#blue velvet bedframe

[nicohayes]

Seattle Bedroom Guest Mid-sized transitional guest bedroom with a dark wood floor and red walls

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

Patricia

Other stories

I hope this finds those 7 people who voted yeah they'd read this gothic horror thing, it's very near and dear to my heart, I'm super proud of it, so I hope you'll like it too. Here's an analysis/explanation for it, in case it's confusing, but I'd highly recommend only reading this after the story.

The room was lit by one small reading light, balanced up on a couple of books on the tiny decorative shelf. There were toys, dolls and soldier figurines, cars, trains and whatever a small child’s heart desired practically overflowing the shelves and drawers around the wall. They cast menacing shadows on the ground as the lamp was disturbed by the smallest movement the children made.

They were cuddled up on the top bunk of their bed, the boy holding a book, larger than his head and read, while the girl listened patiently. It was his turn to read that night, hers was the day before.

If anyone were to come check on them, there wouldn’t be much to see, for they drew in the heavy maroon curtains around the bedframe to hide them from sight, and hide the noise of the outside world from them. The boy read just loud enough for the two of them to hear, and if a stray strand of conversation made its way upstairs to them, through the thick layers of velvet he quieted down for a moment.

Neither of them looked away from the book, not even once. It was almost ritualistic, for them to just wait for it to pass and keep on reading. There was adventure in the book, fear and excitement. The twins sought after those old dusty books in the library, and after a while they were easy to pick out.

Those books about dragons, however strong and scary they were, showed them scales, flesh and blood, they could be slain by the brave knights of the realm. They were nothing like the dark shadows that kept floating around at the bottom of the marble staircase.

The smell of ash and burn and blood in the fresh air of that medieval forest was nothing like the suffocatingly sweet odour of reality.

“The knight held his head high, and reached for his sword, not sparing a glance down to see if it’s still at his side, he- “

A loud screech wormed its way up to the second floor and into their room, past the curtains. He stopped. The girl held her breath and stilled; it passed, and the silence of the room returned. They let the soft buzz of the lamp dance around them for a moment.

“He didn’t check, because he thought the sword was his arm,” the girl stated with deep conviction, before her brother could continue reading. He tried to fix his glasses with one hand, but the book was too heavy to hold, and it tumbled down on his legs. He huffed and pulled it back up.

“It’s not his arm,” he shook his head and scanned the page to see where he left off.

“I know it’s not,” she pushed herself up to look at her brother. Her face was round, and glowing in the orange light, she giggled at her own transformed reflection in her brother’s glasses. She looked like the strawberry moon they saw the summer before. “He carried it around everywhere he went, so he doesn’t know the difference,” she said thoughtfully.

The boy shrugged. She was probably right. “Can I go on?” He asked, and before she could answer he took a deep breath and dove back into the story.

The room was silent once again, and the children let the darkness encase them completely. They climbed down the ladder, the boy with the lamp in hand, the girl with the orange lampshade. They carefully placed it back on the nightstand. Their movements were practiced, only the smallest of clinks rang in the room as she placed the glass back in its wire frame, so the lamp was whole again.

The door was tall enough they felt like it leaned above them. It was painted light blue, adorned with swirling golden flowers around the edges, but now it was dark as the night sky and the flowers grew silvery thorns in the moonlight. The stems got longer and tangled themselves around the brass hinges, the lock and the doorknob, so it was much harder to open. The boy used all his strength to fight off the spindling, gold flora guarding the entrance.

The door opened with a creak and a strip of light rolled in on the carpet under their feet.

The white ribbon on the floor entered the room not on its own, but it dragged the sinister buzzing noise of the house with itself.

The boiler huffed and puffed, shaking the pipes in the walls around, the hallway bathed in the constant buzzing of the lamps keeping the second floor bright, even when the darkness sat over the daylight window on the ceiling. And the abrupt, occasional screeches from below were now strung together by periods of low rumbling murmur and shrill remarks.

That was the noise of the shadows, in the kitchen and the hallways, cutting through the air and the walls and it never seemed to stop. A particularly rough shriek sent a shiver down both of their spines.

She reached to grab his hand, and he swatted it away, ready to make his way through to the other side of the hall, carefully peering over the railing of the marble staircase to see if anything that lurked down there would notice them leaving their room, but the floor below was still, and dark.

She held onto the book, hugging it tightly to her chest, while he opened the door to the library. The hinges on that one were quiet, but the old, wooden floorboards wailed with each step the children took. It was an eerie symphony to listen to along with the screaming from below.

The library was enormous, bookshelves towering above them from floor to ceiling, a couple of couches, covered with rough, prickly fabrics with seats way too high for them to ever be comfortable. The air in there was stale, mildewy, and still the books stayed dry, and smelled of leather, glue and old paper.

The boy climbed atop a chest of drawers and reached down for the book so he could put it back in its place. She pushed at the bottom of the heavy, leather encased pages until she was sure he held it. The book was back in its place soon enough and the boy climbed back down, wincing at the noise the floor kept making. It was hard to believe it was cut down so long ago, when it cried like it was the first day people walked over it.

This time he reached for her hand, but she crossed her arms in front of her chest and frowned at him.

“What?” He mouthed, she shrugged dismissively and turned her back. They headed back as quietly as they could.

The library door was as quiet as it had been before, but it opened to complete and utter darkness. It was as soft as their velvet curtains around their beds, and it sat just as heavy around them. They breathed it in, bathed in it as they stepped out of the dark library and closed the door behind themselves.

The strings of shadowy conversations still somehow climbed through the thick veil of the unlit hallway.

“How do we get back now?” He asked, regretting the way he turned his sister away. His voice was barely audible, but she heard it.

“We go to the left, around the stairs and we follow the vines back to safety,” she replied softly. She was probably right, the way the thorny stems of the flowers grew around their door, keeping them inside must have followed, stretching after them to drag them back inside.

The better their eyes got used to the darkness, the more they could sense the gold wires twisting and turning towards them, climbing off the door like some slender and grotesque clawed hands.

He felt a thorn prick his ankle, and he jumped to his left. It happened fast; she shot out to catch him, but it was too late. They tumbled down the unforgiving marble, with so much noise it was almost louder than the shadows’ bellowing. Almost. Their little grunts, cracks and screeches were soft enough to pass for an echo, if only for a moment.

He slipped over the railing and fell straight down to the entryway with a heavy thud. He scrambled to his feet and ran towards the nearest source of light, to escape the shadows of the ground floor. He yanked the front door open and fell straight through, and down the two steps in front of it, hitting the cold concrete of the street.

His eyelids felt heavy all of a sudden. The glow of the streetlamp sent painful daggers of yellow light at his head, circling around his form like a too small halo.

“Mama!” He yelled, once he could focus on the cloud of smoke that hugged his mother’s tall frame. She didn’t bat an eye; just took another drag of the cigarette she held to her lips with a long silver straw. “Mama!” He yelled again and stumbled closer to her, dragging one of his legs that was twisted at a horrific angle, but she still paid him no mind. He resorted to grabbing onto her black fur coat and yanking on it once he was close enough, but it didn’t budge. He could have been trying to wake a statue.

The noise started quiet, but it grew in intensity by the second and he let go of her coat to turn back towards the house. The building stood tall and brooding, and architectural wonder with its towers and high roof; it looked like it was forced between the other houses of the quaint little street. The bricks let out a mournful, deep sigh, just before the windows started shaking as the wail from inside reached never before heard heights.

His mother finally turned towards the door, flicking the cigarette out of the holder, which she slid into her pocket and headed back.

He knew what was coming as she took a deep breath and screamed, a shrill, unbearable thing, it competed with the wails erupting from the house.

“What’s going on now?” She asked. Somewhere from the depths of the house, a low, rumbling answer came, followed by a string of coughing and curses.

He followed her through the hallway, back to the side of the staircase. His mother turned to the right, towards the light that just turned on in the kitchen.

She arrived at the bottom of the stairs in a heap, right on a bright spot on the detergent scented grey tiles. The world turned around her and she couldn’t bid it to stop for a long second. She blinked herself awake and tightened her grip around the soft linen of her twin’s pyjama top she was still holding onto. She pulled herself up and blindly reached for him, but she only found her hands sticking to the floor with something warm and sticky.

She squealed, softly at first, but then the sound just grew stronger as she finally found him.

He felt his eyes fill with tears to the brim, as a sliver of the light lifted the darkness of him, and he saw the small, broken figures huddled together on the floor. One utterly broken, staring with vacant eyes, limbs twisting in all the ways they weren’t supposed to; the other atop the broken mess, screaming as if the noise would revive the broken little body.

A shadow was cast over her, by a tall and wide figure, with a spiked, uneven outline.

“Patricia?” She reached out to her with one hand, fixing her hair behind her ear. A shiver ran down her spine and she held onto her brother even tighter. The word ‘monster’ formed on her tongue before the figure moved in a way that the light from the kitchen brightened her face, transforming the faceless silhouette into a recognisable one.

Tags: @and-we-shake-the-iron-hand @melpomenelamusa

[nicks-disks]

Crowley and velvet underground???

I'm losing my queer little mind over how it's cannon that Crowley's favourite song is literally I'll Be Your Mirror I am so unhealthily happy but oh my GOD y'all

if you've never listened to Pale Blue Eyes it is literally fucking HEARTWRENCHING i can't cope i'm honestly kind of shocked it's not on their cannon playlist because it just fits her side of the divorce SO WELL. like bfr I'm GNAWING on my bedframe. and you cannot convince me they hear it and absolutely break. down. every time.

also i know we got him talking about velvet underground in season one but it's just SUCH. a good band for him?? Like whatever music niche they've hit i can't even explain but it's literally PERFECT for her and I literally might even argue it's more perfect that Queen. Like, Crowley wouldn't be listening to deathcore or shoegraze or nu metal, grunge, punk etc even though those are quite stereotypically seen as like, demonic genres of music LMAO I can't quite see it. he would appreciate it, sure, but his fave type of music is whatever the fuck Velvet is doing Underground somewhere it just fits.

Tbh almost ALL of VU's discog fit Crowley in one way or another it's wild and I hope Good Omens singlehandedly make VU's streams go up after this like babe HAVE YOU LISTENED to After Hours?? Or the Black Angel's Death Song??? Or I Found a Reason???? Or ????? And don't even get me STARTED on how Waiting for My Man is so Aziraphale im consuming my keyboard

Even if you don't agree with how ineffable coded VU is then you have to admit they've just got good songs that touch on kickass topics, like Candy Says which was actually written about a trans girl Lou Reed knew and her struggle with gender. To say that's Crowley coded would be taking away from it I believe, but could you IMAGINE Crowley listening to it and always feeling bad at how humans were so confined physically?? Like he would be third person heartbroken for us AND Candy

I am literally THIS CLOSE 🤏 to making a tasty angsty scrumy lil animatic of Pale Blue Eyes because listen to the song, look me dead in the eyes and tell me I'm wrong, but the only thing stopping me is that there's enough of those tasty angsty scrumy lil animatics around rn 😭 we're eating a little TOO good

anyways im sorry for this post being literally aimless rambling but I absolutely ADORE VU and GO so this cooking my brains im going to combust

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Thespios (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- Casanova jr. by the others

Showstopper by his father

The Moronic Wonder by Aggie

Age- 13 (immortal)

Location- Mania district, New Olympus

Personality- With a great respect for the performing arts, he loves garnering attention. He can be quite conceited & manipulative while having a complete disregard for conformative rules and authority. He's smart, observant, & quite cultured for someone his age.

He has the standard abilities of a god. As the god of acting his other powers and abilities include limited invsibility, limited shapeshifting (can transform himself into other people & characters for only 10 minutes), vocal projection, stage light manipulation, having an eidetic memory (can remember scenes from movies and TV shows, lines, & scripts), and limited illusion creation.

Thespios is the only child to his father Matikós (god of performance).

