#How Pastel Shades Add Softness to a Tall Appearance | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marypsue · 5 years ago

Text

they never really go away

[AO3]

Some houses are born bad. Some wicked intent forms each stone of the foundation and each shingle of the roof, some malice imbues every cornice and warps every floorboard, tuning a fine creaking instrument from innocent wood. Some houses are silos for darkness, gathered in some unspeakable harvest and stored away against the lean bright summer months, a refuge and shelter for things that blossom like mushrooms away from the light. Some houses are infested with wickedness the way other houses, kinder houses, more normal houses, are infested with ants or termites; and the wickedness proves far more difficult to exterminate.

Some houses are born bad; some houses achieve badness; and some houses have badness thrust upon them.

Some houses die bad.

Crimson Peak sinks. Hill House burns.

It doesn't matter how, or when. Perhaps Allerdale Hall, called Crimson Peak, suffers a slow suffocation, through long years sucked gradually into the bleeding clay ground, its reluctant inheritor never returning to see its beautifully-carven staircase rising from red nothing towards a rotten roof, to walk triumphant atop its shingles as it commits itself and its dead to living burial. Perhaps it happens all at once, the soft soil parting beneath it and flowing back in following the collapse to smother over turrets and widow's walk and chimneys all, leaving nothing but a small pucker in the peak of the hill to show it and all its secrets had ever stood at all. Perhaps the townsfolk of Hillsdale finally grow tired of Hill House's watchful eyes above them, its evil presence overshadowing their town. Perhaps a careless renter, in their haste to get away, leaves a fire in one of the grates, a fire that even the diligent Mrs. Dudley does not arrive in time to smother.

It doesn't matter how. Crimson Peak sinks, Hill House burns, and for whatever walked there, the story should by rights be over.

But some houses are born bad. Some houses are no sooner built than shadows, flying in from elsewhere, take root in their walls.

You called me here.

It was a charming patch of land, bordered on all sides by a wall of tall, cool oleanders, shaking their pink and white blossoms over the road and the little stream. It had been developed, or slated for development, but some tragedy or bureaucracy had claimed all but the very foundations of a little house which, Jill was certain, would have been equally charming. The land had stood empty and overgrown for years before she and Henry had driven by and fallen immediately in love. A few hours in the village office and the office of a realtor later, and it was theirs.

The builders had had problems from the start. The old foundation was too weathered, too overgrown - it had to be pulled up and recast, or risk the house being unstable. Once built on its strong new foundation, though, the house was quite unstable nonetheless. Angles sloped, just slightly, just enough to unnerve. Doors sagged unexpectedly open, and stood waving back and forth in not the slightest breath of draft. The stairs sang out in the middle of the night just exactly as though someone were climbing, up and up, on and on, into infinity. What should have been a bright and airy cottage developed, somehow, an indefinable closeness, a sort of darkness clinging to the corners like cobwebs, in defiance of every window and lamp. There was a lingering smell of earth.

Jill disliked it from the moment she first laid eyes on it, and Henry did too. But, having put so much of themselves into it, and having so little of themselves to put in the first place, they each independently resolve not to speak of it. They had had such dreams, when first they’d seen the patch of land, for the home they would build and the life they would live together there. Now, even with so many of their hopes dashed, they cannot let go of the only solid piece of those dreams that remains.

So they endure the miserable miasma of the house, hoping with a fervour that borders on religious that it will get better if they just change the draperies, air out the rooms, add more lights. If they only keep trying, keep trying, keep trying.

If they can only stay one more night.

She is all hard and armoured, like a glittering beetle, and she dislikes to be seen, yet still there is something about her - it - them. Something reminiscent of a time before, something dear and fleeting and lost, lost, lost. Something bright, and yellow, like a stray sunbeam. A little cat. A cousin, perhaps.

Something all sharp under its manipulative sweetness. Something dearly, dreadfully hated.

(She is wicked, Eleanor, wicked as bright red toenails on dirty feet. Wicked, Daughter, as Foxe's illustrated Hell. Wicked as a name written in blood.

And she knows your thoughts without your voicing them, does she not, you foolish girl? Her little gift of perception. She knows which buttons to press.)

Eleanor Vance had been her mother's caretaker, towards the end of the old woman's life.

It had been a thankless, grueling reality, and one from which Eleanor had never dreamed of escaping until, quite suddenly, she was out. Cut loose in a world in which she could not fully participate, not anymore; a world constructed at slightly wrong angles from the only world she knew. Little wonder, then, that the twisting halls of Hill House, so disorienting, repulsive, and frightening at first, quickly welcomed her as one of their own.

What fled from the smoking ruins of Hill House was not exactly Eleanor Vance, or even a shade of her. But it was followed, as it sped invisibly on an icy wind through the dingy, miserable streets of Hillsdale and down, out from the shadows of those encroaching hills into the world beyond, by a tremendous rattling and tapping, as though someone were banging on the walls of all of Hillsdale's houses and all the trees lining the narrow, winding Route 5, with a heavy, old-fashioned cane.

Lady Lucille Sharpe stove her mother's head in with a cleaver.

She would have liked to have been a caretaker, a nurturer, someone who encouraged lovely and cherished things to grow, and to that end she was quite willing to dirty her fine white hands. To be the gardener, the keeper, the shepherd or perhaps the sheepdog; the one who fought off the wolf, the one who killed live food for the young and toothless, the one who ground blood and bone meal for the roses. She never could have what she truly wanted, but she had her brother, his love. She had her house.

