#bapple's orchard

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

Return to Radio Hall

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an alternate universe, once conceptualised, must be in want of a fic. This collaborative event by Bapple's Orchard is brought to you by our collective need to stop @bapple117 from writing a full-length Radiostatic romance novel set in Regency era England*. We've got so many great contributors, with art, short fiction and music, and so if you enjoy this piece I highly encourage you to follow the link to the masterlist for the event below to go see everything that my friends on the server have done.

*They could, and we know they could, and that is why we must stop them.

⚜Summary: Having made his fortune in the New World, Vox Vee returns to visit his former benefactor, Lord Alastor.

⚜Pairings: Vox/Alastor

⚜Content Notes: Unrequited love, Regency era AU, depiction of illness

The weather on the road to Radio Hall was treacherous; great peals of thunder accompanying the rumble of the carriage over the stones on the road as the rain sheeted down.

This ought to have been a triumphant march, the return of a protégé who had proved his mentor wrong, had made his fortune, had won the great game of life. Instead, Vox sat alone in his carriage as it ascended the hill towards the estate, the rain on the windows providing little distraction from the matters that troubled him.

Valentino would have said something to calm his nerves, something witty that made him scoff, if he had been there, but his lover had declined to accompany him across the Atlantic.

“Maybe for a season in Vienna or Paris, amorcito.” Valentino had sucked his pipe, eyes glinting red. “But not for this. You want to go visit your fusty old lord-of-the-manor, you can go by yourself.”

Of course, Valentino was more than capable of entertaining himself while Vox was gone, but Vox couldn’t say the same for himself. He’d spent the voyage over staring at the far horizon, for all the world like the protagonist of some interminably long work of literary fiction fixing his sights on some lofty goal, but all it had achieved was to make Vox wet and cold.

It had been seven years. Seven years since their catastrophic falling out. Lord Alastor had been his closest friend, his confidant and supporter, all of that blown away in an instant.

You will never be my equal.

That was the last thing Alastor had snarled to him, rage seeping from behind the man’s beautiful smile, and the thing that had kept Vox afloat all these years was the urge to make that statement a lie. To meet Lord Alastor again, perhaps invited to a soirée by a mutual acquaintance, to catch his eye across the room and to smile at Alastor as Alastor smiled at the world; with perfect, assured confidence. To say, without speaking, I’m not merely your pet commoner, your charitable project. To smile, with only teeth- I belong here now.

And he had done it. He had made his fortune, not in a way that Alastor would have approved of, but a fortune nonetheless. He had friends, and lovers, and power, and a life that any man alive would have been envious of. He’d been so close, so damn close to swanning his way back across the Atlantic with a retinue in tow, to being invited to all the balls of the season, a hot commodity simply by virtue of his status as a wealthy and unmarried man. But none of that mattered now.

Vox watched the rainwater slide over the window of the carriage, making his view a grim, grey blur. Alastor always had to do things on his own terms. Alastor had to have known that he was planning his grand return; a house in Kensington and a thumb on the nose to everything Alastor had said about him. Vox would have flaunted it. Alastor would have hated it.

That was when the news had come, from one of Vox’s cousins, still living near Radio Hall.

That Lord Alastor was sick.

That he might not last the month.

And of course Vox had thrown all his neatly laid plans aside and booked passage at once, on a ship that he didn’t even own. The whole way there he had prayed that he wouldn’t be too late, that Alastor wouldn’t have the final word in their argument. What was the point of years of striving, if he didn’t get to be right? If, in the end, he still had to come crawling back to Radio Hall?

The carriage crunched to a halt outside the main doors, a pair of footmen hurrying out to greet him with umbrellas. Vox shielded his face with one hand, peering up the front facade of Radio Hall, and smiling as he caught sight of the light from the window in the west tower. Alastor’s bedroom. He wasn’t too late, after all.

Escorted inside, he brushed off the entreaties of the attendants that he get settled in his rooms and change his clothes, making a bee-line to Alastor’s valet, Mr Husk. “I want to see him.”

Mr Husk looked him up and down, as insolent as ever. “Didn’t expect you to show your face,” he said, tone amused. “Thought you of all people would be glad to see him in the ground.”

“Then you are fucking mistaken,” said Vox, a crack in his voice. Alastor had been his greatest friend, his confidant, had been so important to him. Was so important, still. “Show me to his rooms.”

The ascent to Alastor’s tower was a familiar one, but Vox found himself viewing the passage with fresh eyes after so long away. The heirlooms and paintings that lined the walls seemed faded, the space itself more confined and dark after years in spacious white-painted apartments. Even the carpets were more ragged and less luxurious than Vox remembered them. Had it all fallen into ruin in his absence, he wondered, or had it always been like this, faded and rotten, with Vox too blinded by Alastor’s charm to see it for what it was?

He’d been in Alastor’s rooms countless times; late nights drinking in his little study and putting the world to rights, or playing cards with other friends before the fireplace. He had been young then, and naive, excited to have such an invite to the man’s inner sanctum. When Alastor had started to speak of the occult, in abstract, hypothetical terms at first, swirling the last of the whiskey in his glass, Vox had listened, rapt.

And when it came down to the less theoretical matters, more practical matters, Vox had listened and learned, a willing apprentice.

They’d traveled Europe together, scouring the collections of rare book dealers and antiquarians, a month here, a month there, and those not in their intimate circle had assumed him to be Alastor’s lover. Those close enough to see clearly knew the truth, however; that Lord Alastor’s obsessions lay too bloody and too deep to be sated by a simple man like Vox, or by any man for that matter.

It was on these trips that he’d laid the foundations for his trading company, connections with Alastor’s friends and with people who wished to curry Lord Alastor’s favor. He’d met people for whom a thousand pounds was a trifling amount and borrowed seed money from them, all from under Alastor’s watchful shadow.

He’d seen more in their friendship than friendship, or perhaps he had hallucinated it, just as he had imagined the painting in the halls to be grand and glorious, their frames golden rather than peeling gilt.

Now, the place smelled like a sickbed; like blood and feculence and rot.

“Mr Vee to see you, sir,” said Mr Husk, his tone bored.

Alastor’s voice was silvery as ever. “Let him in.”

Alastor’s bedroom was no different to the version in Vox’s mind, each ornament and piece of furniture committed to memory. The four-poster bed with the Radio family crest carved into the headboard; a stag recumbent on a field of thorns. The stuffed crocodile that Alastor kept in the corner. The fireplace, a brass basket of firewood before it.

Alastor smiled at him, face gaunt and tired. He sat up in bed, robe loose around his shoulders, blanket at his waist, a stack of pillows behind him.

Vox froze in the doorway, caught between the boy he had been and a hundred versions of the man he hoped he would have become by now. He had envisioned this moment so many times, but somehow never like this. Never with Alastor bedridden and sick, collarbones prominent at the neckline of his robe. The Alastor in Vox’s mind had been an invincible thing, dressed in red and laughing as he danced across a ballroom.

“Hello, Voxxy.” Alastor lowered his eyelids, his lank hair falling half over his face, his teeth glinting in the firelight. “How was the new world? Was it as glamorous and glittering as you had hoped? Did you have a nice vacation?”

Vox swallowed, heart in his throat. How dare he? How dare he sit there and pretend like the last seven years hadn’t even happened? As if Vox had just this moment walked from the room and returned, his absence as notable as the space between breaths.

“Alastor.” Vox forced himself to take a step forward, into the light of his former mentor’s fireplace. “I, uh-”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you come to grieve at my bedside?” Alastor tilted his head, the sly, teasing smile on his gaunt face instantly familiar. “Since you came such a long way, I suppose I could lay down and be quiet for a little. Though I’d prefer if you didn’t paw at my bedclothes, they’re enough of a mess already.”

“Alastor!” Vox choked.

“And your heart is worn on your sleeve, as ever,” said Alastor, a roll of his eyes as Vox stepped closer. “I thought I told you to guard your feelings better.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything that you told me to.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it has.” Alastor sighed. “Why did you come here?”

For one brief instant, Vox was the stag faced down by the hounds, frozen in place before he could flee into the night. The wind howled outside, rain dashing against Alastor’s window.

You will never be my equal.

Those were the words that had echoed in his ears all these years. Those words that he desperately wanted to be a lie, those words that he had fought to disprove. Every brick of the empire that he had built, every late night and every bloody victory had been in their service, and somehow it hadn’t been enough. He wasn’t Alastor’s equal. He was rich, but still of common birth. He was a competent magician, but he lacked Alastor’s natural talent. Faced with tragedy, all he had was rage and bluster while Alastor would keep smiling even on his own deathbed. Vox stood at the foot of Alastor’s bed, looking down at the man he had called friend, unable to say because I belong here.

