#black iron shelf brackets

[shyniisparkles]

Built-In Home Office Mid-sized built-in desk from the 1950s, with a light wood floor and a brown floor in the home office and white walls.

[atplblog]

Price: [price_with_discount] (as of [price_update_date] - Details) [ad_1] Product Description Look aesthetically pleasing and perfect for organizing Looking for a unique shelf for your home décor? The hanging shelves are the perfect addition to any living space, can fit in any style from rustic to farmhouse to even minimalist. You really can't go wrong with these shelves! Benefits: Have a unique, rustic yet modern charm, great for enhancing living room décor. Can be used for displaying home goods in living rooms, organizing bathrooms and dressing up kitchens, or making your home bar shine. Assembled with metal brackets and screwed in three holes, and once installed directly into wall studs you won't have worry about them falling. Wonderful space savers are cute to display all your little nick nacks, all the while giving a rustic feel with all the textures and grains coming through. Tips: Your shelf will always be strongest when attached directly to wall studs. We highly recommend to attach the shelves directly to the wall studs for maximum support. Note: Due to natural variations in the grain of the wood, each piece will vary slightly from the picture. AAFIYA HANDICRAFTS Wooden Wall Shelves Pack of 1 Large Storage Wall Shelves Rustic Yet Modern: Combine with torch finished wood and black iron wire brackets, making them more diversified and fit modern or rustic home style. Upgraded Size: Some customers have some vases, crafts, kid dolls and so on to keep organized. These items need a large size shelf to store, that's why we design this shelves with wider size. Easy Assembly Durable: Install within minutes with all necessary hardware included following the instruction. Sturdy and durable once putting up. Keeping to add more creative ideas Original Design Rustic & Modern Practical & Economic Material: Wood + metal EASY TO HANG ON WALL : This wall shelf is delivered in a pre assembled Condition. Only fix & mount the wall shelves on wall with less effort and all necessary fittings accessories come along with the product. PRODUCT SIZE : Height: 9.5 inches, Length: 8 inches, Width: 4.4 inches. Material:- Wood and Wrought Iron, Color : Brown and Black. IDEAL ORGANIZER AND DECOR CHOICE : Use this floating shelf to store and display your favorite objects in everything from your bathroom to your bedroom or kitchen. HEAVY DUTY AND DURABLE CONSTRUCTIONS : It can bear Up to 3 kg weight. The load capacity is tested 2-3 times the rated load. [ad_2]

[dluxdekor1]

Inspiring Cabinet Designs Featuring Fancy Wrought Iron Hardware!

Wrought iron hardware for cabinets has acquired tremendous popularity in recent years, owing to its unique mix of strength, durability, and aesthetic appeal. This classic material can give any space character and charm by turning plain cabinets into gorgeous focal pieces. Wrought iron hardware may enhance your style while adding usefulness, whether you're remodeling your bathroom, kitchen, or any other area with cabinets. These creative cabinet designs successfully highlight wrought iron hardware.

1. A charming rustic farmhouse

The warm and welcoming ambiance of the farmhouse design never fails to win people over. A major component of this design is wrought iron hardware, which gives hardwood cabinets a lovely, genuine touch. Picture a distressed white kitchen cabinetry with black wrought iron hinges and knobs. This contrast creates a cozy and inviting atmosphere by adding depth and texture. Wrought iron accents like corner guards or ornate brackets may accentuate the rustic beauty of the cabinets, giving it a homey but practical sense.

2. Contemporary Industrial Style

For those who are inclined towards the industrial aesthetic, wrought iron cabinet hardware provides an ideal match. By embracing raw materials, this design approach produces a streamlined and elegant appearance. Think of pairing modern cabinets with matte black wrought iron handles and knobs with a deep charcoal or blue finish. This combination has a simple feel about it, yet it also radiates elegance. The industrial style may be further enhanced by adding open shelf with wrought iron brackets to display dishware or ornamental accessories.

3. Tasteful Conventional Areas

Wrought iron hardware gives classic designs a sophisticated, timeless touch. An exquisite ambiance is produced by cabinets painted in rich, dark colors like deep mahogany or navy blue and accessorized with wrought iron knobs and hinges. Your cabinets' timeless attractiveness may be enhanced by the elaborate wrought iron embellishments, which will make them the focal point of the space. The conventional style may be further enhanced by adding ornamental wrought iron elements, such as scrollwork or leaf designs, which seamlessly combine beauty and functionality. Fancy cabinet handles may enhance the overall grandeur of the cabinet and perfectly suit this style.

4. A Bohemian Eclectic Feel

A place may be made more colorful and diverse by using wrought iron cabinet hardware to connect different design components. Visually strong contrasts may be achieved by matching cabinets with distinctive wrought iron handles and vibrant colors like burnt orange or turquoise. The bohemian atmosphere may be further enhanced by contrasting hardware designs, such as contemporary pulls and old knobs. With this method, you may express yourself creatively and uniquely, allowing your cabinets to be a real representation of who you are.

5. Modern Minimalism

These days, simpler designs often speak louder. A modest but striking accent, wrought iron hardware may be incorporated into minimalist cabinets with ease. Choose white or light-colored cabinetry, and go with sleek, straightforward wrought iron knobs. The hardware's sleek designs and matte finishes will improve the room's overall appeal and preserve its open, airy feeling. This design philosophy emphasizes simplicity and utility, showing that wrought iron can be both fashionable and useful.

6. Retro Revival

Wrought iron hardware is leading the charge in the resurgence of vintage-inspired cabinets. Imagine gentle pastel-colored cabinets with an antique feel, along with wrought iron handles and knobs that have been distressed. This combination evokes sentimental feelings and memories of a bygone age. Adding beautiful wrought iron accessories, such lace-like panels or elaborate cabinet feet, would further accentuate this old vibe. Any place may be made more cheerful with this quirky appeal created by this design method.

7. Outdoor Cabinets and Kitchens

Outdoor kitchens may benefit from the addition of wrought iron cabinet hardware, which is not only for interior areas. Durability is a major consideration in outdoor cabinet design. Because wrought iron is weatherproof, it's a great material for outdoor areas. Imagine an outdoor kitchen that is rustic and has cabinets made of aged wood with hinges and knobs made of wrought iron. This combination guarantees the lifetime of your outdoor cabinets while also adding a fashionable touch.

In summary

Wrought iron hardware for cabinets is a flexible solution that may complement numerous design types, from rustic and classic to contemporary and eclectic. Because of its strength, resilience, and visual appeal, it's the perfect option for homeowners who want to upgrade their cabinets. Wrought iron hardware can turn your cabinets into gorgeous focal pieces, whether you're going for a sleek industrial look, a vintage-inspired room, or a comfortable farmhouse kitchen. Finding the ideal wrought iron hardware to go with your cabinets and realize your design idea is simple with the abundance of possibilities available. Accept the classic beauty and usefulness of wrought iron hardware, and use it to serve as an inspiration for your next cabinetry project.

#wroughtironhardwareforcabinets #fancycabinethandles

[andrewpcannon]

32 Inch Red Oak Rack With Brackets for Floating Shelf (custom racks and brackets available)

This 32x7x10 red oak rack features end brackets for a floating shelf, 4 black iron pipe pegs, and pre-drilled holes for hanging hidden behind the black iron flanges. This rack supports at least 100 pounds if installed on studs, and will support a shelf up to 40×12-inches. Add a red oak shelf using this listing, or contact me directly to have a shelf made using any of my available patterns or a…

[nanook2u-blog]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Cast Iron Elegant Black with Gold Highlights 14" Fleur De Lis Cross 0170-03647.

[jaimee2001]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: SAMTSELT New 4 Packs Heavy-Duty Brackets for Shelves, Iron Shelf Black Brackets.

[mysticcolonialhardware]

We’ll tell you how to pick out the right brackets for the job and the different ways you can perfect the design. All of this leads up to how you can use our cast iron shelf brackets for the job!

[somfte]

Before I can make more black sails gifs I have to:

Sand, stain, and seal six more shelves

Recondition 3 salvaged cast iron pans

Measure, mark, and hang the remaining shelf brackets for my closet

Make peach simple syrup

When will my free time return from war...

[hometoursandotherstuff]

It seemed impossible to find a house that did not cost too much. In the end, Hannah and Don got a chance to build their own house. They filled it with personal decor in white and black, filled with flea market finds and green plants.

The shoe storage in the hall consists of an army box on wheels to facilitate cleaning. The future sleeping loft is located above the closets. The rocking horse is a flea market find.

The geranium is beautiful even without flowers. The ladder, which has been washed and painted, originally came from a nearby farm scrap yard. The army water bottles are covered with cloth. Bottles and vases are from the flea market.

The base of the kitchen is high gloss black and white. The carpet is an heirloom.

Living room and kitchen are separated by a wall with, among other things, fridge and freezer. The medicine bag is an inheritance from Hannah's grandfather.

The pressed glass used as a pot is actually a lampshade.

All shelves in the kitchen are made of old pallets used in shop fittings. They have been cut and fitted with cast iron brackets. Jars, glasses and coffee cups, from flea markets.

The living room has an open floor plan to the dining area. The coffee table is an army box. The sofa was bought at auction. The family built the TV bench themselves from recycled material.

