#in a stairway banister

[maretriarch]

fnaf self insert oc whos just a weird adult guy into regular animatronics. hes me

[minpipism]

Traditional Entry Chicago Mid-sized traditional entryway idea with a white front door, gray walls, and a medium tone wood floor.

[monkishes]

Devil Town | Teaser (M)

genre: paranormal, ghost!au, supernatural, smut, fluff, angst

pairing: ot7 bts x reader

summary: She eagerly stepped into her new home, filled with excitement and a sense of newfound independence. Unbeknownst to her, the house held a hidden secret, as seven ethereal beings lingered within its walls, trapped in a realm between the living and the dead. Their presence would soon intertwine with her life, revealing a haunting tale of mystery where she would be forced to free them, bringing them back to the land of the living.

series masterlist | masterlist

Your first few days in the house were a whirlwind of unpacking and organizing. You carefully placed your favorite books on the shelves, hung up curtains that caught the light just right, and arranged cozy touches that turned each room into a small sanctuary. Boxes lay scattered, slowly dwindling in number as you added pieces of yourself to the space, arranging and rearranging until it felt less like an empty shell and more like a home.

By the time you were finished, you sighed in satisfaction, leaning against the worn wooden banister that framed the staircase. It was quiet—almost too quiet—but the kind of silence that felt peaceful, wrapping you in a sense of calm. You didn't notice it at first, the faint sounds overhead, until you settled onto the couch with a cup of tea and heard a soft, rhythmic tapping drifting down from above, coming from the attic.

You tried to brush it off. Old house, old noises, you told yourself, trying to dismiss it as just the floorboards settling. But curiosity gnawed at you, and with each passing minute, the sound seemed to grow louder, almost rhythmic, as if calling your name.

Finally, with a deep breath, you set your cup aside and rose, casting a glance up the dim stairway. You grabbed a flashlight, though you weren't sure why; something about the attic's shadowy corners unsettled you in a way you couldn't quite explain. Still, you found yourself climbing the stairs, the air growing cooler with each step, a hint of something stale lingering in the air.

At the top, you hesitated before pushing open the attic door, half-expecting dust and cobwebs, maybe a few forgotten boxes. But as your flashlight's beam swept across the room, you froze. Across from you, lined up along the far wall, was a row of portraits. Each one was framed in intricate, dark wood, perfectly preserved but muted in haunting grayscale tones.

Heart pounding, you stepped closer. Seven faces, frozen in time, gazed back at you—young men, each expression somber and strangely intense, as though they had secrets hidden just behind their eyes. The photographs were stunning in their detail, each capturing a distinct personality, a different mood. They wore vintage clothing that seemed pulled from another era, their gazes seeming to follow you, almost as if they were watching, waiting.

Chills prickled down your arms as you moved down the row, taking in the portraits one by one. A strange familiarity tugged at you, though you couldn't place it. You didn't know them, but something about them felt almost... known.

As you leaned in closer, the silence shattered. A whisper, barely audible, brushed past your ear. You spun around, flashlight trembling in your grip, but the attic was empty. The air seemed to thicken, the temperature plummeting as if an unseen presence lingered in the corners. Turning back to the portraits, your heart raced, the weight of their stares pressing down on you like a physical force.

And then, something changed. Each portrait bore a small brass plate, each engraved with a single name, each name familiar, but now feeling strange and haunting in this setting. Seokjin. Yoongi. Hoseok. Namjoon. Jimin. Taehyung. Jungkook.

Your breath caught as you stared into their eyes. For a split second, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of movement—did they just blink? You stumbled back, heart pounding, questions swirling through your mind. Why were they here, preserved in this lonely attic? And what did it mean that you had found them? The whispers began again, soft as a breath, as if the walls themselves murmured secrets you weren't meant to hear.

Panicked, you turned and fled down the stairs, the lingering image of their eyes etched in your mind. Yet as you descended, the unnerving feeling wouldn't leave you. No matter how you tried to shake off the encounter, you couldn't help but feel you had disturbed something hidden, some mystery that lay just beyond reach, waiting for you to unravel it.

[eldrith]

How about a sneak peak of the request ''escaped from the greens, reader..." pls🥹

anything for you darling! sneak peek (0.6k) below the cut <3 [also this is angsty bc it is a slow burn fic, but not all of it will be haha. this is the best i can give without giving too much away]

YOU ARE NOT ALONE THE NEXT TIME YOU RETURN TO THE ALCOVE OVERLOOKING THE SEA.

The moon casts a peculiar glassy reflection upon the deep; lit by torches along the ramparts, you walk with your mind in the clouds, still stuck up where you’d just been, flying with your shadow. 

You do not anticipate encountering anyone this late; A wry smile tugs at your lips as you stow the leather gloves you'd been given, their purpose fulfilled.

The Cannibal remains ever wild and unyielding - for safety’s sake, the dragon handlers have entrusted you with his tending, leaving you weary yet resolute.

As you make the final ascent to the overlook, you nearly collide with a figure seated upon the banister—a figure you had not anticipated.

“Gods!” you exclaim, your hand rising instinctively in a half-hearted gesture of defense. The figure swivels sharply at the sound, and you take an instinctive step back, the suddenness of the encounter leaving your heart racing.

Your eyes widen in recognition as you find Jacaerys, perched upon the banister, his gaze ensnared by yours.

“Prince Jacaerys,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath. His nod is stiff, and the faintest signs of sorrow reveal themselves—a reddened rim around his eyes, the tip of his nose touched with pink. The melancholy seems to hang upon him as you shift uncomfortably on your feet.

When he speaks your name, a subtle tremor betrays his composure. “I did not expect you here.”

You blink, concern stirring within you. “I was merely…” You swallow, “I often come up here for solace,” you reply, feeling the awkwardness settle between you like a heavy cloak. Jacaerys and you do not often find yourselves alone together. “I did not mean to intrude-”

“It’s alright,” he interrupts, his tone curt but not unkind as takes a step towards the stairway down. “I was just- leaving.” he discreetly wipes at his eyes, and you avert your gaze as the last vestiges of his sadness are hidden from view.

In the ensuing silence, memories of youthful nights emerge unbidden - the cruelty of your brothers, the growing disdain in Jacaerys’ gaze when he’d see your family within the Red Keep, his chilliness despite your earnest attempts at childish friendship. You wonder if he too recalls these days, as the weight of those shared shadows lingers between you. 

Sometimes, it seems to be the solitary thread that binds your past to his.

He’s been crying - those large eyes, glossy with the remnants of sorrow. A pang hits your stomach - Jacaerys, who stands in front of you in his traditional Targaryen clothes, yet was just perched upon the banister like a young boy; Jacaerys, who cannot afford to let his head dip down because one day he must bear a very heavy crown.

You almost say something; there are hundreds of words you could say to Jace, but it is not your place. Your shoulder is not the one he chooses to lean on, to cry on. You are not his betrothed. 

“You don’t have to leave, my Prince-” You say, but he shakes his head suddenly.

“-I’d rather you call me Jacaerys when we are not at court.” His voice softens slightly, though his eyes struggle to stay on yours. “I find it’s too formal.” He adds, fingers toying with the dark band that lies around his finger.

When you were young, Helaena often played with her rings similarly when anxious. The memory makes your chest ache.

"Jacaerys," you start tentatively, “It’s... alright,” you murmur, struggling to find the right words. “To take a moment. To breathe and... reflect.”

