#antique white bedroom furniture

[shiftingbikeculture]

Traditional Bedroom in New York

Inspiration for a mid-sized timeless guest bedroom remodel with a dark wood floor and brown walls but no fireplace

[whattheheckfestival]

Traditional Bedroom in New York Inspiration for a mid-sized timeless guest bedroom remodel with a dark wood floor and brown walls but no fireplace

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Who doesn't love a perfectly preserved time capsule? This 1968 beauty in Rockford, IL is like stepping back in time. 4bds, 4ba, $450K.

The small entrance has tiled flooring to protect the carpet that runs all through the house.

Why is it always green? This was a dramatic home when it was new- stone fireplace, sunken living room, and wrought iron railings were the height of fashion.

The living area is huge. Note the large stone bench matching the fireplace and the cornice boards that discreetly hide the unsightly curtain rods.

The fireplace stone continues and has a huge mirror. In the corner is shelving and 2 steps up to the dining room.

The dining room has dated curtains that the buyer will inherit. I love the kitty-corner table. That was a common placement in mid-century style.

Next comes the kitchen. Actually, they must've updated it b/c I don't think that 2-tone cabinets were a thing yet. But, the ditzy, small, busy print of the wallpaper with matching shades was definitely the style. Note the original avocado dishwasher and dust shelving above the upper cabinetry, that was later replaced by soffits.

Wait a minute, I'm seeing props here- there's a new dishwasher and new ovens, but they kept the old avocado ones. I wonder if they work or, if it's just nostalgia. There are also 2 cooktops. Wow, they really preserved everything.

Look at the green glass.

Large laundry room off the kitchen.

Oh, look, an avocado washer/dryer set. This is amazing. And, look at the old sink. I hope someone who loves it, buys it, b/c it was so lovingly cared for.

Nice large everyday dining area has a pony wall separating the family room. So much green everywhere. I wonder if this set came that way or if they painted it.

Another stone fireplace flanked by shelving. Knotty pine walls, and folding shutter doors- all fashions of the past. I can't believe that they have the Colonial furniture that was so popular at the time. Even though it was all the rage, you don't see it around anymore. According to the listing, there is going to be an estate sale, so this furniture will be available.

The primary bedroom is pretty big. Geez, there's carpeting everywhere and some of it is looking gnarly.

It has an en-suite, which is unusual. Look at that fancy cabinet. Green laminate counter, too.

This bedroom is also pretty big. Look at the consummate girl's white bedroom furniture of the mid-century.

The den has a big old map probably with countries that don' t even exist anymore.

More bedrooms on the 2nd fl.

Oh, look at that! A hope chest! They were popular for a teenage girl to receive as a gift. Then, she would put in blankets, etc., in the hopes of one day getting married and using them. I can't get over the historic furniture in this place.

And, then they've got a big family room up here. Wow, this house has so much furniture and tchotchkes.

Winter? No problem. Just set the lawn furniture up in the basement.

There's also a finished part of the basement. This is a craft room, and there is also a canning room.

Look at the antique freezer on the right. This place is a museum.

This part of the basement isn't finished even though it has a brick fireplace. No matter, they still used it as a family room, anyway.

According to the listing, this is a 2 car garage, called a "cottage garage," b/c I guess it looks like a residence.

This cool log cabin on the property is used as a playhouse, according to the listing.

Yeah, but look at it, it's really a residence.

There's a lot of land, 3.50 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/6151-Newburg-Rd-Rockford-IL-61108/5537324_zpid/

[yourfatherlucifer]

Sticky Situation (HJ)

Ghoul!Hongjoong x afab!reader

Summary: after receiving a dare from your friends, you went into the ‘haunted’ mansion as everyone says, but is it really haunted though? Something is watching you..

Warnings: NSFW MDNI, messy intercourse, slight stalking, dumbification, slime/goo play, ghost stuff, mention of death, aphrodisiac cum, rough sex.

Genre: Smut

AU: Paranormal

WC: 1.6k

Rated: R

Tags: @stardragongalaxy here is your secret admirer request!

Also there will be no part two cause I struggled lol

“Come on, you guys really cannot believe it’s haunted! Ghosts don’t exist!”

Your friends had rolled their eyes at you, “You don’t have to believe us, which is why we are daring you to go inside.”

You had stood in front of a large lavish yet run down mansion, it looked like it was straight from the 1700's, but it was still beautiful. It didn't exactly look quite abandoned but also looked like no one lived there. Maybe someone kept maintenance of it.

Approaching the vast doors, they creaked open with just a soft touch, “Hello?” You called out, like an idiot. Have you not learned from the horror films?

The place was beautiful on the inside, but was clearly abandoned, yet in pristine shape. Who was keeping it so mummified?

There was a grand staircase that winded up to the second floor, which was lined with old renaissance paintings, covered in yellow varnish.

A lot of furniture was covered with white cloth, which you assumed was to protect them from the dust already accumulating.

Dead eyes appeared in the darkness, watching you from afar yet you hadn’t noticed.

The air was musty and smelly, smelled of slight death and blood.

You made your way through double doors and found an almost pristine kitchen with antique appliances, the fridge, the stove, etc. All early eras.

Slipping out of the kitchen into the next room, you found a secret staircase, it seemed like it led to the basement, but as you descended down the steps, the stench of death kept heavily increasing. So, you quickly ran back up the stairs and slammed the door shut, covering your mouth as you tried not gag.

The eyes that watched your every move, quietly chuckled. An evil like smirk forming on its face.

Did you walk into a serial killer's hideout? Why did it smell like pure death? You wanted to leave so badly but your friends made a bet you wouldn’t last long, through the night even so.

You covered your mouth and left the area with teary eyes. You made your way upstairs to the second floor, the winding steps making you dizzy.

You could only open doors that were unlocked and there weren’t many. It was as if someone was trying to prevent you from exploring. You found the master bedroom, or what seemed to be the master bedroom. It was very large. The bed looked very dusty and unused. Looks like this is the room you’ll be staying in tonight, you thought to yourself.

Making your way to the bed, the floor creaked beneath you. You winced with every step and hoped this home was truly empty and was just an old place with dead bodies.

When you sat on the bed, you noticed some type of slime was excreting from it. You shot up from the mattress and began frantically wiping your pants, clearly grossed out.

“What the fuck!” You gagged, hands now covered in the slime.

You couldn’t even begin to think of where it came from, let alone excrete from an old bed.

As you went to leave the room, the door slammed shut in front of you. You let out a loud scream and fell to the floor, slightly bruising your tailbone from the fall.

“Where’d you think you’re going, pet?” A voice mocked you in the darkness.

You gasped in fear as you stood up to your feet, running to the door. Pulling on the handle that just wouldn’t budge. You cried out in frustration as you began to feel trapped and feared for your life.

“Awe, you think you can leave, oh-precious-life?” The voice began to stalk towards you.

You whipped around to face a man, or what looked like a man, his deathly pale skin, wide brimmed hat and a long black coat approached you with a scary grin.

“Get away from me!” You backed into the door.

“That’s very cute. You aren’t going anywhere.”

As he came closer, you could inspect his features, which you came to realize he is very attractive, but still scared you to the very bone.

His black tipped fingers came to brush against your cheek, goo oozing from the tips.

His chest pressed closer against yours, the hat brim stopping him from pushing even closer, “You smell delicious.” His tongue swiped across his lips, “I love the scent of fear.”

You whimpered as he threw the hat across the room. His nose falling to your neck crevice, inhaling your scent. The close proximity of this attractive..man, was arousing you greatly.

He let out a loud cackle, “Ooh, never have I had a human get aroused just by this!”

You gripped onto his coat as he began licking strips along your skin, taking in the flavor of human flesh.

He chuckled once again at your desperation, “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you, human?”

Hongjoong pressed his hardening bulge against your thigh.

‘What are you doing?” You whined as his hands began to roam your body.

“I’m going to fuck you, is that not what you want?” He whispered into your ear, nipping on the lobe.

His hands began to roam your body, “I can clearly smell how much you want this.”

His two hands came up to your shirt, grabbing the middle and ripping it in half. The pieces hang there from your shoulders. You yelp in protest, heat flooding throughout your body.

“You’re never gonna want another human cock after this.” An evil like cackle spilled from his lips with a toothy and mischievous

grin.

His teeth pierce the skin between your neck and shoulder, not drawing blood but practically attaching himself to you with a mark.

He grabs you from under the thighs and hikes you against the wall, tearing your feet from the floor, to wrap around his waist. His hardened cock now pressed against your clothes and wet cunt.

Hongjoong giggled in your ear, “You know, I haven’t fucked a human in so long, not since I died,” He pulls his face away and takes one boob in his hand, the black slime on his fingers left behind a slimey trail down your breast valley. His claw-like fingernails jabbed into the plush skin, drawing blood and pain. He didn’t care for your cries because he knew you wanted this just as much as him.

He brought his pale lips to yours, smashing them together. He then carries you to the unused bed, practically throwing you on the mattress. He uses his hands to rip open your pants, tossing the now ruined fabric across the room.

You quickly scrambled to the headboard, clearly embarrassed you were in your underwear in front of him.

A crazy grin spread against his cheeks as he grabbed your ankles, yanking you down the mattress and back to him, “Why do you continue to try and run from me?” his hand ran down your waist, to your thighs, then back up to your underwear, snapping the band against your hips.

Hongjoong buries his face against your clothed cunt, taking in the scent of your arousal, “Fuck, smells so good.”

You whine as he pulls down the cloth, tossing it over his shoulder. His long and pointed tongue darts out to lick the slick that leaked out of your hole. He throws your legs over his shoulders and pressed his nose against your clit. His tongue playing and teasing the tight hole, he wanted to prepare it for what he referred to as his, ‘monster sized cock,’ when he wasn’t wrong. He is a monster and his cock is huge.

“Gonna fuck you so good.” He mumbled into your cunt as his tongue swirled around your walls, his fingers digging into the back of your thighs. Then slipped his free hand underneath, and slipped a finger in just below his wet muscle.

When he was done playing with you, he removed himself from you and let your legs down.

“Ready for my cock, pretty one?”

You whimpered with a nod, spreading your legs to reveal your puffy and used cunt, “Please, I want your cock so bad.”

He laughed and took the base of his cock and lined himself up, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration as he pushed in, “Little human is so pathetic for me. How cute.”

The second his cock reached the hilt, you already felt fucked dumb. He was just that big, his cock so thick and long in size. The best you’ve had.

“Gonna cry?” He grunts as thrusts his hips up, “Gonna cry like a little baby? Can’t handle my cock?” He rests his arms by your head, “Well too bad, you’re gonna take it, you’re gonna love it and you’re gonna beg me for more.”

He sat back on his knees, thrusting into your cunt, while his hands excreted ectoplasm onto your body, the stick feeling was heavy and gross but you couldn’t focus on that. Not while his cock jackhammered into you, barely putting any effort into it yet he had you seeing stars.

He flipped your body around, so that your head could be pushed into the dusty mattress. He raised your hips up, but also rested a hand on your lower back.

You let out a scream as this angle let him reach you even deeper than before, his cock seemed to stretch you out even more if that was possible.

“I’m gonna cum so fucking deep in you, you’ll never want to leave me here. You’ll be mine forever.” His hand gripped your hip so tight, that his nails drew blood and left behind bruises.

“Please, inside, please!” The mattress mumbled your words but he understood you clearly.

He leans down to your ear, “Gladly.”

His black cum spurt out in all directions inside of you. It definitely didn’t feel normal but it heated you up and felt like you needed more. You wanted more, “Oh fuck, I need more. Fuck me more. Please.” You whined and looked back at him.

“That’s so funny, I told you that you’d beg for more, pretty one.”

[creator1mpersonator]

Through the Mirror

00. Prologue

Inspired by Coraline, reader is gender-neutral, no use of Y/N.