They live on the top floor of The Tauros Building, a luxury high-rise apartment building in the Mania neighborhood of New Olympus. His bedroom is every theater kid's dream! It has a theather aesthetic with a semi-circle for the "mini amphitheater" that has a few rich red velvet seats for company along with a HUGE king sized bed covered in velvet & satin sheets and pillows with a bedframe resembling a stage. Instead of a TV there's a projector screen and instead of traditional lighting there's stage lights & neon light fixtures. On the walls there's posters of his favorite movies, TV shows, bands, and deities. He owns the latest Talos Core gaming system as well as an antique typewriter (which Thespios bought on oBay).

He has one pet- a she-dragon named Ravenshade who has frost blue eyes, dark blue horns, claws, & crests, and blue-black & deep fuchsia scales. She's his usual mode for transportation to school.

Thespios has a great relationship with his father. He appreciates the fact that his dad never stifled his creativity or interests. They both constantly frequent the museums, cinema, & opera with a favorite pasttime of theirs being riding dragonback! Thespios knows that he's not the only kid in the pantheon to be raised by a single parent, but he doesn't feel like he's "missing" out by not having another parent.

He's well aware of the events surrounding his conception- his birth mother (a maenad) being a surrogate for his father. Thespios recently met her with the two of them keeping in contact through e-mail every once in a while. There are even talks for Thespios to spend his next school vacation in Thebes where she lives.

His wardrobe consists of suede and leather shoes, leather jeans, regular jeans, polos, mink scarves, berets, sweaters, & leather jackets with black being a major color!

His father gifted him a gold & silver theater masks necklace which Thespios always wears.

A go-to drink for him is coffee. He LOVES coffee! Thespios is a pro when it comes to his father's espresso machine in their kitchen. He also likes pomegranate cola, lime flavored sparkling water, club soda, and chocolate espresso milkshakes from The Frozen Spoon. Usuals for him from The Roasted Bean includes cafe au laits, a medium pomegranate dragonfruit splash, & a large iced mocha.

Thespios has many talents. In addition to inheriting remarkable flexibility from his father he can also play the lyre, trumpet, and saxophone & he's also a pretty good drawer- mainly focusing on self portraits.

He has a few stamps on his passport, traveling to the other realms a few times! His favorite trip so far has been to the Underworld where he was at the film premier of Blooddancer! He even saved the ticket stubs in a scrapbook.

His favorite snacks include pomegranate flavored licorice twists, salt & vinegar potato chips, caramel olive oil popcorn, and red hot cinnamon jawbreakers.

Thespios is currently on break from school. As far as the godly kids, he sometimes hangs out with Deucalion (Deuce) and Thrasos (god of boldness, insolence, recklessness, & courage). Thespios admires the "bad-assery" of Anaideia (goddess of ruthlessness, shamelessness, & unforgiveness). He doesn't know too much about the "Drool Crew" (the kids of The Litae)- including Pompe (goddess of rites) & Telete (goddess of prayers) except a time where Epidotes (god of purity) was partnered up with him for a project in their home economics class. He's aware of the other godly kids in school like Pandia (goddess of the full moon), Dysis (goddess of the sunset), Achelois (goddess of the moon & comfort), Philia (goddess of friendship), E.B, and Krysothemis.

Thespios' main friend group are some classmates in his drama class- a lampade named Blakelyn, twin Harpy brothers named Arnim & Aerion, a mermaid named Adrina, and a satyr named Kristanos. They are also part of the school's drama club. Thespios thinks that his drama teacher (a Centaur) Mr. Paspatis is a "mad genius."

One student he doesn't seem to care about is Calocagathia (Aggie) (goddess of nobility & goodness). Thespios finds her "know-it-all perfect goody two-shoes" veneer to be offputting. He has only told Blakelyn what happened between the two of them afterschool months ago.

His go-to thing from The Bread Box is the blackberry goat cheese salad.

Thespios is also cool with his father's boyfriend- a woodland centaur named Silvano.

He's fluent in Old Greek, Latin, & French.

Thespios had his first kiss with Adrina at Kristanos' spin the bottle party a couple weeks ago. They still sometimes make out when they do homework together.

In the pantheon he really looks up to and admires The Muses (calls Melpomene "literal perfection"), Apollo (a favorite album of his being 1,000 Days of Sunlight), and the "mad" god Dionysus (secretly hopes that he'll be his mentor)! Thespios also likes hanging out with his noná, Felis (Titaness of cats). He has quite the number of crushes! Aside from Melpomene (muse of tragedy), he thinks that Aphrodite (goddess of love & beauty), Polyhymnia (muse of hymns), Ailuros (goddess of cats & warfare), and Adephagia (goddess of gluttony) are "total babes." There has uncomfortably been more than one "wet dream."

Two of his favorite desserts are the pain au chocolat and almond souffle. He gets them at Salon du Sucre. Thespios also likes the tiramisu cake from Hollyhock's Bakery.

He has a varied musical palate. Thespios listens to everything from M9, Apollo, Eclipse, Discordic Harmony to Death Theater, Eurydice, O, & the punk rock band Dissonance Machine. Lately he's been a fan of Orpheus, even getting a vinyl copy of his live album Immortalis Amor: Cello Concerto.

He's fond of collecting movie soundtracks, the latest addition being Blooddancer.

A guilty pleasure of his are samurai sushi rolls.

In his free time Thespios loves going to the cinema to catch the latest release! He also enjoys basketball, football (soccer), playing video games, laser tag, reading; is a fan of the books written by Favian (god of philosophy), writing (journaling & his own poetry and screenplays), listening to music, and hanging out with friends.

His favorite meals are his dad's feijoada with yellow rice and keftedes.

"Theater is the art of looking at ourselves."

[furbyp]

I had a loft bed when I was a kid. My dad built a frame at the bottom and my parents got me a mattress to have down there. My dad also built a shelf from one of the rungs of the ladder to the other side and I had my tv on there. My mum used some old red velvet to make a curtain and stuck up fairy lights and I had a big heap of cushions, teddies, pillows and blankets. It was so warm and cosy. Sometimes I slept down there and sometimes I slept on the top bunk, where I had one of those bed tent canopies attached. It was blue with stars on. I’m almost 27 and I miss that bed so badly sometimes. Sometimes I just want to feel safe and cosy and I desperately want to be back there but it doesn’t exist anymore.

I can’t explain how badly I want to go back home sometimes but that home doesn’t exist anymore. The house is still there but my home is gone. The pink flowers on my bedroom wall have been painted over and the orange silky curtains have been taken down. The red carpet in the hallway. The view from the upstairs window that showed just the triangular roof of the house behind and the tops of the trees between our gardens. The elegantly carved stone swirls decorating the roof that I could only see when I swung to the highest point on my swing set. The patch of soil at the back of the garden where we buried our cat. The living room we danced in. The kitchen table by the window where dad served us little oven pizzas and chicken nuggets and where we would lay out the plastic tablecloth and paint or make cats and dogs out of plasticine. The cold porch where we kept our shoes and the hanging beads with little fabric elephants and bells on. My huge teddy bears and my cd player and my green iPod and my old laptop and the chaise-lounge from nan’s house and the fake plants. Mum and dad’s old wooden bedframe with carved flowers and patterns in the headboard.

I want to be tucked into bed and have my mum stroke my back until I fall asleep. I want my dad to read me a story and make me laugh even though I’m exhausted. I want to come home from school and eat crisps while I watch tv and read comics. I want to curl up on the red sofa cuddled up to my dad while he watches Eastenders. I want to go play with my friends in the streets or ride my bike up and down the path. I want to be safe and not have to rely on myself anymore. I want back everything I’ve ever gotten rid of or given away or sold or lost. I want it all back. It was mine and I shouldn’t have let it go so easily. I want all of it back. I’m still a little girl. I haven’t done anything yet. I want all of it back.

[varietiez1]

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Crafted from quality materials, the Varietiez Diana Wingback Back Bed Frame features a solid wood frame and is upholstered in plush velvet fabric in your choice of grey, beige, charcoal, or navy blue. The velvet fabric adds a touch of luxury to this beautiful bed frame, while also being soft and comfortable to the touch.

The slatted base provides optimal support for your mattress, ensuring a good night's sleep. The ample space underneath the bed is perfect for storing extra bedding or other items that you want to keep out of sight.

Overall, the Varietiez Diana Wingback Back Bed Frame is a beautiful and practical choice for any bedroom. With its contemporary design, button-tufted upholstery, and plush velvet fabric, this bedframe is sure to add a touch of elegance and luxury to your sleeping space.

[bowieandqueen11]

Nightmares / Jareth Headcanons

Request: Hello love, can I make a Jareth headcanon request? What he’s like with a partner who has really bad nightmares? thank you 💕

Of course, thank you for the request! My exam season finally ends at the end of next week, so I can get back to writing!! <3

If you enjoy, please comment!!

The first few times you have nightmares in the Labyrinth, Jareth thought you were just talking or mumbling some kind of nonsensical language he’d never heard before. 

At first, he woke up in a state of panic, his more animalistic side taking over. He would grab whatever object lay closest on his bedside table - a book, a framed photo from your wedding day, a highlighter brush - whatever it was, he would get ready to swing it at whatever intruder had you shouting.

Once, he accidentally summoned about a thousand little goblins, who came running and tumbling into your bedroom and scared the heck out of you as they jumped up onto the mattress to protect you.

For a while after that, would wake up each time with a little grumble, his hair brushing his pillow as he lifts his head to look at you. It turns out, the two of you were lying cuddled so close together that his nose accidentally bumped against yours as raised his head. The little nose brush had made you wake up slightly, rolling over and going back to sleep silently.

Before he understood what was going on, he would just sigh dramatically, placing his arm tenderly back around your waist and nestling/ curling himself into your back again, falling peacefully asleep into dreams of masquerade balls and glittering stars that whisper your name.

He finally starts to realise something is wrong with his beloved, though, a couple of days afterwards. The first straw is when he cups your cheek and tilts your head up to meet his lips when he bumps into you and the throne room, and sees the black circles under your eyes as you try your best to smile at him. It suddenly, finally strikes him when he reaches out to grab and caress the tips of your fingers as the two of you walk down into the cellar, only for you to nearly trip down the stairs due to your eyes refusing to stay open.

‘Is everything okay, my starlight? I hope our evening with the Fireys didn’t tire you out too much for tonight-’

‘I’m alright, Jareth, I just... I just-’

As you stumble, he reaches out quickly to grab you, concern etched onto his features. He pulls you tightly into your chest, trying to pretend you can’t feel how his heart has started to try and pound its way out of his chest as you thump your head down onto his collar bone.

That night, he doesn’t join you straight in bed as usual. Instead, he sits on the stool by his vanity, pretending to sew feathers into his shimmering Sapphire blue cape whilst also furrowing his eyebrows and throwing you troubled looks from behind his needle.

Every time you catch him, beckoning him over to join you under the feathery duvet, he just grins and clears his throat, turning to move the lamplight an inch closer to his elbow.

He hoped that the warm, honey glowing light in the cobbled room, and the knowledge that he was still here, still awake watching over you, would ease you to sleep without him having to say it out loud.

When the nightmares start back up, he freaks and does the only thing he can think of. He’s such a big, panicky baby, no matter how much he tries to hide it, and he just loves you more than anything-

Before he can stop himself, he’s clambering over the oak bedframe until he nearly falls on top of you. He straddles you, thighs squeezing into either side of your waist as he gently rubs his hands up and down your arms. His breath is so close, so warm against your face, that you would almost enjoy it if you were awake. At the moment, though, he was just trying to see if there was any way he could try and settle your panicked breathing.

As soon as your eyelashes flutter open, you freeze at the sight of your husband leaning over your face. His hair, for the first time ever, is mussed up in silver strands sticking up everywhere, his mouth slightly open in distress.

He picks you up into his arms, cupping the back of your head and just gently shushing you as you press your forehead into the dip of his neck.

The next few days, sometimes you’re too scared to go to sleep, so Jareth will complain 70% less when you lay your head down onto his lap, tights scratchy and familiar against your cheek when you have a picnic down by the Bog of Eternal Stench. Or, he’ll pull you down into his lap and makes you sleep against him on the throne, where he knows he can stay and protect you.

Sometimes he wears just a little extra perfume, so you can be enveloped and comforted by his scent as you doze off.

