#reclaimed oak shelves

[cohibacubancigars]

Kitchen Great Room

A big, conventional l-shaped open-concept kitchen with a light wood floor and a farmhouse sink, shaker cabinets, white cabinets, marble worktops, stainless steel appliances, an island, a white backsplash, and subway tile backsplash is featured.

[mappingbarcelonapublicart]

Powder Room Bathroom in New York

[angelderadoorian]

Farmhouse Bedroom in Columbus An illustration of a large farmhouse master bedroom with a medium tone wood floor, beige walls, and no fireplace

[miraavx]

Modern Family Room Chicago Example of a large minimalist open concept light wood floor family room design with white walls, a standard fireplace, a metal fireplace and a wall-mounted tv

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ carlos oliveira x reader, 14K

⸺ urban legend horror, alcohol consumption/implied alcoholism, violence, tragic romance, slight body horror

⸺ summary: Drawn to a remote town by tales of a deadly spirit, you expect just another case to investigate. But as you find yourself circling back to the bar every day without fail where the charming bartender Carlos Oliveira keeps watch, unsettling details emerge, and the legend you came to document seems closer than you ever imagined.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

taglist: @uhlunaro @wxwieeee @ann1-the-s1mp @withonly-sweetheart @esterphobic

@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @misonesaturou @saturnzei

Dust clings to the rims of your worn boots, layering itself over the faded leather with every step closer to the gas station—the town’s only sad excuse for a welcome. Gravel crunches beneath your feet, each sound sharp in the quiet that sprawls around you, thick and unmoving under the weight of the fading sun. A line of crooked oaks stretches over the road, branches twisted and drooping as if they’ve grown heavy from watching the years roll by.

You reach the station, where a cracked neon sign stutters to life in flashes of hazy red. “KNOX’S,” it spells out in stubborn, flickering bursts, casting everything nearby in an off-kilter, rust-colored glow. You push open the door, and the hinges let out a long, rattling groan, far too loud for your hangover to handle.

Inside, a cashier who looks older than the dust itself leans against the counter, eyes narrowing as they size you up. You barely hold his gaze before glancing away, sweeping over the cramped rows of shelves with their uneven stacks of canned goods, ancient packets of chips, and oil-stained rags that hang limp and useless along the far wall.

He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest, the motion slow and deliberate. You feel his stare sticking to you as you move down one of the aisles, the cold, stale scent of the place settling somewhere deep in your throat. Reaching for a drink from the cooler, you let the hum of the machinery buzz against your fingertips, grounding you in a way that feels almost necessary here.

“Passing through?” he asks, his voice a low drawl that doesn’t quite invite an answer.

You don’t look back. Instead, you close your fingers around the glass bottle, feeling the chill seep through your skin as you pull it free and study the label. It’s something generic, cheap, and yet the price tag hanging beneath it makes you blink. You set it on the counter, noting the cracked linoleum underneath, and finally meet his gaze head-on, matching the judgment in his eyes with a look of indifference.

“Work,” you say, leaving it at that.

He huffs, reaching for the bottle, his calloused fingers brushing the glass with a gentleness at odds with the way his eyes narrow. “Ain’t much work around here,” he mutters, sliding the bottle across the counter to you, his gaze lingering like he’s waiting for you to offer more. When you don’t, he shifts back, handing you your change in silence. You let the coins clink against your palm, feeling their edges cold and rough.

As you turn to leave, his words catch at your heels. “Don't depend too much on the bottle, stranger. It ain't safe in this town.”

The warning hangs in the stagnant, stale-scented atmosphere, but you shrug, forcing the door open with a grunt. The hinges squeal again, and a dry breeze greets you, stirring up the dirt in tiny, twisting eddies. You take a swig from the bottle, the alcohol burning your tongue, but the discomfort is familiar, a constant companion since the first time you found solace in its embrace, drowning the whispers of doubt in the back of your mind. You’ve been doing that a lot lately, chasing stories that grow less and less plausible the deeper you dig. Still, you can’t shake the need to prove yourself, to reclaim the spark of curiosity and determination that drew you to this path in the first place—to recapture the sense that there was more to the world than what the textbooks said, that there were answers to be found beyond the confines of academia or conventional journalism. Now, though, the only answers you seem to find lie at the bottom of bottles like this one.

Your steps lead you toward the motel, its neon sign flickering in the fading light. There’s a stillness that lingers on the outskirts of this town, an eerie quiet that settles into the hollow spaces and makes them echo. Your own breaths sound too loud, even as they mingle with the soft crunch of gravel and the distant, muffled sounds of a radio playing some country song. The night is a blanket laid over the landscape, suffocated by the heat of the sun that has baked the ground to a hard, unyielding crust. As you step inside the motel, the fluorescent lights hum overhead, a faint buzz that matches the thrumming in your veins. The clerk behind the front desk barely acknowledges your presence, a nod and a muttered comment about rates, all of which you ignore, already lost in the thoughts that haunt you.

You slide your card across the counter, not making eye contact, not offering anything more than the bare necessities. With a key in hand and a room number etched into your memory, you retreat to the solitude of the musty, dimly lit hallway that leads to your room. The carpet is worn thin in places, the pattern faded, and the walls are a sickly beige that doesn’t do justice to the images of nature printed on them. In the distance, a dog barks, a solitary, lonely sound, reverberating off the peeling paint and the stained wallpaper. Everything seems to be on the verge of collapse, held together by the sheer force of the past that refuses to let go.

The door to your room opens with a creak, the hinges protesting, and you’re greeted by the same staleness that clung to the gas station, the same sense that the world has moved on without this place. The sheets are crisp, though, and the mattress sinks beneath your backpack and then your body as you fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, where cracks spread like rivers on a map. Outside, the crickets begin to sing, a chorus of repetitive, mechanical chirps that grate against your nerves, reminding you of the endless loop of your own thoughts.

You can't sleep, so you decide, why wait until morning to go out and explore?

Instead, you venture outside, the warm, humid wind pushing against you, caressing the tips of the trees and rustling the grass that grows wild on the edge of the road. You've always had a restless soul, never content to stay in one place for long, and right now, the idea of staying cooped up in that motel room is unbearable. You walk, following the main street, the asphalt reflecting the moonlight, turning it into a ghostly silver trail. A scattering of houses, all crouched low and sunken, line the main road, their shutters closed up tight. A cat slinks out from one of the alleys, its coat a mottled mix of shadows that melds into the dirt.

Further down the road, a single light glows faintly through the evening haze, casting a soft amber glow across the dirt and weeds. The light flickers and pulses, a heartbeat in the darkness that hints at something still awake.

The bar is tucked at the end of the main road, its faded sign swinging crookedly above the door, caught in a breeze that barely stirs. A soft, golden light spills out onto the ground, casting the steps in a gentle glow that draws you in, promising a retreat from the unsettling quiet that clings to this town. The wooden boards of the porch are warped and splintered, groaning under your boots, and the screen door, patched in places with duct tape, squeaks loudly, announcing your entry. Inside, the air is warm, filled with the familiar scent of aged wood, spilled liquor, and the faint tang of cigarette smoke lingering on the walls. A fan ticks lazily in a corner, stirring the hot, sticky, Southern heat, and the dull murmur of conversation fills the space, a backdrop of muted laughter and hushed gossip.

The barstools are lined up in a neat row, each one more worn than the last, their leather cracked and faded from years of use. A few patrons sit scattered at tables in the back, huddled over their drinks, heads bent low in murmured conversation. A few of them glance up, their eyes quick and assessing, sizing you up before dismissing you as a passing curiosity. They're the kind of people who've seen enough of the world to know when someone doesn't belong, and they don't care to make any exceptions. Their faces, lined and weathered from lives lived in the harsh glare of the sun, fade back into the shadows as you ignore them and focus on the figure behind the bar.

The man stands with his back turned, cleaning glasses with a practiced rhythm, shoulders broad and solid under the dim light that hovers just above him. His hair curls slightly at the ends, dark against the pale collar of his shirt, and when he turns, there’s a confidence in his stance that belongs to someone who knows his place in the world, or at least in this small corner of it. He's all ragged curls, warm dark eyes and short facial hair, a stubble that covers his cheeks in a shadow of ruggedness, and his lips curl in a smile that's equal parts mischief and ease the moment he spots you sliding onto a stool at the bar, setting your bag on the seat beside you, the cracked leather creaking slightly under your weight.

"Well, hello there, new face," the bartender greets, his hands busy wiping the rim of a glass that has seen better days. "What can I get for you?"

"Something strong," you reply, leaning forward on the scuffed surface, your fingers tapping restlessly. You're not in the mood for pleasantries, not after the day you've had, the drive, and the feeling of being watched that's clung to you like a second skin since you entered the town's borders. You want a drink, and maybe a distraction, and that's all.

"Sure thing," he says, and his smile doesn't waver. "Name's Carlos." He extends a hand, his grip firm and warm, his calloused palm brushing against yours in a handshake that's surprisingly gentle.

"Nice to meet you," you say, giving your name and pulling away. No matter how tired you are, however, maintaining connections on a new place is always helpful when it comes to the flow of information, so you can't exactly snub a person like him who can probably hear and see everything happening in the community.

"Just passing through?" Carlos asks, his tone casual, but there's a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, a subtle hint that suggests there's more to him than just a friendly bartender, a detail that sticks in your brain, a stray thought, that he seems to have an interest in the comings and goings of the town, a keen eye that catches every shift in the landscape, like a hawk scanning the fields. Maybe it's the isolation that breeds that kind of observation. "If so, you’re a little far off the main road for that."

It draws an amused, involuntary huff from you, an acknowledgment that the question is a fair one. It's a tiny town, the kind of place that most people speed through on their way to somewhere else. The swamps and woods that surround the area seem to keep the locals in and outsiders out, the gnarled branches of ancient trees and the tangled vines of the bayou acting as a barrier that's nearly impenetrable. Spanish moss dangles from the trees and hangs in the open, its spidery tendrils swaying in the slightest breeze, making the whole region feel like a living, breathing organism, ready to swallow anyone that gets too close. And the people, they're as rooted to the land as the old oaks that stretch toward the sky, their lives woven into the fabric of the place, a part of it in a way that outsiders can never truly comprehend. To pass through without purpose here is an oddity, a deviation from the norm.

"Nah, I'm here for work," you offer, the word clipped, not wanting to delve too deeply into the reason that's brought you to this forgotten corner of the South.

You're a journalist, or at least you used to be, a profession that once felt like a calling, a chance to uncover truths and shine a light on the hidden corners of the world. But that was before you found yourself in a downward spiral of chasing ghosts and rumors in the hopes of a paycheck, a situation that's led you to the brink of despair, and now to this run-down bar. You've come to investigate the legend of El Silbón—the Whistler—and the eerie tales that swirl around the figure, a specter that's said to haunt the backwoods and bayous, his presence signaled by the chilling whistle that cuts through the night. All this research for a job that doesn't pay much and that might not even lead to a stable position, and you've grown to hate it. Still, in the dim light of the bar, the flickering neon illuminating the cracks and crevices of the place, you can almost pretend that the stories and the legends are worth your time. Almost.

"Work, huh? Not many opportunities in these parts." Carlos's eyebrow arches in a way that makes him look simultaneously curious and suspicious. His gaze sweeps over the other patrons, lingering on the regulars who have already turned their attention back to their drinks, the ice clinking softly against the sides of the glasses. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the well-worn countertop, his dark eyes searching yours, a glint of something—amusement, perhaps, or understanding—in his smile. "I suppose a cold beer will do to drink that disappointment down."

With that, he grabs a bottle from the cooler, the glass sweating condensation, and sets it in front of you, the thunk of the bottle hitting the wood a punctuation to his words.

"I mean, I already do have a job," you chuckle tiredly, the words coming out half-heartedly, a feeble attempt at humor in the face of your own doubts about the choices that led you here. Your fingers tap a rhythm against the side of the bottle, the dampness of the condensation cool and slick against your skin. The truth is, the idea of a steady paycheck is an illusion at best, a desperate hope that keeps you going from one dead-end assignment to another. "Or, at least, a research gig. It's...complicated."

You take a long, deep pull from the bottle, the bitter taste of the beer washing away the dust and the exhaustion of the day's journey, the alcohol a welcome companion in the solitude of the evening. The liquid slides down your throat, cold and sharp, a momentary reprieve from the heat that lingers in the stagnant, humid, sticky atmosphere of the bar.

"In here?" Carlos's laugh is a low rumble, his head shaking in amusement, the sound resonating in the space between the two of you, a bridge across the gap of the counter. His dark curls fall in disarray around his face, and there's a gleam in his eyes that hints at a depth of experience, a familiarity with the strange and the unexpected. "I mean, we have a cheating mayor, a town council that can't agree on anything, and a couple of hunters that claim to have seen Bigfoot in the swamp." He grins, his hands spreading wide in a gesture that encompasses the entirety of the small town and its quirks. "Not exactly a hotbed of intrigue."

Your thumb peels at the label of the bottle, bits of paper fluttering to the countertop. "What about El Silbón?" The question slips out, a test, a probe to see if the locals are aware of the stories that linger like a fog in the twilight. "The Whistler."

Carlos's smile falters, his eyebrows drawing together in a fleeting shadow of concern, his body language shifting subtly, a tightening of his jaw, a stillness that settles over his frame. He hesitates, his gaze sweeping the room, a caution that speaks volumes. His hand reaches out to grab a glass, his actions slow, measured, a stalling tactic. When he finally speaks, his words are carefully chosen, each syllable weighed and considered. "You're on the wrong continent for that one."

He's right. El Silbón is a legend that haunts the plains of Venezuela, a vengeful spirit that hunts the drunkards and the foolish, his eerie whistle a harbinger of death, and also exists in other countries such as Colombia and Mexico. But the version that's drawn you to this remote corner of the American South is a twisted variant, a tale told in whispers and muttered conversations, a rumor of a ghost that has somehow made its way from the jungles of South America to the swamps and bayous of Louisiana. The internet is a mess of conflicting reports and hearsay from those who have passed through this town and had an encounter of their own to share. Where they got the name El Silbón, you're unsure, but you're eager to find out, hoping to spin the story to a decent article that could help you move a step up from the pitiful conditions of a freelance investigator. You just need to stay sober for a few weeks.

"That's not what my boss believes." You lift a shoulder in a shrug, the motion dismissive, but your eyes are sharp, watching him, the way his fingers tighten around the glass he's cleaning. "He saw a couple of TikToks and clickbait Youtube shorts and was pretty convinced. Guess that's why I'm here." You lean closer, lowering your tone, a conspiratorial edge to your words. "Between us, I think he's an idiot, but a paying job's a paying job, even if it's entertaining some boomer's delusions and tall tales."

Carlos's laughter fills the space between you, a warm, rich sound that momentarily lifts the veil of gloom that hangs over the bar, a light in the darkness that surrounds the both of you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and the shadows that had danced in his irises dissipate, replaced by a genuine amusement that softens his features. "And here I thought I had a monopoly on entertainment in this town."

"Maybe I should charge admission."

"Speaking of charges," Carlos's grin turns mischievous, and he nods at the beer in your hand, the bottle already half-empty, a silent request for payment that's delivered with a playful wink. "This one's on the house. But if you're looking to stick around, I have a spare bedroom upstairs, cheap. Assuming," and here his gaze sweeps over the other patrons, their hunched forms and mumbled conversations, the haze of cigarette smoke that clings to their clothing, a cloud of suspicion that follows them like a second skin, "you can resist the temptation to join the local crowd and their, ah, recreational pursuits."

"Thanks." You offer a quick, tight-lipped smile, acknowledging the generosity, the first sign of friendliness you've encountered since arriving in the town. Fishing a couple of bills from your wallet, you set them on the counter, a mute refusal of his offer of a free drink, a stubborn insistence on maintaining your independence, on not owing anyone anything. "I'm good. Had a motel room booked. Wouldn't want to impose."

His eyebrow arches, but he accepts the money without argument, his fingertips grazing yours in the exchange, the brief touch sending a jolt through you that you quickly suppress.

A chime rings throughout the diner, a discordant, ringing note that cuts through the midday murmur of conversation and the clatter of cutlery. You glance up from the notes scattered in front of you on the worn, Formica tabletop, a sea of scribbled observations and theories that have been keeping you company at the back booth. In the daylight, the place is a study in faded comfort, the yellow walls tinged with age, the vinyl seats patched and cracked, the aroma of coffee and grease a constant, familiar backdrop. A fly buzzes lazily near the window, its wings a blur of motion, a rhythmic drone that blends into the ambient noise. It's the kind of establishment that's seen generations of townsfolk pass through its doors, a cornerstone of a community where everyone knows everyone else's business—or thinks they do.

