#cork facade

[andazzi]

(via munarq – a f a s i a)

[jmscornerlibrary]

Snape's Search History - Part 2

Hello! Slightly shorter, but slowly crawling forward. I'm writing a book of my own which requires quite a lot of time and creative inspiration, so that's taking priority... anyway, enjoy!

Featuring: our favourite grumpy bat-boy and Minerva's I'm too old for this attitude.

Tags are at the bottom - if I've missed anyone, I do apologise.

***

Minerva McGonagall rapped sharply on the Potions classroom door and entered without waiting for a reply. She half expected something short of a calamity - perhaps the desks all scorched into remains beyond recognition, an infestation of some sort, chaos in the form of the furniture being stuck to the ceiling or anything else which would claim “round-way-wrong” - and Severus’ face contorted and twitching as he muttered dark things under his breath, but no. She was most mistaken.

Snape stood in the middle of his classroom, his arms folded, one hand propped beneath his chin as he stared blankly at his chalkboard, his face quite placid, even serene, as he stood deep in thought.

Minerva paused, feeling an odd pang of unrest in her chest at this strange change, for he was hardly in such a state and something must have been certainly very wrong. She followed the line his eyes made to the blackboard, saw nothing which could be the subject of such intense evaluation, so she merely looked back and forth between him and the wall a few times before clearing her throat.

His eyes flicked towards her, but the rest of his position remained stagnant.

Minerva didn’t say anything; neither did he. After a few moments, she looked past him, walked a few steps into the room, then turned around to look at the walls for any sort of unobvious differences that could have brought on this change of facade. Snape let out a dry chuckle. 

“Nothing has changed since you were last here, Minerva.”

She turned to look at him.

“Then I don’t understand.”

Snape nodded thoughtfully. 

“Me neither,” was the reply, before he marched up to his blackboard, turned on his heel, stood still, then began to evaluate the desks in the same position as before. This was enough for her to become slightly unnerved and her eyebrows to climb up to the highest ring on her forehead as she watched him. Still, the silence dragged on long before she formulated a question of any sort and that was only after the Potions Master got down on his knees and began to look under the desks as though he had previously misplaced a cork of a bottle, looking rather silly.

“What are you doing?” she said flatly, tilting her head to peruse him.

“Investigating,” he replied calmly from under the desk, looking up at the underbelly of the furniture.

“Investigating.” Minerva nodded, though she was everything but enlightened. “And what on could you be investigating under the desks, on the floor?”

Snape banged the back of his head on the desk-edge as he emerged from beneath it, cursed viciously, then this alien demeanour he had borrowed for a moment shattered and dissolved into his standard one. The dark scowl looked so normal back on its master’s face that Minerva’s chest loosened a little.

Snape drew out his wand. After a moment, in which more investigation and observance occurred, his scowl deepened and suddenly lunged and struck the front desk with it.

“Revellio.”

Nothing happened. Minerva watched him, po-faced. Snape repeated the gesture.

“Revellio!”

Not a peep. He growled, then pointed his wand at the ceiling.

“Revellio!” The wand was pointed at his blackboard. “Revellio!” The tip was directed at his desk, at the floor, at the back of the classroom, at the door of his store cupboard.

“Revellio! Revellio! REVELLIO-!”

“Severus, please,” McGonagall said, approaching him as he scowled and his eyes darted around the classroom. “This verges on nonsensical. There is nothing here.”

“That’s the problem!” Severus snarled, his knuckles white on the black of his wand. “This makes no sense whatsoever! Confounded brats… This is idiocy!”

“What is?” 

“This innocence… this consideration!” 

The last word was spat out like something vile. Minerva’s eyebrows dropped down and she looked completely exasperated.

“Consideration? Severus, what precisely is going on?”

“I don’t know!”

Minerva’s hands stiffened as she grew impatient. 

“Can you please calm yourself down and tell me what brought on this… this whole examination?” she said. “I would be very grateful. This hysteria is quite past what is expected of both of us. Put your wand away, Severus.”

Snape seemed to regain himself as she spoke. He straightened, breathed out a long sigh through his nostrils, arrested the fire snapping in his eyes, then slowly fed his wand back into his sleeve and drew his cloak tight about him. 

“Your pupils, Minerva,” he began in his low voice, looking much displeased, “have been behaving in a very strange manner today.”

McGonagall watched him, remembering the giggling trio she had passed on the corridor and their strange mood.

 “You mean Potter, Weasley, and Miss Granger?”

“Indeed,” he spat, then grimaced disdainfully at the front desk which had been occupied by the unwelcome trio a few moments before, before looking back up at her. “Well? Are you surprised?”

“No,” she replied immediately, glancing at the desk too, then paused. “Have they been causing trouble?”

Snape’s face stretched into a very dry smile.

“Trouble?” He scoffed, then grew solemn again. “Why, yes. Well, no. In fact… ah, confound and bebother those varmints-!”

Minerva had pursed her lips. “Severus-”

“Yes!” He clenched his fists and stormed towards his desk. “Yes, they have been causing trouble! They have undoubtedly been causing trouble, otherwise Potter wouldn’t have had an accursed aureole shining around his head for the entire lesson!”

At this, McGonagall frowned, but Snape wasn’t done.

“Weasley, too!” He fell into his chair then sat up, rigid with passion, his fingers digging into the wooden armrests. “Not a single word out of his mouth during the entire lesson! He usually doesn’t shut up, his mouth works like a watermill! And this time, silence!”

“One moment.” McGonagall was close to pinching the bridge of her nose. “You mean to say-”

“And Granger,” Snape cut her off, snapping, his fingernails making scratch-marks in the wooden armrests as his fists clenched. “I’ve never seen her so pleasant in the entire time she’s been here. Didn’t put her hand up once! Her head was down, she did the work without a word and not a bullet of the usual know-it-all piffle left her mouth!”

His form loosened and he fell backwards against the back-rest, his hand dangling over his face as he worked rest into his face muscles and the creases around his eyes with his fingers. McGonagall watched him with pursed lips, feeling it wouldn’t be wise to interject until he finished with his mental breakdown.

“And that’s not all,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “The homework they handed in today is twice the length I asked for. And I mean twice the length. The spaces between words and the size of their handwriting wasn’t different from their standard lettering.”

“I fail to understand why that calls to get so worked up,” Minerva said carefully. “Surely, you don’t find this irritating?”

“And it’s top standard,” the wrecked Potions Master continued, his voice almost breaking. “It was concise and intelligently written. Into the bargain, all three pieces of work were different. The pair of idiots clearly didn’t copy off Granger this time. It seems they have put effort into those rolls of parchment like never before. I dread to think what it is they have done to act in this manner.”

Minerva shook her head as she watched the black bat sprawled out on his wooden chair. He saw her scrutiny and growled.

“You weren’t here, Minerva - I have very good reason for suspecting nothing but trouble. Potter didn’t talk back to me once. He claimed blame, even if it was unjustified.”

At this, Minerva frowned. “Harry Potter?”

“What other Potter is there?”

Minerva, this time, did pinch the bridge of her nose and both adults stood there feeling quite shaken. The former regained herself first.

“Let me sum this up,” she said. “You are completely and utterly indisposed because Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger were well-behaved for the entirety of your lesson.”

“I am completely and utterly indisposed,” Snape repeated with disdain and through clenched teeth, “because they have clearly done something, or are about to do something, which must have stirred enough remorse within their hollow little souls to not place a toe out of line for the entirety of my lesson. Not to mention this.”

He leaned forward and grasped something, then offered it to Minerva. She stepped forward and squinted at the object; it was an empty glass vial, with a square label which read: headache draught.

She glanced up at him as she took it in her fingers. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“This appeared upon my desk when my back was turned.”

“And you think they placed this on your desk?”

“No,” Snape said after some thought. “This is something far darker than both of us think.”

Minerva looked at him over the rim of her spectacles.

“This empty vial?” she said flatly.

“It was full when I first beheld it.”

“And what happened to its contents?”

“I poured it down the sink.”

Minerva paused.

“Why?”

Snape rubbed his face and stood up, looking fixated. “It was very cleverly disguised. It smelled exactly like what it claims to be.”

He began to pace. Minerva placed the sinister, empty vial back on his desk and folded her arms, looking down her nose at him as though he was an adolescent hissing about overblown drama which had happened upon the corridors and had tarnished his reputation into disrepair. Not that she hadn’t seen that before. 

“There can only be one explanation for this,” he finished, standing still. “It has to be.”

“Which is?”

He turned and met her eyes with his obstinate, dark gaze.

“Someone is trying to exact their vengeance upon me.”

Minerva said nothing, her face betrayed nothing.

“It wouldn’t be the first time it happened,” he muttered. “I’m not taking any risk. I don’t have a very tolerant stomach…”

Minerva began to shake her head. “Severus.”

“...headache draught indeed.” He scoffed. “The only question is: who? And why? I am beginning to doubt that Potter wasn’t involved in it, though perhaps he wasn’t acting of his own accord. Our favourite trio wouldn’t even know that they were under the Imperius curse-”

“Severus.”

