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drevisrose · 1 month ago

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Divine Intervention [Alastor x reader]

Alastor was never the church going type.

While he could admire the theatrics of it all⎯false prophets leading people towards an aimless, hopeless destiny, spewing hatred from their holy mouths, the creation of a revenant persona, he had never attended on his own accord. Putting on quite a show every Sunday had to take a considerable dedication to the craft, he himself would be one to understand such. Just because he was the most famous radio host across the southeastern region of the United States did not mean that he was genuine to his own listeners.

The few times he had attended church, he quickly understood that most of the parishioners attended only to position themselves for the possibility of something better in the afterlife⎯the chance for a new, holy beginning. He witnessed sinners confessing only the shallows of their misdeeds, failing to truly bask their sins in the light of whatever higher power exists. His father was one of those people.

His tan skin winced when he thought about the man. Unlike him, Alastor was not the type to beg and plead for mercy, especially not in a place like this.

Thus, it was surprising to say the least when he found himself on the steps of a large rust-coloured building, built up of brick, whose height was bolstered by a shining steeple of steel. It was a hot and humid Louisiana morning, the sun had only begun to creep up to its highest point, leaving it increasingly difficult to hide himself in the shadows. However, this was where his next victim went every Sunday and if he were to continue in his efforts, he would have to figure out their routine.

The double doors of the church towered over his tall figure as he reached for one of them, opening it softly so as to not direct any attention to his presence. He wiped his hand on his suit jacket: a deep crimson red that buttoned atop his pristinely ironed dress shirt. He took a deep breath and let out a sigh, soon replacing his disdainful expression with one of content⎯his smile beamed as always.

Walking down the aisle, he noticed multiple pairs of eyes following his every step, followed by distant chatter and murmur erupting amongst the crowd. It was expected, of course; while he had never immersed himself in this type of crowd, everyone in town knew who he was. Shooting his signature smile at some of the more unimpressed faces, he ensured to appear proper and respectful, even in the face of adverse reactions. He always controlled the situation, the narrative in the room, and the impressions he made on people. He was calculated.

Stepping into one of the few dozen pews, he picked up the little black book nestled in the holder of the back of the pew directly in front of him. Although he did not look for attention from those around him, something that he had more than enough of, he made sure in one of the pews closer to the pulpit⎯he was not attempting to hide his presence. Act as if you are one of their own and they will welcome you with naive, open arms. As he sat on the hard oak, his eyes made their way over to find just the man he was looking for: A plump older looking male, cheeks permanently stained red from years of drinking, head down in prayer in a foolish attempt to hide his shameful face from the eyes of others.

Soon, he will abandon those prayers and plead only with me for mercy. In that moment, I will be his God.

“Ahem,” another man draped in religious garb positioned himself at the microphone of the pulpit, opening up the large golden book in front of him to a bookmarked page, “welcome back, everyone.” His furrowed eyes scanned the room, momentarily stopping to meet with Alastor’s own. “While I may not have my glasses on, it appears that we have a few new faces in the crowd,” he said with a veneer of cheerfulness, “thank you for joining us today, I am Father Bill.”

As the service began and the priest’s word of gospel echoed throughout the room, Alastor quickly found his mind enveloped with other, much less holy topics. I will only have to endure the length of these services a couple of times until I can understand where, when, and how exactly to dispose of you. Before he could fully assess his victim’s movements in the pews, the sudden slam of the church doors drew his attention, prompting him to turn his head to see what commotion had just erupted.

“I-I’m sorry,” you, a young girl just blooming into her early twenties, stepped shyly into the building, eyes darting back and forth as you were met by glares from the audience. You were adorned in a dusty brown dress, gracing its hem just below your knees. The skin from your cheeks to your neck was a hot pink, clearly embarrassed by the lack of poise in closing the heavy doors behind you. “Lovely for you to finally join us, y/n,” your father shot daggers from his eyes as he watched you hurriedly find your place in the pews, finding an empty spot next to Alastor, “now where we, ah yes, the sins of one…”

Alastor found his eyes glancing over your figure, examining your exposed collarbone as the delicate silk fabric of your dress slipped down from your urgent movements. He snapped back into reality as his own eyes met your lips, deciphering whispered apologies towards him for the interruption. “Nonsense, there is no need for apologies, dear,” the man shushed your frazzled attempts at an apology as his eyes pulled away from yours and back to the pulpit.

