#Small Antique Rug

[chloesomeone]

Miami Enclosed Living Room

[redflagshipwriter]

Nest Swap ch 1

Little Tim wakes up in big Tim's apartment.

The idea came from this chain started by @ew-selfish-art and the contribution by @faeriekit

(repost of something that's currently just in a reblog chain)

His first observation was that this wasn't his house.

Tim was new to detecting, but he thought that was a pretty dang salient observation.

He didn't actually remember going to sleep. It didn't feel like he woke up here, either. He just suddenly noticed he was sitting somewhere he'd never been in his whole 9 years of life.

Very weird! Pretty neat, though.

Tim prowled around in his socked feet in total silence, investigating by the little light that came in through mostly shut curtains. He wasn't in his own clothes, which was kind of scary. He had to keep hiking up his sweatpants to keep them on, and he rolled down his socks three times to tighten them up. At least the floors didn't creak at all, even when he stepped on the dark wood panels in between dark red rugs. It made him feel more secure to move around quietly.

He was in an apartment that seemed relatively expensive but new, no antiques or family heirlooms. It was an open plan, with floating stairs and a white sofa. It was also sterile, as if no one really lived in it. It was clean in the same un-lived in way his house was. Someone professionally cleaned this apartment. 

Tim was really, really careful not to make any mess. 

Theory one: he had been kidnapped. It seemed pretty sound. He went to bed at home, and he woke up sitting on a strange sofa. Danger alarms were going off.

He looked around for a house phone to call for help. There was none. Troubling. 

On the other hand, Tim opened the apartment door to the hallway and stuck his head out. He could see sunlight coming in through the huge lobby windows.

…Okay. He was going to consider that a viable escape route. He glanced at the side of the door where there was a pair of shoes. They were big but he could probably use them in a pinch.

So. He could just walk out at any time. He frowned. That wasn't very good kidnapping practice. He would plan a much better restraint system. Like, a rope would be a good place to start, or maybe breaking the little bones in his feet? 

“This is so disappointing,” Tim muttered to himself. “I'm not even being ransomed?” 

Just… Some effort would be nice.

Hmm. He didn't want to believe anyone that incompetent had managed to transport him into Gotham proper from Bristol while he slept. So. Tim formally recategorized his kidnapping theory to a  suspected no. 

It was undeniable that he'd been moved in his sleep, which was pretty classic. But the counter evidence? The new location looked pretty easy to escape, if he was willing to get his socks dirty outside. 

Conclusion: This probably wasn't a conventional kidnapping. What else was there?

Theory two: he hit his head or fell asleep while he was out birdwatching, and some good person took them into their house to keep him safe.

That neatly explained why he was in the actual city. Tim ran his fingers through his hair looking for a bump. He wasn't sure if he found one or not. Maybe his head was just kind of oddly shaped. Troubling. Maybe he should go to the doctor about that. 

It would have been helpful information either way if there had been another human being around to talk to. 

There were signs that someone lived here. Tim poked around in the closet and in the fridge, building a mental profile for the resident.

One person lived here, and they were clearly kind of a loser because they had no photos of friends or family up. The jacket hanging by the door told Tim they were either an average sized woman or a small man. They couldn't cook at all, which was excellent because that meant there was a really great variety of ready to eat food. Tim snacked on string cheese and a can of soda while he flipped through the books on the shelves.  He pulled a couple off to check for secret compartments. Nope. Just books.

“Boring,” Tim said to himself. 

They were all books about things like business and management. It was the type of self-aggrandizing garbage that his parents made fun of: memoirs that you knew damn well that person hadn't written, manifestos on the virtues of hard work from someone born into the financial elite, and how-to's directed at an audience who had no personal shame.

Momentarily, he entertained the fantasy that he had been kidnapped by someone who was going to mold him into the ideal Drake Industries CEO, someone who wouldn't jet off across the world to follow a passion. The suspects were the entire board of directors. 

Kidnapped theory redux: the Board of Directors did it. Evidence?

Tim sat down and made a chart for his thoughts, quantifying how much each person had been inconvenienced by his parents’ absence in the last fiscal year. He concluded that Mr. Morrison might hate his parents enough to do it, but the projected timeline was beyond his scope. Tim didn't think he had it in him to plan that far out.

So, the apartment owner was just a boring person. Tim made a note. Theory two was looking pretty good. The person who lived here kind of sucked at life but they were probably really nice.

Something started beeping. That was interesting. He followed it to the bedroom that he hadn't been brave enough to poke around yet. There was a weird tablet on the bedside table. He picked it up and it unlocked automatically. Wow, the security was so bad. He felt embarrassed on behalf of the absent apartment owner.

The screen showed an email from someone called Tamara Fox. 

“Tim, can you get me the numbers from the acquisition in Peru?”

He blinked at it. Was the person who lived here also named Tim? Surely she wasn't actually asking him. He looked around uncertainly. 

There was still no one else. The blinking display on the alarm clock told him that it was half past noon, and no one else was in the apartment. 

…. poor Tamara probably really needed that information, if she was asking for it in the middle of the workday. Tim sat down on the bed and started putting together context clothes to figure out what Miss Fox was talking about. Her email signature had her title at Wayne industries listed, so that was a pretty big clue. He had access to a team calendar that showed meetings and ongoing projects, which he used to narrow it down. 

When he figured it out, he sent her back an email and sat back in satisfaction. A moment later, he realized that the email account had an attached auto signature. It claimed to be Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises. 

What.

He stopped breathing and momentarily considered that he had traveled to the future and this was really his apartment, but the name was impossible. There was no way he was going to marry either one of the Waynes. Bruce and Dick were kind of old. Tim wrinkled his nose at the thought. Gross. 

So, no. He wasn't Tim Drake-Wayne. “...It must be an inside joke,” Tim decided. “It seems really unprofessional.”

Tim was a little disappointed that he wasn't the boss of everyone, but at least he wasn't in a troubling marriage with a huge age difference. He had another cheese stick about it and the feeling went away.  Ah, good. Maybe that was how Mom dealt with Drake Industries: she distracted herself until she didn't feel bad about putting it on the back burner. It was a good tactic. He'd need more cheese sticks. He made a mental note to figure out how to replace these ones.

He found a loose blanket on a side chair and tied it around his shoulders, because the apartment was pretty chilly.

The email dinged again. Tim dragged his blanket cape back into the bedroom and stared at the tablet, lost in thought.

He didn't mean to be annoying. He really didn't. He knew people hated it when you got in their stuff. But the thing was: this guy got a lot of emails. And he wasn't here to answer them, which was pretty rude of him, honestly. It seemed like his job needed him a lot. 

Maybe when he got back, he would be mad at Tim for looking at his stuff. 

On the other hand, maybe he would appreciate it. Tim told himself that it would be fine, and he manned that email account until the end of business hours at 5:00 p.m. Then he gave a luxurious stretch and went to find something interesting in the freezer that he could microwave. 

His feelings about the email account had changed, after the hours spent together. It was their mutual email account now. Tim was willing to fight about it. He was emotionally attached to that email. People asked him all sorts of questions there, and he got to answer. It was pretty fun.

The apartment looked a little friendlier in the early evening light. He crossed it again and pushed a chair up against the deep freezer so that he could root around inside.

“Omigod, lasagne!” Tim ripped the package open in his excitement. Today was the best. He liked this place. Maybe he'd get to stay there when the owner came back to look at their shared email account.

While the lasagne heated, he went back to checking for fake books on the shelf. They were all disappointments. He did finally notice that there were pets here. 

“I should feed you,” Tim told the fish, because he was really fixing this guy's life. The fish didn't pay him any attention. The microwave beeped completion, so he went back and got his lasagne. He held it in one hand and ate while he searched for fish food. When he found it, he stuck his fork in the lasagne to free up a hand and shook flakes into the water. 

A secret compartment in the floor opened up.

Tim froze. He took a step back. He looked around the apartment, as if someone was going to materialize.

“…I might as well go see,” he told himself. “They're already gonna be mad that I answered our email.”

Down he went. 

[rileyslibrary]

The Log Cabin: Hurt

Synopsis: You and Ghost are on your way towards your shared vacation in Scotland.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Notes:

This is the second part of the story. Here’s Part 1 if you’re interested.

Hurt/comfort.

Render by @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot.

No warnings. Lots of emotions towards the end, though.

———————————————————————

“You sure?” You ask as you approach a red light.

Ghost closes his eyes and leans back in his seat. He lets out a long and loud sigh behind his mask.

“This is the fifth time you’ve asked if I’m sure,” he protests. “Ask me again, and I will throw you out of the bloody car.”

He won’t do it. He used the exact same threat when you voiced your concerns the third time. You understand him, though; you’re not even on the highway yet, and you’ve been bugging him with your insecurities.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper and lower your head to the water bottle you’ve secured between your thighs.

He turns to look at you, then shifts his focus back to the road as the traffic light turns orange.

“I don’t do charity work when it comes to vacations,” he reassures you and changes gears. “I’m absolutely certain of my decision.”

You drive through the city streets, trying to reach the highway. You look out the car’s window; there are curious glances directed at you from the outside. People look alarmed, old ladies clutch their purses tighter, and fathers hold their children closer.

You can’t blame them; they’re looking at two masked figures in a car filled with tools and gear in the backseats.

“We look like we’re about to rob a bank, don’t you think?” You ask, concerned, as you observe a woman ushering her son into a store upon spotting you.

“Don’t take it off yet,” he warns you. “Wait till we get to the highway.”

He’s right. His face is unknown in the city, whereas yours is, and any identification could link him to you. That’s why he handed you a plain black balaclava before you left the base, ensuring your mutual anonymity. It’s a small city, after all.

“What if we get stopped by the police?” you ask. “Someone might have alerted them.”

He shakes his head. “Unlikely,” he replies. “The police is familiar with me and my car. Many soldiers keep their identities concealed due to the base. Civilians aren’t accustomed to it, that’s all.”

He stops at a zebra crossing and motions with his hand at the people waiting, giving them permission to cross the road.

“Look at them,” he whispers as he watches them successfully reaching the other side of the pavement. “So eager to display their faces, like they’ve never done anything sinister in their lives.”

You look at him from the corner of your eye, wondering if his words hide a twinge of guilt or envy—a yearning for freedom, just like those civilians crossing the street. They are free to walk as they please, while he is doomed to wear a cloth on his face until he’s away from anything human.

You tug at your mask. “It’s getting quite stuffy in here; mind if I...” you say and motion towards the car’s A/C controls.

He shrugs. That’s your “go ahead” sign.

You enter the highway, and he removes his mask. He reaches into the back pocket of his seat and tugs his balaclava there. He scratches his left cheek.

You follow his lead but tuck yours into your door’s side pocket. Now that your mouth is free from obstructions, you can drink water. You open the bottle and drive it into your mouth.

“Easy with the water,” Ghost advises. “We won’t find any stops for the next three hours.”

“Three hours?!” You ask.

He nods, his eyes still fixed on the road, indifferent to your shocked reaction. He reaches into the side pocket of his door and pulls a pair of sunglasses out. He secures them on his face.

“I have never seen you with sunglasses before.” You comment.

He smirks. He looks very handsome when he does that. Not conventionally attractive, though. He has a very rugged, almost weird, to point out beauty. Like those second-hand objects you find in an antique shop; they are bizarre to look at, but you can’t shift your eyes away from them. You want to study and analyse them as closely as possible.

You stare at his profile and notice him looking back at you. He still has that smirk on his face. You divert your attention back to the road.

“Sorry.” You murmur.

He looks ahead and his smile widens.

After some time, you reach your first stop; a service station with a convenience store, and fast food joint. Ghost asks if you want to grab a bite, and you shake your head. In response, he motions towards the side of the gas station.

“Loo’s over there. I’ll refuel the car.”

You hurry to the restroom; the last thing you want is to hinder his program. You better be as fast and efficient as possible.

When you return, Ghost is already in the driver’s seat. You settle into your seat beside him, apologising for your delay. He clicks his tongue.

“You went to the restroom; no need to fret.” He says as he hands you a few snacks he bought from the convenience store.

“For me?” you ask, surprised.

“For you,” he confirms and starts up the engine. “So you don’t start whining that you’re hungry when we are in the middle of nowhere.”

The rest of the trip is beautiful. The landscape shifts profoundly, from the mundane colours of the city to the towering trees that grow denser, with hues of green more vibrant than any photo could capture. The radio plays some mainstream pop music, which doesn’t suit the scenery but makes everything less awkward between you.

Occasionally, you spot a flock of sheep and comment. Ghost doesn’t respond but shifts his gaze from the road to where you’re pointing so he can give you his full attention. He smiles every time, and you wonder whether he’s genuinely happy or just trying to act friendly. Then again, when did Ghost ever try to act friendly? He’s enjoying it as well.

You must have reached the outskirts of civilisation now since the radio has started to make white noise. He switches it off.

Silence. Awkward silence.

“Sorry.” He says, which is very ironic since he was the one who lectured you a few hours ago to stop apologising for things you can’t control. “I don’t have any CDs.”

An arrogant chuckle escapes you. You didn’t mean to come across that way, but there’s no need for CDs; although the car isn’t new, it has built-in Bluetooth. You wonder if he knows it.

“Do you mind?” You ask, showing him your phone.

He looks at it, raising an eyebrow from behind his sunglasses. He must be thinking you’re asking for permission to call someone.

You connect your phone to the car’s Bluetooth and launch Spotify. Music starts playing again. His attention alternates between the radio and your phone.

“Why don’t you look at that!” He remarks. “I knew you could do that; I just never bothered to figure out how.”

“I’ll show you later.” You reply.

“Do you take requests?”

You nod and smile. “What’s your poison, Lieutenant?”

“Johnny Cash.” He replies. “Hurt.”

You nod again, search for the song and press play. You try to enjoy the scenery, focusing on the trees and farms passing by, but Simon’s choice of song wraps around you.

“I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that’s real.”

You turn to look at him. He holds the wheel with one hand, his other resting on the car’s window. He leans against it, his face propped on his hand.

“And you could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt.”

You want to comment on the song, but your throat feels tight like something’s choking you. You swallow hard.

“What have I become?

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know goes away

In the end.”

Tears fill your eyes, threatening to escape. You don’t have sunglasses like Ghost does. It’s a matter of time until he notices.

“If I could start again

A million miles away

I would keep myself

I would find a way.”