And that which she tended grew strangely, in the dark.

What sank with the ruins of Allerdale Hall was not Lucille Sharpe, nor had it been for a long, long time. It lay there, buried with the house it wore like a scarab's shimmering carapace, until the very beams and bones of Allerdale Hall decayed around it into something unrecognisable.

And then it stirred, as though waking from a long, sad dream.

A quiet resentment brews between Jill and Henry.

Each blames the other. For forcing their hand, for pushing them into a commitment to a house that should itself have been committed. What should have been a dream - their charming patch of land, their little cottage all their own - has turned nightmare; and now, rather than wake themselves, they prefer to turn upon one another. If she had not so desired the little dormer windows on the roof, the ones that glower down from the roof like calculating eyes, the ones that let in nearly no light. If he had not insisted on building so close to the line of trees, the better to protect from the wilder winter winds. If she had not exclaimed in delight as they first drove past.

Neither wants the house any longer, and yet, some perverse pride or whimsy will let neither relinquish it.

It’s Henry who notices the smell of smoke. Who sees, from the drive, the thin, pale wisp rising from the chimney of the wood fireplace when he knows no one else to be home.

But it’s Jill who hears the crying in the small hours of the night.

It should have been new, and free, and fine, away down the hills, all strange and charming and peaceful. It feels as though the search for peace has been endless. Is endless.

As the flames had devoured binding veranda and great front doors and sugar eggs and cherub faces and delicate-patterned wallpaper, as heavy draperies and musty books and overstuffed chairs and tilted floors had fallen to ash and the very stones of the tower had warmed, as silverware had melted in its drawers and china cracked on its shelves, she had fluttered, broken-winged, to a refuge half-remembered. A magic square of poison trees, an enchantment that another her had promised once to return and break.

And, in slow stages, break it did.

Once...once, when such things could be dreamed, needed to be dreamed, imagination had populated this place with a palace invisible, with a warm and welcoming royal mother, with a knight-errant or prince upon a white charger riding down, bejeweled and smiling, from the hills. These visions do not quite come to pass, and yet.

The palace is a cottage, and rises slow, progress hampered by workmen’s irrational superstitious fears. The man and the woman who come to live there are quite young, no child with them, though one of the rooms is bordered with soft pastel animals. The woman sits there, in the rocking chair, most days, and looks out the little dormer window over the lawn and the road and the stream away at the back of the property, rocking and rocking. She is no queen, and no mother, but something in her presence is welcoming all the same.

And what comes down from the hills is no prince.

At first, in the failing light, it appears all white. White, with trailing pennants and ribbons of velvet red. Like an oleander. Like something from a storybook, like a fairy tale. (Always Prince Valiant for you, Eleanor - but then, would you ever do with anything less? Always the charming men with haunted birthrights, all empty behind the blue eyes. Always the ones lacking a mother. Always the ones who see you for how foolish you are, how easy to take in.)

But as the sun sinks, as that which comes from the hills draws nearer, it can be seen to be red. Red as clay, red as blood. It draws a train behind it, long and glittering, of satin sewn with fine glass beads. Or perhaps it leaves behind it a glistening trail of something wet and red and sticky, like an enormous crimson slug, a great vile clot of blood.

By the time it steps, or perhaps flows, into the shade of the oleanders, out of the sun, it appears quite black. It lies like a spill of ink, or perhaps oil, across the fine soft grass and little wild flowers, faint Stygian blues and greens gleaming in its depths, with its long train still glistening redly behind it; and it stares, eyeless as a skull, up at the house.

(Journeys end in lovers meeting, Eleanor; journeys end in lovers meeting.)

And, from the watchful eyes of the dormer windows, that which gazes eyelessly back recognises kin.

Henry is already sitting up in bed when Jill stirs awake.

“I was dreaming,” he says, and then stops, staring at the narrow silver bar of moonlight cast against the wall. “My mother. It’s been years -”

He falls silent, again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last. “I don’t blame you. I mean - I don’t mean to blame you. I know it’s not your fault, I only...” He stops, and gestures helplessly, as though he has run out of words. As though there are no more words left to say what must be said.

Jill wriggles her way up in the bed and leans her head against his shoulder. Henry puts his arm around her, and Jill pulls the blankets up around them. The weather must be turning, she thinks, pressing up against his side, seeking warmth as much as comfort. There’s a chill in the air, like the wind off a high glacier, biting at her bare face.

She isn’t sure, at first, if Henry has heard it as well. But then he goes stiff beside her, his staring eyes fixing on the door.

Beyond it, from down the hall, from the direction of the nursery, quite clearly, comes a pitiful, reedy cry, high and thin, like an infant far too young.

You and I, Eleanor. We are caretakers. We have always put the needs of others above our own desires. And has that not brought us our desires, in the end? Your small, earned measure of happiness?

Do you dare to seize that happiness, Eleanor? Do you even know it when it stands before you? Have you always been so ashamed even to know, to name, what it is you desire?

We, who have dwelt so long in darkness, have no use for such human things as shame.

You called me here, Eleanor. You.

10.

The house, never friendly, grows colder and colder around them. Jill takes to wearing large sweaters and thick socks. Henry turns the heat up and up. His lips thin into a firm line when Jill suggests a fire in the fireplace. She does not suggest it again.

Something thumps against the walls, always in the night, always waking them both from sound sleep. Henry says, firmly, that it must be the oleander branches, muses that perhaps they should not have built so close to the windbreak, after all.

