#milestone snippet

[ghqstwriter]

‘What is this? What’s going on? Who are you working for and where are you taking me?’ Is what Hero wanted to say, to yell in the most threatening voice conceivable in the hopes that their captors would be kind enough to keep them updated. Alas, they were gagged rather firmly, so their intimidation only came out in muffled annoyance. Today really didn’t belong to them, huh.

First, they sleep in on a work day, which not only caused them to miss the entire mission brief, but also meant that their partner had left for their own job already, and they didn’t get to see them off. Second of all, the mission went horrifically South, causing them to have to retreat an extremely suspiscious and crime riddled part of the city. And now, there was this. Kidnapped by someone that Hero couldn’t even identify.

It wasn’t that it was particularly dark, Hero could make out their assailants just fine. The problem was that they were wearing perhaps the most non-descript masks possible, leaving no clues as to who their employer is (something that Hero later realised was probably by design).

The only notable thing Hero could discern was, unfortunately, the sheer competence of the criminals. Instead of the usual large squad of assassins they were used to, this time, they could count the number of attackers on one hand. In fact, it had only taken one before Hero was down within seconds. The rest seemed to be here for transportation purposes.

Either something was wrong with Hero, or they were being apprehended by someone completely out of their league. Their captors had offhandedly mentioned taking the superhero to their boss, implying that these were merely henchman. Henchman who had almost instantly defeated the Hero. Their heart quickened at the realisation.

Their poor heart, they thought. It had already been pounding long before they were caught by whoever these bandits were. A simple mission involving a usually tame villain had turned into a fast paced chase, leaving Hero breathless and unaware of the criminals lurking around the corner. Shockingly, these henchmen didn’t appear to be working for that same villain, for they were quite cautious about avoiding their notice.

At least the captors didn’t seem to be liars. The main one had (not so comfortingly) reassured them that it wouldn’t be long until they got to their destination, and that much was true; it wasn’t long at all until they were hauled up onto their feet and led out of the vehicle. Hero took in the sight of the criminal’s base before them, trying to observe just where they were for future reference. It was then they realised why they hadn’t been blindfolded — even with their eyes fully uncovered, they still had no clue where the hell they were.

The inside was just as unremarkable, too. It was small, though certainly not unpopulated, as many masked people walked by, crossing corridors and paying no mind to the apprehended superhero. Were they told to play it cool, or was this nothing especially notable to them? Hero wasn’t sure which answer they prefered.

Then, the criminals stopped before a large door, locked behind a keycard. Most of them gave a quick, absent-minded salute, before heading off in perfect sync to presumably their usual duties. This left Hero to stand awkwardly now that only the main henchman was left, reaching for some form of identification to open the door.

Their boss was likely on the other side, probably waiting to tear Hero limb from limb. The superhero considered trying to plead over the gag, but they’d learnt this particular criminal was rather fond of silence.

The machine by the doors let out a meagre beep, and then swung the entrance open to reveal a highly cluttered office, full to the near brim with what appeared to be case files, video tapes, and an assortment of strange but clearly significant trinkets. Usually, Hero was keen on observing their surroundings to an analytical fault, but this time, they barely had time to glance around, focus instead transfixed on the seated figure before them.

Villain was the one who had kidnapped them?

The criminal glanced up, face not shifting in the slightest at the sight of Hero before them. Then, as nonchalantly as the first movement, they looked towards their employee, a subtle look of questioning on their face. Clearly, they didn’t even need to speak in order for their point to get across.

“The target refused to cooperate without protest, minimum apprehension protocol was followed,” the lackey spoke in a rather rehearsed manner, which gave Hero the grim idea that Villain seemed to be kidnapping people quite a lot.

“Very well, you may be dismissed, Henchman. I’ll call for you if I need our guest removed from the premises,” Villian ordered casually, as though they were asking an intern for coffee. Henchman bowed politely, and turned to leave without sparing Hero a second glance. Interestingly, the moment the door slammed shut again, Villain’s posture relaxed, and they beckoned Hero over to their desk, gaze already softening.

Hero obliged, strolling up to the desk as the fear of persecution was replaced by sheer confusion. Of all people they expected to be their captor, Villain was not one of them. As soon as they reached the desk, the criminal leant upwards, and swiftly removed the gag, tossing it to one side. The superhero cleared their throat, adjusting, before speaking up.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re back to hating my guts again. Your henchmen were quite firm with me, to say the least,” Hero commented, their playful demeanour returning as they leant their elbows on the mahogany desk. Looking around, they noticed that the entire room seemed to fit Villain’s exact colour scheme.

“Forgive them, they weren’t aware that this impromptu kidnapping was of your best interest. I wasn’t certain if telling the henchmen just why I wanted you here was a great idea.”

“Why did you bring me here, then?”

Villain opened their mouth to speak, prompty stopped themself, and let out a breathless laugh. They internally rephrased whatever it was they planned on saying, eyes not leaving Hero for a moment.

“My superiors refuse to let me interfere with Other Villain’s goals. If I sent my henchmen to deter them, I’m sure they’d arrive at our doorstep, furious. But, if the hero they were persuing just so happened to mysteriously disappear, I’m sure they’d blame it on the agency instead of us.”

“Aww, you were worried,” Hero cooed, taking the criminal’s gloved hands. Even before the pair had become amicable (which then furthered itself into something deeper), Villain had never shown much desire to harm Hero. Any ill will that was present in their initial relationship had all been showmanship. A performance for both the press and their respective bosses.

“When am I not?” Villain cupped their partner’s cheek and rubbed gentle circles into their temple. Hero practically melted at the gesture, feeling their warmth even through the fabric that covered their tender hands. Careful to not push the criminal’s hands away, they maneuvered around the desk, resting the small of their back against the edge so that they were still facing the villain.

“You know, sometimes I forget you’re supposed to be the commanding and callous Villain. You’re too much of a sap, in my eyes,” Hero confessed. It was a simple mistake to make, Villain was perhaps the most gentle person the hero had ever had the pleasure of meeting. They worried incessantly over the safety of their partner, and were more than affectionate when surrounded by the tranquility of four secluded walls.

It was amusing to Hero, most days. Villain was a more than threatening criminal: they headed up a major faction of what most heroes considered to be an unstoppable villainous organisation. There were very few criminals that Hero fought that wouldn’t bow in both fear and respect to them. And here they were, staring up at the hero with an entirely lovestruck gaze. Smitten was an understatement.

“Rich words coming from the legendary superhero who is currently making no effort to escape a kidnapping situation. Sounds much more incriminating to me,” Villain chuckled lovingly. As they spoke, their hands moved down to Hero’s waist, tugging at them softly so that they’d come closer to the point of practically hovering over Villain’s lap in a feather-light embrace.

The hero hummed wordlessly, content with being this close to their partner, adrenaline wearing off from both the encounter with Other Villain and their rather efficient abduction. They were admittedly exhausted and (perhaps stupidly) felt more than comfortable in showing that fact to the criminal before them, wrapping their arms around the unmasked villain and settling into their lap.