The service, as expected, left him uninterested and quite bored. Instead, he opted to watch your movements, attempting to decipher the relationship between you and the priest. He noticed that you, too, allowed your mind to wander from the book in front of you. You shook your leg in what he determined was the effects of embarrassment as you traced your fingers up and down your knees, lifting your dress up ever so slightly as to continue your nervous ticks.

At least I can find some entertainment in her bumbling attempts to ease her nerves.

He found himself counting down each tick on his watch, weary in anticipation to finally be able to stalk the victim he had laid his eyes on at the beginning of the service. At the same time, he felt compelled to watch every move of the girl beside him. She was a diamond, a true one in a million when it came to physical features. Her plump lips were adorned with red lipstick, light enough for the daytime but just so close to looking sultry. Her big eyes were a beautiful hazel, green catching light shining through the windows every so often to reveal the true colour behind them. She had soft features, and Alastor began to let his mind slip away from the priest’s words and focus on the actions the girl made.

The service shortly ended as the clock on Alastor’s watch hit 12:00pm. Yet, as soon as he stood up, he felt a fast-approaching presence coming to his direction⎯Bill.

You watched your father descend the steps, walking toward you. A sigh escaped your lips, bracing for the inevitable scolding about your tardiness to the service. But just as quickly as he approached, his gaze shifted away from you, locking onto the man you had sat next to.

The two men were nearly equal in stature, your father just a couple of inches shorter than the man you had been apologizing to. Your father quickly extended his hand to the stranger. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Alastor, is it?”

Pretending to not know me, a classic tactic of a man feeling intimidated by another.

The taller man smiled, his prominent transatlantic accent flowing effortlessly as he said, “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” You felt your cheeks flush at the smoothness of Alastor's voice, now unmistakable to you.

“I see you have met my daughter, I hope she did not cause too much of a disruption to your worship,” your father’s words immediately retracted any comfort you felt.

“Not at all, Father,” Alastor retorted, “If anything, her dedication to the service inspired my own.” In this stranger’s presence, you felt oddly protected.

“Well, I can only hope that means you will be attending next week, yes?” Your father inquired, as he grabbed your arm, fingers slowly tightening their grip, leaving you to wince at the pressure.

“Of course,” Alastor glanced towards the hold your father had you in, “it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, y/n.” He walked past your father with an irrevocable confidence in his step, unlike the other parishioners, he did not seem enamored by your father’s position.

Stepping outside, Alastor quickly noticed that the congregation had dispersed, each member heading home—and so had his intended target. Yet, his mission did not feel so futile. Spotting you walking home with your father, he waved goodbye, a gentle smile softening his otherwise sharp features.

Perhaps I’ve found a new interest in this desolate place.

#alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fic #alastor fanfiction

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transgamerism · 9 months ago

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the weeping dawn

rating: T

characters: The Dark Urge, Astarion, Alfira, minor mentions of other tadpole gang members

summary: “Étaín sates their Urge’s vile hungers, whether they want to or not. Astarion happens upon the aftermath. Swift decision making is required.

What better foundation of trust than getting away with murder?”

read here on ao3 or below

It’s the smell of blood that draws him. Rich and red and heady, the metallic bitterness that no wine could ever hope to compare to. Astarion expects an injured animal, leaking in the grass, ready for him to help it along into the embrace of oblivion. But when he arrives, the creature is already dead, and the killer is still at the scene.

Astarion spots two tiefling bards, one laid on the ground, dead as dead can be, the other standing over her, hands braced on their knees, heaving great breaths interspersed with sobs. This close, he can hear the pound of Étaín’s heart, smell their blood (still in the vein) spiked with adrenaline. In their distraction, they haven’t noticed him yet. Astarion hovers in the shadow of a large oak, and debates with himself. He could depart, chalk this hunt up to a wash and find his bedroll long before Étaín finishes disposing of poor Alfira, feigning ignorance. And watch his back for the dagger that may await it. He could run back to camp, fetch the heroic Wyll or fearsome Lae’zel, someone more equipped than he for putting down monsters. But then after the blood is finished spilling, doubt and suspicion will surely set in. If their leader is a killer, what might the others be hiding? Their party would fracture, and Astarion would lose his safety in numbers.

There’s always the option of a knife through their spine, nearly painless, while they’re distracted. Astarion places a hand on the hilt of his dagger, the dagger they offered him, and hesitates. Étaín twitches, their head rising. A predator realizing it’s being observed. They raise their eyes and find Astarion unerringly through the gloom. He freezes, taking in the extent of their blood and tear stained face. They’re a mess, coated in gore, their clothes stiff with rapidly cooling blood, hands so covered in it that it could be mistaken for gloves.