“I heard you were dying,” said Vox.

“I’m afraid that’s true.” Alastor gave a gay little laugh, and narrowed his eyes when Vox winced. “Don’t look so shocked. A lifetime of good food and bad magic is bound to catch up with one eventually.”

“Can I help?” Vox asked, his heart once more on his sleeve.

“Well, that’s an ambiguous offer if ever I heard one,” said Alastor, his tone playful.

“You know what I meant,” growled Vox.

“And more’s the shame,” said Alastor. “I thought perhaps you’d want the final say on things. I know I would, in your shoes.” He was talking circles around Vox, the same way he always had.

“We’re not the same,” said Vox. A peace offering. I will never be your equal. “If I can help you-” If I can save you, he left unspoken.

Alastor gave him a long look, his smile tight lipped, then patted the bedspread beside him. “Sit,” he said, and Vox did.

This close to Alastor, the smell of death was stronger; a smell like a carcass left in the sun, and even in the light from the fireplace, Vox could see the strained lines around his smile.

“There’s no loophole to this one, old pal,” said Alastor. “Believe me, I’ve checked. Damn thing’s eating me from the inside.”

“There must be a way-” Vox protested, but Alastor interrupted him.

“Do you plan to spend my last days down in my library, as I wither up here? Or would you rather spend them here with me?” Alastor wrinkled his nose. “Well?”

“Alastor,” breathed Vox, staring.

How many years had he spent as a young man, waiting for something like this from Alastor? Theirs had simply been a friendship; a precious friendship, and Vox had been a fool to want more than that. But he had dreamed. Of being someone that Alastor might want to spend the rest of his life with. However long that would be now. A few days, or weeks, or more, perhaps.

With the utmost care, he reached out to his old friend, his mentor, the man who had taken him in, the man he had raced hare-brained across the Atlantic to return to, and took him into his arms, embracing him.

“You are a sentimental fool,” said Alastor, quietly, but he did not pull away. His thin body relaxed against Vox’s, his face against Vox’s shoulder, and he gave a single, shuddering breath.

You belong here.

#alastor x vox #radiostatic #pride ring and prejudice #bapples orchard collab #regency era AU #Hazbin Hotel regency AU #Hazbin Hotel regency era AU #hazbin regency prompt challenge #bapple's orchard #bapples orchard #one sided radiostatic

[fraugwinska]

PrideRing and Prejudice Collaboration

Folks - this is an event long in the making, and I'm so excited it's finally time!!! 💜 The amazing @bapple117 and all the other talented artists on her Discord Server came together, to write/draw/compose Art pieces under the theme: Hazbin Hotel Regency AU

Of course I had to participate - and this is the product! I sincerely hope you'll love it as much as I loved writing it! And please - check out all the other amazing contributions (We have major #RadioStatic pieces!) on our masterlist right here.

Socrates once said 'One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is Love.'

Maybe that was the reason life, for me, always felt like a burden to bear.

The runt of the litter. Oldest daughter of wealthy, respectable people, and yet... Not as beautiful as my two younger sisters. Not as clever as the youngest. Not as talented as the middle. So parental love, spare thing that it is, was distributed towards the ones with the most prospect, while I, dutifully, smiled, nodded and stayed silent in the shadows of my sisters, living of the rare crumbs that they let fall once in a while.

There was a time, where I thought love was finally within my grasp. When Lord Vincent Voxley – young, handsome, charming, rich - a successful merchant and eligible bachelor had begun to show interest, asking for a dance on one of the many balls my family frequented to have me shown off and – hopefully – off their hands with a hasty and relatively profitable marriage. They were delighted at the prospect of joining families with the Voxleys, and eager to foster what they thought bloomed that moment before it could rot at the stem. For one night, I felt like life could indeed be free of pain, lost in the movement of a dance and a smile that I didn't have to share, that I thought was all mine. But I was foolish, still am, I suppose.

Lord Voxley, although continuing to shower me in luscious gifts, inviting me to strolls and prospecting engagement even, was generous with his smiles. And his attention. Soon enough, I'd meet another lady with a bracelet matching the necklace he gifted me, hear the same charming words spoken to me from his lips to anothers ears. I couldn't bear the thought of mirroring life as it was, only with even more of a broken heart as it wouldn't be my family, but my husband who'd ration his love for me - if there even was something like love - and rejected his offer with a heavy heart.

My parents were angry, disappointed that I had wasted the one opportunity life gave me on finally being wed. My sisters, one already married and glowing and one engaged and radiant, were equally pitying and dismissive. But I had learned to be content with silence and solitude, and thus found myself accepting the lonely fate life had prepared for me.

It was in that moment, when I finally realized that life wasn't kind, and that it never would be, that I met him.

Gossip of my rude rejection spread like wildfire, reaching the ears of Mr. Alastor Hartfelt, who soon after sought out my father and inquired about me. Known around town for his eccentric personality, a solicitor of the law, a lot of the townspeople looked upon him with wary suspicion - even though considered middle class, he had a fair amount of wealth, servants and acquaintances in the upper circles. Frequently consulting Lord Voxley at his trading business had the rumor mill run wild, the nature of the connection between both unmarried men slowly brought into areas of vulgarity. Which had been the point where Alastor had declined further company of the Lord, to the latter's deep chagrin.

And yet, despite the rumors and the gossip and the strange reputation that he held, my father was all too eager to give him my hand in marriage.

The short span of escorted dates was filled with polite, but reserved conversation, and his demeanor was one of an obliging acquaintance rather than a man seeking to know a potential partner. His smiles were fleeting, his thoughts often turned inward, and while he was leading our conversations with an astute mind, I had a feeling his mind was always elsewhere whenever I spoke.

When he proposed, I was taken aback, and he noticed. "I am not one to beat around the bush, dear. We are both well aware of the rumors surrounding my person and yours, and while I do not care much for gossip, you clearly did. Your parents are happy with the union, and while my affections for you might not be as strong as they probably should, my respect is."

My face must've given away the hurt at his words, the sting of a blow to the last bit of pride I had been able to conserve. He had the decency to look contrite, and I saw his hand move as if he wanted to touch mine, but then decided against it.

"I won't force you to accept," he'd told me, the first words he'd said that truly sounded genuine. "I will not demand something from you that you cannot give willingly." He looked at me, with eyes so deep I couldn't help but stare back, trying to decipher the secrets they hid, but only finding a certain sadness in them that I couldn't yet understand, but deeply resonated in me. Familiar, in a way.

"I...," I tried to formulate, my voice breaking as I thought about the future, what the the years would look like that I would spend without someone by my side. Alastor wasn't a cruel man, in contrary. He was honorable and thoughtful, and had been nothing but a gentleman in the time I had known him, treating everyone he encountered, especially women, with utmost decency and respect, including me. Which was the closest to love I had ever gotten to.

"I would be honored."

His eyes softened, and the honest smile he gave me was, for the first time, directed at me and me alone. "That is enough."

So I found myself, dressed in a white gown I had given up ever wearing long ago, a ring on my finger marking me as a wedded woman. The wedding ceremony had been modest and quick, held on Alastor's own estate, which was an outrage in itself. Lord Voxley, invited by my now husband and accompanied by his associate (an italian fellow named Valentino), angrily glared at me from the distance and watched along friends, families and aquaintances as the officiant declared us husband and wife, a tight smile on Alastors face and a wary one on mine.

After the ceremony, he had excused himself for a short amount of time, leaving me with my newfound relatives and the other guests. There was an uncomfortable, almost palpable tension in the room, as all the eyes present were staring at me, wondering and judging the reason why someone like him would settle for a pariah like me, the whispers slowly starting to turn towards the direction of the rumors once more. Even my sisters were joining in the whispers, a betrayal that stung more than I thought, even though I had expected something like this to happen.

It was a short lived comfort when Alastor's housekeeper Niffty, small and bubbly girl that she was, snuck up behind me and took my hand, congratulating me on my wedding and telling me how wonderful and happy the day had been, a smile so sincere it made me wonder if this was the only one present. Her enthusiasm was a welcome reprieve, and her small hands squeezed mine reassuringly before she hurriedly scurried back to help serve the guests... the first one I saw that seemed happy for the union, the first one I saw who had the decency to look happy for the bride.

A cold hand on my arm ripped this happy moment from me, Lord Voxley standing at my side and giving me an icy smile. "I would say congratulations, but I'm not so sure how sincere it would be." His gaze, usually soft and warm, was now piercing and calculating, and I was unable to read his expression. Behind him I could see his escort watching us with a mocking smile, swinging a glass of red wine with long fingers. It looked like blood.

