#dropcloth

[boxthoughtsblog]

A quick CLOSER LOOK daily photo exercise - October 12, 2024

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[themightyif]

Transitional Dining Room - Dining Room Picture of a medium-sized transitional kitchen and dining room with light wood floors and dark floors.

[tarpswholesaler]

Plastic Poly Sheeting: A Multi-Purpose Protective Material for Your Works

It doesn’t matter if you are working on a renovation or a painting project or need storage solutions; plastic poly sheeting are handy in diverse projects. At The Tarps Wholesaler, you will find the latest in clear poly sheeting rolls and clear plastic poly sheeting rolls that are durable and effective.

[farmhouse40]

Dropcloth DIY

Have you ever been surprised to learn that those beautiful white linen-look drapes you see online are made of drop cloths? Choosing the appropriate curtains can be a real challenge. Cheap ones tend to look cheap, and high-quality ones can be pricey. Easy, inexpensive, and requiring no sewing, these Dropcloth DIY curtains are a great choice. The neutral tone of the canvas material means it will go with any color scheme you already have in your farmhouse.

[perspectivesusa]

[copperbadge]

[ID: Four images of my hall closet in various states of renovation; the first shows the closet with ugly old shelving still in it, and the second shows it covered in dirty streaks now that the shelves have been removed. The third image shows it sanded and partially painted in a light green (it's called "relish" by the paint company), with a dropcloth on the floor, and the last shows it fully painted, awaiting shelving.]

Closet is painted! I got paint all over myself as is my wont, but painting barefoot means that I know when I step in paint and don't track it everywhere, and I expect to get it in my hair and on my hands. A quart was the perfect amount to do the walls and one edge with nothing left over. Next year maybe I'll try doing the bathroom, it's one of the only rooms I haven't given a good lick of paint at this point.

I bought a freestanding shelving system from Ikea but so far only the uprights have arrived and not the shelves. Just as well, I'm done working for today in terms of cleaning. Though tomorrow I have a relatively full day and Sunday morning we're taking the stuff over to storage, so it may be Sunday afternoon before I get to actually install anything.

Mmm, that new paint smell. It's probably for the best I'm not sensitive to the off-gassing, though I am running both the central fan and a smaller fan nearby.

Anyway Monday should be interesting because the shelves will be up and the storage stuff away, but I need to spend the week making the place less of a fire/tripping hazard before I host a get-together on Black Friday.

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 24: Betrothal

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating: 18+ - explicit sexual content Word count: 5.5k

Masterpost Previous chapter

Author's note: A portion of this chapter may be familiar to you if you've read my story Fever. Dream. Before I decided to share this story with the world, I shamelessly lifted chunks of it to write that shorter fic. This has also been a work in progress for so long, it actually contains the first steamy scene I ever, ever wrote.

Love to Gumball, who inspired some of the dialogue. Such pure words from the heart had to find their way to Benedict's lips 💙

Sophie was grateful that it was the dinner hour and that they encountered no one closely in the distance between Bridgerton House and Benedict’s apartments. She couldn’t imagine the gossip that would erupt the next day from anyone who had seen them: Benedict Bridgerton, one of London’s most eligible bachelors, wild-eyed and bleeding, dragging a maid by the hand through the streets. 

Once safely behind closed doors, Benedict led her into a small parlour, leaving her in the doorway while he proceeded to stomp about from one corner to the other. The footman that had opened the door followed them warily and scurried off when Sophie quietly asked him to bring a basin of water and cloth.

She paused to take in her surroundings. If Benedict’s room in Aubrey Hall could be considered something of a gallery, this room was a full-fledged studio. Devoid of most of the furniture one would expect to find in a parlour, this one held only a few cabinets of supplies, a large, paint-splattered table strewn with brushes, cups, palettes and papers, and a lone sofa. The floor was hidden entirely by dropcloths and three easels stood near the windows. As at Aubrey Hall, the walls were dotted with pinned sketches and hung paintings, mostly large landscape canvases. It was so precisely him - wild and disorganized but colorful and moving, with bursts of breathtaking beauty.

His wildness was on full display as he stalked the length of the room, kicking the cloths and crumpling papers, raking his hands through his hair.

Sophie stood in place by the doorway. “Benedict, you must tell me what is wrong.��

He glanced at her almost as if he had forgotten she was there. “Nothing is wrong,” he grumbled.

“You’re bleeding!”

He either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her. He continued to pace, seething. “Bloody whelp…if he ever…”

Sophie stepped into the room, raising her voice. “If who ever?”

“Cavender!”

She froze. That was certainly not a name she had expected to hear tonight. “Cavender? What happened?”

Again he was either ignoring her or so lost in his anger that he had grown deaf. He continued muttering to himself. “Bloody…menace…ought to be shot…”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” She shouted with her full voice. It worked and he snapped to face her. “Come here and sit down,” she ordered. The poor confused footman had entered and placed the basin on the table before bowing out awkwardly. 

With a look of apology, Benedict staggered to sit on the sofa while Sophie wet a cloth and came to stand before him. 

His eyes were huge, unfathomable as he looked up at her. “Sophie…”

“Shut up,” she snapped. “Sit still.” 

He stopped fidgeting and she held his chin, dabbing the cloth at the corner of his lips, the fabric staining pink. Even under these circumstances it felt so good to touch his skin again, she wanted to shiver. She continued to wipe away the blood, trying to focus only on her task, but her eyes inevitably wandered to meet his gaze. The blue-grey beacons pierced right through her. Something in them was longing. She couldn’t help herself from running her thumb gently under the one that was so frightfully damaged and bright red with blood.

“Did you get into a row with him?” she asked softly.

“Yes. I don’t think he’ll ever care to be in my company again.”

Sophie nodded and continued tending to his cut. She had a passing memory of Benedict’s promise so long ago at the inn; that he would beat Cavender when next he saw him. At the time it had made her smile. But now, Benedict acting as her champion brought out far more complicated feelings. Should she thank him? Had he revealed to Cavender where she was? 

“What was said?” she asked.

