#the husk car one is hypothetically a fic

[embersandlamplight]

Some Enchanted Evening

Characters - Alastor x Reader, Angel Dust

Summary – Angel Dust returns an item of particular significance to the Reader, prompting a nostalgic trip down memory lane of the Reader’s new relationship with a certain Radio Demon.  

Word Count – 2,616

Content/Warnings - Fluff, Alcohol-use, Profanity, Graphic descriptions of hypothetical violence.

A/N – Although while I was writing, I had imagined this as a fem!Reader insert fic, reading it back, I reckon it could be read as nb/gender neutral too.  I’d certainly be interested in knowing people’s views on this, as I’d like to get better at writing more inclusive content, and I know I’m not the most experienced in doing so. So if anyone wants to feedback from that side of things, that would be amazing, but please, no pressure!  Either way, I hope you enjoy the fic! 😊 

AO3 Link: For those who would prefer to read over on AO3, link is here

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Midnight had fallen over the hotel, and, as per usual, nobody was sleeping, least of all you.  The difference was that, right now, you really wanted to sleep!  You stared at the ceiling above your bed in frustration, watching as a sliver of light from under the door cast a golden ripple over the room. 

This really was infernally ridiculous, you cursed silently.  Nothing specifically was upsetting or worrying you, and, for once, you hadn’t been caught in the crosshairs of some disagreement or other between the hotel’s residents. 

You’d been on your best behaviour, aiming for an early night, even turning down another drink from a decidedly less than sober Angel, propping up the bar with Husk, turning the air a delicate shade of blue.  So, what in Hell’s circles was going on? 

Inhaling deeply, you shuffled upright in the bed, flipping the pillow to the cooler side, before plumping it up and flopping back down, cuddling in.  Perhaps you were trying too hard to sleep?  Perhaps if you just lay here, breathing in, trying to relax into it, sleep would finally claim you? 

As you lay there in the dark, the sounds outside the hotel rumbled on – the odd car horn, tinkling of breaking glass and the occasional murderous scream, but nothing particularly unusual.  Sometimes, it even felt very much like living in a big city, back ‘Upstairs’. 

After a while, even the alarming sounds, became almost soothing.  You were just on the verge of sleep, feeling yourself teetering on the edge of blissful oblivion, when there came a light, yet sharp knock at your bedroom door.

Your eyes shot open, feeling fury bolt through you, your heart quickening with unwelcome adrenaline.  Who in bloody Hell was that?  You considered responding, but your aching limbs protested any movement.

Perhaps if you ignored them, they would go away?  You narrowed your eyes, intently fixed on the light under the door, now mostly obscured by the shadow of whoever was standing outside.

‘Go…away,’ you muttered into your pillow, feeling grateful that your door was double locked, and willing your unwelcome visitor to evaporate into sulphur.   

Another knock, this one slightly louder.

‘Oh, for the love of fuck!’ you swore bitterly, sitting more upright, and blinking through the gloom, ‘Fine! Who’s there?’

‘[Y/N]? Baaabe? Ya in there?  Or asleep already?’  The slurred voice of a certain spider demon muffled against your door.

You relaxed against the pillow, safe at least in the knowledge that you weren’t about to have your door smashed in.  ‘Hold on, Angel,’ you replied, yawning and swinging your grumpy feet out of bed.  Padding across the carpet, you unlocked the door, finding yourself, once again, face to face with a spectacularly inebriated Angel Dust. 

‘Geeeez, toots,’ Angel looked into the pitch-dark room beyond, ‘ya weren’t kiddin’ about getting an early night, were ya?’  Returning his gaze to you, he looked you up and down in your nightwear.  ‘Nice jammies,’ he grinned.

‘Angel,’ you rubbed the space between your brows, feeling your patience already beginning to fray, ‘I really am far too tired.  What’s up?’

Leaning against the doorframe for support, the demon waved a hand casually, ‘Yeah, sorry t’wake ya, an’ all, but thought ya might be missin’ somethin’ ya know?’ he added with a knowing grin.

