#OC: Ronald | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mirnilop · 8 months

Text

𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ wally darling

⚠ tags: sfw, mob au, yandere!wally, gn!singer!reader, power imbalance, discussions of violence

♡ synopsis: you’d be surprised how many fans you accrue as a small-time lounge singer. while this is usually a good thing, one of yours happens to rule half the city, so he isn’t exactly receptive to the word “no”.

♡ word count: 5,310

⛧ﾐ‧*･ﾟ the following content may be triggering to some. please proceed with caution! ･ﾟ*‧ミ⛧

a/n: hello!! ₍ᐢ.ˬ.⑅ᐢ₎ goshh, my very first post on this acc!! i haven’t posted fanfic in a hot minute but i’m suuuper excited to get back into it!! 💞 i have sooo many wips for this fandom, it was difficult to choose which one to finish first! credit to @/clownsuu for creating the au and for the lovely art!! i tweaked the concept a wee bit so that it takes place in a roger rabbit-esque world where puppets and humans live together unharmoniously (with a jessica rabbit inspired reader ofc >v>). it was a lot of fun trying to marry wally's canon personality with a Scary Mob Boss (*´ 艸`) i can't wait to post more!! what are y'all's favourite aus? let me know!! ･*･:≡(　ε:)

There’s a rose on your vanity.

The sight of it snuffs out your high spirits, irritation igniting in its place– and it was such a good day, too! You and the girls were perfectly in sync for your entire performance, bolstered by the unusually affable audience; you even rewarded them with a sneak peek of new material, which made them go wild!

Dreams of stomping it beneath your heel stew in your head as you drop it in the faience vase at the rim of the mirror, where a crinkled, beige-tipped rose droops against the rim. Why not break the vase too? An idea that’s crossed your mind too many times, and while it gets harder to resist with each flower, you endure it. They’re presents, after all, and you doubt your admirer would take kindly to the news that you’ve trashed them. You’re certain one of his minions would obtain the evidence, if not witness you do it; you can’t pinpoint the extent to which they survey you, but the crawling sensation of eyes on your back crops up often, and obviously they have no problem barging into your dressing room to play delivery service.

Sighing, you comb through your rolling rack to pick a suitable outfit to change into. Most of the articles hanging are also gifts, but you’ve made sure to keep some of your own hard-earned clothes here out of sheer spite. A burgundy cashmere number has just slipped into your grasp when the door bursts open.

“How’s that for a show?! And what a great crowd, a whole buncha dolls! Or– well, puppets– and humans! Hahaha!”

Lottie skips in with her usual energy, the bell on her collar jingling alongside the clack of her Mary Janes. You hate that their manager mandates the bells as a part of their costumes, as if puppets being treated like second-class citizens wasn’t enough. “You wanna make money or not? It’s part of the appeal! You know, Mary Had A Little Lamb and all that!” is what he told you after one of your countless tirades regarding his treatment of them, but the sleazy smirk wrapped around his cheap cigarette allowed you to read between the lines. As much as you despise that man, it’s not your business to judge the trio for staying contracted with him. Mottie’s recalled to you how difficult it was to hire a manager at all, and you suppose you have to (begrudgingly) thank him for bringing them into your life, since he’s the one who bagged them the backup singer gig.

A swell of color in your peripheral lets you know that she’s come near, but you don’t bother diverting attention from your search. This is such a common occurrence between you two that pleasantries are no longer required.

“And they were mighty generous with the tips! So me and the gals was thinking we should go somewhere to… celebrate…”

Hearing her trail off, you turn to find her staring at the new rose, her once-perky ears fallen limp. You click your tongue, remorse prickling your heart, though you’ve done nothing wrong.

“I’ll be alright, Lottie. Here,” You grab a wad of bills from your personal tip jar and fold them into her hand. “You take your sisters somewhere nice, my treat. As an apology for having to skip out tonight.”

When she doesn’t move from her spot, merely pouting at you with big, glistening eyes full of concern, you swaddle her in a hug. Fleecy strands of shell pink hair tickle your nose as she nestles her snout into your shoulder, squeezing you like a lifebuoy. Having her in your arms is a vital reminder as to why you continue to put up with everything. Lottie, Dottie and Mottie are your beloved friends– your family when you had none– and you are willing to do whatever is necessary to build a life with them.

“Are ya sure?”

“Positive. And if that bug gives you even a whiff of trouble, you come get me right away, got it?”

She laughs, the sound a balm to the ache of your worries. “He never gives us any trouble– n’fact, I haven’t heard ‘im say a single word!”

“Good. At least one of them has manners. Now go have fun!”

After a few more hugs and a promise to relay your apology to her sisters, she trots towards the entrance. Halfway through it, she pauses.

“Promise ya’ll play nice?”

An involuntary grimace twists your face, which you smooth immediately.

“I was planning on it,” you concede, earning an exhale of relief from Lottie.

“Thanks. Honestly, I’m kinda worried...” She leans against the doorframe, gaze trained on the checkered floor. “I see more and more of that Napoleon-wannabe’s goons lately. Do ya think he’s gettin’ antsy? It’s been real quiet since that incident with Dorelaine.”

Ah, the incident. It happened a handful of months ago; he refused to go into specifics, but what you’ve gathered from his gnomic recount and various news stories is that their rival organization– led by Ronald Dorelaine, a human man– planted explosives somewhere important, racking up thousands in damages and dismembering several puppets, left to be mended with those horrific stitches. You didn’t receive another rose until several weeks afterwards.

“I can’t be sure,” you admit. “He doesn’t tell me much about the goings-on of the ‘family’, not that I care to know. But I noticed he’s been more wound up lately… maybe they’re going to retaliate?”

A visible shudder travels through Lottie, and she tosses her head as if to ward off the gravity of your predicament. It was easier to ignore the implications when there wasn’t an active turf battle.

“You’re right, we should stay as far as we can from that nasty business. Wear the red, then. To butter ‘im up a little.” She offers you a conflicted half-smile, most likely holding herself back from proposing a makeover, before sidling out the door.

Glowering, you follow the advice, shucking your tight, shimmering stage outfit for the cozy cashmere you were eyeing before. Like I need to be reminded of his favorite color. I’ve practically lived in red since I met him. It inexplicably fits like a glove, as do all of the clothes you've been bestowed; for the sake of your sanity, you prevent yourself from delving too far into that subject.

