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scarlettohairdye · 14 hours

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Home Ownership Was a Mistake

This is for @trickybonmot, who may or may not use some of these stories in a fic.

Okay. So.

In the year of our lord 2010, my wife and I were lucky enough to be gifted $20k by my parents, which in those days (given it was a historically low point for real estate prices in Seattle) was enough for a down payment on a house. It was an astounding confluence of luck and privilege that led to us being homeowners, because if they gave us the same money now it would go precisely nowhere.

Anyway, it was not enough money for a large house, or a fancy house. We looked at a lot of places, only some of which were move-in ready (and one of which was absolutely just a tear-down) and eventually settled on our current place, which is a 1910 bungalow with a detached garage that was finished and turned into a studio.

Was it the most aesthetically pleasing house when we bought it? No. The walls were white, the carpet was light beige, and the paint had seen better days. That said, it was move-in ready and the owner was pretty desperate to sell, so we took it!

The inspector let us know that some of the wiring was still the old knob-and-tube, so we'd want that updated sooner rather than later, but it looked pretty good. About half the outlets were grounded, so it didn't stop us from plugging in three-prong appliances. We just had to use more extension cords than maybe we'd prefer.

The Electrical

The first big house thing we paid for was to have the entire place rewired. Our circuit breaker was a mystery, we didn't have enough outlets, and we were tired of being stuck with specific layouts of our stuff due to the lack of grounded outlets. We were expecting about half the wiring to be up to code, and the rest would need an update.

Spoiler alert: HAHAHAHAHAHA.

The rewiring took about a week, and every morning the electrician sat down with us and told us what new fire trap he'd uncovered.

"Yeah, so the knob and tube wiring going to the lights in the ceiling? Knob and tube gets hot when it's running, and yours is under three layers of insulation."

"You know how you thought your outlets were grounded? They weren't, actually, the ground wire just went elsewhere into the house and wasn't connected to anything."

"So there's wiring in your crawlspace? Whoever put that in nailed some sheets of wood paneling over it, so we had to rip the wood paneling out to access it."

I think the job was about $15k when it was done, we had many many more outlets, and our house was no longer one bad day from lighting itself on fire. Victory, I guess?

The Studio Window

This was leaking a bit, and we knew it was leaking when we moved in. (South facing walls get all the weather in our region.) We were not handy enough to replace it ourselves at the time and we also didn't have money because I got laid off shortly after we bought the house and was making my living doing costume commissions. Solution: Trade costuming work to an acquaintance who did carpentry.

The window, we discovered, was not so much a finished window as it was a single sheet of glass sandwiched between some boards.

Badly.

The carpenter was not entirely she that she was qualified for the job, but she did manage to remove the single sheet of glass and replace it with a window that was insulated and actually capable of opening. She used caulk around it. It was way better than we had before. Maybe someday we'll have both studio windows replaced by a contractor who actually does windows, but this is not that day!

The Siding

The cedar shingles were no longer cutting it at a certain point, so we had the house resided. (Houses are money pits, in case you didn't know.) This was a $30k job (MONEY PIT!) and had several layers of badness.

Bad: Our house had no insulation. It was cedar shingles over the original siding, with nothing in between that original siding and our INTERIOR WALLS. There was occasionally a newspaper. Our PM asked if we wanted insulation? And we said yes, please!!! We did not have a lot of time to think about insulation or research the best type, so it's just sheets of the pink fiberglass stuff in there, but it exists and we have it now!

Worse: Underneath our laundry room was a horrorshow. The laundry room is an addition that was added to our house probably sometime in the 50s? And, uh...

Well, the siding guys pulled off the siding, took a look at what was under it, and immediately called the project manager. The project manager came out, took a look, and then called us. He said that the siding guys thought it really needed to be reinforced and stabilized before they re-sided it, which is very fair, because I think the people who built it originally were drunk when they did it. It was a fucking Wild West cowboy construction situation under there.

Yes, you heard that right: A LOAD-BEARING SHINGLE.

Our project manager also informed us that the siding guys couldn't do the reinforcement, because they're just siding guys. They don't do structural. This is very fair.

It also needed to be done by Monday so we could stay on schedule for the siding work.

We learned this on Friday.

I immediately called my general contractor dad and got his voicemail, because (I remembered belatedly) he was in Mexico getting dental surgery. There was absolutely no way we could get another contractor out to do the work over a single weekend.

It was up to us.

My wife and I (mostly my wife) went HAM on it. We rented big jacks from the tool library to prop the laundry room up while we replaced one of the entirely rotten support poles. One of the big telephone poles was so wrecked with dry rot we could kick it out of place. (It didn't even touch the BIG ROCK that was supposed to be its foundation!!! It was floating!!!) Several of the joists were also fucked, so we ran new joists alongside them and married them together. My wife dug holes while crouched in a 4' high space, filled the holes with gravel, compacted it by putting a piece of wood on top of it and hitting it with a mallet, and then installed an entire additional support system from 4x4s and deck blocks. She actually attached the support system TO THE FUCKING HOUSE, which was a big improvement from the way it was originally held on by vibes and paint.

Here's a tasty little before and after:

(Yeah, see how that visible joist at the front just... stops at the far left? There's a new joist right behind it now.)

This was completed with resounding cries of, "Good enough!" and "It's better than it was before!" The siding guys thought it was fine and sided over it. Someday hopefully we will be able to afford to tear the whole thing down and rebuild it with a properly poured foundation, but in the meantime the spin cycle on the washing machine no longer shakes the whole house. Victory?!

Ridiculous: The purple paint saga. My wife and I are lesbians who tend toward maximalism in our decoration style. Construction companies find this baffling. We paid extra to our siding company to get the extended color choices (if you order the siding with the color baked in it lasts longer, but you're limited to a particular range of colors) and spoiler alert: 90% of them are boring as fuck. We basically paid extra to have access to 400 shades of white and 400 more shades of beige. There were like three saturated colors in the whole book. Pathetic.

Anyway, we chose the one nice teal that was available and decided we'd paint the door purple, since all the purple colors were gray at best. The project manager then forgot to put in our order, and when he remembered he'd forgotten, ordering our siding through his company would have pushed back the start time by six weeks. We could still make the original start time if we ordered through a different company doing the same thing, though!

Me, immediately: And we wouldn't be restricted to your color palette, right? Him: Yeah, they can do custom colors. Me, slapping down a color card called "Fully Purple": MAKE IT PURPLE.

Bless this man, he went to the siding company and asked for Fully Purple. They told him they couldn't do that color, and also is he sure anyone wants this color? He called them on the phone and informed them yes, we did want that color, and also that he'd worked for them and he knew damn well they could do that color, they'd just have to custom mix it, so they needed to do their fucking jobs. Suitably chastened, they finally sent us a sample of the siding, and it was... okay. It was purple for sure, but a little de-saturated. Not the purple of our hearts.

I asked if they'd actually started manufacturing our siding yet or just sent the color sample. The project manager confirmed they hadn't, and if we ordered this imperfectly-purple siding now, it would be several weeks before we could get started.

"We're gonna paint," I decided, and our project manager put in the orders.

The paint store called him and said, "Hey, are you sure you want this color?" Yes, he assured them, that's the right color.

The guys doing the painting opened up the can and then called him and said, "Are you sure this color?" and he told them yes! They want that color!

At this point I told him he should just start responding with, "They're lesbians!!! Yes! They want the purple! They're lesbians!!!"

Eventually we cleared every hurdle god and the construction industry put in front of us, and now our house is Fully Purple.

It also has insulation, wiring that won't kill us, and a laundry room that hopefully won't collapse anytime soon. We got a heat pump installed that took shockingly little time and worked immediately, and our next project will be having the roof redone. Check back in to find out what fresh horror awaits us then! I think it'll be a second roof under our existing roof made of lead and asbestos tiles, probably!

#home improvement #it's a nightmare #choices were made #they were bad

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politemenacephd · 3 months

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Love Language

💜 Drider!Miguel X Reader

Content: Pure fluff where Drider!Mig comes home and takes care of you after a really bad day.

Word count: 1,780

Notes: Gift for @sirbird after they mentioned they'd had a rough week. After a few bad days as well I thought this might be nice. Enjoy <3

It was a still evening in the forest. The sunlight streaming through the trees was a rich and blinding orange, and the dappled undergrowth below was shrouded in the shadows of a million pines. There was no wind, only the lingering warmth of a hot day slowly chilling in the dark.

In the burgeoning twilight the only sound was the singing of a single robin somewhere up in the canopy above, and the heavy-footed steps of something huge moving across the forest floor.

Miguel’s enormous spider paws easily crunched the dead leaves and twigs beneath him as he made his way home. He usually tried to be a little quieter as he crept through his domain, but today he wanted to get home quickly. He wanted to see you.

He crawled down the hillside with unnerving grace. He passed a deer on the way which bolted on sight, its hooves thudding as it vanished into the dark. His hunting instincts usually would have driven him to follow, but again, not today. You overrode all of that.

By the time he finally reached home the distant sun was almost set, and his only guiding grace was the burning lantern left outside the entrance to your humble little dwelling.

He approached a huge, gaping hole in the earth, one that was surrounded by thick webs. Someone had spun a sign on the side that said ‘O’HARA RESIDENCE’.

He bent his legs and called into the hole.

‘Mi arañita! I have returned.’

His voice echoed down into the dark, but he didn’t stop to listen. He was busy rustling his abdomen, a ritual akin to removing your shoes before going into someones house. He shook out the dirt and brushed off his broad, bare chest. He wanted to look presentable.

‘Mm… good’ he mumbled to himself once done. He gave one final brush of his fur before descending into the hole.

As he crept downward, he noticed that you hadn’t called back. That was immediately odd to him. You always called back.

‘Mi arañita?’

He called for you again as the tunnel levelled out. The ground became flat and he was faced with a huge circular oak door, one which he easily pushed aside with a low creak. The glow from within danced across his chiselled face.

‘Mi amor? I’m home!’ he cheerfully cried. Again, no response. He swallowed hard and crawled deeper, his brows now knotted with confusion. Where were you?

His home was a series of tunnels cut into the earth beneath one of the great pine trees above, creating a ceiling of roots on which he hung a handful of glass candlelit jars. It was warm here from the insulation, a constant steady, cosy heat, and the flickering firelight bathed the walls in sweet, rich, earthy tones.

It was home, yes, but it wasn’t home until he had you. He sniffed the air and tapped his feet in the hopes the sound would draw you out.

‘Mi amor? Are you- hiding?’

