buggiewritesthings

20-- She/her -- Nazi's fuck off -- writings and drabbles

[buggiewritesthings]

Press Pass (2)

AN: Hi, enjoy pt. dux. TW: Mentions of the holocaust (deaths related to it, Magneto's back story etc)

The morning light pours into my room, and for once, I don’t worry right as I wake. I say Modeh Ani, and fix my hair just so. The stairs feel unfamiliar under the weight of my feet, and as I stumble my way into the kitchen. I don’t notice everyone slink in behind me, until a younger girl – Jubilee she later introduces herself uses her powers to get my attention with fireworks.

“Hiya, name’s Jubilee, Remy told me to call you crise.” I see said man and roll my eyes at him playfully.

“So is that my nickname now, Crisis?” Still in his pajamas he nods as if this is serious.

“Oui Crise, it is. Better than Un press Femme!” We both laugh and he makes me coffee, after making Rogue her own cup. I make a yogurt parfait, filled with fruits, and I take a look at all the files I need to do. Holy shit this team deals with a lot of smoke. No wonder the benefits are so fucking brilliant. As I sit down, Jubilee comes at me with what feels like at least a billion questions. 

“What’s your favorite color?” She beams, already accepting me, and it makes sense, I am in my twenties and she’s nearly eighteen. I laugh and take a bite of my breakfast.

“It's a tie, between green and pink” She spins a little and shows me some of her fireworks again. 

“My favorites are these, the colors my powers make.” I laugh with her, and she nods. “I know it must be odd, being the only non-mutant here. We’re all super nice, even Magneto, although he’s frosty at first. That might be a little uhm –” She motions to my Star of David with a small chagrin “hard for him, considering his past. I’m sure you know of it.” The room eases into a tension that wasn’t there, at least not outright before.

“I know, it mirrors my own family history. My last name is heavily featured in the holocaust museums, because so many of us were slaughtered. Even now, it’s still not exactly safe.” I scan the room, looking at the myriad of crestfallen faces. It feels heavy, the weight of persecution, while not the exact same, that can be mutually understood. The silence lingers a while, and I shift through the papers in my little manila folder I brought down from my office.

“Jubilee, it’s so sweet that you care about him.” She doesn’t ask me who him is, I already know she and everyone else knows. “Maybe when you’re done with your classes, we can make black and white cookies later? I was told you like video games, we can figure out a way to maybe workshop an X-Men game, similar to papa’s pizzeria.” Fireworks, albeit small ones, pop around me.

“That sounds so fun! We can make the proceeds a fundraiser! Show the world we give back, mutant and non mutant alike!” Cyclops looks at me, once, twice then slowly grins.

“Come up with a rough draft, and develop some gameplay – after your lessons are done.” He gives Jubilee the best stern look he can, but it doesn’t last long at her excitement, which has etched a permanent marking on her face.

“Sir yes sir” Jubilee and I both laugh, which causes everyone in the room to break into giggles. The air wraps around us like a cold blanket, I don’t even have to look, to know that Magneto has arrived. He’s older, and irregardless of my height, his broad figure looms over me, the way the moon looms over a freshly fallen snow. He slowly takes me in, like he’s assessing a threat, and finding an angle all at once. As if he can decipher me through a look alone, and place me apart and rip me open again. He finally speaks, his voice naturally filling the room as if he has a microphone built into his voicebox. 

“No one is doing anything, until you explain why a non-mutant is in our kitchen.” My nose wrinkles in displeasure, and it reaches my eyes I suppose with the way Remy grips my hand, his callouses from the cards gripping my softer hands, to keep my face schooled more neutral. 

“Well from what I was told, and I know it's my first day on the job so I have little to go on, you need me. You need someone to absorb the shit so you can do what you do best. Save humanity and bridge the gaps, fulfilling Professor X’s last wishes, one idea after the next. Let me handle the shit, I am being paid to take the metaphorical beatings from the press. I’m also a proud Jewish woman in this political climate. You think because I am not a mutant, that I cannot empathize and understand what you go through, and frankly it’s bullshit. My last name is plastered across every single holocaust museum. Every damn day is a yarzeit. Do not become like them, and assume less of me because of what I am not.” The room is left stunned, and I smile at Jubilee. It’s grounding, in its own way. She grounds me. “Later tonight, we’ll workshop okay sweetpea.” Jubilee to her credit smiles wide. I can already see myself slowly big sistering her. As I walk away, I am followed. I know it too. For both our sakes, I let him follow me into my office. 

“No one has ever spoken to me in such a way. No one has dared to call me out.” He looks at me the way I look at my favorite art pieces. Quizzical, as if there is more to me than the eye can see. He paces around me, then shows me his arm. His own tattoo, from Auschwitz. He switches to yiddish, which I can only sort of understand. “ס׳איז שוין אַזוי לאַנג, אַז אַן אַנדער ייִד האָט מיט מיר גערעדט ווי מיט אַ מענטשן.” When he can tell I only half understand, he repeats himself. “It has been so long since another Jew spoke to me like a human being.” It is then that I have to contain myself from outwardly weeping for him. “After I became a mutant, after I was given these powers, non mutant jews were afraid of me. I am sorry, for how I just was.” He offers his hand to shake and I do shake his hand. 