As you fix the little bits of your appearance that got mussed up during your performance, you can’t help but contemplate hiding in your room until morning, even though you know it wouldn’t work– and you’d have to pay for a broken front door. Once every speck of lint has been removed and your ensemble is flawless, you steel your resolve with a hard look in the mirror. If things go south, at least you’ll make a gorgeous open casket.

You step into your shoes and out of the dressing room, swiping your bag and a matching hat from the plethora that dangle on knobs affixed to the wall along the way. The haze that eternally permeates the lounge envelops you as you walk, no longer springing tears to your eyes like it did so long ago, when you were a starry-eyed fledgling. Upon entering the foyer, you call out to the owner, Gene, who’s counting the register behind the bar.

“Hey, I’m heading out!”

“Geez, you’re in a hurry! Got a hot date or what?”

“Something like that,” you breathe, your nerves relighting tenfold now that you’re so close to the outside.

“Ahh, I getcha.” His amusement is clear, construing an innuendo within your words that is absolutely not there, but you’d rather die than clarify. “You did a great job today, you deserve it!”

Somehow, your admirer has managed to limbo directly under Gene’s nose; thus far he’s made no indication that he’s aware he has a very important patron. For a moment, you observe him, and see how he absentmindedly rubs the pocket of his button-up– where a polaroid of his two children is safely tucked away– and you decide that it’s probably for the best.

“Thanks, Gene. Have a good one.”

“You too!”

His reply barely reaches you as you cross the threshold from the comfort of your work into the cold, pensive night. A luckier soul may have suffered a fright when greeted with the colossal figure standing below the street light, carved with shadow, but it’s a familiar sight to you now. An inconspicuous black car is parked behind him.

“Hi Howdy.”

“Evening, Mx.” He bows slightly, whisking open the sleek passenger door which you reluctantly slide inside.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I do have a name.” It’s true. Being addressed formally by such an important figure imbues you a with a sick feeling, like he’s won, and you’ve already been initiated into this fucked up institution.

Though he waits for you to finish speaking before shutting you in, he doesn’t grace you with a response; not that you were expecting one. In all the times he’s escorted you to these duress-dates, as you’ve taken to calling them, he’s remained stoic to a mechanical degree, acknowledging your presence and nothing more. Thrashing, crying, screaming– you’ve tried everything to escape, and have never elicited a reaction more severe than that of a tired parent handling a tantrum. If you resist, he simply manhandles you. It’s hardly a fair match, with him having 4 arms and several feet of height on you, so you opt to reserve your energy for dealing with his headache of a boss.

When he hauls his many limbs onto the driver’s seat, the car lurches, too small to accommodate a puppet of his stature; he has to hunch forward to see the windshield, antennae pushed flat. You lean back and vacantly turn towards the window, wondering if cars big enough for someone like him to drive comfortably even exist while the engine rumbles to life.

The umbrous cityscape passes you by, inklings of humans and puppets flashing in and out of the darkness like ghosts. Thick boughs of red and green tinsel are strung across a few lamp posts, but by the end of the season they’ll all be covered. Dottie’s already triple checked that you and her sisters have one day of the annual Christmas market off, even though you strike the same deal with Gene every year; the four of you get Saturday, then he gets Sunday to take his family. It’s one of your favorite times of the year, if only because you get to experience the aura of wonder that enlivens Lottie when the first snow falls, Mottie’s timid wheedling to attend The Nutcracker, and Dottie’s alphabetically-organized checklist of fun winter activities.

Those cheerful thoughts are wiped away as Howdy turns into a private garage attached to a sleek, angular skyscraper. He parks in the spot nearest to the entrance, the first in a row of spaces labeled with metal “Reserved for Staff” signs, and circles the car to let you out. The sensation of him gingerly lifting you comes with no alarm; he always assists you up the concrete stairs leading to the elevator, as if you’re so physically inept you can’t handle 3 tiny steps. You assume his needless precaution is for the same reason he hasn’t beaten you yet despite defying him so often: boss’s orders.

With a reedy knell, the elevator glides open, and Howdy signals for you to go ahead. Once you’re both inside, he inserts a key and presses the button for the uppermost level. Expecting a noiseless ride, you tune into the low muzak emitting from the speakers, which makes you miss the first time he calls you.

“Mx.”

Startled, you swivel towards him. His steadfast profile is unreadable.

“Boss doesn’t know you’ve opposed him so vehemently in the past. Please keep that in mind tonight.”

The entrance broaches before you can interrogate him as to what the hell he means, granting you entry to a luxury penthouse laved in gold, ivory, and– of course– red. A glimmering chandelier suspends from the ornamental ceiling, bathing the antique furniture in an amber glow. If you hadn’t just ridden up the elevator, you would have assumed such a lavish drawing room belonged to an old mansion.

It’s something straight out of a romance novel, except instead of a chiseled, broody Italian, it’s a short puppet sitting at the marble-topped dining table. He lounges at the head in a slate blue silk suit with its jacket buttoned to the top; an honor seemingly reserved solely for you, because it’s the only way you’ve seen him wear it, despite street tales describing the way it billows from his shoulders as he stalks the town. Revealed by its plunged neckline is the collar of a white dress shirt embossed with rainbow pinstripes, and a red ascot neatly tied and pulled askant around his throat.

Wally Darling, in the felt: kingpin of The Neighborhood, and resident thorn in your side.

When you arrive, he rises to meet you, dismissing Howdy with a pointed glance; you’ve learned that the relationship between a crime lord and his loyal bandog transcends language. You watch him as he leaves through a pair of swinging doors to the left, his cryptic advice-slash-warning heavy on your mind.

And so, you find yourself alone with the most dangerous man in the city– puppet or otherwise.

“Good evening, dearest. I hope my gift found you well.”

The concept of personal space might as well be Greek to Wally, since he hasn’t once respected it from the day you had the misfortune of making his acquaintance. He crowds so close that you have to crane your neck to see his face, the heat emanating from him eliciting shivers in your chill-soaked body.

“Yes, thank you. It was quite a lively night,” you chirp, wielding a civil smile.

