#charmingly antiquated

[publishinggoblin]

Publishing Goblin in Review

This year already we have a flurry of new projects that are in production, and available for pre-orders now!

Right now, you can pre-order the Normal Tarot's brand new 3rd edition! This full-color take by Ezra Kimbell is an all-new vision of @cryptotheism's original tarot deck, the Normal Tarot, which has seen gorgeous renditions by @worm-dark and @charminglyantiquated, which are also being reprinted here in the 2nd edition gold and silver foil decks, as well as the 1st edition deck! We are aiming to manufacture soon and ship by October!

Or you can slip into something spookier and pre-order the ghostly story-telling game, WHAT WE POSSESS! This card-run TTRPG is made for one-shots, and allows everyone to play as ghosts as a mystery unfolds at your table. Possess the living, use ghostly powers, and discover clues as you unwind this spectral tale. These are heading to manufacturing and should be shipping in July/August.

If ghosts are too spooky, maybe you need a punk punch to your gaming table! In that case, join the ZOETROPE Time Travel Agency in ZOETROPE: DEATH DIDN'T TAKE! This card-run TTRPG is likewise a one-shot machine made to take your group on time travel shenanigans as your agents screw up time and time again, resetting time to get the job done as necessary. These are shipping out at the same time as WHAT WE POSSESS in July/August, and you can even grab all the WHAT WE POSSESS items here on this campaign!

Or if you're a pin collector, now is the time for you to delve into the Alley for Alleyman's Tarot Pins! There are sets of 3 "tarot card" pins, as well as pins of the Alleyman and Alleyway Oracle themselves! Lots of goodies to grab, as well as pins from previous projects!

And stay tuned for the space to order the Alleyway Oracles, the followup project to the Alleyman's Tarot, as there are extras of all the decks and items to grab. You'll want to be watching www.alleymantarot.com for those, or check out the Alleyman's Tarot and Publishing Goblin's Oracle dice already up on that site!

[viscericorde]

new candle shop opened in my town in a renovated church and i can only describe the decor as like. the headquarters of a coven of vampiric necromancers who convene on the eve of the full moon. to make candles.

[rafecameronssl4t]

What is French for priceless? || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

GIF by @baocean

Summary: Canon fic based on s3 ep 1 :)

Warnings: swearing, rafe being a dick but what's new lol

Word count: 1,640

MASTERLIST

divider by @h-aewo

Watching from the balcony, you watch the sleek car come to a halt in the driveway, its polished exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun. Rafe had mentioned earlier in the week that he was expecting someone from overseas to look at the cross. "To make a deal," he had said, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

You turn on your heel, only to come face to face with Rafe. His tall, imposing figure blocks your path, his piercing blue eyes scanning your face. "You good?" he questions, his voice low and laced with concern. His eyes search yours as you stare at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. Your brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Fine," you reply in a monotone voice, unable to mask the skepticism you feel. The tension between you is palpable. You are wary of Rafe's dealings, especially the idea of bringing someone he barely knows to the house to inspect the cross.

Rafe's eyes narrow slightly as he gauges your reaction. "It's going to be okay," he says, attempting to reassure you. "These people are professionals. They know what they're doing." But his words do little to quell your unease.

You remember the stories you've heard about deals gone wrong, about the dangers of dealing with high-value artifacts in the market. Rafe, with his charismatic but unpredictable nature, often walks a fine line between legitimate business and dangerous ventures.

As you stand there, the man and woman approach the front door, their footsteps echoing on the stone pathway. You glance back at them, then return your gaze to Rafe, who is now watching you intently, as if waiting for you to voice your concerns. "I just hope you know what you're doing," you say softly, your voice tinged with worry. "This seems too risky, Rafe."

He places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Trust me," he says, a confident smile playing on his lips. "I've got this." You nod reluctantly, but the nagging doubt remains. As the front door opens to admit the visitors, you can't shake the feeling that this deal, like so many others before it, could lead to trouble.

~

"Again, thank you both for coming. I know it was a long way to travel. But I think what we have is..." Rafe trails off beside you, his voice filled with an enthusiasm that you find hard to match. You watch his profile as he glances at you, seeking your approval or at least some acknowledgment. "Is pretty worthwhile." He smiles charmingly, but you respond with a quiet sigh, unable to shake your apprehension.

"Yes, well, Michel is the most prominent antiquities dealer in the West Indies," the woman begins, her voice smooth and practiced. She is dressed in a sharp business suit, her demeanor exuding professionalism. You cut her off abruptly, your skepticism boiling over.

"How come I've never heard of him then?" you interrupt, your tone sharp. Rafe whips his head toward you, his eyes narrowing into a hard gaze. The tension between you is palpable, but you ignore him, focusing on the woman.

The woman pauses, looking between the two of you with a slight frown before Rafe intervenes. "I'm so sorry, my girlfriend is a bit tired. Still jet-lagged from our travels," he says, chuckling awkwardly. He places his hand on top of yours, a gesture meant to soothe, but it only makes you roll your eyes. The woman nods with understanding before continuing. "Unfortunately, he only speaks French."

"No English," Michel chuckles, a warm, almost apologetic smile on his face. He is a middle-aged man with round glasses and an air of authority. You turn your attention outside, feeling bored and restless.

"Yeah," Rafe chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. "What is French for priceless?" His attempt at humor falls flat as you turn your head back at his words, your expression unamused. You observe the three in front of you, feeling like an outsider in this high-stakes game.

When the cross is unveiled, Michel's reaction is immediate and visceral. His eyes widen, and his breath catches as he stares at the artifact, almost awestruck. You watch closely as he steps closer to the gold cross, his fingers twitching with the desire to touch it. His translator, looks on in amazement.

Michel says something in French, his voice filled with reverence. The translator turns to Rafe. "May he touch it?" she asks. Rafe smiles, clearly pleased with the reaction. "Knock yourself out, Michel." As Michel feels the intricate design under his fingertips, Rafe looks to you for some sort of approval. You only glare at him, still skeptical and unimpressed.

"He wants to know where you found it," the translator says. Rafe shrugs, shaking his head dismissively. "Don't worry about it. We got it. That's all he needs to know. It's here. It's for sale. So, who can we get to buy it?"

Michel takes off his glasses, his face serious as he speaks. The translator translates his words with care. "For a piece of this value, there are very limited buyers. An institution, a museum." Rafe nods along, understanding the implications, but he looks deflated.

"But, he has a client in Barbados who will be interested," the translator continues. You tilt your head at her words, alarm bells ringing in your mind. "Rafe," you say firmly, trying to get his attention. "This is already risky enough."

He, of course, ignores your protests, his focus entirely on Michel. The anticipation in the room is thick, almost suffocating. "This client will have lots of questions. He'll want to meet with you in person," the translator says. At these words, you can no longer contain your frustration.

You stand up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Jesus fucking Christ," you mutter under your breath, casting one last look at Rafe before storming out of the room.

~

"Y/n, I don't have time for this, okay?" Rafe says in a dismissive tone, his impatience evident. "I gotta get to Bridgetown, I'm taking the boat." From the first floor, you watch as he places a black duffle bag on the ground with a sense of urgency.

"Come on, Rafe. You don't even know this guy," you reason with him, your voice edged with concern. Rafe removes his sunglasses, glancing at Michel's business card with a nonchalant air. "You can't just go out and try to make a deal, Rafe. That's so risky!" Your eyebrows furrow in disbelief as he leans against the railing, looking down at you with a smirk.

"I can't?" he retorts in a mocking tone, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. "I know you think you know what you're doing," you call out as he walks back into your shared room, his presence filling the space with tension. "But there are people out there that know your dad is alive—no! Not just people, Pogues." You correct yourself, taking a sip of your drink, the frustration evident in your voice.

"Pogues, Pogues," Rafe mumbles dismissively as he packs a suitcase with determined efficiency. "Listen, they can't prove it, alright? They don't know where we are," he shrugs, walking back into the room again as you rub your forehead, already feeling a headache coming on.

"Your sister does!" you yell, the desperation in your voice growing. Rafe emerges from the room, his expression hardening. "Oh, Sarah does!" he calls out, a hint of mockery in his tone. "Listen, Sarah's not going to do anything, baby. She's too afraid, and if the Pogues show up, I'm just gonna handle it," he says in a calm tone, but his words do little to reassure you. You narrow your eyes at him, the anger bubbling up inside you.

"Oh, you'll handle it?" you retort, crossing your arms defiantly. "When have you ever handled anything for us, for your family? Huh?" Your voice grows louder with frustration. "Rafe, everything you touch turns to—"

Your words are cut off by the sudden sound of Rafe's hand slapping the wooden railing. "Hey! Hey!" he shouts, his eyes flashing with anger. You stare at him, shock evident on your face, as he takes a moment to calm himself down.

"Listen," he says, his voice now calmer but still laced with intensity, "I'm gonna sell the cross that I found, okay? That I saved, and when Dad wakes up—" You roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief as you take another sip of your drink. "-okay," you mutter quietly, barely listening.

"—he's gonna see that I took care of it. Not my fucking girlfriend," he says in a belittling tone, his words cutting deep. You scoff, maintaining a calm composure despite the sting of his words. "Sure, Rafe. Sure."

"So, why don't you go have yourself another Tom Collins?" he shrugs, pushing himself off the railing with an air of finality. "While I go make us all a shit ton of money, okay?" He speaks slowly, his words dripping with condescension.

Your grip tightens on your glass, the frustration boiling over. Without thinking, you hurl the glass toward him, but it hits just below where he was standing, shattering on the wall. Rafe looks down at the broken glass, a smug smile on his face. "You missed."

Your breath quickens, each exhale laden with a mix of anger and hurt. “Get. Fucked. Rafe,” you seethe through gritted teeth, your voice a dangerous whisper. Without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel and stride away, leaving him standing there with that infuriatingly smug expression. “Love you too, babe!” he calls out sarcastically, his voice dripping with mockery.

[obsidian-pages777]

Pick a card: Your Future Aesthetic.Pick an Image

Left to Right Top Row-> Pile 1, Pile 2. Left Bottom Row -> Pile 3 [Pick one of the three]

Reading 1: The Ethereal Dreamer

Card Drawn: The Star

Your future self will be deeply enchanted by an ethereal, dreamy aesthetic. Imagine a world filled with soft, flowing fabrics in pastel hues like lavender, blush pink, and sky blue. Your spaces will be adorned with fairy lights, delicate crystals, and celestial motifs such as stars and moons. This aesthetic is all about creating a serene, magical atmosphere that feels almost otherworldly.

Your fashion choices will lean towards flowing, bohemian dresses, sheer materials, and intricate lace details.Mostly pastel themes. Being attracted to light colors.Butterfly motifs are prominent. You might carry a free flowing nature to your personality representing your aspirations towards expansion of peace.

Home decor will feature airy, light-filled spaces with plenty of natural elements like feathers, geodes, and plants.

Your future self will seek to create a sanctuary that feels like a serene escape from reality, full of whimsical fairie-esque and gentle beauty.