There is a sound, like a woman softly sobbing, or perhaps singing, or perhaps screaming, that seems to leak down the stairs when both Jill and Henry are below. A fox, Jill was certain, at first. But she could not explain why it seemed to come from inside the house.

(The few times they’ve gone looking for it, it’s come from behind different closed doors. Jill’s never gathered the courage to open one. The time Henry did, there was nothing behind it but the pastel wallpaper they’d picked out for the nursery, and the rocking chair by the window slowly rocking to a halt.)

And then there are the things that only one of them see. Henry comes flying up out of the basement one evening, swearing that blood is coming up through the floor in the shape of human footprints, but when Jill goes down the concrete floor is clean and bare and dry. Jill runs herself a bath on another evening and screams when blood, not water, flows from the tap, but when Henry comes running the water is clear, if a little yellowed from the iron in the ground.

Henry slips into bed with icy feet one night, long after Jill had thought he’d been in bed already, swearing about a dog, it must have been a dog, he’d had to chase out of the yard. Jill wakes from a doze in the rocker in the nursery and sees, out the dormer window, away down by the stream, a small family in old-fashioned clothes, with a red picnic blanket spread out underneath them and a puppy or small dog racing excitedly around them, a bright red ball in its mouth. She thinks nothing of it, until she blinks, and they’re no longer there.

Moths keep getting into the house, somehow. They’re multiplying; there are three new ones for every one Henry kills, for every one Jill traps and throws outside. Their powdery wings rustle in the darkness of the bedroom almost exactly like someone in a heavy, old-fashioned dress circling around and around the room.

The cries come every night.

11.

Eleanor Vance had been her mother's caretaker, towards the end of the old woman's life.

You killed her, Eleanor. You know you did. As surely as though you had laid your hands upon a knife. You heard her stick tapping, thumping, against the wall. You heard her cries for help. And you. Eleanor. The good daughter, the dutiful daughter, the pious daughter.

You turned right over, and you went back to sleep.

Lady Lucille Sharpe stove her mother's head in with a cleaver.

Ah. Never the good daughter. Dutiful, perhaps. But never pious.

Do you know, Eleanor, what drives a woman to kill her own mother?

Oh. Yes. Of course you do.

12.

The moon is pouring silver through the window when Jill wakes, her fingers numb, her bones solid with ice. With nerveless hands, she pushes the covers aside.

The floorboards are like ice beneath her feet, and with each step, she can feel them sink slightly. Can hear the faintest sound, like something sucking at the boards from beneath. Like something oozing up between them.

She hesitates in front of the door, aware somewhere in the frozen cage of her brain that she is afraid to open it, afraid to reach out and turn the antique crystal knob she remembers picking out with such joy, such hope. It doesn’t feel like the kind of fear she always thought she’d feel. It just feels as though her mind is there, whole and intact, perfectly rational and calm, while terror goes on all around her.

Jill reaches out and turns the knob, opens the door, steps out into the hall towards the sound of an infant’s laboured cries.

The hall is all black, except where the moonlight lays a silver path down the middle, leading to the gaping black hole of a door that leads into the nursery where no living child has ever slept. Jill watches her own bare feet as she walks, all strange and white and almost glowing, hardly feeling her own legs move. Her arms are wrapped around her, her fingers digging into the flesh of her arms, but she barely feels that either. She becomes dimly aware, as she proceeds down the hall towards the void-black square of the nursery door, that she is shivering. She becomes dimly aware, as she proceeds down the hall towards the void-black square of the nursery door, that the single window that looks onto the hall should not admit enough moonlight to illuminate the entire path from her door to the nursery.

The dark door rises up before her, and swallows her whole.

13.

She is all hard and armoured, like a glittering beetle, and she dislikes to be seen.

In the sweeping train of her old-fashioned dress, though; in the thickly-oozing red stain that leaches slowly up through the floor where she stands; in the hollow gaze of her empty sockets, like high, darkened windows; she carries with her the sorrows and memories and longings of multitudes. Every one who ever died at her hand bleeds out around her; sometimes she is enrobed in crimson, sometimes powdered in white. She carries with her every lost one she has ever loved - or hated - or both. She herself is a haunted house.

She dislikes to be seen. Because it is impossible, on seeing her, not to know at once what deepest desires drip from her raw and bloody heart.

It is impossible, on seeing her, not to notice the helpless, twisted red bundle she cradles so gently in her arms.

(Those hands that pressed poison on helpless, trapped girls, those arms that bore lifeless bodies down into bleeding clay earth. Why not leave? Why not escape, once freedom was won? Why remain in a trap, why prolong the horror?)

Why go on to Hill House at all? Why not simply stop, and live some enchanted life in a little cottage with a blue door and a white cat on the step?

Lady Lucille Sharpe had been her mother's caretaker, towards the end of the old woman's life. Eleanor Vance stove her mother's head in with a cleaver.

They neither of them are here, in the little cottage with its hinges creaking in doorless chambers and its singing stairs and its bad angles to confound the eye and inner ear. And both of them are here, and their mothers besides, and the man they'd thought they'd loved and burned to see with another woman (do you know how the scent of burning follows you, Eleanor, do you see how you shed ash), and the woman they'd never admitted to themselves that they'd wanted and the daughter, the daughter, the poor lost traitorous wicked daughter they'd loved...

The horror...the horror was for love. Because freedom without love is no freedom at all.

14.