Although the contours of his wispy, coiffed curls only reach your ribs, he extends his arm to you, which you take with such a featherlight hold that you barely brush his sleeve. Rather than leading you to the dining table like you expected, you’re guided towards a small lounge area to the side, the crackling croon of Billie Holiday wafting over from a refurbished stereo console in the corner. Oh, great. He’s feeling sentimental.

“Would you indulge me with a dance before dinner?”

Don't have much of a choice, do I?

“I’d love to.”

Dancing with Wally is funny, in an ironic sort of way; it certainly caught you off guard the first time he asked. When you envision dancing with a powerful, deadly mobster, you think of being swept away, wrapped snugly by strong arms and a dastardly smirk, or perhaps something more courtly, like a waltz steered by a polite hand on your waist. Turns out both versions are incorrect.

Muscle memory ushers your arms open, and Wally falls into the space in between them– literally. Slack against you, his full weight is heftier than his height would imply, but not physically uncomfortable– emotionally and morally, however, are another story. An air of pure peace washes over him as his cheek nuzzles the underside of your chest, arms limp at his sides; you swear you even hear a little trill. Your face burns, but you say nothing as you begin to sway faintly to the beat, tracing a loop with your feet as you traipse along. Wally follows easily, tethered by the reluctant cage of your embrace.

“Do you remember the night we met?”

The query is felt more than heard, his gentle monotone muffled by the downy fabric of your garb. You huff softly to yourself, rustling a few gel-slick strands atop his pompadour.

“How could I forget?”

The day the infamous Mr. Darling appeared in your club, his two largest henchmen in tow, is burned into your brain like a regrettable tattoo; Gene was off, so you were covering entertainment for the night while the sisters managed the bar and floor. As you were singing the very song playing now, you detected a curious hush that had overtaken the throng of guests, and strained to cut through the stage glare and cigarette fog to locate the cause. Tracking the audience, who were all regarding the bar with varying amounts of subtlety, you nearly dropped the microphone when you saw the broad blue back of Barnaby B. Beagle, someone you’d only heard of in gossip. He gesticulated as he spoke boisterously to poor Mottie, who was as white as a sheet behind the counter. Situated a slight ways away was Howdy Pillar, who stood as motionless as a statue with both sets of forelimbs fastened behind him.

And then you noticed him. A puppet no more than 4 feet tall, but whose oppressive presence commanded full attention. He paid no mind to the (one-sided) conversation between his colleague and your friend– no, he was staring right at you. Boring into you so acutely that you felt pinned, compelled somehow to continue singing until the final note trickled away.

As if a spell had been broken, you leapt from the platform and scurried to Mottie, who stayed petrified even when you tried to covertly nudge her to the side. How avidly you wished a fissure would open beneath their shoes and swallow them whole; but, armed with years of appeasing difficult and sordid customers, you spoke.

“Evening, fellas. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Barnaby, who had stopped talking when you rounded the bar, bellowed a laugh.

“Fellas?! Is that any way to greet the boss and I?"

He tilted forward with menacing glee, propped up by furry elbows as his claws scraped the laminate countertop. Each of his fangs were as big as your nose.

"Dontcha know who we are, toots? Or do ya just need a refresher on respect?"

The acrid smoke from his cigar blew directly into your face, making spikes of anger bubble in your belly as you choked back a cough. Just when you felt composed enough to reply, a surprisingly mellow voice chimed in.

"It's alright, Barnaby."

The shock slacking his jaw mirrored yours, although you hid it under a mask of cool indifference. You dared a glance at Mr. Darling, but the pressure of his peer chased your gaze back to Barnaby, who grumbled as he straightened back up. It was difficult to stay trained on his good eye, but you soldiered on. Fear was not something you could afford to show, and you knew you'd crumble if you peeked at the fabled gaping socket that he stapled open himself.

"I don't suppose you're Gene Clifton, aged 54, father of two, owner of this joint?" He joked, recovered from the flub.

"No, sir, but my banker would sure be happy if I was. Can I take down a message?"

"A message! I love this bird!" Snickering cruelly, he waved a flippant paw. "Y'should try that material on stage sometime, might bring ya more customers than the singing bit."

You sucked a sharp inhale up your nose. Serenity now.

"See, here's the problem. This is family territory, and in return for our protection, we charge a teensy fee. Now, we ain't unreasonable– we've sent ole Gene a few letters. And what’s our thanks for such humble hospitality? Zilch."

Oh dear. Gene doesn't bother investigating any mail the lounge receives before tossing it because it’s typically adverts. He definitely would've noted The Neighborhood's seal if he did. Regardless, the frank abuse of power only fanned your annoyance, obscuring your better judgment.

"What protection? I don't recall seeing any of your members patrolling outside. Besides, we didn’t ask for protection."

Mottie snapped towards you, looking as though she might faint. The corner of Barnaby's mouth twitched skyward, like he was hoping you'd argue, but his boss beat him to the punch.

"We can reach an agreement, I’m sure. I'd hate to see a family establishment go under, especially when they have such lovely entertainment."

Apparently Wally was so smitten that he'd accept your company in lieu of money, and so the agreement (if you can even call it that, since you were coerced) was this– whenever a rose was delivered to you, you'd attend a rendezvous with him. When you returned to your dressing room later that evening, you discovered the first gift of several: your vase.

“I knew because of your eyes.”

The floral wallpaper in front of you shifts back into focus, Wally’s voice shaking you from your recollection.

“Pardon?”

“That night, you drew me in; I couldn’t concentrate on anything else, least of all a petty protection tax. And I knew I had to have you when I met your eyes.” He sounds dreamy, reminiscing as you were before, though his framing of events is worlds apart from your own; he recalls a destined encounter with his future partner, whereas you mark it the day your wings were clipped for good.

“They shone like stars, even through the smog.”

It’s only after he’s finished that you realize you’ve stopped moving, wrapped in an intimate hug like true lovers. A strange mix of pride and disgust floods you at the compliment, stomach flip-flopping rapidly.

He untangles from you, receding so that only your hands remain connected. The newfound distance eases some of your tension, but to your horror, you find yourself mourning the loss of the husky scent of his cologne. Loath as you are to admit it, the bastard smells amazing: a dark, leathery swirl of apples and saffron that you’d buy out if someone turned it into a candle.

