#granite wall ties

[impexgranites]

how Granite keeps you cool during summers

Summers are getting harsher as the years go by with most countries suffering record-breaking high temperatures. Expensive air-conditioning units are not sustainable for all-day use as they lead to exorbitant electricity bills in an already inflated economy.

Most of them are actively looking for long-term solutions that help cut these air-conditioning costs while also being gentle on the environment. This is where granite comes in. Granite is a popular material that can be used in every corner, from countertops to flooring.

Granite wall tiles help improve thermal comfort in both commercial and residential buildings while also adding to the aesthetic appeal of the property. It also helps the property look more durable and timeless.

What Exactly Is Granite?

Choosing materials for your property is an important decision, and it’s crucial to have all your basics right. So before getting into the benefits of using granite tiles, let’s first know what granite exactly is.

Granite is a natural stone that is incredibly durable, and for centuries it has been used to make buildings and monuments. In fact, it is so tough that it is difficult to cut and shape. Granite tiles are often used as a countertop for kitchens because they can withstand all kinds of everyday wear and tear.

In terms of composition, granite is an igneous rock, a type of rock formed from molten lava that cools and hardens. It’s typically grey in color, but it can also be pink, blue, green, or white. It also has varied patterns and textures. Minerals like quartz and feldspar add the characteristic sparkling feature to the rock.

Granite tiles also come in a variety of different forms, like brushed, matte, and honed. They’re usually used in moisture-proof areas since it’s not as porous as marble. It’s also considered to be an eco-friendly material.

Why Should You Use Granite?

Granite is a popular material for countertops, flooring, and other projects. It has a wide variety of uses, from traditional residential applications like kitchen and bathroom counters and floors to more creative applications like outdoor furniture and water features.

If you’re thinking about adding granite floor tiles or granite wall tiles to your property, there are a lot of benefits to consider. Some of them are listed below:

Adds Value

If you ever have to sell your property, granite is a sure-shot way of leaving a great impression for any prospective buyers as it helps the property look more high-end.

Easy Repair

Even though granite is incredibly durable, accidents do happen. Luckily, granite is very easy to repair, with a quick-hardening putty that protects the stone once sealed.

Vast Colour Selection

While granite black tiles are always going to be in fashion, there’s actually a variety of colors that you can choose from. This helps the tiles you choose to match your designs and aesthetics and help make a truly personal property.

Sustainability

When compared to engineered materials, granite is a much more sustainable product. It’s naturally occurring and requires very little processing.

Price

Granite lasts for years on end, making the initial cost of installing it seeming very small. It’s a great investment, with easy maintenance and durability, and truly worth the price you pay.

Cooling

Granite helps your home stay cooler, even during the hot summer months, making it a great idea to have granite walls and floors.

Even with so many advantages, there’s one that really stands out, and that’s the cooling properties of granite.

How Does Granite Help Cool Your House?

Granite, like other natural stones, is a great conductor. Your granite floor tiles and wall tiles continue to remain cool even when the rest of the house is hot and humid, thanks to the unique way of granite heat transfer.

Due to its high density and hardness, granite transfers heat from a hot object and quickly loses heat, so the flooring doesn’t feel warm. In comparison, the fibers in wood and carpeted flooring heat up, but the heat does not leave the material quickly, leaving it warm to the touch.

Despite its cool nature, the granite’s surface is actually around the same temperature as the air in your house. Because your body heats up, whatever surface you touch will probably feel cooler because of the temperature differential between your body and the ambient air. This is what helps granite make your house feel cooler.

Choose The Best-In-Class Granite Tiles For Your Home

To conclude, there are numerous benefits of using granite on your property. Granite floor tiles add an essence of luxury to your home. Not only does it look great, but it is also an impeccable material when it comes to heating and cooling.

If you are finding the right place to source your granite, you can rely on a trusted company –Impex Granites. We are a leading black granite exporter and supplier. We have a wide range of products from granite blocks and slabs to countertops and tiles, and a variety of color options to choose from. With our diverse portfolio of products, you can find exactly what you need to match the design ideas you have.

Now all you need to do is pick out our best quality granite tiles, and get your property ready in time for the summer season!

[thevoidstaredback]

It's always graveyards. Why is it always graveyards? They're creepy as hell and, well... that's it. On the bright side, the Protection Spirits watching the gates recognize him and realize the danger he's in. Well, maybe he wasn't in real danger because the Bats and Birds don't really do the whole purposefully harming civilians things, but they are scary as hell! Chasing him down like a bat straight outta hell- obviously he was gonna run! They cornered him! Maybe he'll invest in getting them lessons in how to interact with people in and out of costume?

Honestly, Nightwing, Danny expected better of you. At least Red Hood and Signal know how to treat innocents.

Here's the thing about Protection and Guardian Spirits, though. They don't like intruders. If you're running from something and you don't have time to ask permission to enter, you best say "thank you" and bring them shiny things on your next visit. If you do have time to ask permission, you ask permission. If they think you're a threat or rude, they won't let you enter whatever they're guarding.

"Thank you," Danny said as he slowed to a walk further into the graveyard, the sound of the gates slamming closed behind him confirmation that the Bat and his gaggle wouldn't be following him in.

Wasting no time, Danny pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket. It was a handy little thing he'd picked up during his stay in the House of Mysteries. Draw and door, tell it where you wanna go, open it, and go through! Beetlejuice style. Though, unlike what the Handbook for the Recently Deceased says, these doors won't actually open a door to the afterlife. He fixed that tiny glitch a while ago.

Anyway, a quick few chalk lines on the side of a mausoleum later, and Danny was opening a door to Fawcett, Philadelphia. Probably not the best choice, considering that he was trying to stay away from the Justice League, but it's better than Metropolis.

"Whoa." Damn it! He should've stayed home. "What was that, mister?"

Danny made sure the door closed behind him, praying for strength. Why did he feel like several deities were laughing at him? "Hey, kid. Can you, um, maybe not say anything about that?"

The kid, short brown hair and a red jacket stood out the most to Danny for some reason, seemed very amused. "You're gonna have to buy my silence."

Again, Danny let out a quiet, long suffering sigh. "Coffee is so not worth it." Looking at the kid, he said, "Alright, fine. I was getting coffee anyway, I'll buy ya lunch. Know any good places?"

Grinning, the kid cheered, "Hell yeah! Follow me!"

Resigned, Danny followed after the kid, easily keeping pace. About a block later, he figured he should probably get the kid's name. "I'm Danny."

"Billy."

"No last name?"

"Fae rules, dude. What's your excuse?"

He had to give it to him. "Touché."

Another three blocks of walking, Billy finally stopped at a cafe. It was a quaint place with stained white brick and a dark grey roof. There were metal chairs and tables outside the building surrounded by a wrought iron fence. The table umbrellas and the awning over the black door were light blue, matching the curtains in the inside.

The inside walls were painted baby blue with a white ceiling and a pinewood floor. The tables and chairs were all stained black with light pink cushions and table cloths. The curtains, as observed before, were all baby blue, tied back with baby pink ribbons. The lights were barely yellow, giving the room a warm feel. The counters were white with black paneling on the outside and white granite as the tops.

"Welcome in," the young man at the register greeted with a smile, "What can I get you two started with today?"

Danny envied the man. He'd obviously not been doing this long enough to gain the veteran's shine to his eye. He turned to look at the menu after telling Billy to get whatever he wanted. A mistake he'll probably pay for. "I'd like a large Red Eye, equal parts coffee and espresso, with cinnamon, honey, chocolate syrup, mint, and vodka, please."

The 'newbie' light in the man's eyes dimmed a little bit. "Um, we don't carry vodka." Glad that's the only thing he's worried about. Priorities.

Danny clicked his tongue. "Oh, well, it was worth a shot. I'd like everything else, though, please. Mix it at your own discretion."

"Alright," he was very valiant to go back to grinning, "Anything else?"

Danny motioned for Billy and the kid stepped up. "Can I get a large mocha, three chocolate chip cookies, and two sandwiches?"

The blond entered the order. "Of course! That'll be $25.37." A quick card swipe from Danny. "Thank you very much, we'll have your order out to you soon!"

The two didn't say a word as they chose a table in the corner. Danny let Billy take the seat that was open to the rest of the cafe so he wouldn't feel cornered. He had a good view of the door, though, so he wasn't complaining.

"So, how'd you do that?" Billy asked after they'd gotten their orders.

"How'd I do what?" Danny sipped his drink.

"How'd you walk outta that wall? It's solid!"

"Magic."

"I guessed that much."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Will you teach me?"

"No."

"You didn't even think about it!"

"Okay," He paused. "No."

"Not fair." he pouted.

Putting his drink on the table, Danny summed as much fake-it-till-you-make-it energy as he could. "Magic isn't a toy and takes years of practice to get a handle on, not to mention you have to actually have an aptitude for it before you can even try. Besides, I don't know you nearly well enough to trust you with anything else."

Billy finished the cookie he was eating. "I can do it! You just gotta teach me!"

Another sigh that Danny had stopped counting. "Look, you seem like a good kid, but I'm not gonna teach you magic."

"Why not!"

"However," he continued, ignoring the demand, "I'm not gonna leave ya fully defenselessness."

"What do you mean?" Billy backed away slightly, his eyes narrowing as he moved to be able to run quickly.

Another sip. "Based off of the dirt you're covered in, the grease in your hair, and the overall poor condition of your clothes, I'm gonna bet that you're a street kid. So," he pulled a small card from his pocket, very aware that Billy was watching his hand aptly, "I'm going to leave you with this."

Slowly, the brunet took it and turned it over. "What it is?"

The white card had the initials DP in the middle, circled by an Ouroboros. The initials were completely solid, but the snake of the Ouroboros was made up of tiny runes of protection and health and healing and good fortune.

"My calling card. If you're ever in danger, hold that to your chest and ask for help. I'll be there."

Still obviously suspicious, Billy took a moment to scrutinize the card. It was cute to watch the kid act like he knew what he was looking at or for. When he seemed satisfied, he shoved the card into the inner pocket sewn into his jacket. "Thanks."

"No problem, kid," Pulling out his phone, Danny saw the time and stood, "I've gotta go now. I assume I've sufficiently bought your silence on the whole magic thing?"

Billy grinned, "I guess, but you gotta come visit me, okay?"

He chuckled, "Sure thing. See ya."

Part 2 Part 4

(I don't drink coffee, so Idk how that shit works)

Tag list: @zaiothe4th

[flseur]

꒰ 𐙚 holiday sex — jjk men ꒱

⟡ synopsis : winter dates that jjk men would take you on, and what happens after them !

⟡ characters : satoru gojo, kento nanami, suguru geto

⟡ content warning : nsfw ( 18+ ), fem!reader, size kink, standing doggy, overstimulation, soft to rough sex, creampie, cunnilingus, fingering, teasing, praising, squirting

౨ৎ note : this started off as a genshin fic but i turned into a jjk one bc i haven’t posted anything for it in a bit

୨୧ SATORU GOJO

❥₊ ⊹ with his apartment being right near a canal, during the winter time it was bound to be frozen over. and one of satoru’s favourite things to do, ever since he was a child, was ice skating.

so when the months got colder, and the ice was thick enough to skate on, he was excited to have you celebrate that tradition with him. he made you sit on a bench while he tied your skates and made sure that your jacket was tightly done up before taking you by the hand, leading you on the ice.

his nose and cheeks were flushed red due to the cold weather the two of you were once outside in, but also because of the feeling of your warm cunt wrapped around his cock.

he had you bent over the granite top of his kitchen counter, the idea of the hot chocolates you once craved long forgotten with how satoru was bullying your velveteen walls.

your slick messily coated his length, dripping down his balls as he pulled soft mewls from your throat. the thrusts of his cock were delicious paired with the feeling of his large hands grabbing at the soft skin of your hips, pulling them back to meet his thrusts halfway.

"a-ah! satoru! s'big..." your words slur, your mind was too focused on the searing pleasure your boyfriend was giving you instead of forming a full sentence.

satoru curses at the sounds of your moans, your sobs only spurring him on more. he watches the fat of your ass move each time his thick cock grinds into your pussy. his pace was unrelenting and his thrusts were calculated, each one hitting that gooey spot inside of you.

you were so perfect. pretty face with crystalline tears running down the apples of your cheeks, back sinfully arched, clothes discarded, and your cunt that satoru swore was made just for him was milking him dry.

"so perfect, baby..." he groans, "you're so fucking perfect." then one of the hands that was on your hip slithered to where the two of you were connected. his lithe fingers feathered above your clit, teasing you lightly.

"don't tease..." you sigh. your breath hitches then fades into a moan when you feel his digits begin to rub circles on the bundle of nerves.

it was all too much. satoru was too much. the feeling of his cock dragging through your walls, him playing with your clit, and his moans. he invaded your every sense and you swore you could feel him everywhere all at once.

"ohmygod... g'nna cum, fuck!" you cry out, body spasming and pussy convulsing as white, hot pleasure shoots across your abdomen. your legs were about to give out due to the overwhelming amount of pleasure but satoru's strong grip on your hips is tight and his cock is still pistoning in and out of your sopping cunt.

"give me one more, baby... one more..."

୨୧ KENTO NANAMI

❥₊ ⊹ what started off as kento travelling overseas to new york for a business trip, turned more into a vacation with you accompanying him on it.

he at first was very adamant about focusing on doing the paperwork for his up and coming meeting for the company’s clientele. but when it comes to you, his workaholic demeanour faltered fairly quickly.

he let you drag him down the snowy-covered concrete paths of new york to look at the different stores, hand in hand. you stopped at different shops and bought a few gifts for friends for the holiday season, then you pulled him over to some little cafe in an old brownstone building to grab warm apple ciders, hoping it would satiate your sweet tooth.

and as the sun sets, casting the beautiful city in an orange haze, the two of you decide to make your way back to the hotel you were staying at. as the two of you unlock the door to your room, you can't help but give your husband a sweet smile. and kento can't help but kiss it off of your face.

those sweet kisses turned into something more. winter coats discarded and your clothes soon following after them, as you've now found yourself underneath kento, moaning and swallowing back loud sobs as his cock stretched out your little hole.

kento peppered open-mouth kisses on your neck as he shallowly thrusts inside your pussy. "fuck… sweetheart... stop squeezing so tight..." he groans.

