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runawaymun · 6 months

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Trick or treat! What about a line or two from something that'll likely never see the light of day from the WIP folder?

Ohhhh this is a fun question!

Ok so with @the-commonplace-book's permission, I shall share quite a few chunks of a little story we wrote together for fun, mostly just to take a break from some of our more serious joint projects, which is the MGME trope, but make it a couple of kids and their shitty parents -- who are some longstanding OCs which have been knocking about for years from a different, really cool project that she's working on. Mostly this whole thing began with, "what if Torin and Finley met Elrond and he could maybe dad them a bit? Wouldn't that be fun?"

The first section includes Glorfindel rescuing the parents from some Trolls (classic) after they fall into Middle Earth, and then I'll just select chunks at random. We wound up dropping it because we got to a point where we got bored, but it was a really good time while it lasted and spawned a totally different (but similar) idea which we poke at every once in a while.

This could get quite long :D

Neil and Deidre had been bickering so loudly and incessantly, that they hadn’t heard the thud! thud! thud! approaching until it was just behind them. They spun around just in time to see an enormous grey monster reaching for them.

They scrambled to escape, but it had them in their clutches - one in each giant hand. It was as rank as it was ugly, and no matter how much they squirmed and screamed, it wouldn’t let them go.

It carried them a ways through the woods, to a camp just outside a cave, where another giant grey creature sat tending a fire proportionate to their size. They began to chat.

If they had spoken the local tongue they might have understood the conversation as:

“What do you have there, Art?”

“Oh just some tasty morsels for tonight’s stew! Caught them scrambling about the edge of the moor, I did.”

“That one’s got a good bit of fat on him.” The second troll said, poking Deirdre with a thick grimy finger.

Art yanked her back, sending Deirdre screeching anew. “Hands to yourself, Wildo. I found them. I’m cooking them up.”

“There’s plenty to share! With that one at least.”

“This one’s mine. You can have the skinny one.” He tossed Neil to Wildo, who fumbled the catch, much to Neil’s increasing distress.

Of course, Neil and Deirdre Brady couldn’t speak this language, and so they were left in a fright, with monstrous creatures tossing them about and speaking utter nonsense. Perhaps it was for the best. No one, of course, wants to know that they are about to be roasted alive for lunch.

Trolls were nothing to sniff at.

They raised such a horrid stink.

Glorfindel had been waiting just at the edge of the cave this lot was living in, having been drawn by the orange glow this side of the hill. A glow that bright in the middle of the night in the Trollshaws only meant one thing. And these trolls were too close to the main road not to be a nuisance to travelers.

He’d been waiting because he had only counted one troll at the fire and they generally never lived alone if they could help it. It would be better to bag them both at once.

He was handsomely rewarded when the troll’s companion returned with dinner.

A very loud dinner.

The screeching was warranted, but hard to listen to. Glorfindel winced. No time to waste!

He left Asfaloth where he was –there was no sense risking him with the trolls– and strode into the ring of light, Aurë flashing in his hands, and called out jovially:

“Ho, my friends! What a nice catch you have!”

Both trolls froze and turned to look at the intruder.

Glorfindel gave Aurë a whirl and then gripped the hilt with both hands. “Mind if I join you for dinner?”

Before either Art or Wildo could decide how to react (trolls were, of course, rather slow creatures), Glorfindel raised his voice in a battle Song which forced both to drop their prizes and clutch their ears in horror. He sprinted toward them, Singing, and cut Art down with one long slice to his belly. Wildo recovered quicker, and grabbed the wicked-looking knife from his belt– which was about the size of Aurë– and waved it wildly in Glorfindel’s direction with a terrified shout.

Glorfindel neatly sidestepped each cut, parried, and then stabbed Wildo straight in the knee.

The troll howled in pain and sank to his knees. Glorfindel took the opportunity to plunge Aurë straight into the beast’s eye, right up to the hilt.

It took a bit of a yank to get the sword out again, which was tiresome. He had to put a boot to the creature’s skull to get enough leverage.

Panting, he cleaned Aurë and sheathed it, then turned and held out a gloved hand, glowing with golden light, to the woman first.

“Right. I hope you are not terribly hurt. Nasty things, trolls.”

(and later, the twins find the two boys in the forest and, after discovering that they speak no recognizable language, bring them to Rivendell to see if Elrond can figure out how to communicate with them)

The twins led the boys up to the house. It was buzzing with activity this time of day, elves going to-and-from the healing halls or the kitchen, some Dunedain guests milling about. They passed a group of hunters heading out for the diurnal prey that would be out soon.

Elrohir would have liked to get the boys another meal before doing anything else, but it was best to figure out what language they were speaking first. They climbed the stairs to the second floor, then went out to the garden and passed Lindir, who greeted them with a bow.

“Ada’s in his study?” Elladan asked.

Lindir nodded. “I have just come from there.” His eyes fell to the boys with curiosity, and then flicked back up to the twins.

“Uh…we’ll explain later. We really have to talk to him,” Elladan said again, and said goodbye and continued on past the courtyard to knock on the door to his father’s study and then went inside.

Elrond was indeed there, bent over some letters with Erestor at his side. Both of them looked over and Elrond straightened. He probably meant inquire after the hunt, but paused at once when he saw the boys.

Before the inevitable could be asked, Elrohir cut in: “We found them at the edge of the trollshaws alone and lost. No sign of any adults. Um– and I have no idea what language they’re speaking.”

“He tried everything,” Elladan added. “They don’t speak common. Elrohir even tried Khuzdul and Haradi but they recognized nothing.”

Elrond held up a hand to still them both and slowly came over. The boys had dark hair and light eyes. If he didn’t know any better, he would think they were Elros’ kin. But if what Elladan and Elrohir said was true, then he couldn’t imagine how that could be.

“The trollshaws?” From behind him, Erestor was incredulous. “What were they doing in the trollshaws? That is a long way from any Mannish settlement in the area.”

“I imagine we shall find out if we talk to them,” Elrond said evenly. He wished to hear them speak, if only to take a stab at a language root. He sank down to their level (his height was hard to handle for some grown men, let alone two children), and then put a hand to his chest and introduced, “Elrond.” And gestured to the eldest.

Torin kept his feet firmly planted on the floor, despite the way this man’s presence made him want to cower. He was tall - taller than any man Torin had ever met. His grey eyes looked old beyond his years and when he knelt to Finley’s level with those careful, gentle motions and that disarming tone, a profound sense of unease and acute distrust churned in Torin’s gut.

“Torin. We’re just looking for a phone.” He held his hand to his ear, fingers extended to pantomime it, and searched the man’s face for any sign of understanding. “Phone? Cell? Ring ring?”

Finley shrunk behind his brother.

Elrond cocked his head. The gesture was completely unfamiliar. The language…he supposed he didn’t have enough information to discern a root, though if he had to guess it might be Rohirric in nature.

The three questions in quick succession were clearly an attempt at some sort of clarification. Synonyms. But unfortunately he hadn’t the faintest idea of what any of it meant.

He glanced up at the twins, who looked baffled, and then sat back on his haunches and decided on: “Well met, Torin. I am afraid I don’t know how to help you,” because regardless of whether or not they understood each other, he was still going to give him the respect of speaking to him. “But I promise I will do my best to find how.”

“You don’t know what they’re speaking?” Elladan was astounded.

“Unfortunately I do not. It is a puzzle,” Elrond replied back.

The only thing Torin understood out of all that was his name. It was swiftly become clear they either had no idea what a phone was, or simply didn’t have any here and were trying to explain that.

“Fuck,” he said, guessing that was as gibberish to them as anything else in English. If he hadn’t left his damn phone charging in his room they wouldn’t be in this mess.

“Okay, uh, Plan B,” he said, not even bothering to whisper. They couldn’t understand what he was saying to his brother anyway. “We’re gonna get some more food and figure out where the hell we are, and then figure out the real Plan B.”

Finley nodded mutely.

Torin took out the little wrapped bread from earlier and held it up, pointing to it. “Food?”

At that, Elrond lit up into a warm smile. It was an easily understood question.

“That was going to be my next suggestion, in fact. Food,” he repeated the unfamiliar word. “Yes.”

The letters were entirely forgotten with his attention entirely diverted onto this new puzzle. Erestor let out a long-suffering sigh and gathered them up into a neat stack. Elrond stood and started for the door beckoning.

“I’ll go get them something,” Elladan said, heading down to the kitchen. “Terrace?”

Elrond hummed in assent, and started up the walkway to the third floor, Elrohir following behind.

Elrond led them back downstairs, all the way to the first floor of the library. He waved to Iûldis as they passed her desk on their way in. She paid him a polite nod of her head. Elrond led them through the rows of books until they came to the selection of maps. He took one down and rolled it out on the nearest table large enough to accommodate it, took a moment to orient himself, and then pointed to Rivendell.

“We’re here. Rivendell.” He then traced over the mountains to: “Dale,” then downward, “Rohan,” further south. “Gondor. Minas Tirith.” And finally, back over the mountains, being sure to trace slowly all the way west. “Bree.” Then, “Ered Luin.”

Torin may not have been a geography whiz, but he knew a map of world and knew this sure as hell wasn’t it.

“Are you fucking joking?” Torin shook his head. “You don’t even have a real map. That’s grand. Fantastic. Fuck!” He grabbed the map and threw it off the table like the useless piece of garbage it was.

Finley flinched and shrunk back, worrying at his sleeves, stiff with shoulder hunched up to his ears.

Torin pointed an angry finger at Elrond. “Tell us where the hell we are!”

“Riv–” Finley tried to say Rivendell. He’d picked up that much. Not that he knew where or what Rivendell was, but it was where they were. The word couldn’t form. It tangled up in his mouth. “Ri–” Rivendell. Rivendell. Rivendell. It was right there caught in his throat behind a lump of anxiety.

Elrond took the outburst in stride. He watched the map drift to the floor, and then returned his attention to Torin. Iûldis had crept over at the commotion and was leaning around to glare at them all disapprovingly from around the bookcase. He shot her an apologetic smile and bent to retrieve the map. Thankfully, it was not damaged.

He rolled it up and reshelved it.

“Rivendell,” he repeated, because the question was clear and Torin’s little brother’s answer was also predictable. “That is where you are. And if you dislike the map we can look at others, but I am not sure if they will be of any use to you.”

He had begun to radiate a gentle flow of calm through the floor, if only because he could feel how fast the little one’s heartbeat was. It also may help keep the surrounding books intact.

Torin couldn’t pinpoint how, but he got the sense Elrond was trying to calm him down and that only put him further on edge. “ Ireland. Europe. British Isles. Dublin. Any of that mean anything to you?!”

He couldn’t tell if this was an elaborate act of if they really were that disconnected from society. For concerning recent events, the cosmic phenomenon they experienced yesterday had nothing on the presence of these pointy-eared bastards.

Elladan and Elrohir decided to go upstairs and get some sleep. They had slept little on their hunt, especially the night before, and it was beginning to catch up with them. On their way in, though, they stopped to check on the boys.

“Torin screamed at Ada,” Elladan muttered with a laugh. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

Elrohir’s eyes grew wide. “He’s lucky Erestor wasn’t there. He would have put him over his knee. Ai, I can still remember the first and last time I ever did that.”

Erestor had never done anything of the sort, of course, but the scathing disapproval had hurt just as much. He’d been in the room at the time. Ada had simply taken it in stride, asked him if he was finished, and then sent him to study a corner of the nursery for three hours. The boredom had been another kind of pain.

(Glorfindel arrives with Neil and Deidre, and they go to "reunite" with the boys but uhhhhh it does not go well... partially due to the language barrier but also due to the shitty family dynamic which the elves have no way of knowing about)

Celebrían led the boys upstairs. Elrond and Glorfindel came in before they could make it all the way to the terrace, meeting them in the hall. They had to sorely bedraggled adults with them who, Celebrían guessed, looked quite a lot like both boys.

“Glorfindel! It’s good to see you back!” she shot him a bright smile.

Glorfindel’s smile that he gave her in return was radiant as ever. “It’s good to be back.”

Torin froze. His body went stiff and he planted his feet. No. No, no no.

