#this is how she gets him to the sanitorium in the first place

[shroom-gloom]

don take drugs from strangers 

[fandom-imagines]

Escape Artists

Fandom: Halloween/Slashers

Pairing: Michael Myers X Reader

Warnings: Murder, mention of parental abuse, lightly-written smut (not too descriptive).

Words: 2.4k

He had seen her around the hospital numerous times. She was always sat surrounded by those weird beads that she made designs with, only to have to hand them to one of the nurses who always seemed glad to iron the pattern for her.

Despite having seen her and observed her, Michael had never actually interacted with the girl. Sure, she was interesting, seemingly too innocent to be sat in Smiths Groves, but he wouldn’t talk to her; he wouldn’t talk to anybody. This was how he lived. Day in, day out. Never talking to a soul and nobody willingly talking to him. That was how Michael liked it which is why he couldn’t help but be irritated by the person who was interrupting his mealtime.

“Hi,” in front of Michael stood the bead girl, nervously fiddling with her fingers. “I-I made this for you.” Before he knew it, Michaels hand now held a beaded blushing panda.

He was tempted to snap the poor thing in half, and he would have had he not felt a piece of paper stuck to the back with the crappy tape the sanitorium provides.

“Don’t look yet, look when you’re alone.” She said, leaving with a short nod.

He listened to her words, going to the bathroom, the one place he was allowed to be alone, to read whatever note was scribbled on the paper.

Do you want to escape with me, Michael?

Confusion overtook his mind, the creaking of the tiled walls being the only thing he could fully register.

Not only did she know his name, but she also wanted to escape with him?

Weirdo.

He simply shrugged it off.

*

“Morning, Y/N,” a kind nurse awoke the young girl from her peaceful slumber, something that was rare for her. “Here is your medicine.”

“Thank you, Nurse Green.”

Her small hands grasped the bottle of water they provided her each morning, spare hand now filled with the medication she took daily before gulping down all nine of them with one mouthful of water.

Yesterdays interaction with Michael still plagued her mind.

She knew what he had done to his sister, everybody did, but still he was the only person she somewhat trusted her. Not that she had ever actually spoke to him of course, even though she was exceptionally kind to all those on the ward. She simply hoped he had read the note.

*

Lunchtime came round quite quickly, Y/N refusing to part with her beads and Michael nowhere to be seen, something that wasn’t uncommon.

Her fingers picked out another green bead to add to her new creation, a soft smile gracing her lips as she fit the final bead into the pattern, creating an amazing leaf. She looked up with a smile on her face, ready to show the nurse only to be met with Michael face, head tilted to the side.

“Oh,” she spoke quietly, evidently shocked at the older boy’s presence. “Hi, Michael.” Her kindness didn’t falter however, the shocked look on her face quickly forming back into the smile she wore previously.

Michaels hand reached out to grab the box of beads, pulling it towards him along with a square pegboard. He quickly got to work making a pattern, something that was done in mere minutes, pushing it back towards Y/N before leaving, not sparing her a single glance as he went back to his room.

Confused, Y/N pulled the board towards her. On it was a perfectly designed tombstone, yet it was masked as a grey brick, something Michael knew the nurses wouldn’t pick up on, only someone that was looking or expecting it would. However, beneath the board was a small slip of paper, something that caused her Y/E/C orbs to widen, quickly yet carefully sliding the paper into the pocket of her knitted sweatshirt.

*

“He what?” Loomis’s voice was loud, booming throughout the office. “He interacted with another patient?”

The nurses were unable to tell whether he was scared or happy at this news.

Michael had never interacted with another patient before, never interacted with anyone at all so this was a big surprise to him.

“Leave this to me,”

*

Yes.

This one word was floating around Y/N’s mind for the entire night.

He wants to escape with her? Michael Myers wants to escape with her? It was something she could not refuse, so she got to writing.

*

Over the following months the two shared notes through the beads they would both make. Nobody had spotted this yet, the scheme too smart for the nurses and doctors alike at Smiths Grove. Loomis had been keeping a close eye on the pair, looking for something significant that he could use against Michael but there was nothing yet, nothing at all.

The girl was sat at her usual table, alone for once which was uncommon for her. She wouldn’t have been alone had she not told the usual people that she wished to be alone today.

She was waiting.

Waiting for Michael.

A small sense of glee filled her chest when she noticed him walk into the cafeteria, a small smile following suite. The smile only dropped when he ignored her presence, walking towards where he usually sat. He must have sensed her gaze, glancing up to catch her sight before glancing at the chair opposite him, a silent hint for her to come over which she gladly did.

“Hi,”

Michael didn’t give her a verbal response, something she was used to by now, he instead looked towards her hands that held her most recent pattern: a pink milk carton. She eagerly passed it to him, watching him closely for any sign of reaction as he observed it, the two unaware that somebody else was also watching him.

*

“I want you to cut all communication between Michael and Y/N,” Loomis seemed to have come up with a plan of his own. “We’ll see how he reacts to that.”

“Yes, Dr Loomis.”

*

Y/N sat at the desk in her room, spinning the board around the wood with her finger.

“Why am I stuck in here?” Her tone expressed how fed up she was of being confined her for the entire day. “I’m bored.”

“Why don’t you make something?”

“Why am I here?”

“A doctor wants to see you.”

“I’ve seen all the doctors. Which one?”

“Dr Loomis.”

Oh, so it worked, good to know.

*

A few hours later she was seated on her bed, legs crossed with her pigtails falling down to her knee.

“We’ve met before, Y/N. After you were first sent here.” Loomis did his best to be friendly, hiding the burning curiosity and urge to ask her everything he wanted in one go.

“Yes, Dr Loomis.” Her tone was friendly, also forced.

She was waiting. Waiting for-

An excruciating loud beep blared throughout the entire ward, signalling a door had been opened by one of the patients.

Loomis’s eyes widened, worried that it was Michael who had escaped. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye before rushing off, forgetting to lock the door on the way out, something the pair had planned.

*

Y/N had half expected their planned escape car to be gone by the time she had finished running to the door, Michael probably having using her to escape. Weirdly enough, he was sat there waiting for her, something that made her smile as she hopped into the car.

Their plan, something that had been in the works for an insane amount of time, had worked. Every part of it had gone how they had planned.

“Thank you,” Y/N’s voice was as soft as always, glancing at Michael whose eyes were focused on the road, seemingly dismissing her appreciation.

He wasn’t however. He was silently grateful for her. She had stuck by him, his quiet and rude self. She knew what he had done and had still accepted him, he could see it in her face. He assumed she was simply in for depression or something of the sort, uncaring as to why because all he cared about was leaving and finishing what he had started, but something about her drew him in and he began getting somewhat attached to the girl.

*

The pair drove for hours, having to stop by to get gas before pulling into an abandoned place far away from the main road so that nobody could find them.

“Do you want a drink?” Michael gave her a confused look as she sat on the car, hand stretched out to hand him a bottle. “It’s weird you know,” she continued speaking after he took the bottle from her hand and sat beside her, “I never thought I’d make it to adulthood.”

This further proved his point of her having depression.

“Not that I’m depressed or suicidal or anything. I just thought I’d die by now.” This simply confused Michael. If she wasn’t in there for depression, what was she in for?

The nights sky hung over the pair, stars being one of the only things lighting the place, supported by the car’s lights.

Y/N seemed to sense his confusion.

“Oh, you don’t know what I’m in for? Well, was in for.” Michael simply shook his head.

“I killed someone. My dad. He used to hurt me, physically, mentally, emotionally and a few other things. My mother just watched it all happen, so I tried to kill her as well but she got away and I was dragged there.”

Michael nodded as to show that he understood.

“It’s weird. When I was younger, I always thought I’d be a popular eighteen-year-old with a boyfriend, a lot of friends and all that stuff. I never thought I’d be here,” her gaze fell on Michael, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if I am a virgin.” Y/N made sure to finish her sentence off with a joke, hoping to ease the tension she felt whilst expressing her emotions whilst continuing to stare up at the sky, oblivious to the thoughts running through Michaels head, his face not showing any signs either.

Y/N jumped at the cold sensation of Michaels hand touching her bare thigh, goosebumps rising beneath her dress. “Michael?” She turned to face the unmasked man, only to be pushed to lean against the back of the car with attempted gentleness. “Michael?” She repeated, growing even more confused as he lifted himself over her, able to feel her heart pound.

She didn’t fear him, she had never feared him; he’d never given her a reason. Sure he could be rude towards her, but never fear-inducing, never to her.

“Michael?”

Her words were silenced as Michaels body crawled onto her own, his chest pressed against hers, both hearts racing, despite Michael’s calm composure and Y/N’s confused look. Her eyes widened as she felt Michaels lips against her neck, roughly sucking with such force that she knew it would leave a mark.

A soft moan left her lips when Michael’s hand wandered down to her chest, lightly toying with her nipples before grabbing her breast, massaging it as he did so. The moans that left her lips simply increased Michael’s urges, his desires; he wanted her, and it seemed like she wanted him too.

“Michael-“she murmured, fingers looping themselves in the strands of his hair as he nipped at her skin.

Her free hand ran down his front, searching for his clothed erection which she soon founds, enjoying the breathy moan that Michael made as she slid her hand into his pants. It was quiet, but not quiet enough. Michael’s own hand reached into her own panties, finger soaking up the wetness that had formed at his touch, something that almost made him smirk.

Another moan fell from Y/N’s lips as Michael’s fingers began to explore, the tightness she felt was almost too tight, yet Michael was surprisingly gentle considering who he was. This time Michael couldn’t resist his smirk, being thankful for the fact that his face was buried into the crook of her neck, marking her as his and his only.

Her grip on his hair tightened as he slipped another finger inside of her, giving her a moment to adjust before slowly moving. It wasn’t long before pleasure began to consume her, grip tightening on his hair further as she neared her end.

“M-Michael,” she moaned. “I want you,”

He seemed happy to comply, fingers leaving her heat to unclothe his member. He waited for a moment, searching Y/N’s eyes for any sort of hesitation before sliding in, giving her time to adjust.

“I’m ready, you can move.”

His movements were slow to begin with, giving it his best attempt at not hurting her, something that was incredibly hard for his rough self, but self-restraint can be a magical thing. It wasn’t until the word ‘more’ left her lips that he finally increased his movements.

The cold of the cars metal caused shivers to run down Y/N’s spine, made worse by Michael’s cold hands running across her, now bare, body as moans filled the air.

“I-I’m close,”

Her words only increased his movements more, desperate to reach both their ends. Michael’s hand moved down to her clit, harshly rubbing in hopes that in would held her meet her own release, which it did and she came with one final moan, her sudden tightness triggering Michael’s own orgasm as he came inside of her, their juices mixing together.

Cheeks flushed, both Y/N and Michael wordlessly laid against the car’s windscreen. Deciding to test the waters, Y/N leant herself against Michael’s shoulder, silently pleased when he showed no sign of rejection.

He was surprisingly warm, heating up her cold body in the cool night’s air; she never expected him to be so warm. She lightly wrapped her hand around his upper arm, snuggling herself into his shoulder before falling asleep.

Michael stared at the sleeping girl, confused and shocked at how she had so much trust in him, despite what he had done. It was oddly reassuring to him. Once certain she was asleep, he raised his hand to move a stray strand of hair from her face before falling asleep himself.

“Goodnight, Y/N,”

[kirencer]

Le vélo pour deux (Vampire Spencer Request)

Word count: 1.2k

Relationship: Vampire! Spencer Reid x GN! Reader

Rating: Fluff, Gen Audiences

Warnings: murder, non-con blood drinking, consensual blood drinking, mentions of a witch hunt, and large age gaps (300 years)

Request?: Yes. Vampire Spencer who has a tandem bike, based off of Le vélo pour deux by the Brobecks. Request for my friend@reidgraygubler, check out their works!! They’re a fan-awesome-tasting writer!!

A/N: Also, I know I spelt the song differently, it kills both me and my beta to have to use wrong french. Enjoy!!

When you live a life span not constrained to human mortality, you collect things. During the first years of my creation, I was a wandering trader of sorts. Townspeople were always so fickle and troublesome, and after my third village I had found that there was a pattern to my visits.

First, the village would be warm and welcoming, though sternly warning me of the fact that there was a monster somewhere hidden in plain sight. It was mildly humorous considering the only monster was me. The one hurting townsfolk, crops, and animals, was more than often a human man - rarely was it a woman, but it had happened a few times. Then, I would get rid of the murderer, or - in more clear terms - I would drink them dry. Effectively ridding the village of its doom and also quenching my thirst through the means of not hurting an innocent person. It was a win-win situation that happened along my many journeys!

Sometimes, the villagers would know that I was the ‘hero’, and would gift me things. Thus gave me my - very true, but also wrong - wandering trader title. Food I had no need for was traded for trinkets, and then things I actually did need.

Along my long travels, year after year, there was something I had never gotten rid of. Still, almost three and a half centuries after my first birth, and 102 years since I acquired it, the tandem bike sits unused.

It was one of the very first models, having been gifted to me in France, after the design traveled down from Denmark, becoming fairly popular in couples of the time period. See, the woman who gifted it to me had lost her husband to the man I had slain, and wanted it to be used again.

“Bring light back into it, Spencer. Take your love and hold them close with this, drive you both far away,” the young woman - barely in her adult years, and already a widow - said. That night, I was chased through the night with pitchforks, fire, and screams of killing a witch.

They were wrong however, I was and still am a vampire, a being far faster and stronger than them. Never a witch. So, bike tied to my back, I fled.

For the next ninety or so years I would take it with him, collecting languages, folk lore, stories, and knowledge.

Then it’s the 1990’s, and the promise I made to his creator comes back into play. I’m to check on his bloodline, see how my creator's family has fared. It took a year to trace it all to her, but eventually I made my way to Las Vegas Sanitorium.

There I found Diana Reid, the woman whose mind was sharp despite her mental illness and being abandoned by her husband. She reminded me of my own mother - strong, caring, and intelligent far beyond what people anticipated - who had died far before my turning.. Thus, I forged as much as I could through my many connections made through the years, and was ‘reborn’ as Spencer Reid, a genius made for changing the world.

Having been fond of my criminal justice, I took to academics. Thinking that, I would catch the eye of the FBI through that instead of through smarts. That way, I didn't have to do any of the physical training.

My strength and speed would have been very suspicious and I was not not ready to be found out and slain after this long.

I joined the Bureau in 2002, and now, it’s nearing my second decade with them.

(vampires are especially equipped for if they decide to stay in one place long. while through my years, i was previously frozen, i decided to let myself physically age. watching an unchanging face suddenly start to change over years, was odd, but i enjoyed it)

What makes this special, is that damn bike.

See, last week I took it to get some very needed adjustments. I modernized it only in reinforcements, keeping its beautiful and ‘antique’ quality. I’ve always held a part of my heart for the charm of such old things.

Today, I would be using it.

A year ago, I met the most beautiful person I had ever seen. They swept me off of my feet, and It was all I could do to fall into their love.

Then they had mentioned their affinity for bike riding, and I realized that I finally had a partner to ride it with.

An amazing partner at that.

A few months after we started dating, I accidentally revealed my nature and they were so accepting, you would have thought I was an angel rather than a monster.

Plus, they had developed a rather fondness for being fed on, saying that they would rather have my love on their neck rather than someone else's.

My favorite place to kiss was the inside of their wrist to feel the thrum of their life through their veins.

They audibly gasped upon seeing the bike, I stiffened hoping that they liked it. That it was a good gasp.

“Spencer…” Y/N said, eyes bright as they ran a hand along the handle bars. “It’s beautiful. Is it yours?”

I hummed a yes, smiling carefully at them. “I've had this stupid bike for centuries and now I finally have someone to ride it with.”

Y/N looked on the verge of tears, “You wanna ride it with me?”

I wondered why they thought I would ride it with anyone else. No one in the world, both present and past, has and ever will be as amazing as they are. Nothing I could ever feel would top the pure love coursing through my veins, as if I had sacrificed a human life for instead having a love so deep that it would have destroyed my weak human form. I ache when I’m away from them, and my existence has never been less dull than when I am in their arms.

“I would be far more than content to spend the rest of time on this bike with you.” I carefully cupped their jaw to make them look up at me, “I love you.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, dork. I love you too.” They nuzzled against my hand for a moment, before pulling away and turning towards the bike, that, despite being ancient, was not even half of my life span. A hundred and two was nothing compared to three hundred and thirty nine. “What’s her name?”

“Hm?” I asked, too busy staring at how pretty they were in the shaded light of the park.

“The bike, what’s her name?”

My mouth opened in small ‘O’, as I remembered distantly what the bike was named when it was given to me. “Le vélo pour deux, The Bike for Two. Though, I’ve come to call it le vélo des amoureux.”

“Meaning?” They questioned, eyes tracing over every single small detail.

“The lover's bike.”

“Thought of that yourself, old man?” Y/N teased.

“Ha, ha, ha. See, my question is, why you’re dating such an old man? I mean, three hundred and fourteen years is a long time for me to be your senior.”

Y/N rolled their eyes at me, “There's plenty of time for me to catch up, we are going to apparently be riding this bike forever, after all.”

