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snoopyrpc · 5 months ago

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CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT ACTIVITIES FOR WHEN I FEEL STUCK OR BORED. most people, myself included, are prone to writer's block, and while this can be an extremely frustrating process to get to, i try to use this as an opportunity to approach it in a fun way. i thought i'd share some of my favourite activities that might be of use to other people.

create a movie library. if your muse is someone who likes movies, make a list of their favourites on letterboxd or imdb, or even serializd for those that prefer tv. you can make lists for ones they've seen and enjoyed or haven't seen but would like. i use letterboxd for this quite a bit and sometimes even add some notes within my lists detailing my muse's thoughts and reviews of the movies.

make a sideblog. i know that many people do this already, but aesthetic sideblog for your character can be extremely helpful and fun to maintain. you can build these however you like! i like to use mine to post photos that my muse would like, faceclaim content, playlists and songs, ships/dynamics inspo, headcanons, silly text posts, and a variety of other things. if you're unsure where to look for content you can post on your sideblogs, @museinspo has a variety of things for many types of characters and is a really helpful place to start. they have a great detailed tagging system to make it easier to find content best suited to your muse. some tags that you can also look through could be #character inspo, #ship inspo, and #muse inspo.

play a barbie dress up game. most people who know me can attest to how much i love this — building a closet for my characters' style. every muse is different, so this can be a fun exploration activity. pinterest is a frequently used resource, but what i like to do most often is browse resale websites like depop or poshmark because i like the variety of styles and the fact that you can find some things you might not see in every store! i have many muses who like to wear silly graphic t-shirts, handmade, vintage, and eclectic styles, so this tends to be the best place to search. you can also do this with any website that sells styles you like for your muse. i like to think of this as a dress up barbie game since that helps me maintain the fun aspect of it all.

build and decorate a barbie dreamhouse. on the topic of barbies, you can do the same activity with furniture, homewares, trinkets, toys, art and decor. build your muse their barbie dreamhouse, fill it with things they would collect and feel at home with. browse furniture websites. ikea, crate and barrel, pottery barn, anthropologie, and west elm are all great places to look for ideas. if you really want to get into it, architectural design (i particularly like this article listing recommendations for furniture retailers) and dezeen (has the added bonus of being able to search for things based on location, if you're looking for example of interior design specific to your muse's city of residence) have extensive articles on both exterior and interior design. etsy is also a great place to look for antiques, vintage style, and more eclectic items.

feed them. if your muse is a foodie or likes to cook, come up with a menu for them. read food blogs and restaurant menus, think of what they'd like if they went out for dinner or what they'd cook at home. i will sometimes make up an imaginary dinner party for muses when its applicable and plan out what they'd like to serve or be served in that situation. food can be a great way to get to know your muse because it can tell you so much about their personal tastes, their current lifestyle, and their cultural background. while food is something that is prevalent in everyone's life, different people will have different approaches to it. this can be especially fun if you look at the menus for restaurants and shops local to your muse's area! read about what's popular in their neighborhood, take the specifics of that culture into consideration.

consider history. think about the time and place in which your character was born and raised in. how would things like pop culture, trends, media, neighborhood, and society affect them? this will differ with every character's upbringing and background, so take all that into consideration as you explore resources. for example, say that your muse is inspired by something like punk subcultures in the 1990s. what music, movies, and clothing styles would have been prevalent at the time? try looking into the history of the underground scene, you can even look further back than that particular decade to understand its roots and how the subculture go to that present moment. how would current events of the time affect what's being put out there and how would the changes within the world cause your character to evolve in their mindset or interests?

study movement. often times we study physicality in terms of what the character looks like as a static image (their hair colour, face shape, clothing, etc) and less about what it looks like when they look like when they are in movement. consider things like their gait, posture, facial expressions, or even specific tics. how do they move when they're on the go and in a rush, compared to when they're confined to a room? how do they position themselves in a bed or on a couch? what does their face tell you about them when they speak? what does it not tell you? a lot of behavior and emotion is not limited to dialogue, but rather how a person composes themselves through body language. you can learn so much about someone by being observant of them even without dialogue. it can be helpful to watch videos or movies and study an actor's movements with all this in mind. i often find myself watching videos with the sound off, just to pay closer attention to body language and try to understand what they are saying without verbal communication.

feel free to reblog if any of this is helpful to you. i maintain the belief that roleplay should always be fun and the best way for me to do that is to treat it like a barbie game. remember that not all character development revolves solely around written words, but rather the environment and details you put into them.

#once again i dont know how to tag anything ever so lets just see what happens here #rp help #roleplay resources #rp resources #roleplay tips #writing tips #oc development #oc ideas #character development #rpc #rpc help #roleplay community #indie rp #rp advice #rp guide #*#tips

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kekaki-cupcakes · 2 years ago

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Hiiii! I loved ur Hermes kid!

Could I ask for a male son of Dionysus x either Leo or nico?

Sorry if I got ya wrong and don’t feel pressured or anything!

Have a lovely day!

When there isn't a lot of info in an ask I kinda have to make the reader a personality so that it isn't too bland too read so sorry to y'all that aren't like this <3

Redecoration---Nico di Angelo x Son of Dionysus

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico had been glaring at the roof of skulls for a solid ten minutes, sort of hoping the hatred in his eyes would just poof them out of existence, when someone finally showed up.

Apparently after an incident in the Aphrodite cabin, people weren’t allowed to just grab a bucket of paint and some new furniture to fuck around and find out, which was why Nico had been sent someone to help him fix the mess that was the Hades cabin.

Apart from the hundred skulls hot glue gunned to the rood, the beds were wooden coffins, the lamps were ancient looking chandeliers, and all of the walls were a dark ugly gray, like there was a serious mold problem. Now that he thought about it, the color might actually be a mold problem.

“Never fear, goth! For I am here!”

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Nico took a deep breath and turned around, obsidian eyes already narrowed with dislike as he took in the taller boy trotting over. He was holding a crate in his arms, filled with color swatches and chunks of fabrics, magazines sticking out of the top.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who needs redecorating, right?” The boy asked, already letting himself into the dim cabin that smelt of rich dark chocolate for some reason. “Yeah… no offense but we have to fix this, even if you're the wrong person.”

Nico felt a sudden need to defend the atrocious carpet and bat shaped door knocker from this boy, who was wearing a maroon shirt picturing a glass of wine. “I was eight.”

“No shame here, everyone makes bad decisions.”

There didn’t seem to be any point arguing with this boy, who had already dumped the box of supplies on one of the coffin bed lids, and was staring around at the dark cabin, hands on his hips.

Nico just followed him inside, shoving his hands into the slightly ripped pockets of his aviator jacket. He peered into the cardboard box, which was promptly tipped out onto the ground. He watched with a frown as the son of Mr D sat on the carpet and began rifling through the empty notebooks and cut up magazines. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, scrapbooking? We can’t just start painting the walls yellow yet, you have to plan this stuff out, goth.” He said, as if it was obvious. Then he smirked. “You don’t like arts and crafts?”

Nico’s frown deepened, but he couldn’t let this mildly infuriating boy with surprisingly cool bracelets upstage him. “I love arts and crafts.”

“Whatever you say,” he hummed, and pulled out a leather bound book containing a few stickers and a strip of torn paper where a page had been pulled out. “Are you just gonna stand there in the corner and be grumpy?... That wasn’t sarcasm, you can if you want, I was just checking.”

Nico wasn’t an asshole, of course he was going to help. Still, he had to glare at the boy for that comment. Then he sat down and opened one of the magazines, which was featuring a life sized Barbie Dream House bed frame, fluffy pillows included. He flicked the page over with a grimace.

“So, what kinda vibe are we going for?”

“What?”

“I’m assuming you're sick of Dracula,” he said, waving his arms at the general doom and gloom around them. “So what aesthetic are we replacing it with?”

Nico didn’t want to admit he hadn’t planned this far into the venture, he’d really just been hoping he could repaint the walls, or maybe burn the whole thing down and start over. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Okay, well… I’m assuming you wanna keep it edgy, but seriously? A roof of skulls? You’re not a caveman. Maybe we should go with an Addams family style.” He shivered. “With less spiderwebs and disembodied hands. “

Ah, another gap in his modern education. “What’s an Addams family?”

All Nico got in return was a gaping mouth and wide eyes. “How do you not- okay, I’m making you watch the entire timeline later, but for now we need to pick a color scheme.”

Nico opened his mouth.

“Not black.”

Nico closed his mouth.

“Obviously there’ll be lots of black, but you need another color to fit with it, something dark and scary but colorful.” He pulled out a binder of color swatches, and flipped it open, skimming the pages of baby blues and lavenders. “Maybe dark green, or...”

“Red.” Nico said, peering over at the pages of ruby and scarlet. He pointed to the dark one, which had a little title below, ‘Blood red’. It was a little on brand, but it was better than ‘Crimson Tide’.

“Oooh, nice. If we keep the walls black, and pull up the black carpet, there’ll be floorboards underneath.” He started to ramble, ripping a color swatch out of the binder and gluing it into the leather bound book. He glanced around at the musty cabin.

“We can get a red rug for the middle of the cabin, and definitely new beds, but if we get Drew to refurbish the chandeliers they’ll look great. Oh, and the coffin bed frames could be a bookshelf if we get the mattress out and ask Nyssa to put some shelves in. Do you read? Because otherwise it’s sort of pointless. But so are the skulls on the roof, so…”

“You’re good at this.”