"You don't have to lie," I quietly said to him, trying to hide the tremble in my voice. "There's no need to keep up the charade anymore. It's over now, and we can both move on."

He scoffed, his face contorting into a grimace. "Yes, I suppose that's true. There's no need to entertain a farce, no need for pleasantries." His hand gripped my arm tighter, and his words were venomous. "Well then, since we're honest now, let me make a few things clear: You are just a replacement, a decoy wife to stop the small-town gossip about me and Alastor from spreading and we both know that. I just have no idea why he would demean himself as far as to marry the likes of you."

His grip hurt, and he looked as if he was about to say more, when a tall figure appeared next to him. "Let go of my wife, Vincent. We wouldn't want to spoil her day."

Lord Voxley's face changed from angry and bitter, to a cold, polite smile, and he let go of my arm. "Of course, old friend. It was just a friendly chat."

"Friendship, not unlike love, is earned through patience and respect, and you are sorely lacking in both, dear Vox." Alastor countered, taking my hand and squeezing it reassuringly, a gesture that not only surprised me but made my tense heart flutter.

Voxley grimaced and sneered. "Let's see if her patience will last, when she realizes-"

Alastor stepped between us, his teeth gritted. "This is a warning, and my last kindness, Vincent. Don't test me. Especially not on my wedding day."

It was clear the fight would escalate soon if the situation wasn't diffused, and it was Lord Voxley's Italian business partner that interfered now, placing a firm hand on Voxley's shoulder and grinning mockingly. "Ah, ah, tesoro. Let them have their moment while it lasts."

Both exchanged looks, and finally, Voxley seemed to relent, before his gaze flickered over my new husband and settled on me with pitiful scorn.

"Pardon us," he said with a derisive smile and rolled his shoulders, before he made a short bow. "And warm wishes for a successful, long-lasting marriage." With a condescending smirk at the two of us, he and Valentino went back to the center of attention, where the loud laughs of drunk guests and a lewd melody played in a corner told everyone just how the festivities would turn tonight.

Alastor watched him and his retreat with a grim expression, before turning to face me fully.

"I apologize for this unpleasant scene, I'm afraid our dear lord has too much of an ego for the good of anyone involved." His eyes wandered to the place the cold hand had pinned me. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

I shook my head, and was surprised to find that my hand hadn't left his, still softly pressed against his side. The comforting heat his body radiated warmed me up faster than any fireplace could, and I knew, despite the difficult past weeks and the uneasiness that still permeated the celebration, that this had been the right decision, and the only one possible.

"Let us take a little walk, a little air and quiet will do us both some good. I want to show you something."

Hand in hand, he led the way along the aisles of the dining hall, bowing his head in polite acknowledgment towards the guests we passed before walking outside, towards a dark part of his property.

The gardens were a sight to behold, with the sun slowly settling behind lush, green, yellow and red tree tops, a cool autumn breeze blowing and the leaves around us rustling. While we walked, Alastor remained silent, lost in his thoughts once more, and I kept watching him carefully, while his gaze rested firmly at the ground he walked, avoiding my curious eyes and staring down intently, seemingly busy searching for something among the darkening floor.

I, in turn, felt nervous in the silence of the walk, unsure how to proceed, how to thank him for the small moment of kindness after the sharp, cutting words of Voxley. The singular moment I really felt seen, as if I mattered.

He led me deeper and deeper, between tall, beautiful flowers and pruned shrubbery, until we reached a secluded grove, the evening sky glowing gently through the leaves of an apple tree, the apples at its limbs not quite ripe yet, but there was a pleasant smell of fall lingering, and a faint bubbling sound. A spring, almost hidden to any unaware visitor by the small clearing, sprouted from an elevated layer of earth and rocks above and merrily splattered down into a small, narrow stream. The air was cooler here, fresh and clear, and the peacefulness of the area seemed a far cry from the celebratory noise of the party.

"I find solace in nature. And when I can, I come here, sit and contemplate the world in my moments of frustration."

My eyes wandered through the calm of the spot, until it reached my husbands figure, tall and stiff, the dying evening sun casting shadows in his face that made him look even more tired, more worn than he should have looked. It dawned on me then, that even for a moment, his mind was also riddled by things not entirely his making, thoughts and worries I couldn't understand.

He sighed. "When my mother passed away, the last thing she said to me was to 'find a woman whose character was in the smallest possible degree founded on rational principle', before she was laid in her final resting place."

He smiled, wry and empty. "And when I became acquainted with you, a woman that seemed to understand the situation I'm in and didn't demand for my affections, one of those 'rational principles' as my mother put it, I finally felt...relieved, in a way."

I swallowed around the lump that formed in my throat at his confession, my eyes feeling hot, suddenly overwhelmed at the knowledge of the affection my new spouse felt towards me, in a way, but not knowing whether I should feel joy or ache over the circumstances.

"I may not love you like a husband should today or tomorrow," His words echoed through the brook, clear as the water of the little stream, and his fingers, cold on my hand, lifted mine gently to his lips, "and you might feel the same way about me." His face turned slightly, and the smile he gave me was one of sympathy, and maybe a bit of shared loneliness. "But every river has to start with a spring."

But as he kissed my hand in a gesture so tender I hadn't believed him to possess, and my heart started beating faster, I was able to look in his eyes for the first time, and something that might resemble trust, warmth and a feeling close to comfort blossomed deep inside my chest, feeling as if my hand was a little lighter when he let it go.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #bapple's apples #Bapple's Orchard Discord Server #Pride Ring and Prejudice #Hazbin Hotel Regency AU #PrideRingandPrejudice #BapplesOrchardCollabs

[bapple117]

Y'all don't want to hear me, you just want to dance

Literally dangling Lucifer like a carrot to try and get people to focus on a post LOL

Come join the Bapple's Orchard Discord Server! - Hazbin chat & Goofin'

Do you want a safe space to be silly and chat about Hazbin with other people? Do you happen to read my fanfics and want some behind the scenes chat? Do you like memes and just general silly-little-guyness?

Then boy! Have I got the server for you!

Don't delay! Click HERE today!

I would love to see you all there! Come hang out 🍎❤️

I LOVE YOU BYE

#hazbin hotel #hazbin #hazbin discord #bapple chats #bapple shamelessly self promotes #bapple's orchard discord #bapple discord #hazbin discord server #hazbin hotel discord #alastor hazbin #bapple writes #radiocotton #bapple is on her knees on the ground trying desperately to make friends #please I just want to share memes with people #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin lucifer #lucifer magne #lucifer morningstar #BRING ME THE GORLS LUCI #AND THE BOYS AND THE THEYS #EVERYONE COMETH #GATHER #PLUCK AN APPLE FROM THE TREE #okay bye

[macabr3-barbi3]

PrideRing and Prejudice Prompt Challenge!

hello everyone! the Bapple's Orchard Discord Server had a Regency Prompt Challenge that a lot of crazy talented artists and writers have contributed to: here is the Masterlist of everyone's submissions that will be being updated through the day as more people post! There's something for everyone, and will be including RadioStatic and x Reader fics and music!

With that said, here are my submissions! First, have a string quartet arrangement that I did for a Bapple Approved™️ RadioStatic song, Something About Us by Daft Punk 🦌📺

And a short and sweet Alastor x Reader fic- enjoy! 💕🦌

Moonlight on Canvas (Hazbin Hotel Regency AU)

The ball hosted by the Morningstar family had been, as always, a fantastical soiree until you had spotted Alastor.

You give Lord Morningstar’s daughter Charlotte a wave across the room when she spots you, her own arm waving furiously, and as she turns away you see Alastor behind her, caught in conversation with the eager viscount, Vincent Vox. He strikes a silhouette like a portrait, one you’ve painted countless times before; tall, lean, the red of his outfit a charming contrast to his dark hair and eyes. You can see it in your mind now, the brushstrokes you could use to mimic the beauty of him in the lights of the ballroom, the burgundies and crimsons for his jacket, hickory and mahogany for his hair and the darkness of his eyes where they watch the viewer under the shadow of his fringe. It would make a stunning painting, and yet still be a poor imitation of what stood in front of you.

He looks like he would rather be anywhere but where he is, taking cautious steps backwards that Vox follows, and when he casts a desperate look behind himself he catches your eye, brows rising when his gaze settles on you, resplendent in your evening finery.

You bolt when he turns to make his excuses, ducking into the hall that leads to the garden before his eyes can track where you’ve gone.

The cool air of the night is a soothing balm on your nerves as you settle on the bench amongst the roses and tulips, off the main path where married couples and chaperoned groups pass by. Your heart is racing and you wish you had given enough thought to your escape to grab a drink before fleeing. You couldn’t face Alastor tonight; maybe you never could again. Once a close friend, he had been gone for seven years. You had written him countless letters, asking of his travels, when he would be coming home, why he had left so suddenly- every one of them left unanswered, the Viscount having assured you that he was passing your messages along since they had also been tentative friends before he left.

