#antique wooden rocking chair

[bitidragon]

Transitional Living Room - Living Room Example of a large, formal, transitional living room with a brown floor and ceramic tile walls, as well as a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace, and a hidden television.

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[doumadono]

Warnings: smut - oral (f & m receiving), fingering, p in v, f!Reader, semi-public

Synopsis: you and the Duke find yourselves sharing an intimate moment within the confines of his office when unexpectedly, Neuvillette chooses to pay Wriothesley a visit

A/N: I dedicate this piece to @crystalwolfblog & @arthurbristow - this is my first attempt at writing for Genshin, so please be gentle

GENSHIN IMPACT MASTERLIST

In the opulent office of Wriothesley, the Duke of the Fortress, a symphony of soft rustles echoed as he sifted through the papers strewn across his expansive wooden desk. The room exuded an air of authority, adorned with rich tapestries and antique furnishings that spoke of a legacy steeped in history.

The Duke, a figure of power and refinement, reclined in his plush leather chair, an emblem of comfort amidst the grandeur. His legs were casually spread, an embodiment of relaxed dominance.

Positioned between his legs, you knelt down, skillfully taking his rock-hard dick into your mouth with deliberate and measured intent, striving to provide an experience of unparalleled pleasure. You were drawing him into the depths of your mouth at a leisurely pace. Your dedication was evident as you explored the limits, the tip of your nose delicately brushing against his groin in tandem with the deepthroating.

As one of the guardians laboring within the esteemed Fortress, your daily existence revolved around subservience to none other than the formidable Duke Wriothesley himself. Life in this capacity was far from easy, marked by numerous challenges inherent to your responsibilities. Yet, amidst the intricacies of your duties, the most unforeseen development transpired – you found yourself captivated by an unexpected love, directed towards the Duke. In a twist of fate, your sentiments were reciprocated by the very figure of authority you served. In the grand tapestry of your experiences, this revelation of mutual affection unfolded as a stroke of fortune.

A guttural mixture of grunts and hisses escaped him, a visceral response to the teasing graze of your teeth against his sensitive member. Amidst the intensity, a low, warning growl emerged from him, "Watch your teeth, babygirl," a cautionary note laced with a blend of desire and insistence.

With an audible pop, you withdrew his cock from your mouth, casting an upward glance at the Duke. "Sorry, your grace," you offered in apology, the tip of his dick resting against your extended, flexed tongue.

Wriothesley deftly slipped his hand into your hair, his fingers tracing gentle patterns against your scalp. "That's my girl. Keep on sucking."

A warm smile graced your lips as you obediently took his member back into your mouth, a silent acknowledgment of your commitment to fulfilling his desires.

With a deliberate pace, you resumed the act of deep-throating him, emitting a soft moan that reverberated around his shaft.

The Duke, momentarily abandoning his pen, leaned back against the chair, a series of breathy curses escaping his lips. "Oh God, you're sucking me so fucking well," he lauded, his words a testament to the pleasure he was experiencing. "Just like that. Work your tongue for me, babygirl," he encouraged, his voice a seductive melody guiding your actions.

Being the dutiful subordinate you were, one of your hands delicately manipulated the skin on his cock, mirroring the rhythmic motion of your head's bobbing. Upon withdrawing his member from your mouth, a glistening trail of precum had already emerged from the slit at its tip. Reverently, you planted a series of kisses along his length, descending to the base where you enveloped his weighty, seed-laden testicles into your mouth, all the while emitting sultry moans that bespoke a certain carnal abandon.

In response, he tilted his head backward, and his other hand seamlessly found its place in your hair, securing a hold on the back of your head. "Yeah, just like that," he echoed, his praise punctuated by repetition. "You're so good for me, Y/N, so obedient, and your mouth's so skilled."

Suddenly, a brief knock resonated through the massive wooden door, interrupting any potential acknowledgment before Wriothesley could utter a polite "come in." In a swift response, Neuvillette, the Iudex of Fontaine, entered the room.

In the nick of time, Wriothesley managed to adjust, shifting slightly and leaning forward, creating the illusion of engrossment in the scattered documents on his desk. With head bowed, he endeavored to compose himself, suppressing any telltale signs of the lingering arousal that had adorned his cheeks with a delicate shade of pink.

The creak of the opening door initially startled you, but upon recognizing Neuvillette's voice, a mischievous grin played on your lips - it presented the ideal opportunity to playfully taunt your beloved Wriothesley.

"Wriothesley, I believe you overlooked the report I requested," Neuvillette exclaimed, closing the distance to the desk.

Wriothesley subtly shifted, ensuring that the Iudex remained oblivious to your discreet presence, kneeling between his legs with his fly undone. "I… Uh… Ah, the report! Yes, yes, I'll bring it to you promptly," the dark-haired man nodded hastily.

"Ah, so you've prepared it?" Neuvillette inquired, halting right in front of the expansive desk.

Wriothesley affirmed, "Yes."

"Excellent. In that case, you can present it to me now. I'd rather not risk you forgetting it later," Neuvillette teased lightly, a genial smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Meanwhile, you once again took Wriothesley's member into your mouth, creating a firm suction as you sensually bobbed your head, skillfully massaging his arousal with your tongue. The dichotomy between the professional exchange and the clandestine pleasure beneath the desk added a layer of tension to the scene.

Wriothesley regarded Neuvillette with a certain bluntness, as though grappling with the comprehension of the words directed at him. After a moment, he shook his head, scanning the surroundings and shuffling some papers in a futile attempt to locate the elusive report. The throbbing ache of his dick in your warm, wet mouth posed a distracting challenge, threatening to unleash his essence right then and there — a far-from-helpful circumstance.

"Uhm, can I bring it to you later, Neuvillette? As you can see, I'm a little… busy," he stammered, a hint of discomfort in his tone.

Neuvillette raised an eyebrow in a deliberate, slow manner. "All I can see is that you can't keep your desk tidy. Maybe if you clean it up, you'll not have any issues with delivering stuff I'm asking for without a delay. Do you need a hand with those papers?"

"NO!" Wriothesley exclaimed, his eyes widening in shock at his own unexpected outburst. "I mean, no need…"

You deftly withdrew his manhood from your mouth, beginning to jerk him, the tip of your tongue dancing over the sensitive mushroom head.

Wriothesley licked his lips briefly, a soft pant escaping him as he covered his mouth with a curled palm, his vulnerability momentarily exposed.

Observing the Duke's flushed countenance, Neuvillette frowned. "Are you sure you're okay? Your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are glistening. You appear as though you might have a fever. Perhaps I should send someone to check upon you?"

Wriothesley shook his head, struggling to maintain composure. "No need, Neuvillette, I'm just a tad fatigued, that's all."

The Iudex acknowledged with a sigh. "As you say, my friend. But do remember, it's a crucial document, and I need it, right?"

"You have it," Wriothesley affirmed eagerly.

Neuvillette surveyed the expansive room, nodding to himself, and then turned around to depart.

Simultaneously, your actions took a more intimate turn. You intensified your movements on Wriothesley's dick and deftly squeezed his testicles, eliciting a climax that painted your face with three swift spurts of his cum. The seed adorned your nose, lips, and cheek, while a trickle descended down your chin, gracing your exposed décolletage as your dark shirt remained provocatively unbuttoned.

The sudden release prompted a loud moan from Wriothesley, a sound he managed to stifle only after it had echoed through the room.

Certainly, Neuvillette overheard the unexpected noise, prompting him to swiftly pivot around, fixing the Duke with a quizzical raised eyebrow.

Wriothesley endeavored to conjure a quick falsehood, his eyes meeting Neuvillette's with feigned innocence.

Meanwhile, your tongue skillfully traced the sensitive part beneath the Duke's dick which turned out to get even harder than before, focusing on the most prominent vein.

Wriothesley, attempting to maintain composure, offered a sly grin and replied, "Ah, just reminiscing about a particularly amusing anecdote from the Court of Fontaine, my dear Neuvillette. Nothing more."

Neuvillette sighed audibly, his concern evident. "You're spending an excessive amount of time in your office. Maintaining work-life balance is crucial, remember," he gently reminded before departing from the room.

In response, Wriothesley shifted in his chair, leveling you with a stern gaze, his brow quirked, and lips pressed into a thin line. "What the hell, babygirl? Did you genuinely aim to get me caught red-handed with my cock stuffing your mouth, huh?" he inquired, a tad of frustration in his tone. One hand found its place in your hair, while the thumb of the other was used to wipe away his seed from your cheek.

Undeterred, you turned your head and sensually took his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it provocatively, your gaze never leaving his. When you released his thumb, a playful smile adorned your lips as you expressed, "I just wanted to savor the taste of your semen, your grace."

A rosy hue graced Wriothesley's cheeks, his grin taking on a mischievous tilt. "Get on the desk," he commanded.

As an obedient girl, you rose, deftly undoing your belt and shedding your pants along with your panties. His gaze lingered, his tongue moistening his lips in anticipation, as you gracefully hopped onto the desk, perching on the edge and sensually parting your legs, a display crafted exclusively for him.

"So perfect," he murmured, this time relinquishing control as he knelt before you. His fingers delicately parted your folds, and his tongue traced a deliberate path up and down your moist slit, paying particular attention to your throbbing clit.

A symphony of moans escaped your lips, your hand finding solace in his dark locks, fingers entwining in a silent plea. "Oh, fuck, Wrio, more," you urged, surrendering to the escalating waves of pleasure he orchestrated.

Wriothesley moistened two of his fingers with a deliberate lick before expertly guiding them into the warmth of your pussy.

The consequence was your supine form sprawled across his desk, your back gracefully arched, and your legs enveloping his head, seeking intensified friction. In the midst of burgeoning pleasure, a fervent moan escaped your lips, carrying his name in a breathy melody.

Wriothesley's skilled tongue danced over your engorged clit, synchronized with the rhythmic exploration of his fingers within your velvety, slippery walls. "You're delicious, Y/N," he murmured, savoring the moment before bestowing a tender kiss upon your aroused clitoris.

Once you were thoroughly drenched, and your runny juices cascaded onto the marble floor, he rose from his position. With a deliberate motion, he unbuckled his belt and unfastened his fly fully, allowing his uniform pants to slink down his legs, forming a pool at his ankles.

Seated, you took a moment to unbutton his uniform, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he joined in the effort. Soon, his greyish waistcoat and shirt beneath were opened, unveiling a canvas of a muscular torso and abs, each etched with scars that whispered tales of battles endured.

"You're goddamn handsome," you whispered, your lips barely moving.

A gracious smile adorned his face as he expressed his gratitude. His hand then found its place on your chest, exerting a firm pressure that guided you to recline once again on his desk. With practiced ease, he parted your legs with one hand, while the other indulged in jerking his cock.

Wriothesley, driven by an unbridled desire, pressed the tip of his dick against your entrance. With a single, commanding thrust, he fully immersed himself in the warmth of your pussy, bottoming out, leaving you breathless, lips parted, emitting a seductive whine. "God, you're so wet and tight, holy shit," he groaned, fingers gripping your hips as he embarked on a deliberate, slow, and profound rhythm.

Your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, an urging plea for him to fuck you deeper. "Fuck me hard, my Duke," you implored, locking eyes with him, fingers clasping his forearm. "I know you've yearned for the taste of my pussy, and now it's yours, all yours," you playfully teased. "I've missed you so much, my grace."

"I missed you too," he whispered, punctuating his words with a potent thrust. Leaning forward, he captured your lips in a slow, passionate kiss, tongues dancing as his dick skillfully explored every gummy spot within you, igniting a symphony of pleasure that resonated through the intimate encounter.

Wriothesley gradually increased his rhythm until the only sounds reverberating within the confines of the room were the amalgamation of your labored panting, impassioned moans, and the rhythmic slapping of skin meeting skin.

His dick pulsated within you, responding to the tightening pressure of your inner walls. "Oh, Y/N, you're so eager to milk my cock, aren't you?" he grunted, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation evident as the tension coiled within his abdomen threatened to unravel. "I'm cumming, holy shit, I'm cumming!"

In an explosive release, he reached the climax for the second time, dispensing the entirety of his thick, heated seed within your pussy, the involuntary contractions of your pussy still clenching his member.

A whimpered cry escaped your lips as you called out his name, your hand slipping between your thighs to tenderly stimulate your swollen clit. "Fuck, oh God," you panted, the intensity of the experience etched across your features. "It was so good, oh God." The room lingered in the aftermath, a symphony of shared pleasure and sated desire.

Wriothesley withdrew from you, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips as he admired the mingled releases oozing from your cunny. Opening a drawer, he retrieved a box of tissues. First, he tended to himself, methodically cleaning and readjusting his attire — zipping his tie and buttoning the shirt, securing his belt, and settling his pants around his hips. Then, with a meticulous touch, he ensured the same care for you. "I needed this," he confessed, picking up your discarded panties and gently guiding them up your legs, assisting you in dressing, "It's been a while, and the tension was oh so painful."

A playful grin adorned your features as you deftly maneuvered into your pants and buttoned your shirt. "I know, my Duke, but you're well aware I've been dispatched on a clandestine mission, leaving me with little control over the situation," you responded, a trace of understanding in your voice.

Wriothesley nodded solemnly. "I know," he affirmed, drawing you into a close and reassuring embrace. His lips pressed gently against the crown of your head. "Thank you."

"Anytime, my grace," you responded, a warm smile gracing your features. "Now, you should deliver the report to the Iudex. None of us want him angered."

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Continuation of last Friday's prompt, as some of you asked for.

Extraterrestrial or an Illusion?

It takes a while to calm down. John’s screaming doesn’t last that long, but his heart races like he’s run for hours. He looks down at the two phones in his right hand. One is his own, the other is Sherlock’s, and John has no idea how the latter got there. The text Sherlock sent him only minutes earlier and John’s reply are still visible on the screen when John taps it.

Someone in the hall. Come at once. Be careful. SH

In the hall. Where are you?

John does not believe in anything paranormal, but he can’t explain this. The full moon still shines brightly, but John can see that clouds will soon obscure it. He shivers slightly from an unexpected chill, as if something cold just passed him.

Sherlock. Must find Sherlock.

He gazes at the stairs, takes a firmer grip on his gun, and ascends cautiously to the upper floor. No sounds from anywhere are heard. Apart from his pounding heart and his breathing. 

When he reaches the landing, he hesitates. 

Left, or right?

As he turns left, a sudden darkness sets in the corridor. The clouds have hidden the light from the moon effectively. John swallows hard, switches on his torch again, and walks to the first door, which is slightly ajar. He opens it carefully, and to his relief it makes no sound.

The room he enters is a nursery. All the toys are old, and some are even broken. A doll with half torn off hair, stares up at him with empty eye sockets. He turns around quickly with his gun raised. When he realises what’s making the sound he reacted to, he feels the hair on his head stand up. 

An antique rocking chair in a corner of the room is moving as if a person sits in it, but there’s no one there apart from John. The windows are closed, so it cannot be explained by the wind causing the chair to rock back and forth. He makes a sweep around the room and decides to move on to the next door. The chair stops rocking once he reaches the threshold.

His pulse slows down after he’s searched the other rooms. They’re all empty. He turns to explore the rooms on the right side of the stairs. A bright light makes him gasp, before he understands that the clouds have moved away from the surface of the moon.

Full moon frenzy can make the most rational person a little unhinged.

He takes a deep breath and opens the first door. It creaks. A lot. John winces, but there’s nothing for it. His determined steps carry him over the threshold and into a bathroom. In the corner is a large bathtub that stands on claw feet. On the floor is a wooden bucket. A big hole in the bottom tells him that it hasn’t been used for decades. The cabinet on the other wall is open, its doors long since removed. All the shelves are grey with dust and in the upper corner is a fragile spider’s web.

When he once again stands in the doorway, he freezes. The other three doors are all wide open. Before he entered the bathroom they were closed. His palms start to sweat again, and he almost loses the gun.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “If this is a trick, Sherlock, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands!”

