#red vox gave me a reason man!!!!!!!!! to live !!!!!!!!

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Epilogue, Acknowledgments and Requests)

☒ Summary: The first thing you remembered after your death was an argument. “No, this isn’t one of my fucking sluts.” The man behind you exhaled, frustrated. “This is a present for you. Something to help you work through your Alastor fixation.” You awakened in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Unfortunately for you, you immediately fell into the clutches of his nemesis, before stumbling into the arms of the Radio Demon himself. A whole lot of fucking later, you became the catalyst for something resembling a reconciliation, and now you're back in the TV Demon's private quarters with both Vox and Alastor, hung over and sore. 

☒ Warnings: hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, Vox X reader, Alastor X reader, Vox X Alastor, reader is in Hell for a reason, Valentino, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series Links: Now completed! Part I Part2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

The thing about Hell was that your internal body clock woke you after only a couple hours of sleep, just enough of the alcohol out of your system that your head throbbed and the rich bittersweet taste of last night’s whiskey had been transmuted with the alchemy of the morning after, the interior of your mouth now tasting of rancid orange peel and dirt. You lay splayed across the couch, Alastor’s tailcoat covering your nakedness, its red unmarred by the blood it had soaked up, your head in Alastor’s lap, your hooves in Vox’s lap.

Consciousness brought with it the awareness of the various injuries you had acquired, the fullness of your bladder, and the generalized muscular ache that was probably from all the wall-climbing you’d done. You were also filthy, your whole body faintly sticky like a budding rhododendron. You moved to get up, but found Alastor’s arm around you.

“-very dear to me,” mumbled Alastor, the radio filter almost entirely missing from his hoarse, sleepy voice, and his claws wrapped around your shoulder, hard.

“Darling. I have to piss,” you croaked, stroking Alastor’s fingers, and he gave a noise of irritation, his red eyes opening a fraction, but his grip loosened and you pulled yourself free.

Brushing away Alastor’s shadow’s hand as it snagged at your hoof, you staggered naked across Vox’s small living space, to where you remembered the bathroom to be, and took a piss that felt like it lasted at least a minute and a half, your head throbbing all the while. The things that Vox had brought for you during your short stay were still there; the little blue toothbrush, the showercap with room for your ears, the robe.

You brushed your teeth, drank several cups of water from the tap, and ate a Tylenol before grabbing the bottle of deer shampoo from the cabinet and stepping into the shower.

Vox’s shower was large, enough to comfortably fit three or more people, the flooring some kind of expensive looking stone tiling that was probably fiendishly difficult to get blood out of, and the showerheads set at chest height. You hesitated at the shower controls- which button turned the water on, again?

“You, uh- you want some help with that?” Vox stood at the entryway to the shower, wearing only pants and looking pretty much exactly like you felt.

“Sure,” you sighed, not really surprised when Vox stripped off the rest of the way and stepped into the space with you.

A gesture from him was all it took for the water to start running, no uncomfortably hot or cold initial flow but something close to body temperature. You stepped into the stream, sighing as it hit you, the water swirling a brownish color around your feet as it began to wash away the blood that had caked onto your skin.

“Temperature?” Vox asked, stepping closer.

“Warmer,” you said, an involuntary noise in your throat as Vox made it so. It stung the lacerations on your back, the small wounds on your hips and thighs, the scrapes that Alastor’s teeth had made on your neck.

“You like that?” Vox asked.

“Warmer,” you repeated, and the temperature rose to something crueler, enough that steam rose as it hit your skin, a truly scouring sort of heat. You felt your soreness recede, a little of the tension in your shoulders relaxing. “There,” you said, content to stand under the water for a few moments before uncapping the shampoo you had brought in with you.

“Let me?” Vox asked, and there was a little of the Vox who had sat in the armchair in your bedroom in his voice, pleading. You handed him the bottle, and he unhooked a second showerhead from the wall and turned it on, wetting your hair with a trickle of warm water before he lathered shampoo between his palms. It was strange; anyone else save Alastor and you might’ve had second thoughts, but Vox had had you last night, quivering and vulnerable in his hands, so you had no qualms turning your back to him.

Vox’s hands in your hair were a gift. You stood under the stream of near-scalding water as he drew close, his fingers running from the back of your neck and up, fingers parting your hair, massaging the lather into your skull. You groaned low as he worked the base of each ear, his body pressing closer to your back. He was hard, his cock brushing up against your tail and the small of your back, but there was no threat to it, no intent beyond simple closeness.

“That good, eh?” he asked, as you gave another appreciative grunt, and you braced yourself against the wall to avoid melting completely under the touch.

“You’re making me forget about my headache,” you said, which was rewarded by Vox pressing his fingers more firmly against your skull, more head massage than shampoo application. “Don’t you have things to do?”

“It is five fuckin’ thirty am,” said Vox, his voice thick and hoarse, and he leaned into you, his chest pressing warm against your narrow back, his erection squashing temptingly against the meat of your ass. “I’m all yours, baby deer.”

It would be so easy to let him fuck you like this- even as hungover as he clearly was, he was strong enough to lift you against the wall of the shower and fuck you against it until you were whimpering and quivering, your orgasm smoothing the edges of this rough and difficult morning. It would feel good.

But no. No fucking. Only Vox’s soapy hands in your hair, rubbing your back-tilted ears until you wanted to purr, his thumbs experimental around the base of your antlers. He told you to close your eyes before he raised the spare showerhead to rinse you off, the water dark, even the soap bubbles brownish as the blood was sluiced away. Vox repeated the process twice more before the water ran clear, finger combing your hair to check for errant viscera.

“I don’t need you to wash my back for me, you know,” you said, as Vox put the shampoo aside and reached for the bodywash.

“Course you don’t,” he said, eyes narrowed, and for a second his grin reminded you of Alastor’s. “But you fuckin’ like it, don’t you? You like my hands-” he said, rubbing soap into your flank, then tracing a line down, over your thigh. “My mouth.”

You opened one eye. “I hope you’re not proposing to lick me clean.”

The glazed expression on Vox’s face, along with the way his antennae flopped, told you that yes, yes he would very much like that, his gaze drifting to between your thighs, the faint trickle of Alastor’s cum mixed with his as it leaked out of you and mixed with the water from the shower.

Vox swallowed. “Please,” he groaned. “Fuck, please, baby deer. Just a little. Don’t make me fuckin’ beg.”

“I’m not making you do anything, Vox,” you said, a sidelong look at him. The steam from the shower was fogging his screen, droplets of the splashback running down the front of his wide face like sweat, and his eyes were wide. “You’re begging of your own accord.”

You put your palm on Vox’s grey-skinned shoulder and pushed him down. He sank to his knees, obedient, the water on your back slowing to a trickle, still under his control. His eyes weren’t hearts but they might as well have been with the expression he made as he reached out to touch your thighs, pulling his face close to your legs, his long blue tongue extending.

Vox’s tongue against wet skin was a new sensation; a crackling pressure that conducted over a wider area than his tongue touched as he lapped blissfully at the rivulets of diluted cum that ran out of you. You shivered, and breathed in as you watched him eat, running a hand over the top of his screen, your claws gentle on the fragile antennae that sprouted from it.

Vox whimpered as you held the tip of his antennae between thumb and fingertip, and it occurred to you, belatedly, that maybe these were analogous to antlers for him. You stopped touching them, returning to stroking his frame. His hand found yours, your fingers twining, and you knew that if you asked him he would fuck you with his tongue, lap every last drop of Alastor’s seed from your aching cunt and drink it down like a man starved.

“Please-” he whined, looking up at you between strokes of his tongue.

“You know,” you said, smiling to yourself. “Alastor has very sharp hearing, and he was mostly awake when I got up. He can definitely hear us right now.” You paused to take a breath as you felt Vox freeze, his tongue still on your thigh. “He definitely heard you begging me to let you lick his cum from my legs.”

Vox’s eyes fluttered closed, a low groan in his throat. “Fuck.”

“Tell me,” you said, pushing him a little as his tongue swept up your leg, perilously close to your sex. “Tell me what you’re begging for now.”

Vox’s voice came as a stream of consciousness as you squeezed the top of his screen, hard enough that colors distorted around the pads of your fingers, his breath in gasps as he tasted you between each word, a prayer to you, a prayer to Alastor. “Fuck, yes, please, I fucking want it, oh god, fucking god, let me, let me, please please, let me taste him. I wanna taste him in your pussy, oh god.” He swallowed, whimpering, cock finding friction against your leg, and he trembled. “God-” Vox’s eyes sprang open as he came, his body jerking as he shot his load over your hooves. “Fuck-” he breathed, softly, his screen tilting against your thigh.

You were gentle with him as you pulled him to his feet, letting him lean against you as he came down from his high. You rubbed his back, his shoulders, and the edges of his screen, eliciting soft groans from him, and he nudged his face into your shoulder before you grabbed the soap and started to lather it into his chest.

As if realizing where he was, Vox started the water running at full pressure again. When you had finished him he washed your back for you without complaint, merely a pleading look in his eyes as he scrubbed you down, the runoff going from dark brown to pink as the ablution opened a few of your newer injuries, his hands gentle enough on you to make you sigh and forget your hangover for another few seconds.

When you emerged from the bathroom, toweled dry and dressed in the monogrammed robe Vox had kept for you, you felt almost alive.

“You were in there a while,” Alastor commented from the couch as you emerged, one eye opening, his voice rough and crackling like old vinyl.

“You didn’t want to join us?” you asked, squeezing a little more moisture from your hair.

Alastor shrugged, his lips a tiny smirk. “You seemed to have everything under control,” he said, a statement not lost on Vox, who did not meet his eyes.

Vox’s arm was protective round your waist, or perhaps simply clingy, as the three of you proceeded out of his quarters and into the living area he shared with the other members of his coterie. You sat at the breakfast bar as Vox operated what was perhaps the most complicated coffee machine you had ever seen. Alastor took a seat at the breakfast bar too, his tailcoat on, overdressed compared to you in a robe and Vox in his lounge pants and t-shirt. Alastor’s shadow looked more hung over than he was, sulking in a pool by his feet and clutching its head. Vox seemed to have some level of sympathy for his condition, because he turned to Alastor first.

“So, Al, you want anything? This baby makes a mean fuckin’ macchiato, I’ll tell you that much. We’ve got three types of coffee, too, a Columbian-”

“Coffee,” said Alastor, a grinding edge of almost mechanical stress to his voice. “Make me a coffee.”

Vox sighed. “Americano it is,” he said, setting the machine running with a cheerful beep as he manipulated his way through the menus.

Alastor was sniffing his americano and the expensive looking machine was grinding something in its innards when the door on the lower level opened and a small group of people came in, clearly still mid revelry, brightly colored plastic drink containers in hand. You recognized one of them as the man who had dumped you on Vox’s bedroom floor on your first night in Hell, dressed to the nines in patent leather thigh high boots and a naked effect body-stocking with red sequins that barely covered the essentials. Valentino.

“Ah.” Vox froze with one hand on the coffee machine. “Fuck.”

“Vox?” Valentino’s tone was disbelieving, and he sashayed up the stairs to the breakfast bar to stare at the three of you, lowering his pink glasses dramatically. “What the fuck is this?”

“Val.” Vox hopped the breakfast bar with surprising alacrity, placing himself bodily between you and Valentino, his hands up in a placating gesture. It was unnecessary, all things considered, but sexy. “I can explain.”

Alastor, meanwhile, lowered his ears and hid his face behind his fuck Alastor mug, clearly uncomfortable at being witnessed in Vox’s residence at such an early hour.

“So this is where you’ve been?” Valentino gesticulated. “You don’t take my calls, you say you don’t wanna party with me, all so you can stay home and jerk off onto your pile of Alastor lookalikes?” He turned to Alastor, the real Alastor, his eyes squinting behind his pink glasses. “Where did you even get this one? He looks like shit!”

“Gotta agree with you there,” you deadpanned. “Not a word of English either.”

“Bonjou,” said Alastor, gamely, his voice gruff with the full impact of his night of drinking, his radio filter completely absent.

“You see?” Valentino waved. “You want more Alastors, chulo, you come to me. None of this amateur hour carajo.” He shook his head. “Me and these professionals are going to my room.”

“Val, wait-” Vox called, but Valentino was already on his way out. He stopped, perhaps realizing the futility of it, and rubbed the front of his face with his hand. “Fuck.”

“Is that-” you watched Valentino walk out, shooing the squad of sex workers through the door ahead of him so that he could slam it. “-is that gonna be okay?”

“Fuck knows.” Vox’s shoulders sank, and he walked back to the coffee machine. “It’s hard to tell what he wants sometimes. I mean, first he gives me you, then he’s pissy I’m spending time with you. Does he want me to chase after him? I don’t fucking know anymore.” The machine finished making your drink, and Vox picked it up, vanishing in electricity and arcing to appear behind you. “I know what you want, though,” he purred, his face close enough to your back that the hairs on your neck stood on end, and pushed your coffee in front of you.

You turned your head to grin at him, eyes half-lidded. “A full and unredacted list of the members of my fanclub still extant in Hell?”

“Fuck.” Vox’s expression soured, and he leaned back. “You're all business, aren't you? You know, I preferred it when you were pretending to be stupid.”

“And I preferred it when you had your tongue up my ass,” you said, enjoying the instant of startlement and arousal that flashed across his screen, Alastor smirking into his cup of coffee behind him. “I guess we’re just not our best selves this morning.”

“I liked that too, but I can't just hand you those names, baby deer,” said Vox, leaning on the breakfast bar beside you. “That's not how business works around here. It's about trust.”

“He’s lying,” Alastor interjected, mildly. “He could give you whatever it is you’re talking about, he just doesn’t want to.”

“Oh, butt out, Al,” groused Vox. “I’m not lying. There’s a cost.”

“One which you could well afford to waive,” said Alastor, smiling. “Given our situation.”

“Yeah, and what situation is that?” Vox shot.

He was unprepared as Alastor stood, closing the distance between them and seizing Vox by the front of his shirt, bringing their faces close, not quite touching, but close enough to kiss, or bite. Vox made a noise in his throat, and Alastor grinned, violence in his teeth.

“If you want this to continue,” said Alastor, his voice low menace. “You’re going to have to give our delightful young friend here everything they want. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what it costs you. Everything.”

“Fuck,” Vox croaked, his eyes wide.

“Well?” said Alastor. “Do we have a deal?”

“This isn’t fair, Al.”

Alastor’s grin was steady. “These things rarely are. Yes or no, old pal?”

“Shit, I’m such a fucking idiot.” Vox closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Alastor set Vox down gently, a sly wink to you as he did so, then stalked his way over to you, taking a small sip from your coffee cup before winding an arm around your waist and burying his face in your hair.

Vox looked at the both of you with something approaching dismay. “He likes you way too much, baby deer,” he said, shaking his head. “Way, way too much.”

Alastor just laughed, his nose pressing against your neck.

The following list is all of the people without whom this work would not exist in its present form; who cheered for me, who reassured me, who pointed out where my phrasing was awkward, and all in all encouraged me to go the whole hog and not just the tip. Thank you for putting up with me and my incessant self-aggrandizing wank and telling me, each in your own way, that the dog exploded.

Bapple Fraugwinska Macabre Barbie Miggy Katethulu Rein Miz blue Molly Anne

The others in the discord server for whom I do not have an ao3 or tumblr account

Special thanks to Shunypie/Shunyhuny who drew fanart (holy shit I am still absolutely fucking floored by this, it's so beautiful)

My final acknowledgment goes to everyone else who read this and thought it was hot, love you guys. Your comments feed me, your likes sustain me.

Though my planned procession of porn is past its climax, I am still open to penning vignettes about the lookalike and set in the lookalike’s timeline. If you have an idea or request, please post a comment here, or if you fancy remaining anonymous, you can use my inbox at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/impale-me-radio-daddy

Regretfully, I do not take commissions (I can’t think of an amount of money that would be worth the expression of confusion and fear from my accountant) so all requests will be undertaken at my own discretion.

Until next time, dear readers.

[katthyacinth]

When The Cameras Are Off (Vox X Siren)

finally guys romantic shit is happening with Vox and Siren/ popstar reader :p

Fancy "business" lunches and outings with the TV overlord became a regular occurrence. You didn't mind it. He argued that it was to keep you under wraps and ensure you didn't speak out of line to the press. Although you argued that's what the collateral was for but who were u to know business.

The expensive food ordered by the billionaire overlord was nice too, he was offering it so it would be rude not to right? That was the only reason you continued to agree to them and totally not because something about him was only charming. Come to think of it, for being in hell and for Vox being the most narcissistic, greedy capitalist man you ever could meet... He looked out for you.

Obliviously it was because you were a money-maker in his company right? You for some reason refused to believe he would do anything for a genuine reason, there had to be some scheme right?

That's what Vox tried to convince himself of too. That he did all this and kept you in his eyesight at all times just to make sure you wouldn't run away because you made him so much money. Because Vox would double-die before he would admit that your pure charm, your unnatural kindness has lured him in. That you did indeed charm him. No, he had too much pride to admit that.

Everyone else could see though. Velvet was pissed because it was her who signed your contract. Her who you reported to yet you spent almost every waking hour next to Vox. And Velvet knew there was only one maybe two other people Vox had ever obsessed over like this...

Alastor

Days passed and Val picked up on it too. He mainly noticed because he was getting less attention obviously. "Carino don't tell me you're in love with our new pet over there." He asked a slight hiss in his voice as his eyes narrowed. Vox glitched slightly. "Don't you dare say that of course not, like you said she's just a pet... That for some reason you guys didn't get to sign a soul contract so someone needs to keep her in line" he growls. Val rolled his eyes exhaling red smoke from his cigarette "Whatever you say" Vox was ready to walk out and as far away from Val as demonly possible when Velvet came storming in. "So much for "handling" her Vox god fucking dammit"

"What do you mean?" He asks. "Look!" She casts her phone screen to all the devices in the room including Voxs face. A feed of posts scrolls through. Sinners willing to give up their souls to the Siren. Sinners praising the siren feeling sorry for her after a story published about apparently she saved two low-class demons from loan sharks in THEIR DISTRICT?!

Demons from all over the Pentagram wanted you to be an overlord, her fans, her little sailors, posting how they would willingly and happy to sign a soul contract with her if it meant being under her protection.

This Was Bad

Voxs screen glitched, red dead pixels appearing on his screen. He had to find you, and now. Perhaps he could use that leverage, not yet though he thought. He couldn't show his full hand yet. He just needed to scare you that's all. He was angry, so angry that sinners trusted you. That they wanted to be on your side and not the vees. Was he jealous? He would never admit it if he was. Was he feeling betrayed, that you could take all that they had built of course not the Vee empire was unbreakable. There was a twinge of doubt though. He zapped through all the cameras looking for you pinpointing the location of your phone and such. You were sitting nice and pretty in the apartment HE gave you. In a blink, he's there materialized in your living room making you jolt in surprise.

"What the FUCK KIND OF STUNT DID YOU PULL THIS MORNING," he said calmly. (l o l sorry had to)

"I- how did you- I im sorry I. I didnt know it was in your district and she just looked so helpless, she reminded me about something that happened to me when I was alive and- i- I don't wanna be an overlord Vox, Sir. I promise you I would never try and overthrow your power-" you start rambling, words rushing out of your mouth to try and save you from the looming overlord.

Sparks of electricity buuzzed around him as you could see him seething with anger. "Velvette is going to try her best to suppress this but if you so much as breathe out of line like this again, you're as good as double dead. Are we clear dollface?" he states, closing in on you. The way he spoke and the proximity triggered something in your subconscious, something that reminded you of Him. So you swallowed, a stray tear moving down your face as you nod.

"Good you see your so good at following directions doll. Why don't I send the chefs over here to make you dinner, you shouldn't leave the apartment anyway since those paparazzi will be going crazy right?" he cooed, holding your chin in his hands. The touch making you flinch before you feel the same buzz of his electronic body as you had before. Your feelings are conflicted, you cant quite read him, you don't know if he somewhere in his hellish soul cares, or if he's the mastermind. Only time will tell. You stay tense nodding again to the best of your ability with your cheeks being squished by his claws. He lets go.

"Wonderful, doll you pick what you want and they'll be here in a zap"

Your mind is spinning as everything is happening, this man is so bipolar you cant get a beat on him. Hes ushering all these other demons in as they crowd in your apartment, its overwhelming. All the voices, people and noises of the table being set. You realize that Vox apparently isn't going anywhere and has invite himself to dinner, hurray for you, you guess.

Your favorite meal has been prepared courtesy of Vox Industries budget as you sit down across from the Mr CEO himself.

"May I ask Vox why are you still here?" he looks up at you and stares for a second making you uneasy. "I mean not that it's a bad thing I was just thinking you probably have much more important things to do like run the greatest tech company in all of hell right? like why would you be causally eating here with me." you laugh nervously.

"well I guess even I have somehow been lured by the sirens charm then haven't I, because that would be the only reason your immune to my magic." he mumbles the last part.

"huh?" you ask, the distance between you two at the table not being enough to mask the end of his words. When Vox realizes this his pixelated eyes widen.

"Nothing dollface take the compliment I dont give them often. Especally to sinners who pulls stunts like you did this morning. But I am a very kind boss and forgive you since your not activly planning on overthrowing the vees." he chuckles, his tone slightly unhinged as you see him grasp his fork tighter.

"Your right you dont have to worry about me... " You trail off still processing what Vox said. You wonder if you actually heard it, maybe you made it up. Who knows.

