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[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt II

<< Part I

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you… (part II, see above for link to part I)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, hand job, vaginal sex, woman on top, orgasm. Also a lot of fluff and a few dashes of angst.

Word Count: 8.5k (13.6k for complete fic, including Pt I)

Authors Note: Part 2 of 2. Part 1 linked above. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. Here is the conclusion to this Benepic! Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. Enjoy! 🫶

-vii-

The first thing you feel is throbbing pain, an insistent drum in your head, mouth dry as if you have been chewing cotton wool—the instant regret of excessive drinking floods through you. However, when your eyes reluctantly peel open, your predicament escalates.

You have no earthly idea where you are. Or how you got here. The last thing you remember was Benedict kissing you; then the room was literally spinning from entirely too much brandy. 

Still in the dress you wore yesterday, but tucked under crisp white linens. A trace of a familiar scent upon the pillow that you cannot quite place in your fuzzy state. Gingerly sitting up, you try to get your bearings, not yet awake enough to have any reaction beyond puzzlement. 

The room is darkened, thankfully, save for a sliver of the rising sun that slashes across the bed through a narrow gap in the curtains. You are in a large mahogany four-poster bed; the room is decorated in rich jewel tones—heavy velvet burgundy drapes and dark blue Persian rugs, panelled walls on which stunning artwork hangs. Embers glow in a nearby fireplace as you spy your pelisse hanging on the back of a door and your shoes neatly arranged nearby.

Then you twist and see the bedside cabinet, and your stomach plunges.

There, alongside a glass of water, is your notebook. Your secret notebook. The one that should still be concealed within the hidden pocket of your pelisse. But instead, it is here. And what is worse, it is open. Open to a page with one of your favourite sketches of Benedict: his eyes crinkling against the strong rays of the sun, a carefree smile on his face.

Instantly, you grab it and slam it shut. Fingernails drumming urgently on its silken cover, now hugged into your chest. Horrified that your mystery generous benefactor, who must have seen you to bed, has also been privy to your most private thoughts. 

Galvanised by a need to solve the mystery of who, you relinquish your tight hold on the tome. It is then that a folded letter slips out of its pages and drops into your lap. Tentatively, you unfurl the paper and are aghast by the headed notepaper declaring the author and revealing your host. The worst possible person you could think of.

But then your gaze falls to the elegant script inked onto its thick parchment, and your life is indelibly altered.

Dearest Y/n

I hope you are well-rested. There are so many things I am impatient to impart, but I must begin with an explanation and, indeed, an apology.

You are in my bedroom, at my lodgings. I brought you here as I saw no other option that would guarantee your safety and welfare, which is always my utmost concern.  I made pains to ensure your arrival here was not seen, and I must assure you, in case your recall is uncertain, that nothing has happened between us beyond our kiss. 

Now onto my apology, which is two-fold, although I suspect it should contain multitudes more. Firstly, my most sincere and unreserved apologies for my ungentlemanly conduct at our last two encounters. As wondrous as those kisses were, they were nonetheless inexcusable. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my impulsive actions.

Secondly, I must apologise for my discovery of this, your private diary. My knowledge of its existence is purely accidental; I removed it from your coat merely as a wish for your possessions to be in neat order upon your awakening. My knowledge of its contents, however… for that, I must throw myself at your mercy and beg for your forgiveness. Curiosity and liquor are not the best companions, and it seems both got the better of me. 

In what I hope is partial recompense, I will confess a secret of mine. Arguably selfish in nature and most likely the worst possible timing, too. However, given what I have now seen, I am utterly compelled to convey it….

I love you, y/n.

Most ardently and most truly. 

There is no person in the world I would rather spend time with. Whose thoughts I am always impatient to know and whose every moment I wish to be a part of. For some time now, you have occupied my every thought. 

It is why I felt compelled to act when I heard from Eloise about your impossible situation. I will do anything within my power to assist you. It is why I said that I want to alleviate your burdens. I meant every word and more. My happiness is seemingly inextricably calibrated to yours—when I see you happy, it brings me great joy, and when I see you are not, it brings a pang to my chest I know not what do with. 

I would have taken these feelings to my grave… were it not for this diary. When what I found hidden within ts pages gave me the exquisite burden of hope. Hope that perhaps you return my affections? May indeed have done so for quite some time as well? 

I must also take a moment to compliment your poetic talent, and that is to say nothing of your artistic abilities, which quite frankly are humbling. Dare I dream of a day that we could paint together? Sorry (Again! Multitudes indeed!), I am likely getting far ahead of myself.

I will not be home when you read this. Partial cowardice on my part, no doubt, but born out of utmost respect. You always deserve the right to choose, y/n, and that includes what you do with this confession. I do not wish for you to be obligated to see me or let me know your response, thoroughly eager though I am to hear of it. 

If you wish to speak to me before your wedding ceremony, please leave your hair ribbon tied to my phaeton upon your departure. I will find a way to see you. If you do not, I shall, of course, respect your decision. 

A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo: You will always have my heart; I hope you also choose to be its haven.

Benedict

You could read this confession a thousand times over and still scarcely believe it; the depth of his feelings declared plainly, boldly, and so lyrically in writing. You pour over it once more, giddily aglow, your fingers tracing across his elegant, looped script, your lips moving as you mouth his words, needing to have them within you somehow. Then, you lovingly refold and place the letter between the last two blank pages of your notebook—a more fitting denouement to its contents you could not imagine.

You put on your shoes and pelisse, still floating on a cloud. A valet meets you in the hallway and, with a wordless nod of acknowledgement, leads you out of the rear mews entrance, handing you a large silk scarf to conceal yourself under. With one final glance up at Benedict’s abode, you unfurl the ribbon from your hair and, insides aflutter, tie it in a neat bow onto his phaeton before wrapping the scarf around your head and stealing out onto the streets of Mayfair. 

-viii-

Still in a daze about Benedict’s confession, you slip into the servant's entrance of your family home, tiptoeing through the dormant kitchen and tugging off the scarf. Just as you believe yourself home-free, Mrs White, head cook and ersatz maternal figure, materialises from the pantry, nearly dropping a bag of flour in surprise.

“Lawks alive, sweet child, you gave me a fright!” she exclaims, clutching her chest. “Pray tell, why are you sneaking into my kitchen at the crack of dawn?”

You cringe and turn sheepishly to meet her gaze. “Sorry for the scare, Mrs White. I, um, indulged rather too heavily last night. I was in no fit state to return home. I stayed with a trusted friend.” The truth, albeit behind a veil of obfuscation. “Please do not tell Father!” you add hurriedly.

As she plunks down the flour and smacks her fingers together to rid them of its nascent dust, she chuckles. “I shall not divulge if you do not… for I was already under your father’s employ when I did the same many years ago, the night before I made my Harry an honest man.”

“Deal!” you giggle, clutching your notebook tight to your chest, unable to quash the ebullience fizzing in your being.

“You look as if you caught a rainbow and sold it to the sky,” she declares, crossing her arms and observing you closely. “Wedding day excitement, yes?!” she adds pointedly with a raised eyebrow, even as her tone very much suggests she suspects otherwise. 

“Of course, Mrs White…” you concur, attempting to conceal the quirk of your lip. 

She rolls her eyes and shoos you affectionately towards the hallway. “Away with you! I suspect the less I truly know, the better…”

You say nothing; just give her a nod and race up the servant's stairs, keen to make it to your bedroom unseen. 

As soon as you are safely there, you toe off your shoes and only then relinquish your vice-like grip upon your notebook to hurriedly change into your nightgown as if you had been asleep in the house all night. Enacting a plan you conceived on the brisk walk home, you grab a night bag from your ottoman. Flinging open your wardrobe, patently ignoring the wedding dress hung upon its door, you bundle the notebook with a couple of your favourite outfits and stuff them into the bag. Buckling it shut while you scoot across the room, you open the sash window and  - with a quick check of the garden below - drop the bag into the large rhododendron beneath, hopeful the dense, fragrant blooms will conceal its presence for now.

Just as you are closing the window, a gaggle of ladies descend upon your room, led by your fussing mother, your ladies' maid Rachel among them. Realising she has had to lie to keep your cover since yesterday at the modiste, you silently shoot her a brief look of reassurance.

“Rise and shine, darling!” your mother chimes. “‘Tis your most special day!”

And then everything is a blur as the preparation for your wedding starts in earnest, you still slightly detached from it all, your thoughts purely of Benedict. It is only sometime later that you get a few moments of peace with just Rachel as she puts the finishing touches to your look.

“You seem changed, my lady…” Rachel opines sotto voce, sliding a pin into your hair.

You say nothing, even as your eyes meet in the vanity table mirror, unwilling to confess details of what has transpired just yet. Unsure yourself even what it could mean until you get the chance to see Benedict yourself, your stomach in knots to do so.

“I told your family you took dinner alone last night in your room after returning from the modiste, and then you went to sleep…” she whispers, leaning in even though you are alone.

“Thank you. I am truly grateful,” you offer sincerely before adding: “I will tell you more when I am able. I do beg one more favour of you…?”

She makes eye contact again in your reflection, giving a brief tentative nod after a pause.

“If you should hear from a Bridgerton valet, please follow any directions he provides,” you implore, the image of your hair ribbon fluttering gently in the breeze emblazoned in your mind.

“A valet? Not a ladies’ maid?” she checks softly, frowning.

“Yes, just please… do as he asks?”

“Yes, my lady,” she demures before reaching for your jewellery.

It is only as the carriage you and your mother ride in shudders over the cobblestones towards St George’s church an hour or so later that reality comes crashing in. 

So engrossed in thoughts of seeing Benedict all morning, you had almost forgotten the dreadful fate that likely awaits you. A sudden spike of fear that he will not turn up, that something will prevent him from seeing you, or, heaven forfend, today’s stiff breeze has blown your hair ribbon asunder. 

All at once, your head is spinning, your dress feels too tight, and there is a plunging dread in the pit of your stomach, your skin prickling hard before your vision seems to swim with dots before narrowing to blackness…

“Y/n!? Whatever is the matter?!” your mother’s alarmed voice rings out as you woozily return.

You are slumped sideways against the glass window, its cool surface a balm on your suddenly fevered temple.

“Is it what I told you about your wedding night…?!” she frets, her laced glove tickling your forehead as she appears to be checking your temperature. “I can assure you, you will get used to it…”

You bat her away and slowly sit upright, taking a calming breath while also trying to blot out the memory of her talk about marital relations right before you left the house. Not able to confess it as unnecessary without raising suspicion, you had to endure a stumbling, unhelpful explanation of things you already know. Indeed, you have witnessed at Granville’s parties, even if you have not taken part yourself. 

But then the sudden thought of being required to do such with Lord Farringdon has you grasping the curtain, your empty stomach heaving at the mere prospect. The silent hope that Benedict can assist you at the eleventh hour is the only thing that stops you from passing out anew.

With a shaky gait and a queasy, oily feeling, you alight a few moments later, your mother lending an arm of support as your father and brothers pile out of the other carriage. This is to be the entirety of your wedding guest list. You have pulled into a side courtyard of the church, concealed behind high walls, away from the inquisitive sights of the Ton. The rushed nature of the union and Whistledown’s latest means your family has no wish for this to be a public event, keen to be rid of scandal. Only your immediate family, your husband-to-be and the vicar - a friend of your father’s - know of today’s ceremony. Well, and Benedict. You did not even get the chance to inform Eloise of this expedited schedule.

