#un-masquerade

[sarenhale]

A little comic about How I Can Make Seven's Vampiric Condition Even Funnier And The Least Romantic Thing Of All Time (the Substance Addict flaw)

[palaemonfire]

just bought my badge for wondercon ^_^ !!!! im gonna be attending some of the panels too!!

[safination]

The Wrong Competitor

|Masterlist| Ao3| NOW WITH A PART 2: |The Actual Competitor| Pairings: Alastor x wife!Reader. Platonic! Vox & Reader Tags: fem!Reader, AFAB, Established Relationship, , Alastor is in hell for a reason, Reader is in hell for a reason, being a simp for your partner, husband! Alastor. demon! Alastor, drinking,flirting

Vox approaches with a steady and confident smile. There are two drinks secured around one hand. The other reaches out for a handshake. Alastor takes a step forward, using his body as a barrier. “Just a friendly one,” Vox says, a charming smile on his screen. “It would be a shame to ruin the Princess’ evening. The music is lively and the food and drinks are delicious.” Alastor’s eyes twitch from underneath the mask as he sees you reaching out. Well, that won’t do. He takes the handshake intended for you, shaking Vox’s hand with a firmer grip than needed. You’re determined to enjoy yourself and Alastor prides himself on being a husband. So, he won’t cause a scene—not today at least. The handshakes last longer than handshakes should last. Vox slides his eyes towards you, a smug smile displayed on the screen of his lips. You tighten your hold around Alastor’s arm, leaning to his bicep to hide your scowl. TLDR: The Hazbin Hotel decides to hold a masquerade party. Despite his better judgment, Alastor invites his wife even if he’s aware of Vox’s attendance, who’s keen on competing with Alastor for his wife’s attention….If only Alastor knew how much you and Vox would gag at the idea of him flirting with you. It’s not his wife’s attention that Vox competes for. It’s not even Alastor who he’s competing with. Actually… Alastor isn’t part of the competition.

Have a little brainrot of mine. Lol just pure on crack of the silliest shit. Tell me what you guys think because I found this so fucking hilarious that I had to write it down. Anyway, have my heavily unedited brain rot. I tried a different writing voice today instead of my usual third person-second person pronoun pov, and tried like an all around pov. Update: *6/19/2024 We lost electricity at home so instead of studying, I decided to polish my un-polished crack. Everything's the same, it's just written better and I didn't add much.

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Alastor slithers out of the shadows below, stepping out from the darkness that pools underneath you. There are hundreds  of shadows to pop out of, still it’s your shadow that Alastor chooses to spring out from. There’s a smile painting his lips as he materializes. A deer mask covers half his face.

“Goodness,” you say, mirroring his smile. “What am I supposed to do when strange yet handsome Sinners pop out of my shadow without a warning.”

Alastor steps further into the light. “Handsome?”

And oh…oh.

(Oh, indeed. Alastor is wearing a tail-coat, a vest hidden underneath. Oh god he’s wearing a vest. One side of his hair slick back, allowing stray strands to flutter around the deer mask. When you run your hand across his biceps…you feel it underneath your touch—Sleeves garters.)

The smile on your lips widens, and you’re thankful that a mask covers your own face. “I’d call you handsome any day, sweetheart,” you tell him. “If it’s alright with your wife, of course. Such a charming little thing like you surely belongs to someone.”

“I think I like you better than my wife.” Alastor inches closer to press a kiss. “She never compliments me as much as you do.”

A delighted humm escapes you. “Then she’s quite the fool, for you are quite the charmer.”

Alastor shakes his head, a small laugh escaping as he smoothens some feathers that stick out your head. “You didn’t have to join me tonight,” he says. “I’ll be too busy with work to be next to you.”

“Then you should have thought about that before you gave me an invitation to Charlie’s party.” You reach out to smoothen the lines of his tail-coat, pulling on it to adjust its fit around his body. “And I’m already here, wearing a very, very, expensive dress.”

“Do you even enjoy such parties?” Alastor grabs your wrists before your hands can trail any further. “It seems your mind would rather be somewhere else.”

“There’s food and music, and I get the excuse to wear such a lovely dress.” You pull your wrist from his hold, catching his hand to intertwining your fingers with his. “Do you like it? I hope you do, considering I received it along with the invitation.”

Alastor lifts his arm, twirling you underneath to flare the skirt of the dress. “You look almost as dashing as I do.”

“Ha! And that’s precisely why I must join you, deerest.” You smack his bicep in good fun, barking out a laugh. Dear god, he’s wearing the leather sleeve garter tonight.) “With such dashing good looks, I’l fear others may try to take your attention.”

He flicks your nose. “Stop it.”

Alastor slips off the deer mask, gazing straight into you. Those eyes of his shine brighter than the stars above this Hell. He reaches out, and pulls on the ribbon that secures your own mask to your face.

There are feathers on your mask. It mimics the bird you are. Alastor inches closer, staring straight into you once there’s nothing to obstruct his view.

“That’s mine,” you say, trying to grab your mask.

Alastor shoves the deer mask on your face. The force causes you to stumble back a little. He’s such a nuisance, honestly…but …but well, his fingers brush over your feathers as he ties the ribbon on his mask. 

Strands of your feathers flow between his fingers as it lingers. Alastor presses the feathers to his mouth, brushing them with his lips. “I think our masks are a bit too on the nose,” he says, and each word caresses your feathers. “Deer masks suit you much better, and this way, I can spot you from even across the room.”

Alastor inches lower until you meet his eyes. You take the bird mask and tie the ribbon around his head, securing it on him.

There’s a feather that sticks out your head. Alastor picks it out. The stray feather gets waved around until he tucks it within the mask.

You reach out to remove the feather, but Alastor catches your wrist and presses a single kiss on the inside.

“The color of my feathers are different from the ones on the mask,” you tell him. “Come on, take it out. It sticks out a bit too much.”

“I’ll have you know that I quite like the feathers.” Alastor plays with the feather on his mask. “More importantly—tell me about your day. I want to know every second of every minute…it’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.”

“You would know all about my day if you were living at our home with me,” you tell him, crossing your arms. “You know, the home that we’ve built together for the past few decades?”

Alastor plays with the edges of your pinky before intertwining his fingers around your hand. “Or…” he begins, and presses a single kiss on the wedding ring around your finger. “I would known if you lived at the hotel…with me.”

There’s a smug smile on you. “Are you asking me to live with you?”

“Would you?”

“I would.”

“I’m still rather hesitant to involve you with the hotel…yet I found myself sending an invitation anyway.” Alastor presses a kiss on the edge of your lips, letting himself linger. 

“An invitation?”you say, faking a gasp. “That’s weird because I swore the invitation came with a dress as well. Hmmm, now I’m wondering who sent such a piece to me.”

“I found myself sending an invitation…and a dress.” Alastor rolls his eyes. “But the point still stands, it’s safer if you are at our home. It’s quiet and secure and doesn’t have a giant sign pointing straight at its door.”

“Ah yes…that,” you say. “I heard about it on the televisi—newspaper. It must be tiring to be attacked thrice in one day.”

Alastor shakes his head, pulling you into a tight hug. One hand presses on the back of your head, cradling you gently. “Just before I lose you to my job.”

You steal a kiss from him. “As if you could ever lose me.”

Music beats through the cracks of the Hazbin Hotel’s door. Alastor escorts you inside, a bird mask on his face as he runs his thumb up and down the skin of your hand. You adjust the deer mask on your face before following him deeper inside.

The door opens easily, and you walk inside, arm in arm with the Radio Demon. The fun about masquerade balls is being able to hide behind a mask.

 Except from those who really pay attention.

Vox approaches with a steady and confident smile. Two drinks are secured around one hand. The second reaches out for a handshake. 

Alastor takes a step forward, using his body as a barrier.

“Just a friendly one,” Vox says, a charming smile on his screen. “It would be a shake to ruin the Princess’ evening. The music is lively, and the food and drinks are delicious.”

Alastor’s eyes twitch from underneath the mask when he sees you reaching out to shake Vox’s hand.

Well, that just won’t do! Alastor takes the handshake intended for you, grabbing Vox’s hand before you can reach it, and shakes his hand with a firmer grip than needed.

You’re determined to enjoy yourself, and Alastor prides himself for being a Husband.  (Rosie tells him that there’s a difference between ‘a husband’ and ‘a Husband’ with one clearly better than the other.) So, Alastor won’t cause a scene—not today at least.

Vox slides his eyes towards you, a smug smile displayed on the screen of his lips as he shakes Alastor’s hand. It forces you to tighten your hold around Alastor’s arm, leaning into his bicep to hide a scowl.

The handshake lasts longer than handshakes should last.

Vox offers you a glass. “I brought drinks to start,” he says, keeping the second glass around his hold closer to him. “I hope I’m remembering this correctly—but you still enjoy lemony flavors, correct?”

“How delightful!” Alastor tries to take the drink intended for you.

Vox quickly retracts the drink, taking a single step backwards. “It’s for the lady.”

Alastor’s smile widens ever so slightly into a snarl.

You take the drink from Vox, smiling as lemony goodness fills your senses. Not many bartenders keep such flavors. Part of you wonders if Alastor organized the bar to keep your favorite drink in stock.

One hand trails up Alastor’s back as static emits from his skin. It snakes around until it hooks behind his neck to pull him into a kiss. It’s just a quick peck of the lips, but Alastor places a hand around your waist to pull you closer. Such things are reserved in the confines of privacy, but it seems he doesn’t mind tonight.

There’s an imprint of your lipstick on his skin. It’s something you don’t bother mentioning to him

“Just before I lose you to the crowd,” you say.  “I’m sure you can’t leave your post for so long, and I’ve already kept you for far too long. Don’t worry about me—I won’t be too far from your gaze.”

Alastor presses one last kiss on your cheek before walking away.

With a scowl on his screen, Vox turns the other direction.

You trail behind him, smiling at the second untouched drink around his hand. It seems he’s also wearing a tail-coat tonight, but it doesn’t suit him as handsomely as it does for your husband.

“So, it seems you're here,” Vox tells you, that proud Overlord puff on his chest as he walks around the room. “And here I was wondering why the life in the room suddenly became dull.”

“Funny,” you say, matching his steps. “It seems you’re still pining for my husband—Will you ever give up on him?”