Eventually Vox turns to leave. "Well doll don't go causing anymore trouble til the next time I see you." He sighs. "Of course sir, wouldnt dream of it"

"like I said before just call me Vox" he retorts. "Right goodnight Vox"

"Goodnight Siren" and with that he zaps away.

(ok I don't remember writing thing I don't remember this existing.... So have it l o l .

Pt 6 pt 8

[puffymucher]

hi lovely! i’ve been following your oc story all the time and thought that i’d share the art of my oc as well! hope you don’t mind me just rambling in your inbox😭

anyway, here’s caroline!

if you want some backstory:

she’s alastor’s sister and ofc friends with rosie. opposite to alastor she’s very up with trends and everything that’s happening. and that’s also one of the reasons why her and velvette get along so well. at first it was vox’s plan to get information about alastor from the inside, through velvette dating caroline but eventually she actually started to feel something. and after a lot of fights (can’t live without angst) they started actually dating:)

(idk how but i also want to somehow make her connected with carmilla as in relationship or something like that, but i’ll get there one day😭)

just wanted to share since i’ve seen your art and tbf you gave me a lot courage to share mine as well!! :3

SORRY about how late i got back to you but RAHHH!! I LOVE HER~!! SHES SO SILLY!!!!!! i think a way she could be connected with carmilla is explaining alastors absence to the overlords and etc etc!!! IDK just ideas!!!

LOVE seeing the oc content man!! i think the purple is really cute and the fact she's more pink than red fits very nicely with her!!

[whyy77772]

#RadioStatic2024

#RadioStaicWeek

Day 3!!!

Today’s prompt was dancing!! The last two prompts I made it ambiguous to if Al liked Vox the same way but this one is definitely mutual, sorry :P . Anyway, I kinda messed up with proportions in the drawing but it’s whatev. I’m very late bc writing dancing is hard and I didn’t have inspiration till 11pm this time. Anyways, here’s the fic, but also I pasted it

Chapter 3

Dancing

Vox made his way through a small door into a jazz club on the south side of hell. He could hear the sound of live music and various sinners laughing and talking from the sidewalk. The room was crowded, some sinners at the bar, some dancing and watching, and some playing the music, various instruments touched their lips and were played. Vox was invited out by a coworker, who went by the name Jose. It was the mid 1970’s at that point, the jazz scene was dying, but there were still various popular spots all around hell. Vox waited around by the front door waiting for Jose, but eventually growing impatient, he walked over to the bar and ordered a neat straight gin, bored and ready to leave any minute.

“Hey, are you Jose’s friend?” The bartender asked. Vox cringed at the word friend, but responded with a quick yes. He was then informed that this coworker had ‘emergency business’ to attend to. Great. Now Vox was stranded in a random club on a side of hell he had no business being in and an empty gap in his schedule. The free time was fine, he thought, but he was ready to actually build trust with someone tonight for whatever plans he had for José. Whatever, people watching and drinking was a fine night, he thought to himself. Plus, maybe he’d be able to find an opportunity for a deal. Vox sipped his drink, looking around the bar. Suddenly, a familiar face walked in. Red coat, red hair, at a jazz club? Yeah, that’s definitely Alastor. He walked in, waving several sinners who recognized him. ‘Guess he’s a regular here’ Vox thought, watching as he took another sip from his glass. Vox stared at him, eventually Alastor noticed him. Vox waved, and Alastor walked over to the television

“Why, hello there Vox, what a surprise seeing you here, my good friend! What happened to make you end up here?” Alastor stood in front of him, looking down at Vox, who had put down the glass to talk.

Vox leaned on the bar, arms out resting “Got ditched by a co worker, figured I might stay a while.”

“Ah, yes. The club is rather nice, isn’t it? I frequent this joint often, best in town, you know. Mind if I join you?” Alastor asked, looking at the seat next to Vox.

“Sure” Vox scooched over a bit, gesturing towards the empty stool beside him. Alastor ordered bourbon. The bartender slid the drink to him as he talked to Vox

Three drinks in and a lot of boring small talk later, Alastor asked a question. “Have you ever been to a Jazz club? I take it you haven’t, but there’s no harm in asking!”

Vox taped his claw on the callous on his thumb, an idle habit he picked up. “No, that wasn’t really my scene when I was alive.”

“I take it you can’t dance then? Alastor gave a little chuckle, the alcohol loosening himself up a bit

“Oh sure I can, I was an excellent dancer, I just never used my skills outside of lessons and with partners listening to records.” Vox rolled his eyes. Him? A bad dancer? It was funny thinking about

“Hm, for some reason I don’t trust you. Why don’t you show me what you got?” Alastor smiled (more so than his default one), finishing the last of his drink before standing up and holding a hand out to Vox.

Vox could feel his face burning, unsure if it was from the alcohol in his blood (?), or the fact he was about to dance with Alastor, but that was not his problem. He put on a confident smirk, downing his drink, standing up, and grabbing a hold of Alastors hand. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised, deer man”

Alastor led Vox onto the dance floor, the previous song ending, a small break happened before the band started playing again, a slow start. The crowd formed a circle. A pair of sinners making their way out into the middle, then a single, then two beside each other. Eventually, they got out into the circle. Alastor led, moving to the beat, leading Vox. Normally Vox would hate following, but for some reason, whether that be the alcohol or himself, he enjoyed following for once. Alastor upped the complexity of the moves after testing the waters, seeing how advanced Vox was. Vox was able to match his pace, even with the gin messing with his groove a bit. A minute passed, and they finally walked off out to watch others. The energy in the club was certainly an experience. Vox smiled hard, cheering on the other sinners in the circle. He was breathing hard, the quick dance, the alcohol, and the cheering giving him a big adrenaline boost. After an hour of taking turns on the dance floor, their dance ended with Vox in a dip, and the song ending. Vox’s smile was wide, chest heaving, staring into Alastors eyes. Had his eyes always been this beautiful? Voxes face was warm, and telling by the tint in Alastors cheeks, he was too. Probably not for the same reason though. Vox relished in the few seconds he was in Alastors arms as the crowd cheered, before he got pulled back up, and was lead out of the crowd by Alastor.

Alastor breathed heavily, the energy of the night certainly catching up to him. He looked at Vox before asking “Why, wasn’t that fun! Are you all done? You seem to be exhausted.” He smiled, taking note on how it weirdly didn’t feel forced.

“Pfft, I could go all night. But yeah, I think it’s time to stop dancing for now.” Vox smiled smugly, walking back over to the bar, finding two empty seats. He leaned back on the bar, asking the bartender for two gins.

“Hey, hope you’re ok with gin. I’m keen on keeping them both to myself though” Vox smiled as Alastor sat down, still sitting with perfect posture.

Vox pulled at his turtle neck. He had lost his jacket forever ago, but he was still burned hot with sweat.

“Ah, a gin if fine, my dear.” Alastor studied Voxes face, noticing the dark blue that danced over his already dark blue face at the name.

The bartender slid the drinks over. Vox gave one to Alastor. And took a sip of the other before placing it down. “I don’t know how you’re still in that coat, I’m dying here.” Vox said, out of breath, slipping off his turtle neck to reveal a plane white long sleeve shirt. Alastor watched as he rolled up his sleeves, waved some air at himself, and took another sip of his drink. Alastor didn’t know how long he stared for, all he knew was that Vox was looking really confused now.

“What are you looking at?” Vox raised a 2d eyebrow.

“You know, you weren’t half as bad as I thought you were gonna be.” Alastor smiled. “Still not as good as me though.”

“Hell yeah I was! You weren’t so bad yourself. That was fun, despite you treating me like a dame, having to follow. But, hey, a change of pace is always fun.” Vox tapped at his glass with his pointer claw.

Alastor blushed slightly, realizing he really did put Vox in the position most woman took. “Well, you were good at it.” Alastor chuckled, mocking Vox. Although, it wasn’t really mocking. He did actually believe Vox did a good job. Teased? He didn’t know.

Vox smiled, staring at Alastor. After this night, he saw him in a new light. Or, maybe in a way he always did, but a way he never admitted until now. Vox washed away his thoughts with a swig of his drink, finishing it. They enjoyed a peaceful silence, the chatter and sound of the music seeming to disappear in the embrace of Alastors attention. Before he knew it, Vox’s face had flushed completely, a stupid grin on his face. He ordered another drink. This night was perfect. Thank god Jose didn’t show up.

Yay :]

[cosmossupernova]

So I have those two ocs that I love so freaking much and I need their story to exit in another place other than my mind. So yeah, that's what all of this is about.

ANYWAY ! This fic is mostly just for fun so yeah, don't expect me to be too serious about all of this.

This is the story of Daisy, a robotic angel that got bored of heaven and decided to go live in hell for the sake of it. Down there she's going to meet love a second time until she realize that it's mostly one sided because the one she loves is way too obsessed with another man. And Hikari, a fallen angel that is literally made of light as she ressembles a hologram. Those two girls cannot see each other and would do anything to get rid of the other... unless ? Let's discover why do they hate each other in the first place and how they had to work together in order to save their lives.

I genuinely hope that someone is going to read the story of my oc and is going to like them :,)

You can also find that fic on AO3

Part 1: Daisy

- “ GODDAMNIT ! WHERE THE FUCK IS IT ?! ”

I hear the television demon yell in the other room, probably looking for his phone that I had kindly took with me and put on the coffee table in the living room as I was sat on the couch watching TV.

- “ It's right here honey, like always. ”

I sighed as I finally saw my boyfriend's head pop out from the other room and look at me with a confused look until I pointed his phone on the table. He smiled and quickly walked over me to grab what seemed to be more important than me. I tried smiling at him hoping that would get a reaction out of him and maybe, in the best case, a kiss the cheek but of course, I was met with nothing as he walked away and finished getting ready for work. Not even a freaking thank you ?! Ugh, why am I even trying ? He lost interest in me a long time ago. The only reason we're still dating is because, first, I'm good looking and the fans love me ! And second, since I'm a pretty popular pop star, I'm giving him publicity just by going out with him. I let out an annoyed groaned as I pinched the bridge of my nose before I heard the front door slam, meaning that he was already gone. I felt tears in my eyes as he, once again, forgot to just say goodbye to me or even acknowledge me. I finally stood up after a few long minutes and stretched. I didn't have work today so I could pretty much anything that I wanted except if it has anything to do with his money, reputation or Alastor. I shook my head as I tried to chase my thoughts away and walked toward the bathroom, thinking about Alastor, I could go pay a visit at that hotel ! It has been a while since I talked to its residents ! Wouldn't want them to think that I don't like them or the project anymore ! I quickly showered, brushed my blonde hair and tied my hair in a ponytail. I then looked at myself in the mirror. Even with my demon disguise, I still looked pretty heavenly, white skin that resembled porcelain, baby blue eyes that looked like the heaven sky and blonde hair that reminded me a yellow tulip. At least I still had my raccoon like mask around my eyes, my tail that was ending with a street light, since my death was linked to those and of course, my horns.

When I got back into our shared room, that was mostly mine with how little he slept in it, I immediately opened my closet and started looking through my clothes. Most of them were gifts from Vox but I didn't really like any of those because they always looked too much like... him. I finally found my favorite dress and took it out of the closet. I was a dark red dress that had a had short skirt and gave me a beautiful cleavage, I knew he didn't like it because it was showing too much skin and because of its color but I didn't really care about what he thought of it. I put it on before I put on a matching pair of shoes and grabbed my purse.

Damn I looked hot like that. Too bad my boyfriend didn't care about me.

I sighed and finally left our penthouse so I could finally go to that little hotel. I decided to walk because I definitely needed some fresh hair after being inside for so long.

About 30 minutes later, I finally arrived in front of Charlie's hotel, I took a deep breath before I knocked and waited for someone to answer the door. The seconds went by and quickly became minutes. I knocked again, harder this time, hoping someone would hear. me until I lost my patiente and entered the hotel. It was empty.

I looked around for a moment until it was clear that no one was there, I sat there, confused because it was really unusual for Charlie to leave the hotel without any words but I just guessed she was busy somewhere else. I took a sit on a couch and looked at a painting for a moment before I took my phone out and noticed a text rom Vox. I was about to open it to see what he could possibly have to tell me but I was interrupted by someone kicking the hotel's doors open.

- “ Heya everyone ! ”

I groaned in annoyance when I recognized the voice of the only person I hated in heaven and hell.I slowly turned my head around and almost let a sigh out when my eyes met the white dots in her dark eyes, the only part of her that wasn't producing light. Hikari, one of the few person that knew about my secret and definitely the person I hated the most. Unlike me, she didn't hide her annoyance when she spotted me.

- “ Oh great ! Miss I'm so much better than everyone is there but none of the people I wanted to see are ! Just great ! ” She facepalmed and let out an annoyed sigh before she sat on the couch in front of me. “ Where is everyone anyway ? ”

- “ If I knew, I wouldn't be sitting here in front of you. ” I answered with a glare. “ I've been waiting for them for a few minutes already, so you should probably leave since they're not going to be back soon. ” I smirked and crossed my arms, I knew how impatient she was so I was sure she was going to left really soon.

- “ Nah, I'll wait. ” It was her turn to smirk as she noticed my smile dropping. “ Wouldn't want you to feel too lonely now, miss nobody cares about me ! ”

- “ Ugh, if you want to insult me, at least be original ! You've called me that a hundred times ! It's not even funny! ” I rolled my eyes and grabbed my phone again but she yanked it away from me.

- “ What's so important that you're going to drop your polite act to check your phone ? Oooooh, your boyfriend sent you a text ! Well, it would be a real shame if I... answered it instead of you ! ”

She started laughing as I stood up and clenched my fists. She looked at me with a smirk but her smile quickly dropped when I tackled her and pinned her to the couch.

Welp... yeah, I wanted to leave some suspense on my little story ! But don't worry ! I should write the next chapter pretty soon ! Anyway, thank you for reading the first chapter and I'll see you on part two !

[poppy-ghost]

[toxic-stargod-apologist]

The Church of a Loving God - Eaters of the Dead

Genre: Horror

Word Count: 5,558

Synopsis: In the grim darkness of the far future, countless billions toil and suffer to keep the wheels of the imperial war machine turning. The God Emperor demands blind obedience and the only reward is a brutal death. In the dark corners of this world, among the teeming masses of humanity, Jocasta Theta will find something more; a life worth living, and a god worth believing in.

Content Notes: Cannibalism, Police Brutality

Author's Note: A massive thank you to daddyfuckinlonglegs for all their help and advice, and for motivating me to get back into writing. Jocasta's story will continue in chapter two, 'Love in a Dark Millennium'!

AO3 Link: The Church of a Loving God

The day started with bells. Jocasta opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling of the bunk house, counting the chimes. Three, four, five, then a raspy, mechanical voice crackled out from the vox caster.

“Theta shift, wake up. Theta shift, wake up. You have one hour before your work begins. Thought for the day; only in death is duty's debt repaid.”

There was a short hiss of static as the vox switched off. Jocasta lay in her bunk for a moment and tried not to think about the crushing heat. The ventilation system for her hab-block had been broken for a month; every night she prayed to the Emperor to send one of his red priests to fix it, and every morning she woke up drenched in sweat. No point dwelling on it though.

She got up and pulled her overalls out from under the bed. Her tiny section of the room was separated from the rest by a threadbare blanket hanging from a string, and as she got dressed she could hear the rustling of nineteen other people doing the same. They were all theta shift, but none of them were part of her work gang. She'd barely spoken to any of them in the three years she'd lived here.

Still, she thought as she pulled the blanket aside, there was no reason to be unfriendly. She gave a smile and a nod to each of them as she made her way to the door. Some of them smiled back. Some of them didn't. All of them looked tired.

The door was jammed, like it had been every morning since the ventilation broke, but it swung open after a few sharp kicks. Jocasta breathed deep as she stepped out into the cavernous, and relatively cool, expanse of transit tunnel forty-one. It was a vast, diagonal shaft formed of buttressed rockcrete walls lined with dozens of metal walkways, all of them bustling with people heading to, or from, their allocated workplace. The steeply sloping floor of the tunnel was covered by rails, along which cargo pallets were constantly moving, and the ceiling was festooned with pipes, cables, and dim, flickering glow-globes which cast the hubbub below in shades of orange and amber.

Jocasta was vaguely aware that there was a universe outside the tunnel – the mountainous hive-city of Gloriana Aeterna stretching up for miles above her, a planet outside, and thousands of planets beyond – but she would never see them. This tunnel, and the chambers branched off from it, had been her whole world since the day she was born. Her little corner of the imperium.

As she made her way down the walkway she scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Most days that search was fruitless, but this was a lucky day. Through the throngs of shuffling figures she spotted an unruly shock of blonde hair, and with a little pushing and shoving she got close enough to recognise the pale, lanky man it was attached to. Exactly who she'd been hoping to see. Surreptitiously she spat on her hand and dragged it through her short red hair; she'd once seen a pict-capture of noblewomen from the upper hive, all of them beautiful and all of them with their hair slicked back.

“Good morning Seth!” She fell into step beside her work mate, who looked down at her with a weary smile that made her heart beat a little quicker. “I'm so glad I caught you, did you hear what happened on sigma shift? Katra, from the market, told me all about it. Apparently the coreward grinder threw a gear just as the shift was ending, which isn't all that strange, happens all the time, but after the technomats pushed it back in they still couldn't get the whole thing spinning. So one of them says 'there must be something stuck in there, we'll just take the casing off and find it'. So then they did, and they saw what was jamming it, and guess what it was? Go on, guess! I'll give you three tries.”

Seth's brow furrowed. He looked up at the roof of the tunnel, his lips moving silently, then looked back down at Jocasta. “Okay, first guess... Was it a sump rat?”

Her mouth fell open. “You knew? That's not fair! You can't pretend to guess if you already knew!”

“I didn't know,” Seth said with a grin, “I just figured it out. There's not many things big enough to jam the grinder but small enough to come up through the pipes. Also I hear rats down there all the time.”

“Ooh, you're such a liar! You couldn't just 'figure that out'. You know I thought I could trust you, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I'll have to find a new friend who doesn't try to cheat me.” She tried to look serious, but Seth put on such an exaggerated show of remorse that she couldn't help smiling.

“You really can't trust me any more? After everything we've been through? After everything I've done for you?”

She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “And what exactly have you done for me?”

“Well...” He leaned down until their heads were practically touching and lowered his voice to a whisper. Jocasta could hear her heart thumping in her chest. “...how about scrounging up something to eat on our break?. One of my bunk mates managed to find some meat. Some unprocessed meat. And since he owed me a favour, I got us a slice to share.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you joking?” she whispered. “You have to tell me if you're joking, you can't just say something like that and not mean it. And what do you mean he found it, anyway? Do you know what it came from? He didn't steal it, did he? Because if he stole it-”

A deafening burst of trumpets rang out from the vox pylons above them. As one, every worker stopped in their tracks. A moment later the cargo pallets below them shuddered to a halt. Silence, heavy and oppressive, settled over the tunnel. Jocasta stole a glance at Seth; he'd already closed his eyes and crossed his hands over his heart in the shape of the holy aquila. She shuffled a little closer to him and did the same.

“Citizens of Gloriana Aeterna.” The deep, sonorous voice came from every vox, in every direction. “Hear me, and give thanks. The God Emperor protects you, his faithful servants, for as long as you dedicate your lives and deaths to him. Through the might of his armies, he protects you. Through the swift justice of his arbites, he protects you. Through the diligence of his administrators, he protects you...”

The familiar litany washed over Jocasta. She's heard it so many times she could recite it backwards. Real meat, though... That was a special kind of gift. Silently, in her heart, she gave thanks for it.

***

It took another half an hour to descend to the ration processing plant. Down here the walls of the tunnel were studded with loading bays and access ports, and the air was thick with industrial smog. The two of them made their way through the murk, moving slowly and cautiously over corroded walkways and down rickety ladders, until they reached the entrance hatch for loading bay seven. Seth started coughing. He'd been doing that a lot recently.

Inside, the noise in the low-ceiling bay was almost painfully loud. Workers from Sigma shift were rushing to and fro, shouting instruction to each other as they tried to unload the last of their shipments. Enforcers holding crackling shock mauls and suppression shields prowled between them, reflective visors covering their faces. Heavy carts trundled over the metal floor grates with their axles squealing, and over it all was the roar of the spinning grinders at the far end of the bay.

The men and women of theta shift were huddled against one wall, staying out of the way until their time came, but between them and the access hatch was an armoured security booth. Jocasta walked up to the mesh grill at the front of the booth and smiled at the grim-faced watchman behind it.

“Jocasta Theta, reporting for shift.”

The man grunted and peered down at his data-slate until he found her name, then pressed his thumb against the screen. He reached down under the desk to pull out two rectangular metal tins, each the size of Jocasta's palm, and slid them through the gap at the bottom of the grill.

“Two ration packs, corpse-starch. No eating between breaks. No hoarding. No trading. Return the tins at the end of your shift. Do you understand?”

The enforcer had said the same words to her every morning for the last three years, and she'd given the same response. “Yes sir, I understand. May the Emperor protect you.”

“And you. Move along.”

Jocasta put her rations in her pocket and went to join the rest of her shift, leaving Seth to report in behind her. She knew almost all of her co-workers by name, even if she hadn't had a chance to get to know most of them, but today there was an unfamiliar face. A man... No, a boy, probably on his first work assignment. Maybe four of five years younger than her? Not even old enough to shave. He looked every bit as scared as Jocasta had been when she started at the plant, and she decided that he needed a friend.

