autofloricide

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pssssttttt...

would anyone like to hit me with a big rock if I started a multi-muse blog

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would anyone like to hit me with a big rock if I started a multi-muse blog

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The exact moment Oliver enters the library the temperature of the room drops so fast that everything in his wake is rendered into solid ice, like water vapour desublimating into crystalline frost on a winter window. The heat is on—she knows this, can hear the soft metal creak of an ancient radiator—but Venetia feels that sharp chill all the way down to the bone. So she keeps her distance, moving to the sit on the windowsill now, smoking away as she watches the strange reunion unfolding before her. A twenty-one year-old Venetia would have had a cutting remark to make, or a moody eyeroll to dispense. Anything to disguise the rotten core of her, the broken little girl so desperate to be looked at and loved the way Elspeth loved anyone that wasn't her own daughter. But a Venetia in her thirties just feels tired of it all. Her mother. Saltburn. Death. It's a little ironic, though, that she took a leaf out of her mother's book in the end: marrying young and marrying an older man; a solid little heterosexual marriage as a means of escape. He's probably still dawdling in the long gallery. Her head tips gently to the side as she stares at Oliver like one might regard a piece of art with a questionable provenance. He's become a beautiful man, it's undeniable, but she knows instantaneously that he's a poor replica of the urbane gentleman he so craves to be. Even his new accent, long Northern vowels filed down, feels a bit silly. A humourless smile tugs on her bare lips. You don't have me fooled. She leaves his condolence hanging in the air for seconds far too long. Then she ashes her cigarette. "Thank you, Oliver," she says softly, a kindness in her voice that doesn't match the coldness in her eyes. "It's been a difficult week." Her next drag ends in her blowing smoke while staring him directly in the eye. "But I can tell things are getting better." Elspeth is already interrupting at the mere mention of the world difficult. "Oh, darling, you must take something warm to drink, I insist. The weather is so dreadful, isn't it? And to think you came out all this way in the storm." A maid rushes in with a new tray of tea, silently swapping out Elspeth's empty mug, brushing away crumbs and wiping up a spill. Elspeth hardly acknowledges her, a far away look in her eye as she murmurs to herself, "Terrible, terrible…"

he stands here again: saltburn. it's towering beauty, it's rooms made quieter by time. what had farleigh called it? -- right. a fucking dream. and aggravating as he was (as oliver imagines he still is) -- he had predicted this to be true. it was a dream. it continued to be a dream for many, many, long, blurry summers. none of them particularly hot, and even when reporters called upon records, pointing, even when oliver sweated through thin layers of rayon, none could rival the summer of 2007. he'd burned that year, scorched, made direct contact with the sun -- scalded himself on every surface -- died in the process. he buried himself here, out by the cemetery, a mound of hollow dirt. still, flecks of him exist here, and he knows this to be true when the halls pass by familiar -- knows where the remnants hide even after fifteen years of guarded distance. hardly anything has changed, not the voices chatting away (bristling over oliver, again), not duncan's weaponized politeness, not the arch of the doorway, not the stilted family arrangement that sits before him. for but a moment, oliver feels nineteen again. they are all predictably older now, but the wealthy don't age -- not really. his eyes draw to venetia first, to the exhaustion riddled in her gaze, before skipping to a welcome pair, to elspeth, longstanding fondness apparent in her near immediate smile. he meets her with a grin of his own, closing in with long strides and impeccable posture -- a picture of grace, of professionalism, of maturity. "elspeth," oliver calls, arms then coming around to embrace her -- the delicate bones of her figure now doubly fragile in the wake of new grief. pulling away, he takes her in under the light of the estate, the shadows under her eyes, the weight of her presence halved. he speaks anyway, certain there is comfort in attempted normalcy, "thank you for the kind invite. you were right -- it looks the same. as big and as beautiful as i remember." still, the feeling is entirely different -- the wonder replaced with a rueful mix of nostalgia and bitterness and heartache. then oliver turns, the tension in his jaw pulled taut, when he regards venetia again. his attention doesn't waver, his expression, guarded, though oliver's hands drop to his sides, and he takes to her now. "venetia," he starts, expression purposefully soft, "i'm sorry for your loss."

