Do it for the funsies c:

A crooked, weather-worn table stood at the end of a cracked driveway, soaked cardboard signs taped to its legs: FREE STUFF in uneven marker. The yard sale was clearly long abandoned. Most of what remained was garbage…a chipped coffee mug, broken costume jewellery, yellowed paperback novels with curling covers. But something tugged at you as you trudged ahead.

Wedged beneath a stack of waterlogged magazines was a book. It sat right in the centre, dry despite the damp area, like the rain had avoided it on purpose. Black as soot, no title on the spine or author. Just an inverted pentagram etched into the front in faded gold. 

You opened the cover. The pages were handwritten in fluid, elegant, crimson ink, almost... alive. You looked around. No one was watching. No one would miss it.

It started small.

You read the first chapter that night, sitting on your bed with the book propped in your lap. The words didn’t ask you to repent.

They didn’t tell you were broken. They didn’t demand blind obedience, or sacrifice, or guilt. Instead, they looked you dead in the eye and said: You are not evil for wanting. It taught you to believe in yourself, and all the flaws that made you human. To worship yourself first.

By the end of the week, you’d underlined passages, scribbled thoughts in the margins, whispered some of the manifestation rituals and lines.   

And slowly, so subtly you didn’t notice at first, things began to change.

You started saying no . To your mother’s guilt-laced messages. To your boss’s passive-aggressive overtime requests. To the voice in your head that told you were worthless if you weren't constantly bleeding for others.

Your laughter came back—sharp, unapologetic. Dared to look happy without apologizing for it.

Death was a whisper. But when you opened your eyes again…

The sky was red, like an endless sunset bled out. Neon lights flickered with glitchy menace, towering buildings leaned at impossible angles, and demonic figures strolled by as casually as humans in a shopping mall. Somewhere distant, a scream turned into laughter. Gunfire sounded like music.

Hell. You had made it . No chains dragged you down or demons who wanted to throw you in flames. For the first time, you were home.

You didn’t become an Overlord through brute strength alone. That was never your style.

You watched first. Studied the other overlords around you. How they schemed, how they fought, how they fell.You played the long game. Befriended sinners, made them feel safe. Gained their trust, learned their secrets. You brokered deals between rival factions, only to sabotage both and seize the aftermath for yourself. 

You didn’t need to shout to be feared. You let others speak for you. Let paranoia do your work. By the time you claimed your territory, you hadn’t just proven yourself ruthless. You’d proven yourself untouchable .

_______________________

Your assistant, an imp in a pressed black suit, rattled off tasks at a speed that made your temples throb. "—and the blood-trade deal with the Sloth Ring still needs your seal. Oh! And the emissary from Sector 7 is furious that you flayed his envoy last week—"

"He interrupted me, " you said dryly.

"—still, they’re demanding reparations." She continued onwards, scrolling through her tablet.“And your new tax policies have incited a small rebellion in the Lower Slums. Very passionate. Pitchforks. Fire. The works.”

“How quaint,” you murmured. “Tell them I’m touched, and send a response.”

“A… response?”

“Impale him. Let’s see him respawn after that.”

The imp shrugged and typed rapidly. You leaned your cheek against your knuckles, expression unreadable. This was the part of ruling you loathed—dealing with the stupidity of lesser sinners.

Before your assistant could launch into another rant about soul quotas, your door slammed open with a thunderous crack. A sinner stumbled in, panting, eyes wild. Your assistant beside you snarled, wings flaring. “How dare you barge in unannounced!”

You recognized the sinner, one of the spies you had in every district.

“Speak,” you commanded, your voice low but impossible to disobey.

“We found him, ma’am. Lucifer Morningstar,” she said. “He’s chosen to remain at the Hotel for the time being. To assist his daughter. Which complicates things.”

Your mind fixated on it instantly. Your pulse spiked, but you kept your face neutral. Lucifer. The Morning Star. The First Rebel. The one whose name you had whispered in every prayer when the world above had turned its back on you. When you were alone. You had whispered his name not in reverence, but in solidarity. You both were seen as social outcasts, always kept at the side-lines. You wanted to know…did he feel the same rage as you? Was their grief identical?