“Well, you’re forgiven, and welcome to speak to me anytime. Now, I should get to work.” We both pause unsure how to proceed now, and awkwardly, I laugh. Nervous habit that I can’t help. “Would you like to uhm – I was planning on trying to find a kosher deli in town, have shabbat dinner alone. I wouldn’t mind the company.” Why the fuck did I do that. Why did I invite a former terrorist to Shabbos dinner? Why did – my thoughts are cut off when he looks at me, scans me over and nods.

“Have you been to Katz’s, in the city? We can go, Dr. McCoy will have some sort of gadget that can protect our privacy. It’s a classic deli for a reason.” I can’t put any words out, here is this older man, older jewish man, who is a total asshole, offering to spend Shabbos with me. 

“I’d love to go, I’ll meet you in the courtyard.” He nods once, and walks away. As the day trails on, I can’t help but picture the emotion on his face as he spoke, giving me a glimpse into who he really is, and I know more than ever why I was hired. This is my calling, to help people and make real change, one person at a time. 

[buggiewritesthings]

Press pass

AN: This is the first in a series that I will update periodically! Let me know what you think

The mansion is more intimidating in person. That’s the only thing I can think of as I approach it. The large X’s on each door knob create a shadow that looms over my luggage. This is the first time I have ever lived where I worked, and if the way, the man who answers the door is any indication of how well I fit in here; well let’s just say I probably won’t. This man, who hasn’t even introduced himself to me, takes my bags wordlessly as I enter the mansion's dimly lit foyer. Faster than I can blink, I can see Cyclops, Rogue, and Gambit at my side. 

“Hello, I’m the public relations manager that was hired by The X-Men for damage control and all other press related issues, so the team can focus on what they do best, saving the world. Am I at the right place?” I feel a shiver run through me, and I feel like I’m being watched, something akin to a zoo animal – that is if zoo animals could tell us how they felt. I can’t help but sway on my feet a second, then without warning, Gambit takes my hand and shakes it.

“Well, Bonjour mon ami, The name's Remy Lebeau, or as my lovely girlfriend calls me –” He looks at Rouge with a snicker, then back at me “Asshole. Every friend of mine has a nickname in this place, you’ll have your own soon enough. Walk with us, we will show you the ropes.” I walk with him, and Rouge speaks for the first time, a southern drawl that mirrors my own. 

“So, where are ya from newbie?” I look at her, with a nervous smile, still afraid – not of them, but of losing this damn job.

“Down South, Virginia. My family is Appalachian originally.” I untuck my gold Star of David necklace, and it rests on my collarbone. I don’t see why I need to hide it exactly, although I definitely did earlier. The walk is silent as the trio mulls over the everything about me, and for now no one seems to be noticing my background too much. We make a stop at the kitchen, and Remy speaks. 

“This is our kitchen, Ami, where all the magic happens. Gambit likes to cook beignets here on Sunday mornings like his mama taught him, and we keep the kitchen kosher.” He gives a knowing smile my way, wordlessly extending an olive branch the rest of them seem to dance around like a child dances around the maypole. 

“So, you noticed I’m Jewish then.” Cyclops finally breaks with a laugh and nods. 

“Yes we did, and one of our team members – and the reason we hired you Magneto is Jewish as well. He’s secular, but by the looks of it, you aren’t?” I slowly feel my shoulders sink, like I was holding onto something but had no idea what it was. 

“Yes, I keep kosher, I don’t keep shabbat, and I go to Shul when I can.” I walk around the house with them, as they lead me to my room. “You should also know, I have a double degree in education and public relations from the College of William and Mary. I can and will help out teaching if needed.” We all stop at my door, where my luggage is laid out just so, and I get smiles from all of them. It’s Rogue who speaks up first.

“Well of course we will let you know if it’s needed newbie –” she pauses to look at the three of them, then finally is friendly for the first time ever since we met “and welcome home, we’re happy to have ya.” With that I’m left to unpack, as they shut my door behind me. My room is large, has an office, and a restroom attached to my room. Not bad at all considering I don’t pay rent. I dust off my speaker and set it on the desk beside where I’ve been provided a work laptop. I hook it up to my CD player, and Cannock Chase by Labi Siffre drifts into my space as I unpack. My mezuzah is attached to its place outside my door, and by the end of the night everything is in its place, however bare bones that may be until I can decorate properly. As I get ready for the night, I can’t help but wonder what the next day will bring.

TAGS: @mazuwii

[sturstead]

“ignore the fact that robby is jewish” i don’t think i will actually

[kelseyfun]

Reblog if you say "Y'all"

[brainstreams]

[6esiree]

Btw if I ever stop randomly posting, just know that I’ll come back. I always do. I’m just like William Afton. You can’t get rid of me

[somethingeh]

Les Fleurs Universe ❀

teacher!reader x robby

“if i couldn’t teach, i’d have nothing at all.”

