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#hope you like it!
finsterwalds · 2 days
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Got a very inspired ask inquiring about the villains in my Better Call Saul french AU so here's Gus aka famous chef Gustavo Faure and his main waiter Léo haha. More info under the cut as always...
So at first I thought about making Gus a fast-food owner like his canon counterpart, but it just doesn't fit really well if you wanna frenchify it all with nuance. We have fast-foods ofc and we do enjoy fried chicken lol, but Los Pollos Hermanos has this very distinct "patriotic" feeling that wouldn't translate as well in France, as fast-foods are american in conception. I thought about making Gus the owner of some cheaper chain like Courtepaille lmao, but it feels too memey and doesn't have the prestige that his character has canonically. Gus assimilates perfectly into american society with his brand, and caters to the people locally, so I thought it would be fair for him to do the same in France. And if you wanna cater to lovers of chic, gastronomy and prestige, what's better than being the chef of some fancy restaurant, right? It felt cliché af and looses the "close to the people" part but it honestly fits his character well, imo...
He would be extremely respected locally but still friendly and approachable due to him crafting some kind of tragic backstory for himself and his restaurant. Basically he would play the "Chilean refugee that climbed to the top of foreign cuisine" card and everyone would buy it. French people love to eat and are fond of mixing their culture's meals with more international food, so yes: I think he would serve a fusion of french/Chilean food!
He'd also be an entrepreneur as famous french chefs often have side businesses like bakeries or published books, which I think respects his canon personality pretty well. Fancy french chefs also like to hang out outside their kitchen to greet their guests and I can totally imagine Gus do that. He'd still be able to conceal his shady side nicely. He's canonically seen to like fine wine, good products, and cooks Paila Marina for Walt, so congrats to Gus for already being french in conception and not making this idea feel like a stretch lol.
I have no idea about his exact role concerning drug traffic in Europe, as I said I'm pretty ignorant about that… But he'd use his business and image to form connections and launder his money. His backstory with Max stays the same in the AU aka Max was his business """"partner""" who died killed by the Salamancas.
I don't think changing his first name was necessary, but his last name sounding american I thought I would just frenchify it a bit lol. I don't know what the name of his restaurant would be, but definitely something short, spanish, and aesthetic/poetic. Maybe a reference to Max to allude to the Hermanos part.
Bonus : I know they don't canonically meet, but in my AU I think Chuck, as a rich lawyer, would eat at Gustavo's often. They'd be acquainted :) And maybe Jérôme aka Jimmy meets him thru his brother and later discovers Gus' shady side, when the events of BrBa start.
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fried1ton · 2 months
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(1,2,3,4,5,6) | moodboard for @giaffa
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stoutstoatpress · 4 months
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VAST Guides are here!
By using VAST, you can learn how to add accessibility tags for screen readers to your PDFs, by using Adobe InDesign and Adobe Acrobat.
I'm super excited to release a brand new publishing community resource: VAST (or Visual Accessibility Skills Toolkit).
>> WWW.VAST.GUIDE <<
VAST is a collection of short articles aiming to spread awareness about what visual impairments are, and how folks in the small press industry can accommodate them.
The guides are split into four sections:
Visual Impairment 101 explores what visual impairments are, how visually impaired people navigate digital content, and introduces some current language and definitions (circa 2023).
Screen reading PDFs explores the basics of how screen readers navigate through digital content. Includes video examples!
Using InDesign introduces different tools that designers can use to make their documents more accessible.
Putting Into Practice presents case studies of common structures in roleplaying games, and how they could be given accessibility tags using tools covered in section 3. (Coming soon!)
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VAST was developed by Brian Tyrrell (me!), and disability advocate and accessibility consultant Yubi Coates. Visually impaired consultants and InDesign experts were brought in to corroborate the guides.
All of the information in the guides is up to date, and we’re committed to reviewing and updating the guides in 2024 and 2025.
This project was completed using a small pot of funding provided by Creative Scotland’s Create: Inclusion program in 2022.
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liatorii · 5 months
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I did it! My piece for @karin848 for the amazing @starwars-arttrade-2023 !
Your love for Ashoka has inspired me :D hope she’s cozy enough!
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iamacolor · 3 months
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Lee Soo Hyuck as Park Joonggil (Tomorrow, 2022) - Devil Saint
K-DRAMA SECRET SANTA 2023 for @khaoray
happy holidays Vic, wishing you all the best for next year! 💜
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formosusiniquis · 4 months
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sandra bullock eat your heart out
inspired by this post and the tags by @stevieharringtonwifeguy
Without putting too fine a point on it, Eddie wasn't exactly the type to watch beauty pageants. They didn’t really think about them, didn’t really care about them, didn’t really realize they were even still a thing outside of sitcom plotlines from the 90s about women’s self image. What Eddie was was extremely online. And when Twitter went fucking batshit because a plus sized transwoman had the nerve to be talented enough to make it to the Miss America competition; they figured they should support the home team -- or whatever shit Wayne says when the wrong horse boys makes it to the big football game.
So sure, they expected her to be pretty. It is in the name. Imagined she’d be good looking in that classic, sort of boring way. A blonde with a nice smile, a fucking button nose. A non-threatening, homegrown sort of beauty. It being the internet complaining, they kinda also figured plus size meant a size 2 dress and a C cup. 
They couldn't in their wildest dreams picture the woman who would appear on their TV, when they finally figured out where they could even watch the damn thing. Statuesque with a squared jaw and swimmers shoulders, moles dot her face and neck, it looks like her nose has been broken before. Plush thighs and a biteable ass fill out a royal blue evening gown, when she smiles it’s like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.
