to all my fic writers: be that one rarepair writer. even if literally no one else is there. be the single glowing lightbulb in the void. write the rarepair so good some poor reader stumbles on it at 3am, loses their mind, and then realizes… oh. there’s only one fic. yours. congrats you’re both the blessing and the curse.
AO3 Site Skin: Slay The Princess by @blacktabbygames
A '(Guest)' pfp
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Disclaimers : I'm not very experienced in making a site skins and i'm not an expert of coding things either so i apologize if there's some places that look odd/hard for you to read. I take no request. Thank you nan11 for helping me fix some minor stuff. pngs and images are from Pinterest + screenshots i took while playing the game on my cousin laptop. I only use my handphone while making this skin, so if other devices look more wonky than it already are, then i can't help you with that🙏. I replaced the og AO3 icons with this black and white icons by @zerafinacss. Dividers by @uzmacchiato.
𓅨 How can i not make my favorite visual novel ever as a site skin when i got the skill and will to do that. There's various routes you can choose in this game so making a skin that captured all of them is impossible for me, so i'm mostly focus on one route which is The Nightmare route. Voice of the Paranoid is one of my favorite voices in the game, his constant "Heart. Lungs. Liver. Nerves." blend in with the horror element and dark atmosphere that The Nightmare brings is just so good, it's thrilling and unnerving at the same time.
my ao3 skins masterlist
Tutorial how to activate the skin + the code :
Copy the code i provided in this GitHub, there is a copy button at the top right(•••) of the code box. And here if you prefer Google doc.
Sign to your AO3 account, after that go to "Dashboard".
On your "Dashboard", tap on a section called "Skins".
On the "Skins" page, tap on the button labelled "Create Site Skin".
Give your site skin a unique title, i usually use 2-4 word for the skins that i saved. IF YOUR SKIN NAME IS NOT UNIQUE, YOU CAN'T SAVE THE SKIN.
Paste the codes you copied from my GitHub into the "CSS" box.
When you're done, scroll to the bottom of the page and click a button labelled "Submit". This will save your site skin and take you to a new page where you can see the title of your skin as well as all of the code.
Click "My Site Skin" and you can see the skin are added, press "Use" to activate it.
your !! comments !! on fics !! are !! important !! to us writers !!
i’ve been seeing a lot of people saying they feel bad for leaving comments, especially on older fics, because they’re afraid to bother the author.
but i’m here to tell you this: BOTHER US!! you have no idea how much writers appreciate the interaction. every single time i get a comment on one of my fics, it makes my entire WEEK. it’s how we know if people resonated with our writing. writers love talking about their work and about the original media! so please, BOTHER US. even if it’s just emojis. don’t ever feel bad for interacting! that’s literally how you keep fandoms alive.
Warnings: I’m a plant girl so lots of gardening references XD
Summary: Alastor Hartfelt’s life was delightfully simple. Host his radio show. Tend to his garden. Commit the occasional murder for funsies. And most importantly avoid people.
The arrival of a young widow in the neighboring cottage threatens all four. Oh dear.
Series Masterlist
Roots
Your POV
Watching the handsome man stroll languidly down your front path and back toward his car, you couldn’t help but let your gaze trail after the lanky figure. He was tall, thin, and from what you could tell beneath the crisp shirt and fitted vest, rather well sculpted.
Not that you had much to compare him to. Your dead husband had been rather portly and you’d thankfully never had to look at him naked with the lights on.
This man though. Mr. Hartfelt…Now he was handsome. You mentally cursed yourself for answering the door looking half feral and armed with a kitchen knife. Of all the first impressions to make on a man who looked as though he’d stepped straight out of a magazine.
As if sensing your gaze, he lifted a hand in a small wave before slipping into his automobile. You found yourself returning it before your brain had fully caught up with your body.
The engine rumbled to life. You stood there like an idiot watching the vehicle pull away, following it with your eyes for far longer than was reasonable until the headlights disappeared into the driveway of the house next door.
Your stomach promptly sank. Fuck. Your neighbor was breathtaking. You wondered for a moment if he was married. You hadn’t even had the wherewithal to check for a wedding band.
Absent-mindedly, your thumb turned the diamond band you now wore on your right hand. Moved there after the presumed loss of your husband.
Even if he wasn’t married….It was improper to be thinking of Alastor that way at all.
