#white rug with a touch of elegance

[bondsofeveryonessouls]

Music Room in Vancouver Inspiration for a sizable transitional living room renovation that includes a music area, gray walls, and no television

[austinbutlerslovers]

Buzzcut

Label 18+

Summary You knew the day was coming and had mentally prepared for it—the day Austin would completely shave his head for a role.

You understood his dedication and how drastic his look would be, but what you didn’t expect is the difference it would make in your relationship.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 Austins drastic hair change • relationship dynamics •fetishism • oral on fem • interchanging positions • cowgirl• missionary• P in V• orgasms • cream pie 🔗Masterlist

📖 Proofreader @purejasmine Written by popular demand🪒 *Updated: location of where he filmed the scene-Tulum Mexico 🥰

Buzzcut

You’re in Tulum, Mexico, staying in a luxurious beachfront resort where Austin is filming his latest project.

The suite is spacious and elegant, with rich wooden accents and soft, airy fabrics that sway in the ocean breeze. 

Large glass windows and sliding doors open onto a private terrace, offering a stunning view of the turquoise ocean stretching to the horizon. 

The king-sized bed, draped in crisp white linens, sits perfectly positioned in the center of the room to face the breathtaking view.

But despite your beautiful surroundings, you’ve been pacing the suite consumed with only one thing on your mind. 

Austin’s key card slides into the slot, and your heart leaps to your throat. He’s finally back. You rush to the door of the suite, nearly tripping in your excitement.

Your anticipation has been mounting all day, ever since he texted to say he’d filmed “the scene.” The one you knew was coming—the one where he shaves his hair into a buzz cut.

When you swing open the door, he greets you with his sweet charming smile that never fails to disarm you, but he’s wearing a hoodie and a cap that hide the evidence of what he’s done.

As he steps inside the door clicks shut behind him, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, his familiar warmth grounding you instantly.

“I missed you,” he whispers against your ear, his voice soft and affectionate.

You squeeze him back, hugging him deeply, but your curiosity is burning a hole through you. Pulling back, you look up at him with wide eyes. “Okay let me see it.”

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a thrill through you. “You’re not even going to ask how my day was?”

“Austin!” you whine, swatting at his chest. “I’m desperate, let me see it.”

“Alright, alright.” He says stepping back and with a teasing smirk he slowly pulls his hoodie down. Your breath catches as his neck comes into view, bare and smooth.

Then with deliberate care, he removes his hat. His hand runs over his scalp, and your heart stutters in your chest.

“Austin…” you breathe, stepping closer your hand moving on instinct, your fingers brushing over his jaw. You trail them up to his temple, your touch lingering near his ear

His hair is shaved to his scalp in a buzz cut. Gone is the tousled golden hair you’ve always loved, replaced with something new, something rugged, and undeniably masculine.

You’re shocked, taken aback by the change. You loved when he changed his hairstyles, but this? This was something else entirely.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity as he takes your hand guiding it to the back of his head letting you feel the velvety texture.

You can’t stop staring at him the change has brought out something different in him, something striking.

His jawline is sharper now, his cheekbones are defined and everything about his face suddenly has a chiseled, rugged edge.

“You look so different,” you finally manage, your voice surprised as your palm smooths over his head, feeling the texture.

He grins, his confidence growing as he sees the way you’re looking at him.

“Do you like me different?” he teases, his grin widening as he guides your hand down to his chest.

His words ignite something in you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you’re pulling him closer, your lips crashing into his.

He groans into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you is instant, building fast as his mouth claims yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

You tug at his hoodie, and he helps you strip it off, his shirt following in one smooth motion. Your hands are on him immediately, roaming over the broad planes of his chest before returning to his head, and he groans when your fingertips graze along his scalp.

“Feels so good,” he whispers, his lips finding the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

You tug at his waistband, and he immediately unbuttons his jeans, his lips never leaving your neck. His kisses are hot and urgent, his breath brushing against your skin as he works his jeans loose and kicks them off with one swift motion.

His fingers slide to the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down your hips along with your panties as his mouth trails lower, leaving a fiery path across your skin.

Your hands find his head, holding him to you as he kisses along your chest, his fingers quickly unclasping your bra before he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without hesitation.

You’re both breathless by the time every piece of clothing is removed, your naked bodies pressed together, heat and desire consuming you both.

His hands grip your waist, firm and commanding, as he guides you toward the spacious bed together, your lips never parting as you kiss.

His hands slide down to the back of your thighs, lifting you just enough to place you down on the bed.

