#handwoven rags

[sophialushambience]

This braided chindi rug is ideal for high-traffic areas that require a little more flair! Our pet-friendly and simple-to-clean area rugs will help you make the most of your time at home.

This beautiful ethnic and traditionally looking reclaimed rug is handwoven from rags which are basically remnants of fabric from garment industries, majorly cotton. It has a very smooth and soft texture and is very comfortable to sit or lie on. This braided chindi rug creates a relaxed environment, and brings you brighten and delightful feeling. While blending effortlessly with any decor style.

[julochka365]

24/2.2023 - mazikeen likes the fringe

[xtruss]

In Leitrim, Ireland, a group of mummers dressed in straw costumes prepares to perform for neighbors in the run-up to Christmas. Mumming, an ancient Irish tradition, is once again being practiced throughout the country by people of all ages, and has been a source of entertainment and connection during the pandemic. Photograph Ronan O’Connell

These Masked Singers Continue an Irish Christmas Tradition

For centuries in Ireland, mummers would arrive at homes unannounced in an age-old holiday custom. Now, after a long lull, these disguised revelers are back in force.

— By Ronan O’Connell | Published:December 7, 2021 | Saturday December 16, 2023

For at least 400 years during Christmas season, Irish mummers have dressed in straw outfits while going house-to-house captivating residents with their plays, rhymes, singing, dancing, and music. In the mid-1900s, this custom nearly died out, partly due to fractures in Irish society. Now, however, mumming is resurgent.

This is all thanks to several mumming clubs in Ireland that perform shows in the lead-up to Christmas. One huge project was started seven years ago in County Leitrim by local artist Edwina Guckian. Straw is harvested from local farms, handwoven into masks and dresses, and donned by more than 300 young mummers who perform in groups outside homes throughout December. The Leitrim event culminates with the costumes being burned in a festive bonfire.

But don’t call them “Straw Men,” unless you want to annoy academics, who say that, although it is widely believed that mumming dates back to pagan times, the evidence points to that origin story being more lore than fact.

Either way, mumming is helping a new generation bond with ancestral traditions, says Guckian. And while mumming groups historically consisted of young men, now they represent the full spectrum of Irish society.

Tourists keen to witness a performance can head to Leitrim, an idyllic county in northwest Ireland known for its verdant forests, crystalline lakes, and tight-knit rural communities.

Mumming’s the Word

The word mummer, believed to be Germanic in origin, is used to refer to a masked actor in the countries where this tradition has prospered, including Ireland, England, Scotland, and Canada. The custom arrived in Ireland from England in the 1600s, explains Anne O’Dowd, retired curator at the National Museum of Ireland and author of Straw, Hay and Rushes in Irish Folk Tradition.

For centuries thereafter, mumming was common in the northern half of Ireland and along parts of its east coast. It was given an Irish twist via its characters and themes. Historically, each all-male troupe portrayed Irish heroes like Saint Patrick, controversial political figures such as Britain’s Oliver Cromwell and King George, folk characters like Jack Straw, and mythological creatures including Beelzebub.

Left: In this 1927 photo, mummers arrive at a home to sing, dance, play music, and tell stories. Historically, mummers have been young men, who ask for payment of the homeowner in return for their performance. Photograph By SOTK2011, Alamy Stock Photo

Right: Mummers are given a drink while celebrating St. Stephen’s Day on December 26, 1955. Photograph By George Pickow, Three Lions/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

A fight between two of these characters, one a villain, the other a champion, would end in blood. “A doctor then arrives and brings the dead character back to life,” O’Dowd says. “The theme of the plays—life and rebirth—is an annually recurring event in nature.”

With concealed faces, ragged outfits, and a stick in their grip, traditional mummers had a fierce appearance, says Críostóir Mac Cárthaigh, director of the National Folklore Collection at University College Dublin. Without warning they would enter a home and ask to perform. Some residents offered a warm welcome. Others spurned them for terrifying their children. In either instance, the mummers usually were paid for their presence.

Their shows were amusing, yet with an undercurrent of intimidation, writes Henry Glassie in his 1977 book, All Silver and No Brass: An Irish Christmas Mumming. Near the end of a typical mummers’ play, two devil characters would appear. If they were not sufficiently compensated, they would threaten to steal the homeowner’s animals and “sweep you into the grave.”

For mumming costumes, straw is harvested from local farms and handwoven into masks and dresses. In County Leitrim, one mumming event culminates in a festive bonfire of the straw outfits. Photograph By Shawn Williams, Alamo Stock Photo

“Rhyme and action render it all humorous, but the words are clear,” Glassie notes. “There are many young men, armed with sticks, standing around your kitchen, who would like you to give them some money.”

In each mumming group, one character requested payment in rhyme. “Here I comes, Fiddly Funny, I’m here to collect the money. All silver no brass, bad money will not pass,” was one classic verse. Historically, the mummers converted these funds into alcohol-fueled revelry, Mac Cárthaigh says. Whereas in the modern day, any donations to the mummers are usually funneled into charity and community programs.

Mumming also had a positive impact in bygone eras, Mac Cárthaigh says. The tradition helped bind some of Ireland’s segregated Catholic and Protestant communities, with troupes sometimes containing members of each religion. But as the country’s sectarian divide widened during the 1900s, mumming faded.

From the 1950s through to the 1980s, as Ireland was besieged by civil unrest, mummers often needed permits to perform near the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. With the looming specter of domestic paramilitary units, who orchestrated many of the violent incidents further dividing Ireland, people were understandably perturbed by roaming groups of disguised men.

Bringing Cheer During Pandemic Lockdowns

Today, in a more peaceful Ireland, mumming is free of such weighty baggage, and is widely viewed as a quaint activity open to everyone. The mummers of Leitrim range from boys as young as two years old to women in their 70s. Many are fine musicians, delighting onlookers with their mastery of the fiddle, banjo, tin whistle, or bodhran drum. Others are skillful Gaelic dancers, actors, or singers. Some are so young that their talents amount to wearing straw and looking adorable.

Left: Edwina Guckian, pictured with her son and husband, has led the revival of mumming in Leitrim. Right: As they go house to house, mummers perform on drums, banjos, fiddles, and tin whistles. Photographs By Ronan O'Connell

Separated into mumming troupes of between four and eight people—often a mix of adults and children—they go door-to-door in Leitrim dancing, singing, rhyming, playing instruments, or performing short plays. Unlike the old-time mummers, they are not paid for their efforts. Instead their reward comes in the form of an invite to the private Mummers’ Join celebration, just after Christmas, when the costume bonfire is lit.

Most of their elderly fans were once mummers themselves. Guckian had been thinking of exactly these vulnerable people, ordered to stay inside their properties during Ireland’s pandemic lockdowns, when she decided to respond to the pandemic via mumming.

Alongside friends and fellow musicians Fionnuala Maxwell and Brian Mostyn, Guckian has performed at some 130 nursing residences and homes of seniors in the past 18 months. The threat of COVID-19, and strict government rules, meant the trio had to perform on doorsteps. They couldn’t venture inside, no matter the pleas from people starved of conversation and company.

“The welcomes we received were so heartwarming,” Guckian says. “Some took out their instruments and joined us. Others just wanted to spend the day talking and a few even asked if they could come with us for the day.”

For several of those audience members, these jovial experiences were among their last on Earth. Like many of the thousands of elderly Irish people who have been claimed by COVID-19, they grew up in communities enriched by mumming. They also watched this tradition fade.

But before they passed, these Leitrim men and women received one final, rousing house call. The ring of a bell. The strum of a banjo. The soar of a flute. The patter of dancing feet. And the glint of fond Irish eyes through a straw mask. The mummers had returned.

— Ronan O’Connell is an Irish-Australian Journalist and Photographer based in County Mayo, Ireland.

[rugschouhan]

Top 2 Natural With Turquoise Double Line Border Indian Handwoven designed by chouhan Rugs | Jaipur

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Color, Shape, and Size can be Customized Hand Made in India by master weavers.

Manufacture by Indian handloom @ Chouhanrugs These Rugs are Made with Natural Jute So You Can Not Wash Them with Water, You Can Dry Clean or Rub the Spot with a wet cloth to Clean Them Actual Product may differ slightly in color due to camera effects and depending upon the screen resolution and design and size slightly varied due to handmade by the weaver.

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[rungloom]

Hand Braided Bohemian Colorful Cotton Chindi Area Rug multi colors Home Decor Rugs cotton area rugs oval shape braided rug.

[vtweave]

Handwoven wool rag rug by VTcraft

09232020

Rag Rug woven on floor loom with recycled wool. Weft is gray brown tweed wool throughout the piece and the stripes are created my the multicolored cotton warp.

[thisheathenlife]

New rag rug project underway

[hansensgirl]

don’t feed it, it will come back.

summary. | “Don’t let me in with no intention of keeping me. Jesus Christ — don’t be kind to me. Honey, love, darling... Don’t feed me, I will come back.”

warnings. | Non/Dubcon, dark themes, drugging, sex pollen, stalking, obsession, lying, manipulation, angst, smut, fluff, Master kink, praise, degrading, dumbification, unprotected sex, blood, choking, possessive behaviour, creampie kink, stomach bulge kink, cat and mouse chase, fingering, slapping, corruption kink, yandere, grooming, kind of DDLG themes, collars, age gap, facefucking, mentions of bullying, scary stuff, anxiety, mourning, mentions of death, virginity loss, overstimulation, kidnapping, and more. +18, DARK!FIC. MORE WARNINGS AT THE BOTTOM!!

word count. | 10,601.

pairings. | Dark!Bucky Barnes x Innocent!Reader, Sam Wilson x Innocent!Reader.

a/n. | happy halloween!! i’ve changed up many things because why not. thank you so much for 5.1k!! thank you sm @barnesjamcs and @mypoisonedvine for beta-ing, ilysm!

You’re stuck. You’re stuck in that moment where you’re asleep, yet awake at the same time. Time is distorted and you can hear your grandmother faintly humming the ‘Monster Mash’ from down the hall. Childhood memories flood your mind and you blink back the tears that come up. Your eyes are bleary and you can’t tell if the thing in the corner of your room is a chair or a demon. The former seems more reasonable, but the horror stories that the people down the street used to taunt you with believe otherwise. “Sweetheart? Are you awake? You’ve slept in an extra half hour, that’s unlike you.” Your sweet grandmother croons from the other side of the door. You let out a smile and slowly get up with a sigh. “I’m awake, Nana! I guess I’m just extra tired from when I walked yesterday.” You reason, still sad that the bullies destroyed your bicycle that your grandma gave you when you turned twenty — just a mere few months ago. You don’t have the heart nor the courage to tell her, and you don’t think you ever will.

“I hope that darned Johnson gives you your bicycle back! I got a new basket, handwoven by yours truly… You can put your little treats and books in there and ride your bike all over town!” She admits, unable to hold back her secret. Your heart breaks, even more, hating that her basket will have to go towards pens and pencils that she had bought you. They won’t be able to hold your groceries or her fabrics that Mrs. Rogers would save for her. You get up from your bed and revel in the warmth that your llama pyjamas provide. You slip on some old slippers that Natasha’s mother gifted you — even though Natasha loathes you for some reason. And so does Anthony, Steve, Wanda, Thor (named after the Norse God), Clint, T’Challa, Okoye, Vis, Carol, Steven, and Loki (again, named after the Norse God). Sam (you call him Sammie, which always earns you an eye roll), Rhodey, Peter, Shuri and Pietro don’t really mind you, but they’re also not your friends. Except for Sam, who’s known you since you realized brownies are even more amazing when you add a bit of coffee to them.  

They’re all older than you and you’d think they’d be around your age, but no. All are around 10 or 18 years older than you and it’s safe to say that they definitely won’t be maturing until they’ve got their pension plans secured. You giggle at the thought and smile to yourself as you remember that Sam wanted to show you some new flowers but you know it’s code for you to bring him some scones and let him rant about how he can’t wait until he makes enough money to leave town. If he leaves town then you’ll be lonely… The thought sends you spiralling and your heart drops to your stomach at the revelation. You gulp nervously and push it out of your mind. You reluctantly walk down the hallway and you’re greeted with the lovely scent of pancakes and pumpkin spice. Your mouth waters at the smell and a fresh wave of autumn-themed nostalgia hits you. Your feet parted against the wooden floors that you’ve spent ages mopping. She’s already cut the pancakes up and you can’t suppress the child-like giggle that bubbles in the air.