“Nothing important. He doesn’t know you’re here.” He always had a way of speaking to her as if reading her mind. “He’s a loathsome cad and now everyone knows it.”

Sophie nodded again, feeling a bit relieved. She had done as much as she could with the cloth and brought it back to the table. She turned to Benedict, her voice wary. 

“Why did you bring me here? Is this all you wanted to tell me?”

Benedict unclenched his jaw but didn’t answer. He seemed to be searching for words.

Sophie continued. “If you seek an apology, I must demand some of my own, and it wouldn’t be worth the breath we will waste because I am leaving. Tonight.”

He stood from the sofa and she instinctively backed toward the door. She didn’t have the energy to fight or bargain with him any longer. This would be the last time she would see him, bloodied and confused though he was. A final bout of sorrow began to choke her.

“I can’t do this anymore, Benedict,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Everything hurts too much. I can’t…”

“I love you.” 

His words were loud and clear. A proclamation that made her heart stop. She stared at him, stunned. Was she going mad? Hearing things? Was he just toying with her?

Again, as if hearing her thoughts, he continued. “And I’m not just saying that to keep you here.”

He turned and walked to one of the cabinets against the wall, retrieving a small key from some hidden corner and unlocking a drawer. From within he lifted a stack of papers, varying in size and texture. He held them gingerly in both hands like priceless artifacts. Sophie moved trepidatiously to stand by the sofa, wondering what on earth he was doing.

Benedict turned and looked her in the eyes, an unreadable expression on his face, something like reluctance and yearning simultaneously. He walked closer and slowly started to spread the pages out before her, separating them to lay across the sofa and the floor so she could see each one. 

She gasped. 

It was her. 

They were all pictures of her. 

Dozens of them. Charcoal sketches of a faceless woman in a cascading ball gown. Renderings of a face hidden by a mask with dark lips and starry earrings. A study of gloved hands, another of the curls of her coiffure. Oil paintings of a woman facing away in a dark garden and watercolors of swirling blues and silver, some painted by his own fingers, abstract and without imagery, but she knew what they signified. She sank to the sofa and touched them in awe, her hands shaking. Eyes welled with tears, she looked up at him, speechless.

“I have thought of nothing but you for two years,” his voice was unsteady with emotion. “I couldn’t let myself forget you, even though I didn’t know your face. You are all I can see. You are in every line I draw, every sky I paint. You are all that inspires and delights me. The only moments when you’re not on my mind are in the dreams where you elude me.” He moved to stand before her. “I have loved you even before I truly knew you, and since fate reunited us I have scarcely been able to breathe in your presence.”

Sophie was finding it impossible to breathe in this moment. All she could do was gaze up at him and let the tears roll down her face.

“In my life I have endeavored to be guided by one thing,” he paused, swallowing. “My heart. And it is telling me that finding you again is not a coincidence. It is crying out for you.”

Sophie didn’t know whether she was about to sprout wings and fly into the air, or shatter like a pane of glass. 

Then Benedict knelt on one knee, taking her hands in his. He looked up at her, a plea in his eyes. 

“I know the circumstances are not perfect. I know our union would not be traditional,” he nearly spat the word. “But I have never put much stock in tradition or society. I must do what my heart bids me to, above all else.”

One hand rummaged in his waistcoat pocket, then he held out a glinting ring of silver and sapphire, a crooked grin teasing the corners of his mouth. 

“Marry me, Sophie.” 

All the air left her lungs, the room began to spin. 

“Let me show you the love and comfort that you deserve. We can live quietly somewhere away from any judgment. Please, Sophie. We can find a way. Please do not condemn me to live the rest of my life as a broken man.”

It was as if the whole world went silent and all Sophie could hear were both of their bated breaths. Everything grew shrouded in her vision except him, kneeling on the paint splattered cloth, a question in his bloodied eyes. Seeing his outstretched hand, it was only now that she realized his knuckles were cut and bleeding too. It was not how she had ever envisioned the moment whenever she had dared to dream of his proposal. But it was perfect.

“This is real…” she whispered, more to assure herself than to ask him.

He replied nonetheless. “It is real. I love you, Sophie. I want to marry you.” He gripped her hand tighter. “Will you marry me?”

The warmth from his fingers spread up through her arm and across her whole body. It made her feel alive, illuminated, weightless with the happiness of a dream come true.

“Yes,” she whispered, a beaming smile breaking through her tears. “Yes, of course, yes!” 

They surged forward to hold each other, colliding in a desperate kiss. Sophie wept and laughed simultaneously, absolutely breathless with emotion. 

Grinning ear to ear, Benedict slid the ring onto her left hand. Sophie could barely register its beauty. All she saw was a glimmering braid of silver, pearl and blue through her tears, perfectly matching the spread of artwork beneath her on the floor. She gazed at it lovingly before pulling Benedict into another kiss. They grasped each other, sighing and giggling and kissing every inch of skin - lips and faces and hands - releasing the nervous energy that was coursing through them both.

When they had overcome their giddiness and could breathe again, they sat together on the sofa, hands entwined.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie said suddenly. It was all she could think to say.

“No, I’m sorry,” Benedict replied. “I shouldn’t have asked you to be my mistress. It wasn’t right of me.”

“Benedict,” she said softly, “what else would you have done? This isn’t a perfect world. Men like you don’t marry…”

“Fine. I wasn’t wrong to ask then.” He tried to smile. It came out lopsided. “I would have been a fool not to ask. I wanted you so badly, and I think I already loved you, and…”

“Benedict, you don’t have to…”

“Explain? Yes I do. I should never have pressed the issue. It was unfair of me to ask you to stop working and be a kept woman, especially when we both knew that I would eventually be expected to marry. I would die before sharing you.” He ran his fingers along her cheek. “How could I ask you to do the same?” 

She reached out and brushed something under his eye. Jesus, was he crying? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. When his father had died, perhaps?

“There are so many reasons I love you,” he said, each word emerging with careful precision. He knew that he had won her. She wasn’t going to run away; she would be his wife. But he still wanted this to be perfect. A man only got one shot at declaring himself to his true love; he didn’t want to muck it up completely.

