#HOUSEKEEPING: WAS IT ALWAYS THIS DUSTY

[anankelotus]

MARCH ACTIVITY CHECK PASSED!

TOTAL SKILL POINTS: 18 --> 19 ---> 20

[MONTHLY SKILL POINT]: +1 TO AUTHORITY (AUTHORITY RANK D)

OTHER POINTS: +1 TO ANY SKILL FROM BOEL (ALLOCATED TO LANCE, LANCE RANK C)

CLAIMS:

RANK CHART: RALLY DEXTERITY

CLASSES: N/A

HOUSEKEEPING

WAITING ON PARTNER:

THE ONES WHO’LL HELP YOU FIND THE WAY (SELIPH) (SWORD +1)

A WONDER LASTS BUT NINE DAYS (RHEA) (AXE +1)

FINGER STRING (RANDAL) (LANCE +1)

HEAVY ARMOUR UNDER A HEAVIER SUN (VALTER) (HEAVY ARMOUR +1)

GARLANDS FOR MIKOTO (SAKURA)

WHAT IF WE MET IN THE CHAIR STORAGE CLOSET AND WE WERE BOTH NOT HUMAN (EPHIDEL) (HEAVY ARMOUR +1)

NIGHTMARES (HUBERT) (FAITH +1)

AH YES, LYN AND (LOOKS AT SMUDGED WRITING ON HAND) ATHONKOS (SHIGURE) (AUTHORITY +1)

EVERY LITTLE THING HERE MAKES ME THINK OF YOU (FORSYTH)

SCHOOLHOUSE ROCK! (COLM) (BAND/MODERN AU)

SUCH A CRICK IN THE NECK! (IDUNN)

OMG HI! (THARJA)

DARKNESS WITHIN DARKNESS AWAITS YOU (IGNATIUS)

RIPPLES (DENNING)

THE DOG THAT SLEEPS BENEATH THE EAVES (SIGURD)

WAITING ON ME:

N/A

COMPLETED:

N/A

DROPPED:

A SONG OF BIRTHRIGHTS AND LOVE

[elizadoll]

Hidden

A doll who serves, but is never seen.

Charlotte pulled her front door open with an exhausted yawn. It had been yet another long day at work and she was about ready to collapse into bed. The pay was nice at least, and the job itself wasn't too bad, but there was no doubt that the long hours had had an affect on her. She switched on the living room lights and glanced around the place. Much to her chagrin, her home was becoming visibly sloppy. A pile of discarded dishes had accumulated on the coffee table, the shelves had become noticeably dusty, and she couldn't remember the last time she vacuumed. She wanted to clean the place up, but she'd never been an early riser, and her job left her too tired to do much of her chores even during her off time.

It wasn't worth stressing out about it though, not right now at least. Charlotte was far too tired to bother with any housekeeping; what she needed to do was grab a snack then go to bed. And so, she did just that, trudging over to the pantry in a sleepy daze, switching on the overhead light to ponder her selection of food. That was when she noticed that the box of tea biscuits had been raided again. Charlotte breathed an aggravated sigh. She'd had this mouse problem for weeks now but had still not caught sight of any sign of the creature. Why did it only go for the tea biscuits anyway? Maybe the mouse had a particularly sweet tooth or something? Why had it never touched any of her other sweets then? Why was she pondering the eating habits of a mouse?!

Charlotte slammed the pantry doors shut. She was just stressing herself out looking at it. Maybe she could grab something out of the fridge instead. Yawning once more, Charlotte turned to head towards the fridge when she caught sight of something strange out of the corner of her eye. There, on her ding table, one of the teacups that had belonged to Charlotte's late mother sat alone, and next to that, a tea biscuit, bitten in half. Charlotte jumped back with surprise, thinking, just for a moment, that she might have been haunted by her mother's ghost.

But that made no sense. Ghosts weren't real, and they certainly didn't eat biscuits or drink tea, so that couldn't be it. Was somebody else living in her house without her knowing? No, that couldn't be it. The only things that ever went missing in the house was tea and biscuits along with the occasional cup or platter. Unless her unseen housemate was somehow subsisting entirely off of sugar and had the smallest appetite known to man, it couldn't be another person... but come to think of it, that did line up with something she knew. Charlotte had learned growing up that dolls of all things had famously tiny appetites and tended to stick with one or two mainstay food options when possible.

Okay, so it wasn't a mouse at least, but a stray doll really wasn't much better. Charlotte had come from a family with its fair share of witches, and that had proven a problem when it came to light that she had a case of severe pediophobia. Nobody was ever able to figure out why, but the sight of dolls always sent a chill up her spine and made her freeze up stalk still. Of course, Charlotte knew they meant well, she did not fear dolls necessarily, but she could not stand the sight of them. And now she had one living in her house, and somehow not seeing it made her feel even more nervous. The absolute last thing she wanted was to come home from work to see a doll lounging on her couch. She just might throw up at that point. No, she needed to get this doll out of here, preferably soon.

And so, for the rest of the week, Charlotte tried to do just that. Every day she'd come home with a new trap, lure, or repellent, each of which promised guaranteed results for dealing with stray dolls, and each of which proved ineffective. Whatever was living with her, it was good at staying out of sight. By the end of the week, dealing with the doll was practically all she thought about. Several times, she contemplated calling doll control services, but she could never bring herself to do it. She knew what happened in those facilities, and while she didn't want the doll living with her anymore, she didn't want the poor thing disassembled either. It had never been violent or troublesome to her, only stolen her sweets, it didn't deserve to have its core silenced.

Maybe, it occurred to her, she was being a bit selfish. She knew how hard life could be for stray dolls who lost or were abandoned by their wishes. There weren't many people willing to take a stray in, and fewer still who were suitable witches or owners. Really, this doll hadn't been disruptive in the least, compared to what it could be, and now she was setting up traps and attempting to scare it out of her house. The poor thing must've been so lonely and scared, and she was only antagonizing it. No, that wouldn't do.

There could be a better way to do this, there had to be. One day, Charlotte had an idea. She placed a brand new box of tea biscuits on the dining table before she went to work as a peace offering, placing with it a handwritten note. Charlotte told the doll of her phobia, and how desperately she did not want to see the doll around the house, but she also told that it was welcome to stay, so long as it didn't cause trouble. She wouldn't call doll control on it, she wouldn't set anymore traps. She'd provide a box of tea biscuits whenever the doll ran out, and she'd buy extra tea and stop attempting to hide either of them. She encouraged the doll to try and find a witch when it could, but explained that she understood the trouble.

When Charlotte got home at the end of the day, she noticed that the box had gone missing, but her note remained on the table. Charlotte went to grab the note and dispose of it when she noticed that in large, squiggly letters at the bottom of the page, a reply had been written. "OK." With a heavy sigh of relief, Charlotte couldn't help but smile a little. Maybe, she hoped, she could finally get some sleep without worrying about waking up to the sight of a doll.

The next morning, though, something curious happened. When she went downstairs to prepare for work, she noticed the mountain of bowls and cups on her coffee table had disappeared, and that in fact, all of the once dirty dishes now sat in a pristine state, lined up on the shelves exactly where they belonged. Charlotte looked around, finding no sign of the doll, but still decided she needed to express her gratitude somehow. So, when she brewed a fresh pot of tea for herself, she poured an extra cup and set it on the dining table, exactly where she'd put the biscuits the night before.

That evening, she found the cup empty, just as she had expected, but she also found that all of the shelves, once besieged by an army of dust bunnies, were now entirely spotless. "Oh, well, thank you!" Charlotte spoke into her house's empty halls, hoping the doll would hear her words, wherever it was.

Thus it was that things continued. Charlotte would leave in the morning, come back at night, and find that her chores for the day had always miraculously been finished for her. Occasionally, she'd stumble upon an empty box of tea biscuits sitting in the open, and she'd drive down to the supermarket to buy a fresh supply, always of the same brand. The house had once been lonely after Charlotte lost her mother, but now, no matter how long it had been since she had company home, there was always a hint of companionship in the air that lightened Charlotte's heart.

Sometimes, Charlotte and the doll would write notes to one another. Charlotte always ended up rambling in her letters, talking about work and her attempts at a love life, and thanking the doll again and again for its hard work. The doll's replies were always succinct. Simple responses summed up in three words or less, but eventually, they began to be accompanied by drawings. They weren't the highest art, in fact they resembled doodles by a child more than anything, but they still brought a smile to Charlotte's lips nonetheless. The majority of the drawings were of a woman that vaguely resembled Charlotte herself.

One day, out of curiosity, even despite her phobia, Charlotte asked the doll if it could draw itself, to which the doll politely declined. "I don't like being seen." The reply said, the single longest sentence Charlotte had ever received from her companion, clearly something the doll felt strongly about. So, Charlotte asked the doll its name, embarassed she had never learned over the two months they'd lived together. "I don't want one." The doll replied.

