cynical-kitten

[cynical-kitten]

(Part 1? lol)This got more ridiculous than I intended but here we are, a little rujinu aquarium date shenanigan inspired by @galaxyspeaking ‘s great aquarium date concept! I have a part 2 sketched out that’s more romantic and sappy but we’ll see if and when I get to it 🐠

[cynical-kitten]

Abby and Baby in the back 🥹

what if we were a demon boy band and we all ran like goofy guys? haha jk...unless? 🤔

[cynical-kitten]

[cynical-kitten]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: KPop Demon Hunters (2025) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jinu/Rumi (KPop Demon Hunters), Jinu & Rumi (KPop Demon Hunters) Characters: Jinu (KPop Demon Hunters), Rumi (KPop Demon Hunters), Derpy the Tiger (KPop Demon Hunters) Additional Tags: Drabble, Drabble Collection, One Shot, Angst, Hurt/Comfort Summary:

A collection of drabbles that emerged from the never-ending possibilities of what happened after the Idol Awards. I'm literally obsessed with these two. There's no telling how many chapters this will get. **These may turn into a long-fic, who knows lol**

[cynical-kitten]

[cynical-kitten]

AN: I will purge this fixation and we will return to regularly scheduled content... Or maybe not. Idk

Summary: With their supernatural ability to simply be GOOD at what they do, you feel more like a formality than their manager. Lucky for you, Mystery stepps into your office just as the feeling of being unneeded is about to swallow you whole and shows you just how much he needs you

CW: P in V Smut, large P, praise kink, vocal Mystery

Working with the Saja Boys opened all sorts of doors for you in the entertainment and idol industry. Not only did managing them pay well, it got you some respect and standing that would carry you into your next position when it was time to move on.

They were superhumanly good at the idol gig and frankly, you knew their success had nothing to do with you. Though their success made you look good and would have people eager to hire you, once hired, you were not so sure they’d be satisfied with what you had to offer.

A moderately trained monkey could manage them. If and when their ride to fame ended, and they always did come to an end, you knew you wouldn’t be able to replicate what was happening with the Saja Boys.

Your days were as numbered as theirs.

“Everything alright?” Mystery’s soft voice carried easily across your office. Looking up, you found him leaning against the doorframe, lavender hair obscuring most of his face. The pointed ends of his drop earrings reflected the light from the hall.

How could he even see with his hair like that? What was so wrong about his face that had him hiding away? Why did the fans seem charmed by it?

Hell, you didn’t even know his name. It sure as fuck wasn’t really Mystery, was it?

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He pushed off the door frame. With one hand, he reached behind himself to snag the handle, pulling it softly closed as he stepped closer to your desk.

“Why don’t you cut your hair?” you said instead of answering, forcing a smile to your face. “You don’t let anyone see you. I bet you’d get even more fan mail if they could see your face.”

“I don’t need it,” he shrugged, the ugly vneck sweater he wore shifting over the bright yellow undershirt. One of the real mysteries around Mystery was how he got away with wearing such a strange outfit. “What I need is to know what’s up with you?”

He reached out and with the soft tips of his fingers, tilted your head up to look at him. Between the strands of hair, you could just see his bright eyes. They were beautiful. Hiding them was a true crime.

“What I need is to know what’s got your pretty face looking so down.”

Pretty. He called you pretty.

For a moment, your world stopped.

“You know what,” you laughed, stepping away. The sound was shrill and brittle, far from the warm laugh you shared when they goofed off. “It’s not important. I-”

He walked quickly around your desk, snatching the wrist you were raising, intending to run your fingers through your hair.

“It is,” he said and you realized this very well could be the most you’d heard him say. He looked down at you, his hair not making nearly as good of a mask in the close proximity.

“I just,” you bit your lip, looking through the curtain of his bangs and into his eyes. He’d never teased you. He’d never given you a reason not to trust him. “You boys don’t need me.”

It hurt to say the words aloud. It hurt to admit to one of the men employing you that you were doing nothing for them that they couldn’t, weren’t doing themselves.

“What?” His mouth hung open for a heartbeat before closing, shifting into a soft smile. “We need you.”

Tears gathered in your eyes as you looked away. “You don’t.”

“We do,” he insisted, pulling you to look at him again. “You’re our manager. You make us smile. You remind us what’s important. We need you.” With each line he said, he got closer until he spoke the final declaration, his lips brushing against yours as your wide eyes gazed into his half lidded eyes, “I need you.”

“wh-” the question cut off as his lips sealed over yours.

The kiss, like everything about Mystery, felt timid. It felt like he was hiding from you, even as he confessed to needing you, though you couldn’t imagine his intended meaning was as deep as you wanted it to be.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I should go.”

“No,” your fingers curled into the weird sweater he always wore over that thin clingy shirt, “Don’t go. Don’t hide from me. I want to- I want to know you. I don’t want you to be such a mystery, Mystery.”

He reached up, cradling your jaw in the palm of his hand. “I don’t think you’d like the real me very much.”

“Shouldn’t that be for me to decide?” Your mind spun, trying to put together why he kissed you and what any of this could mean. “You’re always hiding, not letting anyone know you. Do they even know you?"

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” He leaned his forehead against yours, hair pressing into yours. Your noses poked through the curtain of his hair, parting it.

“I’m asking to know you,” you whispered. “I’m asking for you to let me see you.”

Rather than saying anything, he kissed you. His long fingers dug into the curves of your hips, holding you grounded in place while it felt like you could float away. Lips moved together, breath mingling while the world spun around you.

He pressed into you, pinning you between his lean body and the sharp edge of your desk. It cut into your lower back as he pressed against you harder, pulling your body close. Your lungs burned for air but the last thing you wanted to do was pull away from him.

It was selfish. It was pushing into uncharted territory. Managers don’t get entangled with their clients.

That wasn’t enough to stop you from slipping your hand under the loose sweater that kept his torso hidden, feeling the lean muscles that pressed against the soft fabric.

He sighed into the kiss, hands leaving you so he could grab the hem and left it. His lips left yours only long enough for him to pull it up and over his head, tossing it to the side.

for the first time, you got to see him in just the thin, clinging yellow shirt he wore under it. The fabric bunched under your hand and then he was tossing that shirt to the ground too.

“Myst-” his name died, trapped between your lips and his.

His skin, hot and smooth, burned under your hands. You eagerly soaked in the feeling as he pressed you tighter against the desk. With a start, you realized that wasn’t all that was being relieved to you.

With a flush, you realized what Mystery had in his pants was far from a mystery now. He was hard, pressed tightly against your hip. You could feel him throbbing through his pants.

“We need you,” he said against your lips. “I need you. Don’t leave us. Me.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

In an instant, you were spun around, facing out into your office. His hands wrapped around your waist, slipping under your blouse. Your curves quickly ceased to be a mystery to him.

Strong hands ran over your ribs and gripped your breasts. Your back arched as he held you. There was no where you could go to hide from his touch. You didn’t want to hide from it.

His hair brushed against your neck as he kissed your shoulder. One hand remained planted on your breast, holding it firmly as his other hand snaked between your bodies.

Dimly, you registered the sound of his pants unzipping. You felt the fabric shift, bunching. You felt what was held inside move and then the hot shaft of him pressed against your clothed ass.

“What?”

“You’ll be a good girl for me, won’t you?” he whispered in your ear. “If I don’t hide from you anymore?”

“Yes.” The moment the word was out of your mouth, the lights flickered and the grip on your breast felt somehow more pointed.

You couldn’t think about that, not right now. You were focused on the way he pushed your skirt up and then he was pushing the gusset of your panties to the side.

“Bend over now.” His voice left little room for question in your ears.

You looked over your shoulder as you did as he said. The man standing behind you looked as he always did, though now you could see every lean muscle you didn’t know he had on full display.

The blunt head of his cock passed through your folds, gathering the slick that had steadily building along his shaft. A throaty moan ripped from your throat as his cock nudged your clit.

You were deeply aware of how thick he felt, nestled between your legs. The length of him wasn’t something to mock either. He easily nudged your clit with each push od his hips.

“More,” he said. “Bend more. I want to see you, not just feel you.”

“Oh,” you bent until your breasts pressed against the desk.

His hands grabbed your ass, digging into the plump flesh. You could feel your inner thighs frame your pussy, putting it on display.

“What a perfect peach,” he said, running the head of his cock along your slit, gathering more slick along his excessively fat head before pressing the tip against the opening. “You’re so wet,” he said, “you may as well have a welcome sign.”

The pressure at your opening built. You could feel your walls part, letting the blunt tip of him inside before the girth reached a point that your opening resisted.

“You’re too thick,” you whimpered as the pressure built.

“Nonsense.” Though he didn’t laugh or chuckle, you’d spent enough time with him that as your eyes fluttered closed, you could see that small smile that was gracing his lips. “You were made for this.”

He pulled back, the tapered end of his cock giving your opening a smidgen of relief. For a short second, your body began to relax and then he was pushing forward again.

“Oh, god,” you whined, clawing at your desk, crinkling papers you spent too long neatly organizing as you tried to pull yourself away from the blinding pressure.

The moment the fat ridge around the head of his cock breached your opening, you felt the stretched ring of flesh snap down around his shaft with such force it surprised you not to hear a sound like a rubber band.

“There,” Mystery said, rocking his hips. Each push into you spread your walls deeper, wider than they had ever gone before. The pleasure ran through your veins like fire, stoked by every shallow thrust.

What was worse, or perhaps better, was the way your opening did not wish to relax. You clung to his shaft, strangling the flow of blood. Each time he made a shallow attempt to pull from your body, you could feel the flesh pull out, caught on the ridge and refusing to give him the space needed to withdraw.

Each thrust pushed deeper, taking his hips closer to your ass until you could feel his tip brushing against your cervix.

“I can’t,” you whimpered, turning to look over your shoulder at him. “You’re too big.”

“That’s what you said before,” this time he actually did chuckle, looking at you through that vail of lavender hair, “but now look? You’re wrapped so tightly around me, I can feel my heartbeat in my cock. You can take more, I know you can.”

“Oh shit,” you whimpered, the sharp edge of the desk digging into your hips as you tried to get away. “Oh, god.” The fat, blunt head of his cock pressed into your cervix, encouraging it to pull back and give him more space. With that, painful contractions seized through your abdomen. “Oh, fuck.”

Your walls clamped hard around his cock. Your opening was tense, gripping him with renewed force as your body adjusted to his size. Shivers ran down your back and your legs trembled. His hips pressed you tightly into the desk, holding you in place.

“There you go,” he said, running a hand down your spine. “You did it. You took all of me.”

“I did.” A strange sense of pride welled in your chest as you locked eyes with him. Desire and pride looked back at you as you felt your walls soften, relaxing slightly. “Fuck, I did.”