Your husband, probably barely cold in the swamp somewhere and yet your thoughts kept drifting back to warm brown eyes you could have happily lost yourself in. Even behind his glasses he had been lovely. There had been something striking about him. Something effortlessly handsome that lingered long after he’d driven away.
And his skin. God. Warm, brown, and seemingly untouched by imperfection.
You groaned softly and dragged both hands down your face. The women back in the city would be horrified.
A widow was meant to mourn. To dress in black. To pine dramatically for the husband she had lost. Even when there was no body.
Instead you were standing in your foyer thinking about your attractive neighbor. Shaking your head, you made your way toward the bathroom. A hot bath and a good night’s sleep would surely put an end to these ridiculous thoughts.
Or so you told yourself. Unfortunately, when you closed your eyes later that evening, it wasn’t your late husband who occupied your thoughts.
It was Mr. Hartfelt.
The next day brought Miss Susan.
Head of the community bridge and bingo association, choir leader at the church, and seemingly the eyes and ears of the entirety of Mandeville.
You received her on the front porch with iced tea while she arrived carrying a basket of freshly baked scones as a welcoming gift. She was exactly the sort of woman you expected to find in a town like this.
You knew women like her. The sort who could learn every secret in a ten mile radius while appearing perfectly innocent. Thankfully, you were an excellent actress. And you knew you needed her on your side to continue this illusion.
You played the part of the grieving widow flawlessly, nodding at appropriate moments and feigning heartbreak whenever the conversation drifted toward your late husband. You even managed a few carefully timed tears which Susan accepted with sympathetic noises and a gentle pat to your hand.
By the time she was halfway through her second scone, she seemed thoroughly convinced.
“Have you had a chance to get to know anyone in town yet?” Susan asked, brushing a few crumbs from her floral skirt.
You took a sip of your tea. It occurred to you then that if anyone possessed information regarding your handsome neighbor, it would be Susan.
Women like her always knew everything. Who was courting who, who was feuding, who was pregnant and the like.
And, hopefully, whether or not an attractive man living next door happened to have a wife or girlfriend.
“Well,” you began, striving for a tone that suggested only mild curiosity, “I had the pleasure of rescuing my neighbor’s cat yesterday.”
Susan’s eyes immediately brightened. Bingo.
“Mr….. Hartfelt, I believe?” you continued.
“Oh, Alastor!”
The way she said his name made your stomach tighten. Susan definitely knew him.
The woman leaned back in her chair with the unmistakable expression of someone preparing to share information she absolutely should not.
“Do you know him?” you asked.
“I’m surprised you don’t.” Susan chuckled. “You young people and your fancy jazz music. You’re from New Orleans, aren’t you?”
You nodded, thoroughly confused by where this conversation was heading.
“Then I’m shocked you don’t know him from his radio show. Why, he’s known as the voice of New Orleans. One of the biggest names on the air.”
It took a moment. Then the pieces clicked together. Of course. How had you not made the connection?
Though, in your defense, it wasn’t every day one met a celebrity. More than that, you simply hadn’t expected the man behind the voice to be… well… So damn handsome.
Nor had you expected a man of his color to have achieved such prominence. Times were changing, certainly, but not nearly quickly enough. Men like Mr. Hartfelt were rarely afforded the recognition they deserved, let alone the sort of fame Susan was describing.
You found yourself oddly pleased he’d managed it anyway.
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a radio listener,” you admitted.
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Though inwardly you were already making plans to discover precisely when his broadcasts aired so that you might accidentally find yourself listening every chance you got.
“Ah, an old soul.” Susan smiled warmly. “You’re a sweet girl. Such a shame the cards life dealt you.”
You lowered your eyes and gave a small nod. The conversation drifted onward and, much to your delight, remained centered on the subject of your neighbor.
You learned that Alastor spent most days working in New Orleans and only returned home in the evenings. Damn. You’d been rather hoping for more opportunities to accidentally run into him.
Susan, meanwhile, seemed more than happy to continue divulging every scrap of information she possessed.
There had apparently been rumors a few years back romantically linking him to the owner of some speakeasy in the city. The details were frustratingly vague and Susan was quick to admit she’d never managed to confirm any of it.
How scandalous. Though from everything she described, Mr. Hartfelt hardly seemed the type to become entangled in a real romance.
