#patched and smoothened

[design-art-architecture]

Sometimes its hard to believe someone has already built your dreams: Ensamble Studio’s @anton_ensamble C’an Terra transforms an abandoned quarry in Menorca into a singular holiday home. Sandstone volumes were refined, smoothed, and paved back, with concrete poured in selected areas to achieve an even surface, and patches of walls smoothened to mimic beige stone block construction. Tucked somewhere in the back is a private room with a pool dug out of the floor—a refined version of swimming holes often enjoyed in nature. Photos: @iwanbaan

[4ttack-ur-heart]

Reassuring Kisses

Pairing: Levi x reader

Warnings: mentions of blood, insecurities, sad levi :( fluff at the end tho. Slight spoilers for s4.

Bro he looks so sad

“Where’s Levi?” You asked Hange with a shake in your voice.

You and the others finally met up with Levi and Hange in the forest after escaping the Jeagerists. You haven’t seen Levi since Zeke was captured and heard rumors of an explosion near their camp.

The crunch of leaves and twigs under your boots caught his attention.

Levi grunted when he leaned up in the cart he was sitting in. He was sheltered away from the others as Hange thought he would rest better with a moment of privacy.

Your breath shuddered when he held up his hand to wave at you, both his pointer and middle finger just mere stubs. “Oh, Levi.”

Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled him in a loose hug, being mindful of his injuries. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“It’s fine, (y/n).” He said, voice holding no emotion. “It is a setback I’ll be honest, but it doesn’t mean I still can’t kill Zeke when we find him.”

A small shake of your head answered his comment. You gently grabbed his injured hand and studied the bandages. They were tight enough to stop the bleeding, just two small patches of blood on the outside but nothing drastic.

Turning his hand over, you kissed the back of his hand. “Yeah, well… I might beat you to it.” A dry chuckle escaped your lips.

You held up a fresh roll of bandages in your hand. “Hange wanted me to change them for you.”

A sigh left him and he avoided his gaze from your eyes. He didn’t want you to see his wounds. Not yet at least. Almost as if he was ashamed.

Your finger gently ran under his chin, lifting his head up.

“Hey, you’ve been taking care of me for years.” A light kiss was placed on his forehead. “Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Your words reassured Levi as he nodded slightly and used his good hand to start unwrapping the bandages. His eyes were locked onto your shirt as you took over, refusing once again to meet your eyes as you finished unwrapping his face. The wounds and cuts on display.

A wave of silence washed over you both as you studied his face.

Levi took your silence as a bad response and sighed. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“I mean… for almost getting your face blown off, I think you still look pretty good.” You gave him a small smile and stood in front of him.

Levi still wouldn’t look at you.

Alright, no time for jokes then.

Discarding the soiled bandages, you took his face in your hands very carefully. “You’re still my strong soldier.”

Your eyes ran over the large gashes that ran down his eye, cheek and part of his lips, hastily stitched up by Hange. Poor thing.

Levi seemed to lighten up at your touch, his eyes closing and he leaned into your hand. Your thumb brushed over the edge of his lips, before swiping over his other cheek. “I love you, nothing will ever change that.”

Levi’s hand went up to the back of your head and slightly dug into your roots before pulling you down to him. Lips met gently and the passionate moment of intimacy was what you both needed after an eventful couple days.

“Mm, Levi.” You muttered into his mouth. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

His tongue ran over your bottom lip before his lips suctioned onto yours once more.

“Don’t worry about it.” He grumbled and his hand tightened on your hair, his other arm wrapping around your waist and tugging you closer to him, careful to not put pressure on his injured hand.

Levi shuffled under the blanket before pulling you onto the cart with him, you being positioned between his legs.

After timeless moments of you both being lip-locked, you pulled away. Levi’s grip loosened on your hair, the pads of his fingers smoothening down the tussled tresses.

Levi finally fastened his eyes to yours. A glossy wall in front of his blue irises. He clasped your hand in his and ran his thumb over your knuckles. “I love you.”

Your thumb swiped a fallen tear that trailed below his eye.

“I love you more, Captain.” You smiled before unwrapping the fresh roll of gauze. “Now, let me take care of you.”

————————————

I like this one :)

[safination]

Partners in Death…And Life

Part 4: The Radio Stars’ Co-host Just Wants To Do The Dishes

|Part 3: Not Everything You Hear From the Radio Should be Trusted| Part 5: Glimpse of Me and You| |Masterlist| Ao3| Taglist| Parings: Alastor x wife! Reader. Tags: fem!reader established relationships, hopefully not but just in case ooc!Alastor (I'm trying my best, guys) Reader is in hell for a reason, Warnings: Very brief dissection of the human body. Kidneys Summary: After a seven-year absence, you find the man you were married to in life, not only back in town, but also helping... *checks notes*... the Princess of Hell run a hotel aimed at rehabilitating sinners who were sent to the bad place for a reason. It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem. It’s me. I am sorry :D. These past *checks notes* three weeks (yikes) have been really busy for me. But I’m finally posting?

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The light from the bus stop illuminates Alastor’s block handwriting. Smiles are drawn on the edges of note with different colored ballpoint pens. Dear God, it was like looking at kindergarten art, but you appreciate it nonetheless. Alastor’s instructions tell you that his house is a ten-minute walk from the bus stop.

You flip the note, studying the map Alastor drew.

A bird caws from the patches of trees across the road. There’s no living soul out here besides your own for miles.

You tighten your grip on the straps of your bag, and walk until you find yourself standing before a wooden gate. The hatch unlocks easily, and you hike up the path until you’re stepping on to the porch.

Alastor’s house isn’t much—well, it’s much more than the tiny apartment in the city that you call home, but besides that, he has a very normal looking house. You don’t know why you expect anything different. The flowers on his windowsill brighten the place, and the rocking chairs by the edge makes it homier.

You smoothen your hair, fiddling with the note. A deep inhale, and then another deep inhale, and then another deep inhale, and then another deep inhale, and then another—

Fuck it. You knock on the door.

A beat passes, and then another beat passes, and then another. Oh God, did he not hear your knock? Should you knock again? Your father always said that it was rude to knock twice, but you’re sure the knock should have been heard. Alastor was probably at the back of the house. You’re just going to knock again.

Alastor swings the door open, smiling at you. “You are right on time!”

Soft music plays behind him. The lights inside make his living-room look warm. “You said to be here by eight  . . .  so  . . .  Here I am!” you say with a light laugh. It doesn’t come out as you hope. “I’m very fond of being punctual.” Okay . . . hmmm . . . why did you say that?

You smoothen your hair, and fiddle with the straps of your bag.

 “I admire punctuality.” Alastor smiles at you.

You smile back.

He opens the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’

‘Of course I would!’

All proper responses to his question. It’s a shame you don’t say them. You reach into your bag instead, and shove a paper bag into his arms. “It’s raw.”

Alastor lifts the paper bag, studying it with careful eyes until they flicker to the wet patches at the bottom. “ . . . I’m almost afraid to ask who it came from.”

You step through the door, and take off your coat. “My father, actually.”

Alastor tilts his head. “This is your father—am I supposed to cook him or something?”

“It’s venison!” you say, and run your hand through your hair. “Dad went hunting last week, and he gave me a bunch of meat and well . . . well, I thought you'd appreciate it more than I do. There’s too much for me to eat alone. And it’s always polite to give a gift when you’re visiting a home.”

Alastor secures your gift around his arms, and takes your coat. He’s smiling. You think he’s being genuine—you can’t really tell. “Thank you.”

He hangs your coat on the rack, and ushers you deeper inside his home. Alastor disappears into what you think is his kitchen, but you stay planted in his living-room floor. His house is nice for someone who lives alone. Things all have a place, they’re not necessarily organized, but it’s neat. It makes you smile.

It’s easy to see Alastor between the walls.

This is a home that’s been lived in. You count at least three portable radios in the living-room alone. There are books on the coffee table by the window, and the spines are creased as if it’s been read over and over and over again.

There’s a chair next to the window as well. It has stains, and the cushions sink as if they’ve been loved for decades. You can practically see Alastor in that chair, a warm drink in his hand. He’ll reach across, and twist the knob of the radio that already has his favorite station tuned.

Alastor strides out of the kitchen, your gift probably inside his freezer. “Follow me,” he says with a wave of his arm. “I have something to show you.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

There are photo frames lining the wall of his stairs.

You observe it as you follow deeper into this house. Some are photographs of what you’re going to assume is Alastor, and some are certificates. You don’t have time to poke around and read each and every one of them.

Alastor opens his arms, shaking them as he presents you with a door.

A single door . . . One door at the back of the house. A door you don’t know where it will lead.

You stare at him, and take one single step back. “You’re not going to kill me in your basement, right?”

Alastor laughs at you, wiping a tear for the sake of showing you. “Good heavens no! Why would you ever think that?”

“Because I’m inside a man’s house, and he’s currently leading me to the basement. A man, might I add, dumps bodies in the forest,” you tell him with a wonky smile. “I hope you don’t go around asking every lady to your murder basement.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“My goodness, you really know how to make a lady feel extra special.” You fiddle with the straps of your bag, tightening your grip to stifle the urge to smoothen your hair. “So, how do you want to do this?”

Alastor tilts his head. (It’s kind of cute.) “Do what?”

“You know . . . uh . . . . You’ll  tell me to run,” you say, then motion to the china vase behind. “Then I’ll grab this really nice and expensive looking vase and smash it over your head.”

“Please don’t.”

“And then I’ll make a run for the door.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You weren’t interested in running last time.”

“And I’m still not,” you say. “So there’s no point in killing me.”

He chuckles a bit and his glasses slide down his nose. He pushes it up. “Think of this as a gift! Or more like an offer of partnership.”

“A gift of death?”

“I've already told you I wasn’t planning on killing you anymore,” he says, sighing. “Just . . . just follow me, and you’ll see!”

You huff and cross your arms. “I detest being lied to.”

Alastor opens the basement door. The hinges creak. It appears as if darkness itself lives inside, swirling and eating up whatever light that passes through. “Yes, that’s good to know.”

You take another step back. “That’s a really creepy basement.”

“You haven’t even been inside yet,” Alastor says. He places a light hand on your back, practically pushing you down. “Now, now, don’t be so stubborn.”

You grab the door frames, and push against him to resist. “I’m not going without knowing what’s down there.”

Alastor presses on your back. “If you go down there and see what I’ve prepared, you will feel very silly for causing such a ruckus.”

You push back harder, using the door frames as support. “As first dates go, this is giving really mixed signals,” you say, trying to smile. “I hope you don’t treat all ladies like this.”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “Just the stubborn ones.”

You and Alastor are at a stalemate. He pushes. You push back. The classic dilemma of an unmovable force versus an immovable object. “If you kill me, I will haunt you,” you say, digging your feet into the wooden floors. “I will haunt you, and hide all your tacky bow ties.”

Alastor stops pushing, and you fumble backwards from the lack of his opposing force. He points his nose to the air, straightening his bow ties. “It is not.”

You frown at him. “Oh . . . I’m really sorry.”

“You should be.”

Taking this opportunity, you press against the wall like a hissing cat. “I’m sorry you actually believe that!”

Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes one deep breath. He strides to you, and the world goes upside-down when he flips you over his shoulder. Alastor carries you like a common sack of worthless potatoes.

“I really don’t like this!” you shriek, angling your head to glare at him. Alastor has a surprisingly really nice back. Like . . . a really, really nice back.

Alastor meets your eyes and smirks. “You’ll like it in a second.”

He tightens his grip around your hips, and his boney shoulders dig into your stomach. You keep your eyes ahead. “You have a really flat butt.”

He pauses for a second. “Stop looking at it.”

“I will do as I please,” you say with a huff, and go limp in his hold as you accept your fate. “It’s just all pointy. Maybe some squats will be helpful?”

“If it’s such a horror to you, stop ogling my buttocks like a pervert.”

“Now you’re just putting words into my mouth,” you say with a weird giggle. “These pants suit you well.”

He shakes you like a wet noodle. “I will drop you.”

“Please don’t.”

Alastor flips you, and your feet land safely on the ground. His basement is totally not creepy, totally not creepy at all. The fluorescent light bulb swaying around totally does not add to general horror. The blacked-out windows, and the spiderwebs on the wood make you not want to sprint to the top.

The cadaver bag on the table makes you stay.

It’s filled. You walk to the table, and observe the lump. Grasping the zipper, you pull it until the face of a dead man greets you. He’s fresh. Killed less than a day ago.

Alastor opens his arms, wide, as if to present to you. “Your studying can all be done right here!”

You stare at him, accepting the smile that creeps on your face. “Really?” you say, and trace this man’s nose with your fingers—his skin is cold. He is cold and dead, and full of organs you can poke around and observe. “You’re going to just allow me to dissect this body?”

Alastor smiles at you. “See?” he says. “You were making all the fuss, and now your smile could light up this very room.”

The laughter starts as a soft giggle that builds into excited glee. “I could kiss you right now.”

Alastor takes a step back. “Please don’t”

You roll your eyes then observe the person lying on this table. He wasn’t as big as the one before. This man still has the colors on his face, a bit pale, but he looks like he could just be in a sickly sleep. “Did you like this person?”

“Not at all,” he says. “He’d be alive if he was.”

“Then do you like me?” you say with a grin, placing a hand on your hips. “All this to get my attention, I see. I prefer being dined first, but not the worst first date I’ve ever been on.”

Alastor glares at you as he makes a face. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

“So quick to answer that it’s almost insulting,” you say. “Well, it was your decision to keep me alive.”

There’s a glint in his eyes that pierces your very core. The lightbulb makes a shadow pass over his eyes, and you swear his eyes glow. Every single cell in your body screams as Alastor looks down at you from his glasses with a smile and darkened brown eyes that match his well-kept brown hair. “And I’m currently debating my choice,” he says. “I do not like being mocked. I can still change my mind if I find you a weak link.”

“Oh . . . I . . . oh . . . .,” you say dumbly, coughing a little bit.  The words aren’t doing their job.

“Do you understand me?”

Basements are supposed to be cold—you definitely don’t feel cold right now. “I’m sure you can—I don’t doubt that at all.” To break your gaze on him, you turn to the dead man between you and Alastor. “This man didn’t suffer.”

Alastor’s eyebrows raise. “And?”

“I’m not a total idiot when it comes to . . .  uh . . .  hunting,” you say, tilting the dead guy’s chin to see his neck. It was a bit stiff. “There’s a single deep slice on his neck. He was probably still high on adrenaline when you killed him, but with the other body, you took your time. That guy suffered—this one didn’t”

He crosses his arms. “I don’t see your point.”

“Nevermind . . . just . . . ,” you start and smile a bit. “Thank you for preserving this body so well, but unfortunately, I think I’ll have to refuse.”

Alastor’s eye twitches as he takes a step closer to you. His shadow towers over you. “You’re refusing?”

You zip the man back into his bag. “You don’t need a partner,” you say. “If anything, bringing him back into your house is risky. If it’s my silence you want, you already have it. There’s no need for all this.”

“I never asked for your silence.”

“Yet it’s yours nonetheless,” you say. “Thank you for the gift or offer for partnership, but I’m not interested in going into business with you.”

“Is this not beneficial for you?”

“It is . . . it really is, and every fiber wants to give in but it’s not wise for me to get mixed up with you,” you tell him. “I think you’re mistaking my sin for gluttony. I know trouble when I see it, and I’m not afraid to flee from it.”

Alastor’s face twists as his smile turns into a snarl. “All you could ever want right here.”

“You obviously want something from me,” you say. “I know you’re not above using tricks to get what you want. Although, I don’t understand why you take such time out of your day to do such consuming things.”

He glares at you. “There’s always the chance that you’d say no,” he says. “And I can’t have that happen.”

“I decide if something is worth my time or not,” you say. “I will only ask once: what do you want from me?”

Alastor exhales, and pushes his glasses. “I’d like to watch you work. There’s something I want to confirm.”

You study him for a second. “That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Then hand me a pack of gloves please,” you say. “I can show you all the things I’ve learned.”

Alastor tosses gloves to your face. It whacks you and lands on the table. You curse at him, and roll your eyes.

There’s a large container of formaldehyde under the table. You don’t know where he got it or how, but still, you take a stray brush forgotten on one of the tables, and brush the skin with chemicals. The sharp smell stings your eyes, but you’ve learned to tolerate it. Alastor scrunches his nose, taking a step back.  

Opening the window would probably be wise, but you could do that later. Your father always did hope that you’d grow out of your bad habit. But with such an exhilarating opportunity, caution is at the back of your mind.

The scapple fits into your palm as if it was made for you. Throughout this Earth, no . . .  not just Earth, but Heaven and Hell as well, nothing will ever be as perfect.

Alastor laughs, not the breathy and light kind, but in a loud and triumphant way. His eyes bulge out, looking like they could pop out any second “It seems I was not wrong,” he says. “You have the most precious smile I have ever seen.”

“Okay?”

Alastor leans closer to you, jerking your chin to face him. “All this time I’ve seen you; I have never seen your smile as true and honest as now.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The bristles of the brush tangle on your feathers. It’s a struggle to smoothen the feathers at the back of your head now that you live alone.

