#what’s the point of an unlived life

[mantis-a-shrimp]

It’s “is life even worth it” hours featuring my constant companion DPDR. All signs are pointing to no.

[tyrannuspitch]

the government should pay me a living wage to write niche fanfiction very very very slowly. i am providing a vital cultural service

[cyvvien]

it turns out, actually, that $10 per month isn't going to fix a "budgeting problem" when literally everything is too expensive. Even, hypothetically, multiple monthly subscriptions totally $60 a month isn't going to fix rent being too high and wages being too low and groceries being too expensive and so on and so on.

And really, if you don't even get to spend $20 a month on something that gives you joy, what else is there to live for? And in fact, sometimes the only thing you can do is just spend a little money on something that makes you even want to continue suffering the next day.

being an adult and trying to be "responsible with my money" is so hard like literally what corners am I supposed to be cutting on this budget. what am I supposed to stop spending money on. my anxiety meds? food for my cats? impulsive takeout orders? spotify premium? patreon artists who draw huge throbbing monster dicks? all of these are completely necessary to maintain my quality of life.

[anaalnathrakhs]

hjgjhggjgjgh forgot i can't even go to the psych ward if there was magically room for my non urgent case. my mom's birthday is this weekend, and my aunt and grandma stay at our house for the following week. i need to be there for the birthday, and then i have to seem normal and present at normal hours. AND THEN IT'S THE HOLIDAYS.

[nosygay]

wearing a permanent cough like it's a new accessory

[psychotrenny]

I think one of Imperialism's most evil strategies is the national scale torture you'll see inflicted on countries that dare to dream of freedom. Like it's not just about overthrowing the anti-imperialist regime itself, but utterly breaking the very social, economic and in turn psychological foundations it's built upon. Prolonged periods of destruction that are as systematic as they are sadistic with the aim of making life unlivable until the government either collapses or gives in, accepting whatever concessions are forced upon them as the nation is remoulded into an dependent and obedient little neocolony.

Sometimes an imperialist power will act directly to achieve this (just take the gratuitous and deliberate destruction of civil infrastructure during the bombings of Yugoslavia and Iraq), but the preferred strategy is to employ local proxies. Groups like RENAMO in Mozambique or the Contras of Nicaragua. Bands of reactionaries, traitors and general desperadoes are gathered up, trained, armed and transported over the border at the expense of the Imperialists and their local collaborators. These armed groups have no interest in build mass support, of representing an alternative way of life. Their only purpose is destruction; killing, torturing, looting, burning whatever they can in order to bring their country to its knees. Frequently targeting important nodes in the networks that sustain the nation and the people's faith in it (bridges, rail depots, factories, hospitals and schools) but ultimately happy to attack whatever they can; every house burned or person tortured contributes to the climate of terror and corrosion of government credibility. Because when they kill these groups don't like to do it cleanly; their attacks generate countless reports immolation, disembowelment, victims hacked to pieces and left to bleed. But when possible they prefer to leave their victims alive and capable of further spreading their terror, inflicting the most vicious sorts of rape and mutilation on a mass scale

It's not just just evil for the sake of evil mind you. The cruelty has a point; human destruction to accompany the physical. Every person killed is someone who can no longer contribute to the development of the nation, while even living yet physically and psychologically broken victim places further strain on their country's increasingly fragile support systems. Meanwhile the terror of these actions spreads the impact beyond their immediate victims. The murder and torture of peasants makes the survivors too scared to go back into their fields, slowly starving the nation as the rural economy grind to a halt. The gruesome deaths of traders and travelers leaves the survivors too terrified to continue their business, shutting down the distributive networks that make national development and often life itself possible. The terror unleashed on foreign professionals can prompt the survivors to flee and discourage newcomers from arriving, depriving the underdeveloped economic and education systems of the skilled workers they need to improve or even function. And every broken body, ever broken mind, is proof of the government's weakness and ineptitude; a humiliating failure to protect their own people that demoralises supporters and empowers dissenters. The motivated sadism of these terrorist attacks is a microcosm of the motivated sadism displayed by their Imperialist backers

But why go to all this trouble? Why not just send in the paratroopers or organise a coup to end those troublesome regimes quickly? Sometimes it's a matter of possibility. As great as they are, the powers of Imperialist nations are not unlimited. All manner of constraints (domestic unrest, international condemnation which advantages dangerous rivals, the simple financial and human costs of such operations) limit what actions are viable or desirable. This is especially significant when the targets are motivated and disciplined anti-imperialists with a base of deep-rooted popular support, the sort of regime that won't go down to a simple commando raid or bribe to the right general. But sometimes, it's not enough to merely cut down a dissenting government; you have to salt the earth and make sure nothing similar ever grows back. I'll finish with the words of an anonymous Jesuit priest, talking about Nicaragua yet in terms widely relevant enough to be published in John Saul's conclusion to A Difficult Road: The Transition to Socialism in Mozambique (1985):

In Chile the Americans made a mistake. They cut off the revolution too abruptly. They killed the revolution but, as we can see from recent developments there, they didn't kill the dream. In Nicaragua, they're trying to kill the dream

[yandere-sins]

Yan-Poll #16

Your stalker has a severe problem.

That's the conclusion you came to as you opened the door for the fifth time that day to another mailman handing you three more packages. Your living room had become unlivable, a space cluttered with cartons and the unopened remains of packages. At some point, you stopped opening them, but now they were collecting dust and destroying the comfort in your own home.

At first, curiosity had gotten the better of you. Amongst inappropriate gifts like underwear and... toys, there had actually been some useful presents. You secretly kept all the gifts that had been on your to-buy for a while and openly threw away the disgusting ones. You knew better than to accept the stalker's gifts, but since they were valuable, you couldn't help but hold on to some of them.

That was your mistake.

But looking at the neatly stacked packages, spreading from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, you realized your stalker had lost all control. You noticed brand names on the brown packages that you had only glanced at briefly while scrolling through your phone—expensive ones, too. At this point, you feared you couldn't look at anything anymore without it inevitably being sent to your home. You thought you had this situation under control, but apparently, you hadn't.

>> did you like the new necklace?

Heaving a deep sigh you looked at the countless messages, a new one popping up right on time of the delivery. Whoever he was, he was always watching. Though you ignored his constant string of texts—asking about your day, how you were feeling, confessing his love to you, wondering if you would wear his latest gifts—you knew this couldn't go on for much longer.

<< please stop

>> you finally responded :)

<< this needs to stop, I don't need all this junk!

>> but do you like it? i know you kept some of them

Biting your lip, you cursed yourself. Of course he'd notice that you didn't discard everything. That probably only encouraged your stalker to keep sending you more and more, wherever he got the money to afford it. Part of you thought, "Whatever! If he wants to blast through all that money, so be it! Might as well enjoy it!" but what about your morals?

You've been fighting so hard to live a normal life despite having this stalker. The police had given up since he was just too good at hiding his tracks, but he seemed to know everything and always be present in your life. If you let him continue like this, who knows what kind of trouble—legally and morally—you'd get into. What if this was his way of making you dependent and comfortable? This person had no qualms about intruding on your life, but what if he finally snapped? What would happen then? How much worse could this situation get?