“Let’s not delay any longer. You must be starving.”

True to his gentlemanly veneer, he seats you at the table before settling himself. You don’t see him call, but a server emerges immediately from the doors through which Howdy left with a tray of appetizers.

There are two graces you award Wally Darling: his excellent taste in cologne, and his staff’s Michelen-quality fare. Though they adopt the four courses typical of fine dining, the dishes are more grounded, toeing the border between grandma and Gordon Ramsay perfectly. Truthfully, you’re not even sure what to categorize it as; virtually everything is transfigured into a jello, pie, or salad, harkening back to the post-war cookbooks you used to gawk at as a child in your late mother’s library. The yellowed pictures in those books appeared extremely unappetizing, but somehow The Neighborhood makes it work.

It could be because of an illusive member named Poppy, one of the 7 who make up Wally’s illustrious inner circle. She’s scarcely seen due to her fretful and skittish nature, but Wally lauds her cooking and baking skills, regaling you in the past with plenty of kitchen mishaps that occurred when she tried to decompress by experimenting with recipes and was interrupted by their more excitable comrades. If you remember correctly, he once told you that most of the menus in rotation were created by her.

The nature of these duress-dates is wholly dependent on Wally’s mood– if he’s happy, then he’ll gladly chat your ear off about frivolous happenings in his and his friends’ private lives, though he takes care to be shrewd with any details that dive too deep into the murky underbelly lying just below. If he’s unhappy, then they can be utterly unbearable; his mere existence puts you on edge, so it’s exponentially worse when he’s out of sorts, tone curt and glare fierce.

Thankfully, he’s amiable tonight. The first 3 courses march on without incident, and painless conversation flows between the two of you, even if he does most of the talking– you’re not exactly eager to share more than you have to. It’s when the server presents dessert that things go awry.

“Say, how are those triplets you work with doing?” Wally says, spooning at the Bananas Foster. “I haven’t had the pleasure of catching a performance since our mishap a while back. So much paperwork, so little time, you know how it is.”

The mention of both your friends and the aforementioned Dorelaine incident have you bristling reflexively, but you do your best to tamp it down.

“They’re well, overall. Sometimes it’s difficult for them– their manager’s a real piece of work, and we get all types at the lounge.”

“I see…”

He lets out a long “hmmmm”, like he’s reflecting on this information.

“My family has also come upon hard times. It can be… trying, sometimes, to guide my children. Especially now, when we are under unjust attack.” He confesses, wistfully resting his chin on a thread-scarred palm. “Every family requires a head, but what is a head without a neck?”

Unjust my ass. Still, the weird metaphor confuses you.

“A neck?”

At that, his catlike grin only grows. What is he talking about?

“Yes, a neck; that is, someone who supports the head. I care for my family, so it’s only right I am cared for in return, wouldn’t you say?”

Though the phrasing is puzzling, you’re fairly confident you can infer what he’s purposefully dangling in front of you, and oh, it makes your stomach plummet. Sweat breaks out underneath your suddenly-sweltering outfit; it's as if you've been tied to a railroad and have managed to divert the train through pure will for a year, but now it's steamrolling square for you. The anxiety of impending doom renders you mute, unable to piece together a coherent thought.

Taking your silence in stride, Wally leans forward, intense as he grasps your hand in both of his own. The yellow fuzz does nothing to help how clammy you feel.

“What I mean to say is, I think that it’s time to settle down."

No.

“Wh– what? Settle down how?”

“To get married, silly.”

You’re unable to help the gasp that escapes you. No, no, no!

“Get married? You mean– to me?!”

“Of course. I’ve been courting you all this time, haven’t I?”

You sputter, and he rubs your hand as if to soothe you. His many gold rings gleam under the chandelier, teasing a glimpse of your fate.

“I know in the beginning you weren’t receptive to the idea of this life, but I've shown you that I can provide for you better than anyone else.”

Your expression must betray your surprise, because he chuckles– a slow, stilted sound that sends gooseflesh blooming across your skin.

“You thought I didn’t know? Howdy may not have reported it– which I’ll rectify in due time– but I have eyes everywhere, dear. You’re quite the talented actor, though.”

That trademark simper melts into something beguiling; he cradles you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“I love you, and I will take care of you, as I ask you to do for me. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

An inviting facade of genuine affection, so ardent that you almost want to believe it. Wouldn’t that be the easiest path to take? To surrender to the hand that feeds, because where it strangles others, it caresses you sweetly? It’s more tempting than you’d ever divulge, because underneath the armor of aplomb you've so carefully forged, you're exhausted. This burden has been yours alone to bear– and what a bear it is, because if you mess up, the people you love could be injured, or worse. So much worse.

Perhaps sensing an opening, Wally continues.

“Be reasonable. The family welcomes you with open arms! Haven’t you missed having a family?"

The words stab you right through the heart, and your waning resolve springs back tenfold by the fury that ruddies your vision. When you rip your hand away, he makes no move to stop you.

"My friends are my family. I don’t want anyone else, especially not murderers!” You snarl. “You kill people– and torture and maim them! How can you expect me to accept this?!"

"All in a day's work when cleaning up the city, unfortunately," Wally hums. "I wish we didn't have to resort to such things, but you must understand. As it is, puppets are treated as less than, and hardship runs rampant for both humans and puppets alike. You’ve experienced these firsthand.” With the elegance of a master conman, he touches his chest in mock respire. “All we wish to do is provide a safe haven for those in need– somewhere to rest your bones, enjoy a hot meal, and where everyone accepts you as their own. A home.”

You abruptly stand up, feeling like you’re wound so taut that you could erupt at any moment. The mahogany chair behind you tips over from the force, striking the floor with a leaden thud, though the sound is deafened by the blood rushing in your ears.

“Bullshit! You don’t have to start a gang to combat discrimination or help suffering people! Maybe that spiel works on the poor saps you trick into doing your dirty work, but it won’t work on me. The answer is no.”

All is still for a moment as you struggle to calm your heaving breaths, trembling and locked in a quiet stalemate with Wally, who’s as relaxed as ever. Your attention flits from his right eye to where the left would be, if not for the lesion carved from a notch above his eyelid to an inch below, giving the illusion that what lies beneath is impaled.