Though you need not utter his brother’s name, Jacaerys understands you speak of him; of the war’s relentless shadow.

You can only feign ignorance as he bites back his anguish, jaw tightening and breath hitching in a suppressed sob. A tear is wiped away from his cheek expeditiously; your eyes find the black waters along the horizon. With an effort of courtesy, Jacaerys excuses himself in a whispered tone.

His final nod is but a swift and false gesture—an empty formality, yet a small, tentative bridge over the chasm that has long kept you apart.

You do not let your own tears come until his figure has well disappeared within the depths of the castle below.

[ taglist: @chloe-petrichors @jottositto @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley ]

[simmervlogs]

Hello Simmers, welcome to Château Chantlilly, a family home (5 bedroom, 3 bathroom) in Windenburg.

This beautiful Château, also known as the "Chantlilly", sits on a moat. Elegant, fully restored property dates from the second third of the 18th century. The high quality construction is in the classical style, topped by a large triangular pediment pierced by an oculus. In front of the main courtyard, the château is stood upon a moat, surrounded by walled parklands greeting you with twin curved stairways. As you cross the threshold, you are immediately imbued with the soul of this timelessly elegant residence.

The immaculate lush walls reflect the light that streams in through the tall windows and high ceilings .On the ground floor, an entrance hall leads to a informal living room adjoining a dinning room. The reception rooms are extremely refined and open, with marble flooring and beautiful fireplace topped by a trumeau mirror.

To the left of the entrance is a a beautifully appointed kitchen, bar and pantry which also connects to the the dinning. Two twin curved staircases greet you to both wings of the home with an attractive wrought-iron banister leads to the upper floors.

On the second floor, 3 spacious and luminous ensuite, decorated in light tones and with parquet flooring, have retained their mirrored fireplaces. The ground floor is also equipped with another bathroom, office, external suite for guests or your in-laws and a very private art gallery hidden behind the bookcases.

Meticulous restoration, carried out with an obvious love of authenticity, has preserved the unique character of this Château. Exceptional services have brought modernity and comfort to this residence, while preserving its soul.

Enjoy the lush gardens, waterfall, ponds and pool while you gaze upon the elegance that is now your home, Château Chantlilly.

Please note almost everything is CC and the items were not created by me! Please do support and directly download from all the creators mentioned! I have attached the CC folders convenience ONLY.

Thank you once again to all CC creators!

DOWNLOAD (Free on Patreon)

[ivelovedhimthroughworse]

Six Sentence Sunday

Thanks for the tags: @artsyunderstudy (happy birthday 🥳) @best--dress @blackberrysummerblog @bookish-bogwitch @hushed-chorus @nausikaaa @rimeswithpurple and @whatevertheweather! You’re all the best!

I didn’t update this week, but I made this post for Chapter 7 of Snowzilla vs Baz Jaguar and never got it out of my drafts. So, better late than never:

Peni felt a sharp pain under her ribcage as she ran. She panted for air as her feet slid on loose gravel. The ground was covered in branches, rocks, metal banisters from stairways, pieces of balconies and so much broken glass. She should watch each step, but yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the Majutsu-shi. Satisfied with the setting and aim of his device, he turned a dial on the side. A high-pitched whine emerged. A ray of red light, like forked lightning, leapt out and connected with Snowzilla’s abdomen.

The Majutsu-shi is the Japanese name that I picked for the Mage in this story.

Wishing you pleasant daydreams: @aristocratic-otter @bazzybelle @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @captain-aralias @cutestkilla @ebbpettier @facewithoutheart @fatalfangirl @forabeatofadrum @ic3-que3n @krisrix @larkral @mooncello @orange-peony @prettygoododds @raenestee @roomwithanopenfire @shrekgogurt @skeedelvee @thewholelemon @urban-sith @valeffelees @whogaveyoupermission

[skellyflowers]

Royal Ball 2

Masterlist

Vessel x reader

Sleep will be referred to as “Queen Jeinnv” 

Vessel will be referred to as “Prince Adrian”

II will be referred to as “Prince Roddric”

III will be referred to as “Dilan, Duke of Elderstock”

IV will be referred to as “ Edgard, Duke of Haverlem”

Chapter 2 

The Royal Place is even more grand than I remember. The last time I was here was my father’s  title ceremony. Tonight under the full moon the place is more beautiful. As our carriage pulls closer to the front gates I can hear faint music in the air. As we enter the main entrance my mother makes sure to point out the members of the nobility.

“Remember girls your goal is to marry up not down.” she says as she adjusts her mask. “I need to be sure you are going to be taken care of by a man of means.”

“Darling, you're making them nervous.” my father interjects.

As we stand on the stairs before the ballroom the same panicked feeling starts to return. I try to distract myself with the flowers on the banister. There is a mix of red roses, white chrysanthemums and black charm lilies. Quinn gets my attention with a tap to my shoulder and motions her head to the top of the stairs.

“Look, that's Dilan, Duke of Elderstock and next to him has to be Edgard, Duke of Haverlem!” she whispers.

“How do you know?” I whisper back.

“I doubt that the crowned prince’s best friends would not be here.” She says “Besides, he is the tallest man here.”

We share a giggle as the royal announcer confirms the identity of the masked men we were just talking about. Soon we reach the doors to the ballroom. I see my father give the announcer a card. He then bellows my family’s arrival, as we enter the ballroom.

I try not to notice the eyes that linger on me and my sisters as we enter. I tell myself that the “hard part” is over. I have entered the Ball and have not made a fool of myself. I would be surprised if anyone could hear our announcement over the full orchestra playing. Yet someone does, the only friends we have, Viscount Gray.

The Viscount and his family had been the first to visit after we moved into the manor. His daughter Lucy had become our friend immediately. It was good to see a familiar face. My brothers walk off with the Viscount’s sons to mingle as my sisters, Lucy and I find a table to sit at.

We get little time to chat when suddenly the orchestra stops playing. We look at each other when we hear.

“Her Royal Majesty Queen Jeinnv, Prince Adrian and Prince Roddric!”

At the top of the Ballroom’s entry stairway stood the queen with one Prince each side of her. As the three entered the Ball we bowed as they passed. When the Queen reaches a small thone placed in the room she addresses all the guests.

“My dearest subjects, I thank for joining us tonight to celebrate my son’s birthday.” the crowd starts to cheer. “Tonight we invite you all to drink and be merry. Happy birthday to my son Prince Adrian.”

My father rounds us up to greet the Queen and wish the Prince a happy birthday. When we reach the front of the line I get a better look at the Queen. She is dressed in the royal family colors, black and gold.  Prince Adrian is on her left and Prince Roddric is on her right. The three look otherworldly. Especially because the Queen is the only one without a mask.

“My Queen.” my father says, as he bows to her. “May I present my family. You remember my wife, my two sons and my three daughters.” We all bow as father introduces us. “Happy birthday my Prince.”

Prince Adrian nods his head. It is hard to know what he is looking at under his white and red mask. The mask greatly stands out from his black suit. Prince Roddric is dressed more simply; his mask and suit are both completely black.

“Excellent to see you tonight Baron. I’m glad your family is here with you.” Queen Jeinnv says “How old are your sons Baron?” she then asks.

“I’m 27 and Andrew is 25, my Queen.” Alfred answers.

“Wonderful! It would be good for my sons to have more friends their age. Not just the Dukes.” Both Dukes are nearby and turn toward the Queen when she makes the comment. 