This new home was painfully dreary. Based on the copper-colored bricks that built up the walls and the immensely overgrown shrubbery around it, you assumed this was a pre-war building. There were neighboring houses, but they all looked as copper, lifeless, and boring as yours. As you assisted your parents unload the U-Haul, you saw a little girl ride past on her little bike with the expression of a Victorian child—poor thing, so young and living in a place with the mental stimulation of the color beige. Your father procured the key from one of his pockets, slotting it into the rusty doorknob and turning it. The door simply opened by itself, and you heard him mumble something about fixing it to himself before entering. Your mother followed, waving away cobwebs with her hand. You remained outside for a moment, and it wasn’t until you heard your mother shriek your name that you picked up a box and scampered inside.

The inside of the home was, predictably, as depressing as its exterior. Dusty, with cobwebs along walls like terrible little decorations. You screamed when you saw a cockroach scuttle past your feet, its wretched antenna going this way and that before fleeing out the open front door.

“Bugs, great. Just what I need.” Your mother muttered in a rather disgruntled tone, arms crossed over her chest. She seemed even more upset by this move than you were, even if it was supposed to be good for her and your father’s job. Not that you even knew what it was that they did.

“Nothing an exterminator can’t fix, honey.” Your father said in a cheerful tone, ever the optimist.

“Exterminators cost money. Money we don’t have.” Your mother retorted, killing another roach beneath her shoe with a rather cruel stomp that sounded throughout the empty house.

“You’ll see,” your father began, “things will be just fine.”

“Yeah, right.”

Your father sighed, and you gave him a sympathetic smile before setting the box you were holding down on the dusty hardwood floors.

“___” your mother called out, “go pick out your room.”

You nodded, walking past your at-odds parents and heading up the stairs. There was an old carpet that lined the hallway, like in picture books. It was a faded blue and you think there were once flowers printed on the fabric. You decided to walk on the regular hardwood instead when the carpet began to squish under your feet. You don’t think the carpet was supposed to do that. 

You peered into different rooms, making keen observations about each one that would help you pick out the least worst one. One room had a hole in the floor, your mother was gonna blow a gasket when she saw it. The next room sent you running out of it when you saw the cockroaches gathered around like a council of terrible little things. The third room you saw was the one you picked. Compared to the last two, it wasn’t in a state of disrepair nor did it make your skin crawl. It was bland because of course it was, but you figured some paint, furniture, and decorations could fix it right up. Two windows let natural light inside your bedroom, there was a closet with bi-fold doors, and a mirror.

The mirror caught your attention the most. It was undoubtedly an antique, the glass of the mirror surrounded by a golden border with swirling decals carved into it. It was beautiful and vaguely reminded you of the Evil Queen’s mirror in Snow White. 

“Mom!” You called out, “Come up here!”

You heard footsteps come up the stairs, a disgusted sound when the carpet squished beneath her foot, an angry sigh at the hole in the floor, and a shriek when she found the council of roaches before she finally found your room.

“Couldn’t have told me what room you were in?” She sighed, arms still crossed.

“Sorry.” You said, before quickly changing focus, “check out this mirror.”

Your mother glanced at the mirror briefly, eyebrow raised.

“It’s creepy”

“I think it looks pretty.” You defended.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t wanna get rid of that one and just get a new mirror?” Your mother asked.

“I’m sure.”

She sighed.

“As long as you’re happy, bug.”

You wouldn’t begin to understand the trouble that mirror would get you into until that night.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Love Machines in Harmony

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 5244 Tags: PWP, Human AU, Rich Guy Dream, Mechanic Hob, the garage doesn't feature in this one though, Service Top Hob Gadling, Enthusiastic Bottom Dream, Dream is Not Quiet in bed, brief appearance by glass sex toy, anal sex, spünkelcouchen, strength kink, manhandling, burgeoning feelings, which shall continue to go unspoken, eye candy wardrobe choices, oral sex, mild temperature play, brief mention of come swallowing

Notes: Fifth (5th!) in the Turbo Lover series. This is an immediate sequel/continuation to Shift to Overdrive. Title (of course) taken from Turbo Lover by Judas Priest. Previously in the series, in case AO3 is down: Customer Service With Every Nerve Alive Loyalty Rewards Program Shift to Overdrive

Summary: Passions are running high after the limo ride home, and the drawing room is closer than the bedroom

On AO3

Hob pushes Dream up against the door as soon as it's shut behind them, seizes him by the biceps and kisses him fiercely. He's managed to calm himself a little between the limo and the house and he's not in danger of popping off immediately but his fancy tailored trousers are very distinctly tented and it's all Dream's fault, the way he'd just crawled over and taken Hob out and licked and sucked him like candy all the way home—

"Your mouth," he pants, breaking the kiss, moving his hands to Dream's face, "Dream, you magnificent creature, your fucking mouth—you drive me insane—"

Dream surges back into the kiss, tongue squirming into Hob's mouth, the same tongue that had teased him so relentlessly—he can taste himself on it, still. Fuck. Dream is whining hungrily and grinding his hips against Hob's; they're both hard, and god but it's gratifying to know that Dream did what he did in the limo because it turns him on, he's not just trying to get Hob off. Which Hob has certainly picked up on by now; Dream has loved sucking his cock from their very first tryst but it's always nice to see the proof of how much he enjoys it.

But Hob is so, so wound up from all that teasing; he needs to fuck Dream right now or he may go mad.

He grabs Dream around the back of his thighs and hefts him up, swallows down the delighted noise that Dream makes and swings them around off the door as Dream's legs wrap around him. Dream has this big house with all these rooms and most of them are closer than his second floor bedroom; Hob kicks his shoes off there in the foyer and moves for what Dream calls his 'drawing room' with its sturdy antique-style furniture, pauses in the dark.

"Lights, dove," he manages, pulling free of Dream's kiss and dipping to suck a soft mark to his throat.

"Computer. Lights. Ambient," Dream says, a bit breathlessly, but the automated system that's keyed to his voice obediently brings up the lights in the room to a soft cozy glow. Hob, able now to see where he's going, heads straight to the green velvet couch and drops Dream onto it gently.

Dream makes a highly-pleasured little sound as he lands on his arse and scrambles up to turn and kneel on the sofa, hands gripping the back. "Hob, please," he gasps, with all the urgency that Hob feels, and Hob's not about to keep him waiting.

"Can I assume you've got lube on your person?" he asks, reaching around front to undo Dream's trousers and take them down along with his pants. He strokes over Dream's cock as he goes, and Dream shudders.

"Yes—but Hob—" He sticks his arse out out, bounces it a little; Hob takes the hint and draws back to look.

He sees the broad jewel-like base of one of Dream's favorite glass toys peeking from between those milk-white cheeks, and it makes his breath catch.

"Oh my god, Dream—" He wriggles the plug, tugs gently without any intent to remove it, and relishes the way Dream squirms. "All night? Or did you just sneak this in before we left the restaurant?"

"All night," Dream gasps, clutching at the green velvet upholstery of the couch back. "I knew—I knew that you would be absolutely mouthwatering in your suit, that I would need your cock without delay once coming home—" He bears down with a whine, the plug surging gently into Hob's grip as he pushes it free; Hob sets it aside as Dream babbles on. "I had to be ready, Hob, fuck me, please—"

And who is Hob to argue with that? He drops his own trousers, lines his dick up and slides in.

Dream moans, a sound of pure pent-up relief and decadent joy, and Hob answers him in kind. It's so good, to have him open and ready and gripping hot around Hob's prick, finally, finally after that limo ride. He groans again, draws back and thrusts in repeatedly until he's fucking with more enthusiasm than finesse, and Dream's voice is just one long note of pleasure warbling out of him every time Hob slams in.

Dream is stretched and slick, but obviously he's had the toy in all night and while the friction that develops as the lube thins out is good for a moment, it quickly becomes too much, uncomfortable. "Need more lube, darling," Hob pants, pulling out reluctantly.

Dream fumbles into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket and hands a slim tube over his shoulder without a word, breathing hard. Hob can't help the delighted chuckle that escapes him; of course Dream is prepared, of course it's the good stuff. He slathers it onto his dick, strokes the excess into the rim of Dream's hole and sinks back into him with a groan of relief, squeezing Dream's hips as he sets into a steady measured rhythm. Part of him wants to pound hard and fast and get them both there as soon as possible after the work up Dream had given him in the limo. Part of him wants to calm down just a hair and draw this out, carry the frenzied need as long as he can, and it's that part that wins out.

"Can't believe you're real, sometimes," he pants, splitting his focus with words meant to also wind Dream tighter. "I mean. Course you're real, you're here, I can feel you"—he thrusts in, grinds deep, and Dream gasps a breathless cry—"but I just. You picked me, you let me have you; feels too good to be true and god, I'm so lucky—"

Dream is pushing back into every thrust, mindless and eager, fingers clenched on the wooden frame and emerald green upholstery of the couch back. "Picking you—ahh—picking you was the best decision I have made in—in months. Hob—" He tosses his head, lets it drop forward again as Hob keeps driving into him. "I nearly crawled into your lap in the car, Hob, I needed you inside me so desperately—"

"That sounds like a lovely idea," Hob gasps, a vision blossoming in his mind. Can he manage it? He's not a hundred percent sure, but he has learned by now that Dream goes a little feral for displays of Hob's physical strength when they fuck; it'll be worth the try. "I do like the sound of you bouncing in my lap—here, lean up—reach back, grab my arms—" He braces his legs and tightens his core, breathes deep as Dream obediently grabs backwards at his biceps; he scoops his arms under Dream's thighs and lifts, leaning back at the same time for balance.

Dream mewls his surprise, trousers round his dangling knees as Hob bears him up, dick still inside him. Hob trembles, straining under his weight, but manages a couple good strokes into him and Dream's head thunks back onto Hob's shoulder with a breathless whine. Hob thrusts up into him a third time, a fourth, and Dream moans desperately.

"Hob—Hob—!"

Hob grunts, shuffles a half-circle in place and drops to sit on the couch, only partially-controlled. He lands heavily, Dream still on his cock, and he feels the way that gravity drives him deep as Dream comes down on top of him. Dream cries out, chest heaving, clawing at Hob's forearms in their tailored sleeves, thighs working for more.

"Hob—fuck—Hob—!" He's squirming on Hob's dick, feet scrabbling in an awkward shuffle to kick off his shoes and yank one leg free of his trousers; as soon as he's got it both feet are planted on the edge of the couch on either side of Hob's spread thighs and he's fucking up and down on Hob's cock, eager and desperate and unconcerned for the clothes still tangled about his right ankle. He arches back against Hob, panting, frenzied, the sounds spilling out of his mouth a symphony of effort and satisfaction.

Hob is just along for the ride at this point, soaking in every little moan and cry, grunting his own pleasure as Dream rides backwards on his prick like a man possessed. He glances over Dream's shoulder, down past the open black jacket and loosened silk tie, moves one hand from Dream's hip to push his shirttails up out of the way so Hob can see his pretty pink cock straining tall, pearly-wet at the tip as it bounces in rhythm.

"Christ, I wish you had a mirror in here. Wanna see full-frontal how pretty you are writhing in my lap, fucking yourself on my cock—" He has a great view, all things considered, but god what he wouldn't give for a spectator's angle too. He wonders how Dream would feel about filming themselves.

Dream reaches up and back, grasps the wooden frame of the couch behind Hob's head, his body drawn into a beautiful half-dressed arc as he continues to fuck himself with feverish abandon. "I will—get—get a mirror—for next time—" He shudders, grinds deep, circles his hips in sharp little jerks that make both of them moan, then starts bouncing again.

Hob is struggling to keep himself from getting too close to coming; he's generally very good at pacing and stamina maintenance so that his partners get everything they need from him, but sometimes Dream makes it terribly difficult. And this is definitely one of those times, Dream arched backwards in his lap fucking like it's his mission in life, both of them still in suit jackets and shirts and loosened ties, Hob's trousers still around his ankles and Dream's still hanging from his right foot—the urgency is tangible in every move they make and Hob is hanging onto control for all he's worth. He won't come before Dream is ready for him to, he won't—

Dream is starting to flag.

