#grey shingled room

[thisisacommentary]

Example of a large beach style white three-story vinyl gable roof design

[shes-the-latest-it-girl]

Front Yard Porch in Ottawa Ideas for remodeling a transitional front porch with concrete pavers

[legallyyourss]

Ottawa Mudroom Entryway with beige walls, a black front door, and a transitional ceramic tile floor.

[noah-kuttler]

biblically accurate house roofing vs what you gotta do if you want a working second floor

[chocolatespacemuffins]

Front Yard - Transitional Porch This front porch design uses transitional concrete pavers as an example.

[littlebosslady7]

Thank you for the comic con updates and your cm fanfics during the downfall arc. You set them in Nicodranas more than once. What does their beach house look like?

You're very welcome. I had fun writing those over the BH hiatus.

Outside Ocean view. Right on the beach, but far enough away from the sea to avoid monsters and high tide. Bricked walkway. Two vehicle garage. 1 of which stores Ashton and Fearne's crawler/tools. Their crawler is essentially a Harley motorcycle, but with steam pipes. The other side stores any brumestone vehicles that they rent and boxes of their treasures. It's cream colored, brick reddish brown shingles, dark wood front door. All arched doorways.

Living room has a couch that could double as a guest bed. Overhead torch lights that have a touch of fey whimsy. Two maroon arm chairs, a crystal that gets that same channels as Nana Morri, plants that Fearne constantly has to reinvigorate with her druidic magic because the hot sun can sometimes be too much. A decorative hour glass on the wall, but instead of sand, it may or may not be healing water. (It does) A second sturdy wood coffee table built by Chet. A portrait of Mister on their crawler by the sea.

Kitchen: Bar like. Blue tile backsplash. Ice box. Stools at the long island. Stove, not as nice as their cabin, but it works. Fearne likes to do outdoor bonfires. Little nook in the corner with cushioned bench seats. Tropical fruit in a bowl.

Hallway has mirrors, various crawler race portraits, and abstract paintings of gems and flowers.

Upstairs: Always gotta have a playroom for Mister with his indoor climbing tree. Next room has a writing desk for Fearne. Ashton also occasionally does graffiti art on canvas or their clothes. Also there's a long day bed should they relax in other ways.

Their bedroom: Always a huge bed to fit their Titan forms. Canopy style, they always need replace the curtains. Metal trunk for Ashton's winnings and Fearne's beginning deals with impressionable sailors. Grey chaise/daybed. Balcony with little outdoor table and chairs. Spy glass. Wood floors cuz carpet would be too hot.

Their closet: Blue double doors. An array of rainbow color. Things are always left on the floor. A silver full length mirror that's easy for Ashton to move. If I’m being honest, I feel like Fearne and Ashton keep their smutty stuff here — lingerie, swimsuits, books, and toys for both of them. There may be some Burlesque style paintings poorly done after a paint and sip night. Obscured by a trophy or two.

Their backyard: Lounge chairs. Crappy falling apart umbrellas, but Fearne prefers to make shade with giant plant growth leaves.

Bathrooms: Powder room downstairs: Peeling palm tree wallpaper. Upstairs: Chisels of various sizes for Ashton's hair cuts. Tons of fur conditioners and shampoos for Fearne.

[mrhyde-mrseek]

SCIENCE MOST SINISTER: VOLUME II - PART EIGHT

(I know I sound like a broken record at this point but I am SO sorry for the hiatus! I didn’t mean for it to go on this long, I was slammed with both life and writer’s block at the same time BUT NOW WE’RE BACK YIPPEE!)

The first order of business once they had all stepped off the train was to figure out where everyone’s sleeping quarters would be. Kemp offered to house those of them who, for obvious reasons, could not book a room—Griffin (reluctantly), Sherlock, Watson, and Jekyll—in his manor, while the rest of the House and the Society headed into town to find an inn.

According to Kemp, Port Burdock had only one inn. His directions led the Society, Victor, the Time Traveller, and Gwen to a surprisingly large yet ramshackle building roughly a mile from the docks. The paint on the window frames was chipped, and the snow-covered shingles looked as grey and weather-worn as all the other buildings they had passed.

The sign that hung above the door creaked in the wind; the paint was faded and the metal rusted over, but the name was legible enough: The Albatross. Whether it was meant to be a blessing or a curse, Mycroft could not say for certain.

The lobby inside was just as bleak as the outside. The walls were devoid of any decoration except for a couple faded photographs of the docks, which seemed to have been hung as a halfhearted attempt to brighten the place up. The windows were covered in a layer of dust, as were the rickety chairs, tables, and the railing of the staircase leading to the upper floors.

Behind the front desk slouched a short, round old woman with an expression of utter boredom on her face. Upon hearing the door open, her eyes flicked up almost reflexively. She then did a double take once she realized that eight people had indeed walked into the inn on purpose, and hastily straightened up.

“Eight rooms, please,” Mycroft said, walking up to the desk. The innkeeper nodded, her glazed eyes scanning the money halfheartedly to make sure it was the proper sum, then handed him a ring of keys.

Passing out the keys and dropping their luggage off in their respective rooms took less than five minutes. Finding Kemp’s house took even less time. The manor loomed over the port from its place atop a steep hill, visible even from the docks. Kemp, Mycroft knew, was not fond of visitors unless strictly necessary, and even less so of the residents of Port Burdock, whom the scientist had described to Mycroft as “superstitious half-wits.” His disdain for the townsfolk was made even more evident by the fact that the only path up to his house was rather overgrown.