As he leads you up the stairs and into the side vestibule, your father informs you that Lord Farringdon is already awaiting you at that altar and that he will appreciate a swift ceremony. You swallow thickly and nod mutely, sensing the window of opportunity creaking closed with alarming alacrity, each incessant tick of the church clock seeming like both forever and not enough time, scrabbling for any chance to stall.

Just as you are about to lose all sense of hope, you see movement over your father's shoulder that has your heart leaping into your throat. There, through a mullioned window, you see the distorted outline of a phaeton swiftly pulling up on the other side of the church from where you entered, a palpable wave of relief and excitement washing over you. 

Benedict has come!

-ix-

“Father, may I please have a moment alone?” you rush out breathlessly, pulse-pounding hard in your ears. Hoping he will interpret your request as mere nervousness about the imminent ceremony, you add: “Before I must take this big step and become a wife?”

He reluctantly grants your wishes, brusquely telling you it should be brief before following the rest of your family through the doors into the nave. 

As soon as the coast is clear, you are darting out the entrance again and running around the outside of the church, wedding dress swishing around your legs, until you skid to a halt next to a pillar that conceals you from the street.

There, before you, arrestingly beautiful and jumping athletically down to the pavement, is Benedict—a vision in a blue velvet jacket and teal cravat. 

Your eyes meet, and your knees want to buckle; such is the magnitude of the moment. He bounds up the granite steps and crushes his lips to yours briefly.

“No time to talk,” he rushes out. “If you wish to escape, take my hand, for we must depart now!”

Your heart hammers as you do the only thing you could ever want to: grab tightly onto his proffered hand as his face breaks out into the most arresting smile. Then it's a blur as he whisks you down the steps to his phaeton, hoisting you up onto its leather bench and throwing a blanket into your lap, then clambering in himself. With a shake of the reins, you lurch and take off down an alleyway at a rapid pace. The velocity of motion, red bricks of buildings whizzing by mere feet away, has you momentarily stunned and so you almost jump out of your skin when he speaks loudly over the rushing noise.

“Cover yourself before we get to the street,” Benedict advises quick-fire, only taking his attention off the road briefly to nod to the blanket. Just as you are struggling to conceal yourself, the horses careen onto Park Lane, attracting attention for the speed you are already travelling.

“Benedict!” you chastise, your arm shooting out to grab the side of the partial umbrella-like hood that arches over you, having to cling on for dear life. “This is not exactly a stealthy escape!”

“I know,” he grimaces, not looking at you, “but we must make haste and be as far away as we can as soon as possible.”

“Regardless of destination, we will need to stop at my house!” you almost have to yell to be heard over the jostling wheels on either side of you.

“Why??” His whole face screwed up in disbelief.

“I must gather some things! I will not leave without them, Benedict!!” you warn.

“What could possibly be worth stopping for?” he decries, the whole vehicle swaying violently as he rounds another bend.

“Perchance, other clothing?!” you wither loudly, frowning that he had not considered such, before adding: “And your letter!?” 

His head whips around to look at you and there is an intensity in his gaze that has your heart stuttering. An all-consuming want to kiss his lips as his gaze falls to your mouth. Only the urgent yelp of a pedestrian you narrowly avoid colliding into rips your attention away from each other. 

He rights the phaeton, tugging the reins so the horses slow.

“Alright,” he concedes, quieter, calmer. “But please do be as quick as you are able…”

You don't get the chance to inform him you have already packed and stowed a bag because he is pulling up in the quiet mews behind your family home. You jump down and take off, sprinting through the small gate and across the lawn. Soon, you are diving into the large bushes on the side of the house beneath your bedroom window. Fumbling around, you have to wrestle your dress from a branch before you reach the wall. Emitting a muted noise of victory as you are finally able to grab your bag and out of the foliage without looking.

“Miss y/l/n!?”

You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Mrs White standing at a nearby door, wielding a rolling pin.

“Mrs White, please,” you beseech, “please, do not tell anyone!” 

She takes stock of you: your animated state, your wedding dress torn over your knee where it snagged upon that branch, a night bag grasped in your ringless left hand… and she appears to make a calculated decision.

“I fear I could not, my child,” she offers with a shrug, “I do not see anyone for me to tell of…” 

The small, sympathetic nod and smile toying her lips has you barreling towards her, throwing your free arm tight around her as flour dust puffs onto the silk of your dress. You utter your thanks, flooded with gratitude, hugging her close before disentangling, you take off sprinting before she can say anymore.

-x-

As you depart from your family home, a companionable silence settles between you—a tacit understanding that there is much to discuss, but the journey is not the ideal place to do so. Both resolute to put some miles between yourselves and your family, likely now emerging from the church and wondering where on earth you are. A flare of guilt in your belly for not informing Rachel or even your mother. You resolve to send word tomorrow that you are safe without providing details.

As the edges of London give way to the countryside, you do decide to ask one simple question. 

“Where are we headed, Benedict?”

“I have a suggested destination….” he begins enigmatically, an odd cadence to his voice, “but we will discuss that later, once we stop for the night at an inn.”

There is a little flutter behind your ribs at the thought, but it is forgotten as a strong gust of wind whistles over the carriage, making you shiver and burrow into the blanket, wishing you had grabbed your pelisse from the night bag before setting off.

You startle as Benedict pulls you snugly into his side, adjusting the carriage hood and then the blanket, too, so he provides partial shelter from the winds as they whip across the fields. 

“I am sorry I do not have an enclosed carriage for you to journey in comfort,” he winces, his speech humming into you. “But it is best we use this speedier option anyway. We will cover more ground swiftly travelling light.”

You nod in acknowledgement. “Thank you for the blanket, at least; it is very considerate,” you respond, not unpleased to have an excuse to cuddle into him as you reassure him: “I am well now.”

Indeed, the warmth of his flank on yours and the steady rocking motion of the carriage is soporific, the whirlwind of the day hitting you even though it is merely lunchtime.

“Please rest if you need to,” he intuits, “I will wake you if needed.”

And despite the elements, you find the lure of sleep inevitable.

A warm wetness on your brow stirs you.

“Y/n…”

You wish you could always be roused like this; your name a soft rumble from Benedict’s lips as they trace gently over your forehead. You nuzzle unthinkingly into the sound and feel, which has him chuckling into your skin.

“We are here, at the inn….” he murmurs, his breath hot into your hairline.

You blink awake. “We are?!’” You twist to see you are stopped alongside an elegant Tudor wood building. “How long have I been asleep?!”

“All afternoon,” he admits, a touch sheepish. “You looked so peaceful and I assume you must need the rest after a tumultuous few days.”

His touching manner has a warmth spreading behind your ribs that makes you push up and land a kiss on his jaw.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling away but pleased to see a dot of colour high on his cheekbones.

“‘Tis nothing,” he demures before changing the topic. “I am sure you are hungry and in need of refreshments. So we shall dine and remain here for the night. We have covered a considerable distance from London already—around forty miles.” He jumps down and stands expectantly holding out a hand for you to follow suit as he continues speaking. “To avoid attention, we should present ourselves as family relations—cousins, perhaps?” 

“I am in a wedding dress,” you remind as you wrestle your way out of the blanket and reach for him to descend.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he scans down your form, lingering slightly.

“Oh yes. Well. Umm. Perchance as husband and wife then?” he flusters as you step down with his assistance.

“Would that not draw the attention you mentioned we should avoid?” you murmur, your hands still joined even though you are on the ground now.

“Do you have another suggestion?” he queries, his breath warm on your face as you stand entirely too close, fingers flexing around yours.

“Unless you wish me to remove my dress out here…” you goad, a little crest of victory as his pupils rapidly dilate and he huffs a breath, “...then I do not.”

“We have much to discuss,” he almost growls, which stokes something low in your belly as he tugs you along towards the entrance, only stopping to nod briefly to the inn’s groomsman who emerges to take care of your horses.

-xi-

The tavern at the inn is a warm, convivial space, wood-panelled, the smell of delicious foods wafting in the air alongside the tannin of wine and the ferrous tang of dark beer as crowds of people of all walks of life gather. Benedict sees you into a corner booth away from other patrons as he orders food, then goes to secure your accommodation for the night.

As he returns, passing you a glass of wine, there is a nervous churning in your gut; this is the first opportunity you have had to talk properly since you awoke to his life-changing letter.

“I have no idea where to begin,” he confesses, looking perplexed, and it makes you reach out in reassurance over the table, pulse strong in his raised veins under your fingertips.

“Your letter was the single most wondrous thing I have ever received,” you offer honestly, his eyes softening, making your heart flutter. “Benedict,” you take a steadying breath before ploughing on with the truth you have never spoken aloud before, “I have loved you for as long as I can remember…”

His face lights up, and his hand turns under yours, your palms touching as he laces your fingers together in a tight knot, then brings your joined fists to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently. 

“Why did you never tell me?” He entreats softly.

“Why did you never tell me?” You return lightning quick, a quirk on your lips that has him chuckling.

“An entirely fair accusation,” he concedes, shuffling closer and grabbing your other hand, your heads so close together now. “I suppose I thought my feelings irrelevant, futile even, that you would secure a titled husband. Though why your father chose such a vile one confounds me, I must confess.”

“I believe that a chastisement,” you commence but are interrupted by food arriving at your table. 

So, as you eat, you explain the whole story between mouthfuls. That you were able to delay your debut last season in your father’s absence, but it meant this season, he was determined to see you matched swiftly. Recounting fondly your time spent with your Aunt Eliza, Benedict appearing impressed as you reel off all the skills you now possess. You also talk in detail about how her encouragement meant you fell into the London art scene and how you know Henry Granville. Benedict listens intently, taking bites of his dinner, but his attention never wavers from you as you recount everything. 

“So yes, I believe the match was about my father’s wish to quash a perceived rebellion more than a match society might deem appropriate for the firstborn daughter of a Viscount.” 

“An untitled second son, even less so,” Benedict muses softly, downcasting his eyes, a flare of insecurity that has you putting down your cutlery and grabbing his jaw.

“Benedict, please do not,” you petition, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “You know me. You know that I have never cared what society might think! If I were to marry, I would only ever want it to be a love match. I would not give a damn if my husband were a penniless beggar as long as he loves and respects me.” 

You pause as he raises his soulful gaze to yours, your faces so close.

“Luckily for me, the man who stole my heart fifteen years ago is neither penniless nor a beggar. He is a wonderful, caring, handsome, passionate artist who I would indeed be lucky to paint next to,” you conclude with reference to a line in his letter, a scene you can picture so clearly it seems more premonition than a dream.

“Fifteen years?” he repeats, a look of utter wonderment as he turns his lips aside to kiss your palm where you still cup his face. You nod, a little nostalgic smile tugging at your lips as he adds: “Then I must confess… I have never been more grateful for my incessant curiosity; it led me to your diary and thus to this very moment.”

He takes your hands from his jaw, then kisses both of your knuckles again in turn, but this time, he lingers, his lips warm, damp and pursed open, and a trace of his tongue dabs your protruding bone. A shiver runs down your spine, stoking something acute, dangerous and exhilarating.

“Do you know I have kept that notebook hidden since I was fourteen? Sewing a secret pocket into all of my coats or hiding it under floorboards so it would never be found. For six years. Yet it took you less than one evening…” 

“Maybe it was waiting to reveal itself to the one person who needed to see it the most…” he muses between kisses, his breath gusting hot over your fingers. 

