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hybbart · 11 months

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Day 1904: The spread of sculk is too much to just clean. After salvaging what they could, the ranch is taken down...

Bonus short story below.

Jimmy watched as the last of the house blazed in the twilight. Around the edges of the flames Pearl and Sausage marched, searching for anything flammable that might catch. It was the beginning of winter, and the constant rains had kept everything soaked, but they couldn’t risk it in the middle of the forest. Lizzie had stayed closer as well, securing the last of their belongings to take away in the morning. It was only a few metres down the driveway, but the ranchers couldn’t even get that far.

Tango let out a low growl. His grip on Jimmy’s sleeve tightened, pulling the thick fabric further over his eyes. Puffing up his feathers, Jimmy pulled his rancher closer into his side. Tango only stayed because of Jimmy, and because he couldn’t bring himself to leave the ranch behind. It was what he’d said yesterday, before the first burning. But he couldn’t watch. He could barely help them clear it out before the sledgehammers came in. Sparks flickered through his hair in lieu of tears in his eyes as he kept his face buried.

Jimmy, though… He was entranced. Every crack in the beams that cause a burst of sparks or shift in the wind that billowed the smoke in a new direction. The smoke made his eyes water, but none fell. Maybe he’d finally grown numb. Maybe it looked too different. There was a pile of flaming rubble where his home once was, his first home, but his chest only felt hollow. All that was left with a twitch in his wing, the desire to run and keep far away.

Pity in her eyes, Lizzie approached them from the trailer. Reins were pushed into Jimmy’s hand against his protest. “Take a horse and head back to my house before it gets dark.” She said.

“But-”

“No arguing.” Despite the firmness of her words her voice was low and sad. “You need to sleep in a real bed, Sausage is going to stay here tonight. The last of your things will be fine overnight with us.”

Even after years, Jimmy was never able to argue with Lizzie when she said something reasonable, and he’d given up trying. Jimmy glanced to Tango, who was still hiding from the world in Jimmy’s sleeve. A small tug on his hem was all he got in response. “We’ll be back in the morning with more water.” He assured. They rounded up Bullseye and began the long, quiet ride to Lizzie’s.

By the time they arrived it was dark, the home illuminated from within the kitchen. Though half the house was cloaked in tarps to save unfinished work from the rain, they’d moved into the completed half already. A bit of smart planning on Scar and Joel’s part.

One of the kids must have spotted their lantern, as the door opened before the ranchers could get down from their horse. Tom came rushing up with Revy on his tail. He took Bullseye's reins from them and led him to the cow pen. It was more cramped than it should be, since the rain had flooded the rancher’s outer pastures. Revy whined and licked at Tango’s hand until he gave the dog a weak pat.

Joel shouted something after him before guiding the men inside. “We just started eating if you want to sit down.” He explained as he took Jimmy’s coat. One glance at Tango was enough to answer.

“I’ll grab some in a bit.” Jimmy tried to smile gratefully, but it came out as a grimace. Joel let them be with a nod, hand held out to the hall down which Sausage’s room awaited.

It was colourful, though the furniture was rudimentary, with a mattress stolen from Scar’s hospital. The bed so much smaller than they’d gotten used to, but Jimmy doubted it would matter for tonight. Norman and Flick waited on the windowsill, and Joel had already set up Jimmy’s breathing machine. It took some coaxing to get Tango to change out of his coveralls - which went into a plastic bag to be washed separate - and take off his arm. Even more coaxing was needed to get him to let go long enough for Jimmy to also change. When Jimmy turned back around the blazeborn had Revy wrapped up in his lap instead. The dog’s tail beat against the bed, happy to be held, but whining, nonetheless.

“Do you think you can eat?” Jimmy asked quietly. Tango didn’t respond. He grabbed only one bowl from the kitchen, unsure he could eat much either without it coming back up. Smoke still clung to their skin and hair, dragging them back to the ranch every time it filled their nostrils, but it was much too dark to run a hot bath. Still, Jimmy knew he had to eat something, even if it was in silence.

Tango migrated behind Jimmy at the end of the bed, tail wrapping around the avian’s waist. Its tuft flicking with agitation. Jimmy could feel the heat rolling off his rancher. “It’s not fair.” He rasped.

Jimmy’s wings flattened. “It was an old wood house. It would have had a mold problem eventually unless we rebuilt completely.”

“But why did it have to be sculk!” He snapped, tail sparkling in Jimmy’s lap. Jimmy tried to smooth it down, but it had little effect. “Why’d it have to make it here?”

There wasn’t an answer, not one Jimmy could provide. Maybe Doc or Zed could explain. It was probably in the well and washing into the surrounding water supply now. Would it be washed away? They should have listened to Grian’s worries back when Jimmy’s feathers had been infected somewhere. Or, maybe, back when they’d first found that infested corpse, they should have done something more. It didn’t matter now that their home was already gone. When nowhere felt safe.

His wings itched while his rancher bristled. Tango couldn’t cry, but he was made to fume. “Why aren’t you angry?”

“There’s no one to be angry at.” Jimmy shrugged.

“The stupid sculk! The idiots who let it loose! The world!” The bed creaked as Tango kicked off it to pace the small room. Revy whimpered, shifting his nose into Jimmy’s lap. “It’s been half a decade. It was supposed to get better. We live out in the middle of nowhere. And the end of the world still found us! We build our own home and make our own food and do everything we can, and it still comes and finds us!” The blazeborn was consumed in his spiral. Flames burst like firecrackers along his tail, startling Flick when it whipped past the poor cat.

“Tango…” Jimmy sighed, giving the man a miserable look. When he continued to pace, threatening to scorch their hosts’ possessions, Jimmy finally put a hand up in front to stop him.

A hiss escaped Tango, narrowed eyes glaring at the hand which proceeded to latch onto his shirt and drag him off course. Tango tried to shake it off, but Jimmy kept his hold. “It’s not fair that there’s nothing to fight back against.” He lamented, voice cracking. “I just have to sit here and hope tomorrow it doesn’t get in your wings, or start growing into Revy’s brain, or infest another basement! That it doesn’t get everywhere and take everything. At least the stupid zombie I can punch in the face!” By the end his voice was so shrill and watery Jimmy could barely understand it.

“Me and Revenge are okay. We’re right here.” Jimmy assured, pulling Tango back down beside him.

It made something finally break. Tango curled into himself across Jimmy’s lap, heaving dryly. Talons raked gently through the blazeborn’s hair. Between sobs Tango mumbled incomprehensibly while Jimmy cooed to keep himself from crying as well. There were too many things roiling just beneath his impulse control. If he let one out, the rest would follow, he was sure. So, he focused on Tango. His rancher needed him.

“I don’t think we’d win if it was someone you had to fight, to be honest.” He whispered half-jokingly as the sobs died down.

Tango stilled, then slumped further into Jimmy’s chest. “I could at least try, instead of this.”

Jimmy hummed. Even if they could, Jimmy wasn’t so sure he would in the moment, and he knew Tango wasn’t all that dissimilar. Unlike Joel or the downtowners, their talent was for running and hiding. That wasn’t the point though, Jimmy knew, so he didn’t argue. “What do we do in the spring?” He asked instead.

“… I dunno.” Tango mulled, head tilted out to look at his thoughts. “It’s not safe to rebuild there.”

“Scar has most of the grain safe, and Lizzie has our animals. We could find another plot, there’s plenty around.” Though, most of them had been stripped of their valuable supplies and building materials over the years or rotted away from lack of care. But the land was still good, and they and Pearl didn’t need much room.

Would Pearl stay with them? They’d lived with her much longer than without her – if the time before her arrival weren’t so chaotic, he might not recall so well what it was like without her – but she always seemed to keep her distance. A guest, even after she was given her own room. Having someone there to take care of things even when they couldn’t let them grow the ranch to almost thirty cattle, but without her...

That Lizzie’s family would have their own ranch soon was the only thing that calmed the nervous itch in his wings recently.

“We’d have to move closer.” Tango’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Huh?”

He was no longer curled up, though he hadn’t bothered to remove himself from Jimmy. There was that look in his eyes, where his brain was moving far too fast for Jimmy to keep up. At least it had occupied him with something other than the sculk and fire. “We can’t rebuild around the ranch, we won’t know how bad the infection around it is until next winter, and the water probably isn’t safe. If we rebuilt we’d have to move further west down the mountains towards the city, OR-” Tango raised his hand before Jimmy could protest. “We move closer to the hospital, somewhere around here, or maybe further into the interior on the other side.”

Jimmy clamped up. They’d all had more than a few conversations about this, between them and the hospital, other settlements, and over the radio. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Keep spread out. Far enough that, if something happens, everyone else is safe, but close enough to reach neighbours relatively quick. Like a long chain snaking across the mountains. By now everyone had horses or bikes and access to the recap radio, and it helped them cover more resources. A farm needed land, anyways, especially to keep up with how many people there now were within the network.

That thought seemed too much right now, though. He could feel the ash in his wings turning to lead. Losing the ranch didn’t just affect them. The cattle were saved but almost all their stores were gone, including two cows’ worth of beef that was to be sent out. It would take weeks, if not the whole season, to get things back in motion, in the months they were relied on most. Would people starve? Would the sculk spread from the ranch? It was a responsibility that seemed natural and seamless just weeks ago, but now felt suffocating.

“I’m not sure-” Jimmy finally replied. “I’m not sure I can rebuild the ranch right now.” Flashes of the burning rubble filled his mind, along with that numbness he’d felt. There was at least three months before they could begin, plenty of time to get over it. But right now… “I don’t even know if I want to.”

He expected perhaps a gasp or shouting from Tango. ‘We’re the ranchers!’ Maybe. But the blazeborn, to Jimmy’s surprise, nodded. Laughed, even. “We’ve been running one for years, why’s it feel impossible now?”

It was probably just nerves. Anxiety. In a few weeks it would wear away. But for now, Jimmy leaned his head against the top of Tango’s and entertained other things. “We could move back to the hospital.”

“That’d drive you insane, and Revy would kill Grian.” Tango chuckled.

So would you, Jimmy thought. He was sure if Tango had to see more sculk every day he would lose it. “What about visiting Gem and Impulse then?” He suggested instead. “I heard they’ve been doing a lot of forestry. It might be good to learn from them. Or we could finally go to the coast.”

“We never did make it that far, did we?” Tango recalled. “… Why not both? Go back up the mountain and race back down until we hit the coast. Maybe find some more people outside the recap’s range and bring them in.”

“If they’ve survived this long then I doubt they’d want to move now.”

“They might. Or maybe we can help extend the radio range for them.”

Jimmy smiled. “Maybe we should go east, instead. Find a ranch in the prairies. Be real cowboys.”

“Never been out there, even before all this.” Tango relaxed back against Jimmy, patting his leg for Revenge to come lay across. “You could stretch your wings.”

“That sounds nice.” He admitted with a sigh.

The pair continued to chatter, naming everything and everywhere. Making plans they’d likely never use. Anything to take their mind off the ranch. Just for one night.

#solidaritygaming #tango tek #ldshadowlady #pearlescentmoon #mythicalsausage #rancher apocalypse au #team rancher #fanfic #fanart #bioppunk #spooky #character #scene #background #writing #art #sketch #colour #Hybbart

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thelov3lybookworm · 10 months

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I Didn't Ask For This (part four)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: Marriage had always been something sacred to little Y/n, something dream like, where her husband would come and whisk her away to a fairyland. At least, that's what she had always thought.

All her dreams would be shattered.

But maybe she can salvage them?

•○●⛦●○•

Tw: forced marriage, azzie being and asshole(obviously, he's been forced), suicidal thoughts, almost death, none more that I can think of, so let me know if I need to add anything.

A/n: I promise it gets better. Future chapters are going to get happier.(that was a note to myself so I don't get carried away again)

•○🌑○•

Y/n blinked the sleep from her eyes as male voices reached her, jerking upright when she realised she was not in her bed. Where was she?

Then, as her eyes passed over the red walls around her and the expensive furniture, everything that happened the previous day came rushing back.

Her head swung around to try and find the source of the voices that she had heard, now quieted. She found the General and the High Lord standing right by the door, now staring at her.

As she registered the fact that she probably looked like a mess, she hurried to stand, nearly faceplanting in the process. Blood climbed up her neck and cheeks as she turned to look at the High Lord who had stepped forward.

"Good morning Y/n. Did you have a peaceful sleep?" He asked, his tone gentle. Though she hadn't, she nodded. His eyes were filled with understanding, and he sighed. "May I ask you a question?" When she gave a curt nod, he continued. "Why were you sleeping here? Cassian says he showed you to Azriel's room."

"I'm not–" She began, her voice raspy, before cleared her throat. "I'm not sure I can tell you that my Lord."

"Rhysand, please." He said. "It's okay, you can tell us anything. Did he kick you out?"

Her eyes darted around nervously. Maybe this could be some kind of test? Maybe Azriel was hiding in a corner of the room, looking for a reason to hate her more if she spoke bad about him out to his brothers.

When she didn't respond, the General spoke up. "There are guest rooms here. You didn't have to sleep on the couch. It would have been uncomfortable."

The door next to the General opened abruptly, then slammed back shut, making him jump. As if the house was trying to say that it tried to get her to a better place. A tiny smile bloomed on Y/n's lips.

The house was... adorable to say the least.

"The house tried to get me to go somewhere else, but I was tired and decided to stay here." A wind that sounded a lot like a huff passed through the room, making Y/n shake her head. "I hope that's okay."

"That is completely fine." The High Lord– Rhysand, she had to chide herself internally– grinned. "I've got a feeling you and the House are getting together well?" At that, Y/n smiled. A real one.

"You could say that."

The door creaked open then, the General's mate peeking in.

"Oh, I've been searching for you." She said, staring straight at Y/n. Stepping in, she pointed to the two males. "Get out."

"Why?" The General all but pouted.

"Becuase I say so."

He grumbled, but left with the High Lord. The female–Nesta, Y/n now remembered– came closer.

"I was going out with my friends today, and I was wondering if you would like to come along."