He turned to her impatiently, then shut his mouth under the impact of her gaze.

“Has it not occurred to you,” Minerva began patiently, “that instead of poisoning or attempting to murder you, someone could be simply trying to help you out?”

Snape looked at her incredulously, then burst out laughing. It was his usual harsh, grating laugh, which was emitted more to mock than to express amusement. It bounced off the classroom walls like hailstone.

“Of course,” he chortled. “That would make sense. Let’s be nice to the irritable wretch of a teacher who resides solely in the dungeons of the castle.”

“I’m sorry you struggle to understand the concept of compassion,” Minerva said, rolling her eyes and moving towards the exit. “Perhaps you ought to take this as a sign, Severus, and with it this concept into consideration.”

“Nonsense,” he replied, then placed the base of his palms to his temples and moved to sit in his chair as he grimaced. “There is no such thing as compassion. If there is, it is very hard to find, and simply non-existent in these particular corridors, between these particular individuals.”

Minerva didn’t see the sense in trying to convince him otherwise. Instead, she simply looked at him pointedly as he grasped his head and shut his eyes to try and contain his headache. 

“Stop spearing me,” he muttered, sighing. “I’ve not forgotten what brats are capable of. I was one too. It’s certainly nothing but chaos and infidelity. I’m not stupid.”

“No. You are stubborn,” she replied, shaking her head, “and prone to jumping to very unfavourable conclusions. Now that you poured that draught down the drain, why don’t you make yourself another? Lessons resume in fifteen minutes.”

Snape groaned and muttered some dark words, followed by a very low: “I will manage.”

“As you like,” McGonagall replied in a tone which seemed to highlight her claim about how stubborn Snape was. “I will see you at lunch, Severus. Don’t get yourself too worked up, now.”

He didn’t answer; Minerva shut the door behind her, taking the rest of the noise and warmth of presence with her. 

Five minutes of silence and dwelling later, Severus Snape rubbed his eyes, opened them, then fixed them onto the glass vial with the ‘headache draught’ lettering arranged upon the label, apparently nothing but innocent.

“Help me,” he repeated absentmindedly, then snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Of course the intention was to help me. Because that is what we do when we have a spare moment. We all come together, sit down at a round table and discuss how to make somebody’s life less of a damned hellscape over a light cup of coffee.”

Snape’s rigid posture broke as the sneer ebbed off his face. His eyes flicked around at the walls of his empty classroom, then to the pale skin of his hands which hadn’t held another for over two decades. He thought of the bleak and empty days the future promised him, feeling something horrible, hard and gooey congealing in his chest. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.

“Silence!” Snape commanded nobody in particular, feeling his voice begin to crack as it echoed around the classroom.

He put his face in his hands, pressing them to his facial features to keep them in stone, but they creased into something embarrassing and despairing anyway.

“Silence…” he repeated, but with his voice hoarse and thick. “Very well. Fine. Let it be so.”

He regained himself, then fixed his face into the window, making a sharp move to smear any stray tears away, then folded his hands tight and pressed them to his lips. Still, the red rimming his eyes, cheeks and nose gave him away, though his face was cold and disinterested as marble.

His voice was a mere whisper, though the boggart hiding under the sink heard it and obeyed:

“Let it be silent.”

***

Tags! I do appreciate all of your reviews and ops, I enjoy reading your excitement!

@overlord-of-fantasy @severus-snaps @slytherinmagic38 @enderdeservesbetter @acupnoodle @ace-aussie-asshole @halfbloodprince137 @seleneprince @memelovescaps @clingingtoskeletons @lilithofpenandbook @tumblingghosts @jade-eclipse-li @fluffyneondinosaur @lessdepressy @praline-elegy @captainsky-photori @likelightinglass @flyingflosser09

[kefiteria]

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.

A comfort letter from Scaramouche, just for you.

So, I've noticed you've been retreating into your mind more than usual lately. It's like you're doing a disappearing act even Houdini would envy. But hey, I get it. People are complicated creatures, and occasionally it feels safer to hide behind our thoughts than to face the chaos out there.

About this facade you've got going on. You know, the one where you're holding on to your inner child like it's a winning lottery ticket? It's almost comical how tightly you cling to it, as if someone's lurking around the corner waiting to snatch it away. Newsflash: nobody's taking it from you, dear.

Now, about those tears. I know, I know, crying is for the weak, right? Wrong. Even the toughest nuts crack sometimes. Take it from me, I've shed more tears than I care to admit, and yet here I am, still standing, still better as ever. You don't have to plaster on that smile 24/7, you know. Let those tears flow like a leaky faucet if you need to.

And speaking of tough times, let's talk about failure. It's not the end of the world, despite what your overactive brain might be telling you. Trust me, I've had my fair share of failures, and look at me now—still standing, scheming and myself.

So, when are you going to cut yourself some slack? Stop beating yourself up over things that are as out of your control as the weather. Tomorrow's just another day in the grand circus of life, and guess what? I'm your ringmaster, baby. You're not in this alone.

And those feelings you've been bottling up? Yeah, it's time to pop the cork and let 'em out. Trust me, it's like a pressure valve for the soul. Cry if you need to, scream into the void if you must. Just don't keep it all locked up inside. That's a recipe for disaster, believe me.

So, here's the deal: you're not alone in this. I've got your back, whether you're crying like a baby or plotting world domination (ugh just do it in moderation though). Just remember, it's okay to let your guard down once in a while. After all, even the sharpest swords need a little sharpening now and then.

Alright, let's wrap this up before I start growing a conscience or something equally absurd. Seriously, who knew pouring my heart out on paper could be so exhausting? I feel like I've been on a marathon run through a field of emotional landmines, and I'm not even wearing my running shoes.

But hey, if this little rant of mine manages to knock some sense into that stubborn head of yours, then I guess it's worth the carpal tunnel I'm bound to get from all this writing. Just promise me one thing: don't go making a habit out of this whole “feeling your feelings” nonsense. It's bad for my image.

So, there you have it. Consider this your one and only free pass to the sappy side of Scaramouche. Don't get used to it. Now go on, get out there and conquer the world, or cry yourself a river, whichever floats your boat. Just remember: you're not alone in this crazy circus we call life. I've got your back, whether you like it or not.

“It's okay, your world, and feelings are precious, so precious just like you are now.”

Fondly yours (don't make it a habit),

Scaramouche.

Other Version 🍨: Zhongli , Kazuha, Xiao, Thoma

[fafnir19]

Isn't champagne part of human rights?

The frosty air nipped at Leon's cheeks as he made his way through the snow-covered streets of the upscale ski resort. The grand hotel loomed before him, its opulent facade standing in stark contrast to the modest upbringing he had known. As he entered the lobby, the hotel manager, Mr. Bower, beckoned him over. "Leon, I have a special task for you," Mr. Bower said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "What is it, Mr. Bower?" Leon asked, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in his chest. "We have a group of wealthy young guests staying at the hotel, and we want them to spend more. Since you're close in age, I want you to encourage them to indulge in our amenities," Mr. Bower explained. Leon frowned, feeling out of his depth. "But I'm not sure how to do that... I'm not exactly outgoing." Mr. Bower clapped him on the back. "Nonsense, Leon. I believe in you. I'll provide you with the right attire to fit in with them. It'll be a valuable experience for you." Leonard nodded, trying to quiet the apprehension swirling in his mind.

Over the next few days, Leon found himself in a world entirely different from the one he knew. The rich kids exuded confidence and self-assuredness, while Leon struggled to keep up. They spent money like it was nothing, purchasing the latest ski gear and indulging in extravagant meals. "Come on, Leon! Live a little!" one of the rich kids, Max, exclaimed, tossing an expensive scarf to him. Leon caught the scarf awkwardly, feeling a mixture of excitement and guilt. "I... I can't afford this," he stammered. "Nonsense! It's on the house," Max said with a carefree laugh.

As the days passed, Leon found himself caught up in the whirlwind of luxury and excess. He joined the rich kids on the slopes, where they whooped and hollered as they carved through the powdery snow. "Woo-hoo!" Max shouted, spraying snow as he skidded to a stop. Leon laughed in exhilaration, his initial discomfort fading into the background. The evenings were a blur of indulgence, with the rich kids popping champagne corks and reveling in the lively après-ski scene. "This is the life, isn't it, Leon?" Max grinned, clinking his glass against Leon's. Leon hesitated for a moment before raising his glass. "Yeah, it's... it's incredible."

However, as the winter holidays drew to a close, a sense of unease gnawed at Leon. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was deceiving the rich kids. On the final night, as they sat in the hotel's lavish lounge, Leon finally spoke up. "I have to tell you something. I was... I was hired to encourage you all to spend more money." The rich kids exchanged surprised glances before bursting into laughter. "Seriously? That's hilarious!" Max exclaimed, shaking his head. "We knew that, Leon," another rich kid, Emma, said with a chuckle. "In fact, that was the whole point." Confusion clouded Leon's features. "What do you mean?" "We've been looking for an heir to our uncle's fortune, and we believe you're the right fit," Max explained, his eyes glinting with sincerity. Leon's jaw dropped in disbelief. "Wait, what? I don't understand." Emma leaned in, her voice soft. "We've been grooming you to become one of us, Leon. You're more than just an acquaintance. You're family now."

