#Tudor corner

[avmlsu]

Used some of my snow days this week and finished my latest Lego project which is the 2025 modular building Tudor Corner. It has a pub/restaurant and haberdashers shop on the first floor, a clockmakers shop on the second floor and an apartment on the third floor.

It’s for some really cute details inside and I love that the style of architecture is different from a lot of the previous modular buildings.

[taertime]

LEGO Tudor Corner 10350: Modular Buildings Collection A Brick-by-Brick Breakdown (Set 10350)

G’Day Taeries and Taerrettes! Welcome to another Lego review straight from your mates at TaerTime. Before we dive in, don’t forget to check out the YouTube video just above this intro for all the up-close details and cheeky commentary you’ve come to expect. Now, let’s talk Tudor Corner – Lego Set 10350 – a masterpiece from the Modular Building Collection that’s as classy as it is clever. So, grab…

[thecozycuttlefish]

Y'all, Ren Faire is coming.

Take this as your sign to start working on your garb now!

Come see what I'm sewing this year, over in The Cuttle Corner

[boleynqueenes]

wow… tudor tiktok has markedly improved 😂

[ofwhimsicaldreams]

Lego Tudor Corner 💛 (please excuse the absolute dreadful framing 💀) Awesome experience, full of very inventive details & techniques, and it was so nice to have such a storyline in the building manual ☺️ made me want to get more sets, which was probably the point, but as usual, free space is an issue.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Fairytale castle home on the Lielupe River in the resort city of Jumala, Latvia, has 3bds, 5ba, 5,459sqft, and the price is available on request.

Look at the masonry- the design is done in brick.

And, behind the main house, the guest house is done in Olde English Tudor style.

The entrance hall and stairs are insane. The carving is Art Nouveau (I don't think I've ever come across an Art Nouveau home) and at least it has color.

Of course I love the pink living & dining rooms.

The ceiling is gorgeous. Plus, it has a cozy little sitting alcove.

Huge guest half bath.

Going up the stairs, there's amazing color and look at the ceiling. Plus, the delicately carved railing and stained glass windows. I love the colors.

Huge, bright, primary bedroom with a wall of closets.

Very nice matching ensuite.

Secondary bd. with a nice armoire.

Lovely blue tile ensuite. The baths are so huge in this home.

Plus a walk-in closet.

Matching spiral stairs to the finished attic.

So cute up here, it's a child's domain.

And, check out the cool ensuite.

In the basement, there's a large bath with a sauna.

Then, behind the main house there's the guest house, or it could even be a rental.

It has a spacious living room with a corner brick fireplace.

Nice large eat-in kitchen

And, 2 bedrooms.

The lake is just steps from the main house.

41,926sqft lot.

https://www.jamesedition.com/real_estate/jurmala-latvia/unique-private-house-on-the-lielupe-river-14774893

[comatosebunny09]

You send roomie Sylus a pic of the menu from a restaurant your co-workers dragged you to for lunch. He tugs off his bloody gloves, tossing them to one of his henchmen. Smooths back his hair, straightening his tie, and pulling his phone from his pocket.

Sylus recognizes the logo on the menu. He’s been there before. They have a good rack of lamb and decent wine. His expression softens beneath the red speckling his cheek. He starts keying in a suggestion for you to eat, but catches masculine hands on the table in the picture’s corner.

Huh. He thought you only worked with women. You only ever talked about the girls when you came home. He can’t get past how close those hands are to you. How you might not notice it, but he can read someone’s body language and intentions like the spine of a book.

‘who is that?’ he texts back.

You respond with a flurry of question marks.

‘next to you sweetie. the tudor watch.’

‘ooooh, sorry. new guy. came while you were away to replace sheryl. he’s cool.’

‘can you help me translate this menu ?? i can’t speak rich bastard like you.’

Sylus scoffs. Still can’t wipe the image of those hands in frame out of his mind. More competition. No, a liability. Someone else to show up at your house unannounced when Sylus isn’t around to guard you like a Doberman.

‘go for the seared scallops.’

‘and be sure to introduce me to your new friend next time before you let him whisk you off for a date.’

You respond with an emoji sticking out its tongue. His lips tick upwards. He re-pockets his cell, fretting over his cufflinks. Turns to his lackey posted up against the warehouse wall, signaling him to clean up the aftermath Sylus left behind in the other room with his eyes.

The henchman wastes no time. And neither does Sylus, walking out of the building, intent on heading to the florist for some flowers.

[youryurigoddess]

Aziraphale’s cottage

Sorry for not replying to all of you, real life has been a bit of a whirlwind recently. I will try my best to catch up and get back to the S3 crumbs as soon as possible, but there’s another precious, peaceful, fragile piece of information I have found and want to share in the meantime.

You might remember this photograph of Aziraphale’s desk as one of S1 BTS shots shared with us back in 2019. As it always happens with bonus material for this particular series, it almost instantly prompted multiple comments and ideas, mostly pertaining to the splash of contrasting blue in the top left corner. A coloured photograph — or maybe a postcard? — depicting a timber-framed, thatch-roofed house in the Tudor style, a touristy yet typical enough view in some parts of the British countryside.

A certain South Downs cottage became a fandom-wide institution ever since its first mention in 2005, and, most recently, a symbol of optimism and hope for a happy ending in a rather unhappy world.

Twenty-year-long history doesn’t seem to be enough to pinpoint any details though: what we know is that according to Terry Pratchett and other sources, Aziraphale and Crowley will live there together after the events of the unpublished Good Omens sequel, which became Good Omens 3: Finale (or however Prime and BBC agreed for the official name to be spelled out). We also know that Rob Wilkins shared a hope for filming there in spring on location. What we don’t know is where it actually is (yet).

But I do happen to know the exact location of the house from Aziraphale’s photograph.

Spoiler alert: it’s not actually on the South Downs, but a bit up north, in the village of Wilmcote in Warwickshire, about three miles from Stratford-upon-Avon, and preserved as Mary Arden’s Farm — today known under her married name, Mary Shakespeare, as the mother of William Shakespeare (also represented on Aziraphale’s S2 desk in the form of a small engraving).

Why “preserved as”? In a very Good Omens way, the farmhouse turned out to be an object of an unfortunate mid-sixteenth century house swap. In 2000 it was confirmed to had belonged not to the Ardens family, as previously believed, but their friend and neighbour Adam Palmer, making it Palmer’s Farm. The old name, however, stuck — people can be rather weird about names.

The whole complex belongs to Shakespeare Birthplace Trust and is kept as a working farm offering an authentic Tudor experience with multiple live animals. Until recently open to general public, due to financial constraints it now operates only as an education centre.

Is this how the real South Downs cottage is supposed to look like? Will the Good Omens crew actually film there some time soon?

Or does Aziraphale feel for some reason much more sentimental about William and his family than the Globe flashback might have originally suggested?

I guess that we will have to wait and see!

[throughparisallthroughrome]

“Got The Blues Back In Boston”

Chapter 2

Pairing: Modern!Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Description: Leaving behind an incompatible college and profound heartbreak on the Virginia Coast, you find yourself home again in Brookline, Massachusetts. A new opportunity presents itself to you at MIT, joining your brother ben and childhood friends/ neighbors, Anakin and Ahsoka. Despite the familiarity, you discover just how much of a difference 2 years away can really make between the people you once considered family.

Warnings: f!reader, angst, jealousy, pining, smut, masturbation, mentions/descriptions of domestic abuse, cursing, drinking/drug usage, academic obsession, general obsession, hardcore partying, frats, general college bullshit

DISCLAIMER!!! READ BEFORE PROCEEDING: I've never been in an abusive relationship- I've only witnessed them. I'm an aspiring psychology major and have done a lot of research on the topic of domestic abuse/violence. This series deals with this topic HEAVILY, so be warned.

Word Count: 8.3k

A/N: I am so sorry this update took so long! This chapter wasn’t actually supposed to end like this but if I ended it the way I wanted it to, it’d be like 15k words. I decided it’d be best to split it up, so if things are a little weird in between that’s why. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading and keeping up! Life’s been a mess lately but I’m so excited to put my work out there. Please enjoy! and let me know if you wished to be tagged. As always, requests are open and feedback is welcome! :)

series masterlist. main masterlist.

To you, there was nothing more magical than the fall in Boston.

Everywhere you go, the streets are painted with vibrant colors and rich textures. It’s warm, inviting, and the most magical time of the year. Winter was a very close second, but nothing beat autumn. The Tudor-style homes on your street looked straight out of a fairytale, and the yards were covered in beautiful shades of orange, red, and yellow. The air was crisp, and there was always a faint smell of burning leaves from somewhere. It always stayed under 65 degrees but never dropped below 46. It was perfect.

As you grew up, you had always taken the same path to the diner, watching Tuesday night come every single week as the seasons and the neighborhood changed. There was a building on the corner of Maple and Main that never stayed occupied, and you could always count on Francis walking her poodle around the same time. Whether or not you liked it, Boston would change, with or without you.

In Hampton, you hated watching the seasons pass by, especially in autumn. It made you long for those wintry days in Brookline, listening to the boys cheer on the patriots while your mother and Shmi prepared dinner over some wine. You and Ahsoka always did “homework,” watching the game from a distance and mostly gossiping. You’d attempt to watch the game from a distance in Hampton, craving that little piece of home you missed the most. Still, it was always shut down by some “extremely important soccer game” Nick just had to watch. But you knew he hated you for longing for something other than him- what was he made for then?

But as the weeks went by, you really began to notice just how much you missed. You joined Ahsoka and Padme in the library most days, cramming as much information as possible- wanting, well, desperately needing an A. Yes, an A was good, but it was more to make you feel in control of your life once again. You needed the satisfaction- and the distraction.

It would be hard to say you didn’t notice the way Padme and Ahsoka would look at you when they thought you didn’t notice. So much pity. You hated it. They’d have these ‘knowing glances’ with each other and you felt that they were always talking about you the second you walked away. That part of high school you did not miss- but these were your friends, your best friends, and they shouldn’t be treating you like this- making you feel like this. When you asked them, they swore up and down it was nothing, they weren’t keeping secrets, and everything was okay. But the second you looked away- there was that knowing look between them. And it was driving you crazy.

And then there was Ben too, he was just so- not himself. Sure, Ben was always a nice guy, and he was a great person- but he was your older brother. And he always gave you a hard time, just for shit’s and giggles, and of course you always gave it right back. That’s what siblings are for. But after that first night back, things were so different. He was so soft towards you, so kind. He kept checking up on you, asking if you needed help with school, insisting on doing everything for you. It was nice- but it wasn’t him. And it just made you hurt more. All you wanted was for things to be normal.

Despite everyone being different- you had only hoped Anakin was the same. And not to your surprise, he wasn’t. In fact, Anakin was worse than everyone else. But he carried a certain burden with him- almost, guilt? It didn’t make sense to you- none of it did. And you tried so, so hard not to let it bother you, but it seemed impossible. So, maybe pushing them away was the best option. You hated the way everyone was making you feel- including yourself- but only you had control of yourself, so maybe that was your best option.

And so the study dates became solo dates, the family dinners were eaten in your room, and your weekly diner travels were now just a tradition that only you seemed to care about keeping up with. It was fine- you were fine. You didn’t want to admit that you were lonely- but you were, and you definitely felt it.

You pushed open the door to the diner. The sweet smell of apple pie filled your senses and calmed you simultaneously. The same regulars were lined up at the bar, playing darts and betting on football games. At least if Boston and your friends were always changing, Dex’s would stay the same.

“What’ll you have sweetheart, long time no see?” Dex winked at you while cleaning a glass before sliding some napkins and silverware your way.

“Just a diet coke, maybe a slice of pie.” You mumbled out, tracing out the details of the countertop with a cocktail straw. Time had just flown by, and you’d give anything to be in high school at Dex’s after Anakin and Ben’s football games. They swore for the longest time they’d go pro- I suppose engineering is better. Less painful.

“What’s got you so down, kid?” Dex leaned against the counter, grabbing the cocktail straw and throwing it at you to get your attention. You stifled a chuckle.

“I don’t know, Dex.” You sigh, mashing your fork against the pie he gave you ‘on the house,’ “Things have just been so weird since I got back. Not sure what went wrong.”

“It’s a mess up there, huh?” He smiles, and you quirk a brow.

“Up where?”

“Up in that brain of yours.” You scoff.

“Gee, thanks.” You roll your eyes, setting your head down on the bar and huffing.

“Okay, but in all seriousness, have you talked to anyone about this? You’re not yourself, kid. Maybe Anakin could help?” He raises his brows playfully, and you roll your eyes.

“Heh. Yeah, right. Anakin’s been praying on my downfall for years. Well, maybe not. We’ll see.” You shoot a wink at Dex, and he smiles, hitting his hand on the counter.

“You know I’ve always been rooting for the two of you; I’m sure whatever is going on will work itself out.”

Dex had known all of you since you were children, which made going to his diner a familiar, comforting routine. It stopped when you left. Yet, when you came back, it only strengthened the urge to revisit. He had offered a job again, but you declined. When you worked for him before, you occasionally found that money mysteriously didn't make its way to you. He was sweet and kind and had brilliant advice, but reliability wasn’t exactly his nature.