The eight stragglers were admitted inside by the footman and led into the dining room, where they found the rest of the Society and the House gathered around the dining table.

As Mycroft took the empty chair next to Sherlock, there came a thud and a curse. Behind him, Kemp was struggling to maneuver a massive evidence board through the door. Edmund immediately leapt up to help him. Griffin snickered, then yelped as the Time Traveller kicked him under the table.

Once he and Edmund finally managed to drag the board into the room, Kemp turned towards the table. “This is the culmination of every piece of information we have been able to find regarding Thomas Marvel’s murder,” he said, gesturing to the web of newspaper clippings, documents, and photographs pinned to the board and connected by lengths of red string. “Most of the credit for obtaining it should be given to Mycroft and Utterson; I doubt we would have been able to obtain half as much had a lawyer and a government official not been part of the Society.” He nodded at the respective men. Mycroft mentally grimaced. Field work had never been his forte, but after joining the Society, he hadn’t been given much of a choice.

“Before his death, Marvel was the owner of an inn called The Invisible Man. With Griffin’s involvement no longer a possibility, we have narrowed our list down to four suspects.” Kemp pointed to a photograph of a dark-haired young woman. “Millie Cutter was the inn’s maid. From what we know, she is currently employed as a laundress and is working from her own home.”

Next, he moved to a photograph of an elderly woman with a round face and bright eyes. “Ivanya Lovrić was the inn’s head cook. She now works in The Albatross’s kitchens. I don’t suppose any of you may have seen her when you booked your rooms?” He received only shakes of the head from the Society, the Time Traveller, Gwen, and Victor in response. He sighed. “Never mind.”

He then pointed to a photograph of a dark-skinned man with a glare so cold it could freeze Hell. “Ezekiel Roman operated the inn’s front desk. I have no idea what his current occupation is, because from what I understand, he is extremely solitary and does not enjoy interacting with strangers. I have, however, heard rumors that he may have picked up work at the docks.”

The last photograph he indicated was one of an unusually pale man with sharp features, light eyes, and a mop of blonde hair. “Barnabas Croft was the inn’s barmaid. Unfortunately, his current whereabouts are unknown, but I don’t doubt that asking about town would turn up information.” He accented that last bit with a disdainful eye roll.

Utterson took the following silence as his signal to stand. “I believe dividing and conquering is the best way to go about this,” he declared. “Mycroft, Watson, and I will interrogate Mr. Roman, seeing as he will be the most difficult to interrogate. Poole, Gwen, and the Time Traveller will interrogate Miss Cutter. Jekyll, Edmund, and Victor will interrogate Ms. Lovrić. Kemp and Walton will go around town and try to ascertain Mr. Croft’s location. Sherlock and Griffin, meanwhile, will investigate Marvel’s inn itself and search for evidence pertaining to both the murder and the identity of this new invisible man. We shall meet back here once everyone has returned.”

And with that, the investigation had begun.

[owlsandwich]

Find the Word Tag

Thank you @eccaiia for the tag!

My words are: pale, laugh, line, and round!

New words are: journey, metal, cloud and walk

I'll tag @late-to-the-fandom @aether-wasteland-s @ahungeringknife and leave an open tag.

I'll do these from Darkness I think :)

Pale

Oren shivered, pulling his jacket tightly around him. Julian was satisfied to see that it was the pale-grey one he’d picked out. It shone almost white in the darkness; a tiny spark of light against the eternal horizon. The scene seemed a reflection of that first glimpse of him — expectations and fear transformed into curiosity in a moment. Not the legendary terror from his childhood stories, but a quiet, gentle young man. Death and destruction somehow contained within the body of this fragile creature standing alone by the sea.

Laugh

Julian laughed. A gentle sound with rich depth that ignited a heat in Oren’s body even as he blinked in surprise. He’d never heard Julian laugh like that before.

Line

The city squatted against the coastline; a salty tang permeating the air as their walk carried them closer. Pavement ran the line of the beach, with a rusty metal barrier separating it from the shallow slope of shingle on the other side. In the distance beyond, a heaving mass of inky sea roared in the darkness.

Round

Two cream couches faced each other across a low coffee table, on which sat the half-drunk remnants of a cup of tea. Soft throws draped the seats, and a round rug covered the wooden floorboards, giving the room a modern cosiness, so unlike the gloom and open fire of the nesthouse bedroom.

[no-reallyimfine]

Working on a new story on WattPad!

Of Night and Day

Description:

Amalie Brightmoor is a Magi woman from Barick (Bah-Rick) in the Northern Kingdom of Krelush, she is a daughter of a successful architect and city designer. She was accepted to attend the Grimsbane University on a Returner Scholarship, she was looking to leave her high pressure homelife and took the first opportunity to leave. Amalie completes her first day of school fairly uneventfully, until a pipe bursts in her dorm room. Due to this, her living arrangements changed to an emergency dorm in the Student Leader Counsel dorm which also houses a flirtatious shifter, a stoic vampire, a free-spirited Magi. After some adjustment to living with these new housemates, Amalie starts to feel the pressure from her family to focus on her studies with the goal of joining the slew of successful architects, city designers, and magic-based engineers. Amalie must make a choice if she is going to conform to familial expectations or follow the inspirational path that her cousin had founded by becoming a story-telling bard as well as the black sheep of the family. As she is trying to figure out her path in life, she finds herself in the middle of blooming feelings for a kindred spirit that does not seem as willing to consider shirking off family expectations.

