#mallomars

For reference, 78s are discs that were used in the late 1900s for music and recording and shit.

I found Mellomars outside my door when I was about to head down for movie night a few days later. I wasn’t missing my chance to taste those wonderful treats, and my dear Y/n had saved me a trip. I picked up the box and carried it back into my room.

I was almost getting worried that our last encounter had left my little plaything without her wits. Y/n had seemed quite flustered, but I should have known she was scheming. This—this was utterly delightful. I didn’t think she was capable of something so interesting.

I was alone in my radio tower, planning out my next broadcast. I couldn’t just leave the adoring public waiting, now could I? Radio was the one thing I allowed myself to immerse in other than… well, other hobbies. The static hum of my equipment filled the room—a familiar sound, almost comforting.

And then, cutting through it like a blade, came a voice.

A transatlantic accent, crisp yet marred by radio static. My voice.

I stilled.

It was impossible, really. I wouldn’t have ever said something so absurd during any phase of my life. So that left the question—how exactly did that random sinner pull this off?

I was sure it was her. Who else would make it say:

“Good evening, dear listeners! It’s your one and only Alastor—the charming, cunning, and ever-so-handsome Radio Demon! But wait! What’s this? A mere sinner has outwitted me? Impossible! Unheard of! Why, I might just die of embarrassment all over again!"

Laughable. And yet… intriguing. Was this mere mischief, or was she trying to play my game? If so… I might just let her.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. Snapping my notebook of radio ideas shut, I headed towards the door. Angel Dust.

“I am terribly busy, dear boy. Don’t you have some… less important soul to bother?”

“Oh, uh, sorry, Al, but Charlie was askin’ if you’re gonna be around for movie night tomorrow?” Angel stammered. The nervousness wasn’t as hidden as he thought. Everyone has their tell.

If I remembered correctly, Angel was Y/n’s chosen accomplice. I grinned. “Tell Charlie I don’t think I can make it.” I moved to slam the door in his face, but he stuck a foot out.

“Wait! Y/n’s makin’ the snacks with Nifty!”

“I don’t see why that matters.” My glare sharpened. “And I’d like to be left to my peace.”

“I thought you loved her marshmallow-chocolate-smore thingy?”

“They’re Mellomars. An exquisite childhood snack,” I snapped. “I’ll be able to sneak some away afterward.”

“What if there’s no leftovers?” He dared to sound smug.

I slammed the door this time, hard enough to rattle the frame. What were they up to?

I strolled back to my desk—then froze. Something was off. The air carried a faint, cloying perfume. Her perfume.

This blasted girl.

My notebook wasn’t how I’d left it. I flipped through the pages, finding the broadcast draft I’d been working on torn out. In its place: cross-outs and rewordings, twisting my words into something unfamiliar. At the bottom, written in red ink not my own:

“I wonder how much I could change before you noticed? I mean, if I really tried, you know.”

Her handwriting. Messy, slanted, undisciplined. I dragged my finger across the ink, the faint scent of her perfume clinging to my skin.

Any other sinner would pay dearly for such insolence. Their screams would already be echoing in my tower.

But her? … She was proving herself a rather unique diversion.

I found Mellomars outside my door on the night of the movie. I wasn’t about to miss my chance to taste those wonderful treats. My dear Y/n had saved me a trip. I carried the box inside, and my curiosity piqued when I opened it.

Nestled between the cookies was a 78 shellac disc. A tag was scribbled across the label. A date. My birthday. The year marked me at about twenty.

I smiled. Broad. Sharp.

Perhaps this was her idea of an apology for her little break-in. A peace offering… or a dare.

I set the record on my player, adjusting the needle. The voice that spilled into the room nearly made me drop my Mellomar.

My voice. From another time. Smooth, unpolished, almost vulnerable.

“Good evening, dear listeners,” the record began in that bright, boyish tone. “It’s your one and only Alastor!”

Childish rambling. Amateur news, schoolyard stories, nonsense. Nothing like the commanding voice I wield now.

I sat, Mellomars forgotten, listening as the past played back to me.

She had found this. She had dug it up and delivered it to me with cookies and cheek. Mellomars and mischief. She knew precisely how to tease me, that blasted girl.

Curiosity gnawed at me like hunger. How much did she know? How much did she understand?

I hate pumpkin.

I hate all the hype when fall gets here and everything is PUMPKIN PUMPKIN PUMPKIN.

To me, fall means