Regardless, you got a job at a local bar in downtown Boston. Anakin and Ben were not enthusiastic about the idea. But the staff was kind, the uniforms were a bit skimpy, and you had gotten to know some regulars. On your first night, you made $400. You didn’t plan on leaving it anytime soon. MIT wasn’t exactly cheap, and neither was Boston.

A mere 10-minute drive from the house, Mazzy's stood out as the most disreputable dive bar in the vicinity. You had done a lot of your underage drinking there, pretending to enjoy the various sports as you drank $3 Bud Light and played beer pong. They had a different drink special every day of the week - $5 margaritas on Mondays, tequila shots on Tuesdays, wine on Wednesdays, and karaoke + Vegas bombs on throwback Thursdays (which was always your favorite). So, it was fitting for you to work there; the manager knew you since you were a kid with a fake ID. He wasn’t exactly fond of the idea that he served you underage- but you had open availability, and they were desperate.

And you were a hard worker, staying late most nights and offering to cover shifts when you could. College was hard, and you didn’t necessarily need to work as much as you did, but the distraction helped, and the money was a nice bonus, too. Plus, there had to be something fun in it for you, too…

That’s how you ended up a champion at pool, beating all the regulars and making more money off your bets than you did tips.

Anakin heard about your little side hustle from one of his coworkers at the shop, talking about the “Kenobi girl who’s undefeated.” He felt the wrench falter in his grip and wiped the excess oil off his stained jeans as the smile spread on his face. Kenobi girl has a side deal? Oh, he’d never get over this. How the mighty have fallen.

On that note, Anakin immediately decided to pay you a visit later that night, not being able to resist the idea of breaking your winning streak. After all, who do you think taught you to play?

Upon entering the door, the loud music and dim lights assaulted his senses, and the pungent smell of smoke and rowdy laughter almost overwhelmed him. This was where you worked? What a dump. Scanning the dance floor, his eyes moved swiftly from one dancing body to another, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. The walls were adorned with pictures and writing, the chairs and tables were in disarray, and the bar was surrounded by numerous cups and beer bottles that caught his attention.

It didn't take him much time to track you down, guided by the sound of your laughter resonating in the crowded space as you approached a lively bunch of guys playing pool, holding a tray brimming with shots. Awesome. Now he was going to have to kick your ass at pool, as well as kick some asshole's ass, and then kick your ass again for entertaining it. Cool. Cool, Cool. He could do that. Yeah, he was cool.

“You cool man? Looking for the bar?” Anakin quickly broke out of his trance, looking at the older, distressed man before him—definitely the manager.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m good. Just taking it all in-“

“Cool, bars over there, man.” The older man pats his back, sending him towards the bar. Anakin shakes his head, furrowing his brows at the interaction. The fuck?

As he approached the bar, his eyes scanned the stools and calculated where he’d get the best view of you while remaining out of sight. He was still a little annoyed and didn’t want to make a scene so quickly, you know? Plus, he needed to study your strategies. How did the little one get so good at pool that she’s running a ring? Interesting.

“What’ll you have, hun?” The older redhead leans across the bar, wiping down the icy surface with a bar rag as Anakin settles into his seat.

“Uh, just a Modelo for now.” He quickly pulls out his wallet and flashes his ID, his eyes barely leaving your figure.

“Uh huh,” Her eyes flicker at Anakin, trailing them towards you as her lips upturned in a smile, “I’ll be right back with that.”

Anakin slides onto the stool, quickly propping his head on his hand as he keeps his gaze locked on you, while also trying to look as un-creepy as possible (it’s not working). He observes you giggling at one of the guys, playfully aiming your pool stick at his chest like a gun, threatening to shoot. The men all completely feed into it. You little slut. Next thing he knows, you’re leaning down to make a shot, your innocence showing as you stick your ass in the faces of 4 frat guys as they whisper. Your pigtails bounced onto the table as you focused on your shot, one eye closed and your tongue sticking out in concentration. His pants were suddenly so tight. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? What could have-

“You know, I’m pretty sure she’s taken.” The redhead pushes the beer towards him, “Otherwise, with the way you’re looking at her, I’d tell you to ask her for her number. Keep it open or close it?” Anakin’s eyes widened.

“Taken?” He stutters out, his mouth hanging open.

“No, your tab, dumbass.” She laughs, picking up a bottle out of the well and cleaning it. “You look like you need to keep it open. And yeah, she’s taken. She talks about him all the time, actually. He’s a family friend- they grew up together. Think his name is Andrew or something.”

“Andrew, huh? Interesting.” Anakin’s smile widens, taking a swig of his beer. You were talking about him. And everyone thought you were his? He might have to play along.

When he looked back at the table, you had disappeared. Anakin tilted his head in confusion, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on you at the opposite end of the bar, where his eyes locked onto yours as the redhead tried to talk to you.

“Anakin?” You laughed, not noticing redhead’s brow raise and sudden attention towards the two of you, “What are you doing here? I-” You cocked your head in confusion. Something about Anakin’s unwavering smile was so unreadable.

“Heard about a certain Kenobi girl’s pool bets from the guys. Had to see it for myself.” He turned towards you, subconsciously spreading his legs as his finger traced the rim of his beer glass. His pride grew as the redness spread on your face.

“Didn’t- Uh- Didn’t think word was getting around that fast. Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck is right.” Anakin starts, and redhead approaches, pretending to clean bar glasses as she eyeballs the interaction in front of her. “No wonder you’re making so much money. Afraid I’m gonna have to end this streak of yours, though.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes, shaking your head at the audacity of the man before you. One beer, and he felt like he was God? He desperately needed to be humbled.

“So that’s what this is about? You just hate to see me beating you at something? Didn’t think after all these years you were still so desperate, Anakin. I- fine, but what’s in it for me?” You hop up on the stool next to him, narrowing your eyes as your gaze runs over his lips, the honey of his laughter sweet in your ears.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” He smiles, moving closer to you as his eyes trace your lips back, the grin growing on his face.

“Don’t look at me like that.” You swallow, sitting up straighter and pulling away from him.

“Like what, Y/N?” He grins, mimicking your actions as he leans back and takes another drink of his beer.

“Anakin-“

“How about, if you win, I’ll be your DD for a month- AND- and- I’ll finally join you for karaoke. And if I win, well, I know I never want to see that outfit in public again, I want you to stop entertaining every guy you serve.” You roll your eyes at his protectiveness, sighing at his request.

“Fine, but only because what I get out of this deal is so much better than what you might get. Now come on.” You stand up, offering your hand to him as you pull him off the bar stool, “Amy, would you be a doll and keep an eye on my section?” Ah, so Redhead does have a name.

As you led him to a table in a dark corner away from everyone, he shot the other men a smile. A boastful smile. He may not have known that he wanted you just yet, but he knew he didn’t want others to have you. It was just him being protective, right? Besides, what’s really the difference between those two things…

“After you, sir.” You lined up the colorful, numbered balls and invited him for 8 ball, handing him a stick to make the first move.

“Are you sure, madam? Ladies first, you know. Chivalry isn’t dead.” He shot you a wink, tossing you the pool cue as you rolled his eyes. He was definitely tipsy. And you were definitely taking him home tonight. Not like that.

You started the game off strongly, hitting two solid shots right into the pocket, the satisfying *clink* echoing between the tension. You grinned. And shockingly enough, so did Anakin. His eyes cold and calculating, he struck the cue ball, the sharp *thwack* followed by the soft, almost silent roll of the red-striped ball across the green felt until it finally sank into the hole. If there was one thing your families took seriously- it was a bet.

You kept the game going, sharing plenty of shit-talking and shots, making sure to feed him a few more (which, in hindsight, was probably a mistake). You hit in your 3rd and 4th balls, your eyes catching the men at the other table. But, as always, your eyes immediately went back to Anakin. You flashed him an innocent smile, not feeding into his small touches that made you dizzy and the way his eyes flicked down to your lips. It’s okay. He was only drunk- and that couldn’t happen again.

Eventually, you beat him. While completely intoxicated, Anakin stumbled, his hand a blur as he somehow knocked the 8-ball in on his third try; the cue ball spun wildly, a final, chaotic movement before settling. You gave him a pass, a condescending smile playing on your lips as you told him you'd happily give him a rematch, though the outcome wouldn't change. Unfazed by your comment, he simply stared, his blown pupils swimming with an unsettling, well-known emotion. A palpable tension hung in the air, heavy with more unspoken words. A sudden chill raised the hairs on your arms, your breath catching in your throat as an unnatural silence filled the air between you. You cleared your throat and smiled, shaking the thought out of your head.

“C’mon drunkie- let’s get you up here.” You held your arm under his shoulder, guiding him back to the bar through the dwindling customers. He wasn't exactly being easy, his laughter echoing in the air as he teased you relentlessly, his hand dropping lower and lower on your waist with each step. You tried not to pay attention to the strange way it made your heart pound in your chest. But you could divert your focus to work- finally.

It was now 2:30. And you needed to get out of there. You carefully propped him up against the sticky, mahogany bar, your finger stabbing emphatically at his chest as you barked, "Don't move!" before turning to whatever remaining side work you had been neglecting. With a shake of your head, you freed your hair from the uncomfortable low pigtails, the strands falling around your shoulders. Okay, you had silverware, trash, bathrooms, sweeping, and-

“Y/N? Can you come here?” You heard Amy call from the bar as you swept, and you turned around, only to see Anakin passed out on the bar. His head lolled against his crossed arms, a soft rhythmic snoring emanating from his relaxed body.

“Fuck,” You mumbled, setting down the broom and running over to the bar, shaking the sleepy man awake. His eyes fluttered open, a soft smile playing on his lips as you rolled your eyes, a sigh escaping your lips.

“Hey, beautiful- you gonna take me home?” A raspy mumble escaped his lips as his fingers, warm and slightly damp, caressed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long. Attempting to ignore his continuing advances, your eyes are drawn to Amy; a subtle arch of her eyebrow and a slight nod toward the door provide your much-needed escape.

“C’mon, sleepy- let’s get you home.” You helped him up again, mouthing a quick thank you to Amy before taking him to the back door.

“I just- I- I can’t believe you’re so good at pool! I mean, I’m soooooo proud, yknow? I taught you so well. The guys were talking about it at work, and I just had to come see it for myself. So adorable.” He mumbles through the parking lot, laughing at his own jokes, and it’s clear he knows he’s not making much sense.

If this was anyone else- you’d be a little pissed off. But there was always a certain tenderness in your heart reserved for Anakin, a weakness you couldn't deny. Taking care of him when you knew you could just, well, made things better. He usually never let you get the chance, but right now, it felt like you were getting your old life back.

With a grunt, you pushed him into the passenger seat of his car; the smell of stale coffee and old leather filled the air, and you figured he’d take you to get your car the next day—payback, of course. You plug your phone in and turn the volume up for Mazzy Star, letting the softness of her voice fill the emptiness of the car. Anakin's head rests on your shoulder, his soft snores a gentle rhythm against your neck as you drive down the familiar streets, the houses blurring into a comforting stream of colors.

You pull into his driveway, the harsh cold biting your face as you open the door. Anakin slumped down further, his head resting on the center console. You bit your lip, the metallic tang of blood filling your mouth, as you weighed your options, watching his body move slowly as he inhaled and slowly exhaled, his brows furrowing in his sleep. What could he be dreaming about that was getting him so worked up? You didn’t have time for this- it was cold, he was asleep, and you needed to make a decision.

You couldn’t just tell him to get out of his car and go to bed- he didn’t deserve that, even if he did get wasted at your job. Well, you kinda got him wasted. And if you did take him inside, there was a chance you’d run into Shmi or Ahsoka, and that wasn’t really a conversation you wanted to have, especially considering how this looked. And if you took him inside, got away with not running into anyone, there’s the chance that once he gets in bed, he’d ask you to stay. That would be awkward. And even if you did stay, there’s only a 50% chance you’d have sex again and make it all weird. The question is- were you willing to risk it?

“Fuck,” You watched him sleep, knowing what you had to do. You got back into the car, shutting the door behind you and turning it on. The heat kicked up again, the sound of “blue light” filling your ears as you watched him next to you. You didn’t have to wake him up just yet. Sure, it was nearing 3:30 in the morning, but you knew he was tired and probably not feeling well.

You let out a soft sigh, sinking into your seat, and slowly reach your hand to cup Anakin’s face, gently stroking his cheek as you felt the warmth of his skin. You didn't notice the subtle, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips under your touch, a drunken smile masked by his feigned sleep.

“You’re frustrating, you know that?” You mumble to him, knowing he won’t respond. “But I still love you. It’s okay. I just know I won’t hear the end of this tomorrow. Which- you owe me. I need my car at some point. But- fuck- I know I’m gonna have to get you up in a second, and I really don’t want to. I’m so tired. Fuck.”

You glance over at him, noticing the grin on his face, and your heart drops slightly. “Fuck off- are you pretending?”

He opens one eye slightly and bursts into laughter, his head hitting the back of the seat while he practically slaps his knee.