Sometimes you just think it’s you slipping off and floating down into dreamland, but you can hear your husband press a lingering kiss to the tip of your ear, before whispering in the softest voice how much he cares about you and how he’ll never leave you.

Anytime after that, he always seems to wake up before you start crying in your sleep, as if your souls are so tied together he can just sense when something is wrong.

He’ll languidly roll over onto his side, caressing your face as you wake up, trying to crack silly jokes the whole while just to see you smile through the tears.

(Despite his smirk, his heart is shattering into a million pieces on the inside to see how desperately you hang onto his every word.)

For the first time in his life, when he’s lying next to you in bed, he will be completely and utterly vulnerable and open in front of you.

He grabs onto your hands until you crawl into his lap, draping the velvet cover over your bare laps as you clench your fingers into the silk shoulders of his billowing pyjama shirt. The loamy midnight air cocoons the two of you in a tingling snugness, his voice so rich and deep and sweet it’s as if you’re being covered in falling rose petals as he reminds you of the first time the two of you had met.

How he had known, even then, that he had met the love of his life, and the future ruler of the Underground.

[bemorekleinman]

day 7 of the @sincerely-us DEH closing tribute: favorite memory*

*combined with an implied bit of belonging and getting back up from the days I missed

title: A Very Lengthy Narrative of My First Visit to the Music Box Theater, or alternatively, I Wrote This For an English Assignment and I’d Like to Reuse It Because It’s Really Not That Bad, In My Opinion

Most people bustling through the streets of the Theater District in Midtown Manhattan are heavily cloaked with raincoats and worry, but I, similarly to most obnoxious tourists, am bounding down the sidewalk with a little too much skip in my step. The sun has long set, and the stars are hidden away behind the bright lights of flashing marquees as I dash from streetlamp to streetlamp. I’ve been here once before, but I can hardly remember anything outside the city smell of trash bags and exhaust; besides, my relatively newfound love for the shows on Broadway makes the experience feel completely fresh.

If you were to follow me around on this drizzly April night, you’d want to take two sharp lefts away from the fluorescent screens of Times Square and head past the warm flashing lightbulbs of old theaters. Pass under the sturdy scaffolding used for what I can only assume is a remnant of an incomplete and long-postponed project, and your destination will be on the right: the Music Box Theater. The Palladian style of the building’s exterior, with its limestone bricks and grooved pillars, is contrasted with sleek LED lettering and digital billboards. Both the light-up screens and various banners secured to the railings proudly announce in signature blue lettering: Dear Evan Hansen- The Tony Award-Winning Best Musical! This is a place I’ve only seen in photos; a place I’ve only dreamed of going to for at least four years. Now, finally, I’m about to step foot inside for the most anticipated two hours and thirty minutes of my lifetime.

The small interior of the theater matches well with its outside appearance: intricate carvings and golden designs border the walls and ceilings, contrasting well with the faded velvet of the red seats. I make my way down the aisle with a Playbill program clutched in my hands, careful not to bump any elbows or trip over stray purses. It’s only after I take my seat at the front of the mezzanine that I can truly focus on the scene in front of me. The dark abyss of the stage is nearly empty, save for a single set piece: red plaid sheets covering a wooden bedframe, accompanied by a small nightstand. A closed laptop rests on the bedspread, reflecting the bluish spotlight shining down. Soft hums and gentle strums echo from the orchestra “pit”, unconventionally placed on an elevated platform on the top left of the stage. This show saved me two years ago, and now here I am- about to experience it right in front of me.

The clock strikes 7:30, and the lights dim. An electronic humming begins- the beeps and dings rise to a crescendo as the audience falls silent with anticipation. Then, a single spotlight. Under that spotlight: a single actor. He looks out into the audience, wide-eyed, waiting, and takes a breath. And just like that, even if only for a couple of hours, the rest of the world falls away.

[halfway-happyyy]

wildest dreams

AN: ahoy friends! writing has felt distant to me lately which is unfortunate, but i was able to dream this up thanks to this ask . short and sweet, and nothing but fluff ahead. enjoy!

Seated across from one another at a crew dinner in West London, you marvel freely at the precise way his glassy blue gaze glitters merrily under exceptional conversation and even better wine. The navy silk tie knotted at the base of his throat looks great where it is, but you reckon it looked even better tied to the wrought-iron railing of your hotel bedframe a couple nights ago. An eight-AM flight bound for LaGuardia airport the next morning looms above you like a heavy raincloud; a stark reminder that your time in England is almost up. He knows it too; you can feel it in the way he glances at you every so often. Like he’s trying desperately to remember how you look in the waning light from the candles scattered around you. He catches your gaze once more before people begin saying their goodbyes for the evening, and he offers you a look that says nothing at all but also everything, in equal measure.

Secrets between lovers never remain that way for long.

There is no visible sign of rain on the horizon but you can smell traces of it in the air as you exit the restaurant into the late-May evening. Funny how four weeks ago you had only ever heard mentions of his name in passing, and now you wait with bated breath for the all too-familiar feeling of his impossibly warm hand at the small of your back. “What do you say we get away from here for a little while, hm?” The ghost of a Swedish lilt in his voice, and his lips against the delicate shell of your ear cause you to shiver against him and you nod your head wordlessly. If the last three and a half weeks have proven anything to you, it's that your will to tell him no to anything is inexplicably non-existent.

“Show me the way, Alex.”

The car ride is silent save for the static of the radio on in the background and you assume you're en-route to his hotel. Yours was last night's venue of choice and you can still picture the discarded pieces of his clothing littering the marble flooring like physical manifestations of your blissful recklessness. Closing your eyes, you can still feel the weight of him between your legs; the miniscule violet bruises from desperate fingertips or teeth that decorate the velvet inside of your thighs, and the delicious ache from being stretched a little too fully.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Alexander simpers.

You swallow hard, turning to gaze out at the passing scenery. “Last night was nice,” You offer, mildly.

Alexander chuckles softly at that, his laughter eventually fading into thoughtful silence. “Every night with you this last little while has been nothing short of mesmerizing.”

“I bet you say that to all the pretty girls.”

His gaze flits from the road for a second to yours, his expression unreadable. “Just you, kid.” And god, this is where it all starts to sting. There isn’t enough liquor in the world that could drown out the feeling of leaving something behind indefinitely- be it a person or a place.

Nothing lasts forever.

Eventually the steady flow of the vehicle lulls you into a shallow sleep, and when Alexander’s kiss rouses you from that state a little while later, it is to the notion that you are not in fact at his hotel, but rather a beautiful white-washed cottage. Stretching your arms as high as the car will allow, you yawn before turning to him. “How long were we driving for?”

He glances at the time on the dash and shrugs. “Forty-five minutes, give or take.” Lifting the back of your hand to his lips to kiss it softly, he cocks his head to the side and asks, “Shall we go and settle into our home for the evening?”

You nod, smiling sleepily. Show me the way, Alex.

Forest green ivy winds its way up the white stone walls of the front entrance, and you're entirely smitten with the place before you've even stepped foot inside. Walking into the front hallway, you notice a stone fireplace against the far wall. Ornate wooden furniture- seemingly from a long forgotten time, adds endless charm to the already beautiful home, and the glaring notion that you have less than twelve hours here is not lost on you. Glancing back at Alexander, you offer him a small smile which he willingly returns. You wander over to the expansive bay window in the corner of the room, which offers a breathtaking view of the rolling valley hills splayed out like a rich tapestry before you. Letting your eyes fall shut, you play through an invisible highlight reel of the last four whirlwind weeks of your life. 

Your first legitimate gig. 

Alexander for the first time. 

London, and so much laughter. 

His lips on yours. 

Memories. 

He clears his throat behind you and you turn to view him in the fiery light from the fading sun. He's still leant against the wooden front hall doorframe, and though his eyes still glimmer just as brightly as they did earlier this evening, something else lingers there that makes a lump swell in the hollow of your throat.

“You're staring at me,” Your tone is soft, quizzical.

A small smile blooms across Alexander's face as he nods his head in confirmation. “I want to remember this exact version of you for the rest of my days. You, in that beautiful dress, the sunset behind you…” His inflection is painfully wistful; it drips with a longing you aren't familiar with yet. Maybe you never will be.

*

When you awaken in the morning's hush it is to the delicate sound of birdsong from the open window. The dawn breeze rolling in chills you through, and you instinctively curl back into the sleeping Swede behind you. How much you'll miss this when you're parted; how much you'll miss him. He stirs behind you, and his strong arms circle your waist, pulling you ever closer.  

“To have one more night tangled up with you…” His voice bares the brunt of slumber, the dry, raspy drawl of it makes your knees weak. His fingertips trace unrecognizable patterns along the dips and valleys of your hips and ribs, and the urge to miss a flight has never been more pressing. “It’s possible we could keep this going…” His silence gives way to a subdued optimism; he’s flipping through a mental rolodex of his next jobs: Morocco, Toronto, California, and eventually... home to New York. It just isn't in the cards for either of you.

“In every single universe apart from this one, we keep going Alex.”

And when this ends, I hope you remember me well.

"God, I'll miss you." A heavy sigh emanates from his parted lips as he bends his head to press a gentle kiss to the apple of your cheek. "Give ‘em hell, kid."

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This new home in Texas has an old European feel, but it also has some funky modern surprises.  It might be situated in one of the biggest cities in the U.S but you'd easily mistake this home for a historic French property, nestled in the fields of Provence.

The entry flows into a more formal living room, with the same limestone checkerboard floors to link the two spaces. The overall feel of this space is one of antiquity, but once the eye has focused, you can see it's actually an eclectic blend of styles. That contemporary aubergine velvet sofa!

A bold abstract expressionist painting contrasts a carved stone side table. There are so many layers going on here, and yet all the pieces fit together.

The kitchen blends a kind of French rustic charm with something more modern and industrial. It's a style that's hard to pinpoint, with the mix of metal-clad cabinets and their exposed hardware, and the copper pot collection, but like all the rooms in this home, the mix works.

The white marble worktops give all the natural materials a modern, more glamorous twist and lifts the dark steely blue of the cabinetry.

The limestone flooring adds even more texture to the space.

A custom-made oval dining table with an oversized sculptural chandelier mirroring the oval shape. Far from the more traditional designs, this is made from antiqued steel and was designed to be the sole focal point.

Near the dining room is the dramatic black marble bar. The wooden cabinets soften the look but it still remains a very sleek, sophisticated space.

One of the main features of the family room is the reclaimed beams. The antique screen is from the 40s. This space also has that same quirky mix of old and new.

Behind a solid custom reclaimed oak door is the downstairs powder room. Limestone floors, plaster walls, marble countertop, raw stone sink, antiqued glass, all work together to turn the smallest room in the house into one of the most stunning.

In the master bedroom a custom parquet walnut floor adds warmth. To counteract the vaulted ceiling, and make the room feel more intimate, a matching walnut screen surrounds the custom-made bed frame.

Antique reclaimed marble floor in the master bathroom.

Circular freestanding tub, Italian giltwood mirror in Rococo style and an antique milking stool.

The guest bedroom has a distinctively more contemporary, Mediterranean feel with the gauzy canopy around the simple black iron bedframe.

The guest bathroom has the same contemporary feel – a sleek white tub and modern light fixtures. The rustic oak stool and vintage rug add texture and a slightly rustic touch.

https://www.livingetc.com/features/new-build-home-in-texas-with-european-style

[ffangirlingsince2001]

The Witcher and the Princess: Fire and Ice

Geralt of Rivia is not a babysitter, he is not a bodyguard, and he has no interest in transporting princesses across the continent. Until gold is offered and for the next 90 days he’s saddled with a chirpy, bubbly, princess, who is betrothed to the prince of Narok and has a desire to see everything before she’s trapped behind another set of walls.

Geralt x Reader

Warnings: angry witcher, angst, hypothermia reader, skin on skin but not smut, language

She was gone when he awoke.

The bed was made, her clothes were gone as was her pack, and she was nowhere to be found.

“Fuck,” he growled scrambling around for a set of clothing, the drunkenness of last night still weighing heavily on his mind.

