32, She/her/they/them I'm ARFlanagan on AO3! I write Hazbin! Mostly my personal RadioApple AU. Pan/Enby/Demi-Gray-Ace https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARFlanagan
It’s time for a new beginning and a fond farewell.
I’m closing the chapter on A.R. Flanagan. Thank you for meeting me in the shadows of Hazbin Hotel, for loving my stories, for making me braver and louder and more myself with every comment and message.
Because of you, I’m ready to step into my true name and the stories I was meant to tell.
From here on, I am Emery Morrigan.
I hope you’ll follow me into the heart of the postbellum Louisiana, into worlds where queerness is celebrated, grief becomes poetry, and every haunted day is laced with longing and hope.
And yes, I have an Alastor, too- a vastly different man from the Radio Demon; with a sweeter chaos.
This March, I’ll be publishing my debut novel, Jaybird- a southern gothic age gap/class gap historical romance- I would be honored if you’d walk this new road with me. Where the lights are left on, the porch swing creaks, and there’s always room for every wild and tender soul.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for everything.
Here’s to new names, old ghosts, and the stories that will carry us forward.
With love,
E.R.~
27 Followers, 35 Following, 7 Posts - See Instagram photos and videos from Emery Morrigan (author) (@emerymorrigan)
Life and neurodivergence got in the way this week and Chapter 5 of Devil's Forked Path is still being written but we got this!!
I'm still gonna be amazed that I'm keeping it together, and being human on a floating rock in space. That counts for a lot. And so are you. We're all stuck on a planet hurtling thru the cosmos and somehow out of that we got taxes and delayed fanfic updates and readers with the patience of saints 😊😊💖😭😭😭
I wrote this status on an update day because when I disappear, i do it suddenly and with zero warning, and giving y'all an idea of what's going on keeps me accountable and also more likely to return instead of retreating with shame to my self-conscious writer nest
Dropped two chapters today. One is tragic Phantom Of The Opera angst, the other’s cheerful swamp dismemberment. Totally different vibes, both pitch black. I contain multitudes, all of them dramatic and unwell.
As am I. But in like a good way where I love writing slow burn sexual tension between men
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Also, ace readers beware (I have a few on tumblr, not certain about Ao3), I do introduce a love interest for Alastor with a twist.
It's a big twist and that is all I shall say 🥸
The Devil's Forked Path
Chapter 4
1930
The sound of dragging feet carved grooves into the wet earth. Shoes scuffed, fine leather ruined with mud, the legs limp and graceless as though they no longer belonged to the body they carried.
Alastor tugged him onward, whistling cheerfully as if he weren’t hauling a corpse through the marsh.
“Furthermore,” he continued, “you are dead wrong if you think I’ll keep doing Mimzy-dear’s speakeasy budgeting for free. You would think a man would learn—” He grunted, yanking the body over an upturned root jutting from the moon-shadowed earth. “—that a friend wouldn’t take advantage like that.”
He paused, tilting his head. “Dead wrong. Get it?”
He giggled sharply, loud enough to send a nearby bird clattering from a low bush.
“Really. And the other one… that Marjorie… oh… haha…” His laughter cracked thin, and he quickly set about arranging the damp, cooling corpse into a sitting position at the base of a tree. “She… she really hates her child. That’s the bare minimum of care a woman can have for her offspring—a whole arsenal of devices at one’s disposal to tend to an infant—and she… she…”
He trailed off, gesturing into the wild bayou as if the corpse would understand exactly what he meant.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed as something in him seemed to simmer with a rising pressure.
“You’ve been a real chum,” he said calmly. “Naughty, but a pal all the same. This conversation is becoming cold. Not to nag, but so are you! HAH!”
The earlier heat with which he had grabbed his rifle from the house had ebbed hours earlier. He’d replaced it instead with a sharp hatchet, which hung precariously on his belt, gleaming in the shifting light of the trees.
