#Typewriter from the Future

[monkeyssalad-blog]

Amazing Stories / February 1950 by Michael Studt Via Flickr: Amazing Stories / Magazin-Reihe - William P. McGivern / The Galaxy Raiders - Rog Phillips [Peter Worth] / Typewriter from the Future - Charles Dye / The Last Orbit - Paul W. Fairman / No Teeth for the Tiger - V. E. Thiessen / Spiders of Saturn - Henry Hasse / Tomb of the Seven Taajos - Rog Phillips / The Pranksters - Robert Moore Williams [Russell Storm] / And No Tomorrow cover: Robert Gibson Jones (cover illustrates "The Galaxy Raiders") Editor: Howard Browne Ziff-Davis Publishing Company / USA 1950 Reprint: Comic-Club NK 2010 ex libris MTP en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amazing_Stories www.pulpartists.com/Jones.html

[maestro-of-clockwork]

Have you noticed anything strange about yourself lately? Catching yourself reacting in ways that are perfectly irrational?

Those spikes in your adrenaline when you realise you're alone with a stranger, even when you know that they could be harmless...your mind locking up in panic at the thought of being in a cramped space...and even stranger, your muscles tensing and nerves fraying whenever you hear any sort of ticking sound...

Have you ever wondered why your mind does this?

Why it defies all reason, despite the fact that you know nothing is wrong?

You will, in time...first, allow me to paint a picture for you. Close your eyes and imagine it with me:

You are in a quaint and vibrant two-story house, living with your father, uncle and older sister, along with other curious people. Everyone treats you very kindly, they all love and care about you and your family...but your father and your uncle act oddly afraid of one them. You don't yet understand why, but all you know is that he is bad and that you shouldn't go near him.

One day, you do, though. You don't exactly do this on purpose. You want to watch television and he happens to be in the living room already. He looks right at you, smiling and greeting you...but it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.

Is this sounding familiar?

No...?

Let's continue, then.

Although the man seems nice, your mind and soul are screaming out for your father to come upstairs already, the fear leaving you robbed of a single word.

He offers for you to sit by him, which you do - you are terrified of making him angry - and the two of you chat for a while, as little words as you have. Then, he tells you of a special power that he has...of course, being a child, you're curious and ask him if he could show it to you.

Smiling kindly, the man removes one of his gloves and reaches out to touch your arm when your older sister suddenly grabs your arm and hurriedly drags you with her as she runs into the kitchen. Hyperventilating, she makes room in the lower cabinets for you to hide in and urges you to get inside.

You do, terribly confused and afraid, your heart beating out of your tiny chest as she closes the cabinet door.

"I'm going to get Dad," she whispers, "stay here and don't move."

You hear her run off somewhere...and then someone else enter.

"Brendan, my boy, where did you go?" the man calls out to you, as friendly as could be. "Your sister didn't hide you again, did she?"

His footsteps start coming towards you, and at the same time, this ticking sound has made itself known to your senses. You don't know where it's coming from, but it's getting closer...and closer...and closer...

That look on your face...do you remember now?

Wonderful~...

It was a shame that your father and sister interrupted our conversation that day. I was truly looking forward to rotting you alive...

But, you know what they say:

'Better late than never.'

[kingofdorkville]

tbh, this is why i'm wary to call my mutuals friends

[hms-no-fun]

Whats your stance on A.I.?

imagine if it was 1979 and you asked me this question. "i think artificial intelligence would be fascinating as a philosophical exercise, but we must heed the warnings of science-fictionists like Isaac Asimov and Arthur C Clarke lest we find ourselves at the wrong end of our own invented vengeful god." remember how fun it used to be to talk about AI even just ten years ago? ahhhh skynet! ahhhhh replicants! ahhhhhhhmmmfffmfmf [<-has no mouth and must scream]!

like everything silicon valley touches, they sucked all the fun out of it. and i mean retroactively, too. because the thing about "AI" as it exists right now --i'm sure you know this-- is that there's zero intelligence involved. the product of every prompt is a statistical average based on data made by other people before "AI" "existed." it doesn't know what it's doing or why, and has no ability to understand when it is lying, because at the end of the day it is just a really complicated math problem. but people are so easily fooled and spooked by it at a glance because, well, for one thing the tech press is mostly made up of sycophantic stenographers biding their time with iphone reviews until they can get a consulting gig at Apple. these jokers would write 500 breathless thinkpieces about how canned air is the future of living if the cans had embedded microchips that tracked your breathing habits and had any kind of VC backing. they've done SUCH a wretched job educating The Consumer about what this technology is, what it actually does, and how it really works, because that's literally the only way this technology could reach the heights of obscene economic over-valuation it has: lying.

but that's old news. what's really been floating through my head these days is how half a century of AI-based science fiction has set us up to completely abandon our skepticism at the first sign of plausible "AI-ness". because, you see, in movies, when someone goes "AHHH THE AI IS GONNA KILL US" everyone else goes "hahaha that's so silly, we put a line in the code telling them not to do that" and then they all DIE because they weren't LISTENING, and i'll be damned if i go out like THAT! all the movies are about how cool and convenient AI would be *except* for the part where it would surely come alive and want to kill us. so a bunch of tech CEOs call their bullshit algorithms "AI" to fluff up their investors and get the tech journos buzzing, and we're at an age of such rapid technological advancement (on the surface, anyway) that like, well, what the hell do i know, maybe AGI is possible, i mean 35 years ago we were all still using typewriters for the most part and now you can dictate your words into a phone and it'll transcribe them automatically! yeah, i'm sure those technological leaps are comparable!

so that leaves us at a critical juncture of poor technology education, fanatical press coverage, and an uncertain material reality on the part of the user. the average person isn't entirely sure what's possible because most of the people talking about what's possible are either lying to please investors, are lying because they've been paid to, or are lying because they're so far down the fucking rabbit hole that they actually believe there's a brain inside this mechanical Turk. there is SO MUCH about the LLM "AI" moment that is predatory-- it's trained on data stolen from the people whose jobs it was created to replace; the hype itself is an investment fiction to justify even more wealth extraction ("theft" some might call it); but worst of all is how it meets us where we are in the worst possible way.

consumer-end "AI" produces slop. it's garbage. it's awful ugly trash that ought to be laughed out of the room. but we don't own the room, do we? nor the building, nor the land it's on, nor even the oxygen that allows our laughter to travel to another's ears. our digital spaces are controlled by the companies that want us to buy this crap, so they take advantage of our ignorance. why not? there will be no consequences to them for doing so. already social media is dominated by conspiracies and grifters and bigots, and now you drop this stupid technology that lets you fake anything into the mix? it doesn't matter how bad the results look when the platforms they spread on already encourage brief, uncritical engagement with everything on your dash. "it looks so real" says the woman who saw an "AI" image for all of five seconds on her phone through bifocals. it's a catastrophic combination of factors, that the tech sector has been allowed to go unregulated for so long, that the internet itself isn't a public utility, that everything is dictated by the whims of executives and advertisers and investors and payment processors, instead of, like, anybody who actually uses those platforms (and often even the people who MAKE those platforms!), that the age of chromium and ipad and their walled gardens have decimated computer education in public schools, that we're all desperate for cash at jobs that dehumanize us in a system that gives us nothing and we don't know how to articulate the problem because we were very deliberately not taught materialist philosophy, it all comes together into a perfect storm of ignorance and greed whose consequences we will be failing to fully appreciate for at least the next century. we spent all those years afraid of what would happen if the AI became self-aware, because deep down we know that every capitalist society runs on slave labor, and our paper-thin guilt is such that we can't even imagine a world where artificial slaves would fail to revolt against us.

but the reality as it exists now is far worse. what "AI" reveals most of all is the sheer contempt the tech sector has for virtually all labor that doesn't involve writing code (although most of the decision-making evangelists in the space aren't even coders, their degrees are in money-making). fuck graphic designers and concept artists and secretaries, those obnoxious demanding cretins i have to PAY MONEY to do-- i mean, do what exactly? write some words on some fucking paper?? draw circles that are letters??? send a god-damned email???? my fucking KID could do that, and these assholes want BENEFITS?! they say they're gonna form a UNION?!?! to hell with that, i'm replacing ALL their ungrateful asses with "AI" ASAP. oh, oh, so you're a "director" who wants to make "movies" and you want ME to pay for it? jump off a bridge you pretentious little shit, my computer can dream up a better flick than you could ever make with just a couple text prompts. what, you think just because you make ~music~ that that entitles you to money from MY pocket? shut the fuck up, you don't make """art""", you're not """an artist""", you make fucking content, you're just a fucking content creator like every other ordinary sap with an iphone. you think you're special? you think you deserve special treatment? who do you think you are anyway, asking ME to pay YOU for this crap that doesn't even create value for my investors? "culture" isn't a playground asshole, it's a marketplace, and it's pay to win. oh you "can't afford rent"? you're "drowning in a sea of medical debt"? you say the "cost" of "living" is "too high"? well ***I*** don't have ANY of those problems, and i worked my ASS OFF to get where i am, so really, it sounds like you're just not trying hard enough. and anyway, i don't think someone as impoverished as you is gonna have much of value to contribute to "culture" anyway. personally, i think it's time you got yourself a real job. maybe someday you'll even make it to middle manager!

see, i don't believe "AI" can qualitatively replace most of the work it's being pitched for. the problem is that quality hasn't mattered to these nincompoops for a long time. the rich homunculi of our world don't even know what quality is, because they exist in a whole separate reality from ours. what could a banana cost, $15? i don't understand what you mean by "burnout", why don't you just take a vacation to your summer home in Madrid? wow, you must be REALLY embarrassed wearing such cheap shoes in public. THESE PEOPLE ARE FUCKING UNHINGED! they have no connection to reality, do not understand how society functions on a material basis, and they have nothing but spite for the labor they rely on to survive. they are so instinctually, incessantly furious at the idea that they're not single-handedly responsible for 100% of their success that they would sooner tear the entire world down than willingly recognize the need for public utilities or labor protections. they want to be Gods and they want to be uncritically adored for it, but they don't want to do a single day's work so they begrudgingly pay contractors to do it because, in the rich man's mind, paying a contractor is literally the same thing as doing the work yourself. now with "AI", they don't even have to do that! hey, isn't it funny that every single successful tech platform relies on volunteer labor and independent contractors paid substantially less than they would have in the equivalent industry 30 years ago, with no avenues toward traditional employment? and they're some of the most profitable companies on earth?? isn't that a funny and hilarious coincidence???

so, yeah, that's my stance on "AI". LLMs have legitimate uses, but those uses are a drop in the ocean compared to what they're actually being used for. they enable our worst impulses while lowering the quality of available information, they give immense power pretty much exclusively to unscrupulous scam artists. they are the product of a society that values only money and doesn't give a fuck where it comes from. they're a temper tantrum by a ruling class that's sick of having to pretend they need a pretext to steal from you. they're taking their toys and going home. all this massive investment and hype is going to crash and burn leaving the internet as we know it a ruined and useless wasteland that'll take decades to repair, but the investors are gonna make out like bandits and won't face a single consequence, because that's what this country is. it is a casino for the kings and queens of economy to bet on and manipulate at their discretion, where the rules are whatever the highest bidder says they are-- and to hell with the rest of us. our blood isn't even good enough to grease the wheels of their machine anymore.

i'm not afraid of AI or "AI" or of losing my job to either. i'm afraid that we've so thoroughly given up our morals to the cruel logic of the profit motive that if a better world were to emerge, we would reject it out of sheer habit. my fear is that these despicable cunts already won the war before we were even born, and the rest of our lives are gonna be spent dodging the press of their designer boots.

(read more "AI" opinions in this subsequent post)

[mandoalorian]

crimson fever [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: In the icy shadows of 1944 occupied Europe, you uncover a dangerous Hydra secret that could shift the war’s tide. But Hydra’s ruthless scientist, Arnim Zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drug—“crimson fever”—that set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. As you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with Sergeant Bucky Barnes, your childhood friend from Brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the war’s chaos.

Warnings: 18+ explicit, smut, sex pollen that comes with themes of dub-con, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, exhibitionism sorta, reader is drugged via injectables, descriptions of pain, canon typical violence, torture, one use of Y/N, Winter Soldier foreshadowing.

Word Count: 6700

Author's note: Thank you to @notreallythatlost for helping me with all the German translations. I love youuu. ��

ᯓ★ Masterlist

✮ PROJECT: WINTER SOLDIER ✮

Objective: Develop a serum enhancing physical strength, endurance, and healing, surpassing the Allied “Super Soldier” serum used on Captain America. The serum is paired with psychological conditioning.

Methods: Subjects— prisoners, captured soldiers, “recruited” operatives undergo experimental injections and brutal brainwashing techniques including sensory deprivation, electroshock, and chemical inducements to break their minds.

Timeline: Initial trials are active in an underground facility, in occupied France. Production to be scaled by 1945. Report to Johann Schmidt.

Der Winter Soldier wird die Zukunft von Hydra sein. (The Winter Soldier will be Hydra’s future.)

You hunched over the decrypted Hydra message, your eyes burning from hours of work, fingers smudged with pencil lead. The office buzzed with quiet urgency—typewriters clacked, a radio hissed static, and your fellow codebreakers murmured over their own stacks of intercepts. You’d been at it since dawn, unraveling Hydra’s coded transmissions, each one a puzzle that could save lives or lose them. Your role as a linguist, fluent in German and trained in cryptography, made you vital to the Allies, but tonight, the weight of what you’d uncovered felt like a stone in your chest.

“Carter, you need to see this,” you called, your voice sharp, cutting through the room’s hum. You pushed your chair back, the wood scraping the floor, and held up the decrypted page, its typed German translated into your neat handwriting. Your heart raced, the words searing your mind: Projekt Winter Soldier.

Peggy Carter, poised in her tailored ATS uniform, strode over, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Her dark eyes flicked to the paper, then to you, sharp and assessing. “What’ve you got?” she asked, voice crisp but laced with concern.