<< anyway this needs to stop NOW

>> fine. let's make a deal: i'll send you one more gift >> if you hate it, i'll stop. but if you like it...

<< then what?

>> you'll see ;)

Your finger hovering over the keyboard of your phone, you thought about what your stalker could possibly mean. There was a good chance it would be a gift you liked, and he'd feel confident in the choices he made regarding you. But at the same time, what if it was a god-awful present? What if it was downright horrible? How far would he go, and could you possibly stomach the consequences of his actions because you allowed him to?

<< what if I refuse?

There was no answer this time. It was strange. You were starting to really get paranoid that he was plotting something terrible.

(Reasoning and discussions welcome! ♥)

[selarina]

thinking about marrying crown prince!gojo and you're not naive on your first night. you made it a point not to be— you made your handmaiden sneak in some articles with illustrations that had rattled something within you. they were strange and some were even gruesome but you were prepared.

but when the night came and you changed out from your heavy wedding dress to your dainty sheer nightgown, the prince merely walked in and offered you his robe— baffled, you took it and covered yourself. partly, because you were cold but mostly because you felt insecure. maybe he didn't find you attractive enough?

but that night was the first night the two of you just spoke. he told you stories you'd never heard before— he was unlike any man with so many adventures to tell. it made you a bit sad for yourself, for your unlived life. so little and narrow, with nothing interesting to offer him in return.

but he asked anyway— took such keen interest in your little and narrow world. he asked about the garden you liked, the colour of the swing in it, the flowers you picked, the first time you fell, and the first boy you liked. it was all a bit too much for you — too genuine. you think you could actually love this man.

that night you didn't undress each other. you didn't have sex. you wouldn't for a long time since that day but you were strangely okay with that, despite what custom demanded.

that night after your wedding, the two of you just talked and talked and sipped on wine till you fell asleep next to each other.

some where in the middle of the night, your bodies would find each other, all clothed, but you wouldn't know since he'd be the one to wake up first.

he would slowly find a way to leave your arms without waking you, and then he'd spend the first half of the early morning staring at who he thought was the most beautiful future queen this kingdom could've had.

[impactrueno]

beetlejuice stuff has been feeling a bit ironic for me the more time passes. i've been feeling like a ghost stuck in time and confined to this apartment for over a decade now. how i got to this point is kind of a long story, but i barely feel like a person because i stopped living my life at a certain point. so many years, wasted, unlived, because i was stuck here unable to move on from what broke my spirit

i can't get too much into this without it getting humiliating so that's all i can say but yeah

i guess i kind of am a ghost lol

[rustys-lodge]

Requested by @yourlocalratwriter : Could you please make a Hannibal x daughter reader(platonic) where his daughter has severe anger issues. Maybe like their having a outburst and yelling at him and doesn’t actually mean it? But they got Frustrated so they started yelling?

Warnings : anger issues, yelling by both parties.

A/n : ssso so sorry to answer this late, i finally have the courage to write again and i didnt wanna steal the plot or anythiing but at the same time i wanted to finally write thiiis ❤️

------

Hannibal, has welcomed you into his home. He cooks for you, helps you with your studies and even with your relationships with society and life. He would also like to help you with your room, but that, being your cocoon, is a restricted place for the meticulous Hannibal Lecter. That, until today.

--

You drag your feet through the mansion, tossing your bag on the nearest sofa as you headed for your room.

It had been a long day. A reeeeally long day. And frustration was irritating every part of your brain. Every inch of your body. You were definitely ready to melt into your mattress and fall asleep.

Yanking your bedroom door open, the scent of chemicals and artificial roses slaps your nostrils as you discover an orderly room. Not your room.

Your eyebrows knit together as you scan every inch of the space.

Disgusting. Tidy. Unlivable.

No more piles of clothes. No more stacked up papers. No more of those littles things you placed exactly in the right spot, exactly where you needed them.

Hannibal.

You march out of your room, each step growing louder and louder, fueling your anger. Until you reach the study.

You place your hand on the door handle, a thought comes to your mind.

You are not to come in without knocking on the door, y/n.

But you think again…Fuck him ?

You push the handle down, simultaneously pushing the door forward. There he is.

Your heart skips a beat.

Hannibal almost jolts up. For a split second, he's surprised. But as soon as his eyes land on your face, his body relaxes. And his features go back to being illegible. He watches you, his head slightly tilting to the side, waiting for an answer to a question he didn't need to ask.

"My room." You say.

"Yes ?" The doctor responds in an even simplistic manner. And it shakes sometimes in you.

"I told you not to touch my room." You keep your words to a minimum. As you were far far from calm, anymore anger and words were going to start spurting out of your mouth.

You wanted to avoid that.

"I organized everything accordingly. I d-"

What ?

His voice dies down as rage boils through your body. He's always trying to control everything. He cooks, he tells you what to do. When to do it. He chooses your meals for you. Who you're allowed to go out with. When to come home. Wait-so he read stuff, in order to organize it ?

"You read my stuff ?"

"That's not what i meant i-"

"Why would you do that, Hannibal." Your voice pierces through your own ears. You feel hot and your stomach is knotted up.

"Y/n, calm down."

"DONT TELL ME TO CALM FUCKING DOWN." Your body jolts in response, reaching your end point. "You're always trying to control everything. You fucking control freak" You accusingly point your finger at him. And your father stares in response.

He bites his bottom lip as his eyes rove from your reddened face to your finger, and back to your face. And slowly, he sets his hand on top of your finger, lowering it down forcingly. But you pulled away.

"Don't fucking touch m-"

"That's it." The man snaps, gripping your arm and dragging you over to the sofa, where he pushes you down. His grip is firm, but gentle. And before you have the time to move, he kneels down in front of you. "Now you're going to breat-you're going to breathe and I won't let you go until you do so."

Yours eyes meet his and your heart instantly slows down...But the overwhelming pain in your stomach doesn't die down. It lingers...

"Breathe, darling." Your father nods encouragingly as he awaits for you to obey. But you breathe heavily. Your voice sounded so hoarse and rough. You hated it. You didn't mean the words that just came out of your mouth. You didn't mean them. You just-Not sure-It just felt-

"It's okay, sweetheart, i know."

You shake your head as he nods No...No- He doesn't get it-he doesn't know. No-Y-

"I know you didn't mean what you said...It's okay."

You sniffle, a lump growing in your throat. "I'm sorry." It comes in a whisper.

"It's alright..Just breathe."

-----

Good reading, i hope. ❤❤❤🌹🌹🌹

[deadbeat-motel]

ᗪᗰ!ᗩᑎGEᒪᗪᑌᔕT ᒪOᖇE ᗩᑎᗪ TᖇIᐯIᗩ

Deadbeat Motel's Angel Dust Lore under the cut. (If you squint hard enough, you can see Vaggie and Charlie's rough design too.)