Cheap, silver forks that you had gotten for $2 per pack are set on the table. You can remember that sale like it’s your last name and date of birth. Summer clearance, a real jackpot to say the least. You scored quite a lot of things and you feel the almost two months old embarrassment from when you had to make two trips from the store to your home to bring everything back. You sit down but you don’t dig in yet, no. You watch your poor grandmother dance around the kitchen and it’s not the dance that one would immediately think of, not at all. She frantically moves around the kitchen and occasionally takes a peek out of the window. “Nana… Can you sit down and eat with me? Please? Just- just like old times…” You beg quietly, your voice nothing more than a whisper. She turns around and looks at you before nodding her head, and you give her a meek smile. You both dig into your delectable breakfasts and the only things that you can hear are birds chirping and forks scraping at the plate. 

It’s tense. Awkwardness ready to burst at the seams yet it never seems to happen. Syrup covers your plate and you have the greatest urge to lap it all up like a kitten. “I… I remember when your mom used to do that… Always had to scold her, but she’d never learn.” Nana laughs to herself. She sounds tired, so fucking tired. You let out a dismal chuckle, breathy and full of air. You hold your hair back and indulge in an old childhood habit. Sweetness explodes in your mouth even though the syrup was slightly watered down. You pull away and sadness once again fills the air. “I can’t wait for you to become a…” The word is at the tip of her tongue but her old mind erases it. “Writer...” You fill in for her, before picking up your dishes. The walk to the kitchen isn’t far, only about three steps that you already have forgotten. She follows behind you, placing her dishes atop of yours. “Go sit down, Nana… I’ll show you a new piece I wrote!” You bargain, and she lets out a squeal. A victory, at last. Truth be told, you don’t want to show her your latest piece. 

It’s sad and dismal, no happiness wavering from it and it’s a pitiful rendition of “hope.” You wash the dishes with care, passing your soapy hands over the ceramic gently. “I hear we’re getting a new neighbour, I can’t wait to meet them…” Your grandma speaks up, catching your attention. New neighbour… You grip the dishes tighter at the mention of a new neighbour. You scrub the syrup away from the plates and forks a bit harder, too. You finish off washing all the dishes and stack them away in the old wooden cupboards. “You bake him something… I’ll knit him something too! You know these brisk winds, always so brutal.” She croons, before running off as quickly as her old limbs can take her. You smile at the enthusiasm she radiates and notice a container sitting on the old burner stove. It’s covered in a dingy cloth  — a makeshift one to be exact. A piece of extra cloth that couldn’t turn into anything more than a rag. You smile and walk back to your room to get ready for another autumn day that’ll be filled with sadness.

You don’t have many clothes to choose from, unlike most of the town-folk. You don’t have the privilege to go out of town and to the nearest snob-infested city just for a small sweater that’s going to be thrown away after two weeks. No, instead you buy your grandmother fabric from Mrs. Rogers and she makes you something that you’ll always end up loving. It takes you a mere two minutes to choose a huge cable knit that goes down to your knees (you had begged her to do it and even bought her a month's worth of yarn). You’re careful to dodge your grandmother, knowing that she’ll start tearing up because you look just like your mother. You can’t have that happen, not today at least. With a meal for Sam ready in your hands and a book, you’re off wandering to his home. You wave at the little kids across the street that are busy hanging up Halloween decorations and smile to yourself. You try to remember the entirety of Lana Del Rey’s cover of the infamous “Season Of The Witch” and your memory doesn’t completely fail you.

Sure, your voice can’t compare to hers but that’s not what matters. The ‘for sale’ sign that was in front of your neighbours’ house is now gone, and there’s not even a ‘sold’ sign. Hopefully, they’re nice… You think to yourself, before speed-walking to Sam’s townhouse. Your feet pitter-patter against the concrete and they carry you as fast as they can go. “Sam! Sammie!” You cry out, running to him as fast as you can. You slam into him and hug him tightly as if you haven’t seen him in years. He lets out a groan just to tease you, earning him a huff of annoyance from yourself. “How are you?” You ask, pulling away from the warm comfort of his body. You look up at him and watch as he rambles on about the stress he’s getting all thanks to those bratty adult-children. “I can’t wait to leave this town…” He sighs exasperatedly, rubbing his forehead. Your frown and try to push away the impending goodbye. You hand him the meal and his eyes light up. “Eat up, Sammie! Can’t have the smartest man in town going hungry!” You cheer, watching as he shovels pieces of syrup-covered pancakes into his mouth.

You lead him to his porch and you sit him down in the swing chair he repaired all by himself. “So… When you leave town, where are you going to go?” You question him, looking down at the ground instead of at him. Through a full mouth, he manages to speak still. ”New York, I have some family up there and many opportunities too!” He exclaims, careful to not spit at you. You let out a giggle at his enthusiasm and you can’t lie and say that you’re not excited for him to start up the life he’s always dreamed of since you were both wee things. “But… But you won’t forget me, right?” You hesitantly ask, fiddling with your cold fingers. Selfish… You’re being selfish… You know you’re being selfish but the question slips out before you can even register the words in your troubled mind. You don’t look up at him and you’re ready to retract it along with litanies of “I'm sorry, please forgive me!” “Never, Dollie, never.” He sighs, the sound settling deep in his bones. He looks at you with sincerity and reassurance — comfort in his eyes that you’ll always be weak for. 

You stare at each other for a bit, a tension building in the bitter cold air that’s just ready to snap. You can swear and say that his eyes travel down to your lips — almost as if he’s ready to kiss you. You lean in as well, because why not? Until he abruptly pulls away and apologizes to you. You watch as he heads inside to wash his hands and you sob on the inside. Oh, how you wanted to kiss the syrup off his lips until yours grew numb. You curse yourself with darned words that your mother would’ve been unhappy with. The rest of the day is awkward — not that it usually isn’t. You follow him around like a lost puppy and admire him from the short distance that is between the two of you. You can’t handle the silence- well, heavy sighs and grumbles. He occasionally spares you a few glances that you hang onto for dear life. “Uhm, Sammie? Is everything alright?” You ask him, after spending minutes to find it in you to speak up after a few hours. 

He sets down the screwdriver in his hand that he has been gripping for hours now. He takes his glasses off and you hold back the frown that threatens to drag your lips down. He pulls you into an abrupt hug, and usually, you’d be filled with glee. But… but the way he holds you is different. His arms that surround you are tighter than usual, and the way his chest rises and falls is irregular. “W- What’s wrong, Sammie? Talk to me, please.” You desperately whisper to him. The winds of autumn are loud, but they don’t have the power to silence you. “‘M… I’m leaving tomorrow morning…” He admits. Suddenly, the world stops spinning on its axis and your heart isn’t beating anymore. You swear that you could die just then and take him down with you, but the Reaper is ready for you yet. You look up at him and his eyes mirror yours. Glassy with tears that are ready to fall. “A- Already?” You ask incredulously. He nods and smooths one of his coarse hands over your head.

 You let out a shaky breath and your throat tightens up. A sob is stuck and it’s painful, but you can’t let it out. Nodding your head, a sad smile stretches across your face. “So… New York, huh?” You joke with him, but he doesn’t smile. “Don’t do this, dove.” He warns — no, he begs. You’ve never heard him beg, but you hope that he never ends up doing it again. “Send letters, please… And take care of yourself too. I can’t wait to see you make it big, Sammie.” You say as you blink your tears away. You try to pull away from the hug but he pulls you back into his strong arms. You look down to the wooden floor and he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. He lets it linger for a few moments and then pulls away from you. You’re no longer in his arms and you no longer feel comforted. Suddenly, though, it’s as if gravity pulls him down to you and his lips are against yours. You can recall the way your Mother would lovingly kiss your Father and how you used to blanch at the sight. But now you understand it all. Your lips stay locked for a few more seconds until he pulls away.

Sam places his forehead against yours and you’re glad because you know you’ll end up with a pain in your neck by tomorrow morning. “I don’t want to go and leave you, dove.” He expresses wholeheartedly, a pang of sadness in his voice that’s usually all bright and cheery. “You have to. Go for me, go for the sake of yourself… Please.” You plead to him. You can easily be selfish and beg him to stay, but you know how much New York means to him. “I’ll drop you home, one last time?” He proposes, linking your arm with his. You nod and let out a breathy chuckle — fake happiness staining your face. You play the act all too well, but Sam knows you better than yourself. He unlocks his arm and pushes you in front of him, hugging you from behind and continuing to walk. He hums an old 50’s tune that you can’t place your finger on. You want him to walk slower; to take shorter strides. The neighbourhood is dark, even though it’s only 7:32. “You’ll write to me, right?” You ask, breaking the silence. It seems that it’s your job, and you don’t mind.

“Of course, I’ll write to you until you can get a phone.” He chuckles in your ear. You laugh with him, knowing how he loves to tease you. “And you’ll visit too?” You question, shivering as a gust of wind blows by. “Are you kidding me? That’s a no brainer, dove.” He says as he squeezes his arms a bit tighter. You revel in the feeling and savour it for however long he’ll be gone. If it was possible, you’d lock the feeling in a jar and store it away forever. You never knew that the walk from his to yours was that quick. You stand outside of your home and turn around, still in Sam’s arms. “You’ll wake me up in the morning, won’t you? Just so that I can say goodbye properly, please.” You ask him, even though you’re practically teetering on the begging side. “Of course, Dovey.” He smiles down at you, and you mirror him. Tears glaze over your eyes and they glisten in the pitch-black darkness of the October night. 

He kisses your forehead and whispers a soft “good night” against your cold skin. You’re not sure if it’s the chilliness or the sadness in his voice that sends shivers throughout your body, but you try to ignore the feeling. You don’t want to go inside, no. You want to spend the whole night with him, doing the things that you both love such as baking and reading poetry. “Go get some rest, dove, I’ll see you in the morning.” He smiles, before starting to back away from you. You nod and turn to walk inside your small home, not even noticing that your grandmother was pacing inside the kitchen. You kept looking back at Sam, just like in those romance movies that you found in the attic when you were 12. He looks at you too, as he slowly inches away from the front of your home. You unlock the door and fall into your grandmother’s arms, letting your sobs reverberate around the room and your tears stream down your face.

You don’t remember falling asleep, and you certainly don’t remember changing your sweater to your llama pyjamas. You wake up and your bloodshot eyes immediately fly to your digital clock. 8:07. You shoot up from your bed and throw your sheets off of your body. The cold harshly welcomes you but you don’t care; you’re not here to stay. You run out of your room and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find, “darn it,” you groan under your breath and your foot doesn’t successfully slide into the shoe. You dart out the door after fumbling with the lock, before running down the street. The lights on the sidewalk are still on, even though it was bright. Your lungs are burning and against their will, you keep on running. “Sam!” You yell, spotting his car parked on the road. You continue to run and start to cry too. Your face and hands are numb from the cold weather. “Sam! Stop!” You yell even louder, feeling as though you’re in a dream.

As much and as quick your feet carry you, you’re still so far from him. He starts up the car and begins to drive away slowly; almost as if he’s purposely stalling for you. You miss the uneven sidewalk that has always been the cause for most of your scars that littered your legs. You fall to the ground and luckily your hands stop you from knocking your head into the concrete. You look up and let out a piercing sob that makes the pigeons fly away. You watch as Sam drives off, leaving you behind without even saying one final goodbye. Your tears fall onto the ground and are immediately soaked up. You can hear your grandmother calling your name through your cries and the distant sound of his car driving away. You’re sure that you look insane, but you don’t care. The love of your life is gone, and he’s not coming back for now.