Over time, Charlotte began to feel quite attached to the doll, despite never seeing its face. There were days that she considered asking the doll to never leave, but she could never bring herself to do such a thing. A doll deserved a witch, not a silly woman who couldn't bear to so much as glance at a doll without feeling ill. Still, she appreciated the doll's help immensely, and exchanging letters with it was a delight, even if the Doll wasn't very talkative. It was nice.

It was only when that sank in did the day Charlotte had begun to dread came to pass. She came home one evening to a note on a table, a surprise considering she had not written that morning and the doll normally only offered replies. The note read in one single sentence. "I found my witch." Immediately, Charlotte began to cry. While of course she was happy for the doll, and she knew it deserved a happy home, but she still didn't feel like she was ready to say goodbye. She knew it was selfish, the doll deserved better than her, but truly, she couldn't quite help it. Though it had been a few short months, she'd grown accustomed to the doll's presence, and she knew that with it gone, the house would feel lonelier than it ever had before. But it would be okay. The doll would be happy, Charlotte knew that, and that made her happy in return.

One could imagine Charlotte's shock then, when she flipped the note over to be confronted by the sight of the witch the doll had chosen. There, drawn in uneven squiggly lines, was a shape that Charlotte had seen more than a dozen times over by now: herself, as drawn by the doll. Just like that, Charlotte had begun sobbing once again, this time with tears of joy. Never had she imagined that of all people, the doll would choose her to be its witch, but here it was, plain as day. Really, Charlotte still wasn't sure she had it in her, what it took to be a witch. She didn't know the first thing about doll care, and she'd never casted a spell in her life...

But really, the doll never asked for much. Besides tea and biscuits, its only requests were to be unseen, and to not be given a name. Maybe that's really all it wanted. Maybe that's what made it the most happy. It took a while but once Charlotte was through crying, she stood up from the table, and turned to sing through the house a joyful "thank you," hoping, nay, knowing that the doll—her doll—would hear her, wherever it was hiding.

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 37: Alexander's Housekeeper

Masterlist > Next

September 1925

TW: Captivity, mind control, mentions of abuse and murder

Just as Oliver had feared on his first night, it was far too easy to get used to living in a vampire's manor.

He'd spent the past few nights utterly engrossed in the books Alexander had picked out for him, primers on the supernatural world and its history. Oliver had always had a fascination for material like this, for horror stories and medieval descriptions of witchcraft and pictures of fairies at the bottoms of gardens, but he'd logically seen it all as just entertaining curiosities. Now he wanted to devour everything related to the strange new world he'd found himself in.

Naturally, he was focusing on information about vampires -- their strengths and weaknesses, their culture and habits. He learned that only blood taken fresh from live humans could truly sustain them -- bottled blood of the sort found in his master's icebox was at best a temporary salve to hunger, and animal blood did very little. It also was clear that very few vampires held moral objections to taking thralls. At least according to the vampiric author of the book he was reading, any vampire of means would have a handful of them in the household, usually taking the roles of servants and pets.

He remembered what Alexander had said in the auction house, that it had been months since he'd had a fresh human. If he were speaking the truth, he must have been starving and weak. That did track -- he had looked so utterly exhausted and spent when Oliver had arrived, and acted so much like a starving man when he'd fed. And now that he had fed, he was very obviously healthier and in better spirits.

The strange part was that a vampire that clearly had so much wealth went so long without sufficient blood.  His master had remarked several times now that he hadn't been prepared to take a thrall, and that Oliver's situation had forced his hand. Why not, though? If moral considerations and money were clearly no object, what reason did he have for depriving himself? Given his power, why hadn't he taken Oliver from his bookshop the moment he decided he wanted him?

And what had happened to his previous thralls?

Perhaps he might get a chance to ask his master himself.

"Well, now, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Oliver whipped around to see a complete stranger, a curly-haired man with a dusty blouse and a curious expression. He was grinning and baring her fangs. Oliver's heart raced -- what was another vampire doing here? Did his master know? He must, or so Oliver hoped, but he couldn't help but shrink himself against the shelves in fear.

"What a rich morsel Lord Alexander's found. Not every day I come across a thrall like you," he said, putting an arm on the shelves next to Oliver, blocking his means of escape. "Wonder if the lord of the house would mind me taking a taste."

"Please don't, sir," he said. Being fed on by his master was one thing, being fed on by a strange vampire with unknown intentions was quite another. "I think my Master -- I don't think you should --"

He laughed, loud and long, and backed off. "You know I'm just yanking your chain, right? I'm not going to eat you. Lord Alexander would fire me on the spot, if he didn't ram a stake straight through my heart."

Oliver let out his anxious breath as he remembered who this person must be, the vampire housekeeper that Alexander had mentioned. "So -- you're not going to --"

"I'm Kenny. I keep the place tidy and do the lord's laundry and such. And it looks like I'll be cleaning up for his pretty little thrall, now," he said, and Oliver wasn't sure how he felt about that designation. "Honestly, it's about time he got a new one. Whoever heard of a vampire lord who doesn't have any thrall? I think he was even drinking bottled blood."

"That's... bad, right, sir?"

"I mean... I drink bottled blood a lot, yeah, but that's because I've only been a vampire for a few years and I'm poor as dirt. Can't afford a fancy thrall, too much of a coward to go get my own and risk hunters. At least bottled blood sates the urge for a little bit," he said. "If I were a rich lord, I'd have a whole mansion full of thralls at my beck and call. A different flavor of blood for every day of the week, and they'd all be attractive, too."

"So do you know what happened to Master's last thrall, sir?" Oliver asked, before Kenny lost himself in his fantasy world, seizing on the opportunity to get some of his questions answered.

"Oh, yeah, Henry? Awful thing. Got killed by a jealous vampire, from what I heard." He leaned in a little too close to Oliver. "I assume that vampire's dead now. Lord Alexander's not a vampire I'd like to cross. Not a bad boss, though."

"How long have you --"

"I see you've met my new thrall," said a deep voice from behind Kenny.  "I hope you understand that his blood is not part of your compensation."

Alexander was barely taller than Kenny, and significantly scrawnier, but Kenny still was immediately cowed. "I'm not harming a hair on his delicious little head, sir," he said, bowing meekly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"See that you don't. And refrain from terrorizing him as well, in the future."

"Yes, sir."

"And make sure you do a thorough job of cleaning the main bed and bath on the second floor from now on, and do any laundry left out for you. I won't have my thrall living in squalor."

"Yes, sir, understood."

"...I'll increase your pay, to compensate for the additional time."

"Oh, thank you, sir," said Kenny, his face lighting up. "Between rent and saving up for a thrall of my own, I can always use the money. I'll go clean the new thrall's quarters right away, sir." 

He scurried away, and Alexander fell sideways into an overstuffed leather couch. "Are you doing well this evening, Oliver?"

Any of Oliver's unease melted away in his master's comforting presence. "I feel very well, sir. How are you? Is there any way I can be of service?" 

His master's smile was relaxed, and he looked so much more at ease than Oliver had ever remembered, even when he was patronizing the bookshop. "Not at all, you're doing quite enough, and I hate to interrupt your reading," he said. "But if you don't mind, I would appreciate your company by the fire. The nights are starting to grow chill, and it's quite agreeable to have one's thrall near."

"Yes, sir," said Oliver eagerly, sitting next to Alexander on the couch, and feeling a soft thrill as his master beckoned him closer, close enough that they were brushing up against each other. His master gently pet his hair before cracking open a book and settling in to read.

Oliver picked up his own book, relaxing with the warm fire and the proximity of his master. A perfect scene of contentment. 

Except for the one thing that had been worrying him and stealing his focus...

His master did seem like he was in a good mood. This might be a good time to press him.

"Excuse me, sir," said Oliver, "I don't mean to interrupt your reading, but could I ask you a question?"

Alexander's eyebrows raised, and the look on his face suggested that Oliver's request was about to be denied. "Very well," he said, after a long moment. "But I might advise against asking questions if you suspect you won't like the answers."

Oliver felt a small twist, a spark. "With all respect, Master, I prefer to know the truth regardless."

"That's admirable. Truly," said Alexander, looking surprised. "Lily really did do a fine job with you -- I appreciate that you can push back. I've been lacking that, lately. Too far up in my own head. She'd put it in much more vulgar terms, of course." He sat up. "Ask, then, but understand that many things are better kept private."

Oliver felt relieved that they had an understanding of sorts. "What happened to your last thrall, sir?" he said bluntly.

Alexander let out a sharp laugh. "Of course that's the first thing you'd ask. I can't say I blame you. I'd want to know the same in your shoes." He sat in silent thought for a moment. "He was killed by a vampire."

His heart pounded. "Why, sir?"

"It was the doing of my sire. Most of the misfortune that befalls me is," Alexander said. "I haven't been eager to have this conversation, but you should know about him."

Despite his curiosity, Oliver was getting the feeling once more that he was in over his head.

Previous >> Masterlist >> Next

The Bookseller parts have been getting longer and longer, so I've been splitting them up so I can return to a more regular posting schedule. 1-2K words a week was possible, 3-4K words a week was pushing it. Hopefully I'll be able to post a part a week along with asks and side stories!