Oh shit.

The magnitude of what just transpired comes crashing down as your adrenaline flushes out. After playing it safe for months– stomaching unwanted exorbitant gifts, being tailed by his employees, and rousted to innumerous “dates”– you just rejected Wally Darling in the most aggressive way possible. So you do the only thing that might garner you a chance to make it out of this alive: run.

You’re halfway across the room when 4 thick arms suddenly wrangle and force you to halt, a scream ripping itself from your throat out of fear. Can this motherfucker teleport now?! How the hell did he get here so fast?? Thrashing, you throw your head back to search Howdy’s face, desperate for an ounce of the sympathy he’d offered in the elevator, but it is in vain; his stony visage is impenetrable, as though it had never wavered.

“How about you sleep on it, hm? Think about all of your options. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to those little lambs when their adorable shepherd isn’t around to protect them.”

Delicate fingers cup your jaw, making you freeze as Wally stretches up to plant a faux-kiss on your cheek, complete with a small “mwah!”. You scowl daggers at him as he collects your hat from where it flew to the floor, dusts it off, and lovingly places it back on your head before giving you a few pats.

“Aw, don’t be that way, darling. I truly meant what I said; you have beautiful eyes. I can hardly wait to try one on.”

With a snap, you’re hauled over Howdy’s back and spirited out of the room, presumably to be transported to wherever you’ll be staying. Hopefully not Wally’s quarters.

It’s all too much; you feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare. How else did you expect this to end? You’re not sure. With all of the awful things he’s done, forcing you into marriage is not beyond him. You just thought you’d have more time: to plan, to save up enough money to take the girls and race to the hills.

Tears gather on your waterlines, and the minute your mouth wobbles, they spill ceaselessly. Full-bodied sobs wrack you, the pain of Howdy’s shoulder jutting into your midsection compounding the profound ache of sorrow. All this time, you’ve been trying to fight, but there was no fight to be had; it ended the moment his eyes found yours across the lounge that day.

#🐇 penned #🌈🖼️ wh #feat. some random ocs i made up for the sake of the fic #welcome home #welcome home x reader #wally darling x reader #x reader #reader-insert #yandere x reader #i love randomly throwing in ronald dorelaine #cause we have no idea who he is or what he's like #so he can be whatever i need him to be #yandere wally darling #yandere wally darling x reader #welcome home mob au #clownsuu

414 notes · View notes

nonomives · 1 year

Text

Doodle dump for the dayyyy

Finally got to sit down and draw tho its mostly dolly (my wh oc) sketches

Smth smthn buff bee lady and uh dolly lore??

Also a lil smthn extra for u bestie @prince-clementine

#theyre gay your honor #corportate gay love enemies to lovers to enemies #i dont kmow how to draw old people istg #anyways jollibee and ronald be bitter multi-billionaire exes #welcome home #welcome home arg #welcome home oc #digital art #my art #eeart

413 notes · View notes

macabremarble · 6 months

Text

what are they looking at wrong answers only

#kuroshitsuji fanart #kuroshitsuji oc #kuroshitsuji #black butler fanart #black butler #black butler oc #grell sutcliff fanart #grell sutcliff #othello #william t spears #eric slingby #etc etc the reapers are here #sneaking veronica in to gaslight the fandom that she was a real character #ronald knox

153 notes · View notes

elisnightmare · 4 months

Text

Just baby James with his dad💛

+ Doodles from 2023

#my art #art #digital art #doodle #doodles #duckverse #ducktales #dt #ducktales 2017 #dt17 #ducktales oc #ducktales 2017 oc #ronald whitefeather #james whitefeather

85 notes · View notes

mitskijamie · 3 months

Text

Roy trying to explain being relegated to Ted

#oc #roy kent #ted lasso #'never thought it'd end with being coached by ronald fucking mcdonald' / 'go choke on a big mac'#I miss his 'americans be eating cheese burger' era

103 notes · View notes

cherry-pop-elf · 1 month

Text

Noticed alot of people liked the George video, so you are lucky to know that Ron wasn’t left out either!

Ngl his model, and voice, are stunning

37 notes · View notes

malarkgirlypop · 6 months

Text

Masterlist

Requests for one-shots are OPEN! ❤️

🖋️🖋️#bobcollab

About me:

My name is Kate I go by she/her pronouns, I’m 23, just happy to be here really this fandom is so supportive! Have a look around, and don’t be scared to message me!

My OC's

Lemonade (Eugene Sledge x Fem!OC):

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

MEDIC! (Donald Malarkey x Fem!OC): Moodboard 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie: (Donald Malarkey x Fem!OC AU)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

BoB x Reader

Ronald Speirs:

Green-eyed Monster

Edward Tipper:

Warriors part 1

Warriors part 2

Joseph Liebgott:

Goody part 1

Goody part 2

Goody part 3

Bull Randleman:

He's the Boss Part 1

He's the Boss Part 2

He's the Boss Part 3

He's the Boss Part 4

David Webster:

This is for you

Eugene Roe:

Come Away With Me

Lena Riggi:

Lie with me?

#masterlist #band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #my oc character #My OC #My writing #My work #donald malarkey #fanfic #band of brothers imagine #Edward Tipper #ronald speirs #the pacific x oc #hbo war #Eugene Sledge #the pacific #I finally made a master list #I wanted it to be more pretty but idk how #please help me lol

107 notes · View notes

lonely-dog-draws · 10 months

Text

Have you always been like this?

image description: A digital drawing made of mostly blues and greens, of a shirtless person standing at a plain sink & mirror set into a brick wall. He's thin and a bit old, with closely cut hair. The view is about level with the hand that he uses to lean on the edge of the sink, angled towards his reflection. His reflection shows that he's staring into his face with wide, stern eyes and a straight mouth. His skin is covered in irregular spines and arches of bright red that stand out against the dull cool colors that make up the rest of the drawing. Behind his head on the ceiling is a small yellow light. End description.

