#floating steel shelf

[silvabrylee]

Pantry Kitchen Example of a large farmhouse l-shaped concrete floor kitchen pantry design with an undermount sink, flat-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, solid surface countertops, gray backsplash and an island

[kanskesims]

Midcentury Kitchen Inspiration for a mid-sized 1960s l-shaped medium tone wood floor open concept kitchen remodel with an undermount sink, shaker cabinets, white cabinets, white backsplash, subway tile backsplash, stainless steel appliances, quartz countertops and an island

[static-radio-ao3]

jegulus microfic // words: 681

Marry me.

It’s a Friday night. Winter has melted into spring and the evening breeze floats through the open window. Silence has settled over them like a blanket, Regulus sprawled across James on their too-narrow couch. He has a knee slung over James’ hips and his head is tucked beneath James’ chin, that secret place where Regulus seems to fit perfectly.

“Marry me,” James says, voice a whisper that somehow still carries over the static tune coming from the radio.

“What?” Regulus asks. He probably, definitely, undoubtedly heard wrong. Carry me. Very me. Bury m—

“Marry me.”

Oh.

“James…” Regulus mutters, still tucked away in that secret place. He doesn't elaborate. The silence stretches but James doesn't wait for it to snap.

“Say something.”

“Like what?”

“Yes, no, maybe? Those are generally a good starting point.”

James says it lightly, but Regulus hears the uncertainty. The waver in his voice like a ripple in a still lake.

“I always pegged you for a romantic gesture kind of guy.” It’s a non-answer, but it’s also true. James is a boom-box-under-your-window kind of guy. A rose-stem-tucked-between-his-teeth kind of guy. A flash-mob-in-a-busy-street kind of guy.

Regulus is none of those things. James knows this.

“Is that why you’re saying no?” James asks. “Not romantic enough?” The question is genuine and curious and genuinely curious, but Regulus still tenses minutely.

“I’m not saying no,” he mutters.

“But you’re not saying yes, either.” Because James can read Regulus like a book. Knows his darkest pages and his favorite lines. Knows why the spine is cracked just so and where the words are faded.

“I’m—” but he doesn’t know how the sentence ends. Not yet. So he is thankful when James cuts in with a soft Regulus.

Regulus savors the sound. He loves all the ways James says his name. Fond or exasperated or fondly exasperated. Lovingly. Longingly. He lets the syllables drip through his veins like honey, steeling himself for he inevitable.

“I'm not breaking up with you if you say no.”

James drags his fingers along Regulus’ arm as he speaks, a meditative act that he probably doesn’t even notice himself. His hand stops when Regulus’ head whips up.

“You're not?” Regulus asks, eyes wide and voice shaking.

A smile breaks open on James’ face, like sunshine after rain. His eyes are soft when he asks, “Why on earth would I?”

Some tension that Regulus hadn’t even notices bleeds out from his spine, softening into James’ touch once again.

Why on earth indeed…

It’s a Friday night. Spring has turned into a sweltering summer and summer has softened into fall. They’re in the kitchen, James by the stove and Regulus digging through the fridge for the chili James swore they bought but Regulus put back on the shelf when James wasn’t looking, too busy cooing at a dog in a stroller.

James is humming under his breath now, a gentle thing. It warms Regulus even as a chill starts creeping through the thin walls of their apartment.

“I would say yes, I think, if you asked me again,” he mutters. He spoke so softly that he’s sure James hasn’t heard him. And even if James did, he might not even remember what Regulus is referring to. A spring night that seems like a lifetime ago.

James stops humming, but he doesn’t speak. Regulus sighs. He supposes it’s fair enough. He’s not sure how James was able to get over the rejection so easily.

How he was able to track a trail of kisses down Regulus’ chest until he was panting with it, how he was able to wrap loving fingers around him and hold him while he fell into pleasure. Fell into pieces.

The fridge beeps, alerting Regulus to the fact that it’s been open far too long. He lets the cool, stale air wash over his too-warm face for one more moment before closing the door. He steps back, knocking into James, who steadies him with a warm hand on his lower back.

“This is me asking again,” James says.

They both know the answer.

[honeyryewhiskey]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

— dean accidentally opens the box of a familiar, and you're not exactly thrilled to have been bound to a hunter. — not much for warnings, gross witchy scenery? 3k words

The hunt should have been over the second Dean sent a bullet through the witch’s heart. That should have been the final act, clean and simple. But Sam—of course—was adamant about raiding her lair for books to add to the their archives.

Dean could handle hunting a witch just fine—gross as hell, but manageable. A coven? Sure, stomach-churning, but he’d get it done. A witch’s lair, though? That was where he drew a hard line.

The house itself had looked deceptively normal, an old Victorian tucked amongst a dense forest of willow trees. As the witch’s body turned to ash in the backyard, Dean followed Sam into the basement. Cool, damp stone walls seemed to absorb every bit of light, the beam from their flashlights swallowed by shadowed corners as though the darkness itself were alive. 

Dean lingered near the stone steps as Sam meandered around, not nearly as phased by the chaotic graveyard of horrors stored on every rotting wooden shelf.

The space was small, unease creeping up Dean’s spine as he stood between the shelves and tables that buckled under the weight of dozens of glass jars. Each filled with murky liquids or splintered bones, some crammed with grotesque chunks of something—hair, teeth, both. A viscous, questionable goo dripped from the edges of the shelf near his head, pooling onto the cold stone floor. In the corner, an ominous object shrouded in swirling fog pulsed faintly, as if it were breathing.

Every fiber of Dean’s being recoiled in protest.

His grimace deepened as his eyes flicked between the copious amount of jars, trying to find the least disgusting focal point. But the cauldron on his left was impossible to ignore, its grotesque contents bubbling and hissing as steam curled into the air. The smell of rotting flesh wafted through the air, sharp and cloying with each pop, hiss, pop. It burned his nose enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Dean squinted at the rancid brew, his brows drawing together in disgust. “Is that—blood?” he muttered under his breath. “Oh, hell no.” He thought he saw something floating in it—a hand, maybe. Pointing his flashlight at the pot, a small pale patch of skin gleamed in the light. Definitely a hand. 

He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising bile, when Sam’s voice rang out like a gunshot, sharp and urgent.

“What the—Dean!”

The urgency in Sam’s tone trigged every sensitive nerve, turning over into adrenaline that surged through Dean’s veins. His body moved on instinct, rounding the corner with his ivory Colt raised, his heart pounding in his ears.

“What?” he barked, his voice sharp with a dreadful medley of fear and irritation. Clearing his throat, he tried again, steadier but no less on edge. “What is it?”

He skidded to a stop, the sight before him turning his stomach anew. Sam stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, staring at an altar of what Dean could only recognize as archaic dark magic.

The altar dominated the room, massive and ominous. Carved from dark, weathered stone, it looked ancient, as though it had been forged centuries ago in a time best left forgotten. Symbols and figures sprawled across its surface and the surrounding walls, their etched edges worn smooth by the passage of time. The carvings seemed alive in the flickering light of dozens of candles arranged in a deliberate circle around the altar’s platform. The golden glow casts eerie, dancing shadows that seem to twist and shift like living things.

At the center of the altar sat a sleek, coffin-shaped box, the soft brown wood a stark contrast to the horrors of the stone above. A massive steel lock secured it, its design intricate, almost ceremonial, and clearly ancient. From the edges of the box, faint tendrils of white mist curled outward, drifting like restless spirits.

Dean’s gaze narrowed as he approached the box, his instincts prickling. A glass window gave view to the inside, something like a face looked back at Dean, obscured by the swirling mist. But as he leaned closer, he could just make out the curves of a woman’s face. He couldn’t if he was looking at something dead or alive, the haze and stillness disorienting any semblance of life.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, a silent plea in his worried eyes as his chin jerked toward the box sitting ominously in the middle of the room. Faint glints of magic pulsed a glowing green in the veins of the woodwork, as if the box itself contained more life than the body inside. Dean couldn’t ignore the slight hum emitting from the cursed thing, oppressive and low like a growling predator—bowed and ready to lurch. 

Dean turned to him, incredulous, his expression a mix of defiance and disgust. “I’m not touching that thing.” He straightens his back, but can’t help glancing back. The humming invaded his senses, seeping into his ear drums and beckoning his attention. 

Sam’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he shot Dean a look. “We have to check if she’s alive.”

Dean crossed his arms, glancing between Sam and the coffin. “Okay, great. You do it then.”

“Oh, come on—” Sam started, exasperated.

“No. Absolutely not. You do it,” Dean cut him off, taking a step back for emphasis.

Sam rolled his eyes, his shoulders tensing with irritation as he mimnicked Dean’s retreat, but the advantage of his longer stride puts far more distance between him and the entity. “You’re closer.”

Dean scoffs, “I’m also smart enough to not mess with whatever that is,” Dean shot back, jabbing a finger toward the box. 

The tension hung thick in the stale, musty air of the room. Their argument devolving into a silent battle of glares and clenched jaws, the kind of stubborn standoff only brothers could maintain. The faint sound of something dripping—water or something far worse—echoed from the shadows, an eerie rhythm pattering to their exchange.

Finally, Sam huffed and threw his hands up, his patience wearing thin. “Fine. Rock, paper, scissors.”

Dean groaned loudly, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. He rubbed a hand down his face as if physically preparing himself for what was to come. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, but Sam’s determined look left no room for argument.

With a resigned sigh, Dean tucked his colt behind his back, exchanging it for a fist in one hand, the other opened flat beneath it. His lips curled in a reluctant grimace. “Fine, let’s do this.”

They counted together, the rhythm of their voices tense and clipped between the echos of dripping water and magic’s hum. On the third count, Dean groaned, his shoulders sagging as Sam’s paper crushed his rock.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered, punctuating his frustration with a string of colorful curses. Sam smirked faintly as he handed over his sawed off shotgun, clearly enjoying his victory a little too much. Dean snatched the weapon with a scowl.

“She better not bite me,” Dean grumbled under his breath, rolling his neck as if psyching himself up. He flexed his fingers around the gun, shaking out his hands before turning his full attention to the box.

The object loomed in the dim light, taunting him. The faint metallic tang of old blood mixed with the musty smell of decay hanging heavy in the air. Dean’s lip curled in distaste as he stepped closer, shotgun poised.

With a muttered curse, he raised the weapon and brought the butt of the gun down hard on the rusted lock. The sharp crack echoed off the stone walls like a gunshot, the steel clasp clattering to the floor with an ominous finality.

The lid creaked open with an almost deliberate slowness, releasing a thick plume of white fog that hissed as it spilled out, curling unnaturally across the floor. The fog carried a potent floral scent, one that would be sweet had it not come billowing out with an offensive invasion of every sense. It clings to their throats, earthy and rich on their tongues. Both brothers cough and sputter, trying to expel the heady fragrance. 

Dean swatted futilely at the cloud as he shoved Sam’s gun back into his brother’s grasp, his face twisted in irritation. The air felt suffocating now, thick and almost alive as it pressed against their skin.

“Fucking witches,” Dean grumbles, gagging on the fog’s assault. 

“Check for a pulse,” Sam said, his voice muffled by the sleeve pressed to his face as floral notes lingered stubbornly in the air.

Dean shot him a withering glare, his jaw tightening. “What do you think I’m doing, sightseeing?” he snapped. His nose wrinkled as he steeled himself, reluctantly extending two fingers toward the ridgid figure.

The carved wooden edge bit into his arm as he reached inside, his fingers brushing against skin that was far too warm for someone who looked so deathly still. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before pressing his fingers to the wrist, his touch tentative against the unnerving softness.

A single thud of a pulse reverberated beneath his fingertips, firm and slow. Then, without warning, a sharp, electric jolt shot up his arm, stinging like a live wire.

“Son of a—” Dean hissed, yanking his arm back as if burned. He stumbled a step, cradling the assaulted limb against his chest. His glare darted toward the box as if it had personally insulted him.

The altar around them seemed to shudder in response, emitting a deep, reverberating hum that thrummed through the room like a living heartbeat. The vibration rattled the shelves and sent a few jars tumbling, their contents splattering across the stone floor in a sickly mess.

“Whoa,” Sam breathed, his eyes wide as he leaned in. “Dean, look—her wrist.”

Dean’s gaze snapped back to the figure, narrowing as he focused on the exposed wrist. A faint marron glow illuminated the dim space, drawing his attention to the intricate mark now etching itself into skin. It twisted and spiraled inwards like a labyrinth, a perfect circle of maze-like lines leading to the hexagram at its center. 

“What the hell…” Dean muttered, his voice low and uneasy. The symbol pulsed faintly with an eerie, otherworldly light, each flicker sending a fresh wave of unease crawling up his spine until the glow simmered into an angry red scar. 

“Wait—” Sam’s voice cuts sharply through the tense air. His hand shoots out to grab Dean’s wrist, drawing a startled groan as Dean instinctively jerks back, cradling his arm to his chest.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean snaps, his glare fierce.

“Uh, Dean…” Sam’s voice wavers as he nods toward his brother’s wrist.

Dean follows his gaze, his irritation draining into a nauseous unease. On the inside of his wrist, a faint red symbol begins to glow. The intricate maze-like lines twisting in the same fashion as before.The pulsing light feels alive, like claws sinking deeper into his skin, its rhythm uncomfortably in sync with something else.

You.

A soft, languid yawn escapes your lips, and both men startle, their weapons drawn in unison as your body shifts against the confines of the box. You twist and turn, your spine stretching almost unnaturally as you work the slumber from your body. Your eyes blink open slowly, heavy with drowsiness. The room is dim as you sit up, but even in the low light, you can see the tension etched into the brother’s postures.

Flexing your fingers with a deep, patient breath, you glance between them, taking in the guns pointed at you without a flicker of fear. Your gaze drifts lower, catching sight of the faint glow on Dean’s wrist. Your expression hardens, any hint of lethargy vanishing.

“You killed my witch,” you say flatly, your tone devoid of warmth, cutting straight through the silence.

Dean’s jaw tightens as his grip on the weapon steadies, his green eyes narrowing. “Don’t move,” he orders, his voice devoid of care.

Your lips curl into a smirk—a slow, mocking thing that dances at the corners of your mouth. You rise to your feet slowly, stretching your neck with the causal grace of a predator. Your movements are smooth, deliberate as your eyes dig into his.

“What are you?” Sam asks, his voice tight but undoubtedly curious, his brow furrowed in cautious concern.

You tilt your head, your gaze flicking to him briefly before settling back on Dean. “What am I?” you echo, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, but the slit of your stare drowns your smile in mockery. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before binding my soul to his.”

Dean’s frown deepens, his confusion plain, but his voice sharpens like a blade. “What did you just say?” Dean demands, his voice low and sharp, a dangerous edge that matches the glint of the gun in his hand.

Sam’s face drains of color as he lowers his weapon, a soft, horrified “Oh, God,” slipping past his lips.

Your eyes flash, an unnatural luminous green light flaring briefly before fading back into something more human. You sigh, exasperated, as if their ignorance is almost too much to bear. “I am not going to spell it out for you,” you spat, each word cut with your impatient disdain. You cross your arms, turning your focus to inspect your nails, waiting for the brothers to put two glaringly obvious puzzle pieces together. 

Dean’s eyes narrow, his scowl deepening, but before he can snap back at you, Sam’s voice cuts through the tension, cautious yet tinged with realization. “Dean, uh… I think she’s a familiar.”

Dean’s frown deepens, you can physically see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he tucks the colt back into his waistband as his head snaps toward Sam. “A what?”

Sam’s gaze flickers nervously between you and Dean. “A familiar. Y’know—like a witch’s magical companion.”