================================================================================================

Reading 2: The Bold Visionary

Card Drawn: The Emperor

Your future self will gravitate towards a bold, visionary aesthetic that exudes confidence and sophistication. This look is defined by strong lines, rich colors like deep navy, burgundy, and emerald, and luxurious materials such as velvet, leather, and silk.

Your fashion will include tailored suits, statement pieces with geometric patterns, and accessories that make a statement.

Home decor will feature modern furniture with clean lines, metallic accents, and striking art pieces. Your spaces will be meticulously organized and designed to project power and elegance.

The aesthetic you will love is one that commands attention and reflects a sense of authority and ambition, perfectly suited for a leader who is unafraid to stand out and make bold moves.

================================================================================================

Reading 3: The Vintage Romantic

Card Drawn: The Lovers

Your future self will find joy in a vintage, romantic aesthetic that celebrates nostalgia and timeless beauty.

Picture a world filled with delicate floral patterns, antique furniture, and soft, muted tones like rose, cream, and sage green. Your fashion will be inspired by eras past, with a love for lace, vintage dresses, pearl accessories, and retro hairstyles.

Home decor will feature shabby chic elements, ornate picture frames, and cozy, intimate settings with lots of personal touches like family heirlooms and handmade crafts.

This aesthetic is all about creating a warm, inviting atmosphere that feels both elegant and charmingly old-fashioned. Your future self will delight in the romance and history embedded in this timeless style.

================================================================================================

[deanwritings]

The Guest House - Chapter 1

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Series Summary: Dean Winchester is going through a nasty divorce. He doesn't have much left to his name, but what he does have is his house. Leave it to his soon-to-be ex wife to find a way to even ruin that for him. Enter Y/N, who is looking to get away from life for a bit, and stumbles right into the middle of it all.

The Guest House Master List

Word Count: 3,375

Your fingers drum along the steering wheel as you navigate the winding backroads, nothing but bare trees and a littering of snow to keep your mind occupied as you hum along to the radio station. 

You had exited the highway almost an hour ago, and the longer you drove, the less cars you passed and the more trees appeared. 

A part of you was worried you were making a mistake; what if this town ended up being too small? Or what if your rental was a total sham and you got scammed? You could always dispute the charge with the bank, but the embarrassment of being conned and having to admit that to your family would be the worst part. An “I told you so” would definitely be waiting for you from your mother. 

But your GPS showed another thirty-five minutes before your arrival, so you figured you might as well check it, hoping to be pleasantly surprised. 

This was definitely out of your comfort zone, but you deserved this. A month of no work or responsibilities. Just taking each day as it came and answering to no one but yourself.

This is going to be good for me. You keep reminding yourself.  

About twenty minutes later, a few buildings appear in between the trees; houses and some small, specialty shops like a hardware store and a car repair shop. As you drive further in, brick buildings, all connected to each other line your path. You slow down as you begin taking in the shops and restaurants, noticing an antique store and Irish pub first, as well as some art galleries and thrift stores. The town is certainly picturesque, with a charmingly old downtown, the stone sidewalks dotted with trees that are surely full and vibrant in the warmer months, but their bare branches still clinging to string lights from the holidays. 

You smile, this was exactly what you were hoping for. Maybe this was going to work out after all. 

True to the posting, your GPS announces your arrival about ten minutes later. The driveway is long and unpaved, and your eyes widen as the log cabin that sits proudly to your left comes into view behind the trees. Large, dark logs, perfectly sat on top of one another, leading up to a green, gable roof and thick stone chimney. A large porch adorns the front facade, and you see two empty rocking chairs swaying in the winter wind. 

Continue past the main house for another 15 seconds or so, and the guest house is located towards the back of the property. Lisa had messaged you instructions after your booking was confirmed. 

As you keep driving, more trees appear, the back of the property not as cleared out as the front. But through the lifeless trees you spot your home for the next month, exactly how it appeared in the posting; gray, wooden siding with two porches; one off the front and another off the bedroom. The same gabled roof graces this home, though shaded red. A small, tin chimney sits perfectly atop, completing the picture you saw online. 

Turns out, you didn’t get scammed at all. Maybe it was your Aunt Rose, or a guardian angel, but someone was clearly looking out for you and made sure you were getting exactly what you deserved. 

You park on the side of the house, per Lisa’s instructions, and gather up all your bags, not wanting to make more than one trip. You struggle with your suitcase against the gravel, but thankfully it doesn’t take you long before you arrive at the front, all-glass door, allowing you a sneak peek before you even step foot inside. 

Key is under the flower pot to the left of the door. And you smile when you find it exactly where it’s meant to be. 

You unlock the door and push it open, and despite the purse and backpack you're carrying, your shoulders immediately slump and you take in an easy, deep breath of relief. The house is immaculate; bright, pine plank floors, plaid, comfortable looking couches facing the tv and wood-burning stove. The living room continues into the kitchen, the whole floor plan wide and open. The cabinets match the floors, and the countertops are a forest green granite. The appliances are a bit outdated; the older, white stove and microwave combo that looks very similar to the one you had in college, but that doesn’t bother you. You can see straight back to the only bedroom, the open door and revealing a sliver of the bed for your next month. The house is adorned with floor to ceiling windows, making the atmosphere feel light, even in the dark, winter twilight.  

You drag your stuff back to the bedroom, heaving your extra large suitcase up the four steps that lead to the space.

The bedroom is simple; a queen bed with cream comforter, curtains that match the bedding, and two pine nightstands, each with a glass-bottomed lamp. 

You drop your suitcase onto the floor and carefully place your purse and backpack on the small ottoman in the corner of the room. 

As you turn in the space, you spy the hot tub on the back patio, string lights strung above, and you smile. 

After three and half hours in the car, you knew exactly how you were going to start your trip.

The clock on the radio dash illuminates 6:27 as Dean throws his car in park and cuts the engine, exhaustion radiating through his shoulders and down his back as he steps out, the gravel crunching beneath his work boots. He’s looking forward to reheating leftovers, pouring himself a beer, and hitting his bed early tonight. 

The shop had been overrun today, and with Benny out sick and Adam on vacation, Dean found himself without a single break since he started at 7:30 this morning. He usually tried to be home around 5, but by the time he finished the last car, cleaned up and closed up shop, it was well past 6. 

As he takes a few steps across the unpaved driveway towards the front steps of his house, he perks up, his ears catching a sound. He stops, narrowing his eyes as he realizes it’s music. He can’t quite make out the lyrics or the beat, but it’s definitely music. And as he focuses closer, he realizes it’s coming from the guest house. The empty guest house. 

With careful steps, Dean hurries to the garage, unlocking the side door instead of using his automatic opener which would make enough noise to alert whoever wasn’t supposed to be here. Dean makes quick work of opening the locker along the wall and typing in the code to his safe, revealing his pistol, the marble-handled one his father got him when he turned eighteen. He checks to make sure the magazine is loaded and clicks off the safety, not wanting to be caught off guard by whoever was where no one was supposed to be. 

With his weapon ready, Dean takes quiet steps towards the guest house, expertly avoiding the creaky first step as he walks up to the porch and peers in through the open windows. He doesn’t see any movement, but his brow furrows at the shoes resting to the side of the door. 

He reaches for the handle, and it twists open, the lock undone, but not broken, and steps inside. His eyes scan the front room, looking for anyone or anything out of place besides the shoes, and seeing everything in order, starts towards sliding back doors that lead to the patio, where the sound of the music grows louder. As he reaches the door, he peers out, his shoulders dropping as he notices the string lights illuminated and the hot tub cover pushed off, a head lounging against one of the built-in pillows.

God damn kids pool hopping again. He sighs and clicks the safety to his gun back on. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with after the day he had. 

This wasn’t the first time he’s found someone using his hot tub when they thought he was at work, but he figured he had put a stop to it after the McDowell twins and their girlfriends had snuck in and he called the cops on them for trespassing. Granted, he didn’t press charges, Dean wasn’t out to ruin the kids' lives, but the embarrassment of getting picked up naked and brought to the police station was enough to scare them and anyone else from trying it again. 

Or so he thought. 

The tension in his shoulders builds again as he pushes the door open, making his presence known with heavy steps before he shouts, “I thought you kids would know by now to stop–”

His words drop as a woman jumps up from the hot tub with a screech, her eyes wide as she takes quick steps away from him, or as far away as she can get in the hot tub. 

She’s definitely not a kid. From the looks of it, she’s probably in her late twenties, or maybe someone who looks good for her thirties. Her short and wet Y/C/H drips onto her shoulders, and Dean unintentionally follows the path of a water droplet as it races down her chest, through her bikini-coveraged cleavage and down to her navel, before getting soaked into her bottoms.

Yeah, definitely not a kid. 

“I’m calling the cops!” She shouts, her phone in hand, music blaring from the speaker as her fingers are ready to press the three numbers as she stares at him with fear in her Y/C/E eyes.

“Take it easy,” Dean holds his hands up, and the woman looks like she’s going to have a heart attack as she notices the gun in his right hand. Realizing his mistake, he quickly tucks it away into his waistband and holds his empty hands out to her, wanting her to know he’s not a threat.

“First off,” Dean holds up a finger at her. “If anyone should be calling the cops, it’s me.” He points back to himself. “Secondly, what are you doing in my house?” 

“Your house?” Her voice drips with confusion as her brow furrows.

“Yes my house.” He echoes, emphasizing his ownership. She continues to frown.  

“Well if it’s your house, you would know I’m renting your guest house for the next four weeks.” She crosses her arms defiantly, confusion and fear gone as she challenges him. 

“What are you talking about?” Now it’s Dean’s turn to be confused. He’s never rented the guest house out, nor would he ever. Especially not for a fucking month. 

Dean had no problem chatting with people at the shop or meeting friends for drinks downtown, but here at home, this was his private space, where he came to get away from it all. He rarely had anyone over as he just didn’t want to bother with people in his space. 

“I rented this house from you and your wife on AirBnB.” She states simply, having no idea the weight behind her words as realization crosses Dean.

“That bitch.” He mutters under his breath and runs a hand down his face. 

“Excuse me?” The woman seems to have heard him and he looks back to her. 

“No, not you.” He quickly clarifies with a sigh. “My soon-to-be ex wife. I’m gonna take a guess she’s behind this.” Her brows fold again. 

“Is her name Lisa Brandon?” She asks, and with a tight lipped, ghost of a smile, Dean nods, noting the use of her maiden name. He hadn’t heard her called that in years. 

“How’d you know that?”

“She’s listed as the homeowner. She sent me the instructions for how to get into the house.”

Dean lets his head fall back and groans. His day was getting worse and worse. 

Now he had to call his bitch of an ex and find out why there’s a woman planning to stay in his guest house for the next month. 

“Got it,” Dean straightens himself out though his shoulder slumps. Leave it to Lisa to bring some poor woman into the middle of their mess. 

“Seems we have a miscommunication. Sorry to ‘ave scared ya.” He holds his hand up in a half wave and forces a smile as he begins to turn back to step off the patio. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Dean hurries down the small path around the side of the house, not wanting to cut back through the house now that he knew someone was staying there, even if it was his space.  

He vehemently shakes his head as he makes his way to the main house, his fists tight by his side as he prepares for his upcoming battle. 

This was actually the last thing he wanted to do after the day he had. 