ᒪOᖇE

Angel Dust was never the best mafia member of his own family. He was too weak-hearted to deal with the types of people who made their home within the seedy world of crime. He was no good with taking a man's life nor was he any good with commanding the goons their family had, so his father had kept him trafficking drugs to be somewhat useful for the family. Angel Dust was happy about that, It was far from being in danger, and if he was careful enough, he would be able to have drugs from the stash he's supposed to be giving out to their clients.

One night, however, while high on PCP, a drug deal he and his brother were on had gone bad because their client finally got wise to Angel's stealing. A gunfight broke out killing men on both sides of the deal. AngelDust, while high on drugs, had killed someone in the middle of it, and he was still reeling from the shock of it when his high came down. His brother punched him in the face causing a black eye and told him how incredibly fucked they are because of what he's done. It was revealed that this drug deal was a way for their group to make peace with one another and killing those goons in that room had doomed the family to a Turf War they were not that prepared for. Going to his father to attempt to apologize had only gotten him killed in his father's rage.

AngelDust wakes up to Hell with a body he was surprised to like (despite his family being homophobic and possibly also misogynistic and transphobic). He's surprised to know how common and easy to find drugs are in this new place he's in but quickly finds out he's broke and unable to find a job because of how unused to his own body he is. His first few weeks in hell have been rough until he realizes he can utilize how this body works to his advantage. Many men and women lined up to want a piece of him and they paid good money too. Plus if they ever tried to hurt him, well this body showed him it's more than capable of keeping him safe. He actually did enjoy sex work more than his work as a former mafia member.

Everything went to shit when Valentino found him, he thought he was just another client who frequented him often and paid big money. When presented with a contract to work with him, he accepted since it looked as if the only thing he was asking for was to be his employee. However, as soon as he signed, hidden words started to reveal themselves on the paper. It turned out, he wanted more than what he was letting on. Val was a new Overlord and he's been slowly gaining the reputation that he has today and unfortunately Angel Dust had been duped by this demon. he just hadn't shown him his true colors back then to lower his guard around him.

Angel Dust has tried to fight Val before but nothing good came out of it. He wouldn't be able to do much about him if the contract was still in effect. He even lost the mandibles on his mouth because he had bitten Valentino reflexively one time. For 2-3 decades (might be subjected to change) he's had to deal with Val's abuse of him All optimism has dried out, and he's been living and coping with despair.

Angel Dust learns of the Motel and checks in mainly to get away from Val (He constantly moves places and doesn't feel safe in his previous apartment as Val has found him once again). He doesn't take the entire point of the motel seriously because he'll be gone within a month or two. After all, that's how often Val found him and sure enough, he did find him. Val starts talking like he owns the place, starts threatening everyone, and even attempts to control Valerie and Charlie when they confront him about what he's doing to Angel Dust. They of course are unaffected because of their angelic natures and Valerie absolutely thrashed the unliving shit out of Val. But before she can kill him, Val brings up the fact that if she kills him he will kill Angel Dust, taking him and the other hundred souls he has under his contract. With Angel Dust's and the other hundreds of souls' lives on the line, they had to concede and let him live, but not without warning him that if Angel Dust dies because of him, both women are going to make sure he begs for a second death.. This of course is not a big change for Angel Dust, but he's glad he can keep crashing at this motel knowing that Val won't dare come into this place if he wanted all his limbs attached to his body.

Angel Dust has become a permanent resident of the motel.

TᖇIᐯIᗩ:

Angel Dust frequented more LGBT-friendly speakeasies before he died (considering OG Angel Dust's family was homophobic iirc) and while he didn't participate in "pansy shows". He did want to join them.

Angel dust can produce webbing and uses it to slow down his pursuers. They've got a really strong grip on anything that touches it.

As a last resort, Angel Dust uses his webbing whips. They're non-lethal (At least I think so) since he mainly uses its sticky factor. They're good at disarming enemies who have guns from far away, especially since Angel Dust is creative with his uses of it.

Angel Dust used to have sharp teeth but had them forcibly flattened because Val was tired of the fact he's been nicked by those teeth of his multiple times.

The motel is actually the first place in a while he's stayed in for a year. Angel Dust has been able to make his room more comfortable for him and has his own stash of knick-knacks on display.

He is never seen front-facing. The view in front of Angel's face is treated like Phineas' front-facing view. Never allowed to be seen other than in smear frames.

A running joke for me is how everyone has no idea how a Spider's anatomy even works (I don't either).

Yeah, he'd still be shipped with Husk but I'm not having Husk call him a loser because my blood would boil, plus I'm changing their dynamic but I'll get into that when Husk is finished.

A big plot point for Angel Dust would be that he gets to kill Val with the aid of Valerie/Husk or the both of them and that while he'll be free of his abuser, it has screwed over his ticket out of hell in the eyes of heaven. However, it was able to spark a debate within Heaven's court... should the rules be so strict that they would punish a victim that finally fought back against his own abuser? (It's not that deep but it's a start at least rather than "You don't know what gets people into heaven?")

Currently unsure as to how Cherri Bomb would fit into his story but I might be able to figure it out later when I get to her redesign

I think that's all for now? This may be subjected to change at some point in time, but ask me anything about this version of AngelDust

[blackwomanwriter]

"Mine"

Read: Part I, Part II

It's been a minute, but I finally wrote something. And of course, I had to go back to this series because there is something about Thomas Shelby. Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and let me know your favorite part. Happy Reading!

He entered quietly like he was on a mission. Although this one was unlike the ones he had performed during the war and after. No, this mission was different. Very different. Yet, Tommy performed it with the same intensity.

Eyes narrowed on the quiet interior, clocking each entry point and exit way, like a soldier, he assessed his environment. He hadn’t been in a house this small since his childhood. Even back then, the space had felt cluttered and cramped. Too noisy to think. Too busy to breathe. The stench of his father’s hangover in the air before it disappeared altogether.

He remembered talking Arthur out of trying to find their father. A man unworthy of carrying - no, sharing his surname. Tommy tensed his jaw, moving past the memory. Instead, he raised a brow at how devastatingly clean the entire place felt. Physically tidy, but clean in a way that made the house feel empty. Unlived. Unloved. Cold. The opposite of everything he thought of her. She was warm. Tender. Inviting.

Moving to the narrow staircase, he could hear the water running. The pipes pushing the water through the house. She was here. She was alive. She was avoiding him - again.

He hiked up the stairs, stepping one foot in front of the other. Like a soldier, he kept moving. He carried on with the task before him. His mind focused on the mission.

Opening the door quietly, Tommy leaned on the door frame - taking in the sight before him. Curved hips that were fuller since he had last seen her. A waist that tempted him to wrap his arms around her. It was now that he reached in his pocket for a cigarette.

“Jesus, Tommy,” she shrieked. The click of his lighter giving him away.

She rested a hand on her heart, shuddering as she closed her eyes.

Unbothered, he traced the stick along his bottom lip before lighting it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, as her breath steadied.

“You haven’t been taking my calls,” he stated. Gaze unchanged. Smoke filling the air.

“I’m in mourning,” she enunciated, grabbing a towel to cover herself. She didn’t bother hiding her frustrations as she shoved past him. She was angry. He liked her angry.