“Ah yes…the same husband who disappeared on your for seven years,” he says, casually swirling the second drink in his hand. “He left you once, he can leave you again.”

You take a sip of your drink, letting the taste of lemon slide down your throat even as your eye twitches from underneath the deer mask. “It’s quite hilarious to know you still remember how my husband hates lemon undertones in his drink.”

“Well, I didn’t want him choking on such unrefined tastes.”

“Is this meant for Alastor?” You grab the second glass from his hand, bringing it closer to your nose. “Whiskey. Ah… it was meant for him. What—were you too scared to give it to him?”

Vox barks out a laugh, crossing his arm. “It’s for me, actually.”

“Then drink it.”

“It’s been compromised by your stench.” Vox takes the glass and tosses it away.

From across the room, Alastor swirls his whiskey and allows his eyes to wander across the crowd. In a room full of Sinners, he can never be too careful especially when you’re involved. It’s then that his eyes catch Vox inching closer to you, and it’s then that his grip on the glass tightens.

Charlie smiles at Alastor as he doesn’t seem to be listening to her. That’s alright—it’s quite loud and drinks often tend to loosen him up. Alastor’s looking at her, but his body faces the crowd as he leans on one of the tables. It’s almost as if he’s looking out.

It’s been the same pattern for almost fifteen-minutes ever since Alastor came back with a bird mask instead of his own deer mask. Charlie would say something, and he would nod. From time to time, Alastor would glance out into the crowd in the same direction his body is facing.

“So, I had an idea to get more sponsors,” Charlie tells him, tapping the glass for her soda. “We can do a whole music number with flowers and dancing and singing, and I just thought you could be our main lead! The genre would be rap music.”

Alastor’s eyes slid to the crowd once more. “What a spectacular idea!”

Charlie follows his gaze until they land on you. Well, that certainly solved the mystery of where his deer mask went and where the bird one came from. One of the feathers on Alstor’s mask matches yours perfectly.

“Do you think we can get more TVs for the hotel?” she asks. “And I don’t mean the old ones, but the flat-screens that are about fifty-inches.”

You glance over at Alastor and Charlie when you notice their looks, and offer a small smile and a wave.

Alastor smiles back, giving you a wave as well. “Perhaps.”

“How about some digital cameras?” she says. “All of us could take a happy family portrait.”

“Of course.”

Wait-staff carry trays of different types of appetizers. Vox snatches a couple tiny platters, offering some to you. The first bite causes you to hum with delight. It’s quite delicious…but quite small. Vox offers another tiny plate to you, and it’s grabbed enthusiastically.

It’s great that Vox took more than one.

He bites into the cracker with some kind of seafood on them, humming at the taste. “You’ve aged.”

“Yes, it seems I have.” You laugh at him, shaking your head as you take another sip of your drink. “I’m quite lucky that I’m in the company of my husband to grow old with. It’s quite the treat to be able to live day to day with Alastor.”

Vox offers you a bite of the cracker.

You take it, nodding and humming with delight at the taste. “Oh, that’s quite good—here, taste this one.”

At the sight of your laughter, Alastor’s drink shatters into tiny pieces of broken glass. It shatters to the floor.

Charlies raises an eyebrow at him. It only takes a snap of her fingers for magic to work its wonders and clean the broken glass and replace his drink.

“Apologies,” Alastor says, smile widening just a fraction. It doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “I forgot my own strength.”

Once more, Charlie follows Alastor’s gaze until it lands on you, and once more, the glass in his hand shatters when he sees Vox inching closer to offer you some appetizers and then your laughter.

Charlie snaps her fingers and a new drink appears in his hold. “I’m going to run out of glasses eventually.”

Alastor takes a turn around the ballroom after Charlie kicks him away from the corner. It’s all he can do to call his growing ire to keep the guests happy. Afterall, it’s him who controls his emotions and not the other way around. There’s also the matter of his job.

A Sinner blocks his patch, a doll-like smile on her face. “Do you happen to be the Radio Demon?”

“In the flesh!” Alastor’s smile widens to show off the yellow in his teeth, giving a little bow.

“I wasn’t sure with the mask,” she says, motioning towards it. “My friends said they spotted you earlier with a deer mask, but it seems you’ve changed it. I quite like the feathers .... Although, the one that’s different kind of sticks out.”

A muscle in his cheek tightens. “I’m quite fond of that feather,” he says. “It means quite a lot to me, and I don’t take kindly to those who insult what is precious to me.”

“Oh…of course,” she says. “It suits you quite well.”

She points a finger towards his bowtie. It seems it’s a bit crooked. There’s a smile on her face as she reaches out her sully hands to fix it.

Alastor takes a single step back, making it a point to show it off to her that he’s doing so.

The doll-like smile on her face wobbles a little. That’s fine. Alastor always hated dolls. “Oh…um…,” she says, scrambling to recover. “There’s a stain on your lips.”

His ears flicker for a moment, but he runs his thumb across his mouth. Red stains his gloves. It’s the color of your lipstick. “It seems I do.”

“Been drinking too much wine tonight?” She offers him a handkerchief.

“No need.” Alastor takes out his own handkerchief. It has his initials carefully embroidered on them.  He goes to wipe your stain on his lips, but decides against it. “The wine they serve here is quite bland, but luckily there’s something much sweeter on the palate.”

Her smile fades into a frown when she notices the embroidery on the edges of his handkerchief.

Alastor continues to stand with a smile as she tries her best to compliment him in the smallest of ways. It’s quite nice to hear such compliments that inflate his ego.

Although… It's a bit weird.

The thrill of sudden recognition doesn’t hit as high as before. It’s just stagnant now. Praise doesn’t thrill him like they should.

Alastor allows his mind to wander, and his ego inflated to the highest degree when he imagines you standing before him instead, saying the things this random Sinner tells him. (He should figure out a way to get you to compliment him more.)

Plates of food and dozens of empty glass litter the bar table. It’s the aftermath of downing unlimited alcohol and enjoying some appetizers as insults are hurled that not even a merciful god can forgive.

Vox takes a bite of the olive and flicks the toothpick that came with his drink. It lands between your feathers.

A curse escapes your mouth as you try to dig it out. “Why are you even here?”

“It’s a party.” Vox hands you another drink. “I like the music, the drinks are unlimited, and this is quite fun.”

The drink gets downed in one gulp, and you flick the toothpick at a passing Sinner’s hair. It lands between the strands of his hair. “That’s one more point for me,” you say, pumping your fist. “Come on, TV boy—give me my point.”

Vox’s head flashes. It goes from his face to a screen with both your names on it. The number below your name increases on point before his face returns once more.

You shimmy a little dance as your point increases.

Vox makes a face, cringing at your dance. “You’re such a fucking loser.”

“Ha! His loser,” you say, sticking out your tongue.

“You’re still five points down,” he tells you, scowling as he grabs a passing drink from a waiter. “Why suggest this game if you’re not even good at it.”

You shrug, grumbling a little. “I always win against Alastor.”

“Are we not going to get in trouble?” Vox swirls the drink in his hand. “This is still a royal’s party.”

“Aren’t you an Overlord?” you say, taking another bite of a cracker. “Act like it. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to call you out.”

The music catches your attention, and it pulls your focus to the dance floor. Oh…Alastor’s dancing. His broad back puffs out as he moves across the floor with purpose and grace. There’s a charming smile on his face as he dances along the beat of the music.

That looks fun.

 It would certainly be a shame to waste such a beautiful dress by blending in with the decorations on the walls.

You turn to Vox. “Care to dance?”

Vox takes another toothpick, flicking it. It missed the Sinner’s hair. He curses while you pump your fist. “With you?” he says, making a face “Ew—no, that’s disgusting.”

“Alastor’s dancing right now,” you say. “It looks fun.”

Vox raises an eyebrow and glaces to the dance floor. A snarl appears on his lips when he notices that smug smile on the woman dancing with Alastor. “A new challenger?”

You tilt your head, and feathers slide across your face as you observe Alastor dancing. Oh, Vox’s right. There’s a woman with him right now. “Oooooh, who’s that? She’s quite the belle—smash.”

Vox turns to you, making a face. It’s quite funny to see. “Do you even know what that mean—”

“I know what I said.”

His screen shifts and paragraphs of information appear on his face. “Oh…she’s one of the daughters of the Ars Goetia.” The scowl on his face deepens as he continues watching, and he offers an arm towards you. “Come on—let’s dance. Game on, bitch.”

“Just ignore her,” you tell him. “She’s no threat to me, and I allow you to flirt with Alastor all the time.”

“That’s because I play fair,” Vox says, rolling his eyes. “We have our rules, and it creates order. This bitch doesn’t know that…and hasn’t someone ever told her—three’s a crowd.”

Once more, you turn to the dance floor. Alastor’s graceful movements catch your eyes and a delighted hum escapes your lips. His body dances with control and power. There’s awe in the woman’s face as Alastor dances with her. 

That’s alright—she’s only doing her due diligence.

Only a blind fool wouldn’t appreciate how Alastor’s hair sways with each side-step, or how his tail-coat fits handsomely across his back, or how charming his smile paints across his lips, or how the dress-pants he wears compliments how long his legs are.

Vox may be a fool but at least he isn’t blind.

“Holy fuck! Woman—get it together!” Vox points towards the dance floor, to the Sinner dancing with Alastor.

There’s a triumph in her smile. She dances with Alastor as if she won.

Vox watches your expression carefully, chuckling as a cold look steels your face despite the gentle smile. Oh, it is so on.

“Well, this just won’t do. If there’s one thing I hate—it’s those who don’t know their place,” you say, snaking your arm around Vox with a smile. “Game on, bitch.”

Vox escorts you towards the middle of the dance floor, that proud Overlord puff back on his chest. It’s quite easy to match his movements when he always was quite the talented dancer.

“Hey…,” you say, eyes twitching. “What are you doing?”

Vox’ hands hover above your skin, refusing to make contact. “I’m afraid that if I touch you, my life would turn to ruin like everything else that has had the misfortune of meeting you,” he tells you, a triumphant smile on his lips. “And you’re doing the exact same thing!”

“That’s because I’m married. It would be improper of me to be touching such a slimy Sinner.” You slam the point of your heel right on his shoe. “My apologies…it would be much easier to dance if you’re actually holding me.”

Vox steps on your toes, and you snarl at him. “You first, witch.”