I smiled because that seemed more than fine to me. I had wandered for so long, and now I’ve found the One. All I want to do is follow them now, even if it’s on a bike that is surely going to break from age.

————

[Thank you for reading! Feel free to tell me what you think or submit a request here!]

[painted-piggy-ships-archive]

Rosemary “Thorn” Oswin Loomis

[Pictured: Rosemary Oswin Loomis, d̵̜̋a̴̙̒ủ̶̟g̷̜̅h̴͊͜t̸̻͑ẽ̵̦r̷̹͘ of Dr. Samuel Loomis, a month before being admitted to Smith’s Grove Sanitorium.]

“I don’t go by that name anymore.”

There were several reasons Sam wanted to hospitalize his... child. They were never quite “right,” he could see those things early. They couldn’t connect with their peers and often spent their time in lengthy focus on anything but what was expected of them, i.e. school work or chores. They didn’t speak much and preferred to express themself through art, such as writing and sketching.

Then they started resenting their birth name and their body, cringing every time Sam referred to them as his “daughter” or “she/her.” They had a poor relationship with both parents, but clearly disliked their mostly absent mother much more than their father... one time, she finally pushed Thorn’s buttons a bit too much, and he lashed out in a blind rage. He doesn’t exactly remember killing her, but he didn’t seem put out about the situation. No, in fact, he even seemed relieved.

The death was what did it. At least in Smith’s Grove, Thorn would be safe from extreme persecution, Sam would be safe from his child, and the public would be safe from Thorn.

[Pictured: Rosemary Oswin Loomis the day of their incarceration.]

“You never were the fatherly type.”

Once admitted, however, Sam didn’t see them much. He wasn’t their doctor. Things were alright for them in Smith’s Grove, if not repetitive. Thorn was in their mid-teens when they were admitted... Michael was around the same age when they arrived.

Under Sam’s nose- at least for the first while -Thorn and Michael shared a silent connection. They were both quiet, and clearly didn’t care about their fellow inmates, stubbornly refusing to join group activities. Although Michael supposedly “felt nothing” and had “no response to any stimuli,” he actively engaged in silent activities with Thorn, albeit in his own way. He’d watch them draw, and they’d “play” chess together, though they never followed the rules or even bothered to read them.

Michael was eerily and strictly mild-mannered in the sanitorium, but for Sam that was just clear evidence of Michael’s planning, waiting for the day he’d get his chance out of confinement. It was a nurse that tipped Loomis off to Michael’s activity with Thorn.

“He has a little friend, actually.” / “Impossible. Who?” / “Your d̵̜̋a̴̙̒ủ̶̟g̷̜̅h̴͊͜t̸̻͑ẽ̵̦r̷̹͘.”

[Pictured: Thorn Loomis. Michael’s companion.]

“He talks enough for the both of them.”

When Michael escaped, he took Thorn with him, even when it was severely suspected he’d ditch them the first chance he got. Michael’s bloodlust was a gateway for Thorn’s bloodlust.

Thorn provides cover and unlikely companionship for Michael, and Michael provides protection and attention for Thorn. It’s unclear if the relationship is romantic, as it’s just as unclear if Michael can feel “love,” but what is clear is that it is an intimate and deep connection. It is more likely Michael’s feeling toward Thorn is “need” rather than “love.” Something about them makes things complete for him.

[picrew]

Other Thorn Trivia: Their middle name comes from their grandfather Basically Michael’s “manager,” if that makes sense? He stakes out places to lay low between murders, steals food and supplies, etc. Anything Mikey needs, Thorn is the one to get it as he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about showing his face (He’s also better at acting unassuming and charming to throw people off) Makes note of Michael’s kill methods and tries not to copy them too much as to have some uniqueness Loves reading news reports on his and Michael’s murders, usually pointing out dumb theories or snickering over how dumbfounded police are about Michael’s supposed immortality

[eldritchocs]

where we left off

( PREVIOUS )

in the cities of The Divide, the miles-deep hole that cracked open the earth hundreds of years ago, lie several sprawling cities built into the cavernous walls. tonight, we focus on two.

on the middle layer of The Divide lies the industrial powerhouse of Umbris. founded by the Albescu family and still run by it, Umbris was a city of invention since it's very first days. Now, it's filled to the brim with aspiring inventors from all around and is one of Hezal's beacons of progress.

not all is perfect in Umbris, as this city, almost always ticking like the gears of a clock, chokes on the smog of it's own inventors and the cities above it. over the years, it's become overcrowded, and with it came The Plague.

this disfiguring plague sweeps through Umbris, it's fellow kingdoms of the middle divide, and even the kingdoms of the layers below it. umbris itself is hit the hardest. it's lower to middle-class population is almost entirely wiped out. grieving families turn to necromancy to bring back their dead, causing a massive rise in the population of graveborn.

the west-most side of umbris is given the nickname "The Gravekeeper District," as a small amount of laborers living there are quarantined and forced to dig the graves for the mass amount of plague victims. necromancers flock the area, looking for bodies or spare parts to continue their work, of which is in high demand currently.

it is here in umbris we find Lepite Mortion, a vaguely familiar face. working as a mortician amongst the gravekeepers, lepite is more notably known amongst the gravekeeper district for his "miracle elixirs," with have been noted to be able to heal one of the plague, and most other ailments that one can befall-- even death itself! just a single gold piece!

trust him, he would know. he doesn't look it, but he's graveborn himself! ( its already hard to tell what race he was in the first place-- a fiendling and drow mix-- and even harder to tell that he had been dead! ) raised back up from the grave ages ago, staved off the decay and rot most graveborn experience with his own elixir!

just don't ask how he makes them.

( MORE ART UNDER THE READMORE! )

"why are you hesitating? you need to begin your search for mellot again immediately."

"i just had one more question about your son, lepite?"

"what about him?"

"what happened to him?"

"one of my patients killed him. he was a doctor here, just like me. she murdered him as she was escaping the asylum."

"oh..."

"even worse, after we buried him, someone stole his body. five days after his funeral, we found the grave desecrated and torn apart. empty."

"did you ever find his body again?"

"no. now if you are done pestering me on such unimportant matters, i suggest you get back to finding mellot."

"and what about veroni, sir?"

"it seems she's already failed her mission. kill her if she tries to intervene."

no one is quite sure where this plague comes from, but many have looked into it. quite a few people trace it back to an old asylum on the east side of umbris. this asylum is looked over by the brilliant drow man Dr. Kalill Stockam. Some suspect that he had a hand in creating it, but that would just be silly, wouldn't it? After all, Dr. Kalill and his young rabbitfolk nurse, Alma, worked very hard to create and release a cure almost immediately! sure, it costs an arm and a leg and only the upper class of Umbris can afford it, but that's just how it goes, isn't it? after all, dr. stockam has more motivation than just the money and fame his vaccine brought him! that's what the public says, at least.

those in the lower divide tend to silently disagree.

Mellot Mariam, founder of Miss Mellot's Sanitorium for the Mentally Alternative, poses for a portrait with her dear friend Veroni Harlow and their godson, Varian. The three of them are all survivors of this plague, and have been working on finding and making a cure that will be obtainable to all walks of life.

the kingdom of Evaria exists in one of the only habitable zones of the lower divide, as what little light reached this far down into the earth is blocked out by the cities above them and the smog they've created, and evaria is the furthest from these. the warmest and brightest of these barren, perpetually dark lands, evaria is a city founded by and filled to the brim with vampires. this kingdom is responsible for almost the entirety of plant life and sustains both itself and the two other kingdoms of the lower divide, who were unfortunate enough to get stuck living in the uninhabitable zones.

this is where a few familiar faces live. Mellot owns and runs her own sanitorium for those who need it, inspired by her own mistreatment at the hands of a different asylum. her facility is easily one of the most respected for it's humanity and proper medical practices, a rare commodity for mental hospitals in hezal in this time and era. she has recently re-united with a former lover of hers, also a victim to the previously-mentioned "different asylum." funnily enough, they were victims to this plague several years before it reached the public. mellot herself died from it, only escaping from the pits of bodies after awakening as a vampire herself.

the two women hold their tongues about what happened to them. they know what happens if they don't. they know if they bring the horrors they were subjected to by the hands of Dr. Stockam to light, he'd find them. he'd find them and use any means at his disposal to silence them.

so they build their case against him in secrecy. the discovery of Varian was certainly a huge break in the case, a child born of Dr. Stockam and another patient, who mysteriously died after giving birth and who's child vanished from thin air. sadly, the young wererat doesn't recall much from his past, but he does carry the plague with him, allowing them the chance to study it up-close and work towards releasing their own cure.

but these aren't the familiar faces you're quite looking for, are they?

how about...

does the name Whovyx Derati ring any bells?

tonight, this young fiendling inventor returns to his library after an... eventful night with another man named Verion. you knew him by another name, but their back-and-forth relationship is one you know very well.

tonight, whovyx derati returns home to his library to find his lovers waiting anxiously for him.

"o-oh. you're still awake... heheh... i thought you would have gone to sleep by now... this is kind of awkward..."

"we... we were worried! you said you were only going to verion's for a few hours! it's been three days!"

"...has it? heh... oops... i guess i've been walking around with this on me for a while, huh?"

"are you bleeding? what the fuck happened to you, whovyx? who did this? i'll--"

"we need to get him inside right now, he's delirious-"

"i-it's fine! it's not mine! heheh! i'm sorry, i probably s-should have started with that! i didn't-- i didn't mean to startle you, hehehe--"

"...whovyx, what did you do?"

"it's just-- i think-- i think you may have been right when you said zerion didn't really love me, haha..."

oh. maybe we should come back to this one a little bit later. they seem a bit busy.

how about... ah! yes! we did leave this one on a bit of a cliffhanger, didn't we? let's play a little catch up.

leaving evaria, and heading all the way down to the deepest layer of the divide....

this city was not even graced with a name. people simply call it "The Beneath." here is where dead things go to rot, where those who have fallen from grace wind up, where creatures who have never once before seen the surface world of Hezal make their dwelling. The Beneath is not much of a kingdom as it is much as a shanty city built amongst the sewer systems of the various kingdoms above them. It exists in pure darkness, but life here still booms-- albeit much more twisted and strange, as the very magic that runs through the earth itself leaks out through fissures this deep into the earth-- much like the deep sea of our own world.

here, a twisted circus run by a member of the fae court suddenly booms in popularity with the addition of two new members.

"the modern era of necromancy is just spectacular, isn't it? these poor things were found dumped into our water systems, bodies broken and nearly sawed in half. they weren't citizens of the beneath, either, so they must have been dumped there from somewhere above. gods know how long they fell."

"either way, it only took a little 'speak with dead' spell here and a 'reanimate dead' spell there, a few healing spells for good measure, and they're good as new! and yes, they insisted they stay connected! that's not the interesting part, though. they can tell your future! all you have to do is join them for tea!"

now coming to Lunaan's Spectactular Sideshow of the Strange and Unusual are two twin girls, conjoined at the shoulder. at least, they were, before they died, but the circus-goers don't need to be made aware of that fact. they quickly become a popular attraction amongst the people of The Beneath, who are fascinated by these two young girls with the power to tell one's fortune through tea leaves. people flock to the strange twins to say hello, grab a cup of tea and have their fortunes read.

the graveborn girls, named Lottie and Lollie, don't stay long at the circus, however. after only a couple of months, a triton man by the name of Sentry Terros shows up to the circus and rushes to their tent, revealing that he is their father, and that he had been kidnapped and held hostage by the same woman who had murdered them. thanks to his bold escape and the help of a clever detective woman named Peyton, they managed to track his daughters to lunaan's circus.

both the reunion and goodbye is filled with tears as lottie and lollie re-unite with their father, and bid the circus that had graciously sheltered them adieu.

what they don't realize is that at home, someone is there waiting for them. someone's who's been waiting a long time to re-claim what she believes is hers. when she found his home, she had originally intended to simply take sentry back, but finding miss peyton there, Skeela Albescu Vaiska Kiseleva decides to have a little bit of fun with the detective that stole sentry away from her before he returns.

( banging on door ) "peyton? what's going on in there? are you alright?"

"you're an idiot, vaiska."

"oh, please enlighten me."

"you got so distracted by torturing me you forgot to think about what'll happen when he finds out about it."

"and what will he do?"

"hey! who's in there with you? peyton!?"

"he's going to kill you."

"heh."

"vaiska!? open the fucking door!" ( pounding against the door continues )

"eheheheh..."

"why the fuck are you laughing?"

"AHAHAHAHAHA--!! you stupid girl! you've gotten so distracted trying to fuck him you forgot who controls him!"

( sound of door cracking & breaking )

"he's not going to kill me. he can't!"

"VAISKA!"

"he's going to kill you! isn't that right, my dear sentry?"

"...what the fuck did you do?"

"sentry! sentry, wait--"

"ardency."

"......."

"didn't you hear me? i said ardency!"

"...."

"s-sentry?"

"............."

"Блядь."

[hxney-lemcn]

Seven Stages (Pt. 3)

Word Count: 1.2k

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x reader

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy

Warning: Swearing, season 2 spoilers

Main Master List | TUA Master List

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

╔═.✾. ═════════════

“Authorities are asking for help identifying several persons of interest at Dealey Plaza at the time of assassination. The FBI believes they may have been acting in concert with the alleged shooter, Lee Harvey Oswald. Vanya Hargreeves, wanted in connection with the deaths of several FBI agents inside federal building at Dealey Plaza. A Cubin exile known only as Diego, who recently escaped from the Holbrook Sanitorium. A bare-knuckle boxer with suspected mafia ties who fights under the alias “King Kong”. Allison Chestnut, a negro radical responsible for instigating and organizing the recent riots at Stadler’s lunch counter. And finally, Klaus, a controversial cult leader and known tax evader. The FBI is asking the public to be on look out for this unidentified boy and girl who they believe is being held hostage by the suspected terrorist network...” 

“Well, it’s true,” Five spoke up, stealing my attention which was previously on the tv. “I do feel like I’m being held hostage most days.” I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but slightly agree.

“God I hate that photo,” Diego muttered.

“They’re saying I instigated the riot?” Allison asked incredulously. “That’s unbelievable.”

“Look, the good news is that we restored the timeline,” Luther pointed out.

“We did stop doomsday,” I chimed in.

“Yeah, a bunch of real goddamn heroes,” Diego scoffed. “We let Kennedy die.” Again with this bullshit. 

“Yeah, and now we’re the most wanted people in the world,” Allison added. Can’t we at least celebrate one victory? Five worked so hard to stop everyone from dying and they don’t even give him the time of day. She went on about how we need to hide but I knew we needed to do something else.

“Hiding isn’t gonna change anything,” I said crossing my arms. “The Commission will follow us wherever and whenever we go.” 

“She’s right,” Diego agreed. “They’ll never stop.”

“I’m sorry, since when are you an expert on the Commission?” Five asked sarcastically.

“Since I got back from there,” Diego replied.

“What?” I asked not believing it.

“Yeah, they headhunted me,” Diego replied. “Offered me a job. Full time with benefits which I had to turn down.”

Five gave him the most sarcastic look before saying, “They headhunted you...the village idiot?”

“What?” Diego asked standing up straighter. “Am I not allowed to be headhunted? Only the almighty Five and his girlfriend are allowed to be in demand?” My eyes widened and I felt my cheeks flush red. I opened my mouth to argue but Five beat me to it.

“Diego, you’re not commission material, all right?” Five stated. “Got an obstinate nature to ya.” 

“Who do you think it was that figured out that Vanya was the one that causes doomsday and stopped it?” Diego asks rhetorically. “Me.”

“Hey!” Klaus calls out in defiance. 

“I figured it all out on the infinite switchboard,” Diego continues.

“You were on the infinite switchboard?” I asked surprised.

“Hell yeah,” Diego confirmed. “I made that machine my bitch.” Okay, not being able to listen on I sat down on the stairs in front of Allison. Everyone started to get in on the arguing so I zoned out. Why didn’t Five deny me being his girlfriend? Did he just ignore the comment? Or did he possibly feel the same? Wait did I just think feel the same? No way do I like that asshole...

“I’m leaving,” Vanya speaks up catching my attention. 

“What?” Allison asks, her protective sister side showing. “To go where?” 

“Sissy’s farm,” Vanya answered. “Something’s wrong with Harlan, and I need to help him.”

“Vanya, we need to stick together, okay?” Luther replies. “Now more than ever.”

“That’s why I’m telling you this,” Vanya continues. “What ever is going on with Harlan, I think I might’ve caused it.”

“How?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“He drowned, and, uh, somehow I was able to bring him back to life,” She explained. “And now it’s like we’re connected.”

“W-what does that m-mean?” Luther stuttered confused.

“I don’t know, I can’t explain,” Vanya sighed. “But I know that he need my help. I need your help too. I’m scared. And for the first time in my life I don’t want to do it alone. I want my family by my side.” 

Everyone seemed to look away and I felt my stomach drop. I may have been a time assassin my entire life but damn I wasn’t this heartless. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” Diego spoke up walking closer to Vanya. “We have other priorities right now.”

“Diego’s right,” Five agreed. “For once. We need to make our stand here and now.” You know what, if no one else is gonna go I might as well. I may not be her family but I can tell she’s going to go with or without them and I don’t want her to go alone. 

