#the boss SR

[crimescrimson]

Red's Guide to Saints Row [Volume One]: Saints Row: The Third (2011)

Scenery: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [MS+1] [MS+2] [MS+3] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [DK+1] [DK+2] [DK+3] [15] [SG+1] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [LD+1] [SG+2] [+1]

Cribs Scenery: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

Characters: The Boss (Roxxi Rosé) [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] | Johnny Gat [1] | Shaundi [1] [2] | Pierce Washington [1] [2] [3] | Kinzie Kensington [1] [2] | Oleg Kirrov [1] [2] | Angel De La Muerte [1] | Zimos [1] [2] | Viola DeWynter [1] [2] [3] | Matt Miller [1] [2] | Jane Valderamma [1] | Jenny [1]

Pairings: GatBoss [1]

[kikkieabby]

The Saints: As We Rise from the Ashes, Part 2

“Honey…you okay?” Lenard ask his wife, but the Boss ignores his voice as she searches for the keys to their vehicle. After last night, Lenard was on high alert when it came to his wife, however, he did not realize that he should let go now rather than later.

“Leave me the absolute fuck alone.” She growled at him as she continues to search for the keys.

“Your not going to find the keys.” He spoke, causing her to stop in her tracks and look at him.

“Give them to me.” She growled, but the man stood up tall to her. Walking over he stared her down before saying:

“Listening, I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Nor do I know when you started taking kick-boxing class. But, stop! Don’t mess with the Morning Star.” Lenard begged, but the Boss did not budge.

“Muther-fucka, I will fuck with who ever I want to fuck with. You limp dick noodle! Now give me the keys, I gotta go find my gang.” The boss demanded, her words just caused more confusion to the man.

“Gang!?” He shouted. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Yea, that’s about to change.” She chuckle. “Oh, whats my name again?”

“Grace?” He spoke, causing the boss to nod her head.

“I am grace, roger that!” The boss growled at her name. Her actually name was Scarlet where she had  come from, but for her own sake she decided to take the name Grace for own well being, well until she figured out what was going on.

“What ever, see ya Lenard.” She tells the large gutted man before walking over towards the front door of her house. Only to be stopped when the door swung open to reveal two familiar Faces, faces she never thought she would EVER SEE!

“Mom? Dad?” She asked as her parents proceeded into her home. Her father was dressed in his Sunday best while her mother seemed to still be wearing her uniform from a restaurant. It was a haunting view for her, especially since her father was kind of a religious jerk.

“Grace.” He spoke, causing the dark skin woman to look over her shoulder for a second before looking back at him.

“Sup.” She spoke.

“Honey, what has gotten into you?” He spoke as he walks over to her. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he pushes her towards her dinning table where she takes a seat. Her mother sits next to her while her husband sat across from her.

“Lenard told us what happened last night,” Her mother started. “My sweet, are you okay?”

“Uh…” Grace moaned as she looked to the side yet again to avoid eye contact, especially with her mother.

A little history about our Boss. She was born and raised in a very heavy church life, that only got worse when her mother had passed away. See, like this time line, her father was a priest in Grace original world. And he was an awful father, thank god she had her mother to mellow him out a bit. However, her mother would pass away due to cancer when Grace was 13, leaving her to become the woman of the house while also leading by the churches example. Long story short, it did not last for her, she eventually would run away and then found her way to the Saints. So by the view of the world, it would seem that this is the route she would have taken in life, if her mother was still around, as well as no zombie apocalypse.

“You seem lost.” Her father spoke. “Are you on drugs.”

“I wish.” Grace chuckled. “A bowl would be great right about now…with lemon shots, and dick on the side.”

“Oh my god!” Her mother shouted in shock, she had never heard that type of language come out of her daughter. Just the vulgar word of a males genitallia made her mother clench her pearls. Grace on the other hand did not care, for she didn’t know these people. Her mother had died years ago, and her father had made a new family and forgotten about her. So to her, these people were nothing.

“Grace!” Her father shouted, however Grace was done with this entire talk. Standing up, she heads straight for the door again, ignoring her father and husbands protest for her to stay. However, she didn’t care! Walking out of the house, she begins to walk down the street and think of a way to find her gang. Now in this new world, there was tons of opportunity for the Saints to rise again, the problem, she didn’t know where to start. Even when she was thrown into a situation like this after waking up from her coma, the Saints were still known and popular enough for people to want to join. But now, they were a distant memory, and she needed to fix that immediately. And she knew just how to do it too!