It took Nico a moment to realize what he’d just blurted, and when he did the warmth was already in his cheeks. He’d only been a little caught up in watching the son of Dionysus’s eyes sparkle as he talked, pointing to different parts of the cabin, and somehow ruined it. “I mean, you just sound like you’ve, you know, done this a lot.”

The glimmer in their eye didn’t fade, they only grinned harder. “I have. A lot. It’s fun!”

“I suppose so,” Nico said, his lips twitching, and opened another magazine. He skipped a page on clawfoot bathtubs [There was already a white one with gold trim in the bathroom]. There was a large heart shaped mirror, He ignored that too, and found a simple bedframe, painted black. He held it out gingerly. “What about this one?”

“Yes! Good job.” He said, snipping it out of the magazine quickly, and sticking it next to a picture of a glass chandelier. “If you’ve got a simple bed, we could find a zebra print blanket, they always look good with black and red, as long as you don’t have, like, leopard print.”

“I thought you’d like leopard print?”

“And I thought you’d like skulls on your roof and coffin shaped beds,” he teased, with a smug little smile. Nico rolled his eyes, and picked out a strip of dark red fabric, passing it over.

He shook some glitter from his hands, there seemed to be piles of it in the box. “It’s a little over the top, but it’s not as bad as Jason’s cabin. It’s just rock. Everywhere. And a giant statue of his father.”

“Maybe he can be my next client,” he hummed, wiping glue from his fingers onto the molding carpet beneath them. A few shards of rounded glass were taped to the pages of the scrapbook, shining in the light of the dusty stained chandeliers.

Nico wanted to object. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want the boy in front of him with glitter on his cheekbones and scissors in his hands to be cutting out pictures and teasing someone else. Instead he looked away, feeling something in his chest surge, something like fear. Fear of what, he didn’t know, but he cleared his throat and moved on.

“Don’t you have a sister too?”

The fear surged back forwards and Nico whipped around, his tone sharp. “What?”

“The roman one, I swear I saw her the other day, when Reyna visited to plan something or other.” he said casually, not seeing the pale tinge to Nico’s face. “With the overalls and the bulldog?”

“That’s Frank,” Nico said, his shoulder sinking with relief.

“No, I’m pretty sure it was Hazel, she had those light up sketchers, with the little wheels on the bottom.” He said, somehow with a moon shaped sticker on his nose as he stuck little cut out paper skulls around the four page collage.

“Frank’s the bulldog, he can turn into animals.” Nico had a strange urge to reach out and press the sticker on his nose, so instead he held his hands tightly in his lap.

“Well, is there something Hazel’d like in the cabin when she visits? Does she read?”

Nico sighed, and reached back for the magazine he discarded. He shook it open, cut outs of fluffy teddies falling into his lap. He found the page with the heart shaped bathroom mirror and ripped it out carefully. He could take a few hearts in his cabin if Hazel would like them. “This one.”

“Oh, that one's cute, Nyssa could totally make it.”

“I can ask Leo, he owes me a favor.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I haven't killed him yet.”

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico pressed down the front of his shirt. It was a black Camp Halfblood shirt, which he’d gotten from Piper after the Aphrodite cabin had started making shirts in other colors. Apparently there were only so many outfits you could wear with orange.

Black goes with everything though, so it wasn’t a problem for him.

He made his bed [closed the lid of the coffin] and dragged the last of the furniture not nailed to the ground out onto the little deck all of the cabins had. His decking only had a few pairs of shoes and a pot of dead roses he’d never bothered to keep alive. Maybe he’d have another go.

Drew had taken the chandeliers already, to polish them and whatnot, so he only had to wait for his assigned son of Dionysus to show up, and they could start hunting for zebra print blankets and ripping skulls off the ceiling. What fun.

When he still hadn’t shown up, Nico finished pulling all of the previously made bedding from the coffins and dumping it to the side so that Leo could turn it to a bookshelf [He could read, he just had dyslexia thank you very much], and then set off to the Dionysus cabin. It was easy to find, the only male god on the female side, with trelice’s of ivy decorating the whitewashed walls and a grumpy looking leopard snoozing on the purple swinging chair out the front of the small cabin.

He didn’t really want to knock, but he was sure someone would report him for standing around too menacingly if he just waited. He was saved from indecision when the door opened, revealing a tall sandy haired boy.

“You’re the goth, aren’t you?” Pollux sniffed, his nose red. “We can’t help today, but Butch is free, he can do some heavy lifting, and I’m sure Drew’ll criticize your style if you ask nicely enough.”

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“I mean,” Pollux started, rubbing his eyes, and Nico only then realized he was still wearing his pajamas. They had an elongated cartoon owl sticking out of a doorway on it. “Skulls on the ceiling is a bit much, and everyone think you’re a vamp-”

“I meant with you guys, not my style,” Nico interrupted, his eyes narrowed.”

“Someone, decided to go visit Lou Ellen even though we all know she has a cold, and now I have it-” Pollux was cut off once again, his mockingly loud voice reaching the people inside.

“I’m sorry I was concerned for my friend, she wanted soup!”

“She always wants soup!” Pollulx yelled back, and Nico moved past the older child of Dionysus, slipping off his shoes and letting himself into the cabin.

There was nasally muttering behind him and the door slid shut. Nico peered around, and saw a bundle of fluffy blankets on a couch, only a sneezing head poking out the top. “Why did you get sick?”

“I mean it wasn’t really on purpose,” he mumbled back, wiping his nose with a tissue and sinking back into his cocoon. “I can’t help today, but-”

“I don’t care,” Nico started, and plopped down on the white couch, avoiding a deep red stain that could be alcohol or blood. He couldn’t tell. He also didn’t know how to say he’d rather sleep in the coffin again then have to spend the day with someone else.

He sniffed, falling sideways a little on the couch and squinting at the square tv, which was showing some old cartoon about cavemen. “Mkay, well you should probably go if you don’t wanna get sick.”

Nico thought for a moment, trying not to focus on how much he wanted to scoop up the bundle of blankets in his arms far too skinny for that sort of stuff. “Why don’t we watch ‘an Adam family’?

He got watery wide eyes in return and a toothy grin, “wait really?”

“No. If I was making a joke it’d be funnier than that.”

“Okay, let’s watch it,” he said, hopping off the couch and moving to a box of DVDs with a lot of energy for someone so sick. “And it’s the Addams family, goth. You have to learn the basics of this culture if you’re gonna have coffin bookshelves.”

He fiddled around with the tv and then a grainy black and white intro came on, tinny music over the top. Nico watched as he danced to the theme tune in his blanket burrito, all the way back to the couch, where he landed, coughing and winded. Nico raised an eyebrow. “I could’ve done that, you’re sick.”

“Yeah yeah whatever,” he mumbled, tucking the fluffy socks on his feet up onto the white couch and wiggling with excitement. Nico watched him for a moment, and then turned back to the TV, feeling his lips twitch into a grin.

Duh duh duh duh, click click. Duh duh duh duh, click click.

Their creepy and they're kooky-

»»————-　★　————-««

“Neeks, this mirror is so cute!”

“You’re welcome,” Nico muttered, rubbing his nose and rolling over, pulling the zebra print doona cover further over his head.

He heard Hazel’s wheelie shoes click along the floorboards and she gilded out of the bathroom. When he peered out, her hair was in bunchies and she was pulling a purple hoodie over her head. “It’s so much nicer in here now, but how did you get sick redecorating?”

“Uhm..There was a lot of dust. I might be allergic?”

The door slammed open, the clear chandelier hanging from the roof shaking as Nyssa trudged in, her work boots leaving mud on the fluffy blood red rug. She was holding the glitter covered scrapbook in her gloved hands.

“So, I know I’m supposed to make everything in this, but what am I supposed to do with the polaroid of you kissing Mr D ‘s kid?”

»»————-　★　————-««

#pjo fandom #pjo #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #nico di angelo #nico #nico pjo #nico di angelo x reader #nico di angelo x you #nico di angelo x son of dionysus #hazel levesque #Pollux pjo #Hades #Hades cabin #death siblings

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alexanderlightweight · 11 months ago

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I miss writing. I miss malec

I plot in my head every night but it’s not the same.

I miss writing about how Magnus and Alec tease and find and appreciate and murder for each other and how much they love each other.

I miss Team Immortal and how Magnus and Cat and Ragnor and magical rituals and the spiral labyrinth politics and the finer elements of magical and warlock culture and

I miss diving into world building with magical botony and zoology and thread magic to pocket dimensions. How magic isn’t equal and there’s different levels and wild nature magic. The way that while the spiral labyrinth has changed and evolved, that it still holds to the very oldest of rituals. Everything carefully and continually read by each new Elder and the acolytes of the library learn by trade. Because knowledge isn’t kept in books alone. There are singing histories and spells kept alive by enchanted pieces and the memories of those devoted to learning. Carving and thread work and rituals in tapestry or furniture.

(Because elder isn’t a title based on just age but also elder knowledge. Warlocks who especially dedicate themselves to either singular or a plethora of fields and excel at creation and learning become elders. The very best researchers and scholars of the wealth of knowledge and magical prowess. Being an elder isn’t just a perk it’s a dedication and an oath to the protection and betterment of their people. Active oaths to keep them from stagnating in the decades of immortality and aging.