I stood up but before I could say anything Five stopped me. He shook his head and right then I was about to do something I might regret. 

“Okay,” Vanya said dejectedly. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you.” Five walked away and dragged me with him.

“What the fuck was that about!” I shouted feeling my anger rise. “If none of you assholes are gonna go with her I am!”

“We need to focus on getting back to 2019,” Five countered calmly. 

“She’s your sister!” I exclaimed. “Doomsday is over! We have a little time.” He looked me in the eye and his eyebrows furrowed. It looked like he was mulling over his options. He nodded in agreement and reluctantly agreed. A small smile formed over my face knowing that he’s a major softie for his family. “Let’s go then!” I exclaimed grabbing his hand and dragging him behind me. 

Allison and Diego seemed to have the same idea as us because they were already out the door. Luther looked at us, surprised that we were following. Five wiggled out of my grip and walked slightly ahead of me, opening the passenger door showing Klaus sitting there. 

“Five, you...” Vanya trailed off. “You don’t have to...”

“I know,” He smirked. “You owe me one sis.” I smacked his arm and he rolled his eyes playfully. Turning to Klaus he spoke, “Children ride in the back.”

“Okay,” Klaus agreed willfully and crawled into the back making me smile. Five sat in the passenger seat and I realized there wasn’t going to be any room for me. I stood there awkwardly and Five seemed to notice and raised an eyebrow at me with a smirk. 

“I can find another ride,” I smiled awkwardly. I mean can you blame me? This is like a family bonding moment and I’m just...here.

“No you don’t,” Five countered grabbing my wrist. 

“You’re apart of this family now whether you like it or not,” Klaus chimed in with a giggle. 

“But there’s no more room-” I got cut off by Five placing me next to him. We barely had any room and half my leg was on his. I felt embarrassed and felt my cheeks slightly heat up. 

“Guy’s,” Vanya said with a happy smile. “I don’t know what to say.” I was so happy that the Hargreeves realized how important family is. The trunk opened and Luther climbed into the trunk and I had to stare forward to not laugh at how the car barely supported his weight. 

“Anyone makes a fat joke and I’m outta here,” Luther said which made it even harder not to laugh. I mean I had to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from snorting. Vanya pulled out, the exhaust pipe dragging on the ground the entire ride. 

╚══════���══════.✾. ═

[thefriendlyfrog]

Too many thoughts on SPN 15x17, “Unity”

Welp, I don’t usually do this, but this episode was so great and packed with so many good parallels and callbacks I couldn’t help it! Meredith Glynn is such a great writer. So, let’s begin. Lots of spoilers under the cut.

The first scene opens up to Amara living life to the fullest in an Icelandic hot spring (I’ve been to some in Iceland and would 10/10 recommend – don’t bother with the Blue Lagoon, though). My eyes were immediately drawn to the super recognizable cover of Murakami’s “Norwegian Wood”. Now, I haven’t read this book since, like, high school (now realizing that was a DECADE ago), but I do remember the general plot and themes of the story (I should really reread that again, it’s a good book). Basically, the story is recalled by our narrator and protagonist Watanabe at a later point in his life as he is reminded of a time of life when the Beatles’ song “Norwegian Wood” plays. I don’t want to spoil the whole book, but basically it is a coming of age story that is steeped in themes of regret, sex, love, and death (among others, it really is a literary treasure trove!). Skip the next paragraph if you don’t want “Norwegian Wood” spoilers.

In short: Watanabe’s best friend from high school commits suicide which haunts him and his friend’s girlfriend, Naoki, for the rest of their lives. Watanabe and Naoki become close and romantically involved, but she leaves for a sanitorium. Watanabe wants to be with Naoki despite her telling him that she doesn’t think she can love anymore (she described herself and her high school boyfriend as soulmates). Watanabe later meets Naoki’s opposite, Midori, a lively girl who Watanabe grows close to and is also interested in. Watanabe essentially doesn’t move forward as he is waiting on Naoki while having Midori waiting on him. At the end of the story, it is revealed that it has always been Midori and he realizes he wants to be with her.

I thought that this was an EXCELLENT pick for Amara to be reading. It really sums of a lot of surface and not-so-surface level themes in Supernatural. Wondering if there is a parallel between Dean and Watanabe about sort of idealizing a life (with someone) that isn’t meant to be while ignoring love in front of you? Would love to hear all of your thoughts.

Moving on (I’m skipping through parts of the episode to just focus on some key observations)! Amara tries to convince Chuck to fight on behalf of this world and wants to show him some of his creations. So, she brings him to Heaven to see his ‘first children’ (i.e., angels). She also refers to angels as having prefect angelic devotion which immediately made me laugh because our fave angel Cas is really devoted to Dean humanity and not Chuck. Ahh! This whole episode just kept pointing out how special Cas is.

And then, callback after callback began. Amara brings Chuck to the bunker so Chuck says, “Is this a trap?” which made me think of episode 9 (“The Trap” by Berens). This was almost immediately followed by another callback when Chuck says, “You can’t hold me here forever,” to which Amara replies, “I can hold you long enough.” Um, Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets (12x10, Yockey), anyone?

Ishim: “You can’t hold me here forever.” … Lily’s powers are wearing off as Ishim approaches her until Cas stabs Ishim in the back with his angel blade. Cas: “You held him for long enough.”

Like, COME ON! Almost verbatim.

Skipping forward to Dean and Jack’s adventure to visit my favorite hippies, Adam and Serafina (like seriously, they were fantastic characters!). Adam refers to himself as, “…first dude off of the assembly line,” which is similar language that has been used to referring to angels in the past (again, invoking Castiel?)

Then Dean assumes the woman is Eve but they both just shake their heads and chuckle, “I’m Serafina,” I’m definitely not the first one to point this out but… the First Man being in a near-lifelong romantic relationship with an angel named Seraph Serafina?! Uh, yeah, ‘nuff said.

Serafina also mentions that she saw Jack when she and Adam were, “…sipping mushroom tea on the Hanging Gardens of Babylon,” which made me wonder if there was some sort of connection with Glynn’s season 14 episode, “Byzantium” (14x08), which is the episode Cas makes his deal with the Empty. Babylon was a fortress of the Byzantine empire (not going to lie, my historical knowledge about the Byzantine empire is preeeeetty limited).  

I also loved the whole speech by Serafina to Dean: “I mean, just think of everything that has had to happen to get Jack to this place, to this moment. Baby, it was meant to be,” Dean, of course, is upset by this because he is probably thinking that this was all basically predestined, and he has had no free will. However, he just needs to wait a little while longer until Chuck tells him to his face that he has never been able to control Cas since he laid his hand on Dean saving him from Hell.

Serafina also heals Adam’s wound and it is, of course, super reminiscent of Cas healing Dean (although, even Serafina doesn’t directly touch Adam when healing him – it’s, once again, unique to Castiel). Obligatory hand squeal: HANDS!!!! Wow, they are not even trying to be subtle about the whole hands thing. It is so IN YOUR FACE begging for the audience to notice it.

Adam then mentions how much power is in his rib: “But this puppy? Is packing enough punch to create LIFE. Or, in your case, destroy God.” Well, at this point I think we can all be pretty certain that in the end it will NOT be used to destroy God, so will it instead be used for creation? Excited to see how they defuse Jack’s supernova bomb next episode.

Rounding off Dean’s vignette is a heartbreaking scene with him and Jack in the Impala. Dean says, “I don’t know how to explain it. When I learned about Chuck, it was like – it’s like I wasn’t alive. Not really. You know, like, my whole life I’ve never been free. But like, really free. But now, me and Sam, we got a shot at living a life…But now we have a chance. And that’s because of you.” Again, this is before Dean learns that Cas’ actions were made of his own free will, and from the sounds of it, Dean’s connection to Amara as well. I also immediately wondered if Jack bringing Dean some sense of freedom was what Cas saw when Jack showed him “paradise”.

Moving on to Sam’s vignette: Sam remembers that Sergei mentioned the Key of Death was in the bunker (how did he remember this, wasn’t he unconscious at the time? A little disappointed Cas didn’t get to provide that little fact but I’m also glad that Sam actually served a purpose this episode and was a bit more front and center). They find the Key of Death and there is an inscription in Latin on the box:

Viator mortalis, cave, quoniam scias Clavem Mortis pensare graviter. Il tamen desideres ut introeas illum abyssum obscurissimum artis opus est tibi porta.

Okay, fair warning: I took Latin for 4 years but it has been awhile so my translation is super not perfect, but I figured I would take a stab at it because the subtitles were wrong at times and Google translate is not perfect. I translated it as something like this:

Mortal traveler, beware, because you know the Key of Death should be considered seriously. However, if you want to enter the darkest abyss, this work of art is the gate/door.

Honestly, there were a few words that I couldn’t find the right conjugations to and I know this isn’t 100% accurate, but it gives you the gist.

Sam then visits Death’s library and finds the Empty there, killing people (?) to get in touch with Death, whom they hasn’t been trusting as of late. We learn that Death’s plan is to assume the role of New God and restore the world back to order, bring back rules. The Empty is wary because they don’t know if they can trust the promise of being able to go back to sleep. Trust issues, the Empty says, because of “your busted-ass friend in the trench coat,” another subtle-not-so-subtle mention of Cas. But why, exactly, did Cas give the Empty ‘trust issues’? Was it because he woke up in the first place? Because he has ‘traipsed in and out’ of the Empty without dying?

We also learn that only Billie can read Chuck’s Death book, and, this may be a crack idea but… maybe Cas should be able to read the book because he was the one that killed Billie and made her Death in the first place? Seems like Cas might have a connection to Billie. It would be cool if Cas were the one to read Chuck’s book.

Finally, we learn a bit more about the Empty, and how they can’t go to Earth unless summoned. Hmm…

Flash forward to Amara and Chuck in the bunker. Amara tells Chuck, “It’s not too late, brother,” and, if you’re like me, you finished that sentence with “it’s never too late (to start all over again)”. So many great Destiel songs out there, but “Never Too Late” takes the cake for me.

Amara and Chuck decide to become one, become ultimate balance. Chuck extends his hand and Amara grasps it as she is absorbed into Chuck. I don’t even know if I really need to say this, but… HANDS! (Destiel is already canon to me but if the show is going to make it more explicitly canon for the audience, it’s going to be through hands as I know people have been shouting about for several seasons now).  

To finish, let’s talk about that kick-ass scene with TFW 2.0 at the end of the episode. We find out that Chuck’s real ending is to have Dean regress and give in to rage and kill everything he loves, probably ultimately leading to his own death. Woof, what a tragic ending (tragedy ≠ good ending). So, we’ve got to subvert that which Dean does after a heartfelt plea from Sam (“You would trade me?”). I enjoyed how much Dean looked back at Cas during this exchange, especially after Sam tells Dean that Eileen will die again. The parallels, the connection.

Honestly, I’m not sure why Cas and Jack were in that scene other than to have some meaningful glances exchanged between Cas and Dean and because TFW2.0 is together in the next scene. But… whatever, more Cas so I liked it.

And finally, the scene that had me shaking with VINDICATION.

Cas to Chuck: “What, you consumed your sister?” Chuck: “We came to an understanding, so spare me your contempt Castiel, the self-hating angel of Thursday. You know what every other version of you did after ‘gripping him tight and raising him from perdition’? They did what they were told. But not you. Not the ‘one off the line with a crack in his chassis’” (Cas looks back at Dean after a moment)

Okay, so let’s break this exchange down. So much satisfaction with just a few sentences. Bravo, Ms. Glynn.

“We came to an understanding.” Didn’t Michael and Adam say the same thing after they decided to share equally in their bond and vessel? Callback #1.

“…self-hating angel of Thursday.” Ahh, it’s been so long since we got mention that Cas is the angel of Thursday. The last time was, what, when Crowley says it to Cas back in season 6? By the way, it was totally meant to be that Supernatural will finish off the series on a Thursday. Callback #2 (ish).

“You know what every other version of you did after ‘gripping him tight and raising him from perdition’?” This is the second time the show has repeated Cas’ first line to Dean near-verbatim in two seasons. You know, just in case the audience forgot Dean and Cas’ infamous first meeting (which I am like 99% sure we are going to get hella callbacks to next episode). Callback #3.

“They did what they were told. But not you. Not the ‘one off the line with a crack in his chassis.’” Again, Chuck is closely paraphrasing what Naomi said about Cas in season 8:

8x21 “The Great Escapist” – Naomi: “You're the famous spanner in the works. Honestly, I think you came off the line with a crack in your chassis. You have never done what you were told. Not completely. You don't even die right, do you?”

Callback #4. Seriously, Glynn packed four callbacks into such a short time period. Wizard.

My only *criticism* of this final scene is that Dean and Cas didn’t seem to react too much to Chuck’s news about Cas always having free will (although, I think Cas already knew this, but it is news and confirmation to Dean!). I highly suspect that will come next week, though. I’m SO excited (and also terrified) for next week. We are definitely going to be getting a lot of Cas next episode. Misha, in an interview, mentioned that we would get Cas’ ‘chapter’ in 18, and I’m wondering if this will be the true Cas-centric episode? I don’t know, maybe the Cas-centric episode was “Gimme Shelter” but I was expecting more of a “The Man Who Would Be King” kind of Cas-centric episode.  

All in all, 10/10. I keep reading and seeing things that are galaxy braining me, so it has been super fun reading all the meta and reactions to this episode.

Three episodes left. Get your tissues ready for Cas’ death (oops, is this even a spoiler at this point?) next episode. And remember, “Nothing ever really ends,” and “The end has no end,”

[idfkdoityourself]

The Reason

By: Midnight (me)

            Sully watched out the window of the car as his parents drove through the snowy landscape. Nobody said a single word, not even Sully’s parents. There were eight people in the car, 6 of them in their teen years, while the two in front were in their thirties. Sully was listening to the story of Laughing Jack for the 13th time. He smiles softly as he hears a graphic description of how they found the dog, it always brought him an odd kind of delight to hear such graphic descriptions.

It seemed like hours until they reached their destination, named Norman Lodge. It was in Cree territory, and many natives had warned them not to go. Sully’s parents—always the naïve couple—ignored the warnings. Sully powered off his phone and shoved it into his pocket, putting his earphones around his neck. Sully’s mother was the first one out of the car. She made short work of making her husband help her get everyone else out. Sully shivered, but not from the cold. No, he hated physical touch, and his mother had pulled him out of the car.

Sully’s father led the group slightly up the mountain, no more than 10 yards. There was a ski lift to take them to the top of the mountain, where the lodge was. A tan-skinned boy was the first onto the lift and after him a girl so pale you could see the veins in her hands from 5 feet away. Sully himself got on the next lift and sat next to a girl whose skin was a beautiful brown color. Not that Sully could see, but the next two were a girl with almost charcoal black skin, and a boy whose light skin had a bit of a blue hue to it. Sully’s parents were the last two on a lift.

Once everyone was on the top of the ski lift, the tan boy led them to the lodge. It was a ten-minute walk, and Sully was desperately trying not to come into contact with anyone. The lodge was made of poisonwood with a black walnut wood roof. It had three stories, as Sully had observed from the windows covered with teak and wenge wood shutters. Sully was instantly attracted to this place, though the pale boy and the charcoal-colored girl seemed to have their doubts. Nevertheless, the tan boy ushered everyone inside. Once everyone was inside, they all found a place to sit and do nothing, as none of them really wanted to socialize after walking so much in the cold.

 

It was around 21:00 when Sully’s mother spoke up, “Why don’t we all play 2 truths 1 lie to get to know each other?” Everybody groaned except the tan boy and Sully’s father, who both seemed more than happy to get to know everybody else. Everyone was in a somewhat circular shape, and so nobody moved one bit.

Sully’s mother was a fair-skinned woman with blue eyes and fluffy black hair, and she was wearing a blue overcoat with black sweatpants. “I’ll go first to get us started,” she said with a grin, “I have anxiety, my name is Madelin, and I’ve accidentally hurt every pet I’ve ever had.”

Sully rolled his eyes, “If you had anxiety you wouldn’t have thought of coming up here.”

Madelin nodded, “Right you are! Why don’t you go next?”

      Sully was right in-between dark and light skin and had eyes as black as the night sky. His hair was dyed brown, though some of the dye was fading and one could see his white hair underneath—the color having long faded from stress. He sighed, “My name is Sully, I love horror, and I like physical contact.”

      By the end of the game, Sully had learned about everyone:

      The tan boy is named Josh. His hair is black in a regular haircut and his eyes are a beautiful light green color. He had two sisters, who both unfortunately disappeared last year and his family owns Norman Lodge.

      The pale girl is named Midnight. Her wavy hair is a dark brown with visible strands of white all throughout and her eyes are a deep brown color. She doesn’t care about pronouns and she loves horror.

      Sully’s father is named Erdric. His skin is the same color as dark chocolate with similarly colored eyes and his hair is a golden blonde color. He’s biromantic and has always wanted a cat.

      The gorgeous black girl Sully had sat on the ski lift with is named Arianna. She has shoulder-length wavy black hair with dark eyes that Sully almost got lost in. She writes poetry and likes short stories about romance and breakups.

      The girl with skin as dark as charcoal is named Amy. Her hair is shoulder-length and is dyed fandango pink. She has a bulky build and is wearing purple contacts. She’s transgender and she’s a fan of gaming.

