#cellar door records

[indefinite-pitch]

Clarence Rise - Sleep Deprivation

Buy & Support: Clarence Rise - Dissociative Events

[tombofmemories]

Spiritbox - The Fear of Fear

[fancypantsrecords]

A Shell In The Pit & Tettix - Rogue Legacy 2 | Fangamer | 2023 | Purple Translucent + Blue Translucent

[copinghex]

Armistice of the heart | T.S

Summary: Mrs. Shelby worries Tommy’s fits might take him away from her. She vowed to stay with him in sickness and in health and intends to keep it, it doesn’t matter how hard he makes things be. 

A/N: It feels so strange to write for season 6,  I didn’t know what to do with the child death plotline, so I just stuck it up my ass, no child dies here.

WARNING: This fic contains Tommy's fits (obviously), panic attacks and the 1920s mentality

The heavy velvet curtains swayed with the breeze. Even during colder months, Tommy insisted a crack of the window should be open, he breathed better this way. The bedroom smelled of Mrs. Shelby’s moisturizer and clean sheets. The fireplace cracked, Tommy turned a page of his book and a maid in high heels walked past the door. Those were the louder sounds of that night. The world was quiet.

Mrs. Shelby’s eyes were fixed in the same spot for a while, resting her head on Tommy's thigh, her mind kept drifting back to the state she found him that morning. At first, she thought he had only slipped, then he didn't stand up. Against his will, she called a doctor, who only defined the episode as a fit. There had to be something more, Tommy barely reacted to the diagnosis. She knew he was reckless, his life was always on the line, but was he really selfish to the point of not searching for a diagnosis? If his condition was grave, would he abandon his family just for some more hours of work?

In a deep inhale, she pressed a sloppy kiss above his knee, desperate for assurance he was still there, with her, where he belonged. Tommy was slipping through her fingers and she was scared, scared he'd fall and never get up again, scared his brain would be damaged, scared there was no cure. Unconsciously, she dug her nails on his skin, she'd never find peace if he was gone. Thomas was her peace.

The man who had a long criminal record, cursed every three words and hid corpses under their wine cellar, was an angelic painting in the canvas of her brain. He looked so fragile in sleepwear and a book in hand, his long lashes blinked on the captivating eyes, they were the first thing to catch her attention years ago, blue, not like the ocean or the sky, blue like sadness itself, challenging, his full lips tasted like whiskey and remained closed, it was his eyes that said come closer, take down the walls around this heart. 

His hands, built as fighting machines and carrying a ring of loyalty to his criminal organisation, were also so gentle on her, touching her skin with the tenderness she had never experienced before, he supported her waist, bouncing her up and down in a rhythm of her choosing and kissing her chest, right where her heart was, those, neither of them knew yet, but would be marked in her forever. Only the thought of losing him one day terrified her.

Nuzzling his thigh, she brushed her face on him, a habit he was often entertained by, if he was a horse, she was the barn's cat, you couldn't take one without the other. Peeking above the book, Tommy ran a heavy hand on her hair. “Promise me you will look for a better doctor, Tom,” 

“I will,” he answered.

They didn't talk about it again.

—

She didn't know why Tommy still went to the parliament, in his endless scheming, he drained his own health. In their bedroom's suite, she hoped her kisses would keep him home a little longer, her head was off the shower’s curtain. How bad could it be to get a little late and be an attentive husband? 

“I have to go,” he said against her lips, holding her hand that was locked to his tie.

“Just a little longer? Please?” she tried to persuade him into the shower.

“Begging for a quickie, love?” Tommy teased, setting himself free and heading to the exit, “I expect the same enthusiasm when I get home.” 

The sunrise shone beautifully through the windows, lighting up the dark green walls. The early mornings were Tommy's favorite, he stopped at the top of the stairs, watching the passage of sleepy-looking maids, still tempted to return to his wife's arms.

A single minute later, she heard a heavy thump and the maids screaming. She didn't even turn the shower off, grabbing her robe and running off the bedroom. In the middle of the steps, Tommy's suitcase was open, a cascade of documents fell to the floor, inches away, his body shook with violence. “Oh my God, Tommy!!!” 

She fell to her knees beside him, unsure of what to do. His pupils had rolled to the back of his head, making his eyes completely white, his face was red and his breath trembling at the same pace of shakes. What if he was choking? Cradling his head, she held him like a baby. “Tommy! Tommy, love! Can you hear me?!” Her hands ran through every spot of his head, as if she'd find a power off button. Nothing could be done, she held him against her body tight enough to restrain his movements.

As suddenly as he started, Tommy stopped shaking. He covered his face with a hand while his other arm kept still beneath him, broken. She looked up, helping him hide from the circle of maids around them. “What are you looking at? Go back to work!” She barked.

The crowd dissipated, without realizing, she lulled her husband back and forth, “it’s okay, it’s okay now,” she whispered. It soothed both of them. She caressed his head, following the way down to his neck and back, finishing with circular moves between his shoulder blades. “I got you, eh?” 

Tommy moved slowly, hissing when his arm hurt, had had his ribs smashed before, he recognized the sort of pain. His eyes moved around the room, his house’s entrance hall, not a tunnel. Looking up, his wife stared at him, hand cupping the back of his head. He frowned, using his leg to try to get up, since the arm he was laying on was unusable, he only managed with her help, she pulled him up by under his arms exactly like she did with their children. How humiliating. 

“Go to your office,” she instructed, “I’ll get your papers and call a doctor.” Her tone was calm, Thomas was no fool though, she spoke softly to induce his mood, not because she was calm herself. The worry was still clear on her face. Holding his broken arm, Tommy headed to his office, as soon as she was alone, Mrs. Shelby snapped her fingers for a maid to pick up the papers, at that moment she didn’t care for any of the business. As a matter of fact, she wished the company and the parliament exploded, it was them that made Tommy sick.

-

“You need some rest, no driving or playing sports, other than that you're alright, Mr. Shelby,” Dr. Holford put a cast in Tommy's arm. After the incident, the house was full of whispers, the kindest maids pitied Tommy, the meanest claimed his condition was punishment for his sins.

“What about his head?” Mrs. Shelby asked.

“What about it?” 

“Doctor, as I told you, Tommy has been going through fits, like fainting but- I don't know, wouldn’t you recommend we do some deeper examinations in a hospital?” 

Tommy and the doctor switched a look. His lips pursed as he explained, “Look, Mrs. Shelby, an unhealthy lifestyle, such as drinking or working too hard might lead to fits,”

“But Tommy doesn’t drink anymore,” she argued. Tommy nodded to Holford and he left against her protests, “can you believe it?! I’m not- Fuck it, that’s it, we’re going to a hospital now,”

Tommy sighed, his eyes had dark circles since early in the morning, the fit seemed to make them worse. As he walked to his desk, she noticed he had lost weight, for the first time she saw how much older he looked compared to before Polly’s death or before he became a MP. Those people were destroying him, she couldn’t allow that. “What is it, Tommy? Do you really trust that fucker? He only looked at your arm! He ignored me!”

Tommy unlocked a drawer and revealed an examination file, she rushed to get it, lifting the X-ray against the sunlight as he had done months ago, the tumour was huge, pressing parts of the brain she couldn’t tell the function, not that it mattered, the thing simply shouldn't be there. “That’s me,” Tommy said, “it’s inoperable, non transmissible, but it’ll get me gone in six months,”

Her face was blank, Tommy’s voice got farther and farther, her silky dress got too warm for the current season, sticking to her body as if it was two sides smaller. “What?” The office suddenly felt sultry, she frowned at the sight of the windows open. It didn’t make sense. Taking a step back, she turned her back on him, the bookshelves were blurry and her face got sweaty. No, she wanted to look at him. “Tommy,” she called, the X-ray fell from her hand. Her legs were weak and her lips dried. “No,” she whispered. Six months? Tommy would be gone in six months. The paintings she had carefully helped him choose were spinning. The world got darker…

And darker…

Tommy held her head before it hit the floor, he called for help. It was the last thing she heard.

-

A weak hum was the only sound she was strong enough to make, some nice wind refreshed her face while her left hand was too warm. “She’s waking up!” a female familiar voice said, Clara? No, perhaps Sandra. Her brain found out the warmth on her hand was Tommy, he was holding her hand a bit too tightly. The wind was gone, the maid with the fan got dismissed. “Can you hear me, love?”

She turned her face to the sound of Tommy’s voice. Weakly nodding. In their bedroom, all windows were open, the heavy blanket replaced by a light sheet, everything set up for her comfort. She felt something cold on her lips. “Here, have some water,” he said. Mrs. Shelby kept her eyes closed until she felt normal again, wishing that when she opened her eyes, Tommy’s arm wouldn’t be broken, she’d tell him of the dream she had and he’d conclude it was from the nerves. She was worried about his fits but he’d be diagnosed and medicated, nothing grave, only her worrying too much.

“Francis told me the same thing happened when I had the accident with Father Hughes,” Tommy commented, “Why did you never tell me?”

“Accident,” she scoffed, a cracked skull with internal bleeding was not an accident, “what would you have done? Doctor said it’s emotional.”

He sighed, caressing her fingers, her hand looked so fragile in his, her knuckles were delicate, not battered like his own, her wedding ring was displayed with pride, she always kept it clean and lustrous. The only person to never try to limit him. She was always there, now he’d have to leave her, defeated by his own body. He didn’t want to go, if he received the same news from her, his reaction would probably be similar. The truth was, in those circumstances, he’d do anything she asked. 

Her eyes opened, she looked at his cast, the grey in his hair, in six months it’d be all gone, what an awful wife she was, Tommy was not even fifty yet and looked so much older, wasn’t she meant to take care of him? “What will you do?”

“Y/N…”

“Don’t kid me, Thomas,” she demanded.

“What do you want me to do? I’ll finish this business, then-” his jaw clenched as he looked away from her, “Then I’ll go away, I can’t drag down you with me,”

“You already have,” she coldly stated, “I’ll go with you,”

“No-”

“And don’t try to stop me, I’ll find you anywhere! If you go to the hills, I’ll find you, if you go back to France, I’ll find you and I’ll stay with you until you’re gone!” She snapped, “And I swear to you that if when I’m gone you don’t come to take me to the other side, I’ll find you in heaven or hell!” 

Tommy gulped, “So I don't have a say on it?” 

“No,” she nodded, “you can make things easier or harder for both of us.”

-

Eight months later

Marianne Allen grew up in a catholic school, unlike some of her friends, she never looked at the boys sitting at the other side of the isle, her eyes were fixed in the rosary in her hand. At seventeen, she went to a charm school, becoming remarkable for her polite and delicate manners, her tea, embroideries, dancing and piano play were the best. She knew the bible inside out. The perfect wife. The most moral amongst the women. All her dedication was wasted by the Great War, her husband died and she’d been alone since. Her hair got grey, her beautiful smile put wrinkles around her eyes, she was still virtuous, but no one looked at her in the streets anymore.

It never stopped her from looking at people, Mrs. Allen had mixed feelings about the couple who rented the house across the street. The rumors didn't go easy on them. They were gypsies, criminals, the whispers went far enough to say the man was a MP, the type to make your life worse and never show his face. They were in fact strange, she thought the gypsy part was right, they were barely ever home, if they were, their children were too, brought by a woman in a Rolls Royce she overheard was called Ada, they only stayed for a few of weeks and disappeared again.

 Although reluctant, she was determined to know the couple better to satisfy her own curiosity. A sunny Friday evening, she learned by watching through the window the children had left yesterday, she baked a Shepherds pie and crossed the street, she was short on time before they left again. Close to their door, she heard the woman laughing, the man kept talking excitedly, they sounded like newlyweds.