Your attention is immediately drawn to the man entering, the sun casting him in a silhouette of mystery, his figure outlined in a halo of golden light. As he steps inside, his identity is revealed—none other than the bartender from the night before, a sight that surprises you. He enters like it's his mother's house, shoulders relaxed, an ease in his stride that suggests he's a regular, a part of the fabric of the diner. His dark curls are tousled, his facial hair trimmed, a hint of a dimple flashing in his cheek as his lips quirk into a friendly smile. He's in a faded green, plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle, and jeans that fit him in a way that's impossible to ignore. There's a rugged, earthy appeal to him, a contrast to the polished city types you've left behind. There's immediate reaction to his presence from the staff, a welcoming warmth that radiates from the older woman working the counter, her lined face breaking into a broad grin at the sight of him.

"Carlitos," the waitress greets, the name spoken with an affection that speaks of a shared history, a connection that runs deeper than a mere customer-employee relationship. Her gray hair is pulled back in a bun, wisps of it escaping to frame her face, her eyes a soft, faded blue. She wipes her hands on the apron tied around her waist, her fingers calloused and wrinkled, a map of a life lived in hard work. "Coffee, hon?"

"Just a bite to eat, today, Abuela," he responds, leaning casually against the counter, his stance inviting, comfortable in his surroundings, the wrinkles on his shirt a mirror to the creases in the waitress's brow, a reflection of a life lived outdoors, under the relentless Southern sun. "Been up all night prepping the new menu. Need a plate of food to get me through the rest of the day, something to soak up the whiskey from last night's shift."

She tuts, a sound of fond exasperation, her eyes rolling skyward in a mock scold. "Working too hard, child," she admonishes gently, her accent a warm, drawling melody that wraps around her words like a well-worn blanket, frayed and familiar. "Need to rest. Can't pour drinks all night and cook all day. Take care of yourself."

"You worry too much," he replies, his tone lighthearted, a deflection that doesn't quite ring true. "I'll take the usual, please."

And then, his gaze sweeps the diner, a casual perusal of the space, and suddenly, inexplicably, locks onto you, a meeting of eyes that feels like an inevitable collision, a magnetic pull that draws him inexorably toward your booth in the corner. His footsteps are unhurried, a steady approach that allows him to take in the scene before him: the scatter of papers, the empty sugar packets, and the forgotten cup of coffee, now cold and neglected.

"The journalist, right?" His statement is a confirmation more than a question, his accent a lazy, languid drawl, the words rolling off his tongue in a cadence that is both foreign and oddly comforting in this small-town diner. He gestures at the seat across from you, the vinyl creaking slightly from his touch. "Mind if I sit?"

"Suit yourself," you respond, a shrug lifting one shoulder, a nonchalant gesture that's an attempt to hide the twinge of sadness and joy intertwined at being called a journalist for the very first time for so long.

Your pen taps a rhythm on the edge of a notebook, a nervous tic, a release of the pent-up energy that always seems to be coursing beneath your skin. The pages of the notebook are filled with hurriedly scribbled notes, a shorthand of thoughts and ideas that only you can decipher, a personal code of observations and theories, of leads and dead ends.

"Damn," he murmurs, his eyes tracing the labyrinth of ink on the page. "You really are taking this whole research thing seriously, aren't you? All this for a local urban legend?"

His head tilts to the side, an inquisitive gesture, his brows knitting together, as if the idea of someone devoting their time and effort to a seemingly insignificant piece of folklore is a puzzle to him.

You lift the cup of coffee to your lips, the liquid having gone lukewarm, a bitter, tepid swallow that slides down your throat in a wake-up call of sorts. Your eyes flicker to the window, the view of the main street outside offering a glimpse of the town in its daily routines, people going about their business, the sun-dappled sidewalks and the dusty storefronts a muted backdrop to the buzz of the diner.

"It's my job," you say finally, setting the cup back on its chipped saucer, the clink of ceramic on ceramic echoing the finality of your statement.

In fact, you're a bit embarrassed at being caught taking this seriously, a sting of self-consciousness that makes you close the notebook, shutting off the flow of thoughts and ideas from his scrutiny. You haven't gotten rid of your habit to give your all to everything and anything, even if it's something as ridiculous as chasing ghosts in the backwoods of the deep south. And that's exactly why you've ended up in the middle of nowhere, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, a threadbare hope of finding some redemption and recognition in the pursuit of a story that might not even exist. This El Silbón assignment is a chance, albeit a slim one, to reclaim the spark of curiosity that drew you to the field in the first place. So, you're here, in a diner that's seen better days, with a stranger who's watching you intently, his questions poking at the fragile façade of professionalism you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Hey, no offense," he says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, an easy charm in his demeanor. "It's diligent. Gotta admire the dedication to the craft. Especially when the subject matter is, well, let's just say 'unusual'."

The waitress returns, carrying a plate laden with a sandwich that looks more like a culinary masterpiece than a simple meal. The bread is perfectly toasted, a golden brown that glistens with melted butter, the scent of which permeates the space around your booth, a tantalizing aroma that makes your mouth water. Layers of cheese, thick and gooey, peek out from between the slices, and the meat, presumably a homemade concoction, is generously stacked, its juices dripping down the sides. A pickle spear rests on the side of the dish, a crisp, tart contrast to the rich, hearty entrée, a perfect accompaniment to the indulgent feast before him. Carlos's eyes light up, his focus temporarily shifting from the conversation to the allure of the food.

"Thanks Abuela, you're an angel," he beams, his grin wide and genuine, the wrinkles in his eyes reflecting the depth of his appreciation.

The waitress, her own smile a mirror of his, gives his shoulder a quick pat in response, a wordless acknowledgement of a bond forged over years of shared experiences and meals, and turns to you, her eyes twinkling, her accent is a soothing lilt, the words flowing like molasses, slow and sweet, a reflection of the unhurried pace of the small town, the picture of a caring grandmother, her face weathered yet still radiant,. "Anything else for you, hun? Another cup of joe, perhaps?"

"Yeah, please. This one's gone cold," you reply, a sheepish admission, a nod toward the forgotten mug that's been pushed aside in your flurry of note-taking. She takes the mug, her wrinkled, aged hands surprisingly gentle in their grip, the porcelain rattling faintly against the saucer, a sound that's almost lost in the ambient hum of the diner's background noise. As she walks away, her footsteps a comforting shuffle on the worn linoleum, a sign of a life lived in the service of others, her apron strings swaying behind her, a rhythmic sway that matches the beat of her work.

"That's Abuela Rosa," he says, pointing after her, a fondness in his tone that borders on reverence, his eyes tracking her until she disappears into the kitchen. "Best cook in the county, and a sweetheart to boot. Raised me on her cooking." He takes a big bite of his meal, and his eyes practically roll back in his head as he savors the flavors. After a few moments, he manages to regain his composure, though it's a struggle, the pure ecstasy on his face a battle to suppress. "If you're sticking around, you gotta try the pecan pie. Life changing."

"I'll, uh, keep that in mind," you reply, a non-committal answer, a placeholder for the unease that settles in the pit of your stomach. The idea of getting cozy with the locals, of immersing yourself in their rhythms and rituals, is a far cry from the detached, objective reporting you'd envisioned.

"Any luck in finding any clues, by the way?" He gestures at the closed notebook and the mess of papers strewn across the table, the remnants of a half-finished article that's more holes than substance at the moment. He picks at the crust of his sandwich, popping a morsel into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or is that top-secret information?"

"Ha-ha," you respond, a dry, humorless laugh, a deflection of the discomfort that curls in your chest. Your hand reaches out, gathering the loose sheets into a semblance of order, a subconscious need to control the chaos that threatens to spill over. "No luck. Everyone's tight-lipped. Guess they're not used to outsiders poking around."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

Rosa swings by the booth, setting down a fresh cup of coffee in front of you, the steam curling upward in a lazy, twisting dance. She fills Carlos's glass with iced tea, the cubes clinking against the sides in a musical chime. "Here you go, kids," she says, a warm, motherly smile on her lips. Before either of you can muster a thank-you, she's off again, weaving her way through the maze of tables and customers, a graceful, practiced routine.

"Can't blame them, really," Carlos continues, picking up the thread of conversation as if there hadn't been an interruption. "You have a better chance interviewing folks on the internet. Didn't need to come all the way over here at all."

He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tea, the ice swirling and clinking in the amber liquid. He sets the glass back on the table, the condensation forming droplets that slide slowly down the sides, pooling on the Formica surface in a tiny, glistening puddle, a microcosm of the humidity.

"I guess. I just like to travel, though. It's nice to see the sights, the landscapes, learn a little more about the culture and the history of the place. Gives a bit more of a...complete perspective. You know, the whole nine yards."

"Have a deadline?"

"Not really," you shrug. "I'll leave when the well runs dry. That or when I find something concrete."

"What are you expecting to find, really?"

"A good story, at the very least." The corners of your mouth twitch upwards in a wry, resigned smirk, a gesture that's become a familiar companion in your conversations. "A paycheck, for sure. Something that'll keep the lights on for another month."

"Well, I'd love to become your tour guide. A friendly face is always helpful in a new place. Plus, who knows? Might be useful to get the scoop from a local. Someone who's in the thick of it, so to speak. The Carlos Oliveira special: discounted price, free of charge!"

"Are you always this forward?" you quirk an eyebrow at him, an attempt to mask the spark of interest that ignites in your chest at the prospect of a potential lead, and maybe a distraction, in the form of a handsome man. "Don't have much to offer in return, besides an ear to listen to stories and a knack for buying rounds."

"Sounds like a fair trade to me. Besides," he says, leaning in, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, a dimple flashing in his cheek that's entirely too distracting, "there's a certain charm to being the guy that helped crack open the case. And, not to brag, but I'm pretty handy in a pinch. Been known to get out of a sticky situation or two in my time. Who knows, maybe the next time you're on the hunt, you'll have a trusty sidekick to back you up."

"Sidekicks usually end up dead or traumatized in the movies, you know."

"How dare you? I'm final girl material."

You find yourself returning to the bar more often than you’d planned, the quiet of your rented room and the exhaustion of judgmental, tight-lipped locals no match for the draw of Carlos’s company.

It's not just the allure of a cold beer on a hot night or the promise of a sympathetic ear—it's the way Carlos seems to know the pulse of the town, his easy conversation and the warmth of his smile a balm against the stifling, closed-off atmosphere that permeates the place.

Every evening, after a long day of fruitless searches and interviews that lead nowhere, the neon glow of the bar's sign beckons you, and the worn wooden steps creak in a familiar, welcoming cadence as you enter the dimly lit interior once more. Each visit, the tap of your boots on the hardwood floor becomes a little louder, a bit more confident, until they echo in the empty spaces, announcing your presence, claiming a spot at the bar that feels almost like it belongs to you.

At first, you're content to sit in the corner, nursing a drink, watching the patrons come and go, a silent observer in their midst. But as the nights pass and the conversations with Carlos flow, you begin to migrate closer to the center of the action by Carlos's side, where the laughter is a little brighter and the stories a little wilder. Soon, you're perched on a stool at the counter, chatting easily with the bartender, his presence a comforting constant in the ever-shifting sea of faces that drift in and out of the bar's hazy, smoke-filled atmosphere. The regulars are a motley crew, their lives a patchwork of hard work and harder luck, each one a character in the drama of the town, their stories whispered and grumbled into their beers, their secrets held close to their chests, even in their most inebriated confessions.

There's old Coco, the retired mechanic with grease-stained hands and a twinkle in his eye, and Sally, the waitress with a heart of gold and a wit sharp enough to cut, and Bob, the trucker whose laugh reverberates through the walls and whose tales of the open road are the stuff of legend. You can't forget about Salty, a veteran of the Korean War, who nurses his whiskey and shares stories of his time in the trenches. Then there's Pepper, a former musician turned farmer, who still carries a guitar pick in his pocket and can be coaxed into a tune or two if the mood strikes him. All of them, and countless others, have carved out a space in this little corner of the world, and their quirks and foibles have become a kind of currency, exchanged in the flickering glow of the neon signs and the hum of the jukebox.

And in the center of it all, there's Carlos, the steady anchor, the listener, pulling them all together in a strange, dysfunctional harmony, played out in the minor keys of heartache and humor. He's quick with a joke and a refill, a sympathetic ear and a stern glare to keep the peace, and you find yourself way more invested in ages-old gossip and stories these people have to offer than what you came here for.

And man, does Carlos flirt with you at every chance he gets.

Subtly at first, a wink here, a lingering touch there, a compliment that's a little too personal to be casual. You're not sure how to react; on one hand, the attention is flattering, a warm, tingling sensation that spreads through your chest and settles in the pit of your stomach, a pleasant distraction from the frustrations of your search. On the other hand, you're here to work, to chase a ghost and a paycheck, not to fall into a cliché romance with the charming local. You try to brush off his advances, deflecting his compliments with a roll of your eyes, keeping a safe distance between the two of you, but he's persistent, and his smiles and jokes are infectious.

Tonight, he’s resting his forearms on the bar, leaning in close, his dark curls falling in disarray across his forehead, and his brown eyes are alight with their usual spark. "I’m starting to think you’ve got a thing for this place."

"You wish," you retort, but the words lack bite, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite your best efforts to maintain a cool facade. "It's the only bar in town, and the motel is depressing as hell. What else am I supposed to do to wind down?"

"Hey, I'm not complaining," he says, lifting his shoulders in a casual shrug, the motion causing the muscles in his arms to flex subtly under the rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt. His grin is wide and genuine, his teeth a flash of white in the dim light of the bar, a stark contrast to the rugged, earthy features of his face. "Keeps the tips flowing, and the company's not bad either."

"Not bad! What kind of scale am I working with here? Because I have some choice words for 'not bad'."

"I have a feeling I'll regret asking, but shoot."

"'Not bad', is, like, a 6 out of 10. Barely passing. Mediocre. The kind of score a teacher puts to gently encourage the student to do better."

"Oh, is that right?" A sly smile stretches his mouth, his lips curving upward in a way that's undeniably playful. He props his chin on his hand, his elbow firmly planted on the countertop. "I've been encouraging the whole time, so I think the problem is with you if you managed to get stuck at not bad for this long."

"What's a six got to do to become a ten in your eyes, huh?"

"Well, you barely make any conversation! Give me something to work with here, sweetheart. How am I supposed to know anything about you without a little cooperation on your part, hm?"

"Ugh," you scoff, rolling your eyes and taking a sip of your drink, the alcohol burning its way down your throat, a temporary relief from the heat of his gaze and the fluttering in your chest. "Fine, fine. I'll give, just to prove my point that there's nothing to talk about. What do you wanna know?"

He leans back, a smugness settling on his features, his eyes narrowing slightly, a predator that's caught sight of prey, and the look sends a shiver down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Carlos crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut over the muscles of his biceps, and his smirk widens. "How come a big-city journalist is here chasing ghosts in a small, Southern town?"

"How do you know I'm a big-city journalist? Small towns have their own papers, y'know."

"C'mon, it's obvious. You have something to drink so much about and there's no way someone as earnest as you can possibly write those tabloid clickbait things. You used to be big. And now you're in the dumps looking for El Silbón of all things."

You swallow hard, averting your gaze to the bottles lined up on the shelves behind him, the labels blurring together, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that offer no solace from his interrogation. Your fingers tap nervously against the glass, a rhythmic, staccato beat that echoes the pounding of your heart in your ears, and the ice clinks in the liquid, a hollow, mocking refrain.

"Alright, you're right," you admit, the confession dragged from your lips reluctantly. "I'm from the city. Used to work at a paper. Got downsized, and now I'm trying to pay the bills. Not exactly a novel tale, but it's mine, and that's the story, or the sad excuse of a story, rather, of how I ended up in the middle of nowhere, chasing a ghost on a fool's errand." You lift the glass to your lips, the cold rim kissing the heated skin of your mouth, the amber liquid within sloshing, threatening to spill over the edge, a mirror to the precarious hold you have on your emotions.

Carlos's eyebrows knit together in a fleeting frown, "Sorry I pried."

"'s fine," you say, the words coming out a bit mumbled from how quiet they are. "It's not exactly a secret. Embarrassing, is all."

"There's nothing embarrassing about doing your best with what's given to you," he replies, his tone gentle, a soothing balm to the raw edges of your nerves. "Trust me, we've all been there, in our own ways. This job," he gestures around the bar, the dimly lit interior, the worn and weathered wood, the faded posters on the walls, a silent acknowledgement of the impermanence of it all, the transience of a life lived on the fringes, in the spaces between the bright lights and big dreams, a far cry from the fast-paced, glittering metropolis that's etched into your memory. "It's not where I thought I'd end up, but hey, life's a ride, isn't it? Just gotta hang on and see where it takes you. Sometimes, the detours are the most interesting parts of the journey."