“As you say whenever Velvette tells you to take a bath—no thanks.”

“The I guess you say the same thing about shampoo—”

“May I interrupt?”  There’s a wide smile on Alastor’s lips that show off the yellow in his teeth. He stands in the middle of the ballroom, not caring as others give him weird looks for blocking the path. Alastor stands proud as his hand offers itself to you.

Across the dance floor, there’s an irritated look on the woman’s face when Alastor abandoned her mid-dance. There’s a smile on your lips as you show her what real triumph looks like.

Vox smiles at him, and hands you towards your husband. “Of course.”

He takes your hand, playing with the tips of your fingers before intertwining them. A hand snakes around your waist to pull you flush against his chest. The music flows slowly across the room. It’s sweet melodies forcing you to lean your head on his chest.

Alastor squeezes your hand.

You squeeze back.

His legs slide between your as Alastor dips you low, a hand on the small of your back to support your waist. He takes the lead in this waltz, spinning and twirling your around while pressing himself as close as possible to you.

The side of his cheek, nuzzles into the crown of your feathers as you’re swayed around the ballroom.

“I’ve found myself in a bit of a corner,” you say, snaking your hand up and down his back as if to pet it. “I owe Vox two dances. You interrupted the first, but there’s still the matter of the second one.”

Alastor’s hand tightens around you, and shadows flare around the room. It causes dancing couples to instinctively take a step away. “Did he force you into a deal?”

“Not at all,” you say, nuzzling into his hold. “I lost a bet, that’s all. You know me, I get rather competitive, and got a little bored a while ago after getting my fill of food and drinks.”

 “I’ll take your place so just stay far away from him.” Alastor’s smile turns into a snarl. “Don’t worry, he won’t bother you again after this.”

You go on the tip of your toes to press a kiss. “Thank you.”

Alastor twirls you underneath his arm. “I never got to ask…,” he begins. “How do you like my outfit?”

“It suits you very well, my love,” you tell him. “In fact, I have to say that you are the most handsomest of handsome, and those pants really do you some justice.”

Alastor flicks your nose. “Stop it.”

“Should I really?”

“No…,” he says, leaning into your ear. “I want to hear more.”

The dance ends eventually, and Alastor behind you with one hand on your shoulders and the other holding you to escort you like a gentleman.

Vox greets you with a wave, another drink around his hand.

You step out of Alastor’s hold and press a hand on Vox’ shoulder to whisper into his ear. “As you dance with my husband, I want you to know that he’s taking your hand only because I allow it,” you tell him with a smile. “I want you to know that it’s only possible because of the permission I grant you.”

Vox snorts and offers a hand out for Alastor. “Understood.”

The musicians play their instruments and music once again fills the dancefloor. Sinners stay paces away as Vox and Alastor dance, especially given the threatening expression on Alastor’s face. It’s funny how Vox doesn’t seem to mind Alastor’s darkened gaze.  The irritated look on your husband's face makes you a bit guilty. Oh well, you’ll make it up to him later.

The dance ends, and both Vox and Alastor go their separate ways once more. There’s a twinkle in Vox’s eyes as he gives you a small nod of farewell. It has you shaking your head.

Alastor wipes his hands before taking your hand once more. “Let’s go.”

“Already?” you say, frowning. “We’ve only had one dance so far.”

“We can dance to your heart's content, my love…just not here,” Alastor says, fixing the straps of your dress. His hands ghost around the zipper, and it lingers there for more than a moment. “Apparently, I’ve maxed out my working days. Charlie told me it was in my contract and I have to spend them before I can go back to work at the hotel. She practically kicked me out. So, I have the next few days off.”

“That’s good.”

“Shall we go?” Alastor brings your hand closer, pressing a kiss on the ring around your finger. “Home—our home.”

“Really?” you say. “You’re going to go home with me?”

“For the next two weeks.”

Alastor watches your smile brighten as your eyes crinkle. It’s the most precious thing in this ballroom, and its radiance can light up the whole room. You spring up to hug him, squealing as you wrap your arms around his neck. The force of your hug causes him to take a couple steps back to keep from falling over. Alastor places a hand on the small of your back to steady you.

His bowtie is crooked. 

You point towards it,and reach out a hand to straighten the fabric. Alastor takes a single step forward, leaning down to allow more access. The pads of your thumb smoothen his crooked bowtie.

Vox catches your eyes and he toasts a drink in your direction.

You remove the wedding ring around your finger, slipping it over your middle finger instead. The ring and the finger are presented to Vox as you leave with Alastor’s arm around your waist.

Game on, bitch.

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Alastor whenever someone flirts with you : hiss hiss, get away from my wife. Reader whenever someone flirts with Alastor: Fucking understandable. Finally, someone with good fucking taste. This is so funny and silly. Vox and Reader are so sibling-coded that it wonderful. I love fan-fiction. I love how unserious it can be

[harmonictechnicality]

Robin drags Steve to a local art exhibit on a goddamn weeknight. This is not his scene at all.

Pretentious douchebags in scarves discussing if that splatter of paint represents socioeconomic downfall? Nah, this shit is not for him.

Robin ditches him halfway through the exhibit to talk to some sculptor that she’s got a thing for. Honestly, Steve would’ve done the same thing if it were him. But still, Steve is five minutes away from leaving her ass and taking a cab home.

He’s sitting on metal bench, centered a few feet away from the oversized canvas of scattered colors.

It looks like such a mess. Scribbled strokes of paint and lines that bump into curves. Everything intersecting. Someone would probably try to convince him that it represents the artist’s troubled past or fucked up childhood.

To Steve, it’s just a mess.

“What do you think?” A voice asks, joining Steve on the bench.

He looks to be about Steve’s age. Bold features, bolder hairstyle. All black clothes with chunky red combat boots. Elaborate tattoos creeping over the collar of his shirt.

Steve shrugs. “Truthfully? I don’t get it.”

“It’s art. What don’t you get about it?” The guy looks stunned.

Is Steve really about to argue with a complete stranger over lines and colors?

“There’s nothing but lost movements.”

Guess he is.

Steve observes the nameplate next to the canvas and goes off.

“Like this Eddie Munson guy held up a paintbrush and went, ‘fuck it, they’ll never know this is bullshit.’ Honestly, this whole place is a facade for people to masquerade around, pretending to be in tune to artistic expression, but they’re not.”

“They’re not?”

“No.” Steve answers immediately, a little defensive. “Nobody here gives a shit about what the artist is trying to convey, and this artist…”

Steve points at the artwork.

“This Munson guy knew that. Knew he could fool every rich asshole in this place.”

The guy looks at the painting and laughs. He’s got a nice smile, Steve thinks. Wide and genuine. Not too perfect. Not overly rehearsed. Like he doesn’t give out smiles to just anyone.

“Eddie Munson couldn’t fool you though, could he?” He finally says, looking directly at Steve.

The intense eye contact makes Steve a bit fidgety. Nervous. “I guess not, no.”

“I like that.”

“Like what?”

“That you refuse to see what everyone else sees.” The guy turns away, releasing Steve from the gaze. “Even if that would be easier.”

It almost sounded like he was trying to say he likes Steve. Not that Steve would complain if that were true. This guy is not his type, but that doesn’t mean he’s unwilling to expand his definition of type for someone that’s interested in him.

“What do you think about it?” Steve tilts his head towards the canvas.

The guy twists the ring on his thumb, processing an answer. He crosses his legs, then un-crosses them. Twists the ring counterclockwise now.

“I think the painter abandoned their originality to meet their growing audience’s expectations of them as an artist.” He finally says.

Steve scoffs. “How did you draw up a conclusion like that?”

The guy hums and abruptly changes the topic. “What did you say your name was?”

“Steve Harrington.”

“Right.” He gets up and gestures toward a ‘staff only’ door. “Up for a little field trip, Steve Harrington?”

This is dumb. Breaking laws is something Steve left behind in his angst-filled teen years.

But this guy is bad-boy hot and Steve is painfully bored, so he follows the stranger despite his better judgement.

They enter the door and are instantly greeted by a trail of empty paint buckets. There’s dirty tarps covering the floors and countless canvases laid out across the wide room.

Right away, Steve can tell this is what art is all about. The chaos. The urgency to create as soon inspiration strikes.

And these paintings look nothing like the one hanging in the gallery. These paintings are full narratives told through shapes and pigments.

These paintings could be an autobiography on the topic of someone who experiences life deeply. Passionately.

These are the untold masterpieces.

“Wow.” Is all Steve finally comes up with.

“To answer your question,” the stranger gestures grandly to the entirety of the room. “This is how I drew up that conclusion.”

“This was the originality. It’s stuck behind these four walls, but it’s where everything started. It’s where everything should have stayed.”

Steve carefully watches the man explore all the different works of art. Bending down to touch some. Smiling playfully at others. Steve is stupidly captivated by his ability to shine amongst literal art.

“What did you say your name was?”

The guy chuckles and walks back over to Steve. “I didn’t.”

“Right. Are you gonna tell me?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends on if you’ll still kiss me after I tell you.”

They’re standing close, Steve hadn’t realized it until now. Maybe it was him closing the distance. Maybe it was the stranger. Maybe it was gravity growing tired of their mediocre foreplay.

But they’re close now. So close that Steve can see the lightening bolt tattoo below the stranger’s left ear. A thought runs rampant in Steve’s slutty mind that he could see every single neck tattoo if he were to start unbuttoning this guy’s shirt.

He’s close enough to do it.

“I’ll still kiss you afterwards,” Steve agrees dreamily. Getting high off of paint fumes and close proximity.

The stranger lets his hand wander up the back of Steve’s neck, breaths getting caught in Steve’s throat at the contact.

“I’m that Eddie Munson guy.” He says in a low whisper. “The same one who held up a paintbrush and went, ‘fuck it, they’ll never know this is bullshit.’”

Every word he utters is cautious now. Like Steve might change his mind about kissing him.

Steve doesn’t change his mind.

He pulls hard at Eddie’s collar, lets their lips collide dizzily fast. Eddie’s mouth pushes against his to lead the kiss, Steve is more than happy to let him do so.

It’s a noisy kiss. Sounds escaping out of the corners of their mouths. Airy gasps and rustling clothes filling the open space.

Steve breaks the kiss to speak, inhaling as much oxygen as he can get. “I’m guessing you bring lots of guys back here and woo them with your secretly amazing art.”