Breathing in to get some courage, she knocked, the laugh immediately stopped, everything got quiet, she heard the man asking something and steps coming to answer the door. The woman was wearing a yellowish dress, the cut was simple but the cloth showed how expensive it was. She carried an orchid brooch in her chest which Marianne’s eyes fell on. 

The woman sized her up and weakly smiled, “Hello,”

“H-hi,” Mrs. Allen greeted, “I'm Marianne Allen, your neighbor from across the street, hm, I never got the chance of welcoming you, you're rarely ever home,”

“Y/N Shelby,” she shook Marianne’s hand, “I’d invite you in for some tea, but my husband and I are just about to leave,”

“I imagined so, please, take this pie,” Marianne kept looking at the brooch, “An orchid? It means-”

“Love and strength,” she completed, “my husband stole it from Tiffany's,”

“Oh, hm, I see,” Mrs. Allen stepped back, the rumours were right, those people were strange, “I must go home now.”

Without bigger goodbyes, the elderly lady crossed the street. Mrs. Shelby laughed, the brooch wasn’t stolen, she only wanted to get a reaction. “Tommy!” She went back inside, “Our lunch is guaranteed.”

“Who was it?” He asked, pouring them two glasses of whiskey.

“Ah, some neighbour from across the street,” she shrugged off, took her glass and proposed a toast, “a last trip before we get that fucker Holford?”

His glass touched hers, they gulped down their drinks and sat down to eat.

They were officially back from under the ground.

[coochellati]

Living With Bruno - Headcanons

Hi guys. I hope you are all doing okay. These past 24 hours have been rough for those affected by American politics.

In the name of comfort and escapism, I’ve been imagining what living with Bruno would look like. For instance—What does Bruno do in his spare time? What does his house look like? Is he a neat person? (spoiler alert: he definitely is.) And what is he like behind closed doors?

I’ll be diving into these questions (and more!) under the break!

Bruno lives in his modest childhood home by the sea, and he hasn’t changed much of the furniture or decor since his parents decorated it. Almost everything is as it was when he was a kid—it gives him a sense of comfort.

During the day, he loves to let the salty sea breeze in through open windows. At night, the lighting feels warm and inviting. Bruno is mindful of energy costs; he only uses lights when needed. Candlelight often fills the home after dark, adding a cozy ambiance. Bruno Bucciarati is a neat person, so his home is impeccably kept.

Bruno spends most of his time in his living room, partly because it’s where his record player lives. It sits between two speakers on top of a waist-high bookshelf in his living room that holds his impressive record collection, including genres such as jazz, prog rock, classical, and more. (He has a whole section dedicated to Miles Davis.) He’s added a desk to the room so he can work while listening to his vinyls. On the wall hangs one of his father’s old fishing nets, a reminder of the vow he made to his father to fight against drugs.

His childhood bedroom is mostly unchanged, having the same furniture and arrangement as when he was young. A small bookshelf holds the stories his mother used to read to him, and pictures of his parents rest on his nightstand.

His parents’ bedroom remains as it was when his father passed. Besides keeping it clean, Bruno hasn’t altered a thing in there, finding something almost sacred in its preservation.

Bruno’s also got a pretty decent wine collection stashed in the cellar, with some expensive, rare bottles. Being careful with money, he rarely splurges on high-end wine, so most of these rare bottles were gifts.

(I headcanon that Bruno is passionate about wine. If you’re interested in hearing about why I believe this, here’s a link to this post.)

Bruno Bucciarati definitely uses his walls for storage.

Before moving in, Bruno will chat with you about your needs. For instance, do you have any allergies? Do you have sensitive skin and need to use special laundry detergent? Are there certain foods you won’t eat? His home is now your home—he wants to make sure you’re comfortable.

Bruno may not be a fan of PDA, but behind closed doors, he isn’t shy about showing affection. Whether it be a peck on the cheek, warm smiles, hand-holding, cuddling to Miles Davis, etc., Bruno is always happy to be close to you. (This goes without saying, but he loves when you reciprocate!)

You might often catch Bruno watching you with quiet admiration. For example, he lets you get ready for bed first so he can just observe you—it’s his way of reminding himself that he now has someone to come home to. For him, it’s like gazing at a winning lottery ticket.

However, like many people, there are moments when Bruno needs his personal space. (Especially if he’s very stressed or it’s work-related.) After all, everyone needs some alone time now and then, and he’ll do his best to let you know ahead of time. Don’t worry about upsetting him if you need to see him during this time—Bruno would never be mad about it. He’ll also reassure you there’s nothing wrong with your relationship if it’s something you need to hear.

Everyone has their flaws, and communication isn’t something Bruno is always the best about. He tends to keep stressful things to himself, to “shoulder the burden,” so to speak. In his mind, he believes he’s protecting you, but this can lead to him acting in unpredictable ways that only make sense if you have the full story.

For instance—remember when Trish asked Narancia why Bruno was such a cold person?

Bruno had a reason for his behavior, as he was close to death. But without knowing the entire story, Trish saw him as cold and uncaring. This is exactly the kind of misunderstanding I’m talking about—without context, Bruno’s actions can give the wrong impression.

Afterward, Narancia told to Trish that this was just how Bruno behaved, and she would understand if she got to know him better. While this dynamic of unexplained behavior may work in a subordinate-leader relationship, this isn’t the type of relationship you and Bruno have. Seeing you happy and safe is what matters most to him, but he doesn’t always go about it in the best way.

Communication is something the two of you may have to work through together.

As noted, Bruno is a neat person. Keeping everything clean and organized helps him stay focused and level-headed. On his days off, he keeps up with chores so his place stays in top shape—he also finds it calming.

Laundry and Ironing are two chores he doesn’t mind doing. Bruno takes great pride in the way he dresses so taking care of his clothes is very important to him. He also happens to be very good at removing stains. (Wearing white clothes regularly will force you to get good at it.) Like many Italians, Bruno doesn’t own a washer or dryer. This means everything gets washed by hand and hung outside to dry. (No need to splurge when you can do your laundry yourself.) Because clothes get stiff when air dried, Bruno irons everything, including socks, underwear, and towels. (This isn’t uncommon in Italy either.)

Bruno is quite skilled at cooking, a talent he developed while caring for his father. (He’s also picked up tips from Polpo’s unsolicited rants about food.) On the topic of cooking, Bruno tends to be big on meal prep, given that he doesn’t always have the time or energy to cook after a long day at work. Therefore, I can see him making a comical amount of food at once to store for later. You’ll walk in and the kitchen table looks like this:

If there’s one chore Bruno doesn’t enjoy, it’s taking out the trash. At first, I thought he’d have it easy because of the fact he could “zipper” it away inside the ground, but as stated to Trish inside Coco Jumbo, he has no idea where things go when he does that—probably best not to risk littering underground.

Bruno is very good about keeping clean. Every morning starts with a cold shower, which he enjoys for the mental clarity and alertness it brings. He’s happy to let you join him if he isn’t in a time constraint, and upon doing so, he’ll adjust the water temperature to something more suited to your preference. (Since he takes cold showers, he’s fine with pretty much any temperature as long as it isn’t scalding.)

If you end up showering with him, expect it to take a while. ;) (Especially if he has nothing going on that day.) His hands gently grazing your sides, he’ll likely start by asking if he can wash you. If you say yes, he’ll begin to gently and meticulously wash every part of you with an awestruck expression gracing his face. (“How did I get so lucky?” He’ll wonder.)

Araki designed Bruno with shiny, meticulously styled hair, which suggests to me that Bruno puts effort into caring for his hair. Healthy hair isn’t just good genes—Bruno goes a little further than just using shampoo and conditioner to maintain it. For instance, he definitely uses leave-in conditioner and hair oil. I can also see him using a hairdryer to blow out his hair and give it that perfect bob shape.

It’s impressive how fast Bruno can get ready for the day, considering all that goes into his daily styling. (You should see how fast he can braid his hair.) It takes him about 16-17 minutes to get ready, 10 more if he has to dry his hair.

Bruno finishes his routine with a few spritzes of cologne.

Around the house, Bruno dresses casually—no need for a fancy suit if no one’s around to see it. However, he will dress up if he’s expecting a visitor.

Sleeping next to you makes Bruno realize how fucking stressed he is all the time. His lifestyle/career has turned him into someone who is constantly hyper-vigilant, so it’s no wonder that Bruno is a very light sleeper. (That, plus the trauma from the night two intruders tried to kill Bruno’s dad while his dad was asleep. ) On his own, he tends to wake up multiple times in the middle of the night, but when he sleeps next to you, he usually stays asleep.

The best part about sleeping next to Bruno? He doesn’t really snore, possibly thanks to being a side sleeper. He also sleeps in pajamas, just in case he has to get up quickly. (Imagine being caught naked as intruders walk into your bedroom.)

I imagine Bruno uses the same bed he did as a kid. Therefore, I bet it is the Italian equivalent of a full-sized bed. This bed size has always worked for him, though he’d likely get a larger one if a partner moved in.

(You really can’t tell the size of the bed from the photo. It could very well be a twin instead of a full.)

Bruno typically starts his mornings bright and early at 6:30 am. He usually aims for about seven hours of sleep, going to bed around 11 p.m. or midnight, though it’s not unusual to see him working until 1 or 2 a.m. (So yeah… he never really gets enough sleep.)

In his downtime, Bruno likes to unwind with a book or by listening to records with a glass of wine—though these moments don’t happen as often as they should since he’s a bit of a workaholic.

Sometimes, he’ll take a walk to the shore where his dad used to dock and sit for a while. He finds it comforting—this is one way he feels he can stay connected to his dad.

Thank you for reading!!! this was super fun to write! I hope this post was able to provide you some comfort 💕

If you’d like to check out other things I’ve written, you can click right here <3

[metallicames]

Heyyy, can i request a smut with James from the early 80s? I want it rough, with choking and manhandling pleaseeee

i need it, he's too hottt

In the early 80s James looked like a cinnamon roll who could also destroy you if he wanted to!

A/n: usually I don't take requests since I'm afraid of misinterpreting them or not being inspired enough but this one 🤤 hope you like it.

Bad Girl

Warnings: dirty talking, unprotected sex, rough sex, choking, grammatical errors.

I had been waiting for the day off for a week and instead I ended up taking inventory at my brother's bar, he is out of town for commissions so today it's my turn. I take a deep breath, I enter the bar, check the list on the counter and go down to the cellar outside the bar.

The day is hot, muggy, I struggle up the stairs with a case of beer, “Hey! Y/N? Right!?” The unexpected voice makes me jump, I turn around and see the guy who often performs at the bar with his band who is using the recording studio next door, “Oh my god!! You scared me! Yes right.. James!?” he gives me a dazzling toothy smile, I put down the case of beer, huffing and trying to fix the strands of hair that are falling messily from my ponytail. "Aren't you closed on Tuesday?" he asks as he approaches me, it makes me strange to see him in the light of day and above all sober, every time he comes to the bar with his friends he is out of control and I lose count of how many beers he orders.

I must say he has a certain effect on me, he is a really good looking guy, tall, tanned and has a penetrating gaze that enchant me.

“Usually yes, but today I have to sort out some things.. it'll be a long day… are you going to the studio?” I ask him, inevitably looking at him and letting my gaze fall on his excessively tight jeans. "Yes, as usual I'm the first, I'll have to wait a bit..can I give you a hand?"

I accept the help, James lifts the case and takes it to the bar. We start talk about music and random stuff and after at least ten trips back and forth we end up exhausted and sweaty.

