#dark-door

[escapismsworld]

The Vibrant Doors of Lisbon

[mipmoth]

Imagine them living in some random subway tunnel

[azzydoesstuff]

MACHINE. I had a nightmare. Can I sleep in your room tonight?

[fisher-n-sons]

an italy apartment doorway. for a while this was the life i came home to

[blergarfvader]

Qimir always lets Osha make the moves, gives her a safe space to explore her agency, and of course tries to seduce her to the darkside.

[acecroft]

COSTAS MANDYLOR as Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman in SAW IV (2007)

[oldschoolfrp]

Dungeon doors (David Day for AD&D adventure "Quelkin's Quandary" by Chris Perkins, Dungeon 47, May/June 1994)

[kikker-oma]

Art for Chapter 1 of "Travel Through the Darkness" by @mariasparrow ! (Also happy late birthday🎉)

Hope you like it❤️

[carabas]

On my first playthrough, I had the impression that Lucanis must have broken out of his cell himself before we arrived, that the Venatori he fought when we found him were in the process of recapturing him. I was assuming he'd spent most of his time in the Ossuary in one of the standard small windowless cells.

But now that I actually read the map:

The room we found him in is Lucanis's cell. Before you walk through the door to this room, the label on the map is "High Security".

This suggests some horrible new headcanon options for me!

When you first walk into this room, you see the Venatori using blood magic (presumably, or at least magic that glows red) on that central pillar of... ice? crystal? And then you distract them, and Lucanis breaks through the pillar while the Venatori are focusing on you. (And he kills them all using only his bare hands, as if he doesn't have any knives on him - I think the only reason he does have his weapons and armor is for video game practicality reasons, I think this scene was written and animated as if he doesn't have his gear yet.) So... was the ice/crystal something that the Venatori had conjured just now as a way to restrain him while they did whatever they were doing with their blood magic? Or is the ice/crystal a standard feature of his cell?

Assuming he's not usually kept restrained by magical ice/crystals, if he's usually able to move around within this cell behind the locked door, then that conjures up horrible headcanon option number two, because this room is a platform surrounded by a seemingly bottomless chasm. It is very easy to just walk right off the ledge and fall into the chasm and respawn. And Calivan was convinced that Lucanis was a failure and that Zara would never admit it. And Lucanis has been imprisoned for a year with a demon growing inside him like a sharp hooked claw in his gut, and by the time we found him Calivan was keeping him in a cell that has access to a chasm deep enough to kill you... and of all the forms Spite could potentially take, he manifests as wings. In other words, as something that would not let itself be killed by falling.

[der-gorgonaut]

// enter //

web instagram

by Georg Nickolaus

[escapismsworld]

The Vibrant Doors of Lisbon Part 2

[edwardian-girl-next-door]

Brideshead Revisited, Ep 3 "The Bleak Light of Day" (1981)

Dir. Michael Lindsay-Hogg and Charles Sturridge. Jeremy Irons as Charles Ryder, Anthony Andrews as Sebastian Flyte, Claire Bloom as Lady Marchmain, John Grillo as Mr. Samgrass, and Charles Keating as Rex Mottram.

[grimspirit]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

“Mom, we should get going,” you say as you check your bag.

Your mother sits at the table. It’s cluttered as always. You can see her inhaler amid the mess. Wait, there’s another one. You cross the kitchen, only two steps, and grab both inhalers. You feel the subtle difference between them.

You take both, putting the full one back in the medicine cabinet and the other in the disposal bin. The doctor said the inhalent would help with your mother’s dopamine levels, balances her out a little, but the new treatment only seems to be another symptom of her disease. She hates doing it, she hates all of it, but you can’t blame her for that.

“We can’t be late for the consultation. We’ll be waiting another six months,” you come back to the kitchen.

She looks at you as she wobbles slightly. The tremor is more prominent than before. Each day you notice it more. All the little things changing about her. She’s a bit slower, her words don’t come easy or always clearly, and her mood grows grimmer and grimmer. So does yours.

You grab your purse and the keys. You’ll clean up when you get home. It doesn’t take very long for living to pile up though. Especially when you’re the only one to keep it in order.

Your mother grips the table and stands up. Getting her dressed was a battle already won. Her posture is slightly crooked as she shuffles around the table, “I’m moving.”

You step back, waiting patiently for her to round the table. She grumbles. Your mother was never bright and bubbly but ever since her diagnosis, she’s lost any glimmer of warmth. It’s like she’s living in a fog, just slowly wading through.

You walk down the hall ahead of her and pick out your shoes from the rack. As you kneel to tie your sneakers, she leans on the wall and slides her feet into the orthotic flats. She’s not very old yet. Neither of you expected her to decline so quickly.

You stand and open the door. You back up though the screen door and hold it for her. Her steps get a bit smoother the more she moves around. The permanent scowl sinks into the lines of her face as she comes out onto the porch. You lock the door behind her as she grunts and leans on the railing, stamping down each step to the walkway.