And he couldn’t find a damn pair of pants. Because of course when he needed them the most he couldn’t find them. He swore he had left them on the ground when he had climbed into bed last night, but that’s where he thought he had left his shirt too, and it was nowhere to be found either. He was stranded, princessless and without any clothes. “Fuck,” he yelled again, throwing his fist into the bedframe, the wood splintering ever so slightly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Gold wasn’t worth it. She could find her own damn way to her godforsaken prince. If he loved her that much, he should have sent a carriage instead of relying on him to bring her. He was going to kill her if he ever saw her again, selfish spoiled brat. If he had anything to say about it he was going to teach her a lesson in some goddamn respect He was going to teach her what fear meant. He was going to-

“Can you unlock the door? I forgot my key.” The familiar voice froze him in his rage, still panting with anger the words he had for her threatened to bubble over. When he didn’t move the call came again, accompanied by a soft tapping that he assumed she considered to be knocking.

He marched towards the door and flung it open to reveal a very innocent looking princess.

“Oh!” she gasped, averting her eyes as quickly as she could, cheeks washing pink. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I-,”

“Where the fuck have you been?” he growled pulling her in by her arm as forcefully as could without pulling her arm from her shoulder.

“You’re hurting me,” she gasped, the parcels in her hands falling to the ground as she struggled to get out of his grip, his fingers leaving tight purple bruises in their stead.

“I asked you a damn question, I expect an answer, Princess,” he spat, eyes blazing with fire, hands shaking with anger.

No. He wasn’t shaking.

She was.

Eyes wide with fear, lower lip quivering as she tried to maintain eye contact. She wasn’t sure if the fury in his eyes or his nakedness were more intimidating, but his eyes were far less foreign.

“Shopping,” she squeaked, glancing at the parcels that littered the floor.

“Shopping?” he snarled, and she flinched away, pulling at his heavy grasp once more, but he pulled her closer, not stopping until her arm was pressed against his chest and his breath was rustling her hair. “Your father might be paying me to take you to your dearly beloved, but he is not paying me to flounce after your every whim. And where are my clothes?”

“Drying in the bathroom.” She was near tears now, but her voice didn’t even shake.

“Why are they drying?”

“I washed them this morning, you said.. you said you wanted to leave early so I thought if washed them we could leave earlier.” He studied her closely, searching for a lie, and when he found none he released her, stalking off towards the bathroom to check for himself.

Sure enough, as soon as he entered he found his clothes hanging from a makeshift clothesline. The stains and the smell were both a thing of the past. As he put them on he couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably, not quite use to the feeling of fresh cotton and linen against his skin. It was strange to be anything but dredged in dirt, yet now he stood cleaner than he had in months.

When he left the washroom, he found her huddled on her bed, knees to her chest and watching him tensely.

“Don’t run off again.” She nodded silently. Maybe he should have yelled at her sooner. “What did you buy anyway, we can’t afford to carry clothing, it’ll slow us down.”

“Oh, I didn’t buy clothes, I guess I traded the old one for a new one, but that’s all food,” she rambled bashfully, picking up the parcels she had dropped in his bout of anger. “Venison mostly, but some stuff for Roach, too.” As she stood and stared at him he noticed the dress she had mentioned. Green velvet had been traded for cream colored cotton and golden embroidery swapped for a leather corset that cinched her waist in ways that were far more tempting than the loose style dresses princesses often wore. It was hard to think of her as princess in the way she stood before him, doe eyed and expectant. Standing merely feet away in his bedroom no less. Had she been anyone else he was sure his fingers would be hoisting her skirt while she squirmed beneath him, but she was not anyone else. He shook the thought from his head, nothing good could come from lusting after princesses, especially those were already set to married.

“Why the dress?” he grunted, noting the way she had begun to draw circles in the carpet with her shoe as he studied her, just like she had the night before.

“I thought the princess thing would make us a target for bandits,” she explained and he grunted in agreement.

“Won’t your prince mind your dressed like a commoner?”

“I can always buy a different one.” Of course she could.

He grunted and threw his pack over his shoulder, marching out the door. It took a few moments for the soft patter of her shoes to follow and when they came so did her chattering. “I’m sorry for making you worry.” When he didn’t even offer her a hum of acknowledgement she continued, “It’s just I didn’t want to make you wait any longer than you had to, and I thought I would be back before you woke, and I know don’t really want to do this so I thought I would make it easier for-,”

“Do you always talk this much?” he interrupted as he saddled both Roach and the white horse her father had provided her.

“I’m trying to apologize,” she snapped, her tone a little too privileged for his taste.

“Listen Princess-,”

“My name’s Y/N.”

“Alright, Y/N, listen, out here is my kingdom. I’m the king, it’s my rules, and if you don’t like it you can find a new babysitter.”

“And then you won’t get your gold.”

“Your father’s not the only one with gold.”

“Why did you take it then?” To that he didn’t respond, merely mounted Roach and began to ride out of town. “So, that’s your argument then? Just walking away?”

“I don’t argue with naïve children,” he called back urging Roach forward, not even bothering to wait for her. She would catch up, and if she didn’t no skin off of his nose.

 She caught up of course and the silence that he so desperately craved the day prior accompanied her. Though, it had a lot more tension than he would have preferred. It was harsh and cold, hurt feelings driving it, but the coldness had nothing on the store brewing in the clouds above them.

The snow had started falling a couple hours in and by the time the sun was beginning to set it had turned into a full blizzard.

Wind pierced the travelers hard and fast, pellets of ice digging into their skin as they trekked forwards. It was lucky he had had the sense to tie her horse to his when the storm had first started to pick up because he was sure she would have been left behind long ago. He could feel her horse bumping into his, her cloak brushing against his arm but the sheet of white between them prevented him from seeing any of it. He knew he should have stopped the moment it began. He should have tied up a shelter and them huddle beneath. He should have kept her safe, but pride had prevented it. Pride and annoyance from the morning demanded they keep going. And to make him feel worse she hadn’t complained once.

As requested she had stayed silent throughout the ride, it was only when she could no longer hold it in that the chattering of her teeth began. He should have stopped right then, but he kept moving, insisting mostly to himself that wasn’t that long to the next town.

He knew now they had long since passed the nearest town, and any further hope of warmth. He would have to hope that the horses would keep them warm until he was able to find a spot to hide them in.

“Geralt,” came the first timid whisper of the day, and it sounded terrified.

“We’re almost there,” he lied and silence followed. He knew she knew he was lying so the silence worried him, and the worry only grew when her leg knocked against him as she tumbled off her horse and into the snow. He yanked against the reigns and threw himself off before Roach had even come to a complete stop. Wind whipped through his hair as he blindly felt for the princess, praying that the snow had failed in covering her up. When he found her the shaking was so violent it was a struggle to hold her.

“Y/N you need to get up. C’mon Princess, we need to keep moving, we’re almost there,” he yelled over the snow, but she didn’t budge, there wasn’t even an attempt. “Fuck.” He pulled her into his arms and wrapped the cloak around her before climbing back onto Roach. They continued to ride, her shivering never slowing, even as the wind backed down. Trees began to come into view, and much to his elation so did a crawl space within the knot of a trunk. Wasting no time, he maneuvered his horse towards the salvation and carried her inside.

It barely fit the two of them, but it didn’t allow for any wind or snow either. Though it was notably warmer, she continued to shake, her lips a nasty shade of blue.

“Wake up, Princess,” he pleaded, rubbing his hands against her arms. “I know we should have stopped, just wake up.” When she didn’t stir he began to panic and instincts fought propriety. Everyone who lived in the wild knew, skin against skin, but she wasn’t from the wild, and from the way her gaze had searched for anything other than him her innocence was still very obvious; however, at this moment, her imminent death was just as obvious.

Whispering foreign apologies, he removed his shirt and tugged her dress as high as he dared. The leather corset he had imagined removing taunting him as he struggled to remove it as quickly as possible. As he pulled her against him, he allowed the dress to drape across as much of her as he could manage.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the shaking slow and she shifted against him. Her skin grew warmer and her flesh swelled against him with each breath. This was what he had worried about, how his body would react to her warmth. And react it did. With every movement a wave a relief and terror washed over him. He thanked whoever would listen that she was alive, but it grew harder to control the animalistic urges that normally accompanied soft flesh and pretty faces. The torture lasted for hours, their cave growing hotter with every passing moment, until he was gasping for a breath of fresh air. It seemed to go on forever, until finally she called out to him softly.

“Geralt, are we there yet?”

***

Taglist: @mallorydoesstuff​ @facelessfiction​ @aphadriel-fanfic​

[zombierocker17]

Harry is drunk and needy on his birthday, Harry Styles Imagine (Smut)

(Hi my lovelies, been about 2 weeks (Im sorry). I'm back at writing, It's was recently Harry's birthday!!. So I decided on a special imagine. Drunk Harry, but also needy Harry. Enjoy- Briana ♥️)

(Teasing, Handcuffs, Dominating over Harry)

The early evening of February 1st, Harry's birthday. Harry was eager to go out tonight, instead of his more recent big fancy floral or printed suits he wore a more romantic looking suit. A more tame look, his hair done nicely. A white dress shirt, unbuttoned of course. And a black blazer paired with black dress pants. Adorning his neck a loose black tie hangs.

You watched him put on each price of clothing, the silky tie dragging against his lightly tanned skin. Recently trimmed hair falling into his face as he leaned down to tie his shoes. His long fingers gripped the laces with ease. The rings on his fingers complimenting his outifit perfectly .

Your wearing a long sleeve grey dress top, with a pair of his pearls around your neck. Some tight black pants and some sparkly black heels. It was casual but fancy enough for Harry's birthday dinner. He certainly enjoyed anything you wore. Especially if you where wearing his clothes.

.

.

.

The dinner started in a restaurant for dinner with his family and some friends. Then dwindled down to a few friends, and Gemma. Harry had been saying all week how we was going to get completely wasted for his birthday. And you believed him.

.

.

.

It was a romantic fun evening, Sitting on some dark blue velvet barstools, you where deep in a conversation with Gemma. "And then Harry starts running around the house in my training bra!" she giggles talking about Harry and hers childhood. You giggle trying to imagine younger Harry in the bra running around. "That sound like something he would do. I mean yesterday Harry tried on a pair of my earnings, he was like 'Y/N do you think these would look nice with my sparkly nave blue suit?'. " you say imitating his voice, while giggling.

"That definately sounds like my brother" she drags the sentence as she looks past your head, looking behind you. She laughs covering her mouth with her hand. You turn around seeing somthing you didn't expect.

His blazer off , hair slightly messy. His dress shirt hanging on by a few buttons. He was dancing to the music stumbleing over to you an Gemma. You had only seen Harry drunk one other time, except last time it was early in the night. He was only tipsy that time, kinda silly, loud reminded you of regular Louis.

"Heeeyy baabbe!!" His voice slurred, his long ringed fingers wrap around your waist with a very tight grip. "Hi-ya H !" You say pecking his cheek. "What are you babes talkin about?" He says.

You giggle, "Did you just call your sister a 'babe' ?" You ask. "Mm yeah. She's gorgeous, I mean she's related to me after all!" He says running his fingers through his hair you thought 'there it is'. His whole 'all about him' drunk quality. It was cute and silly but it was Harry.

He walks behind you holding onto your shoulders. His lower half was now pressed against your back, he places his chin on your head resting it there. He presses he crotch against your bottom, your body tenses up at the feeling. He has a boner, and he is pressing it right against you.

He says loudly near your ear "Baabee, I neeeed you pweease" he begs. Gemma has left already, she left the moment Harry placed his head on top of yours. She knew you two would want to talk. He turns your swivel bar stool around to face him. " I neeeed you now. Can wee pweease leave?" He asks again pouting his bottom lip. Gosh, you just wanted to bite at it.

Harry is definelty the dominating one in the bedroom, but sometimes he absolutely loves it when you in charge. And judging by the way he's acting that's how you assumed tonight was going to end.

You look at his glazed over sparkling green eyes. They are practically calling to your soul to take him home. You give in knowing he would only be whiny if you didn't .

"Fine! Let's get going my needy little 26 year old." You say grabbing your things and rubbing your hand against his soft chin and jawline. He smiles and wraps his arm around your waist pulling you close. Heading out to the car you notice Harry able to walk a little smoother. Clearly his drunkenness leaveing him and being replaced with pure lust and need for you.