“But one of the things I love best,” he continued, “is the fact that you know yourself. You know who you are, and what you value. You have principles, Sophie, and you stick by them.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “That is so rare.”

Her eyes were filling with tears again, and all he wanted to do was hold her, but he knew he had to finish. So many words had been welling up inside of him, and they all had to be said.

“And,” he said, his voice dropping in volume, “you took the time to see me. To know me. Benedict. Not Mr. Bridgerton, not ‘Number Two.’ Benedict.”

She touched his cheek. “You’re the finest person I know. I adore your family, but I love you.”

He crushed her to him. He couldn’t help it. He had to feel her in his arms, to reassure himself that she was there and that she would always be there. With him, by his side, until death did they part. It was strange, but he was driven by the oddest compulsion to hold her…just hold her.

He was, he realized, comforted by her presence. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t even need to touch (although he wasn’t about to let go just then). Simply put, he was a happier man - and quite possibly a better man when she was near.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent. Somehow, she smelled of vanilla. Vanilla and amber, a sweetness so rare.

Sophie held him against her, trailing her fingers across the nape of his neck, saying at last the words she had hidden for so long. “I love you,” she whispered. “I have always loved you. I think I loved you before I knew you too.”

He pulled back and looked at her inquisitively. 

“At the masquerade,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky, “even before I saw you, I felt you. Anticipation. Magic. There was something in the air. And when I turned, and you were there, it was as if you’d been waiting for me, and I knew that you were the reason I’d stolen into the ball.”

He opened his mouth, and for a moment, she was certain he would say something, but the only sound that emerged was a rough, halting noise, and she realized that he was overcome, that he could not speak.

She was undone.

Benedict kissed her again, trying to show in deeds what he could not say in words. He hadn’t thought he could love her any more than he did just five seconds earlier, but when she’d said…when she’d told him…

His heart had grown, and he’d thought it might burst.

He loved her. Suddenly the world was a very simple place. He loved her, and that was all that mattered. 

Sophie kissed him back, feeling like jagged parts of her soul were at last being stitched, tied together to his. Their secrets were finally falling away. Each whispered promise and revelation made her feel lighter and lighter within his arms. There was only one more.

She held his neck and pulled away, looking earnestly into his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“What for?”

“For not telling you who I was. It was wrong of me.” She bit her lip. “I can’t explain exactly why I did what I did, but it just…” She sighed. “I didn’t tell you right away because it didn’t seem to make any sense to do so. I was so sure we’d part ways at the inn. But then you were ill, and I had to care for you, and you didn’t recognize me, and…”

He brought a finger under her chin. “It doesn’t matter.”

Her brows rose. “It seemed to matter a great deal last night.”

He ran his thumb across her lips. “I know who you are.”

She gave him a small smile.

“And do you want to hear the funniest part?” he continued. “Do you know one of the reasons I was so hesitant to give my heart completely to you? I’d been saving a piece of it for the lady from the masquerade, always hoping one day I’d find her.”

“Oh, Benedict,” she sighed, thrilled by his words, and at the same time miserable that she had hurt him so.

“Deciding to marry you meant I had to abandon my dream of marrying her,” he said quietly. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry I hurt you by not revealing my identity,” she said, looking down. “How can I ever make it up to you?”

He lifted her face to meet his gaze again. His lopsided grin made his eyes sparkle. “Love me for the rest of your life.”

Sophie smiled. She knew that she would, and it would be rather like breathing. She wouldn’t have much choice in the matter.

___

The remaining hours of the evening whirled by. Benedict and Sophie stayed where they were, basking in the giddy reality that they were now betrothed. They did not discuss or fret over any details, knowing how delicate and complex those would be. They simply wanted to enjoy the happiness they felt in that moment and extend it throughout the night. The one arrangement they agreed upon was that they could not remain in England. It was too dangerous for Sophie to risk contact with the Cowpers or Cavenders, and Benedict refused to allow anyone even the chance to reproach his wife. They talked of Paris and Rome and Prussia - places Sophie could never have imagined seeing in her wildest dreams - and Benedict promised to take her there.

They sighed and laughed, wrapped in their dreams on the sofa until the footman returned and hesitantly reminded them that dinner was available. Benedict had the meal brought to his bedroom, unable to contain himself for a formal dinner table and unable to stop kissing and stroking his fiancee. Maybe they ate, he couldn’t remember, and maybe the footmen stared at Sophie, wondering why Benedict was being so flagrantly flirtatious with a maid, but he didn’t care. 

Eventually Sophie stripped him of his torn clothing, kissing the spots on his shoulders and chest that he realized were tender from his fight. He pulled off her dress and they held each other, wearing only their undergarments, soaking in the heat of each others’ skin. He wanted her, of course. He always wanted her. But more than that, he wanted to hold her. To smell her, to feel her. He sat as she washed the dried blood from his knuckles, kissing each in turn. Then he laid back on the bed and she kissed his jaw, his bloodied lip, and the lid of his scarlet eye. 

They lost themselves in a gauzy warmth, trailing their hands along each other’s bodies with no sense of urgency. They entwined their fingers, they whispered promises, they simply stared at each other, reveling in love. Benedict rolled onto his stomach and drank in the sight of her. He was contented just to lie there and watch her breathe, the soft movements of her chemise betraying the curves of her body. He studied her face, dappled by candlelight, the arch of her brows, the pointed bow of her lips, the line of her neck. He committed them to memory and endeavored to paint this image, the image of the woman he loved most in the world on the night they agreed to wed.

Sophie stared back at him, her fiance. The most beautiful man she had ever seen. Almost too beautiful to be real. She couldn’t help but reach out and touch his cheek to confirm that he was flesh and blood and not just a dream. His gaze held her so softly, so full of tenderness, then she broke into a smile. In turn he cracked a grin, that damn, cheeky, crooked grin that made her heart nearly leap out of her body. They lay there, grinning at each other like lovesick fools, holding the most precious secret between them: that they were in love, true and honest love with one another and soon would be man and wife.