The house is still eerily quiet. He steals himself for an encounter with whatever this house is concealing. Two of the rooms are empty, but the third, and last one is not.

A gigantic four-poster bed is oddly enough placed in the middle of the room instead of by the wall. It’s made of dark brown wood with twisted posts. John can’t see if anyone is lying there, because all four sides are covered with velvet curtains in dark green, adorned with gilt embroidery.

Apart from the large furniture, the room is bare. He walks around the bed, trying to get a glimpse through an opening in the curtains. When he finally finds one, his heart skips several beats, and his gun slips out of his hand. His trembling fingers clutch the velvet curtain and shoves it aside. On the bed lies Sherlock, dressed in his suit and Belstaff. His face is lit up by the moonlight. He looks peaceful, but too pale for John’s liking. The lack of pulse does that to a person, he muses, before everything goes black.

To be continued...

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[desertdollranch]

Kirsten's bedroom renovation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[deanwritings]

The Guest House - Chapter 1

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Series Summary: Dean Winchester is going through a nasty divorce. He doesn't have much left to his name, but what he does have is his house. Leave it to his soon-to-be ex wife to find a way to even ruin that for him. Enter Y/N, who is looking to get away from life for a bit, and stumbles right into the middle of it all.

The Guest House Master List

Word Count: 3,375

Your fingers drum along the steering wheel as you navigate the winding backroads, nothing but bare trees and a littering of snow to keep your mind occupied as you hum along to the radio station. 

You had exited the highway almost an hour ago, and the longer you drove, the less cars you passed and the more trees appeared. 

A part of you was worried you were making a mistake; what if this town ended up being too small? Or what if your rental was a total sham and you got scammed? You could always dispute the charge with the bank, but the embarrassment of being conned and having to admit that to your family would be the worst part. An “I told you so” would definitely be waiting for you from your mother. 

But your GPS showed another thirty-five minutes before your arrival, so you figured you might as well check it, hoping to be pleasantly surprised. 

This was definitely out of your comfort zone, but you deserved this. A month of no work or responsibilities. Just taking each day as it came and answering to no one but yourself.

This is going to be good for me. You keep reminding yourself.  

About twenty minutes later, a few buildings appear in between the trees; houses and some small, specialty shops like a hardware store and a car repair shop. As you drive further in, brick buildings, all connected to each other line your path. You slow down as you begin taking in the shops and restaurants, noticing an antique store and Irish pub first, as well as some art galleries and thrift stores. The town is certainly picturesque, with a charmingly old downtown, the stone sidewalks dotted with trees that are surely full and vibrant in the warmer months, but their bare branches still clinging to string lights from the holidays. 

You smile, this was exactly what you were hoping for. Maybe this was going to work out after all. 

True to the posting, your GPS announces your arrival about ten minutes later. The driveway is long and unpaved, and your eyes widen as the log cabin that sits proudly to your left comes into view behind the trees. Large, dark logs, perfectly sat on top of one another, leading up to a green, gable roof and thick stone chimney. A large porch adorns the front facade, and you see two empty rocking chairs swaying in the winter wind. 

Continue past the main house for another 15 seconds or so, and the guest house is located towards the back of the property. Lisa had messaged you instructions after your booking was confirmed. 

As you keep driving, more trees appear, the back of the property not as cleared out as the front. But through the lifeless trees you spot your home for the next month, exactly how it appeared in the posting; gray, wooden siding with two porches; one off the front and another off the bedroom. The same gabled roof graces this home, though shaded red. A small, tin chimney sits perfectly atop, completing the picture you saw online. 

Turns out, you didn’t get scammed at all. Maybe it was your Aunt Rose, or a guardian angel, but someone was clearly looking out for you and made sure you were getting exactly what you deserved. 

You park on the side of the house, per Lisa’s instructions, and gather up all your bags, not wanting to make more than one trip. You struggle with your suitcase against the gravel, but thankfully it doesn’t take you long before you arrive at the front, all-glass door, allowing you a sneak peek before you even step foot inside. 

Key is under the flower pot to the left of the door. And you smile when you find it exactly where it’s meant to be. 

You unlock the door and push it open, and despite the purse and backpack you're carrying, your shoulders immediately slump and you take in an easy, deep breath of relief. The house is immaculate; bright, pine plank floors, plaid, comfortable looking couches facing the tv and wood-burning stove. The living room continues into the kitchen, the whole floor plan wide and open. The cabinets match the floors, and the countertops are a forest green granite. The appliances are a bit outdated; the older, white stove and microwave combo that looks very similar to the one you had in college, but that doesn’t bother you. You can see straight back to the only bedroom, the open door and revealing a sliver of the bed for your next month. The house is adorned with floor to ceiling windows, making the atmosphere feel light, even in the dark, winter twilight.  

You drag your stuff back to the bedroom, heaving your extra large suitcase up the four steps that lead to the space.

The bedroom is simple; a queen bed with cream comforter, curtains that match the bedding, and two pine nightstands, each with a glass-bottomed lamp. 

You drop your suitcase onto the floor and carefully place your purse and backpack on the small ottoman in the corner of the room. 

As you turn in the space, you spy the hot tub on the back patio, string lights strung above, and you smile. 

After three and half hours in the car, you knew exactly how you were going to start your trip.

The clock on the radio dash illuminates 6:27 as Dean throws his car in park and cuts the engine, exhaustion radiating through his shoulders and down his back as he steps out, the gravel crunching beneath his work boots. He’s looking forward to reheating leftovers, pouring himself a beer, and hitting his bed early tonight. 

The shop had been overrun today, and with Benny out sick and Adam on vacation, Dean found himself without a single break since he started at 7:30 this morning. He usually tried to be home around 5, but by the time he finished the last car, cleaned up and closed up shop, it was well past 6. 

As he takes a few steps across the unpaved driveway towards the front steps of his house, he perks up, his ears catching a sound. He stops, narrowing his eyes as he realizes it’s music. He can’t quite make out the lyrics or the beat, but it’s definitely music. And as he focuses closer, he realizes it’s coming from the guest house. The empty guest house. 

With careful steps, Dean hurries to the garage, unlocking the side door instead of using his automatic opener which would make enough noise to alert whoever wasn’t supposed to be here. Dean makes quick work of opening the locker along the wall and typing in the code to his safe, revealing his pistol, the marble-handled one his father got him when he turned eighteen. He checks to make sure the magazine is loaded and clicks off the safety, not wanting to be caught off guard by whoever was where no one was supposed to be. 

With his weapon ready, Dean takes quiet steps towards the guest house, expertly avoiding the creaky first step as he walks up to the porch and peers in through the open windows. He doesn’t see any movement, but his brow furrows at the shoes resting to the side of the door. 

He reaches for the handle, and it twists open, the lock undone, but not broken, and steps inside. His eyes scan the front room, looking for anyone or anything out of place besides the shoes, and seeing everything in order, starts towards sliding back doors that lead to the patio, where the sound of the music grows louder. As he reaches the door, he peers out, his shoulders dropping as he notices the string lights illuminated and the hot tub cover pushed off, a head lounging against one of the built-in pillows.

God damn kids pool hopping again. He sighs and clicks the safety to his gun back on. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with after the day he had. 

This wasn’t the first time he’s found someone using his hot tub when they thought he was at work, but he figured he had put a stop to it after the McDowell twins and their girlfriends had snuck in and he called the cops on them for trespassing. Granted, he didn’t press charges, Dean wasn’t out to ruin the kids' lives, but the embarrassment of getting picked up naked and brought to the police station was enough to scare them and anyone else from trying it again. 

Or so he thought. 

The tension in his shoulders builds again as he pushes the door open, making his presence known with heavy steps before he shouts, “I thought you kids would know by now to stop–”

His words drop as a woman jumps up from the hot tub with a screech, her eyes wide as she takes quick steps away from him, or as far away as she can get in the hot tub. 

She’s definitely not a kid. From the looks of it, she’s probably in her late twenties, or maybe someone who looks good for her thirties. Her short and wet Y/C/H drips onto her shoulders, and Dean unintentionally follows the path of a water droplet as it races down her chest, through her bikini-coveraged cleavage and down to her navel, before getting soaked into her bottoms.

Yeah, definitely not a kid. 

“I’m calling the cops!” She shouts, her phone in hand, music blaring from the speaker as her fingers are ready to press the three numbers as she stares at him with fear in her Y/C/E eyes.

“Take it easy,” Dean holds his hands up, and the woman looks like she’s going to have a heart attack as she notices the gun in his right hand. Realizing his mistake, he quickly tucks it away into his waistband and holds his empty hands out to her, wanting her to know he’s not a threat.

“First off,” Dean holds up a finger at her. “If anyone should be calling the cops, it’s me.” He points back to himself. “Secondly, what are you doing in my house?” 

“Your house?” Her voice drips with confusion as her brow furrows.

“Yes my house.” He echoes, emphasizing his ownership. She continues to frown.  

“Well if it’s your house, you would know I’m renting your guest house for the next four weeks.” She crosses her arms defiantly, confusion and fear gone as she challenges him. 

“What are you talking about?” Now it’s Dean’s turn to be confused. He’s never rented the guest house out, nor would he ever. Especially not for a fucking month. 

Dean had no problem chatting with people at the shop or meeting friends for drinks downtown, but here at home, this was his private space, where he came to get away from it all. He rarely had anyone over as he just didn’t want to bother with people in his space. 

“I rented this house from you and your wife on AirBnB.” She states simply, having no idea the weight behind her words as realization crosses Dean.

“That bitch.” He mutters under his breath and runs a hand down his face. 

“Excuse me?” The woman seems to have heard him and he looks back to her. 

“No, not you.” He quickly clarifies with a sigh. “My soon-to-be ex wife. I’m gonna take a guess she’s behind this.” Her brows fold again. 

“Is her name Lisa Brandon?” She asks, and with a tight lipped, ghost of a smile, Dean nods, noting the use of her maiden name. He hadn’t heard her called that in years. 

“How’d you know that?”

“She’s listed as the homeowner. She sent me the instructions for how to get into the house.”

Dean lets his head fall back and groans. His day was getting worse and worse. 

Now he had to call his bitch of an ex and find out why there’s a woman planning to stay in his guest house for the next month. 

“Got it,” Dean straightens himself out though his shoulder slumps. Leave it to Lisa to bring some poor woman into the middle of their mess. 

“Seems we have a miscommunication. Sorry to ‘ave scared ya.” He holds his hand up in a half wave and forces a smile as he begins to turn back to step off the patio. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Dean hurries down the small path around the side of the house, not wanting to cut back through the house now that he knew someone was staying there, even if it was his space.  

He vehemently shakes his head as he makes his way to the main house, his fists tight by his side as he prepares for his upcoming battle. 

This was actually the last thing he wanted to do after the day he had. 

Dean and Lisa have been separated for almost two years now, both unhappy for a long time before Lisa declared one day she had enough and had met someone else. 

As he stomps into the house, he kicks his boots off messily at the door and removes the pistol from his waistband and drops it next to the keybowl. Initially he was thinking a beer, but now, he wandered over to the bar and poured himself a finger of whiskey, quickly throwing it back and feeling the warmth spread as it travels down to his stomach. 

He runs a hand through his hair before taking a deep breath and pulling out his phone.

Her. Is what her contact is now. It wasn’t always. But that ship had long sailed. 

He closes his eyes and licks his lips as the line rings, four times, before she answers.  

“What do you want, Dean?” Her exasperated voice sighs through the other end of the line. He’s bothering her, but he’s only calling because she’s started it. 

“You’re renting out my guest house?” He barks. He knows her well enough to know she’s smirking. 

“Our guest house.” She corrects him and his hand balls into a fist. “Figured I’d make use of that house. No one’s used it in years.” He lets out a deep breath through his nose. 

Except you and your boyfriend. He wants to throw in, but he won’t get anywhere if he starts throwing low blows, even if they are well deserved. 

“You’ve got my attention, Lisa, now what do you want?” Dean cuts to the chase. He wants to keep this call as quick as possible.

“I want the property.” Dean scoffs. This was the one reason the divorce hadn’t been finalized yet. Both Dean and Lisa wanted to keep the house they bought together. She wanted it for a second income, and he wanted to keep it just to spite her because she wanted it. Was he proud of it? No. But after everything that happened, he wanted to keep her from getting the only thing she wanted in the divorce. Plus, she couldn’t marry her boy toy until their divorce was finalized, so Dean saw no reason to give in anytime soon. 

“Nice try. You know that’s off the table, and I’ll have my lawyer look into this little stunt of yours.” Dean figures he can either hit her with a cease and desist since she was the one who left and moved away or negotiate getting half of the income she’s going to earn off the rentals. Not that he wants anyone in his space, but if he figures he can take half the cut, Lisa may just stop bothering.  

“In case you’ve forgotten Dean, we’re still married.” No one needed to remind him that. “And my name is still on the property agreement. So that house is just as much mine as it is yours, and I have every right to rent it out. But feel free to get the lawyers involved. All you're doing is wasting my time and yours, not to mention your money.” Dean shakes his head and tightens his jaw. 

The goddamn lawyers. As much as he was enjoying prolonging the inevitable, it turned out, lawyers were pretty damn expensive to keep on retainer. He made good money at the shop, but it wasn’t two-years-worth of lawyer money, and Dean knew that he was close to ruining his finances just to satisfy his pettiness. But Dean was stubborn, and wasn’t ready to give in just yet. 

“Get her out or I will, Lis.” And with that, Dean ends the call. He picks up the bottle of whiskey, this time forgoing the glass as he takes a big swig. There was no way he was going to bed early tonight now.

Once your heart had finally settled and you were sure you weren’t going to pass out from the fear of the strikingly tall and broad-shouldered man who apparently was the co-owner of the home sneaking up on you as you relaxed in what was his hot tub, you whipped out your laptop and settled down on one of the bar stools that sat under the extended kitchen counter. You had opened the bottle of red wine you had brought up with you, not expecting to open it so soon, but after your hellish meet-and-greet with the actual owner, you needed it. 

You cross your legs underneath you as you pull up your AirBNB inbox, finding Lisa’s name and starting a message as you take a big sip of wine that you had poured into a coffee mug, the cabin not equipped with any barware. 

You sigh through your nose and purse your lips. The other shoe had to drop at some point. Between the amazing rental price, picturequest town, and beautiful guest house, everything had seemed too good to be true. Turns out, it was. 

Hi Lisa, it seems there is a miscommunication. I met your husband this evening and it sounds like he was unaware I’m renting the space. I’m not looking to get in the middle of anything so would you please be able to refund me and I’ll stay elsewhere? Your message flies off with a whoosh and you take another sip. 

Your life had been enough of a mess the last few months, you had no interest in getting involved in someone else’s drama. So you would have Lisa refund you for the stay, try to find a new spot to stay, and hopefully be on your way in the morning, even if it meant spending more than you initially were planning. 

You’re about to stand up and head to the tv but your inbox pings with a response from Lisa. 

Don’t worry about him. You rented the guest house and it’s yours for the four weeks. And per the booking site, I do not need to issue you a refund for any reason unless the house is uninhabitable, which it isn’t. So if you are going to leave, that’s up to you, but I will not be refunding your stay. But if you will be canceling, let me know.

You stare at the text flabbergasted. What a bitch. You don’t even know her and you were getting a glimpse into why this marriage didn’t work out. 

You really didn’t want to be a part of her mind games, you had had enough of that in your own life. Your vacation had barely started and it was already on the verge of being ruined. 

You hop onto the booking site and start looking for other options, with a check in starting tomorrow. As you scroll through, the few options available are wildly expensive, and seem to be a room share versus a private rental. And you couldn’t return to your apartment; you had told your landlord about your trip and agreed to let him sublease the space while you were gone, which initially you agreed to since it would cover your rent for the month, but now was just another series of bad decisions since you quit your job. 