You had never seen him, not once since you arrived. So you had wanted—selfishly and hopelessly—to meet him. You had almost given up, and you had come to theorize that maybe Hell was a living entity and it was protecting its king. 

Was he still a dreamer? Still infuriatingly brilliant, and beautiful in the way only fallen things could be?

Now you had a way in. A reason to be in his orbit. You smiled, and felt alive more than ever. "Clear my schedule; I have a visit to make."

_______________________

The Hazbin Hotel exterior was a tall, elaborate amalgamation of arched windows and turrets. It was the princess herself who opened the door. “Hi there!” Charlie chirped, turning with a wide, happy grin. “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! Are you here for… redemption?” she offered, hopeful.

That word always came with a foul taste. You arched a brow, amused. “Redemption? No, darling. I didn’t come here to seek salvation. I don’t beg for anything from heaven. Hell is my home.”

Charlie blinked. “Oh! Sorry—I just thought, since our guests—”

You waved dismissively. “I’m here as a patron.”

Charlie’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “A... patron?”

“Yes, yes. Your hotel is….utterly fascinating.” You walked ahead. “You’ve made quite the splash, and well, I love where the action is. And I wouldn’t mind killing exorcist filth myself.”

Charlie regained her composure as best she could, straightening her jacket and stepping ahead with you. “Well, I—um—thank you! I mean, wow! If you don’t mind me asking–”

“Charlie,” Vaggie said sharply, her voice low but insistent. “Can I talk to you? Now.”

Charlie looked over, startled. “Can it wait a second?”

“No,” Vaggie said, her gaze flicking towards you. “It really can’t.”

Charlie gave you an apologetic glance. “Excuse me—just a moment.”

You only gave a graceful nod. Charlie followed Vaggie a few feet away toward the stairs. Not out of earshot, but just far enough to pretend it was private.

“What is it?” Charlie whispered.

“That’s her ,” Vaggie said, her voice tight. “You know who that is, right?”

Charlie blinked. “I mean… no?”

“That’s the Overlord who took over that chaotic district without a single army and made it her own, a feat no one has ever achieved. She’s manipulative, calculated, and terrifyingly efficient. No one knows how she got to where she is so fast. Some say she made a deal with something worse. Others say she is that something.”

“But she wants to be a patron,” she whispered. “Isn’t that good? ”

“No, Charlie,” Vaggie cut in. “It means she wants something. She doesn’t set foot anywhere unless there’s leverage to gain.”

Charlie chewed her lip, clearly torn. “She hasn’t done anything wrong…”

“Yet,” Vaggie snapped. “You want my advice? Send her away. Nicely. Now. Before she decides to get interested. Because once she’s interested, she stays. ”

Charlie looked back again. Your eyes met Charlie’s across the room and you smiled, not cruelly, just knowingly. But still, she said, “No. We don’t turn people away, Vaggie. If she wants to be here, we let her. That’s the point.”

Charlie turned and walked back towards you, heart pounding. She wasn’t naïve but still… she believed. When Charlie finally returned, still smiling, if a little stiff around the edges.

“Would it be too forward to ask for a tour?” you asked. 

Charlie perked up immediately. “Oh! Sure! That’d be wonderful. I’d love to show you what we’re building here.”

You offered a gracious nod. “Lead the way, then.”

“Well, well!” came a voice as the shadows manifested. “Isn’t this a surprise!”

Charlie froze mid-step. A familiar radio-static chuckle fizzled through the air as Alastor stepped into view, smile stretched wide. You turned with the same calm grace, expression unreadable, save for the faintest curve of interest on your lips. “Ah, the famous Radio Demon. I was wondering where you’d crawl out after seven years.”

Alastor’s grin twitched, just slightly. 

Charlie laughed nervously. “You two know each other?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Alastor said smoothly. “We’ve danced around each other a time or two. Power attracts power, after all. Though some of us do prefer to announce ourselves.”

You gave a soft, amused smile. “And some of us don’t need to.”

Charlie looked between them, increasingly unsure if this was a joke or something far more dangerous.

“I must say,” Alastor continued, tone still light, “it’s charming that you’ve taken an interest in our humble little rehabilitation effort. Not quite your usual flavor, though. Redemption always struck me as far too... tender for your palate.”