“I knew you could do it,” he smiled and slowly pulled from your body, waiting until the ring of muscle pulled against the head of his cock again before thrusting inside you again, slowly. “Fuck,” he said, “you’re gripping me tighter than any cock ring.”

Your opening flexed around the base of his shaft, seeming to tighten with the praise.

“That’s right,” he said, grinding his hips against your ass. “Nature’s perfect cock ring. I could wear you all night like this. Bet your tight enough to keep me hard for hours.”

You could feel the head of his cock move through you. He rearranged your insides with each thrust. Pressure built inside you as he moved quicker and quicker, his cock moving through the tight squeeze of your insides as you clung to your desk, folded over the cold wood.

You brought your fist to your mouth, trying to stifle the moans as his cock reached every part of you. He didn’t have to angle his hips to press against your gspot. Every pass of his cock caressed it.

His fingers ran up your back as the pleasure grew sharper and sharper. The desk under you shifted, rattling with the thrusts of his hips. Dimly, under the sea of pleasure, you were aware of the pain in your pelvis and bruises that would likely form by morning from the edge of the desk.

His fingers tangled in your hair, grip soft but demanding just the same.

“Let me hear you,” he whispered, leaning forward to huff the words into your ear. “Let me hear how good it feels.”

“Mmm,” you pulled your hand away from your mouth. “Mystery.”

“Good girl,” he dipped his head, strands of his hair tickling your skin as he worked into you harder. “You’re doing so good. Taking me so good.”

“Oh god,” you whimpered, mildly aware that you were drooling on a marketing proposal.

“There’s no gods here,” he groaned as your walls, already impossibly tight around his cock, clamped down around his shaft. “Only me and you, taking my cock.”

He swelled inside you, pushing against your walls. Each thrust into your quivering core was a battle. Tense muscles contracted in waves, trying to push him out, pull him deeper, begging him for what only he could give as you cried out on the desk.

“My good- ah- good girl,” he struggled to speak as your orgasm demanded one from him in return. “Fuck, cumming so hard on my cock. Such a good girl, going to make me cum. Is that what you want?”

“Please,” you whined, begging. What for? You didn’t know. It could be relief, a break from the onslaught of sensations. It could be for more. “Please, please, please…”

“That’s right,” his breath washed over your shoulder as he fucked into you hard. “Don’t even have to be told to beg for it. What a good girl. This is why we need you. This is why I needed you. Knew you were a good girl. Such a good girl.”

He came, painting your insides with ropes of hot seed as he praised you. A trickle of it escaped, running out around his thick shaft to trail down his sack. Each twitch of his cock deposited another spurt of seed, giving you more, stretching you a little more to accommodate it.

It burned inside you. The salty essence of him stung in ever micro rip in velvety tissue from the size of him. It hurt. It felt good.

He pulled back from you, his shaft still painfully hard, until the head of his cock was catching on your opening. Again, he gripped the globes of your ass with his hands, thumb hooked to keep your panties pushed aside, holding you open as you lay panting on your desk.

You felt the pop as he pulled the head of his cock out of the opening that did not want to stretch to accommodate the extra girth. Cold air rushed onto newly exposed flesh.

“Fuck,” he sighed, looking at your slightly gaped opening. Muscles twitched with the aftershocks of your orgasm as the creamy white of his seed pooled inside you, dripping from your opening.

“You did so good,” he said, taking one last long look before putting your panties back in place and tugging your skirt down.

He helped you into your desk chair and then dropped to his knee in front of you. Your dazed eyes looked through the vail of his hair into his.

“Remember this every time you don’t think we need you,” he said, face a schooled mask. “Remember how good you can take my cock. Not everyone can.”

[cynical-kitten]

Finished my first semester of grad school. Did I start working on my fics again? No. Did I catch up on my subscribed fics? Also no. So what did I do?

I watched K-Pop Demon Hunters like, at least 15 times and started reading Rumi/Jinu fics 😭

[cynical-kitten]

Wednesday? Again? Time for a WIP, Folks

It's actually Thursday for me, but we're going to pretend that I totally didn't cease to exist for a day (seriously, though. I don't remember a thing I did).

I'm steadily making progress on my rewrite, and this is hands down my favorite improvement I've made so far. The banter? The humor? chef's kiss

I excused myself from dinner before dessert could be brought out. As much as I loved Mama's beignets, my stomach was churning from the events of this evening. Never have I encountered an individual so damn frustrating! I thought my jab at his ego would make him call it quits, but it only fueled Alastor's teasing and taunting. Interacting with him was like playing a game of chess, except he was a professional while I was only a mere amateur. Whenever I thought I was coming close to coming out on top, he had called a checkmate. 

Deciding that some fresh air would ease the tension coiling under my skin, I left the dinner table in favor of the outdoors. The chair scraped across the floor with an ear-piercing screech in my desperation to get away. I could feel the eyes that bore into my back during my departure— one of pity, another of anger, and the last? There were no words to describe how it felt, but it was tempting to turn back and ensure they would never look at me again. 

The sounds and smells of New Orleans greeted me before I could even unlatch the French doors leading out onto the balcony. It overlooked the French Quarter, giving me full access to the sights it had to offer. Beautiful honeysuckle vines wrapped around the railings, their scent intoxicating and comforting. My father spent years insisting that they be cut down, but Mama refused, claiming that it gave our home that special something that none of the others had. I settled against the cool, metal framing, listening intently as smooth jazz played below.

The warm, humid summer air unique to Louisiana clung to my skin, creating a thin sheet of moisture within minutes. Having lived here all my life, it was bearable, but still uncomfortable. My body begged me to return inside where I could sit underneath the ceiling fans, but I refused. Instead, I leaned further against the rail, losing myself in the musical tunes that wrapped around me, imagining myself being lifted by them and floating above the weeping willows below. If only life could be this simple. Not a care in the world and the ability to make a living off of musical talent. What I would give to escape the cards I had been dealt in this life and replace them with another hand.

Living in New Orleans was a dream for any musician. The birthplace of jazz offered endless opportunities to discover new and unique ways to play an instrument. Every song became an experiment, an untold challenge on who could manipulate the notes in the most captivating way. I considered myself blessed to have been born and raised here, my every waking moment surrounded by breathtaking melodies and energetic dance numbers. I spent my days either seated at my piano or dancing away in dancehalls. There was nothing I loved more than music. 

Basking in the moon's soothing light, my mind revisited the disaster that had occurred inside. In spite of trying to get a rise out of me whenever the opportunity presented itself, Alastor still had infuriatingly perfect manners. He was polite and well-spoken, even going as far as complimenting my mother for the most mundane things. I'm sure she was practically smitten with him considering the ego boost he had given her. 

He had an air of smugness, smiling in that unsettling way every time he dared to look in my direction. My eyes shot daggers at him each time I caught his gaze, my lips curled in a snarl to show my displeasure. The polite facade I had carefully curated to appease my father had cracked with every miserable second that passed, my restraint over my mouth becoming less present. 

I breathed in the balmy night air, letting go of my frustrating with each exhale. Trying to, at least. Breathing did little to quell the fire. Instead, it fueled it, coaxing it to spread further and further throughout my body. I needed to get out of here, as far away from the temptation of throttling him as I could. 

Walking back into the house to find an escape route was out of the question. It was, without question, a surefire way to end up in handcuffs. Jumping off of the balcony was the most efficient method to end my suffering, but I was only seeking temporary reprieve. If I can't go down, and I can't go in, then my only option was up. 

The roof it was.

Mama was a fan of any and all climbing flowering vines. Clematis, morning glories, yellow jessamine, and more were littered about the property. This led to lattice decorating every outer section of the house— the perfect scenario for scaling walls. Deciding that this was my only option, I approached the one closest to me. My eyes trailed up the vine of clematis, following the delicate blooms until I reached the edge of the roof. It wasn't a far distance to travel. I had certainly accomplished worst, yet I couldn't hold back the gulp that formed in my throat.

I hadn't climbed to the roof since I was a teen, a time when I was more lithe and several pounds lighter. The lattice barely held my weight then, and after years of filling out (and a losing war with a sweet tooth), I was questioning its ability to support me now. But I couldn't sit here and dread on it— this was a life or death situation. It was either climb to the roof, or send Alastor to his grave. 

My eyes closed and I began humming along to the jazz number that drifted through the air. Focusing on something other than the creeping thoughts of doom made it easier to grip the criss-crossed wood. Without another thought, I hauled myself up and quickly moved to find purchase for my feet. With my mind completely occupied by the music and the motions of climbing, I was oblivious to the sound of footsteps bouncing off of the balcony floor— and the cracks forming in the lattice. 

"Making a grand escape, are we?"

The unexpected voice startled me, and I made the mistake of moving too quickly to glare at the intruder. The sudden shift proved to be too much for the old wood. In an instant, it succumbed to the fractures I had caused. It gave way with a sharp crack, and I found myself no longer attached to the wall.

There was no screaming as I plunged downwards. Only a frantic yelp left my lips as I scrambled for purchase. My hands were helplessly grabbing at thin air, searching for an invisible savior. The seven foot fall felt like an eternity— a never-ending descent that was void of my dignity. How lovely. A shattered bone or two was not on my to-do list for the evening, but alas. Here we are.

I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the brutal impact of concrete that never came.

A loud 'oof' came from a body below as I collided with it, followed by the sensation of arms being wrapped tight around me. I was being cradled against itchy fabric, close enough to be intimately aware of the torso beneath it. A torso that was solid, and warm, and— no. That thought was to be left unfinished. 

Uncontrollable shaking ran through me while I recovered from my fall, but not from the adrenaline rush of almost dying. I was pissed. This infuriating excuse of a man had just witnessed a humiliating event, one that he caused, and thought that holding me was acceptable.

Using the insufferable prick for leverage, I pushed away from him, putting as much distance as possible between us. I spun on my heel to face him, my face growing hot from anger and embarrassment. 

"Why would you do that?!" I shouted, throwing my hands into my hair. Pulling at the strands seemed to be a much safer option than wrapping them around his throat. "I could have been injured! Or worse!"

Alastor, who was adjusting his bowtie and flicking dirt off of his sleeve, was a picture of indifference. 

"Don't be so dramatic," he said, staring at me like I had been the one to inconvenience him. "You would have been fine, save for a few scrapes and bruises."

"Fine?" I scoffed and moved my hands to my hips, still fighting to keep them on my own person. "The only way I would have been 'fine' is if you had just kept your mouth shut and let me finish climbing!"

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "And allow you the opportunity to run away?"

"Yes," I spat. "Exactly that."

"Hm." His face contorted into a thoughtful expression, mirroring an illusion of genuine consideration. "No."

"Of course you wouldn't. A woman run from the devastatingly handsome Alastor Dubreuil?" I exaggerated my mask of shock and horror, a feat so well done that Charlie Chaplin would be impressed. "That simply won't do! We couldn't risk damaging your ego, could we?"