Which really just left you with one option; suck it up, keep your head down, and try to make the most of your trip. 

Well this sucks.

Keep Reading

NEXT TIME:

“Look,” You snap and point a finger at him. “I’m not here to be the pawn in your divorce game. I came here to relax. Problem is, every other place I’ve looked at in the area is either sold out or way more expensive than here, and I can’t afford it. You wife-”

“Ex wife-” He interjects curtly. 

“Whatever,” you snarl at his interruption. “Rented this place for a good deal, and considering I don’t have a job right now, I can’t really afford to go somewhere else.” 

“If you don’t have a job, what the hell are you doing here then?” He challenges, crossing his arms and matching your stance.  

“That’s none of your business.” He tsks his tongue and throws his head back with an exasperated sigh. 

“Look,” You lower your voice, hoping a calmer tone will help ease the situation. “Unless you need this house for anything, I promise I’ll stay out of your way. I won’t bother you, and you’ll barely know I’m here. But I already paid Lisa and I don’t have any other options, so you’re stuck with me.”

The man takes a deep breath through his nose and purses his lips.  

“Fine.” He snaps. “Enjoy your freakin’ vacation.” He huffs before he storms away from the porch and back to the main house. You shake your head at his antics.

Like a toddler having a temper tantrum. 

Between Lisa’s bitchy attitude and his man-child behavior, it’s a wonder how those two ever actually liked each other enough to get married.

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[hp-hcs]

1.3k words of the author bullying blaise zabini just for the plot (Chapter Three of The Doll) — slytherin boys x gn! ‘the boy’ (2016)! reader

Requests open

tws: dolls, obviously; reader referred to as ‘it’ (presumed inanimate); mentions of past child character death(s); mentions of a house fire—implied arson; violence; & murder

based entirely off of the 2016 film ‘the boy’. the painting? dear jesus fuck. that’s my trauma. watching that scene when i was like, thirteen.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Without further ado, Blaise snatches up the fucking doll, stomping upstairs with the doll carelessly dangling by one porcelain arm. Reaching Y/N’s bedroom (of course the freaky doll has its own bedroom, why wouldn’t it?), Blaise opens the door with much more force than necessary. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the room that the L/Ns had so carefully decorated—as if it were an actual child’s room—with brightly colored bedsheets, cartoon animals painted on the walls, and toys scattered everywhere.

He aggressively chucks the doll onto the rocking chair in the corner, (“The reading chair,” the L/Ns had cooed. “Y/N just loves when we read them bedtime stories”), and shuts the door as he leaves, digging through his pockets for the skeleton key the L/Ns had left the boys and locking the door with a resounding clack!

Letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he tries to calm his racing heart. Drawing the key back out of the lock and tucking it away safely, he makes his way back downstairs on shaky legs.

He pointedly looks down at the floor as he passes the painting of the L/Ns.

Returning to the living room, his friends stare at him with wildly curious expressions.

“You okay, man?” Draco asks slowly, tilting his head.

“You guys aren’t getting popcorn tonight,” Blaise says with finality, his voice cracking on the last word. Blaise Zabini is not the kind of person to waver while speaking.

The boys don’t press the issue.

They instead scoot over, making room for him to join their blanket pile on the floor as they start the movie. Once he’s settled in, Blaise focuses on watching Cady Heron fumble her way through high school and tries to push the fuckery with the doll out of his mind.

~~~ Passing through the main narrow hallway, Blaise precariously carries a stack of antique books, liable to disintegrate at just the wrong glance. The rain is still going strong, a sudden clap of thunder causing the hallway’s oil lamps to splutter feebly. Cursing under his breath, Blaise sets the books on a decorative hall table and fumbles through his pockets for a lighter. Just in time, another crack of thunder seems to shake the whole house, the lamps giving off one last sad spark of light before giving up entirely.

His thumb slips against the flint wheel a few times before the lighter finally flickers, a flame catching on the wick. The tiny pinprick of light in the otherwise murky and oppressive hallway does nothing to light up Blaise’s surroundings. Moving the lighter around slowly, so as not to accidentally catch anything in the old house on fire, he slowly makes his way down the hall, immediately banging his hip on a console table.

Cursing again, Blaise swings the lighter around, looking for any more furniture boobytraps attempting to further maim him.

Then, a soft sound could be heard.

Blaise freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

It’s the unmistakable sound of a child crying.

Holding the lighter out in front of him like a weapon, Blaise takes a hesitant step down the hall towards the sound. The flame of his lighter then glints off of something hanging on the wall, a very large glossy wooden picture frame.

It’s the damn painting.

Frozen in place, Blaise can’t do anything but stare up at the imposing painting in terror. In the meager light, the L/Ns faces all look demonic and twisted.

The sobbing gets louder, closer.

He glances down the hall towards the sound, his heart pounding in his chest, before glancing back at the painting.

A hand shoots out from the canvas and seizes him around the throat, sharp nails digging into his flesh and squeezing squeezing squeezing-

~~~

Blaise wakes up in a cold sweat. Heart practically beating out of his chest, he breathes heavily, every one of his senses on overdrive, screaming at him to get out of there.

The clock on the TV stand glows a comforting green, whispering the time as an early five in the morning. The sun has only just begun to break over the horizon, gentle morning rays leaking through the decorative bits of stained glass at the top of each of the windows and casting warm shades of colors over the ceiling.

Mattheo lays stretched out next to him, dead asleep and hogging all of the blankets. Enzo and Draco fell asleep on each other, in a way that looks terribly uncomfortable. Theo is sprawled out across all of them, his head on Blaise’s knee and half of his body sandwiched between him and Mattheo. They must’ve fallen asleep before the movie ended, because the little DVD logo box slowly bounces across the screen, avoiding the corners like the plague.

Blaise scrubs his hands over his face, looking around the inviting and entirely non-threatening room. Really, the house is rather cute, in its own charming way. Like how a grandparent’s house is always tacky and poorly decorated, yet still perfect and homey nonetheless.

Knowing there was no way he’d be able to fall back asleep, Blaise carefully moves Theo’s head onto a blanket, sliding out of the group pile and standing up. His knees snap crackle and pop as he grunts to himself, shuffling to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

The kitchen is even cuter in the sunlight, with pale gingham curtains framing the window above the sink and cross-stitch frames dotting the walls. As he flicks the start lever on the coffee pot, he takes the opportunity to look around the room. Tacky linoleum floors? Check. Kitchen towels with embroidered kitschy sayings? Check. Live laugh and fucking love, everybody.

Blaise leans against the counter on his forearms, listening to the coffee pot hum. Taped onto one of the kitchen cabinets in front of him is a faded polaroid of a family in the outdoors, the woman and man grinning widely at the camera while the young child in the foreground appears to be mid-laugh, clinging to their father. The scrawled handwriting at the bottom describes the photo as ‘Y/N’s 9th birthday at the lake!’

Blaise’s eyebrows shoot up as he looks over the photo again. He hadn’t recognized them immediately, but sure enough, the woman and man in the photograph are the L/Ns. They look so much younger and happier in the polaroid, the weight of life having yet to set in.

Caught up in his thoughts, Blaise barely notices when the coffee pot dings to let him know that it’s done. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he pulls down a few mugs for him and the rest of the boys. He glances down curiously when the coffee pot continues to hum.

His brow furrows as he taps at the machine with a fingernail. The coffee maker splutters indignantly and beeps again, then goes silent.

But the hum continues.

Abandoning his quest for caffeine, he peeks out into the hall, wondering if one of his friends had woken up. He peers into the entrance of the living room from the kitchen doorway; he can see the still-bouncing logo on the otherwise mute TV, and his four friends still sprawled out on top of all of the blankets.

But the hum continues.

He steps a little further out into the hall. He can now hear distinctly that the sound is coming from upstairs. Looking back at his abandoned mug on the counter forlornly—and mentally cursing himself for being insatiable in his curiosity—Blaise slowly starts up the stairs.

Once he reaches the top floor, the sound grows louder. It’s clearer now too. Blaise can tell that it’s not a hum.

It’s a child’s sobs.

Eyes widening, his gaze immediately latches onto the door of Y/N’s bedroom.

Surely not.

Holding the skeleton key retrieved from his pocket between shaking fingers, he slides it into the lock and twists, the door slowly creaking open.

The doll is still sitting in the chair, exactly as he left it.

He sighs in relief.

It’s a doll, dumbass. You’re just being paranoid. The war just left you on edge, that’s all.

He turns to leave, to go back downstairs and enjoy his coffee, when something catches his eye.

The doll is crying.

A single tear tracks down its face, hanging still for a moment before dripping off of its porcelain chin.

Blaise stumbles backwards, dropping the key with a clatter. He tugs the neckline of his shirt down frantically, feeling the phantom hand from his dream wrapping around his throat once more. He could swear he feels those damn nails again, slicing into his skin.

Watching the doll with bated breath and terror-stricken eyes, Blaise waits a long moment before another tear runs down its face, running down the bridge of its nose from its forehead.

Wait.

Forehead?

Blaise slowly looks up at the ceiling, a bit convinced that if he looks away from the doll for too long, it’ll lunge. He releases the breath he’s holding when he sees that the ceiling has a leak, rainwater from last night’s storm dripping down. Down from the seam of where the shut tight pull-down ladder to what must be the attic—or some kind of storage space—meets the rest of the ceiling.

It’s just an old house. There’s no crying dolls, no monstrous paintings. Just a wacky old house with wacky old owners.