“Hey there kid, welcome to loading bay seven! You're new, aren't you? Please say you're new, if you've been here for a while I'll be so embarrassed. My name's Jocasta. What's yours?”

“Uh...” The boy hesitated, looking down at the floor. “My name is Lansan. It's nice to meet you.” His voice was so quiet she could barely hear him over the noise.

“Well it's very nice to meet you too, Lansan. I guess this is the first place you've worked? Well don't worry about that, we'll show you the ropes in no time. Which section are you assigned to?”

“Um, I think they said I'd be unloading the pallets?”

Jocasta kept smiling, but her heart sank. “Oh, so you'll be working with me! That's good. Did they say who you're replacing?” She already knew the answer.

“Yes, they said the last person got reallocated to a manufactorum on the upper levels. His name was Dillan?”

“Gillan. His name was Gillan.” Jocasta struggled to keep her voice level. Gillan had been nearly forty, with a limp he couldn't hide any more. No manufactorum would have taken him.

She tried to think of something to say, but before she had a chance the bell rang to signal the shift change. The exhausted workers of sigma shift put down their tools and started filing towards the exit, and theta shift moved quickly to take their place. Jocasta walked towards the wide metal shutter on the tunnel side wall, still thinking about Gillan, wishing Lansan wasn't following quite so close behind her. She wanted time to think, but the shutters were already opening to accept the first delivery of the day. She'd just have to wait until the shift was over.

“Alright Lansan, this is the start of the chain. The cargo comes in through here, we jump onto the pallet, then we throw it over so it can be loaded onto the carts. After that it goes through the grinders and onto second stage processing, but you don't need to worry about that bit. Do you have a handkerchief? That's good, tie it around your face. It'll help with the smell. Grab yourself some gloves from the rack, try and get a pair without any holes in them. Let's see... You know how to lift, right? Knees bent, back straight?”

The boy nodded, pulling his gloves on, and she did the same. With a familiar shriek of metal on metal a wide platform rolled into view down the tunnel and pivoted into the loading bay, coming to a halt a couple of feet away from the edge of the floor. Lansan went pale as the smell hit them; the platform was piled high with corpses, collected from all the middle and lower levels of the city. Jocasta saw his expression and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Try to think of it as cargo, rather than people. The city needs to eat. Just be careful when you jump across, you don't want to fall into the pipes.”

He nodded slowly, but she could see his hands trembling. There was nothing more she could do for him except lead by example, so she jumped across to the platform and started pulling a body off the top of the pile. Lansan joined her, gingerly picking up the corpse by the shoulders as Jocasta lifted its ankles. Under her direction they carried it to the edge of the pallet, gave it a couple of swings, then threw it across the gap to where a couple of carters were waiting to load it.

“So, Lansan, how far up do you live?” She was hoping to take his mind off the task at hand, if only so he'd stop being so squeamish.

“Um, about forty minutes walk? We're a couple of levels down from the market.”

“You're not that far above me then! Oh, and you said 'we', does that mean you're still living with your family?” The boy just nodded. “You're lucky. My parents got moved to tunnel thirty-six just after I started working here. Haven't seen them for years.”

“I'm sorry, that must be hard. Not knowing...” He paused for a moment to find his footing as they picked up a particularly heavy body. “Not even knowing if they're still alive, I mean.”

Jocasta found herself lost for words for a moment, and almost slipped on a bloated hand. She wanted to believe the kid didn't mean any harm, but surely he was old enough to know better? Either way, there was only way to respond. “Well if they're dead, I'm sure they died serving the Emperor. You can't ask for anything more than that.” She had to force the words out. You never knew who was listening.

“Oh, yes, of course. I didn't mean... I was just thinking, I don't know what I'd do if my parents got reassigned. I guess they'd move me to a smaller bunk, but I've never lived alone before. Did you ever... Urgh!”

The boy recoiled and fell backwards as the arm he was holding came away from the shoulder with a wet slurping sound. Jocasta dropped her end of the body, leaving it on the edge of the platform, and walked quickly over to him.

“Listen, Lansan,” she whispered as she helped him up. “I need you to be a little tougher, okay? The guards here don't care that you're young, or that it's your first day. If they don't think you can work, you'll get moved somewhere else. Somewhere worse, on the lower levels. Your parents wouldn't want that for you, so just...”

Too late, she saw his gaze move down to the corpse behind her. By the time she turned round it was already slipping over the side of the platform, down into the pipes, and she could only stand there as it disappeared from view. A moment later there was a crash, then a distant, wet thud. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew what was coming.

“Worker!” The shout cut through the noise of the loading bay. Jocasta opened her eyes again and fixed her gaze on the floor; she could hear the heavy footsteps of the enforcer walking towards her. A quick glance at Lansan confirmed he was keeping his head down as well. At least his parents had taught him that much.

“Wasting the city's food is a crime. Which one of you is responsible?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lansan opening his mouth, but she was quicker. “It was me, sir. I wasn't paying attention. I'm very sorry, it won't happen again, I...”

“Step off the platform.” The man sounded more bored than angry. Jocasta jumped across to the loading bay and turned to face him, making sure not to look him in the visor. “You have your rations for the day?” She nodded. “Give me one of them.” She fished the tin out of her pocket and the man snatched it out of her hand. He opened it, checked the contents, and dropped it into a pouch on his belt.

It was a lighter punishment than she'd expected. She let herself relax a little. “Thank you sir. Permission to get back to-”

Without warning the enforcer swung his shock maul into Jocasta's stomach. It wasn't a hard hit. It didn't need to be. Her world went dark, then brilliant white flashes danced across her vision. All she could hear was a snapping, crunching sound that seemed to come from every direction at once.

It only lasted for a moment, and when her vision returned she was lying on the ground at the enforcer's feet. She tried to stop herself trembling, but she couldn't. Across the bay she could see Seth staring at her. He looked scared.

The man leaned down to speak to her, his boot inches away from her face. “You're going to go down to the pipes during the first break and retrieve that corpse. You will not be late. You will not return empty-handed. Do you understand?” She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out but a dry wheeze. He seemed to take that as confirmation. “Get back to work then. No more mistakes.”

As he walked away Jocasta, still shaking, got back on her feet. The hot, raw pain was starting to spread through her stomach, and she knew from experience it was going to get worse before it got better. It would make the next few hours of work agonizing. And then the pipes... People died down there. She could die down there. All because she'd been too busy trying to help the new kid...

“Um... Jocasta?”

She turned to look at Lansan. There were tears on his cheeks. He looked ashamed.

“I can help, if you want. I can go down to the pipes with you.”

For an awful moment, she thought about saying yes. Maybe the two of them would have a better chance of getting out alive. Or maybe she could run faster than him... She put the idea out of her mind. “Thanks, but I'll be fine.” Her voice was still little more than a croak. “It was only a small one, and it's already missing an arm. I can carry it just fine by myself.”

“But, maybe, I could protect you? Kind of, watch your back?”

Jocasta gave the boy the best smile she could manage. “The Emperor protects.”

***

The area under the ration processing plant was a tangled web of tunnels, pipes, junctions and crawl spaces. Bundles of cables wove through narrow corridors, linking together rusted, humming machines that only the red priests truly understood. Everywhere there was the dripping of oil, grease and other, more organic fluids from the plant above. The lights were so faint that they were little more than stars to navigate by, if they worked at all. The only people who came down here were maintenance teams, and they never made the descent without armed guards. The rats were always watching and always hungry.

Jocasta had no guards, and no weapons except a wrench that Seth had slipped into her pocket as he'd wished her good luck. The enforcers had let her take a lantern at least. The weak, yellow light only reached a few paces away from her. Beyond that there was darkness.

She'd been slow and careful at first, trying to stay quiet, freezing every time she heard something skittering through the gloom, but the morning break was only half an hour long and she knew how much worse things would be if she was late. As she went deeper into the maze she started to move faster, gripping the wrench tightly and hoping her reactions would be quick enough if something jumped out at her.

She walked through one dank, humid corridor after another, rushing down steep ramps and squeezing through air ducts, doubling back on herself whenever she reached a dead end or locked hatch. After a while her pace slowed. Every time she passed a turning she paused, trying to picture where she was in relation to the loading by above her, before choosing a path and continuing.

Eventually she reached a junction and had to stop. There was an opening leading down to her left, but surely the wall of the transit tunnel should be there? And if it wasn't, did that mean she was farther away from it than she'd thought, or had she gone so low that she was underneath it? How long had it been since the break started? She didn't have a chrono. Maybe it had been ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Maybe she'd never find the body, or the rats would find her first. She could hear them, scuttling through the gloom. They sounded like they were getting closer.

She leant against the wall and set the lantern down on the ground. Her hands were trembling. She tried to get her breathing under control, but she couldn't.

Gillan was dead. She knew he was. People didn't just stop working when they had a family to feed, even if they were ill. Perhaps he was just too sick or too badly injured to get to the plant, but the end result was the same. The weak didn't survive for long. Yesterday she'd teased him for the silly little moustache he'd started growing; she'd said it made him look like an old man. That was the last thing she'd said to him, and now he was gone.

Her shoulders started shaking. She wiped the tears from her eyes with her sleeve, then squeezed hard on the metal handle of the wrench. She didn't have time to cry. Somewhere up there Seth was waiting for her. All she had to do was find the body, and then she'd find her way back to him. They'd share good food, and gossip about their shift mates, and then she could tell him how much he meant to her and hope that he felt the same...

She heard it before she saw it; the click, click, click of claws on metal. She swore under her breath. If she hadn't been so wrapped up in her own head... No, there was no time for anger. Slowly, she bent down to pick up the lantern. Her hand trembled as she raised it. There were pale, milky eyes gleaming in the dark of the corridor behind her. Three, no, maybe four creatures, though she couldn't be sure. She'd seen dead sump rats before, and no two of them had the same number of eyes.

Keeping her eyes on the crawling shadows, Jocasta started to back away. One step, two steps, and then, from behind her, she heard a low hiss. Her heart jumped into her mouth. She froze, trying to work out how far away the rat behind her was; it sounded close. A few paces, maybe.

The wrench in her hand was slippery with sweat. She tried to adjust her grip. If she could turn quickly and get in a good swing... But there wouldn't just be one, would there? They never hunted alone. Running was the only option, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the side tunnel that had confused her a moment ago. She still had no idea where it went, but it didn't matter.

Jocasta bolted forwards, ducking through the doorway as a screech went up from the rats. She sprinted down the narrow corridor, leaping over gaps in the floor grating, racing around the sharp turns and sudden twists of the tunnel. The rats were close behind her but she couldn't look back. She couldn't hold the lantern steady, and it took all of her concentration just to stay on her feet in the flickering light.

She ran on, her heart pounding, desperately, frantically looking for some way of escaping her pursuers; their shrill chittering echoed from the pipes around her. Suddenly, through the enveloping gloom, she saw a metal hatch up ahead. She darted through it, slamming her weight against the door, the rusty hinges screeching as she forced it closed. From beyond she heard the rats scratching and clawing at the metal, throwing themselves against it in a frenzy... and then, the sound faded. Listening hard, she could make out the clanking of loose grating beneath their feet, the noise getting quieter and quieter as they abandoned the chase and moved on. Gasping for air, she slid down the door and sat against it.

She was alive.

As the adrenaline receded, she realised she was in a junction room larger than any she'd found before. She couldn't tell exactly how large; the light didn't reach the far wall. What she did see, lying on the metal floor surrounded by broken ceiling panels, was the corpse. For a moment she just stared at it, uncomprehending. She was lost. She'd run for her life. How could it be right in front of her?

Slowly she climbed back onto her feet, walked up to the body, and knelt down beside it. It had taken a beating during the fall, but aside from the missing arm it was still intact. Now all she needed to do was carry it back up to the surface. But that was impossible. The rats wouldn't have gone far. She couldn't outrun them with that much dead weight on her shoulders. She was going to die. Unless... Unless there was another way out of here.

No sooner had that thought crossed her mind than she noticed a faint, pale light from up ahead of her. It didn't look like the flame of a lantern, or the glow of the electric lights that lined the halls of the hive city. It was softer. Gentler. She stood up and started moving towards it.

As she walked forwards the air seemed to shimmer. Motes of light danced around her, swirling in a breeze that she couldn't feel. The space was larger than she'd imagined, and even as the body disappeared from view behind her she still couldn't see the far wall. As she got closer to the glow she saw it was coming from a human shape on the floor; to her surprise she realised it was another, much older corpse. She'd never seen one so decayed before.

The thing that drew her eye though, and the source of the light, was the fungus. It sprouted from every part of the body, pushing through the blackened skin in strangely shaped clusters, not just one type but a myriad of different shapes. There were varieties she'd only ever heard about, and some that were completely alien to her. Fragile looking spheres on delicate stalks, glistening jellies that had eaten deep into the remains of their host, mushrooms of every shape and size. And the colours! She'd thought that all fungi were pale grey, but these were a riot of blues, oranges, pinks and browns, all of them glowing softly in the gloom. It was beautiful.

She stepped forward, holding the lantern as close as she dared. There was a rich, warm aroma rising from the corpse, so strong that she felt light-headed. As she leaned over it she realised there was a pattern hidden in the light. Everywhere she looked, the fungi had formed itself into circles. The motif was repeated across the entire body. Circles overlapping each other, circles within circles, and in the centre of the chest three thick, conjoined circles of bright green mould. They'd grown so that each circle was linked to the other two to form a triangle.

There was something more, though. Something in the centre of the pattern that she couldn't quite make out. She leaned over the body, holding the lantern closer, straining to see what was hidden there... And then her foot slipped. Before she could think her hand jerked forwards to break her fall, and with a wet, sickening squelch it hit the mould and sank into it, the desiccated body's chest cracking and collapsing under her weight.

The smell of rot and death washed over her. She scrambled to her feet and reeled back in disgust, desperately shaking the spongy, stinking slop from her hand. It clung to her skin like glue; she couldn't bare to look at it. She dropped the lantern and pulled out her handkerchief, scrubbing at her arm frantically until it was free of the muck, and then stood there, panting, over the body.

Reluctantly, Jocasta looked at her hand. It was still streaked with grime and dotted with luminescent spores, but she'd done the best she could. The handkerchief was sodden; she threw it aside, then closed her eyes.

“God Emperor, please... Please don't let me get sick. Please show me a way back up. Please let me live, just a little longer.”

She whispered the words into the dark. There was no reply.

It wasn't until she opened her eyes and bent to pick up the lantern that she heard it. The familiar click, click, click, and then a low hiss. The rats had found their way in.

Her whole body went stiff. This was it, she realised. She didn't know where she was. There might not be another way out of this room, and even if there was she wouldn't find it before they caught up to her. All she could do was die fighting; a stupid, pointless death.

She turned and saw the rats at the edge of the lantern's light. Lumpy, misshapen creatures with bony spines and tumorous growths sprouting from their backs. She counted seven of them, each of them as big as a hound and staring at her with murderous hunger. Slowly she reached into her pocket and pulled out the wrench, then stepped forwards to meet them...

And the rats backed away.

She paused. Was this some kind of trap? Were they waiting for her to leave the light? She took another step forwards. One of the rats hissed at her, then turned and scurried into the dark. The others edged backwards.

Jocasta took a deep breath and walked forwards until the lantern's pool of light was behind her. With every step the rats retreated, some of them squeaking and scuttling to the corners of the room. It was as if they were scared. She just stared after them, dumbfounded. But then, she'd asked the Emperor for help, hadn't she? And this... this was a miracle.

For a long moment she stood there, in the dark, trying to think of any other explanation. The rats could have killed her easily. She'd heard of them attacking armed groups when they were hungry enough, and these ones had looked very hungry. Just a few minutes ago they'd been chasing her down. And now suddenly they were scared of her.

No, that wasn't right, was it? They were scared of that old corpse, or the fungus. If they weren't then the whole thing would have been eaten long ago. The rats would eat anything, animal or vegetable, no matter how rotten it was. And if it wasn't the rot, or the fungus, then what else could have stopped them if not the Emperor's protection? And now that protection was on her.

There was one way to be sure. She went back and retrieved the lantern, humming a hymn under her breath, and then picked up the sodden handkerchief. She walked across the room until she saw the last few rats prowling at the edge of the light and threw the rag at them as hard as she could. Before it had even landed the creatures scattered, shrieking in panic.

Jocasta couldn't help but laugh. This was amazing! She'd seen a real miracle, right there in front of her! The body must be some kind of holy relic, hidden down here for who knows how long, and she was the one who'd found it. She wondered if Seth would believe her. In the stories, miracles only happened to holy warriors and saints... Maybe she wouldn't tell him right away. It would be her secret, at least for now.

Sighing, she realised she had more immediate concerns. It would take time to find her way back up to the plant. At least now she wouldn't have to worry about the rats though. She went back to where the ceiling was broken, hoisted the body onto her shoulders, then set off to retrace her steps. As she left, the light in the junction room faded. The sound of her footsteps died away. All that was left was silence, and the soft glow of the fungus, and the clouds of spores that danced through the air without any wind to move them.

[kathyprior4200]

Wanna make a Deal?

Inspired by MrMautz’s “Wanna make a deal” animation and “Alastor’s Game” by the Living Tombstone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e1BFaW4h-l8

A silhouette of a tall man with furry deer ears and antlers hummed happily as he walked down the cobblestone path to the Hazbin Hotel. There was a sway in his steps, like he was walking and dancing at the same time. The entrance awning was covered with a tattered pink circus tent, decorated with yellow eyes along the border. The ground was solid dark gray asphalt and dead gnarled trees stretched up toward the crimson sky. The building was pink, gold and reddish in color. A Titanic looking ship and a carousel were attached to the structure. The sign on the roof changed from Happy Hotel to Hazbin Hotel.

 The stained glass windows in the double doors and off to the sides consisted of apples and circus tent designs. The doors burst open and the silhouette walked in from the burst of light. Large red eyes and a big yellow smile appeared on his face.

 It was Alastor, the Radio Demon.

 “I’ve got a game I want to show you.”

 He spoke the words in a radio sing song voice, wearing his tattered red dress coat with a big black bow tie, his hair red and black. His under shirt was light red with a black upside down cross on it. He wore wine colored pants and black tap dancing shoes with red deer tracks on the soles. A monocle was under his right eye. He walked over toward Charlie and Vaggie in the lobby. Gray-skinned Vaggie wore her usual gray tank top and stripped leggings, plus her pink bow tie in her hair white. Charlie had her fluffy blonde hair and a pale face with blushes on her cheeks. She had her salmon pink suit on with a bow tie, a white undershirt, dark pants and shoes. Angel Dust, the white spider, was sitting on the couch in his pink and white striped suit and high heeled pink boots.

 Charlie was disheartened. After having several new clients at the hotel including Angel Dust, Mimzy, Crymini, Baxter, Cherri Bomb, Arackniss, and Molly…Angel Dust was the first one to break his bad habits and almost achieve redemption. But the elite angels in Heaven weren’t accepting of sinners without them going through harsh punishment to prove themselves. Indeed, going to Heaven was near impossible.

 And with Vox, Valentino, Velvet and the other Overlords up to no good, things weren’t looking very bright.

 “If I give you advice, you’ll have to play, too.”

 Charlie nodded, eager for advice on how to continue with her project. Vaggie held her wrist and shook her head, warning her not to accept anything from the Overlord. But the desperate princess looked at Alastor, wanting answers.

 “I’ve been here for years bidding my time, waiting and primed, until I could find you.”

 His partially shadowed face briefly moved closer to theirs, causing the young women to flinch. He smiled and held up a scroll of paper that read “contact,” on it. A small red and black feather pen appeared next to it. With magic, the paper was pushed toward Charlie. At the bottom of the page were several lines for other people to sign.

 “Just sign on the line and we can be friends. I’ll be here for you until your world ends.”

 Suspicious as Charlie was, his words also tugged at her heartstrings. Alastor had done a lot to help promote the hotel in the past several weeks on his radio show. Plus he was quick to defend Charlie, her friends and the hotel, against outsider intruders like Sir Pentious, Seviathan, and the snobby Helsa.  

 Charlie saw a vision in front of her from Alastor’s hand, showing her and Alastor dancing while demons lined up to the hotel, each one developing better habits. Vaggie was staring at Charlie with pride in her eyes. Both her parents hugged her and apologized for not believing in her idea to redeem sinners. The vision faded away, Charlie wondering why it had gone. Taking a deep breath Charlie took the pen and signed the contract, Vaggie staring in disbelief. Charlie looked slightly downcast, believing it was the only other option.

 Alastor walked over to Angel Dust, the spider demon happy to see the attractive deer demon near him. From Alastor’s hand, light shone from it, creating another vision for Angel. In this one, Alastor was hugging Angel after the spider demon had been freed from Valentino’s clutches. Angel was now free to do what he wanted with Cherri Bomb and his friends. Angel even saw himself reuniting with his brother Arackniss, his sister Molly, his father Henroin and his mother Aranea. Alastor handed him a bag of money and wished him luck before blowing a kiss and giving him his number.

 Angel’s eyes dilated as he, too, scribbled his name on the contact. With a smug look on his face, Alastor walked over to Vaggie, holding the paper in front of her. Vaggie growled and shook her head. Alastor shrugged, almost looking like he was about to walk away. But then he presented a vision to her before she could close her visible eye: Vaggie and Charlie sitting together on the roof of the hotel, smiling under a starry sky. Alastor and Angel were nowhere to be seen. Best of all, her father Valentino was in prison where he belonged. No more catering to men and being a prostitute like she did in her human life. The message in Alastor’s eyes was clear: sign this and I’ll leave you be.

