#balcony refurbishment

[northmen-roofing]

BALCONY & TERRACE WATERPROOFING

Northmen Roofing, as a “specialty” roofing contractor, prioritizes extensive ongoing training and use of the highest quality materials. Balcony & Terrace Waterproofing is perhaps the most challenging service offered in Central Florida which is why we standardize on the TREMCO PUMA system for our balcony refurbishment projects.

These projects require multiple disciplines, thorough training and exact measurements for each step involved.

1) Demo removing all decking and wall flashings 2) Replace decking (add slope as needed, install custom drip edge) 3) Primer with initiator 4) Brush Grade Base Coat (flashings and seams) 5) Self Leveling Base Coat 6) Top Coat (differs based on intended finish) 7) Quartz aggregate (“sand to refusal”) 8) Sealer 9) Finishing – Reset railings, doors, stucco/siding, etc.

Northmen Roofing provides a “one stop shop” for balcony waterproofing and is a TREMCO certified installer which allows us to offer up to a 20 year “No Dollar Limit” warranty. This system is not for the faint of heart but if installed correctly there is no better finish that will remain water tight and maintainable for decades.

This Balcony waterproofing service was completed in Winter Park, Florida with a view of Lake Osceola.

TREMCO Pedestrian (PUMA) System: https://www.tremcosealants.com/markets/commercial/polyurethane-methacrylate-puma-technology/vulkem-ews-for-traffic-coatings/pedestrian-puma/  

[parchmentpaperandco]

The Rex

Refurbished (No 7 - The Bridge)

The Rex (Number 7 The Bridge), first released by Parchment, Paper & Co in 2011, has been updated and is now ready for rent.

Originally opened as The Gaumont in 1929, it was renamed The Rex in 1946. Built as a cinema, it had spells as a dance hall and bingo hall before falling into the hands of Parchment, Paper & Co.

The ground and first floor hold three 1 bedroom apartments.

The penthouse to the second floor is a three bedroom affair with 3 balconies.

Call Trixie for a show-a-round. She's P,P&C's longest serving member of staff and is solely focussed on her commission.

[wolven91]

thinking about a watchmaker in your universe. someone who's job was to repair small, extremely intricate devices that are redundant in space. i mean, why would you spend so much time and effort finding and fixing a watch when an ai can do it without having to be wound every couple weeks and fixed every couple months? even if you do want a watch you can just get a digital one that has more functions and is more durable at a fraction of the price and effort.

so they change jobs. maybe to a more useful one that still uses their skills in manipulating small, intricate parts. maybe repairing and replacing the small chips and processors in those very same electronics that replaced those mechanical watches they love so much.

their job pays very well, and eventually they save up quite a bit of money. they're constantly checking all sorts of places, both legal and illegal, for anything from earth. when suddenly they find it. a collection of old and "new" earth watches. most of them are broken or damaged, but with a reference now they can start making new parts. they start selling the refurbished watches to earth collectors, and they eventually make enough to start their own small business making brand new designs. it doesn't make a ton of money, but they can finally return to the thing they love, making and fixing watches.

Time Flys

Edward sighed quietly as he sat on the raised balcony, overlooking the promenade. The general buzz of the hustle and bustle was too far below him to be of bother to the human. 

It was a nice view, the end of the street opened up into the park area where rolling hills and artificial waterfalls gave an idealist appearance. Glancing up, he could see the edge of the Mar'Tor's Vow nebula slowly moving over head through the great glass dome.

The old man ached for home and sighed again.

He was getting on in his years now and he was struck with a wave of nostalgia. How he wished he could see Orion's belt from the place he remembered it from. He didn't want to *go* see Orion's Belt, he wanted to see it as he remembered it. Clear as a bell, the three bright dots that sat in the centre of a familiar constellation. His chest hurt from the memory.

"Hey Old Dog." Rumbled a firm voice from behind him, causing his heart to jump just a little. Quiet little blighter.

"Morning Young Pup." Edward growled back with a smirk on his face. The human leaned back in his chair and let his head roll to the side as the canid stalked around the seat to plonk herself down on the chair to his side.

"You're early for your ass wuppin'?" Edward teased, referencing how Snarlp had yet to beat him at Chess since he had taught her the rules. The canid solider wasn't dumb, she had even taught him a few things about bold tactics and how it was indeed possible to punch through a strong defence to put a king on the backfoot, but the canid had yet to figure out subtle tactics.

"I *will* beat you old timer. You've been winning by the fur on your nose these last few games... But... No, that can wait. I got something you might like." The youthful creature grumbled back, her firm tone like gravel in a blender. She wasn't aggressive with Edwards, well she was, but not physically. She was challenging him for his 'place' in the friendship between the two of them. Just as Edward liked it.

Honestly, it was just good fun for him, definitely kept his mind sharp. It felt like he was a captain of a pirate ship; the moment he let his guard down one of his 'salty dogs' would bloodily tear control of his ship from him; it was life and death that he kept his wits. Edwards sighed and smiled, all metaphorically of cause. Snarlp would see her arm torn off before she laid a single claw on the human, Edward knew this.

"You know I'm not interested in that VR nonsense. It was fad before and it's a fad now." He dismissed, more alarmed that Snarlp could be back on the track of trying to have Edward 'try new things'. Edward was happy in his rut. He didn't *like* the new things.

As a human, Edward was old fashioned. Back home, he'd been a watch maker. He could recall off the top of his head how to pull apart and putback together any number of models of watch. At night, to get to sleep, he would mentally repair or build watches for himself.

But alas, amongst the stars, there was no need or desire for mechanical watches. The aliens all wanted digital, with bells and whistles that no clockwork watch could match. Not to mention that Edward couldn't get the printer to work the way he wanted. He needed a scan of some kind. Snarlp had been the one to explain it to him which had broken his heart somewhat. Still, she'd meant well, and it just solidified that his generation, the first off planet, were the last humans that remembered Earth as it was. They were dying out.

"It's not 'Virtual Reality' Old Dog, it's Simulated Environments, and *no*, I'm not showing you something new. I know it'll have your heart attack you or something." The canid growled as she picked up the pitcher of water that sat on the table between them, causing the ice and strange purple fruit that floated in it to 'clink' against the glass. Edward watched her as she sniffed at it, sneered, then downed a large gulpful, straight from the pitcher. There goes having another glass of that any time soon.

Well... He'd need to go get another one anyway.

"It better be nearby. It's forty-two steps to the toilet and that's a 'tactical' decision for me these days. I ain't going on an adventure." Edward warned. The walking stick next to his chair alleviated the pains in his hips, but it still hurt something rotten. He had sworn the canid to secrecy once she had figured out that he was in agony when he walked. Edward wasn't about to let no scientist near him again. He'd let them sire countless bastards from his genetics once already and he wasn't about to let them do it a second time.

Poor things didn't even know he was their father.

"Good thing I brought it here then, isn't it?" Snarlp replied, bouncing up and out of the chair with the energy of a creature that had yet to wake up four times in one night.

"But you couldn't bring it out here?" Edward questioned, tilting his head, and narrowing his eyes.

"By the *moons* do you want your surprise or not?!" Snarlp snapped. Putting her hands on her hips and leaning forward with a glare. Despite being decades younger than him, the aura she had was of Edward's disapproving mother. The tone still made his blood run cold.

"Ugh, fine. You're getting me one of those 'bear wraps' if this isn't worth it." Edwards grumbled as he leant forward and snatched up his stick in a huff. Snarlp stepped forward and ignored the slap across her hands from Edwards as he tried to bat her away. She persisted in helping and he was grateful. Her strength was mighty, pulling him up as if he were no more than a small bag of spuds, yet she was gentle enough that not even her razor-sharp claws broke the man's thin paper-like skin.

"Firstly, it's worth it. Secondly, you *know* you're not allowed the ursidain food anymore. It'll... it's not good for you." Snarlp retorted as Edward found his feet and began to shuffle towards the building, warming up his limbs again so he could move with purpose. They both ignored the genuine tone of fear in her words.

"Bah. You sound like that fool of a guardian." He dismissed, referencing the diminutive taurian the government had assigned him. Edward had no time for that wet blanket. Everything was sniffles and 'eh hem' before the little bull spoke. It drove Edward up the wall.

"Yeah well, they've basically made me your guardian now." Snarlp admitted, much to Edwards shock, but secret elation.

"Now I *know* they want me to keel over. You might win a game then as well." He jabbed, grinning as they got to the door into the apartment.

"I could just throw you over that balcony you know?"Snarlp suggested, briefly thrusting a thumb back the way they came. Edward just chuckled while Snarlp grinned a mouth full of sharp teeth.

The pair entered Edward's apartment and in the centre was his dining table. A huge monstrosity, but necessary in the event an ursidain came to dinner. On top of the giant table however was something new. A massive metal crate. It looked like a chest, oblong in shape with a hinged lid. The red light over the lock on one side showed that it was currently sealed.

"I knew it. You don't see old folk around here because you liquidise them!" Edward hollered, trying to pull his arm from the canid's grip while staring at the box that could hold him within with ease. He didn't actually believe that, but had joked with Snarlp that, that was what they did with people who got too old and just mixed them into the food.

"Will you shut it; you stale fart! *You* don't see old people because *they* are smart and move to paradise worlds! Nobody would want you but me anyway! Now, sit down and let me open this thing!" Snarlp ordered, easily handling his little outburst and guided him to the head of the table. To be fair to the young canid, she had always had him sit in a chair of importance or priority.

He settled and eyed the box, unsure what she was about to spring on him. Snarlp ignored Edward for the moment and placed her thumb against the biometrics. The man paid attention to what was on the side of the crate, a stencilled version of the Galactic Community Administration office emblem. This crate was their property, something they loathed to give up. Edward eyed it wearily.

"I saw this going very differently, do you know how hard it was to convince them to give me this? I expected you to be like a pup getting into their first bit of trouble."

"Can you blame me? You've stuck me into firefights before!"

"In a simulated environment! You were perfectly safe."

"I got shot!"

"You should have kept your head down instead of shouting at me, not my fault a separatist sniper got you."

The lock clicked, silencing them both and the crate hissed as the lid popped open a fraction. Hermetically sealed? Whatever was inside had been sat in stasis. Snarlp lifted the lid and carefully made sure it didn't damage the table once it was fully open. From Edward's position, he couldn't see what was inside, but Snarlp reached in and gently, so gently that Edward had never seen her move with such care, plucked an item from within.

At first, the old man didn't know what he was looking at, so cradled as it was in her palms as she brought it to Edward. But as she carefully placed it on the polished table in front of him, he was struck with understanding.

The man's heartbeat in his chest at a pace not felt since he was 'shot'.

It was a small, cheap, watch.

With shaking hands, he picked it up and turned it over, to inspect the clock face. The second hand ticked by the battery life saved thanks to the stasis. According to the hands, it was 10:32.

While he was merely staring at the device, shocked to his core for seeing such an old artifact of Earth, a second one was placed in front of him by Snarlp, who merely reached for a third out of the box.

Edward stood sharply, sending the chair toppling off the raised platform that meant Edward could sit at the table at the same height as any guest. Snarlp's head whipped round but froze, her hand inches above the crate, holding a digital watch. It showed 12:32 AM.

"How many..." Edward began, unable to ask.

"Loads. It's what intake collected from whoever was rescued." The canid replied softly, aware of the significance.

"What?"

"When you humans were rescued, there wasn't really a plan. Intake was messy. Some counters collected personal items, some didn't. This box is full of those timekeepers you were on about." She explained, plucking two more from the box. It was full to the brim with watches. Just watches.

"H-how... I thought they'd all be...?"

"Sold? Yeah, most human stuff was. But this crate was labelled wrong. They think it was because whoever labelled it was going to sell it on, but chances were they were arrested before they got a chance." The canid knocked a knuckle against the foreign text on the side, next to the stencil. "Storage folk saw the label, did their job correctly and bam. A veritable Lithium Mine left to gather dust."

"I take it we can't keep these." Edward asked, turning over the first watch in his hands. Cheap, but now priceless. It did its job nearly forty years later, ticking away.