That seismic but simple poetic sentence devastates your ability or wish to talk anymore—a thronging need for him that you are powerless to resist any longer.

“Take me to our room, Benedict,” you command, voice tremulant with want and hope. 

His head shoots up, his face a captivating tapestry of barely bridled passion and astonishment.

“But I-I booked us separate rooms,” he stumbles, confounded, and that gentlemanly act just makes you want him all the more.

Uncaring that you are sitting in a wedding dress in a public tavern, you pitch forward and capture his lips in a kiss that instantly becomes passionate and demanding, your hand running into his hair and tugging him closer.

“You should return the key and request your money back, for that will not be necessary…” you decree, breathing the words into his mouth.

That seems to light a fire in him. He shoves back the table and sweeps you into his arms bridal style, striding out of the room purposefully, his mouth hot on yours, your pounding heartbeat almost drowning out the bawdy, raucous cheers from the drunken patrons you pass.

-xii-

Once the room door clicks closed behind you, his demeanour softens. He gently removes your shoes before setting your stockinged feet down on a plush rug in front of a roaring fire. He tugs his jacket off so he stands before you in a colourful waistcoat and ruffled shirt.

“Are you certain?” His ask is chivalrous, tinged with such delicate hope it makes you melt.

“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” you declare candidly, boldly stepping towards him.

His hands encircle your waist as yours slide up his biceps, the warmth of his skin through the crisp white fabric making your blood run warm. 

“I may be chaste, but I know of what we are to do; I have been at Granville’s, remember. I also know that I want this. So very much.”

“I am the luckiest man…” he asserts in a low rumble, your honesty seeming to ignite him again as he crowds into you.

It’s an electrifying kiss that has your scalp tingling: his hands moulded to you, mapping your every curve as you take from each other as you never have before, desperation bubbling over with each parry of tongues. His fingers land on the buttons of your dress, between your shoulder blades, silently asking permission.

“Rip it off me,” you urge impulsively, chest heaving within your stays. “I want you to destroy this very dress and everything it represents….”

His responding growl inflames your core, molten liquid heat as his large hands grab the material and tear it asunder from your body so you stand before him, trembling with desire in just your stays and chemise.

He guides your fingers to his waistcoat, the crackle of the fire and the huff of his breaths the only sound in the room. His chest rises and falls steadily as you work on each button. When you reach the last one, he shucks the garment from his torso, then crosses his arms and discards his shirt in one swift motion, sailing away in a puffed arch. The broad expanse of smooth chest before you has you tongue-tied. A lean musculature and pale complexion reminiscent of Italian renaissance sculpture… but living, breathing and looking at you as if you are the most precious thing on earth. 

Long arms wrap around you, enveloping you in his warmth, fingers spidering up the notches of your spine through the thin cotton of your chemise until they reach your stays and pluck upon the laces there. He unties them slowly as his lips trail hotly down your throat. You have observed forms of intimacy but didn't expect the firsthand experience to be so rich, so all-consuming. The sights, the sensations, the scents. Like the tangy undernotes lurking beneath his woody cologne, an aroma that is all him, his bare skin. It makes your mouth water and lean into him; a want to be a part of him almost—so much heat and touch.

As your loosened stays drop to the floor behind you, a clawing need for his flesh on yours has you rapidly discarding your chemise over your head, naked now save your stockings. But before he has the chance to see, you propel yourself into him again, his solid chest colliding with your breasts, your peaked nipples trapped against his warmth. A loud groan from his lips that you swallow as you push up onto tiptoes and wrap your arms around his strong neck, kissing him ferociously. His grip slides down to grasp your bottom, pulling you into him, something rigid pressing your stomach through the refined wool of his trousers. 

“Let me look at you,” he pleads, withdrawing a half step, his eyes sweeping covetously down your body as you feel aglow in the heat of the adjacent fire. “You are so beautiful,” he attests shakily, an insistent throbbing between your legs that is all of his making, so close without any stimulation.

“Touch me, Benedict.” 

It’s equal parts order and request, grabbing his wrist and guiding it low over your belly. His elegant fingertips curl through the patch of hair before swiping between your legs, dilated pupils boring into yours as you emit a wanton moan, knees almost buckling. A strong arm wraps around you to keep you steady as he observes you up close, repeating the motion, parting your folds this time, you honeying upon his fingertips as he glances over your swollen clit. 

You whimper his name, and he claims your lips again, sliding the pad of his fingers over that spot over and over. Fingernails digging into his arm at his expert touch, the air swirling with the wet sound and scent of your arousal.

“You smell so utterly divine,” he groans, pitching forward and almost biting your bottom lip in a toothful, desperate meeting, your moans echoing over his tongue. “I need to taste you,” he stutters.

You have to shoot out an arm to grasp the mantlepiece as he suddenly drops to his knees before you and buries his face into your mound, inhaling deeply, his nose pressed onto your clitoral hood. He is so primal in his desperation as he lifts one of your legs and places it over his shoulder, diving into your folds, his tongue a wet, hot spear over your swollen nub. Your other hand burrows into his thick head of hair, scratching along his scalp as he hums his approval into your damp heat, the vibration causing sparks of pleasure to fan out.

It takes what little shred of concentration you have left to stay upright, clinging to the fireplace and him, rocketing skyward so dizzyingly fast, slack-jawed, breathless, rooted in your body as you gawk down at him. You had no idea this would be so intense, so carnal. His stare is fixated upwards on you, reading your reactions like a book, his glazed jaw moving with expert precision buried between your legs—an intoxicating sight that burns into your retinas.

“I need you to come for me, y/n,” he begs hotly into your soaked flesh, his tongue a muscular swipe greater than his fingers, his fingers plucking the ribbons holding your stockings loose so they slide down to your feet.

“I want to do so with you…” you gasp, unable to prevent whatever forms in your mouth from slipping out, leaking profusely onto his chin.

“You will; I promise,” his gravelly assurance, the permission you need to let go, riding his tongue with abandon, your body undulating, chasing that ephemeral high you have only experienced from your own touch before. But this is so much more, so wholly other, magnitudes indeed, the words from his letter never far from your thoughts even as you spiral somewhere close to bliss. His gaze locked onto you, able to read all your signs: skin flushed, ragged pants, shuddering with each quest of his tongue.

And then he gently bites your clit, and you are gone, his hands needing to clamp onto your hips to hold you upright as your body convulses. You cry out, sagging onto him as your body races with a high that fizzes in every cell, radiating in waves of pleasure that have you calling out, uncaring who may hear, incapable of anything but clinging to his hair for dear life and scrunching your toes into the thick wool rug underfoot.

You know you utter a curse, entirely overpowered by the euphoria coursing through you as he stands back up and pulls you into his arms, kissing your cheek chastely, the scent of you strong on his face. But as you come back to yourself, renewed passion stokes in you, determination to give as good as you have been given, a drive for mutual pleasure that has you shoving him backwards forcefully.

He falls back onto the bed, a look of total surprise claiming his face as you crowd over him, laying prone, attacking his trouser buttons with a vigour that has him stunned, his mouth agape. But he doesn't move to stop you, far from it. There is a flash in his eye as you grab his hands and cage them onto the sheets briefly before returning to attack his clothing. Wordlessly, he lifts his pelvis when you tap his hipbone, and then you are tugging his trousers down and off, flinging them across the room.

You are momentarily taken aback when you look down and realise he is without underwear, now as naked as you. His cock, nestled in a small patch of hair, is larger than you have seen before, tinged dark pink and leaking from the tip. It looks so good you bite your lip, a twinge deep inside that is pure want. 

His moan is beautiful as you take him in hand. He is hot and steely in your grip as you move your hand up and down, learning his contours, fascinated by the contrast of how silky his skin is.

“I am so glad you have seen things you should not have,” he groans, squirming delightfully, so very responsive to your touch. It makes you greedy always to have him like this, yearning for you as much as you do him, stuttering your name as you change your grip and move a little faster.

“Please stop…” he grits out, his hand covering yours and slowing your motions, but you can tell it is utterly reluctant. “I am too close, my love…”

That reflexive term of endearment makes something melt behind your ribs, and you crawl up over him as you release his cock, claiming his lips in a kiss, his hands encircling your waist, pulling you down so that his cock is trapped under your pubic bone.

“I love you,” you breathe quietly over his lips, holding his face, wanting to convey the depth of feelings you have for this man.

“I love you too, y/n,” he replies earnestly, his eyes glassy, a cloud of emotion claiming his expression as his hands cup your jaw as well, a profound moment of heartfelt sincerity amid this tableau of fevered physicality.

“May I?” 

Your ask is hesitant as you rearrange, sliding your legs up either side of his hips, signalling your wish to ride him, a need to be the one to give your virginity to him more than him to take it. Something achingly significant in the ability to choose.

He nods a reassuring and spellbound look, and a beguiling hitch in his throat as his tip brushes your entrance.

“It may hurt a little, my love,” he advises, wincing as if wishing that was not the case for you.

“I know,” you murmur back, grabbing his hands to aid you in sitting up so you have more range of motion. 

And then, with a steadying breath, you lower yourself onto him, mouth falling open at the invasive stretch with barely a fraction of him inside you. His face is a kaleidoscope of everything you hope for him—joy and bliss. Your fingers grasp tight around his knuckles, your joined hands a knotted fist, as you feel a pinch of pain that makes you suck air through your teeth, knowing this is the moment you become a woman. So glad it is with him, the categorical love of your life.

Luckily, the ache is fleeting, and you sink lower, him moaning your name lyrically, you puffing a breath at the complete fullness. A pressure holding you open that is so galvanic you now understand the hedonism of what you have previously witnessed—the drive to satisfy an urge that is innate and potent.  

“Oh my god, Benedict,” you stutter, as finally he is fully seated within your body, clinging to him, held open in the most arresting way.

“I know, my love, I know…” he soothes, untangling your hands to touch your skin, running his palms reverentially down your body. “You are amazing, a wonder…” 

“Guide me…?”

He smiles and whispers gentle instructions for you to push up with your thighs and then sink back down, his hands now clamped around your waist to assist you. The sensation is indescribable, the drag of his cock against your walls as you slowly ascend and descend, trying to catalogue every second as a precious memory.

Your speed increases as you get used to the physicality of movement, a cloying, dewy heat spreading over both your bodies as you move in unison. He starts to tilt his hips off the bed to assist in your strokes, pushing to a new depth that catches your breath and has you muttering a curse, your hands scrabbling his abdomen, enjoying the flex of muscles there. His grip moves to your breasts, teasing your nipples in a way that has you gasping and riding harder. His fingers snagging on your sensitive buds is a beeline zipping to your engorged clit, that mashes into his body with every downward stroke you take. Still on a high from your last orgasm, it won't take much more for you to come again; this time, you hope in tandem.

His movements become more urgent, his noises louder, his touch firmer, squeezing you, bucking up with force now, making you moan with each new plunge onto him, as if he craves to leave an imprint of himself inside you.

“Are you close, my love?” you query, borrowing his term of endearment. It has his screwed-shut eyes flying open, his hands flexing on your hips, and a ripple up his rigid cock you can actually feel.

“Yesssss,” he hisses back, “please call me that again,” he entreats through clenched teeth, a prominent vein in his neck pulsing hard as his whole being seems to tense.

“My love,” you coo, treating it like a gift to bestow, addicted already to the effect it has on him, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that will leave marks you will be proud to wear.