There were their parents, tired, with muddy clothes and tired eyes. Relief washed over their faces at the sight of him, but Torin didn’t share the sentiment. He knew it was a lie.

“Torin!” His mum went to hug him and he shrugged her off. His dad placed a hand on his shoulder and he stiffened.

“We’ve been looking for you for over a day. We were worried sick.”

“Yeah I’ll bet you were,” Torin grumbled.

“Where’s your brother?” The concern carried a nearly imperceptible edge.

Torin looked to his side. Finley was gone. Fuck. His eyes turned to his dad’s with a sharp glare. “What do you care?”

Neil sighed, like dealing with a petulant child, and tried to ask after Finley. “The smaller one? Finley?” He indicated the height, hoping one of the strangers (and they truly were strange) could help.

No one knew what to make of the strange encounter. This was not how they had expected it to go. Torin did not look glad to see his parents. Elrond began to wonder if it had not been an accident that they had been separated.

So focused were they all on the conversation that it came as a terrible surprise when Torin’s father (whom Glorfindel had introduced as Neil) asked about Finley. Before Elrond could register what he meant, Celebrían frowned, looking around.

“He was just here–”

Ah. Finley was the little one. And he had gone missing in a matter of seconds. Elrond’s heart jumped. He craned his neck. Sure enough, Finley was nowhere in sight.

He shot Neil an apologetic smile and said, “I will look for him. Celebrían, could you have Lindir make up a room?”

A little shaken, Celebrían nodded. She couldn’t imagine how Finley had been so quiet, nor so quick, that no one had noticed him disappear.

Elrond set off. Glorfindel took it upon himself to introduce: “Lady Celebrían, this is Neil, and his fucking cunt Deidre.” He said it cheerily, gesturing between the two of them, looking very proud of himself for picking up on the word for spouse from all of their bickering.

Celebrían shot them a smile and touched her hand to her chest and inclined her head. “Well met. Celebrían,” she introduced herself.

Deirdre, however, squawked in offense and, before Neil could stop her, slapped Glorfindel. “How dare you!”

“Deirdre!” He reached her a moment too late.

“You heard what he called me!”

“You really think he knows what that means?”

“Well– Well then it’s your fault! He must have picked it up from you!”

Meanwhile, Torin burst into laughter the moment Glorfindel said it. “No, no.” He gave a thumbs up to Glorfindel and pointed to his mum, still laughing. “His fucking cunt.”

“WIFE! I’m his wife!” Deirdre screeched.

“Torin.” Neil shot him a warning glare, but then those eyes flicked around their company.

Torin, knowing his dad couldn’t do shit in public, just shrugged and gave him a shit-eating grin. “You said it first.”

Glorfindel was so surprised by this entire thing that he froze. Celebrían’s eyebrows rose. She put her hands on her hips, ready to lash out at Deidre despite her being a guest because they most certainly did not allow anyone to strike anyone in her house– but at Torin’s reaction and Deidre’s apparently correction, the situation became clear.

“Glorfindel– I think that doesn’t mean what you think it means,” she said slowly.

Glorfindel looked between Torin, Celebrían, Neil, and Deidre. “He called her that the whole time!”

“Maybe they don’t get along as well as you thought,” Celebrían said with a thin, albeit amused, smile.

Glorfindel blushed and ducked his head in Deidre’s direction. “I misunderstood. My deepest apologies.”

Deirdre huffed, but accepted what she hoped was an apology. “Does anyone here speak English?” she demanded.

“Nope,” Torin said. “No English. No phones. No maps. We’re fucking stranded with these weirdos in this godforsaken larping compound.”

(one last little snippet here, after Finley bolts to get away from his parents, Elrond goes off to find him).

Elrond set off from the group. When he turned the corner in the hall, he stopped, shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and blocked everything out to attune to the floor beneath his feet.

Sure enough, it was faint, but there was a tiny heartbeat some distance away, racing at breakneck speed.

He followed it down to the second floor, past the rows and rows of guest rooms, hardly saying hello to anyone as he passed them. It grew stronger and stronger until he came to his study. The corners of his mouth twitched. Silently, he slipped in and padded over. The source of the heartbeat came from behind his desk.

If Finley’s first reaction upon seeing his parents was to hide, that was a bad sign. Torin had, really, reacted no better. Elrond was in no hurry to return Finley to them at present. More than likely it was only out of anxiety that they would be angry with him for running off, or getting lost, or any number of things. But this was such a strong reaction that Elrond worried it might be something more than that.

He sank down to the floor to sit on the other side of his desk, resting his back against it and reclining.

“Finley, is it?”

He was glad that he finally knew the little one’s name. He kept his voice soft, hardly above a whisper, and began to radiate a gentle pool of calm, hoping that Finley might come out on his own.

Finley wasn’t sure how he got here, or where here even was. His arms wrapped around his knees, squeezing so, so tight; he felt he might crumble into a million little pieces if he let go. He couldn’t stop shaking, his head was spinning, his chest wound tight, and he could barely breathe.

I shouldn’t have run. I shouldn’t have run. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry.

The words filled his thoughts to the brim like swelling pressure against a frail dam. The door opened. His whimpers silenced and he pressed against the corner of the wood.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Go away. Please go away. Please don’t–

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the wood. A pause, then a voice. That wasn’t his dad. He felt like he should know who it was, but couldn’t remember through the screaming mess in his head. Whoever it was, he had a gentle voice. Finley felt the air come back into his lungs. Tears sprung from his eyes.

He opened his mouth, but not words would come out. They all tangled up in his clenching chest.

It was quiet for a long time, save only for the sound of Finley’s still-racing heart, his sniffling, and the little sounds of distress he was making every so often. Panic. Elrond’s chest twisted. He briefly considered going to fetch Torin, but that might mean alerting Finley’s parents that he had been found. He had no intention of doing so until Finley was calm and they had a chance to…

…what, talk? They couldn’t. Elrond bit the inside of his cheek, frustrated. He squashed the feeling as soon as it rose before it could bleed out of him.

Finley neither spoke nor came out from under the desk, though his heart did slow somewhat. Elrond fished out a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully reached behind him to set it at the corner of the desk, within reach without forcing Finley to come out before he was ready.

After another long stretch, an idea occurred to him. It was risky– especially in the state Finley was in– but there was a chance they might be able to communicate.

Tentatively, with the upmost care to be gentle, Elrond reached out and brushed Finley’s whirring, anxious mind with his own.

‘I am not here to make you come out,’ he told him, hoping that at least something would be intelligible, ‘don’t fret.’

The voice, or… impression of a voice, was warm. It felt the same as the calming presence that had begun to ease his fear. Not banish it, but lessen it at least. What he imagining things? He figured he must be. His dad said his grandma used to hear things that weren’t there.

Whatever he was, a real or not, Finley’s thoughts tumbled back to him.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run away. I just got really scared. I don’t know where I am or if Torin’s okay. He was probably so mad and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have run away. I’m sorry.’

The response was remarkably clear, for all its rushing current of fear which choked the words. Elrond let out a relieved breath.

‘Torin is well. He is safe,’ he told him at once. ‘And to my knowledge no one is angry with you. Only worried.’

Finley buried his face in his knees and pulled them closer to his chest, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. ‘No. No he’s angry. He’s really really angry and it’s my fault. It’s my fault because I ran away and now he’s gonna hurt Torin and it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have run away or hid the rings or taken the rings or anything. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!’

“I’m– I– I– I’m s–” the words stumbled weakly out of his mouth. “‘m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Elrond shifted, rounding the desk to settle down once more a fair distance away, within Finley’s line of sight, but neither blocking his exits nor forcing either of them to look directly at each other.

‘No one will hurt Torin in my house. I will not let them,’ he replied back, firm and steadfast, but still gentle and warm. ‘is it your father that scares you so much, tithen pen?’

Finley didn’t look up when he moved around the desk. He kept his face buried in his knees, but nodded, just a little.

‘He was really angry, ‘cause I took something I wasn’t supposed to and now we’re here and it’s my fault.’

Elrond tilted his head, still radiating that flow of calm and relieved beyond words that this was working.

‘predicaments so unfortunate and tangled as this are hardly ever any one person’s fault, let alone someone so small as you. And in any case I am certain you did not intend to cause harm. And a second I promise: I will not let anyone hurt your brother. Neither will I let anyone hurt you. No matter how angry they might be.’

Finley couldn’t say why he believed him, but he did. He was just one of those people who made you feel safe. Finley was scared to look up, because he wanted so badly for him to be real, but was so scared he wasn’t.

It took a few minutes to muster up the courage to lift his head and open his eyes.

There, sitting on the floor, was Elrond.

He was warm like summer and had a presence so much bigger than Finley’s dad, but so much kinder.

anyway, that's the gist! I know that's quite bit more than a "line or two" but this will likely never go up anywhere, since we don't plan on finishing it. It's a fun idea, but we wound up doing a similar thing with the same characters a little to the left, and we like that better.

#this is huge #but we wrote quite a bit of this before we got bored lol #the bradys in middle earth #(small cw for child abuse. nothing graphic. Only implied)#elrond #not my OCs but borrowed with permission!#also includes:#elladan #elrohir #erestor #lindir #and plenty of:#glorfindel #and also Celebrian #of course

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skyloftian-nutcase · 2 years

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What is Lost and What is Bound (Legend of Zelda & Linked Universe fanfic)

My Fierce Deity headcanons demanded I start writing stories and the like, so here we are. This can be read as an origin story for the Hero of Time in Linked Universe because it’s canon compliant with that AU (so it’s not quite as crack/goofy as the headcanon post, because Jojo seems to have a darker tone set for the mask), BUT it can also just be a Legend of Zelda story featuring the Hero of Time after his adventures. Whatever suits your fancy!

Summary: Everyone makes mistakes. When Link’s mistake costs him an eye, a fierce deity decides it’s time to take things into his own hands.

The blade breaches his defense faster than he can register it. The next thing he knows, searing heat erupts on his face, stinging and burning and tearing into him. White spots cloud his vision, he hears a scream rip its way out of his throat, and he falls back. He tastes bile and blood, and he feels the thick, warm liquid stain his chainmail and undertunic. His eyes are closed, the pain unbearable, but he has to get up because the enemy is still there and he will die if he does nothing.

He hears shuffling feet, panting breaths, chainmail and armor clinking, and his heart skips a beat. The turncoat Hylian knights are still coming for him, and he has to get up.

Fumbling in his pouch for a potion, Link rolls to the side instinctively in an attempt to just keep moving despite having both eyes squeezed shut. The pain is overwhelming and agonizing, and he can’t think straight. His hip bumps against something in his adventure pouch and it seems to pierce into him. He searches his pouch frantically, he can’t find a bottle to save his life, but his hand slips over smooth wood, and he registers that its shape is that of one of his masks.

His fingers tingle at the sensation, and the pain is numbed for a moment. The mask seems to be burning, radiating heat into his fingers that travels up his arm like electricity. His entire arm starts to shake and spasm, the sheer power of the mask seeming to already try to take over his body. A persistent, nagging thought buzzes in his brain, like a distant cry, screaming let me handle this.

The Fierce Deity.

Link hasn’t used the mask since the War of Ages years ago. He used it so extensively during that time it almost became instinctual to lose himself to the battle, and it had scared him. He’d sworn to lay off it since then.

But this… desperate times called for desperate measures. If he doesn’t do something quickly he is going to die. And he will not leave Malon a widow, not just a year into their marriage.

Link doesn’t hesitate. He has to be decisive, he has to act.

His fingers grasp the mask, dragging it out of the pouch and practically slamming it against his face. The power of the mask engulfs him, making him scream in pain, but then it eases, like the pain of having an arrow pulled from a wound and the blessed relief that comes after the offending object is out and a potion is trickling down his throat. He feels himself slip away, tucked in a warm embrace and safe and not having to worry about anything at all. He feels his body move, he hears screams, but he can’t quite focus, can’t quite tell what is happening, can’t quite connect sensation to thought to reality.

Is that blood still trickling down his face? Is that scream his own? Is that dizziness from moving and fighting, or is it from floating in this daze of being and not-being? Despite the warmth and safety this state brings, there is still a sickly otherworldly sensation that accompanies it, and the small but ever present panicked words of you’re not in control anymore gnawing in the back of his mind, pulling him down and freezing him in place like a ReDead’s scream or a Dead Hand.