 With a reluctant sigh of defeat, Vaggie pressed the pen down and wrote her name. The contract vanished and Alastor stood in front of the girls with a look of triumph, the microphone staff in his right hand. He twirled it.

 “Enjoy all your toys I will supply. You only live once…or twice.”

 He then spoke in a low voice that no one else could hear: “And you’ll be mine.”

  Alastor grinned and clenched his fist, as astrological symbols appeared in the swirling fiery light.

 “The day you die, I’ll have my payment. Your eternal soul’s enslavement. Did you divine our dark arrangement?”

 The light vanished and he turned back to his friends. “You were lovely entertainment.”

  He pulled Charlie and Vaggie close to him, both of them with stunned looks on their faces.

 “The dark desires you’ve been serving.”

 He briefly hung upside down, pointing at them…

 “You can bet that you’re deserving.”

 He stood back up in front of them.

 “No regret for who you’re hurting. Why it’s almost like you’re flirting.”

 Alastor stood straight with a smirk on his face as he looked down at them. He was now wearing a matching red top hat. Everyone stared at him with suspicion and concern in their looks.

 “Sorry, I don’t mean to alarm you,” he said. “If you ask me to stay, I would be charmed to.”

 Charlie and Angel nodded their heads, while Vaggie crossed her arms. Charlie wanted him to stay at the hotel longer. She needed all the help she could get. She needed to convince her stern but protective father that her plan could still work. Lucifer had refused Charlie and her friends from going up to Heaven for good reason.

 Alastor picked up a picture and looked at it. It was an old one of Charlie and Vaggie in the 666 News Room studio. It was back when Charlie was about to make her speech about the Happy Hotel. Vaggie had told her not to sing, but she did anyway. Charlie playfully poked Vaggie’s nose in the picture, while an On Air sign was in the background.

 “You all have such cozy little lives. How do you survive like that?”

 Alastor, being a being of chaos and having experienced past trauma, was not one to know what a normal life was…especially in Hell.

 “I wish I knew,” Alastor said sarcastically as he tossed the picture behind him, hitting the moth demon in the head. Vaggie rubbed her head in frustration and pain. Charlie stared down at the lopsided picture, the cracked frame and the broken glass.

 Angel came over and stared down at the mess as well. Alastor turned around to the three of them. “But you got a lovely little secret. You’re tired of feeling awful small. So you…”

 Alastor roared, sending a scrambling Angel toward the couch. Angel sat on the couch where an old black rotary phone sat on a nearby table.

 “…gave Mister Alastor a call, to make a deal. Because you’re hungry, for all the sights. You want to see them.”

 The contract floated in front of Angel as a reminder. Alastor’s microphone staff glowed and an angry red eye appeared.

 Appearing from Alastor’s hat was a floating dollar sign and a heart. Angel stood up from the couch and stared at both.

 “Earthly delights, you feel you need them.”

 Alastor appeared in front of Charlie and Vaggie.

 “Your appetites, I’ll help you feed them.”

 A large bag of money appeared, Alastor laying down on a couch in front of it, cupping his face.

 “I’ll be your sweet Radio Demon.”

  For a brief second, Alastor’s eyes turned into red radio dials, the surrounding areas black. Sitting on top of the couch was a little Alastor plush doll, the eyes black with red circles, wearing the same outfit. Angel gleefully picked up a pile of dollar bills from the bag and stuffed it in his shirt. Vaggie narrowed her eyes. Hell used souls, not dollars.

 Charlie’s cheeks blushed at the sight of Alastor and the plushie. How cute would it be to have little Alastor in her arms. Charlie reached out for the figure, but Vaggie held her arm down with a glare.

 “And once your hunger has abated, don’t forget your friend who waited. Watched as you indulged your thirst and…”

 Alastor walked over in front of the trio. He then spoke in a bone-chilling whisper holding up a long finger, “Did I mention that you’re cursed?”

 Realization hit Charlie like a ton of bricks, just as a horde of shadow demons and tentacles burst into the room. The floorboards broke and collapsed as a hole formed in the middle of the lobby, tentacles bursting forth like upright serpents. Angel Dust took out his guns and fired several rounds, but they were immediately knocked away by the shrieking spirits. The money in Angel’s shirt and the bag disappeared, replaced by a large dark portal with long tendrils emerging from it.

 Charlie remembered how she had ordered Alastor to help her out with the hotel for as long as he desired. Alastor’s look told her he had done just that like he promised.

 But now, he didn’t have that desire anymore.

 Tears welled up in Charlie’s eyes at how foolish she had been. Fire raged in her eyes at his betrayal. A thick tentacle wrapped around her waist and started to pull her toward the portal. Charlie yelled out, her horns sprouting from the skin of her head. Angel latched onto the floorboards with all six arms, more tentacles gripping onto his many wrists and limbs. Angel strained as he tried to hold himself against the forceful tentacles. His mouth was full of sharp teeth, his arms trying to snatch at Alastor’s legs. The smiling Radio Demon merely shook his head and stepped out of his reach. Angel’s pink webs from his fingers flew against the wall as Alastor avoided them.

 Vaggie grew moth wings with many eyes and sprouted out several more limbs that held weapons. With a roaring screech and a flap of her wings, Vaggie threw a horde of daggers and spears at him. Alastor’s shadow quickly flew in front of Alastor, taking the blows and protecting his master. Alastor snapped his fingers and more shadow monsters came to his aid. Alastor grew in size, dark antlers branching out from his head, his eyes becoming red radio dials. A prominent red x was on his forehead. All the demons were now in their full forms. Charlie blasted away several shadows with her flames, but more kept coming.

 In one last effort, Vaggie aimed her spear at Alastor’s forehead, her wings briefly pushing back the shadow spirits. She used all her strength to move her arm among the tendrils, desperate to hit that mark. Angel also helped briefly held them back with more gunshots from summoned weapons. Alastor moved his microphone off to the side, but he wasn’t pointing it at Vaggie or Angel.

 Vaggie, spear in hand, glanced out of the corner of her eye…and saw an unnerving sight. Charlie’s eyes were red radio dials, her smile unnaturally wide. She had been staring right at the microphone and listening to the soft jazz music that played from the speaker. She stared up at Alastor with utmost adoration. Vaggie felt sick to her stomach, her heart and gut crushed with anger and hopelessness. Alastor winked at Charlie and kissed her on top of her head. Charlie let go of the floor, letting herself be dragged backwards. Her eyes and form soon returned to normal, however. Realizing what she had done, she screamed in fear as the tentacles carried the princess into the gaping hole.

 Vaggie screamed her girlfriend’s name as her spear was promptly knocked out of her hands by Alastor’s shadow. The microphone was then positioned in front of Vaggie and Angel. An ear-piercing shriek came from the staff, causing screams and convulsions from Vaggie and Angel. Vaggie squeezed her eyes shut and frantically covered her ears in desperation. Both Vaggie and Angel returned to their normal forms. The spirits and tentacles grabbed hold of Vaggie and Angel, pulling them helplessly toward the portal. The radio waves from the staff helped push them further back. Vaggie and Angel held hands for comfort and yelled out as they both fell through the dark hole, which soon closed.

 The three fell separately through the darkness. The world soon filled with fire, symbols and static. Hell was already burning and swarming with Alastor’s minions who looted stores and feasted on the carcasses of demons and deer. The world spun around before two swirling portals appeared, one red, one dark pink. Alastor towered over the trio in his demon form, his antlers almost touching their faces. More astrological and voodoo symbols floated and moved around Alastor. His eyes were pure black with small red irises, the monocle by his right eye. His microphone staff was in his left hand, the staff appearing taller and more dimensional.

 The world spun again. Charlie and Vaggie found themselves standing on the balcony of the hotel. Both of them trembled in fear. They glanced at the city below, getting a clear view of the cloudless blood red sky. Hovering in the sky was Hell’s moon, a dark sphere with a glowing red pentagram engraved on it.

 Just then, the pentagram on the moon’s surface moved away, and was replaced with Alastor’s eyes and wide yellow smile. His monocle was red. The moon appeared to be inching closer towards them.

 Charlie closed her eyes, calling upon four ancient beings to come forth. She opened her eyes, which briefly glowed in flames before returning to their normal yellow. The ground shook as footsteps approached. The stomping giant figures arrived from different directions, raising their claws in the air.

 They were the four demonic Horsemen, each of them having the heads of horses with fangs and tall humanoid bodies. War had a red coat and flaming hair. Conquest was strong and had white fur and hair. Famine had a black horse head and a mane of wild black hair. The final Horseman, Plague was skeletal in appearance. All four giant Horsemen wore leather jackets and ripped jeans, their eyes glowing red. All four of them held the moon in place with their claws, but it wasn’t going to last long.

 Charlie shot Vaggie a look, telling her to go and find a safe spot. But Vaggie stayed with her, refusing to leave her side. What Alastor said next after a few minutes paralyzed Charlie and Vaggie in fear.

 “I shall consume…consume everything…”

 More powerful radio waves spread through the air. They were so powerful that they knocked all four Horsemen backwards to the ground with violent crashes. The men vanished back to the ether before the shadows could finish them off.

 A long black limb extended from the Alastor moon, picking up Charlie and Vaggie. The two females were lifted from the balcony in his palm. The two of them were soon moved right in front of his mouth. Given his cannibalistic nature, he knew they were going to taste delicious.

 Alastor’s teeth chomped down hard into both of their heads and necks. All Charlie and Vaggie could feel was searing pain and an unpleasant crushing sensation. They let out sounds between screams and gags, the coughed up blood adding to the gushing red life force flowing from their craniums. Vaggie had gotten the brunt of the damage, her skin already pale and cold. More yellow teeth impaled her in the stomach, chest and upper thighs, whimpers and strained gasps of breath coming from her mouth. Her gray head severed from her neck and fell into the mouth opening, her body soon following. Charlie weakly tried to hold onto her friend’s hand, before she, too fell limp. Charlie weakly croaked out for her parents, her brain and thoughts going fuzzy. The last thing she saw before she was pushed in was Alastor’s dark maw and the outline of a long lavender tongue.

 Charlie woke a few hours later on the ground, her body intact the way it was before. Vaggie and Angel helped her up, both of them unscathed. The three of them watched as Alastor danced by a telephone booth, the background flames illuminating the outlines of dead trees. He held a telephone in one hand then reappeared higher in the sky. In his left hand was his microphone staff, a light shining from the single eye. From his right hand, green fire sparked to life along with a green pentagram. He threw cards into the air as outlined eyes and grins of Exterminators leered in every direction. No doubt he was broadcasting his carnage and showing off.

 Charlie almost wished that the Exterminators had invaded instead.

 Alastor effortlessly slid down a randomly appearing flight of stairs in the sky. After going down some more, Alastor jumped from the stairs and onto the pentagram moon. His body lowered and morphed into a black spring as he shoved the moon toward the ground…

 …Right where the trio were standing. In a panic, Vaggie pulled Charlie out of the way just as the moon crashed into the ground next to them.

 The Radio Demon was going to destroy all of Hell!

 Alastor’s body returned to normal and he glanced delightfully at the trio’s stunned frightened faces. Alastor laughed and held out one of his bloodstained business cards. It showed his smiling face in the lower right hand corner.

      It read:

 “Alastor, a.k.a. your sweet radio demon. :3

Wanna make a deal? Call me: 069 666 42.

After all the world is a stage and the stage is a world of entertainment. So just sell your soul to me and I provide all you need to fulfill your desires. You wonder why I make you this special offer?

Why does anyone do anything?

Sheer absolute boredom!

(Eternal suffering and punishment in hell guaranteed!)”

  Alastor danced as giant cards appeared in the background, the flames adding to the chaotic dystopian Inferno. He snapped his fingers and the trio were transported into a neon colored bar.  “Alastor’s Game” was displayed in purple and light blue neon letters attached to a brick wall. Angel Dust, Vaggie, and Charlie sat at a wooden table, Alastor arriving at the head of the table to throw chips on the table to start. A gamble of life and death.

  After half an hour, the table was filled with piles of playing cards, chips with bold numbers on them and a stack of dollar bills toward the left. A few of the chips had the character’s icons on it. Off to the right were beer bottles.

 As they gambled, two other figures walked into the room. One of them was the gambling cat Husk and the other was a small cleaning cyclops demon named Niffty. Husk crossed his arms with a scowl, already mad that he wasn’t included in the game. Alastor suddenly grinned and held up four aces in his hand, no doubt he had cheated. Husk was furious but found himself unable to move and pounce at the man. Niffty just stood and watched eagerly on a step stool. Husk was able to grab a nearby bottle of booze and drink several gulps before putting it down. Husk and Niffty’s eyes turned into red radio dials, rooting them in place. They had already given their souls to Alastor.

 Husk stared at the winning deck in Alastor’s hand and suddenly shook with fear. He remembered Alastor saying to oblivious souls in the past, “You laid your chips on the table now. When you gamble souls, the house will always win. I’m double dealing in betrayal and I’m here to cash my payout.”

 Indeed, Alastor was saying the same thing now, lounging in a tall spinning chair shaped like a throne.

 Husk tried to yell in warning, but no sound came out. Images of the contracts that the trio had signed appeared in front of them. Charlie, Angel and Vaggie found themselves unable to move. Neon Exterminator grins hovered in the background. Charlie and Vaggie stood by the table on Alastor’s right side, Angel on the left side.

 Alastor raised his hands and two glowing pentagrams rotated behind him. He appeared to be chanting some ancient spell. Husk’s eyes grew wide as an instant feeling of dread shook him to his core. The cat demon saw flashes of metal flying from all directions in the dark. Alastor lowered his arms, his hands crossed over each other, his fingers pointing downwards. Husk was able to move and cry out just as he heard a series of sickening squelching thuds. More unsettling was the girlish giggles from Niffty beside him as the two of them witnessed the horrific result.

 Charlie, Vaggie and Angel Dust were slumped motionless onto the table, knives embedded in their backs and heads. Angel’s white furry head had been chopped clean off, the blank faced head now on the floor surrounded by blood. Several knives were lodged into Vaggie’s back, staining her clothes deep red. One knife had gotten Charlie in a fatal part of her head. Their glazed eyes and expressions were frozen in terror.

 “I hope it was worth the life of sin,” Alastor finished with a dark chuckle.

 Husk swore several times with audible gasps, holding in a gag reflex. Alastor moved his hands behind him and strolled along toward the exit, mentioning for Niffty and Husk to follow, no doubt going back in later to feast. Niffty eagerly scurried after him in love struck admiration for everything he did. As Husk passed by and examined the bloodstained knives, his heart stopped for a second time since he died as a human decades ago.

 The knives were fatal angelic blades.

  Alastor later posed and danced in front of a large wrought iron gate made of bones by the Goon Salon. He turned his head all the way around as he turned to face a crowd of terrified demons.

 “You’re in my world now. Take a look around. Inside your nightmare beyond the mortal veil.”

 Several horned shadow spirits with different colored triangular eyes peered at the demons before mercilessly attacking them. Alastor snapped his fingers and the “Welcome to Pentagram City” sign changed into one that read “Welcome to New Horror-leans!” Vox, Lucifer, Lilith and several Overlords were dragged into separate portals to be consumed by powerful spirits. Alastor made sure to smash and burn Vox’s TV head before sending him away. The Magne apple themed mansion quickly became a deer-themed headquarters for Alastor and those under his control.

 Alastor stood by a brick wall, flames harmlessly surrounding him. His shadow turned into its beast-like wendigo form, a monstrous skeletal deer of shadow. The shadow had gigantic antlers on its head and fiery colored eyes that matched Alastor’s. The wendigo shadow raced and rampaged through town after town. Shadows stalked and spied on hiding demons, crawling through small spaces to hunt them down. The choice was simple: surrender or die. It was easy for Alastor to play music from his microphone, possessing any denizen who stared and listened too intently. The ones who were killed and tortured immediately where the primarily powerful snotty males.

 No one was spared from the radio waves. Not even the imps and hellhounds could escape the Al-pocalypse.

 Alastor posed back and forth at a sign that read Heaven on one side and Hell on the other. Papa Legba’s veves were drawn nearby. “You made a wrong turn at the crossroads.”

 An old fashioned boxy TV showed Alastor’s neon face in orange, teal, white and black.

 “Now you’re at the final episode. Eternity with me in Hell!”

 Through a pentagram portal, humans from a city on Earth watched as a towering figure stomped through, carrying fire, demons and chaos with him. Alastor was in full demon form, with sharp teeth, claws, and a full head of branching antlers. He held his staff in his right hand. Voodoo imps and shadows rode on bony horses and creatures, one creature being a dragon. They carried skulls and heads on pikes. The red eyed denizen demons carried red and black banners with Alastor’s symbol: a microphone with a dialed eye in between clawed hands. Deer antlers branched out toward the bottom in an upward curve. Kalfu’s diamond-like symbols were in the design as well. The humans ran and screamed for their lives as the glowing white eyed demon roared, showing a mouth of sharp teeth. Buildings caught on fire and chaos spread everywhere.

 With enough human and demon souls on his side, Alastor could go for Heaven next.

  Later on, Alastor sat comfortably in a red velvet chair in a room of the Hazbin Hotel. The wallpaper was red and had the apple family crests on it. Alastor’s eyes were red radio dials. Alastor sipped coffee from an orange plaid tea cup and set it down on the table in front of him. Off to the side was a bookshelf lined with old leather bound books, vases, a white plate and a globe. On the small round table was a brown old fashioned radio, a white jug, a few white candles and a skull. A deer skull hung from the wall nearby. A picture on the wall showed a figure of Angel Dust in indigo, with the words “Addict VIP” on it. Another picture showed a furry female from Valentino’s group of clients. There was also a grandfather clock against the wall. To the right of the clock was a black grand piano.

 “Pleasure to play, how I enjoyed you. Suffice to say when I play I don’t lose.”

 Alastor appeared to be talking to someone nearby.

 “Collecting on the debts that you accrued. It was such a gas. I really am amused.”

 Just then, a black cat with large orange eyes jumped up on the table beside Alastor. Alastor leaned his face close to the feline familiar.

 “Have a dark thought, I’m right beside you. A casual whisper just to guide you.”

 The cat revealed a strange toothy grin. Alastor moved away. “Look over your shoulder and I gone.” The cat looked around then played with the empty tea cup, looking inside. Indeed, the animals in Hell had been spared, save for Fat Nuggets whom Alastor had for breakfast many days before.

 “Remember this song…”

 Alastor then stood up and waved goodbye to his audience he was talking to: floating heads in separate jars suspended in liquid on a large shelf.

 They were the heads of Charlie, Vaggie, Angel Dust, Katie Killjoy, Sir Pentious, Baxter and countless others.

 “And I bid you adieu!”

[ofsinnersandsaints]

where do you run

rating: E (things have taken a turn for the smutty) word count: 11068 chapter: 5/?

ao3

Keyleth is restless after her fight with Raishan and her forced alliance with a dragon she can’t begin to trust.

When she can’t sleep, she seeks out companionship and despite a castle full of allies the only person she can think to go to is Grog, and she finds the kind of comfort and understanding she hasn’t known for a very long time.

This chapter takes places during Episode 75, while Vox Machina is in the City of Brass and reference stuff which happened in 74

Keyleth came to in the dark, to the sound of someone shuffling around in Grog’s room where she’d fallen asleep.

She’d waited up for him, had tried to stay awake because more than a little bit of her hoped he’d make good on his promise from the night before. After more than an hour, she gave up and crawled under the covers.

“You up?” Grog asked from across the room, not looking up from his boots which he was undoing and dropping onto the floor.

“Yeah,” she lit her hand on fire to light the candle she knew was on the table by the bed. “Everything okay?”

Grog nodded and took off his other boot. “I was with Pike.”

There was something a little off about him, Keyleth would almost say he was morose except she couldn’t remember Grog ever being anything but angry or happy. Pulling back the covers, she got out of the bed and padded barefoot across the room.

She debated with herself the entire walk, all eight seconds of it, and by the time she reached Grog she still hadn’t made up her mind of what to do so she listened to her gut and slid onto his lap, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. “Everything okay?”

One of his arms hooked around her waist, his fingers pinching a little at the fabric there. “Yeah.”

Keyleth ran one hand down the back of his neck, attempting to soothe. She might not know what to do for people who were upset, she’d been so isolated as a kid she didn’t know how to do much of anything, but she knew what she’d want. “Do you want to me pretend like I believe you?”

He huffed out a laugh and leaned back in the chair, his free hand coming up to rest on her thigh, his thumb brushing against her skin absently. “Nah, I don’t.”

She resisted the urge to wiggle against the touch, and remembered this wasn’t ‘wet and begging’ time, Grog needed emotional comfort, not physical. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

“I took the potion, right? The clever shit.”

“Yeah?”

“So I went to Pike, thinking you know, while I was smart and shit I would try to learn something.”

His voice was clipped and sharp around the consonants, and she could almost feel how much of that was directed at himself. “It didn’t work?”

“You knew it was temporary?” and he sounded so defeated, like maybe he should have known too.

Keyleth shrugged. “A lot of potions are temporary, but not all of them. I mean the healing stuff we take doesn’t wear off and we don’t know who made the potion you drank, so anything’s possible. I’m sorry it didn’t take, though.”

His sigh was heavy. “It was cool while it lasted.”

She continued her touch on the back of his neck, her nails lightly scratching the skin and since he made a quiet, kind of purring sound-which she would absolutely never say point out-she didn’t stop. “You know the rest of us don’t hold your lack book smarts against you, right? You’re not responsible for how terribly you were brought up.”