If you truly start slacking or losing your way, the magic prods you. Eventually you are forced to make a choice, forsake your roll as an Elder and retract and be released from your vows. Or uphold them. )

Metalworking and leather working and the labyrinth contains it all.

I love expanding on the shadowworld and the different ways magic is used by each race and how they all separately interact with the outskirts of the mundane world.

Of figuring out how a warrior society would work and the different styles of life that could have evolved.

And how much sheer adoration and platonic love is between the three of them. And the trust.

Because even when Ragnor is ignoring Magnus (a petty fight that turned into a research binge that turned into a few more years of silence than intended while Ragnor experimented in a pocket library) Magnus is still going to show up and make sure he’s fed and hydrated because the pettiness never outweighs the care.

(Cat has spells on all their vitals and vise versa. But she sent Magnus over with an excuse around year theee when she figured Ragnor had just lost track of time. Magnus doesn’t even remember that Ragnor was being petty and Ragnor doesn’t remember the argument at all).

I miss Alec figuring out what he enjoys and that he’s allowed to enjoy.

Honestly I got a little off track but I’ve been wanting to write malec and post for so long.

I miss the interactions and comments and looking forward to new Wednesday prompts. I miss writing Wednesdays so much and I’m looking forward to starting them up again when I’m healed :/

This took about an hour to write the first time but half got deleted and had to be rewritten when Nightshade started barking outside (it’s past the neighborhood noise curfew and I had to run to grab him so we stayed polite).

Nightshade likes to go outside and ‘guard’ the house for a bit every night before his door gets locked shut for bed, but since bed is subjective to my insomnia and not his sleep schedule he sometimes goes to ‘guard’ rather late. He huffily settled in his crate, perturbed I wouldn’t let him ‘protect’ the House.

Honestly I’m just happy I can write on my phone without a ton of pain anymore.

💜 lumine

The House made a rule (without me lol I was outvoted) that every time anyone buys anything they have to consider if it’s for public House use and if it is, how likely I am to injure myself with it. Or how likely is it to randomly break and hurt me.

It’s very sweet but I hate that it says something that they all agreed. It’s also hilarious because I’m the one who does all the yard work (I’ve had to delay fertilizing for a month and had to stop PT for 3.5 weeks while it healed enough for me to go) so I have axes, clippers, trimmers I use frequently.

#lumine talks to ppl #lumine talks #lumine is tired #lumine writes #lumines world building #malec #team immortal #shadowhunters #lumine is injured/sick… again

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drdemonprince · 5 months ago

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The MCM funrniture critque makes me feel so attacked 💀 what are some other furniture trends or periods you like? Like i feel you on the cheapness. $600 for a sidebar?? Tf

This is more of an interior design style, but I'm a fan of "warm industrial." Which often pairs with MCM or MCM-inspired elements. Think exposed brick, warm edison bulbs, tattered vintage rugs with milk crate bookshelves filled with old pulpy sci-fi novels, leather, earth tones. I can't say that my home lives up to it yet even remotely but I draw inspiration from there when selecting textures and colors. I'm very new to this whole thing. I didn't even have real curtains until I moved into this place earlier this year. But I've loved crafting a personal style for a long time and I am finding that some of those skills do transfer to figuring out what I like in interiors. My living room really needs a cool plant.

People who are into interior decorating or furniture should send me photos of their spaces, or spaces that inspire them. I'm looking to learn more and develop a stronger aesthetic sense, as well as a better vocabulary for it.

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fanficfactory333 · 14 days ago

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Stanley and the Narrator in the Backrooms. Chapter 2: Level 1.

The plywood groaned in protest as Stanley wedged the crowbar beneath it, the rusted nails shrieking as they were forced loose. With one final heave, the barrier splintered away, pieces clattering to the floor. The path ahead stood open.

Beyond the threshold lay something vast, industrial, and wrong.

They stepped through.

The air hit them first. Cold. Humid. Stagnant. It smelled like brutalism and apathy, like a place meant to function, not to feel—concrete dust, damp metal, and the faintest trace of ozone.

Their footsteps echoed, unnervingly sharp against the exposed concrete. There was no soft furniture, no carpet, nothing to absorb sound. Every step was a reminder of how empty this place was.

Level 1.

It stretched before them—endless hallways, infinite storage rooms lined with rusted shelves and looming concrete pillars. The dim, flickering lights struggled to hold back the void, pouring uneven pools of yellowed light onto the damp floor, leaving much of the space swallowed in darkness.

Somewhere in the distance, water dripped. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Small, frigid puddles dotted the uneven floor, splashing underfoot as they walked. The cold bit deeper than in Level 0—the kind that seeped into the bones rather than just the skin.

Stanley felt it the most.

His clothes were woefully inadequate—a thin white button-up with a grey grid pattern, dark grey pants—nothing compared to the Narrator’s layered warmth. He clutched the crowbar in one hand, but his other arm had wrapped around his own torso, fingers gripping his sides for some semblance of warmth. Goosebumps prickled along his forearms, and his breath ghosted faintly in the chilled air.

The Narrator noticed.

It was hard not to.

For a brief moment, something unfamiliar tugged at the edges of his thoughts—a twinge of pity.

He ignored it.

It didn’t matter.

Stanley hadn’t said anything about it, so why should he? If the man was cold, he’d say so. That was his problem, not the Narrator’s. He forced his gaze forward, pushing the thought away like a stray ember before it could burn any deeper.

A tense, complicated silence stretched between them as they walked, minutes stretching into something that felt like hours.

The cold. The silence. The endless, cavernous emptiness.

It was wearing at them.

Then—at last—a break in the monotony.

A warehouse-style storage room, filled with stacks of cardboard boxes and rusted industrial shelves. Larger wooden crates rested on pallets along the far wall.

The ceiling—unnervingly high, too high—vanished into the darkness above, the details of its structure obscured. Only a single, weak incandescent light illuminated the space, barely enough to carve out a rectangle of clarity in the vast expanse of shadow.

The Narrator’s gaze followed the ceiling up, his expression tightening slightly at the sheer height of it. It was wrong.

Deeply, instinctually wrong.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking off the strange vertigo that clawed at him. With a dry scoff, he muttered, “This ceiling is so high in here that I wouldn’t be surprised if it started raining.”

His voice felt too loud in the stillness, but at least it finally shattered the silence between them.

Stanley huffed, shaking his head before shifting the crowbar beneath his armpit to free up his hands. He signed, (I Will Look-For Jacket), his fingers moving with quick precision despite the cold.

The Narrator’s expression tightened.

Not at the signing—he understood it well enough—but at the fact that it was the first real thing Stanley had asked for.

The older man’s gaze flickered away, suddenly uninterested in the space between them. He told himself that the slight twinge of guilt in his chest was irrational. He had no reason to feel guilty.

Why the hell would he give up his own coat?

It was a ridiculous thought. Completely impractical. A sacrifice that would benefit only one of them, and if Stanley really needed it, he should have asked sooner. Simple as that.

And yet—

His hands curled subtly at his sides before he forced them to relax.

Stanley turned away, already scanning the room, oblivious to the Narrator’s internal war.

Then—a sharp crack split the air.

Stanley had slammed the crowbar into the lid of a crate, forcing it open.

The Narrator blinked, pulled from his thoughts.

He exhaled slowly, letting go of something he wasn’t ready to name.

For now, there were more immediate things to focus on.

—

Stanley rolled his shoulders before gripping the crowbar again, wedging it under the lid of the crate he’d just cracked open. With a sharp twist, the wood splintered, and the lid lurched free with a dull thud as it hit the ground.

He barely hesitated before digging in.

The first thing he pulled out was a box of crayons—a cheap, waxy set of 24 colors boxed in cardboard. The packaging was faded, but the crayons inside looked untouched. Useless. He exhaled through his nose, tossing them aside.

Next, he pulled out a tangled bundle of shoelaces, knotted together in an infuriating mess. Some were frayed, others were pristine, as if they'd been freshly laced through a new pair of sneakers. Weird, but not exactly helpful.

He moved on.

A sealed plastic bag of almonds.

Stanley paused. The packaging had no brand, no label, just a plain, vacuum-sealed bag. There was no telling if it was safe, but it looked like real, actual food. He tossed it into his backpack.

His fingers brushed against something else—something soft.

He pulled out a clump of long, blonde human hair, bound together by a rubber band.

Stanley flinched, disgust flaring up his spine before he dropped it back into the crate like it had burned him. He wiped his hand against his pants, trying not to think about the coarse, heavy texture still lingering on his fingertips.

What the hell was the point of that?

He forced himself to keep going.

A pair of old car keys. Rusted. Useless.

A single, cracked porcelain teacup, delicate but chipped at the rim. The handle was missing.

A medical syringe, still in its sterile plastic packaging. He frowned at that one, turning it over in his hand before setting it aside. Could be useful. Could also be laced with something that would kill him instantly. He tosses it aside.

At the very bottom of the crate, he found a heavy, military-style jacket.

Stanley’s eyes widened.

Dark green, thick fabric, reinforced stitching, and heavy pockets. On the shoulder there was a patch of a flag he had never seen before; A light blue rectangle with the white shapes of a musket, a lightning bolt, and three stars. Strange. He pulled it out, dust scattering from the folds. It smelled like stale fabric and damp cardboard, but it was warm.