"We can't no." Snarlp agreed, and Edward's heart fell. "You can though." She finished, deliberately taking a second to complete her sentence. Edward snapped his head back up at the now grinning canid.

"You're a cruel bitch! What are you saying?!"

"These are yours now. Government can't sell them and returning human artifacts to a human is a easy win in the PR department."

Edward had to brush his sleeve against the corners of his eyes whilst sniffing, but the canid didn't jab him for his display.

"Saying they're yours... You could... scan one?" Snarlp suggested. "I can think of more than a few people on this station alone that would want a mechanical watch. You could teach me to repair them too... You said you would..."

Edward sighed and smiled, he felt like he had a purpose again.

"They're not anything fancy... you can't get VR from them like your consoles."

"Oh my *moons*!! It's not 'VR' and you can't get SE from *just* a console!"

[seramilla]

Dragon’s Blood Curse AU

(What if fantasy setting where Carmilla was a champion for the Unseelie Court? And what if Sera was the High Fae of the Seelie court? I dunno!! Just had a lot of what if’s while thinking about Carmilla as a dragon)

Atop the hill looking across the dark forest stood the grey and foreboding decrepit castle. In the topmost window of the highest tower stood a tall thin skeletal figure clad in black attire. The lich paced for some time as the sun started to dip behind the tree line. He decided to check on the daughters of his dearest friend before speaking to her.

Zestial made his way to the alchemy lab and quietly opened the door just a sliver. He smiled seeing Odette taking notes of what appeared to be an elixir. He had no doubt she was looking for a way to help her mother. Odette had always been the more studious child. He watched as she removed a glove revealing a scaled arm then pluck one off her arm. He holds his breath as she places it in a bowl and pours the tincture over the scale. An acrid smell filled the air as the scale sizzled and dissolved like it’s in acid. Zestial’s eyes widen seeing her grab the vial in a fit of anger and frustration and throw it against the wall with a snarl.

He let her be as he quietly closed the door and headed further downstairs.Zestial made his to the balcony of the crumbling courtyard and found Clara practicing her swordplay. Judging by all the destroyed training dummies it was safe to assume that she too, was in an irritable mood, so he continued deeper down into his ancient abode. He could hear the sound of chains rattling as he approached the barred door to his dungeons. He had not needed to use them in over a century. Now he was refurbishing them for his close friend. She refused to stay anywhere else in his home and quickly learned the reason why she made this decision.

Magic pools into his hand surrounding it with a glowing green energy as he mimics the motion of unlocking a door.

The enchantments and seals dissipated and the massive iron bars slid back allowing the door to open. He approaches the inky black room that fell silent. He was early it would seem as his eyes met a large pair of blazing crimson orbs filled with rage and spite of a deep injustice. A large light stormy grey snout snaked into the dim light as lips pulled back into a snarl revealing a dangerous set of teeth followed by a dark grey mask like marking around the furious orbs. Next came her large black horns and luxurious mane of white fur accentuated with a few black stripes. The chains rattled and went taught as she lunged at him. He could feel his cloak being disturbed by the air flow from the massive talons slashing the air in front of him. Perhaps he should have knocked first. Any further thoughts vanished as a roar of despair and pain shook the foundations of the castle. Black and purple flames erupted from the dragon burning away the form till a much smaller shape of his dear friend remained.

“Carmilla, art thou alright? Thou were rather upset, was thine beloved on thy mind?”

Zestial held out a hand for her. A large white hand takes his.

“Yes Zestial, I was thinking of her.”

“Why? Thou knew the High Fae of the Seelie wouldn’t be able to court anyone beneath her station.”

Her crimson orbs with white irises stared sadly into his.

“She loves me Zestial, me who was nothing more than a human champion of the Unseelie court. She loves me so much…and I love her…but when our courts discovered our union…”

She shudders and wipes her eyes.

“Well the blame fell solely upon me. But no one expected the Seelie to give such a cruel punishment. Her court cursed me Zestial, the Seelie court cursed me.”

She sighs walking to the small grated window and gazes into the moonless sky.

“But at least she wasn’t punished… How are-“

Zestial stops her in her tracks.

“Thy daughters are well but hath thrown themselves into aiding thou however they can.”

Carmilla gazes up the stairs with worry. Her daughter had been lucky to barely have been affected by the Dragon’s Blood curse. She starts to head towards them only to be stopped the silver shackles.

“Fret not Carmilla, they shall arrive shortly.”

Zestial unlocked the her bound wrists. as they slowly headed up to the main hall.

“Mother! Zestial!!! There’s a fae!!”

At the sound of Odette’s voice, Zestial and Carmilla rush at the the rest of the way there only to catch sight of the fae collapsing on the floor. They looked terrible and they had a squirming bundle. Carmilla cautiously approaches and sees an infant in an embroidered blanket. She looks at it more closely and freezes. She recognizes her own stitch work. Carmilla had made this for the next child they were planning on having. She moves back from the unconscious form realizing who this is and why they are here.

“Sera…?”

Zestial whisks away the unconscious Sera to Carmilla's room, where they both check the fae for any serious injuries. Carmilla asks her oldest and dearest friend to turn away for a moment, while she cleans Sera's wounds. The woman must have been through Hell — she’s covered in scrapes and bruises, and looks exhausted. Carmilla dresses her in fresh clothes and puts a cool rag to her forehead.

Zestial stands off in the corner of Carmilla's room, holding the babe and singing to her in a deep and enchanting, dark hymn. The child seems comforted, thought she is still quite shaken up from whatever had caused Sera to become unconscious. The child had been protected from any serious harm by the embroidered blanket that Sera enchanted prior to the child's birth. It's seen better days, but the fibers are still intact, and there’s no blood from either the child or Sera on it. Thank the Heavens for that. Carmilla's foresight had born prescious fruit yet again.

Carmilla had always suspected the Seelie might attempt to harm another of her and Sera's children, were they to find out about their coupling. This most recent event had been the last straw, and thus the curse of the dragon inflicted upon Carmilla would also be carried down to any of Carmilla's blood. The effect was lessened on her and Sera's descendants; Sera's Seelie blood has a pacifying effect on the curse, but Clara and Odette still have their own problems to bear. They research, study, and concoct enchantments for hours on end, desperately seeking a cure for their mother, and thus, their own predicament, as well.

But even this latest child, Zestial can see, isn't immune from the Dragon's Blood curse. Specks of rainbow-colored scales adorn her small face like freckles, under each of her eyes and scattered around her nose like little reflections of sunshine upon her face. This child's patterns seem almost...pretty compared to the grays and blacks of Carmilla and her daughters. This child also resembles Sera...much more so than Clara and Odette. Some deep enchantment is at work here. And Zestial thinks he may need for Sera to awaken before any answers are forthcoming.

Carmilla observes Zestial with her and Sera's youngest child, singing to her and calming her, just like he'd done with the other girls when they were babes. Thankfully, this one falls asleep very easily. Zestial strokes the child's cheeks with one of his sharp, vicious claws...they could tear through bone and flesh so easily, but with her children, the lich is as gentle as a lamb.

She's thankful for his help. Carmilla is still reeling from the fact that Sera is here...with her...and she'd brought their third-born with her, to boot. Carmilla has so many questions...she pleads with Sera, entreats her to just wake up! Her logic fights with her emotions, knowing the other woman must rest, but also mentally demanding answers; this back-and-forth between her Unseelie self and the impatient, predatory nature of the dragon is an imposition on her, even now.

Thankfully, it doesn't take long for Sera to stir. Whether from sensing Carmilla's tender hand against her face, or from the strangeness of her new surroundings, Carmilla can't be sure. But as Sera's eyes open, after at least an hour of Carmilla standing vigil by her bedside, squeezing the other woman's hand, Sera’s light gray eyes finally meet Carmilla’s red and gold.

Sera's lashes blink desperately, as if trying to make sense of what she's seeing. Carmilla grips Sera's hand closer to her chest, hoping the faint smattering of scales on her hand and forearm can't be felt by the other woman in her drowsed state. Sera blinks heavily again, and then shakes her head...then meets Carmilla's gaze, and there are tears in her eyes.

"Carmilla!" Sera cries, almost too out of it to do much more than squeak the name aloud. Then, as if coming back to herself, the Seelie starts to sit up, and look around the room desperately. There's an air of panic and worry to her features. Carmilla thinks she knows why.

"Emily?" Sera asks, still looking around the room desperately for her daughter. She hasn't yet spotted her being held by the dark figure in the corner. "Where's Emily?!"

[scotianostra]

December 3rd 1906 saw his Majesty’s Theatre in Aberdeen open soon becoming the city’s leading theatre.

His Majesty's Theatre, in Rosemount Viaduct, Aberdeen, was designed by the renowned Theatre Architect Frank Matcham at a cost of £35,000 and opened on the 3rd of December 1906 with a production of the pantomime 'Little Red Riding Hood.'.

The Theatre is situated above the Union Terrace Gardens and was built from Kemnay White Granite and has an imposing copper covered dome.The auditorium with its Roman Classical style plasterwork was built on four levels with three curved balconies, and proscenium boxes, it could accommodate an impressive 2,300 people when the Theatre opened, but in 2008 this is a more modest 1,400, still making the biggest theatre in the north east of Scotland.

In 1982 the Theatre had a £3 million refurbishment and was reopened on the 17th of September by Prince Charles, having been closed for the previous 23 months.

The Theatre was again closed on the 13th March 2004, this time for a redevelopment project costing nearly £8 million and funded by the Aberdeen City Council, The Scottish Arts Council Lottery Fund, and Scottish Enterprise Grampian.

The redevelopment included the refurbishment and modernisation of the front of house areas, the building of a new restaurant, coffee shop, and a corporate hospitality suite, a new Green Room and rehearsal room backstage, with improved dressing rooms. The auditorium was also refurbished and the seating re-upholstered.

I must admit I have never been in the theatre, while it might be impressive, to me the statue of William Wallace outside is an added bonus.

[wessexroyalfamily]

This weekend, members of the Royal Family of Wessex gathered at the newly refurbished Synklar Chapel for a private service of thanks. The annual The Fall Day of Thanks Service marks the end of the royal's calendar year. With the Queen soon to be departing for her country side retreat, Claremont House. Normally, services take place at the larger Winchester Cathedral, but this year the Royals have opted for a more private venue. The chapel itself, formally known as Royal Chapel of All Saints, was built the then Crown Prince William in 1762 for his Welsh bride, Princess Mary of Wales. The chapel would be a place for Mary to privately practice her faith, out of public eye. The Chapel was later transformed into a Peteran chapel under the couples son, George II, and continue to act as a Royal Peculiar, serving as an informal church for the inhabitants and staff of Woodstock Great Park. Today, services at the chapel are often attended by members of the West Saxon royal family with Crown Princess Elizabeth known to regularly worship at the church for reasons of privacy.

The Queen, accompanied by members of her family, arrived back at the Palace via carriages after traveling through Woodstock Park. As the procession entered the Palace grounds, the grandeur of the event was evident, with the royal carriages gliding smoothly past the lush scenery and into the regal courtyard. Prince Thomas was notably well behaved sitting in-between his older cousins as he takes part in his first official celebration. Senior members gather annual on the famous balcony for a public appearance and to view a military parade in the Queen's honor.

The Queen hosted a small reception following the public celebration. Attendees were family and invited guests. held in the Queen's Gallery, photographers were able to spot Princess Margaret. While the former wife of Crown Prince William did not join the royals on the balcony, she was extended an invitation to celebrate with the Royals, privately. Relations with Margaret and the family have continued to improve over the last few years, even after the Crown Prince's remarriage. As the mother of the second in line to the throne, the Margaret question, as palace insiders have phrased it, has plagued the royals since the messy divorce. Recently the palace announced that Margaret will serve as the chief Envoy to Chester on behalf of the Wessex government. The County of Chester being one of the territories that Crown Prince William will likely inherit from his father, after his death.

Following the changing of the guard ceremony, viewed by the Queen and three of her six grandchildren, (left to right) Prince Thomas, The Princess Royal, and Prince Patrick, the Queen will depart the Palace for Claremont House in which she will remain until the State Opening of the National Council.

