#grey shingled room

[thisisacommentary]

Example of a large beach style white three-story vinyl gable roof design

[shes-the-latest-it-girl]

Front Yard Porch in Ottawa Ideas for remodeling a transitional front porch with concrete pavers

[legallyyourss]

Ottawa Mudroom Entryway with beige walls, a black front door, and a transitional ceramic tile floor.

[noah-kuttler]

biblically accurate house roofing vs what you gotta do if you want a working second floor

[chocolatespacemuffins]

Front Yard - Transitional Porch This front porch design uses transitional concrete pavers as an example.

[katanra]

Medium Sun Room

[intromortal]

JAKE REASSURING YOU AFTER A FIGHT !

PAIRING: jake x gn!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, hurt/comfort (but it's actually just comfort), yes jake smells like earthy rain who's gonna fight me about it

In the middle of the night, you heard the front door of your apartment swing open, obtruding the sounds of leaves crunching on your porch and rain cascading, plinking against the shingles, before closing again gently.

Jake was late, but hearing him come back at all was a surprise. You firmly thought he would not come home that night. Not after the screaming match that had occurred before he left. 

Fighting with Jake was a very uncommon occurrence, you two usually talked about your feelings and worries very openly, an unspoken peace and truce you had worked very hard to achieve.

“Beautiful?” 

Tears poured from your eyes at the sound of his honeyed smooth tone, following the path that the previous dried ones had left behind.

Sobs racked your chest as his footsteps hurriedly made their way to your shared room, a place usually bursting with fondness never felt so empty and dim.

The bed dipped under the weight of Jake’s knees, his usual earthy scent mixed with the smell of the weather outside engulfing you as he brought your trembling body close to his, caging you in his firm arms.

“Breathe in, breathe out, slowly.” The touch of his warm calloused hand on your hair calmed you down, his breathing evening out in an attempt to get you to mimic it as he whispered sweet nothings against your skin, pillowy lips ghosting on your forehead.

Jake’s heart constricted in his ribcage at the thought of being the cause of your pain, thinking back at the poisonous venom he spewed to you that same morning, overtaken by his emotions.

He only pulled back once your sobs turned into sniffles, still holding you close but far enough to take your face in his hands, losing himself in the sight of your bloodshot eyes.

The moonlight filtered into the room through the curtains, turning your face into a canvas of blues and greys, shadows and light. Masterpiece cradled in his palms.

He always wanted to protect you, keep you away from harm, yet you had never looked so frail, shivering at his touch like you might shatter any second. Because of him.

The sensation of your lips tracing the skin of his palm brought his focus to the moment once more, eyes he had not even noticed had wandered somewhere else turned to yours, finding traces of fondness, yet also doubt, in them.

“I thought you’d crash at Jay’s tonight.” Your voice was cracking, raw from emotion.

He kept his gaze on yours, eyes flickering, looking for any clue of meanings between the lines, “Did you want me to?” his voice was hoarse and vulnerable, the anxiety pooling in his stomach audible in his tone. You shook your head, eliciting a sigh of relief from your lover.

“Thought you might not want to see me for a bit,” you nervously bit your lip, “after what I said.”

“You’re my home. I’ll always come back to you no matter what,” he brought you in for a soft kiss, still testing the waters, not wanting to push you too far. “We both said things we regret. I’m sorry beautiful, I didn’t mean any of it.” He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against yours.

“I know baby,” you whispered softly, “I never meant to be a liability. I hate watching you work yourself to your bones. I just worry for you.”

He drew back immediately, searching for your eyes and feeling bile rising in his throat when he found tears streaming down your face once more. “You’ll never be a liability, angel” he placed soft kisses on the rivulets of tears as if he could absorb them and take away even a little bit of your pain. 

“Still, I overstepped. I never want to be too much to bear again” you grabbed Jake's shirt as he held you close to his chest, his chin on top of your head.

“You are never gonna be too much baby. I was frustrated and took it out on you. It'll never let it happen again,” he lowered his head to kiss the crown of your hair “I promise”.

He rocked you like this, lips never parting from you and arms around your body, until he felt your heartbeat even out, breathing still a little shaky from all the crying. He lowered both of you on the soft mattress, covering your figure with a thin scattered blanket he found next to your nightstand when you refused to let him look for something heavier, scared he might walk a little too far, slip through your fingers and never come back.

He hoped the thin blanket and his love were enough to keep you warm in the cold of the night.

The last thing you heard before drifting off was his voice, warm breath fanning on your shoulder, “sweet dreams angel, we’re going to be fine.”

[littlebosslady7]

Thank you for the comic con updates and your cm fanfics during the downfall arc. You set them in Nicodranas more than once. What does their beach house look like?

You're very welcome. I had fun writing those over the BH hiatus.

Outside Ocean view. Right on the beach, but far enough away from the sea to avoid monsters and high tide. Bricked walkway. Two vehicle garage. 1 of which stores Ashton and Fearne's crawler/tools. Their crawler is essentially a Harley motorcycle, but with steam pipes. The other side stores any brumestone vehicles that they rent and boxes of their treasures. It's cream colored, brick reddish brown shingles, dark wood front door. All arched doorways.

Living room has a couch that could double as a guest bed. Overhead torch lights that have a touch of fey whimsy. Two maroon arm chairs, a crystal that gets that same channels as Nana Morri, plants that Fearne constantly has to reinvigorate with her druidic magic because the hot sun can sometimes be too much. A decorative hour glass on the wall, but instead of sand, it may or may not be healing water. (It does) A second sturdy wood coffee table built by Chet. A portrait of Mister on their crawler by the sea.

Kitchen: Bar like. Blue tile backsplash. Ice box. Stools at the long island. Stove, not as nice as their cabin, but it works. Fearne likes to do outdoor bonfires. Little nook in the corner with cushioned bench seats. Tropical fruit in a bowl.