You follow behind her. That’s another problem. The lawn. The old mower broke. You haven’t been able to replace it.

As you trail your mother to the car, she swats you away. Sometimes you try too much for her. You know she must feel helpless. You back up as she sits heavily in the passenger seat and your eyes skim around the neighbourhood. The white sign on the lawn next to yours catches your eye.

You remember the finely dressed woman, her very image on the sign, and how she grimaced at the weeds and grass. If she’s going to sell the property, the neighbours shouldn’t be living in a jungle. You heard her say as much over the phone as she paced back and forth on the porch.

You mother pulls the door shut but it doesn’t click. You give it an extra push to secure it and round the hood. You get in the car and turn the key, rolling down the windows as the early summer morning crowds the tight space. Your mother mutters and wipes her forehead with a shaky hand.

“Let’s just go,” she sneers, “waste of my time...” she bends her arm over the open window, her fingers quivering, “damn doctors said it enough. Nothing they can do. Charlatans.”

“Mom,” you chide gently, “the surgery could help. If you qualify--”

“I heard ya last night,” she snaps. “Just drive.”

You nod and snap your mouth shut. You shift into reverse and back out of the drive. You know better than to talk too much. Your mother never liked hearing anything she didn’t want to hear. Facts are just an attack on her.

You steer down the street slowly, following the curve of the suburban street. The green lawns and white picket fences are palatial at first glance. It’s a 1950s fever dream implanted in the twenty-first century.

Your house is the black stain on an otherwise pristine canvas. The HOA must curse your grandmother for her leaving a perfectly nice home to a pair of beatnicks. You don’t blame them. You’re the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit, leaving a gaping hole in the picture.

The radio crackles on and you wince. Your mother struggles to turn the knob and the volume pendulums up and down. You reach to help her and she smacks your hand, only softly as she has little strength behind it. You retract and grip the wheel, listening to buzzing struggle of her unsteady. You just hope the appointment goes well.

🏠

Your mother hasn’t said much since the appointment. That worries you. What should be good news is just another dark cloud over her.

She sits as she often does; half-reclined in the chair by the window, watching the neighbourhood just outside the pane. She’s just a resentful of the picture-perfect neighbours as she if of everything else. As she is of you.

You tidy the kitchen table as the unsaid dangles in the air. You know better than to bring it up. She barely acknowledged it when the doctor said it. She’s a good candidate for surgery but it isn’t a cure. It will help with the symptoms but not stop them altogether. It’s not good enough for her but it might just be her only hope of relief, even if temporary.

“Bring me a coke,” your mother calls through and you hear the hollow tin clatter of an empty can.

You bring the dirty dishes to the sink and set them beside it. You go to the fridge to grab a red branded can and let the door shut on its own. As you enter the living room, your mother sits forward, the recliner snapping forward with her weight. She leans on and elbow as she squints through the window and cranes over the armrest.

You pick up the old can and put the new one on the small table by the chair. She sits back and takes the Coke, trembling as she struggles to crack the tab. You know better than to help her. The curl in her lip warns you better.

“Someone’s looking at the place next door,” she says.

“Oh?” You move behind her chair and try to the next house. You can only really see the edge of the porch from here. You could open the side window but that would give more than a view of the siding and might be too obvious. “New neighbours.”

“Eh, if it sells. Could do better without these stuck-up prissy bitches running around measuring grass,” she growls of the Home Owners’ Association.

You nod. She’s right. You’ve had to deal with that nosy blonde too many times.

“We’ll see,” she mutters as she finally gets the can open and slurps. “Just hope it’s not another bitch.”

You cross your arms and step closer to the window. You sense movement just beyond your vision and the realtor in her pantsuit comes down the front steps of the neighbouring house. She turns back to face someone you can’t see and speaks to him. Their words are garbled by the barrier of window and wall.

The woman smiles and spins to strut down to the sidewalk. A man follows after, a slow stroll in his long legs. He turns to face the house again and puts his hands in his pockets as he looks up at the facade. His eyes narrow as he considers it.

His gray hair is streaked with remnants of its former blond. If it wasn’t for the colour of his locks, you might not have guessed his age. He’s tall and his shoulders are broad. He’s built finely for any era.

Your mother leans forward again, “heh, lookie there,” she slurs.

She leers through the window as you stare blankly out. A new neighbour just means another person to complain about the lawn; or another person for your mother to complain about. The man pivots on his sole and pauses, his gaze set in your direction. You don’t think he can see you, not with how the sun reflects off the square panes. He stalls for just a moment before he turns complete, striding up towards the realtor.

You back up and retreat toward the kitchen. You mother hums as she continues to snoop through the window. The recliner squeaks beneath her as she shifts in the seat.

“Bit old for a family man,” she tuts.

[majestativa]

... those pieces of herself she keeps separate and sacred.

— Shawn C. Harris, The Red Door: A Dark Fairytale Told in Poems, (2022)

[teehhhhhhhhhhh]

“How come I see you and ache instead?” - Pork Soda, Glass Animals