[bebepac]

The Moments In Between

I am participating in @choicesflashfics prompt : “I don’t have a date, so would you ... maybe want to be my plus one?” will appear in bold 

I am also participating in @choiceschallenge-may2023 for falling in love.

Letting you know now, this story is probably the most canon I have written. This is not my OG Riley and Liam  and in this universe Liam and Riley did not spend the night together as all my other headcanon stories have them.  Liam has kept his emotional distance like canon.....which has invited the opportunity for Drake to make an appearance.  

This could be seen as a prequel to  If Only for the Night

The Book:  TRR Pairings:  Riley x Drake? Warnings and Ratings:  None! Word Count: 1121 Summary:  Riley meets Drake in the Lythikos wine cellar for a drink Song Inspiration:  That Don’t Impress Me Much by Shania Twain

A/N: I’m sure this title has been used in fics before, so hopefully no one is offended by it, but I’m taking it from the Canon diamond scene. 

AN2:  This story actually came to my mind because of a conversation I had with @angelasscribbles as we were talking about Drake. I had thought then, that conversation would not give me any writing ideas, but SURPRISE!

Original post:  05.27.23 at 9:31PM  EST. 

To be honest, I wasn’t even surprised about how the trip was going being in Lythikos for Olivia’s tribute to Prince Liam.  The room she put me in was basically a refurbished broom closet, dinner was served to my table cold with portions of the entree missing.  

But what struck me and what did surprise me is that Liam didn’t notice, and never checked up on us, supposedly his true blue friends were all sitting at the neglected table and he didn’t even glance in our direction the whole evening.  

And not to mention….the kiss. He let her kiss him in front of the whole court. He genuinely appeared surprised when it happened, but everyone at the table, all their eyes were trained on me for a response.  I mean honestly, what could I say?  

Prince Liam is not my boyfriend, I’m a suitor in this game we’re all playing.  I am competing for a man that at this point has no true allegiance to me.

Nonchalantly I shrugged my shoulders.  “She went for it.  You know, she doesn’t usually get this much individual time with the Prince, so I can’t fault her for shooting her shot.”  

“You’re a lot calmer than I thought you would be, Brooks.”  

“I mean, these so-called 'noble' royals have been showing me who they are this whole time, I’d be a fool not to believe them.”  

“You deserve a drink Brooks,  meet up with me later, and we’ll find where the good stuff you like is stored in this keep.”  

“I really might have to take you up on that.”  

Liam finally cornered me for a brief moment, as I stood on the balcony letting the cool wind in a way revitalize me.  

“Are you angry with me for what happened?”

“No.”  

“I thought you might be.”  

“How can I Liam? you haven’t so much as stated any intentions you have for me, or of any feelings for me because you say, you can’t.  You have a duty to your people and I get that.  But don’t forget, all of us are “your people, and we are getting mistreated by some of these people that are supposed to be the “Nobility.”

“I heard about what happened to you all with your meals by the waitstaff, it’s very unfortunate.”

“You mean what they were told to do to us  by the Duchess of the Keep?”

Liam took his hands in mine.

“Let me make it up to you. Come meet me tonight.  My room has the most beautiful view of the Lythikos landscape and a wonderful hot tub that I have yet to want to use, but would love to enjoy it with you.”

Seriously Liam? That don’t impress me much. 

 I thought in my head.

“It’s been a really long day Liam.”  

Liam frowned for a moment.  His smile returned as he kissed my hand.  

“I promise you it will be relaxing, and I’ll keep my hands to myself, that is unless you want a massage.”

I felt my resolve wavering for a moment but then it recharged when I remembered all the bad treatment I had experienced while visiting in Lythikos thanks to the Scarlett Duchess herself.

“I’ll wait for you just the same.”  

“If I’m not too tired by the end of these festivities, I’ll definitely meet you.”

My mind  was already made up as I walked away from him.

That evening when I made it back to the cupboard under the stairs that was my room,  I freshened up a bit, and changed my clothes.  I had more than one choice and I had decided how I wanted to spend my evening.

And I feel like I made the right decision as when he turned around he genuinely looked surprised to see me.  

“Hey! I don’t have a date, so would you maybe want to be my plus one?”

“Brooks!  I didn’t think you would show.  I had heard Liam had invited you…”

“I could use that drink more, it’s been a helluva day.  This is how the working class unwinds, not in hot tubs and seeing glorious views of the Lythikos backcountry. If we’re being totally honest, the Lythikos backcountry can kiss my rounded backside.”  

Drake laughed.

“I hear that.  Sounds like you’re ready to start popping some bottles?”  

“Hell yeah I am!”  

I started going through the bottles of Wine in the cellar, when I noticed Drake wasn’t doing the same.  

“Aren’t you going to pick some too?”

“Naw, I brought my stash. This was more about you, I know today was a rough day for you.”  

Drake produced a silver and black flask with the Cordonian Crest on it.  

“I mean not really, people have been showing me their true colors since I got here.  And Liam, can’t be who he was when he was in New York here, at least not in public. So is that Whiskey? The third Level of your food group pyramid?”

“Hey if that’s the third level, what are the first two?”

“Isn’t it obvious?  Meat  is level one, Potatoes are level two.”

“You get me Brooks, and yes it’s Whiskey.”  

“So are you sharing that?”

“I can.  You know you’re really a lot different than I thought you were when we all first met in New York.”

“You should know not to judge a book by its cover Drake, as much as the Nobility of Cordonia are constantly judging you here.”  

“You’re different.”  

“No, I’m the same, you just didn’t see me for who I truly was before, and now you’re finally getting a glimpse.”  

Was Drake Walker blushing, and why was he staring at me that way?

“This is me relaxed, just being myself.  Not behaving like a trained dolphin for the cameras.  The moments in between where I get to be just Riley. You know, this is the most we’ve talked Walker, you’re not half bad.”  

Drake was staring at me as if he was in  some sort of trance, after a few moments he snapped out of it.  

“We should toast.  To the moments in between where we can relax and be ourselves, with no added pressure.”

He took a sip from the flask and held it out to me, right when I was about to grab it, he snatched it back.

“Pass it here, I don’t have mouth herpes or anything. Besides, the alcohol would kill the germs anyway.”

He looked to be weighing the validity of the idea in his head for a few moments and then came up to the resolution, nodding to me in agreement.

“Seems legit.”  

I held up the flask and before I drank, I smiled at Drake.

“To the moments in between.” 

[mslanna]

Arrangements

Chapter 2 of Be My Guest is up on AO3

What do you mean, Tav needs their own room? Can't they sleep in the boudoir with Haarlep? This mouse may be more work than it's worth.

"Absolutely not!" Tav puts their foot down. "You maybe happy and well sleeping under the eyes of your servants and debtors, but I am not. Also, won't Haarlep need the bed?" It’s a straw that Tav clings to, but it gets Raphael thinking. His bed, occupied by a sleeping hindrance – unthinkable. Or so the paladin hopes. The last thing they need is for the devil to remember the curtains that can be closed against intruding eyes at any moment.

"They have a point," Haarlep throws in. They lounge on the issue in question, their red skin melting into the red sheets. "Unless you prefer more – experimental surroundings for further intercourse?" Tav closes their eyes but the images come unbidden. The harder they try not to think of the two fiends locked in intimate positions, the clearer the images become. Better them than me. A thought is quickly punished by the addition of Tav's person to the imaginary pleasures. "Oh, now you set them off," Raphael sighs. "Look at me, pup." When Tav has trouble following the order, Raphael helps by taking their chin between his fingers. Claws dig into the soft flesh to the breaking point. Just enough pain to bring Tav back to the here and now. "Don't worry your poor little head with such things," he says. "I am sure one of the nearby balconies can be adapted." "You let them out of your sight?" Haarlep teases. "Are you sure that is wise?" "Oh, but Tav is absolutely free to run away into their doom." Raphael gestures generously. "And I am sure they will return my utmost generosity appropriately." Tav ignores the smug slant of the devil's smile. He has them trapped. For now. So the balcony left to the boudoir is refurbished into a small room. Nothing fancy, a bed, a desk, some shelf space and a wardrobe. When Tav suggests going to get their things, Raphael sends a minion. He promises to also inform Tav's friends of their whereabouts but sternly refuses invitations. "I cannot allow just anybody to come and go as they please," he admonishes Tav. "They are my friends!" "Ever more reason to be careful. Mephistopheles may have poisoned them against me already." Raphael smiles indulgently. "And what will happen if they come for a rescue and lead the arch devil right here? Can you face him down, little mouse?" Tav bites their lip. They defeated far worse. An arch devil can't be that difficult compared to an elder brain. On the other hand, an arch devil comes accompanied by legions. Tav can count the companions immediately able to come to their aid on their fingers now that many found their calling. At least Tav has a desk now and letters are something that can easily find its way into Faerûn. Raphael rolls his eyes but concedes that it is better than having angry adventurers on his doorstep. And with that, Tav's wait begins. At first they fill the hours exploring the House of Hope. They stroll through the archive unhindered. The Archivist shakes his head with resigned acceptance at how indulgent his master is with his favourites. But most of the items in the archive are of infernal interest. They bore Tav. What good are legendary items of armour if they can't be tested in a fight? They don't want to look at contracts. It makes them uncomfortably aware of the risk they took. And what for? A crackpot notion. Tav sits in the room where the portals stand for hours on end and stares at the shimmering surfaces. "Could you mope somewhere else?" Raphael strides into the room in full battle regalia. "As an honoured guest of the House you are always welcome in the boudoir. Haarlep can take your mind to a happier place, I am sure. They have a vast library of shapes to chose from." Tav sighs with closed eyes. They don't want to fuck Haarlep. They certainly don't want to fuck the incubus in any of his stolen bodies. "I am bored, Raphael. Bored! Sex is not the solution to that problem even if I wanted to sleep with Haarlep." The devil adjusts his armour and shrugs. "You'll come around." And he is gone. For a moment Tav stares longingly at the portal he vanished through. Then they shake themself. There has to be something they can do in this place.

[changingplumbob]

This mansion is massive, map needed!

Next in my sims 4 rotations will be the Seconds who have moved in with James Ryan, Alexander's fiance. I found a beautiful build on the gallery and wanted to share it with my minimal renovations to give you a sense of the layout. Original Mansion from Gallery ID: eriks112 “The Gold Lake Manor”

I feel in love with the roofing because I cannot do roofing at all at all. Do not be deterred by gallery builds with night photos, they can be great! I haven’t tampered with the outside except to get rid of the giant maze because I’m hoping for a backyard wedding for Alexander and James.

Inside I have done light refurbishing. Which to me means leaving all the walls where they are. With moving in some of my sims I’ve made changes to things like wallpaper, flooring, plant décor etc. Come on my tour since it took me three days of intermittent playing to be happy with it 🤣

Here is the entryway. I love how the builder layered curtains throughout the space. I changed which paintings and plants there are to fit the decor James and Alexander like. Turning right you get access to the lounge which again, I didn't do much with, because when it looks this great why change it?

The lounge also has it's own full bar. Again these are the beautiful details that the gallery sytem fails to show properly. I changed out one of the exercise machines in the adjacent home gym for a punching bag. What happens if you turn left back at the entryway?

You reach the wonderful grand dining room. Again I changed just the wall art. Some pieces from the small flat have made the cut! The kitchen has a cute breakfast bar and plenty of decor. A small door outside leads to a garden. Not sure if it'll be used but Keira is studying biology.

This library might just be my favourite room, if only Ophelia hadn't died here. The builder did an incredible job, I love all the bookcases! Would happily spend hours here myself. Back to the entryway and next we're headed up the stairs to the right, above the lounge area.

A small, bright landing leads to where James and Alexander are currently staying. They have their own mini lounge and a gorgeous view from a small balcony.

In their office and bedroom I kept the original colour scheme but again changed the decor to their style. Everything in the bedroom apart from the curtains was put there by me, but I was heavily influenced by the original layout in the build. Are those small gas lamps indoors? Yes, I regret nothing

Back down to the entryway and up the stairs to the left. Here is another bright landing. Again the builder did such a good job with the space, I'm in awe. Later I'll show through those brown doors but first let's turn to the small white door and check out Keira's room.