As the truth sank in, Leon felt a whirlwind of emotions surging through him. He had gone from a hesitant hotel apprentice to being welcomed into a world he never imagined belonged to him. With the winter holidays coming to an end, Leon made a life-changing decision. He chose to leave his role as a hotel apprentice and enroll in the prestigious boarding school where the rich kids studied.

Over the coming months, Leon embraced his new lifestyle, immersing himself in the world of the wealthy. He traded his modest clothing for designer outfits, and his once-shy demeanor gave way to a newfound confidence. When the next winter holiday arrived, Leon returned to the hotel with his friends, the gap between them bridged by shared experiences and a bond that transcended social status.

"Leon! Pass the champagne!" Max called out, and Leon obliged with a grin, reveling in the camaraderie that now defined their relationship. As they laughed and toasted to their friendship, Leon couldn't help but marvel at how far he had come. The rich kids no longer saw him as an outsider but as one of their own. The extravagance and merriment continued throughout their stay, and the hotel buzzed with the infectious energy of youth and affluence. "This is the life," Leon thought, his heart brimming with gratitude for the unexpected turn his life had taken. With each passing day, Leon felt a growing sense of belonging, a feeling that had eluded him for so long. On the last night of their stay, as they gathered for an extravagant farewell dinner, Leon looked around at his friends, now his family, and a surge of overwhelming emotion washed over him. "Thank you, all of you," Leon said, his voice filled with sincerity. "For everything." The rich kids raised their glasses, their laughter ringing through the opulent dining hall. "To Leon, our brother in arms!" they cheered, their voices blending in perfect harmony. Leon smiled, his eyes shining with contentment as he basked in the warmth of acceptance and friendship. No one would ever guess that he had once been a timid hotel apprentice, for now, he stood tall and proud among the rich kids, a testament to the remarkable transformation that had taken place.

[verai-marcel]

Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x Female Reader, Part 14 of ?)

Summary, Notes, Tags, & Part 1 are here.

Act I - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Act II - Part 13

AO3 Link is here, my dear.

Word Count: 2938

————————————

Act II, Chapter 2 - The Lantern

The Shadow Cursed Lands didn’t have a day-night cycle, at least, not one that penetrated through the dark mist that hid the sky. But you could almost feel dawn coming in your bones, and slowly pushed yourself up.

You were surprised to see Astarion sitting beside you, as if he was waiting for you. You reached out and touched his arm.

…hungry…

“Do you need a bite?”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, but he blinked it away as he nodded. “If you don’t mind. It’s… hard to find a meal out there that isn’t tainted by the curse.”

You mean impossible, after what Wyll and Karlach told us yesterday. “Of course, I understand.” You tipped your head to give him better access to your neck.

He looked at your neck for a moment, then his eyes wandered down to your arm. He slowly reached for your hand and brought your wrist up to his lips. “May I try a different spot?” he asked. You could feel his mouth moving against your skin, his warm breath tickling you. His scarlet eyes looked up at you, so big and entreating.

You nodded. Cheater. You stole that look from Owly when he’s begging for treats.

Astarion smiled before he closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and bit down gently, his mouth covering your wound as he drank. It stung, and you could feel his hunger through his touch, but it wasn’t as intense as it had been. You didn’t think he wasn’t shielding, just… fainter. Also entwined in his emotions was something close to comfort, as if he felt… safe. So you let him drink, and drink, until you started to feel a bit woozy.

Your voice came out in a light gasp. “Astarion—”

He immediately released you, but continued to hold your hand in his. To your surprise, he pulled out a small vial, popped the cork, and dripped a few drops of red liquid onto your wound. Your skin drank up the soothing liquid, closing the wound quickly. 

A healing potion?

You looked up at him. You had always made a potion during the day and healed yourself. You never asked anyone to heal you; after all, it was easy enough to make a basic potion. You could make those all day with your eyes closed. But for him to think of it on his own…

“Wouldn’t want you getting scars on your pretty little wrist,” he said, letting go of your hand. He closed the vial and put it away before getting up and giving you a slight bow. “Thank you, my dear.”

As he turned to walk away, you had a feeling he was pulling away from you in other ways as well. “Astarion.”

“Hm?”

You got up and touched his hand. Shit, his mental shield is back up. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I am. You just fed me, after all.”

You stared at him, but his facade was perfect. No cracks to find. You let go of his hand and patted his arm. “Alright. Just… let me know if you need anything. Please.”

He stared at you for a moment longer before he reached out and touched your ear, tracing the curve of it up to the pointed tip before letting you go. “You’ll be the first to know.”

You nodded and watched him walk away, but it felt like with each step, all the distance you had traversed to get closer to him was being undone.

What did I do? And how do I fix it?

***

The companions left in the morning, leaving you at camp with Withers, Scratch, and Owly. 

You spent the morning helping out in the inn, cleaning and cooking. For your help, you were given some of the ingredients and alchemical supplies for your own camp. With a real kitchen, you could bake some pies with a real crust, which you took back to the campsite to reheat later when the party returned…

Except that when you arrived back at camp, they were already sitting around the fire, warming their hands and discussing what to do with the strange lantern in their hands.

Your seal tingled as you looked at the lantern, and it felt different from most of the other tingles you had felt before. It was almost humming, like it was happy.

“There she is,” Karlach said happily as you came up to them with a tray full of food. “That looks amazin’!”

“I thought you'd be gone longer,” you said, surprised to see them back so soon. “Got shepherd's pies and apple hand pies for dessert,” you added as you handed out everyone’s portions.

They explained that their plans were diverted when a group of Harpers asked if they could help ambush a group of the Absolute cultists with the hopes of stealing a moonlantern. Not that they needed it, since Isobel had blessed them, but anything to decrease the enemy's ability to mobilize was worth doing.

As you handed the food to Gale, he set the lantern aside. Out of curiosity, you moved closer and took a better look. Your seal warmed. Putting your hand up to the lantern’s glass, you sensed something. Something… sentient.

“Hello?” you said to the lantern.

Everyone looked at you like you had lost your mind.

A small voice replied, sounding exhausted and weak. “Finally, someone with sense.”

You peered into the bright light and saw the owner of the voice. A pixie.

Pixies will do as they will. They play fair, but only by their rules. Do not seek to parlay with them using the ethics of a mortal. Consider the mindset of a petty being who values only freedom and is entertained only by novelty.

Your father’s lesson from so long ago suddenly came to the forefront of your mind.

“Oh please, oh golly, me oh my, you must release me or I’ll die!”

After her explanation of her circumstances, Wyll and Karlach felt bad for her. They had no need for the lantern at this time. And you didn’t feel right, letting the pixie remain trapped inside.

You carefully opened the cage. The little fey creature zipped out and spewed a litany of curses.

“Did me a good turn there, didn’t you,” she finally said after her rant was done. “What do I owe you?”

Never turn down a gift from a fey. But never ask for too much. Only ask for just enough.

Your father’s lessons were just as confusing today as they were when you had first learned them. 

While you thought of what to ask for, the fey flew in close to stare at you. “You seem familiar,” she said.

You shrugged. “I just have a very generic face,” you replied. She flitted about, looking at you from different angles.

“I can’t place it. Maybe I’ve just forgotten it,” she finally said. “So tell me what I owe, so I can finally go!”

“Perhaps you should tell us what’s on offer,” Astarion said.

Godsdammit, why did he have to say something!

Before you could repair this conversation, the pixie replied. “Honey, I’ll shake your world, that’s for sure.” She conjured a filigree bell, silver and delicate. “Here. Give this bell a shake, speak the magic words, and you’ll get what you’ve earned.”

You held out your hand to accept the gift, but you had no intention of using it.

“Protection from the shadow curse, what more could a dingus want? You’re welcome!”

You watched the purple pixie fly off, and let out a sigh of relief. So anxious about dealing with the fey, you hadn’t realized how tense your muscles were until you sat down, your limbs feeling like jelly. “Gods, she could have cursed us for saying the wrong thing.”

“She’d put a sailor to shame with that mouth,” Gale commented. “Well, it was good of you to release her anyway.” He bent down to look at the strange bell in your hand. “At least now we have a backup in case Isobel’s blessing wears off.”

You stared at the bell. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch when dealing with pixies. “I don’t think you should rely on it. It might make you worse off.”

Astarion deftly took it out of your hand and pocketed it. “Well, we won’t know until we do, hm?”

You glared at him, your unease and worry radiating off you in waves. “Just… Just be careful if you use it.”

The meal continued, and you realized two things. One, Astarion wasn't going to be able to eat if all the wildlife around was shadow cursed. Two, the only person willing to feed him… was probably you. 

You finished your meal quickly and caught Astarion's eyes before getting up and sitting next to him. 

“Hungry?” you asked as you held out your wrist to him.

You could feel everyone's eyes on you, but you kept your gaze squarely on Astarion. 

He gently took your hand and lifted your wrist to his mouth. He kept his eyes only on you while he was biting down, drinking casually from your vein as if he did this all the time in public.