      The pale boy is named Aaron. He has fiery red hair in a comb-over and electric-blue eyes. He loves the cold and is a middle child.

      It was 22:30 when the game was finished, and many of them were tired, Sully included. Josh led them to the second floor, where the guest rooms are. Sully got the room closest to the stairs, with Arianna’s room across from his and Josh’s next to his.

 

      It was 10:00 the next morning before anyone knew it, nighttime had seemed to be over in a flash. Everyone was in the dining room or the living room, eating breakfast. Everyone except for Josh. He had gone out at 8:00 that morning, saying he needed to check on something. Sully was just putting his plate into the sink when Josh came back, seeming as if he had seen something frightening. Medline had asked him what was wrong, but he refused to answer.

      Everyone knew they were going to be there for a couple of days, so they started to talk with one another. Arianna went to talk with Amy and Aaron, while Midnight spoke with Erdric and Medlin. Sully decided to talk to Josh.

      Josh looked at Sully as he sat beside him on the couch as if frightened for a moment. Sully looks at Josh and softly asks “What’s wrong?”

      “I—I… I think we’re stuck here.”

      “What?”

      “The ski lift. It’s just… stuck.”

      Sully nodded and went silent. That was quite a bit to take in. He sat there a while, trying to figure out if he was being lied to. “Can you take me there to see? I just want to make sure that you’re not lying.”

      Josh nodded “sure. Come with me then.”

      Sully nodded and stood up. Josh got up and led him to the ski lift. Sure enough, it wouldn’t turn on, even with everything in working order. He was starting to get a little excited, happy he could stay in the lodge for a while longer. Josh seemed a little spooked, but that was any normal person’s reaction.  The two headed back to the lodge, not wanting to be in the cold for very long. 

 

      When they were back at the lodge, Sully decided to tell everyone that they were stuck. “Well guys,” he started, “we’re stuck here. Josh and I went out to the ski lift and it’s just not working. Everything’s in working order so neither of us know why.” The room went silent, nobody seemed to know how to react to such news.

      “Well, seems like we ought to make the best of things,” said Amy, sipping a Frappuccino she had made. Everyone else agreed and started to talk to each other almost frantically. Arianna came over to Josh and Sully and started talking with them. Josh was talking too, but the words just seemed to go through Sully’s head. He just couldn’t stay focused on either person. He pulled his hood over his face, hiding the blush he didn’t realize was there. 

 

It was about 13:00 when Josh suddenly got up and left, saying something about checking the power. Arianna seemed concerned, but nobody else batted an eye. It was only when it was getting dark, around 19:00, that anyone pointed out that he was still gone. 

Medlin seemed deeply concerned for the teen, “Maybe someone should go looking for him.”

“The sun’s about to set,” Erdric said, his voice laced with concern, “I don’t think it’s wise to send someone out.”

“Josh could get hurt!" Medlin insisted.

“I'll go looking for him!" Sully cut in; his voice filled with irritation.

“But it's dangerous to go alone!" Erdric protested.

“I'll go with him." Arianna offered.

“Great! You two should head out before it gets dark." Medlin said with a victorious smile.

Sully and Arianna stood from where they were sitting next to each other. Sully was the first one of the two to step foot into the cold mountain air. 

 

      The first place Sully thought to check was the ski lift, as it was the only place he knew for sure where it was. The sun was almost set by the time they got to the lift. There was no sign of Josh, but as they looked around for any clues, Arianna found a map of the property. She rushed over to Sully to show it to him. “Well,” he said, looking at it, “The Sanitorium seems to be the closest, but that’s still a half-hour walk at least. Do you have a flashlight on you?” 

Arianna nodded “Yes I do. Do you?” 

Sully nodded, “Yeah, and I have my phone on me, which has a flashlight. We should be good. Let’s get going.” Once Sully said that, him and Arianna left the Ski Lift, and headed in the direction of the Sanitorium. 

 

      While Sully and Arianna are looking for Josh, the others were arguing amongst themselves in the Lodge. Amy and Aaron didn’t like the idea of Sully and Arianna being out like this, and Erdric agreed; Medlin was more concerned about Josh being out there alone than Sully and Arianna being out there together; and Midnight was apathetic, thinking that all three were in equal danger. 

Midnight was the first one to storm off, being annoyed by all of the arguments. She was headed towards the third story bathroom when she found a textbook of spells. She raised an eyebrow as she picked it up, wondering why Josh would have such a thing. She went to the family room and sat on a couch, starting to read through the mysterious tome.

Erdric went to the second story bathroom shortly after, wanting to calm down with a warm shower. Medlin followed him, wanting to make up with her husband. But as soon as Erdric stepped into the bathroom, the door slammed shut and hit him on the back of the head, knocking him to the floor.

Amy and Aaron stayed together, and decided to see if anything was off about the living room. Amy looked through cabinets and found some information on Cree legends, but thought that they were unimportant. She did, however, keep the location in mind. Aaron found a compartment behind the fireplace. It was as big as a large bedroom and was well heated. Even though it seemed to serve no purpose, he kept it in mind.

 

At about 19:25, Sully and Arianna were trudging through the harsh snow. Sully paused as he heard something behind them. It slowly approached them, seeming to go towards Arianna, who was trying to get Sully to move. By the time Arianna had noticed the danger, the creature jumped. Arianna moved behind Sully, who was tackled.

The creature had soft brown fur stained with crimson; it had large antlers the color of dried bone; it wore nothing but a deer skull over its face. Arianna was frozen in place, which stopped the creature from seeing her. Sully was pushing at its neck, trying to stop it from biting out his throat. The creature, which Sully recognized as a wendigo, managed to bite down on his shoulder. Its teeth were diagonal and as sharp as daggers. Sully let out a scream as he struggled harder, but he couldn't seem to get it off of him. Arianna gathered her wits and pulled it off of her struggling friend. The wendigo ran off as Sully got up, clutching his shoulder. 

“Let me see,” Arianna said as she took his hand off of his shoulder. The bite was quite large, but not serious. “We need to get back to the lodge,” Arianna said. 

Sully put his hand back on his shoulder and shook his head, “No, the Sanitorium is closer. And besides, a Sanitorium has medical supplies. We’ll be able to treat it better there.”

Arianna looked hesitant, but nodded. “Alright… if you say so.”

 

While all of this was going on, a lone boy stood, watching the cameras throughout the lodge. Everything was going quite nicely. Soon, those in the lodge would be trapped by fear. Medlin was trying to get into the second story bathroom, where her husband was trying to stand. Aaron had hidden in the space behind the fireplace, and had gotten trapped, the fireplace roaring. Amy was investigating a family room on the second floor, trying to find anything about why the lift won’t work. Midnight was reading on spells in the family room on the third floor, uncaring about the strife of the others. The Reason laughed, though he’d have to deal with Sully and Arianna, who would find him any moment.

 

Sully and Arianna trudged through the snow, Sully shivering and shaking. He felt a massive pain in his head, but ignored it, he wanted to find Josh and be done with it. At about 19:39, he collapsed. Arianna kneeled beside him, but he growled at her. He looked up at her, his eyes slightly clouded and his teeth a bit crooked. He also seemed to have small antlers. He lunged at her, tackling her to the ground.

Arianna tried to reason with him, but nothing she said seemed to dissuade him. Sully suddenly stopped as he saw something in the snow. A deer skull. He jumped off of Arianna and almost pounced onto it, putting it on with childish glee. He seemed to snap to his senses and turned around and gasped. He rushed over to Arianna “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m okay. We’re almost there, let’s just get going.”

Sully helped her up, but didn’t stand up himself. He ran on his hands and feet, getting to the Sanitorium before Arianna.

Arianna opened the door and looked around. It was dark, but she could see. Sully ran ahead, like a dog chasing after something that was thrown for them to fetch. She had to run after him to keep up.

Sully ran into the room with The Reason and pounced on him, but stopped as soon as he saw his face. Slightly tan, black hair in a regular haircut, and beautiful green eyes. Sully whined like a dog and nuzzled him, concerned.

The Reason, Josh, seemed to be in a trance. Sully jumped up and grabbed a spellbook on top of the counter. He flipped to a spell on instinct, and cast it without knowing. 

Arianna watched the monitors and everyone in the lodge suddenly gathered in the living room on the first story, Midnight seeming to know what was going on. They talked, nobody else knowing what was going on, but they felt just a wave of relief.

 

Arianna had to carry Josh back to the lodge, Sully had run on all fours once again. It was 20:25 when they got back. Medlin almost fainted when she saw her son, but Erdric caught her. 

“I… I can’t leave. Not like this,” Sully said, laying on the floor.

Arianna nods “I don’t think Josh can either… I’ll stay with them.”

Medlin gave her a long talk, but eventually let Arianna stay with her son.

It was a long goodbye, but everyone eventually left, leaving Josh, Sully, and Arianna. Sully curled up, trying not to let his instincts get the best of him.

[charlotte-sloane-writes]

Part 2 - A Wicked Little Thing

Here’s Chapter 2 of my Zatanna/John Constantine fic. Get ready for some quality feels and worldbuilding. The story is after the cut, the tags are at the very bottom.

If you want to be added to the taglist, please reblog or comment.

The flesh on Anna’s hands had turned a bright angry red fifteen minutes ago; fifteen minutes before the end of her shift. Though the color had abated by the time she got to the cleaning cart lock-up, they still itched and burned from the overexposure to cleaning chemicals. Despite the smell of bleach and cheap latex gloves permeating every digit, Anna abstained from washing her hands in fear of rubbing off the last layer of skin she had left on her palms.

“Shit, and I thought we were busy in the summer.” Freddie leaned back, popping her spine. 

“You’re working a second shift too?” Anna smiled at her friend, unbuckling the utility belt from around her waist.

“Yeah.” Freddie scoffed, removing the little, fuzzy, red hat that had leaned crookedly off the side of her ginger crown. “The second it starts pourin’ and all the tourists get stranded, Buddy gets big ideas about a Michelin star for the Hotel California.”

“Talk about overflow.” Anna closed up her locker, spinning the dial on her combination lock for good measure.

The bellhop sat back on the wooden bench in the middle of the locker room, stretching her arms above her head. “When do you get out?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard? We can never leave.”

“Oh, very funny, Anna. It was also really funny the last thirty times I heard that joke.”

“What? If you’re gonna have a shitty job might as well have it at the Hotel California.”

“That should be the new tagline. Come to the Hotel California, if you’re gonna have a shitty vacation, you might as well have it set in a mediocre rock song.”

Anna threw her towel at Freddie’s head “That’s a great song.”

“I’m more of an Aerosmith kinda gal.” Freddie winked, the freckled skin around her eyes wrinkling with a shit-eating grin she gave her friend.

“Blasphemy. Absolute blasphemy.” Anna laughed, the ends of her black hair tickling the bottoms of her shoulder blades when she leaned her head back.

“You’re one to talk.” Freddie threw the offending towel back towards Anna’s face. The cleaning maid caught it and jolted it back towards her chest, dragging Freddie off of the bench in a series of uncontrollable giggles. 

The two collapsed in a heap on the linoleum floor, panting between the ghosts of their laughter. “Fuck, I’m gonna be late. George’ll kill me.”

Anna leaned up “If he kills you, who’s gonna bail him out from laundry duty?”

“Fair enough.” Freddie heaved herself up, getting a sturdy landing on her feet and tugging Anna back up with her. “You off on lunch?” Freddie’s breath tickled Anna’s cheek and left a ghostly disturbance against her eyelashes. This was too close. 

“Yeah, about to. Why?”

“I’ll tell George you’re there when I see him. He’ll be glad to have a cards partner.”

“And to think he was getting so good at solitaire.” Anna smiled crookedly and nodded “Okay, you tell that brother of yours I’ll be waiting to serve his ass up on a round of Go Fish.”

“Make him regret it. I need something to feel like the superior twin.” Freddie winked, getting to her locker and changing into her brother’s spare laundry uniform. Tightening the white pants around her hips, Freddie spread her arms, shaking her head and making her short hair messier, somehow wilder “How do I look?”

Anna was leaned back against the locker, a bite of her apple making the rounds to her molars “Sexy in a ‘1950s sanitorium worker’ kind of way.”

Freddie laughed freely, hands gripping her shuttering belly “What’s your damage, Arataz?” 

Anna swallowed the chunk of fruit in her mouth, wiping her chapped lips roughly with the back of her hand “You haven’t even scratched the surface, honeybuns.”

Freddie scoffed, rolled her eyes, and nudged her friend in the ribs playfully “See you tonight for a nightcap?”

“You got the…?” Anna made a signal with her hand– two fingers to her lips and outward.

“Only if the back patio is dry by then. I don’t want to have to share with Buddy again.”

“Fair. See you then.”

“Yeah.” Freddie waved over her shoulder and walked out to bail her twin brother out.

Anna wouldn’t see such a familiar face until thirty minutes later, lunching on a cheese and bologna sandwich and nibbles of saltines she’d kept lying around her locker in case she ever wanted to treat herself. 

“You’re a sorry sight.” George announced his presence, changed into his sister’s bellhop uniform. The first few times they’d done the switcheroo around her, Anna got whiplash. 

“Ever so charming.” She shrugged out the earbud and laid the pair off to the side, looking up at the man settling into the chair across from her.

“Freddie tells me you’re gonna kick my ass at Go Fish?”

“Yeah, so long as your cards aren’t rigged.” 

“Me? Cheating at cards? When there’s no money to be won? I’m wounded.” George leaned over and stole a cracker from its sleeve.

“What’s for lunch?” Anna swiped back the cracker, leaving more crumbs on the table between them than in either of their hands.

“Some fried rice and chopped SPAM.” George shrugged and wiped off the debris of the saltine battle.

“Seriously?”

“Some of us need variance, Arataz.” George nudged his chin towards the cleaning lady’s meal. “We can’t all survive on bologna sandwiches every day.”

______________________

John Constantine is laying across his bed, unmade and wrinkled like his dress shirt. A loose cigarette hangs from his bottom lip and his heavy eyelids drift closed to the heavy smoke drifting through the industrially recycled air of the Waverider. A final moment of peace, a stillness in his heart, permits his mind to now wander with eyes shut tight. He wonders on passed loves and good times, beers with Chas and drinks with King Arthur’s proginey, shots with Dez and wine with Bruce. Come to think of it, his bonding moments seem to circle around alcohol a bit too frequently. When was the last time he had a deep conversation without booze to lubricate his thoughts to slip past that hard wall he’s built? “Zatanna, must’ve been with Zatanna” He thought aloud, remembering her Painted Lady-esque mansion on an off-shoot road in San Francisco. The silk sheets, the aroma of floral soy candles, the Korean face masks:

“How do you know how to use these things?” John flicked the plastic pack with Korean print all over it. No amount of squinting or divining was making the words any more English.

She laughed, flicking her dark hair behind her shoulder and leaning down onto the mattress behind him. “There...I think.” Her manicured finger pointed down at the one discernable thing on the silver pack, the number 15 “I think that means you leave it on for 15 minutes.”

“Fuck it, sure.” He shrugged and laughed, leaning back and letting his head rest on her thigh “Will you open it for me?”

“Sure. You sure you want this one?” She plucked it from his hands and looked at the picture on it “Pearl? I have others if you want.”

He turned on to his side, one finger tracing an ancient Nordic rune on her knee “Which one are you doing?”

“The snake one.” Zatanna leaned onto one hand, the mattress dipping with her weight.

“Snake oil? Isn’t that like...clearly not real?” John mumbled

“Hm?” Zatanna laughed, her fingertips pushing back his hair “What are you talking about, John?”

“Nothing, love.” He sighed “Just talking for the sake of hearing m’self.”

“You do that often?” She teased him, leaning forward to lay on her side across from him.

“I think so. Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why do I like to hear myself talk so much?”

“Yeah.” 

John leaned on to his back and sighed, letting his back ache in relief. He scratched over his belly button absent-mindedly “Not sure. Maybe it’s to figure out whether I know what I’m talking about.”

The stage magician crawled over to him, sitting up on his chest and pulling his hands away from himself “You don’t think you know what you’re talking about?”

“I don’t know. Who knows? Maybe it’s an act...all of it. But if I sound like I know what I mean, maybe what I’m saying and what I’m doing is right, true, correct. Just got to convince myself as much as those around me.”

Zatanna nodded “I think I know what you mean.” She opened the pearl essence face mask, pressing the cold and slimy sheet onto his face. John jumped at it, surprised at the feeling. “I sometimes wonder where I’d be if I couldn’t just make shit happen with a few backwards phrases.”

“Still rich.” John laughed, watching with one eye open as Zatanna dismounted from his chest and laid down next to him, placing her own sheet mask on her face.

“I don’t know. My father’s money didn’t stretch that far, and I’d be lying if I said my stage magic would be just as good without my real magic. And my name does a lot of the legwork for me…”

“I think you’re brilliant.” John admitted

“Oh, well thank you, all my problems are solved now.” Zatanna rolled her eyes

John laughed and nudged her with his elbow “You wanker.” He scoffed.

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t question the very rarest of Constantine compliments. Thank you, honeybuns.” She kissed the underside of his chin and leaned back to play with the ends of her hair.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” John rolled his eyes and pretended he wasn’t feeling the closest to home he’d ever felt in his life.