He didn’t even hesitate—he shrugged it on, the sleeves slightly too long, but he didn’t care.

He felt an instant sense of comfort at the weight of the thick and durable fabric resting on his shoulders. It felt protective, like armor against the frigid air around him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Narrator watching him.

Not saying anything. Just watching.

Stanley adjusted the fit of the jacket, fastening one of the buttons. He didn’t ask why the older man was staring—he already had a pretty good guess.

The Narrator had known he was cold. And instead of offering his own coat, he’d just… ignored it. He wasn’t obligated to, obviously—Stanley wasn’t an idiot, he didn’t expect that kind of kindness here. But still.

The older man’s expression was unreadable, but something about it—something about the way his jaw was set, the way his fingers briefly flexed at his sides—gave Stanley the distinct impression that he was… annoyed.

Maybe not at him. Maybe at himself.

Stanley huffed under his breath. Not my problem.

The Narrator could pretend all he wanted that he didn’t care, but Stanley had seen the way his eyes lingered earlier, the way his expression had tightened when he signed about looking for a jacket.

The guy was fighting something in his own head.

Stanley just wasn’t sure if it was about him or about whatever personal baggage the Narrator was dragging around.

Either way, he wasn’t going to be the one to ask.

He turned his attention to the next crate, gripping the crowbar again. Better to keep moving.

—

Stanley kept searching, but it was starting to feel pointless.

For every useful find—military jacket, crowbar, flashlight—there were a dozen things that made no damn sense. A single ballet slipper. A jar of what looked like pickles but had no discernible label. A plastic container full of mismatched screws. More human hair.

At this point, he wasn’t even reacting to the weirder things. He just moved on.

After about an hour, his patience was wearing thin. But then—finally—something decent.

A pair of dark brown leather motorcycle gloves.

Stanley immediately pulled them on, flexing his fingers inside the snug material. They were slightly worn but warm, the leather stiff in places from age, but otherwise intact. Between this and the jacket, the cold wasn’t cutting quite as deep.

His gaze swept over the shelves again, and something caught his eye—a box filled with bottles, all labeled ‘Almond Water.’

Well. That sounded… almost reasonable.

It wasn’t like he had a better option.

He grabbed the whole box and made his way back toward the Narrator, who had perched himself atop a wooden pallet, long legs stretched out in front of him.

Stanley paused for a moment, taking in the sight.

The older man was… untangling shoelaces.

Stanley frowned. Out of all the things he could be doing.

The Narrator was fully invested, his gloved fingers methodically working at the knots, his expression unreadable. Like this was a puzzle that demanded solving.

Stanley’s first instinct was to assume boredom, but… no. He knew better.

Cordage was useful.

He knew it. The Narrator knew it.

A good length of string or rope could mean the difference between improvising a tool and having nothing. Could be used for binding, securing, setting traps, anything.

…But at the same time, it was definitely at least half boredom.

Shaking his head, Stanley walked over and set the box of Almond Water on the ground next to them. Then, without a word, he took a seat beside the Narrator and pulled out two bottles—offering one along with a Royal Rations energy bar.

The Narrator barely glanced up. “Mm.” He took the bottle with his free hand but made no move to open it, still focused on the laces.

Stanley huffed. “You gonna actually drink that or just appreciate it aesthetically?”

The Narrator finally looked at him, raising an unimpressed brow before setting the tangled mess aside with a quiet sigh.

Only then did he unscrew the cap.

Stanley had already taken a few sips of his own when he noticed something.

The Narrator paused mid-drink, his jaw subtly tightening before he quickly took another sip, longer this time.

Then another.

Stanley narrowed his eyes. “…You didn’t realize how thirsty you were, did you?”

The older man stopped, the bottle still in his hand. His expression remained neutral, but something about it shifted.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took the energy bar from Stanley’s outstretched hand, almost like an afterthought. He examined the packaging briefly—plain, military-style, efficient. Then, without a word, he peeled it open and took a bite.

Stanley let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

The Narrator shot him a dry look, chewing with an air of pointed indifference. After swallowing, he finally responded. “I was… occupied.”

Stanley smirked. “With shoelaces?”

A pause.

“…With practicality.” The Narrator corrected, nudging the tangled pile on the pallet beside him. “These could be useful.”

Stanley glanced at them. “Uh-huh. And totally not just an excuse to do something with your hands?”

The Narrator’s silence was answer enough.

A faint smirk tugged at Stanley’s lips, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he leaned back slightly, rolling one shoulder to work out the tension.

For a few minutes, they just sat there. Drinking. Eating. Existing.

It wasn’t comfortable, not really, but it was a moment. A moment where neither of them were running, or hiding, or waiting for something to go wrong.

A moment where survival wasn’t the only thing in the air.

The Narrator finished his bar and wiped his fingers off on his gloves before returning his attention to the shoelaces. His fingers worked with practiced efficiency, his focus seemingly elsewhere.

Stanley tilted his head slightly, watching him for a moment.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he grabbed one of the laces and started helping.

The Narrator’s hands briefly stilled.

“…You know I had it handled,” he murmured.

Stanley smirked. “Sure. But at this rate, we’d be here another hour.”

The Narrator exhaled through his nose, but he didn’t argue.

They worked in silence.

For once, it wasn’t tense.

Just strange.

Strange, but not bad.

—

The first thing Stanley noticed after taking a seat beside the Narrator was how unnervingly still the air was.

No ambient noise beyond their own breathing. No flickering lights at the moment. Just the occasional drip of water somewhere in the distance, always just far enough away to feel imagined.

It had been hours since either of them had properly rested. This—sitting down, drinking, eating something real—should have felt normal. But it didn’t.

It felt temporary. Like something was waiting to be taken away.

Stanley tore open the Royal Rations energy bar with his gloved fingers, taking a bite. It was dense, chalky, but packed with enough calories to keep him going. Not great, not terrible.

The Narrator, still sitting beside him, was going through the same motions—eating, drinking, working at the tangle of shoelaces in his lap.

For the first few minutes, neither of them said anything.

Then, finally, the Narrator broke the silence.

“The coat suits you.”

Stanley blinked, caught off guard. He glanced down at himself—the thick, military-style jacket he’d found fit well enough, though a bit big on him. The gloves, too, had molded to his hands nicely after wearing them for a while.

It took him a second to respond, “Didn’t really have a choice,” he muttered, “Unless you were planning on giving me yours.”

The Narrator let out a quiet, amused huff, “Not in this lifetime.”

Stanley rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t actually annoyed. He could still feel the way the Narrator had hesitated earlier, when he first noticed how cold he was. The older man had considered it.

That was what made his stubborn refusal almost funny.

Stanley took another bite, chewing slowly before saying, “You didn’t say anything about the gloves.”

The Narrator raised an eyebrow. “Should I?”

Stanley shrugged. “If you’re going to make small talk about my fashion choices, might as well go all the way.”

A beat of silence. Then, finally, the Narrator glanced down at the gloves. Dark brown leather, fitted well, sturdy.

“Good find.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “More useful than the jacket, actually. Hands lose heat faster than most people realize. You’d be useless in a fight if you couldn’t feel your fingers.”

Stanley smirked slightly. “Oh, so you were thinking about me fighting?”

The Narrator sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I—”

Stanley chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Relax, I’m messing with you.”

The Narrator muttered something under his breath—probably unkind—but he let it go.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the shoelaces, fingers deftly untangling another stubborn knot.

Stanley watched him work for a moment, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again.

“You ever think about how weird this all is?”

The Narrator didn’t look up. “You’ll have to be more specific. There’s a lot of ‘weird’ to choose from.”

Stanley gestured vaguely. “This whole thing. The Backrooms. Being here. Existing in a place that shouldn’t exist.”

The older man was quiet for a moment. Then, finally, he said, “No.”

Stanley frowned. “No?”

“I don’t think about it,” the Narrator clarified, voice even, “Because it doesn’t help. We’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Stanley studied him for a second. “That’s a practical way to look at it.”

The Narrator smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Practicality is the only thing keeping you alive.”

Stanley exhaled sharply through his nose. “Right. Because survival is all that matters.”

The Narrator didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he finished untangling the last knot, then slowly tied the laces together, forming a single, continuous length of cordage.

Only when he was satisfied with the result did he speak.

“Yes.”

Stanley narrowed his eyes. “You don’t actually believe that.”

The Narrator shot him a look. “And what makes you so sure?”

Stanley shrugged, finishing off the last of his energy bar, “You act like you don’t care about anything, but you do.”

The older man scoffed, “Enlighten me.”

“You hesitate.”

That caught the Narrator off guard. Just for a second.

Stanley leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, “You’re quick to act when you need to, but sometimes—just sometimes—you pause. Like earlier, when I signed about needing a jacket. You thought about giving me yours.”

The Narrator’s expression didn’t change.

Stanley continued, “You didn’t, obviously. And that’s fine. But you thought about it.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Then, after a moment, the Narrator sighed quietly.

“…Doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered.

Stanley didn’t argue. He just smirked faintly, “Whatever you say…”

The Narrator exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he reached for one of the Almond Water bottles. He twisted off the cap and took a sip—longer than necessary.

And that’s when it hit him.

Hunger. Thirst.

He hadn’t even realized how empty his stomach was until now. Until he actually had something in his hands, something tangible, something that could be consumed.

