#Candelabra plant

[faguscarolinensis]

Euphorbia lactea 'White Ghost' / 'White Ghost' Milk Tree at the Sarah P. Duke Gardens at Duke University in Durham, NC

[crudlynaturephotos]

[omedievalpixel]

Medieval Mods/CC WIPS

I have a BUNCH of behind the scenes projects, some of which I´ve posted over on the medieval sims discord!

Medieval Ingredients and Recipe Overhaul ft. variable eggs!! So each time you collect an egg, it'll be a different texture. (Also using this technique on capsicums/bell peppers, so you can have red, green and yellow ones on the same plant!). The ale barrel is functional and can also be used as an ingredient.

2. Ghost Story Image and Prop Default - replaces the torch with a candle and changes the images to more medieval-style monsters

3. Functional Butter Churn - the animation has been slowed down since I took this video lol

4. Functional Medieval Lighting - including lanterns, torches, candelabras with multiple flames etc. AND default candle flame effect

5. Medieval CAS Room

6. UI and Loading Screen Edits - couldn't find my other screenshots :(

7. Thatch Roof Object

8. Horse and Cart - this is still in very early stages so no pictures yet, but I´m at least 75% confident I can get this to work lmao

[604to647]

What Was I Made For?

3.1K / Frankenstein AU Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: Left on his own, Tim learns a new way to live.

Warnings: None! Age gap cause Tim’s like hundreds of years old 🤷🏻‍♀️😂 Semi-sentient woodland creatures that meddle, I guess 🤭

A/N: Inspired by @almostfoxglove’s beautiful AU moodboard below - if you haven't already, check out that post and the tags, along with all her other AU moodboards! Thank you so much for sharing them with us 🥹🥰

Title by Billie Eilish / Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always 🥰

For a very long time, Tim did not go outside during the daytime.

Father said not to.

And even though Father has been gone for many years, Tim still heeded his words.  His being the only voice Tim had ever heard.

He still doesn’t know why Father left.  He’s even less sure of why he never returned.

Merge Mansion remains dark, even during the day.  Its halls empty, its candelabras unlit.  If anyone was to pass through the ivy choked iron gates and listen at its door, and no one ever did, they would hear only the skittering of mice and the occasional heavy footstep, so slow and deliberate it could be mistaken for the heartbeat of a slowly dying house.

Only ever at night, Tim goes out to the woods behind the now dusty and crumbling mansion.  Those same woods where Father would have him lift, throw, break - repeatedly.  And Father would write furiously in his notebooks.  Tim thinks maybe that’s what he was made for.

For more years than can be counted, enough so that he passes into legend, Tim continues to do what he knows.  He uproots trees and plants and heaves them over knolls and into streams.  He rolls boulders and smashes rocks.  He haunts the forest alone until the dawn threatens to pierce through the thick overhang of the old growth trees; hiding within the moss-covered stone walls of the only home he’s ever known until night brings cover once again.

Until one night after so many nights, he just… doesn’t.  Instead of his nightly exertion to prove something to the darkness, Tim just sits and bathes in the pureness of the moonlight.  He breathes in the earthy musk of the forest’s damp soil and the sweet scent of pine mixed with bark sap.  Instead of his own laboured breathing, Tim finally hears the babbling of the brooks, the hooting of the owls, and soft breeze whistling between the low berry bushes and the high tree tops.  Tim doesn’t know if he was made to be at peace, but he finds that he can do it all the same.

He teaches himself to read.  At first using words Father would say and the signs he would point to in the room Tim lived in: Lock.  Unlock.  Hot.  Cold.  On.  Off.  Danger.  Stop.

Then from books about nature that he finds in the library, remembering words that Father would use to describe their surroundings when in the woods that Tim now knows so well.

Tree.  Rock.  Hill.  Hole.

It takes a very, very long time.  But Tim has nothing but time.

He’s not even sure if he’s doing it right - he has no one to ask.  Not that he could even if there was.  He says the words in his head the way he thinks they sound, but with no voice, never out loud.  He wasn’t made for that.

It’s no matter.  Even if he isn’t sure he’s sounding them out properly, Tim thinks he’s assigned the words to the pictures in the books of animals and landscapes correctly.  There are other books, as well.  Ones with illustrations that are foreign to him and where the words denote meaning that he doesn’t think he will ever understand, but he learns them anyways:  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  Love.

In his woods, Tim no longer destroys: he clears, builds, tends.  Tim carves out paths that feel softer on the bottoms of his lumbering feet.  He removes dead branches from healthy trunks and uses them to sweep the forest floor.  He rolls away dead trees, some fell by age or disease, others by his own hand in the olden days when he thought that was what he was made for.

He still only does these things under the cover of night.  Father had said to be afraid of the village at the bottom of the looming hill upon which Merge Mansion perched.  He warned Tim that if he was discovered, the villagers would come and hurt them both.  Tim wishes that he had known the words or had the voice to tell Father that he would have protected him.  That perhaps it was the villagers who should have been afraid of him. Father’s notebooks say that he was built to be fierce. 

The bunnies in the woods do not seem to think so.  Nor the foxes, or the badgers, or the mice.  The deer do not find Tim to be fearsome, and the birds readily to flock to him.

He supposes it’s because he starts to help them build their nests; his long legs easily carry him to the farthest corners of the woods where the best nesting materials can be gathered.  He volunteers his big, pawlike hands to dig their burrows and holes.  His strength he uses to drag logs and branches to where whole furry families reside, breaking the thick wood into smaller pieces to help them expand and fortify their homes for their growing broods and the incoming weather.  He’s tall enough to lift baby birds back into their nests when they fall out before they’re ready to fly.  He forages and shares all his bounty, himself having no need for sustenance. 

Tim would not mind if this is what he was made for.

The years continue to pass.  The village at the bottom of the hill gets less busy, smaller, and is eventually gone.  Tim only knows because he witnesses the number of tiny square windows illuminated by bright candles during the night, dwindle until there is only darkness.

From the now dilapidated walls of Merge Mansion, Tim watches as what remains of the village rots and is reclaimed by the Earth.  It looks less frightening to him the way it stands now, wild and lush - much more like his beloved forest where he’s only ever known friendly creatures.

It’s the bunnies who convince him to come out in the daytime. 

It had been an especially abundant year for the rabbits, with baby bunnies almost overrunning the forest floor.  The mamas plead with Tim using their big brown eyes to help round up their little ones and keep them safe, making sure none of them strayed too far from the safety of the woods.

Little bunnies are hard to see in the dark.

The first time Tim steps outside during the day, he’s so blinded by the sky’s brightness that he thinks perhaps his eyes were not made for sunlight.  His forest is so green in the daytime.  A richness of browns with the occasional pop of red, blue, even lavender.  In the winters, the snow is so white during the day it appears almost clear.  Once the snow has melted, the streams splash with fish that jump during the day – something that never happens at night.  The sun’s beams warm Tim’s rough skin in a way the moon’s cold, comfortable ambiance never has.  The sounds of the forest are so much louder, cheerier in the day than they are at night – it strikes Tim as odd given it’s the same forest but he supposes he feels more alive during the day as well.

The deer are the ones that lead him out of the forest and to the front of the house.  The overgrown grass on the Merge Mansion hill begs to be grazed on, and with the village gone, Tim and the deer while away many days unseen and unbothered amongst the soft green blades – looking out to a splendid view of rolling plains and sprawling forests stretching all the way to the horizon.  He never strays far from the house - still heeding Father’s words of caution even though the dangers he warned against look to be long gone.

Tim doesn’t even know that another village has sprung up somewhere on the other side of a low mountain that he considers to be more than a fair distance away until you.  The first time he sees you, you’re but a little girl and you come with your own father to the cemetery that rests at the bottom of his hill, where it once bordered the old village.  The same cemetery from which Father gathered the parts that make up Tim as he is, if Father’s notebooks are to be believed.  The deer scamper away before you or your father see them, but Tim stays and hides, watches.

He hears your father tell you that these graves belong to your ancestors who once lived in the old village that’s now gone and that even though you live on the other side of the mountain, you should still pay your respects.  Tim listens to your cheery chatter and the hum of your father’s merry tunes as the two of you clean the gravestones, pull the weeds, plant fresh gardens.

You and your father come every week and Tim begins to look forward to it.  He watches you grow into a beautiful woman and your father into an old man.  He listens to the musical lilt of your voice and the gentle teasing of your father as the two of you care for and nurture the plot of land at the base of the Merge Mansion Hill so that it grows vibrant and fragrant with flowers that he’s only ever seen in Father’s books.  He hears your father tell you stories he heard as a child about the house that Tim lives in – the legend of a mad scientist and a terrible monster.  Tim doesn’t know why, but he feels relief when you laugh at these stories and call them ridiculous.

When your father stops coming with you, Tim watches over you in his stead.  You continue to do your duty in the cemetery joyfully and your sweetness is like an invitation.  The bunnies and the foxes and the mice and the deer all come down to join you.  You laugh and share your food with them and they enjoy your company as much as you do theirs.  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  He thinks he finally understands.  When his furry friends turn their soulful eyes up to the house, Tim knows they’re looking to him to come down but he shakes his head no.  He’s not made for this.

He doesn’t know that you see him anyways.

You’ve known he was there since the days you would come to this cemetery with your father as a little girl.  Most times as just a shadow on the Merge Mansion grounds, but once or twice you had seen Tim’s handsome, haunted face in one of the cracked windows.

You don’t know who he is or what he is, but some how you know that you have to pretend that you’re unaware of his presence.  As if for some laughable reason, he finds you to be frightening.

So, you try to make yourself to be as nonintimidating as possible.  You wear soft flowing fabrics that lie prettily over your equally soft skin in pleasing colours that compliment the hue of your hair and the brightness of your eyes.  You keep your voice gentle and the sound of your notes harmonious when you sing or hum your favourite songs of love and fantasy.  When your father tells you the old stories of the Merge Mansion Monster, you make sure to loudly decry this characterization.  Your unseen friend is not a monster, and you want to make sure that he knows you know that.

Your woodland friends who proclaim to know him best seem to say, give him time.  So you do, waiting patiently for a sign.  For what?  You don’t know.  Just a sign for more.

It comes one summer day, many, many years after your weekly trips to the cemetery became solo trips.  For two weeks, you’ve been in a state of mild panic, unable to find the delicate gold chain necklace that your father gave you - his last gift to you before he passed.  A part of you fears that it may have come unclasped and dropped onto the path some time during your weekly trip to the Merge Mansion cemetery; your heart clenches – if that was the case, your treasured necklace is surely lost.

Your surprise when you find your necklace waiting for you on top of a gravestone next to a small tied bundle of lavender is palpable.  Your eyes threaten to overflow with tears as you look up the hill to the house and mouth, thank you.

