#piano coat rack

[wikirobot]

Want to build your own Piano Coat Rack?

I put together some plans for the Piano Coat Rack so that if anyone else wants to try to make one they have a starting point. I ended up putting them on itch.io for free since tumblr doesn't really like PDFs or zip files. The plans are free for non-commercial use. I also have a section describing some of the process to hopefully make it fairly easy to replicate.

I put these plans together in FreeCad, so along with a PDF version of the technical drawings there are also full 3D models that you can use to get a better understanding of how it goes together. If you notice any oddities or mistakes or have any question please just me up!

Also if you make one please tag me, I would love to see it!

Some Samples:

[mw1971b-blog]

[bloodblanks]

one umbrella cover two [mr. scarletella x reader] — chapter viii.

The concept of ‘names’ is brought up with the red umbrella man.

note: reader is not player (mc).

author’s note: dead dove: do not eat. this fanfiction will contain dark and explicit content, including heavy dub-con, stockholm syndrome, violence, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

<- previous chapter

It was raining again. The constant downpour splashed upon everything in its wake, from the perfectly trimmed blades of grass on the lawn outside to the pool in the backyard—the one that had more time spent on maintenance than actual use.

His fingers rested upon the cool, smooth surface of the piano keys. They were monochrome in colour, much like the rooms in the villa and the world outside.

Everything, as he knew it, was dreary and devoid of life. Despite the constantly flourishing flowers and trees—the gardeners that father hired took good care of the flora—visible from the room’s window, he knew better. The place he resided in was nothing but a grave. It was a place where things, once alive, were buried and left to rot away.

He had seen it firsthand. That one evening where he had stumbled upon father bringing home his mistress, he had told mother. She died shortly afterwards.

Her ghost still hung around at home, making dinner for the family when they were around. When they weren’t, she was drinking the same bottle of Chardonnay while watching the same sitcom on the television. The housekeepers took the bottles out to hide the evidence of her death. The family didn’t want any prying eyes to notice how mother passed away. They didn’t want the others to dig into why.

Father’s affair was a secret, after all. A secret like one of the many others the long hallways whispered of at night, when the walls thought the residents stopped listening. A secret like one of the many others buried in this graveyard of a home.

“   ’                          ?”

The older brother had just returned home. His ghost was dripping wet, soaked head to toe by the unforgiving, stormy conditions. He wondered if the brother was uncomfortable being drenched like that. If he was, he definitely didn’t show it. He appeared to be at ease, taking off his cashmere coat and hanging it on the clothing rack as he spoke.

“Yeah,” he replied after a minute. The older brother almost looked like he wanted to say something, but all he could hear was silence—static, and cold. He didn’t like the quietude. It amplified his solitude into something loud and cacophonous.

After the older brother left, he let his fingers skim across the keys of the grand piano. It was expensive; father had bought it for him when he said he wanted to learn an instrument. The piano was one of the many costly things purchased for him. One of the many expenses he was told to be grateful for.

Right, he was supposed to be thankful. He was supposed to appreciate the lifeless tomb and undead family, because the first was luxurious and the second had bestowed it upon him. He needed to be happy, because there was nothing he was missing, nothing he needed. He had everything he could want.

He kept playing, but he couldn’t hear the sound of the piano over the sound of the rainstorm, each raindrop seeming to shatter violently against the earth with a deafening crash. He kept playing, fingers dancing upon the keys in a way that was all too practiced and mechanical. He kept playing, hoping the melody would cut through the overwhelming static.

The rain outside kept falling, drowning out his hopes.

—

What appear?

The vision that flashed through his mind was like a bolt of thunder, the shock travelling straight down his spine. The images were surreal, showcasing structures and a world he didn’t recognize. What was even more surprising, however, were the thoughts he just had. Thoughts in a language he didn’t comprehend, yet at the same time, he had a visceral knowledge of the sentiments being uttered.

Not know. Not understand. Troubled.

He failed to grasp why he was being shown such things; why his head was being intruded by pictures and recollections that weren’t his. He didn’t know whose memories these were, but they weren’t—couldn’t be—his.

Nonetheless, he was deeply disturbed by the fragmented events displayed before him. Perhaps it wasn’t the imagery itself, but rather the fact that they evoked emotions and thoughts in him that he never experienced before.

Though he had a very limited understanding of what just occurred, there was something unsettling about him being able to comprehend it at all.

“Hello?” Your voice pierced his temporary disorientation, dispelling the unusual events from his thoughts. “You okay?”

Human here.

Right, you were here, and you had asked him a question earlier. It took him a moment to remember it, and when he did, he felt the insidious, harrowing feeling gnaw at his entrails once again. You had asked for his name.

Name. My name.

He was about to tell you his name, the sound almost on the tip of his tongue but dying prematurely as he realized he did not have an answer. He didn’t know his name. He wasn’t sure if he never had one—somehow, he felt like that wasn’t the case—or if he simply forgot it. Either way, he felt perturbed, an uneasy feeling making his gut turn.

“Not have,” he finally stated, the words carrying an astringent taste.

“▯▯...” You let out a small noise, one he understood as a sound of musing and uncertainty. He stayed silent, both to let you think but also because he wasn’t sure what to say himself.

“Me give you name?” you finally asked. He remembered you having asked the same question to the researcher—the one you affectionately called ‘Mr. Silvair.’

Not like.

Just the thought of you having given someone else a name when he was yet to receive one brought an unpleasant taste into his mouth. You were his gift. Your affection should be reserved for him, and yet you were being overly friendly with others that were very much not him.

It was displeasing, to say the least, but he wouldn’t hold it against you or become angry with you. He wouldn’t give you any reason to be afraid of him. You shouldn’t be afraid of him.

“Want name,” he declared. There was something still unnerving about his lack of a name. He wasn’t sure why, but something in him was convinced that he should have one. But then again, none of the other residents he knew of had names, either. The only ones that seemed to have names were humans.

Want you name.

Now that the thought of you having a name came into his mind, he realized he wanted to know it. He had to know it. You were given to him, and your name should be, too. It was part of you; it was your identity. It was you. And he wanted you.

“Hm,” you repeated the contemplative sound from earlier, before your eyes lit up. “Mr. Scarletella?”

Me like.

The sound of your proposed name for him rolled smoothly off your tongue, and he found himself wanting to hear it again. He found his chest feeling strange once again, his pulse feeling much too strong, much too heavy. His heart seemed to respond to you the way plain objects responded to the magician—in an utterly nonsensical, phantasmic way.

“You like?” you questioned.

“Me like,” he replied, before adding, “Want you name.”

Human surprise. Cute.

Your eyebrows raised ever so slightly, his demand seeming to catch you off guard momentarily. You quickly recomposed yourself before answering him.

“Y/N,” you said.

Name pleasant. A lot pleasant.

He liked the way Mr. Scarletella sounded coming from you, but your own name, too, left him feeling breathless, as if the oxygen in his lungs had been snuffed out like a candle. That bizarre organ in his chest was getting louder, and he felt the urge to grab and smother it to quiet it down.

“Y/N,” he repeated. Just saying your name brought a smile to his face, all his previous concerns evaporating, much like the tricks the masked magician liked to show. Perhaps you, too, were a magician. “Me like.”

—

Dark.

The darkness permeated your surroundings, shrouding you in a deep abyss. You were enveloped in something that you could never see, nor feel. When you reached forward, there was nothing for the tips of your fingers to brush against. There wasn’t anything in any of the other directions, either.

Ground.

The only shape you could feel was beneath your feet. The ground was the only solid, corporeal thing to exist in the vastness of this void. You, too, existed. But you weren’t sure if you were solid or corporeal. You didn’t know what you were. You simply were.

Seek.

You were looking for something. For what, you didn’t know either. But you searched. You walked through the abyss endlessly, but you never found anything. Everything you came across was the same—empty and dark.

Until it wasn’t.

Find.

Eventually, your splayed fingers touched something soft. Something that distinctly had a shape and texture, unlike the sensationless lacuna you were enveloped in.

Sound.

For the first time, you realized you could hear. There was something going through your ears; you could feel them absorbing the noise. It was sharp, it was piercing. It was a jarring contrast to the silence that had filled your senses for so long. You wanted to hear more of it.

Like.

You reached out to touch it again, and it repeated the sound. Loud and compelling. It also made other sounds, but this time the sounds were shorter in duration and varied. It didn’t matter what the exact sequence of sounds were, you realized you simply liked hearing.

You tried to touch it again, but this time, as soon as your fingertips brushed against it, it disappeared. You moved your hands all around you, but there wasn’t anything.

Want.

You didn’t know what it was, but you didn’t want it to be gone. You wanted it to stay. You wanted to hear it again. But to do that, you’d have to find it.

It never came back. You were left in solitude, alone with the abyss.

—

What a strange dream, you thought, stirring as you awakened from your slumber. It was different from any other dreams you’ve had. While your dreams could be surreal and incomprehensible sometimes, you were always still you. This time, it felt as if someone else’s head had been taken off and screwed onto your own. Or perhaps, like your mind had been altered and sewn into a missing patch of clothing that didn’t belong to you.

As bizarre as the feverish events that played through your mind were, you quickly set it aside. It was nothing more than a dream. A dream that felt personally invasive, but still a dream nonetheless.

You yawned, stretching your limbs out as your consciousness flooded in, your brain rebooting itself slowly.

For the first few seconds after opening your eyes, it was like you had woken up to any other ordinary day. Your mind hazy, soft bedsheets pulled up over you, and the comfort of your bed tempting you to allow your eyelids to fall once again.

But it didn’t take long for your eyes to snap wide open, your muscles going rigid as the knowledge that this isn’t your bed sinks in. No, it wasn’t just not your bed, it was also not your room. Furthermore, this place you were in was not even your world.

As soon as the realization set in, you could feel your heart rate begin to pick up speed, each beat louder than the last. The sudden recollection of your situation didn’t fail to wake you up, your mind instantly growing alert. You rushed to sit up, looking around for the red umbrella man—no, Mr. Scarletella. You had given him a name before you fell asleep. It was on a whim, but you quite liked the sound of it. At least, it was better than your first thought, which was merging red and umbrella together. Scarlet sounded much nicer with umbrella.

It wasn’t time to think of such trivial matters. There were more important matters at hand right now, such as the fact that you’d been kidnapped, you were feeling awfully thirsty, and most notably of all—your kidnapper wasn’t present.

A familiar idea came to mind. Now that you had done it once and gotten away with it, you were much less afraid to do it again. You had a better idea of what to expect outside as well, and if you could perhaps find the crawling man or Mr. Silvair again, they could assist you.

However, if you were to get caught, a possibility you should definitely account for, ‘hungry’ wouldn’t get you off this time. You glanced to the side, seeing the unfinished granola left.

As you frowned, your mouth feeling rancid—you wished you could brush your teeth right now—an asinine idea came to your mind. If hungry wouldn’t work, perhaps thirsty would. You did need to drink something, so you wouldn’t be lying. You were genuinely parched, and the dull, fuzzy ache in your head was evidently worsened by your dehydration.

The more you thought about it, the more you convinced yourself it was a solid enough excuse. Mr. Scarletella wasn’t mad at you the last time you escaped. And it’s not like you’d be wandering around for no reason. It was his fault for leaving you alone and without proper hydration. Right?

Right, you concluded, brazenly lying to yourself. Time to make a really bad decision.

You walked over to the exit, reaching out for the doorknob. At that very moment, your body locked up, muscles tensing and every ligament freezing over.

For a long time, you stood there, staring down at your hand. You blinked, did a double take, and tried to make sure you were truly seeing what was before you.

No matter how long you looked for, or how closely you examined your skin, nothing seemed to change.

Your fingers were irrefutably grey, your skin the same colour as the steel handle beside it. 

next chapter ->

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thank you everyone for reading and supporting my work! (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

[the-kr8tor]

In Pursuit of Blood: A trip down goblin lane.

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Vampire hunter! Reader

Word count: 5.6k

Synopsis: You, an amateur vampire hunter, find it really hard to kill the one vampire you were tasked to kill.

Tags: Use of Y/N sparingly, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), same universe as the WWDITS series, CW blood, TW violence, CW suggestive, Mockumentary AU, established relationship, Fluff.

A/N: Special thanks to @al1x00 (ly fr) for the idea! Happy 1k! 🫶 (Enjoy my attempt at humor lol)

Navigation

Hobie's Masterlist

The camera focuses on a leather clad man sitting on a patchwork armrest. His long leg is crossed over the other, metal clinking against each other when he moves. He places his elbow on the armrest, hand under his chin, ringed fingers tapping on his cheek—bored and clearly disinterested. Red eyes lined with dark eyeliner, piercings glimmering under the camera lights, sharp nails painted, he makes the crew suck in a breath.

He's the perfect picture of a rockstar.

The dimly lit gothic home provides the perfect backdrop to the ‘confession booth’, various books, knick knacks from far flung places are littered all over the living room. A grand piano stands proudly to his left, dark oak polished and well taken care off. Tapestries from the sixteenth century are tacked on the walls next to seventies and eighties band posters. His coat rack is full of jackets that look like they come from different times in history.

The producer nods at him, asking for the man's name, his voice just above a whisper so that the microphones don't catch the sound.

He sighs, jaws tighten for a second. “Name's Hobie, Hobie Brown.” His voice shakes the crew's bones. The blond haired producer clears his throat and Hobie rolls his eyes like a spoiled celebrity. “And I'm a vampire.” he says flatly.

The blond gestures for him to continue, asking him how old he is. “Fuckin' hell.” Hobie says under his breath. “Were you not taught manners? Come off it, you don't ask a vampire their age.”