The clock strikes an hour past noon, and work will call for you soon. It would be nice to be one time if this motherfucking brush would do its fucking job! You tug on the handle, cursing when it jerks your scalp. The smack of your forehead on the vanity table echoes around the room. The feathers bundled on the floor make you screech. That’s it. It’s over. You are not taking another second of this.

Discarding the brush, you head to the kitchen.

You grab two mugs, and take two spoonful of coffee ground and feed it to the coffee machine. With only a press of a button, you make the most perfectly perfected perfect cup of coffee. You take both mugs and take a seat on that little side table inside the kitchen.

The second mug steams with coffee.

You plop your chin on the table, unable to draw your eyes aways as you stare at it. Making a second cup is a waste of your money. Deep down to your very core, you’re aware that it’s a waste. It strikes you with the gentleness of a plane crash every single morning you make it, and every single night you have to throw it away.

Silence is your companion in this empty house. Where are the days when soft music plays on the radio? Where are the days where light footsteps walk around the carpeted floors? Where are the days of stories over dinner?  These days watching television is the only way to fill that silence.

A knock breaks your pathetic moping.

The knocking starts out soft and hesitant, until it’s replaced with loud banging.

Swiping your mug from the table, you stride to the front door and swing it open. Charlie and Alastor stand in front of you, big smiles on their faces.

Your husband pushes a small ugly statue right up your face, presenting it to you with a self-satisfied smile. “I was told it was polite to bring a gift to a person’s home,” Alastor says. “Do you like it?”

“Oh no . . . ,” Charlie says, frowning a bit. “I didn’t bring anything.”

Alastor places a hand on her shoulder. “No worries then! This gift shall be from the both of us.”

The mug slips from your hold. Charlie catches it, not a single drop spilling, and plops it back on your hand. You blink at Alastor and frown. “Why are you knocking?”

“We’re here on super serious business talk,” he says, wrapping an arm around Charlie’s shoulders to bring her closer. “Charlotte here has something to ask you.”

Charlie smiles. “Just Charlie, actually.”

You shake your head, tightening your grip on the mug. “No.”

Alastor tilts his head. “No?”

“No, this is your home,” you say, opening the door wider. “There’s no need to knock.”

Alastor and Charlie step inside, and you take a sip of your coffee—a long, drawn out sip. Alastor walks to the shelf nearest the door, placing your ugly little statue on the shelf that’s meant for all other ugly knickknacks. It blends in with all the other gifts Alastor’s given you.

Charlie’s eyes bounce around the walls, eyes wide as she looks around. “Wooooaaaaah,” she says. “This is a really nice house you guys have!”

Alastor glares at the television. “Why, thank you!” he says. “I put in a lot of care into how it looks. It seems you’ve redecorated—I don’t like it.”

“Oh, you never do,” you say. “Let’s move to the kitchen, shall we?”

Alastor’s ears straighten. “The kitchen?” he echoes. “Oh yes. Let’s go the kitchen.”

Alastor hooks his arms around yours, pulling you to the kitchen. There’s determination set in each step. You and Charlie take your seats by the kitchen table. Charlie continues to look around. You see it in her eyes as they flicker around to count each radio.

It seems you’ve made a mistake.

Alastor goes straight to the refrigerator, and swings it open.

With horror, you watch as his gaze observes each level meticulously, humming as he does. There’s not much to look at, considering the only thing inside are a couple of eggs, empty plastic containers that you’ve been too lazy to wash, last week’s takeout, and a couple of sauces and condiments.

When he finally closes it, your shoulders sink as you exhale . . . until, of course , Alastor wraps his fingers around the freezer’s handle.

“Would you like anything, Charlie?” Is the first thing that comes out of your mouth. “I think we have juice or lemonade—”

“We don’t have any of those,” Alastor says, and his gaze bears down on you. “It makes me wonder what will be inside our freezer, my love.”

Charlie smiles brightly. “I don’t need anything,” she says. “I had tea with Rosie this morning, and Alastor and I had lunch on the way here.”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” you say, chuckling nervously. “You know what? It’s such a hellish day today, and it would be a waste to spend it here. Why don’t we move to the garden?”

“No.” Alastor crosses his arm. “We are staying right here.”

You sulk in your seat, drooping a little. “ . . . okay.”

Finally, Alastor opens the freezer door. His twitching eyes and pursed lips tell you everything you need to know about how the next fifteen minutes will go. Carefully, with the tips of his fingers, Alastor pulls out one of those microwave meals you buy at the grocery. He glares at the frozen chicken nuggets and pork cutlets, and all the processed frozen food you store there for easy meals.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say, giving him your most innocent smile. “And I barely eat those anyway. Those microwaved meals are just there for the occasional meal, I swear!”

Without uttering a single word, Alastor opens the cabinet under the sink where the trash can stays, and pulls it out. Empty microwave meals fill the brim. He raises his eyebrows at you.

“Oh dear . . . ” Charlie winces. “That’s a lot, even for me.

You sulk deeper into your chair.

Alastor inspects the cabinets above the sink. The only things that greet him are a bunch of pots and pans. Relief pours into you . . . until of course, Alastor grabs the largest pot at the back of the cabinet and opens it, smashing any sense of relief with a metal bat.

Alastor pulls out a large pack of instant noodles. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asks. “I remember telling you that I don’t like you eating these.”

“But they’re delicious,” you say, pouting a bit.

“These aren’t healthy,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They’re full of chemicals!”

“Everything is full of chemicals!” you counter. “And I only had a few. The dosage makes the poison.”

Alastor opens the trash can and tosses what was supposed to be your dinner. “The plastic said it was a pack of twelve?”

You cross your arms. “And? I don’t see your point.”

“There’s only two left.”

You fiddle with the handle of your mug. “I . . . I was busy . . . ?”

“We’re all busy,” he says and you could pick out the faintest sound of static. “Not a single fresh fruit or vegetable, or any proper meats. Have I taught you nothing?”

Your pout deepens. “Do we have to do this in front of Charlie, my deerest?”

Charlie raises her arms in surrender. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “Aren’t you a doctor?”

“Yes, one would think . . . .,” Alastor trails off. His eyes land on the second mug of coffee on the table, and his neck tilts to angle until it snaps. Static scratches that air until it warps. His eyes darken to reveal radio dials. “Expecting a guest today?”

You blink at him a bit dumbly, and take a long and drawn-out sip of your coffee to try and compose yourself. It doesn’t work. “I don’t make coffee for guests.”

Charlie panics a bit. “There, there Alastor,” she says. “No need to get all crazy!”

Alastor’s antlers grow. “I’m aware you don’t. So, who is it for?”

“Oh . . . .” Dumbly blinking at him continues, and the words don’t seem to be doing their job.

Alastor leans closer, his voice morphing a bit. “I’d appreciate an answer, my love.”

“It's yours,” you find yourself saying. “ . . . If you want it, that is.”

He blinks at you. You blink at him. Charlie blinks at the both of you.

Gone are the growing antlers, and the static that buzzes your skin. Alastor stands before you with that never ending smile, perfectly normal—well, as normal as he can be. “You weren’t aware I’d be visiting.”

You frown at him. “It’s not a visit if it’s your own home.”

“I didn’t tell you I’d be coming home,” he says. “Why make one for me?”

The heat on your face makes you turn away. “Just take it, deerest.”

“Taste lovely as always!” he says, taking a swig. Your frown turns into a soft smile as your watch him drink. “But don’t think you’re getting away from this conversation.”

“It really isn’t my fault.”

“Oh, really now?” Alastor raises his eyebrows. “I’m positive I taught you how to cook nutritious dishes.”

You flick the mug, and a soft clink echoes a bit. “I still cook proper food for myself,” you tell him, showing him your saddest smile. “But . . . I find myself hating the dishes.”

Alastor twirls his microphone, and it strikes the ground with a soft thunk. “And you think saying this will get you off the hook?”

You stick your tongue out. “Is it working?”

Alastor sighs at you, and turns to the ticking clock. “We’re wasting time—go talk to Charlotte.”

Charlie smiles awkwardly. “Just Charlie, actually.”

With a triumphant smile, you turn to Charlie. “So,” you begin, “what business are we going to talk about today?”

It’s Charlies turn to sulk into the kitchen chair. “Extermination is a month away,” she says. “And Adam is heading straight to the hotel first! It’s just one bad event after another because Heaven refuses to listen, and I’m running out of options.”

Alastor steps behind you. Suddenly, a brush combs through the back of your feathers, smoothing those parts of your head that you’ve never been able to reach by yourself.  Sometimes, you think Hell gave you feathers so someone could brush it for you. A part of you warms at the fact that you didn’t even need to ask your husband to smoothen your feathers. It’s a job he’s been doing since you first spawned in hell, and it seems it’s work he’s keen on continuing.

“Extermination,” you echo. “I love the extermination. There are so many desperate and poor souls who want to keep their limbs. I get rather busy—prime deal making opportunities right there.”

Charlie winces a bit. “Oh dear . . . um . . . okay. That sounds fun? And a little violent.”

Alastor speaks up from behind you, still running a brush through your feathers. “We can from Cannibal Town! Charlie was able to convince Rosie’s people to take arms.”

“Then, what brings you to me?” you ask, stiffening your back as you try not to lean into the brush that combs through your feathers. Alastor always was better at preening you. “I’m not much of a fighter.”

“Alastor suggested that I ask for your help,” Charlie says. “He said you’re one of the few people who knows how to fix wounds that come from Angelic Weapons.”

You bat your eyes at Alastor. “Spilling all my secrets, I see.”

Alastor glides the brush over your hair, leaning close to your ear. “Oh, not everything.”

You laugh and glance at Charlie. “In front of a guest, my deer?”

Charlie cringes with the most hilarious frown.

“It’s just a matter of counteracting the holiness of their weapons,” you say, clearing your throat. “After that, it’s purely medical.”

“How is that even possible?”

Alastor trails through your feathers, and it tingles and flutters. You keep your expression emotionless. “I’m surprised you don’t know this,” you say. “Did Belphegor never tell you?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Well, eons ago, Belphegor found out that angelic weapons are considered holy, and that’s very bad for a Sinner,” you explain. “So, she and a bunch of her team found out that if you cut off the holy site or embed a large amount of Sinner energy, one will be able to treat it.”

Alastor leans closer, butting into the conversation. “I prefer it when you cut it off.”

“Of course you do,” you say with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“Embedding the wounds with your magic takes too much energy from you, and because of that you always come home to me with sunken eyes. That is, if you don’t pass out before you reach the front door,” Alastor tells you. “I don’t understand why you go out of your way when they’re not worthy.”

“Worthy?”

“Yes, worthy,” he says. “Had they been competent, they wouldn’t need to go to you in the first place. It only proves that they’re weak.”

You smile at his words. “I guess I never thought of it that way.

Charlie rolls her eyes at the both of you. “So, you could help us?”

You twist, turning to Alastor. “I think you’ve gotten all my feathers straightened out,” you say. “My love, can you do me a favor?”

Lightly, Alastor taps your head with the tip of his cane. “Of course, how can I help?”

“I think the plants need some watering.”

The brush on Alastor’s hand dissolves with a poof. He leans closer once again, trailing your cheek with his finger until they hook on your chin. He captures you with his stare, and you allow him to trap you. He presses his lips on your cheek, and disappears into his shadow.

You take an even longer sip of your coffee.

Charlie massages her forehead, eyes twitching. “Dear Satan, it’s like watching my parents all over again! I can leave, you know,” she says, snorting. “Give you two a little privacy?”

“Oh, don’t bother,” you tell her. “There wouldn’t be enough time.”

Her brows furrow. “Time?”

“After all, extermination is in a month,” you say, brightening your smile. “We’re going to need at least two.”

“ What the fuuuuck,. ” Charlie whispers underneath her breath, her voice a pitch higher.

“Every couple of years, there will be certain seasons where it takes six!” you say. “Sinner bodies are just so exhilarating.”

Charlie chokes on her spit, and her eyes bulge. “Are you serious?”

“Hmmm, I could be—who knows?” You raise your mug to toast, and take a drink.

“You’re joking,” Charlie says. “ . . . Right? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“My dear, is that a question you would want an answer to?” you ask. “Would you be prepared if the answer happens to be no ?”

Charlie sinks deeper into her chair. “Okay, then! Moving on, now.”

Leaning on your palm, you laugh. “My deerly beloved husband wouldn’t give all this information for free,” you say. “What did he ask for?”

“We made a deal.”

Your hands drop to the table. “Oh Charlotte,” you say. “That was a foolish mistake. You don’t know what Alastor does to the so—“

“I still have my soul!” Charlie exclaims, balling her fist. “From Vaggie! From you—his own wife! I did what I needed to do to keep my people safe . . . Sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be so reliant on Alastor,” you tell her with a small smile. “You can’t trust him.”

“He’s given me no reason no to trust him, and . . . ,” Charlie trails off. “And Alastor is my friend.”

Your smile brightens a bit. “Friend?”

“Yes?” Charlie says. “Everyone at the hotel is my friend, and he’s been a tremendous help.”

You place your hands over Charlies and give it a squeeze. “Convince me to help you.”

“W-what?”

“Alastor isn’t asking me to go play medic in the middle of a warzone.” Your brush your feathers out of your face. “If he was asking, I would say yes without a second thought because that’s who we are, but he isn’t asking me, Charlie, you are.”

Charlie hums, placing a finger on her lips as she thinks. “I heard from Angel that you and Alastor got married whe—“

CRASH!

She grips the table, eyes wide as she looks around. “What was that?”

You take a long and drawn-out sip of coffee, contemplating your choice for marriage. “Nothing to be worried about,” you say. “That was just my television.”

“Your Tv?” Charlie frowns a bit. “Did . . . did Alastor just throw away your Tv?”

You laugh, swatting your hand in the air. “Not at all!” you say. “It probably tripped out my window—those picture boxes are always so clumsy.”

Charlie raises her eyebrows. “You’re saying that your Tv . . . just tripped out the window.”

You smile at her. “You were saying something?”

She sighs, massaging her forehead. “You got married when you were alive, but continue to stay together. It’s very rare for Sinners to do such a thing,” she says. “And with all of that . . . uh . . . Alastorness.”

“It’s alright, you can just say bat-shit crazy.”

“I’d prefer not to,” she says with an awkward laugh. “So, how were you able to stay together for so long

“Are you . . . ,” you trail off, blinking. “Are you asking me for relationship advice?”

“A bit? If that’s okay,” she says. “Rosie already helped but, well, she did eat her first husband.”

“I don’t think I can be of much help.” Your lips purse. “Alastor and I don’t exactly have the most conventional marriage.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1927

“Do you like it?” Alastor offers you a spoonful of the simmering sauce.

You lean closer, shifting from your seat on his kitchen counter. Alastor dips the spoon in your opened mouth. “It’s spicy,” you say, lips twisting when you cough. “Is it supposed to be like that?”

Alastor tilts his head. A lock of his hair falls to the side. “No . . . it’s not.” He takes back the spoon and dips it into the pan. Alastor coughs as soon as it hits his tongue. “How many peppers did you add?”

Your legs sway, and the heels of your foot tap the cabinets below you. “I added what was written on the recipe! Exactly twelve peppers.”

Alastor twists the stove’s knob, killing the fire. “Take a look at the notebook again,” he says and reaches over your legs, grabbing his book full of recipes. “If you use these things called ‘eyes’ and ready, you’d be able to see that it says, ‘one to two’!”

“No, it does not!” you huff, grabbing the notebook from him. You read through the list of ingredients. There, near the bottom, pass the four cloves of chopped garlic, half a shallot, and a pinch of pepper, ‘one to two peppers’ is scribbled with blocky letters. “Oh . . . that’s my bad. Yeah, that’s on me.”

Alastor adjusts his sleeves, pulling it back up his forearm. (Hmm, not a bad look.) “There’s no point in teaching you how to cook this if you don’t know how to read!” he says, eyes twitching. “Go . . . Just go over there and let me fix this.”

“I already said I was sorry!”

“No, you did not!” Alastor says, throwing his hands into the air. “What you said was,‘Oh . . . that’s my bad. Yeah, that’s on me’, actually.”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” you repeat with a snort. “That’s my bad.”

“Get out of my kitchen before you ruin dinner.” He leans on the counter, crossing his arms. You hum to yourself. Alastor should pull his sleeves up more. “Go set the table or something. And wash your hair when you get home—it smells like chemicals.”

With a huff, you do as you're told.

You slide off his counter, opening the cabinet and grab two bowls with one arm and reach for the table placemats with the other.

Two sets of utensils, glass cups, and paper napkins. It’s one more set than what you prepare when you’re at your own home. Two . . . Two. It’s becoming quite the word in your vocabulary.

There’s a proper table waiting to be used in the other room, but this smaller one you’re setting, with its fraying edges and turmeric stains suit the both of you much better.

Three ice-cubes bobble at the top of Alastor’s water. It’s how he likes it. It’s funny. You don’t remember Alastor disclosing this particular information. It’s just something you noticed one day, and you’ve never stopped noticing. What else have you unconsciously learned about him, and what have you unconsciously taught him about you?

Alastor walks to the table, a large steaming bowl in his hands. He places it between the bowls, and you reach into the drawer for a ladle.

The taste tingles your tongue. It’s good. Better than anything you could possibly make for yourself.