You move faster now, the sturdy bed squeaking in protest, the sound of your damp skin slapping together, taking even yourself by surprise at how visceral this is, especially for a first time. Expecting it to be less somehow and enraptured that instead, it is better, burning brighter than anything you have ever fantasised of—skin and sweat, muscle and bone, heart and body in rhapsody. 

One of his hands squirrels between your legs, fingertips hooking against your clit, and within seconds, you are breaking. Your vision whiting out as you slam onto him, your pussy clenching in waves, his cock almost too much as you float somewhere that is both within you and a thousand miles above. Dimly, you sense his nails scrape your flesh as he calls out your name, loudly, debauched, wrecked, a strong pulse through his length as he shudders then goes entirely still, a warmth blooming deep inside your channel that is his seed, something about it so very primaeval. 

You slump inelegantly onto his chest, huffing breaths, altered fundamentally by this magical experience. His touch is soothing, encouraging to lay upon him as he softens within you, eventually slipping out as you lay nuzzled together, exchanging soft words of sated joy—a sudden tide of fatigue lapping your edges. Fuzzily, you feel Benedict chuckle under you and, with hushed, tender words, rearrange your pliant body, rolling you onto your side and curling protectively around you, a warming presence that has sleep seizing you almost immediately.

Awakening the following morning in Benedict’s arms is sublime, his stubbled lips grazing your neck as he rolls you under his warm weight. Just as your body stirs under his sensual kisses, he stops and sighs, dropping his forehead onto your clavicle.

“I wish to spend a lifetime right here, entwined naked with you, my love, but alas, I must desist,” he laments softly. “We need to get moving…”

“You never did say your planned destination,” you point out, running your fingers into his lush hair as he tilts his handsome face up to meet your gaze.

“Did I not?” He lilts, feigning ignorance. “I blame you entirely; your beauty is far too distracting..” Flattery falling from his lips reflexively. “Well, anyway, we must make haste if we are to reach Scotland by Friday as I have planned.”

“Scotland?” you echo breathlessly. “That is so far! Why there?”

“Gretna Green, my love,” his eyes sparkling as he hovers over you, entwining the fingers of your left hands together, his thumb brushing your ring finger. “I hope you are amenable to my proposal...”

And your heart veritably explodes.

-xiii-

The journey is long but worth it. Your wedding, five days later, over the border in Scotland, is everything you could hope for—a beautiful, romantic, private moment for just the two of you, promising your lives to each other in secret. Something thrillingly illicit about its location, too, the place to which all forbidden lovers escape. You do not wear a wedding dress, just a simple light blue chiffon one you had thrown into your night bag, always a favourite since Benedict once complimented you in it. He wears a cravat in the same colour. Exchanging matching wedding bands engraved inside with the same phrase Benedict signed off his love confession with: A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo (Here is my heart, guard it well).

You are happily ensconced in his idyllic Wiltshire cottage by the time family reactions to your elopement reach you almost two weeks later. The Bridgertons are supportive if a little shocked; the dowager Viscountess is always enamoured with a dramatic love story. Your family is less so, but they cannot deny a match with a Bridgerton is no bad thing, even if it was fleeting gossip fodder. You hear from your mother that Lord Farringdon did not demand compensation for your abscondment from the altar. Apparently, you were not the first to do so. Rumour has it that the odious man is negotiating a marriage deal with the Cowpers for their wayward daughter. It may be the first time you have felt a pang of sympathy for Cressida. 

Mostly, you are grateful that the more scandalous truth surrounding your union - Benedict stealing you away on your wedding day - never becomes public knowledge. Every couple must keep some secrets from the world, no? 

Although, a couple of weeks later, on a leisurely Sunday morning, you discover your marriage can no longer be considered as such.

“Darling, you might want to see this…” Benedict drawls casually, wandering into the bathroom as you luxuriate in warm water. 

He drops the latest issue of Lady Whistledown onto a nearby stool as he tugs off his shirt, apparently planning to join you in your bath. Your mouth falls open in shock as you grab the pamphlet. But it is not from his naked form as his trousers hit the floor; it's from what you read:

Lastly, this author may have to eat her hat. News has reached me that Mr Benedict Bridgerton had indeed done the almost unthinkable and married the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. They exchanged vows in a quiet ceremony far from the prying eyes of the Ton and will now settle in Wiltshire, I hear. 

“How did she find out?” you ponder aloud as he slides into the tub behind you. Surely Whistledown must be close to the Bridgertons to discover as such?

“I have not a clue. But perhaps I should send her some honey from our hives to make her headwear more digestible?” he jests, interrupting your reading by pulling you backwards into his arms. 

“Mr Bridgerton!” you chastise playfully, holding the paper aloft to save it from the sloshing he creates as he surrounds you, laughing carefree, so much delightfully naked skin around yours.

“Are you done reading Mrs Bridgerton?” His tone changes to a husky murmur in your ear, his fingers trailing distractingly upwards over your ribs under the water.

“You just brought this to me, husband,” you riposte pointedly, but your argument dies off into a wanton noise as his hands slide up and cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples expertly. You abandon any attempt to focus on the page, tossing the paper aside and twisting to capture his lips with yours.

Upon the floor, as water splashes onto the wood nearby, the last few sentences you missed glow in a shaft of sunlight:

Congratulations on the latest Bridgerton love match, and I wish them a lifetime of happiness. As I am certain, do all of you. 

What secrets will I unearth next, dear readers? Even I do not yet know. But I look forward to it. Don’t you?

Yours sincerely,

Lady Whistledown

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[simstorian-blog]

Darby’s Den

(CC List + Links)

World Map: Britechester

Area: University of Britechester

Lot Size:  30 x 20

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Needed

Expansion Packs

Cats & Dogs

Cottage Living

Discover University

For Rent

Get Famous

Get Together

High School Years

Island Living

Game Packs

Dine Out

Parenthood

Vampires

Spa Day

Game Packs

Laundry Day Stuff

Build Mode

Felixandre

Chateau Pt. 2 (Fiddle Leaf, Frame 2 Medium, Interior Doors Tall, Single Door, Stairs + Landings)

Colonial Pt. 3 (Column 1, Fences, Railing, Spandrel 1)

December 2017 (Door 1)

July 2018/2017

London Exterior (Balcony, Column 5m, Pilar 9m)

Paris Pt. 1 (Stone Block)

Paris Pt. 3 (Panelling)

Petit Trianon (Pediment 1)

Schwerin (Window 1)

Versailles (Niche)

Kta

Ceiling Tile 3

Lili’s Palace

Jugendstil (Floor Tiles)

Pierisim

Winter Garden (Roofing)

Buy Mode

CharlyPancakes

The Lighthouse Collection (Books)

Felixandre

Berlin Pt. 1 (Curtain Medium)

Chateau Pt. 5

Chateau Pt. 7 (Bedside Table, Drawer, Ottoman, Silk Rugs, Table Lamp)

Gothic Revival (Fireplace 2)

Schwerin (Chandelier 2 & 3, Chandelier Wall)

Harlix

Orjanic Pt. 2 (Curtains Medium, Cushion 2, Rug, Table Lamp)

Harrie

Coastal Pt. 8 (Roman Blinds- 2 Tile)

Heritage Pt. 2 (Landscape Artwork, Mirror, Portrait Artwork)

Max20

Happily Ever After (Chair Velour)

Peacemaker

Kitayama Living (Encyclopedias)

Hinterlands Living (Square Coffee Tray Table)

Pierisim

MCM Pt. 3 (Narrow Rug Long)

MCM Pt. 4 (Kitchen Counters Island)

Woodland Ranch Pt. 3 (Linen Armchair)

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

Tray Files: Download

[linguisticdiscovery]

Ways English borrowed words from Latin

Latin has been influencing English since before English existed!

Here’s a non-exhaustive list of ways that English got vocabulary from Latin:

early Latin influence on the Germanic tribes: The Germanic tribes borrowed words from the Romans while still in continental Europe, before coming to England.

camp, wall, pit, street, mile, cheap, mint, wine, cheese, pillow, cup, linen, line, pepper, butter, onion, chalk, copper, dragon, peacock, pipe, bishop

Roman occupation of England: The Celts borrowed words from the Romans when the Romans invaded England, and the Anglo-Saxons later borrowed those Latin words from the Celts.

port, tower, -chester / -caster / -cester (place name suffix), mount

Christianization of the Anglo-Saxons: Roman missionaries to England converted the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity and brought Latin with them.

altar, angel, anthem, candle, disciple, litany, martyr, mass, noon, nun, offer, organ, palm, relic, rule, shrine, temple, tunic, cap, sock, purple, chest, mat, sack, school, master, fever, circle, talent

Norman Conquest: The Norman French invaded England in 1066 under William the Conqueror, making Norman French the language of the state. Many words were borrowed from French, which had evolved out of Latin.

noble, servant, messenger, feast, story, government, state, empire, royal, authority, tyrant, court, council, parliament, assembly, record, tax, subject, public, liberty, office, warden, peer, sir, madam, mistress, slave, religion, confession, prayer, lesson, novice, creator, saint, miracle, faith, temptation, charity, pity, obedience, justice, equity, judgment, plea, bill, panel, evidence, proof, sentence, award, fine, prison, punishment, plead, blame, arrest, judge, banish, property, arson, heir, defense, army, navy, peace, enemy, battle, combat, banner, havoc, fashion, robe, button, boots, luxury, blue, brown, jewel, crystal, taste, toast, cream, sugar, salad, lettuce, herb, mustard, cinnamon, nutmeg, roast, boil, stew, fry, curtain, couch, screen, lamp, blanket, dance, music, labor, fool, sculpture, beauty, color, image, tone, poet, romance, title, story, pen, chapter, medicine, pain, stomach, plague, poison

The Renaissance: The intense focus on writings from classical antiquity during the Renaissance led to the borrowing of numerous words directly from Latin.

atmosphere, disability, halo, agile, appropriate, expensive, external, habitual, impersonal, adapt, alienate, benefit, consolidate, disregard, erupt, exist, extinguish, harass, meditate

The Scientific Revolution: The need for new technical and scientific terms led to many neoclassical compounds formed from Classical Greek and Latin elements, or new uses of Latin prefixes.

automobile, transcontinental, transformer, prehistoric, preview, prequel, subtitle, deflate, component, data, experiment, formula, nucleus, ratio, structure

Not to mention most borrowings from other Romance languages, such as Spanish or Italian, which also evolved from Latin.

Further Reading: A history of the English language (Baugh & Cable)

[ghulehunknown]

Group Sex with Terzo

Terzo x F!Reader x Siblings of Sin

Day 11 of KINKTOBER is here! 🎃

**WARNING - EXPLICIT, NSFW**

Also available on AO3!

“Let’s Have a Satanic Orgy”

Terzo x F!Reader x Siblings of Sin

Summary: After making a few too many jokes at Terzo’s expense, he proves you and your Siblings wrong.

CW/Tags: F!Reader, AFAB non-binary Sibling of Sin character, Sister of Sin character, nipple play, group sex, mutual masturbation, semi-public sex, P in V sex, unprotected sex, partner swapping, voyeurism, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, CMNF, love at first fuck

Word Count: 3140

Decorating the Abbey for a haunted Black Mass this Hallows’ Eve, you passed the time talking to your Siblings Selene and Alix. The pair of them were hanging black curtains against the stone back wall behind the altar and you held the ladder to make sure neither of them fell.

“So do you think he can really…well, you know,” said Selene. “When he talks about doing two at a time.”

“No way,” Alix replied with a scoff.

