#light coloured wood cabinets

[severeavenuefestival]

Home Bar L-Shape Denver Seated home bar - large rustic l-shaped laminate floor and brown floor seated home bar idea with an undermount sink, recessed-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, wood countertops, brown backsplash and wood backsplash

[missroxelot]

Bathroom 3/4 Bath in Nashville Mid-sized transitional 3/4 laminate floor and white floor bathroom photo with shaker cabinets, gray cabinets, white walls and an undermount sink

[riverscent]

Home Bar in Denver Example of a large mountain-style home bar design with a brown floor and a l-shaped laminate floor, an undermount sink, dark wood cabinets with recessed panels, wood countertops, and a brown and wood backsplash.

[heartelysia]

rich flex

"can you hit a lil' rich flex for me" ; in which you're nothing more than roommates

cw ; ooc leon, jealousy, panty stealing, panty sniffing, college au, re2 leon, use of sex toys, masturbation, creepy behaviour from leon

note ; this is also reposted from my ao3! college roommates au :3 [m.list] (i lovd leon n his little butt chin sm in re2 😭😭 its so cutw wtf) AND YES! THAT IS MANGA LEON KENNEDY!! ILLVE HM!!

she was the moon and he was the sun, polar opposites. she was closed off and reserved whilst the blonde wasn't much of an extrovert per say but compared to her, he shined much brighter.

people loved him and everything he had to offer but on her end, people would still ask, 'who is that?'. that was one of the many results of only choosing to attend night lectures or acting like a complete ghost during the semester.

she knocks on leon's door - if the crappy wood with a knob could be considered one - holding a half-full laundry basket in her other hand. a few moments pass, shuffling and the rolling of one of those wheelie chairs are heard through the thin walls. the door creeks open as a little bit of sunlight spill from the window in his room.

"oh hey y/n, whats up?", his soft, boyish voice rings throughout the hallway, his cheeks flushed a bright pink colour as his breath is bated with each second. you gesture to the laundry basket in your hand, holding onto your quiet demeanour. leon's eyes follows your movements before suddenly lighting up. "oh yes! it is my turn this week, thank you y/n!", he softly beams, fully opening the door as he grabs the basket from you and places it beside his stack of clothes.

you give the boy a simple hum before turning on your heel, heading back into your little man woman-cave. leons gaze lingers on you, watching the way you dragged yourself back into your cramped room. sometimes he wished he could hear your sweet voice more but we can't have everything we want right?

leon glances back into his room, glazing his eyes over each neat cabinet and organized stack of books before they land on the new addition of laundry. he hoped he didn't seem too off when speaking to you, after all, he still gets nervous around you despite being roommates. the blonde quickly brushes the thoughts out of his head as he grabs his pile of dirty clothes and dumps it onto your laundry, filling the basket to the brim before picking the heavy luggage up and waddling out of his room.

the sound of his footsteps reverberate against the crappy wooden planks as he awkwardly stumbles to the tiny laundry room. leon hooks his fingers under the lid, lifting it up as a scent of detergent pods hit his face. he quickly grabs the full laundry basket before tipping its contents into the washer before placing the empty basket back onto the floor.

he opens up one of the cabinets on top and grabs the detergent pods, popping one into its place. as leon is about to close the top and start the machine, something catches his eye, a frilly white pair of underwear. the blondes cheeks light up in embarrassment yet the familiar coil in his stomach grows as he feels his cock stir at the thought of your panties wrapped around his thick length.

leon swallows the lump in his throat, gulping as his eyes stay glued onto your undergarment. it was a morality debate in his head, he could either steal your panties or he would not. he gulps one last time before reaching his hand in and snatching the used underwear up, he scrunches the soft material up and shoves it into his pocket.

a small wave of guilt crashes into him but he brushes it off, closing the lid before turning on the washer, the water spilling from its sides as it dampens the fabrics. he places his hand into his pocket, clutching your panties in his hand as his breathing becomes ragged and his mind swirls with lewd fantasies of you.

a whine rumbles in his throat as the sound of your voice note plays in his headphones. with his cheeks flushed, ragged breathing and a fleshlight pumping up and down his length, his soft groans and moans fill the air. leon's leaky tip beads with precum as he replays the same voicemail you left him, stroking his fat cock up and down with the fake pussy.

leon suddenly pauses, he quickly reaches over under his pillow and grabs newly stolen pair of panties. his cock twitches once more, the knot in his stomach threatening to come undone from the thought of sniffing his beloved roommates used panties. he shoves the underwear into his nose, grunting gutturally at the scent of her, stroking his cock just a bit faster now. "f-fuck... you smell so good...", he moans, rutting his hips into the fleshlight as he takes a big whiff of her.

sure, the blonde feels somewhat bad... but he couldnt find his morality in him as of now, not when her delicious panties were pressed up against his nose. with each pump, his angry, swollen tip leaks more and more precum, the fleshlight picking the precum up and using it as lube, only adding to the fiery sensation leon is experiencing.

the knot in his stomach only gets tighter, ready to snap in half as the sound of your cold voice echoes in his ears. "oh fuck- fuck baby... sweetheart...", he grunts, bucking his hips uncontrollably into the fake pussy, wishing it was your sweet cunt he was pounding into. leon wondered to himself, would your pussy be wetter? would you moan uncontrollably as he jackhammers his cock into you? or would you be restraining your moans and making him fuck you till it finally spills out? it didn't exactly matter to the boy as his cock was speaking for him.

with one last final pump, his thick warm cum spills from his fat tip, followed by a series of depraved moans as he desperately grinds into the fake pussy, circling his hips as shots of thick cum come spurting out of his cock.

as he slowly calms down, gently pulling the fleshlight away from him, his ears perk up. a noise that didn't sound like it was from the voice message or one he made. maybe he was insane, maybe it was just him riding down from his high but he swore he heard a soft moan from the other side of the wall, the walls were thin... it could be him imagining things, after all, he still had his headphones on.

he really didn't like it, but what was he meant to do? she wasn't interested in him - at least to his knowledge. the blonde stares at the curly haired male following her from a distance as a look of hesitance was on the mans face.

"y/n?", the mans voice rung loudly, catching a few glances from passer-bys. the girl stops in her tracks, one hand resting on the strap of her shoulder bag, she turns on her heel to face the man. "carlos, what is it?", she softly asks, her voice hardly above a whisper but still rather blunt. the latin american grinned, handing y/n a few pieces of paper stapled together.

"its the draft i did really quickly, since I still dont have your number, i wrote mine on it so text me your thoughts about it.", carlos said, flashing the girl a charming smile. y/n simply hums as she takes the drafts from him, placing it in her bag as she holds the blank expression and mutters a small thank you. despite her lack of physical reaction, carlos seemed to light up a little more as he brings her into an awkward hug of gratitude.

when she pulls away, carlos seemed to look a bit more shyer than before as his cheeks were softly dusted with a gentle pink hue that doesn't go unnoticed by leon.

with his attention away from the lecture, the blonde clenches his jaw in frustration. she was merely a roommate, why did he care so much anyway. leon softly huffs to himself before turning away from y/n and carlos' small interaction and tries to focus back onto the lecture... keyword, tries.

as y/n returns from her lectures, the shared housing space is oddly quiet. leon would typically be cooking something up or playing music in the background. subconsciously, the girl had gotten so used to her roommates habits and routines, it felt weird and wrong without leon's presence made known to her.

despite the fact that they were polar opposites, she found comfort knowing leon was home but the fact that not a single squeak is heard unless it was from made her stomach twist.

"leon?"

her soft voice bounces off of the flimsy walls of the room, the sound of her voice actually audible unlike the multiple times she simply hummed in replacement of speaking. no reply, y/n softly sighs to herself as she drags her feet towards her cramped room, kicking her shoes off.

the girl enters her tiny room, throwing her heavy shoulder bag onto her chair as she slumps down against her bed, eyes closing from exhaustion. small grumbles and groans escape her throat as she rubs her eyes, expressing her distaste for the lengthy project.

she was too lost in her own train of thought that she suddenly jumped at the noise of someone knocking at her room door. when did leon get home?

"y/n, i got us takeout tonight, i hope you don't mind.", leons bashful voice leaks past the door, y/ns ears catching onto the sound of plastic rustling in his hand as she cracks open her door. peering at the handsome man through the obvious crack emits a soft chuckle from the blonde as he just lifts the plastic bags up, flashing y/n a glimpse of the food.

a waft of the scent of delicious chinese takeout has her fully opening her door, following leon close behind like a puppy into the kitchen. leon laughs at the way she gives into food so easily, a big grin tugging at his lips as he places the bag onto the counter. "you dislike my cooking this much?", he queries, taking out the containers one by one whilst staring at his roommate snatching the bamboo utensils from the bottom.

y/n shakes her head at his response, keeping her lips sealed. the blonde softly laughs before opening the food up, the smell of stomach-filling chinese cuisines filled their nose. "smells nice... good selection leon...", she softly mumbles, trying to hide the fact that her mouth was watering. red covers leons cheek as he sheepishly laughs it off, feeling the knot in his stomach once more at her praise, "really? uhm-... well time to dig in!".

y/n softly hums in response as she begins picking up sides into her bowl, "... thanks leon, you're really sweet.", she mutters lowly, slowly popping the food into her mouth. his eyes stay glued on each movement on hers. the way her voice rung in his ears was heavenly, the way her chest heaved faster than usual, the way her hair fell to frame her adorable face, the way her lips wrap around the utensil was so arousing...

fuck, he was hard again.

[awingedllama]

replies

updated the folder with some cabinets! also, i lightened the black swatch because it was a bit voidish before

a separate object! you can dl them here

hi! that bassinet is outdated, but i fixed the link for the deco version (to use with the invisible bassinet mod). you can also download my updated one if you like

i'm open to making a thermostat! ATS4 has a bunch that are perfect for older homes though. if you don't like any of those you can always shoot me a reference pic

the ones i posted most recently are here

they're live edit objects, so you need the cheat. you can find them in sculptures. also make sure to download the 10mb one, that's the one that the others texture reference

recoloring objects to match is the bane of my existence (photoshop actions never work for me???), but i will put it on the list <3 they need more colours anyhow, i keep getting frustrated that they don't match

making cc is super intimidating when you first get into it, for sure. i broke a sweat doing my first recolor lol

i've got a post about good resources for beginners here

fortunately, with so many people in the community sharing their knowledge, it's a lot easier to get into modding/cc making than it used to be. and when you get stuck, the Sims 4 Studio forums are your friend!

also, i'm always happy to answer questions via DM if it's something you can't figure out

i will make some! i found the perfect CC for what you want, but of course it was behind an ad paywall *sigh*

edit: got past the paywall hehe

this is the cc, if you're interested ^^^ and here's a nice sensible SFS link

also, speaking of wires, here are the telephone poles for you @luvlyysimmer. batuu wires + edited telephone poles from snowy escape (added rust, changed wood texture). they're live edit objects, in sculptures category: dl folder

hi! it's CC - a custom background replacing one of the base game mattes. some of them are city living mattes recolored to be warmer, and others i found on google and edited to be transparent

you lose the magic when you zoom out though lol

my parents had the one on the left but i like the one on the right better bc it's more versatile. both make me itchy and i love them

i have a dining set like this on the list. also i promised someone awhile ago banquette seating, so i'm doing that too

i want the TS3 trim so bad in ts4 but i don't know how to make half-wall trim. i got it in S4 Studio but she's a mess in game

i know it's possible to do, as syboulette has custom trims, but i'm stuck rn. will keep you posted if i figure it out!!