You can feel the strength in his arms, the heat radiating from his body, and the way he’s so achingly focused on you, his blue eyes filled with desire as he kisses down your body.

By the time his lips find your clit, you’re already wet with need, your body trembling in anticipation. His hands spread your thighs, fingers digging into your skin as his face lowers between them.

He pleasures you with his mouth, his tongue moving with precision, swirling and flicking, while his hands hold you firmly in place as you writhe beneath him lost in pleasure.

You can’t stop touching him, your hands constantly moving to his head, grazing the skin.

“Austin,” you gasp, your voice breaking as he groans against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core. “Don’t stop…please don’t stop.” you whisper.

Your thighs tremble against his head, and he grips your hips firmly, keeping you in place as his mouth works you over with unrelenting focus. The tension builds, spiraling higher and higher until the pressure finally snaps.

You cry out, your hands holding his head down as you push against his face, your release crashing through you in waves. His mouth doesn’t stop, his tongue unrelenting as he groans, devouring every ounce of your pleasure until you’re shaking beneath him.

As you try to catch your breath, he moves up your body, his lips brushing against your stomach, then your breasts, until he hovers over your face, his eyes filled with pride and desire.

Before he can pin you down, you press your palms firmly against his chest, catching him off guard. His eyes widen slightly with surprise, but then a look of understanding crosses his face, allowing you full control as you gently roll on top of him.

You straddle his hips, sliding your hand between your legs to guide his hard cock into you. The sensation makes you both gasp as you slowly glide down on him, his head tilting back as his hands grab your hips.

“Fuck,” he pants, his voice deep with unrestrained pleasure as his fingers dig into your skin. “You feel… so perfect.”

You begin to move, your hips rolling back and forth, overwhelmed by the pleasure of him stretching and filling you completely.

His eyes flutter shut when your fingertips graze over his head again, and a soft moan escapes your lips as his fingertips dig into your hips, urging you to move faster.

You lean in, kissing him deeply, your movements syncing perfectly as the intensity builds between you. 

His hands slide up your back, gripping your shoulders tightly as his hips buck up, thrusting his cock into you. 

You feel the pressure of him hitting the perfect spot inside you of over and over again until you orgasm, your cries of pleasure filling the suite, blending with the faint sound of waves crashing outside the open balcony doors.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back, his eyes filled with determination.

He holds your wrists above your head pinning you as he kisses you deeply, his hips sliding between your thighs. 

When he thrusts into you, hard and deep, the stretch is almost unbearable, making you cry out in pleasure as his hands slide to your hips.

Each thrust of his cock feels deeper and more intense as you moan for him your hands caressing the back of his head. 

Your fingernails graze down the base of his skull and he shudders violently as a guttural groan rips from his throat.

“Fuck  … you feel so good,” he mutters, his voice rough and incoherent, completely lost in pleasure. “I… I need to be deeper, I need to feel all of you.” He whispers his words raw and desperate.

His hands move beneath your hips, tilting them up as he thrusts even harder. His lips and tongue trailing  over your throat as you gasp, your body arching beneath him from the onslaught of overwhelming stimulation. 

Your nails drag down the back of his head as you begin to orgasm, making him groan as he thrusts into you faster.

His grip under your hips tightens, almost bruising, as his thrusts become wilder, harder, deeper, driving you closer to the edge with every snap of his hips. 

The tension in his body is undeniable, his muscles straining with each powerful thrust, completely consumed by the feeling of your walls fluttering on his cock.

Your moans turn into desperate cries as the pleasure builds to an overwhelming peak. 

The tension snaps, your body shuddering uncontrollably as your orgasm crashes over you, your nails gripping his head as you scream his name.

The sound of your pleasure sends him spiraling, his thrusts growing erratic as a deep groan escapes him, his voice breaking with desperation.

“Fuck… you’re gonna make me come,” he rasps, his voice trembling, the word's breaking off as he tilts his head back, his eyes squeezing shut in pure ecstasy.

A deep, guttural groan rips from his chest as he thrusts deeper, his release surging through him with unstoppable intensity.

You feel the sudden warmth of his come, his cock twitching with every pulse. He lets out a soft, broken sound with each spasm, his hips jerking slightly as he empties himself, filling you completely.

His breaths are short and uneven as his body trembles, until finally, he collapses against you, his weight pressing you into the bed grounding you in the hazy afterglow.

His heart pounds wildly against your chest as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“I guess you’re… okay with the buzzcut” he says breathlessly, his voice laced with exhaustion and a hint of teasing.