You don’t know that you had actually lost your necklace next to this very gravestone and that one of your bluebird friends had carried it up to Tim in its beak.  Tim spends two weeks practicing making the small bouquet of lavender – his large and clumsy hands unused to the precise and delicate movements required.  He refers to the instructions in the book he found so many times he can see the diagrams in his sleep.  But he keeps trying until he gets it right – wanting to offer you something more than just your returned necklace as a token of his appreciation for all the work you do.  Holding the delicate chain in his oversized hand, he can’t stop looking at it glittering in the moonlight and admiring its intricate craftsmanship.  It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  Well, second.

The next week, Tim discovers a large and fragrant bouquet of the cemetery’s best and biggest blooms laid outside of his iron gates.

Three weeks later, on the same gravestone, you find those flowers dried and pressed, then laced together in a pretty flower crown.

You weave your own from new fresh flowers and leave it in place of the dried one you take home.  The following week, the crown you made is gone, and in its place, a large pile of fresh wild berries that must come from the forest behind the mansion.

The squirrels had objected, but Tim promised that the reduction of berries from their weekly hoard would be for a good cause.  You helped prove him right the following week when he returned from the hill with a jar of wild berry jam which he happily shared.

This continues for months.  Each week a small, thoughtful trinket exchanged - neither you or Tim having much to offer except your consideration and time.  The giddy anticipation and resulting awe a gift in itself.

The day you bring a blanket that took you six weeks to knit, you’re imbued with a bravery (the source of which is unknown even to you) that brings you all the way to Tim’s doorstep.  The heavy door opens when you push against it, but no one answers when you call out.

While Tim is in the woods assisting with the birth of a newborn deer, you’re wandering the dark, musty halls of Merge Mansion.  You find where you think Tim must sleep: in a room that looks like a lab - electrical wire equipment, gurneys, restraints and medical utensils long since pushed against the walls of the room and abandoned.

You read the notebooks left behind by the scientist and seethe on Tim’s behalf.  To call him a Creature!  To experiment on him and put him through trials of endurance and strength as if he was merely an instrument for violence!  You’re grateful that Tim’s creator must be long dead by now, else he might not be able to escape the vitriol you feel rising in your chest at the mistreatment Tim endured at his hand.

You leave the blanket and the mansion in a hurry.

When Tim comes back into the house, he knows immediately that you were there.  He smells you.  The sweet floral perfume from your garden and the sticky scent of fruit from your jams hangs in the air.  Nothing in this house or the forest smells quite so lovely.  You were here. 

With growing distress, he finds your thoughtful gift in the room where he sleeps and knows that you’ve read Father’s notebooks.  You know the truth of what he is now.  He’ll never see you again.

But you come back.

You leave him a letter and for three weeks, he reads it every day. 

It’s a letter that tells him about yourself and your family, and how you came to be his weekly visitor.  You tell him how you’ve always known he’s been there but you were afraid to scare him away so you never let on that you saw him.  You tell him that now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you’re not quite so angry at Father but you do think that he didn’t understand Tim’s true nature, or perhaps, you concede, he simply wasn’t gifted enough time to understand. 

You tell him what you think of his nature.  In your experience, men who are strong are rarely gentle and those who harness power are hardly ever giving.  But Tim is.  His hands, arms and muscles may be sewn together from much lesser men, but he, Tim, wields his strength to protect and look after others.  His heart may not be able to pull down trees or break rock, but it’s tender and pure – and where his true power lies.

You write that even though you’ve never met him face to face, you only ever feel safe and cared for knowing he’s around.  And you hope that even if he never forgives you for trespassing in his home and going through his personal belongings without his permission, he will take your words to heart.

Every week you come back to the doors of Merge Mansion bearing a small gift and a big apology, but Tim is nowhere to be found.  You’re starting to fear that you’ve crossed an unforgiveable boundary and ruined your indescribable but cherished connection, when the most wonderous sight awaits you as you near the top of the hill nearly a month after you left your letter.

Tim. 

Impossibly large and broad, a hulk of a man is sitting on the front steps waiting for you.  His face is hard, lined from time and worry, but his eyes are soft and vulnerable.  You see some trace of old scars along his forehead and neck, and down the worn skin that stretches over the corded muscles of his forearms.  His clothes are outdated and entirely the wrong size, but somehow it works on him.  He looks formidable.  Wild, yet tame.  Handsome.

You run to him, beaming.  Tim stands when you come to a stop in front of him, towering over you as he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the forest lands behind his home that he tends to so carefully.

When you reach out to accept, your small fingers brush his larger calloused ones, and the jolt of electricity that passes between the two of you feels like pure joy.  And although Tim can only offer a quiet grunt, unable to say the words that he wishes he could sing with his whole chest, you understand him perfectly.  Your incandescent smile and hopeful expression reassure him that you too, recognize the simple, unspoken truth: Tim was made for you.

🎶Obligatory Billie Eilish, What Was I Made For lyrics🎶:

'Cause I, 'cause I I don't know how to feel But I wanna try I don't know how to feel But someday I might Someday I might

Think I forgot how to be happy Something I'm not, but something I can be Something I wait for Something I'm made for Something I'm made for

[old-world-bird]

✨The BIG post✨

About flowers and symbols and details and processes to celebrate a New Year, may it be merciful upon us all. Starring this piece with Strahd, that piece with Strahd, and another piece with Strahd. Can't say I was too productive this year, but when I was - oh boi I tried my best.

We'll go in chronological order. Please don't pay attention to the fact that it's Spring already, I honestly started composing this thing in December.

Also, although all three campaigns are heavily homebrewed and this post is generally spoiler-free, I'll leave the spoiler alert here just in case.

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THE FAMILY PORTRAIT

The family portrait of Strahd and his daughter from one of Tatyana's reincarnations for @blazingemstone.

First of all,

To my shame, I still have not researched, why some mysterious unidentified vines represent intoxication, while ivy, the vine I've used here, means fidelity (it won't easily let go of something it's attached itself to), eternal life (because the plant is evergreen), and marriage. Anyway, I think it's one hilariously ironic combo of meanings, so I let them co-exist in my head and in this piece.

Love and Bravery

Roses (love) and oak leaves (bravery) make up the combo I use as Zarovich's patented trademark for some years now??? I think??? Pretentious, fancy, symbolic, and neat, looks especially nice near the Zarovich crest. In this particular piece, the roses are yellow because it's the golden embroidery, but gods bless this coincidence: yellow roses symbolize jealousy and decreasing love. Strahd is in a complicated relationship with his daughter, himself, and the world around him, and all these symbols work nicely together here.

Young Anastasia wears roses on her gown to

But rosebuds here are closed. Because, you know, immaturity. The love that has yet to unfold.

Also, hand positions. In this iteration of Barovia, Strahd is deeply possessive and protective of Anastasia because of her resemblance to Tatyana. Anastasia, in turn, interprets this as genuine care for her. She is grateful and also admires him. I tried to reflect that relationship in the way Strahd firmly grasps Anastasia's shoulders while she touches his hand gently in a responsive gesture of soft gratitude.

The portrait of an eternal love

The white lily in Tatyana's hands represents innocence; her face is covered with ivy vines and a blue veil, and we kinda can claim that all this refers to the mists that stole her life, personality, youthful innocence, etc... But actually, honestly, I just wanted this corner to look eery. On the other side, gotta trust own brain when it offers something like this. You never know what deepest meanings one can find in these random ideas later.

Some other details

I went a bit experimental with the fur lineart, using curly lines for Anastassia and pointy lines for Strahd. This was done to emphasize character differences.

Also, the spiderweb texture on Strahd's shirt references another campaign's portrait of him with his daughter. Man, my man is a parent of many children.

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THE ROYAL ONE

Lady Strahd's fancy royal portrait with the ominous shadow, some flower symbolism, and pretentious candelabra for @flyingkitesatnight

First of all,

I feel obligated to share the knowledge that the sketch where the shadow eats Strahd's head existed at some point.

Mirror strikes again

You might remember the older piece with Strahd and Alek, where there also was the mirror without Strahd's reflection.

This time, to emphasize the inhuman nature of the vampire, we added swirling fog where there is no reflection. You know, it's kinda like the mirror is showing the true nature of a vampire, which is mist, and I probably should stop seeking deep meanings in my own artworks, but it's fun, so maybe next time...

Yay, 🌸flowers🌸

A deep red carnation on the chest translates as "Alas! for my poor heart!" Fun fact: striped carnations represent refusal, and yellow carnations are said to mean disdain. Nothing good about carnations out there.

The commissioner requested something to represent Lady Strahd's softer/feminine side in opposition to the monstrosity and war-forged brutality, so in addition to a softly falling hairstyle, we chose Spanish jasmine (in the hand), which represents sensuality.

The almond tree on the wall tapestry represents hope. It's blooming in the light and is withered where the monstrous shadow is cast.

Other small details

Quite obvious references, but I'll mention them because why not.

Clothes reference the module portrait of Strahd. Almond tree tapestry is inspired by van Gogh's paintings. And yes, there is a War against Azalin book, written by this lady's own hands.

━━━━➳༻❀✿❀༺➳━━━━

AND THE MOVIE POSTER

For @curseofthebloodcountess's and @troubledtimeinravenloft's and their marvelous party. Oh boi, where do I even start here...

Probably with the link to the GM's post, where they dive into the details about who all these fellas are.

And once again, 🌸FLOWERS🌸

Strahd is surrounded by poisonous hemlock ("You'll be my death") and there are weeping willow branches (mourning) behind her, and that perfectly sums up her relationship with the party aka her past, present, and probably the future. Hemlock is also embroidered on her dress.

Theodora, the Morninglord's nun in the upper right corner is not only a suspiciously independent construct of the Abbot's creation but also a reincarnation of Strahd's dear friend from the times everyone was alive. Spiked Speedwell is there as a symbol of semblance, and zinnia represents thoughts of absent friends.

Alistor, the knight of Argynvostholt, bearing dragons and scales on his armor, is actually Strahd's long-lost son. Cinquefoil flowers represent maternal affection, and harebells represent grief.

There is also a frame of bramble, most of which creeps around Kolyana siblings and the last member of party, Tam. But some branches twist with Alistor's frame as well. Bramble represents envy.

Creeping willow all around the bottom corner symbolizes forsaken love. Tam, the ranger, eventually turned out to be a reincarnation of Sergei. He is surrounded by the aforementioned bramble of envy and creeping willow, and we also added a rosebay - danger - because of how paranoid his mere existence makes Strahd. You know, those flashbacks from days long gone.