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au

10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge. 

Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing. 

The threat of being caught propels him forward. 

He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip. 

"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary. 

He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps. 

It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.

He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here. 

Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette. 

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence. 

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender. 

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes. 

You're scared.

You're beautiful. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking." 

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else." 

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown. 

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear. 

You glare at him. 

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you." 

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant. 

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–" 

"Holy stars, is that your hair?" 

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No." 

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor. 

"You have to leave. Leave!" 

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat. 

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter. 

You don't laugh, nor do you smile. 

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly. 

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay." 

"She won't give it." 

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't. 

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly. 

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely. 

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after." 

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword. 

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly." 

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease. 

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do." 

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?" 

"No! Of course not." 

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate." 

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair. 

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly. 

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything." 

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best. 

He's very, very fine. 

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward. 

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey. 

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense." 

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them. 

"They're how I spend my summers." 

"Looking at them?" 

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling." 

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time. 

"I painted them myself." 

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks. 

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden. 

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days." 

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You aren't married?" 

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!" 

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps. 

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold." 

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo. 

"Argento." 

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks. 

"You're talking about money." 

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes. 

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower. 

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!" 

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–" 

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet. 

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning." 

He doesn't move. 

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious. 

"Please," you whisper again. 

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small. 

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling." 

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs. 

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper. 

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?" 

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight. 

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous. 

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that." 

"Sorry, mother." 

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving. 

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument." 

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother." 

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you." 

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does. 

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused. 

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections. 

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs. 

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps. 

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars." 

"No, you shouldn't have." 

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger. 

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores. 

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled. 

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished." 

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" 

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously. 

But she is not kind. 

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents. 

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot. 

"It's dusty down here!" you call. 

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling." 

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother." 

-

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before. 

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like. 

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page. 

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour. 

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs. 

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide. 

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely. 

He holds his breath as the door creaks open. 

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?" 

He waves his hand from under the bed. 

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him. 

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile. 

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed. 

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars. 

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing." 

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them." 

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange. 

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?" 

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars." 

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly. 

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?" 

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me." 

His eyes widen. 

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again. 

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?" 

"It's not what you think." 

"I think it's exactly what I think." 

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians." 

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do. 

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head. 

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!" 

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults. 

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out. 

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily. 

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely. 

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here. 

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark. 

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep. 

“Yeah?” you whisper. 

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids. 

— 

"You want me to what?" 

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns." 

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation. 

"No." 

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee." 

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says. 

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon. 

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow. 

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too. 

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving. 

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table. 

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were." 

"This isn't how you negotiate." 

"Good thing I'm not negotiating." 

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence. 

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows. 

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?" 

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow." 

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge. 

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings." 

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit. 

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless. 

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse." 

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion. 

"Do you have any better shoes?" 

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No." 

"You don't get out much, do you?" 

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches. 

Poor girl, he thinks. 

"Don't worry too much about it." 

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun." 

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes. 

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon. 

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow. 

"Are you coming?" Steve calls. 

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward. 

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath. 

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose. 

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass. 

The world is even bigger from there. 

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town." 

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh." 

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped. 

Steve seems content to languish in silence. 

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb. 

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me. 

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine. 

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon. 

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says. 

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?" 

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it." 

"Oh. That's good." 

"Yeah." 

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same." 

"I'm an excellent navigator." 

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape. 

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice." 

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this." 

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first. 

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there. 

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen. 

He's still a two-timer. Case in point. 

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute." 

Adorable. 

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag. 

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room." 

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension. 

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade. 

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?" 

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly. 

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath. 

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection. 

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper. 

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee." 

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely. 

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint. 

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?" 

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together." 

Steve frowns but hands over the money. 

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough. 

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?" 

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you. 

"Both of us," he says, nodding. 

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together. 

"Why did you say that?" 

"It's what's expected of us." 

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent. 

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?" 

"You're not my husband." 

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back. 

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say. 

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married."  He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying." 

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage. 

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care." 

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag. 

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but." 

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me? 

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways. 

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him. 

If they can, they aren't listening. 

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks. 

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted. 

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view. 

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone. 

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?" 

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery. 

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own. 

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water. 

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure. 

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung. 

"The water’s barely hot." 

"I've never had a hot bath before." 

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?" 

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?" 

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you." 

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble. 

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon." 

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck. 

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity. 

Your shoulders relax. 

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves. 

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure. 

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine. 

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room. 

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat. 

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?" 

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress." 

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention. 

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown. 

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself." 

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands. 

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another. 

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning. 

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand. 

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it. 

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends. 

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around. 

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays. 

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue." 

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?" 

"You wouldn't believe me." 

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair." 

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?" 

"We aren't going back down there." 

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself." 

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea." 

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns." 

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on. 

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door. 

"Well?" he asks, holding it open. 

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you." 

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen. 

"What is that?" you ask Steve. 

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?" 

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can. 

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room. 

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks. 

"Not in any of my books." 

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound." 

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem. 

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you. 

"Turn to me." 

"What if my hair catches?" 

"You aren't close enough for that." 

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot. 

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties." 

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you." 

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry." 

"I have–" 

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?" 

"No." 

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season." 

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?" 

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long." 

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further. 

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?" 

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it." 

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close. 

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you. 

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left… 

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk. 

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?" 

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further. 

"I'm okay," you say. 

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy. 

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis. 

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back. 

He looks at your face until you're uneasy. 

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm. 

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges. 

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles? 

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while. 

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song. 

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough. 

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow." 

"Good, huh?" 

You try not to cough. "It's rich." 

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?" 

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you." 

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing. 

You look up, puzzled. 

"Come on." 

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand. 

He leads you up the small platform to the piano. 

You look to him inquisitively. 

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard." 

"How do you adjust how loud it is?" 

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys." 

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys. 

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you." 

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe. 

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this." 

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings. 

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks. 

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say. 

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song." 

"I only know the one." 

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are. 

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays. 

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears." 

"Is that yours?" you ask him. 

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid." 

"Only plays them." 

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching. 

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?" 

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning. 

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters. 

"What?" you ask. 

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!" 

Steve's smile is gone. 

"Eddie," he says tiredly. 

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy." 

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head. 

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks. 

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us." 

"I don't owe you anything." 

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon. 

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor. 

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree." 

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3

[theyungihven]

The Demon's Infatuation • Sex Demon Yunho

CHAPTER 2

↬ pairing: dom demon yunho x sub female reader

↬ genre: smut, romance

↬ warnings: breeding kink, cream pie, pain kink, unprotected sex, hip bruises, biting kink, slut-shaming, choking kink, hard core dom yunho, yunho is OBSSESSED,

↬ word count: 1.2K+

↬ author’s note: this full novel length fic is a dedication to my boyfriend alex and the demon that visited me at night two years ago every full moon night

Summary : She's just an innocent heartbroken girl who just wants to be loved for once despite her flaws and imperfections and he's a wicked demon who wants nothing but to corrupt her soul to till all she can think of him. What can go wrong if he takes a little interest in her? Heaven along with Hell are not going to collide with the Earth, or will they?

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST : @yunhogrippers @haram-monbebe @atinism @yvnhoos @st4rhwa @lomons

“So I teleported near the old city. And then, I got this strong whiff of blood.” I tell San.

We sit under the neon lights on the barstools as we rest our hands on the bar counter. The brown wood creaks under my weight, a reminder of its ancientness

I feel the bartender’s eyes widen with every word I say, as if he’s a columnist and writes the infamous gossip column catered to making the most scandalous secrets known to hell’s residents.

However, I don’t care enough and continue about my latest endeavour to a very uninterested San. The fellow demon looks like he will jump into the holy water any moment, if given the chance to cease his existence.

“I saw a girl on her knees begging someone to love her.” I say and a small smile greets his lips. “She looked delicious and I’m telling you, she smelled sweeter than an elixr.” I continue and the bartender bends down to access the lower cabinets of the counter, all while his eyes stay hooked in my direction.

“And what’s better than trapping a human in distress? So I thought, why not make my presence known? And then, mate,” I chuckle as I remember the moment she ran inside and the look that crowned her face when she noticed my shadow form, “she has the audacity to recite verses, but she couldn’t even do that right.”

“Humans are pathetic, I'm telling you." Dante agrees with me as he smiles a little, his lips thinning but not even curling a degree up whatsoever for some reason unknown to me. My heart skips a beat as my smile drops.

The clitter clatter of the glass and the chatter of the demons inside the infamous club Hell’s Inferno is constant, with fights erupting every now and then, like an active volcano.

However, today, it is eerily quiet in the dead of a full moon night.

It is unusual, but I enjoy the bourbon in my hands.

I swirl it around while taking a little peek at my dear friend, San who is playing with the end of his tail. He looks very odd today, as if he has fucked up real bad and is now going to be banished from hell. His skin looks pale as if he’s losing his colour from malnutrition.

However, as from the latest gossip and news about the duo’s latest adventures also according to the not so quiet whispers, celibacy isn’t the case.

“Mate, you look like you prevented a sin.” I say, as I place my bourbon glass on the counter and stare at him. Nothing but worry fills my heart.

“Nothing.” he replies lifelessly as if he has given up on reality and accepted defeat.

“Then, the fuck is wrong with you?” I scream.

Everyone in the club looks at me as if I tempted a human to commit a good deed.

I take a deep breath in order to calm myself down and then say,

“How’s your girl, San?”

“urm…she’s doing…umm…well!” Dante shutters. He then gulps his drink all the way and stares at the glass.

My suspicions and the word of mouth which had travelled to me earlier this week were indeed true.

Dante did associate with an angel, committed treason and is next on line to getting banished from hell.

“You fucked up big time, mate.” I chuckle as I say, swallowing the bitterness on my tongue which attempts to slip but I don't want to hurt Dante anymore.

“I know, I know…” Dante sighs. He then takes a deep breath as he corrects his posture.

“I FUCKING KNOW OKAY!” He slams the glass on the table as he stares at me dead in the eye.

“What are you going to do with this girl though?” Wow, now I am the main focus of the conversation. I look up at Dante as I lick my lips, refreshing my memory at all things I’ve been thinking to do with her.