“I dunno, I think he still can,” you said, smiling while their backs were turned. It was almost like you knew a secret they didn’t - but you didn’t, not really.

You and Terzo had a bit of a…moment in the side hall linen closet last week. You were stocking the laundry with clean habits and cassocks for the Siblings when Terzo slipped in, likely avoiding Imperator or Nihil. “Shhh,” he told you at the time, peering out of the crack of the door to make sure whoever he was hiding from had passed down the hallway. “Ah, it’s you,” he said slyly, remembering your shy glances at him during Mass while he was leading worship. “Let me help you.”

He had helped you reach the top shelf, though he was not much taller than you, when he grazed against your chest accidentally. “Sorry, Sis-” he had begun to say. Unfortunately, your brain lost all control of your faculties and you let out a quiet moan when he did this. When you turned around to face him and his sneaky grin, he looked down your front, finding your hard nipples through your habit with ease. This one was a bit…worn, and see through. You had glanced down to find something of his that was hard as well through his chasuble. “Well this was fun. Gotta go,” he remarked with a wink, carefully poking his head out of the closet and darting down the hall in the opposite direction he came from. ‘The fuck?’ you thought to yourself at the time, hanging your head out of the closet and watching him go. But you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since then.

“Nah, I’m calling it. The man is gorgeous but I bet you he can’t get it up long enough to - ” Alix began to say but Selene elbowed them in the side.

“Who can’t get what up?” came a familiar voice and your eyes widened before turning around to face him.

“Papa - w-we were just, um,” you stammered.

“Relax, Siblings,” he said, looking at the three of you. “I was just coming in to check how things were going here. I would not normally hover over you, you see, but Sister she eh -” he rolled his eyes at the mere mention of her name.

“Yes,” you remarked morosely, looking up at Selene and Alix on the ladders with hooks in their hands, their eyes equally in shock - their attempts to hide behind the curtains not working. “Imperator always has her tight deadlines, doesn’t she?”

Selene nodded her head quickly while Alix pretended to lose their baphomet sigil amongst the heavy curtain panels.

Terzo picked up a few of the decorations on the altar mindlessly. “Now what’s this about Papa not being able to ‘get it up’?”

Oh fuck. Obviously your Siblings weren’t going to give up the game that easily.

“It was just silly gossip Papa, I promise,” you said while looking at him earnestly. “It meant nothing.”

“Mm, well I have a reputation around here to maintain,” he said, placing both hands on the altar and glancing between the three of you. “Imagine if this unfounded gossip landed in the wrong hands? Can’t have that now, can we?”

You couldn’t explain the effect he had on you, but his words… you could feel the heat build between your legs as he spoke with such a command, although feigning an air of innocence at the same time. He intimidated you, and you liked it.

Selene and Alix had finished hanging up one panel of the curtains, and came down the ladder steps. Alix approached the altar to grab another box of nails, but stopped dead in their tracks when Terzo shot a glance their way.

“You especially seem doubtful, Sibling,” he said to them.

Alix swallowed and didn’t respond, suddenly no longer your outspoken friend they normally were.

“So have you ever…I mean, taken two at a time after a show?” Selene asked.

Terzo smirked at her, then looked in your direction before answering. “I don’t kiss and tell.” But something about the way he said this told you he had - and probably had more lovers in one night than you’d ever had in your whole life.

“So why don’t we settle this score, and put to bed your little rumors, no?” he continued, looking at each of you. All of you glanced at one another, hoping the other might telepathically give you the right answer to say. Sensing your uncertainty, he looked towards Alix. “You. Come.”

“Yes, Papa,” they obeyed and walked up to Terzo, hands clasped in front of them.

“Kiss tua Sorella and take off your habit.”

They paused. “Er - which one?”

“Whichever you like,” he said, leaning against the altar and crossing his arms against his chest.

Alix walked over to Selene, who did not falter and leaned her head to the side, inviting Alix’s lips to hers. They kissed for a few moments, building until their tongues were slipping into each other’s mouths, quiet and breathy moans escaping as they clung onto one another’s arms.

Just when you thought Papa never noticed the lower ranked Siblings, he continued to surprise you. It was as if he knew and could sense the budding attraction between them for the last few weeks. Even you had caught them flirting with one another, even if they had never admitted it out loud.

Alix broke away from their embrace and turned to look at Terzo who nodded at them. They unzipped their habit and slid it down past their hips, letting it fall to the floor. Naturally small-chested, they often chose to forgo a bra, now standing in front of Papa in nothing but their thong panties.

“Those too,” he said, pointing down. They slipped those off too, now standing in front of their peers and superior completely bare.

He made a come hither motion and they walked up to him. He kissed them gently, caressing their body, his hands cupping their breasts. Alix moaned, closing their eyes.

“I love your fucking cute little tits,” he breathed in between their lips, cupping their chin his hand. “Così dannatamente perfetto.” He motioned for them to sit on the edge of the altar.

As Alix sat down, Terzo motioned for Selene to come to him. She followed suit, already unzipping her habit. He helped her take it off, turning her around so he could unhook her bra. He kissed her on the lips, thumbing her hard nipples and holding her petite frame in his arms easily. He tapped her on the ass and motioned for her to join Alix on the altar, yanking her panties off as she turned around.

Next would be you. You swallowed, closing your eyes for a moment as you realized the man you’d been longing for would soon have his lips on yours…

But he went to your Siblings to the altar instead, leaving you watching. He positioned himself in between them, bringing his hands to their sex, rubbing circles between their thighs while alternating kissing them. They kissed each other through pleasured sighs when he took turns sucking their nipples.

After a moment or two, he retracted his fingers from their clits and stepped back, allowing them to embrace each other and kiss more passionately. “Lick their pretty little cunt,” he instructed Selene. She eyed Terzo as she moved down Alix’s body, finally burying her face in their folds, slipping her tongue inside. Alix moaned louder, arching their back. “Brava ragazza,” he said before turning to you. “You.”

“Yes, Papa?” you asked meekly as he sauntered over to you.

“You better be fucking wet,” he said into your ear, sliding his hand between your legs and finding the barrier of the damp fabric of your panties - already saturated in your arousal.

“I think you’ll find what you’re looking for,” you said with a smile, finding a similar smile spread across his lips almost immediately. He tugged at your underwear, pulling them down your legs. You helped him by kicking them off your ankles and spread your legs for his exploring hand.

His gloved fingers met your clit with ease, already slippery with your slick. “Mmn,” you purred as he made gentle flicking motions. Rather than kiss you, he watched your face intently - each muscle in your face twitching and contorting at every graze to your core. He watched your eyebrows furrow and your lips open to coo as he added another finger, dipping inside your already dripping hole.

You could hear the contented sighs of your Siblings coming from the altar growing louder. You reached down and grasped his rock hard cock through his robes, hearing him murmur “Satanas.”

He led you to the altar, laying you down on your back while he undressed you fully. The cold marble startled your nervous system, your back arching to save your body heat, an “ah!” escaping your lips. You looked to your right, Selene still enthusiastically diving into Alix whose body was convulsing, evidently close to climax.

Terzo kissed your lips gently - the first time your mouths intertwined, feeling just how passionate and sweet his touch could be. He kissed along your body, along your stomach, along your hips, until his lips met in between your thighs. He exhaled, savoring this moment. You inched your hips forward, desperate for release at this point. He slipped his tongue in between your pussy lips, sliding around with the tip and exploring every inch of you. He moaned as he hit your entrance, sucking your slick right out of your cunt.

Your breath caught in your throat until a quiet hum formed. He stroked himself as he covered his face in your juices, sloppily sucking and licking like a desperate, starving man who had never eaten before and was determined to leave the plate clean.

To your right, Alix screamed out in the throes of passion, their body shuddering against Selene’s mouth. Selene held Alix’s head in her hands, tenderly kissing their face until their breathing returned to normal.

They switched positions with Alix now buried in Selene just as Terzo moved up your body, one hand by your ear, the other on his cock. He stroked himself, placing the tip right at your entrance. You spread your legs to prepare yourself for him. He glided inside you with ease, your aching cunt needing to be filled.

And oh fuck - he must’ve been made for you, he fit so well. You didn’t need to prepare for his stretch or length because he just fit, like Lucifer had made you two to piece together like a puzzle.

“Cazzo, you feel so fucking good,” he breathed, entering you thrusting in and out with ease. You cried out as he perfectly brushed against your g-spot from this angle. He continued for a few minutes, your Siblings’ moans acting as a horny soundtrack.

He leaned in to kiss you before sliding out and moving over to Alix, whose ass was in the air, mouth moving over Selene’s cunt. He slammed into them from behind as they cried out. He held onto their hips and pummeled into them. “Is this how you imagined it to be, caro, hmn?” he asked into their ear. Alix could only gasp in pleasure for an answer, satisfying Terzo.

Selene leaned over to kiss you and you could smell Alix’s arousal on her mouth. She reached in between your legs and massaged your clit while you both continued to kiss, Alix hovered between her legs, and Terzo behind them. He extended his arm to Selene’s cunt to relieve Alix, who was gasping and moaning as Terzo slid into them.

He pulled out after a few moments and positioned himself in front of Selene, yanking her legs so their hips were aligned. He lifted her chin with his hand, bringing her face to his and kissing her - though more roughly than he did with you, you noticed. He pushed her legs open, completely exposing her to him, a devilish grin on his face. He thumbed her clit while sliding his cock up to meet her slit, then pushing himself in. As Selene moaned loudly, Alix curled up next to her on the altar, caressing her face and running their hands through her hair.

“You see how your sweet Sister takes my cock so well?” Terzo asked, looking down at Selene as he pumped his entire length in and out of her. “Tell her Siblings, tell her how good she’s doing.”

“You’re taking Papa so well,” Alix encouraged Selene, still stroking her cheek and giving her a kiss on the lips. You stroked her hair and leaned in to kiss her as well, your hand buried in your cunt to alleviate the absence of Papa and Selene’s ministrations.

Terzo continued rubbing circles over her clit while Alix kissed her passionately. Selene’s breathing got quicker, moaning louder and louder. You grabbed onto Terzo’s ass, pushing him deeper into her. Terzo rode her through her orgasm, her body clenching and tensing, her legs wrapping around his waist. Terzo didn’t let up his pace or give her a chance to settle down, instead driving into her more wildly from hearing her cries.

Seeing three obedient Siblings wait so patiently for their turn with him seemed to nearly drive Terzo over the edge as he grunted through thrusts, “Cazzo, not yet!” and pulled out of Selene entirely. He looked you in the eyes. You.

He was saving you for last, his first taste not enough.

He motioned for the other two to get on either side of you. He slid you down towards the middle of the altar, Selene getting up and readjusting herself to your left shoulder, Alix scooting up towards your right. They both ran their hands down your body, massaging your breasts and nipples, touching your cheek, detangling your now messy hair, taking turns kissing you and each other.

Terzo watched them as he spread your legs apart and began to massage along your nethers. He was taking his time exploring a new body with his hands, almost as if to know your shape by muscle memory. He muttered something in Italian under his breath, likely filthy. Eventually his gaze fell to you and only you. He seemed to study you, watching intently as your chest rose and fell with his touches - which strokes and what intensity made you react a certain way. You inhaled sharply as he slipped two fingers inside you and his eyes met yours, watching the way your facial muscles tensed. He twisted and curled his fingers inside you towards him and you exhaled, your mouth opening. He muttered what almost sounded like, ��hm,” watching you like a hawk.