It’s sadness, melancholy—that's what you’re feeling. But is it for Ghost and his poor song choice? Or is it for you?

For your family, your friends, and the vacation you won’t get to enjoy with them? Who are you mourning exactly? He seems to be at peace with his choices. When will this bliss come to you?

Will it ever come to you?

“Hey,” he calls out, and you turn to look at him.

Too late; he already noticed.

“It’s okay,” he soothes you. “Let it out.”

As if you wanted his permission, you begin to cry uncontrollably. You gasp for air. Ghost presses a button on his door which forces your window to open slightly. The crisp air slaps your face, but you focus on the pain, just like the song says. Your nails bite into your palms as you squeeze your fists, and that water bottle falls from your legs onto the car’s floor.

Ghost reaches over, turning the volume higher as if he’s permitting you to cry as much as you want and scream as loud as you please. You turn your head to the side, looking through blurred vision at the colours of green blending together.

He clasps your fist in his hand. You refuse to relax it.

“It’s okay.” He repeats as you pass the blue sign marked with a white ‘X’ that welcomes you to Scotland. “It’s going to be okay.”

Your first unclenches and you open your hand.

———————————————————————

Part 3 (final) this way ->

[leucisticpuffin]

On a summer evening in Rivendell, Elrond's little family are busy designing a sensory-play room for the twins. (If Elrond ends up hiding in there too after stressful councils, no one's going to say anything.)

For Day 5 of @elrondweek (a little late because of absent-mindedness...) Please click on it to see all the details!!

A lot of research went into this painting (and a lot of thought about how you'd crease a multisensory environment in a fantasy world with no electricity for pretty lights and bubble lamps) so here are some notes and headcanons:

Lighting: A number of elves who studied under Feanor later lived in Middle-earth (especially Eregion) and continued making crystal lamps and light-altering gemstones. The crystals in the small jar are a kind which glows for several hours after being “charged” with sunlight. They are used for decoration and in situations where a flame would be impractical or dangerous, e.g. a child-safe nightlight. 

Light projection jars: Glass jars decorated with colours and patterns. When a light crystal is placed in the jar, the colours are projected across the floor or wall. (Elladan and Elrohir are still a little young to be trusted with heavy glass jars, so for now these will be kept in a locked chest and used with adult supervision). 

Fabrics: Samples of cloth with lots of interesting colours and textures for the kids to choose from. Some (like the star cloth Elrohir is admiring) will be draped from the walls or ceiling of the sensory room to create a dark, cosy environment, and others made into blankets, cushions, etc. 

Star cloth: Cloth embroidered with tiny, faintly-glowing gems, resembling the night sky. First created in Valinor by a member of the textiles guild, it was popular among older elves who wanted to remember the skies of Middle-earth. It was expensive and difficult to make, and fell out of fashion when the Noldor left Valinor. The craft was revived in second-age Eregion, and easier methods of making it were developed. 

Toys: Elladan is playing with a painted wooden rain-shaker. Other sensory toys pictured include a colourful spinning top and a set of tactile wooden balls. They’re gathering a collection to keep in the boys’ toy-chest. Elrohir prefers the tactile objects, while Elladan likes any toy that makes a noise.

Room decor: Inspired by Art Nouveau aesthetics. The rug is based on an antique Donegal carpet, and the wallpaper on Arts and Crafts designs. 

Clothing: Inspired by paintings and antique garments: the twins and Celebrian are (loosely) based on paintings by John Singer Sargent and Henry Arnould Olivier, while Elrond’s robes are based on a 1905 House of Worth tea gown.

There are a number of flowers and plants in this painting; their meanings in flower language are as such: 

Bonsai pear tree: comfort

Irises (in the stained-glass window): wisdom

A vase of white lilacs: joy of youth, youthful innocence

Traveller’s joy (in the patterned wallpaper): safety

Primroses (Elladan’s hairpin and the embroidery on the twins’ dresses): early youth

Daisies (Elrohir’s shoes): innocence

Forget-me-nots (Celebrian’s dress): true love

Lily-of-the-valley (Elrond’s hairpin): sweetness, return of happiness

[katerinaaqu]

Did Odysseus have horses or not? (An Iliad and Odyssey Analysis)

This little thing came from a post made by @wolfythewitch and my response in regards to some Cephallenian horses that can still be found to Kephallonia to this day: see here So here is a more extensive analysis on the question of horses and Ithaca or the kingdom of the Cephallenians in general

So as we know from antiquity, horses are known to be a sign of nobility, proof of status and of course a valuable animal for work such as farming or war. Horses play a very important role in the homeric poems with of course the most infamous example of all the Trojan Horse that was the symbol of Troy and became its destruction. Many heroes have had the pseudonym "tamer of horses" including Diomedes and Hector.

It seems also that horses are linked most to some of the richest and most powerful kingdoms are shown to have beautiful or good horses. For example except for Troy that as also linked to god Poseidon and thus to the sumbol of Horse, we also see Argos be famous for the horses (and king Diomedes earning his name from it) or even Sparta (Menelaus providing horses to Telemachus which are praised) and Pylos when Nestor also provides Telemachus and Peisistratus with horses.

But what about Ithaca?

As mentioned above and as others mentioned before me, it seems that Ithaca, the tiny rugged place Odysseus speaks about does not seem to have terrains that are capable of hosting horses like wide plains or wide and smooth roads where horses can trot freely or graze. The existence of animals for work as well seems to be touched in post-homeric sources such as Hyginus Fabulae where we see the infamous story of Odysseus pretending madness. He ties to his plow a donkey and a cow instead. Both of the animals are more frequent for plowing fields or carrying loads especially donkeys and mules that are still famous in Greece and greek islands and they are known for being capable of marching across the wild terrains and uphill paths.

Ironically, or not so much, Ithaca seems to have a lack of horses according to Telemachus himself for when Menelaus offers him parting gifts, including horses, Telemachus replies to him thus:

However the horses I shall not take with me to Ithaca but I shall leave them to you, with your permission (lit: to your glory): for you are a king of wide fields, rich in clove and galingale and plenty of wheat that is dicocum and white. However in Ithaca there are neither wide roads nor grassy meadows; place that is fit for goats to walk and graze on rather than horses. For no island that leans in the salt (here: sea) is fit for riding and grazing horses: Ithaca least of all.

(Translation by me)

So here Telemachus seems to imply that not only most of silands have unfriendly terrain for horses but also that Ithaca is "least of all". Now there are a couple of things here that are toned out:

Ithaca is described as a ragged place by Odysseus as well when he speaks on his homeland to the Phaeaces and even nowadays it is indeed true that Ithaca has more mountain plains than wide fields given how small the island is as well and in general Greece is over 80% mountains anyways.

Homer makes Telemachus speak on how Ithaca is the "least of all" suitable for horses. Probably that is a small hyperbole. For starters maybe one could speak on "least of all" in the islands of the Ionian sea instead, which Telemachus probably is familiar with because islands in the Aegean sea are much dryer and uphill than the islands on the Ionian sea so it is probably a hyperbole used by Homer to show how unsuitable Ithaca is for riding horses or comparing them to islands of the Ionian sea instead (because see for example an image of Folegandros which has even less greenery for horses to feed on:

However the image that Ithaca is probably boarderline hostile for horses and riding is also linked to the fact on how Ithaca is often perceived as a land rich in certain products such as olives or fruit trees (due to the mild climate) but a generally poorer island and kingdom compared to others like Mycenae, Argos or Sparta. When Telemachus visits Sparta is is mesmerized by her beauty and richness.

Even if we do have examples in Ithaca that show that Ithaca is not a weak or penniless kingdom (Penelope sits on a chair with ivory which is an exotic material very hard to find or Odysseus leaves for war wearing a crimson woolen mantle that is decorated with a golden brooch. Both gold and the color crimson were extremely valuable. For example crimson pigmentation is found only at the shells that come from the east so it would require good economy to obtain) Ithaca is by general idea a poorer and less powerful kingdom than the rest (Odysseus is one of the kings that brings the least amount of ships with him at the number of 12 and around 603 men in total including himself)

The absense of horses or the hint that Ithaca does not breed horses at all, according to some readings of the passage, is also linked to the lack of powerful status for the kingdom. The kingdom itself is not one of the great powerful kingdoms of Greece like his peers from Mycenae or Argos and the fact that a status symbol like Horses is absent is rather interesting way to show that. In fact Ithaca seems to gain fame by its people rather than its political power.

(See how Odysseus calls the island κουροτρόφο aka "nurturer of men". Odysseus implies that the importance of his kingdom is not to the status symbols but to its people and their braveness)

But can we really talk on complete absence of horses in Odysseus's life?

Cephallonia's Semi-wild Horses:

As I mentioned to the post I reblogged under @wolfythewitch post we do seem to have a breed of horses to the area. The horses are being left to roam about according to an ancient custom because Cephallonia has no much space to keep them so the farmers do tame them but leave them roam free to the plains and now they are part of the national park of Aenus mountain:

These horses have been adapted to ride perfectly well to the rough rocky terrains of the mountain. Now of course the breed was probably imported from the mainland (most likely from Pindos mountains). Cephallonia has also been suggested as the location of the homeric Ithaca (and the giver of name of his kingdom) due to the fact that it deprives from homeric description that Cephallonia was "the most far western island" or, as I would probably be willing to believe, that maybe the land of modern Ithaca and Cephallonia were connected by land at that time (take that hypothesis with a grain of salt but I think it is highly possible) other locations suggested were even Lefkas for they discovered Mycenaean remains there

It is of course unclear when these horses enter the terrain. Itis possible that the horses arrive way after the bronze age that Odysseus ellegedly lived or even after Homer's time even, if Homer doesn't mention them or mentions that horses are not possible to grow in Ithaca.

It could also be, though, that homer completely dispatches horses from Ithaca to that degree again to point out the difference of status between Ithaca and Sparta. And, another totally wild guess, is also interesting how the animal symbol of Poseidon is absent from the island of Ithaca to the poem that speaks about the hubris of Odysseus against Poseidon and the god's wrath against him! Food for thought! XD

No horses in Ithaca doesn't necessarily mean Cephallinians had no horses at all:

Another thing that people often forget is that Odysseus was not king of Ithaca only. The kingdom of Cephallenians was a kingdom that spread over several islands AND part of the mainland where modern day Aitoloakarnania is:

The kingdom is not limited to the island of Ithaca only. Acarnania is also a wide area. Horses can possibly be bred there and also be providing the islands if needed. It is interesting because Odysseus is not only in posession of a chariot in the Iliad but he also seems perfectly capable of riding horses. In the Iliad for example both he and Diomedes steal the Thracian Horses in rhapsody 10:

So she spoke and he (Diomedes) recognized the goddess's voice and swiftly jumped on the horses: Odysseus smote them with his bow and they trotted towards the fast ships of the Achaeans

(Translation by me)

Interestingly Homer uses the 3rd singular of the verb: ἐπεβήσετο (he rode) but then proceeds using the 3rd plural ἐπέτοντο (they flew/rode away). So what could it be? Could it be perhaps that Odysseus jumped on the horse behind Diomedes and smote it with his bow to start trotting away? In that case we could speak indeed on the fact that clearly Diomedes was a better rider than Odysseus given that he is more familiar with horses. However if both of them ride away that means that Odysseus is not completely oblivious of horses he just doesn't seem to be so capable with them indeed. In fact the first is rather confirmed at the passage that follows soon after:

Then Odysseus beloved to Zeus restrained the quick horses, while the son of Tydeus jumped on the ground, placing the bloody spoils to the hands of Odysseus and once more he rode the horses; hitting them with a whip and nothing stopped them from flying to the hollow ships, as they so much wished to be.

(Translation by me)

So in this scene Diomedes seems to be the protagonist, being more knowledgable on horses (he is the one who rides first and trots) while Odysseus plays a more auxiliary role (steeds and holds the horses or holds the spoils in hand) but he doesnt seem completely oblivious to the exietence or treatment of horses. He both knows how to restrain and steer them but he is also in posession of a chariot with which he fights in the Iliad and covers the retreat of Diomedes and later that same chariot comes to pick him up from the battle (see rhapsody 11).

Conclusions:

So Homer seems to be sticking to the notion that horses are not widedly used in Ithaca or the rest of the kingdom due to its rough terrain. Not only does Telemachus speak of it but we also see the image in Iliad where Odysseus is clearly not as capable rider as Diomedes given how while they trot away. Of course needs to be noted how the horses are often depicted unbriddled and without a saddle in the artwork so it is also interesting to think that Odysseus wouldn't be able to ride without equipment while Diomedes who is more familiar with horses he has no problem.

Odysseus seems to stick more to chariots than horse riding which also indicates that he is not familiar with horse riding to that extent or that he is not particularly confident in it, however he seems capable of doing it.

The existence of the horse breed in Cephallonia as well as the fact that the kingdom also involves the mainland could indicate that horses were not unknown to the Cephallenians just not widedly used. Odysseus speaks many times on horses and their beauty and strength so he is familiar with them and he can judge (bet he also learnt a bunch from his fellow kings like Diomedes and the idea of Diomedes showing Odysseus even more stuff about horses sounds a cute image doesn't it!?) but from the incidents such as the one from the Iliad, suggest that he is not confident rider.

His knowledge seems less extensive compared to his knowledge on other stuff such as sheep and goats (he praises the flock of Polyphemus for example, elemet that I also used to my retelling/one-shot fic "Escape from Cyclops Island: Hubris") or stars and navigation so indeed even if he does have knowledge on riding or chariots he is not very confident in it.

So I tend to be somewhere in the middle; I don't believe that the Cephallinians had no horses at all or that they had no idea on horses (Telemachus himself has some knowledge after all since he mentions immediately to Menelaus that his gift would be unsuitable for his land) it is just that if they can host horses it is just some very sturdy and adaptable ones like the ones used at mountain passages and even those were not widedly used. They would probably have more mules or donkeys for transportation like it happens to mountain terrains and use more cattle as farming animals. The use of horses must have been very scarce to the point of providing them general knowledge but not as widedly used as in other places

But what do you guys think? Let me know!

[thorougly-melted-brains]

Ghost keeps a clean house. Soap knows this is true for his pack, his office, his room, and—to all assumptions—his apartment.

The circumstances of how Soap got there are too jumbled with the high of a mission and the drop of mandated time off. He didn’t want to take time off, neither did Ghost.

