners demanded action straight away. They practically begged you for your help, all too eager to make a deal. Lesser demons were pathetic, demons thinking themselves anything more attempted to look strong or intimidating, but the second they saw your eyes, they cowered. You’d like to think it the same as Zestial’s situation but you didn’t dare compare yourself to someone as great as him. 

Alastor, however, sat before you as an entertainer, a flatterer, a narcissist obsessed with his image. He didn’t just want to make a deal with you - if he did at all - he wanted to put on a show. Offering you a drink and a lovely view of the City communicated to you that he didn’t see you as a threat, but you already knew that. The question then was, did he respect you, and why did it bother you so much not to know? 

You turned the bottle to read the label: Stag’s Leap. How fitting. 

“Have you read the Allegory of the Cave*?” Alastor posits. 

You nod. Of course, who hasn’t read Plato? 

“When the man leaves the cave and makes it to the surface and is finally disenchanted with the shadows below, why do you suppose he returns?” Alastor takes another sip, waiting for you to answer, because he genuinely cares as to what you have to say. 

“To free the two he left behind,” your voice growls. 

“Hmm,” he ponders. “I supposed that as well, but never understood. To have the power of knowledge and to then share it… To not take advantage when it benefited him so. I see it as a tragedy.”

“Perhaps it is the Humanity in all of us.”

Alastor’s eyes flashed. “And if there is no Humanity left?” 

“Return…” Your lips curled, “and kill the other two.” 

Alastor tipped his head back and laughed, a deep chuckle from his chest. No laugh track followed. Was that genuine? A real laugh from Alastor and not the façade of the Radio Demon. Your heart skipped a beat in your chest at the thought. 

Focus! 

“Alastor, why have you summoned me?” 

The Radio Demon’s lips faltered ever so slightly, his cheery attitude hardening. He thought a long moment before answering. “It seems we have found ourselves in quite the predicament.” He places the glass on the table and folds his fingers in his lap, his attention on the City below. Your eyes follow his, all the way to V Tower. 

Ah, yes Velvette and Vox. 

“Velvette can be quite the troublemaker.” 

“And Vox can be quite the thorn.” You counter, taking another sip. 

God, the wine was so good. 

“I have… information worth your while.” His teeth shined. 

“And in return?” 

“A quid-pro-quo. I have been gone a long time, but my relationships with those I am… close with have held strong. That is the perk of being as old as I am. I am tried and true. You are new blood, officially worth a seat at the table. That seat will be tested.” There was an edge to his words now. “Do not take Velvette’s silence for inaction.”

You did not. 

Yet, what could Alastor know that you have not yet uncovered yourself? After all, you have been watching them these past few days. Surely something would have come up by now. 

You scoffed, finding the underlying meaning in his words. “Is that what happened with Vox?” 

The Radio Demon stiffened. There it was, a hint of that barely contained anger. Oh, how you would love to see it unleashed.

You sniffed, searching for the scent of rage, of jasmine green tea - the main reason why you loved the drink. Yet there was nothing. Irritation prickled your skin. You have never been able to not read someone before. What made this Sinner so special? 

“That is what you want from this… partnership, is it not?” You prod, hoping he will give away something, anything that might clue you in as to why you are here. 

The demon returned to his wine, a muscle in his jaw flickering with agitation. He didn’t like appearing weak. 

Narcissist. 

“The plans I have in mind are far bigger than that poor excuse for an entertainment system.” 

You snorted. 

Alastor’s strained smile softened. 

Hmm, a quid-pro-quo, huh? Still, he hasn’t said what he wants out of this deal. 

You took another sip to think, noting your glass was already empty. 

The Radio Demon cleared his throat, wine bottle in hand, gesturing for your cup. His fingers brushed yours as you handed him the glass, sending a wave of static through to your core. You pulled back too fast, bringing your arm to your chest. The demon’s eyes gleamed in amusement. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! You are not afraid of the Radio Demon, so why were you acting like an idiot? Never let your weaknesses show and you just gave him a clear indication that he intimidated you. You are a FUCKING OVERLORD. 

Why was this not easier with a mask on??? At the Hotel, you didn’t back down, but still, you let him think less of you. Not here. Here you are the fucking Shadow, you didn’t have to pretend. You had no reason to be so nervous. 

So why was the smile on his face and the look in his half-lidded eyes making your heart do backflips in your chest? Why was it when he handed the glass back you were conscious to not let your fingers touch his? Why were you so grateful for the space between you two yet also so, so irritated by it? 

“You still have not told me what you seek to gain.” You prayed your voice didn't sound as unnerved as you felt. 

His smile went cockeyed. “A mutual agreement. We stay out of each other’s way, yet seek out the other when we can benefit equally.” 

That didn’t sound like a partnership. That sounded like an alliance. Is this the same type of deal he had with Rosie? Interestingly, they seemed more like friends than something so surface-level as an alliance. Perhaps it started out that way and blossomed into one? 

The butterflies in your stomach kicked up in a flurry. The Radio Demon thought you were worth his time. Your cheeks heated. He thought you could help him - in some sort of capacity. God, why did that make you wanna squeal like a small child? 

“I will not be signing a contract,” you warned. 

Rosie informed you of Alastor’s contract crafting abilities. The demon was meticulous, bordering on obsessive when it came to exacting details. Line-by-line he would work and when it was finally done, the deal would appear flattering in what it would have to offer. Somehow, Alastor always made it seem like it was you who was the one to benefit. Yet, that was never the case. It was a trap, a beautifully disguised ploy which demoted you to a creature privy to his whim. Alastor was a master and the signee his pet - he would have it no other way. 

You’d die before you signed anything he authored. 

The demon laughed. Yet, underneath, there was a hint of irritation. “Oh, no. I did not expect that, I assure you. Ours will be one of a verbal agreement.” 

You let that marinate. He won’t be getting your name, but an agreement will still be made, and in Hell, that was a very powerful thing indeed. You’ve made plenty of verbal agreements before. Fuck, every hit you contracted was a verbal agreement - silence and the contractee’s soul in exchange for murder. The terms you set were quite simple, actually, yet strong enough to have kept any hint, any suspicion of who you are and how to find you, out of the mouths of Pentagram City’s most powerful. Yes, the media did try to track you down, even attempted to hunt you at one point, but they haven’t gotten very far. And they never will if you had anything to do with it…

You took a sip, letting the flavors melt off your tongue one final time, before standing and offering a hand. 

The demon’s eyes lit up with a crimson fire, his lips curling at the edges. He looked far too eager for this deal and that made you hesitate. 

Dealing with Alastor was like dancing - a dance you both pretended not to be leading but also refused to be the follower in. It was a game of power, you see. Yes, dancing had its steps and rules - a waltz is a waltz after all - but the direction it was going, the added flare to the spins, the story the choreography told - that was where you battled. Thus, you needed to be a half-step ahead of Alastor at all times - without him knowing, of course - until either the dance ended or you found a way to end him. 

The Radio Demon took your hand, and as you gazed into his eyes, you watched his pupils dilate. The glow of your yellow irises reflected in their dark center, an aura of red encircling your hooded form. A river of blue and green exploded from where your hands touched, twirling about you like the eye of a beautifully destructive hurricane.

The wind whipped Alastor’s hair about his face, his smile never faltering, his eyes never leaving yours as a connection snapped between the two of you. Like a thin string bridging your souls, you could, for a moment, feel Alastor on the other end, feel his static radiating from his core before the connection faded entirely.  

It was done. 

“A pleasure,” he purred. 

You attempted to step back and break away from his grasp, but the demon responded by clamping down and pulling you to him. You stumbled, your other hand coming to his chest to prevent your fall. The hood atop your head shifted back ever so slightly, but not enough to reveal your face or to give away anything underneath. 

The shadows engulfing your feet twirled and twirled about you, yet you remained frozen. Alastor was a solid wall of muscle beneath his suit; even with gloves on, you could feel the marble from which his chest was sculpted. You took a breath before you pulled your hand away before your brain finally caught up with the rest of you.

“Beautiful,” Alastor’s voice deepened. 

You dared a glance from beneath your hood and found the demon’s eyes locked on the silver embroidery of your cloak. With his other hand, he ghosted over the trim, his fingers tracing the hard edges of the stitching. Yet, at no point did he actually touch the black fabric. If he did, his fingers would phase through it, just as Velvette’s had at the meeting. 

Without saying anything, he dropped the grip on your fist, freeing you from his clutches. You stumbled backward, grasping your hood and pulling it forward to ensure it stayed in place. Alastor couldn’t remove it, but that little stunt he pulled almost ruined everything you had worked for. 

Your body grew cold as you backtracked to the railing, your little meeting coming to an end. You watched as Alastor’s grin turned into a lopsided smirk as he shoved his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly watching you flee.

Your instincts were screaming again, but this time, they were telling you not to let the demon out of your sight. 

Passing by the table, you noted the obsidian calling card. He would use it to summon you from here on out, but he would never be using his own blood. His real name would be made to you then, and he would never risk that. 

Take advantage of the power given, was what he recollected from Plato, and use it to slaughter others. 

“Velvette is using a third party to buy weapons from Carmilla Carmine,” the demon finally spoke, breaking the tension. He turned to the skyline, absentmindedly analyzing V Tower as he talked. “The female Vee, however, is not the fighter of the group, she leaves that to Vox and Valentino. Velvette destroys by reputation. She is not much to fear if armed, but if privy to certain information, she will use that to destroy her enemies.”

A.K.A do not let her find out who you are. 

You paused as your back hit the railing. You let your shadows build beneath your feet before you jumped in order to conceal your form as you flew. “Vox’s Angelic Security is in place but not online. It expands two blocks from V Tower. If anyone were to make a move, he would see it coming.” 

The Radio Demon nods. He pauses a moment before adding, “Carmilla killed the Angel.” 

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. How the Hell did he know that? 

“Carmilla is monitoring the Vees,” The words tumbled out of your mouth as you grabbed hold of the railing. “She doesn’t want them making a move against Heaven.” You needed to get away. This meeting was getting dangerous. Losing your cool and almost losing your hood in the span of minutes? You were never this sloppy. Alastor made you sloppy. 

“Interesting,” his voice stopped you again. 

You spun, raising an eyebrow in question. His lopsided smirk only grew. “You didn’t ask me how Carmilla killed the Angel.” 

Fuck. He knew. He knew you already knew. He didn’t have to look at you to see the surprise in your eyes, he had figured it out by your response alone. 

“Goodnight, Alastor,” you gave a shallow head bow before jumping off into the night, Alastor’s fucking grin following you into the sky. 

____________________________________________

It was late when you returned. You took a few extra spins about Pentagram City before heading back, trying to collect your thoughts on everything that had just happened. 

You had surmised two important things: One, Alastor’s absence wasn’t just about Lilith. The demon somehow knew Lilith. Perhaps it was because of her that he left in the first place. Which you already somewhat suspected, but this confirmed it. Two, Alastor wanted the Vees dealt with, but he knew he couldn’t do it alone. 

A quid-pro-quo in taking out the Vees. Now, things were getting interesting. This didn’t derail your plans, however, little Ms. Morningstar was still heading in the direction you needed her to go for everything to work. You didn’t need the Vees for the endgame - you had other powers in your back pocket with far more influence than the three of them. Plus, the connections you were making at the Hotel were going swimmingly. Soon, not yet, but soon, you’d implement the next phase. 

Oh, if only Father could see you now - wherever the Hell he was. Did he fall to Hell or was he somehow topside? No. You’d know if he was down here with you. You’d feel it in your bones. Wherever he ended up, you were going to find him and you were going to make him suffer for everything he put you through. 

You weren’t just going to kill him - oh, no. He didn’t deserve a quick and clean death. It was going to be slow and torturous. You were going to make him feel every ounce of the pain he put you through and more. You’d take your time, after all; why rush? Hours, days, months, years; what use was putting a timeline to his punishment when it would never make up for what he did? No. You’d take your time pushing him to the edge, and when he was on the cusp of eternal darkness, you’d heal him and start all over again.   

Perhaps you did have a flair for murder like the Radio Demon. Your creative outlets were just significantly more specific - lying in wait for the perfect muse. 

Wrapping your fingers around the edge of the window pane, you quietly slipped inside. With a snap, your leather gear and cloak slipped into the Void, replaced with a silk pajama set: a tank top and shorts bordering on just too short. Scandalous, but you enjoyed burying yourself beneath layers of blankets while you slept. Any more clothing and you’d wake up sweating. 

Going for the bathroom, you turned on the light and paused. In the reflection of your mirror, you saw it: a red box wrapped in black ribbon. Your heart skipped a beat. 

Someone had been in your room. 

Hesitantly, you made your way before the coffee table and found a card perched atop the neatly wrapped bow. 

You leaned in and sniffed the package - Nifty. You were going to have to touch base with the Hotel cleaning lady after breakfast. From day one, you had made it quite clear - to her great disappointment - not to clean your room, let alone enter it. Perhaps you weren’t clear enough, for she felt it acceptable to leave this here as opposed to outside your door.

Doing a circle about the space, you inspected the sealing runes which kept certain individuals out, eyeing the shadows just in case. You had hidden the ancient magic in concealed places, even buying a rug to cover the one at the base of your door, and kept your most important things in your Void. It wasn’t the best place to store your leather and cloak - especially after the moth infestation a few years back - but it was a necessity at the moment. 

Then you went for the present. Pulling the black ribbon atop, you jumped back as the box split into fours, revealing a small radio. It was of a classic design and cathedral in shape, carved from mahogany and detailed in yellow and red. The device was simple, with only two buttons: an on-and-off switch and a volume dial. No tuning dial to change the channel? No chord to plug it in?

Fuck. How did he know? You racked your brain trying to figure out when and to whom you talked to regarding your sleepless nights. Rosie knew, but you hadn’t specifically discussed it with her lately. Did you say something to Husk in passing? To Angel while you were bitching at breakfast? 

Hesitantly, you turned on the device. A pleasant, smooth jazz echoed through the speaker: Paul Whiteman’s “Sleepy Time Down South.” Hilarious… The Radio Demon has a sense of humor. At least it wasn’t the screams of blood-curdling murder. 

After inspecting the radio three times over, you deemed it not a threat - although you kept it far away from your bed as you crawled beneath the sheets. With a snap of your fingers, the bathroom light turned off, plunging you into a cocoon of darkness, enveloped by the lullaby of sweet jazz…

____________________________________________

At some point in the night, you awoke, your mouth parched and throat dry.  