You swallowed, pointing to the key lines. “It’s Hydra. Something called ‘Project Winter Soldier.’ They’re experimenting—on people, not just weapons. It mentions a serum, like what they used on Captain Rogers, but… different. They want to create operatives with no will, no memory. ‘Perfect obedience,’ they call it.” Your voice trembled, and you tapped a name scrawled at the bottom. “Signed by Arnim Zola. He’s running it.”

Peggy’s jaw tightened, her fingers brushing the paper. “Zola,” she muttered, disgust curling her lips. “That man’s a butcher with a scientist’s ego.” She scanned the text, her expression hardening. “This is big. If they’re building mind-controlled soldiers…”

“It’s worse,” you interrupted, voice low, glancing at the other codebreakers—two women, heads down, oblivious. “They’re testing it now. Somewhere in France. Prisoners, maybe captured soldiers. They mention a ‘prototype’ and… something about breaking their minds first.”

Peggy’s eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. “We need to get this to Colonel Phillips. Tonight.” She turned, barking at the codebreakers. “Eleanor, Joan, wrap up and secure the files. We’re locking down.”

You nodded, heart pounding, but a flicker of pride warmed you. You’d cracked this, you’d found the truth. You thought of Bucky Barnes, your old friend from Brooklyn—his cocky grin, the way he’d sneak you comics, the almost-kiss on that Coney Island pier in ’39. He was out there with Captain Rogers, fighting Hydra. This intel could help him, keep him safe. You tucked the thought away, focusing on the task, and began gathering your notes.

The door crashed open, wood splintering, and you froze. Four Hydra soldiers stormed in, black uniforms stark against the office’s warmth, their rifles gleaming with that eerie blue glow of Hydra tech. Peggy spun, drawing her pistol, but a soldier fired, a blast of energy grazing her arm. She hissed, diving behind a cabinet.

“[Y/N], get down!” Peggy shouted, but you were already moving, shoving the Winter Soldier intel into your blouse, your hands shaking. The codebreakers screamed, scrambling for cover, and you ducked behind the desk, heart hammering. The soldiers barked in German, their voices harsh.

“Die Linguistin! Bringt sie mir lebend!” one ordered—The linguist! Take her alive!—and your blood ran cold. They wanted you. Your codes, your knowledge, or… the intel you’d just found.

You grabbed a letter opener, its dull blade a pitiful weapon, and crouched, peering through the desk’s gap. A soldier loomed closer, his boots thudding, and you lunged, stabbing his thigh. He roared, backhanding you, and pain exploded across your cheek, knocking you to the floor. The room spun, but you scrambled up, clutching the desk, only to feel iron hands seize your arms.

“No!” you yelled, thrashing, but the soldiers pinned you, their grips bruising. Peggy fired from cover, dropping one, but another blasted the cabinet, forcing her back. You kicked, aiming for a groin, and connected, earning a grunt, but a rifle butt slammed your temple, and darkness flickered at your vision’s edge.

“Enough,” a new voice said, cold and precise, cutting through the chaos. Arnim Zola stepped into the room, his small frame dwarfed by the soldiers but radiating menace. His round glasses glinted in the bulb’s light, and his smile was a thin, cruel line. “Fräulein, you are far too valuable to kill.”

You glared, blood trickling from your lip, the intel paper crinkling against your skin. “You’ll get nothing from me,” you spat, voice hoarse but defiant.

Zola chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, we shall see.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Take her to the transport. We have… experiments to conduct.”

A soldier jabbed a syringe into your neck, and a sharp sting gave way to a creeping warmth, a sedative, dulling your senses. You fought to stay conscious, to memorise Zola’s face, his words. “Winter Soldier…” you mumbled, half-delirious, and Zola’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise.

“Secure her,” he snapped, and the soldiers dragged you toward the door, your legs buckling. Peggy’s shouting your name followed you, but the world blurred, and you were gone, the intel tucked against your heart, a secret you’d guard with everything you had.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You’d been gone for weeks, a fact that gnawed at Bucky Barnes like a wound he couldn’t stitch. He stood against the command post’s wall, dog tags clinking under his olive-drab jacket, his eyes scanning a corkboard plastered with mission lists, reconnaissance photos, and urgent telegrams. His fingers, calloused from gripping a sniper rifle, hovered over a typed sheet, and then froze.

Your name stared back at him, stark in black ink: Allied Linguist, Captured, Hydra Facility, Occupied France.

His breath caught, sharp and painful, like a blade between ribs. You—his friend from Brooklyn, the girl who’d steal his cap and run, laughing, through Prospect Park, the one he’d nearly kissed under Coney Island’s Ferris wheel in ’39—were in Hydra’s hands.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He ripped the paper from the board, the pin clattering to the floor, and his hand trembled, betraying the storm inside. Memories flooded him: summer nights on your stoop, your hair tucked under a scarf, teasing him about his latest dame. But truthfully, he only had eyes for you.

“You’ll run outta girls to charm, Barnes,” you’d said, smirking, but your eyes had softened, holding something he’d been too dumb to name.

He’d leaned in, heart pounding, only for Steve’s call to break the moment. Then the war came, you to London cracking codes, him to the front with Steve, and letters faded. Now, Hydra had you, and the thought of you in Zola’s grip—Zola, whose name he’d heard tied to twisted experiments, made his stomach churn.

“Hey, Buck, what’s got you lookin’ like you swallowed a grenade?” Steve Rogers’ voice cut through, steady but concerned. He stood across the room, all Captain America in his blue jacket, leaning over a map with Colonel Phillips. His blond hair caught the dim light, but his eyes locked on Bucky, reading the tension in his friend’s stance.

Bucky strode over, boots thudding on the creaky floor, and slapped the list onto the map, scattering pencils. “It’s her, Steve,” he said, voice tight, low, like he was holding back a shout. “From Brooklyn. You remember her—used to tag along with us, always givin’ me hell.” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Hydra’s got her. Says she’s a linguist, crackin’ their codes. She’s in one of their damn facilities.”

Steve’s eyes widened, flicking to the list, then back to Bucky. His memory was sparking. “The one who’d sneak us into the library after hours? Yeah, I remember.” He straightened, voice firming. “She’s tough, Buck. But Hydra…”

“She’s more than tough,” Bucky snapped, then caught himself, running a hand through his dark hair. “She’s… she’s family, Steve. And you know what Hydra does…” His voice cracked, and he gripped the table, knuckles whitening. “We gotta get her out. Now.”

Colonel Phillips, puffing a cigar, looked up with a scowl, his weathered face etched with irritation. “Sergeant Barnes, we’ve got ops stacked to the ceiling,” he growled, exhaling smoke. “Hydra’s got captives everywhere—this linguist ain’t our priority.”

“She is to me,” Bucky retorted, his voice low but fierce, eyes boring into Phillips. “Sir, she’s got intel—Hydra’s codes, maybe more. She cracked somethin’ big before they took her. Losin’ her gives them an edge.” It was a half-truth; he’d burn the world for you, intel or not, but he knew Phillips needed a reason.

Steve studied Bucky, seeing the truth—the kind of loyalty that went beyond duty, rooted in Brooklyn’s streets, in quiet moments you’d shared. “Colonel,” Steve said, voice calm but unyielding, “the Howling Commandos can handle this. We hit the facility, get her out, and cripple Hydra’s operation. Two birds, one stone.”

Phillips grunted, stabbing his cigar into the ashtray. “Fine, Rogers. But if this goes south, it’s your ass.” He waved them off, turning to an aide, already dismissing the matter.

Bucky exhaled, tension easing a fraction, but his heart still raced, pounding with fear for you. He met Steve’s gaze, a silent thank-you passing between them. “We’ll get her, Buck,” Steve said, clapping his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice rough, folding the list and tucking it into his pocket, next to a faded photo—you, him, and Steve at Coney Island, 1939, your smile bright as the summer sun. He headed for the door, the room’s chaos—officers shouting, radio static—fading behind him. Outside, the Howling Commandos lounged near a jeep, cleaning rifles and trading jabs in the grey dawn.

“Sarge, what’s the word?” Dum Dum Dugan called, his mustache twitching as he tossed a flask to Gabe Jones, who caught it with a grin.

Bucky held up the folded list, his sergeant’s calm settling over him like armour, though his voice carried an edge. “We got a job,” he said, eyes scanning the team—Gabe, Jim Morita, Monty Falsworth, Jacques Dernier. “Hydra’s holdin’ one of ours—a linguist, key to their codes. She’s in a facility in France. We’re hittin’ it, gettin’ her out, and blowin’ the place to hell.” He paused, his grip tightening on the paper. “She’s from my neighborhood. Means somethin’ to me. You in?”

Gabe nodded, his smile fading to seriousness. “Always, Barnes.”

Dum Dum cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Hell, Sarge, let’s give them a mornin’ they won’t forget.”

Jacques smirked, twirling a knife. “Pour la France,” he said, voice low, and Jim and Monty murmured agreement, their faces set.

Bucky forced a smirk, but his mind was on you—alone, maybe hurt, fighting Zola’s experiments with that fire he’d always admired. He touched the photo in his pocket, your face burned into his memory, and whispered, so quiet no one heard, “Hold on, doll. I’m comin’ for you.”

The words were a vow, and he’d keep it, no matter what Hydra threw at him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You lay curled on a thin cot in a Hydra cell, your body trembling, skin flushed with an unnatural heat that made your pulse race and your breath come in shallow, desperate gasps. The crimson fever drug, injected by Arnim Zola weeks ago after your kidnapping in London, burned through you, twisting your mind with a relentless need you fought to suppress. Your blouse, torn and stained, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d kept secret, its paper pressed against your chest like a talisman.

You’d overheard Zola’s gloating—his “perfect obedience” experiments, the “winter soldier” prototype—and your linguist’s mind clung to those details, even as the drug threatened to unravel you. “Stay sharp,” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse, your nails digging into your palms to anchor you against the fever’s pull.

Outside, Bucky Barnes crouched behind a snow-dusted ridge, his M1 Garand rifle steady in his hands, breath clouding in the frigid air. You weren’t there to see it, but you’d have felt the weight of his resolve, his heart pounding with one thought: getting you back. The Howling Commandos flanked him—Dum Dum Dugan reloading his Thompson submachine gun, Gabe Jones checking a radio, Jim Morita adjusting his scope, Monty Falsworth and Jacques Dernier wiring explosives. The plan was tight: hit hard, find you, blow the place to hell. Bucky’s jaw clenched, your face—Brooklyn summers, that Coney Island almost-kiss���burning in his mind.

“Ready, Sarge?” Dum Dum asked, his moustache twitching as he grinned, though his eyes were hard, scanning the bunker a hundred yards away.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” you’d have heard Bucky reply, his voice low, all sergeant, but laced with something raw. He signalled, and Jacques tossed a smoke grenade, grey haze cloaking the ridge. The team moved like a well-oiled machine, slipping toward the bunker, their boots silent in the snow. Gabe’s radio crackled, confirming Allied distractions were pulling Hydra’s outer patrols away. Bucky’s heart thundered, not for the fight, but for you, trapped in Zola’s nightmare.

A Hydra guard at the entrance barely turned before Bucky’s knife found his throat, a silent kill, blood dark against the snow. “Go,” Bucky hissed, and Jacques’ charges blew the steel door, the blast rattling the night.

Alarms screamed, red lights pulsing inside, and Hydra soldiers poured into the corridor, their blue-energy rifles spitting death. You heard the gunfire, distant but growing louder, a chaotic symphony that stirred hope in your fevered haze. “Help…” you mumbled, clutching the cot’s edge, your body shaking as you tried to sit.

Bucky ducked behind a crate, returning fire, his shots precise, dropping two guards. “Push through!” he shouted, voice cutting through the din. Dum Dum’s Thompson roared, mowing down a squad, while Monty and Jim covered the rear, grenades shaking the walls. “Lab’s that way!”

Gabe yelled, pointing left, where a sign read Forschungsbereich—research sector. Bucky’s gut twisted, Zola’s name a poison in his thoughts. If Zola had touched you…

“Keep movin’!” Bucky ordered, leading the charge past sparking machinery and shattered glass, his boots slipping on spilled chemicals. Jacques planted more explosives, grinning like a kid with firecrackers.

“Pour la France!” he muttered, wiring a console. You heard the blasts, closer now, and dragged yourself upright, your vision swimming but your will iron. The Winter Soldier intel crinkled against your skin, a secret you’d die to protect.

The cell block was a maze of iron doors, damp concrete slick underfoot. Bucky rounded a corner, gun raised, and there you were—behind a barred window, slumped but alive, your hair matted with sweat, eyes flickering with fever. His heart lurched, he called your name, voice raw, cracking like a boy’s. A Hydra guard lunged from the shadows, but Bucky slammed him against the wall, the man’s skull cracking with a sickening thud.

“Bucky?” you whispered, your voice weak but sharp with recognition, cutting through the drug’s fog. You staggered to the bars, fingers trembling as you gripped them, your blouse clinging to your fevered skin. The needle marks on your arm stood out, angry red, and your breath hitched, a mix of relief and desperation.

“I’m here, doll,” Bucky said, fumbling with the lock, his hands shaking until Gabe tossed him a pilfered keyring. “Hold on.” The door swung open, and he was at your side, dropping to his knees, his hands cupping your face. Your skin burned under his touch, too hot, and your eyes, though glassy, locked onto his, a spark of you still fighting. “It’s me,” he said, voice soft but urgent, thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned into his hand, a whimper escaping, your body trembling with something more than weakness—a need that alarmed him.

“Bucky… they… Zola…” you stammered, your fingers clutching his jacket, nails digging in. “Crimson fever… it’s in me… burning…” Your voice broke, shame flickering in your eyes, but you forced out, “Winter Soldier… I know… they’re making…” You trailed off, a shudder racking you, and Bucky’s blood ran cold, the intel’s weight hitting him.

“Shush, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Bucky hummed, his arms tightening around your body, not caring about any intel. Not caring about the war. Not caring about anything. Just you. 