He can’t quite remember which one of them fumbled through the offer to stick together- only to maintain their schedules, of course. They still had additional reports and inventory to do, it was only tactical.

So now here he stands, in Ghost’s wholly spartan apartment. It’s been stripped of all charm and frivolity not painted on the walls or molded into the quaintly patterned glass by the front door. It’s not intentionally devoid of comfort- Ghost may be many things, but even he didn’t go out of his way to live without small comforts. There’s an old but soft couch, rugs and mats placed around the doors, and even lamps to offset the harsh over-heads.

The most curious thing, the one that really catches Soaps eyes, is the only visible adornment, quilts.

Great, sprawling tiled blankets (tapestries?) are hung from most of the walls. There’s one draped over the back of the sofa, tucked into the seat of the solitary plush chair. There’s smaller, flat pillows on the few chairs in the kitchen. There’s even placemats on the table. All colored with swirls of vibrant linen in dazzling patterns.

Ghost catches him staring as he leads them through his space (They decided on his apartment, given Soap’s was a bachelor pad, while Ghost had a guest room).

“My mum used to quilt.” Ghost says cryptically, and snags the pack off Soap’s shoulder while he’s still too busy gawking to protest.

Later, after they’ve showered off their travel and eaten something not wrapped in plastic and some amount of mud, Soap tries to breach the topic. Ghost replies as vaguely as ever,

“She tried to make me a baby blanket, never finished it.” Which takes Soap for a spin because based on what Ghost had previously (not) said, he’d assumed his mom had made them. He leaves it be.

Much later, after they’ve settled back into some semblance of their normal routine, Soap finally figures it out. It’s late at night, later than he should be awake after running himself ragged in the gym.

He’s stuck in a state of un-anxiety, which is in itself anxiety inducing, when he hears something next door. It’s rhythmic, mechanical, sharp, but in a way that’s distinctly well milled.

It’s coming from Ghost’s room, and if it were earlier in the night he might’ve just let it be, but he’s curious and without anything better to do.

He drags himself out of bed, slips on a shirt, and makes his way to Ghost’s room. It had been excluded from the gruff house tour he’d been giving on arrival, and right as he creaks the door open he understands why.

There are shelves covering the whole wall opposite to the door, obviously custom built, filled with bat upon bat of colorful fabric. The same colorful fabric, Soap realizes, that makes up the sole decoration in Ghost’s apartment. Sat at a desk, hunched slightly over a near-antique sewing machine, is Ghost.

Soap stares.

Ghost stares back at him, deceptively warm in the light of the machine. Soap can only imagine what he looks like, half awake and face cavernous in the dark of the hallway. There’s a momentary stand-off, Soap inanimate, Ghost giving him a look of challenge.

Soap breaks it first, glancing away and to Ghost’s project. It’s half-way finished, colored with calming blues and grays. Ghost seems satisfied and turns back to his work, ignoring him entirely.

Soap, sleep addled and out of his depth, takes the dismissal for all it could be. He shuts the door behind him, for both their sanities, and sits down on Ghost’s bed. It’s covered in a thick quilt, made of reds and golds and the occasional maroon hexagon. It’s unlike anything he’s thought of Ghost as, but he’s beginning to think this is the most raw he’ll ever see him.

The hum of the machine, combined with his tiredness, or maybe with the air of safety that curled around him with Ghost in his sights, starts to lull Soap to sleep.

He blinks himself an awake every time, waiting for the cozy haze to lift and Ghost to kick him out. But it never does, and the time between his eyes closing and opening slowly becomes longer and longer.

He must’ve properly fallen asleep when he’s jolted awake by the sound of plastic on plastic. Ghost had switched off his machine and was clamping closed a large, sorted box of pins. He glances back at Soap,

“Go to sleep, Mactavish.”

And Soap is nothing if not trusting of Ghost, so he does as he’s told. He’s woken again, briefly, by Ghost pulling the quilt out from underneath where he’d laid on top of it. There’s a rush of cold air, a dip in the bed beside him, and then the warm blanket being draped over him.

He makes a slight noise of alarm as he realizes it’s Ghost crawling into bed with him. Ghost huffs and grabs him by the arm, stopping him from sitting up and pulling his head to rest on a pillow in one motion. He lets go, then, and turns away from Soap.

“You can go if you want.” He rasps. Soap belatedly realizes he hadn’t talked to the other man much the previous day. He hums in clumsy thanks before finally falling asleep.

Later, Soap asks (he doesn’t beg, he’s a grown adult) Ghost to make him a quilt. He doesn’t expect him to say yes, or to have him pick the patterns, or to let him intrude on his room again almost nightly, but Ghost does.

They both know it’s not about the quilt.

[starsofang]

Call of Duty || Coraline AU

Running away to start a new chapter and escape the troubles of your past, you find yourself in a darker predicament than you had hoped for.

Coraline with a twist. And COD men. Obviously.

PT.2 / PT.3

You took in the sight of your new home from where you stood in the doorway. Your eyes studied the peeling wallpaper, the old water stains on the ceiling, the long, hallway rug that didn’t seem to want to lay flat from where it slightly popped up in the middle. It was a place far from special, and in all honesty, the house was a bit… depressing in a sense. But it was your new home, and it was the first thing offered to you when you had run away, far from your original home – if you could call it that.

Sighing, you stepped inside the dingy house, slipping off your shoes that had begun to collect mud from the rain that cascaded down outside. Just like this new house, the outside was just as somber of a sight, with gloomy rain clouds hanging in the sky and weeping water drops down to the overgrown yard.

As you made your way into the home, you could faintly hear music playing from upstairs. You paused your walking to stare up at the ceiling, ears tuning in on what the resident upstairs could possibly be playing this early in the morning.

Circus music…?

Shaking it off, you proceeded to navigate your way around the place, opting to ignore the light sound of symbols clashing and strange kazoos blaring from above. Instead, you began your long journey of unpacking the little things you brought with you when you left your old home.

There wasn’t much, and in the few hours you had spent unboxing it all, you realized just how much you didn’t have. Even the furniture that came with the home wouldn’t cut it, what with its old, antique styling and dust that was definitely not from this century.

“Fuck this,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head in disbelief.

One look at the rotting fruit in the fridge – just how long had it been in there? – told you that you’d need to run to the market if you didn’t want to starve on your first night alone.

Alone. Even just the simple reminder felt foreign, almost unrealistic. You had traveled all this way – no, not traveled. Ran all this way, and now it was a reality. This broken, rundown home was proof of that, and it was only just the beginning.

Stepping out of the home, you fumbled for the keys to lock the door behind you. Once you were sure it was secure, you made your way down the line of steps and to the paved sidewalk of the building. The rain had stopped in the hours spent unpacking, and you released a small sigh of relief at not having to drive in it once again.

As you ascended the last step, a door could be heard opening with a pair of deep voices filtering out with it. Pausing, your head whipped over to the left, where another staircase leading downwards was now occupied with two men bickering – one was tanned and pretty, with a certain confidence that seemed to ooze out of his perfectly unblemished skin (damn him), while the other was an older gentleman with thick facial hair and kind eyes.

“Oh, hello!” The pretty one greeted you when he got to the top of his stairs, a blinding smile curving on his lips. Bickering seemingly forgotten, he indulged himself with the presence of a newcomer. “You’re the new neighbor, eh? Thought Laswell locked up that ol’ place long ago.”

Laswell? 

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but before you could say anything in return, the other man with the mutton chops spoke. “Don’t mind him. You settling in alright? Nothing wrong with the place yet?”

Besides the rotting wallpaper and eighteen-hundred’s couch? And the creepy circus music playing from above?

“No,” you opted to say instead, eyes flickering between them.

“Ah! Good to hear it,” The older gentleman cheered with a bright smile, clapping his hands together. “Been quite some time since having a neighbor. Well, besides Soap, that is. Wouldn’t want to scare you off so soon, now, would we?”

Pretty boy nodded in agreement, almost a bit too enthusiastically, and you felt you were missing something. These men were… strange, to say the least. And so forward, too.

Also, who the hell is Soap?

You could only assume he meant the other resident living in the apartment upstairs, what with his weird music and loud footsteps. Soap, huh?

“John Price,” The older one introduced with an outstretched hand. “And this here is Kyle Garrick.”

“Call me Gaz, love,” Gaz corrected with a warm smile.

You stared down at John’s hand, which was soon joined by Gaz’s. Hesitating for a moment, you first shook John’s, then Gaz’s, their grip firm and skin rough to the touch.

“Right. Nice to meet you.” You cleared your throat, suddenly feeling much too exposed with the way they were staring at you. “Say, John, what exactly do you mean, wrong with the house–”

“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Caroline! We’d best be off now, but do come over if you need anything, yes?” John cut you off with a crinkly smile, placing his hand on Gaz’s shoulder and guiding him away from where you stood at the end of the stairs, successfully avoiding further conversation and disappearing down the pathway to the road.

“It’s Coraline…” you muttered under your breath, before the realization that he even knew your name, albeit incorrectly, dawned on you. You hadn’t offered it in return, yet somehow, he already knew.

Your eyes followed them as they walked, watching as they grew farther and farther away until they turned the corner at the edge of the driveway and could no longer be seen. Out of sight, out of mind.

How the fuck did he know that?

[momotonescreaming]

Night Light

Rating: G | WC: 1.2k | Evan Buckley/Tommy Kinard A mini Tommy Kinard character study [Read on AO3]

Tommy has an antique lamp in his entranceway and a child’s night light in the hall.

A small unassuming thing in a plastic white cover, subtly plugged into an outlet halfway down the hall to the master bedroom. Buck thought it was an air freshener at first, didn’t think much of it. Which was kind of the point. It wasn’t until he stayed the night that very first time when he noticed. Padding through Tommy’s house on unsure, socked feet, making his way through unfamiliar rooms. It was getting dark, Tommy’s house aglow in the lamplight, when he saw it projecting little golden stars up the wall.

Buck wondered if there was a story there. Of army flashbacks, and gifting yourself the childhood you never had. Of not holding yourself back, of letting go of the man people wanted you to be. Of loneliness.

He wondered if it was his place to know it just yet. Another piece of the Tommy-shaped puzzle, aglow with tiny stars. They had started touching at things like this, merely breaching the surface, hinting at the things below. The things that lurk in the dark. Quickly, swiftly, dropping hints and then diverting away. This felt like it might be one of those.

Tommy doesn’t have any kids, and from the hints Buck’s already gathered — he doesn’t have any kids in his life, period. No nieces and nephews. No kids of friends or co-workers.

So the night light can’t be for any of them. Those children that don’t exist. Buck thinks Tommy might have gotten it for himself. Buck kind of likes it. He doesn’t want to go too far down the rabbit hole, too far into research and facts and theories about why. Doesn’t want to dig this up and risk exposing something he shouldn’t. Not before either of them are ready. He wants Tommy to give it to him. Revealed in time.

So Buck walks past the night light, goes to the bathroom, and then walks straight back past them on his way back to Tommy. To the living room, where his boyfriend is waiting. Curled up on the couch, soft and inviting. Curtains half pulled shut and room lit by lamplight. As soon as it got dark, Buck Noticed, Tommy always leaned towards a lamp first. Not an overhead light.

None of the lamps have stars.

He thinks that might be an easier conversation. Might not poke what’s lurking beneath. But he likes it too. It feels very Tommy, his house. Warm. Cozy. Safe. Buck knows it wasn’t always that way. That Tommy’s house was a fixer-upper and was in a perpetual state of construction for years. That Tommy learned what he liked and built it himself. And it appears his boyfriend likes soft lighting.

Buck doesn’t say anything about the night light, but he swear he sees something flicker in Tommy’s expression. He stops thinking about the topic entirely when Tommy draws him into his arms and holds him close.

They spend more and more time together. Going on dates, getting to know one another. Spending time at each other’s places, slowly mapping out the shape of each other’ homes. They way they act in a place that’s theirs. When no one is around but the other.

A part of Buck will never understand why Tommy seemed so impressed with his loft — considering his house is so much cooler. A cozy renovated bungalow with a home gym and an extra large garage with a car lift. Lined with many a bookshelf, filled with romance novels and car manuals. Piles of DVD’s, a modest collection of vinyl and a CD collection he had been growing since he was a teen. All shelves dusted, in a very particular order. Tiny helicopters on display. Little figurines and models, breaking up the wall of things.

A large comfy couch in the middle of his living room, framed by a plush rug and draped in throw blankets. A lamp on the side table, and another in the corner. Some subtly queer artwork on the walls, if you know where and how to look. He’s not hiding who he is, but he’s not shouting it from the rooftop either. It’s nice. Homey. It suits Tommy.

Paint swatches on the wall of his dining room, and his kitchen, with the old wallpaper half peeling off. He hasn’t renovated that yet, Tommy tells him. Hasn’t found the time, he says with a smirk. As if it’s a hardship Tommy’s been spending time with him, going on dates, inviting him round — instead of ripping up and renovating his entire kitchen.

Next to one of his bookcases, is the night light. Halfway down the hall.

A part of Buck wondered if Tommy would hide it, after that first night when Buck saw it on his way to the bathroom. Would unplug it and squirrel it away where Buck couldn’t see. Until Tommy was ready to talk about it. But he didn’t, and yet Buck still didn’t say anything.

He finds out about the lamps, earlier. The collection of them scattered throughout his house — the antique one in the entranceway.

Tommy turns it on every time he leaves the house. It’s a part of his routine. Shut the windows, lock the doors, wallet, phone, keys, turn on the lamp. Says he likes the soft lighting better, as compared to the harsh lighting from the overheads. Makes it feel warmer, and enjoys the way it makes everything glow. Orange soft around the edges. He likes coming home to the light on, he says. Makes it feels less imposing, more inviting. Seeing the gold from the lamp light shining through the curtains. Distorted and hazy from the lampshade.

Buck’s getting better versed at Tommy-speak. He knows how to read between the lines on this one. It makes his house feel a little less empty. Makes him feel a little less alone.

The night light makes a little more sense then.

Tommy got the lamp at an estate sale, he says. Went sifting through for things to help fill his house with. He got the lamp, a table, and a large worn-in armchair with pride of place in his living room. Things to make his house seem a little more lived in, a little more homey, a little less empty.

Buck still doesn’t ask when he got the night light, but he thinks about it more now. He thinks about it when he gets off shift and heads straight to Tommy’s, seeing the lamp light shine through the window. He thinks about it when he gets up early to get ready for a shift, and sees the little golden stars glow as he makes his way down the hall to Tommy’s kitchen.