From inside a pocket, Angel produced a familiar looking necklace, swinging it between his fingers like a pendulum.  Instinctively, you clamped a hand to your neck, feeling it suddenly unusually bare.  You let out a small gasp, and reached out to Angel, who teasingly lifted the necklace higher out of your range with a chuckle.

‘Ohh, don’t be a dick, Angel, please just give me it back,’ you pleaded, silently chastising yourself for not even noticing its absence.

Although it may not have been your usual choice of adornment, the necklace had been a recent gift to you, from a certain Radio Demon, whom you’d grown quite attached to since moving into the hotel.  You’d been initially quite lost for words when he had presented it to you.  It had been over one of your cosier evenings/early mornings together, relaxing in one of the hotel’s lounges, in front of a crackling fireplace...... 

On the evening in question, it really had been extremely late.  Most everyone else had gone to bed, but you had stayed up, casually listening to Alastor’s radio broadcast, and waited up for him to return. 

As the grandfather clock ticked around, its brassy hands catching the firelight at a distance, Alastor sat upright in a wing-backed armchair, an antique book in one hand - its gilt cover faded, and an aged whisky in the other, silently reading, one foot bobbing lightly as he was absorbed by the pages.  You reclined on a nearby sofa, also nose deep in one of your favourite books, feet snuggled into a throw. 

You cherished moments like this.  Just…being with him, and him permitting your presence when his guard was down- particularly in such tranquil moments of (almost) solitude, was not something you ever took for granted. 

Suddenly, he had snapped the book shut, startling you from your reverie.  Your eyes flicked up instantly.  ‘Al?’ you ventured, concerned by his abrupt change, ‘something wrong?’

Crimson eyes darted up to meet yours, followed by a warm, but unusually guilty-looking smile.  ‘My dear, I do believe I am quite the absent-minded moose today,’ he announced, giving an airy chuckle.  ‘I quite forgot - I have a gift for you!’

Your brows knitted in surprise and curiosity, watching as he set his book down, taking a lingering sip of his drink, before crossing to your sofa, motioning for you to move your feet so he could sit comfortably beside you.  You sat up straight, swinging your legs back onto the floor, and shuffling a little closer, though habitually taking care to not intrude on his personal space without his express permission. 

Reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, Alastor produced a truly exquisite pendant, suspended by an equally elegant chain, resting the jewel on his open palm for you to see.  For a moment, there was total silence, not even a prickle of radio static, as the demon studied your reaction intently.

‘Alastor…’ you gasped, stunned by this unexpected turn of events, ‘I…it’s beautiful!  Thank you!’ you lifted your gaze to meet his, and his smile broadened proudly, delighted to see you so pleased with his offering.    

‘I thought of you the instant I saw it, darling,’ Alastor explained softly, gesturing for you to turn around, before deftly fastening the clasp around your neck, and leaning closer, pressing a tender, ghost of a kiss to the nape of your neck, sending a quiver down your spine.  

‘It’s too much,’ you breathed in reply, gently touching your fingertips to the jewellery.  It really was a fine example of craftsmanship; of suchlike you’d not seen before in Hell.  The last time you’d seen a piece this refined had been behind glass in a museum!   The more you examined it, a niggling, frustrating doubt crept into your mind. 

Despite his manner as a classic gentleman, Alastor wasn’t exactly known for spontaneous or grand romantic gestures.  Indeed, romance of any kind was still an oceanic expanse for him to navigate, and it had taken him a long while to feel comfortable with any outward display of affection. 

The fact alone that Alastor had acknowledged and pursued his feelings towards you was something precious that you took great care of inside your heart.  So, when it came to gestures like this, you wanted to tread particularly carefully.   

‘Allaastoorr…’ you cooed, turning back to meet the overlord’s shining gaze and mile-wide smile, trying to fix your best poker-face expression in place, ‘wherever did you find it?’

