#but to him that's better than the alternative
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Reddest Flags, Longest Nights
⩙ Summary: The year is 1989. The Berlin Wall has fallen, and Nintendo have just overseen the release of the Game Boy. The first ever episode of Baywatch has just aired, and Ted Bundy has just been executed by electric chair. Vox's relationship with the Radio Demon is on the rocks. Their solution? To add a third person to their bedroom: you
⩙ Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Vox X reader X Alastor, Radiostatic is a committed relationship (well, they're trying), Reader is a girl and she has a pussy, tentacle sex
⩙ Other notes: This is set in a sexy alternate universe for the characters in @bapple117's Bluest Monday
“I'm not for sale,” you say. It's a truly stupid, suicidal thing to say, with the Television Demon's talons wrapped around your arm, and his associate the Radio Demon watching with amused interest as Vox pulls you into their private booth.
“Come now, dear, that surely isn't true.” It's not Vox who speaks, but Alastor, his tones the same genial, cheerful ones he uses for his broadcasts. “Everyone has a price, after all.”
“Everybody fuckin' wants something, yeah.” Vox agrees, releasing your arm once he's convinced that you won't immediately bolt away. He's not slurring his words, but his movements are clumsier than you would expect. He's drunk, you realize. Both of them are. “People want power. Money. Control.”
“Sex,” says Alastor, flashing a grin at Vox, who makes a noise like someone just tuned him to a dead channel, his face filling briefly with static.
“Shh-yeah, some people want sex, Al. That's a normal fuckin' thing to want.”
Alastor's smile grows, a little smug, a little cruel, and his red eyes turn to you. “What about you, dear? Do you want sex?”
“Al! You can't just fuckin' ask a girl that!”
“Last I checked I was better informed on etiquette than you, old chum,” Alastor's smile slides sideways. “And besides, if our interests align, there's a deal to be had.”
You hadn't come to the club intending to sell anything, but the two demons are adept negotiators- Alastor assuring you that no, he doesn't need your soul per se, just your services, services of a personal, private nature, and aren't you inclined to give those, isn't it in your own best interests? All the while Vox is giving a more direct incentive, the front of his boxy face focused on you, entirely you, dexterous talons skating over the exposed skin of your forearms with enough pressure to make you shiver, with the implied promise that he could touch you in less socially acceptable places, if only you would agree to what the Radio Demon was offering.
You're tempted. You're so, so tempted. You know that this is a bad idea, that these two are bad news to be around, that you should just go back to your normal sinner life, but instead you find yourself leaning in to listen more closely to Alastor's solicitations, and Vox, still touching you, grows bolder, his hand dropping below the table to stroke your thigh.
The top of your thigh at first, skating the seams of your clothes, then dropping to your inner knee, Vox's claw drawing a daring line from your knee and up your inner thigh to your panties.
Your breath hitches, and Alastor tips his head at you, expression amused. “You seem distracted. Would you like me to repeat that last part?”
“Would ya like me to repeat that last part?” asks Vox, his grin as wide as his face and lecherous.
“I can make him stop, if you'd prefer,” says Alastor, with a casual menace.
It's hard to listen to the full terms and conditions with Vox's fingers massaging the fabric of your panties, and maybe that's the intention, but you can't bring yourself to ask him to stop, or even to ask Alastor to ask him to stop.
“What've you got to lose?” says Vox, his heavy box of a head nudging against your shoulder as the pads of his fingers press against your now slick-drenched gusset. Your thighs press together, his hand trapped between.
“Of course,” says Alastor. “If you'd like to think about it-”
“Oh, she's thinkin' about it, Al,” says Vox, his tone laden with filth.
“I'll do it!” you blurt, and both of their faces light like pinball machines. “I mean, yes.”
“Splendid,” chirps Alastor. “Now, as a rule, I will close a deal with a handshake, but for this-”
A kiss.
You've never imagined kissing the most terrifying demon in all of Pentagram city, so you have no idea what to expect, but Alastor's hand on your cheek is a feather light touch, a swirl of green magic around you. His lips on yours are chaste, brushing rather than prying, in stark contrast to Vox, who takes the opportunity to push your panties to the side with his fingers and stroke a slow line along your slick-coated inner lips. You whine against Alastor's mouth, and he slides his hand to the back of your head, holding you there as the deal is sealed.
That’s how you go home with them, Alastor holding the green chain that fastens to the shackle around your neck. Vox drives uptown, away from Voxtek, away from the Radio Demon’s broadcasting tower, and you end up in a quiet, well-appointed apartment in the most nondescript tower block that you have ever seen.
You note the shoe rack; the way that Vox’s shiny black dress shoes are stacked up next to Alastor’s bespoke deer-soled boots, and it occurs to you that this isn’t just Vox’s playboy apartment, as you’d expected. The two of them live together. There is only one bedroom.
“So, what now?” asks Alastor, holding out a gentlemanly arm for you to lean on as you remove your shoes in the entrance. “I believe your suggestion was to try new things, yes?”
“Jesus, Al.” Vox’s sigh is heavy. “We’ll just go to the bedroom, undress, and, uh, see where we go, yeah?”
“See where we go?” Alastor’s voice inflects upwards into his upper registers, the sound of a capacitor about to burst, and you realize that you are in considerable danger.
Alastor is grinning, but his body language is stressed, his ears back, lips pulled back over his gums to show the most of his teeth. In your second possibly suicidal move of the night, you squeeze his arm, where you have been holding him since taking off your shoes.
Alastor’s gaze snaps to you, eyes dangerously red, but there’s uncertainty in the corners of his smile. He kissed you, back in the club, you reason, so he can’t find you entirely objectionable. You lower your gaze, sliding a hand up his forearm, and his ears shift, subtly. He exhales, a little of the tension going out of his chest, and you slide your hand to his upper arm, pushing him back against the coat rack behind him, pressing him against an electric blue shell jacket, and he just lets you.
If Alastor were half a foot shorter you would kiss him, but as it is he stares down at you, his smile a question, until finally he gets what you’re trying to do, and bends his knees fractionally so that you can stand on tiptoes and press your face to his.
You can feel his smile under your lips, parting as you dare to pry, your tongue finding his teeth, and then the tip of his tongue, cautious against yours. You can feel the little shiver of his breath, his hand down your back. At first you think he’s about to slip his hand under your waistband, but instead he spreads his large hand under your ass, cupping it, and lifts you off your feet.
You feel a moment of vertigo, and a swoop in your stomach that is definitely not vertigo as Alastor holds you with your face level to his and slips his entire tongue into your mouth. You took him initially as a conservative kisser, but perhaps he was holding back before. You groan against his lips, feeling heat spread into your lower half as his tongue explores your mouth, the tip probing the roof of your mouth, the soft flesh of the insides of your cheeks. It’s not just the kiss but the feeling of helplessness that it brings, of being held aloft by a being so much more powerful than you. Your knees press the coats either side of Alastor’s waist as he cradles your ass, your tongue lapping against his, eyes closed, arms locking around his shoulders. By the time he breaks the kiss you are gasping, heart pounding in your chest, and Alastor gives you an appraising look.
“You are very small,” Alastor comments, his face a little flushed from the kissing. He doesn’t set you down, however, shifting his forearm under you as you wrap your ankles around his waist, his staff in his other hand.
“Ah, she’ll do fine, Al,” says Vox with a glance over his shoulder, unbuttoning his shirt as he stalks through the living area and into the bedroom. Alastor follows, carrying you as if you weigh nothing.
Seeing the bedroom only serves to solidify your impression that the two of them live here together. There is definitely Alastor’s side of the bed, with red deer themed slippers poking out from underneath, and Vox’s side of the bed, with a digital alarm clock and a special pillow with a square cutout for his head. Two powerful demons, together in secret. It’s enough to make your head spin as Alastor sets you down, gently, on the his side of the bed.
“Alright, let’s fuckin’ do this.” Vox clambers onto the bed, shucking off his shirt, a pause before he reaches you, his hand on your knee. “You too, Al.”
“Must I?” Alastor gives a sideways sort of smile.