The chair wasn’t exactly comfortable to lie on, but that was something they could hardly focus their mind on once Villain started painting strokes of warmth down their back. Hero didn’t need to look at them to know they were smiling, to which Hero beamed back.

“I do apologise that my men were not so gentle. Perhaps I should have found a way to tell them without incriminating us.”

“It’s ok, Vil. At least I got to see you at the end of a tough day.”

For the next few hours, until Villain had finally finished up any remaining work (the contents of which Hero was sadly not allowed to view but was reassured of their nonviolent nature), Hero stayed within their embrace, exhausted from a demanding and entirely unpredictable day. At least, through it all, they’d always have Villain to fall back on when they needed them.

Thank you all so much for 100 followers<33

[neon-kazoo]

Dang It!

(Welcome to snippet #50!)

“Where’s the key to the lab, Hero?”

Villain ran their hands roughly over the hero’s white coat and slack pants, shaking and grabbing at the fabric as they went, much to Hero’s dismay.

Hero had had little choice but to submit to the forcible search when they were backed against a wall and threatened with a menacing-looking knife. The villain had cornered them in an alley right outside their place of work, demanding they hand over their access to the top-secret laboratory.

“What do you mean? It was right in there-”

Hero—who had been fairly cooperative up until this point—patted the pocket Villain had just searched casually, then frantically as their face fell.

“Dang it!”

“What?” Villain questioned harshly, mildly shocked and alarmed at the Hero’s sudden outburst.

Hero ran their hands through all their clothing and their bag, as well as looked around them on the ground before making another noise of frustration.

“I locked myself out!”

“What do you mean you-”

“I mean,” Hero replied slowly for emphasis, “my key is inside, and I am outside.”

“Seriously. My plan is ruined because you…you locked yourself out?” asked Villain in a state of disbelief.

“Yep.” Hero popped, then grimaced, adding a sheepish, “sorry.”

“Surely there’s some kind of failsafe in place. Can’t you ask the front desk for a temporary pass or something?”

“I would rather die than face Phyllis,” Hero answered seriously, holding the villain’s stare.

Villain ran a hand down their mask in frustration.

“Ok, fine,” the criminal relented, giving up on their equipment-stealing dreams for now and vowing to later pay a certain desk lady a visit. “But you have to give me something.”

The hero nodded warily, looking between the blade and the villain with anxious eyes.

Anything to postpone a trip to the front desk.

In the end, Villain settled for the location of Hero’s back-up base. Hero, on the other hand, resolved themselves to let their experimental dishes incubate an extra day until their lab-partner returned.

[moonydulac]

"well, it was sweet," remus said, almost dropping the vial containing his potion sample, "the -er- gesture, not the peppermint. peppermint isn't sweet, obviously." he conceded to packing his potions kit with magic. clumsy wasn't really an adjective he associated with himself, but here he was, spectacularly failing at acting like a person.

sirius coughed a disbelieving laugh. he quickly walked out of the empty classroom, shaking his head.

remus grabbed his things and marched to catch up.

"how come you're not hungover?" he inquired, adjusting his bag strap. sirius smirked, his stride not slowing down as remus struggled to keep up. "i don't have hangovers, moony, you know that."

"maybe," remus added, coy, "i was just trying to see if you were drunk last night."

sirius slowed down, the smirk turning into something more genuine, "i didn't confess to you because I was drunk, remus," he dropped his voice, glancing at remus, "you know that."

remus smiled. he decided he liked that sirius was being straightforward about it. not that he expected anything different from him.

remus nodded slowly, "okay, that's good to know."

"good?"

"yeah. good."

#snippet

[presidenthades]

AO3 Milestone: Lavender has 50k hits 🎉

Thank you to everyone who read and supported me while I wrote Lavender! It started out as a super self-indulgent fanfic of my own fanfic. I began posting when a lot of the fandom still hated Aegon, so I really didn’t think an heir!Aegon AU would be popular. Now it makes me happy to know that so many people have enjoyed it and want more of it!

As a little thank you/celebration, I’m sharing a snippet from the mirrorverse fic where canon!Aegon meets Gold!Jace for the first time. Please note that this is a draft, so things might change between now and when I post the chapter. (It’ll still be several weeks away. I’m working on Compromise and want to post Chapter 14 before I start posting mirrorverse.)

Snippet is under the Read More cut in case there are people who would rather wait for the official posting.

[tahbhie]

Thank you so much guys!! Let's celebrate ❤️

I checked my activities on Tumblr earlier and was met with, “OMG tahbhie! You’ve reached 50 reblogs.” As small as this achievement may seem, I am incredibly grateful.

You know what this means? People actually read my stuff and find it helpful, and that warms my heart. Writers and artists are truly one of the most supportive communities out there. Respect, guys! 🫡

Next milestone—50 followers, and I’ll probably host a giveaway to celebrate.

To celebrate this milestone, I’m going to let you decide what my next post should be. You know what they say, “Every small win becomes a significant one.” And here’s the thing, I want to celebrate every single one with you.

Cheers! 🥂

[endemise]

we hit 1000(+) followers!

thank you all for being interested in my IF! it’s crazy to me that over 1000 people have decided to follow it, it almost doesn’t feel real, thank you! i appreciate you all! <3

have the first paragraph of chapter 1 :)

Transcription: Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound of water pattering against metal draws you from a deep slumber, the trickling liquid reminiscent of the slow, hardly there, beating in your chest. It fills the quiet room, accompanied by the faint breath from your lungs. Your eyelids are heavy, the effort it takes to open them great, and the darkness slowly dispels from around you. Candlelight illuminates the room from somewhere besides you, a soft, orange glow replacing the once dark shadows.

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

[astromechs]

it's happening, a star wars first; i'm writing comlink sex

[abyssyby]

the little twins — masterlist

— a compilation of stories about sylus as a father of two little boys who love & heal just by being

sorted according to the age the twins are depicted to be in the corresponding story (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

☆༉ = new addition!

hello, lucian & kyros! (snippets from dif. ages)

— an introduction to the boys as Sylus’s little twins. read before or after any story to get to know them a little more ♡

peek-a-boo (12 months)

— sylus puts his evol to good use— social games with his toddlers

home (1.5 years)

— little twin debut! a little look into the difference between the (then unnamed) little twins & their perception of home

birthday snaps (2 years) ☆༉

— the twins turn two and what a happy day it is! big twins almost smothered accidentally

messy spaces (2 years)

— your boys try their hands at keeping papa’s big secret… but what’s a ‘secret’ again?

cat nap (2 years)

lucian and kyros very much take after their father, but despite it all, sylus is still just a dragon among kittens

theory of mind (2 years)

— a test of empathy: you give all your boys marshmallows except for papa. what will they do?

off guard on duty (3 years)