Y/n shook her head slowly. "I don't know them, and I wouldn't want to intrude–"

"You wouldn't be intruding. Plus, I'm pretty sure I can introduce you to them. And other than that, they would love to meet you. You can become a part of our group." She said, an undertone of excitement in her voice, which made Y/n falter, wondering if she should accept the offer.

Then, she sighed and nodded. Nesta let out a squeal of happiness and linked her arms with Y/n, pulling her away and into a guest bedroom, getting ready for the meeting.

•○🌑○•

Y/n settled on a simple white gown and a braid for her hair, despite Nesta's very weird preferences. Her bag had appeared in the room as soon as they entered, increasing the love she already felt for the house.

Now they were sitting in a cafe, waiting for the others to show up. From what she knew of the two females, they had tragic pasts. One of them hadn't stepped foot out of the House of Wind for two years, and she only started a few months back.

Soon, they arrived. It wasn't anything like she expected. She thought I would be uncomfortable and awkward, but they behaved as if Y/n was their childhood friend. As the evening progressed, they talked and laughed, returned to the house and settled in one of the smaller libraries, then talked about their pasts. Them telling her about their pasts without an ounce of hesitation prompted her into speaking of her childhood too, and they were horrified to say the least.

At one point, Emerie was even ready to go and murder Y/n's father, but settled down after a few moments, still fuming. It warmed Y/n immensely that someone she had barely known for a few hours would care so much for her.

She just prayed that her husband would stop being an asshole too.

•○🌑○•

It had been two weeks of absolute hell for Y/n. Because of him.

Whenever she walked into a room he was in, he would give a huge sigh of annoyance, glare at her and walk away. Whenever she tried to speak with him, he would yell at her, just like the first night. Everytime, she had to hold back tears.

She didn't understand it, this hatred. Did he not remember that she was forced into this as well? Or did he think she went to Hewn City purposefully trying to force him into a marriage? Or did he not want to accept the fact that no one was to fault in this situation? Did he just hate Y/n?

As she turned a corner, she was met with a sight that broke whatever hope she had, and probably answered all of her questions.

Standing there was Azriel, with a female pressed between him and the wall, and, he was kissing her, passionately.

Elain. The High Lady and Nesta's sister.

Y/n stood frozen for a moment before she stepped back and away from sight. She pressed herself against a wall, her breaths coming shorter and shorter. How could he? How–

She knew she didn't own him, but it hurt her all the same. They were married for Cauldrons sake! And even though their relationship was nonexistent at best, she never would do what he was doing.

That was when she noticed a shadow right in front of her face, bobbing up and down. All blood drained from Y/n's face when the shadow darted away, back to its master. There was nothing Y/n could do except run.

So she did, as fast as she could, towards her room. As she pressed herself against the door, footsteps sounded, coming closer to her room. Panic clawed at Y/n, her heart clenching when the person knocked.

She didn't answer, trying to quiet her breaths. But then a voice called her name, and she started to calm down.

Nesta.

Y/n opened the door and Nesta walked in as if she owned the place.

"I was searching for you and saw you running, so I wanted to check if everything's alright." She declared, but then she faltered, her features softening when she saw the state Y/n was in. "What happened?"

It all came pouring out of Y/n as she sat down in an armchair. Nesta was fuming, so Y/n added, "It's okay. He doesn't owe me anything."

A mischievous glint entered Nesta's eyes and she grinned. "If he doesn't owe you anything, you dont owe him anything."

"What do you mean?" Though Y/n had an inkling of what might be brewing in Nesta's mind, she still asked carefully.

"Oh you just wait darling."

•○🌑○•

"I–I can't wear this, Nesta." Y/n mumbled as she stared at herself in the mirror. Nesta had come to Mor, telling her of her mastermind plan, all while Y/n had stood in a corner face-palming. They had then informed her that everyone was going to a place called Rita's, which had been the main reason Nesta had been searching for her.

Now they had forced her into something that barely had the right to be called a rag, let alone a dress.

"You can and you will." She was adamant. But when Y/n refused to budge, Nesta handed her another dress. This one, thank the cauldron, could be called a dress, but for someone who didn't need to breathe. As she tried it on, she had to wonder why she was even here in the first place when she could be peacefully sleeping right now.

This dress was stretchy and fully black, like a second skin on Y/n with a high neck and long sleeves that both left everything to the imagination as well as nothing.

"Will this be alright?" Mor asked. When Y/n nodded, they both launched into what their plan was as Y/n blushed.

•○🌑○•

She wasn't really fond of this place, Y/n decided in the first few moments she was there. It was a little too loud for her. But she had a purpose, or rather, Mor and Nesta had a purpose.

When everyone, including Azriel had arrived at Rita's, the two females had pulled Y/n away to the bar, where they sat on high stools and sipped drinks. Mor and Nesta were having wine, and Y/n had some non alcoholic drink that Mor had ordered for her.

According to their plan, they were going to get Y/n a man, as Nesta put it. Someone who might want to have Y/n, because when Azriel and she had promised themselves to each other, there was no rule stating that they could have a relationship with someone else. And while Y/n didn't really like the idea, she had to distract herself with something.

Soon enough, a male slid into the stool next to her, giving her a wink and a smile. She panicked, turning to Nesta, who nodded enthusiastically. So Y/n gave him a small smile back as he started up a conversation. Nothing much, just where she was from and what her interests were. It all went smoothly, until it didn't.

The male glanced behind Y/n, going pale. She turned too, wanting to know what happened. And there he stood.

Her husband.

He looked... scary, for the lack of a better word in her mind.

"Who are you?" He asked the male in a deadly voice, completely ignoring Y/n.

"I could ask the same of you." The male said, though his voice trembled.

"But you won't, you already know who I am. So, run, little boy. Before my generosity ends." The male opened his mouth to argue, but Azriel continued. "That's my wife you're–"

Y/n stopped hearing anything he said then, a ringing in her ears. He had just called her his wife, when he would not even look at her when she tried to talk to him. She stared at him, wondering if he was serious. But then he turned to her.

"We're going home." And she wanted to slap him. He didn't give her a choice, taking her hand and winnowing away. The next moment they were standing in one of the sitting rooms in the House.

And then, he had the audacity to turn and walk away. Every other time when she had tried to speak with him and he had walked away, she had let him do that, but not now. Not when one moment he was calling her his wife and scaring away males who wanted to talk to her, and the next he pretended as if she didn't exist.

So she walked ahead of him and blocked his path. He stopped, but didn't look at her, increasing her fury. "Why would you do that?"

He didn't answer, starting forward again, trying to go around her. She pushed against his chest. He finally looked at her, his eyes cold. "Let me go, Y/n."

"Then tell me why you did that!"

A sigh escaped his lips. "Because it felt right at the time, but now I feel like that was a mistake. If I hadn't taken you away, then maybe you would have left me alone."

She gaped at him, at a loss for words as he again tried to walk away. When she didn't move, he turned towards a nearby balcony and took off. Her heart was breaking, and the agony was unbearable.

So she silenced everything around her, and, her resolve hardening, she walked towards a staircase nearby.

She just wanted some peace. And peace she would get.

•○🌑○•

The cool night air stung Y/n's cheeks, but she didn't feel it through the numbness in her body. She just wondered what the air would feel like when she sped through it towards the ground.

She was standing on the edge of a landing, one that didn't have a railing. These past weeks she'd had nothing to do except explore the house, and she had come across a secret stairway full of dust and spider webs which led to here. From the looks of it, no one knew about this place.

She took a deep breath and lifted a leg, suspending it in the air as she stared below her and imagined what would happen if she took a step forward. A smile bloomed on her lips. She could finally have her peace, and she won't be a burden for anyone any longer. Freedom lay just a few inches from her feet, all she had to do was let go of the restrains holding her in place.

Of course, she wasn't going to take that step. Not because she wanted to live or anything like that. No, she wouldn't take that step because she had come to care for the Inner Circle, mainly Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn. Maybe Mor too. So she wouldn't take that step.

But when did life ever go according to what she wanted? Was it even life when she didn't know what it felt like to be alive?

She started to take her feet back, to set it on the firmness of the floor below her. But then, it got caught against the rough stone. She lost her balance. And fell forward.

All thoughts fled her mind except the fact that she was falling too fast. Even though it might have given her some relief, she didn't want to die.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry.

But she did neither. If she was going to die, she would die with dignity. She would die with all the confidence she never had.

The ground was getting closer, the air tearing at her hair and cheeks and eyes. So she closed her eyes and waited for the pain. Or would it not hurt? Maybe she'd stop feeling the moment she touched the ground.

A loud flapping sound came from somewhere above her, and then suddenly Y/n's body was jerked in the other direction, all the air fleeing her lungs as she felt two solid bands of muscle and fire wrap around her. Despite not knowing who had become her saviour, she didn't care. She was just grateful for being saved.

But then she opened her eyes to find herself staring at Azriel, who pointedly ignored her. All the thoughts of why she had wanted to do this in the first place came back to her, and she pushed against his chest. He looked down to glare at her, flying faster.

He landed in the training area, but even though they they were both standing on stable ground, he didn't let go. When Y/n tried to push him away, he pulled her impossibly closer.

"Are you insane?" He murmured, his eyes churning like a storm. She didn't answer, still trying to untangle him from her. After a few moments, he let go. She stumbled back, trying to put as much space between them as she could, panting. "That was stupid. You can't throw your life away like that!"

His breathing mirrored hers as his voice echoed around them.

"What do you care about my life? And if you have somehow forgotten, you told me to do that yourself."

"I didn't!"

"Oh you most certainly did."

"When?" His eyes were so wide, Y/n wondered if his eyeballs would fall out.

"The first night."

"I didnt mean it!"

Y/n turned away, not having the energy to argue with him. But of course he was not one to be ignored. He caught her wrist and whipped her around, snarling.

"Didn't you want to talk? Talk. I'm ready to hear."

"Now you're ready to listen? Then answer my question first. Why do you hate me so much?" She didn't want to talk right now, still shaken from her encounter with near death, but she didn't know when he'd be ready to talk again. This could be her only chance, and she would take it.

"Bec–because you ruined my life."

"I ruined your life? Do you think I had any choice in the matter? I didn't ask for this, Azriel."

"I know you didn't, but–"

"But what Azriel? Do you think I didn't try to stop him from taking me to Hewn City that day? How do you think that went?" He was silent, staring at her, so she forged on, laughing. "You say I ruined your life, but atleast you had one. You lived. I didn't Azriel. Everyday I woke up hoping that you would come, and take me away to a better place, just like you told me you would. That was all you ever talked about when we were kids. That you would take me away when we grew up and always be my friend." He flinched at the venom in her voice. "I prayed you weren't dead. Because in that home, Azriel? I didn't live, I existed. My father wouldn't let me live. You left and had most of your life to enjoy, but do you know what I went through in that cauldron forsaken place?"

"You can't blame me for what your father did." There was no bite to his words and they sounded more like a question.

"Oh? And you can blame me for what our fathers did?" He stayed quiet. She continued laughing, tears now streaming down her face. "The suffering I went through everyday was not enough for my father. Almost everyday, he'd taunt and tell at me that I was burden and if you didn't come back, he'd kill me. I had to keep looking over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't going to fulfil that promise."

"You could have left..."

Y/n raised a brow, an incredulous smile on her face. "Do you even want me to answer that?" All the energy that had been in her drained, the venom in her voice now gone. She turned away. "When you don't know what someone's life has been like, don't speak about it like you do." She paused, then asked one last question. "Why did you... bring me back from Rita's?"

"Because you're my wife and you're supposed to be mine..." He sounded so guilty and sad that for a moment Y/n pitied him. He probably loved Elain, and he was now stuck with Y/n.

She turned halfway, looking at him. "If I'm yours, are you supposed to be mine? Because when I saw you and Elain today, it didn't seem like it."

The blood drained from his face as he stared at her. Her brows furrowed. Had the shadow not told him about her presence? She glanced at them where they churned restlessly around him. Feeling something cool caressing her wrist, she glanced down. It was a shadow, slithering against her skin. A corner of her lips lifted as the shadow darted back to its master. She turned away again.

She left him there, planning on going to sleep.

Hoping to never wake up.

•○🌑○•

Taglist: @bubybubsters @maxxieluvs @bubbbllee @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @waytoomanyteenagefeels @tell-me-a-poem @the-lake-is-calling @spaxxxi @japanese-wonderland-blog @valeridarkness @moonlwghts @deadratio @esposadomd @harrystylesfan2686 @missusbarnes-rogers @whatthefuckshappeningrn @hyacinthoideshispanica @historygeekqueen @lizziesfirstwife @nastynesta @aroseinvelaris @nightless @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kodokunarisu-blog @selillusion @eos-princess @moonfawnx @a-court-of-milkandhoney @emilyo-218 @wannabewolf @ailyr92 @chronically-online-cheese @myheartfollower @hells-sluttiest-new-arrival @marina468 @menaosama @starryhiraeth @hereticdance @mali22 @valencia-rou @azrielsstarlight @marvelouslovely-barnes

Part 5

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hellboundwrites · 6 months

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Ghouls ships and how they love

Sunshine and Mist : Healing Love

Sunshine and Mist's love is redemption.

When Sunshine learns her voice isn't what the band needs anymore, she falls. One day, she's on the road with her family, and the next, she's left behind with the knowledge that they'll have someone else to take her place and continue her dream.

The abbey has never been so silent.

She never knew before what the past ghouls were to do once they were deprived of their functions. Where they went. She only guessed they just disappeared from the spotlight and became ghosts. How ironic. That seems to be the destiny of everyone who has ever been involved in the Project - even the Papas.

She never cared about all of these invisible spirits before. They didn't affect her. She was only rising.

Now she knows.

She knows the way to Mist's room like it's her own. Who found the other first ? Neither of them has that answer. It seemed they were both longing for each other long before they met. Mist who has been alone for so many years, and who long ago abandoned all hope of finding someone like her. And Sunshine who doesn't know how to hold her grief on her own without imploding.

Mist knows how to deal with disappointment and teaches all she learned to Sunshine.

They share love through their hands.

Mist's hands have always characterized her well. They used to be small, with short and colorful nails, but strong and able to hold her heavy bass. Their strength was once invested in music, but she has left most of it in the past. Now her hands are the product of slow and attentive labor, and unconditional love for all things left behind by others. Her hands bring back life to everything they touch.