He helped you into the car taking into account you where still wearing your heels. Both you and Harry sat in the back seats of the car. This car had some things similar to a limo, the little window that can be rolled up for privacy from the driver. Large black leather seats for two people to sit on. And a small compartment for storage.

"Home please Tanner, and hurry please" Harry says to the nodding driver before rolling up the little window.

"Someone is needy" you say chuckling a little bit at Harry. His hand immediately takes a very strong grip on your leg. "Very needy" you say under your gasp from the sudden grip on your leg.

"On-top of me please" Harry begs a small whimper in his tone. You obey his orders taking into account he used the word 'Please' , instead of being to rough or forceful.

You climb on top of him straddling him both your legs on either side of his waist. As soon as you get comfortable on his lap you feel his boner against the area he craves. Grinding on him you earn a moan from his alcohol stained lips. It motivates you to keep moving, you grind harder agaisnt him his head tilts back enjoying the teaseing.

"I've been wanting this all evening, ever since I first saw you wearing these tight pants" he says sliding his hands up your thighs and wrapping around your waist landing on your ass. He gives it a quick spank, resulting in you breathing out a sound between a whine of pain and a moan of pleasure.

He smiles at your reaction. "Keep grinding Y/N please felt s'perfect" he begs. You continue to grind against him moaning at how hard he was under the layers of fabric.

You could feel yourself getting slightly wet at the feeling. Harry still holding onto your waist pulls you closer taking you into a very heated makeout session. Tasting the sour flavour off Harry's lips was giving you all the motivation to keep grinding.

At this point your both grinding against eachother your hands are tangled in his hair. His ringed fingers clawing at your back. Your both complelty enjoying eachother until the car stops. The small green light near the dividing window lights up, indicating you have arrived.

You waste no time in pulling Harry inside the house. Passionately nipping at his neck leaving several love bites that will surely be all over the news the next few days. Stopping at every corner, wall or landing up the way to your shared bedroom. Every stop removing another piece of clothing from each other.

Until you finally reach the bedroom, leaving you in your bra and panties, and Harry in only his boxers and loose hanging tie.

"Lay on the bed arms up" you command at Harry. He does as he is told, he lays on the dark red wine colored bedsheets, lifting his arms up to the bed frame. You open the bottom bedside table drawer pulling out the metal handcuffs. Harry blushes knowing tonight is going to be long, but enjoyable.

You take one of the cuffs placing his wrist into it clasping it closed not too tight but tight enough. The wrapping the chain around the bedframe and doing the same to his other wrist. He was completely stuck there until you where to unlock him.

"Well hello there" you say rubbing his cock through his now very tight black boxers. You teasingly climb on to the bed inbetween his flat spread legs. His perfect green eyes never leave you. Your rubbing on him gets stronger earning a groan out of his perfect pink lips.

"Oh look at this" you say pulling off his boxers. His cock springs free standing straight up. "Look at how perfectly hard you are H" you lightly pull his cock to one side and let go watching it swing then stand straight up again. He groans again, "Y/N do somthing. Anything please,I need you."

You wrap your fingers around his cock, admiring how your small hand barley wraps around his cock. The veins that run up the sides of his cock, each and every bump and ridge. Every perfect detail turned you on, feeling the wetness soaking your panties. You decided against what's left of your clothing. You remove them sliding each peice off seductively.

You climb on top of him , rubbing your wet folds along his cock. His breathing hitches at the contact. "Y/N C'mon please do somthing" he begs. You give in, sliding into his cock all the way. His throat releases a low growl-like moan. "Fuckin 'ell, so tight babe" he groans out.

You use his chest to help you bounce up and down, placing your hands just below his collarbone bird tattoos. Your both moaning at the speed, Harry helps you by thrusting lightly up into you. Letting you do most of the work for now. You start picking up speed more going much faster. You moan at the sound of your asking hitting eachother.

"Y/N you feel amazing." He says closing his eyes as pleasure waves over him. You lean forward and unlock his cuffs. You want him fucking you.

As soon as his hands are free, he takes your hips in his hands with a very tight grip as he thrusts into you hard. "Oh Harry. Faster please. I'm getting close baby" you yell through various moans. He reaches towards your clit, rubbing fast circles helping you through your orgasm.

"Shit.... That was hot babe" he says laying you down on the bed. He places your legs on his shoulders as he slides his cock back in your leaking cunt. "Oh fuck, Harry. That feels great. You feel so big right now" you moan arching your back. "You feel incredible at this angle Y/N your little cunt is squeezing my cock so well." He says thrusting deeper and deeper into you.

He leans down to get even deeper into you, your legs still on his shoulders. His thrusts faster and faster, as you feel the warmth deep in your lower stomach growing. "Harry I'm close baby" you warn. "Mm'to baby, together? " He asks. You nod feeling the tingly feeling get stronger.

"..3..." He kisses you, his thrusts getting very sloppy but still hitting every place you need.

"..2.." he rubs your clit harder making circles.

"..1.. cum babe. I'm cumming".

You both help eachother ride out your orgasms. Both panting lying next to each other. "Happy birthday H" you say kissing his nose. You watch that perfect smile grow on his face. "Thank you darling" he kisses your cheek as you both drift off to sleep.

[taehyungsgrowl]

SHARE THE THOT, SIS 🥰

OKAY SO HERE ME OUT: 

Like being in the mood to punish Michael. Not even necessarily with any physical punishment; quite the opposite actually. 

EDIT: before I started writing this I really wanted a subby boy Michael BUT once I began, Dom Daddy jumped out so 🤷🏽‍♀️

Let’s say he was away on business and you tried calling him for some uh phone sex 👀but he hit you w a “I’m sorry, angel. I’ve got a lot going on. You should probably just go to sleep. I’ve got a lot of work to do.” 

Fast forward to him coming home (beyond excited to see you because it’s been a long & hard week for him) and wanting to make up for lost time. 

He opened your bedroom door to see you kneeled on the bed in a new lingerie set. A lacy red number with a plunging bralette, garter belt, and decorative panties. 

“Fuck, baby.” he stared in awe, his eyes wandering up your legs and torso until he met your eyes. “Is this all for me?” a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he stalked towards you. 

“Actually,” you stopped him in his tracks. You were amused by the sudden confusion that washed over his expressions. “You’ve got a lot going on,” you mimicked his words. “Take a seat.” you nodded your head towards the plush velvet seat in your room. 

Without letting his eyes leave you, he took a seat. Michael sat with his legs wide open, the confidence oozing out through the way he looked at you. A strip tease - he thought, running his hand under his chin, looking at you like some sort of predator. He couldn’t wait until you were being split open on his cock. He missed having your sweet cunt hugging his length. 

“And because daddy’s been too busy,” you faked an exaggerated pout, “Daddy doesn’t get to touch.” 

“Very funny.” he leaned forward in his chair, his tone obviously not finding it funny. “If I remember correctly, you’ve been needing a little help while I was away. Let daddy take care of that for you.”

“Mm,” you licked your lips. “Figured out how to take care of myself when you’re gone..” 

You leaned back, completely propped up on a hill of pillows. Providing Michael with a perfect view. Your knees were bent and legs slightly parted. Your panties were wet from seeing Michael alone. God. You had missed him. But right now, he needed to be shown not to ignore you so much. 

Your fingers lightly stroked over your panties as you eyes bore into his. Your breath came out jaggedly as you teased yourself. His eyes were glued to your pretty little fingers rubbed lazily on your lace.

“Michael.” your voice sounded as sweet as honey to his ears. After a long week of not hearing you moan out his name, his cock twitched in response. Your voice turned him on like a light switch. 

He watched as your hand quickly slipped inside the waistband of your panties. He wished it were his hand feeling the pool of wetness between your thighs. The wet sounds you made filled the room alongside your heavy breathing. “See?” you half giggled half moaned, “I can make myself feel g-good too.” you taunted him. 

Michael let out a soft whimper as he palmed over his hardened cock. His hand rolled over the large bulge in his pants as he ached to be inside you. “Please baby. You sound so fucking delicious.” he groaned, wanting nothing more than to have his face buried between your legs. 

“Mhm, I’m so wet,” you dragged out the last word, parting your legs further. 

“Fuck,” you heard his curse under his breath. 

Michael’s low voice hitching each time he pressed harder on his bulge only edged you further. Your back arched as your fingers pressed down on your clit, imagining it was Michael’s soft velvet tongue massaging it. 

“I’m gonna cum..” you panted repeatedly, feeling yourself getting closer. 

His ears perked up when he heard you say it; Those words took him out of his hypnotized state of watching you get yourself off. In a swift movement, he was on his feet, removing his leather belt from around his hips. Your eyes shot open, stopping in your tracks, seeing him stand over you. His short curls framed his face, sharp jawline peppered in stubble. 

“You’ve made your point, Y/N.” the way your name dripped from his lips made a shiver run down your spine. He threaded the tail of his belt through the buckle, holding it firmly in his hand. “Turn around.” his voice coated in command. 

Following his order, your flipped around, your head looking over your shoulder to keep up with what he was doing. You felt the bed dip as he climbed on, taking both your hands and pinning them behind your back. You felt the sleek black leather slip around your wrists as he tightened a second loop, cuffing your hands behind your back. 

“Now you can’ touch what’s mine.” he mused, leaning down to kiss the back of your shoulder; a gentle reminder that he loved you and your games. 

“It was an impressive little show, I’ll give you that.” he chuckled, freeing himself out of his remaining clothes. Michael positioned himself to sit against the bedframe, legs spread and ready for you to ride him. 

He picked up your upper body, helping your climb on top of him. Your wet red panties rubbed against his hard cock. The rough lace felt like reminder of how much he wanted to rip them apart. 

You wiggled as best you could on top of his lap - with little to no help from your hands. 

“Okay, Michael. Please. I’m sorry.” you pouted, batting your lashes in hopes that he take pity of you. But if anything, the sweet little innocent look on your face only made him want to further his punishment. His bratty little baby tried to play him like a fiddle, but he knew better. He knew how far he could push until you were beginning to be bouncing on his cock. 

His skilled fingers moved the thin material covering your pussy to the side, finally exposing your sensitive area for him. He sucked his thumb before bringing it back down to your clit to press down on it with his saliva coated digit. 

“Did you miss my cock, baby?” he looked up at you with hooded eyes. Soft blue eyes shimmered with a spark of mischief. Your hands tugged at the restraints as you tried to run your hand down his handsome face. His was chiseled out of marble. Michael had the face artists wished they could capture.

Not only his face - his entire body was that of a god.  Including his long veiny cock you sat upon. Thick in the right ways with the perfect length to accompany it. He pulsed underneath your ass just waiting to be buried inside your walls. 

“So much.” you grounded your ass down on his lap. “I want you to fill me up, daddy,”

A strangled moan got caught in his throat. “Yeah?” he pushed your panties further, making room for his member to slip inside you.  “I’m gonna fill up your tight little pussy.”

Michael grabbed the base of his cock, positioning it under your lifted hips. He helped you sink down on his length. Slowly, his head went past your lips as you slid all the way down. You winced as he stretched you. Each time you took him it felt like the first time. He let you sit on his cock entirely, getting used to the feeling. 

“Ride me, baby.” he held on to your hips, maintaining control of the situation. 

You began to roll you hips over his feeling him move inside you. You clenched your walls around him, lifting and dipping on to his cock at a steady pace. 

“Keep going.” he said between gritted teeth, his fingers left indentation on your hips. He helped you rock you back and forth on him. 

Your wrists were burning over how hard you tugged against his belt. You wanted to dig your nails into his chest or grip his hair. Or simply touch him. 

“Michael,” you begged, “Wanna touch you.” you cried out as his head slammed up into you.

“You’ve done enough touching for now,” he moved his hands from your hips up to your breasts, cupping them both over your thin bra. 

“Gonna cum inside you.” he panted, his shallow thrusts turning into harsher deeper ones. 

As soon as you feel his hot load burst inside you, you rolled your head back, giving him your own release. Michael leaned his face forward giving your tummy and breast sweet kisses and playful bites as you came on his cock. 