— big twins, kieran & luke, babysit the little twins for a day, and realize they are no longer who they thought they were.

from papa, with love (3 years) ☆༉

— a fight between a treasure, overcoming instincts and exploring kyros & lucian's dragon traits from papa.

maybe a dragon (4 years)

— lucian is very fond heights, scaring sylus of the dangers and implications of it all.

maybe a turtle (4 years)

— kyros thinks papa is always running too fast. sylus longs to be caught.

two birds on a wire (4 years) ☆༉

— two little boys follow their papa on an 'ishun (mission), and send the whole family into a tailspin

fairies, goblins & crows (6 years old) ☆༉

— a class example of how this family deals with milestones— through tricks and treats

more coming soon ♡

extras ☆

littles on: trinkets & treasures

littles on: hats

sylus on: pranks

kyros on: morning observatios

littles on: papa’s missions (post-two birds)

littles on: an itty bitty sister

littles on: least favorite foods

kyros on: little animals

littles on: mephie & sunfire-roar

sylus on: persuasion and puppies

the family on: cuteness aggression ☆༉

dividers by @saradika-graphics ♡

[55sturn]

wedding date!chris

ib: anyone who has written this trope! pls reply w their users so i can tag!

he was desperate to see you after months of no contact. the two of you had been the best of friends. from the age of seven, the two of you were nearly impossible to separate. you did everything together, wherever one went, the other was right beside them. and chris was absolutely enamoured by you from day one, which is why no one in his family could fathom how easily he let you walk away.

when the two of you began experimenting with one another sexually, chris blatantly ignored the warning signs going off on his brain. he just wanted you so incredibly bad, that he’d take you in whatever way you gave yourself to him. he didn’t care that he was putting almost seventeen years of friendship on the line. he was in love with you, but there were so many thoughts, doubts, fears, and insecurities firing off deep inside his mind that prevented him for telling you how he felt.

you weren’t stupid, you saw the way chris looked at you like you were the only person in the room that mattered. you saw the way he treated you, he treated you like you were more important than everyone else, the same way he treats his momma. you were, and still are, everything to chris. you saw the way he felt, he didn’t need words to say it, and the only reason you noticed it, is because it mirrored your own feelings. but you were waiting for chris to say something, to do something that didn’t end with you laying between his sheets.

and you got tired of waiting. the ball was in his court, and you had expected him to make the next move after you used the idea of sleeping together causally as a potential gateway to something more. but he never did anything. and it killed you.

you were a big believer in “if they want to, they will.” and you so badly wanted to believe that chris wanted you in the same way you wanted him. you really thought that he was going to take it to a serious level with you, and when you realized that he was treating less like you were the only thing that mattered, and more like every girl he’s been with before, you took your leave. you knew you deserved more than to be stuck waiting for a guy, even if he was your best friend, to decide if he wanted you.

and when you received a text from chris, your heart dropped. you didn’t know how to respond. because let’s be honest, how the fuck were you supposed to respond to the guy you fell in love with at the age of thirteen asking you to be his date to a family friend’s wedding after six months of no contact whatsoever? how the fuck were you supposed to respond after going from being apart of every milestone, big and small, to watching his life through videos and pictures on the internet, only getting updates through the small snippets he shared with his fans? and that’s what hit you the hardest, you were no longer someone that got a closer look at the inner workings of his life, private and public, but rather, you were living the same life as his fans. and you weren’t a fan, you couldn’t, and would not, let yourself live like that anymore.

not when you knew what songs he preferred when he was sad and driving around to clear his head, not when you knew that he’d make and eat his mom’s homemade soup when he was homesick, or that he always sent pictures of your favourite things to his mom when you were busy, or how he looked and sounded during his most intimate and vulnerable moments.

so, you took the time to carefully craft your response. agreeing to be his date, but only if the two of you could meet up somewhere and actually talk about what went wrong before you showed up to the wedding as his plus one.

and chris’ head was spinning as he read the text, he agreed without even knowing if you were still living in the same slightly run-down apartment complex just a few blocks away, and if you were, he was going to kick his own ass. because how could he let things get so bad between the two of you, how could he let you go, and remained unbothered by him for six months while being a ten minute walk away from him half the time? and when he found out that you were only ten minutes away from him, he was quick to show up at your apartment the next night at a quarter to midnight.

you were in the middle of drying your hair and getting your work uniform ready when a hefty series of knocks rattled against your door, it startled you slightly but your nerves calmed when you figured it was just your neighbour asking you to watch her sick cat while she ran to the corner store again, but as you opened the door, your heart rate spiked as you met the eyes of the very man that haunted your thoughts and dreams every night.

“chris, why are you here?”

STAR’S CORNER i started texting vi abt this idea and i needed to get it out rq, so let me know if u want me to keep building on this lil blurb !! also chapter one of SHUT UP MY MOM’S CALLING is possibly dropping late saturday night <3

© 55STURN 2025 ! REBLOGS OF MY WORK ARE NOT EXPECTED BUT GREATLY APPRECIATED !

[enhaflixer]

Sined sealed and undone is such a beautiful story! I loved it! It would be lovely if we could get some more snippets of their lives someday! Maybe about the pregnancy or when the baby is born???

First Trimester

Jay doesn’t know how to react at first. Not really. He’s not shocked—he’s prepared on paper. They talked about children. They were careful. But deep down? He always knew Mina was going to come early. And yet somehow it still knocks the breath out of him.

He doesn’t celebrate at first. He calculates. Sits up late reading medical journals and government maternity policies. Makes a spreadsheet of every hospital in a 100km radius. Sends your doctor a thank-you gift after every appointment.

You find him one night in his study, staring blankly at a half-done nursery mood board, his phone open to an article titled “Intergenerational Trauma and Pregnancy Outcomes.”

“Jay,” you say gently, stepping into the room. “You’re allowed to be excited, you know.”

He blinks at you like he forgot how to breathe. Then:

“I don’t want her to inherit anything broken.”

You kneel in front of him.

“She won’t. She’s getting the best of you.”

Then, softer:

“And the rest she’ll learn to survive. Like we did.”

He wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. But you don’t mind. He needs this more than you do.

Second Trimester

Jay gets weirdly charming during this time. Like, glowing. He stops answering calls after 6PM. Starts making dinner. Starts… humming while folding laundry???

You ask him one day, “Are you nesting?”

“I’m stabilizing our home environment,” he says, dead serious, as he alphabetizes the spice rack.

He talks to your belly every night, even before you can feel movement. His voice goes low, affectionate, incredibly gentle—like he’s already protecting Mina from the world.

“Hi, Baby,” he whispers against your stomach. “It’s Appa. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll handle it.”

You cry the first time you hear him say her name.

He panics and tries to call your OB.

You have to explain that these are happy tears.

Later, you find a leather-bound journal hidden in his drawer. Inside: handwritten letters to Mina. Every week. Every milestone. Every fear. Every dream.