Eddie had transitioned to kissing Steve’s neck while he was talking, but stops as soon as Steve says that.

“You’ve got it all wrong, sweetheart.” Eddie cradles Steve’s flushed cheeks with both hands. “I only bring pretty boys who refuse to see what everyone else sees back here.”

Steve moves Eddie’s hands and wraps them around his own neck. “Even if that would be easier.”

Eddie smiles. “Exactly.”

He goes back to sucking on Steve’s neck, like he was rudely interrupted before, and Steve starts to feel as chaotic as the art surrounding them. Eddie marks him with a fresh bruise, just below his right ear. Mirroring the exact spot where Eddie’s lightening tattoo is located.

Eddie licks over it. Swirling his tongue in sweltering circles, making Steve pant wow as he finishes the creation he was designing solely with his mouth.

He exhales a single laugh into their kiss.

“Why are you laughing?” Steve asks.

Eddie shakes his head.

“I really like doing things that make you say wow like that, Steve Harrington.”

Steve kisses Eddie’s cheek. “I really like that too.”

Eddie kisses him thoroughly slow once more, then nibbles over Steve’s ear as he whispers:

“Kinda curious to find out what else I can make you say.”

[strangerstilinski]

eddie the hero

summary; the holidays bring about daddy issues of the decidedly un-sexy variety, but eddie is a total sweetheart and a goofball to boot. (this is very self indulgent.) 2.6k warnings; some angst but a very very fluffy end, trauma from overly-critical parents, eddie being sweet, some blood, a brief anxiety attack maybe?, i think reader is written gn (eddie refers to reader as a fair maiden but like jokingly? so do with that what you will) a/n; turns out, a combination of being home for the holidays and listening to mean by miss swift on the drive out brought up, uh... this. shout out to my dad for being himself over this holiday season, and shoutout ruby for very delicately insisting (repeatedly) that i get my shit together and simply.. make something of this trauma dump. so here it is; a wee bit of angst with lots of fluff to round it all out.

The kitchen is in chaos.

You've got about a hundred different things going at once in an effort to get everything ready for the holiday dinner that you and Eddie agreed to host. The smell of cinnamon from your morning baking endeavors still lingers in the air, though it's slowly being overtaken by rosemary and and the earthy scent of fresh vegetables. The hair at the nape of your neck is beginning to feel a bit stifling with heat from the oven already warming house, and you make a mental note to crack a window once your friends and family begin trickling in.

It's a little overwhelming, but you're doing your best to get what you've deemed the more detailed-oriented aspects of preparation done while Eddie is busy in the shower.

You intend to be finished by the time he's done getting ready. A mental plan has been laid out. You'll have the knife in your hand washed and dried and put away before he even emerges from the bathroom— no problem.

There was a problem though: you hadn't been quick enough.

You're in a zone of sorts. So much so, that you don't notice the footfalls of your boyfriend making his way down the hallway toward the kitchen. When he speaks from the doorway, his voice takes you completely by surprise.

"What are you doing?" Eddie's voice is soft as ever, though you're unable to process the gentle innocence in the tone of his question.

The realization that you've been caught has the heat in the kitchen very suddenly feeling entirely too warm. Your collar is entirely too tight around your neck while your mind whirls with sudden anxiety.

It's as if Eddie is no longer there. Instead, your ears are filled with the echo of your father's voice, the condescension in his tone ringing sharply in your skull.

"What are you doing?"

"Why are you doing it like that?"

"It's not that hard, bud. Just do it like this and it'll be better. How many times do I have to tell you-"

His voice would toe the line between irritated and amused, narrowed eyes making you feel a fool. It would prompt a frustrated prickle behind your own eyes and a tightness in your jaw when he'd show you the way you should've been doing it in the first place.

You heart races now with that unhealed scab of your father's never ending dissatisfaction. His impossible standards. His mean little digs and criticisms that masqueraded as him merely wanting you to be better.

Because you could always be better.

Growing up it was sports, your effort in school, it was the way you putted in mini golf, it was 'why on earth would you not dry the glasses when you washed dishes? That's just stupid because now they'll air dry with spots and-' From there began the slow evolution into the way that you drove your car, the way you spent money, how often you called and what time of day you called when you did..

Nothing you did was enough. In his eyes, there here was always something wrong, something that could be improved.

It's entirely possible that the stress of the holiday is getting to you already, if the way you've very quickly begun to spiral is any indication. And though there's nothing more than curiosity in your boyfriend's question, the familiarity of it makes you flinch nonetheless.

It happens in a flash. The paring knife in your grip slips and the blade slices the edge of your thumb instead of the potato you'd been getting prepped for boiling. A sharp sting that you barely notice. The sight of the blood that pools quick from the shallow cut has your ears ringing, Eddie's soft curses sounding muffled when they curl at your ears. It's a bit like you're underwater, sounds eerily distorted and brain fuzzy with the heavy beat of your heart.

"Sorry—"

It comes out as nothing more than a murmur under your breath. With a slight delay, you have the foresight to move your hand from above the bowl of already sliced and cleaned potatoes. Wrist now clutched to your chest, you zero in on the drops of blood that have already stained a few of them, red bleeding into the starchy whiteness.

"S-sorry, I just-"

Your voice is shaking as Eddie grabs a kitchen towel, his hands gently cradling your own and dabbing the towel at the cut so he can examine the severity of your injury. His brows are furrowed beneath the wispy curtain of his wet bangs, brown eyes wide with worry. His fingers are free of their normal assortment of rings, likely because he'd come out with the intent of helping you cook. Your eyes flick between his bare fingers and his shower-damp hair, between the roundness of his chin and the frown pulling at his lips — guilt pools heavily in your gut at the sight.

"I shouldn't 've been using a knife anyway, but I couldn't find the peeler s-so I just used the knife. I-I know it wastes more of the potato, I know that's not-" Your breath comes out trembling, your whole body wracking with it as your eyes prickle and burn with embarrassment. Your words come quicker, panicked, "I just wanted to get them done so I could get them in the water and start on the beans, but now I-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Eddie soothes, wide palm coming up to your flushed face where his thumb drags slow over the apple of your cheek while his other hand works to secure the dish towel in your fist to stop the bleeding, "Breathe, sweetheart. You're okay."

"I'm sorry," You whisper, voice thick with tears, "Was s' stupid, I'm sorry-"

"Baby.. Baby, hey-" His voice is soft. He squares his shoulders and follows your movement as he tries to meet your eye, brown finally connecting with shining pools that threaten to spill over. The pad of his thumb catches the first drop the moment that it breaks free, smoothing the moisture along your skin as he repeats the slow back and forth motion over your cheek. "The cut's not bad, it's not very deep.. What's going on, sweet thing? What's got you so worked up?"

Your next breath catches and it has your whole body quaking when it eventually whooshes out of your chest, a pitiful little sniffle escaping you in response to the sudden influx of tears.

"I- I was doing it wrong. I know- And then I- I got blood all over the potatoes-"

"We can wash the potatoes." Eddie says all too easily, though his voice still has that anxious edge to it that does nothing to make you feel better.

"We can.. We can wash the potatoes.." You repeat cautiously, as if the thought hadn't yet occurred to you.

"Yeah, baby. We can wash the potatoes." He echoes gently.

A shaky breath falls past your lips as you nod, "Sorry." You say again.

"I'm sorry," He insists with a shake of his head, "I came in here like a bat outta hell while you were holding a knife, and I scared you into hurting yourself. I was just- Potatoes we're supposed to be one'a my jobs. And, uh-" A grimacing excuse of a smile pulls at his lips, his eyes drifting to the discarded knife that lay at the bottom of the sink, "Well.. You couldn't find the peeler because it's in the dishwasher-"

You have to fight back a sigh at his admission, "Eddie-" You admonish weakly.

"I know, I know. It's not dishwasher safe. I know that, I do," Eddie says in a rush, "You've told me a million times, I just forget in the moment. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

His earnest apology has you reeling a bit. The fact that Eddie's instinct is not just to apologize, but also to explain away his mistake with guilt dripping heavy from his words-

You suddenly feel a bit like a monster. A cruel, perfection-driven bully of your father's creation. It has a fresh wave of tears pooling in your eyes and threatening to well over.

"God," The word comes out a choked sounding thing, buried beneath the tightness in your throat, "I'm sorry, Eddie. It's not a big deal, really, 's just a peeler. If the dishwasher ruins it we'll just buy another one for, like, a dollar."

"Yeah?" Eddie treads, a cautious smile pulling at the corner of his mouth while his thumb continues to drag soft over the wetness spread across your cheekbone.

"Yeah," You sniffle around the word, panic and realization settling in and promoting your chest to heave with quick breaths, "Jesus. Y-You shouldn't be worried about my reaction to something so.. So stupid. Fuck. I- I'm just like him-"

"Woah, woah, woah. Baby, hey.. Just like who?" Eddie interrupts with a renewed sense of urgency, "What're you talkin' about?"

"My dad-" You sob, shoulders trembling with it.

"Oh, baby, hey. Hey-"

In a flash, Eddie is guiding your head into the crook of his neck, wetness transferring onto his skin as a dam breaks and your body trembles with a series of heavy sobs. You slot into the space below his jaw just as perfectly as you always do, the two of you fitting together like puzzle pieces.

He smells like shaving cream and the conditioner you'd bought him especially for curly hair. The combination of the rich masculine scent on his skin with the sweet citrusy perfume clinging to his damp hair makes your head spin as you try valiantly to follow his soft demands for you to calm down.

His voice rumbles soft over your ear as he shushes you, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your temple all the while. The towel wrapped around your fist tightens when Eddie's bigger hand encases your own, a slow sway overtaking your body as he urges your weight to shift from foot to foot in a soothing motion. He rocks you back and forth, your socked feet shuffling against the kitchen tile, your boyfriend's chest pressed tight to your own.

A wide palm smooths up and down your spine, a tune that sounds distantly familiar rumbling over your ear when Eddie begin to hum softly into your hair.

A minute passes, shuddering breaths come and less, the heaving of your chest and the tears in your eyes settling until each sniffle feels more embarrassing than anything else. A weak laugh bubbles up from your throat as you hone in on your boyfriend's socked feet nudging at yours with every shift side to side, your fist tightening around the blood-stained towel for a moment before you're hooking your own fingers around the back of his hand, palms clasped together.