He had been running on instinct, on pragmatism, on the necessity of movement for so long that he had forgotten about the most basic human needs.

Stanley noticed.

“…You didn’t realize how hungry you were, did you?”

The Narrator scowled slightly, but he didn’t deny it.

Instead, he took another deliberate bite of the ration bar, chewing slowly, methodically.

Stanley shook his head. “Damn. You’re really out here gaslighting yourself into not having basic needs, huh?”

The Narrator glared. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Stanley cut in, pointing at him, “I bet if I didn’t hand you food just now, you’d have kept going until you collapsed.”

The Narrator scoffed, but there was no real argument left in him.

Another pause. Then, more quietly, he said, “I’m used to ignoring it.”

Stanley wasn’t sure what to say to that.

So, instead, he just said, “Well, that’s stupid.”

The Narrator let out a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

They sat there for a little while longer, eating, drinking, tying knots. Slowly, without either of them acknowledging it, the silence between them became something different.

Not tense. Not forced. Just… there.

Eventually, when the shoelace cord was a solid 20 feet, Stanley packed it away along with two extra bottles of Almond Water, securing them in his backpack.

The Narrator stood, stretching his legs, “We should move.”

Stanley nodded, slinging the pack over his shoulder, “Yeah.”

And so they walked—side by side, through an unreasonably long hallway, talking about nothing and everything.

#the stanley parable #the stanley parable ultra deluxe #tspud #tsp #stanley parable #tsp stanley #tsp narrator #the backrooms #backrooms #fanfic #fanfiction #my first fic #my fic #fiction #The flag is the minutemen flag from Fallout 4 #just a fun cameo

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mariateresaeliapivetta · 2 months ago

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The Timeless Charm of Brocante: Why We Love This Vintage-Inspired Style

When it comes to interior design, few styles capture the romance and nostalgia of the past quite like Brocante. Rooted in French culture, the term “brocante” refers to flea markets or second-hand goods, yet its essence transcends simple thrift shopping. Brocante is an artful mix of vintage elegance, rustic charm, and a touch of whimsy that creates a warm, lived-in atmosphere. But why does this style resonate so deeply with design enthusiasts? Let’s dive into the world of Brocante and uncover its enduring appeal.

What Defines Brocante Style?

At its core, Brocante style is about breathing new life into old treasures. It thrives on the beauty of imperfection, celebrating items that show the passage of time. Think antique furniture with distressed finishes, mismatched dinnerware with delicate patterns, weathered textiles, and handmade details.

Brocante isn’t about creating a flawless, museum-like environment. Instead, it embraces a curated, eclectic look where each piece has a story to tell. Key elements of Brocante interiors include:

Vintage Furniture: French armoires, wooden dining tables with chipped paint, or upholstered chairs with faded fabrics.

Soft Color Palettes: Muted tones like white, beige, pastels, and soft greys dominate the color scheme, creating a serene and cohesive atmosphere.

Decorative Accessories: Chandeliers, ornate mirrors, vintage clocks, and delicate porcelain or ceramic items.

Natural Materials: Linen, cotton, aged wood, and wrought iron bring texture and authenticity.

Why Do People Love Brocante Style?

1. Nostalgia and Sentimentality

Brocante offers a connection to the past, reminding us of simpler times. The style evokes a sense of history and craftsmanship, often lost in mass-produced modern design. Each item feels like a treasure, full of character and charm.

2. Sustainability and Upcycling

In a world increasingly aware of environmental impact, Brocante’s emphasis on repurposing and reusing is not only appealing but also ethical. By giving old items a second life, this style promotes sustainable living while creating unique and personal interiors.

3. A Warm and Inviting Atmosphere

Brocante interiors are inherently cozy. The use of aged materials, soft lighting, and layered textures makes spaces feel welcoming and lived-in. Unlike minimalist styles, Brocante thrives on personality and comfort.

4. A Celebration of Individuality

No two Brocante spaces are alike. This style encourages creativity and self-expression, allowing homeowners to mix and match pieces that reflect their personal taste. Whether it’s a flea market find or a cherished family heirloom, every item has its place.

5. A Romantic Aesthetic

With its delicate details, ornate decorations, and emphasis on softness, Brocante is undeniably romantic. It appeals to those who dream of rustic French cottages, rose-filled gardens, and the charm of provincial life.

How to Incorporate Brocante Into Your Home

You don’t need to overhaul your entire home to embrace Brocante style. Here are some simple ways to start:

Shop Vintage and Flea Markets: Look for unique pieces like wooden crates, vintage picture frames, or enamel kitchenware.

Mix Old with New: Combine antique furniture with modern accents to create a balanced and harmonious space.

Embrace Imperfections: Don’t shy away from scratches, faded fabrics, or chipped paint – they add authenticity.

Focus on Textures: Layer linens, rugs, and cushions for a cozy, tactile feel.

Add Personal Touches: Display collections, photographs, or handmade crafts to make the space your own.

In Conclusion

Brocante style is more than just an aesthetic – it’s a lifestyle. It’s about cherishing the past, embracing imperfection, and finding beauty in the everyday. Whether you’re an avid flea market hunter or someone looking to add a touch of vintage charm to your home, Brocante offers endless possibilities. Its timeless appeal lies in its authenticity, warmth, and the stories it tells, making it a favorite for those who value heart and soul in their interiors.

Are you ready to bring a touch of Brocante into your life? Happy treasure hunting!

#home interior #interior design #interior decorating #interiorfurniture #interioraesthetic #interiors #interiorinspiration #minimal interior #interiorstyling #brocante #cottagecharm #french countryside

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loosesodamarble · 6 months ago

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Omni luci est umbra Chapter 2: The Doe

Summary: Josele does a bit of work. It gets pretty messy but Josele doesn't mind. So long as Morgen doesn't find out about it. Genre: general, romance Word count: ~3000 Content warnings: usage of guns and knives, somewhat graphic depiction of violence Previous chapter | Next chapter (tbp)

..........

It was yet another normal day for Josele. One of going into work and helping those who needed help, correcting the mistakes people made, and generally doing her best with the skills she had. That morning hadn’t gone smoothly, what with Morgen leaving in a rush and thus skipping out on breakfast and the pot of coffee he left behind being worthless without sugar to add in. But Josele easily shrugged it off knowing that she and Morgen would likely be free to have lunch together and dinner at home was guaranteed.

Gravel crunched under sturdy boots as her brisk, confident footsteps carried Josele to her destination. Once Josele was inside, she could do what she did best.

The entrance of the building was a set of metal double doors, each with a small, rectangular window near where the two doors meant. They reminded Josele of the doors used for the buildings across her old high school’s campus. As she got closer, she noticed the windows had diagonal lines forming diamond shapes in the glass. Though, she couldn’t see into the windows as they were covered by paper.

What was that style of window called? Mutton? Josele shook her head. I think it was called muntin, actually.

Josele reached the doors, grabbed both by the handle, and turned the handles.

Interesting. One would think they’d lock the doors to this place, Josele mused as she swung the doors open.

A dingy yellow glow emanated from the lightbulbs in the entryway’s ceiling. At a glance, Josele knew some of the lightbulbs were dead, not that having all of them working would do much for the atmosphere. The walls of the room were completely bare and the paint job, white paint on concrete walls, was either left half done or it was peeling away. The flooring, too, was in a sorry state; it was impossible to tell if any given gray spot was a natural part of the tile’s pattern or if it was a scuff mark. The furniture around the room consisted of janky folded chairs, wood crates, oil drums, and old HVAC units. An open doorway in the back wall led to a stairwell.

The only thing giving the room any life were the people in the room.

Men. Six of them. Slacks with poorly fitted button-up shirts, tank tops paired with sweats, or just everyday streetwear were the outfits of choice for the men. One was in the middle of smoking a cigarette. Two were chatting over beer bottles. Another stood in a back corner and was on the phone. And the last two were looking at a magazine that Josele was certain she didn’t want to know the contents of.

In the second it took for Josele to take in the whole room, the men took notice of her.

“The hell?”

“Alright, who didn’t lock the damn door?!”

“Ya’ get lost in the area, lady? I don’t think ya’ belong in a place like this.”

Josele cocked her head to the side, grinned, and said, “I’m not lost. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

Her answer finally made the men wary. Their looks of confusion hardened into glares.

“Gonna fight us all al—?”

Shrlk!

“Akh…”

Thmp.

Before the man—the one who had been smoking close to the double doors—could finish his sentence, a knife had been lodged into his throat courtesy of Josele.

“Holy shit!”

“Evander!”

“Damn you!”

The remaining men reached for guns they kept on their bodies. Meanwhile, Josele was already running towards the next two closest to her, the ones who’d been reading the seedy magazine. She targeted one with an upward kick to his hand.

Crack!

His hand flopped limply at the wrist, not broken beyond repair but definitely left useless for the time being. His firearm clattered to the floor.

At the same time, Josele grabbed the second man by the wrist, the same hand which held his gun, and forced him to point his gun at his ally.

Bang!

Josele grabbed the man’s other wrist while he was still reeling from his unintended kill. She twisted both of his arms behind his back until she heard the shoulders pop out of place and the man scream from the pain. With him incapacitated, Josele swung his body around, just in time to absorb the fire from the other three men. She dropped the man as he let out his last groans. Her attention turned to the rest of her targets.