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader

[oeuvrinarydurian]

I had this on in the background while I was surveying how dusty my living room was, and feeling depressed about my slovenly housekeeping. I always post these tragic poignant moments, because, let’s face it, the heartbreak is what keeps some of us addicted, but this is a rare moment of optimism. I’m calling it

Cocksure Optimism.

Please enjoy. The music is uncharacteristically similar (not the same, thank you @too-antigonish )for both versions, UK and US. It’s brief, but I just love the swagger. 

Poor crushed Morsey, 45 seconds later.

[smuttyelectricwheelchair]

luz de mis ojos

summary - - - just a oneshot of sweet domestic life . . . ooc!miguel x chubby!male!reader (cock and balls)

content warnings - - - blindsided by horny miguel . . thats about it !

wc - - - 605 (lil baby)

miguel loves you very, very much, and he almost never lets you leave your home of nueva york or barely even your shared apartment. you've gotten used to it by now, and are comfortable in the penthouse of one of the tallest buildings in the city, as you've made the whole place much more cozy. on one shady evening, when the moon is hanging low in the sky and the horizon is a sweet shade of dusty blue, you're trying to figure out where you put the red measuring spoons for your latest chicken-preparing adventure. you hear a click after a beep on the other side of the kitchen wall, and you know it's not the housekeeper, because the housekeeper doesn't groan, grunt and moan every time she steps foot in the door.

"sweetface, ohhh, my sweetface," you can hear the tension in his voice and the scowl on his face, "what did i ever do to desrve the things these kids make me put up w-" he stops. "what smells so damn good?"

you smile and reach even harder into the top shelf of your highest cabinet and almost fall off your stepstool, when suddenly you feel two huge arms wrap around you and hold you tight. even though you're a bigger guy, you always loved how easily miguel could snake his way onto you.

"hey, honey!" you exclaim, "guess what? i brushed up on some spanish today!" you turn to face miguel and hug him around his oh-so stiff neck. he relaxes, but only a little.

"really, mi tesoro? then what if i told you to quítate los pantalones y déjame saborearte, huh?" he grins at his own stupid joke and looks up at you with a smidge of beady redness in his eyes.

"okay, well, i understand 'pants', and i understand that look on your face," you sigh exhaperatedly. "what did they do to you this time, mig?" you let go of his neck and move to loosen his almost desperate grip on your waist when you're abruptly lifted into the air and slung over miguel's shoulder.

"hey, hey, hey! just what the hell do you think you're doing, miggy!?" your lover gently takes and tosses you onto his and your bed, making sure not to hit your head on the headboard. "miguel o'hara! what is your pr-"

"shut the fuck up, luz de mis ojos. please, please-" he kneels on the bed and crawls slowly toward you, placing one of his rough, taloned hands on your hip and shifting a claw underneath your waistband. "i need you so bad right now, please." miguel drags his gaze over your body and meets your eyes, stopping his movements to wait for a response. you're less than surprised, and honestly a little turned on.

"well," you start, "promise me you'll tell me about your day over dinner.." you lean forward and hook your index finger on the collar of the crewneck he always wears in public, pulling him closer, "and i'll let you do whatever you want to me, querido." miguel's irises set ablaze a fiery crimson. he moves at the speed of light on top of you, reaching his cheek to meet yours, and to whisper in your ear.

"prometo."

miguel rips a clean line down the side of your boxers, making you shiver at the sudden air chill. in a quick and precise set of actions, o'hara yanks down your him-themed underwear, lifts your tank top off your body and leans up and back to rest on his knees in-bewtween your legs, admiring the view only he gets to soak up.. only him.

you see him working it out in his head-

what he's going to do to you.

[discordantwords]

wip wednesday

Here's a little bit from an upcoming fic called Time in a Bottle, which I'm hoping to start posting in early December. This one is actually a very, very overdue FTH fic for @khorazir, and I'm so excited that it's almost ready to be shared.

*

Sherlock sighed, said nothing. For some reason, that irritated John more than if he'd spoken.

"I know you're thinking it," he said.

"I'm always thinking," Sherlock said.

"I'm thinking it." 

"That doesn't even make sense." 

"Shouldn't have got married," John said. "That's what I'm thinking. You're thinking it too." 

Sherlock raised his brows, looked at him. Damnably, hatefully silent. 

"You're Mister Last Word, and you don't have anything to say to that?" 

"I'm given to understand that boredom is a side effect of domestic bliss." Sherlock smiled, the expression insincere. "One of the innumerable reasons why I prefer to avoid the matter entirely."

"You're bored all the time," John said. His lip curled, irritation forming his mouth into a hard smile. "So does that make this your version of domestic bliss?" 

"Something like that," Sherlock said. He stood, went into the kitchen. "Tea?" 

"Yeah," John said. "That'd be good." 

He took a moment to peer around the flat in Sherlock's absence. It was cluttered, dusty, familiar. Perhaps a bit more cluttered and dusty than it used to be, when they lived together. Sherlock had never been much for housekeeping, and even those limited efforts had trailed off after he'd been shot. 

Well. That was the sort of thing that would put anyone off their game, John supposed. 

 Still, it felt like home. He missed it. 

"It was," John said. He leaned his head back against the chair. His head had started to throb. 

"Sorry?" 

"Domestic bliss," John said. "I think it was."

[woncon]

Flufftober Day 25

Nook

🍁 jungwon x gn!reader

🍁 special thanks to @honeytwo for helping me translate this into english, correcting my grammar and other mistakes. thank you for everything! °♡̷•.

🍁 flufftober masterlist | main masterlist

✁- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There is a door under the stairs. Supposedly, it opens to another world. Jungwon's mum always told the boy this, and as a young adult, it proved true.

The musty, dusty old library room became a magical, otherworldly place once you were inside. When Jungwon crossed the threshold and spotted you, he felt free.

When you smiled kindly and invited him to your side, he felt like the happiest man on Earth. It didn't matter if you were reading, crafting, painting or just telling him what you were thinking about or what happened to you, Jungwon was grateful for every little thing. You didn't remind him at every turn that he was the "heir to the throne" who would have to take over the company, the management of the huge house and everything that goes with it. You showed him another, peaceful path, which he could not choose, but could take deep into his heart.

That he isn't obliged to live this life. When he leaves the secret room, he doesn't have to return to his parents' expectations, he can simply take your hand and escape to somewhere where your feelings can blossom in the sunlight and not be doomed to the solitude of dusty books.

You have offered him hope in your corner of the world. A life he could happily live. Where he could sit next to you without fear of his parents finding out and dismissing your mother, the housekeeper.

Jungwon was always happy in his own hidden room, with you.

flufftober taglist (send an ask! <3)

@jaeeheekangslover

@haechansbbg

[writtengarbage]

Looking for 21+ roleplay partner(s)

I revived this ancient, dusty blog to find one (or more) rp partners to write some stuff, and possibly, some things with.

General housekeeping: I am, for the most part, looking for oc x oc and prefer fandomless. I will make exceptions for some few and far between fandoms, as well as oc’s in a particular fandom-based world if I’m familiar enough.

I’m PST timezone and have been roleplaying for over a decade. Those are my only reliable credentials.

What I’m looking for:

POV: Third person

Pairings: currently m/m & f/f

Genre: Open to discuss some interests in this department. I am willing to explore if characters and plot are interesting.

Plot(s): I would love to plot with a partner from scratch, but also love to hear any original plots you may have.

Tropes: I love a good trope. And this includes trope pairings as well. Examples enemies to lovers, found family, vampire x hunter, mafia x innocent, demon x witch, etc.

Style: semi-literate to novella. I match my partner and expect that they take some pride in their writing. I’m no Shakespeare myself, but will absolutely try to respond with as much quality as possible. There should be a mutual exchange of enjoyment in our back and forths.

Response Rate: Typically daily, but can be more or less depending upon life and her many trials and tribulations. I will always keep my partners in the loop of an absence or a spam-sesh.

Platform(s): I’m open to most platforms. I typically use discord but can be tutored into whatever platform tickles your fancy.

Extra details: I have very few limits on what I will write and will gladly discuss boundaries and expectations. I like to maintain an open ooc dialogue with my partners to brainstorm and make sure we’re both getting what we like out of our story.

Won’t Do’s: I won’t write furries, vore, or massive age gaps. I also won’t write strictly NSFW rps. ALSO I won’t write a police officer or detective as a main character. I just cannot do it.

There’s more? Of course.

I enjoy world building with my parters and that includes ooc chatting, brainstorming, etc. about our rp. Sharing whatever inspiration strikes, be it music or art is a good fun ol’ time for me.

I’m mid 20’s+ and would prefer if my partner(s) were 21+.

I’m not going to list fandoms I’m familiar with here. We can discuss if you’re craving something. My fandom knowledge is very broad so I tend to be one of those who knows just enough about the periphery of a fandom and not enough to write within that fandom with much justice to the world or characters.