Dean and Lisa have been separated for almost two years now, both unhappy for a long time before Lisa declared one day she had enough and had met someone else. 

As he stomps into the house, he kicks his boots off messily at the door and removes the pistol from his waistband and drops it next to the keybowl. Initially he was thinking a beer, but now, he wandered over to the bar and poured himself a finger of whiskey, quickly throwing it back and feeling the warmth spread as it travels down to his stomach. 

He runs a hand through his hair before taking a deep breath and pulling out his phone.

Her. Is what her contact is now. It wasn’t always. But that ship had long sailed. 

He closes his eyes and licks his lips as the line rings, four times, before she answers.  

“What do you want, Dean?” Her exasperated voice sighs through the other end of the line. He’s bothering her, but he’s only calling because she’s started it. 

“You’re renting out my guest house?” He barks. He knows her well enough to know she’s smirking. 

“Our guest house.” She corrects him and his hand balls into a fist. “Figured I’d make use of that house. No one’s used it in years.” He lets out a deep breath through his nose. 

Except you and your boyfriend. He wants to throw in, but he won’t get anywhere if he starts throwing low blows, even if they are well deserved. 

“You’ve got my attention, Lisa, now what do you want?” Dean cuts to the chase. He wants to keep this call as quick as possible.

“I want the property.” Dean scoffs. This was the one reason the divorce hadn’t been finalized yet. Both Dean and Lisa wanted to keep the house they bought together. She wanted it for a second income, and he wanted to keep it just to spite her because she wanted it. Was he proud of it? No. But after everything that happened, he wanted to keep her from getting the only thing she wanted in the divorce. Plus, she couldn’t marry her boy toy until their divorce was finalized, so Dean saw no reason to give in anytime soon. 

“Nice try. You know that’s off the table, and I’ll have my lawyer look into this little stunt of yours.” Dean figures he can either hit her with a cease and desist since she was the one who left and moved away or negotiate getting half of the income she’s going to earn off the rentals. Not that he wants anyone in his space, but if he figures he can take half the cut, Lisa may just stop bothering.  

“In case you’ve forgotten Dean, we’re still married.” No one needed to remind him that. “And my name is still on the property agreement. So that house is just as much mine as it is yours, and I have every right to rent it out. But feel free to get the lawyers involved. All you're doing is wasting my time and yours, not to mention your money.” Dean shakes his head and tightens his jaw. 

The goddamn lawyers. As much as he was enjoying prolonging the inevitable, it turned out, lawyers were pretty damn expensive to keep on retainer. He made good money at the shop, but it wasn’t two-years-worth of lawyer money, and Dean knew that he was close to ruining his finances just to satisfy his pettiness. But Dean was stubborn, and wasn’t ready to give in just yet. 

“Get her out or I will, Lis.” And with that, Dean ends the call. He picks up the bottle of whiskey, this time forgoing the glass as he takes a big swig. There was no way he was going to bed early tonight now.

Once your heart had finally settled and you were sure you weren’t going to pass out from the fear of the strikingly tall and broad-shouldered man who apparently was the co-owner of the home sneaking up on you as you relaxed in what was his hot tub, you whipped out your laptop and settled down on one of the bar stools that sat under the extended kitchen counter. You had opened the bottle of red wine you had brought up with you, not expecting to open it so soon, but after your hellish meet-and-greet with the actual owner, you needed it. 

You cross your legs underneath you as you pull up your AirBNB inbox, finding Lisa’s name and starting a message as you take a big sip of wine that you had poured into a coffee mug, the cabin not equipped with any barware. 

You sigh through your nose and purse your lips. The other shoe had to drop at some point. Between the amazing rental price, picturequest town, and beautiful guest house, everything had seemed too good to be true. Turns out, it was. 

Hi Lisa, it seems there is a miscommunication. I met your husband this evening and it sounds like he was unaware I’m renting the space. I’m not looking to get in the middle of anything so would you please be able to refund me and I’ll stay elsewhere? Your message flies off with a whoosh and you take another sip. 

Your life had been enough of a mess the last few months, you had no interest in getting involved in someone else’s drama. So you would have Lisa refund you for the stay, try to find a new spot to stay, and hopefully be on your way in the morning, even if it meant spending more than you initially were planning. 

You’re about to stand up and head to the tv but your inbox pings with a response from Lisa. 

Don’t worry about him. You rented the guest house and it’s yours for the four weeks. And per the booking site, I do not need to issue you a refund for any reason unless the house is uninhabitable, which it isn’t. So if you are going to leave, that’s up to you, but I will not be refunding your stay. But if you will be canceling, let me know.

You stare at the text flabbergasted. What a bitch. You don’t even know her and you were getting a glimpse into why this marriage didn’t work out. 

You really didn’t want to be a part of her mind games, you had had enough of that in your own life. Your vacation had barely started and it was already on the verge of being ruined. 

You hop onto the booking site and start looking for other options, with a check in starting tomorrow. As you scroll through, the few options available are wildly expensive, and seem to be a room share versus a private rental. And you couldn’t return to your apartment; you had told your landlord about your trip and agreed to let him sublease the space while you were gone, which initially you agreed to since it would cover your rent for the month, but now was just another series of bad decisions since you quit your job. 

Which really just left you with one option; suck it up, keep your head down, and try to make the most of your trip. 

Well this sucks.

Keep Reading

NEXT TIME:

“Look,” You snap and point a finger at him. “I’m not here to be the pawn in your divorce game. I came here to relax. Problem is, every other place I’ve looked at in the area is either sold out or way more expensive than here, and I can’t afford it. You wife-”

“Ex wife-” He interjects curtly. 

“Whatever,” you snarl at his interruption. “Rented this place for a good deal, and considering I don’t have a job right now, I can’t really afford to go somewhere else.” 

“If you don’t have a job, what the hell are you doing here then?” He challenges, crossing his arms and matching your stance.  

“That’s none of your business.” He tsks his tongue and throws his head back with an exasperated sigh. 

“Look,” You lower your voice, hoping a calmer tone will help ease the situation. “Unless you need this house for anything, I promise I’ll stay out of your way. I won’t bother you, and you’ll barely know I’m here. But I already paid Lisa and I don’t have any other options, so you’re stuck with me.”

The man takes a deep breath through his nose and purses his lips.  

“Fine.” He snaps. “Enjoy your freakin’ vacation.” He huffs before he storms away from the porch and back to the main house. You shake your head at his antics.

Like a toddler having a temper tantrum. 

Between Lisa’s bitchy attitude and his man-child behavior, it’s a wonder how those two ever actually liked each other enough to get married.

Tag List

Forever 

@iprobablyshipit91  @likesiriusly @kittyque @findingfitnessforme @wonderange @captainemwinchester @xtina2191 @smoothdogsgirl @mogaruke @chin-up-love @tsunadesenjuuchiha @lyarr24 @globetrotter28 @krazykelly @roseblue373 @k-slla @stephv213

TGH

@suckitands33 @deans-baby-momma @tristanrosspada-ackles @twinkleinadiamondsky @spnbaby-67 @jackles010378 @itsdesiree86 @becca-rebel38 @rizlowwritessortof @deans-spinster-witch @jamerlynn @briagallen @crxstxlxtxs @kazsrm67 @waywardxwords @winchestergirl82 @ladysparkles78 @deansbbyx @rach5ive @hobby27 @deanwanddamons @justrealizedimmascifygurl @justherefortheficandsmut

[usoftay]

It appears that Taylor Swift has somehow managed to hit the ripe “old” age of 35 without acquiring an array of charmingly antiquated societal badges: the marriage license, the mini-me's running around, and the infamous and illustrious baby spit-stained wardrobe.

Can you believe the audacity of her?

She continues to be a shining star in her career, raking in more than just a few pennies, enough to spoil her fluffy felines AND pay her hardworking employees generously.

And more than that, she uses those earnings to do good! Feeding the hungry, creating jobs, and she even refused to settle for just any charming prince who came along. I mean, how DARE she prioritize her happiness and self-worth?

Now, here lies the real problem: If THIS continues….our daughters might actually start to believe that their time, their energy, and their happiness are worthy. They might start holding out for not just a partner, but a partner who contributes to the household both physically and emotionally!

Imagine the chaos if women stopped acting as the emotional multitaskers of relationships, and instead sought out partners who could offer a fair trade in the relationship economy. Women might start running the world and, heaven forbid, demanding fulfilling careers or hobbies instead of choosing the ever-glorious chore of performing the domestic Olympics 24/7.

You see….this horrific role modeling could lead young girls to check under the bed, only to find no Prince Charming ready to whisk them away but instead motivation and drive to conquer their own dreams, leaving dated ideals in the dust!

Simply put…..we can't allow any semblance of such witchcraft to spread, like the chase for happiness, success, and self fulfillment rather than the relentless endeavor of keeping a mediocre partner satisfied.

If no one puts a stop to this dangerous precedent set by the Swifts of the world, our daughters will grow into self-sufficient, fiercely content individuals, wearing whatever they please, living where they want, and cat-adopting at will. What ever happened to being desperate? Is desperation outdated too? 🤔😬

Truly….it's a travesty. So, everyone beware: If you see an independent, single, and radiant woman, resist👏🏻the👏🏻temptation👏🏻! Following in her footsteps could lead to nothing but an unprecedented wave of happiness, adventure, and the slightly scandalous notion of choosing themselves first.

How scandalous. @taylorswift @taylornation

[maxwell-grant]

So, which of the alien empires do you like better, the Kree or the Skrulls?

I feel mostly the same way about either, in that I don't particularly care for them in their own right, there is plenty I outright dislike most of them, but they can be useful worldbuilding elements to have around and have led to decent things over the years. I guess if I had to draw a straw here I'd say the Skrulls, but the Skrulls have more asterisks attached. I think the Skrulls have aged poorly overall and seem to be more trouble than they're worth.

It simply was inevitable that the Fantastic Four, at the moment of their inception, would have to deal with little green spacemen bent on world domination, these being shapeshifting Red Scare allegories just being part-and-parcel of what alien invasion stories are generally about at core (well that and antisemitism). Invading armies made of alien races are just kind of grandfathered into superhero settings at this point, like one of those things you have to address or do at some point. I'd say my biggest issue with the Skrulls isn't so much that they exist, and less that they are made to embody ideas I find politically or socially or morally reprehensible (although that is an issue, and Secret Invasion was an abysmally fucking ugly chapter in Marvel history, I'll link these articles by Ritesh Babu and Kelly Kanayama who can better elaborate why), as much as I think they really fall apart as a concept that's meant to exist in a shared universe where everybody's gonna be approaching them with different sensibilities and everybody who does so is gonna do some course-correcting on the previous takes to make their new one stand. They are living breathing allegorical embodiments of The Other who are also meant to pose an actual verifiable threat to the planet, and when you treat that idea seriously, when it’s no longer the 60s and this stuff is no longer given a pass for being charmingly antiquated, what do you do with it?