Running into the street to stop a man straight in his tracks, she hijacked his car! After throwing him out of it of course, and then drove straight to the local news station. If she was going to find her friends, this was the only way she was gonna do it. Marching straight into the studio, she smiles ear to ear to see that they were live and talking on the television. Running up to the camera, she looks at the lens, causing everyone around her to panic since they didn’t even notice her enter the room.

“Hey, yea! Hi! Listen, I am only humiliating myself once in the hopes that ONE OF YOU FINDS ME!” The boss started as she stares into the camera lens. “Listen, go to kinzie’s warehouse! And there were gonna regroup. And don’t fuck with me! Drop everything and go there right fucking now! Bye!”

The boss shouted before leaving the studio with a smile on her face. Heading down stairs, she gets into her car and drives to Kinzie’s warehouse, and to her surprise, the place was unoccupied! So she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But no one came.  

No one came to the warehouse, leaving Grace in a rut. It was starting to dawn on her that perhaps the saints might truly be gone forever. This was her new life now, and what she had before was gone. Her heart started to sink a bit, she had done things that no man has ever done before, and now she was a normal person. The sheer thought of it made her sick to her stomach, but it was feeling she felt that she would have to get use too..until…

“Scarlet?” A voice spoke, causing her to look to the side to see a tall, dark-haired male standing by the doorway. He wore a black suit with a neon blue tie, but she knew his voice immediately.

“Matt?” She spoke. In shock at the sight before him, it looked like Matt but older with no makeup. However, it did not matter, her surprise was enough to run over to him and plant kisses on his lips. He wraps his arms around her waist and begins to kiss her back while also enjoying her warmth.

“You look different.” He chuckles, this causes her to stick out her tongue at him. “I think its cute.”

“Yea, well don’t get use to it. I need to change my look soon.” She says. “So, you saw my message.”

“Yea, of your beating the crap of the two morning star guards.” He says, much to her dismay.

“Shit…” She muttered under her breathe. Walking around the empty warehouse, she begins to feel that sinking feeling of doubt as she looks around.

“I thought you be happy to see me?” Matt spoke, this makes her snap out of her bad mood for the moment.

“No, I am glad that you are here. Its just…the saints are gone.” She tells him. “My friends…”

“Our friends.” Matt corrected her, causing her to nod her head.

“Yea.” She said before looking back at him. “Wait a minute, what’s your name here?”

“Charlie Watson.” Matt chuckled at the ridiculous of his new name, but one he didn’t seem to mind. “Unlike the original me, I was sent to a different orphanage that catered to my hacking abilities. Ironically, I still ended up working with Philip, the Deckers don’t exist though. They're called the Idols in this world (yes, those guys from the reboot), and personally, they are the worst!”

“Why are you older?” She asked, causing him to shrug his shoulders.

“I don’t know honestly, but being 23 is nice.” He tells her with a chuckle. “And I got to say, you have a very nice body in this world.”

“Awww, the same could be said for you buddy.” She chuckles as her cheeks begin to turn a deep red. “My King.”

“My queen.” Matt chuckled before leaning down to give her another kiss, only for a piece of plastic to be thrown over his head. Bouncing off the skin to land right next to his feet. Looking behind him, the two gasp when they saw a familiar red haired woman entering the building.

“KINZIE!!” The boss shouted, running over to hug her. Only for the red-haired woman to raise her hand to her and growl.

“The amount of work I am about to do, does not even come close to the bullshit you put on TV!” Kinzie yelled at her. “We were coming to get you, why the fuck did you go on TV!?”

“We?” The boss questioned.

“Oh, yes, Kinzie works with me.” Matt explained. “In this timeline, she works for the Dwynter sisters as their head accountant.”

“So you both work with one another!?” The boss shouted. “How the fuck was I suppose to know?!”

“You weren’t, which is why I said we should find her immediately before she does something stupid, right Kinzieton?” Matt said, causing the redhead to let out a gag sound before saying:

“You wanted to fuck her Matt, you were not searching for her out of fear!” She growled. “Plus, incase you forgotten, there is a large wrestle that is always keeping an eye on us! Its not easy to move around.”