The disgust on Dean’s face is immediate and unfiltered, his lip curling as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “You’re saying she’s some kind of… pet?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowed into slits, the sharp retort escaping your lips before you can stop it. “I am not a pet, you Neanderthal.” Your voice is as tough as steel, every syllable cutting through the room with precision.

Dean’s brows lift, his dismissive smirk only adding fuel to the fire. “Oh, relax,” he shoots back, waving you off like an annoying stray hissing pathetically at his feet. “Sammy, tell me you can fix this.”

“I—I don’t know,” Sam stammers, clearly out of his depth. His eyes dart between you and Dean like he’s watching the beginning curls and clashes of a cat fight. “I’d have to—”

“Research!” Dean interrupts, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Because that’s always the answer.” His voice is practically vibrating with frustration as he pivots back to you, green eyes narrowing again. “Alright, familiar-lady, let’s go.”

You tilt your chin up, tightening your hold on yourself with an air of defiance, your posture radiating every pulse of your obstinacy. “No.” The single word is crisp, final, and as razor-edged as the glare you toss over your shoulder before turning away entirely.

Dean exhales slowly, the sound heavy with a barely contained vexation. His jaw tightens like cement setting on top of earth. As he speaks again, his octave drops, dangerous, each word laced with displeased command. “Let’s go. Now.”

The words hit like a shove, heavy and unavoidable. The edges of his piercing tone dig into your throat like iron spikes anger pooling from your glowering eyes with pure venom. Teeth clenched, you step out of the box reluctantly, your movements stiff with rebellion as you stalk towards the door.

Dean watches your retreat, the muscles in his jaw tensing and popping as if he’s trying to bite back every curse in the book. His stare snaps to Sam, eyes fierce with confusion and frustration. “What the hell just happened?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, his lips pressing into a thin line as he pats Dean’s shoulder. His expression teeters between unease and a forced attempt at reassurance. “I think you just gave your first command,” he tries apprehensively.

Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so messed up,” he mutters, his boots already thudding heavily as he starts after you.

Sam trails behind him, casting a wary glance at your retreating figure before leaning in toward Dean. “Yeah,” he interjects under his breath, his voice edged with genuine concern. “And for the record? I don’t think she likes being told what to do.”

Dean shoots him a withering scowl, his bitterness simmering just below the surface like a fire ready to ignite. “Yeah, ya think, Einstein,” he grumbles, quickening his pace.

Sam lingers for a moment, his brow furrowed as he watches you stride ahead, your defiant posture radiating silent fury. He sighs, falling into step beside his brother, his voice quieter this time. “Dean… if we can’t figure this out—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean cuts him off, but there’s a crack in his armor. His shoulders are rigid, his steps heavy, every muscle in his body coiled tight with anger.

They walk in silence for a beat, the question hanging between them like the dark thundering skies of a brewing storm. Both brothers, lost in their own thoughts, feel the weight of the situation pressing down—a bond they don’t understand, but know enough to see the problem without an easy fix.

Sam finally breaks the quiet, his voice tinged with reluctant worry. “How do we even start breaking the bond without… you know…?”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his lips set in a grim line as his gaze flicks toward you ascending the basement’s stone stairs. “I don’t know, Sammy,” he mutters, his voice low, almost defeated. “But we’re gonna figure it out. We have to.”

Ahead of them, your darkly dressed silhouette looks almost ghostly against the light of day. And as they follow, both brothers are haunted by the same question: how do you undo a bond like this without killing the human who holds it?

hiii this series will be very dark whimsy fun, derived from the story of hecate and her familiars

tagging ( i always forget to do this ) my mooties but lmk if u wanna be added <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @ultravi0lence14 @deansbeer

[zizislayys]

AS IF TIME FORGOT US... Chapter 1

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

Summary: Steve Rogers went in the ice. (YN) passed away a month after Steve Rogers went in the ice because of her grief. Now, He has been awakened and actively involved in the Avengers. Until one day, he sees her, again.

https://www.tumblr.com/zizislayys/788075668872282112/as-if-time-forgot-us?source=share - masterlist

(idk how to make a masterlist 😭 I'd love to learn)

PRESENT DAY, 2012

Steve woke up staring at his modern ceiling in his newly rented apartment thanks to Tony Stark. He was still adjusting in this new century, where people were busy building a quality life but never had the time to live that life properly. While Steve was still busy in his thoughts his phone rang.

'Oh this damn device again!'

He thought, still not properly used to using it. He picked it up to see a text from Fury -

Good Morning Captain, SHIELD out for the day.

Nicholas Fury

Steve furrowed his brows, he felt that Fury always had something to hide, to which he didn't wanna question just yet. Not because he couldn't, but because he didn't want to deal with the modern people for now.

Steve Rogers completed his workout routine and decided to go to a newly opened bookstore in Brooklyn that he read about in the newspaper yesterday. Books had always been something that comforted him, apart from Bucky and .... Her. Steve sighed at the thought of the people of his time, how he missed them and how he regretted not fulfilling that promise he made of returning back to the girl he loved. YN and Steve had been friends since they were kids. YN saw him and loved him before he became Captain America. However, she didn't want him to go for that last time. He promised and failed.

Steve took his bike and left for that new bookstore. On his way he saw how busy life became now, no one had time for anyone. He'd given up the hopes that love still existed in a generation like this.

Upon reaching the bookstore, Steve went in and was taken aback by the nostalgia in the bookstore. The bookstore felt like a wrinkle in time — tucked between steel cafés and blinking neon signs, yet untouched by the decades that had passed. Faded wallpaper lined the high wooden shelves, and a faint melody of Billie Holiday drifted from a record player behind the counter. Dust floated lazily in golden light from stained-glass lamps, and the smell of old paper and worn leather wrapped around Steve like a memory. A brass bell above the door jingled when someone entered, not a sensor — just sound, warmth, and something real. For a moment, he could’ve sworn it was 1943 again.

He went ahead and saw a woman sitting at the reception, who passed a sweet smile at him and asked, "Hello Sir, welcome to our bookstore, how may I help you?"

Steve replied, "I was searching for some historical fiction, could you just help me tell where the shelf is?"

The woman points to the third row of books and he proceeds. Steve's eyes catch the attention of one book - THE GREAT GATSBY- YN's favourite.

He remembers the moment she said that to him

FLASHBACK, 1942

She sat cross-legged on the fire escape in the bookstore, the city buzzing outside, a book in her lap. “The Great Gatsby?” Steve asked, coming with a book about history, looking at her with a fond smile.

“Mhm,” she hummed, not looking up. “It’s tragic and dreamy… like the whole world’s chasing something they already lost.” She finally met his eyes, a playful glint there.

“But don’t worry, Rogers. You’re nothing like Gatsby — you’d never leave someone waiting.”

Steve chuckled, not knowing how much her words would have an impact on him.

Present

Steve shoves the book back on the shelf and moves forward, the woman who came behind him and started jumping to get the same book going unnoticed by him. "Oh man, why did I have to be short? And who in their right mind places Gatsby up so high?!" She whisper yells to herself.

Steve chuckles hearing her, he was the one who placed it at his eye level. being the gentleman he was, he goes behind her , facing her back and picks out the book and hands it to her. Just as the woman turns around to thank him, Steve nearly faints.

It's her.

Yn. His Yn.

Looking the same all this time. How was this possible? Maybe this woman was her granddaughter or something? But how was this possible? Steve had tried finding out about her after New York, he found out that she had passed away a month after he went in ice. How was she standing in front of him? Maybe he had been drinking too much of that wine Tony had gifted him. Heck she even had the same smile. Steve was going to faint until he heard her voice.

"Thank you so much for helping me get the book, it's my absolute favourite!" She smiled politely.

Her favourite? This was his YN's favourite book too? What was going on?! Steve couldn't think properly and maybe the young woman saw the expression on his face and asked him,

"Um are you okay? Do you need to sit down?" All he could do was nod. Kind enough, she led him out after buying the book. She took Steve to a nearby bench and made him sit down. She offered him water.

Steve drank the entire bottle in one go. He looked up to see her staring at him with pity- maybe she'd recognise him? Did reincarnation even exist?

"Thank you, I'm sorry for this" he huffed out to which she just smiled at him and shook her head, "hey it's fine, I owe you some help after all"

Steve gave a small lopsided smile and put out his hand.

"Steve, nice to meet you...."

"Nice to meet you too, Steve. I'm Yn btw"

As their hands shook, both of them felt a wave run through. They retracted it fast enough too. Steve was sure that it was her, his YN was back again.

To be continued....

[florvaine]

a moment to focus.

Even after a panic, you and Carl both have time to recalibrate again.

Genre: fluff, hurt w comfort.

Relationship: Carl Grimes x Reader (gender not mentioned)

Warnings: typical TWD related warnings, swearing, possible grammar/spelling mistakes

-— IT HAD TAKEN A WHILE FOR RICK AND MICHONNE TO ALLOW YOU AND CARL TO GO OUTSIDE OF ALEXANDRIA ALONE. Michonne was a little more open to the idea, Rick needed all three of you to try convince him before actually even considering it. Nevertheless, it's amounted to you and your boyfriend finally being permitted to go on a small, unimportant supply run into the nearest city for whatever you wanted.

The trip wasn't too long, slightly strenuous due to the lack of mobile transport, but scenic and peaceful. It seems as though Rick passed through before you two left, clearing it out all the way to the town. Clouds sprinkle the sky, a few covering the sun momentarily before the heat returns onto your backs. The leaves on the trees had started to turn orange and yellow, as if the sly chill now in the air didn't already signal the end of Summer and the introduction to Autumn.

Now, you and him are separated by the dusty shelves of a decrepit book store, Carl attempting to find a new comic book series to indulge in and you trying to find a longer book for you to distract yourself with.

Sighing, you put another paperback into it's spot before you picked it up, reading yet another unconvincing blurb. You scan the place, the sunlight filtering through the dirtied windows across the rectangular building, tiny particles of dust float in the air like miniature pixies. The floor, a dark blue carpet, it covered with debris from the falling roof tiles, showing just how old the store was.

The shuffling of boots behind you takes your attention away from the appearance of the place, instead making eye contact with Carl. He's in his monochrome flannel, a white shirt underneath and slightly baggy black jeans over his brown boots; a new bandage over his eye and his hat shading his face.

"I found one," He looks down, flicking through the colourful pages quickly before stuffing it into his canvas bag with the others, "Got the whole series as well. You found anything?"

"Nope," You reply, turning back around to the sign that read 'FICTION' in bold capitals, "It's like the same story is just titled differently and published over and over."

As you're about to take another off the shelf again you accidently knock a thickly binded one off onto the floor. A cloud of dust follows and an array of growling sounds from the back room. From where the two of you are stood it's a clear view to the door with a hanging 'EMPLOYEE'S ONLY' sign on it, the source of all the noise.

"I didn't even know they were in there." You mutter.

"Neither."

There's a moment of silence as you crouch and pick up the book, putting it back on the shelf. In the process you pick up your bag from the floor, slinging it over your shoulders and sniffling from the dust. The snarling continues, the muffled sound hanging in the air around you two.

Glancing back at Carl, you reach for the axe hanging from your belt, "Should we check it out?"

The brunette steps ahead of you, hand on the handle of his knife as he rears closer to the door. He presses his ear to the wall and listens, holding a finger up to you to tell you to be quiet. Obliging, you move to stand just behind him, awaiting his input.

"It doesn't sound like there’s a lot of them, we could go in and take them out, see if there's anything else we can take back." He looks back at you, tilting his head slightly as he gauges your reaction.

You nod, shrugging, and a second later the two of you enter the room with your blades and weapons drawn. There's no lights, as expected, only the limited natural light that fell from the small oblong windows at the very top of the large, grey-walled stock room. Steel shelf after shelf, each holding multiple boxes - opened or not - as well as packing stations for online orders and bags for those at the till in the front.

The first thing you notice is the green bag dangling from a sturdy nail in the wall to the right of the door. Unzipping it you were greeted with a collection of bandages and gauze, sanitary supplies, plasters, a tourniquet, as well as latex gloves. Showing the bag to Carl he gestures to his bag, and you quickly shove it in with his comics, carful not to damage them in the process.

Moving further in together, you covering his back and him covering yours, the two of you look down an aisle at a time. The first had two walkers which you both took out immediately before going down it, taking your time to open each box in case something was hidden. It seemed to be time wasted as you both end up with nothing afterwards.

Carl walks to the end with a huff, turning around the corner to go into the next aisle, announcing it to you in a mutter.

He squints, the room not exactly the best for him to be in. Not only does he now have a blind side, but the lack of light and ruined depth perception is really messing with him. He moves his head to try see better, counting four zombies as he gets closer to them.

It takes him a minute or two to get them all, the first and second going down easily as he had caught them by surprise. Struggling with the last two due to them crowding him, he huffs and makes quick work of driving his knife into their skulls. Their bodies fall onto the tiled floor like sacks of dirt. He could never get used to the sound when he takes his knife back never gets easier to hear, nor does the sight afterwards. Carl has to stop himself from overthinking - there's no use in spending precious time dwelling over the dead.

He pokes his head around the closest boxes, smiling as he sees you opposite him, occupied with another box on the other side of the shelving unit. Shining his light onto them, he finally catches your attention, you giving him a huff of a laugh before placing whatever you were inspecting down.

"You found anything?" You ask, glancing at a box of paperback books. You take it out, skimming over the blurb, with your interest piqued you place it in your bag.

He shakes his head whilst you do so, "Nothing, it's all branded bags, books and tissue paper, best we got was the ki-"

The brunette cuts himself off with a curse, suddenly disappearing from your limited view from the other side of the unit.

"Carl!" You shout, blinking rapidly as you try pull yourself of the frozen state you found yourself in.

The panic shoots straight to the nerves in your legs, sending you bolting the shortest way to reach the end of the unit you were on.

With your torch long forgotten you take a single moment to register what was happening in the dark - a crawler underneath another unit grappled onto his ankle like a bear trap, dragging him towards the snarling, snapping jaws of death like a ravenous piranha.

As if the surprise encounter wasn't already the worst, his gun is far from him and on his blind side, hand grasping on dust and ceramic grey as you continue to rush to his aid. Coming closer you draw your axe from where it was on your belt just as Carl plants his free foot onto a bottom shelf to try push himself away.

In a second you put all your strength into bringing the weapon into the air and down onto it skull, crushing the decaying bones and flesh underneath the force of which you did so. Blood spurts in every which way, the walkers head like a scarlet grand canyon when you remove the blade. There's droplets scattered along the material of his and your shoes, and a drop or three on your face.

You huff, looking at Carl. He's panting, eye wide and slightly hunched to remove the now loosened hand from his leg. There's a singular drop of sweat from his knitted brow which he wipes away with the sleeve of his flannel. The panic you felt filters through your veins and into the ground, dissipating as soon as relief overshadows it.

"You alright?" You ask, crouching to sit beside him.

The long-haired boy nods, "I'm good,"

"Why didn't you use your knife?"

He closes his eyes in a grimace, "I panicked."

"I thought we were way past panicking when seeing a walker, Carl," You reply, half worried, half angry.

"I thought I was too," He trails off, taking off his hat and resting his head onto the box behind him.

Sighing, you hold back the rest of your scolding to give him another once over. Your view is limited from the lack of light, however his leg is okay and his face seems fine, not a scratch in sight, just dust and grime smeared over the texture of his freckled skin from the time spent exploring. Messy brown locks from his fringe hook onto the material of his eyepatch. Now he sits back, with his eye closed you can see his lashes gently pressing against the slightly flushed skin beneath his eyes.