Another cacophony of bangs rang out. None of the bullets made contact though. Josele, though, easily pivoted around the gunfire before rushing in close.

“She dodged them? H-how?!” one of the still living men said in a state of growing panic. “That’s not even—”

“Just keep shooting, dammit!”

The gunfire continued. Josele, too, kept going.

Josele closed in on the two men who’d been drinking together. She pulled a knife from the lining of each boot she wore and threw them. The blades struck the men in the hands they used to wield their firearms, making them drop the weapons. Then when she was close enough, Josele jumped into the air, as though she were aiming to leap over the two. That wasn’t her goal though. Rather, she pulled her knees up to her chest at the same time as she reached for the men’s outer shoulders. She grabbed the men and guided herself into kneeing both squarely in their noses.

The momentum sent the men stumbling toward the wall behind them. Before the men and she herself hit the wall, Josele swung her body forward so instead of her face, her feet made contact with the wall. She kicked off the surface and toward the final man. He was already running for the stairwell.

Josele rolled into her landing then sprinted after the man. As she ran, she pulled out a new knife, this time from a sheath attached to the back of her belt. She scaled up the steps and caught sight of her fleeing target as he seemed to be catching himself after ramming in a wall in his haste. That second was all she needed to throw her knife into his achilles tendon.

His scream only had a second to be heard before Josele had her hand over his mouth. Her fingers pressed into the sides of his face as she jerked the man’s neck simultaneously to swiping a blade— the same knife she’d thrown at his ankle was already removed to use again—through his flesh. Crimson blood flew, following after the motion of Josele’s arm, and splattered on the floor and wall. A low gurgling sound came from the man as Josele let him fall to the ground. The last embers of life left him like the blood that oozed from his neck.

No one else has come to confront me, Josele realized as she took the gun from the corpse. She’d traveled light for this mission but it wasn’t like she was going to not make use of everything at her disposal. Meaning that these goons were the only one’s here. Or maybe whoever else is upstairs didn’t hear.

Josele climbed the stairs. She stopped at the building’s second floor and swept it for any more enemies. Aside from a room storing weapons though, there wasn’t any danger present. Which left the third floor. On the third floor, there was a bathroom, a clean-looking sitting room where business deals would likely be discussed, and a third room that Josele still had to check.

She paused outside the door. A shadow briefly crossed the bottom gap of the door, moving to the side of the entrance where the door would swing towards once opened. Even if she hadn’t seen the shadow, Josele also heard the tap of footsteps and the rush of air being breathed by whoever was on the other side of the door.

They’re hoping the door will block my line of sight and make me susceptible to a sneak attack. How quaint. Josele eyed the frame of the door. I should have at least a centimeter of space between the door and the frame when I open it…

One moment to take a deep breath. Another moment to prep the “borrowed” gun for fire. And then, Josele turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

Bang!

“Gahk!”

Josele rushed into the room. She rounded the open door and came face-to-face with a woman, likely the same age as herself, with dirty blond hair pulled into a bun on the back of her hair. Her clothes were much nicer than that of the men who’d been there when Josele entered the building. Seems she got paid a bit more than the men Josele had already killed. The woman had a gun in one hand while her other was preoccupied with holding a wound in her side.

“How the hell did you—?”

“It doesn’t matter how I knew. What matters is that I was the one to get the drop on you,” Josele responded flatly. “Now—”

She stopped upon seeing the blonde raise her gun.

Bang!

The bullet intended for Josele was intercepted by one fired by Josele, and both clinked on the floor. For good measure, Josele shot the woman’s hand holding her firearm. The woman let out a scream which drowned out the sound of her gun hitting the floor. The momentum of the gun being thrown from the blonde’s hand caused it to slide further behind the woman. If the blonde wanted her gun, she’d need to turn her back to Josele to make a lunge for it. And if she did that, she was as good as dead and she knew it.

Josele watched as her opponent’s eyes went wide, from shock and fear. That was always a good sign.

“You’re Artemis, a high ranking member of the Cortrell Family, aren’t you?” Josele asked, as if the shoot off never occurred.

The blonde. said nothing and grit her teeth.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Josele stepped forward and “Artemis” stepped back. The slow, quiet chase was put to an end when “Artemis’s” back finally hit the wall behind her. Josele grinned at the sight of her prey cornered.

“Now let me introduce myself.” Josele touched her hand to her chest. “You may call me Diana. Ironic, isn’t it? The Roman and Greek names of the same deity facing off. But the difference between us made this a rather unfair match.”

The space between the women shrunk until “Artemis” was in arm’s reach of Josele.

“I’m actually disappointed by how boring this whole mission was,” Josele stated with a sigh and tired smile. “A three story building and several rooms but all I got to face were some unskilled grunts and an equally unskilled higher associate. You seem less like a mafia family and more like some ragtag thugs posing as mafia.”

“Artemis” let out an indignant growl then spat at Josele, “Quit it with the speech. Just kill me if that’s your job.”

For a moment, Josele said nothing but let out another sigh.

“It’s true that I’m here to kill you. But I was told to at least attempt interrogating you first. So!” Josele shot her open hand forward and grabbed “Artemis” by her throat. “Why don’t you answer some questions for me?”

“Artemis” wheezed as she clawed at Josele’s arm with her bloody hands. Josele, however, gave no reaction to her desperation.

“Tell me, “Artemis,” do any of these names sound familiar? Nash. Shirley. Kariya. Nadia. Marie.” With each name Josele whispered, the wider “Artemis’s” eyes grew. “So you are familiar with them! Wonderful! Now can you tell me where your organization of scumbags has taken them?”

“I don’t know,” “Artemis” choked out. “My crew just collec—Ack!”

Josele’s grip grew tighter. In response, “Artemis” squirmed, very weakly but the effort alone was commendable.

“Try again. Tell me where—”

The sound of a piano suddenly playing cut Josele off. It was her phone. And the particular ringtone playing belonged to her husband.

“Hold on just a moment,” Josele told “Artemis” before releasing her grip on the other woman. However, she didn’t give “Artemis” long to breathe easy and quickly raised her leg and pinned her to the wall with a foot to her neck. She brought her phone out, hit the button to answer, and put the phone to her ear.

[“Morning, my dearest sweetheart!”]

“Hiya honey!” Josele practically chirped her reply, feeling her heart flutter from the sound of Morgen’s angelic voice. But then she remembered where she was and panic spiked in her. “What’s with the sudden call? Are you picking me up to go out for lunch today?”

[“Unfortunately not. I’ll be staying at the workplace for the rest of the day,”] answered Morgen; he laughed but it was hollow. [“And don’t you think about guilt tripping me about not taking you for lunch after skipping breakfast, I feel guilty enough as it is.”]

Josele’s shoulders relaxed and she giggled. Morgen was so cute the way he worried about disappointing her.

“Morgen, I wasn’t going to guilt trip you,” Josele reassured him. “I’m actually relieved you aren’t coming to pick me up.”

[“Oh?”]

“I’m out running errands,” Josele quickly said. It wasn’t a total lie but it wasn’t entirely the truth either. “And I don’t want you coming home to me not be—”

“Urk!” “Artemis let out a weak sound as she continued to choke but Josele knew instinctively that it would’ve been loud enough for Morgen to hear “Koff!” The cough was even louder.

[“Josie, is everything okay over there?”]

I’m fine but this situation isn’t great, Josele thought as she resisted the urge to groan. “Not entirely?” Josele glared at “Artemis.” She should’ve been more clear and told the woman to keep quiet. “Seems like someone’s struggling to breathe. They might pass out by the looks of it.”

[“You better grab help then!”] Ever the kind soul, Morgen was worried about a total stranger without knowing how much the person didn’t deserve his sympathy. [“Actually, hang up and call medical services!”]

“Y-yeah, I should,” Josele replied as she pressed her foot more firmly on “Artemis’s” throat. “Artemis” began to pale as she lost more air. “At least I know how to resuscitate if need be…”

[“My heart…”] Morgen’s concerned voice came through after a second. [“I beg of you, don’t volunteer to resuscitate the person if they need it. Remember, last time you did it for me, you broke one of my ribs…”]

Josele cringed at the memory. She really hadn’t meant to be so rough with Morgen but she was desperate to save her husband.

“But Morgen,” Josele started, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “It’s not uncommon for ribs to break when performing chest compressions on someone.”

[“Mmm… Still… Better not to risk it. I’ll hang up and let you call help now.”]

Josele had no plans to call for help. But Morgen hanging up was ideal at the moment.

“Right then. Goodbye, my love.”

[“Goodbye, my precious heart…”]

The second the call ended, Josele removed her foot from “Artemis’s” throat and spun on her leg to kick the side of the woman’s head. “Artemis” cried out in pain as she was thrown to the floor. She was bleeding from the head, but still alive.

“You should’ve kept quiet and not ruined the moment I had with my husband,” Josele hissed. “But I’ll forgive that mistake if you tell me what I want to know.” Josele locked her gaze on her victim and cocked her head to the side. “So? What’ll it be?”

After that, “Artemis” spilled everything she knew. The names of her associates, the addresses of their hideouts, and where the kidnapped children were being taken. Josele made sure every detail of “Artemis’s” confession was recorded on the second, work-related phone she carried on her person.

It only took a chop to the throat to knock out “Artemis.” Josele was then free to call her boss.