"you feel s'good, kento..." you moan, fingers lacing themselves through his blonde hair, tugging at the roots.

his thrusts sped up, fucking into you at a rougher pace and you cry out.

he pulls away from your neck to look at you, god you were so beautiful. kento brings one of his large hands down to your abdomen and presses down on it, watching your eyes roll back into your head. the strained moans he was pulling from your throat were heaven-sent.

your pussy pulsed around his cock, dragging him further in. kento's head lolled back as he felt you squeeze him tight again. the hand that was once on your abdomen creeps down and rubs fast circles on your puffy clit.

he couldn't hold back his moans as he continued to fuck you senseless. you felt so good but hell, he looked so fucking hot right now, you could cum just at the sight of him.

his usual stoic facial expression was completely gone and replaced with one overwhelmed with pleasure. his skin was flushed pink all over, hair messily pushed out of his face and his abs, covered in a sheen of sweat, contracted with every rut into your messy pussy.

your orgasm washed over you with little to no warning, you grabbed at kento's broad shoulders as you shook from the intensity of it, nails digging into the skin and he groans.

"o-oh fuck! kento!" you cried out. "cum inside! please cum inside!" you were begging him to fill you up, to make you mess. and that was all he needed to hear to have him spiral into his own orgasm. kento's thrusts became irregular as his hips stuttered, eventually stilling inside of you.

"shit..." he cursed as he came, his cock twitching inside of your dripping cunt. "you're so messy..." he chuckled, pulling out watching his cum dripping out of your hole.

"says you..." you mumble, hiding a smile, "you look like shit for a serious businessman."

"haha." kento gives a sarcastic laugh then lays down on your chest, pressing kisses to your jawline.

୨୧ SUGURU GETO

❥₊ ⊹ as winter comes each year, the weather gets colder which meant that it was finally the perfect time to stay inside. so when you looked outside of your apartment and seen it snowing, you decided that it was the perfect time for you and your boyfriend, suguru, to do some holiday festivities.

"oh wow!" you gasp, looking at his gingerbread house. “a-are the windows supposed to look like they’ve been broken into?”

suguru snorts at your question, “they’re supposed to be curtains. and this,” he points at two blobs of icing that you were assuming to be snow piles, “is us. see?”

“really?” you ask, trying your hardest not to laugh. his effort at trying to make this cute made your heart swell, but he wasn’t exactly the best at executing it.

“no, i’m just fucking with you,” he laughs. “i forgot to put the metal thing on the icing bag so it just spilled out there.”

“you mean the piping tip?”

“yeah, that thing.” he smiles.

you giggle at him then yawn lightly. “do you want to go watch that christmas movie now?” you ask.

suguru nods his head, you could tell that he was getting a bit bored with decorating the gingerbread houses. so, the two of you quickly cleaned up then head to the couch.

though soon enough, you weren't paying much attention to the movie. suguru had peeled your clothes off of you, leaving searing kisses in his wake, completely distracting you from the film. as he reached lower and lower, you felt your breath hitch when he was face to face with your cunt.

"need me this badly, baby?" he teases, bringing up a teasing finger to your folds, collecting your arousal on the tip of it.

and who were you to ignore him? you did need him, especially when he was looking up at you behind those long black eyelashes, and his pink lips so close to where you wanted him most.

"y-yes..." you stutter, "please.."

suguru smirks then leans in and licks a stripe from your hole to your clit. his lips wrap around your bundle of nerves as one of his digits pushes into your pussy, thrusting in and out.

you choke back a sob when he adds a second, then a third finger into your aching cunt, hips grinding down onto his face. he hums against your clit, pulling back to watch you.

your face was contorted in pleasure, one hand grabbing at the cushion of the couch while the other grabbed at your own breast, pinching and tweaking your pert nipple. you were making it harder and harder for suguru to ignore the ache of his cock, begging to be freed from the confines of his boxers.

he brings his mouth back to your pussy, flattening his tongue and then swirling your clit around with it as his fingers continue to pump inside you at an unapologetic pace.

"just like that! mph!" you cry out, arching your back. you were so dizzy, the feeling of suguru's tongue in between your folds was driving you crazy.

the taste of your arousal was intoxicating to him, he wanted you to cum so badly. but he wanted you to cum, everywhere.

as your moans become higher pitched, suguru knew you were going to come soon. he angled his fingers to hit that spongy spot inside of you, your eyes rolled backwards as you orgasmed with a strangled cry.

"i-i'm cumming! oh! fuck!" you hiccup, hips spasming against suguru's face as you squirt. your arousal coats his hand, upper arm, lower half of his face and suguru drank it all in.

"that's it, princess... make a mess on my face." he mumbles, fingers still pistoning inside your pussy. you felt yourself being hurrled into your second orgasm and it was coming quickly.

"suguru! can't! is t'much! oh my fucking god!" you sob, gasping as you cum for a second time. white flashes blurred your vision as your head spun, hips sputtering and your pussy clenched around his fingers as you ride out your orgasm.

"good girl." suguru praises you, finally removing his soaked digits from your sopping pussy. he presses a kiss to your clit before coming up to kiss your temple. "you did so good for me, baby.”

flseur © all rights reserved, do not repost, take inspo from my layouts or themes, translate, or claim as your own.

[yovrnewromantic]

CULT OF DIONYSUS

billy loomis x reader x stu macher

Let’s get mischievous and polyamorous!

Or in which Stu Macher really wants to fuck Billy Loomis’ girlfriend, and he doesn’t feel the same

warnings: talk of smut but no real smut. billy and stu lowkey hate each other.

Dipshit: guess whos alone w your gf😊

               meeee 😩🍆💦

Billy’s phone pings in his back pocket. Frustratedly, he maneuvers the bagged groceries in his hand. Reaching to grab his phone, he expects a text from you, asking him to grab something you had forgotten to put on the list or a needy i love you text.

Instead, he frowns at the message on his homescreen. The IMS shadow covers one of his faces on the stack of black and white polaroids of you and him on his wallpaper. Quickly, he slides his phone open, typing furiously. 

What the fuck do you mean

Dipshit: 🤷🏼‍♂️

Stu.

Dipshit: srry gtg busy

“Shit,” Billy hisses, forcing a hand through his hair. It was no secret that Stu wanted to fuck you. Stu had practically begged him to just let him watch him fuck you— in person or on video—and he got on his knees attempting to somehow sway Billy to let him cuck you. 

Yeah, not going to happen.

The drive to your shared apartment feels agonizingly slow, an unrelenting doom gnawing in the back of Billy's mind. His knuckles turn white from their tight hold of the steering wheel.

Tires skirt as he swerves into the parking lot, heart racing much more than he would like to admit when he takes the keys out of the admission, front wheels diagonal on the yellow lines they're meant to be inside of.

His pulse is in his ears when he reaches the door, hands clumsy for the keys before he realizes the door isn't even locked. The acknowledgment sends a new sense of dread down his spine because ever since Woodsboro, you listened to him, and you always locked the doors.

With half the mind to grab the knife that he buried it in the potted plant in the hall to castrate Stu-- if he was even there and didn't just want Billy to kill him in his sleep.

The door creaks open deathly slow. Billy's boots are loud against the wooden floors as he steps inside, listening intently. His eyes are frantic, dancing to any open space for your presence. He doesn't see you.

"Y/N?" he calls, his voice steady despite his panic.

It's quiet.

What position does he have you in now? Tied up and gagged so you can't make a sound as Stu pounds into you. Billy swallows his own bile, hardly convinced to continue his search downstairs before heading to your bedroom. If he can get to the kitchen, he can grab a butcher knife and go Michael Myers on that motherfucker.

"Boo!"

He's genuinely startled when he turns the corner into the kitchen, taking a step back and staring at your beaming form with wide eyes. Standing in front of him, perfectly clothed may he add, you cackle, your entire body shaking as you struggle to point a finger at him, too consumed with pure unaltered joy. "I--" you wheeze. "I scared you. Finally, I actually did it."

Despite the small part of him that's a teensy bit pissed (any other day he's punching a wall) that you finally got the best of him, Billy smiles, hands seizing your waist to pull you into his chest so he can hold you after the stress of a lifetime. Your fingers slide across the back of his neck, and it feels like a glimpse of heaven: having you, his girl, and his girl only in his arms, grinning ear to ear.

His fingers find your chin and he makes you look into his eyes. "You got lucky, babe."

While you divulge into another laughing feet, burying your face in his neck, Billy closes his eyes in bliss, savoring the moment as he hugs you. Your bodies fit together like perfect puzzle pieces. You're okay. You're safe. You're his. Billy opens his eyes, sighing quietly. And Stu is nowhere in sight--

What the fuck.

Elbows propped onto the granite island; Stu is smirking like a dead man.

Arms locked around you, Billy stiffens. You pull back, and to your boyfriend's displeasure, out of his arms.

The kitchen is covered in white flour like winter had come early and a blizzard swept inside your windows. Stu's sweater is coated in the flour as well and now that he thinks of it, he can see the powder on your cheek.

"We tried to make cookies," you explain joyously, taking a half-glance between him and Stu. The latter saunters towards you and Billy smugly. "Stu's not very patient."

"Not at all," he purrs, throwing an arm over your shoulder at tugging you into him. You laugh, oblivious to the heated exchange that was happening just above your head.

Billy was going to kill Stu if he kept looking at you like that, his eyes flickering between Billy and peeping down your shirt. Goodbye to their sequel.

You break him from his reverie. "Billy, baby, where's the groceries?"

"Yeah, man. Where are they?" Stu tilts his head.

"In the car," he deadpans although he forgot about them in the first place, abandoning them accidentally. He grabs your wrist, tugging you away from Stu's grip, fuming. "Let's go get them."

THIS IS SO BAD. will def rewrite but seeing this in my drafts was giving me a headache

[the-kr8tor]

hey i was wondering if you could write a fic about the reader teaching Hobie how to roller skate?? It’s so oddly specific but i can imagine him just struggling with it and it’s funny to me. Plus my dream date is to teach someone how to roller skate 😭. Thank you so much. Also please remember to take breaks and rest. I lysm and appreciate all the effort you put into ever story ❤️

What a cute prompt! Thank you for requesting!! And I will!! You're too sweet ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.2 k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for a mention of Hobie being tall and brief mention of clothes), cw food mention, set in Hobie's 70s dimension, FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Being a part of the spider society has numerous Perks— Free therapy if you're willing to wait months for a single appointment. The cafeteria providing three meals a day to starving spider people from all walks of life, (and dimensions) not to mention the unmatched camaraderie with your fellow spiders. That alone makes all the jet lag from traveling through dozens of multiverses, and all the aches and pains that comes with being bitten by a radioactive spider. But, there is one thing that trumps all of those perks, and that's hopping to your partner's dimension for a not-so-quick date at the roller rink.

Hobie didn't take much convincing, especially after showing him your timeline appropriate outfit to him. His dimension is practically stuck in the 70s, filled with groovy psychedelic colours from the top to bottom. And of course there's the leather jackets that you've grown accustomed to just by being with Hobie. Hell, you especially love those leather pieces like the one you're wearing now. You went all out with your outfit, researching the trends back then with a splash of punk looks that had Hobie almost melting the second you stepped out of the portal. You fit in, to say the least. But after all the research and countless hours in the library just scouring for history books and life in the 70s, they don't compare actually being there and seeing it with your own eyes.

A glorious disco ball hangs in the ceiling, twinkling lights dancing around the funky, swirly and fluffy walls of the roller rink. Everywhere you look there's a burst of colours, and there's no lack of laughter ringing above iconic disco music you've heard before.

Smiling, you sit on a bench, eyes turned upwards at the sparkling lights twirling around the whole place. Hobie kneels before you, insisting to tie your rollerblades for you, citing that if it's not done well you could fall over and smash your face on the polished granite. You of course don't refuse, loving how much he dotes on you when there's no mission to rush to or a certain Spiderman breathing down his neck.

Patting your foot, Hobie calls your name above the blaring music. “How's the weather up there, lovie?”

You tilt your head, chin tucked on your clavicle, admiring how handsome he looks under disco lights with his piercings and eyes shining. “How long have you been waiting to say that to someone, huh, tall guy?”

He takes your unlaced rollerblade, pushing it in your socked foot and then propping it up on his knee. He's smiling all through it, happy to indulge you even for a quick moment without anyone to kick or web up. “Believe it or not, I've said it a few times.”

You fake a gasp, and he chuckles at your antics while he ties a ribbon. “Someone is taller than you?! I thought that was impossible!”

“You're impossible.” Hobie's hand remains on your ankle, hand rising up to cup your knee, thumb drawing circles around your tights. Leaning up, he holds your hip with his free hand, pushing you down gently to meet him halfway; which you gladly let him guide you.

Beaming, you peck his nose and the space between his brows. Earning a soft chuckle from him. “Says the one kneeling before me.”

“Which makes my comment correct.” He follows suit, kissing where your Cupid's bow lies before standing up shakily on his rollerblades. (That he hides with his nonchalance.) “C’mon, let's get this over with before I change my mind.”

Taking his helping hand, you pull yourself up, effortlessly standing on the wheels. “It's not too bad, I promise. Even little kids get it right after a few tries.”

He raises a pierced brow. “Those little kids aren't as tall as me and don't have a reputation to keep.”

You poke his side, “I've seen you backflip off of Rhino's head. Roller skates are nothing compared to that. Besides, no one you know is here to see you fall flat on your ass.”

“You won't film it like last time we went ice skatin’?” He can't help but ogle you under the light and amidst the bright colours.

Leading him towards the rink, you hold his hand, slowly inching your way inside. “I promise I won't take videos this time.” He huffs in reply as you guide him to the shiny floors. “It was for personal use anyway.” You mumble to yourself.

Hobie immediately holds onto the railings next to him the second his feet leaves the carpeted floors and onto granite. His knees are bent and shaking while he tries to keep his balance on the wheels. “Love, why'd you let go?!”

Giggling, you reach for him with open arms, rolling towards him. “I didn't! You did!”

Panic spreads through him unlike all the times he has fought countless villains as his rollerblades smack loudly on the floors as his feet skidaddles in place, struggling to even stand up. After reaching for you, your six foot three baby holds onto you like a life raft. Long arms grasping with none of the cool nonchalance he usually exhibits.

“Do you want me to get a training cart for you—?”

“No, I've got this.” Hobie straightens up, hand holding on to your jean pocket as if he wasn't whining a few seconds ago.

“Oh okay—”

“Don't let me go this time.”

“I won't, Hobs. Maybe try moving your legs?” Smiling, you roll around the rink as he uses you as his personal guide while he barely moves his stiff legs.

His eyes roam around the rink where people of all ages whizz past him without a care. He looks over to you with a new found determination. If those children who are barely five years old can skate like they own the place, he too can do it. “What do I do now?”

You don't laugh or giggle at him, instead, you help and support him throughout the lesson like you promised him when you suggested the date. Hobie picked up on the skill real quick, quicker than he did for ice skating. Maybe the music helped him, or maybe he really wanted to impress you this time instead of the ‘baby deer learning how to walk’ he exhibited earlier.