“Tempt her, seduce her, get so deep into her mind” I say as I swirl the drink which the bartender refilled in order to infiltrate our privacy.

I gulp down the whole thing in one go and slam it on the table.

“That she’d desperately crave me like a drug.” I finished, and Dante’s reaction to my words is magnificent. He looks like a human when they see me in my demon form for a split second in the corner of their room as I give them my charismatic smile.

“But how?” Dante asks as he looks at me all confused.

I get up from the barstool and walk closer towards Dante.

“Good things take time, my dear.” I pat Dante's shoulder as I continue, “but wonderful things…” I lean in as I whisper into his ear, “takes a good strategy and patience.” I say, then lean back, flashing him my trademark smile as I turn around and make a dramatic exit which leaves everyone gasping.

[gwydion-aacblog]

visual process problems : visual clutter

" visual clutter " really put stress on brain , and think important talk about - maybe more people have problem with this than realise . doubt is even just people with autism . autism maybe easier hit limit , but probably anyone can have problems , especially because now world so bright and everything want attention . 

note : this not like ... exact medical research and definitions , just want talk about how experience and deal with this for self .

personally , visual clutter can look like : 

lots items in place together , easy one think most people understand . 

not so many items in place , but items many different colours . 

items that reflect light or reflect pictures , like shiny plastic things and mirrors .

containers that able see through to inside , even only part , like gaps in weave , or cutouts . 

things that move , like trees or animals outside window , curtains on windy day , screen in background …

each one take energy for brain process what . problem is , also , sometimes need some these things for access , because have other visual process problems too ... so is really balance need find . 

if have too much , get incredibly anxious high strung feeling , because brain feel like can not keep up with understand everything in place , even if all perfectly still .

but if not enough , then brain crave for something feel no joy , so not happy in perfect white minimalist place either .

some things that do help , or think would probably help , for gwydion : 

keep surfaces like tables and cabinet top shelves empty , much as possible . that means put everything away inside where belong , soon as done . ( or if not possible immediately , at least soon as is possible . )

containers that solid colour , even solid texture . that means not plastic " woven baskets " that try imitate , because have holes and gaps that can see through , even with fabric liner . real woven baskets can be OK if really not able see through , like tight weave or fabric liner . but real favourite is wood , fabric , and sturdy cardboard things .

if could just have separate door for every shelf in cupboards and cabinets and things . that one not really possible and would make things impractical in several more ways than help but , in dreams . this would mean that only need see smaller amount at once when try look for things . but not possible , so instead have :

colour sort things , inside storage spaces . for example books and toys go in rainbows , because then not so much stress in feel like jumble - brain follow lots easier .

less things store together in general , with more space between ... not always possible , not always have control this for self . but when can , less is better . if can not , see points above about containers .

things out in open need be pretty . again sometimes can not control , but things that fairly solid colour and clean and polish up , things that look nice , not stress brain so much because able see , understand , and then appreciate , not just try ignore . also OK with some trinkets and things for that reason , but still small number . 

relate : colour palette . much as possible , things that leave out in open should follow rough palette , so nothing stick out and overwhelm too much . three big colours in gwydion room is brown white and pink … so if anything else out , need have very good reason stay out , and very good place for least overwhelm .

when leave things out for access reasons , still want be careful plan on where and how . for example , would not pile things on wheelchair seat , even if suspect will not need wheelchair for next week . 

minimal product labels , like those big ugly bright logos and boxes ... not always practical and know that , but sometimes wish could just rip off cleaner front labels and replace with pretty stickers that say brand name and nothing else . same with snack boxes and things , wish could just dump in neatly label jars so not need those bright blue yellow red green boxes boxes boxes try get inside head . these things try catch attention when in store and that often work , so when home just stress out because can not stop catch attention !

sometimes some these things conflict with other personal access needs , or other people's access needs … and in public places can not control for these , either . but some things around home , at least , which is really nice to have or think about for self .

hope maybe if have similar problems , something here can help little bit ? know some just look like fussy " aesthetic " things , but , is all for reason .

[autisticlancemcclain]

part one

———

Over the next several weeks, Marcela continues to keep an eye on the boy. (Takashi. She knows his name is Takashi, and that he is an adult by legal standards. But she can’t get over how — how young he is. She can’t get over the scars on his face and the straight-backed robotic way he walks and the haunted look in his eyes. She hates America, often, and she hates the world, for letting children — encouraging them — to sign up for something they can never understand. He has been alive for less than one quarter of his lifespan. He is just a boy.)

She’s careful not to overbear him, to keep some distance, but at least once a week she’ll make a plate and send it his way, or have Luis weed his garden as well as theirs. She’ll even kick the football into his yard when she’s playing with Lance and Rachel, just to give them an excuse to go get it, just to give the boy a reason to get up and answer the door. She’s always been a light sleeper, too, and when she hears his car start up in the middle of the night, far too late for any errands, she’ll press a gentle kiss to her sleeping husband’s temple and slide her feet into her slippers, quietly padding over to the kitchen and watching with a mug of tea until the car pulls back into the driveway. (Some days, that takes hours. Some days the sun rises again before she sees the beam of his headlights bleed back onto their streets. Some days, even, he won’t leave the driveway, sitting instead with his hands clutched on the wheels and his eyes staring, unblinking, at the chipping paint of his garage door, for hours. Those are the worst days. On those days, she makes sure to make something sweet and warm and comforting, and leave a heaping plate of it on his doorstep. On those days, she swallows the lump in her throat and hugs her children tightly and they grip the seams of her shirt and say nothing, not even whining or squirming when she pulls them away from their games. On those days she misses her brother so much it aches in her teeth.)

On one particularly hot day, she’s reorganising the kitchen cabinets and only paying half attention. The rest of her is staring out the window above the sink, because the boy walked into his backyard two hours ago and stood ramrod straight in the middle of the clover and has not moved since and worried does not begin to cover it.

“Maaaaaaaaamá,” whines a voice behind her. Marcela jumps, whirling around, pressing her hand to her heaving chest when she sees who it is.

“Leandro,” she scolds, turning back to her half-hearted sorting of their colourful collection of mugs. “You startled me.”

Her baby doesn’t respond to that, choosing instead to flop dramatically over the kitchen table, cheek smushed on the scratched wood and limbs askew.

“I’m so bored,” he laments, brown eyes big and pouted and pleading. “There’s nothing to do. No one to play with. I am alone and despolate.”

“Desolate,” Marcela corrects, grinning. “You’re a mocoso descarado, you know that?”

He beams at her. She sets the final mug away, then walks over to brush his hair from his face and press a kiss to his forehead.

He leans into her touch, sighing. “How come I couldn’t go with everybody? It’s not fair. I’m very mature. I could have watched the scary movie.”

She hums, taking the seat next to him and gathering him into her arms. He goes willingly, elbowing her in the side in his haste to tuck himself into her lap and under her chin. She rests her cheek on the top of his head and strokes her hands gently down his back.

“You’re very mature, mi vida,” she agrees softly, squeezing. “But maybe no scary movies for the chico mono who gets nightmares when he sleeps without a nightlight and cries when he sees a dried out worm, hm?”

He harrumphs, wounded. She hides a smile in his hair and loves him with her whole body.

“‘M not a baby.”

“There’s nothing babyish about having a big heart. I just want to keep it —” she tickles the spot just above his heart, making him giggle — “safe and sound, okay?”

“Okay.”

She pulls back slightly so she has room to clasp her palms to his cheeks, kissing him smack in between the eyes with an exaggerated ‘mwah’ noise.

“There we go, mijo.”

She settles them back against the chair, rocking them a little. Her baby has grown up so much. It startles her, sometimes, when she checks in on him — on any of her babies — and sees a big, growing kid in a big boy bed, instead of the baby in a crib she’s expecting. Five years is nothing, and five years is hundreds of days worth of knowing and loving him. She hopes her children know how much love bubbles out of her, all for them. How much she treasures every single second she had and has with him.

He squirms, slightly, in her lap, forcing himself still after a couple seconds when he catches himself moving. She glances down to find him fidgeting, twisting his fingers. He’s restless — he’ll get moody soon. He’s been cooped up in the house all day with no one to play with. He’s been an angel, either helping her around the house and entertaining himself, but it’s not fair to him.

Her eyes drift back out the kitchen window, and she gets an idea.

“Lancito,” she starts, straightening out as a plan begins to take form, “you want to play chess?”

He blinks at her.

“You stink at chess,” he says, not unkindly.

It’s true — she does. She understands, objectively, how to play, but she’s never managed to see the board the way Lance or Veronica see it. She doesn’t understand how to play strategically and never has. She can’t picture future moves or anticipate strategy the way chess players can, so she’s always pretty easily beat. Not that it would matter too much if she could play well — Lance has beaten everyone in the house several times over. When he’s allowed to play on the computer, he beats the players there, too. He’s bright, and he has been obsessed with the game since his fingers were big enough to move around the pieces and his Abuela taught him to play.

She helps him to the floor, speeding to the fridge and pulling out some leftovers as Lance watches in confusion.

“There’s someone you haven’t played before, though.”

“Nuh-uh.” He starts listing on his fingers. “I beat you, I beat Papá, I beat Luis, I beat Veronica, I beat Marco, like, a hundred times —”

Marcela finishes setting up a — pointedly and deliberately — balanced plate, wrapped with parchment this time because she’s run out of aluminum foil. She spots Lance’s folded up chessboard and grabs it, placing the plate on top and offering it to Lance, who stares at it with furrowed brows.

“I bet you Takashi is a new challenge,” she says enticingly. “Why don’t you go over and ask him to play?”

Lance, bless his little extrovert heart, brightens immediately.

“Oh yeah!”

She walks him to the door, hand on his head to help guide him around the various tripping hazards in the hallway — her family is messy, and Lancito has never been the most coordinated child. He’ll be fine (probably) when he gets outside.

“Okay, make sure you’re either back in a couple hours or you come let me know that you’re staying,” she says, lingering at the front steps. Lance is already skittering across the driveway, not even bothering to wave.

“‘Kay! Bye!”

She watches as he rushes up Takashi’s steps, careful not to spill the plate. The door is open — it really is hot today — and only the screen is left closed. Marcela crosses her fingers, hoping the boy will come when Lancito knocks, and —

She freezes. Her jaw drops. Lance — didn’t knock. The little dork just…opened the door of a relative stranger’s house and just.

Walked in.

“Dios mio,” she mutters to herself, hustling back to the kitchen to continue spying out the window.

She makes it there just in time, not even bothering with the pretence of reorganizing cup ware as she watches her son stride up to the boy, a particular sort of childlike confidence guiding his bare feet, and plant himself in front of him. The boy, strangely, does not seem to notice him, still staring blankly ahead of him.

Lance considers this for a moment. He steps over to the side and sets down the plate of food, walking back to stand squarely in front of the boy. He pokes him. The boy startles.

Marcela scrambles to open the window.

“I need a chess buddy,” Lance declares.

Takashi blinks at him.

“How,” he says, finally, gesturing at Lance as a whole. “What.”