“You don’t say that in front of a girl!” barks Vox, and you get the impression he would be pulling his own hair, if he had any. “You’re gonna hurt her feelings or some shit. And yeah, Al, you gotta join in. Otherwise it’s just me fuckin’ a girl on the bed in front of you, and that’s not really a fuckin’ threesome now, is it?”
Alastor smiles thoughtfully. “You did say we would see where we go. I could read a book.”
“Fuck my life,” Vox mutters, flopping back, his boxy head hitting the duvet heavily.
You tug on Alastor’s sleeve again, catching his attention. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“I’m aware,” says Alastor, expression guarded, smile thin. He pauses. “Are your feelings really hurt?”
Your smile is wry. You’d be lying if you said his reticence didn’t hurt, at least a little. “My ego, maybe?”
“Ah.” Alastor looks down at you, and you are caught for a second by just how red his eyes are, like rubies, or pools of fresh blood. His fingers whisper across your cheek, pushing away a strand of hair. “We can’t have that now, can we?”
Tossing his staff onto Vox’s supine form, Alastor climbs onto the bed. He cups your face in his hands and kisses you for the third time that evening, all pretense of propriety gone as he pushes you onto your back, your head onto his pillows and his tongue snaking its way into your mouth. It takes your breath away; you can feel nothing else, only the dance of your tongues and lips, slick with saliva, Alastor’s hands sliding down to your jaw and your neck with the barest pressure. He traces the lines of your arteries, almost absently, and you moan into his mouth as you feel your body respond to him, your pulse growing insistent between your legs. You spread your knees without even thinking about it, your cunt level with his navel as you lie shameless and gasping and red-faced beneath him.
“Now we’re talkin’” Vox grins sidelong at the two of you, propping himself up on his elbows. “You are such a fuckin’ tease, Al.”
“Mm…” Alastor looks down at you, his lips parted and shiny with spit. “I do hope that’s a compliment.”
“Thank you,” you breathe, and Alastor presses a finger lazily to your lips, his eyes narrowing fractionally as if to say no thanks needed.
Vox, meanwhile, is removing your panties. He’s not shy of the Radio Demon’s body either, his hand on Alastor’s flank as he makes the space he needs to get them off. In short order you are naked, your clothing peeled away and the sheets warm against your back, though with the gazes of the two men on you, the room feels far from cold. Vox is down to y-fronts, which his cock strains against valiantly, while Alastor keeps his trousers and shirt, his tie and waistcoat discarded beside the bed.
Vox kisses your breasts, not even trying for your face, Alastor sitting back to give him better access. Vox’s lips are strange, part of the curvature of his front glass and yet not, warm and staticky against your skin, supple as his lips curve around your nipple and suck. His tongue is stranger yet, its sensation alien as the buzzing of fluorescent lights as he traces a circle around your areola and brings your nipple to a shivering point. Vox repeats the action with your other breast, Alastor stroking the vents on the back of his boxy head, his expression unguarded and fond.
“Al-” Vox makes a frustrated noise, his breath hot on your breast. “Pay attention to the girl.”
Alastor smirks, his expression almost flirtatious. “I was,” he says, his eyes meeting yours briefly, “But you and your big head got in the way.”
“Oh for crying out loud, Al.” Vox pinches the top of his frame with two fingers, his other hand on your breast. “There’s plenty to be done here-” Vox’s hand moves down your body, over the softness of your stomach and to your sex, a reassuring squeeze on your hip.
Alastor looks at you, your pink cunt spread open for him, and his brow knits slightly. He’s still touching your leg, hand stroking your shin where it rests against his waist. He’s nervous, you realize. Afraid of fucking up. Afraid of spoiling things.
“Wait-” Vox’s face is thoughtful as he reaches the same conclusion. “You’ve never eaten a girl out, have you?”
“I’ll have you know,” says Alastor, his spine straightening a little. “That I ate two ladies just last week.”
“No, fuck- I mean… eat pussy, Al.”
Alastor raises an eyebrow. “Certainly not!” he pipes. “The taste is revolting, the fur gets stuck in my teeth, and they have too many small bones.”
Vox gives a growl, and you find yourself holding back a laugh. Alastor catches your eye again, his eyes narrowing, red and beautiful as he bends to kiss your knee, a brush of his thin lips. “As my friend here has surmised, I am new to the neighborhood,” he says, his smile a little embarrassed as his gaze travels your inner thigh. “If you would be amenable to showing me around?”
You had expected the Radio Demon to be dominant in the bedroom, to take charge and fill the room with slapping, squelching sounds, but instead he is quiet, his gaze intent as you nervously spread yourself for him. You don’t know what directions he might want, so you hesitate, shrinking back as his eyes seem to drink you in.
“May I?” he asks, and when you nod, he drags a finger through the wetness that seeps viscous from your cunt; a slow, deliberate touch that seems to set every nerve ending in its path aflame. He pulls the finger away, his expression fascinated as a clear string of slick stretches between his finger and your cunt. “How interesting!” he exclaims, before popping the finger in his mouth, eyes closing as he savors your taste.
Vox rests Alastor’s microphone across his knees, impatient. “Al, you’re meant to put your face down there.”
“I’m building anticipation,” says Alastor, his lips a thin smile. “And if you had an ounce of natural showmanship, you would understand that.”
Vox shakes his head, his hands and mouth going back to your breasts, your shoulders and your neck. Vox’s head is too large to comfortably fit in the crook of your neck, but his tongue more than makes up for that, slithering bright across the sensitive flesh of your throat as his claws gently knead your breasts. The biggest side effect of this is that Vox’s large head blocks your view, and you cannot see what Alastor is doing.
There is a cannibal overlord between your legs is the first thought that registers as Alastor’s lips move glacial up your inner thigh. He kisses, he sucks, and he tastes, his fingertips ghosting feather light over your hips and stomach, tracing lines from your navel to your mons.
Vox finally deigns to kiss your mouth as Alastor reaches your cunt. Alastor parts your labia, his long tongue stroking between your folds as Vox’s tongue slips into your mouth, the doubled sensation delicious in its intensity. Alastor’s movements are hesitant, almost conservative, but your cunt is sopping wet enough that even the stripes he licks up your inner labia have you moaning into Vox’s mouth, your hips bucking needy into Alastor’s face.
Alastor’s fingers squeeze into the flesh of your ass, holding you firm as he tends to you, his face pressed firmly into your cunt, lips dragging across slick pink flesh as his tongue probes, a breath of pause between each attempt, his hands weighing how much each teasing lick makes you strain against his grip. His nose brushes your clit, which makes your entire body twitch, and he repeats the action more deliberately a second time.
It’s not long before he has found the most sensitive parts of your anatomy, along with the pattern of touch that best makes you arch your back and cry out. Alastor’s tongue moves back and forth, sweeping hot and wet and divine over you as you spread your knees as wide as they will go, your stomach tightening as you arch your back.
“Holy fuck.” Vox breaks your kiss to look impressed, one clawed hand kneading your chest. “Al, you’re gonna make her cum.”
Alastor doesn’t answer, a primal growl into your cunt, and you cannot answer, the only noise in your throat a mewl of helpless pleasure as Alastor, a man who has spent decades in Hell inflicting pain on souls attacks your nerve endings with a furious precision. You’re going to cum, and you don’t have a choice about it, not with his grip steely on your hips. You want to beg, but your lips can’t even form words as Alastor’s tongue robs you of sense, of language, of decorum, each movement of his mouth sending you hurtling towards the edge. Vox’s hands on you are marginalia to the treatise on pleasure that Alastor’s mouth writes.
It occurs to you, as your orgasm hits, crashing over you and shattering you into pieces, that Alastor might have ruined sex with other men for you. Alastor carries on, tongue pressing into too sensitive flesh through your aftershocks, even as you whine and try to twist away, until Vox touches his shoulder and stops him.
“She’s done, Al,” says Vox, his claws gentle in your hair, and you whimper against the warmth of his chest as Alastor releases you. “Hey, babydoll,” murmurs Vox, the proximity of his screen making the hair on the top of your head stand on end. “You good?”