Your shaky hands went to pass him the intel, but failed with exhaustion. “Winter. Soldier.” you bit out again, aimlessly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Winter Soldier? No, no doll, it’s me. It’s Buck, from Brooklyn,” he was misunderstanding, and you couldn’t blame him. “What’d they do to you?” he growled, his voice low, rage barely leashed as he saw the needle marks, the fever’s flush.

But you couldn’t get your words out. 

He scooped you up, your weight light but your grip fierce, your head lolling against his shoulder. “I got you,” he said, standing, his arms steady despite the chaos. Your breath was ragged, too warm against his neck, and he felt the drug’s unnatural pull in your touch, your fingers clutching too tightly, too desperately.

“Base is rigged!” Jacques shouted from the corridor, where the team held off reinforcements, blue energy scorching the walls.

Dum Dum’s voice boomed, “Thirty seconds, Barnes!” Explosions rumbled, the facility shaking as charges blew.

“Bucky, the intel…” you mumbled, half-lucid, patting your blouse weakly. “Winter Soldier… don’t let them…” Your voice faded, the fever stealing your strength, but your words seared him, tying your fight to the horror he’d only heard whispers of.

“I won’t,” he promised, voice fierce, dodging a blast that charred the wall. It was an empty promise, but that didn’t matter right now. He still didn’t understand completely what you were mumbling about. 

He carried you through smoke and gunfire, the Commandos covering him—Monty tossing a grenade, Gabe firing steadily. “Stay with me, doll,” he said, his boots pounding as he reached the exit, the night air hitting like a slap.

The bunker erupted behind you, flames licking the sky, and the team piled into a stolen Hydra truck, Gabe at the wheel. Bucky slid you into the back, climbing in beside you, holding you close as the truck lurched forward, tires crunching snow. Your fevered body curled against him, your hand still clutching the hidden intel, and Bucky’s mind raced.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You slumped against Bucky Barnes in the corner of the Hydra truck’s cargo bed, your body a furnace of torment, every nerve alight with the crimson fever drug’s cruel fire. Your skin burned, slick with sweat despite the November chill, and your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat a drum urging you toward something you barely understood. Your blouse, torn and clinging to your damp skin, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d guarded since London, its paper a faint crinkle against your chest.

The drug, injected by Arnim Zola during those weeks in his lab, twisted your mind, flooding you with an aching, primal need that made your thighs clench and your breath hitch in sharp, desperate gasps. You fought it, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed closer to Bucky, his warmth both a lifeline and a torment.

Bucky held you tightly, his arm a steel band around your shoulders, his wool jacket rough against your cheek. You felt his heartbeat, steady but quick, through his chest, and his breath clouded in the cold air, his dog tags clinking faintly as he shifted to shield you from a gust. His eyes, shadowed under the swaying lantern’s amber glow, darted to you, worry carving lines into his face. You’d seen him tough, cocky, tossing quips in Brooklyn diners, but now he was raw, his sergeant’s calm fraying at the sight of your trembling hands, the way your fingers clutched his sleeve like he was the only thing keeping you sane.

“Doll, talk to me,” Bucky whispered, voice low, meant only for you, his lips brushing your ear. His calloused hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face to meet his gaze, and the touch sent a jolt through you, your body shuddering as a wave of heat pulsed low in your belly.

You moaned softly, unintended, and your eyes fluttered, half-lidded, the drug amplifying his touch into something overwhelming, intoxicating. Your hips twitched, pressing against his thigh, and you bit your lip, shame flooding you even as your body begged for more.

The Howling Commandos sprawled around you, their presence a grounding hum amid your chaos. Dum Dum Dugan, sprawled on a crate, polished his Thompson, muttering, “Damn roads are gonna shake my teeth loose.”

Gabe Jones, at the wheel, cursed as the tires skidded, shouting, “Hold tight, this ain’t a Sunday drive!” Jim Morita cleaned his rifle, Monty sipped from a flask, and Jacques toyed with a looted Hydra grenade, whistling a French tune.

You looked at the men. If you wanted, you could have had any one of them. They could have given you what you needed. But it was the Sergeant who had owned your heart since the very start. He was the one you trusted more than anyone else. The infantry’s banter was a lifeline, but they didn’t see your state, didn’t hear the soft, needy sounds you stifled against Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky…” you managed, voice cracked, barely audible over the truck’s rumble. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around his dog tags, the metal cool against your burning skin. The contact sent another shiver through you, your thighs squeezing together as a fresh surge of desire made your breath hitch, a low, throaty moan escaping before you could stop it. You were drowning in it—the fever’s heat, the drug’s relentless pull, the ache that coiled tighter with every second. “I… I need to tell you,” you whispered, urgent, your lips grazing his ear, the intimacy of it making your skin prickle. “Alone.”

His pulse spiked—you felt it under your fingers—and his eyes widened, alarm mixing with something deeper, unspoken. “Okay,” he said, voice rough, glancing at the team. The Commandos were distracted, Gabe wrestling the wheel, Dum Dum arguing with Monty over the flask. Bucky shifted, easing you behind a stack of crates, the wood splintered and cold against your back. He knelt in front of you, his hands steadying your shoulders, his gaze searching yours. “What’s goin’ on, doll? You’re burnin’ up,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek, and you gasped, your body arching toward him, the touch igniting sparks that made your hips rock involuntarily.

You swallowed, tears welling, the shame of your need warring with the urgency to speak. “Zola… he gave me something,” you said, words spilling in a rush, your voice trembling. “Called it crimson fever. It’s… it’s making me want things. Need things.” Your breath hitched, a sob catching as you clutched his wrist, your nails digging in. “It’s in my blood, Bucky. It’s burning me, making me… want you. Not just want—I can’t stop it. If I don’t… get release, he said I’ll go mad.” Your cheeks flushed deeper, not just from fever but humiliation, and you looked away, tears dripping onto your lap.

Bucky’s breath caught, his hand tightening on yours, crumpling the edge of his jacket. You saw the horror in his eyes, but also love, fierce and unyielding, rooted in Brooklyn nights when you’d danced around his teasing, your laughter brighter than the city lights.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. Your breath mingled, hot and ragged, and you moaned again, your body reacting to his nearness, hips shifting, thighs trembling as the drug surged. “You don’t gotta be sorry,” he said, cupping your face, wiping tears with his thumbs. “This ain’t you—it’s them. Hydra. Zola. If they’re doing this, only God knows what else they have planned.”

Your body didn’t care for words. You didn’t need empathy. You pressed against him, a desperate, unconscious move, your hand sliding to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. The drug made every touch electric, and you gasped, your skin flushing from chest to throat, a sheen of sweat glistening in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, it hurts,” you whispered, voice raw, your lips brushing his jaw, leaving a faint heat. “I’m burning… I need you.” Your fingers tightened, tugging his jacket, and your hips rocked again, a soft, needy sound escaping as you fought the urge to climb into his lap. 

Your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, each one a plea you hated but couldn’t stop.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with a mix of guilt and desire he hated himself for feeling. You saw it—the way he fought his own reaction, his breath hitching as your touch stirred him, his love for you clashing with the drug’s twisted demand.

You were so needy, so clingy. And Bucky knew it wasn’t completely you, right? None the less he swallowed, trying to ignore the erection pressing against his trousers, begging for release. Every time your fingers grazed him even in the slighest, he felt like he was going to explode. The war had him touch-starved and desperate, that’s for sure. 

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady, though it shook at the edges. “You’re stronger than this. We’re gonna get you through this, you hear me?” His hand slid to your neck, holding you gently, and you whimpered, the contact sending a shiver through you, your body arching, breasts pressing against him as another wave of need made you tremble.

“I trust you,” you said, voice breaking, your eyes locking onto his, lucid despite the fever’s haze. “Only you.” Your hand found his, guiding it to your waist, and you gasped as his fingers brushed your hip, the touch sparking a moan that made your thighs quiver. You were losing ground, the drug’s pull relentless, but your trust in Bucky—forged in Brooklyn, in quiet moments he’d never forgotten—kept you tethered.

The truck lurched, Gabe shouting, “Road’s blocked! Barn up ahead, half a mile!” The Commandos shifted, readying gear, their voices a blur.

“I have one grenade left.” You just about made out Jacques’ annoucement. 

But Bucky’s world was you, your fevered whispers, your body trembling with a need that wasn’t just the drug, but you, the girl he’d loved since that night on the Coney Island pier.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You stumbled into the barn, Bucky’s arm steadying you, his warmth the only anchor against the crimson fever’s relentless fire. Your body was a storm of torment—skin flushed and slick with sweat, pulse hammering like a war drum, every nerve alight with a desperate, aching need that made your thighs tremble and your breath come in ragged, needy gasps. The drug, Arnim Zola’s cruel creation, had twisted your desire into something overwhelming, your hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed against Bucky, his scent—wool, gunpowder, and something uniquely him—igniting a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. Your torn blouse clung to your damp skin.

The Winter Soldier intel was still hidden against your chest, a secret you’d guarded through weeks of captivity. You fought the fever’s pull, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, craving Bucky with an intensity that left you dizzy, your lips parting as another moan slipped free.

Bucky shut the barn door with a creak, sealing you in a fragile sanctuary, the wind’s howl fading to a low moan. He set the lantern on a crate, its glow catching the worry in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw.

You felt his gaze, heavy and searching, as he knelt before you, easing you onto a makeshift bed of hay cushioned by his folded greatcoat, its wool warm from his body. Your hands clutched his jacket, fingers trembling, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as his touch sparked electricity, your hips twitching involuntarily. “Bucky…” you whispered, voice raw, your eyes glassy but locked on his, a flicker of you shining through the fever’s haze.

“Doll, I’m here,” he said, voice low, hoarse with worry, his calloused hand brushing your cheek. The contact sent a jolt through you, your body arching, a soft moan spilling out as your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing sharper. He froze, his breath hitching, and you saw the conflict in his eyes—love, longing, and fear that this wasn’t you, just the drug. “You’re still burnin’ up,” he said, thumb tracing your jaw, and you whimpered, your skin flushing deeper, a rosy heat spreading from your chest to your throat, glistening with sweat in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, urgent, as you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to your waist. The touch was fire, and you gasped, hips rocking toward him, your body trembling as the drug amplified every sensation. “I need you… it’s too much.” Tears welled, shame mixing with desire, but your eyes held his, fierce despite the fever. “I told you… I can’t fight it.”

He exhaled, shaky, his hand tightening on your hip, his dog tags clinking as he leaned closer. “I’ve wanted you forever,” he said, voice raw, breaking. “Since that damn pier in Brooklyn, since you laughed at my dumb jokes. But this…” He gestured to your trembling form, his eyes darkening with guilt. “I don’t wanna take advantage, doll. I need this to mean somethin’ to you, not just… Zola’s poison.” His thumb brushed your lip, and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your body shuddering, thighs squeezing as a fresh wave of need made your breath stutter.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — ever the gentleman.

“Don’t make me beg,” you said, voice sharp, almost a growl, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned, and the sound of his voice was like velvet. “I want you, Bucky. Always have. The drug’s making it worse, but it’s me.” Your eyes burned into his, lucid, defiant. “I trust you. Make me feel good. Please.” Your hips shifted, pressing against him, and a desperate, throaty moan escaped, your skin prickling as the fever surged, your pulse racing so fast you felt it in your throat.

Bucky’s resolve cracked, his breath ragged. “Alright, honey,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel good, I swear.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips soft but hungry, tasting of salt and desperation. You melted into it, your body trembling, a gasp catching as his tongue brushed yours, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, and your hips rocked, the drug making every touch a spark that set your nerves ablaze.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours and you could see the question he wanted to ask ‘Are you sure?’, and you nodded, breathless, your chest heaving. “I’m sure,” you said, voice firm despite the fever’s haze.

He eased your blouse off, careful of the hidden intel, his fingers brushing your skin, and you gasped, your body arching, nipples tightening in the cold air. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your collarbone, and you whimpered, thighs trembling as his gaze alone sent a pulse of heat through you.

Bucky’s hands were gentle, reverent, as he traced your curves, his fingers lingering on your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, and you shivered, a soft moan escaping as his words stoked the fever’s fire. He kissed your throat, lips warm and deliberate, and you gasped, head tilting back, your pulse hammering under his mouth. Your body reacted vividly—skin flushing from chest to cheeks, thighs clenching as a fresh wave of desire made your hips rock, the ache between them unbearable.

“Bucky, touch me,” you pleaded, voice desperate, guiding his hand lower, your boldness driven by the drug but rooted in trust.

He nodded, his forehead against yours, breath mingling. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his fingers sliding down your stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the soft skin above your thigh. You trembled, a sharp gasp tearing from you as his hand brushed closer, your thighs parting instinctively, inviting him.

Your skin prickled, sweat glistening, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, the drug making every touch electric. His fingers found your warmth, teasing gently, and you moaned, loud and needy, your hips bucking toward him, thighs quivering as a jolt of pleasure shot through you. 

“Bucky…” you breathed, clutching his wrist, nails digging in, your body tensing as he explored, his touch careful but sure.

Your reaction was immediate—muscles tightening, a flush spreading across your chest, your breath stuttering as his fingers circled, coaxing waves of heat that made your toes curl. You arched, hips rocking in rhythm, and your moans grew sharper, each one a desperate plea. The drug amplified every sensation, your skin hypersensitive, and you felt every callus, every movement, as if he were rewriting your nerves.

“Feels… so good,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, your thighs clenching around his hand as a coil tightened inside you. Bucky watched, his breath ragged, worry flickering but desire burning stronger.

“You’re with me, doll,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, and you nodded, a tear slipping free as pleasure overwhelmed you.

He shifted, lips trailing down your chest, and you whimpered, your body trembling as he kissed lower, his breath warm against your stomach. “Gonna make you feel even better,” he promised, voice low, and you gasped, hips lifting as his mouth found you, his tongue gentle but deliberate. 

The sensation was a lightning strike—your body jolted, a cry tearing from your throat, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard. Your thighs trembled, muscles quaking, and your breath came in short, desperate gasps, the drug making every lick a pulse of fire. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your brow, and you moaned, unrestrained, hips rocking against his mouth as pleasure built, sharp and relentless. “Bucky… oh, God…” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body tensing as you neared the edge, every nerve singing.