“I-I’m so sorry-“ He manages to breathe out, his face hot and red, “I actually was sleeping, but you started talkin,g and I just- I got invested.”

“Uh-huh. Well, parties over. Time for bed.”

“No-“

“Zip it.” You grin, your finger against his lips to shut him up. His eyes glance down to your finger, a mischievous glint forming in his pupils as he presses a soft kiss to your finger.

“Anakin, come on. We gotta go. It’s so late.” You grab his face to get his attention, your stare firm and unwavering against his giggles.

“Okay, okay. We’ll go. Basement’s unlocked.” He kisses the top of your hand, turning towards his car door and attempting to open it.

“Wait- Anakin- I got it.” You turned the car out, rushing around to his side and opening the door for him.

“Here, hold my hand.” You hold your hand out for him, and he smirks, quickly taking it in his hand.

“Gotta buy me dinner first, sweetheart.”

“Anakin, we’re way past dinner. Now come on.” You pull him alongside you, draping your purse on his shoulder as you walk around the side of the house to the basement door.

“God, it’s fucking cold.” He mumbles, his hand slipping from yours and meeting your waist again, “Might need you to warm me up.” You scoff.

“No, Anakin- just need to get you to bed.” Mumbling, you avoid his eye contact and open the door, practically pushing him into it.

“Alright, alright, I’m going Y/N/N. Jesus.” He stumbles through the mudroom, kicking off his shoes and attempting to shimmy off his jacket.

Behind him, you sigh and mutter your help, your fingers slow and deliberate as you peel away the brown leather, noticing its softness and the faint, earthy smell. You hold the jacket under your arm, leaning into his back and resting your head on his shoulder. Anakin leans his own head back, his fingers dancing around to meet yours again as a smile spreads across his lips.

“I missed you.” He mumbles, his voice smooth and raspy. You subconsciously squeeze your legs together a little tighter. “Just hasn’t been the same. Just need to make sure you’re okay. And safe. God, I needed you to be safe.”

Your body shakes from behind him as your breath suddenly hitches in your throat. Afraid he’ll see your wet eyes again, you squeeze his hand a little tighter, feeling the rough texture of his skin against yours. But you know he can feel your tears through his thin shirt. And you hope he chooses not to comment on it. He doesn’t. Anakin's sudden turn sent a jolt through you as his arms pinned yours, his brow a deep furrow, pupils dilated with alarm.

“Stay with me tonight. Please.” He begs softly.

“Anakin-“

“Please. Just tonight. I don’t want to be alone.” You sigh.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep, okay?” You tear your eyes away from his, leaning closer to his chest as he wraps his arms around you. “I can’t stay, Anakin. I’m sorry.” You mumble against him, but he doesn’t respond; he just rubs your back and drops his head to your shoulder.

“Let’s go to bed.” You break the hug, tearing away from him as you lead him to his room.

Stepping into the familiar space, the soft glow of the lamps and the comfortable quiet bring a smile to your face—it never changes. The posters on his wall, the messy drawings near his desk, the random clothes on his floor.

“M sorry it’s messy.” He mumbles as he walks behind you, kicking random things out of the way as he stumbles to the bathroom. “Make yourself comfortable.” The door clicks behind him, and you fall back onto his bed and close your eyes.

How the fuck did you end up here? You squeeze your eyes, attempting to navigate the night somehow. Nothing ever made sense with Anakin- but it always, always made sense. You let your purse drop to the floor as you kick off your sneakers.

“Ben’s gonna kill me.” You groan as you rub your eyes, not caring about the makeup under your fingers

“No, he’s not.” Anakin’s bathroom door practically slams open as he stumbles out of it with nothing but some low-hanging sweats. You shouldn’t look- but you do. And, of course, he smirks.

“Like what you see?” He asks before jumping on the bed next to you and practically putting you into a headlock. You scream in response, giggling at his childish antics. It was well past 4am at this point. Anakin had to be at work at 9.

“Let me go!” You squeal in protest, the feeling of his arms around you a mixture of panic and exhilaration as he holds you tighter, his laughter echoing. He pulls you up, his strong hands gripping your arms, then throws you gently to the other side of the bed next to him.

“God, I’m tired.” He yawns and rolls over to face you, his fingers moving toward your chin while he stares at your lips. “Need some rest.”

“Yeah.” You hiccup.

He leans in, the warmth of his breath a whisper against your skin, his eyes glued to your lips. At this point, mere inches separated you, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs as butterflies did somersaults in your stomach. And just as his thumb meets your chin, you break into a coughing fit. You roll over and grab his pillow, coughing aggressively into it. Was it on purpose? Maybe.

His hand meets your back, rubbing gentle circles while you continue to fake your coughs, each one more excruciating than the last.

“Mm- sorry.” You mumble, coming up from his pillow- your face red and eyes watery. “Better get to sleep, Ani.”

“Yeah.” He whispers, his eyes gently drooping as they never leave yours. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

“Sweet dreams, Ani.” You hold your breath momentarily and close your eyes as you press a soft kiss to the top of his head. His skin was soft and warm underneath your lips, and you realize it probably lingered a lot longer than it needed to.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, listening to his soft breaths as he scoots closer to “get comfortable,” his arm brushing against yours. He pulled you close, his legs a comforting weight against yours, arm securely around your torso, his hand resting lightly but possessively on your shoulder. If Anakin could find any possible excuse to cuddle, he would- especially when he was drunk.

Once you heard the soft, rhythmic snores leaving his lips, you carefully began to extract yourself from his bed, moving as slowly as you could to avoid waking him. You sat up slowly, his arms falling into a comfortable position, the quiet stillness of the room broken only by the gentle rustle of the sheets. Unfortunately, his bed was against the wall, and he was the closest to the edge. That would be something else you had to work around.

You shimmied your feet away, slowly inching closer to the wall and out of his grasp. Before scooting further from the man in his bed, you took a second to study his sleeping form, noticing the rise and fall of his chest and the peaceful set of his jaw. In the dim, orange glow of the salt lamp on his nightstand, Anakin's face appeared almost ethereal, his features softened by the soft light. His lips parted slightly, his brows furrowed in a deep frown, his cheek squished into the soft, downy pillow. It’d be difficult to not want to stay.

You finally slid off the bed, your sock-clad feet hitting the cold, smooth wooden floor, the chill seeping into your toes. You snatched your shoes and purse, the leather cool against your skin, then tiptoed to the door, desperate to avoid waking him. The door creaked under your touch, a rusty groan that echoed the finality of your action as you looked at him one last time before sighing and shutting the door. You leaned against the door, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration.

The light turns on. Fuck.

At this point in time, you have 2 seconds to get out of the basement door before Ahsoka, Shmi, or Cliegg confront you about this.

So, you run. Thank god the alarm system had been deactivated (they hadn’t put the new one in). You open the back door and shut it quietly behind you as fast as you could.

“Anakin?” You hear Shmi asked, muffled by the sound of the door.

You raced up the hill beside his house, the bright moonlight reflecting off the wet stones of the path as you pushed through fragrant, moonlit bushes. The fragrant jasmine blossoms brushed against you as you walked through the trellis, then around the corner to your driveway, a sense of calm washing over you. Weaving through the cars, the cold seeped into your socks as you unlocked your front door, but the warmth of your house enveloped you as you slipped inside.

You sank to the floor behind your front door, the weight of the day lifting as you finally caught your breath, the quiet of your home surrounding you. You checked your watch; the faint glow of the numbers illuminated the dark, 5:03 AM. Could be worse. At least you managed to find a secret, third option tonight. No sex, not caught, and you stayed with him long enough he was asleep.

However, little do you know, a certain someone’s younger sister happened to be watching from the upstairs window the whole time. She would save that conversation for later, of course.

The faint sounds of birds chirping signal the rising sun as you finally settle into bed. You’re absolutely determined to sleep in- and so you do.

As the sunlight poured in under your sleep mask, it was too bright to be deemed morning light. You stirred slightly, waning out if your dream-filled haze as images of Anakin warming his hands over a fire began to leave your eyes. You reach up, a fingertip brushing against cool silk, and poke an eye out from under the mask, surveying the bright, sunlit room.

One shoe lay near the vanity, the other by the bathroom door, while your clothes were strewn across the floor in a chaotic pile near the bed, a silent testament to a restless night. Your purse was lopsided on your chair- perfume, coins, and miscellaneous gift cards spilling out of it. The kirkland makeup wipes were left open, a couple dirty ones caked with various shades of lipstick and eyeshadow from the previous day were resting comfortably near the trash can. At least you remembered to unplug your curling iron this time; the scorch marks on the carpet from the last incident were still a fresh reminder of your near-disaster.

With a long, slow stretch, you extend your arms over your head, feeling the tension ease from your shoulders as the mask drops to your neck. Rubbing your eyes and letting out a small yawn, sleep was still taking control of you. With a groan, you flip onto your stomach, the mattress springs protesting beneath you, and grab your phone. The time was 4:36 PM and you had slept the day away. This was what Sundays were for- it didn’t matter. Your eyes glanced down to the 14 messages you had received since you fell into your late slumber.

Ani- 8:46 AM: Thank you for last night. I owe you. Hope you got some sleep. I’m glad we spent that time together. And, Y/N- I’m serious if you ever need anything. I’ll always be here for you.

Mom- 10:32 AM: Honey, I left a quiche in the fridge for when you wake up. Just take your time, everything’s okay. I hope you can rest today. Love you.

Shmi- 10:45 AM: Was that you leaving the basement late last night?

Mom- 10:48 AM: I’m so sorry I texted you- hope I didn’t wake you honey. Just want you to be happy and healthy. I’m worried.

Dad- 11:15 AM: Are you awake? Mom’s acting strange again. She’s worried about you.

Soka <3- 12:05 PM: hey, if you’re feeling up to it we should catch a movie tonight- maybe some mexican food and margs after. lemme know. it’s all totally up to you- whatever you feel comfortable with.

Ani- 12:24 PM: Need me to get your car later?

Harvard’s Elite Scholar- 12:49 PM: Hey Y/N/N, been thinking about you lately. Hope you are doing okay today. If you need absolutely anything I’m always here for you- especially if you need some time away from the family. If you ever want to talk- I’m here. I love you girl- hope this weekend was good for money!

Mom- 1:43 PM: Need anything from the store?

Mom- 2:17 PM: I got you some ice cream. It’ll be good for you.

Dad- 2:46 PM: I just got home. Are you awake?

Benny- 3:05 PM: Can I borrow your calculator?

Benny- 3:07 PM: Nevermind. Found mine.

Ani- 3:53 PM: Hey, got off work early. Need car yet?

“Fuck,” You chuck your phone onto the side of your bed, running a hand through your hair as memories of last night filled your mind.

Anakin’s ‘innocent’ touches, his eyes never leaving yours- unless it waa your lips, his soft snores in your car. And he really begged you to stay with him- telling you that he needed you. The soft glow of his lamp, highlighting every little thing you adored about the man. How could you even begin to think about those text messages?

You leaned back into your pillow and groaned, rubbing your eyes as the sun attempted to find its way into your line of sight once more. Did everyone know your secret? Did Anakin tell them? Why was everyone and everything so fucking weird in Brookline.

With two taps on your bedroom door, you groan even louder as you pull the covers over your head. You eyes were heavy, the yawns persisted. You were still exhausted. The taps continued.

“Who is it?” You croaked out as the door opened slowly.

“Hey- woah. Are you okay?” Ben asked as he welcomed himself into your room, plopping onto the bed beside you.

“Yeah,” You bring the covers up further on your chest, eyeing your clothes on the floor. “Just tired.”

“Y/N-“

“I know it’s well past 4. I had a late night.”

“Are you okay?” Ben scoots closer, his brows furrowed as he surveyed your face for any hint of injury or sadness.

“Ben- I’m fine. Anakin came in last night and got wasted while we played pool- well, it was kinda my fault. Anyways, I had to take him home and I didn’t get to sleep until around 5ish. And this weekend was long. I’m exhausted. I still have to study, do some laundry, pick up my fucking car-“

“Slow down.” Ben smiles, “Everything’s going to be okay. You don’t need to be worried anymore, you’re okay.”

You squint your eyes at his words, an undertone behind them you can’t make out.

“What do you mean I don’t have to be worried?” You lean closer, cocking your head slightly to the side.

“Nothing.” Ben avoids your gaze, moving back and bouncing his knee. “I should probably get going.”

“Ben, wait-“ You attempt to hop up after him- but your eyes dance back to the clothes on your floor. Fuck.

“I hope you rest today. Love you.”

The door shuts, the latch clicking softly in the sudden silence. You aggressively throw yourself back down onto the bed, grabbing the pillow and squeezing it against your face, muffling the scream that rips from your throat. You were beyond frustrated with everyone and everything. You needed to go for a hike, get a coffee, or something. But, of course, you didn’t have a fucking car.