This state is safe, this state is agonizing. This state is warm, this state is cold. He feels everything and nothing. His world spins and is still, roars and is silent. He’s forgotten it was like this, it’s been so long since he’s worn any of his masks from Termina. He used to hear whispers, voices of those who were once cursed, voices of the masks. He could never quite understand them, but after he’d stopped wearing them they’d faded. Now he suddenly hears whispers again, soft, deep, gentle, soothing, but dangerous.

Abruptly, it shifts.

Link gasps, dizzy and nauseous. The last thing he truly felt was rolling in the rocky ground and pulling the mask out of his pouch, but now the ground is soft, a warm something draped over him, and the world is dark. Itchy cloth nags the right side of his face, and he blearily opens his left eye, wincing at the ache he receives in his right eye under the cloth.

He takes in his surroundings quickly. He’s in bed somewhere foreign, a small room with no weapon in sight. A bowl and bandages are on the nightstand, alongside a lit candle that is at the end of its wick, the flame slowly dying. Link reaches up and feels that the itchy fabric on his face is, in fact, a bandage cut from the same roll on the nightstand. He remembers the fight, abruptly, remembers the pain in his face, and a cold dread and worry sink into his gut. Slowly, he unravels the gauze and grabs the bowl, seeing that it is filled with water, and gazes into his reflection.

He’s horrified at the sight, but he doesn’t have time to really understand the ramifications of the markings, the horrendous scar and swollen shut eye, when he hears a voice.

“Ah. So, you’re finally awake.”

XXX

Nabooru cusses as she runs.

Idiots, the lot of them. She hates all of Ganondorf’s leftover followers, but she hates them even more now that they have started dragging Hylians into the conflict.

She’d only just heard about a group of Ganondorf’s followers bribing some corrupt knights into hunting down the child who was responsible for their leader’s imprisonment and execution. It’s already wrong, Nabooru has no way of knowing how old this kid is at this point, but even if this boy is no longer a child, he is friends with the queen, and this sort of act would absolutely drag the Gerudo into a war.

Nabooru has enough problems to deal with; a Hylian-Gerudo war is not one she wants to add to that list.

She knows that the band of dishonorable knights were tracking the child, and she knows they were in this vicinity recently. She just has to catch up to them and kill them before they can reach their target.

But then she hears swords clashing. She hears grunts and cries, cuts and falls, the syncope of battle with the harmony of bloodshed. She cusses again.

She is scaling a hill when she hears a yell louder than the rest, and it makes her body jolt with a sickening realization. She hurries her pace in time to see a figure on the ground surrounded by knights. Her heart skips a beat.

Drawing her scimitars, she makes a beeline for the group before they can finish off this person, who is likely the target she is trying to protect. Before she can reach the group, she sees a knight lift his blade to finish the job when the young man on the ground pulls out what looks like a mask and puts it to his face.

The world changes in an instant.

The young man on the ground screams, and the act catches the knights off guard. Golden locks bleach to white, golden armor stains to silver, green clothes bleed into blue. The only thing that stays the same is the sticky crimson liquid that is dripping down his face and neck, but it no longer has a source – whatever wound the young man sustained is sealed, scar tissue covering his right eye.

His sword, discarded, warps and shifts, splintering and entwining into a double helix blade, and he grabs it in the heartbeat it takes the knights to register this strange change. He sweeps his blade across the crowd around him, and bodies fall in halves as if he had sliced through butter.

Nabooru freezes, blades half raised, confused and horrified.

And that’s when this man, this monster, turns to face her. His right eye is closed under the cut that mars his face, but his left eye is a white socket, no iris or pupil to be seen, and she feels a shiver run down her spine.

Gulping, Nabooru steels herself and raises her blades defensively. “I’m not here to hurt you. Are you… are you Link?”

The monster pauses, waits. His brow, deeply furrowed in rage, starts to relax. “Who are you?”

“My name is Nabooru,” she says evenly, not lowering her guard. “I’m the leader of the Gerudo people. I had heard there was a plot to assassinate you and I came trying to stop it. It seems… that wasn’t necessary.”

The white haired man turns to face her fully, and she gets a look at the strange markings on his face as he stabs his blade into the ground. When he releases the hilt, she finally starts to lower her own weapons.

“You came here to defend Link?”

Nabooru blinks, confused. So this isn’t Link? She isn’t entirely surprised, not expecting a Hylian to be like this monster, but still. “Yes. Where is he?”

“That isn’t the point,” the man snaps, danger in his tone. Nabooru flinches, but she won’t be intimidated by this creature, whatever he is – he certainly isn’t Hylian, but she’s dealt with monsters before. “The point is that you are not a threat to him.”

“No,” she answers honestly. “I’m not.”

The man huffs out an irritated breath, crossing his arms. Though it’s unclear where his blank gaze falls, the slight tilt of his head towards the ground implies he’s staring just at her feet, thinking.

The two stand in silence for a time, and Nabooru shifts awkwardly. “Look, I need to make sure Link’s safe—”

“He is.”

“Your word isn’t enough assurance.”

A small smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, and the creature moves his head to seemingly look at her again. “You seem a sincere woman. For your sake, it had better be true. But my word is all you will get.”

Nabooru’s hands settle on her scimitars as she grows agitated. “You can question my motives all you like, monster. I am not here for you.”

“Oh?” he tilts his head to the side, motioning behind him, his face darkening. “Perhaps you’re here for them? You can collect the pieces if you like.”

“I’m not here to bury the dead,” Nabooru replies. “Just to protect the living.”

“They deserve no burial,” the white haired man suddenly hisses, and his face contorts in rage, and then he takes a measured breath to calm himself. “Protection is my duty as well, Lady Nabooru. I assure you, Link is safe. Go about your business.”

“Link is my business.”

The monster raises an eyebrow, his left hand slowly creeping closer to his blade.

Nabooru rolls her eyes. “In terms of protection. For Din’s sake, are you always this moody? It was a group of Hylians who attacked you, I don’t know why you’re thinking a Gerudo woman is in league with them.”

The man blinks, his hand falling to his side, not relaxed but not ready to fight. “Those terms mean nothing to me.”

“What, do you live under a rock?” Nabooru snaps. This conversation is going nowhere – assuming the man is telling the truth then she shouldn’t worry, but she has to confirm that there is no more threat to the kid. All she knows right now is that she stumbled onto a fight of some sort between Hylian knights and this creature. For all she knows he’s a menace to Hyrule. Hyrule’s affairs are its own, but she has to find Link. She can’t do that when her queries are consistently redirected.

“A mask, actually,” comes the dull reply, and Nabooru rolls her eyes again.

“I know for a fact that people are hunting him,” Nabooru explains again. “The only way I can be certain that he is safe, the only way that I can return home is to track him down and ensure that nothing has happened, that nothing will happen.”

“And how exactly is this assassination attempt supposed to happen?”

“Hylian traitors,” Nabooru spits, disgusted at the thought. It isn’t surprising to her, just another testament to people’s idiocy. It reminds her too much of the fools who followed the colossal sorcerous moron who wanted to claim the Triforce.

The creature blinks again, his expression almost resembling exasperation or some kind of sarcastic reply, and he grabs his sword. Nabooru tenses, drawing her blades immediately, but the man turns and instead digs his blade into a knight’s torso as if he were skewering a piece of meat. He holds the corpse up for her appraisal. “You mean like this?”

Nabooru feels her stomach roll. She is no strange to battle and bloodshed, but the sheer disrespect of the dead that this monster is displaying is almost enough to make her ill. But the realization hits her immediately after, and she pushes aside the sickening gesture. “Wait – they’re the ones who were after Link?”

“They hurt him.” The man hisses, his tone dripping with poison. His blade hums with energy, and the torso bursts into flames. Nabooru takes a startled step away from the grizzly sight.

Shaking her head, she tries to refocus. “If he’s hurt, then we need to attend to him.”

He narrows his white orb for an eye, the cut on his face pulling and leaking blood. “Why do you seek to protect him?”

“I want to maintain peace between my people and his,” she explains. “Relations with the Gerudo are tense. I do not wish to make it worse. I know Link is a very important member of Hylian society, and I don’t want my people taking the blame for his injury.”

“Why would your people take the blame?”

Great. She might have backed herself into a corner on this one. Sighing, she relents. “Certain traitors in my own land are trying to avenge their fallen lord, whom Link got arrested many years ago. They are the ones who bribed the Hylian traitors. Once I learned of the plot, I eliminated the treasonous Gerudo. I was trying to ensure the Hylians were taken care of as well so Link would remain safe.”

Slowly, the monster lowers his blade, the flesh of the skewered knight burn to cinders. Bones rattle off the blade loosely, and Nabooru again fights the urge to vomit.

The man hums, and places his sword on his back, crossing his arms. “You’ll have to earn my trust in order to get to Link.”

Nabooru wants to argue, growing impatient, but given what she’s seen this monster do, she decides not to. Instead, she sheaths her scimitars and shrugs. “Fine.”

The man claps abruptly, making her jump. “Great! Let’s go fishing.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Fi-shing,” he repeats slowly with emphasis on each syllable as if she’s never heard of the term. “I like fishing.”

She feels her face burn in exasperation and annoyance. “Didn’t you say Link is hurt?!”

He shrugs. “He’s safe now. I’m protecting him.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“Do you want to go fishing or not?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You can always leave.”

“Fishing it is.”

As they walk, Nabooru finds herself marveling at how this day is probably one of the most insane of her life. Then she glances at the towering figure beside her and motions to his face. “You gonna do something about that blood?”

He licks his lips, tasting the blood lingering from the seemingly innocuous scar cutting through his right side. He hums. “I lent him my eye. He’ll be fine.”

“You did what?” Nabooru asks.

The monster huffs, suddenly annoyed, and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Wait a damn minute.

“The mask,” Nabooru says, stopping dead in her tracks. “You’re a result of the mask, aren’t you? That was Link being attacked!”

The creature shrugs. “I change hair color a lot.”

Nabooru faces him fully, crossing her arms. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Well, I can assume as much.”

Nabooru blows out a breath, enraged. “Why you—”

The creature smiles innocently. “I have a great talent for changing my hair color.”

“Then make it purple.”

“I don’t like purple.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not! Purple is not my color.”

“Fine. Blue.”

His mouth becomes a thin line. “I’m already wearing blue.”

Nabooru rolls her eyes for the millionth time since she’s met this anomaly. “You’re ridiculous.”

The man laughs, and it makes her jump in surprise. It’s a booming sound, but not an unpleasant one. “That’s one I haven’t heard in quite a while.”

“Can you at least tell me your name?” she asks suddenly, trying to trip him up. If he’s an enchanted item, he won’t have a name except for his bearer’s.

He hums, twirling some hair between his fingers. “Well… I was called an old man by the troops back in that other land. It was quite insulting, actually, I don’t look old. Just because my hair’s white doesn’t mean anything.”

Nabooru raises an eyebrow. “Well, how old are you?”

He huffs. “That’s not the point.”

“So you are old.”

“That’s confidential.”

“I’m calling you Old Man unless you give me a real name.”

He opens his mouth to protest and then it snaps shut. He huffs again. “Fine.”

Nabooru laughs, and they continue their trek until they reach Lake Hylia. Nabooru grows uncertain again at the sight of it, suddenly realizing how much ground they’ve covered. “You said Link was hurt, should we really—”

“He’s fine,” the Old Man insists, pulling out a fishing rod. “I’m making sure of it.”

Nabooru bites back a laugh. “You know, you’re really not good at the whole ‘hiding you’re an enchanted mask’ thing.”

“I honestly have little need to hide it,” he replies, pulling out some bait. “We both know I can kill you whenever I like. Your fate rests in your hands, not in your knowledge of who or what I am.”

“And fishing will help me decide my fate?”

“Well, walking away could do that too.”

“How will you keep Link safe after that?”

“I always keep Link safe.”

Nabooru watches him intently, examining him. “You… you care about him.”

The Old Man pauses from putting bait on the hook, his face softening. “Of course I do.”