Fun fact #1 - in Estonian, rosebay is põdrakanep, which literally translates to "elk's hemp". Fun fact #2 - in the early sketches, I suggested adding meadowsweet behind Ismark. It means uselessness, and it is very SAD for meadowsweet because it is pretty and smells heavenly good. Fun fact #3 - pine branches behind Tam are there because he had spent most of his life in Svalich woods, so in this particular case, pine was meant to represent, well, pine. But apparently, book says it also means "pity", and this is another neat coincidence. Does Sergey pity Strahd? Who knows. Does Tam pity himself because he is tired and simply wants everyone to just leave him be? There is such a chance indeed.

Bats, dragons, and other cute animals

The traditional fancy bat-winged candelabra is missing here. That could be a shame, so I decided to add bat wings to the frame twice and all around Strahd's gown, including the necklace. Still not as good as a pretentious candelabra could be, tho....

Then there is a wolf devouring the sun. Twice. The frame around the sun references the teeth pattern.

And then there is a small doggy paw mark on Ismark's leather armor because he is the golden retriever of the party and the best boy of the whole Barovia.

Dragons and scales all on and around Alistor, because Argynvostholt. Also, he's standing in flames not only because he and dragons are hot, but also because this fella seems to be an arsonist. "He burned down the coffin shop, he ran through fire to face Strahd at the festival" (c) their DM.

Also, the embroidery on Theodora's clothes is inspired by traditional angels and her familiar Benedict Algernon Ernest von Birdington the Fifteenth, a perfectly normal Morning Dove.

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That will be all for this time. Hope you enjoyed reading this ✨

The sourcebooks used are Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway and Floriography by Jessica Roux.

Commission info

[madraynesims]

20th Anniversary Gift for The Sims 2 from The Sims Console and The Sims Bustin' Out

Happy 20th anniversary to The Sims 2! I absolutely love The Sims 2 and how this game was treated. Every platform for it provides different, unique gameplay and lore. Out of all the PC versions, this is the one I tend to gravitate towards. There's just something about it. So here's a gift to celebrate it! This gift consists of 9 conversions (+ an extra of the Torchemada Wall Torch to include a flipped version) from The Sims console and The Sims Bustin' Out. This was heavily inspired by the master bedroom at the Goth Manor location, also in spirit of Halloween coming up! Please let me know if there’s any issues!

The Sims console and The Sims Bustin' Out collection file for The Sims 2 can be found on my collection files page: Found Here

Downloads:

20th Anniversary Gift For The Sims 2 - SFS

Alt Download - Patreon

Enjoy my work? Consider becoming a Patreon or buying me a coffee!

Modern Mission Bed Information: The modern mission bedding is included. Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §3,000 Category  - ‘Comfort > Beds’ Polycount: 1704 (the frame alone is just 196) Texture Sizes - 256x256

Modern Mission End Table Information: Has 9 deco slots, shown in last photo. Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §250 Category  - ‘Surfaces > End Tables’ Polycount: 68 Texture Sizes - 128x128

Traditional Oak Armoire Information: Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §550 Category  - ‘Miscellaneous > Dressers’ Polycount: 700 Texture Sizes - 256x256

Faux Bearskin Rug Information: Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §4,300 Category  - ‘Decorative > Rugs’ Polycount: 231 Texture Sizes - 256x128

Queen Vivanco Roses Information: Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §99 Category  - ‘Decorative > Plants’ Polycount: 314 Texture Sizes - 256x128

"Eruption of Decadence" Tapestry Information: Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §8,100 Category  - ‘Decorative > Wall Hangings’ Polycount: 72 Texture Sizes - 256x256

Torchemada Wall Torch (left and right versions) Information: Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §250 Category  - ‘Lighting > Wall Lamps’ Polycount: 438 Texture Sizes - 128x64

Torchemada Candelabra Information: Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §400 Category  - ‘Lighting > Floor Lamps’ Polycount: 455 Texture Sizes - 128x128

Topiary Skull Information: Mesh and textures were converted by me. Price - §101 Category  - ‘Garden Center > Shrubs’ Polycount: 972 (1084 overgrown) Texture Sizes - 128x128

[justporo]

Do you have any headcanons on what Astarion and Tav's home would look like? :)

You bet, I do! But I put some more thought into it over the day so may I present you with:

Domestic headcanons about what Tav's and Astarion's home in Baldur's Gate would look like

After your adventures and some looting of certain castles you go to buy a small but luxurious townhouse in the Upper City of Baldur's Gate - probably criminally under its actual worth but you two are just so convincing, aren't you?

Dark wooden floors, high windows (with thick brocade curtains of course), wrought-iron balcony and fence - it's giving gothic and dark academia but in a homey and warm way

Soft lighting everywhere, lots of candles and candelabra, a fire place of course and oil lanterns that make every room feel warm and cozy

Astarion has impeccable taste and enjoys a bit of decadence (of course) and really finds joy in picking out furniture and decorations - he's going for noble, rich, palace-y, posh vibes, but tasteful

Also Tav would stop him from going overboard - she's not used to all the pompous stuff and cares more about the pracitcality of it all; also she's definitely the one who brings in some plants and greenery; also some nice stuff for Scratch because I'm sure Tav would insist on being the one to keep him

When Tav says she'd rather likes it simple tho... "Simple, love? Everyone can have simple, but not just anyone can have beautiful!" "So... you are not denying that beautiful means more complicated?" "No, but isn't that also why you chose me after all? Because I'm intricately complicated and incredibly beautiful?" Can't argue with that logic

Tav's also focused on making it cozy though and especially creating comfy little corners where they can just lounge together: like a little alcove to sit and read or look out the window or some pillows on the wood floor so you can sit in front of the fire place

There's a chaise-longue somewhere in the house - maybe in the incredibly over-sized dressing room, so Astarion can lay on it and watch Tav dress

DEFINITELY NO MIRRORS - no need to remind Astarion of that particular part of his condition; also why would he need it if you can tell him how beautiful he is everyday?

There's also a piano (as we have learnt before *wink*) and lots of books and trinkets and artworks - Astarion likes all stuff having to do with arts

It might be messy, at least at the beginning, you're both not used to having and holding onto stuff, also Astarion's desperately trying to find himself - that comes with creative chaos

Is there even a need to mention the bed is huge? And also has very much cliché dark red silk sheets? But it's probably the piece of furniture where you spend the most of your nights, not only for mingeling but just sitting and laying there, reading, drawing, talking, teasing each other

Also at some point you'd probably get a joint portrait but you don't want it to be too stiff and regal rather wanting it to show how much joy you give each other

The kitchen is to spoil Tav: when Astarion finds out you enjoy cooking and are pretty skilled at it he gets you all the best equipment he can find - even though you don't know how to use half of it - yet

Oof, I could maybe keep going some more... Thanks for the message, it was fun to think about this. (Also I know I might be swinging between medieval and more victorian vibes but hush, it's a fictional world where everything is possible) Also I knew I wouldn't yet do requests - but really that was just me putting something out there I already thought about. And I'll do some requests soon!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

One Poem a Day: November

"beautiful" words related to November for your next poem/story

November - 11th month of the Gregorian calendar. Its name is derived from novem, Latin for “nine,” an indication of its position in the early Roman calendar; a communications code word for the letter n.

Aeonian - lasting for an immeasurably or indefinitely long period of time

Apotheosis - the perfect form or example of something; quintessence

Bonfire - a large fire built in the open air

Cavalcade - a dramatic sequence or procession; series

Chrysanthemum - any of various composite plants including weeds, ornamentals grown for their brightly colored often double flower heads, and others important as sources of medicinals and insecticides

Cider - fermented apple juice often made sparkling by carbonation or fermentation in a sealed container

Cinnabarine - a deep vivid red

Citrine - resembling a citron or lemon especially in color; a semiprecious yellow stone resembling topaz and formed by heating a black quartz in order to change its color

Claret - a red Bordeaux wine; a dark purplish red

Confiture - preserved or candied fruit; jam

Cotyledon - the first leaf or one of the first pair or whorl of leaves developed by the embryo of a seed plant or of some lower plants (such as ferns)

Cranberry - the red acid berry produced by some plants (such as Vaccinium oxycoccos and V. macrocarpon) of the heath family; a dark red

Eld - old age; archaic: old times; antiquity

Felicific - causing or intended to cause happiness

Firewood - wood used for fuel

Flaxen - resembling flax especially in pale soft strawy color

Foliage - a cluster of leaves, flowers, and branches; leafage

Glissade - a gliding step in ballet

Gramercy - archaic: used to express gratitude or surprise

Kuchen - any of various coffee cakes made from sweet yeast dough

Lionize - to treat as an object of great interest or importance

Petiole - a slender stem that supports the blade of a foliage leaf

Rufescent - reddish

Sempiternity - eternity

Titian - of a brownish-orange color

Topaz - a usually yellow to brownish-yellow transparent mineral topaz used as a gem

Torchère - a tall ornamental stand for a candlestick or candelabra

Torpid - exhibiting or characterized by torpor; dormant

Vermeil - vermilion; gilded silver

Whiffle - to blow unsteadily or in gusts

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Word Lists ⚜ Writing Prompts

If any of these words inspire your writing, do tag me or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

[rottenpumpkin13]

Out Of Context Things Director Lazard Has Seen On The SOLDIER Floor #2

• Genesis carrying around a mop, talking and laughing with it as if they're friends.

• Sephiroth doing a cartwheel mid-walk.

• Zack in the men's room, applying clown makeup while sobbing.

• Kunsel carrying a box of random items and yelling "STOLEN ITEMS FROM RUFUS SHINRA. GET YOUR STOLEN ITEMS FROM RUFUS SHINRA" and Sephiroth approaching him with a 20 gil.

• Sephiroth and Angeal fighting over a pineapple, trying to pull it from each other's hands.

• Angeal and Genesis crouched down behind the couch in the break room, eating a cheesecake away from Sephiroth.

• Zack playing chess with Dark Star, claiming "Damn it! How are you so good at this?" while actively losing.

• Sephiroth with half his hair stuck in the elevator, calmly sipping his coffee with a sign that says "this is my punishment" around his neck.

• Angeal and Sephiroth cooing over an exotic plant in a baby stroller.

• Angeal trying to coordinate a group photo of Sephiroth, Genesis, Zack and Cloud. There was a lot of screaming, arguing and "WHERE ARE WE FUCKING LOOKING?" from Genesis because Angeal had 4 different cameras set up.

• Genesis in a lab coat conducting a science experiment to see if Sephiroth feels threatened by said lab coat. Upon seeing Genesis, Sephiroth reflexively broke his knee.

• Sephiroth taking a nap in the middle of the hallway, complete with an eye mask, pillow and sound machine. People were stepping around him.

• Genesis and Angeal carrying a kayak towards the stairwell.

• Angeal carrying Genesis with a broken leg back from the stairwell 20 minutes later.

• Cloud narrating everything Sephiroth does. "Sephiroth is now opening the door to the training facility. Sephiroth has paused. Sephiroth is now looking at me confused, which could easily be confused for his thinking about lunch face."