You stay cooped up in your room for days on end. Occasionally, you help your grandmother out, but you don’t speak much. You stay in your pyjamas, switching between the llama ones and the sloth ones. You’ve convinced yourself that maybe Sam leaving is for the best. Your sadness still dwells, but you’re happy that he’s pursuing his dreams regardless of anything. “I’m so happy you’re feeling better, sweetheart. But if you ever need to talk, I’m always here for you.” Nana tells you, and you give her a sad smile. “Thank you, Nana.” You gently speak, tightening the lid on the jam jar. You give her the plate you prepared and take a seat at the table. “I heard that our new neighbour is coming today, I’m planning on knitting them a sweater and baking something.” She recounts, and you sigh playfully. She lets out a breathy chuckle and you think about your neighbour. Are they a man, or a woman? Are they nice, or rude? Are they like Sam? You ask yourself, but quickly push the third question out of your mind.

“Can I bake them cookies?” You ask her, before digging into your toast. “Of course! Maybe do macadamia ones? And regular ol’ chocolate.” She gleefully adds, the crinkles in her eyes deepening as she smiles widely. She clasps her hands together and lets out a noise of excitement. You watch her with a smile of your own, and you feel grounded. You slowly eat your food and stare out into space, letting your mind wander to the farthest places. You think back to your joyful times with Sam. Each memory makes you miss him more and more, but you keep on telling yourself that he’s in a better place. He’s happy, and that’s all you care for. You eat your food slowly until you realize that it’s half past nine. Shoveling the rest of it into your mouth, you stumble over to the sink and wash your plate as quickly as possible.

“What’s got you in such a rush?” Nana asks, adjusting one of the many sweaters she wears. “The store! It’ll take me awhile to get there, and I really want to avoid running into any of them.” You explain, changing your tone just so that she knows who you’re insinuating at. “Oh… Go on, sweetheart, dress warm!” She ushers you, grabbing your coat for you whilst you run back to your room to change into a sweater. Before, you couldn’t even bear to look at Sam’s favourite sweater of yours; but now you’ve realized that it’s best to face the music. Maroon had always been his favourite colour, and you remembered the joy on his face when you wore your maroon sweater. You smile in front of the mirror, pleased with your appearance. You grab your coat and slide your shoes on, before yelling goodbye to your Nana.

You hum some random Halloween tune under your breath and slowly walk down the street. Your eyes are trained on your hands as you fiddle with them. Suddenly, you crash into a slightly soft yet hard wall. You whine in pain, still weak as ever, something that Sam would playfully mock you about. “You should watch where you’re going, little one.” A husky voice warns playfully. You furrow your brows -- one of your many little traits that was left in your Mother’s will for you. “I’m so sorry, Sir! I didn’t mean t- to bump into you, I swear.” Litanies of apologies spill from your mouth and you don’t even look up at your victim. “Don’t worry, little one... Hopefully you’ve learned your lesson.” He lets out a breathy chuckle as he stares you down. Your eyes move from your hands to the house next to you, and you notice the abundant amount of luggage.

Embarrassment engulfs you in a tight grip and you groan softly. “You must be my sweet neighbour, hm?” He teases just like Sam would. You shyly nod and squeeze your hands together as you begin to become nervous. You hesitatingly look up at him, and your breath is taken away. You’re sure that he’s God’s favourite, because no regular man is as beautiful as he is. “Uh, yeah! Nice to meet you…” You introduce yourself and give him your name, reveling in the way it rolls off his tongue and falls past his lips. You nod your head and smile at him, your trip to the store long forgotten. “I’m James, James Buchanan Barnes.” He smirks. His accent… His accent is different. A Brooklyn drawl mixed with a few European accents. “Oh sweetheart! I thought you left!” Nana calls out, startling you and slightly annoying James.

“I uh… I bumped into our new neighbour!” You exclaim to her, stepping away from him so that she can wrap her arms around his large form. She does exactly that, and the large man — James — reciprocates. She pulls away after a few fleeting seconds and sighs, staring up at him. You watch him with wonderment and tune out your grandmother’s sweet voice. Dressed in all black, long hair, a five o’ clock shadow and a beautiful face. You find yourself in some sort of trance, eyes raking him up and down with no shame. His do the same, except he’s more careful and sly about it. “Thank you for your welcome, maybe we could get to know each other better?” He offers, raising his eyebrows and both you and your grandma. You both eagerly agree, excited to learn more about your new, elusive neighbour. “Sweetheart, how about you take our neighbour, James, with you to the store? Give him a little tour?” She proposes. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to.” James entices.

“I… Of course!”

You and Bucky — James, but he insists on you calling him Bucky — walk slowly to the store. Every now and then, the wind picks up and sends shivers throughout your body. The cold doesn’t faze him, he tells you. “I actually prefer autumn, fall, whatever you kids call it these days, over anything else.” He jokes around, making you bubble out in giggles. He smiles down at you and watches you with careful eyes. “Shy? Your laugh is very cute, little one.” Your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets as he praises you. “Uh, yeah, uhm, thank you so much…” You gleam and preen under his gaze, and Bucky is already in love with the sight. “Hobbies?” He questions, shooting a glare at those that even dare to glance at the two of you. “Writing and baking! But mostly writing, what about you?” You ask, shoving your cold hands into your pockets.

“Hmm, I’m not sure. It depends… Perhaps watching...” He ponders out loud. “Like bird watching?” You press, looking up at him for a bit. His eyes lock with yours and you can’t seem to look away. “You’ll see, little dove.” He reassures you, still staring back at you. You shyly look away and keep quiet for the rest of the walk. A faint smile is on your face and you’re not sure why he’s the cause of it. You let it fall and keep your shy resolve. “Is that the store?” He asks you after a minute or two of silence. You nod and don’t utter a word, scared that you’ll end up rambling to him. You bit your lip as you try to hold in your glee as you notice that the supermarket has already been decked out with Halloween decorations. “Do you celebrate Halloween?” Bucky questions, grabbing a cart for the two of you. “Mhm, favourite holiday ever. I love everything about it! You?” You try to keep your reply short, but when it’s about your favourite holiday you just can’t resist.

He agrees with you, and you’re happy that he isn’t a scrooge about Halloween. You lead him through the aisles and pick up what you need, and want. Bucky pushes the cart for you and makes sure you don’t wander out of his sight. The Halloween and autumn display catches your eye and your heart fills with a type of glee that only holidays can bring. You want to pick up everything — from the Halloween cookie cutters to the small decorations that would look lovely sprinkled around your home. You don’t even hear Bucky behind you because you’re too caught up in deciding what you want. Bucky watches you with careful eyes, trying to figure out what’s going through your head. “You should get one of everything, maybe a few little ghosts, three pumpkins,” he suggests to you, “it’s Halloween, you’re not allowed to only get one thing.”

You giggle and shake your head, even though he’s right in your mind. “I wish I could, but I need to spend my money on needs and not wants.” You sadly admit, wishing that you had the type of money the other’s in town have. You walk away from the display and you don’t give it another look, before heading to the freezers for your eggs and milk. Bucky frowns deeply and watches as you slowly walk away. He picks up almost everything that’s on the display and throws it into the cart. He could never see a frown on your face ever again, knowing that his heart would break into two. He trails behind you slowly, forced to make his usually long strides shorter just for you. You turn around to place the milk and eggs in the cart and a heart gasp leaves your mouth. You look up at him in shock, which then turns into your usual confusion.

“Uh- Are you getting those?” Your voice is no more than a mere whisper, and Bucky is lucky that he can hear you. “Nope, for you.” He pops the ‘p’ and then smirks at you. You’re flabbergasted. Shock and confusion still reside in your mind and you can’t find it in you to object to him. “I’m paying for it, little dove.” He reassures you, his voice turning from gravelly and deep to soft and calm. You smile brightly at him and without thinking, you engulf him in a hug. He revels in your touch and pulls you closer to his warm body. Bucky rests his chin on your head and dips his nose down to your hair, inhaling your scent before you could pull away. You stare up at him and smile widely, letting out a squeal of happiness. “Thank you so much! Oh my- How do I repay you? That’s so much money, is there anything I can do for you?” You ramble, straining your neck to look up at him.

“Hmm… I would love to be your friend, and maybe I could come for dinner every now and then?” He ponders aloud and you immediately agree. You couldn't wait to go home and tell your grandmother, knowing that she would be the happiest woman on Earth. You both go through the aisles again and he keeps on encouraging you to pick up the things that you lay your eyes on. The cart is filled and your heart is fluttering with gratefulness. Everytime he shoots a look your way, you send one right back at him. His eyes are the colour of the sea, beautiful and bright yet dark and mysterious. Yours, on the other hand, are soft and innocent. Both are just as beautiful, though. “Once again, thank you so much, Mr. Barnes.” You say, smiling at him. He carries all of your bags and you hold a small, painted pumpkin to your chest.

“Don’t worry, little dove. Oh, and call me anything but Mr. Barnes, formalities haven’t been my thing as of now.” He speaks with eloquence and such grace that makes you think he’s from another century. You giggle before speaking, “you speak like you’re from another century…” You joke, before giggling again. Bucky’s jaw hardens and his stare goes from adoring to menacing. You stop laughing when you don’t hear him joining you with his own rupture. Swallowing thickly, you look ahead to the horizon. It has already gotten a bit cloudy, but you don’t mind. You’re careful to not trip on your own feet, wanting to avoid embarrassing yourself for the second time. “Sorry about the joke, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…” You apologize after around five minutes of silence. You chew on the slightly dry skin on your bottom lip as you wait for him to speak.

“It’s okay, little dove.” He smiles, not even letting it drop. You look down at your ghost-painted pumpkin and smile, before giving it a kiss. Bucky snorts, making you pout at him. “Hey!” You cry out it faux offence. He only laughs harder, before biting his lip. The sight of you pouting at him sends blood rushing down south, but you’re oblivious to what you’re doing. The rest of the walk home is filled with jokes and questions about each other. During another moment of silence, you realize that you haven’t thought of Sam since this morning. You feel guilty at first, knowing that it’s wrong to forget about him so quickly. Shame eats you up like it’s starved until your mind convinces you otherwise. Sam would be so happy that you didn’t dwell on him leaving, he’d be so proud of you. You promise yourself that you won’t be sad, but you also won’t forget him. Ever.

“Do you have any other friends?” Bucky asks you as you both turn a corner. He remains closer to the road, whereas you're on the inside. “I had one, but he left to go pursue his dreams in New York.” You sadly explain to him, and he lets out an “oh.” You turn again, but this time you’ve reached your home. Your grandmother can be seen dancing around the kitchen, flour in her grey hair and an apron on top of her fuzzy sweater. “I can take them in now.” You tell Bucky, stretching your arms out to him. He lets out a breathy chuckle, what seems to be one of his many habits, and walks towards your home. You’re in shock once again, before realizing that you haven’t moved. You run behind him and frown as you see that the door was unlocked the entire time.

“Nana! Did you leave the door unlocked again?” You ask her and you hug the smaller woman. “Oh, I probably forgot to unlock it… ‘m sorry, sweetheart.” She apologizes against your forehead that she just covered in kisses. You can’t blame her, honestly. Slowly but surely, her old age had started to catch up to her. “Uhm, Mr. Barnes bought all this stuff for us, Nana! Can he stay for dinner? As a thank you?” You excitedly ask her, and she mimics your happiness with a smile that’s similar to yours.. “Of course! Thank you so much, Mr. Barnes.” She gratefully expresses and ushers Bucky further into your home. You take your shoes and jacket off and he does the same, wishing that you could shed more than that. “It’s nothing, and please, call me Bucky or James.” He assures in his Brooklyn-European drawl. He watches you with careful eyes and doesn’t tear his gaze away from you.

Dinner is lively. It’s more lively than it’s ever been since you were seven years of age. You’re all laughing, smiling and happy. Even though it’s only 5 in the evening, it’s still dark. “Where are you from, James?” Nana asks him, and he gulps thickly. “Romania, actually. But I grew up in Brooklyn.” He recounts to you, and then shoves some pasta into his mouth. The flavour of spicy marinara fills his mouth along with yours as well. Through a full mouth, he still speaks. “This is amazing!” He exclaims, covering his mouth with the utmost politeness. Your Nana thanks him and you nod in agreement. The rest of the evening is filled with compliments and questions, but also with wandering eyes and strong gazes. Six o’ clock hits, and 7, 8 and 9 does too. “Well, I should go retire now, thank you for the lovely welcome.” He sighs deeply, almost as though he is regretful. You say good night to him before running off to your room.