“Chess is a strategy game played by two people,” Lance explains, missing the meaning of Takashi’s statement entirely. Marcela bites her tongue to keep from laughing. “Sit down, I’ll teach you.” Lance sits. He opens his chessboard and begins meticulously setting up the pieces. “I call dibs on playing black.”

Takashi doesn’t move for a long while. For a moment Marcela worries that he won’t let Lance play; or worse, he’s frozen again, uncomprehending of what’s in front of him.

But, slowly, he sits. And he runs his fingertips over the top of the pawns. He swallows, harshly, several times. Something painful works its way across his face before settling into something pensive, soft.

“I would appreciate that,” he says quietly.

He clearly knows how to play. He lets Lance explain, but he has no trouble keeping up with Lance play for play; eventually cornering Lance’s king. Lance glares at him for several minutes after, which Shiro allows with a stoic look in return, until the frown on Lancito’s face suddenly shifts to one of begrudging respect.

“Rematch,” Lance decides, ever the most competitive child Marcela has ever known.

Shiro cracks a smile. “So I can beat you again?”

Lance huffs. “We’ll see, butthead.”

Satisfied that the boys are fine, for once, relieved at the animation returned to Takashi’s spirit, Marcela turns back to organizing the kitchen in earnest. She puts on her favourite CD and dances around the kitchen as she arranges the plates and bowls in a very particular way she knows will drive her husband insane. She loses herself in the monotony of scrubbing the fridge clean for no reason except that it’s Sunday and she’s bored and she has to time to lose herself in tedium, lucky as she is.

Hours later, long after the rest of her family comes in, Lance stomps his way into the living room where Marcela is braiding Rachel’s hair and helping her run lines for her school play.

“I want to trade Marco for Shiro,” he announces. He explains for their benefits: “That’s what Takashi told me I could call him.”

Marcela hides a smile. “You can still visit next door if you keep your brother, you know.”

“Ugh,” Lance says.

Rachel snorts. She knows as well as everyone else in the house that it will be Marco, tonight, who Lance will turn to to help check his room for monsters or sleep with should he have a nightmare. And Marco will sigh and whine and complain and never entertain the idea of not helping.

“I’m glad you and Takashi have become friends,” Marcela offers.

This brings the smile back to Lance’s face.

“Duh,” he says. “It’s Shiro.”

[almostarts]

Gaetano Pesce (8 November 1939 – 3 April 2024)

Moving against the stream of rational, functional modernism in the 1960s and early 70s, Mr. Pesce experimented with materials and production methods to create furniture pieces imbued with political or religious meaning for brands from Cassina to B&B Italia.

Many would go on to become icons of Italian design including the Up5 chair – an innovative vacuum-packed chair designed to resemble a female prisoner – which he designed for B&B Italia precursor C&B.

Pesce moved to New York in 1983 and began to move away from mass production to create "standardised series" in everyday materials like resin, adapting conventional production techniques to create varied and imperfect outcomes.

The result are pieces such as the 1884 Pratt chair, which toe the line between functional design and decorative art, helping to create a new category that would later become collectible design.

Mr. Pesce was born in the Italian city of La Spezia in November 1939, only two months after the start of world war two.

As was common at the time, he trained in both architecture and design, studying first at the University of Venice and later at the Venice Institute of Industrial Design.

Among his architecture projects is the Organic Building in Osaka from 1993, with its plant-covered facade made of orange fiberglass that served as a precursor to today's vegetation-covered green walls.

But Mr. Pesce's most pioneering and well-known work happened in the world of design. In the late 1960s, he became one of the leaders of Italy's Radical Design movement, rejecting modernism's rigid focus on forms dictated by function.

Instead, Pesce focused on the idea that functional objects, much like art, could carry a deeper message.

One of the most famous examples is the controversial Up5 chair from 1969, which manufacturer B&B Italia describes as "the first product of Italian design with a political meaning".

Rest In Power !

"Up 5 & 6" Dressed Up Chair & Ottoman, 1969 – 2014, Polyurethane foam, fabric, Height: 40.5 in (102.87 cm)Width: 47 in (119.38 cm)Depth: 51 in (129.54 cm)Seat Height: 16 in (40.64 cm),

“Square Airport Lamp” (1986/1994). Photography by Elizabeth Carababas/The Future Perfect. Light sculpture consisting of a flexible rubber membrane studded with small light bulbs. Although made from a mold, no two lamps are alike, due to the imperfections that arise from the hand-mixing and pouring of colored urethane. H 92 - W 65 Cm,

"Feltri" Armchair for Cassina, 1980 -1989, Felt, Fabric, Resin, Width: 156 cm, Depth: 80 cm, Height: 129 cm, Seat height:42 cm, Courtesy: Oldera,

"Pratt Chair #7," 1984 2018 (purple), 2018, Transparent polyurethane, :93 x 53 x 53 cm. (36.6 x 20.9 x 20.9 in.),

"The Cabinet of The Tired Man," 2018, Photo: Courtesy of Salon 94 Design and Gaetano Pesce,

"Tramonto a New York" three-door screen, for Cassina, Made of coloured resin, hinges and feet in burnished brass, Width: 221, Height: 199,

"Organic" Building, Osaka, Japan, Completed in 1993 to embody the corporate ideal of Oguraya Yamamoto Co., Ltd,

"La In-Portante" Modular Bookshelf from the "Abbraccio" Series, 2010. Comprising 57 adjustable polyurethane resin shelves. Produced by Le Fablier, Italy. Polyurethane resin, painted wood, lacquered metal, 86½ x 118¾ x 16⅞ in. (219.7 x 301.6 x 42.6 cm) Courtesy of Sotheby's,

La Michetta Modular Sofa,Compostion of 8 by Meritalia, Structure in Lacquered Wood Seat with Elastic Belts, Flexible Polyurethane & Fiberfill Padding, Dimensions: W370 x D245cm,

Unique 'Ireland' table, Made of polyurethane and metal. The table was made and exhibited in 1996 by Gallery Mourmans, Knokke-Zoute, Belgium. It was part of a series of 'EU tables', where all 15 member countries were represented as a table, in this case Ireland. The top of the table has the shape of the outlines of the country and it stands on legs in the shape of question marks. W.80.71 in;H.28.74 in;D.57.09 in; (W.205 cm;H.73 cm;D.145 cm), Courtesy: Incollect.

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

Changes chapter 2

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The girl nervously fumbled with the hem of her dress as Lucien rang the doorbell. The house in front of her was large and covered in a white layer of paint. She could smell the presence of a dog and the presence of a creature that was like Lucien - and her, she reminded herself. She flinched as the porch light switched on, wincing as the brightness burnt her eyes. She looked up as she heard the door click, a lock switching open, and then the door quickly being opened. In the doorway stood a man, dressed in a typical 80s suit with shoulder patches and a pattern that could only be described as horrific. He was wearing thick framed glasses, his har combed back neatly. Overall, he looked nothing like she expected. The girl looked at him, really taking him in, her face blank. He didn't look like Lucien, who was dressed in all black and covered in tattoos. No, this man looked absurdly normal. Too normal, maybe. With uncertainty, she looked at Lucien. He gave her a kind smile.

"This is Max," Lucien told her. "Max, this is Julie."

The man - Max - smiled kindly at her. "Why don't you come inside, both of you. I think we have a lot to talk about."

Julie hadn't wanted to go inside, but after Lucien laid his hand on her back with gentle force and pushed her towards the door, she realised she had little choice in the matter. The door closed behind Lucien, and the three of them were standing in a brightly lit hallway. There were objects with bright lights and bright colours everywhere, flashing and turning. Every where she looked, things were moving and turning. It was like the man had built his own miniature carnival in his living room. Julie winced, focusing her eyes on the floor, the lights being too much.

"It's alright, Julie," Lucien said, guiding her to a less bright room. She looked up, nervously biting her lip. She hadn't known what to expect when Lucien had told her that he knew someone who could help her, but this wasn't it. As she looked around, she realised they were in a kitchen. The walls were covered in white tiles, and the cabinets wrapped in a wood patterned vinyl. The sink was filled with dirty dishes, but most of them were glasses and cups. No plates, pots, or pans. Julie couldn't help but wonder why that was. Surely Max had to eat as well, right? In the middle of the kitchen was a small round table, with five chairs positioned around it. Max had sat down at one of them and motioned for them to do the same. Slowly, Julie sat down across from him.

"Do you know what you are?" Max asked. Even though his expression was on the stern side, Julie could pick up on the hints of worry in his voice. She frowned slightly - what did he mean? She was just Julie. And on what she was - or rather what else she could be - she wasn't sure. No one had told her what they'd been doing back there, and Lucien hadn't exactly asked or explained anything.

After a moment, she shook her head, not looking Max in the eye. Instead, her eyes focused on everything around her. The doghairs on the floor, the half empty bowl near the backdoor, the empty cup with a red liquid in the sink...

"Do you know what happened to you?"

Julie shook her head but then slowly nodded. She did remember things, bits, and pieces. Flashes of light and pain, flashes of laughter, flashes of people bidding money. But nothing concrete, nothing that would explain how this happened or why.

"Just bits and pieces, hm? Maybe that's for the better, dear. Don't focus too much on it." Max gave her a kind, sorrowful look, as if he felt terrible for what happened to her. Maybe he did. Julie wasn't sure, but she hoped that the compassion wasn't an act. If she were to stay here, she'd rather stay with a man who was genuine.

Slowly, she nodded. That made sense - that forgetting could be better than remembering the horrors. It had already happened, so why focus on it? Julie looked up as Max stood up from his chair.

"I've got a room for you upstairs. You're welcome to stay there, if you want. I've made sure that no sunlight will be able to get in. There's a small bathroom attached to it if you want to get cleaned up. Try a bath instead of a shower, alright? There are towels in the bathroom." Max looked at her. Normally, he'd explain how running water was an issue and that it could burn - but now wasn't the time. The girl was scared and frightened, most likely brought here against her will. She needed some time alone to settle and to think. He just hoped she would accept his help because she needed it.

With a hint of uncertainty, Julie looked at Lucien. When he nodded with an encouraging smile, she followed Max upstairs. He led her to a soft white room. Dark green black-out curtains hung in front of the window, blocking any light from outside. In the middle of the room was a large bed, covered in blue blankets. Across from the bed was a small desk, a pile of paper, and some pencils laid on top of it, as if to invite her to write or draw. Above the desk was a small corkboard, where she could hang decorations if she wanted - or so Max told her. Next to the door, across from the window, was a wardrobe. The old wood had also been painted white, with some floral patterns on the edges. Julie looked at Max, giving him a shy, thankful smile. It was the first time since she could remember that she had a room of her own to stay in.

"It's alright, dear." He stood in the doorway. "The door can lock from the inside if you prefer that. Try and get some rest, Lucien will also be here tomorrow evening."