After a while he's already skating around you. A bit wobbly but his form makes up for it. Hobie thanks his spider senses and balance for not stumbling and crashing into another person.

You're all tired out after the exercise. Head placed on his shoulder, arms looped around his middle as he's the one guiding you this time while you two skate mindlessly on the shiny floors as the skating rink dies down for the night. He blows air in your ear, waking you up.

“Thank you.” Hobie affectionately pecks your brow, you hum in content. “You've got some patience in you, love.”

“Nope, you're just a fast learner. And you're welcome, thank you for indulging me.”

“You chose well.” His eyes smile, hand splayed over the small of your back. “Next time it's my turn to pick the place.”

“What do you have in mind?” Tilting away, your hand snakes up from his back to his nape, kneading softly.

“It's a secret, innit. For now,” he skids to a stop, hand still holding on to you. “you need to see some food that your dimension hasn't seen in decades.”

Your eyes widens, gasping. “So much food that shouldn't be in jell-o.” You're already unlacing your rollerblades.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Little fairy tale castle built in 1976 in Lafayette, PA was the height of style in the 70s, but it's very dated, now. IMO, the 70s were a pretty tacky period in decor. They're asking $1.16M for the 4bd, 5ba home. What do you think?

I prefer gryphons to the common lion statues.

The entrance hall is grand and has elements of English Tudor style, as well as castle. I like the way the lamps simulate torches and the ceiling with the medieval chandelier is amazing. Plus, the sweeping stairs and tile floors look good. I would want to repaint it, but it would take $ to brighten this up.

Love the iron gate to the sitting room. The home has the elements of a large castle and it's beautifully done.

The sitting room is elegant with 2 steps down to the sunken space.

Beautiful fireplace and windows, all on a smaller scale. Love the wood ceiling and chandelier, too.

Very large dining room. Nice chandelier, but no wainscoting or fireplace, plain ceiling.

This is where we get into the 70s style. The colors were orange, green and yellowish gold. So, the kitchen has the original dark cabinetry, there's the orange hood w/a royal crest over the cook top and cool orange sinks. The brown & orange tile floor ties it in.

They changed out the counters b/c they're granite. You can see the stained glass cabinet doors and decorative panels on the fridge. I think I would put one of those Knight statues in here with a tray, so he looks like a butler or something campy like that. d

Large casual dining area is nice. It has a whole wall fireplace. I actually like this space better than the formal dining room. Note the little dragons on the medieval chandelier.

Very dated and original wallpaper and lighting. You can either embrace this home, and just brighten it up a little, or renovate it.

Check out the original avocado toilet and sink.

Now up on the 2nd level, we have a rec room with window seats, on one side. By the looks of the overhead fixture, there was a pool table in here.

On this side of the rail, step down to the sunken bar area, the epitome of 70s entertaining. You've got a stone fireplace area for guests to gather, and a wet bar with the decorative panels and popular plaid wallpaper. Plus, note that there's also a stepdown to the sunken bar.

This is the door to the primary chamber.

They emptied it, but it's royal purple and spacious. There's also a small fireplace and closets with mirrors. I tried to get tinted mirror strips off my wall when I had the house- they were on the sides of a stone fireplace and would not budge. I finally covered them w/simulated stained glass.

Across a small purple hallway is the primary bath.

Variety of fixtures- funky black tub, orange sink, black toilet and bidet. It looks like everything has its own room, too.

Now, this suite has a purple theme.

Check out the 3 pc. bath. I'm colorblind when it comes to distinguishing gray and orchid. Is the sink purple?

Very large attic for lots of storage.

There's a beautiful free-form pool outside.

The grounds are very pretty.

.79 acre lot, beautifully landscaped.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/4127-Presidential-Dr-Lafayette-Hill-PA-19444/10072422_zpid/

[the-scandalorian]

two

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 5.1k Warnings: sort of dubcon due to intoxication; alcohol and drug use (by both reader and Joel); mention of reader’s hair being long enough to tangle his fingers in (no details otherwise); smut (fingering, oral, spitting on her pussy, p-in-v); grief and angst Note: There's no part one out yet; this is the second of a potential series of loosely tied oneshots that are coming to me out of order.

The living room is blue. All the surfaces, the shelves and the antique piano, are coated in a thick layer of dust. It feels wrong to disturb anything in this house—in this perfectly preserved resting place—so you tuck yourself into the corner of Bill and Frank’s old couch, out of the way, toe off your boots, and pull your knees up to your chest.

Ellie thunders up the stairs and shuts herself in one of the rooms, gone at the first opportunity for privacy.

Joel doesn’t disappear. You expect him to take the other bedroom and close the door. Instead, he watches you settle onto the couch and drops heavily into the seat beside you. He leans over the armrest and opens a cabinet, retrieving a bottle of dark liquid.

His casual knowledge of the space speaks to how much time he’s spent here, to the depth of his friendship with Bill and Frank. It makes you sad; it makes the room dark. It makes jealousy sour your stomach. Joel has people: a place to fit in this fractured world.

Had. He had people.

There are paintings on the walls: landscapes, still lifes, portraits. Mostly of Bill, you think. With that glower? Definitely Bill. Joel did say Frank was the nice one. 

The likenesses vary in style. There’s a gradient from careful, detailed studies to less refined renderings with loose, painterly brushwork. All of them, in their own unique way, capture the same steely gaze—the spiteful tenacity that must have fueled their survival for decades. 

You ignore the many versions of stern eyes watching you.

The worn fabric under your fingers is scratchy, the upholstery splashed with roses, the hard back of the couch draped in crocheted blankets. It’s dated, the whole place frozen in time while the world fell—falls—apart around it, chaos kept out by a chain link fence and Bill’s gritted teeth. A bell jar in a hurricane.

You wonder if Joel and Tess ever considered leaving the QZ permanently for this place. If that was ever offered. You imagine it would have been almost…idyllic.

You look up at Joel. He’s holding the unopened bottle in his lap. His sharp profile is limned by the soft moonlight filtering through the window behind him. It catches on the silver flecked in his hair and beard.

He knows you’re watching him. He says nothing. He’s thinking about the letter.

About Tess.

You’re trying to think about anything else.

You study his face. Even like this, anguished and lined, filthy from the road, with a half-healed slash across his cheek, he’s handsome. He has rugged good looks, with those brown eyes and that granite-cut jaw. The natural pout of his bottom lip. In a different time, a different universe, he could have been an actor, a model—the face of an ad campaign for a devastatingly masculine cologne. Those big, veined hands modeling watches on the pages of a fashion magazine.  

He wouldn’t have. It wouldn’t suit. But he could have.

It’s strange to think about what he could have been.

Instead, he’s here. The peaks of his knuckles are split and scabbed, the valleys a mottled black and blue, their edges fading to a sickly yellow. His skin is rough and dry—it snags when he runs his hands absentmindedly over the denim of his jeans. His palms are calloused. You know because when shit gets serious, he grabs your wrist or your forearm or your bicep—never your hand—and shoves you behind the wall of his body or pulls you along as he takes off at a run. His middle is thick and soft, his shoulders broad and strong. He’s going gray, and fuck, it looks good on him.

You study him because it feels inconsequential. Your presence feels inconsequential. To him, you think, you’re just another ghost in this house.

Or maybe he is.

A small part of you is braced for him to break, to buckle under the weight of Bill’s last words—the words that are hanging over this house like a storm cloud. Anyone else would.

Joel won’t, though. You watched him stalk away from the burning capitol building with white-knuckled stoicism, and you felt sure that he was already too utterly broken to break again.

Like molten metal, bent and hammered and folded over on itself, again and again and again. Until it’s shatterproof. 

He’s leaning forward, his elbows braced on his spread knees. Even on a soft couch, he doesn’t fully relax. He drops his head into his hands and scrubs one over his face. Then he reaches into the pack by his feet and rummages for something. A little plastic baggie. He just holds it for a minute. You watch him decide.

It’s safe here. As safe as anywhere can be. And Joel hasn’t slept in days.

He shakes two white pills out of the bag and chases them with a swig of whiskey, knocking the liquor back with a quick tip of his head, squinting against the slight after-burn. You extend your open palm. He shakes out a couple pills for you without question, without even looking up. 

He passes you the bottle, and you down them. One harsh gulp.

It’s real whiskey, with a label and everything, not something homemade. Not top-shelf quality by any means, but it’s better than anything you’ve had in a long time. It should be sipped and savored. Back in the QZ, you could have gotten a hefty stack of ration cards for this one bottle—even half empty. It doesn’t matter now.

You take another drink and hand it back.

You watch as a glazed calm gradually slips over Joel’s troubled expression and he finally sinks into the give of the couch cushions, letting his head drop back. You watch as the pills soften his edges. Just barely. They erode a little of the hard, calcified layer he must have started building the day of the outbreak. It grants you a fuzzy peek into the Joel before. His shoulders lose their tension; his fists unclench. If you squint, you might be able to see the Joel who drank with his buddies and winked at women at the bar. The one who drove a pickup truck with the windows rolled down in the summertime. 

You sit in silence as the haze takes you too, creeping up the back of your neck like a warm tide until you feel just numb enough. Any and all troubling thoughts are caught and trapped, restrained like moths in amber, so all that’s left in this blue room is pleasant quiet.

You’re just starting to feel drowsy and loose when he turns to you, wanting. Joel shifts in his seat and fixes you with a look—the first time he’s looked directly at you in an hour or more. The usual bite of his penetrating gaze is muted, the crease between his brows deep with feeling; his brown eyes are big with a question. A need.

It’s the tiniest chink in his armor, a momentary blip of him without a mask. A second of vulnerability, so foreign on his stoic face that the urge to soothe him is visceral. It jumps up the back of your throat.

This is Joel breaking.

He’s asking you for something—for distraction, for comfort. To be put back together.

You unfold your limbs and climb directly into his lap.

He makes a low, approving sound when you straddle his spread thighs and drops his head to your chest to inhale deeply against your shirt. If you weren’t buzzed, you might flinch away. You’re filthy, sweaty and dirty from days on the road. Neither of you have taken advantage of the shower yet. You can’t smell nice.

Joel does it again, though, chasing the comfort by burying his face between your tits, his hands tightening on your hips, his long fingers slipping inside the back pockets of your jeans to grip your ass. He pulls you down against his lap. Hard.

He’s hungry for it this time, watching the place where your body meets his, denim against rough denim. Like he’s imagining the way your naked body will fit against his.

He remembers himself for a moment, looking up at your face. “This okay?”

“Yeah, Joel,” you say. “I want it.”

“Good.”

His forehead drops lightly against your sternum as he moves you against him. He guides your hips into a slow grind. Your knees sink into the plush of the old sofa cushions, your hands braced on his shoulders. 

If he were anyone else, you’d have kissed him already. You settle for pressing your face against the side of his neck, dragging your nose up the column of his bared throat. He smells like sun and sweat and pine, like the dry, dusty road and something else...something distinctly him. It's subtle. It makes your mouth water.

He holds you tight, a strong arm wrapped around your back. You run your hands over his biceps, over the hard lines of his muscles, his shoulders—feeling what often distracts you when he crosses his arms over his chest and the fabric of his shirt pulls taut.

Joel is content, for now, to lift his hips, just barely, into the steady roll of your hips. You think about last time—his clinical, efficient approach. It was all deliberate movements and quick work. He'd made a growled promise that it would only ever happen once.

And yet.

This time, he seems to be letting himself enjoy something, reveling in the pleasure. That alone feels like an unaffordable indulgence, like if you drew attention to it, you’d scare it away. 

His big hand slides heavily up the curve of your spine, a needy drag, and back down again, settling on your lower back, urging you harder. Faster.

More.

It feels good. You rock your hips, grinding yourself into his lap, where he’s full and hard now, thick and straining against his fly, and you groan together when he adjusts his legs wider and pushes his hips up to meet you, letting you get at his clothed erection a little easier. The metal button on your jeans clicks against his belt buckle as you move.

He turns his head to set his teeth against your shoulder, biting with no pressure, and breathes hot against the fabric as you ride him, his chest expanding on a sharp inhale as you drag your core over the stiff arch of his cock and chase the embers of pleasure sparking low in your belly.

All at once, it’s not enough.

Joel grunts and grips your ass, fingers digging into your soft flesh, and he half-shoves, half-lifts you backwards as he straightens, setting you on your feet in front of him. You make a squeaked sound of surprise at the sudden movement, clutching his biceps for balance as you find your footing, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into the barest beginning of a smile. You smile back at him, radiant.

Smiles.

The pills are hitting. It’s all a little delirious.

The moment feels surreal, like this dated living room has been snatched from the current of time and set down on solid ground. Just for a moment. Just to let you both breathe.

It evaporates quickly. His stern expression returns.

“Bedroom,” Joel says with a bossy little jerk of his chin.

You snatch the half-empty whiskey bottle from the coffee table and head down the hall.

There are two spare bedrooms in this big, white house—the one upstairs that Ellie disappeared into and a second down here on the first floor. It’s situated down the hall from the locked door. You try not to think about that room. Try not to wonder if Joel and Tess shared this same spare room when they used to visit.

There are too many ghosts here tonight.

You pop open the bottle and drink deep, and Joel shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. He stoops to switch on the lamp on the bedside table.

You drop the corked whiskey onto an armchair and reach for the top button of your shirt, eager to avoid an awkward interlude, eager to please him.

There’s something about Joel that makes you desperate to be wanted by him—something more than just his gruff appeal or the situation you’re in together or the fact that his care promises some measure of safety in this world of scarcity. It has everything to do with how he acts around the people that are his. More than just protective. Possessive.

This want is practical. And it’s not. 

It’s animal too.

He rounds the bed and stands close, stopping your hand with his. You look up, and he inclines his head toward the bed.

“Lie down.”

You move to listen, but he stops you. 

“Wait.”

He bends to grip the bottom edge of the bed frame, and Joel grunts as he slides the whole thing a few inches away from the wall. The feet squeak along the hardwood floor.

He straightens and nods. “Alright, go on.”

The image of him arched over your body, fucking you so hard and deep that the headboard knocks against the wall—thump, thump, thump—sets your heart racing. You scramble up the bed, and he takes his time unlacing his boots then follows with a slow crawl, watching you with dark eyes. With intent so potent it makes you want to look away.

You don’t.

He’s here this time.

As present as either of you can be when you’re a little high. Just the barest edge of sedated. You imagine your own eyes are glassy, lacquered in the low light of the shaded lamp. Joel’s don’t seem to be, though. He’s alert.

He crowds you further up the bed, and you scoot back until your head hits the pillow. He makes space for himself between your legs and reaches for your collar. You watch his deft fingers work quickly down the line of buttons on your shirt.