His own eye catches yours, but you don't look away, and neither does he. It seems he's doing his own check, light cobalt scanning every inch of your face for anything he knew was out of the ordinary. If the two of you didn't just escape the other being bitten it would've made you nervous. It takes a moment for his eyebrows to furrow and the warmth of his palm to press against your face.

Carl pulls you closer to him and for a second you believed he was going to kiss you like he did that morning, instead he hyper fixates on an area on your forehead.

"You're hurt," He mutters with slight haste in his words and takes his hand from your face, immediately taking off his bag and pulling out the kit you found earlier.

Your face fills with confusion as you raise your hand to touch your forehead for the injury you weren't even aware of. It's not a cut but a shallow gash and you hiss as you finally feel it.

"Don't touch it!" He scolds you lightly, rifling through the kit and pulling out a wide plaster and an antiseptic wipe.

You lean back into the unit behind you, mumbling, "I didn't even know I got hurt,"

Carl says nothing in reply, his only focus being the now dripping wound on your head. He gently pulls you into a golden ray of sunshine from a window, away from the now fully dead corpse and to see better with the light casting over your figure. You don't care about the stinging from the antibacterial wipes, taking advantage of his distracted state to run your eyes over him again, trying to indent his being into your mind. Cast in amber behind him, an intense yet nurturing stare directed towards you, with everything in this world today, you don't think you've ever seen this look on him before.

It's undoubtably attractive, being so important to someone that they look at you like that.

"Focus looks good on you." You say, voice low and your gaze on him.

For a second he glances back at you, eye contact sticking like dripping honey, before he looks away, shuffling slightly and licking his lips. It nearly pulls you away from the light pink fading into the tips of his ears. The sound of thin plastic tearing from paper sounds around the two of you as he opens the plaster.

He takes a sharp breath in, "You hit your head or somethin'?"

"No, I think I'd remember that."

His eye is back to the gash as he lines the plaster up perfecting with it. Before you know it he's swiping the rubbish underneath the shelf and slinging his bag onto his back again. After he gains his footing he reaches his hand out to you, and soon enough the two of you are up and moving again. The both of you agree to just scan the place quickly and get out, but before you split up again he reaches for your wrist, lightly pulling you back into him.

His lips are on yours right after. It was only a peck, but who were you to complain? The second you register it, it's gone, but it speaks volumes. It's a 'thank you', his way of displaying you the feelings he felt the moment he was in danger, and the moment you took him straight out of it, and the time he took to patch you up even if it wasn't a major lesion. He cares, and he is grateful for the things you do and are even you aren't aware of them.

The look in his eye when he pulls away speaks for him in a way so that he doesn't need to actually say anything. He's never been fond of PDA (if it even counts when you're in a warehouse alone) but it seems even Carl Grimes reaches his boiling point sometimes. Hands lingering on your shoulders, he slips them off the straps of your rucksack and to his side, where his knife and gun now rest again, before speaking again.

"Let's just go, we have everything." He declares, leaving no room for debate. You shrug and follow behind him, the two of you now on the way to exit the bookstore.

"Fine by me." You reply. wc: 2.3k

[linkspooky]

wip wednesday

Updated WIP for my Azulaang fic.

The worst part was that Aang had found her beautiful. Aang was suddenly forced to bear witness to a naked truth. Azula was a girl. Not only was she a girl, she was a beautiful girl.  Until now, he’d believed Azula hard and made of steel like a machine of war with a fire burning inside her. Now he saw her soft flesh.What he'd thought was a blazing inferno that burned everything that touched her was a gentle warmth that permeated her skin. The girl that had always been hiding underneath the fire nation black and red armor. A beautiful girl. 

It was tradition in this household to cleanse one’s body before being let into the spiritual archives. Aang respected tradition, even if spiritualism in the fire nation was different from the air nomads. 

(He also needed a bath, running away from conflict worked up quite a sweat). Step by step, he followed the little footpath of smooth, colorful pebbles under the luxuriant canopy of flowering wisteria blossoms until he found the entrance to the bath. Inside the changing room a low shelf carved from the bluestone had been placed to hold the bather’s clothes. In his eagerness to get into the water on a cold winter day (by fire nation standards) he failed to notice two other tubs packed with clothing sitting on the shelf. Aang took off his clothing, it was easy to get undressed with the simple way airbenders dressed. Imagine how many layers Zuko had to take off to bathe, especially with those huge shoulde roads.  He left his clothes in a wooden washtub, and after lifting the thin hemp curtain with one hand strode inside. 

Stream drifted through the air, it gently unfurled out from the pool, drifting slowly, filling every corner and crevice blurring his vision.  With that and the dim moonlight it was difficult to see more than a few shuka in front of you. It gave the baths a spiritual aura, like he’d stepped in the river that separated this world from the far shore.Flowers bloomed along the borders of the pool, their shed petals floated on the surface, and there was a small waterfall at the end of the pond for rinsing. 

It was pleasantly warm. Aang couldn't help the soft sigh of content that escaped him. He felt like a kid again bathing in the air temple hot springs with the other children. He let loose for a moment, extending his slender limbs and swimming all the way to the waterfall with a splash. 

Just as he rose from the water and wiped his face, he noticed someone was already showering in the surging waterfall with their back turned.

Lio. Aang should have known better to watch Lio from someplace unseen like a total stalker creep weirdo, but he stopped to watch their back as if possessed by some kind of spell. 

Their back was held tall and straight, the contours sharp and defined. But with the stars illuminating the steam Aang could make out countless scars, burn scars, and what looked to be whip marks on the center of their back. A body full of wounds. A body full of scars. So many it was impossible to find a piece of untouched flesh. 

There was no need to mention how much those wounds should hurt. 

Water fell down from above almost as if to cool off those burns, cascading over their body, rivulets gathering into a stream down the wide expanse of their back, down the valleys and peaks of their intricately carved muscles and finally into the divet between their buttocks. The water seemed infatuated with their body, clinging to them in a light stream that was loath to part. 

Lio’s head turned halfway to meet Aang’s gaze, just as Aang jerked his head up to preserve some of Lio’s dignity, “Hey, Aangie have you come to do some naked male bonding?”

“My best features are my back and my butt? What do you think, Aangie?”

Lio said , strode out from under the waterfall and pressed his hands on the rock wall blocking everything behind his massive back from view. 

That back took up Aang’s entire view. Their hair had grown out and fell in black, wild tangles just past their shoulder. Those shoulder blades slid down the small of their back. Aang’s esys followed the downward curve of their spine, their full and firm buttocks, and eyes ficxed on those fair plump curves for a moment because his head jerked up again. . “I think you are uh, very attractive, and you are connvingly using your attractiveness to try to distract me from asking about how you got that scar on your back.”

“Oh, I was a naughty boy and I was whipped before I was banished. It’s nothing… compared to the trouble I caused Li and my family back then it was absolutely nothing.” .” 

“Your pain isn’t nothing.” “Haha, what pretty words. Did the airbenders teach you to talk that way, or are you just that cheesy naturally?” Lio noticed Aang’s wince at the mention of the airbenders, “I’m sorry, Aangie, baby. I’m a bad, rude man. I just don’t like you looking at me like I’m some poor dying animal you found on the side of the road.” 

Lio’ s shoulder’s rose and fell, as they heaved a sigh. They weren’t some broken thing, it was easy to see the lean strength in those lines. Those shoulder blades were strong and massive, moving beneath the scarred skin. 

At that moment all Aang could think of was how adult Lio looked, even though they were only two years older. It wasn’t just the enormous height, it was the comfort they displayed wearing their own body, it was enough to make Aang feel like a fucking child in comparison. 

Graceful Lio suddenly gracelessly lost their balance and fell a step back from the wall. Lio quickly turned around, still hiding something behind their back, “I’m sorry Aangie, can we continue this conversation later? I thought we could bond in our nakedness, but human relationships aren’t so simple.”

Aang caught sight of it then, a smaller, curvier figure trying to slip away into the steam just then. Oh. Li mentioned Lio wanted to get married. Aang walked in on both of them in the bath. Mix gender bathing was normal in the fire nation, he told himself. Completely normal.

He caught sight of a feminine figure through the steam turning to leave. He didn’t initially recognize her - because under normal circumstances, that girl would never do something as ungraceful as stumbling and falling face first into the pool, sending a spray of water into the air. 

“Lazuli, watch your step.” One hand around Azula’s arm, Lio supported her from behind. The difference in their heights was such that their breath puffed against Azula’s ear as they lowered their head to speak, “If you’re not careful you might just fall for me.” 

“Cough, cough.” Azula inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of water in her panic. Swallowing bathwater she became indignant and disgusted discarding all appearance of calm composure, scrambling and flailing as she tried to find her footing.

Aang saw Azula, it was the closest he’d ever seen her, she looked quite different than when she had appeared on the opposite side of a battlefield. Aang saw Azula, but his brain refused to process the image. He wanted to ask what she was doing here, but it got stuck in his throat. He suddenly felt pathetic and spineless. Silence only continued to fan the flames of the situation. 

Aula naked and exposed. When people shed their clothes and exposed themselves they usually exposed their inner ugliness, but Azula was different.

He couldn’t look away. Even though his brain registered she was naked. When people shed their clothes and exposed themselves they usually exposed their inner ugliness, but Azula was different. The horrfiyng part, of this situation wasn’t that he’d humiliated Azula completely by accident. No, the true horror had been something that should not have even been possible. Something that would make a clown like Lio laugh.  The unsettling horror of it all was that Aang had found her beautiful.

Aang was suddenly forced to bear witness to a naked truth. Azula was a girl. Not only was she a girl, she was a beautiful girl. 

Until now, he’d believed Azula hard and made of steel like a machine of war with a fire burning inside her. Now he saw her soft flesh. The girl that had always been hiding underneath the fire nation army. 

A beautiful girl. It wasn’t something as perverted as being attracted to her naked body, it was just seeing the naked truth finally in front of his eyes, that Azula was a girl not yet fully mature barely older than him. Though it was sacreligious to compare her to Katara, it was like the first time he woke up to Katara’s face. It was different from Katara though, because she was lacking many of the qualities one would typically ascribe to ‘beauty’. 

When she was fourteen years old she was certainly eye catching in a dangerous way. Now she’d lost a lot of her ‘beauty’ from when she was fourteen. He wouldn’t call her skin pale in a way that evoked purity, or compare it to porcelain, she looked almost physically ill. She wasn’t thin, or lithe, but emaciated. There were dark rings that eclipsed her sun-colored eyes. She was like a plucked flower withering away within a bell jar, and yet, there was something about her. Something so… 

“Why are you staring, avatar? Have you not gone any farther than hand holding with your little water tribe girlfriend?” Something so…“...Beautiful.” 

He should not have said it. He should not have acknowledged that feeling. These were feelings he wasn’t supposed to have because Azula was… well, Azula. 

“What is it…? Speak clearly, don’t mumble, and look into the eyes of the person you’re talking to.” “Err… beautiful…” “Is your mouth broken? Oh no, I believe I broke the avatar. Again.” He confessed again. “I’m staring because you’re beautiful.” “You’re right, I am beautiful. I guess your eyes aren’t broken.” She was… She was definitely still Azula. Whatever had happened in the three months since he last saw her hadn’t changed her fundamental “Azula-Ness.” Then his sight of Azula was cut off as Lio pulled Azula close to them, stepping in front of her to obscure most of Aang’s view. 

Aang had several questions, but the first one that jumped to mind when he saw the two of them acting so close was, “Why are you bathing with Lio?”

“Mixed bathing is normal, and besides I’d never stare at a girl to make her uncomfortable. I’m a beautiful girl myself, and you don’t know how many creeps have stared at me, ” Lio said. 

That’s right, mixed bathing was normal in fire nation culture Aang reminded himself for the thousandth time. 

Bathing under the stars. Girls and boys together. No tension there whatsoever. Nope, not at all. 

Azula looked at Aang, “There’s nothing untoward about bathing with my betrothed.” “...Your betrothed.” “Yes.” “You’re getting married?” “Yes.” “To who?” “To Lio.” “You’re getting married to Lio.” “Can you not hear me? I thought those big ears of yours would at least be good for listening.” 

“Are my ears too big? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Were they just trying to be nice?” He was suddenly, very self conscious about the size of his ears but that was besides the point. “Why are you getting married to Lio?” “I fail to see how it’s any business of yours.” That’s right it wasn’t any business of his. 

So, why did he care? 

[viskarenvisla]

The Night Is Ours: Chapter 2 - The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

My hands squeeze the steel lance; I thrust it upward, a bladed threat at the pyramid's heart as an ebon banner flutters from the blade. Four golden crowns limned in flame burn upon the black field.

I hear Celais' Valkyrie-voice singing in my ear: "do it for the undying glory.”

The pyramid shiver-steams dread silver against the Moon; its wail-gaze haunts the sky, heavy as venom.

The priestess wears a girdle of soulless iron and slither-dances. Slice-and-shimmer flick her claws, flaying open their chests. Three of them, my own kind, she tears their hearts forth like grizzly babes from their chests.

One lays pinned facing West; his War-Form death-spasms and froths, eyes burst in fury to tear down his face and reform, covetous-green.

One lays pinned facing East; his blasphemy is one long stream of colored smoke escaping his lips, hypodermic-quills dagger-struck along his veins.

One lays pinned facing South; she stares at me with stoic, violet eyes that mist with tears only I can see. Her jaws quiver-clench around chains.

The Priestess hurls their screaming-babe hearts into the silver pyramid's furnace belly; smoke billow-belches from its top, blackening the sky, blotting out the moon as it tears down the middle and bleeds. They howl in woe as their flesh regrow, and the priestess repeats her dance.

My hands squeeze the steel lance; I thrust it upward, a bladed threat at the pyramid's heart as an ebon banner flutters from the blade. Four golden crowns limned in flame burn upon the black field.

I hear Celais' Valkyrie-voice singing in his ear: "do it for the undying glory.”

“Do it for the undying glory,” I let the words float from my lips like red smoke. One moment I was a prisoner of some real fucked up dreams; the next I was staring up at the ceiling, tracking the motion of the fan blades, mixing the air with a steady whump-whump-whump. At first I didn't quite get why my body was all tightened up, teeth clattering together because it'd just been that long since I was cold enough to shiver.

The temperature in here was well below 70°. Once that would have been no-shirt-just-shorts weather for me, but the Gulf heat was fetid and wet. I'd gotten so used to it that this chilly bliss was a shock. 

The weight of the dream still sat heavily on my frontal cortex; it was tempting to just lie there and contemplate it, to search for meaning but there'd be time for that later.

Time to get my ass up.

I heard my tendons pop and crackle as I unwrapped myself from the blanket. Yawning like a lion, I kept it quiet out to the main room to check on Galen, and sure enough he was still snoring. The male impulse to do something shit-headed to him in his sleep came and went, and instead I pulled his quilt over his feet and pulled the curtains shut.

There was a pad of sticky paper on an otherwise empty shelf, and with a bit of quiet hunting I found a ballpoint pen. I scratched out a note and stuck it to the arm of the couch: 

dear wanker,

I'm going to see if Tanner is gonna be a thing tonight, figured he'd be more likely to stay in one piece if I went alone, besides you were sleeping like a princess, see you when I get back your highness, call T's mom's number if you need me, drink water you sweat-stained pig

I took a moment to scribble a googly-eyed boar all drenched in perspiration for good measure, and then took my bad self back out into the heat. A washing machine would have been nice, but a good soak in soapy water and a few hours hanging in front of a fan meant clean clothes. Hygiene, cleanliness, these were human dignities I was just unwilling to abandon. Celais and Galen poke fun all they wanted, I didn’t smell like bog and sweat (thing is I actually loved when Celais went for a while without showering, the smell drove me and Galen wild).