If you like what you see, or have questions…or if you hate what you see and have questions, you can dm me or interact with this post.

toodleoo :p

[somany-fandoms-solittle-time]

“What’s so Special About the Moon?”

Jamil Viper x MC(insert character Mac)

(Ch. 1) – Ch. 2 – Ch. 3 – Ch. 4 – Next – Previous

This was originally supposed to be, like, a single chapter hurt/comfort before my OC (Mac) and Jamil as a song fic where they berate him and then sing a song referencing the moon… but then I had feelings and it’s becoming a more in depth character study between the two. Don’t worry! By the end of this mini series, there will be song lyrics and more sappiness… it’s just now that I’ve finished both Book 4 and Book 5, I need to reorganize the events and specific and whatnot. Some quick housekeeping as always: I tried to make Jamil to encompass both his dark & mysterious villain persona ALONG WITH him practically being a fucking child so that’s why I wrote him like *this* so yeah… I’m moving around the timeline so that Yuu/MC (aka Mac) has the weekend to GET THEIR SHIT TOGETHER LOL, Mac is about 19-20 (haven’t decided yet) and uses mixed pronouns as a heads up, Ch. 2 has a 1st draft written put still needs to be typed up and edited. If you see a typo NO YOU DIDN’T!!! This one of my first times trying a different writing doc that isn’t Google (cuz fuck Google) and it’s a little weird to get used to and edit stuff. It’s beta-d in the sense that licking the spatula while your mom bakes cookies and claiming that you helped… literally only a few paragraphs were checked over y’all.

Quick shout-out to @krenenbaker and @twst-beam for inspiring my writing thus far (and sorry for taking so long to post this lol!)

I’ll be releasing some type of overview of my OC eventually, but take these snippets as they go while I fall back in love with writing. You’ll meet Mac in full when xey are good and ready… anyway, please enjoy Chapter 1 of my new fanfiction, “What’s So Special About the Moon?”

“Here. You can use this one,” Jamil directed towards the plain (compared to the rest of the dorm) laundry… mat? There were several industrial sized washer and dryers, a couple moderate-sized one’s that would fit a regular apartment complex, and a long wall designated area for hand washed items. Jamil was keeping the door prompt open with his hips; his slight frown of concentration and the flick of his Magic Pen were the only signs of the current spell he had going. Turning around, MC was slightly surprised by the massive piles of fabric that was being corralled in via multiple a massive sheet tied to multiple brooms. They still couldn’t fully grasp the concept (and power) of magic and seeing it so casually performed on a day-to-day basis was kinda daunting.

“Thanks again for letting us use the space along with showing me how to properly clean all these fancy duds and whatnot.” the Ramshackle Perfect awkwardly trailed off. Their focus was split between stealing peaks at the Scarabia Vice Warden, not wanting to bother the already busy Sophomore, and surveying over the dusty, damaged antique pieces the two stripped from the halls of the previously abandoned dorm. Rugs, carpets, curtains, furniture covers (in varying state of disrepair) dulled of their once rich and vibrant color. The patterns were a mix of stuffy academia and the quiet comfort of a grandparents cottage living room. Both extravagant, yet understated. It’s a style lost to time, but not quite a revived ancient aesthetic.

At this point MC was fully lost in thought; they desperately needed to clean, fix, organize and decorate the dorm in preparation to host so many guests. Even with his limited memories, they had a feeling they’d never hear the end of it from his parents.

“Don’t worry about it much.” Jamil said, interrupting their musings. “Honestly, I’m doing this as much for myself as I am helping you.

With a flick of his wrist, Jamil organized the seemingly random crumbled piles of fabric by condition, color and use. His movements while cleaning were quick, smart, and efficient-- all while patiently showing Mac which order to start in along with the best way to clean them.

“Ya’ know…” MC broke the relative quietness between the two workers, “Even with everything thing that happened over break, I understand why Kalim still trusts you; I almost can believe that you’re not that bad of a guy.” Jamil gave xem a startled (and exasperated) look, but they continued before he could respond: “I fail to see how helping the person who ruined your ‘world domination’ plans—”

“They were hardly World Domination level!” He quickly snapped. His embarrassment led to him tugging his hood further down his face, teeth slightly clenched, and dilated eyes as MC continued listing all the ways he’s “helped” them out.

The magic-less Perfect laughed to themselves the more conflicting emotions flew across Jamil’s face. Eventually those same emotions were compressed behind a cold, smooth mask. Limestone slabs and stiff mud brick walls were swiftly constructed between the two working-class students. Something about it didn’t sit right with Mac.

“Hey I’m not saying what you pulled wasn’t a dick move! But you’re also not the first overly-traumatized teen boy I’ve had to deal with… and between what you’ve said about yourself, plus thing’s I’ve heard and seen, I’m starting to think you’re not nearly as complicated as you think you are.” The longer they argued *to* him, the more Jamil’s mask began to crack; there were a few holes in his walls he didn’t account for. Xe’s a tad more observant than I remember, but weirdly just as persistent, Jamil internally rolled his eyes.

“I could still change my mind and send you back to deal with the Pomefiore Wrath(tm),” He mumbled while gracefully lugging the newly cleaned (and damp) furniture coverings into an empty drier. Despite his harsh threat, MC still remembered him assuring the other this laundry room was only ever used by him after Kalim’s parties.

The large machines and larger working space was specifically added for the servant to clean and repair any decor or Asim Family Treasures when Kalim’s recklessness caused a larger mess than usual. This meant that Mac and Grim (who was originally supposed to be helping… where the hell was he anyway?) could do as many loads needed without worry. On top of the borrowed space, the Housewarden himself had cheerily has assured them, his Oasis Maker would replace all the water used ten times over!

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted once again as Jamil relented, “I told you, I’m doing this to help me.” After receiving an unconvinced eyebrow raise, Jamil began to explain, “Kalim might’ve announced us as equals but I still have a job to do. If he got sick while spending Allah knows how long in a dusty, dirty, shabby condemned building like Ramshackle I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“It’s not nearly that bad anymore!” the sole-human resident of said dorm argued, but was quickly shut up with a tired gesture towards the untouched loads of laundry left to be done.

“On top of that,” Jamil smirked “Even a common peasant like myself wouldn’t sleep in a rundown garbage heap if I can help it.” His smirk slowly slide off his face from his face as the insulted Perfect almost ripped the handful of soapy doilies, that they were previously scrubbing by hand, as xey prepared a retaliation.

“OK, first of all! This whole Inferior-Superior shtick isn’t going to prove your point. If I’m being totally honest, I’m pretty used to the bratty, arrogant attitude of teenagers by now (even if I wasn’t Leona is a thousand times worse).” They turned their full body to face the 2nd year boy before continuing the assault. “Secondly, even just doing the bare minimum would’ve been fine, considering I’ve slowly been deep cleaning them place room by room. This is just last minute cleaning considering I wasn’t expected to host six extra people in two days.”

The shock of Mac’s care and attention to detail couldn’t win over Jamil’s newfound freedom to be right… and sassy while doing it. “Keep in mind you wouldn’t be the only one having to deal with Vil. His expectations are much higher than my personal standards—”

“Getting there!” MC interrupted again. “It’s not like Vil and whoever else couldn’t magic things better or get things done over at Pomefiore.” However, their fire started to die down with their obvious lack of understanding of magic. Not that Xeir level of intellect ever stopped them from talking out of their ass during debates… even if this wasn’t exactly shaping up to be anything like Debate Club back home.

“Not the point!” Mac built back their steam after thoughtlessly shaking off any internal distractions. “Third of all,” Jamil groaned not-so-quietly, “third of all, you didn’t have to show me how to do it. Nor did you have to continue helping me. There’s only so much I could pay you back in favors and it’s not like you’ll make back the time and energy spent. You’re obviously a bit of a piece of shit but I don’t totally blame…”

Jamil suddenly gave Mac his full attention. He smoothed any emotional tells from his face and readied himself to actively dissect what ever left xeir mouth and any messages in between the lines. The silence prompted Mac to drip extra sincerity as they begin to ramble without thinking.

“… I get why you did what you did. You’re not totally forgiven, but it’s not like I’ll hold a grudge over you forever. Whenever I joke about Winter Break I thought you knew it was just that: a joke.”

The two stared at one another for a few beats. Jamil betrayed nothing that he was thinking, but Mac could practically feel the exasperation flooding off of him in great waves. The disbelief pushing and pulling off of him, despite remaining stone cold to zeir admission. So, of course, they continued with slight for fever:

“Yeah, okay, you held us all prisoner, enslaved via hypnosis your entire dorm, and nearly killed multiple students. Twice.” Mac cringed at their own blunt statement, “… But why would you go as far as you did, if you didn’t care! What your parents, and more specifically your culture, put you through wasn’t fair—but you obviously still love and cherish them!”