“I-“ they begin, but seem to be at a loss of what to say.

“Really now, her music wasn’t that bad, was it?” Astarion drawls, carefully. Hand still on his dagger, tensed and ready to run.

Étaín draws a shuddering breath. “I don’t know how it happened.” Astarion raises one unimpressed brow. “I think I did it in my sleep,” they whisper, “All I know is I woke up and she was dead.”

“Convenient,” Astarion remarks, voice falsely light. Étaín flops down into the grass in answer, lacking their usual grace. Astarion, against all of the better judgment he’s scrounged together over the last two centuries, edges closer, away from the cover of the tree. Hand still on his dagger hilt. He notices that Alfira’s eyes have been gouged out, most likely by sharp thumbnails. Her face, though slack in death, still holds the hint of abject terror in her expression. Her blood is still warm, he can sense it pooling inside her veins. Not life-warm, but at least less-than-two-hours warm.

He makes sure to keep his fangs hidden when he says, “You’ve put me in a rather awkward position.” Étaín looks up at him miserably, starkly contrasting from their usual serrated joviality. Over the last few days, they’ve proven to be fiercely clever with words and blades, perhaps unpredictable, but nothing that suggested tendencies toward violent murder off the battlefield. This vulnerability, assuming it isn’t an act, makes Astarion’s neck prickle. He prefers a veneer of snide humor over tears.

Astarion once again turns over the idea of bolting for the camp in his mind, rousing the others from their beds to come and dispense swift justice. Or his blade could find its home in their eye socket. They’re seated, seemingly unarmed. He would say defenseless, if there wasn’t a cooling corpse on the ground before him. If he goes to the others, or kills Étaín and returns back to camp, leaving behind two dead bodies, there would doubtless be questions. They may inquire as to what exactly Astarion was doing, stalking the woods in the dead of night, to find Étaín in such a compromising position. Or suspicion could alight upon him when the rest realize that he alone, out of all of them, does not sleep, and should have noticed the disappearance of both bards.

Étaín, however, is in no state to ask those sorts of questions. If they are indeed a violent, sadistic murderer trying to play off of his goodwill, it would be in Astarion’s best interest to go along with it. If he doesn’t, he could easily be next. And if they are, somehow, just a pathetic little amnesiac with an uncontrollable taste for blood, nothing breeds trust like the sharing of a secret. Or, if that fails, blackmail.

Astarion sighs, long and low through his nose. “Where did it happen?” Étaín blinks, uncomprehending. “You were clearly dragging her from somewhere, where did you come from?” Astarion asks, even though as he speaks his nose easily picks up the blood trail.

Étaín points east. “We were by the water when I woke up.” Astarion nods once, then again more firmly.

“Well, go back there. Dispose of any evidence as best you can, and clean yourself up. Crocodile tears or no, you won’t be convincing anyone of your innocence if you’re still covered in gore come morning,” Astarion instructs. He raises his nose to the air, scenting prey and predators nearby. It takes barely a moment to pick out the musky, bloody smell on a wind from the north: the gnoll pack they had skirted around earlier that day. The odor is hard to forget, blood and rot and afterbirth.

“What about,” Étaín gestures meaningfully to Alfira.

Astarion gathers her wrists in one hand, crouching down and using them to haul her across his shoulders like a hunter with a deer carcass. “Plenty of scavengers in the wild. I’ll stuff her in a bush somewhere and she’ll be naught but bones in a few hours’ time,” he says with a confidence he certainly doesn’t feel. Blood drips slowly from her open mouth and onto his arm.

Étaín sits for a moment, staring at him, before rising to their feet and shuffling off toward the riverbank, obedient and bloodstained. Alfira is still a sticky, pungent weight on Astarion’s shoulders. He adjusts her and starts off at a brisk pace, cursing how he sags after only a few steps, neck and shoulders and legs burning with strain. Even starving, he used to be able to bend iron bars with his bare hands, scale walls and walk upside down on ceilings. Now, despite the gift of the sun and a few days’ worth of decent blood in his belly, he can barely haul a corpse.