He's slowing, getting less coordinated, the noises he makes tinged now with frustration and Hob can't blame his thighs for giving out on him, the pace he's been going. It's impressive he's kept at it this long.

"Ho~ob—" Dream whines his name, arches, squirms low on Hob's prick, still clinging to the back of the couch behind them both.

"I've got you," Hob murmurs, taking his cue. He shifts his hips forward a bit, grips Dream firmly under both thighs and lifts, just a little, just enough. It gives him room and leverage to thrust, taking over the rhythm that Dream had established and the way that Dream collapses into his support is so, so gratifying. "I've got you—" He fucks into him gently for a few strokes, the effort of holding him up muting the urgency of his own arousal somewhat, focusing and gathering himself before gradually picking up the pace.

It's no time at all until Dream is coming undone, hands clenched on the back of the couch, voice crying out in one long continuous note as Hob pumps steadily up into him. It's work to keep him slightly aloft like this, yes, and it would be easy enough to change positions for something less challenging but Hob won't, because he knows Dream loves this. He is forever grateful for the upper body strength his job has gifted him that lets him do this for Dream, who deserves every happiness and every fantasy that Hob can give him. He lifts just a little more, feeling it in his chest and every arm muscle; he'll be sore tomorrow, definitely, but it's so entirely worth it for the way Dream is arching and shivering and wailing under his care.

It's only another moment of this, Hob trembling under the strain, Dream crying out his pleasure, and then Dream's voice climbs higher, urgent and desperate and breathless. "Hob—Hob—Hob—!"

Hob doubles his efforts, fucking for all he's worth until at last Dream comes, shaking against him with the sweetest little scream, semen jetting into his crumpled shirt and jacket. Hob lets him down, flush into his own lap, pushes deep into the spasming clutch of Dream's body and holds, riding it out until Dream goes limp.

God, but he is such a lucky bastard.

Dream is panting, sharp little whines off the end of each heaving breath as he comes down from it, body gone slack against Hob, hands settling on Hob's forearms and head lolling back on Hob's shoulder.

Hob nuzzles into Dream's skin below and behind his ear, drunk on the smell of his sweat and shampoo, his dick positively throbbing in the sheath of Dream's clutching arse. "Do you want me to finish now, beautiful?" he breathes, nosing at Dream's earlobe, flexing inside him and earning a breathless whine. "I'm close, I'm so fucking close after everything you've done to me tonight and the way you just came on my cock; it wouldn't be long at all." He flicks his tongue up the back of Dream's ear, spreads his hand—his blue-collar work stained mechanic's hand—in the sticky mess of Dream's expensive shirt tails. "Or do you want me to take you upstairs, put you arse-up in your gigantic bed and fuck you until you come again first?"

"Please," Dream says, still a little glassy-eyed and breathless. "Strip me bare. Carry me upstairs. Fuck me as you see fit and fill me with your seed—"

Seed. As if anyone else would ever actually call it that. Hob smiles into Dream's neck, helplessly besotted. He adores this man, this horny rich weirdo who can drive Hob out of his mind with pleasure but can't drive stick to save his life, who somehow thinks Hob's cock is the greatest thing he could spend his time on. He chuckles, kisses Dream's damp and heated skin. "As you wish."

Dream arches against him, languid and restless; carefully, Hob shifts him forward just enough to start pulling at his clothes without dislodging him from his cock. He gets Dream's shirt and jacket freed from between them, wraps Dream in an embrace that's maybe a little softer than what they actually are, tells himself it's just a good excuse to unbutton Dream's shirt and cuffs. He helps Dream pull his arms free of both pieces, lifts the tie over his head, sets everything aside on the green velvet couch. He reaches, manages to free the trousers from where they're stuck around Dream's ankle, then sets to work on his own shirt buttons.

Dream shifts carefully on his prick, leans forward and works his own socks off while Hob struggles out of his suit; this would definitely be easier if he removed Dream from his lap and stood up but Dream hasn't dismounted and Hob's not going to make him until he has to. He tosses his suit and tie aside with Dream's; part of him cringes at how carelessly they've treated the clothes knowing that they cost more than he could afford, but on the other hand if Dream is unconcerned then he's just going to roll with it. Dream's probably got a guy he can take them to for cleaning and pressing and next time Hob sees them they'll be just like new.

He's got more important considerations right this second anyway.

He wraps his arms around Dream again to keep him steady while he kicks off his own trousers, does a little bit of contortion to get rid of his socks, and takes just a second to bask in the delight of having Dream held naked against him, held close in his arms. Normally the cuddling comes once they're all done and he enjoys sneaking it in mid-coitus far more than he should, probably, but he's also beyond caring at this point.

He likes Dream. A lot. And Dream likes him too, he's very sure, even if they'll never be more than whatever casual arrangement this is. It's good enough.

"Gonna have to move you off my dick," he says, with a soft kiss to the side of Dream's neck.

Dream makes a small sound of protest.

"Come on, precious, let me get you upstairs so I can fuck you senseless again." He moves his hands to Dream's hips, lifts him up enough to slide his dick out.

The sound of loss Dream makes almost has him sliding right back in, but that's not the current goal just now.

Shakily Dream stands and Hob levers himself up after, makes sure his path out of the room is clear of discarded clothing or other tripping hazards, turns Dream around and back into his arms. He'd asked to be carried upstairs and damned if Hob isn't going to indulge him. He briefly considers doing it bridal style, but no. Another time perhaps; his muscles are already complaining about the amount of lifting he's done tonight and they'll be better balanced if he's got Dream wrapped around him instead. "Arms round my neck, sweetheart, up we go," he says, gripping the backs of Dream's thighs and hefting him up, and then, because how can he not, he kisses Dream.

Dream clings around his neck, locks his legs around Hob's hips and kisses him back, soft and eager and the little whine in his throat sparks the heat still bubbling in the pit of Hob's belly.

He is so, so gone on this man, and so very ready to come.

And he's promised Dream another orgasm first.

Dream kisses all along his jaw as Hob maneuvers around the furniture, makes his way out to the staircase and climbs the two floors up to Dream's bedroom. He slings Dream gently onto the bed, an enormous and insanely plush comfortable affair, and clambers after him. "On your stomach, love," he says breathlessly, grabbing Dream by the hips, rolling him over and maneuvering him into position.

Dream whimpers, scrabbles to get his knees under him somewhat and pushes his arse up prettily, presenting it, all but begging for Hob's attentions.

"Christ, you're so gorgeous," Hob murmurs, splaying both hands over Dream's cheeks, squeezing them, spreading them. Dream's hole is right there, slick and ready and open, and Hob's dick twitches in anticipation. He leans to grab the lube from the bedside drawer, smears it generously over his first two fingers, sinks them deep into Dream's body.

"Hob," Dream moans, clenching around him, as if to draw him deeper, and Hob can't help the warmth that floods through him. He puts it aside, fingers Dream slowly for a moment, stroking him with steady unhurried attention and letting his own dick settle a bit so he doesn't pop immediately. Dream is so responsive, squirming on Hob's practiced touch and loudly voicing his pleasure; Hob can't help working him harder, deeper, zeroing in mercilessly on his prostate until Dream is a frenzied incoherent mess.

"Hob—please, Hob—please—!" Those seem to be the only words he can manage, voice raw and begging, fists clenching again and again in the duvet as Hob expertly drives him higher. He's squirming helplessly, knees splayed, hips rutting into the bed, arse clenching and unclenching on Hob's relentless fingers and Hob again counts himself the luckiest bloke in existence, that this is all for him.

He's sure it won't take much more to get Dream over the edge, and his own need is becoming unbearable. He gives Dream another half a minute or so, stroking deep and thorough, savoring the way he keens, and then pulls out.

Dream makes the most desolate sound of protest, squirming wantonly, bereft and needy and uncoordinated in his desperation; Hob seizes him by the hips, pulls him around and up into position, spreads his pristine cheeks with calloused workman's hands and sinks his prick in between.

Dream takes him with a low trembling moan, an eager gasp, pushing up for more and Hob swears.

"Fuck, Dream—" He resettles his hands on Dream's hips, draws himself out and pushes back in again, slow.

"Hob," Dream moans, like he's the only thing that matters, writhing up to meet him, and that's that. Hob gives a few more slow strokes, feeling every inch of the slide in and back out, and then shifts position. He leans forward, one hand still tight on Dream's hip while the other braces himself on the mattress, and starts moving faster. He watches Dream's back, the little ripples of his spine as he pushes up into Hob's thrusts, the sheen of sweat on his pale skin, marks the contrast of his own black-stained nails next to it.

Perfect. Beautiful. God, he loves this, this whole thing, but Dream most of all—

He pushes the thought aside, gives in to the heat of his own desire and fucks, barely holding on as Dream cries out. He keeps going, thrusting and pumping harder and harder until Dream is shaking underneath him, sobbing his pleasure into the bedclothes, screaming when he comes undone again at last. And then, only then, does Hob let his need slip its leash, plunging hard and fast and fierce into Dream's pliant overworked body, fucking and fucking until he spills.

"Dream—ohh, fuck, Dream—" He's trembling as it hits, wound tight in the heat they've built up all night and struggling to keep his tongue in check, to not let the overly-amorous words flow from his mouth while he's pumping the last of his spend into Dream's arse. That's not what they are; he's not going to ruin this with his inability to keep from falling all-in head-over-heels at the slightest provocation. He'll be whatever Dream wants, and that's enough.

Dream makes the most decadent satisfied little noise as Hob finishes, squeezes around him, wriggles happily. Hob, despite himself, drops to plant a kiss between his shoulder blades.

"There we are, love," he breathes, panting, spent. "Was that what you needed?"

"Exactly that, yes," Dream says, breathless and hoarse, shifting languidly underneath him. "You are so very good to me, Hob." He sighs, content, never mind that he's face down in his own wet spot with Hob's dick going soft in his arse.

Hob chuckles, fond and exhausted. "It's my pleasure, truly," he says, and carefully disengages before climbing off the bed. "C'mon, let's get cleaned up and I'll tuck you into bed, if you like."

"You will join me, of course." Dream says it like it was never a question, and it really isn't. But it's nice to know he's earned the welcome.

The duvet will have to be laundered; he should have put down a towel but in the moment it just hadn't crossed his mind. He uses a washcloth to clean it up as best he's able while Dream gets the shower going—they're sleeping under the duvet, not on top of it; it'll be fine for the night.

Dream is languid and cuddly in the shower (a big glass-enclosed affair with optional rain features and plenty of room for two), and Hob is delighted to indulge him; they trade lazy, sated kisses while washing up and Dream lets Hob towel his hair dry, lets Hob gently scrub his body dry as well, and offers his own help in rubbing down Hob's chest hair, his arms, his legs. And his back, of course.

It's so easy, deceptively domestic, and Hob loves every second of it. He picks Dream up when they're done, a proper princess carry this time despite the protest of several muscle groups, and takes him back out of the en-suite.

Dream makes a delighted little noise, snuggles into Hob with both arms around his neck, warm and content as Hob carries him to bed. Hob manages to hold him up with one fatigued arm and turn back the covers with the other, lays him down and tucks him in before skirting around to the other side to climb in himself. He scoots in close to Dream, who's made very clear by this point in their arrangement that he enjoys cuddling, and murmurs gently into his hair. "Lights, dove."

Dream gives a quiet little huff. "Computer. Lights out, whole house."

The lights dim out obediently and Hob settles in, arms around Dream, skin to skin, sated and content and sleepily certain that he is the luckiest bloke in the whole wide world.

~

He wakes slowly the next morning, on his back in Dream's enormous bed, warm and hazily blinking awake. Eventually he stirs, tries to roll onto his side to pull Dream in for sleepy snuggles, but every muscle in his body protests and he groans, biting his lip to stifle the sound. Beside him, Dream pushes up on one elbow and smirks down at him.