At first, when she didn’t answer his call, he had briefly worried that she was sad. Tearful over the sudden death of her husband, who the police found floating in the river after a night of drinking. His death ruled accidental according to the official report. A drunken man’s blunder. An unsurprising end of life. An expected death for a man who drank as much as her late husband did.

An easy lie to believe, but she knew the truth. The greatest mistake the dead man had made was marrying Thomas Shelby’s favorite whore. It was her mistake more than his. She knew what she was doing when she said yes. The risks she was taking by marrying while Tommy was off in America. Her moment of rebellion had cost a life.

Although, they had gotten past the letter. She hadn’t returned to him. She wanted to keep her promise. To stay married. To honor what was left of her vows. She wouldn’t work for him. She wouldn’t see him. The temptation of losing herself in him made her stay away. She had already ruined the sanctity of her marriage by sleeping with him in his office. She didn’t want to continue making a mockery of the words she vowed before God and man.

She was suddenly religious, which amused Tommy. He thought it was a game, but she clung on to every word spoken by the priest. At the funeral, she remembered his words at the wedding. How he had pressed upon her the importance of repentance. Before Thomas Shelby, she had been a good girl. Never told a lie. Prayed before bed. Devout daughter. Devoted sister. An upstanding and honorable member of her community. He had changed her. Corrupted her. Loved her. Destroyed her.

“It’s been weeks,” Tommy stated coolly.

She ignored him. Her hands focused on the cream she was applying to her skin. Smooth skin. Soft skin. Skin his lips remembered. The taste imprinted on his tongue. Tommy exhaled.

His patience was wearing thin. He loved her. She loved him. He figured out how to help her keep her promise and allow him to keep his. Her husband was dead, and she was free.

“I see you’re eating again,” he quipped, trying to stir a reaction out of her. She didn’t disappoint. He ducked as the bottle of cream nearly struck his head.

“I went from being a whore to being a widow.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a book.” Tommy shrugged then ducked again. This time, she threw a shoe.

“At least I can bargain my way into heaven as a whore,” she resolved, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Is that what your priest tells you?” He brought the cigarette back to his lips for another drag.

He knew. Of course, he knew. She wondered if he was having her followed again. How else would he know about her visits to the church. Her talks with the priest.

“My greatest sin is you,” she finished her thought.

Her words were meant to be cutting, but Tommy remained unbothered. His eyes stoic, jaw set as if he was watching a horse race. He brought his cigarette to his lip, letting it dangle as he neared her. 

She stood up, ready to shove past him again, but he grabbed her forearm. Her eyes flared up at him as she tried to loosen his grip, but he remained firm.

“You want to talk about sins, ey?” He whispered against her ear. “You married a man who picked a pint over his life. A man who stowed you away in a house he couldn’t bear to live in himself, while he stayed three doors down with his brother’s wife.”

She frowned, hearing him confirm a suspicion she wouldn’t allow herself to believe. When he stopped coming home, she told herself that he was drunk at a pub or sleeping his hangover off at his mother’s house.

“A man who lost his wages betting on fights.”

So that’s where all their money had gone, she thought. Her face didn’t flinch as Tommy confirmed another truth. Her late husband was just another man who had let her down. All the words she threw at Tommy about him being a good man were lies. He was just better at hiding his wrongs.

Tommy softened his grip on her hand, as he relayed the sin that he couldn’t forgive. The sin that forced him to intervene without thinking of the consequences. “A man who was willing to sell his wife to settle his debts.”

Her eyes widened then glazed over. The shred of innocence he once found in those warm brown irises was quickly disappearing. He cursed at himself for the letter, but it wasn’t just the letter. It was the months he left her wondering if he could ever love again. It was the voice that told him to push her away. She married the man because of him.

Tommy released her hand. There was a part of him that wished he hadn’t been so honest. Her hardened eyes told him just as much. The look on her face was one he had seen before in the women who dared to love him. When his darkness eventually shadowed their light. When his world swallowed them whole.

She reached for the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Taking a long drag, she exhaled. The smoke covering Tommy’s face.

“My sin was marrying the wrong man,” she concluded.

His thumb brushed her skin, remembering when her lips pressed against his in hunger. His lip bleeding as their need took precedence. Her lip bruised from his appetite. Even when he had her, he needed more. Tracing her lip, he gently placed the cigarette between his fingers then lifted it to his mouth. The first puff was for the memory. The second was for his patience.

“No, my god doesn’t care about sins.”

“I didn’t think you believed in,” sighing, she looked up, “anything.”

Tommy closed his eyes. His patience wearing on him again. “You’re moving out of this house. You’re coming back to work, and you’re going to answer when I call.”

“Of course, Mr. Shelby,” she answered.

His jaw ticked at the use of his surname. The smoke from his cigarette creating a haze over his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Tell me what your god thinks about whores.”

“Everyone’s a whore,” he muttered, as he moved toward the door, already thinking of his next order of business. The kiss would have to wait.

“Is that what your wife thinks?”

Tommy stopped walking. Leaning his hand on the door frame, he closed his eyes. His nose flared. His annoyance growing with her disobedience. He seemed to attract women who were determined to do the opposite of what he asked.

“She confronted me. Told me to stay away,” she admitted, and in that second, he realized why she ignored him. She was no longer his secret. He made his affection too obvious.

“I’ll take care of it,” he firmly stated, leaving no room for further questions. Yet, she continued.

“Does she follow any of the other girls or is it just me?” She asked.

He wasn’t ready to admit that there weren’t any other girls. That there hadn’t been other girls for a while. From the moment he declared his love, Tommy had made himself hers - only hers.

“You love me, but there are others,” she whispered. “I love you, but all I do is think of them. To be with you, I have to worry about them. I have to wait to be yours.”

“Is that what you’re doing then - waiting?” He asked, closing the distance between them.

Her hand dropped to her middle and Tommy’s eyes followed. He stared, then frowned before bringing his gaze back to her. “How far along?”

Her eyes softened. The grief coloring every muscle in her face. Tommy closed his eyes. She was in mourning. He understood her words clearly now. It was moments like this that made him miss Polly. She would have known.

Tommy muttered something in his Romanian tongue as he sat on the bed. He stamped his cigarette out in silent rage. There was never an end. Death seemed to find him at every turn. It hunted him. Craved him.

His hands went to her robe. Slowly, he pulled the fabric, revealing her body. A body that had prepared itself to carry his child. A body that had nourished him back to life. His fingers moved to her belly, tracing the skin there. The soft, smooth skin.

He looked up at her and saw the tears she wouldn’t shed. How long had she held them in, unable to weep. Unable to speak. Unable to fully mourn. Wrapping his arms around her middle, he pulled her in and kissed the place his hands had touched. He tried to do what she had done for him; he tried to make it okay for her to feel.

“I’m fine, Tommy. It’s better this way,” she said, her voice cold and void of any emotion.

“When?” He whispered, knowing it was his, and yet wondering how he’d missed so much in so little time.

“It doesn’t matter,” she stiffened. “It’s gone now, and I need to move on.”