Henry wakes to Jill’s softly cuddling up beside him, curling close against him in a way she hadn’t done in a long time, since before the house was finished, since before she began clinging to him again in fear. He turns, to see her smiling, a smile, as well, that he had almost forgotten she could wear.

“Jill?” he asks, and that smile grows wider.

“Henry,” she says, with a little sigh, and puts her arms around him, her head on his bare chest. “I’m ready.”

“You - but -” The moonlight spills over her hair, turning it to a shining halo, softening the sharp angles of her face and blurring the fine worry lines that had started to gather around her mouth and her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Jill repeats, her voice almost dreamlike. “I want to try again.”

15.

There are things that tie them to a place...an emotion, a drive. Loss, revenge...or love.

Some houses are born bad. Some houses are no sooner built than shadows, flying in from elsewhere, take root in their walls.

The nameless house in its cage of oleanders was not perhaps born bad, but had badness thrust upon it. A box stuffed to bursting with pasts and sorrows not its own, with a restless longing that none who dwelt there had ever been able to fulfill.

But whatever walks there, no longer walks alone.

#the haunting of hill house #crimson peak #this is mary's fic tag #happy halloween folks #i read an interview with shirley jackson somewhere where she talked about hill house being based on a real house and how it burned down #(arson was suspected)#don't know how true that all is but do know it makes for a good story

42 notes · View notes

leexjun-blog · 7 years ago

Text

--arango: final act

october 20th, 2017 ° 09h05 local time ° cairo, egypt

the knight strides out of the airport hotel clad in one of the finest suits. lifting a hand, he runs it through his hair, then puts on his shades. the sun is already warm despite the early hour, so he knows he’s going to have to be inside before it reaches its hottest point a little after noon.

after landing and getting through security, he’d spent some time asking the workers at the shops and restaurants if they’d seen miss arango - with use of a picture - but none of them remembered. the entire rest of the night he’d spent in the lobby of the hotel next to the airport. he’d double checked all the names he’d found out, as well as every other piece of information he’d acquired. he’d triple checked every outgoing flight from cairo on the date maria eva angaro should have arrived there, but there were simply too many to figure out where she would have gone.

all there is left for the knight to do is look for clues in the city itself. a meagre chance, but he can’t leave without trying. so he pulls his suit better around himself and puts himself into motion.

october 19th, 2017 ° 03h10 local time ° new york city, united states

a girl in a pastel yellow dress moves from the gate of arrival over to the gate of departure. there’s an entire stream of people coming from the plane who are headed the same way. all people trying to get to cairo from mexico city, apparently. she looks up only shortly when someone nearly bumps into her. quick apologies are exchanged and she gives a slight nod of her head before looking back at the floor and continuing on her way. nobody notices the phone she pockets after her near-collision. but they can’t be blamed. it’s late. everyone is tired.

october 20th, 2017 ° 20h13 local time ° cairo, egypt

with a grunt of frustration, the tall man throws the car door closed and paces a few steps away from it. he brings his hands up to his head and rubs his temples. he’s pretty sure being awake for near to forty-eight hours is the cause for his annoyance being so easily sparked, but there’s little he can do about that right now. there’s little he can do about anything, apparently.

all of his investigations have proven useless. no one in the damn city has ever even heard of maria eva arango and he can’t trace a single place here back to her. which means she probably really only had a layover in cairo and merely stayed in the airport. nobody there of course remembers her; there’s too many people passing through these airports on a regular basis to remember a single woman, he knows that. he also knows that that means the best he can do right now is go back home.

perhaps the seoul headquarters have managed to scramble up on their feet again. perhaps there now will be someone there capable enough of helping him. he figures he should probably also let people know where he’s been for the past five days. so, gawain turns on his heels and walks back to the car so he can drive himself to the airport and catch a flight back home.

october 21st, 2017 ° 02h55 local time ° above cairo, egypt

a girl in a red cocktail dress has taken up the window seat right behind the emergency exit. her eyes are skimming the lines of a page with both english and korean writing on it. there are markings made by a red pen and sticky notes all over the papers in her hand. the girl eventually sighs and pulls out her personal computer to put it on her lap. the young man in the aisle seat to her left is engrossed in whatever movie he decided to play during the flight.

the girl straightens up a little as her fingers start skittering over the keyboard. soon words and sentences appear on the screen, entirely in korean. she details the inconsistenties found, mentions that the arango estate never had any explosions happen but merely caught fire. adds in the fact that miss arango was not even at the mansion when it happened. she details all the information she’s gathered on the staff working at the mansion at the time of the fire.

after several long hours, it feels like her fingers are going to fall off and her neck is burning, but she’s not yet finished. the girl heaves a deep sigh and momentarily closes her eyes anyway.

october 21st, 2017 ° 23h55 local time ° incheon, south korea

a voice dictating the present time and weather conditions in the city of arrival wakes gawain from a deep and necessary sleep. with a soft grumble, he straightens a little better. his gaze instantly falls on the computer still settled on his lap and he lets out another grunt as he shuts it down and shoves it back into his bag. running his hands over the hem of the red cocktail dress, he thinks of how he’s going to have to finish his report during the car ride home. a tired sigh leaves him almost instantly at the thought.

fucking paperwork.

#;present #:solo #s:arango #kg: inferno #kg: inferno2 #(( october 20th at 20h13 is exactly when i finished writing this piece #(( both of us were so done lol #tw: crossdressing #(( as always

1 note · View note

cuddleswithphan · 8 years ago

Text

Underwear - Phanfic (Smut)

Phil stared at the tweet, his mouth slightly agape.