Third Trimester

Jay is officially in full Dad Mode™. He speaks to your belly in boardroom Korean. You swear Mina kicks harder when he starts using his “negotiation voice.”

He buys three diaper bags. Tests the car seat installation seven times. Has every caregiver within his family vetted by a private firm.

But also? He’s scared. You catch it in quiet moments—when he watches you sleep with a crease between his brows. When he lingers at the hospital lobby longer than necessary.

“I don’t know if I can protect you both,” he admits one night, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” you say softly. “You just have to love us.”

And he holds you tighter. Doesn’t say a word. But later that night, he changes your contact name in his phone from just your name… to My Family.

The Birth

Jay doesn’t cry. Not until they place Mina in your arms, all tiny fingers and sleepy squints and scrunched-up nose that definitely came from him.

Then he’s gone. Sobbing silently, shoulders shaking, forehead pressed to the edge of your hospital bed like he’s trying to keep himself from collapsing.

“She’s real,” he says. “She’s here.”

And you nod, exhausted, whispering, “She’s perfect.”

Jay kisses Mina’s forehead, then yours. His voice cracks when he says, “Thank you. For giving her to me.”

Postpartum / First Months

Jay doesn’t sleep. Not out of stress—he just can’t look away. He watches Mina breathe. He learns how to swaddle from six different sources and compares their efficiency. He insists on doing midnight feedings because “you carried her for nine months, I can carry her through a few nights.”

He works less. Holds more. Laughs more.

One night, Mina won’t stop crying no matter what either of you do. You’re both exhausted, on the edge. You find Jay in the living room with her on his chest, softly singing a lullaby his mother used to hum to him.

“Please sleep, Mina,” he whispers. “Appa needs to believe the world is good again.”

She finally settles.

And you know, in your bones, she already believes it is.

Because he’s here.

And he loves her.

And you.

More than anything.

[endemise]

hiii, somehow hit 100 (+) followers kinda nervous😳

thank you for following <3 have a random (small) prologue snippet🤲🏽

(mention of child death)

transcription:

The death of the youngest was the beginning of the ruin of your family. The catalyst of its inevitable end. Had it been the only one, it would have been so. And yet many followed after.

[cloversnstrawberries]

will you do platonic yandere alastor x teen reader for the “refusal/acceptance” prompt? like the teen reader was kidnapped by him and refused to accept him as their father but as time goes on he manipulates them into accepting him.

"refusal / acceptance" plantonic!yandere!alastor & teen!gn!reader ! !

[2024 christmas/holiday event, entry 3]

event post ! | event masterlist !

description; When you fell to hell, you hadn't expected yourself to make it this long. 5 years wasn't very much at all to most sinners, but to the younger ones-- it was a massive milestone, you included. However, your relatively peaceful (as peaceful as it could get in hell...) existence was abruptly interrupted by your own curiosity getting the better of you.

Really, you shouldn't have poked around the house you'd basically been squatting in for the past 5 years like you were, all it could lead to was trouble, and you should've known that.

additional notes; the first part is very focused on the reader themself/the mysteriously unoccupied and very nice house they found after first falling, but i promise you alastor does show up and is very much his usual overprotective self :D

warnings; Kidnapping, vague possessiveness, overprotectiveness, imprisonment, entrapment, Reader is convinced Alastor wants to kill them, brief/vague mentions of violence, murder, torture, etc etc, Reader has trust issues (for a good reason, it is alastor we're talking about), manipulation, and if i missed any others, please let me know!!!

w/c; 5.5k (oh lord)

You aren't sure how long you've been here, isolated with The Radio Demon in some messed-up pocket dimension(?).

In all honesty, you don't know what you did to deserve this. To catch his interest like this, and by god you don't know how the hell you've been keeping it.

Both in life and death, you knew many people like The Radio Demon-- you knew how they operated, the ins and outs of what their main goal was. For some, they prioritized wealth, and others prioritized power above all else--

You've come to the very clear conclusion that the Radio Demon prioritizes his own amusement above anything else in the world. Yes, he most definitely has a thing for power (as all Overlords do, it's practically a requirement for the position), but that's certainly not his intentions with you.

Being a younger sinner wasn't necessarily rare-- it was hard to come by them, yes, but that's because they're usually snuffed out before they could even get a look around the place.

It's a wonder you've made it this far, five years wasn't much in the eyes of Sinners like Alastor, but to you-- it was far beyond how long you'd expected yourself to make it.

The Exterminators that come down each year-- they target the younger ones, the vulnerable. On more than one occasion, people have claimed they heard Adam, the leader of the Exterminators, proclaim "Oh, I just love killing the small ones!"

Not very holy in your humble opinion, but that opinion was not asked of you; so you'd never shared it to anyone but yourself.

Dying at the hands of other sinners wasn't uncommon for the younger ones either, obviously-- which is why you were (understandably) a bit of a hermit.

This is, ironically, how you encountered and was promptly swiped up by no other but the Radio Demon himself. You never interacted with others much, but you'd still heard tales of him-- little snippets of conversations as you did your monthly grocery shopping. One of the few times you'd ever leave your little shoddy cottage on the outskirts of Pentagram City.

You were always a very curious person-- cautious, so you'd keep your curiousity to yourself. Let yourself silently mull over information, but forcing yourself from never seeking any more than you could passively pick up.

But this one time-- God, you really don't know why you did it. Perhaps you were getting bored with it all, with the monotony of your afterlife; always on edge, even in your own 'home'.

This cottage you lived in was abandoned once you found it, just a few days after you'd fallen into hell. It was close to the field you'd woken up in after dying, and you'd curled up on the cold, scratched up wooden floor and slept for the first time in Hell.

Ever since, you'd claimed the place as your own. The first few months-- scratch that, the first few years, you were always on edge, expecting its true owner to come crawling back-- and slaughter you, who by all means was a squatter, simple as that.

You didn't mess with the items much, and you stuck only to where you needed. The bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room-- where you'd set up shop, claiming it as your bedroom.

Only recently had you begun exploring the other rooms. The kitchen was simple, having an icebox and a gas stove; besides the archway was an apron hanging on a hook that read "Don't kiss the cook". You'd snickered when you first noticed it.

You never used it, you only used what you had to-- never rearranging, never touching what wasn't absolutely necessary to your survival. Forever in fear of if-- or when, the original owner returned.

A few months ago, after residing in this cottage for so long, you came to the conclusion that owner probably was never coming back. They'd most like died in an extermination-- when you'd first discovered the house, it already had a light covering of dust over all the objects.

And yet, nothing looked out of place. Nothing stolen, nothing broken. That's what put you on edge, making you certain for so long that the owner would come back and rip you to shreds.

You started small, looking and eventually locating an unassuming hall closet in search of cleaning supplies. You pulled a duster out, a wooden handle with a metal bit attaching the real feathers on the end-- it was ornate, in your eyes, because you were so used to having a duster made of synthetic fibers. It looked quite old, but that fit with the rest of the house.