Hallway has mirrors, various crawler race portraits, and abstract paintings of gems and flowers.

Upstairs: Always gotta have a playroom for Mister with his indoor climbing tree. Next room has a writing desk for Fearne. Ashton also occasionally does graffiti art on canvas or their clothes. Also there's a long day bed should they relax in other ways.

Their bedroom: Always a huge bed to fit their Titan forms. Canopy style, they always need replace the curtains. Metal trunk for Ashton's winnings and Fearne's beginning deals with impressionable sailors. Grey chaise/daybed. Balcony with little outdoor table and chairs. Spy glass. Wood floors cuz carpet would be too hot.

Their closet: Blue double doors. An array of rainbow color. Things are always left on the floor. A silver full length mirror that's easy for Ashton to move. If I’m being honest, I feel like Fearne and Ashton keep their smutty stuff here — lingerie, swimsuits, books, and toys for both of them. There may be some Burlesque style paintings poorly done after a paint and sip night. Obscured by a trophy or two.

Their backyard: Lounge chairs. Crappy falling apart umbrellas, but Fearne prefers to make shade with giant plant growth leaves.

Bathrooms: Powder room downstairs: Peeling palm tree wallpaper. Upstairs: Chisels of various sizes for Ashton's hair cuts. Tons of fur conditioners and shampoos for Fearne.

[mrhyde-mrseek]

SCIENCE MOST SINISTER: VOLUME II - PART EIGHT

(I know I sound like a broken record at this point but I am SO sorry for the hiatus! I didn’t mean for it to go on this long, I was slammed with both life and writer’s block at the same time BUT NOW WE’RE BACK YIPPEE!)

The first order of business once they had all stepped off the train was to figure out where everyone’s sleeping quarters would be. Kemp offered to house those of them who, for obvious reasons, could not book a room—Griffin (reluctantly), Sherlock, Watson, and Jekyll—in his manor, while the rest of the House and the Society headed into town to find an inn.

According to Kemp, Port Burdock had only one inn. His directions led the Society, Victor, the Time Traveller, and Gwen to a surprisingly large yet ramshackle building roughly a mile from the docks. The paint on the window frames was chipped, and the snow-covered shingles looked as grey and weather-worn as all the other buildings they had passed.

The sign that hung above the door creaked in the wind; the paint was faded and the metal rusted over, but the name was legible enough: The Albatross. Whether it was meant to be a blessing or a curse, Mycroft could not say for certain.

The lobby inside was just as bleak as the outside. The walls were devoid of any decoration except for a couple faded photographs of the docks, which seemed to have been hung as a halfhearted attempt to brighten the place up. The windows were covered in a layer of dust, as were the rickety chairs, tables, and the railing of the staircase leading to the upper floors.

Behind the front desk slouched a short, round old woman with an expression of utter boredom on her face. Upon hearing the door open, her eyes flicked up almost reflexively. She then did a double take once she realized that eight people had indeed walked into the inn on purpose, and hastily straightened up.

“Eight rooms, please,” Mycroft said, walking up to the desk. The innkeeper nodded, her glazed eyes scanning the money halfheartedly to make sure it was the proper sum, then handed him a ring of keys.

Passing out the keys and dropping their luggage off in their respective rooms took less than five minutes. Finding Kemp’s house took even less time. The manor loomed over the port from its place atop a steep hill, visible even from the docks. Kemp, Mycroft knew, was not fond of visitors unless strictly necessary, and even less so of the residents of Port Burdock, whom the scientist had described to Mycroft as “superstitious half-wits.” His disdain for the townsfolk was made even more evident by the fact that the only path up to his house was rather overgrown.

The eight stragglers were admitted inside by the footman and led into the dining room, where they found the rest of the Society and the House gathered around the dining table.

As Mycroft took the empty chair next to Sherlock, there came a thud and a curse. Behind him, Kemp was struggling to maneuver a massive evidence board through the door. Edmund immediately leapt up to help him. Griffin snickered, then yelped as the Time Traveller kicked him under the table.

Once he and Edmund finally managed to drag the board into the room, Kemp turned towards the table. “This is the culmination of every piece of information we have been able to find regarding Thomas Marvel’s murder,” he said, gesturing to the web of newspaper clippings, documents, and photographs pinned to the board and connected by lengths of red string. “Most of the credit for obtaining it should be given to Mycroft and Utterson; I doubt we would have been able to obtain half as much had a lawyer and a government official not been part of the Society.” He nodded at the respective men. Mycroft mentally grimaced. Field work had never been his forte, but after joining the Society, he hadn’t been given much of a choice.

“Before his death, Marvel was the owner of an inn called The Invisible Man. With Griffin’s involvement no longer a possibility, we have narrowed our list down to four suspects.” Kemp pointed to a photograph of a dark-haired young woman. “Millie Cutter was the inn’s maid. From what we know, she is currently employed as a laundress and is working from her own home.”

Next, he moved to a photograph of an elderly woman with a round face and bright eyes. “Ivanya Lovrić was the inn’s head cook. She now works in The Albatross’s kitchens. I don’t suppose any of you may have seen her when you booked your rooms?” He received only shakes of the head from the Society, the Time Traveller, Gwen, and Victor in response. He sighed. “Never mind.”

He then pointed to a photograph of a dark-skinned man with a glare so cold it could freeze Hell. “Ezekiel Roman operated the inn’s front desk. I have no idea what his current occupation is, because from what I understand, he is extremely solitary and does not enjoy interacting with strangers. I have, however, heard rumors that he may have picked up work at the docks.”

The last photograph he indicated was one of an unusually pale man with sharp features, light eyes, and a mop of blonde hair. “Barnabas Croft was the inn’s barmaid. Unfortunately, his current whereabouts are unknown, but I don’t doubt that asking about town would turn up information.” He accented that last bit with a disdainful eye roll.