She gave him a second to make peace with the reality she had lived with for weeks. Then, she moved from his touch, closing her robe as she distanced herself. Loving him was painful enough without the added grief of their lost child.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she folded her arms, avoiding his gaze.

Tommy raised a brow, staring at her before glancing around the room. It was as cold as the rest of the house - bare of any details or remnants of her. Standing up, Tommy found a new mission. He moved past her in search of anything that made the four walls more of a home.

His hands traced the metal bed frame. His fingers trailing the linen and cloth. He opened windows and tapped on wooden walls. He inspected the little furniture in the room, unsatisfied with the results.

“Tommy,” she started to say as he pushed open a wardrobe, finding it empty.

She was leaving. She planned to leave London. She planned to leave him. The thought stung in Tommy’s mind as he opened drawer after empty drawer. His anger taking center stage.

“Tommy,” her voice raised with concern.

He shoved the empty wardrobe back, watching as it crashed against the wall.

“Stop,” she yelled, as he shoved the wardrobe again and again. His grief coloring his anger. His anger coloring his grief. Her heart jumped as the wooden drawers finally cracked under the pressure. The splitting wood overshadowing her screams as the wardrobe completely fell apart.

“Tommy,” she cried, rushing to stop him from breaking the wood further. “Stop.”

“Please,” she whispered. Her plea full of a love she couldn’t deny him.

He exhaled. The sound of his heightened breath taking all the space in the room. His anger taking all the air. Tommy closed his eyes. The familiar whispers creeping in his head, telling him to put out the fire. To walk over to the other side. To let go of this life. To finally rest.

She swallowed, unsure of what to tell him, and yet, she persisted. “My sister found work outside of London. She thought it’d be good for me…”

Tommy shook his head, looking up at the ceiling.

“I wanted to tell you,” she stopped, lowering her head. There was nothing to say.

He scoffed. “Tell me.”

It felt like deja vu to hear him utter those words to her again. To hear the same command. The same request he’d asked from her when she told him about the wedding. Yet, this time, there was nothing left to say.

She stared at the back of his head. Her fingers yearning to brush his hair or wrap themselves around him. Her lips longing to kiss the nape of his neck.

Closing her eyes, she confessed. “There’s no life for me here.”

“You’re not leaving.” He pushed back, ignoring her words. “You’re mine.”

“When?” She sighed. “When am I yours, Tommy?”

He lifted his head, staring at the wall. His mind moving a mile a minute. She couldn’t leave him. His heart wouldn’t allow it. His body would protest. His hunger was contained to her. His thoughts all went back to her. How many minutes until he can think of her? How many meetings until he can dream of her? He suffered without her to be with her. Every hour he was away was an hour he promised to give to her.

He was a selfish man, who wanted what he wanted. A man who endured wars and monsters disguised as men. A cursed man. A broken man. A suffering man. A man who didn’t deserve her, and yet, he wanted her. He needed her. She was the cigarette on his lips. The pain tablets in his pocket. The shirt on his back. The razor blade on his cap. She couldn’t leave him.

“When your wife is gone? When you’re fucking other women?” Her voice continued in the background, but Tommy was half-listening. “When you’re bored? When the nightmares come? When the work is done? When am I yours?” She asked again, although there was no anger in her question.

“When you married him, you were mine. Every time you put on his fucking ring; you were mine.” His brows furrowed as he reached into his side pocket for a cigarette. “When you moved into this house, you were mine. When you had my fucking child inside of you, you were mine.” Tommy sniffed, turning to face her. “From the moment you entered my office, you belonged to me.”

She stiffened, as she traced her empty ring finger. His crassness didn’t bother her as much as his refusal to listen. He disregarded her words, only focusing on what he wanted. It was why she didn’t want to tell him about the baby. He would have stuck her in a big house that he would never visit. Given her everything except the thing she wanted, which was him. But now that nightmare wasn’t even a reality because she’d lost their child. She'd lost a piece of him.

“Is that all it takes…” she started to argue, but words were pointless. Their arguments were pointless. They had a love that was cursed from inception.

In this life, he was promised to another. In the next, he would be reunited with another. In life and death, she had no place in Thomas Shelby’s life. Her love for him didn’t save their unborn child. It reminded her that their love had no place to grow. It was wilted, and no amount of money or prayer could save them.

“You’re not leaving,” Tommy declared, cornering her until she had no choice but to look up at him.  Her brown eyes sinking into him, full of a love he didn’t deserve.

“You made me a promise,” he whispered. His jaw tensing as he remembered that night in his office when he had made himself hers. When he had promised to live. To stop craving death. The gods had given him a second chance with her.

“Tommy,” she protested, but he continued.

“You gave me your word.” His lips brushed hers and her body shuddered. “You made promises to me. Promises I intend to collect.”

His hand slipped down to her robe, loosening the ties. His fingers marking a trail from her chest to her neck to her lips. “Promises you agreed to keep.”

She folded under his touch. Her head falling on his chest as she exhaled. Quick, short breaths that made Tommy pull her in closer.

“And what of your promises?” She grabbed his fingers before they could slip between her thighs.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, trying not to smirk. “Remind me again.”

Shaking her head, she moved from his hands. Her heart ached, but it would always ache whether she was with him or not. He was not wrong. It belonged to him. From the moment she entered his office, her heart had become his. Knowing he was promised to another, it still beat for him. It yearned for him. It acted without consequence.

Thou shall not commit adultery. A vow she’d broken within a month of knowing Thomas Shelby. But her heart didn’t care. It didn’t care about the commandments she broke. Her sins were plenty but her heart was full. Full of love for a man who couldn’t confess his love until she married another.

Turning away from him, she closed her robe. Her hand wanted to follow the trail he etched on her skin, but she didn’t. She could hear him lighting a cigarette. His eyes on her. His eyes undressing her. His eyes claiming her as his.

She wanted to run, but her heart wouldn’t let her. Instead, she willed herself to face him. Smoke in the air. His scent in every crevice of the cramped room. She inhaled and tried to tell him again. Her thoughts were on her lips, and yet, nothing.

Offering her his cigarette, Tommy stepped towards her. “Leaving London won’t cure you of me.”

She reached for the smoke. Grateful for the distraction. For the heat. For the vapors. For the way her lungs would expand and contract. For the cigarette they shared between them. His lips on her lips. Her lips on his.

“That priest of yours won’t help you either,” he added.

“What is the cure then?”

Tommy leaned into her. His hands on her waist, slowly moving her robe up past her knees then her thighs. “First, you have to stop running.”

“Running?” She asked, confused by his accusation.

“The wedding. The job. This house.” He counted. “And now these plans of leaving London.” His hands pushed the fabric of her robe from her skin, leaving her naked before him. “You mustn’t run.”

“And what if I do?” She questioned, not allowing her nudity to dissuade her.

Tommy brushed her cheek before taking the cigarette from her lips. “I’ll find you. Remind you of where you belong.”

“And where is it that I belong?” She asked. Her eyes gentle and pleading. 

He brought her hand to his chest, placing it where his heart lay. “Here. Right here.”