It turns out, Sunshine learns, that there's a life after all that glory. It's modest and quiet but it's gentle and everything in it has value. Even a fallen ghoul like her.

Every day she joins Mist in her workshop, where everything is salvaged. Here, with a warm light behind handmade curtains, ripped sheets are sewed back together, stains are cleansed, electronics are repaired, shoes are patched up, and old furniture gets fresh paint. Rare are the things that do not find new purposes. Sometimes an object can't be fixed, so it has to be transformed.

Being here, assisting Mist in her chosen retirement plan instead of singing in a shiny costume somewhere beyond the sea - none of it was Sunshine's purpose when she was summoned. But alongside Mist, she learns, she fixes, she rebuilds.

Sometimes they allow themselves to fall back into their past. Sunshine hums while she works and everyone who picks up or drops an item for them at the workshop asks to hear more. Mist enjoys it the most, but never speaks a word about it. She just brings Sunshine to her room one day and lets her see her collection of instruments, also retired and only occasionally used to entertain old passion and nostalgia.

Nothing will ever kill their hunger for music. But they now perform on their own little stage, for each other and anyone who'd like to join.

Sometimes, they fix each other. Calloused hands, after a long day of work, find a body to rest on. They explore locks of hair, soft cheeks, the curve of a hip... And they know what to do with everything the Clergy doesn't see value in. Soft voices and experienced fingers meet and comfort and cherish.

This life is not smaller than what they were originally given. It's something different. Their presence in the confines of the workshop is a necessary one. They take everything the Clergy would throw out and give it back a sense of future. Some of the people who ask for their help forget the damage and simply thank them for giving them hope. Some people want the thing they love back and do not care for the shiny and new.

What their love does... It's giving new meanings to fallen ambitions and renewing faith in lost futures.

It's healing the broken.

Part 1. Rain and Dewdrop

Part 2. Cirrus and Cumulus

Part 3. Mountain and Swiss

Part 4. Ifrit and Zephyr

Find me on AO3

#headcanon #nameless ghouls #the band ghost #ghost band #fanfic #fic #ao3 fanfic #ghost fanfic #nameless ghoulettes #mist ghoulette #sunshine ghoulette #sunny ghoulette #mist/sunshine ghoulette #sunshine/mist #hellboundfics #sapphic

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darkshrimpemotions · 1 year

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Trying to clean out my screenshots folder because it is way too big but I am coming across so many good tags from people in doing so!! Like the fact that Dean and Cas WOULD be the type to have a cluttered house full of knick knacks and half-finished projects and repurposed items, because Cas would see the beauty in it and Dean lived so long with scarcity that he can't just throw things away.

Cas has a lot of plants yeah but not a single flower pot. Instead he's growing flowers in old boots and chipped coffee mugs and cracked mason jars. Half the plants are actually plants. The other half are lovingly cultivated weeds. Dean made a little walkway that leads up to the house but it's out of salvaged bits of broken brick and cool rocks Jack brought home.

They put their Christmas lights up that first year and never took 'em down. The fridge is covered in photos held on with magnets they bought at gas stations on various road trips. The back yard is slowly accumulating car parts and other useful junk. There's a bath tub out there that Dean helped Cas convert into a frog pond, with a toilet bowl rigged up as a fountain. There's a windmill that used to be one of the wheels on a busted-up Camaro powering the electricity for Dean's workshop, which used to be a wood shed.

Cas keeps chickens and pigs and bees, all in sturdy but makeshift homes made out of salvaged junk. The porch railing is lined with wind chimes and sun catchers made out of random shit Dean or Cas or Jack found, anything that clinks satisfyingly or throws the light. None of their furniture matches and every room is painted a different color.

All their wash cloths are bits of flannel from shirts that couldn't be salvaged as shirts any longer. Their books are dog-eared used copies bought secondhand. Dean's taped the covers back on a few of them. They keep them on a shelf made of old apple crates. There are photos and mementos on every wall, every one in a different type of frame. None of their dishes or silverware match. There are wildflowers in a red solo cup on the kitchen table, left over from the supplies for their last cookout. The cup, not the flowers. Dean brought those home for Cas yesterday when he got back from yardselling.

#supernatural #destiel #hillbilly angel #kansas man

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mercurygray · 1 year

Text

A Ghost! Joan AU, because @shoshiwrites started it.

He was only doing this as a favor.

Every time he said that, people laughed - that’s a pretty big favor, renovating a whole house, but none of them understood what Lew had done for him, really done for him, since he’d gotten home, and if fixing up the ancestral mansion so that Lew could sell it was the way he could pay it all back, then that was just what he was going to do.

It was a beautiful house, with turn of the century wood paneling and built-ins for days, but Lew’s mother had made some renovations in the 80s that hadn’t aged well, and after no one had lived in the house for the last fifteen years there were problems that needed to be solved before it went on the market again, desirable features to be added back in so the real estate listing would sound good - new furnace, new roof, granite countertops, refinished hardwood floors.

“And the ghost, of course.”

Yes - the ghost. Dick had actually laughed when Lew had brought it up the first time, like this was actually a feature people would be interested in, but his friend was adamant. “She’s pretty benign, as far as spirits go - Story goes that they were having a party celebrating the war being over and then she got the telegram that her fiance was dead. She was so overcome she wandered outside into traffic - got hit by a car. My sister claimed she could see her, sometimes, when my parents had people over, but I never did." Lew grinned. "Makes for a great story, though, doesn't it? It'll be a nice story for the buyers - people love that kind of stuff."

‘People’ might, but the idea held little appeal to Dick. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in ghosts - he was just as prepared as the next guy to admit there were some things that he simply couldn’t understand. But an actual ghost, haunting this house? Just a story, as far as he was concerned - and after three weeks of living here, he had no evidence of any spirit, benign or no. Drapes stayed unruffled, paint remained in its cans, no doors closed of their own accord. It was an old house, like any old house, filled with the remnants of several lives - loads of furniture to be junked or salvaged, old photo albums to be hauled out of corners, closets of clothes that needed to be consigned to the junk bin - or the local charity shop.

It was the first time in a while that he’d had a place to think of as his own, and he was finding he quite enjoyed it - he was living out of what had once been the drawing room, on the first floor, pocket doors open to the sitting room beyond. These spaces had needed the least work, so it was the easiest to set up his bed here. It was a room in transition - a little of everything. He’d moved in a kitchen table to use as a desk, sheets still over some of the room’s armchairs. The truly ancient couches had gone to the curb, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the record player, a huge sideboard thing in dark mahogany that somehow matched the paneling, if not the feel of the rest of the house. The records, too, had stayed - a time capsule of a different era, mostly light listening from the 40s and 50s. Not a bad way to spend an evening.

Dick flipped idly through the records in the cabinet and selected one at random - some big band conductor. The machine turned on straightaway when he moved the arm, carefully settling it along the record's edge so that the vinyl could crackle and pop for a moment before starting up.

He fiddled with the volume knob for a moment and sat back down with his coca cola and the parts catalog for the kitchen cabinets, legal pad and pencil at the ready. He already had the measurements and if he made the list, it would be easier to go shopping tomorrow with a complete picture in mind.

"You have good taste."

Dick didn't scare easily, but he nearly jumped out of his chair, eternally glad he didn't spill his soda pop in the process.

There was a woman on the other side of the room - vaguely misty, like he needed to clean his glasses to see her better. Her short, dark hair was elegantly arranged, and she was wearing pearls and a party dress - or what looked like a party dress, anyway.

"Did I...leave the door open?"

She shook her head, still smiling a little. "I heard the music and thought I'd...make an appearance. Tuxedo Junction," she offered. "By Glenn Miller. Our favorite."

Dick realized what she was saying, really saying, and tried to get his galloping heart under control. "You're the ghost."

"My mother taught me it was impolite to address people when you don't know their names," she said, just a little pointedly, and he felt himself blush.

"Dick Winters," he said, hurriedly, though he wasn't sure why, holding out his hand and then realizing, belatedly, that she wasn't going to be able to take it. "I'm sorry, Lew never said -"

"Joan Warren," she said, smiling at the brief comedy of him offering his hand, looking down at it, and then shoving it into his pocket. (She had a nice smile. Could he say that?) "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Winters. And I'm sure Lewis has forgotten my name - if he ever knew it at all."

Lewis - like he was a younger brother or a cousin she had to put up with occasionally. Well, he'd grown up in this house, hadn't he? If she'd been here that long, maybe he was still a child to her. The prospect of being forgotten didn't seem to make her very happy, and Dick decided to change the subject. "So have you...been here long?" God, Dick, what kind of question is that?

Another enignmatic, patient smile. "Since the night I left. Isn't there always something about unfinished business? I think you know what mine was."

"I'm sorry," Dick offered, not knowing what else there was to say. The record had moved on to the next song, and he was forming an image in his mind of what this room must have looked like, the night of that party - men in tuxedos and women in party dresses, everyone drinking champagne and high on life. Lew's...grandfather, probably, or his great-grandfather, presiding over the whole thing. The war was over, and soon everyone would be coming home. Everyone except her fellow, I guess. "That must have been...indescribable."

"Truth be told, I don't remember much of it," she admitted. "Mrs. Nixon was wearing gardenias, and there was too much rum in the punch. Then I remember - the buttons on the Western Union man's jacket. After that..." she gave a slight shrug. "I was gone, and then I...came back."

"Do you...make appearances very often?"

She shook her head. "No, not often. But when emotions are high - a party, or a fight." A brief, dry chuckle. "I think you know this house has seen a lot of fights." God, did he ever. "Blanche and I had an understanding. I'd sit by her bed and sing to her." A thought occurred. “Is she doing all right? Blanche? I haven’t seen her in the longest time.”

Dick thought about Lew’s younger sister, last seen on Instagram in Bali on a yoga retreat for the rich and famous after having dumped yet another deadbeat boyfriend. Still trying to find herself - that was what he always thought of when Lew’s sister came to mind. Both of the Nixons were trying to find themselves - Lew at the bottom of a bottle for a while, and Blanche by - wandering. “She’s doing okay,” he said.

“I suppose I should let you go. You were - in the middle of things.”

He shrugged. As hauntings went, this one had been pretty pleasant - and if he was being really honest, he was glad for the company. "It was very nice to meet you, Miss Warren. I know you're around, but you're welcome...any time.”

She smiled at that, turning around and walking out of the room, slowly fading out as she went. Dick stared at the empty space near the doors into the hall, and suddenly realized something. If there wasn’t a fight or a party - why did she come? He looked at the record player, circling now in silence, and rose from his chair to turn it off, reading off the eventual real estate listing in his head.

Recently refinished hardwood floors and exterior landscaping. Also comes with well-behaved ghost who enjoys Glenn Miller.

#i have written a thing #ghost au #reincarnation au #joan warren #mercurygraypresents

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soapkaars · 2 years

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What if the medical malpractice gang would be a commune? How would their rooms look like?

A commune? Like this?

In all honesty, I really only see Lorentz and Billings as being the kind to live in a rural commune, Gogol and Fenninger seem way too much like city slickers to even entertain living together!

But supposing they did, then Lorentz and Billing would definitely go for, what I as a European think is a traditional American style - we're talking painted wood, nice, sober, wooden furniture with little decoration, maybe a few lace doilies here and there, cut glass mirrors and fine little crystal glasses and pitchers to drink some good gin. Karl Fenninger is a modern (1940s) man. We're talking steel tube chairs, art deco is out, new objectivity is in. Industrial sobriety, glass tables, primary colours. He'd have a state of the art player and he'd be very distressed if anyone touched his vinyl collection. Modern art. Not that sell-out called Picasso. But definitely a Man Ray artwork. Or a statuette by Giacommetti. ‘You wouldn’t know him. Very promising young artist.’ A 1940s hipster, if you will. Herman and Jonathan would be a bit of a mix. They'd both be rather kitschy, but Herman in a German way, and Jonathan in an English way. Jonathan: porcelain dogs, lace doilies, perhaps even a little chandelier from the ceiling. Herman: porcelain plates and ballerina figurines, silver pitchers. Their room would be a nightmare to Fenninger, filled with bric-a-brac and souvenirs from all the places they committed crimes in. Also none of their furniture would be new - literally stuff salvaged off the street and from the dump, worn out. And then we have Gogol… Gogol… well, I mean the guy's practically a goth. A small organ in the room, a distressing amount of potted plants, most of which are exotic carnivorous ones, a love for dark wooden furniture with twisted legs (walnut). He'd be driving Jonathan crazy with his music. Oh yes, and not to forget the extensive poetry collection, as well as the 'exotic engravings' (victorian porn)

#medical malpractice #mostly text sorry #i am too tired to draw every single one of their rooms so i hope the american gothic painting is adequate #peter lorre #boris karloff #dr arthur lorentz #professor nathaniel billings #the boogie man will get you #herman einstein #jonathan brewster #arsenic and old lace #professor karl fenninger #youll find out #dr gogol #mad love

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i-am-bitterly-jittery · 2 years

Text

They Call Me Wicked (That Makes Me Glad) (pt 2/?)