Open shelves provide the opportunity to quickly change the interior and green plants give it life. The simple metal shelf has been painted matte black. The stool is a flea market find.

The white painted bedroom is romantic with the bed's crocheted bedspread. The headboard is a container find. Suitcases are from flea markets.

Ameena's room is a lovely color bomb with fabrics.

Hannah and Don have painted and set up old apple boxes that are now used for storing toys.

The shower curtain has been sewn by Hannah and Don themselves from a window curtain.

https://www.hemtrevligt.se/husohem/artiklar/hem/20141007/familjen-billberg-har-inrett-med-grona-fingrar-och-liten-planbok/

[retroateez]

Prophecy - Chapter Fifteen

remember when i said chapter 14 would be the last of the year? i lied ;) think of this as an end of year gift from me to you, as a thank you for all the support and love you’ve all been giving my silly little story. - hades x

words; 3827

prophecy masterlist

tag list; @hewwo-from-the-other-side

"You want me to teach you magic?" Yunho splutters over the counter, his jaw dropped as he stares at you in disbelief.

You nod.

"Well, little lady, I'm afraid I cannot help you."

Your confident demeanor falls, your posture slouching and curved mouth pointing into a frown.

"What?" you demand. "Why not?"

Yunho sighs and after a moment of hesitation, leaves the counter and steps through a doorway that leads to the back of the shop, motioning you with a scar-littered hand to follow him.

You heave up the wooden slab that allows you access behind the counter and follow Yunho's quick pace. The blonde apothecary leads you down a set of worn, stone stairs, and you find yourself in a dingy, cold basement.

The basement is scarcely lit, with a couple of iron brackets mounted on the wall, each baring a lit torch that radiates a flickering, orange light throughout the room. Yunho's giant shadow dances on the wall, and suddenly he becomes the opposite of the bubbly apothecary you knew before.

A workbench is pressed up against the left wall, bundles of chamomile flowers and small piles of marshmallow root thrown chaotically across the surface. The wooden chair is shoved carelessly to the side, and you can see on the chair legs how worn and damaged they are from scraping across the cobblestone floor. On the opposite wall, are tall, oak shelves similar to the ones upstairs in the shop. Packages of twine and string and burlap sacks and rolls of parchments are scattered messily upon each shelf, almost as if Yunho had unpacked his things in a rush.

You stop walking abruptly, as Yunho bends down and fumbles underneath the workbench. You watch as he slides his slender fingers on the underside of the wooden table, squinting his eyes and poking his tongue out as he searches what he's looking for.

"There we go." He mumbles lowly, just as you hear a click and he stands up straight.

You almost jump out of your skin, at the sound of loud rattling, clanking, and finally the ear-splitting screech of wood raking against stone. It's only when the cacophany of noises stop that you realise that the shelf, is not a shelf at all.

The entire back panel of the shelf is gone, as are the contents that lay upon it.

Instead, there are more steps, which lead down into an impossibly darker room.

"Go on." Yunho points to the new entrance, indicating for you to go down the steps.

"Are you perhaps short of a marble?" You scoff. "Go down there and let you kill me? I don't think so."

"If I wanted to kill you, I would've done it a long time ago." A darkness clouds over his eyes and you swallow thickly. "Now go."

This time you decide to listen to him, and you take a hesitant step downwards.

The walls are damp, with trails of moss coating the steps and buried inside the cracks of the stone. You take it slow, not wanting to slip and let your guard down in case Yunho changes his mind and does decide to kill you.

"What are you waiting for?" His impatient voice comes from behind you. "Do you really think I would hurt you?" There's a twinge of pain as he speaks, and you feel slightly guilty for even thinking sweet, innocent, doctor Yunho would be capable of something like that.

Once you're down the stairs, you squint to try and make out the shapes in the unlit room. You spot something circular on the floor, but you can't make out what it is. It's too dark to see, but the smell of dust and ancient damp invades your nostrils. Yunho hasn't been down here in a very long time.

There's a snapping sound from behind you, and the torches in the room suddenly light themselves.

Despite the light, the room is still eerily dark. You can barely make out the furniture in the room. There's what appears to be a desk, covered in cobwebs but still much tidier and more organised than the one in the basement. There's a (real) shelf too, full to the brim with thick, leather-bound books which, if you squint hard enough, you notice have holes chewed out of the spine. Lastly, upon the ground and painted sloppily in white, is a five pointed star within a circle.

"Yunho?" You whisper. "What is all this?"

He ignores you and paces over to the table. With his sleeve, he sweeps away the dust, and picks up a worn, tattered notebook. Yunho hands you the book, and you read the cover, confused.

"Laredia Academy of Magic?" you read. "You're a mage?"

"I was a mage." he corrects you.

"How do you just stop being a mage? Just unlearn all the magic?" you joke.

"No." Yunho's face is deadly serious, and your smile falters and your blood runs cold. "I was cast out, and my mage rites were revoked."

You stand awkwardly in silence, biting your lip and finding sudden interest at the dirt scuffs on the tips of Yunho's black boots.

"Yeosang and I went to the same magic academy," He explains. "In Laredia, just north of the Seventeen kingdom. He was in the class above me, because he's older, but every single student knew about Yeosang."

Yunho grabs a chair from the darkest corner of the room and sits down on it, pointing behind you at another chair you hadn't noticed. Once you sit down, he continues.

"I always wanted to be a mage. It was my absolute dream, and I knew that basically anybody can do the most basic spell, so I trained hard every single day before I was even old enough to apply to an academy. Hundreds upon thousands of wishful mages and sorceresses are turned away from academies because they lack true magical talent. Luckily, I passed the entrance exam and the initiation tests, and I got in.

"The professors said I was a natural, that I had magical skills they hadn't witnessed in centuries. I was only four months into my first year at Laredia before they moved me up a class. And that was where I met Yeosang.

"We butted heads at first," Yunho chuckles fondly, remembering all the fights he and his elder got into all those years ago. Reminising the scars and spell marks scattered across his body. "We were both exceptionally good at magic, I would argue Yeosang was better than I. I would never have admitted that in my youth, but he was much more controlled, sensible with his talent than I was.

"Everything was a competition between 'Sang and I. Theory exams, practical classes, potions and herbology. Anything you could study there, we always strived to be the best. Eventually we became both good friends and rivals... It was fun and games for a few years, you know? I think at one point we were almost as close as brothers..."

Yunho begins to trail off, a sad look filling his walnut eyes as they glitter in the flickering light.

"Did something happen?" you whisper softly. He nods slowly.

"I...I pushed it too far in our last year. That was the year the academy would prepare you for mage work, I was to be sent out to the kingdom of Streyden in the east, and become King Chan's magical advisor. Yeosang was on track to be a professor at Laredia himself, and he was, for quite a while.

"Yeosang possessed so much more than I did when it was time to graduate. He was better at spell-casting, he was absolutely phenomenal at herb identifying - ironic now given I run an apothecary actually- but there was nothing Yeosang could be bested at, and it drove me utterly insane. It evolved into more than a friendly rivalry, more than just healthy competition. It became an obsession, nd so I went out searching for what my heart yearned for the most; more power.

"I found it quickly, too. I was directed to an elven clan that resided deep in the southern forest, under the impression they were gifted in regular magic, and they could teach me any spell I desired. So of course, I went. I was young, stupid and incredibly naive to believe it would've worked. And foolish to think that I could've gotten away with it."

Yunho sighs deeply, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between his legs. He rubs his hands over his face roughly, and your gut tells you Yunho's story isn't about to get any better. You watch him, and you try to take in everything he just told you. You knew that Yeosang and Yunho had been friends for a long time, but you had no idea they went back this far.

"The elves were agents of the arcane arts alright," Yunho spits bitterly out of the blue, causing you to jump in your seat a little. "Their dark magic consumed me entirely, contaminated my soul and tainted every fibre of my being. I knew I was ruined the moment I agreed to train under them. I was... so aware that everything they were teaching me was so wrong. Yet it was everything I had dreamed of, and more than anything I knew it would allow me to beat Yeosang.

"This elf clan had roots in the fire elementals, so they all were wickedly powerful pyromancers. They taught me almost everything they knew, and I couldn't believe how tame the magic at the academy was. I trained in dark magic with the elves for months, until our final practical exam came around.

"We had to duel with another member of our class, I can't remember the name of the boy who had the misfortune of being paired with me, seung- or seong- or something like that. I was absolutely positive I would win, but he was fast. Too fast. I wouldn't be surprised if the idiot had sought out the same thing I had."

Yunho pauses somberly, his broad, built shoulders drooping where he sat, and his face moulding into a sad, distant frown.

"Everytime I close my eyes, all I see are flashes of fire." Yunho whispers, staring at the floor. "I remember the feeling, but not much else. I- I can recall quite literally exploding into flames... It's like a bubbling cauldron, and it just keeps boiling and boiling until it gets so hot it bursts. And It felt like burning lava was pouring out of every single pore and hair follicle in my body."

The apothecary nibbles his bottom lip, shaking his head bitterly at the ground beneath his feet.

"It was so painful. I've broken countless bones, been on the recieving end of spells cast by the most powerful of mages, and yet I have never experienced pain like it.

"I can't believe I even have the gall to say it hurt." Yunho scoffs. "I can't even begin to imagine how much pain my duel partner was in.