• Zack, blowing on a whistle, instructing a squats class.

• Zack and Cloud, both blindfolded, walking with their arms linked. They ran into a revolving door. and caused a metaphorical traffic jam inside it that ended with claustrophobic Sephiroth breaking the glass to free himself.

• The following conversation that piqued Lazard's interested greatly:

Zack: Would you like a smoke?

Cloud: Of course.

*Zack pulls out a tin of smoked ham*

• Sephiroth, Genesis, Angeal and Zack holding a Séance in the middle of the day in the break room. They refused to say which entity they were communicating with.

• Sephiroth, Genesis, Angeal and Zack running out of the break room screaming 20 minutes later.

• During a blackout, when Genesis was seen carrying around a candelabra like it's the 1700s and reciting an old version of Loveless. Someone threw the candelabra out the 49th floor window 10 minutes later and told him to put a sock in it.

• Zack stuck in the vending machine, calmly eating the snacks while Angeal, Sephiroth and Genesis argue over how to get him out.

• Genesis running after a copy of Loveless on a string. Sephiroth is behind a corner pulling the string.

• Sephiroth and Genesis, in The Calm Down Box™ playing Uno, screaming at each other, defeating the purpose of The Calm Down Box™

• Angeal and Genesis dragging Sephiroth (unconscious) out of a meeting. When asked if he was okay, they responded with "we had him fake a fainting spell to get out of the meeting." Sephiroth (still "unconscious") responded with a thumbs up.

• Angeal in The Calm Down Box™ with a taser, harassing anyone who came near him with it.

• Zack and the other Seconds using a prop skeleton dressed as Genesis as a practice dummy.

• The same skeleton sitting in in Genesis' office while a recording of Genesis reciting Loveless plays on loop.

• A tonberry dressed as Sephiroth walking around, terrorizing the operatives.

• Genesis in The Calm Down Box™ playing the flute and sobbing.

• Angeal playing the guitar and singing a happy campfire song while Sephiroth and Genesis were on the ground, fist fighting.

• Genesis, Sephiroth and Angeal dressed as knights while Zack and Cloud manned a single horse costume. When asked what was happening, they replied with "It's the apocalypse, but due to inflation we could only afford three horsemen and one horse."

• Zack sitting in The Calm Down Box™ except he placed it stop a skateboard and was actively trying to escape while Angeal ran after him.

• Sephiroth, Genesis and Angeal riding around in a three-person bike. They crashed into a sliding glass door they didn't realize was closed.

• Sephiroth sitting in The Calm Down Box™ chugging a bottle of tequila.

• Sephiroth, Angeal, Genesis, Zack and Cloud playing twister. Utter chaos. Zack's ass in Angeal's face, Cloud has turned into a pretzel, Sephiroth and Genesis are literally tangled and stuck together.

[ominoose]

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫!𝐊𝐚𝐧𝐞 - 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐇𝐂'𝐬

I just love him being clueless and being educated and then doing it wrong. I love unsocialized Kane, he is dear to me.

V - Vase (What flowers he gets you)

The assembly of flowers carefully assembled in the glass on your table matches no known species in The Botanical Encyclopedia, nor Wikipedia, or any of the five plant identification apps you ended up downloading after your first Valentine's with Kane.

He eventually tells you he grew them himself, but where, when and how, he won't elaborate.

It's a moot point regardless, any earthly flower would pale in comparison to the splay of bright pinks, pale blues and glowing yellows of the flowers that sway in a non-existent breeze.

They smell like the first day you met him.

A - Affectionate (How openly affectionate is he?)

Somewhat, as much as he knows how to be. There was a brief period when you showed him a few romantic films in an attempt to "culture" him a tad that ended in him trying to stoically eat your face or slamming his hand into the wall next to you just to say hello.

Over time, he's picked up on your cues, what actions make your heart race, which make your brow furrow, which make your eyes crinkle at the sides. He tends to go for the lighter touches, his hand brushing against your own, forehead kisses, chin resting on the head.

L - Love Language

Acts of Service.

Kane likes to do things, keep his hands busy if he can. He also likes to anticipate your needs and solve them before you have them. A hot cup of tea on the kitchen counter as soon as you walk in, your blanket finishing a spin in the drier when you're cold.

The only time his love language is any different is on Valentine's Day. You had to teach Kane what it was, framing it as a day celebrating love and romantic relations. The word love stuck, and it's one of the few times he verbalizes it.

Each Valentine's morning, he wakes up, opens his eyes to you, takes a few moments to gaze at every feature and says 'I love you.'

E - Eat (Where and how does he dine you?)

Going outside into society is a bit of a finicky business for Kane, partially because he's considered a military asset and partially because he has no idea how society works. That comes with the upside of him becoming amazingly refined in the art of home dining.

Kane has a habit of taking things at face value until context is provided, so his inspiration of a romantic dinner stems from the first few google image results, leading to an elaborate experience with every effort put in.

A crisp ivory table cloth is laid over the dining table, a sparkling copper candelabra and a handful of tealight candles providing a warm ambience over the glasses of wine. The three-course meal is made up of your favourites, from his point of view the entire evening is about impressing his love onto you and thus everything will be catered to your tastes.

N - Nicknames (What nicknames do you share?)

Kane doesn't use pet names, but makes up for it with the special, soft reverence he speaks your name with.

T - Tacky (How cliche is he?)

Half-and-half. His general notion of Valentines is based on romcom tropes and Pinterest boards, so it's all inherently quite on the nose. What balances it out from being too cheesy is the way he does things, like knowing petals littering the bed can be romantic, so he fills the entire room with rose petals until you can't see the floor.

I - Innovate (How did he fix a Valentines gone wrong?)

The first Valentines with him is a bit of a disaster. There's far too many chocolates, bouquets of flowers he'd pick from outside that housed some bugs and filled the house with the smell of pollen and dog piss, as well as him putting porn on the TV because it was the most intimate movie he could think of.

If there's one thing Kane does well, it's adapt. He very quickly read from your face that he'd gone about this wrong, and ushered you into a relaxing bath while he tidied his mess.

You don't get to leave the bath on your own, he lifts you out bridal style and towels you dry like you're a precious doll, moisturizing you with slow tender touches. Again he picks you up, carrying you to a candle lit living room, blankets laid out on the couch and soft jazz on the TV. Chocolate and wooing could be done later, he knew you loved quiet, intimate moments with him, and he knows, sometimes, the basic approach is the best when he curls you up on his lap and massages you.

N - Naughty

Kane doesn't view sex as an integral part of Valentines, it's more about romantic feelings and reinforcing them. You'll be the one that will need to initiate with him, unless you tell him beforehand you want to get physical.

That said, if you surprise Kane with new lingerie you can kiss any other activities goodbye, he'll keep you in that bedroom the entire day, and maybe a bit of the next.

E - Ending (How does he wrap up Valentines day?)

Lounging on the porch at night, a single candle flickering in the wind, glasses of your favourite beverage curled in hand with your head on his shoulder as some soft guitar melody sifts through the window screens. He'll tell you the name of every star and explain why they pale in comparison to you.

S - Song

He doesn't know where he heard this song first, or even if it was him that did, but you found him, eyes closed, standing in the kitchen listening. His face settled into something of understanding when he turned to see you.

[selfetishizing]

the nearness of you

loid forger/yor briar | rated T | oneshot | 5.7k words

mild hurt/comfort, mutual pining, romantic tension, scars, tending to wounds, identity reveal (sort of)

A wife in tatters.

AO3

In the hour before Anya’s bedtime, Twilight had come to the startling realization that his daughter is growing up. The hem of her favorite onesie had hiked up to the bump of her ankle, bump of her wrist. Anya, heedless to many things, the intricate and crucial things—a father’s silent suffering, a mother’s concerning absence—hugged him good night, telling him that he’d be in “big, hugiant trouble” if she caught him staying past midnight waiting for Mama. Bond, whom he wished could speak and voice the wisdom that seemed to be held within his marble eyes, nudged his nose against his calf as if to show his sympathy for his companion’s indifference. Then, they had left him in a quiet apartment to fill the Yor-shaped spaces with his thoughts.

The first hour after the first snore, Twilight contemplated calling Yor, whom he presumed sat lonely at her desk, saving the country one file, one staple, one document at a time. It could be no one else. It had to be Yor to help carry this obfuscating weight that their precious girl was outgrowing her clothes—that they were becoming older themselves. That they were drifting apart.

Tomorrow, he'd tell her, they’ll go shopping together as a family for shiny new dresses, skirts, blouses, and pajamas. He will buy them in bulks—small, medium, large—so that he will never have to experience this silent heartbreak, this wearying awareness that he, shrewd and tenacious as he was, was powerless against the hands of Time. WISE would have to understand the incoming banknotes; this agony would last him for the entirety of Operation Strix.

Twilight dialed the phone and watched the numbers reel back and reset. He listened to each ring and hung up, assuming that Yor must have been on her way home.

He grieved the onesie in his lonesome. It would have been nice to hear Yor’s voice.

The second hour, he tidied up the apartment. Watered the plants. Wrapped leftovers in plastic. Played with his daughter’s toys. He created homes out of blocks, families out of plush—a fox, a bunny, a kitten. 

Hearing footsteps outside, Twilight darted to the door, knocking the blocks over in his haste. His hand hovered over the knob. He listened a beat longer and knew by the slow drag of feet, by their unhurried stride that it was not Yor. Yes, he knew her by step, by breath. She would have silently stepped across the hall, keys jangling  in her pocket. She would hum on particularly nice nights or mumble to herself when she was especially exhausted. 

It was past midnight. Yor was not home.

Twilight wasn’t sure why he had decided to stay up that particular night. Yor had been late before. He knew that she could take care of herself. She had brought an umbrella to work that morning. She wouldn’t come home shivering. No colds would be carelessly caught.

As he cleared the rest of the dinner table—a silver candelabra, blown-out candles, unopened wine bottles—the answer he had swallowed whole made itself known. Somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, it was there anchored by reason. It would tremble at the raise of her lip, travel far enough to the heart where hundreds of buzzing bees would prick at his arterial lining for the chance of release.

Release had come close many times: mornings when she’d asked how he’d like his coffee; Saturday afternoons as she napped on the couch; nights he’d bandage the tip of her fingers after prepping dinner. It was a seed burgeoning into honeysuckles—honeysuckles that, as far as Twilight knew, had already grown in parts of his body and made his blood sweet as sap. They were honeysuckles that nearly sprouted from his mouth at the sound of his name or the touch of her palm. 