Utterson took the following silence as his signal to stand. “I believe dividing and conquering is the best way to go about this,” he declared. “Mycroft, Watson, and I will interrogate Mr. Roman, seeing as he will be the most difficult to interrogate. Poole, Gwen, and the Time Traveller will interrogate Miss Cutter. Jekyll, Edmund, and Victor will interrogate Ms. Lovrić. Kemp and Walton will go around town and try to ascertain Mr. Croft’s location. Sherlock and Griffin, meanwhile, will investigate Marvel’s inn itself and search for evidence pertaining to both the murder and the identity of this new invisible man. We shall meet back here once everyone has returned.”

And with that, the investigation had begun.

[owlsandwich]

Find the Word Tag

Thank you @eccaiia for the tag!

My words are: pale, laugh, line, and round!

New words are: journey, metal, cloud and walk

I'll tag @late-to-the-fandom @aether-wasteland-s @ahungeringknife and leave an open tag.

I'll do these from Darkness I think :)

Pale

Oren shivered, pulling his jacket tightly around him. Julian was satisfied to see that it was the pale-grey one he’d picked out. It shone almost white in the darkness; a tiny spark of light against the eternal horizon. The scene seemed a reflection of that first glimpse of him — expectations and fear transformed into curiosity in a moment. Not the legendary terror from his childhood stories, but a quiet, gentle young man. Death and destruction somehow contained within the body of this fragile creature standing alone by the sea.

Laugh

Julian laughed. A gentle sound with rich depth that ignited a heat in Oren’s body even as he blinked in surprise. He’d never heard Julian laugh like that before.

Line

The city squatted against the coastline; a salty tang permeating the air as their walk carried them closer. Pavement ran the line of the beach, with a rusty metal barrier separating it from the shallow slope of shingle on the other side. In the distance beyond, a heaving mass of inky sea roared in the darkness.

Round

Two cream couches faced each other across a low coffee table, on which sat the half-drunk remnants of a cup of tea. Soft throws draped the seats, and a round rug covered the wooden floorboards, giving the room a modern cosiness, so unlike the gloom and open fire of the nesthouse bedroom.

[justsomeclintasha]

(Early Shield Days)

“Shit.” Clint skids down the rooftop, ducking under bullets pinging off the shingles. He shoots a grappling arrow and swings toward the next building, tucking and rolling on the ground and coming to a stop around the corner. He spots the bright red hair, crouched down low behind a car. She’s pinned. “Widow, tossing a smoke bomb. Be ready.”

“Got it.”

He pulls one from his waist pack and tosses it her way. Immediately the alley fills with purple smoke. She darts out from her hiding space, running towards him. Time slows down. Her body twists, falling sideways in the smoke as a bullet tears into her side. She chokes back a scream. Immediately, he’s on his feet. He manages to grab her and yank her around the side of another building. She hunches over, a hand clasped over the wound. Her dark suit is slippery with blood.

“Go. You have to go.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“I’m not worth it. I’ll slow you down.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, gathering her in his arms. She whimpers in pain. “Okay, I got you,” he says, softer this time. “Keep your head down.”

He pulls his hood up over his face as he makes his way quickly through the streets, zigzagging in the darkness. It’s important to put distance behind them, but he can’t spare too much time without addressing her injury. Finally he comes across a warehouse that seems suitable.

“Hey. I gotta set you down, okay? Can you stand?” She hums noncommittally, face pale and sweaty as he sets her on her feet. One hand grips onto his shoulder. He pulls a lock pick from his pocket and makes quick work of the door. His eyes scan the empty room. It will do.

“B-Barton..”

He catches her before she hits the ground.

XXXXX

She blinks her eyes open slowly. A hot, searing pain pulses through her abdomen, but the rest of her is freezing. Her fingers shake as she fumbles for the knife strapped to her thigh. It’s gone.

“Hey, relax. You’re alright. It’s me.”

Grey eyes come into view above her. The med kit lays by his side, contents splayed out, and she drops her head back on something soft. His jacket.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

“Yeah. Sorry. I was hoping you would stay out for this part. The bullet is still in there. I have to get it out.” He hesitates. “I don’t have-“

“Just do it.”

Quietly, he slips on a pair of gloves and picks up a long set of tweezers. Her breath quickens as he pushes up her shirt, peeling it away from her skin. He curses. Her eyes dart towards him as he starts to unbuckle his belt and he freezes, reading the fear in her gaze.

“You’re going to want something to bite down on,” he says apologetically. She nods and takes it between her teeth. The first touch of the tweezers is ice, and fire, and pain, all at once. She squeezes her eyes shut. It doesn’t help. Nausea pushes up in her throat and she fights it back. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he whispers, one thumb rubbing soothing circles against her skin. The leather is bitter in her mouth. She chokes back a sob. The tweezers dig under her skin. He’s tearing her apart and it’s not his fault. Please make it stop.

XXXXX

Firelight dances over her eyelids. She breathes in slowly, a dull ache and pinching in her side. Stitches, probably, under a thick wad of bandages. Someone brushes her hair away from her cheek. “Clint,” she mumbles.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

It takes enormous effort to open her eyes. He’s resettled her on a some sort of cushion, an emergency blanket between her and the fabric. His jacket is over her shoulders and she pulls it closer. It smells like him. She doesn’t want to analyze this at the moment.

Despite the fire burning a few feet away, she can’t seem to stop the shivering running through her bones. A fever, probably, which likely means infection.

“Take these.” He helps her swallow two pills and wash them down with water. “Extraction isn’t until tomorrow. I got in touch with Coulson. We have to lay low in the city for a few hours.”

“What time is it?”

“Little after one in the morning.” He passes her a protein bar. She manages two tiny bites before wrapping it back up. His face is dirty and exhausted, a smear of dried blood on his right cheek. Her blood.

“Is he going to be mad?”

“Coulson? No, why would he be?”

“Cuz we failed. I failed,” she corrects. He looks at her for a long time.