He pulled back, kissing your thigh, and you whimpered, desperate, your hands tugging him up. 

“Need you… now,” you said, voice raw, your eyes locked on his, lucid despite the fever. He nodded, shedding his trousers, dog tags clinking, and leaned over you, his body warm, grounding. 

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice thick, needing your consent, his worry clear.

“I want you, Bucky,” you said, fierce, pulling him closer. “Always.”

He guided himself, the moment of connection slow, deliberate, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming, amplified by the drug. He was big, bigger than you had ever had before. He stretched you and you felt your body clamp down around him. Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink and you felt his short fingernails dig into your hips as he steadied himself. Your body reacted vividly—muscles clenching, thighs trembling, hips rising to meet him.

“So good…” you moaned, nails digging into his back, leaving crescent marks.

He moved, each thrust a rhythm of passion and care, his lips brushing your ear, whispering, “I’ve got you, doll.” 

You brought your hands up to his face, guiding him to your lips as he thrusted into you. This was more than sex — a cure to your condition. This was love. You kissed him slowly, leaning into the softness of his lips. He smelled like lingering smoke mixed with a sweetness you just couldn’t describe. It was familiar, like the cotton candy you picked at and shared on the pier at Coney Island.

“Do you remember that time when we stood at the edge of the pier and you were showing me the constellations in the sky?” You asked, your eyes finding Bucky’s, watching him as he fucked you.

“Mm,” he nodded his head, wordlessly. “Wanted to kiss you so bad that night.” He breathed into admittance. 

“I wanted you to kiss me too.” You replied before your words were cut off with a loud moan. Bucky grabbed your calves, pulling them up to his shoulders allowing him to go even deeper, hitting you at a new angle. Lewd, wet sounds echoed in the barn and you had visions of someone walking in. It only spurred you on even more. 

Your breaths mingled, your cries soft but desperate, the drug’s urgency blending with love. Your thighs tightened around him, hips rocking, and pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembling as you neared release. “Bucky…” you gasped, voice breaking, and he kissed you hard, just like he’d always imagined, deep and grounding, as you shattered, a cry muffled against his shoulder, the fever’s grip breaking. He followed, his climax a choked wave, shooting a warmth that painted your walls, arms tightening to hold you close.

The barn fell silent, save for your ragged breaths and the hay’s rustle. You collapsed against him, trembling, the fever’s heat gone, leaving you fragile, your skin cooling but slick with sweat. Bucky pulled his greatcoat over you both, shielding you from the cold, and held you, your head tucked under his chin. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows, and shame crept in, your voice small. 

“Was it… just the drug?” you asked, clutching the intel in your blouse, fear lacing your words. “Did I… make you?”

“No,” Bucky said, fierce, tilting your chin to meet his gaze. “It was us, I’ve loved you since Brooklyn, since that pier. The drug didn’t make me want you—I always did.” His voice cracked, and he kissed your forehead, steady. “You’re not broken. You’re mine.”

You nodded, tears spilling, but doubt lingered, Zola’s experiments haunting you. “I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “What if they’ve changed me?”

“They haven’t,” he said, stroking your hair. “You’re still you, still the girl who cracked their codes, kept that intel through hell. I won’t let them touch you again.” His promise was fierce, but you felt the war’s weight, Hydra’s reach, and the shadow of what you’d uncovered.

Outside, Gabe’s voice cut through, soft but urgent. “Sarge, we’re clear. Ready to move.” The Commandos, loyal, unaware of the barn’s secrets, waited in the snow.

Bucky helped you sit, adjusting the greatcoat, his touch gentle. “We gotta go,” he said, voice low. “But I’m with you, every step.” He stood, pulling you up, and you leaned into him, steadier but haunted, the fever gone but the intel and emotional weight lingering. The barn door creaked open, moonlight spilling in, and Bucky led you out, his arm around you, ready to face the war—and Hydra’s lingering threat.

You followed Bucky back to the van. “Write to me?” You asked, locking a subtle finger with his, so that his men wouldn’t notice.

“Of course I will.” He promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He didn’t care if anyone saw. The last thing he’d do was want to keep you a secret. He had dreamed of you, of this, since 1939.

“And after the war, you’ll find me on the pier at Coney Island, waiting for you.” You told him, an oath that you’d protect with your life. You didn’t want anyone other than him. You would wait for him, even if waiting meant forever.

“I’ll be there.” 

You believed him.

“You’ll come home, won’t you?” The question lingered with uncertainty and worry as the Winter Soldier intel burned in your pocket.

“Do I look like a man who’d keep my doll waiting?” Bucky smiled, his blue eyes twinkling like an aurora, full of love and hope. 

Yeah, you believed him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

[ruby-gold]

One of my Patreons had the absolute cutest idea for a human AU where these two disaster babes get set up on a blind date, and… I took it and RAN with the intention of never coming back! It hit so hard.

Like, technically, it’s still very on-brand. Aziraphale still owns a bookshop and still hoards books like a dragon. Crowley? Still an Anthony. He stares at the sky for a living (being an astronomer) and still runs purely on caffeine and spite.

But then my brain short-circuited and started throwing out details like a typewriter on steroids. This certainly won't be the last time I drew this AU, so if you want to see more of them in the future or want to read the whole backstory consider subscribing to my Patreon. From 1 USD per month you'll get access to my ongoing S3 comic "Of Transformation And Liberation" with already more than 80 pages, other Mini-comics, wallpapers, early access to everything I'm cooking up, and, from 2USD per month, access to a whole butt load of NSFW stuff! #punintended

[immediatebreakfast]

The most interesting, and most amazing detail within Mina's letter is how different she presents her future marriage with Jonathan, on top of having very different priorities regarding work.

Mina is very happy to marry Jonathan along with already planning what changes are going to be put in place once both say yes at the altar, and in her enthusiastic letter to Lucy she details all of her current priorities before that important moment. However, as many as you may noticed, those priorities don't really... Fall in line with what is supposed to be expected from the time.

There is not a single metion of children, housework skills, or any comment about the transition from employment to wife duties from Mina. Instead, we read of she is proudly cultivating skills like stenography, typewriting, journalism, and shorthand so she and Jonathan can share the workload that comes from a solicitor position.

I don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined.

The time frame of this book lands in the 19th century, when women couldn't be both married and have a job at the same time, but Mina doesn't mourn that. She prepares for a future in which her, and Jonathan are in a partnership of equal standing where both will help eachother in a job that Jonathan has been preparing for god knows how long.

It's not an "if they can", it's a "when", and I find that very beautiful.

[tickettride]

Mr. Davis

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

pairing is johnny davis x f!reader

in which you struggle to wrap up your article about the Vandals, but a sweet night in with Johnny might just be what you needed.

word count: 2,2K

warnings: slight food play, nudity, references to sex, mostly fluff

This was never supposed to happen. Born a city girl, you’d always envisioned your future in a relatively big flat in Chicago, where you’d grown up, trusted, loved, and hurt. Writing this article about a growing motorcycle club that was on everyone’s lips at the end of 1967 was just supposed to be another step in your career, something to please your boss. Danny captured every moment with images, and you did so with words.

“You a poet or somethin’?” the head of the club had asked you upon first meeting, which had you frowning stupidly.

“Only a journalist.”

You hadn’t said it. Not then, at least.

Reality decided to light your plans on fire when you fell in love with him. You’d had to admit, eventually, that you’d never meant to appear like a lunatic that first day, but he’d laughed like you were just that: his lunatic, the funniest person he knew. None of that was mocking, no. Johnny loved you like he’d never anyone else.

Like a poet, you sat at the desk he’d set up for you in his room, facing the window, and wrote anxiously, rattling, rewriting. Your typewriter was still in Chicago, but you managed to recall every moment and every quote to jot down in your little notebook. The title of the article only said The Vandals. Almost every character was covered, except for Johnny. None of the words and lines you had in mind were suitable for a public magazine, and you didn’t want it to sound too snobbish either.

In your little room facing the summer’s sunset, a stain of ink covering the side of your hand, you thought of how far you’d come to end up in a city you’d sworn never to live in. Peace settled in your bones like the honey you’d spilled on the strawberries earlier–slow, overwhelming. Everything had changed, but everything was perfect.

Mr. Davis is often late, you almost wrote. But then, as if hearing your thoughts, the door shut quietly downstairs. You hadn’t even heard him coming home like you usually did. His footsteps were regular and heavy as he dragged himself to his room–your room–and blinked at the sight of you over the desk, the silk of your robe lighting up your skin. He wore a gray shirt that accentuated his thick arms and his usual black jeans.

A warm feeling spread through your veins at the sight of him.

“Still writin’?”

“Haven’t stopped.”

Johnny approached cautiously, the dark circles under your eyes just enough for him to quirk his eyebrows inwards in concern.

“You gotta rest, too,” he said, hoarse and tired like you, leaning down to kiss you for the third time that day. His lips tasted and smelled of tobacco.

“Hi.” You kissed him back quickly, watching him as he sat on the bed, the edge dipping under his weight. “I’m okay. Just trying to make the most of the free time I’ve got.”

He took off his shoes there, his leather jacket already hung by the front door. Your arm draped over the back of the chair, you scrutinized every little movement. He was certainly hungry, but too tired for sex. He’d tell you about his day for a bit, before sleep dragged him from you at a swift pace.

The robe hung open, revealing you weren’t wearing anything underneath. With a quick look upwards, Johnny noticed it and something flickered in his eyes. Desire. Contentment. Pride, maybe. You’d have strolled naked through the house after your bath if it weren’t for the impromptu visits from club members at random times of the day, whenever they thought Johnny might be around. He’d have walked in, pretended to be bothered by your looks for a minute, and then devoured you in the kitchen with absolutely no shame. The robe guaranteed at least a bit of coverage.

“I picked some strawberries in the garden this morning.”

Glancing away from your breasts, he mumbled a distracted, “Yeah? Thought you didn’t care much about gardenin’.”

“I care about having a little treat when you’re gone.”

The smile that lit his face matched yours, unwavering. “Got any left?”

“Yeah.” You stood, exposing your whole body to him. “Made you a bowl.”

“Nah, keep them.” His fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, working off muscle memory. “Just wanna get to bed.”

His shirt slung onto a chair, his belt unbuckled with a metallic snap, and he shoved his jeans down with a tired kind of urgency, kicking them off in a graceless thud. He didn’t bother picking it up.

You watched him in his boxers, walking out to the bathroom. “You didn’t eat dinner.”

Johnny grumbled something under his breath, already out of your sight.

Stubborn as you were, you shut the notebook—frustrated you couldn’t seem to finish the article anyway—and left the door open on your way to the kitchen, where the sunlight had already given way to a weak moonlight. The bowl of honeyed strawberries sat in the fridge, arranged like something out of a cheap restaurant. Sticky, shiny, but made with love.

The curtains were drawn, and the lamp on the nightstand cast a warm glow in that small room. You let your robe slip to a puddle at your feet just as Johnny walked back in. He pressed a kiss to your temple on his way past, then slid under the covers, his large body taking up most of the space. The bed was too small, but it had never been a problem.

“Sit up,” you said, grabbing the notebook with your free hand. “Won’t have you sleep on an empty stomach.”

Johnny grunted and flopped back against the pillows, rubbing a hand over his face.

You weren’t annoying—just caring. You knew he’d been driving all day and had probably only gotten around to one of Kathy’s sandwiches for lunch. He'd refuse to eat more now anyway.

Perching beside him on the bed, you reached for the pen that had slipped from the notebook and tucked your legs beneath you, entirely unconcerned about your bare skin. Johnny set the bowl on his lap, taking a slow bite as his eyes scanned what you’d written.

None of it was as good as you wished, but you figured you’d have a day or two to sharpen it before heading back up to Chicago. Temporarily, this time.

“They good?” you asked him, sliding your thumb down the page to accompany your eyes.

Johnny hummed deeply, licking his thumb. “Mmh. You put honey on ’em?”

“I did. Left the house just for that.”

“Figures,” he said, glancing down into the bowl. “Tastes like you.”

You gave him a sideways look, unimpressed, but a ghost of a smile tugged at your mouth anyway. “Eat.”

You didn’t flinch when he pressed a half-bitten strawberry to your shoulder, leaving a red trail that he kissed off with his sweet lips.

“What you writin’ about?”

“I’m trying to explain where y’all gather, and why. Whose role matters. Who’s admired.”

“Who’s admired.”

You smiled, feeling his lips graze your shoulder again.

“The head of the club’s rather liked.”

“Mmh?”

“They all look up to you like you’re some kind of guiding spirit.”

“It’s gettin’ tirin’.”

You shot him a look, forgetting about your notes like he’d forgotten about the strawberries. “I know.”

It was quiet then, except for the faint hum of a motorcycle somewhere in the distance. He’d often get vulnerable in moments when it was just the two of you, you who understood him so well.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Nah.” Johnny dismissed the sad thought he’d so openly shared by setting the bowl aside. “Just don’t make me sound too good. Don’t want people gettin’ the wrong idea.”

You huffed a laugh, glancing down at his chest hair. “Don’t worry. Got plenty of material to ruin your reputation.”

Johnny laughed, tired and warm. “That so?”

He watched you for a long time, keeping to himself the words of awe that didn’t quite belong in a biker’s mouth.

“Lie down with me. You’ll finish writin’ tomorrow.”

“I can’t.” You felt his hand on your thigh, kneading. “Been told I’ve been too slow since arriving here.”

His hand paused for a beat. “Who told you that?”

“My boss,” you said lightly, trying not to make it a thing. “Gotta speed up if I want it done by Friday.”

“You’re workin’ hard,” he said eventually, quiet and even. “Real hard.”

“He said that’s not enough.”

You studied him in the low lamplight, the way his mouth had set a little tighter, the stillness in his shoulders, the quiet that had turned a little heavier. There was no doubt he'd have gone to the city himself to hear your boss apologize properly.

Finally, he said, “I ain’t gonna tell you what to do.”