“Y-yeah.” You swallow, language returning to you in bits and pieces, and look at Alastor, who kneels between your legs still, his face glistening with your juices. His eyes are uncertain, and you reach out to him, catching his thin wrists and pulling him to you.
“You’re good at that,” you say, looking up at Alastor as you lie sandwiched between the two of them, Vox’s strong arms around your waist, Vox’s cock pressing into your lower back.
Alastor kisses you, tasting of you, and pulls back, looking pleased with himself. “It’s a lot like torture,” he says, eyes half lidded. “All I need to do is listen to your screams.”
“God fuckin’ damn it, Al,” grouses Vox. “It’s always the horror show stuff with you.”
“God forbid a man have hobbies,” Alastor’s head tilts, but there’s no venom to his reprise. “And for your information,” he adds, a glance at you. “It’s not always torture. I also enjoy dancing.”
You laugh into your hands, the afterglow of your orgasm filling you with a pleasant kind of warmth, and Alastor steals another kiss, grinning all the while.
“What now?”
“Now?” Vox grins, dangerous. “Now it’s your turn, Al.”
Alastor’s smile becomes fixed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Vox’s smile grows wider, and he disentangles himself from you, a crackling kiss to the side of your head. “C’mere.”
Alastor gives an undignified squeak as Vox leaps and tackles him into the bedsheets, dexterous claws on the buttons of his shirt and his fly.
“Impudent! I can undress mysel- mm!” Alastor is silenced as Vox catches his chin and kisses him, open mouthed, long blue tongue lapping your juices from Alastor’s chin, and you watch as Alastor melts for the Television Demon, his shoulders going slack, his shadow splaying itself across the pillows. Alastor’s shirt comes off without complaint, and you crawl over to touch him, your hands on his narrow chest, his shoulders, his arms, as Vox undresses him the rest of the way. Alastor’s heart is beating fast; you can feel it through your hand on his sternum, like a butterfly’s wings beating futile against a glass windowpane, but it slows as Vox kisses his back, and Alastor places a clawed hand over yours. “I suppose you both mean to fuck me,” he says, a little sulkily.
“You tryna say you don’t want that, Al?” Vox’s teeth glow as he grins. “You don’t want me to fuck you as the lovely girl here sucks you off?”
Alastor’s smile purses, but he can’t bring himself to say no, not with you staring up at him prettily and Vox growling sweet nothings into his neck.
His cock stands at attention, the tip red and angry, and you take him in your palms before you get on all fours and take him in your mouth, feeling the quiver that runs through his stomach as your mouth envelops him.
“F-fuck,” Alastor hisses, filter failing, his hand in your hair as Vox’s talons circle his narrow waist. He’s sensitive- you can tell that much from your first few sucks, his precum salty and organic tasting, each movement of your tongue drawing soft noises from his throat. Part of that might be Vox working him open, your position in the bed lowering fractionally as Vox pushes Alastor’s knees apart.
“See, you want it, don’t you Al? Gettin’ completely fucked.” You feel Alastor’s talons tighten in your hair as Vox pushes into him, Alastor’s cock twitching against the back of your mouth, and you breathe through your nose, enjoying the feeling of Alastor coming undone.
“Vox!” Alastor’s voice is tight, high in his register, and Vox slows, stroking him and easing him through sensation, the two demons’ hips moving in tandem as Alastor ruts into your mouth, a strangled noise in his throat.
“Say you like it, say we fuck you good,” Vox growls soft, but the only things coming from Alastor’s mouth are obscenities, his senses overwhelmed by the two of you working together.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Alastor’s chest heaves, his eyes screwed shut, his lip bleeding where he has bitten it, his cock hitting the back of your throat with every roll of his hips, a lewd little whimper escaping his lips with the apex of each of Vox’s thrusts.
“There you are,” Vox breathes, seeming to sense Alastor’s imminent climax before Alastor himself. You feel Alastor’s cock swell in your mouth, his grip tightening. “We got you, Al. Let go.”
“Don’t -ngh- tell me what to do,” says Alastor, emptying his load into your mouth, hot and salty. He gasps, and you swallow it down. “Shit.”
“Oh, you’re so good, Al. So fuckin’ good.” Vox’s voice is a groan as he presses his face crackling into Alastor’s hair and starts to fuck him in earnest.
You move your face from Alastor’s cock, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to lay back on the pillows with Alastor’s microphone and watch the show, but instead Alastor grabs your wrists and pins you under him as Vox pushes him to all fours, and Alastor kisses you, unreserved and passionate. He tastes of you, and you of him, small whimpers still escaping him as Vox fucks him. Your fingers are in his hair, over his ears, over his antlers, his thin back, and he holds you to his chest, lips locked with yours as Vox finishes inside him, the three of you shivering with it, the room still in the aftermath.
“Ngh.” Vox’s screen shows a test card for a good twenty seconds. “Fuck.”
“Yes,” Alastor agrees, a slow exhalation as Vox withdraws from him.
The three of you are side by side in the bed for a moment as Vox drops to the sheets. Vox’s breathing is labored, Alastor’s more controlled, and neither of them speak.
Alastor rolls onto his back, turning to Vox. “You’d best wash up.”
“What?” Vox narrows his eyes. “Why?”
“It’s rude,” says Alastor, with a coy smile. “To keep a lady waiting.”
“Oh.” Vox stares at you as if he’s just remembered you are there, face coloring. “Oh. Shit. Yeah. Keep her warm for me, Al.”
Alastor takes his staff back in one hand, and pulls you to him with the other, your head nestled nicely against his bony shoulder as you watch Vox disappear into the bathroom, water running. It feels as if you could both drift off like this, comfortable and satiated, and you almost do, until Alastor’s fingers start tracing a slow line from your knee to your thigh, and your eyes flicker open.
“He’ll be pissy if he finds us asleep,” says Alastor, his tone amused. “So, unless you want to see him blow a fuse-”
You swallow as you feel him part your labia with his fingers, careful with his claws as he drags the pads of his fingers through the slickness that seeps from you. “Is this really the best way to stay awake?”
“Probably not,” admits Alastor. “But it is one of the more entertaining ones, don’t you agree?”
“Very,” you agree, your breath hitching as Alastor’s finger graces the base of your clitoris, drawing a small circle, pressing your flesh against the bone of your pelvis with his fingertips. “I am very entertained right now.”
“A performer is nothing without his audience,” quips Alastor, but his smile seems genuine. You’re wondering how he’s going to manage his claws if he fingers you when he extrudes a long black tentacle from his back. “Open wide now.”
Your legs spread, Alastor strokes your knee, the back of your calf, the arch of your foot, and his tentacle slithers, wrapping fully around the meat of your thigh before its tip teases at your cunt.
He doesn’t penetrate you right away, which is a good thing; ready and willing as you are the tentacle is girthy. Instead, Alastor teases with it, his smile relaxed and his ears pricked as he listens to your breathing, your sighs. Your words, when you are able to use them.
“There, there, just there,” you tell him, and your reward is a squeeze of his hand on your ankle, his breathy voice in your ear, telling you what a good audience you are tonight, how supportive, how participatory. The tentacle moves in tandem with his hand, the tip twirling at your entrance as he strokes the folds of your cunt, dragging slick from your hole up over your clit, coaxing it from its hood, his touch so light that it makes you hold your breath, and then firm, a pressure that has you gasping, moaning so loudly that he holds his microphone to your lips and asks you to repeat yourself.
When Alastor’s tentacle pushes its way into you, you are ready, more than ready, speechless at the girth of it and giving heady little gasps as you feel yourself stretch around him.
“You’d better not reach the climax before Vox gets back,” says Alastor, a soft murmur in your ear as you whimper, senseless against his chest. “He really will blow a fuse if you do that.” He’s enjoying himself, you realize. He’s playing with you, his smile relaxed as he manipulates your body to his liking.
But you are already mounting the summit, your body helpless in Alastor’s clutches. He barely needs to use his fingers, not with the tentacle pressed into you, an obscene squelching noise as he curves it in and out of you; Alastor simply holds his fingertips over the tip of your clit and lets the motion of the tentacle do the rest of the work, each brush of contact with the exposed nub of flesh like a lick of flame across your nerves that makes you cry out, over and over, until your throat is hoarse with it.