“Oh definitely not. I swear, Kilbane got bigger in this timeline.” Matt muttered. “ I think even Philip is scared of him.”

“Really?” The boss asked.

“It doesn’t matter now. Once’s he’s dead we’ll deal with Philip later.” Kinzie explained as she takes a seat on the edge of the loading dock. She then pulls out her laptop and begins to type away at her computer. Matt was about to say something, but the boss had cut him off when she pressed her lips to his once again. Only this time, her tongue slithered into his mouth. Causing him to moan a bit before they separated.

“Oh shit, I’m married in this timeline.” The boss spoke, causing Matt to stare at her in shock.

“Married!” He shouted.

“Right, I married a fucking bus driver?” She growled. “Ugh, and we live in a small house that’s dirty and shit and I am nurse! It sucks! Ugh, I need the saints!”

“That’s not all you seem to need.” Kinzie chuckled as she points to Grace’s fat thighs.

“Listen, when we get the gang together and start making money. All of this will be fixed in no time.” Grace says before looking over to Matt. “You however can stay just how you are.”

“Oh, you naughty Vixen, you!” Matt chuckled before laying a kiss on her lips. Causing Grace to moan but Kinzie to gag.

[the-binding-of-gekko]

Short hair Vicky from Saints Row 1 and Dex.

The two of them dated for awhile, until just before the boat explosion where Dex breaks up with her out of guilt. He later admits that Vicky was the right person at the wrong time.

While her brother is searching for Dex to kill him, Vicky just wants to be with him again. She's very conflicted on her feelings for Dex, with her not knowing if she wants to shoot him or kiss him.

Vicky never truly moved on from Dex and it's something always nagging at her in the back of her mind no matter what she does to distract herself.

[komelliko]

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: Sunday wants to invite you to dinner. ...Correction: Sunday will invite you to dinner. Even if there are a few loopholes to get through first. wc: 1.1k

part 1 / part 2

---

Sunday finds it quite unfortunate that the salvation of the world must sometimes be assured through cruelty. It wounds him when he must be cutthroat, must be stern in his ways, but he does it all the same. Even the gravest of sins shall be absolved in the eternity of the dream he chases, and Sunday knows no man to enact this sin besides himself.

...In short, manipulation is no stranger to the head of the Oak Family.

You're nearly tripping on your heels again when your boss runs into you, lighting up at your presence in a way you have to decidedly ignore. It's unprofessional to dwell on it—You hate even the notion of being unprofessional. After all you've worked towards, every hour you've busted your ass off to get to work as secretary for one of the most important people in Penacony, the thought of ruining it by being unprofessional makes you want to fill a bathtub with SoulGlad and let yourself drown in it.

"Good morning, Mr. Oak," you greet him, once he's within speaking range. There's a million papers and manila folders in your arms, all cobbled together with clips and staples, and you hold them at your chest almost like a sort of shield. Hours upon hours of your work rests within this stack of papers, thousands of words worth of reports and number-crunching and printed out messages between Family Heads. Sunday makes a point to look you right in the eye, and it's a gaze you swear you'll never get used to.

You don't know what the look in his eyes mean—Sunday takes great pleasure in keeping the meaning from you.

There's a plenty good amount of things he prefers to keep to himself (as is only proper for someone of his responsibility), and the images his mind likes to conjure only flip past like cards in a rolodex as he sneaks a glance at the body hiding behind the papers. He smiles, but not any bigger than he would smile to anyone else. Not yet.

"Good morning, [Y/N]," Sunday coos. "Working out of the office as usual, I see? Please, if there's any reason for you to avoid it I must know."

Flush with embarrassment, you shake your head. It's just easier to make sure everything gets done when you're always walking, you find. You hate being kept places, being forced to sit and hear the second-hand of a clock constantly chatter behind your back. When you're walking, your heels set the pace instead, at whatever you need it to be. You're only indebted to your own ethic, which you hold in high regard.

"Oh, the office is perfectly fine, Mr. Oak," you stammer out, fingers drumming on the stack of papers. "I just like the stained glass on some of the third floor hallways of Dewlight. The, uh— The fountains add a nice atmosphere, too." You panic, adding "It's a really wonderful building, sir. I'm honored to work here."

Sunday nods. He'll have to order for new windows and a fountain to be put in his office the second the moment arrives. A meeting with Whittaker Nightingale was in order, clearly—He'd understand the situation.

