americanvvitch | continuation for devildo || its terrible potential has begun

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continuation for devildo || its terrible potential has begun

[continued from here]

The ending came quickly, as they so often did.

Little fanfare surrounded Alastor's exit... no floating appendages, no jovial crackling of her radio. Only the quiet ringing of piano keys to play him off as he vanished from sight, the last notes of a doleful wake. It seemed an inappropriately sober outtro, in contrast to the tone of the rest of the evening.

With Alastor gone, deep silence settled over the cabin. Save for soft footsteps while the flour and whiskey were tucked away, and the creak and latch of the door. The radio show he had pulled into existence dwindled away by the time she had finished, and then all that was left was the sound of grit and sand as it blew over the horizon and the occasional pop of the fire in her hearth. Little by little each trace of him faded, unsustainable without his magic, but even as his essence seeped out of the world, Lotte felt the creature take root in her mind. The worn mattress beneath her gave no comfort or relief. The red stag and the thrill and terror of it might very well haunt her for the rest of her days.

The feeling that had long plagued her, of feeling somewhere lost between this world and another was only intensified now. Time would flow, dawn would come, nothing in her little home would stretch itself larger than its physical shape ought to have been, and the world would return to its previous state. All would mend itself now.

All but her.

The idea that she could not be the same after what she'd done followed her, like her own gauzy shadow, through the following week. The days rolled in and out, hazy with dust, fragrant loaves of fresh bread and the slow drying of the original, ordinary bottle of whiskey that predated the harvest night. Lotte had never missed anyone, so she couldn't really say for sure that the strange restlessness she couldn't quite shake was covetous. Or that it had anything to do with Alastor in particular. If she had called something else up, would it have been such a distraction? Well, there really wasn't any way to know with Alastor and his like down there and Lotte wasting away up here - and that was just how it would have to stay.

She had no excuse to call Alastor and what good sense she possessed (along with pride, perhaps) prevented her from making another social call. She was stalwart in that, or so she thought.

But Lotte was not any great mountain or a deeply-rooted tree. She was kindling, and a spark of fire and a rush of air was all it ever took to change her course.

∅ ∅ ∅ ∅

Near a week and a half had passed, before the storm hit. It wasn't a surprise - this was probably closing in on the fiftieth storm Lotte had weathered in this place. The static electricity had woken her before dawn and she'd wasted no time tugging on her boots and wrapping the bottom of her face with a double piece of old cotton before she ventured out of the cabin to check that each sigil at the edge of town was intact. The farmers had instructions on how to refresh the sigils placed at the center of their acreage and along the borders - they would be on their own with no car or horse at her disposal to check them.

Surrounding the town itself, there were three. The head of the triangle lay about two miles up the road, just off a crossroads. She'd noticed early on that most of the storms rolled in from that direction, and so she'd created the barrier's tip there with some hope that it would slice through the force of nature and help distribute the power along the sides of where the barrier ran, rather than letting it hit them head on. That one had to be checked first, then she'd double back along the fence line to the other two.

After that, things had happened fast. Dark clouds had rolled in on her way to the last sigil point, and cast a shroud over the land that turned it black in a matter of moments. There'd been no choice but to run for the last sigil and then pray the storm held as she ran harder back through the fields to the shack, sparks of blue flame snapping at her her hair from along the fence line as she went.

There hadn't been enough time to seal up the shutters, plug the cracks in the door with rags and blankets and scribble a sigil on the door as she normally might have. Instead, she'd had to disappear into the basement with little more than a blanket to shield from the dust.

Dust storms came and went quickly, at least.

The cleanup had taken longer. Several hours of sweeping the sand and dirt from surfaces, dragging all the linens out to hang outside and beat the dust from them - because the barrier couldn't keep a storm out entirely. No, it only curbed the force, mitigated the damage.

It was well into the evening by the time she'd finished that, eaten some cold stew, a piece of bread, and settled in at her table with the whiskey Alastor had given her.

She'd earned a bit of celebration hadn't she? She'd managed to get a fire going, all the doors and windows were open to air things out, and she did have a little cough that needed soothing.