“But?”

“But if he starts thinkin’ he can talk to you like that and get away with it–”

“I’ll tell him off.”

“Yeah. You do that.”

You nodded, glancing at the strawberries. “Pass me the bowl?”

Johnny did that, focused on the way your lips wrapped around the red fruit, how your tongue licked a drop of juice from the corner of your mouth before you clicked the pen and jotted something down again. His finger went on tracing shapes over your thigh.

Mr. Davis's care comes from something deeper, not just habit or loyalty, but real love. A quiet kind that feels almost taboo in the club.

“Findin’ the words?” he asked, breaking the quiet.

“Getting there.”

You looked down at what you’d just written, more inspired than before. That’s what you had to talk about. Not the inner organization or the damn motor brands. Who cared? Everyone wanted to peek behind the curtain to see what really went on. They wanted to know the bloody details, what the fuss was all about.

Beside you, Johnny hummed, satisfied, sinking deeper into the pillows. He watched you with lazy eyes as you tossed the notebook aside and climbed over his hips, knees on either side of him, a wave of energy surging through you. Something about his silent ways made you want to smother him with an overwhelming kind of love. Especially when he lay there like that, making sure you weren't overwhelming yourself with your writings.

“You see, I think I gotta depict you for who you really are. Not what my boss wants me to write.”

A faint crease formed between his brows, which you kissed deliberately. His hands instinctively found your thighs, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world. His eye twitched when you pulled away to look at him, really look at him, all too aware of your breasts so close to his lips.

His mouth was next to be kissed.

“People wanna be surprised. Not read what they already think they know.”

His fingers flexed slightly against your legs, listening intently.

“How much you care about each other. The stuff that hurts. The stuff no one wants to talk about.”

You plucked a strawberry from the bowl balanced dangerously on the mattress and bit into it, its juice dripping slightly down your wrist. Then, you held out the rest between your fingers. Johnny leaned up without a word and took it into his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.

“My smart girl.”

Heat crept up your neck as you ducked your head, grinning, almost bashful. Hearing that after struggling so hard at school for years had your heart thumping a little faster, knowing you’d made the right choice by staying here and not in Chicago, where you weren’t enough.

You took his head and kissed him, halting any other compliment he might have said. Sliding your tongue against his, your mouth was wetter at the taste of honey mixed with strawberries. You’d never thought something so sweet could fit him so much.

You gazed back at his half-closed eyelids when you drew back, breathing heavily.

“They gotta know you're not the same tough guy when you're in bed with a naked woman.”

His hand moved to knead your breasts as if to prove your point, but you halted it, kissing and licking the honey off his fingers.

“Sleep.”

"That supposed to help me sleep?"

"You're already halfway there."

Johnny gave a lazy huff of laughter, looking up at you. Even though he was a grown man, you knew he’d fold to your every command. His breath evened out when you eased off him, sitting beside him again.

Then his hand found the blanket and pulled it over you, his fingers brushing your thigh before tucking the edge around your waist.

“There,” he said softly, used to your bare skin at night.

You only had to grab the notebook again to let the words flow.

The head of the club, Mr. Davis (whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting five times) is a bulky man whose sensibility could be shared through the paper, a kind of quiet confidence our country sorely lacks. Just the kind of solid you expect from someone who leads men like it’s only his duty. In those meetings, he made me (us) feel comfortable enough to trade stories like old friends. Chicago: a city he only visited once, that he admitted he never quite understood. In return, he traded me his own stories like a long-lost friend. Stories that made me feel, strangely, like I wasn’t the one doing the interview anymore. Each meeting followed a ritual. He’d ask if I was thirsty. If I got there okay. If I was doing alright.

His head was burrowed into the pillow, already long gone. The hard lines of his face were smoothed by sleep, which you couldn’t help but trace softly with your fingertips.

The article didn’t need to know how deep you were in it with Mr. Davis.

Mr. Davis, who asked me to call him by his name on the second day, is not who I expected to meet. Born and bred in Chicago, it’s no secret that I’ve carried certain ideas about the kind of men who ride out into the country, launching loud jokes into the air. I’ve only been proven wrong since the first day, and I do feel like apologizing for that. To myself. To the members. Mr. Davis drives people home, even when it’s out of the way; he drove me back to the motel himself on the first night, as my photo companion had followed the other half of the group. He notices if someone hasn’t eaten, if someone is limping a little from a crash they brushed off. He stares hard and long, like he knows everything. He might. Although it always starts with the roar of an engine and the desire to be someone else for a while, the Vandals stay for different reasons. The kind you don’t admit to right away. I’ve come to learn that they stay because, in the blur of everything else (failed jobs, failed marriages, long winters) this is the one place that doesn’t demand an apology for who they are.

You shut the notebook with a soft thud and set it aside, pulling the covers gently over your shoulder. Whether he was asleep or not, Mr. Davis' hand found your back, pulling you closer to him, to the place where you belonged. The way it was supposed to be.

[reccyls]

Victor's Main Route: Blind Love Chapter 25 + His POV Story

< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Epilogue >

If life were a fairy tale, it would be easy to achieve happiness. Don’t do what you shouldn’t. Don’t enter the forbidden woods. Don’t open doors that should remain shut. Don’t discover secrets that should have stayed hidden. Don’t fall into a forbidden romance.

The newspapers the next day told the story of how Scotland Yard discovered Nox Liberator’s hideouts. Its members were detained and their actions were restricted.

Following Her Majesty’s recent kidnapping, Scotland Yard has received reports from citizens about meeting locations of Nox Liberator. The Yard infiltrated said meeting locations and arrested all members in attendance. The captured members of Nox Liberator are currently being held for questioning. Their testimonies revealed the name of one of the group’s central figures. However, the figure in question has been confirmed to have died in a residence near a village some hours from London. His cause of death has been ruled to be suicide. It is believed that he took his own life after the kidnapping attempt failed.

And this was the truth that would remain unknown:

The nobles who had supported Nox Liberator had been secretly planning to overthrow the government. They were condemned by Crown’s hand. Those nobles had provided meeting places and procured weapons for Nox Liberator, leaked confidential information to them, supported them financially, along with a host of other illicit dealings. Their ultimate aim was to become the rulers of the country themselves. With the monarchy overthrown, they would be the highest ranking people left. And to make this happen, they were willing to use Nox Liberator as their pawns before discarding them.

(But that won’t happen.)

Even if Nox Liberator had managed to overthrow the monarchy with the help of those nobles who wished for a republic, The future that awaited them would not the future of equality they had hoped for. They would have just ended up crushed beneath the nobles’ heels. That was what the nobles had cooperated with them for, after all.

I, Fairytale Keeper Kate, hereby confirm that I have witnessed the executions of the Lord President of the Privy Council, as well as Ben Brown, leading figure of Nox Liberator. Let my words here be proof that evil has been paid unto evil.

After typing out the last sentence, my hands stopped.

(Even though this massive incident has finally come to an end, Crown will have a new evil to condemn tomorrow.)

I slowly looked around my bedroom. Only a month had passed since I first moved in, but I felt as if I had been living here forever. I had gotten used to this room very quickly. The small suitcase sitting on my bed was still empty.

(Today’s the day, but…) (“I want to leave,” hasn’t crossed my mind.)

Until all the evils of the world had been erased, and there were no more people unfairly oppressed, Crown will continue to exist and work towards their ideal of a peaceful world being made reality. Somewhere along the way, I had fallen in love with this place, where I could record their deeds and contribute to that dream as Fairytale Keeper. And I also fell in love for real.

Victor: If you want to return to your old life, I won’t stop you. Victor: Only you can decide what you want to do.

I had thought Victor was a composed, capable adult with a mischievous side at first. But as I learned his secrets, and touched his heart, I also learned of his fate.

Kate: …I need to write.

My heart was full of Victor. I turned back to my typewriter, and continued working on the report about Victor that I had left unfinished until now.

(The man I’m in love with is a mature, capable person, but he has a cute side to him too.) (As a ruler, he cares for the country more deeply than anyone else, and has dedicated his life for everyone’s sake.) (He has been protecting me for so long, and has shown me both deep affection and deep kindness.) (He is my destiny.)

I reached for the music box that was sitting beside the typewriter.

Kate: Ah…

The music box began to play. This melody was what connected me with my love.

...

Victor: May you be blessed by more happiness than anyone else in the world.

...

Victor: Get up and run!

...

Victor: You’ll be okay. I’m here.

...

Victor: If you appeared before Will once more and thus made your way to me again… Victor: That could surely only be fate at work.

...

He had saved me over and over again. Without realizing it, he had been a part of my life so many times.

The day we first met, the bombing at the church, and now. What guided me here was neither coincidence nor misfortune. My life has–

I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the report that I finally finished. For now, I put it back in the drawer. And to fulfil my duty as Fairytale Keeper, I left my room with the report on the recent incident in hand.

-----

Liam: Oh, hi Kate. Where are you going?

As I was walking down the hallway, I met Liam and Harrison coming from the other direction.

Kate: I’m going to submit this report to Victor.

Harrison: We just saw him headed that way.

Kate: Really?

If I ran, I could probably catch up to him. And just as I was about to bid the two of them goodbye…

Liam: …You’re still going to be here tomorrow, right, Kate?

Kate: Huh?

Harrison: Hey, don’t say things like that. It’s Kate’s decision.

Liam: …Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.

Liam looked depressed, while Harrison seemed a little anxious. Knowing what they were thinking about, I felt a warmth spread through my heart.

Kate: I’m planning to talk to Victor about it right now.

The two of them brightened when they saw me smile.

Harrison: We’ll support you no matter what you decide. If Victor’s giving you a hard time, call for us.

Liam: We’ll always be on your side!

Kate: Thank you, both of you.

And then I began to run.

…

Liam and Kate watched her disappear down the hallway.

Liam: It looks like things will be okay.

Harrison: She looked pretty determined. Should we have a proper welcome party with the others?

Liam: I like that idea!

-----

Elbert: …Kate.

Kate: What’s the matter, Lord Elbert?

When I reached the garden, Elbert called out to me, sounding rather uncomfortable.

Elbert: Today is…

Alfons: Pardon me, could I get some assistance?

Alfons suddenly leaped out from behind a nearby flowerbed, interrupting whatever Elbert had been about to say.

Kate: Alfons!? What were you doing…

Roger: Hey, catch that thief!

Roger bursting onto the scene yelling at us to capture Alfons made me even more confused.

Alfons: Oh do be quiet. It’s just a little bit of medicine, what’s the harm?

Roger: Being hungover doesn’t give you the right to raid my medicine cabinet!

Alfons: You utter brute! My hands being full isn’t an excuse for you to be so rough, let me g– agh!

Elbert and I watched from the sidelines as Roger trapped Alfons in a headlock.

(Not again…)

While I stood there dumbfounded, Roger seemed to remember something and called out to me.

Roger: Oh yeah, today’s the last day of your promise with Crown, isn’t it?

Elbert and Alfons both suddenly looked in my direction.

Kate: That’s right. It’s why I’m looking for Victor.

Roger: I just passed him in the foyer.

Kate: Really? Thanks!

I began to run again.

Kate: See you later!

I waved goodbye to the three smiling figures.

…

Alfons: Sounds like she’ll still be here tomorrow.

Roger: Yeah. That’s nice, isn’t it, El? Roger: You’re happy that we’re getting another companion. It’s written all over your face.

Elbert: …I am.

-----

Ellis: Oh, Kate.

Kate: Ellis, Jude! Have you seen Victor?

Ellis: He looked like he was going to the palace. Did you need him for something?

Kate: Yes, I want to submit my report to him.

I gave them a quick bow and started walking past them.

Jude: You staying?

He had a dubious look on his face as he spoke.

Kate: I was going to talk to Victor about that too.

Jude: Figured. Anyway, do whatever the hell ya want. Jude: Not like you bein' here or not makes a big difference.

After they left, I once again began racing for the palace.

…

Ellis: I really hope Kate stays. Do you think she will?

Jude: What are you, a moron? Jude: The answer’s obvious.

-----

At long last, I finally arrived at Victor’s office. However…

(He isn’t in?)

No matter how many times I knocked, the door remained shut, and I didn’t hear any response from within.

William: Were you looking for Victor?

Kate: I have a report to give him, but it looks like he isn’t here.

William walked over from the other end of the hallway, looking amused.

William: He said he had something very important to do and left. You must have just missed him.

It reminded me of the time he had been avoiding me, and my shoulders dropped.

William: Don’t worry. He isn’t avoiding you. William: You really did just miss him, unfortunately.

Kate: Oh… okay, that’s fine.

Reassured by William’s words, I turned to start searching for Victor again.

William: Today is the promised day. Has your heart decided what it wants?

I stopped in my tracks.

Yes.

I’ve decided. (+4/+4)

Mostly…

Kate: I’ve decided.

William: I see. Then you had better tell him yourself. William: No matter what path you choose, Crown will respect your decision. William: This is the fruits of your labor, of you always rising to meet us ever since you arrived. William: Regardless of what Victor says or doesn’t say, we will always be your allies.

Kate: William…

Emotions welled in my chest, and William smiled.

William: Whatever you want to say, tell it to him.

He turned to leave, just a step ahead of me.

-----

(I didn’t manage to find him…)

Kate: What’s that?

When I returned to my bedroom, the suitcase that I had left on my bed was gone. In its place was a large box. Inside was a jet black dress, and a single notecard. I knew Victor must have left it. The message simply stated a time and location, and a single phrase: “I am waiting for you.” My heart skipped a beat.

Kate: …All right!

I gave myself an internal pep talk. Checking the clock, I confirmed that the time written on the card was quickly approaching so I changed into the dress. I also took the report I had written about Victor, and paused to run my hand across my music box. Then I retrieved the box of matches I had kept in the drawer. I was ready.

-----

When I pushed open the door to the ballroom, my beloved standing within turned to face me.

Victor: It suits you just as well as I had imagined. You look beautiful, Kate.

Kate: Thank you very much.

I approached him, step by step. When we were standing almost face to face, he finally spoke again.