"Good morning, Hob Gadling," he purrs, eyes gleaming, hair a tousled mess, and god, but he's beautiful. Hob's heart gives a little thump.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he groans, flexing his leg muscles experimentally. Yep. Gonna be feeling last night for most of today, definitely. His arms protest in equal measure, but he can't complain. Totally worth it.

"It is already past nine," Dream tells him. "Were you needed in the shop today?"

"Later, maybe." It's Saturday; they're not actually open. He had plans to go in and catch up some paperwork Matty had asked him to see to, but there's no rush on that. "Right now I'm all yours, if that's what you want." He's pretty sure it is.

"Wonderful." Dream dips to kiss his cheek. "I should like to keep your company awhile longer, yes."

Hob smiles, warm, content, delighted.

"Let me find you something to wear," Dream says then, wriggling out of the bed. Hob watches as he crosses to the wardrobe, noting the very careful way he walks, and grins to himself. He knows better than to offer apologies; Dream has told him how much he enjoys carrying the feel of Hob with him the next day when he has demanded a hard and thorough fucking the night before. And Hob believes in giving his lover everything that he wants.

"Here," Dream offers, pulling out a short silky robe. "I should be very pleased to have you wear this; it's brand new." He tosses it to Hob, who picks it up gently.

He rubs the silky fabric against itself, careful of catching it on his rough calloused fingertips. It's beautiful.

It's not Dream's color.

It's a rich dark teal, the same color as the shirt that had come with his ensemble last night, the color that Dream had said would suit his complexion perfectly. Did Dream buy this for him, specifically?

Probably so. He's made no secret of the fact that he loves spoiling Hob with whatever suits his fancy.

Hob slips the robe on, wincing as his sore muscles protest, and finds that it isn't quite large enough to pull closed across his chest. He stands with a groan, pulls it all into place and finds that yes, it'll belt around his waist and nominally cover his bits and arse but it still doesn't meet across his chest. He's wondering, as he goes to use the toilet, if he's wrong about Dream buying it for him, or if perhaps Dream has badly misjudged his measurements (unlikely, given the tailored suit from the night before).

When he's washed his hands and come back out he finds Dream waiting for him. He's wearing a long black worn-soft t-shirt that hits him mid-thigh and probably cost more than Hob made in one day, with nothing underneath. It's a very appealing look and Hob forgets about his too-small robe until Dream reaches to smooth the lapels, clearly arranging them to optimally frame Hob's chest.

"Perfect," he purrs, with a sultry half-lidded stare, and drops a kiss on Hob's chin. "Come. I will cook you breakfast."

Hob follows him down to the kitchen, coming to terms with the fact that Dream has explicitly dressed him to be eye candy, and finding that he's actually one hundred percent on board with that. It's heady to have someone as pretty as Dream attracted to him, turned on by him, wanting him on display, and he's more than happy to oblige.

Breakfast is delicious, the tea Dream makes is perfect, and it's absolutely delightful to feel Dream's eyes devouring him and his silk-framed bare chest while they eat.

Dream makes coffee after they've cleaned up the dishes, puts his usual ungodly amounts of milk and sugar to it, and takes an appreciative sip. His eyes are on Hob, half-lidded with pleasure as he lowers his cup, and languid heat stirs in Hob's belly.

"It needs something more, I think," Dream pronounces, making an indicative toast-like motion with his cup, and pushes off from where he leans against the counter in his barely-long-enough tshirt. He splays the fingertips of his free hand in Hob's chest hair, directs him back and pushes him gently down into the high-backed kitchen chair in the breakfast nook. Dream sets his coffee aside on the table and folds to his knees, runs fingers warm from his cup over Hob's exposed thighs, down their insides, pushing them wider. The skimpy robe barely keeps Hob's dick covered and he's stiffening up beneath it; it'll do little to keep his modesty in another minute and the fact that Dream designed it that way only heightens the whole effect.

"Love the robe, by the way," Hob says, because he hasn't said it yet and he wants Dream to know he's one hundred percent okay with being dressed up and ogled like this if it's getting Dream hot.

"I should like to open it, if I may?"

"'Course, love." It's hot that he's asking, actually.

Dream's slim fingers pluck at the knotted tie delicately and Hob bites his lip; by the time Dream has the belt undone Hob's dick is already poking eagerly between the folds of the robe barely covering his lap. Dream peels the silky material back reverently all the same, like he's opening a gift, and Hob has to remind himself to breathe.

When Dream has laid Hob bare he reaches up to the table beside them, retrieves his mug and takes a long sip, then another. His eyes are on Hob's the whole time and when he finally sets the cup aside again, he takes his time about swallowing his final mouthful.

And then he speaks, voice low and suggestive. "Might I have a splash of 'cream', for my coffee?"

Oh, but he is insatiable, a seductive menace, and Hob has no interest in resisting. "Whatever you want, sweetheart, take it. It's yours." I'm yours, he'd like to say, but holds his tongue against the spectre of Being Too Much.

"You are so good to me, my Hob," Dream purrs, smile ripe with promise, and bends to his task.

His mouth is coffee-hot and talented as ever, and this time Hob needn't worry about holding back. He slouches his hips forward, buries his work-roughened fingers that Dream so loves in Dream's messy bedhead, groans breathlessly as Dream's tongue wriggles along his shaft; Dream pauses after a moment to drink more coffee and the renewed heat when he takes Hob's cock again pulls a deep whine from Hob's throat.

Truly, Hob thinks, as Dream works him steadily up to the edge and over, swallows him down greedily, chases it with another swig of coffee and a satisfied smile, he is indeed the luckiest bastard alive.

= Started: 7/25/24 Drafted: 1/27/25 Posted: 1/30/25

[infamous-light]

You Belong to Me Ch. 2

Alcina Dimitrescu x F! Reader

Ch. 1

AO3: You Belong to Me

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu's obsession knows no bounds as she becomes increasingly possessive over you. Will you succumb to her dark embrace, or find a way to break free before it's too late?

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Yandere, possessive/obsessive behavior

The winding hallways of Castle Dimitrescu seemed to stretch on endlessly, leading you deeper into the heart of the imposing structure.

The palms of your hands, once steady, now grew cold and clammy as you approached Lady Dimitrescu's bedchambers. You were about to begin your new role as her personal servant, a position that no one else has held before. Your mind buzzed with questions, doubts, and uncertainties.

What if you made a mistake? What if you failed to live up to her expectations?

The weight of this responsibility pressed down on you like a leaden blanket, threatening to overwhelm you before you had the chance to even begin. You swallowed hard, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your stomach.

Eventually, you found yourself standing in front of a set of double wooden doors, looming over you like a menacing shadow. Taking a deep breath, you raised your hand and knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the silent hallway.

“Come in.” Her voice, low yet authoritative, carried through the barrier of the door.

With a trembling hand, you reached out to grasp the polished golden handle, feeling its cool metal beneath your fingertips.

Here we go.

Then, you pushed the door open.

Stepping inside, you were immediately enveloped in the grandeur of Lady Dimitrescu's bedroom.

The room exuded an air of timeless elegance, each piece and decor chosen to reflect the aristocratic taste of its owner. Silk draperies hung down in graceful folds, their deep crimson hue contrasting sharply with the white furniture. Near the back, a grand, four-poster bed was pressed against the wall, its velvet canopy cascading down like a waterfall of blood. The bed itself was lavishly covered with plush, satin pillows and a heavy, fur-lined duvet. To the side of the bed stood a nightstand, its surface organized with an array of books and papers.

A large fireplace took up the right side of the bedroom, its mantlepiece adorned with an assortment of antique trinkets. Hanging above the mantlepiece was an old vintage clock, its hands steadily ticking along.

As your eyes continued to roam her bedroom, they finally landed on Lady Dimitrescu herself. She was seated at her vanity, delicately combing through her dark hair. You almost jumped out of your skin when her piercing gaze, framed by long lashes, locked onto yours through the reflection of her vanity mirror.

“Ah, there you are,” Lady Dimitrescu said as she set her hairbrush down. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

You bowed your head, trying to keep your breathing steady. “My Lady.”

She rose with fluid grace, her movements both mesmerizing and intimidating. Her towering presence filled the room, and you could feel the heat of her gaze lingering on you, appraising you. Each step she took was deliberate, her long nightgown whispering against the wooden floor as she approached you.

“Do you know,” Lady Dimitrescu purred, lifting your chin with a single, bare finger, forcing you to meet her eyes. “How much I despise being kept waiting?”

Your heart raced, a rapid staccato in your chest. Glancing to your right, you saw the time on the clock.

9:01 A.M.

Your hands fidgeted slightly, and your voice came out a bit shakier than you would have liked. “I’m sorry, my Lady. It won’t happen again.”

A slow, knowing smile curled her lips, and she traced her finger along your jawline, sending tingles down your spine.

“No, it won’t,” she murmured. “Because I have very specific expectations for you,” she leaned in closer, her lips grazing your ear as she whispered. “And I expect you to meet them.”

“Yes, my Lady.” You said quietly.

Lady Dimitrescu pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again.

“Good,” she said, her smile widening. “Now, I want you to draw me a bath. Make sure the water is just right – hot enough to steam, but not so hot that it scalds. Add a generous amount of lavender oil. I find it most relaxing in the morning.”

You nodded, eager to get this over with, and turned toward the adjoining bathroom. As you prepared the bath, the sound of water filling the large, circular tub mingled with the soft rustle of her nightgown as she moved about her bedroom. Reaching for the small bottle of lavender oil, you uncorked it and let a few drops fall into the steaming water. You swirled the water with your hand, dispersing the oil, and then straightened back up. You couldn’t shake the feeling of her eyes on you, watching your every move.

When the bath was ready, you turned around to find her completely nude by the doorway. Her eyes held yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. You quickly averted your gaze, feeling a rush of heat creeping up your neck. Her lips curled into a playful smirk.

Lady Dimitrescu walked past you with a grace that belied her towering stature. You could feel the heat radiating off her as she passed, a mixture of fear and fascination rooting you to the spot. She paused briefly at the edge of the tub, casting a sidelong glance in your direction, her eyes glimmering with amusement. With an almost theatrical flourish, she dipped one long, slender leg into the water, followed by the other. The water rippled and sloshed around her as she sank into the depths, her body disappearing beneath the surface until only her head remained above the water.

She reclined against the side of the tub, letting out a sigh of contentment as the warmth soothed her skin. Unsure of what to do next, you began to step away, your movements hesitant.

“I didn’t say you could leave, now did I?” Lady Dimitrescu said, her voice low and silky.

You immediately stopped in place and lowered your head.

“No, my Lady.” Your response was barely above a whisper.

“Come closer.” Her command was firm but soft.

You swallowed thickly, the tension between you two palpable, hanging in the air like a dense fog. Her eyes darkened, and for a moment, you felt like prey caught in the gaze of a hunter. Despite her relaxed pose, there was a coiled strength about her, a sense of latent power ready to spring.

You must have hesitated a second too long, because without warning, she reached out, her long fingers wrapping around your wrist with a firmness that left no room for resistance. She then tugged you down to the water's edge in one swift move.

“Don't be afraid, darling,” Lady Dimitrescu whispered. The warmth of her touch sent a jolt of electricity through you, making your skin tingle. “I won’t bite. Much.” The corner of her lips quirked up slightly, as if amused by her own joke.

Personally, you didn’t find it very funny.

Her fingers danced lightly over your wrist, her touch featherlight yet deliberate. Her index finger came to rest over your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of your heart. She drew you in closer, her presence overwhelming and intoxicating.

“You’re such a nervous little thing, aren’t you?” she cooed, her voice a soothing lullaby tinged with amusement. “But perhaps a little fear can be exhilarating, don't you think?”

Your throat went dry, the words stuck like sandpaper as you tried to respond. “I-I suppose so, my Lady.”