“Only if they can keep up on horseback.” joke Duke Dilan.

Duke Edgard walks over to shake my brother's hands. The four walk off together after the brief introduction. It looks like they are having a successful night so far. The orchestra starts back up when we walk back to our table. We share a drink before a man approaches me and my sisters and asks Quinn if she would like to dance.

“Of course she would!” Mother says “All of you should go dance.”

Her tone lets us know we don’t have much of a choice in the matter. As Quinn walks onto the dancefloor me and Maddie stand together on the sidelines and wait to be invited to dance. Lucy Gray finds us again to tell me and Maddie the gossip about the lord Quinn is with.

I started to think that tonight wouldn’t be so bad. The castle is beautiful, I’m with the people I love, the orchestra is playing and the drinks are flowing. I truly start to relax then a group of men approach us.

“Would you ladies honor us with a dance?”

[talesofedo]

I don't know whether this is of interest to anyone (writers? artists?) but here are some wear patterns on a well-loved yukata.

This particular garment is about four years old and made from cotton. I wear this a lot, primarily to sleep in, but also often around the house, especially in summer.

Occasionally I wear it in the backyard doing some light gardening, playing ball with my dog, or for getting the mail from the mailbox at the end of my driveway.

I pretty much only wear this with heko obi (soft obi). I'm not sure whether the wear pattern in the waist would be much different with the stiffer kaku obi.

The heaviest amount of wear is to the sleeves, particularly to the sleeve openings and the armpits.

I don't know how many times I've managed to snag the sleeve openings on something.

Maybe I'm more klutzy than the average person (though I don't think so?), but it's so easy to snag them on things in a modern house. Some places I've encountered specifically include: the stairway banister, the kitchen island, and assorted door knobs.

I expect there would be plenty of things one might snag their sleeves on during the Edo period as well, such as the handles or corners of andon lamps, for example, or bamboo fences.

The armpits tear surprisingly easy. Every so often I've caught my hand on the sleeve doing things like getting up if from bed or from sitting on the floor, and putting that pressure on the sleeve then rips the stitches in the armpit.

Interestingly, I've found that the collar likes to fold over on itself after washing, and the white line you see here is wear and tear along the collar's folded-over edge.

That wear would normally be found at the actual edge of the collar, which will start to fray and disintegrate just from the friction of everyday wear.

I'll probably replace the entire collar on this one day if I don't choose to just keep patching it.

One thing I found interesting about wear patterns are these two spots at the back, just underneath the collar on either side.

However, these make sense if you look at how a kimono drapes when it's worn.

In the picture below, which is from an NHK story, you can see how the sleeve basically drapes from the top of the shoulder, on either side of the collar. Over time, that causes wear to those spots and can cause them to thin or wear through, as it did on mine.

[bigasswritingmagnet]

Ruined

Fandom: Girl Genius Pairing: Bangladesh Dupree/Vole (discussed), Agatha/Gil (background) Summary: Bang has seen Vole's new look, but only now learns that the man she fell for has changed on the inside, too.

It's clearly all Gil's fault.

Ao3 link

“You ruined him!”

Gil ducks the knife automatically, but is caught enough off guard that Dupree’s foot actually manages to make contact with his jaw. He hits the ground and rolls as another knife pings off the stone floor. With an inelegant but effective twist, he’s on his feet again, but the tears in Dupree’s eyes stop him short.

“He was perfect!” Dupree wails, clutching her knife to her chest. “He was perfect and you ruined him!”

“What are you talking about?” he demands. The next knife barely misses him, and Gil is honestly not sure if Dupree is not putting her all into trying to kill him, or if her aim is affected by her crying.

It’s rather horrifying.

“Wait—Wait, are you…do you mean Vole? That was almost a year ago, why are you mad at me now?”

“Because I didn’t know until now! You made him an even bigger monster than before, but only on the outside!

"Wh—Hang on—"

“I’ve been looking all over for him! And when I finally found him, and I asked him out, do you know what he said? Do you know what he said?”

Gil silently shakes his head, mystified.

“He said he doesn’t like to kill things for fun anymore!” Dupree sobs.

Gil bursts out laughing from sheer surprise, and then immediately takes off running as Dupree hurls herself at him. He serpentines down the hallway, knives zipping past him.

Where does she keep them all? He thinks, wildly.

“Castle! Maybe you’d like to do something about the attempted murder of your lady’s consort?” he shouts at the ceiling.

‘You must know I do not.’

Gil swings around a corner, jumps up, lands on the wall, pushes off, flips over Dupree’s head and takes off back the way he came. Behind him he hears Dupree collide with and be toppled over by something metallic and heavy , but he knows it’ll only stall her.

“Agatha will be really upset.”

‘I think the young lady has a legitimate grievance against you,’ the castle says, primly.

“Oh of course you do!”

Gil makes it as far as the stairs before something hits the back of his head, hard, with a crash of breaking pottery. He goes tumbling halfway down before he manages to grab hold of the banister and stop his fall. Sprawled on the stairs, Gil looks up. Dupree stands at the top of the stairway, glaring down at him, eyes blazing through tears. She looks like she walked off the set of a particularly melodramatic penny opera.

“He was the only man I ever loved,” she says, sounding as histrionic as she looks, “and you ruined him.”

“You knew him for five minutes,” Gil points out. “You didn’t even have a conversation with him, you just listened to him rant about how much he wanted to set Europa on fire!”

“That was all I needed," she snarls.

“What is going on out here?”

Agatha and Zeetha have appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Agatha has her hands on her hips, her brow furrowed. Zeetha is finding great amusement in Gil's difficulties, but what else is new.

“Dupree is mad at me because Vole is no longer a ruthless homicidal maniac.”

“Vole?” Zeetha repeats.

Agatha gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. She looks up at Dupree, wide eyed.

“You two would be perfect for each other!” she says.

“Not now! Not after Wulfenbach got done with him!” Dupree cries. “He doesn’t even want to set anything on fire anymore! He said he was tired of fighting!”

Gil watches in open mouthed astonishment as both women walk straight past him to fuss over Dupree. Agatha pulls her into a hug and Dupree sobs against her chest.

“You poor thing,” Zeetha says, with all signs of genuine compassion.

“It’s not fair!” Dupree bawls. Agatha shoots Gil a disapproving look.

“All I did was pull him out of the time stop!” Gil cries in protest. “It’s not my fault that the process put him through a personalized metaphorical hell that caused introspection leading to a changed outlook on life!”   

No one is listening.

“Come on,” Zeetha says, gently. “Let’s get some chocolate in you.”

“He’s not the only bloodthirsty, amoral monster you’ll ever meet,” Agatha reassures Dupree as they guide her down the hallway.

Gil sits up, puts his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his fists, glowering at the far wall.

“I didn’t hear anyone complaining when we used what I learned to get Tarvek out,” he grumbles.

‘I think you should be a little more sympathetic,’ the castle says. Gil chokes.

“Are you serious?”

‘I knew Vole of old,’ the castle says, and adds, mournfully, ‘Their wedding would have been a bloodbath.’

“Oh, shut up.”

[averagejoesolomon]

We're in for quite the ride with this one, friends. Welcome to the first chapter of Full Circle: 1986. I so cannot wait to share this one with you.

Chapter One

Joe has a weight to him, but it’s nothing Matt ain’t carried before.