“I have varied tastes,” you replied. “And a fondness for lost causes.” Your smile was saccharine sweet. “Anyhow, Charlie needs more people to have her back after the last extermination attempt. And after your display of ‘battle’ with Adam, let's just say…that wouldn’t be me.”

Charlie felt the air grow a little colder. Not freezing but sharp, like the moment before a storm breaks. She quickly stepped between them, smiling tightly. “Okay! So, I see you two are… acquainted. That’s great. Really great. But, uh, we were just about to start the tour, so—”

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting,” Alastor said, bowing low with a mock flourish. “Please. Show our mysterious benefactor around.”

His smile sharpened as he straightened. He vanished into the hall, a trail of static humming in his wake. You turned to Charlie, expression once again composed. “I’m beginning to like this place already.”

_______________________

The muffled sound of their conversation faded as they moved deeper into the hotel. Back in the lobby, silence lingered for a beat longer than it should have. “Okay, what the hell just happened?” Angel Dust muttered, eyes still fixed on the empty hallway. “Did I just watch two Overlords flirt or declare war?”

Niffty popped her head up from behind a nearby couch she had been scrubbing furiously just moments earlier. “I don’t think that was flirting,” she said, blinking. “The pretty lady looked ready to slit Alastor’s throat.”

Husk, who had been quietly nursing something strong in a stained glass, glanced up with a grunt. “She’s trouble. Big kind.”

Angel leaned forward, expression sharpening. “So what’s the play? She’s classy, scary, the whole femme fatale thing. But what’s she doing here? Nobody drops here for charity.”

“She said she was a patron,” Niffty raised her hand as if answering a teacher.

“Right,” Angel said, eyes narrowing. “Because Overlords are always just feeling generous. I give it three days before something explodes.”

“Three?” Husk scoffed. “You’re generous.”

“I try.”

*

Charlie was still speaking. You nodded absently, gaze roving past half-cleaned windows and dusty corners. Then Charlie’s face lit up, brighter than you'd seen. “Dad!”

The word rang out like a bell. Your heartbeat spiked. Finally.

Lucifer.

Your mind spiralled inward like a lock turning with a perfect key. This was why you’d come. You had imagined this more times than you could count. But what you got was—

“Mmnhhgh…”

Lucifer shuffled out of a side hallway, yawning like he was just roused from a hangover. His hair was tousled in wild blond tufts, sticking up in odd angles like he’d fought a pillow and lost. He wore a duck-print loose shirt with matching pyjama pants. In one hand was a coffee mug that read, Duck Daddy .

He blinked blearily at Charlie. “Did someone say breakfast?” he mumbled.

Lucifer raised the mug to his lips and took a long, grating sip.

You stood still, frozen with a poise born of sheer will. Internally, something in you reeled. Your anticipation twisted like a knife. This was him ?

Charlie gestured between them eagerly. “Dad, this is _________,  And she wants to help the hotel!”

This... this was it?

He hadn’t even looked at you properly. You’d heard rumours, of course. That it was Lucifer who allowed the extermination of sinners, but you’d chosen to find an excuse for it, that maybe he was pressured or something more was at play. But now that you’d seen him, you knew it in your bones that he didn’t care. 

And you hated him for it. 

You’d imagined yourself by his side. Your divine purpose. But he was just a man. It wasn’t that you had expected perfection , no. But this disinterest, this casual disregard, made you feel as though staring at a faded replica.

“Forgive me,” you said quietly. “Would you mind if I stepped out? I just need a moment. Alone.”

Charlie blinked. “Oh—of course! Um, do you want someone to—?”

“No. Thank you.” You tried not to run away.

*

“Did I say something?” Lucifer asked, scratching his head. 

Charlie frowned. “No… it wasn’t that. She looked… upset. Disappointed.”

Lucifer’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t even introduced himself properly. Just… waddled in like a fool.

He let out a long breath through his nose and rubbed a hand over his face. Here he was again. Upsetting Charlie’s first patron. Making a bad impression. Failing, once more, to be the Lucifer Morningstar that anyone expected.