“Hello, Dis— I mean, Miss Vampire. It’s me.” As Josele talked, she combed her fingers through her mussed hair. She’d need to clean herself up properly when she got home.

[“I assume that my favorite assassin is calling because the mission is already done.”]

“Yeah.” Josele set her phone to speaker and put it on the floor. “I got the info we were looking for. I already sent the voice recording.” She peeled off her plain, long-sleeved shirt to reveal a floral-patterned blouse being worn underneath. “I’ve still got ‘Artmetis’ alive if you want a more thorough interrogation though.” She wiggled her boots off and pulled down her pants.

[“I’ll send the clean up crew to collect her and tidy up your mess.”]

Josele pouted. “Hey! It’s not my fault that killing is naturally very dirty!” She kicked off her blood-stained cargo pants to be left in skinny jeans. “Oh, by the way, I’m leaving a bit of laundry behind.”

[“You can do your own laundry, I know you can!”] The voice on the other side of the call laughed before taking on a serious tone again. [“But I suppose stains like those would arouse suspicion. And someone as innocent as your husband could never know the truth, huh?”]

Josele’s chest felt tight at the mention of Morgen. Josele took pride in her work, removing filth and protecting the innocents of the city. But she still felt guilty on some level because she was something she could never share with Morgen.

Morgen, her bright-as-the-sun husband. Her shining beacon. Her tender, loving other half. The one part of her life that was normal.

Morgen worked at a hospital and saved lives as a doctor. He helped the vulnerable and suffering as a natural instinct of his. He did it all from giving medical advice to performing in-depth surgeries. His patients adored him and his gentle manner of approaching topics as scary as disease and he was called a hero by the people whose lives he’d saved in the past. His colleagues also praised his earnest work ethic. And that kindness of his was needed in a world as troubled as the one he and Josele lived in.

As for Josele, she would commit whatever violence was needed of her. Death was left in her wake as she reaped evil while Morgen nurtured life and goodness. Josele vowed that her dark path was for the sake of Morgen’s light.

#black clover #black clover fanfic #morgen faust #black clover oc #josele canty #morgsele #black clover au #mafia au

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maddie-grove · 8 months ago

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The novels of Grace Livingston Hill (evangelical Christian romance author, active from the 1880s to the 1940s) really bring home that people have just been writing anything for a long time. She was not untalented, but. Like. I don’t think she had a lot of people in her life going “hey, Grace! That is really implausible/tasteless/tonally jarring!” For example:

The heroine runs away to a new town with a few dollars in her pocket, buys a 1920s Tiny Home, and proceeds to build all her own furniture from crates and barrels. Her talent for carpentry was not previously mentioned.

The heroine is almost forced to marry her stepbrother, who would not be out of place in an episode of Mindhunter. He is eventually vanquished by a group of adorable Christian children who rig up some Home Alone-style traps. At one point the eldest boy throws a gun into the kitchen and his mom is like “Billy, you mustn’t ever do anything so foolish as to throw a gun into a room! It’s very dangerous!”

The heroine’s romantic rival, whose evil schemes thus far have been limited to saying rude things at church socials, arranges for the heroine to be kidnapped and taken to a den of inequity. The heroine escapes and the whole thing is forgotten.

The heroine’s fiancé reveals his moral turpitude by sleeping in a coffin during his bachelor party. I think this is an elaborate “marriage is the worst!” joke.

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ivory--raven · 1 year ago

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Day 11, "alternate timeline." It's 1800. The chocolate scene, but Gabriel didn't notice anything amiss when he went to his tailor's and tried on his new suit. He didn't even look out of the window once.

Different universe from most of the other angelfish things I've been posting here.

“Michael,” says Gabriel, smiling pleasantly. That is a terrible sign.

“Gabriel,” she says, curt.

“We’ve decided it’s time for a change of pace,” he continues. She’s not sure who we is, because it clearly doesn’t include her. “As you know, the Principality Aziraphale has served faithfully on Earth for almost six thousand years.”

She does know. Has Aziraphale finally decided he’s done with Earth? They’ll have to send a replacement, but they can do that.

“We’ve decided,” says Gabriel, and there’s that we again, “to recall Aziraphale.”

“That makes sense to me,” says Michael.

“Great! Then you understand. We’ve decided you’re the best candidate to take his place.”

What?

Michael must be hearing wrong. She must be. This can’t be right. How can this possibly be right?

“You’ll be stationed in a bookshop he cleverly decided to open. Use it as your main base of operations.”

No. No, no, no!

“What about my role?” she asks.

Gabriel’s smile doesn’t go away. “Don’t worry about us up here, we’ll manage!” He claps her on the shoulder. She takes it like a soldier. “Well then, I’ll let Aziraphale brief you on your new posting. He is, after all, the expert!”

Michael takes stock of her expression (calm) and her posture (strong, authoritative). She can’t let Gabriel see he gets to her. Can’t let him see she doesn’t want to go. Why couldn’t a less important angel go in Aziraphale’s place?

The Principality is stony faced when she sees him. “Archangel Michael.”

“Aziraphale,” she says, tone cool.

“I’ll leave you two to it!” Gabriel claps his hands together.

“My bookshop was supposed to have a grand opening on Friday after lunch,” says Aziraphale. There’s something off about his voice, though she isn’t sure what it is.

“A grand opening,” she repeats. “Friday. Is there anything else I should know?”

“The demon Crowley,” says Aziraphale. “Very wily. Very evil. Takes a lot of thwarting. Be on the lookout. He’s, er, very fearsome.”

“I’m sure I can handle a demon perfectly well,” says Michael.

London is crowded. There are humans and smells and colours and objects everywhere. Michael hasn’t been in an Earth city in four hundred years, and there are many more humans and smells than there were four hundred years ago.

At least the bookshop is quiet. There are a couple of books already shelved, but most are in crates. There is furniture, chairs and tables, all of it in a style Michael would never choose for herself. An open box of chocolates is abandoned on an armchair. The smell of something demonic has invaded even the bookshop. The demon Crowley must be powerful indeed.

She’s not worried about it. She is an archangel of the Lord. A demon might be tricky for a principality to handle, but she will grasp the problem firmly with both hands and deal with it.

By the time Friday arrives, Michael has shelved all the books and thinks she has a reasonable grasp of current human currency.

The bell over the door jangles as it opens and a human comes inside. “Oh, hello dearie,” says the human, a woman in a red dress, “where is Mr. Fell?”

“This is my bookshop,” says Michael.

“Oh, but Mr. Fell said…”

“It’s always been my bookshop,” says Michael, snapping her fingers.

“I just thought I’d come over and see how you’re getting on with the preparations for the grand opening,” says the human.

“Right,” says Michael. “I’m all right.”

“Oh, but you haven’t any food out!” she exclaims. “Won’t be a moment, just you wait.”

Sure enough, she’s back with a tray of gross matter. “I’ll set these out. It was two you said you were starting, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” agrees Michael, because why not?

“Ten minutes until people start arriving, I reckon,” she says. “Ooh, it’s so exciting to have a new shop opening! And a bookshop!”

She’s right. In about ten minutes, people start clanging their way into the bookshop and congratulating Michael on her ownership of it.

Something shifts in the air. The scent of demon is stronger, and with it, saltwater. She recognizes the aura and looks up to see the demon Dagon lurking outside. Sighing, she leaves the shop to face her just outside.

“Heard you got sent down here,” Dagon says. “I had to come up and see for myself, naturally.”

“Be gone, foul demon,” says Michael.

“Aw, Archangel Michael, you’ve been brought low,” says Dagon. “You’re touchy.”

“I’m not touchy,” snaps Michael.

Dagon brushes a hand against her upper arm. “All this tension,” she says. “I could help with that.”

Blood pools in Michael’s cheeks, on her chest. “You shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be here.”

“You wanna take me home, Archangel?” Dagon pulls off the coat she’s wearing, folds it over her arm.

Michael’s breath catches in her throat.

Dagon’s blue eyes gleam. “Come on, invite me in.”

“Fine,” says Michael.

Dagon takes Michael’s arm and pulls her into her own bookshop. “The demon Crowley wouldn’t stay up here,” she says, conversationally. “You must be too good at smiting demons for her.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Michael asks. “Forced to replace Crowley?”

“Oh, no,” says Dagon, leaning in close. “I volunteered.”

The demon Crowley was reporting back in person, for once. “They’re sending a new angel down,” she’s saying. Boring. Dagon picks dirt out from under her nails. Doesn’t Heaven just do that every now and again?

“Know who it izz?” asks Beelzebub.

Crowley’s shoulders slump. “That wanker Michael.”

Dagon’s hands go still. Michael? Michael with the pretty hair and the shiny armour? Michael with the spears and the swords? Michael with the voice she could listen to for hours, Michael who blushes red like a blooming flower, like a fresh bruise?

“The Archangel Michael?” clarifies Beelzebub. Crowley nods miserably.

“She’s replacing Aziraphale.”

“If she’zz replacing him, we don’t need you up there,” says Beelzebub. “How would you like to come home?”

Crowley shrugs. “Um,” she says.

“You can’t let an angel roam around on Earth without a demon to work against them,” interjects Dagon.

“We’ll send someone else,” says Beelzebub.

“I could do it,” says Dagon, attempting for casual but overshooting and landing on reluctant.

“Appreciate your willingness, but we need you here.”

“I could still do my job. I’d just be doing it from up there instead,” argues Dagon. “You know I’m in my office most of the time anyway.”