The corpse—that used-to-be-a-man, now a puppet made of meat for his red hunger—had been seen through a haze in the street heckling a group of ladies. And Alastor, ever the gentleman, thought to himself, oh what fun to dispose of the trash.
And here he was thusly ripping that hatchet from his belt to finish what he’d started.
It was becoming late, and that was never good.
He usually had work in the mornings, didn’t he?
Alastor’s smile stretched sharp as glass, but his chest burned, his breath hissing ragged through clenched teeth. He laughed anyway, high and shrill.
Then the mask slipped. His hands moved faster, more brutal, as though each cut might carve out the bile lodged under his ribs. He yanked at an arm after slicing it until the tendons snapped wetly, and when the shoulder gave way he slammed it into the muck with a grunt that shook his whole frame. “Arms off the table—” his voice broke, half a wheeze, half a cackle, “—manners, please.”
The chest was next. He braced his boot on the torso and shoved, hacking into ribs until they cracked like gunfire across the water. His laughter turned to panting, every heave of the blade a release of the pressure swelling inside him. Red spattered his shirt, his face, soaking the swamp roots black.
I’ve got a gut feeling about this! His voice was low now, almost a growl, as he tore the body open. He leaned into the motion, shoulders straining, every muscle trembling with the vicious effort. The sound of splitting bone echoed back at him, raw and jagged.
By the time he was flinging the pieces into the reeds, his smile had returned, lips slick with breathless glee. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he sang, almost tender—then barked a laugh sharp enough to carry through the moss-hung trees. “Though in pieces, it’s much easier.”
He kept the parts he liked, and tossed the rest into deep marsh water, watching the pieces sink slowly into the thick liquid.
There's a fruit store down our street
It's run by a Greek—
And he keeps good things to eat
But you should hear him speak
When you ask him anything
He never answers "no"
He just "yes"es you to death—
Rolled stockings, Mrs. Dumont had said; they were inappropriate. Alastor had never considered them before, not having paid enough attention to daring feminine trends, but he was beginning to see them everywhere.
Not that he made it a habit of staring at young ladies’ knees, but walking on the sidewalk down towards Mimzy’s speakeasy to drop off a pile of ledgers, a pair of legs caught his eye. Not for the shapeliness or the design, but for the color of the makeup painted on them.
Blood red.
This made him notice the blood still crusted under his own nails, and he was inwardly swearing at himself for being so sloppy when he was roughly shouldered by a passerby, and the swear that was supposed to be silent rent the air as every last ledger cascaded from his arms into a nearby damp gutter.
“Oh, sorry!”
The suited stranger wheeled around, skidding on loafers on the wet concrete, and knelt to help Alastor pick up his (well, Mimzy’s) ledgers, saying, “I’m late… got to running, very clumsy, and, well…”
Before Alastor could wave off the apology he got a flash of recognition: jilted English, that heavily French accent. He was certain he recognized it from somewhere.
They stood, the dark-skinned stranger piling the last damp ledger on top of the stack in Alastor’s arms, apologizing profusely again.
“I know you from somewhere,” Alastor skated over the apology. There was something very familiar there, for sure. The sharp jawline, the large dark eyes—not his hair, which was curly and dark, a different style than a man in such a neatly cut business suit would usually wear, as it tumbled past his ears nearly chin-length.
“Applesauce, you can’t. I’m not from here. Obviously. Sorry again. I’ve got to go!”
“Wait! You dropped your—”
But the man had already run off and disappeared around a building at the block end. Alastor stood silently for a second, the crisp autumn wind turning his hands cold as he knelt to pick up the stranger’s dropped item.
“—Pocket watch,” he finished, holding it up a bit uselessly. It was well-made, slightly heavy, and possessed intricate golden designs all around the circular closed face. He spotted initials engraved on the side and everything. It was obviously a very cherished and personal item.
