#tumblr always fucks up the formatting

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LIKE A HOOK INTO AN EYE. (first draft; scrapped)

first draft of the prologue and the first scene of the first chapter for LIKE A HOOK INTO AN EYE. I'm thinking of scrapping these because the fic isn't really working for me; hence why I'm posting them here, and not on AO3.

one day I'll return to this story and figure out how to write it better. I will most likely still use the same premise (and will probably keep the title and summary), but the story itself probably won't be written the way it was here, for reasons I'll explain in another post.

anyway, here's my initial attempt at gothic horror, actor au vnlmi. cw for: character death, witch curses, ghost haunting (?), grafting someone else's body part into yours

LIKE A HOOK INTO AN EYE.

people think that grief slowly gets smaller with time. in reality, grief stays the same size—

To honor Aether’s dreams, Lumine endeavors to bring to the stage the last unpublished play he wrote before his death. The only copy of the manuscript lies in the hands of a musician who wants to free Lumine from her haunting.

But how can she let him, when this haunting is all she has left?

PROLOGUE: DEATH (first draft)

Lumine didn’t kill him, but she might as well have.

Logically, it’s nobody’s fault. She’s cognizant of the blamelessness that comes with accidents. “Shit happens,” as Aether would say, with a cheeky smile and a shrug and that annoyingly endearing go-getter attitude that would have him “conveniently” forget any trauma or obstacle standing in the way between him and his unyielding, awful, all-consuming dreams.

Aether was brave and stupid like that. It killed him to pursue his dreams, but he’d die if he didn’t take those steps forward. Aether had an envious appetite for life. And he was, always, a hungry man.

Sometimes, Albedo doesn’t understand why Aether acted the way he did, not the way Lumine did. Aether had a way with words, a way of saying the most incomprehensible things that made you understand.

“I dream the way you love,” he once said, an off-hand comment from when they bought apples from the Sunday Market near Dornman Port. It didn’t even occur to him how easily he distilled both of their identities into six words. “Some say it’s maddening, but I like that about us. My dreams are your dreams. Your love is my love. We fit together the way only twins like us can.”

Aether often linked his left pinky with hers, warm flesh against synthetic skin. And for a second, they return to being one entity.

When they were still in their mother’s womb, their little fingers were fused together, bridging their two bodies. The doctor had to surgically remove it from one of them during birth. Like a wishbone, one split into two. Aether retained all of his appendages, while Lumine lived with a prosthesis fortified with condensed resin. It was state-of-the-art, made with expensive Khemia technology.

Aether often linked their fingers together to declare, like a promise, “We’ll always share everything, Lumine. What’s mine is yours. My wishes are your wishes.”

Aether and Lumine were born as extensions of one another. She is — was? — the moon to his sun. Aether understood everything about Lumine, and Lumine understood everything about Aether.

Aether, who is now six feet deep in the ground. He doesn’t even have all his bones with him.

Their former guardian, M, once told them that they inherited a witch’s curse from when their birth mother angered a sullen witch. She was cursed to gaze into the abyss, and that one of her children will inherit the same gaze. And when they do, they will pull the other with them, until all three of them have fallen.

The Gaze is a pull towards the abyss — towards death. M said that you cannot break a curse that you are born with. It is written into your being. You would have to rewrite the way you see — the way your soul is wired to perceive. But by then you wouldn’t be the same person anymore, and what would you even sacrifice to get to that point? The cost is never worth it. You would be trading one curse for another.

And so, you can only resist. Many people, according to M, have resisted such curses and lived long lives. M said the best way to resist is to gaze outward. There is a horizon beyond the abyss; there is something worth yearning for.

“I won’t kill you,” Aether had promised. “And you won’t kill me. We’ll live and we’ll grow old and when we die, we’ll be happy. We’ll find something that can save us from this curse. Gaze outward, Lumine.”

She did. On that day, they held hands and watched the sunset together, eyes fixed beyond.

Lumine didn’t kill Aether. Aether was the one who wanted to hike in Dragonspine, just the two of them, because he was struggling with writer’s block and he needed a change of scenery.

Lumine didn’t cause the blizzard in Dragonspine, didn’t cause Aether to slide horrifically across the cliffside during the terribly planned hiking trip. Aether knew this. He would tell her not to blame herself. She tried to hold his hand. She reached out when he fell.

Lumine didn’t kill Aether, didn’t intend to and didn’t want to. But she also couldn’t catch him in time.

It took the knights three days to find the body. Albedo, usually so well-composed and self-possessed, broke down when he saw the still corpse. Lumine was inconsolable.

And just like that, Aether has gone to the abyss. Not by a witch’s curse, but by bad weather and an unlucky hiking trip.

For the first time, Lumine is truly alone in the world.

—

Aether does not return to earth whole. A small, sterilized jar of bones and flesh sits cold at the back of a freezer, wrapped in moist gauze and damp with saline solution. Lumine hesitates everyday at breakfast and pushes the thought at the back of her mind.

Later. She’ll deal with it later.

After his death is announced to the public, Lumine encounters a man with brilliant teal eyes who gives her a little black notebook that once belonged to Aether.

“He left it in my studio,” he says. “I think he’d want you to have it.”

Lumine flips through the pages. It’s a poetry book.

“He left a lot of things in my studio, you know, CDs, notebooks, some of his drafts are even on my computer. But—” the man sighs, slipping a card into one of the pages,“—this is the only one I have with me today. When you want the rest of them back, come find me. I think I still have a draft of his last manuscript. I’ll keep them safe until you’re ready to get them.”

Lumine hides the notebook in her pocket. She thinks about reading through it, but whenever she looks at Aether, lying peacefully in the casket, a terrible thought tugs at her more urgently than the rest.

She would die with him. A part of her would be buried with him.

She couldn’t let him return to the earth whole. Aether can’t leave her alone.

Aether’s little finger sits in cold ice at home while they lower his body to the ground. This flesh were theirs. For everything that separated Lumine from Aether and vice versa, these bones belonged to them both.

The next day, Dainsleif informs her that she inherited all of Aether’s fortune, his responsibilities in the Abyss Foundation, and, of course, his plants. Lumine is two times richer than she was yesterday, and only half whole.

The little black notebook sits by Lumine’s windowsill, conveniently forgotten.

—

Lumine doesn’t open the notebook again until she’s forced to confront it.

The inheritance overwhelms her. The moneys sits untouched, the Abyss Foundation is ran by Dainsleif these days, and the plants are withering.

The knights ask Lumine to take some time off indefinitely, because a paramedic who can’t be present in the field is a liability. They don’t say that this is the real reason, of course. Neither do they mention the new responsibilities and wealth they assume (correctly) that she acquired, how that should be taking up her time instead, and anyway — dead sibling aside — she is much better off now, materially, than she was before. She doesn’t need to slave herself off of the meager salary of a first responder.

They don’t say any of that. Instead, they say that they’re concerned for her mental health, that it’s okay for her to grieve, that Noelle can handle things while she’s away.

Both things can be true at the same time. But one reason being true doesn’t negate the other.

They don’t force Albedo to do the same thing, because Albedo is responsible enough to actually use his time off when he needs it. He hasn’t worn the uniform in four months. There are rumors that he’ll quit the knights soon. Lumine wants to do the same.

She’s dead on her feet, unmoored and without purpose. How is she supposed to live without Aether? She’s scared to know, until one day she’s scared she’ll never know. Suddenly, the sight of the little black notebook no longer haunts her, but gives her hope.

Bolting from her bed in the middle of the night, Lumine grabs the notebook in a feverish daze. She wipes the dust off. A page falls off on her bed, just a small scrap of writing. It reads,

I borrow moonlight for this journey of a million miles

Lumine throws the notebook away, as if it burned her. A sharp paper cut slices through her skin, a centimeter off where the palm meets her synthetic finger. The pain registers only second to the loud beating of her own chest.

“No, don’t do this to me, Aether,” she whispers. Her prosthetic finger suddenly feels foreign to her, too cold and artificial.

Her hair has gotten long after months of neglecting to have it cut. From her reflection by the window, she could almost pretend it’s Aether staring back at her wild eyes. He tilts his head at her, as if to say, Go on. Read.

She swallows thickly and opens the notebook again. Another page reads,

While I walk on the moon keeps pace beside me; friend in the water Now that my storehouse has burned down, nothing conceals the moon

Aether smiles patiently from the window as Lumine cries herself hoarse for the rest of the night.

—

Lumine opens the notebook again one week later, after replacing the saline solution in the jar that housed Aether’s (her?) severed finger. She still hasn’t decided on what to do with it yet.

Aether’s notebook of poetry functioned as a diary. It’s difficult to be vulnerable with your own words, but Aether found a way to channel his own helpless thoughts through other people. He always did that — live, through and for others.

This is what made him an excellent scriptwriter. He admired, and sometimes encouraged, the desire to live someone else’s life. To escape into someone else’s story and make it your own. He got that from M, Lumine is sure. M wrote children’s books, and Aether lived many lives through her stories.

Lumine, at least, isn’t alone in her grief. Aether was the darling of Mondstadt’s entertainment industry. When news of his death broke out, a local channel aired reruns of his movies. Finchster trended a hashtag for him.