At this, he seemed to get even more guarded. It felt patronizing to be hold how he supposedly felt or why he should feel a specific way. They hadn’t been there. They hadn’t grown up as a Viper in the Desert, constantly reminded by Kalim’s Mirage of wealth what he could never have. They didn’t know the FIRST thing about the Scalding Sands—!

“… How do you know anything about my parents? Did Kalim--?!” He choked out infuriated at the mere implication.

“Relax Viper! It’s all in the Secret of The Ooze™”

“What?”

“Never mind…”

The usual absurdity of MC’s references (much to xeir chagrin that no one seemed to understand them) Jamil allowed himself a shadow of a smirk. Right about now they’d drop what they were saying and instead empathize with him over terrible bosses. They’d both fall back into a familiar pattern of quiet understanding while making playful small talk; maybe Xe’d make a remark over how “hellish” the desert temperature is and moan about being “a poor Northern forced into the sun” before dragging them both off to grab an abominably sweet drink that Kalim would still put sugar in. Xe had always been could at mediating with the other students at NCR.

However, they didn’t drop it. They continued to push him… especially when they realized that he expected the conversation to have ended and started to relax. Xey pushed and pushed and pushed. Finally, they had circled back to him rebelling from his status.

“What? You think I’d be Happier staying a lowly servant?! I’d rather cut my own tongue out than remain bending to Kalim’s will for the rest of my days.” He huffed, still not stopping his assault on the pile of laundry in front of him.

A frustrated sigh left Mac as Xey tried to get their point across, “THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M SAYING!… Obviously, you don’t love being forced into child labor or having to pretend to be something you’re not, but that doesn’t mean you’re totally being honest with yourself either. Rebelling adolescents often do a complete 180 of who they once presented as in an extreme action to feel validated.”

Jamil scoffed in indignation at the impromptu therapy session he’d been forced into.

“Just because you were forced to lie sometimes as ‘Servant Jamil’ doesn’t mean those memories or feelings weren’t authentic!”

“My Childhood, my Pride, my ENTIRE LIFE was stolen from me before I could even open my eyes, Mac! Who could cherish that sort of future?”

“I’m not disputing that! I’m not trying, in any way, to imply that what you went through didn’t fucking suck. But just because you’ve started saying the quiet part out loud doesn’t mean you’re being totally honest either. Switching one mask for another just means nothing has changed but your ability to bitch about-it to the kid you literally Grew Up With, Jamil.” A tired resignation was growing in their eyes as they headed to the end of xeir rant.

It was clear MC was starting to speak in circles and xey weren’t going to be able to get through to them. A heavy weight sunk deep in their chest, slowly sliding to xeir stomach the more he misunderstood the magic-less student. I saw him drown in the depths of his own helplessness and self-pity, but even after he’s been pulled out it’s like he can’t help but dive back in for a swim. It was a suffocating thought while Mac watched as Jamil once again went stone-faced… Like what he was about to say would be his final shield before walking away. It’s a shame that the Ramshackle Resident had become too used to throwing bombs over walls and blowing verbal shields to smithereens after months of being stuck in Twisted Wonderland.

“I’m not sugarcoating or bowing down to anyone anymore. I won’t bite my tongue. I won’t put on a Happy Face to Kalim’s idiotic, half-thought out ideas again. I’m slowly gaining my freedom, something you clearly don’t understand. Just because you’re as blind as he is doesn’t mean anything! What more could you want from me?!” He hissed his final insult before finally stepping away from his station. Not leaving the room, he aggressively got himself a cup of water from one of the sink and gulped the unfiltered water down.

“Just because you’re not hiding your bitter, knee-jerk reaction from an unfair world doesn’t mean you aren’t still hiding away and lying about your more vulnerable emotions.” Mac whispered in an emotionless tone. “Cutting a part of your past off and pretending it was never there is doing yourself a disservice and lying to those that still care about you… And there sure-as-shit isn’t much that I hate more than a Fucking Liar.”

. . . . . .

The lacy doilies sat in a sudsy basin, left forgotten as the two students stood a mere paces from each other—both maintaining an uncomfortably intense eye contact. The sloshing thump of the washers and stirring hum of driers harmonizing were the only song to accompany the two’s stare down. A short hiccup as Mac took a drawn out breath was the only reaction between the two of them. The combined heat of Scarabia’s sun (barely past 10am) and the humidity of continued use of machinery didn’t help the suffocating air in the wide laundry room. Not to mention the loud, stifling silence to boot.

MC usually held back such honest commentary (not that they weren’t blunt) unless Xe deemed it necessary: think high stakes and a sense of urgent drama. But something about Jamil and Kalim’s situation reminded them of himself. The two’s intertwined dance of class, history, loyalty and betrayal, friendship and loss, and such overwhelming guilt reminded the dimension hoping stranger of home. Whatever that meant.

But this was no time to get lost in their own problems and Trauma’s. They’d went too far (again) and that means xey should be the bigger person (again) and deescalate the situation before he hated them (AGAIN). Which means, MC would be the one to break the silence and run away again.

“Ya’ know what? Grim’s probably burned the school down already. Don’t worry about,” Ze gestured blindly to the numerous stations they’d started, “this mess. I’ll rope my little Rat Gremlin and the Freshies into finishing this up. Hell, I could probably convince Rugs to pitch in for lunch or something. Bully the Music Club with helping in exchange of random sheet music I still remember from home.”

Their rambles became more spastic as they noticed Mr. Sugar, Spice and Not-So-Nice break out of his own trance and try to reply. “Seriously! Just enjoy the break… Not that it’s my place or responsibility to be butting in anyway. I will be back in, like, 10 minutes and from here-on-out minding my own damn business. Sorry. Whatever. See you sometime after Sunday, I guess?” Their entire monoluge Mac was slowly backing out of the room before turning around in xeir spot and just short of sprinting their way out of the dorm. A few passerby Scarabia students stopped to eavesdrop on xeir muttering… watch them leave.

Without getting a word in Jamil stood unmoving, watching the Ramshackle Perfect leave swifter than the desert wind shifting the dunes. Almost on auto-pilot, he simply left to go back to his room and do as he was told; enjoy his break. His day off. The day he could do what he liked and didn’t necessarily have to prioritize work. A day he spent working to help and assist the pitiful, magic-less loser that was dropped-kicked into another reality and forced to play nice with a University filled with overpowered and hormonal teenagers while having no way home… And in return was insulted, psychoanalyzed, and thrown aside before he could get a word in edgewise.

“Son of a STREET RAT!!!!!” It was clear he’d need a few hours to calm down before he could even think of trying to enjoy the rest of his Saturday off.

[travellingcircus]

~untitled 19th century au thing ? 1/

Very little seemed to quell Obi-Wan’s boredom. 

He had returned home from boarding school, intent on spending his summer in Sussex, but there had been a fire, just a week shy of his arrival, that demoted him to his uncle’s estate in Devonshire. Smaller of course, than the family’s property in Sussex, though the rooms in Devonshire were certainly spacious, numbering twenty-two, and yet the staff left much to be desired. 

There were five maids in total, a cook, a driver, a footman, and a gardener — though Obi-Wan had yet to see the latter materialise. Not one of them seemed entirely certain what to do with him when he arrived two weeks ago straight from boarding school, still bundled up to the throat in his uniform and coat, sweating under his hat. 

They clearly weren’t expecting him, mistaking him, at first, for a family guest. A phone call had to be made, first to Obi-Wan’s father, then to the housekeeper, who lived out of town, and had, mistakenly, brought the master key home with her. 

Obi-Wan spent an hour in the sitting room, waiting for his room to be aired, another hour for his dinner, another for his bath.  He was appalled by the treatment. It was almost midnight before all of it was seen to, and by then, drained of all good humour, he ordered the maid to leave so he could unpack his luggage himself. In a mood, he phoned his mother while up to his ears in bathwater, complaining about the stuffy room, the moth-ridden blankets, complaining even, about how unwelcome he felt. He wanted to go home. He hated Devonshire. The weather was awful and often unpredictable, prone to temperamental shifts at the drop of a hat. His mother promised him it was only temporary. 

Breakfast was served the next morning at seven thirty, toast with jam, a bowl of watery porridge, overcooked ham. The eggs, at least, were a saving grace: soft and runny, just how he liked them. There was a bowl of fruit by Obi-Wan’s elbow which he purposefully did not touch. He spat his tea and watered it down with half a thimble of gin, a gift from a friend before they parted ways at the train station. He had laughed it off, then, and didn’t think he would need it, as he’d always been a social drinker, but here, now, he was grateful he had accepted. 

There were eight more weeks to this incessant restlessness. He could see himself going quietly mad without the aid of alcohol.

Obi-Wan took to walking around the house barefoot, moving from room to room, under the ever watchful eyes of family portraits hanging from every wall. Some of the rooms in the house were locked, others full of old furniture covered in dusty sheets, some gutted so they could be repaired, the tables and chairs moved to the attic, the lighting fixtures bared, pale shadows on the walls where portraits once hung. The guest rooms had been undisturbed for a time, as had been the study, which Obi-Wan had the maids clean top to bottom after an afternoon in the reading chair gave him the worst sneezing fits. 