You reach into your pocket and toss a handkerchief at Alastor’s face. It lands on between his hair. He tilts his head, shaking it, and the cloth slides on the table. “It’s yours,” you tell him, taking a spoonful of your food. “Thanks for dinner.”

Alastor studies how his name is embroidered in near letters, thumbing the music notes framing it. “Dinner was a way to thank you for this week’s meat.”

He tosses back the handkerchief. It smacks your face.

You peel it from your skin, and trace the letters you’ve threaded during your very scarce free time. “I can’t go around with a handkerchief that has your name on it.”

His smile widens. “Why not?”

“People would think I’m a fan.” You hand Alastor the handkerchief this time. “Just take it as a gift then.”

Alastor takes it from you, and places it into his pocket.

You hum into your spoon with a pleased smile. “Hey Al,” you say. “Tell me what you did today.”

Alastor takes his time chewing and swallowing his food. “As you can see,” he tells you, “I’m eating.”

“I’m bored,” you say. “Eat while you talk.”

He reaches across the table, and his fingers catch on the knob of the radio to turn it on.

Classical music plays out of the speaker. It was correct to assume that Alastor pre-sets radios to play his favorite stations. Although, you didn’t imagine that each of his many radios would have their own specific station. A different radio for different stations. You questioned Alastor about it, but he didn’t say much.

Once the bottom of the bowls has been scraped into your stomachs, you take the dishes and go to the sink.

Your nose scrunches at the sight of the piled dishes. Alastor watches you with a smile. You turn away when you notice.

Alastor takes a container from the cabinet above your head. He’s warm. Always warm.

He takes two containers, placing the leftovers inside. And there it is again, that word—Two. Not one, but two. One for him. One for you. You didn’t ask for leftovers. You’ve never asked at all. Alastor will just hand you the container like it’s the most automatic thing in this world for him to do.

You take the first of many bowls, and rinse the stubborn pieces with your hands. “There’s too many dishes,” you say. “It’s like you have one for every ingredient. Did you really need to use separate ones for each and every ingredient we used?”

He leans on the counter, slotting himself next to you.  “I don’t like mixing the flavors until it’s time to add them.”

Alastor adjusts his pulled sleeves and crosses his arms.

The bowl slips from your grip.

“Oh . . . I . . . uh . . . sorry,” you say, picking up the bowl. “I mean, you really didn’t need one for the salt and pepper. They already come in containers—why couldn’t you just, I don’t know, eyeball it?”

“Eyeball it?”

“Yeah, or feel it with your soul or something,” you say and pick up the measuring spoons to show him. “You had to measure three pinches of salt instead of actually just pinching it.”

Alastor laughs, and strands of his hair slide down to his eyes. “And how did it taste?”

Your shoulders slump when you sigh. “Good.”

He bumps his shoulders with yours. “That’s just the way I was taught.”

“Well,” you start, “your way creates more dishes for me to clean.”

Alastor pivots from the counter, and takes his place in front of the second sink. He grabs the dish you’ve already rinsed and sponges it with soap. It’s quite the system you’ve created. You grab a dirty dish, rinse it, and pass it on to Alastor who cleans it with a sponge.

The next minute goes something like this:

Alastor flicks water at your face. You ignore it.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

The water damps your hair. You kick his leg. “Stop that.”

Alastor drenches his hand under the faucet, letting his fingers accumulate water. He flicks it at you.

The grip you have on the plate tightens. “I am going to smash this on your head.”

Alastor raises his eyebrows. He glares. You glare back. He cups his hand under the faucet like a bowl. The water pools between his hands. He throws the water at you. It hits your eyes, blinding you. That does little to stop you.

You grip the plate, swinging it in his direction.

The plate doesn’t connect with anything . . .  Sadly. You rub the water out your eyes, and find Alastor kneeling on the floor with a triumphant smile.

Alastor stands up, brushing dirt from his pants. “You missed.”

“You ducked.”

“I can’t believe you actually did that,” he says. “What if you actually hit me?”

You pass the plate to Alastor before you scratch the urge to swing at that smug smile of his. “Hey Al,” you say. “Tell me what you did today.”

Alastor closes the faucet. “You always ask me that.”

“That’s because you say it in entertaining ways,” you say. “It’s boring to wash the dishes without something to distract me.”

Alastor soaps the dish. “Your lessening attention span worries me.”

You roll your eyes at him, and flick water at his face. “Please?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he says. “I find myself having no reason to deny you.”

Alastor’s glasses slide down his nose. He leans close enough for you to smell his perfume. He’s warm—always warm. It takes a second for you to understand. You dry your hands on a stray towel and fix it in place.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1928.

The metal bench cools the back of your neck.

The sun blinds your eyes, but you keep a steady gaze on the afternoon beams. When was the last time you felt the heat of the sun kiss your skin? As the seconds tick by. As the birds fly above you. As the leaves fall from their stem, melting on this bench seems like a heavenly idea.

But as the clock will eventually strike. But as the birds will eventually find their nest. But as the leaves will eventually land. So, too, must you eventually go back to work.

A shadow blocks the sun.

It takes a second for your eyes to adjust. Alastor’s upside-down face smiles at you. “Good morning to you!”

With a yelp, you swing your forehead forward.

Alastor leans backwards, narrowly missing your head by centimeters. “Not the greeting I imagined, but hello to you as well,” he says. “The receptionist said I could find you here.”

You twist, turning to him with a frown. “Are you okay?”

Alastor slides over the bench, and takes the free seat next to you. His legs cross. “Why would I not be, okay?”

There’s some bag slung over his shoulder, but that’s not important right now. Your eyes trail his body. Hair? Fixed. Smile? Wide. Clothes? Perfect. “You’re at a clinic.”

Alastor swats his hand. “I was in the area.”

That classic city stench attacks your nose, but it’s just nice to feel the way your hair sways from the breeze. “You’re not going to kill me, right?”

Alastor nudges his leg with yours. “You say that every single time!”

Your smile turns smug. “I’ll stop saying it when it stops becoming funny.”

Alastor rolls his eyes, showing it off to you. “It never was.”

“It is to me,” you say and wave your hands in the air. “Just imagine this, the great Alastor had to stalk me!”

“I am great, but remind me again,” he begins, propping his arm on the bench to lean on it, “how long did you have to follow me?”

Sighing, you lean your head on the backrest to count the clouds. It’s nice to be able to see actual clouds for once instead of the drawing of children who wait. “ . . . Three months.”

“Exactly,” he says, and you hear the smugness in his words. “And I didn’t need to do any stalking—you led me straight to your house.”

You blow a raspberry at him. “Why are you even here then?”

Alastor props his legs on your lap. You push him off. He brings it back. It’s not worth fighting him right now. “I actually was in the area,” he says, and hands you the bag slung over his shoulder. “The director thought it would be a grand idea to bring the staff out to lunch.”

You unzip the bag, and packed lunch greets you. And there it is again. Two. Two. Two. One for you. One for him. Maybe both for you? “Al, tell me why I’m currently looking at two packed lunches?”

Alastor beams at you, and slides his legs off your lap. “I accidentally cooked too much today,” he said. “I thought it would be a grand idea to share.”

Your frown. “But . . . you already ate.”

“Oh . . . I was already planning on dropping by,” he says. “It was quite the stroke of luck that you’re only taking your break now, and that we happened to have lunch nearby. I thought I’d bring you a treat.”

Questions bubble on your throat. “Thank you, Al,” you say instead. You open the container and take a bite, savoring the taste. “It’s delicious.”

Alastor leans closer, and picks a leaf off your head. “That’s because I actually followed the recipe.”

You point your spoon at him. “That was just that one time!”

He smiles at you, chuckling softly. “Three actually.”

Before the clock strikes, it will tick. Before the birds find their nest, they will fly. Before the leaves hit the ground, it will fall. And before you eventually go back to work, you will eat on this bench, Alastor to your side.

He stares ahead. As you eat, you watch his eyes flicker. It goes from the kid then to a plant then to an old lady. This, you don’t question. You’ve stopped wondering what he could possibly be thinking years ago.

Alastor leans closer to your ear. “Do you see that lady?” he asks, voice low. His breath tickles your skin. “That one over there with the feather on her hat?”

You scan the people around the area, spotting the lady old enough to be your grandmother. A scarf wraps around her neck, despite the sun beaming with the afternoon heat. She lazily walks around. “What about her?”

“Do you think her name could be Edith? She looks like an Edith,” Alastor says. “She probably had three children, and married young when her parents forced her to marry this ugly but rich man she could never love.”

Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. It’s like a mantra that plays in your head. There’s no reason not to play along whatever nonsense he’s spouting. “Sure, why not?”

“But no!” he exclaims into your ear. You jerk away and shove him with an elbow. “Oof . . . .Edith just had to defy all expectations, and she chose to elope with her childhood sweetheart. He’s not the richest man, but they survived.”

“That’s sweet.”

“And to this day,” he says, “everyone still calls her, ‘Edith the Penguin’.”

“Edith the penguin?” you echo. “Now I’m just confused.”

Alastor’s eyes shine. “Because she walks like a penguin with their ass on fire,” he snorts. “Your turn, now.”

Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. And you would love to be brought lunch again.

“Fine.” You place your spoon down, and look around to the first person who grabs your attention. “That little kid over there—His name is Thomas, and he likes balloons.”

Alastor blinks at you. “And?”

You take your time chewing and swallowing your food. “That’s all.”

He gawks at you, and rolls your eyes. “It must be so boring to be you.”

“It is not!” You huff at him, and kick his leg. “I am a very interesting person, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh really, now? Thomas, and he likes balloons?” Alastor says,and points at the kid with twitching eyes. “He’s holding a balloon!”

You wave your arms, the spoon still in your grip. “So, he probably likes it!” you say. “Thomas wouldn’t get a balloon if he didn’t like it.”

“I pity your sense of imagination.”

Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. And you would love to be brought lunch again.

You swallow what remains inside the container, and pack it up. “Is this what you do when you zone out as I’m tal—and you’re doing it again, aren’t you?” you say. “You are an incredibly judgmental person.”

“It’s called using my imagination. Something you apparently don’t have,” he says with a snort. “So . . . tell me what you did today.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “That’s my question.”

Alastor shrugs, taking the closed container and zipping it inside his bag. He hands you a tissue. “Well, I’m asking it now.”

You prop your arm on the bench, leaning on it. Alastor’s hair spikes out in odd places today. It must have quite the trek to the clinic. “I’m not as good a storyteller as you are.”

He props his arms on the bench, mimicking your pose. His eyes stare straight into yours. “ I don’t need a story,” he says. “I just want to know what you did today.”

You press your palm on his face, pushing him away from your face. The sun’s heat is really getting to you. Alastor’s nose crinkles as he rubs it. “Why would you even want to know what I do?”

Alastor props his elbows on his knees, observing the people around him. “You always ask me what I did,” he says. “I want to know if there’s something special about it.:

“There’s nothing special about it,” you tell him. Was there actually? You’re not sure. “I just like knowing, and it always entertains me.”

Alastor meets your eyes with a wide smile. “Then tell me what you did today,” he says. “Entertain me.”

The clock ticks closer. The birds are already close to their nests. The leaves are already floating to the ground. You are already close to going back to work, closer to this moment becoming nothing but a distant memory. “That was my first meal of the day.”

Alastor’s eyebrows furrow and his lips twist into a hard scowl. “That’s not healthy.”

You shut your eyes and sigh. “I never said it was.”

“How would you live without me?”

Remember, Alastor brought you lunch, and it would be nice if he could bring you lunch again. “I’m going to hit you.”

Alastor bumps your knees with his. “Lovely,” he says, and you can hear the smile he’s wearing. “I’m sure it will be very painful because you’re so full of energy right now.”

Eyes still shut, you bump his knees back. “I’ve been busy,” you say. “And don’t roll your eyes at me.”

Alastor hesitates for a second. “First of all, we’re all busy,” he says. “Second, I didn’t roll my eyes.”

“You did—it was audible,” you tell him with a soft chuckle. “Anyway, there’s nothing new with my day. It’s just the usual, people to see, files to file, blood to draw, pee to get on me.”

Alastor digs his finger into your cheek, twisting it as he presses down. “Wow, you really are a horrible storyteller.”

You know what, maybe you don’t need Alastor bringing you lunch. You peek open an eye to stare at him. “I’m going to smash a plate on your head once we start doing the dishes.”

Alastor mashes your cheek like some button. Over and over and over and over again. You swat his hand, and he rubs it with a grimace. “Were you planning on dropping by today?”

You place an arm over your eyes, blocking out the sun. “Will I have to do the dishes?”

“You don’t have to specifically do the dishes.”

You comb through your hair with your fingers. “That wouldn’t exactly be fair to you.”

“If you're so insistent, we can find something else for you to do,” he says. “I mean, if you hate it so much you don’t have to do it.”

“I don’t hate it,” you say with a sigh. A church bell sounds. It echoes through the buildings and through the trees. “Al . . . I’m tired.”

“I know,” he says, and you hear how softly he chuckles. “Your eyes are drooping so low I could fill the entire ocean in them.”

“I want to sleep, Al.”

“I know.”

“I hate this job.”

Alastor pauses for a second, and he bumps his shoulders with yours. “You don’t.”

The clock hasn’t struck yet. The birds haven’t flown to their nests. The leaves haven’t reached the ground. And so too will you stay in this moment of time.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1929

Footsteps creak on the wooden stairs. The sound is ignored, just like every other thing that isn’t relevant to you.

The dead cadaver under you has weird kidneys. The one on your palm is too small for a kidney that belongs to someone of his size. You take your scalpel, slicing it to observe the cross section.

“It’s time to stop,” Alastor tells you. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Him and his smile is not important right now. “You’ve been here all night.”

“Leave me alone,” you mumble. The human body continues to be amazing. The medulla is clearly outlined. The colors of its cells were so different from the cortex. “ . . . Kidneys, Alastor. He has weird kidneys. Hehehehe weird kidneys . . . ”

Alastor says your name in a way that forces you to listen.

“ . . . Oh . . . yes?” you say a bit dumbly.

“It’s nightfall,” he says, and the tone of his voice buzzes your skin. “Come on now, do as you're told. Be upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

It’s not an easy task to do as Alastor says, especially when this man’s left kidney is a whole different size from the right. However, with a frown, you slot the kidney from the opened chest cavity, and pack up the body.

You step out of the basement, and walk to the kitchen.

There’s a plate waiting for you on the table. It’s still hot. Muffled music plays from the porch, and you see Alastor’s outline through the windows. Taking your plate, you step out the front door and into the outdoors.

(Something you really need to start seeing more.)

And oh . . . he’s not listening to the radio. Alastor plays the recording of his show. It was a present you got him a few months back.

You take your seat on the matching rocking chair.

Alastor watches you settle into your seat. He turns the volume down. “Tables were invented for a reason.”

The chair rocks when you swing your legs. “It’s nice out here,” you say, and take a bite of vegetables. “The sky is much clearer. It helps that there’s no stench of piss.”

He turns to you with a small smile. “That’s because you live in the city.”

The wind blows your hair into your face. You push it out of the way. “Hey, Al,” you say slowly. “Tell me what you did today.”

“Why should I?”

You lean back into the chair, letting the rocking sway you. “Well, you got home late,” you say. “I had to use my keys.”

Alastor leans back on the chair, using the tips of his shoe to rock himself. “Yes, that was the point of the keys,” he says, humming. “It would be a shame to come home to another broken window.”

The taste of the vegetables mixed with the meat makes you smile in delight. “Are you still holding on to that?”

“Always.”

“I paid you back, eventually,” you tell him, pointing your fork at him. “Why are you still holding a grudge for an honest accident?”

On his cheek , where it’s always been and where it’ll always be, his smile strains. “You expect me to believe that a rock smashing my window was an honest accident.”

You offer him your most innocent smile. “Yes.”

“Well, I hope your windows are much sturdier then,” he says, mimicking your smile. “One of these days, I might cause an accident.”

The stars twinkle in the sky. There’s a vast amount of knowledge those gassy balls hold. Maybe your life would be less horrific if you were interested in the stars instead. “In my defense, you were late.”

Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t wait fifteen minutes?”

You take another bite of your meal, and sway happily to do a little dance. “Just . . .  okay? Just tell me what you did before I finish my meal.”

Alastor reaches into his pocket and tosses a keychain at you. It lands between your legs.

You set the plate on the coffee table between you, and hold the keychain to the light. It was a cute, little cartoon alligator. “What’s this?”

“It’s yours.”

“I can tell that much,” you say, twirling the gift between your fingers. “You never give me nice knickknacks. It’s always the ugly ones

Alastor huffs at you. “That doesn’t sound like my problem anymore,” he says. “I thought you would appreciate something that looks halfway decent one and for all.”

“I find the ugly ones really charming, actually. They’re very funny to look at,” you say. “So, where did you get this?”

Alastor clasps his hands, resting it on his stomach as he rocks himself. “Saw an advertisement. Went to the zoo.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“Go finish your meal.”

You pocket his gift, and grab the plate on the table. “Master of storytelling right here, ladies and gentlemen,” you say, barking a laugh. “I figured you would love the excuse of hearing yourself talk.”

Alastor ignores you, reaching for his notepad instead.