Alone in their apartment, Eddie has no one to scream the thoughts ricocheting in their brain at. It leaves them with nowhere to turn but the place that got them here to begin with.
The Eddie Munson ✔ @CorrodedEddie
I'm used to people having bad taste but at this point I'm wondering if we're even watching the same thing
The Eddie Munson ✔ @CorrodedEddie
Miss Indiana is the most beautiful woman I've ever seenThe Eddie Munson ✔ @CorrodedEddie
How do I do the added context thing, i need to make a note on some posts. Reader’s noted: User is actually a sad loser who’s cockroach wifed themselves and can’t appreciate what’s in front of them
Read the rest on AO3 cause this baby has formatting
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tinyowlet · 13 days
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wow wow wubbzy board for @love-bunny-buns !💛
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infectedhome · 3 months
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new blog theme!
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something's waiting for you, neighbor... 👁️
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yibo-wang · 1 year
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Follower's favourite scenes: Lan wangji stopping Jiang Cheng at Lotus Pier for @tashiruya-meiji
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spatziline · 9 months
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GUYS NEW YOUTUBE COMIC! "Anya has a nightmare"
CLICK HERE, if the link doesn't work please go to my channel spatziline
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sun-e-chips · 3 months
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Merry Christmas @journalerthecricket i was your secret Santa!!!
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Wench_Fry’s 2023 DCA Secret Santa 2023
When I read your prompt I had a thought of “how would moon be able to enjoy/interact with his first snow when he only exists in the dark?” And I was so excited to illustrate it!!!
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aidansloth · 2 months
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Coffee and Chamomile
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Summary: Hitoshi can’t sleep (again) so he decides to get up and make himself some good-ass coffee ‘cause he’s smart. When he reaches the common room, he realizes he’s not the only one who wanted a hot beverage.
Warnings/Things to keep in mind: slight hurt/comfort, swearing, suggested low self-esteem on Shinsou’s side and some dirty jokes because they’re teens. And adorably cute. Reader is referred to as they/them or ‘you’, this takes place in the dorms and Shinsou is part of Class 1-A (or 2-A, whatever you want). Also I don’t remember perfectly the layout of the dorms so pretend. I’m not up to date with the episodes (stuck on season 4) so please no spoilers! Last disclaimer: this is KIND OF self-indulgent and I’m autistic so if you think the reader is acting weird, that’s why.
Words: 2.3k
Posted this on AO3 too! You can find it here.
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2:38am
Hitoshi turned in his sheets, covers uncomfortably sticking to his form as he sank his face into the scrunched-up pillow.
3:04am
An exasperated groan escaped his lips, half suffocated by the cushion; his arms wide around the mattress and his breathing deep and empty.
3:29am
That’s it. He’s getting up and making himself some damn coffee or whatever the others left in that poor kitchen. His sheets are hurled carelessly as his feet instinctively find their place in his cat-shaped slippers. Trying not to make too much noise (an act he had mastered by now) he opened the door and made his way to the common room. His phone, used as a make-shift torch guided him across the corridors; as he got closer and closer he noticed light becoming brighter, when he finally reached his destination the realization dawned on him. Someone else was up.
He quickly turned his phone-torch off before turning the corner, to find one of his new classmates dancing (or whatever that was) with their back turned to him, hands busy with what looked like a cup of tea.
It wasn’t long since he joined the Hero Course but he was starting to remember some names and whatever faces he didn't remember from the Sports Festival. Unfortunately, he wasn’t that good with names. No one talks to him anyways, why should he care?
While he did recognize you from behind he did not remember your name. You were nice to him, he thought. Nicer than the rest at least. That Denki guy seemed nice too- a bit too intense though. You lent him a pencil- or was it a tissue? No mind that, what was he gonna do now? Leave? No, you’ll turn around and notice him and think he was spying on you. Did you even want company? You seemed pretty busy. On the other hand it’s his common room too- but has he been there long enough to intrude on your private moment like that? He might not be here to make friends or be nice but that doesn’t mean he has to be an ass.
That’s when he realized you hadn’t noticed him yet. Ah. So aware of their surroundings for a hero.
He decided that grunting awkwardly was the best course of action. Bummer, you were wearing earphones. He tried a louder cough, but you only noticed him once you found yourself face to face with him. A loud curse left your lips and your hands instantly slammed against them as instinct. Hitoshi’s eyebrows raised and he pressed his lips together to suppress a chuckle. Good thing you placed your tea down earlier. Their eyes were now staring straight into his.
“Ehm- hi.” You licked your lips, saliva suddenly missing.
“Hi.” He managed to grunt out. Now this was awkward. He watched your eyes dart back and forward before settling back on him. He really wanted to say something, anything to get this uncomfortable feeling out but that little voice at the back of his head held him back.
“You here to make yourself some tea too?”
His mouth opened slightly, the careless innocence of the question taking him aback. Still, no words came out. He nodded. He actually wanted coffee but he didn’t think himself able to explain that through words now.
“Cool. I boiled extra water accidentally. What kind of tea did you want?” Your smile looked so genuine and again, careless. Like you didn’t think he was dangerous. Out of habit he was about to nod again but stopped in time to force some words out.
“Is there carcade?”
“Yep!” You were definitely too chipper for this hour in the morning. He tried not to think too much about the fact that you answered his question with no hesitation. He watched as you moved your hands swiftly along the mugs and tea bags, your movements rhythmic, like you do this a lot. In no time your teas were ready, so you placed yours in front of your stool and in front of his. Not that he sat down yet, no. His eyes were too busy watching you. The tea caught his attention quickly enough. Sitting down his hands snaked around the mug, his hoodie sleeves just a bit too long.