In her room I redid everything (wallpaper included) to again reflect her style. As you can see she has loads of family photos as well as several things showing her geek-ness. Her mum gave Keira her old easel when she moved out and she likes to paint from time to time.

Through those brown double doors is the guest corridor. Joey's space shows off his industrial techie style. He also has a frame that rotates through pictures of ladies he's woohoo'd because the aspiration counter resets and I don't want to lose track. Bright landing and up the final flight of stairs

There is a TV room up on the third floor but the main space is empty. I took out the furniture and am planning on moving James and Alexander up here after their wedding. The view again is amazing, as is the small office I'm leaving untouched for now. Big thanks to eriks112 on building all this!

[blossomblade]

MiqoMarch | Home

A recently refurbished residence to revel in rest and relaxation. Forma enjoys basking in the comforts of her clean and comfortable abode. Bathed in the faint glimmer of sunlight which cascades from the balcony home. But also, please YoshiP, give us more item slots for bedrooms and apartments.

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 6 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 9305

chapter summary: a honeymoon of sorts.

chapter warnings/tags: relapse, depictions of drugs/alcohol/actions under the influence, dubcon because neither character is sober, lots and lots of smut

a/n: this chapter is particularly bittersweet for me. so begins the continues the downward spiral. highly recommend reading this on ao3 so you can see the proper formatting for the text!

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“Refill on your whiskey, sir?”

His fingers hover over the keyboard on his phone. Her question broke his concentration, if there had been any at all. He has rewritten that last line at least three times now. 

“Sorry, what did you say?”

The flight attendant smiles at him, a tall brunette with a bob down to her chin. If she recognizes him, she gives no indication.

“Your whiskey, sir. Would you like another? We still have an hour before we land.” 

He rattles the plastic cup that’s mostly ice water now and then throws the remnants back. He nods.

“Thanks.”

She takes the cup and puts it in the trash bin in her trolley. She unscrews the bottle of Buffalo’ Trace before preparing a new cup. 

This early, the plane is mostly empty. The lights are low, the air is warm, and most passengers are asleep. The flight attendant speaks softly as the plane rattles in the wind. 

“Is this your first time visiting New Orleans?”

He nods.

“On your honeymoon?” She nods to the woman asleep in the seat next to him, her head on his shoulder. He spins the gold ring on his finger with his thumb. 

“Something like that.” 

She wipes the bottom of the cup with a small napkin before giving it to him.

“Congratulations, then.” She smiles brightly. “As they say, laissez le bon temps rouler.”

The trolley squeaks as she rolls down the aisle, gently asking those still awake if they’d prefer coffee or anything stronger. Beneath the half-closed window blinds, a strong pink light peaks through. 

His glance returns to his phone. He still hasn’t sent the text he means to. It won’t go through this high up, but he doesn’t want to look at it once the plane lands. 

He looks at the woman next to him. His heart swells. He kisses her forehead. He goes back to his phone, types the first thing that comes to him, and taps send. 

It’s not his problem right now. It’s not going to be for the next two weeks. Two weeks and he has to be back in Los Angeles to start touring for the press junket. He intends to make the best of it. 

He clicks the phone to lock it, and he slides it back into his jacket pocket. And without much thought or hesitation or anxious overthinking, he slides off his wedding ring and pockets that too. 

He picks up the sleeping woman’s hand and kisses her knuckles. She stirs in her sleep and he smiles. 

Maybe it’s the second glass of whiskey he’s had in two years, but he feels good about this.

His last text sits, waiting for reception. 

 

“Dieter, you cannot be serious.” 

He slips his hand into yours and kisses your knuckles. He can do that here. “I am.”

You let yourself be dragged, mouth agape, as he guides you past a cobalt blue swimming blue, lined by red brick. Your baggage bumps and clatters as it knocks over the ridges. He leads you through a green door, where the French Colonial style homes have been refurbished into individual rentals. Black metal railings puff and curl on the upper balconies. Pastel green shudders line white windows. Flowering dogwood trees bend and wave in the breeze from their stations in the courtyard between doors. 

He leads you down to unit 162, gold and embossed on the front of a green door. Grinning over his shoulder, he unlocks it with a comically large brass key. 

“Hey, now, I’ve seen Skeleton Key,” you tease. The humidity in the air makes his curls extra tight, scooping up the back of his neck. “This isn’t going to end badly for me, is it?”

“Depends on how you define ‘badly’,” he shrugs and shoulders his way through the door. 

Inside is a gorgeous kitchen that manages to straddle the old and new. Modern appliances tuck up against the wall on the right, while on the other wall sits a beautiful square kitchen table, with fat knobs and white molding. Above the table, the entire wall is made of chalkboard.

You frown at the French written there in an elegant hand.

“What does that mean?”

He shuts the door behind him, smiling. “It’s an old Creole saying. It means, let the good times roll.”

You smirk at him, eyebrow raised. “Expecting a lot of good times here, Mr. Bravo?” 

His hand takes a big squeeze of your ass as he pulls you into his chest. You giggle as his sharp nose trails along your cheek. 

“It’s certainly on the itinerary.” 

He can almost smell the desire that flickers within you. You bend your head to catch his mouth, but he turns away at the last minute. He runs his finger underneath the strap of your white dress. It's currently in the running for his favorite of yours, tied only with those fucking denim shorts. 

“Go look upstairs. I’ll get our bags.”

Your cork heels clatter as you bounce up the white wooden stairs. He smiles to himself when you gasp. He takes your bag and his and follows you up.

The white shutter doors are flung open to tempt some bayou breeze, offering the beautiful view into the courtyard below. From this cottage, you can see over the private wall, down into the street on the other side. You smell sugar and molasses, and you sigh. Inside is a white bed with a brass frame. The tan walls are offset by a single wall of red brick, similar to the pathway outside. Above you, a fan spins, a much needed relief to the humid heat. 

You stand out on the porch, clearly enjoying listening to the music that can be faintly heard from Jackson Square, hands wrapped around the railing. The breeze blows your dress and any remaining anxiety around the phone in his pocket is gone. 

He hasn’t heard from Chloe.

He hasn’t heard from Heidi. 

He’s made a decision. It’s time to fucking commit. 

Finally allowed to, finally where no one could see, he joins you out on the porch and tangles his hand into your hair. He thumbs the curls there encouraged by the humidity and with a sigh, he presses his lips to your hairline at the back of your neck. You wait until he pulls back, to turn over your shoulder to him, his arms ensnaring your waist.

“This is beautiful, Dieter,” you murmur as you nose his jaw, your hand scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know how you found the most perfect place, but you did.” 

“I want to take care of you, baby.” You smell like lemons and lavender, as he runs his nose against the length of your neck. “I want to show you how much I care.”

You stiffen momentarily before folding into his open arms even more. 

The cottage block is quiet, discrete, and rather empty of prying eyes. He intends to take you out, to let you wander as any other normal couple in the Crescent City, but not just yet. His hands rub up your sides, thumbing your exposed skin on your shoulders where the shoulder straps are tied together. The sweet smell of powdered sugar in the humid wind and the curve of your neck is making his mouth water. 

“Besides, I’m making up for my other decisions. One regarding an office and a very sturdy desk,” he whispers in your ear, delighting in the way you shiver from just his words. Delicately, he slides up the hem of your dress and squeezes your thigh as a reward. His hand travels up, then in, and his finger brushes the line of your panties. 

“I’m suddenly very interested in your apology.” You turn in his arms, the bunched up fabric of your dress running against the front of his jeans and he has half-a-mind to take you on this goddamn balcony in the open air. Because he can. 

“Hmm, it’s going to be very long.” 

He eases your legs up and around his waist and your arms glide over his shoulders. Your breath smells like the gum and champagne you bought at the airport. He swears he can see your pulse point flicker on your throat.

“Oh? And?”

“Very complicated.” 

He carries you back into the room and folds you backwards onto the bed. Your cheeks are flushed from the warmth outside as you slide your feet out of your heels and he positions himself in between your legs. You drop onto your back, fingering his belt. 

You mock-frown. “Complicated? Oh, I dunno if I can follow along.”

The two whiskeys he’s had are thrumming in his veins, wants to taste that biting sweetness off your mouth again. He takes you by the heel and kisses your ankle, his other hand diving under your dress and back up to your panties. Your eyes flutter when he finds the spot he wants. He drops your ankle over his shoulder and steps forward, closer. You’re losing the ability to speak –  he can tell by the way your mouth parts as his thumb rubs your clit through your underwear. 

“You won’t be able to do much of anything, once I’m done with you.” 

“Dieter–,” you’re already getting impatient. 

“Oh, don’t ‘Dieter’ me. What’s the saying, good things come to those who wait?”

“I like the other one more. Especially the part about things rolling.”

You grab at his wrist and, as if to demonstrate, roll your hips against his fingers, trying to angle them where you want. He smirks as he twists his hand and grinds the heel of his palm into your clit, his fingers stroking you through the fabric. He nearly loses himself when he feels just how wet you are. The thin strip of underwear you so foolishly decided to wear is hardly anything more than damp twine now. 

You whine as he gathers your slick with his thumb and crowns your clit with it. “Dieter, c’mon.”

“I told you I was gonna go slow. Maybe I need to be reminded of what comes next. What do you need, baby?” 

“Your fingers,” you huff, eyes half-lidded as you watch his forearm flex, not being able to see but instead, feeling exactly what he’s doing to you. Do you always close your eyes when you come? He wonders. 

“You have them.” He steps closer, your ass against his thigh. 

“I want them inside of me.” 

Grinning like the bastard he is, he drags your underwear off one hip, then the other, then he rolls it up your thighs – you gasp when you see just how completely destroyed they are, slick making them sticky – and he tosses them by the luggage. 

Your eyes drop shut when his warm hands return near to where you need them most, but not quite exactly. He’s kneading your thighs, your ass, dragging his middle finger up through your slick and sucking on it. He hums, lips all the way down to his knuckle, and you drip more at the thought of sucking him off. 

“What do you want?”

You swallow, mouth dry. “F-fingers. I want your fingers. Inside of me,” you clarify, as you learn how to ask him properly. 

There should be an award for the amount of restraint he shows by not flipping up your dress and watching as he slowly presses his finger into your pussy. He wants to watch, but he also wants you a little bit angry with him, teased to the point of frustration, so he explores you with his finger. And then a second one. 

Your walls pinch his fingers and your back arches. “Oh, yes, Dieter, that’s it.” 

He brushes and strokes and fucks you with his fingers. Slowly. Methodically. He follows every line of your face, every twitch of skin, as you frown with pleasure. Your nails bite his wrist, your other land flat out next to you, fingers clenching the blanket. If there are stories of the Legendary Dieter Tongue, there had to be fucking songs about his fingers. 

He groans and drops your ankle from his shoulder, pushing your thigh to the side and exposing more of you. 

“Do you like this, baby? How you’re spread out for me?”

You nod, bottom lip chewed beyond recognition. He curls his fingers and you moan, the sound stifled and muted. He gently presses down on your lower abdomen to feel himself fuck up into you.

“I’ve already opened your legs. Do I need to open that mouth too?” He leans over you, somehow getting even deeper with his fingers, the sound lewd and squelching. He kisses you on the corner of your mouth because he wants to keep your lips parted. “You have to be loud for me, okay?”

You huff, skin pink, and nod. 

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Yes, Dieter. I’ll be loud for you.”

“Good girl.” And he adds a third finger. The stretch is exquisite and you let him know with a moan that digs into the ceiling. 

“Told you you’d like it if I took it slow.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, voice strained. “But I want it rough later. I need it, Dieter.”

That intensely satisfies him. He beckons you towards the edge just for that. He thumbs your clit in purposeful, deliberate circles as his fingers curl and twist inside of you. “We’ll stay here as long as you need it, alright, baby? For as many orgasms as you can give me. And speaking of, I’d like one now. Please.”

Maybe it’s the low gravel of his voice– laced with need and want – or the faint tease of his mustache and beard against your throat, or it’s the final relief after a thousand denials. For once in your life, you listen to him and the orgasm sparks out from your core and up through your spine. Your back, hips, shoulders arch off the bed as that wildfire sends you into orbit. 