**

Michael cleaned you up and undid his belt that secured your hands. He took your hands in his and gently kissed your wrists where the belt had left red indentations. “’M sorry about earlier this week, angel.” he placed another gentle kiss. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in close. You missed the feeling of his strong arms around your waist. You missed his scruff rubbing against your most sensitive areas. You missed his smell. 

You missed him. 

And you were happier than ever to have him back in your arms.

--

OKAY SO I DERAILED. but it happens lmfao 

[sugarfreecapsicle]

eager

This is smut. Heed the warnings I list as well. Do not read if you are under the age of 18.

warnings: dom/sub dynamics, ownership, dirty talk, slight emasculation if you squint hard enough

okay, this was dug up in my ancient archives - @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan was kind enough to look this old piece over for me before I tweaked it for her follower celebration post, so major proper to her for being so kind. and to be totally up front, kids, I have no clue where this came from in my head and I doubt I’ll ever find out. feedback is appreciated, encouraged, coveted. nsfw content below the cut.

(gif credit)

Your stomach tied in knots, churning bile as your parents led you into the shop. Your skin crawled with cold sweat, goosebumps. If this is the precedent to nobility, you couldn’t be sure you wanted any part of it.

The clerk had welcomed your small party of three at the large cherry door, his words humming behind the echo of your heartbeat thrumming in your head. Father’s hand guided you between where he and your mother stood. "When you see one you like, speak up so you can inspect him before you settle on any of them, darling."

Dizziness whirled in your mind, walls spinning and painting a strange jewel toned mosaic of skin, dark aubergine walls, and cold metal. Chains rattled violently in rounds upon entrance to the hall, shaking through you like driving wind in a snowstorm. Eyes screwed shut while your entire body trembled, both parents now lamely attempting to soothe you as if the entire experience should be normal. 

"Look how eager they are for you, darling," Mother purred in your ear, brushing the hair out of your paling face. "As good little toys should be."

The underlying venom in your mother's voice implied punishment if her directions were not followed exactly, so you chanced a look towards the caged men, all in various forms of undress. Only a few looked utterly miserable, uninterested at the new visitors - those more eager, more desperate for escape, couldn't take their eyes off the three nobles. A handful of the men anticipated your mother to choose for you, one or two even eyeing your father as if maybe he shopped for another to call his own.

"Show us your more desirable toys," Father said to the shopkeep. "Only the best will do for my daughter."

For your birthday, as every noble would, you were to receive your first toy. With the coronation imminent the need to find a suitable toy was pressing, and your father insisted the council allow you to choose one for yourself.

Again your family was led out of the caged room and into a minimalistic lobby. The clerk excused himself, saying he would bring out three of his most expensive "models". Your fingers wrung together, dewy sweat blending between your palms as you waited for him to return with the men, Mother's hand playing with strands of her rose-blonde hair. 

"We have faith in you, sweetheart," she said. "You'll pick a beautiful toy the others will be jealous of."

As per custom, your parents kept their ranks secret from their children. You preferred to keep it that way,  rather not know which of your parents would've been sold off like this to a royal. There was a possibility, of course, that both were dominant and had toys on the side since many of your friends couldn't help but let their curiosity flourish into investigation. Their findings more often than not completely altered their familial relationship, one even ruining their claim to land and wealth.

The clerk returned with a proud grin, leading one shackled man into the room. Shirtless with a sheen of sweat to his light skin, fitted brown pants and military fatigue boots accented by golden handcuffs keeping his hands together. His eyes made him seem more like a trapped god than a toy. Blue - not quite sky and not quite ocean, but certainly rivaled any imagining of Poseidon. His jaw set into a firm clench, a defiant nature masked by protocol. Your dizziness popped into a tingling high. 

Oh. 

Your father’s smile bloomed as he  nodded at the clerk and stepped away to take care of payment while your mother's hand stilled on your back and gently patted your shoulders. 

"Well done, darling."

--------

"What's your name?" you asked softly, arms wrapped around your middle as you looked at the man purchased by your parents. “Your given one.”

He appeared solid and powerful, something not often seen in other toys. No wonder he was worth so much to the clerk - most preferred their toys to be purchased weak then improved upon in private however each noble saw fit. Sandy blonde hair, strong shoulders, rippling muscles as far as the eye could see. 

"Steven," he answered in a hushed tone. Given names weren't allowed once a toy was bought. Under more traditional circumstances a new name would be deemed by the master, but you could tell this - or whatever this could be - was different. You wanted to know him as is, not the person anyone else decided he should be.

"Steve," you echoed with a small smile, finding confidence and introducing yourself by given name. He nodded mutely and fought back a smile, memories of impenetrable metal cracking against his body in his transition. He held his hands together as if the cuffs still bound him, though now tossed away somewhere in your wardrobe. Steve’s eyes didn't meet yours, keeping them focused on the floor as he'd been taught. You stepped over to him and lifted his chin, forcing his pale blue eyes to meet yours. 

How could you expect to train him to do your bidding in every possible way when he loomed over you? The echoes of your lessons sang in the back of your mind as you held his chin in place and searched his eyes. Steve wasn't afraid or angry disorienting your logical path of thought. Everything you'd prepared for comprised of a rigid, stubborn man with no desire for you whatsoever. Steve's presence and power couldn’t hide behind any veil or mask - he actively chose to be putty in your hands.

"Truthfully, I'm not sure how to be a good master," you murmur with a flutter of eyelashes. "But I'll try my best. If anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me. I don't want to hurt you."

Steve pursed his lips together and swallowed hard. "Yes, master."

The name shot through your core like lightning. "In private, you can call me by my name, not... that."

Steve nodded, raised your open palm to his lips and kissed a vague promise of honor to your hand. A somewhat bold move, being affectionate without your express permission or command, but you allowed it. His kisses warmed embers through your veins.

Carnal want pooled between your legs, but without specific instruction from you, Steve couldn’t satisfy if compulsory lessons could be trusted. With shaking hands, you felt across the expanse his shoulders, chest and torso moving slowly and deliberately to feel his breath hitch in particular spots. 

"I'm sure you've heard this from other...people," you tread carefully, hands resting at the waistband of his pants. "You're absolutely breath-taking."

He hummed and his balance wavered. "Thank you...m-may I have permission to speak?" 

You concede and lean into his body heat, feeling his tension radiate into you. 

"I don't ever want to take my eyes off you," he purred, vacillating closer to your touch as fingertips dipped behind linen. "I can hardly breathe when-"

Commentary interrupted by your hands pushing past his hips and thighs, a groan flows from his chest. You stopped, looking up at your with pants pooled at his ankles.

"When what, Stevie?"

Your hands pressed upwards again, pressing up his broad thighs and resting breaths away from where he pulsed, throbbed, ached. Thoughts of your lips, plump and soft surrounding his cock distracted him long enough to earn a bite at his hip.

"Tell me."

"When you look at me like that," he rushed. You lave the precum off him, twitching heartily under your tongue. Steve’s hands instinctively reached out for your hair, but he hesitates. Permission, he reminded himself.

You stood up, hands caressing with gentle persuasion, reassuring the trembling man of your permission. You pulled away long enough to give him verbal permission to touch you where he liked - and Steve wasted no time cocooning you in his arms. Calloused hands traveled down your back and rested just above your ass, the smallest finger skimming plump cheeks as you swayed towards the bed.

Pushed onto the mattress, he perches on his elbows, watching as you undress before him. His chest heaving breaths in frantic rhythm signaled his extensive use of self-control, limits pushed to a breaking point. Your thighs quivered beneath his survey, a predator locked in unspoken chains.

"I want you to fuck me," you assert firmly, "until our legs are so sore we can't walk. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master.” Steve’s answer is gruff, without hesitation and full of impending fire. "May I make a request?"

"You may.” You hovered over his curved muscles, your hungry gaze insatiable.

"May I taste you?"

You smirked and bit your lip, relishing in the way he shivered beneath you. "Look at you, already such a good pet." 

A soft hand dragged down his chest, raking your nails as you went - his body curls towards the touch, searing a tattooed lust where you roamed.

"Please," he begged, a strained moan elongating the word. Steve whines when your form glides sinfully over his, your lips tickling the shell of his ear.

"Would you like me to sit on your face?"

"Yes, please," he prayed, hands eagerly at your hips as your thighs framed his ears.

Steve’s mouth works pure magic, licking at the softest parts of you. His tongue is warm velvet, teasing and prodding inside only to pull away and flick at your clit until your only hope of balance remained in your arms bracing against bedposts.

The bedframe squeaked outside of your pants and moans and his voracious hums of pleasure. Steve’s hold on you - purely for contact - awarded no resistance to your hips rocking downward, fucking yourself on his tongue. 

"Make me cum, Stevie," you moaned, finding a rhythm you knew would provide enough speed and pressure to give you what you wanted without hurting him. "Oh, god, Steve, make me cum."

His neck strains further, a vein prodding against his damp skin as he measured your keening hips. You shrieked when he dared use his teeth against your outer lips, letting them slide between the bones gently. The knots in your stomach snapped as he sucked you fully between his lips, your back bowing so far you nearly collapsed on top of him. Wobbly arms on the headboard, you crooned out gentle moans as tides waned.

Steve rubbed the backs of your thighs, resisting kisses to the inside knowing he could bring you to another climax too soon and risk angering you. All night wouldn’t be enough to satisfy you, and at this rate Steve doubted he could last more than three rounds. He'd anticipated an elderly noble whose funding would easily acquire a ready courtesan, not a youthful beauty the other captives had convinced him would be impossible.

"Fuck me, Steve," you panted, kissing your way from the top of his head down to his neck. The jolts of heat from your lips steadied him briefly, though he hadn't noticed your hand traveling down his waist to his sensitive, aching cock until you gripped him. A fingertip grazed the sensitive precipice just under the head, along a vein that made him see stars behind his screwed shut lids. "But I want you to keep your eyes on me."

Steve let out a guttural wail as you drew a nipple into your mouth and lapped your way down the length of his pert muscles. How he'd managed to last this long, he couldn’t decipher - not while you bathed him in languid trails of lust. He began to plead in whispers as you teased his lower half, hands stroking his thighs and hips, urging him to rock back and forth with you. 

"So obedient," you murmured, taking the tip into your mouth and suckling gently enough to gather more precum. "Do you want to cum in my mouth?"

Steve barely shook his head, arms unable to hold their station as he flopped and arched against the mattress. "P-please, inside y-you," he panted heavily. 

You sat up on your knees and brought his hand to the apex of your thighs. "Here?"

All he could manage was a strangled groan, tossing his head back into the pillow. You shift quickly over him, now at eye level with breath teasing his parted lips.

"Eyes on me," you bid firmly, watching him as you gently move his cock against your lower lips before inching your way down. You cried out at the initial entrance, his hips barely shifting upwards with restraint to keep from sheathing himself until you bid it.

You moved agonizingly slow - Steve began to worry about how much more he could take without completely losing control. The thought of punishment didn’t help matters, how hard you'd smack him with a whip or a crop, or the scratches you'd leave around his body too much to bear. Barely uttering coherent pleas for release, for speed, for more pressure, anything to bring you both to release.

"Please," he cried, "please let me fuck you."

An answering moan from you, legs wrapped around his hips providing the permission he needed. With a growl, he thrusts powerfully in and out, your heat and softness both building and melting tension. As directed, his eyes never left yours - a thrill rushing over him as he discovered a pleasure point within you that wrenched your gaze away. Hips rutted against his build innately, lifting to meet his compelling pace. Steve kissed your lips as he rockets forward, settling his cock deep inside you - slowly grinding your hips together, altering the speed and urgency into something dangerously intimate.

Steve bellows from his chest when you flutter around him, nearing something explosive. To his relief, you pushed against him and urged him on faster and harder, loving the way skin smacked together and sounds harmonized in echoes around the room. 

"Cum, Steve," you shrieked, "oh, fuck."

He shuddered over you, all strain in his body finally released within scream of pleasure. Almost painful after holding back for so long, but your answering pulse surrounding him was more than worth the wait. Your instructions thread like candy floss in his mind - until you couldn't walk; Steve couldn’t be sure in the midst of his unabashed pleasure he could achieve a breath on his own. Lazily he exits you, a chill zips up his spine at the sound of your whine at his absence. 