“No, Natasha. You got hurt. That’s not a failure.” Her lack of response indicates that she believes otherwise. “That’s not how it works here. Shield doesn’t punish you for getting hurt. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Why did you come back for me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The response is so honest, so genuine, that she doesn’t know what to say. It hadn’t even occurred to him to leave her. She takes the chance and moves a little bit closer. Her hair barely brushes his knee where he sits beside her.

“I’m tired,” she says instead. He sets a hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, fingers rubbing gently to ease the tension there.

“Sleep.”

[arcadian-litterateur]

let it snow | winterwidow

𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

summary: bucky and natasha enjoy a cozy christmas evening together when they get snowed in at their cabin.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: none other than over the top fluff

a/n: i wrote this a long time ago. but like i still love it. cuz it's literally just fluffy fluff fluff fluff. bucky is a very whipped little simp btw.

"as long as you love me so, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

𝗕𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 and dark brown shingles, a red front door to the little ranch house cracked slightly, the screen door securely locked. Two grey chimneys pumped out smoke, curling in designs that painted the gray sky and the evergreens surrounding the house. A wreath was secured to the mailbox, a sign saying "Mr. and Mrs. Barnes" screwed to the side. A snow shovel leaned against the side of the house, the off white garage door peppered with little notches in the wood, Christmas lights strung lazily around the top of the house. It was a small abode, but love simply emanated from it. You could tell that it was a place of much happiness.

Inside, a small living room was the first room in sight, two obviously well-loved plaid couches with sunken cushions against the front windows. A small tv was perched on a wooden stand, end tables made of the same birch at either end of the couches. Lovely maroon curtains blocked the windows from pesky strangers. A piano sat in the corner of the room.

Right through an arch lay the kitchen, a vintage look which seemed in common with the rest of the house. The yellowed refrigerator had obviously once been white, and it was plastered with pictures, some old enough to be in black and white. It was clear the fridge was a hand-me-down of sorts, passed from generation to generation. The cabinets, cherry wood with tarnished silver handles were all closed except for two to the right of the sink, which was a double, full of sudsy water and dirty dishes. A redhead stood at the sink, scrubbing the plates with her petite yet strong hands. The oven, a small, silvery number, was also on, the hum of its heater filling the small space.

The radio was on the dining table, a circular table made of that same wood which seemed very common in the house. Its buzz filled the little ranch. A brunet sat at the table, his chin in his left hand, which happened to be made of metal. His ears were trained towards the radio, however his eyes were glued to his wife's hips, a smile gracing his lips as he watched her feet tap to the beat of the tune stuck in her head.

"---Roads in Cook County are closed, due to icy conditions and heavy snowfall. Only travel if absolutely necessary, and stay safe---" the male switched the radio off.

"Well, guess we have our answer, Natasha. I better call Steve and tell him we can't go tonight." Natasha sighed, using her shoulder to brush some of her fiery locks to the side.

"That's too bad. I was hoping to spend Christmas with the Rogers."

Her husband smiled, "But this does mean we get to spend Christmas all by ourselves." He got up from the table, walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing the top of her head as she giggled.

"Oh, Bucky." Turning her head to the side, she gave him a quick peck before shutting the faucet off, drying her hands on the towel next to the sink.

"Well," Bucky said, "Since we're snowed-in, what do you want to do?" Natasha looked at the clock above the stove and rolled her eyes.

"I," she bopped her husband's nose, "am going to make dinner. You know, since we won't be eating Peggy's delicious cooking anymore."

He sighed, "Okay, fine. I'll find something to do." With one last plea of puppy dog eyes and that cute pout that Natasha loved so much, he left, knowing that this time, she wasn't going to budge.

"Be grateful," she called after him. "I'm feeding you!" Bucky waved a hand. It was the knowledge that the two of them loved each other so much that they'd gotten married and settled down in the middle of nowhere, away from all their friends so it would just be them, that made it clear that these "ungrateful" moments were just jokes.

Natasha started a simple pot of broccoli cheddar soup, after spending ten minutes trying to find something to make amongst her fancy cookbooks and practically bare cupboards. Still, the seemingly basic soup was a staple in their married life, and it would be perfect for a low-key Christmas dinner. The wooden spoon she held was rough from many years of use.

It had been her late mother's, a gift to the couple along with much of the rest of their kitchen supplies. Melina had known that her daughter would want to live away from the busy city. Natasha's childhood memories were full of strife, gangs, and way too many close calls for her to stay there. However, the cookbooks were from her mother in law. Winnifred was a master in the kitchen, and she'd taught Natasha the other half of what she knew.

Natasha's father, Alexei, well, his family was the line from which this house came from. Melina's family were the city goers. Bucky's father, George, was Melina's childhood friend, and if Alexei hadn't come along with his charming, backwoods ways, Natasha and Bucky could have been siblings instead of lovers. They often laughed about that. They had grown up together, but the minute they were both out of highschool, they forgot the other existed.

That is, until Bucky saved Natasha from a harsh prison sentence based on her many crimes in the gang she'd gotten wrapped up in. She felt indebted to him, and slowly they became best friends, and then lovers. Bucky had helped Natasha wipe the red out of her ledger, and she would be forever grateful. Furthermore, she was so happy that she got to be married to the man for the rest of her life.

With another stir, the soup sizzled some more, the redhead's hips bouncing to the tune of an invisible band. And then she heard it.

The sound of the piano. That's what she'd been subconsciously dancing to. That was another thing she loved about her husband: he was one of the most musically talented men she'd ever met. You wouldn't guess it just looking at him, he looked more like a football quarterback (which he totally could pull off), but Natasha loved the fact that he could just sit down and play music. It was a gift from above, that was for sure. She heard him start to sing, a grin turning up the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful. Since we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow." The redhead hummed along, the sound of his baritone like honey to her ears. It made her shiver, and at the same time, it made her giggle. He heard her, too. "Come join me, darling!"