No answer.

He made his way around to your shared bedroom, and slowly he pushed the little makeshift door aside.

‘Mi amor…?’

And there, at last, he found you. You were curled up on his big silk mattress, your head half covered by sheets. Miguel’s eyebrows went down at the sight.

‘Mi amor?’ he asked, his cheery tone now sunk into clear concern. You let out a soft mumble, but that was all.

‘Mi amor…’ Miguel slowly crept towards the bed as he repeated his affectionate phrase. ‘Mi amor. Were you sleeping?’

You nodded. He sighed, a sound of deep affection, and grunted as he carefully folded his legs. He dropped his abdomen down until he could reach you.

‘Sweet thing’ he murmured. You felt his claws brush your cheek, his thumb light as it tenderly stroked back and forth along the ridge of your eye. He let his hand drift down your face to your jaw, and as carefully as one would lift a baby bird he cupped your head in his palm. Your eyes fluttered open.

‘Did you, have another bad day at work?’ he whispered. He kept his tone to barely a breath as he spoke, in the hopes that he wouldn’t upset you further. You nodded without speaking.

‘Mm… I see.’ He grunted to himself and tapped his paws in thought. He couldn’t stand to see you distressed.

‘May I, join you?’ he asked after a moments silence. You nodded.

Without another word he crawled up onto the giant mattress. His body sank into the feather stuffed silk, the weight jostling you a little as he settled, but soon he’d folded his legs and nestled down beside you. He used his long fluffy legs to pull you close while his forelegs carefully adjusted the blankets, ensuring you were warm, and one you were safely encased against his abdomen he lowered his human half to cradle your head and shoulders.

‘Shh’ he cooed as he pulled you in. ‘Shh, shh.’

You were fully enveloped in the warmth, clutched to his lower abdomen like a baby. You felt his spider paws shifting to rub at your back. They were so soft, like downy feathers, but they felt intelligent as they rubbed at your skin.

He smelled like pine needles and dirt, like summer warmth and musk. He smelled so familiar.

‘Shh. I’ve got you’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe. I’ve got you.’

You gave in to the warmth, and you returned his affection. You sank your fingers into his fur until it was all you could feel. It was thick and smooth, perfectly brushed from when you’d groomed him last night, and when you sank into its warmth it was like sinking into heaven.

‘Are you comfortable, mi amor?’

You nodded.

‘Do you—want, food?’ he asked. You shrugged.

‘Mm. Okay. Do you, want distraction, or just cuddles right now?’

You sank deeper into the fluff, letting it muffle your voice. ‘Cuddles’ you said quietly. ‘Just cuddles.’

‘Very well, mi arañita. Cuddles it is.’

He sighed and let his body relax against you, and you did the same. As you slumbered in and out of sleep he continued to show you little moments of affection; he’d stroke your back or kiss your forehead as you slept, occasionally touching your skin with his paw to ensure you were warm.

You could feel his breath stirring the hair on your head as he, too, drifted off at your side.

‘I missed you, mi amor’ he whispered.

‘I missed you too’ you whispered back. You felt his abdomen rustle with joy, and as your eyelids closed you drifted off to sleep.

…

After your nap Miguel got to work. He raised the lights and left you your phone to watch videos while he moved about the den. He set up the central cooking fire and began brewing a huge metal pot of your favourite warm drink, hoping it might wake you up a little so you didn’t slumber all evening.

He was ever so careful as he crawled back into the bedroom, being sure not to spill anything onto your body still cocooned in the warmth of the sheets. He lay the mug down on the earthen floor beside the bed so you could reach it when you were ready.

When you shuffled up to drink it he sat at your side and patiently watched. He even bent down and let you show him your favourite videos. He didn’t understand a single one, but he was just happy to see you either smile or giggle to yourself. He was insistent on constantly having a paw around you.

When you were too tired to take care of yourself he stepped in again.

He picked you up with your forelegs and arms, cradling you like a baby against his enormous chest, before laying you down on the back of his fluffy abdomen so he could run you a bath.

He filled a wooden tub with warm water he heated over the main fire, all while keeping you safe and snug on his back so you didn’t have to stand. He was large enough to hold your full body weight on just his abdomen, thankfully, and so you got to lounge in his thick fur while he continued preparations.

When the bath was ready he checked it with his paw, and once sure it wasn’t too hot he picked you up and undressed you in his arms. He looked at you, of course, his eyes curious and instinctively hungry as you were stripped down, but he didn’t make a single move.

He kissed your neck a couple of times, and that was it. He lowered you into the steamy tub with a soft affirmation:

'There, mi amor, you relax now.'

The water was warm enough to make your skin tingle, but not so much as to be uncomfortable. In that sweet, hugging warmth Miguel shifted to sit behind your head where he could continue pampering you in peace.

He washed your hair with his human hands while gently rubbing your shoulders with his forelegs. His fur got damp, but he paid it no mind. He was always gentle, always delicate, doing his best to not jostle you too much. Every so often he’d bend to kiss the crown of your head. It seems he couldn’t keep himself away for more than a minute without showing you some kind of affection.

He helped run soap over every inch of your body with his longer legs, using their length to sink beneath the water and clean what he otherwise couldn’t reach. The fur was soft on your skin so it helped you to relax.

He combed your wet hair with your claws, preening you like he would his own fur. He wrapped your hair into a silk turban to keep it safe, but when he lifted you out of the water at last he realized a silk sheet wouldn’t do much to dry you off, so he used his legs again. He let you dry yourself using his fur and then shook himself dry as well.

After that, he carried you back to bed in the warmth of his arms, and he lay down beside you to rest. He wrapped you up like a fly, swaddling you in silk sheet after silk sheet, and kept you close to his heart. You listened to it thud as you drifted off in the slowly dimming candlelight.

When you went to sleep, you’d forgotten all about the rest of the day. Everything that’d stung, that’d hurt, there was no room in your mind for it anymore.

All you could think of was him. All you knew was his warmth, his heavy snoring, his soft hairy chest on your cheek, his muscled arms around your shoulders, and his furry abdomen keeping you warm and safe.

It was all there was. You and him. That was all there was in the whole world.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #spider man 2099 #drider #miguel x reader #drider miguel o'hara #miggy fic #miguel o'hara fluff

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fortheloveofbuddie · 6 months

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Fuck it Friday

I’m back babiesss

Haven’t had time to write for some time but now I do

Tagged by @daffi-990 and @jesuisici33 💗

Yet another continuation of When Hearts Collide (Can I Take Your Hand?)

(With some very mild gore)

Previous parts here

And here

Another one here

Andddd the last one here

(Story and tags under cut)

“The roof is about to give in, we need to get out of here!”

Eddie calls out, not using his radio because he and Buck are standing mere inches away.

The heat of the flames are getting closer by the second, almost licking the soles of their boots and Buck can feel drops of sweat running down the sides of his face, his helmet and oxygen mask clinging to it.

There are scorching flames everywhere on the ceiling which causes it to work as an incinerator, loose pieces of insulation and bricks falling around them, everything creaking and groaning as it does.

Eddie grabs ahold of Buck’s collar, pulling him away from the danger zone and towards the exit of the building. He can feel his heart pounding against his ribs and he hasn’t feel this nervous since he was still a rookie. Maybe it’s because it’s only their second shift together as a new couple and nobody else knows yet.

The visibility is close to zero as they approach the exit and Buck only pauses for a second but that’s enough to lose Eddie in the heavy cloud of smoke.

“Eddie?”

He calls out, his mouth almost dry as he realizes that Eddie is nowhere to be found.

“Eddie!”

The worry in his voice increases as the seconds go by and he can sense the blue lights coming from outside the building but he turns back around. His heart is in his throat as he tries desperately to search for Eddie, rubble all around him.

“Cap, Eddie’s down! I need help. We were at the delta side of the building, heading for the exit and…”

Now he’s missing.

It doesn’t take more than 30 seconds before the roof is halfway collapsed in on the building, making a search nearly impossible.

The following minutes feels like hours, almost days as everyone is trying to search for Eddie, to make contact with him somehow and every time they call his radio, it’s just static on the other end.

And despite his oxygen mask clinging to his face, Buck feels his lungs working overtime as well as his mind.

What if Eddie’s badly injured and he’s buried somewhere in the rubble?

What if he’s conscious and in pain and is calling out for help but no one can hear him where he is?

Or worse

What if he’s dead?

The only thing that matters is that he gets out alive but Buck can’t help but to think in worst case scenarios. Because that’s what always happens to them. So much for that happiness.

It weighs heavy on him and he starts to hyperventilate, something that has only happened once before. And his breathing becomes more strained when his tank is suddenly empty.

He doesn’t know how but he manages to stumble out of the building, gasping for air as he rips his mask off. Tears and sweat are running down his face and he tumbles to the ground, unable to hold the weight of his own body upright.

“We’ve got him!”

Ravi’s voice sounds over the radio and after a few seconds, it registers in Buck’s brain.

He manages to push himself up on his feet and watches as Eddie is being carried out of the building, clearly unconscious. Eddie’s helmet is dented and colored by sot, blood and glass.

Hen and Chimney rushes up to the building, gets Eddie on the gurney and then gets to work. Buck can barely move or breathe or understand what they’re saying despite of all of his training. It doesn’t help when he says a piece of broken hardwood pierced into Eddie’s leg and then he manages to compose himself.

His legs carry him faster than his brain has time to process his movements and the second that he gets to touch Eddie, it feels like he can breathe again. Just for a moment.

“Baby, come on. I need you here with me. Don’t do this”

Buck’s voice is so careful and he doesn’t know how to act but his hand finds Eddie’s for a brief moment before he’s loaded into the back of the ambulance.

Chim is working high paced to get control of Eddie’s bleeding and he watches his brother-in-law be completely paralyzed with fear.

“Buck, I need you to focus” He states and then Buck snaps out of his trance, hands working quickly with Chim to stop some of Eddie’s bleeding with gauze.

His blood is warm and thick, running down Buck’s hands but there isn’t enough time to stop.

“I need you to live, Eddie. Please don’t die on me”

Buck begs, knowing that it probably won’t work because right now, Eddie is close to dying, losing more and more blood by the second.

When they reach the hospital, a team of doctors and nurses rush in, separating Buck from his love and Buck just stops in his tracks, watching them having to pump the life back into Eddie’s body. Exactly like what Eddie did for him.

The hours pass by and the entire crew is in the waiting room, Buck not having moved an inch. He hasn’t even washed his hands yet, meaning that Eddie’s dried blood is still everywhere on his skin. And it isn’t until Bobby almost pulls him up and to a bathroom with a sink, that Buck can see the damage done to his skin and face.