🎶 It’s not the pale moon that excites me 🎶

Alastor’s radio switches over to a new song, the music seeming to follow you as you make your way to the kitchen. The hallways were silent, the Hotel Natives snoozing away in the late hours of the night. 

🎶 That thrills and delights me 🎶

You pass by the library as a zip of static runs its way down your spine, stopping you in your tracks. Alastor stood before the fireplace, flames roaring in its hearth, casting an eerie glow throughout the room. The demon faces the fire, his attention on the crackle of the logs as they whittled away into ash. He was still dressed in his three piece suit you saw him in only hours ago, his ears pressed flat against his head in irritation. Something was bothering him. 

🎶 Oh, no. It’s just the nearness of you 🎶

He pretended not to notice you standing there staring at him from the hallway, but his shadow didn't. It zipped around your feet, twirling about your ankles in greeting, before practically dragging you inside the room. And when it had you well within the confines of the space, it flew to the doors.

🎶 It isn’t your sweet conversation 🎶

The shadow slammed them shut. CLICK! Then locked them. 

You were trapped. 

🎶 That brings this sensation 🎶

Alastor tilts his head over his shoulder, his half-lidded eyes landing on you. The demon looked royally pissed. 

This was it, this was the moment.

Alastor had figured out who you are. Your hood had fallen farther than you thought and he had seen your face and put the pieces together. He knew you were the Shadow, the mysterious new Overlord, here to challenge his grab for Princess Morningstar’s power. 

And he was going to kill you for it. 

🎶 Oh, no. It’s just the nearness of you 🎶

You didn’t hesitate to summon your blue flames, preparing for a fight, yet he moved faster than your mind could comprehend. Between one blink and the next, Alastor appears before you, his hand wrapping around your throat so tight you choke on the lack of air. Grasping at his arm, you dig your claws into his skin, your demon form summoning, as you melt the red fabric with your flame. But he is unphased by the heat, pulling back and slamming you so hard into the wall that spiderwebs crack across the plaster. 

🎶 When you’re in my arms 🎶

You try to summon more flame to burn him down to the very core of his soul like you had done to thousands of Sinners before, but the blue fire does nothing to his skin. It singes the red fabric, turning it black, but his skin beneath is unharmed. 

Shit.

🎶 And I feel you so close to me 🎶

The demon leans in, a low growl emanating from his chest, his teeth glinting in the firelight as his eyes hone in on your neck. As the blood pumped through your jugular, you watched his pupils dilate and fixate on the vein. He was a Cannibal, a predator, a killer whittled down to pure instinct. Everything within him was screaming kill, kill, kill.

🎶 All my wildest dreams came true…🎶

Your lungs screamed as you choked out, “Alastor.” It was weak, barely a whisper, but it was enough to draw his gaze from your neck to your eyes. In his pupils, you saw yourself desperate and bordering on losing yourself to the darkness threatening to close in. Despite the fight you felt in your bones you looked terrified.

🎶 I need no soft lights to enchant me 🎶

His name slipping from your mouth, the quiver he saw in your lips, had cracked something within him.

🎶 If you would only grant me 🎶

His grip disappeared, allowing you a breath of air. 

🎶 The right to hold you ever so tight 🎶

You bent over, coughing onto the floor, sucking down breaths in gasps that make your eyes water. 

🎶And to feel in the night🎶

Standing, you held onto the broken wall, forcing yourself to stay on your feet, despite your knees threatening to collapse beneath you.

“Alastor, what the fuck…” And before you had a chance to finish your question, the demon wraps his claws around your chin and forcefully slams his lips into yours. 

🎶The nearness of you🎶

The kiss was anything but soft, anything but patient. The demon was hungry and starving, and only you could satiate his appetite.

His other hand presses your hip back against the wall as he kicks your legs apart, drawing a gasp from your lips. Alastor takes the opportunity to run his tongue across your bottom lip before snaking it into your mouth. His tongue finds yours, prodding, testing, tasting.  

He pushes you flush against the wall, his knee pressing higher and higher until it finds the pocket between your thighs, eliciting a gasp that turns into a moan as he pulls you onto him, forcing your clit in line with his leg. 

The demon smiles against your lips, finally releasing your chin to grab your waist, his fingers bunching in the thin material of your pajama bottoms. You take the opportunity to find the lapels of his jacket to give you something to grab onto as you arch into him, pulling him closer as you press your breasts into his chest. The demon growls, a deep rumble emanating from within as he bites down on your bottom lip. 

Copper floods your mouth, turning the kiss sweet, but for Alastor, it’s a frenzy. He was no longer satisfied with just tasting you. He had to devour you.  

The silky material of your pajamas was oh-so thin. No underwear or bra beneath them, you were practically naked as the tips of his claws sank into the meat of your hips, beads of red pebbling on your skin. 

God and the pain only added to the pleasure building between your legs, only made your head swim as his lips slid over yours, capturing every drop of scarlet flooding your mouth. 

The demon helps guide your hips as you ground your clit into his thigh, wetness seeping into the silky material before pooling onto his pants. The room flooded with the scent of warm vanilla.

This man had you soaked, had your lips dripping as you ground into him faster and faster, your pleasure building with each roll. Alastor finally released your mouth, his teeth finding your neck, but he didn’t bite. Instead, he teased. He ran his tongue along the dip of your collarbone, tracing it to the spot where your shoulder met your neck, before finally running it up to your ear.

You moaned when he took your lobe into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth. Alastor instinctively rolled his hips, his cock tenting his pants, grinding on nothing but air. 

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough. The friction wasn’t enough. You needed more. Needed more of him to push yourself over the edge. 

“Al…” You breathed into his ear between moans, your fingers trailing down to the twitch in his pants, but stopping when you hit his belt. “Please…” You tugged.

The demon laughed, capturing your groans with his mouth before answering, “No.” 

You blinked. “No?”

The demon puts a hard stop to your hips, pausing your grinding and the build in your pleasure. He grabs your hand on his belt and captures two of your fingers in his mouth. Sucking with his lips, he circles your fingertips with his tongue, wetting them before guiding your hand back down to your clit. 

“I want to watch,” he smiles against your cheek before he wraps a finger under your chin and brings your face up to his. “Fuck yourself,” he commands. 

And you obeyed.   

Your two fingers find the apex of your pleasure beneath your shorts, and you moan, wetting your clit with his spit as you circle the bud.

You barely have to touch yourself, you’re already so close. 

Alastor does nothing to help, save for his gaze, save for his breath which matched yours. The demon’s eyes glittered with heat and desire as they bore into you. He could feel the pleasure radiating off of you, could feel it as real as you could feel his static on the other side of the bond you formed today. 

“Good girl,” he growled, his cock twitching in his pants with each moan that escaped your lips. 

“I’m close,” you whined, twirling your fingers faster and faster, feeling the pressure build between your legs. 

Alastor dug his claws into your skin, his gaze soaking up every look of pleasure on your face, his ears absorbing every moan, his cock hardening with every swipe of your fingers against yourself.

“Cum for me, darling.” The demon’s lips curled as he swiped the hair from your eyes, sticky with sweat. He wanted to watch as you sent yourself over the edge. He wanted to miss nothing.

And just as you reached your climax...

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...you wake up in bed, your screams of pleasure drawing you from sleep. 

Your orgasm spasmed through your body, your legs twitching as you rode the wave, your pussy clenching on nothing but air…

Fuck, it was the best orgasm you had ever had, nevermind that it was your first.

And when it was over and your mind sobered, you realized it was all a dream.

You never woke up for a glass of water.

You never found Alastor in the library. 

Grabbing a pillow, you launched it at the radio on the coffee table but missed by a mile. Burying your face in the sheets, you screamed. You screamed until your lungs burned because anything was better than acknowledging the truth.

Anything was better than acknowledging that you just had your very first wet dream, and it was of Alastor, the Radio Demon.

Muahahahaha! Remember it's a slow burn ;)

-> Chapter Six

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

*Plato's Allegory of the Cave

Tag List (Let me know if you want to be added):

@sirens-and-moonflowers @wonderlandangelsposts @saccharine-nectarine @goyablogsstuff

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Welcome Back.

From the moment those tall iron gates— elegant and ebony—swing open and you pass through them, a dizzying nostalgia floods into you. Here is the line that divided the rest of the world from the campus guard behind its barrier. The air is thick with magic, tasting sweet as you sip it.

This feeling, you think, head buzzing from the thrill, can be matched by nothing else.

You’re in a crowd, allowing yourself to be swept up by it and carried along its current. Men in casual wear, men in formal suits, men in outlandish and odd attire. All of you, set on the same path down Main Street.

Seven statues stand erect, monuments to seven great historical figures.

The Queen of Hearts, her rounded proportions blossoming from a patch of roses. She holds up part of her skirt with one hand and a heart-topped wand in the other. Her peaceful expression betrays the sternness with which she commands.

The King of Beasts, perched upon a rock that slants up. The lion has persisted and finally scaled the peak. He now looks skyward, his cunning visage locked to and even grander future.

The Sea Witch, tentacles curling amid carved waves. She casually leans back, unfurling a contract in one hand. Sign, and she will bless you with her benevolence.

The Sorcerer of the Sands, appearing in a cloud of sand. He stands, thin and wiry, with his serpent scepter and a hand on his hip. His face is contemplative, mindfully considering visitors.

The Beautiful Queen, svelte and lovely as she steps forth from the smoke, A poisoned apple is suspended from her fingers. She is as tempting as she is tenacious.

The Lord of the Underworld, grinning amid broiling flames. His hands are both lifted, a ball of fire conjured on one fingertip. Playful as he is, the man is diligent in his work.

The Thorn Witch, her horns and tattered robes right at home in the briar. She is poised and elegant, fingers curled at her chest. Truly noble in every way.

You lower your head to them in deference as you pass.

The crowd funnels into a doorway, then into a dimly lit room. It’s circular in design, with several windows, the curtains drawn over them, and floating coffins ringing the outskirts. With the day banished, the only source of light were the apocalyptic green flames emitting from high sconces.

An elaborate crystal chandelier and many pearl lines hang over their heads. They shift in and out of the void, sometimes catching and shining in the glow of the flames.

In the center is a large mirror upon an elevated platform. The frame, an intricate braid. Its surface, dull and dark—as if coated in a layer of coal dust.

This, too, you remember vividly.

But not the small figure standing become the mirror.

They are fitted in a mourning gown of blacks and deep blues. Feathers adorn their chest, scattered iridescent fragments woven into their skirt. A long wispy veil obscures their face—but you swear you can hear an eerie, faint giggle come from behind the gathered fabric.

They lift their hands, beckoning you to draw nearer. You are compelled to obey, your feet drifting.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all,” they announce cheerily.

Your scalp tingles. And they sound so close too. Like a childhood lullaby, a musical box wound up.

“Welcome back to our Night Raven College. It is a pleasure to see you again. How nostalgic.”

Rose gold comes to mind, and you're unsure of why that is. It comes with a familiar feeling--of rediscovering a lost part of yourself, of rose-tinted glasses slipping on and clouding one's vision, of the wonderfulness of meeting an old friend. The color of dawn beckoning a new day.

Who is…?

They reach for their veil and carefully raise it.

Your heart leaps. Deja vu.

A demure smile. Honey-colored eyes staring straight into your soul. Wonder and curiosity radiating off of her.

You suddenly know who it is.

“We’ve missed you, dear alumni.”

[lumaconstante]

Hey sunshine! ☀️✨

How are you?

Today I brought you some reasons to read my fanfic 'Star'.

• It's a fanfic set in the Gotham universe where Bruce Wayne has a biological teenage daughter, the result of a romance he had with a Japanese singer during his youth;

• The story has many references to Alice in Wonderland;

• Each chapter has at the beginning some excerpt from a song by Taylor Swift's Midnights;

• The protagonist's romantic partner is Conner Kent (Superboy);

• We have relevant appearances by Thomas Elliot (Bruce's friend) as the father of a girl;

• Practically the entire Batfamily appears at some point in the story;

• At first, Joker and Harley Quinn don't appear, I explore other villains from the Gotham universe;

• The fanfic addresses the dark side of the entertainment world;

• The fanfic is available in English and Portuguese on Wattpad.

Among many other things!

Below, a brief prologue of the Fanfic And the link for those who want to follow everything on Wattpad:

One, two, three, four.

Four times. That’s how many times the pearls from my mother’s necklace hit the ground as it broke, rolling somewhere beneath the tangle of wires behind the speakers and the jellyfish-shaped lights, while the instrumental music continued to play.

Five, six, seven, eight.

Eight seconds passed before the fans in the front row realized something was wrong—that the woman holding the bloodied knife over the lifeless body wasn’t part of the performance.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

Twelve times. That’s how many times I replayed that scene in my mind since the Gotham City police took me to the station to give my statement about what had happened.

The questions were always the same:

— "Do you know the killer?"

— "What was your mother’s relationship with the killer?"

— "Did your mother have any enemies?"

— "Are you sure of what you saw?"

— "Did your mother have any secrets?"

— "Are you okay?"

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.

Sixteen was the number of steps from the interrogation room to the psychologist’s office.

I’ve known how to count since I was four years old—it’s my earliest memory, and for some reason, the most vivid.

I was in the rehearsal room, watching my mother practice her performance for her show. She counted each step of her routine as she evaluated her movements in the mirror’s reflection.

— "Counting helps you focus on what’s important," she used to say.

And it was by watching her practice that I learned the numbers. They became an annoying and irrepressible habit, according to some people, but I like it. Counting gives me an illusory sense of control, and I feel comforted by it.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

Twenty was the number of dancers who fled the stage, ignoring the fallen body. I remember every detail clearly: the ellipsoidal lights shining in shades of blue and purple, the speakers making the stage’s wooden and iron structure tremble, the pearls from the necklace hitting the carpet, the wireless microphone rolling to my feet.

She never liked pearls; she always preferred sapphires. But that day, since I was going to make a small appearance in her show, she insisted I wear her favorite sapphire necklace.

Bright, fiery blue sapphires. Just like the color of my eyes. I was about to step onto the stage for the final duet when it happened.

Kira Hoshi didn’t scream.

When the knife pierced her abdomen, she looked at the perpetrator in shock. They exchanged words—silent, muted—that I’ll never know the meaning of, and then my mother’s body fell with a dull thud, collapsing to her knees.

The woman with dark hair and colorful streaks looked at me with a smile before leaving the scene.

When I ran toward the bloodied body on the ground, no one tried to stop me.

I can’t remember what happened next. There were no more sequences; the numbers began to jumble in my mind, stuck in no particular order.