The clipboard holding man, who pretends to be important, asks him why he agreed to the interview if he's so disinterested.

“Fine,” He smiles, showing his sharp fangs, the simple act makes the documentary team's heart skip a beat. “Before you say ‘m following a trend of vampires givin' interviews and a ‘peak behind the cape’ like the wankers in staten island or the lovebirds in dubai. ‘m not, ‘m only doin' this because,” he points dramatically at the clipboard holding man. “Your director told me all proceeds from this goes to charity. And it better be—”

Something thumps outside. The camera sharply turns to the closed floor length curtains.

“Oi, eyes back ‘ere.” Hobie exclaims, the camera whizzes back to his figure. “Again, vampire, been alive for…” he inhales, “a long bloody time. Been a pirate, a cowboy, hell even a rockstar. But always an anarchist.” He says proudly. “I've been rebelling against the one who bit me for centuries,” the camera zooms in on his scowl. “Hate that knobhead.”

Something falls right outside his windows, a groan and a curse sounding out, voice muffled by the walls.

The crew expects Hobie to hiss or even deal with the intruder but he smiles, posture loosening up.

“That,” he points at the source of the ruckus. “That’s a vampire hunter.” Smiling, the crew could hear a muffled ‘fuck you’ behind the walls. “She's been hunting me for a few years now. She—eh, hasn't been close.”

The cursing was louder, camera swishing towards the source, your angry face peeking out from the curtains. The boom mic captures your annoyed growl clearly as you place your face as close as possible on the glass.

“Fuck you, Hobart!”

He chuckles as the crew's face grows with concern. “Don't worry, she's—I guess bad at her job. She's interestin’ though. Y’know what, let me just show you.” He stands up, the cameras and the entire crew follows him through the hallways of his home.

The cameraman almost trips on a stray guitar on the floor. “Careful now, that was a present from some rockstar in the seventies. That's why I leave it on the floor, it works best as a boot scraper.”

Hobie stops in front of double doors, scenes of a love story are carved on the wood.

“It was a gift.” He addresses the doors, “not my first choice but where else would I put the bloody thing?” With a small push, hands braced on both doors, he reveals the expansive room lined with hundreds of paintings and photographs.

He sucks in his teeth. “The entire house is a gift, I'd rather live in a boathouse honestly but this works fine I guess.” Shrugging, he points at the oldest looking wood carving hanging on the wall. A man kneels in front of a woman, rose in his hand as she looks down at him with glee.

“Yes, that's me courting. The wood carver fucked up the scene though, it was more like me ravaging– uh” he clears his throat “…this won't show in pbs right?”

The people behind the cameras shrug as Hobie looks to them for an answer.

“I'll tone it down then, for the children, just in case.” He continues down the lineup of pictures.

Stopping by a large painting of what looks like Hobie in medieval clothing. The painted version of him is surrounded by flowers and trees. His antlers protruding from his head, webs clings to his arms.

“This was when people thought I was fae.” He makes a face, “everyone was tripping on shrooms back then.” walking towards the middle of the room, passing by a few more paintings and tapestries, He pauses on a yellowed painting of a woman who looks similar to you, only less angry.

“Look at her,” sighing, the vampire has heart eyes while looking at the painting. “this was before she was cursed by that bitcharse jealous witch. Now every descendant of hers is cursed to never harm me or any of my spawns, which is bad because they all think I killed their ancestor, and all they want is to kill me. A consequence of dating a vampire hunter during the fifteenth century, I guess.”

“The curse is a two way street, they can't kill me, I can't hypnotize them. It's not that I want to anyway.” he continues.

Another ruckus echoes throughout the house. Hobie smiles again. “I believe she doesn't know about it, so hush, yeah?” He does a double take. “Wait, can you cut that part out?”

—

The second crew runs towards you as you climb the tresses of the house. The camera lens zooms in on your clumsy climbing. Looking down, hearing leaves crunch underfoot, you yelp in surprise.

“What—?!” Losing your hold, you fall on a bush, landing directly at his wild flowers. “Ow! Who the fuck—?!”

—

Now sitting down on a lawn chair, leaves stuck in your hair, face and clothes covered in dirt, you scowl at the producer behind the camera.

Sighing, clicking your tongue, you answer their questions with another question. “Who the fuck are you guys?”

You raise an eyebrow at the words ‘documentary crew’ uttered by the producer.

“Seriously? Who would want to interview Hobart? Scratch that, is it because of those fuckers in staten island?”

A cameraman answers, ‘for charity.’

You blink in surprise, “charity? You fuckin' kidding me? Well if it's for the kids then.” sighing, you resign, looking directly at the camera with disdain, you say your first name. “And I'm a vampire hunter, I mean obviously I am just looking at all the stakes and holy water strapped to me. I look like I'm very fun at parties.” You say jokingly, “and church, probably. Dunno never been.”

The camera cuts back to Hobie still in the large room full of paintings and memorabilia.

“— I didn't do anythin’ wrong. They're absolutely mad at me for no reason—” he stops, thinking. “But I guess I was the reason their family was cursed innit?”

He changes subjects, showing the camera a painting near the end of the room.

“Oh this? This is when her great great great great grandfather almost got me, memories huh? He was mighty fit.” The crew zooms in on a gorgeous painting of a man trying to put a stake through Hobie's heart while he smiles up at him like he's smitten.

“Good times.” He chuckles.

—

“Fuck this.” You say, standing up from the chair, grabbing the mic off from your shirt abruptly. The camera follows you as you grab the lawn chair that you were just sitting on. You then proceed to throw it at a stained glass window. Giving you entry to his abode.

“It was gaudy anyway.” Entering the house, your shoes crunch the broken glass.

—

“Huh, she's inside. That's a record.” Hobie says almost excitedly. “I'll show you the rest of the room after this—.”

The double doors burst open, the camera swivels to you and the camera crew behind you. Holding a stake, you scowl at Hobie.

“Hello, darling, how was your commute?” He genuinely smiles.

“I have a car now, fuck you!” You lunge at him.

Lightning fast, he grabs your wrist right before the stake kisses his chest. The camera crews film on the sides, avoiding getting hit themselves.

“Good for you, finally saved up then?”

Lifting your legs, you kick his chest, you tumble, landing on your feet, staring at him menacingly. “Yes! It's a kia!” you scream before you run full speed at him.

“You got a good deal on it? Automatic or manual?”

“No!” You swing at him, he dodges. “I think I got swindled!” Kick “And it's a manual!” Punch “I’m not a pussy!”

Hobie clicks his tongue, avoiding the pointed edge of the stake. “Point ‘em to me, love, maybe I can get you your money back.”

Stepping back further away, you pause while he stands at the end of the room. Changing your hold on the sharp wood, you throw it at him, he leans slightly, dodging the projectile. it hits the wall right next to your ancestor’s portrait.

“You'll just drink him dry like the last guy!”

He shrugs, making a face that makes you want to punch him harder. “Not my fault he was a knobhead.”

You bounce on your feet, pouncing at him. “He was my dentist!”

He moves to the side, seeing you running towards one of the paintings, in danger of getting smashed by you. In his panic, he raises his arm to stop you, accidentally clothes lining you. His wall-like arm hits you right on your face.

Falling harshly on the floor, you're completely unconscious.

Hobie looks at the cameras with concern. “Shit.”

—

You wake up on an ancient looking couch, it's soft despite its appearance. Lifting your head with a groan, headache punching through the back of your head, you grimace loudly at the camera crew still filming in the corner.

Falling back on the couch, you hide your flustered face with your arm, pulling the blanket further up your chest.

“I promise I'm not that bad at fighting.” You murmur, still hiding your face from the cameras. “You just caught me at a bad time.”

Hobie suddenly appears with a whoosh, he holds a metal tray with tea and a hot compress placed on it.

“Who's giving you a bad time?”

You audibly groan. “No one.”

He places the tray on the coffee table, sparing a quick glance at the camera. “I caught you lackin’ you're not always that bad. Tea?”

Wordlessly reaching up, you flip him the bird. Hobie smiles softly, tapping your legs to give him space on the settee. The documentary crew is surprised that you actually move to give way to him.

He sits by your legs, preparing your tea just like how you always take it. Two sugars and a dash of milk. The entire production staff is perplexed to say the least.

With a clink of the tea spoon against the cup, you sit up, wincing slightly. “Can I get another sugar cube?”

Hobie raises a brow, “it's that kind of day huh? What's bothering you, love?”

You scoff, taking a cube for yourself then plopping it in your tea cup. “Nothing.”

He flicks his eyes at the camera with a knowing glance. Resting his elbow atop his thigh, chin placed on his hand, he pokes at your leg using his foot. Wordlessly having a conversation. With a sigh and a frown, you sip at your tea.

“Ex kicked me out. Now I'm living with the family again.”

Hobie's nonchalance drops, hand instinctively reaching out to you until he realizes what he's doing, he retracts his hand back.

“Shit, ‘m sorry. Their loss.”

“Mm-hmm, consequences of living with someone you've only dated for three months.” You finish your drink in one gulp. “‘sides, I don't have to pay rent anymore.”

“You've got shitty taste in partners.” You snort, half agreeing with him. “But you have to live with your psycho family so there's that.”

You laugh, the camera zooms in on Hobie's pleased expression.

“They're tolerable now, mellowed out after they took out count Belois.” You look at Hobie, copying his position like a mirror.

“He was an arse, did all of us a favour.” he stares at your eyes while the camera continues to film, yet you two don't seem to notice them anymore.

“Yeah, wish I was there though.” You say in a small voice. “They never invite me to those hunts. Always left watching outside.”

Hobie reaches towards you again, this time he actually holds you. Long fingers curling around your wrist, his thumb rubbing gently. “If only they know how hard you could kick.”

“You barely moved when I kicked you.” Chuckling, your eyes sparkle under the dim lights.

“Well it's me,” he inches closer to you in the seat, knee brushing against yours. “But if it was any other vampire out there they would have flown.”

You scrunch your face. Laying your hand down to your thigh, Hobie intertwined his fingers around yours properly this time. The camera captures the confusing scene.

“Because they turned into a bat?”

He grins, showing you his teeth, you don't even flinch. “Nah, because you kicked ‘em too hard. Did you hit your head that hard?” Knocking his knuckles against your temple softly, you move back like lightning has struck you.

“No, I'm actually okay, thanks.” You take your hand away, eyes flitting nervously at the camera then to Hobie. “I gotta go, dinner with the psycho family.” Standing up, you take your belongings from the floor. “You know how it is.”

He looks up at you with an unreadable expression, “yeah, I know how it is.” He says forlornly.

Patting his shoulder awkwardly, your hand lingers for a half second. “Bye,” you stare at the crew in the corner, “bye to all of you, I guess. Don't get eaten.”

The camera pans towards Hobie who just shrugs, fangs poking out of his lips.

—

Hobie eats alone in his empty dining room. The table is long, made of strong narra, designed to sit a dozen or so people. He sits in the head of the table, utensils scraping against the bloodied plate. His goblet is full, untouched.

He looks up at the camera on the other side of the table, observing his every move.

“The table's a gift too.” He says before continuing to eat silently.

—

The camera follows Hobie throughout his day. Roaming aimlessly around the house, he floats above the ground, hand and feet sticking on the wall while he dusts pictures that's placed on the highest shelf.

In the afternoon, he writes music on his piano while he flashes back and forth towards the drums and guitar, testing the music he wrote.

The crew captures Hobie burying something in the backyard. Jacket off, tank top and bare arms in full display. Moonlight illuminating his skin. His necklaces clink together as he shovels in dirt, packing the hole in tightly. The producer asks something about familiars and Hobie scowls at the word.

“No, just no. ‘m fully against havin’ familiars, it's fuckin' wrong.” He sticks the shovel harshly on the soil when the producer questions him again. “Ask me again and you'll be the one ‘m burying next.”

The camera shuts off abruptly.

—

The small supermarket's repetitive jingle from the nineties irks Hobie as he shops for some meat. But what irks him more is the documentary crew finding him especially after he went out of his way to hide from them.

He tosses a box of your favourite tea in the basket, annoyed at the team behind the cameras and boom mics. “Do the lot of you have a tracker on me or somethin’?” Shaking his head, he stomps down the aisle, heavy boots thudding loudly on the floor.

With his leather jacket plus all the metal and spikes on him, Hobie looks like a regular punk shopping for groceries. But if you looked closer, stayed too long in his presence, your flight or fight response kicks in, rendering anyone frozen on the spot.

His ruby eyes scan around the soap display, trying to ignore the cameras and people trailing after him, he gets a whiff of a familiar scent: strawberries and cream, it's you.

Hobie's feet move on its own, carrying him towards your direction. He spots you standing in the fruit section, weighing a watermelon in your hands, knocking on it then listening to the sound closely like you're trying to eavesdrop.

“What's the watermelon saying?”

“Christ!” You jump, dropping the watermelon.

Thankfully he catches it before the fruit splatters on the linoleum. “Just me, love.”

Clutching your chest, you take deep breaths. “I thought I smelled something rotten.” He raises a brow at your comment. “What are you doing here? This is far from your place.”

“First of all, I smell like sandalwood and fresh linen, fuck you.” You snort, rolling your eyes. “And ‘m tryin' to avoid them.” He points behind him, towards the cameras.

“Augh, they're still following you?”

“Apparently I signed a contract, it's not a one time thing.” He places the watermelon back to the crate, taking one that is riper and sweeter just for you. He then gently drops it in your cart, you nod a thanks.