A string of silence hung.
“I guess we’re both awake for the same reason.” Hitoshi was glad his voice was back, though the ever-lingering anxiety stayed. He actually didn’t know why they were up but he thought this was a decent conversation starter. His gaze was too occupied marveling at the tea to notice your tilted head and dog-like expression.
“You’re writing fanfiction too?”
Well, he certainly wasn’t expecting that.
“Ehm- no- no I’m not.” Suddenly he felt weird and sorry he wasn’t writing fanfiction. His classmate nodded understandingly while taking another sip off their mug. Looking back at the kitchen island he felt particularly stupid for not noticing the laptop with an open Google Document page open. There was a small beat of awkward silence before the next sentence.
“Then why are you up?”
Ah. There it is. What was he supposed to respond now? Oh yeah, basically I have insomnia, meaning I get no hours of sleep and I do manage to miraculously fall asleep I’m awoken by nightmares and now, as our new guest of honor, the gracious sounds of the guys’ snoring which breaks the laws of time and space by getting across all those walls!
“Just- stuff.”
He thanked every god in the universe that they didn’t ask anything surrounding his very weird and suspicious answer but opted for a simple nod and a ‘cool’. Clinging his fingertips against the mug he realized he should try to keep the conversation going as well; you probably thought he didn’t want to talk to you with all his dry answers. His grip tightened and his teeth sank into his bottom lip.
“What- what is the fanfiction about?” He swore he never saw someone’s eyes light up faster, their lips immediately stretched into a painfully wide smile.
“Basically, you know ‘Lord of the Rings’, right? The fantasy book? There are these two characters, a dwarf and an elf. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, these two races have a really tough history which led to prejudice and hate on both sides. But for this certain world-saving quest they have to interact with each other, trust each other, you know? For the first quarter, maybe, of the quest they don’t get along very well. I mean, not trying to kill each other or anything, but petty threats and jokes are thrown around. At a certain point in their journey they have to take a break in this elven kingdom and by the end of it they are the best of friends! Now, I ship these two characters together, so, I’m writing a specific fanfic that takes place during their pause there and since Tolkien didn’t really go into detail with what they were doing during that time I have lots of creative freedom,”
Hitoshi’s lips pressed together as he watched them gesticulate their way through what could only be defined as a speech; his half-open eyes never left theirs while his chin rested on his hand. His eyes lingered from one feature of their face to another, still listening of course: he was good at that. Though his eyes may have lingered a moment too long on their lips.
“-not even mentioning their relationship later on at the end of ‘The Return of the King’, commenting on Minas Tirith’s architecture like a bunch of housewives! Really, in the middle of a war ‘This place needs more trees!’-” Their face dropped and Hitoshi’s heart with it. Did they notice him staring too much? He did that, didn’t he? Fuck. He made them uncomfortable-
“I’m sorry. I’m boring you.” They say huffing out a half-regretful chuckle. It nearly tricks him.
He stared just a little bit longer before talking.
“You’re not.”
He watched as their lips turned into an awkward smile, like they thought he only said it to be nice. The silence slowly crawled back. Hitoshi didn’t know what sudden urge slapped him in the face enough to have the courage to speak, but he did.
“Your voice is relaxing.” Good job asshole, now they think you’re a creep. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from your surprised one, which quickly turned into one of joy. And now he was blushing. Might as well dig my own grave with that one. Fingers tapped on mugs. Their mouths opened once, closed and then opened again.
“Do you mind if I- we move to the couch? I hate stools.”
“Sure- yeah.”
And moved to the couch they did. Fanfiction-writing long forgotten, they placed their teas on the small table in front of them; Hitoshi was surprised when they got blankets for the both of them and instinctively covered him too but he wasn’t about to complain about it. For a little while they sat in comfortable silence, only sounds of breathing and sips were heard. Just for a little while though. Until he noticed they kept yawning and their head dropping a bit every couple of seconds. His eyebrows scrunched up.
“You tired?”
“Meh, just a bit.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why are you up? I mean, we’re not that busy right now with school, you could write during the day and not in the middle of the night. Unless you can’t sleep but it doesn’t look like you can’t.”
“Well-” They huffed out a smile. “-it’s not exactly about having time. It’s a bit more complicated. Like-” They exhaled again, squeezing their eyes shut and then reopening them. “There aren’t enough hours during the day to- to be. The whole day feels like a dread and the only thing I look forward to is those hours in the night where I can do anything I want without that senseless guilt. The night is the only time I feel free to be.”
Hitoshi stayed silent for a moment, elaborating every word meticulously.
“That’s- that’s-”
“Sad? Pathetic? Depressing?”
He chuckled. “I mean- a bit.” Their soft laughter mixed together. “What I meant to say was, that’s- relatable.” A simple shared look was enough to fill the silence between them.
“So, why are you up?” Before Hitoshi could excuse himself again they stopped him.
“Don’t you dare say ‘just stuff’ again to me, I just gave you a tear-ripping, punch-to-the-face, gut-wrenching speech.” With their index finger pointing at him he let out a soft laugh, though his eyes lost a bit of their shine for a second when he started speaking.
“I have insomnia.”
“Ah. So you got up to make yourself chamomile or something?”
“Well, I wanted to make myself some coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“Coffee.”
“And you let me make you tea, why?”
Hitoshi adjusted himself quickly and cleared his throat. “You looked happy.” He felt their eyes stare through his soul, he felt naked.
“Is this helping?” God thank you for changing the subject.