Your lips twitch in a wry half-smile.

"I say you're exactly where you need to be," he adds. "You met me, after all."

You laugh at that, the sound ringing out in the bar. He's just joking enough for the teasing to not be cringey, and the wink that follows only drives the nail home, making the snicker bubble out from inside your chest. That's what he's good at. It doesn't take a genius to realize that. Carlos has a knack of diffusing a situation, whether to lessen or raise the stakes, you found out. He knows when and where to strike, and that's a talent that's rare in its own rights, the subtleness of his charm and charisma a rarity that's hard to come by these days. Whether or not his intentions are truly pure, or simply a means to an ends, you're unsure, and perhaps, it's best that you remain ignorant.

Carlos’s fingers graze the edge of an abandoned cigarette lighter, a worn thing with its silver plating chipping off and a faint dent along one side. He picks it up carefully, turning it over in his hand, his thumb tracing the imperfections. For a moment, he studies it, almost lost in the weight of its story, before slipping it quietly into his pocket.

It’s not the first time you’ve noticed him doing this. Just last night, he found a brass button half-buried in the corner of the bar, an ugly thing with scratches marring its dull surface. He’d knelt down, retrieving it with an oddly reverent touch, his face calm as he tucked it into his jacket, not saying a word, to put it away in a trinket box you've seen the counter that you've only discovered when you thought it was a tip box and tried to place a bill in. It's a hidden trove by now, full of objects nobody remembers leaving behind—rusted bottle caps, stray coins, a faded playing card folded into a neat square, an old key chain, a broken rosary, and single earring...

After the lighter, it’s the end of a chicken’s wishbone, left on a table in a small puddle of beer. He reaches for it without hesitation, gripping it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, his head tilted as he studies it, almost like he’s making a judgment call on its worth. The bone is brittle, darkened at the edges, something most people would throw away without a second thought. But Carlos cradles it in his hand as if it’s earned a place with the rest of his findings, as if it carries something of its own worth. You watch him, intrigued by the care he shows, wondering what draws him to such ordinary items, what makes him collect them. Perhaps he is a hoarder. Perhaps, a sentimental fool.

After a while, curiosity gets the best of you. “Why keep all that?” you ask, nodding at the trinket box. "What's the appeal in...well, junk?"

He looks down, his mouth curving into a slow, almost bashful smile. “Guess I like to remember things,” he says, his gaze shifting as if caught between wanting to share and holding something back. “Every one of these was left here by someone. Feels wrong to just throw ’em out. They came here for a reason, didn’t they?”

“Sounds like superstition.”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Maybe. Or maybe, hear me out, it’s just… a habit.” He pulls out a small, tarnished ring, one of the items you’ve seen him collect before. Holding it up to the light, he squints, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies it. “This one? Belonged to some guy who came in every Friday, same drink, same seat, till he stopped showing up. Left this on the counter one night, and that was it.” His fingers trace the ring’s edge, the metal a faint glint in the dim bar light. “People leave pieces of themselves, even if they don’t mean to.”

He slips the ring back, his gaze drifting to the collection behind the bar as if considering each bottle a memento of its own. You sense he’s somewhere else for a moment, his hand settling over the box in a gentle, absentminded gesture, like he’s grounding himself in the presence of these small, forgotten pieces.

"But even with all these, I think you might be the lucky charm," Carlos grins at you.

"O-kay," you drawl.

"No, seriously. I've got this tinnitus that's been bugging me forever, and the longer you're here, the less and less insistent the ringing in my ear is becoming. Maybe it's the company, or maybe, it's that you have to be the luckiest person I've ever met, and that's rubbing off on me."

"You're really reaching here, aren't ya," you quirk a brow at him. "Or, perhaps, your ears are clearing from all the smoking and loud music and shit because I ask you to turn it down all the time."

"My personal monkey paw."

"Man, c'mon."

"It's his family," someone calls out behind you one day, as the sun dips low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt road that leads from the bar to your motel.

You stop in your tracks, the dust swirling around your feet, and look over your shoulder. An older man is leaning against the wall of the hardware store, a pack of cigarettes in his weathered hands, his eyes sharp and knowing under the brim of his hat, drawing out a cigarette and lighting it, the flame from his Zippo flickering in the fading light.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" You ask, cautious, yet curious. The town has kept you at arm's length since your arrival, and this stranger's willingness to speak is unusual, a break in the pattern of silence and guarded stares that have defined your interactions thus far.

He's the cashier from the gas station when you first arrived here, you realize.

"Doesn't matter," the old-timer's reply is curt, his words punctuated by a puff of smoke from his cigarette. "That vile demon boy hangin' 'round the likes of you ain't safe. I told you not to depend too much on the bottle, yer starin' death right in the eye."

"What... What is this about? Are you talking about Carlos?" Your mind reels, trying to connect the dots, to understand the cryptic warning that's being thrown at you like a grenade, its meaning obscured in a fog of Southern enigma. The nickname "vile demon" echoes in your head, an ominous refrain, a stark contrast to the friendly bartender's easygoing nature and the genuine warmth that radiates from him. You can't reconcile the image of the man who pours drinks and tells stories in the neon glow of the bar's sign with the name that the old timer is giving him. "Are you telling me to quit drinking or to avoid him? Because there's no way in hell any liquor's gonna kill me before a gunshot does."

"No, you city slickers never do listen," he shakes his head, the lines on his face deepening, his brow furrowed in a blend of weariness and frustration, a map of a life lived in the grip of the bayou's mysteries, of its secrets and its dangers. "What yer looking for is in his family. The blood. The demon. That's why no one's talkin', they love that bastard. He's their golden child, fooled 'em all. But I know. I know, and I'm warnin' you. Stay away, girl. Don't dig no deeper. Yer on a path to Hell's gates, and that devil's the ferryman. Leave. While you can."

With those parting words, the old timer turns and walks back into the convenience store, the door swinging shut behind him, the bell chiming a soft, final note in the quiet of the evening, the echo of his warning lingering in the stillness.

The next day in Rosa's diner, you find yourself sitting in a booth, sipping coffee that's so strong it could strip paint, and the waitress is chatting in her usual, amiable way, a constant stream of small-town gossip and local lore that fills the space between bites of food and gulps of the scalding, bitter brew.

She's in the middle of recounting the latest escapades of the mayor's son when you call the old woman over, impatient. She calls Carlos, 'Carlitos'; and he calls her 'Abuela', she's got to know something, right?

"What can I get you, honey?" Rosa asks, a pencil poised to take your order, her apron stained with the marks of a busy morning, the fabric a canvas of spilled syrup and grease, a history of the meals she's served and the stories she's heard.

"Hey, Rosa, um..." you trail off, not quite sure how to broach the subject, the question hovering on the tip of your tongue, a mystery that's been nagging at you since the strange encounter the day before. "You're on the clock, I know, but can I talk to you after hours? It's important, and it's not exactly, uh, a diner kind of chat," you say, glancing around the bustling restaurant, the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation almost drowning out your quietly hesitant request.

"Oh, dear, of course, no worries," she replies, her tone shifting from the brisk efficiency of a server to the warm concern of an elder, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a reassuring smile. "Stick around for lunch break, okay?"

"Sounds great. Thanks, Rosa, you're a gem," you say, insides swelling up with gratitude at her relenting so graciously that she's decided to dedicate her precious time to help a complete stranger, and give the biggest of smiles, at that.

The time can't fly fast enough, the hands of the clock on the wall of the diner seeming to drag through the afternoon, the minutes stretching into eternities as you nurse cup after cup of coffee, watching the regulars come and go, the familiar faces of the town passing through the doors, their lives intersecting briefly with yours in the cozy, Formica-topped world of the diner. When at last the lunch rush subsides and Rosa slips into the seat opposite you, her gray hair escaping from its bun, lined face a map of a life lived in hard work and kindness and eyes bright and inquisitive, you find the words pouring out of you in a flood of questions and concerns.

"Do you know the old guy that works at the gas station store by any chance?"

"The old crank," her wrinkled mouth curls in distaste, the edges of her lips turned downward in a frown of recognition. "Why, is he bothering you?"

"Not necessarily," you admit, a shrug lifting your shoulders, a casual dismissal of the previous night's confrontation, an attempt to downplay the unease that's been growing in the pit of your stomach, a gnarled root. "He just said weird stuff about Carlos."

"Hah!" Her laugh is a burst of sound, a sharp exclamation that cuts through the background hum of the diner, startling a nearby patron who looks up from his newspaper with a raised eyebrow. Her hand comes up to brush a strand of iron-gray hair away from her face, the motion quick and dismissive, as if waving away the very idea of the man's warnings. "Don't pay him no mind, child," she says, her accent a thick drawl, the words rolling off her tongue in a cadence that's both comforting and firm, a grandmother's wisdom dispensed in a roadside diner. "That old fart's got a chip on his shoulder, always has. Ain't nothing true in the ramblings of a man like that. Just the bitterness talking, that's all."

"But he thinks Carlos is like a demon? What is that about, if you don't mind me asking? Not digging into Carlos's personal business, I just want to know why that man thinks so."

"Ah, well," Rosa sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to carry the history of the town. "Back in the day, that man, he was the chief of police, a big shot. And he had a bone to pick with the men of Carlitos's family. It's just a hereditary mental illness passed down from father to son, a misfortune. But that asshole's convinced that there's somethin' evil lurkin' in them boys because they ain't from here. Every generation, the same accusation. His own sons are no saints, believe you me. They're the ones stirrin' up trouble, not our Carlitos. That boy is an angel, a gift from Heaven. Takes care of his mama, has a good heart. Nothin' like the monsters that old bastard claims. You hear me? Don't let him poison yer mind against the sweetest young'un this town has ever seen."

So that's where the El Silbón rumors are coming from... Because they're immigrants.

You don't want to ask what kind of hereditary mental illness she's talking about, because old people tend not to have details like that, but the fact that she knows him better than anyone and defends him makes you feel at ease a little bit, and you can't help but nod in agreement. The thought of someone as warm and welcoming as Carlos being the target of such hostility and suspicion sits uncomfortably in your stomach, a sour knot that refuses to be untangled. It's a relief to have his character defended by someone like Rosa, a pillar of the community, her affection for the bartender a balm to the suspicions that have been slowly building in your mind.

As she returns to her duties, the conversation fading into the routine bustle of the diner, you finally have an article to write, and even if it's not a story of supernatural horrors and haunting whistles in the night, it's a human tale, a portrait of a town gripped in the claws of its past, of prejudice and fear that have become as much a part of the landscape as the ancient cypress trees and the winding, dark waters of the bayou, and it is a story worth telling.

Carlos Oliveira is in love.

It's the little things, at first. A song that reminds him of your laughter on the jukebox, the sight of your favorite drink on the shelf, a stray eyelash on the rim of the glass, the way the neon lights cast a glow on your face, the faint scent of perfume lingering in the bar after closing time. You come early, before the rush, with your notebook and pen tucked neatly away in your bag and an easy smile on your lips, and Carlos feels as if he has stepped into a dream when you slip onto your usual stool with a "Howdy handsome."

Sometimes, there's an undeniable flicker of attraction between you two when he leans across the counter to refill your drink or hands you another paper napkin. Little sparks of electricity that shoot up his arm and set fire to his veins whenever your fingers graze his. Each touch lingers, setting his pulse racing, a warmth spreading through his chest as if you've reached beneath his skin and laid bare the tender truth within his beating heart. He finds himself seeking out those moments, brushing against you ever so slightly, a fleeting contact that leaves him aching for more.

In the space between drinks and dishes and cleaning glasses, Carlos talks.

He tells you about his childhood here, growing up in the shadow of the bayou, exploring its twists and turns on lazy summer days, catching crawfish with friends. In return, you regale him with tales of life in the city, the hustle and bustle of the streets, the skyscrapers looming above and the thrumming energy of the metropolis pulsing around every corner. At first, he hangs on your every word, enraptured by the life that seems worlds away from the sleepy little town where time moves at a slower pace, but as the conversations continue, he begins to see glimpses of himself reflected in you, kindred spirits finding common ground amid the unfamiliar terrain of each other's experiences.

The shift isn't immediately obvious, but it happens gradually, as you weave your way deeper and deeper into Carlos's heart, leaving traces of yourself wherever you go. Every inch of the bar is imbued with memories of you—the stool where you always sit, the glass you use, the cocktail napkins printed with a logo that belongs to you. Even the jukebox becomes yours in a way, an extension of you, playing songs that seem tailor-made just for this moment, lyrics that encapsulate his feelings perfectly in a few brief lines. It's almost as if the universe itself is conspiring to bring you together, drawing you closer with every breath, until he's certain that fate has brought him to you, an invisible thread connecting the two of you inseparably.

Soon, it's impossible to imagine the bar without you. As customers drift in and out throughout the week, you remain steady as a compass needle pointing north, a constant presence, a shining light in the midst of the crowd. On slow nights when the only sounds are distant music and distant traffic and far-off murmurs from neighboring establishments, Carlos finds himself wandering over to you more often than usual, drawn like a moth to your flame. Your conversation flows effortlessly, natural as breathing, and it's as if you've always been together, as if you've known each other for years instead of weeks.

So yes, Carlos is very much in love.

The dark urge, however, is a presence that has him making sure that love stays unreciprocated. You being alone with him after the closing isn't helping his case.

You’re smiling, that easy, soft look that says you trust him more than you probably should, and he can barely meet your eyes. His gaze lands on the whiskey in front of you instead, the golden-brown liquid sloshing gently against the glass as you raise it to your lips, letting the edges of laughter linger on your mouth. He doesn’t know if you realize what that does to him—how every time you drink, he feels that thing growing inside, a bitter heat that coils and presses, almost possessive. His hand tightens around the rag, knuckles paling, his chest heavy as he watches, transfixed by the careless abandon with which you tip the glass back.

You’re close enough now that he can smell the faint hint of whiskey and old wood that clings to your skin, and he stiffens, gripping the bar with one hand as if to anchor himself. Your fingers tap rhythmically against the glass, and each soft patter rings loud, a drumbeat in his chest, taunting him. He tries to swallow down the impulse that has been creeping in like fog, the thing that twists in him, luring him to lean closer, to—

But he can’t. Instead, he clears his throat, and the sound comes out rough, raw. He reaches for the glass in front of you, offering a quick, forced smile as he pulls it away, watching your brow furrow in question. For a moment, he steadies, but then the scent of whiskey catches him again, stronger now that he’s lifted the glass, and something shifts beneath his skin, stirring in the silence between you.

You chuckle, the sound rich, warm, with a hint of mischief, and tease him about hogging your drink. There’s a glint in your eyes that dares him closer, dares him to push past whatever line he’s clinging to. He can’t shake the pull, the ache that seems to dig deeper, refusing to be ignored. His hand stills mid-motion, fingers tight against the glass, and the silence stretches, the weight of unsaid things pressing down until it feels as if the entire room is holding its breath.

“Maybe you’ve had enough for tonight,” he says, just a touch strained. He avoids looking at you directly, eyes drifting instead to the way your hand reaches for the glass again, fingers brushing his. A pulse races under his skin where you touch him, but it’s no longer the warmth he’s grown used to—it’s something sharper, almost painful, a need that bites as it grows.

You shrug, playfully defiant, and there’s something in that nonchalance that sends a jolt through him, like an alarm blaring deep in his mind. He pulls his hand back sharply, and the rag falls from his grip, the cloth landing on the bar with a muted thud. His breathing falters for a moment, barely a hitch, as he forces himself to meet your gaze.

The urge has gnawed at him for days now, hidden under every gentle touch, every easy laugh, until he can hardly stand the way it rises each time you come near. It’s a pull he can’t explain, an aching push and pull that twists in his stomach, darker than anything he’s ever known. The way you look at him, eyes sparkling with challenge and trust, only makes it harder, and he’s sure you don’t realize what you’re inviting, what you’re unknowingly feeding.

Carlos feels the pull again, that dark, curling need, and he’s not sure if it’s desire or something far uglier. All he knows is that it has a voice of its own now, tugging him toward you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin. His hand drifts up, almost without his permission, fingertips hovering just a whisper away from your jaw. His breath catches in his throat, his fingers trembling as he stops himself just before touching you.

You’re waiting, eyes wide and patient, your mouth curving with that teasing edge. It’s too much—your laughter, your warmth, your very nearness, all winding tighter around the thing he’s tried to keep buried. He finds himself leaning even closer, the sharp scent of whiskey mingling with something that’s just you, and it’s intoxicating, maddening, tearing at his resolve.