“I told you before don't sign anything when you're drunk off of alcohol filled blood.”

“You're right, lovie, should've listened to you. Can't blame me when I only hear music whenever you open your pretty mouth.” He leans on your cart nonchalantly, giving you his signature smirk that has people falling over themselves for centuries.

“That's not much of a compliment.” You grimace, unaffected by his charm. “Listen, since we're in a public place I'm not gonna try to kill you so please get off my cart, I've got some shopping to do.” Shaking the trolley, he leans away, dismayed. “Also, the owner seems to like me, which is rare enough, so I don't want to ruin my relationship with the old lady. Shoo, Hobart, I'm off the clock.”

“You've got two people who like you now. One more than the other, I suppose.”

You narrow your eyes towards the vampire. “Who's the second one.”

Hobie walks backwards, arm wrapped around his basket, smile blinding everyone in its vicinity. “Me, darling, isn't it obvious?”

The bright fluorescent lights shouldn't do him any favours but by god, he looks amazing under it.

You don't answer, the camera zooms into your hands gripping the handles of the shopping cart, chest heaving, swallowing thickly.

He leaves, going towards the cashier to pay for his groceries. And you spot a sign that's labeled ‘50% off on garlic!’ you glare at the camera, pushing the cart towards the display.

—

Hobie sits on his work table, pieces of a TV are jumbled out on the table as he tinkers with them. His hands shake slightly, he should really feed.

“—‘m pretty good with technology, not like the other vampires. I've adapted well with—” he sniffs, “wait, what's that smell?”

He opens the door to find thousands of garlic circling around his house, “what—?”

“Tada!” You pop out from the side, hands carrying bushels of garlic, no doubt smelling like it too. “Wait, no, not tada, that's in poor taste because you hate them.”

Hobie gags at the smell, eyes watery and irritated. “This is a bad idea!” He rubs at his eyes, tears fully streaming on his cheeks.

“Why? Because it's working?!” You cackle, throwing the vegetable like confetti, one lands right on top of your head.

“Because it attracts—!”

You screech when you feel a sharp tug at your coat. A little green creature shrieks at you, the sound rings your eardrums, almost breaking the boom mic. Its eyes are dark and glassy, ears pointed, teeth sharp.

“A Goblin?!” Falling on your ass, you crawl backwards, watching as more and more of them appear from the bushes.

“I'm a goblin.” The one with a worn out party hat says, voice cracking like foil.

“What are you a Pokémon?!”

Hobie runs after you as fast as he can with the garlic hindering him. “Get inside!” He yells, dragging you towards the door. His hands sizzle atop your arms, the garlic searing his skin.

The creatures skidaddles towards you, towards the smell of garlic. Waves upon waves of green skitter and crawl on all limbs, eyes hungry, mouths agape.

“Hobie!” You hold on to his wrists as the ground scratches your back. Kicking an incoming goblin, you yelp as the door closes at the nick of time.

Claws scratch at the windows and walls. One of them even bangs its head hard on the glass just to get to you.

Hobie hides you behind him, eyes still stinging and skin aflame. “Get to the basement!” He screams when one breaches the house with glass shattering. “Go!”

Running down, Hobie lets you and the crew go first. He grabs a cutlass from the wall, chopping one that comes a little too close to your leg.

You look back at him with worry. “Hobie!”

“I'll be there! Just go!” He grabs one by the neck, throwing it away haphazardly.

It yells a faint ‘whee’ as it sails through the house.

Reaching the large basement, you search for the light switch, a cameraman beats you to it and you yelp at the sudden brightness.

The basement is full of things from different centuries. An iron maiden lays discarded on the corner, its steel rusted and brown. A sculpture of a woman sits on a shelf, it looks like it's a long lost work of Rodin. There's a large tapestry depicting a vampire war that is now collecting dust on the wall.

But the thing that catches your eyes is the massive metal cage that sits in the middle of the room. You would gawk but the swarm of goblins are nearing the basement. The familiar thumping of boots shakes you with relief.

“Cage!” Hobie grabs you effortlessly, you have no time to react as he carries you like a duffel bag by your waist.

The crew follows frantically, closing the metal doors shut behind them just as the swarm gets close. They shriek and bang on the bars, little arms trying to reach towards you.

He lays you back to your feet, dropping the drenched sword on the ground, palms still healing. He cups your face, searching for any injuries.

“You alright?” He heaves, out of breath, legs covered in goblin bites and palms searing but he looks at you like you're the one who's bleeding.

Staring at him with your irises blown out, mouth slightly parted, you embrace him to his surprise and the crew's.

“I'm okay,” you lean away before he could hug back. Hands placed on his shoulders, nails digging into him like he's about to be yanked away from you. “Are you?”

Hobie forgets about the other people inside the cage and the goblins trying to nibble at him. It's only you in his hands, even though the pungent smell of garlic makes his nose itch. Eyes tender, touch gentle, he could only nod.

“Yeah, I'm good now.” His voice lacks the usual charm.

You can finally breathe. “I thought…I'm the only one that's allowed to kill you.”

Chuckling, he traces your jaw with his thumb. “I know. You're first in line, darling.”

The crew stands near the sides awkwardly.

—

The goblins are trashing Hobie's basement, and based on the sounds from upstairs, they're also wreaking havoc in the entire house.

You sit back to back with Hobie in the middle of the cage, away from the bars, hands braced to your sides, his own are mere inches away from yours. He's glad that the garlic smell has wafted away from you, but not enough to get rid of the goblins still hankering for your flesh.

The crew stays away from the openings of the cage whilst a handful of the creatures try to grab at their equipment. It's been hours since the initial attack and everyone's getting hungry and thirsty, including Hobie.

“Why do you even have a dungeon in your basement—? Wait, scratch that, don't answer.” You try to pass the time.

“It was for your great great uncle—”

“Ew!”

“Get your head out of the gutter.” He says flatly, hands shaking from hunger. “I got it so he has a safe place to transform every full moon.”

“What? Huh, so that's why that branch of the family is so hairy.”

He changes the subject. “What were you thinkin’ with the garlic?” Hobie lays his head right on your shoulder, craning his neck to face you, he uses the closeness to memorize your face. His crimson eyes are dimmer than you're used to.

“I dunno, I thought it was a genius idea back then. Y’know, trap you inside, starve you then when you're weak enough I'd put a stake through your heart.”

“It's a good thing you're bloody fit.” He murmurs, chuckling quietly. “You almost got me though.” Your ears pick up the fatigue in his voice.

“And here I thought you fancy me for my amazing personality.”

“That too.” He smiles weakly, feeling the ache in his bones. “We need to get out of here.” His jaw visibly tightens, wanting to get away from you and your scent. Unfortunately it's not so easy when you're trapped.

“I know,” You sigh, Hobie sits up, covering his ears with the heels of his palms. “You okay?”

“I can hear your blood rushing through your veins.” He bites the inside of his cheeks. “Fuck, we really need to get out of here.” Standing up on wobbly feet, you help him up while the crew stands as far as they can without getting slashed by goblin claws.

“You're hungry.” You state the obvious.

“Starvin’” his red eyes flick down to your neck, already feeling guilty from the simple look.

You swallow thickly. “When was the last time you drank?”

“A couple days ago.” His vision blurs.

“Why are you starving yourself?” Scolding him, you guide him back down on the cold granite. “Hobart.”

“Why do you keep callin' me that?” Cold hands against your own, his eyes zeroes in on your face, avoiding the veins in your neck. “You sound like her when you call me that.”

Your eyes soften, warming him with your palms atop his cheeks, you worry. “You haven't answered my question.”

He groans, head lolling backwards. “Got busy, forgot what day it was.”

“Busy with what?” You click your tongue, lifting his head back up with your hands under his head. You search his hungry eyes, making a decision you could regret in the long run.

“If I let you feed, will you be able to get rid of the goblins?”

That has him picking his head back up, waking him up from his hungry stupor. “What—?”

You reiterate, voice determined. “If I let you drink from me can you get your strength back and get rid of the little fuckers?”

“Y/N, I can't let you do that.”

“I know what happens if you don't feed and judging by how the goblins are devouring your entire house like some frat, they aren't leaving soon enough.” You ball his shirt in your hands for emphasis. “I'm letting you drink, just this one time so we could all go home.”

“Are you really sure?”

“Just don't turn me into your spawn, deal?”

Hobie cracks a smile, fangs glinting off the basement lights. You suddenly feel your nerves kicking in.

“I promise I won't. Just tell me if it gets too much, yeah?”

“Okay,” you inhale deeply, tugging down the collar of your shirt, showing him what he needs. “Don't drink me dry.”

“That depends, for all I know you taste brilliantly.” His joke alleviates your fear a little. You're both unaware of the cameras watching, recording everything. Even forgetting that they were there in the first place.

His hand is on the back of your neck, the other is gripping on to your arm like his life depends on it. Eyeing your skin, lips brushing along it, fangs barely piercing, he gives you enough time to lean away.

“Hurry on with it, I need to pee.”

With a deep chuckle, he sinks his teeth in you.

Gasping, you bite down on your bottom lip, stifling any sounds. But Hobie can hear them from your chest, feel how your body quivers with every suck and nip from his teeth.

You whimper and he holds on to you tighter.

He wants to devour you whole, his instincts tell him to ravage you until you're dry and limp in his arms— to rip you apart with his bare teeth. But he doesn't, he's careful and gentle like he's drinking nectar straight from a flower.

“F-fuck…” you let out, hands shaking, sliding down to the back of his neck, pressing him closer.

He turns warmer with your crimson flowing through him, not letting a single drop of the precious liquid dribble from his mouth.

Hobie feels like his dead heart beats once again after centuries.

Eyes closed, you feel like you're on cloud nine. You look like it too, eyes hazy, lips parted, hand holding on to him weakly.

Before he could drown in you, Hobie carefully eases his teeth out from your pierced skin, maw covered in your blood, thumb pressing down to your wounds to stop the bleeding.

It will scar, but you're alright with that thought.

He feels anew. His eyes are sharper, adrenaline coursing through him like your blood in his system. His ears perked at every breath you let out. Eyes blown up like the size of dinner plates, his warm breath fans your cheeks.

Half of him regrets doing it, now that he has gotten a taste, he can't go back to biting random rich assholes. His other half delights in your after taste, so sweet and nectarine that makes him crave more.

You crane your neck slowly like molasses to look at him sweetly through your half lidded eyes, and a soft yet tired smile on your lips. Still clinging into euphoria, vision swirling and heart beating a thousand times per second. You feel like you've ascended and you'll never go down from it.

Licking his teeth, Hobie resists the urge to dive back in. But he's more than that, you're more than a blood bag.

“You alright?” He whispers, he smells like you.

You hum, smiling giddily like a child who just got what she wanted.

“‘m gonna go and kill some goblins now. Stay here for me?”

You hum a tune that sounds like a rendition of ‘happy birthday.’ Giggling, you pat his cheek.

“Yeah, you'll be alright. I'll get you some orange juice after this.”

“Orange sounds nice… such a pretty color. And cookies, yum.” You chortle like you just heard the best joke. “Oh handsome, so handsome. I'm gonna bite you back one day.” Staring up at him, your eyes roll back, falling unconscious.

“Lookin' forward to it.”

Hobie gently lays you down on the floor, standing up, ears listening to your fast heart beat, but it's not enough proof for him. Eyes observing your chest, watching it go up and down, making sure he didn't go too far. Satisfied, he points at the crew cowering in the corner, their cameras still rolling. The documentary won't air anywhere at this rate.

“Watch her.” He says sternly, eyes glaring.

They all nod frantically.

With a swift kick to the metal door, he strikes down every goblin he sees.

—

You sit on the same patchwork armchair, sipping on a warm cup of tea, comfortable and content in your seat. The two pin prick scars on your neck peeks under your collar. The camera has you in the spotlight, zoomed in on your freshly washed face.

“Do you know about the curse?” The man behind the camera asks, his voice wavering with every word like it's taboo to mention it.

“What curse?” You watch as their faces morph into panic. “I'm fucking with you,” you laugh at their expense.

“Of course I know about it. Why do you think I hunt him down? For fun? Well, partly because of it but we broke that curse like five generations ago when my ancestor figured it all out and made friends with the witch.”

Smiling fondly, you continue. “She's my godmother now. Don't tell him.” You warn. “Hunting him down is an initiation for us really, a tradition to try and kill him, just really doing our best to cause damage. He's pretty powerful.”

Laying your elbows on your knees, you look directly at the camera.

“I mean you've seen the room right? He's fucking obsessed, someone has to off him or just—I honestly think he should just move on.” shrugging you sip your tea that he made for you.

“Is that why you're living with him?” They ask unabashedly. The camera zooms out, showing you still in your pajamas, complete with fluffy slippers.

“Uh—”

Hobie appears in the corner, leaning on the doorway casually, a similar pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

“Darling, have you seen my good jumper—?”

You take your crossbow from under the chair, twisting in your seat, you aim it at his head, shooting, the arrow whizzes past him, he ducks down as the arrow imbeds into the oak.

Hobie laughs on the floor, lifting up a black and red jumper. “Found it!”

“Goddamnit.” The word is laced with endearment. You turn back towards the crew, eyes narrowed at them. “Wait, why are you guys here so early?”