"The academy realised straight away that it was dark magic. I hadn't fooled anyone in the slightest. The explosion had set the entire courtyard alight, all the trees, the furniture outside, even a couple of the students themselves, everything within a short radius of me. It was a tornado of flames, swirling round and round and I could easily have killed everybody that was there. The professors were on high alert though, they had to be during student duels. They rounded up the other students, and teleported themselves to safety in seconds.

"Everyone except for me, of course. They must have decided that my punishment for dabbling in the dark arts was death, and so they left me there to burn alive. Students weren't taught how to teleport at that point either, so I could do nothing except sit and watch the flames eating away at my skin."

"You're still alive... obviously." You chime in. "How'd you get out?"

"Yeosang." He replies simply.

He tells you how Yeosang fought and argued with the professors of the academy to forgive Yunho and let him live, almost getting himself expelled and his teaching job revoked. He explains how the professors refused to help Yunho, and how Yeosang risked his own life to save him.

"He spent weeks healing my burns, keeping me hidden away in his dorm room." Yunho breathes. "He nearly got kicked out too, but the academy knew he was too good of an asset to let go. I told him he was a fool to help me while risking so much in the process, but he's a good man. Despite all the competitions and tension between us, he's always been a good friend."

You nod solemnly in agreement. Even from the first moment you had met the platinum haired mage, you knew he possessed a generous soul. From saving you after the storm, housing, clothing and feeding you, teaching you to help heal people and allowing you to earn real, official qualifications, getting caught up in the prophecy mess you had caused and not complaining about it once. Yeosang had done so much for you, and yet here you are, repaying him by sneaking around and doing the one thing he refused to help you with.

Guilt squirms around in your stomach and latches on to your flesh with it's poisonous claws,  puncturing your organs and pumping your insides full of toxins. It meanders its way through your body until it infects your bloodstream, flowing through every limb and vein until it hits your brain and starts to fog your senses and stain your conscience.

You have to keep telling yourself it's for a good reason; learning magic will help you in the long run, you just know it. It's just a shame that Yeosang doesn't understand that.

"You said Yeosang was a teacher at the academy, right?" You blurt.

Yunho nods. "Yes, for a few years."

"Then why does he refuse to teach me if he's literally qualified to do so?"

"He hasn't told you about what happened while he was a teacher, has he?"

You shake your head.

"It's not my place to tell you, Iris. Yeosang would kill me if I did." Yunho stands up with a grunt, brushing his knees off with the palms of his hands. "He'd also kill me if I taught you any magic behind his back, and I owe my life to him. So, I will not be teaching you any magic either."

"What?! Hold on!" You jump up in protest, glaring angrily at the giant man before you. "That's not fair! What was all that about then? If you were just going to say no?!"

Yunho grabs you by the shoulders, abruptly stopping your rage fueled ranting.

"Because I wanted you to know how thirst for power, particularly magic, can be incredibly dangerous."

"Well, I'm not as foolish as you." You snap aggressively, not noticing the twinge of hurt written on Yunho's face.

"You may well be right. But I still won't be helping you."

"Fine." You shrug, giving up. "Fine. Thanks for your time anyway, Yunho."

He bows politely to you, lifting up an arm and motioning to the steps for you to leave. Wrapping your arms tightly around you, you hurry up the stairs of both the secret room and the basement, until you're at the front door of the shop.

Yunho resumes his signature position of elbows on the counter, leaning forward, cheeky grin and puppy dog eyes shining brightly.

"Just... be wary, Iris. You can't trust everyone in this world."

You smile shortly, offering only a curt nod before you grab the handle of the door.

"Thanks, Yunho. See you around."

"Farewell, little lady."

The bell tinkles above you when you gently pull the door open, and chimes again as it closes after you slip your way out. You walk back to the castle at a brisk pace, keeping to yourself and keeping your gaze fixed on the ground.

Only when you feel safe enough, do you untangle your arms from around your torso, glancing down at the thick, leather-bound book you smuggled underneath your sleeves. Wiping the remaining dust off the cover, you read the bold, imprinted words;

LAREDIA ACADEMY OF MAGIC.

"Once a thief, always a thief" You grin proudly.

-----

You figured the best place to hide your stolen goods was in plain sight, which is why you are skimming the library shelves for the smartest hiding spot. You find a pile of books hidden away in the corner which didn't look too dusty, thinking that if there were to be completely dust-free books in the neglected library, it would look too suspicious. You slide Yunho's book at the bottom of the pile, making a mental note to come back later and properly skim through it.

"Where have you been?" Yeosang demands when you casually stroll into his workspace.

Hongjoong had given Yeosang and Wooyoung a study to work in, after his own had become a mess and entirely overwhelmed with parchments and hand-drawn diagrams. You throw yourself comfortably onto the bench opposite his desk.

"Just in the gardens," you reply coolly. "Hanging out."

"Is that so? How come I couldn't find you there then?" Wooyoung's voice comes sharply from the doorway, where he stands with his arms folded, leaning against the door frame as he looks at you with a deep frown.

"Maybe you just didn't look hard enough." You shrug.

The elf says nothing, but you can feel his gaze burning into the back of your head.

Yeosang ignores you both, too absorbed in studying the papers before him to listen to you and Wooyoung squabble.

"Still no monster?" you ask.

Yeosang shakes his head. "I was certain we would find one," he sighs. "But there's been no sighting of any sea monsters or creatures in decades."

"The ball is in two days," Yeosang continues. "Hongjoong expects something significant from us before then but we have nothing to offer him. He had patrols out investigating anybody remotely suspicious, I heard the guards interrupted a group of drunk dwarves playing cards... they were not impressed. But there hasn't been anyone new in the city or any of the villages in the kingdom. Nothing."

"If it's destiny, then maybe us looking for them is the problem. What if we just wait for them to come to us?" You suggest.

"Then what if destiny says we have to chase them down?" Yeosang counters with a stressed hand through his hair. "Either way, we're stuck."

Wooyoung crosses the room to peer over the diagrams for what must be the thousandth time in the last two weeks. He and Yeosang mutter lowly to each other as they read, pointing and drawings and shuffling through papers. You can only sit with your head hung low, staring miserably at the floor as the feeling of uselessness settles in your bones.

You're so tired of offering nothing. Of being no help to anyone. All people do is look after you while you wander around getting in people's way.

Suddenly, you're on your feet, and you're striding through the hallways to the library you've become so familiar with. You heave the doors open and hurry over to Yunho's book that you hid only mere hours ago, stuffing it under your shirt and creeping out of the library, and down the steps.

You refuse to rely on others. You refuse to have other people look after you. You refuse to be a liability. It's time to start fending for yourself, starting from now.

You locate the somewhat hidden door you took out of the castle earlier, and instead of turning out the door, you carry on down the hallway.

Eventually, the hallway leads to a large, empty room made entirely of cobblestone. Perfect for practicing magic. You found the torch you had used before, and lit it with a match you had forgotten about in your pocket. Once lit, you set the torch in a wall bracket and kneel down on the floor underneath it.

Rustling underneath your shirt, Yunho's book falls onto the ground with a dull thump, which bounces loudly off the walls. You hold your breath, panicked, but luckily nobody comes. Opening the first few pages, you read over Yunho's messy scrawl, taking in the drawings of hand positions and words in a language you don't understand.

You flick through more and more faded pages until you come across one that catches your eye. You look at Yunho's drawing, trying to match your own hand to the one on the page. You stick your right hand out flat, fingers together, and palm facing upwards. Then, you pull your four fingers back so the fingertips are pressed against your palm. Keeping your fingers in place, you rotate your hand so the back of your hand is now facing upwards, and rapidly flick your fingers out in front of you, presumably where the receiving end of the spell would be.

You repeat the motion over and over again, gradually building speed so after a while, your actions are fluid and less clunky. Next, is the hard part; learning the spell.

"Feainn ichaer?" You whisper, reading from the page. "What on earth does that mean? What language is that?"

Maybe exploring the library for some language books would be a good idea, you think.

But for now, you say the phrase aloud over and over again, not even knowing if you're doing it right but acting as if you're fluent in whichever language this is.

Once you feel like you've got it more or less right, you decide it's time to pair the speech and hand movements together.

Nervousness takes you by surprise then, and you have to readjust your kneeling position on the ground three times before you're ready. Taking a deep breath, you stretch your hand out like before, and you can feel the words on your tongue.

You feel it then; a rushing sensation in your stomach, burrowing past your organs and hurling itself up towards your lungs. It burns slightly as it travels, almost in the same way that hot milk burns as you swallow it, except instead of going down, this is coming up, flying past your lungs and sliding up your throat and crawling through the gaps between your teeth.

"Feainn," you pull your fingers back, and turn your hand over, the burning feeling spreading down to the tips of your toes and the tips of your ears, and you're convinced you can smell smoke. You close your eyes to focus on the spell, ignoring the sting of the fire licking at your veins and the boiling of your blood inside your veins, ignoring the loud thumping ricocheting around your eardrums, and ignoring the way your entire body begins to vibrate and ignoring the way it feels like you're about to explode at any moment. "Icha-"

"What are you doing?"