“You think it’s Kevdak’s fault?”

“Everything is Kevdak’s fault,” Keyleth informed him cheerfully and the corners of his mouth lifted almost in a smile. “But if you want to learn, Pike’s a good teacher and you’ll get there eventually.”

“I don’t know. If I could have read earlier, the Giant writing, it would have helped.”

Keyleth shrugged and could have sworn Grog’s hand slipped a little higher up her leg. “We’ve all fucked up at some point, Grog, you’re not immune to that. I still kick myself over not being able to bring the Sun tree back after spending eight fucking hours underground. Who knows how much easier things would have been if I could have done that?”

Okay, that time his hand definitely did move but she wasn’t sure if he was being intentional or just absent minded. “If you want, I can list all the ridiculous, stupid, and reckless stuff we’ve all done, the stuff we can’t even blame on our shit families.”

He chuckled but shook his head. “Maybe another time. Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“When those efreeti tried to grab me earlier, when we first got here? You were the first person to stop. I just wanted to thank you for that.”

Keyleth was quiet for a second because she hadn’t thought about it in the moment, Grog had been flanked and they’d been talking about keeping him, and while she fully trusted him to take care of himself, she wasn’t about to let him go it alone.

“We’re a team,” she finally said. “Although in fairness, I was not at any point helpful during that whole thing.” Her eyes lit up, “See! I may be able to read but I’m shit at intimidating!”

His smile was a little affectionate even as he shook his head. “Yeah, how is it you can go to head with a green dragon with a mouth full of rage but when you’re in a back alley, nothing?”

The question was asked with humor so Keyleth didn’t take offense to it. “Anger is different than intimidation,” she shrugged. “And I’m not good at faking emotions.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice an octave deeper as his finger tightened around her thigh. “I noticed you’re not very good at hiding them either.”

Keyleth gasped, “You were doing that on purpose!”

His grin was all cocky amusement, “I did say I was going to thank you.”

“I was trying to be polite,” she argued, punching his shoulder. “You were upset and I didn’t want to push.”

“Trust me, Kiki, if you ever want to push yourself on me, feel free.” She opened her mouth to say something but Grog’s hand slid between her thighs and she lost the thought. “Now, do you want me to thank you, or not?”

She tried for cool, but wasn’t sure how well she managed it since ‘cool’ was not one of her strong suits. “Does this mean I thank you next?”

“Thank me for what?” he asked.

“For grabbing me,” she reminded him “When we booked it out of the alley you threw me over your shoulder instead of leaving me behind.”

“Wouldn’t do that,” he assured her, her legs spreading to give his hand more room. “Couldn’t do that.”

“This is-“ her voice cut off when his hand slipped beneath her sleep shirt. “This is a very precarious position for me, Grog. And didn’t you say something about flat surfaces?”

“We’ll get to that,” he all but grunted. “Until then, I guess you’ll just have to hold onto me.”

She was perched on his leg, her balance contingent on sitting still which she thought might be a difficult thing to accomplish in the coming moments and the last thing she wanted was to lose her balance and fall to the ground. That was a kind of embarrassment no one could live down, so she had little recourse but to wrap her arm around Grog’s neck and hope she wouldn’t make an idiot out of herself.

His finger traced the skin just an inch away from where she actually wanted him and her breath caught at the impossibly featherlight touch from the big man. “Are you wet?”

Her grip tightened on him at the question. “Grog.”

“Answer the question.”

Something tumbled and tripped inside her at the order. “Yes.”

“How wet?”

“You could just figure it out for yourself,” she reminded him for purely selfish reasons because she really wanted his fingers where she was wet and needy. No one else but her had ever touched her there and she wanted him to be the first.

“Tell me.”

“Very,” she finally admitted, the heat of her cheeks practically a beacon of red. “I didn’t know you were going to hang out with Pike so I thought you were going to come back and make good on your promise from yesterday. I thought about it almost the entire time you were gone.”

“Did you touch yourself?”

“No.”

He looked genuinely confused by the answer. “Why not?”

“I wanted it to be you,” she admitted, past being embarrassed.

Grog’s finger brushed against the curls between her legs, and she jerked against the barely there touch. “You okay,” he asked quietly, his mouth nearly touching her ear.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I just haven’t done this before.”

He stopped moving, his fingers curling around her leg again which was the second to last thing she wanted. The actual last thing was him stopping altogether. “You haven’t?”

Her laughter was a little shaky to her own ears, “What part of anything I have ever done has made you think I have any experience with anything?”

Grog opened his mouth and then shut it again. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” and she’d never been more emphatic about anything in her life. She grabbed his wrist to make sure he didn’t pull it away, “And if you even think about it, I will kill you.”

He nodded slowly, “If you want me to stop or slow down, just say the word.”

“I want you to kiss me,” she blurted out, her hand immediately clapping over her mouth, unable to believe she’d actually just said that out loud.

But Grog didn’t mock her, he didn’t even laugh, instead his gaze moved to where her fingers covered her lips. Reaching up with the hand he had nearly fondled her with, he grabbed her wrist, and pulled her hand away from her mouth. For some reason Keyleth hadn’t realized until now that her face was exactly level with Grog’s which made it infinitely easy for him to lean forward and kiss her.

She loved kissing him.

He wasn’t exactly a gentle man, even in this he wasn’t soft, and there was something about the roughness which warmed and heated her from the inside out. It could only be Grog kissing her with such aggression and single mindedness, his beard scraping against her skin.

The arm which had been wrapped around her waist tightened as he leaned into her, keeping her from losing her balance, but Keyleth was clinging to him anyway and wouldn’t have let go for anything. When he scraped her bottom lip with his teeth she heard herself made a quiet noise in the back of throat, Grog’s embrace tightening almost painfully.

She gasped in response, and as if Grog had been waiting for exactly that, he slipped his tongue into her mouth and Keyleth felt herself go a little wild at the erotic touch. Unsure what to do, she went with instinct and touched her tongue to his. The growl which came from Grog told her it had been the right thing.

“Spread your legs for me,” he murmured against her lips, and didn’t wait for her to listen before he started kissing her again. It was difficult to do while perched on his thigh, but she wasn’t about to do anything which might make him stop his assault on her mouth.

Keyleth shifted on his lap, and as soon as she gave him enough room he touched her; his fingers spreading those more intimate lips to slide along the wet heat.

“Grog,” she gasped, her hips moving against his hand.

“That’s right,” he whispered, his lips moving to her neck to press hot, wet kisses to the sensitive skin there. “Fuck, you’re so wet. That’s for me?”

“Yes,” and she felt no shame in admitting it. “I was thinking about you touching me just like this.”

There was a primitive sound deep in his throat which caused a visceral reaction within Keyleth and she knew enough about nature to never shy from the base or instinctual. Bodies were meant to have pleasure, and just because she’d never experienced it quite like this before, didn’t mean she shouldn’t let herself revel in it now.

He used those blunt fingertips to slide against her, occasionally bumping against her clit in an absent, almost accidental touch. Almost. She’d never known Grog to be anything but deliberate, and even while he mouthed the base of her neck, teeth and lips and tongue, he was driving her up with his hands.

“I have to get you ready for me,” he told her and she could feel his finger against her entrance. “I’m a big guy and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah. Yes. Please.”

She felt like an idiot, she was hardly the most charismatic and eloquent person in normal circumstances but Grog had basically shut off all higher brain function while she’d barely gotten a chance to touch him.

His face was serious as he slowly pushed his finger into her pussy and she could feel him stretch her, the pressure unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Her hand was still holding onto his wrist and she tightened her grip as she began to move against him.

“Fuck,” he bit out. “You going to fuck my hand, Keyleth? Get yourself off on my fingers? That’s right, pull me in deeper. I can’t wait until that’s my cock.”

She whimpered at the promise in those words, at the feel of his finger pulling out and back in again.

When he kissed her there was no finesse or skill, just raw emotion as he thrust his tongue into her mouth, a filthy kiss that was somehow just as much of a turn on as the single digit moving inside her.

Keyleth didn’t know how Grog managed to keep himself so together; he kept her from falling with his arm around her, his leg steady beneath her, his fingers and lips seducing her beyond anything she could believe.

She could barely follow one thought with another, and still she wanted more.

“Whatever you want,” Grog answered and Keyleth blushed at the realization she’d spoken the thought out loud. “But first things first, I want you to get yourself off just like this, then you can have whatever you want.”

She didn’t have to be told twice, moving against his hand, his finger curling inside her to brush against those hidden, sensitive nerves. The base of his palm brushed against her clit and she realized if she simply gyrated against him she could get the pressure to last and last until the quick jolt of pleasure flashed through her body.

A small orgasm, but still it left her reeling and breathless.

“Fuck that was hot. Anytime you want my hands, just let me know because I could watch you do that for days.” Before she could think of anything to say in response to that, he scooped her up and carried her to the bed.

“I promised you a flat surface,” he reminded her, clearly having seen the question on her face. “I’m going to take this off you now, yeah?”

He was talking about the shirt and Keyleth sat up on the bed, her legs spread with Grog standing between them, and pulled it off. She was vain enough to be happy at the dumbfounded look on his face when he saw her naked.

“By the gods, I want to touch every inch of you.”

Keyleth reached out and grabbed his hand, wanting the same thing, and put it on her breast. “Please.”

His hand completely covered her tit, and it was so sensitive that every scrape of his callouses made her whimper, desperation making her needy.

Then he was fucking her again with his finger, the intrusion a welcome shock which sent her hurtling over a cliff she didn’t think she could survive.

“I can’t wait to hear you scream like that again,” he said, his words a mad rush as he worked the buckles of his pants.

“Do you think anyone heard?” she asked because she hadn’t realized she’d screamed, didn’t know how loud it had been, but she could feel the scrape of it on her throat.

“I hope they did,” he grinned, all feral passion. “Can you take me, Keyleth?”

“Yes,” and she thought might actually beg him if he didn’t fill her up, if she didn’t feel him inside her before the minute was out.

His big hands grabbed her waist and pulled her to the edge of the bed so her legs would have dangled off the end if he hadn’t wrapped them around his waist. She wanted to ask to see him, to feel him, to put her hands around his length but she didn’t get a chance.

He was inside her in a single, quick thrust which had her crying out again.

Nothing hurt, but every inch of her was stardust, expanding around him and taking him in.

“Oh.”

The word was so small and yet the only thing she could think of.

“You still with me?”

“Yes.” She tried to touch him but he was standing above her and the best she could reach was his forearm. “But you’re too far away.”

Grog shook his head, taking the hands which reached for him and pressing them back on the bed. “Later. Next time. If you touch me now I’m going to explode and I want to feel you come around my cock at least once.”

“At least?” Keyleth repeated, she’d already come twice and couldn’t image pulling more pleasure out of her.

“Flat surface, wet and begging,” he reminded her as he slowly slid out of her cunt. “I don’t think I’ve gotten the begging part out of you yet.”

When he pushed back into her, her entire body arched into it, her nails scraping his skin as she clung to him. Again and again he moved, the slick friction a wild and erotic contrast to the hardness of his hand on her skin, his fingertips pulling at her nipples, palming her breast and kneading it with the kind of force that might bruise anyone else.

But she was stronger than she looked and she could take whatever he gave.

With that in mind she tightened her legs around him, taking more of in and preventing him from pulling out more than an inch or so. The quick, short strokes were hitting her in the deep place inside her which caused lightning to shoot through her veins.

Grog must have sensed she was close because he released her breast and reached down to her clit, the pressure in her cunt and on that cluster of nerves was more than enough to give her an earth shattering orgasm. Every muscle tightened, her fists clutching the sheets when she’d rather be holding onto him.

She saw a brief flash of red in his eyes, a rage she didn’t fear but an indicator of how much he felt as she clenched around him.

“One more,” he demanded as he continued those short, hard strokes. “Give me one more.”

Keyleth could already feel her body building towards the next climax, one of his hands on her tit, the other on her clit, and her entire world was focused on him. She was on the edge, she could feel how close it was, but it was just out of reach.

“Grog.” His eyes flared again, and she realized it was the first time she’d said his name while he was inside her and it had obviously set something off in him. “Grog, please.”

Hadn’t he wanted her to beg? Didn’t she desperately want and need this last orgasm, the one she was so close to? “Grog, I need to come. Please.”

He picked up speed, both his cock and his hand, and she couldn’t believe how quickly she shot up towards that last explosion, her entire world a blinding white light as she felt Grog empty out inside of her.

“Shit,” she heard Grog say. “Shit, fuck.”

“Right back at you,” Keyleth managed to say as Grog pulled out, their fluids mixing between her legs on the sheets.

His hands were infinitely gentle as he ran his hands over her body as if attempting to soothe her. “Are you okay?”

“I need water,” she said. “And to use the bathroom. And then probably more water.”

Grog held his hand out to her and she accepted his help off the bed and then went back to the Bag of Holding to get out the jug and asked for water. She quickly took care of business in the next room and when she came back he handed her a glass and then used some torn linens to clean himself up and she unabashedly watched while she took sips of the water.

There was no way she could take him again so soon but she could admire him from a distance; big chest, broad shoulders, pants barely clinging to his hips. After he was done he held out clean rags to her so she could do the same.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said as he put himself back together. “Are you okay?”

She reached for her shirt which had found its way to the ground and pulled it back on. “I’m great,” she told him honestly. “How are you?”

“Never better.” He pulled off the dirty duvet and replaced it with another one from the closet. He walked towards where she stood at the footboard and touched the hollow of her neck where he’d spent a good deal of time while she’d still been on his lap. “You’ve got a bruise there.”

“I can take care of that,” Keyleth assured him, raising her hand, the palm of it already glowing with a bit of bright green magic but he stopped her with his own hand.

“Leave it,” he said, then released her hand and looked a little abashed. “I mean, if you don’t mind, I’d rather if you didn’t heal it away.”

It didn’t take her more than a second to understand. He’d marked her, whether that had been a conscious decision or not, that’s what the end result was and she suspected he wanted to see that mark on her. Wanted the others to see.

And there was a part of Keyleth which wanted to keep it as well, to show she had no reservations about the man who had marked her. She lowered her hand and touched his shoulder instead. “We should probably go to bed now, we have a big day of pretending to be slaves tomorrow.”

Grog grunted and rolled his eyes. “You know this plan is going to go to shit, right?”

“Don’t all of our plans go to shit?” she asked as she climbed onto the bed, moving to her knees as she reached out to touch him, getting the contact she hadn’t been able to get while he’d fucked her brain out. “Maybe we should have stayed the S.H.I.T.S., it was a more accurate name. But we’ll be fine, we always are. We could always-”

He shook his head and pushed her back on to the mattress. “Remember what you said a couple seconds ago? Sleep now, strategize tomorrow.”

“But-“ he stopped her with a kiss, soft and warm.

“Sleep.”

With a sigh Keyleth crawled under the covers and as soon Grog joined her beneath the blankets she curled into him and within a minute she was a deep, restful sleep and felt safer than she ever had in her life.

It felt a little like home.

[jakey-beefed-it]

What We Hold Sacred

A short 40k fic depicting the first (tense) meeting between my 30k/revived from stasis for 40k Captain Alexander Titus and my Inquisitor Elizabeth Kane

The Cathedral of Saint Beatrix- or a building with the same name, at any rate -had stood outside Herapolis for over two millennia. Built to endure bombardment, quake, and the slow grinding of time itself, its inner walls were so thick as to muffle all noise, all distractions, leaving the secluded offices in peace. In silence. In tedium.

Beth dropped her stylus to the desk with a clatter and a heavy sigh. To one side was a pile of dataslates she had reviewed, authorized or vetoed according to her judgment, and now awaited dispatch. The other side of the desk was clear, the morning’s work finally done. Where the slates had been, a crimson indicator glowed and faded softly.

She depressed the indicator, activating the two-way vox. “Speak.”

“The envoy from the Ultramarines Second Company has arrived, Inquisitor.” The young man on the other end of the comm paused. “It’s Captain Alexander Titus, himself, my Lady.”

Beth resisted the urge to grind her teeth. “And how long has Captain Titus been waiting, Javier?”

“Since seven bells, Inquisitor.” She heard him swallow audibly. “You said you were not to be disturbed-”

She jerked her finger away from the vox, closing the channel, and took a sharp breath. Shit shit shit SHIT. Five hours kept waiting? Shit! No. Not good enough. “Emperor-damned throne-forsaken fething GROX-SHIT!” Her fist slammed to the table, and the stylus clattered to the floor. She took a breath. Another. Touched the vox with a finger that trembled ever so slightly, red tinging her vision. Her tone was calm, the way the eye of a hurricane is calm. “Send him in, Javier.”

She buttoned her coat and brushed a few stray hairs behind her ears. There was a perfunctory knock at the door, and in strode Captain Titus. Her gaze started at roughly his waist and climbed up… and up… and up. He was tall, even for an astartes- nearly eight feet out of his armor. He wore a uniform that bore a passing similarity to those of the Ultramar Defense Force, somewhat more ornate and a richer cobalt color on both coat and pants, instead of the cobalt-grey and tan of the UDF. He wore a leather sash, his medals pinned to that rather than the breast.

Beth gestured to the oversized chair opposite her imposing desk. She did not rise. “Captain. Please, sit down.”

His dark eyes flicked everywhere as he crossed the room, a habit of vigilance she expected from mortal veterans but was surprised to see echoed in an astartes Captain. They turned to her, assessed, dismissed. He sat, back straight, hands on his knees. “Inquisitor…”

“Elizabeth Kane, of the Ordo Hereticus. I hope you weren’t too bored out there.”

“I distracted myself with some of your sacred texts. I found them… more familiar than I expected.”

She frowned at something in his tone, but pressed on. “I understand you’ve just returned from the front lines on Konor? How fares the war?”

He let out a soft grunt that could have been a laugh. “Traitors and daemons tread upon the soil of a world of Ultramar. It fares poorly. Even victory will have a heavy price- heavier even than what we have already paid.” His voice was a carrying rumble, with a weariness and bitterness that surprised her.

She paused a moment. “Do you always speak so bluntly?”

“Of course not. Guilliman wants his sons to be politicians, Inquisitor.” His features softened. “Blunt honesty is how I prefer to operate. I meant no disrespect- quite the opposite. I felt you deserved an honest assessment.”

“Then let us exchange courtesies- Bluntly, I need to speak with you about your personal beliefs.”

His mustache twitched. “I believe the Death Guard should be driven from Ultramar, and back into the hell from which they came. Is that insufficient?”

“The Inquisition makes… allowances for eccentricities in the Adeptus Astartes that elsewhere would be considered grossly heretical. You do not follow the Imperial Faith-”

“No. I follow the Imperial Truth.”

“-but what alarms me is that you freely share your ‘Truth’ with any and everyone. Younger astartes. Guardsmen. Abhuman auxilia.”

“Only if they ask.” There was definitely a hint of amusement in that bass rumble.

“This puts me in a difficult situation, Captain. Whatever your personal beliefs, I cannot tolerate anyone going around spreading heresy among the rank-and-file. Your position shields you from the full weight of the Inquisition’s wrath- and I would not want to compound the morale issues you have created by arresting an Imperial hero.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a breath. “A theoretical for you, Captain- in my place, how would you resolve this situation?”

He considered, stroking his beard. “Private censure. Not necessarily on-record. A conversation in your office, perhaps. Followed by orders to regurgitate Ecclesiarchy dogma if any non-astartes request my belief- or lack thereof -in the Emperor’s divinity.”

She nodded. “We understand one another, then.”

“I understand, yes. I cannot comply with that order.” He shook his head. “The Emperor himself had an abhorrence for religion generally… and for those who would venerate him, particularly.”

“So you’ve said,” she gestured to her reports. “On at least two hundred thirty five occasions. Did…” she closed her eyes for a moment. “Did He tell you so, personally? You asked Him, and he denied His divinity?”

“He didn’t have to,” Titus said. “He showed me how he felt about it, on Monarchia.” She gave him a blank look, and he let out a weary shrug. “Of course it’s been redacted. Everything else that matters has been.”

“What happened on Monarchia?”

“It was the only time I saw him. He was… in form like a man, but more. He was to the Primarchs as they are to the astartes… as the astartes are to mortal men and women. But he was…” His gaze settled on the wall above her head, bored through it and into the distant past. “He was more than human. He was less than human. His anger was… impersonal. I don’t know how to describe it. It was like a living thing, a cold fury that could extinguish stars without remorse. There was much in him of greatness… ambition, aspiration, charisma. But there was little in him that was human, that I saw. No fear, of course- but no pity, either. No compassion.” There were dark circles under Titus’ eyes. Odd that she hadn’t noticed them before. “I understand why people wanted to worship him. It would have made him… righteous. Holy. Comprehensible. I don’t know that we were made in his image, or that he was made in ours… but he wasn’t human.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either. I didn’t then, and I never will. On Monarchia… they raised temples to him. Cathedrals, much like this. Sang his praises, prayed to him for deliverance. They loved him, as Lorgar Aurelian had taught them to love him. They would have killed or died in his name, at his whim, gladly and with joy in their hearts. And he ordered my Legion to burn their world to ashes for it.” Titus shook his head, slowly, almost imperceptibly. “We left nothing standing. No one alive. Not even children. We left it radioactive dust, and the Emperor forced Lorgar and his legion to kneel in that very dust, the dust of what had been their crowning achievement, to us. To the Thirteenth, who had murdered their world.”