"Please, dear, if anyone here should be honoured it's me," Sunday smiles. He passes to stand beside you rather than in front of, catching a glimpse of the way your hair falls over your shoulders. "Can I discuss something with you for a moment, if you'll allow?"

Sunday takes the initiative to place one hand on the small of your back, the other clasped behind his own. The touch makes you flinch—You grab tight onto your papers, hoping they won't spill out in a burst from the way you nearly jumped in place. "Gosh, Mr. Oak, I don't really think this is necessary—" On the outside, his face is stern, perhaps even disappointed with your tendencies to act like a stickler. Internally, he's more concerned with how often you spurn his affections: At his core, however? He wants to hold his hand against you until he dies.

"Please," he whispers, almost commanding you. "Walk with me." Sunlight streams in through the windows of the Dewlight Pavilion, pockets of gold dancing on the marble floors.

"You've gotten in touch with the Alfalfa family, as I requested?"

Panicking, you leaf through the papers you had kept clutched to your chest to search for any notes or documents relating to that. Unfortunately, your anxieties are valid: You did not. Sunday doesn't let on that he's lying to you. He asked you to reach out to some bureaucrat working for SoulGlad, but nothing to do with Oti or any of the Alfafas. But you're forgetful, and he loves that about you. Not as much as he values your eagerness to please, though.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Oak. It must've slipped my mind." You spent the whole day organizing the catering for the Charmony Festival, and your papers corroborate this.

"Please, I could never fault you," he smiles. "It'll be taken care of tomorrow."

Sunday bites his lip as he feels the back of your shirt brush against his hand. If he was any less of a man with any less of a reputation to uphold, he'd have it comfortably in the back pocket of your pants. He goes on, to get to the real purpose of this informal meeting with you.

"Would you be interested in discussing things over dinner?"

Your breath stalls for a moment.

"I— I'm sure sending today's report electronically should be just fine, sir."

Sir. It's a word he's been addressed by many lips, but every utterance pales in comparison to this singular moment.

"It would be my pleasure."

"I'm not sure I even have anything that would suit the occasion," you confess.

"I can arrange for something to be sent to you."

A particular nausea pools in your gut: a feeling so light, so painlessly ignorable that even worrying that it's gas feels like an overreaction. Meetings over dinner are professional, and at a rank like Sunday's, it's entirely reasonable that you conform to a certain dress code—one that he knows much better than you, no doubt. Sending something for you to wear would only be logical if it meant preserving that image of his.

(And he had been peculiar about dress in the past: No heels could be too tall or too short, pants were preferred but knee-length skirts were permissible, Oak insignia patches visible on every blazer, such and the like. Surely, this was nothing new.)

"If you find that to be within your purview, Mr. Oak," is what you manage to respond with. "...I'll make myself presentable."

"Don't fret too much over it, [Y/N]," Sunday smiles. "I fully trust in your abilities to uphold our reputations." 'Our'.

You force yourself to not dwell on it.

---

A/N: If anyone has feedback, please share it with me!! Obviously some artistic license has to be made for the premise to work but hopefully it's nothing too egregious :,)

[slut4shaundi]

Playa when they wake up from the coma and see what's left of the gang

[telekinetycznymieczoman]

Hello there, Saints Row community.

[dandyart]

I made a poster design / soundtracks of an unofficial Anton Blast DLC concept of my OC and some different animators/vtubers as boss fight characters! This was something made just for fun, and have been enjoying the anton blast game lately.

[queer-cartoons-quotes]

It could have been better, but I normally don't edit sooo...

[snav1d]

hi metal gear tumblr. my first post here, heres some homosexuals if this is a good way to say hello 🛌

[darwuzhere]

I will not even even bother calling this an unpopular opinion.

[ink--theory]

thoughts on bonerattle arena

[crimescrimson]

Roxxi 'The Boss' Rosé in Saints Row: The Third (2021)

[bigboyplaya]

Pushing this up past my reblogs from my old account ^

Here he is, the first boss I ever made in Saints Row back when I first started playing in 2020. He's kind of a staple of Saints Row 2 for me, since the two of us have been with each other for about 70 hours and two new game restarts, soon to be three lol.