The group eventually began talking again, ignoring the two of you, and you were fine with that. In fact, that had partially been your plan, to normalize his diet amongst the others. Then it would be much easier to feed him whenever he needed it. 

When he was done, he smiled at you, licking a bit of blood from his bottom lip. “Thank you for the meal, my dear.”

You smiled back, hiding the fact that you felt a bit weak. You weren’t paying attention, so he took quite a bit of your blood this time. “You're welcome.” Slowly getting up to your feet, you started to step away when you felt yourself stumble.

Immediately Astarion was there, supporting you. He held out his arm like a gentleman and escorted you away from the campfire to the potions stash, where you pulled out a healing potion and dribbled a bit on your wrist. 

“Shadowheart could heal you, you know.”

“I know, but she has limited energy for spells. If you all are about to head out again, I don't want to take away from that.”

“It'd just be a little bit—”

“Not a single bit,” you interrupted. “If something happened and she needed every ounce of energy to cast spells and she couldn't because she had to heal me, I couldn't…” You shook your head. “I couldn't bear the guilt.”

He looked at you, frowning.

“I’ll be fine,” you insisted.

“I know,” he said, sniffing slightly. “I’m just being practical.”

You set the slightly used potion to one side. “So am I. No sense using magic when a potion and some rest will heal me just fine.”

He shrugged, but he still eyed you as if you were being stubborn. Which you were, but you made your point. The two of you returned to the campfire and made no further mention of it.

After their meal and a short rest, the party set off again to the Towers. You completed your chores around the camp and went back to the inn to help with any tasks to keep yourself busy.

As you stepped inside, you were surprised to see that Volo was sitting at the bar, interviewing a tiefling and writing notes.

You tried to make a wide turn around him, but he caught you as you were making your way to the kitchen.

“Ah, there you are!”

Shit. You plastered on a fake smile. “Volo, how good to see you. What brings you out here?”

He told you some grandiose tale about how he was following the tieflings to record their tales, but got waylaid by some Zhentarim mercenaries, and managed to find his way here after escaping their grasp.

You swallowed. The Zhents? Fuck.

“So… are you staying here, then?” the bard asked. 

“Not for too much longer.” I hope.

“Well, if it isn’t much of an imposition—”

It is, you ninny.

“—I was hoping to share your campfire for a meal and catch up on your adventures. Your companions are very interesting people!”

“I’ll have to ask them,” you said, slowly backing away. “They’re usually very tired after a day of fighting the evil shadows and the undead.”

“Of course, of course. Just let them know that I promise to write their deeds as truthfully as I can, so the world can know what good they’ve done!”

About as truthfully as a con man. “I’ll let them know,” you said as you turned and quickly walked away, nearly bumping into Jaheira.

“Careful there,” she said, her eyes flickering between you and Volo. “Escaping?”

You nodded. 

“Good choice,” she muttered as she stepped aside, letting you pass, and yet you could feel her scrutinizing gaze on you until you stepped out of the building.

Outside, you heard the clang of a hammer working metal on an anvil. Spotting Dammon, who you had met at the grove, you headed over to him. 

“It’s good to see you,” he said, smiling. “Have any more random things to trade?”

You smiled back, remembering the first time you had met him. 

“What is this?” Dammon stared at the pile of iron ingots and rusty weapons. 

“Well…” You shrugged. “Sometimes the others find random things off their enemies and bring them back. Not sure what they were planning on doing with them, but I figure it'd be better off in your hands than ours.” You leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “And I think some of them are just pack rats, you know what I mean?”

Dammon finally laughed, and you realized that he was quite charming when he smiled. “I can understand. Well, I don’t have much gold to trade you for these, but how about I make up the difference another time.”

You held out your gloved hand. “Deal.”

You thought about the pile of loot and suddenly remembered something. “Actually, I do,” you said. “They haven’t stopped their hoarding habits. They picked up some chunks of dark metal with red veins. Any idea what this is?”

Dammon’s eyes brightened. “That sounds like infernal iron… Not sure where your friends got it from. It's quite rare too.”

Infernal… “Have… have you heard of an infernal engine?”

He nodded. You proceeded to explain what Karlach had told you, though you weren’t sure if you relayed everything properly.

“Interesting. Bring her here, I’d like to take a look. Oh, and keep the iron safe, don’t let anyone else take it.”

“Of course. Thank you, Dammon.”

You returned to camp, grabbed the iron from the traveling chest and shoved it into the bottom of your pack for safekeeping, and spent the rest of your time preparing food for the party’s return and practicing some of your spells that required dance.

At least the alarm bell will give me a warning so I can stop before they get here.

A few more hours passed before the others returned. You served them supper and listened as they discussed the afternoon’s misadventure. On their way to Moonrise, they got waylaid by some crazy woman dressed in gold, and by the time they managed to defeat her and all of her minions, they were exhausted. They planned to carry on tomorrow, heading into the Tower to see if they could rescue the missing tieflings and gnomes before exploring the rest of the abandoned town for more clues on their current plight.

After the meal, you went straight to Karlach to have a quick word.

“Did you know that Dammon, from the Grove, is here?”

“Oh? I must have just missed him.”

“I talked to him for a bit. He said he could help you with your engine.”

You led Karlach to your pack and gave her the infernal iron you had hidden away. “Look out for any metal that looks like this, it's what he needs.”

She took the bundle from you with a grateful smile. “You're the best. You think he’s still around?” 

You nodded. “Probably.”

“Aces!” Excitedly turning to leave, she paused and turned back to you. “You want to come with?” 

“Of course!”

As the two of you took the path over to Dammon's forge, she told you a bit about her life in Baldur's Gate. You asked her questions, keeping her attention focused on herself and preventing her from asking any questions about you. 

The blacksmith was hammering away at some armor when the two of you arrived. After a brief conversation, he leaned in to listen to her heart. 

You hid a smile as you watched Karlach shyly smile down at the top of his head. 

Aw, cute. 

Karlach handed him the bundle of iron. “Will this be enough?”

He weighed the bundle in his hands. “I think so. Come back to me tomorrow, I'll let you know. But if you see any more out there, grab it, just in case.”

As the two of you walked back to camp, Karlach was brimming with energy. 

“Can you imagine? I might be able to hug people come tomorrow!” 

“Ah, well, don't get your hopes up too high, you might still need to get more iron…”

“C’mon, don't rain on my parade. You're starting to sound like Gale.”

You snorted. “Mr ‘abundance of caution’? Please, I'm nowhere near his level.”

“I know, especially after the mushroom incident.”

You covered your face with both hands. “Can we please not bring that up again.”

Her laughter followed you all the way back to camp.

---------------------------------

Chapter End Notes: Sorry fam, we’re back to the shorter chapters for now, but I wanted to get something out to y’all this week. A bit of character relationship development this time around.

Tag list: @numblytemporary @xalphafox @avitute

[siena-sevenwits]

"Rags"

Noemie and the Gangle sat cross legged on the saint’s stained-glass eye. Noemie sat on the pupil, preparing the rags and oil. The Gangle sat on the tear duct, braiding and unbraiding his hair nervously. 

The thirty-foot face to which the eye presumably belonged loomed over them, dominating the cathedral facade. Even though Blessed Aurie had a sweet smile, the empty eyehole made her unnerving. She winked over the city of Morceaux, like a one-eyed demigoddess of old rather than a respectable saint you named streets and colleges for. It wasn’t the nicest feeling to have such a saint looking at you when you were preparing to set someone on fire.

Besides, it felt a bit undevout to sit on her eye. But there was nowhere else to sit. Nowhere except the carpenter’s scaffolding that hugged the cathedral, and rain had turned the platform slimy. Noemie couldn’t risk smearing her black and purple juggling costume. Not right before she was to meet the Consul. The eye was cold and slick with damp, but it had been carefully laid on a piece of canvas at the end of the scaffolding, and seemed clean. 

“Gives a new meaning to ‘glass eye,’ don’t it?” the Gangle said, his newly changed voice cracking a little. “Why do you suppose they got rid of her eye? Just to stick it to the priests? Or to give people the creeps?”

“Repairs, probably.” Noemie screwed up the end of the rag and squeezed it down the oil bottle neck. “I think this was one of the buildings they smashed up a few years ago. Maybe they’re just getting around to it now.” She turned the rag a couple of times to better soak it, and pulled it free to add to the pile.

“You’re gonna need to get ‘em wetter.” He prodded one of the wads.

“It’s enough. We’re only trying to set one person on fire, not the whole bloody world.”

The Gangle shrugged. “We’d be a sight toastier, at least.”

Noemie stuffed in another rag, and turned the bottle upside down, just for a moment. The level was getting a bit low. “The point is we burn her clothes a little, then save her. I’ve not got time to save the whole world.”

“It’d be a pretty good way to catch the consul’s eye.”

Noemie corked the bottle firmly, and thrust it into his hands. She pulled herself to her feet by the scaffold’s side rail. “I’m headed down. Watch for my signal. I’ll get as near the stage as I can. When you see me uncover my head, lob the first rag down, and keep at it till one of the kids catches.”