Twilight could cut the vines and twine the flowers. He could dress up, slick his hair back, and have his shoes shined downtown. He could bow down like a gentleman, kiss each of his darlings’ dainty hands. A bouquet for Anya and a bouquet for Yor—their names written in his neatest penmanship on parchment. Anya would snap the honeysuckles from the vine and break their pistols off, supping them of their nectar. Yor would bring the flowers to her face and take in their scent, and Twilight, absently staring, would catch himself and clutch at his chest. Then, they would know everything. They would know all of the words he doesn't say. 

It would be so simple to tie those feelings up with chiffon lace. Surely, it would save him the embarrassment of voicing those stubborn emotions that more often than not translate to knuckle biting,  bedroom pacing, and worried, sleepless nights like tonight. But he knew by now that every day spent with them had watered the garden hardly contained within the bed of his skin. Giving each of them a bouquet would not capture even a fraction of how much he yearned to truly be on their side of the world.

──────────⊹⊱❀⊰⊹──────────

Yor returned home at three in the morning.

The rain had stopped two hours ago. She was drenched. Her umbrella, dry, dropped to the floor as she stumbled in her heels looking for her lost balance in the lightless apartment. Before Twilight could open his mouth to speak, she clutched at the breast of his shirt with the abject fear of falling, pleading with him through ragged breaths to hold her, to not let go.

He didn't. Twilight hugged her close, arms fastened around her back just beneath her coat. She winced. Her body burned hot from shivering, and her cheek, pale and wan, was cold on his collarbone. 

Twilight called to her softly, called again to stir her. She could only sigh. 

A hand slid from her back, up to her side, trailing to trace the curve of her face. Twilight hesitated. Yor pushed herself against him as if to feel for pressure, for validation that this warmth was his. The grip on his shirt loosened when she was sure that she had made it home. After a deep breath, Twilight stroked her jaw, coaxing her to spare him a look—just one—to know that all was right.

All was not right.

When she finally moved her head up to stare at him, Twilight nearly gasped. The color had wrung from her skin. Her eyes, usually so bright with curious wonder, had shrunk half a flame. The lip that would whisper his name could only quiver with dread. She shook in his embrace as she discerned his expression, anticipating a question and readying a stolid defense. Twilight would not have it. Yor, always so strong and resolute, felt so small in his arms. He absolutely would not have it.

He caressed her cheek and he swore his heart had stopped. Red smeared over her skin. But where? How? His hands cautiously slipped down the plane of her back. Yor mewled, and he knew. 

All at once the corpuscles in his body rushed in surges to the tips of his fingers down to his toes, to the heart, the head. He must have been flushed red with how quickly the blood ran in his veins—how quickly rage consumed him. Twilight inhaled shakily, tempering those thoughts of twisted necks, mutilated legs, snapped elbows, and headless torsos; of bodies cold and ashen as Yor was now in his hold.

“Who?” he whispered sharply, using the last of his constraint as he eyed the front door. Ask, and she’ll answer.

“An accident.” Ask, and she’ll lie. But the eyes? No, they never lie. She smiled despite it all. This he knew was true. He slipped her coat off from her shoulders, letting it pool at her ankles. She held on tighter. “I’m so tired. I just wanted to come home.” 

Twilight could have cried from the tenderness she seemed to have saved just for him. Gone was the wickedness in his body, relinquished to the dark, dark, night. He took her face in his palms, tucking the errant strands of her disheveled hair behind an ear. One of her earrings was missing. Twilight, shattered by this disquieting and crucial detail, waited for his tears to come. They never did.

“I’m sorry, Loid. You must've waited so long,” she murmured in his neck as he delicately lifted her up into his arms. “You even lit the candles for dinner.”

“How did you know?” Twilight asked, redirecting her guilt to the shadows where it could vanish alongside vice. He clung to softheartedness, to goodness, to kindness. Tonight, he'd give it all to her.

“I smell smoke on you.” 

“You can?” 

Yor cupped her hand over her mouth. “You haven't been doing anything naughty, have you?” 

“Heavens, no.” Twilight forced a chuckle. “I guess I should have put on cologne before welcoming you home this evening. You're exhausted, and you come back to a reeking husband. How flippant of me.”

“Silly.” She rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as he carried her to the couch. “It’ll stain,” she rasped, too exhausted to put up much of a protest. Yor sunk into the cushions.

Twilight kneeled down to remove the heels from her throbbing feet. His fingers glided down the bend of her calf, noting the runs in her black stocking that weren’t there this morning. The heels, he imagined, had worn down from frantic mad dashes down crowded hallways to deliver reports and proposals. Yor must have tripped somewhere along the way knowing how clumsy she could be. It would explain the scrape on her right knee.

Twilight didn’t allow himself to think anything else of it. He'd crumble the very second he did. 

“May I go into your room, Yor?”

She seemed to have enough energy left to flinch at the otherwise innocent query. “I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes. Surely you weren’t thinking of changing without me tending to your…?” He could not bring himself to say it. To speak the very thing into existence would mean acknowledging the suppositions he had previously dismissed as soon as they were conceived. 

Twilight, insisting that she give in to his request, kept his hands on her knees as looked up at her imploringly. The more she turned his words in her head, the more flustered she became. The implication made the hairs on the back of Twilight’s neck stand. Surely, she wasn’t thinking something so unseemly.

He counted the moles dotting along the sides of her face and neck—five—as she pondered the question, connecting them to constellations he’d read about as a boy.

Cassiopeia—Queen of Ethiopia. Boastful and vain, she had boasted that she and her daughter, Andromeda, were more beautiful than the Nereids. Angered by Cassopeia’s remarks, Poseidon, god of the sea, had unleashed a disgustingly powerful sea creature, Cetus, onto her kingdom. Ethiopia would sacrifice Andromeda to the beast by chaining her to a boulder by the sea to restore order to the kingdom.

Twilight pondered the tale—the bonds between a mother and her child, the consequence of vanity, the peace offering that is a daughter. He thinks of Cassiopeia and Andromeda, Yor and Anya. The hero Perseus, who had rode upon the Flying Horse to save the princess, would cease to exist. Had Yor been Cassopeia, Twilight knew, she alone could have protected Andromeda. There would be no need for epic knights in shining armor. A mother would have been enough.

Twilight imagined a woman with Yor’s features—a pale woman with a black cape for hair, pursed red lips, crows feet at her eyes. He thought about a mother, about death, and the selfishness in succumbing to it. Does Yor forgive her mother? Does he forgive his own?

And perhaps Yor had been Andromeda this entire time, chained against a rock as the sea rages and tears her hosiery, her skirt, her skin. Her kingdom—the house she once knew with the iron fences and rose bushes— was reduced to rubble by manmade terrors unbeknownst to myths and their slithery beasts. Only a cellar with a frightened boy cowered in its dark corners remained, waiting for his dear sister to come back.

Yor didn’t need a Perseus to fight this battle for her. But maybe, Twilight naively supposed, it wouldn’t be so bad to have one fight alongside her. A Perseus to patch her wounds. A Perseus to listen and to hold her when words succumbed to sobs.

"There’s a nightgown folded on my bed,” she instructed carefully, voice hoarse, as if it were some secret mission.

“Alright.”

“My pillows and blanket too, if you could.” She bit her bottom lip, thinking a request as simple as that could be a burden to him. “I think I’d like to sleep here tonight.”

“I can carry you to your bed, you know.” 

“I’m so heavy, and—”

“Light as a feather.”

“But if you touch me again, Loid, who knows what I’ll do? I could kick you, or, or… I could slap you! You’d definitely bruise or bleed.” She was hysterical. From blood loss? Fatigue? “And if I melt?”

Twilight raised a brow, amused. “Melt?”

“Yes. If you touch me again, I fear my flesh might slide right off my bones. Might turn to goo.” Yor looked down at her lap, making sure that she was still all together. Then, she imagined herself liquified—a wash of taupe and pinks sluiced over the carpet—and gasped. “It would take forever to clean me up.”

Yor shifted on the couch, letting all of her weight fall to one side. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The entire room stilled. An austere foreboding, cold and misty, crept into the chasm that separated them. Moonlight caught in the dark curtain of her undone hair, sanctifying her with faint halation. Twilight clasped his hands together and called upon the angels—pulled them down by those golden threads stitched to billowing clouds— to do everything in their power to keep Yor awake. 

“You mustn't fall asleep,” he said. “Not until I’ve dressed you.”

“Just a little tired.”

“Yes, darling, I know,” cooed Twilight, slipping her hand in his. He rubbed the smooth swath of skin above her knuckles with his thumb, absolving her of the unspoken remorse that was written all over her, that was slashed onto her back. He would take it from her. He would bear it all.  “It will only take me a moment.” 

The fondness that he never knew he could possess with Yor shocked him, terrified him. What would be more difficult, he wondered? To turn his shoulder and leave this sentimental mood? Or for a subliminal confession he so desperately wanted her to understand to plague her mind?

Every red flag was raised and yet here he was, groveling before his fallen Madonna. One word and it would be done. Yes—Twilight took that risk, a leap of faith. He chose the latter—the novelty of infatuation, of being completely and thoroughly consumed by the off-chance that Yor, too, harbored symptoms of a heart starved of the kind of feelings reserved for two. 

Yor swallowed thick and squeezed his hand weakly. She nodded, and Twilight, the ever loyal husband, obeyed her command.

Quickly, he minced to his room, careful to not wake Anya. Underneath his bed was his personal first aid kit of gauze, sterilized needles, tourniquets, adhesive plaster, tweezers, wound washes, and antibiotic creams in a worn cardboard box so cleverly labeled ��TOOLS'' in hasty print. Somehow one of Anya’s pink star-printed bandaids had made its way inside. The alarms went off in Twilight’s mind before he remembered that he had absently slipped an extra band aid that was in his pocket in there after he had patched up Anya’s knee. (Just the other weekend, she had somehow fallen off a bicycle with training wheels. It was an understated art how kids seemed to find the danger in otherwise safe devices.) He gathered an arm-full of these things and pushed past his bedroom door with his back.

Then, Twilight’s hand hovered over the doorknob of Yor’s bedroom, bracing himself for the metaphorical crossing between flatmates and something more. Her room, steeped in the indigo night, pulled him in before he could reconsider. The lace curtains billowed out toward him, swathed him in dove white. Before he knew it, he was caught in a whir of Yor.

This room was indisputably her. It was furnished simply: a bed, a dresser, a cabinet, and a vanity. A patched pilled quilt Twilight presumed had been from her childhood was tightly tucked down under the sides of her mattress. Her uniform—an impeccably ironed button down, a green vest and skirt—hung from a hanger on the corner of her cabinet. Anya seemed to imprint herself here too; another fox plush toy sat against her fluffed pillows, waiting to be cozied up against a warm, beating heart. Adorned on the walls were not posters or prints, but rather Anya originals in crayon, pastel, pencil, and acrylic.