Are the Skrulls refugees? Are they imperialists? Are they warmongering genocide enthusiasts by nature or are they just regular people abused and groomed into war by their leaders? Are they space capitalists or commies? Are they honorable warriors or filthy backstabbers? Are they evil jihadist extremists hellbent on destroying America? Are we supposed to cheer when the heroes enthusiastically destroy them to save the planet or is this an oh-so-sad why-couldnt-we-get-along thing where the superheroes are very sad they have no choice but to kill them all? Are we meant to distrust the heroes when they attack Skrulls who are clearly not the aggressors or is it just an understandable funny misunderstanding? Are they really just gonna keep ping-ponging between perfect aggressors and perfect victims depending on what is convenient? That just feels irresponsible and too discomforting to me.

And I think that discomfort with their past depictions, with Secret Invasion, with the general fantasy orc problem they carry, is very clear in how modern creators tackle the Skrulls, and so they lean more heavily on making the Skrulls palatable, making them warriors torn between their honor and their loyalty to their dying empire, going hard on the angle of them as refugees displaced by war (which only makes the people at conflict with, the Kree and the superheroes, even less sympathetic in a way that never allows that thread to pan out), making conventionally pretty Skrulls like Hulkling to be "the good ones" in charge, drowning them in white savior bullshit that does little to address that fundamental tension and doesn't even last because eventually the Skrulls will be villains again, eventually it's their turn on the list of old pulp tropes superheroes recycle periodically. Even putting Secret Invasion aside, and you can't, the Skrulls are fundamentally a hostile endless race of alien monsters seeking to infiltrate America's borders by replacing it's people with themselves so they can take over the world. Valuable attempts have been made to flesh them out, but you are just not going to bleed that fascistic validation out of them.

The most I ever liked the Skrulls as a concept is probably in that storyline where Ben Grimm gets captured and sent to a Skrull planet where they are all obsessed with imitating Prohibition-era gangsters and forcing several other captive aliens to battle out, simultaneously allowing The Thing to deal with an upscaled gangster problem and a Star Trek problem and a Flash Gordon problem all in one. Skrulls-as-Space-Gangsters felt like it was onto something, a decent middleground power and threat-wise for them to occupy in the cosmic hierarchy with a niche not occupied by anyone else in the F4 rogues gallery and one that might de-emphasize the inherent xenophobia, open up different nuanced takes without needing to defang their value as an imperial power (and frankly Ben Grimm should be punching gangsters more often, he'd be the first to agree). That might be too limiting, so if there were a step beyond that, I'd suggest doing more on the weird exploration side, go big on the Skrulls as a species of copycats who can be anything and allow for weird alternate scenarios and themes and topics to be touched on, some of that weird anything-goes experimentation that made so much of F4 fun to read.

Skrull utopias, Skrull dystopias, Skrull societies that revolve around cooking competitions (maybe there are Skrulls morphing themselves into meals). Skrull planets doing shonen fighting tournaments, Skrull corporations dissatisfied with the Super-Skrull so they start splicing superpowers from a bunch of others hoping to strike big with the next great warrior, planets that are moving backwards because everytime their Skrulls get dissatisfied with modernity they take a step back on their timeline as literally as possible, Skrulls play-acting their versions of Marvel story arcs that center them as the heroes, a planet that is just the Skrulls doing their version of the DC universe, a city of rocky orange Skrulls who worship Ben as the greatest warrior in the universe, serious debates in Skrull circles over what is the worst form possible to take, roving bands of Skrull hippies trying to find the next cool thing to transform into and mold their identities around, Skrull beauty pageants, etc. I guess most of these are ideas better served outside of the Skrull framework and there's not much getting around the core make-up of these guys, but idk, if the Skrulls are gonna be a thing forever then they should be something that isn't just an Other existing in service of white savior/xenophobic fantasies. Give them their own Monkey Meat-esque anthology series about the things these weirdos endure and do when they aren't getting into spats with superheroes or space fascists or their warring governments.

Oh yeah and there's these guys too, I guess. To be honest I don't think I actually even know what's their deal. I know they are distinct enough from the skrulls due to their superpowers and big hammers and imagery, they come in different colors, they take orders from a big weird mostly-evil supercomputer, they have the Accusers as essentially a police force they've used to murder a bunch of planets with, they created the Inhumans by fucking around with cavemen, and their deal a lot of the time seems to be that they are powerful space fascists, and also that they are responsible for Captain Marvel, which doesn't do a lot to dispel the whole space fascist thing. I do think Ronan is okay though. I liked him allright in his FF debut because, given his introduction, given how he spends every line of dialogue in it flabbergasted at the F4 for daring to oppose his authority and resist his judgement and that of his empire and shocked that they won't simply comply and bow and accept death, it made him maybe thee closest you could get to a evenly-matched Fantastic Four vs The Cops story, which I thought was enough reason to justify him and the Kree as an ongoing element. Hickman also does good stuff with him and the Kree in his Fantastic Four and Avengers runs enough that I am broadly okay with them as a thing, along with the whole reocurring cosmic invader bucket they share with the Skrulls and the Shi'ar and whatever. The best one in that alien invader bucket I'd say is Annihilus, but he is his own degree of freak not really comparable to them.

If I was gonna point to anything between the two that I actually love, not just appreciate but actually really enjoy, it would be the guy in that image speaking the thing on my mind most of the time, Super-Skrull. That is ENTIRELY because he is a very entertaining character in MvC3, not just in terms of his playstyle but his general personality and demeanor, and that was my introduction to him, mostly divorced from the context the Skrulls usually occupy I was very on board with this funny green spaceman with such a cool and busted powerset and such an attitude problem. Charlie Adler does so much for his personality, this hilariously unpleasant egotistical jerk who's spitting and snarling everything he says, jeering and stomping the camera or stomping your opponent after they're down, nobody in the game is quite playing the Heel to the extent Super-Skrull is, and I like that some of his lines and ending emphasize how he's not even really that much of a villain. He is the hero his empire needs, even if he nurtures a rebellious streak, and asks you not to look too much into whenever he breaks character.

[lakesbian]

getting mad at or about or otherwise really negatively opinionated about marquis is like getting mad at a beige wall with mildly pleasant flower designs on it in terms of how relevant he is to the story. extremely disproportionate. he's just sitting in the background being a charmingly antiquated comic villain and having a tea party

[marimayscarlett]

Hi hallo 👋

Please please please!!! Gush about Vampire!Richard!!! That new photo we got on Sunday was so incredibly sexy and I love hearing your thoughts about Richard!!

Thank yooouuuu ❤️❤️

Hi 👋🏼 (writing prompts incoming I'll never use since well. I'm not a writer yet I have too much imagination for my own good)

Thanks a lot for this ask! A while ago, I got a similar one which got lost on the way into my drafts, so I'm glad I get a second chance to delve into my made up lore for my beloved elderly vampire lord 🦇 So very subjective and personal imaginary facts about vampire!Richard incoming:

Vampire!Richard is an everlasting part of my obsession over him, and 'I'm still alive' really changed my brain chemistry further more in that regard - before it was mostly Völkerball!vampire!Richard, who ruled over my darkest fantasies, drawing me ever deeper into his spell:

In this version, he is in my mind a slightly arrogant but so charming, self-assured young vampire, recklessly spirited and hardly containable, propelled by success, hungry for more - and he fundamentally sees mostly the positive aspects in his immortal existence, which he savors to the fullest extent.

However, at times he falls into melancholic phases, reminiscing about his mortal life and pondering what might have become of him had he not fallen into the clutches of eternal existence.

And yet, I have to admit, with the release of “I'm still alive”, my attention was definitely turned to the senior vampire lord, who immediately captivated me.

Here, Richard strikes me as an educated and worldly gentleman who has a sense of restlessness about him. He appears to have a great demeanor, is confident in himself and knows how charmingly he has to approach people to get what he wants, and yet he carries a certain melancholy with him, some thoughts and memories never seem to quite leave him and which hint at a troubled past. Although he is no longer subconsciously searching for the ultimate sense of immortal life like the young vampire!Richard, he still doesn't seem to be entirely at peace with his past and himself.

Since my brain won't shut up and I had wonderful support by @dandysnob in the quest of working out some thoughts on a background story for elderly vampire lord!Richard a possible origin story for him - of course based entirely subjective on our fantasies around the topic of vampires in general and Richard in this role speficically:

He was born in the late Middle Ages/early Renaissance (around the late fifteenth century) into a fairly well-off, but not overly wealthy family in the northern region of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation - so he had a good start in life, but had to make something of himself to succeed in life.

His ambitious and inquisitive character enabled him to make a name for himself as an intelligent and knowledgable scholar, particularly in the field of art, rare artifacts and, to a certain extent, music research (music was part of the 'septen artes liberales', a canon of seven subjects of study which was very important during which were very important in antiquity and the Middle Ages).

On one of his travels, which led him to the region of Transylvania in Romania due to research on architecture and paintings, something happened that would change Richard's life forever - something he wouldn't have expected at the age of about 50. On the way back from a day trip to the Prejmer fortified church (Church Fortified by Tartlau), his carriage was ambushed on the road through the forest - Richard himself doesn't know exactly what happened, but he woke up after what seemed like a long period of unconsciousness and hasn't been the same since. The changes were gradual - daylight began to blind him unbearably, he became more irritable, had an unbearable hunger, suddenly much sharper senses, and an inexplicable desire to go for the jugular of his fellow human beings.

The following years and decades were difficult for Richard. He distanced himself more and more from his fellow beings and began, through research, to slowly but surely discover what had happened to him. Humanity had less and less space in his life; the vampiric nature gave him a feeling of omnipotence and a hunger that made him completely ruthless towards human life. He deliberately embarked on many journeys to conceal the fact that he no longer aged and to disguise his consumption of humans as a source of sustenance. Changing names became commonplace, and at every university where he began as a scholar, he provided a new name. Thus, he traveled extensively throughout the world, learning more and more about the dark hidden world. Despite the immortality and invulnerability he now enjoyed, Richard was internally torn - on one hand, he managed to keep his private escapades under covers and presented himself outwardly as a distinguished scholar; on the other hand, he missed human life with its true emotions and loved ones deeply.

In the 19th century, he arrived in Victorian London and found his way into high society, moving in similar circles to Lord Byron and his companions. He had always sworn two things to himself: firstly, never to let serious feelings for anyone else arise, as it simply did not fit his lifestyle, and secondly, never to seek victims whose deaths would arouse suspicion - so no woman from the nobility or a similar standing. Until one day, he fell in love with a young woman who was just as enamored with ancient objects, art, and music as he was. Even though he knew this could have no future, he could not resist and courted her, with great success - until one night (she knew of his dark secret and yet loved him deeply) he lost control and accidentally weakened his beloved so much with his thirst for blood that she died in his arms. In her final breaths, she appealed to his humanity, urging him to see that life offers so much if only he allows it.

This experience tore him apart internally, yet it also gave him back the willpower he had lacked for over 300 years. Once again, he swore to leave behind the matter of feelings and emotional relationships, and to exercise more caution, moderation, and compassion - as much as possible as a vampire. After the experience in London with his beloved, he naturally had to leave that place and became restless once again. After further travels, he eventually landed in 21st century New York, where the cultural sector thrived with museums, theaters, film, and music, alongside a flourishing supernatural underworld. Outwardly, he was a successful art dealer, a generous patron of musicians and opera houses, and an expert for museums; secretly, he quickly became known as the most influential and powerful vampire in the city, one best not crossed - a rise akin to Scarface, yet far more sophisticated.