She swallowed her nerves, terrified of letting her heart speak. “Second?” She went back to his list.

“Second.” He took a drag, exhaling the smoke before he continued, “You must know, I get scared,” he admitted, and she finally understood why he’d written her that letter. Thomas Shelby was scared of loving her. The first woman he loved died in his arms because of a bullet meant for him. Love was something to fear, and he was terrified.

“Now, it’s unpleasant and it’s unkind. But when I am…”

“I’ll remind you,” she finished, “of where you belong.”

Tommy cupped her face, placing a kiss on her head. “Good.”

She closed her eyes. Her heart too fragile for Thomas Shelby’s confession. He hadn’t proposed, yet they were already exchanging vows.

“Last.” He leaned his head on hers. “And the most important.”

“Yes,” she breathlessly whispered.

Tommy’s finger traced her bottom lip before he kissed her. His lips hungry to taste her. Selfish in his desire - his consumption of her. He groaned when he felt her kiss him back. Her own need just as desperate as his. She moaned when their lips parted, disappointed by her body’s need for air.

“I promise to have you pregnant by spring.”

Her eyes lit up as she laughed for the first time in months. She chuckled, not taking him seriously. “Tommy.”

“A boy,” he declared, wrapping his arms around her middle. “He’ll have your eyes and my charm.”

She giggled, playfully hitting his chest as he picked her up and placed her on the bed. Her smile widening as she gazed at him. She was returning to herself - returning to him. Weeks of grief slowly thawing from her heart.

Tommy stamped out his cigarette before joining her with a kiss. His body on top of hers. His hands on either side of her head. His mind fixated on the softness of her skin.

“I’ll be back at work in the morning,” she whispered in between kisses.

“You won’t be working anymore.”

She pulled away from his kiss, frowning at him. “What are you on about, Tommy?”

He sighed, already knowing he was about to start another fight. “I won’t have you working with a child of mine inside of you.”

“What?”

“You’ll be carrying my son,” Tommy repeated.

Closing her eyes, she realized he was serious. Of course, he was serious. She wondered how long he’d been planning to get her pregnant again.

“I don’t deserve you,” Tommy kissed her lips. “But, I promised to give you a life worthy of everything you are.” He reminded her. “I promised to let you in my head. I promised to do more than just wait to die. I promised to live.”

She wanted to be angry with him, but he remembered. Every word. Every promise. Everything they had discussed in his office.

“I promised to keep you safe.”

“To make us safe,” she corrected.

He kissed her again. “There are no other girls,” Tommy confessed, reminding her of his other promise. Tommy Shelby was hers.

Grabbing his collar, she pulled him into a long kiss. “No more running,” she vowed.

Tommy smiled. “No more.” He pressed his lips on hers before adding, “You’re mine.”

This time, she didn’t argue, simply letting him kiss her. “Now, where were we, Mrs. Shelby?” He asked, slipping his fingers between her thighs.

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

This was a long one. If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! Let me know your favorite part.

[sporeblossom]

logging back onto this website to say that while i dont think (???) it was intentionally done, the scene before their "last day" where frank is working on a portrait of bill, reminded me of keith haring's "unfinished painting"

comparison here before i explain:

keith haring's painting was purposely made to look incomplete. haring was diagnosed with HIV in late 1988, and died in early 1990, at the age of 31. the painting is a self portrait, hitting us with the gut-punch reality of how the aids-epidemic robbed haring of the right to finish his own story. the overwhelming amount of empty space is a glaring reminder that haring didn't just have a short life, he had an incomplete one. the piece points to all that empty space and says: this should have been filled out. this should all have been my art, my story, and my space. by claiming this empty space, haring claimed the empty space of his unlived life, that was taken from him and so many other people, by a negligent and homophobic society that refused to care about the pandemic ravaging an entire community worldwide.

now back to my original point: like i said, im really not sure if this was intentionally done by the show. but when i was watching this episode and i saw this scene, i immediately thought of this painting. the blue color of the eye trailing off onto the blank part of the canvas is, at least to me, a strong visual parallel.

and i feel like this visual parallel highlights some very important thematic parallels as well, which deserve to be talked about. in the show, the outbreak starts in 2003 which means that bill and frank have both lived through the aids-epidemic. they have seen people like them die. they have experienced the hatred and isolation that came with it. you could speculate and read into things ad nauseaum, but i thinks it's safe to say that in this place and time, this also plays into how careful and hesitant they are, when they first start to show intimacy with each other. in their world, they didn't even get to experience the legalization of gay marriage.

seeing as this show takes place during another, fictional, pandemic, airing at a time where the real world has just faced another actual pandemic, it is impossible to ignore this aspect of their story.

these two characters however, are not destroyed by the outbreak in the show. they find each other, they experience freedom, love, and a full life together. their life is not cut short.

in an absurd twist of fate, when the rest of the world is finally forced to experience what it's like to be abandoned by your government during a devastating epidemic, this is when these two people find happiness. they get to go running, and have fights, and grow strawberries, and have friends over for dinner.

and after spending nearly twenty years together, frank spends his last time working not on a self portrait, but on a portrait of bill, the love of his life. this is the sort of thing that rightfully should have filled the empty space of haring's work. finding love(s) spending your time together, that is a life lived.

and yet frank's painting is unfinished, because of course we are never truly done living. we are never truly done loving. but he got so much more time, so much more story, than the people we lost to the aids epidemic, which the trailing off blue paint reminds us of.

at the same time their house is absolute filled with all the paintings that frank did finish, showing us all the good days he got with bill. and in a way, i feel like that is the show being very aware of what it is: a complete, beautiful story about two men loving each other, in a world that sorely lacks these stories. a world where we had so many unfinished, incomplete lives, that we lack an entire generation of older gay men.

and even though i was completely reduced to tears by the end of this episode, the ending still filled me with some sort of mournful joy. because yes, even though it was incredibly sad to see their last day, these two men got to fill so much of their empty space. they got to experience love, and they got to live their life. like bill says: "im old. im satisfied. and you were purpose."

so many people didn't get that. keith haring didn't get that. a whole generation of queer people didn't get that. that makes this episode so much more moving for me, because it is not just an incredibly beautiful love story, but it is an incredibly beautiful love story that the world should rightfully have seen millions more of. but all those lives were incomplete.

so with the undeniable, but unspoken, presence of the aids epidemic in the narrative of these characters, this visual reference to keith haring and aids, purposeful or not, is incredibly meaningful.

[wolfsong-the-bloody-beast]

There is a cure for vampirism!

I haven't finished playing Baldur's Gate 3 yet, so I don't know how Larian handles Astarion. I'm currently somewhere in the middle of Act 3, I've done his personal quest, so I'm getting there. However, there's something I've been thinking about since the start of the game, the moment I learned that Astarion is a vampire spawn. There is a cure!

Warning: Major spoilers for Baldur's Gate 2!

I'm surprised I haven't seen anyone talk about this yet. Maybe I've just missed it. I have to put it out there because it's gnawing at me. There is a solution!