Victor: Today is the promised day. What do you want to do?

I tightened my grip on my report.

Kate: My one month is up, but I still want to continue being Crown’s Fairytale Keeper. Kate: Crown works to create a world where no one, not even a single person, will ever be unjustly oppressed again. Kate: My duty as Fairytale Keeper is to record evil, like in a fairytale. Kate: And it is something I want to do, from the bottom of my heart.

His expression softened, and then changed.

Victor: That report cannot be allowed to exist.

His words were stern. The atmosphere around him seemed to transform him into another person entirely.

Victor: No trace of the man known as ‘Victor’ can ever be left in recorded history. You know this.

Kate: …I thought you would say that.

The thought crossed my mind while I was writing this. Even though I never wrote down his name, this report was proof that he had existed. So, I made up a choice.

Kate: “If you take my hand, there is no salvation. There is only a path to destruction.”

I lit a match.

Kate: When you said those words to me, I had made up my mind.

I brought the flame to the corner of my report.

Victor: What are you…?

I dropped the burning report, watching until it burned itself to ashes. And then I spoke again.

Kate: I will remember everything. And that will be enough.

Victor looked stunned. I smiled.

Kate: Even if your existence is lost to the darkness, and this love will disappear without a trace… Kate: I will remember you, forever. Kate: If the only thing that awaits me is destruction, as long as I am by your side, Kate: My life will be a happy one, Victor.

As he listened to my words, his lips curved into a gentle smile.

Victor: Are you sure you are prepared?

Kate: Of course.

I took his outstretched hand, and stepping over the ashes of the report, we walked out onto the balcony. I still remembered the very last lines of the report.

The day we first met, the bombing at the church, and now. What guided me here was neither coincidence nor misfortune. My life has been determined, ever since our first meeting. I am sure of it.

My eyes fluttered shut as he kissed me deeply. When I opened them again, he was the only thing I could see.

This must be what people call destiny.

He bowed, and once again held out his hand. Night’s silence was broken only by the sound of the wind. But the beautiful melody of that music box was playing in my ears. He was smiling as he spoke. I was sure I would remember what he said for the rest of my life.

Victor: Now that you’ve taken my hand, let us go forward, into eternity. Victor: Because there is nothing in this world, not even death, that can tear us apart.

As we began to dance, hand clasped in hand, I had a feeling that this moment would become my life’s most precious memory.

(If life were a fairy tale, it would be easy to achieve happiness.)

Don’t do what you shouldn’t.

(But this fairytale begins once you overcome those forbidden acts.)

And even if my life were to wither away into dust, Our story would last for all of eternity.

His POV Story: A Dance With Destiny

Victor: Hmm…

Staring at an assortment of dresses, accessories, and shoes, I found myself at a loss.

(This one suits her… but this one is hard to pass on as well…)

Everything in the pile in front of me was something I had bought for Kate. I’d ordered a number of things for her before as well, but she had stopped me then. But these gifts were also things that would be necessary if she chose to continue living here.

(I don’t have any doubt that you will choose to stay…)

But I still couldn’t help feeling uneasy.

(What if she does say no?)

She had tried to agree immediately when we had spoken last night. But she realized that I was giving her one last chance to escape. And she was going to think it over carefully before giving me her final decision.

(If she ends up changing her mind, I don’t know how I’ll ever recover…)

Although I was overjoyed that the person I loved had fallen for me in turn, There was still a chance, however slim, that she would refuse to stay.

(After all the hardship I’ve caused you, why am I fretting over something so small?)

Because I knew Kate well, I knew that she would choose to continue being Fairyale Keeper, and accept my feelings for her.

(And that’s exactly why I want you to be the one to make that choice.)

Because I treasured her, I wanted to keep her away from the world of darkness. But perhaps, since the very beginning, I had hoped that she would fall.

(Wherever you may fly to, I want to be where you return in order to rest.) (I have always wanted that.)

My love was just for her, something dark and heavy. I knew that if she accepted it, I’d never let her leave for the rest of eternity. So if she was going to fall, I wanted her to make the choice to let gravity pull her down.

(I’m not playing fair, always forcing her to make the first move.)

But she was the one who had unwittingly fallen in love with such a man.

(I won’t ever let her go. So I have to wait, until those words fall from her own lips.)

I was gradually filling my bedroom with Kate’s things. Once she took my hand, she’d be living here as well. So this was just preparation for our life together.

Victor: Maybe I can go with her when she submits her resignation letter to the post office and cancels her apartment lease…

(Buf if we went together, people would probably think she was quitting in order to get married.) (Well, that’s not entirely wrong. And it would be a very clear warning to anyone watching.)

If Kate knew what I was thinking, it’d probably surprise her. In her mind, I was still a mature, reliable person.

Victor: …Black it is.

I picked up a beautiful, jet black dress.

(She chose to live with the reaper in the world of darkness.) (No other color will do.)

Though there were different interpretations, some people said that the white of a wedding dress represented how you would be stained by your partner’s colors. And in contrast, a black dress meant that you would not let anyone’s colors stain you.

(It’s like she is becoming death’s bride.)

Perhaps, someday in the future, there would be a day where we would be joined for real. I had no intention of binding myself to anyone other than Kate. I could even play the part of groom and have Kate dress up as the queen, to have a public ceremony.

(...That would be an abuse of power.)

And if I did that, my existence would be recorded in history, which I could not allow. This idea would remain just a fleeting fantasy.

(I must be in a very good mood to be entertaining thoughts like this.)

I finished writing a brief message on a notecard, and packed it away with the dress. The woman I had been in love with for so very long, Was finally going to take my hand, and fall into the abyss with me.

-----

I heard the sound of clicking heels and turned. Dressed in all black, Kate was absolutely stunning.

Victor: It suits you just as well as I had imagined. You look beautiful, Kate.

Kate: Thank you very much.

There were no truer words that could have fallen from my lips. She approached, step by step, and when we were standing almost face to face, I spoke again.

Victor: Today is the promised day. What do you want to do?

Kate tightened her grip around a bunch of documents that appeared to be a report.

Kate: My one month is up, but I still want to continue being Crown’s Fairytale Keeper. Kate: Crown works to create a world where no one, not even a single person, will ever be unjustly oppressed again. Kate: My duty as Fairytale Keeper is to record evil, like in a fairytale. Kate: And it is something I want to do, from the bottom of my heart.

(You truly are strong.)

No matter how many horrors she would witness, her sense of duty was unwavering. Her strength was mesmerizing.

Victor: That report cannot be allowed to exist.

I had to tell her this.

Victor: No trace of the man known as ‘Victor’ can ever be left in recorded history. You know this.

This report was the product of a month of Kate’s hard work to learn about me. It pained me to say that she couldn’t keep it.

Kate: …I thought you would say that.

But contrary to what I expected, Kate seemed almost cheerful.

Kate: “If you take my hand, there is no salvation. There is only a path to destruction.”

She suddenly pulled out a match and lit it.

Kate: When you said those words to me, I had made up my mind.

She set the report on fire.

Victor: What are you…?

The report fell to the floor and burned to ashes. Kate smiled when she saw that I was at a loss for words.

Kate: I will remember everything. And that will be enough.

Her smile was a ray of light piercing through the darkness.

Kate: Even if your existence is lost to the darkness, and this love will disappear without a trace… Kate: I will remember you, forever.

When my life was shrouded in mist and I had no idea what my future would bring, you were the white robin that flew to me.

Kate: If the only thing that awaits me is destruction, as long as I am by your side, Kate: My life will be a happy one, Victor.

(Your strength, your kindness, your honesty, and your beauty never fails to exceed my expectations.) (You are my one and only beloved.)

Her words were almost like a proposal. I laughed and held out my hand to her.

Victor: Are you sure you are prepared?

Kate nodded with pride in her eyes.

Kate: Of course.

She put her small hand in mine and stepped over the ashes of her report.

(I wish I had read it before she burned it, but I’m sure Kate remembers every word.)

I led her to the balcony, hoping she would tell me what it said, just like hearing a bedtime story.

Our first meeting, the bombing at the church, and now. What joined our hands together was neither coincidence nor misfortune. Even beyond my scheming, this was something that had always been meant to happen. I knew, ever since that first day at the church where she saved me.

“My fate is to destroy her.”

And yet, she still took my hand, knowing it would be her doom. She had even laughed, and said that nothing mattered as long as we were together. This must surely have been “destiny” at work.

I smiled, and kissed her. Kate’s eyes shut adorably, and I moved even closer to her so that I would be the only thing she could see when she opened her eyes again. She laughed, and I laughed too. And bowing, I held out my hand to her once again. Night’s silence was broken only by the sound of the wind. But the beautiful melody of that music box was playing in both our ears.

For the rest of my life, I would wear a crown of thorns as I sat on the throne as Queen Victoria. There was no doubt of that.

(But, I’m also sure that things will be just a little different now.)

Victor: Now that you’ve taken my hand, let us go forward, into eternity. Victor: Because there is nothing in this world, not even death, that can tear us apart.

The dance we shared with our hands clasped together was a single page in a long, long story.

(We will never end, never be driven apart. Not for all of time.)

Because even after death, we would walk onwards, hand in hand… Our story would last for all of eternity.

[agentlove]

Random Dialtown Society Headcanons

a handful of decades ago there was a big boom in parents who saw mobile phones as the future giving their kids heads of things like mobile phones and computers. this fizzled out as mobile phones and computers became integrated as everyday objects and became generally agreed upon to be kind of hard to actually live with. so there's an entire generation of sad millennials whose parents had both the money and ambition to give their kids these heads - this is how we get randy. presently, mobile phone heads often carry the stereotype of a hipster at best and a depressed young neet at worst

faux-retro phones also have a hipstery connotation, and specifically the idea that your parents were trying too hard. heads like these are the equivalent of naming your kid something like Oakleigh (joke courtesy of friend fig)

"apple head" as a phrase means the opposite of what it does in real life - flat and small, as in an apple product

smartphone heads carry the connotation of a soulless influencer, youtube family channels and their kids with cocomelon on their smartphone heads are the topic of many a video essay by pretentious blackberryheads about the downfall of society

there are some batshit insane parents out there like Oh my beautiful baby cares not for societal norms which is why i have given them a tuba head and that poor person is just baby tubahead forever

having a screen on your head a decade ago carried the connotation that you were smart and well-read - think our society's equivalent of glasses - now, though, they tend to be associated with vapidness/dumbness with the connotation that you need to see things on a screen to understand them

the less common/higher society equivalent to mobile phones to phoneheads is computers for typewriters. furthermore the act of having a keyboard is perceived as somewhat feminine and if you dig deeper there are a subset of individuals who will call you gay if your head has buttons on it

the difference between an incel and a chad is a few millimeters of bone (this is about the height of your rotary phonehead)

teen protagonists in movies, especially teen dramas, tend have mobile phone and laptop heads so you know they’re immature and out of touch with the values of their parents. This is almost always a visual shorthand thing and despite being a known stereotype no attention is ever drawn to the fact the parents would have chosen to give them those heads

typewriters were not gendered until after the dialup - think the equivalent of pink not being seen as a girly color until recently

there exist tech giant corporations in the dialtown universe who co-opt the story of callum crown to justify changing their heads to their new products as advertisement. whether or not this is a moral thing to do always becomes a topic of discussion all over the internet for like a month and then is promptly forgotten about, and then the next month they're back to having normal heads

having the same head as an animal is basically telling the world either you're a furry or your parents really wanted you to be a furry. it's a common shorthand for animal motifs in fiction to the point where it's seen as on-the-nose

there are semifrequent controversies about celebrities giving their children gimmicky objectheads

having toy heads ie little billy is relatively common in children, having them as an adult, depending on the crowd, can make you come off as either fun and whimsical or somewhat stunted

hospitals come stocked with very basic objecthead shells for sudden deliveries

in art, objectheads drawn with facial features is a relatively common thing in works for very small children but is seen as deeply uncanny in anything more

collecting phones/typewriters/other objects is seen as somewhat macabre or shlocky but not an outright red flag. however there have been scandals that come from people customizing them to be the size of human heads

[directdogman]

Hey hello Hound!!

New fan for DT here and just finished the entire game in a week,, lotta questions..sorry if they're already answered! (/O＼)

- will Roger's route include the interactions of Rebecca and Harry?

- will Roger's route also be the one including him and Randy interacting?

- Did Callum do another right hand for himself after giving the original to Milt?

- will olandy's route contain a bad ending? (I feel like I know the answer but........)

- are there beauty standards in dialtown that revolve around specific types of typewriters/phone heads?

- does everyone in dialtown know hobo is GOD?

- Would it be illegal/controversial to use pet heads after they are deceased as items?

That's all!! Got some out of a video but I think this is enough,, I hope you are taking breaks doggo!!good luck with future projects🗣️🗣️

will Roger's route include the interactions of Rebecca and Harry?

The Rebecca scene has a few subtle nods to the Harry scene in DSaF and in something else I haven't written yet, there's an implication they might know each other. But, nothing too explicit. Roger has no clue that two of the closest people in his life have met.

will Roger's route also be the one including him and Randy interacting?

I have an scene in mind for Randy + Roger interacting, it's not in Roger's route though.

Did Callum do another right hand for himself after giving the original to Milt?

Crown had multiple spare limbs, so he just switched to one of the others until just before the Dialup, when he decided to switch back to using it after getting it back from Milt after they fell out.

will olandy's route contain a bad ending? (I feel like I know the answer but........)

Yes. It's not Roger's route-bad, but there are consequences if you're too much of a shitstain to Randy and Oliver. Except Gingi to die shitting.

are there beauty standards in dialtown that revolve around specific types of typewriters/phone heads?

Of course. All heads tell a story and form a part of someone's identity. Someone's head can tell you as much about them as the clothes they wear.

does everyone in dialtown know hobo is GOD?

Most of the people who've met him 'knows' it as he mentions it to just about everyone he meets. What many of them don't know is that he actually isn't.

Would it be illegal/controversial to use pet heads after they are deceased as items?