The microphone in my hand fell, emitting a sharp, irritating sound as I embraced the bloodied body. She stroked my face, wiping the tears streaming down my cheeks. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear anything except the microphone’s grating sound.

Her lips curved into a faint smile as one of her hands caressed my dark blue hair.

"I love you," her lips mouthed silently.

A lump formed in my throat, and more tears rolled down my cheeks.

When her dark eyes lost their shine, I knew I would never hear those words from her again.

I don’t know how much time passed before someone pulled me away from the body. I didn’t even have the strength to look away.

My hands were cold as ice, and the blue and purple lights still flashed overhead when two officers dragged me away as the paramedics approached to examine her body.

But just like me, they already knew it was too late.

A police officer wrapped a thermal blanket around my shoulders. Some idiot had triggered the fire alarm while fleeing the venue, leaving me drenched from head to toe, but I barely noticed.

I simply let them lead me away from the chaos as if I were a little girl, and then they made me relive that scene over and over again until they were either tired or satisfied. And when they were satisfied, they let the reporters swarm me until all I could see were lights.

Every eye was on me, in the center of that room like in a circus. Exactly like in a circus. And as much as I wanted to step out of the spotlight, I knew the wall of people surrounding me wouldn’t allow it.

After the reporters gathered all the material they would sell on magazine and newspaper covers for the next few weeks, I was finally alone—or rather, almost alone.

A police officer chatted on the phone about some idiot she’d met at a party, but she didn’t seem interested or bothered by my presence.

It was nearly midnight when an officer finally cared enough to inform me of what would happen to me next. They told me they couldn’t reach my aunt at the number I had provided, so they searched through my mother’s contacts and called my father, who was already there to pick me up.

I let the thermal blanket slide off my shoulders as I followed the officer escorting me to the station’s exit. In front of the gate, a man dressed in an elegant suit waited by the car. I approached hesitantly, feeling his eyes fixed on me.

— "Hello, Alice," he said, bowing slightly. "It’s been some time..."

[thedreadvampy]

I do not understand subcultural politics discourse and at this point I don't know how much is differences in the national scenes and how much is that we just have very different ideas of what these scenes are.

cause like. Punk I get. Punk is not always left wing (there has always been a Nazi punk problem) but punk IS always inherently and actively political as a definitional factor. Punk is foundationally anarchist, counter-hierarchical, and centred on anger and community cohesion. If you approach punk as apolitical or centrist you are Doing It Wrong. Nazis and right libertarians have always made up a small but vocal chunk of the community, and that's a problem punk has to address in its own ways (ideally with steel toecaps). Punk is definitionally political and has a couple of extremely foundational sets of political beliefs.

Or like, hip-hop. More complicated case cause there's even more corporate cooption involved in shaping the modern genre but hip-hop has a foundational political position. Hip-hop is focused on Black pride and power, and on addressing African-American trauma and injustice, and so it's historically working-class, anti-racist and anti-cop. It means something politically as a genre.

But some stuff people say just Does Not Jam with my experience of subculture. Like people KEEP saying 'you can't be a right-wing goth, goth is radically left wing' and all I'm saying is a) we have spoken to some VERY different elder goths bc as much as I was lucky enough to grow up in the scene, going to the goth weekends, etc, my god did some of those 60 year olds vote Tory or BNP with their whole chest. and b) as far as I'm aware the main thing that goth stands for politically is countercultural provocation and a kind of nihilistic disengagement. like Siouxie Sioux habitually used swastikas and Nazi paraphernalia to demonstrate distance from her parent's generation. a lot of the foundational Goth musicians are either right-wing or prefer to keep their politics private because they consider them separate.

like most of the goths I know are left-leaning, because there are foundational philosophical beliefs attached to goth culture and a lot of those, like fluidity of expression, resistance to established power, and celebrating marginalisation, appeal to a lot of lefties. But frankly I've known a lot of goths who are reactionary right-wingers or full on Nazis because, well, other precepts of goth culture can include stuff like nihilistic individualism and glorification of death. Plus the Nazi iconography thing, plus the widespread racism in the community. and those weren't like 'i found goth on TikTok' goths, these are like 'committed to the lifestyle since 1979' goths.

Like goth is not particularly a RIGHT-WING movement, but I have never experienced it as an explicitly political musical/subcultural movement at all? Certainly not the way that punk or reggae or outlaw country or something is.

(and speaking of reggae. I was watching Anthony Fantano and FD Signifier talking about this whole idea and FD said something as a 'isn't this a silly example' about a white nationalist looking for white nationalist reggae. and they were both laughing about what a silly idea that was

and I'm sitting there like...But that's literally exactly what happened with ska in the UK? like ska is obviously an afrocaribbean genre made by and for Black communities and uhhhh by the late 60s in Britain ska was the white nationalist sound. like skinheads love ska and in particular there are a bunch of neonazi/white nationalist ska acts. not all skinheads are far right but if skinheads have a dominant political identity it is probably more far right than far left.

and that did raise the question of differences in national scenes. like I know that behind the Iron Curtain a lot of punks were using UK and American flags the way Western punks were using Soviet iconography, and Caribbean music has a very different cultural association in the UK than in the US, and British rap has a different political outlook than American rap.

and so maybe American goth is a lot more political than British goth? but I kind of think of goth as a European subculture tbh like I think goth I think England and Germany, and the European goth music and goth scenes I've been in are......not explicitly political?)

[sugolara]

♫ But when we fight, it's kinda like sibling rivalry

Ft. Shota, Katsuki, Hitoshi, Izuku, Shoto, Eri & gn! reader

Synopsis: Born by dysfunctional parents, Shota Aizawa takes it upon himself to adopt a litter of kids to give them the best chance life could offer them. Or... [A family with different parents try to beat any obstacle that come their way, though they couldn't have done this without the help of their adopted father; Shota.] Cw: language, drinking, smoking, substance abuse, death mention, a bit of angst, quirkless! au, humor, slight sexual themes nothing to graphic, gender neutral reader!, updates once a month or so Honorable Supporting Cast: Denki Kaminari [The best friend], Kyoka Jiro [The friend], Eijiro Kirishima [The love interest], Ochaco Uraraka [The friend], Tenya Iida [The love interest/Ex], Mina Ashido [The friend/Ex], Momo Yaoyorozu [The love Interest], Hanta Sero [The love interst] & other extras that aren't important Music of the chapter: My Band - D12

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Each room resonated an alarm, striking seven AM, meaning it was time to arise and head for the first day of school. Much to their dismay, they all let out a sleepy groan, pulled their blankets over their head to drown out the alarm even if it didn't do much. They knew they shouldn't have stayed up to sneakily text their friends, but everyone was excited to see each other at school again.

Due to being a teacher at the high school, Shota had already woken up with his suit he had ironed as well as the red tie around his neck. Thankfully, Nezu allowed him to keep his hair however he desired.

Leaving his room, he entered the room next to him, shutting the alarm from F/n's dresser off. His attention was then set on F/n, a shake of disapproval as he already knew they had spent their night texting. He decided to leave them asleep and instead moved to Eri, shaking her awake, "First day of school, Eri."

The girl grumbled, as she tiredly opened her eyes, letting it adjust as sunlight peeked through the pink curtains, "Do I have to?"

"Unfortunately, yes." He shook her again when her eyes closed, "But just think of the friends you'll make."

At that, she removed her covers, a smile placed on her lips, "Oh, yeah, friends!"

He moved out of the way as they both headed for the kitchen where he prepared breakfast, muttering underneath his breath, "Let's just hope they don't turn out like your siblings."

Grabbing her orange juice to complement the set of pancakes, Shota headed back to the hallway, "When you're done get dressed."

"Okay!" She called out, smiling down at her shaped pancakes as she poured a heavy amount of syrup, "Not too much, Eri. Like dad said, don't get sick on the first day of school."

Opening Hitoshi's and Shoto's room, their fan straggled as it turned making a whirring sound. Hitoshi had gotten cold as he hid himself underneath the covers while Shoto slept shirtless, his covers resting on the floor. It would always be a mystery to Shota on how Shoto could handle the cold, "C'mon get up, school day."

He then headed towards the bedroom next to them and as he looked inside he wondered how Izuku could comfortably sleep in a position. His body was twisted, his legs were bent to the side, his neck was raised due to his pillows, and one arm was hanging while the other was bent behind his back. One of these days, Izuku will have to see a doctor for back pain.

Katsuki, on the other hand, slept on his back with his arms on top of his covers.

"Get up, school day." Shota said and left the room. He headed to his room where Eri, dressed ready to go, waited for him in his bathroom. She passed him the brush with a smile, "Can we do a braid with this apple hair tie?"

Shota smiled as began separating her hair, which he learned for her, "Yeah."

In the back bedroom, Izuku got up, wiping his saliva as he stretched, "My body hurts."

"Does Pink cheek know you slobber like a dog." Katsuki said as he popped his back.

"Haha, funny." He glared at him, but to be clear, no she did not, which he liked to keep it that way.

In the other room, Hitoshi continued to sleep soundly while Shoto began to get dressed. He grabbed his backpack from the closet and began to put his notebook from last year inside. Most of the pages were left untouched and he didn't feel like buying a new one was necessary. After placing his supplies in his bag, he turned to grab his phone that chimed.

His good friends, Tenya, Ochaco and Momo, had texted in the group chat on where to meet up. He texted them back and then placed his phone in his pocket, before looking at Hitoshi, "Get up. We'll be late for school."

He heard him grumble, but when he didn't get up, Shoto took it upon himself to grab his pillow and throw it at the sleeping male. When that didn't work, he grabbed his school bag, aiming it at Hitoshi who finally woke up. "What's going on?"

"School." Shoto said before leaving the room.

Uniform on, F/n exited their room. With the household only having one bathroom—except for Shota's—every morning they all fought for it, so when F/n stood in the hallway with Shoto, they both blinked at each other before sprinting towards the door. Their hands were set on the doorknob as they glared at each other.

"Oh, hell no." F/n glared at him, "I got here first. You take too damn long."

Shoto placed his leg in front of them, "That's not true and I promise I won't take long."

"As if, you'll take the whole hour we have before we need to leave." They said as they shoved the younger male, "Beat it, Shoto."

"Why?" The male glanced down, his lips quivered as he slowly looked back at them, putting on a pouty face, "You're supposed to be nice to me. I'm the youngest, remember?"

They scoffed, rolling their eyes with, "Yeah rig–"

"Remember what happened to me when I was a kid?" He sniffled, "You're making me feel...like that again."

"U-h..." They tried looking away from his glossy eyes, but hearing Shoto sniffling they took in a glance only to see a teardrop falling. They caved in, letting go of the handle with an apologetic look, "Fine, just don't take to lo–"

"Loser." Shoto shoved them aside as he entered the bathroom.

"You fucker." They glared at the closed door before heading towards Shota.

In Hitoshi's bedroom, Izuku handed the indigo male a spare notebook, "Are you in the same class as us again, or different?"

Hitoshi shrugged, placing the notebook in his bag, "Hopefully different. You guys are a pain to be around. Bad enough I live with you, but being in the same class? No thanks."

"Rude." Izuku glared at him. Feeling his pocket uniform vibrate, he fished out his phone, his cheeks coating in blush, "We're going to meet up with Tenya and Ochaco. You wanna come?"

"Nah. I'll be meeting up with Denki." Hitoshi said, placing his blazer on. He then turned around to see the freckle male smiling at his phone, "You know you're going to get scolded for not having your tire on."

He looked down and shrugged it off, "I'll ask Ochaco to do it."

"Not that she knows anyways." Hitoshi mumbled as he grabbed his bag, exiting the room.

In the doorway, stood F/n, holding their stomach as they wined, "Please, dad! Let me use your bathroom. I have to pee really badly and Shoto's hogging the other one!"

Shota let out a sigh as he finished braiding Eri who giggled at F/n's motion, "Wait for Shoto, I'm sure he's almost done."

"And get a bladder infection?" They yelled, "Are you crazy old man!? That's like...child abuse!"

He gave them a look as Katsuki came in, "Well if you're going to let her use your restroom, let me use it too! Do you realize how long getting these braces clean takes!?"

"Your fault for having a gap, Dr. Teeth." They slyly grinned, but whined when the blonde punched them in the arm. "How many times do I have to tell you to quit calling me that!?"

Ignoring his kids, Shota looked at Eri through the mirror, "You want side bangs?"

She hummed as she turned her head, looking at herself before smiling, "Nope!"

"Whatever, I'll just pee outside." Katsuki left, with F/n following behind.

"Don't pee outside! We already got plenty of warnings for nudity!" Shota yelled out as he shook his head.

Breakfast being eaten quickly and their shoes being placed on, they headed out the front door with their bags on their shoulders, letting the cold air hit their skin. While Izuku adjusted Eri's scarf, Shota locked the door behind them. He then turned to them, "You sure you guys don't want a ride? We can take the van since it's pretty cold out."

The older kids shook their heads, "Nah."

"Alright." Shota said as he opened the smaller vehicle door to let Eri inside, "I'll meet you guys over there and don't be late."

With a nod, they waved Eri a goodbye and watched the car turn a corner. They then headed towards their friends before entering the gates of hell. It was a short peaceful walk—minus Katsuku who glared and cursed out every individual who gave them a dirty look. A couple blocks more, F/n and Hitoshi separated from their siblings to meet up with their friends.

"Yo, over here!" Hearing that cheery voice, the two turned to see their long term friend, Denki, happily waving at them. Behind him stood Hanta with his famous triangle grin.

"Can you believe it's been forever since we last saw each other?" F/n said as they entered a convenience store, the bell on top of the door chiming.

"We saw each other last week." Hanta chuckled as he followed them.

"That party was epic." Denki laughed as he grabbed a bag of chips, "I almost thought I was about to miss that pool."

"You did." Hitoshi added, looking at the blonde's cast, "You broke your arm."

Denki laughed, shrugging it off as he pulled his sleeve, wincing as he showed Hitoshi the phone numbers he received, "At least I got babes."

"Speaking of babes." Hitoshi's eyes landed on F/n, "What are you going to do about Tenya?"

"I thought he broke up with you?" Denki's and Hanta asked at the same time. Whilst Denki's brows furrowed as he tried to remember the day F/n had announced their break up, Hanta's were narrowed as he never liked the idea of them dating. Not that Tenya was bad, but because F/n had some serious issues that needed to be worked out before they decided to take Tenya down with them. 

"He did." Grimly, they shrugged, placing their hands in their pockets, "Whatever, it was such a stupid reason to."