The joy caused them both to chuckle and breathe heavier with sheer delight and the sound of their breaths, the rustling of the sheets between them, quickly elevated that joy to something else…an invitation. Their smiles faded and eyes locked, darkening with mutual need. Her hands wound into his hair, his hands found her face, and the space between them closed instantaneously. They kissed. A single, long, passionate kiss, intense but tender. They had kissed so many times before now, why did this feel like the first time? That kiss fractured into dozens more, faster, messier. Their tongues danced. He wanted to taste every sweet inch of her. She planted kisses across his jaw, down his neck. His fabulous, muscled neck. Benedict moved to lay atop her, gaining greater access to the entirety of her face, her collarbone, her pale shoulders. 

“Ben,” she held his face in her hands, eyes glazed. “Show me how much you love me.” 

His brow knitted with concern, “Do you not believe my words?” 

She leaned up to kiss him, “No, no, of course I believe them.” Another kiss, then her eyes leveled on his. “But I want to feel them.” 

Something twisted in his stomach, blood rushed downward in his body, arousal stiffened between his legs. This woman, he thought, how can her words always do this to me? 

In a flurry he was pulling down the sleeves of her chemise as she wriggled to free herself of it. He wrestled with his own pants and kicked them aside. They were naked, exposed to each other and to all the opportunities that presented. It was the way he most enjoyed to be with her. He moved back to slide his tongue into her mouth, probing, caressing. His hands traced the shape of her curves. He cupped and kneaded her breasts, full and luscious. She leaned her head back and moaned as he moved lower, sucking at her nipples, grazing them with his teeth. She was a banquet and he was going to enjoy each course. 

He snaked a hand between her legs and found her already slick. He groaned into the soft flesh of her stomach. How he wanted to dive into that river with every part of himself. His fingers pressed to enter her but she stopped him with a firm hand around his wrist. He looked up, curious, as she tugged to bring him back on top of her as before. As soon as it was within reach, her other hand gripped his cock, causing him to inhale sharply. She stared up at him, eyes burning as her hand started to move, up and down across his velvet length. 

“I need to feel them now.” She tried to issue the words as a command, though she was sure her voice was mewling with desire. 

His eyes were searing into her, mouth gaping, his breaths coming shorter. While she continued to stroke him slowly, with her free hand she reached up and gripped a fistful of his thick, black, unruly hair. She tugged gently, willing him to say something. 

His eyes closed and he exhaled with a hiss, “Christ.” 

She smirked. He understood her now and was eager to fulfill her wishes. She dropped her hand to his cheek and traced his bottom lip with her thumb. He opened his mouth and sucked her finger into it, swirling his tongue before biting and releasing it. He lowered himself into position and she wrapped both arms around his back. He kissed her, she kissed him, and they moaned into each other’s mouths as he slid into her. 

Sophie felt whole. With Benedict in her body, in her mouth, in her heart, everywhere. He banished pain she did not know she had, or had forced herself to forget. It was as if she had spent her life before him as a broken half of a locket, thinking she could shine on her own, but not realizing how everything would feel corrected once she was rehinged with her other half.

Benedict’s hips moved with a practiced pace, thrusting slowly in and out of the woman he loved. It was luxurious, exquisite. She was here and she was his, body and mind and soul. She shifted beautifully beneath him as he rode, taking the length of him, breathing in time with his movements, her lips upturned in a smile of bliss. How many times in his life would he get to do this? To fill her and love her and watch her love him back? If it happened every day for the rest of his life, it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the yearning in his heart. He quickened his pace and leaned down to inhale the sweet scent of her neck. 

Sophie was moaning and sighing with pleasure. She leaned up and bit his earlobe then purred, “I want to feel you finish inside me.” 

He groaned with a shudder and slowed to a halt, stopping himself from coming right then. He realized that his anxiety over such an act was no longer warranted. She was his fiancee, soon to be his wife. There were no longer any boundaries if they did not want them. And clearly, Sophie did not want them. He was only too happy to oblige.

A grin spread across his face, that damned crooked grin again. “I won’t finish before you do.” 

He leaned back, never pulling out of her as he moved to kneel between her legs. He pulled her hips upward to meet him as her feet planted into the mattress, her thighs framing his hips. Her eyes were wide, eager to watch what he would do next. He began to move again, dipping into her slowly, one hand gripping her waist. He held her gaze as he raised his free hand and took two fingers into his mouth. They emerged glistening and he brought them down upon her crest, pressing, circling, teasing the center of her pleasure. 

Sophie was certain this must be what it felt like to go mad. She had no words, no thoughts, she barely had sight. All she could feel, her every sense, was concentrated on the movements and heat and pressure orchestrated by the man between her legs. The gorgeous aching spread through her whole body like ripples in a pond. She was moaning, loudly, repeatedly, but didn’t care. All she could do was give in, hand him the reins to her body and its sensations. She gasped into the pillows and tried to hold on to something solid before she slid off the edge of the earth. One hand clung to his wrist at her hip, the other braced against the headboard which was thumping rhythmically against the wall. 

Benedict’s eyes swept over her, moving from the work of his fingers to the delicious bounce of her breasts, to her flushed face, eyes clamped shut as she hummed and cried out. He was certain he could do this for hours. She was so wet he likely didn’t need to lick his fingers to touch her, but it was his way of kissing her there in her most precious spot while he was simultaneously inside her. He matched the circling of his fingers to the thrusting of his hips, rhythmic and not too fast, focusing solely on her. 

Under his ministrations she began to grow rigid, her thighs shook and clenched him in place, her hips bucked upward to meet his hand. She began to pant, “Oh god, Ben, oh god…” He circled his fingers faster, pressed harder, coaxing her. Lord, how he wanted to feel her explode.

Sophie reached her precipice, mouth held open in a silent scream as electric white waves of release washed over her. She shuddered, reveled, lost herself to the feeling. Benedict choked out a gasp as she came, her body squeezing his cock of its own accord. He thrust into her faster, riding her spasms with blinding ecstasy. He nearly collapsed from the feeling but caught himself and was back lying atop her again. He gazed at Sophie, face sheened with sweat, cheeks high with color, eyes full of love and satiety, the most beautiful woman in the most beautiful moment. 