Albedo stayed for dinner that day and marathoned the movies with Lumine. Aether loved to write happy, feel-good stories. Stories about love, friendship, family. Some of them are punctuated with intense drama or high-stakes adventure, and some of them are your run-of-the-mill romance and slice-of-life. But all of them, always, end on a hopeful note, if not a happy ending.

Aether smiled on tv. They re-ran his interviews in-between the movies. “I do want to challenge myself creatively,” screen Aether said. “Actually, in my spare time, I’ve been trying to write a tragedy. A proper one — I imagine it will be performed in a stage play than in front of a kamera. I used to do community theater in college, so it will be good to go back to my roots. But I’m an optimist at heart. Most of the time, I write happy endings because I want people to see themselves in the stories I write.”

Albedo’s eyes shined with tears. “Even when he’s not around, he’s still trying to cheer us up.”

In his little black notebook, Aether copied words from poets and wrote down names of people he knew. He borrowed other people’s words to write unsent letters to his loved ones.

The last poem, written a month before the accident, and read four months after, is addressed to Lumine.

A basket of apples brown in our kitchen, their warm scent is the scent of ripening, and my sister, entering the room quietly, takes a seat at the table, takes up the task of peeling slowly away the blemished skins, even half-rotten ones are salvaged carefully. She makes sure to carve out the mealy flesh. For this, I am grateful. I explain, this elegy would love to save everything. She smiles at me, and before long, the empty bowl she uses fills, domed with thin slices she brushes into the mouth of a steaming pot on the stove. What can I do? I ask finally. Nothing, she says, let me finish this one thing alone.

Lumine tears the page from his notebook and crumples it up, throws it in the bin. She reminds herself that this was written before the accident. He was probably writing about the way she showed her care for him.

But how dare he? How dare he write to her like he wants her to… to...

(She did peel those apples from the Sunday Market. Made apple pie, boiled the cores and peeled skin, made the most out of everything the fruits had to offer, bruised and near-rotting though they were. But—)

In that moment, Lumine spies the ghost of her brother overshadow her reflection in the glass window. “Even half-rotten ones are salvaged carefully,” she reads, but it’s Aether’s image that mouths the words in the reflection. “For this, I am grateful.”

Who does Aether think she is? Who does he think he is to ask this of her? He’s the golden child. Lumine is his shadow. That’s how they decided they would be. She was the moon to his sun. She could never just finish things the things he left behind, could she?

Oh, but this is very much how Aether would think. He’d do anything for his dreams, even go as far as to ask his sister to accomplish them in his stead. So long as they are fulfilled, even from beyond the grave. And he would be grateful, wouldn’t he? Because Lumine could do it. Lumine salvages everything that can be saved, even when they’re rotting and dying. Even if they’re six feet deep in the ground.

Lumine didn’t kill him, but if she doesn’t keep his dreams alive, she might as well have. Aether still has bountiful dreams he left behind for her to carry through.

And his dreams are beautiful indeed. Lumine loves her brother for them. Aether dreams, and Lumine saves. That’s how they always worked. Lumine brings people from the brink of death for another chance at life; an anti-psychopomp. But Aether, with his words and his stories, is the one who inspires. He makes you believe in a life worth living.

Life has a funny sense of humor, then, to cut him off from the same experience.

An hour later, Lumine takes the torn paper out from the bin and smooths it flat. The creases will never leave. She can’t undo them just as she can’t undo death. But the words are still here, and Aether’s dreams are still here. That has to be enough.

Lumine didn’t kill Aether, no, but she never kept him alive after his death. Four months after the funeral, Lumine still doesn’t have that last manuscript he wanted to show the world. She remembers him talking about it. He wanted to flex his creative muscles, wanted to do something different from his usual stories.

Everyday, the calling card and the memory of brilliant teal eyes loom over her. But she’s not ready to face it, not yet, not alone. Not until—

One step at a time. She knows what Aether wants her to do, but Lumine can only be so brave when she’s alone. She can’t do this alone.

With a trembling heart and a grief-driven bravery, Lumine spends the next two weeks in Snezhnaya and calls up an infamous underground doctor.

She returns to Mondstadt with stitches marring her left hand, one finger lighter than the rest of her tanned skin, sun-kissed from the days she spent outside as a first responder. The nail is decorated with bright yellow nail polish.

—

Albedo will be leaving soon. Lumine can do nothing about that. He’s heading for Sumeru, she thinks. He can’t move on if he stays here. Aether wouldn’t want to tie him down.

“You can come with me,” he tells her. Sometimes, on the days he stares too long at her mismatched fingers, he comes close to pleading. “If you want. You don’t have to stay there for long, but getting away from all this might help. It’s okay to leave your grief behind, even for just a little while.”

Lumine shakes her head, because now she has something to do. Aether said so, in his poem. This elegy would love to save everything. Let me finish this one thing alone. So how can she go? Who will publish Aether’s manuscript? Who will take care of Aether’s garden, and his charity work? Who will keep watch of the house? The dust will build, and the air will go stale, and Aether never liked the house to be lonely.

Albedo must think her crazy. Lumine can’t bear the pity in his eyes, ill-disguised as they are. Perhaps he never meant to hide them at all. Albedo is not that type of person — after all, how else did Aether fell in love with him? He loved straightforward people.

Still, Albedo is right. Grief doesn’t have to stay.

So at night, Lumine lays on her pillow and dreams of how she can keep Aether alive. His dreams, if not his body, because his body is decaying six feet deep underground. So it’s up to Lumine to finish things for him. She loves him so, so much, after all.

It is fortunate, then, that Lumine loves the way he dreams.

Unyielding, awful, and all-consuming.

She starts with his garden. A simple task. She just needs to take care of Aether’s plants, and they have been looking rather lonely without their gardener. Albedo has been keeping them healthy all this time, but he’s leaving soon. So she feeds them fertilizer and waters them everyday until the leaves turn yellow and crisp, for which Albedo gently scolds her for. One of the more delicate flowerpots wither from her care.

“You need to leave them alone,” he tells her. “They’ll be fine without water for a few days. They like to be left alone.”

With great reluctance, she leaves them alone for the day and spends the rest of her hours reading poems. She writes her first letter to Aether, a response, folded neatly in between the bouquet of cecilias that she leaves by his grave the next morning.

You died just hours ago. Not suddenly, no. You'd been dying so long nothing looked like itself: from your window, fishermen swirled sequins; fishnets entangled the moon. If only I could go to you, revive you. You must be a little alive still.

“What can you do?” she recites. She already has his poem memorized. “Nothing, I say. So let me finish this alone.”

The grave doesn’t respond. Of course it couldn’t. There’s nothing Aether can do now. Six feet in the ground. Can Aether even hear her? The thought weighs heavily in Lumine’s mind.

“But I failed already. I killed one of your plants,” she confesses. “I’m sorry. Maybe it will keep you company, now that it’s gone. But I’ll try to be better, this time. I’ll save the rest of them.”

Lumine vows, from this day on, that she will live his legacy for both of them.

This elegy would love to save everything.

—

On the day Albedo leaves Mondstadt, Lumine resigns from the knights and signs up for acting classes. She’s no stranger to the world of theater, but… it’s been a while.

There are scribbles at the back of Aether’s little black notebook. Scratched lines, discarded paragraphs, the debris that remained from when he sketched out the outline of his final, unpublished script. Usually, Aether wrote for tv and film. But for this story, he intended it for the stage. A proper play.

It takes Lumine back to the days when they were still in college, participating in community theater. She likes to think that he wrote this play for her. He always wanted her to star in one of his stories.

“I always write them with you in mind. There’s no one I trust more,” he used to say. Then, he would joke, “One day, I’ll write a script that will compel you to act for me. Just you wait.”

Unorganized scraps of the final story fill up the back half of his notebook — character notes, themes, sources of inspiration, quotes from other books, snippets of dialogue. Cruelly, it is the most compelling script Aether wrote. Lumine regrets not indulging him when he was still alive.

Because finally, with this, Lumine can see herself in Aether’s story.

Lumine steels herself in front of the mirror. “I’ll act this out for you, Aether. Just you wait.”

Her (His? Their?) little finger tingles. A wave of calm settles on her, relaxing her body for the first time in months. This feels right.

Aether smiles back at her from her reflection, proud and encouraging.

ACT I: MADNESS (scene one; first draft)

Four years pass.

The bass is everywhere. It thrums in her skin, in her bones. In Aether’s bones, too.

Lumine is no longer a stranger to the world of celebrity shindigs — a necessary part of working in the entertainment industry, an event that masks as partying but functions as networking with your future coworkers. Half the time, it’s genuinely as fun as they make it out to be.

But Lumine has long avoided going to one of Venti’s infamous afterparties until now. They say that those are always fun. All play, no work.

Lumine isn’t here to have fun though. After four years of preparation, she is here to finally put Aether’s last dream into motion, and the first step is to hold Venti to the promise he made years ago at the funeral.

More importantly, parties are an opportunity to scope out the person Lumine is looking for. Someone who is her opposite on the stage: the comedy to her tragedy, a fighter to her lover, a character driven by agency instead of fate. Someone who is governed by—

Still, the bass thrums. Lumine finds her little finger tapping to the rhythm of the beat. Aether must have missed this. The music, the dancing, the socializing. It must be lonely, to only exist in reflections and shadows, as an extension of another body.

She permits herself one dance and lets the percussion of the music move her limbs. The dance floor pulls on her, like a magnet. Bodies move to and fro, to and fro, and by the time the song ends, Lumine feels lighter than when she stepped into the room. Loose, like she just shook off invisible weights dangling from her head.