As someone who doesn't go outside or open the curtains 'spring' is just the time when it gets warm enough to walk around in my underwear.

After being in a relationship with Dan for eight years, Phil had never seen such a bold statement on his twitter, and about underwear of all things. Would he really be walking about their flat in nothing but his boxers? That didn’t seem very in character of him. Dan was the type of guy who sometimes kept his shirt on during sex. Phil didn’t mind that, of course. It was his own body. The only issue was that sometimes, things get caught in the fabric. “Babe?” Phil heard his lover’s voice from the lounge. “Yeah?” “Have you seen my MacBook charger?” Dan appeared in the doorway to Phil’s bedroom.

Oh. My. God.

Phil suddenly found it difficult to respond as Dan appeared in nothing but a baggy white T-shirt and a pair of boxers. He cleared his throat in an attempt to speak, but the words he attempted came out as gibberish. “Um. I uh, no. Maybe. I dunno.” The younger man raised an eyebrow, smiling playfully. “Are you okay?” Phil laughed awkwardly. “What? Yeah. I’m fine.” He tried to get back on the subject of the missing MacBook charger, looking around his room for a deserted cord. “Uhh…” He continued to glance around the room in a fake search for the charger, but in reality, all he could think of was those boxers hanging around Dan’s waist. “I dunno, bear. I don’t see it.” Dan shrugged. “Okay.” He began to walk away from the doorway when Phil finally found his voice. “Are you going to be walking around like that all day?” “Yeah. I mean, we’re not going anywhere today right?” “No.” Phil muttered. There was an awkward pause. “Oh.” Dan laughed. “You must have seen my tweet.” The older man nodded. “Yeah.” “Don’t worry, Phil. This isn’t going to be a normal thing.”

As Dan walked off to continue searching for his charger, Phil stared down at his blue and green duvet and smirked. Two can play at that game. If Dan was going to annoy him by wearing boxers all day, then he can annoy Dan in some way. He didn’t want to copy Dan, because then it would be obvious, but there had to be something else that gets him going. He glanced up at the tall mirror beside his bureau and looked himself over. Of course. Dan loves it when my hair is in a quiff.

Normally, his magical quiff sort of appeared without his hands purposely shaping it. This was an unusual circumstance however, in which it was more of a necessity than a desire. Phil was going to get his hair up if it was the last thing he did. He padded quietly across the flat into the bathroom, standing beside the mirror and picking up a bottle of hairspray. He ran his fingers through his deep black locks, moving every strand he could into that beautiful yet rare shape. “Found it!” He heard Dan call, and he figured now was the perfect time to show his revenge.

“Where was it?” He called back, following the voice he heard. He soon stood in the entranceway to Dan’s room. As he took in his surroundings, his breath hitched. His boyfriend was bent over his desk, reaching behind it to unplug the missing cord. His ass is right there, Phil thought to himself. He could see the outline of both cheeks sticking out from underneath the silk fabric, or maybe it was just his imagination. After a seemingly infinite moment, Dan finally got up and turned towards him. “What did you do with your hair?” Phil shrugged. “Dunno. I was in the mood for a quiff.” He could feel his face going a light shade of pink as he realized he’d been caught staring at Dan’s ass.

Both boys stood there and stared at each other, unsure of the other’s next move. “Your hair looks really good.” Dan whispered. “So does your ass.” The other replied, almost as if he was joking and not joking at the same time. They both chuckled before another few moments of silence passed. Phil scanned Dan’s body. His curls were perfect and still damp from his shower earlier that morning. He wasn’t sure if it was the lighting, but Phil swore he could still make out a faint circle on Dan’s neck from where a hickey had formed a few nights ago. Goosebumps formed on his arms as he remembered the sound Dan made the moment he left that hickey. He wanted so desperately to reach underneath that white T-shirt and pull it right off of him.

Before Phil could register what was happening, Dan had dropped the charger on the ground and walked swiftly towards him. Their lips collided, mouths moving together in perfect synchronization. Dan instantly melted into Phil’s embrace as Phil placed a hand on the other’s lower back, holding him in place. The kisses continued to become more frantic and more passionate as Dan let out a soft, muffled moan. “Please tell me you’re going to let us continue this.” Phil muttered, a sense of desperation laced in his words. “Absolutely.” Dan breathed in between another sigh. That was all that was needed to add fuel to a growing flame.

Phil decided that he needed to take control, wrapping his fingers around the end of Dan’s shirt. The younger man was way ahead of him though, as he pushed his fingers away and took off the loose white fabric himself. The older man began to press kisses down the length of Dan’s neck, eliciting quiet groans from the other. Phil searched briefly for an empty space in Dan’s room, and once he found his target, he pushed both of them against the wall, pinning Dan’s hands to the smooth white surface with his own. He continued to press kisses to his lover’s neck, encouraged by a soft “Phil…” that was barely audible but still recognizable. He hadn’t realized that he was still fully clothed until Dan’s fingers started to undo the buttons on his pastel green shirt. He also hadn’t realized he’d even let go of Dan’s hands. Everything was moving so quickly, and it all felt so good.

Phil was startled by the sudden movement as Dan pushed himself off the wall and moved them both towards his bed, pushing the green material from Phil’s shoulders simultaneously. Dan allowed himself to fall onto the mattress, pulling his lover down on top of him. More frantic kisses ensued, and this time Phil caught himself groaning. He’s not going to lie, he loves it when Dan becomes this passionate and needy. They stopped kissing to catch their breath as Dan worked on getting Phil’s jeans and boxers off before taking off his own.