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

A/N: Thank you for reading! And happy 1k! 🎉

[hamsterbellbelle]

CC list #2 for Messy Christmas Apartment🎦:

CC list #1 HERE

Towel (bathroom) || Video game console || Vinyl clutter - A - B || Vinyl crate || Wall board || Wall flyers || Wall shelf || Wall stickers/decal || Wallpaper/ladder/paint can || Wallpaper - A - B || Washing machine || Water kettle ||

🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹 

Animated holiday tree || Animate maneki neko || Ashtray || Chair with clothes || Coat rack tree/stringed lightbulbs/coffee table/Fireplace TV || Cyberpunk poster || Cyberpunk samurai album || Cyberpunk wall decal ||

Door gate deco || Door || Elevated microwave || Fridge || Newspaper || Piano || Plastic table || Stool || Wall duct || Wires ||

[neverendinglabyrinth]

Analyzing 35 Portland Row:

Back at it with my set decoration posts, but lets overanalyze 35 Portland Row, shall we?

I love the way most of the house seems untouched, like it was frozen in time. Presumably, Lockwood never really "redesigned" the home from its original state, maybe a couple of changes here and there (which are more noticeable as we move on to other rooms) I say this, because of the contrast between pristine and messy in the areas.

The entryway:

I assume that the perspective pictures were taken as a way to assess how the set was going to look, in perspective 1 you can see the pillows on the bench missing, and in perspective 2 the clothing rack/hanger are completely missing.

On screen, we see that contrast I was talking about, you can see the way the clothes are almost stacked on that clothing rack (we can see George's coat, for example) I regard this as the kids respecting the space, since it is Lockwood's house they, most likely, don't want to trash it with their personal mess (or maybe George is the one that sets the 'mess-boundaries' to lighten the cleaning work).

On the other side of the spectrum we see the neat decorations and respected vases (respected as in, not using them as holders or trash bins) and the well cleaned masks and antiques hanging on the wall.

The Living Room:

This room is the "look how professional and neat we are" room, it is (by far) the cleanest one of them all, here is where they receive people and it is evident that they don't use it much by themselves, I know this because of the alarming lack of books laying around. I promise you, in Portland Row there are books EVERYWHERE.

Proof:

(these are just from the first couple episodes)

The Library:

I would argue that this is the "let's talk" room of the house, because it's the place where all of the information is. This is the room with the most "Lockwood flare", plus it's the perfect place for me to talk more about the messiness contrast.

In the scene where Lucy goes to talk to Lockwood, she has an apple core in her hand and this madwoman sets it ON THE TABLE (outrageous) but she looks for a spot where she wont ruin the table OR the books beside it. THE SELECTIVE MESS, PEOPLE! And Lockwood doesn't care, he just smiles, thankful.

Also there's a piano on the corner. (Hey! Locky, play Piano Man!)

The Kitchen:

Lockwood & Co's kitchen my beloved <3

By far my favorite room of the house, it is so cozy! From the spice rack, to the pot holders, to the kitchen utensils, the DETAILS. I'm in love, I love it.

And of course, the thinking cloth. The kitchen is the heart of Portland Row 35. And the crumbs on the table mean the world to me. LIKE DO YOU GET IT? DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE SIMBOLYSM OF CRUMBS ON THE TABLE?

I love kitchens, and I love set decor. That's all I have to say.

The Rooms:

Last sections of me nerding out about set decor, I promise!

Lockwood's Room:

It's safe to assume that Lockwood doesn't spend much time in his room, so it stays mostly neat. Probably only in use when he's sleeping or getting changed, and most of his time is spent in the library or in the kitchen with the others.

Lucy's Room:

Okay, this room is a set decor work of art. Why? Well, because it is a prime example of a characters personality shining through in a new space.

Not only does it show what it was before (a storage attic) but it also shows what it is now (a personal room) AT THE SAME TIME! You can see the way Lucy organizes everything contrasted with the way it was laid out before.

(look at the shopping bags she was carrying when talking to Kipps beside the bed, CONTINUITY!)

George's Room:

One thing about George is that he is way too excited about The Problem to care about actually cleaning and organizing his own room.

I think that his room is a physical representation of how his brain works. Books on the floor, papers stacked over anything, post it notes on the wall. You can just see the way his brain jumps from one thought to the other by the way his room is laid out!

The set decorator credits: JUDE FARR

So that's it! Im sure i missed a couple of things so if you want to add your observations, please do! And if i made any mistakes or incorrect assumptions I apologize, i am by no means and expert, I just like the subject.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Okay, guys, here's your golden opportunity if you've ever dreamed of owning an old funeral home. Zillow, et al. ain't sayin' it was a funeral chapel, but there are signs and Home Tours found out for sure, even though their website has been removed. They still maintain 2 of their facilities & this lovely 1870 Queen Anne in Sheffield, Illinois was either just a viewing place- the preparations done at one of the other facilities- but, they don't show the basement, though, so who knows? 3bds, 3ba, and only $189K.

The main entrance hall still has the coat rack for guests, and a piano.

I don't know why this beautiful fireplace is in an alcove, but according to the description, there are 3 original fireplaces that aren't used, but they haven't been sealed up.

There's absolutely no mention of it, but these are clearly viewing rooms.

Here's the 2nd fireplace and what could that closet have been? Maybe an old phone booth?

Here's the office. Nice windows.

Lounge with a sink.

And, a restroom.

The millwork is very much intact.

Both stained and leaded glass windows.

This could be a primary bedroom and it has the 3rd fireplace, plus there's a second room that could be turned into a walk-in closet.

It already has some shelves.

The kitchen was removed from the main floor, though, and relocated up here on the 2nd fl. in the family's quarters.

They also removed the bathroom fixtures and made it a laundry room, but the pipes and stuff are still there.

One of the secondary bedrooms.

And, this vintage bath is still intact.

The 3rd bd. is in the front turret and has an en-suite.

In the back is a little sun room.

2-car garage w/storage.

Looks like there's potential for a roof-top deck and a finished attic. The corner lot measures .44 acre.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/339-E-Chestnut-St-Sheffield-IL-61361/2060613290_zpid/?

[xfandom-fairyx]

marching band au

bakugo fic

here goes nothing..

—————————————————

My car slowed as I turned the corner onto the road that held the dorm house I would be staying in for the next 4 years of my life. The sun was already going down, not quite setting, but the sky was already turning pinkish orange, rays of golden light peeking through the trees that were scattered amongst the houses I passed by. I took a deep breath, trying not to gape at the building at the end of the cul de sac, as I pulled up the cement driveway— where no other cars were parked. I sighed thankfully. Being the first person here meant I got first dibs on the bedrooms, the thought alone sending a wave of excitement through me. The house was gorgeous, and freaking huge. (How many roommates was I supposed to have, again?..)

Double checking I had the correct address from the email in my phone, I pulled my keys from the ignition, fumbling to find the key to the front door. The heat outside was suffocating compared to the cool AC from my car, making me want to quicken my pace a bit to get inside. Deciding to grab the rest of my luggage after a quick look around and picking my room, I grabbed my backpack and purse before heading up the stairs to the front door. The entrance was framed by a beautiful wrap around porch, a few chairs, benches, and a porch swing adorning the wooden planks on each side of the door. Gently swinging the painted blue door open, I took my first steps inside my new (temporary) home, my chest tight with emotion.

The foyer was a bright space, a few meters wide, but felt cozy. Along the wall to the left was a deep blue, cubby-like bench with coat hooks, cabinets and a shoe rack, while the right wall had an oak table with a beautiful crystal decorative bowl, a fake potted plant and a circular mirror. Placed on the table beside the bowl was a slip of paper that had a list of utilities with passwords, app suggestions, and numbers for the local emergency services since we lived off campus. I quickly snapped a picture of and saved it to my favorites album, a subtle reminder to download the security app for the house, and a separate app for the security cameras. I moved to the left again and placed my keys on the cubby hook on the far right, kicking my slides off to set them on the shelf below my keys, my fingers gently grazing the navy stained wood. I was in no real rush as I stepped to the end of the foyer, taking it all in.

“Holy shit.. wow..” was all I could muster in my awe. The house smelled like oak wood and vanilla— the sweet woody combination fit just right in my head and sent me reeling to see the rest of the place I would call home. The bottom floor had a completely open floor plan where I could see everything from almost every angle across the house. To my right, a deep sectional sofa fit for 10 sat in a semi U shape, a chaise piece attached to run parallel with the longest side of the sofa, the whole thing facing a wall with a 75” flat screen, and a decent sized electric fireplace below it. Sat in the corner about 10 feet away from the sofa was a sleek, black grand piano, surrounded by a corner bookshelf that was full of sheet music, vinyl records, CD’s and memorabilia. My eyes flickered to the other side of the space to a grand kitchen, granite countertops, a huge island with a second barn sink, beautifully crafted cabinets, stainless steel appliances (which were huge, by the way! An 8 range stove?? A fridge big enough to hold food for a football team?! Christ!), and a walk-in pantry to top it off? I was in absolute heaven, daydreaming of the cooking and baking I would have so much fun doing in this kitchen.

I made my way to the left, because behind the formal dining table that sat 6 feet from the giant island in the kitchen, was a wide staircase leading upstairs to a loft area, where I assumed the bedrooms were also. There were a few more doors that I would get to later, assuming one was another bathroom or bedroom, and at least one of them led to the garage.

The loft area sat mostly above the kitchen, dining room and above the piano, leaving a full view of the living room area, and the ability to see at least half of the kitchen and dining room from the side opposite the stairs, and the hardwood floors throughout the entirety of the main and second floors. The loft itself had a study area with a few desks lined against the wall; all 4 of them fit at least two chairs, a work lamp on each surface, and a table in the corner that had a computer with a printer, which I quickly assumed was going to be strictly for homework.

As I made my way down the hallway to our bedrooms, I opened each door to peek inside and see which room I would like most. There were 2 spare bathrooms and 8 bedrooms total on this floor, with the two at the very end of the hallway having their doors 45° angled into the hallway. I opened the bedroom to the right first, and immediately fell in love with the wide space, huge windows, walk-in closet, and a third door that I could only guess was my own bathroom. Giddiness flooded my system as I opened the door and saw I was right. I set my bag on the queen sized bed in the space I couldn’t wait to decorate, and decided I should go get the rest of my stuff and start unpacking. It was dusk now, which meant I didn’t have much more time to get my stuff before night fell over the house, so I slipped downstairs and back into my sandals, flicking the porch light on.

The first load I needed to bring upstairs was my bedding, and if I had enough hands, I could grab my laundry bag. I still didn’t have a clue where the laundry room was, but I figured I would figure that out later. Getting back upstairs and to the end of the hallway had my lungs and legs burning, and I groaned out loud at the several other trips down and back up those stairs I would have to make tonight.

“Ugghhh, fuck!” I groaned, pulling my shirt away from my body rapidly, trying to fan myself. By the 5th trip to my car, I was sticky from sweat, out of breath, red in the face and regretting life, but it was my last load to carry before I could stay inside and relish the cool air of the central cooling system. My last suitcase of clothes and a medium sized box that had my favorite dog’s ashes amongst other sentimental items were in my arms as a big black truck came down the road and to a stop in the driveway next to my Camry. I looked away, trying to juggle the box and suitcase around so I could shut the door of my car, the box slipping from my grasp. Just as I was about to drop that super important box, a second pair of hands reached out to help.

“Woah! Careful! Do you need some help?” A voice asked. My panicked eyes met kind vermillion, that gentle tenor voice belonging to a boy with long red hair that was tied back, a touch of black at his roots. His smile was just as sweet as it lit up his face.

“Yeah,” I said breathlessly, “some help would be great!” He grinned wider, gesturing for me to go ahead of him.

“Lead the way, pretty lady,” he charmed. As if my cheeks weren’t red enough from the exertion, more heat crept up my neck and bloomed in my face. I huffed out a giggle, making my way around the car, leading the redhead up the steps and through the house to my room. I opened the door for him to come in and set the box on my bed, and he let out a low whistle.

“Nice space, can’t wait to see what you do with it,” he commented, a cheeky grin plastered on his face.

“Oi, Shitty Hair, you gonna get your shit out of my car or what? Stop flirting, you just met her,” a voice came from behind him. I peeked around the redhead’s shoulders to catch a glimpse at what looked like Adonis himself. A tall, sculpted blonde with gorgeous ruby eyes was scowling in our direction, his gaze narrowing as he saw me.

Shaking the scrutiny from his gaze off my shoulders, I turned my attention back to the redhead in front of me, trying not to let my gaze wander to his bare arms that were shown off from his cut off t-shirt.

“I’m y/n, by the way. Thank you for helping me with my stuff,” I grinned, holding my hand out for a handshake. He grinned back widely, but instead of shaking my hand, he held his arms out and pulled me into a hug, shocking me at first, but I absolutely hugged back. He felt so warm and his chest was cushioned, (not to mention he smelled amazing! Like marine moss, citrus and driftwood..)

“Name’s Eijiro, but you can call me Kiri, if you want,” he said over my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze before letting go, turning to head back downstairs. As I stepped into the hallway to follow him, two more boys came sauntering into view, one with sunny blonde hair and a black streak in it, the other with raven black hair. They were laughing and giggling at the top of the stairs, trying to trip each other to get to their rooms first, but stopped in their tracks as soon as they saw me. Eijiro chuckled and went around them to get back downstairs. The blonde one dropped all his bags, holding up hand to point a finger at me before shouting,

“GIRL! THERE’S A GIRL IN THE HOUSE!” Like I was some kind of 1600’s witch. The raven-haired boy cracked up, and I could hear Eijiro cackling from downstairs. The ash blonde was coming out of his room from behind me, coming to a halt a few inches from where I stood. I could feel his body heat radiating off of him, the smell of warm honey and sea salt floating to my nostrils.