“Is what helping?”
“Talking.” He thought for a moment.
“Maybe. I’m not sure. Don’t usually talk to people.”
They smiled. “I noticed.” He grinned.
“Are you going to go back to sleep then? Well, not sleep- you get it.”
“Don’t know. This couch is very comfortable.”
“Oh yeah?” You said, raising your eyebrows with a shit-eating grin. A wide grin grew on his face and he let out a laugh.
“Yeah.” You nodded again.
“You know, I won’t get offended if you want to go back to sleep- or to your fanfiction.” He said.
You shook their head. “I’m fine here.”
He gulped, praying that the low light won’t show his blushing cheeks. Their conversation went on for another half an hour at least, Hitoshi couldn’t tell honestly. Their teas finished and mugs cold, they got up (mostly because they realized the time). Cups in the sink, they began talking again once Hitoshi yawned.
You chuckled. “Is my voice that relaxing?”
“Incredibly so.” He grinned seeing them laugh again. He cleared his throat.
“So, you going to sleep?” Hitoshi watched them as their shoulders dropped.
“Yeah- yeah, is that okay? I don’t mean to leave you alone but-”
“Yes- yes it’s fine don’t worry about me, I won’t die,” he grinned, his hands in his pockets “sleep, you need it.”
“Oh, and you don’t?”
“No, I’m like Batman.”
“Are you implying he doesn’t sleep because he calls himself Batman?- He’s not even- He doesn’t have super powers like that, you are aware-” Their soon-to-be ramble was interrupted by his laughter.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m not mocking, promise.” He bit his inside cheek, clenching and unclenching his fists in nervousness. “I just- like how passionate you are.”
“About Batman?”
“About Batman.” They looked at each other for a second before you nodded.
“Alright… Well, I’m off to bed. Nice slippers by the way.” Hitoshi grinned like a lovesick boy at your comment.
He nodded smiling and moved away a bit from the entrance of the corridor to let you pass. They smiled and wished each other a good night. It only took a few steps before you stopped and whipped around.
“Wait!” You ran and before he knew it they had plunged into him, his torso wrapped nicely within their arms. His body froze at first but quickly came back and wrapped his own arms around their frame. Hitoshi could feel his muscles relax. It wasn’t long before they moved away leaving an empty feeling in both of them.
“Goodnight!” They said and Hitoshi swore that was the sweetest smile he had ever had the luck of witnessing.
“Good- goodnight.”
As if he was able to sleep after that.
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Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism/advice is welcomed.
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fried1ton · 2 months
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(1,2,3,4,5,6) | moodboard for @diyeaux
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keuwibloom · 4 months
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Since requests are open, could you draw killer? But with cat ears:>
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Killer goes all out with the cat ears, with bells and ribbons and everything
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likubears · 4 months
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Could you draw 1950's NaLu as high schoolers? Natsu can be asking Lucy out on a date. Pleaseplease i love your art Liku 🥹
I read the request once, and along the way i made them look more like college students!
Not sure if this is accurate 50s fashion for students of that time.. I looked at refs, but also didn’t want it to strive too much from themselves 🩷
I like to think he’s on his best behavior here, (he’s def a bad boy) and asks Lucy to help him ‘study’. She takes it literally, and he pops the question. 🥰
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moonshine-nightlight · 6 months
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Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Thirty-Two
It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.
However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.
Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F
AO3: Nothing’s Wrong with Dale Chapter 32
[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5][Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten]  [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve]  [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four][Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] Part Thirty-Two [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]
While the luncheon was laid out in the great hall and the guests were encouraged to enjoy the grounds and gardens, you and Dale are tucked away in the administrative wing of the estate.
After the knot tying you together was carefully burned, you headed to grandmother’s public office, where she receives officials and conducted business with the many administrators that were needed to keep Northridge running. 
With the sacred ceremony complete, there is still the matter of the legal one.
“Thank you, Mr. Murray, Miss Adir,” Dale says to his valet and your maid. “My spouse and I will wait for my grandparents and you may return to supervising the packing of our belongings.”
A small smile graces your face at Dale’s words because they drive home that he is no longer your betrothed, but your spouse. Your husband. Yours.
“Yes, my lord,” the servants chorus, enough amusement in their eyes that you’re not certain they entirely believe in the necessity of Dale’s request. Well, the reasoning is sound, but so is the idea that two newlyweds might want a few moments alone together. They depart without any fuss.
Dale immediately looks around the room, his expression intent enough that it pierces your light mood. You frown and ask, “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, of course,” Dale says. “I was only—there it is.” He strides behind Grandmother’s desk for a pitcher of water. “Just thirsty.”
Watching how he swallows nearly a whole glass with a grimace, you frown. Cautiously, you ask, “Are you certain that is all?”
“I—,” Dale starts to brush off your concern, you can see the dismissal in his body language before he pauses. “Oh, I, everything is fine. My throat is simply sore. This water is more than adequate to soothe it.”
“The holy water did hurt you,” you say—it's not a question.
Looking almost sheepish, he nods. “I was very diligent in my preparations this week, very pious.” He sounds a little defensive, likely due to you telling him you figured out what he was. “I visited the monsacrin every night for a blessed drink. The sanctif let me take them away with me. I wanted to ensure I would not be overcome today. However, my throat is still sore.”
Tolerance or practice? is your first thought. Was he doing something to his throat to mitigate contact, as you think he might have when the sanctif demonstrated his detection lens on Dale’s hand? Or did he merely practice drinking holy water in private until he could do so with a straight face? Neither are cheering thoughts, although you feel guilty at being reassured that this morning was not a plan developed in advance. That he’d in fact been doing the opposite. “Is your throat burned in some manner? Or are the muscles in some way affected?”