“I love you,” he breathed. 

Saying these words, the realization sunk deeper and deeper into his soul that this was forever. She was his present, she was his future. Wherever they found themselves, in city or country, in whatever corner of the world, accepted by society or not, this was the woman he had always hoped to find and she was better than any fantasy he had conjured. Sophie and the lady in silver, one in the same and entirely his own. She would be his wife, in his home, in his bed, in his thoughts and in his heart every day that they walked the earth together, and that was the only way he could endure the many days that stretched before him. This knowledge gleamed within his chest, flooding him with renewed energy. 

Sophie was pulled from her reverie by Benedict’s soft oath. Even in the height of their passion he was proclaiming his love for her. She had known it was true when he confessed it the first time, but to see it in practice brought her a comfort that she had never felt in her life. The way he imbued his every move and glance with love. She looked at him with wonderment. How could she have ever dreamed to call this man her husband? This kind, handsome, cheeky, passionate man with that hair and those eyes, that devil’s smile, the slender fingers always covered in charcoal, the muscles of his shoulders and rippling down his back, and the way he could make her melt with his words, his hands, his mouth…

Benedict was rock solid to the point of pain. Helpless, he moved within Sophie once again. “I love you,” he kissed her collarbone, her cheek. “I love you, I love you.” The words spilled out of him like a holy chant, like a prayer. Her arms were bent on either side of her head and he caressed the length of one until their hands met. Sophie entwined her fingers with his and held tightly, her ring glinting in the candlelight. 

“I love you too,” she breathed. He was suddenly struck with the memory of their first time and how he had held her hand in the same way. He had been trying to show her that she could trust him, could feel secure and supported by him. Now, the proof of that security and her belief in it was visible on her finger. The sweet intimacy of it made his heart flutter, feeling as if their palms were already wed though their persons might not be yet.

His hips increased their fervor and he closed his eyes, brow beaded with sweat. He pushed into her tight warmth deeper and faster, more desperately. Sophie responded in kind, grinding her hips with his, raking her free hand everywhere, through his hair, down his back, across his rump. 

“Sophie…” he pleaded, pushing harder than ever. He had a fleeting concern that the violent knocking of the headboard would alert the whole house to their activities and most certainly leave a dent, but he really could not care less. He wasn’t sure where he felt more pressure, in his heart or in his cock, but one or both of them were going to burst in a moment. “Sophie…” his voice caught in his throat. 

“Yes, my love,” she urged. “Inside of me.” She only had to say the words to conjure them into being. He peaked, a rapid pulsing as he throbbed within her, fusing them as tightly as two people could ever be. His moan was guttural, stuttering. It was an ecstasy he had never experienced, releasing himself inside a woman, and his heart swelled knowing that it was only Sophie that he shared it with. 

Sophie’s mouth hung open in awe as she felt him throb inside of her for the first time. It was fascinating to feel the intense cadence of his release and she delighted in it, the hot rush of his seed filling her so much that she began to leak. She swayed her hips back and forth, sighing with deep contentment.

Panting and utterly spent, Benedict lowered to lay on top of her, sealing the moment with a deep and tender kiss before resting his head in the crook of her neck. She wrapped an arm around him and ran a hand through his hair, holding him close. She could feel his heartbeat hammering against her own chest, wild from his exertions, and she stroked the muscles of his back, calming him after mind numbing pleasure. She turned her face to his hair and inhaled that scent she knew so well: clean parchment, sandalwood and a pommade reminiscent somehow of a green forest, but all overlaid with the musk of their sex.  He was still tight inside her, their limbs an indecipherable tangle, their breaths rising and falling together. So this is lovemaking, Benedict thought. Though they had done the act before, this was more than physical. More than just their bodies joining, this was their souls joining, entwining, laid bare for each other to explore and pleasure and revere. There was nothing but honesty between them now. Honest love, honest desire, honest commitment. They were loosed from the bonds of their assumptions, their secrets, their fears. They were free, together.

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @eg-dr3amer3 @time-to-hit-the-clouds @lyta2323 @autumn-grace @sadprose-auroras @the-other-art-blog @goldrambutan @colettebronte @heeyyyou @musicismyoxygen84 @ambitionspassionscoffee @starchaser325 @malna4903 @sincere-sarcasm @kmc1989 @makaylan @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @alexandrainlove @chase-your-dreams-away @benophievisuals

[sreegs]

this afternoon i was finally ready to start sanding my walls in my office/guest bedroom in preparation for painting and installing new cabinets with more storage, with space for a full-ass queen sofa bed rather than a shitty fouton so my guests can sleep in luxury

anyways i pop all my dropcloths up, extra sealed the room because my kitty's got asthma. respirator on, goggles on. sander taken out of storage and slapped a fresh 180 grit sandpaper on it. start it up, and the fucking wheel dry rotted and goes flying off.

i was so ready for this

[shithowdy]

RESTORATION BEGINS. Everyone please send rancid vibes to whichever prior owner did a slapshod plaster ceiling job without a dropcloth, ruined the oak hardwood, and then just stapled carpet over it.

[biohazard-anon]

Summary: Tovoth and Zykord get into a fight.

Content warning: graphic description of eye/face trauma, blood, a little bit of hurt/comfort

(check pinned post for masterlist)

Tagged: @kit-williams @sleepyfan-blog @egrets-not-regrets @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Authors note: I am so sorry this took so long, I've been really busy trying to plan a novel while writer's block has been kicking my ass.

Chapter 12

Kel'ath, Sephariel, and Iskandar storm down the twisting and turning hallways, each marine desparate to make it before a fight breaks out.

The blood angel spearheading the group suddenly stops, letting the other two catch up to him.

"Where are the medical supplies?"

Sephariel asks.

"It's spread out over the entire base, there's a supply room right next to the mess hall."

Kel'ath answers.

Sephariel speeds back up only to slip as he reaches the next corner.

The blood angel's armor screeches as he does, sending sparks flying everywhere before sliding into the next hallway with a shout.

Both Kel'ath and Iskandar help him up before the three of them continue on, this time at a slightly slower pace.