"Uh, wasn't it because he found out you were talking with Neito? And by talking I mean talking, talking." Hanta said, carefully eyeing their frame, "'Cause that's not a stupid reason to break up, y'know."

"Yeah, and you even ended up dated him the second you two broke up." Hitoshi added, uncaring that it bothered F/n, "He has every right to be mad at you."

"I said whatever." They groaned out, eyeing the products of snacks. 

Deciding it was best to change the conversation as to not upset F/n any further, Denki rolled his shoulders, his broken arm hurting in the process, "Did you guys hear Mr. Nezu decided to switch out students from Class 2-A and 2-B?"

"Damn, really?" Hanta tsked, "Hopefully they get out Minoru. Dude's a freaky little shit, even for me."

"Who's in who?" Hitoshi asked even though he hardly knew anybody Denki named. 

Walking off, F/n let out a sigh, "Man, hopefully they don't kick out Kyoka. She always brings the best snacks and since we sit in the back Mr. Hizashi never notices or I think he does, but he just doesn't give a flying shit."

"He doesn't get paid enough." Hanta then smiled, "You want anything?"

Leaving the aisle where Denki and Hitoshi stood, they nodded, "What I need is a damn energy drink. How does the school expect me to suffer for eight hours without something to keep me going?"

"Well school is supposed to help after you graduate, you know that, right?" Sweat rolled down when they scoffed. He stood behind them as they muttered to themselves, figuring which candy would be best to eat. Staring at them, he's always liked how their brow would twitch when they tried to concentrate.

"Damn, all these suck." They held a sour candy, "Who the hell even eats the orange flavor. That's the nastiest shit ever."

He let out a short chuckle, "I like them."

They turned to look at him, unbeknown a blush began to grow on his cheeks. They then shrugged and headed towards the cashier with the candy in hand, "You'll eat the nasty ones. You're paying right?"

"What happened to Kyoka, anyways? I thought she was coming." F/n asked. The male beside her shrugged, "She and Fumikage have a gig this week so I think they're practicing for that."

After paying, they both met Hitoshi and Denki outside. Taking a sip, they handed it to Denki who happily chugged the rest and let out a burp, "Excuse me."

They glared at him as they handed Hanta the candy bag, "Seriously?"

Denki giggled, "What? I'm tired too."

"You guys know who our teacher is this year?" Hanta asked as he scrolled through his phone.

"I don't know, but whoever it is, I pray it isn't Mr. Aizawa. He scares me!" Denki then looked at F/n and Hitoshi, "No offense."

Hitoshi grabbed his phone to check his email as he received a notification. He wanted to jump in joy but he refrained from doing that, "I got Mr. Kan. You guys should've gotten an email."

"I think I've got like 3,000 or something emails." Denki thought, "I got locked out of my phone and can't remember my password, that's why I didn't text any of you."

"Isn't your password like dominatrix 3,000?" Hanta laughed, "I remember it being something stupid."

Hitoshi let out a sigh and rolled his eyes in disappointment, "It's tenzitsmackable80082."

Denki fished out his phone and tried the password, "Holy shit! You're right!"

"How'd you know that?" F/n and Hanta questioned.

"Yours is 600673.8008132. Hanta's soysauce. Izuku's unstopplecaptianstrong. Katsuki's 6pack. Kyoka's earphonejack. Eijiro's manlydudewitha6pack. Ochaco's pinksplittersplatter and Tenya's gettingintoauniversitybeforeyou." The indigo then shrugged, "I got bored."

Hanta, F/n and Denki's eyes widened in amazement, "Damn, surprise you even remember the others."

Soon enough they reached their destination. The prison of school stared at them, daring them to step a foot inside as if they'd never see daylight. They let out a sigh and marched in, prepared for the wild ride that awaited them.

[flusteredmoonn]

speak now; regulus black

summary: "and the organ starts to play a song that sounds like a death march," in which his parents see to it that their familial name is continued on.

tags: (SFW), drabble??, fast paced, arranged marriage, pureblood!reader, she/her pronouns, third person y/n.

words: 600+

speak now tracklist. request.

what had seemed like hundreds of people she didn't know had lined the pews of the church. ironically, an unlikely place for a magically family which held blood purity in such high regard. the girl thought bitterly as she peered behind the dark curtains which hung in the doorway off to the side of the altar.

"come on, girl, don't ogle. you've got to be ready to walk soon," the pointed woman spoke harshly, her hand rested elegantly and sweetly on the girl's shoulder in a false compassion.

"yes, ma'am," she spoke, before making a swift get away back to her dressing room.

no one from her family was there. she had came to the rough conclusion. her father had been sent on a mission from the dark lord, whisking her mother away with him. those that were there for her, weren't really. there were several attendees from the ministry of magic, eager to report on the affair.

everyone who was there whom were her blood, were his blood too. and with how high a status which the black family held, they were never really there for her in the first place.

silently, she cursed her father for promising her away. cursing him because he couldn't give his only child, his only daughter, away on her wedding day.

it had felt like a death sentence, she grimly thought as she turned to stare at herself in the round antique mirror. the dress she donned was obscene. the family she was marrying into had taken the liberty of dressing her away from what was traditional. maybe for such a dark family this was traditional.

the dress matched the name she was soon to take. a stark contrast in colour to what she had been expecting. her face paled with anticipation as damning music began to weave through the atmosphere.

running her hands down the top of the skirt, fingers rubbing the tulle and lace, she squinted at her own reflection in the mirror. delicately, she moved from the room she had taken refuge in, and moved to the foyer in preparation for her walk down the isle.

on the other side of the door, regulus black was having a similar thought process. his high collared suit jacket roughly itching his neck. he so desperately wanted to loosen his tie to relieve himself.

the boy's mother roughly gripped his arm, as though she could read his mind. a lie of a small smile graced his face as he began passing his close family members. the pianist's fingers danced along the keys as they transitioned between songs upon the boy reaching the altar.

sharply, he inhaled as the large doors at the start of the isle swung open once more. hesitantly, y/n put one foot in front of the other. she was on the red strip of carpeted material which ran the length of the church. she can't back down now.

and she didn't, deeply inhaling and squeezing her eyes shut. the bridal chorus began to play, eyes turned to the girl as everyone in the sacred building stood up to watch her walk to deaths door.

after an eternity, she reached the altar, regulus chivalrously took her hand and helped her onto the small stage.

the ministry's priest uttered the words which tied them together for the rest of their lives. both the boy and the girl agreed through gritted teeth, lying about their loyalty to one another and how they'll care for each other 'til the ends of the earth.

and so, they were perpetually tied to one another.

from the artist: i don't really think that anyone outwardly readers regulus fics, that i know of, but this idea was too good to not write. though the execution of it is mehhhh

[apoptoses]

Venice in winter is nothing compared to his homeland, but it’s still damp, oppressive. Outside the sky is a pale shade of grey and the wind must be blowing something fierce, as the little roundels of glass rattle in their iron panes.

But Bianca’s chambers are a hot house. Heat crackles in the fireplace, from the candelabras that dot the walls and tables. Steam curls from the surface of her bath and Amadeo watches the way the wisps of blond hair that surround her face curl with it. She tips her head back against the rim of the tub to look at him. Her cheeks are flushed as rose petals when she smiles, gone pink from the steam.

“You’ve made a terrible mess of my bed,” she says.

And so he has. Having no spare clothing here he’s had no choice but to yank the velvet covers free and wrap himself in them. He’s lying the wrong way, his feet peeking out near the head of the bed. He pushes them into a pillow and grins behind the auburn curtain of his hair.

“And what of it?” he asks.

“Does your master let you get away with such things?”

“No. He beats me terribly. I’m a victim of his punishments almost nightly.”

Bianca rolls her pretty blue eyes. “And you enjoy it, don’t you?”

He does. But she needn’t know that.

This room with all of its delicate things- perfume bottles, silk ribbons draped across her vanity table, Bianca’s little shoes and her combs for her hair and her vases of flowers- it’s not the place for that sort of talk. It’s like being inside a jewelry box. Like being beneath the sea, with the way the steam has collected on the windows and left them shimmering and wet.

Bianca toys with the golden end of her braid, searching it for split hairs. The pearl strands woven into it click softly as she twists and turns her hair.

Amadeo lives in a beautiful palazzo of unruly boys. He sleeps in his master’s strong, imposing bed. He’s been to brothels of all sorts, enjoyed their lurid sort of appeal but this place, this woman’s chamber- it holds such fascination. He watches her in awe as she lifts her feet from beneath the water, rests them on the opposite end of the tub, and he feels as though he’s under a spell.

“You look like a mermaid,” he mumbles.

Water runs down her legs. They’re pale, slender, and Amadeo wonders if he grasped her by the ankle if his fingers would touch where they encircle it. Pressed together as they are, water and soap bubbles clinging to her skin, they look like the appendage of a sea creature. If he blurs his vision the fine golden hair on her legs becomes scales.

“Oh?” Bianca flicks a bit of water at him. It lands on the tip of his nose. “And were I a mermaid what would you be? Some fisherman come to capture me? A prince lost at sea, desperate for saving like Odysseus? Come, wash my back and tell me.”

Amadeo rises from the bed. He leaves the safety of the blankets behind and drags her carved wooden stool over to the side of the tub.

Funny how they’re both naked and yet he feels all the more vulnerable for it. Bianca is otherworldly with her hair swept aside, her head tilted to expose the line of her throat, her shoulder. He takes the wet cloth, rubs the perfumed water into her skin, and wonders what a crude being he must be in comparison.

“Perhaps I would capture you and travel about with you, keeping you on display. I could charge a gold coin just to look upon your beauty,” he says. “You’d make me a rich man.”

He drags the cloth over the delicate ball of her shoulder. It’s white as a porcelain doll, soft in a way none of the other boy’s flesh is. Amadeo massages at her skin and takes in the musicality of her little groan.

“Mm, and would you keep me in a cage? Would you be a very strict master, one who never lets his little captive out?” she teases.

Amadeo nods. “A golden one, so that I might hand feed you through the bars. I could charge another coin for that, I think. Plenty of men would pay for the pleasure of passing you a little bite of fish.”

He washes her scapula when she leans forward, the ball joint at the base of her neck. Her breasts bob in the water, slick with soap, flushed pink with the heat,  and Amadeo can’t resist running the cloth over her clavicle. Down and down until his finger slides into the valley between them where her sternum rests. Her laugh vibrates beneath the bone as she slaps at his wrist.

It’s a half-hearted protest. Splashing just for the sake of getting him wet, and as Amadeo dodges her hand he pretends to accidentally grope her. The entirety of her breast nestles perfectly into his hand.

“You’re such a predictable boy. Would you have them pay to do this as well?” Bianca asks. Her voice rises into a gasp when he catches her nipple between his finger and thumb. “How many gold coins to molest your captive mermaid?”

She’s soft. Not like his master, who’s like caressing one of the marble statues that lines their courtyard. Bianca has warm breasts to squeeze, a roll of flesh that appears above her stomach when she sits hunched and naked like this. Amadeo rubs his palm over the swell of her stomach, his fingertips brushing the gold curls that cover her mound, and curls his other arm around her shoulders to clasp her wet back to his chest.

“None,” he says. “I wouldn’t charge them any, because this I would keep all for my own.”

The wind rattles the shutters of the palazzo. Rain lashes at the windows. It’s freezing outside but in here Amadeo is sweating. It trickles down his back as he grazes her thighs with his fingers. He’s damp under the arms, too warm from the fireplace, from his desire. Just like with his master, he feels monstrous from it. Lesser for the needy thing between his legs. An animal driven by lust.

Bianca struggles in his grasp. Not to get free, to rise up toward his wandering hand. But the position is awkward. Her ankles, perched as they are on the edge of the tub, they don’t give her enough leverage to lift her hips and so she’s trapped there; wiggling like a fish. Amadeo teases at the crease where her thighs meet. He traces it from knee to pubis and back again and listens to the quickening of her breath.

The cleft of her must be slick. She’s probably flushed pink down there as well but he can’t see it through the water, the way her thighs are clenched together.  But that’s alright. He’s submitted to his master, to the workers of the brothels. Amadeo’s not had anyone squirm for him and he’s finding he likes this game. Her shiver when he rakes his nails through her curls sets his blood alight.

He works his finger into the tight crevice where her thighs meet. He seeks out the sensitive nub between her legs and he knows he’s found it by the way Bianca tips her head back and inhales a sharp breath.

Amadeo tries to picture her as a sea creature. What folds she might have here, in this secret part of her. Whether she’d be warm inside or cold, slimy like the belly of a fish. He forces his finger further down through the squeeze of her thighs and teases at her entrance.

It’s torment, being outside of this bath, unable to plunge into her. In the excitement of the previous night he’d finished all too quickly, and it’s embarrassing, really. He’s dying inside to repeat his performance, to do better this time. But he owes her. Pleasure is the only way he can pay her.

Bianca’s hands grip his forearm like a vice. They’re slender, like a doll’s, and he likes to feel small but she’s the first to make him feel powerful. He rubs tiny circles at her and her nails dig into his skin. Glides his finger up and down and watches through the distortion of the water the needy thrust of her hips.

“Amadeo-“ she gasps.

Her knees fall apart. He clucks his tongue at her, stills his hand.

“You’re a mermaid, remember? Your legs should stay together, yes, like that.”

She lets out a whine, clenches her legs back into place. Amadeo touches her again, slow, teasing, and bites back a hiss when she claws at his wrist.

This is new, having someone fall apart in his arms. Taking her apart little by little with his fingertip alone is a rush that goes straight to his head. Like being drunk only better, because instead of a headache there’s a reward at the end. Falling upon her in her great golden bed. Or perhaps just the satisfaction of seeing her shake with pleasure. That alone might be enough.

The pearls in Bianca’s braid click when she tosses her head. Amadeo strokes her, up and down, again and again. Runs his finger along her folds and watches her toes curl at the edge of the bath. He presses at her entrance. Makes as if he’ll let his fingertip in and her toes point with anticipation. Then go lax again when he takes his fingertip away and seeks out the sensitive nub of her again.

“You’re a horrible tease,” she complains.

Amadeo laughs. “I’m your captor, aren’t I? It’s my right to tease. I trapped you for my own pleasure, after all.”

He traces a little circle over her clit. Bianca presses his cheek into the crook of his elbow, as though she means to hide her face.

“Most men would take their pleasure in other ways.”

There’s no hiding herself, though. Amadeo tilts his head, ignores the pain that comes with straining into such an awkward position, and takes in the way she’s panting. The rush of color to her cheeks, how she bites her lip when he touches just the right way. He keeps on that spot, repeats the motion, and he can tell by the way she squeezes her thighs that she’s squeezing tight on the inside too.