Abandoning the soup to finish cooling on the stove, she raced into the living room. Bucky scooted over, patting the bench beside him. The redhead plopped down, smiling wide at him as he started up again. "When we finally kiss goodnight, oh, I'll hate going out in the storm." Natasha doubled on a low harmony, her eyebrows scrunching as she did her best to hit the right notes. "But if you'll really hold me tight, all the way home I'll be warm!"

Before starting the next verse, Bucky paused and brushed his wife's hair behind her ear, smiling, "You have the voice of an angel, babe." She blushed, smacking his shoulder.

"I do not!" she objected.

"Yes, you do," he responded, tickling her sides as she buried her face in his neck, laughing.

"Stop! Stop!" With a cocky grin, he complied, her eyes rolling as she turned back to the piano. Bucky wrapped his flesh arm around her waist, pulling her closer as she laid her head on his shoulder."Gosh, I love you, Buck," she whispered, reaching over to lace her fingers through his metal ones.

"I love you, too, Nat," he smiled back. She could feel the smile from where his cheek was pressed up her scalp, his hand moving from her hips to her hair, stroking the red locks as she closed her eyes in silent enjoyment. It was the perfect picture of a happy Christmas evening. The lovely couple, sitting at the piano, arms intertwined as they hummed tunes together.

Some time later, they were curled up on one of those old couches, a blanket around their bodies as they watched It's A Wonderful Life. Natasha was on Bucky's lap, his arms around her as she held the blanket around them. Every time a funny scene popped up in the movie, Bucky would close his eyes as he listened to his wife's joyful laugh. That was the most precious gift she could give him- herself. All of her. The one who'd gotten distracted while cooking their soup and burnt it, and the one with the most beautiful soprano voice, and the one who could kick his ass in a fight any day of the week.

As the credits rolled and Natasha sleepily turned to him with a grin, he smiled and whispered, "Merry Christmas, Nat."

"Merry Christmas, Bucky."

the end

[neon-kazoo]

Spontaneous Parenthood

(Prompt by @autocrats-in-love : “Are you my new daddy?” The hero’s child asked, blinking up with wide eyes. The villain sighed. “For the last time, I’m trying to kidnap you! Get in the car!”)

The villain was overjoyed when he learned the address of the hero’s real home and was practically vibrating with excitement as he followed the GPS to the location.

“You have arrived at your destination,” a monotone feminine voice announced.

“Yeah yeah, I see it.”

Villain slowed to a stop just in front of a classic suburban home, complete with grass that almost needed to be cut—such was the life of a hero, Villain presumed; too busy to pull out the lawnmower every weekend. He took in the off-white paint and the layered grey shingles on the roof. Two deck chairs sat adjacent to the front door, and a hydrangea bush in full bloom next to the mailbox. There were no cars in the driveway, and the garage was open and empty, beckoning Villain out of his SUV and into the home.

Once inside, he took in the large kitchen, with shiny countertops and a giant island. The living room was just as overwhelming, plush carpet and huge couch not quite properly filling the huge space. There were more doors on the far wall, but Villain found his gaze drawn to the grand staircase settled to his right.

Start upstairs, then work his way down.

Villain ran his hand along the carved wooden banister until he reached the top, then he headed for the farthest door on the hall.

Surely he could find something to use against Hero in this practical mansion.

The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs behind him sent Villain spinning into the nearest room, shutting the door swiftly but silently.

When he turned around, he saw something completely unexpected.

A child, sleeping in a small bed, tucked beneath a Tinker Bell comforter.

There was no time to process the discovery because outside the door, a woman’s voice sounded, “Yeah, it’s still in the shop. Katie’s taking a nap though, so I think I’m gonna let you go. Yeah, finally some Mommy-time. I can’t wait to actually finish this book.”

The voice faded, and Villain breathed a sigh of relief. This, however, was premature.

A new voice, this one tiny and young, caused Villain to jump two feet in the air.

“Who are you?” It asked, and the villain froze.

“Um…” he searched his surroundings for any plausible cover and found nothing but butterfly lamps and Disney Princess dolls.

“I’m a friend of your Dad’s?” He finally tried, uncertainty lacing his tone. He had no idea what kind of acting it took to convince a child, but he figured that probably wasn’t good enough.

His plan was in ruins, house now unsearchable with two occupants. He couldn’t just leave either, the kid would rat him out immediately.

That left only one option.

“I’m taking you somewhere else,” Villain spoke quickly, poking his head out the door to ensure the woman—presumably this girl’s mother—was gone.

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise,” he replied as he took hold of a tiny hand and pulled the girl towards the door.

Kids like surprises, right?

“Uh uh,” she shook her head. “How do I know you’re not a bad man?”

“I am a bad man,” Villain responded automatically. When she tried to pull away from his hand, he scooped her up and started down the stairs quickly.

Distraction. He needed a distraction.

“What’s with the tutu?”

The girl looked down at her outfit: a pink tutu overlaying a pair of Mickey Mouse themed footy-pajamas, complete with an eye patch flipped up over her forehead.

“I’m a fairy Princess pirate!”

She appeared utterly displeased with Villain’s ineptitude at recognizing her incredibly well-established costume.

“Shouldn’t you have a tiara or something?”

Wrong question.

He watched as she took a big breath and opened her mouth and realized he had to act fast.

He said the first thing that popped into his head.

“We can get ice cream!”

Villain grimaced. His current plan was contingent on a child staying quiet for frozen treats. Not his best work.

Luckily, the promise of ice cream seemed to easily override the kid’s survival instincts. Villain would be sure to mention that to Hero when she gets returned.

Speaking of Hero.

“Where’s my Dad?” The little girl asked as they reached the driveway.

“He’s not here right now, but if you come with me you’ll see him soon.”

He unlocked the car, but Hero’s daughter refused to get in.

“I don’t want to go. Why are you here and Dad isn’t?”