You laugh between breaths, your fingernails trailing lightly over his scalp. “I’m going to enjoy every  moment of this until your hair grows back,” you pant, your voice soft but full of playful affection.

He grins, shifting just enough to look at you. “I could live with that,” he says, leaning down to brush a lazy kiss against your lips and you smile, gliding your palm over the back of his head.

🪒 End

🔗 Masterlist

🏷️ Always Tag Me List @purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @lindszeppelin @abswifey @ausssbutlershortstories @aust-een @umika @feralgodmothers @psycheetamore @megangovier @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @finley-08 @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @thejoywillburnoutthepain @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @12joeywheelerfangirl @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @missjadesficsreblog @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @ifuckindontknow @jjubilee-fluff @stars-remain2

[prettiedup]

angel face ୨ৎ

you met toji at a bar. you remember that setting very well, sometimes too well. when you’re bored, you’ll sit back and think about that very night. you had just turned 20 not too long ago, and your friends had finally got the fake ids they ordered months ago. with excited giggles, they handed the ids out. you’ll never forget how your heart thumped as you examined the little card that displayed lie after lie. you had never done something so illegal, something so sinister.

that night, you waited until your parents were sleeping. no, not just laying in bed and resting, but absolutely sleeping. their breathing turned heavy and their chests rose up and down slowly. their backs touched each other as if they had enough of each other, even while unconscious. with the knowledge that they were asleep, you made sure to close the luxurious door as quietly as possible. the door closed shut with a soft thud. you stood there for a second, holding your breath. you weren’t sure as to what you were waiting for, but you waited.

you counted to 60 in your head four times before solidifying that they were actually asleep. your eyes crinkle as a smile adorned your lips. with newfound enthusiasm, your feet that were comforted in white lace socks pitter patter against the prime grade wood flooring. you skip into your room and close and lock the door behind you.

you grab your phone that sits on top of your nightstand.11:20 it reads. you have exactly an hour and ten minutes to get ready. you’re quick to rush into your white marbled bathroom that had soft pink enhancements sprouted throughout the room.

the walls are adorned with large, glossy white marble tiles, reflecting light and creating an illusion of spaciousness. lowered chandeliers create soft, ambient lighting, casting a gentle modern glow over the room. the room's main feature is a gleaming white marble bathtub with simple, elegant lines and a large basin that invites you to have a relaxing dip. a peaceful waterfall faucet that cascades above it softly filling the tub with warm water whenever you feel the need to soak your stresses away.

you choose to use your stand-up shower, for this occasion. the shower is fully glass, exposing everything and more. two sides or large glass panels trap you on your sides to stop the water from escaping freely. as you turn the hot water on, both the overhead shower-head and the six miniature shower-heads come to life. you take off your pink silky robe, hanging it on the nook that’s nailed onto the wall beside your shower. you rub your body clean with soaps and exfoliators. the water plays a soft tune throughout the bathroom, the relaxing sound from the faucet merges with the sweet scents. it’s a precise routine that you do daily. scrubbing yourself until you’re absolutely sure your body is sparkling, and then stepping out of your shower with a pink fluffy towel around your body. a large white bathroom rug catches all of the spare droplets as you walk to your sink.

when you’re done with your skincare routine which includes not only your face but oiling your body down, you’re leaving your bathroom and walking into your walk-in closet. the automatic light sensors turn on, almost if it was awaiting your arrival. you choose a short light pink dress, and a pair of expensive shoes that match the shading. you gush over the cute bows that are etched onto the heel of the shoe.

time moves quickly. one minute you’re brushing your hair and inserting a clip on bow, and the next you’re quietly sneaking out through the back door. you walk to your friend’s white range rover that’s parked three houses down.

the rest of the night is moved in little blurs. you feel like you’re sitting inside of a cinema, watching a newly released movie. the bar is full of men. and not the guys you’re used to seeing around at these little college frat parties. no, these are men with tattoos, men with beards, mens with war battles littered on their body, men who are old enough to be your dad. as you look around, you suddenly feel childish in your outfit. the women in the bar wear crop tops and little shorts that have their ass cheeks hanging out. there’s a sense of maturity that courses through the bar, something the frat parties could never carry.

these are criminals, office men, police officers, businessmen. and suddenly there’s a throbbing in your lower region that you’ve never felt before. you’re looking around curiously as if the bar is some sort of museum that hold rare artifacts.

you look over at a table full of guys, their faces are littered with tired eyes and white beards. you accidentally make eye contact with one of the men and he winks before smirking and muttering something to his friends. they all snap their heads to you and your friends. some of them whistle while the others carry the same smirk. you should feel disgusted, guys that were possibly in the same classes with your dad, are making advances towards you. but instead the throbbing increases and a feeling of need courses through your body.

your friends make it to the bar and take your seats. a female bartender who looks to be in her mid 30s walks up to you four. she has overgrown blonde roots and various random tattoos littered all over her skin. her skin is obviously fake tanned, the exposed parts of her body are three shades darker than her head. her makeup is cakey and there’s dark eyeshadow around her eyes creating a lazily done smokey eye look. there’s a few facial piercings on her face as well. a dermal beside her eye, two dimple piercings, an eyebrow piercing, and when she opens her mouth to greet you all you can see the ball of a tongue piercing.