He’s got cuts everywhere, dried blood on his cheeks and hands, sot mixed with sweat down his neck and he looks like a mess. Which is also how he feels.

He manages to clean up with Bobby’s help and as they return to the waiting room, a doctor comes out to see them. His look is stern and Buck holds his breath. He isn’t ready to hear whatever this man has to say. Expect if Eddie’s still alive. He can live with him being hurt but he wouldn’t be able to carry on without him.

“He’s out of surgery. He suffered a laceration to his thigh and lost a huge amount of blood but he’ll recover in time”

“Can we see him?” Buck is the first one to speak up, his heart racing as he tries to make sense of everything.

“Yes. But he’s still waking up and is on heavy pain medication, so he might not register that you’re there”

As soon as the doctor was done talking, Buck moved quickly down to the hallway and into Eddie’s room. He was hooked up to so many different devices that Buck could barely keep track of them.

“Baby” was the first word out of Buck’s mouth when he saw Eddie again, letting out a deep sigh of relief.

Eddie replied with a pained expression but managed to smile a little, lifting his hand up towards Buck.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I looked away for a second and you were gone” Buck quickly but carefully grabs Eddie’s hand, feeling how weak he is. He still hasn’t regained all of his color but he looks so much better than he did when Ravi pulled him out of the burning building.

“Not… your fault. I heard-… heard a sound and I turned around” Eddie manages to form an entire sentence, a little breathlessly but he gets through it.

In a slow movement, Buck sits down next to Eddie and places a warm kiss on his forehead, feeling his eyes welling up again. Eddie lets out a hum of appreciation and feels his body relaxes underneath Buck.

“Please don’t scare me like that. I’m getting tired of watching you almost die” Buck warns in a playful voice as he tries to get eye contact with Eddie.

“Should’ve… chosen a boyfriend-..”

Eddie inhales sharply to compose himself

“In another profession then”

Tagging!! @wildlife4life @honestlydarkprincess @wikiangela @forthewolves @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley @giddyupbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @eddiediaztho @callaplums @whosoldherout @fionaswhvre @watchyourbuck 💗🦋

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 on abc #oliver stark #ryan guzman #edmundo diaz #evan buck buckley #buck x eddie #buddie wip #buddie fic #fuck it friday #fortheloveofbuddie writes #when hearts collide (can i take your hand?)

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flyingfishtailoutpost1 · 1 month

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The school tech and I were talking to our TA today about what she wants to do after graduation. She said she wanted to go into education, maybe ESE, so I mentioned that my alumni had a special program for education of the deaf and blind—“and the dorms have AC now and everything, so that’s awesome!”

They were like “…wut??”

So I had to give them the story of my College Dorm Adventure, which I knew was kind of bonkers but by their reactions I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’m underestimating it by, like, an order of magnitude.

Some highlights:

Most of the school is housed in a Victorian-era hotel that looks like fucking Hogwarts. The dining hall had three story vaulted ceilings and Tiffany stained glass. The food was shitty though. Eating extremely shitty cafeteria mac n cheese under gilded frescoes was a funny experience.

The wiring was so old that some of it may have been there since the place was built…in 1888.

So yeah, no AC and also if you ran a blow dryer and a tv at the same time you could blow out the lights for an entire floor.

There was central heat, because the temps would get down into the teens in winter, but all the heat rose to the top floors because the insulation was ancient and because of all the secret passages (hold on a sec) so the upper floor rooms would be sweltering. So we opened the windows in the hall, let it get to like 40 degrees, and ran back and forth to thermoregulate like garden lizards

Oh yeah, the place was riddled with secret passages, because the dorm rooms were in the old hotel rooms, and there were the remains of old staircases that led to nowhere and chutes between rooms so the ye olde servants could move around unobtrusively. Some were boarded up. Some were not. Some were still used by maintenance so occasionally you’d hear their voices echoing in the walls.

That didn’t help with the whole “this place is hella haunted” thing

Because it was hella haunted.

Every day we had people dressed as pirates walking crowds past our windows giving lectures about how haunted it was. Housing Services occassionally had to issue memos telling all the freshmen that they couldn’t ask to move rooms anymore just because some upperclassmen told them their room had a ghost in it. (One of my rooms had a ghost in it but I didn’t figure that out until way later.)

The design of the dining hall meant that there were acoustic pockets where people 150 feet away could hear what you were saying because the sound traveled along the arched ceilings. This could cause gossip-type trouble, and also convincing-the-freshmen-that-the-ghosts-were-everywhere type trouble

Possibly more frightening: the school was tiny and most of the classrooms were in the same structure as the dorms so if you skipped class too many times and you lived on the ground floor, you could wake up to your professor peering in the window at you like “HEY, YOU GOOD???”

(The town was also tiny. One graphic design professor was known for going out drinking with groups of his seniors and getting hammered at the bars across the street, then the whole lot of them would end up sleeping it off on his office floor because why not?)

Supposedly you couldn’t go up to the 3rd floor ballroom because Aleister Crowley did seances up there and summoned demons so the floor was cursed and rotted. Crowley had indeed been a guest at the hotel. The floor was just structurally unsound because they hadn’t gotten enough grant money for the restoration job.

There were creepy carved cherubs EVERYWHERE, they were inescapable. One weekend the dollar theater down the street ran The Haunting and everyone freaked out and people were sleeping in the hallways for a while because they couldn’t deal with being stared at all night.

My sophomore year a raccoon or some sort of something got into one of the passages in the walls or ceiling adjacent to my room and died. The room was filled with death smell and flies for two weeks. Maintenance just shrugged at us about it and were like “Yeah that happens sometimes, we have no clue what’s in those walls, really.” My roommate at the time moved into a friends room that smelled better and I was left pretty much alone with a dead raccoon(?) and a raging bad case of unmedicated anxiety disorder. Luckily that was not also the room What Had The Ghost In It.

I lived there all 4 years because my friends and I insta-bonded and we all ended up living next door to each other and going everywhere in a pack. Also we liked the weird. And the ghosts.

#college #ghosts #and dead raccoons #my ramblings #I miss that town

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 10 months

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Only - a Magnus Archives Fic

There are multiple versions of everyone here. At least two Martins, a few Jude Perrys, even three Georgies.

But it seems there is only one Jon - and no clear answer as to why.

Judging by Leitner's response, Jon isn't the only one hungry for answers.

Spoilers for the whole show. This is post-MAG 200.

Part three of the Magnus Monsterverse AU.

AO3

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Leitner had set his office in a radiating chapel. Eerily, it reminded me of Jonah’s old office, and I couldn’t put my finger on why.

Ah, that was it: pretentious as hell.

Behind the desk rose rose seven tall, narrow, stained-glass windows, each split in the center between lighter panels and dark, as if telling two halves of a story. Bookshelves lined both walls from that window to the door. The ceiling was high, the area rug thick, and the three seats before the substantial desk quite comfortable.

It all managed to be welcoming—a cozy gathering before the hearth of Leitner’s attention, insulated in colored light and academia.

Of course, the weapons ruined it.

One shelf of nothing but blades, all lengths, weird and curving shapes. One shelf of virulent-colored flacons that competed for vibrancy with the sun-lit panels. A shelf of distinctly occultic accoutrements, with candles and bones and feathers. A shelf with stacks of paper and chalk, pots of ink, and ofuda with elegant script. A shelf with six guns of varying size on little stands, grips out, ready to be drawn and fired.

None of that came close to the danger of the books beside them, though—books practically vibrating with power, sending off little beams of light or wisps of smoke or weird, tentacular distortions I was fairly sure no one could see but me.

Dear lord. This place was a powder keg.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Leitner on his throne, with what I imagine was the same hubris he’d had in my world before his precious library was plundered. “Though I see from your face you find it a bit more intimidating than intended.”

“I’m not entirely sure what kind of person would find it less intimidating,” I said, hunching a little into the armchair.

“Fair point! Lolly?” And he held up a little jar of them.

They were the kind one used to receive after visiting a doctor, back in the day: small, round, and wrapped in twisted clear plastic.

I stared at him. “You’re making this surreal on purpose,” I accused.

He laughed.

Had I heard him laugh before? I must have; it was familiar, though I couldn’t place it in our brief and abruptly ended conversation. Then again, I had hardly been in my right mind, having just learned some god made of Fear had claimed me.

I wasn’t in my right mind now, either.

“Well, maybe a little,” he finally conceded, putting the jar back on the desk. “I only get to induct you to all of this the once, you know.”

“Nonsense. You’ll do it whenever you find another me.”

“There isn’t another you,” he said matter-of-factly.

I stared at him.

He looked back.

There wasn't even a ticking clock in here to make the silence less rigid.

I frowned. “That makes no sense.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.” He steepled his fingers. Backlit by stained glass, the green of his little round lenses made him seem part of the ornamentation, a new and three-dimensional form of story told in images.

“Sorry, I,” Martin said, stood up, and moved behind my chair.

“It’s all right,” said Leitner. “If you need to leave, it’s also fine.”

“No,” said Martin. “No. I’m staying with him.”

“However you wish.”

I reached my hand up, over my head. “Are you sure?”

“More than anything.” He took it.

I kept hold as I spoke. “Explain that. What do you mean, I’m the only one?”

“I will be happy to—though you’ll have to forgive my layman’s terms; Manuela got stuck in the lab today, and will have to catch up with you later.” He rose and came around to the front of the desk and sat against it, arms crossed, a “cool teacher” pose if I ever saw one (which I had—I went to Oxford). “This all started because of Gertrude.”

I made a little grunt. Why did it just figure that this somehow went back to Gertrude?

I don’t know what my face did, but it must have been really something, because he laughed again. “Goodness,” he said. “Did you know her? What a look!”

“I… just keep going, please,” I said, because that can of worms still had sharp edges.

“Very well. I was told you were the Archivist at the Magnus Institute in your time, yes?”

"Spoken as if there is no such institute here."

"There isn't. This particular world is precious because it lacks all such institutions and organizations. Similarly, there is no... what was it, Martin? Solus Shipping. No Circus. It's a remarkably pristine world, even though the Fears are here - and we are going to keep it that way."

I stared.

"Regardless," he said. "You were the Archivist, yes?"

I had absolutely no idea how all of that felt. Strange? Aching? Vaguely shameful, for reasons I couldn't yet parse; a deep relief that, if there was a Jonah Magnus in this universe, he'd either never chosen the Eye, or hadn't lived long enough to create his horrid empire.