Obi-Wan missed home, dearly, the comfort of his four poster bed, his teetering shelf of books, the powder blue curtains framing his windows which overlooked the sweeping lawn outside and the overgrown cherry trees that fringed the crumbling stone driveway. 

The estate was nearly forty years old, squat and obscenely baroque in contrast to home’s more Gothic leanings; there was an artificial lake and island just on very the edge of the property, a tennis court, and a greenhouse tended to by Obi-Wan’s uncle when he was in high spirits. The property was ugly and severe, red sandstone and brick, characterized by high turrets and prickly finials. Holly scratched at the walls cruelly. The bronze fountain in the garden had grown so green with algae that Greek inscriptions were hardly visible through the verdigris. Everything was old, in a state of disrepair.

Obi-Wan had planned to go on a boating trip with his uncle this summer but Qui-Gon had phoned last minute to tell him their plans would have to be put on hold. He was overseas on business and didn’t seem to be coming home anytime soon, so Obi-Wan wrote letters to all his friends in boarding school — Quinlan, Jape, even Dex — inviting them to the estate though he knew most of them would be in Paris, enjoying their summer, as it were, leaving him bored, alone, and friendless in his own house. He had imagined this summer to be full, as it was his last year in boarding school before attending university in September. 

Clearly, he was mistaken. Clearly, all that lay in wait for him was terrible food and even worse company. 

The tedium was most unbearable in the afternoon, when the yawning stillness of summer was at its peak, and Obi-Wan could stand neither his own company nor the company of his uncle’s books. There was nothing to read that he considered worth his time, and the books he had brought from school he had already finished cover to cover. Often times, he craved a cigarette. His need for it deepened in the afternoon after he woke from a thick humid sleep. 

Barely out of his dressing grown, Obi-Wan upturned his luggage, crawling on his hands and knees to search the room vainly for his tin of tobacco. He had learned to roll cigarettes in his fourth year in boarding school, smoking one a day and then three every night he had to study for a final. It was one of the tricks he had been taught by his roommate, whose father worked as an accountant to the Bratva: the first trick was faking a fever in order to skip lessons, second was mixing gin and powdered orange juice. Quinlan, too, taught him the joys of reading Russian pornography, and taught him to say a filthy word in French. 

When his efforts proved futile, Obi-Wan slumped at the dressing table in utter despair, reaching for the flask he kept in several pockets all throughout his room. He lifted it to his lips, and huffed in annoyance once he realised it, too, had been depleted over the course of two weeks. 

Obi-Wan heard a series of soft taps from the window and from the corner of his eye saw that he’d left it ajar this morning, allowing a geometry of light to sliver across the floor, at his feet. The source of the tapping soon revealed itself upon closer scrutiny: a bee was beating its plush body against the glass, frenetically seeking freedom. 

Obi-Wan walked over to the window to free it, and the curtains lapped at his face before whipping the breeze like sails. Outside, he spied the gardener on his knees, weeding the rugosa hedge, his back turned to Obi-Wan. He crouched, then finally stood, to smoke a cigarette pinched between two fingers.

Obi-Wan had only met him once, when the man had caught him asleep in the sitting room. He was sent by the valet to work on some circuitry. The lights in the sitting room had been flickering for some time, making it difficult for Obi-Wan to read in the evening, and of course, he had complained to his mother who assured him it was going to be taken care of, my darling. 

The only one who was remotely useful was the gardener, apparently, or at least her son, as the actual gardener had retired shortly after Obi-Wan’s grandfather had died. Obi-Wan didn’t bother remembering the son’s name — he was half asleep when the man had introduced himself, thrusting out a dirty hand, and Obi-Wan was uninterested besides. What’s more the man didn’t leave a very lasting impression: his unkempt nails spoke of slovenliness as did his untrimmed hair, grown long and unchecked over his eyes. 

Now, Obi-Wan almost regretted it, because he was thinking of asking the man for a smoke. 

Obi-Wan shook his head to wean himself of the urge. He was bored, not stupid, and it didn’t do to fraternise with the staff. 

There were other ways to curb the craving. Obi-Wan decided a walk was in order.

Obi-Wan stepped out into the terrace, his bare feet warmed by the crumbling Yorkshire stone. It was cooler outside, strangely; the grass tickled his feet and ankles as he negotiated the last three steps to the gravel path. He wore his dressing gown over his pyjamas, not caring for propriety, as the staff knew well enough to leave him be. 

He was the master of the house, after all, could wear what he pleased, but as he approached the general direction of where the rugosa hedges hemmed the marble fountains, he felt increasingly ridiculous, like a child. His hair he held away from his face with a ribbon, and he could feel a slight breeze dry the dampness from the back of his neck. 

Obi-Wan contemplated getting a haircut as he tucked an errant curl behind one ear. It wasn’t very masculine to keep one’s hair well beyond chin-level; he disliked how his long hair softened his features considerably, taking away the hard, boyish edges, but his mother liked it, so he grew it long for her. 

The gardener turned just as Obi-Wan approached. He blinked, sucked on his cigarette, before nodding wordlessly in acknowledgement, his face completely blank and unreadable. Obi-Wan didn’t know why he felt suddenly flustered. It must have something to do with the heat, he thought, the way sleeping in the sitting room often made his thoughts lush and dreamy. 

The man had cut his hair, he realised, since he’d last seen him, the fringe shorter, dragged back from a handsome face, and flecked here and there with tiny grey slivers. His shirt was open partway, revealing a column of tan, tawny skin, and a strong chest, built like the hull of a ship.

“Good afternoon,” said the man, drawing Obi-Wan’s attention back to his face.

Obi-Wan had always envied men like him, working class men who were tall and strong and exuded a confident sensuality. Often, he wished he were more like them: a real man who could hold his liquor and swear freely and make bawdy jokes.  

At seventeen, he was of the bookish stock: awkward, gawky, erring on the side of sensitive, lacking an integral component of whatever it was that made men men. He was soft, in more ways than one, his nose perpetually buried in a book. The only sport he indulged in were chess and bridge. He had never even kissed a girl before.

“Anything I might help you with, Master Kenobi?” the gardener asked, not without a touch of sincerity, even though Obi-Wan was, at least a decade younger if not more so. He had an accent, and it rankled Obi-Wan like an itch that he was unable to place it. 

“Mr —” 

“Anakin,” said the man, with a small, private smile. “We met at the —” 

“Yes, yes, you came to fix the lights,” said Obi-Wan irritably. 

Anakin’s brows drew together in confusion though it smoothed away just as quickly, and he smiled again, deepening the crow’s feet wrinkling his eyes. “Ah, yes, of course. Are the lights still giving you trouble? I could come by again if you needed me. I have the afternoon free, I think.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to take you away from your …chores. The hedges seem to require a bit more attention, as of late. ”

Anakin gave him a startled look that morphed into one of slight irritation. It was meant in jest, any fool would realise that, but it appeared that Anakin had missed the joke and Obi-Wan had not yet earned the familiarity to make such comments. 

“Is that right,” said Anakin, sharply. There was an almost mean glint in his eye. “Must be the pesticide then. Switched to a different brand, recently.” He took another puff of his cigarette, then flicked his eyes up and down the length of Obi-Wan, his gaze settling, very briefly, on Obi-Wan’s bare feet. 

Obi-Wan curled his toes in the grass sheepishly. He wondered how he must look to Anakin, with his hair in a disheveled state, his left cheek creased with pillow marks from his afternoon doze, wandering around in his uncle’s shabby dressing gown, with no shoes on. Anakin must think him eccentric; he would, at least, be half-right.

“You’re going to get blisters, running around in your bare feet like that,” said Anakin, finally. “You should head back inside, or at least put some shoes on.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest, but shut it with a click. He fought the urge to roll his eyes, stamp his foot. He lifted his chin, felt the ugly shape of a rude word tickle the back of his throat, but tamped that down too. “Can you roll me one of your cigarettes?” he said instead. It took every ounce of self control not to huff in annoyance when Anakin simply smiled at him in reply.  

“You smoke then, do you?” Anakin said as he raked a mud-stained hand through his hair. “I’ll be dismissed if I roll you a cigarette, you do realise that, right? Besides, you’re only a boy; you shouldn’t be smoking at your age. How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?” 

“Eighteen next month,” Obi-Wan said, but Anakin shrugged like it made no difference to him. Perhaps it didn’t. He lifted his cigarette, pinching it between thumb and forefinger like a chronic smoker, and as if to make a point of savouring it, took a long, slow drag. 

Anakin blew smoke out of his mouth and nose without fanfare, and it rose, thick and hazy in the still, drowsy air, making Obi-Wan cough in a sputter. 

He flicked what remained of the filter onto the dirt, grounding it under the heel of his boot, compounding it into the grass. Then Anakin picked up his pruning shears, his gardening gloves and his hat, and nodded at Obi-Wan, just the once, before going on his way.