You pulled it out and began dusting-- once you were done, you were surprised by how much nicer the place looked by then. You turned the feather duster back to its home in the closet, still careful about disturbing anything else.

A few days later, you took a mop and cleaned the floor of the living room and kitchen.

The next day, you cleaned and reorganized the bathroom, but didn't dare throw away anything.

Then, a week later, you finally removed those mounted heads of various cervines, stashing them in a corner of the living room. Out of sight and out of mind, no longer looming over you as you slept on the cushy sofa every night.

Your boldest move by that point-- but after that, it was like a gateway had been opened. No longer so nervous, you moved furniture around; inspected all the cabinets of the bathroom and kitchen, looked through the large oak armoire standing by the entrance.

In it, you found a few coats, an umbrella, a couple hats that hadn't been in style for decades, maybe even nearing a century-- and a few bits and bobs a like. One thing in particular caught your eye-- a coat made in beautiful earth-toned colors, with jewel-red accents as well.

You took it out, and began wearing it around your house.

In the following months, you'd branched out into a few other rooms-- no longer sleeping in the living room, you settled down in what you assume to have been a guest bedroom. It was plain, with a queen-sized mattress held up by a metal wire frame.

It was done up in blues, and it looked like it'd been rampaged through when you first entered. Slate blue covers ripped off the bed, drawers pulled from the dresser-- spilling its contents all over the floor; and a 1950s CRT TV on the floor, a hole running right through the screen and out the casing. The glass of it was still strewn about the floor.

You cleaned it up with careful hands, and took the broken TV to sit beside the mounted stag heads in the corner of the living room.

A few more changes-- you found a storage room, stacked high with neatly folded clothes; hunting gear, and various different items from a bygone eras, along with dozens and dozens of boxes-- most, if not all, were labelled in some shape or form. You placed the TV and mounts in there, not having the heart throw anything away. You'd even kept the glasses pieces, placing them in a Tupperware you'd discovered in a particularly dusty cabinet in the kitchen.

One night, you'd grown bored again-- a terrible thing to be in a place like this, something you both did and did not consider your own. But, you'd ventured into the storage room regardless; careful of the items piled high, you pulled out a random cardboard box from the top of one of the less precarious towers of stuff.

In neat, swooping cursive; it was cryptically labelled "Cherished Belongings". Against your better judgement, you pried the top open--

Inside were a few radios, far more modern than the rest of the cottage appeared to be. Deep gouges were in the side of some, but the marks didn't dig deep enough to make it unable to be used.

A stack of letters you didn't dare touch, feeling like it'd be going too far to look into the private affairs of your home's previous owner-- a couple small boxes, that once you opened revealed little knick knacks that reminded you of your great-grandmother.

She had a farmhouse out in the country, and every time you'd visit her when you were young and she was still alive, you were always so enamored by the little trinkets placed all over a wooden shelf hanging above a corner-countertop.

They were delicate, bisque porcelain and well maintained. Your grandmother had a thing for rabbits and birds, many of those trinkets being one of those two things;

In the box, wrapped oh-so delicately in bubble wrap, were three tiny bisque porcelain deers. By the looks of their make and paint job, you guessed they were from the 50s or 60s.

You set them aside, along with the other boxes like them (though, you didn't open those yet. you wanted to explore the big box in its entirety before delving into the details), and explored the box a little more.

You found a beautiful Cathedral radio, from the brand Philco-- it was at the bottom, obviously an antique model. It appeared to be a custom, made of red wood and brass accents; it was polished to perfection, obviously a treasured item to the person who lived here before you did.

You pulled it out, and then closed up the box. You didn't place it back on its tower, as there was still more you could dig through in the large box; you took your findings to the living room, and set them carefully down on the accent table near the sofa.

You opened the rest of the little boxes, and placed the little figurines all around the kitchen, a few in the living room as well. Once you were satisfied, you sat down on the couch and began fiddling with the radio.

When it buzzed to life, it was already on a station. It was playing... swing music, you think it is-- you weren't too sure, since you weren't incredibly familiar with that era of music.

You tried turning the knob, but it always managed to come back to the same exact station. A second or two of static as you moved the knob, a spark of hope-- before it was quickly dashed as you were redirected right back to the same station.

Still, some music was better than none-- you'd found yourself going stir crazy without much background noise, save for the woods outside and the occasional animal prancing around; so this find was actually quite nice, you'd thought.

Until the song ended abruptly-- you thought it might've been a technical error of some kind, interference on your end. Until, right as the song stopped midway through a word, a talking segment began.

The show host was directly addressing you. And in that moment, you knew that you were done for-- one you heard that voice, everything started to make so, so much sense.

"My oh my, it seems like we have a special listener!" He'd started out, and it felt like there was somebody watching you. Hair on the back of your neck stood immediately, skin crawling as you nearly dropped the radio in fear-- your hands having grown clammy and trembling.

Laughter, cruel and mocking-- as you fumbled with the radio "Ah ah ah, don't drop it! That is quite priceless to me, you little thief."

Your heart dropped to your stomach, and in a moment of haste, you haphazardly tossed the radio onto the sofa-- not doing it too hard, making sure not to damage it in the meanwhile-- and quickly stood, ready to get the hell out of dodge.

Something grabbed at your ankle, and you shrieked-- a shadowed, clawed hand was coming out from the ground. Its nails dug through the cheap material of your pajama pants, and you toppled over; wincing as you landed directly on your tailbone.

That was, by far, the least of your worries at that point of time.

"I apologize, loyal listeners! We'll have to go to intermission, but I assure I will be back-- a new guest in tow, if all goes accordingly!" More laughter-- cackling, before it cut to a soft, almost lulling sort of music.

It did little to calm your nerves-- in fact, it worsened them tenfold, knowing what was to come next. Who was to come next,

A wordless cry escaped you, frantically clawing at the hand around your ankle-- but it was almost... slippery, non-corporeal as well. You couldn't seem to get a grip on it, as it just--

Your fingers just moved right through it, and it tightened its death grip in warning. But you were too afraid by now, the realization that for the past five year you'd been staying in the Radio Demon's house came crashing down on you in an instant.

That's why it hadn't been ransacked already, why it had such nice things, why there was barely anything that exceeded the 1930s technology or aesthetically wise-- the mounted deer heads, the-- the everything!

You'd fallen after he took his 'sabbatical', but you still heard so much of him. In the past few years, the fear of him had died down-- but still,

You knew exactly what he meant by a 'new guest'.

In that moment, you had the stupid thought of I'm too young to die like this, which was ridiculous, because you were already dead. You were in Hell,

and yet, the truth lied in the 'like this' part of that statement. You didn't want to be tortured and eaten on air, you didn't want all of Hell (or at least a very, very large portion of it) tuning in to hear the first 'guest' The Radio Demon got on his show post-disappearance.