- Miss Honey

❀ ❀ ❀

Les Fleurs

Career Day

---

requests open!

[buggiewritesthings]

These are so good btw and the characterization is so good

[buggiewritesthings]

Why do you let me stay here?

TW: child injury (fall from playground equipment)hospital / ER setting blood (non-graphic but present) medical talk / emergency response emotional distress in a child (fear, separation anxiety)absent / unavailable parents during emergency teacher burnout / overwork / emotional exhaustion workplace negligence (recess supervision failure) strong language (teacher swearing out loud at the universe)mild slow burn romantic tension (Jack / Robby / reader)found-family / caretaking themes.

As Forrest Gump once said, life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get. Working as a first grade teacher, I prayed to Hashem that today was an easy day. Career day is fun and whimsical, and the kids love it. Then only two weeks until the end of the year. Not that it matters for me, I’ll be teaching summer school regardless. What I don’t expect is one of my best behaved students, a sweet little boy, to collapse on the playground. Elliot Jackson. Fuck the fucking aide for letting the kids go on the upper elementary playground, now I have a hurt kid and parents who can’t be there. Out of town mom and a dad who can’t make it.

As we rush to the ambulance, I am conversing with the EMT’s. “Seven year old male, fall from monkey bars at least six feet high”, I look down at Elliot who is in a daze. “Possible concussion, contusion on the left side of the temporal fossa. Blood but no deep wound.” The EMT is shocked that I know so much and I shrug, as I hold the kids hand.

“How do you know all that ma’am?” The EMT takes a look at my badge. Teacher, his teacher. I look down at my blue denim skirt, covered in blood. Shit.

“I’m responsible for twenty two kids, and I took a first aid class.” We arrive at the hospital and Elliot is holding my hand so tight, fidgeting with my chunky teacher charm bracelets. I am immediately met with a doctor. He is tall, broad shouldered, his chestnut brown hair and sharp tone jolt me.

“Whats the run down?” He asks me in a way that is brisk but not unkind, I can only hope he has better bedside manner with the little guy.

“Seven year old male, fall from monkey bars at least six feet high. Possible concussion, contusion on the left side of the temporal fossa. Blood but no deep wound.” He is shocked, but nods as he assesses him. Elliot holds my hand, with a teeny whimper.

“Aw honey, talk to me” I am holding his hand, nice and gentle with him. It’s tender as we are taken to an exam room. What I don’t expect is a teeny little voice to ask

“If my mommy and daddy don’t come, will you stay with me? I am very scared.” I hold his hand as the doctor checks over him. His little hand shakes as he looks at the doctor, who despite being a dick to me, is wonderful with Elliot. He crouches to Elliot's level, with a kind smile that reaches his eyes.

“Hey champ, I’m Doctor Robinavitch, but you can call me Doctor Robby. Are you with your teacher?” Elliot manages a feeble thumbs up, and in his small little voice says – 

“Yes Doctor Robby, this is Miss Buggie. She likes bugs and that’s why we call her that. She’s taking care of me because I have a confusion –” Robby glances over at me while I bite back a grin “ – on my head and my parents can’t be here to help me so Miss Buggie is going to help me get all better.” Elliot leans on my hand, softly and Robby nods, actually listening to Elliot. He nods as he speaks.

“Well then, we will have to keep Miss Buggie in the loop huh. We’re going to take you to explore a special machine, so that we can figure out how to fix your ouchie, does that sound good?” Elliot nods and I am whisked to the waiting room, blood still soaking my skirt from where I picked up Elliot. I nod at the doctor – Robby his name is, and I finally sit down. I don’t realize how run down I look until a large hand places a coffee cup in my own hand an hour later. A different voice, not Doctor Robby, laughs a little as he sits next to me. His salt and pepper hair is swept back in a way that makes his eyes look kind, tired but kind. I notice a prosthetic leg but I’m not one of my kids, I know better to ask.

“No offense, but you look like hell. You with the kid, contusion on the left side of the temporal fossa?” I flush as I sip my coffee amused.

“His name is Elliot, and yes. I’m the teacher who brought him, and no parents aren’t here yet.” I groan into my coffee cup. “Can I say something bitchy to a total stranger?” Whoever he is, handsome as he is, lets out a snicker as I go ahead. “Some people don’t deserve their kids. Like holy shit if my kid, not that I have one – was in Elliot's situation and his teacher was with him all night, I would be rushing to get to my kid. Breaking laws, all of it. Yet, the best I get is, Oh, the nanny will get him in the morning. The fucking nanny are you kidding me!” I slump into my chair with a huff, my sweater eases down my shoulders. The stranger nods, and smiles.

“Are you staying until he gets better, or the nanny comes?” I nod and I catch a name, Doctor Jack Abbot. My stomach growls and I play it off.

“Depends, how much money do you want to bet that they used the nanny schtick to buy time?” Doctor Abbot laughs, and my face is suspiciously the color of my maroon mary janes.