It takes longer than Astarion would have liked to reach a spot he deems near enough to the gnolls’ territory and far enough from camp to store Alfira. But he finds a spot of tall grass and brambles just off the Risen Road. Unlikely to be stumbled upon by any wayward goblin patrols, but the gnolls will scent the meal in no time. He drops her unceremoniously, rising and cracking his neck. Astarion gives her one last look, locking all of his sympathy in a little box he keeps behind his sternum, staring until she’s only prey that had the misfortune of stumbling into his path. He turns away as her face begins to change, taking on the appearance of a thousand victims who met their needless end at the hands of a monster in Astarion’s midst. He walks away from her before the gnolls hone in on the smell of bloodied meat, heading for the river.

Étaín sits at the bank, shirt off and submerged in the water, most of the blood gone from their skin now. They don’t give any indication that they notice his approach, busy scrubbing their shirt with a small rock, trying to grind out the bloodstains. But, when Astarion clears his throat, they barely twitch an ear, simply casting a glance over their shoulder.

“I have vinegar for bloodstains,” Astarion says, holding his hand out for the soiled garment, “Give it here.”

Étaín rises, standing in the ankle deep, silty shallows to wring the water out of their shirt before turning to face Astarion fully. Their torso is split by long, straight scars; two leading from either shoulder to their breastbone where they meet, then trail down as one, curving around the belly button and dipping below the waistband of their trousers. Astarion has seen scars like that before, but never on the living. It’s difficult to tell against the pink of their skin, but they seem fresh, thick and purple-red, gnarled in some places as if applied by an overly eager hand.

Astarion forces himself to blink before he can be accused of staring, but Étaín barely seems to notice, arms at their sides and unembarrassed as if nakedness is as comfortable to them as being clothed, and says, “Why are you helping me?”

Astarion lifts a shoulder, affecting carelessness, “I’m only willing to tolerate a maximum of one bard in my company.” Étaín frowns at him, then rolls their eyes, spirit coming back to their expression after the tears and blankness.

They shift their weight, cocking a hip. “It’s me, right?” They raise an expectant eyebrow.

“Well,” Astarion allows, “You’re certainly the only one here.”

Étaín laughs like a bell: tinkling, and utterly hollow. Then, they step out of the water, the ends of their trousers sodden, and approach Astarion. He bites his own tongue to keep from backing away, but all they do is pass him by on their way back to camp. He stands there, clutching their ruined shirt in both hands, gazing out at the black water reflecting stars.

The next morning, Étaín finds their shirt clean and hanging on one of their tent poles to dry. Astarion doesn’t look up when they emerge from their tent, sitting in a ray of sun to sharpen his daggers with a whetstone “borrowed” from Lae’zel. If he notices her glaring at him, he ignores it.

“Étaín!” Wyll calls, brow furrowed where he sits near Gale’s breakfast fire, “Have you seen Alfira?”

Étaín feels the phantom stain of blood on their skin, alighting them with an intoxicating mix of elation and dread. “Not since I went to bed last night,” they say, “Maybe she got cold feet and went back to the Grove?”

“In the dark, alone? Unwise,” Gale remarks, prodding at some bits of sausage in his pan.

“She was here at the end of my watch,” Astarion supplies. Étaín looks at him briefly, but he keeps his eyes on his dagger, pausing to blow on the honed edge and squint at it critically.

“We should look for her,” Karlach suggests. “She might have gotten lost heading out for a late night piss, or something.”

Lae’zel scoffs. “Doubtless she ran back to where she came from, or else became a worg’s meal. We must push on.”

“Loathe as I am to agree with Lae’zel,” Shadowheart says, “Anyone who can’t manage a nighttime piss without getting lost shouldn’t be following us around.”

With every word, Étaín thrums with delight, fingertips singing with the thrill of getting away with murder. They force the budding smile back before it can bloom, instead furrowing their eyebrows in false consideration. This time when they look, they find Astarion observing them silently. They wink, and he quirks a brow. The ugly guilt and heaving fear of last night are gone, leaving only wariness at not being able to control their urges as well as they thought, but this is overshadowed by the bliss of satiation. They had no idea how ravenous for it they were, how much they ached for the slaughter. Only now that it’s gone can they appreciate the true weight of it. There is a pinch, an itch, of regret. Poor, sweet Alfira didn’t deserve Étaín’s ire. Would that they could have reserved it for a goblin or ogre or mindflayer, but even that is lost in the swirl of satisfaction.

“We could split up,” Étaín suggests, ever the pragmatist. “Karlach and Wyll, if you’d like to search for Alfira, you could do that while the others of us continue scouting west. We would cover more ground.”