As they draw closer and closer, the sound of ceramite on ceramite and yelling gets louder and louder. Before suddenly quieting down.

Finally they arrive at the doors to the mess hall.

But before they can enter, A blur of red goes through the doors, landing hard enough against the opposite wall to dent it.

It was Zykord.

Tovoth comes thundering out a few seconds later. His usually pristine armor was scuffed up, revealing a layer of midnight blue underneath the usually red exterior. What really stands out is a large, weeping cut starting at his hairline and ending at his jaw.

He takes no time to rush into Sephariel's arms, clinging desparately to his brother.

Sephariel's hands gently take a hold of the battered scout's face, tilting it upwards to look at the wound better.

"I didn't want to fight him."

Tovoth mumbles.

"I know."

Sephariel soothes the scout.

Iskandar comes back around while sliding a large red box along the floor. He then pries it open and begins to dig through it.

"Alright, who needs what?"

The thousand son says.

"I need the smelling salts and a penlight."

The captain says, his hands busy with taking Zykord's helmet off and checking his pulse.

"And you?"

Sephariel's hands are relatively gentle as they tilt Tovoth's face towards the light, he frowns as he gets a better look at the injury.

"I need a suture kit, line, antiseptic, gauze, and sterile dropcloths. Come on Tovoth, let's get you cleaned up."

Sephariel then heads towards the kitchen, grabbing a chair along the way.

The younger blood angel follows his brother wordlessly, ignoring the feeling of eyes on him as he walks.

After the two astartes enter the kitchen Sephariel sets the chair down by the stainless steel table closest to the door before guiding Tovoth to the sink with him.

Iskandar comes in with the supplies as they both begin washing their hands.

"Do you guys need anything else?"

The blue and gold scout asks.

"If you could find Tovoth's helmet that would be great, Before you go what type of suture line did you grab?"

The older blood angel answers with a question.

"Uh, I grabbed nylon. Should I look for something else?"

Iskandar answers.

"Try to find vicryl and or silk."

Sephariel explains.

Iskandar places the supplies down on the nearby table and walks back out to look for the requested items.

"Go ahead and sit down Tovoth, it will take time to sterilize the tools."

Sephariel says. as he busies himself with looking for a pot.

Tovoth doesn't appear to listen, instead he stands by the sink and stares at the faucet head as it leaks, water droplets making a small sound against metal as it drips.

Plink.

Plink.

Plink.

When he zones back in there's a hand on his pauldron, helping him to halfway turn.

"Can you lean over? I need to flush your eye."

Sephariel answers, a bottle of clear fluid in his other hand.

The scout nods mutely before leaning over the sink's basin.

Sephariel unscrews the bottle's lid, angling the opening over Tovoth's injured and bloody eye before streaming the liquid over it

A hiss escapes the scout as one hand grips the edge of the sink while the other reaches outward towards his brother.

Sephariel quickly pushes his hand into the scout's, squeezing it as the last of the liquid pours out.

After the bottle is empty Sephariel helps Tovoth lean back up and leads him to the chair.

Tovoth sits down, a sigh escaping him as he does.

Iskandar comes back in carrying a small box in one hand and a helmet and chair under his other arm.

"I didn't know how much you needed, so I just brought the whole box."

He elaborates while setting down the chair and placing the helmet on the uncovered part of the table before handing over the small boxes.

After Sephariel sits down he opens the box, thumbing through the different types of suture material before pulling out two packets of catgut and two packets of silk and placing them down by the rolls of gauze before placing the box by Tovoth's helmet. After that he unrolls a strip of gauze and cuts it off, then cutting it in half before reaching for the bottle of antiseptic.

The older blood angel pops off the top and puts a strip of gauze on top and presses down several times to get it wet. Then he takes it and begins to scrub in small circles until the gauze is too bloody to use before disposing of it. He does this process again and again, avoiding Tovoth's eye until the rest of his face is cleaned up.

Sephariel then stands up and walks to the stove, grabbing the pot of boiling water and dumping the water into the nearby sink. He picks up the sterilized tools at the bottom of the pot and goes to sit back down in front of the injured scout. Laying the tools down on the dropcloth the older blood angel takes one of the packets of suture line and peels it open before picking up a few squares of gauze and dabbing away most of the blood, revealing a split in the lid where he could see the eye.

"This is worse than I thought. Iskandar would you be willing to lend a hand?"

The older blood angel asks as he disposes of the gauze.

"Of course! let me wash up first."

the thousand son hurries over to the sink after he replies. When he's done he steps back over and moves his chair closer to the two marines.

"What next?"

Iskandar questions.

"Take some of the gauze and wait, I will need you to clear away blood while I am working."

Sephariel answers while he manuvers the driver to grasp the curved needle in the open packet of suture material. He readjusts his grip on the surgical instraments in his hands while Iskandar cleans away the blood. Once Iskandar's hands are out of the way he begins, first by grabbing the edge of the injury with the forceps and using the driver to push the needle through just above the membrane against the globe. Then with the forceps he does this to the other side before pulling the edges together and tying a couple of knots to secure them.

Sephariel continues making stitches every quarter of an inch until the bottom lining of the eyelid is repaired.

Iskandar gently uses some gauze to wick away any new red droplets while the older blood angel fiddles with a different colored packet.

Then Sephariel starts again, grabbing the edge of skin with the forceps and and pushing the needle through, first bringing the edges of skin together then tying a couple of knots, doing it over and over until the eyelid is completely stitched up. Once he clips off excess line Sephariel scoots his chair back and stands up.

"Iskandar, could you grab the chairs please?"

Sephariel asks while he balls up the dropcloth in his hands and throws it into the trashcan.

"Already on it!"

Iskandar answers, already halfway out the door with a chair under each arm.

Sephariel chuckles, the rolling thunder of his voice full of mirth as he looks over at his brother, only to frown at the sight.

Tovoth was still sitting in the chair, his unfocused eyes staring at something in the distance.

Sephariel steps closer and places a gentle hand on his brother's pauldron, not missing the flinch when it makes contact. He kneels down before moving his hand to Tovoth's uninjured cheek and tilts his face towards his own.