“Mimz,” Alastor said, piling the ledgers on the counter, “Two things: you need to hire a bloody accountant. I’m tiring of correcting your horrible arithmetic. Secondly, your ledgers have taken an unfortunate trip into a rain-filled gutter and have returned quite illegible. I know I said two things, but there’s really three: do you know who this belongs to?” He placed the pocket watch on top of the ledgers.
“Slow down, Alastah, did your mama ever tell you your mouth goes faster than a train? And I can’t reach that from here.”
“Then climb onto a chair. And who do you think I got it from?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never met her.”
“Meet my mother, and my mannerisms make sense. I promise.”
“Somehow I doubt that, baby doll.” Mimzy sat her short self down on top of the bar counter, frowning at the damp accounting books.
Alastor rolled his eyes when she removed the watch from the top of the pile and proceeded to flip through the books.
He was entirely more interested in the watch than anything else at the moment, despite the fact that all his hard accounting work—unpaid or not—had come to a possible absolute zero because of the ink runs on the wet pages. Damn stranger and his clumsy feet.
“You’re illiterate with numbers, darling, why bother?”
“Oh, shut your mouth!” She waved at him, but smiled.
“I was never quiet a day in my life, and I refuse to start today! How about that watch? Recognize it?”
“Alastor I don’t know, good gravy!! It could belong to one of my pansy performers maybe? I have one that’s a real klutz. She’s always dropping everything.”
“Pansy performers are men, dearest.”
“I don’t care which they are long as they help me bring in the green.”
“Ah, what a caring miss you are.”
“I care not a single shit.”
“Language!”
There was a moment of silence between them, Mimzy peeking at him from over the ledgers, then she cackled, which made Alastor lose it.
“Mimzy,” he wheezed. “No!! In all seriousness—”
“—There’s not a serious bone in your body!”
“Stop, woman!!”
She knew him so well; when he got started laughing like this, it was hard for him to stop and he ended up doubled over the bar, absolutely gone for the count.
When they had both stopped giggling inconsolably over nothing, he tried to explain how her financial records were worth absolute shit now, but she waved it off, dropping the watch back into his hands as she hopped off the counter in the empty speakeasy. She would figure it out, she said. She always did.
“O.F D.M.” He ran a finger over the engraved initials on the side of the watch. “It doesn’t ring a bell?”
“Why are you so concerned about a stranger’s watch? He’s handsome, isn’t he? HUH?” She jabbed him in the hip with her elbow.
“Cut it out,” he shoved her away, but she bounced back gleefully.
Not me juggling work, housework, school pickup, co-parenting, animal care, cooking and getting enough sleep with:
5,000 words written in four days
All on my phone
#MyNotesAppIsCrowded
I had to hit the chapter button twice to even remember what chapter I was on. Okay squirrel rave brain you can follow oscillating 1910-1930 plotlines and themes (in a prequel series no less) but you can't recall chapter numbers.
That and I'm doing a Phantom of the Opera But Make it Gay retelling, so that's fun! If y'all want link drops to that too just let me know. I love me a Victorian twink.~
The Devil's Forked Path will update in a couple hours while I do a quick revise and sweep through, love y'all!
Did y'all know I actually spend most of my time daydreaming about my longfics at work and the rest of the time staring at my blank Notes App, crying on break because I'm brain dead? 🥲🥲
#TheMoreYouKnow💥💫
PS and writing is still the only thing I am ever thinking about go figure
Hello my stars! I can't believe it's been nearly a year since my last upload. ;C
Regardless I appreciate every single last one of you who contacted me and encouraged me to continue through all my big adult life feelings and keep going- I LOVE YOU, and I literally mean this 💖💖
The Devil's Forked Path: Chapter 3 (Alastor backstory)
Content warnings:
-Religious guilt
-Child/Spousal abuse
-Animal harm
-Disturbing imagery
-Psychological torture
Hail Mary
1910
Alastor sat in the heated church sanctuary next to his parents, shifting uncomfortably in the pew until his father cast him one of his sharp, warning glances.