He seems contemplative all of a sudden, and Nabooru’s head is spinning at this bizarre day, when he suddenly gasps, staring at his reflection in the water.

“My—I—what—” he stammers, his hand flying to his face.

Nabooru leans over to look at him. “What is it? Is the wound bleeding?”

“No, it’s my markings, I—” he pauses, frantic. “Hylia, I didn’t mean for—great, he’s going to have a fit when he wakes up.”

Nabooru squints, looking at the markings on his face. He has two plum colored curved parallel lines under his left eye. At first glance she had thought they were cuts, but she had quickly deduced earlier they were tattoos of some sort. “What’s wrong with them?”

He smacks his right cheek lightly. “I should have more of them. He stole my markings!”

Nabooru stares at him, flummoxed. “He… stole them?”

“Well…” the Old Man trails off, leaning back thoughtfully. “I gave him my eye, maybe it was a side effect…”

“Okay, how does that work?”

“They took his eye. I gave him mine.”

“But how?”

He shrugs. “Magic, of course.”

“So you’re a sorcerer?” she questions, suddenly suspicious.

“I’m a deity, thank you very much,” he says proudly, smacking his chest with his fist. Then he softly mutters ow, shakes his hand out, and grips his fishing pole.

Nabooru snorts, not believing that for a second. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe that should be my nickname instead,” he mutters, watching as his line lands peacefully in the lake. A content smile crosses his face. “So tell me, Nabooru, you fought against Ganondorf?”

She jumps, startled. “How—you said you knew nothing of the Gerudo!”

“I don’t. Link does. His knowledge is accessible to me.”

“You’re reading his mind?”

The Old Man sighs. “Well, I try to talk to him, but he can’t hear me. Just makes him paranoid, he keeps thinking the mask is trying to make him wear it.”

Nabooru tries to comprehend this, tries to piece together everything she’s heard so far. She understands little of such enchantments, but this sounds like more than just a magical mask. This man sounds alive. It’s… bizarre.

The Old Man stares at nothing, his blank gaze somehow looking more distant than before. Then he lazily lets his face turn to her. The blank orb that should bear emotion and expression bores into her, making her squirm.

“A Sage,” he mutters. “But not here. Interesting.”

She blanches. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s not my information to tell.”

She shakes her head. “Who are you? Really?”

If he decides to answer her or not, it’s pointless. He grows distracted when his fishing rod gets a distinct tug, and he gasps in excitement. He starts to reel it in gently, fighting the fish a little bit, and Nabooru has to marvel at him fighting with a fish when he had the strength to chop eight men in half with one fell blow just half an hour ago.

Eventually the game of tug-of-war ends and the fish flies triumphantly into the air, and the Old Man catches it with an enormous grin.

“Would you look at that!” he exclaims in excitement. “Link will love it.”

Nabooru can’t help her smile. His tone, his joy, and his words relax the worry that has been clenching her heart, and she finally decides that whether or not she figures out who this mysterious creature is, she at least knows now that he isn’t a monster.

But he can be if he wants to.

Sighing, the Old Man tucks the fish into a pouch and then seems to look a little sad. “I suppose it’s time to go.”

Nabooru looks at him questioningly. “You only caught one fish.”

“Yes, but… I shouldn’t waste any more of your time,” he finally admits, albeit with no sense of guilt so much as a matter-of-fact statement. Rising, he dusts himself off. “I cannot treat Link once I take the mask off, so someone else has to. And, well… Malon might panic if I show up to the ranch like this.”

“Who’s Malon?” Nabooru asks.

“Someone who you will never speak of again,” the Old Man advises with a small, polite, but dangerous smile. “Just know if anyone thinks about getting near her or Link ever again, their fate will be worse than those soldiers.”

Nabooru isn’t quite sure how it could be worse, but she also has a sinking suspicion he can make it quite possible. She shrugs off the threat, knowing it isn’t entirely directed at her. “Well we have to go somewhere if I’m going to treat him. It’s too exposed out here.”

He nods in agreement. The search for shelter thankfully doesn’t take long, and they find a half collapsed abandoned shack that still manages to have some furniture left in it.

The Old Man gazes uncertainly at the place. “You know, we could… find an inn.”

“I’m not going into Castle Town,” Nabooru says abruptly. She wants little to do with Hylian cities, knowing that she’ll attract a lot of attention.

“Kakariko?”

“No.”

The Old Man grumbles. “Well it better not be damp.”

“Quit being a baby!” Nabooru says, exasperated.

The two enter the dilapidated building, and Nabooru pulls out medical supplies from her own travel pouch. She always comes prepared. She also sees the Old Man rifling through his things and he pulls out a few potions.

“Ugh,” he groans. “These taste awful.”

“Good thing you won’t be the one drinking them, then,” Nabooru reminds him pointedly.

He crosses his arms. “This mask isn’t coming off until I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“You think I’m going to hurt him? You do change your mind quite easily.”

“No, I learned what I needed to from you,” he remarks, shaking his head. “I just want to—great goddesses, this won’t do!”

Nabooru pauses from pulling gauze out of her bag and follows him into the next room. It’s a small bedroom with a dusty bed in one corner, a chipped nightstand beside it, and a stool in the opposite corner. She sees no threats, and looks at him curiously.

“What is it?” she asks.

“There’s only one pillow and Link likes two.” He states, sounding appalled. “Also I can’t help but wonder if he’ll be sneezing with all this dust.”

“Oh for Din’s sake—get your ass in bed and take the damn mask off.”

The Old Man crosses his arms. “Not until you can find another pillow.”

Nabooru looks at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

She stares at him, dumbfounded, and then throws her hands in the air. “You know what? Fine!”

Some day this is turning out to be. She started her journey frantically looking for this Link person, stumbles onto a nightmare, realizes the nightmare is the strangest mix of soft dad and enigma she’s ever met, and now she’s on a blasted side quest for pillows.

And a side quest it certainly turns out to be. Nabooru spends the better part of an hour huffing it to the nearest village wearing a cloak to hide her identity and buying not only a pillow, but some fresh water and several blankets because Link needs to stay warm he gets cold easily, okay, don’t forget the blankets.

Unbelievable.

When she returns, Nabooru’s patience is worn as thin as the moth eaten blanket she discards to the floor. The Old Man lies on the bed and sighs heavily, a sadness shrouding his face. Her irritation dissipates as she watches him, and he reaches up and pinches just below his chin. Light shines brightly in the room, and Nabooru shields her eyes. When she looks back, she sees a young man, blonde, unconscious, and smaller in build.

Link.

She stands in silent wonder for a moment, looking around for the mask that had caused this change, but she doesn’t see it. She wonders how he managed to put it away even while in this state, or if the Old Man had done it. It doesn’t matter either way, she supposes.

She leans forward and gets to work wrapping his wounds, and pauses as she sees freshly emblazoned markings on his face. The gifts that accompanied the eye, supposedly. She almost pulls his right eyelid open to look and see if there really is a blank orb there like the Old Man’s left eye, but she stops herself.

What a bizarre young man.

It takes another few hours for her to hear stirring in the room, and when she enters, she sees him staring at his reflection in the water.

“Ah,” she says, crossing her arms. “So, you’re awake.”

And thank the goddesses for that. A brief, cryptic explanation to keep the Gerudo safe from any scrutiny and she’ll be on her way home to where things make sense. She smiles at the young man and decides that this day is definitely the strangest of her life, but she’ll remember it fondly.

She wonders if Link really can’t hear the Old Man. She wonders if he realizes how much the Old Man cares. But she decides not to comment on it. It isn’t her business.

As Link looks at the person who spoke to him, he recognizes the Sage he met years ago immediately, and the mask tucked under the blankets hums gently. He’s trying to process everything quickly, still horrified at what has happened to his face, and he has to figure out what’s going on.

In the back of his mind, he hears a chuckle, and he shudders. But he also hears a voice, quiet, strangely familiar, yet so, so far away.

You’ll be okay, Link. I’ll make sure of it.

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strangerhands · 4 months

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𓇼 in the clear you can hear the ocean, but every tide is washing up greater commotion. i admit i may have misspoken, but everything that you want is already broken. 𓇼

❦ j, any pronouns, 22

about/byf ༄ masterlist note to writers

𓇼 it's hard to see and harder to breathe beneath the surf, whatever sums, whatever comes, it must converge. 𓇼

#navigation #divider by saradika-graphics #pixel from fawndollie #video from naturaleza-viva on youtube #song lyrics here and in bio are from stranger hands by nightlab because... of course.#can anyone tell by all of this that i used to be in anime fandoms lol is it obvious #none of my things match but im trying not to care bc theyre cute anyways #aaaaaa god i need to update and redo all my shit but i keep procrastinating and then forgetting... nothing new. but fuckkkkk aughhhhh. soon.

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siena-sevenwits · 11 months

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Disclaimer: These thoughts are more emotionally than logically expressed, and reflect my own experience and preference.

#I have some beef with Lockwood and I say this as someone who really enjoys both the show and the books.#I've been doing a rewatch to introduce it to my dad (who loves it!) but we just hit Episode 5 and - is it just me but does this episode #plunge rather deeper into the darkness than we see in the previous episodes? It makes sense narratively of course #Complete Fiction has the task of structuring it such that there's a proper midpoint shift in the series and in my own works I increase #the stakes around this point and really let the protagonists struggle. So it's not so much that I have an issue with things getting #more focused dangerous and difficult. I don't know that I have a logical reason for the unease I feel with Episode 5 - there's just somethi #vaguely disturbing to me about it. It may be my own personal sensitivities. The interrogation scene at Winkman's has absolutely nothing #graphic about it and I appreciate the discretion - but it's just so intense - the threats to draw on Lockwood's face with the heated #instrument - the whole electric shocks sequence - I have been told I have a particularly vivid and empathetic imagination so I may just #be filling in too many gaps and feeling the scene more intensely than some would but it genuinely bothered me. More so on rewatch #though I didn't like it the first time either. I wonder too if it's because on rewatch I can compare it to the scene in the book #Gosh - the book scene is *comedic!* 'Let's disguise ourselves as ditzy tourists and while you check the backroom I'll let my coins #fall all over the place and crawl around under the tables loaded with antiques and freak the owners out! And when they get caught #Winkman just lifts them off the ground menacingly and chucks them in the street. The fact that we had to turn this into a midnight #torture scene for TV - I don't know - I don't like it. And just the atmosphere isn't as balanced as in the other episodes. So many flashbac #to grotesque corpse faces which are somehow a lot more disturbing than the CGI ghosts which feel much more Halloweenish #Not much love and light carved out in the darkness. There's some for sure! And even in the torture scene that bugs me I appreciate how it #shows Lockwood's heart and allows us to explore some meaningful territory that the ditzy tourist scene doesn't #I'm just griping and mainly hoping that the rest of the series is more how I remember it from first watch. The warmth of the Portland #Row gang means a lot to me. Stacking this dark feel on top of the discomfort I have with the harsh language rubs me the wrong way #(Thankfully I have online filters so the language isn't an issue for me but it does make me more reluctant to recommend to friends.

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a-la-rascasse · 2 years

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Happy birthday DENNY HULME!!!!!!!!!!!! (18/06/1936 - ∞) 🐻⚡

Denis Clive Hulme, better known as 'Denny', was born in Motueka in the South Island, New Zealand. He grew up, with his younger sister Anita, on his family's farm in the tiny bay of Pongakawa; his father ran a truck business and thanks to those trucks, Denny showed from an early age his interest for the thrill of driving and speed: while sitting on his father's lap, he learned to drive a truck and by the age of six, he could drive it on his own. He left school early and started working in a garage, from that job he saved enough money to buy an MG TF, to enter hillclimb competitions.

After all the success gained, in 1960 he managed to purchase an F2 Cooper-Climax car and subsequently got chosen, along fellow kiwi George Lawton, for the New Zealand driver to Europe program, that gave them the chance to compete in Formula Junior and Formula Two across Europe. Two years after competing in the two categories, and participating at Le Mans for Abarth, the New Zealander, moved to London, and started working as a mechanic in Jack Brabham's garage, but slowly made his way into the cockpit.