“Yes.” So strange, that my identity should bring shame.

“That makes this easier to explain. In 1965, Gertrude—then a lowly assistant to Archivist Angus Stacey—encountered an unknown creature in the Magnus Institute. She called it the Grinning Wheel, though we've been utterly unable to identify it.”

I couldn’t help myself. “It was a chimera.”

“A what?” said Leitner, his tone so light, so interested (so damned familiar).

My face burned. “Ah. I call them that. It’s when the Fears choose to work together directly—not even via human servants, but through a monster they co-create. It’s quite rare—they don't generally enjoy sharing—and tends to be something of a horror. In this case, it was a creature of the Spiral, the Web, and the Eye.”

Leitner stared. “You know this?”

“I do.”

“What else do you know?” he said, leaning forward a little.

I stared up at him. “Keep talking, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

He laughed again. “You've got backbone! I like that for you. Never met you, you know, in my timeline; the you from my world died as a child.”

“Mister Spider?” I guessed.

“Yes, actually—would you be willing to tell me how you survived after I answer your question?”

“I... maybe.”

Martin’s spare hand moved to stroke my hair. The tension left my shoulders.

“Well! At any rate, this… chimera… resisted all her attempts to slay it. It murdered Stacey, ripping off his face, then came for her, as she was the only remaining living person in the Archives. She managed to fend it off, but in the process, angered it severely. It became obsessed.”

“She didn’t kill it?” I said.

“She did, in your time?”

“Yes. With fire.”

“Fascinating,” said Leitner. “She did not try that. Instead, the thing haunted her; began taking out people she knew and loved, hanging about outside her flat, generally being a nuisance.”

I felt pale. “A nuisance. Murdering her loved ones.”

“I am giving you her words, Jon, not mine.”

Chiding. That was chiding. Why the fuck was he being—

No, he wasn’t chiding. He was defensive, because I was picking apart his story when we didn’t even know each other. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m… I’ve lost whatever limited knack I had for talking to people.”

"Oh, don't fret over it too much.” He waved a hand. “You should hear the things I put up with from my own staff.”

Barely audible, Martin mumbled, “Maybe if you were less theatrical.”

I snorted.

Leitner raised one white eyebrow. “Someone has to be, hm? Anyway. Shall we continue?”

I stroked Martin’s hand with my thumb. “Please.”

“It pursued her. Resisted all attempts to banish it, kill it, drive it away. Finally, she had enough, and when, in 1974, she located the hair of one Agnes Montague in the ashes of a place called Hill Top Road, she got an idea. She used her knowledge as Archivist and her connections with various Powers to create a ritual.”

I got an odd feeling. “Wait. Who was working with her at that point?”

“Pardon?”

“You said, ‘connections with various Powers.’ Who?”

“Oh. From what she wrote, it seemed she knew avatars from most of the Powers; they were all willing to do her a favor and lend their aid.”

I stared at him.

“What?” said Leitner.

“She… didn’t go on a killing spree, is what you’re saying.”

He looked alarmed. “A killing spree? Gertrude Robinson?”

We gawked at each other.

“Every time I think I know what to expect,” Leitner said, uncrossing his arms and pushing up his green spectacles, “someone goes and surprises me. That is to say, she is certainly quite capable with weaponry, but are you actually telling me—”

“She is capable? She’s alive?”

"Yes, this world's version of her is alive. She works for me. I’ve never even heard of a murderous Gertrude.”

I sputtered. “What, this isn’t—wait a damn minute. I thought we were all from the same timeline. Martin is from my timeline, isn’t he? So how don’t you already know this?”

"Only up until 1974. Besides which, Martin has yet to tell me much about what happened to him,” said Leitner. “I’m hardly going to force him.”

I twisted to look back over the top of my chair.

Martin was barely visible, cast in shadow. He looked back at me, eyes soft, still green, but faded.

Right. My need to know things would wait. “I think we’re about out of time,” I said, turning back around.

“It’s okay, Jon,” Martin said. “Finish.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll hurry,” said Leitner, hands up. “The point is this: her ritual was… quite bad. Wrong, in fact. It shattered reality.”

“Shattered?”

“It…” He sighed. “Manuela can explain it precisely, including the mathematics involved. Suffice it to say that Gertrude created a…” He considers. “Like an ice floe with with cracks in it. Chunks can break off at any time, carrying whoever may be atop it away with them.”

That was a startlingly clear visual. “She did that?”

“She did.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I barely knew her, so I can only tell you what little she said and the statement she left behind—one which we managed to gather before fleeing that dying world.”

“So… whatever she did meant that…”

“It meant that whenever one of your particular group—tied to the Archives via actual employment, or having given a statement, or through some other means—made a major decision, it split off a piece of that ice floe. Eventually, there was nothing of the original left, which is when my world ended.”

Oh, I had so many questions.

I also had so little time. I licked my lips. “How did you survive that? Not to mention get into… whatever all this is?” I said, one hand-wave taking it all in—the leather, the weapons, the width (approximately half of the Leitner I’d met).

“Gertrude got me into it. We met at an off-the-book black market for occult wares; I could never tell you fully how it happened, but we ended up having a wild adventure that night—car chases, firebombs, a few things I genuinely thought were demons until she taught me otherwise. Then we parted ways, and I never saw her again… but I’d already caught the bug.”

“The… the bug.”

“The drive. The desire. For knowledge, for adventure. It’s contagious, you know—being a hero.”

Good lord. “Yes, well, Sasha said I’m immune to everything now, so,” I snapped before I could think.

He chuckled—a dark sound this time, and I had no idea how to interpret it. “Regardless: here is what you were truly asking. These timelines all ended. One after another, they sank. Manuela believes that they were never… whole? Exactly? Never stable enough on their own to remain afloat, but the curious thing is that the people who made the decisions that broke off those pieces were also the ones to end them.”

“To end them for the Fears.”

“Yes.”

“Every time? None of them ended in nuclear war, or something?”

“None. Though war was often involved; that usually came down to the Slaughter or Desolation.”

So many questions. It’s challenging to pick a single line of inquiry. “None of this explains why you claim there’s only one of me.”

Leitner rose and walked over to his bookshelf, where he peered at spines for a moment.

With his back turned, it felt less rude to rise from my seat and press against Martin. He leaned in as though I were a much larger person; his little exhale seemed grateful, as though I gave him warmth.

“Here we go,” said Leitner, and offered me a book. “This involves many of the calculations Manuela has been making. It’s all Greek to me, but perhaps your… particular insight can clarify?”

“So you’re saying you don’t know?” I blurted, feeling vaguely offended.

“Oh, I can tell you what was observed,” said Leitner. “You always die.”

“I… I die?” I felt pale again.

“Always. Usually in childhood; more often after you’ve taken your job at the institute, though sometimes, it happens before. One of those Georgies out there sacrificed you, in fact, by accident, to the End.”

I suddenly regret having stood so soon. “What?”

“You. Always. Die. Frankly, I don’t understand why that is. She’s charted all the offshoots at this point, or so she believes; we know every single world, and who ended them. Jon… you are the only Jonathan Sims who survived.”

My legs were definitely made of eyes, because standing on them suddenly became incredibly difficult.

Martin held me up. “Steady,” he murmured against my ear.

“That’s… that’s ridiculous.” I swallowed. “Look, we haven’t even gotten into the… the incompatibility of time itself! I was where I was for nearly a thousand years! At least! How did… I don’t understand!”

“Right, that is technical information which you’ll need to get from her—and I can tell Martin is about at his limit.”

Damn it. I hadn’t meant to do that. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

“No,” he said. “No. We don’t go until you’re fed.”

Fed.

He wasn’t wrong.

But I…

“Suffice it to say yours was not the last world found, but it took far longer than others to die,” said Leitner.

“What?”

“We only bring one of the Lost here after their world has ended; to do otherwise would be heartlessly cruel—leaving those who survive at the hands of their chief Fear, without restraint. Most end within a span of fifty years, Jon. The longest—apart from yours—lasted a full seventy-five. ”

"Why was mine so different?"

"We don't know."

I shuddered. “So… you could rescue all the people from those worlds. And you don’t.”

“Please, Jon. Be practical. Where would we put the population of another Earth? How would they eat? Live? Even work? Think. I know this seems cruel, but it is not—you are discussing taking the entirety of the Titanic onto a single lifeboat. No one would survive.”

“Then why are you doing this at all?” And I yelled it.

I hadn’t meant to yell. I…

I have no right to yell. I did this. I ended my world. Where the hell did I get off, being angry at anything?

He watched me, silent while I twisted, as if giving me a moment to reach that conclusion before speaking again. “I am determined that this world will not die. Determined. And the best way to do that, in this case, is deterrence.”

“Deterrence?

“Mutually assured destruction.”

“You have completely lost me.” I trembled.

“I’ve got you,” Martin whispered.

“This world has its Fears. It has its avatars, its monsters, its power-hungry beasts—but now, it also has those who have suffered the price of their hubris, and who will go to any lengths to ensure that end does not happen again.To put it bluntly, we ensure it is simply not worth it to attempt the ending—not for anyone, at any time.”

I stared at him. “You’ve brought… world-ending people together to prevent further world-ending?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… that doesn’t work at all!”

“Except, of course, that it has.”

“You can’t tell me for one moment that everyone you… rescue is on board with this!”

“They aren’t. Those ones, however, are hardly given free rein.”

I stared. “Nikola.”

“Oh, you heard? Yes, she’s one of the few we couldn’t convince to fight for the side of life. Unfortunately, that means she must be detained. Not cruelly. But… there it is.” He shrugged.

I didn’t remember taking the book he held out, but it was in my hand. I realized because I wanted to throw it at him. “‘Fight for.’ What does that mean?”

“It means, through Manuela’s calculations and certain… abilities of our employees, we are able to seek out those who would end the world here and stop them. With extreme prejudice, if necessary. Usually, however, they can be convinced, and the threat passes.”

“You can’t know…”

“We can. Some of my rescuees are Web.”

My shaking grew worse—and not only from shock.

I’d been floating in the same information, the same memories, from centuries. This was not just new information. This was wildly new, and the Eye sang in me, blooming like a flower, and my own soul spewed light like a sun rising over the hill, and I wanted more, so badly. I wanted to know everything he knew about all of it.

Through my shirtsleeve, Martin’s hand on my arm had gone cold. I was out of time.

One… just one more question. “Why do I always die?”