You cum as Vox returns, a spasm through your body, your cunt fluttering around Alastor’s tentacle, and the Radio Demon grins at Vox.
If Vox’s eyes weren’t just images displayed on his screen, they would be bulging right now. He stares. Alastor grins at him.
“Al.” Vox’s lips are an annoyed line as he watches Alastor pull his tentacle out of you, your cunt fluttering around nothing. “How the fuck am I meant to compete with that monster?” His cock is well proportioned to his frame, but it’s nothing compared to the tentacle. You look between the two demons, hoping they’re not going to fight.
Alastor’s grin widens. “You’re a resourceful man, Vox. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
Vox shakes his head as he climbs back on the bed. “You’ve always gotta fuckin’ upstage me, huh.”
“That’s why you like me so much,” says Alastor. “Isn’t it?”
“Ah, fuck you, Al,” says Vox, all bark, and Alastor beams at him.
Alastor pulls you on top of him, your back to him, and hooks his chin over the top of your head, so that you both face Vox when he climbs atop you, on his hands and knees.
Vox kisses you, softly, hand cupping your face, and you feel Alastor’s sound of approval through your back, the low hum of an electrical appliance.
“You ready, babydoll?” Vox asks, and when you nod, he pushes into you.
You feel him. Your orgasm has made you tender, Alastor’s tentacle has made you tender and you feel every inch of Vox as if your cunt were just made yesterday, shipped direct from the factory.
“Oh fuck, that’s nice babydoll.” Fragments of test card float on Vox’s screen as he pauses, in you to the hilt. “You feel fuckin’ nice. Fuckin’ soft, god.”
You feel Alastor huff into your hair with amusement, and he reaches for your legs, pulling up your thighs and then your knees, pulling your legs flush with your chest; a mating press for you and Vox.
Vox grins, his hands joining Alastor’s on the underside of your knees, and he fucks you in earnest.
That his cock is smaller than Alastor’s tentacle doesn’t matter one bit, not when you’re pressed like this, his cock able to reach the deepest parts of your tender cunt with ease. He fucks you, and you cry out; not the mewling whimper you had before but a full throated cry that escapes you at the apex of each thrust, your throat already sore, your voice cracking, but crying out regardless.
Vox’s monologue is all sweet, sweary nothings- you’re doing so good babydoll, so wet for me, so soft, so good, so fuckin’ good and Alastor’s commentary is drier- do you think you’ll be able to walk again after this? Now that’s a scream worthy of my studio, all the while you are crying out, tears in your eyes, a pressure in your abdomen, Vox hammering into the most sensitive parts of you, over and over and oh.
Your cunt flutters again, Vox growling a good girl before his seed floods into you in hot, pulsing waves.
You lie there, boneless, seeing stars, the three of you breathing hard. Vox drops his face onto your chest, and you stroke his hot vents, as you’ve seen Alastor do. Alastor lets go of your legs, a kiss to the top of your head.
“Fuck,” murmurs Vox.
“Seconded,” you croak.
“Mm,” buzzes Alastor. “Quite.”
Vox rolls off you, and you roll off Alastor, the three of you side by side on the bed, points of contact between you; your leg crossing Alastor’s thigh, Vox’s arm across your stomach.
It is a long, hazy moment before Vox sits up, digging through the dresser on the Vox side of the bed, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“In the apartment?” Alastor complains, sleepy.
“It’s a fuckin’ special occasion, Al,” says Vox, leaning over you to place a cigarette between Alastor’s smiling lips. Alastor takes it, and Vox lights it, before offering the box to you. “You smoke?” he asks.
If you didn’t already, it was a hell of a time to start.
#alastor x reader#vox x reader#vox x reader x alastor#alastor x you#alastor x y/n#vox x you#hazbin x reader#alastor x vox#vox x alastor#vox x y/n#radiostatic x y/n#radiostatic x you#radiostatic x reader#radiostatic#deer x reader x tv#alastor x reader x vox#reader x alastor x vox#reader x vox x alastor#vox x you x alastor
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I To Dig a Grave I Chapter 2 I
Summary: Twenty-one years after the outbreak, you come to Wyoming looking for something and end up in Jackson after a stranger saves your life.
But he doesn't stay a stranger.
Turns out Joel Miller is looking for something too. It feels like a fresh start. But when bad luck seems to follow you, Joel is the only one to turn to, forcing both of you to confront your feelings about your pasts- and each other.
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Rating: Explicit / MDNI
Word count: 7k+
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Smut, Explicit Content, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Chose not to use Archive Warnings, Tags to be added
AO3 LINK // Series Masterlist // Playlist
notes: i can't tell you all how i excited i am to get this fic going! thank you for the lovely comments on the first chapter, i promise there is a lot of cool stuff to come!
this fic will deal with heavy topics. please note that it doesn't use archive warnings and tags will be added as we go in order to avoid spoilers. each chapter will have detailed warnings in the end notes on ao3.
Chapter 2 - The Patrol
‘Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story.
There is no other version of this story.’
- Richard Silken, The Worm King’s Lullaby
There is a thin sheet of ice covering the streams that are heading downwards. It crunches under the hooves of their horses that dutifully carry them up the hill and past the gas station.
Joel is glad that it's Tommy next to him. He's more tense than he's felt in ages, a gnawing feeling in his stomach that has little to do with the skipped breakfast and a lot with the worry that is etched into the frown between his brows. He wouldn't want anyone to see him like this, much less try and calm him down, something he knows is a lost battle.
“They might be fine, Joel,” his younger brother says gently, just loud enough for him to hear. Tommy thinks there will be no response until one comes, a little too late for it to not be premeditated.
“She talked about leaving, sometimes. They would be stupid enough to run off-”
“And leave Jackson?” Tommy raises a brow. “Maria said their house looked normal, all their things still in place. They wouldn't be stupid enough to leave all that behind.”
Joel doesn't want to hear it. He knows, better than anyone. Knows that you wouldn't just leave, not without saying goodbye to the children you'd come to care about so much. Would you leave him without a goodbye?
He almost hopes you would. Because if you didn't leave willingly, what was the alternative? It would've been nearly impossible for someone to take you from inside Jackson with no one noticing. But he can't shake the feeling that something is off.
It’s Tommy who has to keep reminding him to ride slow, to keep an eye on the ground for possible tracks. Joel just wants to go, to spur Old Beardy on until they're galloping up the hill, despite not knowing where it is he needs to go. He just wants to find you. Preferably in one piece, happy and healthy.
He would’ve missed it.
The small footprints leading off the road and onto a smaller path, one that's twisting through pines and further into the woods.
Tommy nods. “Pretty sure ‘tis the one that leads to the hunting cabin.”
It only takes a few minutes for them to be sure. The wooden cabin is hidden away behind a few trees, difficult to spot if you don't know where to look. It doesn't really serve any purpose, at least not anymore. The roof at the back caved in years ago, allowing rain and plants alike to enter the dimly lit room. It’s less than five miles from the gate of Jackson, tucked away from the main road.
He can’t help but think that this would be the perfect place to run off to. Or to hide a body.
Joel is off his horse in a second, not even bothering to tie the stallion's halter to the wooden posts in front of the cabin. Without thinking, he tugs his revolver out of his waistband, using his foot to nudge the door open.
He smells it before his eyes even have a chance to adjust to the dim light. The unmistakable stench of blood. And mixed with it, creating an odor that immediately makes him sick to his stomach, the smell of gunpowder in the air.
***
The sun has been slowly rising while you’ve been flipping through the pages, trying to find the volumes you’re looking for. The library of Jackson, though rather small, has been frequented more and more, especially in the winter months when the weather doesn’t always allow activities outside and people resort to what they’ve always known: Books.
The entire place is supposed to be relocated soon, to a small store on main street. But compared to the greenhouses needing repairs and the stables being expanded, books don't seem to be a priority for most of the townsfolk.
“Books can’t feed us or keep us safe,” Maria pointed out when you brought the slow progress up to her. You politely disagree. You feel like you could live off books for the rest of your life.