Tanner lived with his mom now out in Baycrest, which was located curiously far from the Bluewater Bay. If I took public transit straight out there it’d probably be a roughly thirty minute shot, but I couldn’t just go directly because the line cut through other Hunting Grounds. It was dangerous for a lone Firstblood to cross territorial boundaries, perilous for us to even use public transit unless lines were clearly under our control. Seeing as Penn’s Point belonged to us, that meant the Red Crows wouldn’t dare set foot there or even take the train through unless they wanted to pick a fight… once I had eyes and ears on that station, that is. Lesser Therids would know to keep their distance as well so… no cats or bats running wild.

To get out to Tanner’s place I’d have to circumvent the River District; I had no doubt the Red Crows had set up wards around the area that, like arcane cameras, would alert them if I crossed and trap my scent. The train would be going through what amounted to urban wilderness, but I was pretty much safe as long as I didn’t step out of the train. Still, going without Galen was a bit stupid… but you live only once.

Besides. If I’m being perfectly honest, Tanner’s chances of survival were considerably higher if Galen didn’t come along. It wasn’t like the guy was unhinged or anything but we all had that trigger-point, something that just put us over the edge. For Accursed Beings that usually meant a loss of control, giving in to violent impulse… it wasn’t something I wanted to take contingency against or even have to think about. Dodgy or not about his past, Galen had his reasons to be impatient with addicts. I saw part of what lay at the root of his descent though, and the sorrow of that guy’s tale moved me. Tanner had lost something beautiful in a night of sudden terror, and where he found oblivion in heroin, our second guitarist discovered solace in music. I had no right to steal that from him, and if G didn’t either.

Galen kept me on my toes because our bro-llegiance had so much to do with constant competition, and because we were rarely apart I didn’t have a lot of time to contemplate. Celais and the other Alphas had conscripted seven of us in the beginning. We all knew what she really meant when she told us a pack was only as strong as its weakest link, driving us to hunt in the equivalent of warzones for Therids. Angel wasn’t the only one resting in power; we’d gathered what pieces remained of Kendra and buried them in the woods. Corinth was probably still somewhere out there, screaming his jaws apart whenever he saw the moon screaming back. Snowy and Tinsel made it, they were off in New Orleans and nobody knew what happened to Left-Eye.

Right now, with the way I was being, the pack’s weakest link was me.

I felt like I never had time to cope with the things I’ve had to do out there, the people I’ve had to kill and the horrible shit I’ve seen crawling out of the Jungle. Ever since I met Galen and Celais it’s always just been go go go, never stop Hunting or running.

A rain-thick wind from the gulf clawed the train window, storm scent and heat plucking at my memories. I hummed the song quietly before the lyrics came to life of their own accord.

"Ruuun, on and ooon,"

"Ruuun, on and ooon,"

"The looonelineeess of the looong distance runner…”

I sang it quietly, didn’t want to disturb the other faceless, nameless passengers. Celais loved that song, big Iron Maiden fan. Her absence was like a sharp stone in my chest, cutting into me with each pulse of my heart. Galen felt the same way, how couldn’t he? In the bloody context of our lives she was like Great Kali given flesh, a whirlwind of divine violence and a prophetess bringing word of a better future. She was the ultimate alpha, a mutual lover.

The arrangement was complex but for some reason everything had just fallen into place - neither of us felt jealousy or rancor over the fact that she adored us both, that we shared her affection.

I opened my wallet and pulled out an elegant fang, pale as a piano key. It was heavy with Celais’ scent, sharp with memory. I pressed it against my lips, drawing a bead of blood. 

I remember when she gave it to me on the last night I saw her, she’d pressed it into my palm and curled my fingers around it, hard enough that the tip bit into my flesh. 

“The Curse changed me from the person I was into the monster I am,” she’d murmured in a voice reverberant with reverence, stepping close to speak against my lips. Her scent was blood spilled by steel, flash-burnt cinnamon, her sweat tinged with the wild bite of her pheromones. “You, Yusuf, helped me become more. I lost this when I made my first kill. After the Jungle swallowed me down, I kept it to recall the human I’d once been.” She’d kissed me, tasting of storm-ozone and iron. “The woman, Celais, is yours Yusuf, but so is the monster.” Her nails had hissed along my jawline, as if to mark me as hers. “If you waver, my beautiful prince, breathe deep - remember the monster you must be.”

Another alpha who went by Lucas ‘Last-Laugh’ told me we were effectively immortal and wouldn’t ever age. He also told me that as the years trudged on, it became hard to remember much besides the Hunt and the secrets of Prey. I could never forget Celais, not if I made it another million moonrises. I pressed the fang against my tongue, sharp with her taste. Memory bled from it, and I recalled -

- November’s sylvan hush, cracked by firelight and the chirrup of crickets… my fingers idly plucking guitar strings.

It was just she and I… Galen was a day’s run ahead with Snowy, chasing down a foolish snitch who thought the Feral Brood would protect her after informing on us.

She’d built the campfire in whose light they lay, basking in each other’s light after their earlier lovemaking beneath the stars. The intensity of the experience had been sharpened with the need to keep it (somewhat) down. I stared at her face limned in firelight, lain against my chest… how would I describe someone like her? A jawline elegant as a saber’s blade cuts, skin warm as amber, smooth as lacquered brass. When she stood she was nearly eye to eye with me, imposing as a Khan, supple as an acrobat.

Earlier I’d found this old guitar in an abandoned cottage and insisted on bringing it. It sang an old Andalusian melody my mother taught me. “Yusuf,” she purred in a voice edged with husky heat, “when Fall comes, I’m taking off on my own Hunt.” She pushed back a lock of short crimson hair, beryl eyes sharp as a brush stroke.

I’d suspected she would… didn’t hurt any less to hear. “What’s the Prey?” I asked quietly in a futile attempt to hide my disappointment. 

I could tell she was debating whether or not to extrapolate. The details of her comings and goings were always a secret, like a wizard she’d appear from the mist and vanish just as suddenly. “We found a Banner in Gansu.” 

My fingers froze, my heart syncopating in shock. 

“Harkness has it, and he’s coming back… but he’s being chased by its former keepers, and there are many to kill.” She watched me process the news, that we’d found one of the actual Black Banners, the artifacts that were a namesake of our conspiracy; artifacts that could protect us from Outsiders, our only real predators.

“Let us come,” I entreated on reflex, even though I knew she’d reject me gently; it wasn’t because she wanted space between us, or that she doubted Galen’s or my acumen on the Hunt. “Celais please, just consider - ” but she silenced me with a fierce kiss, swift as a blade drawn. Her slender lips carried that steel-and-cinnamon taste, and she straddled my lap like a conqueror claiming me as hers.

“Yusuf my love. You’re so strong and un-fucking-scared of anything. I want you with me. I want you both with me, my handsome kings…” her eyes fluttered shut as I hungrily sought the candy-pink hardness of her nipples. “The Banner… it needs a place to stand, and you two will secure it for me. Picture it Yusuf, nnf… a… mustering place for the packs, but first - ” her breath hitched, “you’re going to ride me again…”

I knew I was smiling like a fool - dreamy, wistful, a bit sad. Celais and I had something that went beyond lovers or even Pack - in that way she lived the Black Banner ethos, uniting us in ways that went beyond our primal drives. The Jungle was everywhere, seething with conniving Prey and curse-wracked Beasts, but Celais Song had shown me when we worked as one, we Firstbloods were unstoppable.

Hunt like a Wolf; make war like a Human. With the fell magic of the Curse and the protection of the Black Banner we could make and take whatever we wanted.

I won’t lie… sometimes when Galen and I got drunk, we’d talk about why we loved her. Do you think that kind of thing happens easily between two guys? Let me just be real clear: both of us were regularly having unprotected sex with her and competing to get her off. Both of us were smitten with her, real hearts-in-eyes stuff. It never once occurred to either of us that by her loving one and the other, we’d somehow lose her. Beyond that she represented hope for stability, a life where we held the torments of the Jungle at bay. As it was, nowhere was safe.

We’d seen it with our own eyes, what could happen in places like Baton Rouge when the Lunar Strain got out of control. They’d built a cluster of fanes along the Mississippi, places where the moonlight bent into something the Outsiders could climb down to feast on their souls. I tried hard not to picture them, the gibbering beasts lost of all reason and self, ruined husks of Werewolves whose minds the Outsiders had ravened clean.

The aspect of the Curse impressed on us by the Moon was as much a boon on the Hunt as it was a danger; all of us used Lunar-wrought imprecations and hexes just to survive. If you delved too deep into that stuff, didn’t prepare yourself with protections, the Lunar Strain could take hold. Before you knew it, you weren’t Enkindled or a Night-Howler anymore.

That could change with a Banner. Holding one of the Qing Dynasty relics was more than just glorious victory; they could protect every Werewolf for miles and miles from Outsiders, from Moon-Madness.

That’s why we had our mission: clearing the way in Ashland for a Hunting Grounds where the Banner could stand safe. More than just a territory…a fortress of the soul, safe from Outsiders, from Empyreans and the Primordials.

-KSSsSST- NEXT STOP IS BAYCREST AND HOFFMAN, -wheeze- BAYCREST AND HOFFMAN-

Right, right. There was my signal to come back down to Earth. All of this was in pursuit of that goal. From slaughterhousing that Spider-Ogre to making sure Tanner was in tip-top shape for tonight, every step of the plan had a purpose.

The train car was crowded with Mortals; large groups simultaneously smelled sweet and stank to high heaven which was something Celais had little tolerance for. A small island of space had formed around where I sat; human-instinct was still sharp enough that they either subconsciously kept their distance or were unerringly drawn to us in some cases. They parted around me as I waded to the door.

Baycrest occupied one of the few hills that could be found in Pomdufond Parish. It was a collection of cookie-cutter condos and country clubs that had formed a little bubble of space at the edge of the urban decay. Tanner had grown up there, and it was there he returned; I couldn’t blame him for taking the free bed. Renting in Ashland was becoming a nightmare. It wasn’t like he worked in any real sense of the word so Tanner had to be home, if he wasn’t out trying to score. I hoped he wasn’t. His mom, on the other hand, did work… some menial office lady job with local government.

The two of them lived in a condominium that had a sort of washed-out white cast that looked like bone under the cloudy sky. A cross hung above the doorway, like it would somehow keep the Night at bay; far as I knew that didn’t work against anything in the Jungle, least of all me. Wasn’t like I was here to hurt anyone.

Being out here made chills run up my spine, and I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being followed. The well-kept streets and picket fences were a disguise - the Jungle was everywhere, and I had no doubt I’d traipsed through someone’s turf everytime I came to see Tanner. I knocked, waiting impatiently before trying a second time after I heard Tanner inside trying not to make noise. I could smell his unwashed body from the foot of his driveway.

For fuck’s sakes. If Tanner wasn’t answering it could mean that he was zombied-out or in trouble… maybe he owed a dealer money. I’d taken care of that sort of problem before quietly by just paying the guy off and not-so-calmly instructing him to never sell to Tanner again.

“Yo. Tanner open up, it’s Mizrah. Come on dude I know you’re in there.” I tried my best to keep my agitation at bay; I really didn’t want to be outside longer than needed.

The chain-latch and turnbolt clicked open, and Tanner swung the door open. "Sorry man I was sleepin'," he lied.

I immediately took his measure. Tanner was a good three inches over six feet but didn't look it because of his perpetual slouch, like the weight of his trauma had turned his spine to taffy. I felt this unkind urge to snap at him and shove his shoulder so that he’d stand at his full height. Celais’ words about the weakest link gnawed at the back of my mind.

Tanner’s eyes reminded me of a sad cow’s. His pupils weren’t dilated at least, and with a bit of focus I could hear his regular breathing, his even heartbeat… good, no indication he was heaped out.

“It’s all good brother, just wanted to see how you’re getting on.” I tried to give him a reassuring smile, remembering not to show too much teeth… they didn’t like that.

Tanner reflexively straightened his mustard-and-soda stained hoodie, as if that would somehow serve to render him less slovenly. I could see his pulse throbbing at his throat, quickening. "Good. No problems here," he answered a little too quickly. My bullshit barometer ticked, but not loudly… mostly I was just glad to see he was outwardly okay. "You know you didn't have to take the lines all the way out here, coulda just called."

"I wanted to see you for myself, you'll always tell anyone you're doing fine even if your house is burning down around you." I gave his shoulder a gentle tap; it only seemed to make him more nervous, barely flinching at my touch… had to remember that the things I once thought were comforting might just unsettle people now. "Sooo. Can I come inside?" I asked after a second.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry again, shit.” He slinked back inside - I caught him glancing warily beyond me - and shut the door… literally inviting a monster into his house.

“It’s good man,” I promised him lightly. I couldn’t expect Mortals to just let me into their homes anymore, not since I Changed. It was the same with Galen, the same with all of us but most humans could be prompted by social etiquette to look past their survival instincts. "I'm not sticking around long, got a busy afternoon, and then...it's showtime."

Tanner’s place seemed to have inherited its decor from Generic Interior Design Weekly. The only hint of individual personality took the form of photographs along the wall that told his family’s saga… I’d made the mistake of looking at them for too long and remembering the life I’d lost. There, a picture of Tanner as a fat little kid with his well-meaning, haggard mother. His father, who looked just like Tanner but with that all-American dad ‘stache, had his own little section of wall with its own altar… never did find out how he died, never asked.

No weed stink, no booze reek… the only thing that stood out was the fact that Tanner wasn’t showering regularly but that wasn’t my concern.

Tanner came back from the kitchen with a Josta… supposedly these things woke you up like coffee. “Thanks,” I muttered, wrinkling my nose at the syrupy red flavor. Whenever I drank soda these days I had to resist the urge to sneeze.

"I wanted to see for myself, you'll always tell anyone you're doing fine." Mizrah gently tapped Tanner's shoulder with a fist; the motion seemed to only make the other man more nervous… had to remind himself that a lot of the things he'd once done to comfort others would only unsettle them now. "Sooo. Can I come inside?"

"Oh! Yeah sorry again, shit." Tanner stepped aside and motioned for Yusuf to enter - literally inviting a monster into his home.

"It's good," Yusuf reassured him. Mortals no longer simply allowed him or Galen to enter their living space since they'd Changed, they had to be prompted for social etiquette to overcome muted survival instincts. "I'm not sticking around long, got a busy afternoon, and then...it's showtime." "Let's just cut to the chase. I came down here to see if you were gonna be in good shape for tonight's show… and you're looking pretty good bud." Encouragement and expectation mixed into one; sometimes hard not to just dominate him which would have been easier but soul-tainting. "You'll be there tonight right?"

“Of course I will. I swear Mizrah, I haven’t used since the thing in Tallahassee. Honest.” His voice quavered a bit, never taking his bovine eyes from me - like he was worried I was going to lunge for his throat… shit I was just sitting on his couch. “Things are getting better for me. It’s good being with my mom again, y’know?”

Yeah, I did know… I missed mine pretty bad, actually. I quaffed the Josta in one fell swoop and belched draconically into my elbow. “You been sleeping alright? Lora said you were having some bizarre dreams.”

I tried to keep my face from falling as Tanner mumbled a mess of glossolalia… he didn’t do that before the attack, apparently.

“Come again Tan?” I prompted him gently but he still flinched, like he was red and raw all over.

