#scenes acts all that jazz

[jayjtheunsispiciousmelodicathem]

I believe that play (drama, comedy etc.) should be a more popular genre for fanfiction (if there's any fanfiction written like that in the first place).

[bet-on-me-13]

Danny commits to the Bit a bit too hard...

So! For the first few weeks after his accident, whenever Danny would try to help the people of Amity Park, he would be treated as a Villain.

No matter if he had just defeated the Big Bad of the Week or saved a Cat from a tree, everybody in town only saw him as a Monster or Villain to he feared and hunted down. Danny was really getting sick of trying to get them on his side, until Sam made a suggestion.

"Why not just...play into it?" She said, barely looking up from painting her nails.

It was just an offhand suggestion, but it stuck with Danny. Why shouldn't he lean into it? The people of Amity Park already saw Ghosts as Evil, and they already assumed he was in cahoots with the Ghosts attacking the town. Why shouldn't he just...play into it?

So he does just that.

From that day on, whenever Phantom was spotted he would dramatically monologue about his Evil Plans, or claim that another Rogues attack on the City was his own act of terror.

Box Ghost destroys the towns Warehouses? It was on his orders.

Ember mind controls masses of Teenagers? All part of his Plans somehow.

Every Adult in Town is kidnapped by Young Blood? Danny gave them over to a friend as a Gift.

He crafts an identity for himself as the most Vile and Horrible Ghost that has ever attacked the City, using his own infamy to cement his legend even more firmly. The town only sees a Monsterous Villain, who has eveded capture near effortlessly for months on end, who constantly attacks their City and gets away with it.

Of course he still needs an excuse for how his plans keep getting stopped, and he gets it when his girlfriend Valerie becomes the Red Huntress. Before that, he just claimed infighting or the Fentons getting lucky, but Valerie becoming the Town's Hero meant he had a plausible excuse for how he kept getting "Foiled".

Val was suspicious, because she was not as involved as Phantom painted her to be, but in the end she had no proof of him faking his defeats. And she couldn't come up with any explanations for why he would do that in the first place. I mean, who would fake being a Supervillain? It had to he something else.

This did come back to bite him a while later, when the Justice League decided that enough was enough, and dispatched Justice League Dark to recruit Red Huntress and help Deal with him.

Coincidentally, that was the same day Pariah Dark attacked the Mortal Realm and sucked Amity Park into the Ghost Zone.

And honestly? Danny had spent over a Year proclaiming himself as a Villain who commanded Ghosts to attack the Human Realm, and he had heard about the Right of Conquest being Absolute in the Ghost Zone, so why not make it official? Why not overthrow the Ghost King, become the Ghost King, and cement his identity as a Villain while also forbidding Ghosts from entering the Human Realm without his permission?

He may have gotten a bit carried away and forgotten that the Villain thing was a disguise...but hey! He was still preventing Ghost Attacks! ...mostly. That's got to count for something right?

He may have let the Bit run a bit too far...

...

Check the tags for more context!

[todayisafridaynight]

@ your tags about akiyama: no but he must’ve been so fucked up over that though??? 8 years. He was ghosted for 8 years and he knew it was bullshit the entire time but Date kept pushing him away and Kiryu never said anything to him. 8 fucking years. I’ve been turning that “guess I didn’t matter since I wasn’t part of your little gang” line in my head for WEEKS that shit HURTS (in both a good and bad way fuck you rgg but also mmmm good angst). justice for aki man he don’t deserve that shit though

THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING LIIIIIKE

it's the most cathartic feeling in the world whenever someone yells at or tells kiryu in one way or another how selfish his actions are or how his actions have hurt them or others... like thank you so much akiyama kiryu really deserves to get clocked out sometimes...

[torgawl]

everyone here was soooo excited because a national channel was going to bring back this iconic tv series, directed specifically to the youth, from our childhood and adolescence that we are so nostalgic about after 11 years for them to disappoint us all with the trailer because it looks like elite 2.0

[demonic0angel]

Delusion (click for clarity)

Part of this AU where Jazz is Jason’s assistant.

I was legit giggling to myself when I drew this. I think Jason should be so besotted and in love with Jazz that it’s genuinely embarrassing for everyone.

He hasn’t even seen her face yet 😔

Inspired by the Lego Movie scene where Emmett is being completely delusional about Wyldstyle lmaooo

Image description below:

Panel 1 has Jazz covered up in a helmet and leather bodysuit. She’s looking at a piece of paper and reading off of it.

Jazz: So on the agenda today, we have a new shipment coming in tonight…

Panel 2 has Jason looking at her in his Red Hood costume, hand on his chin as he nods. Jazz is still talking off screen.

Jason: Mhm.

Jazz: … and at 1, we have a meeting with…

Panel 3, 4, 5 can be summarized as Jazz, now seen from Jason’s POV, is acting cute and sexy. The background is pink and there are hearts and flowers around her. This is only Jason’s delusions.

Jazz: *as per Jason’s daydreaming* Blah, blah, blah… Proper name. Place name. Logistics stuff…

Panel 6 has Jason, immersed in his fantasies, blushing as he nods even more.

Jason: … mhmm…

Panel 7 has everyone in chibi form, with people surrounding Jazz and Jason at a table, clearly still in a meeting, all staring at each other in various degrees of awkwardness, confusion, and disgust. Jazz looks exasperated while still speaking and Jason is still having fantasies, hearts all around him.

There are two captions: 1) the boss, completely distracted (while pointing to Jason) and 2) The subordinates, aware of his daze, but can’t stop him (while pointing to Jazz and the other people).

Jazz: *sweating* We also have a meeting with…

[megaderping]

I feel like the fandom vastly overstates how "crazy" Akechi is in third semester. Navigator Akechi has this feral energy, yes, and he clearly enjoys tearing through Shadows in his All-Out Attack battlecries and in his Showtime, but look at Akechi any other time in Third Sem. He's calm. He's levelheaded. He's the one person Joker can turn to at the start of third sem to be honest, frank, and real about the circumstances they find themselves in. He investigates the situation, is furious but stoic about being let off so easy. His chats during the jazz club show the same philosophical and introspective side of him that showed in his confidant.

It's just... flanderization, to act like all he is is HAHAHAHA WACKY MURDER GUY during third sem. His navigator lines can come across as very extra, but that's just one side of his character, and you can easily read it as him letting loose in battle.

This one line really encompasses what Akechi is really about in third semester, and it frustrates the hell out of me when people act like he's a "fake Akechi" that Maruki made, when the entire point of his role here is that it's him, and it's his choice to defy Maruki's reality, no matter what becomes of him.

That, and if you really want to get pedantic, Tactica confirms it's the real Akechi by having him mention hobbies like bouldering that Joker would only otherwise hear about in third sem. The DLC story is memorywiped, ergo these are Akechi's genuine interests in the Mementos chats and in the Jazz Club scenes.

I think a lot of misconceptions about third sem Akechi really boil down to not engaging in the optional interactions and focusing on the big, in your face moments as opposed to the quieter and more reflective ones, and it's a shame, because it's not even that the people who do this flanderizing hate Akechi per se. It's just a pet peeve. xD

[wordsinhaled]

Restaurant owner/chef Charles / Food critic Edwin AU!!!

So, I just thought of this AU and I am so jazzed about it that I need to drop this idea somewhere so it can become a 100k fic I can devour in one sitting asdfhfhfhf

In an ideal world I’d want to offer the floor to someone Desi to run with this idea, or to collab with me on it because I want to do Charles' food and culture and relationship with his mum justice. I’ve only been adjacent to the restaurant business (my family ran a small café for a bit and I worked there, and I have a family member who did culinary school, so).

I just know that this idea has Arrived in my brain and I can’t just let it sit in there unattended, asdjfjfjf

I'm tagging @nix-nihili and @queen-of-hobgobblers 'cause I feel like this will be up your street???

Okay - so Charles and his mum own a small Indian restaurant. It’s a family business and his parents ran it together ("together") before. Charles’ father was incredibly controlling about the menu, their community partners and suppliers, as well as pretty much every other aspect of the business (and their lives, behind the scenes). Now Charles’ father is out of the picture—I'm undecided how this happens, but I just think Charles deserves to live an unfettered life without Mr. Rowland hurting him anymore, tbh.

He gets to rediscover the joy of cooking together with his mum, cooking as freely as he wants and not being held back by his dad's expectations, refreshing the restaurant's menu to feature more authentic versions of the dishes, making connections with new suppliers, redoing the accounting to pay everybody a living wage... Just generally, like, revamping the entire restaurant to be a more joyful place to be that celebrates delicious food and companionship as a form of connection and sharing. Edwin is a food critic who goes to the grand reopening of the restaurant. Edwin likes to write about and document food. He enjoys experiencing a restaurant and its food possibly even more than the tasting of it. He presents like the uptight, exacting sort of food critic restaurants are intimidated by, with his many layers and his bow tie and his posture and his perfect hair, his little notebook and his vintage pocket pen. But inside he just wants to be able to feel some sort of a connection: with the chef through the food (What is the dish trying to tell him?); with the other person at the table—if there is another person, which is so rare.

Family mealtimes for Edwin growing up were distant affairs, overly formal and stilted and coded, minefields for being scrutinized and speaking and acting in only the most acceptable ways; not places to be honest or genuine or to let one's guard down. Certainly not occasions to experience genuine enjoyment. He wants to believe that food, which is so vital to life, and the preparing and the sharing of it, can be different. Positive. Joyous.

Charles gives Edwin a tour of the restaurant when he arrives. Charles is not like a lot of other restaurant owners Edwin has met. He introduces Edwin to his mum and the way he looks at her makes a pang go through Edwin's chest because clearly, they love each other so much, and Edwin may have never had that but just looking at it heals something in him. He's not getting invested, though. (Right?)

Charles' enthusiasm is like, off the charts. He's practically vibrating, to the point where excitement tips over into anxiety, clearly trying to keep it toned down and failing. And Charles is like, "I'm sorry. Just a bit nervous, yeah? I really care about this place. I need it to—I mean. I really want it to do well."

Edwin's heart goes out to him. "Do not worry," he says, softly. "I am not here to hurt you." He doesn't know why he says it but all the tension goes out of Charles, the slightly frantic look goes out of his eyes, and he gives Edwin the brightest smile he thinks he's ever seen. It's a gorgeous smile. Relieved, and carefree, and warm like sunshine.

"D'you want to try some food?" He says it almost conspiratorially, as though this is not Edwin's primary and entire purpose in being here.

Edwin looks around the quiet, empty restaurant. It's cozy and warm with mid-afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows at the front. Even without any patrons, without the din or bustle of a full dining room, it seems to beckon to foster shared happiness within it. "I was under the impression that I would be partaking of your dinner service this evening," he says delicately, trying to hide that he might actually want nothing better than to never leave here at all, let alone try some food.

"Well, yeah," Charles says, "'course you are. But this is different, innit? Not for the article. Come on, let me cook for you. You look like..." He stops. Perhaps considering if he's about to say too much. His eyes are bright and thoughtful and fixed on Edwin so intently that Edwin doesn't breathe for a moment. "You look like no one's cooked for you in ages." It comes out soft, but firm; as though he knows what he's talking about. Edwin feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

"No one has ever cooked for me," says Edwin matter-of-factly.

He has no idea what it is about Charles that makes him admit something so honest—although it is not entirely accurate. His family had had a personal chef. Technically speaking, all of Edwin's meals had been cooked for him, until much to his parents' chagrin he went off to a student flat, and culinary school, and began to cook them for himself. But he suspects that no one has ever cooked for him, the way Charles Rowland is offering to now. Properly. Like it means something. Like he is trying to say something through it; unspoken words that Edwin has always wanted to hear.

Let me know you. Let me connect with you. Let me take care of you.