"Shall we have a drink?" I ask him out of breathe "Sure! You already know what I'm getting!”. Every time he smiles I feel a strange sensation come over me, if I have to be honest he has always had a certain effect on me and being alone with him amplifies the perception. While I pour the beers I feel his gaze focused on me, there is a few moments of silence interrupted by James' words "You're sexy behind the counter..well, you are sexy in general to be fair" I remain still with my back to him, a wave of heat pervade me and reach my cheeks, I laugh at his comment trying not to give it too much weight. I hand him the beer and he blocks my wrist with his hand staring at me with his amazing blue eyes slightly covered by a lock of blonde hair, he leans over the counter and unexpectedly kisses me. I remain stuck almost petrified, I would never have expected a thing like that but I'm more than happy about how things are turning out.

I let myself go and kiss him back, our tongues meet and taste eachother, his hand ends up behind my neck pulling me towards him, there's an immediate connection and I feel completely comfortable with him.

Shortly after I find myself lying one of the tables near the counter, his hands touch me everywhere, exploring every inch of my body, his breathing is heavy and punctuated by sighs as his fingers stop on the buttons of my shirt before tearing it off without regard, exposing my breasts wrapped in the lace bra. I feel James' face sinking between my breasts, kissing and biting them passionately, as if he hadn't been waiting for anything else for a long time. With one leg he spreads my thighs by applying pressure with his knee, pressing his body against mine. The sensation of the hard and cold surface of the table against my back and James' erection between my legs turn on all my senses.

I thread my fingers through James' hair while he is intent on kissing me everywhere, slowly going down towards my groin. I pull his shirt with my hands towards me so that he can take it off quickly. Seeing him like this, half naked on top of me and smelling his scent makes me understand how much he has always turned me on, every night I saw him perform on stage I felt butterflies in my stomach and I tried to repress the feeling thinking that he would never even notice me and instead now he is here in front of me, just for me.

While I enjoy the sensation of his lips on my skin with a sudden movement he lowers my shorts and thong, but before dropping it to the ground he does something that will always remain imprinted in my mind: he brings it to his face and smells it for a few seconds closing his eyes emitting a light low and deep moan and then moving down towards my groin raising my legs with both hands before starting to kiss my clit causing shivers throughout my body. While he is intent on eating me I lose all inhibitory restraints, I want nothing else in this moment other than the sensation of his mouth on my pussy, his eyes on me and his hand on my breast. “Fuck.. this feels too good” I sigh between moans as I feel his tireless tongue moving in and out of my slit.

While I'm lost in the moment James pulls away from me, takes me from the hips and turns my back, without saying anything just letting out a low growl, I hear the sound of his belt being undone I look at him from the corner of my eyes over my shoulder, I can tell he's as excited as I am by his movements and the way his chest rises and falls deeply. “I've thought about putting you in this position a lot or times” he tells me as he rubs his tip along my folds before entering me with a quick gesture. My instant reaction is to hold on to the edge of the table as I let out a muffled moan, his rough and wild nature has always had an effect on me and now he can express it best and I certainly won't resist.

His thrusts are strong and energetic, I feel his cock reaching the bottom, widening my walls in a continuous and delicious way and the thing that sends me even more into ecstasy is his strong grip on my hair, he pulls them just enough to make me arch my back, "ohhh fuck yeah.. you like that huh?" he pants, holding a hand tight on my hip.

"God y-yess" I can barely say as my eyes roll back in my head. I feel myself getting close to my release, each thrust hitting the right spot that makes me lose my mind, “Choke me” I whine as he continues to hit me “Choke me?? I knew you were a bad girl!!” He squeezes my neck with one hand forcing me to arch my back even more until his grip is strong enough to make me stand up from the table. My back is now against his chest, I can barely breathe "do you like it like this?? Look how much you love getting fucked like a needy slut in your brother's bar.. does he know you're that nasty?” the way he whispers in my ear and his hand tightened around my neck are all I need to come shaken by spasms so strong that I feel my legs give way and James promptly surrounds me with an arm around my waist, decreasing the rhythm of his thrusts but continuing to penetrate me to the hilt until he comes out of me and I slowly try to catch my breath.

"On the couch, now!" he orders slapping me with an open hand on the buttock, I love how he takes control over me and the best thing is, I didn't think I needed it.

I still feel dazed but I head towards the couch sitting on the edge while I feel my humidity expanding along my thighs, James positions himself in front of me, the sweat flows from his toned and tanned chest along his abdomen down to his crotch making him even hotter.

I get closer to his cock and looking up at him I start to lick it while simultaneously sliding my hand along its length: “ yes just like that... take it all, like the dirty needy girl that you're ...c'mon”.

As my pace increases, so do his moans and the obscenities come out of his mouth without control as he pushes my head against his pubis not caring that I'm literally suffocating. The moment I feel his cock throb and swell against my throat James moves away, lowers himself and forcefully pulls me towards him from the hips remaining on his knees on the floor while my back is resting against the edge of the couch. He penetrates me reaching the bottom, my still sensitive pussy welcomes him squeezing him making him let out a low moan: "this pussy is perfect..f-ffuck I'm loosing my mind.." he let out while my breasts bounce in rhythm with his increasingly faster movements, my hands end up on his ass, squeezing it and pushing it even further towards me.

A drop of sweat falls from his forehead ending up on my chin: "shit.. I'm soaked" he breathe out, without even thinking about it I lick it smiling at him, I've reached a point where I want everything about him, literally everything, is as if it's making a primordial instinct of mine resurface.

“God I'm so close.. I'm gonna explode.. mmmh” the rhythm of his breaths increases, he grinds his teeth and shortly after I feel a hot jet filling me until it comes out and wets my thighs. My hands loosen their grip on his buttocks, James slowly stops, I take the opportunity to move my hips up and down a little more, crossing my arms behind his neck enjoying the last moments of our connection "ohhh yess.. mmmh fuck" I can't get enough of his moans.

"you're so hot James..." I sigh as a hand caresses his face and then passes through his golden hair, we lose ourselves in a slow and sensual kiss while I still feel him inside me.

“You too.. you looked so innocent and shy.. it drives me crazy to see that you are as eager and horny as me… you match my dirty mind” his words accompanied by his caresses are like a warm cuddle in stark contrast to the rough and wild sex of a few moments before.

We lie on the couch for a few moments, enjoying the sight of our naked, sweaty and satisfied bodies, until James starts to get dressed.

"See you in the next few days? I mean.. if you like, only the two of us.." His question takes me by surprise but I let out a pleased smile. "Why not?!.. Friday at 2 pm I have a break for a couple of hours so.." I feel myself blushing slightly for no reason as I talk to him. "Perfect.. see you on Friday then." He winks at me and walks out the door.

I stay on the couch for a while longer, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what just happened with an idiotic smile on my face.

[bumpkinspice0]

Recovery Time: Chapter 9

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (Minors do not interact!!!!!!)

Word Count: 3.9k

Summary: You and Joel prepare for a storm together

Warnings: SMUT! Oral (f receiving), sex, kinda rough sex? dirty talk, multiple orgasms, aftercare AN: I have no excuse for why this took so long to update and you all have permission to beat me up for it

Series Masterlist

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AO3

_______________

Chapter 9: Storm Breaking

The wind had picked up, and a thin blanket of snow already covered the ground in what felt like a matter of seconds. The brown dead vegetation was already being choked out by endless white. You were right to be concerned about this storm. It was going to be a bad one.

You rushed out the door while half-explaining what needed to be done to Joel. You’ll take care of the chickens and food, and he’ll take care of pumping the water. You’ll need to get the storage up in the tank. You’ll both take care of the wood. He runs up the hill where the well pump is, and you scurry to the chicken coop. With the potential of being snowed in, you had to be well-stocked. You had to be ready. Of course this all had to happen when you were finally having a moment.

The quicker this gets done, the quicker you get back to… everything else.

Well, that was half true. You’d been caught with your pants down—this time literally— by unexpected weather before, and it always ended poorly. Never underestimate Mother Nature. If you were prepared and ready every time, then you were safe. This time, you seemed to be justified in your anxieties. You didn’t even waste time putting on a jacket before leaving the cabin, and you were already regretting it. 

A cold burst of wind nearly knocks the Buck Shack’s door open. You hurry inside as Gus herds the precious poultry in behind. You start a small fire in the smokehouse just above the floor. 

“It’s not a heat lamp, ladies, but it’ll have to do. You know the drill.” You assure the hoard of hens.

Gus makes quick work of the herding, rushing them all inside in less than 2 minutes. A new record. If only there was time to congratulate him on such a feat. You’ll have to remember to give him an extra piece of jerky later as a thank you for helping you get laid slightly sooner. 

You toss in a few good handfuls of dead leaves for bedding. After double-checking the ventilation, you latch the new hen house door behind you. 

Now the cellar. 

You don’t even look at the jars as you shove them into the basket by the stairs. You’re not sure if it’s because of your actual worry for the storm or because of what’s waiting for you after. What you hope is waiting for you afterward. You can’t deny a small part of you is a little happy about this. 

He was about to leave. He was ready to step out the door, and now this happens. You’re not sure you believe in miracles, but you’ll take what you can get. If the almighty sent a freak blizzard to keep Joel in your life a little longer… Well, then you better start praying again.

On your third trip up from the cellar, you see Joel stumbling down from the water tank. 

“Should have a few extra hundred gallons now,” he’s shouting, but his voice is practically lost in the billowing wind. “What else is left?”

“Firewood.” You re-latch the cellar doors, your fingers already stiff and numb from the dwindling temperatures. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been running back and forth to the front door. You consider rushing inside to dig out your gloves but decide to push through. 

The quicker you get this done, the quicker you get back…

Arm full after arm full of wood is unceremoniously dumped inside as you both rush to finish the final task before hunkering down through the storm. You wonder if he’s thinking the same things you are. If he’s eager to get back to you. You were trying to quell the stirring butterflies in your stomach at what was to come next— nervous about the possibilities. Now that he had time to think about it, would he reject you? In the heat of the moment, the actions were so clear, but now that you both have a moment to pause, maybe you should reconsider. 

He was leaving. Not anytime soon in this weather, most likely, but he was going to leave eventually. Getting attached would make it all the more difficult. At the same time, the thought of having to tiptoe around each other in your cramped little cabin sounded nauseating. Tensions were already so high between you both, and now this?

Is his mind racing the same way yours is? Does he have unfounded anxieties about made-up scenarios? He was such a straightforward man; you doubt it. Joel didn’t seem like one to just wonder about something— he would just take it. 

That would make this all so much easier if that’s how he started this. His confident, guiding hand to quell your anxieties. Would he do that? Take care of you in that way? Maybe. You’ll find out soon.

“That should do it!” 

You both toss a final bundle of logs through the door, a good pile towering in the corner of the living room. Enough to last a few days.

You stand at the door of the cabin, mulling over your mental checklist. Was that really it? No, something felt off. You were forgetting something, you’re absolutely sure of it. What else could there possibly be?

“What is it?” Joel’s gloved hand comes to grasp your freezing one. You try to ignore how his gentleness makes your stomach leap.

“It’s… I don’t know,” you bite your lip, “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

“You got the chickens in? Wanna check the water level?”

“No, no, I—” A wet nose nudging your other hand is your first clue. You look down to see Gus whimpering at your side, eyes darting to the raging snow outside. Oh no. 

Lilly. 

You look down at the porch and see a set of quickly filling little paw prints in the snow that lead off to the east side of the house. She must have run out with you and Joel, and you didn’t even notice. With Gus acting this way, it was clear she wasn’t in the house.  She was still out there, cowering and scared. Oh that stupid fucking cat. It’d been so long since you’d viewed her as just a cat, though. She was your family. Some of your only family. You had to find her.  