Dale blinks at you before he grins. “Are you certain you are not a true physician, sana?”
“Dale,” you warn despite his flattery, not wanting to be easily diverted from your question.
“Some of each,” he tells you easily enough, although not until after a second long drink from his water glass. “The muscles are a bit stiff, the lining a bit damaged. I did need to continue to breathe and swallow so I could only pull back my physical influence on this body so much.”
Good to know. You had been wondering. You reach into your pockets, glad your full-size pockets had still been able to fit unobtrusively under even this fine gown. “I have a tea blend with me that soothes the throat, although it will work better with honey.” You join him at the cart with tea supplies, taking the kettle and settling it boil. “Grandmother occasionally enjoys some as a sweetener, but we could also send for it. That shouldn’t provoke any notice.”
“The licorice tea?” Dale sounds hopeful as he peers over your shoulder. The feeling of him so close is more distracting than you wish it was. You want to focus on making him feel better, not on how you can sense his body behind you and how you want to lean back just enough to touch. “I used it the third night to great effect.”
You stop what you're doing, turning to frown at him. “But it didn’t help the other nights?”
Dale shrugs, reaching around you to pluck a small jar from the other side of the sugar bowl. He sets the honey next to the cup you’d selected. “I only had the one bag.”
“Why did you just ask for more?” You’re more confused than offended. “Even if I didn’t know, I’d happily have given you more tea.”
Dale holds very still, still enough you notice, at your words. His eyes darken, pupils expanding just enough to make them look inhuman. You wait him out, now able to recognize when he needs time to think. He blinks only a few seconds later and he merely shrugs helplessly. “That did not occur to me. I’m rather used to being on my own.”
“Well, you’re not anymore,” you say, unable to think of anything else. You swallow down all your questions about what part of it didn’t occur to him or questions about his solitary past. “So next time, ask me for help.”
His smile is indulgent and pleased. “Yes, sana.” 
The kettle whistles causing you both to jump. Dale reaches around you, taking half a step towards the hearth. You turn back to the cup you’re fixing for him, pulling the honey jar closer, when Dale lets out a quiet noise of surprise. Before you can turn to see what’s happening, his large hand lands on your waist. You barely keep from letting out a surprised yelp as his grip tightens just enough to make it clear he’s using you to steady himself from his position, half leaned down to reach the kettle.
“My apologies,” Dale says as he straightens and lets go of you. You can feel the ghost of his touch and you’re surprised by how much you want it back. “I lost my balance for a second.”
“You should set the kettle down and fetch your cane,” you say, pointing to the heat resistant mat for the freshly heated kettle. You do not want him to trip again while holding it.
“Yes, I should,” Dale says to you as he does just that. He rejoins you at the serving cart with his primary cane, the one with the jade sword in it. He adds, almost to himself, “And I thought my balance memory had been improving.”
You add the appropriate amount of honey and stir it for him. Usually, you let such comments slide, and you’re fairly certain this one was only said because he knows you know now, but perhaps because you do know you, and the two of you are alone, you can ask, “Balance memory?”
“Memory to balance is perhaps more accurate,” Dale replies absently as he leans on the newly gotten cane and accepts the cup of tea you prepared for him. He inhales appreciatively and takes a sip, not bothering to attempt to blow on it to cool the hot tea. Whatever the holy water did to his throat, it must not be a normal burn—temperature never seems to bother him. “Delicious,” he rasps after finishing half the cup at once and with an appreciative smile at you.
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but it must not be too obvious as Dale appears to notice your confusion over his words more than anything else.
He clears his throat, looking a bit more nervous, as he says, “I, well, typically—that is, prior to being Dale, my form was amorphous and adaptable to my needs to a far greater extent.” 
He’s watching your expression closely, clearly ready to stop talking if you…if you what? Look afraid? Or bored? Angry? You don’t know so you try to look neutrally curious as best as you can. 
He continues, “If there was a dip in the ground or someone bumped into me or I leaned over too far, a limb would simply… adapt.”
You desperately want to know more but the moment feels fragile, Dale so cautious about talking openly about himself so you try to keep your words soft and simple. “How?”
“Growing longer, short, thicker.” Dale shrugs. “Whatever would be helpful to keep my balance. In physical activity or altercations, I would have been maintaining tight, conscious control over my form as a matter of course and so it is now. However, when not paying it much mind, during routine movement…”
Of course, you realize, it's no different than how you think of such things—you pay attention when stairs are steep or you’re wearing a particular item of clothing that you need to move differently in, but you don’t think about how to walk when nothing is unusual. It’s beneath your general notice. “You didn’t have to give it any attention.” 
“Correct.” Dale looks relieved you understand. “And so in such circumstances, even now, my instinct is to flex my form, but I should not—and cannot to some extent now. So I falter instead. The cane is helpful as a reminder and as an aid.”
You ponder this as Dale drinks. What other instincts must he be fighting or controlling? You’d thought him careless, and perhaps he was at times, but in retrospect, his more obvious missteps seem to be when he was new to Dale or when he was particularly distracted or hungry. Thoughtless, but not careless actions. 
“Thank you for the tea,” Dale’s voice interrupts your thoughts and you see him setting the empty cup back on the saucer. He seems a bit subdued, or cautious, but perhaps he’s only attempting to be gentle with his voice on his throat.
“You’re certain you don’t need anything more? Nothing else burned you?” You scan his features for hints of holy water or sacred wax burns. You try not to get caught up just looking at him. His face is more his than the original Dale’s now, at least to you, and it's more attractive for it.