“I’m unlike most men,” he says, and kisses at her throat.

Her skin tastes like the perfumed water. Like salt because she too has begun to sweat. He rubs over and over, feels the rush of her pulse, and wonders if this is what his master feels with him. Whether making him squirm, helpless in his arms, makes him feel indomitable as well, and for a second he wishes he could rend her throat with his teeth. Amadeo wants to feel the stitch of her heart the way his master feels his whenever he bites into his flesh and takes his blood.

Slow circles. Over and over he spirals his fingertip. No change in the motion, no teasing now. There’s only one end to this and he means to achieve it as he drops kisses along her neck. Amadeo picks up his speed bit by bit until she gasps. There, there- the words are muttered out over the slosh of the bath, and he listens. Takes her advice even though his forearm is screaming at him, and-

Bianca kicks at the edge of the tub. Her cry sounds surprised, like she didn’t expect to be wracked with this much sensation, and she shakes with it. Her thighs squeeze so tight around Amadeo’s finger he couldn’t slip it inside her even if he wanted to.

And that’s fine. Good, in fact. This pleasure is for her sake and even if his cock is throbbing its need between his legs it can wait. Must wait, he decides. His master would scold him for taking her like a street ruffian not once but twice.

She’s lovely when she goes slack. Bianca’s hair is mussed from rubbing her face against his arm, a gold curl come free near her temple. Amadeo goes to tuck it back for her but she shakes her head.

“My hair will have to be redone entirely.” She plunges her wet fingers into his auburn hair and drags him down for a kiss. Her body is uncomfortably hot, sticky against his. “You’re right, you know.”

“About what?”

She nips at his lip, hard enough to leave it smarting. While Amadeo is busy rubbing at his mouth she rises from the tub like Venus from her shell. Arm covering her breasts, she reaches with the other hand and gestures for him to hand her a dry sheet.

“You’re like your master,” she says.

Amadeo cocks his head. He hands her the sheet without getting up from the stool, suddenly embarrassed of the thing throbbing between his own legs. He aches to throw her to the floor and take her.

“How so?” he asks.

Bianca enshrouds herself in white fabric. One neat movement, so well practiced that she hardly drips water onto the floor, and she’s perched on the edge of the bath rubbing herself dry. Arms first, then legs. She brings her ankle up to rest upon her knee and Amadeo can’t help but stare at the bone white jut of it. She’s pale as his master there. Her ankles never see the sunlight and so he can see the blue veins through her skin, and he wonders how they’d taste.

“Both of you are entirely unlike other men,” Bianca murmurs. Her foot with its pale sole, white as the belly of a fish, lands suddenly in Amadeo’s lap. She grinds her heel down and draws a gasp from him. “Now come to bed, Amadeo. I believe it’s time your captive takes her revenge. You’ll allow me some fun, won’t you? Before I release you back into the waters to swim home to your master?”

The pearls in her braid are loose. He ruts up against her foot and hears them rattle when she tosses her head back and smirks.

Amadeo is hooked. How easily he swings between such extremes. Misery and ecstasy. Dominance and submission. Shame and desire. He’s a being made of contradictions, and as he follows her to her golden bed he thinks he’ll do anything she wants so long as it keeps him here a moment longer. Safe from reality in her jewelry box room.

Safe from his sadness so long as he remains trapped in the net of want.

[blacknwhitemood]

Back side:

Some details - behind the Iron Curtain:

Made in Hungary with the original price:

Catching Up With - inner paper cover:

Black Celebration with But Not Tonight at the end (USA edition):

Blue vinyl (German edition):

Violator in French and the new edition inside:

Duplicates:

This is my DM vinyl album collection - so far. I also collect 7" singles, you can read about it in another post. These albums released in the "original" year in different countries like West Germany, U.S.A., France, Yugoslavia and Hungary. It shows well the age of Depeche Mode that some of these countries are no longer exist.

Original DM LPs are rare if I don't want to order them from eBay for a fortune and uncertain delivery. I must be lucky - and I was. I bought them from a website where buddies like me sell their used items, a guy regulary sends me e-mails about his duplicates, I'm really appreciated. There is a second hand music recording shop not far from my flat, I remember I went there first time in October to buy MFTM in blue version (haha, now I know how rare it is). The shop was crowded, sellers were busy, I was a bit nervous. One of the customers asked loudly over the LP heap "So where is that Depeche Mode you talked about?" I turned there, he was given MFTM by the shop owner. "I leave it here for now, someone will really need it" - he said and I went to him for the vinyl "I was coming exactly for this album, I'm not kidding. I'm buying this" - we were laughing, the owner said this LP had arrived to the shop 17 minutes before I got it.

Or I just find them in my mother's potato cellar (!) where my sister left them in the early 90s: the Hungarian version of MFTM, and Violator by Virgin Records. I had to wash some black mold off them… I found the original price sticker from 1987 (280 HUF - today it would cost 15,000 HUF) and Violator has sticker at the front in French "L'album inclus Personal Jesus & Enjoy the silence". These were my first DM experience in my childhood when I was prepearing to a music high school and I learnt all of those strange songs on piano.

Unfortinately two important studio albums are missing yet from the 80s: one of my favourite, Some Great Reward, I'm sure we will find each other one day. I could've bought Speak & Spell but only the American version, too much differences, I prefer the other one. My Black Celebration is American too, that means you can find one more song at the end of B side, But Not tonight - this song has never released in Europe. I also love my Catching Up With, because the cover is wow (I mean hot), and the inner paper cover is full of photos, this way they promoted the band in the States. This singles collection released only in the USA, this is the American version of The Singles 81→85 with 4 differences. And I need SOFAD and it' singles, I'm afraid it's gonna be a difficult advanture.

Basicly I don't want to keep 2 or more versions of the albums, beside MFTM Violator is duplicated in a funny reason. I went to Müller shopping soaps and while I was standing in line at the checkout and I got a sight of vinyls next to puffed corn. "What if there is DM?" There was. Violator, new edition that you can order all of the albums in any time. This was my very first DM album, I just couldn't leave it there, my heart was beating loudly. After this I've decided to collect original vinyls only, because they have souls. Decades ago someone bought it and listened to is with joy and perhaps he or she was in love with someone and went to a concert or a flat party and they were dancing… When I hold these old, crumpled albums in my hand I can feel the past. It makes me so happy.

A Broken Frame 1982 Made in Yugoslavia (Jugoton)

Construction Time Again 1983 Made in West Germany

Catching Up With Depeche Mode 1985 Made in U.S.A.

Black Celebration 1986 Made in U.S.A.

Music For The Masses 1987 Made in West Germany (blue vinyl)

Music For The Masses 1987 Made in Hungary (Gong)

Violator 1990 Made in France (Virgin)

Violator 2016 (new edition - Sony)

[zeldahime]

Highway to Pail Day 11

[Day 1] [Prev] [Next] @do-it-with-style-events

February 11: I heard they're looking for someone to perform in The Sound of Music. It's a Trapp.

It had been four hours since Crowley had sauntered into the bookshop, kidnapped an angel, and taken him out to dinner and a show. He'd wined and Aziraphale had dined at the Savoy, talking about nothing and everything. After Aziraphale finished dessert, Crowley had produced two box tickets to the new Rodgers & Hammerstein on the West End, a show about a nun outwitting some Nazis, and preened under Aziraphale's twinkling smile. In the dark box, they sat with just a scant inch between them. An important inch, an unbridgeable inch, but so much closer than they ever could be in the light of day in public or trust themselves to be in the gentle privacy of the bookshop.

About five minutes after curtain, Crowley realized he had made a terrible mistake.

How do you solve a problem like Maria? sang the nuns on stage behind Maria's back, and Aziraphale pulled away from the relaxed warmth of watching a silly musical together to sit impossibly straighter, arms retracting to set his palms neatly flat against his lap, legs moving from slightly spread as though at parade rest to heels together at attention. Crowley turned to look at his face, and his expression had gone totally blank, a terrible neutrality he hadn't seen in years.

In fact, the last time he'd seen Aziraphale with such a careful lack of any expressions at all, he'd just returned from his centenary performance review in Heaven, and he'd then avoided Crowley entirely for five years.

If Aziraphale spooked like that again just because Crowley hadn't vetted the dumb musical....

That unbreachable inch became a yawning chasm.

Then the nuns stared at Maria as she tripped, not offering a hand up, judgement written on their faces.

Crowley took a deep breath, unnecessary but steadying, and looked straight forward as he reached over and placed his hand on top of Aziraphale's, heart in his throat. "Alright there, angel?" he whispered, squeezing lightly.

Aziraphale didn't answer, but he didn't push Crowley away either. When the Mother Abbess and Maria sang about their favorite things, he flipped his hand over and squeezed Crowley back.

They stayed like that through the first act, hand-in-hand, as Maria and the von Trapp children pranced and sang across the stage, as Maria and the Captain began to fall in love, as the Nazis threatened Anchluss. At the end of the act, as Maria packed her bags to return to the monastery.

Aziraphale's grip was like iron when the Countess or whatever told Maria that Captain von Trapp was in love with her.

Even when the house lights came up for intermission, he didn't let go for nearly two minutes. When he did, Crowley only moved his hand to the armrest, allowing human propriety but not wanting to retract altogether.

"Well, this is dull," he drawled. "Thought there'd be more fighting Nazis and less mooning over them. The war wasn't like this anywhere I was. What do you say we get out of here, angel?"

Aziraphale visibly shook himself. "I'm sure Leisl... well. Yes. Let's. I must be getting back to the bookshop." Aziraphale didn't look at him. "Early day tomorrow."

The short ride back to the bookshop in the Bentley seemed to take an eternity. With the space between them restored, Aziraphale seemed a million miles away in the passenger's seat, silent as a mouse. When they arrived, Crowley walked him to the door, wanting to fuss but knowing he wasn't allowed, that it would just make Aziraphale feel even more closely watched and anxious about Heavenly surveillance.

"Thank you for dinner," Aziraphale finally said, turning to look at him after unlocking the door. "I'm sorry the show wasn't up to your expectations." His gaze dropped, and Crowley again felt the urge to reach across, to comfort his friend in such clear distress. To hold his hand, to kiss his worries away, to pet his fluffy hair until he forgot all about Heaven and Hell and all the reasons they shouldn't. He did nothing except hold his breath. Aziraphale met his eyes again, the moment passing them by. "Good night, Crowley," Aziraphale said in a low voice, nearly a whisper, and vanished into the shop.

The Bentley hit 150 as he tore out of London, running like a bat out of Hell from the way the night had turned so sour.

Related works:

[loonarii]

Ari's K-Pop Roundup: March 2024 (ILLIT, ARTMS, CHUNGHA, VCHA + MORE)

Check out last months installment here :) sidenote: sorry about this episode being a bit heavy on the smaller reviews - have been experiencing a cruel and unusual combination of illness and exam season lol - next month will hopefully be slightly better

Magnetic - ILLIT (SUPER REAL ME)

Whether you watched HYBE's 2023 idol survival show 'R U Next?' or you had the self preservation to skip it, if you were into k-pop at that time, you definitely heard about it. The show gained attention from the community originally because it was from HYBE, the newest, and arguably currently the most influential k-pop company goliath, and because HYBE's girl groups (notably Le Sserafim and NewJeans) are famous for influencing the kpop scene instantly upon debut, and maintaining their spots in the top 10s of the charts for many months. This was HYBE giving us a look behind the curtain at the making of the next big girl group, and letting us call a lot of the shots along the way. Or at least that's what it was supposed to be. Rigging in these type of idol shows is practically expected, but HYBE was a new offender, and their crimes weren't only frequent, but pretty obvious. The fans protested, but nothing changed. ILLIT, the group that emerged on the other side, was a group that was hardly a showcase of the talent on display on the show, nor a reflection of the fans and their biases. It was a reflection of who the producers felt fit their pre-established concept for the group, an influencing factor that wasn't made clear to the fans watching, nor potentially, to the idols participating. Ironically, since the whole point of a survival show is to drum up support and build a fanbase for a group's upcoming debut, ILLIT has arguably started off on a worse foot than if they had just dropped 'Magnetic' on YouTube out of nowhere, NewJeans 'Attention' style.

However, regardless of their rocky start, ILLIT is here, with their debut mini album 'SUPER REAL ME', featuring the title track 'Magnetic' - let's talk about it. 'Magnetic' capitalizes on that glitchy, 8-bit, distorted, bedroom pop sound that's been blowing up recently, both in the k-pop industry by NewJeans, LOONA, and tripleS, and in the western space by Pinkpantheress. It's easily catchy, and highly danceable, and the members sound amazing on it - I felt especially drawn to Minju's delivery, her vocal tone is beautifully unique, and Wonhee did a stellar job as the centric member of the choruses. Magnetic's allusions to NewJeans are undeniable, if only lacking that certain NewJeans je ne sais quoi. I don't really have a problem with this, if I get more fun songs out of groups allegedly 'copying' NewJeans then it's a win for me, my only fear is that if ILLIT doesn't find their own niche they will be called knock-off NewJeans for the rest of their careers, which isn't fair to the girls. TripleS got accused of something similar back with AAA's 'Generation', but since then they have carved out a space for themselves in the industry, making music and exploring aesthetics others aren't.

As for the b-sides, I was kind of obsessed with 'My World', even though it is functionally an intro; it's such an unexpected earworm. 'Midnight Fiction' is cute, even if I think it needed another hook or layer of production to elevate it more. 'Lucky Girl Syndrome' is slightly better than 'Midnight Fiction', but a bit worse than 'Magnetic'. It's very obvious that the title came before the track, and it bizarrely sounds kind of like 'Sensitive' by Loossemble? The chorus is slightly weak, but I am obsessed with the instrumentation and the production choices - this song sounds nothing like NewJeans, I really hope they draw from this vibe in their future releases.

Overall, a pretty decent debut. You will definitely catch me streaming 'Magnetic' over the next few weeks, whether it will have the longevity to stick around in my playlist for longer remains to be seen. Good luck ILLIT, you've had a rough start in the industry, but it's clear that they have a big career ahead of them, and I for one, am seated.

Pre1: Birth - ARTMS [LOONA] (Dall)

After an iconic run of Haseul and Heejin's solo projects, as well as ODD EYE CIRCLE's first release out of BBC, 5/12 of the LOONA girls are here as ARTMS. 'Birth' is a song that operates outside of the conventions of kpop formulae; its experimental, confrontational, melancholy and bears an undercurrent of rage. Tonally and structurally it is unique from anything being released right now, and lyrically its compelling and mysterious. If this is a taste of what the upcoming album is going to sound like, I am extremely excited.