“You need to eat, how long have you even been here?” He hands me a protein bar, and before I can check if it's kosher, he comments. “It’s kosher parve, OU certified.” I take a bite with a small smile. “You jewish?” He shakes his head, but smiles nonetheless. “My best friend, Doctor Robby, he is.” Apparently I’ve made a face because he snickers again. “Yeah he gets that reaction from people. Great with kids, adults – not so much.” I let out a small smile, the first one in hours. The hospital chair sticks to my back and then he notices the blood.

“Is that yours?” I look down at my skirt as if remembering and huff, my bangs lightly swatting my face. “No, it’s Elliots. I carried him into the ambulance, assessed him alongside the EMT’s” I quirk a brow at his surprised face. “What? My sister is a cardiac nurse in Georgia and I took my first aid course. I know enough to get by” suddenly I am helped up, and he takes me to the nurse station. 

“Doctor Chen, can we get this lovely lady some spare scrubs? Her skirt is officially a biohazard.” Doctor Chen, nods and leads me to get changed and gives me a bag to place my clothes in. Just what I need today – more shit to carry. I come back out and I am face to face with Doctors Abbot and Robby.

“Any updates?” I am anxious to hear about Elliot and Doctor Robby clears his throat.

“He’s okay, just a concussion, but we want to observe him overnight. You’ve been staying so I’ve been told. We have a blanket for you in Elliot's waiting room, Miss Buggie.” I playfully roll my eyes at the silly smile on his face, and nod.

“Thanks Doctors, I’ll find my way.” I am led by a night nurse to Elliot’s room, with a blanket waiting for me. I settle into the quiet chaos of the hospital, and when Doctor Jack Abbot makes his rounds a few hours later, he spots a tired teacher, holding the hand of a strong little boy. Fast asleep doing the job his parents should be doing. When he gets home to Robby that night, they both think the same thing. They’re so fucked. 

[wherever-you-are-is-your-derech]

Girl, we know

[i-like-to-cry]

GO FERB GO!!!🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪

[buggiewritesthings]

The radio demons wife (4)

The next day feels almost trite. I get up, and on my nightstand are flowers. My favorite flowers. How did he know? I smile to myself languidly as I get ready for my day. As promised, no jazz invades my senses. Just the monotony of my own thoughts.

It amazes me, as I throw my clothes on and place my scarf around my neck, that I feel at peace. Myself again. Maybe this whole endeavor will not be so abhorrent after all. Or maybe it's a Bella Swan situation and this is the beginning of the fucking end, who am I to know. All I know is that I have a date, later this evening with a long dead serial killer who I somehow ended up married to. I sure know how to pick them, I muse as I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see my professor for my religious studies class. She smiles at me, widely and I can’t help but mirror her optimism.

“Your paper!” She grins excitedly “was incredible! I hope you don’t mind, but I submitted it to a colleague of mine who works as a curator in New Orleans. They’ve taken a look at your essay and with your permission parts of it will be on display at The Cabildo, where they work! You will be credited of course, and you will receive a grant from the museum to do your senior internship there, living in New Orleans” I can’t believe it, I – my words are helping people. I can’t wait to tell Alastor – oh fuck, that was my first thought. Telling him. He is my husband and he has a right to know but I think I might be starting to tolerate him. I have to actually respond and I can’t help but laugh.

“Yes professor of course!” She smiles at me, and it feels like my head is floating.

“There is more, your bonus is generous. You know the old residence of the bayou butcher? It is in your name now. It is a part of your living situation while you live there, and this internship is paid, five figures, with a permanent job offer post grad. I cannot wait to hear all about the wonderful things you do.” She gives me a huge hug. 

When I see Alastor sitting in my kitchen, all tall and ring glinting in the lowlight, I can’t help the way I barrel run into my husband's arms.

“Alastor” he barely catches me as I embrace him.

“Mon amour, did you love the flowers that much?” I smile wide and I untangle myself from him, gently.

“I have news.” He playfully rolls his eyes as he begins to cook jambalaya. He looks incredibly dressed. Smart and tasteful, he really meant what he said last night. Fuck now I have to tell him. “Do you remember the paper I was working on? When we met?” He nods and seasons the meat just so, he looks incredible doing it too.

“Yes, when you told me to shut up and that I had big beautiful brown eyes? I remember your proposal well.” He winks at me as my eyes roll of their own accord.

“That was not a proposal and you know it – anyways my professor sent it to a colleague of hers. Starting next semester, I will be interning with the curator of The Cabildo. In your home town. What’s more is, your old house – where we met. I own it now. Part of the sign on and five figures a year I will be making. We can restore it to how it was when you owned it, and make it ours. We can do some good.” 

He places the pot down, and approaches me. Not some big grandiose thing – soft and human. Before I can say anything else his hands are on my hips. Not to ground me, but to ground himself. 

“Cher, you’d do that? Fix up my family – you called it our home. You would re-build the house I grew up in, I was born in – the house I’” He doesn’t cry, his mask is still on, but I hold him of my own accord.