"Uhh… I actually sleep okay, unless I see this one cat. Two cats, not others, just… thooose two cats. Yeah, twoooo of em, one’s… orn…." Tanner trailed off. His eyes got all glassy, like his brain was struggling with a memory suppressed by the Shrouding Effect - it was what kept Mortals from remembering us clearly if they saw a Therid do something otherworldly like shapeshift. More than likely those two cats were more than they seemed - the Jungle was always close at hand.

Even if Tanner managed to describe them in perfect detail, it wasn’t like I’d just be able to find two cats without a scent trail, a tracking dweomer or a shot of Haemovectrin. The Hissers that had gotten his girlfriend and her kid were still out there; they’d probably gone after the two of them over some petty grudge cuz they hadn’t eaten the bodies. It'd actually been Galen who got to Tanner first, untouched but sobbing incoherently over their broken, slaughtered bodies; he said their guts had been bitten out, left to steam while they died from blood loss and shock.

That was why I felt so bad for him; what happened to Tanner’s girl and her kid weren’t my fault, but I somehow felt a responsibility for him because it came from my world. 

"Alright well… guess you better keep a spray bottle with you." Tanner stared at me without comprehension. "Y'know. To squirt them if they get close,” I explained weakly.

"Ohh right, yeah, heh." Tanner fidgeted with his Josta bottle, an awkward moment of quiet passing between us. I could smell fear in his sweat… he seemed particularly on edge, which didn’t exactly help me restrain myself around him. I won’t lie, I felt a bit uneasy myself, like something had been watching him for a while before I came here.

"If they're hanging around you, call me or Galen and let us know… and practice for tonight, okay? We're playing Capitalist Facefuck, Corpse Golem, and Ashen Banners." It felt good to see him rally a bit; Tanner had helped write his part for those songs. "I'm glad you're doing good man… you're doing good, right?" It occurred to me that I hadn't actually asked the other man, just kind of presumed and pushed how I wanted the guy to feel.

His eyes met mine, and in his sad gaze I read a complex of messages.

I'm not okay. I suffer.

I will never be who I was.

The Night took from me, and I'll never be whole.

Guilt stabbed me in the heart without clear cause; it was hard not to apologize. Nothing I could do for him would bring him back to who he was.

“Yeah man. I’m alright. I’ll be there at tonight’s show and it’ll be a Jimmy-rustler.” Tanner gave me his best smile, an effort that didn’t reach his eyes. I bumped his fist and gave my farewells, relieving him from the pressure of my presence. Yeah… he’d be alright, long as I kept checking in on him. Maybe I could Enthrall some local Prey to keep an eye on him; we needed that second guitarist, and it kept me in tune with the echoes of my humanity. I wasn’t ready to just throw that all away at the feet of the Nameless God of the Hunt… not even for Galen. Not even for Celais.

As I made my way back to the bus stop, I caught sight of a pair of mean looking cats watching me from under a rusty Mazda 5 across the street. One was a big, scarred thing with bristling orange fur, the other smaller and gray.

Someone’s rickety old mansion loomed behind them. They watched me unerringly in that way cats do, but their attention never shifted from me; I could feel them watching even when I got on the bus. “Just some fuckin’ neighborhood critters,” I mumbled to nobody but myself; it wasn’t like every stray was a Therid lying in wait.

When I sat down, I hazarded a glance out the window once more. My blood froze when I saw the orange cat collapsed on its side, tongue lolling out from its jaw. Its guts were splayed beneath the Mazda, the gray cat’s maw dark with blood. It looked at me through the window with its pale eyes, shining with unmitigated hatred as the bus pulled away.

[hot-claws-420]

The Walls We Wished We'd Had

[Webcam footage from a familiar Eschaton hanger. Sparks fly from the plates of SLAG KITTY's arm as Sally uses a collection of welding tools to wrench them open. Like cracking the shell of a shellfish to get at the delicious flesh within, she pulls apart the sheets of steel to reveal the bounty of wires and complex machinery hidden from her.]

[As this happens, a second figure wanders nervously into frame. One which seems out of place among the forge of Jaegers. A tall, thin, skittish man, not much older than Sally, holds a red bundle of cloth to his body as he approaches. He steps as close as he can while still maintaining a safe distance from the mechanical work being done.]

[The man makes gives an awkward glance with his hazel eyes between the small woman and her work as he waits for her to notice him. This takes some time.]

Sally: Whar? U dont look liek ur with Eschaton?? u need soemthin? or?

[Her scarlet eyes lock to him. Assessing, like a cat watching a new person enter a room as it lays perched atop a high shelf.]

[The man seems somehow surprised at the response, despite having been waiting for one. He runs a hand through his curly, brown hair then moves it back to his bundle, bouncing it up gently a single time to readjust.]

Prosperan Man: Yeah! Well erm- not need but. Um. You're her right? Nemean?

[Sally raises an eyebrow, her mouth gently falling agape in half-attentive confusion.]

Sally: eh? the fuck's a nimian?

[Flaring to life, light rolls from Sunny's projector like rays of morning through curtains, and the red and gold of her holographic form joins the pair.]

Sunny: [THE NEMEAN LION: A FEARSOME BEAST OF MYTHOLOGY FELLED BY THE HERO {HERACLES}. YOU PROSPERANS DO SO ENJOY YOUR HELLENIC REFERENCES.]

Sally: heh. Sekhmet's way cooler but i dont h8 that.

Sunny: [IN ANY CASE, IF YOU ARE SEARCHING FOR A PILOT COMPARABLE TO THE CRADLE GENUS {PANTHERA}, YOU HAVE INDEED FOUND IT. THIS IS CALLSIGN {SINGED WHISKERS}. I AM HER OMA-CLASS NHP, {SUNNY}. WHO, EXACTLY, MIGHT {YOU} BE?]

[The man seems taken aback by the sudden extra figure, but says nothing of it.]

Prosperan Man: Right. I uh. I'm no one special, really. No fancy callsign or anything. Name's Markos. I-

Markos: Volk let me in when I asked. I told him... That I wanted to thank you. For your work. I told him that... We wanted to thank you.

Sally: whos we?

[After a few nervous glances from Markos, the young man slowly unwraps a little of the bundle in his arms. Enough of the cloth is moved aside to reveal the face of an infant, quietly babbling to herself.]

[A great number of emotions cross Sally's face in too short a span to read, and Sunny's projection takes a step closer to xeir pilot. Xeir eyes locked to Sally's hand, it's all too clear: the desire xey have to hold it in this moment.]

[SPLICING FOOTAGE WITH THAT OF ACHAEAN CONSTRUCTION SITE SECURITY CAM {423}.]

[The timestamp shows the footage that follows to be about twenty-six minutes later. The group has moved from the loud, rough mech bay to what appears to be a park, half-finished in its construction.]

[The humans sit on a newly installed bench while the NHP, only projected from the waist up, floats with her holographic chin resting atop her pilot's head. Sally holds a drink in one hand, with "DECAF" written in bold letters across it. She looks down at the tiny bundle in the man's arms.]

Sally: so... wuts her name?

Markos: Sophia. For her mother.

Sally: weres she at?

[Markos frowns, regret pouring from his eyes. He stares up at the half-built walls of Achaea City. Even from there they could be seen in all their colossal majesty. Many cranes are in frame, dragging great slabs of concrete from the earth and lowering them so gently into place. Giant beams of steel are slotted into the megastructure: a thing built to scale to keep the horrors of Prospero at bay.]

[And yet, the brutish structure is already partially slathered in paint. In color. Half-finished murals painted by the many hands of those who would live here bring life to a great grey wall. A canvas. A home in the making.]

Markos: Not all towns get walls like this, ya'know? And they don't always last so long when they don't...

[Sally leans over to see the child better. Little Sophia looks up at her. big, round eyes staring at the woman's chubby, grey cheeks. The child smiles. Then giggles. A child's laughter isn't a very familiar sound to Sally. She doesn't quite know what to make of it. She doesn't know why her eyes feel so wet.]

Markos: I hope they tell you how important the work you do is. You Jaegers...

[Markos chuckles.]

Markos: I don't think we could build all this without you.

[statustemporary]

free fallin' - Chapter 2

STORY SUMMARY: On a dark and stormy Halloween night 27 years ago, five people stepped onto an elevator. They never stepped off.

Now 28, Emma Swan and her son Henry work together to discover what caused her parents and the other inhabitants to suddenly disappear.

//rewrite of previous work, expanded to a multi-chapter.

RATING: Teen+

WORD COUNT: 3,564

TAGS: Captain Swan, Tower of Terror AU, CSSNS 2022, Graphic Depictions Of Terrifying Sights in Chapter 1, no beta we die like killian jones,

AO3

AUTHOR'S NOTE: ha ha... oops. it's been two years since i updated this. life's crazy and my passion for ouat has faded but i'm determined to finish all my posts WIPs and maybe get my WIP folder on my laptop emptied onto here. i'm trying.

this has changed drastically from the film, mainly because i messed things up in the first chapter but oh well lol. similar premise but obviously things are a free-for-all now in my story. wish me luck trying to finish this lol.

not really sure how i'm feeling about this chapter so i'm sorry in advance if it doesn't live up to expectations! here's to the next one eventually!

enjoy!

***

Uncle James lives in a swanky townhouse just a few blocks from the heart of Storybrooke. The front windows of the place have a magnificent view of the hills in the distance while the back windows peered out at the Hollywood Tower Hotel like a taunt.

Emma hated growing up there.

The entire place felt too modern and unlived. Uncle James refused to have any sentimentality in his living space. No art projects on the fridge, no souvenirs from trips, and definitely no family photos. The farthest he went with décor was a floating shelf of ratty books in Latin. She wondered if what happened that Halloween night 27 years ago haunted him and that’s why he refused any reminder of his twin. Did the mirror play just as cruel of a joke?

Oddly enough, she did stumble upon a picture of her mother in his bedside drawer when she was eight. Mary Margaret looked stunning, her degree placard from Harvard held tightly in her hand with a bouquet of flowers cradled in her opposite elbow. Her graduation gown was flowing in the wind and her smile was positively radiant.

Uncle James caught her looking at the photo and he ripped it from her grasp. She never saw it again.

Not much about the townhouse has changed over the years, including the man residing inside of it. Uncle James remains aloof and standoffish to the point Emma wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot he had a niece at all.

His car, a sleek black sports convertible, is parked out front and it feels promising, even if she dreads the upcoming conversation. It takes a great effort to place one foot in front of the other as she approaches the entrance, her feet feeling as heavy as lead. The sickening weight in her heels is the only thing to prevent her from running back to her car after pressing the doorbell.

Uncle James looks surprised and disappointed to see her on his doorstep. His shoulders visibly drop and his mouth ticks down in a frown. “Emma?”

She flashes a quick smile at him.

“Uncle James, hi. How are you?”

He cuts straight to the point, narrowing the opening of the door so that only a sliver of his body is visible. “What are you doing here?”

The sigh that leaves her lips makes him close the door another inch. “Can we talk inside?”

“Actually Emma, I’m about to leave for – ”

He’s wearing pajamas. And a bathrobe. She swallows down the anger that’s brewing, the almost two decades of resentment towards his willful absence, and steels her shoulders. “I need to talk to you about my parents.” That catches his attention.

Paranoia, or maybe it’s PTSD, seems to take over her uncle as he pales and ushers her inside his townhome, head ducking out the door and swiveling around before he slams it shut and locks it. He brings her to the kitchen and offers her some alcohol as he makes his own drink. She remembers being thirteen and him offering her some of his rum and coke when he realized they had no orange juice in the fridge. The drink disgusted her and he got angry when she spit it in the sink. They never ran out of orange juice after that.

“So…” he begins. His hands are tense where they’re splayed on the kitchen island’s marble countertop. There’s a wild gleam in his eyes that unsettles Emma but she doesn’t know where to place it. She knows reporters, both professional and amateur, have hunted her down and pressured her for a statement, an interview, anything. Had they done the same to her uncle? “What were you saying about your parents?”

“Do you remember that night?” she asks. Uncle James sighs and drops his head.

“I could never forget it.” Defeat thickens his voice as his shoulders grow rigid. He shudders and takes a deep breath before looking up at her. “What about it?”

Emma shifts in her seat. “Can you tell me about it? From your perspective?” He looks ready to deny her so she pulls out the card up her sleeve. “It’s for Henry. He’s doing a project in school.”

“Ah,” he murmurs. A shadow crosses over his face as he collects his thoughts. “There’s not much to say from what I saw, really. I arrived early because my polo club cancelled our game. I saw Mayor Mills, exchanged a few words about the party at the Tip Top Club. I was on the stairs with some fancy drink from the patio bar when I saw your parents head into the elevator. David and I hadn’t talked in a few months but Mary Margaret invited me to the party.” Emma feels herself soften as her uncle smiles absently as he remembers her parents. “Obviously she didn’t tell him I was coming and he was glaring at me. He still hadn’t moved on from our fight. I raised my glass to them, a peace offering. Then the elevator doors closed and that was it… That was the last time I saw them.”

“Did you see anything else that night?” she asks, leaning her elbows atop the island. “Anything strange or… unusual?”

He shakes his head as he looks down at his drink. Silence follows for a beat and then another and Emma’s afraid she’s lost her uncle to his memories of the past. “The lights went out not long after I saw them get on the elevator.” She nods. “Honestly, I thought people were crazy when they said all of them were cursed. I mean, magic?!” He huffs out a laugh of disbelief. A pause and then his face darkens. “If there’s any inkling to that notion, I’d wager on Regina.”

Huh. Emma’s brows pinch together as she mulls that sentence over in her head. The sudden drop of formality with the former mayor was odd. For all the time she lived with Uncle James, he never mentioned Regina before today, much less by name. He never mentioned any of the others either but the way he spoke now hinted at a history. A nasty one at that.

Her mouth opens to ask another question but Uncle James shakes his head and downs the remainder of his drink in one go. “I think it’s time you left, Emma. It was nice seeing you.”

He disappears around the corner to his bedroom at the back of the townhouse before Emma has a chance to say any departing words. Resigned, she gently places her cup in the dishwasher and sees herself out.

***

The late morning air hangs heavy around the hotel. Emma stands outside on the sidewalk, head tilted back as she takes in the massive structure. In reality, she never thought she’d come here, let alone twice in as many days. She checks her watch to confirm she has a few hours before Henry gets out of school. The last thing she wants is for him to be back here.

“Uh…” a voice sounds to her left and Emma turns just in time to see her son stop short, eyes widen, and his body swivel back the way he came.

“Henry!” she calls out in frustration. She watches his small body freeze and tense up as she comes upon him.

He grins small but innocently up at her. “Ha ha… Hi, Mom.”

“What are you doing here?! You’re supposed to be in school today!”

“Well about that…” he laughs nervously. She says his name in warning and he winces, opening his mouth ready to spew an inventive explanation when they hear a creaking behind them.

The metal gate to the hotel opens slowly and the chain-link keeping it closed snakes down to the ground in an exhausted heap. She blinks rapidly at the scene before her, her mouth dropping open in shock. That… shouldn’t happen.

Maybe the chains were just rusted and finally gave way, she tried to reason with herself. Maybe LJ forgot to lock back up after everything yesterday.

So lost in her thoughts, Emma didn’t realize Henry had moved away until she saw his small figure squeezing through the open fence and running up the hill to the hotel. “Henry!” she yells out. Running is her thing – running away from emotions, commitment, the whole shebang. Apparently, her son inherited that from her, just literally.

The bottles of holy water in the pocket of her leather jacket are justled by her running up the driveway. Sage in her bag bumps against her hip. Her gun rests heavily in her holster.

Emma’s eyes scan the landscape furiously.

“Henry!” she calls out. She evens her breathing and rests one hand on her hip where her firearm rests in case some crazy person is behind all this and has Henry.