“what can i get for you ladies?” her voice is somewhat strained and gravelly. as she leans in, you can smell the lingering smell of cigarettes on her tongue.

“can i have eight shots of lemon drop, please.” your friend flashes the bartender a mischievous smile.

those shots were what got the night going. you were already very tipsy after your two shots and also a half glass of tequila. your friends had scattered around the bar, having conversations amongst themselves. you watch them, there’s envy burning in your stomach at how social they’re able to be so easily. you take it as competition. you sway your head to the side and your eyes land on a guy who’s sitting on the far end of the counter.

with the confidence you mustered, you walk up to him and sit in the wooden chair beside him. the chair creaks as you adjust yourself. sucking in a heavy breath, you smile at him.

“hi.” you greet him.

“’m not a perv. fuck off.” his response has you blinking rapidly in shock.

“uhm .. what? i’m-i’m of age!” you exclaim. you don’t know why you feel so offended at his words. most girls would’ve instantly stood up and walked away from his hostility, but if anything it strung you in even more.

“yeah, okay. and lemme guess, there’s pigs out there flyin’.” he chuckles but it’s forced, if anything.

“you, sir, are reaaaal hostile.” you drag the word out. the alcohol in your system is fumbling with your ability to talk normally.

“go away, little girl.” he dismisses you once again. he’s gripping his glass, with the muscles straining from his tight black shirt you wonder if he’s going to end up breaking it.

you have no idea as to why you’re so stuck on staying beside him and continuing to try. “i’ll have you know,” you emphasize, making sure the word rings through his head. “i can do everything you can do. vote, pay taxes, drive, all of that.”

“not drink, though.” he argues.

your eyebrows scrunch and suddenly you’re digging through your purse searching for that fake id. once your fingers grasp it, you’re pulling it out and slamming it on the polished wood.

“actually, i can.” you challenge. you’re sliding the card in front of him, all of your confidence powered into that one finger.

the guy goes quiet for a second, he’s reading your id. you cross your arms in victory. yeah, he doesn’t have much to say now.

or so you thought. “this shit’s faker than me claimin’ t’be a good father.” he says, his voice tinged with disgust. he slides the card back in front of you.

“okay. whatever. ‘m of age, though. okay? i’m 20 and if i’m not mistaken that’s grown.” you reply.

he finally turns, his entire body turns to look at you. lean and toned. he’s extremely built, with muscles everywhere. not to mention his waist, that’s so so slim. he’s wearing black jeans but you don’t even have to see his legs to know they match his arms. your eyes dart away his lower body to focus on his face. his face is rugged and masculine. he has sharp, angular features, including a strong jawline and high cheekbones. his green eyes are sharp and piercing as he stares down at you. you notice there’s an attractive scar that runs through his thin lips.

“‘nd is there a reason as t’why you keep botherin’ me, ms.twenty year old?” he asks sarcastically.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

“g-gonna cum again!” you gasp. your head lays in the crook of his neck. he has one strong hand holding your head so even if you wanted to move it, you couldn’t. 

you had only had sex with one guy, ever. and he was more so on the skinnier side. you wouldn't shame him at all, he had managed to pull a few orgasms out of you. but this一this was different. he was stretching you out in ways that had your mind completely fucked. your pussy is stretched and wrapped tightly around his cock as if it was made for him and him only. 

your knees laid on both sides of his hips. you had started off riding him but he had quickly taken control when he realized how awkward you are when you’re on top. the way you stiffly jerked your hips would have resulted in absolutely no orgasms if he had let you continue. his feet were planted flat on the mattress  while his other arm was wrapped around your lower back so that he could have leverage as he plowed his cock into your dripping pussy. 

you could faintly hear the sound of police sirens through the thin motel walls. you had let the mystery man sway you to this cheap motel that looked as if it was infested with a little bit of everything. you remember the look on the receptionist’s face, a big man dressed in all black with a girl that’s inches shorter than him right beside him. they looked suspicious until you grabbed at the guy’s hand to lead him back outside once the two of you got a key.