The Gangle spun the bottle on his open palm, staring at it mesmerically. “The cloths are gonna burn out before they hit the ground. I know a better way...”

But she was already laddering down the side, just as the first haunting music sounded from somewhere backstage of the market street.

The Gangle stared up at the dark hole meant for Blessed Aurie's eye. He oughtn't feel they were watched. Quite the opposite.

But he did feel it.

[alrightbuckaroo]

Work is Published Wednesday

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I'm telepathically sending you all little candy hearts that say (Be You)tiful. Thanks for the tags @heartstringsduet, @thisbuildinghasfeelings, @sznofthesticks, @strandnreyes and @paperstorm for the tags! Going to fudge the lines and share something from the Carlos character study, tender eyes that shine, that's up on ao3 now!

Dr. Ortiz notices, well, Carlos thinks she notices just about everything; but in that moment, she notices the flex of his fist, and the way he’s trying to maintain a facade of control. “You’re angry.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Yes, I would,” Dr. Ortiz answers, honestly. Carlos knows he should stop looking for validation for how he feels, but he can’t deny that it feels nice. Anger isn’t a place that’s a room built for one, instead, it’s a space for all to inhabit. “That said, I would also be sad.”

Dr. Ortiz cocks her head slightly, examining Carlos and waiting until the breach in his armor is made more apparent. Her eyes clock the way his fist starts to unfurl just slightly and says, “And you should be sad. You should allow yourself to be sad, Carlos.”  

Carlos knows that Dr. Ortiz is right. He’s been attending sessions with her for too long to know she’s right, even if he doesn't want to hear it. He knows that deep down, everything she’s saying makes sense. Carlos has always been known for his rationale; his logical approach to things. He’s methodical, meticulous and he’s always been known to keep his composure.

Until now, when an unprecedented tragedy has warped his very being.

Now, all sense of composure is being unwound, and things that make sense suddenly seem like nothing more than a cork meant to bottle up his rage. Well, a cork can only contain so much pressure before it eventually has to pop.

“You know it wasn’t just me that lost someone, right?” Carlos asks Dr. Ortiz, his words acidic and drenched in scathing vexation. “My sisters lost their dad, my mom,” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “My mom lost her husband. Why are you trying to make this about me?”

“Because you aren’t,” Dr. Ortiz answers and if this was chess, Dr. Ortiz has just proclaimed, ‘check’.

no pressure tagging: @reyesstrand, @carlos-in-glasses, @carlos-tk, @theghostofashton, @thebumblecee, @orchidscript, @three-drink-amy, @lightningboltreader, @freneticfloetry, @ambiguouspenny, @bonheur-cafe, @basilsunrise, @whatsintheboxmh, @welcometololaland, @rmd-writes, @louis-ii-reyes-strand, @never-blooms, @sanjuwrites, @your-catfish-friend, @lemonlyman-dotcom, and @herefortarlos :)

[real-total-drama-takes]

I have a red-string cork board in my brain dedicated to why MK and Julia WILL form an alliance. The main points being:

they both explicitly say they're glad they didn't make any friends

they both relied on a facade in the first half of the first season and neither of them can rely on that facade the second time around

Both probably would think the other could be easily played and that they can throw the other under the bus any time they wanted.

their interactions would be funny.

the confession part of this is that if it does happen I'll be unbearable about how I predicted it and if it doesn't happen I'll say it was a dumb-ass theory anyway.

.

[silentwriting]

Poem in Progress

I hate myself

You could tell through the smoke 

In the dim lights

Drink upon drink 

Starting with vodka and redbull

Ending in jack and coke 

It's too big to be cramped

But there is no air in the room

Just suffocating on social presence 

Dancing all alone

Trying my hardest to look cool 

I think if I were you

I wouldn't even be here 

But the sun cannot be the moon 

Heavy clouds will block  the light

Yet the sun will always rise and set

And the moon will wane and wax

Just as predictable as a ticking clock

We had now met 

And cursed forever more 

Maybe I’ll message you

Maybe I’ll respond

Maybe we’ll wander around Sydney 

Maybe I’ll show you where I work 

When I’m not cramming for uni

Maybe you’ll tell me what you ponder

When you let the facade drop

Maybe in the dark frigid night

Your dry cracked lips

Will find warmth on mine 

But I’m not a girl of maybes 

I am a woman of truth and responsibilities

I have a long distance lover in Canberra

Who is actually now in Newcastle

Drunk on bottles of shiraz

Corked in Barrosa 

And you’ve run away 

From your own tangled mess 

From a girl whose photo is your phone’s background  

Who’s holidaying for a two weeks in Paris

Before going to Singapore

For her sister’s engagement 

“We can be friends”

Neither can remember who said it first

But we can both lie until it ends 

Quell the companionship that we thirst 

Replace relationships we cannot mend 

I lose a part of my beating heart,

In my mind I rewrite rationality,

Everytime I hear you laugh 

And I catch you staring at me

Although Miss Swift, I do critique

With my full heart I silently agree

"What if the way you hold me,

Is actually what's Holy?"

But this is just a lust filled crush,

I can only be entertained for so long,

And pretend I like the artificial flush,

in my soul I feel something is wrong

I crave my love as someone drowning

Drinks in water praying it is air

Once rescued never once stopping

Their admiration for an entity that is always there

My love will come back to Sydney

And reside where he truly belongs

In my arms cuddled next to me

Since the last time I've seen him has been too long

[werdlewrites]

masterlist - ao3 - twitter @ djomamma

summary: The pretty things like frail pieces of jewelry hardly worn, and the childhood memories pinned to cork. Then, the gun so cleverly hidden away in a shoebox beneath layers of old stuffed animals and summer clothes. All of the niceties seemed to only be a facade, now. No longer a girl, but a woman with hate in her heart. warnings: loss and grief, mentions of a gun, hallucinations, mentions of blood wc: 3,588

It all seemed to be an illusion. Standing out beneath the setting sun just at the edge of a clean-cut yard, though dead in color. It’s an out-of-body experience. Unable to feel the winds against her cheeks or the sting they left behind. The sound of passing cars was distant in her ears, rolling along freshly fallen snow. It was so…picture-esque. A perfect two-story home with curtains pulled closed, and the glow from within radiating outward, beckoning her closer. But, Autumn is left frozen to the pavement, watching as silhouettes pass by the window, and wondering of their rushed conversations. A mother works hard to tidy up before the arrival of a guest, giving orders to children to pick up after themselves. Or a father to merely bask before the light of the television, lazy and unbothered by the burst of energy. At least, that’s how Nancy describes him.

Autumn tells herself this is a bad idea, yet she’s unable to turn her back on the Wheeler household. She finds herself unstable and on edge. On a constant lookout for something that wasn’t there - or rather, someone. It’s a restless existence, and she doubts any ability to function normally with a new friend. A friend who knows only a shred of the life she’s lived. Should Autumn be so lucky, the long hours spent under the same roof won’t reveal much more. The teen remains unconvinced. And in a moment of bravery, she pushes herself forward to follow the path up to the front door. A chime of the doorbell rings out, and a hurried, “I’ll get it!” echoes from within.

Nancy arrives at the door with a huff of breath, neatly smoothing down windswept hair as she runs to greet her guest. There’s almost a sigh of relief, eyeing the bag that rests just over her shoulder. “I was wondering if you’d change your mind.”

She had many times.

“Well, come in. Let’s get the painful introductions out of the way,” the girl says with a laugh, stepping aside to give room for her friend.

Almost instantly, you can pick up on the clank of silverware against dishes. Beneath it, the scattered voices from a television nearby. But as the door falls shut, the cooking is abandoned and who she believes to be Nancy’s mother, makes her way around the corner with a curious glint in her eye. “So, you’re Autumn,” Karen states with a pleasant smile.

Timidly, the girl raises a hand. “Guilty.”

Karen takes her in the silence. It’s brief, but it feels like it lasts a lifetime. The shift from her curiosity to momentary judgment. Not out of hatred, but rather, a wonder as to how someone like Nancy could befriend someone so vastly different than herself. But, her daughter is kind and in the end, Karen is the same. Warm and inviting as her smile soon glows and lights up the room.

“Happy Birthday,” she says under a hushed breath as if to keep a secret. “Nancy told me. I know it’s not actually your birthday, but, it counts.” Karen soon sets the two teenagers free after her daughter insists on providing the grand tour, though pausing as they stand just at the entryway of the living room. Ted has his feet kicked up high, glasses set alight by the pictures his gaze remains focused on. Autumn takes a step forward to introduce herself out of politeness, but her friend takes firm hold of her arm to keep her back. “Don’t bother,” she grumbles with a distasteful scowl on her lips. “He won’t remember your name. Doesn’t care enough to.”