There are a lot of variables to the story of Gorion's Ward (GW), so I'm not going to speak for everyone, but at some point in the story of Baldur's Gate 2, GW's love interest is kidnapped by a powerful vampire, Bodhi, and turned into a vampire spawn. However, GW and their friends defeat Bodhi and in her very lair find an ancient tome with information on how to restore a vampire spawn, bring them fully back to life.

Another great thing is that, at that point, you may have Jaheira with you - I did - so she would know of the solution and could provide this information to Tav's party. Surely, a Harper would even keep a tome of such importance, or GW, raised in Candlekeep, would bring it to one of the greatest libraries there is, especially after it had saved their loved one's life. The tome would be invaluable to them.

What needs to be done should be simple enough: Take the heart of the master vampire who turned the victim and bring it to a temple of Amaunator (There's one in the Umar Hills, at the very least, even if it was falling apart a hundred years ago.) together with the spawn. GW's love interest had to be delivered dead because they were fully under control of their vampire master and I imagine also because of the game's limitations - the spawn just wouldn't follow even when charmed. But I see no reason it wouldn't work with a living spawn.

Pray.

???

Profit!

"In the arms of the Sun god were the infected placed, and the hearts of their dark masters were laid there with them. Blood did burn, and the dead returned, but not as undead or unliving, but alive and freed from taint."

GW's love interest was brought back to life perfectly fine. There was no catch. No side effects.

Now pardon me if I'm being redundant and Baldur's Gate 3 deals with it in some other way. I just had to put this out there, because it'd been driving me insane, having this in my head since starting the game. The whole damn time.

But anyway, here, for all your happy ever after headcanon needs, in case it is needed!

[arievanille]

𝐏ℒ𝐀𝐂𝐄𝒮 𝐓𝒪 𝒮ℋ𝐈𝐅𝒯 !!

#OO1. an apocalypse dr — but except it being zombies there’s an outbreak of vampires, or aliens, or venomous creatures, etc.

#OO2. stuck in space dr — where you’re in a space school [ dunno what it’s actually called ] and you get tested to go to space and it succeeds but you get stuck in space having to go on another planet.

#OO3. 2013/14/15 youtuber dr — being that quirky unboxing youtuber where you have fun and aesthetic vlogs, shortened shopping hauls, etc.

#OO4. poor to rich dr — hear me out, living in a small apartment then suddenly waking up rich?? i hope this sounds cool to someone else bc it sounds cool to me, idk why tho.

#OO5. boxer angst dr — you’re a boxer by force and you end up having to fight someone who’s better than you and they end up teaching you how to live your own life [ this sounds like a wattpad book ]

#OO6. living in an unlivable place dr — for instance living in a school or a car or in a camper van, etc your choice! doing this with your friends or wtv!

#OO7. get paid to eat around the world dr — self explanatory but imagine getting paid to explore and eat?? yeah. hoping you seeing my vision.

#OO8. living with humanized creatures, vampires, aliens, mermaids, etc but having to keep it a secret or you’re the humanized creature living with a human [ib by the show lighting point]

[hiemaldesirae]

The Hazbin Graduate's Guide to Homicide (2)

Student Report: Alastor Hartfelt Supervising Staff: Vice-Dean Lilith Morningstar Sponsor: [REDACTED] To the esteemed and generous sponsor of one Mister Alastor Hartfelt, The following enclosed letter is a partial recount of Mister Alastor's first week during his term here at our esteemed institution. Please dispose of this report as soon as you are finished reading it for privacy insurance. We at the Hazbin Institution for Homicide Practictioners thank you for your continued interest and patronage. Sincerely, Vice-Dean Lilith Morningstar.

(Enclosed is also a photo of your charge with our current star student, Vox Vanhal. Please note that Mr. Vanhal's file is not yet open for your private purposes, but Dean Lucifer is working on it.)

[more murder academy radiostatic content] <- read the first for context! ^^

"Does this radio only have one station?" Alastor frowns at the contraption.

Having arrived at Pride House late into the semester (according to Dean Morningstar, anyway- he hadn't wanted to come here in the first place, so he doesn't see why he should be given the blame), Alastor had been stiffly informed by the receptionist- one Mrs. Mayberry- that he would have to be sharing a joint bathroom with a young woman named Charlie as a result of no other rooms being available. He'd been tempted to ask about the peculiar young man who he'd met that afternoon and how he'd assumed they might be roommates, but after one sour look from the receptionist that reminded him far too much of his late grandmother, he'd simply kept his mouth shut and taken the key.

The room he was assigned honestly wasn't half bad, if he could push out the questioning in his hindbrain of why he was given a room with a bathroom to share with someone of the fairer sex. Light from the setting sun streamed in from the open curtains, and through the window, an elevated view of the small Dutch-themed town square was easy to see. If Alastor squinted, he could see the glittering waters of the oddly named Lake Pandemonium, and past that, a thick covering of colourful flowering trees he had never once seen before in his life.

The room itself reminds Alastor a little of hotel rooms: somewhat sterile in its professionalism, and altogether unattached from any sense of home. Though he supposes it's better this way: he would rather a completely sterile and unlived in room than one bearing marks of another's absence.

Anyway. Back to the radio.

Alastor fiddles with the knobs a little, but still, the tunes of the blues persist on, with not even the slightest bit of variety.

It was ironic now, thinking of how he used to dance to songs just like these in Mimzy's company, and now he was complaining for no reason. He'd expected much less kind treatment when he'd been brought to Hazbin, after all, but after not even a day of staying here, it seemed to him that their service alongside their accomodations had been top notch. Excluding the presence of the Dean, Alastor found himself thinking that he may even end up liking this place.

That line of thought would soon be tested the very next morning, when Alastor made his way out of his rooming quarters and down to the building that housed the institution's dining hall.

Though the dean had been careful to point it out to him during the tour, he hadn't realized just the sheer size of the place: its high-sloped ceilings and massive polished columns of oak wood and obsidian enlays made for a stunning, if intimidating layout.

"Ah, Mister Hartfelt- Alastor, right?"

A voice catches his attention and before he even turns, Alastor knows who the soft hand on his shoulder is from. Lo and behold, the man with the mismatched eyes offers him a smile, one that Alastor returns after a beat of silence.

"Since you're new, do you want to come sit with me?"

"I don't see why not," Alastor responds simply. There's no harm in it, exactly- he's not quite sure what exactly he's supposed to be doing at mealtimes (see once more: coming in to the start of the term 'late') and, besides. He's been curious about the man with the gemstone eyes since they met the day prior, so the chance to sit and eat with him... well, it was quite the unexpected boon.

"Right, you'll have to get a plate for yourself, but you can always just take one from someone who hasn't woken up yet," Vox says as they make their way to the table where he was sitting. "Just be careful that the one you're taking isn't from someone really protective of their property."

"Why not?"

"They've probably already laced the plates with some kind of poison." Vox shrugs. "Most have antidotes on hand for that kind of thing, but only for their own poisons. So we try not to get the plates mixed up."

"Ah," Alastor says succinctly. "My apologies, remind me how long you've been here for again?"