Someone taps her on the shoulder and then she’s face to face with brilliant teal eyes. They are eye-catching under the strobe lights.

“I was wondering when we’d have the chance to meet again. You’ve been avoiding me, Lumine.” Venti smiles at her, sounding amused.

“Are you here to party, or to mourn?”

“Hello, Venti. We meet again. You said you’d keep Aether’s manuscript for me until I’m ready.”

“Are you?”

Lumine shrugs. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You could have texted me if you just wanted the manuscript. My number hasn’t changed. I could email it to you anytime.”

“Maybe I want to do both. Who says you can’t mourn while you’re partying?”

Venti hums; studies her. Whatever he finds must have intrigued him enough to stretch out a hand. “Very well. Since you came all the way out here, mind if I keep you company? It’s not good to party — or mourn — alone.”

Lumine doesn’t decline. Venti is a bit of a mystery to her, a puzzle she didn’t feel brave enough to figure out until she’s ready to face Aether’s final play. She knew of him — of the music he produces and the parties he throws. She knew that Aether was friends with him since the beginning of both of their careers.

Aether must have trusted him immensely if he left his little black notebook of poetry with him.

Venti leads her to one of the booths, where a young man with blond hair is already sitting, watching the room with clear eyes. Upon seeing Venti and Lumine, he procures two glasses and a bottle of expensive wine from under the seat for them. He takes out a familiar-looking pill from his jacket pocket and swallows it dry.

“Mika, don’t take more than you can handle,” Venti scolds gently. Almost motherly. “I know your limits.”

“I’m not overdoing it,” Mika says, though he does throw Venti an apologetic look.

“I know.” Venti slides into the booth and begins pouring wine into the glasses. “Have you confirmed who will be attending the next sparasso?”

“I’m working up to it.” Mika sighs, looking back at the dance floor as if he’s warring with himself over something. Then he stands up and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for his inevitable task. “I’m sure Tartaglia will confirm, at least. I’ll follow up on the rest of them now. It’s nice to finally meet you, Miss Lumine.”

He disappears into the party, leaving Lumine alone with Venti.

“That was my assistant, Mika. He’s a good kid, but he can be conscientious at times. It’s for the best though, since I’m pretty scatterbrained myself. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” Venti slides the glass of wine towards her. “Do you drink?”

Lumine raises an eyebrow. “Not even vodka? Wine isn’t exactly the choice of drink for ragers.”

“It’s a drink for celebration and death. I thought it would be fitting for our most unique occasion.” Venti waves his own glass with a flourish before taking a sip.

In his poetry notebook, Aether described Venti as the swoony type; long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine. A free, uncontrollable spirit. Mondstadt’s celebrity culture share the same impression.

Lumine thought she would find him dancing wildly, or playing party games, or getting high. But this booth is a quiet bubble, a sanctuary amidst the chaos around them. Venti watches the dance floor serenely, in no particular hurry to join or empty his glass. There’s something gentle about him. Nurturing.

Lumine blurts out, “You’re different from who I thought you’d be.”

“What did you think I was like?”

“From the stories I’ve heard? A party animal.”

“We’re all animals here. But I like to make sure everyone is having fun. It’s sort of my job, you see.” There is a delighted twinkle in his eyes as he says this. “But I suppose I do have a reputation to keep. Nobody leaves my parties dissatisfied.”

“So I’m your new pet project then? Can’t have me giving your party a bad review?”

“You could loosen up a bit,” Venti agrees. “Aether was never like this when he was still around.”

“Did Aether ‘loosen up’ often?”

“I’d say it’s more like he let himself become more honest. More true to himself.”

Venti smiles at the fond memories this brings up. It makes Lumine want to know. “Tell me about him. What was your relationship like?”

Venti met Aether at a hobby club. They were both just starting out then; Aether in the writer’s room for a tv show, and Venti busking on the streets to promote his upcoming debut. Venti frequented the club for fun, while Aether visited every now and then for stress relief.

Lumine vaguely recalls Aether mentioning this to her before in the early days, but it never seemed important enough to remember. He doesn’t talk about it often enough for Lumine to recall what exactly their shared “hobby” was.

“The entertainment industry can really drain you, you know? So we needed an outlet to let off some steam.”

“What did you do together? In that club? Aether never told me he had other hobbies.”

“Why don’t you visit me at my studio sometime? It’s easier to show you.”

Venti muses over his drink. The glass is already empty, so he fills it with more wine than it contained earlier. “He gave me a cactus once. Said that it’s the perfect plant for me, since I wouldn’t be able to kill it.”

Lumine frowns down at her own glass, still untouched. The wine beckons her; a dark, deep red that shimmers with the party lights.

“I killed his plants,” she shares. “All of them. I tried to keep them alive, but there was always something going wrong. Fertilizer burn. Watered them too much. I don’t know, I think I did too much. It’s funny, now that I think about it. You can love something to the point of ruin.”

“He liked to keep low-maintenance plants. I think they just didn’t fit with the way you care. There is nothing wrong with it. You were simply incompatible.” Venti clinks his glass with hers. “Boundless love is something to treasure. Too many people show restraint these days, you know? I find it admirable.”

“Sure, it sounds amazing, but it’s hard to handle that kind of love. It’s suffocating. It killed the plants. I don’t know who fits this kind of love.”

“I wouldn’t find it suffocating.” Venti’s lips quirk up, like he remembered an inside joke he’s not interested in sharing. “We could fit together.”

“Could we?” Lumine tilts her head. How would he know? The first and last time Lumine saw Venti was four years ago, during Aether’s funeral. “You don’t know me.”

“I know a little bit about you, now that we've met properly. That should be enough.”

Lumine doesn’t realize when it happened, but she somehow scooted closer to Venti inside the booth. To hear him better, probably. She can smell the faint cologne on him — something sweet and bitter, like dried fruits.

“What have you heard, then?” she asks.

“I know that you like to star in tragic films, in contrast to your late brother’s penchant for happy endings,” Venti says, counting facts with his fingers. “I know that you were once a paramedic before you were an actress. And I know that you haven’t had a drink since you entered this room. Do you drink?”

“A little.”

Venti slides the glass of wine again. “It’s a special blend. You won’t get a hangover from this one, I promise.” He waves jazz hands in the air, grinning. “This bottle is like magic.”

Lumine’s left pinky twitches. Perhaps Aether missed this as well. The drinking, the companionship. There is no judgement in Venti’s presence, just a soothing invitation that holds no expectations. He would not be offended if Lumine decides not to drink.

But Aether would have, so Lumine does. The wine flows smoothly down her throat. Sweet and bitter and a hint of metallic. Venti regales her with more stories of his friendship with Aether; of the times they’d commiserate over the writing process; of the many, many concerts and afterparties they’ve gone to. They, too, bonded over poetry.

There is a warm feeling in Lumine’s chest that grows with each story. Aether is missed. And yet, she doesn’t want to mourn that. Aether was loved. She wants to be happy about it. Her head starts to feel like cotton, but her heart feels so, so light.

She sips; her glass is full again and oh — when did Venti refill it?

“Have you read his notebook?” Lumine asks. Venti shakes his head.

“Aether dedicated a poem for you. I remember how it goes. Come to me now: loose me from hard care and all my heart longs to accomplish, accomplish. You be my ally.”

Lumine is floating. She should be looking for… something. Someone? She can’t remember that now. She’s supposed to find someone, but now she’s just reciting poetry. One of the short ones from Aether’s little notebook. It’s nice.

Venti is saying something, reciting a poem back in response. Lumine has never heard it before. She wants to memorize it. “How does that go? Say it again.”

“She who did not come, wasn’t she determined nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart? If we had to exist to become the one we love, what would the heart have to create? Hm, I’ll text you how the rest of that goes, but I think that poem suits you.”

“How so?”

“You have a lonely gaze. You look like you want to be someone else right now.”

The words sink like an anchor, and Lumine knows she will be thinking about this for hours later. Her hands itch to do something in response. To hold his hand, or to strangle him, Lumine’s not sure. All she knows is her body growing restless. Her mind wants to wander to somewhere else less painful.

Venti pulls her out of the booth. “Come on. We’ve mourned long enough. It’s time to party.”

“Maybe I still want to mourn,” Lumine says, petulantly, but she finds that she doesn’t mean it. Shouldn’t she mean it? She never stopped mourning.

“We can reminisce again later. I will let you mourn as much as you want. But for now, dance with me.”

Venti leads her to the center, where the bodies sway to and fro, to and fro. It’s hot and sweaty and dark and easy to get lost in. Easy to lose one’s mind.

It’s perfect.

Lumine smiles and lets herself get caught in Venti’s orbit, dancing, laughing, and she can’t even remember what she’d been sad about earlier. She was… grieving, wasn’t she? It feels so foreign now when the beat of the music is dictating her heartbeat.

Lumine vaguely recognizes the song. It’s a club remix of Venti’s music — not the one he personally sings in his concerts, but one of those he composed and produced and sold for other singers to perform.

“Life is one big party!” Venti shouts, and then the crowd is shouting with him, chanting the lyrics in unison. Lumine shouts with them.

“Pa-pa-pa-pa-par-taaaay!”