“Yeah, Sparkplug, she’s a fucking girl. Stop ogling and get back to getting your shit out of my truck.” He said gruffly, grumbling out, “fucking idiot” as he passed us all on his way back downstairs.

Snapping out of my trance, I looked between the new boys in front of me, offering a small smile.

“Anyone up for some pizza and we can do introductions when it gets here?” I suggested, making them grin widely.

I got a, “for sure, man,” from the ravenette, and a, “heelll yeah, brother,” from the new blonde to cement my decision, and I grabbed my phone to open up the Domino’s app.

. • ° * ° • . … . • ° * ° • .

A/N: first part might be a bit awkward, I haven’t written in a while. (Help me out with tags?) Next part is in the works, hopefully as I get back into it, I’ll be more comfortable and it’ll get better. I can come back and edit later if I feel like it’s missing something. Hope you enjoy 🤍

[secret-sageent]

here tumblr. have some fruk that I haven’t posted on my ao3 yet cuz I am still trying to decide if it is a good or not

————————

It was late evening when Arthur returned from work; the sun was dipping low over the distant hills, casting a warm glow over the world and allowing the sky to bleed into the colours of twilight. The air was just beginning to warm, promising summer just around the corner, and Arthur hesitated briefly on the doorstep of his home, closing his eyes as a soft breeze kissed his cheeks. Beyond the closed front door a sound caught his attention, music and a warm low voice singing in tune.

Arthur stepped inside and found Francis reclining in an arm chair in the living room, eyes closed. His record player sat open on the side table, vynil spinning slowly and emitting soft music. As Arthur closed the door behind him and as Francis slowly opened his eyes the song switched to gentle piano, and then Frank Sinatra began to sing about the pale moon and the nearness of you. Arthur scrunched up his nose, hangning his coat and hat on the rack by the front door.

“Sinatra? Really, Francis? That man was a complete douchebag,” he said.

Francis smiled, getting up and crossing the room to kiss Arthur gently in greeting, “Ah, cher, an artist being less than admirable is no reason hate their art. Or else you would not be able to read those Harry Potter books you so enjoy.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, accepting another soft kiss on the cheek, but found he didn’t really have a good argument for that. Francis, blessedly, took his win with merely a knowing smile and interlaced their fingers, drawing Arthur further into the room. Arthur raised an eyebrow as Francis’ hands settled into his waist and his partner guided them into a gentle waltz.

Francis smiled in response to his look, “He may have been an unsavoury character, but his music is good, non?”

“I suppose,” Arthur conceded reluctantly.

As they waltzed slowly around the room, Arthur could feel himself relaxing from his day at work. He let his head drop onto Francis’ shoulder, arms around his neck, and Francis responded by turning his face into Arthur’s cheek, placing soft kisses there.

“When your in my arms,” Francis sang into Arthur’s ear, voice low, “And I feel you so close to me, all my wildest dreams come true.”

Arthur smiled, cheeks flushing slightly, and he must have been feeling especially indulgent because he found himself continuing the verse, “I need no soft lights to enchant me if you’ll only grant me the right to hold you ever so tight, and to feel in the night…”

He pulled back, cradling Francis’s cheeks in his hands and whispering she last line against his lips, “The nearness of you.”

Francis’s eyes were half closed, looking lovestruck as Arthur pulled away and Arthur laughed, kissing him again. The song finished and they fell still, but neither made a move to pull away from the other. Francis brought a hand to Arthur’s jaw, rubbing his cheek with his thumb, looking for all the world like Arthur had hung the moon. Arthur blushed under his scrutiny, unable to meet the soft look in his eyes.

“You are an incurable sap, Francis,” he said.

“Incurable? Or without any desire to be cured?” Francis smiled.

Arthur rolled his eyes at that, stepping out of his arms and smacking his arm lightly, “Sap.”

Francis laughed, catching Arthur’s wrist before he could get too far away. Arthur drew a sharp breath in surprise as he was spun and dipped over Francis’ knee in time with the music.

“Francis!” He exclaimed, smacking Francis’ arm with his fist again, slightly harder than before, “You dolt!”

Francis kissed him, holding the back of Arthur’s neck with one hand before righting him. He pulled the man close, voice quiet, “I love you.”

Arthur hesitated, then sighed to hide how giddy those words made him feel. He pecked Francis’ lips with a quick kiss, “I love you too. Now, let me go? I am sick of being in this suit.”

Francis released him with a soft, “Ah but you look so delicious in that suit, cher.”

“And I am uncomfortable,” Arthur said, “I’m going to shower.”

“Care for company?” Francis smirked.

Arthur sighed, turning back to give him one more kiss, “Maybe later. I am exhausted, honestly.”

Francis hummed in understanding, “You take a shower and change and I will make dinner. Okay?”

“Sounds perfect,” Arthur replied, smiling.

Francis smiled back, and then, heart feeling impossibly light, he headed to the kitchen.

[twstinginthewind]

"I usually stick to jazz piano, but I think I can handle playing synesthesia instead!"

Octavinelle's favorite musical himbo has rolled onstage for NRC Music Fest, almost as if by accident. Sometimes being in the wrong place at the right time can be pretty rewarding, after all!

"Go get changed, Ibsen-sempai," groaned Azul, shaking his head. He waved a gloved hand in the direction of his tall upperclassman. "I can't have you representing the Mostro Lounge looking like that."

That was, as Lorne would miserably and uncharacteristically accurately put it, completely coated in the sauce. The caramel sauce that the Mostro employees were using to top off the coffee drinks they were selling at the music festival, specifically. And his dorm uniform was sticky, sweet, and drenched with the stuff. "Understood, housewarden. I'll be back ay-sappy." He gave Azul a pathetic, thankful look, murmured his apologies, and went on his way, leaving little puddles of caramel behind him.

(Vignette continues below the cut! Along with the song he's playing!)

He ducked into a dressing room inside the stadium, not far from where they were set up. Fortunately, there was no one there, and even more fortunate for him, there was a shower in the room. Desperate to deglaze himself, Lorne stepped into the little stall fully-clothed and began to rinse the caramel sauce off of his clothes. It didn't take very long, but he knew that Azul would be upset if he returned sopping wet, too. He wasn't about to test the octopus's patience. But what to change into....?

Wrapped in a towel, he began to look around the room. There wasn't much to choose from, he thought. A rack of costumes left behind by the film studies club were all smaller than what he could wear, and he wasn't about to swipe anyone else's school uniform. But then, he spotted it. The Janitor's closet. He stepped inside, and came back out wearing one of the additional jumpsuits that always seemed to populate these supply areas. A quick materials spell to have the colors complement his dorm outfit, and it was ready to go.

And then the dressing room door slammed open, letting in a few panicking underclassmen that Lorne had never met. "Jimothy's sick?" whined one, flinging himself onto one of the chairs.

"Yup," groaned another, clutching his guitar case like a life raft. "And we go on in twenty minutes. How are we supposed to do this without our keyboard player?"

".... uh, guys? The room's occupied," said the third, wide-eyed and quiet.

Lorne smiled weakly. "Uh, hi. I'm not here to... um. I just needed the shower, and..."

The guitarist looked at him, recognition slowly dawning in his eyes. "Rog, Biff, I think we have a solution. This is that guy who plays piano at Mostro, remember?"

"Kinda." The whiner looked at Lorne skeptically. "So what, Freddy?"

"Yeah, I don't follow, either," Lorne admitted.

Freddy put his guitar case down, and put an overly familiar hand onto Lorne's shoulder. "You can improvise, right, buddy? We need someone on synthesizer, like, immediately, and you're technically trespassing right now, AND, in stolen threads, to boot."

Lorne looked down at the borrowed jumpsuit and rubber boots and swallowed hard. He wished Jade were there, he could be clever and talk him out of this. Or Floyd, who would send these guys flying. But alone, he crumpled like a house of cards, despite that metaphor's appropriation from a different dormitory. Maybe collapsing like a deflated pufferfish? Disappearing like seafoam? He shook his head. "I'm sorry. What are you asking?"

"Will you play with our act, please?" asked the quiet kid, less menacingly than Freddy. "You can even use Jimothy's keyboard. We're kinda desperate."

Lorne blinked. "Oh, you want me to play music? I can do that, easy." He took a look at the offered keytar and slipped the strap over his shoulders. "I usually stick to jazz piano, but I think I can handle playing synesthesia instead!"

"Bro, what?"

"Dude, he said yes. Don't jinx it."

"So!" Lorne tapped out a few chords, suddenly much more cheerful. "What songs are we doing?"

[wikirobot]

Put together a simple box to act as gift wrap for the piano coatrack. I had tried making a cardboard box but that felt like it was too simple. Also as this is a wedding gift I'm thinking they could use this as a memories box and stamped their names on the top after I took my pictures. This was made in an evening with some random pine boards, nails, and a bit of hide glue.

[te-pu-si-ti]

The Persephone Un-loop

Inspired by:

Lily Jo Ockwell | Mallory Gracenin | Stephanie Nightingale | Fania Grigoriou | WenHsin Lee | Yilin Kong | Anna Finkel

Sam Booth | Eric Jackson Bradley | Ali Goldsmith | Folu Odimayo | Carl Harrison

The man in the grey suit steps out into the town square, singing. "It's a lonesome old town, when you're not around. I'm lonely as I can be..."

He picks up a bouquet of narcissi from the flower cart. He carefully sets down the flowers one by one on the ground of the Trojan square, then he returns to his office and shuts the door.

Outside, a spotlight is moving slowly across the length of the square, from the office to the flower cart to the department store, finally settling on a well in the corner. You'd hardly notice it, if you didn't know it was there.

The spotlight lingers. The music begins to swell. Just then, a woman bursts out of the water. She looks around, her hair dripping, her eyes large and uncertain, examining her surroundings.

She climbs out and lays her bare feet on the bricks, leaving behind puddles. With inquisitive eyes, she picks up a daffodil, and another, and another, breadcrumbs leading her... somewhere.

She walks by a man dressed in rags who seems to recognise her, but she flinches away from him. She continues following the flowers, and they take her to the office door, underneath the blue light. She knocks.

The man in the suit opens the door and takes her in. "Welcome home, my love," the strange man says.

"Home?" She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I don't remember..."

"The waters," he says coolly, "It's the waters. Give it time." He wraps her in a blanket and sits her down in a leather armchair.

She looks with consternation at the framed photo on the side table. It's... her. And him. He holds up his hand, showing her the ring on his finger, and pointing to the matching ring on hers.

"What's going on? What is this place?" She stands up, and looks at a painting on the wall, so dark, so terrible, and yet...

She shakes her head. "Where am I?"

"It will come back to you. It will all come back to you."

"The keys to the city," he says, nodding towards the rack of keys on the wall. "Don't rush yourself. You have all the time in the world."

She walks over, examining the keys, and the little wooden puzzle toy on the table. A labyrinth with a tiny metal ball inside. Seven keys, each hanging from their own hook, each on a keyring. A horse, a bull, a flower...

He's grabbing his coat. "Where are you going? Can't you stay?"

"I have to go," he says. "You have to find your own way." The only person she has in this strange city, and he's already leaving her alone.

He shuts the door, and she's alone with her thoughts and the sensory overload of waking up cold and wet in a strange world, with a strange man, who seems to know her even though she does not know him. But he is kind to her, and he shows her love, and somehow, she trusts him.

The more she thinks about this situation, the less it makes sense. The more she looks around this room, the smaller it feels, the more trapped she is. She spins around in the empty office, gasping for air, adrift. Blue lightning flashes outside the windows as the power surges, as if in tune with her. She would scream if she could, but there's not enough air.

Thunder rumbles. Discordant piano. Gasping, spinning, turning, choking, it's too much it's too much it's much too much --

She's exhausting herself. She goes to the desk, sits down, and counts backwards. Grounding. One thing at a time. One foot in front of the other.

She leaves the office, into the city, and finds a fashionable-looking shop. No one is working there, and she has no clothes of her own, so if nobody's looking then nobody can mind... She takes a red jumpsuit that fits her perfectly, and a pair of shoes, and a lovely fur coat. In the pocket, there is a torch...

In the alleys of the city, she finds a map pasted on the wall. Shaped like the wooden toy from the office, an intricate maze - no, a labyrinth. Labelled with strange names.

Hesperides? She sees the sign lit up above her head. She wanders into a beautiful flower shop, with roses and greenery dangling from the ceiling and every type of blossom you could imagine laid out in the corner. Once again, it's empty behind the counter.

So she searches for clues - What is this place? Where, and when? How does she fit in? Did she once belong here? She rifles through drawers, papers, a box full of... feathers? A portrait of a Grecian goddess? It's all so strange.

A man in a yellow velvet suit comes up to the counter. She freezes. Act natural. "Hello," she says, "...How can I help you?"

The man gazes around idly with large, round eyes. "I'd like a bouquet," he says softly.

"Sure!" she says. There's one right on the counter. "Here you go."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "I was hoping for maybe... that one, by the mirror?"

"Of course." She goes over and retrieves it. The flowers are beautiful, but they're all fake. Such a large shop, is there such a high demand for faux flowers?

She lays down the bouquet for him and he smiles. "Actually, could you add something extra for me? Something special. Your choice."

The charade is wearing thin. She doesn't actually know anything about flower arranging. What flower would suit? She looks around at the stems on the counter, and grabs the one that catches her eye. A fluffy pink peony, a splash of colour in the pale bouquet.

She unwraps the bouquet to add in the extra flower. But there's something else inside... a paper parcel falls to the counter as she's unwrapping. She sets it aside so her customer cannot see.

