Mar 25
When you try to hide in the shadows, but the sun follows you everywhere. ❤️
seen from Netherlands
seen from Taiwan
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Kenya
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Estonia
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Spain
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
When you try to hide in the shadows, but the sun follows you everywhere. ❤️
You will be loved. You don't have a say in the matter.
Little comic of hectaly. I love them so much❤️
Just sorry for the orders to read are troublesome, check the arrows above . I also made a japanese version, that's why(・_・;)
request by @beevean , although I did try something else it wasn't working, and i happened to have this concept (and im not sure if i wouldve gone through with it honestly) honestly idk if this came out too well sorry </33
In your eyes, I find the path I crave 🤍🖤✨️
Still in silly mode
Chapter 18 of Sarabande of Healing is out!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/59795473/chapters/209328381
Summary: In the cold darkness, Rosalie dreams of memories that weren't her own.
Between my clusterfuq of a schedule and writer's block, I couldn't get myself to work on this chapter at all. I decided to save half of it for next chapter so I can get this done. With that in mind, I don't need to put up a trigger warning for this chapter since the darker part of this backstory will be spared until later.
I won't waste y'all's time so I'm leaving my rendition of the main characters for this fic!
@beevean pspspsps come get ur Hectaly, freshly-baked
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She keeps a strange book hidden under a doily, which she uncovers at night. Wreathed by the soft glow of a candle, he watches her lips move in silence. His eyes remain fastened to them, to the breath she takes, fluttering the smoke. Even though Rosaly has not forbidden him, Hector has the vaguest sense he will desecrate her beloved book. During the day it lies veiled before him, a bride he cannot touch. When she takes notice from her sewing stool, a glimmer of amusement passes through her. "It is a Bible, Hector," she says between dips of the needle, very nearly as though she is explaining it to a child. "The written word of God." He skims his fingertips over the delicate thread. It is a bundle of paper bound together with hide and string. It does not burn at the touch, as Isaac once claimed. He had deferred to Isaac's knowledge at the time, for none best his memory for grimoires. He can recite from heart ancient rituals recorded by magi half the world away, even though he has no need of them under their Lord's tutelage. Once, for fun, Isaac read instructions on the drawing of a Christian sigil in a shrill, mocking voice, causing their Lord's lesser servants to shake the halls with laughter. The sonorous boom coupled with the vibration beckoned him, causing them to laugh harder. You thought the chamber might collapse? Oh, Hector, how many winds must rage through that pretty skull of yours? But this, the so-called holy book. Men bled for it. Bled by it. Fragments drift through his mind like flotsam from a crashed ship, too faint now to hear from shore. During the slaughter, snatches gargled from dying mouths in their feverish throes. Rosaly's needle-nicked fingers slow. "Hector," she says, voice snow-soft. "Does it trouble you?" "No," he says. "I was... dreaming. Please, return to your lace." "Would you like me to read some to you?" Summoned back to her, he holds her gaze. She offers him a smile that spreads honey through his soul. "I should enjoy that, Rosaly."