You watch Alastor as he writes on his notepad. The breeze sways a strand of his hair. His lips twist when he thinks, just like he’s doing right now

Your eyes fall on your plate, to where vegetables and meat were carefully tossed together. Alastor cooked today—he always cooks.

When you finish, you’ll grab the plates, and begin the mountain of dishes. Even when dish soap stings your fingers, even when the feeling of wet food grosses you, and even when thousands of dirty dishes wait for you . . . it’s something you don’t mind.

Once this meal is finished, you and him will step inside. He’ll properly tell you about his day, and you’ll take the pan and scrub it.

Ah . . . there it is again. That word—Two.

But it’s not two of anything. It’s simply just two. You and Alastor.

“You’re frowning,” Alastor says. He stares at you from the corner of  his eyes. “Why?”

It’s weird.

Very weird.

You don’t . . . You don’t understand. How do you say the words you do not know how to explain?

It’s almost as if . . . “We should get married.”

Alastor’s laughter rings across the open land. “No.”

The inside of your cheek stings from how you bite it. You turn away to hide your flushed cheeks. “I . . . It just came out, okay?” you mumble. “I’m really trying not to be offended that you turned me down without a second thought, and with a laugh as well.”

Alastor turns back to his notepad. “Don’t be,” he says. “I’m nothing you want.”

The moonlight reflects off his brown eyes.

“Sometimes . . . ,” you begin, and a small smile appears on your lips. “Sometimes I wish you see yourself the way I see you.”

Alastor laughs at you again. “You’ve been having such thoughts about me?” he says. “What an absolute honor! I’m deeply flattered.”

“And then you say words like that, and I immediately know it’s not worth it

Alastor lifts his eyes from his notepad to peek at you. He fixes his eyeglasses. “You don’t actually think we should get married.”

To be infuriating, you take a bite from your plate, savoring each flavor with drawn out chews.

“I have no idea,” you say. “But . . . I mean, why not? There are many good reasons for me to marry you—it’s advantages for me, and everyone already thinks we’re dating.”

Alastor turns back to his notepad, shaking his head. “That’s the most absurd idea I’ve ever heard.”

“What, being in a relationship with me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s twice you’ve managed to offend me.” You laugh to hide your frown. “But that friend of yours. The feathery one from the lounge you like taking me to.”

Alastor tilts his head. “Mimzy?”

“Ah yes, her,” you say with a hum. “She asked me if you um . . . uh . . .  well, if you liked vanilla or hot and spicy.”

“If I had to answer, Id say hot and spicy?” Alastor says, and you laugh at the confusion on his face. “I got a bottle of this pepper flakes infused with old. It was quite the treat.”

“That’s exactly what I figured you would say,” you tell him.“Unfortunately for you, Mimzy was talking about sex.”

Alastor scrunches his face.

“Oh don’t make such a face, there is absolutely no need to be afraid of the prospect of such activities.” The final bite of your meal bursts with so much flavor that you revel it for a second. “Al, let’s get married.”

Alastor glares at you. “No.”

You place the plate on the coffee table. It can be  washed after this conversation. “Why not?”

He points his pen between you and him..“We aren't even dating,” he says. “And . . . I can’t express such passionate displays of affection.”

You rock the chair with your shoe. An owl hoots from somewhere beyond the trees. Huh, you weren’t aware owls lived in this area. “Don’t be a child—just say sex.”

Again, his face scrunches. “I will not.”

“It’s a really good thing,” you say, sighing, “that no one’s asking.”

Alastor searches for your eyes. He holds it. It was only ever his to hold anyway. “I’m not even sure I’m interested in romance.”

You look around, whipping your head. “I think I’m missing the part where someone asked.”

“Be serious.”

“Okay fine. This is me being serious because I am when I say that all I don’t need your romance—Al, you accepted me for who I am, and to me? That is enough,” you say with a soft smile. “You are all I could ever ask for.”

Alastor stares at the stars, his eyes capturing each one. “I can’t love you like a husband should.”

The stares are really beautiful. Each shines in their own way. Alastor sees the beauty in them, but you aren’t going to be beaten by a gas ball.

Tonight, you will be the only star Alastor should keep his gaze on.

“Alastor, look at me.”

He keeps his eyes on the stars.

Huffing, you stride to his chair, and block his view of the night sky.

You plant your arms on the armrest for support, and inch your face so close that you are the only thing he will see. “Alastor,” you say his name, voice oh so soft, “look at me.”

Oh . . . his eyes are browner than you thought. It’s a deep and dark brown that pulls you in.

“You can love me in ways that matter.” You press your forehead against his, and close your eyes.

There are more words to be said, but right now you and him stay in this moment of time. Just . . . for . . . a second.

“I will never force you to love me in ways you cannot,” you whisper. The ends of his hair brush against your skin. “Alastor, I could never reject the type of love you can offer me. I can never deny you.”

Alastor caresses your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Friends don’t get married.”

Impulsivity was such a bad habit of yours. It’s a fact that makes you bear the consequences, but consequences be damned. You take his hand, holding it in yours. The pads of his fingers have different textures. Some are smooth. Some are rough. But the whole thing warms you to the touch.

It’s unfair. He’s unfair. How could something as simple as taking his hand intoxicate?

Your lips hover over his skin, brushing it a little. Alastor doesn’t pull away. With a smile that Alastor always seems to put on your lips, you plant a soft kiss on his ring finger.

“We aren’t normal people. There’s no reason to force ourselves into a conventional relationship.” You meet his eyes with a smile. Every word you utter brushes your lips yo his skin. “This marriage will be defined however we want. You offered me a partnership in death . . . .This is me offering you a partnership in life.”

You press your lip on the back of his hand one final time, and return to your chair.

Alastor doesn’t speak.

You rock yourself with your foot, enjoying the sway of the chair.“There is that added benefit that the police won’t be suspicious of a doting husband.”

Alastor scrunches his face. “Doting husband?” he echoes. “I thought we wouldn’t be having a normal marriage.”

“That doesn’t mean a lady doesn’t want to feel special,” you say, snorting. “I’ve always dreamed of a doting husband.”

Alastor rips a page out of his notepad. He folds it with his hands.

His vets match his shoes today. The hair on the back of his head sticks out and curls. Did he take a nap today? “I could be like this every single night,” you say softly. “You and me. The two of us under the stars until our hairs turn gray.”

Alastor’s gaze stays locked on the piece of paper he’s folding. “Why me?”

You stare at him with a smile, and lean your face on your palm. “Does it need to be said?”

Alastor glances at you with those brown eyes of his. “I’m asking.”

“It’s because . . . It’s . . . I . . . ,” your trail off. How do you summon the words to describe something you don’t understand?

There’s a smug smile on Alastor’s lips. “What, is it because you love me?”

“Would it be so bad if I did?” you say, chuckling into your arm. “But . . . well, I don’t exactly know how to properly say this.”

“Just open your mouth,” he says, rolling his eyes, “and let the words do it’s job.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing the dishes with you for the rest of my life,” you tell him, and your cheeks tingle. “Maybe even past life. Can you imagine that? You and me in hell, doing our dishes together.”

There’s an odd look on his face. “Sure.”

“We can listen to the radio,” you say. “And I’ll ask you about your day, and you will tell me the wildest and most grandiose story while we clean a pot.”

Alastor smiles at you. “You hate doing the dishes.”

“I do not.”

“You do. I see it—I always do,” he says with a soft chuckle. Alastor taps his nose. “Your nose scrunches every time, yet you never ask for help.”

What expression are you making right now?

You bring your legs to your chest. “I’m willing to give up everything for dirty dishes if it means I have you as a companion for the rest of my life.”

Alastor turns back to whatever he was folding.

You hide your face in your legs, face flushed and warm. “Say something . . . please,” you say, whispering. “I just poured out my heart for you

You hear Alastor rise from his seat. He places a hand on your head. “Today’s dinner . . . ,” he says, and his voice is the softest it’s ever been. “Did you like it?”

You smile even if he couldn’t see it, and lean into his hand. “It was one of the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.”

“I wouldn’t mind making it for you for the rest of my life . . . if you’re willing to wash the dishes with me for the rest of yours,” Alastor says, and you think this is the most honest thing he’s ever told you. “It’s yours. Even if you don’t want it, this is yours now.”

You peek out of your knees. Alastor’s smile is soft. He opens his palms and your eyes flicker to them. He shows you what he’s been folding. It’s the paper of his notepad folded into a ring—a paper ring.

“Do it again,” you say with a beam that could rival the stars. “Ask me again.”

Alastor caresses your cheek, the back of his finger brushing down your skin. “Doting husband?”

“Exactly,” you say with a laugh and lean into his touch. “You catch on very quickly.”

Alastor takes your hand in his, and his thumb brushes over your ring finger. Does he feel your skin the way you feel his? He kneels on one knee and the paper ring is presented to you. “Would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

You insert your ring finger into the paper ring. “The honor would be mine, my dearest.”

Alastor stares at you.

You stare back.

 The moment your eyes settle on one another, laughter echoes across the land. It’s loud and breathy, and it echoes so far that the local wildlife gets disturbed. Alastor settles back on his chair, rocking himself.

Alastor calms down first. “Oh . . . uh . . . Should we share a passionate kiss?”

The stars shine above you. Not a single gas ball can beat the brightness of your smile. “Do you want to?” you ask. “Be honest, my dear.”

Alastor hesitates for a second. “Not particularly—Do you?”

“Maybe? Sometimes?” you say with a shrug. “I could live a happy life without such passionate kisses.”

“Really?” he says, and the surprise in his voice makes you laugh. “You would be fine without one?”

“Well, since you’re so insistent, I’ll allow a kiss.”

Alastor snorts into the air. “And where and when would you want such a kiss?”

You hold him in your gaze. There’s so much to learn, so much to figure out. It’s alright. There will be time. “Anywhere and anytime, you want, my love.”

“You’re going to give me control?” he asks. “Is this not something you would want as well?”

“I’ll make this easy enough for you to understand,” you tell him, tracing the paper ring around your finger. “I demand a kiss whenever you are completely and perfectly and incandescently happy.”

Alastor hums, looking away to study the woodcarving on his chair. He picks on them. “I supposed if you need anyone to fulfill your needs I only as—”

“Just say sex, my dearest,” you say, and Alastor sinks into his chair with a huff. “That will never happen. This isn’t a friendship, my love. I am entering a relationship with you. No matter how unconventional, it is still ours.”

Alastor locks your eyes with a pleased smile. “Good.”

The rocking chair rocks you into a small lull. “My dear.”

“Yes?”

“My love.”

Alastor sighs. “Yes?”

“My dearest,” you say. “Would you want to share a bed?”

Alastor stays silent. There’s hesitation on his face. You see it in the way his lips twist. You see it in the way his eyebrows furrow. You see it in the way he leans back on his chair to stare at the stars.

“Okay then, we can circle back to that later,” you say with a soft chuckle. “How about a room—Do you want to share one?”

Alastor raises his eyebrows, staring at you with silent judgment. He is a book that you are allowed to learn. There’s so much to read, and so much still left to be read. That’s okay. There’s time. No matter how long. You have time.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, we can share a room without sharing a bed,” you exclaim, throwing your hands into the air. “We can even have bunk beds. That would be cool. I’ve always wanted a bunk bed.”

Alastor rests his face on his palm to look at you. There it is again, the breathy and light laughter. “We are not sleeping on a bunk bed.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Charlie’s smile slowly morphs into a frow that you cannot decipher. It makes sense that you can’t. Afterall, she is not the book you’ve spent your life learning to read. “You . . . You don’t actually love each other?”

There’s a frame hanging on your kitchen wall that says otherwise.

It holds an art piece you embroidered for the sole purpose of giving it to your husband. The color of the wooden frame compliments the colors of the thread as if it was carefully chosen to match. The one here in the kitchen is but one of many frames around the house. Alastor keeps every single item safe beneath the glass to to be admired.

There’s a shelf standing on the living-room carpet that says otherwise.

It holds ugly knick knacks that Alastor bought for the sole purpose of giving it to his wife. It’s a pain to dust the shelves, but not a speck of dirt touches its surface, as if it was carefully taken care of. The one in there in the living-room is but one of many shelves around the house. You keep every item spotless to be admired.

“We’re not heartless,” you say. “Alastor and I don’t have the same relationship you and your girlfriend have.”

Charlie sways in her seat, a hand rests on her chin when she hums. “ I am so sorry,” he says. “I think it’s great and all that, I’m just having trouble understanding.”

“It’s not exactly for you to understand.” You take a sip from your mug.

“So it’s not a relationship,” Charlie says. “Sooooo, is it like a really really deep friendship?”

“The lines between us are so blurry that it’s become deeper than friendship,” you admit with a small smile. “I just know that my soul is connected to him in ways I do not know how to tell him.”

“Is that really possible?” Charlie asks. “To just . . . love each other so differently?”

“Can our relationship not just . . . exist?” You lean on your palms. “Do you really think it’s so impossible for two people to just . . . to just look forward to cooking and washing the dishes together?”

Charlie’s eyes brighten. “I think I’m starting to understand,” she says. “So like—”

“Charlie . . . if I sit here and answer all of your questions, we’re going to waste time.” You play with the fiddle of your mug. “You didn’t come here for relationship advice.”

“Oh . . . yes.” Charlie sits there. Her smile slowly falls into a frown. “I’ve been thinking of how to convince you to help me, but I can’t think of a single thing to say, and I don’t want to force you either.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You haven’t exactly asked for my help either.”

Charlie blinks at you. “ . . . Huh?”

You raise your mug to toast to her. “If you want my help, just ask for it.”

Charlie grabs your hand with a tight grip. “Please, help me,” she says, voice shaking. “I don’t want to drag Cannibal Town into an all-out war without knowing there was a way to keep them safe.”

“Sure, why not?” You pull your hand away.

A loud squeal bounces off the walls.

Charlie pulls you into the tightest hug you’ve ever experienced. She hauls you with all the strength of a hellborn princess.  Your feet drag against the floor as she pulls you out of the kitchen and into the living-room.

Charlie drops you with a wince on her face. She stares at the broken window, and the obviously missing television.

You trip out of her hold.

Alastor wraps his hand on your shoulders, steading you against him until you find your balance. His touch lingers on you.

The television shaped hole on your glass window makes your eyes twitch.

Alastor steps away from you, twirling his microphone. It strikes the floor with a harsh thunk. “Oh, yes that,” he says. “It seems there was an unfortunate accident.”

“Oh, really now?” you say, placing a hand on your hips. “I would love to know exactly how that happened.”

Alastor’s smile widens, and his arms wave the air. “The clumsy boxed tripped right out the window.”

Your smile strains. “That is rather unfortunate,” you say. “What a shame, I rather liked that television. It’s been a constant companion, and never has it once disappeared on me for several years.”

Alastor glares at you.

You glare back.

“I would love to help you clean this mess,” Alastor says with that triumphant smile of his.

Would a second broken window be worth trouble if it means there would be an Alastor-shaped hole?

“Perfect!” you say. “I’m sure you still remember where we keep the broom.”

Alastor boops your nose. “Unfortunately, the cannibals will be meeting us at the hotel,” he says. “I think it’s time we take our leave. Say goodbye to my wife, Charlotte.”

Charlie opens her mouth to correct him. She changes her mind at the last minute, choosing to sulk with a wave instead.

Alastor opens the door, allowing Charlie to step out first. She strides to the flowerbeds, kneeling to observe the plants.

Alastor stills by the door frame.

He inches close enough for you to reach him. The fabric of his lapels smoothen as you adjust its fit on him.

A breeze tussles Alastor’s hair. You swipe the stray locks, brushing his hair away from his forehead, until . . . until the x that marks the gunshot catches your eyes. Frowning, you thumb the mark, caressing it with oh so soft touches. There was a time where you believed that you and him had all the time in the world. Death laughed at you that night.

Alastor watches you, taking your wrist to pull it away.

He leans closer, and picks a feather on your head. “Will you indulge me?” he asks. “There’s just something I want to ask of you before I leave.”

“Say it, and it will be yours.”

Alastor pokes his cheeks, mimicking a smile. “Just one of these from you will do—Something to power me through the day.”

With a soft chuckle, you widen your lips to show him the brightest smile you can muster. “Is that much better, my love?”

Alastor presses a kiss on your cheek. “Indeed,” he says. “You’ve been frowning for a while now.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Have I?”

Alastor boops your nose. “You have,” says. “What’s troubling you, my dear?”

“It’s nothing serious to you,” you tell him with a shake of your head. “It’s nothing worth listening to.”

Alastor taps his fingers across his microphone. “It’s not nothing. Especially when you frown like that,” he says. “If it’s serious to you, it is worth listening to.”

“Sometimes . . .I still find myself wondering how you feel,” you say, smoothening the feathers on your head “Even after being married for so long, there are times where I still do not know

“You’re not a mind reader,” he says. “If you want to know, you should just ask.”

“Alright then,” you say with a smile. “How are you feeling today, my love?”

Alastor caresses your cheek. The back of his fingers brush down your skin until it hooks around your chin. You tilt it to the side, offering your cheek, ready for him.

Alastor tugs your chin, adjusting your face until your eyes are drawn into his own. And oh . . . Has he always looked at you like this?