Your eyes snap open.

i just wanted to note that the language used here is elder speech from the witcher 3: wild hunt. i did not make it up myself, and it does not belong to me! just a note to cover my own back lmao.. thanks for reading!

[delimeful]

cut clean from the dream (1/3)

warnings: person being treated as merchandise, mentions of murder/injury, panic, fear, crying, sharp implements, feeling trapped

A small bell’s ring echoed through the small store as the door was pushed open, the first customer of the day. 

Logan couldn’t see them from his shelf, but he heard the rapid footsteps of the shopkeep emerge right on schedule, approaching them with vigor. 

“Hello! Anything in particular I can help you with today?”

“Uh���” An uncertain voice, low in contrast to the shopkeeper's shrillness. 

Logan sighed, tuning the conversation out and turning away from the mid-morning light. The rounded bottle he was in wasn’t great for sleeping, which was a shame, seeing as being trapped as merchandise in a local potions shop was already enough of a nightmare. 

He’d love to pretend that he had no idea how this had happened, but what it really came down to was his own foolishness. It had only taken investigating the bag of a hitchhiker who came back earlier than expected, and his habit of trying to glean knowledge from humans got him well and truly captured, passed from hand to hand in sales until he wound up here. Far from home, and everything he’d ever known, and Patton.

His gossamer butterfly wings fluttered, agitated, and he sat back up. There was really no point trying to get back to sleep with such thoughts hammering against his skull, and the shopkeep was busy jumping around the store with loud, heavy steps anyways. He rested his chin on his hand to watch the man go by, figuring he could at least see what this new customer looked like. 

He didn’t expect the two humans to stop right in front of him. He stiffened, suddenly straining to hear the words properly through the glass. 

“-have any stock left of severed wings, unfortunately, our next order comes in around three or four days. However, as you can see here, we do have a fairy with wings intact! It’ll be a little pricier, obviously, but I can give you a discount for the trouble!” 

The customer was a tall, skinny figure draped in black from his cloak-like apparel to his makeup, staring at Logan with dark purple eyes. Definitely a witch, going by the sigil tattoos along the patches of visible exposed skin. Logan narrowed his eyes back at him, trying to look like trouble. It’d be much easier to just come back after a few days than deal with the delicate process of shredding the wings from a fairy. The witch dragged his gaze over to the shopkeep, looking exhausted. 

“I don’t need a whole fairy. You seriously don’t have any wings in stock? Like, in the back or anything?” He asked, looking already resigned to the answer. 

“Afraid not, that is a rather rare ingredient with the elusiveness of fairies.” The shopkeep hummed. “Is this a budget thing? If you’re willing to wait a few hours, I can call in our alchemist and have him harvest this fairy and get you just the wings for a lower price.” 

Logan felt the color drain from his face, hopes shattered. He looked away from the human’s piercing gaze, trying to keep the dizzying panic from overwhelming him. He’d heard the stories. He’d known it would turn out this way since he got captured. It wasn’t a surprise, just an unpleasant eventuality.   

“Ugh.” The witch pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Just… I’ll take the fairy.” 

“Excellent!” The shopkeep clapped cheerily as Logan’s stomach dropped. He whisked the glass bottle off the shelf, hurrying over to the register and leaving Logan sprawled on the clear bottom of it, watching the ground below whiz by. He grimaced as the bottle was set down, shoving against the glass wall to prop himself back up and scoop his glasses up off the bottom of the bottle. 

The transaction took place over his head, and then long fingers wrapped around the glass, and he was lifted up again, slower this time. The bottle was carefully tucked into a pocket of the cloak, and everything went dark and muffled. For a while, Logan’s world was reduced to the small gap of light and noise from the pocket opening, swaying with the momentum of the human’s steps. 

He pressed up against the lid of the bottle despite knowing it was futile. The enchantment on it held strong, and would remain that way until it was opened from the outside by his new captor. He’d only have one chance at escape. He’d have to use it wisely. 

The noise overhead died down, and a door thudded closed. There was some muffled conversation, another door, and then finally quiet. Logan braced himself just in time for the hand to grab the neck of the bottle, pulling him back into the light. 

Even after the darkness of the pocket, the room wasn’t blinding. It seemed dimly lit, heavy black curtains over the windows and halloween-themed fairy lights strung on the walls. Logan blinked. It was still the summer months, was it not?

His attention was drawn back to the witch as he set the bottle on his desk, sighing as he sat heavily on the chair in front of it. Logan refused to flinch as he leaned in to look at the bottle, face warped oddly by the glass. The witch scrubbed his hands through his hair and sighed again, pulling a piece of wide parchment out and scrawling a sigil on it with a red ink pen that smelled suspiciously of iron. 

A moment later, Logan’s prison was finally being opened, and he stumbled as the jar was tilted on its side, opening resting on the human’s palm. He seized the opportunity, kicking off the glass wall to propel himself out of the jar into fresh air. 

A second after he flitted out, there was a sudden yank on his leg, and he found himself dragged down to the desk below by a shackle made of thick, shadowy magic. 

“Yeah, thought that might happen.” The witch said, voice resonating through Logan now that he wasn’t hearing it from behind a wall of glass. The shackle finished retracting back to the sigil, leaving him pinned down by his leg, and the witch pushed him over with a finger. Logan had the sense to flare his wings out so they wouldn’t get crumpled painfully beneath him, but this left him flat on his back and vulnerable. He shuddered, wings slapping against the wood ineffectively. 

Above him, the witch was casually pulling some kind of tool from a drawer, and Logan felt a flare of irritation break through his fear. He opened his mouth before he could think better of it. “You could not just wait for three measly days? Truly?   

The witch paused, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow. Logan refused to cower, even when the witch leaned his elbows on the desk, arms bracketing either side of him. He glared back despite the chills running down his spine, and the witch snorted.

“Big attitude for someone so small.” He muttered, but he looked tiredly amused rather than angry. “I can’t wait three days, actually, because this project is due in two.”  

Great. A procrastinating student was going to be the one to kill him, after trying to learn was what got him into this mess in the first place. He let his head thunk back down onto the desk, eyes stinging with frustrated tears.

“Tell me you at least know how to… how to harvest my wings.” Logan said, bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to keep speaking, his voice coming out sharp. “If I have to spend my last living moments watching an amateur mangle my body, I will be very unhappy.”  

“Hey, I’m no amateur. I wouldn’t have bought a whole goddamn fairy if I didn’t know how to...” He gestured vaguely. “You know.” 

“Reassuring.” Logan responded dryly, and the witch gave him a half-hearted glare before pulling out a few metallic square rocks. 

Weights, Logan realized as they were placed at the outer corners of his wings, pinning them down so that they couldn’t move. His wingspan was large enough that he couldn’t reach the weights with his hands, and his breathing began to speed up as he instinctively tried to pull his wings free, to no avail. After this, he wouldn’t ever move them again. He suddenly wished fervently that he’d gotten more than that brief heartbeat of freedom outside the jar, that he’d at least been able to fly more than a few inches, even if escape was futile. 

Movement above him caught his eye, and he realized that the witch was staring down at him with a strange expression, with a sharp metal tool in one hand. He stared at it for a moment, and then decided that he didn’t want to watch himself be taken apart, actually, and closed his eyes, swallowing heavily. 

Despite knowing logically that being captured meant he was going to die, being faced with his own imminent mortality still made some primal part of him feel panicked and fearful. Patton would be proud of him, admitting that he did feel things after all. 

Oh, stars, Patton. Logan had vanished without even telling him where he was going. The bubbly sprite would never even know what happened to him. He hoped desperately that Patton wouldn’t search for him, wouldn’t get himself in trouble because of Logan’s own foolishness. The pressure behind his eyes finally broke, chest shuddering with barely restrained sobs as his cheeks went wet with tears. And why shouldn’t he cry? What was the point of pride when he’d never get to see the stars or his home or Patton ever again? 

“Oh man.” There was a long groan from above him. “Ugh, I can’t do this.” 

Logan blinked his eyes open in surprise, squinting through the blurriness of his tears at the human. “What?” He said, voice thick. 

Surprisingly, the witch was not hovering over him menacingly with the tool as he’d imagined. Instead, he was slumped back against his chair, rubbing at his eyes and smearing his eyeliner even further. “I’m gonna fail so hard. What kind of witch can’t even kill a fairy?” 

“Are you- what?” Logan repeated, still trying to catch up to the implications of his words. The witch sighed, and then leaned down, smudging a thumb over the ink of the sigil and breaking its circle. The shackle dissipated into dark smoke, and Logan stared up at him. 

“Are you… not going to kill me?” He asked, voice tinged with disbelief. The witch cringed. 

“Nope. I’ve decided fuck this actually, ‘this’ being my life.” He raised a hand and Logan flinched back, anticipating being crushed, but all the witch did was carefully pluck the weights off of his wings. 

Before he could change his mind, Logan scrambled to his feet, wings aflutter. The witch ignored him for the most part as he took to the air, turning to his desk and clearing it off, occasionally glancing at Logan as though worried the fairy was going to dive-bomb him. It didn’t seem like the witch wanted to re-capture him at all. Logan hovered lower cautiously.

“You needed to do this for your project. What… changed your mind?” He asked. Clearly, he hadn’t learned his lesson about curiosity, but this human was a strange one.