Julie nodded, comforted by the thought. She may not have known Lucien that well - or at all, really - but he was a familiar face. A familiar face that had proven to be helpful and kind towards her. She closed the door, locking it. She waited, expecting to hear Max return, but he didn't. It was really okay to lock the room. She thought for a moment but felt too tired to wash herself now. She could always do that tomorrow morning, right? She took off her shoes and laid down on the bed. It was comfortable. The blankets were warm. With a soft sigh, she drifted off to sleep.

"What on earth happened to her?" Max asked as he returned downstairs.

"I don't know. She doesn't talk, she wrote that she could speak but something forced her not to. But that's all I know. I've been feeding her in the past couple of days by filling a refill cup. I have no idea if she can even comprehend the fact that she needs to kill to survive."

"But she did drink the blood?"

"Gulped it down."

Max nodded, thinking. "Alright." That was at least something. As a newborn, vampires need more blood. That was a simple fact. Whether Julie knew about what she was drinking or not, the fact that she had consumed blood would only make the hunt easier. She knew what she was getting out of it, so to speak.

He noticed the sun rising - he felt it happening before he even saw the sky beginning to change its colour - and he led Lucien to a sunproof room. It was next to Julie's. Max went into his own room, biding the man good night.

Max woke up early the next evening, realising he needed to make a plan. First, Julie had to learn what she was. She had to realise that she was a vampire and what it all meant. Second, she needed to feed. Properly. Getting blood in cups would sustain someone, but with a newborn vampire, it would not suffice. She would need more. A lot more. Thirdly, he needed to know what happened to her. The lack of words coming out of her wasn't just a response to trauma or a strange new situation. No, he was quite certain someone compelled the girl to be silent. At least, he hoped so - seeing that there were other more permanent ways of shutting someone up while letting them live. He shook his head - no, she probably still had her tongue and vocal chords, and this was just the result of someone compelling her. He sincerely hoped it was - he could probably help her overcome the compelled command, but healing such severe and delicate injuries? He wasn't sure if he could.

"Julie? I need to go, kid." He heard Luciens voice outside his room. "No, I can't stay. I have to go, my mate needs me. He's been hurt."

It was quiet for a moment before he heard Lucien speak again. "You can always reach me, and I'll be here as soon as I can. I promise."

Then, there was silence. Max stepped out of his room, having given them as much privacy as he could. Julie's door was closed, and Lucien stood in front of it.

"Go to your mate," Max nodded, "She'll be fine here."

"Thank you, Max. For everything."

David had gone off on his own tonight, curiosity of this new girl driving him to go and visit Max. He had expected to find the house empty, the older vampire taking the newborn out to feed or on a flying lesson or something. Instead, he found the front door wide open. Thorn was nowhere to be seen. Inside, the lights were on, and he could sense Max' presence inside the house. It was only when he landed in the yard that he noticed the girl - young woman, he realised - sitting on the steps of the front porch. She was staring at the ground in front of her, sulking about something.

"You must be-"

The girl looked up, fear flashing in her eyes. Within seconds she was inside, the front door slammed shut. Inside, he could hear Max speak. "I'll go see who it is. In the meantime, you should drink some of this."

David waited, and it didn't take long before Max was outside. He gave David a stern look, but both men knew it wasn't that serious.

"I thought you boys had decided to give her time to settle in?"

"I was curious."

"You should meet her properly, now that you're here." Max decided. Seeing Julie's response, it was best if she knew David wasn't a threat. Maybe it would benefit her if she knew the boys, having vampires closer to her turning age to hang out with - who also understood to a certain extent what she was going through.

"Her senses are all fucked, aren't they? She didn't even notice I was there."

"She's not attuned to them yet." Still, Max made a note of it. If he too started to feel like she wasn't attuned to them, he had to do something about it. It was dangerous for her otherwise. What if she didn't hear a hunter or a werewolf? She wouldn't be able to get away in time.

David shrugged. "Whatever you want to call it, you've got your job cut out for you."

"Her case is tricky, trickier than any of yours had been."

"Seriously?"

Max nodded. Objectively speaking, up until that point, David's change had been the most problematic. He'd been changed during the war, being saved from death by Max. The war stopped for no one, and during the change, he had almost lost his life again when a bomb hit close by. It had been touch and go for quite some time, especially since a leg had to be reattached, and Max found it explained the bitterness the vampire had quite well. Once David was fully turned, everything went fine, but still - sometimes, in the early years, the killing brought back unwanted memories. It hadn't been easy, and even though he had come to terms with it now, sometimes he still had a bad day.

"Shit."

The two of them walked inside, and Max was glad to see that Julie was drinking from the cup of blood he'd given her. She looked up only when they stood in front of her, making Max wonder if David had been right about her senses.

"Julie, this is David. He's one of my -" he paused, looking for a better word but finding none, "sons."

"I didn't mean to scare you." If David had been troubled by the usage of the word son, it didn't show. As the boy looked at Julie, he gave her a rare, kind look.

Julie nodded quietly, taking a sip from her glass, pulling her legs up, her arms wrapped around her knees.

"I have three other boys. You'll probably meet them later tonight." Max looked at her, realising that he didn't want her to be alone. Not because he didn't trust her - but because he was certain that it wouldn't be to her benefit. It would be best for her if she saw other people, other vampires. If she could have a tiny bit of a normal life, maybe it would help her come to terms with her vampirism.

Max had to go to the store tonight, if only to check in, and knowing David and the others, they would show up. Taking Julie along seemed like the right plan. She could meet the others, and he could see how shed respond to the boardwalk. Besides, it would be a good way to see if she had any control and to take her out to feed afterwards.

David stood in the kitchen still, looking at the girl at the table. "If anyone ever gives you trouble, you come to us, alright? We'll handle it for you."

The girl looked surprised before smiling. Everything about her seemed to scream thank you, but no words came out. David nodded before letting himself out. Max was right. The others needed to meet her tonight, just so she'd know who were on her side and who could help her if necessary. There was something about her that made him care. It was something that surprised him. Normally he wasn't like this.

Max sat down across from Julie. "I need to go to town in a bit. I have a store there and I need to make sure everything is alright. I'd like you to come with."

Slowly, the girl nodded, her feet touching the ground again.

"I want to leave in an hour, does that give you enough time to get clean and ready?"

Yes, she thought quietly, that would be enough time. She just needed to get washed, and fhen she was ready to go. It wasn't like she had makeup or an elaborate wardrobe to go through, wondering about what she would wear. She only had the one dress she was wearing now. The man looked at her with a kind smile, and she went upstairs. She went to the bathroom, letting the tub fill with warm water and picking a floral soap to pour into it.

Downstairs, Max couldn't help but wonder about the girl. If he wanted to help her, he needed to know what happened to her. He picked up the phone, ringing Luciens number, but he got no answer. He didn't think any of it, deciding to try again later.

Next chapter >

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

Note: what can I say.....

Part 6 of the Halloween fic, direct follow up to part 5.

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5

Warnings: 18+, suggestive, mention of blood, fake blood, very brief mention of knife play, self inflicted pain (for pleasure) and drugs,

pairing: Modern!Sihtric x you (f)

Summary: Sihtric took you home and you joined him at his friend's party. What could possibly go wrong?

Word count: 3,6k 

Masterlist

'I do not want you in my life, so you best stay away if you know what's good for you.'

'I see the government paid you royally,' you said, gaping at the huge detached house at the end of the driveway Sihtric just pulled up at. 

'Yet nowhere near enough for the shit we've dealt with,' Sihtric mumbled.

You were excited and nervous to see where and how Sihtric lived. You already loved the fact that his house was hidden from the mainroad, surrounded by trees and bushes. The exterior of his modest mansion consisted of white bricks with black wooden beams. The house seemed old but well kept. Once you stepped through the front door you were greeted by a large black wooden staircase, which was the eye catcher in his dark and spacious hallway. You quickly noticed that his entire house had that old gothic look and vibe, which you were absolutely in love with.

Sihtric held your hand and walked you to his living room, where you noticed a large fireplace and huge windows overlooking fields with some sheep, which Sihtric said didn't belong to him unfortunately. Across the ceiling and walls you saw old black wooden beams, and his dark furniture matched with the old gothic vibe of it all. You walked over to a huge oaken cabinet which held various animal skulls, which Sihtric had found in the woods, and you inspected his vinyl collection.

'What do I need to do to live here?' you mumbled, gazing up at the large black chandelier, 'I love your home, it's incredible.'

'Thank you, my darkness,' Sihtric smiled and snuck his arms around your waist, hugging you from behind, 'it didn't always look like this. I made a lot of changes after my divorce to make it exactly how I wanted. It used to be all pretty light, but I painted dark colours over every wall.'

'I think you did an amazing job,' you smiled and turned to face him, 'and I think you are amazing,' you nuzzled his nose and kissed his lips.

'Says the most amazing lady I have ever met,' Sihtric smiled, his hands sliding down to your ass, giving a soft squeeze while he kissed your neck.

'So, where do you keep that pillory?' you grinned.

'In my basement,' Sihtric smirked.

'Your basement or your dungeon?'

Sihtric laughed, 'You can call it whatever you like, but I'm not taking you there right now.'

'Oh, come on,' you pouted and tugged at his hands.

'No, baby,' Sihtric chuckled, holding your hands firm but gentle, 'I already know what poor self control we have, and we can't be doing that right now, we have a party to go to.'

'Fine,' you sighed, knowing Sihtric was right about everything he just said, 'so how are we dressing up?'

'Well, since we don't plan on staying long, I don't even feel like putting in a whole lot of effort,' Sihtric shrugged, 'you already look breathtaking in your dress, so how about we just splatter ourselves with fake blood and keep it simple?'

'So we dress up as ourselves?' you laughed.

'I guess,' Sihtric smiled and pulled you with him as he walked back into his hallway, to the large stairs, 'want to see my bedroom?' he winked.

His dark and high ceiling bedroom was everything you ever dreamed of, and you felt sick with envy. His bed was huge, also made of dark wood, and had a large gothic headboard, and in front of his bed was a large faux fur rug which looked like a wolf's pelt. The walls were painted emerald, like the colour of his bed sheets, and the door to his ensuite bathroom was painted red. The black shelves on the walls held candles and dried roses in coffin shaped vases. On top of his black clothing cabinet were several decorative skulls, and you noticed the wall right across from his bed was rather empty, in contrast to the other walls, and you asked why.

'There used to be a large mirror,' Sihtric said, 'I took it down as soon as I lived here on my own. I've been meaning to put up some framed classic horror movie posters, but I haven't done it yet.'

'Why did you take down the mirror?'

'Mirrors,' Sihtric said, pulling you towards his bed, 'are believed to be portals between this world and the next. You should know about that stuff, little bat.'

'I do,' you smiled and straddled his lap, looking down in his mismatched eyes.

'It is also said that you shouldn't have any mirrors facing towards your bed. It can drain your energy and have a bad effect on your mood, as it creates unbalanced energy. Which has nothing to do with any ghosts or spirits,' Sihtric smiled, 'but I like to sleep well at night.'

'Oh, shit. I never knew that. That's interesting.'

'Mhm. But not as interesting as you,' Sihtric said and kissed your cheek, 'now, let's get ready for that party,' he sighed.