Lady Dimitrescu chuckled, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

“There’s nothing quite like the taste of fear, the thrill of the unknown. I quite enjoy playing with my food, though,” she paused, going quiet. Just as quickly as the intimacy had risen, it vanished. “You’re much more than just a plaything.”

Her eyes glinted with a dangerous light as she studied you.

“Help me wash my hair.” She demanded quite suddenly.

You knelt there, slightly dazed, trying to process the whiplash of emotions she had just put you through.

The shift in her demeanor was startling but you didn’t have time to dwell on that as you rose from your position by the bathtub. You walked over to a shelf lined with a variety of shampoo bottles and grabbed a few. You turned around and made your way back over, standing behind her. The scent of sandalwood and peppermint hit your nostrils as you poured a generous amount into your palm. Gently, you began to massage the shampoo into her hair, your movements careful and precise. Lady Dimitrescu leaned back into your touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as you worked the lather through her locks.

You couldn’t help but wonder how this had become your life.

***

You could hear the faint sounds of water splashing as Lady Dimitrescu prepared to emerge from her bath. You stood just beyond the threshold, made to wait by the doorway.

After what felt like an eternity, she stepped out with a fluffy towel wrapped around her large frame. She regarded you with a burning gaze, her golden eyes shining with a mixture of expectation and impatience.

“Go get my dress.”

“Yes, my Lady.” You replied promptly.

You moved toward the wardrobe that stood against the wall and opened the doors to reveal a multitude of white dresses. Carefully, you lifted one of the dresses from its hanger, feeling the fine fabric between your fingers. As you turned back toward Lady Dimitrescu, she allowed the towel to slip from her body, revealing her alabaster skin, smooth but slightly scarred. You looked away respectfully and focused on the task at hand, though the image of her naked body remained vivid in your mind.

She walked over to her dressing area and began to slip into her undergarments. Holding the dress out for her, you watched as she stepped into it, her long legs sliding effortlessly through the garment. Once the dress was in place, she adjusted it meticulously, ensuring every detail was perfect.

“Help me with the laces.” She instructed, turning her back to you.

The long, delicate laces of the dress dangled down her back, waiting to be tied. You hesitated for a moment, realizing her height made it difficult to reach the top laces. Lady Dimitrescu noticed your hesitation and glanced over her shoulder.

“Grab the step ladder in the corner of the room.” She directed, her tone patient but firm.

Nodding, you walked over to the corner and retrieved the step ladder, placing it carefully behind her. You began to climb the ladder and once you reached the last rung, you found yourself almost at eye level with the back of her head. With steady hands, you began to weave the laces through the eyelets, pulling them snug but not too tight.

As you worked, the proximity to her felt both intimidating and intimate. It made your hands shake slightly but you forced yourself to push through it. A moment later, you tied them off with a final, careful knot.

Stepping down from the ladder, you took in the sight of Lady Dimitrescu now fully dressed, her dress hugging her form perfectly.

She turned to you, her gaze steady. “I must say, you did an excellent job.”

You blinked rapidly a few times. The unexpected compliment caught you off guard.

“Uh - thank you, my Lady.”

She clasped her hands together, a pleasant smile spreading across her face. “Now, let's attend breakfast, shall we? My daughters are already waiting for us.”

Uncertainty arose within you. You’ve never worked in the kitchen before, but you don’t have much of a choice. You reassured yourself that you're resourceful and quick to learn.

“Of course, my Lady. I'll have the preparations made immediately.”

She let out a soft, almost amused sigh. “No, you misunderstand. I would like for you to have breakfast with me and my daughters.”

The words hung in the air, their weight settling heavily in the bedroom. The blood drained from your face. The thought of being around all three of her daughters at the same time made your heart almost stop beating.

“What?” You croaked out before you could stop yourself.

Lady Dimitrescu's eyes flashed dangerously. The space seemed to shrink around you as she took a deliberate step closer, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Did I stutter?” Her voice was icy.

“N-No, my Lady. I apologize for my misstep.”

She continued to regard you with that menacing glint in her eyes.

“Good,” her tone softened slightly but lost none of its edge. “Then let's not waste any more time, yes?”

You nodded quickly. She turned away, seemingly satisfied with your response.

“Come.”

You followed after her, trying to keep pace with her long, purposeful strides. The morning would be like no other, and you could only pray that you would emerge from it unscathed.

***

The grand double doors of the dining room were pushed open by Lady Dimitrescu with a flourish.

As you stepped inside, your eyes immediately fell upon her daughters, gathered at the far end of the long, polished dining table. They looked almost serene under the sunlight streaming in through the tall, arched windows but you knew better. Apprehension tightened around your chest like a vice. Memories of their previous acts of cruelty flashed through your mind. You had seen the aftermath of their games, the bruised bodies, and the blood-stained floors, and now, being in their presence, you felt like a gazelle being dragged into the lion’s den.

You forced your legs to move, stepping further into the dining room. Each step felt heavier than the last as the sisters' gazes followed you, as if sizing you up.

Bela, the eldest, sat to the right of her mother's chair, her blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face. Her eyes, a bright shade of gold, locked onto yours as you neared the table. There was an intensity to her gaze, flickering over you with a cold, calculating look that made goosebumps travel across your arms. Though you had only seen her in passing, you knew enough about Bela to be cautious. She wasn't as outwardly violent as her two younger sisters, but she could still dish out a swift punishment just like her mother.

Across from her, Cassandra was sprawled lazily in her chair as if it were a throne. She regarded you with a smirk, her eyes glittering with amusement. There was a predatory air about her, a sense of dangerous playfulness that set your nerves on edge. Cassandra seemed to be savoring your discomfort like fine wine.

Next to Bela, Daniela sat in stark contrast to her sisters. She greeted you with a wide, almost manic smile, her eyes alight with an unsettling enthusiasm. Unlike Bela's cool demeanor or Cassandra's mocking danger, Daniela's energy was chaotic and unpredictable. You were grateful that you never had to interact with her either since you were first brought to this castle.

You flinched as Lady Dimitrescu’s hand suddenly landed on your left shoulder, her grip solid but gentle. She guided you around the table and led you to an open seat next to Cassandra.

“Good morning, girls,” Lady Dimitrescu greeted as she took her seat at the head of the table. “I apologize for the delay.”

“No worries, mother. I’m happy that you’re able to be here with us.” Bela said, her voice warm. You could have sworn you’d seen her eyes sparkle with fondness as she glanced at her mother.

But your attention soon shifted to the food in front of you. The table itself was a sight to behold. A colorful assortment of freshly cut fruits and warm bread rolls were all laid out before you. Bowls of creamy porridge, still steaming, were placed around the table as well. It's a feast fit for royalty, a sight you never imagined you'd see in your life. As you grew up, meals were meager, often consisting of whatever scraps could be put together. You remembered the days when even a simple loaf of bread was a rare treat.

The doors near the back of the dining room suddenly swung open, and two maids stepped out, pushing a silver cart. The cart held a few wine glasses and one large, red wine bottle. As the maids approached, their eyes met yours. You saw a flicker of emotions – shock, confusion, and concern – pass across their faces but they quickly masked their expressions and continued with their duties. Each glass was carefully filled to just the right level. As soon as that was done, they immediately left without another glance in your direction.

You didn’t recognize them, but the weight of their stares left a lingering discomfort in your gut. You could already hear the whispers that would soon circulate among the staff. What will Catalina think once she hears about you dining with the Dimitrescu family?

You gazed down at the bowl of porridge in front of you. Your stomach rumbled in anticipation, and you just realized that you hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, so you picked up your spoon and dug in.

The first bite was heavenly, the creamy texture and subtle sweetness dancing on your taste buds. You closed your eyes, savoring the moment, letting the warmth spread through your body. You were halfway through your meal when you felt something unsettling.

A strange, tickling sensation crept up your left arm. You glanced down and saw a small fly scurrying up your sleeve. You yelped and dropped the spoon, letting it clatter loudly against the table. Lady Dimitrescu’s gaze snapped toward you and then to her middle child.

“Cassandra.” Lady Dimitrescu's voice was a blend of warning and irritation.

You followed her gaze and Cassandra sat there with an expression of exaggerated innocence. She batted her eyes, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “What? What happened?”

Cassandra's eyes shifted to yours for a moment, the smirk now fully formed.

“Your games are not amusing, Cassandra,” Lady Dimitrescu began, her tone firm. “As we discussed last night. She will be sharing future meals with us from now on. I expect you all to be on your best behavior.”

Wait. They talked about you?

Before you could dwell too long on the thought, Daniela’s voice chimed in. “I’m finally happy I’m allowed to be around you now. Having to wait all this time was torture.”

You scrunched your eyebrows together in confusion, trying to make sense of what she just said. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind that, dear. Let us enjoy this meal together.” Lady Dimitrescu interjected smoothly, her tone brooking no argument.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling like a pawn in a game you didn't fully understand.

Just then, a prickling sensation ran down the back of your neck. It was the unmistakable feeling of being watched. You tried to ignore it at first, but the intensity grew until you couldn't help but glance around the table. Your eyes landed on Bela. She watched you with an inscrutable expression, her eyes dark and unreadable. There was something unsettling in the way she held your gaze, neither hostile nor friendly, but piercing, as if she could see through you.

You couldn't shake the feeling that Bela knew something – something you desperately needed to uncover. But for now, all you could do was play along.

@ion-news @fanfiction8080 @cryiner

[bloodyknucklesforme]

No name (taking suggestions) for this yet but yeah @syoddeye got me into Nikolai so... here's this. It's way longer than I originally planned but here we are. There will be more at some point but my fingers were just itching to write this out rn so unedited as well...

cw: dark fic, dubcon/noncon, reader is being trafficked, human trafficking, cockwarming, body inspection, piv, Nikolai is evil but also kind i guess,

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

It never got easier. It'd been almost a year now. As you dropped your coat to the floor your anger and shame hit the ceiling. You'd trusted your ex, he promised to help you when you lost your job, when you couldn't pay rent, when you needed to borrow money. You moved to London for better opportunities now you were in some stranger's house waiting to be used. You'd lost track of how deep in debt you were to him and his 'friends'. 10k? 20k? It made your stomach clench.

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

Marcus hammered it in that this was a very important client. Probably another criminal. A rich one at that. His house was more of a warehouse with an automatic front door.

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

The front room was more of a safe room with steel walls and thick doors. No windows, just the camera, an intercom panel and a white gift box.

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

It was a too small lacy bra and matching too small panties. A washed baby blue, all mesh so you were fully exposed. The door inside clicked. You went inside.

It was nice. Expensive but not tacky like other homes you've been too. The kind of furniture you'd seen in interior design magazines and auctions, solid wood things made by designers with names you could never properly pronounce. There were soviet era antiques scattered about as decor. The first floor was open with a kitchen and dining area to the side and the rest of the room being a living area. There were stairs to the side leading up to where you guessed was the bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

"What's your name?" He asked, making space between his legs for you. You answered softly, a lie. Never give them anything was what another girl told you. He held your chin between two fingers, moving your head around like a doll. "Open your mouth."

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

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

A lie, most likely. Men always said that before fucking you, like they could believe you were there willingly, like they didn't pick you out of a catalogue of girls. You clenched your fists in your lap and willed the fear out of your bones.

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

He leaned back, grabbing a remote and turning on the tv. A hockey game roared on the tv.

"Is there...uh...anything you want me to call you?"

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

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

He laid a hand on the back of your head, pressing down your hair.

"Just keep me warm for now. Don't want to miss anything."

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

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

He thrusted lazily during every commercial break. Everything was in Russian so you couldn't follow the game beyond his angry or excited, more so angry, ad libs.

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

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

He made you walk ahead of him, directing you towards his bedroom. His dark eyes dug into your spine.

His bedroom was dark. Wine colored walls with thick, velvet blackout curtains covering the windows. The bed was large with silk sheets and a down comforter.