"Have I pleased you, master?" he panted out, sweat beading on the hair at his chest, over his skin. 

"Very much.” You’re breathless, sated, limp. "I will reward you in the morning. You may stay here with me tonight, if you want."

Steve pushed himself onto his side with a hushed hum, his hand warming just under your breast. Your shoulder kissed tenderly as you played with his sweaty hair, the two of you blinking yourselves to sleep.

[remusownsmyuwus]

Perfectly Real Chapter 2

This is Chapter 2! This one's shorter but I'm gonna post some bonus art directly after this so forgive me

Genre: Angst. Long, sad angst.

Summary: Logan Logic Apathy changes rooms, and changes looks.

Warnings: Alcoholism, alcohol, angst, crying, intrusive thoughts, suicidal thoughts, self-deprecation, swearing, space/ Hamlet's room. Tell me if there's any I missed!

Read Chapter 1, Chapter 3

Words: 839

__

The room wasn't much, he supposed. An empty room, boxes of his things from his old room in one corner. It was boring, he thought. Neutral gray walls, thin gray carpet. It was boring. He had some ideas, though. He walked toward the door. It was simple black wood. Arriving next to the door, he brushed his fingers along the wall, and started walking the circumference of the room. In his wake, the walls fell away, being replaced by the endless void of space, full of cold, distant stars. 

Apathy stood back, admiring the constellations. He jumped, landing hard and breaking away the floor, revealing more stars in the bottomless depths below. He then moved toward the boxes of his things, opening the first one. Books, hundreds of them. In his old room, he had had bookshelves. But now… that simply wouldn't do. He stalked over to where he knew a wall was, underneath the stars. He pulled at it, and double doors formed, opening into a room with shelves and shelves, with blue velvet cushions and benches. Dragging the box over, he started filling his reading nook with his books, alphabetized, of course. Once he was done, he turned away, closing the doors that faded back into stars.

The next box had his chemistry sets, his klein bottles and his telescope. He summoned a clean black table and set them carefully in a corner, setting up his telescope to face into the darkness. The next two boxes held his ties and shirts. No, won't do, not at all, his mind said, and he picked up a black polo shirt. Hmmm, He thought. Brushing his fingers over it, he changed it's color to a blank, cold, unfeeling white. The ties wouldn't do either, striped in purple and indigo. He still loved indigo, but these were too lively. Too bright, too feeling. Apathy stared at them, searching his brain for something. And then it came to him. He ran his hand down a tie, changing it to a gradient. The top was light blue, fading into dark indigo, and then to black at the very bottom. And there, at the very end, a grinning mouth of sharp, thin, white teeth appeared. What is really at the bottom of the ocean?

     Just a polo shirt and a tie seemed too little, now. What to do? Ah! He summoned a black blazer, embroidered with the stars he loved so much. His black slacks were fine, for now. 

     He turned to the last box. He pulled of the tape on the top, and pulled back the flaps. Oh. It was all the things they had given him, when he was one of them. The screenplay Roman had wrote him, a macaroni painting from Patton, and a note from Virgil. "Remember to rest, Teach. Overworking yourself isn't going to do anyone any good." The glass in Apathy shattered. He fell to the floor, his head in his hands.

     Pathetic, his mind whispered. Crying in your room because you miss them. What would they think if they saw you now? Weak, useless? You're Apathy now, you shouldn't be feeling this. You shouldn't be feeling at all. Apathy steadied his breath. Weakness was not becoming. 

He got up, he needed to keep working on the room. He closed the box and pushed it into a corner, letting it fade into the background of stars. He summoned a bed, nothing more than a black bedframe and some dark blue sheets.

     I need a reminder of how pathetic I am, he thought to himself. Across from his bed, he summoned a large mirror. Looking at himself in the glass, he saw how disgusting he looked. His eyes were red and puffy, his nose was red, his hair was disheveled. He ran his fingers through his hair, fixing it. Then he noticed his glasses. The same ones that Patton has. He ripped them off his face, and threw them at the wall across the room, hard. They shattered, and his mouth twisted into a smile.

He summoned a pair of contact lenses, and put them in. Now he could see his eyes clearer. No, he thought. He waved his hand, and the contacts turned white, his eyes now two while expanses. He blinked. Good.

Now, a name. Logan would no longer fit him, it was a name for Logic. He was Apathy. Apathy, he thought. A disconnection between oneself and their feelings, a dissasocion of thought and emotion. Often experienced by those suffering from diagnosed depression. Hmm. So he was depression, now, then, too. Insecurity. Deadness to the world. Lovely. He sat on his bed, his fingers tapping against his chin. But what name? What fit him, now? He leaned back on the bed, lost in thought. Then he jumped up, an idea striking him. Hamlet, poor Hamlet, too sad to cope. The world was too much, and now he's dead. Hamlet nodded at his decision, because Hamlet was his favorite play. Hamlet, also known as Apathy, he thought.

__

You can call Logan Hamlet, and you call me heartless!

[webcricket]

An Angel’s Elegy

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester, Crowley, and Jack Kline

Word Count: 3448 (Act V)

A/N: Act V of a five-act series (5 acts plus a full-length Epilogue, so I suppose it’s actually six acts!). Elegy charts Castiel’s grief after losing the reader in childbirth. Despite her death, the reader remains an integral part of the story. Watch for the concluding Epilogue coming up next where we see a long-awaited father-daughter reunion and the mystery of the reader’s soul is laid to rest. Apologies for the lengthy posting gap due to the author’s crisis of confidence over the conclusion.

Summary: An anguishing journey about the intertwining of love and loss - adrift in a sea of grief and self-blame after losing his love, Castiel abandons hope. Leaving his newborn Nephilim daughter to the care of the Winchesters, he seeks absolution for your death at any cost. Will he ever find his way home?

Beta’d by: Act V and the Epilogue post un-beta’d - The Queen of Angst @willowing-love has my everlasting gratitude for her invaluable assistance, advice, and reassurance of my angst-ing ability in the first 4 acts!

Miss an Act? Here’s the Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/181477590760/an-angels-elegy-masterlist

Act V

The cold cast indigo hue of nocturnal sky thaws dusky gold on the horizon. Sun rising to outshine the canvas of stars with her gleaming splendor, distant crystalline dots blot out one by one as gently glimmering wisps of morn caress the dewy damp of outspread earth. The ascending light, like that defining each day before and those yet to come, illuminates an everlasting promise in its unfolding; a dawn declaration of endless rekindled potential for new beginnings no matter how dark or pervasive the clasp of night.

An indiscriminate smiling beam slithers through the budding leaves of a lanky old oak tree and bounces, refracting in brilliance off the roof of a rusted brown and beige truck to touch upon the paint-peeled pane of the window fronting the corner room of a rundown motel. In the span of a minute, it grows wider to lay a ribbon of sunny yellow across the grey opacity of glass, infiltrating a gap between the murk and blinds within to rest in rejuvenating warmth across the grief-stricken countenance of the cataleptic celestial being coiled on the floor.

Blinking his salt-crusted lashes dryly, Castiel pivots his head to avoid the shine shifting to sting his vision.

The renewing ray, insistent on delivering its optimistic message, increases with heated intensity over the vulnerable lobe of his ear. Kissing the sensitive skin thereon, the streak of sun whispers a warm reminder of the soothing words you spoke to the angel on the rooftop dawn of your last day together. “You ever wonder what a sunrise is, angel? I think it’s a promise fulfilled. A beginning born from darkness. The light is hope.”

He closes puffy tear-swollen blues; neck lolling, he submits to the velvet reminiscence of your voice hotly ghosting his vessel’s flesh and, in doing so, to the persevering brightness blanketing its blaze across his shuttered lashes. Exhaling a strident sigh, exhausted and out of energy to continue to fight, he acquiesces acceptance to the balmy hope softening the lines of lament etching his stoic façade. Haze of struggle evaporating, the dense mist guarding his heart from feeling all else in the denial of your death dissipates in concession. He understands in the lucidity of lightening day and unclouded love what you meant about the sunrise; and not merely what you said, but what you were asking of him – what he could not comprehend until he could fall no farther.

“No matter what happens, the sun always rises. Promise me you’ll remember that, angel.”

He realizes you were asking him all along to reassure you, to promise that the hope you carried, the hope you wanted him to share in, was enough for him; you were scared, and through his own blind terror of losing you he could not give you the comfort you needed most of all. You were asking him not to hold on to hope for himself, a sentiment exiled by inner reproach when he learned of the pregnancy and dubbed himself your executioner, but to nurture yours on in your stead as a torch to navigate the gloomy days ahead; you knew, tried desperately to tell him, that hope has ways of mending broken hearts.

Lying there, lashes lifting, Cas accepts you are gone, truly gone; although, not as completely as his despondent search led him to believe. Traces of you live on in his enduring love, in the memories of those you loved, and in the life you and he created – the daughter he, drowning in inky salt seas of sorrow over your death, selfish in suffering anguish, did not so much as acknowledge when she, too, mewled for you in mourning and cried out for a father’s succor – that piece of himself he could not freely give until he stumbled upon, in the darkest recesses of despair, the fragment of light leading to self-forgiveness.

In the brightness of full daybreak saturating the rundown room, basking the seraph’s fallen form in a glorious glow, facets of sapphire refract the hopefulness awakening in his eyes. He licks the cracked outline of his lips to wet them, encouraging pink to pervade the blanched petals; sliding an elbow beneath his torso, smearing the blood-flaked remnants of the demon trap on the floor, he pushes himself upright to slump against the creaky bedframe. “I remember,” he murmurs to the radiance-filled room, to you, and to the gift you gave him, the girl he’s ready now to embrace, “and I promise.” Staggering to unsteady feet, fingers outstretching toward the doorknob, he prays it’s not too late.

 “Well?” Sam pushes a hand through his hair where he stands in the threshold, glancing expectantly between a bewildered Jack and your tot-statured daughter.

The girl presently sprawls on a blanket playing quietly with a stuffed bear and various other colorful baubles collected in her exploration of the library’s low-lying shelves. In three day’s absence Dean managed to miss her transition from crawling to toddling and the resultant rapid-fire scramble to baby-proof – Nephilim-style replete with Enochian warding and cabinet locks – a bunker drama that developmental milestone entailed. Sam’s convinced he missed something in his haste, so he can’t just leave her with anyone while he goes hunting for his brother.

Jack’s squint narrows further, having the effect of unifying his brow and forehead into a tense trough of pale complexion. “You want me to … babysit?” he asks, intonation a rising squeak of incredulity at the end.

“Yeah,” Sam’s answer exits as an airy burst of breath, “I need you to keep her safe. She’s … special.”

The clarification, as well as an intrinsic curiosity, alleviates some of the boy’s trepidation. “She-she’s like me.”

“Yes, and Castiel is her father.” Sam affirms, a small smile skirting his mouth at Jack’s no longer being alone in this world in terms of his being. Seeking belonging, the teenage experience, the boy enrolled at a boarding school months back to try out the stereotypical trappings of youth in lieu of the supernatural for a while. It was Castiel who barred the brothers from telling Jack about your pregnancy so as not to have him around as a constant reminder of Kelly’s fate.

Jack’s gaze blows wide in a jolt of realization. His train of thought derails aloud. “If Castiel is her father, that means Y/N, she-”

“She’s gone.” Sam sets a palm to the boy’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“Like my mother,” Jack mumbles the reflection through a frown. Although he wasn’t especially close to you, he empathizes for your daughter losing her mother, and for Castiel losing the woman he loves. The past few weeks of the angel’s unanswered calls suddenly begin to deeply worry the boy. He chews the inside of his cheek.

Sam mirrors the frown, his weighted down more so with remorse. “Cas didn’t-,” he pauses to correct, firm, “we didn’t want to worry you while you were at school.”

Jack swallows hard, frets his mouth into a colorless mass and looks at the floor. “It’s okay,” he concedes, a blonde shock of hair hanging across his dampened aspect, “I understand.”