[roboraindrop]

There's a Do.c Bro.wn's mansion ambiance video on YouTube and it's so fucking comforting omg.

Thinking about just.... Coming to my dad's house after a long day... He's always got a room for me, but my favorite spot is in the living room with the fireplace going, just gazing at all of the decor that came from family and years of collecting, and all of the odds and ends that he keeps laying around for when he inevitably needs them for a project. Seemingly chaos, but he knows where everything is for the most part! It's a little dusty, and things are usually thrown about- he tends to neglect housekeeping when he's fixated on an invention. Between the sounds of the fireplace, the ticking of clocks, and mechanical whirring of something that he's been working for hours on in another room.... It really feels like home to me 💕

[anankelotus]

BOEL REWARDS

SKILL POINT +1: ALLOCATED TO LANCE (LANCE C. RANK UP!)

CLAIMS: KILLER LANCE

[simplicius-simplicissimus]

“Rebecca” - deceptive appearance and personality cult

“Last night, I dreamed I went to Manderley again” - with these words the novel “Rebecca” by Daphne Du Maurier begins. “Manderley” is an old Cornish mansion - one of the most beautiful and magnificent in the area. It symbolizes the longing for a seemingly lost, happy, carefree life - a stark contrast to the withdrawn, modest life that the narrator of the story now seems to lead. And knowledge and insights can sometimes be a crushing burden, too.

The splendor of “Manderley” was inextricably linked to “Rebecca.” Rebecca was the beautiful and charming first wife of Maxim de Winter - the rich owner of the mansion. Rebecca - who tragically drowned on a sailing trip, gave the dusty, old mansion the necessary shine that made it the center of social life in the neighborhood. But it was all just a facade. Maxim was also blinded by the outer beauty and charms of Rebecca when he fell in love with her - but on the inside she was cruel, callous and corrupt. Maxim soon looked behind Rebecca's facade and recognized her depravity. When she got terminally ill with cancer, she tried to use a psychological game to get him to kill her - just to spoil his life. He was able to cover all up, but the burden of being discovered some time didn't make him happy either.

The narrator of the story is the young, a little naive and insecure second wife of Maxim de Winter who suffers from Rebecca's still omnipresence on Manderley - primarily represented by Rebecca's former housekeeper Mrs. Danvers, who idolized her former mistress. Eventually things escalate when Rebecca's dead body is found and a police investigation starts. Maxim confesses to his new wife that he never really loved Rebecca and actually hated her. The narrator - who always compared herself with the perfect image of Rebecca, now knows that her husband really loves her and that for him she is not just a slight copy of his first wife. The police investigation finally concluded that Rebecca committed suicide. Good seems to win - but as a final greeting from Rebecca's grave, Mrs. Danvers burns Manderley down to the ground.

With the character Rebecca, the novel seems to portray a charismatic and seductive, but equally callous and corrupted narcissist and/or sociopath. At the same time, it describes Mrs. Danvers as an ardent, uncritical admirer and henchman (in psychologist jargon they are called "flying monkeys") - who puts her former mistress on a pedestal that she doesn't actually deserve because of her moral flaws.

The topic of the book and the post afterwards inevitably made me think of the developments with Trump in the USA. Knowing how narcissists and sociopaths work - and what they are capable of, is all you need for analysis and conclusion. A little food for thought!

-Simplicius Simplicissimus

[koolkat9]

America's Storage Room Cleaning 2 Ft. England

Rating: T

Relationship: America + Engalnd, AmeLiet

Word Count: 1440

Read on AO3

Author’s Note: I've had this idea for years. I even had started writing it out but never returned to it. But I was reading the manga/webcomics and I got to America's Storage Room Cleaning and I had to come back and finish this fic.

Why was he here?

Alfred and Tolys had been enjoying their morning coffee when there was a knock at the door. Usually, Tolys would always jump up to answer, and Alfred would have to tell him to sit down, he’ll get it. But instead, Tolys collected their empty cups as if he hadn’t heard anything. Alfred shrugged it off as Tolys finally realized that he no longer had to do his duties as Alfred's housekeeper. But when Alfred went to answer it, he was met with a huffy-looking Arthur, arms crossed and all.

“Arthur? What are you doing here?”

Arthur quirked a brow, his frown deepening. “What do you mean? You were the one who wanted help.”

“What?”

“Tolys called me last night saying that you needed help with something. You’re lucky I like the lad, or I wouldn’t even be here.”

“H-He didn’t...I don’t…”

Arthur scoffed, “Whatever. Are you going to let me in?”

When Alfred finally snapped out of his shock and confusion, he moved out of the way so Arthur could enter, giving the Brit a strained smile.

“Give me one-sec dude,” Alfred said before running to the kitchen. “Why is  Arthur  here?”

Tolys turned towards him, a soft smile on his face. “That storage room still needs cleaning, doesn’t it? I thought Arthur would be a good set of hands for you.”

Alfred gave him a childish pout. “When did you become so demanding?”

“When I started dating you. Now go talk to him.” Toly began pushing him out the door. Alfred could have easily pushed back, but he knew Tolys was right. Tolys was always right.

Taking Tolys’ advice, he guided Arthur down the hall and around the corner to where a small room sat. It was slightly larger than a closet and was filled with what most would call ‘junk’ collected over the centuries of his life. Alfred would often refer to it as junk as well, but deep down, he found himself unable to throw most of it out.

“God it’s filthy,” Arthur sneered, looking around at the dusty boxes, “You’d swear it hasn’t been cleaned in a hundred years.”

Though the Brit’s comment made Alfred’s blood boil, he couldn’t exactly argue with either of the points. “You wouldn’t be that far off,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Can you help me, or are you just going to criticize me like always?”

“I’m not your mother,” Arthur groused, making his way over to the pile to the right of the entry. “You can’t rely on me to pick up after you.” Despite his words, He began collecting stray items that had no box yet and began organizing them into a pile.

As Arthur made himself busy, Alfred began looking around, figuring he might as well try cleaning this place once more. It would probably get Arthur to leave. He trudged over to the pile of old toys, and sure enough, the box of soldiers sat on top. He snatched it up before Arthur could see it.

In all these dusty boxes awaited emotional death traps. And the man responsible for setting most of those traps was now poking around them about to set them off. Alfred shoved the box of soldiers into the darkest corner of the storage room.

While Arthur went through a box from the 1980s, Alfred began collecting all the items left over from his time with Arthur, shoving them in that corner. The first suit Arthur got him that was a bit stuffy, but came in handy during those fancy business meetings with the Continental Congress. The little nightgown Arthur had first found him in. The chest of stuffed animals, each handcrafted by Arthur himself. His first book that he’d beg Arthur to read to him almost every night for a year straight.

Alfred thought he was in the clear. But then something clattered to the floor. Alfred whipped around. “Hey be careful–”

His eyes landed on the musket that lay on the ground, the gash in its wood staring up at him, taunting him. The rain from all those years ago seemed to soak his back still, or perhaps that was just the cold sweat setting in. No, he couldn’t go back to that battlefield, especially not when Arthur was standing right across from him, staring at him with an unreadable look.

Alfred couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed the musket and jammed it into the corner, overflowing with the past.

Arthur blinked, mouth drawn into a thin line.

“J-Just forget it,” Alfred stammered, “I didn’t even want you here. This was all Tolys's idea. I-I’ve gotten along just fine and have accepted that this will never be clean–Arthur don’t–”

But Arthur had already wandered over to the pile, sifting through each box reverently. “You kept all of this after all this time?” Arthur asked softly, lifting up the old suit and inspecting it.

“Well…Um…I-I tried to…I mean…Yes…”

Arthur moved onto the toy box, finding the collection of wooden soldiers on top. He picked up one of the men, taking a moment to admire its face. “These were such a pain to make. I’m glad they still held up after all these years. Though they could use a new paint job.”

“Aren’t you upset,” Alfred blurted out. He nabbed the soldier from Arthur and returned it to its home. “Isn’t seeing this painful?”

“Perhaps a little. But I’m more relieved that I’m not the only one holding onto these kinds of things.”

Alfred huffed and crossed his arms. “It’s not because I miss you or anything. I just…”

“They’re tied to memories, so it's hard to give them away? Quite common for our kind.”

“Mhm…”

Alfred stared at his feet, scuffing his shoe against the floor. For a moment, it was like he was a child again, Arthur towering over him, that knowing look in his eye that always seemed to pull the truth from the darkest depths of Alfred’s soul. Of course, Arthur knew there was something more to this.

“I’m sorry…” Arthur finally said, “For everything. There was no excuse for me to abandon you like that. I was running away. From my responsibility, my mistakes. Being an empire makes you a shadow of who you once were. I shouldn’t have left you for so long, I should have guided you, I should have heard you out and been your voice against my bosses, but I was selfish. Everything I did, everything my nation did should have never happened, and I’m sorry.”

Alfred stared at him wide-eyed. Prideful, stubborn Arthur Kirkland, who hated vulnerability, was standing before him, apologizing.