“Yes, I would. It’s a part of our family. Me and you. The Hartfelts.” I am yanked into a huge loving embrace, with a long tender kiss pressed to my forehead.

“That’s right Cher, the Hartfelts. The two of us.” Our rings settle, lovingly warm. I’m sure he enchanted them somehow.

“You’re still on my shit list for the month long jazz invasion Alastor. I’m serious.” I hate it. I hate the way I have managed to let him in, and I hate that I don’t hate it. He is a demon in hell. That I am attached too now. This is the start of it all.

“Of course, I suppose I am making it up to you, after all it is our first date ma belle” A glass bowl slides in front of me, and its contents are warm, smell deliciously seasoned. I must be staring at the bowl, the way he laughs and sits across from me.

“Jumbalya, my maman’s recipe. She would’ve liked you I think?” I can’t help but smile. The bite I take is delicious. My tongue is enveloped in a warm blanket of seasonings. He’s got skills, and before I know it, he is washing my dishes.

“Alastor you cooked! You don’t have too –” the look he gives me is the same one you’d see a mother give a screaming toddler. It says let me do this. Shut up about it, and behave. I don’t know if I fully trust that yet. His desire to care for me is alien, and antiquated, at least in my mind. Never trust anyone. That’s what I was always told. Yet here I am, letting a serial killer cannibal cook me food, and do my dishes. I suppose this is his way of keeping his end of our bargain. He must see me thinking, suddenly a light flick is on my nose.

“Cher, I have to go. I’m needed back in hell.” I sigh and stand up, tucking in my chair.

“So soon Alastor? You’ve barely been here.” Nice fucking going, you already sound like a needy bitch ass wife. If I was him, I’d be asking myself if I needed a whambulance with the way I am wha wha whaing. It’s fucking gross. Like Donna Reed level gross.

“I know, but it’s time for you to rest, and time for me to work, so that when we make our home in the afterlife, you are provided for.” He presses a tepidly soft kiss to my temple and I melt in his hold, albeit measuredly. Don’t let him have it all yet. He owes me at least three more dates of grovelling. I huff a laugh and my smile can’t reach my eyes.

“Of course, same time next week?” He’s already gone as his dismembered voice floats in my head.

“Looking forward to it Cher. Bonsoir.”

[were--ralph]

finding out jk rowling invited epstein over more than once is really the least surprising thing out of them

[were--ralph]

at this point i expect hp fans to delude themselves more into thinking somehow its not what it looks like when theres literally no other way to look at it

[sackboys-moved]

Love not having a ”””fandom””” specific blog. Something new will just consume my mind and everyone has to accept it. My house

[roomba-with-knives-taped-to-it]

🚨!!!ATTENTION ALL AMERICAN TIKTOK USERS!!🚨

Control of TikTok in the US has just been given over to Oracle, a major tech company known for its closeness with the Trump administration. Today on Jan 22, 2026, the privacy policy and terms of service for using the app changed. You are not able to open the app unless you click “agree” on a new pop up, but they do not lay out what you are agreeing to. I took the liberty of reading the new tos and privacy policy and it is FUCKED.

DO NOT AGREE TO THEIR NEW TERMS OF SERVICE!!!

I am not done reading yet but I had to make a disclaimer right now because what I have read so far is so disturbing. I will make a full update once I have finished reading it all but so far some of the biggest things that have stuck out to me are

They have a whole section about medical data they are collecting. They are collecting data from videos, comments, and private messages posted as well as IDENTIFYING THINGS IN THE BACKGROUND OF VIDEOS AND BODILY CUES that may indicate physical or mental illness

They are also using the same method of scanning videos (both posted and unposted), CAMERA ROLL, messages, and comments for a variety of things including INDICATION OF IMMIGRATION STATUS. They specifically say they are collecting “sensitive information” such as ETHNICITY, SEXUAL ORIENTATION, GENDER (they specifically mention trans and nonbinary individuals), and IMMIGRATION STATUS.

They note that not only will this information be used for marketing and analytics (meaning they will sell it to other companies), it will also be used for legal activities, most likely meaning that, as many of us feared, they will be sharing all of this readily with the government

Again, I have not read the entire document yet but I will be making a followup with screenshots once I have. However even what I have read thus far proves that TikTok is NOT SAFE to use in the US especially if you are part of a marginalized group. Please stay safe

[ve1vet-cake]

The world we knew 1-

A Love Like Yours

Alastor x Fem!Reader

Synopsis : Reader is also mixed (what exactly is left open though it is mentioned that the non white parent and some other family members are darker skinned)* but white passing, and has met Alastor, feeling an immediate pull to the mysterious boy that always smiles.

Cw: Racism, Colourism, Classism, mild gore/blood, animal death, Alastor has ASPD (antisocial personality disorder)

MDNI

Pt. 2

New Orleans. 1910.

You were 'lucky' enough to be fair skinned, blending in with the white children in your community.

But even as a young child you noticed how much it crushed your mother to watch you have to reject a side of yours, a culture you were so comfortable in. A culture your father had fallen in love with enough to defy the laws suffocating the country.