Charles' eyes widen. Clearly, he is trying to process Edwin's bleak admission. "Right," he says, after a beat, as his posture gains something determined; his grin bright and charming. "That settles it, then. I know exactly what I'm going to make you."

And before Edwin can say anything else, he's taking Edwin's hand in his and tugging him towards the kitchen.

[cringefailkralie]

ridiculously long list of things i’ve noticed about thomas grant and adam wadsworth’s portrayals of albus and scorpius

sorry in advance if this is messy, i wrote this at like 4am

albus flinches away when james steps too close to him!!!

when scorpius asks albus whether he prefers albus or al, he doesn’t have to think about his answer. instead he just looks shocked that someone was actually asking that, like nobody’s ever considered his feelings before. makes me feel like he’d been waiting his entire life for someone to actually ask him that.

tom’s albus doesn’t cry during the fight with harry like i’ve seen a lot of the other actors do. he just stares blankly ahead of him and completely shuts down. i’m head over heels in love with this choice because it really hammers home how hard it is for albus to express his feelings or communicate with anyone.

albus’s reaction to the love potion really really makes me believe that ron intended it to be a mean gay joke. even if ron didn’t intend for it to come across that way, that’s definitely what albus takes it as.

scorpius is just staring vacantly at a wall before he spots albus on the train in their 4th year. not sure if this is a specific acting choice or if i’m just reading into it too much?

they hold hands for a second and stand with their faces an inch away from each other as soon as they duck into their train compartment. their body language in private is so different from their body language in public.

albus squeezes his eyes closed when they hug. he really needed that physical affection but he hates anyone but scorpius being near him.

scorpius puts his hand on albus’s chest when the train starts moving. nothing to say about that its just really gay.

my favorite delivery of “oooo a quiz… WIZZO!!!” i fucking love how he does jazz hands when he says it, especially because it’s the second time he does jazz hands in that scene. he’s so me.

albus does so many little hand gestures in this scene, he’s way more comfortable being expressive around scorpius. he almost mirrors scorpius’s stupid little mannerisms.

bonus- not scorbus related but craig is first seen wearing his beanie on the train during the this sequence (where albus and scorpius decide to run away)!! idk if they don’t do this in other productions or if i just hadn’t ever picked up on it before, but it’s a really cute detail. does anyone know if he canonically got it when he became head boy?

when amos first tells them to leave, scorpius grabs onto albus’s sleeve

not even technically them but the ron and harry actors grab onto each other sooooo much (as albus and scorpius)

in love with how long scorpius hold out his “WIIIIIIIZZZOOOO” and how albus tries to match his energy with the “DOUBLE WIZZO”

delphi steals scorp’s little phrases and his awkward way of speaking and his mannerisms to try and appeal to albus because she knows that he reeeeally likes him- and i hate hate HATEEEE how she makes him feel like a freak for being himself when all the while she’s stealing his personality. scorpius plays with the fabric of his sweater and then fidgets with his hands after she tries to make him feel left out in the forbidden forest and i can FEEL what he’s feeling through the screen.

scorpius is JEALOUS jealous of delphi and when he talks to her his voice is quiet and monotone, which is the most un-scorpius thing ever. i love it. you can feel how much he hates her. i hate her too, this delphi is despicable. (very talented actress!!)

when scorpius tears his eyes away from the beautiful sight in front of them to look at albus and say “you’re my best friend” (which is crazy enough on its own) he talks in a really sweet, low voice before returning really quickly to his normal scorp-voice, as if he was afraid to let albus think about what had just happened

albus jumps up and down with excitement when they announce the triwizard tournament. he starts and then has to stop himself from cheering for hogwarts. funny that a guy who was just saying how much he hates hogwarts would do a thing like that.

everyone around scorpius gets startled when he starts cheering for krum because his screaming is so weird lmao

at the end of the scene where albus tells scorpius they’ll be better off without each other, scorpius just slumps over on the steps and stays there for the ENTIRETY of the next scene until he eventually gets wheeled off with the stairs. it looks like he’s fiddling with something? maybe his wand? maybe just his hands?

obviously the staircase ballet is the staircase ballet, but the way they look at each other is just AAAAUUUUGHHHHHHH

at the end of the ballet scorpius steps towards albus first, but albus is the one who reaches his hand out and slinks down onto the steps

obsessed with that gay little purse scorpius carries the time turner in

delphi gets scorpius to let his guard down during their conversation and scorpius starts talking like himself in front of her again!!!

albus does the little puke-gag-joke-thing in the library to try and make scorpius feel better </3

they’re both fidgeting with their hands throughout their whole conversation :(

ALBUS’S LITTLE GIGGLE WHEN SCORPIUS AGREES TO COME WITH HIM TO FIX TIME

this isn’t specific to this production but scorpius’s shoes are one of my favorite details. in the normal world, he wears big clunky shoes to showcase his awkwardness, whereas in the dark dimension he wears running shoes!! evil scorp is athletic!!!

the second “im fighting for albus” that comes out of scorpius’s mouth is said almost entirely to himself

their little hug in the water :,)

i LOVE LOVE LOVE that scorpius tries to hug draco and he pushes him away and throws his jacket at him in such a cold manner. it makes their hug near the end feel so much more important to their relationship. as soon as we meet scorpius he immediately refers to himself as having daddy issues and we don’t see nearly enough of that in this play.

bonus p2- one of my favorite parts of this show is the in trouble again number!!! i love the background gang and all of their little scenes like this. craig being a little gossip monger is funny as shit!!!! it gives him so much personality and makes his death that much sadder :(

the delivery of “scorpius….. he matters to me…. you know that don’t you?” is INSANE. tom grant delivers all of the coming out adjacent lines so perfectly.

i love how scorpius moves his body. he waves his arms around in the air so often.

scorpius tickled albus lmao they’re so weird

when scorpius talks about hating the other world, albus throws in “apart from polly chapman fancying you” quite bitterly and scorpius almost completely cuts him off. he doesn’t acknowledge what he said in any way shape or form and albus seems to notice that he’s not interested in polly.

scorpius rubs his socks on the floor while he talks :3

the choice to have scorpius move from his bed to albus’s bed and pull albus’s blanket into his lap when he tells him that he changed himself back for him is so AAAUGHHH

AND SCORPIUS DOES THE SAME THING THAT HE DID EARLIER AGAIN!!! he gets all quiet and sweet when he’s sort of admitting his feelings to albus and then all of a sudden he stands up and goes back to his normal loud voice

“MALFOY THE UNANXIOUS IS A PRRRRRETTY GOOD LIIIIAAAR”

delphi mocking scorpius and him immediately tensing up oh he hates her ass so much

scorpius reaches out to try and intercept albus handing delphi the time turner and albus giggles at scorpius because he’s happy she’s not extremely pissed at them

scorpius holds onto the railing right up until he gets his hands bound together because he’s afraid of heights. thought it was cute that adam chose to do this even though his fear of heights isn’t mentioned anywhere in this version.

i LOVE the torture scene in this version. albus is stone faced when delphi is threatening to torture him and then he IMMEDIATELY falls to his knees begging and pleading when she turns toward scorpius.

delphi is quite literally outing albus in this scene. the silence after she says that love is his weakness and points to scorpius is SO long and SO loud omg. it’s quite literally ten whole seconds (i counted) of albus and scorpius just looking at each other. it genuinely feels like she just spilled out what he’s been keeping inside of himself for so long, it’s gutwrenching. i guess they did just watch craig die so they do in fact have bigger problems, but you can see albus’s heart stop beating and its so terrible.

i love how albus turns to scorpius when the stationmaster starts unintelligibly talking to them like “hey, you’re doing the talking rn just so you know”

i’m obsessed with how excited scorpius is to tell albus all about the history of the place they’re in. in love with his little gasps at everything he sees and his jump when he says “SQUEAK!”

albus motioning for scorpius to stop when he’s demonstrating how to scream for help lmaoooo

albus pointing with both hands at scorpius while they try to come up with a plan is so cute. albus believes in him so much.

i love how scorpius keeps hugging draco even as he’s talking

their foreheads are literally brushing against each other my god these bitches gay

albus asks “and thats who you want in your palace?” in an almost panicked way like he’s afraid scorpius doesn’t feel the same way about him.

albus holds onto scorpius’s shoulders while rose tries to reassure them that they didn’t just get walked in on lmao

3rd and final instance of scorpius trying to change the subject- asking immediately about quidditch so albus doesn’t get the chance to say anything related to what just happened

scorpius says “come on” like he’s trying to get albus to come cut a rug with him at a middle school dance

obsessed with their little gagging and puking bit and how they made it a callback to what albus does in the library

maybe my favorite hug moment from any scorbus duo. i love how albus initially reacts with shock but then melts into it and closes his eyes, only pulling away to make sure he’s not reading the situation entirely wrong (he’s not)

my favorite ending scene by far. the coming out hits SO hard. the way albus fiddles with his zipper and scrunches up his sleeve in his hand, you can tell how absolutely terrified he is of saying this to his dad. the line delivery is genuinely fantastic. the more he pauses the longer you have to take it all in- and he pauses a LOT.

okie thanks for reading!!!!!

[anonymous-existences]

Reading your Hamilton-inspired DPxDC posts gave me a wild thought to the tunes of "The Schuyler Sisters":

Redeemed Vlad being the Regent for Danny, and it's Jazz, Danny and Ellie out in town (Dan is the Army General and on duty today). Jazz looking incredibly bored, Ellie the bratty little sister with the zoomies, and Danny, the one who doesn't even bother looking the least bit regal. Like, Jazz and Ellie both look like princesses, and Danny is their commoner cousin or something.

It's important to me that you know I picture Danny, in Infinite Realms high society, as a sort of barbarian prince that walked into the court, refused to leave, and got adopted by the elderly Advisor (Clockwork) who's ruled in the lost king's stead with a sharp gaze and balanced hand.

Young people love him, because he's just as likely to watch you brawl it out on the streets, as he is to take off the cape and breastplate, roll up his sleeves, and immediately come in swinging.

That's how they bond, and why most of the Ghosts that came through the Fenton Portal were so eager to throw hands.

And here's the scene that my mind is very visibly picturing:

Jazz and Ellie in a Library, Jazz looking for books for her thesis in the Living World and Ellie picking up more comics. Danny's outside enjoying the nice spring-like breeze, and then Johnny 13 leans against the wall to flirt with him (I headcanon Danny as, in his 20's-30's having A Thing with Johnny and Kitty).

Full on, leaning against the wall, smirk and thumb on the chin flirting, while Danny barely looks like he's paying attention, just rolling his eyes and snorting at something Johnny says to him.

Probably asks him if Kitty even knows he's here...and she's right across the street, watching her idiot absolutely fail to rizz up the other idiot.

Now this is just me building up extra scenes from the previous bit:

Johnny getting the kicked puppy look when Danny slips away from him to go chat up Kitty instead. Like, absolute disaster of a man, his bad girl vibes girlfriend, and the twink who's known them for too long to fall for his charms. Like, to Danny, Johnny is just a little pathetic, and while he might eventually take pity on the guy and flirt back, the game is seeing how much of a fool Johnny likes to make of himself to make him snort and laugh.

To the townsfolk, their soap opera is watching their Darling Prince and how, unlike the stuffy Castle Town manners and double-speak, him and his Badlands friends tend to be very...physically intense and direct in their affections and romantic pursuits. Don't expect to see him receiving any poems or expensive gifts in the mail. No, you're more likely to find him out in town, probably at a bar he SHOULDN'T be in, acting all friendly with the more rough-and-tumble types, taking the friendly insults and answering in kind with the best of them.

Maybe getting handsy with the biker couple, and coming back all ruffled and smiling.