His eyes flick from his hands to your face and back. There’s naked want there—desire etched into his hard features. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve only seen him two ways: serious or furious.

This is something else. This is intoxicating.

Your head is starting to spin.

He gets your shirt open, helps you shuck it off, and pulls your bra off with a practiced ease. His large, warm hands palm your breasts as soon as they’re free. He’s immediately fixated, and the attention sends a flush of heat over your bare skin. He tests the weight of each, kneading lightly, his mouth parted in muted awe as his fingertips sink into the give. He tweaks your nipple between two fingers, one and then the other, and watches, satisfied, as they pebble for him. He studies your reactions to his touch, eyes lingering on your face as he plays with you, as if your response is as important to him as the feel of you. 

He takes his time. Unhurried. Like you have all the time in the world.

Joel leans down suddenly and licks a warm stripe up the line of your sternum, through the valley of your breasts, and your body reacts to him: you arch your back into the heat, your hand automatically burying itself in his thick hair, your lips parting around a moan.

His tongue.

You must taste like salt and sweat, and yet, he looks a little smug when he pulls back, his lips quirked in a half smile.

“You like that?”

He looks young when he smiles. You can see thirty-year-old Joel in that look. Unburdened Joel. Fifty-year-old Joel without the trauma.

The margins of your vision start to smudge as you look at him; colors bleed freely in the dim light, his features running like wet ink. His smile melts away. You feel off-kilter, like you’ll slip off the solid plane of this mattress and drop into nothingness if you don’t hold on. You fist your hands in the comforter.

A hand frames your cheek. You can’t focus your eyes. Your lashes flutter.

Joel says your name, concern woven between each syllable.

Once. Again.

He drops his weight onto you. The spinning stops, and your hands release. You meet his eyes.

“Joel—”

You remember last time—the first time you fucked, the smothering weight of his hand on your mouth when you said his name—and you bite your lip before you can say anything else. But he doesn’t react to it this time. He’s too lost in it.

It feels good to be lost together.

“You alright?” he asks, his brow pinched not in anger or distress, for once, but in naked concern.  “Too much?”

You're not sure if he's asking about the pills and the booze or the pace or just...him.

“No, no.” You shake your head. “I’m good now.”

There’s so much care in his eyes that it feels like he’d give you anything you want in this moment. Like he’d lie down and hold you if you asked him to. You’re seeing him without his hardened front, and it makes you shiver. You slip your fingers around the back of his neck and pull his face down to yours, taking the thing you want most. He bends for you willingly.

His lips are a little chapped, his facial hair scratchy. You’re expecting a light kiss and a retreat, a concession. You’re not expecting his whole body to respond—the press of his chest against yours and an arm slipping under your shoulders to force you closer. You’re not expecting to be enveloped by his wide frame, for your back to be lifted a couple inches off the mattress in his urgency to hold you tight. You’re not expecting his tongue to slip between your lips first—to lick across the roof of your mouth in an utterly invasive, possessive way that makes you gasp.

He coaxes your shocked body into a response with careful waves of his tongue, consuming you with hungry lips and searching, grasping hands. Gentle teeth worry your bottom lip, soothed by the pass of his tongue. His nose nudges tenderly against yours as he kiss kiss kisses his way across your cheek.

He pulls back, fixing you with a serious look.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You can see him so perfectly in the before for a second. How he might have asked you the same question in some mundane situation, helping you to your feet after a stumble with a steadying hand on your shoulder. The dip of his accent and the color of his eyes would have spelled the end for you. You would have been a goner.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m good.”

“You wanna stop?”

You tighten your fingers in his shirt and shake your head. “No.”

He nods, sweeping light fingers across your cheek, and leans back in.

You fumble blindly with the buttons of his shirt as he kisses you, working as quickly as you can in the tight, shifting space between your bodies. When you have it almost all the way open, he sits back on his heels and yanks it off the rest of the way, tossing it off the bed. You tug impatiently at the hem of the white t-shirt he has on underneath, but he goes right for the button on your jeans, popping it open and ignoring the zipper completely. It comes down on its own when he hooks his fingers in your belt loops and jerks the denim off your body. Your underwear goes with it.

You reach for his belt buckle, but he stops you.

“No,” he says, stern, not unkind, “I’m gonna make you come first.”

He waits for your nod, then slides down the mattress and situates himself between your legs, spreading them open with a decisive push. 

You’re naked under his gaze.

You watch, tense with anticipation, as he leans down to part you with the v of his fingers, one forearm hooked over the top of your thigh. He takes his time admiring the natural gloss of your arousal, his face situated so close that you can feel the warmth of each individual exhale on your skin, and then he looks up at you from his position between your thighs.

Without breaking eye contact, he adds to your slick by pouting his lips and letting a line of his spit drip slowly onto your pussy. 

When he did that the first time you fucked, you chalked it up to efficiency, necessity—a way to bypass intimacy by cutting down on foreplay. Now, watching him track the slow seep of his saliva over your glistening cunt with hungry eyes, you realize he just likes it. He’s just nasty.

Joel dips his head and licks through the mess.

Your knees start to close reflexively around his ears at the first direct stimulation against your clit, but he forces your legs open with one hand and the width of his shoulders.

He looks up at your face.

“You gonna keep these open for me or do I need to do it for you?”

He says it in his usual deadpan, but there’s a challenge there, a hint of provocation behind his expression, the buried hope that you might want to fight him in the way he’d like. You tuck that away for later.

For now, he takes your look of surprise as an affirmative and dips his head again, satisfied.

He works his tongue over the aching pearl of your clit with a gentle, targeted flick—up and back, the bridge of his nose pressed hard against your mound—and your mind goes blank. You arch into him, fucking yourself against his face in a languid rhythm, as the tension begins to build in your body. 

He likes it. His throat vibrates with an approving hum.

You grip the comforter as your muscles pull taut, as your thighs tense in his tight hold. You can hear the flick of his tongue and the suck of his lips. The low, wet sounds.

He exhales sharply through his nose and readjusts, his hands forcing your thighs open and up, so he can taste you how he wants—where he wants. Where you’re dripping for him.

The rough pad of one finger rocks steadily over your clit while he fucks you with his tongue, moaning into the heat of your body as he pushes in as deep as he can. His other hand is gripped around the back of your thigh. Bruises will blossom there by morning, a shadow of his hold on you.

You crook an elbow and drop your arm over your face, turning into it to muffle the noises he’s dragging out of you. A whine. A choked moan.

His mouth moves back up, and a finger takes its place, eased inside you with little resistance. He slides it out, and a second joins the first when he presses them back in. They’re thick, and he pushes them deep.

Joel builds your pleasure to a peak—with his hand, with his tongue, with the low sounds grunted in his throat—and it climbs steadily until it breaks. He climbs with you, the cadence of his breath picking up as yours does, his body rocking gently into yours in time with his fingers' movements inside you, his shoulders pressed against the backs of your thighs. The bed is shifting, the mattress springs whining quietly as you writhe. 

You clench tight around his thrusting fingers, their tips curled repeatedly against the spot that makes your heels slip down the bed, and he closes his eyes as he works you through it with the hot lick of his tongue on your clit. 

Through the shock, the tremors, and the slow fade. Until you’re limp.

His voice is a husky drawl, his breath humid on your hip. “Fuck, baby, you feel good.”

It’s barely anything. From him, it feels like a revelation, like a fucking love poem. You reach for him.

“Please, Joel—”

He sits up, kneeling between your legs, and rips his shirt over his head. His heaving chest is flushed. He opens his belt buckle with one hand, the clink of metal and slip of leather loud in the quiet room as it slithers out of his belt loops, and he drops it to the floor. He moves from the bed to kick off his jeans, and when he settles his body over yours again, the only thing left between you is the thin fabric of his boxer briefs.

You can feel the heft of him through them. The strain and the heat. The body-warm fabric pressed against your wet cunt.

He’s heavy on top of you, his hips caught between your thighs, his chest warm against yours, knuckles ghosting over your cheek. You shove the elastic waistband over his ass, impatiently searching for skin.

“Need you to fuck me,” you breathe.

He helps you push the fabric down, gets them off, and holds himself over you with a hand braced by your ear, gripping the base of his cock to tease the head through your folds. He meets your eyes as he catches the tip on the notch of your entrance and starts to sink inside you, dropping his hips forward in a slow, purposeful movement as he drinks in your reaction. You’re wet and aching to be filled, but he’s still a stretch, so he thrusts shallowly against the resistance until the crease in your brow smoothes and your body welcomes him deep.

He drops to his forearms and lets you feel each other. He’s thick inside you, sharp and vital in a way that feels incredible, hugged tight in your heat. Joel dips his head, your foreheads brushing, and he presses his mouth to yours in a light kiss. Sweet and quick. Almost chaste.

He tastes like you.

Then he circles his hips, a slow grind that ends in a controlled thrust—powerful and targeted.

You get to collect little pieces of him while he moves inside you, as his cock kisses the deepest parts of you, as you cling to him. Gray hairs are threaded among the dark brown ones on his chest. His neck is dusted with faint freckles, only visible this close. There’s a shiny pink scar on his left shoulder—a deep cut, old and healed. A much newer one puckers the skin of his bicep. A bullet graze.

He likes to kiss your neck and suck on the supple skin of your breasts while he fucks you.

He gives you a second orgasm before searching for his own, reaching between your bodies to take you over the edge with the practiced ease of his fingers.

He was right to move the bed away from the wall.

He works his way up from a slow, deep rhythm to a pace that has each punch of his hips threatening to drive you up the silky fabric of the comforter. He slips a hand under your back and curls his fingers over the top of your shoulder, keeping you in place as he impales you on his cock, pulling you back down to meet him each time. The pleasure has you pressing your head back into the pillow, your eyes closed tight.

He doesn’t like that tonight.

“Look at me.”

Joel shoves a hand under your skull, tangles his fingers in your hair, and holds you fast. He’s panting as his eyes flick between yours. Searching. Almost…frantic as he starts to fuck you harder, with less control. The mattress complains under your shifting bodies.

You watch him unravel.

One hand still caught in your hair, he pulls out and jerks himself over you, chasing his orgasm as he watches your face. He bares his teeth when he comes across your stomach in warm pulses, pearly lines dripped over your skin. The pleasure punches a grunt and a hiss from him, his hand squeezing tight around the base of his cock as his whole body tenses and releases, the tug of his fist slowing to a stop as he milks the last drop.

He’s breathing hard as his gaze traces over the spots where you’re painted with him, and something flickers behind his veiled eyes. Before you can really catch it, he scrubs a hand down his tired face and reaches for his discarded shirt. He uses it to wipe the sticky mess off your skin and tosses the crumpled thing back onto the floor.

He settles on the edge of the bed, sitting with his back to you, and you slip underneath the blankets. Now that you’re sated, sleep is starting to weigh at the edges of your consciousness. Insistent.

Joel pulls on his jeans and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. You hear water running.

You lie there—torn between feeling sure he’s coming back, especially seeing as the rest of his clothes are here, and the creeping thought that he’d probably rather sleep on the too-short couch then blur an already murky line by sharing this bed for something other than sex.

It would be so nice, for once, not to sleep alone.

But you’re used to sleeping alone.

His steps creak on the hardwood outside the door. Too much relief blooms in your gut.

Joel shuts the door behind him and stands at the end of the bed, scratching a hand through his tousled hair. Something about his rumpled appearance, his uncertainty, his half-dressed state is endearing. It’s so rare to see him…undone. He’s studying you, like he doesn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between your bodies now that the lust has dulled. Now that it’s just you and him and a bed.

“You want me to find another room?” you ask, knowing full well that the Texas gentleman buried somewhere inside him would never allow that. He’d leave if he wanted to be alone.

“No,” he says, making a decision and reaching for the light. He shuts it off with a click. There’s a shuffling of clothes, off and on, and he slips under the blankets.

In the dark, it’s easier for him. He gets close. He doesn’t reach for you, but in the quiet black, you can hear him angle his body toward you, settling on his side. He doesn’t resist when you slide closer; his hand rests on your waist when you press your nose into the soft, worn cotton of his t-shirt.

In the morning, he’ll be gone again.

[francixoxoxo]

Sugar, Spice *.𐦖

𝐒𝐞𝐣𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Sejanus and you cook for the first time in your new kitchen, trying to cozy up your newly-leased home in the Capitol.

Kind of crappy but here y’all go 😭

Anywhere with Sejanus could be home, you comforted yourself with as you casted a wanton glance to the world outside your window.

It was true, in most senses. You’d follow your lover to the ends of this Earth if he’d request. He’d done so much for you, Sejanus, how could you not be devoted to him? How could you fend off the golden warmth spreading from his fingertips to the innermost of your being?

He was the first of everything for you. You’d never been so eager to be in competition, a constant and youthfully exciting tit-for-tat. A peacekeeper offering you a walk home, rewarded with a shy peck to his bronze cheek— that you would’ve never given on a normal day, but a handsome man with a gentle demeanor seemed to be the exception. A hesitant, schoolgirl-crush dropping flowers at your stoop during his earliest patrols of the day, requited with a lake-day invitation. A gentle lover putting a ring of silver on your finger, in return, your companionship; now, and forever.

Never was this love debt on your shoulder. Never had it need repaying, but you wanted to, with every digit on your fingers and every string in your heart. It was such a strange, new feeling, love. To be so completely appreciated, so wholly known.

Sejanus knew you better than anyone in this world. But a fool could foresee your hesitance to move from the woods of District 12 to the Capitol. With a sigh, you remind yourself once again, you’d follow him to the ends of the Earth. You’d follow him to the devil’s parlor room, if only to be at his side.

Speaking of him, your Fiancé places the needle on a record, the first notes filling the kitchen with warmth. Grocery bags sit atop the granite countertop like a flock of geese, maybe the same amount of food you’ve had in your entire life, you think with a pang. Sejanus rifles through the plastic, searching for the eggplant you’d sent him on the mission to cut. You yourself hold a knife that fits into your palm nothing like your well-worn one from 12, slicing rectangle panelle out of a large sheet of rolled-out dough.

“So, tomorrow we need to go out and get a couch.” Sejanus hums, his hands brushing your hips as he moves behind and past you. It’s been a bit hectic since you’d officially moved in. A few boxes of new things lied around, their assembly put off until tomorrow. But most furniture still needed buying.

Tonight was for housewarming the apartment, in a way. Cozying the space, getting a few memories in its walls. It wasn’t hard, with Sejanus. Even the night you arrived was filled with intimate loving, the warmth of his arms as he promised you a good life here. Told you he’d do everything and anything to make you happy, to turn the four walls into a place you could spend a lifetime in. When you told him putting your new kitchen to some use might make the penthouse more homely, he was enthusiastic.