It makes him sort of sad, to picture it. Young Tommy, trying to figure out who he is, to unpluck threads while the pressure of the macho fire house presses down around him. And then turning around and coming home to an empty, pitch black house. Putting the lamp in the entranceway so it’s the first thing he sees when he gets home. Buying a little night light to lead his way down the hall.

When Buck was living in Abby’s apartment, way back when, he thinks maybe he should have bought himself a children’s night light with little golden stars.

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Pomegranate | Nikolai x F!reader

Chapter 1

After a series of misfortunes you've found yourself in debt to Arno, a human trafficker operating in London. You work at his club, dancing and escorting, only to find yourself deeper and deeper in debt. One night you arrive at Nikolai's. He's handsome, abrasive, gross, tender at times and he might be the most dangerous man you've ever met.

cw: cw: dark fic, dubcon/noncon, reader is being trafficked, human trafficking, cockwarming, body inspection, piv, Nikolai is evil but also kind in his own weird way

Masterpost

"Clothes off... all of them," A thick Russian accent said from the intercom. You looked up at the camera in the corner. He must have seen you hesitate, "I already paid. Don't waste my money."

It never got easier. The degradation and humiliation of stripping for strange men, being used like a toy and forced to pack yourself back up into your box till next time.  It'd been almost a year now. As you dropped your coat to the floor your anger and shame hit the ceiling. You'd trusted your ex, he promised to help you when you lost your job, when you couldn't pay rent, when you needed to borrow money. You moved to London for better opportunities now you were in some stranger's house waiting to be used. You'd lost track of how deep in debt you were to him and his 'friends'. 10k? 20k? It made your stomach clench.

"Don't cry. You'll fuck up your makeup." is what those cunts back at the club would always say before you got in the car to a client's.

Marcus, your ex, now trafficker, hammered it in that this was a very important client. Probably another criminal. A rich one at that. His house was more of a warehouse. Large, stretching for almost an entire block. Nondescript from the outside beyond the vault like door and fancy keypad, one you were given a code to on the way there. 

"Turn around," he ordered when the last of your clothes hit the floor. Checking for a wire or weapons you guessed. Knowing you were being watched like this made your skin crawl but it was better than being groped immediately on entry.

The room you were locked in was more of a safe room with steel walls and thick doors. One leading outside and the other leading further inside. No windows, just the camera, an intercom panel and a white gift box that sat on the floor. 

"New clothes in the box. Put them on."

It was a too small lacy bra and matching too small panties. A washed baby blue, all mesh so you were fully exposed. There was a loud buzzer and the door unlocked.

Inside was nice. Made to look like a palace. Wood floors covered in large red patterned rugs. The walls had large paintings you recognized from an art history class years ago. You couldn’t tell if they were real or not. The details were obscured by the darkness. There was only one light on in the hallway, a door was opened down the way. It was a maw that beckoned you toward it. 

You stood at the threshold. The living room was equally extravagant. The walls were painted a wine red lacquer, almost mirror like. The ceiling had complex molding, painted the same color as the walls. The windows were all blacked out with heavy velvet curtains. It felt cold in this room. To the left was a large bar with more bottles than you'd ever seen in your life. To the right was a large couch and projector screen. Soviet era antiques were scattered about. It felt more like a palace than a home. A palace for some dark god, one that ruled pain and death. 

"You're prettier than the photo." You jumped at the voice. He was so quiet you didn't notice him on the couch. He was big, obviously tall but muscular with wide shoulders. He had a layer of fat that only worked to increase his intimidating stature. Dark hair slicked back with a widow's peak. Stubble covered the bottom part of an aged face. He wasn't old, older yes but whatever business he was in had aged him around the eyes. Dark eyes that hid any emotion from you.

He snapped his fingers and motioned for you to walk over. He had a cigar in the other hand. The smell filled the room. 

"Good. You follow instructions. More than I can say for the last one Arno sent me." He motioned for you to spin around again, giving your ass a light spank and laughing when you yelped. "You fuck anyone else today?"

"No," you shook your head. He blew cigar smoke at you, watching the silver bisect around your middle.

"Good. I'd hate to waste more time cleaning you out. They never do a good job at that." He put his cigar in the ashtray beside him. "On your knees."

"What's your name?" He asked, making space between his legs for you. You answered softly, a lie. Never give them anything was what another girl told you. Give anything and they’ll take until there’s nothing left. Even your bones could be used to pick teeth. He held your chin between two fingers, moving your head around like a doll. "Open your mouth."

He leaned forward, looking inside you. A thumb hooked over your bottom row of teeth. It tasted like tobacco and sweat. You'd learned to hold back gags long ago. 

"I don't like girls with rotten teeth." He ran a finger over your teeth, top and bottom, occasionally pressing on one.  He frowned, "Stop shaking. I'm not going to hurt you."

A lie, most likely. Men always said that before fucking you, like they could believe you were there willingly, like they didn't pick you out of a catalogue of girls. You clenched your fists in your lap and willed the fear out of your bones. Docile thing, something to be eaten to the core. You were always good. Arno controlled his girls with an iron hand. You’d heard the beatings other girls got when they disappointed. There were clients who had girls sent to them yet never returned them. Disappointing girls got sent there. Sacrifices to the gods of gold. Arno always wore gold.

"I like girls who like you." He pulled his fingers out of your mouth and pushed your jaw shut. "I paid to have you till morning. Make it worth it."

He leaned back with a sigh, grabbing a remote and turning on the projector. A hockey game flicked onto the screen, the noise from the stadium coming from speakers you never saw. 

"Is there...uh...anything you want me to call you?" Men liked all sorts of names. Daddy, Master, Sir. Rarely creative, often repeated. Some used their real name but not many, no one wants the risk of their whore becoming too mouthy. 

He looked down at you, like he already forgot you were there.

"Sir, when you answer my questions. Kolya, when I fuck you." He undid his belt and spread his legs wider. You knew your job. He picked up his cigar again as you undid the zipper on his pants.

He laid a hand on the back of your head, pressing down your hair. "Just keep me warm for now. Don't want to miss anything."

You took a deep breath before taking him into your mouth. He was thick and uncut. Intimidating even half hard. He didn't push as you worked your throat open, slowly bobbing your head. Sometimes men would ply you with liquor, help you to relax a bit more. You wish he had. The mix of salts from precum and skin filled your senses. A hesitant hand moved to rest on his thigh for leverage. He didn't shake you off. 

You glanced up at him when you took him to the hilt. Hoping for some sign of approval, not for your ego but the sake of your security. Men in pleasure were less likely to be agitated. 

"Good job, Kotenok." He rubbed his knuckles across your cheek, gold rings cooling your skin. He let you rest against his thigh, nose tickled by his dark pubes. Cigar smoke, the drone of the tv and the blood rushing around your head started to calm your nerves. Maybe tonight wouldn't be as awful as you thought.

He thrusted lazily during every commercial break. A hand holding your head steady against his thigh. He chuckled when you gagged. Everything was in Russian so you couldn't follow the game beyond his angry or excited, more so angry, ad libs.

He finally sighed and turned off the tv. He tapped your cheek softly.

"Kotenok, I need you to make me feel better about my team losing."

He made you walk ahead of him, directing you towards his bedroom. His dark eyes dug into your spine. A step below you and still a head taller. This is what a deer feels when the wolf stalks it. 

His bedroom was dark, a single lamp sat on the side table. The walls were a lime washed white. The bed was antique, made of carved dark wood. The sheets were white silk with a matching comforter. It was unmade. More paintings lined the walls haphazardly. When you were younger you used to cut pictures from magazines and tape them up to your own bedroom walls. He had seemingly done the same. 

You crawled onto the bed, swaying your hips as enticingly as you could manage. A hand wrapped around your ankle and pulled you back to the edge of the bed. You yelped as his hips hit your ass, cock bouncing against your cheeks.

"Remember  what I told you, Kotenok?" He pulled your panties down, calloused hands scraping against your thighs. "What to call me?"

"Kolya."

"Good girl." He dragged a hand down your back, knuckles bumping every ridge of your spine. You tried your best not to fidget under his touch, not to let the chill of the air or tickle of his fingers get to you. You heard clothing hit the floor behind you. You stared ahead, picking out one of the paintings to focus on. 

A young woman stared back at you, perched in a carriage and dressed in black, a feathered hat on her head. She looked upset, like you were unworthy of looking at her and you should avoid your gaze. 

Two fingers felt around your entrance. A shiver ran down your spine. You weren't wet enough, you knew that. You clung to the comforter, waiting for pain. 

"I told you to stop shaking. I said I wouldn't hurt you." He rubbed a hand across your ass. He sounded annoyed. You closed your eyes and pressed your face against the silk. It smelled clean and floral.

There was the snap of plastic and cold fingers prodding at your cunt.

"Shhh...I don't break the things I buy." He didn't admonish you for hiding your face as he scissored you open. He was almost tender, rubbing your hip with slow circles. His fingers curved to press against that soft spot inside you, pulling soft whines from you. "There we go, Kotenok."

You were pulled back again till your pelvis was hanging off the edge of the bed, toes curling around the plush of the rug. He ran the head of his cock between your folds, nudging at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, groaning loudly as you whimpered and fidgeted. Despite the preparation it was a stretch and burn. He held you down by your hips.

"Good girl," he purred with one last push. The head of his cock bumped against your cervix , causing you to clench in pain. It only spurred him to start thrusting. Your face dragged against the sheets as he rocked your entire body. His thrusts were hard and deep, like he wanted to mark the inside of you. 

"Close your eyes and let it happen. Most of them don't last long anyways," a girl said to you early on. You didn't remember her name or face anymore. 

You forced out moans every time his hips smacked against your ass. Arching your back so he could think he was pleasuring you. There was a modicum of pleasure, chasing it was too much effort, especially with unreceptive partners.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, hand dipping between your thighs. He pinched your clit till you cried out. His chin tucked against your shoulder, pushing his full weight against you. His body was hot and the thick hair on his chest scratched at your skin. 

"I don't like liars, Kotenok." He rubbed harsh circles till you moaned and shuddered. He hissed, "Cum on my cock or be quiet."

His other hand grabbed your shoulder and hauled you back up with him. Your back still pressed against his chest. Still rubbing your clit, he hooked an arm under yours and rested it between your breasts while holding your chin and forcing you to look upwards. There was a mirror on the ceiling. He smirked at you in the reflection. You dug your nails into your thighs, tears springing up in your eyes. It was horrific and erotic and disgusting and ugly and it made you wet. Some last threads of dignity snapping under the image of him fucking you. 

"Say my name," He panted.

"Kolya...please...Kolya."

"Want to come on my cock? Beg me for it." He licked your ear.

"Kolya please...please Kolya. I want to come. Please. Kolyaaaaa!"

You watched yourself as he forced you up to your peak, clenching around his cock. He laughed harshly and smacked your pussy. He held you up as your legs failed to support you any longer. You came hard, grabbing at his arms, manicured nails digging into his muscles. You would have thrashed about if he hadn’t had such a tight grip on you. 

He growled something in Russian before biting down on your shoulder. He filled you to the brim, his cock twitching inside your still clenching pussy. His cum was a familiar warm that leaked out around his cock and down your leg. He let go and you fell face forward against the bed.

"Catch your breath. I still want my money's worth." He patted the back of your thigh. You hiccuped softly as you regained sense. Limbs feeling heavy, your whole body stretched to its limit. 

You turned your head as he sat down a carafe of water and two glasses on the side table. 

“Need any?” He asked, filling his own glass. You nodded shyly. It was the first time you really saw him naked. He had a litany of tattoos across his chest and arms, too dark to make out details but you could see angels, skulls, cyrillic writing, a fighter jet, the virgin mary and a star on each of his knee caps. Near his groin was a pentagon with letters you couldn’t make out. A gold chain with an Orthodox cross hung around his neck. A layer of black body hair covered him, darkening everything even further. 

“Thank you.” You gulped down your glass, water dribbling down your chin. He wiped it away as he took your glass.

“On your hands and knees now,” He said, pushing back his hair. You faced the woman again, glaring back at her as you presented yourself to him. The mattress dipped behind you. He said something in Russian before pushing back inside you. 

You lost count of how many times he fucked you. You were pliant and submissive, following his lead as he bent you into whatever position he wanted. He was more virile than you expected. More gentle than you anticipated with a grossness you expected. The next time you asked for water he spit his glass into your mouth. He pinched and pulled but never bent you so hard you broke. Gagging, crying and cumming but never sobbing or screaming. 

You woke up sore. Dried cum and bite marks covering your body. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, watching you sleep. He was already showered and dressed in a silk robe. 

"You’ll shower before you leave. Scrub well." He slapped your ass before shutting the bathroom door and locking it from the outside. 

Another extravagant room. Oxblood tiles and heated floors. A large marble counter and a mirror taking up most of the wall behind it.

It was a large shower but more importantly the water was hot. Not warm but hot. You could have cum just from feeling the jets against your skin. The body wash was luxurious - sweet and woody. You scrubbed well. These kinds of men didn't want their DNA wandering all over the place. 

There was a towel left for you but no clothes and your lingerie from last night was missing as well. He did leave a cup of tea for you on the bedside table. There were painkillers too. You took it all in one scalding gulp. 

You kept the towel wrapped around yourself as you walked back downstairs. You found him through the one open door in the hall.  He was sitting at the dining table, typing on a laptop, cup of espresso cooling next to him. 

"Come here, Kotenok." He tugged your towel till it fell to the floor. He tapped the inside of your thigh till you spread them. "Don't start shaking again. Need to make sure you cleaned up well."

You bit your lip. He spread you open with two fingers, tilting his head as he inspected you. You yelped when he forced a dry finger inside you, moving it around and dragging it against your walls. He pulled it out and stared at his finger for a moment before sticking in his mouth. 

"Good girl." He nodded and got a money clip from his pocket. "I like you. I'll see you again in a week."

He handed you five hundred pounds. You stared at King Charles in disbelief. You'd been tipped before but never this much. You would have to hide it. You didn’t know where but you had to. If he kept tipping you like this it could make a dent in your debt to Marcus and Arno. 

"Thank you, sir."

"Did I ask you a question?" He didn't look away from his computer.

"No...umm...Thank you, Kolya." An offering of affection, appease the god and receive bountiful gifts. 