He should make you clean yourself off him, but he wants that scent, wants his fingers coated in you. He watches you ride your orgasm and he licks his fingers. His pants are unavoidably uncomfortable right now. As you spiral back down from your high, he takes you by the waist and pulls you up near the head board, to give himself enough space to lie down. 

“Fuck, Dieter . . .” 

“I hope you do,” he grins as he bends your knees, planting your feet wide enough for him to get between your legs. You do your best impression of exasperation while still trying to remember which room you’re in. Your skin is glowing from sweat. 

He knows he’s sweating too, feeling it in the valley of his spine, and he doesn’t want to overheat this quickly. While you finally center, he takes off his shirt with one hand over his head. He unzips his pants and your eyes widen, hips arching up, so eager and willing to take him.

He kisses your knee. “Not yet, baby girl. This next one is for me.” 

He peels down the hem of your dress and his mouth floods with spit. 

Your cunt is pink, swollen from the pump of his fingers. It’s wet and your curls are wet and he knows that is the only thing in the world he needs to drink when he’s so parched. You ache to be filled again. 

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

He hums in appreciation and drops to his elbows between your legs. His bare shoulders up against the back of your thighs and his fingers pressing into the creases of your hip, he spares a glance at you. 

Your chest is flushed, breath hitching, and your hair has fallen down from its bun. You can feel his breath on your exposed cunt, the burn of his beard feeling as warm as though you held your hand out over an open flame. 

As an actress, you are confident, striking, and serious. 

Under him, you’re reduced to pathetic whines and humping the air. 

“Baby, please,” you huff, voice small as if truly uneasy. 

He licks one bold stripe up the length of your cunt, swallowing your slick like he would chase an errant drop of melting ice cream– and then he goes back for seconds. 

It’s not sweat-drenched whiskey. 

It’s better. 

“Oh, Dieter,” you sound on the verge of tears. He strokes as far as he can reach with his tongue, before sliding it back out to wrap warmly around your clit. He sucks once and your hands fly to his hair. He sucks again and your moan is strangled, coming deep from inside of you. 

He holds you to him, mouth and tongue wrecking every single sensitive part of you they can reach, his gaze on your face. He adds his fingers back in as reward for yanking so divinely on his hair. 

He doesn’t feel like he’s conquering, though he should. After all those fights, he finally managed to make you incoherent, but watching your face contort with pleasure, your moans making the heartbeat in his neck spike, he instead feels more possessive. This isn’t a stupid fuck for him. This might not even be to get back at Chloe. This doesn’t feel like backsliding. How he feels about you is entirely unique to any of the other fucked up shit in his life. This is different.

Mouth more attached to you than if he had fangs, he eats you whole. He grinds his hips into the mattress and the rough rub of the zipper on his hard cock makes him groan wet, damp air into your pussy. 

You vibrate against the sensation, as if you are overwhelmed. He drops his forearm across your hips like a steel bar. He’s not letting go until you rattle out a second orgasm. He tongues that one spot that made your breathing stop with his fingers inside of you. That white hot heat inside of you is blooming, the fires expanding every time you look down and make eye contact with him. He’s watching you with determination and focus as though you were an intricate puzzle he wanted to pick apart, its guts all exposed, and remake to hear it click. 

He’d rather be flung into the sun than take his mouth off you but he can’t talk to you the way he wants. He mouths the words in between licks.

You’re so fucking beautiful.

I can’t stand it when I’m not around you.

Your cunt is so pretty. 

I wanna fuck you on all fours but I know your legs won’t work after this. 

You’re not allowed to come for anyone else but me. 

He takes off his mouth for a moment, you hiss at the emptiness, and then he blows warm air all the way up your cunt before taking your clit into your mouth and sucking, adding his three fingers again.

Ecstasy makes black spots cover your vision as he carries you through another orgasm, pleasure sparking out from your core again, your muscles locked in sweet rapture. He swallows and laps up your release into his mouth, greedy and eager. Your hips jerk and he stays latched on, thumb rubbing what could be comforting smooth circles over the bunched up fabric of your dress – if his hand wasn’t so fire hot. 

He thinks you were close to squirting and he remembers that little spot on the left side for later. 

He leans back onto his heels, chin, cheeks and the end of his nose glistening, as you sink into the mattress, your legs and back muscles spasming slightly. 

In all your jerking and bucking, the strap on your shoulder became undone. The top of your dress is uneven. 

He finally lets himself picture what he only suspected earlier. You are absolutely not wearing a bra. He strains in his pants. He palms himself, knowing he’s not going to last but he needs to see those pretty tits of yours bounce. The last time he fucked you, he could only imagine. The time “before” that, they were bound with tape and he refused to look at them anyway. 

“Baby, can I?” 

You tear your eyes away from his swollen red cock, visible through his zipper. He’s fingering the other strap’s knot, waiting for permission. You nod, your irises swallowing the lovely color of your eyes. 

He plucks the strings loose and, pinching the fabric by your waist, he gently tugs your dress down. You arch as the hem drags across your sensitive nipples and he groans when your tits bubble up as the dress gets to your ribs. He continues pulling, his heart pounding in his ears, and then you’re naked for him. He takes in a breath and your cunt throbs at the sound of adoration. 

He feels it. His brain inhales this moment in a snapshot, a flash and a pop of smoke, before he’s ready. This moment will always be there. 

You’re scrambling to meet him as his fingers dig into your hips to pull you up. His arm digs around your back, pressing the back of your neck towards him as he kisses you desperately, wildly, as though some sort of apocalypse was minutes away from unleashing hell on earth. His forearm hooks around your low back as he pulls you into his lap, thighs tense. 

His nose and mouth run the length of your neck. He feels your pulse jump under his lips and there he finally uses teeth. He bites you and sucks just enough for your hips to jolt in his lap. Hickeys are not part of taking it slow but desire is rubbing itself up his spine, his cock so hard it was painful. He palms your breast, gathering the weight and flicking your exposed nipple. He ducks his head to taste the sweat as it runs from your throat down your under the swell of your breast. 

He slips his pants down and off, with your arms around his neck. The second he’s freed, you crowd him, hand dropping to his lap to squeeze him. 

“Don’t,” he hisses, “later. Need to be inside of you, now.” 

With shocking strength and dexterity, he picks you up by your thighs and hauls you to his chest. You reach back, finding him below you and slowly, slowly, slowly sink down. 

He was right. He took his time with you and now, with a single thrust of his hips, he’s inside you with barely any resistance. But –

“Fuck, Dee, the stretch,” you gasp into his ear, head tucked into his shoulder. He murmurs filthy secrets of desperation, mapping you from the flush of your ass, all the way up to the knot of your spine in his hands. He has you, you’re here. You want him. You want his cock. He tugs your knees around his hips, shifting him inside you. From collar bone to pelvis, you are skin to skin– your breasts pressed flat against his chest, your stomachs riding up against each other, you’re seated on him and he is fully inside of you. He grinds his teeth, his mouth pressed up to your shoulder, and then, his hips roll in and out of you, an inch at a time. 

Slow. Tense. Filthy. 

You whimper.

“That’s it. Take it, baby, take all of me.” 

It’s almost too much. You’re sensitive and sore from your other orgasms but just as the last one ebbs, another one is kindling, pleasure knotting again and again in your core. He fucks you almost like he’s bored– playing with a toy, a cock-sleeve, a place to rub one out. But it’s the drag, the controlled thrusts– he’s making sure you feel every slide and touch of his cock inside you. His pace is maddening. 

He pulls away from clutching you to him, pulls back to look you in the eyes. His hands slide and grip you by the hips, pushing you down so that his thrusts are that much deeper, almost painful. You tighten your grip around his shoulders, burying your face into his neck, the sweat and the heat radiating from him like a solar flare. He knows you need it hot and fast but he doesn’t want it to end yet. He knows he’s being mean, too much teasing, overstimulation. 

He fucks you like he’s trying to break something. Or fix something. He squeezes his eyes shut, breath ragged and mouth parted. He cups the back of your head, the smell of your hair making his eyes roll back in his head. 

“Tha’s right, baby, hold on t’ me. Grip me. Let me do the work. I’ll get you there. I’ll do it.” 

“Dee, please, move faster,” you moan. “I’m almost there. Just give it to me.” 

He tightens his grip on you again, easing you against his chest – he’s trembling, control slipping– but he doesn’t change his pace. It’s steady, it’s constant. Your orgasm is staggering, lumbering towards you, so large and all consuming you almost fear the weight of it. 

“I can finally-finally fuck sweet baby’s pussy the way I want to.” He puts a hand to your cheek, your jaw, upturning your face to him to kiss you. He thrusts lazily and you feel like you’re going to drown. His back is damp. He’s so warm. “I’m gonn-nuh— make it last.”

“Fuck– please. Please. Dieter, I wanna come. Please.” Your voice is wet, like you might cry.

He can’t resist begging. Or praise.

“Gimme one more like this and I’ll fuck you like you want, alright?” 

You squeeze your thighs around his ribs, the only sign you can give him that yes, you’re listening, yes, he’s wrenching another orgasm out of you– thank you, Dieter, oh God, Dieter – 

Just as you crest the wave, he shifts up onto his knees in a particularly brutal stroke, holding your knees to his waist, his other hand wrapped tightly around the curve of your shoulder— and starts jackhammering into you. 

It’s like he’s rung a bell inside of you. 

“Oh, shit—,” 

You can feel your body ringing. 

Your next orgasm nearly knocks the wind out of you. You call his name – “I’m here, baby, tell me what you need,” – and his fingers dig deeper into your shoulders. There’s no comedown, you’re still coming, as he rams his hips into yours. 

“I���ll give you anything you want – just keep saying my name.”

You aren’t sure you’re actually saying anything over babbling words of praise, his name, and some blend of it all. 

The puffy pain around your cunt makes you dizzy and now there’s wetness all over his thighs. You arch in his arms as your orgasm steam-rolls you flat, eyes rolling in the back of your head. The steady buildup then his new pace hits you like a train as the detonation in your core sends you into orbit.

“Oh, fuck, that’s it, baby—,”

Three strokes later, he tumbles over the edge after you with a gut-deep groan. 

You’re marked in his fluids and he’s marked in yours. 

He’s shaking as he lowers you down and your limbs slip off him, every ounce of strength and control seeping from you and into the mattress below. You’re both sweat-streaked and panting, the humid air nearly drowning you. With a care you certainly couldn’t have performed, he crawls back, and one more aftershock leaves you trembling all over. 

Dieter is red faced. He’s got crescent-moon indents on his shoulders and neck. It smarts but he’d leave that pain for days if he could. Though a little-light headed and desperate for water, he slips his cock out of you, his hand on your knee. He pushes your knee to the side, just enough to watch his cum leak out of you. He scoops it with his thumb and pops it into his mouth. His eyes close as he sucks. 

“Jesus Christ, Dieter,” you moan, flopping your arm over your eyes as if another minute of watching him will send you into another tailspin. 

He chuckles weakly and moves your knee to crawl into the empty bed beside you. He tucks his arms up under the white pillow and tries to breathe, his perfect ass exposed to the air. Your last few pants are louder than the spin of the ceiling fan. It might be several minutes, if not hours before feeling returns to your limbs.

“So why New Orleans?” You ask, only a little breathlessly, your arm still over your forehead. 

“Are you kidding me?” He lifts his head, the hair at his temples darker than the rest of it. He’s only marginally offended. “Sex like that and that’s the first thing you say?” 

“Well, there were other things on my mind,” you shrug against the pillow beneath your head. “That was the only thing that was coherent enough to voice out loud.” 

“Damn fucking right.” He kisses your overturned wrist before rolling onto his back with a groan so deep, you’d think he was restarting. “And I, uh, don’t know. I’ve always wanted to go see Jackson Square and I think I’ve been kicked out of my own house, so now seemed like as good a time as any. I just need to be in a place with a lot of people right now.”

You lift your head as if expecting to see a full orgy at the foot of the bed.

“Well, you might be off track there. With the tons of people thing.” 

He smirks and adjusts to his side. He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb on the other side than his fingers. With an encroaching dark haze in his eyes, he lowers his hand around your throat. Not squeezing. Not even putting any pressure. But just a reminder. A thought. A promise.