“fuck are you so quiet for?” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts. before you could respond his big palm is striking down on your ass, sending multiple slaps. you whimper and jerk in his hold but he doesn’t let you move. “ungrateful thing. should i stop?”

“no!” you sob out. “please don’t stop.”

he rubs his hand over the spot he attacked before gripping your hip and fucking up into you even harder. the sound of his balls slapping against your skin and your pussy wetting his dick even more echoed through the room. the motel bed squeaks with every movement, like an old door protesting against being opened.

your senses whirl as he abruptly hurls you onto the side of the bed. your form plunges into the worn mattress, a musical of creaking springs accompanying your fall as you land on your stomach. everything moves fast as he’s suddenly behind you and pressing cock back inside of your awaiting pussy.

“arch your back.” he grumbles. he doesn’t give you time to move on your own before he’s grabbing your hips and adjusting them into the air. his sharp eyes take in your bruised pussy that’s clenching around nothing.

he lets his leaking cockhead rub against your pussy for a few moments. he shudders when his thick pre cum mixes with your arousal, creating a beautiful canvas. you’re whining and cooing out to him, he takes note of you growing impatient and taking it upon yourself to move your hips in desperate attempts that his dick would enter you.

“desperate girl.” he tuts before lining himself up and slamming his dick back inside of you.

you let out a deafening scream as your pussy streams out liquid. he quickly pulls out and rubs his length through the mess you’re creating.

"gooood girl. mhm cum all on m'dick. jus' like that." he coos at you. "gonna gimme some more? hm?" he asks while bracing his cock for your tight walls.

you whimper out something unintagible as you fix your arch once again. just the thought of him scolding you for not listening put a sense of uneasiness in your body. you wanted to continue being his good girl.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

nestled in a sea of soft, spiraling sheets and flat pillows, your soft breathing created a peaceful, rhythmic lullaby in the room. your chest's soft rise and fall resembled the waves' gentle rise and fall on a calm beach. your shape was nestled into the motel bed, which provided a false sense of haven from the outer world. toji gives your body a once over. he had really done a number on you. your body is littered with bites and bruises from him gripping you too hard. and somehow through all his negligence and however rough he was with you, you continued to moan and beg for more.

he told himself he was done with one night stands. god damnit. and then here you go walking into the bar with those needy ass doe eyes. he could smell the youthfulness on you. a twenty year old prissy girl with no true understanding of how ugly the world actually is.

toji exhaled while being lost in his own world as he stood outside the dimly illuminated motel room, wisps of smoke swirling around him. the light from his cigarette flickered with every breath, highlighting his face in the shadows.

he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel good. having a fine thing begging for more of his cock, the way you gripped the sheets whenever the overstimulation got too much to deal with, your choked sobs as he brought you to a place you've probably never reached before. a smirk tugged on his lips. you made him feel young again, that's for sure.

he could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket, it's possibly his boss who has found a shady job for toji to do. usually, he would've accepted in seconds but the thought of you halted him from doing so. this motel was located in a rather dangerous location and toji would feel like shit if he was listening to the news one day and found out some criminal got to you. he decides he'll walk you to a safer area before the two of you part ways.

his heart thumps hard in chest when he realizes this is the first and last time you two would ever do something like this. he enjoyed your smart replies and the fake confidence you put up at the bar. even more so, he enjoyed the size difference between you two. he dwarfs you in every way. he was practically throwing you around like some ragdoll and you took it. you took it all and that shit is fascinating to toji.

he tilts his head back, a cloud of smoke escapes through his mouth and into the air. that was一fun. he decides.

[furiouskingunknown]

The wooden cabin looked like a forgotten dream nestled among the trees. Covered in ivy and moss, its cozy façade blended seamlessly into the forest landscape. The wavy glass windows were adorned with hand-embroidered linen curtains, gently swaying in the soft breeze slipping through the cracks. A thin plume of smoke curled up from the stone chimney, carrying the earthy, welcoming aroma of something bubbling away in a cauldron.

Inside, the space was warm and alive with character. The late afternoon light poured through the windows, painting the wooden floor with dancing shadows cast by the leaves outside. A large wool rug in shades of cream and brown covered the center of the room, while floral-embroidered cushions rested lazily on wooden benches and a faded velvet sofa.