The witch huffed. “What changed my mind is that according to textbooks, fairies are insectoids with no true sentience, only able to mimic human emotions.” He looked sardonically at Logan. “Does that seem true to you?” 

“Ah.” Logan said, getting it. “So, because you believe me to be sentient, you’re… letting me go?” 

“Yeah, that’s the long and short of it. I know what real terror looks like, and you weren’t ‘mimicking’ anything. I’m not going to kill a person, no matter how shitty a witch that makes me.” He finished, wiping some dust from his desk before walking to the window and pulling the drapes open. 

The warm light of a setting sun poured into the room, and Logan watched as the witch unlatched and then opened his window. “There you go.” He said, and stepped back.

Logan landed on the windowsill, staring at the unfamiliar silhouettes of the buildings around him. He spread his wings out fully and focused on home, on the tug of magic in his core that would guide him back.   

Nothing. 

He tried again, feeling tears of frustration threatening at the corner of his eyes when his magic remained frustratingly non-responsive. 

“Uh, you good?” The witch asked, making him jump in surprise. He had to stop letting his guard down around this stranger.

“No.” Logan responded shortly. “I cannot access my homing magic, and without it I fear I shall not be able to find my way back without being captured again or becoming terribly lost.” 

“You can’t access it, huh… Could I, uh… could you show me your wrists?” The witch asked, holding out a hand hesitantly. Logan tilted his head, wary. 

“How do I know you won’t simply trap me again?” 

The witch rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Okay, I’m not trying to be, like… a jerk. But if I wanted to hurt you or keep you trapped, I would have just done it back when I had you pinned to a table. There’s literally no reason for me to let you go only to con you back into containment.” 

“Hm. That is true.” Logan admitted, and flew up to the witch’s hand without fanfare, standing on the edge of his palm. The witch blinked, startled, and Logan presented a hand with an eyebrow raised impatiently. 

“Right.” The witch muttered, and leaned in close enough that Logan could have reached out to touch his face. He focused on not being nervous, though it was hard with those eyes locked so intently on him. They seemed to be almost glowing?

The witch retracted, nodding to himself. “Yeah, you’ve got sealing magic on you. It’s human magework, pretty subtle stuff.” 

“Can you remove it?” Logan asked immediately, and the witch snorted, jostling him slightly.

“I’m a student, a failing one at that.” The witch bit his lip as Logan’s expression fell. “But I can probably get my hands on some book about sealing magic.” 

Logan eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you?” 

“Because I want you out of my hair?” The human tried. 

“I am not in your hair.” Logan answered, unimpressed with the nonsensical response. The witch sighed. 

“How about a deal. You teach me about fairies and their real culture, not the garbage they put in the textbooks, and I’ll help you figure out the basics of human magecraft. Figuring out the sealing magic is out of my depth, though, so you’ll have to tackle that yourself.” 

Logan thought the terms through before answering, but there wasn’t much to think on. It was everything he could have wanted, though the human couldn’t have known it. He just had to be careful about what he revealed in case this witch truly was malicious. “Deal.” 

“Great.” The witch said, offering his other hand to Logan to shake. “I’m Virgil.” 

Logan clasped a hand on Virgil’s fingertip, shaking it once firmly. Virgil’s lip twitched at the movement.  

“Logan. When can we get started?” He asked, rising to hover in the air once more. 

Virgil’s lips twisted up into a half-smile, and he pulled a worn textbook from the shelf above his desk. “Why not now?”

Logan couldn’t help but return the sentiment, his glow already brightening at the sight of a new source of knowledge. 

Despite the rocky start, it seemed to be the beginning of a promising partnership.

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Five

There’s flour dusted all the way up to Diego’s elbows, splattered across the front of his black shirt. There’s even hints of white against Klaus’ cheekbones and the soft fanned edges of his short hair. 

Tortillas were a mess even when you knew what you were doing. When you had a guy in there with you who was enthusiastic but not the most kitchen oriented, it made things kind of a disaster. A fun, flour dusted one but still a disaster. 

“We need the right-” Feel. But Diego can feel the word sticking in the back of his throat. So he does the only other thing he can think of. He grabs Klaus by the hand and jams his hand down into the dough they were working on. 

Tortillas were deceptively simple, especially flour ones. All you needed was flour, a little salt, a little water and some kind of fat. Diego had scoured recipes on the internet while he was waiting to hear back on his loan for this place, and he must have tried a dozen of them. Vegetable oil. Butter. But none of them came close to the way his mom used to make them. With lard. 

So Diego made them with lard. The trick with the lard though, was trying to figure out just when you had the right consistency to get the dough where you needed it to be, for the tortilla press. And even if Diego could have words falling off of his tongue without any chance of stuttering, he was still pretty sure he wouldn’t have the words for this. 

But his mom, she didn’t even follow a recipe. All the cooking she did, she did with her senses. She used to tell him that all you needed to cook were your eyes and your nose and your ears. That it didn’t even matter what the ingredients were, if you knew how to listen to your nose and your heart, that you could make anything. And make it good, too. 

“Feel?” It takes effort to get that one word out, with Klaus’ long, bony fingers beneath his hand. Diego has to press his tongue against the roof of his mouth and work it out slow, the same way he was going to do with the dough. 

She used to tell him that too. That words could be just like food, if he thought about them hard enough. That sometimes, the special ones, they took care and time and work, just the way that good food did. 

Diego missed her like a fucking limb sometimes. But she was happy up in Maine, and despite the fact that he did not get it at all, she was happy as hell with her new husband. So Diego wasn’t going to cause her any trouble. Any more than he already had, at least. 

Klaus nods, and Diego can feel the thin press of his back against his own chest when he breathes outwards. It’s only then that he realizes he’s bracketed Klaus in between both of his arms, the metal mixing bowl on the table in front of him. 

Deep breath. Picture the word in your mind. Diego closes his eyes, and it’s easier to keep talking that way. 

“We don’t want it to feel like sand. Or quicksand. It needs to be tighter than that. Where you squeeze it in your hand and it leaves all the indentions against it. Like the handle of a knife.” It’s the only way he can think to picture the consistency of the dough they need. 

“It’s still too dry.” Diego can feel the dough clumping in between their almost laced fingers. He reaches past Klaus with the hand not in the mixing bowl and splashes a little water from a measuring cup into the bowl again. 

The wooden spoon is picked up left handed, not because Diego is left handed but because he don’t want to let go of where he’s got hold of Klaus’ hand. So he stirs it, slow and clumsy until the dough starts to come together. “Try again.”

This time, it’s Klaus who catches a handful of dough and gives it a squeeze. He opens his hand, palm up and in between them, a clump of white dough sitting right across his life line. (The only reason Diego knew anything about that kind of shit was because Klaus had a palmistry poster up in his shop.)

And there it was. The perfect consistency written into the edges of the dough, like parts of Klaus’ personality or his destiny or something had been imparted into the very dough himself. “Now we got to roll it into a ball.” For that to happen, Diego needed to get the hell out of Klaus’ space. But his feet weren’t going anywhere. 

Klaus looks back over his shoulder at him, and Diego could swear that he could count every fleck in those pretty green eyes. Or maybe every line on his lips. Did people read lips the way they read palms? Would he be able to count every indent, every crack in Klaus’ pretty mouth and know his history?

Diego? He hears his name distantly, like it’s coming through the depths of water or a couple of closed doors. Diego has to swallow before he turns his eyes back to the dough in Klaus’ hand. Plucking it from where it rests, Diego rolls it deftly into a ball between his flour dusted palms. This part was easy, at least. 

“Now we gotta flatten it out.” And now Diego had no more excuse to stand so close. He drops his arms and steps away from Klaus’ back, feeling the cool(er, it was still hot as hell in this tiny shop) air hit his chest in the place that Klaus just vacated. “You can do it by hand, but that shit takes too long.”

Diego points to the ancient, slightly rusted tortilla press that took of place of pride on the prep counter. It was his mom’s, sent on her insistence when he called to tell her that he got the loan for the place. 

She kept telling him that he could ask her new husband for the cash to start the place up. Apparently he was flush with it. But the last thing Diego wanted was to owe anybody money, least of all his brand new stepdad. So he sucked it up and went to the bank. And tried to tell himself that he wasn’t carrying the old man around in the back of his head like a safety net in case his shitty credit wasn’t enough to get him through. 

“We use the wax paper to keep it from sticking. It’s a pain in the ass when it sticks.” Diego points to two circles of wax paper, freshly cut from the industrial sized box of wax paper sitting on a shelf overhead. With the first circle down on the bottom of the tortilla press, the slapped the dough ball down on it, and then more carefully placed the second circle of wax paper on top. 

“You do the honors.” This was always his favorite part when he was a kid, and there’s something fucking dumb about how it makes his heart race to share this with Klaus. But Klaus wasn’t looking at him like he was dumb. Klaus was watching him with bright glass eyes and pink flushed wide across his cheeks. He was fucking beautiful. 

Klaus curls a hand against the lever, and with a sweet hesitance, he pulls the lever down, pressing the two metal plates together. Between them, the sheets of wax paper held everything together as the dough was pressed into an even, neat disc. 

“Nice. Good job.” Later, when it was all said and done, Diego would realize just how many words he got out without even thinking about stuttering. About just how fucking magic being in the kitchen with Klaus was. “Now we’re ready to cook.”