'You act like you don't want to go.'

'I just know some weird shit will happen,' he said, 'and I don't want you to think that these are parties I enjoy. I enjoy a good Halloween party, but Rypere's parties just always end up being random sex gatherings really,' Sihtric chuckled, 'and it's fucking weird.'

'But you keep going?' you frowned.

'Like I said before, only to show my face to my friend. I always get out as soon as I can. Anyway, I'm going to change my clothes.'

You nodded and got off his lap, then enjoyed watching Sihtric undress in front of you, not even in a teasing or sensual way, but just mindlessly feeling comfortable enough around you to do so.

'You have such an impressive body,' you said softly, smiling as you leaned back on his comfortable bed.

'Thank you,' Sihtric chuckled and blushed, 'so do you.'

'Thanks,' you laughed and watched Sihtric put on a tight black mesh shirt. It showed off his scarred muscular torso, as well as the bandage on his chest which covered up the cut from which you had licked his blood last night. He put on a pair of black ripped jeans and tied in his black leather boots before he put a wine coloured belt through the hoops of his jeans. Then he turned to you.

'Too much?' Sihtric asked with a grimace.

You stared at him as he walked over, your jaw slightly dropped, and you chuckled.

'Sihtric,' you said, 'you look so insanely hot and sexy. I need you to drag me to that pillory in your basement right now.'

'Gods,' Sihtric laughed and cupped your cheeks, looking down in your eyes as you sat on his bed, 'you're so eager, aren't you? Hmm,' he hummed.

'I will do anything to please you, sir,' you sighed.

'Fuck, babe,' Sihtric exhaled sharply, 'stop making me so hard,' he pinched your cheek lightly and pecked your lips, 'come, the fake blood's in the bathroom.'

He pulled you up by your hands and led you into the spacious dark marbled bathroom, where he handed you a bottle of fake blood. You asked why on earth he had this in his bathroom, and he told you he only bought them last week, figuring he'll need it for a Halloween party.

'So… paint me red?' Sihtric smiled.

'How much? And where do you want me to put it?' you asked while Sihtric lifted you up to sit on his bathroom cabinet.

'Put it wherever you want and how much you want.'

He then pecked your lips and cheek, slowly trailing his lips down to your neck, sucking and licking your sensitive skin while his hands were on your hips.

'Sihtric,' you hummed, 'you're making it impossible for me to think.'

'I'm sorry,' he chuckled, pinching your skin between his teeth before he pulled away, leaving a bruise on your neck.

You let the fake blood run down from his neck, soaking through his mesh shirt onto his muscular chest, where it trickled further down his body. You smudged his toned biceps and his hands, and lastly his beautiful face. Sihtric followed your movements with his eyes, smiling softly the entire time you decorated him, and he wondered how he had gotten a lady so bewitching as you. 

When it was his turn he gently slipped the straps of your black dress down your shoulders, kissing your skin before he painted your shoulders, clavicles, and your neck with the fake blood on his fingertips. He was careful to not get the red and sweet tasting liquid on your short dress, but you messed that up yourself by pulling him close, being desperate for his kiss. And after Sihtric reluctantly broke the kiss, he dipped his fingertips in the remaining blood and trailed his fingers softly down your cheek and down your arms.

'Would you mind some real blood, my dark angel?' he whispered, softly pecking your cheek.

'I wouldn't mind,' you smiled while wondering what he was going to do.

You watched him open a drawer of the cabinet you sat on, and he took out a small pocket knife. Sihtric brought the knife up to his lower lip and made a cut, drawing blood fast and with a heavy flow. He quickly pulled you in with his hand on the back of your head, kissing you hard and deep.

You moaned against his lips as you tasted his blood, and he pulled away to drag his bloody lips down your chin and your throat, leaving a trail of his fresh and warm blood all the way to your cleavage, where he pressed a gentle kiss to your skin and pulled back. He quickly grabbed a clean towel, which you snatched out of his hands and brought it up to his bleeding lip before he could do it himself, and you applied some pressure to stop the bleeding. Sihtric smiled softly again, his arms circling around your waist as he watched you take care of him, again, unlike anyone else he's ever been with. And he thought about how he would kill and die for you in a heartbeat.

'I love you,' his voice was muffled by the towel.

'I love you too,' you chuckled and kissed the tip of his nose.

'I see it's already busy, we really won't be staying long,' Sihtric said as you both looked at the big Halloween decorated house while sitting in his car.

'Okay,' you agreed and gave him a nervous smile.

'Hey,' Sihtric whispered sweetly, taking your hand and cupping your cheek with his other, 'you belong to me,' he kissed your lips softly, 'you're mine, my dark love. I own you, you are my property,' he kissed you again and then cupped both your cheeks, 'the same way I belong to you. I'm yours, my love, and you own me. All of me. I am yours only, I am your property. Remember that,' he smiled.

You were taken aback by his words, feeling your lower abdomen heat up as your heartbeat quickened, and you pulled him closer, kissing him slow, deep and sloppy. You whispered countless "I love you's" to each other in between kisses before you finally got out of the car and walked up to the house.

Sihtric held your hand and led you through the crowded hallway, where you were already taken by surprise when you saw a couple casually having sex on the stairs, with no one batting an eye. You ended up in an even more crowded living room, and Sihtric led you to the table with drinks. You reached to take a cup with some punch, but Sihtric was quick to take your hand and he leaned in to speak in your ear, making you hear him over the music.

'I don't need to try that to know there's something in it,' Sihtric said, 'don't drink anything here which you didn't open yourself, okay, baby?' He kissed your cheek.

'Are you serious?'

'Yes, but everyone here knows that, it's up to everyone if they want a drink with some drugs in it or not. How do you think those orgies happen?' he laughed.

'Goodness,' you chuckled and took a closed can of sprite.

Sihtric pulled you closer and just looked at you, with pupils so large it seemed as if he was high on drugs without having taken any. He was simply so in love with you, and so aroused to have you in his arms in public, that he felt his heart beating out of his chest and his head spun as he heard his blood buzz in his ears. And you felt the same. The feeling was overwhelming but pleasant.

You ran your hand over his mesh shirt, feeling his muscles while you were breathing hard. You were eager and ready for him, for his love. It almost seemed as if the air was drugged too, but it wasn't, this was just the first time being somewhere together, among people, after your intimate night with Sihtric. After he had claimed you, after you had become each other's property. You had never experienced a love like this, but it felt as if it was exactly what you had been looking for your entire life.

'Sihtric,' you said, breathy, but before you could continue Sihtric already did what you wanted to ask; kissing you deeply and passionately, as if you were the only two people in the room while everything and everyone around you drowned out. There was only Sihtric for you, only the feeling of his strong arms around you and the feeling of his hands on your buttocks, squeezing firmly. There was only the taste of his tongue in your mouth and the feeling of his heavy breathing and soft moans against your lips.

'My darkness,' he breathed, his hands trailing up the sides of your body while you dragged your nails down over his barely covered torso, 'my love,' Sihtric said, stealing another kiss before someone called his name, which you both didn't hear, until the same person suddenly grabbed his shoulder, making you both snap out of the hypnotised feeling.

'Sihtric!' a man yelled as he pulled Sihtric in for a hug, which looked awkward as Sihtric still had his arms around you.

'Oh, shit,' Sihtric chuckled, 'hey man,' he said and slapped the man's shoulder.

'How are you doing? Wasn't sure if you'd show up!'

'You know I always try to show up at least for a moment. But I'm good,' Sihtric smiled, and you figured the man he was talking to was his friend, Rypere, the host of the party.

'Yeah, you look good, man! You look happy, and it's been, what, a century since you last smiled?' the man laughed.

'Feels like it,' Sihtric chuckled.

'So who's this then?' the man looked at you with a friendly smile, 'the reason for your happiness?'

'Yeah,' Sihtric pulled you close again and looked at you, 'this is my queen,' he smiled, 'my love.'

Sihtric introduced you to Rypere and you shook his hand.

'An honour to meet you,' Rypere said, 'good to finally see Sihtric with someone who dresses up with him,' he smiled and turned to Sihtric, 'I'm really happy for you, man. I gotta run now, I was on my way to the bathroom, but couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you making out with someone,' Rypere laughed, 'I'll see you two around, yeah? Oh, by the way,' Rypere said, 'remember that blonde you hooked up with once? Banging body, horrible personality?'

'Worst night of my life,' Sihtric sighed, 'what about her?'

'She's here.'

'Ready to go home soon?' Sihtric asked in between kisses.

'Yeah,' you smiled. 

You had been at the party for a little over an hour. It wasn't that weird yet, except for the occasional couple having sex out in the open, but as before, no one batted an eye and you really only had eyes for Sihtric, who couldn't keep his hands nor lips off you either.

'Sihtric?' a woman behind you called out, making him look up. 

You saw Sihtric's smile fade as his jaw clenched, and he pulled you firm against his chest.

'Sihtric Kjartansson,' a blonde woman said as she walked up to him, 'I thought that was you. Didn't recognize you with the new haircut.'

Sihtric didn't say anything.

'You look good,' she smiled, her eyes looking him up and down, 'really good.'

A feeling of hatred came over you when you watched the woman checking out your property.

'What do you want, Skade?' Sihtric asked, agitated.

'Oh, you remember my name?' she mocked, 'I thought you wouldn't remember me. I left you my number, but you never called me.'

'It was a one time thing only, almost half a year ago,' Sihtric said, his face serious as he held you tight.

'I know there were no strings attached,' Skade smiled, 'but I always hoped you'd call…'

'I had no reason to call you,' Sihtric retorted, 'I didn't even save your number.'

Skade's smile faded, and if looks could kill, Sihtric would've dropped dead right there. Then she looked at you, with her piercing blue eyes, and she grinned.

'Is this your new hook up?' she asked, looking back at Sihtric.

'She is none of your business,' Sihtric spat, 'nor is my life.'

'You're lucky,' Skade smiled at you, insincere, 'at least half of the people in this room want a night with him.'

Skade trailed her fingers down Sihtric's biceps, but before you could react, Sihtric shook her hand off his arm.

'Do not touch me!' he growled.

'Relax,' Skade laughed and clicked her tongue, 'I'm only playing. I remember what you feel like,' she said, trailing her fingers over his arm again.

You huffed and harshly slapped her hand off him this time.

'He belongs to me,' you hissed and stared into her eyes, hearing Sihtric chuckle in your ear as he pulled you closer again.

'Does he?' Skade scoffed, 'did he chain you up too?'

'No,' you gave her a cocky look, 'but I tasted his blood,' you said, leaning closer to Skade, giving her a threatening look, 'I. Own. Him.'

Skade's face turned bitter, full of envy and spite, and she saw Sihtric smile before he buried his face in your neck, planting kisses and gently biting your earlobe. You smiled at Skade as you let Sihtric show his undying affection and love for you.

'I love you, my queen,' Sihtric smiled and ran his tongue over your lips before he kissed you in the sloppiest way possible.

Skade's face twitched with rage and jealousy as she watched him kiss you.