The walls were lined with shelves brimming with glass jars filled with spices, dried herbs, and preserves, each labeled in elegant handwriting. Bundles of lavender hung from the ceiling alongside dried dandelions and clusters of garlic, infusing the air with their fragrance. On the countertop, a handmade ceramic bowl overflowed with wild apples, sitting beside a well-worn marble mortar and pestle.

In the heart of the kitchen, a woman worked with the patience of someone who seemed to belong to another time. Her name was Eloise, and her presence filled the room with a serene energy. She wore a simple cream cotton dress with puffed sleeves and a linen ribbon tied around her waist. Her chestnut brown hair was loosely braided, with a few stray strands framing her face, slightly flushed from the fire’s warmth.

On the wooden countertop, freshly foraged mushrooms were spread out on a tray. The assortment varied in shape and color: tiny white button mushrooms, broad-capped brown mushrooms, and even a few exotic ones with reddish and purple hues. Eloise handled them with care, using a small silver-bladed knife to trim the stems and clean each one. A wicker basket rested nearby, filled with fresh herbs from her garden: thyme, rosemary, and a variety of green leaves exuding a revitalizing scent.

On the wood-burning stove, a large cast-iron cauldron was simmering. Inside, a golden broth bubbled gently, releasing an aroma that made it seem as if the entire forest had gathered there. Eloise approached and stirred the soup with a long wooden spoon, its handle carved into the shape of a leaf. Nearby, a small blue-feathered bird, seemingly fearless, perched on the windowsill, watching her with curious eyes.

“It will be ready soon,” she murmured, as though speaking to the bird. Her voice was soft, carrying a note of gratitude.

Eloise picked up a small glass jar from a shelf. The handwritten label read "Oak Salt." She sprinkled a pinch into the cauldron and then crushed a few fresh sage leaves between her fingers, letting them fall gently into the broth. A comforting aroma filled the air, and even the bird seemed to chirp its approval.

While the soup simmered, Eloise prepared the table. It was a small round wooden table, draped with a linen cloth embroidered with patterns of leaves and flowers. She placed a deep ceramic bowl and an aged pewter spoon beside a steaming mug of peppermint tea sweetened with honey. A small bouquet of wildflowers graced the table's center—a simple touch that brought the setting to life.

As the day came to an end, with the soup served and the fire casting a soft glow throughout the cabin, Eloise sat down. She gazed out the window, where the sky had begun to darken, and the first nocturnal sounds of the forest mingled with the crackling of the fire. Each spoonful of soup seemed to tell a story, a blend of flavors evoking the freshness of the forest and the warmth of home.

In that moment, the little cabin in the heart of the forest was the epitome of peace—a sanctuary where time seemed to slow down, and simplicity glowed with quiet beauty.

[im-poltergeist]

Towers and Thorns (Fanfic vers)

tags: bodyguard!Ghost x royal!reader, older Ghost, first fic, might be crappy idk, multiple parts, might be nsfw down the line, english is not my first language so feel free to correct me. 🌻

Part 1 🌻 Part 2 🌻 Part 3

Your heels click against the polished stone floor with every step that you take. Heavy thuds from boots coming closer behind you.

“I was just wondering when you’d join me”, you say to the man behind you.

“Had to have a laugh at your poor time management skills”, Ghost replies, falling in to step with you.

“Hilarious.” You roll your eyes.

“Always am, your highness.”

Ghost opens the door to the grand dining hall with his head bowed to you. You walk in, a polite smile with teeth. To make it seen genuine. Or something. The wall opposite you has portraits of previous rulers. Ranging from the one before your mother to one from as early as the 18 hundreds. All in neat but extravagant golden frames. In front of the wall there is a long wooden table. Decorated cleanly with a white table cloth, flowers in pink and lilac and lit candles. At the tale sits your mother. A crown decorates her head. You bow your head to her and make your way towards the table around the edge of the room. If you’d look out the windows you’d see the flowerbeds in the garden. Full of red, white and pink roses. The afternoon sunlight casting the room in a warm yellow glow.

On your mothers left side sits the president, and on her right your father. There is an empty seat next to him. Your seat. You hurry towards the chair. Shooting your mother a quick apology as you pass by behind her. You sit down and smooth out your dress. Your father gives you a stern look.

“Sorry”, you mouth to him. He nods back. Apology accepted. You exhale. You look around at the other two tables. One to your left and the other to your right. The table to your right is designated to the families that are close to the crown. There’s the Callahans, the Makarovs and Marshall and his parents, ew. At the table to your right is, oh god no. Your cousins are sat smirking in your direction. Well, four out of five. You eldest cousin, Grace, keeps her head down. Gaze on the plate in front of her. She’s in a light pink dress that she thinks hides her already growing baby bump, it does nothing of the sort. A shadow passes behind her. No, not a shadow. A balaclava clad man who somehow blends in like a chameleon into the dim light of the dining hall. He’s a ghost alright.