“A dining table, too.” You murmur, your eyes lifting from the sweet potatoes to peer at him. It was much hotter in the Capitol; where District 12 was experiencing the transition from summer to a cool October, the city was still blazing. Sejanus had discarded his shirt, his freckled shoulders bare and exposing the smattering of dark hair on his chest. You tied up your hair, donning a light night dress to try and keep cool.

Sejanus kept a firm hand on the left side of the eggplant, cutting the other end into thin and expert slices. A smile is on his face and in his voice as he asks, “Where we eating tonight, if we don’t have a table?”

“Maybe we’ll unbox the stools for the island?” You offer, grimacing. Sejanus shrugs, moving behind you again (with another passing touch to your lower back) to turn on the pot of oil on the stove.

“Gotta put it together first.” He reminds. You groan at that.

The penthouse around you is barren. New furniture and appliances lie in boxes around, your bedroom lacking of much besides a bed frame, mattress, and sheets. Earlier today, Sejanus had taken you shopping for the apartment, pointing out appliances you hadn’t even known existed. A microwave and a blender, sitting on the counter, being among them. He hadn’t laughed at your ignorance, just nodded and let you pick which one fit your vision for the new home. He couldn’t possibly know how grateful you were for that.

“How’re you liking it?” Sejanus hums, tearing open a package of chicken. He’d already finished the sauce to fill the spiedini earlier, and the cheese was in paper wrapping beside the cutting board. Sejanus insisted he make it for you, he promised you’d love it.

“Liking what?” Your lips press into a thin line as you carefully scoop the eggplant from the oil, replacing the vegetable with the sliced panelle.

“The penthouse.” Sejanus shrugs. He sighs a moment, looking over the massive sea of grocery bags. “Baby, can you grab me the— yeah, thanks.” He presses a grateful kiss to your cheek as you grab him the container of breadcrumbs, pouring some out to bread the chicken. “The Capitol in general.”

You don’t have much of a response. Well, you know just what to say. But it’s nothing you can articulate to Sejanus; not when so much depended on your acclimation to the Capitol. You nod your head a bit before remembering he couldn’t see you from where you watched the browning panelle.

When you glance up to him, expecting to see the broad expanse of his bronze shoulders and his dark curls, you’re instead met with those doe brown eyes. The deep, alluring brown of his irises full of a perfectly describable and unbidden concern.

“It’ll shape up eventually, baby.” Sejanus promises, his brows drawing as he looks over his shoulder at you. He carefully rolls up the chicken, sauce and cheese, your silence telling him everything he needed to know. “Look, maybe we can go out and get some paintings or something tomorrow, too. Cozy the place up.”

“That’d be nice,” you breathe, eyes lifting to his. The light shot diamonds from your irises, speaking words at a pitch only Sejanus could ever understand.

You felt like such a fish out of water. You didn’t find belonging in fancy penthouses, cooking on countertops of granite and peering out of windows from the forty-something-th floor. Sejanus knew it. Your bitterness to high living rolled off you in vermillion waves, a byproduct of living in an impoverished District. He can feel it now, in the quiet way your eyes dart around the barren penthouse, knowing that this was not home. Wondering if it ever would be. Looking at Sejanus and hoping his presence alone would let it be so. He simply couldn’t have that running around your head.

“Hey,” Sejanus murmurs, wiping his hands on a towel and moving to drop a kiss to your forehead. His hands come to bracket your shoulders, his large palms rubbing up and down your skin. The record croons on, a melody from heart and rumbling soul.

He hesitates to speak, finding the words with effort. “If.. If you don’t want this..”

“I do.” You blurt, your hands flying to his chest. It’s not a lie. You want more than anything to be with Sejanus, to have a life with him; out of everybody you’d met in this life, Sejanus was the only soul to brush yours, featherlight and gentle as the breeze.

“I want to live with you, even in the Capitol. I promise I could get used to it.” The words are firmly passionate falling from your lips. Sejanus doesn’t seem convinced, his lips pressing into a line. His hand comes to rest atop yours, his pointer finger rubbing along the cool band of your engagement ring.

“You’d tell me if you don’t?” Sejanus breathes. His brows knit together, his eyes full of a heavy kind of worry that you want to stamp out as soon as it appears. You nod, your other hand roaming over the plane of his back, over the subtle definition of his relaxed yet strong muscles.

An almost relieved huff escaped his nostrils. “It’s just gonna take some getting used to.” You murmur, reaching for the ladle and lifting a cooked panella from the oil, placing it over the paper-towel covered plate. Sejanus watches you pull out the golden-brown squares, letting you get the handful out before turning your chin to face him. His eyes dart over your features.

“I mean, it’s a nice kitchen.” Sejanus shrugs, speaking suddenly soft as linen. His hands drop to hold your waist, hands gently rubbing over your thin dress affectionately. Oh, there he went again, showing you just how golden of a heart he had.

A smile creeps across his face only to match yours. “Absolutely. I could see us here.” You coo, wrapping your arms around his neck. Sejanus turns you both ‘round, falling into a bit of a dance to the record as it played on. His grin only broadened.

“Could see our babies here.” Sejanus adds, appreciating the way your fingers find their way into his curls. His eyes, dark and warm and impossibly affectionate, search your own as if he’s hoping you share the sentiment.

“Mm.. I always pictured I’d have my babies in a cozy little cottage.” You admit softly, your mind wandering completely away from the dinner you’d been preparing together. Sejanus hums thoughtfully.

“Maybe we still could.”

“You think?”

Sejanus shrugs, humming in a joking here nor there way. “I’ll figure it out for you,” a grin spreads across his cheeks again as he chuckles. You simply shake your head in disbelief.

Whatever divine power had given Sejanus to you, you were forever indebted to her. It didn’t seem there was a man who could match him, his strength and his gentleness, his integrity. A heart of gold, your Sejanus had. Your fingers curl into his dark locks, iliciting a smile with the warmth of the sun onto his features. “I think we’d be all right anywhere.” You find yourself mumbling, your nose bumping his lightly.

Sejanus can only nod, spinning you ‘round again to the sudden lilt of a trombone on the record. “Mm. You and me, anywhere.”

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets: Day Twenty-Three

Chosen Prompt: Wiping Away Tears

CW: Past violence, past captivity, implied past non-con

In the dead of night, Whumpee staggers out of the bedroom with the ghost of his nightmare still clinging to him. It feels like an infected wound at his centre, thrumming beneath his sternum, aching. He moves through the hallway, muscles taut from lurching awake. He steps into the lounge, throat raw from his ragged breathing. His eyes draw instantly to Caretaker’s form, hunched over at the kitchen table, elbows on the granite, tired face aglow in the light of the laptop screen. He taps at the mousepad twice before Whumpee sniffles, and the cocoon of the silence is pierced.

Caretaker startles, soft gasp at the back of his throat. His gaze snaps to Whumpee, body poised swiftly with tension. It’s like that a lot since Whumpee was rescued; the two of them ready to fight at the merest shifting of shadows. Whumpee longs to reassure him, but he’s out here for a reason and his pulse thuds, laced with a dread so heady it dizzies him. He can’t even bring himself to smile, worries his lip instead. At the sight of him, his sleepwear oversized from the stress related weight loss, his arms wrapped around his slim frame, Caretaker gently sighs. The tension eases from his frame, and slips from the kitchen stool to slowly cross the room.

“Sweetheart,” he says. His bare feet pad across the dark wood, a sound so soft and domestic that it only worsens the ache in Whumpee’s chest, sends the teeth of his terror deeper towards his bones. Caretaker hesitates then, ten feet between them as he ducks down to catch Whumpee’s gaze, rises to full height to draw it up with him. “You can’t sleep?”

“Are you coming to bed?” Whumpee asks. Caretaker scrubs a hand down his face. When he looks at Whumpee again his eyes are heavy with fatigue, blooming with worry so physical it might as well alter their colour. He’s visibly troubled, and it’s all because of Whumpee. Three days spent in the presence of evil and Whumpee isn’t the only one changed. Three days spent thinking his lover was dead, and Caretaker is different too. The ghosts in Whumpee’s dreams follow him into wakefulness, slip out into the shadows that crowd the corners of their apartment, seeping under Caretaker’s skin just the same, drawing into his lungs with each breath.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes. “I was just…doing some research.”

“Into what?” Whumpee mumbles. Caretaker shifts through the distance between them, reaches slowly for Whumpee’s hand.

“Into therapists,” he answers, squeezes Whumpee’s hand.

“Oh,” says Whumpee, squeezing back even as his eyes drift from Caretaker’s face to the slow rise and fall of his chest. “Okay.”

“It can wait now,” Caretaker tells him. “Did you have a…a nightmare? Do you wanna talk about it, love?”

The question is a door drawing open between them. The thought sends him hurtling backwards in time — tied up in that farmland shed, torchlight finding his scantly clad body as the door creaks slowly open. It illuminates him where he waits in his terror, slung from the ceiling by a meat hook, by handcuffs that limit his blood flow. The memory stands like a barrier between them, like a wall over which he can no longer see Caretaker. His selectivity on what happened to him in that place feels less like free will now, feels more like deliberate suffocation. It feels like Whumper’s hand over his mouth when the beating was finally over, blood and freshly broken bones ignored, one leg hiked painfully up.

Whumpee’s eyes well suddenly, the burn of their wetness so stark that it aches. His breath stutters. He’s been home for two days now and his body is taxing him, taking physical recompense for his secret. There’s an ulcer throbbing dully at the inside of his cheek, low enough on the left that it catches his bottom teeth sharply, sore enough that it’s too hard to eat. His stomach aches from morning to night, a counterpart brewing inside of him. The tears blur his vision and it feels like restraint. He pulls his hand free of Caretaker’s grip, presses the heel of it hard to his eye. He wipes his left eye roughly, grinding the heel of his palm without mercy, desperate to clear up his vision. All the while his chest heaves, his free hand shakes, and he wishes there was nothing to tell Caretaker.

“Hey,” breathes Caretaker. “Hey, sweetheart, wait. Shh, hey.”

He touches his fingertips to Whumpee’s hand, guides it slowly away from his face.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he tells him, voice as soft as the touch that follow, as the fingertips that touch Whumpee’s cheek. “Let me.”

And he does. Whumpee’s tears have turned closer to sobs, hiccuping gasps as Caretaker leans in close. His uses the edge of his delicate thumbs, skating his touch upwards along the length of Whumpee’s cheeks. He gathers the tears on his skin as Whumpee watches, Caretaker’s warm and worried gaze shifting from one side of his face to the other. He’s watchful and diligent, committed to the task of wiping his tears. Beyond the tall windows of their sixth storey apartment, the moon eases outward from beyond darkened clouds, full and round and almost orange. He remembers tracking the moonlight in that shed, its paleness shifting over the concrete for hours, rescinding as the sun rose in its wake. The days — the three he spent in that place — were always easier than the nights, as if even someone like Whumper couldn’t bring himself to abuse him then step into sunlight.

“There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” Whumpee whispers. He says it like an apology, and maybe it is. It’s born of shame — a painful infection inside him — and it comes from the guilt at his silence. Caretaker stays close to him, keeps his hands pressed softly to his face. “It’s not because I don’t trust you. I…I promise it’s not. But I have to tell you now. I can’t…I have to—“

“Shh,” Caretaker soothes. “You can tell me anything, sweetheart. Nothing you can say will make me love you any less, or think of you any differently, okay? You’re my light. That’s never changing.”

“Okay,” Whumpee whispers, then swallows hard, worries his lip for a moment longer. Caretaker brushes his thumbs over his cheeks as though Whumpee is still crying. And maybe he is, his eyes still aching. Right now he can’t imagine ever stopping.

He draws a deep and shuddering breath, and opens his mouth to tell Caretaker the truth.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

[jennathearcher]

Me listening to all three Sleep Token albums for the first time:

Take Me Back To Eden

Chokehold - by far the most lore-oriented song I've heard so far?? lyrically this is just the band's mission statement and it's SO good

The Summoning - THE iconic song :P I had this thought while vibing to it again, the title is SO apt because this is the song that essentially summoned LEGIONS of fans 8D

Granite - this song has me ALL kinds of fucked up?? this was the point where specific lyrics started to have me SCREAMING, like, "you gave me nothing whatsoever but a reason to leave" HELLO??? not to mention "we'd rather be six feet under than be lonely" THAT HITS

Aqua Regia - MMMM THE VIBES THEY ARE IMMACULATE I believe the title translates to something along the lines of "ocean queen" but don't quote me on that XD I genuinely cannot cite just one lyric that makes me feral IT'S THE WHOLE SONG

Vore - AS A MONSTERFUCKER I AM FEELING VERY SEEN IN THE CLUB RIGHT NOW. TIS IS A MONSTERFUCKER ANTHEM. VESSEL. VESSEL P L E A S E.

Ascensionism - I was told this song would make me cry I WASN'T PREPARED FOR HOW REAL THAT WOULD BE. "Make it real, cause anything's better than the way I feel right now" HOOOOOOOO. This entire song is POETRY.

Are You Really Okay? - I....have A LOT of feelings about this song. Holy shit. From Vessel's lips straight to the ears of my soul. God DAMN.

The Apparition - and now we have the self-shipping anthem :P VESSEL XD "Why are you never real" !!!!!! "Just let me go or take me with you" !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

DYWTYLM - lowkey I always love when artists genuinely abbreviate song titles like this it's really cute and stylish :P THIS SONG IS S O CUTE??? OH MY GOD the sheer amount of genres this band covers is AMAZING; plus this is another song where the lyrics are DEEPLY SAD but the beat though :P

Rain - from what I'm aware of this might be an underrated song??? instant fave from me 8D IT'S SO ROMANTIC!!! "the vicious cycle was over the moment you smiled at me" I'M SO!!!!!! SOFT!!!!!!

Take Me Back To Eden - TRUE TO ITS NAME THIS SONG IS A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. but also among a million incredible lyrics "I'll take a pound of your flesh before you take a piece of my paystub" has me CHEWING THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE OH MY G O D

Euclid - I have deduced that ST is the masters of ending an album with the most unexpectedly BEAUTIFUL song OH MY GOD. All the nods of their previous songs?? So much TECHNOLOGICAL imagery all across this album too tbh??? "So if your wings won't find you heaven I'll bring it down like an ancient bygone" SCREAMING!!!! and of course "the night belongs to you" I AM EATING THIS

it is at this point I begin to swiftly realize I am listening to this in reverse order which makes a lot of things hit different but REGARDLESS :P WE PRESS ON

This Place Will Become Your Tomb

Atlantic - not only is this song ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL but the lyrics are just.....w o o f. it hits harder the more you think about it.