Of course, Lotte planned to make the bottle to last, so she hadn't poured too much. Which was.. admittedly hard to do after tasting it for the first time. Little favors allowed her to be alone for the coughing fit that followed her first sip. It was smooth, very smooth, but also by far the strongest thing she'd ever put in her body.

But it was good. Very good, really.

So good that Lotte didn't quite notice the warm, easy slide that took her from pleasantly tipsy to quite drunk all in her first glass.

And how she'd gone from the cheery warmth of sitting by her fire, reading a book by candlelight and listening to the radio to painting a rather large, improvised sigil on the wall of her shack well.... she really didn't know. She felt warm and loose all over, and it seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea to invite Alastor back for a chat and a drink. Why shouldn't she?

He had been more of a friend to her than anyone here! He was clever, had more than a bit of wit, and she missed the particular heat and bite of his magic. Like cinnamon and clove in mulled wine.

Lotte stepped back, wiping the blood on her pale green dress before her eyes fluttered closed and she called. This sigil was not so carefully crafted, but she felt no lack of magic in it, if anything, she felt like she knew how to call for Alastor better. Not at a physical place, so much as a wavelength in the magic, her intuition told her that this sigil was right for what she sought, and it was nothing to funnel her own magic through it to create a proper invitation. A door. All he needed to do was step through, because that was what she wished.

Why don't you come join me for a drink, Mr. Radio Demon?

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Lotte rubbed her thumb over the curve of the glass bottle. She had little real concept of holding her liquor well - she certainly felt drunk, like the world was warm and fuzzy and a little less hard than usual, but she didn't feel as slow as Alastor looked to her, despite the fact that she'd gone through as much physical exhaustion as he had. Or nearly. Drunk felt to her like being curled up on something soft near a fire, like the pleasant burn of the sun when walking along the black asphalt on a warm day, prickling just underneath her skin.

Even back then, when she'd summoned him after having a few drinks of the whiskey, she'd managed to keep her wits about her and her feet planted under her firmly. They'd made a whole deal, like that, hadn't they? The idea of being better at this rather mundane thing than him was funny somehow, and a snicker slipped out from her as she passed the bottle back to him.

"Planning a career as a murderer doesn't seem very silly if you discover you're very good at it," she pointed out.

Lotte leaned back against the dress, curling her palm around her neck and rubbing a bit of soreness out of it.

"Speaking of, I think I'm better at drinking than you." She didn't bother hiding the grin that accompanied that assertion.

"How would you know," he asked with a coy glint in his eye and a curl of his lips, "after one go of it?" And that was as true of murder as of anything else, Alastor thought. One success could be pure luck, nothing at all to do with your skill. In most hobbies, most professions, there were ample texts to study, degrees to be had, mentorships to take on. If you happened to discover your calling was to rid the world of men who never should have graced this earth in the first place, where were you to go?

There were no signposts, no guides.

Alastor laughed at that, on the tail end of another drink from the bottle's mouth. He could almost taste Lotte there, now, he thought, and he pressed the back of his hand to his lips, to stifle any further cackling, so that he could get his words out. "I think not. I'll show you up soon enough, you've caught me at a disadvantage. Is that honorable? I don't think so."

He hoped she enjoyed this, this ephemeral and false sense of having the upper hand over him. It was false enough that he could find amusement in it, rather than alarm. She couldn't really harm him, nor could she really outdrink him, if he was in his proper faculties. He shrugged and handed the bottle back to her. "But I don't mind."

Lotte wanted to like his laugh less than she did, desperately, but that ship had well and truly sailed, lost at sea as soon as it tore from him. There was a hopeless effort on her part to ignore it as she took the bottle back and wrapped her lips around it, let the liquid slide down her throat and sit molten in her belly.

"How does anyone know they're good at anything? How did I know I'd be able to call you up again, that second time?" Lotte shrugged, looked at the black that still tipped her fingers on each hand.

"I'm at a disadvantage too, you know."

It could have been chance the first time, but she'd had no doubts the second. Would anyone try something twice, if they didn't think it suited them just a little? And she had been good at it, clearly, whatever this was, her dealings with this - her - demon.