“No, no, the wax wasn’t pleasant, or minimizing my influence wasn’t, but it's already removed.” You look down and see the white wax, which still sticks loosely to the back of your hand, has already fallen off his, without leaving a mark. Or perhaps Dale had subtly flicked it off once out of the monsacrin.
“Good, good. While waiting for the ceremony to start, I’ll admit I began to worry that even the amount of light might be too much.”
“No, no. I’m not abyssal, I’m a sort of shade.” At your look of continued confusion, Dale carefully elaborates, “Shadow, not darkness. Shadow needs light to exist, it’s why we’re close to the surface even in the Depths and why we’re more able to handle the Surface, even if we need a vessel. I could suffer some negative effects if left exposed in strong direct sunlight, but to my understanding, so can humans.”
You're startled at the comparison, but he’s correct. “Yes, no one appreciates being sunburned.” Your mind spins with new information, is it going to be this easy to discuss such matters now? Will you finally be able to get to know all the things he’s kept hidden?
“Quite.”
The sound of the door opening is surprising enough you both turn quickly towards it. Dale’s hand goes to his sword without thought, only for Grandfather’s voice to be easily heard as Steward Bilmont walks in.
“…not a cloud in sight,” he’s saying, “the best sort of luck.” You think there’s an underlying irony to Grandfather’s tone that’s more humorous than worried now that this morning’s events have been resolved favorably. It reminds you of when Dale says things you thought were asides about his nature to you but evidently were only to himself.
“It was beautiful,” your mother answers, satisfaction in her voice that reminds you of when she finishes negotiations on a particularly favorable trade contract.
“There they are!” Grandmother announces as the group enters the room. Any wonder regarding if she’d been informed however briefly that the wedding had been called off is put to rest. There’s no chance Grandfather even hinted at such a thing. She pulls Dale into a hug, placing a kiss on his cheek, before tugging you over as well. She has a surprisingly strong grip.
“Congratulations, I am so happy for you,” she continues, joy evident in her expression. She focuses on Dale. “My grandson, married.”
“Grandmother,” Dale says, fondness evident in his voice.
“Yes, yes,” she pulls back, straightening his jacket. “You are not here to listen to your Grandmother’s pride. You are here for your own.”
“Grandmother,” Dale repeats, sounding a little more exasperated.
Grandmother just winks before turning to her desk where her secretary has begun to arrange the paperwork required for officially swearing in yourself and Dale as the reigning couple running Northridge.
“My child, you did well.” Your mother pulls you into an embrace as well, her flowery perfume overwhelming, but the hug is appreciated as is the sentiment. Asher does too, the only sibling present since he’s the one inheriting Portsmith, while your father works with his secretary on arranging the Portsmith paperwork. 
Callalily had to do something similar, sign the contracts clarifying her and her descendants' place in the inheritance order since she’d also married an inheriting lord. You’re not sure what Marigold had to sign. It was likely just a formality given her intention not to have children and her spouse wasn’t likely to inherit either. Douglas remains where he is, no marriage plans in sight—and nothing you’ve seen of him these past few days changes that impression, his sacrifice to distract mother aside.
“Dale, this is for you,” Grandfather presents him with a new, exquisite pen which Dale accepts with appropriate gravity and gratitude. 
The actual signing of the paperwork is rather boring, but you appreciate the continued respite from crowds. The Northridge charters are the more complex and there are a lot of them. The various papers solidifying what it's yours solely, what authority Grandmother and Grandfather maintain, what would cause any changes to that, Northridge’s succession line. That document does prompt a significant look from Grandmother as after Dale, the fief would go to Dale’s cousin Ferdinand and his child. Luckily she doesn’t actually say anything about heirs—yet.
Instead, she presents Dale with his signet ring—from one Lady of Northridge to her heir. Grandfather gives you your own too and the smile on his face as he does so convinces you that any suspicion he once had for you is in the past. 
There is a new formal inheritance list for Portsmith that’s officially signed too, placing yourself and Dale properly in the order along with any future children you might have—the typical rules that Northridge’s heir could not also inherit Portsmith are laid out. Some wish to combine fiefs, but those tend to be people who are particularly ambitious, new to nobility, or neighbors. Most wish to keep traditions and holdings separate. Not to mention the combination of certain fiefs is severely scrutinized by the Crown.
Of course, most of this is hypothetical and not expected to be needed. Asher has plenty of children to carry on the Portsmith line. Still, your family likes to be thorough and the Northridges have had enough surprises in recent succession to agree.
Since all the details had already been worked out, and no one tries to throw last minute spanners into the works, the whole process goes smoothly if a bit long. You sign the Northridge paperwork first, allowing you to sign the Portsmith ones with your new Northridge title. All the witnesses sign as well and it’s done. You’re now officially of Northridge and Dale is the reigning lord.
As soon as celebratory drinks are in everyone’s hands, Grandmother escorts the group to their family hall. It's clear this is the portion of the inheritance tradition she was looking forward to. “Right this way, we have had everything prepared, but even I have not laid eyes on the new additions.”
 Your country home had something similar, but far less official—all the portraits are from different eras and hopelessly outdated. You think yours is from when you went off to schooling at fifteen, which perhaps isn’t too long ago, but Marigold’s is when she was that age too. There are other more recent portraits throughout the manor, but a family portrait gallery isn’t particularly important to Portsmith traditions. The city estate at the port doesn’t even have that—gifted portraits or those bought to curry favor with different interests are what decorate its halls.