It’s building up, going higher and faster, higher and faster, and the drop is going to be so sick that the dancers around them are collectively waiting with bated breath, anticipating, working themselves into a frenzy. The lights are there and then not and then there, and then there’s just shadows and heat and neon lights flashing, flashing, and then the beat drops and everyone is jumping and thrashing more than dancing and fuck. Fuck. Lumine is swept into it. She lets herself be swept into it. They all move as one organism.

Venti is closer now, so much closer, body against body that Lumine wants to breathe him in. His smile is charming, wine-stained. Easy.

Lumine feels easy, calm and ready to take the whole world all at once. She feels like floating. Like, like— “I can do anything right now,” she says, feeling the need to tell Venti. There’s no way Venti could have heard her with the raucous around them.

“Ah, you’re that kind of drunk, huh,” Venti answers back, grinning, and oh, so that’s what she’s feeling. Drunk. She shouldn’t be able to hear him either, but his voice is as clear as the waters from Springvale. He spins her around, but in the tight space between bodies, all he ends up doing is pull her against him. “Alright. What do you want to do then?”

It strikes her, suddenly, that she found the person she’s looking for. The one who will bring Aether’s play to life, with her. The hero to her tragedy.

It has to be Venti.

Lumine grins and hooks an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go up to the roof. I want to ask you something.”

She leans close to whisper her own invitation, confident that he will understand his role. He will say yes. For, surely, Venti is a man governed by “Eros.”

—

Lumine blanks out after that. She might have had a couple more glasses, they might have sneaked onto the roof even though the building definitely wouldn’t have allowed it. There was a cool breeze, and Venti joked about something, but she doesn’t remember what they talked about, or how she came home. Vaguely, all she remembers is complaining about how there’s too many lights in the city to see the stars. You can’t see the Northern Crown constellation from here.

But true to Venti’s word, his wine is made of magic because Lumine wakes up in her bedroom with a clear head. No nausea, no headaches, completely sober. There’s two new messages on her phone. The first contains a familiar poem from last night. The other is an email with a PDF attachment.

There it is. Aether’s final manuscript.

Lumine spends the whole morning reading. By the time she reaches the last page, she despairs.

Just as how Lumine has no memory of what else she talked about with Venti on the roof — except for a vague recollection of him saying yes to her offering a role to play — the script provides a similar non-conclusion.

The script has no ending. Aether never finished the story.

END DRAFT.

fic inspiration:

the myths of dionysus as god of wine, theater, and madness; as well as his connection to orphism, death and rebirth, and so on. I have a whole spreadsheet of research materials, but the OSP video is the best primer

cult of dionysus (song) by the orion experience

description of dionysus from the bakkhai (translated by anne carson): "swoony type, long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine"

the temptation of thanatos (タナトスの誘惑) by hoshino mayo, translated by latteandcookies. this is the inspiration for the play aether wrote. it's a short story, but cw for suicide. fun fact: it's also the inspiration for yoasobi's song racing into the night

240520 UPDATE: I decided to make public the spotify playlist related to this fic.

poetry references:

[you fit into me] by margaret atwood

growing around grief by lois tonkin

I borrow moonlight... by saikaku ihara (his death poem; from the book, japanese death poems compiled by yoel hoffmann. page 268)

mizuta masahide's death poem (also found in japanese death poems, page 234)

my sister, who died young, takes up the task by jon pineda

on wanting to tell about a girl eating fish eyes by mary szybist

come to me now: loose me from hard care... fragment by sappho, translated by anne carson (page 5 of if not, winter)

blank joy by rainer maria rilke

[noirandchocolate]

‘Because she likes people,’ said the witch, striding ahead. 'She cares about 'em. Even the stupid, mean, drooling ones, the mothers with the runny babies and no sense, the feckless and the silly and the fools who treat her like some kind of a servant. Now THAT’S what I call magic–seein’ all that, dealin’ with all that, and still goin’ on. It’s sittin’ up all night with some poor old man who’s leavin’ the world, taking away such pain as you can, comfortin’ their terror, seein’ 'em safely on their way…and then cleanin’ 'em up, layin’ 'em out, making 'em neat for the funeral, and helpin’ the weeping widow strip the bed and wash the sheets–which is, let me tell you, no errand for the fainthearted–and stayin’ up the next night to watch over the coffin before the funeral, and then going home and sitting down for five minutes before some shouting angry man comes bangin’ on your door 'cuz his wife’s havin’ difficulty givin’ birth to their first child and the midwife’s at her wits’ end and then getting up and fetching your bag and going out again…. We all do that, in our own way, and she does it better'n me, if I was to put my hand on my heart. THAT is the root and heart and soul and center of witchcraft, that is. The soul and center!' Mistress Weatherwax smacked her fist into her hand hammering out her words. 'The…soul…and…CENTER!’ Echoes came back from the trees in the sudden silence. Even the grasshoppers by the side of the track had stopped sizzling. 'And Mrs Earwig,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, her voice sinking to a growl, 'Mrs. Earwig tells her girls it’s about cosmic balances and stars and circles and colors and wands and…and toys, nothing but TOYS!' She sniffed. 'Oh, I daresay they’re all very well as decoration, somethin’ nice to look at while you’re workin’, somethin’ for show, but the start and finish, THE START AND FINISH, is helpin’ people when life is on the edge. Even people you don’t like. Stars is easy, people is hard.’ She stopped talking. It was several seconds before birds began to sing again. 'Anyway, that’s what I think,’ she added in the tones of someone who suspects that she might have gone just a bit further than she meant to.

--Terry Pratchett, "A Hat Full of Sky"

[serialunaliver]

cosmo wanda I wish everyone posting their long fanfics on here just posted them on wattpad

[sunclown]

Hits you with the zs dads beam

[tomlinsun]

PARAMORE for COUP DE MAIN ph. Zachary Gray

[blackholefriends]

Nothing is stationary.

A collage zine I made this summer and never posted whoops. It's an actual zine too - full 8.5x11 scan below!

[biblically-accurate-dca]

experimental sunman yaaaay

(ruin spoilers under the cut)

[ofmdee]

My walls are coming down Leave you shaking at the sound Better hide now Fuck around and you'll find out When I raze it all to the ground Gonna high five myself in the fallout?

[threnodians]

BEHOLD: SMOOCH PICREW SHENANIGANS ✨

ⓘ please tap/click on them because as per usual tumblr butchered the quality 🙃 i was ecstatic to see that they had a chubby option because i am a big gal with a double chin so ✨ and i did the best i could with what little energy i have and with the options that are available 🤷🏼‍♀️ i made the characters to reflect my own personal headcanons too obviously 💕 and i included an oc × canon(?) dump because why not; this picrew is so much fun and it’s adorable!!! 🥹

[kosmo-politan]

Hihihi Kosmo. I can’t play more bg3 for a while (ran out of space on my puter, need to order an external hard drive and move it onto there <\3) and I’m going through Hyperfixation Withdrawal. You know how it is. So MY POINT IS in the meantime you should tell me about your tav I wanna hear about your tav please tell me about your tav. Also I’d like to hear how the games going for you and all that, if you don’t mind sharing :)

HIHIHI ARI :) sosorry about your puter </3 stay strong in these tough times soldier!! also i do know The Hyperfixation Withdrawal 🤝 i need my daily dose of Guys From My Computer to keep me going youknow. ANYWAY I DONOT MIND SHARING I LOVE TALKING ABOUT THINGS AND HEARING ABOUT THEM ALSO !!

as for gameplay i havenot. gotten far. </3 i keep remaking my tavs because i came up with something better. but so far i keep failing checks and getting blown up and catching on fire and falling and dying and so on <3 its so funny. to me. its like a recurring gag on a sitcom. shadowheart keeps befalling the same fate as my tavs as well. go girl give us nothing ! (said lovingly)

RAMBLINGS BELOW I GOT CARRIED AWAY SOSORRY.

^^^^ my main man Amari !! only one picture because i may have made them in august and. forgot about him. so sorry king

he/him . or they perhaps... heart <3

high half elf and. a bard. <3

romancing astarion (

also his name means eternal in hebrew because well. i think thats funny. guy named immortal dating a guy who is immortal. anyway.

the most i got lore wise is that their background is urchin. perhaps learned instruments and whatnot to make money.

i wish i had more worked out but. alas. melchior and those damn old men (aldente) plaguing my mind.