Yep. That’s all.

~~~

Chapter Four <3

[rotworld]

Human's Best Friend

your friend's dog runs off during a hike, so you go to the nearby ranger station for help. a werewolf shows up.

->contains mild feral behavior.

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The Summitville Ranger Station’s front door has four deep gouges slashed across its surface.

The sight of them stops you in your tracks. They’re huge. You lay your hand over the damage and each jagged line is thicker than your fingers. They start just beneath the glass pane in the top half of the door and slither down diagonally in the echo of a single vicious movement. You find yourself glancing around, checking over your shoulder and peering into the woods to appease the panicked insistence of your hindbrain that you’re being watched. 

You probably are. This is wild wolf territory, after all. You know because the locals aren’t shy about telling people, the gas station attendant you saw half an hour ago absently mentioning there’s not just one but two packs in the area. So maybe that’s what this is, you reason. Some kind of territory marking thing, a message from one pack to another. That makes sense and helps ease the petrified terror that’s tying your stomach in knots. You’ll be fine, probably won’t even see them. You’re sure they’re busy doing…whatever it is that wild wolves do.

You suddenly remember a conversation you had on the way into town. Sitting in the passenger seat of your friend’s car with no cell service and a road atlas stretched across your lap, her dog Molly nudging her damp nose against one of your hands from the backseat, you’d stared at the little marker for Summitville on the map. “Why does that name ring a bell?” you wondered aloud. Your friend shrugged. Because she’d mentioned it before, she figured. She liked the trails out there, how remote and private it felt when you went deep enough. Maybe that was part of it.

But you remember now. You’d seen it in the news. Summitville has an unusually high number of disappearances for a city its size. All of the towns around here do. 

The lights are on but nobody’s home in the ranger’s station. It’s spacious and mostly empty, a few chairs and end tables clustered in the back behind an unoccupied welcome desk. A stack of wildlife books and tourist pamphlets gather dust in an antique cabinet. Old photographs hang on the walls, cloudy sepia snapshots of rivers and rock formations. You call out tentatively, the floorboards creaking beneath your hesitant footsteps. No one answers. You’re considering your options when you hear something outside. Quiet and distant, muffled through the wooden walls, it’s still unmistakable—a howl.

And then another. And then another, this one far closer than the others. You hear footsteps, but they’re all wrong. A heavy, four-legged trot creeps around the side of the ranger station before changing abruptly into a two-legged gait. You see dark fur in one window—flesh in the next. The door creaks open and your blood runs cold. Standing there, blocking your only exit with narrowed eyes and a sharp-toothed snarl, is a werewolf. 

It looks like he got stuck while shifting. His limbs are unnaturally long, thick with muscle and covered in black fur, each digit tipped with large claws. But the rest of him, head to hips, is all skin. Scars of all shapes and sizes cover his body, most of the hardened, puckered flesh littering his shoulders and chest. His hair is the same pitch black color as his fur, spilling long and wild down his back. His ears are a strange mix of traits, positioned where a human’s would be but with pointed ends covered in dark fuzz. In the same moment that you notice his shaggy tail, you realize he’s completely naked. Your eyes dart back up to his face. He’s glaring. He doesn’t say a word. You start to panic when he takes a step closer, stammering apologies.

“I’m just—I’m looking for a park ranger,” you manage to tell him. This doesn’t seem to help. He tilts his head slightly and you have no idea what the gesture is supposed to mean, what he wants from you. His eyes are gold and the way he looks at you is feral, assessing something you can’t even guess at. “I need help,” you say. Your breath hitches when he comes further into the ranger station but he leaves you alone, passing you for the desk. You watch in confusion as he starts rummaging through the drawers, clearly looking for something. Eventually, he produces a legal pad and a well-chewed pencil, and then he’s staring at you again. He looks absolutely bizarre, leaning an elbow against the desk casually with a tiny pencil clutched in his furred claws. His tail flicks in what looks like impatience. He clears his throat in a pointed manner.

“Oh,” you say, all of your breath rushing out in a sound of surprise and embarrassment. You’re an idiot. He’s the ranger. “I’m, uh. I’m looking for a dog. My friend’s dog, actually. She’s some kind of poodle mix, I think, with curly brown fur and a red harness. Her name’s Molly, it’s on her collar. I don’t know the trail very well, but we were down by the creek when she wandered off, just past the wooden bridge. My friend’s still there in case she comes back.”

The werewolf scribbles something so illegible you have no idea if it’s English or not. “Do you…” He pauses to cough and clear his throat again. His voice is gravelly like he rarely uses it. When he speaks again, it’s clearer but still hoarse and quiet. “Do you have something of Molly’s? A toy, or…” He gestures vaguely. You don’t understand why it matters, but he’s staring intently at the scarf balled up in your fist. It’s your friend’s. Can he tell? Does its scent clash with yours or something?

“Oh, uh, would this help?” you ask, handing the scarf to him. “My friend was wearing it, but Molly likes it a lot. She’s always rubbing her face on it.” 

The werewolf lifts it to his face and you hear him sniffing rapidly like a dog tracking a lost treat across the floor. It’s weird, and a little cute. His nose twitches. He seems put off somehow, his face scrunching up in distaste. Your friend’s perfume, maybe. You’ve heard that kind of stuff is a little strong for werewolves. You’re less frightened the next time you hear someone walking up to the ranger station, the sound of boots crunching the dirt loud and sharp with the door left wide open. The werewolves tail wags with slow anticipation, his eyes flicking to a spot over your shoulder. You turn around and go completely still, seized by primal terror.

 It’s a man. A big one. He’s so tall he has to duck to fit through the doorway. Something bothers you, and not just the obvious threat of his overwhelming size. It’s the way he walks. Just like the werewolf behind the desk, there’s something fluid and effortlessly graceful about his entire body, purpose in every movement. He doesn’t make any noise, you realize. The floor seems to groan and creak whenever you breathe, but it’s silent under his feet as he meanders over to the desk. It’s shocking that you might not have heard him coming if you hadn’t looked, given his size and apparent age. He’s older than the other one, you’d guess somewhere in his fifties. You’re acutely aware of just how much he towers over you as he passes. 

“Everything alright?” he asks. You nod meekly and his lips curl at that, a hint of a smile on his face before he wipes it away. Like the other werewolf, he’s grown his hair out long, tying some of it back in a messy bun and letting the rest hang loose. He glances briefly over the notepad and nods to himself. “Don’t worry, Sawyer’s my best tracker,” he reassures you. The other wolf, Sawyer, merely grunts, but his tail swishes at the praise. 

“Be back soon,” Sawyer mutters. He bumps against the other wolf when he leaves, but the gesture seems playful or at least friendly. They growl softly at each other, Sawyer’s tail slapping against the larger wolf’s leg before he suddenly drops to all fours and shifts. He’s engulfed by fur in seconds, ears lengthening, legs changing shape. You’re still stunned when he lops out the door and disappears.

“Here for a hike?”

That leaves you with the larger one who takes up a spot behind the desk with an easy smile. “Yeah, kinda,” you say. “My friend’s pretty outdoorsy. We’re not from here but we don’t live too far away, so she comes here a lot.” 

“This is excellent territory,” the werewolf agrees, nodding. “Quiet. Good hunting. Less light pollution. Humans like it, too.” He rests his arms on the counter, showing off full tattoo sleeves. You see curling, interlocking symbols and animals, the skeletal grin of a deer skull poking out beneath one sleeve. “Vanagandr,” he says, holding out his hand. You smile, appreciating his friendliness. 

Then you take his hand and your smile falters. You feel small and vulnerable, seeing how much his massive fist dwarfs your hand, engulfing your fingers easily. You think about the door.

He tilts his head the way Sawyer did earlier, examining you. “None of us where you’re from, I take it. Just puppies who forgot how to hunt.” The way he says “puppies” almost sounds derogatory. “Sorry if Sawyer gave you a fright. He’s had it rough with humans.”

“It’s fine, he just startled me a little,” you admit. “I didn’t expect him to be, uh…”

Vanagandr nods solemnly and makes a deep, rumbling sound. “Mmm. It’s a stress response. Shifting is emotional as well as physical. Going through something painful can make it more difficult.” You just nod, unwilling to correct him, but he seems to pick up on your hesitation anyway. A grin slowly stretches across his face. “Ahh. That’s not what you meant, is it? Nothing to be embarrassed about, I know it’s strange to you.” 

He drops the subject in favor of smalltalk, asking about where you’re from, what you do, how you like Summitville’s trails. You find yourself asking questions in return, cautiously at first, more eagerly when he seems endeared by curiosity. Yes, his pack really does handle search and rescue for all of the towns in their territory. No, they don’t get paid for it, at least not with money—they prefer food and supplies. He’s got an old family name that gets handed down through the generations to eldest sons and relatives still living in Norway and Sweden. He mentions he’s the pack alpha so offhandedly that you almost miss it.

He perks up like someone called his name. You listen, but you don’t hear anything. A full minute passes before you can make out something jingling—the little metal heart on Molly’s collar with her name and your friend’s contact information. You’re caught somewhere between relief and disbelief when Sawyer comes prancing back into the ranger station, still a wolf, with Molly hot on his heels, her muddy leash dragging behind her. She looks like a puppy next to him, a little brown ball of fluff against Sawyer’s dark fur. She’s got prickly seeds and twigs stuck in her coat but otherwise seems unbothered by her journey into the woods, more interested in yipping and batting at Sawyer than paying you any attention. Sawyer turns around and snaps his teeth but the gesture is playful, his tail wagging as he bows low and lets Molly pounce on him.

This is, in fact, the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You’re debating whether it would be wildly inappropriate to take a picture, only to hear a mechanical click behind you—Vanagandr winks, his phone balanced somewhat discreetly on the counter. 

“Go find your friend and give her the good news,” he says, waving you off. You’re fighting a broad smile when you leave, hurrying down the trail. She’s never going to believe this!

Vanagandr watches you go with his chin resting against his palm. Sawyer barks at him. “Can’t delete it ‘till I get their number,” Vanagandr says slyly. “Should’ve seen ‘em earlier. They were so embarrassed you weren’t wearing anything. Fuck, humans are cute.” 

Molly tires herself out and slumps against Sawyer’s front paws. He curls up next to her, nosing against her head. He lets out a keening sound, a whining howl. “Mm, yeah. It was a nice scent,” Vangandr says, chuckling. He texts Linden, lets him know the search is over. He sends the picture of Sawyer, too, because you’re in it, half-turned and grinning in delight. He remembers how small your hand was in his, rumbling happily. 

Linden sends one word back in response: No.

Killjoy, Vanagandr thinks, pocketing his phone. He didn’t mean anything serious by it. You’re skittish and fun to tease, things that get him going. He watches Molly doze on the floor, curled up in the space between Sawyer’s paws. He frowns. How long has it been now? Five years? Six? He sniffs his palm, inhaling the faintest traces of your scent. He misses that—a human, safe and sound in his den. The loud, obvious patter of their clumsy steps, how they fit so perfectly against his body like the half he didn’t know he was missing. 

How much worse is that ache for Linden? How desperately does he maintain his distance from the pack humans he treats these days, wanting so badly yet denying himself? 

He feels eyes on him. Sawyer watches silently as emotions flicker across his face. Vanagandr sighs heavily. “One of these days,” he murmurs. 

He’s all smiles when you come back with another human, watching you fuss over Molly. Sawyer slinks off without a proper goodbye, unwilling to pretend. But Vanagandr stays, deflects your thanks and enjoys your company as long as he can have it. He hugs you both. Squeezes tightly, lingers with his arms around you, recommends a place to eat in town. It was like this, once. Humans, sweet and happy, wrapped in his scent. It will be this way again. He lets you go even though he doesn’t want to. He buries his face against the side of your neck and gives you a small piece of him to carry home, even though you don’t know and it means nothing to you.One of these days, he tells himself resolutely, standing in the ranger’s station all alone.

[mrfeenysmustache]

The Moon Turns the Tide

Chapter 3

Based on @crescent-dreams SessKag fest day 3prompt: Mountain

Summary: After a stroke of bad fortune, Kagome’s life is uprooted.

She is moved into an unfamiliar community where she expects life will be very different- and much more miserable- than she’d hoped. But luck, she’s learned, can turn on a dime.

Also read on: AO3

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One day, while hiding from the chores her mother liked to make her do to keep her “grounded and humble,” Kagome found herself in her father’s personal office.

In there, he kept his account books for the estate, things he’d picked up on his travels, old, antique maps, and an assortment of books on interests too niche to keep in the main library that anyone could access.

She was not often allowed in his office, and never when he wasn’t already in there himself, as there were far too many priceless and important things to risk to a child’s clumsiness, but since she was often a very well behaved girl, she knew this was the last place they would look.

So slowly and quietly, she’d crept up to the large wooden desk on the far wall and climbed up up up into the tall, leather chair.

In the middle of the desk sat a stack of new books. New books always started in her father’s office. He read them first and then decided where they needed to go.

It looked like finally, for once, she would get to see them first.

She pulled the first one off the top and looked at the gold, embossed lettering scrolled across the deep, leather cover.

Mountain Climbing Adventures

Tilting her head in curiosity, she opened it somewhere in the middle, flipping quickly passed several pages of endless words until she found an illustration.

A man, hanging off the side of a mountain by a rope tied around his waist.

“Oh my…” she whispered to herself, turning back to the beginning to read from page one.

The idea that anyone would want to climb something so big and tall and treacherous as a mountain amazed and terrified her. She lost herself in harrowing story after harrowing story, falling rocks, fraying ropes and wild animals and all the other misfortunes this man found himself in as he spent his time climbing up to places people probably didn’t have any business going.

And though she was riveted, Kagome decided that mountain climbing was best read about in books.

At least until now.

Her first ball had been a disaster.

City manners were so different from the ones that had gotten her through in the countryside, and she fielded many snide, judgmental looks as she fumbled her way through the night.

She didn’t eat right, sip right, stand right, wave her fan right and the dances they did were entirely unknown to her.

The second ball had not been better.

The third had been worse.

Now she sat in the carriage on her way to the fourth, wishing she could choose to climb to the tippy top of a high, storm cloaked mountain with a random husband on top if it meant she didn’t have to suffer through another stuffy, snobby ball.

But alas. This was all there was.

——————————

“I’m not going to another one!” She shouted, ripping the feather out of her perfectly coiffed hair and tossing it on the floor. “I’m not going and none of you can make me! I’ll be a seamstress before I try and make these stuck up, pompous, snobbish, self important nobodies like me!”

She was being immature and she knew it. Her mother had done all she could to prepare her in such a short time but it had not been enough and now she was worse off than when she’d first arrived. Her reputation was in shambles as she was seen as a clumsy, bumbling country bumpkin trying to infiltrate their sparkling society, and she’d had enough of trying to play their games and gain any ground.

“Dearest, it wasn’t that bad!” Her mother tried to soothe, but in answer, Kagome ripped a fine, silk glove in her haste to take it off.

“AAAHHGHHH!! You see? I can’t do this! I can’t be one of them! And after spilling red wine all over the host tonight, they certainly won’t let me try anymore.”

“She said it was fine.”

“She was trying to be gracious, but anyone could see the contempt in her eyes. And besides, everyone laughed and gossiped the rest of the night. I don’t even get sympathy dances anymore!”

With a sigh, Kagome’s mother gently pushed her hands away from where they flailed behind her back to lace her dress.

As she helped her undress, she hummed softly under her breath.

Hearing her mother hum or sing had always had an instantly soothing effect on her tempers and nerves. And it worked even now, despite how disastrous the entire evening had been.

“Here’s some good news then,” she said, pushing Kagome’s dress to the floor to work on her undergarments. “We’ll be going in a few days to the mountains. Your aunt’s late husband has a distant relative out there.”

“The mountains?” She asked, and her mother hummed in confirmation.

“Yes, they have a nice cabin in a quiet community. Your aunt pays a visit a few times a year to check on her aging in-laws, and she’s bringing more etiquette books for you to study. So we’ll get out of this stuffy city, breathe some clean air, and come back better than we left. How does that sound?”

“Good,” Kagome said, mind distant as her thoughts began to turn. Etiquette books aside, being anywhere other than where she was sounded like heaven.

But her earlier thoughts about mountains returned, and an uneasy feeling settled into her soul.

[misslavenderlady]

A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Rock ‘N Roll - Chapter 13

Summary: The truth comes out with Grandpa Emerson, and David is preparing for the worst outcome. What he doesn't know is that there's a major surprise coming his way.

TW: Chapter contains mentions of abuse, death and vampire hunting

Shout out to @britany1997 for helping me pick out Grandpa's first name. Thank you all for your patience! Please enjoy!!

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

David’s head was spinning. The words of Mr. Emerson were echoing in his ears all while the old man smiled back at him.

He knew. How was that even possible? The entire summer he and the others had come and gone as they pleased, and the old man never said a word. Not even a hint that he could tell that they were supernatural creatures.  

"Is that right?" David asked. He was on his guard now. Even if it was some old, grandfatherly man, he couldn't take any risks now. Things had become so unpredictable so fast.  