[<First],[Next>]

Word Count: 2233

Rating: teen

Pairing: none in this part, future Moceit Analogical and Rosleep

Warnings: mentions of child abuse, minor violence, bullying, threats, intimidation, Remus being Remus (mentioning masturbation, being a general gremlin), one mention of transphobia (not from any main character)

We’re on the Isle of the Lost now bb!

~~~START~~~

On the Isle of the Lost, Evil is King, and no one is more evil, more cruel, more malevolent than Maleficent. If anyone was ruler of the Isle, it was her, and she ruled with an iron fist. She gave no quarters and took no prisoners, when she said jump, you either said “how high?” or you ended up in the hospital.

Her word was law, and no one was above her law.

Not even her own son.

Harsh. Ruthless. Unmoving as the magical barrier itself. Hers were big shoes to fill, but Patton was determined to fill them.

He’d perfected his mother’s “murder face” (as Remus called it) years ago. That plus his style choices of mostly black leather and studs (which also came from Remus) were enough to make him look intimidating wherever he went.

It wasn’t enough to just look intimidating though. On the Isle, actions spoke louder than words; if all Patton did was look the part, people would stop taking him seriously pretty quickly. No, he also had to play the part.

“HEY! Watch where you’re–!”

The vendor cut himself off in a hurry once he looked up to find that the scoundrel who’d knocked over his — rotten — apple stand was none other than Maleficent's son.

“Oops,” Patton sneered, kicking an apple into a nearby wall.

The vendor avoided Patton’s gaze and dropped to the ground, trying to pick up as many apples as he could.

Patton walked past him, missing stepping on the vendor’s fingers by mere millimeters. One of his black and blue leathery wings shot out and clipped one of the poles holding up the vendor’s sign, the man gasped in pain as the sign hit him in the back.

Patton kept walking — his every instinct was screaming at him to make sure that the vendor was ok, but he kept walking.

The other vendors along the row bowed their heads and averted their gazes — anything to keep from attracting Patton’s attention and wrath. They needn’t have bothered; Patton already made his point, and he didn’t have enough energy today to do more than the bare minimum.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Don’t slow down. Don't speed up. Confidence. Purpose. Murder face. Don’t look at me or I will end you.

Patton made it to the end of the row of vendors then ducked down a narrow alleyway, tucking his wings in close to his body. Halfway down was a doorway blocked by a fence bearing a “CAUTION: condemned” sign. He ignored this sign and pushed the gate open.

Behind the gate was a staircase that led him up to the abandoned apartment that he and his gang had converted into their own personal hideout.

The hideout was one large room plus a small bathroom and an even smaller closet. One whole wall was covered in half-broken bookshelves full of a massive collection of secondhand — often extremely ratty and torn — books. Another wall was covered in art projects — most were spray painted directly onto the wall, but some were on salvaged canvas, scraps of paper, or even unwanted patches of fabric. The closet was full of half-finished clothes, fabric that had yet to become clothes, or clothes that were in the process of being taken apart to be turned into new clothes. In one corner was a small kitchenette where they kept the best foods a villain could steal — which wasn’t saying much seeing as the Isle of the Lost usually just got Auradon’s garbage — and a few attempts at baking that were mostly defeated by lack of good ingredients. Throughout the room was a small collection of furniture with three tables of various sizes, one couch, four chairs, and every. Single. Lamp one could possibly get their hands on on the Isle.

No one else was in the hideout, so Patton plopped down on the couch — one of the nicer ones to be found on the Isle, there wasn’t any stuffing coming out of it or anything — and massaged the skin beneath his obsidian-black horns, trying to stave off his mounting headache.

“Heyy Horndog!”

“Not now, Remus,” Patton groaned. “My head is killing me.”

“I can help!” Remus cackled, darting around behind the couch before Patton could stop him. He pressed his thumbs into either side of the back of Patton’s neck and his pointer fingers at the base of his horns then started rubbing them in small circles.

Patton tried to protest, but after a few seconds his headache faded completely. With his headache gone, he released the tension he hadn’t realized that he was carrying in his shoulders and wings.

“Thanks,” he sighed, pushing back the voice in his head — which sounded suspiciously like his mother’s — telling him not to thank anyone for anything.

“No problem, Mal-deficient!” Patton flinched slightly as the nickname hit a little too close to home.

“Ugh!” A voice carried over from the stairs, followed moments later by Remus’s twin brother, Roman. “The garbage man beat me here!?”

“Aww, what’s wrong, princess?” Remus crowed. “Break a nail this morning?”

For being identical twins, Remus and Roman could not look more dissimilar. Remus was large and bulky with a variety of scars covering his body from the various fights he’d either started or ended throughout the years; Roman on the other hand was lean with perfectly smooth skin, unblemished by even the smallest of blackheads. Roman’s hair was short and silky, always styled just so, and his clothes were the closest approximation of princely attire that could be found or made on the Isle; Remus’s hair was long and wild, and his clothes resembled those worn by the pirates more than anything.

The twins were a result of a tryst between Jafar and Evil Queen years ago, but when the relationship turned sour, they’d agreed to each take one child and never speak to each other again. Remus was the result of being raised by a sad man obsessed with genies and power, Roman was the result of being raised by a would-be queen who valued looks and status above all else.

Their relationship with each other was complicated, and Patton struggled to understand it at times, but they were like magnets: drawn to each other or repelled by each other depending on how you turned them.

“Ah, I see I am the last one here,” Logan drawled, the last of their gang to enter the hideout. His long hair was tied up in a ponytail as it always was when he was in the hideout; the skirt of his dress was hiked up and tied behind him like a tail, revealing a pair of sensible trousers underneath. Both of these style changes were designed to be undone at the first sign of his father or an associate of his father.

“Hey Inchworm!” Remus greeted, a subtle dig at the fact that Logan had to hold books extremely close to his face in order to read them.

There were ways of getting eye glasses on the Isle, but Logan’s father, Gaston, didn’t think women should read anyway, so he’d never allowed Logan to get any — not that Logan was really a woman, but explaining that to Gaston had had... less than ideal results.

“I found some more books for you while doing my rounds earlier!”

Remus overturned the sack he carried with him everywhere and dumped a pile of junk onto the coffee table. The junk pile consisted mostly of books, but there was also a half-used watercolor pallet, some interesting scraps of fabric, a broken lamp, a cap-less lipstick, and a cracked gravy boat.

“Some of them are missing pages, and a couple are pretty mildew-y, but I thought you might like them!”

“Yes, these will be sufficient,” Logan murmured, bringing each book close to his face for inspection.

“I’m taking these,” Roman said, swiping the paints and makeup from the pile.

“Sure,” Remus accepted. “Just don’t touch my lamp!”

“Have you tried rubbing it?” Patton asked. His genie obsession was something Jafar had passed down to his son, and while Patton knew that no lamp on the Isle would have a genie in it, he knew that Remus and his dad would still check every single one.

“Yeah,” Remus groaned, flopping upside down on one of the arm chairs. “I would have better results just rubbing my dick — at least something would come out.”

“Gross!” Roman groused, chucking the closest thing he could grab at his twin, which just so happened to be Remus’s empty sack.

“Don’t be such a prude, your dye-ness,” Remus said, sticking his tongue out.

Roman opened his mouth to retort, but shut it again at the sounds of loud footsteps climbing the stairs to their hideout. All four teenagers froze as the footsteps got closer, but each let out a sigh of relief as it was just Lefty, LeFou’s son.

Lefty doubled over panting as he reached the top of the stairs, having run all the way there.

“What do you want, Lefty?” Logan snapped, disliking his pseudo-cousin immensely, especially as he usually acted as a messenger for Gaston.

“Your– *pant* your parents are looking for you!” The short boy reported.

The four of them exchanged a look. It was never good when any of their parents were looking for any of them, parents looking for you usually meant that you screwed up somehow.

And screwing up, for any of them, meant severe punishments.

“All of us?” Remus asked.

“Yeah. I didn’t catch what it was, but it must be pretty important, I’ve never seen Evil Queen and Jafar in the same room before!”

More nervous looks were exchanged before Patton made a decision.

“Well,” he declared, hoping he came across as more confident than he felt. “We’d better see what they want.”

The twins moved in almost perfect sync — quite a feat considering they hadn’t so much as glanced at each other beforehand. Roman threw open the window nearest the sofa while Remus took the one in the kitchenette, and before Patton even had the chance to process this, they’d each jumped out.

They were running.

Logan wasn’t quite so bold as the twins, but he was still brazen enough to push past Lefty and hurry down the stairs.

Patton sighed as his friends all fled, they’d left too quickly for him to warn them; there was no outrunning Maleficent, and trying to do so would only make the punishment worse.

He’d learned that lesson very early in life.

“Lead the way,” he sighed, pushing Lefty towards the stairs.

“But the others–?”

“Will meet us there,” Patton sneered. “Move!”

“Right! Right!” Lefty hopped to it, rushing down the staircase as fast as he dared.

Patton followed behind at a more sedate pace; rushing was a sign of fear, and any sign of fear had to be stomped out quickly if you wanted to last even a second on the Isle. Lefty, and others like him, showed their hands too much, they let others boss them around, sniveling and groveling as they showed their bellies; they would never gain any respect on the Isle, they were lower than weaklings who got beat into the ground trying to stand their ground against someone stronger.

Lefty was weak, and it made Patton sick to think about how he whimpered his way through life, a footstool to villains like Gaston and Maleficent.

The two of them exited the staircase and continued down the alley in the opposite direction that Patton had come from earlier. Just outside the mouth of the alley, one of Maleficent’s lackies — though one with much more status than Lefty — was waiting for them, an unhappy Logan thrown over his shoulder.

Logan struggled in the man’s — Patton was fairly certain his name was Dennis, but he didn’t really care one way or another — grip, but it was no use. Patton brushed right past them, not sparing his friend even a glance.

“Coming?” He called over his shoulder, not waiting for an answer.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Don’t slow down. Don't speed up. Confidence. Purpose. Murder face. Don’t look at me or I will end you.

He could hear Dennis carrying a still struggling Logan easily falling into step behind him. Lefty was not so competent, and Patton could hear him panting to keep up with his brisk pace.

Just outside of Maleficent’s “castle”, they were met by the Stabbington brothers. Sideburns had his arms wrapped around Remus’s middle, pinning his arms to his sides. Patchy had his hands on either of Roman’s shoulders keeping him pinned to the spot in a less aggressive — but no less effective — way.

Patton ignored them too, instead throwing open the doors to his home and walking right in. His mother was waiting for him on her balcony, so Patton stepped into the middle of the room and stopped. He heard the others gather behind him, but keep his gaze locked with Maleficent’s.

Maleficent looked away first, her gaze sweeping over the party gathered behind her son.

“Leave us!” She ordered.

There was a slight commotion behind him as the lackies left, then he heard the doors shut. Once they were shut three other villains stepped up the railing on either side of his mother: Evil Queen, Gaston, and Jafar.

“Pack your bags, kiddies!” Maleficent’s grin was like a knife twisting into Patton’s guts. “You’re going to Auradon!”

~~~END~~~

Aww my sweet angsty babies

I know that Descendants was a DCOM so it didn’t probably have much of a budget, but the fact that they didn’t give Mal horns is a tragedy

General taglist:

@royalty-of-all-things-snuggly @pixelated-pineapple @knight-shives @misunderstood-shadowling

#sanders sides #ts sanders sides #patton sanders #remus sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #descendants au #thursday writes #my writing #sanders sides fanfiction

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scotianostra · 2 years

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On July 12th 1803 Rev Thomas Guthrie, founder of the Ragged Schools, was born in Brechin.

A famous quote about Guthrie is from an unnamed young boy “ He was the only father I ever had."

Thomas was just twelve when he entered the University of Edinburgh. For ten years he studied a wide range of subjects, including medicine and science. After leaving school, he became a minister.

At his first church, in Arbirlot, near Arbroath, he not only taught the gospel, but doctored the sick and helped his people establish a savings institution.

After seven years Thomas Guthrie was called to serve at Old Greyfriars. His initial impressions of the parish were not good. The Cowgate appalled him. He described it as, “one of loopholed poverty, where men and women were hung with rags, and naked, cracked red ulcered feet of little shivering creatures trod the iron streets”.

He made a tour of his district and reported appalling conditions. "I wandered...whole days without ever seeing a Bible, or indeed any book at all. I often stood in rooms bare of any furniture; where father, mother, and half a dozen children had neither bed nor bedding, unless a heap of straw and dirty rags huddled in a corner could be called so. I have heard the wail of children crying for bread, and their mother had none to give them..."

Th reality of life for the poorest in Edinburgh in the early to mid 18th century, a time not talked about much in the history books or the tours that trudge around the Old Town, misery doesn’t go down well with the tourists, they want the romance, the royal connections and the literary greats that graced the city.

Thomas Guthrie opened "ragged schools" and fed the children who attended. He had a hand in every good work, fighting alcoholism, improving housing, calling for better work laws. He was one of the preachers who joined in creating the Free Church. Its ministers became directly dependent upon their people rather than living off the state as civil servants. When many were thrown out of their parsonages and suffered severely, Thomas raised over £100,000 in less than a year to build parsonages for them, a massive amount for that era.

In addition to his social work, he preached faithfully. Hundreds of lives were salvaged through the efforts of the godly man who was born this day.

When Thomas Guthrie was buried in the Grange Cemetery in Edinburgh on 28th February 1873 there had not been a funeral since that of Sir James Young Simpson. It is said some 30,000 people lined the street of Edinburgh to pay their respects, it shows the love the citizens of the city had for the man.

His friend and fellow preacher Robert Smith Candlish spoke of him in a sermon a week after he was laid to rest saying

‘Men powerful in thought are often raised up; but genius, real poetic genius, like Guthrie’s come but once in many generations. We shall not look upon his like soon, if ever. Nor was it genius alone that distinguished him. The warm heart and the ready hand; the heart to feel, and the hand to work. No sentimental dreamer or mooning idealist was he. His pity was ever active’

The statue in the pics is a replica of the one on Princes Street by by Frederick William Pomeroy and is on display at the Glenesk Folk Museum in Tarfside, Angus.

#Scotland #scottish #Church minister #philantropist #charitable man #Edinburgh #history

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the-trinket-witch · 1 year

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Practically Perfect Ch. 2

(Ch 3|Ch 1)

-Knock Knock-

Albert was the first to answer the door. His glance at the alarm clock found the time at 2:00am. Not a great start to the morning. He cracked the front door open, annoyance clear in his face. Outside was a rather nervous looking redhead. The knocker was in the middle of tugging on a rather large collar around his neck when the door opened, and it seemed Albert was not the anticipated one to answer.

“Yuu, lemme in! I’m j-” he started before seeing Albert. “Oh, uh...Yuu lives here, right?”

“Yes they do, though they’re asleep right now...How can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m joining your guys’ dorm; I ain’t going back to Hellslyabul after this!”

“Ah...I see… Well, come in, let’s get you situated. I don’t have any bolt cutters available to take… that thing off,” Al sighed, lazily pointing to the collar. “Unless that’s standard issue…”

“It ain’t…”

“Right...I’ll fetch Yuu; they apparently have more of an idea of what...this is all about,” he finished, pointing out the rest of the early morning guest.