“He’s a solitary soul,” Susan explained with a knowing sigh. “Always has been. Give him a garden, a stack of books, and a record player and he’s perfectly content. Half the time I don’t think he even realizes the rest of us exist.”
You smiled into your tea. The image was oddly charming.
“He isn’t unfriendly,” she continued. “Quite the opposite, actually. Polite as can be. But he keeps people at arm’s length.”
That sounded familiar. You’d spent most of your life doing much the same. And Susan huffed dramatically.
“Why, I’ve tried introducing him to nearly every eligible young woman in Mandeville.”
Your eyebrows rose.
“You have?”
“Oh, repeatedly.”
The older woman looked personally offended by the failure.
“He takes them out. Every single one. Flowers, dinner and walks through town. He truly is the perfect gentleman. Then nothing.”
“No second dates?” you asked.
“Not a single one.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. For some reason that pleased you far more than it should have.
Susan launched into another story about one particularly determined schoolteacher who had spent six months attempting to catch his attention, and you nodded along at all the appropriate moments.
Truthfully, you were absorbing every detail like a sponge. The more she talked, the more curious you became. Still, you were careful not to appear too interested.
Just enough encouragement to keep Susan talking without revealing that you were hanging onto every word concerning the handsome radio host next door.
Fortunately for you, Alastor Hartfelt appeared to be one of her favorite subjects.
Eventually the conversation drifted away from your neighbor and onto church functions, charity drives, and the various committees Susan seemed to run with an iron fist disguised beneath a pleasant smile.
Before you knew it, you had somehow been invited to a women’s luncheon, a bridge club, and something involving flower arrangements that sounded suspiciously competitive.
You smiled and nodded your way through all of it. Truthfully, you did need to get out more. One of the few advantages widowhood afforded was freedom. No husband to answer to, so no schedule but your own.
And if you ever found yourself trapped in an activity you disliked, you figured you could always excuse yourself with a faraway look and claims of grief. No one ever questioned a grieving widow. Cards, however, sounded enjoyable enough. At the very least, it would be entertaining.
By the end of Susan’s visit, she had all but arranged for a young man from church to mow your lawn, another to help haul empty boxes to a burn pile, and was actively trying to recruit volunteers to help prepare your neglected flower beds. You laughed softly.
“I don’t suppose you know anyone particularly skilled with gardening?”
The question left your lips with what you hoped sounded like innocent curiosity. Susan brightened immediately.
“Why, you’re living next door to the city’s green thumb himself!”
You fought very hard to keep your expression neutral.
“Am I?”
“Alastor Hartfelt,” she confirmed. “That man could probably grow roses in a swamp if he put his mind to it. Half the flowers in this town have come from cuttings he’s given away.”
Well, that was certainly useful information.
“I’d direct any gardening questions his way if I were you,” Susan continued. “Assuming you can ever catch him at home. He keeps the strangest hours.”
“Oh?”
She nodded knowingly.
“Works all week and on weekends he has a habit of staying out late. Lord only knows what keeps him occupied.”
(Murder, the answer was murder. Though thankfully neither you nor Susan knew that.)
“I suppose the company he keeps isn’t really my business, but he is such a fine young man. I wish he would settle down. He’s not getting any younger.”
You hummed thoughtfully and took another sip of your tea. As Susan continued talking, you found yourself smiling into your cup. You could definitely come up with gardening questions. An endless number of gardening questions.
And if those questions just so happened to provide an excuse to speak with the handsome man next door again, well… That was merely a happy coincidence….
Alastor POV
Alastor had been looking forward to spending his one full day off exactly as he pleased. Sunday was sacred. A day reserved for tending his garden, enjoying the quiet of the countryside and finally repairing the troublesome latch on the kitchen window before Jambalaya decided to embark on yet another adventure.
The cat had already developed a concerning interest in the outdoors since her last romp.
Unfortunately, the moment he spotted Susan marching up the path with purpose in her step, he knew his plans for a peaceful morning were doomed.
She claimed she needed tulip bulbs. Tulip bulbs which Alastor had foolishly promised her during their last conversation simply to expedite her departure. Now she had come to collect themselves
“Oh Alastor, your new neighbor is simply a doll. Shame about her husband though.”
“Yes, a shame indeed,” he replied smoothly.
“I heard you two met already! That is wonderful. She actually seems to be needing quite a bit of help in the gardening department. You should lend her some of your expertise.”