A long, hot shower was just what you needed; the steam filled the bathroom, and the heat soothed your aching muscles. With a few candles casting a warm, gentle light and the calming strains of soft music filling the air, you washed the memories and bad thoughts away. With each stroke of soapy water, the gentle friction a welcome sensation, your mind wandered to those mesmerizing deep blue eyes. The feeling of his rough hands in yours, the way they would feel on your waist, traveling down to your hips.

His fingers would dance on the tops of your thighs, while his calloused fingers kissing the exposed skin on your lower back as he lightly pressed you into him. He’d lean closer, his soft pink lips meeting your collarbone, licking and biting while his fingers finally met the inside of your thigh. You could practically smell his cologne at this point, your knees growing weak at the thought, your thighs squeezing together.

Your eyes shot open at the next song. Mazzy Star. Your breath hitches, a gasp caught in your throat as your hand, still resting gently on your hip, lingers; the soap is long gone. You bite your lip at your thought, the guilt eating you alive as your heart pounds.

Your hand moves lower- it’s not like he’d know. He’s your best friend- and surely he’s thought of you like that before too, right? And it absolutely doesn’t mean anything- you just need that ache between your legs to disappear. Post nut clarity, right? It'll slip your mind; you won't even think about it again. You won’t. Nope. Inch by inch, your fingers make their way down until they reach your clit, and a small gasp escapes your lips. You’re too far gone.

You turn the water off, the shower's warmth still clinging to your skin, and open the curtain to a cool breeze that raises goosebumps on your arms. You grab a towel and some lotion, drying yourself while moisturizing. That Boston dry air was no joke. When your body and hands are dry, you pick up your phone from the counter and check.

Mom- 5:12 PM: Dinner’s almost done.

The time was 5:20. They’re definitely waiting on you.

The sound of your feet pounded on the wooden stairs as you swung into the kitchen, hair dripping and shirt on backward. Your mom raises a skeptical eyebrow, tossing the salad with a practiced flick of the wrist, the scent of vinaigrette filling the air. Your dad's laugh cuts through the quiet, drawing your attention to the table where he and Ben are animatedly discussing some sports nonsense, their words punctuated by the occasional thump of a fist on the table.

“The Celtics are on an amazing run is all I’m saying. We Wouldn’t be anything without Jayson Tatum.” Ben takes a sip of his beer, turning around and eyeing the time on the oven.

“Yeah, but he’s no Kobe, Ben. And the Nuggets are doing so much-“

“Fuck Denver!”

“Ben!” Your mom scolds, putting on her oven mitts and pulling out the steaks that have been searing. “Stop it with that! I personally like Denver, I think Jokic is entertaining.”

“And this is why Dad and Ben won’t talk to you about basketball, Mom.” You reach for the white wine, pouring yourself and your mom a glass while she temps the steak. Your fingers shake around the glass a little, your shower thoughts finding their way back into your mind.

“They’re absolutely perfect! I’ve done it again!” Your mom cuts you out of your trance as she squeals. “Bon appetit, my little ones.” She sets the table with dinner, and you awkwardly take a seat next to Ben.

As you begin to serve yourself and eat, the hair on your arms raises as your eyes dart between the people around you, noticing their hushed whispers and judging stares. Dinner felt oddly quiet without the Skywalkers; the missing laughter and familiar banter hung in the air, but you remained silent. The feeling washed over you again, and you glanced up to find your family silently communicating with exaggerated expressions and hand movements, certain you weren't listening. Your mom motions to you, her red lips forming a tight frown as she looks pointedly at Ben, her eyes narrowed. His eyes went wide, a silent plea in their depths, and then he shrugged, the movement dismissing whatever she had tried to convey without words. Your dad furrows his brows at Ben, rolling his eyes at the audacity of his son.

“So,” Your mom starts, setting her fork down as the loud clatter rings through the unusually silent room. “Y/N, we wanted to- well- as a family, we wanted to check in on you and see how you were doing since you’ve got back. We have been worried.”

Your eyes darted to Ben. He avoids your gaze, his fork pressing checkerboard patterns into his mashed potatoes.

“I-I’m fine. I don’t understand. Is this an intervention for a problem I’m not even aware of?” You giggle slightly, staring down at the tomatoes in your salad. The table does not reciprocate your humor.

“We disagree, honey.” Your dad speaks up, and your breath hitches in your throat. “Did something happen in Hampton?” Your heart drops.

“No. Nothing happened. And I don’t know why you’d think that. And I don’t even know why the fuck we’re having this conversation!” Your voice raises, your knuckles turning white around your fork, “In fact, even if something did happen- which it didn’t- I don’t see how it’s the business of anyone sitting at this table! Can we just eat this fucking food? Mom worked hard. Drop it.”

The table goes silent. Your mom picks up her wine glass and takes a long sip. Ben and Dad glance at each other, their silent conversation infuriating you.

“Fuck this.” You push your plate to the center of the table, getting up and leaving as fast as you could before your tears caught up to you.

The door slammed shut behind you, and you scrambled under the covers of your bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief. The darkness of your room provided solace within your panic. Your heart was heavy, weighing down your chest with each ragged breath you took. Getting air under your covers wasn’t exactly easy, either. But within your panic, your survival instincts had vanished, and you remained where you were.

Did Anakin betray your trust? Could your best friend- your confidante- betray you like this? It didn’t seem possible. But everything began to connect. The glances when they thought you weren’t looking- the constant texts and “whatever you want”, “whatever makes you comfortable”, “as long as you are happy”. Was this all just pity?

The thought hung heavy in the air: they had to know, you concluded, a shiver tracing your spine. Whether Anakin told them, or someone else heard- they knew. They knew and that was bad and they were going to be ashamed of you. They knew and they’d never forgive you for leaving them for a piece of shit like Nick. They knew and they’d hurt you like Nick-

“Y/N?” Ben cracked your bedroom door open, the small sound of your sobs filling the dark space.

“Can I please just get some fucking time to myself?” You croak out, throwing the covers back over yourself.

The moment your tear-filled eyes locked with his, a wave of nausea washed over you; your stomach dropped. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hands shook uncontrollably, and his hair was a tangled mess. Ben was the type of person to make you feel unproductive and gross. He smelled immaculate, his hair always long but perfect- smooth and shiny. At one point you went to him for hair advice. He was consistently 15 minutes early for everything, always well rested and read. He prepared for anything and everything.

But right now, Ben looked uneasy- he never looked uneasy. And that terrified you.

“Ben- I’m serious-“

“And so am I. You’re not being honest-“

“Neither are you!” You shout, standing up from your bed and walking towards him, “I don’t understand what you all think is going on.”

“Y/N-“ He cuts himself off, rubbing his chin and shaking his head, “You’re not yourself.”

“What do you mean I’m not myself? What the fuck does that even mean, Ben?”

“Y/N you know exactly what I’m talking about! For fucks sake!” You freeze and Ben stops, letting himself take a deep breath- clearly choosing his next words carefully. “Y/N, you don’t need to hide from me. I know.”

A sickening lurch in your stomach throws you off balance, the intense nausea overwhelming you. Any hint of saliva has vanished from you mouth, your breath caught in your throat as you gaze upon your older brother.

“Ben, I don’t-“

“Fuck, Y/N,are you really going to make me say it? Anakin told me. I know. You don’t have to hide and you could’ve told us for fuck’s sake!”

Ben pauses, his breath catching in his throat as he looks upon your face, your glossy eyes blazing with a newfound rage, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. Your fingernails dug into your palms so hard they were close to bleeding.

“A-Anakin told you?”

“Y/N, wait-“ Ben grabs your arm as you stomp towards the door, his eyes filled with concern, regret, and worry.

“Ben- let me fucking go. This was not Anakin’s place-“

“Y/N, he was fucking worried!” He pleads, his grip tightening on your arm.

“And I don’t give a fuck, Ben! Now fucking let go of me!” You dig your nails into his arm, prompting him to let go.

The second he does, you’re out of there and down the stairs. You don’t even bother to put on shoes, your mind fuzzy with anger. You throw open the front door, your parents behind you watching, probably concerned. You let it slam behind you- hoping that it keeps them from following.

The rough, uneven stone path dug into your feet as you ran, each step jarring you up the driveway and into the side yard. You wiggle the rusty basement door, its cold metal chilling your fingers. Locked. Fuck, this wasn’t going to be pretty. But, alas, you turned the corner and walked to the garage.

Your hands trembled, fingers fumbling on the keypad; the button clicked, and the heavy door groaned open before you. You ducked under it, not even bothering to wait for it to fully open, and walked into the house. Shmi and Cliegg were never ones to say anything- this was typical for you and Ben to do. You turned the corner, the worn wooden banister cool beneath your hand, and ran up the creaking stairs, throwing open the study door to find Anakin exactly where you expected.

“Y/N!” He shot up from his textbook, a yellow pencil tucked behind his ear, “Are you okay? What are you-“

“Anakin, what the FUCK is your problem?” You shove him forward, his brows furrow and his hand grab both of your wrists, holding you in place in front of him.

“Y/N, what-“

“Anakin, how could you? I trusted you?” Your hands shake under his grasp, choked sobs escaping your lips while your eyes search his.

He bites his lip, his eyes fixated on you, a dull ache settling in his chest. At what he caused. His hand finds its way to your back, pulling you close as the sobs wrack your body, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the chill of your tears. You freeze under his touch- he told them. Everyone knows.

With a gasp, you shoved him back, a blur of motion, furiously wiping the tears that streamed down your face.

“Fuck you.”

“Y/N, I was just trying to help-“

“Trying to help? Trying to help, huh? Do you really think I’m that fucking incapable? That I can’t tell my own family and friends what happened? No, you had to do it fucking for me! I fucking hate you.”

“Y/N, you don’t mean-“

“Anakin! Will you shut the fuck up-“

“No!” he yelled, his fingers digging into your wrists as he pulled you back. You knew he was seeing red- and you knew he cared. But by god you’d be lying if you said you weren’t terrified at that moment.

“Y/N, you need to shut the fuck up. I know you. You weren’t going to tell anyone and you were going to let it tear you up inside until you were a fucking shell of yourself. You need help- you do. Everyone fucking knows it- and not just cause of me! Yes, I told Ben and Ahsoka, but I’m not sorry. I only care about you.” His grip loosens on your wrist as he searches your red eyes for something.

Your hand swiftly meets his cheek. It stings upon impact and he gasps.

“Fuck you, Anakin. You’re dead to me.”

Tags: @w0rsh1psells @ursogorgeous13 @tommyvelvet @mistress-amidala @queenofnigthdarkness @nikkissecretlibrary @doblasftcisco @ann4zw @catachlysmicjedi @googie-jeon @xoxo-hayden-fangurl-xoxo @anakinstwinklebunny @sunnytotheend @malinadbbdh @ladyanaschmidt @endiara06 @hearts4sammonroe @roryheartz

[theecarcrash]

LADY CERSEI LANNISTER OF HOUSE LANNISTER

First tumblr post, i’ve had it since i was old enough to own a phone but still don't know fully how it works 😃 i will however prevail.

I present to you, Lady Cersei of House Lannister :

She is unfinished, obviously, and the colour added is mostly for me to know more or less what i want when time comes to ruin it all with my shitty colouring skills 🙃 some lines are too rough or downright bad to me but that’s a whole other issue. I do want to give a fiercer look when I come back to her.

It’d be kind of boring to just abandon her there for y’all to peep at, even more so when she’s not even finished, so i’m just gonna share my references/inspirations and thought-process for some things :)

Actress Esther Nubiola, more specifically in Tirant lo Blanc (2006), was my face-claim for this one. I was going for a young Cersei, set before Robert’s Rebellion, though I think she’s wonderful for the main-timeline as well. She rocks the green to me, her expression screams smug little Cersei, and her features are pretty regal (which is what I look for most when thinking of her).

My little doodle doesn’t do her justice, but hopefully we can say yet.

The style of the gown was inspired by the first one ! It’s simple at first glance, but there’s a whole lot of details (neckline, sleeves, patterns) that elevate it, and just make it look so much nobler. Tudor-style. The pink was change to Cersei’s preferred green.

I did try to incorporate the damask patterns as well, though I decided a bit later to lean more into the second pic’s style than the first one’s. They don’t translate well enough in my drawing as I just winged it. I was thinking of making them less leafy-and-floral, and lean more into something that resembles wildfire, hence the colour.

The neckline is square, and the trim’s decorations seemed to be pearls or something of the sort in the reference, but—of course—I made it red. Rubies or garnets. Lannisters can and will afford it, especially if it’s during Cersei’s time in King’s Landing with Tywin. You don’t see it much, but the sleeves are meant to be fitted at the shoulders, and the length of them meant to form a sort of bell shape as they go down.

Her jewellery is gold (what else could it be ?), though my colour is really bad and only so dull so I can differentiate it from the rest. As for the gemstones, it’s emeralds and rubies all the way.

Her earrings are literally just the reference—they’re big, but simple enough that don’t draw attention away from her face. They’re buried in her hair either way.

Her necklaces are a bit different, but they’re linked to the Lannister lion all the same.

For the first, the collar-style choker is quite exactly the same, though the wolf-head was changed to a lion’s one—maw open to keep a little gemstone in its mouth. In the reference, the stars are eight-pointed, but here they’re seven-pointed as a little nod to the Faith.