Feeling a tightness in his belly, he looked down at the rosary in his hands. Alastor had long lost track of how many Glory Be’s and Our Father’s he was along into the beads, and he surely could not remember now. He simply fiddled with them uselessly and longed to go home, because there was an itch on his neck directly at the back of his collar.
Our Father, who art in heaven—
No, that wasn’t right.
He stopped thinking long enough to listen to his father beside him murmuring the prayer and was relieved to catch up, though he stuttered a bit and slipped: “Hail Mary, full of grates, the Lord is with thee—”
Not grates, Alastor, but grace—oh, it was hot in here!
As the prayer ended, Alastor finally tried to listen to the service. But the procession, the guilt-ridden recitations, filled him with leg-itching boredom. He resisted the urge to kick the pew in front of them just to see what the woman there might do, and stifled a sneeze when incense from the passing censer stung his nose.
He cast a look to his right, across Father’s lap, to see his mother’s head bowed, her dark curls framing her profile like a curtain. She peeked her eyes open and dared a jaunty wink at him, making him smile.
Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Such repetition, full of stomach-clenching guilt. Hail Mary, full of blah, the Lord is blah blah.
When it was time to take communion, his father nudged him to stand. Alastor rose, Father just behind him, and stared at the man in front of them in line, noticing the man’s shirt was slightly untucked in the back.
He couldn’t help but stare.
It was an imperfection. If that were me, Alastor thought, Father would beat me for that.
A sinful little giggle rose in his throat. He smothered it with a cough that echoed just a bit, drawing glances. He received a squeeze on his shoulder for it, which made him tense. He’d pay for this. Oh no—that was no good. This wasn’t even funny, not in the slightest—
“The body of Christ,” the priest said—oh, it was Alastor’s turn, finally. His response was needed—
“Amen.”
The wafer was dry. The wine, tangy and disgusting.
More and more repetition.
At last, they got home. They did not have money for an automobile, but Alastor didn’t mind. He sat in the back of the simple wagon and stared at the gravel road moving under his church shoes. If he stayed silent, he wouldn’t be chastised for nearly falling off when Father directed the horses over an unexpected bump or bend.
He was told to go play while Father discussed something with Mother. They did that sometimes, in quiet murmurs, Mother’s voice taking a defensive soft lilt while Father rumbled something Alastor couldn’t hear. He would often catch his own name in their whispers.
He didn’t wait to be told twice. He ran, unbuttoning his itchy collar as he went, chalk in hand—something he’d found in the hymnal pocket at church—as he made his way back down the streets of Tremé.
He drew nonsense lines on brick walls as jazz music floated into the humid afternoon air from a nearby café. He scrawled some messy voudou shapes on the bricks, then crossed them out, tapping his foot to the rhythm. He drew a cross, then swiped it away.
The body of Christ.
Huh.
If anything was of Heaven—anything that filled his body with a buzzing sweetness—it was this new music, the sounds warming him like the sun. Alastor had heard adults say jazz was of the devil, but that sounded far too much like Father’s silly rhetoric.
If Heaven could be like this instead—he’d like the streets to be paved with these colorful bricks. Tremé’s sidewalks alive with people in their Sunday finest, greeting each other while horses and carriages rolled down the road in rhythm with the chatter and laughter.
He scuffed his feet in the dry dust on the pavement, listening to the music. It had an airy beat, a swagger, a crescending sort of personality that struck his chest and mind. Eventually, when the sun grew too hot, he made for home, his church shoes crunching on rocks and earth.
Alastor’s heart began to pound in his ears as he approached the little white house. It suddenly seemed both too large and too small, as if he could squint his eyes or take off his spectacles and it might vanish entirely.
The thought of the house being swallowed up in a sudden earthquake filled him with rapid, unexplainable pinpricks all over his body. His mother was in there. His cat, his Trudy. What if it all disappeared one strange evening? What would a nine-year-old boy do without it? And even if it simply left, something—something dark—would stay. Something bad would stay. He knew that. Like the shadow that stared at him when they thought he wasn’t watching.