And it sends every court lady all abuzz with gossip and scandalized whispering. Until "Uncle Vlad" proves that this is just how they do things where they come from, by initiating the most cursed and mildly toxic situationship with Spectra. No one can stand seeing these two together. At least the Princeling looks fondly annoyed by the constant flirting of Johnny and Kitty, compared to the sleazy smirking his Regent and his intended always have for each other. Very Cruella de Vil x Lex Luthor vibes, while Danny has Aristocats vibes, Johnny and Kitty both playing Thomas O'Malley in turn.

This is where we could throw in DC.

By which, I mean Tim's Young Justice team find an old tome with a green sticky note shaped like a cog on it. And then you have Bart, Zoomies Personified, Conner yes-and'ing his bad choices, Cassie leaning back to watch this, and Tim pinching his nose, saying fuck it, and joining his friends in summoning a possibly-demon, but damn if the depictions in the book look handsome as fuck.

Plus, you know, he's titled as The Benevolent and Beloved Prince of the Realms. Skating right past the Dethroner of Tyrants and Champion of the Badlands titles. Those sound pretty heroic, right?

Right?

What Danny do they get?

Shirt ripped open, attractively battle-damaged Danny with a glass of ale in hand after yet another friendly brawl?

Decadent beauty dressed for a day out in town?

Danny mid-makeout oth Kitty and/or Johnny?

Personally, I wanna say this is a Danny who looks like he's maybe 28-29, using one of Kitty's tips he stole and Johnny's coat, lounging in fuzzy pyjama pants, being summoned while stressing about what his Thing will be whe he takes the throne.

Every King before had A Thing they did. The first King was a farmer, his successor was a hunter. Pariah, before his madness set in, raised horses (maybe Fright Knight's current horse was raised by Pariah as a gift for his friend).

As Regent, Vlad doesn't need to have A Thing of his own, but the old man became an art connoisseur during his time ruling in Danny's name.

Danny has zero clue what he wants to do, and he should probably be asleep, but he's stressing.

He's been getting questions on what he likes to do, and the rest of his Court like to remind him that, while he's fought all of them, and won against most of them, they've also seen him grow, and saw his embarrassing years, so they're essentially like when your well-meaning grandma asks you if you've already figured out what you wanna study in university.

And now, just as he's about to start pulling his hair out, dressed in stolen boyfriend and girlfriend clothes and his fuzziest pants, these...children summon him.

Well, Danny's always been good at bullshitting his way through Situations. And someone throws out the idea of asking him for knowledge.

"About what?" asks Danny, stealing a pack of the lemon oreos Martian Manhunter keeps in Mount Justice for when it's his turn supervising the Junior team.

And that's how Jazz has to come rescue her brother from a summons he never came back from, and finds him lounging on a beach chair, breathing stars made of ice and snow into existence to teach actual teenagers about Space and physics.

But the time he floats over to her side, Danny has found his Thing. He wants to teach. He's going to be for other kids the kind of teacher he wished he'd always had, and what Mr. Lancer tried to be, for all that the man noticed things a little late.

Maybe he gets summoned more regularly for practice teaching Young Justice? They schedule the summons around Justice League schedules so they don't have to share their new mentor. Sure Martian Manhunter gets brought in in the secret because Danny keeps stealing his lemon oreos when he's there, but he enjoys watching the young man learn and grow more confident in his role as a teacher, so he's got his support.

And then the Justice League main team, while meeting with their children in Young Justice, all get booted into the middle of the Commercial District of Pariah's old Lair, which became Danny's after the succession was established. At which point they have to make nice with the locals and get their bearings.

Only, who comes out of a bar, launched into the ground outside?

Why, Danny, his shirt torn, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His knuckles are a bit bruised, and his forearms are scratched up.

He's smiling, though, and taunting whatever opponent he's picked a fight with. And out comes Skulker in the newest iteration of his armor.

Now, from the stories Danny tells, Young Justice know their favorite teacher has an interesting past, involving a lot of fighting.

They just weren't ready to see Teach throw down with a man made of metal.

Danny turns to see his little ghostlings, his smile grows wider, sharp teeth on display, and tells them "Sit tight, kiddos. Wanna watch something fun? This is how we do it where I come from!"

Skulker is basically a weapons platform shaped like a man, but Danny has been fighting him bare-handed for years now. In three quick moves, the head pops clean off with a hiss of steam, lands in Danny's hand, and he fishes out Skulker-blob to congratulate him on a good fight.

If you wanna throw in Red Hood too, this is where "Helpless" would kick in, as Jazz comes in to scold Danny for ruining his outfit again. Nit for fighting, Jazz is just as ready to throw down as her siblings, but she always leaves her fights with a pristine outfit, somehow.

And Jason is staring hard.

That's one woman worthy of the title of Goddess, in his opinion, and he's just become a religious man.

Batman is...impressed that the kids managed to hide an entire extra-dimensional entity being summoned regularly and kept it from even him. He's a little uncomfortable with Danny's willingness to just fight for the sake of fighting and calling it bonding, but now that they've been brought to a sitting room in the castle, in a more private setting with Danny, his siblings, and his friends, he can see that they're all just Like That.

I have nothing to add to this other than, this is PERFECT!! EXQUISITE! BEAUTIFUL, ABSOLUTELY DELICIOUS TO READ THROUGH. THIS IS ABSOLUTELY AMAZING AND FUNNY AND EVERYTHING. ♥️♥️

I love the Johnny/Danny/Kitty because it's two idiots and one Bad Bitch.

[titaswrld]

gryffindor characters modern! AU

according to me….

description: silly modern! AU head canons of the main gryffindor characters :)

pairing: harry, ron, fred, george, ginny and hermione x reader

contains: mentions of substances, alcohol and weed. mentions sexual acts (i think…)

|an: bored and decided i’d made something a little silly. literally just my thoughts lolll don’t take this too seriously

modern AU! harry potter who…

— definitely has a flip phone and refuses to be on any form of social media bc he thinks it’s awful for you

— i think being around his friends who do have social media would give him the spiel on most things tho

— oh he loveeesss house of dragon omg

— only listens to 70s 80s 90s music and some jazz tbh

— i feel like he’s just very old fashioned and he’s happy that way

— such a loving and caring bf since he’s hardly ever even touched the internet he’s pure lol

— def a lil goofball he’d say a little slang term the twins taught him and repeat it back to you…”harry who taught you that…”

— don’t ask him to do no substances i think he’d be kinda against them..not a smoker…occasional drinker.

modern AU! ron weasley who…

— is a stoner! thru and thru. i think he’s a bong rip typa fellow but a blunt or a joint would do it too. doesn’t strike me as a cart of eddie guy.

— big female rap supporter imo…def into latto and maybe dabbles into some meg that’s his girlll lol

— definitely a twea/seltzer guy oml cannot take shots is my hc

— heavy on the lowk himbo boyfriend

— not stupid at all but not super street smart i fear, more of a book smart type of guy.

— super cute and adorable bf overall, he’s a big boy. for sure.

—armmmmssss…. gymrat imo he loves to blow off steam at the gym

—i feel like isn’t a social media person as well…has an insta but doesn’t post on it nor have a lot of followers..no tiktok maybe twitter

—luv him but he was def on drakes side of the beef…definitely a champagne papi

—kinda a video game nerd imo but he’s definitely into the sports ones like FIFA

— buys you n him the crumbl cookie lineup every week and you review them tg in the car pretending to be those tiktok crumbl reviewers😭🫶 (he’s so cute)

modern AU! hermione granger who…

— is 100% on booktok

— do not ask her about the summer i turned pretty or bridgerton unless you wanna listen to her talk for hours.

— don’t play with her and noah kahan…

—or taylor swift

— or chappell roan..

—she’ll have a cute little mixed drink or perhaps a seltzer but do not give this girl no shots she don’t want none!

— her and colleen hoover….

— brings her digital camera everywhere and is most def the camera girl friend….”hermione pls send me the pics from last night”

modern AU! ginny weasley who...

— does not play about female wnba players at all.

— don’t even mention paige bueckers…that’s her girl.

— is a party animal just like her brother.

— loves her chappell roan too.

— always on social media u cannot get this girl off her phone. she’s like an ipad kid u couldn’t rip it out of her cold head hands.

— such a good girlfriend, definitely so protective over her s/o, especially on social media.

— “ginny why’d you respond to every comment under my post complimenting me with ‘& she/he mine..so’…”

modern AU! fred weasley who…

— definitely asks u “english or spanish?”

—definitely goes to too many parties…like at a function every weekend he loves the party scene.

—treats his girl RIGHTT i would compare the relationship to don toliver and kali uchis, flowers all the time, handsy. posting/supporting his girl allll the time

—“i❤️mygf” typa fellow, all his posts on socials are her! all his stories, his highlights and his posts.

— also a weed demon, doesn’t strike me as a beer or seltzer guy but ooooo that liqah….

— dress to impress demon. his gf definitely got him to play it and he got hooked and now he’s a fashion maven.

modern AU! george weasley who…

— is every girls dream man…im talking flowers, boo baskets, burr baskets, easter baskets, omg you say the word and he’s massaging your feet and feeding you grapes.

— always posting his girl just like his brother she’s on his absolutely everything and he has a highlight for her.

— type of guy to post those tiktoks of his girl on his account appreciating her all the time and the comments are like “omg on his account too!” and it’s so cute and adorable.

—isn’t much of a party guy like his brother…will go to a few but i feel like it’s not his thing at all and he’d rather be hanging out with friends instead of at a big function with strangers.

—literally the ken to your barbie and yes he took you to see the movie and yes he got into costume with you. and he did it happily.

— always hanging out with his girlfriend and wouldn’t want it any other way.

[solid-white]

Engineer's theme song is one of the few songs WITHOUT any backup. Obviously right? Because Engineer is the one playing the song.

Out of all the 33 tracks, just Engineer's theme has no backup. Only his, and when there is backup, it's an bass guitar.

But, here's the thing, all the songs are jazz, with the added instruments to go with the characters (Scout has bongos, Demo's bagpipes, Soldier's trumpet, etc)

But Sniper's? His is only saxophone. The saxophone is present in EVERY single song, in EVERY single one of the tracks. Including Engineer's.

MEANING, THIS MOTHERFUCKER MADE ALL THE SONGS:

I actually lied about everything I just said.

But now that you're here, lemme tell you about what all the instruments each merc plays (FYI, I won't be mentioning taunts used twice, like the guitar, cymbals and drums. I'm only using ones unique to their characters):

Obviously Sniper and Engineer play the guitar and saxophone, as you can see. I think Sniper was also playing the saxophone in Expiration Date? But don't quote me on that.

Soldier plays the trombone, which is funny considering his theme songs are usually accompanies by trumpets. But the more you know.

Pyro has a taunt where they use their axe like a guitar, so we can assume they can play the guitar too.

Scout plays the bongos. Since almost everyone on the TF2 team can play an instrument, he for sure was playing the bongos in his own theme song:

Medic has a taunt where he plays his bonesaw like a violin, so we can assume he plays the violin.

Heavy doesn't play any instruments. I'm somewhat disappointed he doesn't have a taunt where he plays Sasha like a cello, since he would've matched with Medic's taunt. But it also makes sense with his backstory and personality, he's more of a listener then anything else.

Spy doesn't play an instrument either, but something I heard was that Spy's voice actor copies Scout's voice to make Meet The Spy more authentic, since Spy's disguise (nudge nudge wink wink to anyone who gets that reference) doesn't mimic the mercs voices. Though I'm not too sure if that's true, so don't quote me. I'm guessing Spy has a sickass singing voice considering he can voice act really well.

And finally, Demo. He plays the piano and bagpipes as seen in his taunts and probably Expiration Date. Again, for the third time, don't quote me because I couldn't find the original scene this was in.