Lotte let her head drop to the side, cheek heavy on her shoulder and she peered up at him with a smirk.

"Guess that just means we'll have to do this again, so I can best you properly."

"You simply do." From anyone else, that might have sounded like an empty platitude, but from Alastor, he clearly believed it. He was too self-possessed not to. No one else had ever had to tell him he was good at something; he knew when he was, and he knew when to change course, when he wasn't. He wasn't one for hammering away at something that didn't come naturally to him, and it was natural enough, to slit his father's throat and cut him into pieces and leave him in the swamps. It was natural enough, everything that came after that. If it hadn't been, if the learning curve was too sharp, he might have stopped.

He gestured vaguely in the air and thought, ah, might as well, and conjured up another smoke without removing the case from his pocket. This one wasn't a cigarette, but a proper and stiff cigar he'd left lying on the end table in his sitting room, back in hell. This time, he blew on the end to light it, the brimstone of his breath springing it to life. And after a puff, he offered it to Lotte, just to see what she would do.

"What disadvantage do you fancy for yourself, my dear? You're clearly doing better than I am." Was he mocking her for implying as much? Maybe. His glasses glinted in the firelight, spreading a bright and colourful crackle of light over his eyes. "We can do it as many times as you like."

You simply did. It was true, and Lotte knew it as much as he did. Of course, that might not have been obvious here in this hellscape of a countryside, but Lotte was good at being a witch. Good at surviving, too, though there were plenty of times she'd doubted both.

"I was the one wrestling you to the ground, don't forget, and I'm only human. Sort of." Lotte pointed, and she sounded appropriately cheeky even to her own ears as she took the cigar from his fingers and stared at it. No one she'd known had ever had enough money to afford one. It seemed a pity not to take advantage of the offer and try. Lotte pressed the rolled end to her lips and tried to mimic the puff Alastor had taken from the thing, inhaling it sharply into her lungs only to cough it right back out. Lotte tucked her face into her elbow to cough up the smoke and prairie dust that always seemed to linger no matter how good the air got. Why did everything seem to want to choke her?

Stubbornly, once she had her breath back under her, Lotte took another puff from it, exhaled, and this time only the slightest weeze escape her lips with it. It tasted sharp and a little bitter, a little like whiskey too. Lotte was fairly certain if she kissed Alastor right now, he'd taste the same.

"Did I tell you how we figured out I was a witch?" Lotte passed the cigar back, breathing out her nose and letting the smoke settle into all her senses like a blanket. "You'd like the story."

A peal of laughter erupted from Alastor, as Lotte struggled with the cigar. It was so genuine and abrupt, it watered his eyes as he watched her. Far from the first time he'd seen such a sight, but it would never fail to amuse him. "Are you, now?" he asked her, on the tail end of that laughter.

His shadow rippled up from the floorboards where it hid beneath Lotte's narrow bed, curled around him like a shawl. He shivered slightly under its touch, more comfortable now than he had been before, more comfortable than he would have been if he nestled under the blankets.

"Please," he said, "tell me." And he gestured for her to go on, with the cigar that he plucked back from her blackened fingers. If there was a story, Alastor wanted it, wanted to revel in it and absorb it like water into his veins. And for a show of good faith, he wriggled back on the bed, propped her meager pillows against the wall and settled back into them, looking wholly amused with himself as another column of smoke rose from his lips with a puff from the cigar. He held it out to her - she was far enough away now, from his position settled back against the wall, she would have to come up and get it if she wanted it.

Lotte was more human than him, the most human thing in this room, if nothing else. There was little doubt Alastor wasn't acutely aware of that, but still. Whether or not that put her at a disadvantage currently was less clear but certainly a card worth playing, if it were.

Alastor, clearly looking to earn his bed time tale, settled back into the bed of his own accord. Finally. If she'd known bed time stories was all it took she would have come up with a dozen things to lull him to sleep. This one, for what it was worth, was wholly and entirely true as far as Lotte remembered it. Memories were a tricky thing, she often thought, but she remembered this enough to make a story out of it for Alastor's sake.