Part one below:

The first day of school is always terrifying. New people, new expectations, new routines. It always seemed so much for most people, even for me. This was different though; this was a new town far from what I have known in Barick.

I was glad to be away, but something in me ached for familiarity as I walked along the grey bricked paths through lush green lawns to my first class. The building I approached almost seemed church like, large pillars welcomed students like arms to a covered entry way that was adorned with double doors. The building stretched to the sky with a steeple like face that had a large clock that could be seen from across the campus. The slanted roof was shingled in deep green.

I found myself standing in front of the building, staring at the clock as it ticked. Reading 8:45 in the morning. My heart was in my chest as I stood planted in the walkway. People moved around me as they wandered into the building. some reading papers, some walking confidently. Not a single familiar face walked by, but I didn't expect one. It was a lonely thought, to be the only one from Barick at the Grimsbane University.

"Standing here like a tree is not only going to get in the way of everyone around you, but yourself as well. Best get moving." A voice spoke, it was deep and proper. Like the tongue was trained to speak each word with respect of the syllables.

A man then passed me. He was tall with deep, huckleberry colored hair that brushed his waist. He had a leather messenger bag had his hip. He moved with grace and purpose towards the building.

I gulped and the hair on the base of my neck stood on end. He was right, I was only getting in my own way standing here.

I took in a breath of the chilly morning air and walked forward. I pushed against the large ornate door's bass handle; a sense of excitement started to wash through me.

The door didn't budge, and my stomach dropped.

"It's a pull!" A small-framed girl popped next to me, she smiled sweetly and waited for my response.

"Thank you," I laughed nervously and pulled the door to me, it moved with ease despite how heavy it looked.

I stepped into the building and was again filled with nervousness as I looked at the tile floors and the twin staircases that lead up to landings on the second and third floors. The back of the building had large windows that looked out to trees and blue sky as a matching set of ornate doors were at the opposite side of the building.

"Do you know where you are going?" The same girl at the door had joined me at the foyer and was watching me.

"I'm sorry, I don't have the slightest clue..." my voice trembled a little.

"What class are you looking for?" She asked, her voice was gentle as she spoke with me. I turned to really look at her, she was small with a platinum bob that flared outwards at the ends. She wore heavy eyeliner, a black top with black pants and a matching jacket. When she smiled, I noticed her canine teeth looked a bit sharper than I expected.

Turning my attention away, I dug a piece of paper out of my pocket and looked at my notes for the classes of the day.

"I am looking for Intro to Potions, with Professor Kayden." I read off.

She squeaked and jumped up and down on her toes with excitement. "I'm actually headed there myself! Come with me!"

She lead me past the stairways and into a hallway tucked passed the left one.

"I'm Fiona by the way," She turned her attention back to me and her grey eyes squinted in a smile that showed her fangy teeth again.

"I'm Amalie," I smiled back.

"Are you a first year?" She asked as we approached a green door that matched the shingles outside. She held it open for me so I could enter.

"Yes," I nodded. The classroom was set up like a stadium, the desks were mounted like walls rising to the back. Students had filed in and took up some of the spaces farther, but the ones closer to the front remained free.

"First day of first year? Oof, that can be overwhelming." Fiona was casual and welcoming in her tone, she stood next to me as I looked around the class.

I started to walk towards the desks at the front of the room and I could see a glimmer off distaste in Fiona's smile as she followed.

"Do you mind if I sit with you?" She asked as she filed in behind me, "First day is always lonely,"

I agreed and she took the seat next to me. We talked for a few minutes as we waited for the class to start, people filed in and more and more seats filled up, but not many at the front of the room.

I had always preferred the front, there were less distractions than further seats. In this room, it seemed as if the students avoided them.

"Why is no one sitting up front?" I asked.

"It has to do with the teacher's assistant," Fiona mumbled and another person walked into the room.

I recognized him from before.

He was tall and slender, with the long, dusty, purple hair. He strode into the room with confidence, walking to the desk to put down the messenger bag. He wore a white shirt with a dark blue suit vest and black slacks. As I looked to at his profile as he passed me, he had a slightly hooked nose that supported his gold framed glasses.

When he placed his bag down, he turned to the board, he held his hand to the board as he walked down it, right to left. In his wake, the class information appeared.

"Pretentious," Fiona muttered as she rested her chin on her hand.

"Welcome class, this is Introduction to Potions," He walked to a podium at the front of the room. He shuffled through a few papers and looked up to the room. His voice was strong as he spoke to the room. The frames of his glasses gleamed under the light orbs; from my perch I could see deep red eyes scanning.

"I am your teaching assistant, Aleksandr Orpheus. Professor Kayden will not be joining us this morning due to a cold, so I have been asked to start the class in his stead." He announced to the room.

He then focused an intense, interested look in our direction.

"Fiona Krass, I am glad to see you front and center for a change." A purple eyebrow raised.

Fiona shot a sarcastic smile in his direction, "Just missed your warm and fuzzy nature," she said.

"Hmm..." He hummed and turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. He started the day with taking attendance and moved into introducing the syllabus, passing out papers that had been carefully produced, I assumed by the on-campus printing press that had been promoted by university staff during orientation.