The way his eyes lit up could have put the moon to shame, and my stomach flipped. The leech had latched onto something I said. Found words to twist and manipulate for his own personal satisfaction. Fantastic.

"'Devastatingly handsome,' you say?" He winked at me, earning him a groan of frustration in response. "Do go on! My 'ego' could use a good stroking."

"My fists are about to show you a 'good stroking,'" I muttered.

Alastor looked downright devilish, his eyes ablaze with humor and certain victory. I glared at him, daring him to make his move. But he remained quiet, staring like he was— oh. He wasn't shutting up. The smug twit was only holding back his retort, waiting for me to come to a certain realization— that what I said did not imply causing him bodily harm. 

It was infinitely worse than that.

"Why, darling," he purred, his taunting tone a mockery of seduction. "I haven't even put the ring on your finger, yet you're already eager to engage me in that manner?" 

Please, kill me now, I prayed.

To avoid incriminating myself further, I surrendered our battle of wit. It was less painful to admit defeat than embarrass myself further by opening my mouth. I stalked to the other end of the balcony, turning my attentions to the quartet playing down the block. The intention was to ignore him, to pretend he didn't exist since he was insistent on bothering me. By doing so, perhaps he would feel insignificant and leave. If I was lucky, he might even believe I was too hard to handle and consider finding a new bride!

But I knew better than to push my good fortune that far— it had already been hanging by a thread to begin with. I sighed heavily, wanting nothing more than to let the music carry me away. 

"I'm partial to jazz myself, you know" Alastor said, propping himself next to me on the railing.

My eyes slid over to him icily, but I did not utter a word. It was so, so tempting to push him over the side…

Alastor, more than aware of my intentions to block him out, refused to back down from conversation. He was persistent, much to my dismay. "Did you know that music, especially jazz, was one of the reasons I pursued a career in radio broadcasting? It's one of only few where you can immerse yourself in music."

"And be obsessed with yourself without being obsessed with yourself," I muttered under my breath.

Alastor laughed, the genuine sound of it musical and hearty. "Aren't you just charming? Though I suppose I can admit I enjoy the power it gives me, if that counts as obsession. Every day, I get to pick and choose what my listeners hear when they tune into my broadcast. I have the authority to enchant, disgust, and terrify as I see fit."

"Are you aware of how much of a control freak you are coming off as?" I asked, my nose crinkled with repugnance. 

He gave me a soft smile and pinched my cheek lightly, earning a scowl in return. "I can see how you would think that, but I do allow more wiggle room for independence than you might be thinking." 

I could sense that he was attempting to extend an olive branch by offering up a piece of himself. Unfortunately for him, I was completely uninterested in knowing anything about him.

"You must love to hear yourself talk, Mr. Radio Man. Probably another reason to 'chase after a career in radio' if I had to guess," I teased. "Although I suppose if you don't have the talent to create the music yourself, the next best thing is to be able to control what the masses hear."

Alastor's eyes flickered with the amusement coming from the provocation. "Who said I didn't have the ability to play, darling? I'd love to show you that a man can accomplish both!"

With a sigh, I rolled my eyes. He was impossible. "Why don't you go back inside and entertain my parents with your self-proclaimed talents then?"

He responded with a low chuckle. "Feisty, aren't we? You must be a joy to be around!"

A muscle twitched above my eye, annoyed with his persistent presence. "With thanks to my father's meddling, you'll have a lifetime to discover that for yourself."

"Hopefully an afterlife, too," he said with a smirk.

"I'd rather reincarnate as a cockroach than be subjected to eternal damnation with you."

Reaching into the bust of my dress, I pulled out the cigarette and small lighter that I had stored for safe keeping. Somehow, I knew that I would need it at some point throughout the evening. Placing the tobacco stick between my lips, I struck the wheel of the lighter, watching as the petite flame scorched the end while it dangled from my mouth. Smoke began to curl around us, its scent soothing some of the sharp edges of my discontent.

Without warning, Alastor plucked the cigarette from my fingers and took a long drag from it, a satisfied smirk painted on his face. "I do believe smoking is very unbecoming of a young lady," he commented with a wink. Oh, how I wish I could yank that bowtie from his neck and strangle him with it.

Shooting him the filthiest of looks, I snatched it from his grip, returning the cig to its rightful place. "And I believe that I didn't ask for your shitty opinions."

Silence encompassed us for a moment, convincing me that I might have finally succeeded in shutting him up. Thank the gods.

I observed the city life as it unfolded below me. Despite the Prohibition, couples were stumbling drunk up and down the street, some making their way home while others prowled for new speakeasies to occupy. Dancers twirled along the sidewalk to the various melodies that were playing, each one moving to the beat of a different song. Their faces were plastered with smiles as bright as the stars, oblivious to the injustice that I had been subjected to.

Hecate's presence wraps around me like a blanket, a reminder that she is not leaving me to suffer alone. 'Give him a chance. Trust me.'

I risked sliding my gaze over to Alastor, who was seemingly lost in thought. Dammit, he really was a looker. The moonlight reflected in those large, brown eyes of his, making them shine bright behind the glasses that rested before them. The soft breeze played with his hair, causing wavy strands to blow about his face. The gods were playing a dirty game by allowing me to be paired with someone who was as equally vexing as he was attractive. 

Finishing off the cigarette's last inhale, I decided to indulge Hecate and break the blissful silence. "It offers a reprieve from the day to day travesties of life," I admitted softly. He looked at me curiously, as if he had been expecting more stone cold silence. "Music, I mean. I taught myself how to play the piano so that I never have to go without. Though my nana did pay for me to receive lessons when she saw how serious I was about it." 

Admittedly, this was a piss-poor way of playing nice. Not my finest work of engagement, but it will have to do.

Alastor smirked in response, as if he had somehow won the battle of wits between us and my admission was a surrender. "If your melodies sound anything like your skill in conversation, I imagine we'll be subjected to a rather grim tune— much like a funeral dirge."

I shot him an icy glare, feeling slightly insulted. How dare he burn the edges of my peace offering! "With the death of my freedom on the horizon, I'd hate to disappoint. But I can't take the credit all for myself for conducting such morbid arrangements, considering they have been orchestrated by you."

Alastor doubled over in a fit of laughter, unaffected by the slander I had slung at him. Does nothing offend this man? "A death doesn't come without mourners. As enchanting as you are, your wake is bound to be a house full!" He joked, eyes ablaze with the entertainment of my suffering.

Is… is he flirting? 

"Flattery might get you far on the radio, but with me, you're at a dead end. Your charm is as transparent as your intentions for entertaining this arrangement," I sneered, seizing the opportunity to bait him into revealing why he's wanting to ensnare me with marriage.

Alastor feigned innocence, placing his hand on his chest and pouting. "My intentions? Darling, I'm simply here to provide company to a lonely lady!"

"A vulture would provide better company than you," I muttered, more to myself than him. "And I'm not lonely."

I pushed myself off of the railing and turned on my heel to head back in. Before I could make the first step towards the door, a hand grasped my bicep. A venomous glare was given to the man it was attached to. The audacity of this insufferable ass!

"You don't seem too thrilled about the idea of spending your time with me," he stated softly.

"Oh really? What gave it away?" I deadpanned. 

Alastor offered a smile that appeared genuine, the predatory vibes from earlier having dissipated entirely. "I do hope I can change your mind."

"Only when Hell freezes over," I replied sweetly, flashing him a grand smile. 

Yanking my arm from his grip, I stomped back into the house, barely registering what Alastor was saying as I walked away from him. "In that case, I hope Lucifer has the means to keep everyone down there warm once the heat source is gone!"

"Cocky git," I murmured under my breath, fuming as I stormed through the house. He had some nerve, I'll give him that. What a shame he grated all of mine. If he wasn't so damn agitating, I might have been thrilled to marry him. 

The lingering smells of dinner do little to soothe me. Instead, they remind me of all that had transpired and further my irritation. Tonight was all about my family's perfect facade that they are attempting to maintain with this ludicrous engagement.

Slipping into the kitchen, I sought solace in my mother's presence as she washed the dishes. Although we have staff to assist with the upkeep of the house, she insisted on taking care of the duties pertaining to the kitchen. It was her sanctuary, one that she protected with everything in her power.

Sensing my brewing turmoil as I sulked against the counter next to her, she turned to me. "Honey, are you alright?" She inquired, her eyebrows scrunched together with concern.

With a sigh, I leaned into her, placing my head upon her shoulder. "I just needed a minute, Mama."

She ran her nimble fingers through my hair, her comforting touch easing the hurricane raging through my mind. "You know I'm always here to talk if you need to."

From where my head was perched, I could hear the wheezing she tried so hard to hide. Every day, she sounded more and more winded. How much longer would it be until this was over? How many conversations did we have left?

My gaze lifted to meet hers, her hazel eyes boring into the ocean blue of mine. "Mama, I can't marry him. We'll kill each other!"

My mother giggled. "Don't be so melodramatic, Manon. I thought he was quite charming!"

I gave her an incredulous look. "Not you, too! He's dreadful!"

"Give him a chance, honey," she said, her words almost an exact replica of what Hecate had told me. "You could be happy with him if you allowed yourself to get to know him."

Doubtful, but kudos to her for trying to be encouraging. As I stood there with her, my resolve became ironclad. While I may be trapped in this unfortunate arrangement, I refused to become pinned under someone else's thumb. I wasn't sure what Alastor wanted from me, but if he thought he could control me, he was in for a rude awakening.

….

The next evening found me in far more agreeable mood, though it was partly in thanks to the abundance of liquor I had ingested. The dim, hazy atmosphere of the speakeasy contrasted heavily against the bright and lively ambiance of my parents' home, but I had never felt more at peace with the world. Here, amidst the smooth jazz notes drifting around the room, I didn't have to pretend to be someone I'm not. I was not the daughter of the prestigious Grant family— I was simply Manon. And more importantly, I could drink with abandon.

"Another, please!" I called out, sliding my empty glass across the bar towards the bartender. The burly man, who wore a permanent scowl, caught it with ease and began pouring. The amber liquid of my preferred poison streamed smoothly from the bottle, promising a temporary escape from the nightmare I had been tossed into. 

"Sweetheart, you're gon' regret this in the mornin'," Henny, forever my voice of reason, chirped from the seat next to mine. Her eyes, a lovely brown that resembled rich chocolate, were a mix of concern and amusement as she took in my soddened state. Henrietta Jones was the type of woman who could make you feel pride and shame all at the same time. She could laugh and scold simultaneously, a trait I adored.

I rolled my eyes, already three-quarters of the way through my drink. "Regret would mean that I actually intended on being sober again, Hen. Which won't happen until this whole marriage ordeal is over."

Henny sighed and took a small sip from her cocktail— a total 180 from how I've been tossing back drinks all night. "Alcohol ain't gon' make your problems go away, 'specially one as big as Alastor's ego."