She had a choice then, between staying where she was or getting up and accepting the offered cigar, dangled from Alastor's fingers in his new and cozy position against the wall. The more horizontal, the better, she reasoned and pulled her legs under her before pushing herself up and over to sit on the edge of the bed, one palm sinking into the mattress near his knee as she plucked the cigar from his hand.

"Once upon a time..." Lotte drawled with a smirk, taking a puff of the cigar much more gracefully this time before passing it back, "and all that other nonsense that accompanies stories about a child of fairy tales," Lotte tilted her chin up and exhaled the smoke out into the room, watched it curl toward the ceiling.

"A farmer and his wife were cursed with a child with hair the color of the devil's flesh." Lotte leaned back on the arm planted on the mattress. "They tried to love their unfortunate daughter, maybe, but before long odd and unusual things began happening around the farm house. Objects moving for no reason at all. And the little girl was often found sitting in a corner, talking to nothing - or something, and well, I don't have to tell you how farmers and their wives and their pastors react to children who speak to things that don't appear to be there."

Lotte looked again at her fingertips, her palms, dusted black.

"So, one day her mother dresses her up in the prettiest white dress she has, and braids her hair up like they're going to church, though they're not. Instead, the doting father takes his little girl to the river to go for a swim. They wade out into the water in all their clothes, which she finds very odd... but they wade out until her little feet can't touch the ground anymore. And it seems all very according to plan until her father makes the mistake of trying to drown her himself, instead of letting the river sweep her away and probably accomplish the task all on its own."

"But she doesn't drown. That's odd too, isn't it? No, she doesn't drown, because her hands turn black and anything she touches burns. So she grips onto her father's arms and hands and she burns him up until he lets go of her hair and her white dress and her throat and she burns up the water around her until it boils and she drags herself back to the shore and burns up all the water she swallowed too."

Lotte plucked the cigar from Alastor's hands and took a puff, exhaled harder.

"She figures out that she made it happen, and she starts making other things happen, on purpose." Lotte handed it back again. "You know the rest, more or less. They let her make things happen as long as it's convenient to them, the town looks the other way, until they find a more effective and lucrative way to get rid of her, and so it goes."

The story rolled through Alastor like wind, like shadow, like a warm crackle of energy. Her energy was in it, and he admired that she could tell the tale of herself with such power, a power normally reserved for the regurgitation of other's tales. It was always hard to speak about oneself so profoundly, with no boast, no contrivance. And she did it.

He settled back against the wall, letting her words wash over him, hanging on each one because it would be disrespectful not to. She was sharing a piece of her soul, when she didn't need to. She could have summarized it briefly, given him the major points of the plot, but she chose to gift him with this, instead: a recollection not just of facts, but of the feeling.

There was something intimate there.

Alastor wouldn't dwell too much on that. Of all the things he deserved, this wasn't one.

And still he reveled in it, his lips curling in a smile that remained etched on his face and just stretching the bounds of human, the longer she spoke. Each time she let him have the cigar back, he took a puff and held it in his lungs, letting the thing dangle from his fingertips loosely, so she could take it back with ease. It charmed him that she acclimated so fast; she would be a real sight in New Orleans, he would make certain she was.

He kept silent until Lotte finished speaking. And then he said, slowly, like waking from a dream, "And does the girl think it better? To have lived?"

It was a story that Lotte wouldn't have been likely to tell to just anyone, not the way she told it to Alastor. No one else had ever been interested in it, in her, enough to care, to be fair. But knowing what she did of Alastor now, she knew he would understand it. The way it had felt, how that had carried her through to this very moment, perched on the edge of her bed next to him. These moments together were a direct result of what her parents had created that day in the river.

Lotte looked at him through the smokey haze of the cigar. Lotte had spent a lot of time living out spite, living just to prove to others that they couldn't do away with her so easily, that she was worth something whether they chose to acknowledge it or not. To force them to acknowledge it.

"Oh, yes. More than ever, as a matter of fact." Even if they never knew it, she knew she'd slipped their grasp, their attempts to snuff her out.

"And she plans," Lotte inhaled the smoke, blew it out slow in front of her, "to keep living - and burning up anything that tries to get in the way of it."