Through the class, Aleksandr was fairly monotoned and authoritative as he spoke to the class. He spoke on the importance of staying on top of the course work as the term continues, gave an overview of the projects we will cover, and the overall outcome of the class.

Once the hour of his monologuing was completed, most of the class scurried out. I had some time before my next class, that I took my time to gather my things. Fiona was anxiously shifting her weight from foot-to-foot waiting.

"You don't have to wait on me," I smiled.

"Do you know where you are going next?" Fiona asked as she took a step back.

"I know it is in the training complex," I said as I slung my bag on to my back.

"Okay, that isn't too far, meet me at the Student Union Building and we will do lunch together." Fiona smiled and waved as she walked off.

"Glad to see you didn't get in your own way, tree." Aleksandr spoke, his voice commanding the room despite it was just us.

I stiffened at his acknowledgement of me. I turned to look at him as he was replacing his messenger back on his shoulder. His burgundy eyes moved over me as I watch him in turn.

"Don't be late for your next class," He said and walked out of the room as people started to funnel in. As he exited, people cleared a wide path for him like fish avoiding a shark.

[sparrowandbee]

The Sparrow, Chapter 17

Synopsis: Despite all odds, Haymitch and Marian return to District 12 and try to make a home from the pieces they are left with.

797 Words

Content Warning for sexual exploitation and allusion to SA.

Masterlist

-

It was late when we got off the train in District 12. There were no crowds, no yelling, no photographers. Just Haymitch and I. It was a sight I never thought I’d see again- the dull and dusty landscape of home. 

We stopped by my room in the Seam, having to wake up the landlady because I didn’t have my keys. She barely bat an eye. I took a box with everything I cared to keep: 3 trousers, 2 blouses, 2 shirts, the purple butterfly dress that was mysteriously folded and returned, my sewing tin, and a book I bought from a smuggler at the Hobb- an old poetry book with a beautiful floral blue cover.

I carried the book and Haymitch took the box. With my arm around his and a new shiny silver key in my pocket we walked the few miles towards Victor’s Village.

Being back was so bizarre. I had never really noticed the smell: ash and garbage. It never bothered me. Or the lack of color, only browns and greys against the burgeoning sunlight. I never thought of it as ugly, either. In my eyes, beauty didn’t exist outside of the flowers and the birds and the running creek. I wasn’t aware that man could create beauty. But now I knew it was possible, it had all just been kept from us.

We picked up the pace, just as the District had began waking up. I didn’t want to see anyone, not because I would recognize them but because they would recognize me. The invisible girl no longer.

I held on to Haymitch and we crossed the gate past the imposing brick wall and into Victor’s Village, our faces scanned by the system.

The cul-de-sac boasted 8 huge two-story houses, each yard perfectly kept, despite the desolation. They were pretty, with while shingles and blue shutters and front porches. A complete opposite to the world outside.

The house looked so empty, despite the furnishings and Capitol decorations. It was just so big and daunting that I couldn’t even begin to imagine filling it all by myself, but in that moment, I really just wanted to rest. My body relaxed at being in a semi-familiar space, and all the exhaustion caught up to me, I needed to sleep away from the eyes of the Capitol. Haymitch led me upstairs and into the main bedroom, one of three. 

The room, as the rest of the house, was spacious and luxurious. The bed was already made, with a tempting fluffy white duvet piled atop it. He dropped the box off in the adjacent sitting area, while I investigated the walk-in closet. In it, I found some cotton, wool, and silk pieces. Fine stuff straight from the Capitol, but more paired down. Along with the shoes was a large red velvet box, with a note. 

Thank you for the evening. I hope to be seeing more of you soon. - Ave Philleus

I hesitated retreating away from the closet space. Haymitch nearly sprinted into the closet, looking back at me once he had seen the trigger.

“Take it away,” I told him, unable to stop the shakiness which slowly overtook my body again. “Please take it away.”

I was terrified. Wasn’t this supposed to be safety?

“I will, Marian. I will,” He ripped up the note and carried the box haphazardly under his arm. “Don’t worry, okay? He’s not here. Never was. This box probably travelled back on the train with us.”

He’s right. Of course. It eased me.

“Are you sure you want to be alone?”

I nodded. For some reason, as much as I loved and needed his presence, I also craved solitude. I had seen and spoken to more people in those few days than I had in my whole life and in a strange way, I missed my own company. I needed to enjoy myself again- my thoughts, by myself.

“Yes, don’t worry. You go home, get some rest.”

He nodded a few times, looking around the room, making sure everything was as it should be. “Um, should I get you some water? Or food? There should be some stuff in the pantry downstairs and they’ll probably arrange some sort of event later today or tomorrow so you should be aware-”

There was one other thing I craved. Looking at him, a little frantic with care, his hair tousled and eyes rimmed with bags from tireless days- he was beautiful. I took my hand to his face and leaned my lips against his, a tiny tender peck which he hesitantly returned.

I stepped back just as a yawn escaped me.

“Thank you, for everything, H. I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you, M. Thank you.”

He turned around and left. I soon fell asleep.