The two of them have lived in their M Street apartment for three months to the day, although it’s probably generous to say they’ve spent any time living here at all. More accurately, they’ve been living in bus stations, and plane cabins, and European hotel rooms. They’re leasing the apartment, if only for the mailing address and the consistent phone line, but the unfamiliarity makes the stairways hard to navigate in the dark. Harder still to navigate when one of them has a broken foot.

“I’d know if it was broken,” Joe argues, arm slung around Matt’s shoulders as they work their way to the second floor. “I’ll be fine.”

That’s rich considering the way Joe’s gripping at the banister, but Matt doesn’t say so. Instead, he hears his mama’s midwest tone slip into his own voice. “That’s exactly what my pops said last time he wrestled with the baler,” he warns, just as they conquer the final step. “He was down on his ass for a week before my mama finally convinced him to go see Doctor Carter, and do you know what the good doctor said?”

“I bet you’re gonna tell me—”

“He said it was broken, Joe.” In an effort to prove something he ain’t got to, Joe slips out of Matt’s hold and starts limping toward the door, key in hand. He fully ignores every word coming out of Matt’s mouth, but that don’t stop Matt from trying to impart a dash of farmboy wisdom. “Now it was just a tiny little break, mind you. Not the end of the world. But they still put him in a boot for six weeks, and he didn’t jump out of a third-story window, directly onto a moving train.”

The door clicks open. “Looked pretty cool, though, didn’t I?”

“Mmm.” The problem with this question is that Joe always looks cool, but Matt knows better than to encourage him. “And how cool do you think you looked five miles later, when you took that second tumble and rolled another thousand feet into a crick?”

Their conversation threads seamlessly through a slew of silent and absentminded countersurveillance checks. The door jamb looks unharmed. The welcome mat looks unaltered. All is quiet, save for the rattling radiator. Before they left, Joe laid a discrete line of salt just inside the threshold, which still rests undisturbed by the scuff of an unwelcome heel.

With the unsteady step of his injured foot, Joe gives an implied all-clear. “What?” he goes on. “Like it’s my fault the guy came at me with a sledgehammer?”

Matt flicks on the light. “I ain’t saying that.”

Joe hangs up his keys. “Then what are you saying?”

“All I’m saying is that you came at him with a crowbar first.”

“And all I’m saying is that when a 280-pound Russian comes at you with a sledgehammer, you get the hell out of his way—doesn’t matter who swung first.”

They dump their bags in the doorway, knowing full well that the next assignment won’t be far off and it’s not worth unpacking and repacking. They’ve learned to keep a well stocked go-bag within easy reach, although with the look of his limp, Joe ain’t going anywhere any time soon. “You’re lucky you only walked away with a broken foot,” says Matt, wincing sympathetically as Joe hobbles toward the couch. “I know plenty of guys who would’ve broken half the bones in their body with a fall like that.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Joe replies. “I’m just good at falling.”

As if to demonstrate his skill, Joe collapses into the cushions, laying out across the length of the entire couch and propping his foot on a pair of throw pillows that Matt’s mama shipped over in her latest care package. To the untrained eye, he looks perfectly content, but when it comes to matters regarding Joe Solomon, Matt is the world’s leading expert and he’s not so easily fooled. “You ought to see a doctor.”

Joe throws a groan toward the ceiling, his head falling against the arm of the couch. “I’m telling you, it’s fine.”

Except Matt’s already making his way past Joe and toward the kitchen just behind him. “It’s good and goddamn broken, is what it is.” He rummages through the freezer, sifting through meats, casseroles, and frostbitten TV dinners until he finds a bag of unopened vegetables. “Here. Put some peas on it.”

When Matt tosses the bag toward him, Joe snatches it from the air without a second glance. There’s no small amount of protest, but Joe ultimately relents, removes his boot, and wraps the peas around his swollen sock. “If you’re gonna make me sit here all night,” he grumbles, stretching for the remote nearly out of reach, “then we’re at least gonna watch the Yankees.”

If the Yankees are the only way to guarantee nine innings worth of rest from Joe, Matt will take what he can get. But that doesn't mean he can’t give Joe a hard time about it. “You’re sure you have the heart for the Yankees right now?”

“Oh, for shit’s sake,” Joe moans over the slow, fuzzy fade-in of color commentary. “Don’t even start. Kansas City wins one World Series and suddenly every Royals fan in the world thinks they’ve got the best team around—d’you know how many World Series wins the Yankees have? Twenty-tw—”

“Twenty-two,” Matt answers at the same time. “So you’ve said, but do they plan on winning one this decade, or are they just gonna keep playing the same damn tape about Murderers' Row every week?”

Joe’s in a bickering mood tonight, but then again, this particular conversation ain’t exactly a fair measure. “The 1927 team was a great goddamn team.”

“No doubt.” While he’s in the kitchen, Matt nabs two Budweisers from the fridge. He tosses one to Joe, then cracks open his own bottle. Takes a sip. Bitter bubbles bite at his tongue. “But it’s a bad look to brag about the glory days when they happened sixty years ago.”

Joe pops open his own bottle with the tip of a pocket knife. “At least the Yankees have glory days,” he says, taking a swig of his own. “This team was making baseball history before your boys even existed. Before the AL West—”

The phone rings. Historically, it takes about three beers and/or a minor international crisis to stop Joe from launching into his usual speech about the glory and grandeur of Murderers’ Row, and this moment is no exception. When Matt says, “Hold that thought,” Joe does not, in fact, hold back any thoughts and instead finishes his argument under his breath as he directs his attention to the tinny national anthem playing from the TV. 

Matt lets Joe run his mouth and takes another hefty sip before plucking the phone from the wall. “Y’ello?”

He’s so shaken up by the jet lag, and the broken foot, and the M street apartment that time escapes his notice. If he had been paying closer attention, he might have realized that the Yankees are playing a night game. That his windows are dark and star-speckled. That it’s awfully strange to receive a call this far along in the evening.

 “Matthew?”

And a name like that narrows down his list of potential callers real quick. Since it ain’t his mama on the other end of the line, he’s left with only one other option. “Oh,” he says, slowly, then screws his head on straight. She can’t see him, but he still finds himself standing straighter, setting his beer aside, and swiping out the wrinkles in his shirt. Stupid. “I mean, uh, hi. Hello. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting…”

Rachel Cameron has always had a knack for knowing what he means to say, without him needing to say it. He expects the same from her now, hoping she can find the missing end to his pitiful, meandering sentence, but she grants him no such grace. Rather, she lets the uncertainty hang over the line until it bloats beyond tolerance and she has to crack it open. “I need to call in a favor.”

This comes as a bit of a shock, considering the last conversation he had with Rachel was twisted up in enough tears to tear their relationship in two. Shame swells with the memory of a bad night in Baltimore, made worse by the months and months of stubborn silence that followed. Despite his training, this uneasy sentiment slips into his next words. “I, um,” he starts, “wasn’t aware I owed you any favors.”

This is the wrong thing to say, as evidenced by the sudden chill that spans the unknown distance between his phone and hers. There’s a pause, short and subtle enough to be accidental, but he’s spent enough time with Rachel to know that her words are always spoken—or left unspoken—with precise purpose. “Don’t you?”