Surely you had done something wrong. He had changed his mind after leaving, your last conversation one about his marriage prospects- “if I must marry anyone, a lifelong commitment to a friend that I have grown fond- to you- would be far more desirable than one thrust upon me by the demands of society,” he had said, and while it wasn’t a dramatic declaration of love you knew what you expected of one another. You wanted him, but you would settle for being part of society, not pushed to the wayside as a spinster as your age went on; he wanted to be left to his own devices, no longer bothered by the mothers of eligible women or fathers looking to make a marriage for business connections. You had thought that he meant you- you must have been mistaken, if his blatant ignoral of your letters was anything to go by.

You wouldn’t let it bother you. You had been waiting for him all this time, but perhaps the time had come to set aside matters of the heart and focus on your life. Sir Pentious, a charming (if clumsy) man was present at the ball, and had made an offer for your hand once that you had declined, no father or brother to convince you on the matter and your mother uncaring of your choices- perhaps you could speak with him and see if the offer still stood… 

A branch cracks behind you, tearing you from your thoughts, and you turn to see Alastor behind you, two glasses of champagne held in one hand. “I thought I might find you here,” he murmurs, giving you that familiar smile of his. “Where else would an artist be but amongst the most beautiful scenery on the grounds?”

“Alastor.” You glance through the bushes and trees, not seeing anyone in the immediate vicinity. “I didn’t know that you were back!”

His head tilts ever so slightly. “Oh? So your record setting sprint from the ballroom was for another reason then; I see.” Despite his smile you can see that he’s a bit irritated, his grip on the stems of the champagne glasses making them clink together before he hands one to you. “I had hoped that we could speak tonight- I meant to inform you of my return sooner.”

You take the glass from him wordlessly and down it, ignoring the amused look on his face. “Perhaps you should have informed me of your departure sooner as well, rather than disappearing into the night without so much as a ‘farewell.’” You use your glass to keep you grounded and turn to inspect the flowers, fighting to keep the ire from your voice. You weren’t ready for this conversation with him, hadn’t been planning on talking to him at all really, after his absence. 

“Darling.” You hear the compression of the grass as he steps closer to you, entering the peripherals of your vision. “What have I done to earn such a dismissal? Do you not wish to see me at all?”

“No,” you say truthfully, and the flash of hurt across his face strikes anguish into your heart. “I didn’t- I wasn’t ready to see you tonight.”

Even now he is beautiful, especially now; he stiffens his shoulders, his face upset, eyes still bright in the darkness of the night. Amongst the flowers, the yellows and reds contrasting so stunningly with the image of him, you could paint this scene a hundred ways and still never quite capture the raw emotion that overtakes his expression. Depending on how the rest of the conversation goes, that might be the only way that you can gaze upon his beauty going forward- paintings done from memory, sketches on ballroom napkins when you spot him at a party and can’t stop the itch in your fingers that demands you bring the vision to fruition.

The tension seeps from his frame, not in relief but defeat. “I wish you had come to me,” he whispers, pain evident in his tone. “About whatever I did to cause your apparent frustration with me. Before simply deciding to cast me- our friendship- aside. So that I may have had some attempt at salvaging it.”

“What are you- Alastor, you cut me off!” You whirl around to face him fully, hating the sting of tears in your eyes. “I sent you countless letters when you left and you never responded-”

“You’re one to speak of unanswered correspondence,” he huffs. “‘Countless,’ you say- can you not count to ‘zero?’”

“What?” The tension in his frame has returned while he struggles to keep his composure, and he looks away from you, casting his eyes out across the garden rather than facing you. “Alastor, I sent you hundreds of letters over the years- I had to send them off through the Viscount since you didn’t deign to even tell me you were leaving. So many letters asking where you were, why you left, when you were coming back. If you were… okay. I thought you might have died and I was devastated until I saw you today and I thought that you just-” You cut yourself off when you hear the quiet clamor of other voices, and you duck into the shadow of the apple trees that line the path. You watch Alastor track their movements down the path before he turns back to you as they get out of sight, his expression now curious rather than pained.

“What did you think?” He sets his glass down on the bench and steps closer, maintaining a respectable distance between your bodies but reaching his hand out to take yours, pulling the champagne glass from your own tight grip with his free hand and setting it beside his. Your heart is hammering in your chest while you stand there together; if someone so much as saw you out here together-

“Dearest.”

“Don’t call me that,” you manage despite your breath being caught in your chest. “Not now. You’ve clearly changed your mind, if you meant it at all, and I was foolish to-”

His unoccupied hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone and effectively making your brain stutter. “What did you think?” He asks quietly, his eyes lidded as he looks down at you, his familiar smile looking like it means to come back, twitching at the edges of his lips. “Grant me this clarification if you would- a proper conversation might help to clear up any lingering uncertainty between us.”

You can’t bring yourself to step back from his hold on your skin. “I- our last discussion,” you breathe, not daring to speak any louder lest you break the spell that’s fallen over the pair of you. “You had said that were you to marry anyone you would want it to be me, and then you vanished for seven years without so much as an ‘adieu.’ I thought…” You swallow the lump in your eyes, distantly thinking that the blurred image of him before you would make another lovely portrait. “I thought you changed your mind; that you had said something reckless and wanted to take it back without having to have such a discussion with me.”

“It would appear that the charming Viscount has played us both for fools, darling.” He looks like he wants to step closer to you but thinks better of it as a peal of laughter escapes the hall leading to your little platform in the garden. “I am not one to change my mind once I have made a decision; I sent you letters as well. Tales of what I could divulge of my travels- and I will provide more details when I am able to- and questions about what you were doing without me, mentions of how I missed our chats and teas. I inquired multiple times if you had considered what I said, blatantly verified that I would be interested in marrying you whenever I was able to return. I thought your lack of a response was a refusal.”

“Oh my God, Alastor.” The nervous laughter that bubbles out of you is so refreshing it takes over your body, stomach not able to heave the way it wants with the corset in the way of your air intake. “You tried to send your letters through Vox as well?”

“Not directly- I had my aide, Husker, coming into town with my correspondence. He left them with dear Vincent who assured him that they were going to the proper recipients. I suppose I can only hope that no one else was subjected to the same discourtesy and received my letters as intended.” He removes his hands from your face and wrist to clench his own into fists at his sides. “This blatant disrespect of not just my matters, but yours as well, will not stand.” He turns like he means to head back into the ballroom and your hand darts out, grips his arm like to let him go would be a grievous mistake.

“Did you really mean it?” You ask him, and the look that he gives you you want to find a way to paint on the back of your eyelids- fond and amused and relieved, tinged with anger that is not directed at you but on your behalf. “You- you would marry me?”

He hums a bit, glancing back at you with that fond look in his gaze. “As long as you'd still want to marry a man potentially convicted of manslaughter after I've seen the Viscount, then yes, darling. Seven years might have changed a lot, but neither my feelings nor my intentions.” He pulls you closer, almost into his arms then, his embrace so light it’s hardly there, the fabric of your clothing just barely brushing his. Your gasp is lost against the soft material of his coat before you look up at him, smile soft when he directs it to you. “Would you think me a scoundrel should I steal a kiss from you before my possible imprisonment?”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “I could never think anything but the best of you, Alastor,” you tell him, and then whisper, “please,” tilting your face up and closing your eyes, the thought of someone seeing you far from your mind. This moment would make a beautiful painting, you were sure of it; anticipation clear in the strokes of the brush, the colors making the tension and relief between the two of you evident, your emotions bleeding through the canvas into the eyes of whoever looked at it.

His lips press to your forehead, and when your eyes fly open he’s chuckling at you, grin mischievous as he steps away. “I’m afraid this is all I will allow myself, dearest- I can’t be causing too many scandals in one night.” He brings your hand to his lips and presses a light kiss there as well before releasing you entirely.

“Now that things have been cleared up between us, I do believe the Viscount is owed a visit!” Alastor says this cheerfully, a wink aimed in your direction before he's striding back down the hallway to the ballroom, his long legs making it difficult to catch him before he can do something reckless.