"'re we slow dancing right now?" You ask a bit breathlessly, finally lifting your head from the curve of his neck to peer up at his with swollen, reddened eyes.

"Mhm," Eddie hums and drops his forehead against your own. That hand on your spine hikes you up against him, air forced from your lungs and another bubbling laugh pushed up your throat.

"You trying to woo me, Munson?" Your tease comes out a bit raspy from all of the crying, but you watch a grin pull at his lips regardless.

"Why?" Big brown eyes flick between your own, a little cross-eyed with how close your faces sit, "S'it working?"

You bring your free hand up to curl around the back of his neck, fingers slipping beneath his wet curls to ensure his forehead doesn't leave yours.

"It might be.." The words come out in a murmur.

You're feeling a bit mesmerized by his proximity, even after all this time. A sudden spin from your boyfriend has you stumbling over your feet, the only thing keeping you from losing your balance completely being the steadying hand that quickly finds a place on your hip and slides back to the base of your spine.

"It might be?" Eddie repeats with a scoff, "Oh, it might be, you say." A small huff of laughter escapes you and puffs out against his chin as he continues on, "Well I guess I'll just have to up the ante then, won't I? What shall I do, my fair maiden? What is it you desire? I could finish this lovely holiday dinner by myself, provide thee with sustenance-"

It's you who scoffs this time, "Right, hilarious. Our friends and Wayne will be here in less than two hours-"

"Or perhaps I'll wait until nightfall, pluck a star straight from the sky for you. Because what other courting gift could be better suited for a maiden who shines so bright-"

"Eddie," You can't help but laugh at his dramatics. The drying tear streaks on your cheeks are long forgotten now, the ridiculous man in front of you is nothing if not an expert in getting your whole attention focused on him.

"No. No, you're right. That couldn't possibly be enough to prove my endless love and devotion," He makes a show of shaking his head as he releases you from his hold and takes a step back. A sidestep has him bumping into the sink basin, a wide grin already pulling at his lips. "But this!" He announces as he snatches the bloody paring knife from the sink with a flourish, "This cursed object! Laced with evil, I'm sure! This blade that has brought harm upon you!"

You watch Eddie dispose of the knife with a smile pulling at your lips, and you only spare a small wince at the fleeting worry that it might tear through the plastic bag lining the inside of the garbage can. Eddie drops to his knees in a flash, dark denim coming into contact with the kitchen tile at your feet. His hands grip at the backs of your thighs as he looks up at you with wide eyes, the brown pools swimming with mischief and humor and love.

"-It is dealt with, my dear. It will never hurt you again. This I swear-"

The blood-stained towel falls to the floor as you take his head in your hands, carefully avoiding the drying cut on your thumb. You're swallowing down laughter as you guide him to his feet again. Your heart feels full enough to burst, and Eddie's expression of faux-seriousness is almost enough to push a giggle from your lips.

"Oh, my hero," You whisper with all of the dramatisation you can manage, "My big, handsome savior. Whatever would I have done without you here to protect me? How can I ever thank you?"

Eddie brings his palms up to your cheeks in a flash, and you know it must be a ridiculous sight. The current disaster zone that is the kitchen; ingredients lining every available inch of countertop space, a pot of salted water very nearly boiling on the stovetop, and the two of you standing at the center of it all — cradling one another's faces with all the care in the world.

Brown eyes flick slow over your face, the freckles on the bridge of Eddie's nose catching your attention all the while.

"One million kisses." He proposes.

A laugh does escape you now, though it's a giddy one, slightly flustered by just how sweet the man before you is. Your cheeks feel warm with it as your uninjured thumb drags soft over his cheek.

"One million?"

"One hundred million!" He counters immediately.

"One hundred million?" You repeat in disbelief, "Now, what's a guy like you going to do with one hundred million kisses should I give them to you?"

"Maybe you're right. Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Eddie nods valiantly, "We could start with just one, and work our way up."

"That sounds more than reasonable," Your cheeks are beginning to ache with your smile.

You push up onto your toes to brush your lips over his, scarcely touching. But when Eddie pushes forward, you rock back in an easy move, your mouth remaining just out of his reach.

"I am going to need that knife to finish dinner though," You whisper, the hushed words rushing over his lips in one breath, "The others are too dull-"

"Consider it retrieved and washed," Eddie says easily, "As soon as I get my kiss-"

It ends up being more smile than kiss, in the end, but there will be millions more to make up for it.

[pangolin-404]

non-exhaustive list of masked headcanons:

A group of Masked is called a "masquerade".

The process of possession kills the host, and the mask immediately begins to take root in the host's skull and eat away at the body. It can take weeks for the mask's root system to fully take hold, and a healthy root system allows for finer control of the host body, slowed rates of decomposition, and better long-term nutrient intake.

A Masked is not its host, despite Masked appearing to retain some of the host's instinct and reflex. Very fresh Masked may respond to their host's name, become extremely distressed when fled or fought, or attempt to vocalize spoken language, but they are still an active threat. They are not your friend.

In the immediate aftermath of converting an employee to a fellow Masked while more are in the immediate vicinity, both individuals will be distracted (when unprovoked) for up to one minute before resuming a hunt. Use this time wisely.

To a Masked, its blood is its sole defense, chemically altered to boil under excitement or duress.

Bracken mistakenly hunt Masked, but abandon them once realizing what they are, as Brackens only feed on fresh meat. The Masked will expend energy mending the damaged nerves, un-snap its neck, and get up just fine eventually.

When outdoors, Forest Keepers are the top predator of Masked, because Masked are bad at registering things as threats.

Snare fleas are an exception, as potential damage to the mask will make the Masked break into a panicked state of running aimlessly, vocalizing, and regurgitation until the flea inevitably dies.

Jesters will follow Masked around, and rarely wind. If a Jester starts winding, it will eventually stop without popping.

Thumpers will attack Masked, and will eat the mask.

Masked occasionally pick up and hold scrap. Some still carry a long-dead flashlight or walkie-talkie.

They have excellent night vision.

Masked appear to have an appreciation for music. Attempts at dancing around winding Jesters have been observed.

Masked are known to sleep standing up. They alternate between sleeping and standing stationary to reserve energy and make potentially nearby employees approach. Company employees are advised to assume any standing Masked is an awake and hunting Masked.

Masked that are more decomposed will sit to rest and sleep more, but struggle getting up again.

Masked are more docile in groups, and will go out searching for employees far less when they already have company. Most masquerades are three to five Masked strong, but the largest infestation recorded had over two dozen members.

Masked are very affectionate with one another and will often vocalize together, hug, hold hands, and "kiss" (clacking their masks together) for enjoyment. A fight between Masked has never been recorded.

If a Masked is injured, its masquerade will take care of it and defend it. If the host is unsalvageable, the mask is either abandoned or carried for a small period of time before being apparently forgotten. In larger masquerades, a mask with a dead host is more quickly abandoned than in smaller masquerades.

It is unclear if a Masked recognizes a host-less mask as one of its own.

It is unclear if masquerading behavior affects a Masked's sense of individuality.

Masked in masquerades will mimic each other's behavior until they act in unison. The Company is unsure if they form true hiveminds.

Tragedy Masked exist, though are rare. It is unclear why Masked have this apparently random variation. They behave the same as the more common comedy Masked, but cry instead of laugh. Some comedy Masked appear distressed when recent tragedy additions to the masquerade cry and smother it in affection until an understanding is reached.

Tragedy Masked will pretend to be an employee in distress, crying to lure employees in. If part of a masquerade, the other Masked will hide and strike when any prey comes too close.

Sometimes this backfires when pretending to be injured or frightened distresses the Masked around it, which come out of hiding to comfort the tragedy, much to its confusion.

Tragedies cannot laugh, and comedies cannot cry. However, all Masked can perform other vocalizations, such as hissing and growling when attacked.

The common observance of the mask rattling on the host's head is believed to be out of excitement, and is only seen when actively hunting or when around other Masked.

Masked require very little to sustain themselves, but it is believed they are opportunistic hyper-carnivores who occasionally hunt hoarding bugs, snare fleas, or hatchling thumpers to supplement the nutrients leeched from the host body. Masked readily share kills with any Masked nearby, but do not tend to hunt in parties larger than two or three.

Due to the state of the host's face and jaw post-possession, Masked cannot chew. To eat, they regurgitate activated (boiling) blood onto a desired food and drink the resulting slurry.

It is unknown where Masked originated. It is under heavy debate whether they have crustacean ancestry or are highly specialized fungi. Rumors that they are artificial life created for war are, in fact, just rumors.

When a Masked's host rots away until it cannot move, the mask will enter a dormant state. Eventually, the host body is picked apart by scavengers such as baboon hawks, hoarding bugs, and snare fleas. The mask, inedible to most, is typically discarded or added to a hoarding bug nest.

While environmental conditions adjust its durability, a Masked host is usable for four to five months on average. Heat, injury, repeated hunts (exerted energy) regardless of success or failure, and anemia drastically shorten a host's usability. The mask itself, if not shattered or eaten, is functionally immortal.

[tanoraqui]

Dungeon Meshi Liveblog: I THINK BEING A NECROMANCER WOULD FIX ME, TOO

HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE, ARE WE GOING TO EAT HIM?!

.

I think my boy Laios just headbutted a phoenix?

.

He's so fucking clever under stress, I love him so much!!!

.

/laughing

.

Dad energy.

.

Book's awake!

You: What?

Me, loading a gun to go kill this motherfucker before it messes with Marcille and to a lesser extent Laios: Book's awake.

.

This is normal sibling behavior on Falin's part, actually.

.

holy shit I'm about to meet the rabbits everyone was :)ing about. The rabbits that haunt Chilchuck's concept of monsters. THE Rabbits.

.

.

oh my god the rabbits

.

MARCILLE NO! (MARCILLE YES!)

(Chilchuck is going to be so. pissed. when he finds out about this.)

.

MOVE ASIDE, CHIMERA GIRL, I'M MARRYING THIS WOMAN!

what a line, too. Oh my god I really do want to play a Necromancer wizard sometime...

.

I'm laughing hysterically. This is the best. I'm just going to keep some of the best panels but oh my god they're all the best.

I'm getting strong Candace Flynn (Phineas & Ferb) "Squirrels In My Pants" x "Queen of Mars" vibes?!?

.