[vesperane]

a little party

✎ It's 1927 and the lights are glittering. You're a budding jazz chanteuse, everyone's sweetheart, and Leon, who's got you in his sights, is out to score what's in his mind.

cw: blood, death, oral (female receiving), uhmm idek what to add cuz my mind is not minding after this (this shii hit hard and it's like 9k) , intricate time-skipping from scene to scene, mayhaps?, not proofread ouchie, MDNI

The rain poured down from the sky like a mighty torrent of rage. That night, the cold that prickled through Leon’s soaked Hart Schaffner jacket, far from dispiriting him, only kept him going. Years of privation, every step he had taken to secure his very existence, had taught him the vernacular of the streets, but on that night, the streets were poised to betray him. 

This story of treachery wasn’t as bitter as life, Leon couldn’t refute that.  

He had witnessed a sequence of crime that perhaps a boy who had come to a city like New York from his rural village, a boy who couldn’t even calculate his steps precisely, should never have seen in those scenes in his ever-lasting life. It was true that these blue pairs of peepers had seen many people perish, but these were the deaths that came in their due time like his mother’s death before she turned sixty, the Grim Reaper’s visit on his grandfather on a night like that night when the rains were drizzling over the sky. 

Only his father’s martial death could have rivaled the images he had seen that night. That may be it, he thought. After all, he had never had the chance to see his father choke on his own tainted and alcohol-laden blood in his frail, final moments. 

Back to that night, the man Leon saw in the car had a very different kind of dread. His eyes were huge sockets and a bloody streak was running down his throat on his skin, visible through the placket of his dress shirt.  

That was the kind of sight that makes one’s heart sing. Otherwise, it must have been an appalling sight that made men and women wince and cower. Leon should have felt the former for himself.  

How could he have known the little trick that fate would be about to play?  

On that September night, on a corner, he saw a wounded man trapped inside a maroon Cadillac. On the man’s face, there was a sliver of hope mixed with absolute despair, just the kind of “too proud to ask for help, but in need of salvation”.  

A faint spark flared inside Leon. 

He could recall his departed father’s words, that such men like in those costly cars were indeed evils for no good deed.  

His past had to be repudiated. 

His father was perhaps cursing him that night—no the old man was absolutely putting the whammy on young Leon. What a hell of a father. It was always the hardest thing for a boy like Leon to placate that lousy man. Even after his death it was all the more impossible to appease him. A ruffian of a man, Leon thought.  

He thought too much on that rainy, Friday night.  

Out of pure, undiluted impulse, he acted without a plan at all to save the man; he only thought of taking one more step in that ill-lit road. When he set his eyes on that street, he walked with a foolish spunk, heedless of the gun barrel of the mobster shrouded in shadows. He neither thought about the future nor retreated. “If you bail someone out, someday you will be bailed out too,” he thought with childlike simplicity.  

He was cold and unsure. Somehow or other, he had slid out of the dusk and appeared behind the black-clad mafioso who was pointing his revolver at the driver’s window and was about to blast the man inside with the hollow point of a bullet. 

The plot was grim. A gruesome story. For hours Leon washed his hands with scalding soapy water to rinse off the scum of the filthy man’s blood or that’s how he remembers the aftermath of the chain of events.  

He had grabbed the man by the cord and bashed his head against the drywall, searing sounds that he could still recall in the innermost recesses of his ear, the gold inlaid revolver in his hand clattering to the pavement, airy-fairy. The wrangling of the man, his Fedora hat plunged into the muddy rainwater pit on the tiled road. Leon would always remember the first murder, the one that lodged deep in the very core of his psyche. 

Beyond recall, Leon thrashed the man’s skull from wall to wall until he was sure he was in a stupor, and when the man finally slumped—coup de grace. Leon wailed out the air he had been consciously holding all those long, long minutes. Mouth hanging open, dulled eyes and the pile of corpse littering the floor at his feet. The lack of sleep from hours of working in the packing department of the Berwick shoe factory, some man’s brains imploding in the wall... Everything had drained the daylight out of Leon on that cursed night.  

When he met the gaze of the terror-struck man in the car, he met something much newer.  

He met himself.  

Or rather, his new “self”. 

An absolute criminal.  

He wasn’t shaking, nor did he feel like he might be sick. What was most pathetic was that he appeared to resemble his dead father in the wretched auspices reflected in the window of that maroon Cadillac. 

After that night, life kept rolling along. Days, weeks and months. Ironically, Leon was no longer just another schmo slugging it out in the textile mills. Nobody batted an eye at the kid’s line of work with all that greenbacks stuffed in his pockets. The word on the street? He’s just a flash in the pan, a real fly-by-night type. But here’s the thing, an American, with blonde hair and baby blues, is always the cat’s meow, especially if he’s sporting a sharp suit with a label on it. Anything that don’t fit the mold? Forget it. No exceptions to the rule. And isn’t that the ultimate American dream? Gents with pockets full of dough, running the show. 

How your story comes along with this creepy-crawly backstory, with so many powerful men signing off on it, is pure happenstance. A story straight from the pen of God, really, to put it in a nutshell.  

It all starts on a Saturday night, the March of 1927. 

Tin Pan Alley is kicking up its heels tonight, the joint hopping with the wildest kind of racket. The place is packed with middle-class folks from all corners of the city—newly minted millionaires who’ve made their pile and are now living it up. These cats have been rolling in dough so long they’ve got the smarts to throw it around like it’s sugar-coated. The air’s thick. Lap of luxury, and the whole scene is a real shindig, full of high-living gents and dames who’ve learned to spend big, laugh loud, and flash those fat pockets like it’s nobody’s business. 

“Get a wiggle on, gals! C’mon now.” 

From backstage, the sound of booming voices cuts through the air, unmistakably Ada Wong herself—barking orders and giving the girls an earful as she whips them into shape for the show. She’s a stunner with grit, the kind of woman you can’t help but notice. No one else is ever going take her seat; this joint is hers, and everyone knows it. Ada doesn’t just run the joint—she owns it. She’s got her pretty fingers on the pulse of the city’s most daring and avant-garde talent, working with the best, the boldest, and the brightest minds the world has to offer. If she’s not at the top of the heap, she’s surely standing on it. 

What’s a woman like that to do with a gal like you? Well, there’s a rather simple answer to that. 

Pretty young things always find their way to the top. And that’s before we even get to ones with voices that could melt hearts, like yours.  

Ada’s the Queen of the downtown club scene, and you’re her darling young, white-hot vessel of treasure trove. Pretty girls always get their moment, but pretty girls with a lilting voice garner more than their share of attention. All in all, Wong knows what she’s doing and you’re her ace in the hole. 

Yet there’re some rules. Ada’s rules. Simple ones, really. “Slip into your Jeanne Lanvin, dazzle ‘em with that red lipstick, and keep your chin up—don’t fidget, don’t even think about mussing up that perfect coif.” 

And on the stage, do keep that smile for the crowd until you get the microphone—because after all, the crowd is here to see your legs, not to hear your troubles. They pay in bills, you deliver the thrills.  

Hot minutes before the show, you stare at your reflection in the mirror like you’ve never seen your face before. The same old script in the mind, the same fake smile stretched on your lips—too tight over a thousand unspoken thoughts. The eyes in the glass, observing you with a kind of critical hunger, just waiting for a slip. They can’t perceive the enmity in your head—the one that never takes a break, no matter how many gin rickeys you slug down. The booze? It doesn’t wash away the ache. The pills? Only another temporary fix to soothe the ache that burns brighter when the spotlight fades. 

Why are you miserable, when the dough’s rolling in and the world’s at your feet? Why turn your back on the luxury that others would kill for? But hell, you don’t need an answer. 

You’re an oddity, a riddle wrapped in velvet and lace, sipped from a silver cup. The men and women, they all like you. The faces in the crowd—each of them gazing up at you with athirst eyes—are only loyal to you when the lights are on and the music’s blaring. Afterward, though, you’re just another pretty girl in a smoky room, holding your breath until they let you vanish again.  

Post-performance, Chris Redfield is the name which shields you from scrutiny (he quite literally interposes his humongous body between you and the admirers), he’ll pluck you out of the melee, hustle you into a quiet space and shelter you from anything. 

Then you’ll sit in the corner, maybe sip a seltzer, and go over your numbers, rehearsing the songs they want to hear and shimmy your tush that they’re going to throw dollars at. All in those godforsaken high heels! It’s a devil’s game, this life of glitter and stage lights. But the lights burn so bright, you almost forget the shadows hounding you from behind. 

All this sufferance, your illusions, the never-ending fervent hopes of that girl who had to run in those heels were perfectly channelized and you were born. For years you have breathed in and out for a single purpose, in an intricate cycle called life, a circle of a powdery pink existence that is anything but powdery pink. 

 It’s all diamonds. Dirty, big diamonds.  

“Miss, are you all set?” Chris’ voice slips into the air, stripped of any graspable pathos like a bad rumor. Those mother-of-pearl drop earrings—they’re starting to feel like anchors around your neck. 

“Sure thing, Chris,” you enunciate animatedly before getting up from your vanity chair. “Let’s take a stroll, huh? Like we own the place.”  

He does laugh, though rather stilly. He’s a straight shooter, the kind who lives by the book. 

After a lackluster walk, you arrive upstage. The joint is packed to the rafters, the air thick with the perfume of incense, lavender, and a dash of orange, like a high-society boudoir on a Saturday night. Piers, who performed a little verse before you, is preparing to leave the stage to thunderous ovations. Naturally, he can’t scram from the joint until he’s put in the grunt work he’s got to handle. 

“Ladies and gents, hold onto your hats—here’s the name you’ve all been dying to hear!” Piers’ voice crackles through the microphone, sending a whitecap through the crowd like a match setting fire to velvet. He does wonders with the microphone, alright. 

One, two, three—out with it. You exhale that pent-up storm and just like that, the stage belongs to you. 

Time’s up. You take that breath, the one you’ve been holding like a secret you can’t quite tell, and you step into the spotlight. 

You’re in. And the stage is yours—a damn showstopper of a stage, mind you. 

Your heels hit the floor with that familiar rhythm, each step measured, a saint’s grace—if a saint knew how to twirl in silk and steal the show. The crowd’s already on their feet, clapping, whooping, hollering. The smile on your face is blindingly luminescent, even more dazzling than diamonds. God, you’re fake, but hands up, darling. You’re the queen of this palace.  

The air’s electric as you wave, your people calling your name like it’s the sweetest song they’ve ever heard. Your chest swells, a perfect mix of pride and thrill, the crowd hanging on your every move like moths to the flame. 

But then—just as the frenzy peaks—a set of eyes catches yours from somewhere in the haze. 

Something in that gaze. Something different. A new note in the symphony, sharp and clear. 

With all due respect, you know the dandies—the regulars who’ve been greasing their palms to get front-row seats for years. Those high-browed, underdressed gargoyles—each one plastered in a grotesque mask of makeup that’d make a saint blanch. And then there are the ones who are really in love with your voice, the ones who drop their dimes and bills just to hear you sing, all the way down to the final breath of your last note. Their eyes glisten like they’re listening not just to you, but to the very last song on earth. 

But then there’s him—the stranger in the crowd. He doesn’t quite fit into either of those camps. He stands apart like a shadow, as though he’s absorbed something from the city itself—electric, muted, with a trace of gunmetal dust in his eyes, something that caught the reflected light of a thousand lost souls. 

He’s not looking at the fellow beside him, not paying the slightest attention to the clamor or the chatter. No, his gaze is all for you. Wait a minute—what’s this? Is that Ada, standing just there by his side, or has your vision gone all soft in the haze of the lights? 

It’s Ada, alright. And she’s got you in her sights, sending you a thousand little daggers with those eyes of hers, as if daring you to keep singing, daring you to hit every note just so. 