Legally, your father had married his childhood friend, Brigitte. A beautiful woman who did look similar to you. But in a secret ceremony only witnessed by Brigitte herself, her secret lover Dianna and your father's best man Pierre, he had married your mother. A woman of colour.

Brigitte and your father had a perfect lavender marriage that assured both their families would shut up while living their true selves comfortably.

This meant you were able to indulge in the privileges of white people, while still having your mother around, presenting to the outside world as your maid.

It was confusing for a child to call their mother their nanny when your tiny body brimmed with pride for the beautiful, strong woman who birthed you. The woman who told you stories of foreign lands where your family waited to meet you.

You first saw him in passing at the edge of the white only playground, a frown on his face.

Your eyes had lit up with interest immediately. He had the same bronze skin as your mother and a note of familiarity washed over you.

When you stepped forward to approach him a group of boys started throwing rocks at him, laughing at the poor boy.

You frowned.

The defeated look in those chocolate eyes made your heart ache. But there was a defiant, almost angry glint that made you puff out your cheeks.

You nodded at the retreating form as if to say 'I understand you'.

Even if he didn't see it.

The next time you saw him was at church. Just like you he was clinging to his mother's skirt, though you could tell by his eyes that he was not actually participating. The prayers left his lips like everybody else's but there was no soul behind it. No sincerity. Just like that empty smile he had.

You noticed his eyes on you that day because you clung to your mother's dress while Brigitte was speaking with Dianna.

Your mother smiled warmly at you and decided to socialize with the other women. She seemed to get along fine with his mother and it finally gave you the opportunity to speak to him.

"Hey! My name is YN"

You held out your tiny hand

"Pleasure to be meeting you! Quite a pleasure!"

The boy stared at you before he took your hand.

"Alastor."

His tone was a bit too performative. A bit too bright, just like the smile he put on.

But that didn't deter you. You shook his hand firmly, just as your father taught you.

You blabbered on and on to Alastor, your fascination with him taking over.

Why did his eyes look so dead sometimes? Why did he flinch when he stopped smiling? Why was he so restrained?

You both knew, even as innocent kids, that there was trouble if you wanted to play outside together. It always made you pout and stomp your foot in protest when your father gave you an apologetic look.

The compromise was that Mrs. Heartfelt and Alastor were allowed to come over for tea after church.

You always dragged Alastor off to your room to play, even when he was as enthusiastic about your dolls as a brick wall.

He would cross his arms and raise a brow at you while you grinned at him brightly.

He seemed more annoyed with you than anything, though he was raised well by his mother. He would indulge you, the younger one, the girl.

You remembered the first day you made him laugh. A genuine laugh had bubbled up in him when you had told him a silly joke your dad had made that you found just delightful!

That sound had immediately branded your soul. Your heart.

You just stared at him, flushing a soft red while he finally smiled at you properly.

From then something shifted. He was more engaging and let you see glimpses into his mind.

Alastor had morbid interests. He found taxidermy fascinating. Collected dead animals and cleaned them off their flesh. He showed you the different bones he had accumulated so far.

You could tell he expected you to recoil, perhaps prove him right that you didn't actually want to be his friend. That you would run like everyone else.

But you were so intrigued. You had beamed at him, curiosity sparking through you.

"What bone is this?"

"Do humans look like this too?"

"How did preservation work?"

Your eyes shone with such innocent curiosity that for a second Alastor paused.

Alastor's heart made weird jumps that his young mind couldn't comprehend.

"You're... Not scared?"

"Why? This is amazing!"

God she was stupid.

Alastor raised his eyebrow again. He had withheld the most important information- The animals died by his hand for the most part. He remembered how nice it felt when the warm blood ran down his hands and arms in crimson rivers.

How he adored that colour.

Sometimes he had pictured what it would look like if she was covered in crimson. When that blabbering mouth of her fell silent, her eyes losing their light.

Alastor looked at her, as she inspected the bones carefully, afraid to break his possessions.

Hm.

But she was too sweet. Annoying, but sweet. Weak.

He was hesitant. He never was with this.

But Alastor decided the hesitance was a sign to not harm her. If there was a part of him that was keen on keeping her alive, he would indulge it to see where it would take him.

The years shaped their friendships.

She, growing into a stunning young woman, him growing into a handsome young man.

Even with the world against them they both spent time together constantly. She trusted him with everything, he trusted her with the non incriminating things in his life.

After all, he couldn't risk her finding out and running that mouth to authorities.

He was 18 and she was 16 when he started working his way up, taking odd jobs to save up. He didn't want to stay in the dirt. Being in the shadows simply because of the colour of his skin.

YN was supportive, she even got her connections to hire him. He hated it as much as he appreciated it.

Some things he couldn't reach even with talent and work.

He remembers the first auditions he went to. The rejections just made him more determined to succeed. To make it.

She kept cheering him on quietly. Even if he hated to admit it she had become his pillar. The one person he could always depend on.

It was obvious she loved him.