Still, packing up everything means the old place, a shed tucked away behind the church, is currently a mess. Sagging bookshelves, a leaky roof and too many books for too little space means chaos. One that only few bother to navigate in its current state. You among them.
It was the crack of dawn when you slipped out of the house, deciding to let Lane sleep in while you walked through the still empty streets to the far end of the town, hoping to get the library work out of the way before the first lesson of the day.
Maria is the one that finds you, making your head peek up from between two shelves with a frown. “You changed your mind on those books?”
She gives a small laugh, one that sounds oddly like relief. Then her face becomes stern again, the look she carries much more often. “You two have some explaining to do, do you realize that?”
Now it's your turn to frown. “We two?” She pauses at that, looking around the small room. But there is no one here but you and her and the characters bleeding from the pages.
“Is Lane not with you?”
You shake your head, turning your attention back to the book in your hands. “She has the 8AM class today.”
“She's not there,” Maria curtly responds. You can tell she's trying to keep her voice steady but there is a hint of anxiety regardless.
“Then she overslept again,” you half guess-half ask, closing the book again.
“She's not at home either.”
An odd feeling crawls over your body. You can't remember what was in your hands a moment ago, but the question is forgotten in an instant. Maria carefully watches as you step out from between the shelves, her tone still gentle. “I've sent Tommy and Joel out to search. We thought you two snuck out.”
You feel numb as you shake your head. “No, I- I didn't see her this morning. I thought she was still asleep.” You rack your brain for the memories of this morning, of last night, of the last week even. But nothing comes to mind, nothing out of the ordinary.
“I was out late last night, finishing up some paperwork,” you mutter, more to yourself than the woman in front of you, retracing your steps in your mind. “Lane got home before me, I had dinner, we talked about blueberries-”
“Blueberries?” Maria asks, her hand already back on the doorknob. She seems restless and it's that fleeting detail that worries you more than anything. Maria stays in control. Always.
“Yeah, we- It doesn't matter. I don't know where she is,” you finish lamely, getting up and joining her at the door. But she hasn't moved yet.
“You should stay at home. I'm sure she'll show up again soon and if she comes back to your place, someone should be there.” You nod but your mind is already drifting again. Lane’s been doing fine, good. So have you, really. Maria gently reaches for your shoulder, steering you out of the shed and towards the church, down the street that leads to the center of Jackson.
You're passing the small graveyard that's protected by brick walls, the stones already withered, pale in contrast to the dark metal fence running along on top. The gate is ajar, but you barely pay it any attention as the information settles in your brain. It takes a few seconds for it to reach your mouth and leave your lips.
“She went out a few times.”
“Out?” Maria enquires, raising an eyebrow as her attention shifts back to you.
“I thought she'd met someone. Cat and her were pretty close and I figured-” You give a small shrug. It's more than uncomfortable, suddenly, and absurd, that you're discussing Lane's private life so openly, with Maria of all people.
“Don't tell her I said that,” you add quickly.
Maria nods as you reach the end of the brick wall. “I won't. I'll get back to the city hall and see if there’s any news yet. You go home.”
Your head nods as if on its own accord. Maria has already turned her back towards you when you pipe up. “Maria?”
She pauses, her back straightening a bit. “Yes?”
“You don't think anything happened to Lane, do you?”
The older woman shakes her head softly. “No. I'm sure she's fine. Now get home. Maybe she's already there.”
And she hurries off, leaving you at the corner of the street with a trembling body and a heavy feeling in your stomach. For a fleeting moment, you allow your thoughts to wander past the point you've been dreading to consider. What if something has happened? If Lane did sneak out, maybe with Cat, maybe alone, and got into some sort of situation? What if she's hurt?
The sky has turned from pink to a light blue, only a few clouds piling around the mountains on the horizon.
You glance down at your hands, shaking ever so slightly. You decide to blame it on the cold. The cold that may be getting to your head as well. Because after a few moments, you turn on your heels, heading for the stables. It's only a few rows of houses until the large wooden wall looms in front of you, blocking out the little sunlight you could get in the morning. The wall that protects you from what lies beyond. Infected and Raiders and maybe, you think, as you slip into the stables, maybe answers.
if you enjoyed the chapter, please consider reblogging/sharing and commenting, every single notif on this fic makes my heart swell with love <3
#to dig a grave#joel miller / reader#joel miller x reader#joel miller / you#joel miller x you#joel miller x female reader#joel miller / original female character#joel miller / oc#joel miller#fanfic#fanfiction#the last of us#the last of us part 2#tommy miller#ellie williams#softpascalito#tlou#hurt/comfort#angst#smut#grief/mourning#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal#joel miller fanfic#joel miller fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction#joel / reader#joel x reader#chapter 2
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youtube
That Girl was a sitcom that aired from 1966 to 1971 and followed an unmarried woman moving to New York to live alone and pursue her own career (as an actress) (uncommon stuff for tv shows at the time). Every episode began with someone saying the words "That Girl" and then the camera would zoom in on her or a photo of her. I watched it all a few years ago and I still think about it, so now you all have to put up with me telling you about some of the episodes that stood out the most to me.
S01E01 "Don't Just Do Something, Stand There"
A fun introduction to Ann and her new boyfriend Don. It also establishes here in this first episode that That Girl just keeps getting sexually harassed. And not in a "wow it's wild that old timey romcoms acted like behaviour like this was charming" type of way. Dudes are just creeps and she's straight up having a bad time. This will happen in more episodes than I can remember or touch on here.
S02E22 "He and She and He"
Ann (after being told by them that she has to choose between them) dreams about marrying both of the boys who love her. Simultaneously. And their throuple works amazingly. Everyone is happy. It's utopian. Untill the rain starts. Noah (the bible guy with the ark) shows up at her door to reaffirm that she has to choose. He's played by the same actor who plays her father (a conservative old guy and constant source of generation gap based conflict).
S02E24 "Great Guy"
Ann's gal pal Pete (bit of a boy name) (played by Ruth Buzzi who was a regular on Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In and is BTW a bit of a brick) gets her first boyfriend! He's a rough and tumble guy tho and he's always boxing and jogging with Pete instead of treating her like a lady. He even repeatedly calls Pete a "great guy" (he says Ann is more of a "girl girl" and a "pussycat"). Ann (thinking there's a problem) tries to meddle and gives Pete a femme makeover, but it was totally unnecessary and unwanted. They're happy together the way that they are. The episode ends with him saying "you meet a lot of pussycats, but it's only once in your life that you meet a great guy!"
S02E25 "The Detective Story"
Ann is scared because she keeps getting obscene phone calls from an unknown man (presumably threatening to rape her). It is not a misunderstanding. I swear this is an upbeat and breezy sitcom series.
S03E08 "A Muggy Day in Central Park"
It's a crossdressing episode. The cops are crossdressing. Her boyfriend Don is crossdressing (and I think I remember her dad catching Don crossdressing). All to catch some thieves in central park. They show a clip from it (as a flashback) in the series finale too.
S05E03 "I Ain't Got No Body"
A Playboy style porno mag features Ann's face edited onto another woman's body (she never agreed to her photo being used in this way). A precursor to the celebrity photoshops that were themselves precursors to modern deepfakes. Her conservative father sees it at his barbershop (because apparently barbershops stocked porno mags back then).
S05E24 "The Elevated Woman"
At some point the series finale was planned to show Ann and Don's wedding, but Marlo Thomas (the actress who played Ann) felt that would send the wrong message (suggesting that at the end of the day getting married is all girls should aspire to), so instead the episode is about Ann bringing Don to one of her women's lib meetings to show him what the movement is all about. He spends the whole journey telling her how ridiculous she is and saying that women don't know how good they have it. When they finally arrive it turns out that the meeting was cancelled because none of the other women could even convince their boyfriends to come. No growth occurs. There is no character arc. And no better alternatives exist within the confines of heterosexuality. He's sexist and they're engaged.
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Another character I'd love to see in Earthspark S2 (tho probably in a hypothetical second half of hte season) would be Hot Rod.