Bucky closes his door behind him and hastily shed his clothing off of himself. Underneath his dark black jeans is his hard cock. Dripping with pre-cum from it’s raging red tip, he throbs with want and need. He’s not sure if he should take care of it or not, but as soon as he thinks of you all plausibility flies out the window. He rushes up to his room, dark red walls and ominous lighting are all a blur to him. His room is even darker. The only bright things in it are the many photos of you that line his bedside tables and walls. He walks up to the window and pulls the purple curtains to the side. He watches you cuddle with your stuffed animals — your innocence only making him harder. His cock hangs heavily and he still has the urge to jerk off. “No, I have to be patient.” He tells himself, pulling his boxers back up. “Just one more fucking day until you’re all mine, little dove.”

You wake up earlier than you usually do. Rousing from sleep with a smile on your face, you find yourself in the same clothing from yesterday. You frown and walk into the bathroom for a quick shower. The water is as cold as the winter, and you have no choice but to bear it. Even though your teeth chatter, you tough it out as much as you can. Today… Today is Halloween. You jump with glee and joy for your favourite holiday. You don’t even bother making your bed because the decorations waiting for you are far more enticing. “Nana! I’m going to decorate the house!” You yell to hear, earning a loud “ok” from her in return. You grab your two step ladder that Shuri gave you when you were 15 and you sigh with delight. In just a mere two hours, you’re able to turn your home into the perfect Halloween.

Your stomach continues to growl, but you choose to ignore it. You play old Halloween classics in the background that you found in your father’s DVD and cassette collection. Nostalgia hits you like a truck and you recount all the memories of your childhood. You sniffle a bit as Coraline’s voice rambles on from behind you. Rubbing away the tears that threaten to spill, you continue to place fake pumpkins around the living room. You occasionally get distracted from the movies that play in the background, dragging you away from your tasks. The doorbell suddenly rings, sending a sharp shrill piercing through your calmness. You keep a hand on your heart as it beats through your chest. You rush to the door and quickly unlock it, just to see Bucky in all his great glory.

“Bucky! Hi!” You greet him, moving out of the way so that he could come in. “You’re up awfully early.” He notes, choosing to stay outside. You nod and smile at him, before remembering your manners. “Oh! Happy Halloween!” You tell him, holding out a ghost cookie for him to take. He takes it and devours it like he’s a starved man. “Happy Halloween to you too, little dove. I see you’re decorating. Is that what’s got you up so early?” He asks you, drinking in your form. Nothing else but an overly large cable knit sweater… Fucking beautiful. “Yep! Are you going to decorate?” You ask him in return, leaning on the doorframe. You notice that he’s holding a tray of desserts that make your mouth water. “No, not really. But I am baking, can you try this for me? I don’t really trust myself.” He smirks, handing the tray to you.

You gladly take it and your stomach rumbles loudly, embarrassing you. Bucky laughs but you shy away, turning your face away from him. You take a cookie from his tray and devour it because you are starved. “C- Can I have them all? They’re so amazing, Bucky!” You exclaim, nearly drooling at the amazing taste. “Go ahead, little dove.” He ushers with a wicked smirk that you pay no mind to. You shovel cookies into your mouth like no tomorrow. He watches you, tilting his head and palming himself through his jeans. His half-hard cock slightly bulges through the material, but you can’t see it. You hand him back his tray that’s covered in crumbs and a few sprinkles. Bucky stretches his hand out towards your face and grabs your chin gently. He uses his thumb to wipe the crumbs and slight drool off of your mouth. His thumb dances over your lips and you look at him with such doe eyes that he can feel himself get harder.

“Be sure to come trick or treating at my house, little dove, I have something special to give you.” He says, before smiling at you and walking away. You watch him and feel yourself start to smile brightly. You haven’t felt this way about anyone, not even Sam. Bucky… Bucky is different. He holds this elusiveness that keeps you hooked like he’s a drug. You feel your heart fluttering and butterflies flying, even though you’ve only known Bucky for almost two days. “Was that James, sweetheart?” Nana asks, just waking up. You turn around and nod, remembering the way he let you have all his cookies without even hesitating a bit. “Can I trick or treat-ing tonight? Please Nana! I’ll be safe, I promise.” You beg her, folding your hands together in a plea. “Of course, sweetheart. Just stay safe, okay? I don’t want anything bad happening to you.” She agrees, making you squeal. “Of course, Nana!”

Your stomach cramps up, but it isn’t too painful. Something… Something sticky and slick pours out of your cunt and you don’t know what it is. You don’t want to miss out on your trick or treat-ing, so you choose to keep quiet. You walk with your thighs clenched together; the only way the pain will relieve itself. You say a quick goodbye to Nana and exhale heavily as soon as you get outside. Your makeshift cat ears rest on your head perfectly and you try to keep your smile from faltering. An older choker your mom had from the 90’s is wrapped around your neck and even has a bell on it. You slowly walk to Bucky’s house, which has a single pumpkin on the doorstep and nothing more. You hold a pumpkin basket in your hands and admire the way kids run from one house to the next on their own missions. You turn back to Bucky’s house and raise your fist up to the door, but an extremely painful cramp stops you.

You double over and try to keep in a cry of pain. The door suddenly opens and Bucky looks down at you in pain. “Oh little dove, is everything okay? Do you want to come in? Here- Let me help you.” He rambles as he grabs a hold of you. He leads you into his home and you don’t even look around to admire it. You fall to the floor and sob in pain, begging for help. “Shhh, be quiet, hey, no tears now… I’m here to help.” He lifts you up with ease and reassures you at the same time. Bucky gently sets you onto his couch and takes your jacket off of you. You drop your pumpkin bucket and realize that your palms are overly sweaty. “Wh- What’s happening to me, Bucky? It hurts so b- bad!” You cry out, falling onto your back and pulling your legs up to your chest for comfort.

Bucky cooes and you and pulls you up to him. He cradles you to his chest and shushes you. Your sobs echo throughout his living room and your tears soak into his sweater. You look up at him and he flashes you a smile, fangs sparkling and sharp. You gasp through your sobs before realizing that he dressed up as a vampire for Halloween. Bucky runs his hands up and down your body, caressing you gently. He pulls the headband out of your hair and plays with the bell on your collar. His left hand — which was covered in a glove — trails it’s way between your thighs. You’re soaked, leggings damp and sticky and so are your thighs. He pulls your pants down, and you’re too out of it to even realize what’s going on. He lifts you up slightly to untangle your pants from your feet and you take the opportunity to look around his house. Through your bleary eyesight, you can see pictures of someone scattered along the crimson red walls.

You squint and try to figure out why the pictures look so fucking familiar. Bucky stands back up and blocks your view. His hands travel up to the bottom of your black sweater and he rips it into two instead of pulling it over your head. You furrow your eyebrows as you feel a sudden gust of coldness taking over your body. “W- What?” You rub your head in confusion and realize that you’re naked. “Shh, it’s okay little dove. Your Master will take care of you now…” He reassures you again, but he only makes you more confused. “Aw my dumb little baby doesn’t know what’s going on?” He mocks, before lightly slapping your face. Drool leaks out from the corner of your mouth and your eyes are glazed over. “You see, dove… You were made for me! I’ve spent centuries searching for the perfect little dove for myself, and there you were. You know, I know every little thing about you? I’ve been watching you for years, baby.” He explains, and you furrow your eyebrows.

He opens his mouth to speak and continues to tell you every little thing he has done. “All these pictures are all of you. You’re so beautiful, baby. Sam never had to leave, but he was in the way of everything. Too bad he tried to come back, now he’s at the bottom of Lake Erie. Oh and those bullies? The people that thought it was okay to make my little dove feel like shit? They’re dead too, it’s not like they magically disappeared. And since you’re so out of it, I might as well tell you. I’m a vampire.” Bucky bluntly monologues, leaving you in shock and horror. You feel the urge to throw up, but you also want to scream and cry your heart out. You feel your chest tighten and you gasp for breath. “Shh it’s okay, little dove.” He whispers in your ear, before nibbling on the skin. “Are- Are you-” You try to ask him a question, but the pain is so bad that you can’t speak properly.

He nods his head and presses a few kisses on your face. You grumble and pull away in disgust, before trying to pull away from Bucky. “Aw that’s fine, I love it when my prey has a bit of fight.” He chuckles, before pushing you away from your body. “I’m going to give you five seconds, and you’re going to try to run away. I’m going to catch you, okay little dove?” He explains, and he doesn’t even give you time to agree. “Five,” he shouts, making you jump. You try your hardest to ignore your pain and focus on escaping. You know the door isn’t a possibility, so you dash down the hallway. “Four!” He calls out in a sing-song voice. You cringe and turn on your right, going up the dark stairs. “Three! Two! One!” He yells out, before running after you. You run into a room and shut the door behind you, before realizing that your inner thighs were glistening and sticky.

You reach down to your thighs and run your finger through the slickness that drips down. You’re too distracted by it to notice that Bucky was nearing you. Suddenly, the door bursts open and you're falling onto the floor. Bucky quickly pounces on top of you and rips your bra into two. You cry out but you know that nobody will be able to hear you. “Fuck, I can’t wait to ruin you, turn you into my personal dumb little slut.” He spits, pushing your legs apart. He tears your underwear off of you and you sob loudly. Bucky smashes his lips against yours, dominating you in the kiss even though you can barely register it. He runs his thick fingers through your sopping wet folds. Your clit is swollen and sensitive and you’re leaking like no tomorrow. He rubs your clit slowly, enjoying the way you write wildly underneath him.

He shoves his tongue into your mouth and his left hand comes up to wrap itself around your throat. He squeezes the sides and you let out a throaty moan. You don’t know what any of the things you’re feeling are. He presses harder on your clit and pressure builds up in your lower abdomen. White hot flames burn inside of you with passion. Suddenly, Bucky pushes a finger into your tight, wet hole. He feels around and chuckles wickedly when he finds your special spot. You see blurry stars in your vision. “That’s my good little dove, taking her Master’s fingers so well.” He praises against your lips, before kissing you fervently. He quickly thrusts it in and out of you, watching as you go through at least fifty different emotions. Tingles erupt throughout your entire body, and you whimper against Bucky’s mouth.

His finger continues to massage against your g-spot and you cry out in pleasure. “W- What’s happening, Bucky?” You ask him in confusion and bewilderment. “Don’t think, little dove, just feel.” He shuts you up quickly and suddenly the pressure that was building up explodes. Your jaw slacks and drool leaks out of your mouth as your cunt constricts around his finger. “Look at you, going all stupid with my finger in your pretty little cunt. I bet you won’t be able to handle my big fat cock in your pussy, ruining you over and over.” He growls, grinding his hard cock against your thigh. He continues to fuck you with his finger, despite your protests and pleads for him to stop. The feeling is too much for you to handle, but that doesn’t stop him. He pulls his finger out of your cunt and the pains immediately return.

He sucks your arousal off of his finger and moans at the sweet taste. Suddenly, he gets off of you and picks you up easily. You’re still in your collar, much to Bucky’s enjoyment. “Why are you crying? Hm? I’m helping you out, little dove. This isn’t wrong or anything, okay? I would never do anything wrong, and I’m quite hurt that you think I’m a bad person.” He whispers, shaking you in his grip. “I…” You don't know what to say. He knows what’s right and what’s wrong… you don’t. “I’m just helping you out, little dove. Because you’re mine, and I love you. This is love, okay? Anything else is just bullshit.” His whisper turns into a ferocious growl, scaring you. He throws you onto his large bed and puts you on your knees. Bucky strips himself quickly, eager to feel you wrapped around his cock.