His knees felt like jelly as he hurried up the four creaky steps to the kitchen doorway, slammed it open with heated haste, and skidded to a stop on the slick linoleum. Silence.
“Mama?”
Had his fears been realized?
But no. A wiry, strong hand grasped his hair, and he yelped, crying out hoarsely.
“Mama ran away,” his father gruffed. He still smelled of Going To Mass—cologne and incense. It filled the dark kitchen and Alastor’s nose. He went limp and quiet. Maybe if he stayed still enough, Father would let go of him.
Then what Father had told him suddenly hit.
“She ran away?”
“Yep. Left us high and dry. Guess it’s just you and me now, boy. Now do you care to explain your behavior at Mass this morning?”
He did not move. He couldn’t. Every breath was shallow, and hurt.
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“You know what happens to sinners who disobey the Lord, don’t you, Alastor?”
Father finally let go of him.
He stumbled, knowing what was coming—remembering, actually, as if the sliced pieces of him had once tried to forget. The sight of that basement door, yawning open against a backdrop of deep darkness, closed his throat. He already remembered how the rats down there had crawled over his feet and squeaked from the corners; and the bugs. It was summer, and roaches and pillbugs thrived in the damp, dirty undercorners of the old unbricked fireplace shaft that ran from basement to roof.
“They go to—h-h-hell,” Alastor repeated softly. “Don’t send me down there again. I don’t like the bugs—”
“You know the rules, son. I can’t send you to Hell myself, but I can remind you what it’s like. Maybe a couple of days down there will jar that twisted noggin of yours. Now go.”
He said it as calmly as if he were sending Alastor to his room. In the hush of Maman’s clean kitchen, the church-smell still cloying his nose, Alastor’s breath drew up so tight he thought he might not have any left to scream.
His feet moved without him. He walked silently down the dusty stairs.
The door shut behind him, and with a final click of the lock, he felt his way down and sat beside the metal shaft of the old fireplace as he always did, breathing into his knees.
“Un,” he whispered into the cloth of his knees, “Deux, trois—”
A rat scratched nearby in the silence.
There was a pile of rat bones in the corner where a shaft of wood had shifted just enough to leave a gap. Alastor had put them there on previous stays. There was a way to pass the time down here: counting, wringing rat necks. He had to be fast, like with the bird—
But he didn’t feel like it now.
A thin beam of evening light peeped through that corner, staring like an eye. He didn’t enjoy it, but he stared until the glow resembled something he had once seen in a dream. Shadows.
He picked up a small pile of bones and began counting them one by one. A skull slipped from his fingers, clattering against the iron shaft. The sound rang through the stifled dark, making his ears ache—
He stopped breathing.
Wait.
He banged the skull against the shaft and listened.
Silence.
Then, from far, far above—through the old creaking wood—came the unmistakable sound of knuckles on metal.
One, two, three.
“Maman,” he whispered. “Mother—” He banged rapidly on the metal shaft.
She answered again, from the attic. He had locked her in the attic.
One. Two. Three.
Un, deux, trois.
“Ma—”
His face crumpled. He hugged the dirt-smelling metal, angry tears tracking down his cheeks.
Bang.
One.
When he didn’t answer, her rap came again, insistent: one.
He sniffed, raised his hand, and brought it down on the shaft. Dust rose and fell. Rat bones scattered. He did it again.
Two.
I’m here.
Alastor leaned there, forehead pressed to the soot-streaked iron, his fingers digging into the bones and dirt by his knees. He would fall asleep knowing that at least—
I recently discovered that I'm on the ace spectrum, and it's all because of Alastor.
I've been writing him *all this time* with my own preferences without understanding how fully they echoed back at what I actually feel.