“Hurry up, Mom!”

Emma turns the last bend of the driveway and lets out a deep sigh. Henry stands in front of the entrance to the hotel bouncing on the balls of his feet. He impatiently waves her over, eyeing the locked front doors.

“You know,” she starts, “I think I should bring you to Granny’s right now. Let her watch over you and see if you try to skip school again.”

Henry whines, head thrown back in exasperation. “But Moooooom! These are your parents!”

“Henry, come on. You can’t really believe that.” Emma bends down in front of him and takes hold of his arms, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles even as her heart bleeds. “My parents disappeared so long ago… This can’t be them.”

“But it is!”

“Henry…”

“What about yesterday?! You believed it was their ghosts when they scared us out of here!”

“Ghosts don’t exist, Henry. How do you explain that, huh? Magic?” She deflates as her son mumbles to himself and looks to the ground. Softening her tone, she continues, “It would be really cool if magic was real but it’s not. Those are probably just projections some twisted loser made to scare people. Okay?”

“Are you calling us Jem and the Holograms?”

They jump at the sudden appearance of a third voice, their heads turning to see Killian Jones leaning halfway through the closed front door.

Emma’s breath stutters while Henry starts, “What the –”

“Tsk, tsk,” Killian taunts. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

She panics. Her hand flies to her bag and she pulls out the holy water, uncapping the bottle and surging the water towards the door.

It seemingly goes through his body, the blessed water streaming down the front door, but he jerks at the sensation.

Then Killian starts to groan, writhing in pain. The half of his body positioned through the door begins to curl in on itself as gurgling from his throat becomes audible. Emma stares – watching and waiting for smoke to sizzle from his frame or for him to disappear but nothing happens.

Until the gurgling changes sound and it becomes clear it’s transitioned into laughter.

Killian raises his head, smirking in glee. “Holy water? Really? I know I’m devilishly handsome but you didn’t really think that’d work.”

The photos never did his smirk justice, she realizes. And all she wants to do is smack it right off his face. With a growl, she stands up straight and marches right through Killian to the front door, pulling the spare key LJ gave her from her pocket.

“Chills, darling,” Killian whispers in her ear. The air shifts around her. Despite the absence of any breath ghosting over her skin, she can feel the way a smirk dances across his lips and the whole thing makes her angrier.

Click. The key sits just perfectly in the lock and the door swings open. She strides inside, Henry following excitedly behind her.

Her back straight as a rod, she places her hands on her hips and stares down the… beings in the hotel lobby.

“Not the friendliest lady, huh?” Killian drawls from behind her.

Henry takes immediate offense. “Hey, that’s my mom!”

“Apologies, lad,” Killian tosses carelessly over his shoulder as he heads towards the bar.

“Enough!” Emma calls out roughly. She narrows her gaze, her voice dropping an octave. “Who the hell is behind this?”

Regina sighs, sitting regally on a cobweb infested armchair in the center of the lobby. She examines her nails with more interest than her voice provides in an answer. “If she weren’t dead, I’d say my sister.”

“Regina!” Mary Margaret quietly admonishes from David’s side near the luggage cart.

“What?” Regina asks, her eyes thinning to slits and lips turning downward. “You’ve met the witch. A house should’ve fell on her sooner.”

“She was really a witch?!” Henry asks, practically bouncing in place from excitement.

Regina scoffs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually was.”

“Magic isn’t real,” Emma grits out. She moves just slightly in front of Henry, eyes flicking between the Jones brothers and Regina. “Now explain who is putting on this sick joke because they’ve got a nice harassment charge waiting for when I bring them down to the sheriff’s office. It’d be a pity to add evading arrest to that as well.”

“Well,” states Liam from where he’s reviewing a check-in book. “Once you find out, let us know. I’d like to have a chat with the lad as well.”

“Seriously,” she continues. She puts her hands on her hips to further assert her authority and presses hard enough that she’s sure the skin under her jeans is colorless. “This isn’t funny. Tell me.”

Killian tsks. The sound is quickly growing to be her most hated. “As pretty as you are to look at, lass, I think the peace and quiet was better. I’d have told you if I knew.”

David scoffs, crossing his arms. “Leave the girl alone, Jones. You’re nothing but a drunk – she wouldn’t waste the time with you anyway.”

There’s a shout of indignation from the other side of the room and then the entire lobby erupts into chaos. The Jones brothers jump to the other’s defense as David tosses insults back and forth. Regina adds her own one-liners to the disappointment of Mary Margaret. Their own disagreement drags David into it as well, and he manages to fight off both Regina and the Jones brothers as if a skilled swordsman against multiple enemies.

Words no longer decipherable, Emma subtly steps to the side, one eye on the group and the other searching, investigating. Caution rolls deep within her and she keeps one hand resting on her holstered firearm. Ghosts aren’t real. There’s no such thing. Holy water didn’t do a damn thing.

Sophisticated projector is what she’s looking for, then. They have to be holograms or AI or something that digitally recreated five tragically unsolved missing people, for the pure enjoyment of scaring others. She bets that there’s some YouTube channel that showcases Hollywood Tower Hotel scares, run by whoever is doing this.

Emma’s gaze scans the walls of the outdated hotel.

It didn’t hit her last time, too busy scared for their lives to really pay attention, but the floral wallpaper pulls from the moldings. The green background has faded and the white flowers accenting it yellowed. Burnt out lamps with golden shades sit atop wooden tables covered in layers of dust.

The sound of something rustling wafts through the air but the group of beings either don’t hear it or don’t care. If she follows the sound, though, she might find the ‘genius’ behind it all. Her eyes narrow on a closed oak door near the hallway to the main floor ballroom.

A once golden sign looks like a beat-up bronze, the fake bright finishing having flaked off over the years. Coat Closet. Likely place for someone to setup their gadgets.

The vinyl flooring crackles under her feet as she moves towards the it.

Her head turns at an echoing pair of footsteps and a quick glance back confirms Henry treads closely behind.

The wooden door swings open with a creak. Emma splays her hand against the rough wallpaper and feels around until she hits the light switch. Flickering yellow light fills the cramped space. Pink wool carpet stained from age and buckling wood paneling buried behind huge swaths of clothing greet them first before the smell of must hits their noses.

Henry shrieks and jumps back at the sight of a large rat scurrying over fraying paper and escaping through the lobby.

Great. Nothing in the closet except a rat and leftover coats from that night…

Emma was only a baby when her parents disappeared on Halloween night at the Hollywood Tower Hotel. Grandma Ruth, overwhelmed in her grief, packed up all of their things and tucked them away in a storage unit out of town. Out of sight didn’t mean out of mind, though, and Emma served as a reminder of her broken heart every day, until she couldn’t handle it anymore and went into an eternal sleep.

By the time Emma was old enough to know and inquire about her parents’ things, Grandma Ruth’s storage unit had been auctioned off due to lack of payments.

Aside from a small box of things brought to her Uncle James’ place alongside her diaper bag, everything her parents owned was gone.

Being at the hotel, at the place where she lost them before she could even know them, Emma wants something to hold of theirs. The only thing she has of her mother’s is a pink cardigan, left at Granny’s apartment during a dinner once. Soft, powdery fragrance once enveloped the fabric but has long since faded. Now the small cardigan hangs on her coat rack as a reminder of what is so far from her grasp.

But maybe… maybe in this place seemingly suspended in time… she could have something.

Her eyes have studied the photographs of the night well enough that, once she looks towards the coats, she immediately recognizes the red scarf.

Tucked around the neck of a shimmering floor-length dark coat, the red scarf sticks out in a sea of navy and black. It calls to her and Emma’s fingers slowly reach out. The coat ticket says 191, the black jacket kept close stating 192 most likely belonging to her father.

The fabric is cool to the touch and though spiders and moths have left their mark elsewhere in the hotel, the state of the coat closet is pristine. Could it hold the smell? The perfume Emma has spent half her life looking for? The only thing that reminds her of her mother’s embrace. Of comfort and security and love.

She pulls both coats off the hanger and holds her mother’s up, her nose nearly to the scarf –

“Hey!” Henry calls from behind her.

Emma turns swiftly, her eyes locking in on the beings crowding their way towards them. Her hand shoots out and grabs Henry’s arm, pulling him swiftly behind her.

“Hey,” Mary Margaret echoes quietly. Her brows furrow together as she takes in the sight before her. “That’s my coat.”

Mary Margaret’s hand reaches towards the coat but Emma jerks it back towards her, feeling oddly protective of the thing. The smell of the scarf hits her nose and she rustles the coats in her arms for a better grip, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

“Hey,” her watery voice sounding loud in the tight closet as the others look at her in wide-eyed shock. “Don’t crowd us in here. I’m – ”

“Emma,” David breaths out, her entire body deflating.

Emma blinks, hesitating for a moment. “David?” she asks. “You… remember?”

Tears flood his eyes as he gives her a soft smile. “Of course.”

A fluttering lightness fills Emma’s chest as he steps forward, smile still on his face.

It’s incredible, she thinks to herself. How her father could just know it was her despite all the time that had passed. Maybe this is his ghost and this is her closure.

Emma nearly drops the coats as her father takes another step…

Until he bends down onto one knee and picks something up from the floor. A polaroid.

“We’ve never been able to get in here,” David whispers, more to himself than to her and Henry. He stares at the polaroid as tears roll down his cheeks and a shaky hand comes up to cover his mouth. Mary Margaret leans in close, her own eyes filling, and she rests her head on his arm.

Acting every part the proud father, David shows the others what the polaroid is. “This is our daughter,” he begins, looking up with a wide, watery grin and turning the polaroid towards her and Henry.

The film is slightly overexposed and a person stands in the background more a blur than a defining figure. In the center stands, with help of the mystery figure, a small Emma barely a year old with a spattering of light hair atop her head and a gummy grin directed right at the camera.

“Her name is – ”

“Emma,” she finishes in a rushed, exhausted breath. Looked over by her own baby photo. Damn.

She clutches the coats tighter to her center and Henry looks up at her, confused. “But – ”

“We’re leaving.” Emma frees one hand to grab Henry’s arm and pulls him through the closet, through the ghastly chill of the projected beings in the hotel, and out the front door.

[qualified-trash-panda]

Whiplash

Day 5 of 212th Appreciation Week

today's prompt was 'Hurt/Comfort' and I struggled a little so kinda fell back on Kenobi again cause I find him easy to write. this piece is set during the Zygerria arc (and I actually intend to use it for my wip because it turned out better than I thought) where my OC goes with the Jedi instead of Rex.

description: captured. imprisoned. beaten. you find comfort where you can.

length: 2.4k words

warnings: injury, blood, electrocution (sry if I missed anything!)

Bent on her side, short, pained breaths leaving her thoughts fuzzy, each rise and fall of her chest sending jolts through her back, the slightest twitch jarring the angry red gashes decorating her back.  The lashes burned through her whole body as if someone lit the skin on fire, her brows permanently knitted together and a fine sheen of sweat blanketed her, nails scratched along the steel shelf beneath her. 

The uncomfortable slab she called a bunk did nothing to ease her, her body draped along it at an awkward angle, shock collar digging uncomfortably into her neck, to keep her back angled up and she feared ever rolling over in her sleep.  If sleep ever came.  Every time Sennari thought the dull throb was about to lull her into her dreams she’d suck in a sharp breath, a twitch of her aching body or the slow dribble of blood leaking out one of the gashes would mingle with another, casting a ripple of stinging pain to ignite her nerves all over again, jolting her wide awake.

“Can you hear me?” the slow whisper permeated the haze of her mind and Sennari blinked through heavy eyes, struggling to focus on the unnervingly bright blue gaze piercing into her.  “Trooper, can you hear me?”

Slowly, she forced her head into a nod, trying to summon years of training, months of grueling work to isolate the pain in her mind, shove it down, clear her gaze.  “General Kenobi.” She forced between her teeth.  “Is everything alright, sir?”

“I should be asking you that.” His voice softened, lighter than a cloud.  “You shouldn’t have intervened.”

Sennari’s lip quirked briefly.  “You’re welcome, sir.”

A wince broke it off as the barest force slid her back on her bunk, grazing her skin, pulling at the gashes, and her vision scattered with dark spots.  Shock collar clinking against the metal.

“Sir?” She breathed shakily.

“It’s alright.” He assured her and she registered the rustle of his clothes as he moved, prying open her eyes and suddenly the blue invaded her gaze, the General resting along her bunk beside her, offering out his arm.  “Can you move?”

It took Sennari a second to understand what he wanted, struggling to lift her clouded head off the slab and he draped a makeshift pillow made from someone’s robes over his arm, helping gently set her head down atop it and she released a long breath as it eased the tension between her shoulders. 

His hand hovered over her shoulder, gaze locking in hers, forcing her to keep her eyes on him, keep them open, a question rising within them and she nodded her permission.  Drawing her arm down, away from her side, he angled himself up, careful not to jostle her head, and although he never touched her she sensed his hand floating above her open wounds.  A chill ghosted across her scorching skin, her shallow breaths evening out as a cool numbness washed down her spine, flooding through her blood, relaxing her entire body and she buried her cheek into his arm.

A grateful sigh slipped her lips, her eyelids drooping but she propped them open as the General settled back down, his blue eyes studying her features.  “Neat trick.” She whispered, relief swelling through her, releasing the knots in her shoulders and a wave of exhaustion quickly replaced it, her body entirely limp against the slab.

“It won’t last long, I’m afraid.” He regretted, “I could never truly grasp the art of healing.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” All Sennari felt was a dull throb echoing on her back.  “I feel fresher than a daisy.”

Kenobi’s breathy chuckle fluttered across her cheek.  “Try and rest.”

A soft sound drifted from her lips, “Right back at you, sir.”

“You need it more.”

“Nuh uh.” Sennari tried to shake her head against his arm but the twitch sent a shiver down her spine, the shock collar tilting, her brow curling as it prodded the first gash.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, sir.”

Kenobi frowned at her, the quirk of his brow casting a shadow across the piercing blue.  “Noticed what?”

“The bags under your eyes.” She ran her hazel eyes over them, apparent even in the darkness of the stifling prison barracks.  “You barely slept since Umbara.”

“Always the observant one.” Kenobi’s chest rose and fell in a silent sigh and he tenderly picked a slick strand of dark hair from her face.  “I had hoped the Council would grant us leave following the campaign, but…”

He brushed some of the sweat from her face, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.  “But then Kiros?” Sennari finished and he nodded.  “Lemme guess, we were the closest?”

A clang rang out as one of the guards hit the edge of a bunk with his baton, metal ringing against metal, and Sennari heard several sharp intakes, a few sobs.  “No talking, scum.” The Zygerrian scolded monstrously and Sennari tilted her head, watching his shadow pass by, venom piercing her hazel eyes.

“He does that again, I’ll shove his stick somewhere uncomfortable.” Sennari hissed silently, releasing a select few curses and the General’s brows rose.

Kenobi rested a hand atop her shoulder, the warm touch easing the sudden tension knotting again, threatening the numb down her back, a shiver cascading down her spine.

“Calm yourself.” He hummed, drawing back his hand and forcing Sennari to take a deep breath, an unusual understanding sinking into his gaze.  “Save your strength.”

Grinding her teeth, Sennari tried to relax but the shadow grazed along her mind, tempting free memories she locked away a long time ago and her fingernails scratched at the bunk as she tried to adjust her position and nudged the gashes again.

“Easier said than done.” She bit out.

Static ripped through her body, throwing hazel eyes wide as the shock collar bit into her neck, an electric hiss tearing down every limb and she cried out. 