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Claudia Schiffer @ Versace Atelier Fall/Wint 1994

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had a busy week but will be replying to more posts tonight! thanks again to everyone that was waiting on starters from me, excited to finally write together. feel free to dm me here or on discord if you'd like to chat or need any inspiration!

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closed for @ourpretender, late 2020.

"I understand grief makes us a stranger even to ourselves, but this is completely, utterly mad, you know that, right?" Venetia is hardly finished with one cigarette before she lights another. A scowl lines her face at the slight tremble that moves through her fingertips, and the next drag she takes is so deep the entire surface of her lungs feels singed. She's stood on one end of the library, staring out the window at the sodden lawn, the once yellow-green grounds turned grey and cold in the pale light of a winter storm. On the other end sits the Lady Elspeth, her fingers tucked under her chin as she dips a biscuit in her tea with an air of barely concealed annoyance. "I'd scarcely call it grieving, Venetia, your father was eighty years old. We've had arrangements made for, ohhh, about five years now, I'd say." Venetia barks a laugh, a nervous thing tinged with bitterness. She cannot believe what she's hearing right now. "So you're just the bog-standard sort of insane then? I mean, really, what on Earth were you thinking inviting Oliver Quick here?" She scrubs a hand over her face with a strained groan. "I'm glad Daddy isn't even in his grave yet because he'd be rolling about like a bloody doner kebab if he knew. He did not like that boy." In the end, neither did Venetia. But she had had no evidence, no witnesses, nothing to show at all in the eyes of the law or her family all those years ago. No one would ever care that she had bad feelings about Oliver Quick and her brother's death at the end of that awful, awful summer. Just Venetia being Venetia, really. Unreliable. Hysterical. Unfortunately female. But they hadn't seen the look in his eyes that night he found her bathing in Felix's tub. They would never know the sick smell of his sweat layered with her brother's aftershave, or the way his mouth felt when he—No. She lets a little smouldering ash fall onto her hand to stop that ancient memory right in its tracks. Elspeth rolls her eyes and delicately bites into her biscuit. "Now you're being dramatic. He wasn't in his right mind then, you know, after… everything that happened." A misty expression crosses her face as she takes another teensy nibble, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly. How Venetia wants to shake her teeth out. "And Oliver is as much a boy as you are a girl. No, he's a grown man, one that I've come to respect tremendously in the rekindling of our friendship. He has every right to be here." "I wish you'd told Colin and me ahead of time, at least," says Venetia quietly, staring at the tiny blisters beginning to form across her knuckles. "What time will he be here?" There comes an abrupt knock at the door, both Venetia and Elspeth startling as they turn to stare. Duncan gives a curt bow from the threshold. "My apologies, Your Ladyship, Miss Venetia," he nods at each of them in turn. "But Oliver Quick has just arrived."

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closed for @wstfl

Summer has finally arrived at Saltburn, but unlike last year's dismal affair with Eddie, Venetia has a foolproof plan for the days to come: stop playing the bored damsel and invite someone actually interesting along for a change. Enter one Miss Kiara Paxton, a delightful American she met the year before on one of Daddy's art trip jaunts to the states. "I hope you don't mind the size," she says from just inside the doorframe, peering with a scrutinizing eye around the bedroom that she had claimed and had made up for her guest before her arrival. The walls were covered in a rich, slightly textured blue wallpaper, and the windows were facing the side of the house with the most sunlight, and thus had the most compelling view (and scent!) of the gardens in bloom. The toothy smile she flashes Kia is far more confident than she feels on the inside, though. "It's a bit silly, really, how they designed these things. Ceilings for giants but you can hardly fit a four-poster bedframe in." She picks a bit of imaginary dust from her blouse. "But I'm sure you didn't come all this way to hear about boring old architecture."