Lover of hiding out in his bedroom, Daria, Jimmy Eats World, Paramore and Deftones, Antonio is the epitome of a misunderstood 2000's teenager. It didn't help that he was starting to come to terms with his sexuality in a fairly unsafe environment, but hadn't fully figured out he was gay until after waking up from his five year coma.

By SR1 and 2, he hasn't quite grown out of his isolated youth, which is why his found family in the Saints is something he holds close due to them accepting him with somewhat open arms.

Personality

In SR2, he isn't as shy or anxious as he was in SR1, and speaks much more than he used to. Still, he doesn't talk to people much outside of his friends or business.

Antonio doesn't care about the consequences of his actions unless they hurt the ones he holds close. He is incredibly overprotective over his family, with his love for them having no bounds. He is quite selfish, however, and will put himself before others if it's over something he wants. He has a habit of destroying Vicky's friendships by causing a rift between her and her friend if he begins to suspect that the other person isn't worth Vicky's time.

He thinks of himself as a hero, purging the streets of Stilwater, but is ignorant to the fact that he is part of the problem. He continues to fight for what he believes in, which is cleaning the city, and vowed to prevent other young people living in the barrio he used to live from becoming like him.

[komelliko]

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: You accept the dinner invite, but can't shake the feeling that Sunday had alternative motivations. Well—you can't seem to get yourself to ignore it as well as you usually do, at least. wc: 1.3k

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 (nsfw)

---

To say you’re surprised that Sunday knows something almost feels on its way to an insult. Ever since meeting him, you’ve felt the notion that Sunday fills every room he’s in with a sort of omnipresence—a watchfulness that extends beyond his direct gaze, an invisible cloud of eminence curling in the corners of space like steam. Sure, you collect information for him in your manila folders and papers and electronic mails… but you often wonder if it’s merely to organize, not to present. That he is already aware of all things, and only wishes for it to be in proper order. 

All this to say: The dress fitting you perfectly is entirely logical. Sure, maybe it’s a bit too perfect, but to show concern feels almost sacrilegious. 

Of course Sunday knows. It’s normal for an employer to know such things, isn’t it?

Regardless, you find yourself out of place in this Blue Hour restaurant. Your only companions seem to be the objects in your old clutch: Your phone, and a metal tin of your favorite mints. Bringing along a wallet or even a few credit bills was out of the question, Sunday had assured you. Even at your protest, he insisted it would be taken care of. 

You press a mint against the roof of your mouth with your tongue. You had been too anxious to remember the name of the restaurant, only hearing the erratic pace of the jazz music echoing from the band’s main stage. Only seeing the satin of the tablecloth. Only feeling the gnawing pit in your stomach.

“About today’s report, sir—“

Sunday would only keep his clasped fists against the table, maybe his forearms, but never his elbows. He was a man with remarkable, old-fashioned etiquette. 

“Please,” he corrects you. “Call me Sunday.” “Mister Sunday,” you reiterate. But something tells you to stop talking anyways.

Your eyes glance around the room, wondering from what other angles he seems to be watching you, ridiculous as it may sound. You curse yourself at how easy it is to ‘pay it no mind’, ‘give it no thought’ in any other occasion. During work, at meetings, or when his presence is invisible to you. The sentiment feels like the most logical thing in the world then, but now? It’s a ridiculous notion. 

But you can at least pretend to pay it no mind, and you find that to be enough for the time being. The band plays on, a saxophone wailing out its melody over double bass and the hiss of the drum kit.

"Jazz as a term for Penaconian music is a fairly recent construction," he begins to speak, at first seemingly to nobody but himself. "Popularized by my dear sister, naturally. Do you know what the term comes from?" 

You shake your head. 

"'Jats', more commonly phrased as 'the jats', also known as spirit, moxie, joie de vivre—Now, it's been corrupted to mean something closer to restlessness," he sighs. "But in its inception, to have 'the jats' was to be blessed by Xipe with a certain euphoria, and the style of music that many associated with such a feeling was said to be played by 'Jats bands'." Sunday takes the smallest sip of his drink before adding "But Jazz rolls off the tongue better, doesn't it?”

You laugh, a rictus showing on your face. “Indeed it does, Mr. Sunday.”