That Zatanna Zatara didn’t exist anymore. All that’s left of her now is a scorned lover, just like the rest of them, as far as John was concerned. She did just fine without him, and he didn’t need her. 

An alarm blared, breaking his reverie. John groaned as he leaned up and ashed his cigarette. “Calling all Legends to the Bridge. Calling all Legends to the Bridge.” Sara Lance’s voice echoed through the time travelling ship. “That means you too, John.”

The mage rolled his eyes and stood, stretching out his spine, twisting his arms around to his hips. He slipped his trenchcoat on, feeling the small fizzle of arcane energy as his arms fit through the conduit. “Alright, Johnny. Time to wake up.” He murmured to himself, rolling his shoulders. He pushed the button and the doors to his room slid open.

Taglist: @golden-rosezz​ @smol-flower-kiddo​ @beepbeepyabitch @angel-hunter-winchester​ @groovinomicon​ @zatara-zatannas​ @fandomneeds​ @interstellarflare​ @eliotsbambimargo​ @aliypop​ @themanthemyth-thelegend​ @superrezzy00​ @fanficy-imagines​ @toomanystoriestoolittletime @starsscribble​ @addicted-to-dc​ @arkhamsdarkestknight​ @narnian-neverlander​ @thefastarrow​ @tgwltw​ @theliveshipparagon​ @deirdre-queen​ @writing-doesnt-discriminate @a-really-bi-girl​ @interstellarflare​ @soarocks​ @madameredblog​

[readbythestarlight]

c2e88

Taliesin is so confused by this ad lol

Where is Laura?

The groans xD

Laura's?? Not here?? I mean I'm glad she's at the game awards but THIS IS SUCH A BIG WEEK STORY WISE

Boy we've just started and I'm already ready to die

[[MORE]]

I only just caught it just now but are the CA saying they recovered the beacon that was stolen? Aka the one the M9 returned to Xhorhas already? Or a different one?

The Bright Queen gave them a house and the best the empire can do is a cozy inn? Lame.

(I was always more pro-Dynasty than Empire but it's pretty much set now.)

Didn't even pay for their dinner?? Rude.

Cad: "I've had to learn new words for what happens to me now."

The Dynasty: "We cannot afford to 100% trust you but you have done us a great service so here is a house and a symbol to show you have the favor of our Queen."

The Empire: "You did us a great service but also fuck you here's a hotel and no meal and also if you don't do this thing for us we'll charge you as traitors even though only two of you are actually from the Empire."

lol the hotel workers are funny tho

Empire people? Cool. Empire rules? Fucking suck.

Nat20 for free stuff xD

F: "who's the grossest?"

Cad: "I was swallowed."

Y: "I haven't had a shower in months."

F: "oh! God! What!?"

Cad: "You've won first place."

Y: "Oh, no, I wasn't trying to like..."

J: "IM GOING FIRST!"

I'm worried about Caleb

Snuggling his cat and thinking over his trauma </3

Laura just left the awards show omg

Also the way that Travis looked at her like heart eyes and Laura being like "hey baby ;)"

She looks hot by the way

Yasha paying Fjord back from MONTHS ago is sweeeeet

The book? What's the book? I don't remember?

"Is there a chair...?"

"There is."

"Kill it with fire!"

Oh boy here we go

"And I think we need to work with him...?" I don't like that and I don't think you do he's a liar and a manipulator and a piece of shit

But I understand his point because they are in the worst potion right now

Cad: "if he even looks at you sideways we will not leave enough of him to be found."

Goddamn Caduceus. I love him so much.

Cad: "Well, what I mean was we will do all we can to keep you safe. Is... what I meant."

They're being very serious about this and I'm so glad

Well okay they WERE being serious...

Lol Beau with this teenager is so funny and adorable

I'm glad they're not all sleeping alone

Jester is all sad that Beau doesn't want to double up :(

The B/J/Y shippers just went wild lol

F to C: "if you want to finish this personally... let me know." Thank you Fjord

My old Widofjord shipping heart is happy

Omg Cad handing over the symbol of the Wildmom and telling Fjord he's doing well on his own IM HAVING A LOT OF FEELINGS TONIGHT Y'ALL

Oh boy Yasha dream

I'm emotional

Like crying

Sure this guy does something neat with doors but doES HE FLOAT??

I miss Essek

The only mage with a tower I trust is Yussah and it is NOT this guy

Of course Trent is the one who confirmed it had been found

It's definitely trapped somehow

I don't like that they have to go somewhere that Trent decides

WHISPERS

he's a shifty fucker right we all know he is

Double whispers

Lol meeting in the Happy Fun Ball

I was gonna say the Forge

Jester wants to have it at Traveler con xD

Jester is weirding him out and I love it

God sure have this very serious possibly war ending meeting on The Ball Eater sure

They're disasters

I can't decide how I feel about him and I want to hear the results of the whispers

Oh no I'm worried about Yasha

Okay... so he's helping hide Yasha that's good, but is he also gonna hold that over them?

I hope Trent looks at Caleb sideways so the M9 can cut him into pieces

I feel like this guy is meant to be the Empire version of Essek but he's got nothing on Hot Boi

In a dense forest under a bunch of trees and a tower in the middle of nowhere

Oh fuck the sanitorium oh god oh fuck someone immediately check on Caleb

Trent did that on purpose

Hey Cad remember when you said y'all were gonna tear Trent apart if he tried to hurt Caleb? It's time to start ripping.

I haaaaaate this

I'm still trying to decide if Caleb legitimately snapped or if something was done to him

I want to crawl through my screen and strangle Trent myself

Someone please stay between Caleb and Trent at all times

So... nobody in the empire questions why Trent Ick-athon has a laboratory in a sanitorium huh. Like that doesn't ring any bells?

Also fuck it's Edowulf

Astrid's gonna come in to try and throw Caleb off isnt she

Liar liar pants on fire every word out of your mouth is a lie you vile don't of a biiiitch

WHISPERSSSS

he's a liar liar liar

Or he's telling half the truth

So the tripod... prevents it from working?

God he's such a condescending fuck I hate him

I haaaaate him and I hate that he's playing it so cool and calm because that makes Caleb seem like the unreasonable one which is brilliant of him but it just makes me loathe him even more

Oh god Caleb please roll well

Fuck fuck fuck I hate him fuck someone GET BETWEEN THEM

I feel gross and I'm not even in the room with Trent ugh

This tense standoff between Caleb and Trent is physically fucking me up my skin is crawling

Also Nott touched it and nothing happened

Eowulf is one of Trent's "favorite" and and he's looking at Caleb like a creep

Even if I don't trust him I appreciate Ludinus stepping in to cut the tension

Beau trying to trip him upppppp I love her

Alright time to get them out of there Ludinus

Shut the fuck up Trent you state away from both Caleb AND Yasha

C: "Wulf. It's good to see you again."

Eowulf: "it's good to see you too. It's been some time. You look good."

I haaaaaaaaate that they're all being so calm and semi-friendly because again it makes Trent and his ilk look like the reasonable ones

Ludinus: "I can always deal with Trent after the fact."

Y: "Let us know when you do that. We would like to help." Damn fucking straight

Essek scrys because he's worried about them and he pops in just in time to hear Jester insulting his teleporting Lol

I get the feeling Matt is tweaking the time of Traveler Con a bit because he doesn't want Jester to feel pressured to interrupt important things

Is the Wildmom illegal in the Empire?

Ha Fjord impressed Ludinus nice

L: "it's... entirely off-putting how disarmingly charming you are. I don't know how to handle it." That is the funniest thing anyone has ever said about Jester

J: "are you alright Caleb?"

C: "I don't know."

Y: "I don't like him at all."

Everyone else: "same/oh god no."

Okay Wildmom is illegal time to hide your shiny thing

Cad: "I have never seen another person walk so daintily around the truth."

See every time Caleb talks about how Trent gave "private lessons" my skin crawls it just draws too many parallels to creepy creepy shit

Yasha is gonna be good for Caleb here, they both understand what it's like to be used and controlled and manipulated

So like Trent was THERE and if he saw that Caleb knew about the beacons then he's gonna know that somehow they were involved with the beacon disappearing

Oh she's creepy

Cad gonna buy the femur flute lol

The pranksters gonna get that glue oh lord

Yasha gets a bone harp and she and Caduceus start the most unnerving band ever and I for one am THRILLED

Don't they still need to fetch something for the three kobolds in a trench coat? Let alone for Pumat and now this woman lol

Pride silk.... oh dear it's gonna be mutant bugs

Called it

Three silk worms good luck bringing those back

Matt's like WOOO fight tournament hell yeah!

Y'all should go take downtime in Xhorhas in the Xhorhaus and talk to Essek about all this

....I just really miss Essek guys please

Liam O'Brian you will NOT let Caleb sneak off on his own to go see Astrid you CANNOT ajslajkssksk

This episode didn't go as painfully/badly as it could have but it still stressed me out a lot and I'm still worried about Caleb and Trent Ick-athon can choke and if Caleb really goes go off on his own I will scream like baby PLEASE

God now we have to wait a whole week IS IT THURSDAY YET

[echepak]

23/4/2020: The Idiot  (The first 114 pages)

Hello, for the independent reading project there were many titles for me to choose from, but I definitely made the right choice with Dostoevsky. So far in this compelling masterpiece the protagonist, Prince Myshkin, comes back to Russia from a sanatorium in Switzerland. On the train journey back to Russia Prince Myshkin meets Rogozhin, a member of a high-class family. The two discuss Rogozhins releases for travelling and Nastaya Filippowna. Nastaya is a woman that many of the men in high Russian society have fallen in love with, though she lives with a man called Totsky. Rogozhins tells a few stories of the times he has tried to curry favour with her. Upon arrival, Prince Myshkin goes to the house of General Epanchin, his last relation. General Epanchin does not want much to do with the prince, but the two then bond over a story of Myshkin seeing a beheading, in France. General Epanchin is also very impressed with Myshkins penmanship skills, his writing is French-style adopted to the Russian alphabet. The general then gives Myshkin some advice and helps him get settled down for his new life in Russia. The pair also discuss Nastaya who is coming for a party of some sorts that night. The next few chapters focus on Nastaya. Nastaya is the ward of Totsky, she lives out in the country and when the news Totsky was looking for a wife she comes to stay with him in St.Petersburg. Totosky was looking to marry one of General Epanchin’s daughters, Alexandra. Soon after this Nastaya looks for a husband and after searching high and low finds Ganya. Ganya and Nastaya are not sure they want to marry and Nastayaa says she will reach make her choice on her birthday. Then we journey back to the Generals house where, after much convincing from his daughters, Myshkin is invited to dinner. After dinner, the prince tells many stories from his life and his time at the sanitorium. He tells the girls how he learned to be happy, the time he saw an execution, and a tale of a girl named Marie who was shamed from her family and village. Ganya and Myshkin get into an argument and Ganya calls Myshkin an idiot. The next chapter takes place at the boarding house that belongs to Ganya and his family, this is were Myshkin is staying. Myshkin shares the story of how his father died. At the night of Nastaya’s birthday party, and her marriage decision some interesting things happen. Nastaya is taken aback by Myshkins modesty and how humble he is. Some other scandalous activities to occurrence that night. Tensions arise throughout the party and the days after, and Nastaya has taken more of a shine to Myshkin. There is still no decision made on her marriage plans and maybe Myshkin will win her hand.

Ella 

[big-ass-magnet]

Might Haves, Maybes, and Never Weres, Chapter 3 - Where’s Varric?

AO3 link

I made an AO3 for all my various canon divergent oneshots. ‘Consider Krem’ and ‘Warden Hawke’ are up there, along with this new one: 

Heroic sacrifices are not exclusively for protagonists.

Varric hung back, keeping up a steady stream of arrows until he saw Hawke vanish through the rift at the top of the stairs. He relaxed, just a little. She made it out. She was safe. He hadn't gotten her killed.

But it wasn't that easy. It couldn't be that easy. It never was.

Before he and Alistair and Lavellan could make it to the stairs leading up to the rift, the Nightmare was moving towards them, its mountainous bulk rapidly lodging between them and the way out.

"Shit," he muttered. Then, "Go."

"What?"

"The Inquisition needs a leader, and so do the Wardens. You..." He swallowed, throat suddenly dry as the implications of what he was saying hit him. Shit. Death by heroic sacrifice. He'd turned into one of his own characters. "You go. I'll keep it distracted. I'm good at that," he added with a grin he didn't quite feel.

"Varric, no. You can't ." Lavellan's eyes were overbright. She'd wanted badly to be his friend, he thought. He knew she was remembering what he'd said, about how she was so much more than a person to him, to everyone. Disciples die to save their leaders, she was thinking. Friends don't.

Joke was on her.

He would.

He was.

Just not for her.

"This is the Warden's mistake," Alistair said. "I need to fix it."

"No," Varric said. "This was my mistake. Corypheus, the red lyrium, it's all on me. I need to make this right."

A hero's death by redemption or the faithful sidekick giving it all to save the hero? He should decide quick. He wouldn't have much time.  

" Varric ," Lavellan said again, but he knew he'd won the argument. He gave her a smile, stronger than he felt.  

"Say goodbye to Hawke for me, would you?"  

Varric stepped back, and Lavellan and Alistair cleared the way. He put Bianca's stock to his shoulder and punched three bolts into three twitching eyes. The Nightmare shrieked in pain and lumbered towards him.

"Alright, Bianca," he said, gaze fixed on the demon even as he saw the others run through the rift in the corner of his eye. "Let's show them how it's done."

.

"Where's Varric?" Hawke asked, glancing around. Even at his height, he wasn't easy to lose in a crowd, but the soldiers were clustering around their leader, eyes and mouths wide with awe.  

The Inquisitor's silence and averted gaze were her answer. It was not an answer she would accept.

"Where's Varric?" she asked again, unable to keep the crack out of his name. The Inquisitor gathered herself up, and gave Hawke the distant, composed look of a proper leader.

"Varric sacrificed himself to ensure that Alistair and I had time to escape," she said. Hawke didn't hear the rest of it. Couldn't hear it. No. No. No. No. The word echoed in time with the heartbeat pounding in her ears. An iron band wrapped around her chest, so tight she couldn't breathe. Someone put their hand on her shoulder.

Hawke walked away. To where, she didn't know, so long as it wasn't here. Somewhere where she couldn't see the space he should have been. Blindly her feet walked the length of the battle-scarred keep, picking over dead bodies and around crumbled walls. Varric, gone. The thought was insane. It didn't seem real. It couldn't be real.

Hawke leaned against a wall and stared out an arrow slit, over the endless sands. No more stories, no more jokes, no more letters. No more tilted grins and shining eyes. No more games of Wicked Grace, no more drinks at the Hanged Man, no more first drafts to tease about. Gone. Gone. Gone.

News travels quickly.

In the Davri estate, east of the Frostbacks, a dwarf stokes the fires of her forge. Her motions are as jerky and rote as a poorly-calibrated machine's. She pumps the bellows, feeds the smokeless coal to the flames until they roar, until the air around her bakes and shimmers. She drags a length of cherry red iron from the flames.  

Bianca’s works are usually more delicate than this. Gears rather than swords, more molds than forging, but her grief leaves her with no patience. She hammers the iron until the blade is so thin it would snap at a touch. Bianca hurls it into the water, where it spits and steams and falls to pieces. She grabs another iron brick from the flames. If her face is wet, it is surely from the heat.

In a sanitorium outside of Kirkwall, a chantry sister sits beside a dwarf and speaks to him in a hushed and sympathetic tone. He shivers and twitches, eyes roving unceasingly over the room. It takes her several tries to get his attention, and a few more to understand her words.

For two days Bartrand raves, screaming and howling and driving away anyone who comes near him. That is as long as he can hold a thought before the lyrium song drowns it out. Afterwards, he is as he always is -- irritable, unpleasant, singularly focused on a song no one else can hear. But there are days when the song ebbs, when he can hear himself over the whispers, and on those days, he weeps.

At the Hanged Man, a crowd of silent men and women raise glasses. In Dark Town a woman tucks away a manuscript half-marked in red ink. In the alienage, Merrill rolls a ball of twine back and forth in her hands, tangling the rough string between her fingers as she tries to make sense of this new tragedy. In Hightown, Fenris runs a whetstone across the edge of his sword, and remembers old and better days spent with one of his first true friends. With her office door closed and her husband at her side, Aveline allows herself a few tears shed. Bethany curls up in the library of the Hawke estate, now so, so empty, and weeps.

On the high seas, Isabela grits her teeth and turns her ship to open waters, and lets the salt spray cool her burning face. In the Anderfells, two beings that claim to be a man named Iver walk up the mountain path and sit in silence long into the night.

In Skyhold, they hold a proper memorial. The right words are said, the right songs are sung. So many people attend that they spill out into the hallway. A stone and a small plaque are set up in the garden, a place to put flowers, for those who need to do such things.

Hawke takes his rooms. She stays with the Inquisition until Corypheus is defeated. Until the work is done.

She never goes to the gardens.

She used to be called Champion, you know, but she won't let anyone call her that anymore. Some duke tried it and she threw him into the street! That's what I heard, anyway.  They say there was a statue on the docks once, but she tore it down. Or paid someone else to pull it down. I forget.