Northridge’s family hall is large and organized, with multiple portraits for family members at significant stages in life going back generations. With Dale’s marriage and inheritance, Grandmother has commissioned new portraits of him and you together. You sat for the painting when you first arrived, most of your figure had been completed before Dale arrived home, with only a session or two sat together. It had been a quiet, stiff affair and you’d been grateful when you could leave the painter to his work. You had stopped by his studio in the city, allowed him to make the adjustments and touch-ups he felt necessary, but they had not been terribly long.
When you finally come to a halt, there are not one or two portraits covered in sheets for a dramatic reveal—Grandmother insisted—but three. 
You’d been shown around the gallery when you first arrived, paying most attention to Grandmother and Grandfather’s as well as Dale’s parents and only coming back for a refresher when more of Dale’s family had begun to arrive. It is still grand and intimidating, more so with yourself being added now. 
“We are going to have a new portrait commissioned as well,” Grandmother says as they walk by her and Grandfather’s most recent portrait from at least twenty years ago. There’s a severity to them and a grief that tells it was only a few years after the loss of their son and daughter-in-law. They deserve to have a happier portrait hanging. The Northridge coat of arms, which used to hang above their portrait, has already been moved to hang over the unrevealed portrait of yourself and Dale. The wall above them looks strangely bare with its removal.
You gather around the unrevealed paintings in a half circle and Grandmother waits for everyone’s attention. “To commemorate your rise to Lord of Northridge and your marriage, there are three portraits to reveal. Firstly, I am delighted to reveal the official portrait of Dale Tiberius Archibald Remmington Quincey, Lord of Northridge.”
Bilmont pulls back the blue cloth to show the portrait of Dale in his black, white, and blue suit, the one which mirrored the Northridge colors on the crest now a few feet above the still hidden joint portrait. It too had been started when Dale first arrived, before the current Dale had taken over, and some of the original Dale’s arrogance and haughtiness is evident in his posture and the line of his back. 
Still, the artist had seen Dale since he’d changed and there are hints of that throughout. His stare is direct but less condescending, the blue of his eyes more vivid, but also kinder. He looks, not older, but more mature—the youth in his fearlessness tempered. It’s a masterful blend of both Dales and you’re relieved that it leans towards the new Dale without making the contrast between this portrait and the one prior to his travels too stark.
“It is lovely, Grandmother,” Dale says, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Of course it is,” she preens. “I was certain your travels and return would help you to grow into this responsibility. This portrait makes it obvious, how much you have matured into the man I always knew you could be. I am certain your parents would be proud of you.”
Dale is obviously at a loss for words and so are you, feeling a pang of pity for Grandmother, who could not see what her grandson had become nor that he is gone. Neither of you have to say anything because she continues before you can.
“And I have not overlooked your influence, my dear.” Grandmother’s cloudy eyes still manage to narrow in on you without difficulty. “Each day you have been here, you have solidified my knowledge that you were the perfect partner for my Dale. As you can see from the halls, traditions vary, but for you I knew we would want a portrait of you in your own right. Your parents were so understanding when I wrote to them.”
You turn in surprise to see them giving you a knowing smile. “We came to a most equitable arrangement. A copy of our most recent portrait of you,” you mother says with a pleased smile.
“In exchange for a copy of the portrait of you and your husband,” your father finishes. He nods to Bilmont and the steward obligingly reveals the portrait your parents had commissioned of you. 
For a second, you’re concerned that they’ll have merely replicated the one of you at fifteen. You do not mind that portrait—you had been immensely proud of standing for it at the time under your own power and looking wonderfully adult to your young eyes—but even after your first return from school, you had been struck by how young and frail you’d looked in it. 
This is a new portrait of you in a favored blue dress—not quite the vibrant Northridge blue nor Portsmith’s blue-gray, but somewhere in the middle. You’d worn it to a number of balls, including the one you first met Grandmother and Grandfather at. The painter must have attended a number of those galas because their skill in capturing your appearance is evident. You’d seen portraits painted that resembled the subjects very little and it was most common among those painted without formal sittings.
Your mother is saying something about the painter and his methods, as if hearing your thoughts, but you’re not really listening to her, you’re too busy studying the portrait.
The you in the painting is more flattering than the one you see most often in the mirror, today perhaps as an exception, but you can recognize yourself with ease. You are more clearly the age that you are now, a grown adult rather than a sickly child in the former painting. This you has thicker hair, less of your bones are prominent. You look less on edge and of course, your frame is fuller. Mother must have instructed the painter to give you a solidity you still don’t believe you have, always pushing for what she wants you to be rather than what you are. But it’s not egregious, even if there is more conviction in the set of this you’s jaw than you’ve ever truly felt. Again, except perhaps this morning when you sought out Dale to confront him. Overall, you find the expression pleasant, even if you think there’s something a bit off with your nose. 
It’s the other details in the portrait that hold your attention. There’s a banner with the Northridge coat of arms behind you, but a book with Portsmith’s coat on the cover in our hands. The spine of the book is for a medicinal textbook, and the tea on the high table you're positioned next to even seems to steam. The vase is full of plants you recognize from your tea blends—and each of the flowers from your siblings’ namesakes are present as well. 
“It’s lovely,” you say, glad your voice is soft enough that it doesn’t betray that you abruptly feel close to tears. 
“You’re welcome,” your father says, with a comforting squeeze to your shoulder.
Soon, Grandmother quiets you all down for the final reveal. “Lastly, allow me to present the Lord and Lady of Northridge.”