He reached inside his collar, slipping a small vial on a necklace free, and passing it across the desk. Within was a fine mix of ash and dust, black and grey and beige. “I took that from the ground where I stood. To remind me of what I’d done at his command. To remind me of the price of obedience.”

“That’s…” Beth shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Then don’t.” He took the necklace back from her shaking hand and slipped it around his neck once more. “Consider it another 'eccentricity’. Or call it a damned heretical lie and order my arrest. But before you decide, you should know that there is one thing I hold sacred.”

Beth held one hand near the vox, the other on the plasma pistol strapped to the bottom of her desk. “If not the Emperor Himself, what could you possibly hold sacred?”

“Humanity.” Titus looked at her. “Humanity is greater than any of us. Greater than your Imperium, greater than your Emperor. It is the only thing I hold truly sacred- and I will not betray it again, not for you or any other authority. On Monarchia, I followed my orders and burned cities to nothing. Had I followed my conscience, I would have been censured. Perhaps even executed. Better that than to live with… this.” He patted his chest, where the vial rested beneath his coat. “Fire that weapon if you must, Inquisitor. I have served humankind to the best of my ability. If that’s not good enough, after all this time, then fire.”

Beth was silent for a long time. Finally, she set her hands upon the surface of the desk, folding them and resting her chin on the knuckles. “I do not think,” she began “that you are in any danger of falling to the Ruinous Powers. You have never lacked for… opportunity, if that was your desire. It would be a pity to lose your experience, your prowess. But I cannot let you carry on unchecked, spreading doubt among the faithful.”

He sat perfectly still, awaiting judgment.

“You and your company will return to the front after your leave is ended,” she said. “Reinforced by a Perceptory of Sororitas, and ten additional regiments of the UDF. And I will accompany you, along with my retinue, personally. If anyone asks you any particular questions about your beliefs, you will refer them to me. If at any time I feel you are a risk to operational safety, I will charge you with heresy despite the blow to morale. If, on the other hand, you mean what you say and you seek only to serve humankind, then you will have ample opportunity.”

“Most reasonable, Inquisitor.” His mouth twitched in a wry half-smile once more. “Unexpectedly reasonable, from what I know of the Ordo Hereticus. It would be disingenuous to say I look forward to working with you… but this should be… interesting.” He extended a massive hand across the desk.

She took it in her own, matching his grip as best she could. “On that we agree, Captain.”

[mdye]

[Editor’s note: Nixon biographer John A. Farrell wrote this comparison of the two presidents in February — well before the firing of FBI Director James Comey. It is reposted here with only light edits.]

We’re barely into the Trump administration and we’ve had war on the press, electronic eavesdropping, a sacked attorney general, humongous demonstrations, fury over a Democratic National Committee break-in, Cold War­­–style skirmishes, and scandalous intrigues akin to Watergate.

Sound familiar?

“Imagine packing 6 yrs of the Nixon admin into 3 weeks,” tweeted Nicole Hemmer, a scholar from the University of Virginia’s Miller Center (and Vox columnist), in February. “It’s like Nixon speed-dating.”

Veteran hands like Dan Rather, Bill Moyers, John Dean, and William Kristol have joined youngsters like Rachel Maddow in drawing parallels between Richard Nixon and Donald Trump.

As the author of a new biography of Nixon, I get asked — a lot — how I plotted the book’s release to coincide with the surge in discussion, in the press and social media, of similarities between the disgraced 37th president of the United States and his latest successor, Donald Trump.

Having lived the past six years with Nixon in my head (I seek no pity; just buy the book), I approach the idea of comparing the two leaders with caution and restraint, for there are important differences.

As bad as Nixon was, for example, he never embraced white nationalists, much less sat one on his National Security Council. Nixon supported every major civil rights bill in the 1960s, and may have lost the 1962 gubernatorial election in California as a result of his spirited denunciation of the John Birch Society, the alt-right wack jobs of their day. “It was time to take on the lunatic fringe,” he wrote to Dwight Eisenhower.

Which is not to cast Tricky Dick as a saint. Fallacious comparisons cut both ways. When Trump dismissed acting Attorney General Sally Yates, a Justice Department holdover from the previous administration, for declining to defend his executive order on immigration, the episode was immediately compared to Nixon’s “Saturday Night Massacre.” But Trump’s move hardly rates with Nixon’s. The stakes were far higher in 1973, with war in the Middle East, a nuclear alert, and the resignation of a corrupt vice president as a backdrop. Nixon’s own attorney general and his successor resigned over principle after refusing to fire the Watergate special prosecutor, before Solicitor General Robert Bork stepped in to do the deed.

So restraint keeps me from overstating the echoes. But then Trump will produce a performance like his rambling, combative February 16 press conference (“Russia is fake news!”) so rich with “narcissism, thin skin and deeply personal grievances,” as NBC’s Brian Williams put it, that the analogies with Nixon’s piteous “last press conference” of 1962, or his Watergate-era clashes with the media, are insistent and appropriate.

And finally, perhaps inevitably, Trump himself joined the game: He alleged that Barack Obama had bugged Trump Tower in an act worthy of “Nixon/Watergate.” (You want to see your book sales leap on Amazon? Have POTUS tweet your topic.)

Why is Nixon the go-to model for presidential misbehavior? For one thing, he is deeply embedded in our lives and culture. The only president to resign in disgrace was famously polarizing long before Watergate. This red-baiter from Southern California was the point man for McCarthyism, earning the eternal enmity of postwar liberals.

In the swinging ’60s, he was the stodgy self-made man: the square in the age of hip. As such, Nixon was a model for Mad Men’s Don Draper and, after stretching out the Vietnam War for four additional years, his reign helped inspire the evil Galactic Empire in Star Wars (according to George Lucas). He may not be the subject of a hip-hop Broadway musical, but he has served as the central figure in an opera (Nixon in China) and played the villain in the X-Men and Watchmen movies.

Andrew Caballero-Reynolds / Getty It took Nixon a while to provoke protests like these. On the other hand, some two-thirds of the current American population were either not alive or not residents of the United States, when Nixon resigned in 1974. In my Nixon biography, and in what follows, I’ve tried to portray this oft-caricatured scoundrel, in all his glories, for Gen X-ers and millennials who may know him only as the disembodied head on Futurama.

Thinking through the points of similarity between Nixon and Trump, and where they differ, may help us to better understand both men.

Psychobiography — correlation: modest

The differences in their upbringing — Trump came from a wealthy home in New York, Nixon from the California outback and a family wracked by illness, death, and poverty — make any comparison between the two men on this score somewhat strained. Yet both are known for self-centered, narcissistic personalities — and these, perhaps were sired by the emotional austerity of their childhoods. Trump exhibits insecurity, harbors grandiose fantasies, and shows a tetchiness about criticism. So did Nixon.

The Nixon home was known for its physical and emotional severity. Frank Nixon was a crotchety and abusive dad described, by a nephew, as “a highly acquisitive person and a slave driver” who “worked all his children and he worked his wife.” Nixon’s mother, Hannah, a devout Quaker, gave the future president his sense of idealism: He really did want to bring peace to the world. But she was preoccupied with his four brothers, two of whom died as youths, and the demands of the family store. Dick craved her approval, but she never, as Nixon famously confessed, told him that she loved him.

Historians tread lightly when it comes to psychobiography, but Nixon’s career “vindicates one of that maligned genre’s most trustworthy findings: The recipe for a successfully driven politician should include a doting mother to convince the son he can accomplish anything, and an emotionally distant father to convince the son that no accomplishment can ever be enough,” wrote Rick Perlstein in Nixonland.

Much of that may apply to Trump. As biographers Michael Kranish and Marc Fisher describe him in their book, Trump Revealed, the president’s father, Fred Trump, was also a disciplinarian, a workaholic, and a skinflint. At 13, Donald was culled from his family and exiled to military school as a disciplinary remedy. It may not be unreasonable to suggest that, like Nixon, Trump has spent his life seeking to fill an emotional void.

The press — correlation: high

It is no accident that both Nixon and Trump are famous for waging war beyond reason with the press. In men with their backgrounds, criticism may be interpreted as rejection, ripping the scabs from old psychic wounds and inducing emotional pain and hostility.

It’s also no small irony that each was quite successful at courting the press in their early years. Nixon was a protégé of the Chandler family, which owned the then-right-wing Los Angeles Times and promoted Nixon’s career through the simple tactic of imposing news blackouts on his opponents. Trump was a dealmaking playboy in New York’s tabloid jungle. The experiences left both men spoiled by the media’s fawning, cynical about its professed values, and reckless with the truth.

Mark Wilson / Getty Trump surveys the “enemy of the people.” Trump’s well-documented disregard for veracity was well matched by Nixon’s: He lied repeatedly about Vietnam and Watergate as president. When announcing that he was dispatching troops to invade Cambodia, Nixon solemnly assured the nation that the US had been scrupulous, to that point, in observing that poor country’s neutrality. In fact, he had been bombing Cambodia, secretly, for a year.

Nixon was as brash about his lying as Trump. On one occasion, when he thought the camera had stopped filming, Nixon told an interviewer how he had inserted a crude obscenity into a quote from Lyndon Johnson, because it made for a more colorful story — and portrayed Johnson as a vulgar bumpkin. When his aides could not find the chopsticks he used during his famous trip to China, Nixon told them to use any pair for a museum display, as the public would never know the difference.

Striving to maintain control, Trump rages over leaks. Nixon, too, confessed to being “paranoid” about leakers, and famously declared: “The press is the enemy.” Trump has friends in some corners of the media, and his declaration of war may be cynical and manipulative. For Nixon, the hate was real.

Trump, erupting in nocturnal tweets — emissions quite similar to those captured on Nixon’s White House tapes, except that they are instantaneously blasted out to tens of millions of Twitter fans — has taken it further. The press is not just his enemy, he tweeted, but the “enemy of the American people.”

Their politics — correlation: modest

Trump and Nixon both rode the politics of grievance — particularly white grievance — to the White House.

“I am your voice,” Trump told the disaffected electorate of the South, West, and Midwest, who responded by giving him an Electoral College majority. In his speeches, Trump called for the return of “law and order,” just like Nixon in 1968. “The silent majority is back,” Trump said, identifying his voters precisely as Nixon did. “We are going to take the country back.”

The division between coastal elites and the heartland is a hardy theme in American political history — the tension between frontier farmers and the Founding Fathers led to open rebellions in 1787 and 1791. In crises, the country draws together, then the old divisions reemerge in times of peace.

The gulf yawned after World War I, when the carnage of industrial warfare and the doctrines of scientific and moral relativity inspired a fundamentalist response in the midlands. Americans came together during the Second World War, but the rifts reappeared thereafter. In 1946, a young Navy veteran, running as a Republican, unseated a New Deal Congress member in rural California with a campaign that promised, “Richard Nixon Is One of Us” — not one of the pointy-headed pinko elitists running things in Washington.

Arriving in Washington, as a member of the House Committee on Un-American Activities, Rep. Nixon embraced journalist Whittaker Chambers, a reformed communist agent, and went to war with the establishment by identifying one of the New Deal’s golden lads, the former diplomat Alger Hiss, as a Soviet spy.

It was “an epitomizing drama,” Chambers wrote in his memoir Witness, a book that would become a bible for the conservative movement. There was “a jagged fissure” between “the plain men and women of the nation and those who affected to act, think and speak for them … from their roosts in the great cities, and certain collegiate eyries.” The left “controlled the narrows of news and opinion,” Chambers wrote, but “my people, humble people, strong in common sense, in common goodness” were led and inspired by Nixon — “the kind and good.”

Nixon used the Hiss case as a launchpad to the Senate, and then to a spot as Eisenhower’s running mate. He survived a brush with scandal over a campaign slush fund filled by wealthy businessmen with a now-legendary televised address, in which he made memorably mawkish mention of his mortgage, his wife’s cloth coat, and the family cocker spaniel, Checkers.

“The sophisticates … sneer,” wrote columnist Robert Ruark, but Nixon’s speech “came closer to humanizing the Republican Party than anything that has happened in my memory. … Tuesday night the nation saw a little man, squirming his way out of a dilemma, and laying bare his most private hopes, fears and liabilities. This time the common man was a Republican.”

That was 1952. Long before the ’60s, the culture war was raging. The ’50s were “the Nixon years,” columnist Murray Kempton would write, when “the American lower middle class in the person of this man moved to engrave into the history of the United States, as the voice of America, its own faltering spirit, its self-pity and its envy, its continual anxiety about what the wrong people might think, its whole peevish resentful whine.” And so Trump and his legions follow Nixon down a well-worn path in American politics.

However, there is one significant difference in how Nixon and Trump got elected. As circumstances had it, in all three of Nixon’s campaigns for the presidency —against John Kennedy’s “New Frontier” in 1960, amid the chaos of 1968, and against George McGovern in 1972 — he ran as the candidate of moderation, of calm and experience. His speeches were generally soothing.

A young Navy officer named Bob Woodward cast his vote for Nixon, convinced he was the candidate who could end the Vietnam War. Even Hunter S. Thompson bought in.

“For years I’ve regarded his very existence as a monument to all the rancid genes and broken chromosomes that corrupt the possibilities of the American Dream; he was a foul caricature of himself, a man with no soul, no inner convictions, with the integrity of a hyena and the style of a poison toad,” Thompson wrote in 1968. But “the ‘new Nixon’ is more relaxed, wiser, more mellow.” Nixon’s were campaigns, as the political scientists Richard Scammon and Ben Wattenberg put it, of “social stolidity.”

Trump is anything but stolid.

Monkey-wrenched elections — correlation: high?

It is a testament to the efficacy of the Republican cover-up that four months after a foreign power affected — may even have determined — the outcome of an American presidential election, we still don’t know the facts. The timidity of the electorate, permitting Congress to let this pivotal question go unanswered, is stunning.

Ira Gay Sealy / Getty Anna Chennault was Nixon’s secret liaison with the South Vietnamese government before the 1968 election. The extent of President Trump’s possible contacts with a foreign government before the 2017 election has come under scrutiny.

From what we do know, it is safe to say that the Russians sought to influence the outcome of the 2016 election, in favor of Donald Trump. We don’t know how or if he and his advisers, in contacts with Russian officials, acted to further the illegal hacking of Democratic organizations and officials. We know that Trump publicly encouraged the Russians to do so (though whether this was a serious request or a glib comment is debatable). This has been written off, like several such misdeeds, as “Trump being Trump.”

In Nixon’s case, it has taken almost half a century for the truth to come out about the 1968 election — about his own conspiring with a foreign power, and the steps that he took to affect that year’s outcome.

Nixon feared that Lyndon Johnson’s election year initiative to negotiate an agreement that would bring an end to the Vietnam War was nothing more than an “October Surprise” designed to elect Vice President Hubert Humphrey. (LBJ had pulled such a trick in the off-year elections of 1966.) And so Nixon employed a campaign official, Anna Chennault, to act as a go-between and persuade South Vietnam to drag its feet and scuttle peace talks with North Vietnam. He — and she — promised the South Vietnamese better terms if Nixon won.

Tragically, peace was indeed close at hand in 1968. The Soviet Union, wanting to promote Humphrey, had promised Johnson a “breakthrough” in the talks and vowed to pressure North Vietnam. But Nixon’s attempts to monkey-wrench the talks were successful. In a telephone call to Sen. Everett Dirksen, a bitter LBJ, who had been getting details of Nixon’s machinations from electronic eavesdropping conducted by US intelligence agencies, accused Nixon of “treason.”

(Trump has offered no evidence for his claim that his campaign was “tapped” by President Barack Obama last fall, but there is no doubt that LBJ was eavesdropping on Chennault, a Nixon campaign official, in her discussions with the South Vietnamese Embassy in Washington.)

There is a law — the Logan Act — that makes it illegal for a private citizen to interfere in the foreign affairs and diplomacy of the United States. Nixon appears to have crossed that line; without more facts, we cannot say that Trump did too.

The deep state — correlation: modest

Like Julius Caesar, cut down by Brutus and a gang of conspirators, Richard Nixon fell victim to a coalition of mutinous forces. He had clashed repeatedly with Congress over its power to declare war, to appropriate funds, and to have access to presidential documents and tapes. He declared war on the press. His antipathy for the State Department, the CIA, the military brass, and other power centers was well-known, and his reliance on backchannel diplomacy with China and the USSR spurred the Joint Chiefs of Staff to plant a spy in the White House. Nixon may also have alienated the federal judiciary by pledging to end its lifelong terms and security.

How low has President Obama gone to tapp my phones during the very sacred election process. This is Nixon/Watergate. Bad (or sick) guy! — Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) March 4, 2017

The FBI offers an instructive test case on what Nixon’s rash antipathy yielded. Nixon had come to power in Washington with the help of Director J. Edgar Hoover, but after Hoover died, the president provoked the bureau by trying to install a Nixon loyalist as a replacement. “Deep Throat” — the legendary anonymous source for Washington Post reporters Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward — was Mark Felt, a deputy director that Nixon passed over when choosing Hoover’s successor.

Trump has been tormented by leaks he blames on Obama holdovers in the national security agencies and other entrenched bureaucracies. Trump profited during the campaign from FBI Director James Comey’s eleventh-hour revelation about Hillary Clinton’s emails. But Comey was reportedly outraged by Trump’s allegation that Obama tapped Trump’s headquarters during the campaign and, according to leaks, demanded a public repudiation of the imputation. (And now, of course, Comey has been fired.)

Scandals — correlation: to be determined

There are more than half a million responses to a Google search for Trump and Watergate. But as much as his critics hope to see the 45th president exit the White House like Nixon, we have a long way to go before “Russiagate” is reasonably equated to Watergate.

There are obvious parallels. Both scandals stem from break-ins at the Democratic Party headquarters, whether real or virtual. Both involve electronic eavesdropping. And credit must be given to Roger Stone, a minor figure in the Watergate wars, who managed to survive the decades since and surface once more in the Russiagate stew.

Yet Nixon had years to dig his grave, and the Watergate scandals were, as Woodward and Bernstein famously wrote, “a massive campaign of political spying and sabotage.”

The DNC headquarters at the Watergate were one of a half-dozen targets for burglary and/or bugging, including the campaign headquarters of Sens. Edmund Muskie and George McGovern and the offices of the psychiatrist who treated Daniel Ellsberg, leaker of the Pentagon Papers. By the time Nixon resigned, Watergate was a vast umbrella. The scandal brought to light subsidiary issues — like whether Nixon shortchanged the Treasury on his income taxes, and used taxpayer funds to protect and improve his Florida vacation home — that have obvious correspondence to Trump’s behavior.

But there will have to be some remarkable revelations — proof that Trump and his aides offered inducements to the Russian hackers — before Russiagate can be compared to Watergate. On the other hand, if it is proven that the Trump campaign, in league with a foreign power, stole the White House, it could supplant Watergate as the greatest political scandal of them all.

John A. Farrell is the author of Richard Nixon: The Life, which is being published March 28.

The Big Idea is Vox’s home for smart, often scholarly excursions into the most important issues and ideas in politics, science, and culture — typically written by outside contributors. If you have an idea for a piece, pitch us at thebigidea@vox.com.

[gentlelewis]

It’s Quiet Uptown

It was quiet in the town of Tempo even not many had known what happened. The streets were empty, no one was laughing or enjoying the dark afternoon. Vivi sat on the hill. Arms crossed over her knees, her thighs up against her chest. This morning had been confusing for her. So many of her friends were sobbing with the Peppers. Hell, even Lance Kingsmen was there. Mrs. Pepper asked Vivi to take a walk around town and come back later. So she did. She looked up from her position, seeing Mystery coming to her. He sat right next to her and rested his head on her. She lifted a hand up and rubbed his head. “I wish I knew why everyone is so sad today. So...quiet”

There are moments that the words don't reach There is suffering too terrible to name You hold your child as tight as you can Then push away the unimaginable The moments when you're in so deep Feels easier to just swim down And so they move uptown And learn to live with the unimaginable

Mrs. Pepper was held by Mr. Pepper, crying into his shoulder. Her little boy, her son, their son..was gone forever now. She remembered the first time they found him. He was hurt, scared, alone. He never let go of her, not until those papers were signed. Then, he was hers. She spent countless nights up with him, telling stories and singing to him when he had nightmares. She watched him grow to be a wonderful man. Loyal, compassionate, never selfish or cruel. Always kind,, generous, everything anyone would be. His heart was made of pure gold, the purest she had ever seen. 

The Peppers had sent Arthur, Tintin, Vox, Bishop, Sloane, Galvyn and Dipper to get some fresh air. Knowing they would need it to help Vivi. The girls all huddled in Lewis’ room. Holding his plush alpacas, wearing his clothing, burying themselves in whatever they could. He had always been there for them. Whenever they needed him, he was there. To play, to learn, to grow. He had taught them many life lessons they would carry to their children and beyond. But for such young girls, how could they get through this?

The boys all huddled together in rows of three. Arthur being in front to lead the others through town. All of them kept seeing Lewis, doing something from their memories. 

Dipper saw Lewis holding his book away from him. “You had enough time to write man! Let’s get out for a bit and do something fun! Then maybe you can have it back” He smiled softly before wiping his nose. He had always made sure Dipper ate, slept, and got out a lot. Sure he knew the journal meant a lot to Dipper, but so did his health. Dipper had a lot of fun with the boys and his sister. He couldn’t imagine better memories than those. Hell, he hadn’t even touched the journal since he got the news. 