Yor didn’t seem to hold on to a lot of things—or perhaps there wasn’t a lot of things to hold on to—before she lived here, but he knew by the multiplying photo frames—water-stained shots of Yuri, Forger and Briar family portraits, picture day at Eden Academy— that slowly, she was carving a permanent home here. 

Capless tubes of lipstick—reds, pinks, nudes— were strewn across her vanity along with ticket stubs to matinees they’d seen together after work. Lacquered dishes with tableaus of rolling fields and carnivals held her precious pearls, her golds, her handmade beaded bracelets. A green perfume bottle with a tasseled pump spray shimmered under starlight. Like a gem, its glean enchanted him into a sandalwood-induced stupor.

Twilight stared into the looking glass as a mirage of Yor nimbly braided her hair into a neat side-plait. She patted her face with loose powder and slid pink lipstick over puckered lips. Yor then dabbed the pad of her finger on rouge, dotting along the curves of her cheekbones and tapping the excess at the corners of her eyes. So mundane was the act, so effortless and easy, that Twilight felt apologetic for having peered into such a private ritual. 

Clearly, he had overstayed his welcome. Twilight nearly tripped over his feet as he moved to gather her beige nightgown and pillows, refusing to let curiosity get the better of him. Beneath her pillows, however, was a familiar trinket.

His engagement ring to her—that grenade pin! Twilight was unsure why she had decided to keep it after all of this time: he had wedded her properly thereafter with golden bands and bridal bouquets. He blushed immediately at the prospect that Yor wanted him to see it. Though slim, there was still the statistical probability that her request for her pillows was a subtle declaration of love—that the ring signified everything she had locked away in her heart and in his own. Could she have planned this? Left the ring under her pillow that morning for him to find? Did she anticipate working off hours so late into the evening? Orchestrate this entire scenario down to the last cut?

It was no accident, this much he knew. But how else would one rationalize those injuries? Why was she soaked when it had stopped raining hours ago? If someone had attacked her tonight, did she not have enough trust to confide in him?  If she did not care enough to tell him, then what was that grenade pin doing under her pillow?

Twilight all but stumbled out of her room.  He was WISE’s most cunning agent—its most calm and calculated—yet his mind could not quite wrap itself around the idea of Yor potentially reciprocating the feeling he knew he had concealed in some taped-up cardboard box tucked away in his house of bones. There, compartmentalized, were all of the trinkets he thought he'd forgotten: wooden guns, jazz records, a bloodied eyepatch, and burned polaroids. Underneath the old items lay a letter with his heart, scrawled and signed with a name long discarded:

Yor,

I love you most ardently.

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

Rowan

──────────⊹⊱❀⊰⊹──────────

Wound wash in popcorn bowls. Heart-printed face towels for rags. Gauze cut by pink blunt-tip kiddie scissors. A wife in tatters and a husband desperately attempting to stitch the remnants back together.

“I have to—” 

“You can't.” 

And for five minutes, they exchanged various iterations of these very words. Yor had managed to unbutton the first three buttons of her blouse before stubbornly crossing her arms over her chest, refusing any treatment from Twilight. 

Twilight scooted to the edge of the wooden table he sat on, close enough for their knees to nudge. Their eyes met briefly.

Yor much preferred the Moon’s gaze. Moonglow, Twilight figured, could not touch Yor in those damning ways she'd come to know about during the war or in cautionary tales. It could not bruise, breach, break skin. It could not promise her love but at least it gave her assurance of forever. And who was Twilight to contend? 

“Yor,” he started futilely, voice softer than he would have liked, “you can trust me.”

The words, like steam, evaporated from her tongue. She clutched the bust of her blouse shut. 

“I do.” She was red in the face. He could feel her jittering. “It's just—oh!—I don't know! You weren't supposed to… No, not like this.” 

“I’ll close my eyes, touch you only where I should. I’ll be gentle, quick, so please,” plead Twilight, weary and desperate, “let me care for you.”

“You've cared for me the entire night—every day I’ve lived with you. You've welcomed me so into your home, your family, and yet here I am,” she rasped, voice caught on a chord, “proving time and time again that I—”

Twilight's heart dropped to his belly; he felt as though he ought to apologize. For what, he was unsure. There must have been some kind of shortcoming from within him if Yor was unable to articulate her troubles.  

Her vagueness, though, seemed purposeful: she would trail off before giving him any indication as to where the root of her problems lay. Twilight secretly thanked her for it. They could, even for a while longer, keep up this charade. He could still love her with her back turned—love her in sight. 

“You’ll hate me,” whispered Yor. “You'll despise me. I know it.” 

“There’s nothing in this world that could ever make me hate you.” The statement unknowingly gave way to the garden tucked away underneath the surface of his skin. Could she smell the roses on him? The freesias? Yor could not be so dense to not understand his heart with the way he leapt at her assumption, fitting himself to the gentle carve of her profile. Twilight is close, so close that he catches the moon’s glimmer on her eyelashes. He resists the temptation to eclipse it with a kiss. 

“You wouldn't understand.” 

“Then help me to.” Twilight just could not stop at words, no. When did his hand connect with her knee? When did his fingers move to guide her face back to him? 

Yor forced herself to look once more at his gaze, agonizingly adamantine. Resolute. She began the process of unbuttoning her shirt once more, keeping her eyes trained on him. 

“Anya grew out of her pajamas, you know,” he droned—a distraction—as he anxiously watched the tips of her fingers. “Wrists and ankles and all. They’re poking out the sleeves. I was thinking,” Twilight swallows thickly, “we should all go out this weekend. Buy some new clothes for her.”

Yor stilled, staring at him with unblinking eyes. She bit her lip and, almost as if to present herself to him, laid her hands beside her thighs. The dark sweep of her hair fell over the hunch of her shoulders. Twilight followed its movement.

Anger was a lit match that burned through the sprawling cord that maps over the expanse of her skin. He stared at the curve of the chest, her heart. Twilight traced the long jagged line of white raised skin down to her right side. Pink stars exploded and dwindled down her hip, dying dust disappearing underneath the waistband of her skirt.

Twilight could stitch a disjointed timeline from the color of her scars alone: faded cat-scratches from her childhood, raised cuts from debris, bullet wounds red and unforgiving, and knife lacerations that had just begun to scab over washes of blue and purple. 

Perhaps she could see it on his face, his steely countenance. He had become all hard edges and wrinkles as he scrutinized the marred canvas of her skin. The irony was cruel. Yor, always so gracious, so kind, was seamed with silvery stitches, stained with colors that belonged on sprigs. He was in pieces. 

“They grow up so fast,” said Yor wistfully, almost as if to lament the skin she had no choice in claiming. “They come and they go, don’t they?”

Twilight knew all too well that her words meant much more. Yes, he wanted to say, we did. And he’d hold her the way his mother had when days were brighter—the way he holds his daughter now. He’d hold the girl as long as she needed to be held: late into the morning, late for work; in the afternoon when the sun laid over them thickly; into dusk with the stars shut off, dark and still. 

There were things Twilight could never understand about Yor, things that she would never divulge to him. But there was nothing as certain and true as the kindness of skin, of a hand over hers, of a brush on the curve of her cheek. 

“I’m going to take your…” Bra felt too vulgar of a word. He improvised. “This off.” 

Resigned from her initial embarrassment, Yor simply nodded, moving to rest her chin on Twilight’s shoulder. She held onto the sides of his shirt, a half-hug. 

Faceless women. Powdery perfume. Wine-stained lips agape, mouthing different names on the nape of his neck. Bodies full in contour, stuffed with down in all the places meant for squeezing. It was muscle memory at this point—the snap of a clasp, the inevitable plunge into passion, and the hangover in the morning. But when it came to Yor, he couldn’t help but feel as though it was an act most sacred. There was no other urge than to press her wholly against him, to feel the pressure of her entire being on him as he wraps his arms around her, merging into one. Deeper than lust, than desire. This much, he longed for Yor Briar.

The straps slid off her shoulders, leaving pink indents in her flesh. His mind blanked. He stopped breathing.

Hands moved on their own, wetting towels in washes, laving it over her back. She’d wince. He’d whisper something sweet. Rinse and repeat. He created a cage out of action, keeping all thoughts and emotion locked away.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“Not so bad,” Twilight assured. “Nothing that needs stitches, at least.”

“Oh.” It was empty exchanges like this as more and more questions hung over them. Together they cowered under their weight. 

“I know that this is… uncomfortable.” It was awkward, to say the least. He tended to her back, arms rigid so as to not touch her more than he needed to. She leaned forward, chest to chest, so that he could somewhat peer over her shoulder to see what he was doing. Skinship didn’t seem to bother her—rather, she was too exhausted to care or give it any deeper thought. The turmoil within Twilight, though, waged. “Just a while longer. I need to dress your wound. You’ve been a very good patient up to now.”

“I’ve been good?” It warranted a chuckle from Yor.

Twilight flushed, conscious of his entire existence. Too embarrassed by his words, he froze, hands dropping down to the small of her back. “Are you…making fun of me?”

“No. Not at all.” She laughed halfheartedly once more, pulling back slightly to look at him. “So this is what you’re like with your patients. You’re kind and your hands are warm. It’s hard to not like you.”

“Oh, please.” Briefly, he met her gaze, tore from her immediately once he remembered the precarious position they found themselves in. He looked past her. He would be a gentleman.

“That’s who you are. You’re warm wherever you go. You’re warm when you’re here, warm when you’re away.” He looked past her even as she moved to touch his face. “You’re warm even now, when I’ve been so cold. Yes, I’ve been cold to you, haven’t I?”

He said her name, so he thought. She closed her eyes. All it took was this for Twilight see her for who she was. Goodness, through and through.

“Sometimes I think… I think I was born like this. Cold-blooded. ” A beat of silence. “That I might be the way I am forever.” 

“I know you, Yor.” He blazed a trail to the side of her face, flames lapping her skin. She shuddered as he whispered low against her ear, lips brushing with every word. “I know you. And if... If you're cold now,” Twilight said, “I'll wrap your blanket around you.”  It sounded like a promise—one Yor was sure she would not be able to keep.

“That's the thing.” She shook her head. “I’m not so sure you do.” 

This he could not refute. Her past was a mystery to him. Dead parents and a younger brother. She had only herself. Twilight often chose not to speculate about her life; he knew he’d go down a downward spiral coming up with many iterations of her girlhood—rather, lack thereof. What kind of jobs did she take to support her younger brother? Who did she meet? How did she remain soft despite it all—the war that had unknowingly brought them together?

How did she get hurt tonight?

Who had hurt her?

Her eyes, glassy, stared at him in resignation. “I’m scared, Loid. Terrified that one day, you'll come to realize who I truly am."