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. An actual smile. 

"If Arno takes that from you, tell me. That's your money. I paid him enough as is. Now go get dressed. Your car is here." He pointed back towards the front door.

You hurried off, afraid to go back to Marcus and Arno but also too scared of what Kolya would do if you delayed. 

Here is the rewritten part 1! Part 2 will go up in the next few days. If you have any questions, comments, thirst messages about this fic please send them. I love talking about Nikolai and his Kotenok.

[sideblogofhell]

a body with two souls

summary: there are stories about who druig truly is, he lets you see a glimpse of the truth pairing: druig x male reader word count: 1.3k warnings: 18+ warning, mutual masturbation, mind control, dom!druig, kinda dark if u put your mind into it, if u dont like ignore a/n: part three im back!

main masterlist | the repentant's corner

Stars don’t fall for men, and gods don’t come down from the heavens for men. There were stories passed down in the commune, that the leader was a god that came down with other gods. That they were there when the first civilizations were forged, guiding man as they advanced.

The leader had always loomed in the community like a shadow, with his dark robes and his black hair against his pale skin, he was like some dark angel on Earth. He would walk around and deal with troubles in the community, settling disputes and administering justice. You’ve grown fond of him, he was always gentle to you, his soft voice always over your shoulder showering you with praises as you cooked for everyone. 

After everyone was served dinner he thanked you for the wonderful meal and asked if you would meet him before midnight outside his cabin. You stood outside his door under the moonlight, it grew quite dark in the commune at night when the torches were turned off. His voice creaked in the door like he instantly knew of your presence. Come in, his voice echoed in your head. 

You opened the door to his cabin, it was a small space. There was a fireplace at the back of the room with an antique throne chair near it, his bed at the side with animal furs as rugs. There were some old relics on a shelf along with some old leather-bound books. Some torches lit the room, the cold air leaving your skin in exchange for the heat of the fire. 

“How was your day?” he asked, approaching you with a swiftness that felt inhuman. His hand reached for yours, warm around your cold palms. His blue eyes were set on yours. “Dinner was splendid as always.”

“It was good,” you said, your voice hitched at the end of the sentence. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Well, you’re always splendid,” he said smiling. Your eyes were set on your feet avoiding his gaze. His index finger touches your chin, lifting it so that your eyes meet his. “Let me see those pretty eyes.”

You swore for a second that his eyes glimmered a faint gold. 

“Do you know what people say about me?” he asked, leaving you to place more wood on the fire. There were indeed whispers about Druig. That he was a god with the power to influence people’s minds, or that he was one of the angels that rebelled against god. 

“They say you were a trickster, that you toyed with man’s deepest desires,” you said. He hovered around you, his cold presence made the hairs on your skin rise. “Or that you’re a fallen angel.”

“I’m no angel,” he laughs. “But I do know everyone’s deepest fantasies.”

“How so?”

“Not important—but it is interesting that you find the idea of me seducing you somewhat arousing,” he whispered to your ear. You fell back in shock, your back falling into his chest. He trails his nose on the skin on your nape, taking in your scent. 

You had thought about it, his dominating presence was arousing to you. You would sometimes think of it at night as you touched yourself, wanting him to take you for his. Maybe the whispers were right, he truly was a trickster god. 

“What a naughty boy you are,” he smirked, he traced his fingers on your arm, his light touches drove you insane. You wanted him to touch you so bad. “If I told you that the whispers are true would you run away from me?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, sir.”

He walked around so that his body was in front of you, towering over you. “Do you trust me?” he said, his hands cupping your face. 

“Yes, sir.”

He takes you near the fireplace, taking a seat on the throne chair, legs sprawled. Kneel, his voice whispered inside your head, as if it were your thoughts. Tonight you give up yourself to me, that is what you want right? You nod, looking up at him as you knelt. 

Show me how you pleasure yourself to the thought of me. 

Your cock throbbed inside your pants, you palmed it to the sound of his voice inside your head. You took out your sex and started stroking, it was achingly hard. You let saliva drip out of your lips to your cock, the slippery sensation drawing out moans from you. You see him start to palm his erection, looking at you with a smirk on his lips, something about this amused him. 

He took out his thick cock and started to stroke it at the very same pace you were stroking. His free hand cupped his balls as his pink tip glistened against the fire. In your head, you would have crawled to him and taken him into your mouth. You felt drunk like any sense of inhibition was taken away from you as your fingers wrapped around your cock.

Would you give yourself up to me? 

You nodded like a hungry dog, eyes beady in front of him. Druig looked down onto the moaning mess at his feet, cock leaking, your face flushed as your hand pumped your sex. He wanted to take things further, control your mind to his pleasure. To place himself inside your body for him to control, he had never done it with anyone, but your pleading eyes made him almost lose it.

“Please use me, sir.”

That was it. You saw his eyes fully glow a bright gold, like shining stars in front of you. Your body felt light like your soul lifted from your body. You were fully aware of your body’s sensations but you couldn’t move your limbs. Druig was in control of your body, he could feel your hardness alongside his. With his own will, your hands started to stroke your cock, his hand stroking his own at the same pace. It felt like someone else’s hands were stroking you, it was a strange but satisfying feeling. 

Your body felt insane, like your body had two souls, your and his taking control of your body. Your hips started to thrust into your hand, you were fully fucking your hand like it were someone's body. Druig’s hand was already wet with precum, the slippery sounds of your cocks filled the room alongside the sounds of burning wood. The sight was intoxicating to Druig, a moaning mess, you were. Your body crawled nearer to him, his hand running through your hair as he pumped his cock. 

Your whole arm was moving like clockwork, stroking your member to the point that it was aching red, leaking precum on the carpeted floor. Druig was close, his hips bucking into his hand as his chest heaved. You were already panting, sweat dripping down your forehead. You looked up at him, mouth agape as you reached for air. Druig projected his pleasure to your mind, the feeling was so alien to your body that it drew your mind to a blur, the pleasure coursing through your body like a strange wave of electricity. 

The feeling of the two of you nearing climax in your feeble mundane mind was sending you into ecstasy, you were panting like crazy, Druig too. He was groaning under his breath, his thick cock blushing pink as he stood up holding your head. At the same stroke of your hands, you shot cum on his leather boots crying out in pleasure, as Druig let out a loud groan of pleasure as his cum released into your mouth, some smearing across your face. 

You dropped down to the carpet floor in fatigue, chasing your breath after what happened. Druig picked you up and carried you to his bed, cleaning you up with a damp cloth. He later joined you in bed, stroking your hair as he whispered praises into your ear. Myths were right, the trickster god did indeed toy with people’s pleasure. 

interactions are greatly appreciated btw if u liked this fic and want more send me a prompt and i'd gladly make something from it :>

[morelikeravenbore]

Lessons in Upholstery

Sebastian Sallow x f!oc (Aurélie Collins).

Content warnings: NSFW/mature rating. Sebastian Sallow is needy. Puppy!Sebastian?? No explicit language but very sexually suggestive, mentions of nudity and sexual acts. Reader discretion is advised. Post-Hogwarts 18+ grown up Sebaura.

Word count: 1.6k

Preview: There was a unique ache that existed when she was out of reach — one that started as a small hole in his chest before spreading rapidly until his entire being felt hollow, an ache that demanded they share a too-small bed so they had to sleep tangled together, or eat at a too-small kitchen table so she had to take most of her meals sitting in his lap.

🦋 Read on wattpad | ao3

Upholstered in pale blue velvet, with matching embroidered silk pillows and ornately carved legs of polished mahogany, the tiny two-seater loveseat was clearly not designed for everyday use — yet every night, Sebastian found himself crammed between the armrests with a very satisfied redhead slotted awkwardly between his long legs.

When Aurélie had found the sofa in a Muggle brocante in Toulouse, Sebastian had known immediately that there was no point in trying to talk her out of buying it. They didn't own a home to keep it in, and unless they bought a bloody chateau (which was highly improbable given that Sebastian was only a trainee Healer), it wasn't likely to suit any future home they ever lived in. But none of that mattered, because as soon as that little squeal of delight had left her lips, he knew they'd be leaving the antique market as proud owners of the most ridiculously ostentatious piece of furniture he'd ever laid eyes on.

Happily, he hadn't regretted that decision since. Even when his legs went numb with pins and needles and his back got a permanent crick in it, so long as she was tucked into him, her back pressed to his chest and her soft hair ticking the underside of his chin, Sebastian would never buy another sofa for as long as they lived. — Because there was no other way he ever wanted to sit unless it was with the small, warm weight of her in his lap.

A weight that was presently — and unbearably — absent as Aurélie busied herself in the tiny kitchen across the single-roomed cottage, humming under her breath as she chopped vegetables for their dinner. Sebastian watched her over the top of his book, his attention drawn, as it always was whenever she was near (or not near enough), away from the dry medical journal he was studying to the silky fall of her hair down her back, the soft shuffle of her bare feet over the kitchen rug, and the sheer summer dress that clung to her thighs, her waist: she'd regained some of the weight she'd lost after the horrors of their seventh year, and her hair had grown several inches over the summer, lightened to the colour of golden strawberries by the French sun.

Leaving the Highlands had done wonders for her health, but Sebastian liked to think that love had done that to her. His love.

Tossing his book aside, he dropped his head back on the arm rest and let out a long, almighty groan.

There was a unique ache that existed when she was out of reach — one that started as a small hole in his chest before spreading rapidly until his entire being felt hollow, an ache that demanded they share a too-small bed so they had to sleep tangled together, or eat at a too-small kitchen table so she had to take most of her meals sitting in his lap.

Of course, he was self aware enough to know that his acute need for physical affection bordered on being a little… obsessive, and that owning too-small furniture was just a blatant way of enabling his insatiable desire to touch her — but he also knew how quickly love could be snatched away, and so he endeavoured to keep it close at all times: to see it in her eyes and hear it in her laugh, to taste it in her mouth and feel it shiver across her skin, to pour it into her until even her breath was saturated with it —

His love.

His.

Aurélie cast him an amused glance over her shoulder. ‘Hungry?’ she called, a teasing lilt in her delicious voice.

‘Staaarving,’ he whined, reaching his arms out for her.

Expecting her to argue about the virtues of patience, he was surprised when she immediately skipped across the room and climbed onto his lap, wrapping her arms and legs around him so tightly he struggled to breathe — just the way he liked it. Likely she'd heard the thinly veiled desperation in his voice, but in the short time they'd lived together, he'd come to learn that the empty awful ache of separation was a shared feeling.

‘Mm, that's better,’ he hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist. The little sofa groaned under their combined weight, threatening to fall to pieces if they kept this up, but Sebastian felt the hollow pit in his chest recede back to a manageable speck, placated for the time being until she inevitably up and left again.

He wasted no time. Dipping his head, he kissed slowly along her jawline and down her throat, breathing her summer scent deep into his lungs: sugar and cream and strawberries.

‘You were gone for ages,’ he murmured into the crook of her neck. Her pulse quickened beneath his lips, and he smiled.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ she snorted, threading her fingers through his hair. ‘It took fifteen minutes before you started whining.’

‘I don't whine.’

‘Yes you do. — And whimper. You're like a puppy,’ she added, shifting in his lap in a way that made his breath catch and his fingers dig into her hips.

Instinctively, he slid his hands beneath her dress to palm the curve of her spine, dragging the pads of his fingers across her skin so that his touch might stay imbued there long after his hands were gone. She shivered in return, pressing herself flush against him until all the aching space between them was suffocated between their bodies.

It never took long for them to unravel together; no matter how innocent their intentions were upon settling onto the sofa every night, how tired they proclaimed to be or how much study Sebastian had to get through, it was only a matter of time before he was tugging the silky slip of her dress over her hips, too busy moaning into her mouth to bother pulling it all the way over her head.

Tonight was no exception.

‘Puppies are cute,’ he said stupidly, letting his lips trail a wanton path of desire along her collarbone. ‘S'you think m'cute…’

‘I think you're out of control…’

Sebastian snickered against her skin, but she was right: his hips were already canting against her, each thrust punctuated by an undignified squeak from the sofa until the tiny cottage was filled with a creaky symphony of little thrusts and heavy breaths.

Blind to anything but the taste of her skin, he hadn't noticed the ridiculous little noises he was making until, with some difficulty, she pried his lips away from her neck. Suffering terribly, he made another stupid noise, squeaking like some kind of injured bird, but she soothed the pout off his face with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, and he fell silent.

‘You know,’ she said, tilting his flushed face to look at her, ‘I think you could benefit from a little obedience training, no?’

Sebastian swallowed — loudly.

‘Training?’ he echoed, eagerly wetting his lips. ‘What kind of training?’

Never one to back down from a challenge, Sebastian's propensity for learning, combined with his impulsivity and mildly-obsessive tendencies, meant he was usually the one who took the lead in matters of the mind — after all, he'd taught himself all number of forbidden spells when he was only fifteen, defied every “Do not enter” and locked door he'd ever encountered, and read so many books he was practically a walking encyclopaedia. But when it came to this, he found himself all-too happy to be led.

Smiling like she didn't hold his very life in her hands, Aurélie tilted his head back by his chin as she pondered his question, exposing his throat to her thoughtful gaze. Goosebumps erupted across his skin, and he shivered like he was cold.

‘Depends,’ she whispered, leaning down to plant a warm, lingering kiss to the underside of his chin — a whimper slipped out; he didn't try to stifle it.

‘On?’ he croaked.

‘On what sort of reinforcement you need. — Positive,’ she mouthed, pressing down with her hips again, ‘or negative,’ she nipped his skin with her teeth.

‘Ah — fuck.’ Sebastian's body reacted well before his mind caught up. Holding her firmly by the waist, he bucked his hips up once, twice, three times, using the momentum to create friction where they both needed it most; because despite how in control she wanted to appear, she whimpered just as loudly as he did when he rutted against her. Beneath them, the sofa gave a loud, precarious-sounding screech, but Sebastian was beyond caring about the state of his furniture — he'd level the fucking house if it meant having her closer.

‘Sebas—,’ she yelped, but he cut her off with a kiss that left no room for speech, or breath, or thought beyond how fucking badly he needed her.

They moved against each other then, lost in a mess of limbs and lips and hands and tongues, and the volume of his moaning was rivalled only by that of the sofa's antique joints begging for mercy, which they dutifully ignored until —

Crack —

A splintering crunch and a hard lurch backwards cut their frantic canoodling short, and suddenly Sebastian found himself on the floor with a broken sofa back beneath him and a very unimpressed — albeit delightfully naked — redhead on top.