Her fingers reached out to brush over the shadow draped around his shoulders.

"Can't give them the satisfaction of anything less."

Alastor's shadow wriggled gently under Lotte's touch, a ripple coursing through it that made it almost shimmer. Beneath it, Alastor shivered and rolled his shoulders, the touch sliding through the shadow and down into him. He felt tired now, a little, the longer he sat. Still, too much adrenaline, or whatever passed for it in a creature like him, ran in his blood without dissipating. When it did, he would be dead to the world, he knew that much.

But for now, limbs heavy and eyes bright with curiosity, he leaned towards Lotte. "Anything?" he asked her. "Even me? Say, how would you go about that? If I crossed you, and you had to burn me all up to ashes, how do you imagine you'd get the job done?"

It was worth her consideration, just as the deal itself had been worth both their consideration, Alastor's careful use of words. For all she knew, he could become dangerous to her. He certainly was, to most everyone else. He'd never promised her some unending safety, only that he would get her to New Orleans and into her new home, unharmed.

He settled back again, nestling against the pillows with a look of smug satisfaction written on his face for having brought it up. "Now I, myself, think maybe you could if you put your head to it. But I wonder if you really believe that."

Lotte watched her own fingers pass through the shadow, and noted that her touch translated from it to Alastor with no small amount of curiosity.

This close, she could smell the whiskey and smoke on his breath, only part cigar, though she kept her eyes on his, admired how they sparkled mischievously even now amidst their human limitations. She bet he was popular when he was alive, Alastor. There was something captivating about him, the way he phrased things, the way he hung on her every word. The sort of easy manners that made you want to engage, want to hear what he had to say and get happily lost in a conversation.

The sort of charisma that got people off their guard, too. She imagined that came in handy, as a killer.

Lotte planted her palm on the mattress closer to his chest and leaned heavily on it, inclining into his space like she was telling him a secret. "Even you."

She'd been prepared to do that when she'd first called him up, all those weeks ago. Lotte pulled back a little and stole the cigar once more, "How, though, I've got no idea. Sheer force of will?"

Smoking wasn't something she was used to, but she was catching on quickly enough. "You said yourself I can't be reasoned with." Lotte exhaled with a smirk as she recalled his earlier teasing. "Doubt I doubt outwit you, but you were seemed to have trouble keeping your composure around my blood. Maybe that's something."

And did he believe that she believed? Alastor wasn't sure, and he laughed with bright, quick mirth that lit the space beyond the purview of the low lamplight and the flicker of fire from the wood stove. And if she did believe, what did that matter? It would be interesting to see her try to kill him, though he had no sights on ever threatening her in such a way that would warrant it.

Still, one could never know what the future held. One could never know if she would one day become dangerous to him in such a way that he would have no choice but to try and eliminate the threat to preserve himself. And if he did, she would fight back. At this stage, he couldn't see which of them would prevail.

That uncertainty was more thrilling than it should have been.

"Maybe it is," he agreed, watching the shape the tendril of smoke from her lips took, as if he could divine their futures from it. It was hard to focus on now, with the whiskey swimming in his belly all the way up to his ears. "I can still feel it there, you know. In Hell. Waiting for us. Maybe it'll rot there!" he exclaimed with a sort of joy and pressed himself back tighter into the pillows, his shadow shifting around him to accommodate the further reclining of his position. "But not what's in you. Suppose I'll see it again? Your blood?"

Lotte believed she'd put up a good fight. Believed that she wasn't afraid to fight if he ever tried to kill her, despite whatever growing fondness she felt for him meant. She didn't rightly know that she could kill him, but she also didn't feel like it would come to that. What reason could she give for that? Alastor was as much a threat now as he'd ever been, as likely to viciously preserve his life as she was. Was there a reason she didn't feel like that mattered, between them?

It simply didn't. Maybe it was the lingering high of besting the Queen together.

Lotte looked back at him, quirking a brow at the.... multiple admissions that slipped from Alastor's mouth, coated heavy in whiskey. The fact that her blood hadn't been used, but was still tucked away in wherever it was he called home in Hell. That he expected to be here long enough for it to go bad. And perhaps most curiously that he referred to it as waiting for them. Lotte chewed on that through her own haze of whiskey-induced maudlin.