Alastor inches closer, his nose nudging against your own. Your heart thumps in your ear.

A minute has never felt so long as you stay frozen. It’s a whole minute  if his lips brushing inches above yours. It’s a whole minute of his finger stroking the skin of your chin. It’s a whole minute of feeling his breath on your skin. It’s a whole minute where inches of space separate your

Alastor tortures you with the simplest of sensation that intoxicated you to your very core. You don’t move away, not from him—never from him.

Your eyes close when Alastor presses his lips across yours.

The taste of this morning’s coffee is dizzying. The soft tickles of his breath make your fingers curl around the fabric of his coat. You were never a poet. It’s Alastor who was better with his words. You cannot describe the way he kisses you with sweet metaphors or soft analogies.

Alastor pulls away.

You inch closer to chase him, until self-control takes over. It splashes you with the warmth of a bucket filled with ice.

Oh . . . oh.

There are words to be said, questions to be asked. The heat tingling of your cheeks and the electricity buzzing your lips make it hard to find the words.

You bury your face into the fabric of Alastor’s chest, curling into him to hide how red your face flushes. The back of his coat crumples when you grip it.

Alastor wraps his arms around you, tightening the hug. His finger stroke your shoulder blade. “Does that answer your question?”

You inhale into his clothes. It’s warm. He’s warm. So warm that int transfers to you. “No, not at all,” you mumble. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Alastor leans back, pushing you away to search your face.He stares at you.

You stare at everything but him.

Alastor squishes your cheek, giving it a light shake. “Stop demanding things from me when you’re not going to remember.”

“I did no such thing.” You swat his hand away. “Will I be seeing you soon?”

Charlie catches your eyes. She quickly glances away before eventually looking back. You bring out your hand, folding your fingers to indicate the number two. Charlie cringes so deep she creates a double chin.

Alastor brushes feathers out of your face. “You wouldn’t need to ask if you accepted Charlie’s offer to stay at the hotel,” he says. “ I was given a room there. I think you would like it . . . but, there’s still thousands of unused rooms if you wish to stay somewhere else.”

“My deerest, are you asking me to stay at the hotel?”

Alastor’s silence makes you chuckle.

With the tips of your toes, you reach to press a kiss on his cheek. “I will see you soon.”

“You always will.”

Charlie and Alastor leave with a wave. You close the door before they reach the gate, leaning on the door. The wood does little to settle the way your skin buzzes. Demand a kiss? You would never do such a thing.

The clock strikes. It’s time to leave for work. You take your coffee mug, scrubbing it with soap. (If you drop it twice, then that’s your business.) You open the cupboard, placing your matching mug next to Alastor’s clean one.

Today . . . Today will be a good day.

For today, there’s no need to throw away cold coffee mugs.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Next Part: |Glimpse of Me and You: Part 1| First of all, you will never catch my Alastor cooking jambalaya. It’s a great dish, I know. But I refuse to fall into the curse. Part of the reason why this chapter took so long to publish, besides work getting in the way, was because I didn’t know how I would want Alastor and Reader to love each other. Like do I make it purely romantic?  But I like keeping this as canon as possible. And I know that Alastor is only canonically ace. This problem struck me until I realized that to be accepted is to be loved. So I decided to write a story that will make me happy to show you. There are so many other fics with pure romance, and I wanted to respect Alastor’s asexuality and everyone who relates to him. This is my love letter to him and to you. Also, I’m just going to put it out there, just in case someone might ask why there’s a kiss on the lips? This is a reminder that you can define a relationship any way you could want. I debated whether that kiss should be on the cheek or on the lips. A cheek kiss isn’t inherently romantic, so I could have just done this. The lip kiss just felt…correct. I wanted to showcase that the relationship between Alastor and Reader isn’t a conventional one, and that it’s fine to have one that differs from what is considered normal. So the best way would be to take something that everything thinks is very romantic and twist it in a way that it could mean something different. And thus, any kiss before and after this chapter really just means that Alastor is completely and perfectly and incandescently happy.

Taglist: @mybrainautocorrect @ray-rook @teavibesaf @valentique @qardasngan @tobyisher3 @amoraneuro @okay-babe @holymusicialmothman @lyralibra @alastorssimp @aestheticglas-blog @slaggylemon

[aemondsdoll]

forget honour | aemond and aegon

masterlist

Summary: The two silver haired princes claim you, from the moment they saw you.

Warnings: Smut, fingering, making out, drunk, no PIV but it’s implied. throuple vibes. no y/n used, we ain’t do this here

Pairings: Aegon x f!reader, Aemond x f!teader

You don’t know how you got here, with these boys.

One night, you were helping Aegon return to his room after he had stumbled into the courtyards late at night, drunken and ill.

And one day, you had stumbled into Aemond yourself while trying to use a sword all too heavy, and he had helped you find one more suited to your tastes.

Now, you were seeing both of them everywhere.

Aemond routinely accompanied you in the library whenever you went, would train you while getting a little too close and walking you through the gardens.

Aegon, he didn’t find excuses for his attachment. Simply barging into your chambers at an unbecoming time of night, taking his place near your side. He would often dismiss your handmaidens in the mornings, insisting he help dress you instead.

You did not mind the attention one bit. And eventually, it got more heated. You remember it well.

Sitting in the library, Aemond was by your side. He held a book in his hand, but he much preferred to read you, your body language, your words. He didn’t bother to hide it, his hand landed on your thigh.

The two of you had the library to yourselves at such a time at night. Asides from the guards at the door, who dare not interrupt the one eyed prince. His thumb stroked the fabric of your dress, applying the perfect amount of pressure to send teasing strikes of euphoria through your veins.

Aemond enjoyed the look you spared him from the very side of your eye. Though this was not enough for him to falter. He moved his hand to your knee, where he clutches the fabric of your dress, looking into your eyes with his one, asking for approval.

Your mind screams ‘No.’ but your body takes the lead, and you nod. His hand quickly disappeared under your skirt, pushing your small clothes out of the way just a little bit. You gasp, muffling it with your hand. He parts your moist folds, feeling around for the little bud. Every movement of his agile finger makes you squirm, swearing under your breath.

Your hands holding your book quiver, and you struggle to hold it, even with both hands. His thumb moves to circle your clitoris with just the perfect amount of force, meanwhile his index parts your folds once more. You sharply intake your breath as it pushes into your hole.

You almost cry out as he finds the rough patch within your walls, you buck against his finger, and he learns you like it when he makes a come hither motion. He’s learning you, and it might just be his favourite thing ever.

It’s not long before your orgasm builds up, and Aemond can feel it. His thumb using your juices to smoothen his attack on your clit, while his index still worked expertly inside you. Letting out smaller little whimpers, whispering for him to never stop as if he is all of the gods at once.

You come undone with a crash, gripping your book to the point where it’s indented into your palms, and knuckles have paled. Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

Just the memory leaves you reeling, breath picking up. And then there’s Aegon, who had surprisingly enough made little to no attempt at laying with you, though close enough.

Aegon’s tongue tastes of wine as it mixes with yours. The two of you had indulged while in the gardens, leaving both sides feeling risky as Aegon had you cornered against the wall of a secluded seating area deep within the gardens.

Your hand knots in his hair, tugging, with each tug a delicious whimper escapes from those swollen lips of his. His hands ferociously grope at your bodice, cupping your ass, running up your sides to rub at your modestly covered tits. Though you attempted to keep yourself ladylike, your chest pressed against the fabric of your dress, leaving you assets well on display, even when covered.

Aegon loved it, hands going back down at yiur ass to which he lifts you, and you wrap your legs around his hips. His hardening cock eagerly pressing against you.

Though the moment was far from long lived as a guards armour alerts you both to a new presence, and you pull away.

It was beautiful, how both the princes had taken such a liking to you. You had no doubt in your bones that they wanted you just as harshly as you wanted- no- needed them.

They both had made you feel things, and those things would never be forgotten. And that was certain as you looked to your side, the comforts of your furs paling in comparison to the two bare men before you, who had just fucked you raw, their silver hairs splaying out behind them, Aemond still managed to look elegant, so beautiful. Aegon, was adorable.

You were going to keep these boys, and they were going to keep you. You are theirs and they are yours.

[whorediaries-09]

don't blame me;

pairing- priest!remus lupin x reader warning(s)- illusions to sex, dark themes. (let me know if i should add more). [this is a dark fic. your media consumption is your choice and i'm not responsible for it. please do not continue under cut if you're uncomfortable.] a/n- i found this in my drafts. i have no idea why this wasn't published yet but okay.

ps- not using my regular taglist since this is a topic many people can be uncomfortable with.

little train inspiration (for god's sake please use headphones) 700 followers celebration post.

' and baby, for you, i would fall from grace, just to touch your face. '

remus slowly read the verse, the thick spine of the bible tucking into the flesh of his thighs.

'amen,' he said, speaking his final lines of the verse. the sound from his lips was blinded over the noise of the hinges of the church door opening. he snapped his head, eyes darting towards the entrance. the soft sunlight peaked through the glass, creating a beautiful kaleidoscopic effect.

'hello?' his voice echoed through the empty church. when his eyes met yours, he couldn't stop but dawn his eyes upon yours. you were clad in the white clothes you regularly wore when you went to the church. but there was something different around it. perhaps an extra sinch at the waist which highlighted the curve of your breasts. or was it the sunlight behind you making a halo like effect which made you look like an descending from heaven.

'oh, it's you,' he gathered, his fingers raking over the bible, closing the hardcover. 'come on in, then,'

'am i interrupting anything?' you asked. your voice was soft, like cool breeze blowing after the first rainfall. he chuckled.

'no, no you're not interrupting anything,' his statement ended, clashed with the sound of the door closing. you walked towards him, twiddling with your thumbs, your eyes transfixed on the statue of jesus.

'do you need something? i can leave you in peace if you prefer.' he said, standing up and dusting his clothes. he wasn't wearing his usual robes. he had opted for gray slacks paired with a soft blue shirt.

'no it's fine,' you walked towards him. 'i actually like some company, when i pray,' he smiled, his gaze smoothening down on your form.

'no no, i understand,' he said walking towards you, his thumb raking over the rosemary beads in his palm. 'lots of people prefer company in the church. physical company anyway. he,' his index pointed towards the stature of jesus, 'is always here.'

'a constant companion,' you said, recalling his words from a few months ago. 'i remember that. you enlightened me with that information during our gospel interpretation session.' he chuckled softly,

'i'm surprised you remember i said that. that was quite a few months ago,' you nodded, twisting your fingers together.

'speaking of which,' he whispered, so as to not let his voice echo. 'erm, you have been missing for a few weeks.' you stare at him, your eyes glossy.

'are you mad? that i've been missing?' he moves forward, waving his hands quickly reassuring,

'no no, not mad at all. i just,' he pauses, as if choosing his words carefully, 'missed your presence. and our discussions afterwards.' you let his words register into your senses. it's quiet as the sun settles, the blue hue of the sky meddling into a beautiful orange.

'there are other people who come to the church, mr. lupin.' he takes a deep breathe. it's serene, the way his name spills off your tongue.

'yes, but it gets quite boring with the same old people and the same old interpretations. you're intelligent...you're curious. i enjoy your fresh air of understanding.'

'you don't mean that.' you laugh. he sighs, letting his tongue dart over his teeth.

'oh no, i mean that,' he twiddles with his thumb, running his fingers through his locks with his other hand. he rubs his neck, drawing your attention to a small patch of ink on his neck.

'may i ask you the reason of your absence? it's none of my business of course,' his stale amber eyes pierce into you, as if trying to scan for answers.

'i got a few days off work. so i wanted to go on a little vacation.' you say.

'oh, i see, i'm glad you're out there having some fun. i'd do the same in your position. especially with the weather we've been having recently,' he emphasizes. his eyes wander about, as if searching for words, looking for phrases to let the conversation continue. 'i understand your need for freedom.'

you let the words hang in the air, tasting the freshness of the newly spoken sentences. you watch his nicely polished shoes, before you bite your tongue, meeting his eyes, allowing yourself to drown in the burnt amber color of them.

'do you mind it? the freedom? the fun?' he stands silent, as if speechless. it was extremely difficult to keep a man like remus lupin dumbfoundedly silent.

'no,' he says, 'i don't particularly mind it. i've...dedicated my life to this... this is my calling.' he laughs a little, a bark like laughter echoing through the walls. 'besides, i live my life through hearing your escapades.'

'i think you should live life a little. i'm saying this because i consider you my friend.'

'you do?' he says, softly biting his beautiful pink lips. 'well i consider you a friend too.' you nod.

'not many, erm, consider me other than someone who's a priest or think of any... friendly interactions, so... i appreciate that very much.'

you twiddle with your thumb, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. your mind floods with screams as you think of the next question you want to ask him. your heart thumps loudly in your chest, the heat of the blood curving through every inch of your body.

'can i ask you a question?'

'of course, you can ask me anything.'

'have you kissed anyone before?' it's vague, short yet straight forward. a slight pink tint overcomes his pale skin, his tongue tying up in knots before he processes his answer.

'oh, i- yes. i have kissed people before.' he licks his lips. 'though, in secret. we're not...uh meant to have relationships but... everybody needs company...sometimes.' you hum softly at his answer, minutely surprised at the lack of a reaction. then, you frame your next question, almost like a child so free of sin. you are, if partly so.

'do you consider it a bad thing mr. lupin?'

'no,' he laughs. 'i don't consider it a bad thing. i enjoy your curiosity.' he moves forward, a few painful inches away from you. it's as if he can feel the heat from your body. he enjoys it. 'and, neither do i think you're going to tell on me or anything, but yes, i have had companies of a different nature, too.'

the gasp ends in your throat. it's as if he reads your mind.

'i'm not such an extremist that i condemn that kind of thing. carnal desires are...human. the lord created us with them. so why should we deny ourselves?'

'isn't it wrong? a sin? perhaps you... don't mean it.' you say.

'no, i do mean it. to want intimacy is such an intricately human thing it isn't...wrong to want it or engage in it.'

'i've wanted intimacy, desired for it. for so long, mr. lupin, but i find myself stranded. because nobody expresses it back. perhaps you can tell me how it feels, with your experience of the humane carnal desire for intimacy,'

'oh.. well we've established that we're friends but... is that really something you should be asking a priest? you're a curious little thing aren't you?' you smile paired with a little nod of your head. you truly are curious.

'well,' he pauses, looking into your eyes, trying to search for something. 'if you must know, i haven't had any complaints. i've been told i give a rather...satisfactory performance.' he laughs. 'but, it has been quite some time.'

'oh. how long?'

'almost eight months so uh..nearly about a year, roughly,' he whispers, as you move closer. you're close enough for his warm breath fan over you, letting goosebumps kiss your skin.

'i think... i'll also be a satisfactory performer in bed,' you say. he laughs his eyebrow tilting.

'oh you think you are? your confidence is very cute.' he says, moving closer. you watch his pupils dilate, as the distance decreases between your bodies. something takes over him, as his breathing turns erratic, his heart palpitating. 'although,' he continues, 'the matter of one's performance in bed is highly subjective.'

'i can show you, the performance. i want to feel the intimacy, how it feels to be wanted, mr. lupin.' you say, almost begging. his hands twitch and your body aches for the touch of someone you've never felt before.

'i guess i'm sure you would like to find out, but...we shouldn't... we really shouldn't,' he feels his nerves turning shoddy as tries to not drown into the depth of your eyes. he says it, trying to convince himself more than you. but how can he when you look so pretty, like dew strewn across fresh grass. you jut out your lower lip.

'don't you find me pretty mr. lupin?' his eyes widen, his palm cradling your cheek. his thumb runs over your cheek and he enjoys the warm flush of your skin upon his touch, the goosebumps on your kissing every inch of your body.

'no, you are very beautiful. i mean it. apart from your intelligence, your beautiful mind is what...drew me to you.' he watches you melt into his touch and words and knits his eyebrows. 'but, we can't, we really can't, someone could just walk in.'

perhaps that's what excites you. the idea of someone walking in, the idea of somebody catching you. perhaps it's the sin that excites you.

'please,' you beg, your eyes glossy with an unsatiated lust, the carnal desire for intimacy, for his touch. 'please, remus, i need to know.' he takes a deep breathe, as the warm blood rushes between his legs.

he grabs your face, touching his temple with yours. 'fuck it,' he whispers, capturing his lips with yours. he's the priest, he needs to enlighten you with the knowledge you beg for, the experience you beg for.

perhaps it's sinful, but when his tongue meets yours, swallowing the sounds from your mouth, there's no sweeter innocence than his gentle sin. he'll be a poison ivy just for you, just to worship you at the shrine of his sins.

[kombuuuu]

He groans, the wet sound suddenly turning into a loud hiss, followed by deep breathing and a *thud*, as if something had landed in some sort of thick liquid. Miguel speaks, but his voice is more hoarse than before. “I just.. I-“ There is another hiss, followed by a sharp, high whine that Miguel tries to speak through. “I really need to talk to you *mi amor..* Just talk, you know?”

i can work with this anon.

—

“Miguel.. I can’t—,” You stuttered, tripping over your feet as you stumbled back. His left hand was gripping his chest, wet gasps breaching his blood stained lips.