Villain opened his mouth to reply before realizing he had no idea how to comfort a confused child, much less one he was kidnapping.

“Let’s just get in the car.”

The girl seemed to think for a moment before she spoke again. Her face shifted from upset to…curious?

“Are you my new daddy?” She asked, blinking up at him with wide eyes.

The villain sighed, exasperated. “For the last time, I’m trying to kidnap you! Get in the car!”

“Daddy told me I shouldn’t get in the car with strangers,” she said sternly, pouting her lip slightly and planting her feet.

“I- okay, you know what, fine. I will be temporarily filling in the role of father in your Dad’s absence. Is that good enough? Can we get in the car now?”

“Sure!” Her face returned to its usual brightness, and she lifted up her arms and made grabby-hands at the villain. Villain loosed a sigh of relief and bent down to lift the child into the car.

“I can’t ride in the front,” she protested, and Villain froze holding her hovering in front of the open passenger side door.

“…right,” Villain hesitated, looking around for anyone to come catch him in the act and solve this problem easily. If the police were called, he could just drop the child and run.

Unfortunately, the street was quiet, and Villain had no legitimate reason to halt this abduction.

Setting the girl back down, Villain closed the door and opened the backseat.

Taking a second attempt at lifting her into the car, this time, she almost reached the leather seat before stopping him again.

“I need my car seat! It’s in case I get in a axe-see-dent,” she sounded, kicking her feet in displeasure.

Villain groaned.

“I don’t have a car seat.”

“That’s not very safe,” Katie—if Villain remembered correctly—crossed her arms and huffed exaggeratedly.

“Okay��I’ll just go…find one,” Villain murmured, mostly to himself.

Villain wandered absently into the garage in search of a car seat. He saw several things he had missed the first time in his excitement. For example, three bikes mounted to the wall, one suspiciously small and pink and sparkly. If the training wheels weren’t a big enough red flag, everything else should have been: a pink life vest, chalk, sidewalk paint, bubble solution. Villain certainly didn’t take Hero for one to occupied by a giant bubble wand in his free time.

By a stroke of luck, he recognized the seat sitting in a corner.

A few minutes later, after studying confusing safety instruction stickers and teaching Katie a few new words in the process, Villain successfully buckled Hero’s child into the seat.

Villain finally settled into the front, driving away after buckling himself—at Katie’s insistence.

“Play Lil Jon!”

“I told you, this is a kidnapping, I’m not going to play you music.”

Katie went silent, and Villain prayed she wasn’t about to burst into tears.

“When are we getting ice cream?”

Villain adjusted his rear view mirror to be able to keep an eye on the kid. Her eyes were locked out the heavily tinted window and her lip was trembling.

He cursed, internally this time.

Villain blamed innate parental instincts as he pulled into the Dairy Queen, ‘Turn Down For What’ blasting through the speakers.

He could feel the beginning of a headache pressing behind his eyes.

It was going to be a long ride.

[no-reallyimfine]

Working on a new story on WattPad!

Of Night and Day

Description:

Amalie Brightmoor is a Magi woman from Barick (Bah-Rick) in the Northern Kingdom of Krelush, she is a daughter of a successful architect and city designer. She was accepted to attend the Grimsbane University on a Returner Scholarship, she was looking to leave her high pressure homelife and took the first opportunity to leave. Amalie completes her first day of school fairly uneventfully, until a pipe bursts in her dorm room. Due to this, her living arrangements changed to an emergency dorm in the Student Leader Counsel dorm which also houses a flirtatious shifter, a stoic vampire, a free-spirited Magi. After some adjustment to living with these new housemates, Amalie starts to feel the pressure from her family to focus on her studies with the goal of joining the slew of successful architects, city designers, and magic-based engineers. Amalie must make a choice if she is going to conform to familial expectations or follow the inspirational path that her cousin had founded by becoming a story-telling bard as well as the black sheep of the family. As she is trying to figure out her path in life, she finds herself in the middle of blooming feelings for a kindred spirit that does not seem as willing to consider shirking off family expectations.

Part one below:

The first day of school is always terrifying. New people, new expectations, new routines. It always seemed so much for most people, even for me. This was different though; this was a new town far from what I have known in Barick.

I was glad to be away, but something in me ached for familiarity as I walked along the grey bricked paths through lush green lawns to my first class. The building I approached almost seemed church like, large pillars welcomed students like arms to a covered entry way that was adorned with double doors. The building stretched to the sky with a steeple like face that had a large clock that could be seen from across the campus. The slanted roof was shingled in deep green.

I found myself standing in front of the building, staring at the clock as it ticked. Reading 8:45 in the morning. My heart was in my chest as I stood planted in the walkway. People moved around me as they wandered into the building. some reading papers, some walking confidently. Not a single familiar face walked by, but I didn't expect one. It was a lonely thought, to be the only one from Barick at the Grimsbane University.

"Standing here like a tree is not only going to get in the way of everyone around you, but yourself as well. Best get moving." A voice spoke, it was deep and proper. Like the tongue was trained to speak each word with respect of the syllables.

A man then passed me. He was tall with deep, huckleberry colored hair that brushed his waist. He had a leather messenger bag had his hip. He moved with grace and purpose towards the building.

I gulped and the hair on the base of my neck stood on end. He was right, I was only getting in my own way standing here.

I took in a breath of the chilly morning air and walked forward. I pushed against the large ornate door's bass handle; a sense of excitement started to wash through me.

The door didn't budge, and my stomach dropped.

"It's a pull!" A small-framed girl popped next to me, she smiled sweetly and waited for my response.

"Thank you," I laughed nervously and pulled the door to me, it moved with ease despite how heavy it looked.

I stepped into the building and was again filled with nervousness as I looked at the tile floors and the twin staircases that lead up to landings on the second and third floors. The back of the building had large windows that looked out to trees and blue sky as a matching set of ornate doors were at the opposite side of the building.