Almost. They were almost to the best part, and Diego could feel the anticipation starting to prickle at his scalp. Next to the flat top where he fried his meat and onions and peppers, there were two gas burners. This was where he blackened the chiles for his sauces, right on the flame. But for the moment, he had a big black cast iron skillet. 

Diego turns the flame down to low, watching the ring of blue cling close to the burner. “With cast iron, you gotta be patient. It takes a minute to come up to temp, but this shit runs hot. So you don’t want to rush it. Otherwise, you’re going to burn your stuff and you’ll have to start over.” It was better to do shit right the first time, then waste the time doing it over.

Another lesson from his mother, though her version was a lot more PG. She was a classy lady like that. Diego had never even heard her say a word like ‘crap’, let alone a real curse word in either language they both spoke at home.

Holding a hand out over the surface of the pan, Diego feels the heat like pressure up against his palm. Yeah, it was ready to go. He turns to Klaus, and is pleased that he doesn’t have to say anything. Klaus waits for Diego to pull his hand away and then he puts his own right near the bottom of the pan. Klaus even pulls it away with a playful hiss, blowing on his palm.

“So with a tortilla, you cook them straight on a hot, dry pan. No oil, no butter, no nothing. Bring me the wax paper.” Like a good sous chef, Klaus hurries over to the tortilla press, springing the lever open so that he can get a hand above and below the sheets of wax paper, carrying them over to Diego still trapped between his palms.

Klaus hands over the two discs of paper gently but with a flourish, like he was on the Price is Right or something, and Diego peels the top off, dropping that side down onto the pan with a sizzle. Once it’s settled, he peels the other piece of wax paper away. He drops them back on the counter to be used again. No reason to let that shit go to waste. 

“We’re looking for bubbles. That’s how we know to flip.” Sure enough, within a few seconds, Diego is able to point at where a bubble has swollen up on the surface of the tortilla. Klaus nods, hands carefully out of the way of the stove, though he was still leaning in close to get a better look at the action. Diego grabs a wooden spatula, flipping it over onto the other side. The fresh side of the tortilla hisses and sizzles when it makes contact with the hot pan. “Same on the other side. But we’re listening here. Smelling, too. You’ll know when it’s done. Watch.”

Diego waits out the tortilla, until he can smell the first singe of heat against the dough. He taps his nose, and Klaus lights up, delighted. I smell it! He’s so damn handsome that Diego thinks he might be dizzy because of it. Or maybe that was the heat of a kitchen used all day, and the leftover heat of the summer sun baked into the bricks of the building. Either one.

The tortilla is slid from the pan onto a waiting plate, a real one, actually from Diego’s apartment and not the paper shit he serves customers on. It was as fancy as he got. A pat of butter is smoothed across the freckled surface of the fluffy tortilla, leaving a golden sheen that he sprinkles with just a little salt. 

Diego hands the plate over to Klaus, his heart sitting high and fast in his chest like a hummingbird. He’s never cared so much about what somebody thought in his whole damn life. But now he needs to know.

“How is it?”

[atplblog]

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[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Photographs (August 2168)

.....

Characters: Balthazar Cavendish, Vinnie Dakota, Savannah (mentioned)

Rating: G

Words: 2302

Genre: Friendship

Summary: On their first day (officially) working together, Cavendish starts to realize there’s more to Dakota than meets the eye...

.....

Balthazar Cavendish had only met Vinnie Dakota twice so far: first when he rudely barged into his student time vehicle and then the next day when fate twisted again and assigned them as partners.

It had been a week since that whole incident and today they were to receive their first (official) assignment. Vinnie suggested they carpool and drive over to the Bureau together; still nursing the bruises from the last time he was relegated to the passenger seat, Balthazar insisted he would drive.

Vinnie lived clear on the other side of the city—a 20 minute drive from Balthazar’s apartment near the east hills (well, 20 minutes by airway, but closer to 30 if traffic forced him to travel by road, as it did today). Although the prospect of a lengthy commute annoyed him, he supposed the distance could be a good thing as it lessened the likelihood of them running into each other outside of work.

As he drove, he found his spirits caught in a strange mix of both burning optimism and ice-cold dread. While he couldn’t deny that saving the day and working with a partner had been extremely exciting, that element of unpredictability still bothered him.

He didn’t like things he couldn’t control; he never had. The high regard he held for order and precision had enabled him to play piano with astounding technical accuracy and to learn and practise law with a keen certainty. When he had first shifted his attention to studying time travel, he was sure his eye for detail and reverence for rules would make him a fine agent; now, in light of recent events, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would be enough...

He reached the address Vinnie had described over the phone and decided it would be best to pack his niggling doubts away in a proverbial box and leave it on a very high shelf for the time being.

He parked on the street, got out the car, straightened his attire, and paused for a moment to take in the scene. This part of town was built well over a century ago and the majority of its inhabitants occupied that odd but plentiful bracket of the lower end of middle class. Vinnie’s apartment building stood in a row of similar, blockish structures, all of which boasted bare bricks and wrought iron fire escapes and stood somewhere between eight and twelve storeys high. Altogether, it seemed a pleasant neighbourhood but Balthazar thought it better suited to struggling artists or the blue-collar crowd rather than a Time Agent.

He found and rang the bell for the apartment listed under Vinnie Dakota. Enough time passed that he considered ringing again when the intercom crackled on and a tired voice greeted him.

“What’s up, chicken butt?”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Oh, hey!” Vinnie exclaimed. “Mr Banana! How ya doin’?”

“It’s Cavendish,” Balthazar corrected, icily.

“Oh, right. Cavendish, banana—eh, that’s just how my mind works. Sorry. Hang on, I’ll buzz you in.”

“I can just wait out h—” he began but the intercom clicked off and the door unlocked before he could finish. With a resigned sigh, he entered the building.

He took the elevator to the seventh floor, then it was “just down the hall, take the first left, and it’s the third door to your right. Ya can’t miss it.” Well, Vinnie had been right about that: it was the only door covered in stickers.

“My friend went to Hawaii and all he got me was this lousy sticker,” lamented a disproportionate pineapple wearing sunglasses and surfing a wave. Another portrayed the Eiffel Tower with a moustache and a beret bidding “Bon voyage!” A variety of stickers brought greetings from Italy, Tokyo, Cape Town, Sydney, and other capital cities around the world (most with their old names no one used anymore, Balthazar noted). Dotted about the place were depictions of random objects like a ukulele and some kind of car, some were types of food like pizza and kebabs, but he couldn’t miss the fact that most were cartoonish caricatures of extinct creatures he had only seen pictures of in textbooks.

Distracted by the odd collage, Balthazar jumped back when the door opened without warning.

“C’mon in, Stretch,” Vinnie beckoned, bringing his hand up to just barely cover a loud yawn as he stepped aside to allow his guest in. “Make yourself at home; I’ll be with you as soon as I find my jacket.”

Balthazar glanced over his new partner’s attire and pointedly cleared his throat.

Vinnie closed the door behind them and turned around, frowning in confusion when he caught sight of the other man’s disapproving expression. He looked down and only then seemed to register that he was only wearing a faded T-shirt and boxers. “Oh. And my pants. Probably need those, too.”

Balthazar crossed his arms. “You should be dressed by now. This is highly unprofessional.”

“Hey! I am dressed!” Vinnie protested. “Just not for work. And, in the future, if you’re gonna get all high and mighty, the least you could do is warn a guy when you’re gonna be a whole hour early!”

“I am not—!” Balthazar began but cut himself off when he caught sight of an analog clock on a bookshelf. In preparing to travel to the past, he had had to learn to read those: both hands pointing down meant 6:30.

He consulted his own watch and his face went red. “Oh, blast it!” he muttered, hotly, as he started fiddling with the settings. “I forgot I had this infernal contraption set an hour ahead!”

“What? You on daylight savings time or something?”

“Pardon?”

“Daylight sa—never mind. It was a thing over a century ago.”

“I set it an hour ahead last week because of my driving test,” Balthazar explained, trying not to sound too sheepish.

Vinnie raised an eyebrow, his expression suddenly turning as serious as it had been when he saw those kids in danger. “Are you that bad at keeping time?”

He quickly shook his head. “Hardly ever; I just really didn’t want to chance being even the slightest bit late for my final exam.”

“You know there’s such a thing as too early, right?”

“I don’t believe so; no.”

There was a moment wherein he thought Vinnie was going to argue the point, but he just shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “Like I said: make yourself at home, I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said and peeled away.

Balthazar intended to remain in the one spot; he had finished resetting his watch but still felt like a complete idiot and didn’t want to risk any further gaffes. But his curiosity got the better of him and he soon found himself wandering (well, he did have permission...)

He had to admit he held a few preconceived ideas of what the home of Vinnie Dakota might look like. He’d only met the man briefly, but he seemed rather committed to his reckless, blasé attitude and he could only imagine such a person living in a slovenly, malodorous nest.

That was not the case.

The apartment was small and cramped and cluttered, but it wasn’t dirty. There was a strong, unusual smell hanging in the air; although Balthazar couldn’t identify it, it wasn’t all that unpleasant—actually, it reminded him of those old-fashioned restaurants he used to play piano in.