There’s more deliberation, a brief argument, before it’s finally agreed that Shadowheart would accompany Wyll and Karlach to canvas the area, looking for both Alfira and more signs of cult activity to the north. Lae’zel, in an attempt to keep her away from Shadowheart and give everyone a break from their constant bickering, will join Étaín, Astarion, and Gale as they track west, following the trail of goblins to their stronghold. Gale has been annotating a collection of maps he found in the Grove, and assures them all he has a very good idea of where the ruined temple the human mercenaries spoke of is.

He leads the way, quarterstaff in one hand and map brandished in the other, while Lae’zel stalks behind him, rolling her eyes when he pauses to consult his compass. Astarion falls into step beside Étaín, bringing up the rear a few paces behind. “And you’re quite certain they won’t find any trace of your late night activities during their noble quest?” he hisses, just loud enough for Étaín to hear.

“I swept away my tracks with a leafy branch on my way back to the river. You?”

Astarion smirks. “I don’t leave tracks. I can’t say the same for gnolls, however. They'll likely find pieces of Alfira, at the very least.” He squints at Étaín warily. “You’re in high spirits. Considering.”

Étaín shrugs from shoulders to the tip of their tail, curling it over at the end into a little loop. “Whatever plagues my dreams is sated. If we’re lucky, perhaps this will be the last of it.” They don’t mention the afterglow of bloodlust, or the lingering taste of Alfira’s fear at the back of their tongue. Astarion doesn’t look particularly convinced, but they ignore it. Whatever inspired him to help them last night, he’s stuck with them now. He’ll hold his tongue if he plans on keeping it.

Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Astarion says only, “Maybe keep it outside of camp, if there is a next time.”

Étaín smiles beatifically at him. “Don’t worry. You’re safe with me.” As the group continues on their trek, Étaín pulls out their violin, setting it to their chin and bowing out a tune before beginning the first verse, “Dance upon the stars tonight…” They recite the lyrics to the best of their memory, keeping time with the rate of their steps. The Weave fills the song, warping the notes as they rise from the violin and their lips, until every word is strung with hope like pearls. They can feel the magic settle on the others, filling their hearts and bellies with new vigor, their souls with purpose.

“That’s a sweet little song! Quite melancholy, as well. What is it?” Gale asks over his shoulder once the song comes to an end. Étaín takes their violin from their chin.

“It’s something I heard Alfira singing. Maybe I’ll have her teach it to me properly, when we see her again.”

#bg3 #astarion #astarion x durge #durge #dark urge #bg3 fanfic #fanfic #op #posting at a rlly bad time but lol

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cultivaet · 5 months ago

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drift down the blackwater rush where absent sights occur like phantom memories. we have been here before, @celtigvrs.

" skoros gaomagon ao undegon? " soft, pink fingertips slink over the fabric of little sister's sharp shoulder, thumb coming to rest on the top notch of her spine. a gentle touch, becoming memorized, collapsed with the insistence of sister, mother, maester; any assumed singularity is as absurd as the clean water which freshly bent and stained oak now course through. discomfiting, offensive. newness is not becoming of the capitol, a truth surely plain to even those who have never passed through its shit-mottled, piss-clean streets. sisters, before their collapse, had observed its original hellish halo — all sights their frail queen now endorses to hide. an amusing insult, the lady assents, long fingers curling around rail of the vessel as pale gaze drifts over slow-passing mercantile. " or better asked, what is not meant to be seen? " there are cracks in the veneer. ivy, metaphoric spindling tines peering through unblemished paint and the thin, provoking scent of vinegar. turns to her sister now, casual vigilance: this is a test.

#translation: what do you see?#ˈ　　　𝗹𝗮𝗲𝘆𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗹𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗮𝗿　　　　　threads　.#ˈ　　　𝗹𝗮𝗲𝘆𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗹𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗮𝗿　　　　　and visenya celtigar　.

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contra-zen · 2 years ago

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Get FAMILIAR WITH OAK FLOORING

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WHAT TO EXPECT FROM LAMINATE OAK Vs. ENGINEERED OAK FLOORING What are the key distinctions between engineered oak flooring and laminated oak flooring? Wood floor providers often have hundreds of different flooring varieties, each with its own label and corresponding sample. The thickness of the top or exposed wood layer is the key to answering this issue. Take a look at the data in the table below.

Oak Engineered Laminate with a Solid Wood Top LayerUsually at least 1/8 inches thick.1/16 of an inch, at most. Refinishing PotentialUsually sands well enough to be refinished at least once.The thin veneer on top makes it impractical.

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