Hypnosis - I can't get over how this song is ACTUALLY hypnotizing to listen to :P

Mine - ONCE AGAIN TRACK THREE IS WHERE I START CLIMBING THE WALLS XD both of the other albums have direct lyrical connections to this song, and it's also just HOOOOO INTENSE IN THE BEST KIND OF WAY 8D plus the "wasted years" lyric got me thinking about Phantom of the Opera which y'know feels appropriate :P

Like That - this song reminds me of Granite with just how VISCERAL the feelings are when connected to a toxic relationship??

The Love You Want - biased cause I've had this song on repeat but HOOOOO!!!!!! "TOO MANY SWALLOWED KEYS WILL MAKE YOU BLEED INTERNALLY SOMEDAY"!!!!! "MAYBE YOU BELIEVE THAT IN THE END YOU WILL BE BETTER OFF THAT WAY"!!!!!!

Fall For Me - *incomprehensible shrieking* "WON'T YOU FALL FOR ME, FROM REALITY" *somersaults out of window* "MY INSECURITIES SURROUND ME LIKE LIONS IN THE DEN" *puts head through wall*

Alkaline - I am now intimately familiar with the emotions of the girl absolutely losing her shit in the background of the concert video in which I first heard this song XD Another song with one of those verses where every single line is ABSOLUTE POETRY and also :P HORNY. HORNY HORNY ENERGY. VESSEL YOU MENACE I LOVE YOU.

Distraction - at this point I am all but tearing my hair out over how ROMANTIC this is and how it can perfectly encapsulate such a simple idea and make it absolutely HEART-ACHING?????

Descending - ohhhhhh myyyyYYYYYY GOD!!!!!! "YOU COME CRAWLING BACK TO ME BUT I'M ALREADY UNDERGROUND" !!!!!! "AND WE ALL KNOW THAT TALK IS CHEAP SO COME ON AND SAVE ME NOW" !!!!!!!!!!!!!! "AND YOU WONDER WHAT I BELIEVE BUT YOU DON'T WANNA BE AROUND" "SO WHAT WOULD YOU DO FOR ME?" !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Telomeres - another song I fell in love with on the first listen :P much like Rain it's just so DEEPLY ROMANTIC AND EMOTIONAL??? "I know as you collapse into me this is the start of something" MMMMMMMMMMMM

High Water - I am OBSESSED with this song lyrically, just "it seems my hell is your high water" that's SO!!!! GOOD!!!! but also just the absolute gutpunches all throughout this song; "you are still a perfect reminder of what all these scars on my arms are for" !!!! "I know you still bear the weight of your own existence and you'll never bear the weight of two" I'M SO?!?!?!?

Missing Limbs - I legit GASPED when the soft guitar started???? and the last verse just absolutely destroyed me HOO. The whole song has Bon Iver vibes but better tbh

Sundowning

The Night Does Not Belong To God - it was here when I started to really lose my shit over all the lyrical parallels across the three albums :P SO GIVE ME THE NIGHT!!!!!

The Offering - "YOU'VE GOT DIAMONDS FOR TEETH MY LOVE, SO TAKE A BITE" OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!

Levitate - THIS IS THE ONE of course I find a song that contains the lyric "your body is mostly blood" to be HELLA ROMANTIC :P also very apt considering how ST's music makes me feel like I'm the one levitating XD Saint Maud up in this bitch ahem

Dark Signs - ANOTHER INSTANT FAVE 8D the fucking bassline!! EVERY SINGLE LYRIC HOOOOOO JUST THE PICTURE IT PAINTS!!! also "tear off my arms" sounds like a direct parallel to Missing Limbs don't mind me!!!

Higher - "I AM GRANTING YOU MORE THAN THE DEBT THAT I OWE" *sound of underwater screaming sounds* also idk if it's been said but Vessel lowkey reminds me of Corpse Husband in a lot of ways; I love my faceless anxious endlessly talented cryptid boys!!!

Take Aim - this one had my Archer sensibilities making the eyes emoji :P personally this one really makes me think of the Greek myth of Artemis and Orion but THAT'S JUST ME XD

Give - AND NOW WE HAVE A DARK ROMANCE ANTHEM MMMMMMM DELICIOUS. THIS IS MY ENTIRE AESTHETIC 8D

Gods - THIS SONG IS SO A N G R Y I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!! but also "you want to watch me beg cause I beg so well" VESSEL PLEASE :P

Sugar - PURE HORNY ENERGY. B O N K, TO HORNY JAIL WITH YOU. NONE OF THESE THOUGHTS ARE IN THE BIBLE.

Say That You Will - GOOD LORD I DIDN'T THINK IT WAS POSSIBLE BUT WE HAVE GOTTEN EVEN MORE HORNY literally "is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me" but way more poetic than that XD

Drag Me Under - Once again, the vibes, they are IMMACULATE 8D have I mentioned how much I love all the religious imagery in ST's music because ohhhhhh my god

Blood Sport - I knew I was gonna love this song after seeing part of the live performance of it from last weekend's show <3 This song is absolutely BEAUTIFUL 8D I know Vessel cried while performing it live but I was NOT expecting the actual song to end with him crying too??? I WANT TO HUG THIS WEIRD LITTLE CREATURE MAN SO MUCH!!!!!

So far this is the extent of my journey but I'm definitely going to check out their earlier singles and EPs soon as well <3 I have also listened to the covers they did as well and I need more Vessel doing acoustic covers in my life PLEASE AND THANK YOU :P

[arathain]

A Star of Dawn

The child, perhaps nine years of age or so, hid inside the cupboard, cutlery and tableware prodding in all the uncomfortable places. They did not see the room outside the cupboard, as instructed - quite probably for the better. The two caretakers were armed with a plain shortsword, the door barred with a wardrobe. The singular window's shutter was locked tight, as all the shutters in the town would've been by now. Even through the walls of the room & cupboard, screams and footsteps were audible in the distance. A shudder, the floor vibrating powerfully. Another. The cries went silent. The caretakers gripped their swords tightly, readying themselves as best as they could, given their meagre martial arts training.

The door flew open, smashing against the wall together with the wardrobe. Pieces scattered across the floor, with parts of the wall paint having flaked away to reveal the brick underneath. Through the doorway stepped an unassuming figure, cloaked in grey garbs. A half-mask covered their mouth and nose, two vertical slits streaming down from the tear glands of the eyes. The hair was an unassuming dark brown, streaked with hints of grey. They unsheathed a sword, if you could call it a sword - a solid piece of black granite, sharpened to absurdity. Abruptly, the leftmost nurse dashed towards the figure, sword descending with all the strength they could muster.

With thorough disinterest, the grey being grasped the sword by the blade, the inside of their glove absorbing the cut. Twisting, the sword broke, and the battered nurse could only gasp as the Mason cut twice, stone cleanly cleaving from the clavicle to the midriff, and again, horizontally. The eyes of the murderer were pointed in the direction of their victim, but thoroughly blank - as if seeing past the nurse altogether. With a rise of their left hand, the ground shook, thousands of tiny spikes protruding from the stone bricks directly opposite to the second nurse. With a gurgle, they fell to the floor, countless tiny red splotches forming on their back. Inside of the cupboard, the child could barely contain their fear. The Mason sheathed their sword, looking down on the corpses below them.

'Idiots' the Wheel-Bearer muttered, as a shadowy figure silently ran down the corridor behind them. 'One and all dancing on thin air.'

Turning back to see the one approaching, their voice slit through the air; 'Is the apparatus destroyed? The physickers dead?'

'Aye, sir.' The hands and knives of the Thronebreaker Shadow were painted with blood as they reached into one of their myriad pockets, and extended a blade-like sliver of crystal, tied down intricately with rope. 'The fruits of their labour, in all their glory.'

The Mason carefully grasped the combined effort of a century of alchemists, the crystal dancing as it refracted light in countless, pointless ways.

'Missed the mark by a tad, there.' they said, studying the essence of the artifice. 'A unique approach to be sure, but unacceptable in its intended use.'

The Mason's head turned towards the cupboard. 'Although, a more appropriate use might've presented itself.' They turned back to their compatriot.

'Prepare the Walkway back home; burn the entire complex down as well. It is best if we eliminate all traces of what was being sought after here.'

As the Shadow departed, the immortal-killer walked over to the cupboard, and, without a hint of hesitation, smashed it into the ceiling. The child shrieked as shards of clay and porcelain cut their face and arms, woodchips scraping against their skin. Laying broken on the floor, the small one coughed up blood as the Mason grabbed them by the neck, lifting them up so as to inspect them. Their eyes widened; still seeing past what they were looking at, however it seemed that, for a brief moment, a brand new vision was revealed to the lifeless orbs.

'Oh, you'll do.' The mason stabbed the primitive crystal kris into the child's nape, sending convulsions throughout the body as the crystal fused with the child's self, guided by the Mason's hand. 'You'll do well. I may not be a child of the Bud or the Blossom, but even the graceless I may yet serve the Twin-Dragon Wheel. Tell me, what is your name?'

The slivers of clay and porcelain flew off of the child as the magical stone-and-metalworker's hand moved, the crystal in the child's body bringing them back to bearable conditions once more.

The child hesitantly spoke. 'I'm J-'

Cut off before being given a chance to barely start, the child flew against the wall, bones cracking as the blunt of the Mason's stone-sword retreated into its sheath. With a twist of the hand, the child was brought back to a state just undamaged enough to be able to stand straight. Raising a hand to their chin, the Mason lowered themselves to look down upon the tiny one.

'Do not utter such useless words. You are nothing, were nothing, and, given your circumstances would be any different, would've been ash soon. Alas, your existence has the potential to feed the Twin Ouroboros, and that is a task I wouldn't dare to intrude upon. What are your parents' names?'

The child hesitated, silent in fear.

'Tell them to me.'

As the child opened their mouth to speak, they were thrown across the room once again, the Mason's blade ringing as it retreated into its sheath once more. Once again, the child was raised up, brought back to just before the brink of death.

'Your parents are dead or dying, and their essence is a disgrace to existence itself. A name must be earned, and they've long lost any right to such distinguishment. Given time and effort, your existence shall warrant a name for it; now, tell me. What is your name?'

With fear in its eyes, the child hesitantly whispered. 'Nothing. I have no name.'

The Mason straightened upright, still looking down on the now time-scattered child, their upbringing soon to be wiped off of the annals of history. 'Rule of the third - very well, you are salvageable.'

The Mason grabbed them by the nape and dragged them, their feet sliding across the planks. The halls they were dragged through burned with a blue flame, parting before its creator. Through the blue haze, the child saw corpse after corpse, being consumed by flames fed from the very essence of their previous owners. As the alchemists' mansion Blossomed blue and the Mason stepped through the Walkway, the child drifted away, their exhaustion sliding their eyelids shut.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The young adult circled the colourless meal on their plate with a three-pronged fork, the individual spines sharper than they have any right to usually be. The table, akin to the room itself, was plain and stone-cold - potentially owing to the fact it was made of said stone. Footsteps. The clank of cruel metal against the stone floor rang as the Mason entered the small kitchen, the two lanterns newly invigorated with blue flame. Rising a chair out of the sheer rock, the solitary Wheel-Bearer sat in front of the budding chrysalis. The no-longer-child but not-quite-adult immediately straightened and set down their fork - for the house, and the child, were the Mason's, and their existence was leveraged on serving their assigned purpose.

'What stands in your path?'

The adolescent looked at their 'mentor' bewildered, waiting for an elaboration. When one inevitably did not come, they gave in and hesitantly asked. 'Pardon?'

The immortal-killer sighed. 'You do not make progress. You have not made progress. The wheel does not budge for you. What stands in your path, to hinder you so?'

Looking down at their plate through their newly-made crystal glasses, the adolescent failed to provide an answer. While they held faint memories of occasional cruelty from the Mason, the being has never failed to provide for them, and allowed them to foster their skills whenever they provided. In contrast, the adolescent failed miserably at trials of power and wit, unable to impress in any degree. To say the young one felt useless was an understatement, to say the least.

'I- I do not know.'

The Mason stood up, the chair underneath crumbling to dust. 'Very well.'

With a single motion, the seat the adolescent sat in shot up through the roof, the stone tiles retracting to make space for the average-sized figure. As the young one got up, the Mason effortlessly climbed onto the rooftop, gazing at the stars above.

'The stars are curious, among the cycle. Seemingly ageless, they nevertheless pop in and out of existence in due time; their lifespans simply outshine a mortal one by aeons, forever out of reach.' Looking back at the adolescent, their eyes seeing past, the Mason stared. 'This is your purpose. That is the end of your journey, the culmination of your purpose; your death will blind a thousand eyes, and send the Wheel reeling forward. With time, and the care I grant unto you, you shall be fit for this express purpose; only power can be your salvation.'

The adolescent stared at them, wide-eyed.

'S-so, my only purpose is to die?'

The Mason's eyes narrowed, the grey irises drilling into the young one's own. 'If you do not find another way, yes - that shall be your purpose. Only if your existence will be noteworthy, may you escape the Wheel by serving it.' With that, the roof parted underneath them, and they walked out of the small stone house, opening a Walkway to stifle places far removed. As the wound in the world's fabric closed, the child looked up longingly at the astral objects above, grasping. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Astron woke up, rising against the wooden table, as the first rays of the morning sun illuminated Rat's hideaway log cabin. Rubbing their eyes and adjusting their cheap yellow glasses, they gathered their sketches and stowed their books away, lest Rat see what they're researching. The Mason's works, as well as miscellanities on the occult they gathered from their travels. Insofar, their search did not bear many fruit, however they were determined to find the truth of what 'Circle-Breaker' meant, and, perhaps more importantly, to discover who it was that so effortlessly put an end to the Mason altogether. Perhaps, there were other things that this being could bring an end to, or better yet - elevate.

As they gathered up the last of the papers, one of the pieces gave them pause - a singular sketch of the old dining hall at the Perch; Lux, Freak, & the Mason all together with them. Holding it tightly, they walked outside, the mountain valley laid out in front of them.

They squinted as the golden rays of the sun hit their eyes, hands firmly gripping the veranda below them. Looking up, the stars faded, but not in the mind of Astron. Grimacing, they painstakingly tore up the small sketch, letting the tiny shreds be scattered by the wind. Heading back inside, a single, soft mutter escaped from under their breath.

'No cost too great.'

[acourtofquestions]

Starting & reading Empire of Storms felt like Wonderland (TV)

You held on tight to me — “"You make me want to live, Rowan. Not survive; not exist. Live." He didn't have the words. Not when what she said hit him harder and deeper than any kiss. So he climbed into bed and held her tightly all through the night.”

'Cause nothing’s as it seems — “The glass castle was gone.”