"Yes, it is," Mr. Emerson stated. He moved his hand off the banister, freeing the path for David. Even so, there was little the vampire could do. At this point, he wouldn't get to the cave in time. He was a sitting duck.  

"So what? You gonna stake me or something? Don't think I'll go easy on you because you're Michael's grandpa," David warned him. His eyes flashed a deep gold, showing off that his word was not to be taken lightly.  

But the old man was not fazed by such a display. He only took a sip from the coffee mug in his hand, completely casual and indifferent. David had to admit, it took some real guts to not show any signs of fear when face to face with a vampire. Especially one that was free to do whatever it wanted thanks to the lack of limitations with power.  

It seemed like hours and hours passed before the old man finally spoke again.  

“Follow me, David. I’ve got something I wanna show you.” 

If David wasn’t so skilled at keeping a poker face, it would have been obvious that he was positively baffled by such a request. No human ever looked into the demonic eyes he possessed and reacted with anything other than horror. Yet Mr. Emerson was completely unbothered.  

He gestured for David to follow him, casually shuffling over to the other side of the room. He opened a door hidden in the corner and glanced up, silently waiting for the vampire to get a move on.  

This has to be a trap, David thought to himself. Though even if it was, there wasn't much he could do in this situation. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. He would simply have to follow and see where this went.  

He was certain Mr. Emerson would have him go down the descending staircase first. Probably preparing to push him down the steps and have him land on a bed of spikes at the bottom.  

To his surprise, the elderly man took the first step, casually heading down into the basement. It truly was strange. He was turning his back to a vampire and simply didn't care. Such curious behavior only drew David in more, and he figured he should see how this would go.  

He followed Mr. Emerson down the staircase, the aged wood of the steps creaking under his leather boots. It was dark in the lower level of the house, but being in places devoid of light was David's specialty.  

"I think you'll like this quite a bit. I've been working hard to do this properly." 

Mr. Emerson rounded a corner and flipped a switch on the side of the wall. When David stepped up to his side a truly unbelievable sight greeted his eyes.  

Under the warm glow of the ceiling light was a room he hadn't yet seen. But it wasn't just any room. It was a full living space.  

Four full-size beds were placed side by side along the wall. They had thick oak bed frames and soft quilts spread over the mattresses. Two couches were set off to the side with a massive, antique bookcase and lamp set nearby for reading. A radio and record player were set up for any musical needs. A round table with wooden chairs was set up on the other side of the room with a mini fridge close by for snacks.  

"Wh…What's all this?" David asked, still in awe of everything.  

"Oh, this isn't even all of it," Mr. Emerson explained. "Those doors in that one corner lead to a few other rooms. Two bedrooms. One for the little lady and one for that kid ya got. There's also a bathroom. Got a tub if ya ever want a bath." 

The more the old man casually explained the setup of the basement, the more perplexed David was. He was so lost by what was going on. It was a miracle he was able to find the right words.  

"Is this….for me and the Lost Boys?"  

Michael's grandfather had a proud smile on his face. He took another swig of his coffee before pointing up toward the top of the wall. There were thick, black curtains draped over two spaces, no doubt covering up windows on the other side.  

"Got some grade-A blackout curtains and some special sheets to cover the glass. Absolutely no sun can get through this. Can't have any of you getting fried like chicken in oil when you're tryin' to sleep."  

It was an odd way to answer the question, but that truly did confirm what David was wondering. This entire basement was turned into a living space for the boys, Star and Laddie. Someone actually took the time and energy to give them a home. 

"I don't understand," David admitted.  

Mr. Emerson nodded before taking a seat on a nearby couch. He let out a grunt and set his coffee down on the table across from him.  

"You see, son," he began, "when I was a youngin’ I was a vampire hunter. A damn good one too. I was the best of the best in all of Santa Carla. Probably the best in California." 

It was hard for David to picture this old man as a fierce hunter, but looks could be deceiving.  

"I cut back on the hunting when I got married and had Lucy. Didn't want my family getting involved. It's an ugly life, and they didn't deserve to see that kind of gruesome stuff. So, I got an office job, put food on the table, and kept the streets safe at night. My wife and daughter were none the wiser." 

"What changed?" 

"Simple. I lost the love of my life." 

Mr. Emerson's carefree smile dropped. There was a sense of pain lingering in his eyes. One that showed how time had not healed such a wound. 

"Mary Emerson. She was my soulmate, and she left this world while I was out on a hunt. Had a stroke in her sleep. I didn't even know until the next morning. I was all by myself. Lucy was raising her boys in Phoenix. I had to deal with true loneliness for the first time in my life." 

Even for a cold-blooded killer vampire, David had to admit he hated the idea of loneliness. His undead life was so much better with the boys in it. He loved them with all his heart, and he'd do anything to keep them safe.  

"I realized what a great mistake I made. My hatred for vampires blinded me to what was most important. I let hate and fear drive my actions and didn't take the time to consider all those creatures were once human too. They had parents, children, brothers, sisters, friends. I wondered how many coven members or loved ones were lonely without them. How many felt like they would die of a broken heart." 

He stood up again, his eyes fixated on David.  

"So, I'll admit, I became a bit of a hippie. My daughter was once one, so I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," he said with a soft chuckle. "I quit hunting for good. I wrote letters to Lucy, let her come home when she divorced her bastard husband, and I appreciated life for what it was. It felt good to let go of hate. That’s why I welcomed all of you with open arms." 

"That's quite a risky move," David pointed out "You know my boys and I could have easily killed you. Tore you apart like tissue paper." 

"And yet, you didn't," Mr. Emerson retorted. "You sat at my dining table like gentlemen, helped my daughter wash dishes, and left my grandson with the biggest smile on his face I've ever seen. You may be vampires, but you boys aren't monsters. Not from what I've seen." 

That really struck a chord with David. It was such a major change for him and the others when they were welcomed into the Emerson family. They had no issue with sharing their home and their love with a bunch of no-good punks that were seen as nuisances to the Santa Carla public. They were loud and bold and always eager to sing and dance all night long.  

David had such hazy memories of his human life from over a century ago. Even so, he knew that this was his first time truly feeling affection from a family.  

"I don't know what to say, sir…" 

"You don't have to say anything, son," the old man assured him. "You've done enough in return. It warms my old, tired heart to see young love between you and my grandson. So long as you're good to him, my home will always be welcome to you. Including the times you need to hide away in the morning. I know you prefer the ceiling but you may wanna stick with the beds just so nobody gets a surprise if they ever come by the basement." 

David bit back a snicker at that. He appreciated that the Emerson elder had a sense of humor for all of this.  

Still, it was all such a shock. David hadn't had the comfort of an actual home in decades. He worked hard to make the cave as livable as possible for his vampire pack members, but it wasn't easy. They didn't have the ability to lock doors or windows or have a hellhound for security like Max did.  

Having the Emersons take better care of him than his own Sire was quite bittersweet. Even if it hurt to be shunned by his very creator, at least he had others he could count on.  

"Well….thank you, Mr. Emerson," David said, extending his arm out and offering a hand.  

He hoped the old man would accept his gesture as a genuine token of appreciation. To his relief, it was accepted with a hearty shake.  

"Call me Randy, son," he said. "You're family now." 

Family. David could get used to that.  

"Well then. I gotta get my day started and you've gotta get some rest for the end of yours. Don't worry, Lucy and the boys won't bother you down here. Just be sure to let your friends know you're okay." 

He tapped the side of his forehead, hinting at David to use his telepathy to call out to the others. The vampire gave the old man a nod before watching him trudge back up the stairs.  

David slowly slipped off his boots and shrugged off his jackets before tossing them aside on the floor. It was quite strange getting prepared for bed and not just flying up into the cave rafters. Sinking into the bed was a foreign sensation, but certainly not unwelcome. The mattress was plush and the quilt perfectly warm. Even with mere seconds of time spent lying in bed, David was already sensing the pull of slumber on his mind.  

"Hey guys," he called out to the boys. "I'm not gonna make it to the cave, but don't worry. I found cover somewhere else." 

"Where'd you end up?" Dwayne's voice answered him.  

David could feel his lips curling up in a smile as his eyes shut. He managed to get in one last response before letting sleep take over.  

"Home."  

Sending out a letter to Max was a terribly risky move, but one that was absolutely necessary. 

Sam had forged his mother's signature for school notes enough times to recreate her handwriting on her personal stationery. He and the Frog Brothers had slipped the note into Max's mailbox earlier that morning, urging the man to come by the house as soon as possible.  

This was the first part of many tests they were going to perform on the businessman. If he didn't show up during daylight hours, that was the first red flag to keep an eye on. 

"Pretty fishy that the sun is setting and he's still not here," Edgar pointed out.  

"He'll probably use his work at the video store to cover his ass if we ask about it," Sam added.  

The three boys were circled up at the table in the Emerson kitchen. They had been strategizing over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while Lucy was out running errands. If Max truly was a vampire, Sam didn't want to risk his mother getting hurt. 

He wondered if this was what Michael was going through. Stepping up as a man to protect the family.  

"It's a small part of the plan," Alan assured the two. "We just gotta be prepared for the other parts."  

Each boy was armed with plenty of tools for hunting. Makeshift crosses, holy water from the local church, pocket mirrors, and the sharpest stakes they could find. The three of them were buzzing with energy, waiting for their guest with great impatience.  

"Just remember this. Nobody invites him in, and don't stop fighting no matter what. We've got to stay strong, men," Edgar said, voice full of confidence.  

The other two nodded in agreement. Before anyone could say anything else, a shrill sound interrupted their thoughts.  

The doorbell. He was there. No going back and no getting scared.  

Edgar, Alan, and Sam all pocketed their weapons in their pants and jackets. They could go in guns a-blazing. Instead, the Frogs followed Sam to the living room of the house, close behind as the Emerson boy went to open the front door.  

The guest of honor was standing right outside. Max Lawrence.  

"Ah! Sam! Good evening," Max greeted him. "Nice to see you, son." 

Sam didn't bother to hide his frown. This man didn't have the right to call him such a thing. It made him positively sick.  

"That makes one of us," the young boy retorted.  

"Well…I'm just here to see your mother. May I come in and talk to her, please?"  

The three rookie hunters eyed one another. Slowly and carefully, they reached for the tools they had stashed away. They were fully ready to take the man down if he truly was the bloodsucking monster they suspected him to be.  

But their plan fell through when a voice called out to Sam.  

“What in the hell is going on here?” 

The three boys swiftly turned to see Michael stepping in from the kitchen. He still wore his work gloves and carried a broom from his time sweeping the back porch. When his gaze landed on Max, his hand clenched tighter around the wooden rod of the broom. 

“Sam, you and your friends go upstairs.” 

“But Mike, we can’t do th-” 

“I said GET.” 

Sam shivered at the stern tone his brother used. He knew better than to question the eldest when he started talking like that. Though Edgar and Alan shared worried glances with their friend, it was made abundantly clear that Michael’s order was not to be taken lightly. The three of them glanced back at Max as they rushed up the staircase, making their way to Sam’s room.  

“Huh. I wonder what it was they wanted,” Max said, trying to keep a pleasant and casual conversation. Though he smiled at Michael, he quickly realized that the happy expression wasn’t going to be returned.  

“Anyway. I just came to speak with Lucy. She sent a letter asking me to stop by.” 

Max pulled the piece of light pink stationery from the inner pocket of his blazer. He confidently handed it over to Michael, who was quite bewildered at the idea of his mother sending the bastard an invitation to come over. When he glanced over the writing on the inside, a smirk pulled across his face. 

“Aww bless your heart,” he said in a condescending tone. “My mama didn’t send this, Max. Sam was just messin’ with you. Guess ya came all this way for nothing. Why don’t you head on home then, okay?” 

Michael was just about ready to slam the door in Max’s face but found the door being stopped by the hand of the older man.  

“Now, Michael,” Max scolded him. “I don’t think it’s very polite to shoo company away when they traveled all the way to see someone. Why don’t you just invite me in, and we can talk things out?” 

“There ain’t nothin’ to talk about, Max. You’re not welcome and you ain’t ever gonna be welcome. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.” 

The more Michael fought back, the shorter Max’s temper got. Being such a powerful authority figure in Santa Carla, he wasn’t used to being denied the things he wanted. He didn’t tolerate defiance with his boys, and he certainly wouldn’t now.  

“You know something, son,” Max said, voice dripping in venom. “You’ve got a terrible attitude for a self-claimed ‘southern gentleman’. I should have realized that when you and your trashy family crashed my party, but now seeing you being so disobedient to your elders, I’m starting to think you deserve some manners taught to you.” 

Michael’s blood was practically boiling with rage. He loathed this man with all his heart. Not one to tolerate such treatment, he pushed his way outside, slamming the door behind him and holding up his broom like a weapon.  

“You listen and you listen good, ya son of a bitch. I don’t take kindly to people like you who look down on others just for bein’ different. My mama is too good for the likes of you and I’d rather walk on hot coals than ever call you my father. You don’t even deserve to be David’s father.” 

“Mic-” 

“I ain’t done!” the boy snapped. “You’re so stuck up you could drown in a rainstorm. You think you’re so high and mighty, but you ain’t. If I ever see you ‘round these parts again I’m gonna beat some sense into you with this broom. Now get the hell off my property!” 

Max was completely stunned into silence. Nobody had ever dared to speak to him in such a way. Even when his boys stepped out of line, he was sure to shut it down. Michael was an absolute spitfire. He could tell such threats were not to be taken lightly.  

But that didn’t scare him. Max knew this wasn’t over.  

“Fair enough,” the man said. “You win. I’ll be on my way. Have a good night, Michael.” 

The Emerson boy didn’t take his eyes off of Max for one second as he carefully watched him walk down the path and get back into his luxury car. He was just happy to watch the man finally pull out of the driveway and get out of sight.  

While Michael was feeling better to see him gone, Max was still smiling to himself as he drove back into the city. An eerie smile. One that hid the insidious thoughts he held within his mind.  

“You’re going to regret messing with me, human.” 

Tag List: @silvermaplealder @michael-after-hours @legal-lost-boy @britany1997 @ria-coolgirl @crustyraccoon @ghoulgeousimmaculate @kurt-nightcrawler @auntvamp @sunshine-wylan @thelostsouls1987 @pixielostboy @thornthehellhound @solobagginses @6lostgirl6 @american-idiot-jpg @bloodywickedvamp @anxiouslittleweirdkid @juss-soupp @bloodsuckingfiends @peachpixiesstuff @bezinful @oceansrose2002 @piratesangel @hallotonia @vampirefilmlover

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝕬𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖘 III

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: Found out I wrote 751 words last fic, let’s try and make that 1,000-2,000 on this one. Is this slowburn???

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams(I got chu.), @egrets-not-regrets.(I got chu too.)

TW // Stalking.

Scratching behind the ears of the tabby cat that laid on top of my cast in the perfect loaf form, her loud purrs rumbled through her small body. Her orange, slit eyes are now big, and round. Enjoying every little bit of attention to her.

“She usually isn’t like that.” Marie commented, slowly sitting back in her rocking chair with a small cup of tea in her hands. Her hands bring up the cup to her lips, taking a sip out of the tea cup.

Marie was an interesting cat, plant lady? She had plants all around her home, looking like a jungle in some rooms. Cats laying around, basking in the sunlight that beamed through the windows, making “air biscuits.” Marie informed me the day she led me into her home. Which was no longer than 12 hours ago.

She had thought I was a stray cat when I stumbled upon the backyard of her home, tripping over her watering can at 5:00 in the morning. I nearly had it by just walking into random stuff. I almost picked up the can, and threw it at her neighbors house until she came out, wrapping her arm around mine dragging me inside her house.

I was so confused at that moment, wondering why this old lady was talking to me so sweetly, taking me inside of her home, and forcing me to sit down in one of her antique couches. What if I was a murder lady?

It was only then, when she mentioned “hospital rags” did I take notice of how I must have looked to her. A filthy woman, with bandages wrapped around her head, and a cast for an arm.

She had swiftly forced me to take a shower, mentioning a first-aid in a closet while she went looking for some temporary clothes for me. Leaving me puzzled, but slowly complying.

After having a very needed shower, I walked out of the tub, smelling like a new grown bush full of lavender.

When Marie came back in with some clothes. I think I had her stunned? Astonished? There for a second, her forest green eyes roaming my scarred, naked body.

“Oh! My poor thing!” She had sniffled, quickly putting the clothes on the counter, and carefully pulling me close. Observing me some more before switching up tasks, and grabbed the first aid from the closet. Intent on rewrapping my wounds herself.

That’s how I ended up with fresh clothes from the 90’s, and new bandages, smelling like any other old lady with a cat purring on my cast.

Looking back down at the little feline. I felt a little honored by Maries comment as I moved my hand underneath her chin, scratching her sweet spot there, her neck stretching out, eyes closed in content.

Then a flash of yellow hit my eye as I winced. My head snapping up, trying to spot whatever flashed me through the sunroom windows.