His hands find their way to the bottle once more, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with an increasingly soggy beer label. Now it’s his turn to anticipate her sentences, and she makes it easy for him. Her expectant silence grabs hold of the line’s low, muttering static and spins into a complete list that’s itemized, bullet pointed, and highlighted for Matt’s benefit. In the space she leaves open, he remembers nights spent studying surveillance basics and mornings spent running drills. He remembers her cover on countless missions, and her patience during stakeouts. A baseball game in Chicago and an impromptu break-in at Manhattan National Bank. A trip to Naples in which she sacrificed the success of an op to save Joe’s life, simply because he asked her to.

He owes Rachel a lot of favors, actually, and she gives him just enough time to realize it before she cuts in again. “Listen,” she says, “if that’s how you see it, I’ll call someone else—”

“No,” he says, hastily. “No, not at all. I only mean to say I would have…” There’s nothing he can offer her now but the truth. Rachel will see straight through anything else. “I would have repaid them sooner, except that I didn’t think you were interested.”

This, at last, seems to break through her rigid strategy for this call. Then again, maybe he imagines the hint of surprise in her voice. Maybe the phone is stripping away some of the nuance in her tone, or maybe it’s just another tactical move from the smartest spy of his generation. “No?”

“No,” is his tentative answer. Then, with even more hesitation, “You just haven’t called, is all.”

There’s a huff on the other end of the line, indignant, or maybe even amused. When he plays his own words back in his mind, he realizes why. Him giving her grief about calling, when the script has so often been reversed. It’s funny, in an unfunny sort of way. “Yes, well,” she says. “Neither have you.”

Matt was explicitly told not to call, but maybe that direction wasn’t meant to span the full two-year period it has. “No,” he grants her, no argument. “S’pose I haven’t.”

When another bout of silence fills the line, he’s hit by a wave of anxious want for more. He can’t stand the thought of letting this conversation dwindle, when he’s spent so many hours wondering how to get it started. He chokes on all of the promises and apologies he’s wanted to offer her since Baltimore, desperate to fill the space with something—preferably something smart and witty and thoughtful, but he’ll take wherever he can get, so long as he gets to remain on speaking terms with Rachel Cameron for just a little while longer. 

A scrap of the bottle’s label crumbles into his palm, and Matt settles for the first words that fall out of his mouth. “Well, uh, what—?” He clears his throat. Tries again. “What can I do for you?” 

It’s small and simple compared to the broad and meaningful phrases flipping through his head, but it keeps her talking. Anything to keep her talking. “I know this is short notice, but I was hoping to catch you between trips.” This is downright impeccable timing, not even five minutes after he returns home, and he knows better than to think it’s coincidence. He never understood how she could keep such close tabs on him, even under the most confidential circumstances, but there’s a familiarity to it, met with a sense of comfort that someone out there has an eye on things. “I’m putting together a team and Abby’s out of commission right now, so I need someone to replace her.”

Though Rachel’s been off-limits, he’s spoken with Abby fairly recently, so it catches him off guard to hear she’s down for the count. “Hold on, what’s wrong with—?”

“She went and got herself shot during an op in Brazil. I told her not to go so soon before this op, but—”

“Shot?”

“She’s fine,” Rachel reassures him. It’s the first show of warmth since he picked up the phone. “Sorry, I should’ve… anyway, she’s fine. The bullet was lodged in her hip, but her surgical team got the shards out. Gave Daddy a scare, but she’s already back at the estate, complaining about how bored she is, just sitting on the couch all day.”

Matt glances over at Joe, who’s already found a reason to get mad at an umpire. “Yeah, I hear you,” he says. “And believe me, I’m glad you’ve got her sorted out but…”

She frosts up again. “But?”

He wonders when conversations with Rachel started to feel like a chess trap. He has to think three moves ahead of her. “I don’t think I have to point out that she and I don’t exactly have overlapping skill sets.”

“Definitely not,” Rachel agrees. “But with a little re-balancing, I think I can still make the op work. I could use a Russian expert anyway.”

That’s interesting. “Russia?”

“Yes. Not to trouble you with another trip to the Soviet Union, but—”

“The Soviet Union’s no trouble,” he promises. “Just a little further east than I’m used to seeing you.”

“Sure, well,” she allows, “some business in the Alps led me to Moscow and the Agency’s interested to see where it lands us. I get the sense that it’s big. My CO’s talking about a promotion if all goes well.”

“Congratulations.”

“I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“Right,” he says. “No, right. Of course.”

This conversation makes Matt feel like a novice all over again. Beside Rachel’s careful consideration, his unsaid words feel like an accident. A stilted need that he just can’t squeeze through his lungs, and the entire conversation suffers for it. Her intentions and emotions are so clear to him, yet he can’t figure out what his own brain is doing.

He restarts, with another attempt to keep the conversation going. That’s all he needs, is to keep talking to her. “It’s just that if you’re expecting me to bat my eyelashes and flirt with the KGB, you’re going to be sorely disappointed by the results.”

Impatience. “So you’re not interested?”

“I don’t want to blow this for you, is all.”

Confidence. “You won’t blow anything for me. I won’t let you.”

“I’m just not sure I’m the best fit.”

Reassurance. “I’ve already taken your skill set into consideration and adjusted the strategy accordingly.”

“And you’re sure there’s no one else? I mean you don’t have anyone who’s better suited to—?”

“Matthew,” she says. “I need you.”

Matt has made a career out of deciphering tone, intonation, expression, but for the first time in a good while, he has no idea how to read this sentence. He replays each word in his head, trying to parse out exactly how she’s said it. She might have said, “I need you,” emphasizing herself, the mission, the empty spot on her team. Or she might have said “I need you,” emphasizing him, his skills, his presence.

But he reckons it doesn’t much matter. When it comes to Rachel Cameron, his answer is always the same. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, definitely. Alright.”

It’s impossible to hear a smile, but Matt might just hear hers anyway. “Great,” she says. “I’ll get my team to loop in your CO. We’ll get it on the books. Expect a call tomorrow with more details.”

There’s a hint of an old fight lingering in these instructions, leftover from all of the questions she never got an answer to. Case officers. On the books. There’s no question that this is an agency-sanctioned mission and she spares no judgment for Matt’s usual brand of unsanctioned activity. 

The label is fully peeled from his bottle, piece by piece, and Matt decides that he doesn’t have the energy for this particular fight tonight. “Yeah, okay,” he says instead. “I’ll keep an ear out.”

This ought to be the end of things. The pace of the call slows to a puttering stop and Matt decides that there are some things a fella can’t say over the phone—apologies, and excuses, and regrets to name a few. He resolves to save it all for when they’re in person. Best to let this conversation end on an even note.

But Rachel holds on to the line for just a beat too long before she decides to cut through it one last time. “And Matthew?”

He holds his breath. “Yeah.”

She hesitates, which is a rare occurrence for Rachel. “I only need you.”

There’s no question deciphering that one. Matt steals another glance at Joe, and they’ve stumbled into their second fight of the evening, without even trying. But Matt decides that this is another one of those things that doesn’t translate well in a phone call—especially when there’s no guarantee that her line is secure. So rather than fight, and yell, and defend Joe like he usually would, Matt swallows the stone in his throat. “Understood.”

Matt hangs up the phone before his reflexes kick in. Just like Joe can’t be stopped from defending the 1927 Yankees, Matt can’t be stopped from defending Joe, so he removes himself from the conversation before it can take a turn for the worse.

Joe registers this, looking past the couch to check Matt’s availability before he calls out, “And another thing about the Royals—”

“Rachel just called?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but something about her always leaves him wondering. 