Stomach flipping, vision blurring from your tears, your ears rang as your heart worked overtime-- You're sure your face was red and blotchy, tears already making tracks down your cheeks.

Half-hysterical, you were saying "Please, please, please--" in such a desperate tone, directed to no one but yourself. begging yourself to just grab the hand and rip it off, to make it out of this in one piece--

You don't know why you fought so hard, and as you look back, you realize that might've been what made Alastor want to keep you (for the time being). Surely, he adored the fact that you-- teetering on the edge between child and adult, crying and begging-- fighting so hard for a life not worth living.

Really, you had nothing to fight for. No family down here, no friends or even acquaintances, nobody knew you; you were a hermit, one of the younger sinners that people assumed would be snuffed out quickly, and leave behind little to no impact.

Panic surged as you look to your right, a pool of shadows forming-- then, out came the tip of antlers. Then, fluffy ears-- a head, shoulders...

And soon enough, the shadows dissipated. Leaving behind what you assumed, what you were so sure would've been your killer.

He'd opened his mouth-- but as he looked at you, for a reason entirely unknown to you; he buffered. Looking down at you, sobbing and shaking-- lip wobbling, face red and soaked with tears.

You know you looked pathetic at that point.

Maybe that's why he did what he did, why his demeanor entirely changed as he crouched down. Antlers shrinking and the static surrounding him dying down (though never ceasing entirely) as he extended his arms your way. Like he was trying to beckon forward a scared child.

And maybe you did look like one-- but you hardly believe that he genuinely saw you as one.

You know men like Alastor, you know that they could never make room for anyone else in their hearts but themselves-- and a select few people who'd managed to worm their way into his close circle; one way or another.

You were not one of those people.

And yet, he did not harm you.

Even as an indeterminate amount of days, weeks-- maybe even months, passed; he still hasn't harmed you once. He clothes you, he gives you gifts upon gifts (nearly all of which go unopened, shoved in an ever growing pile in the very corner of your room)-- he set you up in a nice room, he feeds you; he claims that you can have all you ever wanted, as long as you ask.

You never did. It was a trap, and you knew it. He was-- was trying to lure you into trusting him. You don't know why he was doing this, maybe he got bored with every horrible act he did being a one-and-done thing.

He was fattening you up like a pig to the slaughter. Making your life all nice and cushy, only to pull the rug from under your feet and reveal what you knew all along.

No matter how many times he said something along the lines of "I won't hurt you, you're safe here, my fawn." or "I view you as my own, a child I never knew I wanted before you came along.", you knew how people like him went about life. People were stepping stones to their goals, his being entertainment; always getting the last laugh.

Once upon a time, you'd heard that his youngest 'guest' he had featured was an 11 year old-- early in his stay in Hell, right as he began to blossom into a fearful Overlord, that child had done something to upset him.

That was, allegedly, back in the mid '30s; and that after that, he never dipped lower than 19 year old. Now, you aren't entirely sure how true that could've been, either part of the claim--

But it was all you had.

You were curious, but not foolish enough to externalize that curiosity. Especially not to like Alastor.

He didn't keep you in the cottage you'd grown accustomed to-- he took you somewhere else. It looked like the cottage; all the way down to the knick-knacks you'd placed all around, right before you made the mistake of touching that radio,

It was always dark out, and when you look out the window-- it was not a forest, but a swamp-- bayou, what-have-you. It was a wetland, with fireflies buzzing around at all times,

There never was a moon, the only light outside came from what seeped out of the faux-cottage and the fireflies that were all over, but that hardly illuminated much.

You didn't leave your 'room'-- the room that looked like the one you'd claimed as your own in the real cottage. He tried coaxing you out of it a lot-- tried making you move rooms, saying he'd set up a room much more suited to your needs.

Every single time, you gave a quiet shake of your head-- that was the furthest those one-sided conversations ever got. Alastor didn't seem too pleased with it, but he laid off it. Didn't force it on you, and he'd then bring you food on a little bed-tray.

Today, you got a little too bold-- or perhaps you just wanted it over with, finally coming to terms with the only way out of here was... well, to force Alastor's hand and get him to snap-- then kill you.

It was obvious he wasn't going to let you go any other way.

You left the room for-- jesus, it must've been the first time you'd done so since the first couple days after you got stuck in this strange other-cottage. The living room didn't look very different.

Noticeably, the trinkets you'd placed before were right where you'd placed them. Not a centimeter out of place.

You tried to ignore it, and sat down on the sofa. You frowned at the Philco Cathedral radio beside you, sitting oh-so-innocently on the accent table near your head.

You glared at it, and while you knew that, realistically speaking, you were entirely to blame for getting in this situation-- not so much the radio, it was still a little cathartic to have something else to blame but yourself.

You turned around and laid on the couch, arms crossed as you pulled your legs to your chest-- back of your head resting against the arm of the couch, you closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Tried to pass time that way,

Predictably, your nerves refused to let that happen. But you retreated into your mind-- and soon enough, you heard Alastor shadow-warp in. You kept your eyes closed, tried to look as peaceful as possible. As vulnerable as you could, open and easy to atta--

A hand, a hand landed on your cheek. it was soft, caring, even. It confused you. Did he know you were awake? Was he trying to pull one over on you as well, because theres no way he'd do this if he didn't know you were witnessing it--

His hand pulled away, and you heard his footsteps pattering away; a door opening, fainter footsteps, the door closing-- and his footsteps getting closer.

Then, you felt something being thrown over you. It wasn't easy, resisting the urge to snap your eyes open-- obviously he knew you were awake, trying to trick you by being all sweet; reaching levels of deception you never thought possible before.

You realized he was trying to deceive you, because you were trying to deceive him-- and any such combination, made your head hurt if you thought about it too long.

Then, he leaned forward; you knew this because his hair brushed against your cheek in the process; both hands went to your face-- cupping your cheeks as he leaned forward and planted a little kiss on your forehead.

He began to tuck you in, and brushed some stray hair from your forehead. In a soft, almost reverent tone, he said "Sweet dreams, little fawn.", then ran his hand through your hair one last time--

Then he was gone. And nothing more came of it-- it was a little embarrassing to admit you'd really fallen asleep, so you reasoned with yourself that you hadn't. Just as you opened your eyes (which you'd totally just been resting, absolutely no sleep having found you. nope, nuh uh), you realized you hadn't been alone.

On the other side of the sofa, pressed as far against the other arm as possible-- almost like it was afraid of startling you if it got too close, was Alastor's weird Shadow creature. The same one that had restrained you that day you'd turned on the radio and spelled your own doom.

"...Hi?" You asked, trying to make yourself sound as groggy as possible (as if you needed to put any conscious effort into that in the first place); trying to sell the impression that'd you'd just been asleep, even though the Shadow probably knew otherwise (you hoped it believed that you hadn't actually fallen asleep, but you're pretty sure it did because nothing felt out of place-- obviously it hadn't attacked you while asleep).