The slaver popped out from nowhere, teeth bared savagely, fangs flashing in her sketchy sight as she arched her back away from him.  Spots danced across her vision, hot sickly breath filling her ear as the slaver growled another warning, his words lost as pain sizzled through every nerve in her body and Sennari saw different fangs, a different whip.  You’re a poison infecting this galaxy. 

Sennari gasped loudly as the sting vanished, her body trembling with an old fear and she collapsed.  Fingers entwined with hers, soft robes knotted in her grip, a steady hand grasping the back of her head protectively as an explosion rattled in her ears and she twitched sporadically, trying to find the source of the clanging, the smoke filling her nose.

It only made things worse.  Pain rippled down her spine, splitting right to her core, her thoughts buzzing with the sound of metal screeching as the flames warped it, of a blaster bolt searing her vision and flesh burning.  The calming words in her ear did nothing to assuage it, her mind distorting, vision blurring things together until darkness swarmed her, wrapping her up in the tightest blanket and she blacked out.

A second passed in the void, barely the beat of her heart, but when she snapped her eyes open with a sharp breath she knew hours must have drifted by.  The pain ebbed into a dull throb, the gashes stinging down her back, forcing the sharp burn in her flesh to the forefront of her vulnerable mind. 

“You’re safe.” A steady voice reassured her and Sennari struggled to pry herself from the lingering shadows cornering her mind to focus on it. 

A warmth flickered in her mind, sweaty body pressed against something, fingers knotted around her hand, others stroking down her hair in soothing motions and once the pounding in her ears settled she heard the quiet whispers, the quiet assurance.

Sennari squeezed her fingers, the hand holding her squeezing back, grounding her, drawing her to the present, away from the menacing cloud warping her thoughts, chasing away the darkness and she blinked heavily, staring into nothing until the fold of beige robes registered in her mind, her other hand knotted in the soft cloth, the knuckles white as if she clung to him for dear life.

Tears muddied her eyes, her fingers squeezing tighter with each ripple of static down her back, tearing gasps from her throat.  “It hurts.”

The voice shushed her gently, the hand stroking along her hair faltering for a second before continuing.  Sennari didn’t know why she said it, she loathed how pathetic it sounded on her tongue and ignored the white-hot fire piercing her blood as she buried her face deeper against his chest, gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached. 

Why did I do it again.  Sennari didn’t know if the words left her tongue or trickled through her mind, the tears burning in her hazel eyes as bright as the gashes along her back and she shuddered beneath the memory of a different whip, a different slaver.  You’re a poison…

The fingers gripped her harshly, pulling her back from the edge and she choked on a breath.

“This is not Syrac.” The voice told her bluntly, her heart thudding boldly, the sporadic shake of her body stilling and she waited for the punchline.  “Syrac is gone.”

It’s gone… I failed…

Tighter again, she squeezed but her hand still shook.  They’ll punish me if I fail…

Sennari tensed as the hand left her hair, her body waiting for the lash stroke, seizing up in preparation and fingers trailed down her jaw, gently gripping her chin to lift her head.

Auburn hair, blue eyes, a beard.  “General Kenobi?” She shuddered, her voice hoarse, her mouth drier than the desolate dunes of Tatooine.

“Stay with me, trooper.” The voice ordered, the instruction washing over her, steadying her, and she recognized it now, her feeble mind put the pieces together.

Not Syrac.  Kadavo.  “What…” Sennari forced herself to swallow, to work some moisture back into her barren mouth.  “What happened?”

“Never mind that.” His fingers left her chin, stroking down the side of her face, trying to wipe the sweat from her brow.  “You just stay with me.”

His fingers still laced around hers, his jaw clenched, and she tried to loosen her grip, stiff fingers unwrapping from his robes, shame warming her cheeks but he only grasped them tighter, her body flush with his. 

The Zygerrian.  A gasp slipped out, shock collar cold and mocking around her neck, the static inflaming the burning skin, sending a tremble through her and she remembered Kenobi’s arms threading around her, pulling her away even as her back arched into him.  

“You need to relax.” Kenobi soothed, holding the side of her face, forcing her to look up at him as thudding agony rippled under her skin, building with each tremble of her limp body.  “You’ll only make it worse if you don’t.”

“I can’t.” Sennari sounded so pathetic, her head lolling against his chest, features screwed tightly and fresh sweat popped on her forehead. 

“You’ve never let me down in the past, Sennari.”

“There’s a first for everything.” She whimpered and amusement flashed in the Jedi’s gaze.

“Cody will have my head if I let anything happen to you.”

A shiver prickled her blood, her brow twitching.  “Think I’d like to see that.”

His chest fluttered in a silent chuckle and Sennari’s shoulders loosened.  “You’ve certainly made a lasting impression on him.”

“Be honest, General.” Sennari grunted, “I’m a headache he can’t get rid of.”

Another chuckle, another knot unwound.  “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

This time Sennari smiled, a chuckle rising in her lungs only to morph into a grimace as it prickled her wounds the wrong way.  “Damn straight.” She forced between gritted teeth.

“Easy, trooper.” Kenobi soothed, brushing the damp hair back from her face.  “Do not strain yourself.”

The tension passed, Sennari’s eyelids drooping exhaustedly but she still managed a smile.  “Have you met me?”

“And you admonish me for exhausting myself.”

“You’re my commanding officer, sir.” Sennari reminded him weakly, “You could just order me to stop.”

“I could order you to rest, as well, but you would disobey both as easily as breathing.”

Her smile grew, “So, you have met me.”

The Jedi stroked his hand up and down her arm as another tremor jolted through her, easing her through the torment as stinging jitters coursed through her blood, wiping her mind of any cohesive thought and leaving her blankly staring at the General.

“Can I ask you something, sir?” She breathed once the shudder subsided, the question popping to her mind unbidden and she continued once he nodded, desperate for any distraction.  “Why did you stop wearing your armour?”

For a long moment, Sennari thought he wouldn’t answer, a comfortable silence drawing between them and she struggled to keep her mind conscious, a murky haze curling in the corners of her mind, beckoning to her.  His voice snapped her back to the present, cutting through like the clearest bell.

“I had hoped this war would be over by now.” He admitted solemnly, a deep sadness hanging off his words and Sennari wished she could take the question back.  “The longer it drags on, the harder it becomes to keep fighting.”

Sennari hoped he didn’t hear her sharp inhale, hazel eyes stinging at the grave admission and she despised the way it resonated within her.  Every day her brothers struggled to keep their heads up, their eyes forward, slowly struggling to fight back the hopelessness.  Learning her own General shared a similar struggle, Sennari’s hopes darkened.

“It’s a choice.” Sennari replied, her voice small, unsure, but the way his hand stilled on her arm spurred her on.  “For the clones, our armour is more than just an extension of ourselves, a way to differentiate us, it’s a choice we make when we already have so few.” Sennari let the statement hang between them, revealing an entire chasm with her words she didn’t dare fall. 

“Just like the choice to fight.” Sennari paused to suppress a shrill twist down her back.  “To keep fighting, instead of just…”

She trailed off, the shrill growing to a sting and she pursed her lips tightly, pressing her forehead to his chest so he couldn’t see the pain twisting her features.

The final word passed breathlessly from him, burrowing between them and he didn’t need her affirmation to know, his hand resuming its comforting path and Sennari gave out to the weakness numbing her body. 

Instead of just surviving.

dividers by @saradika For @212thappreciation Week Day 5 Prompt: Hurt/Comfort

[januishstory]

The best floating shelves are deceptively handy, offering streamlined organization, a sturdy home for all of your favorite tchotchkes, and a decluttering moment for your precious floor space—just to name a few perks. Designed to disappear into the walls and optimize your vertical space, floating storage (whether open shelving or closed) can be a great solution when you’re working with a cramped square footage.Unlike bulky bookcases, floating shelves are less of the main attraction and more like a supporting player to your design scheme. There are also plenty of elegant designs that are anything but wallflowers—ideal for doubling as decor as well as achieving some heavy lifting. From fluted wooden designs and scalloped steel creations to sturdy storage ledges that act as mini shelves for your bookworm needs. Ahead, we broke down what to look for when shopping for a floating shelf, as well as our favorite picks.Our Top Picks for the Best Floating Shelves:Browse by CategoryAccordionItemContainerButtonBest Floating Shelves, OverallWest Elm Volume Floating ShelfAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: WoodColors: Oak, walnut, winterwoodDimensions: 2"H x 24-60"W (four sizes available) x 8-12"D (two sizes available)Weight capacity: 24-60 pounds dependent on sizeMounting type: Mounting strip and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoLooking to fill an awkwardly storage-starved space or swap out kitchen cabinets for a barer look? We love the thicker edge of these wooden shelves, and so does our partnerships associate director Meg Kernahan, who praises their clean lines and the warmth they bring to her home. “This shelf is in my laundry room above my washer/dryer and it’s perfect for storing everyday items like detergent within arms reach,” she says. “The wood tone nicely complements my ‘organic modern’ aesthetic.”AccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: RubberwoodColors: Black, white, light walnut, naturalDimensions: 24.4''H x 18.5''W x 5.91''DWeight capacity: 15 poundsMounting type: Brackets and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoThink outside the lines with the Umbra Montage wall shelf, a curvy design that comes in black, walnut, and natural colorways. Just don’t load it up with heavy books, as it is only meant to hold 15 pounds, making it ideal for picture frames and other smaller decorative items.Ebern Designs River Ridge Metal Floating Shelf (Set of 6)AccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: MetalColors: Black, whiteDimensions: 3.5'' H x 17''W x 6''DWeight capacity: 20 pounds (per shelf)Mounting type: ScrewsAssembly required? NoIf you’re searching for a slim design that can hold a good amount of weight, each individual shelf in this set of six can hold up to 20 pounds. “I like that these shelves have a really minimal profile—you barely even notice the structure is there and, in that sense, they truly feel like floating shelves,” says AD commerce director Rachel Fletcher. “They’re short enough that you could use them in many areas of the home and, because they come in a set of six, you can really get creative with how they’re arranged.” Available in black or white, they±re also the perfect size to store your coveted CD collection (up to 40 fit on a single shelf!).Safran Everyday Scalloped Wall ShelfAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: SteelColors: Terra cotta, peach, skyDimensions: 2''H x 10''W x 3''DWeight capacity: Not listedMounting type: Screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoThe small but mighty steel wall shelf by Safran Everyday works anywhere from a mudroom to a colorful kids’ room. Reviewers note that it’s sturdy and polished, with light storage for phones and small accessories. It’s only 10 inches long, so you can tuck it into tight spaces or create a little motif by bundling three in a staggered design. The reddish terracotta hue will lend your room a pop of color, while the peach and sky colorways read more cottagecore.Crate & Barrel Terra Wall-Mounted StorageAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: FSC-certified solid white oak, oak veneer and engineered woodColors: White oak woodDimensions: 18"H x 68"W x 16"DWeight capacity: Not listedMounting type: Mounting strip and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoFor more geometric mounted storage, look no further than this white oak Crate & Barrel investment piece. When curated just so, it can serve as a focal point to any space, but we think it would look especially nice as bedroom wall decor. The crafted quality of hand-applied natural finish gives this piece a rustic, lived-in feel that will make it seem as if you’ve had this piece forever.AllModern Kristie Block Floating Shelf with StorageAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: Solid mango woodColors: Black, medium wood, natural woodDimensions: 5.5''H x 20''W x 11''DWeight capacity: 15 pounds overall, 5 pounds on top of shelfMounting type: Z-brackets and pre-drilled hole (hardware included)Assembly required? NoFloating shelves are much more than pretty pieces on your wall. Take Kristie here for example, who has a secret drawer for housing keepsakes, keys, and beyond. The ribbed detail curves around the silhouette like a pretty collar, while the piece itself subs in for a side table without taking up floor space. Choose from black, honey, and light wooden hues to complement your space.Urban Outfitters Thalia ShelfAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: 60% MDF, 40% woodColors: White and woodDimensions: 9"L x 6"W x 12"H (small), 9"L x 7.5"W x 12"H (medium), 16.5"L x 10"W x 11"H (large)Weight capacity: 8.81 poundsMounting type: Screws (hardware included)Assembly required? YesThis shelf doesn’t have to have anything sitting on its surface to look really good—it almost acts as a piece of art on its own. “For a decorative wall hanging, this shelf is surprisingly deep,” commerce producer Lauren Arzbaecher told us. “That allows it to hold more decor, but it needs a good amount of clearance from the wall.” We recommend you skip the books and reserve this one for a curation of (short) treasured objects.Best Traditional Floating ShelvesAllModern Shea Poplar Solid Wood Floating Shelf with HooksAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: Solid poplar woodColors: Walnut, naturalDimensions: 5''H x 35.75''W x 5''DWeight capacity: 15 pounds overall, 5 pounds on top of shelfMounting type: Screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoCombining a coat rack and display shelf is always going to be a good idea. This in-between-light-and-dark-colored poplar wood gives the whole look major Scandi style points. Say goodbye to misplacing your hats, jackets, umbrellas, key ring, and whatever else you decide to hang.Eallrinec Floating Shelves (Set of 3)AccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: Wood, metalColors: Black, brown, grey, white, woodDimensions: 6"D x 24"W x 6"H (each shelf)Weight capacity: 40 poundsMounting type: Brackets and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoThese bracketed shelves are very versatile—they can handle all of your office supplies just as seamlessly as your bathroom essentials. Plus each shelf can hold up to 40 pounds, meaning they’ll easily support even the thickest hardcovers or extra-wide stacks of paperbacks.Best Slim Floating ShelvesLovely Things Please Scalloped Oak Wall ShelfAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: Solid oak, baltic birch plywoodColors: OakDimensions: 6"H x 6-46"W (11 sizes available) x 3-8"D (four sizes available)Weight capacity: 18 poundsMounting type: Bracket and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? YesYou could opt for a live edge shelf…or you could go all in on a scalloped look. These wood wall shelves are a real hidden gem from Etsy that will look great under a stack of books or a small family of plants. Plus they’re made of solid oak so they’ll age like fine wine.Threshold Wedge Shelves (Set of 5)AccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: WoodColors: Natural, whiteDimensions: 4"D x 6"W x 1.75"H (small), 4"D x 7.5"W x 1.75"H (medium), 4"D x 24"W x 1.75"H (large)Weight capacity: Not listedMounting type: Wooden anchors and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoIf you’re committed to buying a handful of floating shelves and you want something a bit different from the usual rectangle or rounded shape, consider these chubbier beauties. Choose between a wood-like finish and simple white.String Furniture Bathroom ShelvingAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: Powder-coated steelColors: WhiteDimensions: 19.75"H x 24"W x 6"DWeight capacity: Not listedMounting type: Anchors and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? YesWhen it comes to heavy-duty floating shelves, you may want to loosen your definition of “floating shelf.” Officially, they should appear like they’re sitting flush against a wall with no kind of support system. But to make sure you don’t end up with a big mess, this design is made of steel with brackets integrated into it. It’s perfect for bathroom organization thanks to the handy towel rack along the bottom, or could pull double as a handy kitchen shelf.Heller Swell Wall CatchallAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: 100% recyclable ABS plasticColors: Blue grey, black, red, yellowDimensions: 14"H x 28.75"W x 3"DWeight capacity: 79 lbsMounting type: Not listedAssembly required? NoThis wavy design is a winning small-space solution that discreetly stores items within the bends of its curves. Half of the people who visit your home won’t even know this is a shelf. Install it in your entryway, where the tops can serve as coat racks (the weight capacity is deceptively forgiving) and an umbrella can hang off the side.AccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: Titanium-coated steel, acrylicColors: BlackDimensions: 4.1"W x 1.8"D x 20.3"HWeight capacity: Not listedMounting type: Screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoThese storage shelves come in two sizes (small and large) and would look great displaying your perfume collection. You can also buy a matching acrylic tray if you’re into uniformity for your home decor.Spacecraft Furnishing Oval Floating ShelvesAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: Pine woodColors: Sage green, salmon, turquoise, natural woodDimensions: 12-32"W (three options available) x 5.375"D x 6.25"HWeight capacity: Not listedMounting type: Anchors and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoSlightly retro with a touch of midcentury style, this floating shelf with space in between comes in a bunch of color options and different lengths. If you’re looking for a spot in the entryway to drop your mail or highlight that souvenir you bought in Italy 10 years ago, this is it.Ebern Designs Sluiter Floating ShelfAccordionItemContainerButtonMaterial: Manufactured woodColors: Matte whiteDimensions: 17-48"W (four options available) x 9.25"D (7.5" for small) x 1.5"HWeight capacity: 20 poundsMounting type: Anchors and screws (hardware included)Assembly required? NoThe under-shelf lighting in this pick is a real game changer. You’ve got two options: Install it in a dimly lit space like the kitchen counter for some extra illumination or above a pedestal housing a beloved trinket.What to Consider Before Buying a Floating ShelfBuying floating shelves may seem like an easy task, but there are a few important questions you’ll want to ask yourself before compiling all of your shelf ideas and hitting the checkout.Weight capacityThink about what you’re going to store on your shelves as some offer a higher weight capacity than others, along with how you plan to anchor your shelves to the wall. Designs including shelf brackets that can be installed into wall studs are the sturdiest, but always double check weight capacities before plopping that heavy book on your wall.StyleThere are corner floating shelves, picture ledge shelves, acrylic shelves, wooden shelves, heavy-duty shelves, and so much more. If you’re going to be housing beloved decorative items on top, consider going with some a bit more neutral so as not to steal any attention. If you’re stacking, say, a few books or just need a place to store your on-the-go essentials, have some fun with it. Opt for a bold color (cobalt blue), unusual shape (wavy!), or unexpected material (we love tile).LengthThis may seem like a given, but measure multiple times to make sure you’re buying the right design for your space. There is a sweet spot between “a tad too short” and “taking over the wall.” One easy way to fill up a lot of wall space is to install a crowd of different-size floating shelves. Go for the same style or follow a specific color or material theme for some added intrigue. For awkward or narrow spaces, a column of short shelves can turn an unused nook into a bookshelf or photo corner (when you’re going this route, make sure the spacing between shelves is even). Source link