The second one, if I’m not mistaken, is straight up from the show. I found it actually a nice piece in and of itself, but the torso seemed too empty so I decided to make it a sort of long chain instead. The three medallions aren’t close to the collarbone or neck, they’re more like pendants. Since they’re just dangling there, I still can’t say if I want them to be flat as coins or genuine spheres 🤔

As for the hair… I can’t imagine book!Cersei, at least as a young woman, willingly cutting her hair short. To me, she’d have a whole mane of curly blond hair, and she’d be so proud of it she wouldn’t bother with braids or any sort of excessive styling. Here, she just pulls it back some to free some of her face.

This whole rant has finally come to an end ! It was fun to get back into drawing more seriously when I’ve been more focused on writing lately. The most art I did consisted of trees and suns on some page’s corner. She’s still a work in progress, but hopefully I don’t fuck her up 🥹

If you have any advice or suggestions so we can make her better or something like that, don’t hesitate to share it !

on that note, see you soon if any of you come from my other socials, or till next time for those that plan to stay 👋

[drenix004]

𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐘 - Part 1

141 masterlist Pluckley masterlist Teaser

Task forcé 141 x Oc!female (Au)

❝Small town, big hell❞

CWs -> fluf, angst, drugs, death, obsession, blood, torture, harassment, mental issues, eventual smut, Possessiveness, manipulation, kidnapping, themes related to cannibalism, drinking blood, Dark themes, among others.

->English is not my first language, there may be grammar or spelling errors.

W/c: 1,3k

The mist had turned into a drizzle as they entered the village. The streets were typical of any English town, just like the houses’ architecture. Modern designs were nowhere to be found; the predominant styles were Tudor and Cottage. If she happened to spot even a single house or building with a modern or industrial design, she would hit the accelerator and leave the place without a second thought. The style left a bitter taste in her mouth due to the memories it brought back.

She glanced at the rearview mirror again. The two children were pressed against the window, watching the place as they moved along. From their body language, she could tell they weren’t entirely uncomfortable, which was a good sign.

“Make sure your blankets are secure,” she said, turning a corner. The blankets she had wrapped them in were almost on the floor. “It’s cold, and we’re not used to this weather.”

“Nor to such an… open environment,” one of them replied, looking at her through the mirror. “Where are we going?”

“He marked a place on the map; I think it’s an inn.” She stopped before an intersection and looked at the map again.

“And is it safe to go there in the first place?” the other one asked. “Won’t people look at us strangely?” He touched his shaved head unconsciously, feeling uneasy. In fact, all three of them had shaved heads. “Can we trust him?”

“It’s the only option we have, considering we don’t have any papers. A hotel would be more complicated,” she answered the first question as she moved forward and turned right at the intersection. The inn had to be further ahead. “And as for him... we have no choice but to trust him. For better or worse, he got us out of there.”

The car fell silent for several minutes until they reached the inn’s parking lot. The White Horse—the white cursive letters contrasted with the Tudor design of the building. The two children shifted uncomfortably in the backseat. The second child’s question lingered in their minds.

“Will people look at us weird?” the second one repeated.

She turned off the car, folded the map, and left it on the glove compartment. Then she grabbed the bag from the passenger seat and began searching for something.

“Not necessarily. Plus, we have these.” She pulled out three wool hats. The two smaller ones had animal ears—a rabbit and a bear. The largest one, which would be hers, was plain. Turning in her seat, she showed them the hats. “We can hide the lack of hair, and since it’s cold, it won’t look suspicious.”

The children took the hats and put them on. She did the same, placing the bag on her lap again, searching for some identification—anything that could help them blend in. It would be suspicious if she had no documents for herself or the kids. She rummaged through the items absentmindedly, deciding to check more thoroughly later.

Finally, she found a woman’s wallet. Tossing the bag back onto the seat, she hurriedly searched it. Inside, there was cash, three bank cards from unfamiliar banks, and the item she was looking for: an ID card. Her photo was on the front, along with a name and surname.

“What about her?” the first child asked.

All three turned their attention to the baby carrier between the two kids. She slipped the ID into her jacket pocket.

“We’ll cover the top with a blanket to protect her from the rain.” She unfastened her seatbelt; the children did the same. Pulling a portable umbrella from the bag, she closed it. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

She stepped out, making sure to close the door properly before opening the umbrella. Inside, one child grabbed the bag from the front seat, while the other unfastened the baby carrier’s straps and covered the top with a blanket.

The oldest opened the door, letting the first child out. She handed him the umbrella and leaned halfway into the car to retrieve the baby. She lifted the carrier with one hand and took the umbrella again with the other, waiting for the second child to get out.

After confirming the door was securely closed, the children pressed closely against her, trying to stay dry and unwilling to stray far from her side.

“There’s a car,” one of them said as they walked toward the entrance. She glanced at what appeared to be a gray SUV with tinted windows, parked a few meters away.

“They’re probably waiting for someone or looking for the same thing we are. Don’t think too much about it,” she reassured them. Once at the entrance, she carefully set the baby carrier on the ground and closed the umbrella. “Here.” She handed the umbrella to the child who wasn’t carrying the bag.

Lifting the carrier again, she opened the door for the children to enter first.

A wave of warm air greeted them, making the younger ones sigh in relief. The place looked clean and spacious. The reception desk was made of beautiful brown wood, with a sofa set and a small central table in the middle of the room. Plants adorned a few corners, soft lighting filled the space, and a fireplace with several wooden ornaments added warmth.

“Let’s sit down first.” She guided the children to one of the larger sofas. Carefully placing the baby carrier beside her, she lifted the blanket slightly to check on the sleeping baby. Her breathing was normal, and her expression was peaceful. She lowered the blanket again—she didn’t feel comfortable letting others see her.

The reception area was empty, but she was sure that if she rang the small bell on the counter, someone would come. Which, of course, she did.

After a few minutes, an older woman appeared behind the counter.

“Welcome to The White Horse,” the woman greeted, typing something on the computer. “I’ll need any document with your name and registration number, please.”

“Of course.” She reached into her jacket pocket and handed over the ID.

The woman paused for a moment, staring at the identification. Her black eyes lingered on her for a few seconds before glancing at the children and then back at her.

“Calliope…” The woman looked at her closely when she said the name before offering a warm smile and resuming her typing. Calliope tensed slightly. The woman’s gaze suggested she knew things about her.

“I have a reservation under your name. It’s a large room with a king-size bed.”

“For how long, if I may ask? I made the reservation while half-asleep and don’t quite remember.” She lied. He must have made the reservation in a hurry without mentioning it.

“The system says two months.”

From a hidden drawer, the woman retrieved a key with the room number.

“The room is on the second floor. I’ll need you to sign this form.” She handed her the key and a sheet of paper.

Calliope took the pen the woman offered and began filling in the blanks. Every now and then, she glanced at the children, who sat on either side of the baby carrier.

A door opened somewhere behind her, likely another guest arriving. She paid it no mind.

“Mary, I’ve stocked the room with firewood,” a dark-skinned man said, approaching the corner of the counter; Calliope stood in the center.

“Thank you for coming despite the weather, Gaz,” the woman replied, handing him a coat.

Calliope remained silent, finishing the form and taking the key.

“Say hi to Price for me.”

“No problem, Mary.”

The children stood up as she approached them. She felt the man’s gaze following her as she turned toward the stairs, thankful the woman kept him distracted with a conversation about someone named Price and his wood.

Prev / Next

[hcgossips]

Faithful to The Source Material

There’s something ironic about this gossip that, insistently, comes to the media saying Cavill left TW, because of script differences that weren’t faithful to the source material, right when he was in a PR that went terribly wrong. First of all,:

·       Did he leave or was invited to leave?

·       Was it really because of script differences to the source material only, or there’s something else?

·       Was he bothering too much, back-seat driving and changing the script?

·       Was he hitting on colleagues and causing trouble on set among cast and production?

You will have to follow me on this. First of all, this guy is very disciplined and always demonstrated to be very passionate about this story. Cavill really believes in his characters. He wouldn’t leave  for his own will, unless something very serious was going on, on set. Differences from the source material don’t seem to be enough for an actor to leave a project he was always passionate about and he will always face that, working as an actor. And, if not able to accept a script the way it is, it’s going to be hard for him to work.

But, I don’t know the books nor the games. I’m not a geek. So, I really couldn’t speak about differences, only about the series I watch. And, let me say I’m not very fond of fantasy nor Superhero movies. What attracted me to TW was Cavill, more precisely, his phisique du role and presence on screen. He impressed me.

I could say it was my first contact with the man Henry Cavill. I had seen The Tudors years before – Great series! I recommend you watch it. -, but I confess Charles Brandon didn’t impress me that much, maybe because the series was so good, I didn’t focus on one character or actor, but the entire cast. Myers gave a show and was fantastic, the entire cast was phenomenal. The series is great!

Then, one day, see a spoiler of TW and I go like: “Who is that guy?” and I started researching and that’s when I discovered he was Charles Brandon, also Superman and had been in the theatres with MoS. I, then, looked deeper in research, watching as many interviews as I could so as to know the actor and most of his movies. I don’t need to say I fell in love with him. Who doesn’t? He seemed so respectful to fans, so polite and really a gentleman, that it captivated me (that was the first time I followed a celeb) and I believed Hollywood was, finally, changing. But, how could I be so wrong?

I loved the first season of TW. The way it was presented, bringing past and future to present scene was very bright, clever and really attracted my attention. It was like putting a puzzle together. But, when watching season 2... That was a very different experience. On season 3, the impression I had was that the authors were tired, giving up and writing anything by halves and cutting corners, just to keep the series moving forward. Then, the news Cavill would be out of the show. I completely lost interest. He was the perfect Geralt.

So, was he invited to leave or jumped out of the boat foreseeing a future close failure? Because, without a doubt, Geralt was a turning point in his career and, it gave him more spotlight. It brought him recognition as an actor. Leaving a project he was in love with and a character he was passionate about, means something wasn’t right. What calls my attention is the rumours about him being difficult to deal with on set and having an improper behavior towards colleagues, only appearing when he left TW production and in parallel to his last PR stunt.

Cavill could have flirted with colleagues. I remember two different moments, in which he had a narcissistic behavior towards Freya. In one, he clearly and evidently ignores her on stage in front of a crowd, going straight to compliment Anya, leaving Freya standing there surprised and confused. That was clearly, a narcissistic behavior. In a third moment, during an interview with Anya, we can notice his attempt at flirting when he hands her the microphone, trying to touch her fingers, which she subtly rejects. He clearly, didn’t consider the fact she was almost engaged.

Cavill is not a saint and we sure don’t know at least, half of what goes on behind cameras, where I believe he’s a different person. He has a bad drinking habit, smokes and might, as well, be a jerk as a man, when in private moments. And, the damage control adopted to this last PR showed his narcissistic side. But, I don’t think he caused trouble with female colleagues on set. It’s more likely, the production was pissed for realizing they would lose him, who was taking the series on his back, and wanted to avoid the reason he left, the gossip about “differences from the source material”. They didn't want that to gain attention, trying to save the production by screwing the reputation of who would make the production end, so people would think he left for another reason, trying to keep the show on air.

Before the news of Cavill leaving TW, there was never a single comment against his conduct and behavior towards colleagues and he was always careful with his rep. Until he left TW and fell in a PR trap. Maybe, TW production got really pissed with Cavill for leaving in the middle of the production, knowing that it would cause the end of the series. And, they may be behind the choice of his stunt for this PR and the smear campaign. Viscuso was a trap, no doubt about it. And, whoever indicated her to this PR (working on the behalf of this smear campaign) - maybe a colleague or a false friend, jealous of his success -, used Viscuso as a bait to create the perfect opportunity to screw Cavill’s image.

As soon as the PR stunt was announced, the tabloid giving the news wrongly identified her (intentional?), a TV show made fun of the pap walk (preordered?) and the first post on his IG of this PR became a joke, while DG seemed to make an ironic comment below it. Something was off and whoever was managing his page mocked a third and last post bringing a picture of the couple. His team probably, decided to do it as an attempt to disguise the smear campaign he was suffering from someone related to the industry (maybe, from TW production), ending up sacrificing this PR and intentionally, turning it into a circus to deviate attention from who was really behind this.

I believe there was (or still is) an attempt to screw his rep from someone who works in the Industry, with a certain influence, to make a tabloid give misinformation about this PR stunt and a TV show mock it, as if sending the following message: “It’s important to be faithful to the source material as it is to the truth you sell about yourself”. But, now, as this person managed to have his fandom pissed with him (in part, thanks to his damage control), there’s no need to be so emphatic. Yes! The smear campaign didn’t start in the fandom. It started in the Industry, more likely, among TW production. But, to hide that, Cavill adopted a narcissistic damage control (his biggest mistakes) to disguise the situation, gaslighting his fandom to make them accountable for something that the Industry started against him.

[slashingdisneypasta]

The Evil Queen x Lover!Reader || Drabble

Plot: Pretty boring 😅 Just a moment alone with Hilda. Oh and you've been listening to too much English politics.