"Do you know where you are going?" The same girl at the door had joined me at the foyer and was watching me.

"I'm sorry, I don't have the slightest clue..." my voice trembled a little.

"What class are you looking for?" She asked, her voice was gentle as she spoke with me. I turned to really look at her, she was small with a platinum bob that flared outwards at the ends. She wore heavy eyeliner, a black top with black pants and a matching jacket. When she smiled, I noticed her canine teeth looked a bit sharper than I expected.

Turning my attention away, I dug a piece of paper out of my pocket and looked at my notes for the classes of the day.

"I am looking for Intro to Potions, with Professor Kayden." I read off.

She squeaked and jumped up and down on her toes with excitement. "I'm actually headed there myself! Come with me!"

She lead me past the stairways and into a hallway tucked passed the left one.

"I'm Fiona by the way," She turned her attention back to me and her grey eyes squinted in a smile that showed her fangy teeth again.

"I'm Amalie," I smiled back.

"Are you a first year?" She asked as we approached a green door that matched the shingles outside. She held it open for me so I could enter.

"Yes," I nodded. The classroom was set up like a stadium, the desks were mounted like walls rising to the back. Students had filed in and took up some of the spaces farther, but the ones closer to the front remained free.

"First day of first year? Oof, that can be overwhelming." Fiona was casual and welcoming in her tone, she stood next to me as I looked around the class.

I started to walk towards the desks at the front of the room and I could see a glimmer off distaste in Fiona's smile as she followed.

"Do you mind if I sit with you?" She asked as she filed in behind me, "First day is always lonely,"

I agreed and she took the seat next to me. We talked for a few minutes as we waited for the class to start, people filed in and more and more seats filled up, but not many at the front of the room.

I had always preferred the front, there were less distractions than further seats. In this room, it seemed as if the students avoided them.

"Why is no one sitting up front?" I asked.

"It has to do with the teacher's assistant," Fiona mumbled and another person walked into the room.

I recognized him from before.

He was tall and slender, with the long, dusty, purple hair. He strode into the room with confidence, walking to the desk to put down the messenger bag. He wore a white shirt with a dark blue suit vest and black slacks. As I looked to at his profile as he passed me, he had a slightly hooked nose that supported his gold framed glasses.

When he placed his bag down, he turned to the board, he held his hand to the board as he walked down it, right to left. In his wake, the class information appeared.

"Pretentious," Fiona muttered as she rested her chin on her hand.

"Welcome class, this is Introduction to Potions," He walked to a podium at the front of the room. He shuffled through a few papers and looked up to the room. His voice was strong as he spoke to the room. The frames of his glasses gleamed under the light orbs; from my perch I could see deep red eyes scanning.

"I am your teaching assistant, Aleksandr Orpheus. Professor Kayden will not be joining us this morning due to a cold, so I have been asked to start the class in his stead." He announced to the room.

He then focused an intense, interested look in our direction.

"Fiona Krass, I am glad to see you front and center for a change." A purple eyebrow raised.

Fiona shot a sarcastic smile in his direction, "Just missed your warm and fuzzy nature," she said.

"Hmm..." He hummed and turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. He started the day with taking attendance and moved into introducing the syllabus, passing out papers that had been carefully produced, I assumed by the on-campus printing press that had been promoted by university staff during orientation.

Through the class, Aleksandr was fairly monotoned and authoritative as he spoke to the class. He spoke on the importance of staying on top of the course work as the term continues, gave an overview of the projects we will cover, and the overall outcome of the class.

Once the hour of his monologuing was completed, most of the class scurried out. I had some time before my next class, that I took my time to gather my things. Fiona was anxiously shifting her weight from foot-to-foot waiting.

"You don't have to wait on me," I smiled.

"Do you know where you are going next?" Fiona asked as she took a step back.

"I know it is in the training complex," I said as I slung my bag on to my back.

"Okay, that isn't too far, meet me at the Student Union Building and we will do lunch together." Fiona smiled and waved as she walked off.

"Glad to see you didn't get in your own way, tree." Aleksandr spoke, his voice commanding the room despite it was just us.

I stiffened at his acknowledgement of me. I turned to look at him as he was replacing his messenger back on his shoulder. His burgundy eyes moved over me as I watch him in turn.

"Don't be late for your next class," He said and walked out of the room as people started to funnel in. As he exited, people cleared a wide path for him like fish avoiding a shark.

[grey-gardens]

https://www.veranda.com/decorating-ideas/house-tours/a42045998/grey-gardens-home-tour/

Inside Liz Lange's Glamorous Restoration of Grey Gardens

The fashion entrepreneur has restored the East Hampton landmark with bold confidence, singular style, and a little swagger.

STEELE THOMAS MARCOUX PUBLISHED: DEC 15

Liz Lange does not believe in ghosts. In fact, she’s dismissive when asked whether Grey Gardens, the 1901 East Hampton, New York, estate she and her husband recently restored, is haunted. “I didn’t expect to see ghosts because I simply don’t believe in them,” the creative director and chief executive officer of women’s luxury fashion and lifestyle brand Figue says of what it felt like to move in.

Which isn’t to say the past is not present at Grey Gardens. Shortly after purchasing the home in late 2017, the fashion entrepreneur embarked on an extensive restoration of the storied estate, working with architecture firms Ferguson & Shamamian and Bories & Shearron to modernize the operation of the house while preserving much of its original design.

This involved digging a full basement to conceal contemporary mechanical and other functional spaces, shoring up the home’s foundation and structure, protecting original elements like the Dutch front door and foyer banisters during construction for restoration and, when needed, reconstruction, and adding back period-appropriate details like diamond-paned windows and doors with restoration glass—all while leaving the house’s footprint and exterior design nearly unchanged. “Liz and her husband knew that the architectural background they wanted to live in was the one that was built in 1901,” says architect Mark Ferguson, whose firm oversaw the restoration.