You’ve just entered the room, cheeks flushed, when you see Alastor stroll up to Vox as casual as can be. “Alastor!” The Viscount exclaims, gesturing beside himself to a tall companion, dressed in a gaudy shade of purple. “I was just telling my friend here about-”

The crowd never hears what Vox was telling his friend as Alastor’s clenched fist connects with his face, sending him flying backwards into a table and spilling punch and hor d'oeuvres across the floor. His friend looks outraged, a young woman nearby failing to stifle a chuckle into her glass of champagne, and everyone is watching Alastor like some feral animal as he straightens up after dealing his blow and stretches his hand out. “This man,” he says, his voice full of contempt like you’ve never heard from him before, glaring down at Vox’s bleeding form, “is a cad. An encroaching fungus that has wheedled his way into the fine community that we have here and should not be spared another thought. Viscount or not, a wretch will remain a wretch; things such as honor and loyalty cannot, apparently, be taught. I implore you all to keep that in mind!” He offers a smile and a low bow to some of the nearby ladies as a couple of the Morningstar guards are shuffling over, and he puts up no resistance, holding his arms out amiably for them to take and lead him away. 

When the guards have led Alastor away, the Morningstar patriarch following out the way they had come, you watch as Vox is helped to his feet by his companion, furiously wiping blood off his face before storming out of the ballroom. You wonder if there’s a way to get your letters back- to give them to Alastor, provide him with the words that you had tried telling him for so long before the opportunity was forcibly taken from your hands. You find a glass of punch from a table that hadn’t been buckled under the weight of a man and sip it while you make a lap around the ballroom- unsure if Alastor will be able to return but not yet willing to let the magical feel of the evening end. There are whispers all around you, about Vox, about Alastor, and you look again to the broken table that hasn’t yet been cleaned up, wondering if they would allow you to take the stained tablecloth to use as a canvas if you stretched it properly.

“Excuse me, miss.”  A man speaks behind you, and you turn to see an older gentleman- Husker, if you remember correctly of your tea and chats with Alastor. “His Grace has asked me to reassure you that with the exception of his being thrown into a jail cell, he will come to call on you tomorrow at your mother’s residence; to ask for your hand properly.” He gives a heavy sign, glancing at the rest of the occupants of the ballroom and the group of people that stand to your left. “I was also asked to inform you that should you decide to paint the events of this evening, he would be more than happy to hang the resulting portrait in the manor’s foyer.” 

Your face lights up with a genuine smile, something that Husker eyes suspiciously before he walks away, muttering under his breath. You look around the ballroom and find Charlotte talking to a friend and make your way to her- she could be convinced to part with the tablecloth, you were sure of it, and you would use it to make a beautiful piece of art that hung in your new home and marked the start of something that had been worth waiting for after all.

#PrideRing and Prejudice #BapplesOrchardCollabs #fan song #arrangement #hazbin hotel #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #alastor x reader #alastor #everyone is so creative <3

[miz-blue]

Hazbin Hotel fanfic/fanart: Desperate Maneuvers (part 1 of 4?)

Title: Desperate Maneuvers (part 1 of 4?)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Rating: PG-13

Pairing(s): Alastor/Vox

Summary: (Regency AU) The once prestigious LeClaire family has of late fallen on trying times. So trying, as it happens, that the family's eldest son, Lord Alastor, begrudgingly agrees to enter into an arranged marriage with a wealthy commoner, a Mr. Voxley Smythe.

Notes: Part 1 of this fic was written for the Bapple's Orchard discord server's regency era AU collab, Pride Ring and Prejudice. (Server run by @bapple117.) This was originally supposed to be a contained scene, but I think it'll have two more parts plus an epilogue. If you find this post through a reblog, then check back to the original post which I will update with links as the other parts are finished. The story is also on AO3 too if you'd rather follow there.

This fic is a Regency AU, more or less. However, my regency knowledge is rather rusty, and also the setting is like some weird mash-up of canon and regency England. i.e. All the characters are still demons, and there's at least a little magic. And yes, Vox still has a TV head; it is what it is. Also, also same-sex marriage is totally fine, lol; the drama and angst come from classism and the characters being emotionally constipated.

A brief note on ages, Alastor is 30, and Vox is 28.

Fic is under the cut, and I also drew the end scene of part 1.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

"Aunt Rosie, this is degrading," Alastor protested softly, still seated on the padded leather bench of the coach. "I have no wish to be a public spectacle." He could hear the distant sounds of people as well as the faintest strains of music, and Alastor, previously inured to his fate, now found himself possessed of a certain anxiety, fluffy ears pinned back against his head.

His aunt sighed, expression sympathetic but strained. "Alastor, dearest, I need you to step down from this carriage. Right now." Rosie was already on the ground having been assisted by a footman. "The other coaches need to come through, and you are holding up the line."

Alastor took a shaky breath to steady his nerves before sliding closer to the door, but he showed no sign of exiting. Ever a font of patience, his long suffering aunt gentled her tone. "Alastor, for me, please, come out. Why, I hardly recognize anyone here so I doubt they'll recognize us!" It was such a baldfaced lie, unbefitting of any lady but especially one of Rosie's status. However, the falsehood did give Alastor enough momentary hope that when Rosie extended her hand to her only nephew's elbow, he permitted her to carefully but insistently tug him from the coach.

In the next moment, Alastor had set foot on the carefully tended gravel pathway to Battlehill Manor. "Good luck, sir," Husk called from the driver's seat, and Alastor spared him a tight nod before the cat demon was obliged to drive on. Husk was also Alastor's valet and sometimes butler--the LeClaires struggled to keep staff ever since the incident seven years ago.

Now truly abandoned to the capricious whims of fate, Alastor squared his shoulders and faced the stately manor ahead of them. It would seem there was no way out but through. Composing himself as best he could, Alastor offered his arm to his aunt who graciously accepted, allowing him to lead them to the manor entrance even though they both knew the way. The Carmines were distant cousins so Alastor had visited their estate several times as a child, though no invitation had been extended for some time. No, even tonight's festive occasion had less to do with Alastor and more to do with his intended husband, a certain Mr. Voxley Smythe. The two men were to meet tonight and announce their engagement. Lady Carmine was graciously hosting the ball on Voxley's behalf since he had no land or title of his own. What he did have, apparently, was a very lucrative business deal with the Carmines.

Lady Carmilla herself was there to greet them in the foyer. "Lord Alastor, Lady Rosie," she nodded respectfully to them both. "A pleasure to see you as always."

Another unnecessary falsehood. Alastor smiled through it, greeting her in kind. "We must kindly thank you again for your assistance in this matter and apologize for any trouble it may have caused."

She smiled politely back. "No trouble at all, Lord Alastor. Indeed, all the guests seem to be in high spirits."

The three demons made pleasant enough small talk for a few minutes before Rosie inquired after Alastor's betrothed. "Has Mr. Smythe arrive yet by chance?"

"No, alas, he is late," Carmilla replied with the faintest whiff of irritation. "Some important business or other. He is often engaged in work."

"Ah, that is quite alright then," Rosie said sweetly. "We'll go in, shall we? We ought not keep you from your other guests."

Carmilla stepped aside so that the two aristocrats might step past her. "Yes, please enjoy yourselves. I believe the dancing has already begun."

Alastor and Rosie both expressed their delight again before stepping into the hall proper. As soon as Carmilla was sufficiently far away, Alastor immediately set his sights to criticisms.

"He isn't even here yet? I cannot believe my situation has come to this," Alastor whispered, sotto voce. He almost needn't have bothered. Every soul around the two LeClaires was giving them a wide berth as if they were stricken with some loathsome contagion.

"Now Alastor, try to seek out a happy moment or two--for Nifty's sake if not your own. A dance even! Your dear little sister would love to be here. Ah, if she had her way, she'd debut tomorrow, the scamp."

Alastor scowled for only a second before schooling his face back to its proper smile. "Then let Nifty marry; she's the poor soul who actually desires such a union." If Alastor had his way, he would have chosen to never marry at all. After the deaths of his parents, his dowager aunt had resumed the mantle of family head while Alastor had been preoccupied with his school studies. At present, the two demons shared the load--meager as it was now--until such a time as it could be passed to Nifty or her future children.

Regardless of the gravity of their words, Rosie's serene countenance never wavered as the two LeClaires meandered around the outskirts of the party. "Nifty's enthusiasm for matrimony is commendable, but she's yet several years too young, and we are facing financial destitution now. And since that's your fault, dear, I am going to need your help fixing it." Her voice was a calm but ironclad murmur that only Alastor could hear. "Furthermore, Nifty's prospects are hardly ideal. Your present sacrifice may yet wipe some of the stain off our family name."

"How noble of spirit I must be," Alastor quipped dryly.

"Please, Alastor."

Lord, how it pained him to disappoint her. "You actually liked Uncle Franklin," he said sullenly nonetheless.

She laughed with genuine mirth at that. "Your late uncle and I were lucky, dear. Mayhaps you might be too. Stranger things have come to pass."