Joe stops short right in the center of his sentence. “Rachel Cameron?”

Matt’s hand is still on the receiver, lost in a limbo of what to do next. “Dunno any other Rachels.”

Matt knows Joe, and Joe knows Matt. When it comes to their partnership, the two of them can anticipate just about every need, every want, every movement, every breath. That’s just the sort of thing that happens when two people are around one another as much as they are. Matt doesn’t have to explain much about the call, because Joe can already read everything in his features. “She needs you?” he asks.

Matt nods. “Yeah.”

It’s not a question, when Joe says, “And you’re going to go.”

And there’s not a shred of doubt in Matt’s mind when he answers, “Yeah.”

Matt knows Joe, and Joe knows Matt. They can anticipate everything, just about. Except when Joe starts to laugh, right in the middle of his gruff and grumpy mood, it catches Matt sideways and leaves him off-kilter. “Oh boy,” Joe chortles. “You are in deep, cowboy.”

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

Count Baurendouin & Lord Francel, a Conversation in Approval

Rating: G Category: Gen Fic Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters: Baurendouin de Haillenarte & Francel de Haillenarte. Etienne Greystone mentioned. Summary: When hearing via rumor is all the information he gets in regards to his son and his beau, Count Baurendouin de Haillenarte has taken matters into his own hands to finally arrange a meeting. Here is what has happened after, in the wake of Etienne's footsteps leaving the manor, and Francel comes face to face with his lord Father, who means to exchange some few words.

Sneak peek: It was, or, would have, under most circumstances, been rather a nerve-wracking affair. But, Francel will find, as he sits in his chair, pulled up to his desk, a cold window at the rear, illuminating his paperwork with the setting sun, a chill overtakes him, a dreadful calm, at first. He knows his lord father, but will have perhaps… not given way for his lord father to know him. To keep such details as they had been, from the direct line of sight of his family, and–do not take that to mean he does not trust Etienne, oh but he does. Do not take that to mean he is embarrassed. For, lord Francel knows not how to be, on behalf of another man. In fact, there is nothing but pride, nothing but adoration, nothing but the fire in his fingertips when their hands touch, and the way his heart flutters into his throat to be looked upon by him. No. Francel will have, in some manner, yearned for this. The approval of such important men in his life, his father– his Etienne. For they to come together, a whirlwind of emotion, thought, ideas abound within him, such that calm will no longer hold sway over him now, and his heart will race in his breast and his ears will prick as if he could hear a modicum of their conversation from floors above, and rooms away. 

What more can he do, then, but to replace his quill, he had not been writing anyways, and push away from his desk. To glide with urgency to his door and swing it on oiled hinges in a way that had he any strength in his arms, it should have surely protested. The hallway is empty, the doors to both his brother's rooms are closed, and his sisters is ever vacant for her post in the Sea of Clouds. To traipse down the carpeted hallway, the flats of his shoes are silent, as he eases himself down the stairway, his hand marks a light trail down the banister, and his jaw nearly hurts for how tense his long ears are as he listens intently, as if, still there were anything to hear from here. The foyer is marked with pedestals of their high house gifts in front of the parlor, where Francel stands at a distance, watching eagerly. The door is closed, and a manservant is positioned patiently outside of it. His fathers. The man, a stately, older elezen, will look his way and offer no change in expression but to politely dip into a bow. Francel’s smile wobbles, and he bows his head in return. 

Francel will pass the parlor, begging to stop to listen at the door, but for the ‘guard’ stationed there, and will begin, on passage, to rub his forefinger and thumbs together at his sides, as he makes his way to the kitchen. With his back turned, and distance growing between he and the parlor, the manservant smiles.

Unknowing of the passage of time, for while it seemed quick, perhaps, as if no time has passed, it may also, within a blink, feel as though all the time has passed at once. And, indeed it will have, for Francel makes busy with a lady servant in the kitchens, together, for he had fretted, and she had seen it, to help knead the dough for sugar cookies for the lady mother. While he puts some of his weight into rolling it out, a cup of coffee is poured for him, and he will wash his hands and take it gratefully while the maid begins to cut out shapes.

“I hear, mi’lord, if I may be so bold as to bring it up, that we have a guest of some import.”

Oh, how he shall nearly startle, such that he must grasp his coffee cup with both hands, and the liquid within will ripple with the tremble that courses through his arms, and down his spine. He will raise it, to hide the way his mouth curves, in one moment, an upwards quirk, the other, a downward slide. He has, to this point, no clue what it is that is being spoken about, and what conclusion the count will come to. 

“To me.” Francel murmurs, unoffended. “So very important to me.”

She looks up, fitting a heart shaped dough piece unto a greased pan.

“It has been some time, my lord, perhaps you should go.”

He takes another big drink of the coffee, it does not steel his nerves, but it is hot, and it warms his belly. He sets it aside on the counter.

“I am sorry I did not finish your coffee, miss Olivette.”  

She smiles downwards, placing another shape of cookie. “I beg your pardon for making it so late.”

But Francel is gone, the door to the kitchens is slowly swinging shut, clicking with finality as Francel makes his way down the foyer again. At the far end, he can see the exit to the manor, and his fathers manservant is closing the door, behind, whom he will assume is Etienne. And his heart sinks. This whole time, Etienne had been so near, and yet, so far. He clenches his fingers at his sides, his hands empty of Etienne’s within his own, and his cheeks not graced by his warm mouth. There are no strong arms which would have taken him ‘round waist and drawn him into that inferno of heat… The manservant, from aside the door, and from a hook, takes an embellished cane, inlaid with a red gem, the body of it a sleek, stained black, and carries it back towards Francel whom has stopped right at the parlor door. For the manservant, he gently opens it, and the servant bows low, as Count Baurendouin steps without, hand held out, for which the servant will place the head of the cane within and Count Baurendouin will tap it a few times on the burnished red wood flooring of the foyer. 

“Ah. My son.”

Francel dips into a bow, as his father leans upon his cane, and while not necessity, provides ease of existence, in his bid to not show too much weakness. Francel is another story. 

“Lord father.”

Count Baurendouin turns, and with his cane by his side, a slow, and steady tap upon the wood of their manor with each step.

“And so, to scurry about, like the little manor mouse you are, your nose twitching away, your big ears a’swivle.”

Lord Francel flushes, as he steps in behind the Count, only slightly behind, and to his left. 

“Please my lord, do not think less of your son for his curiosity, for his… worry.”

Had Francel been any more anxious, he surely would have been kneading his hands together, his fingers twisted into a knot, and the circulation, poor as it was, cut off for how he worries himself into a bundle. Instead, his hands remain by his sides, but for his thumbs and forefingers rubbing together.

“Ye who should know nothing but composure.”

Chastised again, Francel chews his cheek unseen, looking straight ahead as they walk, the Count as his guide. The Manservant a respectful trail behind them. 

“As you know,” count Baurendouin begins again, “Your eldest brother, Stephanivien eschews tradition with a certain finality, and it should be said that he and I do not see eye to eye on this.” Francel peeks over nervously. “But, whom was it, then, that caved to see his happiness restored?”

Francel dips his chin, without looking away.

“You, my lord father.”

Count Baurendouin nods resolutely. “And, I am curious, lord son of mine, with whom you chose as your closest, and only companion since childhood. Of which accompanied us hither and thither to our guest home in the Lowlands, on hunting trips and adventures.”