The music video is one of the best kpop has to offer - its so unlike anything else I have seen. I heavily encourage you all to go check out the theories the orbits/ouriis have been cooking up because LOONA LORE IS BACK!! I am very curious if the loossemble lore will link to this in any way, but that remains to be seen.

EENIE MEENIE - CHUNG HA, feat. HONGJOONG

Chungha is back, with a new company and an old concept. I'm not sure how to feel about this track, its clear she feels very confident in this style and it does suit her more than 'Sparkling', but I think 'Sparkling' was overall a better song. The production of 'Eenie Meenie' is very high quality and I especially loved that guitar layer in the chorus, and bringing Hongjoong in for a verse was a great call, he fits the song and matches Chungha's vibe perfectly. Unfortunately however, I don't find the chorus to be very catchy, which is clearly what the song is banking on in order to chart. The whole 'eenie meenie minie mo' thing is odd, but honestly could have been worse if this song had been given to anyone other than Chungha, the real death sentence for this song was the lack of interesting melody. I'm happy that Chungha is now making the kind of music she wants to, I just hope that the quality of releases go up in the future.

Only One - VCHA

Who knew that when Fifty Fifty crumbled due to their (allegedly) god awful company, it would be VCHA of all groups to successfully pick up the retro girlpop gauntlet?? 'Only One' is genuinely so fun, that post chorus is a killer, and even the mildly awkward writing clears up after the first verse. The girls have such great chemistry, and they are all genuinely improving their skills every comeback, and although I may have questioned JYP's decision to debut girls who had barely been in training, seeing the girls improve in real time is lowkey actually a selling point - like now I want to pay attention to them to see how good they are going to get?? JYP making an intelligent marketing decision?? In this economy?? Congratulations VCHA, you have officially established yourself as a force to be reckoned with, KATSEYE had better bring the heat when they debut to compete with this.

MINI REVIEWS:

Get Goin' - aespa: did you know this song existed? no! Is it surprisingly really fun? well yes! not sure what aespa has to do with fraggle rock, but if it takes Apple TV spamming SM Entertianment's dms to get aespa to release more music, then that's what must be done.

The knight who can't die and the silk cradle - LUCY: (req. by @a-moth-to-the-light) I've always been mildly aware of LUCY, but until my moot requested I review their latest release, I had never heard any of their songs. Needless to say, I was severely impressed. This song is so cinematic and heartfelt - to my knowledge it isn't part of an OST to a particularly cinematic kdrama, but it might as well be. I heavily encourage you all to go watch the mv with subtitles on, or read the translation, because lyrically this is a masterpiece. LUCY, you have officially caught my attention, I will be checking out future releases.

Paths to home - 문채원, HOWUS: The music video for this song, at time of writing, currently has 147 views, I have no clue how I stumbled across it, but I am so glad I did. 'Paths to home' is a beautifully constructed and performed citypop inspired track that to me evokes LOONA's early discography, especially those from Hyunjin's solo project. It is so perfectly constructed to my tastes, I love it to death. I have no idea how 'HOWUS' as a project works, I don't know if it's a group, a company, a subunit, or apparently even when it was released because according to some websites it came out in 2022 (the struggles of extremely nugu kpop cannot be understated), but what I do know is that this song deserves more attention, and I adore it. This is one for the NewJeans, LOONA yyxy, tripleS +(KR)ystal Eyes girlies.

Wish You Hell - WENDY (Red Velvet): SM finally gave Wendy a song that isn't a ballad!!! This song is pretty fun, but I wish it bit more oomph. The lyrics leave much to be desired, but Wendy's vocal performance is naturally very high quality, although I wish she went a bit harder in some sections - she's singing about wishing someone hell, but tonally it sounds like she's serenading them lol. A fun song, could have been better with another few drafts. Seulgi's 'best Red Velvet solo project' crown is yet to slip.

BBB - Purple Kiss: I will never shut the fuck up about how good 'Zombie' is, so seeing them explore similar sounds is so exciting for me!! 'BBB' is a very easy going listen, never awkward, never unpleasant, and although I think it needed a little something more to elevate it, it's a fun song I could easily see myself loving this summer. Swan absolutely ate up this comeback btw.

XXL - YOUNG POSSE: Bizarre sfx aside, I am very glad young posse is attempting to bring back 2000s hip hop into kpop, even if the execution is mildly clunky.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

So I have an idea...I recommended it to another blog but I'm pretty sure Tumblr just ate my ask up.

Aegon falls in, Imma say infatuation, with a dancer from Dorne while she is performing at a feast or festival. Because of that they start having an affair, a bit of an open secret mainly between him and his siblings, and you can decide if they have children or not it doesn't matter. Otto and Alicent continuesly threaten their relationship and Aegon does what he can to protect their life together. He even goes to her to try and convince her to leave with him and she's there when he gets crowned.

But, by the time the Dance is happening, she tells him that he shouldn't be fighting with his sister, you can end it however you like. Kinda want it a bit angsty.

oooo this sounds like a roller coaster relationship, but fuck Aegon with a Dornish girl !!! apologies if this feels rushed, tried to include every detail in the one, sorry if it dragged <3

Infatuation

PAIRING: Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Dornish!Reader

WORDS: 2,920.

WARNINGS: smut, NSFW, swearing, mentions of pregnancy.

A/N - just a side note, let's pretend that the little surprise with Rhaenys and Meleys doesn't happen for the sake of the story LMAO. I may have gotten carried away... BUT THAT IS NOT A CRIME.

The gratifying attention that greeted you as a lucrative performer all across the Seven Kingdoms, you had become familiar with now. The lustful eyes of many men and women, that fell upon you as swayed to the slow, sensual music that chanted the halls and arenas you'd performed in, was something you sort of became almost blissfully ignorant to.

Occasionally, some men brave or drunk enough, would attempt to lure or even try to bargain a decent price for a single night of solace with you. Many a times you'd denied them the chance, although during the times you found yourself lonesome and downcast, and depending on your clear judgement and primal intuition of the man, you'd politely agree to their company for the night. Leaving them unaccompanied and asleep in the morning before they could awake to your haste departure.

Although, no man ever came close to who would lust for you next...

This was a big, if not the grandest event yet. Practices and rehearsals strenuous, preparations arranged long before your crew had arrived, and tonight the night. Much to your relief, you did not feel anxious nor excited, although thankful the time had come for you up till now you'd grown quite exhausted. The pay was decent, and the profit you'd make at hand on tips, would mean you may have enough by the end to return home to Dorne for a few weeks of much needed rest.

The crowd was large at hand, none like you'd ever seen before. Men, women and children showcasing their wealth wearing the finest cloths and silks you'd ever seen, their fingers and necks done with glistening jewels of gems and stones you couldn't pronounce the names of and the feast at hand, all this food that could feed the homeless by the thousands. The women in their elegant, detailed dresses looked stunning. Being present in such places, you felt as though you were disobeying the law, that you were out of place and were doomed for punishment if caught. Your role as a performer was your mask however, you felt behind the curtain and costume, although revealing, you knew you were just a background figure. You often felt the fleeting stares of those passing by, many too occupied in their own conversations, as they wondered through the great hall of the castle. This had been your first sight of the castle, and behold the Iron Throne, it was a marvel if ever seen, you did not think it real and actually pinched yourself upon seeing it. Nonetheless, it would be the last you'd ever come to see it, or so you thought...

They had placed you performers in the centre of the hall, on a platform high enough for everyone to see from their tables and seats, the royal family also seated on a platform as they oversaw their guests, their subjects. You had only ever heard of the members of the royal Targaryen family, not being granted the chance or priveliege of seeing them. Before the night and performances had commenced, each was introduced before the arrival of King Viserys himself, who looked as though his days of living were waining thin. His eldest son, and supposed heir according to rumours whispered across King's Landing, you'd come to notice his eyes did not leave yours. He ate and drank as he did, all the while remaining unengaged in no conversation, many a young women attempting to capture the attention of the young prince, all failing.

You tried to pay no mind, for your performance at hand kept you moving, although the chances that you'd got, although fleeting, you did confirm that his eyes still strayed in your direction. However, you felt absurd and somewhat sheepish to think he was solely looking at you, for you were not the only performer present. And so you allowed the night to go on, paying no mind.

****

"The Prince commands for your presence," The young knight gestured, for you to obey.

"Which young Prince is it?" One of your fellow colleagues enquired, curious as to who may be seeking you out at this time of the night.

The performances complete, the feast to an end, you maintained composure and did not dare to venture another glimpse towards Aegon. Although, just as you had all finished repacking bound to make your way towards the city's local inns, a knight of the Kingsguard summoned for you, on behalf of Aegon you boldly presumed.

"Prince Aegon."

The others looked around at each other dubiously, your eyes remained of the knight, as you felt your body freeze. You knew better than to cave in and go, however a yearning in the pit of your stomach began to spark, a part of you wanted to. Not to ignore, he did 'command' for you.

"Uh-Perhaps the Prince wishes for someone a bit more acquired to his tastes, someone with much more experienced for his liking," One of the older woman performers had interjected, brushing past your side, as she confidently walked towards the knight.

Although she was met with a definite no.

"The Prince requests for you-" He reinstates firmly, as he redirects his gaze from the woman to you.

No words uttered in response, only a mere nod and you'd slowly felt the power in your legs to move. Following the guard behind, as his strides were fast and long, he came to complete stop by a large, wooden door, knocking before moving aside as the door barred open slightly enough for you to enter.

You looked to the knight for one last sign to persuade you not to go, although nothing. He remained like a statue by the wall, armed and alert though paying no mind to you.

As you entered, you noticed Aegon standing by the fire with a goblet firmly in his grasp.

The door shut behind you, causing you to jump, although you composed yourself quickly.

Taking a swing of the drink inside, wine you'd assumed so boldly again, as the room stenches of its sweet, sour fragrance, before placing the cup on the stone shelf of the fireplace. His gaze framed onto you, you felt uneasy as his eyes lingered with hunger. He closed the distance, now only a few inches from you, his lilac eyes examining your every detail, wandering up and down before meeting yours again.

"What is your name, sweet girl?" He deeply uttered.

You stuttered before blurting your name, you were not stupid as you knew what exactly he had wanted from you, although troubled for you wanted no consequence of this night to follow.

"A beautiful name, for a beautiful woman. Tell me, have you ever laid with a man?"

"Y-Yes," You stutter again, you never felt so bashful like this before, you felt your cheeks fluster as he encircled you, like a predator trolling its prey.

"Hmm, but not with the King to be?"

Your eyes hovered over his wet lips as he exchanged those words, chills gushing past your spine. His hand began to reach through, snaking his arm around your waist, his palm gently squeezing your ass cheek, as he pulled you in deeper. Your breasts pushing up against his chest, before you could take a final breath in, his lips crashing into yours, feeling his tongue push his way through into your warm mouth.

You hadn't even realised that he'd managed to guide you towards the bed, before your legs collapsed, seating yourself down on its cushioned edge.

"Undress yourself." He commanded, no fault in his voice, as he unbuttoned his own clothes.

You did as told, revealing yourself completely naked, the cool night air breezing through the open window along your body, your nipples hardened from the chill.

Aegon was quick to notice, and crawled his way ontop of you, his lips meeting yours again, as one hand kept him propped up, whilst the other massaged your breast. His lips left yours, trailing down your neck before nibbling down on the tender fat of your tit, slowly moving his way over as he sucked on your nipple.

Instinctively you felt yourself straddle him, seating yourself down comfortably on his naked thighs, the feeling of his hard cock, grazing your entrance as you slowly began to sway yourself back and forth. A wetness beginning to trickle down, your inner thighs, as it craved for him to be deep inside you. One hand gripping his shoulder for support, your nails digging deep, whilst your other entangled in his short, messy hair, tugging on its platinum strands.

"A-Aegon," You whimper, your head lunging back as he remained suckling on the other tit, red marks left behind where had previously occupied.

"Mhmm, call for me, sweet girl. You have no idea how badly I imagined you moving like that on top of me tonight-"

The tip of his cock began to peek through your folds, you tried to plunge yourself deeper into his lap.

"Not yet-" He ordered, that same, deep growl he evoked when he first told you to undress had reappeared.

Much to your dismay, he laid you back down, as he moved himself lower down towards the end of the bed, nestling his upper body between your thighs, his arms pulling your thighs apart, as his mouth came face to face with your wet cunt.

"I need to taste you for myself."

His tongue began to lick the wetness that pooled down the entrance of your folds, his lips just grazing your skin softly, before delving in deeper and deeper. You could've sworn you heard him moan, before his tongue lapped deeper between your folds, licking you up. You felt your entire body go number, the only sensation you could feel was his tongue encircling your cunt.

Aegon was sloppy although, you had to give credit, for he knew his way around your body. After he had devoured your 'sweet' taste as he described himself, he found himself finally thrusting his cock deep into you. Your back arching the deeper he thrusted, his groans becoming louder, as your legs knelt up.

"Your cunt was made for me, look at you taking me all in," His cock was thick and pulsing, you felt your walls stretch with each thrust, losing yourself as you edged closer and closer.

As you screamed Aegon's name, you felt a warm, shooting force fill your inside. Aegon slowly pulling his throbbing cock out, before collapsing by your side, panting as he catches his breath.

"W-What did you do?"

Still slightly breathless, Aegon turns his attention onto you, as you seat yourself up trying to clean the mess between your legs.

He simply smiles, his hand stroking your back.

"Simply make you mine."

****

Since that night forth, you hadn't left Aegon's side nor did he relinquish you of his. You did not intend to, and despite being almost certain you would swell with a child in no time, it seemed it was not in the Gods favour. Although, Aegon made certain you remained with him. He provided for you like no other man nor companion ever did, he established a home for you in a closeby, friendly inn close to the castle, if he felt it be too risky for you to stay the night with him.

The only people who had come to know of this affair was that of his younger siblings, his brother Aemond, and sister-wife Helaena. Helaena did not mind, for she did not wish to fulfil Aegon's needs, nor have the passion to be his dutiful wife. Aemond was simply grateful that he need not chase his brother in some dodgy whorehouse from the Streets of Silk, since your arrival and newly found companionship, Aegon was satisfied with you.

However, it wasn't long before his mother, Queen Alicent and his grandsire, the Hand, Otto Hightower, would come to hear of the rumour spreading of infidelity.

"Aegon! You must quit this folly at once, rid this poor girl of your lust and bid her farewell that she does not pursue you herself!"