You jump off the porch, calling her name. 

“Wait!” Joel calls out, his voice only landing on deaf ears.

You follow her tracks away from the house. They quickly disappear in the pelting snow, but there was just enough to tell she went toward the water reservoir, likely trying to follow Joel there. Of course, can’t let her new favorite person brave a crippling storm alone—stupid, stupid cat.

The snow was already ankle deep on you, and the wind was punishing. You were struggling just to walk; you can’t imagine how hard it might be for a ten-pound animal.

You made it to the water tank. A quick look behind your shoulder and you see no sign of Joel. He was likely taking his time to search the lower part of the hill. You circle the reservoir, calling out Lilly’s name and praying that dumb little animal can hear your voice over the wind. There was barely ten feet of visibility now, she’d likely gotten lost. 

You take a brief moment to check the water levels of the tank. Joel had pumped in another five hundred gallons, definitely enough to assure neither of you has to come back up here for a while. Unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to be grateful just yet. 

“Lill–” you’re cut off as you round the tank a second time, slamming directly into a familiar board chest.

“I have her!” He shouts over the wind. He opens up his jacket ever so slightly, and a set of familiar green eyes peers back. You immediately sigh in relief, “Damn thing was just under the porch. Come on, let’s head back.”

He puts an arm around you, shielding you from the wind as you both carefully walk down the hill. Now, with a moment to breathe and every task completed, you can feel the cold start to creep in. Snow clung to every part of your clothes and froze into your hair. Yeah, you should have definitely grabbed a jacket.

You both burst into the cabin, quickly locking the door behind you. In the peek of gratefulness, Lilly scurries under the couch, quickly followed by Gus. Their own way of saying thank you for rescuing them from a certain frozen demise. 

You kick off your boots while Joel latches the door behind you. Limping over to the wood stove to thaw yourself out, you curse your practically frozen joints. Well, that’s what you get for running out blindly in a blizzard without sparing a second to even grab a damn coat. 

“Holy shit,” Joel grumbles as he adds a few more logs into the stove. Its warmth already filled the cabin. Still, that didn’t make you thaw out any faster. 

You jump in surprise when Joel grabs your hands. His own hands were rough and already warm. He always seemed so warm. 

“Silly woman, didn’t even think to put on a coat or gloves.” He scoffs, delicately running his fingers over yours. 

“I think my panic was justified,” You scoff through chattering teeth. A gust of wind shakes the cabin walls as if to agree with you. 

You stand there in silence for probably too long, both of you likely too dumbfounded on what to say next— or maybe too nervous. Really, what could you say? Can you just get right back to business? Did he want to talk it through? If he did, then this would be the perfect time for him to say something. 

He was stuck here in this little cabin with you at least until the storm passed. He wanted to leave. He’d been waiting to leave. You kissed him. He kissed you back— And he wanted to kiss you back. 

This wasn’t one-sided. That’d become obvious. Even still, with the rush of adrenaline and too much time to ponder your own desperate actions, you started to doubt it all. All the courage you had earlier depleted. 

You’re cold, you’re tired, and now your whole body is sopping wet to top it all off. 

The snow sticking to your hair and clothes was finally melting, the fabric awkwardly clinging to your skin. You realize you must look like an absolute wreck at this point.

You pull your hands away from his and turn away. You start to unbutton your top flannel before you take a step towards the hallway. A hand on your elbow stops you. 

He silently turns you back towards him— that same fiery look in his eyes before the storm came. You gulp as he reaches for your flannel. His hands replace your own frozen ones. Slowly, he starts to unbutton the shirt, one by one.

“Let me help,” He murmured, his gaze transfixed on your peaked nipples. 

“Joel—”

“You do too much, you know that? Too busy takin’ care of someone else.” He rolls the sleeves off your shoulders, and the soaked garment falls to the floor with a wet plop. Only your white undershirt remains, equally as drenched and clinging to your skin. 

His fingers hook under the hem of your shirt. The final layer of fabric that separates him from your bare breasts underneath. You’re positive the shirt is drenched to the point of being see-through. His eyes dart to yours, asking permission to continue. Your breath hitches as you give a small nod. 

He savors the moment, slowly gliding his rough palms up your torso as he rolls the shirt over your head. You gasp at the chill the air sends over your bare skin. Your T-shirt joins the flannel on the floor. 

His eyes don’t leave yours, even though his hands roam up and down your bare skin. He pulls you into him. He’s warm. He’s so fucking warm.

“Who’s takin’ care of you, darlin’?” That raspy baritone sends shivers down your spine like it never had before. He knew exactly what he was doing.

His lips crash into yours with the same urgency as before. The frenzied roughness is all the permission you need to rip at his clothes. You feel his breathing jump when your hands reach the bare flesh of his stomach. He pulls you closer into him, your bare chests crushed into each other. His warmth against your peaked breasts makes you mew in delight. 

He brings you both down to the floor, pushing you down and crawling on top of you. He breaks the kiss for a moment, those deep whisky eyes setting you even more on edge— if that was even possible. His breath is heavy with lust, yours is too. 

An impatient whine escapes your lips as you reach for his belt buckle again. His hands instantly grab your wrists, a dangerous warning flashing in his eyes. 

“I told you,” his voice has nearly dropped a full octave, “You do too much.”

He gently returns your hands back to your sides before reaching for your pants. The graze of his knuckles against the soft flesh of your stomach sends jolts down your legs as he runs them across the hem. He slowly unbuttons them, his eyes never leaving your own. If he keeps this shit up you doubt you’re gonna last long.

You worry for a moment that his touch may linger on your scars there. A sporadic pattern of jagged, ugly lines on your lower abdomen. He’d never seen this part of you. Luckily, he’s a gentleman, or at least doesn’t seem to care.

You raise your hips, and he pulls your final garments down in one yank, both underwear and pants quickly discarded across the room. You lay underneath him fully bare and waiting— eagerly waiting.

You have to will your legs not to shake as his hands run up them, his mouth placing stubbled kisses along your inner thigh. Each contact of his lips sends a new jolt of wetness straight between your legs. Despite your efforts, a few moans escape you. You swear you catch the hint of a smile on his lips as he trails closer to your pussy. He likes this, you think. Seeing you start to crumble from so little.

 He hovers there for a moment, his warm breath caressing your eager cunt. “Let me take care of you, darlin’.”

He rips a scream from you as he engulfs you, hot tongue delving through your folds and dragging up to your bud. His fingers dig into your squirming hips, nailings leaving crescent indents in the supple flesh. He could break skin and leave you bleeding for all you cared, just as long as he didn’t stop. 

 Christ, when was the last time someone did this to you? And was it ever this good? No, no, you doubt it was. 

Your hands find his lushious curls, holding onto him for dear life. He laps at you greedily— furiously. His skilled tongue moved with a precision you’d never known. Somehow, you're not surprised he’s an expert at this. You’re not sure why. 

His deep moans as he works send shockwaves through your whole body. They tell you something that sends your head swimming. He’s enjoying this just as much as you. 

The previous freezing cold is now completely forgotten in the warm embrace of Joel Miller— and it’s everything you imagined it would be. 

“Christ,” You hear him murmur against you, “S-so fucking wet, sweet girl. So wet.”

“Just for you,” you mew in a voice you thought you’d forgotten. “All for you.”

“So good,” He runs his flat tongue over the length of your slit before sucking in your clit. 

“Fuck!” you scream, your thighs closing around his head. The orgasm hits you unexpectedly. Liquid fire rushes through your veins in an instant— and entirely too soon. Still, Joel doesn’t seem to mind, his mouth still eagerly consuming you as you attempt to crush his skull. 

You knew you wouldn’t last.

The tight coils of your muscles slowly unwind as you come down, sweat pricking at your brow already. And it was… embarrassing. You came so fast and it was fucking embarrassing. You groan and cover your face with your hands.

“Hey? Sweetheart?” You feel Joel crawl over you again, your dripping cunt already missing his perfect mouth. “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“No! No, not that! You were— That was—” you stammer over yourself as usual. He hovers over you, patiently waiting for an explanation. You feel your cheeks heating even more, if that was even possible, “I… I came too fast.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that.” 

“No, it’s not— I just—” you sigh, brushing your hands up his chest. You feel his muscles tense in the wake of your touch. “I just wanted to enjoy that a little longer.”

He smiles, leaning down to kiss you. You sigh at the taste of yourself on his lips. He moves down to your neck, nipping small marks down to your shoulder.

“I don’t know what I did to make you think I was stoppin’ there,” He murmurs against you, his voice painted over with lust once more. He’s a far more attentive lover than you’d thought he would be— not that you’re really complaining, of course.

You finally manage to rip off his belt. He pulls down the waistband of his pants and finally pulls his hard cock free. He sits there for a moment, slowly stroking himself above you. Your mouth waters at the sight of him. Massive cock already throbbing hard and dripping. You’re absolutely delighted to keep finding out that no part of Joel Miller is how you’d imagined he would be— not at all.

He finally completely abandons his pants and comes back down to you. You’re both here, completely bare. The barriers are finally broken down and neither of you have to hide anymore— you don’t have to resist anymore.

Nothing is ever going to be the same.

You feel the blunt head of his cock jump as it comes into contact with your sopping entrance. He sighs, dropping his head back to your neck. He rolls his hips gently, not to enter you but to coat himself in your release. The gentle yet so purposeful soft contact makes another moan escape from your lips— his velvet hard cock stroking through your weeping folds. It was heaven.

“I—” His gravel voice drips with desperation, “I don’t know how gentle I c-can be, sweet girl.”

Whoever said you wanted things gentle? Clearly, you’ve given him the wrong impression as well. You place several sloppy kisses along his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist. You lick a stripe from his neck up to his ear before you whisper— 

“Then don’t be.”

He growls, a filthy but exciting sound, before he pulls back and slams into you. You arch in a silent cry, your nerves screaming from the sudden fullness you hadn’t known for far too long. He waits for you to adjust, only for a moment. You can see the tendons tensing in his neck, heavy ragged breaths blown into your hair. 

“Sweet little t-thing,” he groans as he slowly draws back.

He slams into you again, the force far more pleasurable this time now that you know what to expect. Christ, you were so full. If you’d known he would feel this good, you would have cornered him on the couch weeks ago.

“Joel…” You can’t help but moan his name as he sets a pace, his heavy breath against your neck sending chills down your spine. His grip on your hips tightens, each thrust becoming harder than the last— more punishing. He needed this as much as you did. Is it selfish to think that? You don’t really care at the moment.

He shifts you both, coming up to his knees and raising your hips to meet him. His first thrust at the new angle hits something inside you, something that makes you gasp and the edges of your vision blur. He took notice, a small grin pulling at the edges of his lips. With crippling precision, he hits it again, and again, and again…

“S-so busy takin’ care of everyone else,” he grunts through his efforts. “When’s the last time someone took care of you, darlin’?”

He holds you against him, grinding his pelvis into yours. His hand comes up, his thumb pressing against your clit. You can’t help the scream that practically drools out of your lips.

“Tell me,” you almost don’t hear him say it, “When— when was y–your last time…”

So it wasn’t rhetorical. You muster up all the brain strength you can to answer.

“T–too long… years,” you manage to squeak out between gasps. His hand still hasn’t left you, “T–too f–fucking… long…”

“Shame… fucking s-shame…” he finally pulls out again, resuming his same brutal pace, “Woman like you… out here all alone… fucking shame…”

Joel Miller is a dirty talker; who knew? You don’t have the capacity to register his words while he's holding you on the cusp of another orgasm, though. Those rough hands working you like he already knew every part of you— or maybe any amount of intimacy is good enough for you now. Though, you highly doubt that. 