“Say ‘ah’ little dove.” He smirks, and your jaw hesitatingly slacks open. He pushes his boxers down and his leaking cock bounces up. Truly, he is big. Long and thick, a phenomenon. He grabs the base and gives himself a few strokes, rubbing the pre-cum that leaks from his tip onto your tongue. He moans softly and suddenly pushes into your mouth. Bucky’s cock hits the back of your throat and you gag loudly. Bucky shoves your head down his cock until your nose meets his pubic hair. He keeps you there for a few seconds, enjoying the way you struggle around his cock. Your gags resonate in the room and your tongue laves against the bottom of his cock. Thick veins throb and pulsate against your wet muscle. The manly, musky taste of him fills your mouth and you’re in love with it.

He growls loudly and slowly moves your head up and down for you. Your bell jingles with each movement and he fucks your face relentlessly. Your gags fill the room and fresh tears stream down your face. You try your hardest to breathe slowly, but Bucky’s cock makes it difficult for you. His swollen, heavy balls slap against your spit-soaked chin and he thrusts in and out of your mouth. He moans loudly and the need to cum grows. You struggle to breathe and easily remember all those nights of panic attacks. You hit against his thigh gently, looking up at him so that he can let you breathe. Black dots decorate your vision and you can see Bucky smiling down at you before moaning loudly. He suddenly pulls you away from his cock and trails of saliva follow. You gasp for air as though you were just drawing. Or you were thirteen and having a panic attack in the hospital as you watch the doctors cover your mother’s head with a sheet.

After a few seconds, Bucky shoves you back onto his cock and you let him. “Shit, such a good fucking girl. Look so beautiful with your face stuffed full with my cock, so good.” He praises, making you preen under him. You grab onto his thighs for support and let yourself be limp under his touch, fully trusting him. Your short nails leave crescent shaped scars that make Bucky hiss. Bucky uses your mouth like a fleshlight, chasing his orgasm without stopping. He moans loudly and you can feel more slickness leaking out of you. It comes in ten-fold but you know that he’ll take care of you. You just know it, deep down in your innocent heart. “Oh, fuck!” He shouts loudly, his metal arm whirring wildly. “Fuck, ‘m going to cum.” He moans, thrusting even harder. You feel yourself losing air, and you wonder if you’re going to pass out. Soon, Bucky pushes your head down and his hips still.

Hot, thick ropes of cum shoots from his tip and he fills your mouth up with no shame or regret. It’s so much, too much. His cum overflows and leaks from your mouth and you’re left with no choice but to swallow it all. Bucky pulls his hard cock out of your mouth and smiles at you. There’s still some left on the corners of your mouth, and a thin sheen of his covers his cock. “You looked so fucking slutty with my cock down your throat, little dove. I know you liked it.” He smiles down at you, before pressing a chaste kiss on your forehead. Bucky once again picks you up, but this time he throws you at the mountain of pillows. He climbs on top of you and kisses you passionately. You try to mimic what he’s doing, but you soon give up. He chuckles against your mouth and pushes your legs against your chest. Bucky grabs the base of his cock and he settles between your legs. Your sticky thighs touch his and he pulls away from your mouth.

“You want your Master’s cock, don’t you little dove? You’re drooling for it, and so is your cunt.” He husks, making you whimper. He slaps the tip against your clit and you jolt from the sensitivity. He rubs his cockhead through your soaking folds and teases your sopping hole. “Y- Yes, Master…” You sheepishly admit, not even knowing what either of you are saying. He curses under his breath and drops his head into the crook of your neck. He bares his teeth with a not-so quiet hiss and drags his fangs against that spot on your neck. He’s careful to avoid your collar, knowing that his sharp teeth can easily destroy the cheap lace of it. “O târfa atât de bună, atât de bună pentru stăpânul ei.” The European langue falls from his mouth beautifully and you have no idea as to what he’s saying.

Bucky feels you getting wetter as he speaks, your cunt giving away how much of a slut you are for him. The throbbing veins of his cock pulsate against your needy pussy, much like how they were throbbing in your mouth. Your wetness mixes with the extra cum and saliva that stained his cock from before. You’re a complete mess. Cunt dripping, drool leaking and you're panting like a wanton bitch in heat. Bucky moves his head up to your ear, lciking the shell of it. “O să te iau iar și iar, o să te fac o mizerie stupidă pe scula mea. Poate și degetele și gura mea, te voi umple iar și iar. Ți-ar plăcea asta, nu-i așa? Porumbelul meu... Atât de nevinovat. Abia aștept să te văd plin cu sperma mea, o să-ți distrug păsărica.” He groans in your ear, watching you become needier and needier with each fleeting moment.

“You want my cock? Beg for it, beg for it little dove. Let the whole neighbourhood hear how much of a cockslut you are.” He commands loudly, pulling his face away to see you burn up. You don’t know what to say, so you choose to remain silent. You look up at him, his eyes dark and blown out. They no longer carry that comforting look that you trust. “Aw, does my little dove need some help? That’s okay, I’m here to take care of you. You gotta repeat after me, okay? It’s okay if you hesitate or stutter, but don’t go purposefully messing it up.” He explains, before slapping you lightly. Your bell jingles and Bucky chuckles along with it. “Say that you want your Master’s cock so bad- that you need it. And beg for it too.” He elucidates, and you let out a little ‘oh.’ “I… I want you c- cock so bad, Master! I need it, please give it to me! I’ll do anything, just please give me your c- cock… Please, Master? I’ll be so good!” You plead, taking both you and Bucky by surprise.

He gets even harder than he already is and he can swear he could cum on the spot right there and then. “Fuck, little dove, you’re already my little slut and I haven’t even fucked you yet.” He remarks, before slapping the fat tip of his cock on your swollen button. One. Two. Three. You yelp and whine each time, before begging him again. “P- Please, Master…” You mewl, throwing your head back. Bucky growls at the sight of your pretty neck, all sweaty and ready for him to sink his fangs into. Suddenly, he pushes into your tight, wet cunt. His thick cock painfully stretches you out, but all he feels is pleasure. Your pain soon turns into euphoria and you feel full… A little too full. “Ngh… Master...” You whine in pain. Bucky fills you up to the brim and it’s almost like he’s never going to bottom out.

The sounds leaving your mouth make it hard for him to control himself. He wraps his metal hand around your neck and looks down to where you’re connected. Through your stomach, you could see his cock bulging through. The sight has him ready to pound you into oblivion. Bucky begins to snap his hips back and forth, hammering into you at an inhumane pace. Your mouth falls slack and your eyes roll back into your head. Your hands search to hold something for support, but you can’t find anything. “La naiba, ești atât de strâmt, porumbel mic.” He growls under his breath and you moan loudly. The sound is lewd and pornographic. Loud, wet squelching noises reverberate each time his cock drags against your sensitive walls.

“Uită-te la tine, atât de drăguță cu scula mea mare care ți-o trage. Îți distrug păsărica inocentă.” he moans, fucking you even faster. Wetness coats his cock and you’re moaning litanies of “Master” over and over. His balls slap against your ass and Bucky pounds into you relentlessly. The light from the moon shines brightly and you look like a beauty under him. Bucky squeezes the sides of your throat even harder and your tits bounce with every harsh thrust of his cock. His other hand, the flesh one, moves to your swollen and sensitive clit. He begins to rub your pearl with slow, hard ministrations. You clench around Bucky’s cock and can feel that weird fire inside you burning up again. “M- Master! That- That thing… It’s happening!” You cry out, feeling the veins of his cock throb against your walls.

Tears fall from your eyes and Bucky coles at you. “Poor little dove, can’t handle your Master’s big, fat cock.” He husks, staring at your stomach as he can so is cock driving in and out of your tight pussy. “Master!” You cry out abruptly, your back arching off of his soft bed. Your pussy convulses around his big cock, milking him for all his worth as you cum. You gush all over him, cum dripping all over your pussy and his cock. You continue to clench around him, hugging him tightly as he continues to fuck you. Bucky stops rubbing your overwrought clit and pressing down on the bulge of his cock. “Look, little dove. Look at how good your Master is filling you up, deep in your tight pussy.” he growls, making you look down. You moan even louder at the sight of his cock bulging through your stomach. “C’mon, beg for your Master to fill you up.” He demands, fucking you even harder. Through your moans and sobs, you manage to speak.

“Pl- Please fill me up, Master. Please, I ne- need it so- so badly…” You beg, before cumming again. You squeeze Bucky’s cock even tighter and soak his cock with your sticky cum. Bucky snarls like a ferocious animal as he feels you milk his cock for his cum. “F- la naiba, rahat, am de gând să cum. O să te umplu, porumbelul. Fill you up to the brim with my cock, watch it leak out of this pretty pussy ‘a yours.” He groans, his thrusts becoming more and more sloppy. “Give me one more, little dove. I know you’re sensitive, but you can do it, cum on my cock.” He growls, and on command, you come undone around him. Bucky sinks his teeth into your neck, making you cry out in agony. His hips still and his balls tighten up as he cums. Thick, hot, white streaks and ribbons of cum paint your walls and you both moan at the feeling. He keeps his cock locked inside you and laps up the crimson liquid that spills from your neck.

You can feel him getting even harder inside you and you moan loudly. Bucky lazily kisses you with his blood soaked mouth. You whimper as you can taste the metallic flavour of it on your tongue, but he only cooes at you like you’re a little baby. “Bu- Master? Am- Am I going to turn into a vampire?” You frightfully ask him once you’ve calmed down. “No, but you are mine. You always have and you always will be mine.” He smirks, rubbing his nose against yours. Your pains haven’t completely dissipated, and Bucky knows that. Feeling his cum spill around his cock, leaking out of you, he chuckles like usual. “Can I go back home, please?” You beg him, thinking about your poor grandmother. He shakes his head and his jaw clenches with anger. “You’re not leaving me, little dove. No matter what.” He reassures, starting to slowly thrust into you. You moan softly and close your eyes, letting sleep take you over.

“I love you, little dove. You’re mine, and there’s no way you’re escaping me.”

WARNINGS. | Dark!Vampire!Bucky, feeding, murder.

[sensei-aishitemasu]

2020 Black-Owned Gift Guide!

2020 Black-Owned Gift Guide!

It’s that time again! Our SIXTH ANNUAL BLACK-OWNED GIFT GUIDE IS HERE!!!! This Black Friday, try and support a Black-owned business for all your gift-giving needs. For last years gift guide, click here. For the 2018 gift guide, click here. For the 2017 gift guide, click here. For the 2016 gift guide, click here. For the 2015 gift guide, click here.

Similar to previous lists, I kept every individual item listed under $100! Click on the links to be taken to the websites in order to peruse more yourselves: all businesses listed are Black-owned, and many are run by Black women, Black Americans specifically, manufactured here in the United States, and/or sustainably and ethically sourced with philanthropic causes attached to sales! Check them out. 

In addition, this year there are THREE NEW CATEGORIES! Check out items for the ‘Goth/Kawaii,’ for your ‘Activist Bae,’ and for the ‘Esoteric’ down below.

[As always, this guide has been split into categories to make it easier to get through, but feel free to mix and match for the person in your life that fits all of (or none of!) these categories!]