Galvyn saw Lewis holding one of his shirts. “Here, I know your binder is broken and you’re getting a new one. So you can borrow my clothes until then. I’m sure they’ll be baggy enough to hide your chest. Which reminds me, how much did you say the surgery was? I do believe I got enough from my jobs to pay for you. Please don’t pay me back. All I ask from you is that you smile more and pay no attention to the haters. You know who you are and no one should tell you who you are” He started to sob as he gripped his brother’s arm. Lewis had paid for his surgery and gave him no time to pay him back. He didn’t need to wear a binder anymore. He got his wish and it came true. All thanks to Lewis. 

Sloane watched as his brother held his arm tightly. Sobbing into it. Tears started to slip from his own eyes. His vision getting blurry. But there was Lewis, holding his hand out. “Come one now. Don’t get tired yet! One more lap and I’ll treat you to wherever you’re hungry for” That sunshine smile beamed through the clouds. The men both worked out together, helping each other with each other’s health and Lewis had always pushed Sloane for more. Making him complete goals he had never done before. 

Tintin looked up to the sky. The memory of him and Lewis solving a puzzle came to mind for him. “How about this with this?” He pushed to two pieces together and slid them into the small box. Making it open. “How did you do that?” Tintin asked. “Easy, think of any puzzle or mystery in a different way. Your reporter way is grand, yes, but think of everything else from another set of eyes. Could be useful one day. Maybe you’ll have to find another way during one of your mysteries” He looked down at Snowy. Lewis had always made him see through his enemy’s eyes, cases seemed to be easier than before. His stories had started to burst with words, his editor gave him a bonus for making his adventures seem like fantasy. Even writing about seeing from another set of eyes opened people’s minds of certain cultures, religions and more. He sighed, trying to blink away the tears. Hoping to stay strong for the others, but it was pointless really. Drips fell from his cheeks to the pavement. Snowy looked up and whimpered for his companion. 

Bishop ran a hand through his hair, his white locks had grown out and his red hair was showing. He was proud of it really. “Hey, I like your hair. It’s kinda like a new chapter in your life. You know? Oh hey! Did you see the game last night? You wouldn’t believe what happened? Say you wanna come over and watch it with me and my dad? There will be snacks!” Lewis had a rough time with Bishop as he hurt his childhood friend. But he also gave him a second chance and was shown that Bishop was never the villain in the story. Only the child wanting to be loved by his father. Often, he would invite Bishop to be with his adopted father. Bishop had grown to enjoy Mr. Pepper. He made him feel he was a great son. His father just never was enough for him. Lewis had opened his heart and made everyone see he was good. He gave him a second life. 

Vox’s hat was tilted down to hide his glowing eyes. Tears streaming down his face as he walked beside Arthur who was crying as well. Different best friends, different personalities, different everything. But the same best friend. Lewis was his first real friend. They met when they were little and Lewis was just recently adopted. Both orphans but they didn’t ask questions about each other’s past. Only the future. No one could say they weren’t like brothers because they seemed inseparable. As if they were born at the same time and had always known each other. They had nicknames for each other and could never not find reasons to play. It was hard the first time they got back together as friends, but it worked out perfectly. 

Arthur’s hands were shoved in his pockets. Staring at the ground. The tears never seemed to end as the memories kept rolling in. They met in middle school. Arthur was being bullied and Lewis stepped in to save him. A big guy like Lewis wouldn’t ever save a thin guy like him. But he did indeed. Arthur had grown to know the Lewis not many classmates did. Everyone saw a muscular, tall, big guy; Arthur saw a big teddy bear with the best hugs and cooking. They played games together, did homework together, and even laughed at memes together. Arthur was skeptically about the whole Mystery Skulls gang until Lewis gave him comfort. “Don’t worry Artie. I’ve always got your back, just like the first time” Since then, even if he hated most cases, he had fun with his friends. He never regretted becoming part of the gang. Never. His fingers gently touched the bracelet Lewis made for him. He wasn’t sure how they’ll get by this. He wasn’t sure how this even happened. 

“I spend hours in the garage I walk alone to the store And it's quiet uptown I never liked the quiet before I take our friends out on Sunday A bit of sunshine out in the sky And I pray That never used to happen before”

Arthur sang quietly. Everyone picked up their heads for a moment before looking down or to the sides. 

(If you see them in the street, walking by themselves Talking to themselves, have pity)

“Lewis you would like it uptown, it's quiet uptown” Dipper sang along. 

(They are working through the unimaginable Their eyes are tired, Their minds are scattered. They can’t think anymore)

“You knock me out, I fall apart” Vox sang, quietly and not even looking up to expose his glowing eyes from his hat’s void. 

(Can you imagine?)

“Look at where we are Look at where we started We know we don't deserve you But hear us out, that would be enough” Tintin said. Pocketing his hands in his coat’s pockets. 

“If I could spare his life If I could trade his life for mine He'd be standing here right now And everyone would smile, and that would be enough I don't pretend to know the challenges we're facing I know there's no replacing what we've lost And we need time But I'm not afraid, I know who I’m friends with Just let me stay here by your side And that would be enough” Vox said along with Arthur. Their hands shaking until Dipper and Galvyn grabbed their wrists. Making them stop. All of them were at the edge of the town. The familiar sight to see. Going in and out. Watching as Lewis stood by the edge and waved to those that left that way. They all got into a strange circle. Trying to hold onto each other. 

(If you see them in the street, walking by their sides

Talking by their sides, have pity)

“Lewis, do you like it uptown? It's quiet uptown” Bishop whispered, having Tintin’s hand on his shoulder. Trying to comfort the man. 

(They’re trying to do the unimaginable See them walking in the park, long after dark)

After a moment or two, they left. Crossing through the park. No one was there but them. Not even a creature was sighted. Some of them lifted their heads to look up at the sky. Twinkling with bright stars. As if the sky was trying to give the men hope. Hope that they could get through this. 

(Taking in the sights of the city)

“Look around, look around, look around, guys” Galvyn said, trying to point out the constellations. But no one was having it that night. No one. 

(They are trying to do the unimaginable)

There are moments that the words don't reach There's a grace too powerful to name We push away what we can never understand We push away the unimaginable

They are standing in the backyard Standing there side by side They takes their hands It's quiet uptown

The men returned to the Pepper residence and stayed in the backyard. Sitting in a circle with their hands holding another’s. Tightly. Lewis would sometimes have this when there was too much stress going around. “Now everyone breath in and out. In and out. Think about the good memories. Don’t let the bad ones hold you back from your true potential. It’s hard I know, but you’ll see it’s worth it”

Forgiveness, can you imagine? Forgiveness, can you imagine?

Arthur’s heart pumped faster. Somehow, he felt guilty of Lewis’ death. He wasn’t sure why or how, but he felt it in his heart. Stabbing every second he saw someone Lewis knew cry for him. If he did, would anyone ever forgive him? Would anyone dare to be his friend again? 

Would Lewis forgive him?

(If you see them in the street, walking by their sides Talking by their sides have pity)

“Look around, look around” Arthur whispered. Closing his eyes as he started to sob. He was done being strong. He was done trying to seem okay. He wasn’t okay. No one was.

They are going through the unimaginable

[novemberocean]

Lighter Than Black 5

(pt1)(pt2)(pt3)(pt4)

AO3

They came back alive, surprisingly, and without any drama. Vox Machina just arrived in the morning, looking like shit and dragging along some poor soul that got caught up in their nonsense. Cassandra half expected the gruesome looking bearded fellow to turn out to be Raishan; but after Vex’s odd look, she decided it was yet another misfit her brother’s family picked up.

They were covered in blood and grime and soot and Percy, enjoying his role as older brother, smothered her in a hug designed to get some of the gook on her nice pajamas. She squawked at him for that, and for a moment, it was like it had been many years ago. Before the vampires and the dragons. When they had just been the babies of the family, nothing better to do than get on each other’s nerves.

They ordered every bath in the castle and wandered off for a drink. Cassandra turned around, seeking out her shadow. She spotted him just before he revealed himself. He had a neutral expression on his face, but his eyes were brighter than she had ever seen.

For her part, Cassandra grinned at Kynan. She was just so relieved and happy. Her excitement must have been contagious, because Kynan returned the smile within moments.

“Will you do me a favor?” She asked. Kynan nodded. “Check on Jarret and Gilmore and the rest? Vox Machina aren’t known for their follow up with their friends.”

Kynan nodded again, remembering when they sent Kash on a mission they rendered obsolete within a day. He was gone before she could thank him.

Two hours later, the door to Cassandra’s office opened.

Kynan shut the door behind him. He had an odd look on his face as he leaned back against it.

“What’s got you looking like you ate a stale sock?” Cassandra asked. She barely looked up from the papers in front of her. Incredibly, she was working on plan A, not the backup plan for when her brother and his friends got eaten by a dragon.

“I just saw Vax'ildan sneaking down the hallway,” he said. Cassandra raised her eyebrows, slightly impressed.

“Does he know you saw him?” she asked. Cassandra had never met a man who could cover himself in shadows as effectively as Vax could. Barring any magical help. Kynan rubbed a hand down his face before he responded.

“He was buck-ass nude, I think me seeing him was the point.” He muttered.

It took five minutes for Cassandra to stop laughing. She had to push away from her desk, lest she knock something over. Kynan was leaning on the desk next to her by the time she got a hold of herself. He was smiling one of those rare, unguarded smiles he sometimes gave her. She tried to hide the fact that it took her breath away.

“Why on…” She trailed off, trying and failing to come up with a reason one of the Heroes of Emon would be wandering the halls in all his ‘elven glory’.

“I really don’t know,” Kynan shook his head. “He winked right at me even though I was hidden. I’m pretty sure it was near your brother’s quarters.”

“That clears nothing up,” she rolled her eyes. Percy was a lot of things, into threesomes with half elven twins may as well be one of them. “How’s Jarrett?” she asked.

“Shaken, a little burned,” Kynan folded his arms across his chest. “Gilmore was administering some awful smelling stuff when I left.” He blushed a little, indicating that Gilmore wouldn’t be smearing anything on anyone in a less than salacious manner.

Cassandra sighed and leaned back in her chair. Now that the initial excitement was passed, anxiety started to trickle back in. She was relieved that no one had been killed in an unspeakable way. Oh, she knew that there was a whole army of casualties, but she was selfishly happy she didn’t have to add names to the list of dead friends and family.

Stretching her neck from side to side, Cassandra massaged her shoulders. They were stiff with tension she couldn’t let go of yet. There was the other dragon, the one that knew where they lived. The one her brother had tried to stab in the back. Out of the frying pan…

“Um…” Kynan said quietly, Cassandra paused her ministrations and looked up at him. He was turning red, but he motioned towards her shoulders and muttered something that sounded like “May I?”

It was Cassandra’s turn to blush. She tried not to nods enthusiastically. Kynan gave her that crooked smile she loved, and moved behind her chair. The high back of the chair meant she couldn’t feel his body heat like she could when he put her knife back in her boot. Pelor’s grace, but she had driven herself to distraction with recalling that particular afternoon.

Cassandra knew how to use an opponent’s strength against them. It was a necessary skill when you lived as she had. But there was nothing that could quite replace the unerring brute force now being applied to her neck. She only just barely managed to stifle a moan as his thumbs worked at the knots in her shoulders.

“Okay?” Kynan asked, nervously.

Cassandra could only make a vaguely pleased noise in return. He didn’t hold back, which vaguely surprised Cassandra when she could think through the fog her brain had filled itself with. People usually went easy on her; she wasn’t tall or intimidating, she was short and a female, so people tended to underestimate her. She delighted in using their poor judgement against them.

“You’ve…” Kynan started, cleared his throat and started again. “You’ve got a lot of tension in your shoulders.”

“Yeah, that will be the weight of the city on my back.” Cassandra huffed a laugh. She must have sounded more bitter than she’d meant to, because Kynan paused. Cassandra tried not to whine.

“Do you, uh,” he began, and then hesitated, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Want to do something else?”

“No, no,” Cassandra waved a hand. “I had to fight Vampires, old gods, and sometimes myself for my right to rule, I’ll be damned if I give it up now.”

Her words were somewhat undermined by Kynan’s fingers beginning their work again, and Cassandra ending her sentence on a purr. He worked in silence for a few minutes. She wondered what was going through his head.

“I think you’re a great ruler,” Kynan said. She turned to look at him. “I want to help you.” He surprised her by meeting her gaze, just for a second, before he lost courage and looked away. “However someone like me can help anyway.”

Cassandra opened her mouth. To tell him that she would welcome his help. That he was already a major help in her life. Just his presence gave her confidence. That she loved him and wanted him to stay with her, even if dragons killed them all. Especially if dragons killed them all.

But all those things got stuck in her throat as Kynan muttered something about Jarret and fled the room. A full two minutes passed, with Cassandra sitting at her desk staring at the closed door. Her mind felt full of cotton, or smoke. She felt all hot and cold at the same time. She blinked once, twice.

“Fuck!” She exclaimed to her empty office.

[theconservativebrief]

For the past few weeks, the world has been riveted by the story of Saudi dissident journalist Jamal Khashoggi’s disappearance and murder.

But while global attention is focused on Khashoggi’s fate, there are dozens of other dissidents, bloggers, and activists languishing behind bars in Saudi Arabia whose plights have been largely forgotten — and some whose whereabouts are unknown.

“What happened to Jamal is horrific and most tragic,” Rosie Bsheer, a Harvard professor who focuses on Saudi Arabia, told me last week before the country confirmed he was killed. “But that the fate of one man, a member of the elite on all fronts, would get this much attention when dozens have met the same fate … is troubling to say the least.”

Though the country has repressed free speech and dissent for decades, Crown Prince Mohammed Bin Salman, also known as MBS, has ushered in a new era of brutality and repression since he rose to power in June of 2017. Human Rights Watch estimates that more than sixty people are currently behind bars in the kingdom for expressing views that don’t align with the government.

Examples include Raif Badawi, a Saudi blogger who criticized the country’s government, and was sentenced to a decade in prison in 2014 and 1,000 lashes in public.

His wife, Samar Badawi, a prominent human rights activist, was pulled from her home in the middle of the night in July of this year and detained on unknown charges.

And Loujain al-Hathloul, an activist who protested against the ban on women’s driving, was arrested along with several other women’s rights activists in May, right before the ban was lifted. She’s been charged with treason and could face up to twenty years in prison.

While the world is galvanized by the Khashoggi case, it’s high time we start paying attention to the current abuses happening in the country, which have been ignored or pushed under the rug for too long.

In Jamal Khashoggi’s last column for the Washington Post, published posthumously, he wrote about the dearth of free speech in many parts of the Arab world. He used the case of a fellow Saudi writer as an example.

“My dear friend, the prominent Saudi writer Saleh al-Shehi, wrote one of the most famous columns ever published in the Saudi press. He unfortunately is now serving an unwarranted five-year prison sentence for supposed comments contrary to the Saudi establishment,” Khashoggi wrote.

Many of Khashoggi’s friends who were writers and intellectuals were swept up in a crackdown last September. Earlier that year, Khashoggi himself had been banned from tweeting, and his newspaper column in the prominent pan-Arab newspaper al-Hayat had been canceled.

The fact that Saudi Arabia doesn’t particularly welcome free speech or criticism of the ruling royal elite is not new to most people who live there: During the Arab Spring uprisings in 2011, many activists and writers were jailed for participating in and reporting on protests that occurred in the Eastern provinces of the country. And in 2016, Human Rights Watch launched a multimedia project called “140 Characters,” which profiled people who had been imprisoned across the Gulf states for their dissident views. Several Saudis were on the list.

But the space to critique the government or express any differing views has grown a lot smaller over the past year, according to Justin Shilad, a researcher with the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) who focuses on the Middle East.

The reason? MBS, the ambitious — and utterly ruthless — 33-year-old crown prince who exploded onto the Saudi political scene in 2017 when his father, King Salman, shook up the line of succession and placed his young son in the second-highest position in the land.

“Khashoggi’s death is the awful culmination of a wide-ranging and very sustained crackdown against journalists in Saudi Arabia that started in earnest last year, after MBS essentially assumed power,” Shilad told me via phone from Beirut.

According to Shilad, Saudi Arabia used to mainly target journalists on the margins — those who wrote for liberal or left-leaning online publications, or writers who pushed back against the dominant, conservative religious ideology.

After 2017, though, the crackdown expanded to include a far wider swath of journalists and writers and bloggers — people who previously thought they were safe, like Khashoggi’s friend al-Shehi.

Shilad described al-Shehi as a writer who criticized corruption, but who was also, as a columnist for the Saudi paper al-Watan, squarely within the mainstream media establishment. “Someone like him would know the red lines and what’s off limits,” he said. “It seems that under MBS, those red lines shifted dramatically.”

A few months after al-Shehi was arrested, MBS instituted one of his much-touted reforms: lifting the ban on women driving in the kingdom. However, several of the activists who had long agitated for that very change were swept up in MBS’s crackdown, and remain behind bars.

Among them is Eman al-Nafjan, who blogged in English and was well known by the international community. She protested for women’s right to drive, but also spoke out about other problems in the Kingdom, like endemic corruption. Al-Nafjan was arrested in May, a month before the ban was lifted.

Nouf Abdelaziz, another blogger, was arrested in June. Abdelaziz wrote in Arabic, so her blog was easier to access for a domestic audience. To the Saudi regime, that’s far more threatening than dissident writings that only appear in English — because ordinary Saudis in the country, not just the often Western-educated elites, could read it.

“After her arrest, no one has been able to tell me any information about where she is detained, or what charges were brought against her,” Shilad said. He added that this was often the case, describing the country as a “complete black hole” of information in regard to arrests. Families might have second- or third-hand information about where their relatives are being held, but they’re often too afraid of retribution to share it.

When it’s on the margins, it’s somewhat easier for journalists in the broader community to ignore this level of oppression and keep going about their daily lives, Shilad told me. “But the thing is, it never stays in the margins. It will spread.”

According to Sherif Mansour, also with the CPJ, at least 15 journalists are behind bars in Saudi right now — a number that has doubled since last December.

Of course, it’s not just journalists that have reason to worry. Human Rights Watch’s 2018 report on the country contains a litany of problems:

Saudi authorities in 2018 continued to arbitrarily arrest, try, and convict peaceful dissidents. Dozens of human rights defenders and activists are serving long prison sentences for criticizing authorities or advocating political and rights reforms. Authorities systematically discriminate against women and religious minorities. In 2017, Saudi Arabia carried out 146 executions, 59 for non-violent drug crimes.

Ahmed Benchemsi, the organization’s director of communications, told me that the situation for any kind of dissident in the Kingdom — from activists to social media users to clerics who disagree with the ruling religious ideology — is grim.

In light of the Khashoggi case, things seem to be getting even worse.

“People are scared. We have contacts regularly with activists in Saudi Arabia, and what can I say, they are terrorized, understandably,” Benchemsi said. “They knew the situation was not good and the space for free speech was limited before, but few people imagined the government could go to that length.”

He brought up the case of Essam al-Zamil, a Saudi economist, who reportedly disagreed with MBS’s plan to take the Saudi national petroleum and natural gas company, Aramco, public. “Even expressing your views about the economy can land you in jail,” Benchemsi said.

That fear has now stretched to dissidents living abroad, who thought they were out of the government’s reach.

Ghanem al-Masarir is one example — he’s a Saudi dissident and political satirist who fled his country for London in 2003. He frequently makes videos mocking the Saudi royal family, and says he was recently attacked by two men in London who he believes to be Saudi agents.

Al-Masarir told Vox earlier this month that he fears for himself and his family, especially after Khashoggi’s death. “I think [MBS] is trying to silence me and others. If he’s willing to do that with Jamal Khashoggi, I don’t think he won’t do it with me if he has the opportunity,” al-Masarir said.

A source in the Saudi capital in Riyadh told me that among certain circles in the country, the mood is “very ominous.” For people who thought they understood how far they could push against the regime, Khashoggi’s death has been a rude awakening. And now anyone who has spoken against the government has more reason to be afraid.

Although the kingdom announced on Thursday that they had concluded that Khashoggi’s murder was “premeditated,” the latest development in the ongoing investigation, they’ve also taken careful steps to protect MBS from criticism and distance him from the crime.

In many ways, in fact, business seems to be continuing as usual. While several Saudis have been arrested in connection to the Khashoggi incident, a giant Saudi investment conference in Riyadh is still taking place, and MBS gave a speech in which he decried the “heinous crime” of Khashoggi’s death — a crime he almost certainly knew about.

It’s not a good sign that the country plans to undertake reforms, despite increasing international pressure.

The fact that the world has been so concerned with Khashoggi’s fate speaks to his position of privilege — his palatability within Western media circles. As many have pointed out, he spoke English, he was admired and known by many journalists in the West, and therefore became an easy focus of sympathy.

But it’s important to not lose sight of the fact that there are many others — others who are not well-regarded columnists for prominent Western newspapers — who are still suffering for their views under the current regime.

The one possible silver lining in all of the tragedy and horror of the Khashoggi incident, experts say, is that it could help shine light on other cases and provide an opportunity for the international community to push for real, tangible change.

“I think the pressure is important on MBS right now, and that the pressure needs to continue until we get tangible results, including freeing those who need to be free,” Benchsemi told me.

Karen Attiah, Khashoggi’s editor at the Washington Post, told CNN on Sunday that this is the time to “really focus attention on these others who have been disappeared or detained … without due process.”

In his last column, Khashoggi wrote that the imprisonment of writers like his friend “no longer carry the consequence of a backlash from the international community. Instead, these actions may trigger condemnation quickly followed by silence.”

Perhaps, after his death, the world will have the opportunity to prove him wrong.