They say she rents rooms in the Hanged Man but never uses them. Won't even set foot in the tavern. But she doesn't let anyone in -- keeps them locked up tight, year round. They say if you ask the bartender, he'll deny the whole thing, and if you keep asking, he throws you out.

You know that chain around her neck? I heard there's a ring on it, a signet ring from one of the Merchant Guild families. I heard the family tried to take it back and she pulled out a bow and shot them. Or shot at them.

There's so many stories about her, and they say if you ask her, she always says they're true. Even the ones that can't be true. Even the one about the dragon. Especially the one about the dragon.

She's an odd woman, is the Viscountess.  

[anneesfolleshq]

Bonjour et bienvenue!

Paris welcomes you, our Forger, Séphora Zuckermandel! May we say, you’re the spitting image of Jenny Slate! Please make your presence known within 24 hours, and do have a look at our checklist before setting out into the city on your own.

                                                                                  À bientôt!

MUN

Name/Alias: Jem

Preferred Pronouns: she/her

Age: 21

Timezone: EST, and I generally will check in online every day

MUSE

Chosen Skeleton: The Forger

Muse Name: Séphora Zuckermandel

Muse Age: Thirty Six

Chosen FC: Jenny Slate

Muse Occupation: Art Dealer

Muse Affiliation & Frequent Haunts:

Is really all that prudent to linger outside of the studio when there’s work to be done? The reflexive answer might be that Séphora never ventures out of Montmartre as nothing utilitarian necessitates it, but Séphora is anything but utilitarian. Montparnasse glistens with the charm of other-worldly enchantment, and Séphora (as if she was a dutiful anthropologist) studies the sights in minutiae. Starry-eyed and smiling, she can be found slinking through the crowds of Cafe Etoileor Le Gnome Qui Rit. But of course, her professional character will always be a staple in the halls of Bateau Lavoir, and the aura follows her to Sacre-Coeur’s Basilica as she sketches the architecture, and all the way to Street Market as she haggles with the vendors for miscellaneous… painting supplies.

Direct from Le Petit Journal:

When do you think they’re going to change the name from Zuckermandel and Son to Zuckermandel and… Daughter? It’s been more than a year since the art dealership has come under new ownership, with the original protege leaving the family business for undisclosed medical reasons. Despite all doubts that a woman could successfully inherit the business, Séphora Zuckermandel has turned Zuckermandel and Son into one of the most esteemed art sellers for the discerning connoisseurs of Paris.

BIOGRAPHY

[ CW // mentions of parental death ] Fatalistically, Séphora’s life had been outlined before she was born. Cliché and entrenched, isn’t it? That the daughter of a wealthy art dealer would unknowingly utilize the social tapestry of her family to enrich herself. I was always painting—she thinks. From an early age: the point at which I could sit upright and pay attention to the canvas that was placed in front of me. That kind of enrichment was how you got child prodigies, as Michael and Miryam learned with Elias—Séphora’s older brother who, by the time Séphora had been born, was reading Descartes and Kant instead of playing with the boys in the yard. Practice, patience, and encouragement. Discipline, however, was rather lacking—as Michael was always too busy with the family business to stand guard as a firm sentinel, and in his place, Miryam was a dilettante who had a hard time compelling herself to stay anchored to domestic life. This, of course, changed when Séphora was born.

Spoiled and dotted on, it was apparent that the precocious baby born in January was more enthralling than her moody older brother (what do you expect after exposing a child to existentialism?). The private tutors that homeschooled the Zuckermandel children had nothing but praise for brilliant little Séphora, who, to nobody’s surprise, was inclined to the arts more than any other subject. Elias arbitrarily diverted his interest from philosophy to mathematics to spite his parents, but the concept of logic that had been so rigorously ingrained in him was only a precursor to his affinity for numbers. Michael and Miryam, though disappointed, were never worried that Elias wouldn’t find his way in life. Comparably, Séphora never suffered from indignation, as her moments of weakness were the result of gentle rejections from her parents when voicing her juvenile needs. Her bubbling tears all she needed to convince them otherwise.

But such sweet droplets couldn’t force her parents to enroll her in the arts academy when she had come of age. Galvanized by Elias moving to the city to go to university, a compromise was met: they would ship her off as well, to one of the finest programs for young women’s higher education. Arts academy adjacent. The best we can do… considering the circumstance. It was enough to placate Séphora for the time being, as the glamour of independence and the attention of her peers was enough of a distraction from the easel. Which, she did bring one—and it sat empty for several months in her dormitory. Collecting dust and getting better use as a coat hanger.

What would end Séphora’s detour from fate was the chain of events that transpired over a lackadaisical weekend—nothing wild, or out of the ordinary. In fact, she had done this all before. An art gallery opening, and a picnic on the grounds of the museum lawn. While most of her peers were more concerned about what they were wearing, who they were going with, Séphora found herself left to converse with the paintings. Garish, bright, new. They said they were inspired by the French—wild and untamed swaths of color that ran through the room like a bull in a china shop. Was it appealing to draw like a child? Séphora couldn’t help but snicker and gawk. The halls of mythology and heroes felt more like home than the thrill of new fads. There’s a way art is supposed to be—she thought to herself. An order to the madness.

Such an order, especially of worldly concern, would come crashing down with the outbreak of war. Of course, her family had moved to Paris just a few years prior, urging her to stop dragging her feet and finish up her studies to come live with them. Elias isn’t in Hamburg anymore, he’s helping Michael with the business—there’s a better market in Paris! Séphora, frankly, did not care. If it’s a market in paint splatters, then I’ll just sneeze on a napkin and sell that instead. Reunion would be delayed by four long years. She was cut off from her family’s support and forced to sell cheap landscapes to anyone who would buy them. It wasn’t glamourous, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of painting she wanted to be doing, but the war put her exactly where she needed to be. Befriending the neurotic researchers and students who weren’t fit to fight—who were left to guard the vaults of antiquity for the motherland. The last line of defense. When the tides of war receded, Séphora was one of the first women admitted to an arts university, and when her family heard what she had done they almost disowned her.

From the starry-eyed girl who didn’t take no for an answer, Séphora had sharpened herself in the echelons of prestige and pedagogy. The handsome men of her youth who were keen on playing a perpetual game of cat and mouse were replaced by frigid stoics who were slightly more concerned with objects of antiquity than they were with a woman in their midst. Séphora learned that no matter what the encounter, or the circumstance, they all had a profound mistrust (maybe even dislike) of women. Beyond cerebral discussions of the spiritual will of art, or an iconography of German artwork, Séphora knew she had a dwindling desire to stay locked up in the ivory tower she had broken into. The worsening conditions in the Weimar Republic convinced her further to swallow her pride and move to Paris.

There was a dream she had—over and over again. A showing of the work she had made in Germany at the Beaux-Arts, and her family selling coveted Zuckermandel portraits with her signature. Séphora, even as an adult, spent more time indulged in an unrealistic dream than she did in the logistics of landing on her feet in a city like Paris. Nothing could have prepared her for the shock of Cubism. Sure, there was talk of what was going on in Germany with the Bauhaus and the wild Russian artists who had been scarred by the revolution, but Séphora couldn’t comprehend how the bastion of classical artwork had been tainted by the rubbish of the modern world. While her measly landscapes and modest bible scenes would have at least sold to the commoner in Germany, no one in Paris cared for Séphora Zuckermandel’s homey works. After much fanfare and resistance—being dragged along kicking and screaming—Séphora succumbed to the reality that was the modern world. She resented all the abstract artists under her breath as they were featured in her family’s showroom, with Séphora herself relegated to the back to manage inventory and preservation.

The silver lining of it all was that Séphora could still have her affair with the old masters—sometimes a beautiful Ingres would pass through. Or a dignified Rubens and Rembrandt. It was only once that she held an immaculate Titian in her hands, and instead of feeling joy or bewilderment she choked up with an immeasurable sense of loss.

Such wallowing and sweet tears would continue, if only long enough to mourn the passing of Michael and Miryam Zuckermandel. As Séphora stood in the office, with her hand on her weeping brother’s shoulder, she reasoned with herself that something had to change. I was meant for art, she thought. I was born at the wrong time—just a little too late…

Despite all indications that it was Séphora who was going to quit and leave the business, Elias beat her too it, suffering from a nervous breakdown and leaving for a sanitorium in the countryside. That traitorous bastard! What was Séphora to do, tasked with caring for a room filled with things she absolutely hated? Sell it, of course—at a discounted price. Gutting the inventory to fund her own dismal painting career that never took off. At least, not in the sense that she had ever anticipated.

The series of events is muddied, and even in recollection Séphora can’t make sense of when and how she executed the idea of forging a Da Vinci. A tangent in a book she read at university, her own yellowing paints drying out faster than she could use them, and the old canvas that had been so generously donated despite Séphora repeatedly telling the patron she did not deal in junk. Of course, there was a bottle of wine involved in there somewhere, and Séphora, thinking her little work of art was just hilarious, decided to display her joke along the windowsill display. A genuine Da Vinci! Won’t everybody love that?

And they did, much to Séphora’s dismay.

So, fatalistically, Séphora became the artist she was meant to be. Not an Angelica Kauffman posing beautiful allegories, or an Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun rendering the likeness of European nobility. Not even one of her contemporaries who she genuinely admired—a Mary Cassatt with an ephemeral tenderness that had eluded all the artists of western history before her.

Séphora became a forger, an artificer. Perhaps it was foolish of her to think that the only way people would like her paintings was if she signed her name and not someone else’s.

POTENTIAL PLOTS/CONNECTIONS

Séphora is a curious person who, due to her artistic training, is drawn to all sorts of “visuals” (especially if they’re novel). Of course, a lot of those novel things don’t belong on paintings, but she does love sketching the day to day of Paris, and she could meet people whom she is secretly (or not so secretly) sketching.

Anyone who’s looking to buy a painting, whether that’s the avant-garde stuff or something a little bit more classical. Maybe someone could have an original Séphora Zeuckermandel from when she was painting in Germany and they actually like or love her original work.

I would love connections with other characters that have nothing to do with art or history, as she tends to be a bit of a flirt to both genders and will go out to various cafes and clubs on her own just for the fun of it. She needs something to distract her from her… not so legal or moral business!

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 26

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, set 1909. Edwardian Fic. Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ Prompt found on this blog. Link to the imagine(s) that inspired it, here, and here….   Chapter number: Chapter 26 Author: punk-in-docs (Here is my Masterlist for more chapters… Don’t laugh at me cause it’ s so, ridiculously tiny) but do take a look if you feel so inclined… Triggers/warnings: Physical and emotional abuse in this chapter, the last thing I was to do is trigger someone, so please proceed with caution, darlings. and another note with this one, it was a bonus chapter I wrote that I couldn't fit anywhere into the original story, so this settles into it’s own plot line much, much earlier, around chapter 2, when Vianne/Henry go to an Edwardian society house party in the country for a week, and Thomas follows them, interjecting, to attempt in winning her back.

Not for the first time, Vianne sat scrutinizing herself in the looking glass. She and Henry were shortly bound downstairs. The bedroom she sat in was not her own. For they had been counted among close acquaintances of Lord and Lady Hexham, and were subsequently invited, along with many fashionable, upper echelons of Edwardian society, to attend a week long house party out in Kent. For quite the most fashionable event in one’s social calendar. The house, Briarwell, was a charmingly perfect chateau, situated in acres of green fields, with comfortable drawing rooms, and was packed, fit to burst, with ladies and gentleman. Keen, raring for a week of hunting, shooting, and riding for the men. Whilst the women could sketch, walk and gossip away snidely to their hearts content.

This party was deemed the most un-missable event, held every spring, a prized gathering. And people regarded themselves especially lucky to be invited. She did not reckon herself among that sort of crowd. This was more Henry’s scene than her own. He brushed shoulders with Lord Hexham when they were lads at the same boarding school, so for tonight, he would be among equals. And she, she knew with dread, would be esteemed as the sore thumb. The outlier. The heiress who favoured a ward, a nurses uniform, and wounds, more than people of her own ilk. These people were more at home in ballrooms, grand houses and navigating the hazards of being upstanding in society.

She was about to spend a most torturous week being buffeted and dressed down in sly degradations by nasty young women, and being flirted with or stoutly ignored by dismissive noblemen. She could not deny, was dreading it. And she knew far better than to expect Henry to fight her corner when the ladies were making cutting insults to her, with big smiles on their faces to better dilute their acerbity. She knew that he would not be there to shield her from unfriendly eyes, when men raked over her figure with predatory stares and filthy remarks. And talked about her oddness, loudly, behind her back. But within earshot to better put her in her place.

Tonight, after they arrived, she (not Henry) had suffered a lukewarm greeting from their hosts, and they were both assigned their separate rooms - Henry being in the men’s quarters, they were after all affianced, and not married - after their luggage was taken up, she had bathed, and changed into tonight’s gown. Emerald gossamer over an emerald satin underlay. The thin material ruched and bunched at her upper arms, leaving her shoulders bare, and the cut of the dress cut down low below her shoulder blades. Usually she’d relish a chance to wear this dress. But this eve, she detested it.

Her stomach was tying itself in knots and her mind was fuzzy, erratic, busy with worries. She felt too hot and her corset felt far too tight. She sat at the vanity table, scrutinizing herself so harshly, as the evening wore on, she grew more and more reluctant to move from her seat. She never thought she’d be thankful that the hosts had decided that tonight’s party would be a masquerade event. But the gold mask she chose to wore to cover across her eyes somehow gave her more strength. It bolstered her that she had atleast that small, little thing, to hide behind tonight, for if her bravery shrivelled up and shrunk down inside her. She’d secured the mask on long ago – with good reason – and was just attending her hair, half of it secured up, and half down by her shoulders, drying into wavy curls from her bath an hours previous. She was still fussing and preening, when there came a knock at her door. Without waiting to be invited in, Henry barged through the door regardless.

She met his eyes in the oval looking glass, he came in slowly, looked across at her, twitched a small smile, and shut the door behind him. Crossing the room, bedecked in his white tie and tails, his strides were softened by the thick carpets. Henry had a broad frame. Heavy set shoulders, thick arms, and a wide torso, tapering away to strong legs. He cut a perfect figure of a man. His hair gleamed a rusty russet in the low candlelight of her room. He wore a simple, black damask mask across his eyes, whereas hers was more ornate. A gilded gold, swirling with baroque patterns. He marched across to her, and his hand lands a strong touch on her shoulder, skimming along her skin. Assessing her. Petting her.

“That dress?” he asks her, his tone degrading, unsure. That little slight that made her confidence falter in no more than two words. Her stomach withered. She never set out to displease him. She knew better than anyone the consequences of her doing such a thing.

“I like this dress…” She defends. Smoothing a hand over her stomach. Fussing with it, as if idle fixes would make him like it any the more. She watched his eyes flutter, displeased over the way the cut of it so carelessly flaunted her figure. “It’s unsuitably eye-catching. I don’t want any other man drooling over your figure at dinner. In that dress you’ll make some stuffy Duke fantasise about forcing on you his next heir. One look at you in that dress they’ll think you’re a glutton for male attention” He dismisses cruelly.

“I can change, if you’d prefer…” She says in a small voice. He grunts. Annoyed, but not pressing the situation further.

“If you changed, we’d be rudely late. I won’t have that.” He accepts. Luckily, for her, he let that be. His eyes fell on her figure again.

“Not that necklace.” He speaks up. Unlatching the clatch, and pulling the band of jewels off her throat. Throwing it away, discarded, atop the covers of her made bed. He rifled rudely through her jewellery box, his big fingers raking through her delicate things, selecting another, securing it tight around her throat, tugging her hair roughly out of the way.

“You’ll wear your hair up, Darling. We don’t want people saying you’re vulgar to be letting it loose.” He instructs.

She reaches for her hairpins, the flimsy metal skidding about in her gloved hands. She made sure to keep them tied tight on her upper arms tonight, if they slid down, her nasty encounter from the other night would be revealed. She makes work on her hair. Conceding to his rule. He watches her, sat on the end of the bed.

“You seem quiet. More so than usual. Are you not looking forward to tonight?” He asks with an edge in his tone. One that made her realise he was at risk of thinking her ungrateful to be invited for such a soiree. Henry was part of their crowd. He had friends, colleagues, and other doctors to mingle with, and the women couldn’t admire nor flirt with him more. She would be seem as an unnecessary addition on his arm. An annoyance.

“I’m merely…nervous.” She explains. Quick not to rile his temper. “You know me, Henry. This lot downstairs are not my crowd.” She puts gently.

“I don’t like it that you consider yourself more at ease with poor invalids, paupers and working class nurses. When we marry, Vianne. You will have to find yourself comfortable with ‘this lot’ as you so maliciously put it…” He began.

“Henry, I didn’t mean to sound spiteful …” She speaks back, evenly. Turning round to face him. He sat on the end of her bed. His back ramrod straight. Those dark eyes gazing out at her from the holes in his dark mask. She swallows and when she speaks. Her voice is meagre, and weak.