“Carlos?” you murmur, a hint of curiosity in your gaze, your head tilting ever so slightly, baring just a touch more of your neck.

He shouldn’t—he knows he shouldn’t. He can feel it, the lurking darkness that’s been crawling inside him, the thing that’s been growing louder and harder to ignore. The weight of it compresses in his chest, that need clawing to the surface. He takes in a slow, steadying breath, but it doesn’t help. His hand is still hovering by your face, fingertips so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

You reach up and cover his hand with yours, your touch gentle but insistent, grounding him for just a moment. His eyes flicker down to where your fingers press against his, that small point of contact sparking something that’s both deeply familiar and painfully foreign. He feels your touch like a lifeline, pulling him back from that murky edge, and yet…something in him wants to pull you down with him.

You’re too close now, too willing, and he can’t tear his eyes from you. The silence between you grows thicker, almost electric, the tension twisting tighter and tighter. His hand finally touches your face, the pads of his fingers brushing against your jaw, and he hears a soft, involuntary gasp escape your lips. His thumb traces along your cheekbone, and he’s entranced by the way your lashes flutter, your breath catching just slightly as he leans in.

“Maybe we shouldn’t…” he says, the words almost to himself, a feeble attempt to hold onto something sane, something real. But his gaze falls to your lips, and his hand slips further, cradling the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you in.

You don’t pull away, don’t push him back, and that quiet, unspoken permission unravels the last thread of his restraint. He closes the space between you, his lips grazing yours, gentle at first—a brush, a question. But the heat between you intensifies, and his control fractures, his kiss deepening with an urgency that he can’t hold back. It’s fierce, almost desperate, his hands tightening around you, pulling you flush against him as if he could lose himself in you, drown this dark, gnawing need.

But then something shifts inside him, sharp and cold, a reminder of that darker hunger. He feels it stirring, pricking at his mind, and a sudden sense of dread rises, seizing him. He pulls back, breath coming in shallow gasps, hands still tangled in your hair, his grip almost too tight as he tries to steady himself.

Carlos’s gaze drops, settling on the hollow between your collarbones, unable to face the worry in your eyes. His hands are still tangled in your hair, and he feels the slight tremor in his grip as he holds onto you—not in a gesture of intimacy but of barely controlled restraint. Something unrecognizable is clawing at the edges of his mind, and it’s harder now, almost impossible, to silence it.

“Is everything okay?” you say again, your voice softer, questioning. You reach up, fingertips grazing his jaw, urging him to look at you. That touch alone, so gentle, so unguarded, nearly undoes him. He closes his eyes, his forehead pressing against yours, a faint shiver in his breath as he fights against the relentless pull.

Your hand slips down to his chest, resting over his heartbeat, and he jolts, almost pulling back, but you hold steady, fingers splayed over his heart as if you’re trying to calm it. His heartbeat pounds beneath your hand, a rapid, frantic rhythm that betrays the chaos inside him.

“I…” He struggles, the words sticking in his throat. The confession—the truth he’s been burying under too many years of guilt and denial—feels trapped, too raw to voice. He could almost feel the words twisting inside him, like a poison, something that wants to be expelled but can’t.

But you’re patient, waiting, your thumb tracing soft circles over his chest, grounding him. There’s something in your gaze that makes him want to break down every wall, to spill every guarded, haunted piece of himself and lay it at your feet. Yet he knows, deep down, that some things—some hungers—can’t be given so freely, that they come with a cost.

He reaches up, wrapping his hand over yours on his chest, and the press of your warmth against him feels like an anchor, something to hold him steady. But it only makes the urge stronger, sharper, pressing harder against his control. His fingers squeeze yours, a little too tightly, and he opens his eyes, forcing himself to meet your gaze.

"This is a mistake," he says, the words laced with an edge that makes your brow crease, your mouth parting as if you’re about to ask him to explain. But he doesn’t give you the chance.

His hand drops from yours, and he steps back, every fiber of his being screaming at him to close the space between you again, to hold you, but he can’t. He sees the flash of hurt in your eyes, a look that cuts deeper than he expected, and he hates himself for it, hates the curse that’s twisted itself around him like barbed wire, cutting deeper each time he lets you in.

You reach for him, closing the distance, and he catches your wrist mid-reach, holding it tight as he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t…I can’t,” he breathes, and his grip on you is gentle but unyielding, his thumb brushing against the delicate skin of your wrist as if trying to memorize it.

But your other hand lifts, fingertips pressing softly against his cheek, guiding his gaze back to you. He feels the tenderness in your touch, and it’s like a soothing balm over raw wounds, a moment of calm in a storm he can’t control. Your eyes search his, full of an understanding that feels almost painful, and he can’t resist the way his gaze softens, a flicker of his humanity clinging, desperate, against the darkness.

“This can be whatever we want it to be,” you whisper, and the words hit him harder than anything he’s felt in years. His hand loosens on your wrist, and for a heartbeat, he lets himself believe it, lets himself fall into the warmth of your acceptance, as if it might be enough to stave off the thing clawing within him.

But just as he thinks he might be able to pull himself back, that whistling—the dark, insistent voice inside him—surges up, drowning out everything. His vision sharpens, and his grip tightens once more, the gentleness fading as something colder, hungrier, takes over.

The rain hammers against the cracked glass panes, a drumbeat that fills the room, drowning out every other sound. The light is dim, flickering, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls and disappear into the corners, filling them with darkness thick enough to touch. Carlos stands there, just a few feet away from you, his chest heaving in time with the relentless rhythm of the rain.

But then, the whistle. Faint, distant, barely there—but unmistakable.

It’s that same sound, the one that’s haunted him his entire life, lingering on the edge of his senses, a presence he could never quite shake. And yet, as he stands here, with you so close, it begins to slip further and further away, fading into the deep, unyielding silence that fills the room. His heart lurches, and a sickening clarity dawns on him.

The whistle wasn’t a warning. It was a countdown.

Each time it faded, each time it slipped further from his awareness, it wasn’t retreating; it was sinking deeper, threading itself through his veins, embedding itself in his very bones. He feels it now, that dark presence, not as something outside himself but as something within, something that has been waiting, patient and quiet, for this very moment.

His hands move of their own accord, lifting to grip your shoulders, his fingers digging in just a little too hard, and he can feel your body tense under his touch. He tries to pull back, to release you, but his grip only tightens, his hands betraying him, clinging to you with a hunger that terrifies him. The darkness, that ever-present shadow, uncoils within him, stretching out like a beast waking from a long slumber, and he can feel it sinking its claws into his mind, taking hold of every rational thought and twisting it into something primal, something dangerous.

You’re staring up at him, your eyes wide, a flicker of fear breaking through the warmth he’s come to know, and that fear—it cuts through him like a knife, sharp and relentless, but it only makes him hold on tighter. He wants to tell you to run, to shove him away, to leave before it’s too late, but the words die in his throat, swallowed up by the darkness that now pulses in time with his heartbeat, a rhythm that drowns out everything else.

“Talk to me…” you call to him through the haze, filled with confusion and worry, and he can see the way your gaze searches his face, looking for the man you know, the man you trust.

But he’s not there. Not anymore.

He feels it then, the final crack, the last piece of his humanity slipping away as that darkness consumes him whole. His hands slide up from your shoulders to your throat, his fingers curling around the delicate skin, and he feels the frantic pulse beneath his fingertips, quickening as he tightens his grip. You struggle, hands pushing against his chest, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps, but he can’t stop, can’t pull away. The urge, the need, the insatiable hunger—it’s all he knows now, all he’s ever been. He gives himself over to it completely, surrendering to the darkest depths of his own mind, the reality warping around him, dissolving into fragments of images and sounds and emotions that mean nothing to him. Everything blurs together, swirling around him in a haze of confusion, as he squeezes harder.

Your hand finally finds his wrist, fingers wrapping tightly, digging into his flesh, trying to pry his grip away from your throat, but it's useless. He's too strong, too determined, and there's nothing you can do to stop him as he chokes the life from you with ruthless efficiency, pinning you against the countertop behind you, your heels scraping futilely against the floorboards. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes as you look up at him, searching for some trace of the man you knew, some spark of compassion, but all you see is emptiness. The kindness, the warmth, the connection that drew you to him—they're gone, replaced by cold indifference as he stares down at you, his eyes empty and blank as if watching from another place or time.

There's no remorse in those eyes, no trace of human emotion, only an endless, hollow void that seems to stare straight through you as if you aren't really there. With each passing second, the pressure on your throat becomes more intense, your vision swimming, black spots dancing across your field of view as you struggle to draw a breath. You cling to his wrists, hoping he might somehow come to his senses, but there's nothing left in him to reason with. Every ragged gasp is agony, burning through your lungs like fire, sending shivers of pain shooting through your nerves.

His fingers dig deeper into your flesh, constricting tighter, crushing the life from you like a vice. Your grip slackens, falling limply to your sides as the last of your strength drains away. A dull ringing fills your ears, the world fading into a blurred haze of color and sound, the edges of your vision closing in with each labored beat of your heart.

A shudder rolls through you, violent and involuntary, and a low moan escapes your lips as your consciousness frays, collapsing inward, your mind drifting, tethered to reality by mere threads. You fight to hold on, grasping at fragments of memory, flashes of faces, sounds of laughter, the smell of home...but they slip through your fingers like sand, each moment fleeting, disintegrating into nothingness as you sink into the dark abyss of oblivion.

And when it's over, when Carlos has his control back and wrenches himself away from you like you've burned him, he collapses onto his knees on the hard wooden floor, gripping fistfuls of his hair and yanking until his scalp burns. Your lifeless body slides down the counter with a sickening thud, landing next to him with a disturbing finality. His eyes fixate on your bruised neck, on his finger marks embedded in the tender skin, and bile rises in his throat, bitter and acrid, burning as it spills across his tongue and stains the floorboards beneath him.

A strangled noise escapes him, half a sob, half a gasp, as he forces himself to look at you. The shape of you, the familiar curve of your face, the way your hair falls over your cheek—it’s all so familiar, and yet now, so unbearably wrong. There’s no movement, no gentle rise and fall of your chest, no spark in your eyes, nothing to tell him that you’re still there, that there’s still something left to save.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing the curve of your cheek, the soft warmth gone, replaced by a chilling stillness that seeps into his bones. A low, keening sound builds in his throat, raw and broken, the kind of sound that has no place in the world, born only from the shattering of something once whole. He rocks back, his hands pressing against his chest as if he could tear the ache from his heart, the crushing weight of guilt, of horror, pressing down on him, stealing the very breath from his lungs.

“No… no, no, no…” The words fall from his lips, barely more than a whisper, a futile denial of the truth lying in front of him. He can feel it clawing at him, the realization sinking its teeth into his mind, tearing away the last remnants of sanity, of hope. You’re gone, and he… he’s the reason why.

He presses his hands to his face, digging his fingers into his temples, as if he could claw the memories from his mind, erase the image of you, the feel of you, the sound of your voice, the way you looked at him—trusting, open, full of a love he didn’t deserve. He can’t bear it, the weight of it, the knowledge that he had destroyed something precious, something irreplaceable.

Carlos buries his face in his hands, rocking gently back and forth, muttering incoherently under his breath. The tears come then, hot and salty, streaming down his face in a steady flood of grief. They gather in pools at his palms, dampening the skin there, mixing with the blood caked in the cracks and grooves of his hands. His body is soon wracked by sobs, violent and unrestrained, ripping through him, consuming every shred of self-control he had, a full-blown panic attack coming as quickly as a bullet wound.

His hands drop from his face, reaching out blindly, as if searching for some reassurance, some anchor in the chaos that swirls inside him, but finding none. Instead, they curl around your fallen form, pulling you toward him, cradling you against his chest. Your head rests limply against his shoulder, your eyes closed, your lips parted slightly, and in that moment, he would give anything, anything at all to see you look at him again, to hear you laugh again, to touch you without fear.

There's the whistle again.

Faint, distant, barely there—but unmistakably real. And it sends a shiver through Carlos unlike any he had ever felt.

An agonized howl rips free from his throat, echoing off the walls of the empty bar, reverberating through his core, vibrating through every muscle, bone, sinew, blood vessel. His limbs seize up, stiffening, his jaw clenched tightly shut. There's no relief from the terror coursing through him. Nothing but that deafening silence, broken only by his ragged, labored breathing and the frantic beating of his own heart.He can feel something slipping away, something vital, something that was once his. It’s as if a part of him is unraveling, fraying at the edges, and he's being pulled under.

Down.

Down.

Down.

And under.

Buried and suffocated and erased and undone, fragmented.

Down.

Down.

Down.

And under.

And when he resurfaces, he’s left looking around and suddenly not recognizing where he is.

He doesn't recognize the dead body. He doesn't know the name of this person. He doesn't even know his name, now that he thinks about it.

His body stills as that whistle fills the hollow spaces, the void where his soul once resided. His mind goes blank, gaze dulling as he stares at you, unblinking, unfeeling, the warmth in his eyes fading to a chilling emptiness, a cold, unyielding stare that holds no trace of the man he once was.

He wants the bones.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against the bones that lie beneath your skin, the delicate structure of your wrist, your collarbone, the framework that once held you together, that gave shape to the person he had loved. His touch is cold, unfeeling, a ghost of what it once was, as his fingers bypasses the skin and slides in the wet cavity of your chest, your skin is entirely like the surface of water, rippling as his hand moves around to feel at the bones.

He moves with a purpose, a ritualistic precision, his hands working methodically as he collects each bone, each piece of you, as if driven by a compulsion he cannot ignore, a need that transcends reason, that consumes him whole. There’s no hesitation, no faltering in his movements, as if he’s done this a thousand times before, as if it’s as natural as breathing, as essential as the very blood that flows through his veins.

As he gathers the last of your bones and stashes them in a bag that probably belongs to this dead person, leaving only an undisturbed skin suit behind, a single tear slips down his cheek. "Huh. Why am I crying?"

But he doesn’t linger to find out. He stands up, turns around, gaze fixed on the night beyond outside of the bar, his steps steady, unfeeling, as he walks away, disappearing into the night, a shadow among shadows, a spirit bound to the bones he carries, to the life he’s taken, to the love he’s destroyed.

And as he fades away into the night like smoke dissipating, the faintest echo of a whistle fills the air.

Alright, here’s one you probably haven’t heard before. Most folks know the story of El Silbón as the ghost of a young man who killed his own father, doomed to carry his bones forever as punishment. But in some places—quiet little towns that don’t like talking about these things too loud—the story goes a little differently.

This version? El Silbón wasn’t some furious son. He was a man in love. Head-over-heels, heart-on-his-sleeve, can’t-breathe-without-her kind of love. They call her La Amada now—The Beloved—though whatever her real name was, it’s been long forgotten. She was beautiful, they say, with a voice like rain after a dry spell and a laugh that could warm a cold night. And fond of her liquor too, that part is important, remember it. 

But there’s a thin line between love and jealousy, and El Silbón crossed it. One night, in a jealous rage, he thought she’d betrayed him. No proof, just that dark little whisper in the back of his mind, eating away at him. He confronted her, couldn’t listen to reason, and before either of them knew it, his hands were around her throat. 

Since that night, he’s been cursed. Instead of moving on, he’s stuck here, lugging her bones around in a sack, doomed to carry the memory of what he did. He’s restless, they say, wandering the fields and the empty roads at night, his whistle carrying on the wind, low and hollow. They say he’s searching, though for what, no one’s sure. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe revenge. Maybe he doesn’t know himself. Mainly targeting drunkards and sucking the alcohol in their blood stems from him seeking La Amada out in any way possible in this interpretation, I'm guessing. 

Now here’s where it gets tricky: if you’re out at night and you hear that whistle, pay attention. If it sounds close by, you’re safe. But if it’s far off, echoing out there in the distance? That means he’s close. Too close.

There are folks who swear they’ve seen him, a shadow with a sack over his shoulder, wandering in search of something he’ll never find, collecting bones along the way obsessively and stopping to count them whenever he can. So if you ever catch that low whistle on the wind, don’t stop. Don’t look back. Just keep moving, and hope that sack of bones he’s carrying doesn’t end up yours.

Written by Isabel Martín

Isabel is a researcher and folklore enthusiast based in Caracas, Venezuela. She spends her free time exploring myths, local ghost stories, and forgotten legends of Latin America. When she’s not knee-deep in folklore, she’s probably hiking, photographing old towns, or reading by candlelight. If you’ve got your own eerie encounter or local ghost story, drop a comment below or reach out on social media—she’d love to hear it!

[lesbiankimdahyun]

Devil's Night II

3.3k words

[GP!Vampire!Mina x Succubus!Sana x GP!Werewolf!Momo]

CW: GP, vampires, werewolves, demons, buckle up

Neither Momo nor Mina could recall how they had ended up where they currently were: the giant two story condo Sana called home. Neither one of them remembered ordering a car or taking public transportation; it was like they had suddenly appeared there at her front door. 