You felt your breath catch in your throat.  This could be like shooting a puppy.  Or perhaps you were the puppy that would end up being shot.

The demon’s smile remained fixed, and he gestured vaguely in mid-air, ‘Oh, here and about, hither and thither, as they say!’ he replied offhandedly, ‘and I must say, it looks simply ravishing around your neck.’

‘‘Alastor,’ you repeated patiently, desperately not wanting to anger or insult the demon, but his reply having done nothing but increase the disquieting squirm in your stomach, ‘I really hate to ask, but please tell me you didn’t steal this?’

Silence fell once more, before the Radio Demon’s laugh cracked the atmosphere like a whip.

‘HaHAA!’ he exclaimed, static now fizzing in his tone, ‘Oh, how I do love your sense of humour, dear.  Me?  Steal?!’ he pressed a hand to his chest in mock indignation, ‘why the very idea is preposterously vulgar!’

You felt the tight knot in your stomach release and sighed out in relief.  The very last thing you wanted was to be seen around Hell wearing some hot-ticket item with a bounty on its return.

‘I don’t steal, [Y/N],’ he continued to clarify, ‘I merely…redistribute.’

The knot in your stomach returned.

‘”Redistribute?”’ you repeated slowly, ‘Alastor, what do you mean, “redistribute”?’

He rose to his feet, with a little hum of undisguised irritation, the sparkling static in the air growing a louder, as he retrieved his drink, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully.  ‘Oh, nothing, nothing.  Merely a little fun I have from time to time, when such fortuitous opportunities present themselves,’ he bobbed a little on the balls of his feet. 

‘Trust me, my sweet,’ he continued, a jovial note returning to his tone, ‘you don’t have to worry a jot about a thing.  Its original owner is quite dead.  Dead as a doornail.  As a dodo!’    

Your brows shot up, deciding perhaps it would be best to just speak plainly.  ‘Ok, Al, believe me, I am very touched by your thoughtfulness and such a generous gift, but please, you’re going to have to be specific here,’ you beseeched him.  ‘I really don’t want some pissed off, aristocratic demon coming to hunt my ass for their family heirlooms.  This clearly didn’t come from just any regular shop, that’s obvious…’

He ceased moving instantly, the static in the air increasing sharply with a piercing, tuning squeal that made you wince.  The two of you stared at each other for a moment, and his smile twitched at the corners, before, with a relenting sigh, he returned to his seat next to you, closing the distance to clasp your hands tightly in his own. 

‘Do you really think,’ he began, his tone lower, clearer, the static suddenly echoingly absent, ‘that I would actually risk putting you in harm’s way, by fastening some kind of homing-beacon around your neck?  Perhaps you don’t know me at all, my sweet?’ he questioned, head tilting to the side, twitching quizzically. 

You felt your stomach twist at his rather hurt expression.  Here he was, trying to show you how much you meant to him, and all you could do was doubt his actions, and throw it back in his face? 

But still, you reasoned with yourself, the reality of what Alastor was capable of handling, and yourself, were vastly different.  He was a powerful Overlord.  You most assuredly were not – and it wasn’t like he could be there to protect you all the time.  You knew you were right to ask for the truth, but you hated that your doubt and concern had caused him grief.

‘I’m sorry,’ you said simply, giving his hands a reassuring squeeze, grateful that he hadn’t retracted them.  ‘But, I had to ask, Al.  You’ve been in Hell for many decades longer than me.  You know how it operates, to say the least, and you have infinitely more power in your right foot, than I will likely ever have in my entire eternity.  If someone dares to challenge you, they will always come off worse.  If someone decides that I’m fair game, well, I’ll probably end up looking like I lost a fight with Godzilla.’

Reaching up, he fondly tucked a stray hair back behind your ear, before his hand came to rest at your cheek.  You leaned into his touch, feeling the reassurance of the warmth of his skin against yours.

‘What’s a “Godzilla”?’ he enquired, his tone and expression softer, but genuinely puzzled.