Dale’s outfit, his black suit and red waistcoat is so obviously one the original Dale wore, although to be honest, this Dale is drawn to bold colors too. You’re in your white and blue with black accents Northridge dress. The two of you are posed in front of the large windows in the south hall, the ones that lead to the gardens. The clothes and the pose are of the past, but the expressions are clearly from recent sittings. So is the way you’re turned toward each other, not dramatically, but more than before. You look together instead of just standing next to each other. Even Dale’s greater presence and more forward position has been rendered far more protective than attention-seeking.
The signet rings of Northridge glitter on your fingers in the painting, even though you’d not put them on until a few minutes ago. You look married in that portrait and it helps solidify in your mind that you are.
Dale reaches over to clasp your hand in his and you smile up at him, proud to be here, in this moment, with him.
-/-
In the end, the wedding luncheon is remarkably similar to the other galas and balls that you’ve been hosting for the past few weeks, baring the high sun. You make it through being announced without tripping. You make small talk with everyone who wants to—which is everyone. You manage a few additional moments with your family. You’re grateful your dancing is with limited partners as it’s considered ill luck for the newly weds to dance with any other than each other or their immediate families.
Unusually it drags as time passes, until it is time to leave at which point you feel as if only a few moments have passed since you entered. As the married couple, you do not have to stay hosting until late in the night this time. You’ve never felt as if you were sneaking away, as if you were getting away with shirking your duties, while such a large group sees you off. It’s very peculiar.
The other servants and your packed belongings likely left over an hour ago. Only your personal servants are leaving at the same time. You find yourself outside, bidding goodbye to your family, as you stand in front of your carriage with a suddenness that almost makes you dizzy.
Then Dale is holding out a hand for you, which you take, allowing him to help you into the carriage. You carefully adjust your skirts before and after you sit down on the comfortable plush bench. A carriage for two, only a few trunks sit opposite you giving more ample room for legs and skirts. You make space on your left for Dale and he soon joins you, folding himself into a seating position as soon as he can so as not to bump his head on the ceiling. 
“Are you settled, my spouse?” he asks as the door shuts. He pulls up the window nearly as quickly so as to ensure the air does not get stifling. 
You wonder if you’ll ever get tired of hearing him call you that. Somehow you don’t think you will. “Yes, I’m comfortable.”
“Lovely,” he replies, giving a quick smile which flashes the whites of his sharp teeth. He leans forward to wave cheerily at Grandmother before he knocks on the front wood separating yourselves from the driver and footman.
It only takes a minute for the driver to set the horses off and you pull away from Northridge estate to the sound of falling grain thrown by guests before they return to enjoying the festivities without you.
You do your best to wave goodbye to your family, but looking out the window for too long begins to upset your stomach. They’re out of sight before long as it is.
You settle back down in your seat and try to orient yourself, catching your breath in practice if not necessity.
“Water?” Dale offers, holding out a flask and wiping the back of his mouth with his free hand to indicate he’d just taken a sip himself.
You take the flask gratefully and drink some water to clear your mouth and throat. You pass it back to him with murmured thanks. The silence, the first in hours, fills the carriage.
Dale is the one who breaks it. He reaches for the basket on top and pulls out an apple. “I had them pack some foodstuff for us, given you tend not to eat much at these events—”
“And you are nearly always hungry,” you finish, accepting a grape. A mix of embarrassed and flattered that he knows you so well.
“Quite,” Dale says with a crooked smile.
You get caught in his gaze, like you haven’t since the very beginning. Perhaps instead of you becoming accustomed to it yourself, Dale had merely gotten better at controlling the way his presence could reel you in. Perhaps he isn’t trying so hard now that he knows that you know. Now that you’re finally alone.
“So I suppose we should—” Dale is cut off by a loud bark of laughter from the front of the carriage. Whoever made the sound, driver or footman, is quick to shut their mouth, but the reminder is well served. Dale smiles apologetically. “We should talk once we arrive at the lodge of any matters of import, perhaps not now.”
“No, you’re correct,” you sigh, feeling the day’s events weighing strongly on you. You adjust your seat, grateful you had insisted on Grandmother storing your veil for you here and not taking it on your travels. Your neck bends at an awkward angle when you try to rest it against the inner frame. A bump in the road, still being worked on, causes you to sit straighter and give up on the idea of leaning against the carriage side.
“We can speak of other matters,” you say, though you’d actually like little more than to stop talking and nap. The day had begun so much earlier than usual, in order for you to be ready before the mid-morning ceremony, and had been so busy that you’re exhausted.
“Of course,” Dale says. “We’ll have an entire week at the lodge, before we go on to Riverton. It’s been many years since, em, I’ve been there, but it’s an industrious city, with a river that has hopefully enough water for you to feel at home…”
You listen as Dale elaborates on some specific memories he has of the city, more than the names of officials, and where you would visit as discussed with Grandmother and Grandfather. He isn’t explicit, in case either servant up front can hear, but you can read between the lines far more easily now that he isn’t pretending these are his own memories. He’s careful to keep his voice lower to minimize the others' hearing, but loud enough for you to pick out above the clatter of the carriage on the road.
The overall effect is soothing and comfortable. It’s easy to close your eyes, to sway a little in your seat. Dale’s hand ends up in your lap at some point, and your hands cover it without remembering having done so. The day hadn’t been overwhelmingly hot, but it's warm and you’re so tired. Not just from today, but from the whole past month. From before that when you were anxious to meet the original Dale and dealing with him once you had. From the weeks and months spent searching for a spouse. It all seems to be catching up with you at once.
You drift off with the motion of the carriage, and the sound of Dale’s voice in your ear, his strength and presence comfortingly close by.
[Part Thirty-Three]
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