-

Next Chapter

[vastiitas]

@chronal-anomaly

For Cole, an ornate belt buckle picked up at some antiquity shop, silhouette of a herd of horses thundering along the desert, a cragged butte looming in the background. The metal was hand punched and painted, hours of craftwork molding the buckle. Lena presented it to him in a small, wrapped box when the pair finally stopped for dinner. "Merry Christmas, Cole. Glad you can celebrate as a free man." (For the modern verse!)

His thumb runs along the horses, weathers the butte's stony face and presses firmly along the desert horizon line where the sky breaks free from the mold of the earth. A quiet drapes over him like a veil, eyes gliding the pummel lines in a way that drinks heavy. Winks of the ceiling light dance off the sculpted peaks and they shimmer a reflection off his pupils. Cole finally looks up, crow's feet swallowing up those amber-brown's in a way that flourishes the softness mulling the tips of his smile. He teases, "And when'd you get the time t'sneak this in, huh?"

He's got a sneaking suspicion when -- they'd parted ways for a good few hours a few town hops prior. He'd made use of that time, too, and stacks two boxes of a similar size on the table, slides them over. One's for Chickadee, a simple leather collar patterned by swooping birds, with a little, stainless steel avian mold hanging midflight off the dog tag loop. Lena's looks almost like a pocket watch, all brass with a sleek chain and a cover carved decoratively to Saint Christopher. It opens, however, to a compass, needle tilled towards the North in a manner unshaken and decisive.

"Might not be somebody who practices, but he's s'pposed t'be the patron Saint of Travelling and Storms," A self-consciousness tacks itself to the side of his words like a tick, the mouth of it bit down on the sheepishness in his delivery, in the small huff he releases before it.

Before Lena, the last Christmas had been spent exchanging cigarettes and smuggled cigars in some solitude corner of a prison yard, toeing the damn ice shingling the chain-link fences and sharing (mostly listening) to stories about a time before prison cell greys and uniform jump suits. Before that, well -- Temporary truces dolling up a Christmas tree in the den of a motorist gang. Just the original, surviving four sharing a room separated from that crowing, baying, houndish army. Some lights, Some whiskey, Some string-strummed melody and off-tune caroling fractured by the inebriation.

Here, in this restaurant with its mellow fire-warmth lights and Christmas ornaments, it's new memories, new roads.

"Merry Christmas, Lena. Thanks for stickin' it out with me."

[revvnant]

🚬 :eyes: @slaughterlocked

send 🚬 to share a cigarette with my muse!

He knows he's not supposed to be on the roof, like he knows his father isn't supposed to be smoking. It's the smell that draws his attention to the open window, and he can't even snap at William for going through his room to get here, because he was probably being called for supper and didn't hear. They make eye contact, William leaning on the sill, Michael splayed out on the shingles. "I won't tell if you won't tell," he says at last, as if there's anyone to tell. It prompts a smile, which makes Michael grin in turn, and then he's accepting the offered cigarette.

He doesn't usually like them, and he only takes a couple of inhales before passing it back. It leaves his mouth tasting acrid. His nose wrinkles, and he swipes his tongue over his teeth a few times. But as bad as the taste is, the smell is soothing. Both will give him cancer. He doesn't care. They share vices now. Ruined lungs. Ruined livers. Ruined knuckles. Ruined family. The business is going the same way; they can't hold anything together but the tobacco. He admires how tightly his father can roll a cigarette. He's only ever rolled something greener, but he stole the paper from William's bedside table, and had been proud of what he'd managed with it. Maybe he'll go back to that. He flits from distraction to distraction, trying to stay ahead of the mounting stress. It never works. He can run a mile, but he can't outrun this.

The roof creaks as William joins him on the shallow incline. "I'm not fixing it if you go through the ceiling," Michael jokes, rolling onto his side to curl up under the blanket of smoke. He likes the way it sinks into the fabric of his shirt. He'll smell it when he goes to sleep tonight, and maybe it will stave off the nightmares. Or maybe he'll sleep out here. It's warm enough, and the forecast didn't mention rain. He shifts sideways until his forehead rests against his father's shoulder, eyes drifting to the sky. Another puff from William sends a grey plume up to cover the stars. Michael's eyes sting from it, and he shuts them, and finds they're just too heavy to open again.

[corax-aves-writes]

09/28/2017

Half finished story, I really wanted to get to a scene where one character was plummeting through the sky, unconscious, and the other had to dive down after them to save them at the last second.

He had stocky, pointed wings in a explosion of fiery color, nearly white towards the base of the feathers, then darkening to yellow, orange, and then a deep red at the tips. Black speckles littered his wings, making it look like soot blowing in front of a forest fire. The upper side of his wings were darker, as if smoke was blocking the view. 

A hand appeared in front of my face, waving quickly. 

"Helllloooooo?" 

I shake my head, pulling out of my daze and blushing as I realized I was staring. 

"Sorry, what were you saying?" I ask sheepishly, looking back at Laura. She gives me a glare, then touches my right wing. 

"I was telling you that I thought you were moving your wings weirdly today. Can you open them, please?" 

I nod, pulling my blonde hair to the side and spreading my wings. I look at them from the corner of my eye, their broad, slotted shape and white feathers with gold tips block my view of my best friend. 

"Again," I hear Laura's voice from behind me; I can practically hear the furrowing of her brows. I close and then open my wings again, concentrating myself on whether anything is feeling weird. 

I look over at Gabriel again, who's staring back at me, head cocked slightly to the side. I blush when he starts walking towards me, one eyebrow raised. 