I mean, look me in the eye and tell me Hot Rod wouldn't be perfect as the Terrans cool big bro who does try to be a good example but whose natural rebellious streak and immaturity results in the Terrans telling him to maybe pump the brakes a bit.
Or alternatively, assuming Hot Rods on Cybertron rather than Earth, he'd be the perfect vehicle character for how Cybertron has changed in the past 15 years. With Hot Rod maybe actually having already matured in the time period and it being Bumblebee, Optimus, and the others who need to recognize his newfound maturity when they're still remembering the more reckless and immature hot rod of the past.
I dunno. Just think it'd be neat.
((I mean it'd be even better if hes become Rodimus Prime in that time period and leads the Autobots on Cybertron in Optimus' absence. Of course how he'd do that w/o the matrix of leadership is an open question. Maybe, with everyone more or less assuming OP and the others are either dead or permanently stranded on earth, they elect a new leader in Hot Rod and call him Rodimus Prime purely because thats what they've always done with their leaders.))
#tf hot rod#hot rod#transformers#transformers hot rod#rodimus prime#tf rodimus#transformers rodimus#earthspark#tf earthspark#transformers earthspark#tfe hot rod#tfe rodimus prime#tfe rodimus#earthspark rodimus#earthspark hot rod#tf rodimus prime
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https://www.tumblr.com/starfxkr/751491327267667968/i-think-it-was-you-that-had-th-hc-that-pope-and
So I went to listen to this song because I’ve never heard it before and now I’m begging you to write a little blurb about it
🌊✮ ⋆ 🦈｡ * ⋆｡🌊✮ ⋆ 🦈｡ * ⋆｡🌊✮ ⋆ 🦈｡ * ⋆｡🌊✮ ⋆ 🦈｡ * ⋆｡
it was just nice to hear his voice, with pope going to college on the mainland, and you relegated to community college on the island, you felt lonelier than ever. even with your alternating weekend visits it just wasn't the same.
so when he proposed discord calls during the week you were ecstatic. now you could see and talk to him whenever the night was right.
and the night couldn't have been better.
"shit...you're so fuckin hot, i can't wait to come back home just so i can touch you again." thank god pope had his own room, if his roommates could see him now he wouldn't hear the end of it--he was gripping the base of his dick in efforts not to cum, doing his best to focus on the distant waves crashing in the background as he watched you circle the vibrator around your clit.
you hated getting like this, you'd been looking forward to your call all day and you'd been walling around hot and bothered, snapping at any and everyone, "i can't keep doing this, i need you home." and uncharacteristic whimper leaves your lips but you don't care.
pope starts stroking himself again, groaning when you spread your lips so he can see your hole twitching in need.
"it's almost over, one more semester and i'm yours for good i promise." he brings a hand down to cup his balls and you know he doesn't have much in him left to hold on.
letting your head fall back against the pillow you hold the broad head of the toy press right where you want it until you're panting his name, "pope...oh fuck, please come home--fuck--imissyouimissyou." your back arches and your toes curl as you cum and all you hears in a soft "oh shit." as you raise your head to watch him.
pope's eyes are clenched shut, his stomach trembling as cum shoots out of him like a high pressure jet--splattering across his chest and face until he's wrung dry.
"damn, look at that." he lifts his hand to show you the mess he's covered in and pope's smiling when you let out a sharp cackle.
"good thing you got that out before you came back, you not gonna shoot my club up with all that."
he rolls his eyes and reaches for some tissue and cleans himself off, "shut up dude, you just do that to me."
you make no moves to get dressed, just watching him as he hums some song you don't know, "i really do miss you."
"i miss you too, like i said just one more semester and i'm yours."
in reply, you let out a yawn setting up your computer next to your pillow as he sets his up too, "wanna play our game?"
"you always fall asleep first."
"no i don't!"
pope rolls his eyes, picking the category and starting, "whatever. constellations: andromeda."
"boötes."
"cassiopeia."
you don't make it to "f" before you're asleep.
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ahh it’s nice to find a skz writer who is into darker content and dead dove. those kind of fics are the ones i enjoy most. could you maybe do something with minho and darker role play? any type of play you want!
♡ dark sexual roleplay with psychotic lee minho ♡
psychotic lee minho x reader | gender neutral | dead dove | nsfw (MDNI)
p.s. i hope this is to your liking, anon! if you're not too shy, tell me in my dms, ok?
『 ↳♡･ﾟ psychotic!minho likes...doctor & patient roleplay ೃ⁀➷
Minho would turn his bedroom into a makeshift medical room, complete with an examination table, surgical tools, and various medical supplies. The cold, clinical atmosphere would be designed to unnerve you, to make you feel vulnerable and exposed.
You will be naked, lying on the examination table, which is really just his king-sized bed covered with freshly laundered white sheets. Minho, dressed in a lab coat, would play the role of the doctor with unsettling enthusiasm.
"There's no need to be scared, kitten. You're my favorite patient, after all. I just need to conduct some...special examinations."
Minho's touch will be clinical and intimate, his hands tracing over your body slowly with practiced precision. He will explain each step of the examination in a detached, professional tone, but the dark intensity in his eyes will be easily noticed by you.
His hands slowly slip between your thighs, hooded eyes locked with yours...
"Be a good kitten and open your legs wide for me. Hook your arms under your knees and pull your legs as far back as possible. I need to do a thorough physical check."
The idea of medical control is exciting to him. He will use various medical instruments to heighten your anxiety, the cold metal against your bare skin sending shivers down your spine. Minho's favorite instrument to use is the speculum.
He takes the bivalve and slowly drags the cold instrument down your inner thighs.
"Do you know what this is for, dumb kitty? This is to measure how wide that pretty hole of yours can stretch. I wonder how far I can stretch it before it starts to tear and bleed?"
He will test your reactions, his touch alternating between gentle and invasive. His questions will be probing, his tone demanding honesty.
He inserts the very tip of the instrument into your entrance and watches in fascination as your hole uselessly clenches around it.
"How many fingers do you use to fuck yourself open when I'm not around, hm? You're too much of a whore to use just two. Do you use three? Or, maybe you use four? There's no need to lie to me, kitten. Patient-doctor confidentiality, remember? Besides..."
Minho slowly pushes the cold instrument further into you, and you whimper as the cool metal burrows deeper into your sensitive walls. You will want to close your thighs, but you know better than to disobey.
"I'm going to find out the truth regardless. I'm a doctor; it's my job to know everything about my favorite patient."
Psychological domination appeals to his psychotic side. Throughout the examination, Minho will assert his dominance, reminding you of your helplessness.
He begins to slowly open your entrance with the instrument, and watches intently as the cold metal pushes your walls farther and father apart. The feeling is unfamiliar; it burns but it accompanies the heat building in your lower abdomen. You whimper pathetically as you are stretched wider and wider, to the point where a part of you fears you might actually tear. There are hot tears beading in the corner of your eyes, and you're trembling and breathing erratically, yet your legs stay wide open for doctor Minho.
"I don't care if it hurts. You need this, kitty. You trust me, right? I'm only doing this for your own good."
The mixture of care and control in his voice will be disorienting, leaving you unsure of his true intentions.
Minho pulls the instrument out of you carefully, leaving you gaping; it's humiliating and the look in his eyes is unsettling. Minho leans forward, and spits. You watch as a big glob of saliva pushes through his pursed lips and falls directly into your open hole. The heat of the liquid coats your walls as it slowly slips deeper into you. You release something between a strangled gasp and a moan, toes curling as any sense of shame dissolves into pure arousal.
Minho reaches into the pocket of his lap coat, pulling out a blue pair of latex gloves. He pulls them on, looking at you with a darkened stare, tone still detached and professional.
"I know you're already fucked out from having your walls opened, but this is far from over. With a hole that wide, further examination is necessary. The next step is double fisting. Are you ready, kitten?"
#lee minho#minho#skz lee minho#skz minho#lee minho x reader#minho x reader#lee minho imagines#skz x reader#skz headcanons#skz imagines#smut#skz smut#yandere skz#anon request
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Do you have a favorite Bridgerton book/storyline?
Favorite/Least Favorite changes book to show?