Sam loosens a sigh of relief. For being Lucifer’s issue, the boy inherited none of the archangel’s cold-heartedness and proclivity toward grudges.

Concern for Castiel rearing, Jack’s regard rises to peer around the map room and library niches visible from where they stand. “What I don’t understand is, where is Castiel?”

It’s too much to encumber the boy with, the angel’s desertion, Dean’s deceit-veiled disappearance most likely to track down the seraph and do God knows what to him with the rage that’s been boiling his blood for weeks, Sam nonetheless deems honesty appropriate given the circumstances. “He’s gone too.”

Jack’s eyes startle.

“Not gone gone,” Sam swiftly reassures. “He took off after Y/N died.”

“Castiel … left? Left his daughter alone? But she needs him.” Confusion again crevices the boy’s brow. “I don’t understand.”

“Join the club,” Sam huffs.

“There’s a club?”

“No, there’s not a club.” Sam subdues an incongruous in affront to sharing this awful news smirk of amusement; Jack’s seriousness of interpretation reminds him greatly of Cas when they first encountered the angel. “It’s, uh, a figure of speech.”

“Oh.”

“Something inside Cas broke when we lost Y/N. He went off the reservation.” Sam amends the non sequitur of using another metaphor. “Er, I mean he left the bunker.”

“And why did Dean leave? Did something inside him break too?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Jack.” Sam jostles the boy’s shoulder roughly, his rasping voice broaching on a whisper. “I guess you could say that Dean’s heart broke for that little girl. He knows how much she needs her father.”

A clatter behind the door at the top of the staircase diverts both their attentions. Dean’s jut-jawed dark-blonde freckled face emerges a few millimeters ahead of his taut flannelled frame.

“Dean!” Legging it in three steps to the base of the stairs to meet him, Sam throws his hands in the air demanding an explanation. “Where the hell have you been?”

“We have a problem,” Dean grunts, blustering past him to hurtle his duffle haphazardly at the map table and sink into the nearest chair. “Hey, Jack, how’s school?” Noticing the boy dawdling on the opposite end of the table, he flicks him a greeted salute and, rocking his neck to settle a stern look upon Sam, gestures a thumb back at him as if to say, ‘Really, you freaked out and got the kid involved?’

Jack may be oblivious at times, but he can tell Dean’s not interested in an answer.

Snorting, Sam is having none of Dean’s evasive nonsense. “A problem? No kidding! I’ve been calling you for two days. What if something happened?”

Dean got the messages, none of which expressed anything negative having happened aside from Sammy finding out he wasn’t actually with Donna on a hunt; not wanting to argue about where he was and why, he ignored them. Crossing his arms over his chest, casting a cool green gaze at his brother, he states in deflection, “Y/N’s soul isn’t in Heaven.”

“Wh-what?” Sam, dizzied by disbelief, drops jelly-kneed into an adjacent seat.

“Where is she?” Jack asks, peering between the brothers.

“She couldn’t be in-?” Sam hesitates to suggest Hell.

Dean knows exactly what Sam is thinking, he had the same thought, however heart wrenching the very notion. He shrugs, “Gave Crowley a call. No answer. Yet. Seem suspicious to you?” He quirks a brow for emphasis.

Sam’s chin wags in agreement as to the suspect nature of the demon’s avoidance. “And Cas? You get Jody’s e-mail about Oliver Pryce?”

Dean sighs, prods a thumb at his temple in frustration, then jabs the digit into his eye and rubs until the socket is furious red. “Yeah, trail went cold. No new leads, it’s like Cas went poof after the explosion.”

Jack’s anxiety palpably electrifies the room. “You think Castiel is-?”

“No … no.” Dean quickly dismisses the possibility of Castiel’s fatal angelic retirement. He still owes the damned fool a bruising wallop, and as far as his friend is concerned, there’s no chance the angel gets to die without Dean first getting a crack at him. “I checked, no wing prints anywhere.”

Jack melts into the nearest chair in a puddle of relief.

“You could’ve called,” Sam mutters again in the strain of silence.

Dean knows. He still doesn’t want to argue about it. Not with your little girl so close. “How is she?”

Sam can’t help but smile knowing how happy she’ll be that Dean is home. She’s not tactful about hiding the fact uncle Dean’s clownishness makes him a clear favorite, not that she isn’t always up for Sammy snuggles. “She’s good – great actually. Been rearranging artifacts on the library shelves with Bear-Bear all morning and saying she’s helping ‘we-search.’”

 Clear blue eyes dart now and then toward the conversation of her caretakers and the newcomer, a being exuding pure curiosity whose soul and power resonate at so similar a frequency to hers as to be instantly familiar – family. Long lashes blink, shadowing a rosy-mantled cheek shyly buried in the brown faux fur of a teddy clutched in plump arms – a stuffed buffer to the bunker’s underground bleakness. She doesn’t understand all the words touching her tender ears. Sensitive to emotion though, she reads their feelings in the same manner a person might scan the bolded headlines of a newspaper.

She senses Sam’s anxiety abated with the return of his brother and the surge of urgent concern for Castiel’s whereabouts shifting into its stead. She feels the fevered frustration of Dean over his failure in finding her father, the simmering anger directed at the angel bubbling to the surface, and also the conflicting affection for him. They talk and talk, suppressing true sentiment for her sake, thinking it’s the right thing to do, thinking it cushions her from the calamity of heartbreak she was birthed into, and yet she comprehends the truth through everything they feel.

Born into a world shrouded in darkness, a child of death and doubt and anguish, she should be sad. The sleepy smile toying around her innocently plush mouth suggests she is not. Gold glints of a sun she hasn’t seen yet but knows exists, an inner glow growing stronger each day, ring her blue irises. Hope, burning bright like the sun, arises from the deepest dark.

A strange impression accosts her from the far corner of the library, flaring pinpricks of reactive fire in her gaze. Threads of avarice and a sinister inquisitiveness weave into the tailored Italian silk-suited figure of a man with an appearance alternately perverted by grotesqueness then simpering with a close-cropped salt and pepper shave. She hugs Bear-Bear tighter, tiny fingers digging into the plush pelt as the demon warily eyes the book-lined walls and, satisfied he’s out of sight line, swaggers confidently in approach.

Crouching before her, extricating his palms from his pockets, a disingenuous smirk centers above his bearded chin. This, this treasure, must surely be the source of the seraph’s sorrow and the living embodiment of your demise. He sees the halo of power pulsing from her – a Nephilim, and Castiel’s own judging by the curious blue depths of her contemplation. Crowley didn’t think the fallen angel had it in him to sire a child, especially knowing the cost for you to bear her to birth – your pleading to deal, the angel’s anguished demands of the demon at that God-forsaken motel, it makes such perfect sense he can’t believe he didn’t surmise the details of the situation before now in order to better bend them to his, and Hell’s, advantage.

Beady black eyes dash beyond the girl, gauging whether the Winchesters in the adjacent room will hear his whispered words. Deciding not, cocking his head in wonderment, he mutters under his breath, “My my, what sort of shiny trinket do we have hiding in here?”

Fear a foreign concept, she does not flinch from his reaching fingers, the flames of self-serving intent lapping her skin from their tips, nor does she duck from the thoughts of how he could bend the budding power of a Nephilim to his will. Instead, she feels emanating from the black-cordoned shriveled heart barely beating in his chest, the conflicted sentiments of a man lacking a mother’s love who spends eternity endeavoring to fill that empty space inside with concrete connection. Pitying his plight, she offers him Bear-Bear to hug.

Focus flicking to the still empty threshold, unable to see in himself as she does the stricken source driving his every action, he grins at the perceived pureness of her naivety. “I’m Crowley. Can you say, Crow-ley?” he enunciates slowly.

“Cwo-ley,” she tries in a bashful murmur.

His smile stretches. “And what’s your name, poppet?” It would be easy to snatch her away, make an escape with this unguarded prize, play out her potential – some unacknowledged sentiment stays his hand a moment too long.

“Get away from her!” A hurricane of red flannel, Dean swoops in to scoop up the girl. “You okay, sweetheart? Did the bad man hurt you?” Dropping Bear-Bear in the tumult, she loops her arms loosely around his neck and buries her flushed face into his shirt. Tears prick her eyes in sensing the alarm of emotion discharging from Dean as he does a cursory visual exam to determine if she’s been hurt.

Crowley has the unholy audacity to appear wounded at the insinuation he would mistreat the child.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Sam positions himself as a human buffer between Dean clutching your daughter and the demon.

“How the Hell, indeed,” Crowley scoffs, straightening himself, his injured pride, and his creased suit. “Considering it was you who rang me, I mightn’t have bothered carving time out of my busy day, well” –his forehead arcs upward in reflection, a smirk affecting his mouth– “carving up souls, if I’d known to expect an unfriendly reception. Not that I expect much from you lot.”

Jack, straighter to the point even than Castiel, intuiting from the conversation this is the Crowley Sam and Dean suspect knows something of the location of your soul, steps forward to sternly ask, “Do you have Y/N’s soul?”

“That, it seems, is the question of the hour.” Crowley scrutinizes the boy up and down, curling a lip in approval. “And who is this youthful Adonis?”

“Screw the games you limey little bastard! Answer him,” Dean growls, satisfied your daughter is unharmed save for being upset. “Do you have her, or not?”

The demon’s lids narrow. “Tit for tat.”

“My name is Jack,” the boy’s tongue cuts in sharp-edged reply, curtly complying with the stated terms.

“Well, Jack.” Crowley thrusts two fingers into his inside breast pocket causing both Winchesters to reactively flinch in anticipation of danger. He whips out a perfectly non-lethal silver-embellished matte black business card. He proffers the rectangular trifle to Jack. “You ever get bored mingling with the local wildlife, do get in touch.”

“Or don’t.” Twisting his torso to protect your daughter, Dean intercepts the hand off. Squinting to read the snatched card, his greens flare in exasperation. “Twitter? Really?”

Suaveness sustained in affront to Dean’s cynicism, Crowley shrugs. “It’s the digital age of deals. You think the Donald got elected to the highest office in the nation because he promised to make America great again?”

“You didn’t answer me,” Jack interrupts, unwilling to be sidetracked by the swindling demon.

Crowley summarily avoids answering. “Are you boys running a Nephilim orphanage now?” Countered by Sam’s knot-browed tight-lipped scowl, he diverts his thwarted attention again to Jack. “Are you one of Castiel’s spawn, too? The resemblance is uncanny.” Judging by Dean’s cringe, he infers he’s hit the nail on the proverbial head at least as to the girl’s parentage. A self-congratulatory smirk crinkles his eyes.

Uncertain, Jack looks to Sam, seeking his opinion on expounding upon his origins to the interloper.

Conscious of the effect the devilish origin of the information will have on Crowley’s composure given their sordid history, Sam nods.

“Actually-” A compact smirk sets up in the crook of Jack’s mouth, dimpling his cheek as he speaks. “Lucifer is my father.”

“Lucifer?” Crowley gulps, swallowing down the name hard against the too tight tie encircling his throat.

“Yeah, Lucifer.” Jack echoes.

The demon adjusts the knot of his tie to accommodate a thickening gorge. The smirk donning his mien fades to a forced feint of a smile.

“You really should answer him,” Sam menaces, peril plummeting his tone.

Rethinking the circumstances in light not of what he can gain, but rather of all he has to lose, namely his kingly title to a princely heir of Lucifer himself, not to mention his life, Crowley determines cooperation to be the shrewdest course. Coolly containing his terror with perfunctory poise, cocky glance flitting between the brothers, the unassuming teenage son of Satan, the sniffling heavenly abomination half-hidden in the folds of Dean’s shirt, and sliding beyond to where Castiel dallies in the oversized doorway to the map room – the seraph having entered into the confrontational equation through the front door only a minute ago, entrance unheard on account of demonic distraction.

Crowley trades gazes with the angel and shoots him a sympathetic frown, stunning even himself with the genuineness of the gesture. “As I already told Castiel when he summoned me, I do not have Y/N’s soul.” The King of Hell lingers several sadistically satisfying seconds to appreciate the shock value of the revelation as the individual focus of those gathered instinctively follows his to land on the wayward angel returned home.

Continue reading Epilogue:

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