"What's going on?" he asks, looking serious and slightly worried, very different from his usual happy self. 

I open my mouth, but Laura beat me to it. 

"Nothing. I thought there was something, but I guess not." She pats the feathers between my wings, and I fold them up in response. 

He brightens up again at this remark. 

"Good, I don't want my teammate injured," he says with a smile. I grin back, freaking out a little on the inside. 

He cares about me!

"Now," he rests his arm on my shoulder, smiling widely, "let's go look for a job." He pulls away and I follow him to the paper-covered board. 

After a few minutes, he pokes a certain paper roughly. 

"That one," he remarks, "pays well and looks easy. All we have to do is help an old man transport files." Gabriel looks at me, silently asking my approval. I nod, and he grins and yanks the paper off. 

._____________.

We land, folding our wings up, and walk towards the door of the mansion. It's white with tall columns holding up a shingled roof. The garden behind us is enormous, hundreds of feet of trees and shrubs

"I wonder why such an easy job is paying us so well," I state, hoping to get a response from Gabriel.  

"I don't know... glad we got it first!" A smile adorns his face with this remark. I nod in agreement, and then tap the door knocker against the wood. 

A moment passes, and then a maid opens the door. She's small, with short pink hair and a classic French maid outfit. Her wings are black and white as well, in what looks like stripes. They're small, looking fit for hovering and precise flying. 

"You must be here to help Master," she assumes in a calm voice. "Come, I'll show you the way." 

She turns around, leaving the door open, and we follow silently, taking in the marble floors and immaculate cleanliness of the house. 

After many flights of stairs and turns, we reach a door. She knocks, and a voice answers. 

"Enter."

The door is opened by the maid, and Gabriel and I walk into what is obviously a study. Bookshelves make up a whole wall, and a desk occupies the back of the room, close to the windows that look over the estate. An old man sits in a chair behind the desk, and I can see the grey feathers of his wings. 

"Good day, I expect your flight was pleasant," he begins, his voice weathered and slightly accented. We both nod in response, smiling politely. 

"I know you are here because of the job request I sent out. As you can see, I am an older man and can't do that much physical work. I would ask my staff, but they have their own jobs that take up most of their time. And so, here you are." 

"Happy to help, sir," I say with a smile. I kind of like him. He smiles back a little, and continues. 

"Now, there are some conditions to this job, meet them all and everything will go swimmingly. You can only go to places I say you can, forbidden areas are off limits for a reason. Don't read any of the files, there are things in them that you don't want weighing you down. Failure to meet these expectations means grave consequences."

We nod our heads again, but now I'm a little apprehensive about this job. 

What has this guy done? 

._____________.

We start moving the files, flying them from the house down to a shack filled with old books and older files neatly organized in stacks. There, we add to the collection, then go back to the house to start again. 

One day, as I'm piling up files from years ago, I notice a red mark. 

I know I'm not supposed to look, but what harm can it do?

I open the file to see the picture of a man, surrounded by text of addresses, family names, jobs, and other personal information. 

Over the picture is a red X. 

Underneath, written in the same red marker, is a date. 

Staring at it... I start to recognize his face. He looks familiar. Then it hits me. He was a influential leader twenty years ago that was... assassinated. 

The realization smacks me hard, sending me reeling back. This man killed him, or at least knew the man who did. Why would he do this?

On the walk to the guest house after the day's work is over, I grab Gabriel's attention. 

"Something is wrong," I begin. He looks over at me, confused. 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this man made some real mistakes. Have you looked at any of these files?" I look at him, searching his face for an answer. 

"No... Did you?"

"I have, and this man has either killed or knows who killed important people. These files are filled with personal information on these leaders. What should we do?"

Gabriel hesitates, then answers slowly. 

"We should tell him. Upfront. Maybe he's seen the errors of his ways and is going to destroy the files. Start a new life." I nod, thinking over his answer. 

He's an old man, he can't hurt us even if he wanted to. 

I look back up at Gabriel, smiling. 

"Alright, let's do it!"

.________________. 

[thetransversespectator]

Praetor went to a brown-shingled house on a suburban street to see a performance with a large group of people. There was quite a crowd there. At some point he saw Akelbeth and Jizrael speaking broken Korean to each other and made fun of them. Tarquin was very disturbed at their presence and quickly disappeared.

While they were waiting for the performance to start, someone came in from outside -- an older man Praetor identified as the leader of their group -- and said that everyone had to go home. "Show's cancelled, something happened," he said shakily, and Praetor asked "is it personal, medical, or a natural disaster?" "It's personal,' he said.

Praetor can't find Tarquin. He goes outside and everyone is looking up at the sky. There's an incredible display of light, but it all looks fake. Obviously fake. Everyone runs out to look at it. UFO's, comets, little twinkly things. Lisa Frank on DMT, but obviously fake. Several degrees off.

Everyone checks their phones. They can't access social media anymore, everything stutters and redirects. The content is already there, and it's endless, but it means nothing, and everything. He watches what seems like hours of it, gasping in astonishment. The content is impossible to describe.

There are messages every once in a while from a "trans-conscious medium consortium," and then a blue logo with a black lattice appears. It's a triangle, the goddamn illuminati triangle, like this is all a joke.

Planes are falling from the sky, but they don't look real, either. It was engineered to look like 90's CGI, but the method of manufacture is far beyond what humans are capable of today.