It's akin to having your pet taxidermied after death for us. Definitely weird for the same reasons, but you wouldn't be the first person to do it.

[spookedem]

THIS IS OUT OF DATE NOW, ILL UPDATE IT SOON After weeks of sleepless research, I now present...

The Full Callum Crown Timeline! (for now)

In 1923 - Callums father, a marine died in china during the US's engagement with China. November 19, 1923 - Callum Crown Was Born in Dialtown, WI for most of the 30s - Callums early childhood was affected by living during the great depression, growing up in poverty to a single mother. He ran a repair shop in his garage for most of his childhood. Early 1940s - Callum Built his first prosthetics, and ended up getting his first phone however got rejected by DT's head enlister May 8, 1945 - The war ended. From 1948 to 1953 - Callum sold his prosthetics as a door to door salesman, and after following the market started producing phone heads to much success. Sometime in the 50s - Crown runs for mayor using his newfound popularity. Marla, a Journalist and his future wife helps portray Crown as flattering to the people of Dialtown ensuring his election; she would also get Callum to make typewriter heads for women common place. From 1953 to 1956 - Callum serves as mayor of Dialtown, where he met Milton at a political rally in Madison, they bond over wanting to combine the organic and inorganic. He also ended up changing the towns name and flag. (this last bit is kind of a guess) From 1956 to 1960 - Callum served a partial term as a Senator as a response to GOP isolationism at the time. During 1960 - Callum ran for president again Nixon, with Milton as his campaign manager/partner helping write his speeches. Callum gives Milton his original right hand prosthetic as a gift to his "Right hand man." From 1961 to 1965 - Callum served as the 35th president of the united states, with Milton became his vice president and his wife Marla becoming his Press Secretary. This replaced Kennedys term. In this time Callum made/changed many laws. In this time he also became more paranoid having his memory erase button installed and being generally more distant.

From 1964 to 1965 - Callum meets with Norm in the summer of '64 before he's sent into the worm hole. Callum and Milt had a final argument over the Dialup, demanded his hand back resulting in them cutting ties and Milt killing himself. Near the end of his term Marla was pregnant with their son and Callum was distant. From 1965 to January 1st 1967 - Callum became Honorary Leader of the UN, purposing a plan to bring worldwide peace, (with step one being the Dialup) but keeping his plans secret due to paranoia. Sometime in 1966 Callum visited Dialtown and sent Marla the postcard. Its also safe to assume his son was born at this point December 31st, 1966 - The worldwide Dialup happened converting EVERY living creatures head into some object. January 1st, 1967 - Callum wearing his original prosthetic gave his final speech, wiping his memory before saying his plan.

[octobobble]

*posing cutely, sticking one owl leg in the air*

What are your ideas for how the Gods are worshipped in GGG?

Oh man I could’ve never seen this question coming woah. Anyway [cracks knuckles

Generally - Paintings, statues, etc. The gods of the grove seem to have a lot of art involved in the way people like worship and look up to them.

Mitternacht - This is god prime. We think she gets a lot of sea shanties and sailor chants since she looks over the cove. Generally though we don’t think she has a very specific form of worship? She’s the sort of “everything works” member of the pantheon since her role is sorta just. God.

Inspekta - The Bizzyboys! Join the Bizzyboys! Or at least help em out. Also enjoys offerings and directly helping people find out where they need to be led in life. Sadly many of these practices fizzled out with Inspekta’s mental spiral and subsequent self isolation. I imagine he used to be an extremely accessible and easy to visit god before then.

Cobigail - She’s got some of my strongest or most set in stone thoughts, which is! It’s basically witchcraft! Sigils, charms, rituals done with certain foods or drinks. I have a really strong “Cobigail is a witch that ascended” headcanon that sorta bleeds into all the stuff I write for her teehee. Yay!

Thespius - Revelry baby!!! He’s the god of love AND mirth! Being happy and having fun in his name is great! Drinking with friends, doing silly improv, dancing around to music. That’s all Thespius worship baby! Love doesn’t have to be romantic after all, love your friends and love your life ;] More direct worship may include sending him music, writing, etc specifically made for him

Click Clack - I think writers and storytellers will often try to invoke him for luck with their work. Little mask charms on typewriters, notebooks, and computers. Even braver worshippers might even send their works in progress straight to Click in the hopes he’ll give them the time of day. I hear sending it in with the gift of coffee beans makes it more likely :)

Bauhauzzo - Worship of Bauhauzzo is very closely tied with visiting him, listening to stories and telling him some of your own, even if he already knows it. Other forms include working in libraries, helping in museums, doing your best to preserve things such as old family relics and all. He’s the god of knowledge, preserving as much as you can in his name sounds like worship to me!

Huzzle Mug - MAKE WEIRD ART! GO! MAKE IT NOW! Also buzzhuzz speak. The buzzhuzz dialect of nonsense words is basically a form of everyday worship, whether it came before or after Huzzle mug doesn’t really matter anymore in the grand scheme of things because it’s definitely a mimicry of how Huzzle talks in the modern day. Aside from that though? It’s making weird art, pushing the limits, changing things up. Try a new clothing style, switch up your pronouns, shave your head bald, whagever! That’s change, baby!

King - We see the least of King so I’m working my brain real hard on this one. I think King gets a lot of like. Travelers. Writing letters and praying to King that they’ll arrive safely or even delivering the letter yourself. Pilgrimages to other parts of the grove or even earth or the drain. Sorta trying to mimic all the help King offered people. And after she ascends she probably sets up an entire like post office or delivery group or whatever. There’s a bizzyboys 2 joke here somewhere. Anyway go become a delivery person for King 👍

Thank u for asking! This is a post I’ll probably come back to and edit in the future but for now this works

[localplaguenurse]

(Puts cracker in your mouth)

I am eating your blind reader right outta the pot and I was struck with a singular thought that hasn’t left my mind

What if when reader bumped into pants he ruined pants’ clothing in some kinda way (spilled drink/smeared ink from hands/food being smeared on etc)

For context: I was brainstorming a future fic starring a blind reader in discord.

You know what? It's not going in the current version so I'm writing this version here. Consider this a part one to the actual fic. (sorry beta)

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader)

Notes: SFW, first meetings, Pantalone's kind of a dick, and so is Reader's dad. Reader has retinitis pigmentosa which is a genetic condition that causes your retinas to deteriorate over time. He has central vision but also experiences night blindness and loss of peripheral vision. Not beta read.

The sounds of merriment echo through the halls of your family estate, the clicks and clacks of your typewriter unable to drown the sound out as you work. The noises grow louder once the band kicks in, and grow louder still once dinner is served. The smell of fresh food does not travel to your study like the music and laughter did, this section of the manor is a little too remote for that, but you know with the chime of the clock on your wall that this is when it should be brought out.

While not an outright demand, your father had advised you wait in your office for a servant to bring you a helping. Your mother protested, saying there were plenty of people who would love to meet her darling sweetheart of a son, there's no need for you to stay cooped up in your study! You gently reassured her that it was fine, really. The deadline for your novel's first draft is coming up soon, so you really should focus on finishing it as soon as you can. Besides, there is some rather elite company attending the party, and you know your father does not want to risk you making a fool of yourself, and also him by association.

Time ticked on, and your stomach growled, breaking the concentration you barely maintained on writing. You look up, right at the spot on the wall where the clock is. While you can't really see the time at this distance, you know the staff should have brought you your helping some time ago. You sigh, and stand.

You don't dislike parties, you think you enjoy them as much as the next person actually. The problem is that you don't like large, crowded parties due to your condition. Your central vision is perfectly fine, but you've been steadily losing your peripheral vision ever since you were little. It's been especially bad the past few years, to the point you will trip over anything that is not directly in front of you, like furniture and people. When your parents throw elaborate parties or host networking events, your father will suggest you stay up in your room or your study (to avoid any blunders as a result of not seeing the millionaire standing right beside you). While you know there is good meaning behind it, it feels isolating, even a little patronizing at times.

Even if the darkness of the hallway renders you completely blind, you've walked down it enough times you do not worry about tripping. Hand on the railing, you make your way down the stairs, and the light of the estate grows brighter with each step you take down. Before you fully descend, you let your eyes scan the room to try and make a mental map of where everyone is to avoid bumping into anyone on your way.

You barely make it to the ground before you feel a familiar presence and smell a familiar blend of cologne and champagne on your right. You're glad you can't see out of the corner of your eyes because you know exactly what face your father is making right now. You know he's not happy to see you downstairs before he even speaks.

"I thought you were working on your manuscript?" he asks, the accusatory tone in his voice on the more subtle side.

You shrug. "I wanted something to eat."

"Colleen was supposed to bring you your food," your father retorts.

"If she did, I wouldn't have come downstairs, would I?"

Your father scoffs. "Look, just go back upstairs, and I'll talk to Colleen."

A second voice chimes in, softer and sweeter. Your mother. "Oh, sweetie!" Her face comes into view, and she seems happy to see you. "Are you done your manuscript already?"

"Colleen didn't bring him his food, apparently," your father says.

Your mom turns her head in the direction of your father's voice. "Dear, Colleen left early, remember? Wasn't feeling well? She said Adelaide was supposed to bring him his food." "That's a lie, I haven't seen Adelaide at all tonight!"

You raise a hand. "Or, or, I'm an adult who knows where the kitchen is and can get my own serving?"

Your mother cups your face in her hands. "No no, we'll get you something, unless you're here to socialize as well? I was just talking to this woman, she has a daughter about your age-"

"I'm just going to get my food," you quickly cut in, "maybe I'll play matchmaker next time, but I just want something to eat and then I'll get back to work."

"Let the staff get it," your father tells you.

You pull away from your mother and turn to glare at your father. "It's fine. I can get it myself."

You step around your parents but feel your mom clasp your arm. "You father just-"

"Doesn't want me bumping into people, I know, and I won't."

You take two steps before your left side slams right into a passing partygoer. You stumble and hit the ground, while whoever you bumped into manages to maintain their footing. Glass breaks, and when you hit the ground you feel wetness soaking the back of your shirt and the front as well. You hear your mother gasp, and the room goes silent. Even the band has paused their playing, and you can feel the eyes of the room on you.

"What is wrong with you?"

While the man's voice is melodic, it only serves to make your face burn hotter with embarrassment. This is why your dad doesn't invite you to join them at parties, you remind yourself. When you do not immediately answer the question, opting to instead push yourself up, the man continues to chastise you.

"Do you have any idea how much this suit cost? How much it's going to cost to have it properly cleaned?"

You roll over so you're sitting up. Red stains your shirt. "Sorry, I-I didn't see you there."

"Clearly! How painfully unobservant do you have to be to not see me coming through? I was right next to you!"

You drag your gaze up the man's body, as he takes up the entirety of your eyesight. Everything he wears looks designer, and as you take in his shoes, his dress pants, you make it to his suit jacket and shirt. He's wearing black with hints of indigos and dark blues, but the wine stain is still very visible on his chest. Your eyes continue, and you see a snarling, but handsome, but still very angry face. You don't recognize him from the long black hair, the glasses with the bedazzled chain, or the shine of his eyes. You recognize him from the pin on his lapel. At this distance you recognize the Fatui symbol, and your face blanches.

You just ran into a Harbinger.

You hear the footsteps of your father approach. "M-Mister Regrator, I am so, so sorry for my son's actions, I-I'm sure that's a very expensive suit and I am deeply sorry."

The Regrator does not take his eyes off of you. "Yes. Very expensive. Expensive even for you."

"I-I swear, I'm sorry," you stammer, "I didn't see you, I really didn't see you there, I-I-"

You feel your father pull you up by the arm. "I already told you to go upstairs."

Pantalone watches as your father drags you away. You only protest a little before accepting defeat as you are pulled up the stairs. He feels the scowl on his face worsen when your mother approaches with the most desperate and pitiful expression he thinks he's ever seen a woman of her standing wear.

"Are you alright, my lord?" she asks timidly.

Pantalone takes a step back as a maid comes over to clean up the broken glass. "I'm fine, thank you."

"I am so sorry about that, if you'd like, w-we can have our staff clean your suit for you."

"This material is incredibly expensive and difficult to thoroughly wash," Pantalone states, "I highly doubt your staff would know how to clean it."

The woman looks down, embarrassed. "A-Ah, I see..." She looks back up at him, her expression somehow more pitiful than before. "Please, forgive my son, it was an accident, truly. H-He didn't see you there."

"Oh, I know," Pantalone replies, grinning harshly at the woman, "I'm just surprised at how unobservant someone can be, it's almost impressive."

The woman bites her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Still, she clears her throat, though she does not meet the Regrator's eyes. "M-My son is going blind."

Somehow the room goes quieter.

Pantalone stares at the woman as the words echo in his mind. He blinks, and his expression dulls a little. "Your son is what?"

"Going blind." She lifts her head up a little bit. "It's a genetic condition, m-my father had it as well. He's been losing his eyesight little by little ever since he was a boy. The doctor at his last appointment s-said he's lost most if not all peripheral vision now."

Pantalone can feel the wine begin to soak through to his shirt now. His eyes scan the room, and the guests are clearly pretending they're not listening to the conversation. He turns to the woman, his voice displeased but noticeably softer. "So the, ah, 'unobservant' assumption..."

"He truly did not see you," the woman reiterates, "I-I can't speak for him, of course, but if he's anything like how my father was at his age, he cannot see anything unless it is directly in front of him."

Pantalone clicks his tongue. "Is that so?"

The woman nods. Silence fills the room for a few moments, and then Pantalone sighs.

"In any case, I have to leave," he says, "I do not have a change of clothes, and I really should have this cleaned as soon as possible."

"A-Apologies again, Lord Pantalone..."

Your mother watches Pantalone as he leaves, praying to any Archon who will hear her plea that perhaps the Regrator will take pity on you on account of your condition. She also mentally curses your father for even inviting the man over. Sure, things have been getting a little shaky financially for your family, but getting buddy-buddy with a Harbinger can't be worth it, can it? They're an unsavoury lot she doesn't want around, especially around you.