"Hmm, perhaps." Luck had thus far evaded Alastor, and he rather much doubted that he ought to find it in the arms of some crass lout, but he would soldier on regardless. He did not wish to ruin his aunt's night with needless quarrels.

Rosie walked with him until they had reached a long row of chairs set against the main hall's far wall. A number of guests sat at varying intervals, some catching their breath from dancing and others waiting earnestly to be asked. "Will you be alright here for a bit, Alastor?" Rosie inquired as he took a seat. "Since Mr. Smythe is not yet arrived, I was hoping to catch up with Earl Zestial..."

Ever the dutiful nephew, Alastor kept his forced smile in place and waved her on. "No need to concern yourself with my moods, Aunt Rosie. I suspect none shall endeavor to move me from my seat."

She offered one last rueful smile before disappearing into the slowly growing crowd. Alastor was left to lean against the wall, listen to the music, and try to remain calm. As he suspected, while some in attendance shot him curious or apprehensive looks, no one dared approach him. Alastor cast his eye about too, wondering if he might find his intended before Rosie did--or rather that the other demon would find him. Uncaring of the engagement proceedings, Alastor had no idea what this Voxley looked like and only knew a little of his exploits.

Yes, his soon-to-be husband, Voxley Smythe, some upstart commoner who had made a fortune for himself expanding trade routes for the East India Company before returning to England and making his fortune twice-over in various newfangled factories. And now—like some bloated carrion bird—he had come seeking a nest to roost in and a title to go with it. Of course, what better way to secure said estate and title than to marry for it?

In this rapidly churning industrial age, destabilized aristocrats teetering on the edge of financial insolvency were hardly scarce. Alastor had merely thought his infamous reputation would've kept him off the bargaining table. Either this Voxley didn't know about the rumors concerning Alastor's involvement with the royal family, or more likely, he didn't care. Surely the man could not be so unseemly that only Alastor would have him? In truth, the deer demon did not know. After initially consenting to the written proposal, Alastor had left the matter of negotiations entirely to Rosie.

Fortunately for the LeClaire family, Voxley had no children of his own, and his and Alastor's union would not produce any; thus Nifty would still remain the next in line to inherit what was left of the family's property and good name. Voxley's monetary contributions would keep the LeClaires afloat and replenish their coffers, and in return the man could leverage all the political and social benefits that came with a noble rank. In some manner, it was a relief that Alastor was simply a means to an end, not a desirable aspect himself. A prickly and solitary composer, the young aristocrat had hardly been overburdened with social ties even before his fall from grace. With any luck, Voxley would spend most of his time in London overseeing his various business enterprises and leave Alastor in peace at his ancestral home in the countryside.

Alastor cast a wary look about the large room once more. Zounds, what was taking the man so long? Imagine being late to a party in one's honor; Alastor found it rude and ungentlemanly.

Although…allowing himself a little ungentlemanly moment as well, Alastor at last gave into the desire to be elsewhere. No one stopped him as he slipped out of the spacious drawing room, up a small staircase, and down a side hall towards where he knew a veranda should still be, assuming Carmilla hadn't made any recent renovations to the manor. But no, it was still there.

Alastor sighed, leaning on the thick balcony railing and glancing out over the dark countryside. Every so often the moon would peek out from behind the clouds, bathing well-maintained gardens and the distant woods in a silvery glow. Crickets chirped faintly, and Alastor could hear the dance music from downstairs, the windows having been opened to the cool, spring night air. The young aristocrat drummed his fingers to the beat of a violin solo, feeling the distant echo of his own magical powers but as ever, he was unable to summon them. So lost in thought was Alastor that he scarcely noticed an interloper on his solitude.

"Hey."

Red ears perked up and swiveled, and Alastor's eyes widened at the familiar voice. Turning around, his gaze beheld some strange amalgamation--a ghost of his past decked out like an omen from the future. The Victor Owens now before him was a far cry from the timid, obsequious clockmaker's apprentice that Alastor had for some time befriended whilst studying at Eton. Now Victor moved with easy confidence, walking towards Alastor as if he had every right to do so. More surprisingly was the other demon's clothing. He looked like a proper gentleman now, smartly tailored in the latest fashion of London. Alastor felt vaguely embarrassed for his own expensive but now threadbare suit, but something new had been a bit out of his means at the moment.

Alastor forced himself to incline his head politely which Victor did in kind. "My, but it has been some time since last we spoke." Since last we fought, Alastor thought, remembering their messy parting of ways nearly a decade ago. Though he had seen Victor about town after that day, the two of them had pointedly ignored each other. Then when Alastor had gone from Eton, he had scarcely thought of Victor at all. University studies of music and sorcery at Oxford and later a more...specialized tutelage in Windsor had kept him busy. At least until everything had fallen apart.

"It has been some years, yes." The slightly younger demon came over to the balcony, leaning against it too.

Alastor nodded in acknowledgment, but otherwise he had nothing to say to his former 'friend' and thus allowed the brief conversation to lapse into awkward silence. However, Victor did not quit his presence, and so the two demons stared out into the dark countryside together.

"Are you alright?" Victor inquired after a moment, politely neutral. "You seem a bit...harrowed."

Alastor managed a thin smile. So they would be playing the part of amiable old acquaintances then? Very well. "Alas, I've been better. I am to be engaged, you see." If Victor was moving in more prestigious circles nowadays, then no doubt he was already aware of the general outline of Alastor's situation if not its full extent.

"Usually engagements are happy occurrences…" the other demon prompted, a subtle invitation for Alastor to elaborate.

"Not this one," Alastor obliged, voice laced with an undercurrent of misery. And yet it was perversely satisfying to air his grievances so freely to someone, especially someone like Victor who did not require Alastor to put on airs. "The situation is utterly not of my choosing. Sold off like so much livestock to some repellent stranger."

"Aren't arranged marriages par for the course for your sort?" Victor apparently couldn't help but jibe. "I'm sure he can't be that bad, especially when you don't even know him."

"Oh please, what's to know?" Alastor's clawed fingertips tapped irritably on the glossy marble. "He's a boorish, vulgar social climber. You'd know the sort."

Victor glared at him, gentlemanly facade starting to slip--as Alastor had hoped it might. "Would I now? And is that what you'd say about me too? A disgrace too poor in breeding to be considered for an aristocrat's hand?" Victor glanced shyly away. "For your hand?"

Alastor laughed, finally in better spirits now that he had been presented with such easy prey. "Yes, I see you've come up in the world a bit yourself. Still not over your little flight of fancy for me though, hmm? Well, I certainly wouldn't have married you either way, old pal."

Victor's face flushed angrily. "No, you wouldn't have. You're more the type who keeps his lower class friends like a dirty secret and then discards them to save face."

Alastor felt a twinge of guilt at that but hid it well. "It's not my fault you insisted on reaching above your station, my dear."

The other demon composed himself with some effort. "I have a station now myself," he retorted tersely.

"And money, I'm sure, if your gaudy attire is any indication. All of which is merely like gilding brass. Simply scratch the surface and the cheap base material shows through." Alastor smiled meanly at Victor's hurt expression. Yes, this was why they couldn't be friends--why it didn't pay to befriend anyone from the lower class. Alastor had always wondered if Victor liked him or merely wished to be close to someone of his rank. "Regardless you're too late anyway. As I stated earlier, I am spoken for. Though even if I wasn't, I still wouldn't take up with you."

"Fine, fuck you, Alastor. I see you haven't changed at all in your last seven years as a hermit. Still just a prick with an overinflated ego."

Alastor feigned an offended gasp. "You really are a vile and insignificant little man," he replied with a pitying laugh. "Now leave me be. A proper gentleman should know when his presence is undesirable." The aristocrat made a vague shooing gesture to which Victor offered a far more vulgar gesture of his own before storming off back into the manor.

Once his former companion had departed, Alastor slumped back against the balcony railing with a sigh. Where he should have felt satisfied amusement, there was only cloying melancholy. The crickets and the violins no longer offered any solace, but returning to the party would be far worse. In truth, Alastor had been so long out of public that the presence of so many people now unexpectedly grated upon his nerves, and he wished only to return home to sweet sepulchral silence or perhaps the playing of his own hands upon his piano. Alas, like many things Alastor desired, it was not to be. At least sequestered here on the veranda he would not need to endure so many eyes upon his person.

However, Alastor was scarcely left alone for another ten minutes before Rosie came looking for him, heels clicking smartly on the tiled floor. "Alastor! There you are! Honestly now, I had to ask several servants before one knew where you'd gone." She began smoothing out his cravat and jacket, clucking at him like a mother hen.

"I was just taking some air," Alastor said with a sigh, letting her fuss over him. He would never admit it, but the motherly attention was very soothing.