Alastor carefully kept his expression pleasant, though he could feel the slightest twitch threatening the corners of his smile.
He did not know what game Susan was playing. It had been well over a year since she had last attempted to interfere in his personal affairs. Surely she was not trying to play matchmaker with a newly widowed woman.
No, that would require a level of subtlety Susan simply did not possess.
More likely she had decided that, because he owned a shovel and knew the difference between a rose bush and a weed, he was now somehow responsible for his neighbor’s gardening problems.
As if he had nothing better to do than wander next door dispensing horticultural wisdom to strangers. The very thought made him inwardly sigh.
Alastor had every intention of simply dropping off a small sack of starter plants. Squash, cucumbers, beans, you know the easy things. The sorts of vegetables that required genuine dedication or incompetence to kill.
But when he spotted you in the yard, cheeks flushed pink from the afternoon heat and windswept hair escaping whatever attempt had been made to tame it, his plans changed rather abruptly.
You were crouched in the middle of an overgrown patch, bare hands wrapped around a familiar vine.
“What the hell are you doing? That’s poison ivy.”
You practically jumped out of your skin. And for a moment he was greeted with the same wide eyed alarm as the night you’d answered the door armed with a knife.
“I… I…” you stammered, looking between him and the offending plant still dangling from your fingers.
“It causes a rather unpleasant blistering rash,” he explained, softening his tone when you immediately dropped it.
Crossing the distance between you, he nudged the vine aside with the toe of his boot.
“I didn’t know,” you admitted.
Clearly.
“Do you have rubbing alcohol?” he asked.
His eyes briefly swept over your arms. Your skin was already flushed from the sun, untouched by the sort of labor that came with maintaining property. Delicate, really. He could already imagine exactly how angry the rash would become if left untreated.
“I think so?”
You hurried toward the house before he could elaborate. Alastor sighed quietly and followed, carrying the sack of plants with him.
The cottage was in a state that could only be described as recently inhabited. You disappeared into the kitchen while he lingered near the doorway.
“Aha!” you declared triumphantly after a moment of rummaging. Turning, you nearly collided with him.
“Oh!”
Your cheeks immediately darkened. For a brief moment neither of you moved. The way your eyes caught the sunlight spilling through the kitchen window. Long lashes fluttering as you looked anywhere except directly at him.
“You found it?” he asked.
“Oh. Yes. Right.”
You thrust the small brown bottle toward him perhaps a bit too quickly. Alastor took it from your hands and motioned toward the sink.
“Wash up first.”
You obeyed immediately, turning on the faucet and scrubbing your hands and arms while he stood beside you. Was it just him? Or did the kitchen suddenly feel smaller? Once you were finished, he uncapped the bottle.
“Hold still.”
You extended your hands obediently over the basin. The clear liquid splashed across your skin and you hissed.
“Good Lord that burns.”
“It is alcohol, not holy water,” Alastor remarked dryly.
And you couldn’t help but laugh despite once again feeling utterly embarrassed in the situation you found yourself in with him. He tried his hardest not to smile along with that sweet sound. It was…pretty.
“There,” he said once he’d finished. “That should help prevent the oils from spreading.”
You looked down at your damp hands before offering him a sheepish smile.
“I suppose this is where you tell me I’m not fit to be left unsupervised in the gardening world. I’ve heard you’re somewhat of a whiz.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“I was attempting to be polite enough not to say anything negative aloud.”
The laugh that escaped you this time was even brighter than the first. And much to his utter annoyance, Alastor found himself smiling back. A genuine smile. Not the polished one he offered the world, but a real one.
“Thank you, Alastor.”
“Think nothing of it.”
A blatant lie. He thought entirely too much of it during the short walk home. As he stepped off your porch, he glanced back toward the neglected flower beds one final time. The garden was an absolute disaster.
The weeds were out of control. The soil needed turning. Half the beds would need rebuilding before anything worthwhile could be planted. An unreasonable undertaking by any measure.
Which was why Alastor found it rather concerning that he was already mentally planning where to begin.
Tomorrow evening he had intended to spend his time elsewhere. The weather was pleasant enough for a chase through the bayou. There was a man several towns over whose continued existence had become increasingly irritating when he chose to go out on the town.
Yet somehow, as he crossed his own threshold, he found himself considering lumber for raised beds and whether tomatoes or peppers might fare better in the patch nearest your porch.