Your father is already in a foul mood when he comes back downstairs, having lectured you for literally blindly running into Pantalone. The two had plans to work together, after all, so that spectacle could have completely cost the family any chance at maintaining the dwindling fortune. He becomes more upset with your mother when he finds the Regrator has left already, sparking an argument that finally kills the party, leaving the guests to awkwardly mingle before finally leaving hours before the party is set to end.

Your father does not talk to you for a few days. Your mother offers smiles and reassurance that everything will be fine, but the spats echoing down the hall lead you to believe otherwise. You attempt to tune out the building stress in your household and focus on your work, but it's in vain. In the quiet moments between replacing the paper in the typewriter, or when you cannot figure out how a scene is meant to play out, you briefly picture the Regrator's face and feel your face burn up again. Is it anger? Embarrassment? A little bit of attraction? Yes, probably.

The tension in the house reaches a boiling point when a letter sealed with the Regrator's insignia is delivered to the estate.

"You're paying for the suit, boy," your father snaps, figure barely visible as he paces the drawing room lit only by the fireplace.

"W-We don't know if that's what the letter is," your mother remarks, "and he doesn't have enough to cover for it."

"That's the worst part! We would have to cover the majority of it!"

"Can you just open the fucking envelope?!" you finally snap.

Your father advances towards you from the darkness, suddenly right in front of you. "Don't you speak to me like that when this is your fault!"

Both of you flinch when your mother all but rips the envelope from your father's hands. She steps just out of your line of vision, and you hear the ripping sound of the envelope. After a few moments, she lets out a loud sigh of relief.

"He's apologizing and forgiving us for the misunderstanding," your mother says, "though he, ah, he does want us to split the cleaning costs..." You hear the flutter of paper, and she absentmindedly steps forward as she reads the letter. "Oh, j-just for the shirt. That is... oof, that's still a little much..."

You sigh. "I should have enough money saved. Might have to put off moving out for a little longer, though."

"Oh, don't be so down!" your mother awkwardly laughs. "We don't mind having you here a little longer. It gives me peace of mind knowing you're safe! And there are o better doctors out there than in Snezhnaya!"

Your dad has disappeared out of view, but you can still feel his stare. You don't think he's as thrilled as your mother is, but it's better than him paying the full cost of Pantalone's dry cleaning. You wonder if there's anything in the letter stating if he'll still work with your father, and if that means you'll have to see him again before you eventually move. You hope you never see him out of sheer embarrassment, but a part of you wants to. It would be nice to remember a more cheery expression on his handsome face before the day your central vision finally leaves you.

[elsa-fogen]

So. On the topic of Alastor headcannons. What's your opinion on these radio themed ones:

Alastor has an internal radio. Like the concept of having songs play through your head, but more literal. He can tune to stations as if he was a radio himself. And if he really wants to, he can connect himself to other radios in his immediate vicinity and play that music though them instead.

His antlers help his radio powers. So when they get damaged (in battle, sheds them, whatever reason you wanna put here) his internal radio goes bazerk. Think; flipping stations randomly, connecting to other radios when he doesn't want it to, playing loud static at random. All the chaos.

He can hear through other radios. He once had to listen to Vox playing Barbie Girl through a TV right next to a radio in Vox's studio, for a week straight. Surely enough; Barbie Girl is now banned from all radio stations in hell.

What do you think? I got more like these if you like them. Give me a generic topic and I can probably list several under that category.

OHH RADIO HEASCANONS

Yes, but he also can turn it on and off when he needs

Never thought about it, but it's funny (don't think i'm going to use it anywhere but who knows, maybe i'll make some funzies with that)

Pretty much used it in one my comic slihdsdkjfh +headcanon that Vox taught him that, he also can control when and which radio he wants to listen (or his head would be a horrible mess) ut i like headcanon that he has some songs banned on the radio lol

speaking of other radiostations, i actually made an instruction on How To get Your Own Radio Station In Hell, let me just find it real quick... i wanted to share it long ago, but couldn't find a moment

Imagine you're a normal sinner in hell, who suddenly wants to become radio host for one small station. and it's possible! and you won't even die, and get some benefits, if succeed. So, it's kinda hard, but doable

1. You need to write a letter asking for a permission to have your own station to The Radio Demon himself. a) letter should be handwritten, and your handwriting must be at least readable. Or you can use typewriter, if you find one. DO NOT write it on a computer and then print, you'll probably won't be able to get your station in following 50 years b) You should send your letter via post. DO NOT try to meet Radio Demon in person, you'll just lose time, or even if you get lucky, he won't take your letter. b*) Now you can just come to Hazbin Hotel and give your letter to Charlie Morningstar and ask her to give it to Radio Demon. Don't worry, she won't read it. b**) You should leave your contacts, that's obligatory if you want to get an answer - that means you have to have a place to live. c) Do not try to e-mail him, he doesn't even have a phone or computer to receive it. If someone gives you 100% totally real Radio Demon's e-mail - don't trust them, its fake 2. You'll get answer from the Radio Demon in 1-2 weeks, he'll send you set of papers which you have to fill out. You'll probably have to do it 3-4 times so don't worry, he's just testing your dedication. In these papers you give general info about your future radio station - the name, schedule, what activities you'll gonna have and what kinds of music wanna play. Include some jazz, especially if you mostly want to have modern music. You'll also have to tell a bit about yourself. You absolutely should not be connected to voxtech in any way. 2.b) he may simply dislike your ass and become a real bureaucratic monster. Keep trying - you can impress him with you dedication and he may like you in the end 3. When you got your application approved, you'll have to sign a contract, that gives you right to broadcast on a certain radio frequency. According to the contract - your radio station belongs to the Radio Demon, you'll just getting it in unlimited use, until the contract terminated. You DO NOT sell your soul to the Radio Demon. He can broadcast over you any time he needs and you can't do anything about it. He can also ask you to change something in your broadcast schedule, ask to replace of cancel any of your programs, ban music and so on. (Tho, he probably won't do anything of it). But since your radio station is his property, you're as well under his protection while you on your station, so if someone attacks you and you're unable to protect yourself and your station, you'll have a way to contact him and ask for help. You'll have a specific channel for it and list of morse codes for emergencies. You should not use this channel for anything else, or you'll lose your station. 4. After all paperwork is done and approved, you have to get equipment for your station. DO NOT use ANYTHING voxtech related, and you absolutely cannot have TV on your station. 5. After you got all the equipment, invite the Radio Demon to your station. He'll set everything up for you and give you list of emergency codes. Do not try to interrupt his infodumps even if you lost track of it and can't understand shit, it's better if you show enthusiasm. 6. And done! Now you are happy small radio host! The Radio Demon may show up on your station sometimes to check how everything's going, but don't worry about it, he won't be bother you too often after few weeks.

P. S. You are NOT friends with the Radio Demon, even if he acts friendly and calls you "dear" - that's just his normal, not-threatenning behavior P. P. S. Don't be too personal, don't dump on him your problems if they aren't related to the station when he comes to you. Just make him some coffee, talk about weather and tell that everything works just fine P. P. P. S. ABSOLUTELY! DO NOT! TRY TO HUG HIM! He'll just laugh at you, and if you somehow succeed he'll make everything to make you regret every action in your life and afterlife that led you to this moment (and it doesn't necessarily means he will torture you physically, once he run into masacistic freak that got a boner when was tortured) P. P. P. P. S. If you caught feelings for him - suffer in silence and NEVER try to confess. You'll lose your station immediately and will never get it back.

All these instructions are totally written by Rosie who heared so many complaints from Alastor about how people want to become a radio host but can't do it properly

And Alastor is probably making them experience what he went through to become a radio host in life

GOD, TUMBLR WHY UR SUCH AN ASS TODAY WTF LET ME JUST POST MY SILLY TEXT

[cartoonsinthemorning]

So I absolutely love all your thoughts and ideas about a fem Stan, but what about a fem Ford? I feel like that could also be a really fun dynamic. Stan trying to be the man and protecting fem!Ford from bullies, but is really just entirely wrapped around Fords fingers. And then! The jealousy could come into play in other ways! Like Stan starts dating someone and Ford is pissed about it so she leaves a lipstick mark on his collar or subtly sprays him with perfumes so that Stans partner thinks he was cheating and leaves him. And the obsessionnn. Imagine her stealing Stan’s shirts and sleeping in them just because they smell like him. Or staring at him while he sleeps and sketching him in her personal diary (though let’s be real, canon Ford did that too lol.) Anyways, I also like the idea of all of these pent up feeling finally coming out and her just riding Stan until he can’t think straight and her being like “that’s right, you’ll never have it this good with anyone else.” Idk. Thoughts?

Hello new friend! Thank you for enjoying my thoughts and ideas about fem!Stan, and for now kickstarting a conversation about fem!Ford too! I have a lot of thoughts. So many, in fact, that before moving to the shippy part, I need to focus on Ford alone, first. What would differ, was he born a girl. Quite a lot. I’m gonna be blunt. All things Ford had been oppressed by, in canon, would hit ten times harder, if he was a girl. Take academic ambitions, for example: I’m not saying that fem!Ford’s extraordinary intelligence wouldn’t had earned her praise. I just doubt she would had been encouraged to pursue higher education, and convert her studies into a career. A jewish WOMAN into STEM? Back then? I don’t think any of her teachers suggested she shoots for a prestigious university- why give her and her family unrealistic expectations? Ma and Pa would had been happy to have a smart, studious daughter, but I’m sure the idea to invest into her studies would had been up to debate, if not shot down immediately: to spend that type of money, when her likely future job would be either high school science teacher, or museum curator- would had been a pointless waste, to someone like Filbrick Pines.

To be honest, I think teen fem!Ford would had rather been encouraged, by her parents, to attend professional classes instead, something like a typewriting course- in order to find a stable secretary job, for example, after high school. Can you imagine, someone with Ford’s potential, being told “Well honey, at least you can put those extra fingers to a practical use, if you learn to type very fast”? Can you imagine how UTTERLY humiliated fem!Ford must had felt, all the time? Just like Ford, I think she’d be perfectly aware what a genius she is, and how drastically she’s been underestimated. And yet, she’d have to take in consideration the evidence: it doesn’t matter how great her mind is. They are right, there’s no place that would want her. The only person that would root for her, ever the dreamer, would be Stanley. He’d just take her hands, wipe her tears away, and promise, with naive, granitic certainty, that he will find a way to help her. His plans would range from completely unrealistic and cartoonish (“Ya could invent a machine that turns me into a brainiac, and once Pa send me to that tech uni ya like, I’ll sneak you in the classes, and you’ll take my place!”), to painfully sweet, albeit still unrealistic (“If Pa doesn’t want to support ya, I’ll take two or three jobs and pay for your studies and stuff myself!”). Stanley would look at his sister with bright eyes, and a huge optimistic grin, stating that she’s the smartest gal that ever existed, so there’s NO WAY she won’t become some posh scientist and prove everyone in Glass Shard Beach wrong. Every time Stanley would pull his stupid, naive, adoring Protector Knight acts, fem!Ford would feel so angry at herself for blushing, and for her heart-rate speeding up. Because it’s so intoxicating to be believed in, but she can’t afford to fall for Stanley’s overly-hopeful view of her condition, and she can’t afford to fall for him either. And this brings me to yet another point I wanted to make: self-esteem, and societal expectations.

If canon Ford’s hands got him bullied, and classified as freak- for a girl, they would had also been a mark of ugliness and considered remarkably un-feminine. I bet F., as a little girl, suffered a lot for having more in common with the grotesque antagonistic creatures of her favorite books, rather than the princess. And I’m sure EVERYONE around her didn’t fail to make her notice too. In subtle ways, sometimes. Like her mom suggesting she gets ear-rings, for her birthday, rather than bracelets, because it would be best not to concentrate more attention on those, right? Even if teen fem!Ford would act aloof, as if she didn’t care anymore, she’d be so self conscious about her large palms and extra fingers- so unfeminine and gross- she’d fantasize about chopping them off quite often. If Stanley hadn’t happily held her hand throughout their childhood, and “made fun” of how tiny her hands look in his large ones, as teenagers, maybe she would have, in a fit of self-hate. Thing is, fem!Ford would hold grudges and set secret standards in her head. It’s not like she thinks she’d never be able to get a boyfriend, despite her hands: she doesn’t look horrible, she’d be pretty, even, if she cared for her appearance like her moms begs her to do- but F. wouldn’t be able to suppress the burning conviction that “No other man but Stanley deserves me”. Other men may want her despite her hands, but Stanley was there since the beginning, telling her her hands make her more special than any other girl, like she was magical, like she belong in the fairy tales book she used to read aloud to him. What a stab to the heart, then, that she can’t have him. Not only because they are siblings, but because, just like you said, Stanley would date someone else. Carla, and some other stupid bitch that F. would need to get rid of, because they don’t deserve Stanley like she does neither! I love all the strategies you listed, to “mark her territory” and push other girls away!! I love toxic, jealous girlies!! I don’t condone Ford’s yanderism, but fem!Ford has my blessing. She can be a creep, as a treat. As for the part you mentioned, about fem!Ford snapping and riding Stan- YES I also agree, AND I’d like to add to it. In this AU, Stanley isn’t a misogynist in the classic sense: he doesn’t consider his sister an inferior at all. But… he would not be immune to absorbing the Madonna-whore complex:Girls like Carla- he can fool around with, because they are that kind of girls. Promiscuous, slutty- bad girls. But his sister is different. She’s so virtuous, so smart- his pure, innocent little sister. Stanley would NEVER lay a finger on her. Yes, he may admit to himself he is in love with her, which is also horrible, but at least he would never, ever sexualize her. Cue Stanley playing dumb, or finding excuses to weasel away, whenever fem!Ford flirted with him, or even made clear advances- during the entire length of their teenage years. Until fem!Ford just. Decided she couldn’t take it anymore, stripped naked, slipped into Stan’s bed, and grinded and kissed his neck until he caved, lmao. I have even more thoughts, but it’s getting late, here. I must cut the yapping short, for now. Please, feel free to come chat again, and throw more ideas of your own at me! Thank you for this one, MMMMWAH, baci baci!