He releases your hips and you both fall back down to the floor together. He doesn’t slip out as you do, his movements becoming more sporadic as you both chase the same high.

It catches you by surprise again, a crashing orgasm that shakes your whole body. You arch into him, your mind numbing for precious split seconds. 

“Oh god— that’s it. That’s—” He hastily pulls out of you, spilling his release over your stomach with a final sinful moan. 

He holds himself over you while you both come down from the same high, his head hanging low between his shoulders. You see his back rising and falling with his breath as he gathers himself. You reach up and grab his hanging head, placing a soft kiss in the messy mop of his hair. He immediately looks up, capturing your lips for another kiss. You both hold it longer than expected. 

The room is so quiet now— Only the sound of crackling fire to cut through the dense, sex charged air. Wordlessly, Joel rises and steps into the kitchen. You gasp at the loss of him. He comes back with a damp washcloth. He kneels at your side and silently runs it over your stomach and between your legs, cleaning up the mess you both made. You wonder if he’ll bring up the scars now. He doesn’t. 

He discards the washcloth, throwing it across the room. He puts his pants back on and you just wrap a blanket around your naked body, the warm air more comforting against your bare skin than any sweater would be.

He pulls you onto the couch and you curl into him without hesitation. You both sit there silently, listening to the raging storm outside.

“Guess you might be stuck here for a while longer,” you eventually say. His hand gently strokes over your bare shoulder.

“Yeah… guess I am.”

[notablenotions]

Masks of Nobility – Chapter 14

Hans and Henry had gone off on their so-called “hunting trip,” and Jikta, to her mild surprise, found herself in possession of Hans’ seal of office. A gesture of trust—or perhaps, knowing Hans, a gesture of convenience, given his distaste for paperwork. Still, she didn’t mind. His office was warm, well-appointed, and mercifully quiet.

For someone who cloaked himself in bravado and wore the mask of foolish indifference like armor, Hans was... meticulous. She sat at his desk, rifling through the neatly ordered chaos of parchments and records. In the bottom drawer, she found a trove of documents—most completed to an annoyingly high standard.

Tax reforms, social programs, military requisitions—he had done the work, and well. But instead of submitting them, he’d clearly been drip-feeding them into circulation, hoarding the rest like a magpie with trinkets. Judging by the occasional sardonic note in the margins—“Let’s see if Henry notices this time”—he'd likely been hiding them for the sole purpose of irritating Henry, or baiting him into paying attention.

Jikta chuckled softly. “You idiot,” she murmured, amused. “Too clever by half.”

She hoped they weren’t getting into too much trouble. But trouble and Hans Capon walked hand-in-hand like lovers in a tavern alley. Henry, at least, had the good sense to keep him in check—most of the time. She just hoped it was Henry who remembered to pick the belladonna. Hans would return with a single, crushed leaf in his hat and some tall tale about being attacked by wolves. Henry would bring the entire plant, roots and all, carefully wrapped, ready for replanting.

Her gaze drifted to the door. Bartosch would arrive soon. Given the recent… difficulties with Hans and Henry, perhaps it was a blessing that no great scandal had unfolded—yet. Bartosch’s presence might prove stabilizing. He had known Henry before the titles and politics. And more importantly, he understood fear. What war did to a man. Jikta intended to ask him—subtly—about Henry’s condition. She could only do so much with balms and half-remembered remedies. Bartosch had seen the battlefield, and perhaps the aftermath too.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Mags, the longest-serving maid in the house, entering with her midday snack. By her records, Mags had served Hans’ father as a girl, and somehow, against all reason and odds, had remained in service ever since. She moved with the surety of someone who had outlived better men and knew where all the skeletons were buried. Literally and otherwise.

Jikta returned to the pile of tax reforms. Hans’ ideas were radical—beneficial to the common folk, no doubt—but financially unsustainable for House Capon in their current form. He clearly knew this too, judging by the scribbled side notes. “Find way to replace lost revenue without touching wine cellar.” Very noble. Very Hans.

Rolling her eyes, she dipped her pen and began drafting alternatives. There had to be a way to pass these reforms without sending the estate into ruin—or, God forbid, drinking bad wine.

That evening, Mags returned once more, clearing her throat with exaggerated formality.

“Milady,” she intoned, eyes glinting with amusement. “A guest has arrived. I believe it is the not-so-ladylike Bartosch.”

Jikta looked up, a smile tugging at her lips. “About time.”

The next few days were a delight. Having Bartosch back in her orbit was like slipping into a well-worn cloak. They had once been terrors at court—him with his sharp tongue and sharper sword, her with wit that could flay a man’s pride faster than any blade. Now older, only marginally wiser, they found themselves circling the same topics they always had: politics, philosophy, and the general absurdity of noble life.

It turned out Bartosch did know Henry—or at least, knew of him. He asked after him with genuine warmth, a gleam of mischief in his eye that suggested stories best left untold. Jikta made a mental note to keep an ear out.

By day, they labored over Hans’ reforms, poring over figures, drafting proposals, and debating the merits of taxation on imported luxury goods versus levies on landowners. By night, their discussions turned to broader ideas—scientific theory, political thought, and the occasional theological debate that veered dangerously close to heresy. Not that either of them cared.

Jikta had little love for the Church. She had once mused aloud—perhaps too often—why an omnipotent God would need a man-made system of pomp and corruption to uphold his will. Perhaps, she argued, God was no better than the nobles: bloated with pride, desperate for adoration, craving worship of his great deeds. And if pride was the greatest sin, then perhaps God himself had committed it. Bartosch only laughed, called her a blasphemer, and poured more wine.

It was comfortable. Familiar. And together, they managed to shape Hans’ reforms into something presentable—several options, each viable, balancing generosity with pragmatism. Enough to bring real change to the common folk, without threatening House Capon’s coffers—or, more importantly, Hans’ wine reserves.

Jikta leaned back in the chair, satisfied. Let Hans choose the one that suited him best. At least now, the reforms had a fighting chance.

She glanced at Bartosch, raising an eyebrow.

“These should soften the blow when Hans finds out Lady Bartosch is, in fact, Black Bartosch, former mercenary and current terror of polite society.”

Bartosch smirked, raising his cup in salute. “Let’s hope he doesn’t faint.”

Jikta chuckled, dry as dust. “Hans? Never. He’ll turn red, splutter, and ask if it means he has to bow.”

She swirled her wine thoughtfully, eyes distant. “He fears failure, you know. Thinks he’s letting everyone down. That he’s a disgrace.”

Bartosch nodded, surprisingly serious. “Then remind him. He’s not.”

Jikta smiled faintly, eyes glinting with something like affection. “Oh, I will. In my own way.”

And as the fire burned low, she thought—not for the first time—that perhaps, despite everything, they were all doing the best they could.

And sometimes, that was enough.

---

Hans pretending to have not done work enjoying an increasingly tense Henry is my head cannon.

[prttygirlposts]

mapping out malfoy manor while reviewing the Malfoy legacy !!

front exterior

Fun fact! The iconic shots of Malfoy Manor from the Deathly Hallow movies were actually shots of the real Hardwick Hall in Chesterfield, England. While this could not be the real home of the Malfoys, that is due to location rather than sociability.

Considering the Malfoys were still fraternizing with Muggles during the Elizabethan era (Lucius Malfoy the First was even a suitor for Queen Elizabeth the First) and that Hardwick Hall is an Elizabethan manor, the Malfoys could've bought it out. However; this isn't the case because their land is found in Wiltshire, England.

Since Hardwick Hall is the official shot of the home's exterior, I'll be using it here. Hardwick Hall is most well known for its extravagant windows. Similarly, Malfoy Manor also has these windows.

The fourth picture I have provided is not an overview of Hardwick Hall. It is actually a rendering of the description from the Deathly Hallows book: "They turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved with them, running off into the distance beyond the pair of impressive wrought-iron gates barring the men's way... the source of the noise proved to be nothing more than a pure-white peacock, stirring majestically along the top of the hedge."

This actually brings me to my little Malfoy theory about the peacocks. In the Goblet of Fire, during the Quidditch World Cup, the golden trio spots a tent with seven albino peacocks milling about: "Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance." This is so clearly a Malfoy Easter egg to me, and no one talks about it. My theory is that the peacocks represent extravagance, their albino condition represents purity, and there being seven peacocks (that's an assumption on my part) is supposed to bring good fortune. Hence them being at the Cup, because Lucius was probably betting on the game.

the entrance hallway

The entrance hallway to Malfoy Manor is described in Deathly Hallows for a brief moment: "The hallway was large, dimly lit and sumptuously decorated, with a magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the walls followed Snape and Yaxley as they strode past. The two men halted at a heavy wooden door leading into the next room, hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, then Snape turned the bronze handle."

I actually want to take this section as an opportunity to discuss the Malfoy lineage. Mainly because this is where we see the portraits of former family members and because I imagine the decorations are actually family possessions (I think this since Lucius hid his personal artifacts in the cellar.)

I am going to go chronologically about every Malfoy we know about prior to Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco.

Armand Malfoy - He brought the Malfoy family to England in the 11th century. He came from France as a soldier in the Norman Conquests. He rose to wealth through his connections to King William the first. Armand actually did magical, shady jobs for the king. He stole the Wiltshire property that would expand into Malfoy Manor.

Nicholas Malfoy - He lived in the fourteenth century and he knocked off his muggle adversaries under the guise of the black plague. While it's implied Armand was a murderous Malfoy (with him being apart of the Norman Conquest, him doing "shady" jobs for King William, and him stealing muggle land) Nicholas is the first recorded murderous Malfoy.

Lucius Malfoy the First - He was a possible suitor for Queen Elizabeth the First. He was rumored to have jinxed her when he wasn't chosen.

Brutus Malfoy - He was an editor in the 17th century, anti-muggle periodical "Wizards at War." In the spin off book The Tales of Beedle the Bard, we actually get to see one of his pieces. He wrote, "This we may state with certainty; any wizard who shows fondness for the society of Muggles is of low intelligence, with magic so feeble and pitiful that he can only feel himself superior is surrounded by Muggle pigmen."

Septimus Malfoy - He used the Minister of Magic, Unctuous Osbert as a political pupper in the late 18th century. That relationship mimics the one Lucius and Cornelius Fudge would have many years later.

Abraxas Malfoy - Outside of the family we meet in the books, Abraxas is Malfoy we know the most about. He was Lucius Malfoy the Second's father. According to Draco in the Half-Blood Prince, he was in the slug club ( DM: "Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?" HS:  "Yes. I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age...") We also know that he lived a fairly long life and he died of dragon pox. Most criminally, Abraxas was known for being involved in forcing the first muggle-born Magical Minister to step down early.

You might've noticed there aren't any Malfoy women mentioned. It's a shame that they don't have any descriptions. Though, with the amount of portraits mentioned, it's likely their paintings are present in the Malfoy household.

the drawing room

In Deathly Hallows there's two descriptions of the drawing room- one from the meeting where Professor Burbage is murdered and one where Harry is kidnapped by the snatchers. They go as follows:

"The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a long and ornate table...Illumination came from a roasting fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror."

"The drawing room dazzled... Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceilings, more portraits against purple walls."

This brings me to the green ick I have. Everything with the Malfoys is dark green in fan media. Please guys they had a drawing room with purple walls. Also, I think it's interesting that purple was chosen. Purple is the color of royalty, so of course the Malfoys have it in their home.