She took another puff from the cigar before plucking it out of her own mouth and setting it back in his fingers to free up her own, tugging the well-worn quilt over Alastor up to his chest. Tucking it in required her to shift onto one knee to hover over him and maybe it was the whiskey too, to blame for how much she found herself enjoying this particular arrangement.

No, he wouldn't see that blood she'd already spilled for him for some time yet.

"Whenever you like." Lotte hummed, denying him her gaze as she tucked the smoothed the quilt over him. "I'd give you some right now, if you asked."

Tomorrow, if she came too close without Alastor closing that space first, he might balk inside, deftly side step her and avoid it. Now, he was too loose and fuzzy and unburdened to think it anything other than curious, the way his body sloped to one side and then the other on the unsteady mattress as it shifted back and forth with Lotte's weight.

He laughed again when she pulled the blanket up over him, drawing up one knee and noting with mild amusement the way his shadow slipped down from his shoulders to nestle itself into the space between quilt and mattress, seeking warmth it enjoyed but didn't need. The shape of Lotte hovering over him transfixed him, the motion of her dress and the way she momentarily blocked out the light from the stove.

She was bold, that was for sure. He took another drag from the cigarette, wondered how bold she really was, which one of them would cry off first if she kept crowding into his space and just barely not touching him.

And how he would play it off when it, inevitably, was him.

"Smoking in bed is dangerous," he commented mildly. And with a flick of his fingers, the cigar was gone again, leaving only the haze of heady smoke floating around them over the bed. "I'm sure you would, but I think I'd rather wait. And you seem keen on something else." On him sleeping, that was, but it amused him to say it so vaguely and see if she would flush the same colour as her hair.

Lotte was careful, even as she tucked and smoothed the blanket, not to touch Alastor directly. She knew enough to know he preferred to initiate contact, if they made any at all, and though she did greatly enjoy this little game of escalation, she had no desire to truly make him uncomfortable.

Still, she was curious where the boundaries lay. Just how much he'd let her get away with it.

She wasn't used to touch - giving or receiving - but she wasn't necessarily afraid of it. At least, that's what she told herself.

"Lucky for you I'm good when it comes to fire."

She wasn't, however, as prepared for his next comment. Lotte's head snapped up and she stared at him, frozen still by the sudden thud in her chest. Lotte didn't need to see her face to know the color it was. She could feel the heat flood her cheeks, straight up to her ears, thankfully covered by her hair.

"I'm certainly no-" She opened her mouth to finish protesting, but her brain managed to jumpstart itself again, and Lotte knew from the amused glint in Alastor's eyes that he was teasing her. Looking to get a rise out of her, payment in kind for her invasion of his space.

Sleep. She was keen on him sleeping.

Lotte averted her eyes with a huff. "If you don't sleep now, you'll just delay all our fun in New Orleans. I'll have to go out on the town and explore while you catch up on your beauty rest at the house."

That was just what Alastor was looking for, that blush of colour in Lotte's face, that thrilling rush of her pulse pounding throughout her entire being, bigger than her shape, bigger than the both of them, the way he could feel it echo throughout the air. His shadow wavered in delighted amusement. His face was etched with it, eyes crinkled with silent laughter, his grin bright.

"You don't know what I'll do," he said, liltingly, as pleased with himself as he'd ever been. But in spite of that, he rolled onto his side and his shadow shifted around him to accommodate it. He tugged one of the pillows down beneath his head and folded his arm under that. What would she do, when he slept? Sit and watch him? Where would she sleep?

And this was why the call of sleep, alluring as it was, was something he wished he could avoid. There was too much still to see while he was out. Perhaps his shadow would stay alert enough to tell him about it, later. Silently, he asked that it would. But it had a mind of its own, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe it was as tired as he was. He could feel it pressing insistently in on him, a comforting weight urging him to give in.

"We'll be fine." He remembered, suddenly, the mundane need to take his glasses off, and he did, setting them at the edge of the mattress, by the pillow. "I don't have much need, even now."