^^^^ MELCHIOR... MANDATED DARK URGE TAV. YOU KNOW.. more pictures because i made him the other day. theen remade him again today which is why this took so long so sorry </3

he/him <3

seldarine drow and. a rogue .

romancing that damn vampire also. because i kept hearing things about durge and astarion. no other reason <- lying

picked melchior because. seems like something a weird little guy would name himself.

okay. i am a poser i havent played much. however i know durge lost memories and so on. but i was making this dude before i decided to make him my durge tav and. i donot want to change his lore

he was the worlds worst conman. grunkle stan style. warrant in 25/50 states youknow. doesnot remember any of this. when asked about his background hes too prideful to admit he doesnt remember anything and lies each time. horrible at keeping up with these lies however and everyone is so painfully aware (but he doesnt realize that).

also i think its funny to imagine these guys Adventuring and whatnot and coming across various wanted posters for their questionable little buddy. and each time hes soso close to remembering something but brushes it off as an equally charming and beautiful and great at everything stranger you know. do you get me <- is unwell

got that good. that good for nothing. dude is SHIT at EVERYTHING. ive rolled a critical failure on damn near everything with him. i like to imagine this annoys astarion to no end because. well im normal. im about to get ill about that vampire. so sorry.

gets to the point where astarion starts doing things for him because he cant do anything. melchior is beyond amused and begins to fail horribly on purpose to annoy him. everyone in the party hates these two. two guys dragging their party down <3 love loses !

horrible at reading social cues also. because i heart projection. cannot tell when hes being made fun of. or flirted with. astarion cannot win with this guy. makes a catty comment and melchior goes "thanks dawg!" and daps him up so hard he gets a spinal injury.

gofd theres so muchmore about these two and their ddynamic that ive made up in my mind but this is getting long and my fear of being cringe is winning. you know how it is. ANYWAY THANKYOU THANKYOU THAN K YOU !!!!!! YOU SHOULD ALSO TELL ME ABOUT YOUR TAV(S) . IF YOUD LIKE. OR ANYTHING BG3 RELATED REALLY I LOVE HEARING ABOUT THINGS !!!!!! <3 also i intend to draw these two. at some point. i make no promises however you know how it is another note... been thinking about making a third dude for gale or perhaps karlach. but these two r enough fornow.

[violeteyedkiller]

ugh I feel so dumb about this.

[akechi-stole-my-heart]

ok zenkichi calling in pubsec to help a lost kid find his mom is pretty wholesome ngl

[five-of-wounds]

[therandomartmaker]

Reasons Discord's New Mobile Layout Update is Bad

The reply function is redundant, as most people are used to just holding down and tapping the reply option at the top. If they're going to change it, they shouldn't have gotten rid of the member list for this functionally bad option. It also doesnt line up with any other platform in terms of swipe direction.

The member list is gone from easy viewing

It doesnt auto open your last group chat/DM making multiple simultaneous conversations far more difficult and longer

It's already broken my app once (Locked all channels including other servers' to one channel. I could not access anything except that and my DMs.)

You can not see images that have been pinned in the pins tab.

The search function was fine before. Where did your before, during and after date search go??

All of Discord's individuality is disappearing.

Getting used to a mobile format actually impedes usage of the desktop format and likely discourages people from multiplatforming discord because theyre so used to the "intuitiveness" of the new "tailored for mobile" experience

There is no way to CHANGE IT BACK. This is like Tumblr rolling out Tumblr Live without any Disable button At All.

Why are they marketing midnight mode as Something fucking ENTIRELY new??? It has always been a feature on Android as the AMOLED theme???????

DARK MODE IS NO LONGER LOW CONTRAST AND DISCORD IS DEVOLVING INTO AN ACCESSIBILITY NIGHTMARE

Disable swipe-to-reply by activating full-screen Launchpad in Advanced Settings

Discord’s new layout is apparently permanent. Keep sending feedback and rating it one star on all appstores; if you get redirected to the advice article, double tap gove feedback.

If you, too, dislike the theme, head to settings (you can double tap your account picture) and go to Appearance, scroll to New Layout and Send Feedback.

Overall, what they've done is disorientate every single current user on discord, and you cannot avoid it unless you've not updated to the latest discord because this is not an update. It is a feature that has already been on the latest update and is being slowly rolled out, like Tumblr Polls.

Good Luck, and may we send as much feedback as possible and have them make it optional or at the least, revert it. I've already sent in at least seven complaints to discord, commented on their instagram post about the layout and I'm about one star review it on google play and app store.

This isnt just the appearance and vibes being off like the new (ish) app icon, this is a matter of functionality.

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 5)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦

Part 5 Too Much

Actions famously speak louder than words, so what did you say, exactly, to Alastor with your actions that night? You were briefly rattled by what happened in the park but not for the obvious reasons. Despite everything, despite your fears, you found the situation deepening between you two when he suddenly invites to stay the night at his home. Perhaps he had fears of his own?

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, No smut! That’s next part because this part was already super fucking long 😭 , but we do flirt our asses off and get taken by the hand, crying, panic attacks, discussions of murder, dead bodies, you really have to stop smoking, deer, adorably nervous Alastor, this man owns more than one mug you fucking know it」

19 days later… 😩 please don’t kill me. 5000 words here, Another like 6000 words are posting this Thursday, also tumblr wouldn’t let me post this for like an hour , just gave me error messages, I had to copy and paste 4 times so there may be some errors in here so let me know if you find spelling or format issues🙏

When he came to, momentarily either unconscious or just incapacitated as his brain started up again, he was frantic for his glasses. He could hear the sounds of a brutal death, the crunch of anger, the squish of rage. 

His eyes focused now, slightly askew and smudged glasses helping him see you clearly. 

Leaning over the man, hands red and face twisted in a marriage of fear and wrath, you were bringing a large rock down on the man’s unrecognizable face over and over and over and—

You flinched when Alastor’s hands delicately slipped down your arms and peeled your fingers from the rock.

Full body shaking, “He was going to kill you!” You said it too loud, too fast. “He was going to—,” Your breath got caught in your throat, “He wanted to— He was trying to kill you, Alastor.”

Wet with mud and blood and the rain still left on the grass, you were pulled into Alastor’s lap. He tucked your head into the crook of his neck with a small wince and hugged you. “He was. He almost did.” Low and slow, his chest rumbled when he said it. “You did such a good job.”

You looked down at your hands, but he pulled your face back up to look at his, “Always surprising me in the best ways.”

You’d forgotten already, how when adrenaline wanes you’re left with terrible tremors and a suddenly clear head. Alastor almost died. You hadn’t thought at all when it happened. Everything had taken place so fast, faster than your brain could process.

You had seen Alastor stop struggling against the man, his body went still and your eyes were blinded with tears, there was a horrible sound that may have come from you, and then there was nothing. A flash of running Colors. Distant muddled sounds.

Maybe you saw someone grab a rock. 

You might have hit the man on the back of the head. 

You think he fell down and something didn’t stop moving against him. 

Perhaps you thought if you hit him enough you could make it have not happened at all. If you killed him fast enough, Alastor would have been fine and standing.

But you weren’t sure. You blinked and Alastor was touching you and underneath you was a pulp of a man’s face. 

Alastor’s heart was racking against his ribs. Arms tightening around you unconsciously as his eyes landed on the dead man.

He’d gotten too comfortable. He pushed too hard. He wanted too much. He was too much.

He felt himself spilling over and staining your hands metaphorically and now literally.

You didn’t feel anything. Not during. Now you felt too much.

Your mind was filled with an echoing chorus of, ‘He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost died. He almost died.” 

There was a strange fear that Alastor had died, and any second you’d blink again and be alone in the trees with two dead men. You twisted in his lap,  hands rocketing to Alastor’s face and gripping the sides of his head. You were staring into his eyes, panting.

“You can’t die. I’ll—,” tears poured down your face in streams not drops. Your throat closed around the words. Short and fast, your breath ran wild. Hands tingling, your lips felt like they were pricked with a hundred tiny needles. 

Alastor pushed down his own mess of emotions, “One deep breath in.” His hands settled on yours,  still on his face. He could feel the familiar stickiness of drying blood in his hair. “Keep breathing in.” You coughed, shaking your head no. “You can, I promise it. Would I lie to you?”

You laughed, managing to catch your breath for a moment, “Y-yes.” 

“Well, now you’re adding insult to injury.” He made a show of rubbing his neck. You smacked his chest lightly, breathing in twice in a row.

He held both of your hands in both of his, “Name a time I’ve ever lied.” He distracted you but wounded himself. He could name a time.

You tried to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a really good liar.” Your voice was hoarse. 

Alastor nodded, “That’s true, there’s actually nothing I can’t do well.”

Another laugh, a cry, “Stop it.”

His warm, clean hands wiped your tears. “You’re being aggressive again, sweetheart. You know I prefer soft spoken women.”

The laughter helped break the cycle of hyperventilating. As your breathing finally got to a manageable speed you felt exhaustion deep in your bones.

All at once the sensations became prominent. Your knees were red and muddy, your hands bloody, your left side and back wet. You were sticky and sore and cold. “Alastor,” his legs were framing you, yours now folded under yourself and digging into rocks, “I wanna go home.” You adjusted his glasses, “Together.” 

If he had a reason to say no, he ignored it. 

“I thought I was the messy one.” He washed your hands with the water cans and settled you into the passenger seat of his car. Alastor took care of filling the trunk and cleaning the ground before sliding into the driver's seat.

He turned to you, his face dirty and clothes worse. You looked down at yourself; knees a color of wine, and blue dress now dyed brown.

“I know you have to get rid of him. So, I won’t ask you to sleep over. Just,” you felt sleepy, mind asking you to let it catch up, “let me take care of you for a little bit. Okay?”

His hand slipped onto your leg, he wanted to make a joke about sex or murder hoping to make you laugh again. But it was obvious he needed to be quiet, so he just nodded.

Alastor left the car on a side street behind your building. The man whose name you never asked concealed under canvas and red oil tins.

Luckily everything was clean in your apartment. It was small, just one room and a bathroom. The other apartments you’d seen had communal toilets and showers so you were quite proud of your space. You’d made it yours, gifted trinkets here and there, walls decorated with hanging dried flowers you'd had thrown at your feet. A shrine to your abilities.

You peeled off his clothes, tossing them in the kitchen sink and wiping off as much dirt as you could with a damp rag. 