And spinning out of control — “Down and down Aelin went, the ground surging up, the buildings around her rupturing, the light so bright on all the fragments--Aelin pulled out every last drop of her magic as the castle collapsed, the lethal wave of glass cascading toward Rifthold. Wildfire raced for the gates, raced against the wind, against death. And as the wave of glass crested the iron gates, shredding through the corpses tied there as if they were paper, a wall of fire erupted before it, shooting sky-high, spreading wide. Halting it. A wind shoved against her, brutal and unforgiving, her bones groaning as it pushed her up, not down. She didn't care--not when she yielded the entirety of her magic, the entirety of her being, to holding the barrier of flame now shielding Rifthold. A few more seconds, then she could die. The wind tore at her, and it sounded like it was roaring her name. Wave after wave of glass and debris slammed into her wildfire. But she kept that wall of flame burning--for the Royal Theater. And the flower girls at the market. For the slaves and the courtesans and the Faliq family. For the city that had offered her joy and pain, death and rebirth, for the city that had given her music, Aelin kept that wall of fire burning bright. There was blood raining down among the glass--blood that sizzled on her little cocoon of flame, reeking of darkness and pain. The wind kept blowing until it swept that dark blood away. Still Aelin held the shield around the city, held on to the final promise she'd made to Chaol. I'll make it count. She held on until the ground rose up to meet her- -And she landed softly in the grass. Then darkness slammed into the back of her head. The world was so bright.

Didn't they tell us don't rush into things? — “She’d been in love with him. Longer than she wanted to admit. She tried not to think about it, whether he felt the same. Those things-those wishes were at the bottom of a very, very long and bloody priority list.”

Didn't you flash your green eyes at me? — ‘frost sparkling in his pine green eyes’

Haven't you heard what becomes of curious minds? — “Because her safety would always come first.” ‘Because “he’d learned it the hard way.”

Ooh, didn't it all seem new and exciting? — “Three weeks of grueling travel--but also three of the happiest weeks Aelin had ever experienced.”

I felt your arms twisting around me — “Strong arms slid over her waist, tugging her into his warmth.” — “Rowan stood with his queen in the rain, breathing in her scent, and let her steal his warmth for as long as she needed.”

I should’ve slept with one eye open at night —“Sorrow flickered in her eyes, as fast as the lightning above, and then vanished. … She'd grown quieter the farther north they'd traveled. Perhaps weeks on the road had sapped her.”

We found Wonderland — “"Right there," Aedion said, pointing to a small, weather-worn granite boulder carved with whorls and swirls. "Once we pass that rock, we're on Terrasen soil." Not quite daring to believe she wasn't still asleep, Aelin walked toward that rock, whispering the Song of Thanks to Mala Fire-Bringer for leading her to this place, this moment. Aelin ran a hand over the rough rock, and the sun-warmed stone tingled as if in greeting. Then she stepped beyond the stone. And at long last, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was home.”

You and I got lost in it — “Aedion touched her shoulder. "Welcome home, Aelin." A land of towering mountains--the Staghorns--spread before them, with valleys and rivers and hills; a land of untamed, wild beauty. Terrasen. And the smell--of pine and snow... How had she never realized that Rowan's scent was of Terrasen, of home? Rowan came close enough to graze her shoulder and murmured, "I feel as if I've been looking for this place my entire life."”

And we pretended it could last forever — “Indeed--with the wicked wind flowing fast and strong between the gray, jagged Staghorns in the distance, with the dense spread of Oakwald to their left, and the rivers and valleys sprawling toward those great northern mountains--it was paradise for a hawk. Paradise for her.”

So we went on our way too in love to think straight — “‘Aelin looked at Rowan, who had been scouting ahead for part of the morning as a white-tailed hawk. Now he walked beside her, guiding his black stallion along. He lifted his brows at her silent demand for information. I'm not going to tell you. She glowered at him. Buzzard. Rowan grinned. But with every step, Aelin did the calculations about what day it was, and--” ‘Aelin released the reins and took a staggering step’ … ‘Aelin took a step forward. One step, as if in a daze. She loosed a shuddering breath, and a small, whimpering noise came out of her--a sob. And then she was sprinting down the alley, flying as though the winds themselves pushed at her heels. She flung herself on the male, crashing into him hard enough that anyone else might have gone rocking back into the stone wall. But the male grabbed her to him, his massive arms wrapping around her tightly and lifting her up.’ ‘Aelin was laughing as she cried, and the male was just holding her, his hooded head buried in her neck. As if he were breathing her in.’”

All alone, or so it seemed — “Aelin flexed her fingers over the stream. Across the brook, atop a mossy boulder tucked into the arms of a gnarled oak, a pair of tiny bone-white fingers flexed and cracked, a mirror to her own movements. Aelin smiled and said so quietly it was barely audible over the stream and rain, "If you have any pointers, friend, I'd love to hear them." The spindly fingers darted back over the crest of the rock-which, like so many in these woods, had been carved with symbols and whorls. The Little Folk had been tracking them since they crossed the border into Terrasen. Escorting, Aedion had insisted whenever they spotted large, depthless eyes blinking from a tangle of brambles or peering through a cluster of leaves atop one of Oakwald's famed trees.”

But there were strangers watching — “But they'd left small gifts just outside the border of Rowan's nightly shields, somehow deposited without alerting whichever of them was on watch. One morning, it had been a crown of forest violets. Aelin had given it to Evangeline, who had worn the crown on her red-gold head until it fell apart. The next morning, two crowns waited: one for Aelin, and a smaller one for the replica of Rowan's hawk form, crafted from gathered sparrow feathers, acorns, and beetle husks. Her Fae Prince had smiled a bit when he'd found it-and carried it in his saddlebag since. Aelin herself smiled at the memory.”

And whispers turned to talking — ‘Aelin Galathynius is alive’

And talking turned to screams — “Where is Aelin?”

I reached for you — “Where is my husband?”

But you were gone — “Where is my wife?”

I knew I had to go back home — “Tell Rowan I’m sorry” - “I love you.” - “I spent centuries wandering the world, from empires to kingdoms to wastelands, never settling, never stopping-not for one moment. I was always looking toward the horizon, always wondering what waited across the next ocean, over the next mountain. But I think ... I think that whole time, all those centuries, I was just looking for you.”

You search the world for something else — “Thirteen months ago.” - “Two hundred three years, twenty-seven days.” - “But if it was death separating us... I would find you. I don't care how many rules it would break. Even if I had to get all three keys myself and open a gate, I would find you again."”

To make you feel like what we had — “always.” - “To whatever end.”

And in the end, in Wonderland, we both went mad — “Her family-and her kingdom. Two dreams long believed lost, she realized as the northern wind ruffled her hair. That she would do anything—ruin herself, sell herself—to protect.”

[healing-fire--rewrite]

Howling Wind Culture

Values--

Tradition, Collaboration, Honesty, Wisdom, Hospitality

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Religious & Political Beliefs--

Wind Sect cats believe they are the closest to the Stars because of the proximity to the moonstone, and the fact that their territory is the most open to the sky. As such, the punishment for codebreakers is generally pretty harsh.

Leaders in the Wind Sect like to hear out the opinions of the entire Sect when making big decisions. When the Sect is particularly divided on a subject, the leader will call for a casting of the stones- a vote. The only cats banned from this vote are kits and very new apprentices.

This Sect is the least tolerant of half-Sect kits. The parent of the kits (and the kits themselves) are usually exiled, and sent to live with their partner. This doesn’t happen all the time- Wind Sect has, on occasion, allowed half-Sect kits to stay. The only exception to this rule is when the non-Wind Sect parent isn’t a part of any Sect at all; it isn’t seen as breaking the warrior code, since the code only bans specifically cross-Clan relationships.

While the warrior code isn't really discussed among the Sects (out of mutual acknowledgement that it would probably end in an all-out war on account of how differently each Sect interprets it), Wind Sect healers and advisors have been well-known to cut ties with advisors who they know to have children. Because of this, advisors with kits will often avoid talking about them when near Wind Sect cats. Most of the other healers see this as snooty, cruel behavior, but Wind Sect cats sees it as upholding the code.

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Physical Traits--

These cats are generally tall, thin, and lithe. They tend to have lighter pelts- golds, browns, and greys- long tails, and large ears.

A tall, thin-furred cat is the beauty standard in the Wind Sect, and marbled tabbies are also considered very sexy.

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Territory & Landmarks--

A vast moorland covered in heather and gorse. There are a few rocky outcroppings here and there, and a couple dips and hills, but the territory is mostly flat.

The Shadowed Hollow - A shallow hollow pressed against the camp. It’s ringed by heather bushes, and patches of gorse, tall grass, and smooth stones line the slopes. A large stone sits at one side of the hollow, and the ground has cool, loose soil.

Abandoned Badger Set - A set of tunnels once used by a badger, a sandy hole in the earth shielded by clumps of heather. Apprentices are often trained here, as it’s a good place to catch rabbits.

The Gorge - A deep gorge cut by the river in the terrain, bordering River Sect territory. Apprentices are forbidden to go near it.

Farm - The northwest border of the territory is marked by a farm, built and guarded by Wind Sect cats. There’s an area for chickens and one for sheep, and the Wind Sect gathers feathers and wool for weaving and eggs for food.

Outlook Rock - A large granite rock on the border heading towards Fourtrees. From here, everything can be seen across the moors. Apprentices are taught to sit and watch what’s happening on the moors without getting distracted.

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Camp--

A well-hidden dip in the ground, said to have been scooped out by Lady Windrunner. It’s hidden by a thick tangle of gorse and heather bushes. There's a whole tunnel system below their camp that runs from burrow to burrow, and has multiple escape routes, all dug out and maintained by the warriors and apprentices of the Sect. Plenty of Wind Sect cats choose to sleep outside, though, preferring the comfort of knowing their ancestors and gods can see them.

The nursery and healer’s den are carved out of the gorse wall, their entrances hidden with large heather bushes and a hawthorn tree with low branches. A smooth, flat stone sits inside the healer’s den, and is used to grind herbs.

A large, jagged piece of granite, known as the Tallrock, sits in the center of the camp, and the leader calls for meetings from there.

Nests aren’t common in Wind Sect, cats preferring to weave blankets and coverings instead, but when they are made, they’re woven from tall grasses and made soft with rabbit and weasel pelts.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Prey--

Rabbits & hares

Stoats & weasels

Birds (grouse, quail, pipits, swallows, etc.)

Chickens & chicken eggs

Bird eggs

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Predators & Dangers--

Foxes

Stoats & weasels

Badgers

Dogs

Wolves

Owls

Hawks

Eagles

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Trade--

Weasel, stoat, & rabbit pelts

Sheep wool

Woven grasses, heather, & gorse

Moor herbs

Chicken eggs

Large woven blankets

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Creative Skills--

Wind Sect music is high-pitched and often described as haunting.

While other Sects are fully capable of weaving, the Wind Sect uses this skill for more than nests and den-making. They weave blankets and tapestries, and are the only Sect that makes use of plants to dye things.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Naming Traditions--

Wind Sect parents like to name their kits after plants (Barley, Hay, Oat), moor animals (Hawk, Hare, Fox), and actions (Jump, Hop, Pounce). While most other Sect cats will shorten the names of cats they’re close to (like calling your brother Commonclaw “Common” instead of his full name and title), the Wind Sect doesn’t. Calling someone by just their name when they also have a title is a slight, and basically like saying that you don’t see them as a full Sect cat.

Titles are chosen by apprentices at their warrior ceremony. They announce to the Sect what their full name will be, and the leader and close loved ones will either accept and agree, or refuse and pick one for them. No one particularly wants their title to be rejected, so a lot of consideration goes into this, and they ask the opinions of good friends. Occasionally, a leader will ask an apprentice to explain their choice, which often leads to a burst of anxiety and “oh no are they going to reject it”.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Important Names--

Gorse, Granite, Heather - Used primarily for weak and/or sickly kits or kits born in rough times, in hopes that the name will draw the Wind Star’s love and protection and help the kit grow big and strong

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Taboo Names--

Owl - owls are seen as omens of death in the Wind Sect, so naming your child “Owl” is essentially naming them “Omenofdeath”. No bueno.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Titles--

The Shining Star - Signifying a Wind Sect leader

Breeze - Given to warriors and healers who have done something exemplary (such as discovering a new herb, or saving a litter of kits from certain death)

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Common Nicknames & Idioms--

“Bunny” is an affectionate nickname parents often call their kits, and “Little Stoat” is an affectionate term for a young cat who is particularly mischievous.

"They're polishing a rock" - Being slow, wasting time, and/or being lazy.

"You certainly cast a shadow" - You… can't really do much.

"What's good for the fox is bad for the hare/rabbit" - What works for you doesn't work for us/them.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Superstitions--

It's good luck to weave flowers and feathers into a pregnant queen's nest, particularly heather (for Lady Windrunner), gorse (for Gorsestar), and hawk feathers (for Lady Hawkfoot). These are typically given by mates and close family members, and the more flowers and feathers there are, the healthier and stronger the kits are supposed to be.

Corvids like crows, ravens, and magpies are seen as helpers- they can guide hunters to a clump of hares or rabbits, and all they ask in return is a piece of prey or two. They're also some of the only animals that can learn to speak Cat. It’s seen as immoral to kill them for these reasons.

Owls are omens of death, and must be chased off the territory before sickness falls upon the Sect.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Funerals & Mourning--

Funerals here are shorter than in the other Sects. The body is dressed and final goodbyes are said, and then the body is taken by the elders to be laid to rest. Unlike the other Sects, Wind Sect bodies are never buried, instead laid to rest in the open. Burying the body under the earth is said to trap the spirit forever.

Wind Sect cats in mourning try not to linger on their grief, out of fear that their emotions will summon their loved one's spirit and keep them from Stars. Any stories about the deceased will not be told for at least two days, to ensure that their spirit is safely tucked away in the Stars. Only then can their loved ones truly feel and express their grief.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Accent--

The Wind Sect accent is sharp and pointed, with a lot of emphasis on the letters T and S. It has also been described as sounding like a hiss.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Miscellaneous Tidbits & Fun Facts--

Common fears among Wind Sect cats are claustrophobia and being trapped where they cannot see the sky.

The Wind Sect is bluntly honest. If you aren't prepared to hear something you don't like, then don't ask a Wind Sect cat. Because of this, they find it difficult to understand when (or why) someone is lying to them, which makes them come off as gullible and easy to manipulate. Also because of this, dishonesty is harshly punished within their Sect.

Heavily sarcastic. They’re very deadpan, and that combined with their blunt honesty often leads to confusion with the other Sect.