They talk about who could have done this. It can't be the Chinese, unless their AI tech is already several generations more advanced than ours. "There's too much content," Praetor says. "It's not human."

Praetor finds Tarquin in the bathroom getting fucked by a grey-haired daddy. They both have no idea what is happening. He's furious, not because of the daddy, but rather because he now has to explain this all to him. Tarquin doesn't believe, even after Praetor shows him his phone, and then disappears into a puff of black smoke.

Those who don't believe disappear. Praetor and Akelbeth feel around the room they were in and find a warm spot on the walls. It's moving, slowly. "We got him," she says without thinking. "He must be standing here."

Before disappearing, Tarquin had given him an outfit handed to him by a small girl he didn't know, who then quickly disappeared. It is simple: green shirt, grey boxer briefs, and tan pants. He changes into it and heads back outside to the line of white buses he arrived in. Traffic has slowed to a halt; everyone is trying to go home, or leave home, or perhaps just escape from the lights. Some of them have thrown their smartphones out their car windows.

A message beaned directly to his mind: Arabius Publishing in Manhattan. Someone there died, and they had this whole thing where they drank Gin Malo at the funeral and rubbed cotton on their eyes to produce tears. "Send your manuscript there as it is, after checking for mistakes. It needs to be published by next Fall because something like this is going to happen, and you're the only one who can stop it."

And he thinks to himself before waking, this is all part of the same schtick, it's a joke encased in profundity, on the border of the absurd, but there is a real threat there and it's coming from someone, or something, with a deeply twisted sense of humor. Something almost human, just about human, but not quite all there.

And the next thing he does, of course, is Google Arabius Publishing, incessantly, with vigor. It doesn't exist.

[splendidissimus]

31 August 1998 - Nott House

((Content warning: minor heart condition, neglected teen))

Genre: general

Romance level: minor

Angst level: 1/5

Draco's headspace: normal

((The last day before Theo goes back for an extra year at Hogwarts to get his N.E.W.T.s...... Mostly I just wanted to show off a description of his home / psychology.))

((words: ~1900))

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

The Notts had, at one time, been a family of means and influence. Their ancestral home was on the far end of Knockturn Alley, one of the very few residences on the wizarding high streets, and perhaps the last one that actually was still a residence instead of having been turned into shops or workshops over the centuries. 

Now all they really had left was their name and their pride. The house was as thin and stooping as its masters, a four-storey grey brick with a narrow profile that seemed to be sagging wherever it could find space to. The roof seemed to have all of its shingles but they weren't all sitting at the right angles, and it bowed in the middle, leaving the blackened chimney slanted precariously inward. It was wedged between an old home that was now a potion workshop letting off faint fumes, and a boarding house that had a very distinctive air of discretion and cheapness competing for highest priority. 

Theo led him up the two stairs to the cracked black door. The knocker was in the shape of a dragon so stylized it could almost have been anything, and the hardware was so darkly tarnished it was impossible to tell what metal it was supposed to have been. The door unlocked under his wand, and creaked loudly as it opened. 

"Welcome to the Nott Manor," he said with faux grandiosity, lighting a series of candelabras on the walls with his wand. 

The light revealed a cramped hall with peeling yellowish wallpaper above worn wainscotting and a low ceiling. There was a single door to the right, which did not fit properly in its frame, and the hall ran straight back to what he could see was a kitchen at the back of the house. The narrow hall was made narrower by the dark, heavy frames of ancient portraits projecting from the wall, and small tables of dusty displays - a vase, a bust, one ancient cracked wand in a stand. A threadbare carpet of tiny vines on a red background ran the length of it.

"Your house elf is terrible," Draco noted as he stepped inside. 

"Yeah, terribly unemployed." Theo led the way down the hall. Draco curiously prodded the door open on the way past and found a stuffed sitting room with sagging sofas arranged around the fireplace that was presumably on the floo network. "I haven't had one since dad was arrested in year five." 

He looked up at Theo and joined him at a steep staircase hidden on the right, just before the kitchen door. "Why?"

"He didn't leave a lot of money when he went away, and the house has basically been empty since then, so it seemed like a waste." 

"House elves work for free," Draco pointed out. Everyone knew that.

"Yeah, but the Ministry doesn't. They're the ones that hand out house elves, and then you have to pay the tax." He climbed the first few stairs easily. They creaked loudly and out of time with each other.

"Oh." He looked at the layer of dust on the hand rail he knew he was going to have to use, with distaste. "I will seriously pay that for you." He took out his wand and prodded the dust to vanish it. 

"Maybe it'll matter after the school year is over. It's fine for now." He looked back down when he noticed Draco wasn't following him. "Are you going to have a problem with these?" he realised.

"How far up are we going?"

"Third floor."

"Maybe," Draco admitted reluctantly. 

Theo dropped back down a couple steps and offered Draco his hand to help him. 

After the walk around Diagon and Knockturn allies, the stairs were exhausting. He might have been able to do one flight on his own. It was fiercely embarrassing to have to lean on Theo as much as he did, but with that help he managed to drag himself up them. 

The top floor of the house was a single room that would have been fairly large if it weren't cramped by the slope of the roof right overhead, leaving barely the central half of the space where they could stand up straight. Trunks and boxes of junk crammed the edges of the room under the roof, half-hidden behind a few freestanding and overfilled bookshelves that tried to act like walls in the space, making it feel smaller. A round window at the front of the house let in grimy sunlight through a thick layer of dust; the matching one at the back of the house, over the bed, was already dark. 