Now, it’s not your style to stand around like some dopey schoolgirl, ogling every flapper and every fancy boy who drifts through the scene. No, you’re only a little giddy to see fresh faces, fresh crowds, and—well, a fresh crop of admirers, too. No harm, no foul. End of story, no need to dig any deeper. (Of course, that’s all just a tall tale.) 

But what about Leon? How’s he taking in this blurred picture of yours, with all its strange little twists and turns? 

“What a hot mess up there on that stage.” He mutters tacitly, his very first thoughts about you. 

He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, finding the whole thing a delightful mess. And he knows—oh, he knows—that he’s right in the crosshairs of Ada’s death stare. Poor guy. He’s probably already picturing her giving him a good talking-to, the sort that’d have a lesser man crawling for cover. 

For now, though, your voice knells over the microphone, a golden oldie, ritzy and true, and the crowd falls into a hush like a room full of smitten children. The spell is cast again, and they’re all yours. 

Ada, meanwhile, gives you a nod—half maternal, half triumphant—as if you’re her very own creation, fretting and fuming along in a delicate harmony with the night. And Leon, well, let’s just say he’s still trying to keep his own amusement under wraps, but the grin’s playing all over his face. 

No doubt about it, you’re the star of the night��who else could it possibly be? The eponymous name everyone’s been whispering in esteem, the one Leon has heard mentioned more than once, all wrapped up in the honeyed sort of praise.  

Up on stage, Leon has you in his illusory blues, as everyone else contemplates you until your encore is at an end. There are certain things that should only be spectated, their splendor should be kept locked away in the heart and in a secret corner of the brain after peeping through the veils of the eyes. That’s you, for him. You’re that kind of beauty—too grand for the world to touch, too perfect to be anything but an ephemeral glimpse. 

“Oh, that chick’s the real deal, alright,” Leon breathes in overawe. Turning now to Ada, when your performance comes to a sublime end, he has you up front in the applause, as does your crowd. He’s a part of your crowd now.  

To which Ada retorts with a cognizant luster, “What did I tell you?” she says, the glow of cinch lighting up her face like the glow of a cigarette’s ember in the dark. “The best ones are always under my namesake.” 

Leon can’t argue with that—not when he’s seen you, not when you’ve got him bewitched, already half-dreaming that you might be some celestial being sent here just to voodoo the cosmos with your tongue. A star fallen from Arcadia, caught in a moment of earthly grace. In such a way that he should render himself a more open target for you. The thought flickers through his mind like a dangerous little inferno: maybe he should make you his. Keep you close, lock you up like the most precious thing he owns, the way he’s always hoarded only the finest nonpareils. Time’s done a number on him, sure—he’s spent enough hours in the smoke-permeated parlors of the city’s high society to become exactly the sort of libertine playboy who rounds up beautiful things. In this modern age, after all, it’s the ones who possess the rarest jewels who leave their names etched into history. 

And legacy—that’s all Leon really wants. To leave a mark. To be remembered. 

Ada gets the wind of that desire in Leon’s eyes the second he lays his zealous eyes on you. She tugs him by the arm, and pushes him to a corner that’s secluded from the public eye, so that his ear can reach her red-tinctured lips. “Don’t,” she warns, “don’t cross that line in your mind.” 

“Don’t get all worked up, Ada.” Leon’s voice slips out smooth and phlegmatic, like a man who’s seen it all and is hardly moved by it anymore. There’s something visceral about it, something that pulls him into the dark corners of the backstage when a woman like her—striking and full of fire—yanks him close. He has always adored women, sure, but there’s something about the ones who know how to take charge, the ones who’ve got the power to bend him to their will, that makes him stay just a little bit longer. 

Tonight, though, Ada isn’t the one who has his attention. You are. He plays the part of the good boy to Ada, soft words and whist smiles, but underneath, there’s a quiet conspiracy to take what she holds dear, her prized girl, namely you.  

This tendency is nothing new for Leon—it’s a trick he’s picked up over time, a survival mechanism he learned in the kind of world where charm and guile are the only things that keeps him afloat. 

Ada doesn’t miss it. Her eyes narrow, and her brow furrows, the kind of expression that makes a man’s skin crawl. There’s no mistaking the mistrust there, like ice forming in the atmosphere between them. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says, her voice abiding, almost too calm. “One wrong move, and Wesker’s on your tail.” 

Her words hang heavy in the air, a warning clothed in concern. Beneath her sangfroid, Leon feels a flicker of something deeper, something that he’s too foolish to fully understand—Ada Wong is afraid. In this world, in this neon-lit, soulless place, she fears losing someone she can rely on. Someone she trusts. 

Leon gets it, or at least, he feels the weight of it—but it’s nothing he’ll lose sleep over. He’s too simple, too self-absorbed, too headstrong. A fool, really. 

And that foolishness, that same reckless drive, leads him straight to your door. And standing in the way is Chris, his massive frame blocking the entrance like a standpat mountain. 

Leon’s voice takes on a resigned note. “Fine, fine. I’ll figure it out.” He knows he’ll have to talk his way through. He always does—always puts his life and tears on the line. 

“Come on, pal,” he says with a remiss grin, like he’s telling an old joke. “What’s one little party going to hurt? 

His words sound tired, worn from repetition, but his eyes are sharp, looking for any crack, any weakness in Chris’ solid stance. Leon knows this game well, but Chris? He’s not someone you talk past easily. 

“No entry, I said,” Chris’ voice is edgier and booming. Leon didn’t expect a harsh backlash from such a dim-witted man, even though he’s been grilling him for nearly half an hour. The pedestal, however, is clear, Leon wants to be heard and he wants to draw your attention. He knows you’re in your room and he doesn’t compromise since he always wants more. Even if he tickles a chance that he might end up getting beaten up, the risk, you are, worth it. 

Leon shrugs, ever the picture of nonchalance, though his voice is silky with calculated charm. “It’s just an autograph, my good man. A trifle, really. You wouldn’t deny an admirer of the arts a simple token, would you? It’s hardly the end of the world…” Leon flaunts his mendacious excuses.  

For then, Chris inhales a long, drawn-out gulp of bile. Why is he going through this excruciating ordeal? This loquacious blonde has been clamoring to see you for minutes. Leon’s been at it for minutes now, talking a mile a minute—promising everything, offering bribes, flattering him to no end. And yet, there’s no movement. 

“When I say no, it means no. Get movin’ or I won’t be liable for what happens, young fella,” Chris’ last words are too caustic and are perhaps adequate proof enough to conclude the last point. Only a cheeky mite like Leon doesn’t understand how to leave high and dry. 

“A grave indignity, old sport. I only—” His words are broken off by the crack of the door parting open. The countenance he beholds is the one Leon covets. At the sound of the click of your heels, Chris turns in a dazed sort of way to acknowledge your presence. 

“Ma’am, this fellow—”  

You interrupt him with a wave of your hand in the breeze. You don’t necessarily need to hear the whole story; you’ve already overheard the whole thing when you were changing your dress.  

“Chris, me and my... admirer will take it from here,” you assure your friend, and you do recognize your newest fan’s face, “you should go home now.”  

That’s how you seal a deal.  

The jazzy, twinkling blue mirrors in Leon’s sockets—reflecting fragments of light like stars caught in a lover’s gaze—seem to applaud you silently. “Look at this dame,” they whisper, “What a thing she’s done, dispatching that thug.” 

Chris’ stupefied gaze flies between you and Leon. Yet the look you give him signals that all is well enough, the quiet reassurance of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing. Chris bears silent and moves a meter away, and then over a dividing wall. 

“You saved me, my dear.” Leon dashes in without wasting a second of his precious time. However much he can wow you, that’s as good as it gets. 

“Oh, don’t even mention it,” you reply, your voice airy but welded. “And please, do excuse Chris. Mr...?” You quirk your eyebrows and proffer his name, hand raised for a handshake. Leon’s only too happy to comply. 

“Leon. Leon Scott Kennedy.”  

You can’t quite place it, but there’s something vaguely familiar about the name, like a snippet of conversation overheard in a café or a name dropped casually pending a gossip fest. It lingers on the edge of your memory, refusing to settle in the space where it belongs. 

Leon can see the ululation echoing in your eyes, plain and simple, “What is it, doll?” He asks, beryls alight with oceanic larks. “Do you know me? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve heard of me. Everyone knows my name around here, you see.”  

How he can’t stop raving about himself leaves a tangy aftertaste on your tongue for the first impressions. Naturally on your face too. 

You smile, just a little too gaily. “I believe so,” you counter. “But I was more curious about what’s brought a man of such... renown to this particular corner of the world. After all, I’ve never heard of you before tonight, Mr. Kennedy.”  

Your words are relentless, and besides, there’s no harm in reminding this conceited man of his place in your presence.  

“Is that so?” Leon cross-examines. Now it’s time to watch his face shrivel up—figuratively speaking since his face is too pretty to take a nosedive. 

“That so, gentleman.” You sort of ascribe to his intonation, the same acerbic tonality and maybe a pinch of belittlement. It’s more genuine. Now why would you do it like that? Now that you’ve piqued his interest all the more, his already inherent infatuation with you attains a deeper level. Now you’ve got him hooked even tighter. The one that’s not an easy prey is always more desirable, and simple-minded people like Leon, men of a breed under the names of kind gents, take this as a rule of thumb.   

“Honey... That’s called cheating, see? Be straight with me. My name’s the talk of the town.” Leon’s counting on you to accept this absurd truth, his truth. The smile of implied expectation on his lips is a foreshadowing of its force majeure. He’s delivering the punchline of a joke no one’s laughing at yet. 

“Sir... I’m at a loss for words, truly. You’ve come all the way here to face Chris just for my autograph?” You do what you know and your cockiness builds layer by layer. Watching the ferment on his face, the frowny set of his eyebrows, gives you a special sense of self-assurance. 

“Autograph. Ha!” Leon lets out a crow of laughter, like he’s just remembered something from way back. It’s big, brash, and loud. Passing dancer girls bustle around backstage, giggling at his fit of exuberance. It’s that you are making a toy out of him and somehow, he can’t extricate himself from the predicament. 

“I forgot, of course,” he says, shifting into a more controlled drawl; he’s trying to smooth out the bumpy ride. He pulls a pen and a small notebook from his coat pocket with an exaggerated flourish. “But you can’t exactly blame me, doll. Your beauty’s done something to my head—messed with my mind, ya know?” 

Oh, he’s smooth, like the tingles left by the fingers tangent to your palm. 

“It seems to be your problem,” you riposte. Pen in hand, you carve your signature on the blank expanse of crisp white paper and Leon follows the touch of the ink on the sheet of paper, heedless of your jeering remarks. 

“My problems never quite seem to end,” he expounds, not in a protesting way, but with a light touch of amusement tapping on his lips. You only respond with a whispery whicker of a laughter. You do laugh like God, Leon notices, if God is even real. 

That’s when Leon understands why people can be drawn to a simple voice as much as they can. You owe your fame to this elfin-singing voice, the batting of those cartoon eyes. As for your beauty, it must be a double blessing from God.  

Leon delights in deciphering you like a crossword puzzle, worships your littlest moves, the way the flutter of your lashes floats and the way you tuck his pen back into the pocket on his chest, your fingers brushing the fine wool. 

“There you go. I’ve solved the great mystery of where your pen belongs.” You intone with a quip, setting up a bittersweet closure for the end of your conversation. No sooner do you withdraw your hand that Leon neatly guides your wrist and then places your knuckles in the vicinity of his lips, dusting them with brief, aestival kisses. 

“Oh, so chivalry isn’t pushing up daisies after all,” you admire, a playful lilt that could make even the most cynical gangster crack a smile. When your cadenza echoes in his ears, he takes a step or two back and assents with a single nod. A small vignette of a valedictory farewell. 

“It never croaked, doll,” Leon’s exuding poise again. “And as long as I’m around, it never will.”  