She wraps up the bouquet in some fresh tissue paper, with a green ribbon cut with an unnervingly large pair of scissors. "Here you go," she says, relieved that she has not been found out.

He examines the bouquet and sniffs the flowers. "Oh, uh," the woman says, "You do know they're fake, right?"

The man in the yellow suit, blue neon reflecting off his skin, smiles. He picks a business card up off the counter. "Yes," he says, "The finest." Hesperides: Finest Fake Flowers.

She laughs uneasily. "Right. Of course. Have a good day!"

The man pauses as he leaves. "Have a good night," he corrects.

She lets out a sigh after he walks out. How did she get into this mess? But something about the little paper parcel intrigues her, and she unwraps it. It's some kind of bureaucratic form, SPECIAL PERMIT. Inside, there's a little metal horse figurine. And on the paper, someone has scribbled an address: PEEP BAR, 3rd ~ C / 3rd Division / UW.

She takes her torch back into the alleys, reading the strange names on the posters and flyers and neon signs of the city. Philotas. Sikinnis. Terpsichore. Who are they? HIC HABITAT MINOTAURUS. What?

She emerges into a square, and she can hear pounding music from across the way, and she sees the sign for PEEP. There it is! And she wouldn't mind a drink to settle her nerves. So she goes in.

It's a wild and debauched place, this strange bar draped in velvet. Ghostly faces leer at her and cheer at the dancer on stage. It is a tall, thin creature in a black catsuit, beckoning one of the emcees on stage with a clawed finger. The emcee jumps up eagerly, and the dancer licks their lips, pulling their victim closer and then choking them and shoving them to the ground.

She finds a seat, and gasps at this dark entertainment that is driving the crowd wild. But there's something incredibly alluring about it.

The dancer leaves the stage to raucous applause and gives her a wink as they pass. She sips her drink and wonders if she should leave, when suddenly...

The door opens. The bar host drops their martini glass in surprise. "We have a visitor. A friend? A presence. A gift! A surprise guest has descended upon us!"

It's the man in the grey suit again. He gets on stage, and the bar hosts kiss him on each cheek. Unprompted, the band starts to play.

She decides to stay for a little while longer. Is he a performer too, like that slithering dancer dressed all in black? He doesn't seem the type at all.

"If the sun should lose its light,

and we lived in an endless night,

and there were nothing left that you could feel...

That's what it would be would be,

What my life would seem to me,

If I didn't have your love, to make it real."

He's singing to her. She doesn't know him, not really, but he knows her, and he's serenading her with this strange and beautiful song.

"If the stars were all unpinned,

and a cold and bitter wind swallowed up the world, without a trace,

That's where I would be! That's what my life would seem to me!

If I couldn't lift the veil... and see your face."

The lights swing around to light her face in red and blue. She feels herself blushing. All this for her? Why?

"To make it REAL! ...Real!" During the instrumental break, he fills the time with a cute little shuffling dance. He blows her a kiss - overcome by this whole sweet gesture, she catches it.

"If the sun should lose its light, and we lived in an endless night, and there was nothing left that you could feel...

If the sea were sand alone, and all the flowers made of stone, and no one that you hurt could ever heal! That's how broken I would be, that's what my life would seem to me... if I didn't have your love... to make... it... real..."

"Well. Shoot a speeding arrow through my tiny, tiny heart." The hosts of Peep pop up through a trap door behind him and usher him off the stage.

The man comes down and puts his arm around her shoulder. "That was wonderful," she says, brimming with sincerity. "Nobody's ever done that for me before."

A beat. "...I have," he replies. "Let's go."

He pulls her through the square with an odd sense of urgency. But she wants to see, she wants to know this city that he claims is her home - and why is this young man drawing a circle of chalk in the square?

But there are sirens blaring, it might not be safe, so she turns and heads towards the office. Another man, in a long leather coat, scared, desperate, is turning the corner just then and collides with her. He rushes away with hardly a chance for an apology. She scurries into the office, her makeshift home.

The man in the suit guides her to the desk. He offers her a pair of headphones, which she gratefully accepts. Anything to drown out those terrible sirens.

Take a deep breath and exhale for 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

He hands her a papier mâché pomegranate from a wooden bowl, which she clutches as she closes her eyes and sinks to her knees.

Close your eyes and picture yourself in a meadow, on a beautiful May morning. The air is filled with the scent of wildflowers. All around you things are growing, blossoming, bursting with life. Feel the grass between your toes, the sunlight on your skin. Now, open your eyes and know that the sunlight is with you still. Even in the middle of the darkest night, it shines forth from within you, awakening life around you. As the world turns and season follows season, everything is unfolding exactly as it should. You have all the time in the world. All you need is here.

Slowly she opens her eyes and rises up from the floor. The pomegranate in her hand is real, fresh and juicy.

"Did I just...?"

The man claps his hands and has a broad smile on his face. "Yes, my love! You did!" He takes one side of the fruit, and together, they split the pomegranate in two.

"You're... you're my husband."

As she disappears into the cabinet, he smiles dreamily. "That's my wife," he says with affection.

Inside the cabinet, she moves backwards. Time rewinds, and she finds herself at a table, facing a pinboard of clues, speaking into a tape recorder.

"Meditation tape number... 572. Take a deep breath and exhale for 5, 4, 3, 2, 1..."

"Don't panic. Every time you panic, you lose yourself."

Frustrated, she shakes her head. "No, that's not right. You can't just tell someone not to panic. That'll make you panic."

"Take a deep breath, and exhale for 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. The mind is a maze, isn't it? The mind is a dark, mysterious maze of winding streets that are only seldomly lit by knowledge, and experience, but ultimately, memory. Memory lights our way through this dark maze.

And every time I come back, it's as if the power has gone out. As if I'm drowning in a sea of darkness. It's as if I am dead.

But every once in a while a glimmer of light shines from around the corner. An object, or a song, or a face... Your face. That feeling guides me the most.

I hate that it has to be like this, but show me the light and I will come back to you every time, my love, like a moth to the flame.

I can feel the seasons changing, and I know that I will leave you soon. I hope this tape can be a beacon for you, the way you are for me. Know that I will come back. I always do. Always."

She's not sure where to go next. She wanders back to where she started: Alighieri's department store. As she passes, her husband looks down at her from a balcony - she waves shyly, but hurries on.

Her next clue is the special permit border pass and the tiny pewter horse. She sees a sign - BORDER CROSSING AHEAD, HAVE PAPERS READY. So she crosses over.

She rummages around the border crossing station, finds other border passes like her own - or, the one addressed for Judith Kore. The one she has claimed as her own.

She wanders into some sort of store room, cold and deserted, full of massive wooden crates. In the corner is one covered in horseshoes. This must be the place.

On the floor of the crate is a horse, splayed out, motionless. She sits beside it for a while, looking for signs of life. Instead, she sees a coin resting on its head.

Harsh torchlight shines into the crate.

"You. Out. Papers?"

She slips the coin into her pocket as she marches out, not wanting to cause any trouble. She hands over the only papers she has.

He looks them over with suspicion. "You shouldn't be here. It's not safe. Go, now." The Watchman waves her away.

She heads back to the city - to Troy, judging by the poster plastered over a wall, reading TROY WELCOMES YOU. Troy doesn't feel that welcoming... it's dingy, a bit rough, with all the graffiti on the walls and the yellowing papers wheatpasted one over another. And in the corner of the square is a man, huddled up in his rags: by all appearances, a beggar.

But he looks... familiar. Yes! He was the first face she saw in this place! He takes her hand, spins her round, and... snatches the silver coin from out of her pocket.

"Hey!" She runs after him, chasing him to the doorway of a hotel - The Elysium. He holds out his two fists and nods for her to pick one. When she does, he opens his hand to reveal a key. Another link in this strange chain of events.

Then he stands stock-still, and points her into the hotel. "Rrrrrrring, rrrrriiing," imitating the sound of a telephone. She steps inside the cramped hotel reception area, and picks up the receiver.

She listens for a moment to the voice on the other side.

"Hello? ....I don't know. I can't remember."

"OK, fine. There was this big party, a chandeliers and caviar kind of thing. I felt... out of place. So I got a drink. A martini, I think. And there was this beautiful woman, covered in sequins, and she walks up to me and asks to read my palm."

"She traced her finger along the heart line, and said I was a hard girl to pin down. That I'd find love later down the line."

"Then she reads my head line, and she said I was... I dunno... Forgetful or something."

"And then she read my life line, and that's when things really got weird. She looked at me with her big smiling face, and she said, well the funny thing is, according to this, you're already..."

The line goes dead.

She goes back to her husband's office. He's not around, so she has a chance to search out clues.

She lays her border pass out on the table, and notices some stationery on the desk. His cards and letterheads all say HH, 9th C, 1st D, UW.

H, H? U, W?

She rifles through his papers, finding magazines, punchcards, music scores... Nothing helps.

She looks back to that haunting painting on the wall. Those lost souls, falling into darkness. 9th C, UW... 9th circle...?

The address on her pass matches. "Welcome home, he said... I am Judith Kore?"

Her husband walks in, and she hastily puts away what she's been searching through.

Judith scoots to the edge of the room and changes the music that's playing. She puts her arms around her husband's neck and sways gently. A solitary piano grows into a sultry tango.

And they dance.

Slowly, closely, until they find each other's rhythm. Then it grows. They are a whirlwind together, this tiny office cannot hold them.

They burst out of the door, and the city opens up before them. And though she's never done this before - or maybe she has - she feels like she's always known these steps. It's effortless.

She runs, she jumps, he catches her, they really must have been something, mustn't they? Back before she lost herself. They're so in tune.

Almost in tune. He's under her spell, so she can lead him back in the office, and he's so blinded by her that he doesn't notice her hand slip into the key case. Judith holds the bull key behind her back as he picks up a flower and presents it to her, like a shy little schoolboy.

She accepts it and smiles warmly.

"It's beautiful," she says with sincerity.

"It's fake..."

"I know." She gives him a kiss on the cheek, and turns to leave.

"Come back to me..." he says weakly.

"Sure, I will." She'll find her way back eventually.

But first... find the bull. She hears pounding music up above - something big is happening. She climbs up the stairs into the hotel, down the long, dim hallway, into a terrible scene.

She can see it through a large window, glowing red. A gruesome gang are holding a man down, looking up hungrily at a tall, thin woman in a fur coat. The woman bends down, screams, and claws at the poor man's face. She triumphantly holds up two bloodied eyeballs.

"Shit." Judith backs away, aghast at the horror. But there's the bull, or rather, a golden idol, a man with the head of a bull, with compartments in its chest. She unlocks one to find a tiny plant, inside a glass dome. Small enough to fit into her pocket. It must be another clue.

The blinded man gets dragged into the room by a stone-faced woman. He crawls along the ground, pitiful, sobbing, alone. Crying for help.

"Come here," she beckons. "I can help you. Follow the sound of my voice."

There is a bowl of water and a cloth already there, as if waiting for him. The bloodied weeping man scoots over to her and she wipes his eyes, his injuries seemed so serious but all it takes is a few passes of the rag, and he is restored.

She wanders the halls of the hotel, and there is a strange feeling around her, as if the entire city is moving at once. As if something is dawning.

The next door she opens takes her into a room with a greenhouse inside. I thought we were in a hotel? But anyway, a greenhouse is where plants belong, so she must be on the right track. She retrieves the little plant from her pocket.

As she pokes around in the greenhouse - a strange greenhouse, where there are no plants, only barren trays of soil! - the man in the yellow suit arrives.

"Oh, hello again!" It's good to see a familiar face.

But he cocks his head. "Again?"

He's probably trying to save her the embarassment of their prior encounter...

"Is this your greenhouse? Maybe you can help." She show him her little plant. He smiles, goes to the back of the greenhouse, unlocks a safe. A safe? What does he need to lock away...?

It's another plant. Bigger, stronger, but still a seedling, and clearly precious to him. He hands it to her with reverence, and moves out of the way, as if he knows what's about to happen.

Because when she takes the plant - when she runs her fingers through its soil - she feels a connection that she has never known in her life. Or maybe, has never known since she forgot everything about her life.

Judith feels the earth between her fingers and she knows what she was made for. This is the root of her power, here in the soil. She finds herself, in the roots and the stem and the leaves.

Energy travels through her, electrifying her from toes to spine, and she bends back, taking it in, absorbing it, letting it return to her. It's terrifying and thrilling and yet it feels right. It's overwhelming, but she knows she can handle it - it's part of her. It was just waiting to awaken.

The florist looks on in awe. "Your majesty, welcome home." He bows deeply.

Your... majesty...?

He presses a baggie into her hand. "New life for Troy," he says softly. The bag is full of tiny seeds.

She thanks him, promises she'll keep them safe, and continues on her journey. Somehow, this raised more questions than it answered. But she feels she's on the right path.

She sees the man in the ragged coat, who helped her once - maybe he will guide her again. He takes her by the hand and spins her around, then holds her against the wall. With a piece of chalk, he traces her outline. Draws a pomegranate in her hand, and a crown on her head.

After this, he leads her over to a chair, and pours her a cup of tea. Sure, tea would be nice. The radio is playing; a chipper announcer is speaking.

"Hey! Thanks for tuning in. We're asking for your best party stories, we'd love to hear yours!"

"Hello? ...I dunno... I can't remember..."

Wait.

"There was this beautiful woman, covered in sequins, and she walks up to me and asks to read my palm."

The potter stretches his hand out, asking for hers.

"She said I was... forgetful, or something..."