“How kind of you to join us, your highness”, The president addresses. Earning him amused chuckles from various people in the room. Your eyes dart to him.

“I do sincerely apologize. I’m afraid that my poor time management skills have struck again”, you answer. Causing many people in the room to laugh. Including a snicker from behind you. The corners of your mouth twitch upward. The president chuckles. The tension in the room eases. The conversations start flowing and you let out a breath. Your mother and father are swept in to a conversation with the president. Theres a joke about tea. Something about a wall. You don't pay attention.

Your eyes wander around the room again. They sweep past your cousins towards the door. Next to the door stands Gaz, or Kyle, which is his real name. His dark skin and neatly trimmed hair fits in like a piece of a puzzle with the rest of the room. Elegant but with the touch of don't mess with me Im a bodyguard. Next to him on the other hand is a man who does the exact opposite. The mohawk on his head standing out like an eyesore. His slightly rugged look may be appealing to some woman. But in this context it stands out like a drop of blood on cotton. Even though thats the case he is far from ugly. Wait a minute. Isn't that? Yes its is. It is the bodyguard that Grace is rumored to have a relationship with. Why on earth is he here? We don't need the scandal to take fire once again. It has barley burned out.

You pry your eyes away from the man. Looking towards the table on your right instead. The Callahans are talking with the Makarovs about something you can't hear. Marshalls parents are listening in to the conversation. But Marshall himself is staring at you. Shooting you a cocky grin as your eyes meet his. You look away in disgust.

The first corse is served. It is some kind of soup with tiny vegetable squares floating around below the drizzle of oil. It tastes alright. It's nothing special. Apparently it's supposed to warm up the stomach before the main course. What nonsense. There are so many better options to serve as an appetizer. Especially when the President is visiting.

The main corse plays out the same way. Some kind of meat, grayish and dry. The royal family cant eat raw meat in case of food poisoning. You do it anyway. The chefs rules are much looser when the palace is empty of guests. The president keeps talking with your family. He goes on and on about something that you cant be bothered to listen to. Until your name is mentioned that is.

"What", you ask. Suddenly interested in the conversation.

"Would you consider yourself a republican or a liberal", the president asks you. The strained smile on his face tells you that it was the second time he asked.

"Im not allowed to vote, nor am i allowed to take a stand in politics", you answer. The answer had been drilled in to your very bones. You cant express yourself politically. Especially not right now.

"Come on. This is just a friendly conversation between two acquaintances. Theres no need to follow such formalities." He pushes. You clench your fist under the table. Why cant he just drop it. Your father tenses beside you as you open your mouth to speak.

"Like I said, I will not speak on the matter", you reply. A polite but stern answer. Your father relaxes again. The president laughs and says something about rule following and you stop listening again.

When dessert rolls around you would like to be anywhere but in the dining hall. Your cousins have had too much to drink. Probably something stronger than alcohol as well by the way they constantly disappear in to the bathroom and talk so loud that you can hear almost every word that they are saying. When you have finished your desert you politely excuse yourself to get some fresh air and hurry out of the dining hall.

When you get into the corridor outside of the big door you take a deep breath. It finally feels like you can get enough oxygen. You walk towards the garden. Fresh evening air cant hurt. The roses should be blooming. A hand grips your wrist and tugs.

taglist: @panikk-attackkk

[thsillystringbeanscribbler]

Bunny Slippers

Summary: While on the hunt for their dad the Winchester brothers are encouraged by Bobby to reach out to an old hunting buddy of John and Bobby. The trip leads to meeting not only a rugged hunter which is a missing puzzle piece to their dad's disappearance but also got to make the acquaintance of his lovely daughter.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader [ OC ]

Warnings: mostly fluff with a sprinkle of possible violence or angst, maybe slow burn (i'm not too sure)

Word Count: 4,685 words

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction. I dont really know how to write y/n so oc is all you're getting. I recently discovered the world of Supernatural and I am in love. This story takes place during Season 1, it doesn't really follow the story line and there might be some lore in accuracies. Please be kind, and I hope you enjoy my little story.

image from Pinterest

With Bobby's wise counsel and the elusive hints scattered in John's journal, he implored the brothers to seek out Rob Blackburn, who could potentially steer them toward John. Rob, as Bobby explained, wasn't just an ally; he was a long-time comrade of both John Winchester and Bobby, often accompanying them on perilous hunts. Armed with this knowledge, Sam and Dean embarked on their journey to Boston in the trusty Impala. Dean took the wheel, immersing himself in the thumping beats of rock and roll, while Sam, map in hand, navigated the labyrinth of roads leading to Robert Blackburn's whereabouts. The pages of John's journal rustled in the background, revealing his own trek to Massachusetts, where he had joined forces with Rob to confront a formidable Wendigo.