Aegon simply ignored his mother's protests, and his grandfather's vile threats and insults, relentlessly branding as the "Dornish whore." He had taught himself well of how to remain ignorant to such demands, although found himself defeated as they did not approve of his newly found happiness.

"I have finally come to love one, one sweet girl who's company and words I cherish, and yet you are not content. You will never be content!"

He argued relentlessly for you for months, and although you were not there to defend yourself, Aegon would defend you regardless. You had left the company of your work, your dreams of returning to Dorne expired, since you'd met Aegon, and now only greater news had further cemented this union.

"A child, Aegon, our very own little babe!" You gleefully cried, tears of joy gushing past your cheeks, as you cupped Aegon's relieved face. Although, his smile slowly began to fade, as his worries began to consume him.

"What is it, Aegon, what's wrong my dear? Are you not happy?" You jerk, as you slowly pull away from him.

His gaze off you for a split second, had returned, taking a step towards you as he held your arms, planting a quick kiss to your forehead.

"Of course I'm happy, Y/N, you and the news of this babe-" He looks down to your stomach as though you'd already began to show.

"This news is sweeter than the finest honey in Westeros," You laugh, before he resumes his seriousness.

"I-I just cannot help but think of the awful things that may arise, if word reaches my parents, or worse, my grandsire."

"A-Aegon, it'll be okay. I-I can disappear for a while, until the babe is born if needs be-"

"No!" He interjected loudly, his grip on you tightening as though fearful you might leave this very moment.

"I won't have you alone in such a vulnerable state, I want to be by your side when our babe is born, do you understand." You simply nod in response, a part of you relieved Aegon did not consider such a drastic option.

"We shall figure it out in the morrow, my sweet girl. For now you need rest."

****

It seemed the very next morrow had brought in a miracle. Although morbid, King Viserys had passed, his rapid illness had taken its course, and word had spread like wildfire throughout the castle. You had remained with Aegon overnight, for he did not wish nor wanted to risk you departing. He needed your comfort, as much as you needed his last night. And although it was unfortunate that Viserys had passed, Aegon felt no sorrow, for you'd come to know of his dislike for the man.

"He was no father-" Aegon revealed woefully, one intimate night in bed.

"He did not love me nor any of his own kin after Rhaenyra."

In reality, you could say he'd grown without a father figure. And yet now, everything would change.

You'd both been awoken to a loud banging on Aegon's door. Thankfully Aegon, managed to hide you in a closet before his Mother would enter abruptly, only sparing him a few moments to don pants.

She explained it all to him, that Viserys' last wishes were for his firstborn son, Aegon, she repeated his name as Viserys presumably did, to become heir to the Iron Throne.

The news was overwhelming to say the least, not only for Aegon but for you. Aegon has a lifetime hearing whispers of plans that he was to be rightfully upheld as heir. Rhaenyra was no where near King's Landing and someone needed to rule.

To some degree, Aegon was slightly prepared, although he did not wish for this. And yet, the look on his face as his mother elaborated plans of his coronation, it all began to click. He did not hesitate, did not refuse to be crowned, instead he did as his Mother instructed, and after she had left, he sought for his guard Ser Arryk, who would prepare and escort you to the Dragonpit.

"Ensure she is there and safe, and that she is ready for what is to come."

As you'd gifted Aegon with a final, passionate kiss before leaving, your hand clutched your stomach as you rushed with Ser Arryk, who had grown accustom to you overtime. He managed to find one of Helaena's servants that helped to dress you for the occasion, in a fine, green dress, and immediately snuck you into the Dragonpit, on a platform above the stadium out of eye view, although you both able to watch the coronation unfold.

You watched carefully as Aegon entered, stoic in his expression. The Conqueror's Crown laid on his head, before the roaring applauses of the mass. The smile that grew on his face, reflected on yours, for you knew that this meant, he was now in control. In your mind, you could see it all play out so vividly, the way he would deathly silence his kin's threats against you, how he would be haste to find a master to annul his marriage to Helaena, for he knew that many would not protest for most of his subjects saw the old Targaryen tradition as an 'abomination' and finally, for you to be reinstated and united as his rightful Queen and wife.

Aegon was King now, all your problems would be dealt with as necessary.

[jarofstyles]

Sugar Sugar 7

Hellllo my lovelies. Long time no see. I’ve been slow w updated for them but here we are! Part 7 to Sugar Sugar!

Check out our Patreon!

Warnings: mention of witchcraft, tarot, metaphysical, etc

—-

H: I’m on my wayyyy. I’ve got a box of donuts for you and Delilah.

Sugar: you’re a godsend. Get here quicker xo

Harry felt a bit guilty about the fact he hadn’t been to her shop yet.

His girlfriend’s shop.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

Motherfucking girlfriend.

The pep in his step increased as he approached the door to his damn girlfriend's store. His lover. They had made it official two days ago, and he had called his mother like a damn little boy. Telling her that the girl he was seeing had agreed and that she would ABSOLUTELY love her. Ever since the divorce, his mother had flourished and was very into yoga and stuff like that- so he figured she would get a kick out of Y/N Whenever she came down to visit.

It was a purple painted door. A window in the front with ‘Canyon Moon’ in a cool font with a neon crescent moon right next to it. It was adorable. There was a painting in the display window showcasing what he now knew to be amethyst and a full moon skillfully painted on the glass. There were crystals laid out on the bottom and some products showcased along with wind chimes and sun catchers gently swaying in the natural air. The chime of a bell sounded as he ironed up the door, and Harry was a bit lost.

It was magical, pun absolutely intended.

The smell of incense he couldn’t place hit him first, making his nose tickle just a little bit as he wandered inside of the shop. It was clean and quirky, the shelves lined with thousands of beautiful shiny crystals that he truly couldn’t even begin to name. All colors of the rainbow, sorted by color and tiny little handwritten signs giving ‘properties’ and names with the pronunciation. That would definitely save him some embarrassment.

He heard soft music playing, it had to be Stevie Nicks. Her raspy voice floated through the air as he heard the slight freak of the wood floor while his feet carried him further inside.

To the left was a room with velvet curtains acting as a door. Sparkling velvet, to be precise. Crystal mobiles hung from the curling every so often along with faux vines- or what he believed to be faux. The plants in the windows were absolutely real and thriving. Green and vibrant, large leaves and impressive height. The wall opposite had packets and jars of dried herbs and flowers. Why? Harry didn’t know, but he found them to be interesting. What did people use them for? He’d have to ask Y/N.

In the back corner were books and incense. He could see the burning one going and showing smoke coming out of a little ceramic ‘mushroom house’, making him smile as he approached it. Multiple books on spells and types of witchcraft, along with astrology and crystals lined the shelves. To Harry, it felt like something out of a fantasy novel. Coming to the healer's domain, all of that. He was 99% sure he had seen a shop like this while he played.

His gazing and awe was interrupted by arms wrapping around his waist from behind, a soft kiss pressed to his shoulder blade covered by the fabric of the Harley Davidson tee shirt covering his torso. Chills littered his skin as he felt lips ghost him, the warmth of her presence making him relax into its hold. It was almost immediately that his heart began to thunder, his stomach a mess of sparkles that only Y/N was able to conjure up.

Witchcraft.

“What do you think, Handsome?” She rested her hand on his tummy, making it jump slightly. He never got tired of her touch, especially like this. Intimate. Allowing him to feel desired. He was thriving in this moment, a stupid grin on his face as he placed his larger hand over top of hers.

“S’unreal.” He muttered. “Like something from a video game. Or movie. I’m in awe.” Truly he couldn’t believe he hadn’t been here before. He felt a bit sad that he hadn’t. She had spent quite a bit of time at the bakery and this was only the first time he had stepped into her own place. There was a comfort in the place that H found to be….a little odd in a good way. He partially attributed it to the fact the shop was so entirely Y/N. Everything reminded him of her as he looked around. The colors, the scent, even the tone of wood. It screamed Y/N and he wanted to stay in here and soak up whatever feeling he got in it.

Y/N smiled with her face smushed against his back, nuzzling betweeen the shoulder blades. There hadn’t been an expected reaction to the shop, but this was better than she had hoped. The actual awe in his voice and watching him from the shadows as he had looked around, picking up things and putting them down. It wasn’t fake, or to please her. He really did find it cool. It helped a part of her that had been a little bit embarrassed from the past where she had been ridiculed and degraded for liking the things she did. To anyone else, they were just pretty rocks. Hell, even to her they could be. That didn’t mean she liked people making fun of them.

“I’m glad you like it.”

His hand rubbed over the back of hers, yet again unable to keep his own hands away when she was in close proximity to him. “I do. It’s sick.” She was too far away, though. Grabbing her hand, he tugged slightly and pulled her away from behind him, making her slide around the front.

There was no wasting time. Now that Harry had his permission to kiss her, his large hands cupped her hot cheeks and tilted them upwards, pressing his lips to hers in an affectionate greeting. It was a chaste kiss, but he elongated the peck because he simply didn’t want to pull away. Giving a few tiny kisses to the bottom lip and one single to the top, tearing his forehead against hers. “Hi, beautiful girl.” Thumbs stroked her cheekbones, a dopey smile on his face as he pulled back slightly to get a look at her.

Her beauty caught him off guard every time. Making his heart stutter in his chest, his stomach twist in those flocks of butterflies. This woman was his girlfriend, the twinkle in her eye was for him and the breathtaking grin was caused by his own actions. Pride swelled in his chest, even more grateful that she had allowed him to be in her life like this. “Missed you.”

It hadn’t even been that long. She had seen him at the bakery yesterday, but he had been swamped with orders for cupcakes for a birthday party. Y/N had spent her lunch break helping him ice the cupcakes, but ultimately she seemed to be a distraction rather than help. He had a hard time being in the same room as her and not having his hand on her.

“Dork.” She teased, reaching up to tweak his nose lightly. “Missed you too, though. I’m glad you’ve come over. The space could use some good energy.” Her ringed fingers brushed over his chest, straightening out his tee shirt. “I have some readings booked with both me and Delilah. She’s behind the curtain with a client now.” She nodded her head in the direction of the velvet curtains.

“Readings?” He had seen the advertisement for readings on her shop instagram, but didn’t know exactly how it worked. “How do they work, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Y/N beamed at the question. For once, a man she was dating actually seemed interested. Genuinely curious. To her, it didn’t matter if he got it nor if he believed in it, but it would be really nice if he did. It was just nice to see him take interest in things she did.

“Come.” She took his hand and crossed to the back where she had her own reading space free. Pulling back the curtains, she exposed a cozy space. The velvet curtains covered each wall except for the one with the window, which was cracked open just a little bit. A plethora of crystals lined the windowsill and herb bundles were drying above the top, hanging from the ceiling. She could see his confusion, a little laugh coming from her.. “They’re protection bundles. The properties of the herbs help with keeping the space clear from any negative energies and things like that.” She squeezed his hand, motioning for him to take a seat on the black velvet armchair in front of the table.

“It’s really like a movie.” He mumbled, looking around the room with another feeling. Almost like he was in a dream or something along those lines. “It’s so pretty. I hope. that isn’t weird to say or anythin.” Harry was tredding lightly as he commenting, hyper aware that he wanted her to be happy and comfortable with his words. This was her thing, her business, and he wanted to say the right things.

“Not weird at all. Don’t worry, love.” Her hands grabbed two different embroidered pouches, placing them on the tablecloth in front of him. “I’m going to do a one card pull for you. You can choose to take what resonates with you. I’ll just have the deck call to you and you can choose which one you want.” The punches were adjusted for him to look at. One was a soft looking leather pouch with an image of a wolf howling at the moon in black thread embroidered on the front. The other, the one he felt more drawn to, was a royal purple cotton pouch. It had the moon and sun along with flowers scattered across the fabric. Something about it just felt comfortable.

“This one.” His finger pointed to it, feeling a little nervous but excited all at the same time. He had never imagined getting a reading. In all honesty, things like this had always been a bit scary to him. The idea of the future, knowing about it, and if it said something bad to him, that was something that unnerved him. With Y/N however, he felt more comfortable than ever. Of course the nerves from his past feelings had lingered, but it was mostly something along the lines of excitement now.

“Okay. Let me light some incense for it.” She leaned back, standing to grab her chosen Sandalwood and lighting it on the tray that rested on the windowsill. “I tend to do it because it helps clear the space and the energy around us. Makes it less dense. I like a clear space for reading. It’s easier for me to focus and not feel so heavy.” Y/N knew Harry was naturally curious and she could feel his eyes on her back.

He was curious, Yes, but he was also admiring the midnight blue dress she wore today. It clung to her a bit tighter than normal, nipping at her waist and letting him see her curves in a way that made his mind wander. It was… a new favorite of his for sure. The man was trying to focus only on her actions, though. This was a new one for him, and he already knew Y/N was probably the best reader.

She sat in front of him with a smile, placing the leather pouch back on what he knew was some sort of crystal plate. “Okay.” She took the cards out, tapping them three times on the table. “Hello, cards. Thank you for giving us guidance today. Been a while since I’ve used you, I’m sorry.” She murmured quietly. “Makes sense that the prettiest boy chose my prettiest deck.”

Harry flushed at her words. The prettiest boy chose the prettiest deck? Oh, she was too good. “They’re hand drawn, have gold foiled accents. One of my favorites, actually. Most people and the cards don't choose each other but I had a feeling you’d want this one.” Intuition came in strong yet again. “I always tell people that the card you choose in a drawing like this means what makes sense. The cards are tools for us. Because you’re my boyfriend, I’ll tell you that I do believe in the cards. I think they’re important, but every deck has a personality of their own. This one is classy, romantic, sweet. You didn’t choose my sassier deck, but I think that’s good for a first time.”

Harry was trying to keep up. It was intimidating, but his mind did go a bit fuzzy. She called him her boyfriend again, and it made him abso-fucking-lutely giddy. Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. God. He would never ever get tired of hearing it come from Y/N’s mouth. “Okay. I think i got it…” he muttered, watching her spread the deck out on the table like a fan. Her shuffling skills were insane, and it made him side note to always have her do that for him if he was playing poker dealer. “So…” he looked at the cards, all face down and then at her. “Do I just pick?”

“Yes.” Y/N had to giggle, looking at his face. Harry was obviously a bit intimidated but it was adorable. “There’s no pressure. Go with your gut. Close your eyes, let your hand hover over until you want to stop. Then pull the card out.”

It sounded simple enough.