When they made it upstairs, Momo didn’t need Sana to lead the way– the scent of the demon was all over the large primary bedroom. 

“Wow,” the werewolf said, taking in the space. The wood flooring beneath her feet felt cool. A large, lavish rug in the center of the room against one wall separated the rest of the room from the sleeping space, which consisted of a large, minimalist raised platform bed. Floor to ceiling windows took over on one end of the room, which let in a glimpse of the illuminated city far below them through soft white curtains. 

Momo could pick out the scent of bamboo, oak, eucalyptus and…

“Do you collect perfume?” she asked. 

Sana smiled and gestured behind her, where wooden display shelves were lined with a number of vintage and expensive bottles. 

While Momo took in the collection, Mina glanced out the window warily. 

Sana made her way over to the vampire and let her upper arm brush against the other woman’s. 

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, but Mina started to share her head. 

“Oh, I’m okay–” Mina started, but Sana cut her off.

“No baby, not that kind,” Sana said, a mischievous smile on her face. She tilted her neck, bringing her pointer finger up to her neck and letting it drag downward toward her collarbone. “A drink.” 

Mina’s cock twitched. She gave the succubus a quick once over and nodded. Sana took Mina’s hand in hers and pulled her lightly over to her bed. “Come have a taste, then,” she said. 

The vampire followed her over to the edge of the bed and watched as Sana positioned herself to sit back against her headboard. 

“Momo?” Mina wanted nothing more than to bite into the neck of the demon, but first, she needed to satisfy a desire she’d been harboring since the night began. 

Momo joined Mina beside Sana’s bed, eyes roaming over the two of them hungrily. 

The vampire found herself shy suddenly, “I– I met Momo first, so forgive me Sana but…” she turned to the werewolf. “Can I kiss you?” 

The werewolf’s eyebrows rose but she nodded, a small smile on her lips. She brought one hand up to the vampire’s face and cupped her cheek while leaning in to kiss her. Mina’s nose was cold as it brushed against Momo’s warm, blushing face. One kiss became two, and then Momo’s tongue was suddenly running over Mina’s. 

Sana watched with intense desire, growing wetter by the second. Her fingers trailed over her own body slowly, beginning to undo her black bodysuit. Momo let out a husk of a growl as she made out with Mina, her teeth running over the vampire’s long, sharp teeth curiously. The werewolf pulled Mina closer to her and gasped a little when she felt the vampire’s bulge rub against her own. 

They broke apart, distracted by the sensation, and Sana let out a little breath, squeezing her legs together. “God,” she said, reclaiming their attention. “Look at you two.” She made her way back up toward them, her body suit falling off of her shoulders as her hands moved up between their legs, palming at their bulges. 

Mina tried not to buck into her touch, but her stuttered breath betrayed how badly she wanted to be inside Sana. 

The demon snickered. “Needy,” she murmured. While she began to get Mina out of her clothes, the vampire took the opportunity to help get Momo out of her costume, letting her arms run over the werewolf’s strong arms for an extra second or two. Momo shivered a little at her touch. 

Soon both Momo and Mina’s clothing was discarded on the floor and Sana beckoned them closer onto the bed. Momo’s hands caressed Sana’s body while Mina stripped the demon out of her costume, adding it to the pile on the floor. The werewolf then flipped Sana onto all fours, angling herself in front of Sana’s head while Mina came up behind the demon, running her hands over her back, giving her ass an appreciative squeeze. 

“Want your mouth,” the werewolf said, and Sana obliged. Mina pumped her length a few times while she curiously watched Sana move in toward Momo’s cock. Both Sana and Mina were impressed with Momo’s hardware and her well toned abs. The vampire watched on curiously as Sana reached one hand up to explore Momo’s body. Momo kept herself well shaven for the most part up top, but what held Sana’s attention was the werewolf’s visible happy trail and upper thighs covered in soft, dark hair.  

“Jesus,” Sana murmured, finally acknowledging Momo’s massive cock. With the full moon and her rut approaching so soon, her dick was intimidatingly thick and heavy between her thighs. 

The vampire licked her lips at the sight, too. She had always wanted to try taking someone else’s dick, but the werewolf was way too big for her, especially this close to a rut. She was eager to see the succubus try to take her eventually, but for now, Sana’s pussy was all hers.   

While Mina fisted her own cock in her hand, Sana took Momo’s cock in her hand and tapped it on her tongue, teasing her. 

Momo appeared to be doing her best to maintain her human appearance, but the more turned on she became, the more of her natural werewolf features slipped through the cracks. Her nails, for instance, were much longer and sharper now, and the veins in her hands were a little more visible. Her hair seemed thicker, suddenly, and longer. 

Sana kissed Momo’s red, leaking tip softly, then licked up some of her precum, making the werewolf bite back an excited whine. 

“Promise me you’ll still try to knot me even if I make you cum down my throat?” Sana asked, and Momo nodded without hesitation. 

It was all the encouragement Sana needed to take Momo into her mouth then. She kissed and licked her way around the red, leaking tip. It was good that the vampire would take her pussy first because she needed all the stretch she could get from another cock before she’d be ready to attempt taking Momo. 

Sana paused for a moment and she looked over her shoulder at Mina. Her eyes did that flickering thing again, going all black as she said “Please,” in a voice far deeper and less human than the one she’d been speaking with all night. Her eyes quickly returned to normal and Mina felt an incredible sense of urgency suddenly. The vampire gripped Sana’s waist in one hand while the other guided her stiff cock between Sana’s folds, coating her tip with the slick the demon was leaking down her thighs. 

As Mina started sliding into Sana’s cunt, Momo wrapped a hand around the demon’s head, grabbing a handful of her long, dark hair, and slid her tip into Sana’s warm, wet mouth. 

Sana let out a muffled moan, arching her back a bit for Mina and relaxing her jaw for Momo.

As Mina bottomed out in the demon, Sana pushed more of Momo’s cock into her mouth. She paid extra attention to her cockhead, taking her time swirling her tongue over it and working her way down slowly, licking wet, invisible stripes down her length. 

The longer Sana spent sucking her, the wetter Momo’s cock became. Within minutes, the wet sounds of Sana’s mouth at work on the werewolf filled the air, making Momo let out a moan. 

Meanwhile, Mina teased Sana’s cunt. She slid in, then slowly pulled out and rubbed her tip against her, working Sana’s clit up a bit. The demon ground her hips desperately on Mina’s cock and whined, the sound muffled with Momo’s cock further down her throat. 

Momo was starting to lose herself to the pleasure she felt as Sana continued to slurp on the werewolf’s cock. Her head tipped back a little, eyes closing and eyebrows knitting together. It was getting harder and harder to keep her hips still. 

The demon picked up her pace, shifting her weight and bringing one hand up so she could pump the rest of Momo into her mouth, eager to make her come. Momo let out a sound that started as a moan and ended as a growl. 

“Sana…” she said through gritted teeth. She pulled the demon off of her cock, causing Sana’s mouth to release her with a small pop. 

Momo’s eyes were dark gold as she looked down at her. She brought both of her hands up to Sana’s head and cupped her face gently, her thumbs resting on her cheekbones. 

“Stay still,” Momo said, then pushed her cock against Sana’s lips until the succubus opened her mouth, allowing Momo to set the pace. 

Sana whimpered a little as the werewolf picked up speed, thrusting her hips eagerly to use the demon’s mouth as she pleased. “Oh fuck…” Momo panted. “G-getting close.” 

Tears were starting to form in Sana’s eyes as she did her best to take Momo. Her whimpers turned to low cries. She was on the verge of being overstimulated by the two, but she didn’t want it to stop, either. Finding a more steady position on her knees and balancing with one hand on the bed, she reached her other hand down between her legs, desperate to give her throbbing clit some relief. 

She could feel every inch of Mina’s long, hard cock driving in and out of her dripping cunt and it nearly drove her over the edge right then and there. Her fingers expertly rubbed over her clit, growing closer to her own orgasm. 

Mina’s fucking had also slowly become faster. She was panting too now, her hands gripping Sana’s hips tightly. Her nails were surely leaving marks in the demon’s skin, but she didn’t let up. Lewd sounds of Mina’s skin connecting with Sana’s joined the wet sounds of head being given. The vampire desperately wanted to wrap her hand around one of Sana’s horns and pull her back so she could watch Sana take her cock. 

“Fuck!” Momo grunted, thrusting roughly into the demon’s mouth. She held Sana’s mouth down on her twitching cock for a few moments, then let her go. Sana pulled back, gasping for a quick breath before swallowing Momo’s seed. She stuck out her tongue, looking up at Momo with heavy lidded eyes as the werewolf coated her tongue with more of her load. When she finished, Sana took her cock back in her mouth, cleaning her up until Momo let out a small cry and pulled away. 

“Mm,” Momo said, catching her breath. “Can’t wait to knot you.” 

This was Mina’s chance. She leaned over the succubus, one hand reaching up and over to touch the demon’s horns. She didn’t want to startle Sana though, so instead of grabbing, she trailed her fingers over the horn’s hard, bumpy surface. 

To her surprise, Sana’s back arched immediately and the demon let out a high pitched whine. 

“Shit,” Sana cried. “Again– do it again.”

Mina’s eyebrows raised a little, but she quickly obliged. With a particularly rough thrust, she pulled herself forward, deeper inside Sana, so her hand could brush over more of the dark-colored curled horn.

Sana gasped and Mina felt her cunt clench around her cock. The vampire stifled a moan as she felt it– the demon’s inner thighs shook and then she cried out, releasing a mess of slick as she came on the vampire’s cock. 

The feeling of Sana coming around her cock nearly made Mina see stars. The vampire couldn’t hold back anymore. Her hips stuttered in their movements and then she came too, lurching forward while gently pushing Sana into the bed. She sank her teeth into the demon’s neck, emptying herself greedily into Sana while taking what she wanted. Sana cried out but sank submissively into the bed, reaching back and wrapping her hand around Mina’s thigh. She pulled Mina closer against her as the vampire filled her and lapped at her neck. 

The hair on the back of Momo’s neck stood up as she watched, one hand pumping her still-hard cock lightly. As she drank from Sana, Mina’s pupils narrowed, turning into vertical slits. It was the first time Momo had seen her look even remotely inhuman. 

Mina continued thrusting into Sana lightly, fucking her load deeper into her until she felt sated enough to finally pull back. She licked the demon’s neck gently, pressing a sloppy final kiss to her skin before sliding out and unsticking herself from her. 

With Mina’s eyes reverting back to their normal red-rimmed appearance, Momo quickly moved on from what she had just seen and licked her lips as Mina slid out; her cock was covered in a mix of her own seed and Sana’s juices. 

Sana and Mina caught their breath while Momo continued to lightly jerk herself off. Sana rolled over onto her back until she was beneath the werewolf. She smiled and hummed, reaching up to take over for Momo’s hand. 

“Still hard, pup?” she cooed. 

It didn’t take long before the three of them went back at it for another round. This time, Momo mounted Sana, keeping the demon pinned down on her back as she lined her cock up with Sana’s dripping cunt. 

Mina, on her knees, hovered over Sana’s head. She was determined to come again, jerking herself off steadily with occasional help from Momo’s warm, inviting mouth. 

Momo hissed as her cock lined up with Sana’s wet entrance. When she finally slid in, Sana gasped, her chest heaving from the effort.

“Yes…” Sana sighed dreamily, wrapping her legs around Momo’s thighs and reaching up, draping her arms around the werewolf’s shoulders. “More, need more..!” 

Momo gave her a little more, bottoming out inside of Sana before pulling back out. She slid in and out again slowly, warming up the demon to her size. She’d barely even started and already could see Sana was doing her best to keep from falling apart on her cock. 

The succubus whimpered loudly as Momo pressed herself inside again. The werewolf’s cock was excruciating, but in the best way. Sana couldn’t remember the last time she’d been stretched out so deeply. 

Satisfied that  Sana could handle her, Momo picked up her pace. The demon had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from screaming as Momo hit the deepest parts of her. Momo merely grunted, thrusting into Sana with feverish desire, her knot forming quickly. 

“N-not gonna last,” Momo said, dropping her head a little. It was almost too much just to look up: the sheer sight of Sana— who was clawing at her back, moaning and tilting her head back from pleasure and pain— could have made her come on the spot. And if Momo wasn’t looking at Sana while she rutted into her, Mina’s long, lean cock had her attention. 

The vampire, she knew, was also getting close. Her tip was flushed and she could feel Mina’s legs shaking above her while she bobbed shallowly on the head of her cock, wanting to see the vampire come undone again. What Momo didn’t fit in her mouth, Mina stroked with her hand, feeding as much of her aching cock to the werewolf as she could. 

Sana, having adapted to the brutal pace and depth that came with being fucked by the werewolf, nearly submitted herself to the her, letting the werewolf  hold her down like a toy. With a daring glint in her eye, though, she opened her mouth. 

“Look at you, pup,” Sana teased, looking up at the werewolf above her. “Look how desperate you are.”

Momo whimpered a little, slowing her pace just a bit. 

“So desperate to fuck, and so easy, aren’t you?” Sana smirked. “Big dumb puppy. You’ll jump at any chance to dump yourself into anyone just to relieve yourself, won’t you?” 

Momo gasped, completely losing her pace. “S-Sana…” she whined. Her knot was rubbing against the demon’s clit, begging to slip inside. “Please— can I…?”

“W-wait,” Mina cried suddenly. Her breath caught. Sana degrading Momo while Momo sucked her off played right into the vampire’s liking for change in power dynamics. “Momo, I’m gonna–” 

The werewolf moaned a little and opened her mouth just in time to catch Mina’s load on her tongue. Mina trembled as she felt Momo’s tongue on her. She closed her eyes as she took her hand away, letting Momo lap up her seed and suck her clean. 

Making the vampire come made Momo want to come even more. Momo’s grip was painfully strong on the succubus now; she could barely stand keeping her fully inflated knot out of Sana, but she also wanted to finish servicing the vampire. The moment Mina pulled away, Momo let out a strangled growl and slammed her knot inside Sana. 

The demon let out a scream, scrabbling underneath Momo. 

“Fuck!” Sana exhaled sharply. She could barely think straight with how stuffed she was, but still couldn’t resist riling the werewolf up even more. “C’mon Momo,” she purred, “Aren’t you gonna put your pups in me?” 

“Y-yes,” Momo panted in response. She fucked Sana with her knot for a few more thrusts before her breath hitched. The werewolf let out a possessive snarl as she came, knotting Sana. 

Sana’s jaw dropped almost instantly when she felt Momo release. The werewolf seemed to come endlessly inside her. All she could do was open her legs more and glance down to watch herself be filled by Momo’s twitching cock. 

Mina, who had been lying on her back and recovering m on the bed, moved over to make room for Momo and Sana to lie down beside her. Sana, naturally, was back in the middle of them. 

After a few minutes, Momo could finally slide out of the succubus. Sana sighed appreciatively. Wordlessly, the three rested for a bit. Momo and Mina felt utterly exhausted.  

“We…we should do that again sometime,” Momo said weakly. Her cock was soft but sensitive. Her mind was wandering, curious about whether or not the vampire could take her, but she was so tired, she knew she wouldn’t find out tonight. She stifled a yawn.  

“Yeah…” Mina said. Her own eyes were suddenly heavy. She felt as if she could fall asleep right there. 

“Maybe we will,” Sana replied softly. Unlike Momo and Mina, she was wide awake. Her fingertips roamed lightly over her own breasts, down along her stomach and hips as she got acquainted with her new bites, bruises and scratches. “Happy Halloween,” she whispered, staring off into space as the other two closed their eyes and nodded off. 

*************

The next thing Mina knew, she was waking up in her own bed in her own apartment. She felt well rested, but then overwhelming thirst took over. She checked her phone– it was 2:00 PM, October 31st. 

The vampire sat up quickly. Where had her morning gone? Wait— how had she gotten home from Sana’s? 

Sana and Momo. 

Mina patted her deep green duvet, half expecting Momo and Sana to be beside her. 

“Hello?” she called out, but her empty apartment said nothing back. Finally convinced she was alone, she went into her bathroom and splashed cool water on her face. She hesitated for a moment, then filled the sink with water and peered into it, trying to get a glimpse of herself in the moving water. She inspected herself as best she could. A few dark purple marks littered her neck, but she was more or less the same. 

Satisfied, she then rushed to her kitchen and snagged open a pouch of donated blood, drinking from it fervently.

She wondered if Momo was experiencing the same thing she was– coming to all alone in her home, wherever it was– and wondering the same thing she was:

Who was that succubus? 