Here we are now - an accomplished man with a successful career, centuries of experience behind him, yet he's filled with melancholy, partial bitterness, constantly struggling with his fate. Whether he will ever find complete fulfillment and happiness again...

a possible continuation can be found in the second part.

[anosci]

slightly fascinated with the distance between the weird images that the fans of the last two presidents want them to have vs the actual image of the presidents. blah blah i know that fascism adores the aestheticization of politics but. it's weird right?

there's a push for joe biden to be like... some laser eyed macho man, an elderly duke nukem with a charmingly antiquated vernacular. whereas in reality he's a bumbling old man that looks perpetually like he just got out of bed

then there's the right wing ben garison literally-dc-comics-superman sex symbol version of donald trump that's ready to punch the pronouns straight out of the nearest blue-haired college student and then fly home to make lawfully wedded love to his wife, monogamously. in reality he's just... average physique I guess? and, importantly, a conman that has a history of using laundered power to get sex.

i'd call the over-the-top depictions "branding", but they seem outside of any one person's control. maybe

[twinkletoeskc]

Untitled Marauders Fanfic Ch. 3

Link to Ch. 2

Summary: Cosette finds the object of her latest news story under the guise of being an innocent Hufflepuff who simply wants to help in the name of love. I mean what’s more interesting than a secret plot for love?

Heavy enemies to lovers trope, slow burn, multiple relationships, multiple POVs, found family, toxic relationships, abusive families

Ships: James Potter x O/C, Remus Lupin x O/C, Sirius Black x O/C

Warnings: blackmail, slight coercion, lying, one mischievous Hufflepuff

A/N: thank you if you’ve been reading up until this point it is greatly appreciated. Let me know in the comments if you have any suggestions, questions, or simply something fun to share! Thank u🫶🏻💕

O/C Character Moodboard:

Untitled Fanfic Ch. 3

She sneezes, the dust from the old books finding its way into her sinuses. She anticipates the “shh!” from Madam Pince before she hears it. “Sorry…” she whispers, a bundle of books nestled under her arm. She ducks away from the librarian’s glare, walking to one of the long wooden tables.

She sits at the end away from most of the other students and opens an antiquated copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, flipping to the back to find the index.

“Wampus cat… water dragon parasite…” She mumbles to herself, dragging her finger down the page as she reads. “Ah, werewolf.”

She flips a few sections back, finding the desired chapter marked by a large illustration of a werewolf crouched mid-stride. “Gross,” she whispers, her eyes drifting slowly from the picture to the words beneath.

‘A werewolf, also known as a lycanthrope, was a human being who, upon the complete rising of the full moon, became an uncontrollable, fearsome, and deadly wolf. This condition is caused by infection with lycanthropy, also known as werewolfry. There are various differences between a werewolf’s wolf form and an actual wolf, making it easier to detect one.’

So absorbed into her reading, she doesn’t hear the commotion surrounding her until someone runs bodily into the table, upsetting the contents and knocking her book onto her lap. She looks up to find Sirius Black laughing, perched on the table with his wand raised. He points his wand to James Potter who, on the other side of the library, laughs heartily, on the defensive.

Sirius unleashes a spell in James’s direction, but the other boy dodges and allows the spell to hit the book behind his head, which suddenly sprouts colorful, patterned fur on its leather-bound cover.

“Mr. Black!” Madam Pince screeches, frantically making her way to him.

“Sorry, Madam Pince! My hand slipped, honest.” Sirius says with a broad grin. He looks down at Cosette and winks charmingly before slipping away, running between the shelves and dodging retaliatory curses from James.

She closes her book, slipping it in her robes and quickly making her way out of the library before she falls victim to one of the boys’ jinxes. She wanders the halls in search of a quiet place to study. She’s not sure how she ended up there, but without intending to, she finds herself situated in the potions classroom, empty after its last class. She makes her way to a table, absently flipping to her bookmarked page as she takes a seat.

‘A mixture of powdered silver and dittany applied to a fresh werewolf bite would seal the wound and allow the victim to live on as a werewolf, although tragic tales were told of bite victims begging for death rather than becoming werewolves. The Wolfsbane Potion, invented by Damocles Belby, allows werewolf drinkers to keep their human mind during transformation.’

Her eyes flit across the page curiously, her brow frowning as she reads on.

‘A werewolf cannot choose whether or not to transform and will no longer remember who they are once transformed. Multiple werewolves have been known to kill their best friends or loved ones while in wolf form if they were given the chance. Despite this, a werewolf will be able to recall everything they had experienced throughout their transformation upon reverting to their human form.’

The door creaks open, and she looks up to see a tall, black-haired wizard slip into the room. He pauses when he sees her, obviously expecting the room to be empty. He’s pale and tired looking, deep purple circles sitting under his eyes. His hair sits limply around his face, and his shoulders hunch like a boy who grew too much too fast, unsure of his height.

She raises a hand, waving awkwardly. “Uh, hello.”

“You’re in my seat.” The boy responds in greeting, his voice croaky like he hasn’t spoken in quite some time.

“Oh, um…” She looks around at where she sits, trying to find some identifiable feature that would mark the seat as his, but she can’t find anything that would distinguish it from the dozen other empty seats at the surrounding tables. But the boy waits, uncomfortably standing beside the door and watching her expectantly. “Right… sorry about that.” She picks her bag up from the floor and collects the book from the table. “There you are.” She says, moving away from his seat and offering him a small smile that he does not return.

He slips past her, his gaze downcast, and sinks into the seat. He places a thick and worn book on the table, the gilded Advanced Potion Making nearly worn completely off the leather cover.

She takes a seat at an adjacent table, returning to where she left off.

‘The monthly transformation of a werewolf is extremely painful if untreated and is usually proceeded and succeeded by pallor and ill health, and it is possible for the werewolf to display irritation toward friends and family leading up to the full moon. While in their wolfish form, a werewolf will entirely lose its human sense of right and wrong. However, it is incorrect to state that they have suffered from a permanent loss of moral sense.’

She is pulled from her focus by the smell of vanilla, the distant scent of a fire, and an aroma of something woodsy and pleasant. She breathes in the fragrance, a feeling of warmth expanding in her chest, and looks up from her book. The other wizard sits over a bubbling cauldron, his face tense in concentration. His book is open before him, and when she glances at it, she sees that every centimeter of free space is crammed full of notes.

She becomes increasingly distracted from her reading, watching him brew with a passion she finds fascinating. She closes her book softly, twisting in her seat to face him. “What are you making?” She asks.

He pauses slowly, his gaze slowly flickering to her as if he didn’t realize she was speaking to him. “What?” He asks gruffly.

She nods to the cauldron before him, “The potion you’re making, what is it?”

His look wavers between her and his work like he’s debating whether to answer her or not. “Amortentia.” He says finally, returning to his potion.

She pauses, knowing she has heard that name before in a potions class but not making the connection. “Amortentia…” she mumbles to herself, willing herself to recount Slughorn’s lessons. As she ponders, she watches as the wizard delicately picks up a large white pearl from his collection of ingredients scattered around him. The pearl is dropped into the cauldron with a light splash, and the aroma from before instantly floods her senses with a captivating intensity. It’s then that she realizes what he’s brewing.

“A love potion!” She exclaims, intrigued, and the wizard flinches, faltering in his stirring. “Yes…” he says slowly, gazing determinedly into the bubbling, pearlescent liquid.

She shifts in her seat, trying to get a better look. “You know those are banned, don’t you?” She asks in a conspiratorial whisper. He looks at her then, his gaze dark. “Will you report me?” He asks tensely. She doesn’t detect the thinly veiled threat in his tone, responding, “Not if you tell me who the potion is for.”

He grimaces, reducing the fire under the cauldron and busying himself by returning the ingredients to the pantry on the other side of the classroom. She stands from her seat, grabbing the remaining glass vials of ingredients. She corners him in the pantry, and he jumps when he turns to find her suddenly before him.

“What are you doing?” He asks, a note of panic in his voice as he flattens himself to the shelf behind him.

“Helping you clean.” She says innocently, standing on her toes to place an ingredient in its proper place on the shelf right beside his head. He swallows nervously, his discomfort nearly palpable.

She looks up into his face curiously, “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.” His jaw clenches, “I always look like this.” Her eyebrows quirk, “Oh…”

“Won’t you move?” He growls, looking as if he would rather melt into the shelf than touch her himself to push her away.

“When you tell me who the potion is for.” She says simply.

A hint of red rushes to his cheeks, giving his sickly pallor a flush of life. “Move.” He says again, a hand disappearing into the pocket of his robes.

She sighs, “It’s a pity you won’t tell me, but I’m sure Dumbledore will be much more persuasive.” His eyes narrow, “Are you threatening me?” He asks. She looks at the wand he pulled from his robes, “Are you?”

His lips thin, and the grip tightens on his wand for a millisecond before he returns it to the pocket of his robes. “Fine.”

Her eyes widen, “Fine?”

He glares at her and nods curtly. She grins broadly at him, “Brilliant.”

They return to his table, and she sits across from him as he carefully pours his potion into a glass vial. She leans forward, resting her chin on her hands. “So,” she says.

Snape stops the bottle without looking at her, “So?”

“So, who is it?”

He bites the inside of his cheek and looks at her from underneath his eyebrows, the urge to jinx her visible on his features. Her eyebrows raise patiently, “I think I heard Dumbledore just down the hall…”

“Fine! You menace.” He grumbles, stowing the potion away in his bag. He busies himself by continuing to fumble in his bag, so he doesn’t have to meet her eye, grumbling something under his breath.

She blinks, “I’m sorry?”

His jaw clenches, and he says it again, louder.

She frowns, “Who’s Fanny Blevins?”

He looks at her incensed, “It’s Lily Evans, damn it.”

She pauses, her mouth frozen in the shape of an ‘o.’

His face is nearly the scarlet of the Gryffindor crest, and he doesn’t attempt to contain the loathing in his gaze. “Well?”

“I—Isn’t she dating James Potter?”

That was obviously the wrong thing to say because with a furious glance he storms to the door.

“Wait, I’m sorry!” She calls out, spelling the door closed with a flick of her wand. He flips around, his black hair strewn around his face. “You’re kidnapping me now?”

“No! I—well…”

“What do you want?”

“I want to help you,” she says earnestly.

His eyes narrow in suspicion, “Help me?”

“Yes!” She nods eagerly.

He frowns, “How would you help me?”

“I can help you, you know, romance Lily Evans.”

He grimaces, turning away from her and setting his hand on the door of the classroom. “I don’t enjoy being toyed with.” He pushes on the door, but she locked it with her spell. He huffs, “Let me leave!”

She stands up, walking closer to him. Once again, he flattens himself to the door to create more distance. “I want to help you win over Lily Evans without using the Amortentia.” She says.

He furrows his eyebrows, “Why would you do that?”

“Because, well… because I think it’s sweet. If you took the time to brew the potion for her, then you must care a lot about her. And if she’s not dating James Potter—”

“She is most certainly not dating Potter.” He snarls, and Cosette raises her hands innocently, “Okay, I’m sensing some bitterness there, moving on. If she’s not dating anyone, then I can’t see why she wouldn’t go for you!”