"Avoiding the party, yes, I'm aware," Rosie replied, not fooled in the slightest. "Mr. Smythe has presently arrived though so if you would please come back to the main hall, you may meet him properly."

Alastor's stomached flipped unpleasantly, but he kept his smile affixed to his face. "Oh? Has his highness finally deigned to grace us with his presence?"

Rosie hustled them both back towards the ball as quickly as she could without appearing improper. "Now, Alastor, you've agreed to this matter already. Please try not to immediately offend the poor man."

"Emphasis on 'poor'," Alastor replied caustically, making his aunt sigh in exasperation.

The two aristocrats rejoined the main event, Alastor obligingly offering Rosie his arm again as she led them through the room. There were a number of faces about them that Alastor did not recognize, and he couldn't help but wonder which unfortunate soul he was to be fobbed off to.

They were near the curving, elegant main staircase when Rosie finally appeared to set eyes on the man she was looking for. "Ah, here we are." She turned Alastor around before stepping to the side. Gesturing to the demon coming down the stairs towards them, she said, "Alastor, this is Voxley Smythe."

Victor stopped on the second step from the bottom, smiling down at them. "Just 'Vox' is fine," he said.

Alastor felt his own smile grow painfully tight. Fuck him indeed, apparently.

tbc...

#PrideRingandPrejudice #BapplesOrchardCollabs #RadioStatic #StaticRadio #Alastor/Vox #voxal #Vox/Alastor #my writing

[slutforalastor]

Unmasked

This was a piece done for the Pride Ring and Prejudice Regency-Era Collaboration for Bapple's Orchard!

Hope y'all like radiostatic

There was a saying shared in hushed whispers between the servants of the esteemed Master Ardoin; "absent his grin, he's been done in." In the privacy of our own quarters, we'd repeat it to ourselves and each-other after receiving a tongue-lashing that could curdle a cooling torte, his amicable smile never faltering. Should we ever see him with any other expression besides that tirelessly jesting thing, it was to be taken as a sure sign that our benefactor had been replaced. A dry and nearly humorless observation, as far as gossip went, but it required a remarkable bit of guile on our collective parts; after all, the previous favorite to spread like a germ from ear to ear was that his very shadow could hear what his owner was too preoccupied to. I preferred that one; I confess that on nights that particularly favored one's imagination for the supernatural, I saw the thing framed by candlelight and wavering with motions not matching the movements of its puppeteer.

But I ramble, as I am so often wont to do; so shared was our penchant for it that my master referred to my tangents as "endearing meandering". I have to wonder if he recognized that the only thing I used more than my mouth was my ears. I offer all of this by way of exposition to better frame that which I intend to share; the only letter he ever published. Permit me the opportunity to further expand on this, that the story told between the margins of this letter might be worth the expense of it all.

***

"Are you certain you need to fuss over your appearance so much when you are preparing to attend a masquerade ball?"

"Even typical balls feature masks, and the mask of subtly enhancing ones shortcomings is no exception. Perhaps my face will not stay covered. It's enough to make one wonder: why do we insist on these preposterous gatherings at all?"

Alistair Ardoin had long fostered a most bothersome habit for those that endured his company; asking questions he already knew the answers to. The young man, inspecting his reflection for imperfections, was clearly on edge. His thin, pointed nose is turned up at the amount of starch in his collar. His deep brown, nearly black eyes have their brows furrowed around them from focus and irritation. He brushes falling locks of his brown hair out his face, one hand still tightly clenched to the upturned fabric around his neck.

He was all for the gildings of social events; the opportunity to impress and delight with his candor and cadence. It was the unspoken purpose of them, to find and court a suitable mate, suitability mostly falling to how much the parents cared for the prospective suitor, that he took such issue with. He had never been much for what passed for romance, perhaps because he was born to play a different sort of role. A privileged few were privy to the truth of Alistair Ardoin, and I was among this cadre. I'd tended to the roots that fed the flowering tree he called his performance; the doubt he felt for himself and for his world, the reluctance to be beholden to expectations, the fear of reliance on others as mere unstated deference. Such anxieties were coming out, apparent from the way he fretted over his appearance and cursed the need for these wretched events in the first place.

"You're always telling me it's not always my place to question matters I can't influence, sir. Perhaps this is a time where it's not your place to question such proceedings."

"I will allow that slip of the tongue because I have no way to rebuke you, Husker, but I resent the reality you present. That I cannot influence it is, in fact, why I am questioning it."

"And so often, the revelation of not being able to influence this reality is the answer that such queries are seeking out."

"A third time speaking out of turn will leave no need for query, Husker."

"I am not so blind as to ignore a line drawn, sir. Are there any further preparations I need to attend to?"

Alistair finishes preening his clothes, moving on to fussing over his hair, the placement of his cologne. "Will that gossip rag magnate be attending the festivities this evening?"

"I should think so; it is an event meant for socialites, both of the established and aspiring sort."

His expression darkens in the mirror. "Is that what V. Oxton would consider himself? I suppose when you print sordid half-truths and whole-lies, it's no trouble to bend language to suit your own fancy. To think that the printed word could be utilized to such malevolent ends. Truly, no medium can long exist in dignity before being wrung of all traits excepting its base function. It is a disgrace to the Ardoin legacy."

"Eloquently spoken, Master Ardoin."

"I intended it to be so." Stepping away from the vanity mirror, he brushes off his chosen outfit for the evening, dark and slimming with eye-catching red embellishments.

"f I could be so bold, though, master, you've yet to even meet this V. Oxton fellow. Perhaps you should not be so hasty to cast aspersions."

"Perhaps it shall be at my discretion to cast them as I see fit. For now, we depart to this wretched obligation."

The estate of Zeriah Stiahl beckons the carriage through her gates, the diminishing sun granting the wrought iron and cobbled stone spectral shadows. Many of the most notable barons and industrial titans of Pruthring are already converging on this event, some being escorted across the grounds, a few already being ushered through the doors, and the less punctual still being directed past the entrance. Husker and Alistair are appropriately covert in observance of the masquerade's tenets, the master donning the countenance of a buck with a rack of impressive antlers and the subordinate choosing the appearance of a black cat. At the door, servants impersonating lesser demons, masks twists into expressions of malice, agony, and malfeasance, guide guests into the reception hall. Within the dim gathering, quiet conversations are thrown from wall to acoustic wall, assaulting Alistair like cannon fire. "I heard Lucien the First still has yet to return from his self-imposed isolation; they're starting to prepare Charlotte to take the throne… Rumor has it Camille has been profiting from this ghastly war by selling weaponry to both sides…"

All around him are easily entertained herds, waiting for the next scrap to tear into like carrion eaters, flapping from carcass to carcass, squawking endlessly. How it disgusts him. If he's meant to entertain this chatter, it will be with the humour of one that's enjoyed a few drinks.

"Husker, permit me some reflection with my drink," he directs, his dutiful right hand finding a spot further down the bar. At the far end, Alistair nurses a glass of rye, neat, allowing the conversation to pass over him much akin to the currents of a stream over an embedded stone. Despite the available seats, he's joined by a figure in the next seat, masked in a oblate shroud painted with hypnotic swirls painted across the material, shimmering in the dim light.

"Leaves one rather exhausted, doesn't it?" The hypnotic being wonders, more in Alistair's direction than to the man himself.

"Alcohol? I suppose eventually it would."

"Astute observation, although I more meant the festivities as a whole rather than the best part of them." He punctuates his emphasized words with a prolonged draught from his own glass.

"I suppose they're much the same; eventually exhausting."

"It all feels so trite, doesn't it? Nothing of real import happens here; they've lulled themselves into a false impression of security. None have any desire to push themselves, to gain real control, real influence."

Alistair's intrigued already. "Have you sought me out specifically, or has the alcohol just loosened your tongue?"

"Well now, how would I manage the feat of deducing exactly who you are under that mask?Why, you could be that feckless rag publisher Oxton, in which case you'd have quite the headline for tomorrow's paper: Hypocrisies of the Wealthy and Influential; Lavish Parties An Evergreen Hardship.

"I can assure you I've nothing to do with that embarrassment to the printed word."

"Surely not; he'd be strutting like a pampered cock, probably on the lookout for Zeriah himself, hoping to find himself in the graces of old money."

"So we understand each other, then."

"Do we? What an honor that would be. I confess I have little expertise in courtly matters; my fortune and status is not nearly as established as some of the other families."

"It means precious little; it seems to me you could do far more with your outlook than any of these could with their vaster riches and further-reaching influence."

"I hope your praise is genuine, my good man."

"I'm not in the habit of purveying falsehoods." Alistair takes another pull from his glass, sneaking better looks at the man out of the corner of his eye. He's tall, lanky, dark trousers, white undershirt, and a blue riding coat. He's got a top hat with an emblem of an eye stitched into it, ironically the only eye-catching feature of his ensemble.