“How does that feel?” he asked.

“It feels so good,” you whispered breathlessly.

“Bene. Are you ready for more, Sorella?” he asked softly. You nodded, and he pulled his erection from his robes again, sliding his length along your slit from your core right up to your bud, over and over. He smiled and took delight in watching you hiss each time he tapped your clit with the head of his cock. Your body was tense but you relaxed the more he stroked you up and down, ready for him.

Once he decided he had worked you up enough to take him internally again, he pushed his member inside your cunt and glided in with ease. The two of you moaned together as he filled your walls just as perfectly as before.

“Satanas you are so fucking wet, so fucking tight,” he groaned happily. “Are you this wet from me, or from your Siblings?”

Your cheeks were flushed hot red, sweat forming at your temples. “B-both, I think Papa,” you said.

“Mmn - ! But you are getting wetter from me, Sorella,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, Papa,” you choked through his thrusts.

“Cazzo Sorella, I do not think I will last much longer,” he said, biting his lower lip and tossing his head back. He continued rubbing circles around your sensitive bud with his thumb. You could feel your Siblings caressing your breasts but you really only had eyes for Terzo.

“I’m s-so close, Papa,” you assured him.

“Mm, fuck - ! Where do you want it, sweet Sister? Your pretty tits or your pretty face, hm?” He looked at you, cocking his head to the side.

Goddammit, why did he have to look so cute? Before you fully registered his words you found yourself saying, “Inside me.” Wait, really?

“Merda Sorella, are you sure? - oh Lucifer fuck -”

“Really,” you breathed as you felt your own orgasm take over, and felt him coat you inside.

You had never experienced a high like this. Surrounded by lovers helping you, caring for you. But it was your embrace with Terzo that sent you over the edge. The two of you kissed as he grunted, spilling the last drops of his seed along your walls.

“Buon lavoro, Siblings,” he said, rubbing you each on the chin whilst still inside you. Each of you got up and began to put your clothes back on as Papa adjusted himself back in his robes. “I’ll be sure to tell Imperator you do very good work here,” he said with a wink.

“Grazie, Papa,” you all said in unison, bowing your heads slightly before grabbing your habits from the floor.

As you were each putting your clothes back on, Terzo instructed, “Put each other’s panties on - I want you to feel how wet you were for one another.” You grabbed Selene’s pink panties, feeling the cold wet spot meet your cunt as you slid them over your hips. You could feel your cheeks blush as you each looked at one another.

“Now these silly rumors,” he continued, walking up to Alix who was in the middle of slipping your underwear over their hips.

“Shall never be repeated again, Papa,” they said, lowering their chin but looking him in the eyes.

“Molto bene,” he said, gently clapping them on the cheek while giving you a wink. He began to walk down the aisle of the Abbey towards the front door, but turned on his heel to look at you all once more. “I believe that panel is crooked.”

The panel Alix and Selene had just put up fell off the wall just as Terzo exited.

Italian to English Translations

- tua Sorella (your Sister)

- Così dannatamente perfetto (So damn perfect)

- Brava ragazza (good girl)

- Cazzo (Fuck)

- caro (dear)

- Bene (Good)

- Merda (Shit)

- Buon lavoro (Good job)

- Molto bene (Very good)

[kristina100000]

whats an ugly type of bedframe to you

i really.. really dont like the ones you see in hilton hotel type beds, bleak, blocky, little to no design, in one color. trundle, sleigh... even wrought iron is cuter but seeing wrought iron bed frames feels wrong as i only ever see it in balconies. i even prefer button upholstered panels in dark coral red or marshmallow purple with a simple oak frame over the current market, upholstery in bedding and furniture in general is cute! feels old and homey

i love antique beds:

i wish i had a four poster bed lol i love those, with cute linen curtains. manufactured bedding and the oversimplification of furniture killed beauty and so many people

[anadytop]

These sheer curtains are lovely & well made, the curtain header & size can be customized without any extra fee, suit for your any room, add vibrant colors and textures to your space.

Shop now -> https://bit.ly/3hIHr5q

Elegant Pink Flower Window Sheers For Sale

[daphnefisherofficial]

bugna: TAKIPSILIM | destiny's twilight

CHAPTER ONE

Pairing: MCU Moon Knight System (Marc/Jake/Steven) x Avatar Fem!Reader

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CHAPTER ONE - SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

TWO MONTHS LATER…

The grandeur of your ancestral house in Guildford enveloped you as you strolled through its opulent corridors. Intricately carved wooden paneling adorned the walls, while rich crimson carpets absorbed the echo of your footsteps. The air is filled with the faint scent of polished wood and aged leather, exuding dignified timelessness.

Ascending the grand staircase, you run your hand along the mahogany handrail, feeling the smoothness of centuries of use. Reaching the landing on the second floor, a series of oil paintings greeted your vision. Painted by the likes of Van Gogh, Monet, Gauguin and Millet, each frame you passed through expressively telling stories of their lives’ hardships expressed through masterful strokes that evoked love, pain and unwavering resolve.

You finally reached a pair of imposing double doors, elaborately carved with intricate designs and gilded accents. Pushing them open, you step into your refuge within this grand manor. You took in the soft early afternoon light streaming through the lace curtains, the interior awash in soft, muted colors that evoke a sense of calm and serenity. The master bedroom itself bore an air of regal charm, with the walls adorned with exquisite silk wallpaper featuring delicate floral patterns. A four-poster bed draped in satin was situated at the very center, the bed linens made of the finest Egyptian cotton and the plump pillows neatly arranged in the head rest. 

Seating yourself at the foot of your bed, your eyes caught a familiar oil canvas painting facing your direction - a self portrait of you dressed in a filipiniana gown while holding a soft-feathered fan on your right hand. Brief images of the very day you were painted flashed through your mind, remembering your shy, palpable smile as you took a graceful, elegant pose towards the handsome yet unrecognizable painter as his right hand carefully glided his paintbrush across the canvas.

You’ve been having these recurring dreams again as of late. But you cannot figure out for the life of you who the mysterious subject of your night recollections is.

Mildly shaking your head, you made your way towards your antique writing desk situated near a large bay window, overlooking the well-manicured gardens outside. The scent of freshly picked flowers finally distracted you from your musings, mingling with the aroma of polished wood. Carefully arranged, your flower vase was strategically placed beside an assortment of your night study essentials -  an inkwell, quill pen, notepad, a hardbound copy of Atlas of Ancient Egpyt, and a work laptop with multiple tabs open. 

Against one wall, a towering bookshelf houses an impressive collection of leather-bound tomes, each one a testament to your intellectual pursuits. You returned the hardbound copy of Atlas of Ancient Egpyt to its previous resting place, vowing to return to it after your overseas assignment. That book was an essential to you since you work full time as a museum curator for the British Museum. Back then, that career path wasn’t meant for your gender in the olden age. But as the world changes with time and equality between sexes have been more embraced, you found yourself living your life long passion of promoting cultural heritage and ancestral discovery.

Typing away at your laptop, you’ve mostly dealt with a lot of email exchanges involving procurement and acquisition of artifacts, record keeping and liaising with Egyptologists for the upcoming Ennead exhibition you’re organizing. You have already let most of your recent business contacts know that you’re on overseas leave, advising everyone to liaise with your secretary, Aleah Santos, in your absence.

A gentle knock on your door pulls you out of your reverie, your eyes now diverted towards the bedroom entrance. A middle-aged British man stands in the doorway with an air of quiet dignity, his appearance a testament to his impeccable service and professionalism. His face exudes an air of experience and reserve, befitting his role as the trusted steward of the household. He wears a perfectly tailored, immaculately pressed charcoal-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie, and his salt-and-pepper hair was meticulously combed and styled to maintain a polished appearance.

His striking deep, intelligent blue eyes observed you quietly, framed by well-defined eyebrows that conveyed a sense of attentiveness. He was holding in one hand a tray with a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea and a blueberry scone, and a neatly pressed and folded set of smart, business casual clothes in the other. The fabrics were chosen with care and tailored to perfection, a testament to the older man’s meticulous attention to detail.

“Bill, how lovely to see you this afternoon”, you smiled appreciatively before standing, slowly reaching for your wardrobe in his arms. “Thank you for bringing these”

"It's my pleasure, Lady Carter", Bill answered politely, his refined British accent adding to his aura of sophistication. William Jones, who you affectionately nicknamed “Bill”, is the latest addition in the long line of the Jones household who have served the Carter family for a very long time. As the new head of the family estate, the depth of his loyalty to you runs deep and unquestioned.

"I've taken the liberty of preparing your necessities for the trip”, Bill said with a warm smile as he followed you inside, placing the tray of refreshments on your desk. “You'll find your travel documents and essentials ready in your briefcase, and I’ve packed you a suitcase for the three-day trip”

“What would I ever do without you?” you chuckled playfully, grateful for his unwavering efficiency.

“Years of service have taught me well”, Bill chuckled softly. “Now, if I may, I’d like to go over your schedule for the week.”

“Go ahead, I’m all ears”, you nodded, finally taking your first sip of the afternoon tea prepared. It was nothing short of exquisite, the fragrant steam wafting up to greet your senses. “Impeccable brew as always, by the way”

"I’m glad you like the concoction, Milady”, Bill nodded before clearing his throat, proceeding to recite the details of your upcoming trip. “Your flight to Chicago is later this evening at 7PM, and I will be driving you to the airport three hours prior”

You nodded, mentally ticking off the items on your mental checklist, as he continued to consult his notes and brief you.

“Upon your arrival to the United States, a valet service will pick you up and take you to your hotel. I made reservations at the one within walking distance of the family court where your next interpreting assignment will be running for three days”

“That’s good to hear”, you nodded, taking a small bite of the scone. “Have my secretary check on the tour guide headcount at the British Museum and handle the recruitment interviews while I’m gone” 

“Understood”, Bill said curtly, finishing up writing on his notes. He gave a small bow before leaving the room. With his departure, you set to work on packing your travel essentials for your upcoming assignment. 

The routine of operating as a freelance interpreter was familiar, accepting potential clients needing your services regardless of location. You cater mostly to the Filipino community, as it helped you fulfill your duties as Mayari’s avatar - to oversee, guide and protect her travelers of the night. Of all the careers you dabbled in your long life on this earth, being an interpreter and a museum curator were one of the very few roles you’ve had that you took immense pride in. Both navigated the complexities of language and history, bridging the gap between cultures and individuals.

The next morning after your arrival in the United States, the Chicago sun greeted you as you stepped out of your hotel room and into the bustling city streets. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted from a nearby café, tempting you, but duty called.

You found yourself before the imposing building of the Chicago Family Court in Cook County. It was a massive edifice of imposing architecture, and its walls seemed to resonate with the stories of countless families and their struggles. On your way to the court registry, you navigated the maze of hallways with purposeful steps. The walls were painted in muted tones, and the faint hum of conversation filled the air. Lawyers in tailored suits, stern-faced judges, and anxious family members all found their places. The court clerk finally checked you in after having you sign the log book, advising you of your assigned courtroom for your scheduled appointment.

You walked into the assigned courtroom, the polished wood of the benches and the imposing judge's bench before you. The judge’s gaze met yours as you approached the witness stand, acknowledging your presence as he had you sworn in. He instructed you to raise your right hand as you recited your oath, a solemn promise to faithfully and impartially interpret the proceedings for those who needed it. 