Theo lit the fireplace with his wand for light even though it was already almost unbearably stuffy, and as he did Draco dropped into an ancient chair that let out a wheeze of dust, which mixed poorly with his harsh breathing and made him cough badly.

He heard Theo say Aguamenti, and then he was handed a glass of water; the glass was so clean it had to have been Conjured, in this place. 

While he got his breathing back under control and his throat cleared, Theo was casting some basic cleaning spells to get the dust out of the bed and Draco's chair, at least. The bed had been so dusty he hadn't even realised the blankets were supposed to be black. He noticed that he missed the cobwebs huddled in the rafters, and Draco could feel them waiting to shed dust and grime on the unsuspecting bedroom below. 

The metal bedframe squealed when Theo dropped onto it, and the springs sounded like they hit the floor. He held onto one of his legs while the other dangled, and he was watching him attentively. It was really painfully obvious he wanted to fool around. "Whatever you're thinking, I don't have the energy," he told him firmly. Aside from that, this filthy house also did not do much to set a kissing mood. Nor did having to scale three flights of impassable stairs. 

"That's fine," Theo assured him. 

Draco had the sudden weird surety he was just happy he'd gotten to hold his hand on the way up the stairs, and he looked around while he finished the water to spare himself that embarrassment. The newest-looking thing in the room was a creased Holyhead Harpies poster that had been tacked up by the bed, currently over Theo's left shoulder, and he looked at that instead. "Harpies?" He tried to remember if Theo'd ever had any of their posters or anything at school, and he didn't think so, at least not in years. 

Theo looked back at the poster. "Oh, yeah. I always figured, why watch a bunch of guys doing Quidditch, when I could be watching a bunch of fit girls instead?" Then he grinned, glanced at Draco, and poked the poster with his wand. The trick picture changed, and all the players were now wearing swimsuits instead of their uniforms. 

Well, he didn't have to wonder why it was above the bed for. "Really." 

"Come on, that's nice." He prodded it to turn the picture back to normal, and leaned back on his hands. 

Draco looked around the room once more, and finally realised what had been bothering him. "Why does your room seem abandoned?" A carpet of dust on a bed was telling. 

"I mostly crash on the couch on the first floor," he said casually.

Unless Theo was more disgusting than he gave him credit for, that 'mostly' had to mean 'always'. "I suppose if you have the house to yourself, why climb to the top of it." 

"You get it. I guess I should get my shit, huh." He slid back off the bed and Wingardium Leviosa'd a trunk into the middle of the floor, then started floating his clothes into it. 

Draco watched him distantly, judging his inefficiency in packing technique without offering unsolicited advice, even when he was trying to work out how to fit in two different sets of cauldrons and measures into one trunk. "Do you actually want to sleep on a decrepit sofa and go straight to the station?"

Theo shrugged philosophically. "It's what it is, innit." 

That was pathetic in a way Draco didn't even want to make fun of. It was just sad and lonely. "You can stay over and leave from mine in the morning." 

Theo looked up with his expression brighter than he probably intended to reveal. "Really?" He nodded. "All right, yeah, that sounds good. I'll make sure to lock up before we leave." 

In a few more minutes, he stuffed a house scarf into the last square inch of trunk space and shoved it closed. "Ready. Can you get the lights?" He floated the trunk with a wave of his wand.

"You're making it harder than it needs to be." Draco took out his wand and paused. "There's nothing shrunk in there, right?" 

"No, go ahead." 

Not that Theo was incapable of shrinking things, even filled containers, but with his daily use of his potion case, Draco had a lot more practice at it. He cast Reducio on the whole trunk so it could fit almost into Theo's palm and pushed himself up from the chair with more effort than he wanted it to take. 

Trunk in one hand, Theo offered him the other at the top of the stairs. This time, Draco declined and braced himself on the wall and the bannister. Going down was easier than going up, but it was still a lot of stairs and he did not enjoy it; it took him three times as long as it should have and he had to stop halfway down. He was just as happy to have Theo walking in front of him because they were so steep and unsteady he had serious concerns about falling as the exertion made him dizzy. Plus just sliding his hand along the wall made it feel grimy. "You could fix so much about this stupid house," he said irritably on the last few stairs.

"Yeah, I guess." Theo tossed his trunk back and forth between both hands and looked at the hall. "I just don't really see a point." 

He really didn't give the smallest damn about anything his father left him. "Floo?" He looked toward the door down the hall.

"I thought you wanted to Apparate?" 

"I changed my mind." He didn't want the long walk up to the house, honestly.

Theo didn't make a fuss over that, either, and that was a relief. "Yeah, it's in the living room. Go ahead, I have to close up." He went down the hall toward the front door.

Draco had to take a winding path around all the furniture to the fireplace in the parlour. The pale wear pattern in the rug showed that people had been taking that path for decades — maybe centuries. Most of the furniture looked threadbare, worn out, not the well-preserved antiques they were trying for. He even had to tap the floo box to get enough powder in the corner to travel with, and that made him vaguely annoyed with Theo — that wasn't even a lack of money, that was just sheer negligence. It was like he was intentionally watching his house crumble. 

He lit the fire with a flick of his wand and flooed back to his house, with a renewed appreciation for the house elf.