“You are like a cat that has seen a bird out there.” Marie compared, lowering her tea cup back onto its little, matching plate with a tink. “Always seeing movement out there.”

Despite seeing nothing, I still looked around. Just knowing something was there. The same trickling feeling sending shivers down my neck since I walked off from the hospital.

Could it be the Adeptus Custodes? No, It can’t be, I wasn’t a high priority. I wasn’t someone they would waste their potential on.

Looking back at Marie, I didn’t say anything to her. Not that she expected much. I haven’t peeped a word to her besides some grunts of pain when she helped me restitch and wrap the new bandage around my torso.

Gazing back down to the tabby on my cast that meowed up at me, demanding more scratches after I stopped for a second. I couldn’t help, but give the little tabby more. Her heavy purrs helping me relax in a way.

“Such a demanding little thing.” Marie said, placing the little plate, and cup down on the wooden coffee table in front of her. Then leaned back in her chair, getting comfortable in it. “Never had that much love from that cat.”

Looking up at the older woman once more. I watched as she relaxed in her chair, her eyes getting drowsy. The sweet apple-like scented tea taking effect on her tired body. Chamomile tea, I recognized.

I wouldn’t blame her if she needed to sleep right now. She stayed up all night to care for me, giving me clothes that I won’t have to steal from an unsuspecting shop keeper. Her hospitality was more… warming? Than the hospitals. There was an actual human in sight. Not any Custodes either. Well, as far as I know.

I could hear her breathing slow down the more she relaxed her muscles. A quiet mumble leaving her lips before she passed out, head dropping.

I waited for a moment. The trickling feeling of being watched coming back. Though, not as strong. Not as intimidating.

Looking back out the windows, I caught another flash. Blink, another flash. Did Miss. Marie have a stalker of her own? A potential thief?

Gently as I could, I lifted the little, purring loaf of fluffiness off my cast and placed her on the ground. Another meow of protest coming from her as I patted her head in reassurance to the little, cuddly creature.

Slowly getting up from my chair, some wounds still fresher than others. I made my way to the sunroom door that led out to the backyard. Carefully stepping over any basking cats, and kittens that lay peacefully in the room.

Another flash went off as I stepped out into the back yard. My head winced to the side, catching a camera peeking out behind an old greenhouse of Maires. So there was someone here.

Walking over to the greenhouse, I pretended to walk inside of it. Opening the door, but not going inside of it.

Quietly rounding the greenhouse instead, I slowly stalked up on the person who thought illegal photography was a good idea. Their camera trained inside of the greenhouse, taking the bait.

A startled yelp came from the person as I grabbed him by the front of their collar, and pushed them up against the greenhouse, a little crack sounding off. Ignoring how my nerves burned again.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” A male voice wheezed, their hands coming up to pull off their hood. Showing a young man with short, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes looking at me. “I’m a journalist!”

I glared at the man, not caring if he was one or not. A journalist was a dead one in my books. They weren’t allowed to have any information. Especially the cocky ones.

“I- I just want your story!” He exclaimed, arrogantly pulling out a pocket notebook, and pen from the front pocket of his jeans.

As far as I’m concerned, there is no story.

Pulling the man back from the greenhouse. I tossed him aside, watching him stumble to upright himself.

“Nope! No story! I got cha!” He rambled, putting the notebook back in his pocket with the pen. Dusting his shoulders off afterward.

“Can I at least get my camera back?” He asked, stepping a little closer as I moved to block the camera that laid on the ground, covered in a layer of dirt.

I kept my eye on the man, almost challenging him to take back his camera. If he is going to take pictures of me, I would at least have the right to keep them.

“Alright, alright. No camera for me.” He said putting up his hands in surrender, backing up little by little before trying to rush forward and grabbing it.

Taking him from the back of his collar, his hands almost touching the camera. I tugged him back harshly, no doubt choking him there for a second. Throwing him back into his place.

His eyes glared up at me, hand coming up to rub at his neck mumbling things under his breath.

“I see how it is.” He huffed out, slowly turning around, and walking back from where he probably came from. Kicking dirt, and rocks on his way, grumbling.

Waiting for his form to disappear, I slowly leaned down to pick up the camera. The soreness coming back and hitting me hard.

Damn, I hope that I didn’t just reopen some of my wounds.

Snap!

That sound had me checking my surroundings, the same heavy unease coming back as I looked for the guy that possibly wanted his camera back. Yet there was nothing. No man to plead for his camera back.

Slowly turning around to head back into the sunroom with the camera in hand. I considered taking some Chamomile tea myself. Maybe that might take off the edge a little bit?

If only I had stayed a little bit longer. I would hear the muffled cries of a man struggling in a stronger hold. Hands desperately hitting against armor of white, and gold before everything went silent with crack.

ℕ𝕖𝕩𝕥 ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣: 𝕬𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖘 IV

[puddingpong]

🌈CSP Assets MasterList🌈

I use Clip Studio Paint a lot… and i am always checking the assets store

This is a big list of assets i find interesting/useful that are ✨free✨

🖌️Brushes

Belt Buckle

Scattering Papers

Bullet Band

Simple Rope

Wisteria Flowers

Rubble/Debris

Vertical Rocks

Pointy Rocks

Chains

Simple Chains

Floor Pattern

Wizard Bookshelf

Cartoon Leaf Brush

Large Foliage

Bushes

🛋️3d Furniture:

Modern Bookshelf

Antique Books

Chesterfield Antique Chair

Bookcase

Simple Computer Chair

2 seats Sofa

Armrest Chair

Office Chair

Fancy Chair

Celestial Globe Set

Simple Queen Bed

Bird Cage Chair

Toilet Set

Bunk Bed

Hospital Bed

⚙️3d Misc:

Angel Wings

Cogs

Helm

Wires

Cowboy Hat

Camera

Dog Muzzle

Valves

🏠3d Buildings / Structures / etc

Back Alley Wall

Cartoonish Back Alley

Mobile/Ice Cream Stand

Outside Asian Insp. Lantern

Tall Upscale building with 4 entrances

Medieval Market Stand

Fantasy city street

Mansion

Wooden School Hall

Boxing Ring

Multitenant Building

Sci-fi Door

City

Medieval Ruins

Throne Room

Big House

Iron Gate

Torii Gate

Japanese Style Room

Cliff Covered With Concrete Blocks

Medieval Shop Stand

Bus Seats

Boxing Hall

Simple Building Apartments

Sci-fi Medical Pod

Basic Ruins

Tiny Cafe Table Set

Tall Shopping Street Building

Shopping Street Building

Inside Castle Throne Room

Inside Castle Hall

Inside Castle Corridor

Skyscraper

Fantasy Castle/Church

🚲3d Vehicles

Racing Bike

Bicycle

⚔️3d Weapons

Nodachi Sword

Medieval Sword

Dart Gun

Pistol Parts

Automatic rifle

Futuristic Weapon Set

🎸3d Instruments:

Drum Set

Guitar

Electric Guitar

Electric Guitar (Mustang Type)

🌈Hope it helps? idk... bye bye🌈

[ktwritesstuff]

The Babysitter (a Last of Us fanfic) pt. 6

Title: The Babysitter Fandom: The Last of Us Rating: Mature Characters & Pairings: Joel Miller x Reader Word Count: ~2,700 Summary: Calm before the storm. Beta-read by the immaculate globe-trotter, @bs-fangirl.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 (below cut) | Part 7 | Part 8

Somewhere Outside Richmond, Virginia. Summer 2010

After Atlanta, the three of you were careful, stayed away from populated areas; you rarely encountered the infected.  The world outside was more beautiful than FEDRA’s propaganda led you to believe–green and quiet–it was a shame you weren’t feeling well.

At first you tried to brush it off as allergies; it has been so long since you had been in actual nature, but allergies didn’t usually come with nausea and body aches.  Of course, sleeping on the ground didn’t help.  Eventually you admitted that it had to be flu or some other virus; you didn’t know how you picked it up when you hadn’t seen any other people in weeks.  

The nights were getting colder and you were running low on supplies.  You were hungry and exhausted–the lymph nodes under your arms so swollen and tender you couldn’t even carry a backpack without crying–so Joel and Tommy took turns exploring the mountainous terrain while you rested as best you could.   

Joel had been gone for little more than an hour and you didn’t expect him back until closer to nightfall, so when you heard footsteps approaching through the trees Tommy raised his gun.

“It’s just me,” Joel called.  “Calm down.”

“What are you doing back?” you asked, sitting up from where your head was resting on Tommy’s pack.  “Did you find food?”

“Better,” Joel said, reaching to help you up. 

“What’s better than food?” 

“I’ll show you,” he said.  “Come on.  Trust me.”

You and Tommy followed Joel about a mile into the woods until you came to a steep ledge along a riverbank.  Joel lowered himself down and reached up to help you.  

“I don’t like this, Joel,” you protested.  Your arms and legs felt weak and the rocks were wet and slippery; you gripped Tommy’s hand harder as he helped to lower you down.  

“I know, Sweetpea,” Joel put a hand on your back to support you as you made your way down the ledge.  “I got you.  We’re almost there.”

After wading through the river and trudging through the woods in wet socks and shoes for another twenty minutes you reached what might have once been a gravel path or road, now overgrown with grass and greenbriars.  

At the bottom of the hill there was a perfect little cottage bathed in dappled light.  The tin roof was covered in moss and speckled with dandelions.  A black walnut tree was growing through the remnants of the porch.  There was a clear pond and a garden that had gone wild with bolting greens, summer squash that had gone to seed, and runner beans trailing up the pawpaw saplings sprouting up through the yard.

“Joel,” you gasped.    

“There’s more,” Joel said, grinning like a maniac.  

The porch groaned under his weight as he climbed the steps to the house, you and Tommy following carefully behind him.

In the front room there was a wood-burning stove, a wooden rocking chair still in good condition, a sofa that was mostly dry-rotten, and a whole shelf full of books, even an antique sewing machine with a foot-pedal and a basket full of scraps where squirrels had made their nest.  They scurried through the window as you came into the house.     

The area behind the cabin was overgrown with wildflowers and brush.  Tommy actually whooped at excitement at the sight of a fat doe bending down to nibble on the tall grass, which caused her to turn tail and run.  On the other side of the room there was a set of narrow stairs up to a loft and a little kitchen where Joel was already throwing open the cupboards which were stocked with rice and beans and mason jars full of soups and tomatoes and pickles.

“I know it looks like a lot, but we still have to be careful,” Joel said.  “With a little planning, it should get us through winter.”

You covered your mouth and sank on to the floor; every muscle in your body finally giving out in relief.  Joel grabbed you by the waist and hoisted you back up; you held onto his shoulders for support.

“This is ours,” you laughed.  “Our house.”

Joel nodded, his pride evident in spite of his usual seriousness.  

“If the well is good, Tommy and I can get the pump working–we might even have running water.  There’s a bedroom back here,” he said, guiding you into the back room.  There was a double bed with a cast iron frame, a wardrobe, and a cedar chest of linens and wool afghans that Joel tossed onto the bed.  

“There’s plenty of wood, I can get a fire going in no time,” Joel explained.  

You nodded, sinking onto the bed, tears streaming down your face.

“Stop that,” Joel warned, but his voice was soft.  “Everything is going to be okay now.  We’re gonna make some food–you can finally get some rest and get healthy.”

You slept like a rock until Joel roused you with a mug of hot soup–a bean and vegetable number with tomatoey broth.  You wished you had some crackers to settle your stomach, but even without it was the best meal you had eaten in months.  

After, you slept again until after nightfall when Joel came to bed, undressing in the dark.  

“Tommy’s going to take the loft,” he explained.  “I’ll stay down here with you.”

“I’m afraid of getting you sick,” you protested as he climbed into bed beside you.

“If you haven’t gotten me sick already, you ain’t gonna,” Joel said.

You spent a few days subsisting on applesauce and oatmeal and sleeping as much as possible.  Joel mostly kept watch over you, hauling firewood, and fixing things up around the cabin–reinforcing sagging floorboards, patching holes in the roof.  There was a shed on the property with tools and supplies, but without electricity things took time.  Tommy helped out whenever Joel needed an extra set of hands, but mostly he passed time exploring the surrounding forest and stalking deer–so far unsuccessfully.  The house had come with a rifle and a small supply of ammo, but he knew to be judicious with it.  

You spent your few waking hours cataloging the contents of the wardrobe–women’s clothes, much of it handmade, most of it too small for your frame, but there were a few dresses you could use–and the cabin’s modest library–cookbooks, field guides on local plants and wildlife, and herbal remedies.  Little by little, a picture began to form of the cabin’s previous occupants.

You dreamed of her often.  Sometimes a lone pioneer, sometimes a fairytale witch.  You woke feeling feverish and ashamed.  You felt haunted.  Joel fretted over you when you screamed yourself awake, unable to explain why.  He never slept much either, so you weren’t surprised when you woke one night to an empty bed.  

The wind was cold.  You could hear black walnuts thunking against the tin roof as it blew.  You wrapped a knitted blanket around you and padded out to the kitchen in bare feet.  

Joel and Tommy were speaking in hushed tones out at the table.  They had a fire going, sharing nips of alcohol from an ancient-looking bottle of whiskey.  You wouldn’t have thought much of it, except they went silent real quick when they realized you were out of bed.  You couldn’t avoid the question that had been burning at the back of your mind any longer.  Who would have left this place when it had everything you needed?

“Joel, was there somebody here when you found this place?”

Joel cleared his throat, not meeting your eyes in the firelight.  

“There was an old woman,” he said.  “She was dead when I got here.”

“You swear,” you said.  “Do you swear she was already dead?”  You almost asked him to swear on Sarah, but you decided against it, knowing you would have to live with the answer.

“Jesus, Sweetpea, I swear,” Joel said.  “She died natural, as far as I could tell, in her bed–which makes her a hell of a lot more fortunate than the likes of us.”

“In the bed where we’ve been sleeping,” you wailed, pointing back to the bedroom.

Tommy chuckled.  

“You see why I didn’t want to tell you,” Joel said.

You closed your eyes and took a breath, choking down a sob.  People died all the time–you had lost your entire family in one night and barely shed a tear–so why were you suddenly overcome by the loss of this person you had never even known?  

“What did you do with her?” you asked.

“I wrapped her up in the comforter and walked her down the hill; I flipped the mattress over and I came and got you and Tommy,” he explained.

“Joel!” you shrieked.  

“What was I supposed to do?”

“We have to bury her,” you said.  “She left all of this for us; it’s the least we can do.”

You hardly considered yourself a Christian anymore, but still.  It didn’t sit right with you to leave your predecessor out in the open to be scavenged by wild animals.

“Fine,” Joel growled.  “We’ll take care of it, first thing tomorrow.  Go back to bed–you need to rest.”

True to his word, in the morning, Joel dug a modest grave.  You thought about looking at the remains before they were interred, but couldn’t bring yourself to unfold the threadbare fabric of the old quilt.  You covered the mound with river rocks.  Tommy whittled two dowels down and bound them with twine to make a cross.    

“You don’t know that she was Christian,” Joel protested.  You glared.  

“Would you like to say a few words?”

“I think I just want to say ‘thank you,’” you said, standing over the grave with a bouquet of Black-eyed Susans from the field behind the house.  “I know you don’t know us, but because you planted a garden we get to eat and have a safe place to sleep. And I just want you to know, we’ll take care of your home.”

After the funeral, it felt like a spell had been broken.  You were sleeping through the night and your appetite returned.  By the end of the week, you were feeling much stronger, so when Tommy finally brought home a deer, he and Joel showed you how to field dress and butcher it. 

Joel put the knife in your hand, standing behind you, guiding you through the motions.  

“Keep the point away from you and go slow,” he warned.  “Be gentle, you just want to go through the skin.  Puncture the stomach or intestines and all you’re gonna have is a fucking mess.”

You made it through the first layer of skin and the membrane beneath without too much difficulty.  Without the heart beating, there was less blood than you expected.

“This is a fat fucking deer,” Joel laughed, helping you scoop out the guts.  “Hell yeah,” Tommy agreed.

“She’s beautiful.”

You ran your fingers through the coarse fur, around the rose-like bloom where Tommy’s bullet had entered the deer’s shoulder and struck her heart.  Tommy knew what he was doing: a clean kill, quick, and as close to painless as it got.  You wondered where they had learned this; imagined that maybe they had gone on hunting trips with their father when they were young.

“You alright?” Joel asked.  “You look pale.”

You nodded, shaking off the wave of sickness.  

“I’m okay,” you said.  “What next?” 

“Reach inside,” Joel said, guiding your hands into the stomach cavity.  “Feel that muscle there, you’re going to cut through to get to the heart and esophagus.  Once you cut through that we can pull everything out to let it drain.”

“You’re a natural,” Tommy said, patting your back encouragingly.

“Takes a soft touch,” Joel agreed.  

Tommy took the deer to drain the rest of the blood.

With no refrigeration, the three of you realized you didn’t have a reliable way to preserve the meat; it was going to be much more than you could eat before it went bad.  Joel thought if he took the pelt and the extra meat to the Richmond QZ, he could trade for medicine or other supplies.  You didn’t like the idea of him out there alone, but neither he nor Tommy were willing to leave you alone.  

By day three with no sign of Joel, you started to panic.  Tommy put on a brave face, but you could tell he was just as worried as you were.  When reading could no longer keep your anxiety at bay you walked, exploring the forest.  You collected black walnuts and happened upon a strawberry patch up the hill from the cabin (though it was too late in the season now for strawberries), you even found chicken of the woods.  Tommy refused to touch it, convinced you were going to poison him.  

It was close to sunset on the fourth day when you finally caught sight of a figure with Joel’s approximate proportions and coloring, limping along from the rocks overlooking the old gravel road.    

“Joel!” you called out, scrambling down the hill.  “Joel.”  

“You had us scared half to death,” you said, throwing your arms around him.

“M’alright,” he said, relaxing into you.  “Twisted my damn ankle.  I’m sorry I scared you; I’ve just been moving slow.”     

Joel let you take his pack, and you ducked under his arm to support him on the path back up to the cabin.  Once you were within earshot you called out for Tommy and he helped you get Joel back up to the house and settled onto the bed with pillows under his bad ankle.  