SHOUTOUT TO IZUTSUMI FOR KILLING A DUNGEON RABBIT WITH HER BARE TEETH!! And also for enduring this, uh, zombie nightmare. Necromancers amiright.

(/sobs - I wanna play a necromancer wizard in a long-plot D&D game SO BAD...)

.

IT WORKED, THOUGH! Marcille, it worked. You did it. Laios had total faith in you (Laios had total faith in a friend again and he was right again), and you did it. You saved them all. And you're going to make a stew for Falin, which is the language of love and life-giving, and save her, too.

.

And! the fact that this is all happening in this room where Thistle has been desperately trying to retain a masquerade of life just as grotesque, though slightly more pretty, as Marcille's mass animation there! Except it wasn't really more pretty at all, because absolutely everything was a mess - our heroes were the ones who made it nice enough to actually live in. But everyone is still just as dead ("alive" but un-hungering, even when conscious) as Laios, Senshi, Chilchuck, Izutsumi and these rabbits - mimicking the motions of life, of walking and moving or of growing crops, raising farm animals and sitting down to eat... Thistle is in blind denial; Marcille is weeping.

.

ohhh my god she's not just taking measures to avoid personal loss, or to prevent anyone else from avoiding personal loss... She, too, is aware of the interracial politics... (And it's lifespans specifically to which she doesn't want to lose anyone ever again. That's why the monster appeared in the background when Chilchuck told her that halffeet lifespans are 50 years, that's why Laios was specifically dying of old age in her nightmare... It really was SPECIFICALLY old age that terrifies her... Death by monster or murder or whatnot is one thing, but she Does Not Want to outlive anyone she loves, and she doesn't want anyone else to have to do it either.)

eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes

[rebelcracker-s]

It is an honor to kill for the Queen of Hearts. (chloe sneaks into the queen's un-masquerade to fulfill a dangerous mission. princess red, as always, has big plans for her mother's party—and for chloe.)

red/chloe nation come get your juice

[inumbrapugnabimus-maybe]

unearthing an old loz au :D

Extensive rambling and plot and everything in between below

ok so I made this au over a year ago and the other day in an attempt to procrastinate my brain reminded me of it so here it is! Redesigned!

Ummm basically this version of Hyrule has already fallen to Ganon, and (much like in Narnia) it got very, very cold as a result (I’m still working on the exact ins and out of this, but there IS a reason why lol)

Therefore, Zelda’s clothes are A), very warm, with lots of layers, and B), rather hodgepodged together, as they’re all borrowed. She hasn’t been able to wear her royal clothes in years, as she’s hiding from Ganon. And also most of them burned with Hyrule Castle.

so the embroidered frock (embroidered with flowers for symbolism reasons) thingie is about as princessy as her clothes will get XD

the reason she masquerades as Sheik in this au is more to hide from Link than Ganon. The latter is unaware that the princess escaped, while Link has some issues he’s working through lol

basically, when the kingdom was very suddenly overthrown, a confused and unimportant kid named Link (who was aware of the danger due to reasons I’ll get around to if I post his design), managed to save Zelda, who was still pretty young, and very much terrified. Terrified to see her terrified, Link’s protective side activated, and, well, it never really un-activated after that.

He managed to get her to a quiet, little known town on the outskirts of Hyrule, where some Sheikah (notably Impa) had taken refuge as well. They promised to guard her, and Link headed off to suffer the slow realization that he was a hero alone.

meanwhile, Zelda grew up, and grew stronger, and (once again due to things I won’t quite talk about yet) began to understand her duty towards her people, and to the hero. But, when Link returned to inform Impa of the plans he had made, he was very against Zelda helping him in any way (mainly out of fear for her).

so Zelda came along as Sheik instead :D

A few little things of note, now

I am vaguely basing Link’s inner struggle off my older brother… Link and Zelda do not have a brother/sister relationship however; it ends up a romance >:)

The only difference between Sheik and Zelda is simply that by the time Link sees her again as Sheik, she has dyed her hair and she’s been in the sun a bit more… magic is not involved in this case. Honestly it only works because Link didn’t know Zelda very well before lol

Zelda likes to sew, and garden as much as the climate will let her.

She has a very bright personality, but she takes what other people say to heart. I’ve found whenever I make an loz au, Zelda and/or Link don’t start out with Wisdom and Courage, but rather must gain it to some extent. This story is no different.

In some cases, I focus only on one of them, but this story specifically is about both. They grow together, just like Hyrule must grow again :D

in this story, they are all traumatized. Including Ganon. (he also has a backstory I’m working on hehe)

finally, the sheik design is not final… I’m still working on it lol

ok, that’s it! Byeeeeee

[loweya-blog]

Cinderella (Obey Me Edition)

(Part 2, Part 3)

Once upon a time....

You were broke. Your job barely paid minimum wage and most of your cash went to paying the rent. Things like buying yourself new clothes that actually looked good on you or any sort of hobby items were out of your reach, unless you wanted to skip breakfast for the next few weeks.

Money had always been a difficulty for you but especially hurt when your friends went out to a fancy restaurant or some event where you couldn't attend due to your minimal paycheck. Perhaps you told yourself it was fine. Perhaps you hated it. But you had to move forwards, looking towards an uncertain future. Making do with what you could get at every turn.

Yet months of such conditions can wear a person down. Most of your time was taken up by work, creating an isolating atmosphere. The loneliness within your heart grew with every passing day as the world around you began looking duller and duller with each passing day. All you wanted was one nice night out with a few friends...

One day, a letter arrived.

It was right at your doorstep despite the fact you had a perfectly functional mailbox. A black envelope with gold trimmings and a dark red seal laid right at your door. When you took it inside and opened it, you found a beautifully handwritten invitation by some guy named Diavolo.

"Dear Recipient,

Congratulations! You have been selected to attend the Royal Seven Night Masquerade held by Prince Diavolo this year. This event shall be inviting two humans and two angels to help encourage relations.

Please sign the letter below to confirm your attendance to this event.

Yours sincerely,

Diavolo."

You blinked and stared at the letter for a few minutes. Was this a prank? You'd never heard of any prince Diavolo before. Still... the idea of a masquerade party sounded nice, even if it was just a prank in the end. Without thinking, you signed your name on the letter.

For the rest of the day you went about your business. The next night, you heard a knocking at your door. It was 7pm and nobody was supposed to be visiting. The idea that it could be your landlord made you internally groan as you went to open the door.

It wasn't the landlord.

A man with short dark green hair and a long fringe on his left that reached his nose. He wore a black tailcoat with gloves and had a prim and proper air about him.

"Are you MC?"

You silently nodded, still confused by this stranger and a bit wary at this un-welcomed visitor.

"Excellent. I'll be escorting you to this evening's masquerade."

Masquerade? What was he-

Then it hit you. The letter. You'd originally thought it was just a prank by some kid. The idea it may have been real hadn't even occurred to you. For a moment, you were stunned. The stranger was rather patient and seemingly amused by your confusion.

"I....I can't go to the masquerade," you explained when you finally found your voice.

"And why is that?"

He hadn't even changed his amused expression, just looking at you with a slight smile.

"I have nothing to wear," a part of you hated admitting it but in this moment you had no other excuse, "And I don't have a way to get there."

"Is that all?" Even after explaining all your reasons, the stranger seemed undeterred, "If that's the case, may I borrow a teapot if you have one?"

Your face must have twisted into a sour expression at the thought of giving up your one teapot, because the stranger was quick to reassure you.

"I promise, it will be returned to you unharmed."

Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice or your own curiosity. Either way, you ended up handing the precious teapot over. The stranger set it on the ground and took a few steps back. Right before your eyes, the teapot began to grow as swirls of colorful light encircled it.

When the light died down, a beautiful lavender blue carriage with a spout, handle, and golden wheels with little encrusted diamonds stood in place of your teapot. Your jaw dropped at the sight. Were you dreaming? What on earth was happening?

"The carriage will bring you to the steps of Diavolo's castle. As for your clothes...."

The same strange lights that had transformed your teapot now surrounded you. In a matter of seconds, your pjs had transformed into a gorgeous outfit of the finest silk and dripping with accessories you could only dream of. Even your hair and makeup were done to perfection in the most flattering of ways. Upon your face was a beautiful mask that would fit in any fantasy ball scene. And on your feet were a pair of glittering glass shoes that were surprisingly comfortable.

"I... how.... what?" you stammered.

"Now, there are a few rules you'll need to be mindful of," The stranger continued on with a smile, "First, don't tell anybody at the masquerade you are human, for your own sake. Second, leave before the witching hour. Once again I recommend that for your own sake. And to encourage you to follow the rules, this spell will only last until midnight. Once the clock strikes midnight, this spell will be undone and you'll be left in your pjs with only a teapot."

The stranger looked at you closely.

"Do you understand?"

Once he got a small nod from you, he simply bowed and left you alone to your own devices. Now it was all up to you. Would you go to the ball or would you stay home? Even if you disliked big events, it would be a once in a lifetime opportunity.

You carefully stepped into the magical teapot carriage and sat upon the pink cushioned seats within. The wheels of the carriage automatically began to turn and you were whisked off to the masquerade ball.

(Let me know if you guys want a part 2! :D)

[sigmaleph]

anyway setting aside that the wachowskis have a Thing for the horror of distilling human bodies into a liquefied commodity, the thing that is staying in my mind about Jupiter Ascending is the (entirely unexplored) status quo post the events of the movie, where according to Space Law the legal owner of Earth is, y'know, some guy. Some girl who cleans bathrooms for a living. who presumably does not want to keep the previous owner's plans for the planet, those being liquefying humans en masse but like. what is she going to do with it.

what resources does Jupiter have now. does whatever system was keeping up the masquerade, erasing memories and reconstructing buildings destroyed in alien firefights, work for her now. does she have liquid assets she can use to participate in the space economy or does she just own Earth, an apparently very valuable asset ofc but not one she is going to use the obvious space profitable way.

if Jupiter wanted to roll up to the UN or the White House or wherever and say 'hi sorry yeah y'all work for me according to space law' can she enforce that, and is her ability to enforce that contingent on participating in the horrifying space economy?

has someone written that fanfic

[scribiel]

NIGHTIANGLES

Jujutsu Kaisen! Satoru Gojo x fem! reader

tags: Satoru Gojo x fem! reader, angst, illicit affairs, forbidden relationship, cheating, reader and satoru had a forbidden relationship, set up in a higher society, written in letter form/epistolary

To you, who sat beneath the gleaming golden sunlight; 

Implicit because it was all nothing but illicit.