It chirped, jolting up. It's face split in to a jagged grin(?), bright neon blue made up its mouth and eyes as it jumped from its seat and ran to the kitchen. You sat up, blanket falling into your lap; it was a nice, large quilt made up of reds and earth tones. Alastor's signature colors, and if you had to guess, he'd probably pulled it from the storage room.

You'd never been in his bedroom, but you doubt he'd sully a blanket he sleeps with by putting it on you. Even if the point of doing so was to manipulate you or whatever the hell he was playing at.

Around 30 seconds later, Alastor popped his head out of the archway leading into the kitchen. He found you rubbing your eyes with the back of your palm, just now awake enough to realize you smelled something cooking in the kitchen.

Oddly enough, he didn't speak until you pulled your hand from your eye and registered his presence. You looked up at him, eyes wide-- confused. His... his smile,

It looked so real, so genuine. It was soft, something you never thought a man like him could accomplish-- either in a genuine or otherwise manner. It reached his eyes, causing the skin around them to crinkle slightly.

And for a second, just one second, you believed that he actually did care for you.

When he spoke, he did it quietly. He sounded... different, and at first you couldn't quite place your finger on the difference.

"Mornin' fawn! Did you have a good rest?"

First off, he sounded way too... eh, cheery-- actually happy to see you, and like he actually wanted an answer to his question. And secondly, he sounded southern! With how much he talked about being from New Orleans, you should've made the connection that he had an actual accent underneath that transatlantic one; it was so jarring, hearing it gone completely like it was.

You sat in silence for a little bit, Alastor waiting for you to respond to pick up the conversation. Not rushing you, just standing there. God, if you didn't know any better, you'd say he was being patient with you!

In lieu of a verbal response, not trusting yourself to keep the bewilderment out of your voice; you gave a quick nod, and his smile grew by a fraction. He probably thinks he's caught you in his trap--

He gave you one last look, before turning around and heading back into the kitchen. You heard something boiling, and you didn't know what he was making-- it smelled good, though.

"That's good." He called from the kitchen, and it felt so terribly domestic that it had your stomach flipping. Him peacefully cooking, continuing to talk to you even as he did so.

You were beginning to feel nauseous, no longer liking this game he was playing (let's be honest, you never did-- but it was getting too real, blurring too many lines. you knew that, at some point, he would up the ante; but you really wish he hadn't),

(he's beginning to make you believe it, despite you knowing for a fact it was all a dirty trick to get your guard down.)

"I'm so happy you've started to warm up to me!" He started again, and you clenched your hands in the soft, probably expensive, quilt fabric. I'm not warming up to you, your mind supplied-- trying desperately to grasp at straws, and hide away from the fact that you were, you were starting to really believe his lies.

You suppose that it was inevitable, that being isolated with just Alastor (and his shadows, but they were extensions of him-- they didn't count much as another person) for long would get to your head.

You'd like to think that you were mature, hardened by living in Hell for 5 years beforehand-- but deep down, you knew you weren't. That little showcase you'd done when you two first met, cowering on the ground as you sobbed and shuddered and fruitlessly clawed at your restraint was more than enough to prove that.

After everything, you were still a child. You were still that scared little kid, who thinks they're so much better than all their classmates because one of your teachers said "You're so mature for your age!" as an offhanded comment.

There was some clanging and clattering coming from the kitchen, a cabinet opening and something being taken out. A pan, probably; it sounded like a large, flat metal thing. A baking sheet, actually; not just a regular pan.

What on earth was he making in there? A dangerous, curious part of you wondered. Urging you to stand up and go look, but you keep firmly rooted to you spot on the couch. You wouldn't walk right into a trap, you refused to be that unknowing fly that didn't see the spider-web right in front of their face.

You heard (what you assumed to be) the baking pan placed on the tile countertop, a drawer being pulled out, metal utensils clinking together--

"You know," He started off, a bit more rustling came from the kitchen before he continued his though. "I was starting to worry that you never would," He paused, and if you didn't know any better-- you'd say he sounded sad.

But as soon as it showed up, it was thrown right out the window-- Alastor exchanging what seemed to be genuine emotion for the upbeat, almost saccharine sweet tone he'd held moments prior.

"But, I'm so glad you decided to prove me wrong! It was torturous for me, my child refusing to so much as look my direction when not forced to..." Alastor trailed off, leaving you in relative silence-- the conversation went dead for a while, as you process his words.

When you realized what he'd called you, panic flooded you. He'd never called you that before-- or maybe he has, and you just tuned it out. He said so many things, all of which you had a very hard time believing were based in even an ounce of truth;

Maybe it was the tone that finally brought your attention to the title-- his child. You were not his child! You were some random squatter who just so happened to be a minor! You weren't a kid, and you certainly weren't his kid--!

"I'm not-" You tried to say, spine stiffening, hair on the back of your neck standing straight up at the realization. But, in true Alastor fashion, he quickly cut you off and diverted your attention-- out of the blue asking "Could you come and help, my dear? I think it's about time you start learning how to cook."

okay, rude, you thought. Alastor couldn't have known you for more than a few months; you're sure you would've realized if a year had passed (you hope you would, anyways), and never once had he asked if you could cook.

You had half a mind to try and push how far his patience could go, refuse to stand-- to follow his 'invitation' (demand) for you come help him in the kitchen.

A much more rational part of you screamed at you that no, no-- don't do that, you absolute idiot!

You wish you could say you didn't give in to him, that you stayed right where you were and tested how far he'd go with his promise of not hurting you. That would, however, be a lie.

It was almost like you were on autopilot, pulling the blanket off and making a half-assed effort to fold it before setting it on the couch. You felt a little numb as your feet seemed to move on their own, eventually leading you to the kitchen.

One hand of the edge of the entryway, you stood cautiously at the very edge between the living room's hardwood floor and the kitchen's black-and-white checkered tiles.

You're not sure how long you stood there-- not long at all, you think. Alastor turned around, offering a small, horribly soft smile and quietly beckoning you.

You took one step in, and Alastor laughed at that; he lifted his arm, gesturing to his right. Obviously, he was instructing you to come stand by his side.

It was out of fear, you told yourself-- that when you'd followed his orders, standing next to him; you didn't fight at all when he laid his arm over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

"Isn't this kind of impractical?" You asked, mumbling under your breath-- you were halfway between wanting Alastor to hear and not wanting him to, but of course, the former was the outcome.

Alastor's hand had settled on top of your head, absent-mindedly smoothing down your hair as his other hand whisked eggs into... something. He laughed, amused. Not entertained, not the joy he so obviously took in toying with others-

He sounded endeared.

That spelled the beginning of the end for you-- for your staunch position on the idea that Alastor was just messing with you, playing the long game and what not.

The realization of how... real he was being, with his actual accent out in the open... it opened the floodgates, and your grip started slipping on the idea that Alastor wanted to do you harm.