#digital art #clip studio paint #original art #original character #digital painting #image described #lonely dog draws #eyestrain #blood #(ok well it's supposed to be like an idea of blood)#oc tag #oc (ronald)#i finally gave him a name YAY

157 notes · View notes

rizzoto-whump · 3 months

Text

War criminal Whumper

Taglist: @yoinky-sploinky

#whump #whump prompt #whump art #military whump #whump OC #sadistic whumper #older whumpee #bruises #torture whump #rope burns #crying whumpee #comic whump #blood tw #OC: James #OC: Ronald

85 notes · View notes

incorrectquotesharrypotterv · 8 months

Text

Y/n: If I die, donate my body to science for research.

Draco: Okay…

Y/n: Except my middle finger. Send that to Ron.

Ron: Hey-

Draco: Done.

Ron: Hey!

1K notes · View notes

the-orion-inexpirience · 11 months

Text

Ive said this before, i think everyone should be head over heels in love with Grell just because.

It's like a transcendent experience, i recommended it to anyone who's interested

#black butler grell #black butler #grell is a woman #grell sutcliff #grell fanart #kuroshitsuji grell #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji othello #kuroshitsuji oc #kuroshitsuji reapers #kuroshitsuji ronald #ronald knox #black butler othello #grell x oc #orpheus #grellthello #grellron

265 notes · View notes

1waveshortofashipwreck · 4 months

Text

Should've Been Born Later, Nix - Chapter 1: The Fall

Easy Company x Fem!OCs

Synopsis: What will happen when some of Easy Company's finest soldiers fall through a foxhole and into another time?

Words: 1,314

Find the fic's navigation page here !!

Author's Note: HERE WE GO LADS!! The first chapter of my self-serving BoB time travel fic!! If you want to be added to the taglist please let me know !!

Luz was the last one to arrive on the ground, immediately crashing into Malarkey with a resounding thud… Well, resounding for someone as small as Luz. He was the last to drop onto the pile of Easy Company men - a giant pile of limbs, helmets, and olive drab was groaning in pain, bewildered eyes darting in every direction. One minute they were dropping into a foxhole in Bastogne. The next?

Winters was the first to jump to his feet, helping his men find their footing. Up came Nixon, Liebgott, Roe, Guarnere, and Bull Randleman. Speirs and Toye had gotten themselves up and situated, looking to make sure they had all their gear. Luz was still on the ground, trying to get his bearings, while poor Malarkey was doubled over underneath him. “FUCK, LUZ!” Cried Malarkey, his hands shooting to his ribs as his body folded in pain. “I think you broke something!” Malarkey’s feet rammed themselves into Luz’s back, flinging the soldier off of Malarkey and onto his stomach with an “oof!”

“You say that like I did it on purpose!” Luz cried, wincing from the boots in his back. By the time George finally got his feet beneath him, Roe was already looking at Malarkey’s side, inspecting his injury.

The Cajun grimaced and shook his head. “It might be broke, Malark. We should get you to the aid station,” Roe spoke thoughtfully. "Which way sho-" Before the medic could finish his thought, all the boys realized something. They had no idea where they were.

The boys all looked around and took in their surroundings. “Where the fuck are we?” each soldier thought to himself, attempting to find a single scrap of familiarity in the landscape around them. The higher they looked, the taller the walls on either side of the group grew - not tall enough to be skyscrapers, but tall enough to tell the ten men that they were not in Bastogne anymore. What was once a frigid warzone, one step away from death, now became… warm? Sunny? Well, it seemed sunny at the ends of the alleyway.

“...are we in an alley?” Bull mused to no one in particular. He absentmindedly chewed on his Emotional Support Cigar, using this to contain his anxious thoughts and energy.

"It appears so Bull…" Winters replied. He had intended for the sentence to be more assuring, but the men's leader was just as confused as the rest of them. The captain exchanged a glance with Nixon beside him, the only man he was comfortable sharing his worry with. The two looked at each other, their eyes conveying confusion mixed with anxiety - how could this happen? What exactly happened?

"Captain Nixon, you're an intelligence officer right? Do you know where we are sir?" Guarnere asked as he slung his rifle over his shoulder, still taking in the alley around them. The brick buildings on either side of the men provided shade from the sun shining down on the pavement. The alley appeared to be barren, save for a Hershey bar wrapper beside Luz's feet. Bending down to get a closer look, the radioman saw a piece of text on the wrapper that morphed his confusion into panic - "expires January 2023." Before Nixon could answer Guarnere, Luz's shaky voice spoke up.

"Um, Captain Winters? You might wanna see this sir," Luz said as he handed the wrapper to his CO, his mind going a mile a minute. Dick took the wrapper from George and saw the text, scrunching his face as he read the expiration date.

"Nix, how long does it take chocolate to expire?" Winters asked, looking up at his captain.

"Why the hell do you think I'd know that?" Nixon replied, one eyebrow halfway up his forehead. Only after Lewis posed his question did he see the infamous date on the wrapper. Nixon paused for a second before he spoke up, "well surely it would expire way before 2023…"

Upon hearing the year, every man's eyes became the size of dinner plates. "Excuse me, sir? I think I heard you wrong, sounded like you said 2023," Liebgott questioned, a nervous chuckle following his words. He couldn't have heard Nixon right…right? Winters simply handed the wrapper over to Liebgott, the poor man's stomach dropping down below his feet.

"That's not possible, this isn't possible…" Toye muttered under his breath, trying to shake the idea from his head. While all the men were trying to process what Nixon said, Speirs had already made his way to the end of the alley.

"Captain Winters!" He called out, twisting his body to call out behind where he was standing. Winters nodded to Nixon, a silent request to keep an eye on his men, before making his way down to Speirs. The warm sun at the end of the alley was a welcomed surprise to Dick - it felt like forever since he felt mild, comfortable weather. Bastogne was the literal manifestation of hell frozen over, and the sun kissing Dick's skin was its absolute anathema. "Sir, I don't think this is Bastogne," Speirs' comment shook Winters from his mind, reminding the captain of the problem at hand. The two took in the scene around them. Winters thought he was seeing cars - they had four wheels, and they were driving on the street, but they were far beyond any car anyone in the company has ever seen before. The soldiers seem to have landed in a city of some kind. All the street signs were in English, giving Winters a small amount of relief - wherever they were, they spoke the language. Something different stood out to Speirs, though… the noise. It was not bombs exploding and trees breaking like in Bastogne. It was just as loud, but more…lively? The sounds, whatever they were, seemed to celebrate life rather than take it - honking horns, vehicles driving by, music Speirs had never heard before blaring from their windows - he would never admit to it, but Speirs felt a pang of relief knowing he was not in a war zone.