He smiles no wider than he would at any other person. Your certain vulnerability seems to almost leak onto the floor, rivulets flowing down the legs of your chair—Sunday relishes in the image, watery anxiety beading off the skin of your back and running down the curve of your spine. Underneath his gloves, his knuckles pale as he laces his fingers together tightly. The vision before him is everything he’d ever hoped for—what he’d been picturing when he selected the venue, the dress, the time. A plan perfectly orchestrated.

“I worry sometimes that you have the wrong idea of me, [Y/N],” he posits, glibly. “You seem tense.”

You stop yourself from placing another mint in your mouth to look him in the eye. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Sunday,” you lie, “It’s just been a while since we’ve been seated, and we’ve only been given drinks.”

“I have an inclination that our food will be out shortly.” “…But sir,” you question, “We haven’t ordered.” “Our reservation asked for orders at the time of scheduling,” Sunday smiles. “As I said before, everything is being taken care of for you.”

Your eyes drift to the other patrons: A patchwork mass of Halovians here, Pepeshi there, many of which are discussing unknowable things over their large menus. You tell yourself it’s nothing to worry about. Logically, Sunday must know something you don’t. Sunday must know a lot of things that you don’t. 

Sunday watches the slight movements of your jaw as your tongue curls around the next mint in your mouth. The first mint in your mouth had lasted two minutes, the next forty seconds, and the final only twenty-five. Perhaps there was something you were trying to purify within yourself—the unease he found so tantalizing at this moment, a symptom of your delicious eagerness to please—that you hoped to extract from each mint, your cheeks sucking in a nearly imperceptible degree as you drained each one dry. Sunday could imagine himself reaching over across the table to open your mouth with his thumb, saliva pooling in your mouth from the way you were siphoning the little white tablets greedily, the delicate muscles in your face spasming and twitching as you shudder beneath his velvet touch.

If he was a lesser man...

"Don't spoil your appetite on those mints, darling," Sunday jokes. He can immediately see you tense up from the name, swallowing the tablet in your mouth. "My apologies, Mister Sunday."

...Boss or not...why the hell were you apologizing to him?

"I told you, Sunday is fine," he smiles. "...Do I frighten you?" "Excuse me?" Sunday tilts his head to the side the slightest bit, his cranial wings drooping. Still, even as he expresses his supposed concern, his smile doesn't fade.

"You seem frightened, dear," he coos. "If I'd known you would hate dinner with me so much, I wouldn't have asked you." Initially, you feel yourself overcome with guilt. He was spending all this money on you just for you to be so skittish... But that was never the point of the dinner meeting, right? You bite your lower lip, mulling over the possibility of getting the topic of tonight's dinner back to that of your work. You look askance, to the lack of plate right before you, and then to him. "It's just a concern I had regarding budgeting for the venue," you lie, "Some of the cost estimates you'd previously requested have changed since—" You stop when you feel something touch your ankle. Sunday has leaned in closer to you to place his shoe between your feet. You look down to where his shoe must be under the table—hidden by the long tablecloth—then to him, with that static smile still on his face. Not a hint wider than he would smile at anyone else. "Isn't it peculiar?" he asks. Sunday hasn't been listening to you whatsoever. "Look around the room. Each and every table here is surrounded by strangers. These figures around us are unknown to us, and likewise we are unknown to them." Even when it's not the point of what he's saying, you can still feel that sense of malice hidden behind Sunday's teeth when he refers to the folk of Penacony. Avaricious, calloused, snobbish and cruel. Corrupt is often the term he uses, with a bite that seems to imply he finds himself distinct from it. Like a single healthy cell surrounded by cancerous tumor. The outer side of his shoe draws a line up your calf, and he continues.

"Don't you find it fascinating that all these people may glance at us—pay us no more mind than what we pay to them—and have no idea what we are to each other? Most don't even know I have a secretary," he grins. "Perhaps I enjoy keeping you as my little secret." What he says is enough to keep you silent until your food arrives.

--- a/n: thanks so much for all the notes on the last installment, everyone! hopefully a bit of worldbuilding isn't a turn-off to any of you, i'm obsessed with penacony's jazz age inspirations just as much as i am with sunday xD just for the sake of keeping things cut up right, we'll end things off here lolol tag list: @j1yu425 @crepezinhos

[alphashley14]

“Jibberish that rhymes, Fred! If you’re going to draw me then don’t make such a mess with the ink!”

What character(s) (and possibly their monster(s)) should “Fred” draw next?

[iiilovebeam]

Evil Alejandra and lin