Not content to let a bit of back pain interrupt them, he grinned up at her hopefully, unabashedly flashing the best, most pathetically pleading puppy eyes he could muster — but she only frowned at him through her curtains of auburn hair, pinned his arms above his head and whispered, ‘Negative reinforcement it is, then.’

With the sofa officially out of action, the only thing begging for mercy for the rest of the night was him.

[borathae]

"Sometimes being with each other is all that you need to be happy."

Pairing: Vampire!Yoongi x Witch!Reader

Genre: established relationship!AU, domestic Fluff

Warnings: they are so in love <3, Boongie is a lil sad at the beginning but cheers up because of her, he makes her food <3, they share kisses hehehe, hinted polyamory

Wordcount: 2.6k

a/n: i don't even know what to say anymore. i just love them so much :( i want them to be happy always <3

The lights in your room are off, only the candles are burning. You don’t need much more. They provide enough light and give the room a cozy feeling.

As of recently, the room you currently find yourself in was one of the many unused rooms in the estate, destined to a dark and dusty fate. Until Yoongi surprised you with it as your new and freshly renovated witch office. He fixed up the fireplace so you could hang your cauldron and rewired all the electricity so you could actually use the lights. He dusted the room, fixed the rotten floor, painted the walls, installed better insulated windows and then filled the room with renovated furniture and so many books. It earned him a million kisses and a billion hugs and you spent a good amount of it crying in his arms because you were so happy.

Since then, you made this place your own. The room was divided into three spaces. The first space was your potion kitchen, consisting of a hip-high work counter, a white metal sink in front of the window and the fireplace with the cauldron. The next section was your work desk, located in front of the second window. You do your magic homework there, take notes from your books or stare outside to watch the rain. And the last space was your reading area consisting of a spacious sofa with lots of cushions and blankets, a small side table on which a floral lamp gifts light and another side table for mandatory tea cup holding. From the ceiling hooks, bundles of herbs and flowers are drying and little trinkets and crystals are presented wherever a free spot offered itself. The wooden floors are covered in antique rugs and candles keep the space illuminated. Taehyung also gave you one of his record players, which earned him as just many kisses and just as many hugs. You placed it on yet another small table by your work desk.

Said record player is currently serenading you with your current favourite album. A faint knock at the door cuts through the melodies. 

“It’s open!”

Yoongi steps inside and closes the door behind him. He shrugged off his riding coat and gloves, but kept the sweater on. A black turtleneck, tugged neatly into black riding pants. He doesn’t wear shoes – courtesy of your no shoes in your rooms policy – which results in his already silent steps to be noiseless on the floor. 

“You got wet”, you gasp, “oh, love what happened?”

“Nothing, I just got rained on”, he assures you and walks to you in hasty steps. 

“It started to rain?” you look outside, “it did. I didn’t even notice that it did.”

“Yeah, it started ten minutes ago.”

You are currently in your kitchen, tying camomile into bundles. Yoongi places himself behind you and wraps his arms around you, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. 

You giggle because it tickles, fleeing him with minimal effort. His lips and nose feel cold from outside. His wet hair rubs against your skin and sends shivers through you. He kisses your favourite spot, ending it with a small purr. 

“Hey”, he whispers sweetly.

“Hey there. Your face is cold.”

“The wind’s strong. It’s why I got so wet”, he says.

“And it’s not because you’ve been riding in the rain for so long?”

He chuckles and nibbles on your jawline, “probably.”

You laugh softly, relaxing in his arms as you return to your task. You plan on using the herbs for teas and sleepy cushions. Taehyung especially loves those cushions and he already has a collection of five with plans of growing them. You love making them for him, because he gets so happy when you gift them to him. 

Yoongi keeps hugging you as you work, stealing neck and shoulder kisses whenever he can.

“Tea or pillows?” he asks.

“Both, but mostly tea. It’s getting colder again, so we’ll need to restock.”

“Mhm, can’t wait. Your teas are very good”, he says, making you smile. 

“Thank you, my love.”

“Mhm.”

Emma and Seokjin asked you if you wanted to have a small section in their perfume shop where you could sell your teas and creams. You instantly said yes. Jimin has been helping with packaging. He finds lots of purpose doing something which might seem so insignificant to others, but to him it feels very important. Something where he can be careful and tender, where he can go slow and where he knows that he won’t be punished even if he messes up. You think that it helps heal a few wounds in his heart, because whenever you watch him fill the packages of tea with a concentrate pout on his lips or the jars of cream with furrowed brows, a sense of tranquillity surrounds him.

You are currently drying camomile for a new patch of your very delicious tea mixture against colds and sniffles.

“How did it go with him?” you ask him, placing a finished bundle aside to start work on a new one. 

“Good, I guess. He’s still the same.”

“Yeah? Well, at least that’s positive news. The spell worked without side effects.”

“Yeah”, Yoongi says and rests his chin on your shoulder, “he refused to talk. Again. Like always.”

“Mhm, I see. That’s not that good of news. Does he eat and drink at least?”

“Yes, but…I don’t know what to do anymore. Nothing I try helps. It’s like he’s, he’s”, Yoongi stops talking and sighs instead, “it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does matter”, you turn in his arms, placing your hands on his chest, “I can hear that it upsets you.”

“It doesn’t upset me.”

“Yoongi…” you warn.

Yoongi lowers his eyes, “it makes me sad”, he whispers.

“Gosh my love”, you cup his right cheek. 

He leans into it instantly.

“I understand your pain. You are trying so hard, but nothing helps. It must be so painful to watch him rot away like this.”

He nods his head, “I keep wondering if we did the right thing. If, if we never should have turned him human. I wanted to heal him and, and now he is just a shell of-”, he stops again and looks into your eyes, “I’m sorry”, he whispers.

“For what, my love?”

“I almost cried, but I don’t want to.”

“It’s okay, let it all out. You’ll feel so much better afterwards.”

“No”, he shakes his head, “I can’t do that. I want a hug.”

“Com’ere.”

Yoongi falls into your arms, hugging you back with grateful tenderness. 

“It’s okay to cry, my love.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

“Okay, but if you need to, don’t hold back, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You hold him for the duration of one song, swaying him to the melody and caressing the nape of his neck. He doesn’t cry, but it is still clear that the hug has the same effect on him as crying would have. Once he steps back, the weight on his shoulders seems to have lifted and he gives you an honest smile.

“Thank you”, he says.

“Don’t. You know that you can always come to me.”

“Yeah”, he nods his head, “thanks. You can always come to me too.”

“I know, love. Thank you.”

He smiles and nods his head once.

“And we’ll get through this together, yeah? You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“I know, thank you”, he says and looks to the side shyly, “I cherish you so much”, he whispers with his fingers touching his own hair. 

“I cherish you too, my beloved.”

Yoongi hums and touches his own tummy.

“Uhm. I’ll dry up now. My nipples are coming through the shirt because I’m so cold”, he says, cracking you up. 

Yep, he definitely feels better again. 

You glance at his chest and the very prominent nipples poking through the fabric.

“They do. Oh dear, look at them”, you say, touching them softly. 

He swats your hands away, “don’t. They’re sensitive”, he whines.

“Sorry”, you apologise with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes. 

“You’re not”, he says and steps back to leave, “I’ll dry up.”

“Yeah, okay. Have fun, love.”

“Mhm.”

He leaves the room, but returns soon. The vinyl already finished quite some time ago. Now the pitter-patter of rain against the windows is keeping you audible company. You are by your bookcases, cleaning up the books you had to use lately. You like sorting them back into your shelves in alphabetical order once you are done using them. 

Yoongi knocks on your door again. By the sound of it, he used his elbow for it. 

“Come in!”

“I need help.”

“Oh dear. What’s wrong?” you gasp, hurrying to the door to open it for him.

Nothing is wrong. He is merely carrying a big tray filled with tea and lots of little snacks. Biscuits, sandwiches cut into triangles, sliced fruit and a can of cinnamon tea with some milk. He clearly couldn’t twist the doorknob like this.

“Oh wow Boongie, what's all of that?” you gasp. 

“I thought that you were probably hungry”, he says, carrying the tray to your work desk. 

“I am. Thank you”, you tell him as you trail behind him. You hug him from behind, rubbing his tummy as he prepares the tea for you. He prepares himself a cup as well.

“There you go.” 

“Thank. You”, you say sweetly and giggle, circling him so you could clink mugs with him.

You and he share silence as you try the tea. It tastes rich in spices and leaves behind a comfortable warmth in your tummy. 

“This is so yummy. You make the best tea, my love”, you gush and pick up one of the sandwiches, “now what’s that?”

“Just some burrata with tomatoes and pesto and prosciutto and stuff. Yeah, I thought it could be good.”

“Mhhm it is good, wow Boongie this tastes amazing.”

The sandwich is perfectly grilled to be crunchy outside but still soft inside and the flavours of the fillings harmonize together perfectly. You feel your mouth water even as you are munching on it. 

He looks to the side, smiling to himself. 

“Yeah, eat a lot”, he says, nodding his head. 

“I definitely will. Thank you, my love”, you say and pick up the plate, “do you wanna sit on the couch and talk while we eat?”

“Yeah”, he says and follows you with the tea cups. 

You sit down in a way so that you can rest your bend legs on his lap and he can run his hand up and down your thigh. He drinks his tea while you eat the delicious sandwich. He asks you if you had a nice day until now and you tell him that you did. Then you ask him if he feels better now that he is dry and he tells you that he does. Afterwards you guide the sandwich to his lips, offering him a bite which he accepts with a faux frown on his face. In the end, he goes in for one more bite and says that the sandwich was good. 

Once you finished your sandwich – and you told him all about the caterpillar you saw in the garden – you share the plate of biscuits and another cup of tea each. You busy yourself with your books as you do, while Yoongi relaxes on the couch with his phone. 

You share silence like this, coexisting in the same space. You love doing this with him. To be alone, but not lonely. To know that you can partake in your favourite things, but if you wanted to, you would just have to turn and see your favourite person. To know that he is there and that you could just go over there and kiss his lips makes time feel so meaningful and precious.

You place the book aside and give in to the voices. You go to him and place yourself in front of him. Yoongi lifts his head, running his eyes over your face in silent curiosity. Wordlessly, you lean down and cup his cheeks to pull him into a loving kiss. 

“Hm”, Yoongi lets out and drops his phone for the sake of holding you. He feels dizzy instantly. Oh, how much he loves to kiss you. 

It breaks way too soon for his liking. You even straighten up again, looking down at him with warm eyes. 

“Why did you do that?” he asks breathily and with his sparkly eyes racing between yours. 

“I just felt like it”, you answer him, caressing his lips gently. 

He chases your touch with a tilt of his head and a breathy, “oh” slipping from his pouty lips.

“Why? Is that a problem?”

He shakes his head, fluttering his lashes at you.

“That’s what I thought”, you say and gift him a fond smile, “you’re so handsome, my love”, you say and step back again to return to your books.

Yoongi lowers his head shyly, touching his own lips. Your surprise kisses won’t ever lose their spark. Yoongi swears he discovers new colours whenever you kiss him that way. He is so giddy when he is with you. You make him feel so good. You really do. He watches you work for a little while. You are almost finished with the books, taking tea and biscuit breaks every now and then.

Yoongi switches his eyes to the guitar next to the work desk. It’s from his collection. It was made out of black wood with pearl engravings on the guitar neck and produced a beautiful sound. It has a permanent home in this room, just like a few of your plants have a permanent home in his wing these days. It happened naturally that you trickled into each other’s spaces with the intent to stay. It doesn’t feel out of place, as a matter of fact, your spaces wouldn’t feel complete if the little hints of the other weren’t present.

Yoongi gets up from the sofa, “do you mind if I play the guitar?” he asks.

“No, of course not. I was already thinking how quiet the room is”, you allow him with your nose lost in one of your books, “woah, that’s interesting. Why did I wanna put this away? I gotta take notes on this”, you murmur and turn to hurry to the desk.

You meet Yoongi there. He is carrying the guitar by its neck, smiling at you with curious eyes.

“What did you discover?” he asks.

“Look”, you show him the pages in the book.

Yoongi looks at them with great interest. They present knowledge to a spell you are currently practicing under his guidance.

“That’s the spell we practiced yesterday. I didn’t even see those pages yet.”

“Mhm, they seem helpful. It’s a good idea to take notes about them”, he tells you and glances at your face.

You notice, meeting his gaze.

“Can I have another kiss?” he asks.

You nod your head and close the distance between you and him to kiss his lips. Yoongi deepens it with his hand on the side of your neck and his thumb caressing your cheek. By the time he finally breaks it, your heart is racing just a little. He gives you a smile.

“That was nice”, he says.

“Yeah”, you agree, nudging his chest, “you’re so sweet.”

“Mhm”, he hums and steps back to get comfortable on the couch, “do you have any song wishes?”

“Not really. Just play whatever you wanna play”, you tell him and sit down by your desk.

“Okay”, he says and seconds later the melodies of his guitar fills the air. 

[jesssssssssica]

cowboy like me cl16

It was sometimes hard being a new person in every town you had visited, having to adapt to recognising when someone was speaking to you and your new identity and having to remember the names of the many you would eventually con.

But it was worth it and it was the only life you knew, having grown up conning the rich for all of their worth, charming them to a point of gaining their trust, to milk them dry all for the advantages of being rich.

You had met many in your journey but none of them stayed with you for long enough that you could trust them, too afraid that you too would be swindled.

It all happened in Monaco, a small country filled with the rich and greedy, making it a perfect place for you to coax the men into giving you parts of their earnings. Whilst there, you had slept with a man, many years older than yourself, but not the oldest you had ever been with. It was an easy target, with the man practically begging to bed you, and from there you had him hooked. Who knew that you could gain three antique cars in a single weekend, by just batting your eyelashes and perfecting a pout? Men could be so easy. 

But then you met him.

A fellow traveller that currently called himself 'Charles'.

To this day you still don’t know whether or not the name he addressed himself by was real or not, having no way to try and find out. 

He was handsome, sure, with his beautiful smile and his enticing accent, but his looks also equated to his ability to annoy and do your head in.

You didn't originally want to speak to the man who was somehow managing to outshine you and take away your earnings, finding him a nuisance who only got away with his crime due to his boyish charm and rugged looks , but you couldn't resist it.