- The touch averse till it's *his* idea
- The sex-neutral till he decides *it's time*
- The need for a connection before *any* of the above occurs
It took me forever to realize that it's not that I have a low sex drive, I'm just freaking DEMI-GRAY. 🥴
This is why I still fully believe that Alastor can be shipped, that he can have relationships on his terms, and that him being canonically Ace doesn't erase those connections for him entirely; I'm freaking living it as a married person.
Representation fucking matters, even if it's your own headcanon of the character!! 🙌
So yeah, now I can more consciously continue writing Alastor as a demi-gray ace spectrum touch averse overlord and not feel bad about 'but what if people don't like ittttt?'
Since I'm uploading Chapter 3 of Devil's Forked Path on the first of September, thought I'd get a good old-fashioned reupload in!
Human Alastor back story
*TW; Child/domestic abuse, animal harm, religious trauma
~
He felt, as always, that deep shadow growing in the back of his mind to edge his turmoil over a precipice. Before he could lose it entirely- because he'd black out soon, and he'd rather go with it than against it at this point, he had dashed into the house to retrieve his hunting rifle and told that shadow to hold on.
Hold on.
~
Sometimes demons aren't born; they are made. The backstory of Alastor Hartfelt.
Chapter 1: I Was A Boy
The Devil's Forked Path
~
1910:
It was a heavenly day, with the afternoon sun beating down on his hair. The smell of freshly cut grass was giving Alastor that annoying feeling of a slight sneeze, which caused him to impatiently wipe at his nose.
'Better finish up this drawing,' he thought. But Alastor was having trouble concentrating; his hair, which was a mousy brown, was getting longer and falling across his spectacles, which were sliding down his slightly sweaty nose. Everything felt so uncomfortable, and Father was inside the house making a ruckus as usual.
Alastor had long ago learned not to make a peep on days like this. On days where the sun shone, and the sky was blue, and despite the goodness of the weather, his father's deep voice rumbled drunkenly through the screens in the open windows. There was a crash, and a bang. Alastor flinched. The sound of his mother screaming. He froze over his drawing, his heart beating fast.
'Just focus on your drawing,' he thought, 'That's the key.'
He continued just scribbling on the sketching paper, not really drawing, more just creating a mess of bruise-colored nonsense. It could use something a little more. Now, he supposed, was a good time to find out.
His sharp green eyes spotted a hobbling little bird right under his long-abandoned tire swing, wobbling, and trying so hard to fly. Poor thing.
Quick as a snake, quiet as a mouse, little Alastor caught the struggling creature in the palm of his hand and flipped open a sharpened pocketknife. That was another thing he had learned the hard way; that if did things like this, it must be sharp. Dull knives were messy and caused his mice and birds to struggle and squeak.
He silently promised the bird that he would make it quick.
'Now this might hurt a little bit, but you'll be all right.'
There was the slice of a blade, a last song of death, and the fluttering of broken little wings that tickled his wrists. Blood ran over his palm and soaked into his white shirt sleeve. A tragedy for the bird. Alastor would have done it to himself, but there was another lesson he had learned the hard way too.
The scars on his arms made his mother cry.
Alastor detested her crying.
So, he put the poor creature out of its misery instead, kneeling down to, in a matter-of-fact way, sprinkle that bird's red blood onto the bruise-colored paper.
There. That is what his drawing had needed.
Yet why did he feel so empty?
Dirty boots crunched on the paper, almost stepping on his hand and he drew back, staring at the shadow of his father. He hadn't heard the screaming stop, nor the squeak of the front screen door open and close.
"You want blood, boy? Killing animals again?"
A strong, wiry hand grasped the back of his hair, tugging his face up into the glaring sunlight, and a second later, a searing slap caught his cheek knocking his spectacles sideways. The wedding ring on his father's hand nearly always hurt worse than the slap.
"What I done told you 'bout that devil's shit, huh? Answer me."
Alastor's head was shaken gruffly, his scalp smarting, and there was a kick into his stomach that knocked his breath away.