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closed for @petitsdieu

Some deep part of Venetia's brain trips an alarm when a servant doesn't open the curtains first thing in the morning. Another part dimly registers that the thread count of the sheets she's tangled in is, frankly, abysmal. Her eyes snap open then, and in an instant she's up, or rather trying and failing miserably to do so, because she tumbles off the side of the bed in an even bigger knot of bedclothes. Recognition comes flooding back like a tennis ball pinging her in the forehead. She's not at Saltburn at all, thank God, and in fact took the first Eurostar out of that godforsaken hellhole the moment she could give her mother the slip. It wasn't always the wisest of decisions, being a young woman travelling alone over such long distances, but the alternative is far more dark. Venetia liked not rotting in her ancestral home from time to time, even if it meant she could only carve a handful of days for herself before being dragged back to the estate. Besides, she isn't entirely alone in Italy; she'd had the pleasure of meeting a girl about her own age at the hotel a few days prior, though her name is a bit fuzzy with all the champagne she's been having at breakfast. A cursory glance at her phone reveals the new contact HARA ITALIA at the top of her messages. Hara. Hara. How darling. Squinting through one bleary eye, she shoots her a text message: good morning dear! reconvene by the poolside?

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Who are you in this haunted house story?

The Trapped Soul

Time is now a story told by others. You envy them, their freedom, their hope. Your existence is tied to this place, the beating heart of your tragedy and pain, your prison. You wander these long corridors and some days, it becomes difficult to tell where this dreadful house ends and you begin. You cry and destroy to remind yourself that you're still here. It's been so long since you gave up on anyone seeing you. The only company you keep is your past, and oh how it follows you. You scream once more, a final test of your disappearance but— Oh! Did... did they just look at you?

tagged by: @felixferitas

tagging: youuuu

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"Miss us? No, good heavens, not at all," Venetia replies breezily, soft smile turning to something sly and slightly toothy. They both can't be miserable today, absolutely not. She gives his hand a quick squeeze, and then checks the room again; everything is exactly as she left it: dreadful and oh so boring. And the worst is yet to come! Perhaps they could be absent long enough for that, too. With a delicate clearing of her throat, she brushes imaginary lint from her dress before standing, Oliver's hand still clasped in her own. She doesn't give him even a fraction of a moment to change his mind, unceremoniously yanking him up from the bench and down the aisle as if she has any real sort of purpose. Only once they've slipped past the huge wooden doors does she speak again, swinging his hand back and forth in her grasp. "Did you know they have a crypt here? A nice one, too! Not like that crap one in Hereford." Venetia looks at him thoughtfully. "Might be a little gauche for your tastes currently, though, they do keep mummies in it."

Venetia's reactions to situations make her all the more intriguing and interesting to study. Her fingers walk a playful line into his line of vision, and his gaze turns from the solemn priest, the quietly droning organ, the giant sprays of flowers, and the closed lid of Pamela's coffin to her.

Even now, Venetia isn't entirely serious, almost still toying with him and insisting he seeks comfort in her touch. His hand moves to hers, and their fingers slot together easily, intertwined atop his knee. He doesn't look directly at her at first, but he lets her see the uneasiness of his expression, the working muscle in his jaw.

"I don't..." he lets the words hang for a moment as if he's struggling with composure, "think that's necessary. Maybe just some air. Or a smoke." Those icy blue eyes look cursory, observing that most of the attendees are distracted. Then they turn to her, dampened with a convincing but manufactured sadness. "Don't think anybody'd miss us."

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Despite being soaked to the skin, her body instinctively, minutely shivering with the cold and the intensity of her emotions, it's the sudden fear illuminating Oliver's eyes that gives Venetia pause. Makes the heat in her blood cool to something almost lukewarm. All at once she feels so silly and broken and human again. There's no use fighting with him, because he's not her enemy, not really. In this moment he's not a spider or a moth, nothing like an insect at all, but rather some tiny little thing covered in fur, a wide-eyed field mouse, a hungry kitten in the hedges. There is something so naked, so real in his expression, something so unlike any Oliver she's ever seen, that she looks at him in muted shock. "I have to do this, Oliver," she says quietly, and this time her hand is gentle on his cheek, keeping his eyes on her. "I have to. You can call it a spectacle if you'd like, but I can't live like them. Talking round and round and round again. How lovely the bloody flowers were. How nice the fucking vicar was." She chokes back a wet, bitter laugh, and a hot tear streams from one bleary eye. "I don't know what to do without him. Please. Don't play their game." With a gasp she presses her face into his shoulder, fists balling up in his shirt. "Please, please, Oliver."