[fleet-of-fiction]

Jake Kiszka // Female Narrator

Part Five

After a blinding light eradicates mankind, you're left in a desolate and empty world. A year of solitude eliminates all belief that anyone else was left behind. Until a chance encounter on the side of the road. Jake is injured and fighting for his life, but his presence brings a renewed sense of hope. Touch starved and lonely, you need him. And undoubtedly, he needs you too.

"It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

Explicit sexual content Sex (penetrative & oral) /Foreplay /Blood / Injury / Hunting. / Intense emotions / Death.

Day 469 ~ Jake

The house sat at the top of a steep incline, up a winding driveway that had begun to be reclaimed by nature. Cracks in the cement where little shrubs had started to grow and leaves that were never blown away. Neglected and abandoned.

It reminded me a little of Josh's house. With pristine edges and white walls, coveted by obscure works of art. Book shelves that were gathering dust and kitchen utensils left out on the surfaces as if the owners had just stepped out of the room.

Amelia seemed to know where she was going. "I found this place a couple of months after I moved into Grandma's cabin."

She led me down a narrow corridor, flanked by a bank of full length windows overlooking a sweeping back yard that was shrouded by trees. Photo's of the family who once lived there sitting on the wall opposite, happy faces forever immortalised for no one else to ever see.

"I hit every house within a 10 mile radius. Looking for supplies, anything that I could use. Food, toiletries. And I was about to leave when I noticed this..."

She stopped at the end of the corridor, leaning against a nondescript door. Her face sincere as she ran hands up my arms, coming to rest around my shoulders.

"We have to take whatever joy we can find in this world." She said, "And if we're lucky, we'll take back some of the joys we had before."

I'd known nothing but joy since I'd almost died. There wasn't a single moment I'd had with her that hadn't made me question whether I would take any of it back to have the world filled with every other person I'd ever loved again.

It was something I'd wrestled with. The notion that I could happily exist in a world I'd come to hate simply because she was in it with me. I was thinking about Josh again when she opened the door, simply because I'd been reminded of him. And the certainty within which I knew I wouldn't take any of it back, even if it meant having him back, drew a conflict within the likes of which I'd never known before.

But it was all for nothing. As I stepped into the room she'd been eager to show me, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I loved her enough to never want the old world back.

"Amelia..." I gasped. "What in the...fuck."

Mounted on an oak panelled wall were an array of vintage guitars. A brazilian board 1959 Gibson Les Paul. Shining in the last rays of the afternoon sun. I reached out and touched it, trembling as my fingers remembered what it felt like to know strings. A custom Fender strat in dark red with a black mottled pattern that looked like spilled paint if you looked too closely. A plain red stratocaster and an acoustic Martin dreadnought with a mahogany neck.

"I know that you said you didn't play anymore. Not without your brothers. But I think you should play again. For them. To them. And maybe somehow, I don't know how insane it might be, but maybe they'll hear you. Wherever they are..."

She was nervous. Biting her lip and wringing her hands in the sleeves of her sweater. Anticipating that I'd reject the sweetness of her idea, of this perfect gift.

"You brought me here because you knew that I would love it, didn't you?" I asked, although it wasn't really a question.

"Is that so bad?" She replied, opening her arms as if I would somehow be mad at her.

The room was decked out with framed vinyls. Some were so old I'd never seen them before. There were a few more guitars leaned up against the opposite wall and a beaten up drum kit in the window. It looked as if it had been played to death, with the cymbals hanging off and the kick drum looked as if one more pound on it would tear it right in half.

"It's not bad at all, why would you think that?" I pulled her into me, her little body slotting into my embrace like it had always meant to be there. "Just because I said I didn't play anymore doesn't mean I wouldn't love this."

She rested her head against my shoulder. Let me sway her back and forth a little. Everything was so eerily quiet. Up here the wind howled a little more than it did around the cabin. It sounded like ghosts were singing to us, begging me to pick up one of those fine old ladies.

"Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe I just wanted to hear you for myself." She looked up at me, resting her lips on my jawline.

"Plenty have paid for the privilege." I replied, "What will you pay me for a private show?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I saved your life. This is you paying me, sweet thing."

She laughed and buried her face into my neck, kissing me there and holding me tight around my waist. Familiar and wholesome. Like she hadn't tried to push me away at all in the beginning.

She was the most incredible woman I had ever known. Her fears were like shadows now, she had this uncanny ability to turn them into her most beloved passions. Once she had been afraid to love me. And now, the ways in which she loved me were making me feel unworthy of it.

"Sometimes I don't think you realise how much you saved me." I told her, casting my eye on the acoustic. "Not just from that car wreck. But from a life of misery."

Of course I would play for her. If not her, then nobody. She made herself comfortable on a shaggy looking bean bag, folding herself into it and resting her head against her curled fist as she regarded me. I pulled the mahogany acoustic down from the wall, not wanting to tend to wires and amps just yet.

I considered coming up with something on the fly, but it had been so long since I had tinkered with strings that my mind began to wander so far away I couldn't make them work. I strummed a little, hearing the notes play out and something weird happened. I thought I'd never feel this ever again, this visceral wave that washed over me to the point of almost growing hard as I felt the back of the guitar against my groin.

Her eyes widened. She wasn't prepared.

"How does it make you feel, to have an audience again?" She asked softly, seductively.

The strings needed tuning a little. I turned the keys at the top of the neck, plucking out chords until they sounded pitch perfect.

"Sexy." I replied, "I always felt sexy whenever I went out on stage. They made me feel sexy. Kinda the same way you are now. Knowing they want to fuck you every time you play for them."

I didn't realise how much I missed the adrenaline. The feral cries of a crowd. Their voices rising in unison. Lights and screaming and the feeling that I might ascend with their love. I'd been someone in my life before. I'd known what it felt like to open my eyes and know I was doing something I loved completely. I hadn't felt like this in what felt like a life time.

"This is who you are, Jake." She uttered, sliding her hand down the curve of her hips. "You can't run from who you are forever."

I felt as if I didn't deserve her. For all she had done for me, for how incredible she was. There was no crowd that could ever compare to the way I felt in that moment playing for her.

"I can't sing our songs like Josh could." I confessed, "I'd be a poor imitation. But I'll try."

I couldn't hold the same power with my voice that my brother could. The part of me that had promised never to play again still sat in the shadows whispering to me that it would never be the same. But louder than that was Amelia's face watching me strum out the first chords of a song that meant everything to me.

"What's it called?" She asked.

Day 469 ~ Amelia

I knew he would love it. I'd all but forgotten about the little music room at the back of the big house on the corner of the road that led into Lafayette. It had meant nothing to me the first time I'd ventured in there. There was nothing in there that was of any use to me.

But today, it was like seeing the sun peek out from a grey cloud. I'd gone from doing everything in my power to ensure that he was never necessary to me, to doing everything in my power just to see him smile.

"It's called Broken Bells." He replied, "Josh used to say that it was about seeing that when things sometimes feel broken most of the time they're just lessons sent to help us see that everything will be alright in the end. I really wish he could be here to see that he was so fucking right."

What would I have done if he hadn't felt the same? I could feel myself dying a little inside at the melancholy way he played. His face expressing his grief. He played so hauntingly beautifully, in a way I hadn't really been prepared for. He closed his eyes and didn't even need to look at the way his fingers moved across the strings. He knew them, and they responded to him so lovingly. Almost as if they were an entity all of their own, able to come when he called.

If he hadn't have loved me in return I'd have been driven mad by it. Every rational bone in my body broken if I'd been forced to live beside him unrequited. I began to understand how lucky and fortunate I was as he began to sing. That he and I were somehow fated. And it wasn't just a coincidence that he was driving past me that day. He was creation and I was necessity. He'd made music for a world that needed to hear it and I'd treated them when they were sick. And for some unfathomable reason, we'd been left behind to exist together in this empty world.

But empty didn't have to mean broken. There was nothing but love in the world again. Nothing but this painful song that made tears spill from my eyes as I watched him and listened. What if this song was the only one being played? And the only one being listened to? I had hope that if anyone else had been left behind that they had somehow managed to find each other and find love within it.

"That was...beautiful." I sobbed, laughing at myself for crying at it.

He put down the guitar and came to me. Launching himself into the bean bag, the scrunchy sound of tiny styrofoam balls moving around as he wiggled into the space beside me.

"It always got an emotional reaction whenever we played it." He sighed, trailing soft palms down the side of my face. "It felt like people resonated with our songs for all different kinds of reasons. But with Broken Bells it always felt we were all on the same page. All of us feeling the same thing at the same time."

How could I have ever doubted him? This beautiful man with his beautiful music?

"I was just thinking, while you were playing it, that I hoped that somewhere out there that other people were listening to songs for the first time. That they'd found each other and found love, even in a world seemingly broken." I countered, feeling the heat of that familiar rush when I knew he was about to make love to me.

"If they aren't, then we have to love for all of those who can't." He said, trailing kisses down my jaw line.

Sometimes it felt silly. The things we said to each other. Things in the dead of night. In the cold light of day. In the middle of the afternoon when he was at his most sleepy, when he would linger in the kitchen looking to score a bowl of stew or soup before curling up on the couch with a book before he would fall asleep.

Even now, I could feel him nuzzle in. Our bodies entwined on the bean bag lazily tracing his thumb over my nipple as he sucked the flesh on my neck into perfect little shapes of his mouth.

"So, you really do like it?" I checked, just wanting to hear him say it one more time.

"Oh, yeah." He yawned, "That Les Paul is coming home with us for sure. And maybe I'll come back for the Strat, too."

I was wearing the black yoga pants I saved for hiking. The ones that I wore to collect fire wood. To muck out the horses and clear out the chicken coop. I never felt particularly sexy in them, or desirable. It felt almost like we'd become accustomed to seeing each other in our most desolate states.

But when he slipped them down around the curve of my ass and hitched me around so I was facing away from him, I was glad that I'd worn them. The way he pressed his hard on into my back and continued to roll my nipple around between his fingers as he breathed harder into my ear was the blessing I'd needed to know that I'd done the right thing.

We were both tired from the hike. Our bodies crying out for rest. The afternoon sun began to slip away, making room for cloud and darkness. I was acutely aware that there was no power in this house. No electricity. No running water. No heat. It was in my mind to interrupt his ministrations with these facts, but as his hand slipped below, coming up into my entrance from behind, I lost all manner of speech.

"You gonna let me thank you properly?" He asked, slaking two fingers inside me slowly. "Be my good girl and let me show you how much I love you?"

I was in no mood to protest. I watched the light outside fade as he ran stripes up my slit and into my clit. Whispering obscenities and freeing himself one handedly as he played with me. Letting his cock rest between his stomach and the curve of my ass, leaking a little against our flesh.

"Can you feel it?" He breathed, "How much I love you?"

It was all I could feel. There was no house. No darkness. No eerie silence as the wind rushed through the trees. Howling like there was someone out there to hear it. Only Jakes breath, the bean bag as it shuffled beneath us, and the sound of my untamed scream as he penetrated me.

He didn't try to quieten me. Buffeting my wild moans with deep thrusts that came like chasms to break me in half. Each time he bottomed out, he savoured it. Taking the briefest of moments to feel me clenched around him before pulling back slowly. The need to fuck and the need to sleep battling it out for supremacy.

"Pretty fucking grateful, aren't you?" I replied, leaning my head back into his waiting mouth.

When he was like this, all in need and eager to satisfy any way that he could, I often thought back to how it had been that first time. On the ground in the mud, knees caked in it and the earth beating in time with us. And how in the time since, we'd leisurely made love on the kitchen floor some mornings. In the shower, just stroking each other to pass the time. Him, on top of me, in the bed we now shared. And me, arms around the trunk of a tree whilst he fucked me from behind out in the woods even though it was still a little cold out there.

"For this pussy? Always." He purred into my ear, like he was serenading me.

I knew that I'd never tire of it. The way he felt inside me. The way he fit so perfectly. I never felt so full, like something had been made just for me. He wasn't just rhythm and blues, he was equipped to make me quiver with the mere mention that he might take me right there and then.

I'd lament it later on. How all my lovers before him had been lacking. How I'd swiped left and right, attended blind dates and settled when I shouldn't have. For men that couldn't make me cum or men who couldn't text me back.

"Mmmmm..." I murmured softly, arching against his quickening pace. "It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

The gentle laughter that expelled from his mouth against the shell of my ear was like summer rain. Teasing my senses, touch taste and scent. His hair was sweat drenched at his temples, as it often was when he fucked me, and I could taste the salt of it in his kiss.

"She speaks so highly of me." He breathed, "Now let her know no other man will ever have her..."

He would claim me. Over and over again. Even when there was no other to counter his claim. I let his hand wrap around my throat, edging me to the distance it would take to push me over the edge of the world. Thrusting into me so hard my entire body shook. I knew the bean bag had ripped at some point, sending the tiny little white foam balls scattered across the room. But I didn't care.

I'd keep finding them in strange places for weeks afterwards. As he rolled me onto the floor and continued to pound me, vicious and unrelenting. He'd never silenced my mewling cries before, content to let them ring out into the ether.

But not this time. It was like his gratitude couldn't be satisfied until he could hear the one sound he desired. His body raged on top of mine, our clothes half on and half off. His sweaty palm came to rest over my open mouth. Muffling my cries to a dull humm. His eyes silently pleading with me to let them die. And to just listen...

"Hush." He encouraged, resting his mouth against the back of his hand as he continued.

There it was. Against the backdrop of the breeze outside. The sound of how wet I was. His cock hitting my satiated pussy. Moist flesh against moist flesh. The most inconceivable feeling washed over me. This man, the only man that ever was, wanted to silence my mouth only to better hear the sound of my pussy being fucked.

And the drop of his eyelids as he listened had me in another state of being. Half closed and fucked with desire for the way it slipped in and out, wet and completely his.

"Thankyou, my love." He whispered, before he allowed himself to cum.

I was never certain if it was for the music, or the way I let him fuck me. I didn't really care. I let my own orgasm rise moments later, the two of us breathless and spent on the gutted belly of that old bean bag.

Day 470 ~ Amelia

We hunkered down for the night. Choosing to make our way back at first light, gathering all the blankets we could find and sleeping on the couches that were, quite simply, more luxurious than any couch we could have gotten in the cabin.

Jake took the one opposite me, falling asleep first. His gentle snores lulling me into my own dreams. It felt like no time had passed at all before my eyes sprang open, the red of morning creeping in.

I rubbed my eyes and stretched. Taking a moment to recall where I was. This place was eerie, even in daylight. And I wished that there were something, anything...that would remind me that people had once lived here. The ticking of a clock, perhaps. Or the grass being cut outside. I could have laid there a little longer, still tired and drowsy, but I was eager to be gone.

I kicked off the blankets and expected Jake to be laying there, ever the one to wake up last, but my heart fell into my stomach at the sight of the empty couch. Blankets still left precisely where he had kicked them off.

"Jake?!" I called, expecting his voice to filter down the hall from the music room.

Silence.

"Jake?!" I called again, pulling on my pants and shoes as I made my way through the house.

I expected to find him gathering up all the instruments he wanted to take. Agonising over which ones to take now and which ones to come back for. But there was nothing but the aftermath of what we'd done. And all the guitars were accounted for.

"Jake, this isn't funny." I cried, checking behind the curtains like a child playing hide and seek. "Jake, I'm being serious now!!!"

Panic began to rise in my chest. My heart soaring, making me dizzy as I flew through the house. Room after room coming up empty.

"Jake!!!" I screamed, running now. "Jake please!!!"

Had I ever given myself permission to imagine this, I would have driven myself mad. That one day he would simply vanish, like everyone else had, and truly I would have walked to my death in that moment. I had no desire to live in a world void of the man I loved.

"JACOB!!!" My voice broke on his name as I fell out of the door and into the back yard. "PLEASE!!!!"

I fell to my knees on gravel. Crying. Racking sobs expelled from me as I took fists full of tiny pebbles that cut into my flesh as I squeezed. I felt as if I couldn't breathe. My chest was tight, all the horror of him disappearing coursing through my veins as tears spilled down my flushed cheeks.

"Jake, I can't do this...you have to come back..." I begged, broken and beyond redemption.

In a matter of moments I'd gone from waking up, to screaming on my knees. I'd have thought it a nightmare had I not already endured one. The reality of this feeling was one I knew. Only this time, intensified by a love that had known no bounds. I could live in an empty world before I'd ever known him.

Not anymore.

To be Continued...

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.