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

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

"Kolya."

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

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

The snap of plastic and cold fingers prodding at your cunt.

"Shhh...I don't break the things I buy." He didn't admonish you for hiding your face as he scissored you open. "There we go, Kotenok."

He pushed in slowly, groaning loudly as you whimpered and fidgeted. Despite the preparation it was a stretch and burn. He held you down by your hips.

"Good girl," he purred with one last push. The head of his cock bumped against your crevix , causing you to clench in pain. It only spurred him to start thrusting roughly. Your face dragged against the sheets.

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

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

He wrapped an arm around your waist, hand dipping between your thighs. He pinched your clit till you cried out.

"I don't like liars, Kotenok." He rubbed harsh circles till you moaned, shuddering hard. "Cum on my cock or shut up."

His other hand grabbed your shoulder and pulled you up. Your back rested against his chest. Still rubbing your clit, he hooked an arm under yours and rested it between your breasts while holding your chin and forcing you to look upwards. There was a mirror on the ceiling.

"Say my name," He barked.

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

"Want to come on my cock? Beg me for it."

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

You watched yourself as he forced you up to your peak, clenching around his cock. He laughed harshly and smacked your pussy. He held you up as your legs failed to hold you up any longer. You came hard, grabbing at his arms, manicured nails digging into his muscles.

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

"Catch your breath. I still want my money's worth."

You lost count of how many times he fucked you. You were pliant and submissive, following his lead as he bent you into whatever position he wanted. He was more virile than you expected.

You woke up sore, dried cum and bite marks covering your body.

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

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

There was towel left for you but no clothes and your lingerie from last night was missing as well. He did leave a cup of tea for you on the bedside table.

You kept the towel wrapped around yourself as you walked back downstairs. He was sitting at the dining table, typing on a laptop, cup of tea still steaming and full.

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

You bit your lip. He spread you open with two fingers, tilting his head as he inspected you. You yelped when he forced a dry finger inside you, moving it around and dragging it against your walls.

"Good girl." He pulled his hand and away and got a money clip from his pocket. "I like you. I'll ask for you again."

He handed you five hundred pounds. You stared at Charles in disbelief. You'd been tipped before but never this much.

"Thank you, sir."

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

"No...umm...Thank you, Kolya."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

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

You hurried off. For the first time more scared to leave than to stay.

[mushroomates]

the fellowship at a hardware store, from someone who works at a hardware store:

sam: is in the nursery!! goes straight to the discount/dying plants and piles his cart full of wilted and sad plants. likes to rescue the houseplants first, has a soft spot for perennials and citrus trees. is a nightmare to check out but is very sweet about it. dirt and leaves everywhere. like, everywhere. they have to sweep after he’s gone. surprisingly strong and hauls big bags of dirt.

frodo: enjoys home improvement!! likes to wander carpeting and organization, hunts for good deals and keeps tabs on the sales weekends. he likes to peruse the shower curtains and closet accessories. likes to refurbish old furniture he finds off the side of the road- currently fixing up an antique dresser to put in the master bedroom.

merry: doorknobs, handles, dresser nobs. he likes to pick out the interesting and antique ones and customize his home with them. he really likes the oddly shaped ones, he has one starfish and one pickle on his nightstand table. likes to joke about touching all the knobs and fiddling with the knockers.

pippin: is lost in the lighting department. he’s staring up at all the pretty lights and hypnotizing fans. likes the remote controlled lights, enjoys messing with the demos. also likes collecting paint chips. (pippins also the kind of person to get really high and shit in the display toilets.) does not buy anything, maybe some beef jerky and skittles at the check outs.

boromir: this man has like 80 projects going on and is remarkably proficient in every conceivable area featured in the store. he’s here so much people think he works here. he kinda does. he’s happy to advise you, lead you to products, and lifts heavy things for little old ladies and swooning maidens. he’s happy to grab the things on the highest shelf as well as carry those bigs bags of dirt out to your care. he is just a naturally pure and helpful soul. <3

aragorn: has lost himself in scrap wood. straight to the lumber yard, straight to the pile of damaged and recycled wood. once a month, he comes and loads up as much as it will fit in a pickup truck. no one knows what he does with it but he keeps coming back. there are several theories around the store. either he’s building a bunker, has a side hustle by reselling it, makes massive fires or he does wood work. alternatively, he’s a homeless man building his own cabin in the woods so he can live away from society. that’s one’s probably the closest.

gandalf: mixes his own paint. he doesn’t work there but somehow he keeps getting back there and making his own custom colors. was known to pull a miracle and turn gray paint back into white. no one knows how he did this. likes to camp out in the seasonal section. enjoys lounging on couches and swings for long periods of time.

gimli: is so excited to walk into the tools section. wants all the toys. likes power tools in a way that’s both funny and scary. really likes chainsaws and leaf blowers, possibly because they pose the biggest threat to legolas. often gets flagged out the door because no one person needs that many tools and he must be up to something. he always beeps out the door because inevitably someone forgot to take off one of the sensors of his many, many tools. he used to be nicer about this but lately has lost patience with always being stopped out the door, and often will make a show of waving his receipt before leaving.

legolas: spends a good amount of time in the garden. i imagine he gets enamored with the fountains and ponds rather quickly, also likes the statues and fun pots. also, wanders through the garden and samples the plants. by samples i mean eat small bites of it, and if he finds the quality satisfactory he will purchase it. this is rarely the case and he often just goes around eating small bites of houseplants.

[thenordroom]

This week on The Nordroom

A Swedish Family Home with a Lovely Garden Room

Antique Furniture and Arched Windows in a Stockholm Apartment

A White Apartment Features a Beautiful Terrace with a View

A Pretty Pink and Green deVOL Kitchen in South London

A Monochrome London Loft Filled with Art

A White English House with a Beautiful Open-Plan Kitchen

Boost Your Home’s Value by Thousands with This Simple Paint Trick!

A Moody Color Palette and Eclectic Interiors in a London Apartment

A Small Renovated 1920s Apartment in Stockholm

A Swedish Apartment with a Yellow Kitchen

A Charming School Conversion in Sweden

Historic Character and Timeless Elegant Interiors in a Restored Belgian Villa

A Sage Green IKEA Bedroom with A Walk-In Closet

[keyrey]

ꕥ𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰/ 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢ꕥ

“When my father didn’t have my hand, he had my back.” —Linda Poindexter

■□■(SFW, family headcannon.)■□■

𝓡𝓮𝓭, a testament to never-ending strength and courage. White, a resemblance of peace and purity. Denmark, a hot-ass place to be in the middle of summer, wearing a thick cream colored suit and tie. It’s what you’ve been trying to tell your headstrong, handsome, manly hunk of a husband all evening. Although somehow, you’ve ended up bundled in layers of silk sheets, the orange sun peeking through the sheer curtains, the ever-so-calming timbre of Farum Lake and rustling leaves, cradled warmly in the embrace of the man we all know and love, Kento freaking Nanami.

“I swear I’m gonna break that damn clock one day,” you blurt out before your mind can register what you said. A slight offense on your part—forgetting that the clock you’re so avidly pressed about was Nanami’s grandmother’s, one of the last remnants of her being. Grandpa Soren’s house is the worst place to be in the scorching summer heat. Do you want air conditioning? Buy a water bottle and a bucket of ice. If it weren’t for the croissant bakery, the ice cream truck, and the taco joint down the road, you’d flee right back to good ol’ Ammurica on the first flight available, but… this is one of the sacrifices you have to make when you have a husband, right?

"I love your commitment to destroying antique furniture. Maybe we should replace all our furniture with IKEA next." 

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his snarkiness. He does that sometimes, most of the time. “Nanami—” “I apologize.” 

“Yeah, you better, fool!” You laugh heartily, chest hurting as you throw a nearby pillow at him. But of course, with his trained Jujutsu reflexes, he dodged it perfectly even though he’s retired. 

“Dammit! I will get you next time!” The other pillow you were about to chuck straight into that gorgeous face of his, got halted by the creek of the rusty metal hinges. You both looked, craning your heads to the side. 

Slimy fingers which most definitely were coated with snot and boogers trailed up your sides. An ooey, gooey monster? No… just your five year old girl, Jasmine, who runs in the house like she owns the place. You refuse to tell her that one day, she will. 

Jasmine held one of those velcro wooden pizza sets that you can mix and match. You guessed it was her favorite feature because it was the only explanation for a pineapple, salmon, mushroom and pepperoni pizza all in one. To make it even better, her slobbery fingers made an excellent argument on why NOT to indulge in this intriguing delicacy. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDYYYYYYY!!!!” Jasmine was your crazy ball of energy, you really have no idea how she is such a contrast to both your and Nanami’s personalities. 

Grandpa Soren shuffled into the room, his long beard swinging slightly with each step. Coupled with an angular visage. The lines on his face told stories of loneliness, but his eyes brightened as they took in the sight of his family. 

His voice, though worn and gravelly, carried a tender note as he spoke. "I'm sorry," he said, running a hand through his beard, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "She just really wanted to see you on your birthday, Nanami."

Jasmine returned to galloping around the master bedroom like the centaur she is– should be. 

"She's too fickle! Slips right out of my hands!" he chuckled, shaking his head in amused resignation.

“How would you all feel about a birthday breakfast in bed, hmm?” Now we’re talking. You were the first to raise your hand, NOT your birthday. Nanami looked at you, a knowing look on his face. A nod of confirmation, and Grandpa Soren is gone, whisked away into the wonders of the kitchen. 

The scent of warm pastry dough, buttery and slightly sweet, mingled with the eggs, created an irresistible symphony of smells that tickled the senses.

“Daddyyyyyy!!!! Why not eat my pizza!!!!!?? Is delicious!!!”

She really needs to go back to preschool. You couldn’t hold back your reaction, a fierce chortle, eliciting a brown faux fur pillow right in your face, shutting you up immediately. 

Nanami went into full-on dad mode, a mode that even when you two are alone, is hard to turn off. Literally, his pupils dilated fully, looking like a straight up puppy. He seemed to snake off the bed effortlessly and onto the ground, kneeling down to her level. You witnessed his hands tremble in fear as he stuck out the tip of his tongue to taste his daughter’s creation. 

“You like? You like, daddy!!???”

He tried his hardest not to break his facade and provided Jasmine with a crooked smile, attempting to hide the sensation of his stomach twitching.

“Delicious, baby. Make Daddy another one?” And thus began the start of a grave mistake that eventually roped you and Grandpa Soren around in it as well. Sour expressions ran through the family. Luckily, you were no longer burning in the heat as Grandpa invested into a fan. You thought you’d never see the day. Only Nanami would risk his life for his daughter’s wooden pizza creations. This is why Nanami is daddy. Our very own daddy. 

╰┈➤Banner (Canva rules) ╰┈➤Fanart drawn by yours truly - KeyRey. ╰┈➤Special thanks to @cafekitsune for the divider! ╰┈➤ Extra special thanks to @pseudowho for inspiration to start writing again ahhh! Love your work ❤️

(I don’t know if I was supposed to tag, sorry! New to the unspoken rules of tumblr etiquette 😅😅 >.<)

■□■<Unrelated Teaser for a potential sequel>■□■ An autistic dog accompanied by an autistic girl, an uncalled for turn of events, but my current reality as he shakes in my arms, petrified by the sharp, whirring whistles of red, white and blue. A symbol of bravery, peace and freedom. But we all know expectations and realities provide an unequivocal sense of falseness. Which is why a compressed thunder jacket, warm cozy blankets and bread coated in peanut butter, stuffed with an anxiety pill inside is the way to go.

Extra little note: A few mistakes might've went under my radar when writing this, please don't be afraid to point out corrections! ⇣⇣Real footage of Nanami and his baby⇣⇣

[mrepstein]

The Flat That Epstein Bought - Liverpool Echo - July 11, 1964

HOME - with the man behind the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Cilla Black, Billy J. Kramer, etc, etc.