Then there's this mirror. It's brought up multiple times, which leads me to think it's pretty damn noticeable. Almost like a centerpiece. Knowing the Malfoys and Lucius's interest in dark artifacts, I believe this mirror to be a magical heirloom. Mirrors are actually spiritual veils in traditional witchcraft, and in HP we see mirrors/glass be used as magical tools twice. Once with the Mirror of Erised and again with the glass the Marauders used as a communication device. It's just a headcanon, take it or leave it.

There's also a description of the marble fireplace under that mirror. When the death eaters aren't meeting, there are chairs set next to it. Apparently it's big enough to illuminate the entire drawing room when lit. Actually, it's big enough for Lucius to be stupefied into the hearth. This leads me to believe the drawing room used to be a lot cozier. Which makes sense, considering how much schmoozing this family does. A drawing room is where you entertain guests, and if you want the Minister to be in your pocket you want the drawing room to be comfortable. In conclusion, this drawing room was nice before Voldemort over took it.

Finally, I included a picture of a pine organ because I swear I read something about one being featured in the drawing room. I can't find it, but I know I saw someone say that. I'm still including it, because it makes perfect sense to me. Like yeah, these people have a pine wood, pipe organ.

Narcissa's bedroom

These three bedrooms are a complete, self-indulgent headcanon intermission, but I will include fun facts about the characters.

Narcissa- the queen- is up first. I do think Lucius and Narcissa have their own rooms. I mean they were an arranged marriage, neither of them slept well (due to the first war), and they seem like two people who need their space.

Narcissa's room would be a cross between who she was as the youngest Black sister (star themes, moody lights, and fancy mirrors) and who she is now as the Malfoy queen (feminine colors, indulgent decorations, and luxurious furniture.)

I do think the Malfoys are a mirror to the Blacks. They are both extremely powerful families, but they go about it differently. The Black family is strict- hardened by centuries of discipline. Every action must align with their motto, "always pure." Meanwhile, the Malfoy family motto is, "purity will always conquer." Malfoy's are less strict because they have the mindset that they'll come out on top no matter what. Narcissa is brought to a strange intersection: continue to survive or begin to live. You can see that in her bedroom.

The room is always filled with flowers/candy because Lucius's love language is gift giving.

She keeps Draco's baby pictures in golden, floral frames on her vanity. It embarreses him terribly.

She has a piano in her room. The pine organ in the drawing room is actually for her. She's a very skilled musician and loves to play.

Sirius took the enchanted, communication mirror idea from his cousins. It makes sense the Black Sisters would find a way to speak to one another when Bella went to Hogwarts. Narcissa has a compact mirror (with a narcissus flower on it) that used to be a communication device. She keeps it in her nightstand drawers. On harsh days, she opens it and hopes she'll catch a glance of Andromeda.

Lucius's bedroom

I'll save my Lucius/bird metaphor ramble for another post, but his room is filled with bird motifs.

His room is surprisingly simple compared to the rest of the Manor. He has a smaller bed, coffee mugs/shot glasses laying about, and books falling off their shelves.

Part of it is rebellion and another part of it is entitlement. His room is simple as a stark rebellion against his forefathers. He's not brave enough to give up all his riches, but those riches bar him from individuality. Lucius will never be his own person: just another blonde snake. So, his room abstains from the typical Malfoy luxury. Then, it's always a wreck because he assumes someone will clean up behind him (poor Dobby).

Contrary to popular belief, I do think Lucius was a loving father. He definitely wasn't a perfect father, but he did love Draco. So, I think his room is filled with presents from Draco and pictures of him.

He's also the type of parent who keeps all of Draco's achievements in files. Best junior seeker certificate from summer camp? Yeah he's got it on standby.

His windows are open- no matter the weather. Closed windows make him feel claustrophobic. He only closes the windows when he sleeps.

He also closes the curtains when he sleeps. He's a bit paranoid. He's got a lot of enemies.

Boring ministry paperwork is everywhere. Not only do his superiors pay him to commit shady crimes, they also pay him to do their paperwork. He hates it. He'd rather be black mailing a political figure.

Draco's bedroom

Draco's bedroom has really cool dragon wallpaper. Get it? Draco is latin for dragon (under-rated symbol for him).

I do think his favorite color is green. His room is covered in dark greens. He thinks it makes him look more refined.

That's also why there are no posters on his wall. He used to have quidditch posters all over his room, but Pansy made fun of them. Now, if he puts something on his walls, it's displayed on a shelf or it's framed. It's also always something he can brag about too- like a trophy or signed quaffle.

Malfoy Manor is the hangout house, so Draco keeps food in his room. There's a bowl of apples on his dresser, a jar of sweets on his nightstand, and an enchanted cabinet that acts as a mini fridge for butterbeer. All of this storage becomes handy when the death eaters take over the manor. He doesn't have to leave his room as much.

Additionally there is a bathroom connected to his room.

You're telling me this rich kid came out this dramatically and doesn't have a balcony to sit at? You're wrong. The balcony is also where he and Pansy gossip. Many rumors were planned up there.

SImilar to Narcissa, his room is also filled with presents. His lean more towards clothes and colognes though. Lucius just loves buying stuff.

I want to emphasize how spoiled he is, so Draco has a fireplace. However; he didn't originally have a fireplace. He wanted one when he was twelve. He mentioned it during winter break. By summer break, there was a fully functional fireplace in his bedroom. He adored it, by the way.

the gardens

Alright, headcanons are over. Kinda? We know there is a large garden surrounding Malfoy Manor, but we don't know a lot about its contents.

We can assume this is where the peacocks reside. There is probably a small barn/coop for them.

To go into full imagination territory, I also think there are more birds in this garden. I mean beautiful quails and swans- just to exaggerate their wealth.

I am going to say there is a small apple orchard in the gardens. I mean Draco always has one in the films, so I'm guessing they have some significance to the family. Maybe a fruit of knowledge situation? Regardless, I think Draco always has a full supply, because he gets sent apples from the garden.

The Malfoys clearly have a thing for collecting artifacts. I don't think the garden is excluded from that. Perhaps a lot of statues of former Malfoys (particularly the women/children, which I'll explain in a later post).

This is a headcanon I will not budge on. The Malfoys have a family cemetery deep in the garden. I mean it's a while away, and it's hidden. It is a very off-putting place and a breeding ground for dark magic.

Okay, time for my favorite fun fact. Are you ready? There was going to be a scene of Draco and Theodore Nott talking in the Malfoy gardens, but it got cut.

This is from a post on JK's old website (It's okay! She can't hurt you on this blog! It's just a source!): "However, in this scene Theodore's father (the same Nott who was badly injured in the closing chapters of 'Order of the Phoenix') goes to visit Lucius Malfoy to discuss Voldemort-related business and we see Draco and Theodore alone in the garden having a talk of their own. I really liked the scene, firstly because it showed the Malfoys' home, and the difference between the place where Draco has grown up and number four, Privet Drive; then because we rarely see Draco talking to anybody he considers a real equal, and he is forced to see Theodore as such, because Theodore is just as pure-blooded as he is, and somewhat cleverer. Together these two Death Eaters' sons discuss Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts and Harry Potter, with all sorts of stories that the Death Eaters tell about how this baby boy survived the Dark Lord's attack."

That is really interesting to me. There's just this whole other side of the story that happened, but we don't get to witness it. I might write it out one day.

This took forever to make. If you read all the way through, thank you. I did cut a few rooms, so I might make a part two. I was just ready to get this out into the world. Please, please reblog/comment your thoughts or headcanons. This is my favorite topic in the whole world. I am so interested in the Malfoys. Thank you again for reading!!

[siro-cyll]

The Uncharted Mansion

Transcript:

Once again, Gravity Falls has contradicted my ability to predict its unstable weather patterns. While cataloging several anomalies in the woods miles from my cabin, I became lost in a freak blizzard that I was gravely unprepared for. I had no choice but to seek refuge in the nearest cave and light a fire for warmth. As I tried to stave off the cold, I realized the cave was not made of stone but dense trees frozen in an arch, creating a dark tunnel that stretched beyond the firelight. With the storm raging behind me and my curiosity piqued, I ventured forth to get my mind off the storm. To my astonishment, the long tunnel yawned wide into an extravagant courtyard surrounding a massive decadent mansion that rivals the one owned by the Northwest, only more overgrown. It seems I have stumbled upon: The Uncharted Mansion My amazement at the unmarked domicile aside, I decided I had to take shelter inside until the storm passed. I'm sure whoever resides here wouldn't mind, given the circumstances. I gained entry through a cellar door at the back, and as the exterior suggested, the interior had not been touched for some time. A quick sweep of the place told me I was alone. Each room was fully furnished with furniture covered in dust-covered sheets. Given the eerie yet enchanting atmosphere, I half-expected something to come alive to talk to me as some beast-like prince resident to make himself known. Maybe I'm overthinking this. Chilled to the bone, I lit the hearth in a lavish parlor using some dried wood nearby and settled onto one of the covered fainted couches to take in my surroundings. My mind tumbled with what secrets this place could hold as my excitement grew. I had not found any records of this mansion in my research, but it looked as old as the one owned by Northwest. Surprising no one, my first thought was that this place had to be haunted. Also surprising no one, I had brought my emergency ghost-hunting kit with me. While I has unprepared for such a drastic change in the weather, I'm always prepared for an impromptu ghost hunt! A somber portrait above the hearth caught my eyes as I set up my gear. The profile of a pale young woman with long dark hair holding a barn owl with a bowtie stood out against the black background framed in gold. Engraved at the bottom were the initials "B.B.B." Her initials? Her manner of dress was reminiscent of nobility during the pioneer days. The longer I gazed at her, the more my face warmed at the possibility of making contact with her. Would that count as a girl talking to me if she responded? Ghost girls are still girls, right? Then it occured to me that I had no clue what to say to her. "How's death treating you?" would probably get me slapped. I spent an hour rehearsing and trying to be as charming as possible before starting. After hours of trying to detect any paranormal activity, I concluded that I was getting the literal cold shoulder from "BBB", which was likely given my track record with women, or this place was not haunted despite its atmosphere. Pity. I was hoping I would be able to talk to someone tonight. This place had become quite lonesome once the excitement wore off.

For years now I've wanted to make lost journal pages for Journal 1 and 2, and I've finally started! With @lord-rosenth0rne's help, we've started here, at Thorne's mansion! We had a lot of fun with this, messing with codes, and even throwing in a cameo of my oc, Riddell.

We want to keep exploring Ford's journals, along with my Tumble in Time continuity. Thorne is a fruit bat vampire who ends up being roommates with Orion, and these pages happen before Orion comes crashing into Ford's life.

If you want to take a blacklight to it, check out the read more~

No Ford blacklight commentary here, it's all Bill for some reason...

[hannahssimblr]

Winter. 

When did this happen? Was I looking away for long enough for the season to change without my notice? I haven’t spent enough time here watching time, from this old velvet seat by the window that overlooks brutalist blocks, each building identical to the next. These utilitarian slabs might stand like this, grey cubes jutting from the asphalt, for five hundred years. I’m here for five months now. Thoroughly settled, used to this place, this apartment with the tarry flavour of cigarettes clinging to the furniture the landlady never took away. 

Jonas says she’s strange, this woman who has left all of her old things for us to live around. Her lamps, with sun-faded shades, her record collection, the chenille bedspreads stuffed into a closet, and the ancient television I replaced the day after I landed. I’ve never met her. Sometimes, I slip a dusty bottle from her wine rack in the cellar and serve it to my friends at dinner. Surely, by the time she ever notices, I’ll be long gone.

Through the vignette of condensation, the snow drifts, white flecks, across the beam of the streetlights. Kreuzberg is quiet. Sunday. 