"Goddammit, why'd you have to bring him up?" I whined, signaling for another drink. The bartender only glared at me, earning him a show of my tongue.

"Me?" she scoffed, looking offended. "You have been gripin' about him since we got here!" 

"I think I have a right to!" I shouted, a little louder than necessary due to the whiskey's influence, earning us annoyed glances from other patrons. "Alastor's a nuisance and has the audacity to try to be charming about it!"

"I don't think he has to try…" Henny muttered under breath, so quietly I almost didn't catch it. She took another sip from her drink, this one deeper than the last.

"And don't get me started on that stupid, infuriating smile of his!" I continued. 

Henny spat out her drink as she burst out laughing, spraying the sticky concoction all over the surface of the bar. "Manon! If I didn't know better, I'd think you were smitten!"

"Oh, fuck you, Hen," I slurred, clearly having reached my limit for the night. "I could never love him."

"No one said anythin' about love," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "But you could make this work out in your favor."

I blinked at her, my mind foggy and struggling to process her suggestion. What could I possibly gain from a marriage to him? "I don't get it," I admitted, plopping my head into the makeshift cushion of my arms.

I could feel her warm, firm hand as it rubbed my back, a subtle notion of comfort and sympathy. "I know you don't, but you will."

[cynical-kitten]

Fated Frequencies, Chapter 2

And on today's episode of How to Rewrite a 56 Chapter Fanfic in 30 Days...

"Manon!" My father hissed under his breath, one of his eyes twitching with barely contained ire. I ignored him, my attention transfixed on the menacing figure in the doorway. He seemed unfazed by my outburst. Judging by the smug look on his face, it seemed he had the audacity to look amused.

In my initial observation, one of the first things my eyes are drawn to was the brilliant, white smile stretched across his sun-kissed face. He grinned at me as if being graced with my presence was the closest experience he'll get to ascension, but with a lethal hint of wanting to devour me alive. Anyone else would find it endearing to have someone smile at you as if it was the happiest moment in their life, but to me? There was something sinister hiding there.

He doesn't know who I am. Normal people don't smile at strangers like that. I shuddered at the thought of the possible hidden implications behind it, imagining how terrifying it would be to wake up in the middle of the night and find those shining teeth glaring in my face. Alastor would be my personal sleep paralysis demon, that's for damn sure.

My vision drifted upwards, finding a set of round glasses perched lazily on his sharp, upturned nose. The lenses enhanced the allure of the doe-like eyes that resided behind them. With the way his body was angled, the sunlight hit his eyes in a way that brought his brown irises to life, highlighting their undertones and bringing out flecks of what appeared to be crimson.

Hecate's voice ghosted past my ears, a giggle laced within her words. Look at those red hues. The Devil really has arrived, huh?

Looks like she decided to join me, after all.

I ignored her and continued my appraisal of my would-be spouse. Although his curls appeared messy and unkempt, it seemed purposefully done. The look gave him a casual appearance, as if he were trying to fool you into trusting him. That he was a laid back gentleman who only wanted to be your friend. My gut twisted with an intense certainty that he was not to be trusted, that he wasn't a friend, despite how appealing he looked. He had the aura of a man who needed to be in control of every situation— an insatiable urge to dominate. 

I chuckled to myself; control was not something I relinquished easily. As a free spirit, I would not sit idly by and let anyone, especially a man, have dominance over my life. It was almost a complete certainty that this man would meet his match— and his demise— with me.

He cocked his head to the side, indicating that he knew that I was eyeing him carefully. I paid him no mind, shamelessly moving forth with my judgements. 

A blood-red vest stood out against the pristine white of his dress shirt. The sleeves had been meticulously rolled back to reveal toned, tanned arm. It was surprising, considering how thin and lanky he was. They resembled those of a farmhand rather than someone who worked in a sound booth all day. I was curious— what was he doing to accumulate muscle like that? If it were someone else, I'd be positively drooling (although, if we were to be honest, my mouth was watering just a tad). A bowtie that matched his vest perfectly adorned his neck, not even a hair off center. Part of me wondered how easy it would be to strangle him with it. 

As I complete my inspection of him, an uncontrollable giggle bubbled forth from my chest. I tried to disguise it with a horrible cough, but the strength of it was too intense. How sick and twisted my father's sense of humor was! How could he pair me— someone who is so painfully messy and chaotic— with a person so prim and proper?

Sure, I looked put together enough out in public, where I knew people were watching, judging, and gossiping. It was part of the job. But at home? In the woods? That was where the 'real' me came out to play. Untamed. Carefree. Covered in dirt and hair as wild as the wind. 

His expression held a hint of amusement as he watched me struggle to quell my laughter. "Had too much giggle juice already, darling? Why, it's only six o'clock!" His smile, though it seemed impossible, widened. He reminded me of an alligator. 

A hand reached out and brushed against the side of my head. An unassuming tender gesture, but I knew better. When he pulled back, in between his fingers was a leaf. Alastor twirled it about, eyeing it contemplatively. Papa, who had watched the exchange, looked murderous. 

Alastor's eyes had lit up like he had struck gold. "Playing in the woods, are we?" 

I scowled, clenching my hands by sides to keep from punching him. "You son of a—"

"Alastor!" My father swooped in, saving the day from ending in a brawl. "I am pleased that you could make it for dinner. Welcome to our humble abode."

Papa grasped his hand without warning, simultaneously clapping him on the shoulder with the other. This was an innocent enough action, a friendly gesture to greet another. However, Alastor's smile became tense, partnered with a wince of discomfort. It appeared as if it was a natural instinct to recoil from unsolicited touch. Alastor pulled his hand from my father's, wiping it on his vest as if he had been offended by it. My father didn't seem to notice, or just didn't care.

I groaned inwardly. If a simple handshake put him off, this marriage was already doomed. It was a trivial concern, but a problem nonetheless. My experiences in past relationships led me to discover that part of my love language included acts of affection. I was not interested in the act of baby-making— after all, parenthood did not appeal to me and the risk outweighed the short-term pleasure. But would there even be kisses or caresses? It was disheartening to imagine a marriage without loving touches and intimacy.

A soft breeze flowed around my ankles, gently reassuring me. 'Do not let such a small obstacle dim the light you shine on the future. You have dealt with worse, and he is not as static as you think; change is possible.'

Hecate's comment of encouragement was relieving to hear. With the extra boost in confidence, I straightened my posture. I would not enter this sham of a relationship without some fight in my bones. 

"So, you're the infamous Alastor," I said, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. "I've heard so much about you."

My father's face becomes strained, likely concerned that I was pushing boundaries that should not be pushed. Alastor, however, looked unaffected. If anything, by the sparkle in his eyes, he seemed entertained.

"Well, you know what they say about first impressions!" He said with a dramatic flair of his hands. His eyes slid over my form, taking in every detail. His stare left goosebumps in their wake from how predatory it felt. 

"You've always been a pretty picture from afar, cher, but up close, you're positively breathtaking," Alastor purred. I shivered from how unnerved I became. The way he spoke made me feel like I had been a fly caught in the spider's web. 

Ever the polite lady my parents raised me to be, I offered him a soft smile laced with the venom of a honeybee. "How sweet, but not entirely flattering considering this is likely the first time you've truly laid eyes on me." My smile turns into a smirk. My nana, rest her soul, always told me to give 'em hell. I intended to do just that. "Should I be worried I have a stalker?" 

Alastor's eyes twinkled with delight, accepting the silent challenge that had been presented before him. "I assure you, my dear, that I am no stalker. Only a simple admirer. I do report on the occasional societal event, after all, and it's nearly impossible to not notice such a woman as yourself."

He moved closer, grabbing my hand and leaning forward as if to press a kiss to the back of it. His face is almost level with mine. "It is beneficial to mention that your name has been tossed around in my personal social circles once or twice. Our dear Henrietta has a plethora of stories that have me very intrigued," he murmured, too softly for my father to hear, but bold enough for me.

My eyes widened in surprise at the mention of my friend. Henny, although a practitioner of a different culture, was my confidant and psuedo-mentor. Voo-doo is a closed practice, so of course I could not partake in the particular spells and rituals that she was proficient with. However, her vast knowledge of other practices knew no bounds and she was more than happy to fill in the gaps that my grandmother's grimoire left void. It was a shocking revelation, a betrayal, that she had discussed my extracurriculars with other people when I fought so hard to keep it secret. 

Alastor noticed the stunned expression I had let slip and straightened his posture, smiling smugly. "Do not fret, darling. Your secret is safe with me." His gaze suddenly fell behind me and he nodded in greeting, acknowledging the lavender-scented entity that loomed over my shoulder. "Let your lovely friend know I said hello."

He could see her?

'Oh, I like him!' Hecate was giddy, ecstatic that she had been noticed.

"Traitor," I hissed between clenched teeth.

I masked my emotions behind a serpent-like smile. "I'll be sure to pass your message along. Hopefully I can live up to your expectations. Reality can be so disappointing!"

Perfect white teeth made another award-winning appearance as his grin spread across his face. "Oh, with a bearcat such as yourself, I have no doubt you'll surpass them."

It became clear that the bastard was attempting to get under my skin, but I'd be damned if I let a man make a fool of me. My eyes narrowed and I prepared to unleash an onslaught of well-deserved insults that would make even Lucifer blush. Sensing the impending verbal assault, my father stepped in to derail my train of chaos.

"How about we move into the dining area? My lovely wife has just finished whipping up a ravishing meal and cannot wait to share it with you, Alastor. She is quite the master in the kitchen!" My father beamed and guided Alastor past the threshold of the front door. 

My mother really was something else when it came to cooking, and Papa never missed an opportunity to brag about it. The mention of the dinner she had prepared signaled the attention of my olfactory senses to the smells drifting from the kitchen. Aromas of earthy tones, the heat of cayenne pepper, and the zest of garlic mingle with the hint of sweetness of brown sugar immediately enticed a low growl from my stomach. 

Alastor's eyes continued to focus on me, almost as if he could peer straight into my soul and read my darkest secrets. I hardened my glare, mustering all the loathing I felt towards this situation of ours and hoping he could see it. He barked out a laugh and held out his arm as Papa led the way through the foyer. I knew he intended for me to take, but I scoffed and pushed past him, manners be damned. 

Hopefully the ass chokes during dinner.

"I see no point in guiding you," I called over my shoulder. "An intelligent man such as yourself should have no trouble finding your way. Or are you too proud to let a lady lead the way?"

I didn't wait for him to respond. My footsteps echoed angrily through the hall as I stomped towards the dining room. Papa glared at me as I strode past him, silently willing me to fall in line and behave. For him, I'll play the most perfect hostess, but I'll be plotting Alastor's downfall the entire time.