Warnings: Cheating (The King is alive here), and talk of real historic people and events (Tudors).

The sounds of the door creaking open and the rustling of a dress wake you up from your dozing rest. Luckily you weren't fully asleep; you were still above the covers. You had been reading a few books late into the night, those pages still open around you on the blankets although your candle went out sometime after your eyelids fell closed.

Hilda closes your creaking door shut again behind her her own candle burning bright beside her face, before moving over to the bed and sitting down beside you. Her soft lips find yours in a warm, soft kiss that wakes you up the rest of the way; her tongue drawing out a soft, sleepy moan from you.

When her lips separated from yours, you followed her and sat up; picking up her hand that wasnt still holding up the candle, in both yours. "... What are you doing still awake?" You ask, stroking your thumb over her knuckles.

She rolls her eyes, the irritation in every muscle of a her body clear now that you were fully awake. "The King's killing me."

That startles you, and your eyes widen. "-what???"

Another venemous green eyeroll, and a huff. "He's so stupid, so doting on that airheaded child of his, I cant take it."

Oh thank god, you think, relaxing again. Doesn't she know you're on edge these days, what with all that's happening in England with that crazy Tudor King right now??? She must know. She must say these things to scare you. Shaking your head, you give your royal lover a bemused grin. "Do you know what you just did to me??"

A smirk quirks at the corner of lips, but only for just a second before she shakes her head and makes it dissapear. "Nevertheless- I can't sleep in that bed with him."

"Well you can't sleep here, love." You say, incredulously. "I would love you to- but how do you think servants will react when they see their beautiful, dishevelled queen slipping out of her ladies room in the morning?? Imagine the rumours, Hilda."

"Oh, that I'm a filthy witch queen who kisses women?" Another amused smirk slips across her red lips, and this one stays put. The candle lights her face up in soft orange and the pretty, comforting crackling sound fills your ears.

"Yes, which is true, which is the most damning kindof rumour. Just look at England right now." Your voice raises a few decibells, filling with worry. "Anne Bolyn was beheaded, because some people said she had an extra finger we both know, Hilda, that she didn't have- "

"Yes, Y/N, but my husband is a weakling."

"-and then he divorced poor Anne of Cleves because she wasn't as pretty! And she's beautiful. Are you hearing me Hilda?? These King's are crazy- "

"English politics are truly bothering you, aren't they."

Embarrassed and sputtering, you try to deny that, but can't, and close your mouth. Hilda gives a chuckle at this. "Thats it, no more English politics for you, dear."

"What? But- "

"No."

You sigh, lowering your face and looking to Hilda's hand in your lap. Not a wrinkle or age spot to be seen despite passing her 30's years ago, thanks to her creams and tonics.

"... and I will be staying here." She tells you, a no-arguments-thank you kind of tone in her voice. The softer sister to the dangerous, stern tone she uses in court with everyone there. Carefully she leans past you and sets her candle on your side-table, atop a few more books on topics such as dangerous flowers, teas all over the world, and ancient histories. Then she hooks a cold finger under your chin and raises your face to look up at her; speaks in a low whisper. "Isn't it your job to keep your Mistress happy?"

"... " Finally you give a sigh; giving in to her. To hell with the rumours that might spread. You want her here; you want her to stay. "Well yes, your majesty. Thats true."

After another kiss, the Queen quietly starts going through the books strewn about on your bed. You began reading again, occasionally showing Hilda something interesting. Half an hour passed this peacefully, until Hilda says something supposedly 'off-hand' that causes you to thrust your book down back onto the bed.

"... oh, and I probably shouldn't tell you now that the newest English queen has been imprisoned for adultery, should I- "

"The c h i l d?? Oh for gods sake. Should we be d o i n g something about this??"

[kpopfanfictrash]

The Horrible Un-Haunting of Elliot House

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre: Ghost!AU / Romance / Comedy (?)

Pairing: Seokjin / Reader (she/her)

Synopsis: Some houses are harder to sell than others but you, Y/N, are determined to find the (supposedly) haunted Elliot House a new owner. That is, until it's very real and very hot exceedingly well-dressed ghost decides to make himself known. If only you didn't find yourself enjoying the knowing.

Rating: PG-13 (kissing but nothing beyond that)

Word Count: 6,214

Author's Note: hope you enjoy this random Halloween "drabble"! This got oddly angsty? I suppose that happens with ghost love LOL

[ Cross-Posted to Wattpad ]

“Through here,” you say, leading the Gundersons through an arched door. “You’ll find the most adorable sunroom.”

The Gundersons both gasp, appropriately awed by the tall walls of windows. Each panel is topped with stained glass, casting colorful patterns across the checkered floor. Technically, the sunroom isn’t part of the original house – it was added in 1975 during a brief period the address was owned by a cult – but you rarely disclose this fact during tours. Most people don’t care which parts of the house are original, so long as they can say they bought a 19th century Tudor.

Not that you blame them. Most people (or at least, sane people) appreciate the romanticism of an old structure without actually wanting to live in one. Modern amenities are the top benefit of progress, after all. The government couldn’t pay you to live without modern heating, plumbing, or refrigeration.

“Margaret, did you see?” Arthur Gunderson, a slightly rotund lawyer, and husband of said Margaret, gestures emphatically. “I’ll be damned if this stained glass isn’t Tiffany! See there, see that stamp in the corner?”

“Good eye, sir!” you chirp, barely glancing up from your clipboard.

Truthfully, you aren’t sure whether the glass is authentic. The cult that installed could hardly be called profitable (they sold the house at a loss after less than ten years, although this likely had more to do with crimes committed on said property than their income, but you digress), so you’d be hard-pressed to believe they could afford real Tiffany.

If this is what convinces the Gundersons to buy though, you’re hardly a realtor to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Ticking a box in the upper right corner – sunroom – you look up. “Right, well. That’s most of the lower level.” Pivoting on your heel, you head towards the corridor. “If you two will follow me upstairs, we can –”

“What’s that?”

Steps slowing, you stare at the plaster wall. A moment passes, then two before you convince yourself to turn around. When you see where Arthur Gunderson points, a relieved breath leaves your lips.

“Oh, that?” Floorboards squeak as you cross the room, sounding almost like laughter. “That’s the cellar. I’d offer you a look but unfortunately, the staircase isn’t quite up to code. You’ll need someone to look at that ASAP if you buy.”

Hovering at the wooden door, you grasp its bronze knob and pull. Tugging the cord for the light, you briefly scan the stairs but spot nothing unusual. Mostly convinced, you dutifully step aside.

“Feel free to look,” you say brightly.

The Gundersons crowd the landing you vacated.

“Careful, honey,” Arthur warns, holding Margaret’s elbow. “These stairs are steep.”

Standing on tiptoe, Margaret peers beyond him into the basement gloom. It could be your imagination, but she almost seems disappointed. A few cobwebs and shadows line the staircase, but nothing more sinister.

Hiding a smile, you check the next box. Cellar. Sometimes, people request to see this house not because they’re interested in buying it, but for the thrill. Entering the haunted Elliot house and surviving will make a great tale to tell their friends over cocktails.

Lowering your clipboard, you glance upward. So far, everything has gone to plan, which is partly the problem. You must’ve shown this house thirty times and always, something has gone wrong by now. Before being assigned its realtor, you believed in the paranormal, but only in a theoretical way. Not because you’d witnessed anything spectral.

Your opinions since then have changed.

Turning sharply, you plaster a smile on your face. “Shall we?”

Stepping back, Margaret pulls wiry frames from her jacket pocket. “I must admit,” she says with an embarrassed laugh. “Based on what our last realtor said, I was expecting far worse from this property.”

Although your smile tightens, you nod. The other realtor had a point – Elliot house could be temperamental, at best. Downright petulant, at worst. You glare again at the ceiling.

“We get that a lot,” you say, ushering them down the hall. Best not to linger. “Whenever a house sits too long on the market, you know – people talk. Lots of rumors!”

“Oh, sure,” Arthur says, passing you with a chuckle. “We’re not superstitious, don’t worry.”

“Oh?” you say lightly, remaining behind. “That’s good to know. Now, if you head down the hall, you’ll reach the foyer. All the crown molding you pass is original. The house’s first owner and builder, Daniel Baker, was something of a craftsman. He –”

Abruptly, you cease talking and stare at the stairwell. Halfway down the steps, where before there was nothing, sits a perfectly ripe orange. Eyes narrowed, you stare at this a long beat before yanking the light cord down and shutting the door.

Glancing upward, you hiss, “Not today, I swear to – well, whatever hellish being you worship.”

The wind sounds almost like laughter, but you don’t stick around long enough to find out if that’s true. Shaking your head, you traipse down the front hall in search of the Gundersons. Luckily, they’re too busy taking pictures of the aforementioned crown molding to have noticed your absence.

“Shall we?” you say, gesturing at the front stairs.

Pocketing their phones, they begin their ascent. You wait at the bottom, giving them space to discuss the house. From personal experience, buyers tend to appreciate when you don’t hover.

Besides, the grand staircase is your favorite feature – equal parts artwork and functionality. From your place at its bottom, you admire the craftsmanship. Starting the climb, your fingertips skim whorls in the wood and for a second, you feel a phantom hand rest over yours.

Scowling darkly, you yank your palm away. Reaching the landing, you clutch at your clipboard tighter and walk forward.

“This way!” you say, practically shoving the Gundersons into the first bedroom.

While they ooh and ah about the bay windows, you tick another box on your spreadsheet. Master bedroom.

The second you’re done, the pen slips from your grasp and hovers in mid-air. It then turns, point-down, to scrawl something in the margin.

‘Master’ bedroom? Kiiind of racist, don’t you think?

Teeth gritted, you snatch your pen back. “I wasn’t the one who created the spreadsheet, okay?” you whisper. “And while, yes, I agree, and other realtors are moving away from that language, I don’t–”

“Pardon?” Arthur Gunderson peers, confused, over his shoulder.

Somewhat manic, you smile. “Oh, nothing,” you say, the words sounding high-pitched, even to you. “I was just reminding myself to show you the main bathroom. Beautiful claw-foot tub.”

“Oh. Sure,” says Arthur, returning to his wife.

Head whipping sideways, you glare at the most likely place Seokjin would be. A chuckle drifts past your ear on the other side, and your scowl deepens.

Once an appropriate amount of time goes by, you usher the Gundersons into the next bedroom. Hovering outside, you calculate how quickly you can convince them to leave. The longer they stay, the worse the so-called haunting will be.

You should have known better than to show them this house, but they were insistent. Or at least, Arthur was. Margaret seems reasonably paranoid, which you deem a positive quality. Everyone within a hundred-mile radius has heard of the haunted Elliot house.

Even the name is confusing, since it doesn’t bear the name of its builder, Daniel Baker, nor its longest resident, Mr. Josiah Whitley. Instead, it’s named for Nathaniel Elliot, the cult leader who murdered a man on its premises in 1978. Obviously, this fact wasn’t known to the public until after the cult sold the house and moved far away.

Eventually, Mr. Elliot was tried and found guilty of murder, but this was much later. Wincing a little, you glance at the ceiling. Seokjin has said many times that ghosts can’t read minds, but you wouldn’t put it past him to lie for a punchline. Even if he can’t read your mind, the faint scent of cedar lets you know he’s nearby.

Quickening your stride, you show the Gundersons the next bedroom. “This is one of my favorites,” you say, pulling hard on its warped door. “The view from that window is stunning. You can see all the way to the brook!”

Taking the bait, Margaret crosses the room. “Oh, look, Arthur!” she exclaims, leaning forward. “There’s a gazebo!”

He follows at a more leisurely pace, frowning when he spots a lone cobweb in the corner. Sighing, you swipe at this as you pass, almost certain the web wasn’t there this morning.

While the two converse, you pull out your clipboard and run down the list again.

Most days at your job are like today – running down lists and waiting for other people to make their own life decisions. Becoming a realtor wasn’t so much a choice as it was thrust upon you. When your mom got sick your senior year of grad school, you returned to take care of her and finished your coursework remotely.

There were only so many jobs with flexible hours, and you ended up getting your realtor’s license to support her on the side. When your mom passed, you stuck around to sort out her paperwork and affairs. Two years later, everything is in order and still, you remain. Stuck in a holding pattern, showing houses and too afraid to try your hand at anything different.

BANG.

The sudden noise from above plunges the room into silence. Both Arthur and Margaret swivel, wide eyes landing on you.

Margaret’s glasses chain trembles. “What was tha–”

“My assistant,” you blurt, backing towards the door. “He mentioned he would stop by to drop off some keys. That must be him – I’ll go and check!”

“But…” Arthur stares. “The noise came from above.”

“Be right back!” you call, stepping into the hall.

As fast as possible without raising suspicion, you rush down the hall. “Seokjin,” you hiss, hand skimming the banister as you descend. “Stop that right now!”

No one responds – not that you thought he would. Crossing the foyer, you reach the cellar door and yank it open. Flicking the overhead light, you see the orange has disappeared. Rolling your eyes, you shut the door.

“This isn’t funny,” you huff out loud to no one.