“You got any Advil in here?” Tommy asked, rooting through Joel’s pack as you struggled to get his boot off his swollen foot.  There was a hint of bruising, but Joel could wiggle his toes.  It didn’t rule out a fracture, but if there were, hopefully it was small enough to heal on its own.  

“I wish,” Joel grimaced.  “Managed to find a new pressure switch for the jet pump, though.”

While Joel and Tommy went over their plans to get the well back in order, you sorted through your jars of dried herbs and spices, mashing up comfrey and wild garlic to warm on the stove with a few drops of oil from the pantry.  

“What the hell is that?” Joel said as you went to wrap his ankle with the paste.

“An herbal poultice,” you said.  “I learned how to make it from one of the books–been using it on cuts and scrapes.  Arnica’s better for a twisted ankle, but it doesn’t grow wild in this part of the country.” 

“I’d rather have some good old fashioned ice,” Joel complained, gritting his teeth as you tightened the bandages.

“Well we don’t have ice, now do we,” you snapped, tying off the bandages a little tighter than you needed to.  “So you’re just going to have to keep off it.  Now, are you hungry?  We’ve got fish.”

“Yes.”  Joel frowned; you knew he hated being laid up, but at this point there was nothing else you could do until his ankle had a chance to heal.  Thank heavens, it wasn’t worse. 

“I’ll put a plate on the stove for you,” you said.  “You have to rest.  The well can wait a few days more.”  

It was dark by the time Joel had eaten and dinner had been cleaned up; you changed into a flannel nightgown by candlelight.  You hadn’t even realized how scared you had been until you felt the relief washing over you as you climbed into bed beside him.

“I missed you,” you said, tucking yourself close to his side.  “It gets cold at night.”

Joel put his arm around you and kissed the top of your head.  You realized he must have been scared, too.  Or at least he was glad to be home, as much as he liked to complain.

“I even asked Tommy if he would come down to keep me warm,” you teased.  

“You did?” Joel chuckled.  “How did that go?”

You laughed.  “He gave me his blanket and told me to go sleep by the stove.”

Baby's First Taglist: @stilllivindue2spite, @amethystwonders11, @teacupcollectorr, @jbaby2, @flyingmushroomsss, @boysddontcry, @cated18, @sunnycamm

[freesia-writes]

REBLOG CHAIN! For funsies!

Please, if you feel so inclined, reblog this and add a little blurb of what you would do if you had this weekend to spend with your favorite clone. Considering where you live, what you like to do, etc... Let's all just take a little mental vacation with our favorite boys?? <3

I'll go first! :D And it got a little long, LOL.

Eep -- it got a lil NSFW at the end, so minors be gone! <3

After all the duties of the week were finished on Friday night, Howzer and I had a wee bit of edibles, sinking into the couch into each other's arms and giggling about random things. We popped a batch of break-n-bake cookies into the oven, cooking them to the PERFECT softness in the center, and ate far too many because they were so warm, gooey, and incredible. We dragged ourselves up to bed, curling up with each other in bubbly-brained bliss, feeling heavy and content.

Saturday didn't really begin until noon, when we finally hauled ourselves out of bed and made some espresso drinks. We watched a recording of The Price is Right, calling out our guesses and teasing each other competitively. We threw together a cozy breakfast (around 1pm, haha) of sourdough French toast, eggs, and sausage links, and ate it on the garden patio. It was a warm, breezy day, and I was tempted to suggest going back to bed, but we opted to head to the bay instead.

We walked through downtown, aimlessly perusing the charming little shops that included everything from antiques to plants, books to confections. We pretended to critique the art in a gallery, putting on airs and snickering at our complete lack of refinement. Our stroll took us down to the pier, where we spent a leisurely hour watching the fishermen huddled over their rods and buckets, the salty scents of the sea ruffling our hair as it blew past. His hand in mine was warm and strong, and we paused at the end of the pier to lean over the rough wooden railing, gazing at the bridge in the distance and marveling at the unusually cloudy sky. It was filled with layers of every shade of grey and white, blending together seamlessly in a cozy canvas of calm. He leaned behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist as we took in the sights, whispering some inside joke in my ear that made me guffaw like an idiot, which made him grin even more.

The sun was sinking below the horizon, barely visible behind the thick layer of clouds, but the fading light of the sky and our growling stomachs clued us in to the late hour. We headed to an adorable blue and white building that was an old house turned into a restaurant, with all sorts of nooks and crannies stuffed with tables with expansive views of the bay. We opted for the balcony, pushing our chairs together on the same side of the table to snuggle into each other's sides, his arm around my shoulders. We decided to splurge, sharing our steak and salmon dinners with each other, enjoying a sparkling drink that complimented the food, and ordering two desserts because we couldn't decide on just one. When I gave him a bite of my flourless chocolate cake, he took the fork into his mouth with a slow suggestiveness, sliding his lips down the metal as he fixed his brown eyes on mine. My heart did a flip, and though I laughed on the outside, he knew he was kindling the flame within.

We rolled out of the restaurant, equipped with bags of leftovers and stuffed beyond belief. The train station across the street broadcasted the impending arrival of the last train of the night, headed out to the coast. With a glimmer in his eyes, he took my hand and ran for the ticket kiosk, and the next thing we knew, we were sitting in window seats in a plushly-upholstered train car, rocking gently down the tracks toward the ocean. The world faded to black outside, the passing cities indicated only by the twinkling lights of people gathered in their homes, stoking fires and tucking in for the night.

The small beach town at the end of the line had a variety of charming bed and breakfasts, but the one that advertised the "in-room fireplace" caught our eyes immediately. The entire wall that faced the sea was a sliding glass door that included a screen, and the combination of the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, the fresh breeze cooling the room, and the flickering gas fireplace made the little room impossibly cozy. We took showers, pulled on the impossibly soft robes in the closet, and flopped across the large bed.

We talked about everything and nothing, lazily caressing each other, hands exploring further, robes slipping off of shoulders and thighs. It was a languorous exploration of my other half, appreciating everything that made him who he was. A slight graze of the wrist across a breast, the shift of a thigh against his hips, sent tingles through each of us and slowly increased the intensity until we were both naked, slithering against each other in a tangle of arms and legs illuminated by the warm glow of the fireplace. Breathless sighs and little quips punctuated the sounds of the seashore. He pressed into me, my legs wrapped around his, my hands caressing the curve of his back and grasping his strong forearm next to my head.

It was truly "making love" in every sense of the phrase, the comfort and pleasure weaving us together in blissful contentment. When we collapsed in delirious release, cleaning ourselves up and matching every curve of our frames against each other in warm, satisfying spooning, it was only a matter of seconds before sleep greeted us with a warm welcome. Just kidding, we got too hot in less than five minutes and peeled apart from each other, sprawling across opposite sides of the bed and drifting off in real comfort. ;)

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

ARTISTS, FEEL FREE TO DRAW ANY OF THIS AS ALWAYS!! ;)

NPT: @wolffegirlsunite @littlefeatherr @dystopicjumpsuit @arctrooper69 @foreverdaydreaming1 @stunkbiggu @mxkyrie @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @littlemissbshine @atomickidsoul @dreamie411 @skellymom @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @followthepurrgil @the-hexfiles @1vlouds @sunshinesdaydream @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @ughhhhfoff @coraex @moonlightwarriorqueen @idontgetanysleep @clonemedickix @gt13tbbart @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @523rdrebel @ghostperson69 @rain-on-kamino @secondaryrealm @hellhound5925 @thew0nderer2342 @blueink-bluesoul @cloneloverrrrr @kashasenpai @lightwise @drafthorsemath @nahoney22 @kaminocasey @neyswxrld @amorfista @zaana @mythical-illustrator @angrypaperearthquake-tbbb-main @arctrooper69 @ghostperson69 @littlemissmanga @starqueensthings @nika6q @vimse @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @mandos-mind-trick @clonethirstingisreal

[miffy-junot]

Felix Yusupov on the murder of Rasputin

As I was alone in St. Petersburg, I was staying with my brothers-in-law at the Grand Duke Alexander's palace. On December 29, I spent most of the day preparing for my examinations which were to be held next day.* As soon as I had a free moment I went home to make the final arrangements. I intended to receive Rasputin in the flat which I was fitting up in the Moika** basement: arches divided it in two; the larger half was to be used as a dining room. From the other half, the staircase which I have already mentioned led to my rooms on the floor above. Halfway up was a door opening onto the courtyard. The larger room had a low, vaulted ceiling and was lighted by two small windows which were on a level with the ground and looked out on the Moika. The walls were of grey stone, the flooring of granite. To avoid arousing Rasputin's suspicions - for he might have been surprised at being received in a bare cellar - it was indispensable that the room should be furnished and appear to be lived in. When I arrived, I found workmen busy laying down carpets and putting up curtains. Three large red Chinese porcelain vases had already been placed in niches hollowed out of the walls. Various objects which I had selected were being carried in: carved wooden chairs of oak, small tables covered with ancient embroideries, ivory bowls, and a quantity of other curios. I can picture the room to this day in all its details, and I have good reason to remember a certain cabinet of inlaid ebony which was a mass of little mirrors, tiny bronze columns and secret drawers. On it stood a crucifix of rock crystal and silver, a beautiful specimen of sixteenth-century Italian workmanship. On the great red granite mantelpiece were placed golden bowls, antique majolica plates and a sculptured ivory group. A large Persian carpet covered the floor and, in a corner, in front of the ebony cabinet, lay a white bearskin rug. In the middle of the room stood the table at which Rasputin was to drink his last cup of tea.

My two servants, Grigori and Ivan, helped me to arrange the furniture. I asked them to prepare tea for six, to buy biscuits and cakes and to bring wine from the cellar. I told them that I was expecting some friends at eleven that evening, and that they could wait in the servants' hall until I rang for them. When everything was settled I went up to my room where Colonel Vogel, my crammer, was waiting to coach me for the last time before my exams. The lesson was over by six o'clock; before going back to dine with my brothers-in-law, I went into the church of Our Lady of Kazan. Deep in prayer, I lost all sense of time. When I left the cathedral after what seemed to me but a few moments, I was astonished to find I had been there almost two hours. I had a strange feeling of lightness, of well-being, almost of happiness... I hurried to my father-in-law's palace where I had a light dinner before returning to the Moika. By eleven o'clock everything was ready in the basement. Comfortably furnished and well-lighted, this underground room had lost its grim look. On the table the samovar smoked, surrounded by plates filled with the cakes and dainties that Rasputin liked so much. An array of bottles and glasses stood on a sideboard. Ancient lanterns of coloured glass lighted the room from the ceiling; the heavy red damask portieres were lowered. On the granite hearth, a log fire crackled and scattered sparks on the flagstones. One felt isolated from the rest of the world and it seemed as though, no matter what happened, the events of that night would remain forever buried in the silence of those thick walls.

The bell rang, announcing the arrival of Dmitri and my other friends. I showed them into the dining room and they stood for a little while, silently examining the spot where Rasputin was to meet his end. I took from the ebony cabinet a box containing the poison and laid it on the table. Dr. Lazovert put on rubber gloves and ground the cyanide of potassium crystals to powder. Then, lifting the top of each cake, be sprinkled the inside with a dose of poison which, according to him, was sufficient to kill several men instantly. There was an impressive silence. We all followed the doctor's movements with emotion. There remained the glasses into which cyanide was to be poured. It was decided to do this at the last moment so that the poison should not evaporate and lose its potency. We had to give the impression of having just finished supper - for I had warned Rasputin that when we had guests we took our meals in the basement and that I sometimes stayed there alone to read or work while my friends went upstairs to smoke in my study. So we disarranged the table, pushed the chairs back, and poured tea into the cups. It was agreed that when I went to fetch the starets, Dmitri, Purishkevich and Sukhotin would go upstairs and play the gramophone, choosing lively tunes. I wanted to keep Rasputin in a good humor and remove any distrust that might be lurking in his mind.

When everything was ready, I put on an overcoat and drew a fur cap over my ears, completely concealing my face. Doctor Lazovert, in a chauffeur's uniform, started up the engine and we got into the car which was waiting in the courtyard by the side entrance. On reaching Rasputin's house, I had to parley with the janitor before he agreed to let me in. In accordance with Rasputin's instructions, I went up the back staircase; I had to grope my way up in the dark, and only with the greatest difficulty found the starets' door. I rang the bell. "Who's that?" called a voice from inside. I began to tremble. "It's I, Grigori Yefimovitch. I've come for you. I could hear Rasputin moving about the hall. The chain was unfastened, the heavy lock grated. I felt very ill at ease. He opened the door and I went into the kitchen. It was dark. I imagined that someone was spying on me from the next room. Instinctively, I turned up my collar and pulled my cap down over my eyes. "Why are you trying to hide?" asked Rasputin. "Didn't we agree that no one was to know you were going out with me tonight?" "True, true; I haven't said a word about it to anyone in the house, I've even sent away all the tainiks.(* Members of the secret police.) I'll go and dress." I accompanied him to his bedroom; it was lighted only by the little lamp burning before the icons. Rasputin lit a candle; I noticed that his bed was crumpled. He had probably been resting. Near the bed were his overcoat and beaver cap, and his high feltlined galoshes. Rasputin wore a silk blouse embroidered in cornflowers, with a thick raspberry-colored cord as a belt. His velvet breeches and highly polished boots seemed brand-new; he had brushed his hair and carefully combed his beard. As be came close to me, I smelled a strong odor of cheap soap which indicated that he had taken pains with his appearance. I had never seen him look so clean and tidy. "Well, Grigori Yefimovich, it's time to go; it's past midnight." "What about the gypsies? Shall we pay them a visit?" "I don't know; perhaps," I answered. "There will be no one at your house but us tonight?" be asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice. I reassured him by saying that he would meet no one that he might not care to see, and that my mother was in the Crimea. "I don't like your mother. I know she hates me; she's a friend of [Grand Duchess] Elisabeth's. Both of them plot against me and spread slander about me too. The Tsarina herself has often told me that they were my worst enemies. Why, no earlier than this evening, Protopopov came to see me and made me swear not to go out for a few days. 'They'll kill you,' he declared. 'Your enemies are bent on mischief!' But they'd just be wasting time and trouble; they won't succeed, they are not powerful enough ... But that's enough, come on, let's go..." I picked up the overcoat and helped him on with it. Suddenly, a feeling of great pity for the man swept over me. I was ashamed of the despicable deceit, the horrible trickery to which I was obliged to resort. At that moment I was filled with self-contempt, and wondered how I could even have thought of such a cowardly crime. I could not understand how I had brought myself to decide on it. I looked at my victim with dread, as he stood before me, quiet and trusting. What had become of his second sight? What good did his gift of foretelling the future do him? Of what use was his faculty for reading the thoughts of others, if he was blind to the dreadful trap that was laid for him? It seemed as though fate had clouded his mind... to allow justice to deal with him according to his desserts... But suddenly, in a lightning flash of memory, I seemed to recall every stage of Rasputin's infamous life. My qualms of conscience disappeared, making room for a firm determination to complete my task. We walked to the dark landing, and Rasputin closed the door behind him.

Once more I heard the grating of the lock echoing down the staircase; we were in pitch-black darkness. I felt fingers roughly clutching at my hand. "I will show you the way," said the starets dragging me down the stairs. His grip hurt me, I felt like crying out and breaking away, but a sort of numbness came over me. I don't remember what he said to me, or whether I answered him; my one thought was to be out of the dark house as quickly as possible, to get back to the light, and to free myself from that hateful clutch. As soon as we were outside, my fears vanished and I recovered my self-control. We entered the car and drove off. I looked behind us to see whether the police were following; but there was no one, the streets were deserted. We drove a roundabout way to the Moika, entered the courtyard and, once more, the car drew up at the side entrance.

As we entered the house, I could hear my friends talking while the gramophone played "Yankee Doodle went to town." "What's all this?" asked Rasputin. "Is someone giving a party here?" "No, just my wife entertaining a few friends; they'll be going soon. Meanwhile, let's have a cup of tea in the dining room." We went down to the basement. As soon as Rasputin entered the room, he took off his overcoat and began inspecting the furniture with great interest. He was particularly fascinated by the little ebony cabinet, and took a childlike pleasure in opening and shutting the drawers, exploring it inside and out. Then, at the fateful moment, I made a last attempt to persuade him to leave St. Petersburg. His refusal sealed his fate. I offered him wine and tea; to my great disappointment, he refused both. Had something made him suspicious? I was determined, come what may, that he should not leave the house alive. We sat down at the table and began to talk. We reviewed our mutual acquaintances, not forgetting Anna Vyrubova and, naturally, touched on Tsarskoe-Selo. "Grigori Yefimovitch," I asked, "why did Protopopov come to see you? Is he still afraid of a conspiracy?" "Why yes, my dear boy, he is; it seems that my plain speaking annoys a lot of people. The aristocrats can't get used to the idea that a humble peasant should be welcome at the Imperial Palace. ...They are consumed with envy and fury... but I'm not afraid of them. They can't do anything to me. I'm protected against ill fortune. There have been several attempts on my life but the Lord has always frustrated these plots. Disaster will come to anyone who lifts a finger against me." Rasputin's words echoed ominously through the very room in which he was to die, but nothing could deter me now. While he talked, my one idea was to make him drink some wine and eat the cakes.