He looks at her skeptically, “You don’t know me.”

She shrugs, “So?”

His eyes waver, and he takes a moment to think about her offer. “You’ll help me with Lily? Truly?”

She smiles, “Yes! Promise,” she extends her pinky towards him, and he recoils from it as if it is toxic. She eyes him warily, “You, uh, don’t know how to pinky promise?”

“Is that a binding spell?”

“No! It’s—ugh, never mind. I swear that I will help you.”

He looks into her face, his expression unreadable, before speaking. “Okay.”

She smiles, “Okay!” With a flick of her wand, she unlocks the door. He pushes open the door with a quickness as if escaping from a hungry blaze.

“Wait!” She says as he begins to scamper down the hallway.

“What?” He asks, impertinent.

“What’s your name?” She asks.

He blinks, “Severus.”

She smiles, “Nice to meet you Severus!” She yells as he escapes around the corner, “I’m—”

“Cosette,” someone cuts her off. She turns to see Professor Sprout, letter in hand. “Yes, professor?”

“I was just coming to deliver this to your headboy, but I might as well tell you in person now. Mr. Filch just came to me about your detention, said that you’ll need to meet Professor Slughorn in the Potions classroom Saturday at eight in the morning and he’ll have some work for you to do.”

She winces; she had forgotten about the detention. “Yes, professor.”

Professor Sprout nods, bustling away, “Oh, and do remember to study the properties of Mandrakes before our next class!” She says as she exits.

Cosette, however, does not hear her, instead thinking about her romance scheme. It’s going to be hard work, but she has faith in herself to make that union happen.

And it will be a great story.

[extraordinaryhistories]

#2 – 'A Winner Needs a Wand' (A Sun Came, 1998)

There is an alternate universe somewhere out there where Sufjan Stevens becomes an indie rock musician of the Pavement or Modest Mouse variety – all rough and ready (but not truly heavy) guitars, shambolic drums, tense chord progressions and grim lyrics gesturing at deeper meaning that no quantity of relistens will ever unlock. In this universe, he is not very popular. But we get a glimpse of it throughout A Sun Came, an album that tries to be a million different things at once and seems to fail (sometimes charmingly, sometimes not) at many of them.

‘A Winner Needs a Wand’, somewhat uncommonly, is actually quite successful at that sound. It is in many ways the harder-edged twin of ‘We Are What You Say’. While that song is still entrancing in an obscure, mystical sort of way, there is very little trance in ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’. The drums are bashed, the guitar is loud, and the song’s heart is quite literally ripped out, musically-speaking – you’ll only find power chords in its riff, a series of unsettling back-and-forth lurches on an acoustic guitar that give the song an almost grunge-like character. Of course, Sufjan being Sufjan, the fiddles, flutes and mournful piano lines prevent that comparison somewhat (the more antiquated instruments seem to be here for no other reason than Sufjan... knows how to play them.) But throw that riff on an electric guitar and turn the distortion up to full. It is remarkably authentic, and remarkably listenable. ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’, even despite its 5/4 trickery, is a bona fide rock-out.

‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ was written in the days before Sufjan emerged nearly overnight as a pop master, and so there isn’t much in the way of a chorus here. The song shifts through multiple sections, multiple melodic ideas, and shockingly – for this stage of Sufjan’s development – almost all of them work. The motif that dominates the first handful of verses snakes around the 5/4 groove with a surprising effortlessness, but I am particularly enamoured with the melody attached to the ‘never want to blame you’ sections, sung by Sufjan and Marzuki vocalist Shannon Stephens. It sort of shoots up into the air, dives down a little, and then shoots up immediately again, perfect for the climactic moments in which it appears. (The ‘tries to make you’ section at the end feels like an attempt to recapture that particular lightning in a bottle, and it sort of succeeds, but barely.)

There are a lot of words in this song, every one of them oblique. We can try to break them down, but we would only get so far. Unlike ‘We Are What You Say’, ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ is singular, not plural – ‘I’ and ‘me’ abound, in a more conventional Sufjan style of lyrical confessionalism. But there is definitely another person in this narrative. There are references to conflict and to unmet expectation; Sufjan cannot deliver on the responsibilities vested on him by the other (‘There’s still nothing you can do to exchange my dues to you’). It is very possible to read ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ as a eulogy to a failed relationship, if one is so inclined. There are the hints of sex (the titular ‘wand’ being a particularly clear phallic symbol, as well as the invocation of an epicene) and of emotional torture. But then you hear him sing ‘like the fennel seed, the funny gene you found’ and ‘that fits me like a quarter door, that hits me like a sound’ and you begin to wonder whether the granular interpretation is worth it. There are themes here, but a clear narrative? Much less so.

And in any case, it is perfectly possible to enjoy ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ (or any Sufjan song, really) without a single thought given to that narrative, because this is one of the most musically compelling songs on A Sun Came, a full-band workout quite unlike anything else you will find in Sufjan’s career. It is not triumphant or contented – it brims with anguished tension – but it remains consonant, and that’s the space where Sufjan works best. An early success; still a little belaboured, but endearingly so. The day Sufjan mashes this up with ‘All Good Naysayers’ in a live performance is the day I die happy.

[rriavian]

Dear rriavian, as always your words give me a lot of food for thought!

"perhaps the Corinthian also refuses to let others touch it, refuses to touch others with it on" THIS! One of my favourite headcanons is exactly this: the Corinthian, despite all he has done, is still extremely proud of owning the ring and won't allow it to be touched/taken away/jokes made about how much this old antique ring contrasts with his look (scene: next victim. The Corinthian, being the good predator that he is, is playing a bit before getting the things serious. At one point the guy says something like "why are you wearing this old ring? Was it your grandmother's?" and tries to pull it off. The Corinthian goes from charmingly smiling mode to berserk mode because nobody.touches.his.fucking.ring.

"The Corinthian can divorce it from reality, from the truth of what Dream might really say/do, can have a private fantasy of his creator all his own for whatever scenario he wants" oh this is an extremely refined passage! the ring as a kind of mirror in which the Corinthian's fantasies are reflected and amplified: the fantasies, the stories he would like to tell not as an actor lead by a 'director' but as a 'director' himself. Under this interpretation, I like to think that the ring can almost become a tool for creating stories that may run the risk of turning into parallel worlds.

"Despite all else, or alongside all else, he was convinced that he was still doing what he was made for...just in the Waking World. There's a bit of contrast with the other things he said (wanting to taste what it is to be human) but perhaps that was what the Corinthian was also seeking from his role as a nightmare" and from this point of view the ring becomes the material representation of this contrast that underlies the Corinthian character: wanting to be a creature endowed with free will only then to obey, in the end, banally, at the instincts and drives of his nightmarish, predatory nature (is the 'here on the waking world we are invincible' vs 'I've done my best to be what you made me'). Perhaps he thinks he wears the ring, even after the terrible betrayal, as a brazen demonstration of his will (hey Dream, look: despite this obvious, material bond between us I can do whatever I want) only to realize later, maybe unconsciously, that he has kept that ring on his finger because without it, without that bond, the Corinthian cannot exist.

Your post was just so good! That ring has now been living rent free in my head all day. And combined with another fic idea I already had half mapped out.

(Also my reply got long again I'm so sorry)

To answer your first point - yes!! He is proud to own the ring! The Corinthian’s reverse possessiveness for Dream is one of the things I adore. There’s a strange sort of feedback loop of ownership here, they both lay claim to the other and are claimed in return, and they both enjoy pushing the limits of both. Ahh! New fic idea there too! Anyone touches the ring and it’s instant berserk mode.

Anyone insults the ring and they might just draw the wrong sort of attention.

It's also a way to maintain consistency. The Corinthian changes a lot through the decades in the Waking World, his appearance moves along with the times, aligning with humanity to blend it. But the ring? The ring stays. It remains the same. It’s a cornerstone. If someone knew what it was they’d know exactly what he is. And the Corinthian wears it so openly, wears it and none of these mortals have a clue. Perhaps a little bit of defiance against them too? He has to blend in, hide his eyes, but he doesn’t have to hide the ring.

 Identity can still be displayed.

Now for your second point. Thank you!! I spent a little bit of time trying to word what I meant for this point. Your addition is very apt, he can indeed act as a director rather than just an actor, can rewrite the script as he pleases and then play it out. Ooh if it had that power how interesting would that be? Dream somehow hopping through those worlds like flicking through pages of a book finding all the stories the Corinthian created when he was in the Waking World.

Dream would find that very interesting.

Onto the third. There is a lot of contrast there. It's between competing instincts and desires, competing facets of his nature, but there is something else in that too. As much as the Corinthian wants to taste humanity, he doesn’t have the instincts of a human or the nature of one. He says he wants free will, and acts to take it, but he doesn’t want it like a human. Despite what he says about tasting humanity, the Corinthian wants free will like a nightmare. And he takes it like one. He wants to live out the instincts and drives of his nature to the fullest and sees that as the natural extent of how Dream made him.

It links back to the ownership/possessiveness idea in the first point…the Corinthian doesn’t mind being ‘owned’ or wanted. A human might feel dehumanized/objectified but the Corinthian doesn't have a human identity to be stripped away. So yes he wants free will...

But he wants it in a certain way.

It's inevitable for the Corinthian’s identity to be wrapped up in how/why Dream made him, and rejecting it is just rejecting himself, and he can’t do that. There’s nothing to replace it with, nothing he wants to replace it with, because the Corinthian enjoys what he was made for. He didn’t go into the Waking World and settle down peacefully, no, he embraced killing. Again, the ring as a cornerstone for identity can come back into play here. It’s  brazen demonstration of the Corinthian’s will, but in a way he still believes (in some ways) aligns with Dream’s. Perhaps he's going a step further…”hey look at me enact your will better”. “Look at how my interpretation is superior to yours.”.

It's "you made me this and I will be it how I want to".

It could be compared to interpretations of religion, how gods are, in many ways, entirely absent from how their will is administered. The divine decisions are left in the hands of man, the law enacted by man, and punishment (in this world at least) decreed by man. The Corinthian could be said to be usurping Dream in a similar way. Except instead of a holy text to preach from, to claim the authority to interpret, the Corinthian has himself. And a ring.  

[foldingfittedsheets]

I would do unspeakable things to see you and Charmingly Antiquated (Corner witches artist) do a collab

I freaking LOVE that artist, but I don't know how compatible our art styles would be. Maybe if we wrote two people in love from their different perspectives.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Chapter 3

The next quarter hour is spent gathered at the kitchen island: Oliver sipping some iced-lemon concoction whilst Mafalda prepares a passel of olives for Vittoria’s roasted panzanella . Elio - having commandeered his luggage - sought a tactical retreat once threatened with potato peeling, and when Oliver predictably follows he smooths his fingertips over the zigzag bannister; reading the past like braille as each notch and newel finds him beset with nostalgia for the home and inhabitants who’d long proved instrumental in unearthing his authentic self.