Seeing the beatific smile on your face like the marquee outside the Cotton Club, in his defense, is worth being so gooey— makes him feel just the right kind of foolish. 

“I wish you the grandest of nights,” he wishes you a generous adieu, tipping his hat in a farewell that’s both classy and just a speck visionary. Then, with a hindmost glance, he’s gone, leaving behind the faintest fume of his cologne—woodsy, something big-ticket, and just dangerous enough to match the man himself. 

This parting, though it may feel final, is no more than the ebb and flow of time.  

The morning’s bouquet arrives with violets, their soft, violet faces peeking from beneath a flourish of ribbon, accompanied by a silver card, its edges smooth and gleaming, bearing a name that was spoken only yesterday, inked in a hand that could never be mistaken for anything but deliberate, graceful.  

Leon.  

Each new day brings its own small ceremonial gestures—an exchange of flowers, bellflowers to accompany the violets, perhaps a box of bonbons in the afternoon—each offering bestowed as if to signify the passing of something eternal. You, by virtue of your place, greet them with the appropriate pleasantries. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but it stirs something within you. The feeling lingers. It is like the first breath of spring, though all around you is the stillness of winter. 

The exchange of blooms soon shifts from the morning to the evening, as the days drag on. And one night, when you return home well after the sun has set, weary from a day’s toil, you barely step inside before stumbling over a scattering of furniture, bags, and the daily clutter that seems to overtake your living room. The place is chaos, but your eyes catch the glint of something—an envelope, dark as the night, slipping from beneath the glow of the lamp. 

In the midst of such chaos, the gray luna card peeks out in the darkness like a square, mini-moon. Leon Scott Kennedy, you see that signature. 

“Is he playing some cruel jest?” You grumble ringingly. Indignation and dismay pump a tumult of emotion into your bloodstream.  

How on earth did this man find my home?  

It’s one thing to trace the address, to acquire it from some list or chance encounter, but to walk right in—to gain such intimate knowledge—who is this Leon Scott Kennedy? 

You don’t know the answer yet, but you will have to.  

In the days that follow, the gifts come still, but their novelty has long worn thin. The flowers, yes, they remain—fragile reminders of something, but the jewelry and the fine clothes? A cheap masquerade, a vulgar form of generosity. They carry no weight, no warmth. You collect them all and send them on their way, delivered into the hands of some worthy cause, as if the giving itself were the only part worth remembering. 

The night presses on, and once again, you sit in the stillness of the dressing room, the buzz of anticipation humming just outside the door. The minutes slip by like forgotten memories, yet the weight of them, that heavy burden, never quite leaves you. Your chin rests in your palm as you study your reflection in the vanity mirror. Makeup perfected, hair arranged with methodical precision—everything is in its place, or so it seems. 

Everything is okay, except for one problem. A burden of distress that has been piling up inside you which you can’t tell anyone about, and it’s directly stabbing you in the heart. 

Should you even be on that stage tonight? The question lingers in your mind like a ghost, but you can’t answer it. Your thoughts are in a terrible disarray, as though your mind has split itself apart at the seams. Paranoia gnaws at the edges of your sanity, clawing at the fragile thread that holds it all together. How could you possibly perform in this state, to feed the insatiable hunger of the crowd outside? 

But, of course, Ada would have no qualms about writing you out of here in the blink of an eye, and while the money tempts you, the thought of unemployment claws at your gut like a feral thing. Still, this job—the stage, the spotlight, the rhythm of it all—this is what you are in love with. It’s never easy, losing what you love while you’re still so deeply entwined in it, but sometimes that is the price you pay. 

And so it’s settled. You will go. You will step out there, and you will do what you’ve always done. The show must go on, after all. 

It’s only then that matters assume a different ontogeny. Two torpid taps at the door, clouds of heavy thoughts bite the dust. It’s absurd to ask who it could be. Has to be Chris. Take a deep breath and repeat the rituals you know, the ones that are now ingrained in your repertoire. 

Then, there’s a second round of knocks. A fourth, more insistent, more immediate, as though time is cat on a hot tin roof. It’s not Chris. It can’t be. 

“Salutations, my dear.”  

To see the face that flashes you a foul grin when you open the door here again is the very last alternative scene you’d hoped for. On the spur of the moment, you even attempt to slam the door in his face, but he’s reflexively putting his foot on the threshold, rather faster than you anticipated. 

“Tch! Not so fast, honey,” comes that jaunty cadence again, infected with that same devil-may-care rhythm. 

The man at the door is none other than Leon himself—an unexpected and unwelcome visitor. He stands there, his presence somehow both imposing and unwarranted. 

“I can’t believe you,” you break into hysterical platitudes. The very notion of him—of this—is enough to rive the delicate shell of control you had carefully built around yourself. 

Leon can’t fathom the reason for the knitted brow and is forced to compromise the arrogant mien on his face. The sang in the cerulean blues adequately sums it up. 

“What exactly can’t you believe, ma’am?” 

The dazed stress in his question reveals that he doesn’t even realize the folly of his mistake. What kind of a joke is this? What audacity and idiocy?  

“I don’t buy it, sir.”  

The froth in your breath at odds with the urbane gentleness of your words. Ignoring this, Leon pushes the door open in a single dash and you’re propelled through the door. He closes it in a blink of an eye.  

“Is your charade going to end or...” 

Before Leon can ask his rhetorical question, his eyes flick to the ultraviolet petals in the vases on your vanity table. So you kept everything, his floral tribute for you. Oh, it’s heartwarming, but... he still can’t cross the backhanded pinprick in your stance. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave my room or I’ll have to fetch Chris here.” 

“You don’t say?” Leon is the same, overzealous. He’s irksome to the extreme. 

“Last time, I thought everything was splendid, darling,” he drags out, “I distinctly recall you favoring me with those dreamy little looks. Correct me if I’m mistaken.” 

Such gall. He has absolutely no idea how much of a headache and the hell he’s been giving you. It’s better to remind him, but how you do it is up to your discretion. 

“Listen here, mister, had I taken your insolence to the authorities, you’d likely not be setting foot anywhere near here. You’d be—” a deliberate pause for emphasis, “breathing stale air behind iron bars.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me, been mixing grain and grapes but what the devil are you talking about?” 

His smile falters then, only slightly. There’s no awning of shock, no mortification, no shame etched across his face. Instead, his expression remains a humdrum enigma, a challenge lurks behind his steady gaze. What sort of man faces such accusations without so much as a flicker of discomposure? 

You can’t take it anymore. 

“How dare you intrude upon my home?” The words cut sharp, like the honed edge of a razor. 

“I’ve never been in your house, doll.” He’s ready to mount a defense in mere seconds. In fact, he hadn’t been in your house, not directly. Indirect is more like it. 

“Leon... please,” you hold up your hand and project callousness as if you’re repulsing his words, sweeping away the ugly bugs, “your card was even in the room with your very name written on it.”  

This is the first time he ever heard his name from your cherry lips, ruby and ripe. A different gamut of sensations, it’s limerence. 

But back to the elephant in the room.  

Soon enough, Leon’s epiphany is added to the flow of events, and if he can take his eyes away from you, he will have a couple of revelations. Taking his eyes away from you, on the other hand, is a hell of an ordeal—a Sisyphean task.  

It really does scorch him on a physical plane. 

“Don’t get yourself in a twist, sweetheart,” Leon is honing his flirting chops. Smoothing your ruffled feathers is a sport he’s personally cultivated.  

The stunned confusion written in a chiffon calligraphy on your face only fuels his merriment, albeit the sheer umbrage gemmating on your face.  

“I must remind you, Mr. Kennedy, that you are brazenly invading my privacy.” The words spill out like pearls on a string, polished but sharp-edged. It never hurts to try again, even if it means shoving your own ineradicable truths and forcing your own phrases into that numbskull.  

“Sure, sure, sweetheart. Privacy. Trespassing. Let’s call the whole thing off.” His grin unfurls, shameless. 

Leon takes a tentative grip on your wrist and guides you toward the chair by the window. As you sink into the chair, borderline slumping over, a thought strikes you like the crack of a conductor’s baton: tonight’s gig.  

The stage, the lights, the hushed murmurs of the audience—it all comes flooding back with startling clarity. 

“I can’t deal with this,” you mutter, rising to your feet as a fresh wave of trepidation tightens your chest. “I’ve got a show—” 

“Oh, the big show,” Leon infringes your words with a chuckle, waving his hand theatrically. “Let me guess. You’ll have the whole world eating out of your hand tonight, and I’m just the poor sap standing in your spotlight.”  

His hand finds your shoulder, potent and unyielding. He eases you back into the chair with a maddeningly adroit air.  

How rude.  

“All right, what’s the racket now?” you demand. Your eyes tote the lake of fire. 

“Don’t look at me like that, sugar,” Leon’s voice grates on your brain in just the veritable way, it’s tip-top dulcet.  

“I had a most discreet little chinwag with Ada Wong,” he prattles on. He pays no mind to the labored breaths that break the rhythm of his words, then, with an audacity that leaves you momentarily aghast, drops to his knees before you. 

“Oh, and darling Ada didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow as long as I promised to square her away for the greenbacks slipping through the fingers of your adorable fans.” 

He stylishly fuses the bevy of words with his… fancy lines as he speaks. His gliding hands on your legs awaken a surprisingly ruddy pallor. He seizes your ankle and sews it up, positioning your heel on top of his knee, cradling your right leg. The subsequent is tremendous.  

He slants the marrow of his blues on you, his chin tipped up, calculating how you’ll react. Ambivalent eyes are only on you.  

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop, but if you want me to keep going, I won’t stop till you’re sick of me. It’s all for you, doll.” His voice lacks the sanctimonious hue you have come to memorize. It leaves a more mellow rumble in your ears.  

Leon, taking into account the fact that he has received no verbal confirmation yet no verbal rebuff, folds the hem of your dress until the silk fabric curves around your hips, the satiny is a girdle around your waist, traversing the garter.  

“Give me a fair chance and I’ll make you forget all the pratfalls I’ve done.” His wintry breath strokes across your skin, soaking into your blood, his lips on your legs, Camellia pink, lush.  

Up and up. 

High enough to boggle your mind, but not high enough to bore you. Up your calves, past your knees and up your thighs beyond your calves. It’s not enough and the peerless panorama you can behold before you soak out your veiled eyelids, beset by strands of blonde hair tangled in the white lace of your French knickers. The abject cold of March versus the waves of citrus fire pouring from the fireplace sizzle your skin like in the saying; March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. 

Leon is inexorable with you and the portent of antsy impatience on your face as he lingers between your legs and welds his tongue between your pulpy slit.  

For Leon, it’s all he can do not to get drunk on the tang of the nectar he’s been craving for weeks.  He clamps his hands around your thighs and worships you, your lovely cunt, perhaps with the devout hunger of a believer after fasting all day long.  

Let your hips propel themselves against his nose, riding on the tip of his tongue. That garrulous mouth is at last put to some use, occupied, but his nose? The work his nose does is better experienced than spoken.  

An ephemeral passion infuses you with the lyrics of his tongue, your French manicured nails are nothing more than paws on his scalp and your fingers are nothing more than joints yanking at his tresses.  

What about your legs?  

They are a complete sphinx; you can’t even feel them.  

The words of adulation choke at the base of your throat and your mind blanks out when you feel his pillowy lips pressing against your raw ribbon of sore nerves. A myriad flux of gasps tumble down your rosy red lips, your body trembles as bolts of ecstasy rush through your synapses, white hot to the touch with bliss. 

Lovely sounds emanating from the crevices of your lips grow louder and Leon switches his weight to the outsole of his shoes, only ever paying attention to your glistening pussy. To quiet you down, he plants a brief, benign nip on your clit.  