It began on the rooftop of one of the country clubs, the one that overlooked the tarp covered tennis courts, the both of you drunk out of your minds, courtesy of the unlimited tab on the bar, watching the way the lights of the cityscape shone against the dark night.

You don’t quite understand how the pair of you both managed to be in the same place at once, blaming it on the alcohol levels in both of your systems, but for some reasons it was as if you two were just normal people that knew each other for years and years. 

The silence between the pair of you was comforting and you liked it, enjoyed it even, finally getting some peace in the hectic life that you lived.

"Do you want to dance?" Came the voice from beside you, the first words shared between you to be spoken in almost twenty minutes.

Silence.

You could only stare at the man in front of you in bewilderment and confusion, perplexed at the prospect of dancing with the stranger in front of you, the man with a thousand identities.

Who was to say that he had not gone through this routine with the ladies in the previous towns, the people before you, sweet-talking you into false beliefs only to leave you alone and upset whilst he's off in another city, restarting his routine.

"Y'know dancing is a dangerous game" Was the only response you could muster, too afraid to say more but too confused to say any less.

And yet the man in front of you could only smile at you, with an equal amount of coyness and understanding, but still he holds out his hand, emphasising his desire to dance with you. 

It was at that moment, as you continued to stare at his outstretched hand, that you realised that it was going to be one of those things that your mother had always warned you about, having had knowledge on what it was like falling in love whilst on the run, yourself being one of the few things that came out of the affair. 

Was it worth it to destroy yourself by allowing someone in? More specifically, was it worth it to destroy yourself by letting someone that lied and swindled for a living in?

But now, looking back on the life you previously led, thinking back to that week in Monaco, you realised that you should’ve listened to your intuition and not your heart, because now you had a heart that could never love again. 

You should’ve known better than to trust someone who swindles and lies for a living, who wants to take and take and take because of course why would someone love someone when they could swindle them out of their dignity and pride? 

Because here you are now, swirling a gin and tonic in your hand, sitting on your kitchen counter waiting desperately for the ring of the phone, praying that he calls and yet silence continues to overtake your apartment. It’s crazy that the want for some pricey cars led to this creation of a forlorn you. 

But he’s a bandit, going from town to town, hustling for the rich lifestyle and it’s understandable but you always seem to wonder whether or not you live this life together, like Bonnie and Clyde, charming everyone with our sweet tones and stories. 

You could finally understand the way the men felt whenever you manipulated them into thinking that a one night stand left you enamoured with them. You could almost indefinitely say that karma had come back to bite you in the bum after all the crimes you had committed. 

So now you speak of him as if he were a pharaoh from a distant land, an antique and precious figure, to the people you meet along the road, however never addressing that this tale is a raw and real one, one that left you traumatised and unable to love again. 

A ghost in the world.

[desertdollranch]

Kirsten's bedroom renovation

It's a sunny spring day in Minnesota Territory, and Kirsten is stuck indoors, helping with the spring cleaning. Her first task is to sweep the upstairs bedrooms--she shares one with her three siblings, and so it gets messy very quickly. But Kirsten doesn't complain--she remembers her previous home, a one-room log cabin on her aunt and uncle's farm. That was easier to clean, but it was hard sharing such a small place with six people. After a fire burned that cabin down, the Larsons bought a much larger house, the beautiful home they dreamed they'd have when they left Sweden two years ago.

As for my part in this, I created a bedroom for my Kirsten doll a few years ago, but I recently renovated it to make it look more like the illustrations in Kirsten's sixth book, Changes for Kirsten.

The walls in this illustration look like they've been finished with plaster, which was common in houses at the time. The light color would have come from local sources of limestone.

So most of the changes I made were to the walls and windows. I used printed photographs for the windows, and added the twelve-pane window frames over the images before printing. For the walls, I took down the boring white wood paneling. I imitated that plastered look using tissue paper stuck to the first layer of pale yellow paint, and then I painted another layer over the tissue paper.

The furnishings are basically the same, except for the trunk on the right side of this photo. She used to store her clothes in the top half of Felicity's clothes press, which I mentioned in my recent post about moving the clothes press into the parlor for Caroline to use. After I did that, I knew Kirsten would need a place to store her clothes, and what better piece than a smaller version of her trunk?

Most of the things in the above picture are not from Kirsten's collection. The bed was made by my grandpa when I was eight and first got my Kirsten doll. My mom made the quilt on the bed and the one on the rocking chair, the pillow and mattress on the bed, and the two darker gray cats. The foot stove next to the bed is Pleasant Company, and so are the shoes (including snow shoes) lined up next to the trunk. The rocking chair came from an antique store. I made everything else: both rugs, the cradle, the nightstand, the candle and book and stuffed cat on the nightstand, the cross stitch hanging on the wall, the shelves and everything on them, the painted round boxes at the foot of the bed, baby Britta's dress, and Kirsten's quilt square in the embroidery hoop.

This is a little wooden trunk I found at a craft store. I painted it blue and then painted on the decorative designs using stencils.

That's Kirsten's straw hat hanging on the wall, from her collection. My mom made the two sunbonnets.

I gave it a weathered look by lightly brushing on white and red paint.

The trunk can hold all of Kirsten's clothes. It has room for a few more dresses too. I have almost all of Kirsten's clothes; I'm only missing her baking outfit, skating coat, and promise dress.

I also made the gingham curtains for the windows. There's a lot of blue and white going on in here, so I wanted them to match the color themes.

Next to Britta's cradle are the round boxes I made to hold Kirsten's socks and ribbons, which are all Pleasant Company things. Her lunch box and bucket are from craft stores.

I remade her honey crate and the jars of honey. They now contain clear glue dyed with food coloring. I made her little gnomes too.

The rocking chair was an antique store find. It's perfect for her to sit with her baby sister Britta.

I also painted a little flourish on the end of her bed.

This definitely isn't all of Kirsten's collection--I have a few pieces hidden away underneath her room that won't fit here. That includes her actual big trunk that my grandpa made, her Saint Lucia wreath and tray that I made, her dishes set from her official collection, and some other small things that she doesn't need in her room.

[blondewhoresworld]

silent night !

saltburn fanfic

!femreader x !felixcatton

tw: talks of hookup, hugs, alcohol use

you had never liked christmas. it was something about america. made it hard to love. the ugly decorated trees, smell of plastic and tinsel. it was always too hot for it to feel jolly. plus it was just another excuse for your family to force ugly sweaters over your head.

that had been your opinion on christmas. hated it, a grinch even. but coming to england, oxford to be exact, had slowly started to warm you. something about the freezing cold cobbled streets, hot chocolate stands, woolly hats, watching how your own breath pooled out in waves of humidity.

you would never admit it but maybe it was starting to grow on you. plus with every coming christmas came a cheesy christmas party. your college was known for them. it’s where you had met felix.

he was dressed in a way too tight, way too small santa outfit. the top undone to show off his lazy but lean chest. you had watched him all night from across the room. desperately trying to get a peek of the tattoo that would flash itself every so often.

felix had approached you first, beaming, cheeks flushed with the strong liquor. he was a towering figure. made even the tallest person look insignificant.

“you alright?” he had said, double fisted with two bottles of smirnoff mixes in his hands.

“yeah… fine.” you replied, you always loved a college party, had dressed on theme. little elf outfit, your cheeks painted pink.

“dance?” it was easy for him, one word and it was the next day and you had woken up in his twin bed.

that’s where you were now, the following year. thin cigarette in hand as you sit with your back against the cool stone wall.

“what do you mean you hate christmas?” he had his face scrunched up, trying to unscrew his eyebrow piercing. he was heading home for christmas and had already lectured you on his mothers clean cut household rules.

“it’s shitty, just an excuse for people to get drunk and put up ugly decorations.” you shrugged, taking a long drag of your cigarette and trying not to laugh at him.

“that’s the best part.” felix argued, still fiddling with the tiny metal ball. “trust me y/n you have never had a good english christmas.”

he said it with such confidence and certainty that you burst out laughing, it caused him to jolt and loose hand on his piercing. he swore under his breath and shook his head, that same crooked smile on his lips.

“don’t laugh.” he said, rolling his eyes. “if you saw my house all lit up you would change your mind. mum throws a wicked christmas eve party.”

he paused and looked at you. “where are you this year? the states?”

she shook her head. “nah, i was gonna stay here or go to my meemaw’s down in kent.”

“sick!” felix exclaimed, that posh accent still brought a smile to your lips. “you can come, i’ll get a car and everything. it will be totally chill vibes.”

it was everything but chill vibes.

you arrived late on purpose, your black cab dropping you just outside the gates.

felix wasn’t wrong so far, you had been to his house before in the summer. but now it looked stunning.

every inch was covered in warm fairy lights, fountains had frozen over, the gates had little merry christmas signs dotted all over them.

huge wreaths decorated with holly and dried out oranges were on every door and as the gates opened you could hear the music already playing.

a butler dressed in a black suit and a christmas themed tie took your things and led you into the entrance hall. that was almost showstopping.

two huge trees lay at the end of each room, both had been so carefully decorated and curated it felt scary to be so close. warm colours, red, orange, yellows covered each branch. and when you looked closer you noticed that each catton had their own personalised bauble. it was so perfect. so warm. the house itself was warm.

a table lie in the middle of the room, sat on a red intricate antique rug. it had a little miniature village on top that was playing out christmas scenes. it was genuinely like spending christmas with the windsor’s.

“y/n mate!” it was felix, he came bombarding into the room, sporting no shoes (or socks) and a large piece of tinsel wrapped around his neck. “you are so late!” he leant down and picked you up like it was nothing. it was a sweet embrace, something that made your cheeks burn.

he was clearly already tipsy but you couldn’t figure out what it was. “come, come.” he led you through the rest of the house and into the ballroom.

he had your hand tugging you along as you attempted to steal glances of the rooms. his sister sat in one room, she had let the blonde fade out of her hair and it had returned to its natural brown.

she made the small room glow, sat watching the tv with a glass of red wine in her hands. the room was so stacked with fairy lights and sofas it was hard to see her at first. she didn’t see you.

the next thing you saw was the gardens. he led you through a corridor that had huge windows. you could see everything, the fog that lingered over the grounds, each tree had been dressed up in orange lights. usually saltburn was scary at night but this was almost breathtaking.

then you were finally in the ballroom.

now that was what christmas was.

a slow and jazzy version of silent night was playing lowly as earls and sirs and ladies and lords all talked it happy drunk voices.

about seven antique rugs had been placed over the floor and every stood in their socks or bare feet. candles sat on every surface and you really began to believe you were in a harry potter book.

you passed a huge nutcracker and almost fell. felix caught you by your arm and laughed, his cheeks red. you couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol or the warmth of the room.

“totally chill, hm?” he said, handing you a glass of red wine. “maybe christmas is better in england?”

you didn’t reply, just sipped the drink and took in the smell of the happy guests and the sound of the music.

ps tysm @tinytennisskirt for inspiring me to write again <33

[kurosstuff]

As much as I adore romance with al. This is al were talking about. I adore the horror aspect of him after all

Warning(s): NO ROMANCE, horror, blood, cannibalsm. Alastor fucks with you, this is dark♡ like real dark, murder, trickery, ending is left up to you

Summary: haven't you ever been told to not touch what's not yours? To not go searching?

Alastor x gn!reader: the Boogyman.

@scoutswritingcorner hope you enjoy lovely

Sight seeing is fun. You get to see all sorts of interesting things and places.

Go places you've never been to or seen before - finding new and old things, like now. Your search for a very old artifact is now here. In front of this antique shop- you grinned, glancing at your phone

"New Orleans- the old and new antique shop.. this is it right?" Glancing back at your Taxi driver who grimaced at the building nodding slightly uncomfortable. For some reason or another. He wouldn't drive to close almost in fear of something

"You sure ya wanna be here? Alone? I mean.. these places ain't safe. Especially for a tourist, " the man spoke again, warning you of the dangers of this town. As he did the whole way. Yet the closer he got to the shop? He spoke of it more and mire. As if to get you to not do it. Smiling at him, he sighed, knowing nothing will change your mind "i' I mean even this place is forbidden from tourists!"

"I've come so far! It's the last piece of the puzzle!" You grinned happily, showing him your phone yet again blabbing on the reason why your here- "-I mean! The very last old artifact of the mysterious creature that plauged the town? Is here? I wanna see it!"

"Ya really wanna risk it all for a old busted thing? Who knows if it even works." He grumbled softly, staring at it. The story was well known to the townspeople, of course.

Wanting it swept under the rug as much as possible for the horrors that took place during the time.

Seeing you nod he grumbled softly again itching to tell you. To warn you. To try and again to shake you off this silly dream. He sighed. Under the unspoken hidden rule. He couldn't tell you. "Don't say I didn't warn you" before driving off

Grinning, you turned, walking up the path humming once you spotted the very building you were trying to find. You couldn't help but be nervous. What if this wasn't the right place? And you were being scammed?

Such a late thing to think as you opened the door stepping inside the small hut of a cabin. The inside somehow looked so much bigger and smaller, given the old nick nacks inside. The old antiques laid perfectly all around, almost untouched for centuries yet perfectly preserved. Cleaned and polished. Looking bright, almost brand new, but the items you spotted you knew. They were quite old.

You were curious- how did they touch? Smooth as you imagined or-

"Welcome to the shop- pick your items or look around," a grumpy voice called out, making you jump, yelping turning you flushed in embarrassment an old man sat at a booth drinking from a cup eyeing you annoyed "don't touch anything- their all fragile. You break you pay" he gestured to you grumbling as you disrupted his solidute.

"Uh- yeah, of course," you stumbled out, clearing your throat nervously going up to him. "I'm looking for uh something, Sir." Pulling your phone out ignoring his eye roll grumbling mumbling something before showing him the radio you were hunting for "this! Says here you'd have i-"

"It won't show unless it fucking wants to" he interrupted grumbling "don't bother searching only the unlucky finds the damned thing" he huffed out annoyed- rolling his eyes he waved you off "go on. Whatever you want carry it gently here I'll bag it for ya"

Blinking you huffed turning. The old man was of no luck whatsoever. Should have guessed from how uninterested he seemed to be. Looking around at all the items in thought a shiver ran up your back. Your legs felt not of your own walking as If you knew where to go- to walk. To look.