The bookshelf he noticed earlier caught his eye again; this time, he took note of the colourful array of books stacked and lined on the shelves as well as the diverse collection of trinkets, souvenirs, and gadgets. The objects were displayed with little rhyme or reason regarding their order: snow-globes of all kinds and shapes mingled amongst Chinese fans and Russian nesting dolls and defunct devices such as a camcorder, a dial telephone, and a zoetrope. Balthazar didn’t fail to notice that, although most of those things would be considered antiques, they were all in fairly new condition.

After a few minutes, he took a step back and his attention quickly shifted from the bookshelf to the hundreds of photographs in mismatched frames covering the walls, so much so that one could barely glimpse the bright yellow wallpaper beneath. The quality of the photographs varied from grainy, black and white to slightly washed-out, sepia tone to clear and vibrantly coloured.

Balthazar knew his new partner had been a Time Agent for a while already; it was the Bureau’s policy to pair new recruits with full-fledged agents. But knowing this man had already been on missions throughout time and actually seeing snapshots of that career were two very different things.

Quite a few of the photographs showcased places and buildings in different time periods, positioned side by side to highlight the changes through the years; a number featured archaic machines and devices, and more of those extinct creatures (except this time they were real, not just cartoonish representations); but, most notably, the majority of the photographs were candid shots of people.

After casually examining the photos for a few minutes, Balthazar began to register a few recurrent faces. The most notable subject was a young man with olive skin, dark hair, and a short but lean frame; always wearing tinted shades of some sort, always caught in the middle of a laugh or striking a silly pose—without the wild shock of curls, it took him quite a while to identify him as a younger Vinnie. Often pictured alongside him either mirroring the silly pose or with his hand on his shoulder was a much taller, older man with dark blue hair and weathered skin; if it weren’t for the fact they lacked any physical similarity, Balthazar would’ve assumed the man was Vinnie’s father. Wherever the older man was absent, a young woman with a dark, flawless complexion and glossy, violet hair took his place—there were hardly any instances of her smiling and she didn’t seem to care for Vinnie’s antics at all but she must not have completely disliked him as there was one photo of her curled up and asleep in the backseat of a Time Vehicle with her head resting on his shoulder.

There was only one photograph with all three of them. It seemed to be after a mission of some sort. They all looked dog-tired, covered in bruises and dirt, but they still managed smiles for the camera, holding their heads up even as they leaned on each other for support. The muted colouring of the photograph suggested it had been taken somewhere around the mid-1900’s but Balthazar hadn’t honed his skills enough to pinpoint precisely when. Most of interest was a small note accompanying the photograph in the frame; it was just a scrap of paper, presumably torn from a cheap notebook and not at all remarkable save for the short message scrawled on it:

To Vinnie and Silvia,

Count every moment and make every moment count,

Emit Relevart

The Hot War Mission (1964 / 2164)

“‘Hot War’?” Balthazar read aloud, his face crumpling in confusion. “What the deuce is—?”

“It’s everything the Cold War wasn’t.”

Balthazar gasped and jumped backwards, a hand flying up to clutch his chest. “Kidney pie and chips!” he exclaimed. “Don’t do that!”

A now more appropriately dressed Vinnie gave him a sideways glance. “Well, that’s one way to keep it PG,” he remarked with an utterly infuriating bemused smirk. He let out a soft huff of a laugh and gave a small shake of his head as he returned his gaze to the photograph.

Balthazar opened his mouth, ready to say quite a few things—such as “What does ‘PG’ mean?” and “Don’t sneak up on people!”—but the words stopped in his throat.

Something flashed across Vinnie’s expression, something even the bulky sunglasses with their vibrant tint couldn’t hide; it was only there for the briefest of moments but Balthazar didn’t miss it. He’d seen it before, on the faces of complete strangers who gathered whenever he played an old, slow melody on the piano in the middle of the city square.

He turned his attention back to the picture one last time. He couldn’t quite determine if it was the people or the referenced occasion, but he got the sense this was an important piece of Vinnie. He made it a point to commit the little message to memory—what it would accomplish, well, he wasn’t so sure in that regard, but it felt too significant to miss.

Vinnie cleared his throat; the sound was abrupt but Balthazar was aware of his surroundings enough this time around not to jump again. “So,” he said, his smile and easy demeanour returning in a flash, “seeing as we have a whole hour to kill, how’s about we get some breakfast?”

Balthazar crossed his arms and put on a glare that was only half-strength. “I hope you’re not planning to kidnap me and drag me to the early 2000’s just for omelettes.”

He seemed to consider that for a second before shaking his head. “I can’t think of any good places for omelettes... not in the 2000’s, anyway. Nah, I was just gonna make something.” He whirled around and headed for the kitchen. “You like pancakes?”

“You actually know how to cook?”

Vinnie shrugged. “Eh, I picked up a few things here and there. It comes in handy when you travel to time periods that don’t have auto-preppers.”

“And yet you still felt it necessary to hijack my Time Vehicle and travel back over a century just to get lunch?” Balthazar raised an eyebrow.

Vinnie shot his new partner a lopsided smirk. “You’re not gonna let that one go, are you, Stretch?”

[andrewpcannon]

20 Inch Red Oak Rack With Brackets for Floating Shelf (custom racks and brackets available)

This 20x5x7 red oak rack features end brackets for a floating shelf, 2 black iron pipe pegs, and pre-drilled holes for hanging hidden behind the black iron flanges. This rack supports at least 100 pounds if installed on studs, and will support a shelf up to 30×8-inches. Add a red oak shelf using this listing, or contact me directly to have a shelf made using any of my available patterns or a…

[thegremlinofransei]

Welcome to the Family | Ch. 4

Resident Evil 7 AU

Fandom: Split, Glass

Rating: M (strong language, intense violence)

Word Count: ~2.6K

Summary: Kevin has betrayed Casey in this growing house of horrors. Little does she realize that the worst is yet to come.

————–

Sloshing puddles and creaky iron gates. A series of sharp pains in her wrist, followed by a mellow female voice whispering, “You’re not dying on me now.” Casey wasn’t sure which parts were delirious dreams and which were her consciousness fading in for a few seconds.

When Casey finally came to, she heard the clinking of silverware and the messy noises of chewing. Her back was stiff against the hard chair behind her, and her head pounded thanks to a putrid smell emanating from in front of her. As her vision came around, she slowly lifted her head.

Casey was sitting at a family dinner, one that could hardly be called normal. Across the long table from her was the man that rammed her head into the wall, the fluorescent lights from the dank kitchen behind him glinting off his bald head and the candlelight from a few scattered fixtures on the table producing an ominous gleam on his glasses. To his left sat a haggard woman with stringy black hair and a gaunt jawline, and to his right, a young man with a greasy brown quiff and some emerging stubble. Finally, just to Casey’s left was a shriveled old man in a rusty wheelchair, whom she only realized was alive as she watched a slight rise and fall of his chest.

When she was fully awake, Casey looked to the center of the table and had to hold back a heave as she realized what the source of the horrendous smell was. The centerpiece of the dining table was a serving platter piled high with…Oh my God, are those intestines?!

Casey gagged at the horrific realization and took the opportunity to choke out, “What is this place?”

The decrepit woman gave a sinister chuckle as she met Casey’s rising gaze and, through a garish grin and in a calm Cajun accent, cut her off with, “It’s time for supper, sleepyhead.”

Casey shrunk back, flinching as the young man opposite this woman threw small bits of food at her. As her jaw trembled, she began to inquire, “Who…who are you people? Where’s Kev-”

She was interrupted by the woman slamming her fist on the table. After staring deep into Casey’s eyes for a few seconds, she lifted her fork and took a bite of the ghastly meal. “Eat it,” she taunted. “It’s good.”

The younger man jolted up from his seat with his plate in his hand and hollered, in the thickest Southern accent Casey had ever heard, “Stupid bitch wouldn’t know good if it hit her!”

With that, the disgusting plate crashed into her face, and the woman shrieked, “Luke! What the hell is wrong with you?” This was followed by the man directly opposite of Casey grabbing Luke’s hand in his left and a steak knife in his right, sawing off the young man’s hand in a few brisk strokes, and Luke half-heartedly protesting without showing any signs of pain.

As Luke cradled the bloody stub, Casey’s captor stood up and muttered, “Out of my way, Patricia.” Patricia obeyed and scooted her chair further into the table, and the man stomped around the table to where Casey sat, leaning down to gaze into her terrified brown eyes. In a failed attempt at a light tone, he announced, “This girl’s got to eat! She’s gotta have her supper…”

He lifted a spoon piled with innards in his right hand and forcibly held her mouth open with his left. “Come here, kiddo,” he grunted, “let’s do this, come on…”

Casey had already started to choke as the spoon neared her unwilling maw, and the minute the unsavory food entered her mouth, she spit it back out in a coughing fit. This sent Patricia into a hysterical fit, pointing at her and screaming, “Oh shit! She’s not eating it, Dennis! She’s not eating it!”

Dennis whipped around as Casey continued to expel the food from her throat, gruffly yelling, “Shut the hell up, Patricia!” Patricia screamed back to him, “I spent so long making that for her!” and was cut off by Dennis kicking a chair at her and commanding, “Get the hell out of here!”