Unfortunately, plotting said downfall turned out to be a futile effort. With his smooth talking and dramatic storytelling, the twit had my mother completely wrapped around his finger. My father was already over the moon that Alastor wanted to marry me, but now Mama was under his spell, too. Hope of escaping was quickly diminishing, and there was nothing I could do to save it. I pushed my food around my plate while I pouted, watching as this entire fiasco played out in front of me.

Alastor, who was seated directly across from me at the dinner table, was in the middle of an animated tale about his latest hunting trip. Hellbent on tuning him out and pretending he didn't exist, I didn't catch any of the details other than his irritating voice. He must have been hilarious with how choked up my parents were on their own laughter. I scoffed, mumbling about how the only funny thing about Alastor was his ridiculous obsession with himself. Although I could have sworn I spoke low enough for only my ears, Alastor turned his attention to me.

"Did you say something, dear?" He asked, a smug grin plastered on his stupid face.

Oh, fuck you. Frowning, I kicked my foot forward, landing a blow against his shin. The cross look that shadowed his face told me I got him exactly where I needed him to be. I shot him my most stunning smile, feigning innocence. "I was just saying how utterly fascinating your story was. Why, the details were so overwhelming, I can hardly recall a thing! You must tell it again sometime so you can refresh my memory."

I could feel the daggers my father's glare was shooting at me. My mother, who was my number one supporter and the one I inherited my attitude from, couldn't stop the spray of sweet tea that spurted from her lips as she held back a laugh. After Alastor left, I would likely be getting the scolding of a lifetime, but it was worth the satisfaction of knocking that ego down a peg.

Feeling triumphant, I returned to picking apart the plate of shrimp étouffée laid out in front of me. It was one of my favorite dishes, but it seemed to have lost its appeal tonight. Sensing Alastor's eyes boring into me, I brought my glass of red wine to my lips, meeting his gaze over the rim as I gulped it down. Smirking, I tilted it in his direction once I finished off the sweet concoction, a silent challenge to strike back.

If he could, that is.

[cynical-kitten]

My doctor and therapist: now with this autism + ADHD diagnosis you need to learn to unmask because masking all the time will make you burn out again and feel like shit

Other people: well it's just interesting how after getting the diagnosis you suddenly start behaving like that I mean I'm not saying you're faking it's just funny how you suddenly cannot be normal like you were before

[cynical-kitten]

Let the canary siiiiiiiing!

[cynical-kitten]

Wait. Have I finally reached the “back in my day” stage of life?

Character AI is cool in small doses, but writing fanfiction and coming up with my own scenarios has a certain high that AI can’t reach.

wait kids need ai to make their favorite characters talk??? they can't just do that in their heads normal style?? what happened to making your favorite characters kiss by making little videos in your head and projecting it into your psyche cinema style before bedtime

[cynical-kitten]

i don’t give a fuck if i “sound like chatgpt,” you will pry—my em dash—from my cold—dead—hands—fuck you fuck you fuck you

[cynical-kitten]

WIP Wednesday (it is Wednesday, isn't it?)

There's a bajillion things I could post because I have ADHD and there's an embarrassing amount of unfinished projects lying around. However, my big baby (Hazbin/Alastor x OC fic) has been my main focus, but not because of continuation.

Because I hate it. Or at least the current version of it.

So naturally, even though I struggle enough just to update it, I started to rewrite it. Like all of it. And I figured if I fell in love with it again (because I still love my OC and Alastor), then I'd be more motivated to have a better update schedule.

Anyway, feel free to read. I hope someone loves it as much as I do ❤️

(And if you'd like to read the story as it is right now, just know it is unfinished, but still being updated. You can find it here)

SN: if anyone knows of any Discord groups for fanfic writers/readers, let a girl know. Bonus points if they focus specifically on the Hazbin fandom. I love gushing over other works and it's hard trying to find a community on your own 🥹

June 30th, 1929

The afternoon sun blazed above, turning the New Orleans air into a suffocating blanket of heat and humidity. Beads of sweat were forming at the nape of my neck, gathering until they eventually traveled down my spine. They had dampened the fabric of my bustier, turning the soft lace into something itchy and constricting. Mosquitoes buzzed in my ears, their warning call before gorging themselves on my blood supply. Between swatting at them and the frequent dabbing at my damp skin, this little excursion of mine was becoming more overstimulating than it was relaxing. 

My gaze skimmed over the variety of herbs that had accumulated in the small wicker basket I held. I admired the palette of greens, yellows, and purples, yet the claws of defeat still sank their teeth in. There was a glaringly obvious absence of the one color I needed above the rest— a particular vibrant orange. A typical woman might have been satisfied with the bunches of dandelion, coneflower, and sassafras after spending all day frolicking in the woods, but not me. Today's harvesting mission was singular: butterfly weed. The impossible-to-find plant, which ironically thrives in well-draining soil, was a luxury rarely afforded by these swamplands. 

Perhaps the woods had sensed my frustration, for just as I was about to wave the white flag of surrender, a flash of color caught my attention. Fluttering about to my left was a massive Monarch butterfly, proudly showing off her patterns of orange, white, and black. A grin stretched across my face and I meandered toward her, knowing that she had been sent as a guide. I trailed after her as she darted through the trees, careful to mind where I stepped. The Monarch led me into a small clearing that seemed to glitter in the sun, and smack dab in the heart of it was an area littered with the object of my desire. 

I whispered a quiet thank you to the butterfly as I moved toward the center of the clearing. The orange milkweed seemed to sing with a subtle hum when I approached it, as if knowing its purpose and giving me permission to take it from its home. Its brilliant blooms danced in the breeze that wound its way through the wood, inviting me to come closer. Kneeling before it, I carefully removed a few plants and placed them gently into the bed of other herbs within my basket. 

Finally satisfied, I stood to my feet and stretched, my joints popping from the frequent bending and squatting they had endured. When my arms descended back to my sides, the glass face of my wristwatch caught the sunlight and reflected a dreaded truth into my eyes.

4:40.

Panic tore through me and I burst into a sprint. Adrenaline quickly took over my exhaustion, desperate to make it back to my bicycle. Twigs snapped around me as I ran past them, clawing at my bare legs and finding purchase in my hair. Damn it all! My father was hosting a 'very important' dinner at six, and I was due home forty minutes ago. He was going to be pissed— and I was as good as dead if he found out why I was late. 

The gleam of silver metal peeked through the leaves and I nearly sagged with relief— my trusty stead! I hastily strapped the basket of goods to the curved handlebars and straddled the seat, ignoring the way my shorts rode up uncomfortably. Dirt spun from behind the tires as pedaled with fury, creating a cloud of dust in my wake. My calves were burning at a rapid rate from the exertion I was putting into the effort of getting home. Luckily, the house was a short distance away. If the gods were looking down on me in favor, then I would have roughly forty-five minutes to transform from swamp monster to high-class lady.

The edge of the woods came into focus, and with it, the street of cobblestone that would lead home. A giggle of relief bubbled in my chest, but was cut short by the chiming of the clock tower, signaling the arrival of a new hour. Nervous laughter replaced that short-term relief and I coaxed my legs to work harder. The uneven stones of the street, combined with the speed I was traveling, made for a harsh ride, one that I was sure would leave bruises along the innermost portion of my thighs. 

The row of houses that decorated our street flew by in a blur of various colors. Our house was positioned at the furthest corner of the street and I could nearly make out the dark, wrought iron railing of the second story balcony, stark against the canary yellow exterior. It stood like a beacon of hope, like I might actually come away from this unscathed. My body begged me to stop, to walk the rest of the way, but I persisted. The front door, brilliant in its linen-white glory, became visible— along with my mother. 

She was propped up against the frame, her foot tapping impatiently on the doorstep. The sheen of sweat that shone along her hairline was a testament to how long she had stood there waiting for me. Frown lines were etched between her brows, her expression trying its best to create something disapproving. Try as she may, but I knew my mother almost as well as I knew myself. My wild spirit was a creation of her own doing, and she could not scold what she was secretly proud of. 

The bicycle clattered against the ground as I ungracefully dismounted from it. I scrambled to prop it up against the house while simultaneously loosening the restraints around my basket. The intensity of her stare burned into the back of my head, igniting a flare of shame. I had no excuse for being tardy— no flat tire, no injuries, nor a traditional Louisiana summer storm. It was recklessness, plain and simple. My father had little patience for things like that. 

"You're late," Mama stated simply, crossing her arms across her bosom. Her eyes raked over me, scanning head to toe, then toe to head. Pausing briefly on the shorts I wore, she arched a questioning brow before eyeballing the wicker basket I cradled in my hands. She sighed, shaking her head. "Your father won't be happy if he discovers you were out in the woods again."

I offered her a cheeky grin, noting how her eyes were sparkling in spite of her words. Mama and I descended from a long line of witches, a fact my father was aware of, but was highly disapproving of. If anyone else found out… well, let's just say the consequences would be unforgiving. My mother was head over heels for him, so she easily let go of our ancestral power. Me, on the other hand, eagerly embraced it— in secret, of course.

"What Papa doesn't know isn't going to kill him, Mama," I reassure her. "Doesn't he have better things to do than worry about what his very adult daughter is doing?"

Her face softens, matching the gentleness in her emerald gaze. "It's because you are an adult that he worries so, chérie. Women at the age of five-and-twenty ought to be married with children to tote about."

Married. Children. The two words made me shiver with revulsion. "You know as well as I do that I would make a horrible wife, and an even worse mother."

She swipes at my cheek, her thumb retreating from my face with a smudge of dirt. She smiles, rolling her eyes playfully. "Not many women would be willing to play outside and get dirty. You'd be surprised how much a child would love you, ma fille." 

"Don't pretend like Papa wants to marry me off just to see me become a mother," I counter. "He's more concerned with his reputation. I know the neighbors are talking, if not the whole city. I hear them just as well as you do."

Mama sighs, stretching out a hand out to pick small twigs out of my hair, clearly intending on shifting the conversation. "Bon Dieu! If you would've gotten here just thirty minutes earlier, you would have had time to wash your hair."

Shit. Out of all of the things that needed cleaning, the mop on top of my head was probably the most dire. "Do I at least have time to take a quick dip in the bath? I'm filthy."

"Luckily for you, I drew your water ages ago. Hopefully you got enough heat from the sun, because it's likely to be cold by now."

I groaned as she opened the door and nudged me inside, dreading the sensation of being emerged in cold, soapy water. An airy giggle began to emerge from her, but it caught in her throat, transforming into a harsh, dry cough. She tried to push through it, masking the rough sound with laughter within hopes I wouldn't notice. 

I did, but I would never tell her. Nor mention being witness to the specks of blood she had dabbed off her lips with a handkerchief. 

Please, I pray silently, hoping my pleas were heard. Let the milkweed work.

After washing away the aroma of sweat and earth from my body and replacing it with the sweet scent of rose water, I was left with twenty minutes before dinner was to begin. According to my mother, only one guest was in attendance, but it was one of utmost importance. So, I still needed to play the part of the dutiful daughter. In other words, look pretty and stay quiet. Easy enough in theory, but silence was not one of my virtues.