Autumn had always pictured the Wheeler’s as a perfect, cookie-cutter family. How else could they raise an angel wearing soft sweaters and an innocent smile? But the dream is tainted as she describes her family. Then, it’s stomped out entirely as she all but drags the teen away to avoid the embarrassment. She talks about the dinner her mother is preparing as they wander the main level, gesturing to various spaces before making their way up the stairs. The guest is far too busy taking it all in. Gaze locked on the family portraits hung throughout the halls, luring out the devil inside as he creates a moment of envy to darken her spirits. But his presence is forced back into the shadows as she lets a smile shine, even a laugh at something Nancy rambles about. And in a flash, the world seems to stand still as a familiar, lanky boy nearly collides with her in his haste. He’s thrown his door wide open, face red and clearly on a mission until he meets her startled eyes. Her fingers pry away from the strap of her bag and extend outwards, a small gesture of acknowledgment as things slowly slip into unease.

Mike’s face shifts. Once full of anger or sadness, now transformed into something…different. It’s a mixture of surprise and curiosity. Maybe even a shred of misplaced bitterness. Dark eyes scan her up and down with care before she takes note of his hurt. It’s buried just beneath the surface. A mound of fresh dirt is pushed over his own monsters, letting them choke on the soil as he crams them all down into the depths to be forgotten. But their will is strong, and claws sharp as knives. They carve out tunnels to slip through, rising like bile in his throat the longer their connection remains. They want to scream. They want to hurt. Even so, her lips part to say “hello” but he’s already pushing past her. Mike casts a glance over his shoulder before making his way toward the same steps they’ve climbed.

“Don’t mind him,” his sister says with a heavy sigh, arms crossed just over her chest. “He’s lost someone, too.”

Autumn tries to push through the hazy memory. Searching for mentions through school or inked articles in the paper regarding another tragedy. But it all seems to come up blank and her confusion only grows. Will had come home and his face was still seen in print. A town unable to grasp this bizarre turn of events. Already beyond the phases of mourning - if they ever had.

“Y’know that girl Jonathan mentioned? Back at his house?” She begins. Pulling in the other girl's attention, shaking away the weight of painful sympathy as her brother works his way through grief. “They were close. Now that she’s gone, it’s like reliving Will’s disappearance all over again.”

Another look is spared in his direction, finding the space where he once was now empty. But his pain lingered - seeping into the old paint of the home. She can hear Karen speak kindly to him, only to be left in the disappointing silence. The ache in his chest was too powerful to conjure up a response. Autumn is no stranger to pain. But she can’t pretend to understand just how deep a child's heartbreak was, and all it did to his mind and spirit. Losing so much in a matter of weeks. A never-ending cycle of sadness. One after the other, the reaper takes claim.

Or was it something else?

“How did she-?” Autumn begins to ask. Mind now wandering down the darkened path where that girl once sat. Her pink dress torn and dirtied with dried leaves hung from the coat. She had reached out. Or maybe the intricate web sewn through the universe had somehow pulled her in, binding them both until the silk snapped under pressure. It’s equally intriguing as it is devastating. To know such a sweet face could have belonged to someone the boy needed. Now, Autumn was unsure just how far she would need to reach out to find those severed strands. If only just to get a glimpse.

“We don’t really know. And I’m sure that makes it worse.” Nancy interrupts with a small shrug. “Come on. You can leave your things in my room.”

Together, they move down the hall. Following after the glow of soft light pouring out from a cracked door. And as she pushes past, her vision is filled with perfection and innocence. Pastel colors fill the room from down at the baseboards to the very edge of the wall. Stripes and bold patterns fill the space, yet somehow remain charming and very much Nancy. It's nothing surprising, though there's a smile of amusement seen beneath the warm lighting. It falters momentarily as she takes notice of a familiar face smiling back at her. Colorless yet beaming with vibrance. Autumn makes her way toward the headboard, closing in on the man, and with a look of offense, she jabs her finger against the shining surface.

“Tom Cruise is going t'watch me sleep?” she questions with a narrowed look.

Nancy seems to quickly grow embarrassed. Icy skin is now flushed and joy is long gone as she lunges forward with eager hands. It's something she's lived with - grown used to. The teenager hardly knows that he's there until his presence is called out, and now she seeks to stow it away. Unfortunately for her, Autumn is quick to interrupt. Grabbing at her wrists while the girl makes attempts to break free and hide a celebrity crush behind the dresser.

“”Stop, stop!” She cries out in a fit of laughter. “Tom can stay. I like him there.”

Her friend seems uncertain for a moment. Eyes fixated on her as if waiting to see the real truth behind teasing words. But Autumn holds steady and remains genuine. Patting down the girl's hands to rest at her sides before the bag slung over her shoulder is discarded on the carpeted floor. She didn't know what to bring, at first. Hours spent contemplating what to stuff inside of the empty bag, if anything at all. She hadn’t had a “sleepover” in years - especially in someone else’s home. Autumn had even called Nancy for instructions on what to bring, and she was none too helpful.

In the end, it was Hopper she turned to in a moment of distress. Her mind was blank from anxiety as he made a short list of things to bring. Autumn had even asked about medication. Being forced away from the house for a near 24 hours, there was anticipation for a rush of pain to come sweeping in without warning. But he encourages her to try. Saying, “You’ve done so well without it,” and she trusts him enough to find strength in his words. Unknowing every pill had been hidden away from her sight.

It’s not long before her mother calls up the winding steps, effectively pulling the girls away from the little things that had shown who Nancy once was. The pretty things like frail pieces of jewelry hardly worn, and the childhood memories pinned to cork. Then, the gun so cleverly hidden away in a shoebox beneath layers of old stuffed animals and summer clothes. All of the niceties seemed to only be a facade, now. No longer a girl, but a woman with hate in her heart.

At the dinner table, things are about as painful as the girl had warned Autumn of. Karen keeps the conversation flowing after every monotone remark is made by Ted. Unimpressed and unbothered by life. The guest can spot the twitch of skin just beneath her brown eyes and a forced smile as she swallows her distaste for the man she’s married. Her son sits across from Autumn, just as silent as he had been upon their close encounter. She swears that even for the faintest of moments, she can catch his near-black eyes glaring before falling back to his plate. The discomfort between them was like a barricade of electricity. Flaying her alive while the others bask in the stench of death. She can’t make sense of its source.

“So, Autumn,” Karen begins. “I don’t think I’ve met your parents before. What do they do?”

The question comes just as a fork full of asparagus enters her mouth. A sudden gasp of surprise sends her into a choking fit with watering eyes. “S-sorry,” she mutters through the struggle. Her thoughts are spiraling, hearing Hopper’s voice as they go over the plan in preparation for this moment. Something concrete, and easy to believe as they build up the story for the climax. “He works in management at a factory just out of town-”

“Ah,” Ted chimes in, luring in all curious eyes his way. “A respectable and hardworking man. I like him already.”

Karen is quick to steer the conversation back, noting the look of discomfort on the girl's face. “And what about your mother?”

“Mom,” Nancy warns in a hushed tone, fingers wrapped tight enough around the glass it poses a threat of shattering.

“No, no. It’s fine.” Autumn is waving away the bitterness. Finding this topic easy to speak on, yet curious about how Nancy seemed so sensitive to it. It wasn’t something she had given willingly. It had never become a point of interest between the two. Yet somehow, through either Steve or Jonathan, she knew of the abandonment. “She left when I was just a baby. It’s just been me and him.”

Hopper lingers in the shadows of her mind. Kindness in blue eyes as he uses words of encouragement to lay a path of lies, so that everyone may follow without question. “Tell them,” he says. “Make them believe it.”

“Up until now, anyway,” she adds with a trembling smile. The fork continues to stab aimlessly at her plate, pushing the food back and forth, anticipating the interrogation to come.

“What d’you mean?” The change in tone is enough to pull in the focus of all others, safe for Holly. Even Ted seems intrigued as he sets down his utensils.

“W-Well, he, uh,” Fire is rising from the ground up. Lava poured in to scorch the earth and leave her panicked with sweat on her brow. She wonders if they’ll see right through her, or ask the questions she hadn’t planned for. But Autumn pushes on. “He found a woman he really likes, I guess. Been datin’ for a while.” Her stare is averted to avoid piercing blues. Crystal-clear ocean flooding in to douse the flames and see through the smoke - the veil.

“Oh, that must be hard,” Karen replies with a small sigh. “Being a single parent isn’t an easy task. But seeing him with another woman isn’t easy, either. D’you like her, at least?” Her tone is sympathetic and soft, making the girl feel guilty.

Autumn swallows hard. A lump in her throat begs for forgiveness as she spills the truth out across their table. Instead, a manufactured lie puts all at ease as they eagerly await an answer. “She’s alright,” is her simple reply.

Once their plates are cleaned and the glasses are emptied, Autumn offers to help clean. A gesture of kindness and thanks for giving her not only a space at their table but the comfort of their home for the remainder of the night. Karen is quick to shoo her out of the kitchen with a laugh. Determined to keep a soon-to-be 17-year-old labor-free, but lets her gratitude be known. The girls successfully take over the living room once Ted bids them a goodnight, and together they sprawl out along the couch to enjoy John Travolta and Olivia Newton-Jon as they sing and dance their way across the screen.

As Danny stands over the car, his friends fawning over him, Autumn can’t help but notice the dazed look in Nancy’s eyes. She laughs at her expense, unable to break the connection as she practically reaches through the screen.