“Thank you, Interpreter”, the judge nodded, your duty now officially recognized. “Please introduce yourself to the courtroom for the record”

“Yes, Your Honor”, you greeted in a clear, unwavering voice. “Good morning. My name is Mira Batala-Carter, and I will be serving as the Tagalog/Filipino interpreter for the witness in the stand”

The court proceedings began, and your voice filled the room as you translated the witness's testimony. You moved seamlessly between languages, ensuring that justice prevailed, one word at a time. The judge and attorneys watched you closely, appreciating your precision and dedication.

After the session concluded, you extended a hand to the witness, a kind-hearted woman who had been through a trying experience. She thanked you for your services, her eyes conveying a profound gratitude that words could not fully capture. As she left your presence, you muttered a silent prayer to your patron goddess, fulfilling your role as her avatar as you invoked a simple protection spell.

“Patnubayan mo ang guhit ng kanyang kapalaran, aking diwatang Mayari”

Guide the lines of her fate, my goddess Mayari.

As the proceedings unfolded over the next three days, you found yourself immersed in the world of legal battles, translating the words and emotions of those caught in the intricate web of the justice system. It was a demanding role, one that required not just linguistic proficiency, but also an acute understanding of human nature and the ability to convey the nuances of speech. Legal jargon and emotional testimonies flowed through you, and you remained resolute in your duty as an interpreter.

You arrived early on the last day of your interpreting assignment, finally giving in to your caffeine cravings as you clutch a cup of steaming coffee to ward off the chilly Chicago morning. You took a seat in the hallway, waiting outside the assigned courtroom. As you sipped your cappuccino and glanced around, your eyes landed on a man slouched on one of the benches, clearly taking a nap. 

His face stirred a memory, one that danced tantalizingly out of reach. Yet you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. He had a rugged handsomeness, an aura of enigmatic mystery that drew you in. 

The man's companion, a woman of Arabic-Egyptian descent with a cascade of curly, dark hair, approached him, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. She leaned down, her concern etched on her face as she gently nudged him awake. She whispered something to him, and he stirred, blinking his eyes open.

Your heart clenched as you witnessed the tenderness in their interaction. The way their eyes met with shared history and unspoken understanding prompted a deluge of memories to flood your mind, unbidden and unexpected.

Like ghosts from the past, you heard sounds of laughter and shared secrets echoing inside your head. Your lips trembled as they seemingly remembered the tenderness of breathless kisses stolen beneath the moonlit sky. The details eluded you, but the emotions were vivid—joy, love, and a sense of belonging. 

But as swiftly as those memories resurfaced, they slipped away like sand through your fingers, leaving you with an ache of longing and confusion.

Who was this man, and why did his presence stir such deep-seated emotions within you?

Before you could delve further into your thoughts, a call from Bill interrupted your reverie. You reached for your phone, the jarring ringtone pulling you back to reality.

"Lady Carter," Bill's voice came through the receiver, crisp and professional. "I have an important update from Miss Santos. We are still missing one more tour guide from the total headcount you require for the upcoming exhibition"

“Copy that”, you nodded. “Please have her finalize the applicants I’ll need to interview on Saturday”

As you hung up the phone, a court clerk emerged to announce that the morning proceedings will now begin. Finishing the rest of your coffee, you threw the empty cup at the nearby bin before entering the courtroom once more to complete the final leg of your interpreting assignment. 

Unbeknownst to you, Mayari, the patron goddess of the moon, quietly observed from a distance as her ethereal, astral form shimmered from afar. Her eyes, filled with a sorrow you had never seen before, remained fixed on you as she recalled the most grievous of her sins—removing your image of Darius Carter and your memories of the events that had bound you to Khonshu's avatar, Moon Knight. She had acted with what she believed was your best interest at heart, but now, as she watched the remnants of your forgotten past resurface, doubt crept into her heart.

Mayari was determined to see her decision through to the end, to protect you from the darkness that lurked in the shadows. Yet, as she gazed upon the unfolding drama, the lines between right and wrong blurred, and the weight of her choices pressed upon her.

“Mr and Mrs Spector, please come to the front”

END OF CHAPTER ONE.

masterlist | previous | next chapter

[hometoursandotherstuff]

1880 Victorian in Royersford, Pennsylvania is a fixer-upper bargain for $339,900. It has 6bds. 1.5ba. Royersford is 32mi. Northwest of Philadelphia &  has become highly popular and the place to call home. The certificate is from the Millworker Brothers that once owned it.

Unfortunately, someone replaced the wainscoting with 1970s paneling, but that can come down easily. The baseboards are still there and so is the inlaid floor. But, the star is that curved door.

Entrance hall. I like the way they did the carpeting to expose the inlaid. 

Closeup of the intricate carving on the newel post.

You can see that it still has the crown molding, wainscoting on the left, and the original fireplace. I don’t know if the pocket doors are still intact b/c of the curtains.

The beautiful fireplace surround is here, and I would definitely remove that board and the fake bricks. 

The railing is an unusual design. 

The floors look like they can be definitely be redone. More fake brick that has to come down. 

There’s a nice built-in cabinet, so this must be the dining room. It needs to be stripped and refinished, though. The current stain and finish is rough.

The sunporch has lots of potential.

The kitchen is large and needs some updating, but look at that beautiful window.

Wonderful ornate original hardware.

Wish they hadn’t painted the molding up here black, but there’s a great linen closet on the left.

Bright bedroom.

I wish they would’ve shown more of the 3rd floor interior b/c it looks so fabulous.

It has 2 widow watches, but it looks like the doors were replaced by windows.

Why didn’t they show the interior of the turret room?

Nice deck and a patio on the back that needs some power washing. 

This garden can definitely be revived.

Good-sized yard.

The front gate and fence need some sanding and Rust-O-Leum. 

This could be a great house. 

The area is supported by a revitalized business district with quaint shops, restaurants, a popular ice cream shop (Handels) and a historic fire house recently converted to a brew pub (Lost Planet) and plans for redevelopment of the nearby river front (some of which has already been completed...drop your Kayak in the river) all these amenities are within a 2-7 block walk.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/109-2nd-Ave-Royersford-PA-19468/9884687_zpid/

[buckywritessometimes]

canal.

It was late.

Too late.

The streets were dead, save perhaps for the muffled shouts of a drunk too far away to understand and the quiet scritch-scratch of some small creature wandering the place, searching for food scraps to fill its belly or muddy puddles to drink from.

A man—young, tall, and utterly exhausted—sat engulfed in the tall stacks of books piled on the table around him, cracked spines telling tales of Greek classics, mythical creatures, and memories of the most obscure facets of history. He was bathed in the warm yellow glow emitted by the small green glass lamp in front of him, dramatic swathes of bright light draping the tall bookshelves in curtains of golden ribbons.

The turn of a page. The click of a pen. The scratch of an eraser.

Glancing up, he was surprised to notice that the sun had come down several hours ago, and that he was, in fact, sitting alone in the dark library, the only sources of light being the lamp at the desk and the moonlight streaming in through the paned stained glass window, casting a mystical glow across the paneled hardwood floors.

He’d been here since five-thirty at least—the thick astronomy textbook laying open on the table with notes in messy handwriting scribbled into the margins had evidently taken up the majority of the night.

He leaned back into his chair, sighing as he adjusted the tie hanging loose and limp at his neck.

He noted, with no great deal of interest, that the fine linen material of his olive green suit jacket seemed to be wearing away at the elbows—he’d have to have it sent to the dry cleaners, perhaps they could patch it.

With a great groan and the cracking and popping of stiff joints, he pulled himself to his feet, turning his neck to the side with a free hand as he neatly stacked the borrowed books onto the squeaky-wheeled cart to his side, before slipping the dense astronomy textbook into the leather bag at his side.

As he made for the door, he glanced up, and the moonlight reaching through the stained glass next to him caught his eye.

It was a serene sort of night; mid summer, with the soft glow of fireflies hidden in the thick grasses outside creating a pretty sheen against the red glass.

If he were younger, perhaps he would’ve taken a small jar outside and ran through the grass, giggling as he disturbed the fireflies and reached out for them as they flew around him. Would’ve stuffed the jar full of twigs and leaves, filled a bottle cap with sugar water, poked holes in the lid and collected the little lightning bugs as he went.

Instead, he walked silently along the twisted concrete path, passing the gleaming grass with barely a second glance, his head pounding with the weight of the world.

If nothing else, he admired the stars as he went, silently pointing out the constellations scattered across the night sky.

Once, too long ago to quite place the exact time of his life it’d happened, he’d visited New York, hoping to see a city gleaming with the opulence and hope he felt he’d been promised.

Instead, he found himself under a great deal of unimaginable stress. The tall buildings of the city were choking, claustrophobic; the general uncaring demeanor of passersby was disconcerting; and perhaps worst of all, the bright lights from too-tall skyscrapers and uncapped street lamps blocked out any chance of seeing the stars—or, as he’d come to think of them, his stars.

He wondered briefly if a life amongst those stars was truly as illustriously grand as the Greeks, who placed their heroes to rest in the deep soil of the night sky, seemed to believe; to him, rather, it seemed like a doomed fate, to wrap oneself in the blanket of anonymous adoration of people so far down below. If he were to perch in the sky amongst the likes of Perseus and Andromeda, he felt it would be nothing more than an acceptance of the inherent tragedy of life; to be the decidedly ordinary amongst the supposedly extraordinary would simply be a reminder that the extraordinary did not quite exist; rather, that the blank faces of people unknown considered even the most mundane of figures to be of a type of beauty and worth supposedly unknown to them, when in reality, it was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And truly, he thought, did Andromeda see herself as the illustrious figure that nearly every facet of humanity believed her to be? Or was she simply a tale of commonality thrown into the complicated whirlwind of a unique story? Perhaps she considered herself the stick in the mud that was normality, compared to the stoically famous heroism of Orion and Hercules.

Furthermore, he wondered that, had humanity never created the hero, would beauty truly be so coveted? Would they—they being, of course, all the likes of the human race—truly crave the fortune they assigned to all those untruthfully deemed worthy?

It was an assortment of existential horror, he decided. There was little to no distinction between the worshiper and the worshiped, the onlooker and the martyr; they were, rather, one and the same, with the sole division between the two being uniquely horrific sets of incomprehensible circumstances following them each through life like a lost dog, eyes gleaming with the wet, pathetic hope that they both desperately wished for.

Busy mulling over the overly complicated thoughts whirling through his mind, he failed to notice the eyes peering at him from behind bushes and lampposts. Tiny creatures observed him with the sort of indifference only achievable by critters desensitized to human presence, their scleras glowing artificially with a look akin to a camera set to night vision.

If he’d bothered to look up from his (frankly, ridiculously overcomplicated) contemplation, he’d notice not only the small flexing hands of racoons perched watching in the trees, not only the twitching ears of the bunnies emerging from their holes, but the stable gaze of a barely-noticeable woman partially submerged in the muddy water of the stone canal following his twisted path.

She was entirely nude, her chest exposed and dripping wet as she slowly made her way towards him, the sheen of water against her shoulders oddly compelling, despite the thick streaks of mud and some other matte, dull substance besmirching her skin.

He remained oblivious to the world around him, lost in complex thought.

Her eyes were impossibly light, the soft white coloring over her irises deeply reminiscent of cataracts—though, something about them conveyed a sense of precise intention.

Her skin was pale, with an odd blue-green tinge to it; difficult to place, as it was not any shade ever before seen by another person—or at the very least, not seen in the past couple thousands of years.