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@caprisunsister @thewritingbeforesunrise @takenbythemadness @katuschka @its-interesting-van-kleep @lvnterninthenight @writingcold @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @edgingthedarkness @velveteencatch @lyndz2names @nina-23-45 @itsafullmoon @vikingisthenewsexy @char289

[candidscape]

Eco-Friendly Interior Design: Sustainable Solutions for Your Home

As awareness of environmental issues grows, eco-friendly interior design is becoming increasingly popular. This approach not only enhances the aesthetic appeal of your home but also contributes to a more sustainable and healthier environment. Here’s how you can embrace sustainable solutions in your interior design:

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Opt for materials that are eco-friendly and have a minimal environmental impact. Look for:

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2. Opt for Low-VOC Paints

Volatile Organic Compounds (VOCs) in traditional paints can negatively impact indoor air quality. Choose low-VOC or no-VOC paints that are less harmful and contribute to a healthier living environment. Many eco-friendly paint options come in a wide range of colors and finishes, so you don’t have to compromise on style.

3. Incorporate Energy-Efficient Lighting

Energy-efficient lighting solutions not only reduce your energy bills but also minimize your environmental footprint. Consider:

LED Bulbs: They use up to 90% less energy than traditional incandescent bulbs and have a longer lifespan.

Smart Lighting Systems: These systems allow you to control lighting remotely and set schedules to minimize energy use.

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When selecting textiles for your home, choose fabrics that are both stylish and sustainable. Options include:

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5. Invest in Energy-Efficient Appliances

Modern appliances that are ENERGY STAR® rated use less energy and water, helping you reduce your household’s carbon footprint. Look for energy-efficient models for your refrigerator, dishwasher, washing machine, and other appliances.

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Give old furniture and decor a new life through upcycling and repurposing. This approach reduces waste and adds unique character to your home. Consider:

Painting or Reupholstering Furniture: Transform outdated pieces into stylish, custom creations.

Repurposing Materials: Use reclaimed materials for DIY projects, such as creating a coffee table from an old door or shelves from wooden pallets.

7. Integrate Indoor Plants

Indoor plants not only enhance the aesthetic appeal of your home but also improve air quality by filtering pollutants. Opt for low-maintenance plants like snake plants, pothos, or peace lilies, which are known for their air-purifying properties.

8. Choose Sustainable Flooring Options

Eco-friendly flooring options can dramatically change the look and feel of your space. Consider:

Cork Flooring: Made from the bark of cork oak trees, it’s renewable and offers natural insulation.

Linoleum: Made from natural materials like linseed oil and wood flour, it’s biodegradable and comes in various colors and patterns.

Recycled Carpet: Made from recycled materials, such as plastic bottles, it provides comfort while reducing waste.

9. Implement Water-Saving Fixtures

Conserving water is an essential aspect of eco-friendly design. Install:

Low-Flow Faucets and Showerheads: These fixtures reduce water usage without sacrificing performance.

Dual-Flush Toilets: Offer two flushing options to minimize water consumption.

10. Support Local and Artisan Products

Choose locally-made and artisan products to reduce transportation emissions and support local economies. Local artisans often use sustainable practices and materials, adding a unique touch to your home while minimizing your environmental impact.

By integrating these eco-friendly interior design solutions, you can create a home that reflects your commitment to sustainability while enjoying a stylish and comfortable living space. Embracing these practices not only benefits the environment but also promotes a healthier lifestyle for you and your family.

[furnitureloversstuff]

Veteran's Day Sale: Cabinets with Free Shipping - Limited Time!

Discover Your Perfect Cabinet with Veteran’s Day Sale at Crafters & Weavers

Looking for a stylish, functional storage solution that enhances your home? Look no further! This Veteran’s Day, Crafters & Weavers is offering incredible discounts on our exclusive cabinet collection, along with free shipping. Whether you need storage for your living room, kitchen, or bedroom, our cabinets provide both organization and style, transforming your home into a beautifully functional space.

With so many styles, materials, and configurations available, finding the perfect cabinet can feel overwhelming. Our team is here to simplify the process, answering your most common questions and highlighting the unique features of our collection. Keep reading to find out why now is the ideal time to upgrade your storage solutions with quality cabinets designed for durability and beauty.

Top 10 FAQs About Cabinets

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Why Shop Our Veteran's Day Sale?

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At Crafters & Weavers, we understand that a cabinet is more than just storage—it’s an enhancement to your living space. Our cabinets provide versatility and beauty, creating a balance of utility and design in every room of your home. With pieces crafted to last and adapt to your lifestyle, our Veteran’s Day sale is the perfect opportunity to bring home functional and stylish storage at an unbeatable price.

Take Advantage of Free Shipping and Exclusive Discounts

Explore our Veteran’s Day Sale collection of cabinets today to find the piece that completes your home. Don't miss out on these incredible savings, and elevate your space with our quality cabinets—built for functionality, crafted for style.

[homeremodelingservices]

Discover the Benefits of Wood Slab Cabinets

When it comes to kitchen remodeling, the choice of cabinets plays a crucial role in defining the space’s overall aesthetics, functionality, and value. Wood slab cabinets have become popular among homeowners and designers alike for their sleek, modern look and numerous practical benefits. Whether you’re planning a complete kitchen overhaul or a simple update, considering wood slab cabinets can be a wise decision. GI Construction, a leading kitchen remodeling contractor in Las Vegas, offers insights into the advantages of choosing wood slab cabinets for your kitchen.

1) Sleek and Modern Aesthetic

One of the most compelling reasons to choose wood slab cabinets is their clean, minimalist design. Unlike traditional cabinets with raised panels and decorative details, slab cabinets feature flat, smooth surfaces that create a sleek and modern look. This simplicity makes them an excellent fit for contemporary and modern kitchen designs.

Benefits:

– Clean Lines: The flat surfaces and sharp edges contribute to a streamlined appearance.

– Versatility: Available in various finishes and colors, they can complement any modern kitchen decor.

– Timeless Appeal: Their simplicity ensures they remain stylish and relevant over the years.

2) Ease of Maintenance

Maintaining kitchen cabinets can be a hassle, especially with intricate designs and hard-to-reach corners. Wood slab cabinets, however, are incredibly easy to clean and maintain due to their smooth, flat surfaces.

Benefits:

– Easy Cleaning: The flat surface can be quickly wiped down with a damp cloth, making daily maintenance a breeze.

– Fewer Crevices: Unlike traditional cabinets, slab cabinets have fewer grooves and crevices where dust and grime can accumulate.

– Durable Finishes: High-quality finishes on wood slab cabinets can resist stains and scratches, keeping them looking new for longer.

3) Durability and Longevity

Wood slab cabinets are typically constructed from high-quality materials, ensuring they stand up to the wear and tear of daily kitchen use. They can last for many years, making them a worthwhile investment when properly cared for.

Benefits:

– Sturdy Construction: Solid wood or high-quality engineered wood ensures durability.

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– Sustainable Choice: Efficiently sourced or reclaimed wood options can be environmentally friendly.

4) Customization Options

One of the standout features of wood slab cabinets is their versatility in customization. Homeowners can choose from various wood types, finishes, and colors to match their kitchen design preferences.

Benefits:

– Variety of Woods: The options are plentiful, from oak and maple to cherry and walnut.

– Custom Finishes: Stains, paints, and varnishes can be applied to achieve the desired look, from natural wood tones to bold, vibrant colors.

– Hardware Choices: The flat surfaces of slab cabinets provide the perfect canvas for a variety of hardware styles, from sleek modern handles to more traditional knobs.

5) Enhanced Functionality

Beyond aesthetics, wood slab cabinets also offer practical benefits that enhance the functionality of your kitchen. Their design can accommodate various storage needs and preferences.

Benefits:

– Optimized Storage: Custom configurations allow for efficient use of space, ensuring ample storage for your kitchen essentials.

– Easy Access: The smooth surfaces and straightforward design make accessing and organizing kitchen items easy.

– Modern Features: Wood slab cabinets can be integrated with soft-close hinges, pull-out shelves, and built-in organizers.

6) Value Addition

Investing in high-quality wood slab cabinets can significantly increase the value of your home. Potential buyers often look for modern, functional kitchens, and wood slab cabinets can make a strong impression.

Benefits:

– Increased Home Value: A modern, stylish kitchen can boost your home’s resale value.

– Attractive to Buyers: Sleek, easy-to-maintain cabinets appeal to potential buyers.

– Longevity: Wood slab cabinets’ durability and timeless appeal mean they will remain a valuable feature for years.

7) Sustainability

Many homeowners are now prioritizing sustainability in their remodeling projects. Wood slab cabinets can be environmentally friendly, especially from sustainable forests or reclaimed wood.

Benefits:

– Eco-Friendly Materials: Choosing cabinets from sustainably sourced wood reduces environmental impact.

– Reclaimed Wood: Using reclaimed wood adds unique character to your kitchen and promotes recycling and waste reduction.

– Long Lifespan: Durable materials and finishes extend the lifespan of the cabinets, reducing the need for frequent replacements.

Conclusion

Wood slab cabinets offer a blend of modern aesthetics, practical functionality, and long-term durability, making them an excellent choice for any kitchen remodeling project. Their sleek design, ease of maintenance, and customizable options ensure they can fit seamlessly into any kitchen style, whether contemporary or transitional. Additionally, their ability to enhance home value and sustainability makes them a smart investment for homeowners.

For those in Las Vegas looking to remodel their kitchens, partnering with a reputable kitchen remodeling contractor in Las Vegas like GI Construction can help bring your vision to life. Their expertise and commitment to quality ensure that your kitchen remodeling project will meet your expectations and add lasting value to your home.

For more information and to explore the range of services GI Construction offers, visit their website. Whether you need advice on choosing the right cabinets or a full-service kitchen remodel, GI Construction is your go-to kitchen remodeling company in Las Vegas. Transform your kitchen into a stylish, functional space with the timeless elegance of wood slab cabinets.

[ashishvlogsblog]

How to Select Eco-Friendly Kitchen Cabinets for a Sustainable Home in Dubai

The kitchen is often considered the heart of the home, and the right kitchen cabinets can dramatically enhance both its functionality and aesthetic appeal. In Dubai, homeowners have access to a wide variety of kitchen cabinets that cater to different styles, preferences, and budgets. In this blog, we will explore the different aspects of kitchen cabinets in Dubai, from styles and materials to customization options, ensuring you find the perfect fit for your culinary space.

Understanding Kitchen Cabinet Styles

When it comes to kitchen cabinets, style is everything. The first step in choosing the right cabinets is to determine your preferred style. Here are some popular options available in Dubai:

Modern Cabinets: Characterized by clean lines and minimalistic designs, modern cabinets often feature high-gloss finishes and sleek hardware. They are perfect for contemporary homes that embrace simplicity and sophistication.

Traditional Cabinets: These cabinets offer a timeless look, featuring ornate details, raised panel doors, and rich wood finishes. Traditional cabinets are ideal for those who appreciate classic designs and a warm, inviting atmosphere.

Rustic Cabinets: If you’re aiming for a cozy, farmhouse-inspired kitchen, rustic cabinets made from reclaimed wood or distressed finishes can add a charming touch. They create a relaxed and welcoming environment, perfect for family gatherings.

Materials Matter: Choosing the Right Substance

The material of your kitchen cabinets can significantly impact their durability and maintenance. Here are some common materials used in kitchen cabinets in Dubai:

Solid Wood: Known for its strength and longevity, solid wood cabinets can be crafted from various types of wood, including oak, maple, and cherry. They can be stained or painted to match your kitchen’s decor.

MDF (Medium Density Fiberboard): This engineered wood product is cost-effective and can be finished in various colors. MDF is resistant to warping, making it a popular choice for modern cabinet designs.

Plywood: Plywood is another durable option, combining strength with resistance to moisture. It’s a great choice for high-humidity areas like kitchens.

Customization: Tailoring Cabinets to Your Needs

One of the most significant advantages of kitchen cabinets in Dubai is the ability to customize them according to your specific needs and preferences. From size and shape to color and finish, customization allows you to create cabinets that perfectly fit your kitchen space.

Features to Consider:

Storage Solutions: Look for cabinets with built-in storage solutions, such as pull-out shelves, lazy Susans, and deep drawers for pots and pans. These features maximize storage efficiency and make your kitchen more functional.

Finish Options: The finish of your cabinets can set the tone for your entire kitchen. Whether you prefer a high-gloss look, a matte finish, or a textured surface, there are countless options to choose from.

Installation and Maintenance Tips

Once you’ve selected your ideal kitchen cabinets in Dubai, proper installation is crucial. It’s recommended to hire professional installers to ensure a seamless fit and finish. After installation, maintaining your cabinets is relatively straightforward:

Regular Cleaning: Wipe down surfaces with a soft cloth and mild detergent to keep them looking pristine.

Avoid Harsh Chemicals: Stay away from abrasive cleaners that can damage the finish.

Humidity Control: Maintain a balanced humidity level in your kitchen to prevent warping and cracking.

Conclusion

Choosing the right kitchen cabinets in Dubai is essential for creating a functional and stylish culinary space. With a vast array of styles, materials, and customization options available, you can transform your kitchen into a place where culinary creativity flourishes. Embrace the journey of selecting the perfect cabinets, and enjoy the process of enhancing your home’s heart with beautiful, practical solutions. Whether you lean towards modern, traditional, or rustic designs, your dream kitchen awaits!

[topnotchkitchenandbedroom]

Design Your Dream Room: The Essential Guide to Perfect Bedroom Wardrobes

Introduction: Why Every Bedroom Needs a High-Quality Wardrobe

The Best Materials and Finishes for Durable and Stylish Bedroom

Wardrobes

The materials and finishes used to create a bedroom wardrobe that is both elegant and long-lasting. Strong and classic, wooden wardrobes made of oak, walnut, or cherry are a great choice. Reclaimed wood and bamboo are examples of eco-friendly materials that provide sustainable solutions without sacrificing design or quality. Your needs can be met with long-lasting and fashionable storage solutions, regardless of the materials you select — wooden wardrobes, laminates, mirrored doors, or eco-friendly materials.

Conclusion:

Purchasing the ideal bedroom wardrobe in London can have a profound impact. Imagine waking up to a spotlessly organized space where everything has a home, meaning that desperate searches are no longer necessary. You may start your day off well with order and peace of mind brought by a well-organized wardrobe. Because it makes the most of available space, even little bedrooms appear bigger and more useful. A well-designed piece meets your needs by providing extra room for hanging clothes or drawers.

— FAQs:

How can a well-organized bedroom wardrobe enhance your daily routine?

Imagine waking up each day knowing exactly where every article of clothes is located. Mornings are made easier and less stressful when clothes are neatly arranged. Everything is in its proper location, making it easier to quickly put together outfits and leave, which brightens the day. It also makes organizing your wardrobe easier and enhances mental clarity by fostering a peaceful atmosphere. Better buying and clothing maintenance practices result from this. In the end, decluttering your closet improves productivity, eases tension, and gives you more control over your environment.

Did you know that a stylish wardrobe can significantly boost the aesthetic appeal of your bedroom?

Imagine entering your bedroom to see a modern wardrobe that both organizes your clothing and adds flair to the space. A well-curated closet can turn an ordinary space into a chic haven. Think about the visual impact: mirrored doors can create the illusion of more space, while rich wood textures can add warmth to your décor. Clean lines and modern design can also work as focus points.

Have you considered how a stylish wardrobe can increase the value of your home?

The value of your house can rise with an attractive wardrobe. A tastefully crafted and well-organized closet adds value to a home beyond just serving as a place to store clothing. Envision a bedroom where everything is easily accessible and organized. This organization will be seen by potential buyers, making your home stand out. A stylish wardrobe blends design and utility.

Did you know that modern wardrobes come with innovative features like built-in lighting and smart storage solutions?

In the modern world of rapid change, efficiency and convenience are paramount. In addition to storage, contemporary wardrobes offer intelligent storage options that transform organizing and built-in lighting. Inbuilt lighting provides luxury and improves sight. Tie holders, pull-out shoe racks, adjustable shelves, and accessory sections are examples of clever storage ideas that provide a clutter-free atmosphere.

[vanityshowroomatlanta]

Revamping Your Bathroom with a Rustic Vanity Design

Are you ready to embrace the beauty of raw materials and create a unique bathroom space with a rustic vanity? The bathrooms that have been completely transformed into the inviting and comfortable areas that every home wants are best suited for rustic vanity designs. Bringing the wild beauty to its functional form, a rustic vanity is an added advantage in every bathroom. For those who would like to update the decor of the house, rustic bathroom furniture is surely a classic and warm option.

There is plenty of rustic bathroom furniture in Atlanta to suit your personality and preferences, whether you live in the city or on the outskirts. In this blog, you will explore the key elements of rustic vanity designs and how you can incorporate them into your bathroom to get that luxurious feel. 