He was crying; hot, angry tears that tracked down his face and he hated that. Hated that his father pulled that emotion from him like the strings of a violin. Hated when his voice grew hoarse, and he gulped for air and clutched at the grass at his knees till his fingernails dug into his palms.
"Alastor, come inside," he heard his mother's frantic voice, laced with panic, "Come on inside, sweetheart-"
It would be a normal sound for a mother to be calling her child indoors were it not for the shaking and slight panic in her voice, and Alastor dared to glance up at his father's slender frame which he had inherited, but on the adult man was interrupted by slouched shoulders and a slight beer gut.
"You heard your mama," his father said, his eyes glinting dangerously, "Get inside. Git. Lunch is ready."
Alastor wasted no time scurrying indoors as fast as he could, into their kitchen that smelled both of a mixture of spilled beer, and a soft soap scent from having just been cleaned.
"Alastor, ti lanmou mwen," his mother placed a quick, trembling kiss on his cheek, gripping his shoulder. "I asked him not to go after you anymore," she whispered, "I am sorry. Eat. Sit and eat your food, please."
"Mama, I'm not-"
"-If you don't eat, he'll be even angrier."
"He's not paying attention, mama. He's..." Alastor craned his neck to peep outside the window. "He's burying my bird."
He looked down at his hands.
His bird.
Alastor still had blood on his hands, crusted on his wrists.
What I done told you 'bout that devil's shit?
His father had told him quite a lot about it. Had once actually knocked him upside the head with the family Bible, in fact, which had sent him into giggle hysterics he had gotten into quite a bit of trouble for.
"You've done it again," his mother stated softly. "Let's get you cleaned up..."
Not for the last time, his mother took his hands and led him to the sink where she gently helped him scrub the blood from his wrists. He admired her hands, graceful and soft, and a dark lovely brown. Stared at his own lightly tanned hands under hers in the warm water.
"Go to your room. Change your shirt. Stay in there for the rest of the afternoon, please."
Alastor obeyed his mother, heading to the door toward the hallway steps when he looked back and saw his mother silently scraping his uneaten food into the trash, moving other things around so it would be hidden from prying eyes; if it was discovered Alastor hadn't actually eaten, they would both catch wrath.
She saw him looking, and nodded at him to keep going, a movement that made her dark curls wave, "Go, honey. I'm not mad at you."
She was something. She was sad.
Alastor hated that look on her face. Hated that more than anything.
When she came to get him, he was laying on his back on his made up bed, staring at the fading sunlight crossing the ceiling. His black cat, Trudybug, was laying atop his chest and steady purring and kneading the collar at his neck.
Father was asleep. Snoring away. The house was blessedly quiet except for the evening bugs buzzing outside against the open window screens.
Silently as mice, Alastor and his mother made their way downstairs to the darkened kitchen.
"Time for a game," she said. They sat at the table. "It's 'One, Two, Three.' You go first."
"Un, Deux, Trois," Alastor whispered.
"Good! French. My turn. Yon, De, Twa."
"Pat-wuh," Alastor struggled to say.
"Close," she smiled, "Patwa," she responded. "Your turn."
"Uno, Dos, Tres," he recited. Alastor liked how that language sounded on his tongue.
"Spanish."
They sat at the kitchen table till the sky outside became darkened, the comfortable blue of evening dipping into true night. Mother lit a kerosene lamp. They had electric lights, but she knew Alastor enjoyed how the flame flickered.
"He's not waking up tonight, darling, you don't have to be so quiet. Recite Frerra Jacques for me."
He began to sing.
"More confidence!"
Alastor tried louder, but the song was catching in painfully in his throat.
"Louder, goose, let it come from the belly," she teased, and patted his stomach till he went, "Oof," and she giggled, "That's better!", when in laughing tones, he finished the song.
"There's that smile. There's my smiling boy. Always do that, okay?" she teased his neck till he grinned widely.
"Always?"
"Yes, my boy. It is my favorite thing in the world, your smile."