With both of them now fully exposed to the other, Phil scanned his lover’s body up and down as a smirk grew on his face. “What?” Dan questioned, his voice breathy and impatient. “Nothing. It’s just sometimes I forget how lucky I am.” Rolling his eyes and grinning, the younger man pulled him close, grabbing hold of his face and kissing him. “Stop being so sappy, you nerd. This was getting passionate, and then you just…” His voice trailed off as he found himself becoming mesmerized by Phil’s blue-green orbs once again. Phil swung his leg over Dan’s waist, straddling him while continuing the kisses and beginning to gyrate slowly. The friction caused both of them to groan, and the groans made them want more. Chills ran up Dan’s spine when he heard the other curse his name, as curses are not normally part of Phil’s vocabulary.

They continue to go through the motions for a while, both cursing each other’s names. Once he assured that Dan was in the place he should be and wanted to be, Phil grabbed the bottle of cherry lube from the bedside drawer and put some on his finger, placing it in Dan's entrance. Dan let out a deep moan as Phil continued to stretch him. “Fuck, Phil.” Dan hissed. It wasn’t long before they decided that they were done with the teasing. After assuring that they were both in a good position, Phil slowly pushed into Dan’s entrance. Dan gasped at the contact, allowing his hips to buck upwards. Continuing the rhythmic movement, Phil bent down and kissed Dan’s neck, eliciting high pitched cries from the younger man. “I love it when you melt under me…” He whispered, pressing his lips against the other’s soft skin and leaving a bright red mark.

“C-close.” Dan moaned, and Phil could tell. It had gotten to a point where they could hardly contain pants and sighs, sweat forming across their bodies. Dan began to shiver slightly until he let out a loud cry, finally allowed release. Phil followed soon after, collapsing with exhaustion on top of his lover. He closed his eyes, listening to their uneven breathing and the new silence that was filling the room. He reached for Dan’s hand, clasping it gently. “Hey, Dan?” “Hmm?” “I love you, but don’t ever tease me like that again. Especially on twitter where everyone can see.” The younger man chuckled as sleep threatened to overtake their bodies.

“Glad you caught on, love.”

#dan and phil #dan x phil #dan howell #phil lester #phan #phanfic #phan smut #cuddleswithphan fics

361 notes · View notes

sleepylop · 6 years ago

Text

Fairytale Getaway (Of Cherry Skies and Sour Apples)

His tongue is a slab of rotting pulp. That same mutant sugar embeds itself into each outcoming word. This, at the very least, explains the unconditional notes of fermenting orange in his breath. Or, maybe, it’s just the rejection of oral hygiene. He’s not exactly keen toward mouthwash.

The reality is, I’ve grown up knowing that someday, whenever I was to skim the surface of womanhood, I’d be married off. I’ve spent just as long with intrusive thoughts, silently begging for a tolerable husband. Most suitors have met this low-bar threshold. Elric Bliss, however, has fallen fatally short. So short, in fact, that each time he over-enunciates his “t” sound, I now have to restrain myself from wringing his skinny neck—every movement he makes seems to aggravate me further.

Elric is also the sole candidate to earn my mother’s approval. Read: He was the only man of royal blood to proposition me. Royal blood so thick, that clearly, it’s congealing inside his skull. No person with such a self-important worldview could ever be in full control of his brain function.

Nonetheless, as a fairytale protagonist, I’ve found ways to hold onto hope. Although, there will always be something morale-gnawing about having such flimsy control over your own destiny. Which daydream-tier tropes will consume the remainder of my life? Is my unwilling existence only satire? Or, possibly, I’m only the victim of some sort of macabre snuff fantasy. Soon enough, I’m certain that this smog will clear, and I’ll meet my fate. After all, my story doesn’t truly begin until I’m forcibly thrust into my first prince-aligned chronicle of drama—please, disregard Elric’s lack of literal princehood. It’s not as if my mother can tell the difference, either.

“You know, my dearest Connie, I look forward to boiling alive the flesh of any man who dares interfere with our union. Ha! I’m hilarious, aren’t I? Please, dearest Connie, tell me that I’m the unmatched master of relatable comedy.” Elric spits each word like a spongy bullet, squeezing out from between chipped teeth and settling into my lap. Soon enough, my own vomit is likely to take their place.

His muddy eyes are glazed over and look as if they’d be as malleable as flan. On that note, I could certainly benefit from some midday dessert, right now. Maybe just some freshly-picked fruit.

I roll the tulle of my dress between my fingertips, shrugging from across the table. “Well, of course. Clearly, you’re a very relatable person, with in-touch life experience. How else would you be able to channel the thoughts of a common person so accurately? Anyway, could I have a sip of your gin?” I ask in my most milk chocolate-drenched voice, slowly beginning to snake my arm across the tabletop.

Elric contorts his face in disgust. “You may not be familiar yet, but distinguished ladies keep away from alcoholic drinks,” he says, curling his fingers around his glass, lightly sloshing the liquid. “Soon enough, I’m sure you’ll be able to unlearn such savage habits. No need to worry.”

Then, following a beat of heavy silence, “It should still be some time until our meal is finished being prepared,” I say. “Would you mind if I step out, privately, for a minute? I just need to stretch my legs. I’ve been sitting here for quite a long time.” It feels like it’s been decades.

“Do you not want me to join you?” Elric questions as we continue to hold eye-contact, the suspense nearly visible between us.