After exhausting his customary topics of conversion, Rasputin asked for some tea. I immediately poured out a cup and handed him a plate of biscuits. Why was it that I offered him the only biscuits that were not poisoned? I even hesitated before handing him the cakes sprinkled with cyanide. He refused them at first: "I don't want any, they're too sweet." At last, however, he took one, then another... I watched him, horror-stricken. The poison should have acted immediately but, to my amazement, Rasputin went on talking quite calmly. I then suggested that he should sample our Crimean wines. He once more refused. Time was passing, I was becoming nervous; in spite of his refusal, I filled two glasses. But, as in the case of the biscuits - and just as inexplicably - I again avoided using a glass containing cyanide. Rasputin changed his mind and accepted the wine I handed him. He drank it with enjoyment, found it to his taste and asked whether we made a great deal of wine in the Crimea. He seemed surprised to hear that we had cellars full of it. "Pour me out some Madeira," he said. This time I wanted to give it to him in a glass containing cyanide, but he protested: "I'll have it in the same glass." "You can't, Grigori Yefimovich," I replied. "You can't mix two kinds of wines." "It doesn't matter, I'll use the same glass, I tell you." I had to give in without pressing the point, but I managed, as if by mistake, to drop the glass from which he had drunk, and immediately poured the Madeira into a glass containing cyanide. Rasputin did not say anything. I stood watching him drink, expecting any moment to see him collapse. But he continued slowly to sip his wine like a connoisseur. His face did not change, only from time to time be put his hand to his throat as though he had some difficulty in swallowing. He rose and took a few steps. When I asked him what was the matter, he answered: "Why, nothing, just a tickling in my throat. " "The Madeira's good," he remarked; "give me some more." Meanwhile, the poison continued to have no effect, and the starets went on walking calmly about the room. I picked up another glass containing cyanide, filled it with wine and handed it to Rasputin. He drank it as he had the others, and still with no result.

There remained only one poisoned glass on the tray. Then, as I was feeling desperate, and must try to make him do as I did, I began drinking myself. A silence fell upon us as we sat facing each other, He looked at me; there was a malicious expression in his eyes, as if to say: "Now, see, you're wasting your time, you can't do anything to me." Suddenly his expression changed to one of fierce anger; I had never seen him look so terrifying. He fixed his fiendish eyes on me, and at that moment I was filled with such hatred that I wanted to leap at him and strangle him with my bare hands. The silence became ominous. I had the feeling that he knew why I had brought him to my house, and what I had set out to do. We seemed to be engaged in a strange and terrible struggle. Another moment and I would have been beaten, annihilated. Under Rasputin's heavy gaze, I felt all my self-possession leaving me; an indescribable numbness came over me, my head swam...

When I came to myself, he was still seated in the same place, his head in his hands. I could not see his eyes. I had got back my self-control, and offered him another cup of tea. "Pour me a cup," he said in a muffled voice, "I'm very thirsty." He raised his head, his eyes were dull and I thought he avoided looking at me. While I poured the tea, he rose and began walking up and down. Catching sight of my guitar which I had left on a chair, be said: "Play something cheerful, I like listening to your singing." I found it difficult to sing anything at such a moment, especially anything cheerful. "I really don't feel up to it," I said. However, I took the guitar and sang a sad Russian ditty. He sat down and at first listened attentively; then his head drooped and his eyes closed. I thought he was dozing. When I finished the song, he opened his eyes and looked gloomily at me: "Sing another. I'm very fond of this kind of music and you put so much soul into it." I sang once more but I did not recognize my own voice. Time went by; the clock said two-thirty... the nightmare had lasted two interminable hours. What would happen, I thought, if I had lost my nerve? Upstairs my friends were evidently growing impatient, to judge by the racket they made. I was afraid that they might be unable to bear the suspense any longer and just come bursting in. Rasputin raised his head: "What's all that noise?" "Probably the guests leaving," I answered. "I'll go and see what's up." In my study, Dmitri, Purishkevich and Sukhotin rushed at me, and plied me with questions. "Well, have you done it? Is it over?" "The poison hasn't acted," I replied. They stared at me in amazement. "It's impossible!" cried the Grand Duke.

"But the dose was enormous! Did he take the whole lot?" asked the others. "Every bit," I answered. After a short discussion, we agreed to go down in a body, throw ourselves on Rasputin and strangle him. We were already on the way down, when I was brought to a halt by the fear that we would ruin the whole scheme by our precipitation: the sudden appearance of a lot of strangers would certainly arouse Rasputin's suspicions. And who could tell what such a diabolical person was capable of doing? I convinced my friends with great difficulty that it would be best for me to act alone. I took Dmitri's revolver and went back to the basement. Rasputin sat where I had left him; his head drooping and his breathing labored. I went up quietly and sat down by him, but he paid no attention to me. After a few minutes of horrible silence, he slowly lifted his head and turned vacant eyes in my direction. "Are you feeling ill?" I asked. "Yes, my head is heavy and I've a burning sensation in my stomach. Give me another little glass of wine. It'll do me good." I handed him some Madeira; he drank it at a gulp; it revived him and he recovered his spirits. I saw that he was himself again and that his brain was functioning quite normally. Suddenly he suggested that we should go to the gypsies together. I refused, giving the lateness of the hour as an excuse. "That doesn't matter," he said. "They're quite used to that; sometimes they wait up for me all night. I'm often detained at Tsarskoe Selo by important business, or simply to talk about God.... When this happens I drive straight to the gypsies in a car. The body, too, needs a rest... isn't it so? All our thoughts belong to God, they are His, but our bodies belong to ourselves: That's the way it is!" added Rasputin with a wink. I certainly did not expect to hear such talk from a man who had just swallowed an enormous dose of poison. I was particularly struck by the fact that Rasputin, who had a quite remarkable gift of intuition, should be so far from realizing that he was near death. How was it that his piercing eyes had not noticed that I was holding a revolver behind my back, ready to point it at him? I turned my head and saw the crystal crucifix. I rose to look at it more closely. "What are you staring at that crucifix for?" asked Rasputin. "I like it," I replied, "it's so beautiful." "It is indeed beautiful," he said. "It must have cost a lot. How much did you pay for it?" As he spoke, he took a few steps toward me and, without waiting for an answer, added: "For my part, I like the cabinet better." He went up to it, opened it and started to examine it again. "Grigori Yefimovich," I said, "you'd far better look at the crucifix and say a prayer."

Rasputin cast a surprised, almost frightened glance at me. I read in it an expression which I had never known him to have: it was at once gentle and submissive. He came quite close to me and looked me full in the face. It was as though he had at last read something in my eyes, something he had not expected to find. I realized that the hour had come. "O Lord," I prayed, "give me the strength to finish it." Rasputin stood before me motionless, his head bent and his eyes on the crucifix. I slowly raised the revolver. Where should I aim, at the temple or at the heart? A shudder swept over me; my arm grew rigid, I aimed at his heart and pulled the trigger. Rasputin gave a wild scream and crumpled up on the bearskin. For a moment I was appalled to discover how easy it was to kill a man. A flick of the finger and what had been a living, breathing man only a second before, now lay on the floor like a broken doll. On hearing the shot my friends rushed in, but in their frantic haste they brushed against the switch and turned out the light. Someone bumped into me and cried out; I stood motionless for fear of treading on the body. At last, someone turned the light on. Rasputin lay on his back. His features twitched in nervous spasms; his hands were clenched, his eyes closed. A bloodstain was spreading on his silk blouse. A few moments later all movement ceased. We bent over his body to examine it. The doctor declared that the bullet had struck him in the region of the heart. There was no possibility of doubt: Rasputin was dead. Dmitri and Purishkevich lifted him from the bearskin and laid him on the flagstones. We turned off the light and went up to my room, after locking the basement door.

Our hearts were full of hope, for we were convinced that what had just taken place would save Russia and the dynasty from ruin and dishonor. In accordance with our plan, Dmitri, Sukhotin and the Doctor were to pretend to take Rasputin back to his house, in case the secret police had followed us without our knowing it. Sukhotin was to pass himself off as the starets and, wearing Rasputin's overcoat and cap, would drive off in Purishkevich's open car along with Dmitri and the Doctor. They were to return to the Moika in the Grand Duke's closed car, after which they would take the body to Petrovsky Island. Purishkevich and I remained at the Moika. While we waited for our friends, we talked of the future of our country, now that it was freed once and for all from its evil genius. How could we foresee that those who ought to have seized this unique opportunity would not have the will, or the skill, to do so?

As we talked I was suddenly filled with a vague misgiving; an irresistible impulse forced me to go down to the basement. Rasputin lay exactly where we had left him. I felt his pulse: not a beat, he was dead. Scarcely knowing what I was doing I seized the corpse by the arms and shook it violently. It leaned to one side and fell back. I was just about to go, when I suddenly noticed an almost imperceptible quivering of his left eyelid. I bent over and watched him closely; slight tremors contracted his face. All of a sudden, I saw the left eye open... A few seconds later his right eyelid began to quiver, then opened. I then saw both eyes - the green eyes of a viper - staring at me with an expression of diabolical hatred. The blood ran cold in my veins. My muscles turned to stone. I wanted to run away, to call for help, but my legs refused to obey me and not a sound came from my throat. I stood rooted to the flagstones as if caught in the toils of a nightmare. Then a terrible thing happened: with a sudden violent effort Rasputin leapt to his feet, foaming at the mouth. A wild roar echoed through the vaulted rooms, and his hands convulsively thrashed the air. He rushed at me, trying to get at my throat, and sank his fingers into my shoulder like steel claws. His eyes were bursting from their sockets, blood oozed from his lips. And all the time he called me by name, in a low raucous voice. No words can express the horror I felt. I tried to free myself but was powerless in his vicelike grip. A ferocious struggle began.... This devil who was dying of poison, who had a bullet in his heart, must have been raised from the dead by the powers of evil. There was something appalling and monstrous in his diabolical refusal to die. I realized now who Rasputin really was. It was the reincarnation of Satan himself who held me in his clutches and would never let me go till my dying day. By a superhuman effort I succeeded in freeing myself from his grasp. He fell on his back, gasping horribly and still holding in his hand the epaulette he had torn from my tunic during our struggle. For a while he lay motionless on the floor. Then after a few seconds, he moved. I rushed upstairs and called Purishkevich, who was in my study. "Quick, quick, come down!" I cried. "He's still alive!"

At that moment, I heard a noise behind me; I seized the rubber club Maklakov had given me (he had said: "one never knows") and rushed downstairs, followed by Purishkevich, revolver in hand. We found Rasputin climbing the stairs. He was crawling on hands and knees, gasping and roaring like a wounded animal. He gave a desperate leap and managed to reach the secret door which led into the courtyard. Knowing that the door was locked, I waited on the landing above, grasping my rubber club. To my horror and amazement, I saw the door open and Rasputin disappear. Purishkevich sprang after him. Two shots echoed through the night. The idea that he might escape was intolerable! Rushing out of the house by the main entrance, I ran along the Moika to cut him off in case Purishkevich had missed him. The courtyard had three entrances, but only the middle one was unlocked. Through the iron railings, I could see Rasputin making straight for it. I heard a third shot, then a fourth... I saw Rasputin totter and fall beside a heap of snow, Purishkevich ran up to him, stood for a few seconds looking at the body, then, having made sure that this time all was over, went swiftly into the house. I called, but he did not hear me. The quay and the adjacent streets were deserted; apparently the shots had not been heard. When I had reassured myself on this point, I entered the courtyard and went up to the snow-heap behind which lay Rasputin. He gave no sign of life.

But, at that moment, I saw two of my servants running up from one side and a policeman from the other. I went up to the policeman and spoke to him; I stood so as to make him turn his back to the spot where Rasputin lay. "Your Highness," he said on recognizing me, "I heard revolver shots. What has happened?" "Nothing of any consequence," I replied, "just a little horseplay. I gave a small party this evening and one of my friends who had drunk a little too much amused himself by firing his revolver into the air. If anyone questions you, just say that everything's all right, and that there is no harm done!" As I spoke, I led him to the gate. I then returned to the corpse by which the two servants were standing. Rasputin's body still lay in a crumpled heap on the same spot, but his position had changed. My God, I thought, can he still be alive? I was terror-stricken at the bare thought that he might suddenly get up again. I ran toward the house, calling Purishkevich, who had disappeared indoors. I felt sick, and Rasputin's hollow voice calling my name still rang in my ears. Staggering to my dressing room, I drank a glass of water. At that moment Purishkevich entered the room: "Ah! there you are! I've been looking for you everywhere!" he cried. My sight was blurred, I thought I was going to faint. Purishkevich helped me to my study. We had scarcely reached it when my manservant came to say that the policeman I had talked to a few moments before wished to see me again. The shots, it seems, had been heard from the police station, and my constable, whose beat it was, had been sent for to make a report on what had happened. As his version of the affair was considered unsatisfactory, the police insisted on fuller details. When the constable entered the room, Purishkevich addressed him in a loud voice: "Have you ever heard of Rasputin? The man who plotted to ruin our country, the Tsar and your brother-soldiers? The man who betrayed us to Germany, do you hear?" Not understanding what was expected of him, the policeman remained silent. "Do you know who I am?" continued Purishkevich. "I am Vladimir Mitrophanovich Purishkevich, member of the Duma. The shots you heard killed Rasputin. If you love your country and your Tsar, you'll keep your mouth shut." I listened with horror to this amazing statement, which came so unexpectedly that I had no chance to interrupt. Purishkevich was in such a state of excitement that he did not realize what he was saying. Finally, the policeman spoke: "You did right and I won't say a word unless I'm put on oath. I would then have to tell the truth as it would be a sin to lie." Purishkevich followed him out.

My manservant then informed me that Rasputin's body had been placed on the lower landing of the staircase. I felt very ill, my head swam and I could scarcely walk. I rose with difficulty, automatically picked up my rubber club, and left the study. As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Rasputin stretched out on the landing, blood flowing from his many wounds. It was a loathsome sight. Suddenly, everything went black, I felt the ground slipping from under my feet and I fell headlong down the stairs. Purishkevich and Ivan found me, a few minutes later, lying side by side with Rasputin; the murderer and his victim. I was unconscious and he and Ivan had to carry me to my bedroom. Meanwhile Dmitri, Sukhotin and Doctor Lazovert came back in a closed car to fetch Rasputin's body. When Purishkevich told them what had happened, they decided to let me rest and go off without me. They wrapped the corpse in a piece of heavy linen, shoved it into the car, and drove to Petrovsky Island. There, from the top of the bridge, they hurled it into the river. On regaining consciousness I felt as though I had just recovered from a serious illness. The air I breathed in so deeply seemed fresh, clean and pure, as after a storm. I seemed to come to life again.

With the help of my servant I washed up all traces of blood which might give us away. When everything was in order I walked out into the courtyard... I had to think of some story to explain the revolver shots. This is what I decided to say: one of my guests while considerably the worse for liquor had tried to shoot one of our watchdogs in the courtyard when he was leaving. I then sent for the two servants who had seen the end of the tragedy and explained what had really happened. They listened in silence and promised to keep my secret. It was almost five in the morning when I left the Moika to return to the Grand Duke Alexander's palace. I felt full of courage and confidence at the thought that the first steps to save Russia had been taken. I found my brother-in-law Fyodor in my room. He had spent a sleepless night, anxiously waiting for me to come back. "Thank God you are here at last," he said. "Well?" "Rasputin is dead," I replied, "but I'm not in a fit state to talk about it; I am dropping with fatigue." Realising that I would need all my strength on the morrow to face the cross-examinations, the investigations, and perhaps even worse, I went to bed and at once fell into a deep sleep.

*Felix Yusupov was undergoing military training at the Corps des Pages at the time of the murder.

**the Yusupov palace on the Moika canal.

source: Lost Splendour by Felix Yusupov, chapter 23

[wroteclassicaly]

Antique store owner!Steve, whom also runs the shop with Eddie. Both wear glasses. Eddie’s hair is short and curly. Eddie brings has his own music section, for old records and guitars, whereas Steve has taken to fixing things that just need a little TLC. Ever since the events of Hawkins, they’ve built a bond and decided that fixing and treasuring old things, that’s where relief and happiness is.

You first see the shop when the door is propped open by an old rocking chair, rust colored mums in wooden crates decorating the building. It’s shabby, but charming. The scent of must, old books, apple and cedar, with the faintest hints of chocolate and cinnamon lure you inside.