Far above you, a low groan shakes the house. Honestly, it sounds more sexual than scary, but you suppose that only makes it more sinister. Reaching the foyer, you slow your pace and set down your clipboard. Suppressing a sigh, you glance at the clock. This has happened enough times that you can predict things to the minute.

Crossing your arms, you tap your foot and count down in your head.

One – increased groaning. Sometimes from the cellar, often the attic and, during one memorable visit, from behind a locked bathroom door.

Two – shuffling feet while the Gundersons (insert buyer’s name here) debate whether to run or wait it out. They hastily whisper, wondering if it’s their minds playing tricks.

Third – laughter. Seokjin will say it sounds lilting but to you, his laughter is more akin to a car’s windshield wipers. Today, said laughter drifts from the main bedroom, immediately followed by the Gundersons’ screaming.

Directly above you, Margaret’s heels pound wooden floors. Wincing, you make a mental reminder to buff the scuffs from the wood.

“ARTHUR!” she calls, her voice pitching upward.

“Right behind you!” he bellows.

When the lights in the foyer flicker, you lean against the grand railing. In your experience, there’s nothing you can do now to save the showing. As soon as Seokjin reveals himself, it’s only a matter of time.

“Whoooo dareeessss to disturrrrrb meeeee!” he wails, and you try not to laugh. “This is MYYYY homeeee and you are nooooot welcomeeeee! OoOOOOooooOOo!”

Arthur is first down the stairs. Reluctantly, you step forward – as their realtor, you’ll try to calm them down and get them out. All part of the plan. What’s not part of the plan is Arthur’s blind panic, elbowing you – hard – in the stomach as he runs past.

Concaving, you stumble, your foot catching on a loose floorboard as you fall backwards. Suddenly, a pink cushion slides between you and the floor. You land in the middle of it, shocked but unharmed.

Arthur yanks open the front door. “You!” he blurts, whipping around to point. Blinking, you fight the urge to glance over your shoulder. “Yes, you,” he scoffs, spittle flying as Margaret runs past. “I don’t know if this is your idea of a sick joke or what, but your manager will be hearing from me!”

Before you can formulate a response, Arthur is out the front door. You hear the sound of their car starting, exhaust billowing behind them as they speed down the street.

Propping yourself on one elbow, you release a sigh. The house has fallen silent, almost sheepish in its total lack of sound. Head lolling back, you glare at the ceiling.

“You are so annoying,” you groan, well-aware you sound crazy. “I honestly don’t know what you’re looking for, Seokjin. The Gundersons were fine.”

The front door slams.

An outline of a person materializes between you and the living room, seeming composed of dust motes and sunshine. Turning your glare in their direction, you tap your fingers against the oak floor.

Seokjin solidifies fully, rakishly leaning against the paneled wall. He’s dressed in the same navy three-piece suit he wore when he died, albeit with his hair styled in this century’s fashion. Seokjin once said ghosts are able to change their appearance, but most choose not to. There’s little point to it, and it wastes precious energy.

Sadly, he shakes his head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Seokjin says, his deep timbre resonating through floorboards beneath you.

“Show off,” you mutter.

Lips twitching, he crooks a finger. The foyer light ceases to flicker, and Seokjin straightens. Dusting invisible dust from his shoulders, he walks forward.

“The Gundersons were tiresome,” he says. “I would’ve been bored of them in months, started haunting again, and this house would’ve gone right back on the market. Really, I saved you trouble in the long run. You can thank me later.”

“Oh, no,” you deadpan. “Two commissions on the same property. What a horrible fate.”

“Exactly. You’re welcome.”

Fighting an eye roll, you push yourself upward with cushion in hand. At least Seokjin was kind enough to break your fall, even if he caused the circumstances which led to it in the first place.

Brushing the dirt from the cushion, you shake your head. “You do know that eventually, someone will buy this house and you’ll have to make peace with that fact. Right?”

When Seokjin doesn’t immediately respond, you look up. His dark gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, briskly looking away when he catches you watching.

“I know,” Seokjin says, turning around. “Might I point out though, that I don’t have to make peace with anything. Ghost,” he adds, pointing at himself. “Not making peace with things is our bread and butter.”

“People have owned this house before, though.”

“Boring people,” Seokjin mutters.

“That didn’t seem to bother you back then!”

Seokjin enters the living room. “Ugh,” he groans, dropping onto a chaise. Dust motes spiral around him, as though he were solid. “If I must be trapped on the material plane, Y/N, the least the material plane could do is provide some entertainment. And the lovemaking of two seventy-year-olds doesn’t count,” he adds, fixing you with a glare.

Stifling laughter, you follow him into the parlor. Fluffing the cushion, you replace it on its chair and survey the room. Seokjin lounges dramatically and it could be your imagination, but he almost looks solid. More so than the first time you met, anyways.

He nearly scared the shit out of you, back then. Everyone at the firm warned you this house was haunted but were purposefully vague on the supernatural. The warnings they gave you were borderline mundane.

Oh, yeah, that house has been on the market forever. People say that it’s haunted, but I’d honestly be more worried about rats. Or asbestos – popcorn ceilings didn’t age well for a reason. And I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard a convict once lived in the basement for three months before the cops caught him. Watch out for that!

You entered this house with more than your usual trepidation, pepper spray in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Apparently, the wiring wasn’t all up to code – something you’ve since rectified with the city.

The sound of the door creak could’ve been written by the Brothers Grimm themselves, textbook gothic. Your flashlight swept over dusty floors, faint footprints remaining to remind you of its past. Spine steeled, you forced yourself to continue.

Finding a light switch, you flicked upward, and the chandelier came to life. The lighting was dim, barely enough to see by on a rainy day. Keeping your flashlight, you wandered into the parlor and came to a sudden stop. Forest green wallpaper lined the walls, remarkably intact for its age. Stunned, you turned in a slow circle.

Moody maximalism was one of your favorite design styles, and this room was made for it. With a slightly better attitude, you resumed your walk-through, discovering a hidden cupboard in the kitchen and a dumbwaiter to nowhere. The second-floor entry point had been boarded up, but that could be rectified.

Some of the woodwork of the house was scuffed, and a few corners held fallen leaves, but overall, it was in great condition. None of the realtors had prepared you for that – you arrived expecting a war zone and were pleasantly surprised.

On the second floor, you found a library – or what had once been the library, given the shelving was empty – that made you audibly gasp. Blue-black custom shelves extended along three of the walls. Closer to the door, a bright square of color remained from where a painting had hung.

Curious, your fingers traced the edges. “This place is unreal,” you murmured to yourself.

“I know, right?” said a voice directly in your ear.

Like any sane person, you screamed and jumped skyward. Your flashlight fell, its beam rolling over and over until it hit a baseboard. You didn’t stick around to find out, turning fast on your heel and bolting into the hall.

Thundering down the front stairs – wincing as the wood groaned – you nearly reached the foyer when Seokjin appeared.

“Boo,” he said calmly, between you and the door.

Coming to a shuddering halt, your hand gripped the railing. The ghost was impeccably dressed, if slightly invisible, and raised a dark brow in response to your flight.

Gaze darting sideways, you sought a second exit but all you could recall was the cellar and that wasn’t an option. Years of training from watching scary movies kicked in at that point, and you slowly straightened. Running away would do nothing – a ghost could follow you anywhere – so, maybe reasoning with him would be the best option.

“What do you want?” you asked, masking your fear to plant both hands on your hips. “Who are you?”

Surprise flared in his – admittedly attractive – gaze. Some of the shock had worn off by then, and you could admit to yourself (if to no one else) that the ghost before you was hot. Even thinking this felt ridiculous, and you wondered if your already-fragile grasp on reality was slipping.

Taking a single step forward, the ghost cocked his head. When you stumbled back, his lip quirked, and he appeared by your side.

“Who am I?” he mused, walking in a slow circle. “Awfully strange to ask me that, when I’m the person that died here, and you’ve never stepped foot in this house until now. I would know.”

Started, you turned your head.

This was a mistake since it allowed you to see every ridge of his features. The rounded tip of his nose, his enviably full lips, and a curve to his jawline which could likely cut glass.

Forcing your gaze upward, you found him focused on you. “You… died here?” you asked before you could think better.

His lips thinned. “You know, it’s very rude to ask a ghost how they died. It’s personal.”

“Oh,” you said. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask,” the ghost replied with a sigh.

Your eyes narrowed, hearing barely hidden laughter in his tone. This ghost was making fun of you. The audacity!

Incensed by this, you lifted your chin. “Wouldn’t asking you whether it’s polite to ask about death be asking you about death, though?”

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, slipping both hands in his pockets. “There really isn’t a good way for you to bring up that conversation.”

A laugh escaped, despite yourself.

His gaze flickered, as though oddly pleased. Quickly, the ghost scanned you from your shoes to your face, where he lingered.

“I’m curious,” he mused, resuming his walk in a circle.

Despite your discomfort, you forced yourself to stay still. Even though you could feel each place his gaze lingered – your shoulders, your collarbone, tacing the slope of your cheekbones.

“What are you curious about?” you asked, pushing the words past your lips.

He stopped between you and the door again. Slipping both hands from his pockets, he crossed his arms over his chest. The way his biceps strained against his suit was intriguing, implying there was something to strain against. Dimly, you wondered what a ghost’s gym routine looked like.

Your lips twitched at the thought, and the ghost scowled.

“Stop that,” he commanded. “You should be terrified. I was curious about why you haven’t run yet. Anyone else would’ve by now.”

“Would they?”

“Based on my experience, yes.” He tilted his head. “This is the first time I’ve introduced myself to someone and they stayed. Well,” he amended through teeth. “Stayed without crucifixes, holy water, and a priest.”

“Does that really work?” you wondered, genuinely curious.

“Does what work – exorcism?”

You nodded.

“Clearly not.” He waved a hand down his body. “At least, not in my case. When I first died, I wanted to move on. I was even excited when the first priest arrived, but he did nothing, and neither did the next one… eventually, I stopped hoping. Started haunting, instead.”

“Well, sure,” you said, dazed.

His lips twitched. “My name is Seokjin, by the way. Not that you asked.”

“That was literally one of the first things I asked!”

Ignoring this, Seokjin stuck out his hand. “And you are?”

“Y/N,” you said, ignoring the impossibility of what you were about to attempt while extending your palm. “Nice to meet you.”

Your hands met in the middle and, instead of passing through, you felt your palms brush. For a moment, you touched calluses and warm skin, smelling the faint scent of cloves.

Seokjin went utterly still.

Chin jerking down, he stared at your joined hands. “That’s… never happened before.”

Retracting swiftly, you said the first thought that came to mind. “What? Never touched a woman?”

Scowling, he retracted his hand as well. “I was thirty when I died, Y/N. Not thirteen.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, then paused. “You… haven’t been able to touch anyone since you died?”

“Things, yes. People, no.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “A psychic visited me once. The owners at that time brought her, wanting to see if she could get rid of me.” Seokjin snorted. “She got them to pay her, then said, ‘No.’ Hilarious. And interesting,” he added. “She told me she’d met other ghosts, ones that could interact. Never seemed to work for me, though.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. For it being your first encounter with the supernatural, nothing about this had gone as imagined. You weren’t sure how to converse with a ghost who, for all intents and purposes, seemed fairly normal.

Except for the whole ‘being dead’ part.

“Well.” You shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

His expression remained inscrutable, but for the faintest of seconds, you thought Seokjin looked intrigued. After a moment, he moved closer and leaned in. You caught the faintest whiff of orange, cloves, and cedar on what could have been his breath.

“I suppose there is,” he murmured, and then disappeared.

Since then, Seokjin has appeared each time you returned. The second time, you were halfway convinced your first visit was a hallucination. A theory Seokjin seemed content to feed into, refusing to show himself until you were about to leave. Then, he jumped through the hall closet to yell, “MUTINY!” and cement his presence in your mind.

Seokjin doesn’t dress the same every time. A few weeks into your friendship (if one can call it that), he informed you he could change his appearance but hadn’t done it much. It took energy to appear on the mortal pane, more so if his appearance was altered.

Still, you’ve learned Seokjin will do pretty much anything to commit to a bit. His brand of haunting tends to border on comical. Putting his arms on backwards, headless juggling, vomiting wine – really anything is fair game if not truly grotesque. By now, you’ve seen his whole gambit, which is how you can say today’s performance was lackluster.

Sprawled on the chaise, one foot dangling, Seokjin looks every bit of the tragic lothario. Again, you can’t help but wonder whether he’s gained permanence since the last time you saw him. You could almost swear the chaise sinks under the weight of his frame.

“What is it?” he demands, lazily pushing himself upward.

Something in your chest flutters, although you ignore it. Arms crossed, you fix him with a look of disdain. It’s sinful for Seokjin to look as good as he does – and the worst part is, you know it’s not an illusion.

After you met the third time, you Googled his name along with the house and found multiple hits. Seokjin Kim was killed on October 31st, 1978, by Nathanial Elliot, the leader of the Sunny Days cult. Both Seokjin’s parents joined two years prior, and he’d tried unsuccessfully to convince them to leave by mail and phone.