Judith smiles, rolls her eyes, OK, very funny. Great prank.

But the man continues, tracing his finger over her palm, and she continues hearing her own voice over the radio, "And that's when it got really weird."

"The funny thing is..."

Judith cuts in. "The funny thing is, according to this, you're already dead."

The beggar holds up a candle and looks around. As he brings the light higher, ghostly figures appear out of the darkness. One by one, their pallid, motionless faces emerge from the mist. Judith staggers back.

"It's OK," the man says softly. "They don't do anything. They just watch."

She steps forward and brings a hand up to one, gently touching its face. Have they been here all along?

She takes a step, they take a step. She walks away, but they follow her. She turns a tight corner and ducks into the back entrance of a bar. Still, they pour in after her.

She tucks herself into a corner, finding a stool, and beckons the barman for a drink.

"There's so many of them..." Ghosts fill the bar, cramming themselves in, their eyes fixed on her. "There's so many of them."

"Just the right amount, I think," the barman says, oblivious, admiring his array of bottles on the wall. He pours her a drink.

Judith examines their faces, looking back at her attentively. "Maybe they're just lost," she muses. "Wandering in the darkness."

"We're all a little lost," the bartender says agreeably.

"Cheers to that. The funny thing about darkness, you know... You need the darkness to see the light. From darkness comes light, from night comes morning, from winter comes spring, from death comes rebirth... hopefully." She downs another shot of sake. Zagreus takes the empty cup and spins it on the counter.

"Over and over and over again. Circles and cycles and circles and cycles... they keep going, on and on... but do they ever break?"

The barman shrugs. "Everything breaks eventually." The spinning cup comes to a stop.

"Hey, I remember you!"

He looks back blankly.

"I recognise you, I do. We crashed into each other, remember?"

The bartender looks puzzled. "We've only just met. I've never seen you before."

"C'mon, you must remember... Nevermind. Thanks for the drink."

Judith rushes off, out into the square - outside the entrance to Peep. Familiar music is playing.

"Hey, they just played that song an hour ago! Is it just me, or is everything repeating? Going in circles, round and round?"

"I can see you... and you can see me, right?" The shade nearest to her nods.

"Right, so if this is all happening again, that means he'll be there, in there, and he'll know what to do! He can explain everything! Let's go!"

She rushes into Peep, and sure enough, Kampe is dancing on the stage again.

"Give it up for Kampe! They really glisten when they move, don't they? That reminds me..."

The emcee drops their martini glass. Judith catches it, a smug smile on her face. She nods, assuredly, "And now he'll come in... He'll come in... Where is he...?"

"...We have a visitor. A friend? A presence. A gift!"

The Peep hosts look down at her. They hold their hands out to her and hoist her on stage. They each give her a kiss on the cheek.

"No, this isn't right... It's not supposed to be me..."

The band begins to play.

"I... guess I do know this one. I think I remember the words. I can try, anyway."

"Something about... if the sun should lose its light? And we're in endless night? And a veil lifting up to see a face?"

"And if the sea were sand alone, and the flowers made of stone... Flowers made of stone? And no one that you hurt could ever heal?"

Everyone forgetting. All the flowers fake. All the water dried up. Morning never comes.

"That's... That's what this is. That's where we are. That's what this is!"

The hosts pop up from the trap door. Just like before. "...they're behind me, aren't they? I'm sorry, I have to go..."

"Well, shoot a speeding arrow through my tiny, tiny heart..." But she's already rushing off, back home, back to Hades House, the office where she hopes she will find him.

And she narrowly avoids running into the barman, because she knows he will be passing through at that moment. She swings open the door, where her husband is preparing a game of checkers for them.

A game? When outside, people are risking their lives? In a war that may be artificial, but is so very real to them. She saw the fear on the barman's face.

So they sit down, Judith and her husband, inside Hades House, and prepare to play a game.

"You see them now, don't you?" he says.

She nods.

It's a simple game, checkers, draughts, whatever you like to call it. One move after another, wait for your opponent to give you an opening. Faster and faster they trade moves, until Judith is sick of it all - she throws her keys down on the board. Look what I've accomplished, no thanks to you.

War is screaming outside. She screams with it.

He shrivels, he falls to the floor. She rips open the curtains, forcing him to see the blood that has been split.

What is this horrific place? And how do we figure into it, you and I? We are both a part of it, and not a part of it. They all forget. They all can never heal. You and I persist. What is this?

It's a shock to his system - perhaps he didn't expect her to work it out so quickly. He's frozen, stiff, curling up into a little ball, such a tall proud man now vulnerable. She softens, goes to him, picks him up. She reminds him of their bond, tangoes him to the desk, and finds...

Their pomegranate.

The one that she created. The one she gave life to.

She stands tall over him, pushes him down onto the desk. She takes the juicy fruit and squeezes, drips it down into his mouth and onto his face, the ruby seeds sparkling in the light, feeds him this product of her power until he believes again, until he begs for mercy.

Her demands are simple: "Show me."

"I'll show you," he replies, "I'll show you everything."

They pass through the rubble of the invaded city. A princess laid out, shroud over her head. A Watchman, picking up the pieces. Judith's husband hands her a lantern, and she lights her way.

A domestic worker freezes, caught in the light. Everyone here prefers darkness.

One of the arcade cabinets is full of black sand, with tiny figures inside - figures of her and her husband.

Hades hands her the final key. He points to the stage door.

She chooses a few shades to be her companions. Ones that have been with her on this journey all along, ones that have been paying attention. Ones who will see it through until the end.

They go up the steps, together. They look out onto the city, together.

Judith goes out onto the balcony.

"Is our city not fair and vast? It shines for you, all for you, dear Judith."

"Fair and vast is your city." "Yours, Judith. Yours forever. Here, multitudes reside. They'll be your companions forevermore."

"Fair and vast is your city..."

"Here is a handmaiden, loyal to us both." A young woman in red, barely more than a girl, looks up. "Here, a vial to catch tears of sorrow, tears of joy, dropped from the eyes of time's fleeting shadows."

"The streets of your city are marked with blood. Blood runs down the walls, blood stains the paving stones. The clouds above throw bloody shadows. Who has bled for the sake of your city?"

"See, but ask me nothing. Look, but ask no questions."

"I only remember one thing: I came here because I love you. But I will not have a single door held shut against me."

"Take care Judith, you're ahead of yourself. Why hurry? We have all the time in the world."

"Not a single door held shut against me. I demand it."

"I will show you everything. All in good time."

"All in good time… In a world where time seems to stand still..."

She turns to look behind her. "I was lost when I arrived, just like you. Lost in the labyrinth of these streets. But hedged by gloom, a garden. Our garden. Filled with lifeless flowers. A fallen horse gave me solace and made me rich. Rich with abundance, rich in brain and body. I am the sunlight. So many of you, wandering in the darkness. In a world filled with cruelty, torture and war, I heard your city sighing. I heard your kingdom crying."

"...city sighing, I heard your kingdom crying."

City sighing, your kingdom crying. City sighing, your kingdom crying.

There is a crack in the record. It begins to skip. She wasn't speaking, it was only a recording.

Now... The recording is over. She walks her own path.

There is a display case in this room. It holds a record player needle.

She opens a door and finds an ancient Greek pot in another display case. On one side, a scene of violence she has seen play out in this city. On the other side, a key.

Another dark room, another case of pottery. But there is much more ground that needs to be covered, and not much time.

"Run!" she calls to her ghostly followers. Down the halls, through the strange museum, until she finds a locked door, and a daffodil laid in front of it.

This must be the place.

The last door. The last key. She steps inside, and feels sand under her feet. She walks slowly, the lantern lighting her way. She picks up a stick of chalk.

Nothing but darkness ahead.

"It's the strangest feeling... I can feel it all coming back."

A straight path. One foot in front of the other. Don't panic.

"If the sun should lose its light, and we lived in an endless night..."

She begins to draw on the wall of the long corridor, organising her thoughts.

"and there was nothing left that you could feel... If the sea were sand alone" -- she draws the waves on the wall. Not a drop of water in this place, only sand. "And all the flowers made of stone..."

"And no one that you hurt could ever heal..." She draws an infinity symbol on the wall, tracing it over and over until something breaks in her.

I

RE

MEM

BER

"I remember..."

She walks on, past more walls with more chalk scribblings, and more, and more, flowers and waves and infinities and labyrinths and I REMEMBER over and over and over and over and over, layered one over top of another.

Proof of the years gone by, proof of the seasonal cycle, proof that she always, always comes back, and she always remembers, and she's always been capable, and she's always been able to find herself again. The power was within her all along.

"My name is Judith Kore, better known as Persephone," she says, to herself and to her lost souls. "Queen of the Underworld. Child of Earth and Starry Skies. My people are heavenly, and yours are too. I grant you safe passage into the land of the shades."

She emerges, with her shades, through a curtain into a sharp dagger of light in the middle of No Man's Land, Mycenae. Iphigenia-turned-Hecate delivers to her the last tears of Patroclus before she murders him. Agamemnon ascends the stairs triumphantly to his doom. Persephone sees it all laid out before her in perfect order, ticking along exactly as it should, as it always has since time immemorial.

She heads back towards Troy - She must find her husband, Hades, and take her place on the throne alongside him. He tried to hide this from her because she had to find it herself. Would she really have believed him if he had told her from the start?

On her way to the border, she crosses paths with the Watchman. He has a talent for making things grow - he holds the last vestiges of new life in this country - she knows this. So she entrusts him with the seeds that Askalaphos gave her.

Something is brewing when she arrives in Troy Square - Hades is setting up a new cycle to begin. Or end. What's the difference, really?

They embrace. He knows that she knows. He points her to the office. One last secret?

She trusts him.

Persephone enters, puts the headphones on, and hears her own voice. She has been guiding herself all along.

"Get up," the voice tells her. "Stand up." More insistently: "Up. Higher. Higher..."

So she climbs up onto the desk.

"Now. Take a deep breath. And look around. This is where you need to be. Where you belong. There is power within you, feel it awakening deep inside you. Growing, flowing, and blossoming in spectacular profusion. You are the sunlight. This world is beautiful. This city is yours. From the highest heights, down to the darkest depths. Yours. All yours."

"When you are ready to go deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper..."

The darkest depths...

A floorboard is loose. She bends down and lifts it up, revealing a cellar, with dozens of vials of tears, exactly like the one she has around her neck.

"The history of the world in teardrops, Judith. Tears of sorrow, tears of joy... Mortal emotions, immortalised. Preserved. For us. Forever."

They kiss, finally reunited, finally themselves. She hugs him close.

"Thank you for coming back to me," he says quietly.

"Always. Always."

She goes to the record player, and lifts the needle.

"I love you..." "I love you too. Are you ready?"

Hand in hand, they emerge from the office. There are a few final orders of business.

He presents Hecuba with her coat; she wipes off her blood-stained hands.

At the end of everything in Mycenae, she finds the last soldier standing, the whole remains of the Greek army. She wipes the sweat from his brow, and points his way to join the rest of the lost souls.

The last of the music starts to fade. She throws down the rag with the sound of a gong.

There they are, the fall of the damned, rolling down the grand staircase to greet her. They are naked, broken, identities fading away, becoming one mass of the Dead, her faceless nameless subjects. She continues upwards, head held high, exuding power. She knows herself now, she is a goddess of two sides: life, yes, plants, yes, but death too. She knows both sides of the cycle. She too has died and been reborn, every six months she resets back to the start, and comes back stronger for it.

So she ascends, to meet her husband Hades, ruler of this underworld, harshly lit on that long, cold stone table.

Hades & Persephone find their spot to watch the proceedings, the last gasp of this world as it dissolves into nothing. The souls race around, Clytemnestra reaches out, desperate for any connection, but she cannot reach them.

What a beautiful piece of theatre he has built for her. She looks out with him, and points, cueing the dust to fall.

They break open a new pomegranate, each bringing a seed to their mouth. They kiss, and the lights fade.

What a beautiful record. Rips your heart out every time.

With thanks to everyone who worked on this show to make it as magical as it was.

[whatwedointhecraft]

You are a trustworthy sort of person, and have a lot of respect by several communities. As you live by the sea, it’s not uncommon for several seal coats to be left on your coat rack, with the quiet trust and knowledge the coat will be there when the owner returns in the evening

Thank you @lordkingsmith

This is slightly based off / inspired by the song Piano Man

The daughters of the sea used to tell me about the fishermen who would hunt endangered species when they're not supposed to.

I had only been a year at the coast when I witnessed it for myself. People would go hunting, and some would never return. Others would come back wounded. I often said it served them right. But it didn't sit right with me that I just sat idle and did nothing.

So I did what I had to. I brought a boat, I painted her, I made her into the best vessel anyone could ever want on these treacherous waters and I set out to save the endangered species that were being attacked, saving the Selkies, The Mermaids, The Sharks. You get the idea.

I'd be risking myself every day, every moment of every waking nightmare. I'd often be brought to shore by the daughters of the sea and their friends, who would guide my vessel home to shore.

"And what do they call you?" The daughters would ask each time I awoke.

"Justice. Jonathan Justice." I would say each time.

Over time, as word of what I was doing grew, more and more people began looking to help me, chasing off the bad guys and helping me roam the water on my vessel, looking out for anybody in need.

This went on for years. Each time they would ask for my name, and I'd reply the same.

This went on, people spreading the good word about what we were doing. Others trying to test their patience and piss me off.

The others who were on my good side, knew to leave their coats in the end. Because I'd look after them. It hurts when you hurt and you long for something more, like you've done all you can and its not enough.