“I have no idea, though Manuela might. The thing that interests me, Jon, is that you’re tied so keenly to almost everyone I rescue—the sole exceptions being those who died before you were born. Even in my world, my world’s Gertrude ended up involved with your grandmother because of your disappearance. Is it coincidence? Manuela says there is no such thing… but suffice it to say, it seems worth looking into. We searched for a long time before finding you.”

Again, I didn't know how to feel. "My world."

"Yes. And we had to wait, as stated, for it to finish its... final cycle."

"So it's dead."

“Yes. Dead. I’m sorry.”

“No, I… I knew it was dead.” I swallowed; my throat felt dry (not enough aqueous fluid, I suppose). “It was all… the memories all became one circular thing. I knew. Though I had no idea how long it had all gone on.” It didn't feel like a thousand years.

It felt like... a solid week of fever, dizzying and spining, but surely not as long as all that. Surely.

It was, the Eye told me, a pleasure in Its wordless exclamation.

I shuddered. I turned to wrap an arm around Martin's waist.

“We can continue this later, of course,” said Leitner, almost kindly. “But I think you have an idea why I wanted to see you today.”

“To see if I’m on board with saving the world.”

“Something like that.”

“I have no interest in ending it again, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

“Excellent! We can discuss it further later—I think it better if you take your lover and go, yes?”

My lover.

My… My Martin.

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking up at him.

His breath felt cold. “No, Jon. I could’ve left any time. Don’t you try to take my choices and blame yourself for them. We’re not doing that.”

What an odd thing to say. “That was a loaded statement,” I murmured.

“Not here,” he murmured back.

“Off you go! I’m sure you’ll have more questions,” said Leitner. “I’m very glad to finally meet you, Jon. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Familiar.

Something about… how he said my name, or…

“Tell me next time how your world ended,” Leitner added. “I try to record these things so we can avoid the same mistakes.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Thank you for your time.” Damned politeness, ingrained even after being a floating monster for a thousand years.

“We’re going my way this time,” said Martin.

“Pardon?” I said.

Martin took a handful of lollies, smiled at me like the peaks of ice-capped mountains, and pulled me into the fog.

#tma #tma fic #magnus archives #magpod #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #magnus monsterverse #jurgen leitner #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #jonmartin #tma spoilers

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 year

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Fic: Misty, chapter ix

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit (whole thing)

Fandom: Prospect

Pairing: Snowman!Ezra x f!reader (monsterfucker au)

Tags: it’s basically monster fucking but with a snowman which could technically be classified as a monster i guess?, gothic horror kind of, sorrow, dementia, anxiety, dog murder, masturbation, Frankie thirst, pet murder, racism mention, huge age gap, implied possible sexual abuse of minor, spookiness, PiV sex with an actual snowman, possible hallucinations, hypothermia, Frankie yearning, the spookiness continues, More dog murder and implied sexual abuse of a minor, implied illegal abortion, adulterous kissing, lots of crying.

Chapter warnings in addition to the above mentioned: Incest mention, amputee mention, abortion mention, murder, ghost sex. Yes, I said it. ghost sex. Multiple orgasms.

Summary: Escaping your empty apartment after having been dumped by your fiancé, you rent a cottage at Oakgrove House over Christmas to nurse your wounds. But strange things seem to happen at the estate, where an old woman wanders around in search of old friends long gone, and snowmen appear as if by themselves on the lawn…

Chapter word count: 3,335

A/N: One more to go after this one, folks. Thanks for sticking by me!

Tagging: @harriedandharassed @paulalikestuff @pazizz @lovesbiggerthanpride

The attic is a shallow one, insulated but dark, cold, and dusty. You use the flashlight on your phone to look around you as you peek up through the hatch. The pull-down ladder seems rickety, so you scramble up quickly, sneezing from the dust as you land on the plain wood floor.

Not knowing what you had expected, you feel a little discouraged when you see the amount of stuff stored in the small space. Cardboard box after cardboard box are lined up along the walls, old clothes bags hang from the ceiling, and one of the gable walls is hidden behind stacks of old newspapers. Turning around, you give a startled gasp when you see a shadow against the faint light of the other gable wall. For a split second, it looked like the outline of a human form, but your brain quickly registers the coveralls hanging in front of the window. Heart beating furiously, you take a deep breath and tell yourself to get a grip.

You get started with one of the boxes, finding only stale, old clothes inside. Rummaging through them in search of something hidden between the folds of fabric, you grimace a little at the smell and how dusty and unclean your hand feels after having touched the clothes. Already despairing, you look at the row of boxes and realize that this is going to take the whole night. With a deep sigh, you lift down the next box on the floor.

A sharp knock on the window makes you drop the box and your phone. Shaking and groping for the phone, you look up and see something move on the other side of the gable window. There is snow around the frame and against the white of it, you make out a bird. You swallow hard when it leans against the window again, and pecks the glass with its beak.

It's a common blackbird. You recognize it from the book earlier, otherwise you'd just have to guess. It's staring right at you, head tilted one way, then the other. When you do nothing but stare back, it shakes its wings and pecks the glass a third time. On weak legs, you slowly walk up to the window. The blackbird keeps staring at you in a most demanding fashion until you're just by the window and your foot hits something. You look down and spot a hat of some kind. Looking up again, the bird has disappeared. When you shine the flashlight through the unclean window, you can just about make out the tiny typewriter arm traces in the snow on the sill.

"Didn't imagine that," you mumble to yourself before taking a closer look at the hat. It's a safari helmet of that slightly uncomfortable colonialistic kind, at it has a dusty, dirty netting hanging at the back of it.

"Beekeeper's helmet," you muse to yourself as you turn it in your hands. The estate must have kept bees at some point. Did the gardeners tend to the hives, or did they have separate beekeepers?

You look at the coveralls, noting their olive green color. Aren't beekeeping suits always white? You have no idea. Thick gloves hang from one pocket and the zipper is pulled almost all the way down. That strikes you as odd somehow: clothes in storage are usually folded, zippered, buttoned. This one is not, and the right arm is inside the garment, as if it had been shed in a hurry. You start to frisk the coveralls and find something in the pocket that is not stuffed with gloves.

An envelope, thick with content, with nothing written on it. Holding your breath, you open it and take out the single folded paper. A smaller piece of paper falls to the floor and you bend down to pick it up. It's stiff, a lot stiffer than ordinary paper, and the side turned away from you is smooth. Your fingers know it before your mind does: it's a photograph. Slowly, you turn it, and look straight into the dark eyes of Ezra.

Sinking down onto the floor, you stare at the man in the black and white, slightly yellowed photograph. It is Ezra, you just know it. Broad shoulders, sharp nose that gives him a noble kind of ruthlessness. A hint of a smirk grazing the full lips, surrounded by a mustache and a tidy, short beard. Dark, short hair. He's wearing the beekeeping coveralls; the helmet is under his arm. It seems to be summer; the surroundings are verdant despite the monochrome snapshot.

"There you are," you whisper, brushing your thumb over the photograph. You look at it for a long time, noting down every detail, from his big hands to the scar on his left cheek. You wonder how he got that scar.

Setting the photo to the side, you open the letter, finding more photographs. One is of Ezra with garden shears in front of a rose bush, seemingly unaware that he is being photographed. Another is of him on a bench with a book in his hand, the other hand shielding his eyes against the sun as if trying to see who is disturbing his reading time. All three pictures are snapshots of everyday situations, but there is something unsettling about them all. You can't put your finger on it, but there is something about Ezra's whole being that does not sit right with you.

The last photograph makes you gasp. It is Ezra, now in the wintertime, standing in front of a boarding house. He looks like a completely different person: his beard is uneven and unkempt, his hair has a white tuft in it, his eyes have a coldness to them that makes you shiver, and his jaw is set in a hard line that you realize now has been hinted at in the previous photos. But the most shocking, heart-breaking thing is his right arm, or rather the lack of one. He is clearly missing his right arm. The sleeve of his coat is pinned to the side and he's standing with the right side slightly angled towards the camera, as if showing off the fact that he is an amputee.

You remember the snowman and its lack of an arm and it’s like the temperature drops immediately. You shudder and direct your attention to the letter instead. It is not long, and you recognize the handwriting. It is by Olga.

Dearest E,

I will wait. One day we can sit in the garden and read each other poetry or play in the snow and spend long evenings by the warming fire. I can see it when I close my eyes. We will be safe. Please respond. I need to know you are well despite your misfortune. I do not care about the stones in my necklace, I only need to know that you are well. Write to me, your letters can no longer be intercepted.

Your Blackbird.

The heartfelt plead brings tears to your eyes. Did Olga ever send the letter, or was it sent back to her? Did Ezra return, was he able to give her letter back in person? The old paper offers no answers.

Your findings in one hand and phone in the other, you leave the attic, slowly descending the ladder. Almost down, it sways and creaks, and the sudden unsteadiness makes you miss the next step. You plummet clumsily down the last couple of steps, falling hard on your backside when you reach the floor. The impact sends a shockwave of pain through your spine, and you curl up on the floor with a whine and try to breathe through it. The tears flow freely, your hand closes into a fist and you bang it against the floor in frustration and anguish.

When you finally sit up, gingerly and assessing the damage, you are not alone: Across the small landing stands Ezra. The ache dulls your reaction, and you simply meet his dark, unreadable gaze. His contours are oddly floating, and you can see right through his oddly colorless form. You think, That is a ghost right there, but the words mean nothing. It’s Ezra. He’s come home.

He is quietly watching you, his unblinking eyes disquietingly feral in their intensity. His right arm is missing and the scar on his cheek seems to glow white. You find yourself hypnotized by his stillness, and for long moments, you only sit on the floor and let him control you with those eyes of his.

Eventually, you clear your throat and wet your lips.

“Hello, Ezra.”

He does not move nor acknowledge your greeting in any way, but you think you see a flash of recognition in his eyes, so you continue.

“Did you ever return?” You look around you and find the letter and the photographs next to you, where they have fallen from your hand. Reaching for the letter, you groan from the pain. You hold the paper up to him.

“Olga wrote to you. She wanted you back. Did you return?”

Now his chin rises slightly and his nostrils flare, as if scoffing in disdain. But there is pity in his eyes. You instantly know what it means.

“You didn’t. This letter was returned to sender. She says that you could return, that it was safe for both of you. What did she mean?”

Ezra looks almost bored, like he is dismissing you.

“You never intended to return.”

His sharp eyes turn interested again.

“She was too young for you. You were never interested. You only played with her, like a cat with its prey.”