The crackling of radio static fills the air of my bedroom as I turn the dial on the Philco 70 cathedral radio sitting on the edge of my vanity. Its wooden frame glows faintly in the sunlight that filtered through the open window, making it appear almost angelic with the golden hues emanating from it. The temporary ethereal aesthetic was a stark contrast to the Gothic designs that it had been ornately carved with. Despite being exposed to the sun's warmth, the metal dial was cool between my fingers as I tuned the radio. Landing on the station I had been seeking, a gritty male voice revealed itself, sinful and sultry in spite of the slight interference of static.

Good afternoon! This is Alastor Dubreuil, your favorite radio showman, here to bring you only the best entertainment from the heart of New Orleans! And what a splendid day it is in the Crescent City. Despite the relentless humidity sticking to our skin and the sweltering heat sent straight from the depths of Hell, the streets are alive with jazz and debauchery��

The urge to roll my eyes had never been fought harder. Favorite showman, my ass… Who in their right mind decided that this would be the voice of New Orleans? I would sooner listen to the bar fights littering the streets every Saturday than his self-important chatter. If I could drown the radio in the wash bin, just to spare my ears the trouble of being tainted with his voice again, I would. But alas, my beloved radio was undeserving of receiving torture for a sin it didn't commit, so I opt for lowering the volume to the point of easy ignorance. 

To make his droning somewhat bearable as it played in the background, I dug through the drawers of my vanity in search of a cigarette. My fingers scraped along the familiar ridges of the metal tin that housed the sticks of Lucky Strike, my preferred brand of gaspers. Smiling, I pulled it out and removed one, lighting it with practiced ease. A smoky haze drifts in thick ribbons around me as I take the first inhale, the nicotine rush that came with it momentarily grounding me.

Although I had never had a face-to-face encounter with Alastor, the narcissism that radiated from his broadcasts was like a disease. There were several social events where we had been in the same general vicinity, though never in direct conversation. We often stood at opposite sides of the room, hardly ever close enough to make contact, but just knowing he was there was exposure enough. His voice could usually be heard bouncing off every wall of the room, like a plea of 'Hey! Look at me!' To me, Alastor never had anything of importance to say. Only mindless conversation usually revolving around him and how great he was.

Gag me, please.

I don't consider myself picky when it comes to the people I allow in my circle, but no trait turns me off more than that of an over-inflated ego. Confidence could be admirable— perhaps even necessary in acceptable doses! But it's another to believe that you're better than everyone else, as if the entire world is beneath you. A delicate line lay between the balance of self-love and self-obsession. Mr. Dubreuil had most assuredly crossed it.

…as I bid you adieu, I beg you to keep this poor host at the top of your prayer lists this evening. I have the pleasure of embarking on an adventure so perilous, it'll be like wrestling one of our local alligators!

"Please, wrestle two," I grumbled, flicking the burnt remnants of tobacco out of the window. "If one doesn't do you in, two surely will."

Alastor's voice vanished, replaced by the opening notes of a jazzy tune, thus ending the torture that was invading my poor eardrums. Thank the gods for small mercies, undeserving as I may be. Familiar trills of a saxophone fill the room, a subtle prompt that it was safe to increase the volume. Humming along, I shook away any lingering thoughts of Alastor and turned my attention to the task at hand: picking leaves from the tangles of dirty blonde curls.

My father never caught on to my lateness. He had been too engrossed in conversation with a broker dealing in stocks and bonds. From what I gathered, the market had been performing better than expected, with promising projections for another increase in the coming months. Despite his lapse in attention, he would be unwavering in his expectations. Like most patriarchs for a family like ours, he had the simple request of his daughter maintaining exquisite taste and a preference for the finest so that he 'retains his good image.' 

His good image. I scoffed as his words replayed through my head. As much as I adored him, it often grated me the wrong way when he referred to me as nothing more than a prized possession. It often felt like I was being used as a trophy— a way to show off our family's fortune and status. Unfortunately, that was the sort of thing that came with the territory of being the only daughter of a family in High Society.

Truth be told, I hated it— every bit of it. The money, the luxuries, the entitlement. None of it was worth how little control I had over my own life and the future that dimmed with each passing year. The expectations, especially in the realm of marriage and child-bearing, were heavy weights around my neck— an invisible ball and chain. At the age of five-and-twenty, I had been fortunate enough to have maintained what little freedom this life offered me. My parents knew my stance on marriage and did not pressure me to find a husband as heavily as other women had been. However, with my thirtieth year just over the horizon, I knew my time was running out.

Sighing, I ran my hands down my face, wishing I could procrastinate a bit longer. It's not that I'm against going through the motions of 'dolling up'. In fact, I rather enjoyed it. It was a ritual of transformation, a form of worship for the temple that was my body. But this evening, the act felt hollow and insincere. 

There was this feeling of despair building steadily in my stomach, stealing away any pleasure that I might gain from this. Even the thought of dragging a powder brush across my skin was a discomfort that tightened like a rope around my neck. A nagging feeling was telling me that this dinner had little to do with business as usual and everything to do with me. I dreaded going downstairs to discover exactly what it was for.

With a belligerent sigh, I picked up a silver-plated brush to attempt to tame the tangled nest of hair that crowned my head. I had not blessed with the mesmerizing curls that hailed from my mother's genes, nor the sleek straightness of my father's. No, the Devil himself had a sick, twisted sense of humor and ensured that I would get something in between— a temperamental mane that had a zero percent chance of putting up a fight against the smothering climate of Louisiana.

Detangling wasn't the real challenge, which is what people often assumed when they caught me on a bad hair day. The real hurdle was the uncontrollable frizz that changed its attitude on a day-to-day basis. Fortunately, today's weather was fairly manageable and I could get away with simply pinning it back with a diamond encrusted clip. As I worked, the radio continued to belt out song after song, the catalog selection containing several of my favorites— almost as if it had been specifically catered to me. I hummed along as my fingers wove through my hair and forced it into submission.

After finishing with my carefully-crafted masterpiece, my fingers refused to stay idle and thrummed on the smooth, wooden surface of the vanity. My mind began to wonder, picking apart my father's insistence on my appearance tonight. He has never put much emphasis on it before, usually trusting me to have enough sense to dress to the nines whether we had guests or not. Why the sudden interest now?

The gnawing in my stomach grew as I carefully began to apply rouge and lipstick. I opted to line my eyes with a touch of kohl, hoping to make the deep blue hues pop against my pale skin. It served a dual purpose, should things go south. It's easy to keep the waterworks at bay when the end result is becoming one with a family of raccoons.

Satisfied with my reflection I drug myself to my wardrobe to sift through some of my finer dresses. Garments of fine silk and cotton pass through my fingers until I land on an attention-grabbing lavender number. The dress's pleated skirt drifted slightly below my knees, loose and flowing. The fabric hugged my waist where the skirt ended and it draped off my shoulders, highlighting my collarbones. Lavender was one of those colors that brought out my best features— fair complexion, blue eyes— and was a detail I knew my father would appreciate.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand— 5:50. 

Perfect timing.

Before making my descent into whatever fate awaited me downstairs, I tiptoed to my bedroom door and slowly turned the lock, careful to not make a sound. Locked doors were taboo in this household, a tell-tale sign of secrecy— and my father did not tolerate secrets. He would likely have a heart attack if he knew mine…

After ensuring my privacy was protected, I made my way over to my bed and grabbed a small silver key from under my mattress. Kneeling on the floor, I pulled out a beautiful, ornate chest from its hiding place behind the bed skirt. Crafted from oak and stained a rich, dark brown, the chest was probably one of the most beautiful objects I owned. Its lid was adorned with two iridescent torches made from opals, their flames fashioned from garnets. Intricate filigree patterns weave across the rest of its entirety to create moons and stars along the surface.

Gripping the key in my hand, I unlocked the chest and am met with an intense sense of comfort and welcome. The interior was lined with plush felt of the deepest violet and contained an assortment of herbs, crystals, matches, and candles, as well as a makeshift altar. Each item had been meticulously chosen to honor Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft and the crossroads.

I selected a black candle and ignited a match, briefly warming up the bottom of it before placing the candle upright on the offering dish. The melted wax allowed the candle to fasten itself to the porcelain surface, ensuring it remained in its position until its job was finished. Lavender and mugwort lay in a deliberate arrangement around the candle, their fragrances filling the air. The remaining flame of the match is used to bring the candle to life and I watched as the wick burst to life.

Staring into the flickering flame, I'm instantly surrounded by a familiar presence that presented itself as a warm, maternal embrace. Although I cannot see or touch her, I know she is there. Hecate's voice echoes within my consciousness, confirming her arrival. 'Hello, Manon. It has been some time.'

I winced upon hearing the disappointment in her greeting, but couldn't help the smile that played along my lips. "What can I say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not?"

'Hm, debatable. Regardless, you know I will always welcome you with open arms. Though I suppose I can forgive your absence. You were working hard on your rituals.'

The flame flickered playfully, casting dancing shadows around me. The warm colors lull me into a deep, meditative state, allowing me to open myself up to the goddess and give her a glimpse of my inner turmoil. "My father has some nefarious plan for tonight, and truthfully, I'm terrified," I admitted. "I could use your help, or even just your company."

Hecate chuckled softly, her voice warm and reassuring as she responded to my concerns. 'You worry too much. I know what lies ahead, and believe me, you are more than capable of handling it without me. Truth be told, I think the other party will have a greater need for divine intervention. After all, they'll be dealing with you.'

I scowled, eliciting another laugh from her. 'Perhaps I can indulge you. Though you won't be receiving the kind of help you are seeking.'

My brows furrowed in confusion. "What does that even mean? Can't you just tell me so I know how to prepare myself?" 

Instead of responding, the candle sputtered out, leaving my pleas unanswered and lingering amidst the sudden silence.

With a huff, I returned the items to their designated place and carefully place the chest where it belongs. Straightening my posture, I took one last glance in the mirror, which revealed thick lines of frustration, disclosing the budding anxiety within. Knowing how my father is, I closed my eyes and draw upon the dormant power lying in my veins, waiting for my command. I muttered a small incantation, focusing on the intent of glamouring my appearance. My face grew warm as the tension rolled away, replacing the foul expression with a cool mask of indifference.

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed, loud and foreboding. It was showtime. 

Smiling with false bravado, I began my descent downstairs. The heels of my shoes clicked firmly against the hardwood floors, the sound echoing within the foyer of our home. Crystal chandeliers cast intricate patterns of light across the walls, creating a heavenly ambiance. Shadows played within the areas the light could not touch, their seemingly innocent presence aiding in the foreboding energy that tainted the air.