“Nyaahh! Ace, what’re you doing here? That’s the same collar I got shackled with during orientation! What’s it doin’ on you?!” Grim yowled in Yuu’s lap. The group had congregated in the lounge, with Albert retreating to start a pot for tea.

“I...ate a tart,” Ace murmured. His eyes diverted to the floor in shame.

“Wait, that’s it?”

“Ya, look, here’s what happened…”

Ace recounted his tale, with Albert returning with the tea tray as the story wrapped.

>I can’t deny that, but…

>Sealing your magic might have been much, but…

“Ehhh, That’s all you can say? Can’t get any kind of sympathy?” Ace whined.

“Food’s a pretty big deal-I’d definitely hold a grudge if somebody took my tuna, y’know? With that many tarts, you don’t think it could’a been for some kinda birthday party or something?” Grim replied.

“Wait, a party?” Ace seemed oddly surprised at the potential. “I…hadn’t…thought about that.”

“Assuming that was the case, his frustration seems quite a bit more justified. Should I also assume you haven’t made an attempt at apologizing yet?” Albert asked.

“Wait, no sympathy from any of ya? None of you think he was on some kinda power-trip?”

“Nyeh, It’s still kinda your fault for eating his tarts in the first place...”Grim resigned.

“Ugh, fine! It’s just an apology, right? But this is your guy’s idea, so y’all are coming with me tomorrow. But uh, I can still bunk here tonight, right? Where can I crash?”

Albert sighed, “Being on such short notice does tie my hands; I’ve only had chance to clear the lounge-as you can see-and the only rooms clear yet are between the three of us and furniture yet to be salvaged. The sofa seems like your destination for tonight. Unless you’d rather keep us up further and we go apologize now.”

Ace let out an exasperated whine, but eventually relented. Bedding was retrieved, and finally the group was able to return to bed. Albert made one last call out to Ace before returning upstairs, “Oh, Ace, was it? Do mind the ghosts-they only pretend to terrorize.”

Morning came with an actual alarm, this time, signaling Albert’s day. Dress, clean, and make breakfast. The smell of cooking became the others’ alarm. Everyone made quick work of it, Ace falling back into Albert’s graces with his enjoyment of the meal. Bags sat ready at the door once everyone finalized their morning. The party had about opened the door, when another knock rang out. Albert bit inside his cheek from saying something, and opened the door to a dark-haired peer.

Ace called out in recognition, “Deuce?!”

They responded, “Ah, thought I’d find you here. I heard about what happened last night. You really are a complete idiot…”

“Shut it! I don’t need to hear it from you. Is-is he still mad, though?”

“Not really, he seemed more irritated at the three who missed roll call. They’re...in the same position as you, now.”

“ That’s your definition of ‘not really’? Great, he’s still salty no matter how ya toss it…”

Albert interjected, “Well, I guess we add another to the motley crew.”

The morning trek was addled with bickering until they eventually made their way to Heartslabyul’s Dorm. The change in scenery felt refreshing amidst Albert’s otherwise turbulent morning; he parted from the group to further take in the environment. Crisply sheared hedges, roses wafting in the air, everything seemed perfectly in its place, and everyplace perfectly designated its thing. A voice caught their attention, swinging it towards someone painting roses on a rather unstable-looking ladder.

“Ehh, I gotta finish this if I don’t want my head gone,” the painter moaned with another dip of the brush.

“What are you doing?” Ace asked.

“Can’t ya see? I’m painting the roses” he replied.

Deuce asked, “Huh? Why?”

“Ahh, Been a bit since I gotta see reactions like that; hang on, aren’t some of you guys the ones who smashed that 10,000,000 madol chandelier yesterday? SICK!”

It took a bite of cheek for Albert to not shout, opting to grit “Yuu, Grim, What. Did. You. Do ?” through his teeth. His question was only met with sheepish grins and scratching of heads.

“Aren’t you also the one who stole that tart last night? Oof. And I think I saw you get brought along on your lil friends’ trip to the office after Orientation, right? Dude, meeting notoriety in the first week~ Can I catch a selfie with ya? Let me know your guys’ info so I can tag you on Magicam,” before the group could protest, the photo was already snapped. Everyone mentioned names all around, and the photographer finished, “And Oop, there we go! Also, name’s Cater Diamond-third year. If y’all excuse me, though, I gotta get back to painting, I got this and flamingos to work on before tomorrow.”

“If I may ask,” Al started, “All of these preparations, the tarts and all, might it be this someone’s birthday tomorrow?”

“Huh? Nah, it's actually not anybody’s birthday tomorrow-we got a dorm tradition called an Unbirthday Party. Each month we pick a day nobody’s actual birthday lands on and just...celebrate,” Cater said between moving positions to paint. “Look, I can’t really sit and chat-unless you can help out a bit, that is~”

The band eyed each other, understanding the ask was really more of a request. They collectively sighed in resignation and began their work. Painting took up most of the morning, only saved by the toll of first classes’ bell. Each bid farewell to Cater and trudged to class, sporting some new, minor paint splotches.

The day progressed, new faces were met, and the five became more familiar with the lay of the land. Trey, another dormmate of Ace and Deuce, proposed to collect chestnuts for an apology tart to be presented to the Dorm Leader, Albert learned was named Riddle Roseharts. The latter end of the day consisted of finishing said tart, and learning a lot about each other. Cater had proposed to allow Deuce overnight at the Ramshackle Dorm, seeing the connection he had with Ace; rounding out the current residents to five. Albert chuckled slightly as they marched back with the spoils of their work in tow.

“What’s so funny, over there?” Grim asked.

“Oh it was nothing,” he replied, “Making plans for dinner tonight, I came to realize: with as many students that we have over tonight, and ones with card motifs no less, it seems tonight we may have a full house .” The other four immediately devolved into groans as they continued the trek back for the evening. “At this rate, we’ll be a full-fledged Dorm in our own right! We may need to invest in our Dorm name if we’re to become an 8th House.”

The morning was greeted by a knock at the door from Cater. The band recounted their evening of cards, a quick startle from the ghosts, and dinner.

“If we could apologize with some of that tuna onigiri, we’d be a shoo-in with that dorm leader!” Grim cheered as they crossed the mirror into Heartslabyul’s territory. “I think he’s gonna like the tart though, either way.”

“Hmm? Sorry, Grim-I’m catching up on an email, though I’m glad to hear dinner went well with the limited ingredients we had. Also, I will have to thank Trey once we’re there, for sending that email; I’d prefer to make acquaintances on the right foot. I do have a slight concern, though about one of the rules...We made a mont blanc tart, right? If so, then-” but Al had been cut off by a duplicate of Cater ushering the party in. Before the leader had arrived, Cater provided some formal-wear for the group, and just in time for a small, also red-headed figure, moreso formally dressed than the others.

“Make way for The Crimson Ruler: Dorm Leader Riddle Rosehearts!” called one of the residents. Being presented was a small, red-haired young man, clad in white and red. The airs he held offered a sense of responsibility and perpetual disappointment. Albert caught a flash of a memory, recognizing him as the one who helped direct efforts to douse the fire during orientation.

“If everyone has their teacups ready, we can proceed!” Riddle announced.

“Er, ‘scuse me, Dorm Leader? I brought you this...as an apology,” Ace muttered with arms outstretched, tart in hand.

“You’re the one who stole my tart-Curious, what kind is it?”

“It’s mont blanc.”

“...What? Unbelievable!”

“Wait, huh?!”

“Queen’s Rule No. 562-” Riddle started.

“-No mont blanc tarts are to be present at an Unbirthday Party,” Albert recited with Riddle, under his breath. “I should have looked over the rules beforehand.”

>How did you know that rule?

>So you knew all along? And didn’t tell anybody?

“Certainly not-That’s what the email was for-Trey sent me a copy of the Queen’s Rules, and on the way here is how I found out. It wouldn’t have made a difference, of course with no time left...The most we can hope for now is to-”

“APOLOGIZE!” Riddle howled.

“Y’know what? NO,” Ace spat back.

“How many rules even are there?” Deuce asked.

Albert replied, “810…”

“Trey! Throw these rule-breakers out!” Riddle commanded.

>Following Rules like this is just idiotic

>They put all that effort into making a tart for you and this is what they get for it?

“Idiotic? Idiotic?!”

“ Uh oh, that’s a hot-button word, guys, best not to-” Cater attempted to say.

“No! I’m tired of this-tossing a tart out just cause of some rule is stupid as hell!” Ace snapped.

“I have to agree,” Deuce chimed in, “Rules are meant to be followed, but some of these are just bizarre…”

“ ACE. DEUCE, ” Albert barked, “The more you dig this hole you both are already in, the sooner you will need spelunking equipment, now quit.”

“Yikes, this is what Angry Albert’s like?” Grim shivered, “Hope I don’t get on his bad side…”

Albert adjusted his clothes with a huff, and turned his attention then to Riddle. “My apologies, Dorm Leader Rosehearts. If I may introduce myself: Dorm Leader Albert Eastwind, Dorm name…still in progress… I sincerely apologize for my charges’ behaviors today.” He paused to fall into a deep bow, short of kneeling. “I understand ‘Ignorance of the Law is no excuse to break it’, and I commend your diligence in maintaining order. I believe, if given the chance, they would be willing to amend this and the next occasion we can attempt to start over on a better note.”

The gathering fell quiet outside of miscellaneous residents murmuring with each other.

“You. You were the man who hadn’t been sorted yet when the fire broke out. Your effort was of course helpful. I…have to ask you forgive my brashness in the heat of the moment. From one Dorm Leader to another,” Riddle sighed, “I appreciate seeing at least someone take responsibility for the ones they preside over. Understand, though, I do not cut off their heads out of want-obeying the rules is not an option here, and as long as I am head of this dorm, being the strongest, holding the highest marks, and holding this dorm to a standard to which none have dropped out, I stand as the most correct. If they cannot obey, then it is off. With. Their. Heads.”

“Ok guys, this is the part where you say ‘Yes Dorm Leader’.” Cater whispered.

“I can’t do that,” Deuce said. Ace chimed in after, “I reject this whole thing, ya pompous, bad-tempered, little tyrant!”

>Neither can I…

>Me neither!

A sigh escaped Albert’s lips, much like his grip on the situation. He buried his face in his hand, massaging the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat. At this point he felt the only thing left to do was move out of the crossfire and just allow consequences to be doled.

“What did you say?!” Riddle screeched. “OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!”

The clattering of magical locks rang out, clamping onto Grim, Ace and Deuce.

“Trey, Cater-Get them out of here!” The two could only reply with a weak ‘Yes, Dorm Leader’.

The two eldest ushered the collared teens towards the exit, leaving Al behind at Riddle’s demand.

“I don’t have qualm with you, ‘Albert’, was it?” Riddle asked. He slowly regained his composure, and feigned a smile. “You at least seem to have a reverence for rules and order, unlike your companions. Come, the Unbirthday festivities are underway.”

“I appreciate the invitation,” Al replied, “If I may, though; I may just enjoy the refreshments and spectate as a guest. I would like to read further into the rules, as well,” he motioned towards the digital rulebook on his phone. “I would prefer to better acquaint myself before also committing a faux pas.”

“The foresight is appreciated in kind. Once better versed, I do hope you would join us.”

Al made himself at home at one of the tables, following the lead of other residents wherever possible. The only indication of his heightened nerves was the slight bounce of his foot. 810 rules to try memorizing seemed a bit more of a task than first anticipated. He maintained attention to the rulebook with frequent glances up to, more often than not, the dorm leader averting his eyes as if he hadn’t just been staring. The uptick in frequency of their eyes meeting became a recurring joke to Albert, but his failed attempts to hide his amusement eventually caught Riddle’s attention. The now confused Dorm Leader returned to his guest and sat himself directly across.

“Should I take it you find the festivities enjoyable? Or should I assume you’ve taken a break from perusing the rules and reading something more humorous?” Riddle asked as he poured some tea.

“Certainly not,” Al started with a feigned indignance, “I’m honestly finding quite a bit of amusement in seeing a rather different side of you than how we met. With as many regulations, you still can find enjoyment where others might find the environment stifling. I venture to think what kind of fun you must be in an environment where the rules are much more lax.”

“I would have you know I’m quite able to have fun in any situation that affords it,” His cheeks puffed in slight indignation. “Curiouser and Curiouser, what must you look like when you’re enjoying yourself?”

“Please don’t mistake my lack of participation today as me not enjoying myself,” Albert rebuffed, “but if you’d prefer me in a more natural habitat, you’re more than invited to an outing at our dorm for tea and conversation; anything after is up to the wind. Is tomorrow too soon? Would you prefer to set the date?” Albert seemed to brighten further at the prospect, seeming all too eager to have guests of his own.

“I-well-no, but I would prefer giving you adequate time to make any preparations you might need before then,” he stammered, taken off guard that the conversation was so quickly passed to his court. “I know Tea and Conversation is never just that, what would you ask of me on arrival? What rules does your dorm adhere to?”

Albert took a moment to sip his tea as he thought about those questions.

“Oh but that would be complicating things that are really quite simple, but if it’ll ease:”

-People who get their feet wet best take their medicine lest they catch ill

-Never judge things by their appearance; even carpetbags

-All things have an element of fun, but it’s up to you to find it

-Anything can happen, if you let it

-Don’t make Pie Crust Promises

“As well I might ask you bring whichever accompaniments you prefer with your tea; While we have quite a few varieties to sample, funds have been slightly scarce with new arrivals,” he continued, “As well as a bottomless pit only satiated by tuna…”

“I have a faint idea of the bottomless pit you’re referring to...”Riddle groaned. “Also those are some...interesting rules, very few, which is concerning, but at least there are some.”

He noted an odd bite at his mentioning of the rule about pie crust promises, but didn’t delve further into its meaning. They conversed their preparations, sidetracking to have 4.00PM tea, and had a couple of laughs well into the afternoon.

“-I’d finally got back at him by asking, ‘Well what’s the name of his other leg?’!” Al crowed. Riddle let out a much more reserved chuckle.

“That one I’ll have to save, I think I have someone who might enjoy that one~”

“Oh?”