Plans for the original house—an L-shaped, shingle-clad structure with dramatic gabled rooflines and brick chimneys, faint echoes of the English Arts and Crafts vernacular that seeded the American Shingle Style—were designed by architect Joseph Greenleaf Thorpe and commissioned by Fleming Stanhope Phillips. But Phillips died before his vision was realized. Instead his wife, Margaret Bagg Phillips, who famously inherited his estate after fending off challenges to the will from Phillips’s brother, built the house later that year.

To summon the spirit of the original house, Lange changed its flow as little as possible. While some minor floor plan reconfigurations were necessary for the house to live at today’s standards—opening the kitchen to a breakfast room, adding a back stairwell—other alterations, like punching out attic dormer windows on the street side, were avoided to retain the integrity of the original building. Says Lange: “One of the reasons it still feels like an old house is that we forced ourselves not to make it perfect perfect. The floors still creak a little bit, and they are not entirely level.”

The thoughtful revival of its gardens is but another invocation of the property’s past. Lange worked with landscape architect Deborah Nevins on a thorough overhaul of the grounds, planting new gardens in some places and restoring historic elements in others, and facilitating as much outdoor living as possible. Most notably Nevins restored the walled garden, pergola, and thatched garden hut, which had been added by prominent horticulturalist and author Anna Gilman Hill, the second owner of Grey Gardens (from 1913 to 1924) and the first to describe it as such. When reflecting on the garden spaces, Lange describes a distinctive magic. “There’s almost a quietness and you feel like you don’t even know where you are. It has this strangely magical, peaceful, beautiful atmosphere.”

Perhaps ironically Lange’s family history in East Hampton—childhood summers and weekends spent in a rigorously modern house by architect Charles Gwathmey—fueled her passion for Grey Gardens in the first place. “I loved it,” she says of her parents’ home, “but it was not lost on me that the other houses on the street were these older houses…often Shingle Style cottages built at the turn of the 20th century with mature properties and older trees. I grew to think that I wanted a house like that when I had my own.”

It was her love of the house, not its provenance, Lange insists, that prompted her to buy when it came up for sale. She and her husband had rented the house for a summer several years prior and had become smitten with its details, proportions, layout, and gardens. “The landscape struck me as familiar,” she says. “The flow of the rooms just made sense, and it has a really cozy feel, and it’s a very bright house. I worried about it feeling dark, maybe in that haunted way although I don’t believe it’s haunted, but it doesn’t. It’s a very sunshine-y, happy house.”

Lange, who hails from a family who experienced very public financial booms and busts (as she chronicles in The Just Enough Family, her podcast with friend and journalist Ariel Levy) and who became a household name at a relatively early stage in her career with the success of her eponymous maternity brand, is the sixth in a string of prominent, artistic, even visionary women to inhabit the house, each casting a reflection of herself within its design. She bought it from author Sally Quinn, who, along with husband and Washington Post executive editor Ben Bradlee, brought the house back from its near-condemned state, restored many period pieces that came with it, and summered there for more than 30 years, hosting legendary parties with star-studded guest lists until Bradlee passed away in 2014.

The Washington power couple had purchased the estate in 1979 from Edith Bouvier Beale. “Little Edie” lived with her mother, Edith “Big Edie” Ewing Bouvier Beale, at Grey Gardens from the early 1950s until the elder Edie’s death, both in increasing isolation and squalor as they ran out of money to maintain the estate. The juxtaposition of their flamboyant personalities with their decaying, animal-infested environment was exposed in the 1975 cult-classic documentary film Grey Gardens—and has been memorialized many times over in other films, books, and even a 2006 Broadway musical.

Today the interiors of Grey Gardens are a far cry from dereliction—or even the gently worn summer cottage aesthetic one might expect to find inside a century-old shingled seaside home. Instead different essences of femininity filter throughout: A dreamy, romantic spirit pervades the bedrooms; the kitchen, breakfast room, and pool and tennis cabana effuse a bohemian, almost exotic élan; and the wild foyer, sultry dining room, and groovy living room radiate an irresistible gusto not all that dissimilar from the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s style celebrated to enthralling effect on Lange’s Instagram feed.

It’s a singular mirroring of Lange’s persona and the result of her collaboration with designer Mark D. Sikes, artists and artisans from around the world, and close friend and designer Jonathan Adler, who helped her add a layer of glamour to the living spaces on the first floor. “It’s a lot to live up to, such a famous house, so the decorating had to be bold and original,” says Adler. “Liz has always embodied a true idiosyncratic style with swagger. You can see it in the way she lives and in [her creative direction of] Figue,” which has launched a line of tableware under Lange’s lead.

Of course, idiosyncratic style has permeated the house from the beginning. “A lot of Shingle Style is a reinvention of something else. It’s a vehicle for dabbling in eccentricities,” notes architect James Shearron. “How wonderful that Grey Gardens fell into the hands of someone who has the same kind of spirit as its most famous owner.”

Even with a thoroughly reimagined point of view, the house is not entirely exorcised of the Edies’ presence. Lange tasked a handful of artists with interpreting their spirit: In the foyer, a painting of Little Edie in a headscarf by Helen Downing offers a charismatic greeting, while the second-story landing features papier-mâché busts of Big and Little Edie by artist Mark Gagnon; illustrations of the pair by Jason O’Malley float above a guest room headboard. The works represent “a wink or nod to the former owners,” says Lange—or ghosts, perhaps, of her own making.

Featured in our January/February 2023 issue. Interior Design by Jonathan Adler and Mark D. Sikes; Architecture by Bories & Shearron Architecture and Ferguson & Shamamian; Landscape Design by Deborah Nevins; Photography by Pascal Chevallier; Styling by Hilary Robertson; Produced by Cynthia Frank and Brad Comisar; Florals by The Bridgehampton Florist; Written by Steele Thomas Marcoux