“I’m sorry.” She relents. She didn’t want this to be a battle. It would be hard enough fighting to be civil with everyone downstairs. She needed every ally she could lay her hands on for tonight. “I am, delighted, to be considered eligible enough to warrant an invitation here, amongst your close acquaintance. I’m sure we’ll have a…a… lovely week.” She beams gently. Though her smile felt uncomfortable, meek, and not to mention forced.

Henry made a short, sharp noise of displeasure.

“Atleast we’re out of London.” He sighs. “Nice to get away from the shadowy threat of him. Lurking round you like a baying dog. Stalking your every move.” Henry growled in displeasure. Her throat closed up with the mention of Thomas. She tugged up her gloves, and swallowed. Her voice unusually thick. How she kept down the cloying lump that had formed in her throat since Henry began speaking of him, she’d never know. She turned back around, not facing him. Putting up a façade. Her hands shook as she unstopped a bottle of scent. She could feel the dangerous, heavy, uncomfortably hot weight of his stare burn holes into her back.

“I’m not encouraging him on Henry. Please believe me to be sincere on that.” She relays quickly before her breaking voice betrayed her softness, and her partiality to that man.

Even though she still loathed him, and thinking of his sins made her skin crawl. He held the ability to make her soften. To weaken. She didn’t know how else to explain it. Nor how he managed it. She had mourned for her relationship with Thomas. Rotting in a festering, cold sanitorium for months, weeping the grieving tears of a widow. But she wasn’t. She didn’t mourn her escaping Lucille and her odd fascination and flippant nature. One minute they’d be tolerable friends, the next, she was trying to slit her throat. She didn’t mourn that. She did lament over the person she was when she was with Thomas.

He had seen a softness in her. Found something, kind, and sweet. And with her departure of him, she felt as if she had left that benevolent, kind heartedness behind. As if it had dried up. And nothing but an aching shell of a woman she now was had taken its place. She passed through her life since, trying every day, to distract herself from her thoughts wandering back over her old life. She focused, with little enthusiasm, on all that her new one would bring. And it had brought her here. To people she barely tolerated, who considered her with the same, cold, disinterest in return. With women who sought it as their duty to mock her, and men who either ignored her, or flirted with her. Her life now, Henry was trying to make her see, was going to be so much more than fraternising with paupers and the sick. Their marriage would elevate her to rub elbows with the gentry, noblemen, and titled people with a station.

“I’ll believe that he has given up, when we are wed, and he knows to leave well enough alone. I mean it Vianne. He comes near you, or I, again. And there will be dire consequences for that reprobate…” He warned. Her eyes found his in the mirror. They were half agony, half curiosity. And Henry could read them, and the way she had so obviously stilled at hearing his threat.

“Dire?” She asks.

“Dire.” He repeats flatly. Smirking. Nastily. She looks away. Keen to forget it. And the hateful spark in his eyes that told her he’d take pleasure in hurting Thomas to warn him off her.

“I’m certain he’s given up the idea of wanting to interfere in our relationship by now.” She finalises. Wishing that to be the end of it. “I haven’t seen nor heard from him since the night at Lady Sulbrows Ball…” She spoke. Not looking at him as she finished her hair, and went to slide diamonds earrings to sit dangling from her lobes. She hoped those too met with his strict standards.

“You mean the night that left you with another man’s love bite on your neck after you returned to my side?” He asked.

She stopped dead in her actions. Sitting still. Looking fearfully at his reflection behind her. Wary that she had just encouraged another castigation. She didn’t wish to relive what he had done to her by way of punishment for that infraction. Thomas had given her a love bite. And Henry had given her marks of his own in return. Her ribs were still aching and bruised black and blue from his chastisement. Her corset pinched, and tears were squeezed from her eyes, tonight, at the pain of it being laced so tightly into it due to that particular injury.

“Need I remind you how I felt about that mishap?” He asked in a low voice.

“You reminded me plenty enough the evening after.” She finishes curtly. She watched him tilt his head. A slight wrinkled frown crowning the space between his brows.

“You’re not suggesting I enjoyed that, are you?” He enquires.

“Good god, no.” She speaks. Her voice flat. “That would make you a monster, Henry.” She concedes.

He remains silent. Watching her assess her finishing touches. The conversation slowed to a dead halt because of the reminiscing. She couldn’t stand the throttling silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the fire crackling in the hearth.

“We should be heading down.” She adds. Turning about, tugging her skirts out of the way so she could stand up. She straightened her knees, that felt almost too weak to hold her up. She came to her full height, and crossed around the end of the bed. He held out his hand for her, she flinched lightly, before she went to him. She slid her gloved hand into his, and he tugged her to him, close to the bed, reeling her to drape over his thighs, tucked close into him. His warm hand cupped her neck and throat. Almost gripping, but only just. Letting her know his hold on her was absolute.

“Don’t be downcast tonight. I’ve a lot of friends here. I don’t need them saying you’re a glum face at the dinner table. You should be very happy to be here. Lucky even. And more so, happy to be with me.” He suggests. She strokes a hand down his chest.

“I am happy.” She lies. Or atleast, she was as happy as she felt she deserved to be. “I will act accordingly.” She promises. Kissing his cheek. Secretly, feeling more now like an added embarrassment, than she already did before he entered the room. The old version of her would have recoiled at being so plainly ordered about. But she was too cautious to fight back. She needed him tonight. On her side, against all odds. She was lucky to have a man like Henry. After the altercations of her sordid past, he was more than she deserved.

“I do love you so very much you know, Vianne.” He states seriously. His eyes boring into her own. She meets his gaze, and she nods.

“I know, Henry. And I heartily concur.” She breathes, feeling ultimately, very false. She hoped after they were safe and married, that she could allow herself to love him more. His jealousy of Thomas, or any other man, would melt away, and they could perhaps even, feel relaxed and content in one another’s company. She longed for that day.

“Let’s go down. I promised Merton a drink with him before dinner.” Henry proposed. Setting her on her feet.

She stood, fixing her dress. He kept his hand on her lower back as they crossed her room. Out of the door, and across the landing, when they got to the stairs he loops her arm through his, holding her tightly as they descended the grand imperial stairs to the raucous nature of the house below. Where the evening was just beginning. There was a large, boisterous party of thirty invited to the house. A mix of single and married people alike. In the main parlour, Vianne could hear a comforting gathering, she could hear glasses clink, and Irving Berlin wailed on the scratchy gramophone, she can hear laughter, conversation and the air was rife with the heady scent of fine perfume and fresh roses, lilies and geraniums in place all over the house to showcase Hexham’s vast wealth as a cabinet minister. The lifestyle must be accordingly gaudy to reflect that of his income, Vianne supposed.

She kept hold of Henry’s arm, before he caught the eye of a gaggle of old friends, who shoved a crystal cut tumbler of whisky in his hands. He dropped her arm and joined his friends.

Callous enough as to slide away after relaying her strict instructions which she was to adhere too, on pain of death. Or, in actual fact, on pain of another nasty set of bruises. He kissed her on the cheek before they departed. He shielded her from the sight of the room with his body, the ulterior motive being so that he could grip her wrist tight in his hand. Wrapping his fingers around it, her skin pinching already, but his touch turned to a fierce grip that bit harshly into her skin.

“You flirt with another man. You so much as look at one. I don’t care who he is. I’ll make you very, very sorry. Now mingle, and be polite. If I hear you’ve been anything less than courteous. You know what I’ll do. And it’ll start with me getting very, angry. You know what happens when I get angry, darling.” He forewarns.

She snatches her hand back. Staring at him for a second. Snapping on a false smile, and claiming she needed a drink. She slipped away, watching him roar with laughter, smiling with his friends like he was a different man. She oft wonders how he could be a doctor, so caring for patients, when he could treat her so. Jekyll and Hyde sprung as a quick comparison to her mind.

She was just heading for a refreshment, when she is accosted by Lady Shackleton. Vianne had met her before, often at socials gatherings and the like. She was also a patroness of the London, where Vianne worked, as if that gave her divine right and omnipotence. If this wasn’t an exercise to deliberately exert her influence and power, then Vianne didn’t know women.

This woman currently drew a sigh to rise out of her, as Vianne noticed, with horror, she was intending in her direction with purpose.

She was an almost elderly lady, with greying hair fixed in a huge colonial coiffure that sat like a hazy grey cloud of hair atop her head. Vianne would’ve said that it looked like an inconvenient halo, but she knew the woman better than that to call it so. She wore a draped evening gown, with a cape over the shoulders, and voluminous sleeves. It was black velvet swirled with rosettes, and white petticoat style trim. She was still so old fashioned as to wear the suffocating s bend shaped corset, at her late age, to project her bust forwards and hips backwards.

She had a beaky face, which took an opportunistic delight seeing as her hooked nose spent so much time preying upon other unfortunates. Speaking of such, the dead swathe of fur around her shoulders looked devoid of life, staring with glassy eyes, still wearing its paws and feet. Lucky bastard. Vianne praised it for being able to escape this conversation, and she not. But then again, it was doomed to spend the evening swathing that woman’s shoulders, and she couldn’t decide which was the lesser of two ultimate evils. Her mask was a venetian style, held up to her face on a pole, though Vianne couldn’t help her brain interjecting a certain pathway from doctors masks. Plague. And to be avoided at all costs. Something of which she associated with the member of the gentry currently making their way towards her.

“My dear, so refreshing to see you… I didn’t think you’d be among Lady Hexham’s ilk.” The woman lied through a pinched smile, and teeth that were gritted.

Vianne smiled demurely at the woman. Remarkably, every compliment the lady breathed to people, always sounded like a cloaked insult. It was astonishing how she managed it. It must take such effort to be so slyly cutting at every turn.

“My fiancé is more, of that ilk, than myself. But I’ve known Lord and Lady Hexham as intimates for a few years. Their son, Lord Hexham, is a colleague of my betrothed.” Vianne smiles. Folding her hands. “They work together at St. Thomas’s.” She adds.

“I admire your zealousness to be so, forthright in celebrating such connections.” She smiled serenely. Though her words were not as such.

“How do you know Lord and Lady Hexham?” Vianne asked with clenched teeth. And fists. As she held them, tightly pinched together, at her front.

“We’ve enjoyed intimacy within their circle since the day they owned Briarwell, and Bertie, Lord Hexham, inherited. I have known this family all the way back to the 1860’s. I knew the sixth Lord Hexham…” She congratulated herself, if she were an animal, right then, she’d have been ruffling her feathers in pride. Showcasing herself.

“Well.” Vianne bit back. “I won’t judge you too harshly on that front. After all, this lighting isn’t of the most flattering sort.” She cut quickly. Allowing herself to enjoy the small look of horror and insult on the woman’s face after she digested the remark. Vianne excused herself quickly after that to slide away and fetch a drink. Henry could batter her blue for her rudeness, but she didn’t care. He didn’t much bother with the rude old bat either.

She slipped noiselessly from the room. Feeling a sharp stab to her ego as a group of young debs burst into cruel, chattering laughter after she passes them by. She heard their mocking. They delighted in letting her know of their displeasure. “That’s his fiancée.” “She works you know, can you imagine? An heiress who works? Who does she think she is?” “She’s brave to wear such a dress… I’d be worried wearing a dress that looked like it came off the ark, too.” They drawled. Cackling.

So she wasn’t dripping diamonds, and her dress wasn’t the most up-to-date model of fashion, it was barely a month old, but clearly, that was still enough to be scrutinised. She snatched a glass of champagne from one of the stiff footman, stood invisible and quiet by the door. She tips it to her lips. And decided, expressly against Henry’s wishes that she be the conversationalist belle of the ball, that she wanted to explore Briarwell.

It was such a handsome house, it seemed a mighty shame to waste an opportunity. As they were such a large party, all the rooms were opened up for them to wander in and out of. Silent staff glided about tending to needs. Vianne faded from the room full of snobs and nasty women to be on her own. She didn’t wish to be among them, and their cruelty. Everyone had obviously read somewhere that the very rich could afford to give offense wherever they go. That it was somehow amusing for them to be so.

She wandered alone, sipping her champagne, happy to be so, and then she found herself longing to be somewhere. For the place that oft provided her the most succour when she needed it. She came across the library.

It was a wonderful size, lined with verbose novels, and titles. A thousands worlds, and thousands of words, all housed in one room. She realised then, that the music she heard coming from this part of the candle lit room, was not to be confused with the gramophone in the main sitting room. But rather, here, it was a piano that called out its tune to her. She was idly admiring a thick, leather bound book of Nietzsche, when the music captivated her. She recognised the familiar fluttering tune, in a minor, of Beethoven’s Bagatelle. Always her favourite in comparison to the pomp and flare of his other symphonies. As she walked along, skimming her hand along the bookshelf, she came to the end of the shelf, at which, a secret door was ajar, through there, the music reached a crescendo, becoming louder and louder. She peeked through the door, feeling like a voyeur, glimpsing into someone else’s secrecy. She stood her now empty glass on the side table. She didn’t know what was making her head lighter, the quick consumption of champagne, or the music.

The room she was glancing into, was a grand music room, as were all the rooms in Briarwell. An extension of the library with high ceilings, and that too, lit by the sumptuous quality of candle light, gave the room a golden, ethereal air, when accompanied by the soothing lull and pattern of the jovial piano music. Vianne decided that she couldn’t afford not to compliment this person on their talent. And at playing one of her favourite songs too. She couldn’t see the figure past the open piano lid, she couldn’t even discern whether they were female or male. She didn’t mind, they played with extraordinary feeling.

She opened the door, and stepped quietly into the room. Walking quietly, just listening to their skill in the music. She spoke to them, whomever they were, reverently, softly, so as not to disturb their playing. She timed her speech perfectly, they had just dipped into the third movement.

“You play beautifully. I used to have an acquaintance who could play that...” She flattered. The music came slowly, fluttering to a stop, a pause. She jumped out of her skin when they spoke. Because she hadn’t expected the voice to reply. And what’s more, she hadn’t expected to recognise the voice…

“Who is this charming acquaintance of which you speak?” Came a smug, male, interjection, before the playing resumed in its talent. Teasing her. Making a fool of her.

She came to three instant conclusions before she rounded the piano and looked to the figure playing. The first, was that she knew them very well. The second, that they definitely were a member of the male gender. And the third, was that she was never far from the reaches of Thomas Sharpe.

Under the brim of a dark crimson mask pressed to his face, his eyes flicker up to look teasingly at her, raking over the sumptuous figure her dress offered to him, and he smiles, before his attention reverts to the piano keys below his adroit fingers. She watched their nimble dexterity dance across the keys. Drawing the music out of the instrument so skilfully. Vianne didn’t want to find herself thinking it, but he looked, sinfully good, bedecked in crisp white tie, and tails. She had a feeling he knew of this information, judging by the arrogance in his smile when he detected the flush of her cheeks, brightening her pale skin under the golden hem of her face mask.

She looked so tempting to him, he had to peel his eyes away and focus on the music. That dress showcasing the gorgeous shape of her figure. Confidently projecting her bust, placing her hips to urge them backwards. The thin fabric drifting lazily about her shoulders, baring her neck and her décolletage, made him skip over a key or two, he was sure of it. He felt his heart beat faster when she spoke. He had taken himself away from the preening eyes of the society debs that did naught but flirt and flutter their lashes at him. He was seen a veritable rascal, yet so very wealthy. No woman would encourage their daughters toward him. The men viewed him equally as distastefully. New money was as insulting and as vulgar to their kind as no money at all. Fed up of adoration or loathing from either quarter, he had taken himself off to explore Briarwell. Clearly, she was in the same boat as he, so to speak. Both outcasts, on the fringes of a social gathering. As they had been, as a matter of fact, when they met.

“Where did you learn to play like that?” She spoke up when he’d finished the song. Retreating his limbs from the instrument, turning to look more fully at her, releasing himself so he swivelled to face her.

“We’ve been apart for two years, my love. A man must have his secrets after all…” He smiles.

“What are you doing here? How on earth are you acquainted with the Hexham’s?” She asks. He chuckles, shifting around, replacing the lid down over the keys. Running his hands along the black, polished, smooth wood lid. He was enjoying her curious confusion.

“Lady Hexham jumped at the opportunity to invite me here, She explained that Briarwell was the event of the season. And when I enquired as to the guest list, and wouldn’t you know, my ears leapt at the sound of a Mr. St. Clair and one Miss Earnest-James accompanying him. I couldn’t resist..” He teases with a carefree shrug. Vianne sighed in irritability.

He came to his full height, stood a little too close for her liking. His hands folded behind his back as he stood and assessed her with sharp blue eyes. Somehow they were made brighter with the mask he wore. His inky hair was brushed, swept back off his forehead, the usual defiant strands swung deviously down by his brows. His smile was infuriating and his eyes burned brighter than ever because they were alone. Together. Once again.

“Try to resist more, in the future… Good evening, Mr Sharpe” She warns him with annoyance in her eyes and in her tone. Wishing those to be her final words to him. But she would not be so lucky… His suited body crosses her path, blocking her way.

“Now I have the pleasure of having you alone…” He speaks, purring at her. Having darted in front of her. She stumbles back. Not wishing to fall under his spell once more. She was unwillingly susceptible to it. The last time he came near her, leaving evidence of his proximity, Henry nearly broke her ribs.