Lotte clearly didn't know what he'd do, even though she had a better handle on him than she had before. It was clear that she couldn't be complacent... he'd come swinging out of left field even drunk and half incapacitated as he was currently. It wasn't all bad, though, she supposed. Not when he looked at her like that.

She quickly and ruthlessly pushed down the odd sensation that was something like satisfaction, at seeing him so pleased even at her own expense and stood up as he took off his glasses and folded them on the bed. She'd half expected him to forget and that she'd have to take them off for him. Her fingertips tingled with that stolen opportunity and that, too, was something she brushed away.

Alastor wasn't hers to touch as she liked, she reminded herself. He'd offered once, to be a man to her, if she wanted it. But still that was something she wanted no part in, if brokered along with some deal. Whatever he had to offer her in that respect... well, she'd earn it fair and square or not at all.

"No, I don't... but that's the fun of it." She murmured as she went over to the stove, pushing her fingers down through the air, the flames lowering at her behest. The cabin would keep warm, but it was darker, easier to sleep.

"You just get whatever sleep you can, then." The glasses and bottle of whiskey were scooped up and set on the table, and then Lotte sat, unlacing each of her boots and setting them beneath the chair. It'd allow her to traverse the cabin floors without making as much noise, because by god, if she'd finally gotten him to sleep he was going to stay that way.

Lotte didn't do much, for the next little while. Wandered into the little alcove that served as a washroom for her, brushed her hair out and ran some water through it to reset her curls after all the scuffling. She took a wet rag and some soap to her skin to clean the dirt and dust off, brushed her teeth, picked the dirt from under her nails with a knife, rubbed some oil of roses and marigolds on her skin.... Lotte didn't really know how to make herself look presentable for a place she'd never been, but she felt the need to put forth a bit of effort to look better than she usually might.

Going through the motions took her a bit of time, and she could see the faintest peek of violet in the sky by the time she was done. It'd be dawn in another hour or two, so Lotte packed away the whiskey, her old radio and her dresses and tied up the duffel bag before taking the red dress to the little alcove of her cabin to change, for maybe the last time.

The plain and dusty dress laid aside, Lotte slipped into the red dress Alastor had made anew earlier that evening, took her time buttoning it up, letting her fingers take in the texture of the fabric and the smoothness of the buttons as they slipped into place. It hugged to her the way a dress ought to, the way none of her current ones did, but all Lotte could think was how restricting it might be if she had to fight, or run or do anything more than stand here and look some kind of way. How fancier women than she got anything done, she'd never understand.

When she emerged, Alastor was still fast asleep but Lotte found herself unable to follow suit. It was the last night she'd spend in what had been her home for near on six years. She sipped at a glass of water, picked at a bit of bread and sat at her table, taking in the look of it like this. All was quiet, now. Dark, and warm in the early dawn save for the wind rustling through the grass and sliding over the roof, the fire popping softly in the old metal stove... and Alastor's easy, even breaths from her bed.

She found herself tidying it up, though she didn't know where the need to leave it in order came from. It wasn't likely anyone else would take up residence, and if they did, they wouldn't care what state it was in.

Still, she liked seeing it put together one last time. Even mostly emptied out, it had been hers... there was a strange sentiment in that, though Lotte didn't know quite what to do with it. For years all she'd wanted was to leave, but now she felt like.... there would be a time, maybe years from now, when she'd look back on this moment in particular with nostalgia. Maybe even a little longing. For a time when the world was quiet and empty and she was the only thing alive for miles and miles, breathing and being in time with nature more than any other living thing.

The faintest rays of golden morning light were beginning to peek above the horizon when Lotte finally felt sleep creep upon her. She grabbed the sickle by its worn handle and made her way back over to the bed, settling herself between it and the dresser. The sickle lay on the floor within her grasp, but Lotte folded her arms onto the mattress and let her her cheek rest heavy on one, feet curled up beneath her dress. She watched Alastor's rhythmic breaths, admired the color of his skin and his hair in the golden morning light and let herself finally be lulled to sleep, chest rising and falling in time with his.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

continuation for devildo || its terrible potential has begun

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