Clothing hanging over the radiator, you both got into the shower. Cold and wet now hot and soaking,  you took his hands and sat you both down in the tub while the water ran down. Taking your time, you gently scratched the blood and mud from his hair and let it all wash away.

When fully cleaned and dried off he slipped on the only bit of clothing he had left, a loose pair of boxer shorts. You had a slip, silky and soft, to comfort you. Your mother wore silk, and it always made you feel safe. The way the fabric slid around its self and others, never catching or bunching up, was something you always hoped to emulate; smooth and cool, but always in need of a little caution and care.

A small bed meant for one, but you offered it. When Alastor motioned for you to slide in too, you didn’t hesitate.

Nose to nose, the room was quickly heating up with the radiator's help. 

You hadn’t been in a bed with Alastor in nearly two months, not since that first time. His words stuck to you like embroidered messages lovingly stitched into a handkerchief you didn’t want to lose. So you kept your hands between your thighs, still and away, to make sure he had space to exist in your bed.

“You saved my life.” Alastor whispered, one of you finally bringing up the obvious.

A hummed acknowledgment, “That makes us even.” He saved you before, you did the same in turn. A little piece of you worried the contract was done and he’d disappear.

“No, my dear. I owe you so much more.” A kiss to your cheek.

A terrifying thought took hold of you. “Roll over.” He looked confused but did. You were always asking him to turn away, always trying to hide your face when you said things that scared you. You hooked your arms under his and held tightly. 

“If I wasn’t there, there’s no one to have told me. How long would I have waited,” another torrent of tears into his back you couldn’t keep in if you tried, “at the phone booth for you to call in the morning.”

You were crying like a child, uncontrolled and with your entire body. Pathetic. 

He had never had someone to worry about those details. Everyone truly close to him was dead. Until now, of course. 

Of course.

What a natural addition you provided to him. He thought it like that it was a long standing fact.

He hugged your arms tighter to his chest. 

A shiver of fear in the warm bed as you continued, “I want to be there. With you. Always.” You gathered your courage. Shields completely down, if just for a moment, “I know there was nothing right about tonight but,” you wiped your tears off his back with your palm, reabsorbing that pain before he could soak it in, “Please. Don’t shut me out now. I’ll go to hell tomorrow for you but please don’t damn me to picking up a newspaper and seeing your name in the headlines; Learning you died in block letters for a nickel. I wouldn’t survive it.”

You didn’t want to meet his eyes, worried rejection was waiting for you there, so you’d asked him to turn so you could hide. He picked up your hands and kissed your knuckles one by one. “Please don’t say things like that outloud. Things like ‘go to hell’ and ‘tomorrow’ so close together. The spirits can hear you.” A kiss to your palm, “And I wouldn’t dare shut you out.” He couldn’t. The very idea of going back to how he was before, alone and mumbling to the dead, made his heart race with his own panic. If you disappeared tomorrow he was scared to think what would happen to him. “Plus, I know you’d just find me anyway. You always do.”

Had you not been there, he would have still tried to kill the man. Waiting in an alley or for a walk home through an empty space. You weren’t at fault. He’d been hurt before, but this was by far the worst situation he had been in. But he would have been in it regardless of your participation. Alastor pressed his lips into your hand, smelling the soap you’d washed him with. 

You hadn’t hesitated. He had thought you would run, that he’d slip away into death and you’d book it to safety. Something he never planned to ask you to do, to kill someone, you’d done it for him when it was the most selfless option. Did he mean so much to you? He wanted to ask, but if you said anything other than an immediate yes he feared he would turn to a pillar of salt and crumble.

If you both could find the courage to just look at each other you’d have all your answers. But you couldn’t. The fear still too strong. So you changed the topic for a chance at an escape.

A small confession, to turn the conversation away from death. “After our dates, your cologne always lingers on my clothes. Sometimes I just fall asleep in them. When I wake up, my pillow smells like you.” Your body formed against his back, pressing as tightly as you could. How was that less embarrassing than everything else you’d said when it was arguably more pathetic?

He was quiet. You worried you’d pushed too far. Alastor worried he’d already hurt you too much.

“If you asked me,” he spoke slowly, hands resting on yours above his heart, a deep breath, “I’d stop.” He would. 

But, “I’d never ask that of you.” You said it so quickly, like blinking or yawning it happened without you needing to think about it. Alastor did something he felt he needed to do, you saw that look in his eyes before and understood this was Alastor at his truest. And the people he killed weren’t good people. He provided a service to New Orleans that no one appreciated.

He smiled against your palm, making sure you felt it, “Why are you so good to me?”

Without hesitation, Because I love you.

After a beat of silence, “Because you know where I live, obviously.”

A huff, “And where you work.” 

“And the park where I like to get fingered.”

Finally, his unburdened laugh, “I didn’t expect you to say that.” That sound of his joy bounced off the thin walls around you both. He rarely expected anything you said or did. It was part of your charm. Normally he could predict what people would say like reading a bad story, but you were something else. Effortlessly entertaining, was that a compliment? He was sure you’d say no and make that face you always did, something between a pout and a glare, between sad and angry. 

He had been asking genuinely. Why were you so good to him? Why so patient? Why care at all? 

“Can you sleep? Or do you need to go?” 

Alastor thought about it, if he left early enough he could still get home in time to empty the trunk. He hummed an affirmative, when he didn’t move you understood it was the former. He didn’t want to go. He needed more time. He needed to feel you nearby. An odd sense that if he pulled away now the thread holding you two together would pull him apart at the seams with the distance. 

You would think nightmares would plague you after killing someone in cold blood, but no. You practically killed Tommy, when you considered it thoroughly. And while this night was not a joy, you had defended yourself and Alastor. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t regret it. You were just scared you did a bad job. That you’d get caught. 

The kind of dreams you had were different kinds of scary. Of Alastor always leaving a room when you entered, of falling off the stage and landing too far down, of waking up to feel Alastor cold beside you. 

When you did wake, your arms were still tight around him and he was warm. Your forehead rested between his shoulder blades. You didn’t feel different this time, you didn’t feel changed like after Tommy.

Alastor always had nightmares so he wasn’t surprised to have them in your bed. He dreamt he awoke on the ground, the man was gone but you were there broken into several pieces.

Had it been a dream though? 

After he dressed, you brushing his hair over a shared cup of coffee (you only had the single mug), you walked him to his car. The sun was nearly up and luckily no one else was. You had just wrapped a coat around your slip, not exactly acceptable clothing for being in public.

A shared kiss, small and chaste, Alastor’s mind elsewhere. He opened the door but stopped and turned back to you. It was always in these moments before you two parted that he felt the most frantic. 

“I know we love talking in circles and making jokes, but I have to ask you, bluntly. You killed a man. Are you alright?” When you only blinked, he quickly added, “It’s okay if you’re not.” His expression was pure worry, furrowed brows and flat mouth. “Nothing will change if you say you’re not.”

When you started to smile, Alastor thought he had lost his mind. The sun was rising behind you, making the shadows on your face slowly shift. He took a second to take in the scene. Ankles naked with sockless shoes. To your right was a trunk full of a dead man. And you just smiling like he’d made a joke. Which he explicitly said he wasn’t going to do.

“I don’t feel like I killed anyone.” You said it with a levity that made him glance around, wondering if you’d hit your head a little too hard earlier, “I feel like I stopped someone from killing you. Which feels,” you fought to suppress your smile from growing any further, “kinda good. Like I’m strong. I’m just scared I made a mistake and police will find out. I’m terrified we’ll be seperated. But I don’t feel bad.”

A normal man would be deeply concerned. You didn’t feel bad? For killing a man with a rock? Arguably one of the most brutal ways to murder a person. A normal man would worry he would be next.

Luckily for you both, Alastor was not a normal man. He stared at your face, trying to discern any hints of deceit there before he fell into the comfort of trust.

Your pinky came out, “I’m fine, and if I’m ever not, I will tell you. Promise.” His eyes left your face to stare at the tiny digit, “If I break the promise, you get to break the pinky.”

“Pinkies are useless, we should use a finger that matters.” He offered his index. You let yourself laugh, hooking your pointer finger with his.

Smile to smile, he exhaled his stress and slipped into his normal demeanor, “No worries, darling! No one will ever know what happened to him.” He leaned beside you and patted the trunk. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor drove away with the man, ready to disappear the body and try to sleep before work if possible. A nagging still sat in his stomach, a little pull that maybe you’d change your mind. 

He asked you the next morning, on your routine call, if he could stop by the theater when he finished with work that night. No reason in particular. He’d pull into the side street, and you could run out to see him.

When he arrived, you were in your stage outfit waiting to greet the crowd. Alastor smiled, “The prettiest bird I’ve ever seen!”

“A bird? Alastor just ‘pretty’ woulda been a fine compliment.” 

He offered an apology by way of kiss, soft hands coming to your cheek as he leaned against the door of his car. “I just wanted to see you. Steal a kiss before you stole some hearts. May I return tomorrow?”

Ah, that feeling again. Stupid school girl with her first crush, her first taste of love. “I wouldn’t complain.” 

That flow of conversation eased Alastor, things felt normal already. For you, they were. A small worry remained he may begin to act differently but the only difference was he seemed to be embracing you deeper. 

After your delivered kiss, you took the stage like a woman reborn. The warmth of the light felt like the sun. Pointed toes as you moved along the stage, hips loose and smile coy. 