Now he glowers at you, and you sense that if this weren’t some specter or figment of your imagination, you’d feel unease at the barely hidden ferocity of this man. But you find yourself glowering back at him.

“What did you do?”

His lips are tightly pressed shut so you change your tactics.

“I found the cards you sent her. You did that to let her know you were alive and well, right?”

A nod.

“Until… you lost your arm in one of those mines. Didn’t you?”

Another nod, and a pained frown. Now his remaining hand rises, crosses his chest, and grasps the stump that is left at his shoulder. His gaze lowers, as if in a silent prayer for what he has lost.

“And then… you died.”

He looks up at you, surprised and confused, like you just told him something he did not know.

“So you couldn’t return.”

Slowly, he nods again, face falling before he rearranges his features into something more guarded.

“I’m sorry,” you offer. It’s not much, but you wanted to say it. He inclines his head in an acknowledgment of your condolence.

“Why are you here now?” you venture, but Ezra has lost interest in you. He is staring right past you, and you sense a presence.

“He is here to say goodbye.”

Turning around, you see Olga at the stairs. She, however, is not looking at you, but at Ezra.

“You look just like that last time I saw you.”

Ezra regards her with his head slightly tilted, as if trying to find the young girls behind the old lady mask. A little twinkle lights up in his eye before he smiles a crooked smile.

“Your arm was gone, your hair was going white, but you were still my Ezra,” Olga continues in a quiet but firm voice. “I waited for you for a long time.”

You feel like you should leave, give them privacy, but curiosity has gotten the better of you. Pain forgotten, you swallow before speaking.

“Why, Olga? Why did you wait for him? He was twice your age, he used you, he – “

“It was not Ezra!” Olga cuts you off, her voice rising. “Ezra never touched me. True, I was a young, infatuated girl, but Ezra was my ally.”

“You said you needed a procedure,” you whisper, head swimming with every piece of new information. “You drowned your dog on Ezra’s request. So that he knew he could trust you not to tell.”

“He helped me get an abortion,” Olga clarifies, voice softening in affection when she looks at Ezra, who meets her adoring eyes with a tenderness you could only describe as paternal.

“He had to make sure I wouldn’t tell anyone. It was illegal and we had to cross the state line. My parents had me under surveillance but worst of all was my brother.”

Your stomach turns. “It was him.”

“Yes. It was him.” Olga’s confirmation is direct, almost emotionless.

“Your parents…”

“Knew nothing. And died in a traffic accident. My brother became my guardian. I wanted to run away with Ezra, but he wouldn’t take me with him until he had money to support the both of us.”

She shakes her head at Ezra, who lowers his gaze.

“That almost broke me. As if I needed any riches. I only needed freedom.”

“And then he was injured,” you guess. Olga tuts with disdain.

“No. He came back every Christmas to let me know how he was doing. He couldn’t write to me, all mail went through my brother. I had no friends. I could only wait for his sign, the snowman in front of the gardener’s cottage, and hope that I had not missed him.”

The snowman. He will come tonight.

“But he came back eventually?”

“Yes.” Olga raises her chin at you. “He came back. We met in secret in this cottage. The gardener was at mass. And my brother had grown suspicious. He followed me. He found us.”

Ezra’s ghostly form seems to darken, his face a terrifically frightening image as he listens to Olga.

“What happened?” you ask in a trembling voice. Olga’s features are perfectly composed, her eyes like steel.

“The garden path was icy. He slipped and fell.”

Ezra’s amused little smile is lethal.

“You killed him,” you accuse him weakly. The smile grows broader, and Olga shakes her head.

“No. Ezra merely fought him. He fell and hit his head. I told Ezra that he had to run away. I would make sure nobody even knew he had been there.”

She now turns to Ezra again, her eyes despondent. “Sending you away that time was the hardest thing I ever did. But you were not safe. We were not safe. He was still alive.”

“You killed him,” you state, feeling an odd sense of justice in it. Olga nods.

“He was in a coma. I had to wait for a while, make sure all paperwork was in order. Then it was a simple matter of covering his face with a pillow until he breathed no more.”

Ezra smiles at her, almost proudly. The morbid confession and his obvious satisfaction do not faze you. You are beyond that at this point.

Good for her.

“Why didn’t you leave to find him?” you ask. A faint blush stains Olga’s cheeks.

“I had met the man who became my husband.”

The ghost of the man she had once loved inclines his head with a faint smile. Olga smiles back.

“He was good to me, Ezra. I never told him, but I think he knew. He treated me right.”

Slowly, Olga walks up to Ezra, arms opening almost hesitantly. When she reaches him, her arms go right through his form. She smiles sadly.

“It was good to see you, Ezra.”

Your nose itches from lingering attic dust and you can’t keep from sneezing, turning away from the old woman and the apparition to do it as delicately as you can into your elbow.

When you look up again, sniffling, Olga is gone, and Ezra is watching you. A little unsurely, you meet his gaze.

“Why are you still here?”

His eyes narrow and the diamond glint of a canine makes you realize that he is smirking.

“For… me…?” you breathe, not sure that you want to know the answer to that question. Now Ezra walks across the landing to the bedroom. His feet may be moving but he is floating an inch above the floorboards. He stops and turns around to beckon you to follow. Hesitantly, you do, and when he asks you with a gesture to lie down on the bed, you obey. Your tailbone sends aching impulses up your spine, making you groan.

Ezra leans down over you, or floats above you, you cannot tell. His gaze cuts right through you and you want to sink into the mattress. Your hand fumbles next to you and your fingers touch something. You lift in front of your face and see that it is a small piece of bark from the snowman, somehow left behind even after your cleaning.

You look from it to Ezra, see the desire turning his ghostly eyes dark. The bark falls from your hand and you reach instead through smoke, wanting to pass your hand over Ezra’s stubbled cheek, run your fingers through his short-cropped hair.

“Come to me, Ezra,” you allow, and he descends on you, face so close to yours. His lips are cold and wispy, and just as you think that you can feel the plump softness of them, the hint of corporeality disappears, and the foggy chill of Ezra is sucked into you like a reverse exhale of cigarette smoke. You cough, thinking for a moment that you will suffocate, but then he spreads into your limbs, makes you heavy and full.

“Ezra,” you sigh as he settles inside your pelvic area and starts a suction that makes your nerves spark and crack with pleasure. You bare your neck as your knees bend and your feet plant themselves on the mattress, pressing your pelvis down, your buttocks moving against the mattress as you try to find alleviation, or more traction, you don’t know. Your tits feel like they are being fondled, suckles, adored, and when you touch them, it becomes to much and you have to fist your hands into the mattress instead. Your moans sound eerie and unfamiliar to you and the word possessed flashes through your mind before you decide that you don’t give a shit. Your legs press shut against the insane stimulation but unlike when having someone go down on you, it does nothing but heighten the sensation. You can feel Ezra smirk behind your frontal lobe and then you arch your back and shout out as he does something new. It’s like being fucked from the inside out, there is no other way to describe it, your pussy is being ravaged, your clit is pulsating, your nipples are so sensitive you have to wiggle out of your shirt. Another surge of pleasure makes you scream out loud and you roll over onto your stomach, getting up on your elbow and whining loudly as you hump the bed, movement the only way to deal with the ferocity of the pleasure. The heat of a breath long gone runs down your spine and you lose control, your panties turning wet and warm when your pussy gushes in a first orgasm. Ezra praises you but does not slow down, continuing to work your nerves and muscles until he has milked you of another one. You slump down and roll over, kicking half-heartedly against the pulses as they once again increase in intensity and speed. You moan his name again and he answers with a jab that makes you see stars. It’s not just your pussy anymore, it’s your whole body, everything is steeped in pleasure you have never known. Every single hair on your skin is raised stiff and crackling, every vertebra is on fire. When you exhale in loud moans, your breath comes out a hot cloud. When Ezra finally lets you cum a third time, it is a full body orgasm that rips you apart and puts you back together, all at once. You feel Ezra caress you into sleep, and you close your eyes.

#prospect fanfic #ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra au

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thesmokingguns · 1 year

Text

City of Angels Chapter Two

“Your shoe really fell off like Cinderella?” Bernie was into Disney Princesses at the moment and always seemed to get hung up on the fact that I had taken off my boot. She thought that it was romantic being in the hallway and being caught off guard; I didn’t tell her about what it was like being scared all the time.

“And Axl and Izzy were at the party?” Bennie jumped in.

“You’re not supposed to call Daddy by his name.” Bernie chastised as she scooted closer to me on the bed. I laid a kiss on her temples, smiling as the two of them had their small bickerings.

“My darlings, I can’t tell you the story if you don’t let me get it out. You know there's a lot of twists and turns but you need to let me get there first.” I tickled their bellies, the squeals of joy made me feel warm all over.

When I was a child laughter like this wasn’t common and I had promised that my children would be all laughter and smiles. It was important to me, after the life that I had growing up where children were to be seen as accessories like trophies to parents, to give my children the childhood I was denied.

As a child we were dressed in uncomfortable shoes we were taught to polish, dresses that always came to at least our knees with matching bows and sweaters. Ma’am and sir followed each sentence and only were heard when we were spoken to. As children we were expected to be perfect and if we weren’t well, I promised that my children would have a happy childhood not like mine. My husband had promised that to me. When we had gotten pregnant our children would grow up differently. We nearly died to make that happen but it was worth it.

“Tell us more mama.”

“Please.” I smiled, hugging them closer to me as I laid kisses on their heads as I began the story of how I met their father again.

“In the gardens there grew hedges of lilacs, lavender and white, making the air so fragrant with their blossoms that whoever neared too close to them out be spell bound by their aroma. The lilac queen could watch the people who were captured in her flower essence and…”

July 1989

Enola lived in a small apartment above the florist shop she worked in. A barely finished attic, calling it finished with the non-insulated wood and raw rough edges of sloped walls that would scratch her, leaving splinters on her fingers if she ran her hand over it. It fit her full sized mattress with too many pillows and a quilt she had made herself, a small kitchen area with a stove and a fridge were by the front door and there was one armed chair to eat in that she kept her clothes folded on, opting to stand most of the time when she wolfed down her overnight oats and too hot cup of tea. Her groceries that would have been in a cabinet stayed inside a milk crate on the one counter between the stove and fridge, that she would move to the floor when she cooked. Her fridge, mostly bare except for a glass bottle of milk for her oats and tea, a few packs of ketchup she had saved from a burger joint with Axl, and a loaf of bread or what was left of it.