Eventually, he visited in person and convinced them to go – unfortunately, Nathanial caught wind of the situation and killed Seokjin before this could happen. You saw photos of Seokjin from then and can confirm he was always devastatingly handsome. Often, you’ve wondered if he left someone behind – a wife or a girlfriend – but can’t bring yourself to ask. You aren’t sure which answer would hurt more.

Regardless, you know Seokjin was missed. His parents were the ones who took down the Sunny Days cult, putting their leader behind bars for killing their son. Seokjin admitted once that they tried to tear this house down. They didn’t know he was tied to the grounds, and he didn’t want to tell them. It would’ve been harder for them to move on, he explained, and your heart broke a little.

Not long after that, you accidentally let it slip that Seokjin had a scent. It made him howl with laughter, nearly falling down the front stairs – not that this would’ve hurt him. From then on, Seokjin showed off his growing ability to move solid objects by leaving oranges for you in the house whenever you came. Only another of his practical jokes but lately, it’s made your skin hot to think of.

You realized you felt more than you should for him last month when he saved you from falling. Determined to clear out the cellar, your entire foot went through the first step and Seokjin pulled you to safety.

“Careful,” he murmured, one arm wrapped around your waist. Gently, he eased you backwards and onto the landing. “The top step is rotted through. You’ll need to call in someone to fix that.”

Unable to speak, you nodded and quickly disentangled. Each place he had touched, your skin tingled, and not at all unpleasantly. Since that day, your feelings have only worsened. Sometimes, you wonder if he knows.

Sometimes you wonder whether he feels the same, no matter how hopeless it is.

Heaving a great sigh, Seokjin stands from the couch. Lifting both arms, he stretches this way and that like an overgrown cat. The end of his shirt comes untucked, displaying a flat strip of skin you refuse to acknowledge.

Forcing your gaze to his face, you lift a single brow. Weeks after meeting, you considered Seokjin your friend, or at least an acquaintance. Now, you can’t call this friendship, but not because things between you have worsened. It’s because the more time you spend together, the more you find yourself wishing for something impossible. Something more.

“You know what,” you tell him. “There’s no need to scare off every potential buyer.”

Seokjin pauses, then lowers his arms. “There’s a need when they’re terrible. I’m the one forced to live with them for eternity, not you.”

“It’s not an eternity, though,” you tried to joke. “Eventually, they’ll die – or, so one would presume.”

Seokjin’s face hardens. Before you can take another breath, he’s standing before you. “Much better,” he says, his voice like steel. “I love being reminded that, while the world continues to age around me, I never will. I’ll simply stay on this godforsaken plot of land until the earth is destroyed by its own inhabitants. How long do you think that’ll take, Y/N? One decade? Two?”

Eyes wide, you stare at him in shock.

Seokjin has never spoken to you like this before. Usually, he’s far more cavalier about his reality, easily accepting the fact that he’s a ghost. Never once has he ranted about the world passing by. In fact, Seokjin frequently throws in your face that you’ll soon have more wrinkles than him.

For the first time, you wonder if all that is a front. If perhaps, deep down, all his lackadaisicalness is merely a cover for a deeper kind of fear.

Slowly, you move closer. “I didn’t mean to be dismissive,” you murmur. “Of course, I don’t want you to be forced to live with people you hate. I just meant…”

You trail off, uncertain and Seokjin’s face softens. He moves even closer, his scent comforting you in a way you can’t explain. In a way it shouldn’t be.

“I’ll never get used to this,” you sigh.

You aren’t sure why you’re speaking so softly. Possibly due to his proximity and possibly due to the look in his eyes, studying you as though you’re the impossibility, and not him. Dust motes trail through the air when Seokjin lifts a hand.

With bated breath, you watch as he reaches towards you. At the last second, he shifts and lightly brushes your jaw.

Sharply, you inhale because you feel it. You feel him.

“Seokjin,” you whisper. “What are you…”

Gently shushing, he leans in, and you feel his breath, feather-light, across your skin. Utterly shocked, you go still. It’s his breath that you feel. Breath that shouldn’t exist, according to logic.

Slowly, his gaze drops and stays on your lips. If Seokjin can’t read minds, he must hear your heart racing. The sound of it is all-consuming, drowning out rational thought.

“You want to know what I’m waiting for?” he murmurs, his gaze lifting. “I’m waiting for someone to look at this… house the way you do.”

“A lot of people have liked the house, Seokjin. People who –”

“I don’t want you to sell this house."

Startled, you stop. “Why not?”

His expression twists, revealing his vulnerability. “I think you know.”

Roughly, you exhale.

Yes. You do know. It’s the same reason you’ve half-assed the last six showings at this address. It’s why you keep people from looking, and when they insist, barely attempt to stifle Seokjin’s shenanigans. You could have come earlier today and requested Seokjin to be on good behavior. He would have done it. For you, he would have.

Which is exactly why you didn’t ask.

“I… want to hear you say it,” you say, so low, you’re surprised that he hears.

Achingly slow, Seokjin’s hand slips from your jaw to your neck. When he pulls you closer, you can feel the weight of his hand, the solid pressure that comes from his fingers on your skin.

Your eyes flutter shut.

“I don’t want you to go,” Seokjin murmurs, his lips close to your ear. “If someone else buys this house, you’d stop showing it. You wouldn’t come here again, and I can’t leave these grounds. If someone else buys this place” – his breath hitches – “I won’t see you again. I can stomach eternity, Y/N, but not without you.”

“Seokjin.” His name leaves your lips as a whisper, or prayer.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever…” Eyes opening, you look up. “I don’t want to say it out loud.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Your voice breaks. “That might make it real. What I want can’t be real, so if I say it out loud, it might vanish and right now, it exists in this tentative space. We exist in this space.”

Lightly, his thumb strokes your throat, and you feel your knees buckle. Every callous, every touch feels so horribly real, it’s making it difficult to remember why this can’t be.

“I’ve stopped wondering what’s real and what’s not,” Seokjin murmurs, his gaze tracing your mouth. “Most people say I shouldn’t exist and yet, here I am. They say I shouldn’t be here, able to touch you like this and yet, I am. They say I shouldn’t–”

Rising on tiptoe, you cut him off with your kiss. Seokjin shudders, his lips parted and warm in the shock of the moment.

 “Fuck,” he groans, breaking away to stare at you in wonder.

Before you can respond, he returns, his kiss wild and fierce. Your own desire surges, touching him hesitantly at first, and then with full abandon. Hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, your fingers curl in his hair to anchor him to you.

Cupping your face, Seokjin pulls your body to his. His touch is reverent, deifying while his hands travel lower to land on your waist. His body curves above yours, catching your gasps with the tip of his tongue. Seokjin feels solid beneath you – solid, and warm, and painfully real.

His mouth moves to your jaw, trailing heat down your throat and across your bared collar. Shivers of pleasure shoot through you as he walks you backwards, pressing your spine to the wall. Briefly – wondrously – you laugh, the sound caught again by his kiss.

Within minutes, you’re panting, heart beating wildly as you grip his hair tighter. Seokjin’s leg presses forward, pushing your thighs apart and you nearly dissolve. He moves harder, faster, as though scared that you’ll vanish. This is the opposite of disappearing, though.

This is together, beneath, and on top as –

“Shit,” Seokjin growls, the sound torn from his throat.

Dazed, you look sideways and realize his hand has gone through the wall.

Seokjin stares at his wrist, his chest rising and falling. Everything you can feel is solid, but his hand sinks through the wall about an inch deep. It’s hard to concentrate with him above you, looking like that. Seokjin’s hair remains mussed by your hands, proving you touched him – however briefly.

Lips thinning, Seokjin pulls his hand out. Purposefully, he lays his palm flat on the wall but it’s clear to you both that he’s concentrating. Some of his pressure dissipates.

“I – fuck,” he exhales, dropping his chin.

Gently, you soothe a strand of hair behind his ear. This is the first time you’ve seen Seokjin anything less than immaculate and goddamn, if it doesn’t look good on him. That’s making it difficult to focus on the matter at hand.

The matter at hand. Ha.

Thinking this, a snort escapes your lips before you can stop it. Stunned, Seokjin glances up with wide eyes.

“Did you just… snort?” he asks, incredulous.

You shake your head, and then nod, sheepish. “Um, yes. I did. It’s just…” Now that you’ve started, you can’t help but continue. “I can’t believe the hottest make-out session of my life ended with your fucking hand through a wall.”

Seokjin stares for a long moment before – impossibly – his chest starts to shake. Before long, you’re both laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation. Once your laughter has faded though, comfortable silence remains.

Pulling you into his chest, Seokjin’s hand strokes your neck. “I don’t know what this means,” he admits with a sigh.

“Me, either.”

“I do know I want to do that again.”

“Same,” you say, pulling back.

“But…” Seokjin hesitates. “Y/N. You know I’m not… real, right?”

Your heart sinks to your shoes. “You’re real to me.”

“I know.” He speaks softly. “But I –”

Lifting a hand, you press a finger to his lips. “Don’t,” you warn. “Please. I don’t want to think about the future right now. I know I don’t have eternity, but I don’t want what I have without you.”

Something in his gaze breaks but Seokjin merely nods, letting silence fall again. You fear that he’ll vanish, leaving you alone but he merely exhales. The breath brushes your skin.

“Alright,” Seokjin murmurs, winding his hand with yours. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

The ghost of a smile crosses your lips. “What if… we talk about me buying this house?”

© kpopfanfictrash, 2023. Do not copy or repost without permission. Author’s Note: thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and Happy Halloween!

[argumentl]

Psychonnect 2024- Kyoto Report (2024/05/01)

I feel like I don't want to give too much away, since the tour has only just started, but....

it was an incredible show! 

I got there after walking through the rain, and lined straight up to get an aknot stamp book. They were sold out! But I was able to fill in an online form to get one deliverd to my home address instead, hopfully with that Kyoto stamp in it!

I had been desperate to get a shimote seat for this show, and boy did I get a shimote seat! The end seat of the back row of shimote, right in the corner!😂 This would suck for a standing live, but since this was a hall, I was really high up there at the back, and I had an unobstructed view of the whole stage. The only downside is at that distance its too far to really see the small details in the members' outfits etc, but still a great view!

This was also possibly the best spot to experience the incredible lighting from. I was absolutely awestruck by how gorgeous the lighting effects were in this performance, they was so well designed and absolutely beautiful to see. Another reason to love hall lives! 

As for the members costumes, I saw Kaoru the most of course. For the main he was wearing what seemed like layered skirts, with a fitted cape encasing his shoulders. He had a fan blowing at him too, so his skirt/s were blowing in the wind atmospherically the whole time. For the encore, he had on the black Cage tshirt, a knee length black skirt, with those fringes hanging from his knees.

I remember seeing through the fringes, him  standing up on his toes while playing the guitar solo in Sustain. 

Another great moment, Kaoru getting ready for his part, strutting around in circles like a bad guy, while Toshiya was playing the bass solo in Cage. 

Speaking of Toshiya, his outfit was really impressive to see in reality, he looked straight out of a Tudor portrait with that dress! 

Kyo was in his corset setup, black hair extensions look. 

Highlights of the setlist for me were probably Ranunculus, TDIM, Perfume of Sins, Hageshisa. Don't get me wrong, I love the Gauze revival, I spent my late teens in love with Gauze, it will always be important. But their newer music just hits me in the heart like nothing else, it is other worldly in comparison. This was also my first time to hear Ranunculus live, since I was unable to attend any of The Insulated World touring (for reasons outside of my control). So very happy about that! Oh, and I loved Kaoru's guitar solo in Raison d'etre 😍. 

Next for me is Osaka day 2 on June 5th!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

It's all about the details in "The Little Castle" house, a 1928 Tudor Revival in Crown Point, IN. 3bds, 3ba, 2,223 sq ft, $579,900.

Look at the gorgeous roof line.

The entrance hall has gorgeous original tile and a sweeping staircase.

Light and airy sitting room with double doors to the garden.

Beautiful original bronze sconces. You can see the texture of the walls.

It has a lovely brick fireplace with decorative tile inserts.

The tile on the fireplace hearth is set with lead, just like leaded glass.

Dining room off the sun porch has corner china cabinets and looks like an original ceiling medallion and chandelier.

Such a pretty sun porch.

I like the dark cabinetry they chose. It matches the house perfectly.

Tile details.

Cute vintage powder room.

Beautiful stairs up to the bedrooms.

Lovely primary bedroom with an alcove for the closets.

This bedroom is a home office and it has a door to a roof top deck.

There are 2 terraces on the house.

Remodeled bath.

Back hallway with doors to outside and the basement.

There's a full kitchen down here.

Laundry room with shower.

The original furnace is here, too.

They're using the finished basement as an extra bedroom, but it could also be a rec room.

This looks like the old coal room. It would make a nice wine cellar.

There's a roof top deck and 2 patios.

The 2 car garage has a little room or apt. on the side. .79 acre lot.

https://www.oldhousesusa.com/listing/the-little-castle-house-1928-tudor-revival-style-crown-point-indiana-46307