When I hopped off the bottom step of the staircase, a habit that had been present since my toddler days, I found my father standing near the fireplace. His back was facing me, shoulders slumped. His tall, stocky figure is imposing against the cool, gray stone, his posture slack and unsure. There was something… off about him. As if he were bracing for a brutal impact. Sensing my arrival, he turned to me, revealing a solemn expression. He offered me a gentle smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.

"Manon," he greeted, his voice soft yet measured. "My pride and joy. You look lovely, as always."

My father was never good at hiding his emotions, let alone any secrets he may have. Something definitely was not right, and my gut twisted in panic. "What is it, Papa?" I asked, pushing past the lump in my throat.

He visibly paled, his fair skin somehow fading ten shades lighter. He stammered in his attempt to respond, failing to find the words that would ease the tension. "Heh, nothing gets past you, does it, pumpkin? Just like your mother."

The laugh that followed is nervous and unsteady. Oh, he's most certainly hiding something.

Upon seeing my stoic expression paired with unamused silence, he cleared his throat awkwardly and continued. "There really isn't an easy way to say this, so I'll just get straight to the point: you're getting married."

The words hit me like a bolt of lightning, singeing me straight to the core. I blinked slowly, feeling the weight of them crash down on me like a meteor. "Excuse me, but you didn't just say what I think you just said, did you?"

His silence was damning, confirming the worst of my fears. Defiance surged forth, reigniting a bratty attitude that I had thought been left behind in my younger years. "No," I said simply, crossing my arms tightly against my chest.

Having always been told 'yes' and getting his way, my father's face became stern and angry, his stubbled skin burning red. "It's your duty to this family, Manon," he growled, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone. "No further discussions will be made on the contrary! You're five-and-twenty, with no prospects for a husband, let alone shown any interest in finding one! You will get married and that is that!"

My father is well-known for his temper, but in all my years, he had never yelled at me. The shock of it made me lose focus, the control on my magic slipping as a result. It pulsed against my skin, begging to be set free. I willed it back, but in turn lost my glamor. No longer able to hide behind a mask of indifference, my face bloomed with heat from a rising anger that was quickly escalating to a peak. I gritted my teeth, prepared to fight for my autonomy. 

"Please humor me on how you expect me to happily marry someone I don't even know," I spat. "We probably won't even love each other."

My fingernails dug into my skin to keep from blowing a gasket completely. "As an adult, I should have a say in who I spend the rest of my life with! I haven't found anyone because there isn't a soul in this godforsaken city that can handle me."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I had never been so angry with him, had never even raised my voice. This is the man who gave me everything I asked for and never batted an eye at my antics, even when they threatened his reputation. My father cared deeply, perhaps too much, about how he was perceived by others. But I was his 'little girl.' The only child. Our bond was special, and I adored him above all else. But asking me to sign my life away was a boundary I could not relinquish without a fight.

I struggled to grapple with the bomb my father dropped on me. Marriage. An arranged marriage, no less! Those words made my blood feel like lava as it rushed through my veins. I understood that my family's social standing demanded that I wed a man of quality, but it never occurred to me that I would lose my right to choose the one I'd annoy forever. Growing up, I knew my only obligation was to get married, pop out some babies, and pass on the family wealth. Despite how much I abhorred it, I made my peace with the life planned for me— or so I thought. That peace flew out the window the moment my freedom had finally been threatened.

"For Christ's sake, Manon, get a grip!" My father shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "This society does not give a damn about who we love. I hate to say it, but marriage is a business deal and does not bend to these delusional ideas you have." His tone softened as he spoke, but the harshness of superiority still remained. Dark brows furrowed over eyes of blue-gray, creating a scene equivalent to a summer storm. I'm sure they mirrored my own.

"What about you and Mama?" I pushed back. "You're head over heels for each other. Tell me how that's business! Why does my life have to be dictated so differently?!" 

The tears were finally gathering to the point of spilling, posing a hazard to the makeup that decorated my face. The prospect of being doomed to a loveless marriage was unbearable. Not after growing up in a home that bursts with love. 

My father's face drooped as he ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. He peered at me through thick lashes, his eyes illuminated with steel determination and authority. In those eyes, I see my resolve— I will not win this fight.

"Your mother and I were lucky to find what we have in each other. It's a rarity in a world where we marry for convenience. You need to drop this ludicrous dream that a marriage requires love. Love is a bonus, not a guarantee. We need to build permanent ties and secure our place in society, which relies heavily on familial bonds. It's the only way to be sure that our bloodline continues and maintains our legacy."

I folded my hands in front of me in silent surrender. Another pawn in a game, I thought bitterly.

My father smirked, realizing that I had given up. "Honestly, Manon, you might find yourself taken with the suitor we have chosen. Though, I suppose it isn't fair to say we chose him. The gent practically begged for your hand once he discovered I was looking for options." I grimaced, unable to imagine the type of Eldritch terror it would take to be willing to marry me. "You probably know him. He's popular around town, maybe even all of Louisiana! I'd go as far as saying he's a celebrity."

My eyebrows arched with unsaid questions and intrigue. This was the first time he had mentioned, or rather hinted, on my betrothed's identity. Granted, I never gave him the chance before I began my tirade for freedom. The options were truly nightmarish, if I was being honest. The eligible bachelors were undesirable at best, far outside my range of preferences. Either they were old and wrinkly, or misogynistic and unfaithful.

Shivers ran down my spine as the doorbell rang, the sharp chime bouncing through the halls. You know what they say— speak of the Devil and he shall appear. My eyes drifted reluctantly towards the door, hesitant and curious. The frosted glass doesn't give me the mercy of knowing who the man behind the door is, but his silhouette suggested that he would likely tower over me. At least he has one thing going for him.

My father's face broke out into a wide grin and began to take long strides towards the door. "I can see those questions written on your face, my dear. Your answers have arrived!"

He reached for the doorknob, and as the door creaked open to unveil my groom-to-be, my stomach churned. No. No. 

NO.

The mystery man had materialized into a handsome, tanned face with the most beautiful cinnamon-colored eyes and messy-but-not-messy curls of brown hair. It was a face I didn't know well, but I sure as hell knew which voice it belonged to. The astonishment that accompanied the grand reveal had me unable to control my mouth, the link between it and my brain having dissipated. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me," I blurted, my heart plummeting to the floor as Mr. Big-Shot-Radio-Man smiled at me.

[cynical-kitten]

I Did the Damn Thing

Letters formed words. Words formed sentences. Sentences formed paragraphs. BOOM. New chapter, bitches, and it kicks off my favorite part of the story.

SN: Depression is a fucking bitch. That is all.

Chapter 56: House of Memories

"Please tell me you're not planning on leaving the house like that."

I glanced at Alastor's figure within the mirror's reflection as I finished fastening the bow of my blouse's neckline. Despite having a plethora of magic at his fingertips, he was still donning that abysmal crimson suit. It had never been my favorite outfit, but it was completely out of place considering where we were.

"There's nothing wrong with how I look," he huffed, looking slightly offended. "You have never complained about it before."

I turned to face him, crossing my arms across my bosom and cocking my hip to the side like I was prepared to chastise him. "It's one thing to waltz around Hell looking like you've just emerged from a pool of blood. Here? Not so much."

He arched a brow as if I had just made some shocking revelation. "Odd thing to say, considering we used to trounce about the city in the midnight hour dressed head to toe in liquid red."

My cheeks warmed as memories flooded my mind of nights spent terrorizing the streets of New Orleans, and bringing justice to those who have been denied it by a broken system.

"That was a different time, Al. And I'll be damned if I'm leaving this house dressed to the nines while you give off the impression of homeless axe murderer from the 1930's."

"You've already been damned, darling," he teased, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "And for the record— axes were not my style. I'm offended you would suggest such a thing."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. "I'm conjuring some clothes and making you change, even if it means stripping you down myself."

"Do you mean that?" Alastor grinned, and my heart skipped several beats.

Gods, he was beautiful. The memory of that pearly white smile had been tucked away so carefully that it nearly brought me to my knees to see it return from the dead. I never forgot it, but I also never made it a point to reminiscence about it. It was startling after so many decades of being haunted by lethal, golden teeth that threatened to consume my soul. We weren't going to get anything done while we were here if he kept smiling at me like that.

I cleared my throat, attempting to regain my composure. As much as I would love to do nothing but drown in nostalgia within these walls, there were things I came here to do under the guise of giving Alastor a gift. And although it wasn't on my original to-do list, one of them was to satisfy the demon of curiosity by figuring out why our home had been preserved so immaculately.

With a flick of my hand, a few articles of clothing appeared neatly on the surface of the bed— which I made sure had no traces of us left behind, thank you very much. Since we were likely to be exposed to the public eye, I used my knowledge of current trends in Hell to provide Alastor with garments that would help us blend in: a slim fit pair of black khakis, dark red turtleneck, a leather belt, and black loafers. I tried to keep it as close as possible to Alastor's over-the-top preferences, but somehow I knew he would still complain.

And complain he did.

Alastor's face scrunched together in a caricature of disdain, clearly disgusted by the outfit I had chosen for him. "Absolutely not. That… attire is on par with those abominations known as 'plus-fours.' You have surely lost your senses if you expect me to walk out the door wearing that."

I waved off his theatrics. "Don't be ridiculous. 'Plus fours' were nightmarish, I'll grant you that. But trust me, you'll look fine in those. Now put them on."

The tone in my voice must have told Alastor I wasn't about to put up with his griping. With a scowl that somehow made him more handsome than he already was, he moved to dress himself. He grumbled throughout the whole ordeal, cursing mankind for drifting away from what he considered 'the peak of fashion' and 'not leaving well enough alone.' In spite of how childish he was acting, I couldn't help but smile.

Hell had corrupted him, twisted him into a far worse monster than he had been while we were alive. But here, right now? His humanity was shining through the darkness that had clouded his soul.

Alastor finished fastening the belt around his waist, completing the grievous task I had made him endure. Personally, I thought he looked mouthwatering, and I was half-tempted to make good on my threat of stripping him down. However, I could tell his opinions were worlds away from mine the second he caught his reflection in the mirror.

"I am convinced you've not a single braincell left in that pretty head of yours," he muttered, a frown gracing his face. It was an odd sight to behold after so long of him being unable to do anything but smile.

I clutched at my chest like his words had struck me, returning the same dramatic energy he was exerting. "Ouch! Here I am thinking about defiling you six ways to Sunday, and you have the nerve to insult me!"

"You think this looks good?" Alastor snapped, disbelief crossing his face. "I look like a damned fool!"

I snorted, uncontrollable giggles bubbling up like champagne. "Well, you are acting quite foolish."

"I refuse to be seen like this."

"And I refuse to be married to an overgrown toddler dressed up like a murder clown, so pick your battles, sweetheart," I retorted. "Either get over it, or I'm sending us straight back to Hell."

A certain look flashed in his amber eyes just then, a look I knew all too well. He had gotten an idea, and he knew it was going to piss me off. Insufferable little shit.