"Might I inquire as to your name?" Alistair asks the masked stranger. The stranger wags a finger at him in response.

"Come now, my good man, the entire purpose of these gatherings is an air of mystery. Grant me the small favor of maintaining such a fleeting fancy for myself. It is ever so entertaining."

Alistair is already enthralled. So often conversations with his so-called peers devolve into dry discussions of politics that will do nothing to affect their wealth, social matters that only shake their particular sector of the web of relationships that bind them, or else contrivances that simply aren't worth his attentions. Finally, a man that operates on his wavelength. Perhaps a bit of bait to lure in this sporting catch.

"I cannot help but feel that we are developing quite a bond already. It would help me to know to whom I am speaking with, should obligation sow a divide between us over the course of the evening."

"A noble attempt, but you forget the novelty of my mask; I have no doubt that no other attendee has hidden their face under something precisely like it. Should we be separated by fate, you need only seek out my enamoring facsimile once more."

Alistair balls up the fist that isn't clutching the last few sips of his rye. It isn't often that he doesn't get what he wants. However, he isn't dealing with the type that is meant to take his wrath on the cheek and soldier on. He recognizes the need to stay his temper.

"Too true. A shame, it isn't often that providence grants me a meeting with one whose outlook did not chafe with my own."

"The night is still young. Tell me, would you care to dance?"

Alistair's heart catches, his unconscious actions interrupted by the reaction of his synapses. It is an unwelcome and unfamiliar sensation; he has never thought anything about that particular diversion. In his mind, it has only ever held the pitiful station of being the truest form of going through the motions. It brings him no revelry, no reckless abandon, nor the apparent desire it is meant to leave swelling in the performer's chest. It is merely a recitation memorized by the legs and arms. Yet now, the idea intrigues him. But he must not make it so easy for this gentleman. He knows exactly what he meant, but he will play coy, just to be sure. "I see no maidens with whom to do such a thing with."

"I can see why you'd be confused. My intention, however, was to ask if you would dance with me."

The certainty, spoken without hesitation or shame, sends him into fresh fits. Just who does this man think he is? It could be anyone, without so much as a name, and yet Alistair is letting himself be lured in by some ethereal pull. "Surely you can't expect me to dance with another man?"

"You'd be correct, I cannot expect such a betrayal of our customs, which you hold in such esteem. It would be far more accurate to say that I can only hope you would choose to dance with another man."

Alistair ponders for a moment, then drains the remainder of the spirit in his glass. "I suppose the drink has made cooler heads do more foolish things."

"Too true, sir, good chance this exchange could be entirely blamed on the whisky."

Leaving his seat, Alistair walks nearly arm-in-arm with this strange companion he's found. It is too early in the evening for the group to revert to the Country dances that have remained so popular. This dance is far more intimate, compact, reserved. It is a moment meant for two that happens to have an audience; there is no pretense of required participation. This is entirely a statement of intent. And the stranger's invitations are quite intentional indeed; the way he guides Alistair's arm around his waist, grants him the privilege of the masculine role in the dance, allowing Alistair to treat him much the way the prescriptions of his upbringing would demand he treat a more typical dancing partner. In fact, although Alistair is unable to gauge his reactions, the feeling of his body against him when the steps require closeness tell him that yes, the hypnotic stranger is enjoying this very much. In a hushed whisper, he asks him "what do you gain from this?"

"Can a man not enjoy a dance now and then?"

"Do you not fear the consequences of this?"

"Not as much as I fear the consequences of allowing you to slip between my fingers."

"You know nothing about me that would spur such possessiveness."

"A picture is worth one thousand words, and the way you were huddled over the bar was a work of art all its own."

Another stir from his restless heart. Alistair wants to throw off this stranger, leave this senseless, empty assessment of how well they remember the arbitrary rules written by those long dead, abandon this embodiment of pretense. Greater still, however, he wants to do just such a thing with this mysterious accomplice alongside him.

"I see no reason to remain here; I shan't be missed, and none will be able to even confirm I was or was not here. We needn't an audience for whatever you would call this peculiarity between us. Won't you accompany to my estate?"

The stranger laughs, bringing Alastor's hand to where his mouth would be but for the barrier put up by the mesmerizing covering against his face. "I had hoped you would ask me just such a thing."

Collecting Husker from the other end of the bar, he makes haste for his carriage. They spend the journey back to the Ardoin estate discussing all manner of things; their exhaustion with tradition, their aspirations, their careers, their desires. There is much more overlap than anticipated, and Alistair can hardly wait to get him through the door.

***

The two men make merry, sharing the better portion of a bottle of scotch far in the depths of Alistair's cellar. Their masks come off, and the stranger is a vision even still; piercing blue eyes, cropped black hair, a wicked trickster grin. They've sprawled across the sofa in the drawing room, Alistair humming a minuet he once heard. Vance is draped over the back of it next to him.

"Do you know what would soothe me, truly?"

"I truly pray that it is not more alcohol yet, I do believe if I were to attempt to fetch it, I would fall to my death down those stairs for want of sobriety's stability."

"No, no, I am quite drunk enough. I was thinking of where I might like to retire. A cottage near the cliffs of Dover, by the shoreline, where I could have reign over myself and myself alone. The only kind of power that is absolute."

"Perhaps you needn't live there alone."

The stranger smiles, and lays his head down across Alistair's lap. After a night of defying conventions, coupled with his stifled inhibitions, Alistair welcomes this, absentmindedly stroking the stranger's hair.

The stranger.

"Something occurs to me."

"Best seize it, then, before the occurrence is mere past tense."

"Our agreement was a dance for your name. Are you a man that doesn't keep your promises?"

"Come now, I'm many things, but scoundrels shan't count me among their numbers. I will give it to you. Though I dread how it might affect the evening that's been shared between us."

"How could it?"

"Because my name is Vance Oxton."

Alistair's hand moves away from his hair, his body to the edge of the sofa, leaving Vance's head against the cushion. "I suppose you've got quite a story for your paper then, you fiend. Trying to ruin me, is that it?"

"Hardly. As a matter of fact, I believe that you and I could have quite a fruitful business partnership."

"Was such a meeting as this your intention from the beginning? How did you know that it was me there, then?"

"You flatter yourself; I would consider this fate more than an orchestrated occurrence. I wasn't at all sure of the identity beneath the mask, but as I see it, I've found a new friend and potential equal in the field."

Alistair rakes his fingers across the fabric of the furniture, gritting his teeth. "You speak of friendship as though that word functions without an acknowledgement from both parties. I have no respect for your methods and lesser still for your willingness to deceive."

"Alistair, please," Vance begins, bring himself upright with unsteady arms.

"I demand you see yourself out with haste, Mr. Oxton."

Vance's face, twisted with grief, does as is requested of him.

For a time, none save for myself were aware of this occurrence. The master always endured periods of ennui and solitary reflection, but none were so profound as the time after the masquerade. What made it most perturbing was the fact that his smile had faded like the last vestige of an ember dancing across a melted candle. He began taking deliveries of the Oxton Observer, as though waiting for the inevitable tarnishing of his reputation at the hands of the magnate. To his surprise and increasing worry, the news never broke. In place of that severance was his heart, torn by his unwillingness to tug at the rusted chain that bound him. I wasn't certain that he would ever unburden himself of his bondage, until I awoke to him completely absent the estate. It was the same evening as when the Masquerade had take place a year prior, May 11th. As was customary, a copy of his own newspaper made its way to our step, and as was a routine so ingrained in me that my own concern and barely-repressed grief were not enough to stay it, I read the headline. And I knew I needn't search for him after I read the rest.

Elsewhere, at that same moment, Vance Oxton was seen for the final time, departing the offices of the Oxton Observer, a carriage bound down an easternly road. It was considered crass to consider the two connected. But I knew better; I have always known better. I remain faithful as I ever was.

****

"To the one that wore the hypnotic mask one year ago,"

I have not always been too proud to admit when I was wrong. In this instance, I find my pride too wounded by an emotion yet more powerful; regret. To say that I live in regret of the progression of the evening we shared is to understate the torment I've endured to the same degree as summarizing the Odyssey as a journey across the sea. I live in pronounced fear that my haste to send you away has forever spoiled the banquet of life we were meant to take our fill of. If by some divine miracle my folly would be a lesson in humility rather than the decisive blow that renders me meant to endure my foolishness in isolation, I pray you join me in that place you confessed that you would retire to, if such a chance arose. Such a chance presents itself to you now, if you would only seize it. Let the silence I cause to descend around us be lifted.

Yours,

Alistair Ardoin."

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