Why Choose Rustic Style for Your Bathroom?

Rustic design is all about using natural materials and their structures, colors, and raw materials. Warm and inviting rustic bathrooms create an appealing atmosphere. The charm of rustic vanities lies in its flaws; exposed wood grains, rough finishes, and handcrafted details give your bathroom a sense of handmade beauty.

Ready to update your current restroom? There is nothing better than a rustic-styled vanity since it adds warmth but maintains the required class of bathroom. Whether you want to gain a rustic farm appeal or a more modern space, rustic vanities do not fail to complement other bathroom designs.

Exploring Key Features of Rustic Vanities

Natural Wood Materials:

Natural wood is a necessary component for a vanity to be truly distinctive. It doesn’t matter if it is oak, pine, or even barn wood; the rough look of timber makes the design so rustic. Usually, there are many flaws in the wood which are noticeable, such as knots, splits, and uneven surfaces, which all add to the beauty and genuineness.

Hand-Crafted Elements:

Rustic designs often involve hand-made details. That can be anything from custom doors to hardware, such as pull handles made from bronze or wrought iron. However, every piece seems to have an artwork, making your bathroom rather exquisite.

Stone or Concrete Countertops:

Most wooden vanities with rustic designs are usually finished with natural-looking stone or concrete to accent the wood's raw appeal. Marble, granite, and soapstone tops help achieve an earthy look and are durable.

Functional Storage:

The design and aesthetic quality are more important components of rustic appeal, this does not always mean that functionality has to be compromised. Deep drawers and even shelves are typical features of rustic vanities, which provide plenty of area to store bathroom necessities.

Enhance Your Rustic Vanity Beauty with Other Matching Elements

Bathroom Lighting:

Light fixtures with an industrial or traditional look beautifully compliment the bathroom with rustic vanities. In addition, wrought iron or brass wall decor light fixtures with Edison bulbs enhance the rustic appeal. Even overhead hanging lights in aged metal or glass finish can serve to further accentuate the vanity’s beauty.

Bathroom Tiles:

In addition, to make vanities more rustic, think of incorporating natural stone tiles on the flooring or the walls. Slate, limestone, or terracotta-made tiles blend well with the wooden and stone surfaces of the tops. On the other hand, patterned tiles, with either vintage or Mediterranean inspiration, can also serve to add some extra depth and interest.

Mirror:

It is impossible to imagine any bathroom without mirrors, and if you think of a room that would give off rustic vibes, then huge ornamental mirrors with borders made out of either reclaimed wood or old, worn-out metal would do the job well. A simple round or square mirror with a chunky wooden frame would only enhance the traditional rustic look. You can add large mirrors to create the illusion of luxurious bathrooms.

A Final Takeaway

Upgrading the look of your bathroom with a rustic vanity can completely change the mood of the room and make it more inviting, interesting, and ageless, all at the same time. And if you live around Atlanta, there are a lot of options available near you that provide elegant furniture to fulfill your ideal bathroom dream.

Embrace the beauty of rustic design and visit the Willow Bath and Vanity website to check out their stunning collection.

[naturalwoodessentials]

Wooden Wall Shelf: A Perfect Blend of Functionality and Style

In the modern home, space is often a premium, and how we organize our living areas can drastically affect the overall ambiance. Among the various storage solutions available, the wooden wall shelf has emerged as a practical yet stylish choice for homeowners and interior designers alike. Whether you're looking to declutter a room, display decorative items, or add a rustic touch to your decor, wooden wall shelves offer versatility, durability, and timeless beauty. This article explores the charm and utility of wooden wall shelves, delving into their various applications, design styles, and why they remain a popular choice for homes of all sizes.

The Aesthetic Appeal of Wooden Wall Shelves

Wood, as a material, has long been revered for its natural beauty, strength, and warmth. Unlike plastic or metal shelving, wooden wall shelves bring a sense of organic elegance to a space, making them a popular choice for both traditional and contemporary interiors. The grain patterns, textures, and tones of different woods—from the light hues of pine to the rich, dark shades of walnut—create a natural contrast that complements various design styles.

In minimalist homes, a sleek wooden wall shelf can offer a subtle accent while maintaining a clean, uncluttered look. In more eclectic or rustic interiors, a wooden shelf with visible knots and imperfections can add character and charm, embodying the idea that beauty lies in the uniqueness of nature. Moreover, the use of natural materials like wood often resonates with homeowners seeking sustainable and eco-friendly decor options.

Functionality Meets Design

While the wooden wall shelf is undeniably attractive, its functionality is what truly sets it apart. These shelves are designed to maximize vertical space, allowing homeowners to store and display items without taking up valuable floor space. Whether in a compact apartment or a spacious house, wall-mounted shelves provide an efficient solution to storage needs.

In the kitchen, a wooden wall shelf can serve as a practical and stylish way to store jars, spices, and kitchen utensils, keeping frequently used items within easy reach. In living rooms, they often function as display spaces for books, plants, art, and photographs. Their ability to hold a variety of items without overwhelming the space makes them a versatile addition to any room in the home.

Furthermore, wooden shelves are available in numerous shapes and sizes, offering flexibility in terms of how they are arranged. Floating wooden shelves, for example, offer a sleek, modern look as they appear to be suspended without visible brackets. These are often used in small spaces where the visual lightness of the shelf helps keep the room feeling open and airy. Conversely, bracketed wooden shelves, which can range from intricate wrought iron designs to simple metal supports, provide a more robust and traditional look, making them ideal for holding heavier objects.

Durability and Longevity

When it comes to home furnishings, durability is a key consideration. Wooden wall shelves, when properly made, are incredibly sturdy and long-lasting. Hardwood varieties like oak, teak, and maple are especially known for their strength, ensuring that your shelves can support a considerable amount of weight without warping or bending over time.

Additionally, wood is a material that ages gracefully. Over time, wooden shelves can develop a patina, a finish that enhances their rustic charm and makes each piece unique. Unlike synthetic materials, wood can be sanded, refinished, or stained, allowing homeowners to refresh their shelves without having to replace them entirely.

This longevity makes wooden wall shelves not only a good investment but also a sustainable one. Many wooden shelves are crafted from reclaimed or sustainably sourced wood, making them an environmentally friendly choice that contributes to reducing waste and deforestation.

Customization and Personalization

One of the most appealing aspects of wooden wall shelves is their adaptability to personal tastes and styles. With wood being such a malleable material, homeowners can easily find or commission shelves that perfectly match their vision.

For a rustic or farmhouse style, reclaimed wood shelves can add a touch of history and character to a room. Their weathered surfaces tell a story, bringing a sense of authenticity and craftsmanship to your decor. If you prefer a more modern aesthetic, sleek, minimalist wooden shelves with clean lines and a smooth finish can provide the desired look. Wood can also be painted or stained to suit any color palette, allowing it to blend seamlessly into existing interiors or serve as a statement piece in its own right.

Moreover, wooden wall shelves can be tailored to the specific dimensions of your space. Custom-made shelves ensure that every inch of your wall is used efficiently, whether you're creating a gallery wall or looking for a narrow shelf to fit into a tight corner. This flexibility is especially valuable in homes with unique architectural features, where off-the-shelf solutions may not always be ideal.

Enhancing Your Space with Wooden Wall Shelves

In addition to their functional uses, wooden wall shelves can significantly enhance the overall aesthetic of a room. They help to break up blank wall spaces, adding dimension and texture to a room’s design. When arranged thoughtfully, wooden shelves can draw the eye upward, creating the illusion of height in rooms with low ceilings.

Wooden wall shelves can also serve as a backdrop for personal expression. By carefully curating the items you place on them, you can showcase your personal style and interests. Whether it's a collection of vintage books, an assortment of travel souvenirs, or an array of indoor plants, a well-styled shelf tells a story and adds depth to your home’s interior.

Furthermore, lighting can play a significant role in enhancing the visual impact of wooden wall shelves. Under-shelf lighting, for instance, can create a warm, ambient glow, highlighting the objects on display and adding a sense of coziness to the room. Alternatively, placing shelves near windows allows natural light to bring out the wood’s grain and texture, making the shelves themselves a focal point.

Conclusion

The wooden wall shelf is much more than a simple storage solution. It is a piece of functional art that can transform a room, adding both utility and aesthetic appeal. Whether you’re looking to make the most of a small space or add a touch of natural beauty to your decor, wooden wall shelves offer an ideal solution. Their timeless charm, durability, and versatility ensure that they remain a staple in homes for years to come.

From the warmth of natural wood grain to the practicality of vertical storage, wooden wall shelves embody the perfect blend of form and function. They provide an opportunity for personalization, allowing you to express your unique style while meeting your home’s practical needs. As a result, investing in wooden wall shelves is not only a design choice but also a testament to craftsmanship and sustainability.

[woodentwists]

Exploring Console Tables Latest Designs: Online Shopping - Wooden Twist

Console tables are versatile and stylish furniture pieces that can enhance the aesthetics and functionality of any space in your home. ✨ Whether you’re looking for a place to showcase decorative items, provide extra storage, or create a welcoming entryway, console tables come in various designs and materials, including elegant wood options. 🪑 If you’re based in Saharanpur, U.P, specifically near Hauz Kheri Road, there are numerous options available for purchasing console tables online. 🛒

What is a Console Table?

A console table is typically a narrow, long table designed to be placed against a wall. These tables are perfect for entryways, living rooms, and hallways. 🚪 They can serve multiple purposes, from holding keys and mail to displaying family photos or decorative vases. 🌸 Their slim profile makes them ideal for tight spaces, while their design can dramatically influence the ambiance of a room. ✨

Popular Console Table Designs

1. Traditional Wooden Console Tables

One of the most sought-after designs is the classic wooden console table. 🌳 Made from solid woods like mahogany, oak, or walnut, these tables exude elegance and warmth. Traditional designs often feature intricate carvings and ornate legs, making them perfect for homes with vintage or classic décor. 🕰️

2. Modern Minimalist Designs

For those who prefer a sleek, contemporary look, modern console tables often incorporate clean lines and simple forms. 🖤 Materials such as metal, glass, and engineered wood are commonly used. These tables can add a touch of sophistication to modern living spaces without overwhelming the décor. ✨

3. Rustic and Industrial Styles

Rustic console tables, often made from reclaimed wood, bring a charming, farmhouse feel to any room. 🏡 On the other hand, industrial-style console tables usually combine metal frames with wooden tops, offering a more edgy aesthetic. Both styles can serve as conversation starters and add character to your space. 💬

4. Console Tables with Storage

Many console tables come with built-in storage solutions, such as drawers or shelves. 📦 These tables are particularly useful in entryways, providing a place to store shoes, bags, and other essentials while keeping the area organized and clutter-free. 🧺

Why Choose Wood for Your Console Table?

Wood is a timeless material that not only offers durability but also adds a natural element to your home. 🌲 Wooden console tables can be stained or painted to match your existing furniture and décor. 🎨 The unique grain patterns found in wood ensure that no two tables are exactly alike, giving your piece a distinctive look. ✨

Shopping for Console Tables Online

If you're interested in purchasing a console table in Saharanpur, U.P, there are several advantages to shopping online. 🌐

Here are a few tips to ensure you find the perfect table for your space:

1. Research Designs and Styles

Before making a purchase, take time to explore different console table designs. 📖 Websites often provide a wide range of options, allowing you to filter by style, size, and material. This is particularly helpful if you have a specific theme in mind. 🎯

2. Check for Reviews

When buying furniture online, it’s essential to read customer reviews. 📝 These reviews can provide insight into the quality and durability of the console table you’re considering, helping you make an informed decision. 🧐

3. Measure Your Space

Console tables come in various sizes, so measuring the area where you intend to place the table is crucial. 📏 Ensure you consider the height, width, and depth to avoid overcrowding your space. 🚀

4. Explore Local Options

While online shopping offers convenience, it can be beneficial to check for local furniture stores or artisans in Saharanpur, particularly around Hauz Kheri Road. 🏬 Local shops may offer unique designs and the advantage of seeing the furniture in person before purchasing. 🛍️

5. Look for Customization

Some online retailers provide customization options for console tables. 🛠️ This allows you to choose the wood type, finish, and design that best suits your taste and needs. 💖

Conclusion

Console tables are a practical and stylish addition to any home, offering both functionality and aesthetic appeal. 🌟 Whether you prefer the classic charm of wooden designs, the sleekness of modern styles, or the character of rustic pieces, there’s a console table out there for everyone. If you’re located near Hauz Kheri Road in Saharanpur, U.P, take advantage of the convenience of online shopping to find the perfect console table that complements your home beautifully. 🏡 With careful consideration and a little research, you’ll discover a piece that enhances your living space and serves as a functional element in your home. 🥰

🌐Website URL: https://woodentwist.com/

Business Name: Shiraz Handicrafts

🏢Hauz Kheri Road, Near New Era Academy

Saharanpur, 247001, Uttar Pradesh

💬Contact Us +91-8800885674

✉️Email: help@woodentwist.com

[armchairsmelbourne]

Choosing the Perfect Dining Table: A Comprehensive Buyer’s Guide

A dining table is more than just a piece of furniture; it’s the heart of your home, where meals are shared, conversations flow, and memories are made. Selecting the perfect dining table requires careful consideration of various factors to ensure it complements your space, suits your needs, and enhances your dining experience. 

In this comprehensive guide, let’s explore key elements to consider when choosing a hardwood dining table, helping you make an informed decision that reflects your style and functional requirements.

Determine Your Space

Before you dive into style and material choices, measure your dining area. Consider the dimensions of the room and the space available around the table. Leave enough room for chairs to be pulled out comfortably and for people to move around easily. 

As a rule of thumb, aim for at least 36-48 inches of clearance between the table and walls or other furniture. If you have a smaller space, consider a round or square table which can be more efficient in tight quarters.

Choose the Right Size

Dining tables come in various sizes, so it’s crucial to choose one that fits both your space and your lifestyle. Here’s a quick guide to table sizes based on seating capacity:

Small Tables (2-4 seats): Ideal for cosy spaces or smaller households. A round table can be perfect for small dining areas.

Medium Tables (4-6 seats): Suitable for average-sized rooms and families. Rectangular or oval tables work well here.

Large Tables (6-8+ seats): Best for larger dining areas and homes with frequent guests. Ensure your space can accommodate the table without feeling cramped.

Select the Shape

Dining tables come in various shapes, each offering different advantages:

Rectangular: The most common shape, perfect for long, narrow spaces. Ideal for larger families or those who frequently entertain.

Round: Great for smaller spaces and creating a cosy, intimate atmosphere. It’s also more flexible for accommodating extra guests.

Square: Suited for smaller rooms and can provide a modern look. However, it may not be as flexible in terms of seating capacity.

Oval: Combines the benefits of round and rectangular shapes, providing a softer look with more seating options.

Consider the Material

The material of your hardwood dining table affects its durability, maintenance, and overall aesthetic. Here are some popular options:

Wood: Classic and versatile, wood tables offer warmth and can be stained or painted in various finishes. Oak, maple, and walnut are popular choices. However, they may require more maintenance to keep them looking their best.

Glass: Glass tables provide a modern, sleek look and can make a small space feel larger. They are easy to clean but may show fingerprints and require regular maintenance to avoid smudges.

Metal: Metal tables, often combined with glass or wood, offer a contemporary, industrial feel. They are durable and easy to maintain but might not provide the same warmth as wood.

Marble: Marble tables add a touch of luxury and elegance but can be heavy and require regular upkeep to prevent stains and scratches.

Match Your Style

Your dining table should harmonise with the overall style of your home. Consider these design elements:

Traditional: Opt for wooden tables with ornate details and classic finishes.

Modern: Look for clean lines, minimalist designs, and materials like glass or metal.

Rustic: Choose tables with a distressed finish or natural wood that emphasises a warm, country feel.

Industrial: Tables with metal frames and reclaimed wood can enhance an urban, warehouse-inspired look.

Practical Features

Think about additional features that can enhance functionality:

Extendable Tables: Ideal for accommodating extra guests during special occasions. They can be adjusted in size as needed.

Storage Options: Some tables come with built-in storage like shelves or drawers, which can be useful for keeping dining essentials handy.

Budget Considerations

Dining tables come in a wide range of prices. Set a budget that reflects your needs and preferences, but be prepared to invest in quality. A well-made table can be a lasting investment and a central piece of your home for years to come.

Final Words

Choosing the hardwood dining table involves more than just picking a piece of furniture; it’s about finding a table that fits your space, complements your style, and meets your functional needs. 

By considering the size, shape, material, and style, you can make an informed decision that enhances your dining experience and adds value to your home. Take your time, measure carefully, and choose wisely to ensure your dining table becomes a beloved centrepiece in your home.