Doing as instructed, his eyes fluttered shut and he cleared his throat, letting his hand hover over the cards. Back and forth, he went, until. He felt a tiny buzz in his fingers. It caught him off guard slightly, a nervous chuckle leaving him as he placed his hand down and slowly pulled the card out.

Y/N watched him in interest as he opened his eyes, looking down at the card before he turned it over.

“Two of… cups?”

Y/N could have choked.

Two of cups.

“The two of cups… Well, it usually comes about when you’re in a new state of heart. New relationships.” She could feel her cheeks burning. The excited nerves returning to her tummy, looking as Harry observed the card and the image of two golden challises pouring into one another. “It’s… it’s encouragement card. It means a pairing is right, balanced.. That you can give and take evenly, building each other up and making each other happy. People refer to it as the love card. There’s another card called the lover, which is self explanatory but…” She paused, taking a little breath as the smile she couldn’t help repressing grew.

“I’m getting the feeling that it’s something you’ve maybe needed confirmation on? Maybe not the relationship itself, but your contributions to it. It’s a confirmation that you are the other half, an equal. It’s a good thing.” Y/N had never given a partner a reading before so it was all brand new to her, and thr fact that that particular card was chosen felt like the spirits teasing her. Yes, it was Harry’s reading, but it involved her. “Maybe in past relationships you’ve felt like you were pouring too much into it, and the other person wasn’t giving you their all back.” She muttered, looking down as she observed the card. “Something about half empty cups. That seems to bug you. You give and give and give until you’re empty and it shouldn’t be that way. Perhaps it’s been because you’d been wanting something different from the other people you attempted to build connections with. But this card signifies some equality. Level ground. A good opportunity.”

There was a shyness that overcame her as he let out a breath.

It was weirdly spot on. Harry had always been the type to overgive in relationships. He poured all of himself into it, expecting the other person to match his energy- but it never happened the way he had wanted it to. With Y/N, all of it felt so incredibly authentic. He never felt like, at least this far, he was the only one putting effort in. She texted him frequently, she had opened up, and even now. Giving him this reading.

“I mean- yeah.” He murmured. “I hope this isn’t offensive, but it’s a little freaky. Sometimes people say that I give off an air of like… disinterest. But when I care, I care a lot. And it feels like in the past when they see that, they take and don’t give. So I’d say that’s accurate. However…” he gently took her hand into his own, rubbing his thumb over the back of her own. “I feel different with you. Like you said- level ground. Give and take. Especially with all the things you’re teaching me. Been my girlfriend for only a short while, but I enjoy every moment. I hope you know that.”

Harry made her flustered a lot, but moments like this especially. He spoke to her with an ease that had her nervous, intimidated at how good he was with wording things.

“It’s just weird how you got all of that from the card. I like it.” He released her hand, snapping a photo of the card and placing his phone back into his pocket. “Wanted to remember and capture that for when we’re a while down the line.”

Maybe they’d end up married one day. Who knows? That was always the hope in a relationship. Right?

“I came to check out the shop and see my gorgeous girlfriend. Steal some kisses. I left some sweets on your checkout desk… but I missed you.” He stood up from his spot, gently urging her up and coaxing her back into his arms. There was little resistance when he tilted her chin back up, lips pressing against hers chastely. The tiny sparks shot up his back as he hummed contently. Harry would be stealing these as often as possible. “Need to take some design advice from you. Looks incredible everywhere you turn. My place is still a bit bare bones.”

Y/N lifted her hand to stroke his cheek, feeling the stubble brush her fingertips while he spoke. Admiring him while she listened, struck with an idea. He could see it on her face as she lit up, brows rising at the mention of design advice. “Really? You’d want my advice?”

Her design style was more on the eclectic side but she had a weakness for Pinterest, HGTV, and home Reno and deco tv shows. The shop had its set theme but it was still very much her own personal style.

“Of course. You did amazing here.” He teasingly squeezed her chin before dripping his hand to her shoulder, lightly massaging it as they stood in each other’s arms. The curtain was drawn, sure, but Harry had a hard time keeping hands off as it was. “You said something about it being thrifted the other day, right? Some of it?” He looked at the candelabra on the table, half melted candles adding to the mystical ambiance.

“Yes! I love it. Finding things secondhand is my speciality. I’m like… really good at it.” She whispered conspiratorially.

“She is.”

A new voice popped up and the curtain opened revealing Y/N’s best friend and coworker. Delilah was a beautiful woman with golden skin, a halo of dark curly hair and the most defined lips she had ever seen. Bangles clanged on her wrist and her long nails tapped against the curtain as she gave Y/N an impressed look, obviously approving of Harry’s energy.

“He’s good so far.” She narrowed her eyes, the cat-like gaze dropping to his hand on her back and back up to his face. It was intimidating. Harry wasn’t usually one to feel the need to look away, but the energy the woman had was strong. Different from Y/N’s, but similar in strength. It made him feel shy. “I’m watching you. But I haven’t had any bad visions from you. So…” she tossed her hand up. “it’s nice to meet you. The donuts are very good, by the way.” Harry went to reply but she continued talking, Y/N squeezing his cheek as a way to reassure him. It happened a lot. “She has the most incredible luck thrifting. I do think I’m good at manifesting what I want, but the two of us can look on the same shelf and she will find the most incredible item that I’ve not even seen. Unreal.”

Harry beamed in pride. It was a weird thing to be proud of her over, but anything he learned about Y/N was amazing to him. A thrifting extraordinaire, a skilled tarot reader, an excellent kisser, he was adding to her talents daily. “Oh really?” He mumbled.

“I do have good luck.” She said with a bashful giggle. “If you want, we can… I can help you with your place? We can make a mood board of what you’d want and maybe we can go thrifting together to find the stuff?” She asked softly, watching Delilah excuse herself from the corner of her eye. She was good at reading the room, her best friend. “We don’t have to, if you want to do it yourself. But I figure it could be a nice thing to do… an excuse to see you.” She dragged her foot on the ground, making him want to coo. The slight shyness at bringing up these ideas was endearing to him.

“Are you kidding me? I’d love that.” He expressed it as if it was obvious. “I’m shit with interior design for my own spaces. I knew what to do for the bakery because it’s been in my head for ages but my own space? I don’t know how to do all that.” Truthfully it was a bit pathetic. “I don’t have much at all.”

“It can’t be that bad, Harry.” She laughed, pulling away from him. “Come. Let’s make a plan.”

[shosty-we-understand]

Though toted as a resounding success by the Soviet Union, Dmitri Shostakovich's trip to a peace conference in New York City in 1949 was, ironically, not as peaceful as the government let on.

Shostakovich was handpicked by Joseph Stalin in March of 1949 to be part of the Soviet delegation at the Cultural and Scientific Conference For World Peace (or the Waldorf Conference, dubbed from the hotel at which it was hosted). Shostakovich himself was quite hesitant to attend, as this was a very tumultuous period in his life due to many personal and professional strains. However a rather coercive phone conversation with Stalin himself managed to convince him to attend. Shostakovich's music was quite well-known in the United States largely owing to his incredibly popular Symphony No. 7, one of the most famous pieces of music to come out of the Second World War. Indeed, Dmitri Shostakovich was a household name.

The amicable relations between the United States and the Soviet Union following the end of the Second World War were short lived, and the two superpowers were almost immediately at odds with each other over their political ideologies and global interests. The Red Scare in North American added to the tension between the two nations. "Communism" became a dogwhistle, and "Communists" were people to either hate or be scared of, or both.

So when one of the world's most famous communists was suddenly headlining the Cultural and Scientific Conference For World Peace, the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel became a lightning rod for anti-communist protesters.

Shostakovich and the Soviet delegate arrived at LaGuardia Airport on March 23rd, 1949 and were greeted on the tarmac by over 70 reporters, photographers, journalists, and more. Inside the airport sat even more reporters, waiting to hold a press conference that the Russians were hastily ushered past and outside to waiting taxis.

Their arrival at the hotel was not much better. Hordes of hundreds of anti-Communist protesters had gathered at the entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, largely consisting of local Catholic activist groups. While originally expecting over 100 000 protesters to show up, they ended up with a measly (by comparison) 1000 picketers. Of those picketing outside the hotel, they included combat veterans and member of the American Legion, immigrants from Soviet and communist countries carrying their country's flags and dressed in traditional clothing, praying priests and kneeling nuns, and many more. They yelled catcalls, boos, prayers, and sang patriotic songs at the Soviets. Many held signs and placards with slogans like "Veterans Love Music But Not From Behind An Iron Curtain", "Ukrainian Insurgents Fight & Die for Democracy & Peace", "Exterminate The Red Rat", or more insensitively, "Shostakovich! Jump Thru The Window", a reference to the Russian schoolteacher Oksana Kasenkina who jumped out of a third floor window in Manhattan in 1948. Some were more understanding, however, with one sign in particular reading "Shostakovich, We Understand", most likely a nod to Shostakovich's being forced to attend against his will.

Aside from the hundreds of protesters, it was estimated that the police had barricaded over 10 000 onlookers and honest-to-goodness fans, there to catch a glimpse of the (current) most famous Russian composer. But Shostakovich wasn't there to sign autographs, and he was rushed into the hotel past the anxious and turbulent crowds. He would go on to call the Waldorf Conference the "most humiliating experience of [his] life", but for other reasons.

Above is a photo from the exterior of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City in March of 1949. Picketers kept vigil outside the hotel, constantly protesting the participation of the Soviet Union.

[unhonestlymirror]

No matter how much the soviets wanted people to live separately from the whole world behind the Iron Curtain, people still were into Western culture. From the 70s until the very collapse of the USSR, Latvia was quite famous not only for its beaches and health centres but also for music, thanks to such people as Žoržs Siksna and Raimonds Pauls. The latter, in fact, was so popular that russia just culturally appropriated his songs through Alla Pugacheva, thus, many people on the post-soviet territories don't even know those songs, e.g. "Millions of scarlet roses", are Latvian, they think they are russian. Which is not fair, I believe.

[apomaro-mellow]

Rock and Rule 4

Inside the club, music was blaring loud enough to pound Steve's ears. He hoped it was enough to get Creel's goons off his tail. And maybe he'd have enough time to get a drink. He kept his head low and the minions passed right over him. He let out a breath and ordered something at the bar. Just a quick drink and then he was finding the next bus, train, or plane to Hawkins.

"Hey, is that Eve!?", a voice shouted above the music. Then Steve felt someone grab his arm and make him turn.

"Holy shit! I've seen you on the posters! You're gonna be in Vecna's next concert, yeah?"

When Steve imagined getting noticed in public, it was usually due to his or the band's talents. Not from having his face all over town on someone else's posters.

"Um, well, don't hold me to that. Plans change", Steve said, trying to turn away, lest he garner anymore attention.

"Dude, lemme buy you a drink. I'd love to talk shop. You gotta know Lord Vecna himself, right? God, I've listened to him for years..."

Steve rubbed at one of his temples as this guy kept talking. He got up to go. Forget quenching his thirst, he had to get out of here right this second.

"Hey, I wasn't done talking. You're gonna introduce me to Vecna, aren't ya? Come on, you owe me after the drink."

Steve felt his arm being grabbed again and was just about to swing at this man when he was suddenly released. Then he heard a familiar voice.

"Learn to take a hint, chump."

Steve turned so fast, he might've broke his back. Eddie! The guy bothering him looked ready to talk back but then he saw the rest of the band behind Eddie and thought better of it.

"Whatever", he said while sulking off.

"Eddie!", Steve didn't give him a moment to think before embracing and kissing him.

Eddie's hard expression instantly melted as he fell into the kiss as easy as breathing. It took about ten seconds for him remember what he was doing here and why. He pulled off from the kiss but didn't take his hands off of Steve's waist that had mysteriously appeared there.

"You've got some answers to question."

"Huh?"

"I think he means you're got some questions to answer", Jeff clarified.

"We can talk, we just gotta go first", Steve said.

"Right behind ya", Gareth agreed.

The moment they said so though, large hands grabbed them from all around. Steve tried to shout for his boyfriend as they were ripped apart but a hand covered his mouth. He fought and he saw Eddie, Crash, Gareth, and Jeff struggle as well but the hands on him were like iron. He couldn't let this happen. Not again. Steve headbutted his captor and that loosened the hold just enough for him to lunge forward.

That was all he was able to do before something hard cracked against his skull and the world went black again. "It's time for your curtain call, Eve."

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

Eddie felt like he was seeing red as Steve was taken again. He and the rest of the band were thrown into the alley next to the club. And there, Henry Creel was waiting.

"You four are quite persistent. But Steve belongs to me now. Or rather, Eve does."

Crash's face scrunched. "Eve?"

"What's your deal, man?", Jeff questioned.

"'Eve is very appropriate, considering he will bring the downfall of man." Henry had his hands behind his back like he was talking about the weather.

"You're insane", Eddie said. "And a hack and a total sellout and I can't believe I ever listened to you!"

"I think you all just need a little trip", Henry said.

"I'm not smoking whatever messed with your head!" Eddie geared up and tossed a punch only for Henry to disappear like smoke. When he looked around he saw that he was no longer in the alley, but a void, completely alone.

"You misunderstand. But soon everyone will realize", Henry's voice floated through the air.

The gong of a clock sounded and Eddie felt his stomach drop.

"I'm going to send you all back to that town you all love so much."

"Fuck Hawkins and fuck you!", Eddie shouted.

"Oh no, you love Hawkins. You would never wanted to leave it. It's your home after all." Three more gongs went off and the world went completely dark for Eddie.

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

Steve was in fact awake in time for the concert, finding himself dressed in a flowy, white loincloth that just barely kept his modesty. His arms were tied above his head and he was strapped to a beam that kept him upright. His immediate thought brought him back to the screaming blonde woman in King Kong. Steve didn't want to know what sort of creature he was being sacrificed for as the crew did sound checks.

He thought he could fight against Vecna's wishes but right before the show started, a collar was locked around his throat. He heard the crowd getting antsy from behind the curtain and tried biting his tongue but the lights on the collar lit up and notes were forced from his throat.

"Aah ah aah", he vocalized like he was warming up as the band behind him got into place. Vecna was at the ready as well but Steve couldn't see him from behind.

It was his voice but it wasn't him. It was like he was being possessed. Steve wanted to cry. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Just as the show was about to begin, all of the lights when out. He could even feel the collar power down. Steve waited there, tied up, as the techs tried to figure out the problem.

A storm had knocked out the power and there was no hope of it ever coming back on for the evening. Steve felt relief for only a moment. A storm wasn't enough to stop this monster. Henry was already making moves to take the next leg of the concert to Hawkins.

Part 6