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Ron," Dick replied before hearing their medic call out.

"Sir! We need to get Malarkey to the ai- uh… I guess a hospital," Eugene called out as he made his way towards Winters and Speirs, supporting Easy's other redhead on his shoulder. Malarkey's face twisted in pain as he held his side with the arm that was not slung over Roe's shoulders. Dick nodded in understanding at his medic and stepped a foot out of the alley, getting a better look at the buildings around him. To his right, Winters spotted the red cross universally associated with medicine displayed prominently on a tall, light-colored building riddled with mirrored windows. Beneath the cross were the words "Emergency Room."

"You think they can help Malarkey?" Speirs asked, hopeful but confused at the words. Seeing Roe holding up Malarkey, the officer quickly made his way to Malarkey's other side, taking his arm over his shoulder to help the soldier.

"It's worth a shot, wait here," Winters replied, heading back to the rest of the men to tell them the plan. "Alright men, there's a place that looks like a hospital a short walk from here. Keep your guard up. Just because it doesn't look like Bastogne, doesn't mean we're in friendly territory," he instructed the six men before him, "Keep Speirs, Malarkey, and Roe in the center, I'll lead the way to the hospital." A chorus of "yes sirs" was heard from Luz, Liebgott, Guarnere, Toye, and Bull, while Nixon nodded in understanding and walked up beside Winters.

"Are you sure about this?" Nixon asked under his breath, ensuring only Winters heard his question.