Deep within you, that flash of rural thunderbolt strikes you anew, but you get the picture. Now your subdued moans beguile his ears, he licks and kisses and sucks on your plump clit; he’s near suffocation, but he carries on the rave, finger-fucking where his lips are each retreat to catch his breath. 

Right when you’re nearing the decadence, as ecstatic as he is, he flings his head back and refuses to let you sip that cocktail of hedonistic fumes.  

“Leon!” You yelp his name unabashedly in that frantic microsecond. Those twisted tufts of pleasure in your belly are torn to shreds and yes, in the end, you are incapable of cumming. All this because of your douchebag new lover with his tinsel eyes who is all eyes and no eyes.  

“Sorry, love.” His voice is raspy, his eyes cryptic as he entreats for absolution. Emits all the sounds that got stuck in his throat after lovemaking.  

Tongue still laced with that sherbet of jawbreaker liqueur; the only thing he’s lost is the blissed-out zeal of ecstasy on your beautiful face. His plans are separate anyway, that creampie episode should be in his bed and you’ll be stretched out on his cock which is now straining in a Brooks Brothers suit. He’ll leave you hanging, for more of him. 

Regardless, he can at least catch a glimpse of macules of mascara on your eyelashes and two mini teardrops splashing down on your lash cords. The saliva trickling out of your mouth and drooling over the brim of your lips tears at his very ruth, but the eyes are special. They will always tell the absolute truth.  

“I only want to be yours.” The rhapsodic promises spring out of his lips like a bolt from the blue. 

That’s the whole secret, and so he graves his head between your thighs like a lovesick animal, incapable of subduing himself. You foolishly dwell in this rollercoaster of amore. 

It would certainly not be a lie to conclude that things came to a healthier denouement after that night. The scant nights when you are absent from your apartment complex come on the heels of the days you stayed at his place and baked biscuits together in his kitchen. Those afternoons clogged with whispering of sins in the darkness.  

The city, blues, jazz lovers and the circle of all those people for whom Leon has who knows what kind of background, your name is the only topic of conversation, next to Leon’s. Your resplendent name, always written alone in big prints, is now next to a man.  

You are no longer alone, by all means. But then sometimes... some nights when Leon doesn’t drop by the house until the morning, your suspicions curdle into a black furor. Not a word of what the hell he was doing was ever exchanged between you, that’s what is slowly killing you. 

This uncertainty lingers for weeks and then for months. He somehow coaxes you into selling your apartment. It’s a seemingly ghastly toll—being bound to him, but his clarion rhymes always alleviate you. Strange. 

“My little angel, I just want you near me. Why do we need your apartment when I have my space and we have more than enough. Besides, a little party hurt no one, not you and me when we’re together.”  

Your protections are short-lived, because the kisses he lanced to your lips were usually loud enough to lull you into silence.  

He, Leon Kennedy, is hardly to be got to grips with. A charmer who never misses a trick. The best of everything belongs only to him and to you because you are his. You love dancing, but he doesn’t, he has to be a grumpy cat. Every time you stick a match to light your stogie, he winds up next to you and he’s the one who lit your kindle. He hates the smell, hates it wholeheartedly, says that his hair reeks and so on, but he sleeps with his head in your lap, watching the smoke flitting through the air from your lips. In fond veneration, as a little infant would behold his mother's face for the foremost time since the hour of his birth.  

The addressee of every petty dispute, the hardest, was to love a man who never lagged behind, who always wanted more.  

“You want more,” a dejected sulk crosses your lips, “Why?”  

Leon takes two sips from his glass full of Lafite, and he peers over the rim of the glass, half-listening. 

“What does that mean now?”  

“The night we met... something... struck me.”  

“Oh.” He sets his pint down on the table and is all at ease. 

“I’m only talking about the time you confronted a bloke like Chris without hesitation just to flaunt yourself in front of me, darling.” 

“Oh, that one. I’ll give Chris props, he was a hell of a boss. You should consider bumping up his paycheck.” 

You shake your head in resentful disbelief and refuse to say anything more beyond his passing remarks. Any time you point out something about his behavioral pattern, he gets testy and does his best to bury the hatchet. And then comes a killer migraine.  

“I certainly will. Ah, perhaps your patron should be a good patron like me and not withhold some money.”  

It’s these words that are rattling around in your unconscious. A voice in your head taps on your skull that it would not be a bad idea to hold back, but your lips will not meet.  

“Simply inhuman, to be working from nine at night to six in the morning. He should make you a multimillionaire by now.”  

Leon blinks his eyes closed and unfocused, his intense metallic gaze boring into you from beneath his lashes. 

“You know I prefer not to talk about it.” There is a devotional twang in his timbre. 

“Leon. I am merely—”  

Your lecture, however, is bisected in half by the storming in of a blond man dressed in a black leather trench coat following behind one of the girls working in housekeeping. Lackluster and sketchy.  

Leon staggers from his seat to his feet as the ignoble visitor takes his first step inside. 

You’re as still in your seat, legs crossed.  

“Please forgive me, young lady.” Your guest's voice is veiled with pejorative politeness. He draws closer, as if Leon is not in the room, and whispers short, detached and insensate kisses on your knuckles.  

“But your lover Leon himself was slacking off. For some weeks now,” he adds, then turns a short pivot to make sure his last words have reached the ears they are meant to reach.  

“I told you, pal, Ada and I have submitted our notice of dismissal, Mr. Wesker.” Leon’s teeth clench together. Oh, you know that look, better than anyone or anything.  

The humble ignominy of failing to uphold you in front of a man like Albert Wesker is hideous for Leon.  

“I’d be a fool to lose my best recruits, Mr. Kennedy.” 

This man must be the boss, apparently. What chutzpah.  

“I’m not coming. I told you, Italy ain’t my business.”  

“Italy?” Now you’re diving into the spiel. Confused, what’s coming out of these two men’s mouths is beyond their ears.  

Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, this tangled headache, the revelation of everything he had swept under the carpet weren’t part of his plans for tonight.  

“Your girlfriend is very prying, Leon, but curiosity kills the cat.” This Albert bastard is blatantly blackmailing you and Leon with verbal cattle prods.  

“I must ask you to leave my house. Please, kind sir.”  

You’d be a fool to put up with this nonsense any longer. You stand up and tactfully point to the door to the man who might be the very incarnation of effrontery. His eyes darting to Leon, you, and the door, flux and reflux.  

“Surely thing. I’m not here to offend the little lady. See, I’ll find my own way out.” Wesker bids you his wee farewell and, one last time, delivers those paralyzing spells of paranoia to Leon, “You know the deal, boy. You know better than anyone what happens when you slip up.”  

Leon is more familiar with such words. Grim-rimmed eyes are no longer cavalier blues.  

“You still got an hour.”  

After the admonition, the man leaves the room, leaving only misdoubt in his wake. At least for you. Your lover... He's in a very different state of mind.  

“Don’t tell anyone about this. Not a word. No one.”  

“I... What?” 

Your brain, which is still recovering from the shell shock, can’t even wrap up what you’re repeating.

“You, you, humor me, will you. Get your head together, sweetheart.”  

It’s absurd that Leon still adores you like some baby when he's slamming the lid of the safe full of dollars, euros and gold ingots. Only you don’t raise a peep, you simply gawk and watch the chaos around you.  

He’s been pacing the room for half an hour, tucking a flak jacket under his shirt and a leather gun holster into a Louis Vuitton utility belt around his waist. What the hell is this? Off marching off to war? 

When he’s done, he stalks you with quick strides and you find yourself stepping backwards for no reason. Leon doesn’t have time for these flip-flops. He’s got one overriding objective in mind. To save you by any means necessary, but he’ll never tell you from what. Yet you ask him over and over again, ranting and raving.  

A tantrum and delirium.  

“You can’t leave me. No.” Your voice is harsh enough, but the stinging tears in your eyes are perfidious.  

Inasmuch as he can’t bear to look at them, he can’t heed their force. 

“I’ll be back. I guarantee it, love. This is just a little party, had never hurt a soul.” 

He smothers your forehead in bittersweet caresses and spares your quivering lips along the pucker of your flesh. It’s all for naught. Nothing can be solved with these evanescent kisses.  

“Why are you running away from me? Why are you afraid of that man?” Your questions are clipped but unyielding. A single answer is more than enough, and you demand it, fight for it. 

That’s how pathetic Leon is. Can’t he face it?  

To be so weak that, for all that you’ve been through... It’s all teardrops on the fire between the two of you. 

You can’t quite read his eyes anymore, they’re not what they used to be and he’s not the man he used to be.  

“Please, Leon.”  

It’s the most humbling feeling of near-death to close his deaf ears to your invocation. He can’t name it, name the thing inside him, but acridness suffuses his whole body.  

He’s back to that rainy Friday night. Flashes and strikes with lightning bolts, like a short vignette of that night when the pump of the nightmare was looping through his brain.  

“Leon!”  

For once, he doesn’t look back. He knows very well that if he does, he will never be able to leave the house, not even one foot outside.  

You are left torpefied on the stairs now, as he simply slides the door shut and drifts away into the evening of a drizzly Tuesday night.  

A second or two elapses and you run to the door with a renewed willpower. No, he’s not leaving. You run, breaking the heel of your stilettos barring you’re gravely late for everything. Every single thing. 

It’s Leon’s Auburn, and you watch as he revs up the accelerator down the path through your garden, past the streetlights and into a void of alveolate twilight. 

The saga fades away as though it had never been indited for you with a special brush of pen. All that remains is the heavy diamond necklace on your neck, a souvenir from him, the chasm, he vamooses.  

You promptly called the police, no matter repeated strident warnings from Leon. Instead of promising you that they would find him, they inquired about Leon’s possibly alleged behavior and conduct, which you highly resented. How could they frame an absolute angel like him? “He’s not a bad man. He was threatened and scared. I know him better than any of you, constables.” You defended him, short-winded, because he needed to be remembered as the good man he always was. 

The Bluecoat were not as accommodating as you anticipated. 

So you did the only thing you could do. You waited for him. Every night, awake and alone in your empty and stone-cold bed, but the aria of this room was the nights when you kissed and fellated him a night or two before and then rode till you could not anymore.

But he never came. 

Two nights after Leon’s departure, on a Thursday morning to be precise, your eyes were as swollen and bloodshot as ever. Your slumber was ruptured by the rush of a newspaper headline brought to your room by one of the girls who worked at home. Breaking news, or as the Big Apple would say, hot topic.  

The name that crowded the headlines was none other than the name of the man you had in mind.

Broiling, hollow tears welled up in your eyes as you read the one headline stating that he had died in a car accident due to the soggy roads. The next words and the rest of the scoop didn’t matter to you at all, you knew it was all a lie. A big fat lie.  

A million interview requisitions came in, but who would waste time with that? 

Leon Kennedy did not die in a car accident. No one would believe you if you told them that. The truth is, your lover was already playing a dice game with stakes of death. 

He never needed to tell you, you already knew. Revolvers and gunpowder, the smell that assailed your nose right after his perfume on your skin, your clothes.  

It was an idiotic fairy tale in which you played a blinder. You were his nymph and he was your guardian angel. You were jumping off the stage and hopping to evade the eyes that swept over your body like hungry maggots, and he was the first man to bail you out of that jam, to buy you diamonds and pearls, and to love you above the rest of the hordes of those pantywaists. You loved your cigarettes; he hated the aroma and the haze of smoke. 

You loved dancing, baking biscuits at home with him and he loved hustling from party to party. Every single night when his landline rang, he left for his frivolous job that netted him a hefty sum of money—he was very fond of putting his life on the line. An even crazier adrenaline fiend than his love for you.  

You always detested yourself for it took you those torturous days after the breakup to finally decipher Leon. Always the latecomer to really know and love someone like him. His story couldn’t be passed on to anyone, anyone but you.