“Ser Haurchefant…” It was hard to say, but it comes out, strong, resolute, without stutter.

“Ser Haurchefant…?” The count seems pedantic in that moment.

“Greystone.”

The count opens his mouth, making an ‘ah ha’ sound. 

“So he was, even after all he did, to only be knighted, and, never recognized fully as son of House.”

But here the Count looks over finally, stopping outside of a door at the end of a winding hallway. He turns to Francel. Because he knows this could be a sore spot. It has been years, but the loss of what had been ones only friend, can be a hard pill to swallow when forced to open ones mouth repeatedly for it.

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

The Count sighs, and the manservant comes forward then, opening the door to what appears to be an office, great walls of books on either side, a plush leather chair, a fireplace smoldering in the distance, a dark, starry window. Francel looks instead to his lord father.

“I want only the best, only the best, for my children. Maybe then, maybe before the War, it would have been different, but not now. Now, I can see, you have done well for yourself. And in him–well, he is interesting.”

Francel feels light, as his lord father speaks, a lightheadedness that makes him rock onto his heels, and then back onto his toes, regaining his bearings. A smile begins to flutter at the corners of soft lips. 

“I asked him to return for Starlight.”

Francel will jerk his head so quickly back onto the count that his neck kinks, and he almost hisses. Dark blue eyes wide, mouth a soft ‘o’. 

“Now that is a look unbecoming a young lord.” The Count raises one groomed brow. “I trust you shan’t let bad habits rub off on you.”

Francel immediately straightens his back, 

“Nay, my lord father.”

With one last resolute nod, the Count turns to enter his office, leaving his son in the doorway. The Manservant bows to him, and then passes him by to attend his Count. Francel, the smile he returns is giddy indeed.

And in the end, it would be blessing enough, for now.

[melodyartiez]

How to fall down the stairs?

How to Fall Down a Flight of Stairs | Worst-Case Scenario l

Lower your center of gravity.When you sense yourself falling, crouch low to the floor.

Do not attempt to break your fall.Avoid using your hands to try to break your initial fall. The weight of your body, in conjunction with the gravitational forces of the fall, may break your wrists.

Move to the inside wall.As you fall, keep your body close to the wall of the stairway, if there is one. You are more likely to catch an arm or a leg in the banister (or fall through or over it) than to injure yourself on the wall.

Tuck.Move your arms, legs, hands, and knees in close to your body. Tuck your chin to your chest. With your elbows tucked in, place your hands on the sides of your head

Roll in a zigzag pattern.Concentrate on rolling on your major muscle groups: lats (back), deltoids (shoulders), quads (thighs), and gluteus maximus (rear end). Avoid rolling head over heels, straight down: Your increasing momentum may cause injury, even with your body positioned correctly. Instead, roll in toward the wall on one shoulder, then out toward the banister on the other. Repeat the pattern until you reach the bottom. A zigzag roll will help you reduce speed and maintain control. Do not attempt the zigzag roll on a stairway with an old, rickety banister, an open railing, or no banister at all

Check for injury.Do not get up immediately. Slowly move each limb in turn to make sure nothing is broken. If you are in extreme pain, yell for help.

Lower your center of gravity.When you sense yourself falling, crouch low to the floor.

Do not attempt to break your fall.Avoid using your hands to try to break your initial fall. The weight of your body, in conjunction with the gravitational forces of the fall, may break your wrists.

Move to the inside wall.As you fall, keep your body close to the wall of the stairway, if there is one. You are more likely to catch an arm or a leg in the banister (or fall through or over it) than to injure yourself on the wall.

Tuck.Move your arms, legs, hands, and knees in close to your body. Tuck your chin to your chest. With your elbows tucked in, place your hands on the sides of your head

Roll in a zigzag pattern.Concentrate on rolling on your major muscle groups: lats (back), deltoids (shoulders), quads (thighs), and gluteus maximus (rear end). Avoid rolling head over heels, straight down: Your increasing momentum may cause injury, even with your body positioned correctly. Instead, roll in toward the wall on one shoulder, then out toward the banister on the other. Repeat the pattern until you reach the bottom. A zigzag roll will help you reduce speed and maintain control. Do not attempt the zigzag roll on a stairway with an old, rickety banister, an open railing, or no banister at all

Check for injury.Do not get up immediately. Slowly move each limb in turn to make sure nothing is broken. If you are in extreme pain, yell for help.

[ethaneldritch]

I had a dream once where a friend and I visited an ocean-themed hotel. The main gimmick was that each floor was themed after a different level of the ocean. It had giant fish tanks for walls, and the whole building was oval-shaped around a spiral staircase in the middle, so visitors can see each of the zones as they descend.

The reception area and top few floors were Tidal and Sunlight zones, all colorful and fun, with tropical fish and pretty shells everywhere. Naturally, a lot of families stayed there.

Next was the Twilight level; a lot of older people who wanted to get away from the noise stayed there.

Midnight level was sparsely populated. Mostly teenagers on a dare or late-night party groups.

But as my friend and I reached the end of the Midnight floor we noticed there were still at least seven more floors down to go.

We talked to the only guy who lived on the Abyss level, a long, apathetic guy with grey hair, and he said it “went down for a while, but I'm pretty sure there’s a gift shop, if you want to check it out”.

The two of us went down the next three floors in total silence. Our room ticket was something in the thousands, and we'd barely cleared 700 yet.

Finally, my friend decided to peek over the railing, just to see how much farther we had to go. They looked back at me, and I saw worms crawling out of their face. Without a word, I watched them climb over the stairway banister and drop off the other side. I didn't hear them land.

Several more pitch-dark floors later, I stumbled into a brightly-lit gift shop. The walls were draped in cheap blue and green fabric to mimic ocean waves, and a scuba-diving mannequin hung from the ceiling. I asked the kraken behind the counter if he knew what happened to my friend.

“Ah, that happens a lot to new employees,” he said. “They get a good rate for it, though. Can I interest you in a stuffed manatee?”

[tinybaileaf]

stg the info page for every condition is like

symptoms in men:

- impulsivity

- shortness of breath

- trouble multitasking

symptoms in women:

- the persistent or nagging feeling of falling down a stairway that does not end. you’re in a big tee that reaches your knees, but it isn’t comfy, you just get lost in it. in fact, you aren’t sure where you are or why it smells like 2006. over an intercom, a voice informs you of three missed calls. three! your legs are raw from rug burn and the occasional prayer. there is a banister, sure, but it is covered in oil. do you reach for it? do you?

- hot flashes

[ioannemos]

and the trees stand

a wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think i too have known autumn too long. e. e. cummings

day one: the universal problem / au

rating: pg

words: 900

───────────────────────────

The wind cries around the corners of the house, rattles the windows, moans in the chimney in the room next to hers, and Lucy stares up at the ceiling. As if falling asleep on threadbare carpet in an abandoned house along a back-country road wasn’t going to be hard enough on its own, the wind had to pick up, and so despite the salt lines she laid down her ears are straining to hear something else.