“I can’t do this anymore!”

He stumbled against the alley wall, right hand dragging to steady himself, a slight limp in his walk.

“C’mon, baby please. Just—,” He begged you, closer now. Your feet had stopped moving, breath held. You wanted to run, to get away from him. This man was dangerous.

“,—Listen, yeah? Just listen, please Mi Cielito.”

He reached towards you with bloodied fingers, wet hands grasping your face. Smearing your smoothened skin in another man’s blood.

You closed your eyes and near sobbed. A heavy feeling in your chest as your squinted your eyes shut, not wanting to face the monster before you. Because you knew he’d be so so pretty.

“Mirame.”

You couldn’t, you couldn’t do it.

“[Name],” He whimpered your name and the sound that followed could’ve been mistaken if not for the thick smog of iron filling your lungs.

“,Open your eyes, baby.”

You listened, the pure sight of him — haloed in red light, bathing in its colour like it coated his very being. Like the very shade was fine tuned to compliment his warm skin.

“I can’t going like this, Miguel.”

“You can’t—,” He mumbled, eyes rolling back at the pain before he grunted and righted himself, hand sliding from your face down your arms and onto your hips, using you as leverage against gravity.

He was basically crowing onto you, whining and crying at the prospect of you leaving, and the slash across his chest.

“,..Won’t leave me.”

“I’m trying—,”

“You won’t.” His voice was former now, eyes glowering down at you while his claws gripped your hips gently. A firm hold but never pressing hard, never testing the limits. He’d never give you a reason to leave.

His head dipped lower, and his left claws drew to the buttons of your shirt, toying with them just enough for them to almost snap.

“Treat you s’ well, you gonna leave?” He dropped his forehead onto your shoulder. Right hand hooking into the waist band of your pants. Your breath escaped you and you stuttered out a solemn reply.

“You scare me.”

He groaned, hands twitching and leaning even further into you. You couldn’t see, but a dopey smile graced his pain-worn face.

“I’d kill worlds for you. Universes.”

And he wasn’t lying, he’d lay a deathbed to anyone who so hurt you. Destroying entire worlds just to keep you within arms reach. You wanted to hate him for it.

Fear overrun you like silence overrun the streets, quiet for lack of people. Too late in the night for anyone to see his invasive form carved over yours.

Miguel smiled against your shoulder, canines dragging against the junction between your neck and shoulder. He grazed his fangs just to a scrape, letting your blood prickle at your skin before licking it clean, relishing in your stuttered breath and sudden shivering.

He shifted, a soft cry of pain leaving his lips once more before he slumped. Near dead weight on top of you, you struggled to hold him up while he was almost passed out.

Your apartment was right there, what once an escape, now a return. You could help him there.

You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t even have thought about it. But you had, and now the thought won't leave your head.

"Please, Mi Sol."

He stays in your bed, curling up against you. Still smelling like copper and him. You love it and he's hurting you.

You cry when patching him up, knowing this would happen.

And it had, like it had every other time.

[tieflingfingers]

What and who: Astarion tries to prove he's an asset via archery and needs healing. Thomasin and Wyll use their intimidation checks. Summary: Astarion insists on shooting from the rooftops of Moonhaven, later discovering there's an ambush of goblins. Thomasin decides to lean into acting like a raider drow to get through alive. She patches up the pale elf's bruises whilst they help Wyll search for Karlach. Warning/Content: A little more fluff, humor, and questionable archery. Mild sexual content/descriptions. Blighted Village gore, Act 1. Part of campaign remix, but can also be read as one-off. Word Count: 3, 949 Ao3 Link

Self-preservation weaves itself through the synapses of a young developing brain. Its concept wakes one morning. Fully formed, robust, yet subtle in its transition. Paranoia becomes natural. A requisite with age. Childhood cautionary tales elucidate and transform. Heroics and foes are no longer mere life lessons. They’re stepping stones. Breeds hypervigilance. Biology launches you from the nest, though the world’s grassy gnolls sting. 

By age nineteen, Thomasin honed panic spellcasting. Every illusionary spell she could conjure bought time. But, warbling minds was mentally taxing. Impractical. Her travels became unplanned and scattered across the map in search of solace. Little did she know, solace was in people. Damsels of the soft trade and grizzled syndicates. 

Generations of open skirts dried Thomasin’s tears upon their bosom. Turncoins. Glimmersheaths. Willing-arms. The “names” of those who gifted a young half-elf tools of survival. They mentored on how to identify worrying social cues. What certain clientele preferred and the nuances of their sexual advances. How fluid the identity could be.

It was an art. 

Speech. De-escalation. Sycophantic coercion. Enchantments.

But, in an odd way, Thomasin also grew to appreciate her time in hostile environments. Harder trade. Syndication introduced her to hardened women. Swinging mauls was as much a power play as their word. Although these women spoke with no honeysuckle. Only thistle. Lethal like the black beady-eyed fruits of belladonna.

Yet, even under calluses, they recognized Thomasin’s place. She was one of few women in a den. Sure, she took part in the operation, but there was no denying the bright livelihood of a woman just newly blossomed.

It was as though her presence smoothened their coarse edges. Some innate desire for solidarity. She often watched in disbelief as women with murals of black ink tattoos sprawled across their bodies defended her. 

Thomasin’s authorities mocked her docile demeanor. Belittled her servility, despite their hierarchies fostering such behavior. But their contempt didn’t last long. It was silly to grant her bosses power when they struggled to form sentences through a bloodied broken jaw. From that day on, the young woman realized violence could be an answer.

-

In hindsight, being thrown into the wilderness wasn’t life-shattering. Unfortunate, but second nature.  Nature she wished wore comforts of the city. She welcomed the softened and hardened feminine, even if they clashed. Probably depended on them, as did Astarion, even if neither consciously realized it. They gave him space to exist, so he reluctantly did the same. 

Thomasin awoke early that morning to a vision of Astarion basking in the sun. Their day’s velvet illumination had barely crept in to warm the chapel’s deity. He leeched the statue’s warmth with a firm press of his back against stone.

Aside from rotating the kinks out of his shoulders, he seemed pleasant. Hopeful, perhaps. Although his tendency to blanket discomfort with criticism and jokes could make it hard to decipher at times. Thomasin didn’t mind. He voiced the petty little thoughts most suppressed. 

It made the idea of adventuring fathomable. Tolerable. Their belongings tucked back into bags, satchels, and belt loop hooks. Thomasin smeared golden pigment across her eyelids and wiped what was left to glitter down her collar bone. Although their outfits weren’t suited for battle, their leather hand-me-downs were appreciated. Pauldrons and leather-covered kneecaps were better than nothing.

Arriving back at the grove’s gate, Thomasin caught Astarion’s habit of objectification.

An approving coo flit from his lips. His shoulders loosened in the presence of Wyll, as though to contrast the young man’s broad build. To become milder than Wyll’s leathers clinking audibly with fortified metal rings. A blade sheathed atop a warlock’s back and the oil seeping into his locs from maintenance lent a faint shimmer. 

Thomasin nudged Astarion to behave. Wyll was too young for her taste, but she recognized the appeal. The fruits of charisma and drive. His probable leanings towards lawfulness did raise concern though. She hoped he was just naive. Easy to manipulate, if need be.

The young man handed over a handkerchief bundled with breakfast and dug out a map. Amatuer in design but guided them well toward the east. It was a collaboration amongst the tieflings using vine charcoal ground in parchment, sketching out a legend and branching routes. Drops of wine highlighted landmarks: Purple bridges, maroon rivers, and pink territories of goblin activity.

Starting their journey around sunrise lent blooms of pastels across the woodlands. The sky diffused into candied orange and dripped like the bread rolls Wyll brought. Three honey-soaked centers delightful enough to offset stale crumb, even if their stickiness made fingers hard to pry apart. Like giggling children, they found an icy stream to plunge their hands into.

Astarion took a bit of convincing to join. His breakfast was picked at before being tucked away. It wasn't a matter of being particularly upset by the meal. He was fine. Simply not hungry. A fact he insisted when Thomasin flicked droplets at his face. 

Wyll settled into the role of guide as they walked along, despite being dropped back into Faerun not long before them. When he wasn’t scouring the map, the young man recounted his mightiest foes slain in humble anecdotes and modest laughter. Whether the details were fact or fiction was irrelevant to Thomasin. A good story provided the essentials when straight from the valiant mouth. Beast slayers weren’t always grand storytellers but storytellers were always slayed grand beasts.

The quick responses. The picturesque memory of the most minute moments. It all made her wonder how often Wyll harkened back to scripts. Even when Astarion prodded about his moonstone eye or joked about the self-serious title of ‘Blade of Frontiers’, Wyll took it in stride. He saw the upside of their downturned fates. Existing within dichotomy meant there was always an infallible answer. Stories need to end with the townsfolk saved and a bounty of roasted fresh fish to celebrate. 

Nothing could bite through idealistic visions like the present, however.

As the morning sun settled high above, they encroached on a bridge near a midway point upon the map. Splotches of pink made them assume they’d fall upon a clan staking camp, but were met with a village. Its exterior was wrapped in high stone walls blemished with age. An arched entrance greeted the travelers, providing a window that shone the true abandoned intrells awaiting their visit. The same stagnation baked into the expressions of corpses outside the village’s perimeter. The scent of sanguine caked their flesh.

The trail was littered with bashed carts they made careful steps to avoid, but one thing was certain. This killing wasn’t part of forgotten history. There was still suppleness in a few of their cheeks. Smashed fruit hadn’t devolved into necrotic mush. Although their hallowing was already well underway.

One body propped against the archway upright, sustaining the position by support of stray twigs. It was an attempt at humor. Jokes as blackened as the dead nerves in their fingertips. Beside him was a sign made of dark wood whose bolts and nails were engulfed in thick orange rust. 

“‘Moonhaven’... Poor fools,” Thomasin said, letting her hands run over tactile etched letters.

Astarion looked up from his lifted foot. Decaying melon had the audacity of seeping onto a pair of embroidered boots. What a travesty.

“Augh. Don’t knock it, dear.  I hear death is the ultimate vacation. The final destination to–”

As much as the elf reveled in tasteless levity, his hand suddenly rose. It was a signal of silence. The points of his ears twitched. They’d picked up on a noise the others couldn’t register.

Wyll and Thomasin narrowed their focus, but birds simply chirped where bugs hissed. Until something familiar cut through. Cackles.

Astarion sprung into a predatory stance. His knees lowered his body to a crouch before venturing into neighboring brush in search of potential access points. Literal and figurative cracks in the wall’s foundation. Each step crossed over another. How one dissolved their mass as instantaneous as it was created was jarring, but an asset nonetheless.

“You wait here,” Astarion whispered.

Thomasin furrowed her brow. “You’re going alone?”

“You have qualms now ? Why waste a good shot? I go high, you go low.”

Wyll and Thomasin exchanged looks of uncertainty that couldn’t shake tenacious spirit. The elf’s bow had been lovingly patched and reinforced by tieflings. Tree bark chips were shaven, exposing light wood where blades made hasty cuts and created new planes. It bent with much more confidence and, in return, so did he. 

Astarion wasn’t to waste his spotlight. 

Some street musician and a glorified body guard needed him.

The elf used protruding boulders as stepping stones. His hands gripped onto interlocking vines, making the gradual ascent toward a fracture in the village wall, inch by inch. He slipped his way in, shifted his balance, and landed atop a roof on the other side. A fact only solidified by the sound of loose shingles falling where his feet disturbed.

His disappearance prompted Thomasin to peek inside. She moved with her skirt gripped and hoisted to hover the fabric over bodies, paying them respects even if they were avoided like mud puddles.

Through the archway, the town reeked of remnants. Traces of a past raid that left ghosts in its debris. Homes and meager businesses still stood as though expecting the common folks to continue their routines. They lingered, unwilling to acknowledge they were vestiges. Relics of their former selves. Rooftops no longer sheltered from rain. Windows were mere suggestions where walls collapsed in full.

“Is he a sharpshooter?” Wyll whispered. His eyes seeked reassurance from her body language, despite it remaining deathly still.

“Gods if I know, truly. He was quite capable yesterday, but…”

“Let us hope, for his sake, his balance isn’t overtaken by the sheer weight of ego.”

“May Eilistraee save him from his britches if they get too big.”

Two smiles grew, born of ambivalence.

With her body pressed up against the cold pitted archway, a goblin came into view. Multiple. Short, crass beings rifling through barrels and making conversation they couldn’t decide were jovial or argumentative. Those patrolling walked in lazy formations that left timing difficult to predict, so Thomasin began taking mental notes. Advantageous points. Ladders, trees, wide wooden pillars to hide behind.

But, sneaking into Moonhaven wouldn’t be that simple.

“Eh, surround ‘em! Found some lil’ chickens waitin’ for the slaughta’!” a voice, shrill and high-pitched, rang.

“Fuck,” Thomasin cursed.

The half-elf abided by the carrier and slowly eased a couple steps inside. Wyll muttered under his breath. Something of reassurance lost upon her rigid condition. The feeling of him right beside her provided relief, at least.

They turned their heads to the right, where a goblin guard berated them from the second floor of a derelict home. The guard’s body clinked with ill-fitting armor. Tarnished chainmail rustled. Her laughs, scornful, stretched a tender triangular brand seared into her neck. 

Once the village was alert, the guard drove a spike into a wooden bannister at her feet, using it to scale down to ground level. Heads of compatriot grunts peeked from hiding spots and looted crates. They existed as a grumbling hive mind and picked tough cuts of meat from their teeth. Readied for entertainment. Something eventful, finally. Something not weather-wrought. Someone breathing. 

“C’mon now. I’d like to think I’m more than sinewy chicken guts to you,” Thomasin said as the guard approached, although a crack in her voice betrayed any jest. One of her hands rose. Each fingertip, a lily of the valley. Gentle in their bend and asserting fragility. Whether those stems were poisonous was buried into her clutched skirt. “We do not wish for trouble. Simply passing through.”

“Yeah, yeah!  And we simply wishin’ t’--”

Cutting through the foible, a few feet behind Thomasin, was a solid thunk. One of heft. One that turned out to have impeccable timing as Astarion laid in a small cloud of dust. His shots had revealed his position and, not anticipating the sheer number lurking in the shadows, target practice commenced. Tears in his twilled quiver revealed he had been struck. Whilst not wounded, his roguish prowess was thrown off balance. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” Wyll uttered.

While the elf’s companions held their tongues, those in the vicinity erupted into laughter. Enough of an upheaval that spared Thomasin a few seconds to look over Astarion from afar. He was intact. Enough. Limbs attached. Hair disheveled. Fingers twitched ever so slightly. It was best to let him enjoy his slumber.

Wyll nudged Thomasin’s shoulder to return her attention to the guard, who was squinting at her. Studying her as though on the verge of recognizing an acquaintance.

“Yer’ kind’s operation’s up in the temple, yeah?”

The half-elf figured it was her silver tint. She’d grown up knowing drow fled their burrows when the Underdark couldn’t satisfy their desires. Textbook pillaging behavior. Untainted topsoil begged to be aerated by poisonous blades. Although sparing goblins in their expedition wasn’t usual, from her knowledge. 

For now, that was of no concern. These vague details could be dug into. They could create a facade as long as her bite sustained. Believing one's own false narrative long enough to let its canines clamp on the guards’ sense of authority. For now, she was confident. Competent. So competent, others refrained from asking further questions in fear their skulls would appear too thick.

“So you do own some common sense,” Thomasin taunted, her eye contact lingering for an uncomfortable length. “Yet you don’t know any common decency or respect. Imagine the repercussions. You being the reason for my absence. Making them wait hours for information, only to find out you’re responsible for my death?”

“Wha- No, no- Wait. Uh… that bloke yers?”

The guard realigned her bones, using every ounce of will to suppress tears of merriment. They sat along her lashes, frightened to fall and the repercussions that could follow. It was all light fun. Who didn’t appreciate an odd sacrifice here and there? For comradery? The last thing she anticipated was being blamed for ending powerful elven lineages. 

“What he lacks in grace, he makes up for in… other feats, do not take him lightly,” Wyll commented. It wasn’t long until he caught the sight of hands grabbing the unconscious man. Grunts poured in to collectively lift Astarion for all he was worth. “Or literally, for that matter! Drop him. Now.”

“I know this ain’t t’way I’m dyin’ today. I’m goin’ back to party, fuckin’ hell,” one grunt protested. They all let go at once, leaving him to hit the floor once more. 

Astarion groaned. Eyes flickering in disorientation, he felt Wyll scoop him up like an angelic savior. With an arm tucked under the crook of his knees, Astarion rested against his chest. No verbal jabs. Simply a cheek squished against the young man’s beating heart. 

“What plans we have out east are confidential to your leaders…” Wyll continued. “But it’s not our only task. We are on the hunt for a devil walking this plane and, let it be known, it’s pertinent you give us any information you know. If you’ve seen her. Skin as red as the unnatural flames of the hells that manifest from her body. A single horn curls from her head, the other broken from the ruthlessness of war.”

Such a poetic depiction charmed the guard, whose own prose were abrasive at best. “That who ran through here? Looked spicy, but thought she’d- uh… die before she hit water. The way she was steamin’.” She pursed her lips. “ Never knew a’ drow partnerin’ with devils. No wonder the temple’s been blazing hot these days… I oughta be takin’ notes from yer’ sort.” 