His back hits the wall, startled by her sudden approach, and Oliver knows better than to try to commiserate. Made small by Venetia's immense feelings, folded in on himself with an uncharacteristic level of fear in his eyes and bathwater seeping into his clothes where she's pressed against him, he knows he looks properly pathetic. Her volatility pins him there like a moth and he's never felt more powerless; he loathes it.

Despite his frustration, and while he knows admitting as much won't do any good, her words strike a chord; he does get it. She can conceptualize it as a halving if that's what works for her, but to someone who never had anything at all until Felix, there's nothing left behind. It was the end of everything, a return to the vacuum Oliver had been living in made exponentially worse by knowing firsthand what he's missing. Yes, he feels the gravity of losing someone you've made a part of yourself. More than anyone else here, though he doesn't believe she'd allow him that.

Hands unfurling where they'd balled up at his sides, releasing what tension he can from his body in a single steadying exhale, he makes an effort to look at her plainly now. To let her see him, too.

"I only meant I don't have the energy for it myself. I'm empty of hostility now." He pauses, gaze darting away past her shoulder, swallows. Continuing, he speaks his hushed confession into the space between them. "Of everything else, too. Maybe you're right and I don't deserve to feel this heavy a burden after such a short time, but I do. And I'm trying to do it quietly, for everyone's benefit." He fixes her with another direct gaze, watching her eyes as he speaks. "Though you seem intent on robbing me of the ability. It may sound strange to you, Venetia, but not everyone wants their grief to be a spectacle."

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closed for @everyoneismytoy

It was completely, utterly miserable being at Saltburn without Felix and Farleigh. Sure, they messaged and rang Venetia whenever they got the chance, but it never stopped being downright lonely watching someone else live their biggest, most glorious life from afar. She, on the other hand, had spent the better part of the spring trapped on the estate, scribbling in her journals like a madwoman, phoning her psychiatrist at strange hours, and avoiding the lady of the house at all costs. The less her and her mother saw of each the better, even if Elspeth hadn't clued onto it yet. But now, judging by the flurry of text messages, her brother and cousin are finally, finally back home for the summer. Venetia doesn't waste any time, still in her designer PJs despite the late hour, and hurries downstairs to Felix's bedroom. She can hardly contain her excitement. Sartre was right: Hell is other people, but heaven is each other. Felix's door is open a crack, and she wedges her bare foot in it to throw it open, immediately reclining on the frame in a jaunty pose, arms folded over her chest. "Didn't think you'd sneak in without paying your respects to the real lady of the house, did you?" she asks, grinning from ear to ear.

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Venetia immediately pulls a face. "God, no, not the damn Henrys." There follows a pointed look, first at Felix, then her eyes cutting to their father—cheerfully humming to himself as he reads the morning paper—followed by a quick eyeroll. Even if they can't openly discuss it Felix knows her feelings about them, and one unsavoury Henry in particular. She leans an elbow on the table now, studying Felix's face as she taps her fork to her lips in thought. He'd really been so pouty when he crawled out of bed this morning. "You're not really torn up about Eddie, are you?" she asks, dropping her voice to something low albeit ever so slightly mocking. "You have to have known he was a shit friend, Felix. I mean, truly, daft as a brush, if we're being kind. Hey!" The fork flips around in her hand, back to pointing the tines at her brother. "That must be it. We'll need to set you up with some clever boys." Her smile is positively devilish. "Ones that think with their brains and not their pricks."

he watches the odd game of musical chairs occurring on venetia's plate, the food rotating 'round and around on the plate but never making it past his sister's lips. felix doesn't say anything to her though, because they've had that talk and today felix has to pick his battles. battles he's actually capable of winning, mind you. he lifts his brows when venetia singles him out, words truthful and cutting amongst the din of silverware and background conversation. "what are you trying to say, vee? that i'm like peter pan and the lost boys?" it's a thought that's occurred to him before. but going about finding better company was easier said than done, especially with their current track record. girls had to grow up so much faster than boys. even with his own horrid track record with women, felix understands this much. "what do you think i should do, then? can't exactly start hanging out with the henrys, can i." god, the notion of it puts a chill in his bones.