Yes, he did not know the crucial makings of Yor. Didn’t know the smell of her childhood bedroom. The names of lovesick suitors that, over the years, tried to win her hand. He didn’t know the stations she’d tune in to as a girl on lazy Sunday afternoons under the syrup sun when all the initial excitement of the weekend had worn off. But what Twilight did know was the scent of her shampoo as they drove down cobblestone paths, top down, hair tickling his face as she watched the scrolling scenery in awe. He knew the way her face would glow as she smiled, how everything about her flowered. The feelings Anya, he harbored were certain. Wasn’t this enough?

Twilight gently wrapped around her. It was the best he could do despite the uncertainties that continued to gnaw at him. She melded into him, and, perhaps swept by the moment, did exactly what he had been thinking of doing the entire night.

They kindled, and the fire spread.

──────────⊹⊱❀⊰⊹──────────

It was relatively quiet as he cared for Yor. The small cuts she visibly had on her arms were covered in Anya’s pastel bandaids. He tied the wedding white gauze around her bust as if it were a ribbon to a gown. She was pink in the night, hot with pining much like Twilight.

Sucking on a breath, Yor raised her worn arms as Twilight slipped her nightgown over her head.

“You’re staying home tomorrow. No ifs or buts,” he directed as he slipped her skirt off from underneath.

Yor hummed in compliance, refusing to look him in the eye, refusing to acknowledge the audacity of that act of utmost affinity—the chaste press of lips.

Twilight was no better. He’d gone too soft, sappy. Too stupid. To make up for the many missteps of the night, he would be calm, collected. The anger and contentment conflicting within him would have to wait until he’s in the confines of his room where he could turn in his bed over thoughts of Yor.

He tossed the blood-soaked rags in the bowl and stood up, moving to position her pillow near the arm of the sofa so that she could finally lay. Twilight pulled the pilled quilt from her room over her body. She looked so small, so snug.

“You were out in the rain too. You most definitely caught a cold.”

“Definitely?” 

“Yes.” Twilight swept his palm over her forehead. “Definitely. I’ll be here with you, though. I need you there with me this time. I need you strong when you see how fast Anya has grown.”

“It must have been hard on your own, seeing Anya grow.” Yor smiled with mirth and his heart swelled. He looked away, lifted his chin, and cleared his throat. “I’ve always been strong, though, so you don't have to worry—"

“No,” he interjected, a little too strongly. He kneeled down next to her, and he said, in the most tender voice he could muster, “Did you forget that you’re married? Married to me?”

“I didn’t,” she mumbled timidly. “But there's no one here to watch us. Nothing to prove to anyone.”

With a knowing smile, Twilight responded, “Precisely.” Yor blushed, turning to the other side to face away from him. He reached out one last time before retracting his hand out of contemplated bashfulness. “Get some rest. I’ll be in my room reading. Don’t hesitate to call out to me if there’s anything you need, alright?”

He waited ten heartbeats, waited for a last minute request. Waited to hear the inflection of her voice just before she’s taken by slumber—the voice that would lull him to rose-scented dreams.

As he got up, he imagined that she had said his name. Then, again, “Loid?”

“Yes?”

Her back was still turned away from him, face toward the back cushions.

“I’ve got so much to tell you, but I don't know where to begin."

“We’ve got the morning,” he told her, himself. “We’ve got the rest of our lives for me to learn all of you.”

Yor turned to him. Twilight bowed before her, laced their hands together. She squeezed. 

"For now," Yor said, closing her eyes, "thank you."

He leaned down and tucked a flower behind her ear. A wind overtakes them. Pink petals flitted.

[shroudkeeper]

.insatiable

These grotesque constructs were infantile in appearance, he admitted to himself, molded to life from the discarded parts of toys that appeared stitched together to create colorful monstrosities. She did not see them as mere creations, even those before him now, the ones that would soon become tools for his conquest.

Having such a connection to them was pointless in his eyes. As quickly as they are made, they are to be discarded. She did not share the same views as him - how curious. He observed how much she cared for each one molded by her magic, that even calling them minions struck a chord with her.

They were loyal to a fault, hardly falling in line under his command unless she ordered them to serve under their new Lord. These grisly creatures understood who their maker was, and no matter the threat, or intimidation tactics, had worked to the benefit of the lumbering voidsent stalking her halls and marching to her chambers.

Leathery wings blanket his form, creating a weathered cloak upon his broad shoulders to avoid knocking over the macabre decor of carnivorous plants hanging dangerously low from her vaulted ceilings. In his passing, the candelabras pulse into life and coil their flames enough to send his monumental shadows to scale along the walls as if made of liquid themselves.

Heavy doors gave part for him in anticipation of his arrival, but Diabolos, the Lord of Dreams, did not find her waiting. He was received by a quiet room where the only light provided was made of amethyst shards with residue of aether trapped within. A numerous amount bobbed around her chambers, casting their dreamy hues to an otherwise dreary interior. The moon's glow was tucked behind heavy velvet curtains, which unfortunately concealed the stained glass that adorned the window.

Such a masterpiece was unveiled with a languid sweep of his claws, allowing the vibrant colors to flood the room, peeling away the remaining shadows over her coffin, where she lay. Immediately, the air grew heavy with energy and soft murmurs stirred around him, he ignored their objections and 

The otherworldly glow settled upon her, this Queen who remained unshakable to his own might and presence. This thorn in his side. She was cocooned neatly with the iridescent tendrils protruding from her back, and nestled in the scarlet lining of her coffin. Her hair was made undone from its ribbons and free from its crown, spread over her face and shoulders. Underneath her soft exterior, he knew well the kind of serpent she was, how quickly she would strike if threatened, yet that did not dissuade him from reaching. 

His wings whip away from his form, shielding the colorful arrangement of light from falling upon her stilled form, so all her body would know was the cool caress of his shadow. Again the protests from the canopy above. His retaliation to them came in the form of a guttural snarl as his attention abruptly shifted to the unseen forces around him. His chest rumbled and appeared broader as he made sure his presence would not be questioned, and when all but a few whispers remained, he turned his gaze back to her.

To the curve of her cheek, the part of her lips, and knew the moment he touched her, he would become undone --

[mimisempai]

It's special because it's with you.

Summary

Aziraphale and Crowley are looking forward to celebrating Valentine's Day together, but they hadn't considered how exhausting being a florist can be on this day. Is their evening in jeopardy?

Notes

The first Valentine's Day for the florist and the bookseller

On Ao3

Rating G -  1315 words

Crowley sighed and looked at his watch as he closed the flower shop. He saw his reflection in the window and, seeing his drawn features, ran his hand over his face several times before walking toward the bookshop.

"Happy Valentine's Day!"

The florist's gaze was drawn to the customer coming out of the coffee shop who'd just shouted, then he shook his head and continued on his way, mumbling through his teeth, "Yeah, happy Valentine's Day."

Of course he was happy to share this special moment with Aziraphale, it was the first time he could do it with someone who really mattered and even more than that, but...

He sighed again.

It was his first Valentine's Day as the owner of his flower shop, and he hadn't anticipated the impact this day would have on his work. 

Partly because of the reputation he'd built up working for Justine's restaurant, the parade of customers had been non-stop. There were those who had ordered well in advance and others who had come at the last minute, the special requests, the dissatisfied. In short, even with Muriel's help, he hadn't been able to take a break at noon, sacrificing his daily lunch break with Aziraphale.

Crowley smiled slightly, for that hadn't stopped his thoughtful lover from dropping off a plate of sandwiches for them.

It was also why he didn't want to disappoint him by canceling their evening at the Ritz, despite his exhaustion.

Arriving near the bookshop, he was slightly surprised to see almost no lights on, then shrugged, thinking that maybe Aziraphale had already turned everything off so they could go straight to the restaurant.

He opened the door and couldn't hold back a small gasp of surprise.

The bookshop was lit only by the warm glow of a few candles scattered here and there, while in the center stood a table for two, nicely dressed and decorated, lit by a candelabra and the gramophone was playing soft music in the background.

He called softly, "Aziraphale?"

His lover came from the back of the bookshop with a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hand, which he placed on the table before joining him.

He called out with a broad smile, "Crowley, there you are!" 

Once in front of him, the bookseller planted a light kiss on his cheek before saying softly, "Happy Valentine's Day."

Crowley, still looking surprised, asked as he swept his arm around the area, "Aziraphale, what does this all mean?"

Aziraphale took his hand and said gently, "While I'm absolutely delighted to share this Valentine's Day with you, I'm certainly not going to do it at the expense of your well-being."

Crowley narrowed his eyes and asked, "Have you been planning this for a long time?"

Aziraphale shook his head and replied with a smile, "No, not at all, I improvised it when I saw the workload you had today."

Crowley looked embarrassed and said, "But you were looking forward to this special evening at the res--"

Aziraphale silenced him with a finger to his mouth and replied gently, "What is special is being with you, no matter where or how. I've been looking forward to this evening because it's with you. The rest is just details."

Crowley tried to protest, but Aziraphale would have none of it. He took the florist's hands and led him to the table, where he made him sit down.

He brought his hand to Crowley's cheek, stroked it with his thumb, and said softly, "You don't have to pretend with me. Don't force yourself because you think this is what I want. This. Us. The only way this is going to work is if we're completely honest with each other. The heart-shaped cards, the chocolates, the flowers, the fancy restaurant, it's all meaningless if we're not both into it. My greatest gift this Valentine's Day is just the two of us."

He grabbed the bottle and the two glasses and, after filling them, handed one to Crowley before raising his own and saying softly, "To us."

Crowley smiled and, clinking his glass against the bookseller's, replied in the same tone, "To us."

They took a sip and then, over a plate of hors d'oeuvres, they talked about their day, laughing more than once when Crowley talked about some eccentric customer or Aziraphale about customers who had left empty-handed because, Love Fest or not, he wouldn't part with his prized possessions.

The gramophone needle jerked a little before moving on to the next song, and as the notes began to play, Crowley pushed back his chair and stood up under Aziraphale's puzzled gaze.

Now standing beside him, the florist held out his hand and said softly, a small smile on his lips, "Mister Fell, may I have this dance?"

Aziraphale, now with a delighted expression on his face, placed his hand in the outstretched one and said quietly, "Of course, Mister Crowley."

Then he stood and placed his other hand on his lover's shoulder, who wrapped his arm around his waist and pressed him a little closer, leaving Aziraphale no choice but to rest his head on the florist's chest.

They began to sway gently to the sound of the singer's velvety voice.

From time to time, Crowley would plant a soft kiss on Aziraphale's hair, and Aziraphale would press himself a little closer in response.

Suddenly, Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and shoved him gently before rummaging through his pocket as the bookseller looked on in bewilderment.

He pulled out a small pink felt bag, tied with a small red ribbon, and handed it to Aziraphale, saying with a lopsided grin, "I know you said you didn't care for chocolates, heart-shaped cards, and flowers, but it would be a shame if this one melted. Happy Valentine's Day, Angel."