Wyll eyes lit up.

“Where? Where did you see her?”

“Ran through ‘ere like a bull on fire. Out the north exit o’town– Ahhh, wait. Drama ‘appening?”

“We’ll handle the beast. Nothing a bit of lambasting won’t fix, but this will be on our own terms. None of you will perish at the hands of your authorities as long as you stand down.”

Out of homes and tucked away corners, goblins let out guttural whines. Their weapons flew to the wayside. Participating in ghost town raids didn’t have the particular horrific flair the drow promised. Now they wouldn’t even get to see a devil slain. Life wasn’t fair. The only thing keeping them afloat was dreams of rotting fruits fermenting back at camp.

The guard’s mace smacked against the ground. 

“Fine. Jus’ tell Minthara that ol’ Bhelx helped y’find the runaway, will ya? Bhelx Tut. Sounds fancy if y’say it in full. She’ll like all that.”

“Bhelx Tut,” Thomasin said, ruminating on the syllables. Each given special care to suggest she, too, found the title profound. “A pleasure. I’ll keep you in mind, but do carry on. I don’t wish to witness all your failures today.”

Bhelx’s face dropped. No matter the effort, it seemed her alliship still left her stuck low on the totem. She grit her teeth and walked off, yelling obscenities at her underlings, as though she were struggling to keep her position in their hierarchy.

Now left alone, the three could take in a town once quaint. Stables and blacksmiths quarters sat as headstones of economy. The scent of herbs intermingled with flourishing weeds and wafted from an apothecary storefront. Children’s toys made depressions in the dirt, where rain softened earth and clung to its inhabitants. Lines of hopscotch fading into the suggestions of color, pale from constant sunshine.

Even in an unkempt state, Wyll noticed an anomaly amongst the grass. Patches of singed greenery and gravel. Marks left were too benign to consider them part of the “raid”. Too scattered, but still resembled footsteps smashing their weight under infernal iron boots.

As he followed their path, Wyll watched Thomasin tend to Astarion in his arms. She gently traced her fingers along his scalp until the elf’s head was nestled within her palm. Bands of rings peeked through his locks. They traversed his fussy curl pattern whose shade of white made her silver tarnish more pronounced. 

Gradually, Thomasin’s caress began to glow a pulsing shade of lavender that splashed against the point of his ears. As though the weave illuminated on an unheard beat, she caught its rhythm and began to hum. 

“Wha…” Astarion murmured. They watched his eyes dissect their silhouettes until he could identify the angels hovering over him. “How did I get the best seat in the house?”

Thomain snickered. “Good morning to you too. One of the goblins knocked you off the roof.”

“And you’ve already made quick work of them? I’d say I’m flattered… Impressed, even. The–”

Astarion lifted his head to discover the clan was still very much alive. It filled him with ennui that made him pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t say I had faith in being this outnumbered,” Wyll said, humored by him. “For now, at least.”

“Nonsense. And now they’re still mucking up the air. You saw what they did- I’m hurt. Emotionally. Might as well be physical- Put me down.”

The elf tapped Wyll’s arm and he obliged, lowering him to allow an airing of grievances. Astarion went to busy himself, twisting and stretching as though awoken from a grave slumber. He patted at his hips, his shirt, his sleeves, and then cuffed them smooth. Twirled hairs between pale knuckles in muscle memory swirls.

“We’ll be sure to destroy the next person that mistreats you,” Thomasin said, placing a hand on his back to keep their momentum forward. “The next person to look at you wrong….” She, then, proceeded to mimic slicing her neck with her thumb.

Astarion sighed and dragged his feet.

“Good. I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Up a slight incline, they passed by drunken bugbears with opaque green bottles in hand. Their birth and existence earned them a sneer from the elf. They were enemies by association. Swiping what little belongings they had set atop tables and pouches was necessary. Not even a choice.

Thomasin scouted the area. Local plants and weather patterns could provide mild answers, but it was all they had to figure out exactly where they were on the Sword Coast. How far the nautiloid carried them from the Gate. Native flora grew from the soil. Brightly speckled where flames had not eaten at its edges. She pointed toward a patch that followed another. An obvious pattern led the three north, up and around a barn.

Unlike the stillness plaguing Moonhaven, it seemed the building was alive and well. Thumps and subsequent bangs covered muffled voices in its own brand of staccato. But, it didn’t take a millennia of wisdom to figure out what was inside. She placed her ear against the barn’s siding and listened in.

Before she could mention anything, Astarion was already utilizing a peephole he discovered. 

“Gods, that’s disgusting!” he yelled with the tact of a crass teenage boy. The same jubilance a mother would try to dissuade. Without thought, Astarion grabbed Thomasin by the wrist, pulling her toward the peephole so she, too, could witness such debauchery. The irony wasn’t lost on her, either. Two weathered adults feeding into arrested development. Wyll was twenty-four and already understood how this crossed boundaries. He wasn’t enthused.

Thomasin caged those concerns for another day and peeked at the scene inside. An ogre damsel, surely five times the size of her bugbear partner, bucked wildly. No flair, but itchy hay and scattered flesh. The simple things in life needed only simple luxuries.

“This is the sort of romance novel folks in Baldur’s Gate would be pining for. Niche smut. Imagine the book clubs. Huh.”

“Get out your pad and ink. Lighting never strikes twice for a reason, darling. Unless you cast it yourself, of course,” he added with a giggle.

Thomasin snorted and let her mind wander. Not to sensual heartwarming ogre storylines, but seeing how the two navigated their size differences. In her line of work, she’d seen it all. Partners much larger than her. Much smaller. They required adjustments, communication, yet the two operated with a brutish grace. 

“Aye! Someone there? Gettin’ a free show?” the bugbear growled. “Leave us be or it’ll be your head!”

“Oh!” Thomasin yelped. “Tempting, but just wanted to compliment your form! Enjoy your head!”

Astarion had to be ripped from his selfish voyeurism with a shove. Although he didn’t mind. His body shook with indulgent chuckling. Grin was toothy. Wyll, already making some distance up the hill, had completely eluded him. 

“Did that make you feel better?” Thomasin asked.

“I-Only a little,” he replied, hesitant to admit it. His feet kept their shuffling forward. “Do give me the honors of reading the first draft of that book. You know my patience is thin.”

Despite their foolish bouts bandaging their hardships, the truth was hard to avoid. The further they left the village center, the closer they got to open trails, the more death they saw. The scent of blood hung like a sheet, heavy atop its clothesline. Overturned wagons, fully tossed, were left next to their misfortune drivers. Death was native to nature. Part of its cycle. But, that didn’t mean those remaining didn’t quiver at the reminder.

At a high point atop a hill, Wyll’s visage shined as his heroic title implied. A man of frontiers. It seemed he was peering down a cliffside, surveying exactly where a trail winding down to the water ended. Then, he turned to face them, hand hovered over his brow to shield from the sun. The volume in his voice lowered. 

“I think I see something. Her.”

[astralartefact]

Placeholder Name for Atarase's Media Diary

Extra Entry 00a - Final Fantasy 14 Endwalker 6.X Patch Series

Synopsis

The Gang Solves a Demon Crusade

The Gang Learns of the Messiest Divorce in the Multiverse

The Gang Ruins their Academic Reputation by Absolutely Botching the Only Interview Humanity Will Ever Have With Their Gods (Gone Wrong) (Gone Blasphemous)

The Gang Does Side Quests at the Other End of the Universe

i wrote this ages ago before dawntrail came out and forgot to post it but i still agree with what i wrote so have fun experiencing some hindsight <3

How much did I know before playing?

I'm playing this game since the end of Heavensward.

Did I like it more than I expected?

As seemingly one of 5 people with healthy expectations in this community I actually did.

Except for---

Since I liked it, here's what I hated about it

Eulogia. Fuck Eulogia. Way to ruin, like, everything.

Who wrote this. I just have some questions. I want to know if you ever once thought, like at all. For your own sake, dear writer responsible for this shlock, I hope YoshiP never reveals your name to the public for you already have a spiritual nemesis that will badmouth you to his absolutely non-sizeable internet audience.

Also, I guess searching for a Pictomancer glam in preparation for Dawntrail also has made me once again aware that the designs for magic armor in this game suck ass, you know I enjoy the subdued but still magical vibe of the art design but to be quite honest I thoroughly dislike most of the armor aesthetic. How are you guys, especially male characters, maining magic jobs with only like 3 glams that aren't long, ugly and/or feminine robes, I knew it was a meme but it's really that bad.

The worst part really is that there's several dozen good outfits where you can literally see the line where the top should have ended - only for them to still extend the cape all the way to the ground for no good reason making the entire piece look like shit. pls yoshi p just loosen the glam restrictions so you just have to have the class unlocked at that level to glam it onto every other class q_q that would take a minimal amount of effort and it would solve world hunger i swear it would q_q

What did this game make me think about?

The place of Redemption, Accountability and Forgiveness in our current age and its relation to our relationship to Religion.

And just so you're aware it's not the fucking God Exodus Story Line that made me think about any of that, no, that shitty story line has not thought a singular second about any of those points.

Specific Impressions that will stick with me

As much as I hate the story of Myths of the Realm the presentation slaps as always, the raids are gorgeous and Soken does what Soken do. (I'm value neutral on the Raid's difficulty or whatever the community decides to care about these days)

The Left Ending of Sil'dih with the tea table surrounded by flowers (i think it's the left one?) that place is so fckin pretty q_q and i love nanamooo

Outstanding Audio

Basically all of Myths of the Realm except for the Final Boss theme which I hate on principle because Fuck Eulogia

hurts bc dawn of a new era is was my favorite ff14 theme q_q

Troian Beauty in D Minor i don't think it's d minor

Favorite Character

KRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILE does she count she's barely in it

Nophica with a Gun (the Nophica that wasn't ruined by Myths of a Realm)

Paper Menphina

My Hrothgar Barbariccia OC I wrote to be my wol's shard of the void

And I did like Zero!

Favorite Arc/Story Line

I liked the Void Arc, I know People are big mad about it but I think it's fine! I only think it should have been optional, basically exactly like Stormblood's Four Lords, a Trial Series with a few Dungeons in between - then it wouldn't have had the burden of leading right into Dawntrail (a contrast so stark they couldn't even have tried to smoothen the transition) and people wouldn't have expected Zero to stay immediately relevant too.

Also some of the minor-ish quest lines were cute :)

Favorite Set Piece

I love Lymllaen's arena, it's kind of simple but so effective.

The final trash mobs in Thaleia :)))

Really cool Area with interesting mob design :)))))

A glimpse of what could have been :)))))))))) HOW IS THE FINAL TRASH MOB AREA PRETTIER THAN THE FINAL BOSS ROOM

Favorite Scene

Zero giving Golbez the chance to repent.

Best Performance (I played with JP voices)

AEGISU OBU HARUONE!!!!!!!!!

every single one of the gods was great, but not all of them, if you catch my drift (get it, fuck eulogia)

German Localization Notes

If you know me you know that I think the German FFXIV Localization is better than the English one and it still is and it will continue to be. I gladly pass on meme-y item descriptions if it means that I can expect the translation to not just write whatever it feels like at any given moment. (also, as I have expressed before I can't stand english olden speech writing, thank god the german tl doesn't do all that)

--- ENTERING THE PRETENTIOUS SECTION OF THIS ENTRY ---

What about this game gives me Hope for the future of gaming?

I have nothing really to say, I'm just so excited for Pictomancer you guys, every time I think about it I'm flushed with immense joy. I didn't think they would do it, but it's real. It's actually happening.

I guess what gives me Hope about that is that Yoshi P didn't get too lost in FF16's Fantasy Realism, because drab fantasy aesthetics is truly the worst outcome of lore culture.

What about this game makes me scared for the future of gaming?

You see, there is this thing that has happened since the common consciousness has deemed that Shadowbringers is indeed that good and it's that people kind of immediately turned around to say, that actually, FF14 - WITH THE EXCEPTION OF THE BAD BAD STORMBLOOD WHICH IS BAD!!!! - has always been good.

After all Heavensward had that one quest line we all liked, remember, and the one dude died and we all really cared about him, right right right???

And while you are allowed to picture me dismissively pointing at your copy of Heavensward while I'm saying this I don't actually have that big of a take over Heavensward, mainly because I'm not particularly interested in reexamining it since I'm still not over how wildly that writer fumbled FF16's entire narrative point for 'emotional storytelling' or whatever that ending was about, the only thing I will say is that People always bring up the death as this big meaningful thing that's so impactful and how dare you not care about it as if Heavensward hasn't had two other pretty essential characters die for absolutely no good reason apart from conveniently getting rid of a character that would be a hassle to keep up with or setting up character development for another.

Anyways, the problem I actually have was that middle bit, the text in bold where people feel this insistent need to point out that they do indeed know that Stormblood's story is "bad."

But we all know that. It's one of those opinions everyone already shares with each other, because it's pretty obvious. Literally everyone, even and especially the ones who still like it, know that the story leaves at least a little bit to be desired - because different from what certain people online try to make you believe most people are indeed critical of the things they like. A lot of people just don't feel like loudly critizising every little thing they have a problem with, especially when overall they're still enjoying themselves. Some people call it being fun at a party. And if you're constantly nagging, you're not fun at a party - it's not a safe space full of snowflakes, you're just a complainer and that's why nobody wants to talk to you.

It's not that insightful to see that Stormblood didn't quite do it. If you were alone with him in a room even Yoshi-P would admit that Stormblood 'wasn't optimal' or whatever he would say, he's not that stupid, he's just professional enough not to throw his writers under the bus just to bad mouth his own product. And yet there's this certain subset of people that really really needs you to know that the expansion where they cried because that one guy they shipped their oc with died is really really good and yet the other one that's split in half for no reason is really really bad - as if it's something that's needed to be said. As if it's Insightful Commentary we all needed to hear.

I will make this sound more dramatic than I think it really is, but I think the critical reception of Shadowbringers has emboldened the FFXIV community to take their personal (emotional) reaction to a piece of media as proof that a thing is good. I think some link between "I liked it" and "It is good" has been strengthened in some people's minds and some of those people have started to use that for bad by using it as a weapon upgrade in the usual endless complaining about things everyone agrees is bad.

Basically, This thing is Bad has become This thing is Bad, unlike the thing which is clearly Good because I liked it (and look, everyone agrees with me)

Except of course you can like bad things. The Game Awards nominated FF16 for Best Narrative.

And that just makes for repeated situations where people will say shit like "but it's so good because it's bittersweet" about Myths of the Realm - which, great, happy you had an emotional response to all of that - but that's also kind of the bare minimum you should achieve when you decide to kill off characters that are so important to the setting you choose a diety for your character before you choose a name. The Twelve Leaving being sad is Basic Empathy, to me that's not some kind of writing success.

Sadly whoever mangled this sad excuse for a storyline also decided to make sure the exodus of the Twelve somehow left less impact on the game world than fucking YoRHa:Dark Apocalypse and there you people keep complaining about it despite it being a cross-over storyline where something like that shouldn't be expected.

What I want to make clear by pointing this out is that the problem with that isn't that people like something that's bad actually - you can like Myths of the Realm, it's fine - and it's not even something more profound sounding like 'people become "too attached" to a piece of media to the point of being personally insulted when it's critizised.'

Because to that point I say a) of course people feel weird when a thing they like is being bad mouthed that's just a normal human reaction (you know, one of the things art is about, you generally create something to be reacted to) and I don't like how that continually crops up as a rebuttal to people becoming "defensive" over "something meaningless" (nice way to refer to art btw) as if growing attached to a piece of art is something to be ashamed of - and also b): people on the internet overstate the value and necessity of public critique. (not saying it's not important but some people seem to think only their critique alone is the sole way a creator can grow which... i regret to inform you that unsolicited advice is rarely as helpful as you would like it to be, even if it is "correct".)

I think the problem is that these 'criticisms' don't come out of a genuine "empathy" for the thing they like - unlike some people seem to have convinced themselves - because if that was the case maybe we would actually get not necessarily a productive discussion - none of us is working on this game after all (and honestly it's okay to stop pretending that somebody who does listens) - but it would be a more interesting one for sure. I can't tell you what to like (as much as I would love to), but I can encourage you to have more meaningful introspections into what you love than to blindly accept those tired talking points everyone is repeating at nauseam.

And with more meaningful I don't actually mean 'deep' it just means being honest to yourself and your feelings, even and especially if it is something completely mundane.

Because I think a lot of this is the opposite - this is people parroting common points about the thing that is popular to be part of the in-group with as little personal stake as possible - and by punching down on the out-group you can strengthen your place in the crowd, your social capital. It's bullying masquerading as 'valid criticisms', or maybe even Nerd Populism. if only we had an alliance raid series about that.

The Ramble Section where I get to actually talk about what I thought about

I would love nothing more than to 'valid criticism' all over Myths of the Realm - but that would take 15 pages of a Google Doc and I think down here is really not the place.

It's just sad to see the Twelve, Aglaia, Euphrosyne and 3/4ths of Thaleia be absolutely wasted for a shitty resolution that spits in the face not only of our beloved made-up history facts known as Lore but also the entire premise of ARR to Stormblood. But hey, at least it's bittersweet am i right

Anyways, let's Ramble about Ancient Greek Pronounciation.