Denny raced for Brabham in F2 races and non-championship events, but finally, in 1965, he got the chance he was waiting for: replacing Dan Gurney, who was busy at the indy 500 that weekend, he made his debut at the Monaco Grand Prix; he became officially a memeber of the Brabham team in '66, when Dan left, and had his first full F1 season. He stayed in the team till 1967, the year he won his first, and only, championship.

In 1968 he took a big step: he moved to the McLaren team, owned by fellow Kiwi, Bruce McLaren, with whom was already teammate in the Can-Am series overseas. But in 1970, despite Bruce's passing, and a serious injury caused from methanol fire, that severally burned both his hands, he undeterrely continued racing, feeling that he owed it to Bruce and the McLaren team; he would stay in McLaren till 1974, before retiring from F1.

Even though he retired from f1, he couldn't stop racing: throughtout the 80s he competed in different Touring cars competitions.

Denny would pass away in 1992 due to heart attack, while competing at one of his favourite events, the Bathurst 1000: he managed to safely stop the car at the side of the race track, he later got transported to the hospital, but there wasn't much the doctors could do.

Denny took part in the infamous 1966 Le Mans with teammate Ken Miles, and was a foundamental part of the McLaren team, especially in the Can-Am series.

He was nicknamed 'The Bear', because of his "gruff nature" and "rugged features", but was a sensible man that was unable to express properly his feelings.

Till to this day he ramins the first and only New Zealander to win the World Championship.

#tw death #it's nothing graphic I just talk explicitly about death something that I never did and that rarely will do #especially with graphic stuff you'll never read anything like it because simply I can't bring myself to do it #and because idkw I think it's slightly disrespectful to the memory of the person we should just remember them smiling and happy #(of course unless we're talking about safety and more on medical point of view)#sorry if I digressed but I think I had to make it clear #happy bday to denny!!!!!! <3333 #denny hulme #classic f1 #f1 #formula 1 #retro f1 #f1 1960s #f1 1970s #f1_bdays

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planet-poptropica · 1 year

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someone uploaded pop graphic novels on google doc. maybe give it a read?

⋆ Maybe some day! ⋆

#poptropica #asks for me #i don't really have an interest in the graphic novels #nothing against it of course #i think the art style is very cute and the characters are interesting #but at this moment in time #i don't really have an interest on it ^^;

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fceriestcrdst · 2 years

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does my sw oc have a ship name with cass & one with poe you ask?....yes...yes he does...

#sephicaptain & sephipilot respectively <3 #i've taken some uh--creative liberties (not many tho) with sephi lore bc i do what i want #its all mostly canon tho--the changes made are like very very very minor!!#just had to tweak bc transmasc sephi <3 <3 <3 + i went the palelavamder skin & pale sky blue eyes <3 #may actually start writing fics of my oc x cass & my oc x poe #there is potential for my oc x cass c poe as like a poly collective but we shall see if i wannt break timelines that badly #that may just remain a selfship thing day & i yell about in discordfor hours <3 #& of course my marvel oc will always have content bc the star to their moon is full my oc x the boys just without saying their name #but it'salso kit bc both these ocs are me & i regret nothing!!#he /was/ ranni but i renamed him & worked him a teensy bit so he's kit spector (grant/lockley as well but legally spector)#even tho in my series you marry steven but thats bc i went a very specific route with it & not my self-ship route that alters canon a #teensy bit (mainly with the marc & layla marriage but that was bc i didnt wanna feel like i was ruining something. yk? its why even in my #-series they are implied to never have dated essentially!!)#i'm rambling bc im excited & content in what i've done for myself---i just!! i dunno!!!#the sephicaptain fic is making me so excited because like--it really /is/ for me & i helped co-write a good chunk of it so i just!!! am so #so so excited for it!#i'll probablypost these fics on tumblr just bc i like posting to tumblr but i'm also gonna post on ao3 & idrc if no one read sit--or cares #--about it bc these are for me & me alone.#i just idk. i feel at peace with how i made graphics for myself. i'm writing for myself & my friends. i'm not longer trapped in a hyperfem #space anymore. my dash feels safe. i feel safe. i feel safe with my friendships for onc ein several years. i just feel safe & feel like me.#i'm truly starting to think th oscar isaac fandom & mk may have genuinely saved me from myself because i don't feel selfish-#-buying stuff anymore or writing for myself anymore. for the firts time in years i'm hanving fun in fandom & it's so refreshing &#comforting. anyways--i'm going to offically shut the fuck up now <3 i just wanted to gush!! gonna go back to dming my bf now <3 #kit rambles

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illputdownmyrootswhenimdead · 1 year

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the internet is a stupid place because you can see someone get accused of "openly supporting child porn" just because they like. post their works on ao3

#thats not what that means. do you know what words mean?#are there some things on ao3 that people shouldn’t be posting? maybe so #but there’s a hell of a leap between ‘fictional story involving fictional characters with fictional events happening’#and ‘irl minors being exploited for real CP’#using a website ≠ supporting CP #i think it’s uh. how you say. really stupid #dove talks #the fictional content you write and enjoy don’t indicate your morals #like if that was the case i guess im a serial killer because i enjoy creating and consuming bloody and sometimes graphic horror media #and yes of course you have to be responsible with what content you consume. but that doesn’t mean cutting out anything morally challenging #and only consuming ‘safe/good’ media #that helps nothing. it’s good to consume media that isn’t ‘safe’ sometimes #the belief that the fictional media you consume is equivalent to your morals is how we get people saying if you read a book like lolita and #enjoy it in any way. that you’re a bad person and obviously want to do bad things #when lolita is from the perspective of a predator and he’s actually the bad guy there #so of course his behavior is excused in his own perspective #but people who read the book can figure out with critical thinking that hes wrong #it’s the same thing. if you write a character who’s a bad person who does bad things it doesn’t mean you want to do that.#this is very. very simple stuff. but i see grown adults saying that if you write and enjoy ‘dark’ media #you obviously want to do those bad things #which is. genuinely so stupid #like i said. if that was true. i would be a serial killer. because i enjoy violent horror.#it’s stupid #delete later maybe

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junopluto · 2 years

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im asking you abt general sherman

anon you are my new best friend . William Tecumseh Sherman was one of the most powerful Union generals in the American Civil War. He was born to a very poor family of 11 children and after his father died when he was nine, his mother couldn’t take care of all of her children and sent many of them off to live with family friends. Sherman was “adopted” (never legally, iirc) by governor Thomas Ewing and by some accounts, soon after being taken in by the Ewings he was baptized, as they were Catholic, and as the priest didn’t see Tecumseh as a fitting name, he was renamed “William Tecumseh” (though in his memoirs it’s phrased as though William was his first name from birth). Ewing put him through West Point Academy, a military training school, where he generally did well in classes but was often reprimanded for having an untidy uniform and disregarding the rules. After graduation, he stayed in the military and dealt with Native American affairs but later left and worked as both a banker and a lawyer, among other things. He became a superintendent (? Or some higher-ranking official) of a military academy in the South but quit to rejoin the military at the start of the Civil War. While working in Kentucky near the beginning of the war, he was left in charge and had multiple nervous breakdowns in which he would repeatedly ask for many more reinforcements than anyone else thought was necessary and display manic behavior such as erratic movements and speech. He was relieved of command and pinned as insane by the press (there’s this one really heartbreaking quote from his wife about how his son came in one day telling her that people had told him that his father was crazy, I could probably produce it if anyone would like). After a short break, Sherman returned to the military, was soon after placed under Ulysses S. Grant’s command, and was shot twice (once in the hand and once in the arm iirc, along with three horses being shot out from under him) at the Battle of Shiloh. He convinced Grant not to abandon the war cause after being called an alcoholic by the papers (they claimed he was drunk at Shiloh and directly caused the high Union death toll). Later, at the end of the war, Sherman led the March to the Sea, in which he recaptured Fort Sumter, burnt Atlanta to the ground, and cut a path of destruction all the way through Georgia. He called this tactic “Total War” and noted that it was cruel, but was necessary for ending the war against the confederates as quickly as possible. After the war, he was promoted to General of the Army after Grant retired so that he could be President, and acted as Secretary of War for a short period of time after the death of the former holder of office, John A. Rawlins.

#this is all iirc of course I’m not an expert I’m just autistic #also this is literally so long I’m sorry anon you just got Infodumped On (tm)#tw death ment #tw war #i don’t know what to tag for this I guess but it’s not all too graphic #if this is one of my assassins mutuals he actually was contacted by Guiteau after he killed Garfield ! cool shit #if I got Rawlins’ death or office wrong I am so sorry I know absolutely nothing about him 😭#also anon tysm I love you (/pal)

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woundedheartwithin · 6 months

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I'm the same age Sugiura is in Lost Judgment. I wish I could go at it at the rate he does in fanfic.

Like they got him hard again in ten seconds and he’s 28 years old?? Nah, he’s gonna need a minute, that’s just biology. Like sure, folks with penises can have multiple orgasms, but not the way these people are writing, they got him ejaculating all over the place in record time

#she speaks #he’s exceptionally fit of course but that has nothing to do with coming three times in one session #like if you wanna bring his physical prowess into play have him last a long time or be exceptionally flexible and athletic #edge him for a while #that’s more fun anyway because that’s how you’re gonna get him to shut the hell up #get him so worked up that he can’t think straight and all he can do is beg instead of talk shit #uh…#sorry this ask got a little graphic lol

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blackcatanna · 7 months

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Respect to Larian for letting the developers put thanks and dedications to their loved ones in the credits of Baldur's Gate 3 But extra respect for that one person who simply wrote, "To myself for being awesome." WE LOVE TO SEE SELF LOVE UP IN HERE XD

#It cracked me up #but I do think it's important to recognise one's own hard work and awesomeness #I finished the game of course #yes it made me cry (big compliment)#The ending DID feel a bit rushed (as many have suggested)#and the last few hours of the game got pretty messed up for me (bugs?)#basically I saved last night after the first big combat of the finale #everything's been fine on Ultra for my whole 200+ hour playthrough #but when I loaded it up today I had CRAZY lag all the way to the end of the game #nothing made it better even changing graphics all the way down to low #WEIRD #Like I would have to wait about ten seconds between clicking on something and getting a response #it was annoying af #thankfully I didn't have much game left #hopefully this is not permanent...#Gonna take a careful look at my darling PC...

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cheswirls · 8 months

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also one last uni post. maybe a little gripe. finally taking 2nd cour digital art after 3 semesters and instead of being Adobe Illustrator™ class with a sprinkle of photoshop (actually i will give her one point. for one illustrator project she did have us use audacity for a portion and taught us how to corrupt wav files into still imgs) it is now Adobe CC™ class with zero illustrator, more photoshop, and an app-exclusive drawing program only available thru CC (she has lost the one point indefinitely.) the only silver lining is premiere pro is the other software being taught which i would love to learn to do more with. on the other hand. the student examples she skimmed thru to show off the PP project were not inspiring and i feel like if i have to incorporate video aspects into my art it is quickly going to become more abt checking off rubric boxes to get a decent grade instead of doing smth i want

#ctag #SIGHHHH long post it will not be the last abt da this year #last time i was in da1 i did not finish a single project #they were completed in a sense that they looked good n got me an a+ in the course #but 100% def not as far as i wanted to go w any of them #and that made me hate it all at the end of the semester #but this is my one art class and i have one other class w lab and another 1 credit hr #so i am hoping that i can devote more time and make work i am proud of #and that it won't be jus 'doing this for class' constantly #waiting for first project info before making any hard decisions but if research #is required as an aspect and all the works thru the semester have to theme then #i rly want to try and make it a scenery yr bc when i did that for printmaking i did copious amnts of research+concepts #bc i took a sinnoh location each time n found the hokkaido basis and local flora etc to recreate #an illustration reminiscent of what the pkmn location would look like in the real world #and i could totally get away w that again plus it would be so much fun #anyway i have things to do but tldr is da class is once again adobe-centric which i hate and loathe #what if i went off the rails and taught myself pixel art and say i did it in photoshop #would she buy it like. does ps have those capabilities #it is not a graphics designers job to be proficient in adobe cc #i rly wish she would understand that bc this is the only class in the program that pushes adobe and nothing else #what applicable skills am i going to take from this class if i never use an adobe product again?#digital art has the potential to be so generic and yet here she is. ruining it.#(also LMAOOO i jus remembered she had a clause in the syllabus abt not using other #third-party software that wasn't adobe for any class work like WHAT #specifically she said 'hey we're learning pp and not final cut or sony vegas so don't use those ever'#which like is REALLY hammering the skills-not-applicable-to-non-adobe-products nail #also wtf i would love to learn sony vegas. i already decently know premiere teach me something else #100% i will be using a non-adobe program to work on a project jus to spite her)

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ohproserpine · 2 months

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v. deer dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, heavy warning for violence and bloof, graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation, allusion to death, grey morality, references to alcoholism, twisted view of love, gorey descriptions of love, murder

"THAT SLAG!"