Reported by Barbara Anne Taylor

---

I don’t want to brag or cause any jealousy, but I used to queue for the Saturday matinee at a cinema that was next to a furniture shop that was called Epstein and Son and that Epstein’s other son manages the Beatles.

And that is as exciting as dancing with a man who danced with a girl who danced with the Prince of Wales.

The other son is Brian, who has in his time pursued many careers until he found his present crock of gold. He did originally embark, with no lack of enthusiasm, on a career in his family’s furniture business.

CRAFTY CHERUB

“I was 21 at the time,” said Mr. Epstein, who looks like a sharp-clothed, crafty cherub, “and extremely interested in design and interior decorating - still am. I served,” he added stoically, “my apprenticeship with the Times Furnishing Company in Liverpool.

“I was fanatically keen on what I regarded as contemporary at the time. I felt quite a missionary zeal about it, so I wasn’t fired with enthusiasm about the furniture in my father’s shop. It all looked to me like greasy great walnut bedroom suites.

“I was full of notions about the customers really wanting the sort of furniture I wanted them to have. I overlooked the fact that my father is a successful business man because he knows what his customers want. However, I persuaded him to stock some of the furniture of my choice.”

When I asked Mr. Epstein if his chosen furniture sold, he received the question a trifle incredulously: “I saw to it,” he said stonily, “that it did” - and having subsequently witnessed something of his adroitness as a salesman, who can fail to believe him?

Mr. Epstein is clever at picking people; he picked his parents very wisely, for his indulgent father then set him up in his own furniture shop in Hoylake.

He was able to revel in the furniture of his choice and provide an interior decorating service to boot. “It was the interior decorating side I enjoyed most, I had lots of ideas and I love experimenting with colour.”

When I asked Mr. Epstein if he was able to submit his clients to his ideas he replied: “The customer is always right.”

Mr. Epstein inhabits the top floor and the roof, where he has potted plants and wrought iron furniture, and swinging chintz hammocks and a splendid view.

He has two bedrooms and a study and one large, long combined living and dining room, which is decorated in white, grapish green and amber and is inspiringly tidy.

“I can’t bear clutter, I’m obsessive about plainness and simplicity, in fact, this room looks cluttered to me,” he said, eyeing with some distaste this positive precedent for orderliness.

The Buyer of Antiques

“I like buying antiques, although I have no knowledge of them. I don’t care about their period or their history. I just care about their shape. I couldn’t live with only modern furniture now, you grow out of such utter devotion. It’s rather sad really.”

“I find it completely absorbing searching for exactly what I want but there’s really not much choice, is there? I mean, there appears to be a lot but when you get down to it there is really very little.

“And isn’t it sad when finally you’ve found exactly what you want, then you discover that it’s exactly what hundreds of other people want too. It sort of spoils the specialness of it.

“I found it an exciting experience furnishing my first home, it takes a lot of time and thought, because you are imprinting something of yourself there. I think there is something of me in this flat, though it’s not exactly right. I long to have a separate dining room... well, what I really long for is a house.

Knows What He Wants

“I know exactly what I want. I can’t describe it to you, I could perhaps draw it. It is certainly nothing like the castles and follies I keep being offered. It’s a house I’ve had in my head for ages, I’ll know it the moment I see it.

“Till then I’m happy here. I look forward to coming home, that’s the big test, and my friends seem to like it and that’s also important because I love entertaining.

“Yes the Beatles approve - at least they approve of most of the furniture: they were a bit scornful about the antiques. Paul is very fond of the rocking chair, but what they all approved of most was the way I had their photographs framed. Cilla thinks it is all fab.”

[sirfrogsworth]

I've been trying to figure out how I want my house to be. What I want it to look like. And as I've been thinking about this I've discovered I have never really developed a personal sense of style. I always let my mom choose the direction and then just added or riffed off whatever she did.

So I have no idea how to figure this out.

My initial thoughts are that I like being surrounded by stuff that makes me happy. My friend's artwork, my photography, my nerdy knick knacks and toys. My bat'leth. But I really don't want to be one of those dudes with a samurai sword on the mantle. I want to elevate the neckbeard aesthetic, ya know?

Plus I'd really like to keep some sense of my mom's style as a tribute to her. But how do I incorporate all my nerdy shit into her antique-y vibe?

The floors are pretty much at end-of-life. So are the walls. So I need to pick colors for both. But I don't really know how to visualize that. I'm wondering if I should just do gray floors and white walls. Keep all of that neutral so I can embellish with my nerdery on top of it without worry of clashing.

But I also know from my former bedroom in the basement that I like being surrounded by warm colors. My walls are a reddish orange and that always made me feel warm and comfortable.

There is also the new photo studio I want to create. I originally painted my old studio black because it was so small and I was worried about light bounce. But now that I'll have more space, gray would be more optimal. So I could do like a fake concrete-y style floor throughout the entire upstairs and it would work in the studio as well.

As far as furniture goes... no idea. Maybe that is where I could incorporate my mom's style. Just fill the place with old rocking chairs or something.

Perhaps I shouldn't even be thinking about this. I haven't won my disability case yet. I'm kinda spending money before I even have it. I swear I'm not superstitious normally, but for some reason I am fearful of jinxing this. But I also do need to start preparing for the future and making basic plans so I'm not overwhelmed with a million decisions all at once.

Maybe I should make just one decision now.

Okay, I'm putting the bat'leth on the mantle.

Don't you judge me.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I'm the first one to say that I dislike white and gray homes, but I just fell in love with this 1886 boutique home in the storybook town of Kingsville, Ontario, Canada. The 5bd, 3ba home comes FULLY FURNISHED, C$849,900.

I love the baby blue double doors and wreaths.

The interior side of the doors are painted gray and white stripes to match the ceiling. The whole home is painted white, but the wood on the original railing give it a nice contrast. Put on your sunglasses b/c it's blindingly white in here. The new buyer can always add color, though.

We get to look at the furniture b/c it's included in the sale. The oversized loveseat is a beautiful piece, but it may overwhelm this space. The runner on the stairs is lovely and usually I don't like runners.

Twin sofas and chairs in the sitting room face each other. I love the chandelier and the painted flowers around the ceiling medallion.

This sitting room is a TV room. It has a fireplace, nice wallpaper and a pretty basket weave lampshade. It's hard to see, but it looks like there are whimsical flamingos on the wallpaper. That wood piece in the corner sticks out like a sore thumb. If there were other wood pieces it would tie in better.

The kitchen has a double Viking stove, lovely backsplash tile, and I like the windows in the upper cabinets. Most of all, I love the blue antique island and wicker stools.

Look at the large pantry.

The porch, with beautiful brick walls, makes a light, breezy dining room. Love the blue wicker chairs to complete the look, plus the window shelves with plants.

Windows let in lots of natural light.

Very nice laundry room.

Lovely vintage half bath.

Set up as a home office, this room has lots of shelving, so it can be whatever the new owner likes- a library, craft room, or even a place to display a collection.

Looking down at the entrance hall.

The primary bedroom is beautifully furnished. Love the large bedside tables and antique vanity.

Brand new shower room. It's small, but nicely done. They made the most of the space.

This secondary bedroom has lovely vintage furniture.

The 2 smaller bedrooms are pretty also.

The bright, finished basement has wonderful original stone walls.

And, there's also a spacious shower room.

Pretty door on the side porch.

Large patio with a firepit and pergola.

There's also a 2 car garage with original vintage doors.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/90-Main-St-E-Kingsville-ON-N9Y-1A4/348751159_zpid/

[lesmisletters-daily]

Who Guarded His House For Him

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.1.6

The house in which he lived consisted, as we have said, of a ground floor, and one story above; three rooms on the ground floor, three chambers on the first, and an attic above. Behind the house was a garden, a quarter of an acre in extent. The two women occupied the first floor; the Bishop was lodged below. The first room, opening on the street, served him as dining-room, the second was his bedroom, and the third his oratory. There was no exit possible from this oratory, except by passing through the bedroom, nor from the bedroom, without passing through the dining-room. At the end of the suite, in the oratory, there was a detached alcove with a bed, for use in cases of hospitality. The Bishop offered this bed to country curates whom business or the requirements of their parishes brought to D——

The pharmacy of the hospital, a small building which had been added to the house, and abutted on the garden, had been transformed into a kitchen and cellar. In addition to this, there was in the garden a stable, which had formerly been the kitchen of the hospital, and in which the Bishop kept two cows. No matter what the quantity of milk they gave, he invariably sent half of it every morning to the sick people in the hospital.

<i>“I am paying my tithes,”</i> he said.

His bedroom was tolerably large, and rather difficult to warm in bad weather. As wood is extremely dear at D——, he hit upon the idea of having a compartment of boards constructed in the cow-shed. Here he passed his evenings during seasons of severe cold: he called it his <i>winter salon</i>.

In this winter salon, as in the dining-room, there was no other furniture than a square table in white wood, and four straw-seated chairs. In addition to this the dining-room was ornamented with an antique sideboard, painted pink, in water colors. Out of a similar sideboard, properly draped with white napery and imitation lace, the Bishop had constructed the altar which decorated his oratory.

His wealthy penitents and the sainted women of D—— had more than once assessed themselves to raise the money for a new altar for Monseigneur’s oratory; on each occasion he had taken the money and had given it to the poor. “The most beautiful of altars,” he said, “is the soul of an unhappy creature consoled and thanking God.”

In his oratory there were two straw prie-Dieu, and there was an armchair, also in straw, in his bedroom. When, by chance, he received seven or eight persons at one time, the prefect, or the general, or the staff of the regiment in garrison, or several pupils from the little seminary, the chairs had to be fetched from the winter salon in the stable, the prie-Dieu from the oratory, and the armchair from the bedroom: in this way as many as eleven chairs could be collected for the visitors. A room was dismantled for each new guest.

It sometimes happened that there were twelve in the party; the Bishop then relieved the embarrassment of the situation by standing in front of the chimney if it was winter, or by strolling in the garden if it was summer.

There was still another chair in the detached alcove, but the straw was half gone from it, and it had but three legs, so that it was of service only when propped against the wall. Mademoiselle Baptistine had also in her own room a very large easy-chair of wood, which had formerly been gilded, and which was covered with flowered pekin; but they had been obliged to hoist this bergère up to the first story through the window, as the staircase was too narrow; it could not, therefore, be reckoned among the possibilities in the way of furniture.

Mademoiselle Baptistine’s ambition had been to be able to purchase a set of drawing-room furniture in yellow Utrecht velvet, stamped with a rose pattern, and with mahogany in swan’s neck style, with a sofa. But this would have cost five hundred francs at least, and in view of the fact that she had only been able to lay by forty-two francs and ten sous for this purpose in the course of five years, she had ended by renouncing the idea. However, who is there who has attained his ideal?

Nothing is more easy to present to the imagination than the Bishop’s bedchamber. A glazed door opened on the garden; opposite this was the bed,—a hospital bed of iron, with a canopy of green serge; in the shadow of the bed, behind a curtain, were the utensils of the toilet, which still betrayed the elegant habits of the man of the world: there were two doors, one near the chimney, opening into the oratory; the other near the bookcase, opening into the dining-room. The bookcase was a large cupboard with glass doors filled with books; the chimney was of wood painted to represent marble, and habitually without fire. In the chimney stood a pair of firedogs of iron, ornamented above with two garlanded vases, and flutings which had formerly been silvered with silver leaf, which was a sort of episcopal luxury; above the chimney-piece hung a crucifix of copper, with the silver worn off, fixed on a background of threadbare velvet in a wooden frame from which the gilding had fallen; near the glass door a large table with an inkstand, loaded with a confusion of papers and with huge volumes; before the table an armchair of straw; in front of the bed a prie-Dieu, borrowed from the oratory.