In short, she was otherworldly; ethereal in a mysterious sense that was near-impossible to fully understand within the context of the scene at hand. Had a woman even just emerged from the canal dripping wet, it would have been utterly befuddling; however, her demeanor and unfeasibly alien look, paired with the complete nudity (though, any obscenity was erased by her demeanor), created a new layer of confusion.

She was out of place, and every animal within ten miles knew it, though perhaps they knew not how.

Abruptly, a fluttering sensation trickled down the man’s spine, sending shivers up his back and causing a spatter of goosebumps to prickle across his shoulder blades.

He whipped around, eyes darting around at his surroundings as he looked for the source of the tightening in his stomach.

The woman made no attempt to hide herself, instead standing plainly just a foot or so behind him, still following the curve of the canal as she lingered behind him.

After a few moments scanning his surroundings, the man’s eyes finally landed on her, causing him to jerk away in surprise, cursing under his breath as he waited for his heart to return to a normal pace.

She stood unnervingly still, observing his obvious fear and anxiety.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Wha—what?”

“Who are you?” she repeated calmly, her voice impossibly soft and quiet in person, yet clear and quite loud in his ear.

He stared at her with wide eyes, his jaw hanging open with confusion and shock as he processed the woman in front of him.

“I—my name is—” he started.

She put a single dripping wet finger to his lips, hovering a breath away but pointedly not touching him as she quietly shushed him.

He felt oddly at ease in front of her.

“No. Who are you?”

Quick understanding gleamed in his eyes, and he pressed his lips together, worriedly considering his answer.

“I don’t know,” he finally whispered. His throat made a spluttering sort of choking noise, the ball of his Adam’s apple bobbing anxiously as he looked down, unwilling to meet her too-white eyes.

She smiled softly, removing her finger and leaving her hand to rest at her side.

“It’s alright,” she said. “I do.”

A lengthy pause stretched out between them, pressing a thick, choking silence down his throat.

“You crave a fresh start, rebirth. You think that the stars are where heroes go to die, and you resent this infinite graveyard for dividing the men of whomst you walk amongst. You wish to free yourself from the burdens of complicated humanity, in which the world decides who is and who is not. You long for a world free of segregated hope, dream of a place where the heroes and gods walk amongst men with the ease of a child unaware of the pressures of each day; a world where greatness is not solely placed only upon the shoulders of those deemed worthy.

“This is who you are. A name is entirely irrelevant. And truly, perhaps you knew this. Contemplated the complicated finality of it. But you refuse to accept your complacency in the world you claim to hate.”

The continuous silence was enveloping, every creature around them waiting with bated breath for any hint as to what might happen next.

Green eyes met white.

“But most of all, you wish to come home,” she said plainly. She extended a hand in his direction.

He allowed a short exhale to escape from between his lips.

“How?”

She shook her head. Her soaked hair dragged against her shoulders and came away thick with smeared mud.

“Matters not.”

The man looked down at his shoes—once expensive, possibly Italian (he couldn’t quite remember), now obviously scuffed and worn—, his jaw quivering ever so slightly as though, throughout the span of their short conversation, he’d been reduced to the state of a nervous child, waiting anxiously outside a classroom on the first day of school. Unsure, afraid—and yet, harboring the slightest (though, utterly stubborn) bit of excitement within.

“I want to come back with you,” he whispered, his voice quiet and trembling. “Wherever you came from.”

“For what?”

He paused, taking a shivering breath.

“Hope. I want hope.”

“You lack hope here?”

“Hope died with every hero buried above our heads.”

“You lack hope, but continue to possess trust.”

“I know.”

“Display it.”

Before he had a chance to respond, she took a step backward, aligning the heel of her foot against the edge of the mossy stone bricks of the canal. She tipped backwards, her arms extended out as though she was poised on an invisible cross.

She fell.

He rushed to the edge, scuffing his knees on the rough stone as he dropped down, his hands gripping the very brink of the wall.

There was no sign of her.

The pounding in his heart mixed with the gentle lapping of water at the walls of the canal, soothing the sudden ringing that had erupted in his ears. It formed an oddly comforting symphony of nullified silence as he quietly contemplated his options.

The woman was gone. She’d left no traces behind as she went, save for the splash of mud on his shoulder.

But he hadn’t been paying attention. Had that been from her? Perhaps he’d bumped into a tree during his walk home; after all, his mind had been otherwise occupied by the complicated musings of a man far more intelligent than he considered himself to be. It seemed eerily plausible that she may have never existed at all; though this thought bothered him deeply, he felt it was too significant to ignore.

But surely, she had. There was no way he’d imagined it.

Indeed, she hadn’t touched him—but he buried the thought beneath a mountain of manufactured confidence.

His mind swam with uncertainty as he sat perched at the lip of the water with his feet dangling.

He wanted to jump. Wanted to follow her, wanted to shed the uncomfortable nature of life as the ultimately ordinary man. Wanted a chance to merge man with the ever-fated gods. She’d implied that, had she not? Wanted him to understand that wherever she was from, it was better.

Lacking the division that mankind imposed on itself.

Free of the horrors presented by uniformity under mediocrity.

Free of the forced contentment towards being a person made of nothing who wished ever so deeply to be something.

Before he had a chance to think even a single second more, he pressed his loafers against the old and stained stone bricks, releasing his arms and pushing off. He plunged feet first into the deceptively deep water, the cold sending a thick shock through his body that made his fingers clench up and nick at the centers of his palms.

In the split second before his head hit the water and the world dissolved into a murky fog, he wondered perhaps if this was akin to the freedom sought by Andromeda amongst the stars.

Perhaps he would join her one day after all.

[michelle-anadytop]

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Insulated Curtains for French Doors: Balancing Style and Functionality

French doors are an elegant and functional feature in many homes, offering an abundance of natural light and easy access to outdoor areas. However, their large glass panels can present challenges in maintaining indoor temperature, especially during extreme weather. Installing insulated curtains on French doors is a smart way to address these challenges while enhancing your home’s décor. In this article, we’ll explore the benefits of insulated door curtains and how to strike the perfect balance between style and functionality for your French doors.

Why Choose Insulated Curtains for French Doors?

French doors are typically made of large panes of glass, which can easily let in cold air during winter or allow heat to seep in during summer. Thermal insulated blackout curtains are an excellent solution to this problem. These curtains are specially designed with multiple layers of fabric to create a barrier between the glass and your living space, keeping your home comfortable year-round.

Here are a few reasons why insulated curtains are a must for French doors:

Energy Efficiency: By blocking out cold air during winter and heat during summer, thermal curtains help reduce your energy consumption, leading to lower heating and cooling bills.

Light Control: Thermal insulated blackout curtains not only keep the temperature in check but also allow you to control the amount of light entering your room. They’re perfect for reducing glare and providing privacy when needed.

Noise Reduction: The added layers in insulated curtains also help reduce external noise, making them an excellent choice if your French doors open to a busy street or noisy outdoor area.

UV Protection: The sun’s rays can cause fading to your furniture and flooring over time. Heat blocking curtains protect your interiors by filtering out harmful UV rays while still allowing you to enjoy the view.

Choosing the Right Insulated Curtains for French Doors

When selecting insulated door curtains for French doors, it’s essential to consider both the functionality and aesthetics. Here’s how to make the best choice for your space.

1. Fabric Selection

The fabric of your insulated curtains plays a significant role in their functionality. Heavier fabrics like velvet, thick cotton, or thermal-lined polyester are ideal for French doors. These materials provide excellent insulation by preventing heat from escaping during winter and keeping the heat out during summer.

For a more formal look, thermal drapes in luxurious fabrics like velvet or silk blends offer both insulation and a touch of elegance. If you prefer a more casual feel, opt for insulated curtains made from linen blends or thick cotton.

2. Color and Style

While functionality is crucial, style shouldn’t be overlooked when choosing insulated door curtains. The right curtain style can enhance the appearance of your French doors and the room as a whole.

Neutral Shades: If you want to maintain a clean, modern look, opt for thermal curtains in neutral tones like white, beige, or grey. These colors will blend seamlessly with the design of your room while still providing the necessary insulation.

Bold Colors and Patterns: To make a statement, consider insulated curtains in rich, bold colors like navy, burgundy, or forest green. You can also experiment with patterns like stripes, geometric prints, or floral designs to add personality to your space.

Match Existing Décor: Pay attention to the color scheme and overall style of the room. For example, if your room has a lot of wooden elements, warm earthy tones like brown or terracotta can complement the wood while still providing the insulation you need.

3. Curtain Length

French doors typically reach the floor, so your insulated curtains should do the same. Floor-length curtains add a touch of elegance and ensure that no cold air seeps in from beneath the door. For a more dramatic effect, you can opt for curtains that “puddle” slightly on the floor, though keep in mind that this style may require more maintenance.

If you prefer a cleaner look, choose curtains that just skim the floor. This length is practical, especially if your French doors lead to a high-traffic area like a patio or backyard.

4. Layering for Extra Insulation

Layering is an excellent way to enhance both the aesthetic and the insulating properties of your insulated door curtains. Consider layering thermal curtains with sheer panels. The sheer layer can allow natural light into your room during the day, while the heavier thermal insulated curtains can be drawn at night to keep the heat in.

This layered look also adds depth and texture to your room, making it feel more inviting. Choose sheer curtains in a complementary color to your insulated drapes for a cohesive design.

Practical Considerations for French Door Curtains

French doors often open frequently, especially in homes with outdoor living spaces or gardens. It’s essential to choose curtains that are not only stylish but also practical for daily use. Here are a few tips to keep in mind:

Ease of Use: Since you’ll be opening and closing the curtains frequently, choose curtain rods with smooth, easy-glide rings or grommets. These allow for effortless movement, making it easy to adjust the curtains as needed.

Tiebacks and Holdbacks: If you use your French doors regularly, consider installing decorative tiebacks or holdbacks to keep the curtains neatly pulled aside during the day. This also ensures that the fabric doesn’t obstruct the doorway.

Thermal Lining: Make sure your insulated door curtains come with thermal linings. This lining is crucial for providing maximum insulation against cold drafts and summer heat. Some curtains come with detachable linings, which can be removed during milder months for a more lightweight look and feel.

Maintenance: Heavy insulated curtains can gather dust over time, especially if your French doors lead to an outdoor area. Opt for curtains that are easy to clean — machine washable options are ideal for homes with frequent outdoor access. Regular cleaning will keep your curtains looking fresh and functioning at their best.

Benefits of Insulated Curtains for Year-Round Comfort

While thermal insulated curtains are often associated with winter months, they offer year-round benefits. During the summer, curtains that keep out heat are invaluable, especially for rooms that receive direct sunlight. By keeping the heat at bay, they help maintain a cooler indoor temperature, reducing the strain on your air conditioning.

In addition to temperature regulation, sound insulating curtains can create a quieter living environment, blocking out street noise or loud neighbors. If your French doors open onto a patio or garden where gatherings often take place, these curtains can help maintain your privacy and reduce noise intrusion.

Final Thoughts

Insulated door curtains are more than just a practical solution for temperature control — they’re an opportunity to elevate your French doors’ style and enhance your living space. With careful consideration of fabric, color, and length, you can find the perfect thermal insulated curtains that not only improve your home’s energy efficiency but also create a welcoming and stylish atmosphere.

Whether you’re looking to add a touch of elegance, keep out the cold, or block excess heat during summer, thermal curtains for French doors provide a functional and fashionable solution for year-round comfort.