For the Homebody:

Lettie Gooch Small Safety Matches, $18 Lettie Gooch Amber & Moss Soy Candle, $20 Lettie Gooch White Concrete White Tea & Ginger Candle, $28 Lettie Gooch Planetarium Throw Blanket, $68 Lettie Gooch Soleil Throw Blanket, $68

Debra Cartwright ‘Bike’ Watercolor Print, $38 Debra Cartwright ‘Aura’ Watercolor Print, $87 Debra Cartwright ‘Astro Millennial Ladies in Quarantine’ Coloring Book, $5

Harlem Candle Company ‘Brownstone’ Luxury Candle, $45 Harlem Candle Company ‘Lenox’ Luxury Room Spray, $30 Harlem Candle Company ‘Langston’ Luxury Room Spray, $30

Jungalow Genie Vase, $89 Jungalow Handwoven Peach Planter, $49 Jungalow Azul Face Pillow by Justina Blakeney X Loloi, $89 Jungalow Soft Mint Pillow, $89 Jungalow Aja Wallpaper in Green by Justina Blakeney, $5 (per sheet) Jungalow Tigris Wallpaper in Onyx by Justina Blakeney, $5 (per sheet) Jungalow Cream Looped Wool Rug, $99.00 Jungalow Silvia Teal & Berry Rug by Justina Blakeney X Loloi, $69.00 Jungalow Striped Orange Outdoor Rug, $59.00 Jungalow Reindeer Games Hook Pillow by Justina Blakeney, $60.00 Jungalow Peace Vase by Justina Blakeney, $68.00 

Kashmir Viii ‘S is for Soul’ Print, $35-$45 

Galerie LA Rooted Incense Holder, $45

Duchess365 358 Art Print, $23.99 

Jeff Manning Art ‘Aplomb’ Art Print, $45 Jeff Manning Art ‘Pacific’ Art Print, $30

Kicky Mats ‘Get Naked’ Bath Mat, $30 Kicky Mats ‘Did You Wash Your Hands?’ Doormat, $50 Kicky Mats ‘Go Away, Come Back With Wine’ Doormat, $50 Kicky Mats ‘Did You Call First?’ Doormat, $50

228 Grant Street Candle Co. Tobacco + Patchouli Gold Travel Tin, $11 228 Grant Street Candle Co. Wild Blackberry + Absinthe Amber Jar, $21 228 Grant Street Candle Co. Oakmoss + Amber Apothecary Jar, $32

Shea Makery Strawberry Cheesecake Signature Candle, $40 Shea Makery Cinna-Bowl Signature Candle, $40

The Silver Room Cider and Cedar Leaf Candle, $34 The Silver Room Rose Water & Tea Leaves Diffuser, $28 The Silver Room Minnie Ripperton - Les Fleur Vinyl, $26

Rituals + Ceremony Anonomy Sculptures, $79 Rituals + Ceremony USB Travel Ultrasonic Essential Oil Diffuser, $25

Handcrafted Ceramic Watering Cans, $64

Fill More Waste Less Natural Loofah Sponge, $2.50 Fill More Waste Less Food Huggers, $12. 99 

Ment Nelson Backwoods Baptism Print, $50 Ment Nelson Old Sheldon Print, $40

Quarantine Games!

Trading Races, $19.99

Winsults, $25

Cards For All People - Black Card Revoked (First Edition), $17.99

Trap Wars - The Urban Game Night Experience, $22.99

Lyrically Correct 90's & 2000's Hip Hop/R&B Edition, $24.99

Black Wall Street - The Black History Board Game, $49.99

Pull Your Card Music Trivia: Hip Hop Edition, $14.99

Spill It Card Game, $23

'Verified' A Party Game for Social Media Lovers (Original Edition), $19.99

For the Foodie:

Kashmir Viii ‘The Black Power’ Mixtape Coasters, $40 Kashmir Viii ‘Reclaim It’ Mug, $16 Kashmir Viii ‘I Slay.’ Clutch, $45 

Galerie LA Peak and Valley Balance Blend, $30 

‘The Cooking Gene,’ by Michael W. Twitty, $28.99 

‘From Crook to Cook: Platinum Recipes From the Boss Dog’s Kitchen’ by Snoop Dogg, $24.95 

Essie Spice Signature Sauce Collection, $42 

‘Your Guide to Tasteful Manners’ with Love Cork Screw, $19.95 

‘Deliciously Vegan’ Cookbook by The Chic Natural, $28.95 

EAT Apron, $30

Midnight Reflections Crowned White Ceramic Mug, $19.99

The Spice Suite Utensils + Oven Mitts, $50 The Spice Suite ‘The Little Black Spice Book’ (E-book), $30

Rituals + Ceremony Circle Mug, $40 Rituals + Ceremony Agate 6pc Plate Set, $24

Blk + Grn Stainless Steel Tea Ball Infuser, $4

Fill More Waste Less Reusable Tea Strainer, $14.99

Good Thoughts Tea Co. Tea Spoon Set, $12

KazvareMadeIt Personalised Alphabet Mug Tile Print, $20.99 KazvareMadeIt Banananana Cushion, $55.80

Addie Rawr ‘Addie's Cocktail Collection’ (Cards & Prints), $3.75

For the Beauty Guru:

Lettie Gooch Blends Perfume: Earth, $30 Lettie Gooch Bloom Perfume Blend No. 586, $48 

Galerie LA Hand Sanitizer, $10 Galerie LA Cream Cleanser, $16 Galerie LA Citrine Sea Tropical Exfoliator, $18 Galerie LA Botanica Rose Roller, $14 Galerie LA Botanica Lavender Roller, $14 Galerie LA Aurora Superfood Elixer (Face Serum), $27 Galerie LA Jade Eye Mask, $44 Galerie LA Rose Quartz Facial Roller, $28.00 

Shea Makery Scar Healing Serum, $23 Shea Makery Cinnamon Bun Body Butter, $25 Shea Makery Glazed Donut Body Butter, $25 Shea Makery Milk + Honey + Syrup Bubble Bath, $22 Shea Makery Honeycomb Bath Set, $16

The Lip Bar Cheek and Eye Palette, $15  The Lip Bar ‘Goddess’ Lipgloss, $14 The Lip Bar ‘Bawse Lady’ Liquid Matte Lipstick, $13  The Lip Bar ‘4:00 Stuntin' Fast Face Kit,’ $99 The Lip Bar Limited Edition Easy Holiday Glam Collection, $25  The Lip Bar ‘Lip Bar Littles,’ $18.99 The Lip Bar Minimalist Lovers Bundle, $36

Auda B. Beauty Soy Polish Remover, $26 

Breukelen Polished ‘Paid and Full,’ $11 Breukelen Polished ‘Get Me Right’ Treatment Set, $25

Beauty Bakerie ‘Milk & Honey’ Highlighting Brush, $18 Beauty Bakerie ‘Coffee and Cocoa’ Bronzer Palette, $38 Beauty Bakerie ‘Black Egg-cellence’ Beauty Sponges, $18  Beauty Bakerie ‘Sugar Cookies’ Palette, $28 Beauty Bakerie ‘The Butter’ Hydrasilk Primer, $24

Mented Mini Brush Trio, $10 Mented Everyday Eyeshadow Palette, $28 Mented Brush Collection, $45 Mented Holiday Faves Trio, $50

Blac Minerals Highlight Bundle, $32 

Danessa Myricks Beauty Oil, $30  Danessa Myricks Waterproof Cream Palettes, $36 Danessa Myricks Luxe Cream Palettes ‘The Nudist,’ $44

Pear Nova ‘Holiday Essentials’ Nail Set, $90 

Habit Cosmetics Nail Polish in Voodoo, $18  Habit Cosmetics Nail Polish in Midnight Cowboy, $18 Habit Cosmetics Nail Polish in Black Orpheus, $18 Habit Cosmetics Nail Polish in Scarab, $18

Hunny Bunny Cuticle Cream, $4.50 Hunny Bunny Grapefruit Sugar Scrub, $20

Taupe Coat in Good Fortune, $11

More Brands To Try:

People of Color Beauty

Mischo Beauty

Suite Eleven

Brown Butter Beauty

Beija Flor Naturals

Plain Jane Beauty

Ancient Cosmetics

Hue Noir

Lotus Moon Skincare

For the Fashion Conscious:

Merit ‘Fate’ Bucket Hat, $20

Chris Cardi Signature TwistDYE Tee, $33

Lettie Gooch Black Mineral Washed Jacquard Leggings, $68 Lettie Gooch ‘Smiling On The Inside’ Mask, $28

Kashmir Viii Face Masks, $16 Kashmir Viii ‘Around The Way Girl’ Clutch, $45-$60

Galerie LA Hemp Tie Button Down Sage, $90 Galerie LA Gratia Jumpsuit Tumeric, $100 Galerie LA Red Zipper Wallet, $45 Galerie LA Dopp Kitt (Makeup Bag) in Navy, $40 Galerie LA Lunar Star Earrings, $100 Galerie LA Meria Sunglasses Coral Pink, $75 Galerie LA Oda Ring, $45 Galerie LA Sabbath Cocoon Tunic, $85

Tree Fairfax Keychain, $22.50 Tree Fairfax Lois Belt, $45

LoveCortnie Polka Dot Leather Key Chain Clasps, $15 LoveCortnie Small Leather Tassel, $17 LoveCortnie ‘Color Me’ Coin Purse, $30 LoveCortnie Envelope Card Holder (Black & White), $32

Rue 107 ‘Toni’ Bikini in XOXO Print, $98 Rue 107 Signature Pencil Skirt in XOXO Print, $68 Rue 107 Tied Cropped Tank in XOXO Print, $48 Rue 107 Tied Cropped Tank in Vintage Rose Print, $48 Rue 107 Signature Pencil Skirt in Vintage Rose Print, $68

Grant Blvd ‘Sustainable Shit Only’ Fanny Pack, $26

Ebony and Green Mindfulness Earrings, $10

For the Bookworm:

‘Daymares’ by Kenya Moss-Dyme, $12.99

‘Hood Feminism’ by Mikki Kendall, $26

‘The Source of Self-Regard’ by Toni Morrison, $28.95

‘Tar Baby’ by Toni Morrison, $15

‘The Beautiful Ones’ by Prince, $30

‘In Her Hands: The Story of Sculptor Augusta Savage’ by Alan Schroeder, $12.95

‘The Street: A Novel’ by Ann Petry, $15.99

‘Chasing Down a Dream: A Blessings Novel’ by Beverly Jenkins, $14.99

‘Rebel (Women Who Dare)’ by Beverly Jenkins, $5.98

‘Night Song’ by Beverly Jenkins, $8.99

‘Tempest’ by Beverly Jenkins, $5.98

‘Our Black Year: One Family's Quest to Buy Black in America's Racially Divided Economy’ by Maggie Anderson, $17

Rayo and Honey ‘Books Change Your Mind’ Pennant, $75

Jungalow Face Bookend Vase by Justina Blakeney, $98

Midnight Reflections Black Nerd Tote Bag, $18.99

Addie Rawr Book Club Dolls Stickers (Die Cut Stickers), $9.50

For the Kids:

Jungalow Leela Terracotta Rug by Justina Blakeney X Loloi, $89.00 Jungalow Pink Looped Wool Rug, $99.00

Galerie LA Kids Face Mask, $25

Duchess365 237 Canvas Print, $98.99 Duchess365 231 Tote Bag, $24.99 Duchess365 279 Art Print, $23.99 Duchess365 241 Framed Art Print, $47.99

Shea Makery PB & J Soap, $10 Shea Makery ‘Save A Life’ Mini Assorted Hand Soaps (Set of 12), $5

Little Leaders: Bold Women in Black History, $16.99

‘Clean Getaway’ by Nic Stone, $16.99

‘Bee Fearless: Dream Like a Kid’ by Mikaela Ulmer, $16.19

ABC Me Flashcards, $20

IkdKids Rag Doll, $40

KaAn’s ‘Living The Dream’ Denim Jacket, $40

Yinibini Baby Badminton Playing Octopus Tee, $23 Yinibini Baby Fox Pullover Sweatshirt Jogger Set, $41 Yinibini Baby ROAR Lion Hooded Pullover, $45 Yinibini Narwhal Toy, $28

For the Masculine:

ALWD Signature DC PROPER Sweatshirt, $40

Chris Cardi ‘Bastards’ Tee, $30.03

Merit Flannel Shirt (Green), $65

Kashmir Viii ‘Everybody Eats, B,’ Tee, $45 Kashmir Viii ‘The Knockout’ Tee, $45

Galerie LA ‘Mister’ T-Shirt, $45

Jeff Manning Art ‘Overflow’ Art Print, $30 Jeff Manning Art ‘The Golden Age’ Art Print, $45 Jeff Manning Art ‘Overflowed Emotions’ Art Print, $50

Levi Fisher Beard Bundle, $39.99

Scotch Porter Face Care Collection, $28.99 Scotch Porter Journal, $9.99

Shea Makery Beard Oil, $15

Enbois Matte Lava Rock Bracelet, $40 Enbois Benji Matte Sunglasses, $45 Enbois Bracelets Collection - Cocoa, $50