To you, my other half,

I always thought living in lowkey was never the key. I loved writing in capital letters, shouting and screaming, declaring in high volumes, painting with bright colors. I loved the spotlight. But everything changed once I met you at the auction. It was supposed to stop there. Right after I won it. But we met again at the charity event, and all I knew was your parents had set you up with someone else. Same with mine. A typical thing that happened in an elite society.  

And then at the masquerade. Beautiful room colliding with those beautiful blue horizon wide glassy eyes of yours was something I wasn’t prepared for. It all began again with a simple dance and small talk; coffee or tea; hot or cold turned into a cascade of events. Including the ‘I didn’t know my soon-to-be-fiance-picked-by-my-parents would be there too’ event. I ran outside because he was calling me a whore for dancing with you (even though he called me in private, it still broke my heart). Then, fate arranged for us to meet at the garden. How you gave me your tux because it was cold, I was cold. You threw these stupid jokes about how ugly his nose was, how bad his tux was, how I could’ve had someone better than him. And I laughed.

You made me laugh.

We met again. Un or fortunately, we met too many times. We got too comfortable with each other.  How your hands sent me condolences because I was stupidly fighting with my boyfriend, turned into the hands who gave me affection, scrutiny to check all my underlying injuries, and the hands that should’ve never held me. 

The night you made me yours, marked me permanently, was also the night I hoped time could’ve stood still. I hoped the comfort you gave me wouldn’t be washed away in the morning. You should know, when you spinned me around in your apartment, and then you pressed the longest kiss into my temples, whispered, “I wanna marry you.”

It was also the moment you lit up all my hopes, built my dreams, and started a war between love and duty. So I laughed. “Do you think it will be possible?”

And you said it, certainly, “I’d give anything in my power to make you mine. I swear this to you.”

Oh Satoru, that moment made me sure that I could give everything up for you, for us. I could’ve ripped my heart out and put it in your hands as an evidence of love. But we kept going in spite of the disagreement from everyone. Threats after threats, we kept knitting our threads of love in the dark. Where no one could see, could notice. But for once, I was okay to live in a lowkey, write in lowercase, whisper as declaration, and paint with pale colors. I hated the spotlight, because that was the only place I shouldn’t be seen with you. Every glance we made in between the crowds, every time our hands brushed against each other, every casual ‘oh-I-ran-into-you-at-the-parking-lot’ … they were all implicit silent forms of affection. I hoped the crowds, the mass, my and your parents wouldn’t notice the sparkles in the air, and the moment our eyes lit up each time they met. 

Terrifying, how I wanted to reach someone who bathed under such beautiful light, but the world had forbidden me to reach it. To reach you. So in the end, my hands were tied. I was so scared that what if I couldn't have done anything but watched love slip beyond our reach. I watched you, love, and us slipped away. But you firmly said, “That’s not gonna happen, I won’t let it.”

My fears turned into nightmares. I had nightmares about losing you, so I prayed. All the sacred prayers only because I was scared to lose you, to lose all my sweet dreams. But I forgot that nightmares were dreams as well. All my sacred prayers brought me nothing but nightmares turned into realities. And my hopes were burned, turned into ashes. 

I grasped everything that was left (I would never return your sweater that you left in my apartment), I wanted to hold it for the rest of my life. I held it every night, searching and reminiscing about you. 

Losing my chances, all my dreams and hopes were buried deep by the avalanche the moment I heard you got married. So then I sat on the floor, and came to realize that all those hopes, those fairytales that kept me awake at night with shimmering hopes upon my eyes were sung by the nightingales. They would never be heard when the sun came up, only meant to be a folktale to nobody but us, the lovers in the night. 

Even now, your sweater is the only thing that gets me through the night, the thing that I keep like a sacred oath. 

P.s. Do memories flow into your brain each time you call your daughter? If they do, then you are forever cursed for naming your only daughter after me.

From me, who wanted to bath beneath the gleaming golden sunlight with you; 

From me, your other half

[respectthepetty]

Nick is a green boy.

Anon, I would categorize Nicolas as un pendejo, but I haven't really put any thought into his color. Not really at least. None. Not even a little. I haven't really thought about colors for Only Friends.

*makes direct eye contact with you because I'm about to get creepy while you stare at the picture of Nick in a green and blue striped shirt*

But if I were to really think about it, which I haven't, not at all, not even a little, Nicolas would a Blue Boy, not a Green Guy.

He just masquerades as a Green Guy since they are chill and laid back

and that's what he wants Boston to believe he is.

Like Top!

Boston is a "No Drama Llama" type guy. Green is cool for him!

Which is why that hypocrite has the green car.

So Nick is trying to be a chill Green Guy like Top.

And it works for a bit when he changes his wardrobe and hairstyle.

But, really, Nick is loyal, sensitive, inspirational, and just a teeny tiny bit sad, you know, like a Blue Boy.

Because when he finds the pictures of Boston and Top in Boston's room, the lighting turns blue.

And now that I think about it, which I haven't, not at all, not even a little, I've never seen a Green Guy and Red Rascal do well together romantically. It's usually a Green Guy paired with a Blue Boy.

So it has to mean Nicolas is really a Blue Boy since Blue Boys usually partner well with Red Rascals, but oh, darn it. Sorry, you're probably confused because I forgot to mention who the hell the Red Rascal is! It's Boston, you know, because he is confident, sexual, aggressive, and vengeful.

Which would make sense because when they first started sleeping together, the colors were Boston's red and Nick's fake green that we saw pop up in the first pictures mixed with his actual blue.

Because the more they slept together and Nick developed feelings, his true blue color started emerging.

So it makes sense that they both show their true color around each other.

Or more like they both see each other's true color.

Even though Boston tries to act like a Green Guy also.

Nicolas sees him for what he really is - a Red Rascal trying to masquerade as a Green Guy too.

Because when no one is watching, Boston is truly a Red Rascal, and Nicolas KNOWS this because Nicolas was allowed to go into Boston's real space, his red photo room.

Yet no matter how much he stepped into Boston's red, he couldn't merge their colors.

So it must have really hurt that just when Boston was possibly coming around to Nick's love (Boston is wearing a blue shirt with a green and blue checker board on the back that states "Make Love Not War" while Nick wears a blue and green striped shirt), just like Nick said to Sand, Boston got the rug ripped right out from underneath him.

I know it sucked since Boston sits at the bar in Nick's blue, drinking and looking at pictures of him and Nick.

So when they see each other at the Halloween party, all pretense is gone. They finally can admit that they see each other, as they stand there wearing their true color, yet standing in front of the other's color.

Which is funny because right after, Boston fucks Atom and turns the reddest he has ever been. The audience probably hadn't even noticed how much Nick calmed Boston's red when he was in the photo room, but I noticed! Scroll back up! Look at the pictures. Wild, right?

And Nick is, once again, trying to play the cool Green Guy with Dan as he wears his green shirt, yet Dan seems more than willing to see Nick's true color and merge.

Because a Blue Boy can't really hide his color, mostly when Nick follows Boston into the bathroom to remind Boston that he sees who Boston really is and loves him because of it, you know, like a Blue Boy would.

So maybe, just maybe, when they are sitting outside together next week, Boston will acknowledge that he, too, sees Nick for who he is. Not the guy wearing a green shirt across from him, but the sensitive Blue Boy who actually likes him for the Red Rascal he is.

But I mean, I haven't really thought about colors at all for this show, so who knows?! Not me!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I think we should throw the two twst French men into a room and observe how they interact 😳 👉👈

I FULLY AGREE WITH THIS… Let them congregate 😤 for French-on-French violence science!!

P.S. I think Rollo should speak full-on French just let me have this 😳 (Shoutout to @pointedly-foolish, who generously translated my English dialogue to French for this post~)

Like Fire, Hellfire.

Another school day was drawing to a close.

Rollo had settled into a comfortable routine by now. Keep his head low, avoid eye contact, speak little, stick to his textbooks and hug the quiet corners. In this manner, he avoided incidents with the NRC students.

His peers had filed out of the classroom long ago, racing off for extracurriculars, their friends, their dorms. They had places to be, people to be with. He didn’t.

… Good riddance. Rollo released a sigh as he retrieved his staff. Already, his mind was making a pass through a checklist. He had to hurry back to his temporary housing, prepare his usual dinner, cleanse himself of grime—

Click.

The classroom door suddenly swung closed right in front of him. A gloved hand on it, keeping the exit sealed off.

Rollo froze when he sensed a warm body behind him—from where the gloved hand had extended. A terrible realization sunk in: he had been caged, trapped between the door and some stranger.

Just his luck.

He glared over his shoulder, glimpsing his captor. It was a man in a golden bob, his vest a deep violet and his armband bearing the sword-strikeb apple emblem of Pomefiore. A hat with a generous brim shadowed piercing green eyes and a smile sharper than knives.

“Roi du Mouchoir,” the blonde man greeted with the tip of his feathered headwear, “bonjour.”

“You are Rook Hunt, if I’m not mistaken. I remember you from the... masquerade.” Rollo’s voice was tight. “Do you care to explain why it is that you’ve cornered me like this?“

“Désolé!! Pardon the intrusion.” Rook’s cheery tone seemed to indicate that he was, in fact, not sorry at all. “I consider myself a huntsman—and as it just so happens, I’ve found quite the fascinating quarry. Can you guess who it is?”

“... I have no quarrel with you, but I am not a wild beast to be hunted down. You wicked NRC mages seem to rely on the basest forms of amusement." Rollo folded his arms. "Kindly remove yourself—you're impeding my schedule."

“It will only take but a moment of your time!”

“I haven’t a moment to spare. Find another subject to amuse yourself with.”

« Non, non! » Rook wagged a finger and winked, sending a chill down Rollo’s spine. « Mon vœu n'est que de mieux vous connaître. »

I want to get to know you better.

Rook's words were sweet and low and intimate, like a lover's croon. The familiarity with which he spoke made everything in Rollo shrivel up and die. Disgust rose up like bile.