So let me start this answer by saying that I haven’t watched any of season 3 yet. 🫣 Part of that is money reasons. We pared down our streaming services to the minimum when money was tight and I just haven’t gotten around to renewing my Netflix. Probably will once the rest of season 3 drops because… (book spoilers below the cut)
My 3 favorite books/storylines are:
1) When He Was Wicked (Francesca & Michael Stirling) because holy damn and hell and everything holy in between. Michael Stirling is the epitome of making consent sexy. That's all I'm gonna say about that, but I've seen enough talk and gif's floating around here to know that they've introduced John Stirling already and I am HERE for them laying the groundwork for a season five or six focused on Francesca and Michael Stirling.
2) Romancing Mr. Bridgerton (Colin & Penelope) asfklsjfksanfs. I loved how sweet their story is, enough that I am mildly concerned about how they're going to deal with the massive change on the show, i.e. the fact that book!Lady Whistledown didn't nearly bring ruin and humiliation down on the Bridgerton family at all, let alone twice. On the one hand, I understand why show!Penelope did this and I kind of love that they've given her this massive mistake, this huge flaw for her and Colin to work through. But also 🫣 I don't have an excessive amount of faith in them handling these kinds of changes well on the show because the show is all about The Drama. Which brings me to...
3) The Viscount Who Loved Me (Anthony & Kate) Look. I absolutely love some of the changes they've made while translating the books to screen. And I don't even care all that much for the historical accuracy of the show. They threw it out the window with season one and made it a brilliant alternate universe that allows them the freedom to not only give us a diverse cast but also give the middle finger to anyone who says "that' never would've happened." So I'm willing to forgive a lot of changes. Buuuuutttt.... having Anthony actually propose to Edwina, having Edwina actually believing she wanted to marry Anthony, changed the characters in a way that didn't sit very well with me. At least not with the way it was handled on the show.
So that covers my least favorite change they've made on the show so far, now for my two favorite changes.
Benedict. Gah he's so much better, such a more interesting and fleshed out character on the show than he is in the book. They've maintained his fantastic sense of humor and relationships with his siblings and somehow made it better by bringing in the pseudo underground culture of artists, the introduction of queer characters, and his cravats! I could write an ode to show Benedict's wardrobe it is FABULOUS. And while I know I said above that I don't really care for the changes made to Anthony's story, I'm kind of hoping they flip book!Benedict's story on it's head and see where they can take it. Because that book was one of my least favorites. Give him a man. Or give him a woman built like Luisa Madrigal but who sometimes dresses as a man and can pull it off. I don't care but do SOMETHING ELSE besides the nonsense that happens in his book and GIVE HIS PARTNER SOME FUCKING AGENCY.
Queen Charlotte. Look. She's not even in the books, but she's one of my favorite characters on the show. She and Lady Danbury own my whole heart, okay? And her spinoff show... I've only been able to watch it once because (other than the money issue mentioned above), I was crying literal buckets starting somewhere around episode five until the end and I binge watched that shit so what is that like six hours straight crying???? Also, having her as a character gave us Brimsley and Reynolds. (*whispers my poor overworked and beleaguered babies*) I wasn't overly fond of the role she played in dragging out the drama surrounding Anthony and Edwina, but that could've been avoided entirely if you'd given show!Edwina even an ounce of book!Edwina's compassion and understanding of her sister and had her do something equally dramatic like, oh I don't know... TURN HIM DOWN?!?!? (Can you tell I'm still salty about this?)
Alright, that's enough of that. I have a job interview to prepare for, but this was a nice distraction from my inevitable nerves.
Love,
kdnfb
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as much as I can appreciate the interpretation of enjolras as being a naturally kinda quiet and calm guy, I tend to prefer the idea that he had to teach himself to be charming. he isn't necessarily cruel by nature, but he's intense. the force of his passion can scare even his closest allies as well as his enemies so he learns to file the edge of his knife sharper and smaller and sharper and smaller until he can hide it in a bouquet of flowers.
#he's the epitome of “I'll keep all my emotions right here and then one day I'll die”#and then he literally does die#which makes the whole thing even sadder#I stand by my statement#that enjolras is not only doomed by the narrative#but painfully aware of the fact that he's doomed by the narrative#he is collateral damage in a war that will last long after he's gone#but to him that's better than the alternative#which is to stand idly by while the world holds injustice#he's not naive#in fact he's kind of the least naive character in the book#by some metrics#he knows what he is setting out to do#and then he does it to the best of his ability#everyone else more or less falls prey to the whims of Society#at least at some point in their stories#whether or not they break out of those constructs eventually#but enjolras grabs Society by the collar#and shakes it like a bottle of acid#ok tag rant over#pigeon.txt#les mis#les miserables#enjolras#enjolrasposting#(forgot that was a tag for a bit)
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i feel like the reason aang isn’t as adored and beloved as he should be is because he’s the protagonist but he’s also not an archetypal western classical hero. i don’t agree with the entirety of that “avatar aang: feminist icon” essay because i think the role of patriarchy and gender in atla is more complex than what that essay posits, but he definitely complicates the masculine ideal of heroism and generally does not conform to patriarchal notions of masculinity. which is very deliberate, especially as contrasted with sokka and zuko’s explicit struggles with the imperialist/colonial standards of an aggressive, militaristic, and chauvinistic masculinity. aang is subversive because he represents an absence of war in a world ravaged by it. through his link to a (somewhat more) peaceful and harmonious past, he represents a better possible future. as katara would say, he brings people hope.
but people don’t like that he’s not visibly edgy or tormented like zuko is (even though he’s a far more tragic character than zuko is, just fyi), that he isn’t “cool” (even though he’s literally the coolest kid ever, just fyi), that he “gets the girl” (even though if anything, she gets him) despite being twelve and bald and nice (the horror!). katara is the more classical hero of the narrative, as its narrator and its catalyst, the adventurous revolutionary who gradually learns to control and use her powers and eventually becoming a force to be reckoned with. zuko is the classical anti-hero of the narrative, his “redemption arc” constantly hailed as one of the greatest character arcs in television. so people expect katara and zuko, as very obvious narrative foils who parallel each other every step of the way, to be the obvious couple, because based on every romance narrative we’ve been inundated with throughout our lives, within our patriarchal society, they “just make sense together.”
but as much as katara is a protagonist in her own right, aang is the show. the title quite literally represents the central thematic tension of the entire narrative, the colon illustrating the implicit divide between his duties to this brave new world in desperate need of justice and balance, or his duties to his extirpated culture as the last true voice among them. aang is the central figure because this tension represents the crucial ideological battle happening across the entire show. aang is the avatar because he is the only person in the entire world whose values have not been shaped by war.
people constantly laud zuko, in particular, for being the most interesting, complex character in avatar. but i personally don’t even think that’s true. which isn’t to say that zuko isn’t fascinating in his own right, of course, but rather that he’s certainly not the only complex character this show has to offer. he just happens to monologue about his anguish constantly. but aang wasn’t raised as an imperial prince, and so he approaches the world, and his own pain, in a very different manner. the reason he immediately goes to ride giant koi on kyoshi island, mailchutes in omashu, and otherwise goofs around after learning of the shocking ramifications of his people’s genocide is because that’s how he copes with his pain. unlike zuko, who never stops talking about his aches and yearnings, aang represses his trauma and hides his tears behind a mask of upbeat cheerful goofy twelve year old antics.
until he can’t anymore. until he snaps. both katara and zuko wear their hearts on their sleeves, and that includes their rage. but aang’s rage is dangerous specifically because it represents that he has been pushed past his limits, that the conditions of this world in which he is a perpetual stranger, temporally displaced and dispossessed, are intolerable. that peaceful reconciliation is impossible. and the fact that he persists beyond that breaking point, over and over again, to firmly and resoundingly establish his ideals even as they conflict with everything he has learned about this world, a world that is not his own even as he can never return to the world he once knew, is what makes him so unique, so powerful, so beautiful.
i know that aang isn’t the typical hero, neither narratively nor aesthetically, but really, that’s the entire point. the world, our world, needs something other than what we have now. we need someone who will not succumb to the ideals of domination and victory through violence to assert themselves. we need someone who stands firm in refusing to kill the firelord, even as everyone he knows tells him otherwise. we need someone who knows that darkness cannot be vanquished through more darkness, but can only truly yield to purifying light.
and sure, aang is a child, and often acts childishly. sure, he’s not conventionally handsome and alluring. but one thing i will never understand is how that somehow negates his appeal to the masses. because even if you don’t appreciate how crucial he is to the themes of this narrative you all seem to love so much, how can you not love his adorable little face? his precious little laugh, his zest for life, the infinite well of love and kindness he holds in his heart? people who hate aang are crazy to me. because you are, quite literally, hating the world’s most precious baby boy.