Two portraits in oval frames were fastened to the wall on each side of the bed. Small gilt inscriptions on the plain surface of the cloth at the side of these figures indicated that the portraits represented, one the Abbé of Chaliot, bishop of Saint Claude; the other, the Abbé Tourteau, vicar-general of Agde, abbé of Grand-Champ, order of Cîteaux, diocese of Chartres. When the Bishop succeeded to this apartment, after the hospital patients, he had found these portraits there, and had left them. They were priests, and probably donors—two reasons for respecting them. All that he knew about these two persons was, that they had been appointed by the king, the one to his bishopric, the other to his benefice, on the same day, the 27th of April, 1785. Madame Magloire having taken the pictures down to dust, the Bishop had discovered these particulars written in whitish ink on a little square of paper, yellowed by time, and attached to the back of the portrait of the Abbé of Grand-Champ with four wafers.

At his window he had an antique curtain of a coarse woollen stuff, which finally became so old, that, in order to avoid the expense of a new one, Madame Magloire was forced to take a large seam in the very middle of it. This seam took the form of a cross. The Bishop often called attention to it: “How delightful that is!” he said.

All the rooms in the house, without exception, those on the ground floor as well as those on the first floor, were white-washed, which is a fashion in barracks and hospitals.

However, in their latter years, Madame Magloire discovered beneath the paper which had been washed over, paintings, ornamenting the apartment of Mademoiselle Baptistine, as we shall see further on. Before becoming a hospital, this house had been the ancient parliament house of the Bourgeois. Hence this decoration. The chambers were paved in red bricks, which were washed every week, with straw mats in front of all the beds. Altogether, this dwelling, which was attended to by the two women, was exquisitely clean from top to bottom. This was the sole luxury which the Bishop permitted. He said, <i>“That takes nothing from the poor.”</i>

It must be confessed, however, that he still retained from his former possessions six silver knives and forks and a soup-ladle, which Madame Magloire contemplated every day with delight, as they glistened splendidly upon the coarse linen cloth. And since we are now painting the Bishop of D—— as he was in reality, we must add that he had said more than once, “I find it difficult to renounce eating from silver dishes.”

To this silverware must be added two large candlesticks of massive silver, which he had inherited from a great-aunt. These candlesticks held two wax candles, and usually figured on the Bishop’s chimney-piece. When he had any one to dinner, Madame Magloire lighted the two candles and set the candlesticks on the table.

In the Bishop’s own chamber, at the head of his bed, there was a small cupboard, in which Madame Magloire locked up the six silver knives and forks and the big spoon every night. But it is necessary to add, that the key was never removed.

The garden, which had been rather spoiled by the ugly buildings which we have mentioned, was composed of four alleys in cross-form, radiating from a tank. Another walk made the circuit of the garden, and skirted the white wall which enclosed it. These alleys left behind them four square plots rimmed with box. In three of these, Madame Magloire cultivated vegetables; in the fourth, the Bishop had planted some flowers; here and there stood a few fruit-trees. Madame Magloire had once remarked, with a sort of gentle malice: “Monseigneur, you who turn everything to account, have, nevertheless, one useless plot. It would be better to grow salads there than bouquets.” “Madame Magloire,” retorted the Bishop, “you are mistaken. The beautiful is as useful as the useful.” He added after a pause, “More so, perhaps.”

This plot, consisting of three or four beds, occupied the Bishop almost as much as did his books. He liked to pass an hour or two there, trimming, hoeing, and making holes here and there in the earth, into which he dropped seeds. He was not as hostile to insects as a gardener could have wished to see him. Moreover, he made no pretensions to botany; he ignored groups and consistency; he made not the slightest effort to decide between Tournefort and the natural method; he took part neither with the buds against the cotyledons, nor with Jussieu against Linnæus. He did not study plants; he loved flowers. He respected learned men greatly; he respected the ignorant still more; and, without ever failing in these two respects, he watered his flower-beds every summer evening with a tin watering-pot painted green.

The house had not a single door which could be locked. The door of the dining-room, which, as we have said, opened directly on the cathedral square, had formerly been ornamented with locks and bolts like the door of a prison. The Bishop had had all this ironwork removed, and this door was never fastened, either by night or by day, with anything except the latch. All that the first passer-by had to do at any hour, was to give it a push. At first, the two women had been very much tried by this door, which was never fastened, but Monsieur de D—— had said to them, “Have bolts put on your rooms, if that will please you.” They had ended by sharing his confidence, or by at least acting as though they shared it. Madame Magloire alone had frights from time to time. As for the Bishop, his thought can be found explained, or at least indicated, in the three lines which he wrote on the margin of a Bible, “This is the shade of difference: the door of the physician should never be shut, the door of the priest should always be open.”

On another book, entitled <i>Philosophy of the Medical Science</i>, he had written this other note: “Am not I a physician like them? I also have my patients, and then, too, I have some whom I call my unfortunates.”

Again he wrote: “Do not inquire the name of him who asks a shelter of you. The very man who is embarrassed by his name is the one who needs shelter.”

It chanced that a worthy curé, I know not whether it was the curé of Couloubroux or the curé of Pompierry, took it into his head to ask him one day, probably at the instigation of Madame Magloire, whether Monsieur was sure that he was not committing an indiscretion, to a certain extent, in leaving his door unfastened day and night, at the mercy of any one who should choose to enter, and whether, in short, he did not fear lest some misfortune might occur in a house so little guarded. The Bishop touched his shoulder, with gentle gravity, and said to him, <i>“Nisi Dominus custodierit domum, in vanum vigilant qui custodiunt eam,” Unless the Lord guard the house, in vain do they watch who guard it.</i>

Then he spoke of something else.

He was fond of saying, “There is a bravery of the priest as well as the bravery of a colonel of dragoons,—only,” he added, “ours must be tranquil.”

[stlkrrbf]

I’ll Crawl Home to Her {Rhysand x fem!reader} 18+

After merely stalking the darkened woods near the wall, Rhysand finds himself utterly and irrevocably falling for an untamed beast— a Grimm.

Note: This takes place in the same time of ACOTAR during Feryes life in spring court and is told in the readers pov. It is also heavily influenced by “Work song” by Hozier. This story will be separated into three parts. I would love to hear your feedback!

For two months, I dwell and stalked the unknown thicket of Pryrthian, keeping my shape as protection and comfort. A beast, they would say. They would whisper to each other as they passed the border of villages and the consuming darkness, telling stories to their babes about a demon wolf kidnapping and swallowing young fae. An Old wives tale.

I took the form of a Grimm. A overly large wolf with midnight fur painted from the darkest pits of the mountain. It’s who I was. The blood that ran through my veins and ateries, thickened with dark magic, can be traced to the beginning of this world. To the cauldron.

I used to hate this form. But considering my situation and the blood soaked terror that swept across the land, it was safer for my family and I to remain hidden. Being a high fae with unknowing powers to society was dangerous.

Especially in these parts.

I prowled the dark trees, snow crunching beneath the enormous paws that I’ve grown accustomed to. Narrowing my line of sight as I kept my guard up. Something, someone, was watching.

I whipped my head around, releasing a low growl to anything near, baring a row of Snow White jaws as a warning. A cloud of black, shimmery mist flooded the area around me, stinging my sensitive nose. A figure appeared beneath it. Bat like wings that shone in the moonlight spread out behind. A man- no- a high fae; A high lord; with blue black hair and a look of curiosity spread across his golden skin. It was intoxicating.

“Hello, you.” He purred, keeping his hands in the pockets of his black, silk pants.

He cocked his head to the side, flashing a soft, inviting smile. He was handsome, breathtaking. It was so long since I had seen someone who was the same as me. An icy hand slid against my spine, making me tuck my tail between my legs and back up slowly.

He inched forward as I moved, wanting to know more. “You’re.. interesting.” He began, “I knew something roamed these woods. But a high fae? Interesting..”

How.. how did he know?

Claws burned into my thoughts as I yelped in pain. They invaded every thought and memory I saved locked up and untouched. They tore at my mind. Finding a way to make me, force me, to change to my normal state. I fought the urge, pushing him out with all my might. The more I resisted, the more the pain grew. It shocked every nerve within my body.

“Don’t fight it.” He cooed, kneeling before me.

Before I could throw myself at him, I was engulfed in pain and darkness. The high fae disappeared as I blacked out at the stimulation.

ཐི♡⃟͚̊ཋྀ

I woke up amidst a midnight blue chamber. A bedroom. It was bigger than my eyes could focus on. Antique dark furniture lined the blue walls around me. The bed I laid in was big enough for at least five faeries. The black silk sheets engulfed my naked, cold body; and a large, iridescent mirror was plastered to the ceiling above. I saw myself.

I stared at my reflection. It has been months since i remembered what I looked like. My skin was glowing, shimmering in the dawn light. My h/c hair, outgrown and covering my bare breasts was softer than I imagined. And my eyes, those e/c orbs that was the only barrier between my true self and the beast before me, hard and tired. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I vaguely remember what happened before I blacked out. But the thought of how I even managed to find a place like this roamed my mind. If only I could-

“You’re awake.”

I whipped my head to the side. A familiar voice. A voice I remember. The same male from the night before leaned against the door frame, the black mist fading away from him. “It was about time too. I figured I went too far.”

“Where am i?” I asked sternly, my voice hoarse. “I demand you to tell me.” I pulled the black sheets up to my chest, shielding me.

“You demand me? Not a ‘good morning’ or a greeting?” He chuckled. He moved to the foot of the bed, and I pushed myself back against the headboard. I stared him down, waiting for an answer.

“You’re in my house,” he began. “My room.” He ran his hand through his black hair, letting it fall to the side. “It’s been centuries since I saw your family last. I assumed your kind died out as Amarantha invaded these lands. But here you are..”

“Why did you bring me here?” I growled. Prick.

He walked towards the wardrobe that sat at the right corner of the room. The doors groaned as he opened them. His back turned to me, I shifted my way of off the bed, still clutching the sheet to keep me modest. I backed up against the wall.

“It is normal for a high fae to shift into whatever their magic forms them into.” He fumbled between a few outfits, biting his lip as he studied the fabrics. “But the Grimm is rare. A Grimm with black magic coursing through their lineage. It’s dangerous for you to be out there alone.”

He turned back to me. That same, feline smile spread across his full lips. He placed an outfit on the bed. “Get yourself cleaned up and meet me in the dining room. I’ll be waiting.”

ཐི♡⃟͚̊ཋྀ

After bathing the months of the forest off of my body, I dressed myself in the outfit he picked for me. It was a sky blue top that rode against my mid drift, and cream colored trousers that melted to my curves. The shoes were satin and lined with the finest cotton on the inside. I brushed out my wet hair and pinned it into a low bun, allowing a few strands to fall instinctively.

As I hesitantly finished dressing myself, a tether pulled me from my core, coaxing me the way down the dark corridors of the unfamiliar manor. It ignited a flame inside me, a personal feeling I once felt before.

I slipped out of the bedroom, following the invisible string and gulping at the thought of who I’d meet at the end of it. When I reached the Crystal dining room, there he was. Sitting in a chair at the end of the table, his back towards the large window that spread out against the mountains. He placed his lips against the rim of his goblet, eyeing me as he sipped on his drink.

“You look ravishingly delicious.” He muttered. I furrowed my brow.

“Who are you?”

He placed his cup in front of him, shifting in his chair gesturing me over. “Sit.” He demanded.

I gulped, slowly walking over to an empty chair across from him. I gripped the arms of the chair, digging my nails into the dark wood. We stared at each other in silence, a look of amusement crept onto that annoying smile of his. “Are you going to answer my question?”

“Eat something. You must be hungry.”

“Not until you tell me why. Why you invaded my mind and brought me here.” I snarled. “Who. Are. You?”

The legs of his chair scrapped against the stone floor as it moved behind him. The male appeared beside me before I could blink. Placing his thumb against my chin, he leaned down, his violet eyes bonding with mine.

“The names Rhysand.” Rhys purred. “And you’ll be my guest until I grow bored of you, y/n darling.”