every haunted fucking interaction the gentleman with the thistle-down hair has with stephen black is just like. oh do you like this parasol, stephen? how like you, to choose something so regal. it is made of only the finest materials. the body of the shaft must be harvested from the femur of an old impoverished widow who has had seven miscarriages. crucially, it is only worth something if her husband has been trampled to death by a unicorn! oh, the rainbow pickled tripe has captured your interest? only the rarest of delicacies for dearest stephen. of course, for the tripe to attain its otherworldly and prismatic properties, it must be brined in the tears of dozens of orphans. but only if they had been orphaned as a result of several ancient war crimes, and if the tears have been passed through a sieve made from puppies who’d been abandoned on the banks of tartarus. and to drink? ah a fine vintage, stephen, how exceedingly handsome and discerning of you! that one is straight up satan’s blood, from his cock. let us retire to my haunted decrepit-ass halls so that we may have gay sex
self-care is trying to murder the man who bargained your soul to a fairy without your consent in order to bring you back to life so that your politician husband would support his research