She scrunches down in her sleeping bag, trying to cover her ears. Her usual method of fortifying the single room she’s in has certainly stretched out her salt supply, but it means her imagination likes to run wild. Currently it’s picturing ghosts drifting into the other rooms and building up against the invisible line, their forms melting into each other as they press against it, trying desperately to find the smallest break they can force themselves through…

Downstairs, the front door bangs open. She sits up and puts her hand on her iron bar, heart beating in her throat. Adrenaline floods her bloodstream as a real voice echoes through the huge front hall, not quite loud enough for her to pick out actual words. She picked this house partially because it was so big: they’re harder to defend. What person on their own would chance it? At least two, she thinks bitterly. Maybe they’ll stay downstairs? Or maybe it’s one crazy person talking to himself.

The door slams shut. The voice continues speaking, a rapid cadence… a frantic one, she thinks after a moment. And a young one. And then she hears, far too clearly: “No, stay awake!” Her heart constricts as her stomach goes sour.

She stays where she is for another moment of frozen indecision, and then she groans and stands. Whatever is happening, she can’t stay here and half-listen. She opens the door, breaking her salt line, and brandishes the bar. No ghosts have built up in the room beyond. The frantic voice ceases abruptly, and then calls out a blustering, “Hello?”

“Flesh and blood,” she calls back, heading down the short hallway to the walkway open to the front hall. No ghosts accost her and she makes it quickly to the walkway. She doesn’t dare put weight on the banister as she looks down.

A tall thin boy in a long black coat is standing a few stairs up raising a faint lantern, illuminating his face better than hers or the house around them. His hollow face is smudged all over with what she can’t tell, making his age hard to pinpoint, but beneath his sunken eyes it’s even more smeary. He’s breathing heavily and holding his own iron bar; it’s raised aggressively, despite his whole arm trembling with the effort. All she can make out of the person on the stairway behind him is curly dark hair on one end and muddy jeans and trainers on the other. A voice too low and uneven for her to guess gender says, “La’wood?”

“It’s all right, George,” says the boy without looking away from her. “I’ll sort it.”

“Is he all right?” Lucy asks.

“He’s-” The boy cuts himself off and swallows hard. “No. He’s-” He blinks rapidly and swallows again, shifting on his feet as if that will hide how he’s swaying in place. “He’ll be fine,” he says, trying to be firm and assured but betrayed by his choked voice and darting dark eyes. “He just-”

“For God’s sake,” Lucy interrupts, starting around the walkway for the stairs. She slides her iron bar into her belt and keeps it there with a loop of twine. “Come on, let’s get him up here. I’ve got a salt line all around a room.”

“He’ll be fine,” the boy repeats. “He wasn’t ghost touched, we had to run and he fell down a ditch and hit his head, but- he’ll be all right.”

Now that Lucy’s come down the stairs she can see the boy a little better. He’s taller than her by more than she thought, and so thin and shaky it looks as though the wind still banging the shutters could blow him over. The ends of his black coat are stiff with mud and his trousers are more mud than fabric; God only knows what color his trainers are under all the drying brown. George’s hair is matted with mud on one side and he has glasses that are currently resting cockeyed on his nose. He mutters something she can’t make out.

“I’m… not,” the boy protests feebly, only now lowering his iron bar. “I’m…” He swallows again and rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s… been a night.” He tries to smile. She forgets for a moment how filthy he is because it’s such a lovely smile. He sets aside his iron bar and offers her his right hand after wiping it on his coat. “I’m Anthony Lockwood.”

“Lucy Carlyle.”

He gestures to the boy behind him, then crouches and takes his left arm. “This is George Karim.” George mumbles something that might be ‘pleased to meet you’ and half-waves a hand in her direction.

“Hello George.” She steps carefully to George’s other side to take his right arm and smiles back at Anthony. “Let’s get him upstairs, shall we?”

He smiles a little wider, making her heart flutter. “Yes, please.”

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shoutout to my new job for not sapping all my energy, @dangerously-human for getting me into lockwood & co, and @lco-angst-week for setting this thing up 🤍

thoughts on this au that didn't make it into the fic: ghosts multiplied faster than in canon, children and young people are still the only ones who can sense them, and thus society has largely broken down. it's not quite a lord of the flies situation where the kids are on their own, but... it's not not that either. i imagined little pockets of people struggling along in the country and cities being mostly abandoned bc of all the ghosts, small older towns only being better off in terms of smaller graveyards to fence off. where is lucy going? why are lockwood and george out in the middle of nowhere? there i can't help you. they're just. going. and meet up, and team up, and their lives are all changed for the better no more questions please 🧡

[crownedinmarigolds]

Snippet of a greater WIP I had in mind for mine and my husband's "Tavs!" We have a story made where it's the plot but with three main characters rather than the one?? We're just having fun with our various characters. Basic info on pictures. Backstory beneath the cut!

Noa (top) is the daughter of a long standing noble family that lives out in the sticks, and her wedding to a powerful nobleman is in Baldur's Gate. Her bodyguard and greatest friend Nythanel (middle) travels with her there along with the rest of her family. He is a half drow (guess his other half) from the Underdark and was brought to the surface some years ago by his master, who had also bought Ishtar (bottom) not long after they arrived in the city. Nyth and Ishtar are basically siblings who were hijinking fools until Nyth was sold off to Noa's family. Noa and Nyth grew extremely close, and Ishtar was left alone in Baldur's Gate, so when they arrived in the city and Ishtar came across them, it was a bittersweet reunion. Noa meets her fiancé and doesn't think she can go through with the wedding, Nythanel agrees and they decide to run away together to Candlekeep, where Noa can become an acolyte and read stories forever. Nyth will decide what to do with his freedom when they get there. They pack essentials - and an heirloom violin and a few other things - and Ishtar catches wind of their plan to escape, and hops in with them as they start making their way out. Unfortunately! A mind flayer invasion occurs at this exact time, snatching the three of them up, keeping them from their freedom. They thankfully are on the same ship and are infected with the same parasite, protected by the mysterious person in the artifact. Then the game ensues! Noa we decided is also part of a werewolf noble family because we think that's fun and dope. Nyth does carry silver and have restraints, but thanks to the parasite's influence, Noa has some vague control over her shift and is not completely enslaved to the light of the moon... though the fuller it gets the more tenuous that control may be. Noa has a strong and willful personality and has little fear when it comes to other intimidating people thanks to being a partially awakened werewolf, though that can get her into trouble. We ship her with Gale! She is a bard who specializes in playing the violin and loves stories and reading as that was her only escape locked inside her home. She enjoys listening more than speaking, and is more of a composer rather than a chatty bard. Nythanel is a gloomstalker ranger, most of his training comes from his youth in the Underdark, where the shadow is a second home to him. He adores his Noa and both are extremely dedicated to the other, and he was the one who had to watch over her when she shifted into a wolf back home. He radiates eldest sibling energy and a bit of a matyr complex, always feeling like he needs to take the hit for Noa or Ishtar, and always feeling like he needs to please SOMEBODY or that he's letting somebody down. He has a fiery and snappy personality, but he like his sibling are just scared kids trying to be brave in the face of a bad past and a shaky future. His love interest is Shadowheart! Ishtar has had a hard life in many respects. She is an acrobatic arcane trickster rogue, using her tiefling heritage and her close connection to her devil father Mephistopheles to illusion her way through the garbage. She likes money - it won't fail you like people will - and making impulsive decisions. When she gained her freedom, who's to tell her what she can or can't do? If she sees a flower she picks it, a stairway banister she'll slide down it, a mud puddle she'll jump in it. She either wants to run a giant ice cream company empire, or a clown in a circus. We ship her with Astarion.... Okay sorry yep here ya go!