"Why don't you go back to our room and wait for me while I talk to the captain, alright?"

Sephariel asks, his voice soft.

Tovoth suddenly pushes himself out of the chair and straight into his brother's arms, trembling as he does so.

"Okay, okay, I'll ask him to come by instead."

Sephariel answers. The two blood angels stand up before they begin walking out of the kitchen and through the mess hall. Iskandar is busy with pushing the crate back into the nearby supply closet when they step out into the hallway.

"Tell the captain I'll be waiting in my room to talk to him when he's done."

Sephariel says as he passes the thousand son.

"Sounds good!"

Iskandar answers back.

The trip back to their room is long, but uneventful. Once the door is closed Sephariel helps Tovoth pull his armor off peice by peice, setting the items on the designated stand before removing his own armor. Then Sephariel slides onto his bed and pats the space next to him. Tovoth curls crawls onto the bed, pushing himself into his brother's lap and curling his body around his midsection before leaning the uninjured side of his face against Sephariel's abdomen and sighing.

Sephariel wraps his arms around Tovoth as best as he can, one hand massaging the tense muscles in Tovoth's back to try and release the tension.

"Better?"

Sephariel asks.

"Yeah."

Tovoth answers back.

[chainsawpunk]

Rochelle Feinstein, Plein Air VI, 2020, Acrylic, thread on cotton dropcloth 90 ½ × 125 in (229.87 × 317.50 cm)

[tehnakki]

am i gonna paint the ceiling of my bedroom without bothering to put any dropclothes down?

you bet your ass i am. lol. gonna have so many random paint splotches on my mattress/carpet/floor. oh well. that's what happens.

[icouldhyperfixatehim]

another really strong ep holy shit. and also one that has me really wondering about p'aof's writing history - does anyone know has he written or directed for stage? obviously bad buddy is littered with stagecraft; the romeo and juliet, the play within a play structure, so many one to one conversations and actions that speak in quiet rooms. stories that are built largely off of the strength of two characters speaking to each other, literally or figuratively.

but the way i can see it carried through last twilight too is so fascinating to me. i'm thinking especially of night and his ripped from stagecraft line a lá "the hero enters, and so the villain must exit" and literally taking his leave to the camera's wings beyond the lens. and The Kiss. another rooftop kiss, like bad buddy, like a tale of 1000 stars kiss on the top of the mountain. all i can see is how incredibly stageable these moments are. a dropcloth painted background, the right lighting, a little prop ledge to give it perspective...setting these emotionally intimate, quietly explosive moments against boundless backdrops. giving so much AIR to them, giving characters their room to breathe.

he writes/directs/envisions like a stagecraftsman first - and then completes the vision with some of the best elements cinema can offer that stage can't - close ups, scenes that move through irl locations, camera as performer and informer. it's just magical. because it's all in service of story. it feels so whole. what an auteur he is.

[perspectivesusa]

Unleash Your Creativity with the Best Painting Tools in Lexington

Elevate your painting projects with high-quality painting tools available in Lexington. From brushes and rollers to sprayers and drop cloths, we offer a comprehensive range of tools to ensure a flawless finish. Whether you're a DIY enthusiast or a professional painter, our selection caters to all skill levels and needs, making every stroke a masterpiece.

[possumsandprose]

Hello, fellow Elriel!

This is your Elriel Month fic exchange announcement. Remember to not post this Ask until the days of your prompt (feel free to post your fic directly to this ask). 

Gifting: @slytherhys

Prompt: Endless Possibilities

Tropes: Fluff, Hurt/comfort, HEA, AU

Send @elriel-month an ask if you have any questions. Can’t wait to read it! 🦇🌹

Happy @elriel-month @slytherhys from your gifter!

This fic was inspired by a conversation I had with @shallyne a few months ago as well as my own desire to read a fic with Elain adopting a bunch of children. I hope you love this!

Warnings: nothing really, it's just a ton of fluff. Slight mentions of past abuse maybe?

Word count: 1.8 K

Loud shouts of glee filled the air around Elain as she pulled another sheet of muffins out of the oven. A small smile grew on her lips as she thought of the small children who would soon come charging in to grab the sweets before they were all gone.

Elain dusted her flour-coated hands on her apron, looking out the window and surveying the scene outside. Around 40 children of all sizes were out there, some Illyrian, some fae, and some were species of lesser fae that she didn’t recognize. That didn’t stop her from loving every child like her own, though. Small groups had broken off to play tag, while some of the older ones were playing something that looked like dodgeball.

Amongst the trees she Emeline, her eldest. With her black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin she was the spitting image of her father, and like her father wisps of shadows swirled over the surroundings. In Emeline’s arms was the youngest, Aurelia, at just 10 months old. 

A loud crash sounded from the entryway, announcing her sister’s arrival. Sure enough, when Elain peeked out of the kitchen, Feyre was on the floor, having tripped over a potted plant. Elain shook her head in amusement. Many words could be used to describe her sister, but coordinated was not one of them. 

Offering her a hand, Elain grinned, and the two walked to the back rooms of the orphanage together.

“Elain! I’m so sorry about your plant. I swear sometimes I could trip over the air. Anyway, I wanted to wish you a happy anniversary! I can’t believe you’ve already had your 50th anniversary, and that this place is now officially 25 years old. It’s so incredible what you’ve done with the place,” Feyre said excitedly.

Elain could hardly believe it either. 50 years since she married the love of her life, and 25 years since she’d begun to fulfill her dream. 

Feyre continued, “I’m delighted that this has turned out so well, not only for the sake of the children but for you and Azriel as well. I know you always wanted a big family, and all of the little ones are just like my own nieces and nephews.”

“For sure,” Elain replied, “I love each and every one of them. I’m glad I could make a difference in their lives.”

The war had been brutal on many families, leaving lots of children orphaned. In addition, lots of Illyrian children had been abandoned or abused by their parents for lots of reasons. The reason never mattered though, all were welcome here. 

The sisters reached the end of the hall, and Elain unlocked the double doors that led into a room covered in dropcloths, with easels and canvases already set out and waiting.