“There isn’t enough to be said or that I can do to make it up to you, but I would like to at least try. If you’ll let me.” He smiled sadly. “Come now, Alfred. Don’t make that face.”

Alfred hadn’t noticed his face had scrunched up in an attempt to keep his tears from leaking out.

Arthur approached, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to Alfred.

Alfred took it, rubbing his eyes in a desperate attempt to get his emotions under control. “Why aren’t you crying?” he whined.

“I shed my tears long ago.”

“Stop being poetic and mature. It’s scary.”

���Cheeky brat,” Arthur scoffed though he was fighting a smile. He pulled Alfred into a hug, squeezing him tightly like he always did when they would reunite in Alfred’s childhood.

Alfred didn’t want to, but he clung to Arthur, missing the protective hold that never failed to put him back together. There was no stopping the waterworks now.

“That’s it,” Arthur murmured, rubbing up and down Alfred’s back, “Let it all out.”

Bold words coming from someone who liked to shove his emotions all the way down until he couldn’t hold them back, and they came out as anger. Not that Alfred ended up much different.

But here Arthur was, airing everything out. Alfred pulled away, thumbing away the last of his tears. “Thank you um…I think I need a little more time but…I’d like to try and fix things too.”

Arthur grinned. “That’s all I ever wanted.” He clapped and moved onto another box. “But we’ve got a job to do. If you would still like me to help, that is.”

“Yeah…yeah. Let’s do it.”

For the rest of the weekend, the two worked hard on arranging the storage room. They laughed, cried, shared stories, and when they emerged Monday evening, both felt like a weight had been finally lifted off their shoulders. Or at least, they weren’t shouldering it alone anymore.  

[masterwords]

Seven hours in the car yesterday heading through desolate sagebrush worlds and huge mountains led to a lot of thoughts that all converged on Hotch losing his mother. I've had about 7k words written about it prior to this that were a total scattered mess but some new little things clicked and...I thought I could offer you guys a preview, if you want. It might have to be two parts because it's so long, but it'll be finished before I post the first part.

(tw: talk about death/grief, implications of Hotch's past abuse)

“Hey,” Derek said into the phone. He was staring off into some middle distance, not seeing the office around him or anything for that matter. Beside him, just a few breaths away, sat Andi Swann. She and Hotch went way back, and though she and Derek had been going back and forth sharing some of his workload, she'd come to Derek's office more than a little concerned that Hotch wasn't answering calls or emails. “He'll answer for you,” she said in that dulcet yet slightly accusatory tone that said she wanted him to make the call, to use his trump card. Derek had tried to explain it away as grief, as preparation for losing his mother ("He's got a lot on his plate with Sean in prison..."), but that didn't sound right even to him and while he had misgivings about confirming Andi's suspicions about the nature of their relationship, he had to admit she was probably right. This was a slippery slope. Hotch loved his mother but they weren't exactly close, in fact until he'd gotten the call from her housekeeper that he was needed, he couldn't remember the last time they'd seen her.

Christmas? Thanksgiving? Hotch's birthday?

Derek had always thought she was a crack-up. With her pinched, serious features and her long nose, she looked like a shrewd little heron. He found her amusing, such a juxtaposition from his own mother who had a hard time looking serious even when she was fuming pissed. Her rounded features and happy eyes simply wouldn't allow it. But, Derek quickly found out that with a bright smile and a little well-intended flirting, he could soften Grace Hotchner up. She wouldn't exactly become a ray of sunshine, but the clouds would part and warmth would peek through.

He was well aware, though, that there were deep and dangerous ravines that he couldn't wade into. The Hotchner family kept their secrets well guarded, trespassers beware.

Something in the sound of Hotch's breathing, far away and dusty, told Derek he was wading too near those dangerous depths now. There was real darkness ahead.

“Derek...” Hotch whispered, his voice groggy and thick with exhaustion. Had he been sleeping? Derek guessed not by the fragile sound of his voice. “Now isn't a good time. Can I call you back?”

“Yeah, sure. I was actually just wondering if we could meet up for lunch at that little rathole diner down the road from your mom's place, Mellie's? I have a stack of things that need your signature pronto.”

Silence. He could hear Hotch's shallow breathing. “Aaron?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, man. See you around one-ish?”

“Yes.” Click. It was over that fast, and Andi gaped at Derek, her eyes wide.

“Something is wrong,” she whispered and he shrugged casually.

“Yeah...his mom's dying. I can't think of anything worse than that.”

[ryanmeft]

Movie Review: A Haunting in Venice

In every skeptic there is a glimmer of faith, and the stronger the skeptic the stronger the glimmer. A skeptic is simply someone who has looked at the world and discovered that it is not how they wish it were. It is not a comfortable or happy revelation, and most of us would happily abandon it were there the slightest hint of fact to any other explanation. That is the situation Hercule Poirot finds himself in at the beginning of A Haunting in Venice. He appears to enjoy a life of tea and retirement, but he is a broken man, thinking nothing of his bodyguard laying out a desperate man seeking his aid and acting as if humanity does not exist.

It is 1947, ten years since we last saw Poirot in Death on the Nile. The time has been intentionally chosen by director and star Kenneth Branagh, working from a late, poorly received entry in Agatha Christie’s novel series, which specifies no date. He has taken a free hand with the material and chosen his year so that the exuberant, confident, arrogant Poirot of DotN can be replaced by one whose faith in God, humanity and everything else has been wiped out by going through two World Wars.

The opening device of a retired detective wasting away without a case is hardly new, but Branagh sells it well by adding something new to the unflappable detective---flappability. Summoned by his old writer friend Ariadne (Tina Fey) to a seance by a medium (Michelle Yeoh) she professes to be unable to expose, he encounters the series’ usual lineup of eccentric oddballs: Rowena Drake (Kelly Reilly) the mother of a young woman who drowned the previous year, the deceased woman’s arrogant, fortune-seeking ex-fiancee (Kyle Allen), Olga (Camille Cottin), the extremely superstitious housekeeper, a doctor (Jamie Dornan) traumatized by the war and his son (Jude Hill), who is more interested in books than people, the medium’s opportunistic assistants (Emma Laird and Ali Khan) and Poirot’s own bodyguard (Riccardo Scamarcio).

Inevitably there is a murder and these people end up locked in with Poirot, this time in an old, rotting Venetian palazzo that is said to be cursed by the long-dead souls of children left there to die of plague. A train and a boat can have nothing on this place---it is an excellent accomplishment in the use of a great setting at a time when setting hardly matters in most wide release movies. Like any good, really old house, it is strewn with expensive treasures under dusty coverings that are stretched throughout hallways and rooms which are just narrow and close enough to be confining, but not so much that they don’t also look really neat. Always threatening the proceedings are Venice’s famous canals. All of this murder and suspicion takes place during a really cracking storm, and the waters reach menacing fingers toward the foundations of the building. We are, every so often, shown the window from which the dead woman fell, a spectre of a real, well, spectre. Most of this was done in Pinewood Studios, but many exteriors are clearly the sinking city, itself.

The previous movies were dependent on the (by now a bit tired) premise that the genius was always one step ahead, even when they do not appear to be. This one depends on taking that same character and shaking him badly, leaving him in genuine doubt, fear and panic. The best horror movies operate also on this principle. They place a disbelieving person in a situation where their disbelief will be tested, for it is so much more frightening encountering a scary thing you didn’t think existed than one you fully expected. Poirot faces new types of challenges this time, something that couldn’t quite be said for DotN. He hears voices. He seems to be ill. Every mystery he figures out simply crumbles into a new one. There is an attempt on his own life. And there is always that storm. He handles this by hiding frequently in the restroom so as not to let his panic be seen, but we see it, and his struggles with his own skeptical nature humanize the character in a way not previously accomplished. For all his affected, fabulous-moustache-having ways, Poirot was the least interesting thing happening in the previous two films. Here, he is the best thing. Branagh directs himself, from a third script by Michael Green, with conviction, so that when the answer comes it is cathartic. Before now, I could take or leave sequels. Now, I want to see more.

The weakest link here is Fey, who gives her role every bit as much cynic power as Branagh’s, but who is saddled with a character clearly meant to be a satirical tribute to Christie herself. She is said to have made Poirot famous by writing of his cases, and reminds us of this constantly, at one point even claiming Poirot is nothing without her stories. It’s an overbearing and obvious bit of meta-commentary, a tactic I’ve long grown tired of in fiction, and the character’s presence robs the film of that little touch it needed to be a mystery classic.

Even with that blemish, though, this is as close as Branagh’s ever come to capturing what he’s trying to do with these adaptations. I would like very much to see more. I’ve gotten what I’ve been looking for since 2017’s Murder on the Orient Express. I have faith in the series now.

Verdict: Highly Recommended

Note: I don’t use star ratings. Here are my possible verdicts:

Must-See

Highly Recommended

Recommended

Average

Not Recommended

Avoid Like the Plague