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” 

You press your chest up against his forearm, tilting your head back to give him more room. You’re not actually interested in more sex but it’s this game you play. Coin flip. See who can survive the longest. 

“You did promise to be rough with me next time.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist and at your hip, you can feel his cock twitch. 

His hand compresses once around your throat before he lets go and lets out a deep sigh. He pulls away, huffing, and collapses back onto the bed. 

“And people call me crazy.” 

You smirk, now completely satisfied. You stretch like a cat in sunlight. But then something he said earlier makes you frown. You roll up onto your elbows, looking down at him.

“I didn’t know you were kicked out of the house. Why did you say anything?” 

He takes the inside flesh of his cheek and worries it between his teeth. He’s not sorry, exactly, but this is not at all where he wanted this conversation to go. “Thought it was kinda obvious when I asked you to come with me to the airport at three in the morning.” 

You stare at him, something transfixed in your gaze, before you nod. You lean forward, a curtain of your hair closing off you and him from the rest of the world. His stomach flip-flops; rarely do you let anyone see this soft side of you.

“I’m glad you did,” you whisper as you kiss him, gently, patiently, sweetly. “It’s not like this with other people. For me.”

Beneath the curtain of your hair, it’s just the two of you. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, awe-struck that he finally has you. He feels it humming under his skin, his want for you, itching to dig his fingers in. It’s a high unlike he’s ever known. “You’re all I have, you know. Even when you don’t want me, I’ll still want you.”

“I always want you.” 

When you finally pull away, the light outside the window has gotten heavier, shadows forming in the corners. 

“Sun’s going down,” you say, the light of the (still) open shutter doors making the outline of your head glow. “Probably cool enough to wander the streets, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, in a little bit.” Looking up at you, he tucks your hair behind your ear. In the warm late afternoon light, you’re radiant and he is transfixed. Finally, all mine. “I think there was something about a promise in there.” 

Your eyes twinkle as he pulls you back down on top of him.

   It’s nearing ten o’clock when you’re finally seated at your table. The restaurant is dark, hidden away from the noise of Jackson Square and Bourbon Street. The only indication that anything existed inside of the low, squat building was a copper sign, a cut out in the shape of a Magnolia tree. But Dieter seemed to know where he was going, going on about having heard rumblings about the jazz music and grilled oysters. He simply walked into the unmarked building with all the confidence you’d expect from a man so boldly named Dieter Bravo.

The hostess seated you in the corner, each table designed with half walls, making them slightly enclosed like a carved out egg. The set of the man with the cello on stage in the front of the room ends and you clap softly, along with the rest of the room. Except for Dieter. He’s flipping through the bourbon offerings and has his hand on your thigh. A gentle hum grows in the room as its occupants return to hushed conversations before the next act arrives.

When he told you to bring a nice dress, he couldn’t have fathomed this is what you would bring in his wildest dreams. 

It’s long, gossamer, and so dark blue it looks black. The front is held up with a silver halter that connects around the back of your neck, exposing your sinful chest. But his favorite might be the back. Or rather, the lack thereof one. The material cups your chest, but drops like a chandelier down at the back of your ribs. It flows and pools at the base of your spine and the instant he saw you in it, he had you pressed up against the nearest wall to lick your shoulder blades. 

“Dieter, I will strangle you if you mess up my hair,” you huff breathlessly while at the same time digging into his own curls. 

“Why are we going out? Whose stupid fucking idea was this?” He rubbed the crotch of his dress pants up against the curve of your ass, as if he hadn’t actually had his cock in you from this angle less than an hour ago. After a bottle of champagne to celebrate, the shower to finally clean off hadn’t really gone as planned. 

“You made the reservations, dumbass,” you said before hissing as he sucked the soft spot below your earlobe.

He still can feel the bubble of the champagne under his skin, in his mouth. Still pouring over the bourbon selection, he mouths your shoulder, gently using teeth. He’s being overtly playful, the low lighting and single burning candle at the center of the table as the only nearby light source making him even more daring. But he knew he’d be admonished – it was too much in public and –

His breath catches in his chest when you lift your hand slowly from the edge of the menu and palm him over his pants. Like him before, your eyes don’t leave the menu, as if morbidly interested in the catch of the day from the Pontchartrain. 

“Don’t dish out what you can’t take, Bravo,” you say lowly, cupping the curve of his shaft before dragging your fingers back up to his crotch. 

“Th-that’s cheating,” he hisses, fighting the urge to roll his eyes back in his head. “I wasn’ even close to touching you anywhere n-ngh-near there.” 

“Well, that sounds–,”

“Is that fucking Dieter Bravo?” 

You retract your hand so fast, it bangs the table underneath, as you both look up to watch a young man with bright blonde hair, a blue suit, and an annoyingly punchable face approach the table.

He snags the chair from another table, twirls it around, and sinks into it like he owns the place. And judging by the Jaeger LeCoultre watch around his thin wrist, he very well might. 

Dieter blinks as his pale face solidifies in the half-dark. “Oliver? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Come now, dear boy, that’s no way to greet an old friend.” His posh accent speaks of boarding schools and yacht clubs. “Especially one you haven’t seen in ages.”

Those pale eyes slide to you and his lipless mouth drops open.

“Well, if I had someone half as stunning as you to keep me company, I too would fuck off and not look back. Oliver Hastings, madam.” He reaches out across the table and you take his hand, which he quickly presses to his lips. His blue eyes sparkle in a way that makes Dieter put an arm around you. You don’t look at him, but a small smile uncurls across your lips. 

“Pleasure to meet you. Where did you two meet?”

Oliver and Dieter exchange knowing glances. 

“A club in the Netherlands. My people knew his people,” Oliver says, simply. It was as close to the truth as time allowed.

“I never thought I’d see you in New Orleans,” Dieter says, genuinely surprised. “Didn’t figure this was your scene.”

“Oh, it’s not.” Oliver sniffs. “What are you drinking and can I have some?” 

He pokes a pinkie into each of your drinks, unimpressed.

“I’m here on business,” he continues and turns to wave down a waitress. 

“You don’t work, Oliver,” Dieter says, smirking. “You never have.”

“One of the pleasures of being distantly related to the Queen of England, I suppose,” he says when a waitress comes and asks for their drink orders. You gape up at Dieter while Oliver looks away. 

“That Queen of England?” You hiss at him and he grins.

“A bottle of your most expensive bourbons and three glasses. They do drink bourbon here, right? That’s a thing?”

Dieter nods, still grinning. For all his immediately off-putting mannerism, there was a charisma about Oliver that one could perhaps only buy. 

The waitress leaves to get their order and Oliver inches closer and wraps his arms over the back of the chair. 

“So, yes, on here for business, not that kind of business, but the other kind of business. The kind of business that the wealthy elites and ravers alike all fall over themselves to get.”

“I wonder if that sort of thing is hard to get through customs,” you smirk over the dredges of your red wine. 

Oliver stares at you as if seeing you for the first time all over again. And then he smiles wickedly.

“I’m sorry, I just cannot get over the fact how stunningly gorgeous you are. Did I already ask your name? You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve forgotten, I haven’t slept in three days.”

“I’m Natalie Lorraine. I’m Dieter’s co-star in an upcoming movie.”

“Ahh, well, that explains a lot of things, doesn’t it? American movie stars are rather quite fit, aren’t they? Much more than our old birds back home. Well, I can already guarantee that I’ll be first in queue to buy a ticket.” 

The waitress returns with the drink and glasses. “Thanks, love,” Oliver says and hands her a one hundred dollar bill. “I’ve got it from here.”

Shocked by the tip, the waitress nods and wanders off. 

Oliver uncorks the bottle and begins pouring out three fingers for everyone.

“Oli, you still haven’t told us what exactly you’re doing here in New Orleans,” Dieter teases. He runs his thumb nail lightly over your shoulder and in return you put a hand on his thigh. 

The British man smirks and caps the bottle. “I still haven’t told you what exactly I’m doing here in New Orleans. And I could. Or I could just show you.”

In a move that would have impressed the most skilled of card sharks, he coaxes out a small plastic bag from his sleeve with his middle finger. 

Inside are three gold dots on white cards. “They call it Stevie. Because it looks like gold dust when you rub it on your skin. Or put it in your drinks.” 

You sit forward and Dieter’s fingers nudge the knots of your spine. “What is it?”

“Bit like ecstasy, bit like Molly. None of the bad comedowns.”

Dieter snorts and chews on the leftover ice in his glass. “That’s what they all say.”

Oliver gasps softly and puts a hand over his white-collared chest. 

“Are you doubting my stock, Mr. Bravo?” 

Dieter rolls his eyes. “How long does it last?”

“Eight hours, twelve max.” 

You take the bag and hold it up in the low light. “And it’s new?”

“Originally started as a pain-killer that could be absorbed on the skin. FDA never approved it so the pharmacy that developed it went under. The blokes that made it tinkered to make it more of a party drug and here we are.”

You look over at Dieter, an excitement in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in weeks. He’d be offended if he didn’t feel the same sort of stirring. 

Oliver leans forward, his pale eyes looking up under pale lashes. By the upward tilt of his mouth, Dieter knows he knows he has you both. 

“C’mon, Dieter boyo, for old time’s sake. You should show lovely Natalie here how to have a good time.” 

He’s fine. He’s not hurting anyone. He’s having fun. He’s in control.

He can stop at any time.

You know he’s going to say yes before the words form in his mouth. You lunge forward and kiss him on the lips. 

“Alright-y then!” Oliver pops open the bag and on three fingers, he plucks up each of the gold dots. 

“To old friends,” he says as he dips a gold dot into each of their drinks, “and new.” 

Your eyes glitter as the three raise their glasses. 

“To friends.” 

And he drinks. The gold mist swirls.

   If the time he spent with you in New Mexico was slow, like molasses, dripping in sunlight, the rest of the trip in New Orleans is a blur. 

   He stands on the precipice of a mountain, the wind whipping through his hair and his cheeks. Lights unfocus and flash. There’s music and then there isn’t. There are sensations –

“Oh, God, Dieter, faster, harder, more – please, more,” 

Sweat flows down his neck, down his back, your nails digging into his shoulders. Your voice is high, breathless, as he drives himself deeper, deeper into you. You are warm and pliant beneath him and he thinks he’s going to choke on the taste of your neck under – 

– the paint is cool underneath his palms. He wipes streaks of yellow and red and green and blue up the side of the wall. He can smell the chlorine from the pool outside and the birds are singing and he thinks he can taste the yellow in the back of his teeth. The morning air is fresh and curls itself up in his bare chest and –

– he wants pastries, sweets, his mouth is tangy with the taste of your cunt –

– giants on stilts wander over his head, their pants gold and green and purple, you curl up next to him giggling and it's the most perfect sound he’s ever heard in the world. The crowd around you pushes you closer to him and he’s struck by you, by everything you are. He stops you in the middle of the street, the dark night sky arching above the streets, his hand up by your cheek, your beautiful eyes black and wide and tripping –

No, wait, I have to go back. Go back to her.

– The mural in the kitchen grows. It expands up into the ceiling, down onto the floor. The kitchen table and the chairs are thrown out into the brick courtyard. He paints and he paints. But he doesn’t know what it is yet – 

– the bed is a mess, blue paint everywhere. Your beautiful thighs are smeared with blue. His eyelashes feel heavy with paint but he can’t tell what color. His chest is cold and sticky. You’ve got one hand pressed up against the headboard, your thighs spread around him as he finds the missing warmth in the clutch in your cunt. Your tits, stained with purple, bounce and sway with the forces of his thrusts. The shutter door is open, fluttering in the wind, and it’s raining beyond the balcony. It’s pouring and he’s pouring out blue. He stains your cunt with orange, his thumb pressing up into your clit and you shriek. He can feel the white in him burst out and coat your chest and throat in his own paint –

– it’s quiet. You lay on the grass next to him in front of the St. Louis Cathedral. You’re pointing out constellations in the sky, a white powder near the corner of your mouth and the sweet scent of out-of-reach beignets hovers near your lips. As you talk, he reaches over and swipes the powder from your lips. You giggle because he’s only made it worse. There’s powder all over his hands –

You’re an artist. It rages in your blood.