'I could've tasted his blood too!' she snarled.

Sihtric broke the kiss and gave her a confused and annoyed look.

'You?' he scoffed, 'never. You couldn't even finish me off.'

You chuckled at his words and kissed his neck, until Skade suddenly raked her fingers through your hair.

'What the fuck?' you grimaced.

'Keep your fucking hands off her!' Sihtric barked and pushed her away, 'I do not want you in my life, so you best stay away if you know what's good for you,' he then took your hand and pulled you close again, 'come, baby, let's go home.'

'I just wanted to feel her pretty hair,' Skade smiled as she watched you walk out, 'we could've had fun, you know, the three of us. It's your loss, Sihtric!' she looked at you, then back at Sihtric, 'your loss,' she said again.

'Are you okay, my love?' Sihtric asked, leaning over to your seat while you both sat in his car.

'Yeah,' you scoffed lightly, 'that was just really fucking weird. Her whole energy just,' you shivered, 'yuck.' You took Sihtric's face in your hands, 'but are you okay?'

'I'm good,' he smiled, 'but I'm really sorry. If I knew she was here I never would've went.'

'How did you hook up with her in the first place?'

'Rypere's birthday party earlier this year,' Sihtric sighed, 'I was feeling really low and empty at that time. She came onto me and she ended up going home with me. I thought maybe I'd feel better after some sex,' he snorted, 'but I only felt worse.'

'What happened?'

'I chained her up, we had sex, sort of… I mean, she finished in no time, and told me to keep going, so I did,' Sihtric sighed, 'but she gets off by degrading people. She suddenly spat in my face and started to downtalk me. Seeing my history with mental abuse, I immediately stopped and told her to go home. She started to argue, we had a falling out and I basically had to force her out of my house. It was really fucked up, but clearly she had a better experience than me.'

'Sihtric,' you caressed his cheeks, 'baby, I'm so sorry.'

'Shh,' Sihtric smiled and pulled you closer, 'we'll never have to mention her name ever again. Everything is good now.'

He kissed you softly and took you back to his house. You again showered together and Sihtric asked if you were still up for trying something new, but the whole situation with Skade had thrown your energy off, so you told him you just wished to cuddle up in bed, which he happily did.

Skade went home, bitter and angry. She wanted to be Sihtric's love, only she deserved to be called his queen. Not you. 

She lit her candles and sat down. She chanted words and threw the few strands of your hair, which she had retrieved from you at the party, in the flames and she screamed, casting her curse;

'As I do this candle spell, bring my enemy three days of hell.

With this candle black, black as night, I bring her pain and torment tonight.

Dukes of darkness, kings of Hell, make her life all but well.

When three days of torment have passed,

I ask to bring her death and end her pain at last!'

[DM to be added to/removed from taglist! & don’t be shy to like, reblog & comment!🖤]

[wishingstarinajar]

so i said in the last ask that i had some head canons. and i wrote one out. it ended up being a lot longer then it was meant to be but here is it. (also im not the best at writing, having dyslexia sucks so sorry if it sounds a bit off or anything.) hope you like it :)

Case has a secret room in his lab/office. 

This room is hidden behind a bookshelf, and to open it you need to pull on a certain book and the middle shelf moves to the side, like the secret doors in movies. 

Once the shelf moves you're greeted with a long dark hallway. No light. No sound. It's all pretty scary and spooky until you reach a big metal door with a complex lock on it. Your first thought is that it's just another room filled with experiments and computers. Or maybe something darker. That's why it's so hidden.  

But if you somehow manage to unlock the door (or it was left open) then…

The first thing to catch your eyes is a big fancy old shiny gramophone sitting on a dark red-wood cabinet with records stored neatly underneath it. Above the gramophone is a photo of Case, his brother and queen, in a golden frame to match the horn of the gramophone. Under your feet in front of the door is a little dark red doormat. It looks pretty old.

The left side of the room is full of sewing equipment. Everything is neatly laid out. There is a big table in the middle with an industrial grade sewing machine mounted to it. Near the table is one of those fancy expensive mannequins with a half finished project pinned up on it. 

Against the wall just next to the door is a small desk with a big pin board hanging on the wall above. The pin board is covered in photos, patterns, little sketches of coats and corsets, a few buttons and gems on it too along with some scraps of fabric and post it notes. 

On the desk there’s a notebook with a hand made pattern next to it, as well as a little cup holder with pens, pencils and chalk. Next to that is a tiny annoying dog shaped pin cushion and a little box filled with sewing needles and more pins. You can never have too many pins. 

Sitting just under the desk is a little red stool on wheels. 

Around the room, and under the big table there are boxes and containers. You can't see inside them. it must just be storage. On top of one of the containers is an older looking sewing machine and an over-locker. 

The walls are lined with shelves filled with big rolls of all different types and colours of materials and fabrics. 

At the far corner of the room there’s a set of drawers that matches the red-wood cabinet of the gramophone with golden handles and trimming. On top of the cabinet is a lamp and an empty wine glass. 

Next to that cabinet is a big rack of clothes, That are all mostly the same colours that Case likes to wear, that being red and silvery shiny grey. Most of the clothes are corsets or have some kind of corset built into them.

The other side of the well lit room is mostly empty. This is when you notice the fact that the floor of this secret room is wooden. It’s a nice change from the cold tiled ground of the lab. 

The only thing in this half of the room is a big dark red well loved comfy looking armchair with a little grey pillow sitting on it. In front of the armchair sits a matching ottoman. On the back wall of the room, near the armchair is a small window covered by some dark red curtains that match the red doormat. 

Just next to the armchair is a wine rack filled with fancy bottles of fine wine. The top of the rack acts as a table and has a few wine glasses resting on it. The glasses look pretty fancy and expensive, one has a golden handle and a few others are made of clear crystal with ornate patterns and designs in them. 

You overheard something about Case liking to dance. Perhaps this big open space is where he practices. 

The only other thought that crosses your mind is why keep all of this hidden? (the answer to that is this as the only other room big enough that would fit the big sewing table and the armchair.) 

You shouldn't enter rooms you weren't invited to~

Damn, you went in-depth about his stuff! But it's all rather fitting for him, very fancy. Nice work!

I really love the last bit because, yes x'D Case doesn't hide away his corsets, sewing machines, designs, gramophone and records. He's too proud of these things. Just cozy at home, away from the lab in Waterfalls and prying eyes.

Megalosomnia belongs to @megalommi~

[likeastars]

Uuuuuggghhhh fuck it. Idk if I'll ever have the strength to work on this beast again, so you get a wip!!!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a small cottage, sitting comfortably in a clearing of the forest, not drawn nor doodled in any corner of any map, a cutout from a postcard hastily scrapped in the middle of the grass. A quick glance at the roof reveals it has been repaired its fair number of times, while a touch on the door handle tells that the rust on the lock is newer than the one scratching the pommel. The walls are obviously old, their wood is inconsistent in both size and type, and they breathe out heavy, weighed down by the many coats of colour. The last one changes halfway through, as if it was suddenly done by somebody else.

It’s not a convenient house, and it has no way of being comfortable for humans. But someone cared.

And that’s Kaisa’s main reason for knocking.

It’s a quiet rasp more than a knock. She waits, and a bit of fear bubbles up that she wasn’t heard; she doesn’t feel like she has the strength to raise her hand anymore. She hopes the soft tap of her head against the wood of the door will be louder.

It is.

They start. Faint, gentle, light steps, they arrive at the entryway and then stop, hesitant and weirdly silent. She can only hear one pair of feet, one puff of breath, and there’s no hushed conversation on the way to the door, only this looming quiet. They are alone.

It would be stupid to open the door then, the witch thinks. Then she adds: please.

And the lock clicks.

There's a person on the door now, arms tightly wound around her body and diffident eyes. Tense.

Also... interrupted, apparently.

Her hair falls short on her shoulder, held back from reaching her eyes by a colorful head band, while some rebel tufts stage their coup against the oppressor. A well-loved apron loosely covers some battered jeans and a ratty plaid shirt, full of dry smears of paint and mud, cracking and peeling at every movement. Heavily wrinkled too, as if they've been under it for a while, but the woman stays surprisingly clean. Her hands hands give no hints of any work getting done. Hands that look like they’re on their way to become rough and worn out like the rest of the house, but now they’re just empty, picked on. Maybe they come from a painting session that didn’t go well. Maybe they haven’t been going well for a while.

Their eyes meet in a curious study and a cautious glance, when the other woman's gaze suddenly drops to the glint in her pocket. Where her wand is safely tucked in.

When she freezes up this time, the only thing Kaisa can see is the uneasiness seeping under her skin.

“can I help you?”

Crap.

Can they help her? Probably not.

She really just saw the house and knocked. That’s it. That’s literally all it was.

She didn’t need any help. This person clearly prefers it this way. She should turn around and walk back into the woods and- and...

A brush of wind runs cold against her fingertips. It has been cold for a while.

“may I come in?” the witch asks, torturing a stray thread from her coat. “it- it really wouldn’t be for long. I’ve been out in the forest for… for a bit, i guess. A long bit. And I-“

A long sigh interrupts her. “fine.”

They stare at each other a bit longer than normal. They both look surprised.

That would be even stupider than opening the door.

“are you sure?” the stranger only replies with a raised brow.

"Come on." she puffs out, it's a tired little thing. They turn around, and Kaisa follows.

---

Leading her guest in, Johanna doesn't let herself think. Her body drags her off to the kitchen to put on some tea, the motions of rummaging through the cabinets for the last box of chamomile automatic, but slow, and familiar. She prepares the leaves and lingers, just a bit, on the bright new kettle they'd bought while renovating the house, before searching for the crooked flowery one she'd brought from Tofoten. It brings up stuff that's easier to ignore, and it takes ages to scald the tea.

Johanna then leans on the counter, waiting, trying to listen to any weird noise that might come from the other room.

A witch.

She remembers when they came to the old house the day of the incident. With the full moon on their shoulders the lines of their capes were painted with silver light, and they looked transparent, untouchable. Like ghosts. They perched on her doorstep speaking in hushed tones to her aunt, and they haunted the village until every neighbour who wondered about the blinding light in the forest forgot about it the day after.

The kettle whistles, startling her.

This one isn't a ghost. Johanna carefully sits the tea on a trail and breaths in, slowly.

She looked really cold.

Getting back to the living room still takes her longer than she'd like to admit, but her guest doesn't seem to notice. She's attentive, and focused, trying to gobble up everything she can put her eyes on. She moves slowly around the room, as if she's afraid of making any kind of noise, a skittish cat sniffing an unfamiliar environment. Then the witch's gaze shifts to one of aunt Astrid little trinkets, and Johanna comes back to herself.

She knocks on the wood of her library maybe harder than she means to, getting the other woman's attention.

Their eyes meet. They should sit down.

The normalcy and the easiness of the tea in her hand is what finally gets Johanna to unclench her jaw.