I force a taut smile, the strawberry tone of my lips turning pale from the tension. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to burden you. I’ll only be a moment.”

I begin to stand as Elric scoffs. “Fine,” he says, before snorting. “Please, be back soon. I’m sure our food will arrive from the kitchen soon enough.”

I scuttle toward the door, the tapping of my heels echoing off the dining room walls. Those same vinyl heels are abandoned shortly thereafter, as I begin to jog down the hallway.

Sun-faded portraits track me with their eyes.

The air of this estate is slowly poisoning me—as is the heir.

II.

Just beyond the manicured gardens, at the point where weeds are spared and allowed to curl up from the dirt, I slow from a gallop to a trudge. I finally attempt to catch my breath.

Faded cherry skies are hanging above and around me, gelatinous, and infused almost comically with specks of glitter. The clouds swirl like the mouths of paralyzed tornadoes. There’s a faintly nutty scent in the air, mingling with the much more potent smell of soil and artificial berries.

What an incredibly ordinary, mundane day.

Shortly off the edge of the property, I come to a halt. Clusters upon clusters of trees stare down at me, scrutinizing me, bone by bone. What would a royal estate be without a forbidden forest, conveniently placed nearby?

A lopsided sign, its wood beginning to grow fungus and moss, offers a message:

“Warning!

Forbidden forest! Very forbidden! Boo!

Do not enter, Connie!”

My shoulders tense ever-so-slightly as I drift past.

The sky above me seems to darken under the canopy of rich greens and browns. Beneath my bare feet, the ground begins to resemble crusted-over custard. The sounds of chirping and squawking and intermittent crunching drown out my thoughts.

So, it seems, this is where I’m meant to be. Cool.

I begin to hum softly, matching the tempo of my movement.

Finally, I can breathe again.

III.

My feet are stained nearly ink-black by the time I see it. Meanwhile, the burning in the back of my calves is nagging me like a frustrated toddler.

A pastel-toned cottage sits under darkness. The roof and walls are sloped, curving into the shape of a colossal mushroom. I can only vaguely distinguish the shades of candied orange and petal pink from one another. A single door and slit-like window sit on the surface.

Well, that looks wonderfully suspicious and likely sinister. Perfect. Clearly, I’m right where I’m meant to be.

I rap twice on the door, which appears tall enough to accommodate a bipedal horse.

After a minute or so, when the cocoon of darkness is just beginning to weigh down on me, the door begins to inch open. A soft, orange glow creeps into the forest, along with a waft of burning sage.

A pair of seemingly backlit eyes rapidly dim as they meet my own.

Dressed entirely in black velvet, a sheet-pale woman looms above me. Her wide-brimmed hat comes up to a perfectly crisp point. While pursing her already thin lips, a boney, lithe hand reaches into her pocket. As she turns her nose downward, its sharp hook becomes all-the-more visible.

Meanwhile, the generic woodland backtrack seems to reach its end.

I stay still and quiet.

The harsh-angled woman pulls out a single piece of fruit, before holding it out toward me. Her razorblade nails dig into the flesh of an otherwise flawless apple, juice beginning to trail down her fingers.

“I assume you came for this?” she asks, her voice like soured honey.

“Did I? Oh. That makes sense,” I mutter, pulling the fruit from her grip. “Thanks.”

With only the lightest hesitation, I close my eyes, and push my teeth into the offering.

Her lips twist into a smile.

“Enjoy,” she whispers, voice practically dissolving into the space between us.

IV. Epilogue.

Nearly a year has passed since Gardenia and I first met. Since then, her dedication to her orchard has only deepened, as I have continued to support and encourage her agricultural hobbies. The quality of her product has also improved, now notably less sour, in contrast with that first sample she’d gifted me. I no longer taste her pickings at the front doorway. Rather, I often find myself enjoying at least a pair of freshly harvested apples, sitting by Gardenia at the dining room table. The thick scent of baking pie blankets us both.

Spread across the surrounding walls, there sits several clusters of wildflowers; which, are enchanted so as to cling, mummified in shades of spell-enhanced neon, to the darkwood. Gardenia is thumbing through her newest bread-focused recipe-book, sucking on the inside of her cheek as she jots another note in the margin. She’s absolutely beautiful like this. So entrenched in her passions, her moss-green eyes glowing—quite literally. Gardenia is a magical being with magical quirks, after all.

“Oh, wow, I have to try this out… sometime soon,” she says, pointing a sharp nail at the surface of the page, beside a grey-toned illustration of a dinner roll. “I’m not sure I’ve ever thought to add vanilla to this sort of mixture, before. Hm.”

As it turns out, settling into a domestic relationship with a witch comes with a wonderful bonus: It’s much simpler to hide from your family’s periodic search-parties. Of course, it isn’t as if I’d need that particular perk to keep me willingly tethered here.

I’d never planned to fall in love—rather, I’d begun to wilfully grapple against the notion—but I’m grateful to be in the position that I am, now.

After all, I’d choose my dearest Gardenia over all else, anyone, anyday.

Particularly over Elric Bliss.

#writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #amwriting #oh no hayley is writing #and lastly here is some hot garbage!#this is generally what happens whenever I try to write something cutesy sdlkhofgkkgf #albeit very tongue-in-cheek #anywayy this was written for a workshop #it was the very end of the semester and idk what I was thinking ;u;#happy pride month maybe? ^_^;;

0 notes

jeremystrele · 6 years ago

Text

Bohemian Style Home Decor: Accessories, Images And Tips To Help You Decorate

Bohemian style home decor has such a cool laid back vibe. At first glance the look seems to have an anything goes kinda feel. However, if you’ve ever tried just throwing random bits and pieces into a room, you will know that it’s not quite that simple to achieve a chilled earthy eclectic aesthetic. To help you get into your boho groove, we’ve pulled together this trio of Bohemian style home interiors that are filled with all of the types of accessories that will set the right tone. We also take a look at how to layer up elements to dress modern sofas and cosy beds, plus how to arrange beautiful gallery walls and interesting shelf displays.

Visualizer: Puzzle Studio Our first bohemian style home interior has a beautiful colour base of pink and coral, interspersed with wooden wall decor and wood grain accent furniture. A good dose of rattan elements make an appearance too, alongside a peppering of indoor plants.

The wooden wall art is hung alongside a butterfly print. The two pieces of art share an affinity in shape, with the wooden piece featuring strips placed in an abstract butterfly arrangement. The display provides an attractive backdrop behind an L-shaped pastel pink sofa in the lounge area, which is dressed with a comfy collection of mismatched bohemian cushions.

A rattan coffee table looks light and airy in the centre of the lounge, on top of a tasselled area rug. A wooden media unit supports a little display of personal belongings beneath the tv, which gives the room a homey feel – a display like this can be tricky to achieve without simply cluttering the space. Here, a few favourite books stand tall at one end, with a framed print and decorative letter balancing out the height at the other side; a landscape frame bridges the middle of the shelf display, with only a few smaller elements creating layering at the front.

A cane swing chair is suspended in front of the window in the bedroom, made inviting with the addition of a warm throw and a soft cushion.

The bed is a deeply layered affair, which can be achieved by placing a casually crumpled throw across a pastel duvet cover, and a plethora of patterned scatter cushions. Limit to cushion fabrics to the palette of the room to achieve a cohesive look.

Note how the statement vanity mirror complements the stunning tile pattern inside the shower cubicle.

Photographer: Eugene Deshko Boho home number two is a wide open airy space, with a grey and white base.

Colourful cushions bring new hues to a neutral sofa. The chosen accent shade is emphasised with matching candle holders/decorative vases and beautiful rug.

Whitewashed wooden ceiling beams span this room, which makes the large space feel cosier beneath its containment. Natural wood nesting coffee tables have tabletops cut straight from the tree trunk.

Rope shelves and rattan baskets tie in with the natural vibe.

Vibrant cushions dress pieces of grey sectional sofa in the kitchen, which sit at a small wooden table by the window.

The formal dining area is furnished with a wooden dining set.

A low hanging rattan pendant shade helps visually anchor the dining area to its spot in the spacious open plan. The hems of grey window drapes casually gather at the wooden floor.

Rustic charm is bestowed upon a simple pale wood and white kitchen with a brick feature wall.

The same whitewashed brick effect features on the chimney breast in the lounge to provide continuity. Typographic ornaments spell out ‘dream’, ‘smile’ and ‘relax’ down one side of the fireplace, whilst perfect lines of baskets, vases and greenery create controlled interest on the other side.

A wooden fruit bowl makes a quiet centrepiece on the wooden dining table.

Rattan baskets on open shelves warm the look of the pale kitchen design.

A small rag rug adds cheerful colour to the floor.

The bedroom is a rather minimalist affair to aid relaxation.

A swing arm wall lamp matches the dark bed cover.

Made to measure cabinets form a smooth closet and dressing table ensemble.

A matching unit sits opposite the foot of the bed.

The wood desk chair is the same design as the dining chairs – making it easy to seat one person extra at dinner.

Rattan storage baskets organise bits and bobs.

Living greenery brings in fresh colour.

A teal decorative vase dresses the low storage unit.

Wood and grey bathroom decor creates a clean look.

Flowerheads disguise a reed diffuser.

Visualizer: Alexandra Macevich Lastly, pink & green furniture lift the look of a natural brown and grey living room.

The pink and green interior design is eye-catching, though there is a softness to it too, thanks to fuzzy fabrics and smoothed off edges. A pretty area rug, a large traditional gold framed mirror and an abundance of mature indoor plants bring in the bohemian feel.

The lounge falls into the background of a modern kitchen diner.

Flourishing indoor plants are dotted around the culinary space. The greenery works well with blue kitchen diner accessories and a royal blue accent chair.

Gold stemmed bedroom pendant lights dangle at different lengths, against gorgeous green wallpaper with a leaf motif.

A plush green ottoman and headboard exaggerate the green bedroom decor theme.

A gold tray table serves the bedside.

Bold blue and white geo pattern tiles make a statement in the bathroom.

A gold faucet shines against the striking backdrop.

1. Bohemian style wall mirror 2. Boho style rug 3. String lights 4. Mandala wall art 5. Hanging chair 6. Wooden wall art 7. Hanging planter pendant 8. Boho style duvet cover 9. Boho style pendant shade

Recommended Reading: Two Nature Loving Boho Interiors

Two Nature Loving Boho Interiors

Using Muted Colours and Shapes As Scandi Style Decor

5 Fresh & Funky Scandinavian Style Home Interiors

2 Modern Interiors With Rich Blue Decor Ideas

3 Homes That Show Off the Beauty In Simplicity Of Modern Scandinavian Design

2 Rustic Interiors With A Cool Nomadic Style

0 notes

drewebowden66 · 6 years ago