As you looked around the backlit crowd you didn’t search for a good mark. The times you did play a man’s attention for Alastor were different, it felt like art when you lured men into Alastor’s claws.

A shake of your feathered fans, a very controlled lowering of your head, you let a hip rock out into view. A little flash of inner thigh. Then, your favorite part. One hand gripped your fans as you them with the aide of practiced fingers. Free hand undoing your still remarkably heavy and glittering bra and handing it behind the curtain.

Surprise reveal, a naked magic trick done behind distracting whirling feathers. Arms open, fans high, you waited for the applause to die down. Deep breaths were not possible, adrenaline and the weight of your costume keeping you from hiding the heaving of your chest. 

The whistles were your favorite. You couldn’t imagine Alastor whistling but you were sure it would be flawless in its ability to capture your attention. 

“Anyone wanna smoke? I don’t want to go into the alley alone.” You asked the room, several girls glancing your way and shaking their heads no as you hurried back in from your set.

“Just take the fire escape to the roof. That’s where we’ve been smoking since Mr. Brady said it was dangerous at night.” Florence was normally a perfect smoking partner, never talking too much. The name Brady made your stomach flip though, you had forgotten about him for a second. You’d managed to avoid him until Tommy’s bloody trail went cold, but you knew he still stalked around the jazz and music district.

A dancer laughed, “Nighttime has always been dangerous for women.”

Someone you didn’t see added, “Fuck, daytimes not safe either.” 

You climbed the creaky and seemingly forgotten-about fire escape to the roof. The breeze hit your face before your feet even left the metal railing. 

It was… a roof. Grey painted floors and brick sides. Nothing special, but you could see the bowl full of discarded cigarettes near the front of the building. You looked over the short wall that edged the front, you were able to see the pigeon shit covered marquee. What an unattractive view, the lights flashing out from beneath actual shit.

There was a metaphor there, you were sure. 

Looking around, there were a few wicker chairs hidden in the shadow of the street’s lights, thankfully upside down to keep them clean from the birds.

If more people used roofs instead of alleys Alastor would be out of luck. Tommy was difficult enough with a staircase, the fire escape would have been the nail in that coffin. 

It had been a lovely night, absolutely jarring compared to the night before. You leaned back in the chair, you knew you weren’t the best at saying what you meant. Especially when the words you offered could be used to hurt you. Words of affection and love, when true, were daggers given handle-first to someone else. 

So you hoped Alastor could guess how much he meant to you. You shouldn’t need to say it, right? Actions speak louder than words. You bludgeoned a man to death for what you had thought was a lost cause. It had seemed Alastor was already dead when you first brought down the rock. 

Diamonds are rocks, you considered. The most expensive costume the theater had was peacock feathered with shining crystals. You wanted to say you felt like a peacock, spirit large and wide and colorful. But those were males. Of course they were. The animal kingdom had males compete for mates with pretty colors and lovely songs. Now ladies pranced around in painted faces and short dresses. You didn’t feel pale or small like the ‘fairer sex’ peacock.

You felt like the swan. Vicious and beautiful, not out shone by anyone.

Well there was someone you’d allow to shine brighter. Someone you’d happily let take the lead. You’d thought letting a man walk in front of you was a sign of subservience. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that there could be respect in trusting someone else to go ahead. That the act of going first could be for protection and not power.

“Hey!”

You hurried to the fire escape, “yeah?”

“There’s a man asking for you. Tall guy named Frank?”

Frank?

Oh, Frank.

You’d forgotten about him. He’d left months ago. He was a whale, rich and generous. You took a moment to consider sitting down with him, smiling and laughing at his jokes, letting his hand settle on your thigh. It had been weeks since you entertained scamming anyone, and now you couldn’t even stomach the idea of faking interest in another man. Frank wasn’t one to scam, he just liked having a pretty lady on his arm to make him feel young and wanted, and in exchange you got into private parties and were gifted jewelry and clothing.

“Tell him I’m busy and send him off.” You hollered down. You could buy your own clothes. 

“Did he leave?” Alastor asked you the next morning, you leaning against the glass phone booth in the early morning light.

Your finger wrapped around the phone cord, “No of course not! They never do. I snuck out the back.”

There was a hum, “Well my dear, you’ve offered me a wonderful transition into my next question.” Alastor was sitting at his kitchen table, nervously turning his coffee cup around in circles, “Would you like to come over tomorrow night? I can pick you up after your show.”

Like a glacier drifting away from shore, you very slowly crouched down in the booth. “To your home?” 

“No, to Alabama.” He waited a beat, “Yes of course my home. I can show you what happens after I drive away.” A cheeky smile evident through his voice.

You pressed the phone receiver into your chest, teeth chewing on your bottom lip. What happens when he drives away? So…where the bodies go. But most importantly, the biggest part of this—where he lives. So much can be gleaned about someone from their home. A bookshelf alone could make or break an attraction. You brought the receiver back to your mouth. “Lovely! Sure thing— Alastor. Yes.” you almost added on an awkward nickname like daddy-o or mister man, like an idiot, because your brain was misfiring like you’d seen him in the sunlight again.

Ah, you could see his bed. 

Where he slept.

Did he ever dream of you?

What if it was terribly dirty? Could you still love him if he was a slob? 

“I’m quite far from downtown, pack an overnight bag, okay?” He stopped fidgeting with the mug. When the call ended he sat at the table for some time, staring around the kitchen. The home was large by city standards, but it was old. His mother’s charm was evident through every part. A finger scratched at the wooden table, heavy and solid. Why was his heart racing? 

He walked to the screened back door, looking from the weathered patio steps to the greenhouse. 

No one had ever been to his home. Ever. A teensy part of him was panicking. Was this a mistake? Was he going to fuck up the budding relationship? Throw off the peace of his safest place?

Budding. Okay that was ridiculous even for him. The kind of intimacy gained through murder did not allow any union to be called budding. He’d shared pieces of himself no other living soul knew of. Your image of him was possibly even more complete than his own mother had held, even though he tried to always be the most sincere with her. Even people he did care for and consider close friends had never knew where he lived. Never heard what kept him up at night. Never learned his distaste for a random lay.

Opening the screen door with a signature creak, the sound many southerners could call comforting, he walked to the greenhouse.

The newest part of the property, the glass walled structure was built shortly after his mother’s death. Double doors: locked. Just beyond the glass was a forest of plants and potted trees. They had no need for a greenhouse, but Alastor had a need for them.

He set about preparing his home for another occupant, a task that brought him such a shock of joy and anxiety he began to wonder who he was. New sheets on the bed, extra pillows set against his wooden headboard. Large glass jar in the backyard full of water and tea bags.

It was also unexpected he was thinking so much of his mother. In a perfect world she’d be there to greet you. Though if she was alive, he wouldn’t have been in that alley that night. He made a mental note to not mention his mother, at least not as much as he was remembering her as he walked around the two story home tidying.

Would he have met you if he wasn’t a killer? 

A flicker of fear was quickly extinguished by romance. Definitely. You both ran in the same scenes. He’d seen you before that night, he just never approached you. He hadn’t anticipated how much more you were than the facade you put on. Nothing about your sweet face said, ‘I have a high tolerance for murder.’

Alastor spent the day at work physically present but mentally pacing his living room. He nodded along to discussions of who was to be live on set next, smile never faltering as he worried if he had breakfast foods. He rarely ate breakfast, did you? How had he not thought to ask. Sloppy.

The only outward sign he was feeling any stress was the tapping of his finger on his desk, which he hadn’t even noticed until the stage manager commented.  

“Alastoooor,” her voice was high, like it seemed many women’s voices were recently. Was it a trend? “Impatient? Hot date with a young lady this evening?”

While she meant well, she always pried, always asked questions he didn’t appreciate. 

Alastor shook his head, smile strained. A perceptive person would have picked up on it, but Brenda was not perceptive.

“Oh.” A noticeable disappointment, “That’s boring.”

Actually on second thought maybe she didn’t mean well.

“I’ve had too much coffee, is all, Brenda.” He pulled his hand into his lap. “Was there anything you needed?” 

“No,” she pouted, much less endearing than you.

If he murdered purely for fun Debra would be dead before sunset. Unfortunately her only crime was being remarkably annoying.

Alastor waited behind the theater, where it was less likely any staff would see him. It was still important to avoid connecting the two of you together, at least at your workplace yet. 

He was quick to grab your bag for you.

“Not the trunk, please.” You said, it took him a second to catch the joke. He set it on the back seat after opening your door for you. You’d only been in his car a few times but he never failed to be a perfect gentleman. 

Your palms were sweating, when his hand rested on your leg while he drove you resisted the urge to hold it. Instead you slipped yours under his. Alastor asked you about your day, about work, about if Frank came back. Typically as soon as you left the theater you were in a cone of silence until your phone call with him the next day. It was kind of nice, having someone to speak to. Before meeting him there were times you worried you’d forget how to talk naturally, how to sound like yourself.

The glowing eyes of deer popped up from the side of the road, startling you. Eerie. You held your breath, would they run, stay still, or sprint into the road.

“Is it true their antlers can break car windshields?” You asked not breaking eye contact with a doe as you drove past.

Alastor nodded, “If a buck hits your car the wrong way, not even the car will make it out of the accident.”

“Are there a lot of bucks around?”