The Silver Room Tourer Backpack, $95

Urban Profile Black Panther Shirt, $24.99

Solo Noir Starter Kit, $28.99

Bevel Shave Starter Bundle, $89.95 Bevel Skin Starter Set, $61.95

For the Tech Savvy:

Enbois iPhone Case, $12 Enbois Power Bank, $15 Enbois Grip Socket, $4

Chic Geeks Brown Faux Crocodile iPad Case, $75 Chic Geeks Brown Snakeskin iPad Case, $75 Chic Geeks Emerald Faux Crocodile iPhone Case, $50 Chic Geeks Grey Marble MacBook Case, $80 Chic Geeks Black Faux Crocodile iPad Case, $75

Khristian A. Howell Cava Melon Sleek and Chic Phone Case, $39.99 Khristian A. Howell Cava Black Sleek and Chic Phone Case, $39.99

NSPRE ‘Inferno’ Bluetooth Sunglasses, $71.99 NSPRE Micro SD Card (128GB), $21.98 NSPRE ‘The Ombres’ Bluetooth Audio Sunglasses, $59.99  NSPRE ‘The Solars’ Bluetooth BlueTech Glasses, $59.99

For the Goth/Kawaii:

VickiBeWicked Vinyl Sticker Heart Drippy Mushroom, Laptop Decal, $4 VickiBeWicked Rainbow Unicorn, Black Girl Magic Laptop Sleeve, $30.99 VickiBeWicked AfroGirls Masked Up Laptop Sleeve, $30.99 VickiBeWicked Pastel Horn Face Resin Keychain, $12.99 VickiBeWicked Red and White Splatter Skull Dangle Earrings, $7.50

Kashmir Viii ‘The KeKe’ Print, $35-$60

Adorned by Chi ‘Goth Club Presidenct’ Unisex Raglan T-Shirt, $34.99 Adorned by Chi ‘Pro Black’ Unisex Raglan T-Shirt, $34.99 Adorned by Chi ‘Pretty Girls Like Anime’ T-Shirt, $32.99 Adorned by Chi ‘Awkward’ Iron-On Patch, $11.99 Adorned by Chi ‘I Need My Space’ Hard Enamel Pin, $12.99

The Colour Polka Dot iPhone XS ‘Creepy Cute’ Rainbow Phone Case, $40 The Colour Polka Dot ‘Creepy Cute’ Spoopy Ornaments, $12 The Colour Polka Dot ‘Kawaii Cute’ Face Mask Case, $16

Embrii Shop Blush Pink Laptop Sleeve, $36

Gothic Lamb Anti Social Goth Club Tee, $28 Gothic Lamb ‘FedUp’ Tee, $24 Gothic Lamb ‘Make America Goth Again’ Tee, $28 Gothic Lamb ‘Melanin Manson’ Tee, $24

For the Esoteric:

Behati Life Third Eye Vision And Prophetic Dreams Intention Oil, $22 Behati Life New Moon Bath Soak Herbal Mix, $22 Behati Life Lunar Goddess Moon Magick Intention Oil, $22

Lettie Gooch Ecuadorian Palo Santo Quartz Crystal Bundle, $18

Jungalow Chaya Wallpaper in Amethyst by Justina Blakeney, $5

The Silver Room White Sage Bundle, $6

Grandma Baby's Black Gold Lenormand Tarot Deck, $44

Pretty Spirits ‘The Truth’ Decks, $50

The Afro Tarot, $88

The Hoodoo Tarot: 78-Card Deck and Book for Rootworkers by Tayannah Lee McQuillar, $18.66

‘Rootwork: Using the Folk Magick of Black America for Love, Money and Success’ by Tayannah Lee McQuillar, $11.99

Rituals + Ceremony Palo Santo Pack, $7 Rituals + Ceremony Empowered Vibes Ceramic Incense Holder, $10 Rituals + Ceremony Adinkra Intention Candles, $23 Rituals + Ceremony Cleanse and Protect Ritual Kit, $34 Rituals + Ceremony Crystal Candles, $22 Rituals + Ceremony Crystal Bliss: Attract Love, Feed Your Spirit, Manifest Your Dreams Book, $14.99

Ebony and Green Raw Clear Quartz Earrings, $15

For Your Activist Bae:

Kashmir Viii ‘Kash’s Bacon Shack’ Clutch, $45 Kashmir Viii ‘Copy and Paste’ Tee, $45 Kasmir Viii ‘We Did It First’ Stickers, $5.25-$20 Kashmir Viii ‘Reclaim It’ Clock, $45 Kashmir Viii ‘The Black Family’ Tee, $45

Jeff Manning Art ‘MLK’ Art Print, $35 Jeff Manning Art ‘We Shall Prevail’ Art Print, $45

‘The Spook Who Sat By The Door’ by Sam Greenlee, $21.99 ‘The Black Panthers Speak,’ $20 The Black Power Mixtape: 1967-1975, $22.95 A Beautiful Ghetto by Devin Allen, $26.95 ‘Are Prisons Obsolete?’ by Angela Davis, $15.95

Angela Davis T-Shirt, $25

Legendary Rootz ‘Black Girls Are The Purest Form of Art’ Tee, $25

Alex Carter ‘BLACK BUSINESS OWNERSHIP’ Tee, $50

Rayo and Honey ‘Much To Be Done & Undone’ Pennant, $75 Rayo and Honey ‘Black Lives Matter’ Pennant, $75 Rayo and Honey ‘Joy Is An Act Of Resistance’ Tote Bag, $65

‘They Carried Us: The Social Impact of Philadelphia’s Black Women Leaders’ by Allener M. Baker-Rogers & Fasaha M. Traylor, $ 28.99

Midnight Reflections Black Radical Woman Tank, $25.00

The Colour Polka Dot ‘Fuck Racism’ Resin Heart Keychain, $8

Rituals + Ceremony Be The Change Scented Candle, $24

Grant Blvd ‘Disrupter’ Tee, $30 Grant Blvd ‘End Cash Bail’ Hoodie, $54 

Cards, Notebooks and Wrapping Paper + Holiday Ornaments:

VickiBeWicked ‘Skull Santa’ and Candy Cane Greeting Cards, $2

Harlem Candle Company Set of 10 Vintage Nightclub Greeting Cards, $30

Kashmir Viii ‘Nina En Printemps’ (Nina Simone) Notebook, $14 Kashmir Viii ‘Boo Yow!’ Notebook, $14

Midnight Reflections Wrapping Paper 3-pack, $26.97

Midnight Reflections Claus Ceramic Ornaments, $15.99

Midnight Reflections Emoji Black Santa Christmas Stockings, $24.99

Bylianarae Note Cards, $15

KazvareMadeIt Rap Lines Inspirational Coloring Book, $18.20 KazvareMadeIt Lemonade Notebook, $18.20 KazvareMadeIt Fried Egg Wallpaper, $4.88 KazvareMadeIt Diamond Retro Wrapping Paper, $4.88

Khristian A. Howell ‘Speak To Me’ Wallpaper, $12 (sample pack) Khristian A. Howell ‘Palm Springs’ Gift Wrap, $8.99 Khristian A. Howell ‘Sonar’ Gift Wrap, $8.99 Khristian A. Howell ‘Twinkle’ Gift Wrap, $8.99 Khristian A. Howell ‘Ansley Park’ Gift Wrap, $8.99 Khristian A. Howell ‘Rosy’ Holiday Gift Wrap, $8.99 Khristian A. Howell ‘Long Weekend’ Gift Wrap, $8.99 Khristian A. Howell ‘Bonjour’ Card Set (10 pk), $18

GreenTop Gifts ‘Clarence Claus’ HOHOHO Gift Wrap, $7.50 GreenTop Gifts ‘Clarence Claus’ Do Not Open Gift Wrap, $7.50 GreenTop Gifts ‘Clarence Claus’ Candy Canes and Trees Gift Wrap, $7.50

Addie Rawr 2021 Planners (Preorder), $30 Addie Rawr The Great Gratitude Journal, $20 Addie Rawr The Great Gratitude Journal, $20

[sophialushambience]

This black area rug is ideal for high-traffic areas that require a little more flair! Our pet-friendly and simple-to-clean area rugs will help you make the most of your time at home.

This beautiful ethnic and traditionally looking reclaimed rug is handwoven from rags which are basically remnants of fabric from garment industries, majorly cotton. It has a very smooth and soft texture and is very comfortable to sit or lie on. This black area rug creates a relaxed environment, and brings you brighten and delightful feeling. While blending effortlessly with any decor style.

[indigocotton]

sometimes i log into tumblr to see the raging tide of victorian fashion (and only victorian fashion) as fashion history, and then i am reminded that indian fashion is not history. 

handloom is the present. i am wearing it now. it is casual and formal, and it has never been brought back into style because it has never been out of style. the ragged indigo corner of my veshti - handspun and handwoven in srikakulam - has more history in it than most victorian gowns, and i should not forget it. 

neither should you.

[fuwafuwamedb]

Proto Pop Pt 3 (Hakuno, Proto Gil)

Previously: One, Two

___

She was like a painted doll.

Her skin almost had a glow to it. Her eyes were lined in kohl and pigments, making those eyes look so much bigger than he had ever seen before. Her cheeks were flushed, although it looked like that was nothing more than a farce.

Gilgamesh looked around a moment, brushing the bangs back from his face before he saw a box of small flimsy rags nearby. The material was a joke, but- he still grabbed a couple and wiped at the woman’s face.

There were large, atrocious bags under those eyes. Her lips were stained, with what had to be the most venomous looking color of red he’d ever seen. The more he wiped, the paler and frailer she seemed to look. Between that and the lithe body she had; she didn’t look like she could sustain him as a master. She barely looked like she would survive seeing an enemy.

Then again…

She’d run from him pretty well. She had mana, but it felt so quiet.

He wouldn’t be summoned by a frail wisp of a thing, she had to have some power in her. If that was the case, then she may have held a talent for holding back that mana of hers. If it hadn’t been for her command spells, he probably wouldn’t have sensed her enough to follow.

Yeah, she had to be more than what appeared before his eyes. She was a strong magus. Which meant that she had feared him for his strength and the sheer opulence of his appearance. She was more than he had ever expected, more than she had ever dreamed.

What a humble master.

“You must be a cute master when you are smiling,” Gilgamesh purred, pulling her closer.

Her body fit so nicely against his side. Like the rainfall to the thirsting desert, her presence was such a balm to his mana levels. Just holding her close was giving him such a feeling in his chest. There was warmth, blossoming forth, spreading through his face and his neck. He leaned in closer, pressing his forehead to hers.

There was more pigment on her face. Traces lingered, here and there, drawing his hand to her face once again to wipe at the mess.

It didn’t do much, but it was better. He needed these flimsy rags wet.

Tissues.

The word came to mind as he looked at them. Then he looked around.

Television.

Remote.

Apartment.

Slowly, the grail and its infinite wisdom was sinking in. He needed time to adjust, time to think about what everything was.

Kitchen.

Living room.

Bedroom.

He found himself moving to his feet, puling his master into his arms as the thought of her bedroom came to mind. She would rest better in there. She needed to be amongst her comforts and pleasures. He’d look around at her space and begin planning after he’d gotten her all settled and comfortable with him.

After all, they were in a grail war. She would need to have that comfort.

There were photos on the wall as he went.

His master seemed happy.

Well- maybe not.

He frowned, holding her close and looking more at the images on the wall.

She was smiling brightly at him in all the pictures, making his heart do that strange pitter patter, but it didn’t sit quite right. She was always having those same eyes. He’d seen it when she was telling him to leave. She’d had that scared prey look in her eyes. It looked more like she was going to be devoured by someone rather than anything else.

“Why hang such things,” he wondered aloud, holding her closer and carrying her through the doors to her room.

This room was also cold.

The room had nothing. No kohl sticks and incense anywhere. There were no handwoven fabrics or furs from her father and brothers. There was nothing in the room that made it look like it was a home for anything.