“Oh Elain, you are a dear. I about burned all those tarps in anger last time I tried to hang them up. Anyway, if you want to go give the little gremlins their sweets, I can get the paints out and ready,” Feyre said, already pulling things out of the supply closet.

Despite how busy she was being High Lady and all of the duties that came with being the mother of 4 children, Feyre always carved time out of her week to give art classes here, for which Elain was eternally grateful.

So many of the young found comfort in painting or sculpting, or whatever it was they chose. Others simply enjoyed the freedom that art allowed and preferred to go crazy.

Elain left her sister to it, returning to the kitchen and banging the loud bell by the window. Everyone turned to look at her, and she beckoned at them. Not long afterward a mad rush of people entered, and quickly everyone spread out onto the cushions, chairs, and couches in the living area. 

In the back was Emeline, though the baby had been passed over to her middle child, Edward. Being fully blind, Elain’s eldest was always very hesitant about being near the crowds, but Edward had a heart of gold and looked out for her at all times. 

They too sat down, and Elain left to go clean the dormitories. As she gathered up all the linens into her massive wicker basket, she thought about just how much the building they were in had changed.

Azriel had first told her about this place some 30 years ago, having found it while he was away on a scouting mission. He told her he’d gone inside and had found a small group of children of varying ages huddled by a dying fire. 

He’d immediately gone back to her and asked if she could make some food because all of them looked like they hadn’t eaten in days. That made sense, too, since in the dead of Illyria’s winters you’d be lucky to find even just one of the bony mountain birds with not enough meat on it for a baby. 

Elain had jumped into action, making her favourite hearty soup recipe, and while it was cooking she had gathered all the blankets, wraps, towels, and whatever else she could find in the River House. 

The children were at first quite scared, but eventually, after Elain (and Azriel, when he could) visited them for a few weeks they began to open up.

The eldest, Blair, was the unofficial mother of the group, and she was doing all she could to support the others. Blair had a younger sister, Sabeena, but the rest were all similarly abandoned or orphaned with nowhere else to go. 

Working as a maid and doing some other odd jobs got them a few small coins for clothes, but not much more. The dilapidated cabin, most likely once a hunting lodge, was in dire need of repairs, but it sufficed well enough to keep the cold out.

But as Elain found out, Blair had gotten faeriepox recently, a nasty illness that due to a lack of medical care had taken her out for weeks on end. And without the money she brought in and without local game to hunt, there was nothing.

Elain’s heart shattered listening to the story, different parts told by all the children. Most were Illyrian, with all of the females’ wings displaying the brutal clipping scars, though there were a few males in the group. 

After that, it had been her personal mission to provide for the group who, in Elain’s eyes, were now just as much her children as her own daughter. Rhysand and Feyre, once they’d found out about it, were only too happy to provide her with funds and support to transform the tiny hut into a huge building with proper insulation, real beds, running water, and a stocked kitchen.

Feyre had told her in private how much it reminded her of the cottage they used to grow up in, and Elain had to agree. The young ones hadn’t looked much different than she and her sisters used to when they were poor, and the haggard look of a person hunting for food that couldn’t be found was all too familiar. She suspected that was one of the reasons Feyre was so impassioned now about the restoration and upkeep here because Feyre rightfully believed that no child should have to experience what they did. 

25 years ago on this day, the orphanage opened its doors for the first time to anyone who wanted to stay. At first not much happened, but eventually people started to trickle in. Lesser fae with skin all hues of the rainbow, Illyrian children with scars so horrific it made Elain want to cry, even a few high fae, and though nothing looked physically wrong with them, Elain knew deep in her heart they had seen more than anyone should ever have to.

And that was how it was, 25 years later. Anyone and everyone was welcome to stay for as long as they wanted-whether just for food or to move in until they found a way to support themselves. It was the pride and joy of Elain’s life, running this place. She’d dreamed of having a big family ever since she was a little girl, and now, finally, it had come true. 

As Elain turned around, arms full with the baskets of laundry, she ran right into a solid wall covered in leather.

“Hello to you too, darling,” came the soft, melodious voice she loved so much.

“Az!” she squealed in glee, abandoning the basket on the floor in favour of jumping into her husband’s arms. He swept her up in a kiss, hugging her close.

“Happy anniversary, love. I can’t believe it’s been 50 years,” said Elain breathlessly. 

“It’s been the best 50 years of my life. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I thank the Mother and the Cauldron and whatever else is up there that I get to spend the rest of my life with you,” he told her. Even after all this time, Elain’s heart still fluttered like it was their first time whenever he said that he loved her.

Their moment was interrupted by a soft babbling noise down below, and Elain felt a tiny hand tugging on the hem of her dress. There on the ground was Aurelia, having toddled her way in to find them. Her tiny wings beat uselessly behind her, which never failed to amuse any of her family. 

Rhys had told her that Illyrians usually began to fly at around age 5, but until then her wings wouldn’t do much than make her more prone to accidents. 

Az’s shadows swirled down to meet his daughter as they always did, and she squealed in delight while trying to grab them. 

A soft smile flitted on the shadowsinger’s face watching his baby play with his shadows, and Elain thought back to the first time he held Emeline.

She remembered how excited he’d been when she’d told him she was pregnant, but also terrified at the prospect of being a father. He worried constantly that he would frighten or harm the child accidentally, no matter how many times Elain reassured him that that would never happen. 

It had never really sunk in, though, until the first time he held Emeline in his arms, and his shadows had come out curiously to investigate. Emeline had been born blind, and so watching as she giggled with the tickling sensation of shadows swirling around her seemed to finally have persuaded Azriel that he would not be like his father, and that he would love and care for his children no matter what. 

Azriel scooped Aurelia into his arms, and the three of them left for the dining room. They looked out at their big, happy family, and standing there, with her husband and her children, Elain had never felt more at home.

[mrvelocipede]

My old tea cozy was falling apart, so I have knitted a new one out of cotton yarn. The glass vase used to belong to one of my great-aunts. I wish my dropcloth was less hideously wrinkled, but I do not currently have the means to iron it.