You felt the tension in the atmosphere evaporate as you couldn’t help but burst into laughter at his perfectly reasonable, but telling, question.  Occasionally, you really had to remind yourself that this demon – indeed, this soul, came from an entirely different era to yourself. 

  ‘It’s…I…er, well it’s hard to explain but…oh, it doesn’t matter, I promise I’ll explain properly another time,’ you replied, managing to regain control of your composure.  ‘But I really am sorry,’ you repeated with earnest, ‘I know you’d never mean any harm to come to me.   It’s just…I’m dealing with a lot right now, and I can’t help but worry.’  

Seemingly satisfied with your answer, he pulled you closer with a tender hum, securing his hands around your lower back and resting his forehead on your own, eyes slipping closed for a moment.  When he spoke again, it was little more than a whisper. 

‘If anyone ever tried to hurt you, [Y/N], do you know precisely what I would do to them?’ he asked, giving your nose a gentle nuzzle, the danger in his tone palpable.

‘N-no?’ you replied.  ‘What?’

 ‘Well,’ he continued, tone measured and eerily calm, ‘Piece by little, tiny piece, I would peel their skin from their face,’ he explained, matter-of-factly, while stroking little circles on your lower spine.  ‘I would make them watch, as I devour each of their limbs, one by one, before I make them savour the meaty taste of their own viscera.  Only then, perhaps, I might grant them oblivion, and grind their face into the dirt, shattering their skull inwards and spilling their worthless brains.’

You noticed your breathing had become shallow, a tightness forming in your chest at his words.  Sometimes, in these treasured, reserved moments, you could find yourself forgetting that you were in a relationship with one of the most powerful demons in Hell –and a demon who had a particular taste for the bloody and macabre.  As such, he was always going to be more, well…creative, than a mere pistol duel, or even punch-up outside a pub, when leaping to your defence. 

Infact, the mere concept of Alastor - the Radio Demon, Alastor – the Overlord of Hell, getting into a bunch of fisticuffs outside a bloody pub, was enough to break the sudden tension in your body, and you let out a nervous giggle at the ridiculous mental image.

His eyes narrowed at that, and he retreated back from you a little.  ‘My dedication amuses you?’

 ‘No, no!’  you tried to assuage him, hurriedly, ‘I just – ‘ you paused, frowning.  Bloody hell, how could you even explain? 

‘Thank you.  That all sounds very…er…gallant,’ you grasped desperately at the first word you could think of, before you opened your arms invitingly to him. 

To your immense relief, he responded, curving his body against yours, the stiffness in his shoulders falling away, as you wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers losing themselves in his soft hair.

The Radio Demon’s ears twitched contentedly, as he gently rubbed the side of his head affectionately against yours.  He enveloped you in his arms, peppering soft kisses along the side of your neck, before fully bridging the gap between you both, tilting your chin upwards towards him, between forefinger and thumb.

‘You are quite welcome, darling,’ he murmured, ruby eyes aglow, stroking your chin lovingly with the pad of his thumb, before finally, deftly capturing your lips in his own.

[softlyspun]

Costuming Research - Greyson Ives

So... I've been reading a remarkably compelling kink fic (Ginger and Mint). And because I'm a historical costumer (and also insane), I feel compelled to figure out exactly what these characters would be wearing. This is a long one, so most of this is under a cut.

So, to start out... When and Where are we?

Well, it's a fantasy world, so things aren't strictly bound to a real world timeline. But to get a basic handle on things:

-Horse-drawn carriages, buses, trains and cars are all mentioned.

-Trains seem to be the most common form of long-distance transport, even among the wealthy and powerful.

-Bean-bag chairs exist.

-Subsistence level hunting is very much a thing

-Yearbook photography is a thing.

-Electricity doesn't seem to be specifically mentioned.

-Letters seem to be the main form of long-distance communication.

-Mass-communication, like radio, phones, and the internet don't seem to be mentioned.