It was Swiftfoot, alongside Mossheart of the Shadow Sect, that created the half-moon truce and the “no killing cats in battle unless absolutely 100% necessary” law. While he’s widely forgotten by most Sect cats, healers and advisors remember him as the Timeturners’s assistant, and believe that he helps give prophecies and omens through fire.

Although the Wind Sect regards the warrior code very highly, they also value hospitality. Any cat who is given sanctuary must be treated like honored guests, no matter what Sect they're from, or if they're even from a Sect at all. There's a group, the Travelers, that show up every spring and live with the Howling Wind Sect for a few months before leaving again. Young Wind Sect cats are often caught off guard by their arrival, and any poor behavior is quickly corrected by the older cats.

.

WindClan tracks the stars and names constellations and learn how to navigate by them. They even have their own little zodiac system!

The Adder - Those born under the adder constellation tend to be skilled hunters with lightning quick reflexes. Positive Traits; Ambitious, Dedicated, Purposeful. Negative Traits; Suspicious, Secretive, Aggressive. Born January to March.

The Hare - Many great leaders were born under the hare constellation, and they’re said to be the quickest and most agile in all the Clans! Positive Traits; Curious, Wise, Responsible. Negative Traits; Hesitant, Timid, Shy. Born April to June.

The Hawk - These cats are fiercely protective, and make great warriors and nurses. Positive Traits; Intelligent, Strong, Protective. Negative Traits; Ruthless, Strong-Willed, Aloof. Born July to September.

The Stoat - Cats born under the stoat constellation are wickedly intelligent, but often struggle to fit in and get along with their Clanmates. Positive Traits; Analytical, Energetic, Adaptable. Negative Traits; Unsociable, Sly, Domineering. Born October to December.

[victusinveritas]

Patrick Pearse spent much of the last summer of his life (1915) in Rosmuck, Connemara with his brother Willie and a friend named Desmond Ryan.

It was a relaxed holiday although Pearse found the time to write one of Ireland's most famous speeches - 'Ireland unfree shall never be at peace,' spoken at the graveside of O'Donovan Rossa and considered by many as a key moment in the lead up to the Easter Rising.

Ryan recalled the summer fondly:

"The next day we proceeded to Rosmuck by train, or rather part of the way, for Rosmuck lies nine miles from a railway station, and we had a long drive by side-car through granite and peat from Maam Cross Station over winding, peak-screened roads.

It was a stirring view along those serpentine roads, ever winding and twisting to avoid the bog.

The horse trotted bravely while an O’Malley drove, and Pearse explained what famous people the O’Malleys were in Connemara.

All the while, bluish granite mountains soared and all around spread the peat-bogs starred by the tiny lakes, each with a local name and every name known to Pearse, who declared for the hundredth time he could find his way blindfold on any road in Connacht.

The Twelve Bens came in sight and Pearse waved his hand here and there over the land, naming lake, mountain and district away to the Joyce Country under its purple mist.

He told us many stories he had learned from the people.

Away there on that gloomy mountain yonder a stranger had lived for years, coming suddenly in the night from nowhere, henceforth a hermit, perhaps doing a penance of solitude and silence for some deed of blood.

We passed a peculiar green building of corrugated iron, a Protestant Church, [Screebe?] and then Pearse remembered that many years before the Bible Societies had carried out a proselytising campaign, and even in 1915 a small remnant of the Irish-speaking Protestant colonies still survived.

Once on his rambles, Pearse had met one of the members, an old man up in a cottage among the hills who opened his Gaelic Bible, read it aloud and argued with Pearse for an hour until the old man’s daughter came in and told her father that he had no manners and that he did not know how to treat a learned man who knew enough Irish and enough Bible to make up his mind for himself, and the attempted conversion of Pearse went no further.

A lonely letter-box on a post at a crossroads led Pearse to tell of the extravagant family, long bankrupt and extinct, who had had the box erected as a monument to their exclusiveness, recklessness and pride.

A barracks rose beside the rattling wheels and Pearse knew that the sergeant within was a crusty and cantankerous fellow companioned by six splendid constables, enthusiastic Irish speakers who spent their time in shooting wild ducks, fishing and studying with zeal the poems of Eoghan Ruadh O’Sullivan.

The car stopped at the schoolmaster’s house and Patrick Connolly welcomed Pearse warmly. His wife came out too.

Inside like startled birds, the four daughters of the schoolmaster retreated from our gaze while their mother laughed and said they would grow out of all that, but when young people lived among lakes and bogs they became curlews and mountain birds, easily startled by wild young men from the cities and poets from Dublin, all this for Willie and me whose ties and locks must have startled her ducklings.

We proceeded to the cottage, a white, thatched, oblong building with green

door, porchway and two windows in front, approached by a peat-sodded path from the main road. Here was the spiritual home of Pearse, which in the last years he visited every summer to pay a last farewell.

Below lay a fifty-acre lake legend tenanted with a Water Horse.

Beyond the rare walls of the cottage, the Atlantic heaved and moaned with tales of lost ships or murmured a summons to ride on its bosom to the Aran Isles on a fair day.

On every side rose the purple hills and peat, agleam with unnumbered lakelets. Pearse sat at the kitchen table writing the closing tales in his book of short stories, 'The Mother.'

He turned aside to discuss the completed stories with Willie and me, and said he thought the best the grimmest one, a tale of a woman under a curse called the “Black Chafer.”

Then he sighed that he had never written a story about turf or shown up enough the

hard life of the people. He said this sadly with almost the air of a man who all at once comes upon an intolerable personal grievance.

Sometimes he went down and bathed in the lake while Willie guarded him from the banks with a long, strong rope as Pearse was no swimmer. This tickled the brothers so much that they gave up the attempt with loud merriment and mutual criticisms.

Returning, Pearse mused on his cottage and said that one of the builders had been an old man who took his task very slowly and seriously, making progress by inches, but consoling Pearse’s impatience with the sole remark:

“Won’t it be a fine house when it is finished. Indeed it will be a fine house when it is finished.”

Pearse was more outspoken than I had ever known him before.

Night by night he spoke to Willie and me about everything by turns.

Much about the future of the Irish language. Here in this self-contained community which he had once known as purely Irish-speaking, English was creeping in among the younger generation.

It amused him when we walked abroad in the day-time to speak to the men working

the land and smile at the English expressions speckling the Gaelic:

“Becripes, tá . . . bedamned but tá...' from those who knew no other words of English, but he said this was the beginning of the end unless some great change came.

And what the change would be sometimes broke through his thoughts...

Who could have guessed that behind his gentle words and look, an insurrection simmered, a certainty that his days were irrevocably numbered and in this place he would never see in another summer?"

Pictured above are Patrick Pearse and his brother Willie, neither of whom would live to see the summer of 1916.

Taken from Desmond Ryan's 1934 auto-biography 'Remembering Sion.'

All of this was taken whole cloth from The History of Connemara Facebook group.

[knifvd]

009, an empty cemetery at night . / for katarina or lux :3

𝙎𝙀𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙀. 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜.    ♡   009, an empty cemetery at night. ♡ @killerhubby

          (    he   looks   up  at  you  like  revering  CHILD  looking  up  at  their  god  ,  knees  on  ground  ,  hands  still  holding  onto  glass  VASE   ,  as  if  afraid  it'll  grow  legs  and  walk  away  if  he  doesn't  cling  to  it   .   you're  not  SURE   ,   not  really   :  although  traditionally  you  were  never  really  taught  to  BURY   ,  only  to  burn  ,   and  maybe  remember  the  souls  if  the  church  so  often  allowed  it  .  leaves  you  open  and  EXPOSED  ,   awkward   ,   like  you're  back  in  that  same  small   white  hospital  gown  when  they  first  found  you  ,  the  whiteness  of  the  walls  enveloping  you  ,   the  coldness  of  the  airconditioner  .    so  small   .   so  muted  .  everything  so  far  away  .    )

          holds   her  own  bouquet   precaruiously  close  to  her  :  as  if  afraid  the  biting  night  cold  of  the  cemetery  will  freeze  it  to  death  .  but  gaze  is  on  anywhere  but  HIM  ,   hotness  flooding  body  ,  unsure  if  its  that  of  anger  or  bitterness  ,  but  it's  not  enough  to  keep  her  warm  .   the  gravestones  stare  :  marble  ,  granite  ,  some  kind  of  amalgamate  of  stones  ,  flat  or  stand  up  right  ,  they  stare  and  stare  ,  and  in  the  EVER  SO  small  light  of  crescent  moon  ,  it  sends  a  shiver  down  agent's  back   .    (    but  your  feelings  hold  no  weight  here  .  you  hold  no  skin  in  the  game  ,  no  emotions  tied  to  the  dead  ,  to  the  stone  ,  just  a  detachment  and  odd  sense  of  displacement   .    )

           it  seems  almost  endless  ,  the  darkness  and  neverending  gravestones  that  line  up  oh  so  PERFECTLY   ,   a  little  too  clean   ,  so  NICE  ,  so  soft   ;   a  soft  ,  landing  place  for  death   ,  something  never  understood  by  the  woman  .   looks  down  to  mirage  ,  who  kneels  at  the  gravestone  ,   like  waiting  for  it  to  speak  to  him   .   

            ❛    how  did  you  know  where  to  find  me   ?    i  told  them  to  make  sure  i'm  left  alone   ,   ❜     grief  stricken  words  do  not  echo  around  the  graveyard  ,  but  instead  cuts  the  silence  ,  and  leaves  it  dripping  with  a  harrowing  sadness  she  can't  get  rid  of  .  and  she's  angry   :   in  a  place  with  no  room  for  anger  ,  she's  angry  and  BITTER   ,  to  know  that  he  thought  he  could  hide  this  from  her  .   (   but  you  don't  get  it  .  not  really   .  family  is  an  odd  word  to  say  on  your  tongue  ,  doesn't  go  farther  than  THAT  ,  nothing  of  sacredness  ;  it  was  shattered  the  moment  you  saw  her  body  broken  and  bleeding  and  her  continuing  to  beg  that  they  keep  you  safe  .   you  don't  really  get  it  .  the  grief  that  surrounds  that  of  loss  of  life  ,  or  sibling  .   or  maybe  it's  because  you're  still  grieving   .  or  maybe  it's  because  you  couldn't  keep  her  safe  ,  and  she  couldn't  keep  you  safe  ,  so  you're  angry  ,  and  you're  angry  other  people  has  had  that  .     )

         katarina  swallows  down  her  own  FEELINGS  ,  and  instead  lays  her  own  bouquet  next  to  the  gravestone  ,  side  by  side  with  his   .      ❛    i  have  loved   you  from   the  minute   i  met   you    ,   ❜       she  says  softly  ,   because  despite  ,   despite  ,   despite   ,   the  anger  ,  she  is  nothing  more  than   LOVE   incarnated  for  him   .  she  may  not  understand  him  .   she  may  not  understand  him  ,   but  she  loves  him  ,  so  there's  nothing  more  to  the  story  .   there  is  no  room  for  her  ANGER   ,  just  for  her  arm  to  slide  into  the  crook  of  his  own   ,   head  resting  on  his  shoulder  ,   but  eyes  linger  on  the  gravestone  .       ❛    you  don't  think  i  see  every  side  of  you   ?     ❜      

       a  moment  ,  and  a  squeeze  of  his  arm  .       ❛     i'll  leave  you  be  with  your  thoughts   .   i'll  be  waiting  in  the  car  .   for  whenever  you're  ready    ,     ❜       rises  from  her  squatting  position   ,   and  mind  not  the  gentle  korean  that  falls  from  her  lips   .  never  considered  herself  one  for  religion  ,  never  EVER  ,   but  if  anyone  deserves  a  prayer  ,   it's  her  .   she  knows  it   .   looks  not  at  the  gravestone  ,  but  at  the  sky   ,  and  in  mother  tongue  ,      ❛     rosalina's  a  beautiful  name   .   thank  you  for  taking  care  of  him  for  me  until  i  met  him   .     ❜

       casts  a  brief  look  towards  dante  ,  and  squeezes  his  shoulder  ,  before  briskly  walking  off  towards  the  drive  .     

[leholana]

[I haven’t actually written in like.. 2 to 3 years.. but I missed her today.]

It was chilly in Quel’thalas that morning.  The cold air refusing to let go of its hold even as the sun was breaking through the perpetual autumnal leaves of the Sunstriker Estate.  Leholana, donned in a heavy royal blue hooded cloak, walked the dirt path that she had memorized from her home, up the hill to the graveyard that sat behind the estate in the west.  She walked through the old wrought iron opened gates, with shapes of dragons created within the irons.  Leaves crunched beneath her tall brown riding boots during her slow stroll past the many mausoleums, headstones, and memorials within the graveyard, fingers brushing against a few in acknowledgment as she passed by them.

The dirt path began to turn into cobbled stone the further into the grounds she went, following the greyed path towards the large granite mausoleum at the end of it.  She stopped and stood before it.  It was breathtaking really – the architects had taken so much care in creating and crafting every idea she had come up with.  While mostly granite in structure, the side walls were all white and gold marble.  Two columns in the front were wrapped in ivy that had now begun to reach towards the top. Sitting on top of the mausoleum were two dragons, about 5 feet in height, carved in great detail out of sandstone.  One had its wings spread wide and sat tall, the other slightly crouched and leaning forward, it’s head looking down towards the door of the building; protectors of this place.  The doors were doubled, all stained glass, with pictures that told stories.  There were elves that resembled familiar faces, red dragons flying in the sky, holy depictions of light.

She reached her hands out from under her cloak, turning the brass knobs of the double doors and entering the building.  On either side of her were various crypts, empty and waiting for their inhabitants. Ahead of her was a long stone bench facing the northern most wall, and in between the wall and bench was another granite stone structure, like a long table.  The flat top had a vibrant red cloth running along the length of it, trimmed in gold lace with golden tassels at either end, with ruby and emerald gemstones tied to them and dangling down.  On top of the runner were various objects; candles, flowers, precious gemstones either free or set in jewelry, a large red dragon scale, coins, letters, incense, and a large, framed portrait of her sister Calexsis in the center.  Around the table were more carved pictures and scenes, capturing important and happy moments its inhabitant had throughout her life.

Leholana removed her hood, pulling her blonde braid to the side of her neck, letting it dangle down to her hips.  She moved towards the table as the candles and incense lit themselves, and took a seat at the bench, her glowing golden eyes dimming as she looked at the portrait of her sister.  Her eyes began to gloss with tears that she struggled to hold back, but not without one or two escaping and rolling down her cheeks.  Through a big inhale and exhale, she smiled and began to talk to the portrait of the woman her heart yearned and ached for.  “Sister-mine, the Dragon Isles…”

@calexsis / @lovesoliri