Velvette's piercing scream echoed through the meeting room, slicing through the air. Vox and Valentino jolted, turning their gazes toward the source of the disturbance.

"Good-for-nothing piece of shit twat assistant!" Velvette paced the room, her movements agitated and frantic as she angrily tapped away on her phone.

In a sudden surge of anger, she flung her device across the room, sending it flying above Valentino's head. A crash punctuated the air as it collided with a window, the impact shattering the glass into shards that rained down onto the floor.

"Velvette, darling," Vox raised an eyebrow, his voice calm as always, "What's got you so worked up?"

He took a sip of his coffee, the rich aroma wafting up from the steaming cup as he idly scrolled through his laptop. "Is it that showgirl situation again?"

"Oh, bloody hell!" Velvette rolled her eyes. "Of course, it is, you git! It's been literally the ONLY thing I've been banging on about this week!"

Valentino's sigh cut through the conversation as he adjusted his sunglasses. Holding his glittering firearm up to his face, he pressed rhinestones on it with tacky glue, unfazed by Velvette's anger.

"It's just some performer, babydoll. We can find a replacement."

"Are you out of your mind?!" Velvette seethed as she stormed toward them, her heels clicking loudly with each step. With a forceful slam of her hands against the table, it shifted forward, jolting the items on its surface. With a hiss of pain, Vox recoiled, his hand jerking back from the scalding coffee he had spilled on himself.

"The boutique opening is in three days! How on earth am I supposed to find a girl who's got the looks and a set of pipes in time?!" she exclaimed.

Valentino looked up from his bedazzling, a raised eyebrow visible above the rim of his sunglasses. "Have you tried one of my models? I got a lot of pretty little chicas who can charm the socks off anyone. No need to stress yourself out."

"Your models? Do you have any idea how much time and effort it's going to take for me to wrangle those little amateurs into something remotely resembling a professional performance?" Velvette scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Sod off!"

Valentino snarled in response but turned away with a huff, muttering under his breath, "Have it your way."

"If I may," Vox spoke, wiping his hand with a grumble, the sting of the burn still lingering. He tilted his head slightly, raising a single brow. "Have you tried scouting?"

"Have I tried scouting?" Velvette mocked, her hands waving around in frustration. "Of course I have! All I've come across are bloody singers around here, and they all look like they've been dragged through the dirt backwards!"

"Well, have you tried the back district?" he offered, tapping his claws on the long glass table. He watched as Velvette pulled out a pocket mirror from her purse, visibly cringing at his suggestion.

"Why in bloody hell would I go there?" Velvette grimaced as she re-applied her dark lipstick. "I'm not about to waste my time scouring the back district for some dime-a-dozen talent. I need someone who's got class, not gutter scraps."

"Well, there's this performer," Vox insisted, snapping his fingers. A screen materialized with a whiz, displaying a video of a figure in a sparkly silver dress singing and dancing. As the video drew to a close, the camera zoomed in, capturing a close-up of the woman's face. Her features were radiant, a smile gracing her lips as she gazed out at the audience.

Velvette snapped her mirror shut with a flick of her wrist, interest sparking in her eyes. She leaned in closer, studying the performer's features.

"Who's this?" she quipped.

"Dolly, at least that's what they call her," Vox hummed, sliding the screen over to Velvette. "She works at Mimzy's Lounge."

Velvette's expression darkened, strands of hair falling over her eyes as she took the screen in her hands, leaning down to view the image again. The glow of the projection illuminated her face, casting shadows that danced across her steely expression.

"Mimzy?" she uttered the name slowly, her lips dripping with venom. "That's the cunt who tore up my best showgirl!"

"Drama," Valentino chuckled, spinning his bedazzled gun around his fingers.

"Well, this Dolly girl is her biggest star, and she's been making quite a name for herself there," Vox drawled, gesturing toward the screen. With a tap of his claw on the screen, he zoomed in closer. "She's got the looks, the voice, and the stage presence you're looking for."

"And she's managed to shine even in the shadow of that cesspool," he added with a sardonic grin as he sipped from his coffee.

A flicker ignited in Velvette's eyes as she straightened. "Then it's settled. I'll pay her a visit."

"Sounds like you've got a plan brewing, my dear. Care for some company?" Vox spoke with a smirk playing on his lips.

Velvette shot him a knowing glance before a grin tugged at the corner of her lips. "Why not? I could use some of your charm."

"Cher? Dearest? It's time to get up," the radio atop your bedside table rumbled, your husband's voice crackling through the air.

Grunting in protest, you burrowed deeper into the warmth of your blankets, seeking refuge from the harsh bite of the morning. But Alastor's persistent calls refused to be ignored.

"Mon cœur? Cher? W̷A̴K̶E̴ ̶U̸P̷!̶" it blared, the words amplified by hissing static, demanding attention like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly peeled yourself away from the cocoon of comfort that had enveloped you. Sitting up, you felt the blanket slip from your shoulders, pooling around your hips. Memories of last night flooded in, and the remnants of Alastor's romantic gesture still adorned your room. The bouquet sat atop your dresser, with scattered white roses delicately strewn across your bed like whispers of affection.

Despite the tender atmosphere, a throbbing headache reminded you of an unwelcome guest that accompanied you into the morning—the hangover.

Dragging yourself to the side, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and sat for a moment, rubbing your temples in a futile attempt to ease the discomfort. Then, pushing yourself to your feet, you padded across the room, the cool floorboards sending a shiver through your bare skin. You picked up the radio, its incessant blare akin to an annoying alarm clock, with Alastor's voice still grating on your nerves.

"Alright. Alright. I'm up, love," you grumbled, rubbing at your eyes which still felt thick with sleep.

The radio rumbled with delight at your response.

"Hellish morning to you, my dear!" Alastor's voice boomed through the speakers, his jovial tone slicing through the early morning gloom. Despite your grogginess, a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips at the sound of his voice.

"Hellish morning to you too, darling," you returned, laced with affection.

"I trust you had a restful sleep?" Alastor questioned.

"As restful as one can get with a noisy radio blaring in their ear," you sighed, already feeling the weight of the day bearing down on you.

"Hah!" Alastor laughed, the sound making you roll your eyes. "But where ever would you be without my dulcet tones to serenade you awake?"

"Probably catching a few more precious minutes of sleep," you muttered, already regretting the start of another day. “You are insufferable, you know that?”

"Ah, but that's why you love me."

Back in his hotel room, Alastor chuckled to himself as he shrugged on his suit jacket. From his microphone, he caught the rustling of your clothes, followed by the gentle rush of running water.

With a flick of his wrist, Alastor summoned a gramophone, its boxy form materializing atop his dresser with a soft thud. Soon enough, the needle gently descended onto the spinning vinyl record, releasing a soft, nostalgic melody that filled the room.

I'll never smile again Until I smile at you I'll never laugh again What good would it do?

As Alastor began to sing along, his smooth voice seeping through the rusting speakers of the radio, you paused in the middle of washing your hair, caught off guard by the unexpected serenade.

"Stupid, stupid man," you muttered under your breath with a shake of your head. And yet, despite yourself, a smile tugged at the corners of your lips, warmth creeping into your heart.

For tears would fill my eyes My heart would realize That our romance is through

Exiting the bath, you toweled yourself off and approached your wardrobe, humming softly as you selected your attire for the day. After scanning through the hangers, you settled on a vibrant red hooverette dress. With matching stockings and white heels, you completed the look, the final touch being a few roses plucked from the bouquet Alastor had given you, tucked behind your ear.

I'll never love again I'm so in love with you I'll never thrill again To somebody new

Dressed and ready to face the day, you returned to the radio, the soft strains of music and Alastor's voice still lingering in the air. As the final notes faded into silence, you stood for a moment, savoring the fleeting illusion of domestic bliss for a moment longer.

With a pang of sadness, you glanced at the clock, realizing that it was time to go.

"I have to head out now, darling," you spoke into the radio, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. "My shift starts in a while."

"Ah, until we meet again, mon cher," Alastor's voice replied warmly. "Do take care of yourself."

In response, you leaned down to press a kiss against the speakers, a gesture of your affection. The soft sound of the kiss was barely audible, but Alastor's ears perked up and caught the gentle touch against the metal surface. He chuckled softly, then, with a soft click, the radio fell silent.

As you slipped your purse over your shoulder, a thought crossed your mind—should you bring the radio along? The temptation to have Alastor's voice with you throughout the day was strong, but the risk of further damaging the precious device gave you pause. With a sigh, you decided against it, opting to leave it safely in your room, where it would patiently await your return.

Heading out of your room, the lounge was already buzzing with the hustle and bustle of customers and staff. Although no singer graced the stage yet, the speakers blasted with the familiar tunes of Hell’s Top 10 Hits.

"There you are!" Mimzy's voice cut through the lively atmosphere, her smile failing to reach her eyes as she bounded towards you.

"Mimzy," you greeted flatly, acknowledging her with a nod.

"How are ya doin', doll? Just the person I was looking for," she purred with a bat of her eyes. "Alright, listen, I've got a marvelous idea for a performance."

You sighed inwardly, bracing yourself for whatever scheme she had cooked up this time. Mimzy's requests were as extravagant as they were challenging, always pushing the boundaries to maintain her club's "reputation" and squeeze every last dime from these sinners' wallets.

"Let's hear it," you replied, mustering a polite smile.

"So, I was thinking," Mimzy began, tapping her finger along her chin, "how about a duet? A throwback to the good ole days, sharing the spotlight. It's bound to be a performance these wayward fools are going to talk about for ages!"

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the relatively tame suggestion. The blonde wasn't exactly known for her subtlety or restraint when it came to showmanship. At most, a duet with Mimzy was sure to be a spectacle, for better or for worse.

"And when is this going to be held?" you grinned tensely, hands at your hips. There was bound to be a switch somewhere.

"When else? Prime time tonight!" Mimzy giggled as she threw up her hands with a flourish.

And there it was.

"Tonight?" Your eyes widened, shoulders squaring in shock. "Miss Ma'am, that's cutting it a bit close, don't you think?"

"Bushwa! We'll make it work," Mimzy replied dismissively, waving off your concerns with a flick of her hand. "And I've already got the perfect song in mind. It'll be a real humdinger, mark my words."

"Alright," you sighed, hoping for the best but bracing yourself for the chaos that was sure to follow. "Tonight it is."

"That's the spirit! Hell, why don't you take the morning off?" Mimzy grinned as she hurried off down the hallway to make preparations. "I'll see you tonight! Make sure to be here by sunset!"

Standing by the stairs as stiff as a pole, you watched her skip off with an unusually chipper air. It struck you as odd, but you pushed the thought aside, eager to have the morning to yourself. As you turned away, however, your head throbbed once more, the reminder of your hangover cutting through the moment.

"Looks like a ciggy is in order," you muttered to yourself, rubbing at your throbbing temples. Making your way outside, hoping to smoke away the edge of discomfort.

Trudging along the filthy backstreets, you did your best to avoid the muck and other questionable liquids that lined the roadside. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, assaulting your senses with each step you took.

No one spared you a glance as you passed; the citizens of hell were absorbed in their own pursuits or concerns, and you blended into the backdrop of the grim landscape.

Finally reaching a clearer stretch of street, you took a seat on one of the benches, the worn wood groaning under your weight. The city bustled around you, a mix of sounds and movements that seemed to blur together.

With a weary sigh, you reached into your bag in search of company—nicotine.