She rejected any man who showed interest in her, clinging onto the one bone bracelet Alastor had given her when he officially recognised her as his 'friend'.

Alastor noticed. Of course he did. He knew her better than her parents did. He knew exactly what reaction he would get with which action.

How her nose twitched and her eyes crinkled when he did something she deemed 'cute'-he insisted he never did such things-, how she had kissed one man and got so disgusted by it she came to him crying.

Alastor smiled at the memory while he organised his notes, looking at the photograph of hers he kept on his desk. She had insisted he should have a photo of hers with him at all times for 'good luck'.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest.

It was an odd feeling he had started to get recently. It was so warm, so soothing.

And it only ever presented itself when she was on his mind.

When Alastor and you hit your 20s he finally got that hard earned job as a radio host.

When he told you you cried, jumping into his arms while squealing in delight.

"You did it!", you had cupped his cheeks and smiled so sweetly at him. "I'm so proud of you, Alastor!"

The new radio host forgot how to breathe for a second, wide brown eyes staring at her. She was the only person who could touch him so freely aside from his mother. He never knew why her clinginess annoyed him less than others' despite her being the loudest person in the room when she got comfortable.

He swallowed, eyes searching hers.

Those eyes he had fantasized about the life draining from them. Those eyes who he had stared into almost every day for the past decade.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump ba-dump.

He felt hot. Squirmish.

She was talking, babbling on about how happy she was for him. How she had always known he was meant for something so grand.

Her hands were still on his face. You were pressed against him.

So.

Close.

Ba-dump Ba-dump.

You were so devoted to him. So proud. So... in love.

Ba-dump Ba-dump Ba-dump

Perhaps that pure, innocent, loving devotion deserved acknowledgement...

Rewarding.

Alastor's eyes focused your lips.

And he leaned in, swallowing whatever nonsense was coming out of your mouth.

AN:

*I wrote this as someone who is half white half filipino, I gathered from some research and my remaining history knowledge that non black poc had a few privileges still but I am leaving it ambiguous so more people can immerse themselves! - I plan on making this a mini series where the differences between Reader and Alastor get clearer and also Reader's perspective (I am writing her with my personal experiences in mind as a white passing poc since I may not experience the same discrimination but I see it in those I care about)

The more I read about Jim Crow etc I felt my blood pressure rise TwT

I wrote this because I noticed a lot don't include the segregation that took place during the 1900s in their fics (which I also get, it's a difficult topic to write about and can even be triggering) so I wanted to write something that incorporated the history a bit more

[youthinkaboutme-yourradiodemon]

This deserves more visuals and reblogs.

@ve1vet-cake you're phenomenal!

[staticandsin]

Vox & Human Reader ;; Old Haunts

Universe: What's In A Name? -- Pre-Goat Reader's Death Summary: Vincent Whittman has been dead since 1959, and yet his infamy persists at the Sinclair Broadcast Building amongst a new generation of employees. But, as a woman hailing from the bible belt, you find ghost stories silly. A/N: I don't think sinners can haunt Earth, but look - if Vox can pirate Earth channels, then I think every now and then he can see what's going on at his old job. All and all this was just a fun, short idea!

Tag List: @th3-n3xt-phas3 @boykizzer0 @yurlocalaurora @awholeweekofjustsharks @kamananuionalani @aphestina @ajj-5 @untitled14360 @wet-rat96 @boldlyenchantingfox22 @skipsshadleysrealwife @the-mespidah @asmodeus-dearest @nasilabixesual @c-u-p-i-d-f-e-a-t-h-e-r-s @sanirski @pleasantlycrazyworld @aestheticdoom @floradarkness @cryptographicdreams @miauna @exa83 @vanilla-puff @sunnyx07 @trashy-vine @inkitelle @platinumserpantlake @optimistictrashtimemachine

“EXCUSE ME!” If it wasn’t your voice that drew the attention of the blonde, then it would be the sound of your heels relentlessly beating against the floor. “Hold it, hold it, PLEASE!” Your palm presses against the tan wood paneling encasing the elevator. The men before you see you’re out of breath, and your hair? Well, what was typically a glorious mane, always immaculately straightened, sleek and curled, was splayed over your scalp. Strands sticking here and there after being assaulted by hefty wind. Pity was taken upon you. The blonde coworker you’ve come to know as Samuel stalls the elevator door’s closure, allowing you to slide between him and another gentleman who doesn’t strike you as familiar. “Thank you!” “Not a problem -” blue eyes roll over you, then finally, a faint look of recognition hangs in them. “You’re headed to floor seven, right?” “Ah -” your mind is preoccupied with other matters, such as how you wish you had a hand mirror to see the damage inflicted on your head. “Right. Seven.” “Lucky number…” Your fingers thread through your locks, hoping to make it presentable by the time you enter the newsroom. “Uh-huh…” Samuel thrusts his hands into his pockets. It was obvious you weren’t giving mind to him, too preoccupied with catching your breath (and your vanity).