“Nance,” Autumn chimes in, luring in a look of surprise as if she’d forgotten her friend was just nearby. “You’ve got a little,” she gestures to the corner of her own mouth, a smile growing as the girl frantically wipes away at her lips, only to find nothing there.

“Oh, shut up,” she bites back with a laugh. “He’s nice t’look at.”

Autumn can only shrug in response, still lost in the bliss of what it was like to have girl time. Genuine, uninterrupted time without the worries of the outside world.

“Not your type?” she questions, earning a roll of the eyes.

“He’s fine,” is all the guest can conjure up as the song progresses, the screen painted a brilliant white with a cherry red car at the center of attention. “I’m more of a Kenickie fan,” she teases. “But, no. None of them are really my type.”

Nancy finds herself intrigued. You could nearly see the seamless motion of gears turning in her head as she sought out questions to ask. Ways to pull the two closer as friends. “Who is?”

A heavy sigh is buried beneath the music, pushing herself further into memories of old school crushes that never looked her way. The stars that scattered along their skin and the blissful smiles worn as they laughed along to jokes. The warmth that radiated before it was forcibly ignored, just to remain composed. It was pure innocence laced with heartache, never knowing what it was like to touch the sun out of fear.

“It’s more the person, and not the looks. Someone kind. A soft place t’land when things get hard.”

The movie ends and the girls find themselves back in her bedroom. Trivial Pursuit lays out before them, and their angered reactions to failed answers are hushed, the laughter dulled to not wake her parents. Conversations are hushed as they rest for the night, just after bickering about where Autumn would sleep. Nancy is kind enough to offer her bed, but the girl politely declines in favor of the floor. Back and forth they go until ultimately, they lay side by side beneath the covers.

Nancy thinks of Barb and the many sleepovers just like this one. Finding enough comfort and trust to rest easily only inches apart. But it’s somewhat new for Autumn - always having at least some space between herself and Steve - even Jonathan. This newfound closeness leaves her heart pounding with excitement, yet gut-twisting and churning with the bitterness of lost time. She could have had this all of those years ago. If only they had stopped turning their noses up at the new, weird kid.

Sleep comes easily for the two of them as they turn away to their sides, filling the room with gentle breaths and occasional murmurs. It’s the first empty, dreamless sleep Autumn has in what feels like a lifetime. There are no faces to stare back at her with sickening grins. No menacing cries of monsters beneath her feet or blood-stained clothes of the graying woman. There’s only blackness.

But that blackness fades into a blur as something pulls her out. Whispers in the corner of her mind. And in such a hazy state, she believes it to be the Wheeler’s and doesn’t question it further as lazy legs carry her out toward the bathroom. She finds the home now eerily quiet outside of the running water. Not a murmur to tickle her senses or the sound of shuffling steps as a body moves across the plush carpet. The sound of her steps are barely audible. The creak of the floorboards beneath slowly fades out until there’s…nothing.

There’s nothing.

Tired eyes pry themselves open with strained force. Weakened hands take hold of weighted curtains to drag along the stage and reveal something new. Something…haunting and unexpected. He stands before her in a once well-kept office. The tall plant is still upright and green in the corner, the paperwork still neatly organized on polished wood. The silver-haired man stands with hands tucked away into pockets, ready with the syringe should she choose to act out. The smile is the same, though it brings far more dread now knowing of his intentions. He steps forward, and she steps back into a wall that shouldn’t have been there. She had been standing in the hallway of the Wheeler’s home - except somehow now, she was hostage to the torment of memories. Once broken and scattered, now piecing themselves together to tell a story she only wishes to remain in tatters.

“Just as I remember.” he begins with a confident smile.

It hits her then. The statement once drowned out from the shock of it all, now settling deep in her bones. Breaking and tearing through muscle and slipping in through her veins like poison. Her mind is rotten and full of hallucinations. The walls at his back flickered in and out to a brilliant white, his name on her lips but left unheard.

He remembers.

A small figure moves through him, creating waves of distortion until her father's office fades out, along with the man just as he takes another step. Pale knuckles rub against darkened eyes, chewed lips mumbling something incoherent as he shuffles along the flooring. And as if sensing that he wasn’t alone, he pauses mere feet from her, hesitantly raising his eyes to take her in. It’s not her presence that’s startling, but more so how she appears to him. A pained expression with fingers wound tight into fists at her sides. He swears just as he spots the blood along her upper lip, that there’s a small whimper of terror. As if she had been trapped within her own body, fighting a war and losing the battle against something unseen

[la-petitmortss]

when: late evening where: charlotte's favorite home in kensington who: charlotte and @asa-m-holland

Charlotte always indulges after a death, particularly those involving so much effort on her part. It's distraction, or perhaps self care - some way to rebuild the facade she sheds each and every time she picks up a knife. Shrouding herself in silk and lace and luxury until she is no longer Death, but the glossy armor that is Charlotte Astor. The knock is expected, but arrives too early - she’s not fully back yet, stuck somewhere in between her two selves. She huffs in irritation, deliberately ignoring the unease that’s plagued her since she landed, or perhaps before that, this building pressure like shaken champagne against a cork. 

“A house call? Aren’t I special?” Lottie gives Asa an almost unnerving smile, then steps back to allow him to enter. “You’ll have to forgive the mess,” there is little, “I only landed a few hours ago, the flight was terrible, thank you for asking,” she hums, voice flighty and distracted - that considerable willpower occupied in keeping the creature of roiling emotion and rage locked inside its gilded cage - ritual now fully interrupted. Charlotte drifts into the kitchen and frowns, pulling out a bottle of champagne. “I suppose this will have to do, would you like a glass?” She finally looks at him again, eyes a touch too bright. “Oh! I got you something!” She beams, then slides the men’s signet ring from her thumb, watching vaguely as it skips and spins across the marble countertop.

[leibal]

Facade Bench is a minimalist bench designed by London-based studio APOHLI. Constructed from a material known for its sustainability, the Facade Bench draws its inspiration from the study of cork and its wide-ranging eco-friendly implications. It borrows its tactile finish from the cork tree’s outermost layer, applying a fine veneer to the bench that lends both aesthetic intrigue and structural support.

[littlelesbinonny]

The Devil’s Den

Chapter 3: In Which Revelations Are Made

You can read this also on Ao3 at:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46831621/chapters/117962293

A paling crest of the sunrise was beginning to appear on the horizon. Alcina would normally be anxious about this but the slate hue of her eyes only admired the brief color before slipping through the side door of Saint Patrick's Old Cathedral. She ascended quickly to the crypts and down the tunnels, passed the large crucifix and into complete darkness.

Several doors and corridors later she stepped foot into the underground city. Hundreds of vampires lived down here; for centuries before she arrived the vampires of New York had moved underground, or to the country - purchasing lavish mansions they converted into strongholds where they could reside without interference from humans, Lycans, of other rogue vampire clans that were hell-bent on warfare.

But the underground cities were truly works of grandeur, art, and impressive workmanship. Had the darkness and ceilings of cavernous earth and stone not been apparent, one would think they were in Olde England, France, Italy, or Spain.

Everything looked as a regular city would. The streets were cobblestone, the dwellings akin to lavish Gothic and Victorian home facades, lamp posts that lined the streets once fueled by fire now replaced with modern electricity. The city went on for miles around, more passageways hidden and leading to neighboring cities all throughout the underground of New York.

Alcina made her way along the cobblestone, ignoring all other vampires and their envious stares. Her manor, which was resided in only by the coven leader, was built into the side of the largest towering vast earthy walls. Ornate and imposing, with a large gated entrance leading to a cobblestone courtyard. The manor itself was made of dark stone, with tall pointed arches that connected to the rock ceiling, intricate carvings decorated the windows and large doorway, and a singular turret on the left side. The courtyard was lined with intricate designs carved into the rock floor. A grand entrance for a grand leader.

Entering the gates with a key they clanged shut and she slipped inside her abode quietly, swiftly, and huffed out a deep breath.

She never asked to be head of this coven, never wished to be a leader, a figurehead, finding ruling and seeing over her own kind to be dull and tiresome. But, if Mother Miranda saw something fit, by the gods and all undead, it was done.

Another clipped huff and Alcina began to remove her long black leather gloves, tucking them into the alcove just inside the foyer next to the coat hooks. As she was unbuckling the thick belt of her jacket about her cinched waist she felt her daughter drift into the room before she cleared her throat.

"Mother, unde ai fost?"

(Mother, where have you been?)

Alcina didn't look up. Continuing to unbutton the form fitting article, hanging it, and fiddling with the soft fabric of her black turtleneck she walked passed her nonchalantly, "Am fost afară, Cassandra," (I was out, Cassandra) she replied straightening her back and smoothing the front of her blouse.

Cassandra was right on her heels, pulling her ash grey robe around her body, "Mother... where is the human?"

As if the question hadn't been spoken Alcina rounded the corner down the dark hallway into the kitchen. It was large and open, decorated with mahogany wood, black furnishings, and gold accents everywhere. Opening one of the dark cabinets she reached for a wine glass, crossed the floor to a large wine cabinet and plucked a bottle. Popped the cork. Poured the glass, and sipped quietly.