"Got any better ideas?" Dick replied, cautiously emerging onto the sidewalk. The men left the safe haven of their alley and began the trek to save their friend.

~~~~~

Chapter Two

Thank you so much for reading! Please tell me what you think and be on the lookout for Chapter 2: the Hospital!!

Taglist: @love--persevering , @panzershrike-pretz , @executethyself35 , @stolen94 , @dontirrigateme

61 notes · View notes

blueberry-ovaries · 4 months

Text

CHAPTER ONE: HELL IS A SANDY TOWN IN NORTH AFRICA

A/N: i’m so excited to present the first chapter of hiraeth! I really hope you guys love Winnie as much as I do! thank you all so much for the love <3

Word count: 1.9k

Content warnings: violence, swearing, reference to implied extreme violence (only before and after, no detailed description), probably historical inaccuracy

< prologue > - < next chapter >

The sand in Tobruk was different to the sand at the beach Winnie decided. In Tobruk, it was sharp. Small flecks leaving traces of dirt on her cheeks, specks of blood blooming against her skin. Her rucksack held diminished resources, her bandages covered in a layer of dust and grime. Her MRE supply dwindling every time the hot dessert was drowned under a blanket of night. Sometimes they had fires, but most of the time they were left to huddle together, utilising bodies for warmth.

Fires drew attention and attention drew bullets. Being surrounded on three of the four sides was relentless work, fighting and survival. Much more so when the fourth side was a small shipping dock. A dock that may seem irrelevant, but in the grand scheme of the war, that small little dock could change the course of the war in Europe.

Severely out numbered and surrounded, the Allies were forced to fight for mere inches of land. The Germans would not get to the dock. So they dug in. Put the hospital underneath an old tree in the hardened sand, and rationed their food for months on end.

Silver marks littered her skin, scars showcasing her survival. Seven in total, the largest, one running from nose to cheek on her right side. In her fourth month in Tobruk, A small squad of German soldiers broke the line, guns raised and bayonets fastened. They charged Winnie and her squad, a small group watching the line. Their guns lay forgotten next to their game of cards, as they fought with fists and rocks.

Winnie was pinned. An arm against her neck, knife to cheek. Squirming against the hot sand as her cheeks flush with exertion. He flicks a look down her face, ah a woman- a girl. Such a shame that a pretty thing like you is stuck in such a horrible place. His breath was hot against her skin as she pushed against him, his arms much more refined than that of a sixteen year old girl. Tell me, how do they treat a pretty thing like you? She spits, he flinches back, a snarl on his lips. stupid bitch he growls, as he presses down on her neck, his forearm cutting off air supply. He slices the knife down, the top of her nose to her right cheek. Blood streams down her chin as she screams. She was going to die, afraid and pinned.

His arms move to pin hers above her head as she writhes and squirms against it. Her chest heaved, eyes darting frantically. out. she needed to get out. The sting of the blade cutting through flesh holds no place in her mind. out. out. out. His free arm holds her face in a loose grip, he spits out threats of a slow death and insults.

As he moves the hand on her face towards her neck with a firm hand, and his face pressed near her ear, the world freezes. It’s just Winnie and the german soldier, and one of them would die tonight. Her arms can’t break free to reach the knife, his legs have caged hers down. So like a rabid dog, she bares teeth.

When the pounding in her ears becomes a soft ringing and her chest no longer racks with shuddered breaths. The metallic taste on her tongue drips from her chin. She looks down at her hands, shaking. His blood pools around him, shining in the reflection of the moon. i’m a monster. i’m a monster… or maybe a dog backed into a corner, forced to bare teeth and bite.

—

5th of August, 1942

With a gasp she shoots to a sitting position, the room blurry with sleep. Chest heaving Winnie swings her socked feet onto the ground, hands tangled in her hair. Her shirt sticks to her back although it’s cold and coming into winter.

Two days ago, Winnie was stationed at the Toccoa Georgia Base camp, where she would join the 2nd Battalion ,506th parachute infantry regiment, 101st division, easy company. She’s told they are going to be the best of the best. If you asked her, she would say they can’t be that good if they are yanks.

Today is the day. She meets her new platoon, new faces, same issues. Colonel Sink had graciously taken in the teen, assuring her commander in the ANZAC’s that she would fit right in, if she’s really as good as they say.

The morning wake up happened shortly after Winnie was dressed, packed and ready to go. Swinging her bag over her shoulder and grabbing her new yank hat. She made her way towards Colonel sinks office.

With a firm hand she knocks, straightening out her ever crooked collar

“Come in” the colonels gruff voice calls from behind the door

taking a shuddering breath, Winnie opens the door, walking in, standing with her hands behind her back. Frowning slightly at the odd looks she’s receiving

“Oh, right sorry” she mumbles, standing at attention.

As Colonel Sink gives her a salute in return she stands with her arms tucked behind her back. She shifts on her feet, picking at the skin around her nails.

“Colonel Sink, sir? i was asked to come and see you” she states hesitatingly “Winifred Hayes, your new-“

“I know who you are sergeant” the Colonel cuts her off. The older man pushes up on his desk to a stand, walking around to lean on the front of his desk, arms crossed over his chest as he stares down at her.

“Right. of course… sir” she answers quickly

“Do you know why you’re here Miss Hayes?” he asks firmly. Although older, and his hair more grey than brown, Colonel Sink held an aura of respect that was hard to not obey. Even someone like Winnie, who grew up in an informal setting, and called her previous leaders and CO’s various nicknames, knew that the man was someone to be respected. That’s not to say she held no respect for her previous CO’s, no. She respected them greatly, but the jump from Australian to American norms was a shock.

“To serve… sir?” Winnie stutters slightly, trying to remember that sir is used more consistent here. It was rather bothersome.

“Well i would hope so Miss Hayes” He answers with a light chuckle. “you are here because, you’re good.”

“Sir…?” Winnie frowns. Of course she was good.

“Never in all my years in the army have I heard of a woman, much less a girl, fighting in a war, to the extent you have, no less” He congratulates “And there ain’t much of you either! Look at you!” With a wheezy laugh the Colonel claps a hand over her shoulder

“Oh… well thank you… Sir” confused and quite frankly startled at the congratulations, Winnie picks up her bag, following Colonel Sink outside

“Now, don’t be too startled by your new CO. He’s tough, but i think you’ll fit right in with the men. Easy company is going to be our best” he explains, Winnie nodding along “Don’t expect him to go easy on you just ‘cause you’re a girl either, he’s gone treat you the same as the men”

The mans southern accent was quite odd. Winnie couldn’t place where it was from. Not that she knew much about southern accents

“Now, unfortunately we don’t have the space for a women’s only area, so you’re just gone have to figure it out with the men” Colonel Sink kept a firm grip on her shoulder as he walked towards, what Winnie assumes is her new company.

“Lieutenant Sobel, Winters” Colonel Sink returns the salute “This here is your new easy company member”

“…Sirs” Winnie salutes the two men, giving an awkward smile as they return it.

“Now i got some business to attend to, i trust she will be fine in your capable hands?” The Colonel finalises as he leaves

——

Winnie had never wanted the ground to swallow her whole more than she does right now.

She’s standing. In front of all of Easy company, as they stare at her. She can’t tell if it’s curiosity, hate or confusion.

“Men.” Sobel yells “Colonel Sink has decided that we deserved to be punished, in some form. At least that is the only reason i can think that a girl has been placed in our platoon”

Winnie pulls a face of disgust… or maybe it’s anger. Before she realises where she was and quickly stares blankly. An awkward silence had fallen over the group as she shifted her, rather heavy mind you, bag on her shoulder

“I expect each and every one of you to treat her” Sobel was glaring at her, she could feel the disgust in his eyes and words “how she deserves to be treated.”

Swallowing what she was sure was a string of curses Winnie feels a hand in her shoulder, Lieutenant Winters… was it?… And all the Easy men were gone. She had zoned out. again.

“Winifred Hayes was it?” The red headed man asked “Lieutenant Winters”

He held his hand out expectantly. She shook it firmly. Just like dad taught. Before being led away from the training ground

“Yes, although just Winnie is fine” with an appreciative smile she follows his lead “Only my grandmother calls me Winifred”

“Well just Winnie… Dick is also fine, when it’s not a formal setting of course” He smirked

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to upset a formal setting” Winnie answered with an awkward smile

“Let me grab that for you” Dick offered, reaching for her bag

“Oh… it’s really no worry, it’s probably pretty heavy” She mumbles as she rubbed the back of her neck

“I insist. It’s the least i could do after watching you stand in-front of the men like that” Instantly he took her bag from her shoulder “The men aren’t as bad as they look. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine… although many of them haven’t expected a girl at training”

“It’s fine. Not many people do” Winnie answers honestly, the steps to the barracks creaking under the weight of the two of them

The door creaks open, the shuffling inside the room freezing at the intrusion of the two new people, card games lay on various beds, feet kicked up with books and magazines being read. Instantly the men all stand to salute

“At ease gentlemen” Winters salutes back

The men fall back into a relaxed stance, staring… glaring? at Winnie. She gives an awkward smile.

“Gentlemen, this is Winnie Hayes, she’s new to Easy.” Winnie shifts on her feet “i expect you all to be kind to her, show her around. She’s one of us now, and she may just have some… wisdom to pass on”

Dick places her bag on an empty bed between two men, one a surly looking man with a sharp jaw, the other a red headed man who somehow had three people squashed onto his bed. The atmosphere only became more tense as Lieutenant Winters left, the door slamming behind him

“Where you from?” the surly man questioned, his accent was different to Colonel Sinks and Lieutenant Winters, it was more rough around the edges

“Why the fuck you wanna know?” She answers crossing her arms over her chest.

The surly man raises an eyebrow. great fucking going Winnie, piss off the first person you talk to. But to her surprise his lip quirks in a smile

“You got some bite to ya” he smirks.

She goes to answer as the door slams open again really should get that fixed. Sobel stands in the doorway, a glare on his face as he yells

“Get dressed we’re running Currahee”

A overall groan leaves the men after he leaves. Winnie just had one question…what the fuck was a currahee?

——

A/N: Winnie’s hatred for Americans will be explained! although it’s not a proper hatred

TAG LIST: @malarkgirlypop @footprintsinthesxnd @mads-weasley @bucky32557038ww2 @grumpy-liebgott @executethyself35

#hireath #hireath fic #hiraethoc #winnie hayes oc #winnie hayes #winnie #band of brothers #babe heffron #bandofbrothers #ronald speirs #dick winters #george luz #hbowar #eugene roe #band of brothers #donald malarkey #band of brothers fic

51 notes · View notes