“Oh yeah. We’re on safe grounds at seven. You never want to be stationed at six.” “Why’s that?” You arch an eyebrow, finally meeting his gaze. "Six is where Late Night with Vincent Whittman was filmed." You were new to Delaware, a transplant from Georgia. You masqueraded your accent, striving to blend in with these Northerners. However, you could only do so in the large ways that counted. But every state has its own culture, and ‘culturally,’ there were things you could not smile and pretend to know about, such as this name - Vincent Whittman. For better or worse, you are a woman who has always been curious. So you tilt your head, click your tongue. "Vincent Whittman...? Was he a scary Boss - something like that?" "A scary Boss?” He croons. “I’m guessing your ol' granny n' grandpappy never caught him on TV?" The ghost of annoyance dances in your eyes. You wonder why the hell he would choose those titles for your grandparents, only to bitterly suspect maybe you didn't hide your accent as well as you thought. Either way, you knew better than to say TVs were a luxury in their time. You couldn’t seem Southern and impoverished. “They had too much going on to sit and watch TV." You shift the subject, "So, Vincent Whittman. What did he do so bad, huh?" The elevator opens, floor three. The man who stood behind you slides by with a low, 'Thank God.’ You replay that murmur, that little 'Thank God.' This Vincent has grown men twice your size scared, it's intriguing. "So," the elevator doors clamp shut as Samuel begins, "Vincent Whittman was a serial killer. Worked here in the 50s." "He stalked all the pretty receptionists who left work at night, right?" Samuel lifts his eyebrows, amused. "Oh, no, he killed his way to the top." “That’s dramatic,” you chuckle. “It’s true.” “No way,” you reply, a crease developing over your nose as your lips mockingly curl up in disbelief. “Oh yeah. Weather first. Then anchor. Then late night. That’s when people started disappearing…camera men. Interns.”

“Annnnd…” you lift an eyebrow, “nobody noticed?”

“I mean, it was television, people always left. Some say he staged accidents. Loose wires. Locked doors. Others say he didn’t bother hiding it once he got famous enough.” “So, you’re saying this building is haunted?” “No, not the building. Floor six.” In childhood teachings it was reinforced that there were only two definite things in this world: God and Satan. Everything else was imagination. So, you hum lightly, “I don’t believe in that kind of thing,” The words barely settle before you feel Samuel's presence closer than before. Your eyes flick sideways. You don’t remember him moving. Before you could speak, you notice the number flash above the elevator - six. It doesn’t frighten you, how could it when it meant in a second you would be free from Samuel’s company? The elevator hums, as it should. But the number, six, it lingers. A second passes, then another. Your fingers twitch, ready to caress the small silver dove hanging above your chest. You don’t need to do that, you tell yourself. Sometimes old elevators are just - funky. The light clicks, the glorious number 7 hanging above you and Samuel. The metallic doors triumphantly slide open, as if welcoming you to the gates of heaven. “See that?” Samuel grins, “that was Vincent Whittman.” You playfully scoff, “oh please.”

---

You love winter, but you hate the darkness of the evening. Streetlights blinked on like it was already eleven.

The call of the street didn’t stop you from lingering in the newsroom. Leaving early felt like a sin, especially on days where you were at risk of coming in three minutes late. You told yourself newsrooms remember missteps and errors just as they remembered devotion. Things you do will matter in the long run. Come ten pm, you slung your purse over your shoulder, ensured you had your car keys pocketed. Privately, your fingers curl into the metallic loop as though it’s a weapon. You walk to the elevator when a faint glow from one of the side offices caught your eye. The door was ajar, yet the room withheld any trace of anyone working overtime. You could have kept moving - generally, you would have kept moving, but something pulled you to step that way. Open the door more. You were unsure why, but a thought hung over you: “The TV should go off.” You kept repeating that as if it were the most important thing in the world. You reached for the knob, the screen didn’t die. A frown stretches over your lips. You try again, once more there was nothing. Lips fold inward, hand stalling from giving it a third try. The TV should go off, but - it wasn’t worth it. Standing in an office that wasn’t yours could get you in trouble. Hand clutching your purse strap, you turn away. Stepping back into the hall as the television’s glow lingered, unbothered.

--- You were rattled, he could see that clearly through the screen. But, you kept up a tough front. Better than that, you let him be. Every now and then, Vox pulled this little stunt. The reactions never failed to amuse him, how the fresh blood at SBC would slap the side of the set like the television owed them obedience. Others leaned in close, staring at their own reflection in the glass, waiting for something to stare back.

The stories about him lingered, Vox was well aware of that. And yet, despite them, people wanted his name gone. Silenced, forgotten as it was blamed for flickering lights and stalled elevators.

But you let him be.

A pixelated, razor-toothed grin creeps across the screen. He’ll remember that.

Vox never forgets an audience that doesn’t flinch.

[buggiewritesthings]

Make this a series and my life is yours 🙏🙏🙏

[silverlullabies]

finding out someone fed my writing into AI gotta be the top ten worst feelings in the world and makes me not wanna write anymore

[buggiewritesthings]

Please do not chat I’m begging