He was patient, more patient than you'd ever think he could be (from you'd heard previously, of course), he cares about your boundaries (somewhat, but that's way, way more than you ever thought you'd get with him), he fed you, he provided you with clothes and books-- claiming he'd give you anything if you'd just ask.

Your head felt full of cotton, ears ringing slightly-- drowning out Alastor response of "Mm, i suppose it is. But is it such a crime for a father to want to have his darling child close?"

Numbly, you shook your head, only have vaguely registered what he said. He gave a pleased hum, and went back to his cooking.

Really, he wasn't teaching you anything-- just doing his own thing while he kept you glued to his side.

You found yourself not minding it too much. You couldn't find it in yourself to care that you didn't mind it, actually.

[patientreflections]

The results are in....

and it's an interesting case study to say the least. I’m not someone who usually comments on celebrity rollouts, but the way this particular one played out caught my attention more so than usual. Not because of the relationship itself, but because of how it was presented—and how quickly it became clear that it didn’t land as I assume was intended. I found myself this week asking, "what was the point?" To clarify, I do think Luke and Antonia are genuinely together. If this were a PR relationship, it’s not a particularly strategic one. By all accounts PR relationships are grounded in both parties seeing a mutual benefit to the alliance. This rollout however hasn’t been smooth, the timing is strange, and the whole thing feels awkwardly executed. The problem here isn’t whether it’s real. The problem is that it doesn’t work—at least not in the eyes of the public. What stood out first was the rollout’s uneven pacing. It began with solo red carpet photos at the British Vogue x Netflix party—no official couple shot, just quiet proximity. Then, the next day, came more affectionate footage and behind-the-scenes images. Luke’s own grid post included a cheeky couple photo, but buried behind a solo cover shot. At the BAFTAs, a joint photo was taken at the entrance but not on the official step and repeat. The early signals felt cautious, almost noncommittal. Then suddenly, the switch flipped: a full-scale post-BAFTAs press push—major entertainment headlines, a stylized couple photoshoot, digital articles, the works. It went from soft launch to shouting in 24 hours, all seemingly to benefit Antonia. And then…poof, nothing. No follow-up. No echo. Just a sharp drop-off that made the silence louder than the reveal itself. Usually, after a media blast like that, you'd expect at least 48-72 hours of natural pickup— fashion commentary, snippets in entertainment news, curious discourse online.  But a quick trends search shows the coverage hit a wall and then a steep decline. No legs, no staying power. That kind of silence tells you everything. The audience just didn’t care enough to keep the story alive.

It doesn’t help that there’s no clear narrative around them. No shared project, no compelling reason for the timing, no personal reveal or milestone that gives this rollout structure. And critically, there was no existing foundation of goodwill to support it. A quick yet enlightening 10 minute google search showed me that Antonia came into this with complicated baggage among parts of the Bridgerton fanbase. Luke, meanwhile, has been publicly adrift for a while—present but not exactly engaging. In the midst of a rebrand of his image, which from what I can tell isn't exactly hitting the mark either. When neither person is holding strong favor with general audiences, a joint push like this is risky. And we’re seeing why. That context makes the hard numbers more meaningful. One week post press launch and Antonia’s Instagram gained just under 200 new followers. That’s not slow growth—that’s a near flatline. As for Luke’s numbers, they are moving in the opposite direction entirely, with noticeable drops on days with heavier media activity associated with this joint press push. For someone with over 2 million followers, the loss isn’t huge—but the pattern matters. In PR, it’s not just about the raw numbers—it’s about trajectory. Luke has been steadily losing followers for close to near a year now. That kind of long-tail decline tells you something about public sentiment. And unless there’s a clear pivot—something that injects likability, surprise, or career momentum—it becomes very difficult to shift that narrative back in a positive direction. At the heart of it, this isn’t even about how ��liked” or “disliked” they are. It’s about the absence of emotional connection. There’s a lack of charisma in how they’re presenting themselves. The affection feels performed rather than natural—and even if you are one of the many casual viewers like myself, you can sense it. There's no spark, no softness, no sense that the moments being shared between them are actually for each other rather than for the camera. With Antonia, that pattern shows up in nearly everything she shares online. Every aspect of what’s posted —her outfits, her captions, even the way she moves through a red carpet—feels like it’s being filtered through a performance lens. There’s always a knowing glance to the camera, always a pose, never a moment that feels unguarded or instinctive. Her Instagram presence is heavily Gen Z-coded: trend-driven, aesthetic over substance, and largely without a clear persona or unique point of view. So when she’s suddenly styled beside Luke to evoke a kind of “polished elegance”—reserved, tasteful—it doesn’t land as aspirational. It lands as calculated. I’m sure that in person Antonia is lovely, but I get the sense she’s been studying what it means to be “seen,” more-so than knowing what she actually wants to say.  As for Luke, this past weekends events came across as someone familiar yet completely unknown at the same time. Like a man wearing an ill fitting suit designed by Hollywoods expectations of him vs. someone genuinely forging his own path. The disconnect is visibly noticeable.

In publicity, you can’t manufacture a moment unless people want to buy into it. The audience has to feel something—curiosity, warmth, joy, even drama but it also has to be rooted in authenticity. When everything feels staged, and there’s no real emotion underneath the aesthetics, people simply move on. That’s the danger of trying to perform visibility without substance. You can dress it up in a pretty dress, pair it with a leading man, and frame it on a red carpet —but if there’s no real person underneath for the public to connect to, it just doesn’t stick.

So where do they go from here? From my experience, they've got two choices: 1. At first you don’t succeed, try again…and hope for the best 2. Accept that what might work behind closed doors just doesn’t translate publicly—and forcing it into the spotlight won’t fix that. Whether it’s working privately is anyone’s guess. But whatever it is, putting it on display isn’t helping either one of them. 

[zaldritzosrose]

WIP GAME

Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell us about it.

Thank you, @thenameswinterfics , for the tag!

Here's the list of my fics so far:

In Dreams He Sang To Me (Phantom!Lestat x Daae!Reader)

Sickening Desire (Solas x Rook!Reader)

Made for Me, Made for You (Aegon x Wife!Reader) - Milestone Request

Dirty Thoughts (Sauron x Celeborn AU)

Thranduil Size Diff (Thranduil x Princess!Reader)

Glitter and Gold (Criston x Gwayne)

Let us hope I can get one of these finished now I'm on school holidays!

No pressure tags:

@legitalicat @anjelicawrites @thought--bubble @deadonyouraccount @towriteloveontheirarms @whitedarkmoonflower @sylasthegrim @tumblin-theworldaway @itwillbeourswansong @varda-star-queen @eowyn7023 @multyfangirl @ladylokianna

[thhouseofblack]

I'm in the mood to write little snippets of young odypen (before the war) so I'd appreciate it if you guys could send in anything that you want to see (any important moment or milestone of their life – things like that)

because there's so much i want to write that I don't know which one to focus on 😭🩷