The cup sits between her fingers as a comfort more than anything, and as she drops her usual little sugar in her drink, she actually lets herself glance at her guest. She looks lost in thought. She keeps abusing a strand of her coat (which a good host would have already taken off of her) that escaped the knot of a button, with her eyes far away from the cup she's been staring at. They curve downwards, those eyes, curling up every time her round nose gets scrunched at the bitterness of the tea. She goes for her third spoonful of sugar in such a careful way that it looks practiced, and Johanna's fingers itch for her sketchbook like they haven't for months.

"thank you." the witch mutters, nuzzling in the warmth of her cup, ripping one last sigh out of Johanna.

[crewman-penelope]

Rayon de soleil

Drabbel, 481 words, Lyutsifer Safin/ Madeleine Swann, fluff, nttd au, teen and up audience

The lake looked like liquid gold.

The waterline moved with the gentle breeze, washing lightly along the pier.

Safin stood still to take the view in, cupping a mug with tea.

Chamomile, hot, with a drop of honey.

His eyes focusing on the water he blowed steam away and sipped careful on the beverage.

Soon he will go back into the house to prepare breakfast for his love, but for now he enjoyed the solitude of the moment.

The sunrise coloured the cloud hanging sky in warmth, while the surrounding became brighter.

For a second he saw himself on the lake, cracking ice under his boots. He blinked the memory away. This was another time, another man. He had grown since then. His love helped him with that.

He smiled to himself. This was one of the moment he felt happy. Him with his secret little family. A place to call home. The smell of the lake. Sunshine on his skin. The sweet anticipation for a morning kiss.

He turned around and went with soft step back to the house.

It had changed too.

Walking in he relished in the warm colours, candle white and maple wood.

He stopped in his steps to look hesitating into the round wall mirror that hung in the floor.

His face greeted him, familiar, but also changed. The morning light seemed to change his skin. His scars a fine net. The former hollow cheeks filled. His cheekbone not more this sharp. He already got some colour.

He went closer and leaned forward. Are there even freckles?

He smirked amused. He could not remember when he saw freckles on his nose. Seemed a lifetime.

He turned to the kitchen, an half open space, sharing the living area. Setting his mug aside. Taking another. Fingerpainting from a pre-schooler as decor. Filing it with coffee. No suger, but Creme. The Colour of almond.

As silent as possible he made his way to the bedroom, holding the coffee mug in both hands. On his way he throw a glance up the stairs. There was no sound coming. His little doll was still asleep.

He entered chateaus the bedroom, walking careful to the bed to softly place the mug on the bedside cabinet. Stepped back, while his eyes get drawn to the bed.

His love rested there. Deep asleep the bedsheets wrapped chaoticly around her limps. The light of the sun painted her skin colden. A sleeping goddess between white silk.

He observed. Waited. Until he saw her nostrils widen. The coffee worked. As alway. Every morning.

Safin smiled as he watched his love slowly waking up by the scent of her favourite morning drink.

She lifted her head, wild wheat morning hair and sleep sticky eyes. Smiling drowsily she greeted him.

“Lyutsifer” A croaked voice, alas still honey to his heart.

“Good morning, my love.”

Taglist: @safin-supremacy2 @villainworshiper @im-chinese-believe-it-or-not @cuckoo-on-a-string , @chevy2497 @deliciousfestsalad @ellen-the-radiant @namless1ghoul23 @one-boring-person, @daughterofthesilmaril (please tell me if you don't want to get tagged ❤️)

[grabyoursaintsandpray]

Crack fic - Too many beds

This isn't the strangest thing I've ever written but it's definitely up there.

The blame for this is because of a ruined trope prompt of 'Too many beds' and being egged on by @bluemoonperegrine who suggested what if they were trapped in a haunted IKEA, it made me laugh and while not haunted I absolutely ran with the IKEA prompt.

This was entirely written on the notes in my phone (which has no spell check) while in the back of someone's car over the course of an hour because I couldn't shake the idea. So excuse any typos or grammar.

Read on for an accurate layout of IKEA (I feel like I lived in there a few years ago when I moved house, this brought back bad memories honestly)

Did I mention crack fic? 1600 words of crack. This isn't making it onto AO3 😅

🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️

It seemed easy and that should have been the first clue really she thought. Her and Jack had been chasing a witch and they had tailed them to IKEA of all places.

It was closed for the night but the witch had unlocked the doors and turned the lights on so they followed her in.

"Why would she come here?" Elsa questioned to herself but she saw Jack shrug beside her.

She'd definitely chased bad guys through scarier places than this, it would be a walk in the park and maybe she'd get some ideas for her bedroom while she was at it.

They prowled through the living room layouts but the witch was nowhere to be seen.

Strange she thought to herself as she crouched to look underneath a fake mahogany table just in case.

"Elsa!" Jack called excitedly and she turned to see him holding up a purple throw pillow "This would really set off the colour of the walls"

She blinked blankly at him, had he been reading housekeeping magazines without her noticing?

She checked under more tables and behind sofa's to no avail all the while Jack kept up a constant stream of chatter about things he liked.

"This rug would look great in the hall" He called as she angrily slammed a drawer shut in frustration.

Nothing in the workspace area, though there was a desk she thought she might come back for at a later date and Jack helpfully span around on a multitude of computer chairs.

By the time they'd made it into the kitchen setups she'd kind of forgotten why they were even here. That was soon brought to the forefront of her mind as she narrowly avoided a chopping board to the head.

"Shit!" She yelled as she ducked just in time, the wooden board slamming into a row of taps behind her.

"You'll never take me alive!" The witch screamed popping up from behind a marble counter, cutlery floating around her head.

Jack was busy opening and closing a cabinet door so didn't spot the danger, she grabbed his arm and yanked him to safety just as knives and forks clattered around them.

There was one last smash of glass before Elsa deemed it safe to stand back up, Jack was looking forlornly at the shards on the floor and didn't join her.

"I really liked that caffetier" he told her dejected before he too stood.

The witch was standing in the arch leading to the next area cackling wildly "I'm more powerful than you can even imagine" she pointed at them menacingly then fled.

Weird but what about this wasn't honestly.

Elsa made to follow with Jack trailing behind when she heard rattling and then a horrid scraping sound. Almost in slow motion she turned in time to see a kitchen drawer squealing along the linoleum towards them.

"What the" but she didn't get time to finish her sentence as it leaped towards her head like a cat.

She yelped in surprise as she weaved and it clattered to the ground in front before scuffing it's way in a circle almost like it had turned to look at her, before it moved with shocking speed towards her ankles.

"Jack little help?" she asked wondering if he could see what was happening while she kicked the sentient wood away from her.

"Busy!" He called back and she glanced at him to see he was holding a toaster at arms length while the power cord attempted to wrap around his neck like a python. Alright then, he really was busy.

In her distraction the drawer had gotten closer and she felt it ram into her kneecap "Son of a bitch!" Right that was it, now she was pissed.

With a shout of fury, she jumped landing inside the drawer and causing the flimsy chipboard to crack beneath her weight. Wasting no time she began stomping the stupid thing to death, until it was just chunks of material and dust.

She heard Jack yell in pain and had no time to revel in besting kitchen furniture as she ran over to help him. She swiped a thankfully inanimate frying pan from a display and like a cricketer going up to bat, took an almighty swing and sent the toaster flying across the room.

"Thanks" Jack croaked, rubbing at his reddened neck.

She nodded before sprinting to the next room, dreading what new horror awaited her.

She let out a sigh of relief as she realised they'd made it to the bedroom section, beds were far less scary than knives.

The witch was easy to spot on account of her still cackling manically but on seeing them she waved her arms around and Elsa heard more ominous banging and scraping.

"Oh give me a break" she grumbled as the witch darted away and her path was blocked by an angry bunk bed. Elsa had no idea how she knew it was angry, it was more of a feeling.

It moved with a grace that belied it's sheer size and she was struck with the realisation that this hitting them would hurt a hell of a lot more than a toaster.

She made a mad dash towards it and climbed onto the bottom bunk, trying to scramble through the gap and to the other side. She hadn't thought about sentient mattresses but soon did as she felt it moving below her, the side tilting up to stop her escape.

She managed to get through even as she felt it enclose around her ankle but with a swift tug she pulled it free landing onto the floor with a thump.

She sprang to her feet, looking around wildly for Jack.

"Up here" he called to her and she found him holding to the top of a sturdy oak wardrobe for dear life, two single beds banging into either side.

There wasn't much time to stare as she felt something collide with the back of her knees causing her to fall backwards onto something soft. Silk sheets soon started to try and mummify her body as the mattress undulated beneath her.

She tipped herself forward, taking joy in ripping the silk that gripped her. She'd never understood the urge to use it, it was so slippery to try and sleep on.

It was a short-lived victory as she eyed more beds and loose mattresses getting closer. Outrunning the one on her heels she quickly scrambled up to join Jack using a doorknob as a foothold, thankful that this bit of furniture wasn't currently alive.

She watched heart sinking as more and more beds came from all around the room, circling their lone wardrobe like a pack of wolves. The ones closest banging into it and causing it to rock, it would tip over sooner rather than later and she dreaded to think what would happen when it did.

"There's too many beds!" Jack yelled voice tinged with terror.

He was right, she knew it but she couldn't face this being their last stand. Maybe she could buy him some time so at least one of them could make it out of here alive.

"Jack you have to run, I'll distract them"

"What? No, we go together or not at all" he told her shaking his head in denial.

"We'll never make it, this way you have a chance" When he looked about to object again, she shoved him backwards with a palm on his chest "Go Jack!" She told him firmly as she leapt down from the wardrobe they were clinging to before he could change her mind.

A queen size bed was there to catch her fall and the others quickly gathered around her like hungry lions.

She watched as the corners of the fitted sheet started to curl in towards her and Jack looked down at her sadly before she saw him leap to freedom behind the distracted beds "I love you" she muttered while tears tracked down her face.

As the mattress folded over like a clam trapping her within its depths, she screamed and flailed her arms in sheer fright.

Suddenly she was awake, in the dark and on her back looking at the bed that she had just flung herself out of. Her throat hurt so she must have been screaming in her sleep.

"Elsa?" Jack queried sleepily before his head appeared over her side of the mattress "Are you okay? Why are you on the floor?"

She stood up and god her arse ached so she'd most likely landed funny and no doubt it would be bruised in the morning, there was something to look forward to.

"I'm fine, just a bad dream" She told him before sliding back into bed, his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer.

"I'll keep hold so you don't fall out again" He mumbled already starting to fall back to sleep. She smiled a tiny heartfelt grin, he was such a sap.

As she settled down heart slowing back to normal, her dream came back to her in flashes. A strange consequence of spending so many weekends furniture shopping in between monster hunting as they redecorated the manor together.

"Jack?" She began softly and he hmmed quietly "I don't think we should buy any more furniture from IKEA"

"M'okay" He agreed easily and she knew she'd have more of a fight on her hands tomorrow when she'd have to explain further because for some reason Jack loved the place, her dream self hadn't imagined his enthusiasm but for now it was enough to put her mind at ease.

She still eyed the mattress with a touch of suspicion before sleep claimed her once more.