Fingers fumbling through the contents of your purse, you felt the familiar shape of the roll, and with a hum, pulled it out. However, as you continued to rummage through your belongings, a sinking realization settled in.

Your matchbox wasn't there.

Dropping your head into your hands with a scowl, you could feel the stress mounting within you, bubbling up like a simmering pot ready to boil over.

Wallowing in your misfortune, you failed to notice someone approaching you from behind. A sudden tap on your shoulder jolted you, and as you turned, you found yourself face to face with a tall and slender spider-like demon. His frame was practically drowning in a plush white fur coat, the color almost blending into his skin. It contrasted sharply with the sleekness of the black bodycon dress clinging onto his curves underneath.

"Need a light?" he asked casually as he held up a pink-colored lighter.

You eyed him skeptically for a moment.

In hell, kindness often came with a price. Whether it was a favor owed, a debt to be repaid, or simply a hidden agenda waiting to be revealed, nothing came for free. However, when your head throbbed again, you sighed and relented with a nod, accepting the offer despite your reservations.

Angel Dust ignited the lighter, the flame pirouetting gracefully and flickering in the wind. Drawing closer, you leaned in, offering the tip of your cigarette to the flame. With a gentle hiss, the tobacco caught fire, wisps of smoke curling into the air like ethereal dancers. As you took a deep, shaky inhale, the saccharine poison of the smoke flooded your lungs, leaving a bittersweet taste lingering on your tongue. Shutting your eyes, a sense of calm washed over you as you leaned back, letting yourself be carried away by the fleeting tranquility of the moment.

Remembering you had company, you grounded yourself and opened your eyes. "Thank you ever so much, dear. Can I have your name?" you asked, tilting your head up at him. The stranger moved to sit down next to you, the worn wood of the bench creaking under his weight.

"Angel Dust," he said, and your eyes shot wide open, lips forming an 'O' shape.

"The porn star?" you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

"Didn't take you as the type to watch my shit, toots," Angel laughed heartily as his grin widened from ear to ear in response, his golden tooth gleaming at you like a wink.

"Well, I may not be your typical fan, but your name does tend to make its rounds in conversation," you chuckled, shaking your head in amusement. Taking a drag from your cigarette, you gestured with it casually. "I saw you in my husb—erm, the Radio Demon's commercial. Hazbin Hotel, was it?"

"Yeah, and don't worry, I know. Dolly, was it?" Angel Dust replied smoothly, his demeanor surprisingly nonchalant given the situation. Extending his hand for you to shake, he continued, "Nice to finally put a face to the name."

His confession caught you off guard, but you shook his hand firmly nonetheless. "How did you—did Alastor tell you about me? You two must be close."

Angel Dust hesitated, a grimace crossing his features. His crimson eyes darted away briefly, as if weighing his words carefully.

"Let's just say... word gets around in our circles," he replied vaguely, tugging his coat closer around himself.

"I don't know him that well, though," Angel Dust admitted with a shrug, his gaze drifting off momentarily. "Sometimes he can be a bit..."

"A pompous dick with a sadistic streak?" you suggested, exhaling smoke as you raised an eyebrow at Angel Dust, testing the waters.

Angel Dust laughed genuinely, throwing his head back. "Something along those lines, toots," he grinned, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"Well, it's good to know I'm not the only one who sees it," you remarked, a wry smile playing on your lips.

"Believe me, ya ain't alone in that," he agreed. "So, ah—What brings ya out here? Aside from the obvious need for a blow."

"Just needed some fresh air," you admitted with a shrug. "Plus, I may have indulged a bit too much last night and woke up feeling like death warmed over."

"I hear ya," Angel Dust replied, nodding sympathetically as he raked his eyes over your worn-out form, noting the slump of your body and the dark circles under your eyes. You looked so different from the sparkly performer he had seen on stage days ago.

"Hey, I actually caught one of ya shows the other night," he piped up, attempting to shift the conversation to a lighter topic.

"Did you?" you cooed, surprise evident in your voice.

"Yeah," Angel nodded, stretching out on the bench, spreading both his arms across the back of the wood. "Gotta say, ya put on quite the show up there. I mean—ya had the crowd eating out of the palm of ya hand."

A faint smile crept onto your cheeks at his praise, a swell of pride rising within you.

"Well, thank you," you bowed your head in gratitude, momentarily forgetting your fatigue in the warmth of his words. "It means a lot coming from someone like you."

Angel Dust waved off your thanks with a casual flick of his hand, lips jutting out in a playful pout.

"Ah, c'mon. I call it like I see it," he grinned with a shrug. "N'trust me, I've seen my fair share of performances."

Lost in the easy flow of conversation, you surrendered to the comfort of the moment, finding solace in the presence of your spider companion. Hours passed, and before you knew it, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the park in hues of golden warmth.

A jarring ringtone shattered the moment, causing Angel Dust to glance down at his phone with a whistle. His brows furrowed as he scrolled through a flurry of notifications, irritation flashing across his features.

"As much as I'm enjoying our little chat, duty calls," he sighed, flicking away ash from his cigarette. "Can't keep the boss waiting."

You nodded in understanding, offering a wave as he rose from the bench. "No worries, Angel. Catch you later."

"Looking forward to it, dollface," he replied with a wink before sauntering off into the city streets, leaving you to enjoy the peace alone. After a few minutes of watching the sunset, you decided it was time to go. You stubbed out your cigarette and rose from the bench, making your way out.

As you approached the streets leading to the lounge, the neon lights of the city burst into life, casting vibrant reflections on the pavement. Climbing the stairs to the entrance, you were enveloped by the familiar sights and sounds of the establishment. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and cigarette smoke, mingling with the pulsating rhythm of the music from within.

Mimzy was nowhere to be seen, which came as a welcome relief. And with a last scan to ensure she wasn't lurking anywhere nearby, you made a beeline straight to your dressing room, eager to ready yourself for tonight's performance in peace without a certain blonde talking your ear off.

Taking a seat at the vanity, you began to prepare for the evening ahead, carefully applying your makeup and fixing your hair into place.

A sudden knock broke your routine, prompting you to rise from your seat and stride over to the door. With a quick twist of the knob, you swung it open, revealing an imp demon. White blotches adorned his skin, and he sported sunglasses perched high up on his nose. In his hands, he held up a box, his expression expectant as he waited for your reaction.

"May I help you?" you murmured, tilting your head at him, curiosity coloring your tone.

"Yeah. Are you Dolly?" the imp asked, his tone curt and impatient.

"Yes?" you replied, a brow raised.

"Great. This is for you, lady," he said, thrusting the box of jewelry toward you. "If you could just sign here so I can get the hell out of this shithole, that'd be great."

You accepted the box from the imp demon's outstretched hand, eyeing him warily as he thrust a pen and clipboard in your direction. With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly took the pen and scrawled your signature on the dotted line, handing the clipboard back to him with a curt nod.

"Thanks," he muttered, barely sparing you a glance as he turned on his heel and hurried away, disappearing into the crowded hallway of the club.

Interest piqued, you turned your attention back to the box in your hands. With a gentle touch, you ran your fingers along the surface and lifted the lid of the box. Nestled amidst folds of satin lay a pearl necklace, the orbs gleaming as if moonlight itself was captured and trapped within. At its heart, a rose pendant bloomed, its petals of silver.

Taken aback, you reached for the small card tucked within the box. Gently retrieving, you turned it around to see the words "From Al" penned gracefully in elegant script.

"Oh, you cheese…"

With a soft smile pulling at the corners of your lips, you delicately lifted the necklace from its satin-lined cocoon, feeling the cool weight of the pearls in your palm. As you draped it around your neck, the pendant nestled against your collarbone.

Feeling as giddy as a teenager in love, you turned away from the vanity, your heart fluttering with excitement. With a skip in your step, you crossed the room to the wardrobe, fingers dancing over the array of neatly hung dresses.

Before your fingers could grasp onto a dress, a sudden deafening explosion tore through the air. The sound was thunderous, shaking the walls and causing the ground beneath your feet to tremble violently. The shockwave slammed into you with palpable force, knocking you off balance and sending you crashing to the floor amidst a cloud of dust and debris.

Alarm flashed across your features as your heart pounded in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through your veins like a raging river. With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up from the ground.

What in hell was that?

Staggering to your feet, you ran out into the lounge. As the dust settled, you could see the entrance of the lounge now reduced to a gaping maw, the doors blown open by the force of the explosion. The familiar sights and sounds of the club were replaced by a scene of utter devastation, with debris strewn haphazardly across the floor and smoke billowing out into the night air.

Two ominous figures cast dark shadows amidst the panicked frenzy of staff and customers.

Struggling to discern the figures amidst the chaos, you squinted, trying to make out the details. One of them was a slender demon, dressed immaculately, with cedar-brown skin and long, fiery red curls tied into neat pigtails.

A sinking feeling settled in your chest as you recognized her as one of Hell's infamous overlords. Your heart plummeted further as you caught sight of Mimzy, ensnared in Velvette's vice-like grip, fear twisting her features as she struggled against her captor.

But it was the presence of the figure behind Velvette that truly sent a shiver down your spine.

The TV Demon, Vox.

His gaze swept over the room with a detached coldness, as if the pandemonium were of little consequence. Suddenly, his icy eyes locked onto yours, freezing you in place.

"Mimzy, dear," Vox's voice buzzed with deceptive sweetness as he addressed the shaking blonde. "Why don't you go and have a little chat with your esteemed employee about our... conditions?"

Wide-eyed with fear, Mimzy frantically nodded, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Make it quick," Velvette scoffed, releasing her grip on Mimzy's throat. The blonde stumbled toward you, her movements shaky and unsteady.

"What is—" you started, but Mimzy cut you off, panic evident as she began to drag you backstage. Without a moment's hesitation, she pushed you into your dressing room, swiftly locking the door behind you.

"Mimzy, what in hell is going on out there?" you demanded, leaning down to her height and shaking her by the arms.

Mimzy's breaths came in ragged gasps as she leaned against the door, her eyes wide with terror. She struggled to find her words, her entire figure trembling as she tried to compose herself.

"It's Velvette," she finally managed to choke out.

"Why is she here? What does she want from us?" you pressed, urgency creeping into your tone as you searched Mimzy's face for answers. But her response only added to your unease.

"You need to go with them," Mimzy decided abruptly.

"Go with who? What are you talking about?" you asked, your voice turning breathless with disbelief.

"She's out for payback, see? And she won't stop until she gets it," Mimzy explained, her tone grave yet determined, like she had some ace up her sleeve. "I gotta level the playing field, doll. She wants a replacement, and she's chosen you."

"I can't just go along with this!" your voice rose to a shout as you began to shake her again, nails digging into the chiffon of her glove. "My contract with you ends in a year. If I go with them, I'll be their pawn for all of eternity!"

"I can't just risk Velvette destroying everything I've built!" Mimzy defended herself, her tone devoid of remorse. "Do you have any idea how much work it took for me to get this place running?!"

Anger surged within you, fueled by betrayal and fear. "What about me? What about Alastor?"

"Oh, him again!" Mimzy shook her arms away from your grip and pushed herself off the door. "You've been so obsessed with that radio fool, you've forgotten who's been with you since the very start! Ever since you got hitched to him, you stopped caring about a damn thing!"

"I cared! And I still bloody well care, Mimzy!" you shot back, your voice rising with anger. Your eyes blazed with fire, cracks beginning to form on your face as your demon form threatened to break free. "But you were an empty, hollow shell of a woman with naught in her head but money! You'd sell out anyone, even me, to get what you want!"

Mimzy recoiled slightly, her façade momentarily cracked by your words. "You-You think you're any better? Running off with your precious Alastor, pretending like he's the savior of your life. But I know you've heard his broadcasts. I know you've seen the news. He's no better than me, playing you like a puppet while hiding behind his façade of being a good man!"

Enraged, you lunged forward, tackling her against the wall. As fury consumed you, your form contorted and twisted, taking on a monstrous semblance. Your features morphed, sharpening into angular lines, while cracks spiderwebbed across your skin like shattered porcelain. Limbs stretched and warped, turning jagged and broken, resembling the joints of a marionette. Teeth elongated into razor-sharp fangs, and as you bared them in a snarl, your lips curled back in a grotesque mockery of a mouth. "Say that again! I fucking dare you!"