Patricia stormed out of the dining room to a pair of doors by Luke’s side of the table, but not before glowering into Casey’s eyes and screaming, “You’re an ungrateful little shit!”

Dennis turned back to Casey and picked up what looked like a gallbladder from her plate, holding it in front of her eyes as she tried not to vomit at the horrendous smell. “This,” he started in an ominously calm tone, “was supposed to be a very SPECIAL feast!”

He lifted a knife from the table and moved it closer to Casey’s face, pointed directly at the bridge of her nose. Luke watched in deranged excitement, and the old man, presumably the grandfather in this fucked-up family, remained useless as before.

Brrrrrrring!

The knife point was barely a finger’s width away from piercing Casey’s skin when the broken doorbell rang. Dennis and Luke looked at each other before the assumed son bared his teeth, stood up to leave, and muttered, “I’ll bet it’s that cop again.”

Dennis slowly straightened his posture and tossed the knife back onto the table. Looking down at his yellow shirt, he grimaced at the blood staining his sleeve from the removal of Luke’s hand and grabbed a napkin. With a final look back at Casey, he threatened, “I’m coming back for you,” and stormed out.

Casey made a visual sweep of the room, ensuring that her only companion was the man on death’s doorstep to her left. The scent of the meal still burned at the back of her throat, exacerbating her fearful stupor. She went to bring her left hand up to brush away a snarled hair from her eyes, but it was cuffed to the arm of the chair by a small bracket.

Wait…left hand?

She confusedly looked down at her returned appendage. A smartwatch was wrapped around her wrist, but she could see the hasty and slightly festering stitches under the band. She attempted to move her joints, and, despite the shooting pain throughout her hand, she could somewhat grasp the edge of the chair’s arm with straight fingers.

So I didn’t imagine that part, Casey deduced, recalling her trance from earlier. But…who did this? How…

The odor in front of her face snapped her back to the task at hand, which was escape. She began to rock the chair back and forth, and in a few difficult tilts, she fell onto her side. This sent a shock wave of pain through her freshly reattached hand, but it jarred the bracket just enough to snap it loose, and she fell out onto the floor.

Casey rolled over onto her front and pushed herself up with her right hand, trying her best not to agitate the patchwork on her left. Finally on her feet again, she edged around the table, keeping an eye on the elderly man before turning to the large entryway opposite the door that Patricia had exited through. It led into a small living room, lit up by a bent light fixture and littered with papers strewn about the floor. A stack of newspapers sat on a coffee table in the center of the room, the top dated back only two weeks.

Three Missing During Local Urbex Trip

Identification pictures of Joseph, Jai, and a guy she assumed to be the cameraman Fletcher were plastered on the front page. After stepping away, she began to search the room. One drawer on the opposite wall housed a magazine of bullets, and Casey sighed in frustration. Dennis had taken everything she had picked up in the…other house? Are we in the same house as before? I don’t remember any doors that this room could have been through…Are we in the main house? She tried to make sense of the situation, but she also accurately guessed that she was going to have to navigate out of here like a rat in a maze.

Casey took the magazine anyway and shoved it in her waistband, hoping for the chance to find a gun soon. Cautiously stepping back into the dining room, she looked around at the various notes pinned on the wall surrounding the arches that looked into the kitchen. One was a hardware receipt listing a saw, ropes, and thirty pet collars. Another was a recipe, listing instructions on how to prepare a muscular female in her fifties. This led her into the kitchen, where several similar recipes were stuck on the fridge with magnets. Reluctantly, she pulled the door open.

Her mouth gaped open, but she clapped a hand over it to prevent the disgusted whimper from escaping. A plate of entrails similar to the one disgracing the table sat on the top shelf, and a bound pair of legs rested below it. Despite having been through worse a mere few hours ago, the blunt force trauma had resensitized her to each new shock, and she wished to go back to not feeling a damn thing.

There was a door at the end of the kitchen, and Casey slowly pushed the door open, only to find another room with garbage strewn all over. In its back corner, though, a hatch caught her eye. Lantern light filtered through the worn boards and barbed wire, but when she pulled, it was locked. Yet another locked door, she internally grumbled. I guess they don’t want their food to escape.

Casey turned back to the room and began to poke through the litter on the floor. Mostly papers, except for a small black boot wedged between a plywood pallet and the wall. Noticing something on it, she pulled it out and examined the heel, where one name was written.

Hedwig

That’s odd, she thought. There weren’t any little kids at the table, and I doubt this belongs to ol’ grandpa out there…

Casey let it fall to the ground and gingerly trekked back to the dining room, inexplicably unsettled by how Grandpa’s gaze followed her through the arches over the counter. She pushed open the double doors behind his wheelchair and stepped out into the hallway. 

Across from her was a set of stairs with a scrap metal sign reading Garage. She crept over and down the flight, hoping to find something useful to get away. However, the door was shuttered and the control panel taped shut, putting that plan out of the question. She retraced her steps back to the hall.

To her right was a boarded and barbed window, so she turned left, going further down the hall. Before the turn to round the kitchen-and-closet wall, there was a heavy iron door off to the side. Casey tried it despite knowing it wouldn’t budge, then turned her attention back to the hallway.

Just in time for Dennis to storm out from around the distant corner, holding a metal snow shovel.

Casey turned around and ran as lightly as she could back to the previous hall, ducking behind the corner to watch his next move. He turned from the wall and began to swagger closer to her, and she resumed her graceful strides back to a new hideout behind one of the open double doors.

Stomp-clink! Stomp-clink! Stomp-clink! WHAM!

Dennis kicked open the next door from the hallway into the kitchen, and Casey knew she didn’t have a moment to lose. She jumped out of her hiding place, gently pushing the door shut behind her, and ran to the kitchen door. Once that was pulled closed, she began to sprint around the corner and down the hall. A small chest of drawers sat in the next corner, and resting on it was a small key. I hope this is for the hatch, she pleaded to whatever was out there putting her through this, tiptoeing back down the way she came.

“Where’d that little bitch get to?” she heard Dennis ask from behind the closed doors, edging along the wall to keep track of his pounding footsteps. He sighed, then continued, “You know what they say. Once a family, always a family.”

The kitchen door swung open, and Dennis stepped out, facing the opposite direction of Casey. She seized this chance to run to the double doors, threw one open, and stepped back into the dining room.

She made eye contact with Dennis, who had returned through his own door, in the process.

Casey bolted, hearing Dennis chastising her, “You thought you could just slip out before dinner was done?” as he charged toward her. As she sprinted up the hall to the kitchen door, she heard a great crash from the dining room, followed by Dennis’s complaints of how the room looked like an absolute fucking disaster.

After hurrying through the kitchen, she found herself in the closet again, slamming the door shut behind her and dragging a pallet in front of it. Casey knew it wouldn’t do anything, but at least she could get to the hatch. She readied the key and shoved it into the lock, just in time for the wooden door and pallet to crash into the room. In a swift series of events, she threw the hatch open, dove in, and fit the toe of her shoe into a small loop of barbed wire to pull it shut.

“Yeah, you have fun under there, girly,” Dennis spat at her from the room above. “I’m coming back for you later.”

The hatch had led into a long crawl space filled with a bunch of old junk and paced with mud and stone. Casey knew she was near the outside wall, based on the cold draft that blew in through cracks in the walls. She untangled her shoe and moved toward some boards, kicking and shoving at them until she accepted her defeat at trying to escape through here.

That was, until a bright light from up ahead caught her eye.

Casey ventured toward the lights, coming to a small metal ramp that ended at a hole in the floor above. She stood up and looked around, grateful to find the room empty, before climbing up.

It was a beat up laundry room, and two things grabbed Casey’s attention at once. A large, uncharacteristically clean hunting cooler sat in the corner with a bottle of antibiotic ointment on top. Meanwhile, another landline phone and a map, labelled Main House, sat on a counter in the center of the room. For a moment, she considered trying to call the police again, but remembered how that had turned out with the phone in the back house.

She finally came to the door. It was the same iron door that had goaded her in the hallway before, and she turned the lock to exit.

That damned electronic ringing echoed in the room behind her as she went to push the door open, and she turned. The light was flashing. Casey huffed, hoping it was someone from the outside but knowing it was this enigmatic Jade girl. Upon reaching the table, she retrieved the handset.

“You did good, Casey,” the mellow voice said somewhat cheerily.

“Jade, right? What the fuck are-”

“Shut up and listen if you want to stay alive. You gotta get outta that house. There might be a way out through the main hall.”

Casey sighed. “Alright.”

“Oh. And don’t lose that watch. It’s helping your hand heal itself. Don’t want you to get maimed or anything.”

Beeeeeeeeeeeep.

Casey replaced the handset and looked down at the smartwatch, realizing that it was much more elaborate than she had first noticed. Her pulse rate was being tracked, and a small needle held the monitor firmly at the top of her wrist.

“Hell-of-a-girl,” Casey muttered. With the bottle of ointment secured in her belt loop, she turned back to the iron door, ready to face whatever monsters came next.

———————

A/N: Jesus, maybe Patricia SHOULD stick to sandwiches…Anyway, I do promise that I will update at least every Saturday. School’s coming up so that’ll be fun, but I’ll do my best 👍 Be sure to like, comment, and reblog. Drop an ask if you wanna be on the tag list, babes! 😘

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