In the eternal summer of ‘83, he’d wanted desperately to be worthy of their high opinion. To carry on being that person independent of his Riviera idyll. Yet three months later - trapped, bereft, miserable enough to be borderline clinical - his pandering to familial conventions put paid to it all. Self-doubt and cynicism were his constant companions - harmful beasts he’s fought tirelessly to slay - but to see them reflected in Elio’s hunched demeanour as he scales the upper landing brings it all surging back with a vengeance.

“Everything alright?” he asks cautiously, prompting Elio to stiffen where he’s stood.

“I shouldn’t have assumed,” he replies, tucking a rebellious curl behind his ear. “But you never said elsewise. And the sleeping arrangements are rather… restricted.” 

Oliver’s shoes squeak on the final tread. “Restricted?” 

“Un peu.” A come-hither dare. “Our old rooms are set aside for Ollie and Miranda,” Elio says, the possessive pronoun doing something to Oliver’s insides as he closes the distance. “When they’re not in the city, that is. Manfredi uses the attic space for his beekeeping, and Maman’s arthritis keeps her downstairs, so I took on the master bedroom when she signed over the deeds.”

Ah, Oliver thinks, quickly weighing his response. “A full house?”

Elio winces. “In all likelihood? Even a cough won’t go unnoticed.”

“I see.” Oliver steadies his frantic pulse. Smiles at the plastic Darth-Maul watching them from a squat, geometric vase. “And you’re hesitant?” he asks, gesturing to the end of the hallway where his heaped belongings are partially visible. “Of sharing, I mean?”

Mercurial eyes roll in fond exasperation. “On the contrary.”

“Then what -”

“Those who spit at history are doomed to repeat it.”

“Colourful.”

“But true,” Elio reasons, skimming the ridge of Oliver’s knuckles. “Isn’t that why we agreed there’s no rush? To escape the same mistakes as last time?”

“It is,” Oliver assures, immensely proud of the rules they’d established. “And we will.” Of that, he’s adamant. “I’ve had Micol. You’ve had Michel. Just as I’ve loved a younger you, and you a younger me. But we’re more than the sum of our actions, yeah? We’re in this as equals.”

“The good, the bad, and the ugly.” 

“Nothing about you was ever ugly.”

“Smettila. That’s my line,” Elio demurs, rising up on tiptoes with a rueful sigh. “I’m borrowing trouble, aren’t I?”

“A trait we have in common,” Oliver soothes, buffing their foreheads together. “But it’s just a room,” he tells him then. “It’s just us.”

“Oh?” The laugh he receives is tremulous but sincere. “Is that all?” 

“That’s all.”

“Fair enough,” Elio mutters, the tension leaching out of him in increments. “We’ll play it a piacere.” Blinking twice, he bites at his thumbnail. “Swear not to hold it against me if I steal all the blankets?”

Oliver captures his bicep; saving his cuticle any additional injury. “Swear not to kvetch if I get cold feet?” 

“Ask me again when you use my shins to warm them,” Elio counters, and spinning on his heel makes short shrift of leading him to the furthest doorway. 

To the charmingly cluttered domain synonymous with the promised land.

There’s an antique writing desk along one damasked wall. A gilt-mirrored bureau and scattering of shabby dog toys beside it. Directly opposite, a wrought-iron bedstead boasts a pair of mahogany side-tables, upon which a marble representation of Patroclus and Achilles seems almost prosaic abreast a digital clock-radio, five family photographs, and a half-eaten packet of hazelnut wafers. Somewhat strangely, a trio of orange Nerf balls sit equidistant on the south-facing sill - their inky silhouettes creeping wraithlike over the herringbone floor - but it’s the bountiful array of cinematic posters, CD racks, and bespoke bookcases, that intrigue him most.

“Did you usurp the library, too?” Oliver asks, identifying several Pre-Socratic monographs amongst a haphazard section of Mary Renault paperbacks and Doctor Seuss.

Elio grins. “For all intents and purposes,” he replies, perching himself on the king-size mattress. “Dad condensed his Milan collection when the cancer spread to his liver. Donated the rarities I didn’t want to various institutions.” Pursing his lips, he traces the spiderweb veins at his wrist. “Remind me to stop by your shelf when I give you the tour?” he advises. “We’ve remodelled the pianterreno for Maman’s sake, but the study is pretty much how he left it.” Elio’s eyebrows pull in. “They both vacationed here after the divorce, you know?” A shrug. “The perks of an amicable separation, I suppose.”

Oliver quits leafing through a copy of The Charioteer to sit down also. “The best friendships derive from understanding,” he says, a situation he’s thankfully au fait with himself. “Micol’s already planning to - wait.” His next exhalation is a tougher job than usual. “I have a shelf?” 

“Bien sûr!” Elio exclaims, still trading unknowns like currency. “My father kept everything you sent him.” 

“Even after the purge?”

Elio fiddles with the onyx signet ring he wears on his pinkie. “Like begets like, mon rêve. Tragic hoarders, the lot of us.” A beat. “Speaking of which…” He nudges him with his elbow. “Did you bring it?”

Oliver snags the strap of his holdall. “Did I bring it, he says…” Truth be told, he never travels without it: the A5 rectangular package currently parcelled in last Thursday’s edition of the Boston Globe. “Surely the key issue is where we’re going to put it?”

Elio waves him off with his usual laconic grace. “Oh, I’m certain we’ll find a spot…” His tone is distinctly reverent when he unveils the turn-of-the-century postcard: its frame dual-sided to show the assorted inscriptions. “And there it is,” he murmurs, poring over Oliver’s poignant addition. “Cor Cordium...” 

A repetition and a vow.  

There’s wonder in Elio’s gaze when he drags it away from the tempered glass. Desire, likewise. A question and a plea all in one. It would be easy, Oliver thinks, to eliminate the hairsbreadth between them. To strike a match to their inhibitions. Let the dormant pyre of potential consume them whole. But it’s essential they reconnect properly before taking that leap - that they be mentally prepared for what comes next - and hooking an espadrille around Elio’s bony ankle he wills his body into compliance.

Slides a recalcitrant palm to the other man’s spine.

Tries not to flush like some touch-starved adolescent at the bodement of suspense.

“What was that you mentioned about giving me a tour?” 

“We switched the dining room to the smaller salon,” Elio explains as the grandfather clock chimes three p.m in the lofty foyer. “Refurbished la biblioteca. Created a maisonnette. Then brought in Maddalena on a full-time basis.”   

“And you’re positive my being here won’t disturb her?” 

Elio flinches. “If it does, please don’t take it personally,” he replies with a grimace. “Maman’s grown reliant on her routines, so yesterday’s trip to Pavia was… disconcerting.” Hugging his abdomen, he stalls beneath a sepia map of the Byzantine Roman Empire. “She asked about you over breakfast, though - ensured we had enough apricots for juicing - so she’s aware of your arrival. Excited, even.” Elio frowns. “But the afternoons are often a little…”

“Disorientating?” Oliver’s uncle was much the same. 

“Précisément.” 

“What did the neurologist have to say?” 

“Nothing helpful.” Elio’s expression is willfully blank. “Nothing we haven't gleaned for ourselves, in any event. They’re optimistic these new meds might stabilise her moods, but perfecting each dose in lieu of her insomnia sounds a bit like Russian roulette.” 

It’s a sobering prospect, and Oliver’s thoughts harken to the Grecian statuette upstairs; thoroughly resolved to support his own philtatos - to buoy his spirits post-battle - in whatever trials lay ahead. 

“She’s lucky to have you,” he says, rucking up his shirt sleeves. 

“The feeling’s mutual,” Elio replies, rapping on the threshold, then ushers him into the private apartment where Maddalena - Annella’s live-in carer - catches him up on the morning’s affairs.

A subtle note of jasmine infuses the suite: perfume or fabric detergent, he’s unable to pinpoint. Nature’s chorus seeps through the unlatched windows - the cooing purr of turtle doves supplementing the high-pitched buzz of varying insects - yet Oliver’s ears hone on one thing only, and not even the crackle of Annella’s vintage record player distracts him from the mellow humming of the venerable woman, herself. 

With the sheer net curtains rippling idly behind her, she cuts a dignified image. Salt-and-pepper hair braided in an elegant top-knot. Pearl-drop earrings multifaceted as they disperse the dappled light. Her enigmatic smile is virtually indistinguishable to that of her youth, but any pipe dreams of spontaneous recognition are ultimately scuppered when Annella’s contemplative focus reverts to the vellum-bound novella nestled in her lap.

A crushing blow; though not altogether unexpected. 

“Salut, Maman!” Elio says, his cavalier attitude belying his agitation as he joins her by the couch. “Je t'ai amené un visiteur.” Crouching, he fixes the crocheted shawl about her delicate shoulders. “Depuis l'Amérique.”

“D'Amérique?” Mascara lashes flutter sluggishly: an adagio swish as Annella examines his face, askance. “Oliver?” she whispers; cashmere soft. “Est-ce vous?”

He almost caves to the physical pang. “Hey, Mrs P,” he murmurs, brandishing the Valrhona signature box he’d purchased at the airport. “Rumour has it these are your favourites,” he adds, lifting the embossed lid, then all but fumbles the lot when Annella reaches up, stroking a thumb over his unshorn cheek.

“Un cauboi bearing gifts…” she says, and Oliver fights back traitorous tears at such unfettered tenderness. 

“Far be it from me to show up empty-handed,” he replies, heart tripping over itself in its haste. “Shall I put these on the sideboard?” 

“Bonne idée,” Elio answers for her, the hand at Oliver’s forearm keeping him grounded. “Mafalda will read us the riot act if we spoil your appetite.”

Annella giggles. “Sami always saves her la praliné pistache,” she informs them gleefully, releasing Oliver’s jawline with a gentle pat. “You’ll be sure to tell him, won’t you, mes trésors?” 

“Of course...” he manages; breath stripped from his lungs.

“First chance we get,” Elio says: a seasoned professional.

“C’est merveilleux.” Annella flips the page of her book. “He was only saying last week how he hoped you’d make it home for Christmas,” she muses, her nexus turning inwards, and Oliver curses the cruelty of the human condition in the thousand-mile stare that follows.

[petitemingi]

Rainday Antiques | Kim Hongjoong

Synopsis: Ah, Rainday Antiques. Why not pop in to shelter from the rain? Cozy up with a book or a magazine from the reading corner, maybe start up a conversation with the owner, Kim Hongjoong. Relax and take a moment to breathe, we've got you.

Word count: 2.6k

Disclaimer: this story is heavily based on the headspace sleepcast story 'Rainday Antiques' and follows a similar storytelling theme. I apologise if this causes any inconveniences for anyone.

If you've ever spent a rainy evening travelling down a quiet street looking for shelter, you'll understand what a blessing it is to come across a location like Rainday Antiques. It comes into view halfway between two houses. the lovely store with two large windows on either side of the entryway. The place has a dreamlike feel since the windows are divided into square panes and the glass in between the metal bars is just a little bit wavy.