"I'll say it as many times as I damn well please!" Mimzy spat, her voice trembling as she locked eyes with your hollow gaze. "Until you get it through your fucking thick, cracked skull!"

The blonde's hand darted to a nearby object, seizing hold of a picture frame within reach. With sudden, fierce motion, she swung it, the weighty wood and glass connecting with your transformed flesh in a sickening thud.

"Mph—!" Biting your lip to stifle a scream, you staggered backward. Thick blood dripped from the wound, pooling on the floor and mingling with the cracks in your porcelain-like skin.

"You've got some nerve!" Mimzy's voice thundered as she stood over you, her pale face flushing crimson with anger. "You wanted that fame, and I made it happen. Now you don't?! Fuck! Some ungrateful brat you are! Willing to throw it all away for some man! Do you really think what he feels for you is love?!"

As Mimzy's tirade continued, her words cutting through the haze of pain and anger, a sense of disorientation washed over you. Her words struck a nerve, stirring up memories that you had long tried to suppress.

Rain poured down, drenching your hunched form. The world around you blurred into a chaotic whirlwind of colors and shapes, disorienting and suffocating.

Beneath the fabric of your dress, your knees throbbed painfully, raw from the harsh scrape against unforgiving concrete. Your hands desperately fumbled in the darkness, searching for something to anchor yourself to. Then, finally, your fingertips brushed against the familiar texture of rusting metal.

With a ragged sigh of relief, you realized you had found the gate of your house. Summoning all your remaining strength, you clasped both hands around the cold, wet metal bars and attempted to pull yourself up.

Through the haze, you felt rough hands sneak around your waist, and as your vision cleared slightly, your husband's face emerged from the blur. His once impeccable suit now clung to him like a second skin, soaked through by the downpour. Strands of his usually neat hair stuck to his forehead, dampened and dripping onto his glasses. Cursing like a sailor under his breath, he scooped you up into his arms, expression turning tense as he felt the icy chill of your body against his own.

If you weren't moving he would have thought you a corpse.

"Cher?" Alastor's voice cut through the fog in your mind, but your response was sluggish, your gaze glassy and dilated. "Merde. Did you drag yourself here all alone?"

Without waiting for an answer, he moved, cradling you in his arms as he hurried back toward your house. Once inside, he wasted no time in laying you down on the sofa.

"Al," you finally spoke, whimpering softly as you raised a shaky hand towards him. Alastor immediately moved towards you, hushing your cries as he pressed a deep kiss on your lips.

Your husband moved to cradle your face in his rough hands, and what he saw shattered whatever fragments of his heart were still intact. Bruises and dried blood stained your body, your skin clammy and pale. Streaks of mascara carved paths down your tear-stained face, and your limbs twitched involuntarily. The taste of whiskey still lingered on your lips, and the fearful haze in your eyes mirrored the terror of a rabbit cornered by a wolf.

"Who did this to you?" he growled, his pupils dilating with anger as he knelt before you, gently slipping your torn stockings and muddy heels off your feet.

"Mimzy," you sobbed out, curling into yourself, the weight of it all feeling too heavy on your shoulders.

"I tried to quit. She didn't let me. The bar. She gave me a drink. More and more. I couldn't stop. I was just so upset." Your words were fragmented, broken by the wrenching sobs that shook your fragile form, vulnerability laid bare before him.

"Mon cœur," Alastor hushed, rubbing circles into your ankle with his thumb. "Calm down. Take your time."

You made an effort, though the first few attempts were shallow and rushed. Eventually, you managed to draw in a deep breath, releasing it in a rush before taking another. And another.

"That's it, my dear. Now, what happened?"

Summoning all your strength, you opened your mouth and began to recount the harrowing events of the night.

Earlier this evening, you had mustered up enough courage to hand in your resignation letter to Mimzy. However, her reaction was far from pleasant. An argument erupted, filled with less than savory words being thrown around like daggers.

Before you knew it, Mimzy's rage boiled over, and she tackled you, raining blows upon you with a fury that bordered on madness, beating you with an inch of your life. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

Her demeanor shifted drastically, morphing from a raging storm into a gentle breeze. With a sickening sweetness, she offered you a hand up, as if nothing had happened. Weak and disoriented, you allowed her to lead you to her private bar, where she poured drink after drink, urging you to indulge.

As per habit, you found yourself consuming the alcohol with reckless abandon, the burning liquid dulling the pain and blurring the edges of reality

Alastor's heart clenched at the anguish in your voice, his expression darkening with a mixture of concern and simmering anger. Slowly, he rose from his seat and lifted you onto his lap, cradling you gently in his arms.

Taking your hand in his, he leaned in close, his voice a soft murmur.

"Let me take care of everything, doll," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. "She won't ever bother you again."

The tenderness in his voice caused your breath to hitch, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to fall into the reassurance of his presence. It offered a fleeting sense of security amidst everything surrounding you. Yet, slowly as the puzzles fell into pieces, a gnawing sense of dread clawed at your insides.

"Alastor, no," you whimpered, withdrawing your hands and pressing them against his chest, pushing him away with trembling fingers. "Please don't tell me it means what I think it does."

Your gaze pleaded with him, searching his eyes for any sign of reassurance, any glimmer of hope that what you feared was not true. However, your husband's smile remained unchanged—comforting yet chilling—as he pressed another kiss to the corner of your lips.

"I would kill for you," Alastor murmured against your skin, his thumb tracing the contours of your wedding ring. Bending down, he pressed a tender kiss against the golden band, sealing his vow with the promise of bloodshed, lips lingering against the cool metal. As he drew back, you found yourself ensnared by the intensity of his gaze, pools of brown reflecting a manic fervor.

"Please let me kill for you."

Tears blurred your vision as you bowed your head, the weight of his words sinking deep into your soul. You knew Alastor's devotion knew no bounds. Whether it meant causing pain, shedding blood, or delving into the darkest corners of his being, he would do it for you without a moment's hesitation.

A warmth trickled down your cheeks with each blink, tracing a path along your skin. Your eyes burned fiercely, tears cascading down your flushed cheeks and silently dripping from your chin like dewdrops. As you attempted to draw deep breaths, your body shook with a desperation to escape, though you couldn't quite grasp what it was you were fleeing from.

A ragged sound echoed through the room, grating against your senses. It took you a moment to register that the noise came from your own lungs, your breaths torn and jagged as they struggled to find a rhythm.

"Okay," you whispered, the weight of that single word heavy with the burden of guilt and a future tinged with blood.

There was a soft chuckle, accompanied by the gentle touch of a hand moving to caress your cheeks. "Good girl."

Snapping back to the present, you found yourself staring at Mimzy as she raged around the room, her fury unleashed on the surroundings, wrecking anything and everything in her path.

A man who kills for you. A man who dirties his hands for you. Is that not love?

A kick from her sent your vanity toppling over, causing bottles of your perfume and whiskey to crash from its surface. The glass shattered upon impact, releasing splintering sounds that pierced your ears. As the bottles broke, the air filled with the pungent scent of flora, mingling with the rich aroma of spilled whiskey.

It must be love.

With a hand trembling from adrenaline, you ran your fingers through your hair, the sticky feeling of blood staining your palm. Rising unsteadily to your feet, you turned to face Mimzy, strands of damp, bloodied hair falling over your cracked porcelain face.

"You ornery washed-up bitch," you rasped out in a laugh, voice breathless and laced with venom. "I should have left you to rot in that forest."

Mimzy froze, her wide eyes locked on you.

"What did you say to me?" she seethed, her voice trembling with anger as she extended her hand toward the shattered liquor glass and the spilled liquid, her fingers curling into fists.

With a flick of her wrist, the whiskey began to swirl and solidify, forming chains that snaked around your limbs, binding you in place. Your muscles tensed against the restraints as Mimzy manipulated you like a puppeteer. Slowly, you reverted back to your regular form, forced to your knees before her.

The blonde bent down, her grip firm on your face, nails digging deep into your skin as she pulled your head up to face her. "You're here because of me! Everything you've ever achieved was because of me! I made you a star, and this is how you repay me?!"

You recognized the anger in her tone, but beneath it lurked a deeper pain and desperation. The poor gal was fighting to reclaim control over a situation slipping through her grasp.

A sudden knock at the door startled Mimzy, causing her to tense. The door creaked open to reveal the imposing figure of Vox filling the doorway. As he entered the room, a wave of static filled the air, crackling and sending goosebumps cascading over your skin. His gaze swept over the scene, taking note of your restraints and bloodied head before settling on Mimzy.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Under Vox's gaze, Mimzy's confident demeanor faltered, replaced by a nervous tremor in her voice. "I-I was just… settling some unfinished business, mistah," she stammered, attempting to regain her composure.

"You've just damaged the merchandise, sweetheart," Vox stated matter-of-factly, gesturing to you with a wave of his hand. "And we can't have that, now can we?"

With a casual snap of his fingers, the wires from the stage lights above writhed and twisted, tearing free from the ceiling with a deafening creak. They snaked through the air like serpents, wrapping around Mimzy's torso and dragging her away from you with a forceful yank.

With Mimzy taken care of, Vox then turned his attention to you.

"Dolly, was it?" he smiled, voice disarming. "I've got to say, I have always wanted to see you up close."

"You've seen me," you replied with a cold edge to your voice, slowly backing away and pressing yourself against the wall. "I'm here."

"Charmed," Vox smiled, his gaze heating as he drank you in, every detail of you like candy to his eyes. As Vox strode towards you, you instinctively curled into yourself, shrinking back deeper against the wall. He chuckled softly, noticing your reaction, and halted his advances. Instead, he took a seat on the cushion by your toppled vanity, glowing eyes locked onto you.

Pretty Dolly Heart.

Your lips were painted a vivid red, pouting slightly in a frown. Damp, glossy curls framed your face, shimmering in the light and tempting him to reach out and run his fingers through them. Rivulets of blood marred your temple, staining the delicate white flowers nestled into your hair.

The TV Demon was interested in you, and he wouldn't let go until he went home with you tonight, that much was clear.

"I have a deal in mind," Vox turned to Mimzy with a look in his eyes that screamed trouble. "Are you willing to trade your soul for hers?"

Your blood ran cold with fear.

"As Velvette and I are business partners, our souls contracts are intertwined. I'm sure there would be no issue if you signed the deal with me instead," he added with a chuckle, his eyes swirling with a dangerous allure.

Panic clawed at your insides, urging you to flee from the impending doom that loomed before you. But rooted to the spot by fear, you found yourself unable to move.

"Yes! A-Absolutely!" Mimzy's words shattered the heavy silence, her voice trembling with desperation as she nodded frantically. Her eyes remained nervously glued to the crackling electricity of the torn wires still wrapped around her, the fear in her gaze mirroring your own.

With a clap of his hands, Vox conjured a new contract and a strong burst of wind swept through the room, ruffling curtains and causing objects to tremble on their surfaces. Blue light flooded the walls, casting eerie shadows and filling the room with an ominous glow. The atmosphere crackled with electricity, every hair on your body standing on end as if charged with static energy.

A tablet materialized and floated before you, its screen pulsing with a faint, golden glow.

"Make her sign here, and it'll be done," Vox instructed, his voice carrying an air of finality as he handed Mimzy a stylus, tapping his clawed finger along the screen of his tablet.

With a trembling hand, Mimzy took the stylus and held it out for you, the strings of her magic wrapping around your limbs once again. You attempted to shout out, but Mimzy's magic stitched your lips shut, leaving you unable to utter a sound.

Helpless, you watched as your hand was forced to reach out and take the pen into your grasp, your fingers moving against your will as Mimzy guided them to sign the contract. With each stroke of the pen, a wave of despair washed over you, a muffled sob bubbling from your throat as your name appeared on the screen, sealing your fate.

Vox's grin widened, a glint of triumph dancing in his eyes as he held up your old paper contract with Mimzy, the words now rendered meaningless. With a swift motion, he tore it to shreds, the sound of paper ripping echoing through the tense silence of the room.

"Welcome to VoxTek, Dolly."

#next chapter will explain all of their background :DD #sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel vox

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