If you remember me, good. If you don't, I wouldn't blame you. 😁
New upload schedule beginning once a week September 1st, 2025 because I'm a dramatic bitch and wanted to warn y'all what's coming if you follow me BC there are about to be a LOT OF LINKS IN THE COMING WEEKS.
We've been through some shit this past year. From an 8-month long depressive episode, to my son becoming a kindergartener of all things (where did the time go??) To learning about how my own Hazbin writing is both triggering and healing my own trauma journey- some shit. Both metaphorical, and physical, even spiritual. Fuck. Yeah. I've been through it.
LONG STORY SHORT
I'm baCK. SHE'S BACK! FOR REAL THIS TIME!
She's here, she's queer, she's uploading again, she's even medicated properly this time, and the writing game is being played. Let's gooOoOO 💖💖
To my new followers; thank you so, so much!! welcome to the insanity. I do a lot here, mostly Hazbin fic requests, personal plotty chapter fics, and (as below), fanart.
I'm trying to be more active here. Have a Procreate timelapse! As always, I so very much love and appreciate ALL of you for being here while I scrape myself up from rock bottom, yet again. 🥳🥳🥳🥳
I need some validation; I'm not even sure where I stand, story wise. Writing wise. I've lost something; my creative spark is overwhelmed. I'M overwhelmed, and suffering from lack of energy for anything; and if you please, I'd love to ask kindly for some help and support. I could use kind words. Comments are so, so very welcome.
Can you restore the ‘Hazbin Hotel’ Wikipedia page ‘That’s Entertainment (Hazbin Hotel)’ on Wikipedia? The same person keeps blanking it.
Hey!
I'm honored that you think I might have that kind of authority within the Hazbin community, but I know as little about editing wiki pages as I do about the depths of the ocean. 😆
That being said, this is definitely one of the most random Asks I've gotten. 🤣
Oh no, looks like that super long and tiring ask has driven our darling author away…will she return soon and say “hello,” or is this closer to, say, a hiatus?
Now, now, patience is key. Maybe we’ll find out in less time than expected.
With good luck,
XOXO,
Gossip Girl🤫💋💋
(Anon)
OH MY!!
You've caught me, Gossip Girl Anon. Right smack dab in the midst of an absence without leave, ~and~ a depressive episode 😭💅🏼
No, no it's not the Asks, I swear! See, your darling author has what we shall refer to as a creative cocktail of juxtaposing mental illnesses and her *normal* just isn't as normal lately, as it should be.
She's alive, she's breathing, and taking one day at a time.
Your darling author is also wondering how to explain what she's going through without sounding like a victim, nor a broken record. 🤣
A simple "I'll be right back" shouldn't suffice, because I've said that to y'all before in between long ass hiatus' (hiatusi?)
One thing is for sure I could definitely use some positive energy, and thoughts &prayers (the good kind). The other thing I know for sure is I LOVE hearing from my favorite, very favorite Drama Queen, Gossip Girl herself. (You're famous on my blog and I think you like that a little too much, but the mystery intrigues doesn't it😭)
Shine on, my love. 💖 however low I might be right now your continued patience and kindness warms my heart.
This is your every couple months reminder, my WONDERFUL BABIES, that I so very much appreciate yall's patience while I dig myself up from mental rock bottom to write.
Y'all are so patient, and kind, and empathetic, so here's your friendly update that I love y'all so much. Every single wayward sinner and shining star who likes or shares, or reblogs me.
Believe me, I'm frustrated as hell right now that my mental capacity is that of a jellyfish, both for plot, & smut, Asks and prompts as well as that godforsaken RadioApple timeline I've been releasing in spurts.
You make this writer heart so very happy.
If I could have half the patience for myself as y'all do for me I'd be living the dream.
Love y'all!! Stay safe! Stay warm!! And please, for the love of Lucifer, keep on sinning and shining 😉🙏🙏🙏🤘