"Mother." Cassandra repeated coming into her personal space, eager eyes dripping with concern and anger up at the taller woman.

"It is none of your concern," she finally stated latching her gaze, "she is gone. It is taken care of."

With a short shake of her head Cassandra's emotions settled more on the side of worry, "It's daybreak. You never stay out this long. Where were you?"

Alcina's eyes narrowed exceptionally thin, her lips pursuing the same thinness. Swallowing the wine she sucked in a breath through her nose and straightened her back even stiffer.

"Mother you could have been caught in the sun, you could have been killed!"

"I am home," she nearly spat, "the sun hadn't even begun to spread its rays, will you please refrain dramatics."

With a much louder clank than intended Alcina set her glass on the dark marble countertop and headed towards her bedchamber.

Cassandra was hot on her trail.

"I haven't seen you take these kinds of risks for years - this isn't like you - what did you do with the girl?!"

With sharp swift movements that would have given a human whiplash, she turned on her heels and came face to face with her daughter, eyes simmering with that golden glow, hands beside her fighting the urge to ball into a fist. Another puff of a breath exited her nose like a taunted bull. But, Alcina didn't lose her temper, she took a steadying breath shortly after and replied calmly, "I'm home. I'm safe. Leave it alone, dragă," as her eyes dwindled back to normalcy a steady hand reached to Cassandra's long brown hair and tucked it behind her ear, placed a delicate kiss to her forehead, and reached for the handle of her bedroom door.

With a blink she was gone behind it, pressing her back against the wood.

What was she going to do? Admit to her daughter she had taken the human home after asking her in a near comatose state to stay? That she was possibly headed down a familiar path that nearly killed her once before? Tempting fate in a masochistic way just to feel something again?

She damn near sneered at herself, perturbed by her own reawakened weakness.

Finally hearing Cassandra walk away from the door Alcina retreated further into her bedchamber.

Unlike the rest of the house her room was decorated with white, gold, red, and minimal black. Ornate and baroque in style, but not over the top. Brighter and more comfortable. Why vampires obsessed with all things dark and drab was beyond her, but she refused to blend in. Ever. Her 6'9" height always helped contribute to that, aside from her breathtaking features and high society personality.

Heading towards her vanity she began removing her pearl earrings, dropping them into a marble box along with a few other loose pieces. Removing her black turtleneck she kicked off her heeled knee high leather boots, unbuttoned her snug black pants, tossing them onto the large four poster bed. Once inside her bathroom she discarded her bra and panties in a hamper not too far from the large white marble bathtub.

As she ran the water she dropped in some oils: Cedar, Sandalwood, and Vanilla. Slipping in with a muted hum of relief she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Flashes of memories dashed through her mind and her brows furrowed.

She could still hear the screams echoing in her mind. The silent rage of Mother Miranda. The tightness in her heart. The hollow pain within her core. All over a human.

‘You're a vampire! What do you need love for?! Find one of our own to love - you weak, petulant fool!’

Alcina could still feel the sting in her cheek from Mother Miranda's hand colliding with her flesh.

‘You disgrace me! How pathetic can you be? Perhaps turning you was a mistake. I saw greatness in you - I saved you! You would be dead without me, dead, in the ground. You have power, so much power, WHY are you wasting it on something so frivolous?! You WILL right this. YOU will be the one to end it. You... will end her.’

Her eyes opened harshly. Slowly breathing composure back into herself she swallowed hard.

Her heart ached so strongly.

Pain.

Pain was something she had always known so well. And it only seemed to escalate when she became a vampire. Everything escalated. Every. Little. Thing. Heightened senses. Unmatched speed and agility. Not to mention overwhelming strength. And insatiable hunger for blood, lust, and over-indulgent rage.

It was her rage that kept so many in their place. Alcina was easily renowned at the most brutal, lethal, and beautifully terrifying vampire of the last several decades. That was why Mother Miranda appointed her to this role. As the many heads of other covens, only those who could withstand her without breaking would be fit to help her rule.

She had proven herself. Many times over.

At great costs.

Eventually slipping beneath the black satin of her sheets, Alcina lay on her back, eyes peering to the tapestry hanging above her. Even in pitch black she could see quite clearly. Sometimes she wished it wasn't so. Sometimes she wished her life was once what it was; quaint, uncomplicated, full of freedom, and short.

Closing her eyes once more a newly familiar face haunted her.

Oh, the fragile beauty of you, sweet pet.

Your face, your scent, the taste of your blood, all a ghost of a lingering torment.

So many beautiful humans had passed through that club. So many beautiful souls sucked dry and tossed out like trash. But you... why you. What was it about you that stabbed through her so viscerally and softly?

One of her many powers, one she wished she didn't have, was to feel something about another, human or not, and know things. Unspoken things. Uncommunicable things. It was why she now had her three daughters. She never was able to express verbally why she saved them and nurtured them as if they were her own. A chance at family she was never able to have. It was just something she knew. Mother Miranda was going to kill them anyway. All her trials and tests after she'd turned them proved not to her liking, so like the wasteful tyrant she was, she was just going to discard them like used parts and start a new. Alcina had begged to keep them. Mother Miranda finally gave in, perplexed at her nonsense.

And now she knew you.

A dangerous connection.

She left you in your bed, wiping your memories of any trace of this night. You would awake none the wiser. It was easiest that way, for the both of you. Well, at least for you.

~

Was she a fool to wander back to you?

Yes.

But she did it anyway. And now a warm smirk graced her lips. A knowing smirk.

A smile of reassurance.

There you were climbing into bed; you seemed calm, tired, as you should have been after what you'd been through the night before.

Alcina gracefully and silently leapt off the banister and crouched down a bit more on your balcony until you finally settled. Rising to her full height when you snuggled into your pillow she leaned against the railing and folded her arms over her chest sinking into the shadow, tonguing her teeth at the hint of happiness she felt looking at you.

She had felt your presence the moment she approached your apartment that evening. You were a bit of a night owl, it amused her. As she scaled the building and perched on the balcony 2 stories above you, she watched you curiously as you lingered, staring, studying your surroundings as she was you.

Another sigh. She would admire you like art in a museum, from far away, never crossing the ropes.

If only she could have left the memories.

If only she could risk another meeting.

If only.

[theirishaesthete]

Tomb to the Unknown

The modest graveyard of Killathy, County Cork contains the remains of a late-medieval church but is dominated by the roofless shell of a large mausoleum, its pedimented facade of limestone ashlar featuring rusticated pilasters on either side of a wide arched opening, access to the interior barred by substantial metal gates (and a great deal of vegetation). The cement-rendered sides and rear of…

[arikos-of-caelid]

"I feel like a damned monster." Godwyn said almost offhandly as he gingerly tended to a weeding deathroot from the outskirts of his new castle in the depths. It's briars sprouting and shedding right off, turning into corpseflies before he and Ariko's very eyes. Observing Godwyn's reaction, this is apparently normal.

"I cannot go anywhere around the Lands Between without people looking at me like I'm a walking corpse. I was reborn from mine highly deformed corpse, but people refuse to grasp that." He lightly twists the root in his hand, watching it as it oozed a dark fluid that emitted a foul gray mist. He takes a vial and collects the fluid.

"I peak up into Leyendell for a minute and a lady screams as she witnesses me. She must've believed she saw a damn ghost." He plugs up the vial with a cork before giving it to Arikos as requested.

"Mine apologies for the rambling. It's very quiet down here, I do not recieveth visitors often." He could feel Arikos might have big news for him, but he wasn't sure if he was ready for it or not.

@deathblightprince (thank you lol)

"...It pains me to hear that." A deep sigh. Arikos fidgets with his perfumer's knife, containing a deathroot mist, preserved for the worst of circumstances, perhaps as a subconscious mirror. He was indeed not ready to share the grim revelation yet. No, though it was inevitable, for now it would wait. "It's far from fair, but it's what they know. It does seem like most of the wisdom of the Golden Order was as superficial as the shining facades of the Royal Capital now, doesn't it? A means to heighten man's fear of what lies unknown, rather than giving them the boldness to face and understand it." Another deep breath.

"...Spoken from experience, of course. I 've been coming to grips with the grim fact that many of those past victims of my work were far from deserving, whatever I might have been told to believe from the ladies of the Fingers since my youth. By emphasizing things more viscerally horrifying without, it is much easier to conceal the horrors hidden within the world they crafted..."

[weatherman667]

Cork Home uses natural patterns for well-being, free A/C (restoration)

Cork is made from bark from a certain tree.  It smashed into pieces, and pressed under steam.  It apparently makes it’s own resin.  This makes it both waterproof and breathable, making a perfect exterior clad for a home.

Ledged up on what’s called an igloo structure that allows natural water flow.  All of the rainwater is kept on side in a basin under ground.

Nature airflow because the southern facade is hotter than the northern one.

Light well outside the master bathroom, giving you natural light while still having full privacy.

Beautiful garden that’s half brick, while still being a beautiful garden.

Deciduous trees on the south to provide shade in the summer, while letting light in during the winter.

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