He had promised himself that he would help Charlie now that he was staying with her. But it was easier said than done. He couldn’t find the motivation to wake up from the bed, or create anything new and though he wanted to help his daughter, the idea of redeeming sinners was still absurd to him… 

You had looked at him . Seen him and left. He let out a slow, humourless breath. Why did it sting? He hadn’t even said anything. His mind spiralled inward, dark and familiar. The voice was always waiting there. They always leave, eventually. 

He hadn’t even wanted to come down this morning. But Charlie had asked. Come down, Dad. Say hello. Try.

He was always trying, wasn’t he? Trying to believe in her dream. Trying to support her. Trying to pretend he still had the spark she thought was buried.

But in truth? He believed in his daughter, of course. But these sinners ? He had fought and pleaded for them. For their right to choose. To create. To love freely whoever they chose.

And they spat in that freedom. They killed and lied and committed unspeakable acts. Turned free will into rot. He was stuck in a cage of his own making, watching them ruin everything all over again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Both Lucifer and Reader are going to work through their shit, trust me.

I’ve researched satanism to the best of my ability, and if you want to read more on it, read here.

Inspired by this post by dear @atlantis-just-drowned

On my ao3 as well ☺️

Do leave likes and comments, cuz it fuels my soul to write more and cuz I've praise kink like everyone else

Do let me know if you wanna be tagged!!

Also thank you for 200 followers!! It makes me overjoyed!

At first, he doesn’t believe it. The charming radio host, the laughing man whose voice everyone in the city adores? Impossible. But the more he digs — the darker it gets. Witnesses. Rumors. The way the murders seem to follow Alastor’s schedule. The same streets. The same nights.

Now he knows. And knowing burns.

But how do you destroy a man like that?

A man everyone loves, everyone protects — whose smile is printed on posters and whose voice sings through every home?

If he goes to the police, they’ll laugh in his face. There’s no proof. Just whispers.

So he starts thinking differently.

If the city won’t take Alastor from its pedestal… he’ll make him fall another way. He’ll make him hurt.

And then he sees her.

In a photograph. At first, in the paper — “The Beloved Fiancée of New Orleans’ Radio Star.” Smiling, radiant, with his arm around her waist. The picture of innocence. He stares at that picture until his fingers crumple the page.

Because now he knows what to do. Killing Alastor would be too easy. But killing the woman he loves — that’s justice.

————————————————————————

Morning light spills through the open windows of the theatre, dust swirling golden in the air. You’re laughing again — loud, unrestrained — the kind of laughter that echoes against the velvet curtains and painted walls. The kind that makes people turn their heads and smile without even knowing why.

It’s been a year. A year since you last set foot in that little house that doesn’t exist to you anymore. A year since the blood, the trembling, the silence. And somehow, you’ve managed to build a life again — piece by piece — like a performer putting on her costume, pretending it all fits.

“Careful there, sugar,” (F/N) calls out, her sequined skirt flashing as she balances a stack of sheet music. “You keep laughing like that and people gonna think you actually enjoy working here.”

You grin, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Well, maybe I do,” you say. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

She smirks. “Flattery don’t get you outta rehearsal, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes and lean against the piano, the scent of stage dust and perfume thick in the air. It’s routine — the laughter, the teasing, the music — and for the first time in months, you feel normal.

“Anyway,” (F/N) says, nudging your shoulder, “you still going out with your fancy man tonight?”

That earns her a playful glare. “You mean my fiancé?”

She throws her hands up dramatically. “Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Fancy Radio Star-to-be!”

You can’t help but laugh. “He’s taking me out again, yes. Said he’s got some sort of surprise planned.”

“Well, that’s new. He usually is the surprise,” she teases, smirking as she flips through the sheet music. “What’s it like, bein’ engaged to the most charming man in New Orleans?”

You think about that for a moment. “Exhausting,” you answer with a soft chuckle. “He’s always in the spotlight, always irritating, always—”

“—making you smile?”

You glance down at your engagement ring. The gold catches the morning light, scattering it into tiny sparks. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Always.”

Outside the theatre doors, the street hums with life — trams rattling, vendors shouting, the scent of coffee and sugar drifting in from the corner café. You wave goodbye to (F/N) as she disappears backstage, promising to meet her later before the evening show.

And then — for just a second — something catches your eye across the street.