I haven't had Ancient Greek in School (I could have, but Latin was already old and boring enough for me, thanks) so I had to scrape together how to pronounce Euphrosyne just so I can be annoying about it and as much as I want to say Oi-pro-sü-neh (I think English Speakers don't have the german ü sound, it's basically the same as in the french word rue) because it's much easier to pronounce, Ancient Greek makes a difference between Eu and Oi and I fail to understand how the Eu sounds no matter how many times I listen to it.

By which I mean, you can pretend it's You-froze-a-knee as much as you want, it's wrong and you sound foolish.

[rosegoldandsequins]

Preening Gwen's feathers was something Melissa took very seriously - even if the wings were not normally visible to others, they were there for the two of them. Beautiful, warm and like a kaleidoscope of the sunset, the demoness enjoyed touching them - and aiding with the upkeep, too. It seemed only fair for them to help each other out given their type of existence - many mortals of interest would come and go; but their bond was forever.

Eternal as the void that threatened to consume Melissa if left unchecked; and which fostered the protective behavior of smoothening over feathers, even if her claws could get clumsy and she preferred to change forms for better access and care. And while she was at it, the darker one always came back to the tender spot where the wings never fully healed - like something had left an incurable trauma behind.

And what was the bane of an angel's existence if not the opposite?

"Gwen," the brunette asked, voice quiet - but it was clear that Melissa was pondering over something, and it showed in how the neon colors of her true self threatened to spill from within her skin, digits hovering over that patch of feathers with a frown and melancholy to her tone, "Do you think I caused this? Do you think I... hurt you? When we were made?"

A pause, followed by a confession murmured in such a way that it could have been mistaken for prayer, "I never meant for it."

Guinevere adored the feeling of Melissa's fingers in her feathers, stroking the soft shafts and picking out any residue left from her recent flights. It was necessary care that the angel had difficulty performing — and more. She enjoyed the closeness of her demon ; in a strange way, Melissa looking after her wings was as soothing emotionally as it was physically.

The angel wore nothing but a thin white slip, which was gathered around her folded legs. Its shimmering material reflected the brilliant colors that danced across Guinevere's wings. She murmured appreciatively, rolling her head.

When the demoness' hands grazed over that spot, Guinevere slowly turned to look at Melissa. Her eyes, so gem - like and deep in spite of her relation to the air, filled with a mix of emotions. There was a sadness, yes, but also a touch of reverence. The angel's apparently permanent injury, which consisted of a large fracture to a few of the hollow bones in her right wing, was still sensitive to the touch. It was functional, though — as much as it could be. Guinevere sometimes wondered if her lingering sorrow and awe over the old wound kept it from healing completely.

Her lips opened at Melissa's quiet words. With a thoughtful hum, Guinevere moved nearer to her demoness, gently crushing her wing between them. A slender hand pressed to Melissa's cheek. The angel used that touch to bring the other creature in for a short kiss.

Gold glittered on Melissa's lips when Guinevere was finished. She then nuzzled into the demoness' cheek and stayed there for a few long breaths. Warmth crashed over Melissa, bright and sure, as if Guinevere had opened the window on a brilliant summer day.

Neon light mingled with the angel's ever - shifting prismatic pattern. Guinevere drew in Melissa's deep chill, grateful for the way it seeped into her thin body. She shivered, and her companion drew her closer instinctually.

"We will never know what caused it," Guinevere intoned, emphasizing the we at the beginning of her reply. " — but it doesn't matter, really. I know you, and I know that you would never hurt me."

The angel smiled into Melissa's skin, hand slipping behind her demoness' neck to hold her. How they were coiled together reminded Guinevere of when she first awoke, aware of nothing except a sharp ache in an appendage that felt both familiar and strange . . . and her weight, laying against that break. Her cool, harshly - lit body, decorated with weaponry that would put any predator to shame.

( she was everything. )

"I knew that as soon as I saw you," Gwen added.

[veinsglisten]

I want to feel your skin on my fingertips

motion capture your milliseconds

with the flutter of my aperture

I want to anoint you on your cheeks

patch the invisible scars

on your skin, smoothen your rough

with my love-stained lips

I want to trace the veins and ravines

of your sturdy canyon-body

let me once be the flow

cascade down your rocky slope

let me quench your bursting vents

and cracking crevices

let me slake your irrational flame

and assuage your fear

of the very drought

let me bathe you

with my love, love, love

[lostjulys]

okay finished ep1 of stampede. collected thoughts........

i think it does great at what it was setting out to do. personally i don't have a beef with the cg animation, i think it looks great, that's not a big deal to me. i think it's intended to be a sci-fi western shonen anime that's designed to be easily consumed & enjoyed, and it succeeds at that imo!! and that isn't necessarily a bad thing; the studio's said that they weren't trying to tell the same story as the manga, and i think they'll do a very enjoyable and competent job at the story they ARE telling.

that being said!!!!!!! personally ummm i do not like it lol. i think um. i think having half the big reveals happen in the first episode & even in the first five minutes of the first episode cheapens it immeasurably. key to the manga, imo, was the blend of dumb loony tunes deep space planet future gun action + slowly increasing moments of sincerity & storytelling that drew a whole lot with some very small, subdued lines, and drew in more mystery with every reveal. i think the idea of going into trigun and immediately getting told, very carefully and literally with small words so we understand clearly, that this is a Sad Tragedy about a Guy who's a Plant and Has a Fucked Up Brother, and he's Tragic, and This Is Rem And She Died, is... low effort storytelling. or, at least, storytelling that's blatantly aimed at pulling in lots of viewers with a big emotional hook in the first episode. i hate the "project seeds" patch on his jacket it genuinely feels that they took all of the "show don't tell" from the original manga & went "hey what would happen if we just, told everything as explicitly as possible instead of showing it :)"

also, i'm really not a fan of the... smoothening, of the redesigns? i don't like that vash looks like a teenager instead of a young adult who's still visibly an adult-he isn't a teen, and it's a weird narrative decision to frame him as one, imo. i don't like millie being softened into the anime it girl instead of, again, a whole ass adult with a job. i have a visceral hatred of the whitewashed, black haired cuteboyification of wolfwood? i want to knee whoever made him white in this adaption in the nuts. the implications of him having a lollipop instead of his cigarette are.. probably indicative of where the tone of the show is headed. and millie's gone, because clearly even comedically gnc women are unmarketable when they're more than just a one-off joke. (sorry. i'm genuinely trying to give it the benefit of the doubt but.. lol.)

millie is gone, btw, and she's replaced with an experienced, cynical older man who's CLEARLY more intelligent and competent than meryl. (he's her bodyguard. which is a fascinating decision, given that... she's the hyperindependent sharpshooter with a coat full of derringers?). this is. possibly my least favorite decision out of many questionable decisions, including that of replacing vash's iconic silver freak ass gun with some apparently random different handgun? as well as the decision to namedrop knives in the very first episode and the general specific emphasis on the "space" part of space western (genuinely such a loss, imo...).

all in all, there's a loss of... intentionality of design that was present in the manga. it feels like the showrunners took the premise and form of trigun and spun that into something new. which is fine! which is fun and enjoyable! but it's a pale, somewhat lackluster imitation of what it's spinning off, there's no way it's ever going to hit as hard or be as meaningful as the original manga.

[flow-drywall]

Drywall, also known as gypsum board or plasterboard, is a fundamental element in interior construction. Over time, it can be subject to damage from various sources like accidental impacts, holes from nails or screws, moisture, or settling. Learning effective patching and repair techniques is essential for maintaining walls' aesthetics and structural integrity.

Flow Drywall : Importance of Drywall Repairs

Structural Integrity Properly repaired drywall ensures the structural stability of walls and ceilings, preventing further damage and maintaining their strength.

Aesthetic Restoration Repairing holes, cracks, or blemishes restores the visual appeal of walls, creating a seamless and polished finish.

Property Value Well-maintained walls contribute to the overall value and marketability of a property, making timely repairs essential for homeowners and property managers.

Types of Drywall Damage Small Holes and Dents Commonly caused by nails, screws, or accidental impacts, small holes and dents can be easily patched and smoothed out.

Large Holes and Punctures Larger holes resulting from doorknob impacts, furniture, or more significant damage require more intricate repair methods.

Cracks and Water Damage Cracks can form due to settling, temperature fluctuations, or moisture issues. Water damage can cause swelling, bubbling, or staining, requiring thorough repair and sometimes mold remediation.

Tools and Materials Required Patching Compound Patching compound, available in various forms such as spackling or joint compound, is used to fill holes and cracks. Lightweight compounds are ideal for smaller repairs.

Drywall Patch Kits Patch kits contain self-adhesive mesh or patches designed to cover larger holes, providing a stable base for applying compound.

Drywall Tape For reinforcing seams and preventing cracks, paper or fiberglass mesh tape is used with joint compound.

Sandpaper and Sanding Blocks Used for smoothing the patched areas and achieving a flush finish.

Putty Knife and Drywall Trowel Essential tools for applying patching compounds and spreading them evenly.

Primer and Paint To finish the repair, primer helps the patched area blend with the surrounding wall, and paint provides a uniform appearance.

Steps for Drywall Patching and Repairs Small Hole and Dent Repairs Preparation: Clean the damaged area, removing loose debris or chipped edges. Ensure the surface is dry and free from dust.

Application of Patching Compound: Using a putty knife, fill the hole or dent with patching compound. Feather the edges to blend with the surrounding wall. Let it dry as per manufacturer instructions.

Sanding: Once dry, sand the patched area gently to smoothen the surface. Wipe away dust with a damp cloth.

Priming and Painting: Apply primer to the patched area, allowing it to dry completely. Then, paint the repaired area to match the existing wall.

Large Hole Repairs using Drywall Patch Kits Prepare the Hole: Cut away any damaged or uneven edges around the hole to create a clean, rectangular shape.

Apply Patch: Affix the self-adhesive mesh or patch from the kit over the hole, ensuring it covers the entire area. Press firmly to secure it in place.

Layering Compound: Using a putty knife or trowel, apply multiple thin layers of joint compound over the patch, feathering each layer for a smooth transition. Allow drying between coats as recommended.

Sanding and Finishing: Once dry, sand the patched area gently to achieve a flush surface with the wall. Clean the dust, apply primer, and paint to match the wall color.

Repairing Cracks and Water Damage Assess the Damage: Identify the extent of the crack or water damage. For minor cracks, use joint compound directly. For larger or structural cracks, consider professional assessment.

Fill and Seal Cracks: Apply joint compound or spackling into the crack, using a putty knife or trowel. For better reinforcement, embed drywall tape in the compound for larger cracks.

Dry and Sand: Allow the compound to dry thoroughly, then sand the area to create a smooth surface. Clean the dust before applying primer and paint.

Tips for Successful Drywall Repairs Patience is Key: Allow sufficient drying time between compound layers for better adhesion and smoother finishes.

Feathering Technique: Blend the compound outward from the repair area to seamlessly merge it with the surrounding wall.

Proper Sanding: Use fine-grit sandpaper for a smoother finish. Sand lightly to avoid over-smoothing or creating uneven surfaces.

Quality Materials: Use high-quality patching compounds and tools for better results and durability.

Color Matching: Ensure primer and paint match the existing wall color to achieve a cohesive look.

Drywall repairs are essential for maintaining the integrity and aesthetics of interior spaces. Understanding the types of damage, necessary tools, and step-by-step repair processes empowers homeowners and DIY enthusiasts to effectively restore damaged drywall, achieving seamless and professional-looking results.

By following these techniques and tips, individuals can confidently address various types of drywall damage, ensuring a flawless finish that blends seamlessly with the surrounding walls.

[toolzee]

How to Keep Wooden Handle Garden Tool Clean?

Gardening, a hobby cherished by many, not only requires dedication and love for plants but also demands proper care of the tools that help make a garden thrive. A crucial aspect of this care involves understanding "How to keep wooden handle garden tool clean." This comprehensive guide will walk you through the essential steps in the wooden handle garden tool cleaning process, ensuring your tools remain in top-notch condition for years of gardening bliss.

Understanding the Need for Cleanliness

First things first, why is it so important to keep your wooden handle garden tools clean? Well, dirt, sap, and moisture can damage the wood, leading to a shorter lifespan for your tools. Regular cleaning not only prolongs their life but also ensures they are safe and effective for use.

Step-by-Step Cleaning Guide

1. Start with Basic Cleaning

After each use, it's vital to remove any soil or debris from the wooden handle. Use a stiff brush to scrub off dry dirt. For sticky substances like sap, a damp cloth can be more effective.

2. Dealing with Tough Stains

Sometimes, you might encounter stubborn stains. In such cases, a mild soap solution can be used. However, be sure to dry the handle thoroughly afterward to prevent any water damage.

Sanding and Smoothening

1. Smoothen the Surface

Regular use can lead to the development of rough patches or splinters on wooden handles. To address this, use fine-grit sandpaper to gently sand the surface. This step is crucial for maintaining a comfortable and safe grip.

2. Avoiding Over-Sanding

It's important not to overdo the sanding. Excessive sanding can weaken the handle and reduce its durability.

Oiling and Conditioning

1. The Role of Oiling

One of the key aspects of the wooden handle garden tool cleaning process is oiling. Oiling the wood with linseed oil or a similar wood preservative nourishes and protects it from moisture and decay.

2. Frequency of Oiling

It’s recommended to oil the handles at least once or twice a year, depending on the frequency of use and exposure to elements.

Storing Your Tools Properly

1. Choose a Dry Place

Moisture is the biggest enemy of wooden handles. Store your tools in a dry, well-ventilated place to prevent rot and mold growth.

2. Hanging the Tools

Hanging your tools vertically is a great way to keep them off damp floors and prevent any warping or bending of the handles.

Addressing Wear and Tear

1. Checking for Damage

Regularly inspect your tools for any signs of wear or damage. Cracks or splinters can be dangerous and should be addressed immediately.

2. Replacing Handles When Necessary

If a handle is beyond repair, don't hesitate to replace it. A sturdy, well-fitted handle is essential for safe and effective gardening.

Conclusion

"How to keep wooden handle garden tool clean" is not just about the act of cleaning; it's about preserving and respecting the tools that help you create and maintain your garden. By following these steps, you ensure that your wooden handle garden tools are always ready for action.

For more in-depth guidance, do check out How to Care for Wooden Handled Garden Tools?, which further elaborates on caring for these essential gardening companions.

Remember, a well-cared-for garden tool is a gardener's best ally. So, keep them clean, and your garden will thank you! Happy gardening!

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

Hi

I'm curious about your young Emhyr. How did you do it? Is it a mod in nexus? If it is, is there a link? Or it's all done in photoshop with filters and stuff? It looks so smooth without looking plastic! Thanks in advance.

Thanks for asking :)

It's not a mod: I can't use em (PS4). I de-age Emhyr photos using both photoshop and PainTool Sai, which can be a lengthy process.

There are filters/plugins available free to download for photoshop and I use some of them to smoothen the skin, then boot the PSD file on PainTool SAI to manually brush dark eyebrows and thicken eyelashes. But before doing all these, I start by using the spot healing brush, patch, and clone stamp to minimize or completely erase most of the age spots and wrinkles (that deep smile line on his cheek was quite the task). Then apply the finishing touches with manually brushing his brows and eyelashes and cap it off with actions/luts/filters in low opacity so that his facial pores are still visible.

If anyone is interested, I could post a tutorial. It will be lengthy, but it works for me and hopefully for you too :).

[entropy-mephit]

So I realized that the way I describe a shapeshifter getting comfortable on the sofa, with bones shifting under the skin, reconfiguring limbs hair smoothening, the scales blooming across patches to dull the pressure, the tail extending from the stretch of the loose-jointed spine, the claws retracting as they settle on more humanoid fingers for the comfort of reaching for a snack, the paws large and stretched out as one of the eyes opens lazily, just to challenge whoever would dare to mind their presence... it is just how my sentences are, the tone and details of shape-shifting to fit better with itself, no solid framework to keep meaning in order as it rearranges itself while being put down, until it sprawls across the paragraph, claiming the space for its monstrous self. And it refuses to even keep up the pretenses of being normal.

[hakkiest]

Ditching beauty culture has been nothing short of liberating. I like my hair half shaved so I shave it, who cares if it doesn't suit my face. I can use trash free sustainable bar shampoo and conditioner and not extra expensive chemical trash leaving ones that were supposed to smoothen my hair. My showers aren't cold to tighten my pores and make my hair shiny anymore, they're warm and toasty how I like them. I sleep with my face comfyly smushed against a pillow, who cares about wrinkles. It's cold so I go out in sleeveless dresses, even with hairy legs and armpits. I wear earrings I like not the ones that compliment my skin tone. I sit however is comfortable, not however is most flattering. My clothes are more soft and breathable. I don't curl or mold my hair, it's long how I like it but free to be a little mane if it wants. If I get a pimple I let it breathe, no expensive patches or hiding behind a face mask. If I look ugly in a candid photo I don't cry about it. If my smile is too weird or crooked who cares, it's the one I have and it shows I'm happy. I'm just so much more free now.