Beezebub raises an eyebrow. “You are suggesting I let you take top secret filezz up there where there’zz a hostile angel?”

That’s exactly what she’s suggesting they do. “You can trust me.”

They look unimpressed. So do all their flies. “Never trust a demon. You know that.”

She stares into their eyes. They’re the one to break eye contact. “Fine,” Beelzebub says. “Savezz me torturing some poor sod into saying yezz.”

#femslash omens #angelfish #ineffable administrators #i'm so sorry to aziraphale and crowley #it'll be okay they'll figure it out. they will reunite #good omens

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sunevial · 1 year ago

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The Districts

Silver Bones (residential)

Sanctuary

The air is kind. The air is kind, and the streets are clean, and there are places to sit and rest and watch the world go by. Streetcars are regular, and the buildings are eclectic, and there are children waiting under colorful lamps. It’s never exactly quiet, but it’s never crowded either. There’s someone offering food, a blanket, a hand, a young child offering up a glass of lemonade. It’s calm. It wants you to relax. It wants you to let your guard down and find somewhere to call home.

While the entirety of the Torn Veil has residential housing, the Silver Bones district is a bit quieter than the hustle and bustle of the trading districts. Shops and services are more tailored for residents, offering home goods, furniture, and cheap groceries for its residents. Lamps and lanterns light up the many corridors and bridges, bathing the whole district in soft lights of every color. Many who work in the city live in Silver Bones, whether they stock stalls in the stores or work at the Necropolis.

Shadow Puppets (entertainment)

Reflective

The song ever plays on, but what does it say about you? Why do you end up in front of a 1920s speakeasy instead of a tavern? Why go to a crass theater production instead of an orchestral ensemble? Why do you pick out one of the overlapping buildings instead of another, watch one street performer over another? The buildings all blend together through space, but go inside one and it’s like stepping back in time. Reality is fuzzy at the seams, so you have to pick what you see. Why did you pick it?

A brightly colored district where reality seems especially fuzzy at the seams. Buildings seem to fade into each other, overlapping to show architecture styles that have only one unifying theme: they’re all from places long, long in the past of their respective worlds. Strange music echoes down the streets, drawing people deeper into the maze of colors and sights and sounds. Theaters are packed day in and day out, ghostly bards and their living apprentices keeping shows running regardless of the hour of the day, while skeletal stuntmen and acrobats perform feats impossible for the living at strange circuses.

Dutchman's Docks (port)

Transitory

The ironic nature of a port is that no one ever stays for long. Sure, there’s places to stop in, grab a drink, warehouses store goods, places for people to sit down and chat and catch up, certainly. But it’s a working place, and it feels like a working place, and it’s not a place most folks stay for long. There’s work to be done, places to be, things to sell, and the roads are wide and they seem to get a little wider when crates are being sent elsewhere. Everyone is going elsewhere. The city calls the land folk further in, and the sea calls the sailors back, and the water itself calls the dead to find what they lost. It’s not a place to stay. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Ghostly ships sit docked next to modern sailboats and larger vessels on the easternmost side of the city, all laden with goods. Occasionally, ships and aquatic folk appear out in the foggy distance that always seems to swallow the distant sea. Once ships are docked, porters and dock-hands quickly unload goods, bringing them into the city and loading them up with cargo as captains barter over strange alcohols and games thrown with bone dice. It's connected to the Idle River, the main thoroughfare of the Torn Veil.

Kelsara's Tears (administrative)

Stark

There’s something about busy silence. Perhaps in a true afterlife, this would be the place where the dead would be processed and registered, where you might find someone tending the gates or long lists to consult. It has that feel, certainly, but those lists and those meetings are a little mundane and a little boring and a little unremarkable. The buildings are grand, but the tasks are familiar. Repetitive. A little thankless. Grounded. Unusually grounded. Perhaps it’s the fact that its workers know that progress is often a little boring. Perhaps it’s because it was named after a necromancer who became a god and died for what amounted to civic duty.

Named after a long-since dead lich god of a dead world, the most important people in the Torn Veil live and work within sprawling white and gray marble civic buildings that are built so tall that they seem to defy gravity. The Torn Veil’s premier university, the Necropolis, is also within this district, as well as its oldest libraries and grandest museums. Additionally, the district is also home to training facilities for various guards and soldiers that help protect the city from invading forces, all managed by an undead dragon general possessing a dragon-sized suit of armor.

Shrieker Road (artisan)

Divine

If there is a place that is holy, it is in the burning furnaces and pots of paint and piles of metal and under a scoring blade. The air is hot and dusty and sooty and filled with strange smells, and a thousand small workshops weave and beat and shape and mold their creations with loving, awe inspiring care. Art and love and frustration and triumphant joy overflow into the streets, mixtures of prayers for something to finally work and the hard earned sweat of a beautiful blade or a glazed vase or a tapestry embroidered with silk. It never sleeps. It never wants to sleep. Creation never wants to rest, and a thousand, million small gods of their own making would have it in no other way.

Though called ‘a road’, Shrieker Road is a full district that has built up around the bank of the Idle River. Buildings have large windows and plenty of ventilation, and the architecture is as bizarre as it is beautiful. This is where artisans both make and sell their wares, with workshops and kilns going at all hours of the day and paintings drying in a steady fluttering wind. The Torn Veil is especially known for its incredible pottery, crafted using clay dredged up from the bottom of the Idle River.

The Aurora Agora (market)

Nostalgic

It’s a place that you swear you’ve been before. It looks like the main street of a small town you visited once when you were seven and was burned into the back of your mind. It looks like walking down a street you cannot name in the middle of the night. It looks like a city center as you remember it, but it’s never quite real but never not real either. It looks like a movie, a memory, a time you were younger or a time you wish had come to pass. It’s a place that looks like it belongs somewhere else (maybe that’s why it has so many hotels, because it’s made up of those liminal memories).

A section of the city that is caught much more in the darker part of the sky. It is near the West Gate, where the bulk of travelers come into the Torn Veil on foot. Reality is slightly more stable here, a little more grounded, streets and buildings interspersed with fountains, small shrines, and hotels to stay in for a night or two. The district is still busy, certainly, but it is busy in a way that feels more like a city somewhere else. It is nostalgic, and it is strange.

Faded Dreams (market)

Imaginary

The district lives up to its name: it feels like it should only belong in a dream. There’s anything you could ever want if you just look hard enough, just wander down another aisle, talk to another person, find something that you lost or that you never knew you lost. You can’t actually buy an experience, a dream, a lost past, a second chance here, but it feels like you could. You can’t actually learn to fly either, but it feels like you could be like those semi-suspended buildings too. It doesn’t feel real, and somehow it feels less real because you can actually buy things here, as if you could take a daydream and make it solid.

A district centered around a large plaza, or at least, what at one point was a plaza. Now it’s a maze of stalls, booths, blankets, and grills, surrounded on all sides by towering buildings with a million balconies and small terraces. Those who can defy gravity most commonly frequent this market, and it is full of ghosts, avariel, fairies, and all folk who can float and fly. For those that are earthbound, levitation-powered elevators, sky carriages, and sky-trams can ferry shoppers up to the higher shops.

The Undercity (market)

Hidden

The city hides things down below. Doors are hard to find. So are shops. So are people. It’s not that the pathways change but that they shift just enough to make it hard to find things if they don’t want to be found. Sure, there’s folk who take advantage of that (more than a few, not every living dead is a good person, nor admits to be), but others want their privacy, their anonymity. If you want to disappear, the city grants that wish. Just make sure you have a way back if you want to be found again.

Tightly packed buildings crowd this section of town, with doors to taller buildings often leading to the roofs of shorter ones. Getting anywhere requires navigating a maze of back doors, tight alleys, and flickering lights. Shops are packed within, selling small goods, silver trinkets, evil eye pendants, often smaller, nich-er things that only the skilled know how to find. While often considered a seedier part of town, it’s no more dangerous than the rest of the Torn Veil… most of the time, anyways.

The Idle River

Exchange

What are you willing to learn? What are you willing to lose? The river takes and the river gives, just depends on if you want to remember or desperately want to forget. There’s souls in there too, deep, towards the bottom, where the dead rest in blissful stasis and sleep. It’s a place to start anew, and it’s a place to let yourself be washed elsewhere, and the boats on the surface are always full with wares. What have you come to gain? What are you willing to give up?

A slow-moving, meandering river that cuts through the Torn Veil, glittering with small specks of glowing light. Undead who have felt the years begin to deteriorate their mind are often found by the riverbanks, as drinking the water helps to restore their memories and overall clarity. The living can step into the river, but prolonged exposure tends to whisk memories away instead of restoring them. Many long, flat boats are also set up along the riverbanks, crewed by landfolk, while ghostly aquatic merchants barter for strange goods from within the river.

The Farmland

Growth

It’s the only part of the city that’s quiet, because it’s not within the city proper. The plants here are stubborn. So are the people, in fact. You have to be, to put down roots and force cellular production in a place with no light, to coax strange soil and stranger water to make something live in a place of death. It’s not calm out there, it’s feral, it’s almost spiteful, a metaphorical defiant ‘I will do it anyways’ to anyone who listens. Yet, despite it all, things grow. And they are tended to largely by the dead. Yet, despite it all. Things grow.

#the torn veil #my writing #long post

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