Her life was simple now and she was thankful for the few things she had and the small cozy apartment that she rented. It was her home. The first place in her life that had the soft charm of safety and cozy reliance. She liked coming home after a night out, cheeks pink from the wind as she walked too quickly on city sidewalks. Kicking off her shoes and falling into bed. Sometimes she’d reach over to the pile of yellowed paperbacks that served as a makeshift nightstand and read a few passages from something she had been forbidden from indulging in growing up or sometimes she’d make a cup of tea to settle the excitement of whatever happened the night before and stand in front of the floor to ceiling window that worked as the light to her apartment.

The florist shop and building was owned by Nadine DeFeo. A sweet older woman who had raised her children on the second floor of the building. Three sons and one daughter, who had all moved away and left their parents alone. Her husband, who had worked as a carpenter and repaired the other five floors and started to work on the attic, had passed away the spring before. Nadine had taken one look at Enola when she walked into the shop, unsure what a resume was and explaining she had taken lessons with her mother and aunts about floral arranging. The strange girl had been given a test instead of a ‘No’ and sent to help a customer where she arranged a bouquet with an eye for detail and understanding for flowers meaning that had touched Nadine, who hired her on the spot.Sensing that Enola was in need she offered the attic as a place to live along with a small salary she was paid in cash each week.

She was carving out a life for herself in LA, the City of Angels.

Axl grimaced as Izzy walked into the practice space. He was still sour about how his bandmate hadn’t heeded his warning about staying away from Enola. No, Izzy had chased after her and spooked the girl. Axl knew this because usually he would have run into her after one of his parties at the small coffee shop she liked but he hadn’t seen her at all this week. Now it was Thursday and they played a show tomorrow, so he had to hope she’d show up at will call and pick up her ticket.

Axl had met Enola by chance. A group of girls at a party had introduced them and he had taken one look at her in the soft lavender sweater over a long prairie dress and wanted to take her home and marry her. She had been new to LA,not used to the short skirts and loud way everyone dressed. Axl liked her, she reminded him of all the good parts of his hometown that he had forgotten existed.

She had started showing up to parties more, opting out of her long dresses and into denim jeans that clung to her legs and these heeled white boots that she polished for two long to make them look new instead of just accepting they were a great Goodwill find. Axl craved her attention, going out of his way to get her to go out to dinner with him.

Enola had accepted a few times, always meeting him at the place and never letting him pick her up or drop her off. That should have been a red flag to the singer but he couldn’t stop himself from being around her. He liked watching her try new things that he ordered for her, the way she talked and would laugh at his stories, her dark hair dancing as her head shook with laughter she gave out freely. Axl adored her but wanted more and more and more of her but Enola gave what she gave and never more.

Izzy was furious with the way that Axl was gatekeeping the girl at the party, not even giving him her name. Izzy had been trying to find out more about her all week, the girl who smelled like lilacs and had eyes that shone like gold in the earth. He felt like he was going crazy as he hit dead end after dead end when it came to her.

Picking up his guitar he didn’t bother speaking to Axl, only lit a cigarette ready to get on with practicing for tomorrow night. There was obvious tension there but all Izzy could think about was lilacs and how he wanted to breathe in her scent as he held her close. He was half drunk from just the memory of her, what was he going to do if he actually found her? Where was he going to find her?

And then it hit him. He knew exactly where to find her.

“Where are you going?” Axl asked as Izzy started to walk out of the rehearsal space, three songs into their set. But Izzy flipped him off and kept on walking until he was at the payphone outside.

He opened the yellow pages there, flipping to the business section as he groaned seeing that there were fifty two florist shops in LA. He was going to call every single one until he found out who she was. He reached into his pocket, swearing when he realized he didn’t have enough dimes to do all this. He’d have to go home and start making calls.

It was as he pulled out front of the apartment he had bought that he realized Nadine’s was across the street. Nadine’s was where Izzy went when he was going to send flowers to a girl he didn’t plan on seeing again.

The familiar bell in the shop, the rich scent of fresh blooms, sticky with humidity. His eyes searched for Nadine but instead he froze. Her back was to him, her shiny brown hair with a green floral pattern silk scarf tying it back into a ponytail, a white tshirt and overalls, and those white boots on.

All this searching and she was right across the street.

“One second.” She had her cheery voice, making Izzy remembered the sound Of her laughter, how easy she made it seem to be happy. How easy it was to smile around her.

“I’m just here for your name.” Her back stiffened as she realized who was behind her. Izzy noticed it, stepping forward as he realized that he had scared her and wanting to apologize.

What was he thinking?

“Izzy.” He looked at Nadine who was carrying something in her arms, “If you’re here some girl is going to call my shop heartbroken over not getting a second date, asking if there was more to the notes you make me write for you.” He bloomed red like a summer rose with too much sun. “Leave Enola alone. I don’t need my girl getting her heartbroken by Mr. One Date.” Nadine was playful with Izzy but he was embarrassed by how much she knew about him.

Enola. He had her name now.

She was turning, looking at him with her brown eyes serious, looking at him with measure patience, wiping her hands that were brown with dirty on a towel.

“I don’t date.” She said it seriously and Izzy wanted to know more about it but he just shrugged his shoulders

in response.

“Apparently I don’t date either.” Something about the way he said it made her laugh.

Nadine looked between the two of them, remembering the way that her husband Alfred had always come into the kitchen Sunday when she was cooking, stressed knowing their house would be filmed to the brim and everything had to be perfect. He wouldn’t care about the way she was flying, sweating around the kitchen, not ready to receive guests with too much to do. He’d take her in his arms, singing his favorite opera songs and swirling them around the kitchen in frenzied dance. She had always tried to be mad at him then but she loved him too much and would laugh. Laugh just like Enola had just done.

“Enola, why don’t you take a break?” Nadine said it without room to argue, her eyes flickering between the young people in the room.

Izzy could see what the old woman was thinking, how she was playing matchmaker. And he was thankful for her.

Enola looked skeptical, not sure she wanted to go anywhere with him.

“I make a really good vegetable pad Thai in under fifteen minutes.” Izzy offered and Enola was curious now, tilting her head.

“You cook?” The idea of a man in a kitchen surprising her. It wasn’t something she had seen growing up. Looking at Nadine, the older woman nodded as if telling her to go. “I am hungry.” Izzy smirked holding out his hand to her, watching Enola look unsure before she grabbed it, letting him lead her across the street to his apartment.

Enola. Wonderful Enola. Stupendous Enola. Was sitting in his apartment at his kitchen table, drinking water from one of his glasses as Izzy cooked.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” She asked for the thousandth time. She was watching him move around the kitchen with a sense of surety that reminded her of her grandmother. He had his sleeves pulled up and was moving around, adding spices like he had made this recipe a thousand times. Enola watching, curious as a man cooked for her.

“You’re my guest.” Izzy’s response was easy, while he worried about impressing her with his cooking.

He kept looking at her at his table. Almost like he wanted to make sure she was really there and not just something he had dreamt up. He could smell the heavy scent of flowers around her and wanted to bury his nose in the scent of her skin. But Enola was skittish in some ways, he saw the way her eyes sparkled with almost fear at times and he knew he had to take this slow.

“Izzy.” She said his name softly and he realized she was right behind him now, “Like this.” She touched his hand, slowly guiding it down on how to cut the carrot he was making. Izzy didn’t care that she was correcting him because she was touching him, pressed against his back so he could feel the warmth of her skin.

He was elated. Wanting to turn and kiss her.

“There.” She removed her hand as he took over, smirking at her as she stood against his counter, crossing her arms and making him aware that she had more to say, “you can’t tell anyone where I work. Please, Izzy. I’m…private.” The way she said the last word, her pretty mouth frowning, he knew what privacy meant.

It meant she was lonely and hiding and needed her solitude to feel better. She needed her secrets to make her feel safe.

“Enola, I won’t tell a soul.” She believed him. Looking into his green eyes as he watched her, the way she nodded before moving back to the table sitting down and watching him finish up cooking.

Izzy was setting the food in front of her, hurriedly sitting across from her as he watched her weave her fingers together, praying over her food silently before picking up her fork and diving in.

When Enola moaned, mouth full of food izzy instantly got hard imagining her moaning with her mouth full of something else. His eyes widening, pulse quickening as he watched the way pleasure looked on her face. Knowing he was in a lot of trouble then.

“This is delicious.” She said, Izzy smiling as he made her happy.

“Well after lunch I’ll walk you back over to work. And maybe when the shop closes you can come over for dinner.” Enola looked at him, curious as she shrugged her shoulders.

“Maybe I will.”

#Izzy Stradlin #Izzy Stradlin fan fic #Izzy Stradlin fan fiction #Izzy Stradlin fanfic #Izzy Stradlin fanfiction #Izzy STradlin imagine #Izzy Stradlin GNR #GNR #GNR fanfic #GNR fan fiction #Axl Rose fan fic #Axl Rose fan fiction #Axl Rose GNR #Guns N Roses fanfic #Guns N Roses fan fiction #80s rock fan fic #City of Angels

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incorrect-hanna-barbera-quotes · 8 months

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Augie Doggie rubbed his eyes, sitting up. His mind was foggy as he was still in the process of slowly waking up.

Where was he?

Last night, he remembered falling asleep in his bed, he was certain of that much. But looking around, this was not his bed, or his room, so what happened?

He was on the floor, in the middle of a large unfamiliar room. Both the walls and floors were made of shiny black marble. The only lights he could see were small strips embedded in the floor dotting the perimeter of the room, thus mostly just illuminating the walls in tall arcs. The ceilings were high, but he wasn't good enough with estimating heights to really tell by how much, just that it was definitely higher than you would see in the average house, that's for sure.

It all would've felt quite fancy, if he were here in more normal circumstances.

Ah, well. Sitting around and pondering wouldn't get him anywhere. Nothing to do but leave!

Augie Doggy stood up and started walking to the door.

What did the door look like? It was right in front of him. Black wood that would be nearly indistinguishable from the walls were it not for a white trim outlining the frame. It was nearly as tall as the ceiling! He could hardly reach the handle, and imagined it would be quite hard to pull open on his own. "I'm not sure I can open this door," he thought.

Thankfully, there was a much smaller door right next to it, so he just went through that one instead.

It's that easy!

Beyond the door was a very long hallway. Stone columns lined the sides, that fancy, detailed sort of column you would see in old, ancient architecture. The grandness of them contrasted with the basic smoothed concrete floor. The outer walls the columns were lined up in front of were mostly glass with light pouring in from both sides. Looks like it was cloudy outside today, everything painted with that sort of dull grayish-blueish tint of a rainy day.