#aang#katara#zuko#analysis#hot takes#sorry this one is kind of all over the place#very stream of consciousness bc it’s loving aang hours#and he’s not only meaningful narratively#but he’s also just SOOOOO CUTE#I would literally pay money to babysit him#which I think defeats the point of babysitting but whatever#he’s just. so precious 😭😭😭#also fwiw I don’t really fw kataang either but like. it does make more narrative sense than the alternative#and if it had been executed better . well. who can say
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bro can you imagine being tritter. you’re a power hungry cop who just wants to get revenge on the asshole doctor who humiliated you, so you approach his prescribing physician saying “here’s cold hard proof that he committed several crimes and endangered your career”. and instead of testifying against him in light of this information he’s like nooo he didn’t do anything wrong!! it was my fault actually that he committed felonies without my knowledge!! don’t take him away!! send me to prison instead!!! like. what do you even do with that
#can’t get over the car scene where tritter is like ‘you’ll go to prison if you don’t tell the truth about him’#and wilson just goes ‘better me than him’#and tritter just gets inscreasingly baffled by his commitment to being number 1 house defender#gay people bro 😭😭 outside perspective on that relationship goes crazy#house md#hilson#house/wilson#gregory house#james wilson#or like alternatively#can you imagine being julie wilson#and your husband comes home one day and he’s like I lost my job#and u ask why#and he says that house committed too many crimes and you refused to get him fired#my man was down bad 😭 stand by your mannn and show the world you love him
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In the world I love
_
In a different world
#vanitas no carte#vanoé#doomed yaoi save me...save me doomed yaoi#play on the opening song + visual sequence + the fact that vanitas could only ever be happy in an alternate universe also#+ the other fun little fact we learn about him from episode one#i have complex feelings about this anime#its pretty damn fucking good#but im a leeeeetle iffy about the way it developed the female characters.....they had potential and i was actually excited to#to see some good solid female characters even the respective romances with their l/i's felt good at the start#not jeanne obv. they fucked up a perfectly good woman and her whole dynamic with v could have gone sooo well without the reall#really forced flirting behaviour.... i liked the more serious relationship they had it made me actually not hate what they had at the start#but yknow. whatever. sorry about going off about another ship on this but im just....i love jeanne a lot. i wish they didnt do her so dirty#my girl deserves better than this asshole#you want white/black dynamics??? let her get married to domi and then we can talk#i enjoy this show and i enjoy vanoe a lot#very yuriyaoi if you ask me#my art
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Stuck in the middle of a forest made of
Flesh and bones and they're all scared of
A lost little boy who has lost his heart
Fear's not enough, they have to
Tear him apart
—-------
There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well:
He’s adopted.
He can’t remember anything else before that.
‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents.
What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill.
When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.
(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.)
The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.
It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one.
The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself.
His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.
(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.)
(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.)
They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.
(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)
Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe.
He turned back around and went inside.
—-------
Where do we go
When the river's running slow
Where do we run
When the cats kill one by one
—------
One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.
He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal.
It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking.
He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter.
Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind.
(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)
After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous.
He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.
—------
Hazel beneath our claws
While we wait for cerulean to cry
Unsettled ticks run through time
Enough for the hunt to go awry
—-----
There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own.
He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t.
Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward.
(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”)
(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)
He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell.
A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his.
He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it.
His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.
Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.
—-------
Harpy hare
Where have you buried all your children?
Tell me so I say
—-------
When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now.
Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.
He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.
Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own.
(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)
(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)
(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)
—--------------
It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders
And they will never
Hear me here listen to croons and a calling
I'll tell them all the
Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow
Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare
—-------
More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother.
Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten.
His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands.
They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely.
It is a fast dream.
His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.
His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods.
The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him.
The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal.
His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train.
(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.)
—---
She can't keep them all safe
They will die and be afraid
Mother, tell me so I say
(Mother, tell me so I say)
—-------
When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again.
The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person.
(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.)
(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)
Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird.
(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)
—------
Seeker, do you ever come to wonder
If what you're looking for is within where you hold
Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path
You'll soon forget
Home
—---------
When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is.
When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.
‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off.
He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.
He ends up calling himself Phantom.
(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.)
----------
Home is where we are
Home is where you are
Home is where I am
-----------------
Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.
#dpxdc#dp x dc#danny fenton is not the ghost king#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc crossover#dpdc#danyal al ghul au#amnesiac danyal al ghul au#songs in order of the album: the hartebeest / harpy hare / and the hound / neath the grove is a heart#musician danny has my heart and soul#yes this danyal IS an alternative danny from the other au. an au where things were a little better :) but still sucks#implied good mom talia al ghul#danyal is a momma's boy send tweet#dpxdc ficlet#dpxdc prompts#dp x dc au#dp x dc fanfic#danyal is sTILL five years older than damian in this au#no beta no edits we die like danny fenton#poc danny fentons#i didnt know where to end this :(( i was gonna go on but i blanked. i thought about going into his relationships with his rogues and so on.#but that felt too much like trying to just increase the word count rather than actually writing?? if that makes sense#ugh im gonna have forgotten to include things and im gonna be kicking myself later#morally ambiguous danny whoo! we love to see it#since this was just for fun it doesnt really go into it all that much other than like. it happens. and that danny realizes he's dangerous#phantom in a hazmat suit? nah phantom looking like an assassin >:].#danyal al ghul with damian and his mom: 🥰🌸✨#danyal al ghul with everyone else: 👹🔪#am i heavily implying that clockwork had smth to do with Danyal’s amnesia and appearance by the cabin? 👀 maybe#not enough danyal al ghul aus where him being an assassin actually. has some kind of affect on him
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brasil's president is currently considered persona non grata in israel after comparing the palestinian genocide to the holocaust 😊 this the mf i voted for
#lula my beloved#actually he's not that great always but he's better than any possible alternative and im happy with him there#mine#not to be taken seriously#personal#Brasil#Brazil#ptbr#lula
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Heavy is the head that wears the crown 👑
Alistair Theirin, king of Ferelden and king of my heart XD <3
#Dragon Age#Alistair Theirin#dragon age fanart#I'm sorry I had to give you a job you didn't really want but it's better than the alternative i PROMISE babe 8'D#also he is good at it bless him i'm so proud#jacks art#whats this? me posting at the worst possible hour again?
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Cringetober Day 3. Unnecessarily Complex Fit
#kyo! :) two of him because he'd be so long on the dash. I hope mobile doesn't stack them#you Know he's monster-inspired#this one took so long because I totally started over with a different idea than what I was doing. this fits better and I like it more anywa#I'm alternating working on the days everything's out of order#kyo vocaloid#zola project#kyo zola project#zola project kyo#vocaloid#cringetober 2023#october 2023
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woe, trollsona be upon ye
meet my trollsona Pixie :3 i discovered that pixie is a subgenre of indie that i listen to a lot + my obsession with the oh hellos inspired me today!! ANYWAY WHERE MY FELLOW INDIE TROLLS AT 🗣️🗣️🗣️
#trolls#trollsona#trolls oc#trolls fanart#trolls band together#my art#maybe i’ll make some oc x canon for them later…#floyd has been on the brain sm lately i just love him so much#i think i technically listen to more rock than pop but#i felt like pop represents me better in terms of vibes#maybe i’ll make an alternate design for them at some point idk#FEEL FREE TO DRAW THEM I WOULD CRY TEARS OF JOY#anyways sorry for not posting college applications are killing me#it will happen again#indie troll#indie trollsona
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