“Just an old friend I hadn’t seen in, well, quite a while,” Riddle’s face soured slightly, “you made mention of transferring from Royal Sword Academy, tell me: did you happen to run into a Alchemi Alchemivich Pinka? He might have had the nickname ‘Che’nya’?”

“Hmm, wait! I believe so-pink hair, cat ears, rather...ostentatious-looking pants?” Albert asked.

“That would be him,” Riddle replied with an amused sigh.

“I apologize, I haven’t kept in touch with many of my former classmates, but if I see him I’ll let him know you had said hello. Oh, I’ve been keeping the Ruler captive this whole time, I’d best take my leave. It was thoroughly a pleasure to meet, and just to confirm,” Albert retrieved his phone, “You can make the appointment tomorrow after 3, correct?”

“Yes, and since we’ve exchanged emails I’ll inform you as soon as I know if something comes up to where I would have to cancel.”

“Excellent. I’ll make preparations right away. I understand not wanting to run into ‘those four’, and I have a plan to ensure they’re not a bother.” Riddle sighed in relief at Albert’s reassurance. “I do have to thank you again for your flexibility in indulging my offer.”

“I actually...should thank you, Albert-”Riddle gulped, “I haven’t been invited to another dorm for just enjoyment, this would be the first…” His cheeks slowly started matching his hair in shade.

“It’s no trouble-I can sympathize with the hesitance to wander off the scheduled path. If I may say: While it’s noble to keep one’s nose to the grindstone, keeping at it for long enough will eventually leave you without a nose to see past the end of.” Albert folded into another bow, and strolled out of sight behind the hedges. He called one last moment, “Enjoy the rest of the evening, Dorm Leader Rosehearts.”

The party had died down considerably since the conversation began; Riddle helped finish teardown with Trey and some lingering residents.

Twilight had painted the sky a bright orange as Al finally returned to his dorm. He took a moment to quietly shed his jacket, school bag and umbrella. From the school bag he retrieved a few wrapped items of food, and placed them on the console table before retreating upstairs. Deuce heard the jingle of keys first, so he went to investigate, but only saw the remains of what Albert had left.

“I think Albert’s back; I’m guessing these are for us but I want to double-check. Yuu, I don’t know if he’s still upset with us for earlier,” he sheepishly asked, “maybe you better ask.”

>Yeah, lemme go check…

>I’m more wondering what took him so long…

“Hmmph, dude was probably kissin’ ass the whole time. Man, this is lame. I just want these damn things off!” Ace whined with a tug on his collar. “Don’t know why he didn’t get his head chopped off too, he was with us anyway.”

“Well, with any luck, he was smoothing things over with the Dorm Leader. I mean, if we’re lucky, he probably was able to get Riddle to be willing to let us back in tomorrow. Wouldn’t blame him for wanting to be rid of us too, after today…” Deuce said.

Yuu knocked on the door to Albert’s room, to be met with a very soft but tired face.

>Hey, just checkin, was that food downstairs for us or…?

>How are you feeling?

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I was a bit ‘out of it’ after leaving Heartslabyul. I figured you all would probably be hungry so I brought a small collection of things from the cafeteria. Please don’t fight here, too, over it,” he warned, trying to wave off the concern. “If you’ll excuse me, Vice Housewarden, I actually need to prepare for tomorrow. If I could have you check your email please-I have a couple things I would need the four of you to help me find in the library. I’ll actually be busy all day tomorrow and I can’t wait until another day to get that information. For now I have to bid good night.”

Yuu returned back to the lounge; they relayed the information to the rest of the group before setting in to have dinner. The rest of the evening petered out with tension still lingering. Across campus, Riddle was in the middle of chastising a resident.

おまけ/Omake

“I’m sorry! My pink clothes were in the wash and-”

“This is your second violation of this. I can’t allow repeat offenses,” Riddle warned. The chat he’d had with Albert earlier still rattled in his head, about leaving one’s nose on the grindstone. Another voice rang louder. “Understand that I don’t enjoy this-it’s for your own good. I can't allow infractions like this to build; write an apology of 5,000 words, and agree to a week of weeding the garden, and I’ll consider removing it. For now: Trey, Cater, remove them off the premise...”

#Practically Perfect fanfic #albert eastwind #twst fanfic #twisted wonderland #my writing

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ourflagmeansdeath-kinkmeme · 8 months

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Ed, eventual Ed/Stede — Magpie Ed, post-s1

After season one, Ed goes back to raiding and pillaging. Along with the usual loot, he starts snagging one or two pointless little things that end up in his cabin.

Over time these items accumulate as Ed restocks the empty captain's cabin with Stede's kind of stuff. It's exacerbated when his new crew tries to use storage space below and they find some random furniture, which also ends up in the captain's cabin.

By the time Stede and the original crew catch up with the Revenge, Ed's got the captain's cabin done over in a very piecemeal, haphazard approximation of how Stede had it. Is he painfully self-conscious about it, trying to keep Stede from even seeing the room? Is he totally unaware because it happened gradually? Does he have a chip on his shoulder about it, like: yeah, I got rid of your fancy shit and got my own fancy shit, which proves I don't need you?

I just want Ed recreating that space where he was happy from what scraps he can salvage, whether he realizes he's doing it or not.

Fill: None

#C: Edward Teach | Blackbeard #C: Stede Bonnet #P: Edward Teach | Blackbeard x Stede Bonnet #T: Raiding #T: Passive Aggressive Edward Teach | Blackbeard #Fill: None

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maniculum · 1 year

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The College of Grotesque Arts -- Week Ten

For new people, I’m doing the Dungeon23 megadungeon project, basing each room on the marginalia of a different page in the 14th-century Luttrell Psalter. Previous entries in this project can be found here.

Still playing catch-up, here’s the next section below the cut.

Oh, and now you can start to see what I mean about this level being annoying to draw.

Room 3.5: f.44v

Lots of stuff on this page that I can’t really use. Grotesques with human faces — no. Two humans and an angel — probably not. Something that I could maybe pass off as another oak squirrel — maybe? Anyway, I finally settled on this:

The door to this room is intact. Technically it’s a secret door, but it’s not exactly well hidden: in case the hallway leading to it doesn’t make it obvious enough, pulling an obvious lever causes the wall at the hallway’s “dead end” to rise into the ceiling. Inside is a high-ceilinged room that is essentially an underground dovecote filled with birds that hate you.

The birds that hate you are entirely normal birds, except that they will immediately divebomb and peck at the faces of anyone who comes in. They are the result of one of Martius’s failed side projects — oddly enough, Martius initially got into the whole grotesque-making thing through his hobby as a pigeon fancier, and often did his experiments with birds as the subject. The birds that hate you are a result of an attempt to create birds with absolutely no fear of humans, which was technically successful, but the resulting birds just fearlessly attack. The kinks still needed to be worked out, but of course things got a bit hectic near the end there.

Martius’s Bolthole

There’s a much more secret secret door in the north wall: extremely careful examination will reveal a small, squarish, magically-sealed door at the corner between the wall and the floor, made to blend in perfectly with the stone. It can be opened with the password Columba; attempts to tamper with it risk setting off a temporal stasis trap. Opening the door reveals a small chute sloping down, just big enough that an adult human lying on their back could slide down it. If the door is opened, there’s a noticeable puff of air, signaling that the interior was hermetically sealed.

Behind the door is a ten-by-ten space that appears to be an emergency bolthole. The contents are extremely well-preserved; the protective magical effects seem to have prevented the usual actions of decay. However, they’re not intact, per se — there was some kind of magical fight here, and the contents were smashed up pretty well. The walls are deeply scored in odd patterns, and marred by something that looks almost-but-not-quite like scorch marks. The furniture — which appears to have been a simple cot, chair, and table — is in pieces. The whole scene is covered in scattered book pages — the parchment isn’t decayed at all, though any ink on pages that are facing up and not covered by something has been faded by the dungeon’s ubiquitous daylight effect on the ceilings, and the books seem to have been… exploded or something. The majority is salvageable, and PCs who collect them will find that the pages originate from three different books:

A manual on pigeon fancying that includes detailed descriptions and illustrations of a number of pigeon breeds. Every page is packed with marginalia discussing the finer points of the hobby, Martius’s personal experiences with breeding pigeons, and use of pigeons as experimental subjects. The reader could probably learn a lot about pigeons in general and mad-science-style arcane approaches to pigeons in particular, assuming they can decipher the cramped scribblings.

A book of poetry. Many lines and verses have clearly been repeatedly scraped clean and rewritten. The margins contain notes for potential revision. None of the poetry is very good.

A high-level spellbook focused on combat spells, both offensive and defensive. The GM may decide what spells are in here specifically; Martius was sufficiently high level that your options are open. However, since so many pages are missing, damaged, or faded, the majority of the spells are incomplete. At least a couple are fully intact if you can collect the pages and put them in the right order. The lacunae could probably be reconstructed with some help from an expert, though that’s a gamble and you should keep a “magical mishap” table on hand. Actually, get that table anyway, in case one of your PCs decides to try out a spell that’s too high-level for them.

I’ve been burying the lede here, because probably the most noticeable feature of this room is the mummified corpse sprawled in one corner. (The flesh is still present for the same reason nothing else in here is decayed; however, the magical effects on this room were insufficient to keep it from naturally mummifying in the intervening centuries.) This is Martius himself, who retreated to this bolthole when everything was going to hell. He was eventually found by Augusta’s vengeful ghost, whose incorporeal nature allowed her to bypass the trap on the door by simply going around it. Augusta ambushed him, and there was a brief arcane duel, the ghost having retained her spellcasting abilities. He probably could have escaped, but he panicked and by the time he would have been able to think things through it was already over. Martius’s keyring is not present — he dropped it somewhere in the chaos before getting into the bolthole, and it was picked up by some explorer or other centuries ago — but he does have some magic items on him. I would give him something like the following:

A staff of transmutation with most of its charges remaining

One major ring of your choice

A few scrolls of high-level spells

A couple major wondrous items of your choice

I think it would be funny to give him an iron flask with, like, an angel trapped in it, because wtf, dude. But that’s just me, and there are probably reasons that would be a bad idea.

Use Pathfinder’s random magic item tables if you don’t want to pick the items yourself, then either remove or reroll anything that makes you think, “how did you not survive a fight with a spellcasting ghost if you had this?” or, “why did you need an emergency bolthole if you had this?” Feel free to give him some really nice stuff — getting into this room should feel rewarding, and the picked-over nature of the dungeon means this is some of the only stuff left from the original occupants.

PCs may or may not notice that, while in the room, they do not experience hunger, thirst, fatigue, or any biological needs. The normal effects of the passage of time are also all put on pause: any disease, poison, &c., they are suffering from fails to have any effect while in the bolthole, as does any other effect that depends on the passage of time. They do not age. However, at dawn each day, anyone within the bolthole gets the benefits of a night’s rest conferred automatically, including regaining spell slots. This occurs regardless of whether they actually rest (and, in fact, sleep is probably not possible within this space).

Room 3.6: f.45r

This room is unremarkable; yet another big square space with the remnants of ruined furniture about. Three pillars support the ceiling A familiar counter-and-cabinets arrangement occupies the whole of the western wall. There is nothing intact there, but a careful search will come up with some shredded bits of lab notes, which could of course be valuable if salvaged. Searching is dangerous in itself, though, because the majority of what’s left in the cabinets are piles of broken glass equipment; PCs will have to be careful to avoid getting cut.

Inhabiting this room are a few twifesuls. A twifesul looks rather like someone has taken the back legs of a donkey and attached two long-necked heads to it directly. It also has a long semi-prehensile tail. They are herbivorous, but bad-tempered and prone to biting.

Twifesul: CR 2, XP 600; N Medium Animal; Init +0; Senses Low-Light Vision; Perception +0

DEFENSE: AC 13, touch 10, flat-footed 13 (+3 natural); hp 20 (3d8+6); Saves Fort +5, Ref +3, Will +1

OFFENSE: Speed 40 ft.; Melee 2 bites +5 (1d8+3)

STATISTICS: Str 16, Dex 10, Con 14, Int 2, Wis 10, Cha 10; Base Atk +2; CMB +5; CMD 15; Feats Endurance, Run; Skills Sense Motive +3

If the players have not previously encountered Tubilus, they will find him here. Tubilus is a homunculus of a similar design to Fontus (Room 1.20), and you can use the same stats. However, Tubilus has gone fully feral and has no more than animal intelligence. He is also prone to biting.

Room 3.7: f.45v

The ceiling of this room is obscured by stone structures that look a bit like rafters; a number of them are broken. The “rafters” are not to support the ceiling — there are some pillars that do that — but apparently to provide a living space for the creatures inhabiting this room. (Or, rather, that’s what they’re being used for now; it’s hard to say if they used to be something else.)

This room is inhabited by a flock of serpentbirds, creatures like scaleless snakes with avian heads and wing-like structures like those of flying lizards, which coil around the pillars and rafters, occasionally gliding through the air on their membranous “wings”. They’re not aggressive, but they don’t seem to have a particular fear of humans. This is, in fact, because they have a defense mechanism: serpentbirds secrete a contact poison through their skin. You probably don’t need stats for serpentbirds, because they’re not exactly combat threats, but here they are anyway:

Serpentbird: CR 1, XP 400: N Tiny Animal; Init +2; Senses Low-Light Vision; Perception +1

DEFENSE: AC 14, touch 14, flat-footed 12 (+2 size, +2 Dex); hp 9 (2d8+0); Saves Fort +3, Ref +5, Will +1

OFFENSE: Speed 10 ft., climb 10 ft., fly 30 ft.; Melee bite +0 (1d3-3); Space 2-1/2 ft.; Reach 2-1/2 ft.; Special Attacks Poison (Ex)

STATISTICS: Str 4, Dex 14, Con 10, Int 2, Wis 13, Cha 8; Base Atk +1; CMB -4; CMD 8; Feats Skill Focus (Fly); Skills Fly +10

SPECIAL ABILITIES:

Poison (Ex): Anyone who comes into physical contact with a serpentbird must make a save against poison. The poison in question has a fortitude save DC of 16, a frequency of 1/round for 6 rounds, causes 1d3 con damage, and takes two saves to cure.