No, it’s paint – 

– he wakes up and it’s quiet. 

The racing has stopped. The universe has settled. He lifts his head, barely able to comprehend where he is, but beyond grateful for all of it to end. He’s back in the cottages, on that white billow-y bed. It’s morning. The world is still quiet. He drops his head back against the fluffy pillow and sighs deeply.

But that smell is . . . it’s familiar. That sweet smell and . . . something else.

Girlsex. 

He glances down, suddenly recognizing a weight on his chest. 

Your back curves down his side. You’re covered in paint and powder and his own cum, but you rest soundly with your arm across his chest, the rise and fall of your breathing slow and deep. His cock actually aches from overuse. He picks up your hair and twirls it in his fingers, marveling at the way the light catches it. The way it smells like him. 

“Dieter Bravo,” you mutter into his clavicle. He smiles, his right leg hanging off the mattress. He skims his toes along the warm wood. “That’s not even your real name, is it?”

He can feel you grin against his chest and the drowsy, unused thing in his heart stretches. 

“Just as much as Natalie Lorraine is yours.” 

You both laugh quietly, too spent to really do anything else. You lift your head and purple is smeared by your cheek. He wants to lick it into his mouth. He feels like you are peeling him down to his bare essentials and he doesn’t know what you’re going to find. You’ll have to tell him when you do.

You kiss him, gently, as much as your aching body will allow. He hums. If he never comes again and can only kiss you like this, he’ll be satisfied. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” you whisper against his lips. There’s only gold light separating you from him. 

“Okay,” he says, thumbing the apple of your cheek. There’s nothing he ever wants to hide from you. “Dieter Bravo is a stage name. My real name is–,”

– he wakes up again, just as your tongue slips a thin, square paper into his mouth. The air is moist and his jacket is too hot but the thumping beat of the music curls into the base of his spine. The building behind you shakes with noise and you’re next in line to enter the club. The crowd of people behind you vibrates with excitement. It smells like piss and vomit. 

“See you on the other side, baby,” you murmur into his throat.

   Music. Music music music. 

It’s in him, it’s grinding up in his teeth, he swears he feels it behind his eyelids. It’s coming out of him, leaking out of his pores and thrumming in his pulse. His heart — it slipped out of its natural rhythm and attached itself to the new beat, this new pulse — and he is everywhere and nowhere. He exists only in this sea of pumping, sweating bodies and never existed anywhere else. 

The only thing centering him, the only thing real, his living heart outside of his body, is you. Your sweat-streaked hair is in his face, the damp back of your neck is inches from his mouth, flooding his senses with the taste of your sweat, your scent. For a moment, he thinks he can see the electric blue synapsis of your brain firing in pace with the music, with the LSD in your body, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He wants to feel the threads with his fingers. 

He wants to bite through your neck and slurp your synapses up like noodles. 

“Baby,” you murmur below him, barely audible above the thunder of the music, “you’re squeezing too tight.” 

He blinks and the image is gone. He sinks his jaw over your shoulder, loosening his grip on your elbows and sliding his hands over your forearms. He tries to focus on dancing, swaying with you between his thighs.

“Sorry, darling, sorry.” He holds you to him, oozing back into that blackness with you as a warm light. 

Your ass, in that black leather skirt he bought you, moves out of sync with the beat, with the swaying you had both fallen into, and rubs him through his jeans. The light travels to his crotch. 

It’s like someone dripped honey all over his brain. 

“Fuck, baby.” He noses your ear and takes your earlobe into his mouth with the curl of his tongue. You moan and, with his hands over yours, he pushes the heel of your hand over your clit. His grip moves around your waist, to the bare skin between your skirt and your high-cut top. He can’t see in the purple haze of the twitching lights and thick, fluorescent fog but he can feel you. You are dripping with sweat, almost feverish. He thinks about the blue in your brain and his dick jumps. He laves the knot of your neck with his tongue. 

“I want you. I want you right now.” 

You lean back into his damp chest and clutch the back of his head in your hand. You draw his other hand to your thigh. Your breath reminds him of flowers, flowers pressed into a book, pressed until they aerosolized. He can’t find your eyes in the dark, in the haze, and in the pulsating light, your face looks blurred. “Then don’t wait. Fuck me here, baby. Right now.” 

In the beat, the cleft of your ass rubs his cock and he thinks he can see the blue in him. Glowing blue in his gut. He nods, frantically, hand leaving your thigh to undo his belt, then the buttons of his jeans. 

He rucks your skirt up, the leather sticking to your damp skin, and he adjusts his hips. You moan, feeling his cock hard at your back. He’s sure his dick is glowing in the dark. 

“Are you ready? I can’t get you wet like you need it–,”

“Baby, I am wet. Just need you. Need you rough.” 

He thinks he might puke blue but the blunt head of his cock rubs in between your sweaty, warm thighs and the pressure in his stomach collapses. If he doesn’t fuck you right now, he’s going to break apart. 

Your skirt clutched in his hands, he swipes your underwear to the side and slides up into you in one stroke – now you’re both blue, from the tips of your heads down to your toes. He doesn’t even move, it feels so good – he says this outloud. You whine loud in his ears, the music distant and far away. You’re closer than you were before, even if it didn't seem possible at the time. 

He grinds his hips and you throw back your head against his shoulder, gasping, nails digging into the backs of his hands at your hips. He throws his forearm around your waist, before grinding his hips back and forth – never leaving you. He wants to be this close to you forever. He can’t imagine ever pulling out of your sweet, hot cunt. He thinks of his cum leaking down your thighs and he groans low in your ear. He wonders if his cum will glow and everyone will see who you belong to. 

He wants his cum all over you. His hips jerk back an inch before slamming them up again. 

“Tha’s it, baby,” you whine. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly. “Keep going.”

He does. At some point, he hears the blood in his cock thump to the beat of the music, and he wants you to know.  

“Can you feel that, baby?” He slurs in your ear. He pushes your wet hair over your shoulder and presses his teeth into your skin. “You’re takin’ me. All of me. Wanna paint you blue.” 

His hand slides over your thigh again, his thumb diving in towards your center, then up. He hopes to find your clit but your entire cunt is hotter than a furnace and he’s afraid of rubbing up against metal. His hand ghosts over your clit and you cry out. 

“Fuck me harder, baby. Leave a bruise. I need you.” 

There’s a memory of being surrounded by people, but it’s not here. It’s not now. It’s ages ago. A lifetime ago. The only thing that ever existed was your cunt squeezing his cock. 

“I’m gonna fuck you up,” he hisses. There’s a chemical smell in the air and he thinks it’s from the lights or it might be from inside him. No, there’s only music inside him. Music he wants to share with you. Gift to you. Fall to his knees and lick up inside you.

You both only exist in blackness and there’s nothing to press you up against, but he tries. He adjusts his hips, his grip, and he fucks you deep.

Pretty thing.

Pretty girl.

Pretty cunt. 

Blue. Blue in your hair. Your eyes. Gonna paint you in blue. 

He wants to split your skull and live in your brain. 

Your moans are higher, airless, gasping, begging. The pressure behind his gut is a black-hole and he wants to fall, wants to drift. 

He braves metal burn and presses down on your clit with his middle finger. 

You are gushing blue. 

He fills you up a moment later, hips stuttering, thighs quaking. And that makes you come again. 

It’s never ending. It’s a cycle. It’s infinite. You’re infinite. If you ever leave him, he’ll die. Broken blue. 

“I love you,” he whispers in your ear in a voice so soft he purposefully won’t remember it the next morning. He drags you into his chest, to feel his heart burning for you. Only when he gets like this again, which is soon after, does he remember. When he’s sober, it’s only a feeling. When he’s out of his mind, higher than God, he has to say it. 

“I love you. I fucking love you. So much.”

When he’s this high, he doesn’t remember if you say it back. 

[lantsart]

Design Explorations for Shoori and Taba's home!

Taba and Shoori live in a refurbished building that is attached to the archives that Shoori works at. The building used to be one of the living spaces of a long line of wealthy merchants. While these archives are still owned by this merchant family, they no longer need the housing, so it has since been divided up into a coliving space for employees of the archive.

I felt like this building was a great opportunity to explore traditional elaborate tsuktsu architecture of this region, so I really went all out with its design. This building is located in a subtropical climate, so its windows and balconies have little roofed buffer zones that extend out and prevent heavy rainfall from spilling into the house. These extended roofed zones also keep sunlight from shining into the house, and encourages you to leave windows open for natural air circulation. To help with the temperature, the pointed chimney that sticks up from the middle of the building serves as both an entrance for visitors that can fly (very useful to open up during parties), as well as a place for hot air to gather and escape. Also! These buildings are made of stone! And they've got little bird gargoyles perched on the corners of the roof! The third image shows that one side of the building has tall and large stain glass designs built into it, and the diamond shapes on the top are windows that can be opened into entrances. If you would like to see some similar windows in our world, look up Rajasthani architecture, extruded Rawashin, and Bhutan balconies. If you want to look at some cool stone sub tropical architecture, check out Ellora Caves and Angkor Wat.

[33max]

Turkey Dinosaurs 🦖

Browse the tumblr tag for additional lore, ficlets and anything turkey dinosaurs related! You can also find filled prompts on ao3 here 🦁

Turkey Dinosaurs 🦕

He knows Max is proud of him, knows Max is desperately trying to put on a brave face and be positive for Daniel, fighting to stay afloat and not ruin Daniel’s celebration by needing his Daddy.

Or, Max fights regressing for too long

Soft Sweaters 🦁

After several tantrums about scratchy material, itchy labels, and clothes that are touching him wrong Daniel is at a loss for what to do.

Or, Max likes soft things and Daniel provides them

Raindrops From Grey Clouds 🦖

“I need this,” Max says. Daniel can read between the lines, Max needs this because he doesn’t want to be in his own head right now.

Or, Max struggles with the backlash after the Brazillian GP and Daniel is there to help

Wildflower 🧸

“You don’t have to fight it anymore,” Daniel tells him fiercely, peppering kisses all over his face, before pressing his lips to Max’s. It’s a kiss that says I love you through everything.

Or, how Max and Daniel navigate the new dynamic to their relationship

Christmas Dinosaurs 🎄

Daniel has decorated their balcony in Christmas lights, the warm white lights looping around the balcony railing are cosy, and in the run up to Christmas they sit out there under a thick blanket, drinking beers and watching the boats which have their own fairy lights on now.

“Thank you,” Max tells him one night while they’re sitting together outside. “Thank you for doing all of this, I know he’s going to love it. I love it.”

Or, Max deliberately regresses on Christmas Eve

Watercolour 🎨

He’s chosen the right-hand side of his body because Max sleeps on that side, his face often smushed into Daniel’s skin there, his breath warm as he softly snores. The thought of Maxy tracing this tattoo with his fingertips while drifting off to sleep makes Daniel overflow with love.

Or, Daniel gets a tattoo for Max

Airplanes cut through the clouds ✈️

Max hadn't mentioned that he was thinking of refurbishing the plane to Daniel. He frowns. Did Max mean to send him an invite to this? Did he mean to invite Raymond so he could organise the refurb? Why didn’t he mention something like this to Daniel?

Or, Max and Daniel refurbish the plane specifically for Little Max

[last edited: 02/05/2024]

[scotianostra]

On October 15th 1902 Edinburgh's Balmoral Hotel opened its doors for the first time.

Look out for my own connections to this grand old hotel, both in a personal sense and through my home town of Loanhead.

Back then it was called The North British and in Edinburgh a lot of people, myself included, still refer to it by the initials NB.

On Wednesday 15 October, 1902, on the front page of The Scotsman newspaper, a small advert appeared: “North British Station Hotel. This hotel in direct communication with Waverley Station is now open F.T. Burcher, hotel manager.”

According to the hotel’s official history, the North British was “a vanguard for the railway company which built it, a surrogate for the grand station they had never been permitted to erect in the sensitive site between Old and New Town.” The architecture, executed in golden sandstone, features towers and balconies galore. It’s a glorious mash-up of influences from across northern Europe. Expensive to build as well as to run – it gobbled upwards of 200 tons of coal every month – the hotel was seen as a “sign of the future heralded by the railways, the newly opened Forth Bridge and the electric lights switched on in Princes Street just seven years earlier”.