Aziraphale picked it up and, once the ribbon was undone, turned the little bag upside down over his open palm, revealing an adorable little white chocolate angel.

The bookseller, both amused and touched by the gesture, looked at it more closely, twirling it delicately in his hand as his cheeks took on a color that was no match for the pink of the bag.

Then he carefully placed the little angel in the center of the table and returned to Crowley, wrapping his arms around his neck. He brought his face close to the florist's and murmured against his lips, "Thank you. This Valentine's night is absolutely perfect," before closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to Crowley's in a tender kiss.

Crowley responded by wrapping his arms around the bookseller, deepening the kiss that lingered as the singer sang the last words of the song.

And as we kissed and said good night

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

I know 'cause I was there

That night in Berkeley Square

Lost in the sweet atmosphere of the moment, they continued to kiss and sway gently as the music faded.

**********

"Oh, did you hear that?"

Eric, raising an eyebrow, turned to Muriel and asked, "What?"

Muriel, looking excited, replied, "A nightingale, I'm sure I heard it."

Eric laughed lightly and replied, "That's unlikely this time of year."

Muriel nudged him on the shoulder and replied, "Don't always be so pragmatic, you know sometimes miracles do happen, after all tonight is propitious for it, isn't it?"

Eric's expression softened as he cupped Muriel's face in his hands and said softly, the worship visible in his gaze, "The only miracle I believe in right now is you." 

Then he leaned forward and kissed them softly before taking their hand in his and leading them away to resume their walk.

As the young couple walked away, they didn't see the little nightingale come to rest on a leafless branch, nor did they hear its song as it watched them disappear around the corner from Berkeley Square.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

The florist and the booksellers series : here

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here

[monstersinthecosmos]

okay I think we should take inventory of what we learned about Marius's house.

In fact, the impression was one of comfortable messiness.

(i think the tiktok kids started calling ADHD clutter clustering or something LMAO marius de romanus cluster girlie i guess. thanks i hate it)

Here's some stuff that Marius had on his island!!!!!!!

stone benches

a lighted oil lamp on a stand

a pair of heavy wooden doors

a sarcophagus with a plain lid, cleanly fashioned out of diorite

The lid plated in iron and contained

a golden mask, its features carefully molded, attached to a hood made up of layered plates of hammered gold.

a pair of leather gloves covered completely in tinier more delicate gold plates like scales.

a large folded blanket of the softest red wool with one side sewn with larger gold plates

Magnificent Grecian urns on pedestals in the corridors

great bronze statues from the Orient

exquisite plants at every window and terrace open to the sky.

Gorgeous rugs from India, Persia, China c

giant stuffed beasts mounted in lifelike attitudes-

--the brown bear,

--the lion,

--the tiger,

--even the elephant standing in his own immense chamber,

--lizards as big as dragons,

--birds of prey clutching dried branches made to look like the limbs of real trees.

brilliantly colored murals covering every surface from floor to ceiling

a dark vibrant painting of the sunburnt Arabian desert complete with an exquisitely detailed caravan of camels and turbaned merchants moving over the sand

a jungle warming with delicately rendered tropical blossoms, vines, carefully drawn leaves

creatures everywhere in the texture of the jungle-

--insects,

--birds,

--worms in the soil-

too many monkeys in the jungle,

too many bugs crawling on the leaves.

thousands of tiny insects in one painting of a summer sky.

a large gallery walled on either side by painted men and women staring at me

Figures from all ages these were-

--bedouins,

--Egyptians,

--Greeks and Romans,

--knights in armor,

--peasants

--kings

--queens.

--Renaissance people in doublets and leggings,

--the Sun King with his massive mane of curls,

--people of our own age.

droplets of water clinging to a cape,

the cut on the side of a face,

the spider half-crushed beneath a polished leather boot.

a library, blazing with light.

Walls and walls of books and

rolled manuscripts,

giant glistening world globes in their wooden cradles,

busts of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses,

great sprawling maps.

Newspapers in all languages lay in stacks on tables.

Fossils,

mummified hands,

exotic shells.

bouquets of dried flowers,

figurines and fragments of old sculpture,

alabaster jars covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

comfortable chairs with footstools,

candelabra or oil lamps.

a forest of cages.

birds of all sizes and colors

monkeys

baboons,

Potted plants crowded against the cages-

--ferns and

--banana trees,

--cabbage roses,

--moonflower,

--jasmine,

--other sweetly fragrant nighttime vines.

purple and white orchids,

waxed flowers that trapped insects in their maw,

little trees groaning with peaches and lemons and pears.

a hall of sculptures equal to any gallery in the Vatican museum.

adjoining chambers full of paintings,

Oriental furnishings,

mechanical toys.

fine rosewood paneling with framed mirrors rising to the ceiling.

painted chests,

upholstered chairs,

dark and lush landscapes,

porcelain clocks.

A small collection of books in the glass-doored bookcases,

a newspaper of recent date lying on a small table beside a brocaded winged chair.

the stone terrace. where banks of white lilies and red roses gave off their powerful perfume.

a pair of winged chairs that faced each other

a dozen or so candelabra and sconces on the paneled walls.

brocade cushions

[aisling-saoirse]

Plant Profile: Tulip Poplar - Liriodendron tulipifera

I return to bring news of the giant of the east, this plant profile will analyze one of our strongest early successional species with an eye-catching cat-like leaf, a fascinating connection to historic disturbance, and a showy floral display: the Tulip Poplar.

Tulip poplar is deceivingly named for the tulip-like appearance of its flower and the fast poplar-like growth of its wood; all this in mind it's actually a member of the Magnolia family. Other names for this tree are yellow polar and tulip tree. The genus Liriodendron was more widespread throughout the cretaceous period but today only has two living species in America and China respectively, L. tulipifera and chinense.

Let's start with description, mature Tulip Poplar is most easily identified by its tall, typically completely straight branchless trunk (image 2, 9) extending often a hundred feet before branching into magnificent candelabra-like forms. This is referred to as apical growth as more energy is placed into extending the stems/trunk. Tulip Poplar's bark is typically a light grey, finely furrowed almost-ash like, it's branches are reddish-brown, stout, and end in a solid bud (winter Image 6). Tulip Poplar's leaf is very distinct (image 4), symmetrical, each side with two major lobes (occasionally the lower lobe is split in two, visible in lower leaf image 4). Personally I liken it to a silhouette of a cat's face :). The leaves are variable in size and appearance, on younger saplings/low branches leaves are exaggerated and exceed 12" (Image 5) but the typical leaf is much smaller. As for flowers they bloom in mid spring (may in the north, march in the south), the flower itself (image 1) is yellow with orange bands, lower petals green. It's difficult to see the flowers up close but occasionally they'll fall low enough, they're loaded with nectar, they can be incredibly sweet. The flowers turn into a fruit cone-like aggregate of samaras that stick on end of branches until the following spring (see orange image 7) the individual seedlings (image 6) coat the forest floor in winter.

Habitat: Tulip poplar is the dominant early succession species in rich, well drained, moist woods, slopes, and coves of especially Appalachia. It will take over anywhere with enough moisture to sustain it, even out-competing invasives like tree-of-heaven....but only if it's ideal conditions are met, Typically north facing slopes provide the best conditions for a Tulip poplar but it's not restricted to these in anyway. Your best bet for finding large specimens is in these cove locations (image 2)

Range: Tulip poplar is in its highest concentration in the Piedmont and Appalachia of the American East. Limited with a northwestern range of Chicago, south to lower Louisiana, south east to northern Florida with a northern limit of the Hudson lowlands and an eastern limit in Connecticut. Due to its fast growth, it has become a popular specimen tree in Europe.

Ecology and lifespan: As mentioned Tulip poplar are early successional species, but they're probably the Appalachian regions most important species in forest regeneration (saplings in field image above). Young trees can reach 7 feet in height in just 3 years and they are prolific with enough light. Their lifestyle is atypical of most pioneer species in the sense that they do not dissapear in second-growth stages of mature forests, they can live for upwards of 500 years, they grow taller than most forest species (often just under 200'), and their wood isn't as weak as other fast-growers.

The tall trunk above is likely 100 years old, due to the intense logging pressure in the east it's not uncommon for 'mature' forests to be mostly composed of Tulip poplars (The Wissahickon in Philadelphia, great example). The fallen leaves are quick to degrade but produce an allelopathic effect on some herbacious growth. Ecologically speaking Tulip poplars are not a great food source for invertebrate species aside from pollinators, only host to less than 30 moth species and sometimes the eastern tiger swallowtail. The prolific seeds are decent forage for birds however.

Uses: Tulip poplars are sometimes used nowadays in southern tree plantations as fast growing hardwood, their vertical growth habit is desirable for boards and the wood is favored as a detailing piece often compared to white pine. Ethnobotanical uses from my time with the Lenape I only heard of Tulip poplar being used as a dugout canoe, these trees can reach massive proportions historically imagery shows some stunning accounts (check out Kilmer memorial forest in NC for some 400 yr old massive ones). Today, tulip trees are enjoyed among bee keepers for the distinct honey quality.

Landscaping: Tulip Poplars recently have a new place as an Allee tree many contemporary designs. An older unconventional use is in Swathmore arboretum in Pennsylvania (Image above) which uses Tulip Trees as a neat vertical feature in an amphitheater. Due to its fast growth they serve as excellent shade trees and the Orange-yellow fall coloring creates an excellent seasonal display. Tulip tree generally has weaker twig falls however the issue of weak branches isn't that big of a concern.

Propagation: Tulip trees are best propagated from seed planted in a nursery bed in fall, allowed to grow for one year then moved elsewhere before leaf out the next spring. The tree is tolerant of disturbance otherwise but you must be very delicate. They prefer loamy soils and cooler locations in sun.

Future Outlook and Longevity: So with Climate Change and Anthropogenic pollution how will Tulip trees fair? An ESA article study by David LeBlanc analyzed the growth habit of tulip poplars and found that the strongest associated period of growth was consistent water supply during May and June. Meaning spring droughts (which we've been getting more of) have negatively affected Tulip tree growth, however growth is not as effected in extremes of other seasons. As for pollution Tulip Poplars are tolerant of heavy metals, I've seen these trees survive in serpentine barrens as well as in the Lehigh gap Superfund Site in PA (Image Below)... that site is so toxic for one to survive literal zinc poisoning, desiccation and acid rain of that level I'm never gonna be worried about these tree completely disappearing There is hope for our natives yet.

I hope you all enjoyed this quick plant profile, with spring coming up try to keep your eyes in the air to spot the Tulip Tree's quirky floral bloom. Happy hunting!

[wish-friday]

Natlan comparison, caught sight of this interesting potted plant! Compared to the trumpet vine from here, scientific name Campsis radicans and the candelabra aloe found here, scientific name Aloe arborescens.