Note that serpentbirds, while they have a fly speed, are not capable of true flight: their wing-like membranes only allow them to glide. This means they can never use their fly speed to go up; they can only move horizontally or downwards. In order to go upwards, they have to slither up the room’s pillars.

The skeletal remains of a previous explorer lie on the floor; presumably they succumbed to the poison and the rest of their party, if any, wasn’t able to retrieve them. Their equipment is intact — minus any organic matter such as wood or leather, which has rotted away — including a sizable quantity of coins. Randomly generate the equipment and then double whatever quantity of coins your generator/table suggests; if you need guidelines, he was a rogue of roughly the same level as the PCs. And his name was Deodatus, if that comes up.

Room 3.8: f.46r

This triangular room is another of the high-ceilinged type that emulates an outdoor environment. Several trees grow here. The door to the north is apparent from inside the room, and can be opened by pulling a lever next to it; from the hallway side, however, it appears to be just another stretch of wall, and will require some effort to find a way to open.

The room is inhabited by a few heancorns, bipedal creatures with long, serpentine necks, almost primate-esque faces, long tails, and unicorn-like horns. They eat from the leaves of the trees, in addition to the food brought them by the Caretakers. They are generally docile, but will attack if provoked, and their horns are extremely dangerous. Their unicorn heritage manifests as a few magical effects: they have immunities to poison and mind-affecting spells, they can cast cure light wounds and purify food and drink, and their horn technically counts as a +1 weapon. They’re also a little smarter than one might expect, and qualify as good-aligned for all magical purposes.

Heancorn: CR 4, XP 1200: NG Large Magical Beast; Init +2; Senses Low-Light Vision, Darkvision 60ft; Perception +10

DEFENSE: AC 15, touch 11, flat-footed 13 (-1 size, +2 Dex, +4 natural); hp 51 (6d10+18); Saves Fort +8, Ref +7, Will +3; Immunities Mind-Affecting, Poison

OFFENSE: Speed 40 ft.; Melee gore +11 (3d6+5/19-20,x3); Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft.; Spell-Like Abilities (CL 6; concentration +7) At Will: Purify Food and Drink; 3/day: Cure Light Wounds

STATISTICS: Str 18, Dex 14, Con 16, Int 4, Wis 12, Cha 10; Base Atk +6; CMB +11; CMD 23; Feats Improved Critical (gore), Improved Natural Attack (gore), Weapon Focus (gore); Skills Perception +10; Special Qualities Magical Beast Traits

SPECIAL ABILITIES:

+1 gore (Su): A Heancorn's gore functions as a +1 weapon; the bonuses are included in its stats above.

Room 3.9: f.46v

This room has a similar setup to Room 1.22 — it’s a sort of pool with stairs down into it, and an enchantment that dries anyone who leaves the pool. Like 1.22, one of the walls has an illusory section that you can walk/swim through into another, hidden room. (Sometimes the wizards stole ideas from each other.) The opening in the wall is warded against water and aquatic creatures, but everything else passes through fine. For some reason, there are a number of coins scattered on the bottom of the pool; either someone dropped their coin-purse in here, or a lot of people have been doing the “throw a coin and make a wish” thing.

The pool contains several walasters. A walaster is an amphibious creature with a serpentine body, lidless eyes, a round face, a small beak, large ears, and two finned limbs. They’re not malicious, but something about the way they stare at you is deeply unsettling; there’s a minor supernatural effect attached to their gaze. They can also bite if you get in the pool with them.

Walaster: CR 2, XP 600; N Tiny Magical Beast; Init +2; Senses Low-Light Vision, Darkvision 60ft; Perception +5

DEFENSE: AC 15, touch 14, flat-footed 13 (+2 size, +2 Dex, +1 natural); hp 17 (3d10+0); Saves Fort +3, Ref +5, Will +1

OFFENSE: Speed swim 10 ft.; Melee bite +6 (1d4+1); Space 2-1/2 ft.; Reach 2-1/2 ft.; Special Attacks Weird Stare (15ft., DC 15)

STATISTICS: Str 12, Dex 14, Con 11, Int 4, Wis 10, Cha 14; Base Atk +3; CMB +2; CMD 14

Feats Ability Focus (Weird Stare), Alertness, Improved Natural Attack (bite), Skill Focus (Perception); Skills Perception +5; Special Qualities Magical Beast Traits, Does not Sleep, Amphibious

SPECIAL ABILITIES:

Weird Stare (Su): There’s just something about the way they look at you. An opponent that meets a Walaster’s gaze within 15ft. becomes shaken for 1d3 rounds unless they succeed at a DC 15 will save. A successful saving throw negates the effect. Each opponent within range of a gaze attack must attempt a saving throw each round at the beginning of his or her turn in the initiative order.

Room 3.10: f.47r

This room is featureless, but a close examination will reveal that there’s a hidden door on the south wall, designed to blend in with the stone. This door opens only at the touch of a Caretaker, but someone who’s clever with these things can probably trick it or force the issue.

Speaking of Caretakers, this room is occupied during the day by Caretaker Five, a construct that resembles a humanoid with webbed feet, shaped from red-glazed clay. It wears a robe that was probably white once, but is now a pale pink — it’s possible the pigment that colors the Caretaker’s body has leached into it a bit. Also it has a long, pointed cap for some reason.

Caretakers not aggressive unless provoked, &c., &c., here’s stats anyway.

Caretaker Five: CR 10, XP 9600; N Medium Construct; Init +3; Senses Low-Light Vision, Darkvision 60ft, Blindsense 30ft; Perception +0

DEFENSE: AC 27, touch 13, flat-footed 24 (+3 Dex, +14 natural); hp 92 (13d10+20); Saves Fort +4, Ref +7, Will +4; DR 10/-, SR 25

OFFENSE: Speed 30 ft.; Melee 2 slams +22 (2d6+9 plus stun); Special Attacks Stunning Attack (DC 25)

Spell-Like Abilities (CL 13; DC 10 + spell level)

At Will — Create Food and Water, Minor Creation, Prestidigitation, Ray of Enfeeblement.

3/day — Bestow Curse, Fabricate, Greater Make Whole, Ray of Exhaustion, Telekinesis

STATISTICS: Str 28, Dex 16, Con 0, Int 0, Wis 10, Cha 1; Base Atk +13; CMB +22; CMD 35; Special Qualities: Construct Traits, Teleport

SPECIAL ABILITIES:

Stunning Attack (Ex): Caretaker Five swings with such force that its first attack each round will stun its target for 1 round unless they make a DC 25 Fortitude save. The save DC is strength-based.

Teleport (Sp): Caretaker Five can use greater teleport at will, as the spell (caster level 14th), except that Caretaker Five can transport only objects or creatures that it is physically carrying, up to a weight limit of 500 pounds.

If provoked, Caretaker Five will simply beat a perceived threat into unconsciousness and then drag it to whichever room it decides is the appropriate enclosure. Depending on its assessment of the threat posed, Caretaker Five may begin the fight by weakening its opponent with ray of exhaustion, ray of enfeeblement, and/or bestow curse. Caretaker Five’s slam attacks always deal nonlethal damage unless it has been ordered otherwise; attack penalties for nonlethal vs. lethal damage do not apply.

Unlike other Caretakers, Caretaker Five will not be seen wandering the halls at night; Martius gave it a teleportation ability, so it simply appears in each room on Level Three, does its job, and teleports to the next one. It will use this ability in a fight if necessary. (The original intent was that Caretaker Five could be used to transport large amounts of material around the dungeon without having to drag stuff through twisty passages and up staircases.)

Room 3.11: f.47v

This large circular room is another of the high-ceiling, deep-floor, dirt-and-trees type. It’s actually pretty chill here, because the grotesques on this page don’t look… um… viable.

Seriously, look at that thing.

So the only creatures in here are a flock of pigeons.

I know that doesn’t really look like a pigeon, but we’ve established Martius had a pigeon fixation, so it makes sense that the birds down here would be those.

And there’s Week Ten! Moving right along!

#dungeon23 #college of grotesque arts #ttrpg #medieval creatures #medieval art #marginalia #illuminated manuscript #medieval #pathfinder #d&d #dnd #dungeons and dragons

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bloodskipper · 2 years

Text

Bo Sinclair x reader | Hell or High Water | Pt. 12

WARNINGS: STOCKHOLM SYNDROME VIBES, canon-typical violence, restraint, mentions of death (smell), mentions of vomiting, terror

NOTE: I have never, ever written anything like this before, and if you take offense to any of the language I use please let me know.

Despite your best efforts to stay awake, your fatigue finally caught up with you. You figured it was around 5:30 or 6am when you fell asleep, and when you awoke the sun was casting long beams through the tall west windows.

Your vision snapped to the seat that Bo was in, but he was now nowhere to be found. A wave of relief washed over you, but was cut short when you remembered where you were: the House Of Wax.

The large room was eerily quiet. All you could hear was a light breeze wheezing in through the cracks in the walls.

Despite the room being filled with humanoid figures, you had never felt this utterly alone in your life. You tried to glance around the room for a possible exit while trying to avoid the gaze of the wax mannequins, which was nigh on impossible. Their lifeless eyes were fixed seemingly in every direction you too glanced in. It became too much; you had to close your eyes and manually slow your breathing.

Freaking out wasn't going to get you anywhere right now.

You looked back over at Bo's chair and noticed something you previously hadn't: his keys were left behind, now glinting in the sunlight.

Yes! Fuck yes! you smiled to yourself. Yet another possibly victorious moment was cut short when you tried to move your arms and only felt cold metal scraping against your wrists. You wanted to bawl at the sensation, realizing that you were so close but still so far to getting the fuck out of there. The only option you could see was to drag the chaise you were shackled to along to snatch your keys to freedom.

Carefully placing your feet on the floor, you used all the strength in your core and thighs to shift yourself and the furniture forward. Upon moving your first few inches, you found the wax figure you were uncomfortably situated beside was not attached to the chaise, causing it to wiggle slightly. However, you were determined, and made an effort to move with somewhat more grace.

You successfully scooted halfway to the keys before you caught your foot on a crack in the floor, jolting the figure onto the floor, smashing it into jagged fragments. Its inside was a black and molded mess, emitting a stench not unlike that of the pile Lester stopped at the previous day. The same urge to vomit rose in your stomach as you bit your lip and still tried to inch closer. The front door to the House swung open and you were met with your captor, who was casually whistling an Elvis song. He walked closer and noticed the mess on the floor, promptly ending his tune.

"Aw, god damnit, Y/N, she was one of the best!" he shouted, falling to his knees to gather the wax pieces. He scowled at you before turning his attention to the chair he was napping in.

"Oh... I see what you had goin'," he said, noticing his keys. "Somethin' else you thought you could get away with. When I tell Vince, he-"

"What is that?" you interrupted, motioning with your eyes toward the broken figure.

"None of your damn business, that's what," he replied sternly. He salvaged what he could of the figure and placed it on a coffee table. Bo seemed offended and you certainly didn't want to press him any further.

"Hey, I'm sorry, okay?" you tried. Bo stood with his back to you, sunken into his shoulders.

"At least now I know I can't trust you in here," he said. "Come on, let's get goin' up to the house."

"Wait," you stopped him again. "Can't we just sit down and discuss this like... like adults?"

Bo slowly turned and held his eyeline on you as he slumped back into his seat. "What exactly is it you want to 'discuss' so bad?"

"Well... letting me go?" you blurted, your chest heaving in fear.

The man who handcuffed you to a chaise averted his eyes and licked his lips in thought. "If I let you go, what are you gonna do? You got a flat tire, phone lines are cut, and..." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out your charging cable, holding it out in front of you.

"Yeah, I fucking saw it earlier, you sick fuck," you spat at him. Instead of lashing out like you expected, Bo stayed focused on the floor in front of him. He leaned back and laced his fingers on his lap.

"There's something I like about you," he quietly admitted. "I don't want you to end up like the rest..."

Swallowing, you carefully chose your words. "I like something about you, too, Bo. I don't want to hurt you, so why do you want to hurt me?"

He looked at you and furrowed his brow, staying quiet. You searched for any certain emotion in his face, incapable of finding an answer.

"If I let you go, you ain't gonna make it home. This'a dangerous area, ya know? And you ain't gonna stay here..." There was something sad in his voice.

"Pff. Funny you should say something is 'dangerous'," you mocked, again hoping for a stronger reaction. Bo stood and unlocked each of the cuffs on your wrists. You waited a moment, rolling your wrists to make sure this was really happening and slowly brought them in front of your face. Your face lit up with relief.

"Thank you. Thank you so much, Bo," you gushed. "You are a fucking saint, you know that?" You stood to hug him and noticed he was already walking toward the door. He stood on its front porch with his hands in his pockets.

"Well, go on and git, then," he said flatly, motioning toward the road with his shoulder. "I don't wanna hurt you."

A feeling unusual for this situation crept up through your body - why were you feeling empathy for this man who had so viciously incarcerated you hours before?

You jogged over to stand beside him, looking out in no particular direction.

Breaking the silence, Bo glanced down at you and asked, "Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?"

You met his gaze and replied, "I get lonely, too."

WOW! A real plot and titty twister! I've just been writing this as I go along and I'm having a great time.

I want Bo to be my big strong cuddly bitch ass man 🥺 we'll get there, ok, my babeys....

#bo sinclair house of wax #slashers #slasher fucker #slasher x reader #bo sinclair fanfic #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair imagine #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #house of wax 2005 #house of wax #lester sinclair #bo sinclair x y/n #cw terror #cw stockholm syndrome #cw violence #cw restraint

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hometoursandotherstuff · 3 years

Photo

Other couples would’ve turned on their heels when they saw the condition the old croft was in after 40 yrs. of abandonment. But, Suvi and her husband started to imagine what it would look like after they renovated it.

They named it Luvia Cottage, and now it’s a lovely rustic log house.

The cottage under construction.

This room now shines clean and fresh. The new roof panels and the old log wall combine naturally. Suvi thinks the room is now very similar to what it once was. They bought a tavern table for the living room.

The living room has access to the staircase and the bedroom. This is what it looked like before the renovation. The stale brown logs were washed, brushed and the cavities patched.

The kitchen was in poor condition and dark. I see a few treasures here, though.