Augie Doggie walked down the hall. It was pretty long, and he couldn't really see the end of it yet. Gosh, these hard stone floors didn't feel great to walk on. Very cold too, especially in this room. The windows must not be doing a very good job of insulating the place. Speaking of the windows, it looked like they were the only source of light in the room. What did these people do when it was nighttime? Just walk forward and pray they don't end up off-track enough to walk right into a column? This place didn't seem very well-designed. They must have spent all the budget on the fancy columns and marble walls in the first room. Maybe that was why there wasn't any furniture either.

Anyway, it looked like he was coming up on the end of the hall, but it was actually just a corner, and when he turned there was more hall, so he kept walking down the hall, still very cold.

How'd he end up here, anyway?

Obviously someone must have taken him here since you don't really just end up in a place like this via natural means, but the who or why was anyone's guess really. If it was someone with malicious intentions, he wasn't sure if he would really take them seriously at this point after inspecting their home decor choices. All style and no substance, and there was barely any style to begin with. These visuals were sort of cool at first but after walking around in them for 20 minutes the effect really starts to wear off.

Well, he had finally reached another corner, and thankfully it looked like it was almost over, because there was another door at the end of this much shorter segment.

This door's frame was just as tall as the first big door, but the door itself was small, and the rest of the vertical space looked really hastily filled in. What a joke! He opened it and went through.

This new room was pretty big, but still smaller than the first one. The floor was carpeted, a grey that was pretty dark but not dark enough to hide some stains in the corner from what seemed like water damage, which was also evident from the coloring of the popcorn ceiling above it. The walls were done in wood paneling and a single rectangular overhead light was embedded in the ceiling. This room didn't look fancy at all, but he got the impression that this was intentional and they were going for a more rough, nostalgic vibe instead so he was willing to let it pass this time (even if he guessed that they had to switch aesthetics fast because they were running out of money.)

On the side of the room opposite to him were two basic wooden doors. Above them was a paper banner - that sort of type you see at birthday parties that say "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" in individual paper letters all strung together and hung up, but this one instead read "MAKE YOUR CHOICE."

A choice! It appeared that Augie Doggie was finally given a meaningful way to interface with the strange locale he had been dropped into. This was very exciting indeed!

Now, the left door or the right door? He walked up to them and inspected them closely. Then, he just went ahead and opened both of them up at the same time, figuring that there probably wouldn't be any consequences for doing so.

The left door contained a hallway filled with bright light, and the right door contained a hallway shrouded in darkness. Wow, this was a tough decision. The light hallway could be a trick and it was actually the wrong choice and the dark hallway was actually the better one to take, or on the other hand, whoever designed this might not have thought that someone would look at both outcomes first at all and not taken these appearances into account, and thus would not have thought to make it a trick question.

Well, it was a 50/50 chance no matter what, really, and he liked being able to see, so he chose the left door, and stepped into the light.

All of a sudden, Augie Doggie blacked out for a moment.

And then, he found himself outside. He was standing at the bus stop outside his house. For a moment he was worried that he may have missed the school bus since it seemed a little late in the morning, but then he remembered that today would be a Saturday, so it was OK.

He turned around and just walked back to his house. Doggie Daddy greeted him as he stepped inside.

"Well hey, there's my son! What've you been up to out there oh-so-early in the morning?"

"I dunno, dad."

"Well, there's some pancakes waitin' on the table if you're hungry!"

"OK, dad."

Augie Doggie ate some pancakes and had a pretty good day.

#incorrect quotes #augie doggie #doggie daddy

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megamikec007blr · 2 years

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180$ glass insulator pendant chandelier

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the-void-writes · 1 year

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• just call my name, I'm yours to tame

It’s a little short, but I hope you like some of my human and demon couple, Darien and Spencer. I’ll definitely do a bit more with them later! 💖

The mall was freezing cold, thanks to the unfinished insulation on the new windows. Darien brought his coat over his mouth as he climbed the escalator. His team would have thought him nuts for trying to work during a snowstorm. Of course, they didn’t know that he had other reasons to visit the old mall.

The neon sign over the music store flickered slightly as he stepped through the doors. None of the shelves were stocked, since the interns kept claiming that the store was haunted. Darien smiled to himself, happily dreaming about this “ghost,” as he stepped into the back room of the store.

It was a fairly large storage room, since one of the walls had come down. Boxes of products and display stands sat in piles. They lined the room like a hedge maze, and Darien followed it to an open area with a single mattress and a table with a portable radio, playing music that he hadn’t heard since high school.

Darien took a seat on the mattress, secured his coat again, and whispered under his breath.

“Spencer.”

The small bulb dangling from the ceiling flickered off, leaving only the gray morning light from the window. Darien watched as a humanoid mass, glowing like magma, crawled out of the floor. As the mass entered the light, its glow dimmed to reveal a clearer set of features. Spencer’s dark, rust-colored hair fell over his shoulders, and his crimson eyes seemed to twist in Darien’s vision, like embers in coal.

He crawled over to Darien, who shuddered at the warmth of his breath on his lips.

“Now what the hell are you doing out here?” Spencer asked.

“I wanted to see you,” Darien said.

“Aww, you walked through a storm for me?”

He nodded. “I missed you.”

“Dari, you sweet thing.” Spencer brushed his thumb over his lips. “Well, now you’ve got me. How can I serve you, hon?”

“Spence, don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not your master, or whatever.”

“I beg to differ.”

Spencer placed his hands on Darien’s thighs and kissed him gently. Even through his jeans, Spencer’s touch felt like fire. Darien shifted onto his lap, craving more of the pleasant sensation. Spencer obliged by removing his coat for him, pulling the human flush against his chest.

“Please, baby, tell me what you want.”

Darien took off his glasses and tossed them aside. “I just want you.”

He shuddered as the sensation of ghostly hands spread across him, brushing his skin and massaging the curves of his body. Spencer laid him down and whispered against his neck.

“Arms up, please.”

As soon as Darien placed his hands on the mattress, a red band of smoke pinned his wrists together. It didn’t budge when he tried to pull his arms down, and that sensation mixed with Spencer’s charming smile made Darien’s heart flutter.

“I can’t thank you enough for indulging me like this,” he said.

Spencer stroked his cheek. “Darien, my dear, I should be thanking you.”

#writeblr #writing community #ask games

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aroundtheneareststar · 1 year

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February 13

Worn

Pinholes make way for stubborn foolish light

Windows of boards replaced windows of glass

A broken clock holds onto its last moment

Creaking floorboards know too much

Dust blankets rust

Sheets hide relic furniture

The two-sided planks masquerade as ceilings and floors

Hinges hold on for dear life

Doorknobs click like aging bones

Each room is an echo of its former self

Insulation chokes the walls

The nests of pests form growths in corners and edges

The basement is a wound

Architecture digesting itself

Can one be sturdy and worn simultaneously

Can one be so worn and still real

Where is the line between structure and ruin

And can one truly uncross it

#poetry #writeblr #Worn #February 13 #atns

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nervecheque7 · 2 years

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What type of wallpaper is best for walls?

Types of Wallpaper: • Lining Paper: Lining paper is used on bare walls or ceilings to prepare them for painting or create a primary layer for another patterned wallpaper. Lining papers cover the imperfections of the wall surface or cover up a strong color which might have been present previously. It helps smoothening the surface or implementation of a lighter paint. • Traditional Wallpaper: This wallpaper is cellulose-based and is more suited for the dining room or bedroom because they are eco-friendly. Large Pink Floral Wallpaper is readily available with design stores. However, Floral Wallpaper is not highly durable or washable. • Vinyl Wallpaper: This type of wallpaper is most commonly available at online or retail stores and is highly budget-friendly. It consists of a backing layer made of paper or fiber, and a plastic upper coating. It is washable, light- resistant and extremely durable, making them more commonly preferred. flower Wallpaper include wooden texture or stone walls. However, they must preferably be avoided in bedrooms since they are considered relatively less eco-friendly. • Embossed wallpaper: This wallpaper is best suited to add depth and design to your walls. The textures mostly include geometric patterns and suitably hide scratches, wall roughness and cracks, in general. • Liquid wallpaper: Liquid wallpapers are cellulose and cotton fibre-based known for high level of ‘clutch surface’ that make them suitable to be used on uneven walls to hide cracks and defects. Repairing part of the damaged wallpaper is quite easy. One has to only remove coating from the damaged area, mix with water, add fresh filler and apply back. It takes a day to fully dry. It is eco-friendly, non-toxic, allowing the walls to breathe and is easy to use. It has a good thermal and sound insulation. • Non-woven Chinoiserie Nature Wallpaper : Recent in trends, non-woven wallpapers are made of a special blend of natural and synthetic fibres, making them tear-resistant, washable and breathable. Being tear-resistant makes them most user friendly and are also eco-friendly wallpapers on the market today. Though they are easy to install, non-woven wallpapers are expensive. • Fibreglass Wallpaper: As the name suggests, fiberglass wallpapers are made of glass fibres, bound together to form a sheet material. Due to the base component, they are incredibly strong and provide easy installation to walls and ceilings. Being made from natural non-toxic materials like quartz, soda, lime and dolomite make fiberglass wallpaper to be a green product. Pink Floral Wallpaper are flame-resistant and are lightweight, extremely strong, and robust material. However, they are expensive. • Bamboo wallpaper: Made of bamboo, this wallpaper is an environment- friendly, natural product. It is known for being able to retain color for a long period of time. Because Black Pink Floral Wallpaper is a “natural” material, it can be ‘attract’ high moisture and is not easily cleanable. So, bamboo wallpapers are not recommended for kitchen or areas where they may come in contact with food or other possible greasy materials. Also, they should not be used in areas with high levels of moisture such as bathrooms unless a protective seal is applied on them. Gray Pink Floral Wallpaper are infamous for being costly and for high level of dust accumulation, with vaccuming as the only option for cleaning. • Textile wallpaper: Wallpapers made of silk, cotton, linen, felt, raffia, twines or feathers fall under the category of textile wallpapers and can be used for gorgeous effect. Fabric wallpapers are breathable, flame and stain- resistant, and provide exceptional insulation quality but are expensive and elite. • Flock wallpaper: Originally designed to create a faux cut velvet look, this product is an expensive one. Its 3D qualities add texture and dimension to a room. Flock wallpapers also help absorb sound while making a luxurious appeal to your space. The above list is not exhaustive, but includes major commonly available types of wallpapers. Given the variety of options, one must know the right choice of wallpaper for the given space.

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