I refocus my eyes to look into my face, a mirror reflection in the black window. I look older, perhaps, than in the photographs Jen posted to me in September, the ones from the summer, where the light is hazy and our noses are sun blushed, from that time that feels like another lifetime already, or like fiction. At Christmas, I returned to Ireland, and it rained for two weeks without stopping, and it felt something more like reality.

My grandmother told me that my hair was straggly, and she’s right. It’s been too long since I’ve cut it, but the ends of my hair spent the summer with me. Even though my skin cells have replaced themselves, the parts of my hair touching the collar of my coat and curling around my ears hold the memories that the rest of me is slowly losing. 

I haven’t stayed in touch with my friends from there as much as I would have liked. These days are busy, with friends, with college. I draw and paint more than I ever have, lashing out piece after piece, sketchbook after sketchbook, building a tower upon the desk in my cold little bedroom, though the women in my pieces don’t have green eyes anymore. Now, I choose blue.

The door buzzes, and I stand to answer it. 

My finger on the button, “Yeah?”

“Hurry! Open up, it’s fucking cold.”

I buzz her in, then stand waiting by the open door as she ascends the stairway. Three floors. I hear her the whole way, the snap of boot heels against tile. There’s an elevator in her building, and I feel acutely guilty about my building’s lack of one, despite being entirely powerless to do anything about it, as I am an art student, not an engineer, and was not yet actually born during its construction. 

She appears on the landing, shivering, with snowflakes clinging to her hair, and sitting on the structured shoulders of her trench coat. 

“Ugh, oh God, those stairs. I hate them.” She says. She unzips her boot and tosses onto the pile of shoes next to the door, and I notice immediately that she’s barefoot, toes balanced on the tiles like a ballerina. 

“You didn’t wear socks?”

She’s not wearing tights either. Her long, pale legs poke, completely exposed beneath the beige gabardine. 

“Did you take the U-Bahn like this? It must be five below zero.”

Her second boot hits the tile with a clatter, and she backs me into my apartment. As the door clicks shut, she pulls on the tie of her coat.

She’s wearing nothing but black lingerie. 

“Ah,” I am enlightened. This now makes perfect sense to me, in much the same way it does to her. Astrid has a way of bringing me around to her way of thinking. 

This was actually an excellent idea. 

“I was bored,” she says, which makes sense too. She is always bored. This is why she does what she’s seen people do in films. It’s a way to keep herself entertained. An unwelcome thought flashes into my mind, as I wonder if she has done this specific thing for previous boyfriends. I hop off that path. With Astrid, it is important to dwell only upon the present. Anything before this, now, me, us, is nothing worth worrying about. 

I slip my hands under her coat, onto the soft, downy velvet of her skin. 

“Nice and warm,” she murmurs. 

“Astrid, you shouldn’t have gone out like this.”

“It was only thirty minutes.”

“I know, but,” Her hands are freezing between mine as I heat them with my breath. “It’s too cold.” I’ll have to give her something of mine to wear when she goes home, but begin to worry that nothing is clean. I have been avoiding taking my dirty clothes to the basement since I flew back in ten days ago, too cowardly to face the seizing cold of the communal laundry room and that ever present leak in the ceiling surely turned to an icicle by now. 

These are not sexy thoughts. 

It’s like she can tell just by looking at me. “The point is, you will heat me up,” she says, a bit slowly, like I’m thick.

I don’t want to be the guy that lacks spontaneity. That would make me anxious. She pulls her hands from mine and pouts at me, as though at a little dog. “Look at you, you’re so nice.”

It’s not intended as a compliment, and I understand I should be doing something a bit wilder, like, I don’t know, taking my own clothes off already. Why on earth haven’t I started to do that?

Ah, because I am nice. 

“Okay, fuck your hands then. They can freeze.” Often, jokes are a mistake around Astrid. She rarely laughs at them. In fact, she rarely smiles at all, and only indulges us when she feels like doing it. It’s never to be polite. She knows her own mind. I’m obsessed with her. 

I’m obsessed to an ever greater extent now, because, once again, she’s not laughing. She’s not trying to please me. It’s me, always, trying to please her instead. I tug on her coat and it pools to the floor, then I kiss her. 

“God, I love you.” 

I murmur it, the truth. 

I knew it the third or fourth night we spent together, in November, as the last stubborn leaves clung to the branches. She wasn’t like anybody I had ever met before. She reminded me of nobody, and that was the point. 

I felt it, that weakness, my molten insides, and the deep fear of it in the early hours of one morning as she lay on the sheets with moonlight spilling across her back. She has a tattoo between her shoulder blades of a heart pierced by three daggers. She says it’s from a tarot card, and she was younger and stupider when she got it. That night, as she slept, I uncovered some kind of symbolism in it that moved me, but in the morning light I had forgotten all the profound thoughts I’d come up with except one: That I loved her. It surprised me. I ignored the tiny pang of sadness I felt, like mourning for a part of my life that was already long gone. It was useless to miss it.

I chose Astrid instead. 

I choose her now, love her in the same way I kiss her and touch her and fuck her, by doing what she wants me to do. It’s not a submissive situation. I’m not into that stuff. I am a man clocking in and doing as he's asked, thoroughly, diligently, excelling at his job. Eager to please. Employee of the month.

“Will you put your hand on my throat?” She breathes. Beneath me, her hands claw the bedsheets. 

Yes, I think. That would be nice. 

I am interested to discover that I like it too. I don’t think the other girls I’ve slept with would have let me try the things that Astrid does. They couldn’t picture themselves doing it, I’m sure, and neither could I. Back then I didn’t think about sex the way I do now, but Berlin has been bringing it out in me. 

She comes first. That’s mandatory. Then afterwards, when I have, and thoughts return to my brain, I’ll lay here, haunted by the years I didn’t know about this golden rule, and all the time that I thought I was good at sex but wasn’t. Dwelling on the disappointment I brought upon women and girls will make me spiral a bit, I’ll feel it rising, but I’ll feel better when I fuck Astrid again, in some new, fascinating position, and she’ll tell me I’m pretty good, in fact.

She’ll be loud enough about it that Klaus from downstairs may complain, and point out that such volume levels are forbidden on Sundays. He’ll threaten to raise it with the building management, so I’ll bring up the fact I know it was he who put cat food containers in the recycling bin. Neither of us will do anything, and the cycle will repeat until one of us moves or dies.

“Klaus is a miserable, jealous old fool,” Astrid says. “He probably doesn’t have sex, so he’s furious at people who do. I think it’s basic psychology.”

“He lives with his wife, you know.”

“Oh, that doesn’t mean he’s having sex. Married people don’t do it. Or at least hardly ever. That’s why I’ll never be tied down like that.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“You think Mr and Mrs Klaus are fucking like rabbits down there?”

I scrunch up my face. “I’ve never heard them. Maybe they do it very quietly while I’m out of the apartment.”

“They never do. I bet they hate one another. Surely they sleep in separate rooms and only speak when they have to.” Astrid invents this story with glee. She is describing what is to her an indisputable fact of life. Her parents, and her mother’s relationship with her stepfather, too. I think she believed these things about marriage before meeting me, but the confirmation that my parents are the same has solidified it. 

“I don’t like to think about things in such a black and white way,” I say, and hold my palm against hers. Her fingers are long and slender. “Just because a lot of marriages are bad, doesn’t mean they’re all doomed. I believe some people are happy.”

“Trapped,” she whispers. “Like canaries in a cage. Maybe they don’t know any better.”

“If I was married, it’d be because I loved that person completely. I wouldn’t do it unless I was sure, and if I loved someone that much, I think I’d still have sex all the time. I can’t really picture that changing. When would I ever not be doing it, you know?”

She hums gently. “So you would never join a monastery.”

“Ugh.”

“And if you married me, you’d want me like this forever?”

This isn’t a serious question about marriage. That would be ridiculous. This is a test for me to pass, and am about to, with flying colours.  

“Yeah, you’re so appealing in every way. I can’t imagine not being completely crazy about you forever.”

“You definitely wouldn’t get over me if I left you.”

“Nah, probably not. In my grief, I might even refuse to sign the divorce papers or some shit.”

She nods, satisfied, and rests her head on my chest. It slots nicely beneath my chin. “I want to go to sleep,” she says.

“Alright, me too.”

I switch off the light and listen to the pitter patter of the snow on the window, drifting slowly away with it.

Astrid shifts, restless. 

“Tomorrow, I have a lecture at eight.”

“Unlucky.”

“I don’t have any clothes.”

“Ah, yeah, probably because of the lingerie stunt.”

A pout. “It was a gift for you.”

“And I loved it. I can find you something to wear.”

“To my class? Your clothes? I’ll look ridiculous. Can you get me a taxi to my house so I can change?”

“Yeah, of course. If you wear my clothes in the taxi.”

“I won’t be naked under my coat in front of a strange man, Jude.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll arrange a taxi, then.”

“That’s sweet of you.” She adjusts her position again, and the subtle contact of our bodies sets off a chain of sensation. I rake my nails lightly over her back, and she shudders. 

“You’re so pretty,” I say. “Did you know that?” I know she does, but I like the smug way she always says yes. 

“It’s okay if I leave my underwear here?”

“If you want to, yeah. Why? Do you think I wanted to carry it around in my pocket or something?”

“So you can wash it for me.”

“Yeah,” I press my lips to the back of her hand. “I’ve been meaning to go to the laundry basement for too long now. I’ll just add them to the pile.”

“No, you need to hand-wash them. They’re made of lace.”

“Oh right. So like, in the sink, or something.”

“I thought you might have known that.”

“Nah, see, in Dublin, we had a cleaner who washed all of my lace underwear for me.”

“Mm…”

“... That was a joke about the lace underwear. We did actually have a cleaner, though.”

“You’ll take care of it? They were quite expensive. It’s not as though I have a lot of that kind, so if it got ruined…”

“I will.”

She slips a hand into my hair and seeks my lips in the dark. She kisses me with such affection that I melt into her. “I love you, Jude. Thank you.”

“I love you too.”

A low chuckle as I bite her earlobe. “You really would never be a monk, would you?”

“Oh, my God. The thought makes me sick.”

I roll over her, and we give Klaus one more thing to complain about.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[indefinite-pitch]

Pattrn - Reflets Suspendus

Buy & Support: Pattrn - Histoires d'Eau

[todaysdocument]

Homestead Proof Testimony of Almanzo Wilder

Record Group 49: Records of the Bureau of Land ManagementSeries: Homestead Final Certificates

HOMESTEAD PROOF --- TESTIMONY OF WITNESS A. J. Sheldon being called as a witness in support of the Homestead entry of Almanzo J Wilder for NE- 21-111-56. testifies as follows: Ques. 1-What is your occupation, and where is your residence? Ans. Farmer Sec 10-111-56. Ques. 2-Have you been well acquainted with Almanzo J Wilder the claimant, in this case ever since he made his Homestead entry No. Ans. Yes. for 5 year. [^I think] he had taken his land at [Yorktown] about 3 weeks before I met him. Ques. 3-Was claimant qualified to make said entry? (State whether the settler was a citizen of the United States, over the age of twenty-one years, or the head of a family, and whether he ever made a former Homestead entry.) Ans. Yes. Citizen of U.S. over 21 yer old. Single. Never made former hd entry. Ques. 4-When did claimant settle upon the homestead and at what date did he establish actual residence thereon? (Describe the dwelling and other improvements, giving total value thereof.) Ans. About Oct. 1st 1879. same time. House - frame about 12 ft. square. 2 doors. 3 windows. Stable. frame. Well of water. Cellar. Acres broken & cultivated. Some trees. Value at least $300.00 Ques. 5-Have claimant and family resided continuously on the homestead since first establishing residence thereon? Ans. Single man. Residence continuous Ques. 6-For what period or periods has the settler been absent from the land since making settle- ment, and for what purpose; and if temporarily absent, did claimant's family reside upon and culti- vate the land during such absence? Ans. Was temporarily absent [^at times] working on the R. R. and visiting in Minn. Not more that about 2 months at a time. Ques. 7 -How much of the homestead has the settler cultivated, and for how many seasons did he raise crops thereon? Ans. Acre cultivated. crops on past 4 years. breaking 5 yr. about 20 acres of wheat this year. 1884 Ques. 8-Are there any indications of coal, salines or other minerals of any kind on the Homestead? (If so, describe what they are, and state whether the land is more valuable for agricultural than for mineral purposes.) As. No. No. No. More valuable for agriculture Ques. 9-Has the claimant mortgaged, sold, or contracted to sell, any portion of said Homestead? As. Not to my knowlidge Ques 10-Are you interested in this claim, and do you think the settler has acted in entire good faith in perfecting this entry? Ans. No. nor am I in any way related to claimant. Think he has acted in good faith. A. J. Sheldon I hereby certify that the witness is a person of respectability; that the foregoing testimony was read to him before being subscribed, and was sworn to before me this 12 day of September 1884 W J Barnes +ex officio clerk (See NOTE ON FOURTH PAGE.)