Walking until you wandered down a dark hallway. Bare of items as you followed swallowing your nerves. The uncomfortably feeling your not alone. That your doing something bad.

So? You decided to hum. To bring yourself comfort. To distract yourself from whatever you felt as you entered another part of the shop

Humming in the shop, you grinned. "Ah hah!" Lifting out an old radio - a red old themed radio. A deer themed one. You assumed it meant something but didn't know what - ignoring the shiver up your back, you held it up - smirking, you turned it around to look around "perfect condition ~" before frowning. No price tag. Sighing, you went bqck to the main room up to the counter, and the grumpy old man glanced over at you blankly

"Whatd you want?"

What a total grump. You hummed softly, placing the radio on the counter, staring up at him happily. "How much?" He slowly blinked as if he was in some sort of slumber. As if you woke him from his nap when you came up- which? You wouldn't be surprised if that was the case

Glancing down, he grimaced, glaring at the old thing as if it disgusted him. Like he never wanted to see it. "..you sure you want this? I'll let you take whatever else in the shop. Half off, " glancing up at you. Staring as if through you. As if staring at something else. Before you could ask, he groaned, waving you off, turning away. "Take it. Its free." Going back to cleaning leaving no room for any more talk.

Grinning you didn't think much of it. How odd it was he'd just hand it over to you for nothing. But you came here for this. So it was a good deal..

Right?

-

The second you got home you gently carried the surprisingly light radio into your home excitedly- rushing to your table putting it on it. Looking at how unbelievably odd the thing was.

How weird it looked. The first you suspected at the time period to have such a design

Sitting at your table, you stared at the old radio. Feeling it stare right back. You were curious of the old thing. Would it work? Was it broken? Was that why you were given it for free? Or was it something else? Just pure luck? Not

Grumbling, you looked around for the buttons, the almost ray of buttons forming a smile of sorts, if you looked just right. Pushing a button, you grinned a soft tune echoing from the old radio. "finally~ some old-time music~" you mused. Maybe it was one of those ones that only had a certain amount of stations? Running a hand over the antlers on the top of it in thought.

What an odd design. The dark red paint with the deer like appearance to the thing- you were at least glad it was small- "oh fuck-" you cursed the sharp part of the antler, piercing your finger, cutting you- your blooded finger you stood. Cursing in annoyance as you walked off to clean it

Unaware of the blood that got on the radio sucked it in. Evaporating into the old timed thing. As if feeding it.

-

You suspected the old radio was broken in some way. How it randomly started to play. Or to stop- looking it up gave the impression it was a faulty wiring. You grumbled rubbing your sleepy eyes as the loud Jazz started once more. It felt more like it was mocking you at this rate. But- it's common with old stuff you found out. So- deciding if it's just jazz music. You can handle that.

At least for the party with your friends next week itll be ok. It won't be too much of an issue.

A booming laugh escaped the radio yet again as if reading your mind. Finding amusement in your sleepless annoyance. Grumbling you turned blinking "what the-" how'd the radio get from the dining room to the kitchen? You didn't put it there.

You need that space to cook? So.. how the hell did it get there? Of all places? Rolling your eyes you picked the heavy radio up walking back to its temporary place. You assumed it was just your tiredness. How little you slept

-

You didn't wanna believe it. But you think maybe just.. maybe the things haunted like you've been warned about. Odd things have been happening. This whole week has been hell for you since you bought the thing.

How things have been going missing. How things have been moving. The bruises forming on your body.

The dreams

The nightmares to be more exact

Of this man. This tall Grey man. You couldn't make out much of his appearance, yet you knew he had antlers. Long antlers. And that smile. God that horrible smile- just way to wide- to sharp for anyone to have.

How he always watches you yet stands in the shadows watching. Unmoving yet you know he's there. You know it.

Shaking your head shivering of the odd feeling at how ever other day.

He's getting closer

-

And that damned smile gets wider.

Something is off about this nightmare.. you knew it was one from the devoid of color all around. The static like feeling that youd feel with the radio close by. Walking around your "home" quietly cautiously. The hallways feeling longer- so much longer. Like your in a maze.

Maybe you were.

The doors stretched our longer wider the more you turned. The hair on your neck standing slowly in a panic. Your only clear sign. That thing is here. Behind you like always- looking back you saw the shadow of the creature peaking at you- a smile on its face once it say that you noticed it. A sound was heard- swallowing you took a deep breath. Your heart pounding.

It was that of a cane. Tapping getting louder and louder. He spotted you. Not Like he never knew where to look but from what you gathered. He loves the chase. The thrill of the hunt it seemed. Why? You don't know. But you knew. He found his prey.

You.

Quietly you went into the room silent. Knowing from the past dreams if they were that. He hated it when you spoke. Speaking seemed to be that of "cheating" to him. His ears(If that's what those were) would easily catch you. Catch your voice ending the game so much later them planned

Not that I'd need to hear you

A radio rang out making you freeze- turning slow the cursed radio sat almost mockingly at you. Watching you- you shook violently bur why? Why are you so scared? It's just a nightmare. You can't die in a nightmare- you cant get hurt in a nightmare.

-

Can you?

This "dream." Feels like a warning. But? What for? A tap on the door caught your attention turning slowly you watched as the door creaked open a sound of echoed laughter from the radio played.

Mocking you. Shaming you for your choice. Bur what did you pick?

You feel like your going mad. Crazy. One day the horrors begin unending nightmares nightly but then it was like everything is fine. That nothing is wrong with the radio.

With you.

But something is wrong you just can't figure out what exactly. A soft tone played from the radio that once again started on its own. You hummed a rare peaceful moment that day from the laughs it played out. Made you feel like ir was laughing at your mocking you

The jazz was good. Distracting from what was happening but fluent. The old radio dispite it being old as fuck you assumes was good. Humming along peacefully to it before- the radio glitches out yet again.

The intruder entered from the back door of the poor unfortunate soul. Sad they forgot to check the lock.

You sighed. There it goes again. You frowned before you stopped. "Wait.. what?" Hearing the exact date it is. Today

The homeowner was well unaware of the horrible act that took place. How they were cleaning. How the plates were red. Stained

What you were doing right now. You shook your head- "nope. Nope nuh uh not- not listening" you teared up, shaking trying to turn the station- must be some sick joke- a similar thing couldn't LEAD to something horrible..

Right?

Turn around

Turning the dial, you frown. Static. "Damn it." You grunted, ignoring the glitches from the old thing. How jumbled words came out of it as if speaking to you- but radios can't do that. No radio's aren't like that-

I said. Look behind you.

Slowly you turned nothing seemed out of place. Seemed normal. Walking into the back as the radio went back to the tune before like nothing took place. Taking a deep breath turning the corner "just check. Then.. then it's fine. The doors locked."

Walking down the hall which oddly felt familiar- of course it would. This is your house yet. It felt like the nightmare all over again. The closer you got the louder your heart pounded in your chest. Slowly you turned the know. Locked.

A laugh was heard down the hall making you shakily sigh.

It was fucking with you again.

-

The day your friends came for the party not a big crowd just a small one. Just the three of your to celebrate your finding of thr radio- the door opened as rhey came in-

Laughing having a great time. Easily forgetting about the strangness that happened during the weeks of having the radio. Yet something felt off.

Not once today did it act up. Was it just in your head? Or was it giving you time with your friends?

"Oh sick this is it dude?" Your friend spoke lifting the radio up as he sat on the couch shifting it to the counter beside him. You nodded answering the questions you answered before abour it. Like on instinct. You didnt know half of the information you spoke.

Where'd you learn that?

Turning the radio on he hummed leaning back against the couch turning the TV on as well. Grumbling something about you needing more drinks in the kitchen

It was quiet. Before the radio came to life. Starting out normal before the voice began to speak through it

The day of the crime. It was unexpected. A normal Tuesday night between friends turned into a blood bath

You scrunched your nose up at the radio station. What a poor choice of a station your friend picked. "Hey. Gonna get the stuff in the car. Dont eat without me, ok?" You grumbled, patting your friends' arms, who shooed you off, laughing jokingly, walking out, you felt..

Off

The killer moved to the shed retrieving the ax hidden inside

The radio played in your head, making you panic. This isn't right. Your legs started to move. Against your will. Going to the car, you grabbed the item coming back inside, sighing

"Got it, dude!"

The killer came back inside. Slaughtering the first one in the house they saw. The poor soul sitting watching a show- unaware of their fate

"Oh, silly. You spilled your drink-" you grumbled, staring at your friend after they spilled their drink all over the ground

This isn't right

Hearing your friend in the kitchen call for you. You turned. "Oh yeah, I have it!" You smiled. Tearfully. Smile to wide coming into the kitchen

The next and last victim in the kitchen. Cooking up a lovely dinner for the house hold. Before they were turned into the meal itself. Killed and cooked

Blinking you found yourself in the dining table your two friends at the table *quiet* as you ate the pie your friend baked. "How long did this take you, dude?"

The killer committed a horrible act. But sources state. They weren't even aware

They didn't answer

Finishing the whole plate, you hummed, looking down "is this.. apple pie?" You hummed seeing how red the plate was. Licking your lips, you gagged. That... didn't taste like apple pie...?

Looking down at the plate in their hands. The police stated that they finally figured it out. What they did. The horrible crime they commited

Sobbing covered in blood- your friends blood all around. In your hands. Skin. Clothes even your hair. And worse of all-

Your mouth

"Oh- oh god i- no- no no no" you repeated shaking, dropping the bloodied ax on the ground screaming out in agony "NO- NO I- I DIDN'T FUCKING DO IT- OH GOD" you sobbed out shaking as the silence deafened you.

Before a static broke through the air. How it laughed. Mocked you - "Shut up!" you choked out, turning to the old radio shaking in disgust- you murdered..no. ate. Your friends. The ones you knew since childhood. Your family. Gagging, you sobbed harder, shaking

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME-" you screamed yelling at the radio getting more distressed - panicked - what is that noise? Your heart pounded in your ears shaken up the acts repeating in your head how you murdered them.

"W-why? Why are you doing this? I- I didn't do anything to you!" You screamed out sobbed out bloodied from his attacks. Yet he never moved. It was like again the shadows danced around your bloodied form. Mocking you. Laughing

Ate them

Sirens were heard in the distance you sobbed spitting the blood in your mouth out knowing you were caught. Gonna be framed.

Standing you grabbed the axe staring at the radio who laughed loudly at you mockingly repeating the crimes you committed aloud as you heard it spoken.

I would not do that if I were you~

Stepping forward shaking something told you this was a bad idea. That you shouldn't do this. But you will. Even if it kills you. You will destroy that fucking radio. Lifting the axe up you were abour to swing as the radio grew silent

Screaming you dropped the axe in pain. Looking down you saw what looked like a tendril piercing into you from behind. Falling to the ground bloodied mixed with yours and your friends blood you sobbed.

What was to happen to you? Were you gonna die?

Looking back you shook "no no- your- your not REAL" you screamed see omg the very figure that plagued you. Plagued your dreams.

He's quiet watching you. His sickening smile growing fhe barley lit room showing just his outline but. His eyes. That smile. Glowed like he WANTED you to see him. As the tendrils hit you over and over. Yet careful to not hit anything important.

He wanted you alive

You had your chance. Your single chance

For the first time since he began this torment. This torture, which was three months ago yet. Felt longer. He began to move. Silently walking to you- the only thing that broke the silence besides your cries and screams was the tapping of his cane.

The static growing from the old radio as he moved

He was in a good mood. Why didn't you agree? Stop that idea?

The closer he got. Those horns on his head grew - blinking, you shook, feeling like you were gonna be sick - his body began to crack. Reforming himself to tower over you. His broken looking body staring down at you as if he found this humorous tilting his head again the radio played a soft familiar tune.

Where did you hear that?

"Because you pressed play,"

-

his voice spoke for the first time. Echoing in and out. As if he himself was a radio. You sobbed as everything went black.

You've felt off. Tired. Way more tired then usual.

And now Two weeks after...the accident. You could barely leave the bed. At first chalking it up to depression but...somethings wrong

The radio has been more active lately too after the silence after you attempted to attack it. Saying phrases you were to tried to hesr. But you know.

It was watching you.

Sighing, you walked, yawning your chest heavy as you passed the radio in the living room. Where it was not last night

"Stop it. Not in the fucking mood' shivering you felt colder then usual glancing in the mirror seeing how pale you look. How exhausted you were.

The poor soul was truly trapped in my palms!

A laugh.

Or.. shall I say.. my stomach?

Glancing at the radio you grimaced at that. What it reminded od what you did. You sighed. The trail was today.

You don't even know how you were able to stay home after the police busted through. Saw what you were tricked into doing.

-

You were to tired to care of what would happen to you. How your phone blew up from people shaming you for the murders.

You had one last play to attempt after all.

Praying- that's all you did the whole day. Not stopping even as your knees ached. Burning to get up. You prayed to God. To get rid of this demon.

This entity that plagued you. That wouldn't let you go.

Hunted you.

Made you do horrible things.

You just knelt. Repeating the words given to you from the Father you spoke to beforehand. Tearing up your neck felt like it was closing from the lack of a breath you took.

You hopped in your final moments if they decided to kill you. Execute you. That you'd be safe. Free of the demons. And spend your afterlife in peace.

Sitting in jail, you sobbed. Not in fear, no. In relief that the fucking radio no where to be seen. No where around you- you can finally rest well. Sleep well. Eat well without the fear of it not being what you thought

-

The trial up to your imprisonment. The radio never played once. Never went off even after you threw it in the box to hide away.

You were free of it

Wandering around for a couple days, you couldn't help but feel free. Dispite being in jail. In prison- you were free.

Away from those cursed thoughts. Thst damned demon.

Weeks went by. You smiled. You truly were free. Didn't need to look over your shoulders. Made new friends with the...better.. inmates. You made a "family."

Entering your room, you hummed, almost missing the box on the bed looking around. You went up to it. No note. Nothing. Smiling happily must have been a gift- opening it you froze. Dropping the box as you sobbed backing away from the item that laid untouched in the box

"No NO I DONT WANNA DO IT ANYMORE. YOU HAD YOUR FUN-" you screamed the radio. The very one you Sought to never witness. Sat staring at you

Why end the game this soon ~ you have more friends now then ever beter?

You paled shaking your head

Oh but that's where the game truly starts ~ and remember

Laughter echoed through the room as the shadows grew longer grinning laughing Mockingly

I will never. Ever. Let you go~