"Two weeks," Vox says. He laughs a little at the face that Alastor makes, "I mean, well, you tend to learn these kinds of things pretty quick. If not cause of the upperclassman, usually staff are around to tell you what not to do... and if they're not there either, there's always the medical personnel who can help you after you've done the deed and gone belly up, so to say."

"I'm quite sure I'd rather not have to resort to said medical personnel, but to each their own," Alastor says.

This gets a laugh from Vox again, one that provokes that deep sort of familiarity inside of Alastor, and once again he asks himself where do I know this man from? It was certainly never from any radio program he'd ever heard, but he couldn't quite rule out the possibility of it being from a foreign program either, given the soft influence of german notes in the other man's speech.

He's drawn out of his thoughts when Vox pushes a plate towards him, already laden with food. "Here. Snatched this one from my former roommate a week back and he never questioned it. Guy didn't even show up to breakfast half the time."

Alastor takes it without asking any further questions, though he does look at the meal to check for any sort of poisons he should watch for. Not that he has enough faith in Vox to think that the other would be able to murder him, but, this was a school for murder, and in the current moment, he was outclassed (even if it wasn't by much.) However, there was a question he wanted to ask unrelated to the food.

"Former roommate?"

"Mm, he graduated- well, went to complete his thesis, which is basically the same thing but shorter because if you don't complete your thesis you may as well say your goodbyes- and that was three days before you arrived," Vox clarifies. "Or, well. I s'pose I shouldn't say that. I'm pretty sure he graduated. The guy was an upperclassman, and the terms here are pretty unpredictable- there's no limits on the time you spend here unless your funds are limited, and he was definitely not one of the people who have to scrape their savings together to afford a single year here. I didn't know anything about his academic career though, so it's definitely a possibility he didn't graduate."

"If he didn't graduate, then-"

"If he didn't graduate then he's dead, simple as pie," Vox clarifies once more. Alastor squints his eyes at the other man, who huffs and bites into his toast before saying anything else. "Well, hey, I mean I know I don't seem like the best roommate right now, but look, all right, I'm not gonna be looking into the disappearance of the guy who kept wrecking my bathroom setup for two weeks! Besides, when Dean Morningstar introduced you the other day, I thought that we'd be rooming together- especially since I already had the vacancy, and it'd make sense to just, you know, lump us together, right? Since I've got the room, and you need it?"

"Yes, it'd seem that way," Alastor says. He picks at his own food for a moment longer, debating between telling Vox of his actual room arrangements and keeping his mouth shut before deciding that whatever information he could get out of the man would be worth the potential embarrassment and questioning. "But instead, I was assigned to share a room with a woman."

Vox spits out his food onto the table, hacking and coughing as Alastor reaches over the table and pats him on the back firmly, shaking his head when some other members start making their ways towards him. "You- they made you room with a woman? What?"

"Well, it's certainly not as bad as you're making it sound-"

"I mean, sharing a bathroom, whatever, I know how rooming works in the Pride House so, all right, not that bad considering you'd have the double locked doors and as long as neither of you forget to lock the doors everything's all right, but, seriously, what?" Vox sounds puzzled, almost as if he himself can't work out what the staff are getting at, and in fairness, Alastor himself can't really puzzle it out himself. "Couldn't you file like, a report against that or something?"

"I'm here on a sponsorship," Alastor reminds the other man, who seems to shrink back into his chair at the reminder that he hadn't been the one to put himself into this facility. "I'd rather not risk their ire, if only for the sake of my sponsor."

That was a lie, of course. The truth was, as amiable and sociable as the man before him was- and as much as Alastor had a personal sort of curiosity towards him, he still didn't wish to room beside a man, even if it was Vox specifically who he was sharing a bathroom with.

Whatever it was that the Dean and whoever had arranged their rooms had been planning, Alastor felt free to turn a blind eye to the proceedings, at least until it affected him negatively.

"Makes sense," Vox says after a beat of silence. "Well... even if we aren't roommates, are you up to being friends, perhaps?"

"Sure," Alastor says. The other man's face brightens, and with it, his eyes too, sparkling like the gemstones he'd been silently comparing them to. "As long as you don't kill me."

"Hey, I wouldn't do that," Vox rolls his eyes. "If you wanna meet someone who'll kill you after becoming friends then you can go ahead and talk to Miss Rosetta Levi. She's taking... Mariticide as a major if I remember correctly? Oh, don't call her Rosetta, though, I hear she prefers Rosie."

"I'll keep her in mind, dear pal," Alastor chuckles. With that, he begins to once more dig into his breakfast, before a final question occurs to him. "Oh, right. I wanted to ask- if it's not too personal- what is it that you're here for?"

"Huh?" Vox blinks at him, spoonful of food raised to his mouth as he waits for Alastor to clarify.

"Your target. Because there's one for everyone here, right?" Alastor says simply. "They make you write it on the application, don't they? Whether it's your mother, your father, the organization who wronged you..."

The other man sets the spoon down gently before grabbing his glass of orange juice and taking a swig of it like a day drinker. "They do."

Alastor waits for a moment, but there's nothing else. "Well, all right then. I'm not quite sure what mine was listed as when the application from my sponsor came in- the Dean refuses to let me see more than I absolutely have to when it comes to my own paperwork- but I'm quite certain my father's name is on the list there somewhere."

He's not saying all this solely in an attempt to get Vox to open up, though that is part of it. Still, it's nice to let someone know of his own things (if only because he's a bit of a fiend for attention). "Anyway, it's all right if you don't want to say. I figure it's personal."

"It is," Vox says simply before he sighs. "Sorry. It's... well, it's a bit of a touchy subject for me. Not exactly something I'd like to spill at breakfast twenty-four hours after our first meeting."

"I understand," Alastor responds, though in his head he's already beating himself over the head for his lack of tact and how much he'd said. "I'm sure not many would."

"Eh," Vox waves his hand. The easy flow of conversation has returned now, as Vox continues, "I met a guy my first week here called Arackniss and he proceeded to tell me every single gory detail about how he planned to do away with his stepfather for the sake of his cartel's future. Lot more mob people than I'd expected."

"It's because of Prohibition." Alastor says absentmindedly, not expecting anything to come of his throwaway comment. Then he looks over at Vox, who's staring at him.

"You're that old?"

"What?" Alastor squinted. "The year is 1948, right? I'm not crazy? I'm 32, this isn't-"

"You're- no, sorry, I-" Vox laughs, hand flying up to his mouth to cover it. "Sorry, I just- you look so young."

"I am young," Alastor says. He sighs even as Vox continues laughing, pressing a hand to his temple to quell the coming headache.

"Sorry! Sorry. Different age standards, you know. It's a Hollywood thing," Vox smiles, mirth twinkling in his eyes, and suddenly, Alastor knows where he recognizes the other from.

"You-"

At that moment, a loud ringing echoes through the halls nine times.

"Ah, that'll be the morning bell. I've got Aesthetics and Disguise with Professor Asmodeus next," Vox says. He scarfs down the remaining food on his plate in record time and gets up, readjusting the uniform shirt and jacket he wears before grinning at Alastor. "I'll see you at lunch, then!"

"Right. I'll see you there."