The cupboards had many coats of paint. They looked unsalvageable at first, but in the end it was decided to renovate them.

This is amazing- they salvaged the huge stove and cabinets. There are seven dampers in the kitchen wood stove!

The kitchen underwent a huge transformation when a white wall panel was installed, the floors were renovated and painted and the ceiling was partially demolished. Stairs lead to the sleeping loft. Smeg fridge blends well with the style.

This was the old sauna hut. They gave it a fresh new look for summertime.

The porch provided good storage space during the renovation.

Now, a yellow double door opens to a lavender-blue porch, through which you enter a bright living room.

They fell in love with the window over the door, so they sanded, painted it, and put it back in place.

The new roof was completed just before a storm that fell six large spruces. Fortunately, none fell on the buildings. The loft now has a spacious sleeping area.

They knew that they wanted to turn the stone barn into a summer kitchen. A new log frame was built on top of it from the logs of the old rye.

Now, it’s one of the most popular places on the property.

The old furniture in the summer kitchen found its place again after cleaning and repair.

They’ve turned the dilapidated old croft into a lovely home. It just amazes me how people take these knock-down homes and make them look fabulous.

https://www.meillakotona.fi/artikkelit/40-vuotta-tyhjillaan-ollut-hirsitalo-remontoitiin-uuteen-loistoon-remonttikuvien-katselu-saa-kyyneleet-silmiin

#croft renovation #rustic decor #log house #long post

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nobodyfamousposts · 3 years

Text

Blue Memories (lbscexchange2021)

Yay! It’s Valentine’s Day!

Soooo....who wants a sad?

He opened the door for Marinette and gently escorted her inside.

She looked around, surveying every detail. The baby blue of the accent wall. The furniture in all of its strange varieties of makes that still somehow fit together. The assortment of decorations from the little black cat figurine that had been a joke housewarming gift from friends to her potted plants lined up at the wide windows—still tenderly cared for, even in her absence. All things that were part of the home. All things that made the home their own.

And yet, not a single hint of warmth came to her eyes.

“This is…my house?”

Ours, he didn’t say.

After all the things they had experienced throughout the years—the monsters they’d fought, the battles they’d won, the people they’d saved…

It seemed so surreal that it was something as simple as a car accident that would take her down.

She stepped through the entryway into the main room—tentative. Unsure. Like she didn’t think she belonged. Her grip on her cane tightened, belying her anxiety.

He rested a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. Allowing her to use him as her other support as she was forced to confront a home she didn’t know and memories she couldn’t recall.

“Just…take a bit of time to familiarize.” He whispered.

I will be with you every step of the way.

She took a breath but nodded before moving forward, and for a second—

Standing tall, wearing her suit like armor, her shoulders broad and head high in steely determination even in the face of overwhelming odds—

Luka could see the courageous young woman he loved in this stranger’s frame.

For her part, Marinette was…handling the circumstances if nothing else.

She stepped away from him, standing with only her cane and her one good leg for support. Rather than immediately head for the couch or any place to rest, she wandered the room, taken in by the all of the remnants of a person she used to be.

There was an array of frames along the wall as she passed, each containing memorabilia from newspaper clippings to artwork to awards. She gave them a cursory glance, none of them really standing out. At most, she barely touched one that contained a pink ribbon—

“Isn’t this a bit much? And a bit silly?”

Alya had gasped in mock outrage. “Girl, this is your own design house! We have to have a ribbon cutting ceremony to make it official! Otherwise, what have our years of labor been for?”

Marinette giggled. “You mean my labor?”

“Hey, don’t forget who did the interviews.” The other woman said with a wink.

More giggling.

“Of course, of course! I never would have gotten this far without you. Any of you.”

“And don’t forget it!” More giggling. “And besides, a happy opening is a sign of a happy beginning. This is your dream, girl! Go all out and enjoy it becoming real!”

“Okay, okay! So how will we do this?”

Luka smiled as he brought over the fancy scissors.

—pink ribbon, a couple inches thick, contained in a frame along with a picture of a group of strangers standing outside a building.

He carefully took their bags back to their his room, allowing her a moment to reflect and himself time to gain some composure.

To think it would be a car accident that did this. Not some epic villain battle, no. A stupid car accident because of her insistence on meeting him at the airport and some idiot who decided to run a red light. He'd consider laughing if he wasn't on the verge of breaking down…

But…she needed him. More than ever now.

When he returned, she was standing at the wall aligning with the window, lightly touching the dollhouse that was stationed there.

“Do we…did we have kids?”

“No.” Not yet.

It was grand—a four storied house with five rooms on each floor, each fully furnished in different ways. Its outside had the design of a cozy cottage, with walls were painted with a soft pink as well as white doors and window shutters. All of which were moveable, to her amazement.

“Where did we even get something like this?”

It had been a labor of love.

She hadn’t wanted to leave the kwamis stuck in the Miracle Box with no idea of the happenings in the world. And as they had begun spending more time outside, Marinette had been insistent that the kwamis deserved their own space outside of the Box. It had taken her weeks to make it—and multiple failed attempts.

She gave them their own home within hers. She’d wanted them to feel welcome.

It may very well have been the first time the little gods had cried.

“It was…a project.”

She frowned, but didn’t speak further. Her gaze turned to the nearby shelf on the adjoining wall. Holding a number of books. A single bin full of yarn for knitting. Two guitars rested along the side.

“Luka, it’s beautiful, but…why?”

“Why not?” He smiled.

“But…I’m not much of a guitar player. You know that. I’m not like you, Mr. Top 20 three-weeks-in-a-row. I still don’t know how to play the guitar.”

She moved to put it back in its case, but he pulled her back and into his lap along with the guitar. Her squawk of surprise only made him grin, and he placed a kiss to her head.

“That just means you’ll have more opportunity to learn.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

“Do you play?” She had asked, curious as she looked over the two guitars.

He smiled bitterly.

“Wow,” Dingo whistled as he peeked through the curtains. “Quite a crowd out there.”

“I’m not sure I can do this.” Luka muttered.

It had been one thing when he had been playing with Kitty Section. But the band had gone their separate ways and now he was playing center stage.

“No worries. It’s only your first show. If you choke, who will even remember?”

He sighed. “Yeah, see, that? That’s not helping.”

“I’ll tell you something that will, though…” Dingo trailed off with a smirk. Before Luka could react, the other wrapped an arm around his neck and dragged him to view the opening in the curtain.

“Dingo!”

“Take a look!”

Luka glared at his friend—or tried, but Dingo’s grip around his neck really kept him from turning in any direction besides the one the other wanted.

Dingo, for his part, didn’t even have the grace to look back, instead grinning at something through the curtain.

“A certain little lady in the center seat of the middle row.”

Luka froze. And immediately, his eyes glanced over the crowd, searching for…

Dark hair.

Blue eyes.

A bright neon pink sign with his name.

Her smile.

He breathed.

“Mari…”

Dingo clapped him on the back and released him.

“If you can’t play for your fans, play for her. You know she’ll always listen…”

“Yeah.” He answered.

What else could he say?

He’d built up his music career over years. For all that she had been busy with her own design house, she had still be there for him every step of the way. Supporting him. Inspiring him.

And now only one of them still knew that.

“Congratulations on the release of your new single!”

Ah.

He winced as the flashing lights hit him.

For all the time he spent on tour, he would never get used to this.

“Thank you.”

He knew better than to respond. It wouldn’t be enough. It was like an avalanche of questions and microphones barreling down on him.

“Mr. Couffaine! How do you feel about your ranking on the Music’s Top Ten?”

“Is there any truth to the rumors that you are doing a collaboration piece with Jagged Stone?”

“Are you really having an illicit affair with XY?”

“Luka Couffaine, you just completed the last stop of your world tour! What are you going to do now?”

Finally, the one question he wanted to answer.

“I have someone to see.”

It had been both a dismissal and an explanation as he took his leave to wait for his ride.

Tomorrow was their anniversary, after all. He’d managed to schedule the end of his tour to give him just enough space to make it back in time to spend it with her.

Marinette was probably already waiting at the airport at this moment.

Or at least…she should have been?

He checked his watch. Was he early? A bit, but not by much…it had been a little last minute for her, though. Maybe she was caught in traffic?

His phone rang. Was that her?

“Hello?”

“…”

“…what?”

He winced and turned away, trying to fight back the burning in his eyes.

Maybe she saw his reaction because she went silent as well. The tension of the room heightened, near to the point of stifling. For all that he wanted to reach out to her, there was a distance between them that felt…impassible.

He heard her move further into the room. Closer to the kitchen, it sounded like. He listened as something seemed to slide briefly across the countertop, as if she had picked up something for a closer look. Despite his better judgement, his curiosity got the better of him and he turned to see—

It had been hell. The date. The entire day. Hell. To the point he was convinced that some higher powers were giving a sign that this relationship wasn’t meant to be.

Except it wasn’t a sign, it was a fucking billboard.

He’d had it all planned out. Picking her up in his new car. They would have dinner together, followed by a movie, coffee and dessert at a nice little cafe he’d heard good things about, then a stroll by the Seine.

Except whatever higher power up there hated him, apparently.

First the car—the brand new (okay, only slightly used) car he’d recently purchased wouldn’t start, so he’d had to ride his bike to reach her. This meant the restaurant was a no go, meaning his reservation that he’d put in a good month in advance went to waste. Marinette had suggested they just walk to the movie which he was fine with, except that it started raining and the theater in question suffered a power outage. Desperately trying to salvage the night, he’d led her to the cafe anyway only to find they had apparently gone out of business the day before.

Luka was…done. He was just done. He’d apologized profusely and tried to call a cab for her before he’d walk home in the rain so he could scream into his pillow.

Suffice to say, he was pretty sure the date was a bust. And would likely be the first and last he’d ever get with her.

But while he’d been on the phone discovering that traffic was backed up and even THAT much of the night wasn’t going to go right either, Marinette had noticed a little souvenir kiosk under an awning nearby. He hadn’t known what specifically had caught her eye, but when she returned, it was with a thermos of tea she had brought from home and two little mugs she’d just purchased—both with their own different engravings.

She passed the "I AM WEIRD" cup to him. Was…was this a joke? Was she saying something?

He wasn't sure what it was until he saw her blushing as she sipped from her own cup, clearly displaying the engraving of "I LOVE WIERD".

The night went wrong in so many ways. But there…huddling from the rain under the storefront tarp, sitting next to her...he felt warmer than the hot tea could have been responsible for.

She held the “I LOVE WEIRD” cup gingerly, staring at the porcelain as if it could tell her its secrets. But when nothing could be found, she set it back at its previous place and continued on.

Marinette’s gaze had moved on to the next item of interest. She peered into the various photographs lining the top of the nearby shelf. Each contained images of a young couple. A man with teal hair and a lip ring along with a woman with dark blue hair and earrings. The pictures varied—them hugging while bundled up in the winter season, him picking her up and her holding him tightly for balance, them dancing at an outdoor festival, them making silly faces in a photobooth. Each one of them smiling.

One that kept her attention, however, had the man in a tuxedo and the woman in a stunning floor length dress. It was white with an illusion neckline, and bore the images of petals. But the truly striking feature was the airbrushed effect at the bottom of the dress as it changed from white to vibrant teal and finally to black—a clear match to the hair of the man standing beside her.

It was a wedding.

She had said he inspired her dress. That she had made it with him in mind. He had believed her, of course. He never needed her to prove she loved him.

But oh, how his heart had sung seeing her like that. In his colors. Showing the world whom she belonged with.

He had barely heard anything the priest had said. He had to have stumbled in his vows at least twice. He was torn between burning to touch her and yet not wanting to dare to—that something so beautiful shouldn’t be touched.

He would never forget the way she had reached out for him instead and held his hands with hers as she said she wanted to start a life with him.

She picked up the picture.

“It’s beautiful.”

It’s her.

“It’s beautiful. And I can’t…I don’t…”

Like gravity had failed her, she collapsed rather than sat onto the sofa—

That ugly, ugly leather sofa that Jagged had insisted they take with them from Marinette’s brief stint as his personal designer.

“No, you keep it, Mari. You’re gonna need something to spruce up your new place.”

“Jagged, seriously. That thing is hideous and I don’t need it.”

“What are you talking about? It’s perfect! It’s leather! And sturdy! And you can even pull it out into more of a bed. Besides, who knows when you’ll be bringing a studly young man to your place and need something to ‘rock it’ in, eh?”

“Oh my god, Jagged, please don’t!”

“Ey, Luka! Come on, mi boy, back me up!”

“Luka, don’t you dare—!”

Luka, for his part, kept his focus on cleaning his equipment and wisely said nothing.

He moved to her side without thinking.

“Mari…”

“What…” She looked up at him, hopelessly lost. “What now? What do…we do?”

She held the picture frame to her, as if trying to fill the hole in her heart that once contained years worth of love.

“I don’t know what…I don’t know how to…”

She sobbed.

If the phone call had shattered his world, this had crushed the remaining pieces.

“What…what are you saying?”

The doctor sighed.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Couffaine. But the damage of the crash and the shock of the incident has led to some trauma. We are running tests, but there is no way to tell just how great the extent is or how long it will last.”

He barely heard the words for what they were. Percentages. Chances. Outcomes. Luck.

She’d always beaten the odds before, hadn’t she?

She could…

Surely, she could…

He barely noticed when the doctor had led him to the white—white, white horrible white room.

And the all too pale and shaken woman resting inside.

“Who are you?”

It was her eyes.

Her beautiful blue eyes.

But not a trace of familiarity.

“Hello, Marinette.”

He smiled, trying to not let tears fall.

“My name is Luka…”

He slowly moved to sit beside her, taking his wife into his arms like he always did.

It…wasn’t the same.

"It'll be okay..."

Throughout his life, Luka had always been a river. Slow. Steady. Constantly cutting a path through life and through the world.

Luka was a river.

But for Marinette, he had been her rock.

“We’ll make new ones.” He promised her.

Day by day. Moment by moment. He would stay with her and make new memories.

It wouldn’t replace what was lost.

But they would make it together.

#ml fic #lbscexchange2021 #marinette dupain cheng #luka couffaine #lukanette #ml angst #ml sad #car accident #memory loss

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