If you can believe it, this charming small shop is open every single day of the year. Serving both random onlookers and potential late-arriving foreign antique connoisseurs. Which of these categories best describes you? I'll leave it up to you. On a night like tonight, when the street lights are fuzzy halos and the rain starts coming down harder so that your footsteps make little slaps and squelches on the sidewalk, nothing is more inviting than the hazy orange light filtering through the antique shop's steam-covered windows and the weathered old sign over the doorway that reads, "Come on in, we're open!" The sign is now creaking a little in the damp breeze.

The inside of Rainday Antiques is cosy as can be. You'll be enveloped in thick crimson velvet drapes when you push open the door, providing further shelter from the weather. The drape rings glide across the rail and make a gentle click as you exit through them into the store.

It’s quite a place.

As it rains, you notice a skylight dome above you. It glances up into the night as it satisfyingly patters against the glass. There is plenty of room to move about, but every surface is covered in trinkets, decorations, and artwork. A brass umbrella stand and some coat hooks are located to the left of the door. Please, feel free to remove any damp layers from your body and take advantage of the opportunity to unwind fully.

A charmingly friendly man by the name of Hongjoong is the proprietor of this wonderful store. A smart young gentleman reading a book quietly in a corner of his realm. The most generous person you could ever expect to meet in fact. He’s a true listener, and there are very few people you can say that about.

He'd listen intently to the end if you ever made the decision to seek him out. He would then make a very straightforward yet intelligent statement, something that would reassure you that everything will be alright. He nods politely at you as you enter, indicating that you are welcome to browse quietly for as long as you like. However, he is nearby if you need him. You proceed to the back of the store and a bookcase. There are boxes full of old, leather-bound volumes with the words "assorted books" written on the side in black marker pen.

Turning one over reveals pages with gold engravings and a pale blue ribbon stitched into the spine to serve as a place marker. The pages have small, densely spaced type and brown blotches all over them.

The title of this particular book is "Pure." What a great title, isn't it? You pick up a larger book with lovely watercolours of South African flora and fauna from the nineteenth century. There is a photo of some lovely blue blooms that have opened, but are now dying in the crevices. It's a beautiful blue.

Conveniently, there’s an armchair right next to the bookcase so you sink into it. It’s rather raggedy, and the stuffing is coming out in some places, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. At your feet, there’s a small cupboard containing vintage magazines. Perhaps you could just sit here a while, while the rain pitter patters in the background, immuring you with all this ancient literature, allowing yourself to slip for at least a short time into its magical world.

You are in front of one of the many grandfather clocks the shop has. It ticks steadily and decisively, just like a single raindrop that keeps dropping into a metal pale. observing the clock's workings, which are visible via the glass front. The chimes of the clock have a grimy sound to them. Glancing down and away from the clock, you see a small dog.

This is Minnie, Hongjoong’s miniature wire-haired dachshund.

She has round, shining eyes and a little whispy beard. She appears to be a serious, but very friendly dog, and an excellent judge of character. She has already determined that you are someone deserving of respect. She bobs her head, sniffs your shoes, and then lumbers off to her basket a short distance away. She climbs inside and makes three complete turns before sitting down and gazing affectionately at you. She likes customers that come into the store, but she has decided that she likes you in particular.

There’s so much to look at in here. You might just want to stay there for a moment, gazing around you and soaking up the atmosphere in this rain haven. Objects of various kinds are displayed all over the walls. You notice a grandfather clock ticking as you scan the room and notice a mid-century coffee table. A magnificent collection of feathered hats are suspended from an art nouveau hat stand. A tattered, aged-looking antique mantlepiece mirror and a dappled-gray rocking horse with a crimson saddle and a long, silvery mane. As you approach the hat stand, you reach out to lightly touch its brass arms. They are cool to the touch and have a small sphere on each end.

Upon it there hangs a blue sculpted hat, with a gold brim designed to be worn at a tilt. A feathered plume, tied presumably to match the hat, is soft and slightly grainy to the touch, held in place by a rhinestone pin - it too is draped over the hat stand. How philosophical these objects appear, gathered here against the flow of time and undoubtedly without any thought for the weather. Some date back more than a century. And yet, here they are, eager for a fresh start in life. starting from the instant they first encounter that particular someone who is moved enough to take them home.

In a dimly lit corner of Rainday Antiques, stands a writing desk, covered with a blanket on which are laid out numerous, smaller items. One of these is a box of old photographs and postcards. As you leave through, you glimpse vintage postcards of European cities and snow-capped mountains, black and white beaches, interesting rock formations and a donkey in a straw hat.

Men dressed in cricket whites might be seen in group photos. Family uncomfortably gathered for an embarrassing snapshot. cartoons of terriers, kittens in baskets, and a set of a Spaniel that is obviously well-loved. Some have scrawled, largely eligible, handwriting on the back. You flip over a Dutch postcard that features a windmill. "I'm having a great time here despite the weather. It's raining heavily as I write this after just returning from a walk that we took. I appreciate the books. With love" All of these memories were previously someone else's property, but they are now potentially yours. The amusing thing about memories is that they are quite flexible.

The smell of your damp umbrella seeping into the stand by the door is mixed with that of old books and radiators, with a faint hint of something fresh. The darker areas of the business are occasionally illuminated by the lights of a passing car that occasionally streaks through the glass. You can see a magnificent holding screen in one area, as well as a row of leather-bound books. Japanese landscapes, including homes with distinctively pointed roofs and oblong trees, are embroidered onto its silk sheets. Overlooking a river is a bridge. The rain seems to pick in speed as the automobile passes before returning to its regular rhythm, creating a loud sigh in the process.

You could stay here all night just breathing in and looking at things. Thinking about their stories.

In one corner of the store, you’ll find a glass cabinet filled with crockery. If you take a closer look, you’ll be able to inspect a striking art deco piece with sharp triangles for handles, patterned with bright geometric squares, in orange and black.

A small case lined with velvet sits next to it, containing a collection of teaspoons with ornamental handles. You can almost imagine the ambience of a long-ago tea party. A conversation punctuated by the delicate clinking of teaspoons on porcelain and ambienced, like tonight, by the comforting sound of rain on the windows.

If you asked Hongjoong, he’d tell you that every antique has a story to tell. He likes to say that he never takes anything for his store unless there’s a fantastic tale behind it. It’s a bit of a lie, though. If he likes something enough, he’ll just go ahead and make up a story about it, such as this vintage little toy car, which he says used to belong to a member of a famous boy band or public figure. He hasn’t got any paperwork to prove it, unfortunately. But then again, there’s nothing to disprove it either.

The car is bright, emerald green, slightly rusting at the edges. But in its hayday, it would surely have been the perfect vehicle for a young prince or princess to take about a turn in the royal garden. It has a long bonnet, but the rest of the car is all seat. There’s a large steering wheel sticking up in the center of the car so that driving it might feel like driving a mini tractor. It’s open-top, though. There’s no roof at all so it’d be no use on a night like tonight.

The rain outside seems to be coming down even harder, but the atmosphere inside of the store remains peaceful and unchanging. Every so often, Hongjoong lets out a small “mmm” as if to express some sense of profound relaxation, and the pages of his unwieldly newspaper rustles as he turns them. Every now and then he regards you, from moment to moment, over the top of his half-moon spectacles, to check you’re not in need of anything before returning to his reading.

You move around the store quietly, occasionally picking up something and turning it over in your hands. Sometimes, you return to the raggedy armchair to rest, and contemplate your surroundings.

Each time you look around, something new catches your eye; a model ship, perhaps? Or a movie poster from the golden age of cinema, maybe a blonde teddy bear wearing a bow-tie? Whatever it is, you gaze at it for some time, wondering: 'Where has it been? Who owned it before? Has it lived a long life with many different owners? Has it travelled the world? Or has it been treasured faithfully by one person until now? And what journey might it be about to embark on next?'

"have you found what you're looking for?" Hongjoong places his book down lightly, his thumb holding his place. You hadn't noticed before, but Hongjoong had a ring on his thumb. It glistened slightly in the dim light of the shop. It appeared to cast a rainbow onto the wood of the desk.

"not yet" you'd reply "I'm still browsing a little"

A light smile decorates Hongjoong's face at your response, and he nods "let me know if you need anything" he says, and he returns to his book.

Moving further along the shelving, you notice a line of crystal bells. Overtaken by curiosity, you pick them up one at a time, holding them to your left ear to listen to the delicate chimes they would sound. You decided that this would be one of your purchases, picking up the one you deemed most beautiful and delicate sounding and walk to place it on the front desk.

"anything else?" Hongjoong would ask, his eyes lifting from the adventures in his book, this time using a long metal bookmark to save his place. He gazes at you warmly, picking up the crystal bell to wrap it in bubble wrap. The bell makes another delicate chime as he does.

"I think I'll keep looking... if that's alright" you respond. Hongjoong nods his head once, this time a small chuckle escapes his lips. Once again, he returns to his book.

A little way further into the shop there are some small brooch pins, all of varying shapes and sizes. Some have faces on them, some look like butterflies, there's even one with some tiny detailed scenery painted onto it. You pick this one up in your hand and carry it with you - this will be your second purchase.

There is just one more shelf in the shop, this one has some glass flowers the size of your ring finger laid out on it. Bluebells, Snowdrops, Lilies and Lupines, they are all delicately coloured in light shades of blue, green, purple and white. A small note on the shelf reads 'glass flowers, two for the price of one, will look lovely as a centrepiece'

You decide the Lupine and the Bluebell flowers are more to your taste and pick them up gently from their places. You have a lovely little vase to display them in at home. They will look lovely on your dining room table.

Hongjoong has already placed his book down, you notice he only has a few pages left to read. He has just finished wrapping your bell in bubble wrap and has prepared a small cardboard bag to place your items in.

"I'll have these as well, please" you place your new found items in front of Hongjoong. He furrows his eyebrows softly and lifts first the glass flowers to his eye level, twiling them between his fingertips and then the brooch, adjusting his glasses as though they could magnify the detail more. He smiles again and places the brooch in the bag, then wraps the flowers in bubble wrap as he had the bell.

"You have a delicate taste in antiques" He says, handing you the bag. You take it gently from his, a slight glow taking place across your cheeks.

"and you have a wondrous taste in books" you respond. Hongjoong bites the inside of his lips, perhaps slightly taken by your attentive response.

"perhaps we could discuss it over coffee some time?" he questions, his hand funding it's way to the back of his neck in slight embarrassment at his words.

"perhaps so" you say, feeling slightly bashful yourself. You see Hongjoong take a piece of paper and a pencil from the edge of his desk, he writes an address down on it.

Sunrise Cafe,

Saturday 14:35

Hongjoong xxx-xxx-xxx

He hands you the paper and you bow as you leave, taking your umbrella from the stand by the door, stepping out once again in to the rain.

If you've ever spent a rainy evening travelling down a quiet street looking for shelter, you'll understand what a blessing it is to come across a location like Rainday Antiques. It comes into view halfway between two houses. The lovely store with two large windows on either side of the entryway. The place has a dreamlike feel since the windows are divided into square panes and the glass in between the metal bars is just a little bit wavy. It has a warm atmosphere about it and the shop keeper Hongjoong is perhaps the kindest person you would ever hope to meet.

thank you for reading, i hope this ambience story has left you calm — have a wonderful day ~

taglist: @hwahawt @yungisstar1117-writes @sxndmemes @dogsongy