[libraryofbabel-postlocator]

find this:

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

It's over 3200 characters so it's split up but the first half is on page 194 of volume 24 on shelf 5 of wall 4 of hexagon (below cut) (second part is also below the cut)

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

the second part is on page 227 of volume 17 on shelf 4 of wall 2 of hexagon 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

[sonicasura]

Movie! Transformers/ Pokémon

Pokémon and Transformers Meet Yet Again

Trainer had just gotten too the location that the coordinates had said Optimus and the other Autobots said that they were meeting up at. Koraidon had landed near an abandoned warehouse and soon Trainer, Koraidon, and Rotomdex, had made it too one of the warehouses opened doors too see one Autobot already their. Not only was there an Autobot but also a guy who looked too be in his early 20's. Trainer and the others listened in and found out that the guy had no idea what Transformers were and even asked if the Autobot was a possessed car or something. The Autobot waved off the possessed car thing as something that isn't real and Trainer decided this would be a good time too introduce themselves while also answering the freaking out huy's question.

That is how the trio came too be standing right in front of the duo. Trainer asked what the duo's names were and Noah who was currently in the process of rebooting his brain couldn't get out his name. Mirage seemed too notice this and answered for the both of them.

Mirage: The tough guy behind me is called Noah, as for me the name's Mirage. Nice too meet you all. Now ahhh what are you guys all doing here and what exactly are dinosaur and floating machine?

Tonight just kept on more fun and interesting for Mirage, unfortunately the same could not be said for Noah.

Trainer: Well were all here because we need too see Optimus too get a few things straight. I know this is incredibly weird for us too seemingly at random too come here, but please let us talk too Optimus so we can get the answers we are looking. I promise we are all here too just talk and not cause problems.

Mirage crouched down too look at Trainer in the eyes too see if he should let this strange kid and his pals stay. He did already have Noah with him and was going too have too explain his presence.

Mirage: Alright you can stay. But your gonna be the one too explain everything, especially that odd creature and machine you haven't gotten too explaining yet. I already gotta explain what Noah's doing here.

*VROOOM*

Mirage: And here comes the rest of the gang. Kid can you do me a favor and all hide behind those boxes for now. I wanna try and ease in everyone first with explaining why Noah's here and after that I tell you when too come out and introduce yourselves.

The trio understood and went too hide behind the boxes that the ware house had and Noah's brain had just rebooted and deciding too focus on the more pressing problem asked Mirage a question.

Noah: Wait there are more like you?

Mirage: Like me? Nah. But be cool so they don't crush you.

Noah: What?

Mirage: Yeah, I'd put that pipe down if I wear you.

And when the all the other Autobots raced in, Noah did exactly that. 3 more Autobots made their way into the ware house. Bumble, Arcee, and Optimus Prime all of whom Trainer recognized. ( About a month after the fight for the All Spark Arcee and her Sister Elita managed too make it too Earth)

There were few differences here and their but they were subtle with how the Autobots looked. Overall their looks were about the same though Trainer wanted too make absolutely sure that this was not the same place world they met their version of the Autobots. And well they did already introduce themselves too Mirage and Noah so no going back anyway without an explanation for the Transformers.

Optimus however was definitely more aggressive than the Optimus that Trainer met during there first encounter. Well this should be interesting. After Optimus got done interrogating Noah and determining that Noah was not a threat put him down on a steel shelf. Though before Optimus could move on to discuss what he called everyone hear for, Mirage interrupted him.

Mirage: Actually Optimus, there is actually ah one more thing we need too talk about.

Mirage said a bit nervously as all the other Autobots looked at him curiously. Arcee was the first one to put the pieces together.

Arcee: Mirage you did not bring or lead another human here did you!

Mirage: Ok, Ok, Ok I did not lead or bring another human here besides the one you just interrogated. Also this human kid found this place on his own and umm

Mirage was trying too think of the best way too put this as this was very strange too put into words.

Bumblebee: * Radio* Come on out with already, son!

Mirage: Don't rush me Bee. It uh…well. Ya I don't know how too introduce ya kid come on out and explain it!

Mirage said this as he looked towards the boxes the trio was hiding behind and Trainer, Koraidon, and Rotomdex all came out from behind the pillars shocking Optimus, Bee, and Arcee. All of them got out their blasters and aimed it at the trio. Koraidon did not like that in the slightest and went in front of Trainer and took a defensive position too protect them. Mirage also got between the trio and the Autobots and started too try and diffuse the situation.

Mirage: WOAH, WOAH, WOAH, GUYS!!! Chill out, ok. I know this kid and their pals are super weird looking but they came too me and introduced themselves and asked too meet with Optimus, ok.

Mirage really did not want things too escalate, as this kid was incredibly interesting too him and he sensed no deceit or other motives when he looked the kid in the eyes. Optimus however was not one too take chances that could harm his friends and asked the first question that he wanted answers too.

Optimus: How did you know that this was the spot I told all the Autobots too meet up at.

Trainer: I knew because my friend Rotomdex picked up the Autobots frequency channel were you told all Autobots too meet up immediately.

Optimus was surprised too hear this as the Autobots frequency they used was one that he set up for secure communication. Though that explanation helped Optimus put together the pieces of another puzzle he had been trying too figure out all day.

Optimus: You 3 are the ones who had been sending me requests for communication all day aren't you!

It was more of a statement than an answer and here is when Rotomdex took over.

Rotomdex; That was me, I was sending out communication requests so we get in touch with you and talk!

Optimus was shocked and deeply in thought of this revelation. He also signaled for the other too put away their weapons too everyone's relief. Optimus than asked the question that all the Autobots were thinking, even Noah who was now glued too this conversation.

Why was Trainer trying too contact him? And Trainer gave a weird answer, well more of a question.

Trainer: Optimus do you at all recognize me?

That…definitely took Optimus and the others off guard, however Optimus answered.

Optimus: No I do not recognize you.. should I recognize you human? My Data Banks do not recall ever meeting you or your strange companions.

To the trio that was all the answers they need. This was not the same world, this was an entirely different timeline than what Trainer accidently got stranded in.

Trainer: Thank you Optimus. I just needed too know for sure.

Mirage: Know what for sure?

All eyes where now on Mirage who continued speaking.

Mirage: I am still pretty confused by who you even are Trainer, along with Koraidon and Rotomdex as I ain't never seen anything like them before.

Arcee: Yeah, I ran a scan over you all and no records of you even came up Trainer, along with Koraidon and Rotomdex. Not too mention Trainer, your structure is incredibly different from any humans I scanned before, so who are you all exactly.

Well guess it was time too fully explain everything too them.

Trainer: You all know my name along with my friends. However you do not what my friends are, well Koraidon and Rotomdex are what are known as Pokémon and I am a Human however we are all not from this world or even Universe. We are all actually from a completely different universe where People and Pokémon live together. And we sorta came too this Universe by mistake.

Needless too say everyone was completely shocked by the answers they got from their conversation with Trainer

Lol Noah.Exe has crashed and is currently experiencing issues in the reboot process. Oh boy does Trainer have a story to tell them especially since they were on a supply run involving an Energon substitute. Like with the Bayverse iteration, these bots also have issues in finding this vital fuel source.

Trainer would probably stay at the warehouse too. It makes no sense for them to go anywhere especially since there is some unease amongst the group. Plus they have a feeling there's gonna be a bunch of questions to come.

It would also be interesting if Pheromosa is currently in Trainer's team as I can imagine the dual type shaking their head at the whole thing. Only this kid could get stranded by an Ultra Wormhole, twice.

[moderntimbercraft]

Modern Timber Craft: Hang your floating shelf or mantel (Floating Shelf Brackets) with confidence with our heavy duty floating shelf brackets that are made in the USA. These brackets are to be used with pieces of our fireplace mantel shelves.

[glenviewdevelopment]

The Complete Guide to Custom Staircase Design and Installation

When it comes to transforming a home or commercial space, staircases often go overlooked. Yet, a well-crafted staircase is more than a pathway between floors it’s a centerpiece that defines the character and flow of the environment. In Queensland, where architecture blends contemporary flair with structural function, the demand for tailored staircase construction services continues to rise. Staircase construction services are no longer just about utility they’re about elevating your space with intentional design and expert craftsmanship.

Why Custom Staircases Matter

Custom staircases offer homeowners and developers the freedom to shape a vertical space that perfectly aligns with their interior vision. Whether you're renovating an older property or building from scratch, a staircase is more than a transitional element it’s a statement of style. From grand, sweeping timber staircases to sleek floating stair designs, modern staircase choices reflect personal taste while improving functional flow within a home.

Custom solutions are especially essential when dealing with unique floor plans, height restrictions, or architectural themes. A professionally designed staircase can bridge the gap between creative ambition and regulatory compliance, all while enhancing resale value and daily usability.

The Process of Staircase Installation and Design

Professional staircase installation involves multiple stages from design consultation to final fitting. At Glenview Developments, this process begins with an in-depth site assessment. Structural engineers and design consultants work closely with clients to understand the building's dimensions, material preferences, and visual goals. Every staircase is engineered to meet both aesthetic requirements and Australian safety codes.

Materials are a major factor in staircase performance and appearance. Timber remains a popular choice in Queensland for its warm, natural finish and long-term durability. Other options like metal, glass, and concrete offer more contemporary appeal, especially in minimalist or industrial-inspired interiors. Balustrade options, including stainless steel cables or glass panels, further influence how light and space interact within your home.

The next phase focuses on structural support and integration. Unlike off-the-shelf products, custom staircases are built with precise alignment to floor plans, ensuring seamless transitions between floors and minimizing the risk of noise, creaking, or instability. Skilled craftsmen handle every detail from riser spacing to tread depth to provide a staircase that’s both beautiful and built to last.

Trends in Modern Staircase Designs

Modern staircase designs in Queensland homes reflect a growing appreciation for open-plan living and visual flow. Floating staircases, for example, create an airy, minimalist impression, perfect for homes with large windows or limited floor space. These designs often incorporate hidden supports and minimalist handrails, allowing the staircase to blend into the architecture without overpowering the room.

Spiral and curved staircases, once limited to luxury properties, are now more accessible thanks to advanced fabrication methods. These options add sculptural impact while conserving space. Similarly, mixed-material designs such as timber treads with steel frames offer a balanced aesthetic suitable for both residential and commercial settings.

One of the standout benefits of engaging Glenview for staircase installation is their ability to marry innovation with tradition. Whether you’re after a rustic Queenslander aesthetic or a modern masterpiece, their team ensures your staircase suits your broader architectural vision.

Staircase Renovations: Blending the Old with the New

Older homes often feature staircases that are worn, outdated, or no longer compliant with safety standards. Renovating an existing staircase allows homeowners to preserve the original charm of their property while updating materials, improving layout, or incorporating contemporary elements.

Renovation projects typically involve replacing balustrades, sanding and re-staining treads, or upgrading structural components to meet current building regulations. These upgrades don’t just improve visual appeal they enhance everyday safety and comfort. Glenview Developments takes pride in its tailored renovation services, ensuring each staircase upgrade blends perfectly with the home’s heritage and modern needs.

Compliance and Craftsmanship

In Queensland, staircase regulations are strict for good reason they ensure safety for all users, from children to elderly occupants. Partnering with a team that understands local building codes is essential to avoiding costly errors or delays. Glenview Developments brings extensive experience navigating these standards, ensuring that every custom or renovated staircase is structurally sound and legally compliant.

Their in-house team combines technical precision with artisan skill, using locally sourced materials whenever possible. Each project is executed with attention to detail, from the curvature of a handrail to the finish on each tread. This craftsmanship ensures that every Glenview staircase is as much a work of art as it is a practical structure.

FAQs

1. How long does it take to design and install a custom staircase?

The timeline varies depending on the complexity of the design and site-specific requirements. On average, it takes 4–8 weeks from consultation to completion.

2. Can Glenview renovate an existing staircase to meet modern safety standards?

Yes. Glenview offers comprehensive staircase renovation services, including structural upgrades and compliance checks to align with current Queensland regulations.

3. What materials are best for a staircase in a humid or coastal Queensland climate?

Timber treated for moisture resistance and powder-coated metals are both durable options for humid or coastal conditions.

4. Do I need council approval for a staircase renovation or new build?

In most cases, yes especially if the changes affect the structural layout or safety compliance. Glenview can assist in securing necessary approvals.

5. Can I customise both the structure and balustrade design?

Absolutely. Glenview offers full customisation, from tread materials to balustrade style, ensuring the final result reflects your design vision and lifestyle.

Conclusion: Why a Custom Staircase is Worth the Investment

Choosing to invest in a custom staircase is not merely about aesthetics it’s about enhancing the functionality, safety, and value of your property. Glenview’s approach to staircase construction services is grounded in thoughtful design, precision engineering, and client-focused execution. Whether you’re constructing a new build, reimagining an existing space, or seeking standout design features, a custom staircase provides an enduring architectural benefit.

To see how form meets function in real residential and commercial settings, get in touch with Glenview Developments professionals. Visit our staircases page to explore how Glenview Developments can elevate your interior with expert craftsmanship.