“Don’t make this difficult, Thomas.” She snaps. Hoping he’d understand, because he would get out of this unscathed, if he so chose. It was different for her. Henry had a temper that he liked to take out on her. He had no dangers from being near her. But she had a lot more to be scared of…

“Don’t make what difficult?” He asks playfully. One dark brow crooking up on his forehead. As if thrilled him that her parting from him, she admitted to be hard.

“Don’t be coy. Trust me when I say it doesn’t become you.” She barks out lowly. Intending to sidestep him and return to Henry. Before he got her in trouble which would lead to more suffering and pain.

Again, he blocks her way. She glowers up at him. Started to sense her breath become ragged in annoyance. He looks down at her, with more playfulness than sincerity on his face. That made her clench her teeth. Clearly, tonight, she wasn’t able to escape all the people who irritated her.

“Trust?” He asks. Mocking for. The last time he had trusted in her, she had broken their marriage and left him aching for her, broken hearted and wretched.

“I’m not going to be talked down to about my sins, by a man who has a list of sins as long as my arm.” She insists firmly, voice rising. Her flaring anger bubbled up and out of her, and she shoved him aside.

He moved to counteract her, his fingers stole around her wrist, wrapping only gently, to keep her here to argue some more. But unbeknownst to him, even the gentle grip was enough to make her hiss out in pain. Her face contorting into a painful grimace. She winces, and tears her arm from him, not meeting her eyes. She regrets flickering her gaze up to meet his. A look of utter shock, and disbelief crossed his face.

His stance turns aggressive and he slams her into the nearest bookshelf, his body bracketing hers, keeping her there. She tried wriggling, she tried pleading. But it’s no use. He had her arm. And he was busying himself now, by peeling off her glove. And when he does, he stares, inelegantly at her arm. The glove in his grip slithers to the floor as a whisper of silk, forgotten, as he takes in the sight that awaited him on her pale arm.

Her wrist was ringed with almost black bruises, that were just shifting into a dark purple. Sprouting from her hand, up to her forearm almost. Marks put there by someone’s rough, violent hands. He could see where fingertips had a vice grip burned deep into her skin. Anger flared in his lungs, storming through his heart, making his blood heat up. She jerked her arm away, and refused to meet his livid gaze. She shrunk back in on herself.

“He did that to you?” He asked tersely.

“That and plenty more besides…” She explains, lowering her mask. Her lovely face looking up at him. His heart felt like it had been run through with a stake, when he saw she had a fading yellow-purple eye too. The bruises concealed by her mask.

She placed it back on, and he gave her, her glove back. Having bent to retrieve it. She felt ashamed, embarrassed, and suddenly, inexplicably angry with him. Furious.

“Vianne…” He sighs in pain.

“Don’t pity me.” She flinches. “Anything. Just don’t pity me…” She remarks coldly. Brusquely wiping away a tear from her aching cheek.

As she slid the glove back up her arm, securing it back in its place. He watched her lower lip wobble. He felt deflated, here he was flirting like a randy schoolboy with her, and she was black and blue all over from another mans violence. A man who claimed to love, and cherish her. He had a hell of a way of showing his possession of her, he thought.

“The man’s a damn, rotten, animal, for leaving marks such as those on you.” He growled, quite rightly incensed. He recoiled slightly, when Vianne stopped dead, and glared hell fury at him.

“Just because Henry’s abuse leaves marks on my skin, doesn’t mean your abuse was ant less valid. Thomas.” She cuts. His mouth fell open. She heads for the door, pausing when he speaks again

“Don’t you dare compare me to him…” He snaps. “I would never deign to..” He began. And when he does. She whips back, and her voice exits her in a burst, a shout. A rasping cry.

“You… BROKE MY HEART.” She fairly yells. Her voice scraping painfully, and hoarse, through her throat. Now that her anger had come bubbling forth, she couldn’t find the energy to contain it any longer.

These are the words that had whirled around, unsaid, in her head and heart for two, long, years, and letting them loose was a tirade she was unable to stop.

“You treated me so coldly. You kept me an arm’s length away, and somehow made me feel like it was my fault. My misunderstanding. I was too in love with you to ever be mad at you for it. So I just punished myself. For MONTHS. I kept away and stayed away because I thought that’s what you wanted and expected of me as a wife... I became used to thinking myself second best. Because that’s all I was, next to her, wasn’t it? Do you have any idea, what our marriage put me through? I hated what you had made me into. This pathetic, lovesick woman, pining for you. Aching for a smidgeon of feeble attention that I’d never win. Turning me into someone whom you ignored at your own behest. Far more interested and concerned in fixing your infernal machine, and keeping Lucille from tearing open my throat. when in fact, all along…” She shook her head.

“I cannot put into words what finding out about what the two of you, did to me. I was so angry, I wanted to hurt you, as deeply you had hurt me. I wanted to scream, and kick, and claw blue murder, and scratch your stupid eyes out with my bare hands, for what you did. After that, I couldn’t bear to let you near me, touch me, or even look at me. I had, to leave you. I couldn’t live a lie, day in, day out. Especially not pretending to uphold a one sided love from a man I so admired. I was exhausted. And I couldn’t do it anymore.” She swallowed. But her rage was far from done.

“…and then one day, who should waltz into a London ball, but the very man who cheated on me, lied to me, deceived me, and used me. You. You, strode in, and then whispered such… insulting things. Teasing me. Flirting with me. Saying you loved me, needed me. That you didn’t want to lose me. Couldn’t live without me. You lost me two years ago, and it’s high time you learned, that I can never love you again. I can never be your wife, nor can I pretend that you didn’t shred me to absolute pieces for the way you hurt and betrayed me. You’ve done your damage Thomas Sharpe. And believe me when I say this, it is eternally scored on my heart.” She finishes.

He sags. Her unleashing two years’ worth of pain and her heartbreak on him sapped him of all his fighting spirit. His chest rose and fell, and other than that, and the candles flickering in their stands, there is no movement in the room coming from either of them. Far off in the house, she heard the dinner gong sound. She was pleased to see her raging outburst had hit him squarely in the chest. She wanted him to feel guilt, and shame, as she had felt it, those years ago.

“I have to return to Henry now…” She speaks. Her voice raw. And this time, he lets her go. He’d be a fool not too.

She wipes her tears, and makes her way back to her beloveds side. She comes back into the proverbial lion’s den, not surprised to see Lady Shackleton glaring mildly in her direction. She goes to stand silently by Henry’s side. Her back to the door. Stood trembling, and miserable from her outburst, and Thomas knowing about the true nature of Henry’s foul temper and treatment of her. More people filter into the room, coming through to take their place at the dinner table.

She feels her beau tense up, and she doesn’t need to turn towards the door to know that Thomas Sharpe had just stepped across the threshold, accompanied by none other than a simpering, smiling, Lady Hexham herself, showing him off to all the eligible young ladies, who preened at him like fussing hens.

She heard Henry’s fingers rub, where he squeezed tighter against the glass in his hands, in annoyance. She’s not surprised to feel his lips, hot, present, and angry at her ear. And his big hand painfully clutches her elbow. Tugging her to stumble closer to him. She didn’t have the energy to fight back. Not tonight.

“Did you know that bastard was invited to this gathering?” He growled lowly in her ear. His whisky breath stabbing down into the skin of her neck. She could feel the weight of Thomas’s stare flicker to her, prickling her skin, when Henry moved to grab her elbow.

“Why would I?” She answers back blandly. Henry grit his teeth, and chucked back his dram in one swift go. Anger shuddering through his broad frame. Her hands clasped demurely in front of her, Henry slammed his glass down. She didn’t flinch.

Just as she didn’t need to look to know Thomas’s gaze was secured firmly upon her. She could feel him staring at her as plainly as she could feel the suns heat on her bare skin.

~

@frenchfrostpudding @wolfsmom1 @heavymist @totallynotasmutblog @echantedbytwh

[architectnews]

"Can Aalto's international acclaim really be down to self-promotion?"

A recently released feature film about Alvar Aalto presents the Finish architect as an expert in self-promotion but Laura Iloniemi questions if this skill was the key to his success.

The recently released Finnish movie Aalto directed by Virpi Suutari places a great emphasis on Alvar Aalto's ability to market himself, suggesting that the critical international acclaim this celebrated architect won was down to self-promotion.

Can this really be why Aalto is placed alongside Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe and Frank Lloyd Wright as one of the great modernist architects? Or is this more of a reflection of the fact that it has become almost second nature today to explain away an architect's success by focussing less on the work and more on personal attributes and the power of PR?

The Aalto movie trailer plunges straight into this way of thinking. In it, the film's narrators describe with relish how Aalto knew how to charm the press and how to woo the infinitely rich Rockefellers.

Aalto was clearly a great communicator as is clear from his journalistic abilities when writing about urban planning and housing. He was also known to be good company. A rarity perhaps in Finland, a country known for its introverted and unassuming culture, Aalto was a man of true wit and real charm.

Even if Aalto had been a reticent figure, his work would have drawn critical attention far beyond his native Finland

But, what drew Aalto to the attention of the architectural press and caught the eye of Le Corbusier and other great European and American talents and clients in the first place was not these qualities, but those of his inventive and accomplished architecture. His Paimio Sanitorium was truly a breath of fresh air. Even if Aalto had been a reticent figure, his work would have drawn critical attention early on and far beyond his native Finland.

His milling with the great, the good and the media was what happened when the cultural avant-garde adopted him early in his career. His was evidently an original talent. Who couldn't be impressed? Who didn't want to meet him?

And yet, as the Aalto movie narrative implies, the architect's international break was more about his being an ambitious individual who grabbed opportunities as they came than it was about the sheer accomplishment of buildings. We might argue that all go-getting architects in search of commissions are necessarily highly driven and hungry for work and that it goes without saying that some hustle better than others.

Having researched Aalto's archives, it is clear to me that Aalto was certainly well aware of the value of introductions. He worked, for example, with the art historian Nils Gustav-Hahl to make his first forays onto the international stage including London where the Architectural Review magazine became an instant and avid supporter of his work.

We might argue that all go-getting architects in search of commissions are necessarily highly driven and hungry for work and that it goes without saying that some hustle better than others

I wrote my masters dissertation on this very topic as I am interested in how architects promote their work. Looking back, though, I feel this doesn't help to understand the essential creative spirit that gave Aalto the edge that made him special.

Architect and writer, Juhani Pallasmaa, one of the film's narrators, has a particular empathy with Aalto, an insight into his craft and sensibility that helps us to get closer to his expressed desire to "ennoble" life. Everyone's life. Pallasmaa goes so far as to say: "If there is nothing to ennoble, there is no architecture".

This gets to the heart of why architecture mattered to Aalto and why it mattered more to him than perhaps anything or anyone else. His close collaborator and first wife, the architect Aino Marsio Aalto suggests this in archive footage. His second wife, Elissa Aalto, architect and posthumous head of his studio, confirms it.

Jim Richards, the editor of the Architectural Review, was another close observer of Aalto. While relishing tales of drinking binges and sailing adventures, Richards knew how special Aalto was as an architect. He also observed that Aalto was quite aware of what his contribution to architecture would be. Everything else followed from this charismatic artistic volition, Aalto's full-hearted dedication to architecture and his ability to make a compelling polemic from a non-dogmatic approach to design that challenged the rationalist modern movement giants.

Aalto was, as Colin St John Wilson wrote perceptively, the exemplar of "The Other Tradition". It was this that gained him increasing credibility within his profession, at first internationally, if only slowly in cautious Finland. It was not for nothing that Aalto named his boat Nemo Propheta in Patria (no-one is a prophet in their own country).

He sought neither to create a money-making brand nor a signature style

Given that we live in a world where so much that relates to creative identities are reduced to the notion of "brand", it feels important to remind audiences who watch the film that by the standards of today's starchitects he was a modest person, living a comfortable, if not lavish, life. He sought, to put this in contemporary language, neither to create a money-making brand nor a signature style. Could it be that in our fascination with brands and celebrity that we are missing something essential?

And yet, the footage of Aalto's buildings in the movie does capture their essence beautifully taking us from early works like the ground-breaking Paimio Sanatorium in south-west Finland to his undulating MIT Baker House Dormitory in Massachusetts and, towards the end of the film, to his posthumously completed and much loved Riola Church near Bologna.

The cameramen, Heikki Färm, Jani Kumpulainen and Tuomo Hutri make a silent but all the more important contribution by revealing Aalto's artistic intent to audiences and making us feel in the presence of Aalto, the practising architect.

The quietude and near tactile beauty of these scenes makes the talk of promotional tactics, lucky breaks, intimate relationships and branding seem like so much chatter and noise. It made me sad to think of how imaginative, individualistic and talented architects can be happily written off as folk who just know how to push ahead and brand themselves.

It would be unfair to say the new Aalto movie does this, yet it does raise the important question of how in layman's terms can we properly explain what exactly it is that makes a figure like Alvar Aalto so exceptional.

Laura Iloniemi works as an architectural publicist internationally. She was guest editor of AD's Nov/Dec 2019 issue on The Identity of The Architect and teaches media relations and communication at the Architectural Association.

Image courtesy of Aalto.

The post "Can Aalto's international acclaim really be down to self-promotion?" appeared first on Dezeen.

[falconlord5]

Dracula (1931) Analysis, Part 6

A heatwave moved right into town last week/she came from the island of Martinique/the can can she dances will make you fry/the can can is really the reason why/we're having a heat wave/a tropical heatwave/the temperature's rising/it isn't surprising...

Okay, that had nothing to do with Dracula (1931) or Dr. Abraham van Helsing. It does, however, have everything to do with the fact that it's finally hot enough to continue writing in this Godzilla-forsaken place!

So join me under the cut for the most famous doctor in all of vampire-dom!

Dr. Abraham van Helsing

If there's one character, aside from Drac himself, who has really broken out amongst the general audience it's Dr. Abraham van Helsing. Though, admittedly, he does tend to get the same kinds of weird interpretations that the rest of the cast get, too.

Why is this funny Dutch doctor so popular? Is it because he's the Funny Foreigner played straight? Is it because he's an eccentric, kooky mentor in the lines of other breakout characters like Albus Dumbledore, Yoda, and Gandalf? Is it because of his implied history, with the locked up wife and earlier conflicts with the bloodsucking undead?

It's probably a combination of all of those things. And, I'll argue, this movie had a great deal to do with the good doctor's on-going popularity.

We're first introduced to the good doctor in a scene that is oddly prescient to his introduction in Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992). In that film, van Helsing is introduced showing off to his students at a university class, displaying both his scientific acumen (although his description of syphilis and history is inaccurate), his eccentricities, the love his students have for him and his willingness to just abandon ship to aid another form student in the form of Jack Seward.

In Dracula (1931), Van Helsing's introduction is different, much more subdued, but no less effective. His very first lines are 'read, dummkopf, where I have marked.' And again, we instantly have this version of Van Helsing's character: tough, rude, foreign. That he says this just after looking up from a microscope establishes his scientific credentials. The passage that our unfortunate dummkopf reads gives us van Helsing's vampire hunting expertise. And the respect, nay, awe that the other doctors at the sanitorium have when talking to van Helsing, even when they're questioning him, shows us just how brilliant the good doctor is. Sort of like the insane list of titles after his name in the book (which is honestly impossible; dude has like fourteen doctorates!), but in visual and audio form.

I have a confession to make: this, along with Anthony Hopkins' version of the character in Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992) is my favourite adaptations of the character. While Anthony Hopkins' version captures the character's funnier aspects, like his weird sense of humour and general excitability, Edward Van Sloan (who, incidentally, actually is Dutch) gives van Helsing a much tougher edge. This is an experienced doctor, one who has dealt for too long with human stupidity and death, and is heavily implied to have fought vampires off before. It's a different take, and one that I don't find matches up all that well with literary!van Helsing, but I still think it's fantastic.

And a lot of that is due to Edward van Sloan's acting. Edward makes van Helsing almost as menacing as Drac himself, flipping between blunt rudeness and icy, obviously fake politeness. There's his physical acting, too, with his stiff hands lending a sort of creepiness to his gesticulations.

And then, most importantly, there are his scenes with Bela Lugosi's Dracula. Mel Brooks, by the way, does a hilarious send-up of this; where both he (Brooks) and Dracula (played by Canadian Leslie Nielson) constantly try to get in the last word.

And honestly? It's not that far from what goes on in this film. van Helsing and Dracula are constantly trying to one-up the other. From van Helsing's tricks (like the mirrored music box) to try and out Dracula, to Dracula flat out hypnotising (!) van Helsing. Fortunately for our heroes, van Helsing manages to shake Drac off.

But it's this really intense game of one-upmanship, powered by respectful, frozen malice. Drac, you can tell, respects and even admires van Helsing. At least as much as an inhuman monster can. Van Helsing, on the other, very clearly does not return the sentiment. Dracula, insofar as van Helsing is concerned, is nothing more than a dangerous pest to be eradicated. Van Helsing is respectful because he comes from that same old school world of absolute politeness and noblesse oblige, but not because he gives one shit about Dracula. And that really comes across in Edward van Sloan's acting: he's condescending as he confronts Dracula, lecturing the old monster on just how he'll beat him. It needs to be seen to be really understood, but trust me: the scenes between van Helsing and Drac are, hands down, the best in the movie.

That's it for today, folks. I hope to see you tomorrow!