The story of a boy who came from an obscure hamlet and prowled the City That Never Sleeps, to see things he hadn’t yet seen. A boy who always wanted to hang in the lights, yearned the freedom, just like you once were. And then you. Without him, robbed of the best party of your life. 

[exactlymaximumgarden]

probably a very niche scenario BUT. thinkin abt schlatt with a partner making their broadway debut!! (mostly gn reader, usage of "attagirl")

you've been interested in theatre, acting, and all that jazz your whole life, and your boyfriend is naturally privy to this

he knows how much you love your hobby

so when you land a role in your first ever broadway production, he's SO hyped for you!!

as soon as you tell him you got the part, he's doing that cackle laugh he always does as he runs to you, picking you up and spinning you around in a bone-crushing hug

"attagirl, baby!"

will gladly run lines/scenes with you if you ask, and will go ALL out with voices to make you feel more comfortable

he won't ever admit it, but when you're off at rehearsals or in another part of the house, he's in his room doing extensive research about the show and your part in it

i'm talking articles, video essays on the history of the show, listening to the soundtrack on spotify

he wants to be just as much in the loop as you are

your leg of the tour opens in new york city, and of course schlatt is front row

he's MESMERIZED by you, cheering the loudest for you after your numbers and during the curtain call

has the most lovesick grin on his face whenever you're onstage

brings you the fattest bouquet of flowers you've ever seen post-show, peppering your face in kisses

"you did amazing, doll. i'm so proud of you, ya know that? so fuckin' proud."

he recognizes that you'll be away for a while during the show's tour, and despite him being insanely happy that you're pursuing your dream, he's not ready for you to be away for so long

ALWAYS begging for pictures or videos of your performances that he can't attend, plus you having to remind him that bootlegging is a crime 😭

this doesn't stop him from asking your mutual friends that attend the tour to sneak some footage for him lol

nightly phone calls or facetimes (he definitely prefers facetimes so he can see that pretty face of yours)

texting you allll the time too

he misses you so bad :(

sends you little care packages periodically!! full of honey lozenges, saline spray, teas, and aloe vera drinks to aid in your vocal health

he's the happiest guy in the world when you finally come home!

although you're slumped in his arms out of sheer exhaustion, nothing beats the feeling of having his lover close to him again

[sparkles-rule-4eva]

I'm aware this is random timing but I've wanted to analyze this scene ever since I saw it and I was rewatching the Frontiers cutscenes so I decided "why not now" lol

This scene right here.

First of all, I'd like to say that Sonic & Tails's interactions throughout this entire game are IMMACULATE. And while I've seen some people complain that Tails "wasn't concerned enough" at the fact that Sonic was so clearly sick, this scene begs to differ.

It also shows, in both a good way and a sad way, how well Tails knows his big brother.

The entire time before, Sonic's been (for the mostpart) going around with a front. Pretending he's fine and brushing aside everyone's worries about him to turn the focus instead on THEM and THEIR problems, not his. ESPECIALLY with Tails. And this little fox knows probably better than anyone that Sonic doesn't like it when people fuss over him. So he's been playing along. Doing his part, doing the best he could in his digitized state, staying busy and all the jazz.

And sure, a couple times before this, Sonic was acting more tired than usual around Tails, but Tails didn't point it out. And he still doesn't point it out here, but his expression and body language say it all.

Now the corruption's getting worse, and Tails is just about done pretending along with Sonic that everything's fine. This time, unlike the last two times when Sonic had defeated a Titan when Super Sonic had flown down to find Amy and Knuckles, Tails is the one who runs to find him afterward.

He's clearly very worried, especially when Sonic barely acknowledges his presence and is really just doing his best not to keel over at this point. Tails reaches out in a vain attempt to touch him — whether to comfort him or help him up, I'm not sure — but still cannot touch him at all for obvious reasons. He pulls back and just watches him intently with this deeply sad, almost regretful look on his face. The End starts talking again and Sonic lifts his head a little to listen, while Tails just quietly shakes his head as he looks at him. As if he's saying, "Please don't do more, please just take a rest, I want you to be okay." 😢 Or it could just as easily be a sad sort of understanding, a resignation to what Sonic does, like, "I want you to rest, we both know you need it, but I know you, I know you'd sooner run yourself to death before you let us stay trapped any longer. And I can't do anything to stop you." 💔

And then, after having his fists clenched in obvious distress, Tails tries to reach out again, one more time. Almost unconsciously, as Sonic looks up to where the voice is coming from. Almost like he does want to stop him. He opens his mouth for a moment, too, like he wants to say something, but bites it back at the last second.

Then he pulls away again. His face is nothing but sadness and worry. Sonic tries making a quip at The End's new instructions, but he's still so clearly exhausted.

It's also interesting how Sonic won't look at Tails this whole scene, until Tails asks in that tiny, scared voice, "Sonic?" and he stands up, tells him to hang tight, reassure him they're almost done. Trying so hard to play the part of strong older brother even here, when Tails can so easily see how sick he is. 😔

Their dynamic will always be so fascinating and sweet to me. Even in these darker, more painful moments, the familial love they have for each other is beautiful. 💙💛💔

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

Bonus DP x DC prompt “Star-crossed lovers” to this prompt where Batclan ship “Pitch Pearl”

"Give me my Romeo, and, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun." -Juliet (act 3, scene 2)

Red Hood stays in Amity Park to observe the situation after the romantic conflict resolution between Fenton and Phantom.

One day from a rooftop next to the Fenton Works he sees Fenton putting toxic ectoplasm in a bottle on the table, sighing and pouring it into a glass.

The horror of plunging into the Lazarus pit flashes before Jason’s eyes. Who would be crazy enough to want to experience such a thing? And for what?

As a proud bookworm, he could not help but remember the story of Romeo and Juliet at the same moment.

"My only love sprung from my only hate, too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me that I must love my enemy." -Juliet (act 1, scene 5)

Parents who are against relationships and hate the fact that their child’s partner exists? Checked out.

Dead Romeo? Uh, yeah, definitely.

Vial of poison? Freely available in the lab.

There can be only one logical conclusion: Seeing the dead lover, Fenton thinks only about how soon to die himself.

Is Fenton ready to join his lover in the Kingdom of the Dead? He has no guarantee of returning as a ghost, so why risk it?

Jason*runs to save “Juliet”*: I defy you, stars!

~~~~

Needless to say, sleep-deprived Danny is extremely unhappy when a guy in a leather jacket breaks into his house and tries to take his lunch away. 

Both boys panick, scream and absolutely not hear each other.

Jason: Don’t do this! It’s not worth it, there must be another way! 

Danny: Give me my soup back, thief! Take the turkey, it’s going to go bad.

Jason: I am serious.“ Love moderately. Long love doth so.

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.” Leave the ectoplasm to the dead ones, boy.

Danny: What a coincidence, I’m already dead deep deep inside.

Jason: Don’t joke, you should talk to a therapist.

Danny: Great idea. Jazz, help! Human in the house! This is not a drill!

Jason:..In general, both of you should talk to the Justice League. They can protect Phantom from your parents, don’t worry. You are not alone. 

~~~~

Fenton, sitting in front of the Justice League.

Flash: So, you and Phantom, how did you decide to start dating?

Danny: Well, what can I say in defense.. "Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty." -Romeo (act 5, scene 3)

Justice League:

Danny: Just kidding. I learned a whole quote for this. Can someone be proud of me, please? 

Batman: Hmmm

Danny: Thanks. And relax, I knew him before he died. Our relationship has always been complicated but we literally can’t exist without each other. So don’t worry about our breakup, it’s unlikely.

Danny: And don’t think I’d kill myself in such a stupid way, it’s boring. You might want to be more concerned about whether or not I’m shocking myself with a Fenton portal than watching my food. My stomach is indestructible, tested by years of ecto-contaminated cooking. But I don’t want to die. All this RIP is a complete lie. Trust me.

Red Hood: You. use to eat. ectoplasm?!

Danny: Yes, it's very nutritious. But you need to develop tolerance to it, otherwise you will be able to try it only once in a lifetime.

[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

Random Facts: Xavier

Xavier's Music Collection

We've all seen the intro sequence for the game. As always, the obscure details intrigued me. So, today, I'm going to talk about this particular scene. Shout out to Rachelcookie321 on X for the image and their CD identifications!

Collection List:

In order from the right side of the screen to the left side, here's what I could identify. But from what I discovered, Xavier is a big fan of Leonard Bernstein!

"Passando Per Laterra • Purple Dawn • The Seven Stages • Variation 10"

?

"Bernstein Conducts Beethoven"

?

?

"Two Step (...)"

"Symphonic Dances & Rumble • West Side Story"

"Üegar Stjornurnar Falla • Katie Mahan"

Another "Passando Per Laterra"

"Waiting For Nobody • Alone - The Forest Sings • Allegretto Leggerenete"

"Four Anniversaries: 3 • For David Diamond (July 9, 1915)"

Another "Üegar Stjornurnar Falla"

Another "Bernstein Conducts Beethoven"

?

"Blue Danube Waltz"

Another "Waiting For Nobody • Alone - The Forest Sings • Allegretto Leggerenete"

"Champions of Folly • Roy Harris, Bold Lovell"

Another "Passando Per Laterra"

"Hovhaness A.: Lousadzak / Shatakh / Achtamar / Tziakerk"

Collection Details:

Passando Per Laterra • Purple Dawn • The Seven Stages • Variation 10

"Passando Per Laterra" translates to "Passing Through The Earth". The words beyond that were identified by Rachelcookie123, but I've been unable to find any matches for this one.

Bernstein Conducts Beethoven

Album by: Leonard Bernstein

This is an album of Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic in Beethoven symphonies, recorded between 1958 and 1964.

Symphonic Dances & Rumble • West Side Story

Composer: Leonard Bernstein

This musical is a modern adaptation of Romeo and Juliet, telling the story of star-crossed lovers in 1950s New York. The score is a mixture of jazz, Latin rhythms, and Broadway style.

Üegar Stjornurnar Palla • Katie Mahan

Composer or Performer: Katie Mahan

Katie Mahan is an American pianist. In Icelandic, this translates to "When The Stars Fall", but I've been unable to find a work/performance of hers by this name.

Waiting For Nobody • Alone ~ The Forest Sings • Allegretto Leggerenete

Composer: ?

This one stumped me. Couldn't find anything at all about it.

Four Anniversaries: 3 • For David Diamond (July 9, 1915)

Composer: Leonard Bernstein

Four Anniversaries is a piano composition written by Leonard Bernstein in 1948. It consists of four movements, each dedicated to a specific person in his life. Xavier has a CD of the third movement, written for David Leo Diamond. David Diamond was also an established composer and this movement reflected his unique style.

Blue Danube Waltz

Composer: Johann Strauss II

This is a consistently popular piece in any classical musicians repetoire.

Fun fact: Among other uses in popular culture, this is the song used in Netflix's show "Squid Game" to announce the start of arepertoire.

Champions of Folly • Roy Harris

Album by: Roy Harris

Roy Harris was a popular American composer in the 1940s. "Champions of Folly" is a specific album of his music and "The Saucy Bold Robber" is a piece from that album.

Hovhaness A.: Lousadzak / Shatakh / Achtamar / Tziakerk

Composer: Alan Hovhaness

This is a recording of pieces by Alan Hovhaness that includes: Lousadzak, Shatakh, Achtamar, and Tsiakerk. Alan Hovhaness was an American composer who was one of the most prolific of the 20th century. While his official catalog includes 67 symphonies and 493 opus numbers, a true tally of his total works comes in at more than 500 surviving works.

Bonus CD:

The subsequent part of the intro scene shows Xavier selecting one CD and putting it into a CD player. On the CD are the words "Deep Space Legend: Beyond the Universe".