I went to bars, I went searching. But still I found my way 'home', back to that house where my friends would leave their coats and go out for a smoke and go to see who else would need their help.

"Who is that man?" The others would ask on repeat, day in and day out.

"Jonathan Justice is a friend of mine" Was all they would ever say.

And one day when they got home and they took their coats, I found my true home was calling me: The sea.

The daughters of the sea welcomed me, and made me one of their own. All what I was just went away, and the heavy heart I had was slowly lifting.

I am free.

I am free.

[glitteringpoet1685]

BEGGING you to drop your patho fic recs or the 5 you mentioned on that post please 🙏

(After a long silence, the Haruspex travels to the capital to seek out his old companion.)

I'm pretty sure everyone and their mother has read this but if you haven't you should because it's just that good. It will fuck you up. The ending is like a grand piano being dropped on your head (in a good way).

(“He wounds, Cub. You are aware of that.”

“Yes. But he also heals. What we saw of him back then was also a reflection of us. He became what he needed to be in order to do his duties. We were hostile to one another, Stakh. Imagine how it was for us and how it was for an outsider… how it still is for an outsider.” Artemy looked down. It’s been months since the plague ended and still others treated Dankovsky like a stranger. He treated himself as a stranger. Calling him any other thing would have felt disingenuous... but it still felt wrong.

“Of course. Humans need to adapt to their surroundings to live and survive. But snakes do not adapt when their skins shed, nor do they become anew. They become more of what they already are.” Rubin spoke slowly, choosing his words with either care or caution while looking at Daniil’s signature coat on the rack.)

Will have you saying "this can't get any worse" and then immediately things will get worse. So angsty but so very worth it in the end. One of the only fics I've read that truly captures the feeling of catharsis in pathologic.

The Town Theatre Presents: Orpheus and Eurydice by PlayerProphet (you need an ao3 account to read)

(Winter falls in the Town-on-Gorkhon. Daniil Dankovsky is told that his peer, Artemy Burakh, knows the secret to eternal life, but isn't aware that he knows it. Daniil vows to learn what Artemy knows-without-knowing, while preparing for his performance as the leading role in the town's production of Orpheus and Eurydice.)

My favourite fic that heavily engages with the meta side of Pathologic, specifically the "theatre of death" aspect of Pathologic 2.

(The blooming twyre dizzies, but the point of touch is grounding.

His words, still, come clouded and vague, “This has happened before.”

“Not like this,” Artemy’s voice is rough and curt. Hopeful again. “You never stayed.”

He blinks. “I can’t stay. It’s not how this works.”

[Or; Daniil starts remembering.])

Time. Loop. Angst. Will also fuck you up.

(On the thirteenth day the lights reignite and the actor Artemy Burakh takes the stage once more. In the Theatre reigned death and with them came the birds, seeking bones and carrion.

It was the taste of love that made the blood all the sweeter.)

Artemy must make the ultimate sacrifice to save the children, again.

(the major character death tag is for temporary character death btw)

[barbex]

happy friday! :D for DADWC and a pairing of your choice, ❝ if people can hate for no reason, than i can love for no reason too. ❞ from the emotionally charged sentence starters?

Thank you for this prompt! Happy @dadrunkwriting, have another fenders fic!

I'm combining this prompt with one I got from outside of tumblr from @the-goat-bazaar-of-art: jazzy lounge singer Anders.

I apologize to singers of any kind, I know nothing.

---

It was Varric's idea, of course. A great party for Hawke's birthday. At the Blooming Rose, of all places. And then someone must have told Varric that Anders can sing. At least he could, once upon a time. It's been ages since he performed. In the last few years, only the mice in the walls of the clinic hear him sing, in the morning, before he opens the clinic.

So now he's in the dressing room behind the stage, under the combined glare of Jethann and Madam Lusine, clutching his coat to his chest. "I always wear this coat." 

"Yes," Jethann says. "That is obvious."

"It's..." It's his coat, his armor, the only thing he kept from the wardens. "It's a good coat."

"Unacceptable." Madam Lusine frowns at the coat as if she wants to strangle it, just in case it decides to come alive. "This house has a reputation to uphold."

Anders can think of several things to say about the reputation of a mid range brothel but he stops himself. The Rose is a good house, probably the best in Kirkwall, and the usual performances here have a certain class. "Do you have anything here I could wear?"

"Not with trousers," Jethann says as he slides his hand along a rack of colourful dresses. "They're not much in demand."

Something like defiance makes Anders straighten his back and cock his hip. "I can wear a dress, no problem. It's not so different from wearing a robe."

Jethann's eyes light up. "Oh, darling." He looks Anders up and down. "Darling, when I'm done with you, you will rock that dress."

--

The Blooming Rose feels surprisingly nice tonight. Tasteful decorations, a table laden with food, and a capable band playing in the background — it's better than Fenris expected. And since it's a private party with Hawke's friends and acquaintances, nobody has taken him or Merrill for servants or pinched their ears so far. It looks like a promising evening. 

Fenris settles down on a couch with his wine. A good tevinter red, he should thank Varric for getting it for him. For a while he watches Hawke circle the room, how he throws a massive arm around any shoulder, making everyone feel welcome. Even some of the higher nobles, who obviously feel out of place among the merchants and traders from Lowtown, suddenly engage in lively conversations. It's a gift, almost like magic, how Hawke manages that. 

The music is pleasant, some string instrument being plucked and a piano filling the air with gentle sounds. He leans back, lazily watching Merrill trying every food at the buffet, chatting with a merchant woman the whole time. He keeps an eye on her, just to make sure that no one takes advantage of her. Hawke would be furious if anyone mistreated Merrill.

But as his gaze wanders again, he notes that the mage is missing. Sitting up to get a better view, he scans the whole room. He's certain that Anders came with them, he remembers how tired he looked and how Varric whispered something to him that made him smile. How he suddenly didn't look tired anymore. How the skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

--

Anders looks at his reflection in the mirror. In the last half hour, he had focused on warming up his voice and making sure that he still knew all the words to the songs, while Jethann fluttered all around him, did his hair, put something on his face, painted his eyes, and draped jewellery over his chest. Now, actually looking at himself, his mouth falls open. 

"I look amazing!" he finally says. 

"Yes, you do, darling," Jethann says, pride resonating in his voice. "Turn around."

Anders turns, straining his neck to look over his shoulder. The glittering dress is yellow, goes all the way down to his feet, and leaves his shoulders and his back bare. Jethann put a golden necklace on him, and draped it low over his shoulder blades. His scars are visible and for a second he thinks about covering them up. 

"I have a scarf you can drape over your shoulders." Jethann, perceptive as ever, holds a gossamer thin scarf in the same shade of yellow in his hand.

Anders looks at his back again. The scars are part of him, he won't hide them. "No, I like it better this way. 

"You look fabulous," Jethann says, handing him long gloves in the same colour. They go up over his elbows and complete the whole arrangement perfectly. "Fabulous." Jethann rises on his tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Now go out there, they're waiting for you."

Anders takes a deep breath and steps through the curtain. Someone lights several lanterns over the stage, making it harder to see the audience. He is grateful for that. He's nervous enough, he doesn't need to see people's faces. The man at the piano nods at him, and Anders steps over to him, resting his hand on the polished wood. Hopefully, nobody can see his knees shake under the dress. 

The man at the piano plays the first few keys, and then it's suddenly easy. Now he just has to sing.

--

It's a man on the stage. It's not a man dressed to look like a woman, it's a man, confidently wearing a glittering, long, yellow dress. And he sings. His voice is warm, soft like velvet, with an edge of roughness for emphasis. Fenris stares, enthralled. The man sings a song of dreams and hope and butterflies or something ridiculous like that, but the singer makes it sound like it is important. 

The songs ends, people applaud enthusiastically, and the singer turns around, grinning over his shoulder. And now Fenris recognizes him. That smile, the scars on his back, the way the dress contours his ass. The singer is Anders. His long hair is pinned in a loose bun, but a few strains come free as he moves across the stage, dancing around his face. 

It is Anders. And he looks stunning.

He starts the next song, a fast paced thing he animates people to dance to. He swings his hips as he struts across the stage, his voice broad and powerful. Soon, nearly everyone is on the dancefloor, performing an impromptu group dance under Anders' guidance.

Fenris doesn't get up. He can only stare.

That the mage is attractive is nothing new, and that Fenris may have looked at his ass more often than he looked at Isabela's is also nothing new. But seeing Anders like this, beautiful, confident, singing like he never did anything else — it does something new. He can't place the feelings in his chest, can't name them, but he has to dig his fingers into the seat cushions to stop himself from running up on that stage and drag that mage to the next nearest bed.

Anders sings a few more songs, ending with a sad ballad about lost love. He has his eyes closed as he sings, draped on a barstool, his voice nearly going brittle as he sings of saying goodbye to his love. It feels so real, it feels like a knife wound in Fenris' chest, and he can't stop himself. He gets up, moving through the couples on the dancefloor, until he reaches the stage, putting his hands on the raised platform. 

--

This is not a good song to end on, it's too sad, his voice gets too sad because it always reminds him of Karl. As the piano player plays the outro, he whispers another song title to him, a joyful song about love and freedom. Anders tells the bass player the name of the song as well, discreetly wiping off a tear that the last song caused. A little happy song will be good for all of them.

He turns back, letting the dress swing around his legs, and dances into the next song. It's a joy to sing and his solemn mood disappears. He twirls the dress again, letting his arms dance along — and then he nearly loses his balance, barely catching himself on the piano. 

Fenris stands right at the edge of the stage, staring at him. 

That he did not expect. 

Fenris, looking at him, not angry, but definitely interested. Hungry. Anders leans against the piano and throws his head back as he stretches out one leg on a high note. From the corner of his eye he sees Fenris' eyes widen. 

Definitely interested. 

He keeps watching Fenris as he sings of freedom, of warm embraces, dancing, and hot kisses. When the song ends, the applause wakes him from a strange daze and he nearly forgets to take his bows. 

Behind the stage, he leans against the wall, and waits for his heartbeat to slow down. What a strange situation. The sexiest elf of Thedas, who doesn't even like him, apparently loves his singing. He shakes his head. Better not make more of this than it is.

A door opens on the other side, letting in a triangle of light and Anders instantly recognizes the shadowy figure standing in the doorway. There's only one muscular, tall elf who stands like this, like a predator ready to attack.

"Hello, Fenris," Anders says carefully. "Did you like my singing?"

Fenris steps in, leaving the door ajar. "Yes. I did not know you could sing." 

"It's not an ability I use often." He pushes himself away from the wall, but Fenris is suddenly right in front of him, pushing him back. His eyes shine in the dim light and he steps closer, setting his leg between Anders' legs. His hand slides up Anders' gloved arm until he reaches his neck, drawing small patterns on his skin with his fingers. 

Anders shudders as heat rises up his neck. "Is this really what you want, Fenris? You have no reason to like me."

Fenris steps closer, his breath flowing over Anders' neck. "If people can hate for no reason, I can... not hate you for no reason." 

"Not hate?" Anders laughs. "Well, it's not perfect, but what is in life?" 

That seems to sober Fenris and he steps back. "I apologise if I have been too forward. I..."

"No, shut up." Taking him by the shoulders, Anders pulls him back. "Do you not hate me enough to kiss me?"

A mischievous grin grows on Fenris' face. "Would you like me to kiss you?"

"Yes, and more." Anders lets his gloved hands slide over Fenris' arms. "I have a room with a bed here." 

The predatory look is back in Fenris' eyes. Anders takes him by the hand and drags him out of the room and up the stairs. As he opens the door, he looks at Fenris. "Do you want the dress on or off?"

Fenris leans over his back and places a kiss between his shoulder blades. "The dress stays on."

Anders grins at him. "Lucky for us, I'm not wearing any underwear."

[hamsterbellbelle]

Additional CC list for Lestat's Apartment🎦:

Antique suitcases || Archway || Bag/clothes/suitcase || Bag || Bag || Bathroom clutter || Bicycle (wall)/speaker || Blood bag || Blood (deco) - A - B - C || Board planks || Books - A - B - C - D ||

Bowl with towel || Boxes/hand truck || Boxes || Broom/drying rack (bathroom)/wall rack || Bucket with dipper || Calendar || Candles || Candles || Cardboard rug || Cereal boxes || Chair with bag || Chair with clothes || Cleaning clutter || Coat rack stand || Coffin ||

Conduit || Cooking pots || Crate || Dirty dishes (sink)/mail || Dirty dishes (table) || Divider with clothes || Door || Drain || Fan || Floor clothes || Floor dirt || Floor wood strip || Folded jeans ||

Folding chair || Food (deco) || Fridge || Guitar (deco) || Hamper || Hanging branches/old clothes || Hanging tapestry || Hanging backpack || Hat || Headphone || Herb pots ||

Ironing board/drying rack/laundry clutter || Map (deco) || Mattress || Mug || Neon - Cat - Cross - Mouth - XXX || Newspaper stack || Oil lamp || Painting clutter/canvas || Paper bag/mug || Papers ||

Piano || Picture stand || Pillows || Pillows || Plants - animal - can - floor - hanging - piano || Polaroids || Puzzle || Record player || Rug || Shampoo || Shoe box || Shoe rack/shoes ||

Sink (bathroom) || Sink (kitchen) || Sofa || Soil bags || Stool || Suitcase/bag/clothes || Used tissue ||

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Animated astray || Asian divider || Chair with clothes || Cyberpunk posters || Metal panel || Neon (afterlife) || Suitcase laptop || Wires/panel ||