-No one seems to have to fumble with things like lights and stoves

So, to me, this feels like a late-19th/early 20th century world. (I'm going to say been bags are timeless). The setting is vaguely American/European, without directly correlating to a specific location.

Now, to get a little more character-specific. Let's take a look at Greyson Ives, reluctant hunter and equally reluctant di-mage.

Deer Woods, Greyson's home town, very much has the feel of a small Appalachian town. The exact industry that keeps it running is beyond the scope of the story, but IRL, these were often mining communities. Places like this can seem frozen in time, often decades behind the fashions of the big cities.

The Ives family in particular are borderline-subsistence hunters. Poor, even within a poor community, they actively disdain any kind of excess or even perceived wastefulness.

So, what materials would they have available?

Leather and fur could be easily procured. I imagine that probably sell the higher-quality furs and hides, but they probably have the wherewithal to tan hides for bags and waterproof outer garments.

That being said, leather really doesn't breathe. You need plant fibers (cotton, linen) or animal fibers (wool, silk), which would have to be bought. Considering the Ives family disdain for excess, I can't imagine that they'd actually buy bolts of fabric to sew up, or new-made clothes. Instead, they're probably buying used garments, regardless of quality, and wearing and repairing them until they go to pieces. (This is less a region-specific thing, and more an Ives-household-specific thing. Ben, the shopkeeper's son, while still quite poor, probably owns clothes made in the last decade.) For fibers, anything made of silk would be beyond their means, but linen and wool are quite durable, and, depending on the specifics of fiber production for this world (beyond the scope of this fic) cotton might be within reach.

Whatever color the clothes started out, they're likely to wear down to a fairly uniform grey-brown. (While synthetic dyes would be available in period, I cannot imagine the Ives household springing for Sundour to brighten their wardrobes.) If they dye their clothes at all, it's likely to be with locally available natural dyes, in fairly dark colors. (I'm picturing black walnut husks.)

Let's look at some sources! (Yes, I'm using Wikipedia as a source, because I'm lazy.)

So these are miners from Montana in 1889. This is probably actually a little nicer than the stuff Greyson would have access to, but could hypothetically be typical for Deer Woods in general.

Images of "Mountain Men" might be more useful (though a lot of these pictures would be deliberately sensational.)

Yep, that would be a cotton/linen shirt, with a fringed leather jacket.

Not a photograph, but I think this catches the archetype.

Another conclusion from looking at these: at least while still working at home, Greyson probably needs to wear a hat. Something durable, of either leather or wool felt.

So, my headcannon on Greyson's wardrobe at the beginning of the story: undyed cotton muslin or linen shirts, heavily worn and heavily patched/darned. Possibly woolen sweaters for the winter, likewise heavily darned. Woolen pants in dark colors, typical for the 1870's/1880's. A leather jacket, probably long, possibly fringed, for bad weather. (Though Greyson's jacket is later described as "threadbare", so it might actually be made of wool, instead) A haversack, likewise made of leather. Any buttons would be likely to be made of wood, antler, or bone. While hunters in turn-of-the-century Appalachia *absolutely* had the time and skill to decorate their clothing and accessories, the Ives family austerity probably means all of these are minimally adorned, if at all.

But! There's a change at the Midwinter Ball! Greyson actually gets new clothes! Which means we get to look at turn-of-the-century formalwear! For a description, we get a "smoky grey formal jacket"

Now, I'm partial to the evening wear of the 1890's, so I'm inclined to give Greyson a tailcoat. Something like this:

Bramley is described as wearing a bow tie, which would exist by this point (though I'm very tempted to stick the man in a cravat, on the ground that cravats are cool.

I'm going to do everyone a favor, and spare Greyson the truly ludicrous facial hair common to the period (as fun as 19th century mutton chops and mustaches can be), and assume he's clean-shaven.

Anyway, that's... way too many words on one character's costume! Next up will be Elliott Vale, and a dive into the finer side of men's fashion. The girls are going to come last, since that's going to require considerably more digging.