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character flaws

BOLD what always applies to your muse; ITALICIZE what sometimes applies to your muse; STRIKE OUT what never applies to your muse.

absent-minded / abusive / addict / adrenaline junkie / aggressive / aimless / alcoholic / anxious / arrogant / audacious / bad liar / bigmouth / bigot / blindly loyal / blunt / callous / childish / chronic heroism / cheater / clingy / clumsy / cocky / codependent / competitive / corrupt / cowardly / cruel / cynical / delinquent / delusional / dependent / depressed / deranged / disloyal / ditzy / egotistical / envious / erratic / fickle / finicky / fixated / flaky / frail / fraudulent / foul mouthed / guilt complex / gloomy / gluttonous / gossiper / gruff / grudge holding / gullible / hedonistic / humorless / hypochondriac / hypocritical / idealist / idiotic / ignorant / immature / impatient / incompetent / indecisive / insecure / insensitive / lazy / lewd / liar / lustful / manipulative / masochistic / meddlesome / melodramatic / money-loving / moody / naive / nervous / nosy / ornery / overprotective / overly sensitive / paranoid / passive-aggressive / perfectionist / pessimist / petty / power-hungry / proud / possessive / pushover / reckless / reclusive / remorseless / rigorous / sadistic / sarcastic / senile / selfish / self destructive / shallow / sociopathic / sore loser / spineless / spiteful / spoiled / stubborn / suspicious / tactless / temperamental / timid / thief / traitorous / ungracious / unlucky / untrustworthy / vain / withdrawn / workaholic

tagged by: @petitsdieu

tagging: YOU

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That line of reasoning, to her absolute chagrin, is actually reasonable. Venetia rolls her eyes, finds a bit of fat on Felix's upper arm, and gives it a quick pinch in silent retaliation. "You know, I hate it when you're right," she finally admits, though there's no real heat in it, because this is a far cry from their usual pissing contents. What would he do without her? What would she do without him? "Luckily, you seldom are." A small, cheeky grin steals across her face, even though she can just imagine how awful she looks doing it, her mouth and eyes swollen from crying, with a complexion left utterly blotchy. "Do you want to use my phone for anything? Before I…" The silence after that unfinished sentence hangs in the air for a second too long. "I don't… I don't want to go, Felix. I don't want to leave you here alone."

this at least, with his very limited agency and power, is something felix can permit her. acknowledgement that it wasn't a fair ask. he knows it's not, but what about this situation was fair? he'd been admitted involuntarily to this fucking rehab programme, and he's already accepted there was no way out of it by honest means other than seeing it through. felix didn't have a problem with drugs, but asking his parents or any nurse to believe that when he'd technically almost died from cocaine toxicity was a tall order. because things have gone belly-up, so completely far out of his control, he's focusing on what problems he might be able to mitigate. "i know," felix says gently, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "but if anything happened, i wouldn't even be permitted to see you without them suspecting i'm trying to give them the slip to go out and buy more drugs. so it can't. everything has already been so fucking cruel and unusual, vee, so i'm asking you." his tone is apologetic yet sincere, his gaze unwavering from venetia's face. she was his sister, and he couldn't protect her because right now he couldn't even protect himself. for the handful of minutes she stayed at his bedside, it felt like everything was righted in their world and not been turned topsy-turvy by an usurper, but felix couldn't promise to maintain his sanity or what might happen the moment she leaves and he has to start fending for himself in this place without her. "seriously, before i start calling up lawyers to this place to start drafting up my will and testament," he jokes, but there's a layer of daunting sincerity to it because of the close call he's already had. it was uncouth to joke about such things, but felix can't find it in himself to give a shit at the moment. "kidding. they've confiscated my blackberry. can't even do that."

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Heather Havrilesky, Ask Polly: Help, I’m The Loneliest Person In The World!