A man, standing too still in the sunlight. A wide-brimmed hat hiding most of his face. Watching the building. Watching you.

You blink, and he’s gone. Just another shadow among the crowd.

You shake your head, brushing it off with a half-smile. Paranoia, maybe. Too many crime stories from Alastor’s broadcasts, you think.

You turn away, unaware that the same man — the one with hate burning colder than reason — lingers just around the corner.

Watching you walk away, hands in his coat pockets.

Waiting for nightfall.

————————————————————————

By the time dusk settles over New Orleans, the city hums like a heartbeat — steady, alive, draped in jazz and perfume. From your open window, you can hear the faint echoes of trumpets from a nearby speakeasy and the distant laughter of people on their way to somewhere wonderful.

You’re standing in front of the mirror, holding a golden earring in one hand and debating if the (fav shade) lipstick is too much. You tell yourself it isn’t — he always liked you in (fav shade). Said it made you look like something rare, something bright enough to light up the whole room — his way of wording that you look gorgeous in it.

Your reflection stares back at you, polished and perfect, but your chest feels hollow. You haven’t slept well in days. Sometimes when it’s quiet, your mind drifts back to that night — your father’s face, the sound that won’t leave your ears. You swallow the memory down with a shaky breath, whispering to yourself, not tonight.

“Tonight’s a happy night,” you murmur under your breath, straightening your hair. “You promised.”

You grab your little purse and head down the stairs of your building, stepping into the glow of the gaslights. The air smells faintly of magnolias and rain.

And there he is — Alastor, leaning against a lamppost like he stepped out of one of his own broadcasts, a bouquet of crimson lilies in hand and that same sly grin that always threatens to undo you.

“Ah, there’s my songbird,” he greets, sweeping into an exaggerated bow before offering you the flowers. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to elope without me!”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Don’t tempt me. You show up five minutes early and act like I’m late.”

“Five minutes without your company feels like an eternity, my dear,” he replies smoothly, and you roll your eyes.

“Flatterer.”

The two of you start walking down the lantern-lit street, arm in arm, your heels tapping rhythmically against the cobblestone. He’s animated tonight — charming the passersby, greeting strangers like old friends, his laughter filling the space around you. He talks about a new idea for his show, a ridiculous comedy skit involving a ghost orchestra. You tease him that it sounds too chaotic even for him, and he only grins wider.

You don’t notice how, from a nearby alley, a shadow follows your laughter with narrowed eyes.

————————————————————————

Later, the two of you are sitting on the edge of a quiet pier, away from the noise of the city. He’s taken you here often — says the river sounds like an orchestra when the wind’s right. The moonlight ripples across the water, painting it silver, and he’s humming softly beside you, one arm draped loosely over your shoulders.

“You seem… tired tonight,” he says after a moment, his tone softer than usual.

You shrug. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

“About what?”

You hesitate, eyes fixed on the water. “About how fast things change.”

He studies you, the grin faltering just slightly. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

You shake your head quickly, smiling faintly. “No. Just thoughts.”

He chuckles, brushing his thumb against your chin to tilt your face toward his. “Good. I’d hate to have to persuade you all over again.”

The kiss he gives you then is slow, grounding — the kind that melts time away. For a moment, everything feels still. Perfect.

Across the river, the man with the rifle exhales.

He’s been waiting for hours, hidden beneath the trees, eyes fixed through the scope. His hands tremble — not with hesitation, but fury. The sound of Alastor’s laugh drifts across the water, and it’s like a knife twisting in his chest.

He remembers the headline. The photograph of his brother’s body. The stories of “The New Orleans Butcher.”

And he knows.

He knows that man’s voice. The one that fills his radio, grinning while the city sleeps. The one everyone adores.

He can’t touch Alastor — not without getting caught. But the woman sitting beside him? The one laughing like she’s in love?

That’s how he’ll make him pay.

Back at the pier, you stand and stretch, turning to him with a teasing smirk. “I told you I’d outshine the moon tonight.”

He laughs quietly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You do, my dear. You always do.”

And in that exact moment — the smile still on your lips — the air cracks.

The night is soft, the river shimmering under the moonlight, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath just for you. You laugh at something Alastor whispers, the sound of his voice warm and familiar against your ear. His hand brushes yours, steady, grounding — and you think, I am exactly where I’m meant to be.