HOMESTEAD PROOF---TESTIMONY OF WITNESS

OC Sheldon being called as witness in support of the Homestead

entry of Almanzo J Wilder for NE 4-21-111-56

testifies as follows:

Ques. 1-What is your occupation, and where is your residence?

Ans. Farmer Sec-10-111-56-

Ques. 2-Have you been well acquainted with Almanzo J Wilder

the claimant, in this case ever since he made his Homestead entry No.

Ans. Yes. for 5 years think he made his hd entry about

3 weeks before I met him.

Ques. 3-Was claimant qualified to make said entry? (State whether the settler was a citizen of

the United States, over the age of twenty-one years, or the head of a family, and whether he ever made

a former Homestead entry.)

Ans. Yes. citizen of U.S. over 21 years old

never made former hd entry

Ques. 4-When did claimant settle upon the homestead and at what date did he establish actual

residence thereon? (Describe the dwelling and other improvements, giving total value thereof.)

Ans. In [fore] part of October 1879 Residence same time.

House 12 by 12 ft frame. 2 doors 1. window stable. cellar

well of water 32 acre broken & cultivated, [sum total]

value $300

Ques. 5-Have claimant and family resided continuously on the homestead since first establishing

residence thereon?

Ans. Single man. Residence continuous

Ques. 6-For what period or periods has the settler been absent from the land since making settle-

ment, and for what purpose; and if temporarily absent, did claimant's family reside upon and culti-

vate the land during such absence?

Ans. Was temporarily absent working on R.R. and

in Minnesota during first winter. [Neccesarily] to

get money to improve his land

Ques. 7-How much of the homestead has the settler cultivated, and for how many seasons did he

raise crops thereon?

Ans. 32 acres cultivated. crops on part 4 years-making 5 [gr.]

20 acres cropped this year 1884

Ques. 8-Are there any indications of coal, salines or other minerals of any kind on the Homestead?

(If so, describe what they are, and state whether the land is more valuable for agricultural than for

mineral purposes.)

Ans. No. No. No. more valuable for agriculture

Ques. 9-Has the claimant mortgaged, sold, or contracted to sell, any portion of said Homestead?

Ans. no no no

Ques. 10-Are you interested in this claim; and do you think the settler has acted in entire good

faith in perfecting this entry?

Ans. No. nor am I in any way related to claimant

think he has acted in good faith. O. C. Sheldon

I hereby certify that the witness is a person of respectability; that the foregoing testimony was read

to him before being subscribed, and was sworn to before me this 12

day of September 1884

OC St W [J] Barnes

+ex officio clerk

[fancypantsrecords]

A Shell In The Pit & Tettix - Rogue Legacy | Fangamer | 2022 | Red Translucent

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Damien's Bedtime Stories #1

Damien has had his bumps joining in with his biological father and adjusting out of the cult of the Demon’s Head. His wrath was high, but over time, he’s discovered himself, his love for medicine, for animals, and even for his family—the little he would admit of it. Yet the quizzical autistic tween of a Robin wanted to hone his skills in new unique ways and the only way he could, which he could barely accept was to ask his family what moments made them truly realize they were bats. These are their stories as recorded by the newest Robin.

Bruce:

You already know my story of vengeance… of justice, Damien… you know of your grandmother and grandfather's death fueling my crusade against crime I know that is not the story you're looking for… now the story you're looking for might take me a while to tell you, my son…

This was early into the crusade not long after I adopted your oldest brother after the Zucco incident, he had maybe a dozen or so patroles at the time and I was still a bit nervous about taking a child into this brigade, but Alfred, Alfred encouraged me and Dick was enthusiastic about it… but things were getting more dangerous… it wasn’t just thugs anymore the biggest threats weren’t Cobblepott or the Falcones they were still present and deadly but the Joker had made his name by then, and Dr. Isley had just transformed — launching her first eco-terrorist rampage. Looking back… I’m not sure she was entirely wrong. Just dangerously misguided. This was a special case there had been a strange string of murders across a film set only a 5-minute drive from Gotham. It started with two slashed mangled actresses and a technical director, there was a weird mud-like residue left near their bodies as well, the gnarly sight nearly sent your brother puking… seeing what we’ve seen now those bodies were nothing… but you never forget your first corpse mangled to that extent and I believe that was Dick’s. I still can’t believe how far he’s come.

Analyzing the clay left at the scene of the Crime we knew it wasn’t just normal mud it was organic and the experiments screamed Hugo Strange but the brutality was not him, he was too cold and calculated he had someone killing for him… or he gave someone the ability to kill with no repercussion in order to draw someone out… more than likely us, Strange… well Strange was… is obsessed with unmasking the Bat he used to be one of the heads of the GPD but turned to crime because he believed I was causing the crime and he wanted me taken down first… it’s sad that someone so devoted to justice fell down that road, but the biochemical research was screaming Dr. Strange, and only days ago we had word one of his lackeys snuck him out of Arkhum so we had more than a simple hunch and our plan at the time was for Robin to patrol the film set that night and for many more nights and report to me before engaging while I attempted to track down Hugo Strange.

It took weeks before anything came to anything, with occasional breaks to take out low-end thugs but this wild goose chase would end soon when a security camera at a liquor store got a glimpse of Hugo and a figure in a trench coat hat entering a seemingly abandoned building across the streets cellar, the second I found that footage I jumped away from the bat computer and began rushing towards their possible hideout sending in a memo to Robin as to where I was heading exact coordinates and a code word I’d send if I needed assistance! Soon I was busting through the cellar door and I had Hugo strangely unguarded, strangely unarmed in my hands, him hanging off the floor by the collar of his shirt. It was easy, way too easy and that's when I got the ringing in my communicator. Hugo laughed “You might want to get that… I just wanted you away from the scene” WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT STRANGE I screamed back at him “Away from the scene on the night my monster told me he planned to strike again… the night the what do they call ‘final girl’ would return to set… I noticed your bird was patrolling just thought it might take some higher stakes to get you off my tail more permanently…”

The beeping in my ear got louder, a distress beacon from Dick from Robin from my son, and just then it set in. Surveilling the set we knew filming was to begin again tonight, I should have taken that into account, I sent a child alone to a crime scene, on the night the monster would likely return. I threw Hugo against the wall and rushed swinging through the night on my grapples allowing him to get away as he mocked me from a distance, my heart was pounding more than usual I had not realized how much this child now meant to me and when I got there and I heard his scream my brain was clouded I wasn’t in the game I was ignoring so much of my training, Dick was being lifted by his throat his hands mangled around the hand of this psycho who was trying to kill him trying to kill robin, I sent out three batarangs colliding with its arm and severing its hand at the wrist as this beast turned towards me and the hand turned to goop on the catwalk… it was monstrous like the face of the phantom in Dread Castle… the film they were remaking against the wishes of its original writer and star Basil Karlo.

Karlo sought revenge was brought to the point of murder and via Strange’s manipulation and experiments was turned into this clay-faced monster. As your brother caught his breath Karlo took a new forum larger less humanoid in shape he launched what was best described as a limb towards me and began encasing me in himself as I struggled to get out, clay was beginning to get in my mouth and that's when I knew he planned to suffocate me I was panicking and couldn’t think straight I knew if I fell my son would next and I couldn’t take that but Robin, Robin didn’t give up your brother tossed exploding batarangs into Karlo, he dropped me and switched targets once more but with an acrobatic flip and his grapple Dick made it to a nearby water tower, Karlo charged him full force, Dick jumped out of the way just in time water flooding Basil to the ground washing him away it would take him months to find each piece of himself and reform, and months for the film to restart with the damage of the set, and Hugo got away but despite all this, I still consider this a win Damien because it taught me to think through every step more then I already had, it taught me to listen to my emotions but not let them cloud me, and it taught me to trust in my Robin because although Dick needed me I needed him just as much. That was a time I was truly reminded of what it means to be a Bat and helped the flame of justice burn brighter in my soul in order to track them down more calculatedly. Is that the answer you were looking for Damien? 

It is satisfactory father. 

Damien took this tale to heart and began taking into respect what his father truly meant. The flame of justice and the importance of trust and family. He needed a second opinion but that was another story another time a story for Dick.

[sunnshift]

my favorite things in my apartment ੈ✩‧₊˚

ੈ✩‧₊˚ my record player & vinyls ; my mom got this for me when i was 10. i took it and my mom's the smiths and eagles vinyls when i moved from oregon to california. among my other vinyls are various albums by daisy jones and the six (they're a real band in my dr), fleetwood mac, and frank sinatra (gifted to me from steve for my birthday)

ੈ✩‧₊˚ my kitchen ; i!!! love!!! my!!! kitchen!!! i'm not good at cooking by any means (nat can vouch for this) but it's so organized it pleases my perfectionist brain. i cook at home maybe 3 to 4 times a week, and when that goes awry, i'll order from the chinese place a block away. even if i'm not a great chef, at least my kitchen is organized :)

ੈ✩‧₊˚ my tea drawer ; this is another reason why i love my kitchen as much as i do. my favorite kinds of tea are english breakfast, raspberry leaf, and peppermint, so i am very stocked up with those kinds of tea. i also keep little honey sticks (as pictured above) and stir those into my tea.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ my mini wine cellar ; i have a see-through door to the right of the fridge that houses about 15 different kinds of wine and liquor. i'm not an alcoholic but... this may speak for itself

ੈ✩‧₊˚ my guitar ; i keep my guitar right next to the bay window in the apartment. i often forget about it so it does go untouched for a while, and then i look at it when i'm sitting on the couch thinking hmm, i should really start playing again... and then the thought dissipates. this was a gift from my uncle for my 12th birthday

ੈ✩‧₊˚ my roller skates ; and again, with the same guilt that says hmm, i should really pick up this hobby again... are my roller skates! i used to skate a lot when i lived with my dad in malibu (i had no friends, give me a break), but now that my apartment is significantly smaller than the house in malibu, i don't do it as much as i used to.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ my purse & my wardrobe ; oh my god. don't even get me started on my closet. it's very 2000s suburban mom coded but in a good way. my chanel boots were really the only things that kept me going for... an embarrassingly long amount of time. my north face vest never gets a break during autumn in dc. i have an outrageous amount of dark-wash bootcut jeans and sweaters. i've got a separate closet for my professional outfits, that's how bad my clothes addiction is. my purse, i love her, she's my right hand woman. if i was stranded without my purse i'd simply die. she's (emotionally) written in my will.