Come to think of it, the whole place had been that way. It was like she was borrowing a home, somewhere clean and lacking of personal life.

She was swallowed in her cold bed, the sheets looking far too thin to provide any warmth at all. Her view to the city outside was nice, but it wasn’t worth this.

He had to fix this.

All of this.

Opening the gates, he pulled out his own prized furs, throwing her useless fabrics to the corner of the room for later disposal. She looked happier amongst the wolf and leopard furs. He threw her useless cushions aside as well, pulling some of his own as well.

Colors. That was what the place was lacking.

It was all blacks and whites in this place. There was a brown lump that looked like it had been a plant, but it was dead.

Nothing could survive in this colorless mess.

The cushions he’d pulled out were deep reds and vibrants blues and greens. She was snuggling into a collage of colors, her complexion looking more radiant as she adjusted and settled in.

He had more work to do though.

The square and rectangular attempts at painting were pulled from the walls, tossed in the trash corner of the room and replaced with rich, thick fabrics and jewelry.

The room went from white walls to large mural tapestries of war scenes and Ishtar worship.

He moved to pull down the depressed stills of his master, replacing them with more jewelry. The whole place was a mess, but he had time.

He found some paints and entertained himself with a wall, painting something more suiting- a replica of the world outside the window. The glittering lights were glorified in golden splotches of color. The water was given a highlight, showing off the moon that he painted high above the fake city. Stepping back, he grinned.

He had much talent. It was a wonder he had settled for simply being a king.

The rooms were better. Pulling away from all his work, he found himself without aim again.

Perhaps he should see what a television did…

“Thank you, everyone, for coming to my concert!”

Gilgamesh paused, staring at the woman on the screen and glancing around the television, to the open doors where he could see his master resting in her bed.

“How are we doing tonight? Are you ready?”

She was flashing another one of those smiles again. Why did she smile with those eyes?

Gilgamesh moved to the floor, sitting cross legged and looking up at her face as she began to call upon the gods and goddess alike with that voice of hers.

When she had been awake, she had called herself an idol.

He knew what that word meant now.

The sound coming from the television was pure elation and pleasure, consolidated into singular force that rocked him to the very core of his being. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop himself from the smile that came over his face. Note after note was coming forth, spiraling around his head and stroking at his very ears. Her words were a balm and a ward against the darkness and sorrow in this world.

Then her movements.

She was grace and beauty. Ishtar would have been yanking her hair out bit by bit, raging like a scorned lover. There wouldn’t have been a single god to stand for such a radiance to survive without trial and tribulation. Every movement was so precise, so flawless. There was no weight to her, from what he could see. She danced with a fluidity that made it seem like she was teasing him with her body. A lift of her skirt here, a flash of those brown eyes from under those thick lashes; he felt that stutter in his chest again as she flashed a pearl white smile his way.

The gods had placed her in a lifeless hell to keep that happiness she showed in her art from spreading to the world around her.

That must have been it.

“Sometimes I can feel down, but you know? I have all of you! Thank you!”

The stumble was almost impossible to note, but he could see the slight bend of her foot, the shift of her skirts just a little too high compared to what she’d done earlier.

The light in those eyes was gone.

As much as it had grown before, it was gone. The fake smiles returned.

Gilgamesh turned off the television, sitting in the silence of her home.

His master was inhumanly graceful. Her voice was still ringing in his ears as he leaned back on the floor and looked up to the ceiling.

He smiled to the ceiling.

The great king of Uruk and the gods’ own songbird whose mana sung so quietly that no one would ever suspect her.

Surely fate was smiling upon him now.

This war was practically over already.

[rugschouhan]

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[nomanwalksalone]

ARNYS ET MOI AND ME

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

How do you remember something you never knew? The orphaned opening words of Arnys et moi, journalist Philippe Trétiack’s memoir of the late and legendary Paris shop Arnys, raise that question: “I never stepped in. I never bought anything there. And now, it’s too late.” This ellipse adds romance to Trétiack’s incomparable book, which contrasts the rise of the family behind Arnys with Trétiack’s own. Like the Grimberts of Arnys, Trétiack’s ancestors were Jews from Eastern Europe who immigrated to Paris at the beginning of the 20th century and ended up the garment trade.  But where the Grimberts’ boutique became, to some, synonymous with a neighborhood, an attitude, a philosophy, and even Paris itself, the boutique tended by Trétiack’s mother stayed a neighborhood mediocrity, a sinkhole of time, money and, in Trétiack’s telling, of lifeforce itself as he describes how his mother kept shop despite the hate she had for the shop, for the clothes she sold and for their potential customers.  A far cry from the supposed intellectual and political salon that was Arnys.

How do we remember Arnys? Despite Trétiack’s professed unfamiliarity with the shop, readers may never encounter a more knowledgeable and measured historical account of the Arnys shop: the implantation in Paris of educated left-wing garment dealer Jankel Grünberg, whose successes across multiple shops allowed him to settle on the very established avenue Foch in the 16 arrondissement; the immigrant’s cultural emphasis on education that led his sons Léon and Albert to pursue studies on the at once more aristocratic and artistic Left Bank; the polio that derailed one son’s medical career and drove both to enter the family trade, this time in a Left Bank shop space close by the colleges and medical schools he had been attending; the burgeoning family success; the horrors of the Second World War, which saw Jankel and his wife die in Auschwitz; the evolution of Arnys the shop and the brand from a neighborhood corner in a sleepy part of Paris to the epicenter of a certain hip bohemia, of a self-conscious rebellion, of a subversively elegant set of limousine liberals (the loose equivalent of the French gauche caviar), and finally of a dated, sated establishment… before communion with luxury conglomerate LVMH forced Arnys’ transubstantiation into the nominal custom tailoring and shirtmaking arm of LVMH-owned brand Berluti. Even the mysterious name “Arnys” itself is finally explicated: the Grimberts (name eventually Frenchified) had moved into the space vacated by a shop named Loris; by coining a similar-sounding name for their new shop Léon and Albert hoped to attract, through confusion, some of the old shop’s former customers. 

Trétiack writes that it was the recent humiliating scandal of former French presidential candidate François Fillon that had sparked his interest in Arnys. Years after the Arnys shop had actually closed, Fillon made the papers for having accepted thousands of dollars in custom Arnys clothing paid for by Robert Bourgi.  Bourgi is a lawyer whose involvement in a shadowy-world of influence and intrigue between France and its former sub-Saharan colonies known as Françafrique has led members of the French political establishment to call him “radioactive.” According to the very entertaining French Vanity Fair writeup of the debacle, Bourgi would periodically drive Fillon over to the Berluti bespoke shop –  at Arnys’ old address -- when Fillon was feeling down and order him clothing, paid for in cold hard cash.  As a result, Trétiack writes, that shop now limits cash purchases to 1000 euros, or less than 20% of the price of a custom Arnys-by-Berluti suit.  Interestingly, Trétiack also suggests that the papers had referred to Fillon’s scandal at Arnys, rather than Berluti, not because they appreciated the academic distinction that Berluti custom clothing was created by the putative Arnys tailors, but because they feared losing LVMH’s enormous ad spend if they impugned an existing brand in the LVMH portfolio, Berluti, rather than the old brand Berluti had absorbed.

As Trétiack writes at the conclusion of his memoir, this exploration of Arnys allowed him to remember things from his own past that he had almost forgotten, yet felt so deeply.  In fact, ironically, Trétiack’s discussions of his own family’s trajectory are far cloudier (and shorter) than his descriptions of Arnys, no doubt because the latter involved researching and interviewing many of the people historically involved with the shop. Certainly, as Arnys et moi progresses, the personal memoir of Trétiack’s family comes to seem more and more exiguous compared to the gusto with which Trétiack describes not only the arrival of the Grimberts and Arnys, but the development of the garments and the ethos that made the shop an avatar of a sort of French exception, a prerevolutionary throwback, a haven for a certain set of the Parisian bourgeoisie as it wanted to see itself: deeply rooted in a timelessly elegant France of Enlightenment thought and local craft; intellectual without being sterile; a cosmopolitan of the fleshpots of the Sixth and Seventh Arrondissements, which at one time were famous bookstores, discreet art galleries and philosophers’ cafés. But today, Trétiack points out, former customers of Arnys also rue the passing of a certain clientele of the Café Flore, too.

How do I remember Arnys? Unlike Trétiack, I was a regular, if only occasionally profligate, customer of Arnys for the last decade of its existence, and knew it well for years before that, having been like Léon and Albert Grimbert a student in that neighborhood.  Like many of the habitués he describes, I used to stop in nearly every weekend. But those were not sufficient credentials to become part of the salon of intellectuals, esthetes and political figures Trétiack is only the most recent to describe. And as a guilty customer of the Flore for well over 20 years, I can attest that the shift in that café’s clientele to wealthy tourists and Eurotrash is by no means a recent phenomenon.  All that time ago, when as a student I would amble from my home on rue de Sevres past Arnys and its lovely windows to a rare treat at the Flore, it was already evident that the cultural landmarks of that area, those that Arnys claimed to be part of, had mostly disappeared in place of the boutiques of international luxury brands. There was very little left of the intellectual or countercultural long before Arnys itself ceased to be.

As a member of another diaspora, I know it is always my lot to be, in some way, an outsider wherever I am. Outsider that I am, I was shocked to find how closely Trétiack’s and my conclusions tracked: I am writing a book on vanished and vanishing French #steez, and occasionally wondered if a mutual friend like rag trader Ammar Marni, whom Trétiack interviewed for this book, had passed him my manuscript.  Like Trétiack, I concluded that Arnys incarnated a sort of French exception, a parallel universe where Beau Brummell had never imposed his modern English clothing style of simplicity of cut and restraint of color on the world. Arnys was a sort of escapism too lovely for we the uncertainly welcome to resist, a France as it would like to see itself, invented by an immigrant family.  

Arnys et moi laudably and interestingly lays out how Arnys constructed its myth, but occasionally strays into too eagerly believing some parts of that myth.  Trétiack spends a chapter or two lauding the 1940s invention of Arnys’ signature garment, the smocklike Forestière, and the cultural inspirations that led Arnys, in the wake of the Forestière, to create dozens of other garments inspired by the workwear and countrywear of France, as well as by classic French and Italian films of the 1950s and 1960s.  It’s only much later, towards the end of the book, that Trétiack mentions that that Arnys actually had remained a staid, Anglophile haberdasher until the 1990s, when the third Grimbert generation, brothers Jean and Michel, realized that ersatz Englishness was on the way out and that a contrived Frenchness (rich linings, beautiful and exotic materials, grandiosely theatrical designs, and a special notch in the lapel inspired by those created by the 1950s new wave of French tailors) could set the house apart. In other words, Arnys’ performative Frenchness, the thing that set it apart, is of quite recent vintage.  Trétiack also expounds in impressive detail on the magnificence and quality of every object Arnys sold, right down to the rarity of its handmade knives and the lushness of its pashmina scarves handwoven in Srinagar.  As something of a collector of artifacts of the places I write about, I’ve actually had the occasion to own and use items by these makers, including a Sauveterre knife and a scarf from Arnys’ supplier Kashmir Loom.  What Trétiack may not have realized is that the Arnys items were not just exquisite and luxurious, but were often incredibly delicate.  In the case of their handmade, hand-rolled seven-fold ties, they seemed to be deliberately more delicately and clumsily made than they needed to be in order to seem more handmade.  This seemed the case with a number of Arnys items.  Like Trétiack, I never became a bespoke customer of Arnys.  But here he and I diverge, as his words praising the current Arnys-Berluti cutter suggest he had not heard the pervasive and insistent words across the rest of the Paris bespoke population about the custom makers at Arnys. I’ll only note that the longtime Arnys cutter had actually left Arnys around the time it became part of Arnys, and is now retired, while their longtime custom shirtmaker died recently. 

Things change. Like Trétiack, I’ve wondered about the futility of writing about places like Arnys, about what it matters to remember. Then I remember that so many of us, so many different individuals with so many different individual histories, have conferred on this place, on this meaningless pair of syllables, so many different meanings, each with its own reverberations. How much can we know about what we remember?