« Et j'aimerai être loins, loin de cet endroit damné, » Rollo snapped, his tongue laced with venom, « mais lamentablement, on ne peut pas tout avoir, n'est-ce pas? »

And I want to be far, far away from this wretched place—but I suppose we can’t all have what we wish for, now can we?

Rook didn’t miss a single beat. He held up an index finger.

« Auriez-vous l'obligeance de me donner un sourire? C'est tout ce que je demande! »

Would you be so kind as to give me a smile? That’s all I ask!

« ... Pourquoi? »

... Why?

« Je ne vous ai pas encore vu dans toute votre sincerite. Ta beauté. »

I have yet to see your most genuine self. Your beauty.

The phrasing of it rubbed Rollo the wrong way. His patience at last caved, and his tongue switched back, unleashing irritation unfettered upon the huntsman.

"Enough of this charade. You know perfectly well what sort of man I am. There is no need for you to play ignorant. To you villains, I am nothing more than a monster. That is the end of the story.”

"Ah, you speak of the portrait of a city dyed in crimson." Rook's eyes held a playful twinkle. "And you, its artist, driven by despair to bring about the end of the world as we know it."

"If you are going to waste my time, at least be more succinct with your blabber."

"Bien sûr." Rook chuckled and held out both hands, palms facing up. "That is only but one side of you: your lowest point. What I seek is a full spectrum of oneself, its mirror. A Roi du Mouchoir at his most jubilant and most radiant, emotions unclouded. Smiling."

Rollo scowled.

"It is physically impossible for me to force even a fake one when I am surrounded by blithering oafs," he shot back. Like yourself, he silently added. "Not to mention these grounds are infested with sin. How is anyone meant to be smiling in this scenario?"

Rollo, of course, discounted the stupid grin currently on Rook's face. Idiots didn't deserve the consideration.

Frustration curled at his temples all the same.

He could not understand it. Pain, suffering, loss—were those not shared experiences of the human condition? Yet here was a fool who seemed to take it all in stride, laughing as he winded down the path of life and smelled the roses that peppered it.

Saw the fairness of the world when Rollo could not.

Embers sparked under his skin, as if summoned up by a struck match. Rollo clenched his jaw. He didn't like it—didn't like that this buffoon and his flowery prattle were getting to him.

Rollo took a sharp breath in, then released it.

"... Move. You've held me up for long enough."

With the butt of his staff, he prodded Rook back, releasing his hold on the door. Rollo yanked it open, not even bothering to toss one last withering look back at the huntsman before passing through.

"Roi du Mouchoir!!"

Rook was likely at the doorframe now, calling after him.

"Do NOT follow me under any circumstances," Rollo said without looking, "or I will report you to the proper authorities for violating my personal boundaries."

It’s a wonder why he hasn’t been already.

“Fufufu. A strong rebuttal… however, I won’t admit defeat!” Rook continued, undeterred by the vitriol. Rollo could hear the smile in him. “I promise you, I will capture your smile someday. Le Chasseur d’Amour down not give up on the hunt quite so easily!”

Tch. What a meddlesome man.

Rollo grimaced into his handkerchief as he hurried down the hallway. With each step, Rook’s voice grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared entirely.

Clearing the courtyard, a sense of filthiness set in, clinging to Rollo’s robes like patches of a broken web. Cleaning off the day would have to come second to expunging the memory of the huntsman. The proximity of him.

Rollo wanted to retch all over again.

Rook was of sight, perhaps, but not out of mind.

[rosewaterandivy]

careful fear & dead devotion m.list

Summary: and you want to beg, like Andromache on the ramparts of Troy, don't do this, don't have me nurse fresh grief, but his gaze in reply is redolent and kind, do not borrow sorrows from tomorrow, for you and I have arrived at the grief we were born for.

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: on-going

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | inspo | lore | timeline

Inquiries and requests are open for this au, if you're so inclined!

Series:

I. coup de foudre

II. traîner quelqu'un dans la boue

III. filé à l’anglaise

IV. folie à deux

V. ce n’est pas la mer à boire

VI. passé une nuit blanche

VII. faire la grasse matinée

VIII. à bon chat, bon rat

[girl4music]

Just read the ‘Last Chance’ script again.

It literally is a piece of femslash fanfiction.

It’s both a musical and a doppleganger episode and so you can only imagine the gay shenanigans that would happen between the lookalikes that are actual lovers.

From Xena Wiki. Source: https://warriorprincess.fandom.com/wiki/Last_Chance

“Scheduled for February 2001, but never shot. This was the infamous Sappho episode. Written by Robert Tapert and Melissa Good, it was to be directed by Mark Beesley. K.D. Lang apparently agreed to guest star.

Synopsis

Sometime during her life as a mortal, Aphrodite "stole" Sappho from the Muses because she wrote, like, such kickin' love poetry. The Muses got back at Aphrodite for the "kidnapping" by casting a spell on Aphrodite's son. The spell was one of celibacy, which, of course, is a major bummer for Aphrodite. Aphrodite decides to get her son "un-celibate" by getting him to go to Lesbos to groove on some Sappho love poetry.

The problem is that Sappho (Renee) has "lost the muse". She and her partner (in *every* sense) Morai (Lucy) have been fighting a great deal. Having creative differences, in other words. Sappho hasn't been giving Morai enough credit in the partnership, and in the end, Morai (a meek woman) leaves, during the time that they're getting ready to put on a play called "Love Bites".

Aphrodite, seeing her plans for her son going seriously awry, goes to two people she hopes will help her. Xena and Gabrielle. She breaks in on a jam session with Xena and Gabrielle. Gabrielle is trying to write a song, and Xena keeps on putting her two cents in. Gabrielle finally asks Xena to just shut up and sing it already. And we hear the first lines of Last Dance.

Aphrodite "pops in", interrupting them. She then asks them if they'd fill in briefly for Sappho and Morai while she goes after the two to try and get them back together. After a few moments, Xena and Gabrielle agree to Aphrodite's scheme, and travel to Lesbos.

They get there, and of course, everyone mistakes Gabrielle for Sappho, and ignore Xena (masquerading as the meek and mild Morai). The play is down to the last moments, almost ready to be put on, but the ending isn't even done. Xena and Gabrielle need to stall until Aphrodite can get the real Sappho and Morai back so that they can finish the play that she hopes will break her son's celibate spell.

Mistaken identity hijinx ensue, with Gabrielle loving the accolades and Xena getting more and more pissed off because people are treating her like a somewhat brain damaged dog. Xena and Gabrielle get into a small (minor) tiff because Xena is upset, but eventually things get back to "normal".

Meanwhile Sappho and Morai have taken a canoe/camping trip into nature in order to work out the kinks and get the muse back so they can finish the play. Unfortunately, that flops, as does the canoe, so Sappho and Morai wind up back at Sappho's home, where they run into, literally, Xena and Gabrielle. However, it's kinda funny the way it happens.

See, Xena, walks into Sappho's boudoir thinking Sappho is Gabrielle. Sappho is instantly entranced by Xena's bearing, and *especially* her leather. Xena is a bit taken aback by Gabrielle's forwardness, especially since they've just had another small arguement and Xena left the party.

Meanwhile, the REAL Gabrielle is in another room when Morai comes in (thinking it's Sappho) and wanting to make up with her partner. She takes off Gabrielle's boots and offers to read her some poetry before they go to bed. Poetry? Gabrielle wants to know where Xena (who she thinks Morai is) got the henbane and how much did she take?

Both sets of doubles eventually find out that they're not who the other thinks they are, and all four collide in the hallway outside the bedroom. After the surprised introductions are over, Sappho offers to have Xena (who she REALLY likes) and Gabrielle to share the bed with she and Morai. Gabrielle declines and Xena and Gabrielle go into Sappho's workroom, where they settle down for some "pillow talk". (In the script, and yes, they're sharing a bed).

They each talk about how they knew the double wasn't who they thought they were after a short time and then go to sleep. Xena wants to leave, figuring that with Sappho and Morai back, their mission is done, but Aphrodite convinces them to stay on a bit longer. Which is a good thing, because Sappho and Morai argue again and Morai runs away.

The play is ready to go on with Senhel and Avian in attendance, but without Morai (who is playing several parts), what can be done? In steps Xena to fill Morai's spot while Gabrielle runs off to find the runaway poet and to convince her to return to Sappho's side.

Then the Donkey Show part of this ensues, with all the disco tunes you heard about. It's as confusing as the real Donkey Show is, and I really can't do it justice, but basically it's about three couples (each played by Lucy and Renee) some who love each other, some who want one but the other doesn't want them back.

Aphrodite thinks this play, sampling the "many flavors of looooove" is just the ticket to get Senhel to see the error of his ways. They start out, but at first, Sappho is upset because while she *really* likes Xena, the reverse isn't true. Xena's not interested, and Sappho thinks she's falling down on the convincing job (to the audience).

They go along in the play and Aphrodite pops in again, and sees that her son is completely unmoved. Morai (who really DOES love Sappho) still isn't back yet, so Aphrodite pleads with Xena to "please, just fake it" with Sappho so that Senhel will get the picture. Faced with the alternative (failure) Xena decides to "fake it" and starts becoming more steamy with Sappho during the songs such as "Love to Love You Baby", "Knock on Wood", "Don't Leave Me This Way" and the like.

Gabrielle, meanwhile, has convinced Morai to give Sappho one more try, and brings her back to the playhouse just in time to see Xena pin Sappho to a set piece on stage and kiss the living daylights out of her. Morai is upset. Gabrielle is kinda upset. Senhel is falling asleep (because, obviously, what's going on up on stage is not love, just lust).

Morai begins to sing "I Will Survive" to Sappho and then leaves. Gabrielle leaves with her. The audience begins to leave.

"WAIT!" shouts Xena, and tosses her chakram to close the doors to keep the audience from leaving. Then she begins to sing, to Gabrielle, the song they wrote together. Which, of course, is Last Dance. As she hears it, Gabrielle stops. Then turns. Then, as Xena continues to sing, she begins to approach Xena until they wind up holding hands and looking into each other's eyes.

Then, as the song fades, they hug. Then they look over at Senhel, who is STILL unmoved. So then, and this is from the script:

“Xena and Gabrielle kiss with deep and sincere passion.” Everyone stares, entranced.

When they finally come up for air, Senhel is on the floor, the spell broken because he has finally seen true love. As the song begins again, Avain kisses Senhel, Morai kisses Sappho, and everyone is happy again.”