With one of the most shit-eating grins he could muster, Alastor raised his hand and snapped his fingers. In an instant, he had been surrounded by the swirling green manifestation of his power. His body was completely enveloped, taking away my ability to see whatever mischief he had conjured up. Almost as quickly as it had appeared, it began to shrink away, revealing little by little what Alastor had done.

"You son of a bitch!"

Alastor had discarded the modern clothing I had chosen and emerged in attire that had been dredged from the depths of the 1920s. A stylish pair of black dress pants hugged his hips, and tucked neatly into the waistband was a crisp white button-up with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A vest, almost a deep red that suited his preferred Hellish palette, fit snugly over the shirt and had been paired with a matching bow-tie. And of course, true to Alastor's typical style, sleeve garters decorated his biceps.

He looked as if he had been plucked straight out of one of our old photo albums, a dapper nightmare wrapped up in nostalgia. And gods damn him, did it suit him well. I'd be lying if it didn't make me grieve for days long gone.

I should have been peeved that he had the sheer audacity. Should've grabbed him by the ear and forced him to put on what I conjured like the good little husband he wasn't. But other than feeling like I had been slighted, I found that I didn't mind. Sure, we'd likely get some weird looks from everyone we crossed paths with, maybe even some questions about what the hell we were doing, but it was like we had slipped back in time. For a fleeting moment, we could pretend we were still alive with an entire future ahead of us.

But I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

"Are you happy now?" I ground out. "I would like to get moving before the day continues to waste away."

Alastor smirked. "As a matter of fact, I am. Though, we can't leave just yet."

"And why not?" My arms crossed across my chest. Now I was annoyed.

"I would appreciate a moment to visit the cellar. Pay my respects to the golden age, so to speak."

I narrowed my eyes for a beat, then shook my head. Not in protest, but in resignation. I should've known better than to expect him to leave without going there…

The cellar was where he had committed a grand number of his sins. It had been a sacred place to him— his workshop, his altar. His rituals were carried out in that dark sanctuary, making it reek of blood and ancient power. I hated being in there, despite my own part to play in the nightmares that occurred. It was heavy, filled to the brim with whatever had tainted his soul. Too many ghosts, both figurative and literal.

"Fine," I relented. "But you're going alone. I'll wait outside for you, just… don't take too long."

Alastor disappeared into the cellar while I meandered out to the yard. There was no real direction I had taken, just letting my feet go where they were called. Fortunately, the house was tucked away behind a wall of moss-draped oaks, offering me the privacy that allowed me to explore at my leisure.

On my stroll around the property, it didn't escape my notice that the herb garden I kept out front had gone missing. Upon further investigation, it appeared to have been left alone to grow and tangle as it pleased. Irritating, but I was thankful it had been spared. In the past, it had been one of the prime areas I had been drawn to— the other being the sitting room where my piano rested. Delicate flowers were never my forte, especially if they weren't perennials. I had neither the time or patience to tend to things that were never meant to return. Herbs were where, quite literally, my magic touch was.

The energy of it thrummed beneath the ground, calling and beckoning as if it had some hidden discovery waiting to be unearthed. I drifted toward it, catching wiffs of plants that were holding their own against the winter temperatures. Mint and rosemary were the most prominent, and even with how hellbent they were to overtake the yard, I had favored them the most for their resilience.

It pained me to see that the garden had seen better days. There was still some greenery peeking through the wreckage, but it had mostly been covered with twisting vines of dormant honeysuckle that had been allowed to spill over into the garden's territory. I would have to remind myself to leave a note for the property's caretaker to restore it to its former glory without making them suspect the place was haunted— assuming they hadn't already come to that conclusion.

I knelt on the ground before it, gingerly sifting through plants that were dead, alive, or somewhere in between. There was a peace that settled somewhere in my soul from the simple act, a peace I didn't think I'd feel for a long time. However, peace had brought a friend along, as it tends to do.

Melancholy.

This was home. A place where I was free to be myself, to lose myself to my inhibitions. It was where I loved out loud, crafted magic wilder than my wildest dreams, and learned to push beyond impossible barriers. Of course it would always fill me with pleasant feelings. But I couldn't stay. No matter how hard I should try, or ancient magic I tap into, I would never be able to stay. This place was no longer mine.

Or was it?

Every property has their own unique energy that reveals who they belong to, you just need to know how to look for it. That signature doesn't adhere to the laws of man. It doesn't matter whose name is on the deed or who resides within the property lines— it follows the bloodline. Based off of that alone, it should have been safe to assume that the energy encasing this piece of land would be null and void of Alastor and myself.

But it wasn't. It still felt like us, but had a dash of something else. It made me wonder if Alastor had cast some spell over this place to ensure it would always be ours. Did he suspect we'd somehow return? Or was he really that unwilling to let someone else take ownership of what was once his?

The longer I stayed here, the weirder things became and the more questions I had.

A sliver of sunshine escaped from the quilt of gray clouds, covering the ground in golden light. It was subtle, and had almost gone completely unnoticed, but the light had caught on something hidden within the mess of leaves and vines. To the untrained mind, this might've been seen as some type of coincidence, but I knew better. Magic wasn't a dealer in coincidences.

Something wanted me to see this.

I moved closer to the shimmering object, my fingers tingling as they grew closer. The vines' sharp edges scraped against my skin when I maneuvered them through their tangled maze, and even more so when I brushed them out of the way. They were stubborn and unrelenting, but I wasn't about to let a few skeletal twigs stop me.

Beneath the brambles, my fingers brushed against something hard and metallic. It was cool to the touch, and from what I could tell, was likely crafted from bronze. Whatever it was had been concealed beneath years of grime, and could desperately use a good cleaning. Never one to have any tolerance for cleaning, I used a simple vanishing spell to rid it of its blanket of twigs and caked on dirt.

Nothing could have prepared me for what was revealed.

A placard.

The Crescent City Phantom

From the late 1910s to 1933, New Orleans was plagued by the presence of a violent serial killer known as the Crescent City Phantom. The Phantom struck only at night, enabling him to keep his identity concealed for nearly two decades. But secrets don't always die with their keepers. Some time after his untimely death, detectives discovered that the Phantom was none other than beloved radio showman— Alastor Dubreuil. 

Dubreuil was not revealed to be the Phantom right away. It wasn't until the gruesome murder of his widowed wife, Manon G. Dubreuil, that the connections were made. Crime scene investigations within the Dubreuil House uncovered evidence linking Dubreuil to nearly three dozen homicides. However, the identity of Mrs. Dubreuil's murderer remains unknown. 

In an effort to preserve the memory of Alastor and Manon Dubreuil, and as a reminder of what horrors took place within New Orleans, The Dubreuil House has been preserved by their descendants. 

My heart dropped, sank into an invisible pit within my body that could not be reached. I couldn't breathe, my lungs constricting as oxygen refused to enter them. This wasn't happening. No. No. No.

Descendants.

A single word somehow warped the law of reality. I read it over and over until it had burned into the back of my retinas. Traced each letter until my fingers knew every line and curve. My skin burned where it touched the placard, like it was meant to brand me.

Descendants? That wasn't possible.

Alastor and I didn't have children. We didn't want them. We were both the last of our bloodlines. My parents had been too old to produce another heir, and Alastor's? Deceased before we married. We were supposed to be the final branches on our family trees— I made sure of that. Something wasn't right. None of it made sense.

"A mistake must have been made," I murmured, my hands shaking against the placard. "It ended with us."

"Don't bother lying to yourself. Deep down, you know the truth."

I whipped around to face the feminine voice that had originated from behind me, startled by its sudden appearance. Relief flooded through my veins as I became cognizant of familiar features. Dark hair that cascaded around her like a waterfall of midnight skies. Pale eyes that mirrored the moon. Eyes that once looked at me with pride, but now only held sorrow.

"Bless it, Hecate, I nearly jumped out of my skin," I breathed, trying to force air to fill my lungs again. "A warning next time would be nice."

The goddess narrowed her silver gaze at me, a look that sliced through to my core. "You wouldn't need a warning if you had been steadfast in your devotion to me. Whether or not you are aware of it, you placed a veil over our connection. 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' doesn't apply to the divine, Manon."

Guilt washed over me as her judgement pierced my soul. "You're pissed."

"That's an understatement."

My gaze fell to the ground, unable to look at her without feeling ashamed. "I was having a hard time after…"

After… what? The words ceased to flow. My mind locked down, blocking me out from a memory that I wasn't granted access to. How could I continue to explain when I couldn't remember what happened?

Hecate's face softened with pity. "I know."

"You weren't there." My voice was barely above a whisper, but the accusation struck true.

She tried to hide the flinch of regret. "Not for lack of trying, I assure you. You were lost in the pain of the trauma you had experienced and refused to let anyone in to save you. Hell was already challenging enough to reside in while you were spiritually present. It is not a realm I belong to. Once you checked out, there was no path to follow to you."

I chewed on my cheek, debating on what to say next. It wasn't fair to fault her on being absent while I struggled to remain intact— both spiritually and mentally. She had every right to be cross with me. I had dedicated myself to her as her high priestess, and I owed her everything after handing my soul over to Alastor when I had promised it to her first. I failed her.

"I'm sorry," I said at last. "I know that isn't enough, will never be enough. But I want to repair our bond, and most importantly, our friendship."

The goddess offered a gentle smile that highlighted her ancient beauty. She walked over to where I still stood and took a stance next to me. The energy that radiated off of her was a comfort that I didn't realize I had been missing. It was motherly and warm, and I wanted so much to curl into her embrace like I would have my mother's.

Hecate's eyes traveled to the placard and scanned the engraving. Her face was void of emotion, giving away none of her secrets.

"What did you mean when you said that I know the truth?" I prodded, anxiety crawling underneath my skin like spiders. "What do you know?"

"Everything." Her attention suddenly snapped toward the house. "Unfortunately, I don't have time to explain. Alastor is making his way out of his dreadful temple of despair as we speak."

"But—" I began to protest, only to be interrupted.

"I'll find you later and we'll talk," she promised. "We'll have plenty of time once Alastor engages in his antics this evening."

I let loose a groan. "He isn't seriously considering that, is he?"

"Worse." She gave me a wary smile, one that told me all I need to know. "I'll see you soon."

Hecate vanished as soon as the front door creaked open, signaling Alastor's departure from inside the house. His footsteps were light as he descended the porch stairs. My heart thumped louder and louder the closer he got to reaching the bottom.

"Ready to go, darling?" he asked once he approached my side.

I nodded and looped my arm through his, desperate to get away from the garden and the placard. The less he knew, the better. The last thing I needed was him questioning me about things I was still seeking the answers to myself.

Descendants.

[cynical-kitten]

Those vocals were so guttural and raw 😩

Listening to the title track of Even in Arcadia: 😌

That part at 3:18:

[cynical-kitten]

⬇️THIS⬇️