“Will be soon, as fall— wait why am I telling you this,” he laughed, “Miss Autumn Hind already knows what makes the bucks run wild.”

You shouldn’t be smiling, it was a dumb rut joke, but it felt like a compliment. 

The car lights passed over the home as he turned into the dirt driveway. Powder blue. It wasn’t a color you associated with Alastor. He was caramel, honey, midnight blue, red. His sometimes sinister smile didn’t look quite right against powder blue. But, for a home, it was lovely.

“Is someone home?” You saw a light on in an upstairs room.

Alastor reached behind you for your bag, “No, I leave it on when I’m gone. Gives the impression that the house isn’t empty.”

A minor bit of acting, Alastor opening the door and offering to bring your bag upstairs before a tour like a good host. His anxious energy was barely contained by that grin of his. For your part you played the appropriately impressed guest.

But deep down you were very impressed. An actual house. Your mother struggled to keep apartments rented. Alastor had a home. With stairs. That went to more home, not a neighbor. What a lovely thing. What did he do with all this space?

He could probably hide quite a few bodies in there.

Alastor opened his bedroom door and motioned for you to enter.

You took in every detail as shrewdly as you could. Two circular nightstands, a wide dresser with a few framed photos and a radio. One large window facing the yard, you could see the car outside from where you were standing. “Wow a man’s bedroom. I tend to avoid these.”

“What a coincidence, so do I. Bedrooms in general, really.” He placed your bag on the dresser, offering to unpack it for you. Your smile screwed up, shaking your head no. You couldn’t imagine Alastor folding your panties and setting them into a drawer. 

Well.

“Yes please.” You took a seat on the end of his bed, watching him tenderly empty the bag before beginning to put things away like you’d come home from a trip. “A bed big enough for two people. You didn’t tell me you were a fancy man. Ooh la la.”

Alastor laughed, “Your bed was quite comfortable.” He set your dress onto a hook attached to the closet door, hands running down the fabric to straighten out the wrinkles, “But I have a feeling that had more to do with you than anything else.”

The floor was clean, the rug beneath the bed a simple but pristine white. What an odd color for a rug.  

You truly did avoid men’s homes. The power dynamic shifts too much.

“Are all men so clean?”

“Oh god no. Have you really never been to a man’s home?” Without a moment of hesitancy his long fingers flattened out your underthings and neatly folded them. You could call it erotic, knowing what else his fingers could do.

A hum, you swayed side to side, “Too much risk. I don’t know where the knife drawer is, which locks stick, what windows open all the way.” 

He set the empty bag into a reading chair in the corner, “That sounds stressful.”

You shrugged, “My mother taught me to always have an escape. From situations, from rooms, from people. Not terrible advice.”

That was true, he thought. If the few women he killed had considered that, he would be less prolific. Women tended to be easier in some regards.

Alastor finally let himself look at you sitting on his bed. Were you wearing the black garters today? He liked those. He appreciated the red dress you’d worn.

Taking off his jacket and vest, he hung them up while his eyes kept returning to you. Your legs were crossed, thighs soft and pressed together. He remembered feeling them against his ears. A little cough to clear his throat and mind.

“Are you hungry?”

You werent, but you weren’t ready for sleep either, so you asked for some bread and butter. Alastor sat beside you at the table, watching you look around. It didn’t look like a killer's home. 

“Ya know, I was going to rob you. I had been wanting to talk to you, before that guy caught me off guard when I was smoking.” You said it easily. 

He smiled, “Oh, why’d you change your mind?”

“Well, you slit a man’s throat in front of me.”

“Tsk tsk, you give up too easily, my dear.”

Salted butter, soft bread. Simple. Happy. “You were so handsome-,”

“We’re?”

A snort of a laugh, rolling your eyes dramatically, “and you looked well off. I was searching the room for the lights reflecting off of your glasses all night.”

Alastor grimaced, fighting the well of his ego, and leaned on his elbows, “Is it too morbid to say I’m glad that man tried to kill you? I like this timeline more than being robbed and never seeing you again.”

“That’s very selfish. I would have enjoyed chasing you down and finessing your wallet off you.” You set the glass lid back over the butter dish, content with the snack. “Some men come back actually and confront me at the theater.”

He howled. The idea was ridiculous, “Seriously? Why not just tell the cops.”

“Men don’t like telling other men they got taken for a ride by a dame.”

Alastor stood, “What would you have done if you had robbed me and I marched into the theater demanding my cash back.” It took a second to realize he was being serious in wanting you to play along. 

You popped the last piece of bread into your mouth and stood too, “You rake!” A fake smack to his chest, “I booted you to the curb! You had more hands than an octopus!” 

Alastor tried to stay in character but his smile kept cracking through his serious face. “And my wallet? None of my hands can find it.” You took a few steps back, feigning shock at the accusation.

“Sir! You were so drunk I’m not surprised you lost it.” When Alastor closed the space between you with two wide steps and pulled you into his chest you giggled, hitting softly at him, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Trying to take advantage,” his hands wandered down your hips, making your voice catch in your throat, “of a good woman like me.”

His mouth came to your ear, “Well, miss, I think you owe me the opportunity to try again.”

You went stiff against him, the sudden turn of his voice into seduction taking you by surprise, “If you were a real mark, I’d punch you in the face for saying that.”

“But for me?” Breath against your neck.

Your hands slid up his chest and to his collar, pulling him down and into a kiss. His smile spread across your lips. 

His mouth stayed against your cheek as he pulled you into a hug, “Ready for bed?”

“Are you sleepy, hun?” You pulled away, a sincerely worried face. Two nights now you’d interrupted his normal routine.

Alastor’s eyes seemed to sparkle behind his glasses, head shaking, “No, not at all.” You felt the heat rise up your face. Wanting to avoid assumptions, you tried to temper your expectations.

His hand pulled you toward the stairs, you dragging your feet, “Did you want to show me around?”

“In the daylight.” He led you up the stairs and to the right.

“Oh okay….”, your mind was reeling, mouth dry. No dead body in sight. No blood. You hadn’t pressed him or asked for anything. Maybe he just wanted a good cuddle, or some kisses. You often enjoyed necking near the car before he would go home. Right. Let him lead.

You followed him, letting him guide you hand in hand back to his bedroom.

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar,@straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay , @asleeponelmstreet , @tremendoushearttaco , @mutifandomkid , @sapphirecaelis , @itzzzkiramylove@saccharine-nectarine , @viannasthings , @looking1016 , @ultimate-duck-king-lucifer , @blakeaha , @astraechos , @reath-solia ,

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan

@faeoffaith , @sailorsmouth , @jeannyjaykaydeh , @jyoongim , @cosmic-lavender , @saturn-alone , @lustylita , @radio-darling , @kaylopolis , @dickmastersworld , @leviskittywh0re , @asianfrustration13 @alittletiredcry @sirens-and-moonflowers @alastorssimp , @angelxx7 , @katgirl05 , @impulsivethoughtsat2am , @sugurubabe , @zzzykiek , @phamtasic

[the-delta-quadrant]

here are some things that would help me as a blind person regarding online accessibility (mobile for me):

- all apps should display all text sizes (iphone goes up to 310%)

- all apps should display bold text if it's turned on in the system settings

- there should be a standard for text size; if my text size is 100% across all apps, then an instagram post, a toot, a text message etc. should all be the same size, no more "instagram and tumblr are always slightly smaller for some reason" bs

- an app's formatting (such as buttons, alerts etc) needs to be compatible with large text! large text doesn't help me if all the buttons are suddenly overlapping or i can't get out of an alert window because they forgot to program the ability to scroll. no more overlapping shit, no more missing shit, no more "i can't get out of this window without closing the app and changing my text size"

- usernames, channel names, all word and sentences should be fully visible even with large text! i don't know what channel "# ge..." is on discord. find a way to make it visible, either make it multiple lines, give me the ability to side scroll or make it move like a spotify song title

- make sure things that shouldn't be affected by large text aren't! if i need to scan a barcode and my large text settings make it unrecognisable to the machine, that's unhelpful

- all apps should have a light mode and a dark mode! certain conditions make it easier to see light mode, others make it easier to see light mode

- dark mode should be as high-contrast as light mode, i.e. white on black, not white on dark grey

- probably have other options beyond regular dark and light mode

- on apps that let you customise your profile a lot visually, give the option to view it in your phones' settings, i.e. if someone's got a dark red on black serif-font tumblr, i wanna be able to make it into a white on black plain font tumblr

- alt text should be accessible without a screenreader

- there should probably be a dedicated field for video descriptions too

- apps that give hashtags a different colour than the rest of the text should let you choose the colour

- all apps should let you view someone's profile picture in full size

- this one is specific to instagram: let us fucking zoom in normally! why do i have to do finger gymnastics just to stay zoomed in and read text on a picture? the zoom should work the same way it does in my photo library and literally everywhere else

most of these shouldn't be that hard and they would make my life a hell of a lot easier. i'm tired of running into issues because i'm too blind to read regular size text.

i WISH it was as simple as "describe your images" and "no fancy fonts", which is something people can easily choose to do to make things a little more accessible, and if they don't, i can unfollow and surround myself with people who post accessible stuff.

but all of the things i listed are things done my developers and not regular users, it's stuff i can't just ignore by surrounding myself with people who care about blind accessibility if the people who create the spaces don't care about blind accessibility.