Nevertheless, some believed the Caledonian, which opened a year later, boasted the more advantageous location. And some detractors found the sheer size of the hotel gauche, complaining “it is coarse and obstructive at once”.

The hotel – working name “Waverley Station Hotel” – was the brainchild of George Wieland, a former NBR company secretary who retired to its board in 1890. Having toured some of the most lavish hotels in the world – where he realised the importance of having a banqueting hall to bring in business – he hired W Hamilton Beattie to draw up plans for Edinburgh. The hotel would have 300 bedrooms, 52 bathrooms, and 70 lavatories, and was designed to encourage the circulation of fresh air. Lifts shot people straight from the station into the hotel’s foyer, and beyond that, to rooms furnished with mahogany, leather and crimson moquette. It’s said that the bill for plants and flowers exceeded the bill for gas, and there was even a special machine to burnish the silver. Weiland made sure the new hotel’s cellars were full of the finest champagnes, hocks, ports, and whisky, the better to entice his ideal customers – wealthy, landed families moving between their multiple residences.

In 1922, the hotel became part of the London and North Eastern Railway Company and by all accounts the hotel sparkled from top to bottom, but after the Second World War, when the railways were nationalised, and Prestwick airport began getting transatlantic traffic, things began a slow downward trajectory. Even so, the hotel remained the destination for Edinburgh society events, be they corporate or personal. In 1983, British Rail sold off its rather faded North British Hotel. In 1988, it closed for refurbishment, it was in dire need of this, some of the rooms were looking a wee bit shabby, the wooden window frames unable to open fully, and how do I know this? Well I used to be the window cleaner in the hotel and the windows that didn't open meant I had to find one close by and edge along the crumbling sandstone ledges, the worst affected, and highest were on the south of the hotel and there was a six storey drop down to the train station below.

At the start of the 1990s, Balmoral International Hotels, an Edinburgh based company, bought the venue. In 1997, the Balmoral became the first hotel bought by Sir Rocco Forte as he assembled his portfolio of hotels. It currently boasts Scotland’s only Bollinger Bar, as well as the Michelin-starred Number One restaurant run by executive chef Jeff Bland, a spa, and ten function rooms accommodating up to 450 people.

Famous guests over the years have included Elizabeth Taylor, Michael Palin, Beyoncé and JK Rowling, who finished the last Harry Potter novel here, on 11 January, 2007, and then daubed her signature on a bust in her room.

A second wee link with the hotel, is Charles Forte, Grandfather of the present owner began his working life in my home town of Loanhead when he moved to Scotland from Italy.

[simshousewindsor]

BUCKINGSIMSHIRE, Windenburg (SNN) - - Queen Katherine attended the ribbon cutting to unveil renovations made at Lara-Leigh Memorial. It is a monument to Queen Lara-Leigh, located at the end of The Mall.

The memorial was damaged by PETA protesters during the "Million Ranchers March" on 7 November 2016, which took place in greater Easton focused on Old Platz Plaza and outside Buckingsim Palace.

During the following year's protests, the memorial was guarded by police officers.

The Mall began as part of the tended grounds of Buckingsim Palace in the 1860s. It was envisioned as a major national ceremonial route in the early 20th century, matching the creation of similar ceremonial routes in other cities such as Mt. Komorebi and Willow Creek.  As part of this development, a new façade was constructed for Buckingsim Palace to face down the Mall.

King Edward II suggested that a joint Parliamentary committee be formed to develop plans for a Memorial to his mother, Queen Lara-Leigh, following her death in 1961.

A number of sites were suggested and the decision was announced to locate the memorial outside Buckingsim Palace and slightly shorten The Mall.

Once the site was selected, the committee selected its primary choice for the construction and took it to the King for approval. Brock Speedy was chosen as the designer.

The Mall stretches a quarter mile and ends on the eastern end, at Memorial Arch.

During Trooping the Colors and other big National events, the Mall is used with Memorial Arch and the Lara-Leigh Memorial as central focuses. The annual Easton Marathon also finishes down The Mall.

Every sovereign, since Edward I, has enjoyed waving to the many on-lookers who line the mall for a glimpse as they pass. Spectators have even been known to climb the Lara Memorial to witness the royal family step out on the balcony of Buckingsim Palace.

Queen Katherine looked chic in red, wearing the Duchess of Brindleton Bay Pearl Brooch.

At the top of the central pylon stands a gilded bronze statue of Lara-Leigh, Queen Mother.

Speedy described the symbolism of the memorial, saying that it was devoted to the "qualities which made our Queen so great and so much beloved." He added that the statue of the Queen Mother was placed to face towards the city to represent her "great love for her people."

Following in her great-grandmothers footsteps, Queen Katherine has a great love for the people. Her Majesty was seen receiving flowers from a young schoolgirl.

The Easton Fountain was used to supply water to the town in the 1800s. King Edward II had it refurbished and erected in Easton Park in 1937. The park closed in 2021 and Queen Katherine moved the fountain in front of the memorial during these latest renovations.

Beneath the Lara-Leigh statue, on the eastern and western sides of the memorial, are two lions, representing Peace.

Opposite these, statues of a relaxed Queen Isabella (facing The Mall) and Albert I (facing Buckingsim Palace) depicted with his descendants. These were created from solid blocks of marble.

Amongst the renovations, were the extension of the sidewalk and the addition of balusters.

The palace hopes the renovations will make the memorial easier to visit, while not impeding traffic. The Mall will maintain its current schedule; closed to traffic on Saturdays, Sundays, public holidays and on ceremonial occasions.

We expect the memorial to be very crowded during Her Majesty's coronation as millions of sims around the world will be watching.

[bebepac]

Six Sentence Sunday 05.21.23 / Mood Music Monday

I have a new obsession peeps.  I am watching this series called FROM currently, and it  has all my senses tingling.  Talking to some friends I have realized, 1. I like shows set in small towns where weird stuff is happening. 2. If the people are trapped in said town and there is spooky, weird or supernatural stuff going on, or something that just can’t be explained, I’m all about that life.   And From tickles my fancy,  watch it be cancelled tomorrow, as this tends to happen with all of my weird favorited shows.  

Work has been crazy, but just recently in the past few days, even though work is still insane,  I’ve been inspired to write, even though my whole day is spent typing for  my job.  Go figure.  

So here’s amazingly what i’ve posted in the last little bit:

The Life of Riley: Book Two:  Garden Party Photo  Op

The Rotten Apple 🍎:  The Last Part: 

Original post: 05/21/23 at 7:52PM EST.

Here’s what I have in the pipeline 

This one is a surprise.  It came to me after I had a conversation with @angelasscribbles about Drake.  

It could be honestly seen as a prequel to my fic with If Only For The Night

The Book:  TRR Mood Music Monday Submission:  That Don’t Impress Me Much by Shania Twain The Moments In Between Pairings:  None:  TRR MC is single Status:  Still in the writing process, nearly complete!

To be honest, I wasn’t even surprised about how the trip was going being in Lythikos for Olivia’s tribute to Prince Liam.  The room she put me in was basically a refurbished broom closet, dinner was served to my table cold with portions of the entree missing.  But what struck me and what did surprise me is that Liam didn’t notice, and never checked up on us, supposedly his true blue friends were all sitting at the neglected table and he didn’t even glance in our direction the whole evening,  

And not to mention….the kiss. He let her kiss him in front of the whole court. He genuinely appeared surprised when it happened, but everyone at the table, all their eyes were trained on me for a response.  I mean honestly, what could I say?  Prince Liam is not my boyfriend, I’m a suitor in this game we’re all playing.  I am competing for a man that at this point has no true allegiance to me.

Nonchalantly I shrugged my shoulders.  “She went for it.  You know, she doesn’t usually get this much individual time with the Prince, so I can’t fault her for shooting her shot.”  

“You’re a lot calmer than I thought you would be, Brooks.”  

“I mean, these so-called 'noble' royals have been showing me who they are this whole time, I’d be a fool not to believe them.”  

“You deserve a drink Brooks,  meet up with me later, and we’ll find where the good stuff you like is stored in this keep.”  

“I really might have to take you up on that.”  

Liam finally cornered me for a brief moment, as I stood on the balcony letting the cool wind revitalize me.  

“Are you angry with me for what happened?”

“No.”  

“I thought you might be.”  

“How can I Liam? you haven’t so much as stated any intentions you have for me, or of any feelings you might feel for me because you say, you can’t.  You have a duty to your people and I get that.  But don’t forget, all of us are “your people, and we are getting mistreated by some of these people that are supposed to be the “Nobility.”

Mood Music Monday Submission:  This Woman’s Work by Kate Bush Final Chapter: The Wedding The Book: TRH Series:  The Rotten Apple 🍎 Pairings:  Elle x Nico (Eleanor x M!OC) Status:  Still in the writing process

The family was sitting at the table eating breakfast when there was an urgent knock to the door.

“I wonder who that could be this early?”

“You’re not expecting anyone?”

“No.” Nico wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose from the table, as Tomas  immediately headed towards the door behind Nico.

“Should we be concerned?”  Liberty asked.  

“I don’t think so, it’s probably nothing.”

A few moments later Nico and Tomas returned with one more gentleman in tow.

"Liberty you have a guest, Michail has come to see you. Apparently you told him you were leaving today, he wanted to make sure he saw you before you left."

“Hello Liberty.”  

Elle wanted to laugh at the side eye her father was giving poor Michail.

“Hi Michail.” She had never heard her sister’s voice sound so giddy before. 

Liberty gasped immediately reaching for her hair.

"You look perfect Libby," Elle whispered to her sister. Now Elle felt the way her sister had felt; she was the matchmaker.  "Go say hello to him."

She watched her sister smiling and talking to her young gentleman caller who had brought her a bouquet of hand picked flowers, that Liberty didn't mind in the least. There was a light flush to her cheeks.

Elle smiled walking up to the two of them.

"Is your guest staying for breakfast?"

She didn't wait for him to answer in true Mama K fashion.

"I'll fix you a plate. And I'll put these in water. Nico please get a chair for Libby's guest."

"Thank you."

Chapter 5: Moonlight Rendevous The Series:  The Blue Honey Cafe The Book: TRR Pairings: TRR MC is single Status:  Still in the writing process

He sat down on the blanket with Riley placing the popcorn between the two of them.  

“I’m glad you could come over here for a bit Mason, to sit here with me.”  

“Me too.”  

Mason tried not to read too much into it, but as the movie went on Riley seemed to inch closer to him.  She was so close to him that he could smell  the perfume of her body and the scent of her shampoo in her hair.  

After the movie,  Mason helped Riley pick up her things and fold her blanket.  

“I had a great time with you Riley.”

“Me too Mason.   I loved the movie. They definitely left it open for a sequel. What did you think of the movie?”

“She did a lot of terrible stuff.  But I don’t know why, I still want her to be happy.”

“Because she’s not all bad. She felt guilt and remorse.”

“Exactly……. Well this is awkward.”  

“What’s wrong?”

“The food truck, my ride is gone, therefore I have no way to get back to the restaurant and my vehicle.”  

“I’ll take you.”

“Thanks Riley, that's nice of you.”

Mason carried all her stuff to the car for her.        

“Hey I know, you’re depending on me to get back to your car, but I was wondering if  you felt up for doing something else for a little bit.  I mean we’re already out, and we both said we need to be more social.”

“What did you have in mind?”  

“Okay hear me out.. I’ve always wanted to go to this place.”

“Wheelz?!?!?!  This used to be my favorite place as a kid.  I had several birthday parties here. Midnight skating slaps.”

“But you said this was your favorite place as a kid?”

“Kids can be teenagers too.”

“Are you good at skating?”

“I am great at skating, are you Riley?”  

“Yes, I wouldn’t have mentioned this place if I couldn’t.  I’m not trying to embarrass myself.  But I wanted to have someone to go with. I don’t have a date, so would you maybe be my plus one?”

“Yes. I’d be honored to be your plus one Riley Brooks.”