Original Source -> While the world focuses on Khashoggi, dozens of journalists and activists in Saudi Arabia are still behind bars

via The Conservative Brief

[kathyprior4200]

Hazbinstagram: The Case of the Missing Blitzo

A Hazbinstagram ™ story

  An ongoing story from the great creators and artists of "Hazbinstagram!"

For as long as he could remember since July, Blitzo had found a new horse to be his loving friend. He loved her so much, that he gave her different names everyday. During his everyday life at I.M.P. Blitzo had claimed that his horse had helped him make decisions. His associates thought the horse was part of his imagination. Stolas wanted to meet his horse as well, to see what she looked like.

But one day, Blitzo mysteriously disappears after posing in a picture full of static. Many speculate that he had been kidnapped.

But who? Could it be the demon who photo-bombed his last photo? His horse? A rival company?

Or perhaps a familiar radio loving demon with sinister plans of his own...

Alastor has a shadowy horse creature with a skeletal body, sharp teeth and black wings. The eyes glow teal and the mane and tail are thick and black. The creature may have captured Blitzo and gone back to its master. (Art and idea by Radio Hazbin!)

Fun Fact: Alastor was also the name of one of Hades' horses when he rose from the ground to capture Persephone.

 Blitzo was seen smiling as he took a selfie in static. Red and black shapes were behind him, appearing to be a distorted form of reality.

 Blitzo spoke and texted with static lacing his words: “Hanging with my horse, Enamel Pin. She said it was ok for me to take a picture with her. O3O.”

 Cherri Bomb responded: “What the hell type of horse does this to a camera?”

 Other comments soon appeared on Instagram, or rather, Voxtagram as the TV Overlord owned all technological platforms.

 “No horse does that, but I know a deer who does.”

 “Who else is red, got antlers on his head and doesn’t like being on camera?”

 “I don’t think that’s a horse, I think that’s a certain deer overlord.”

 “Alastor, is that you?”

 “I think Blitzo’s horse friend might be a certain radio demon.”

 “Oh deer.”

 “I wonder if the horse and Alastor are related. He also has the effect on pictures.”

 “Are we speculating that Blitzo is riding Alastor…a new ship is coming!”

 “Please save Blitzo from that thing.”

  Stolas was concerned, and began to type. “Hm…Blitzo, I’m a bit concerned about your horse friend. I haven’t read anything on horses distorting cameras. Can we talk?”

 Blitzo replied in an arrogant tone: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My horse can do whatever she wants. She’s just cool like that.”

 Stolas responded: “Alright, if you say so. I may do some more research on this. But I am glad she’s so kind to you, Blitzy.”

 Blitzo added: “She’s very nice and eats the cockroaches at my place.”

 Later, Blitzo posted a child-like colored drawing of himself holding an iced coffee in his hand. Below the drawing was a colored tan horse with a black mane with her head lowered, surrounded by gray. The picture read: ”How I met my horsie. One day, I was just walking to get coffee again. She was all alone. I asked her if she wanted coffee. She said “You bet I do.” As we sat at the table, everyone ran away screaming for some reason.”

 Blitzo posted: “The comic of my horsie and me meeting for the first time.”

 Moxxie responded with: “Will all due respect sir, your “horsie” looks nothing like that.”  

 A commenter asked, “Does he look like a deer?”

 Moxxie was flabbergasted at the comments. “Why do you guys keep saying that thing looks like a deer? That thing looks nothing close to those. You humans are weirdly obsessed with deers.”

 Another commenter warned: “It might be the Radio Demon. Please warn your boss, Moxxie.”

 The grumpy imp wasn’t having it. Moxxie posted: “What are you all talking about?! That “horsie” looks nothing similar to the Radio Demon. Your strange obsessions over the Radio Demon worries me, humans.”

 (That’s the fandom for you, Moxxie!!!)

 Another commenter yelled: “Moxxie, what the hell does the horse look like?!”

 Moxxie replied: “I’d rather not talk about it.”

 Blitzo stepped in. “It was because my horse was amazing and beautiful. Moxxie is just being a puss.”

 Moxxie grumbled and typed: “I disagree, sir. Just keep that thing away from me.”

 Blitzo was offended: “She has a name, Mox!”

 Moxxie: “Sir, I can’t keep up with all the nonsensical names you keep giving it! What even is it right now?!”

 Blitzo: “Her name is Sandal! She is just very fond of getting her names.”

 Stolas added: “This is sweet. I’d really love to meet your horse friend someday.”

 Moxxie had a bad gut feeling inside him. It was the same feeling he had when his boss had brought one of the Furby imp creatures home. They were known to inhibit an old organ that was now in Alastor’s possession “Your Highness, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Bitzo then took a selfie of himself with iced coffee in his hand. Behind him, an imp wearing a gray mask was seen standing with a knife over another imp on the ground. Blitzo posted: “Just got coffee and I was taking a selfie when this guy photobombed my picture. Not cool. My horse (renamed to Glove) is down the street. Waiting for her right now.”

 Stolas agreeed: “Some people are so inconsiderate.”

 Someone asked: “How does the coffee taste?” Blitzo replied with “Gooood.”

 Somebody else asked: “Why does this look like Moxxie killing Millie?”

 Moxxie fumed as he responded: “What the fuck is wrong with you humans?! Why would I ever hurt Millie? You humans are disgusting.”

 Several hours pass by. A concerned and confused Stolas held his white rotary phone with little wings on it in his hand. He posted: “Blitzo didn’t answer for our scheduled call. I suppose I’ll try again tomorrow.”

 The next day passed. Stolas stared forlornly at his rotary phone. He posted: “Tried calling Blitzo again. His receptionist said he hasn’t been in today but she’d have him call me back (I don’t think she will). Via is mad at me. This is a terrible day…”

 Someone asked, “Why is Via angry?”

 Stolas responded: “Via is angry with me because I wouldn’t let her go to a concert without supervision.”

 Moxxie later posted a picture of himself in his room by closed blinds. He had a sad, far-away look on his face, a contrast to his usually grumpy demeanor. He posted: “I enjoyed how peaceful it has been as of late. But this is just awfully quiet…Not that I care, but has anyone seen the smooth brain noise maker that is my boss?”

 Stolas texted Moxxie: “He hasn’t been there at all?!”

 Moxxie said: “No, Your Highness. I haven’t seen him around since he went out to get coffee.”

 Stolas: “Have you contacted his daughter?”

 Moxxie: “Well, yes, but she keeps ignoring me.”

 Stolas texted Moxxie, Millie and Loona: “Has Blitzo been home? Is he alright?”

 Loona: “He’s not on his couch, so no. I don’t know man, maybe he found horses outside, ran after them and got lost…”

 Angel Dust came in to the conversation as well. “Man, mystery shows are hitting real now.”

 Loona posted a picture of an empty couch with a pink pillow on it. She said: “He’s not home yet, I thought he’d be back by now.”

 Stolas: “We’ll find him.”

 Loona: “He’d better have a good fucking excuse.”

 Moxxie: “For once, I agree with you, Loona.”

 Stolas later held up a flier of Blitzo flipping the bird. On the top, the flier read, “Have you seen me? Goes by Blitzo, the “o” is silent.”

 Stolas: “Had these made. Will be giving them to Moxxie, so Blitzo’s associates can put them up around the city. If anyone knows anything, please call I.M.P.”

 Cherri Bomb offered words of encouragement. “I’m sure that little guy is around somewhere, Your Majesty. He’ll show up eventually!”

 Moxxie to Stolas: “We will do everything we can to find that idiot, Your Highness.”

 Stolas to Moxxie: “Moxxie, I wish I could help you, aside from making these posters.”

 Moxxie to Stolas: “Much appreciated for the posters, Your Highness.”

 Angel Dust: “Aye, keep looking feathas. Hell ain’t too big a place ta miss the guy with horns that big.”

 More theories were posted:

 “Maybe he was taken by his horse or furby.”

 “Loona, I don’t think Blitzo has an excuse, I think he was kidnapped.”

 “It’s either the horse or the dude stabbing in the background.”

 “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. His horse is taking care of him.”

   Meanwhile, in a dark hideout…

 Blitzo’s yellow eyes were wide as saucers as he sat terrified on what appeared to be a green floor with missing tiles. A head of an imp rested in the background. He seemed to have been kidnapped by a gang of imps, perhaps jealous of I.M.P. and looking for money.

 Blitzo: “Ok those guys finally left me alone so I could turn on my phone. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to keep my phone. (RIP my third burner phone). Anyways, everything is fine. I wanted to get on this Voxtagram (Vox controls all technology and media websites). Because if I tried texting everyone, it’d take too long and calling would alert the dumbass kidnapper. Can someone come pick me up before they try to kill me?”

 Stolas bellowed at the top of his lungs: “Blitzy! Where are you?!”

 Blitzo responded: “I don’t know. Smells bad, though. I’ll get out, just ask my horse to come get me, please.”

 Moxxie was terrified too: “Sir, where in the living Hell are you?! Are you hurt?!”

 Blitzo instead yelled and typed in all caps: “Send horse!”

 Angel Dust typed the emoji for wide eyes.

 The next picture showed a blurred Stolas rushing forward. Stolas could do nothing but type in gibberish in all caps.

 Blitzo: “I don’t know where I am, Stolas! Just send my horsie!”

 Stola began to panic. “I don’t know how to send for your horse! That is why you needed to introduce us!”

 Crash!

 One of the walls concealing Blitzo in darkness burst open, sending bricks and dust everywhere. Blitzo squinted as a circle of light shone into the space. A figure stepped through the hole on all fours, tall and majestic. Blitzo took one look at the savior creature and raced toward it, happy tears falling from his face. The energy radiating from the horse was beyond anything found in Hell…or anywhere else for that matter.

 It was a tall shadowy horse with a skeletal black body, reminiscent of a thestral or a nightmare horse from legends. The hooves were pointed and curved, shaped like miniature weapons. The horse’s mane and tail flowed long and black, outlined in a red aura. The horse’s neck was long and thin as was the head. Its eyes glowed teal and white, giving off an ethereal feel. And although there was static surrounding the horse, it didn’t have the malevolence associated with Alastor and his minions.

 Did this creature decide to shapeshift around Blitzo to watch over him?

 The horse spoke to Blitzo telepathically, her voice that of a human female laced with static. At the same time, the voice commanded divine respect.

 “I am SpindleHorse. You are safe now, Blitzo. Let us be off.”

 SpindleHorse had indeed, broken the (fourth) wall.

 Without hesitation, Blitzo climbed up on the horse’s bony back and with graceful gallops, the horse vanished into the shadows. Blitzo grinned like a little kid as the horse speed down the streets, enjoying the bumpy ride.

 Blitzo ecstatically typed his next post: “Rescue! I told you all my horse would come get me! Spindle broke the wall down! She said I could post the picture. She’s giving me a ride home. I can’t wait to see everyone!”

 Loona, Millie, Moxxie and Stolas cried with joy and relief. For although Blitzo could be a childish annoying asshole, he was still a dear member of their family.

  Loona posted first: “Thank Satan you’re alright! Cuz I…”

 Loona paused, trying to defuse her inner feelings…

 “…because we’re out of food! I need you to go grocery shopping, that’s the only reason I’m relieved. The only reason.”

 Underneath the meth, drinks and her short temper, the hellhound secretary was relieved her adopted father was safe. Life was simply too lonely without the group of imps around.

 Millie beamed. She, of course, was very happy that her boss was safe and sound. Stolas as well, was overjoyed that his lover was unhurt. Even Moxxie, who constantly chided Blitzo’s mannerisms, had a soft spot for his boss.

  Stolas was overjoyed. “Oh thank goodness! I’m coming over, immediately!”

 Moxxie said: “I still don’t want to get close to her but…thank you, Spindle.”

 Stolas rushed over as Blitzo dismounted the horse in front of the palace. The imp was soon locked in a feathery embrace. Stolas let out some hoots and draped his feathery wings over him.  

 “Blitzy, you’re alright! Oh I was worried sick. Missed you so, so much!”

 “Arugh, heh, heh, okay, Stolas, I missed you too…” He was struggling for breath. “You can…fuck…let go now.”

 Stolas did before opening his beak in a smile. “Did you say you want to fuck?”

 “No, not now!” Blitzo exclaimed, brushing wrinkles off his dark blue navy suit. “I gotta rest then get back to work.”

 “I completely understand. I’ll take you home right away!”

 Stolas traced a glowing yellow symbol in front of him and a flaming portal appeared, leading back to the I.M.P. office. Blitzo stepped through it before turning around.

 “Thank you…Stolas. For sending me my horse and all.”

 “Of course,” Stolas replied. “I hope I can meet her sometime. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me. And I mean anything.”

 “Will do.”

 Stolas closed the portal and posted a picture of him and Blitzo hugging.

 Stolas exclaimed in all caps, “Blitzo is safe and sound! Thank you, Spindle!”

 Moxxie typed a message to his boss: “Sir, please be more careful. The next time you go out to get coffee, take your horse with you. I will put a slight increase to the horse budget for the time being. Please rest up for today.”

  Blitzo found himself in the middle of a group hug, surrounded by Loona, Moxxie and Millie. Millie squealed happily as she hugged him. “I’m so glad you’re okay, sir!” she said. “Mox and I were very worried.”

 “You guys do know that I was only gone for like a day, right?” Blitzo asked, rolling his eyes. Tears fell from his eyes despite himself.

 “Still…that doesn’t exclude the fact that…we may have missed you a bit,” Moxxie replied. Loona uncharacteristically enough gave Blitzo a small kiss on his forehead with her tongue. For a moment, Loona was smiling and wagging her tail like a happy puppy reunited with her owner. Then, all too soon, she separated herself from him, her tough demeanor returning. “Yeah, you’re fine, good. Now I really need some fucking food and drinks right now.”

 Millie was the last one to let go of Blitzo. “If you need anything or want something done, we’ll be happy to get to it. Need anything? Iced coffee? A horse song? Two new human heads?”

 Blitzo had to chuckle. “Thanks Millie, but I’m fine. Let’s get to work everyone.”

 Thus, the ordinary day at I.M.P. continued on.

 Blitzo then posted a picture of a fork in a cup of ramen noodles with an egg in it.

 Blitzo said, “Everyone was bugging me today. It was kind of nice. Everything finally calmed down, so I had some 3 AM noodles.”

 Stolas added: “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything!”

 Moxxie chided: “Cup of noodles isn’t healthy for you, sir. Next time, if you want to consume some 3 AM noodles, I will make some just for you.”

 Blitzo sighed. “I don’t need to be babied, Mox. Don’t worry about me. For real, I like noodles in a cup, though.”

 Moxxie decided to let him enjoy his noodles.

 Moxxie then had an idea. He did something that he would normally never do. Millie had said it was a great idea and that Blitzo would love it. Moxxie placed a gift on Blitzo’s desk the next day. It was a bag of horse shaped pasta noodles colored yellow, green and pink. On it was a note: “Feel better soon! P.S. please stop consuming junk food in the middle of the night.” From Moxxie and Millie.

Moxxie posted: “About to deliver this homemade pasta to my boss. Millie and I made this so my boss wouldn’t consume extremely unhealthy things in the middle of the night. Recipe on VoxTube. Horse shaped pasta mold is a Satan send.”

 Blitzo responded: “Oh I love this, but I still wanna eat ramen at 3 AM.”

 Moxxie replied: “What you had was obviously a cup of noodles and that is extremely bad for your body. Do you have any idea what they put in those? For crying out loud, please refrain from eating such cheap and unhealthy things.”

  The next post showed Blitzo under a blanket getting ready for bed. His head was just in front of his pink pillow on the couch. A plushie of Spirit the horse lay next to him.

 Blitzo posted: “Gonna stay in bed today. Got to lay low since everyone wants to talk to me. You guys knew I’d be fine.”

 Stolas mentioned, “We were just worried. I’ll give you some space for a while. Rest all you can. Pet your horse. I’ll talk to you at a later date.”

 Blitzo smiled and picked up a little brown horse figure beside him. “I also found my little horsie that looks like my horse! I wonder where she’s been…”

 The next day, Blitzo posted a selfie of him in the woods on Earth. Two raccoons were fighting over food from behind him.

 Blitzo: “Went to my job today and took this picture in the living world!”

 Someone asked, “Yo, are those two raccoons fighting back there?”

 Blitzo replied: “It’s not about them. This is all about me!”

 Later that night, back in his room, Blitzo was woken up by a soothing voice.

 “Blitz…”

 Blitzo bolted up from the couch and stood upon shaking legs.

 “Spindle!”

 It was Spindle the horse. The air around her briefly warped and morphed into little shapes. Bits of other worlds faded in and out, even showing a slice of Earth before fizzling out.

 “Is everything alright?”

 “Yes,” she responded. “I woke you up to say my goodbye.”

 Blitzo was stunned. “Y-you’re leaving?”

 “My work here is done,” she said. “I did my part to keep you safe. Now I must ensure that others are safe as well. I have other worlds to attend to as well: Heaven, Earth, Zoophobia…”

 “Wait, zoo what?”

 “Nothing of concern.” Her voice mixed with an eerie sounding neigh of dismissal. Her red aura illuminated the darkness. “Thank you for the iced coffee, by the way, it was tasty.”

 Blitzo couldn’t stop the tears falling from his eyes. This regal marvelous creature had saved his life and bonded with him for many months. She was like the friend he had never had…perhaps almost like a motherly figure.

 The horse nuzzled close to him, their foreheads touching. Blitzo’s hand cupped under her long chin while a black tendril tenderly touched his shoulder.

 “We will meet again, soon. Whether in this life or the next. Farewell for now.”

“Goodbye, Spindle. Thank you for everything.”

 Spindle stepped back, turned around and disappeared through a hole of white light. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was dark once more.

 The other characters briefly got to see Spindle as well. As she trot noiselessly against the asphalt, everyone stared to look, almost transfixed. Even the Radio Demon stopped what he was doing and stood respectfully. There was admiration for SpindleHorse’s immense power in his red eyes. Niffty jumped for joy next to Charlie whose eyes were shining with happiness.

 “Please come back again!” she called out. “The Happy Hotel welcomes all.”

  In a rare moment, Husk and Vaggie had genuine smiles on their faces, as if staring at the horse long enough would make their problems go away.

 “Thank you, Spindle!” called Angel Dust with several waves of his many hands. “You saved that imp’s life.”

 “Much appreciated,” Cherri Bomb added. “Catch ya later!” The characters waved one by one.

 SpindleHorse neighed and reared up on two hooves as static filled the air. The horse vanished through another white portal in static before all was quiet and normal once more.

  Blitzo posted a picture of him and his horse saying goodbye. “My horse woke me up in the middle of the night saying she had to go because she repaid me by saving me. I got her coffee, and she saved me, so we’re even. One last picture together before she has to go. She says the name is Spindle, so it stays.”

 Stolas knew that the goodbye was bittersweet for Blitzo. He tried to comfort his friend. “I’m so sorry Blitzo…Perhaps someday, she’ll return and visit. You were always good to her.”

 Stolas sent a picture of himself posing seductively with his grey fluffy chest exposed. Another showed Stolas displaying his butt and dark gray tail features in front of the camera. “Maybe these will cheer you up!”

 “Stolas, stop sending me nudes when I’m thinking about my horse!” Blitzo responded in sudden annoyance.

 Stolas chuckled a bit. “Sorry, I thought they would get your mind off things!”

 Even Loona was feeling the melancholy in the air. It was like everyone was suddenly feeling an unexplained connection to the elusive equine. “She will be missed…”

 “Just like the end of Spirit,” said a commentator, recalling when Spirit had reunited with his mother and galloped freely in the vast meadow.

 “You get me,” Blitzo responded, pleased to have someone else share their love of the classic film.

 Moxxie, too, couldn’t escape the strange feeling. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I am going to miss her. I do wish she has a good horse life.”

 “Thank you, SpindleHorse!” Millie added. “We love you and we miss you!”

 Blitzo then posted, almost to himself: “You only know what you have when it goes.”

 Stolas then posted his drawing of Blitzo smiling at the tall skeletal horse.

 Stolas said, “Wanted to make something Blitzo may like while he’s recovering. I’ll just drop it off later. Maybe have it framed if he’d like…” He added, “I’m proud of this one.”

 But Blitzo, ever the stubborn one, bluntly said, “My horse doesn’t look like that.”

 “Oh…”

 Stolas was taken aback, hurt. There was no reason for him to be rude like that, even if the drawing wasn’t the same as the real horse. Stolas decided to give the imp some space.

 Then he thought about his daughter. Maybe Octavia might not be mad at him like she was before. Sure, she wanted to go to Lilith’s Resist rock concert playing at Loo-Loo World for a while, but overprotective Stolas wasn’t going to allow it. There she was, a typical diva teenager who didn’t want her goofy dad to follow her everywhere.

 “Just another day in Hell,” thought Stolas with a sigh.

Meanwhile in a parallel universe...

Alastor eventually captures Blitzo and conjures his next plan:

 -Interrogate Blitzo about I.M.P.

-Have Blitzo led the way to I.M.P.

-Retrieve the book to gain access to the human world

-Offer Blitzo an opportunity to achieve musical theater dreams.

- Persuade Blitzo and other imps to make deals (songs almost always work!)

-If deal works, their souls will be mine

-Profit off I.M.P. and take over the company, thus claim Imp City as territory

-Enter human world and cause more chaos

-More souls = larger army and greater influence

-(Visit New Orleans and mom’s grave again.)

-Eventually take over both worlds for endless entertainment

-Figure out what this pandemic is in living world