Then the world shatters in a single, impossible instant.

A sharp pain erupts in your chest. Your knees buckle. You gasp, a sound caught between a scream and disbelief, and Alastor’s eyes widen in panic as he sees you stumble backward. You try to speak, to tell him it’s nothing, that you’re fine — but the words dissolve into ragged breaths.

You hear the faint rustle of movement across the riverbank, too distant to catch clearly, but the intention is unmistakable. You clutch at your chest, the warmth spreading like fire, the air tasting metallic. Your legs fail you, and you fall backward, hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto.

“Y/N!” Alastor’s voice cracks, raw with fear. He lunges for you, arms outstretched, but he’s too late. The river catches you before he can.

Cold, merciless water wraps around you, pulling at your clothes, your hair, dragging you further from the edge. You flail, but your strength is failing, each breath harder than the last. And through the haze of pain, you see him — Alastor — reaching, screaming your name, but unable to touch you.

Alastor doesn’t think. He just moves. One leap, one frantic rush into the icy river, hands gripping desperately at the water. He drags you toward him, chest heaving, arms burning with cold and exertion, adrenaline and panic blurring everything.

When he finally hauls you onto the bank, the world tilts around him. He kneels there, shaking, chest heaving, the moonlight catching your still form in his arms. He holds you like he could somehow prop up the weight of your life against his own, bridal-style, cradling you against his chest, rocking slightly, murmuring your name over and over: “Y/N… Y/N… wake up…”

But your eyes don’t flutter. Your body doesn’t respond. Your lips are cold.

He freezes. The world stops. The city hums far away, ignorant, as he stares down at you, wide-eyed, disbelief flickering into horror.

The first tear doesn’t come. He just holds you, heart hammering, mind racing, breath catching. The edges of panic fray around him, and for a long, suspended moment, he simply sits there, staring, unable to process, unable to move.

————————————————————————

Somewhere far above, a shadowed figure watches. The man who pulled the trigger leans against a tree across the river, calm and deliberate. He’s distant, unseen, his breath even, rifle still in hand.

He watches the chaos he has created, a faint smirk curling his lips. He doesn’t move, doesn’t approach. Justice — or vengeance, as he calls it — has been delivered in the only way he could.

Across the water, Alastor rocks back and forth, frozen in the cold moonlight with the lifeless body of the woman he loves in his arms. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry. Not yet.

And somewhere, the shadow of the man who set it all in motion disappears into the night, leaving only the river, the cold, and the finality of what’s been done.

"Justice… in the only way he could feel it.”

————————————————————————

PRIDE RING, HELL, 1926

Your eyes snap open to red.

Not red like blood—but red like the sky is bleeding. The air burns, thick and heavy, and everything hums, as if the world itself is singing a note you can’t quite hear.

You try to sit up, but your body feels wrong. The ground beneath you ripples like liquid, and when you lift your hands, your breath catches. They aren’t your hands. The skin glows faintly, tinged with gold and pale blue, webbing stretching thinly between your fingers. They shimmer when the crimson light touches them.

Panic seizes you. You scramble toward the nearest reflective surface—a pool, a fragment of glass, anything—and freeze.

The face that stares back isn’t yours. Hair spills down in longer waves and golden streaks in your hair, catching light like sunlight through water. Strange fins curve where your ears should be, fluttering with each breath you take. Your eyes glint like polished amber, too bright, too inhuman.

You stumble back, shaking your head. “No—no, this isn’t—"

So the only thing you do is—

Let out the highest pitched scream Hell has ever heard looking at yourself (girl dw ur not ugly but u just confused).

Some other sinners passing by give you a weird look. One exchanges to the other "What‘s wrong with that weird bitch?“ and just go back to their own business.

Around you, the landscape howls—flames licking the horizon, shapes moving in the distance. Screams, laughter, the hum of chaos.

Hell.

Wait, hell.

"Fuck“ You only mutter very quietly to yourself.

The word falls flat against the heat. The realization hits harder than the bullet ever did.

You’re dead.

And somehow, that feels less terrifying than the fact that you’re here.

————————————————————————