In the early autumn morning, the Impala turned down the street of the Blackburn home, the epitome of historical charm found in Boston. The townhouse stands out with its red brick facade, large curved windows adorned with black shutters, and stately black entrance doors. Wrought iron railings line the stone steps leading up to the front doors, and mature trees along the sidewalk cast dappled shadows onto the cobblestone street. The vehicle comes to a halt in front of the winsome townhouse, with its elegance further accentuated by the cascading wisteria, lending a touch of natural beauty to the urban setting.

Dean cut the engine, his gaze shifting from the Blackburn residence to his brother. Sam, peering at Dean, broke the silence with his characteristic intensity. "So, think you're ready to face whatever's in there?" he asked, his voice tinged with both concern and determination.

Dean responded with his usual bravado, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ready? Sam, I was born ready. Let's do this." His tone was confident, almost playful, yet underscored by the seriousness of their mission.

Moving in unison, the brothers climbed the steps to the Blackburn residence. A silent exchange of resolve passed between them as Dean turned to face the ominous black door. He pressed the doorbell, and for a moment, there was only silence. Impatient, Dean began to knock forcefully, intent on getting an answer.

Before he could knock again, hurried footsteps approached from inside. The door swung open to reveal a petite, dishevelled woman. Her light auburn curls were hastily tied atop her head, and her sleepy green eyes, magnified by tortoise-rimmed circle glasses, blinked at the unexpected visitors. Dean's gaze travelled over her, taking in the oversized Van Halen band t-shirt, the long flannel Batman pyjama pants tucked into mismatched white tube socks, and the pink bunny slippers, all indicating she had indeed just rolled out of bed.

The woman, stifling a yawn and crossing her arms defensively, addressed them with a groggy, gravelly voice. "Hello? Can I help you with something?" Her sleepy demeanour contrasted sharply with the urgency of their visit. 

The faintest hint of a smile played across Dean's face, a touch of warmth amidst the crisp Boston morning. The dishevelled stranger before him, a haphazardly charming vision in her comic book pyjamas and mismatched socks, sparked a flicker of amusement in his hunter's gaze. She couldn't be much older than Sam, he mused, who was barely past the threshold of twenty-two himself.

Clearing his throat, Dean straightened up a little, his eyes locking onto hers with an earnest steadiness. "Morning," he started, his voice carrying the signature gravel of a man used to long nights and the roar of a V8 engine. "Sorry to wake you, but we're looking for Rob Blackburn. The thing is," he paused, the weight of their search momentarily tightening his features, "our dad was working a case with him, and now... Dad's gone off the grid. We were hoping Rob might have some answers."

He watched her closely, not just for her response, but for any sign, any tell that might unravel the mystery of their father's whereabouts.

The woman's head tilted slightly, causing a few untamed curls to escape her hastily made morning bun. She squinted at Dean, her eyebrows knitting together in a puzzled frown. As her gaze shifted between Dean and Sam, a hint of wariness crept into her expression. "Sorry," she murmured, her free hand sliding under her glasses to rub at a sleepy eye. "But who are you guys, exactly?" she asked, her lips pursed slightly, clearly waiting for an explanation.

Dean met her gaze squarely, his expression a blend of seriousness and charm. "Name's Dean and this towering figure here is my brother, Sam," he said with a hint of a smirk. "We're here looking for Rob. You might know him through our dad, John Winchester. They go way back, and it's kind of important we talk to him." His tone carried the urgency of their quest, yet remained respectful, acknowledging the oddity of their early morning visit.

Her eyebrows lifted from their puzzled frown as the name John Winchester sparked a flicker of recognition in her features. Hesitating for a moment, she leaned slightly forward, peering past Sam and Dean to scan the street. Her green eyes settled on the shiny black Chevy parked in front of the house. Dean, noticing her gaze, followed it to the Impala.

With his trademark flirtatious smile, Dean couldn't resist a playful comment. "Hey, if you're interested, I could show you what she's really capable of," he said, nodding towards the Impala. The woman's eyes snapped back to Dean, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. Realizing how his words might have sounded, Dean quickly clarified with a cheeky grin, "The Impala, I mean. A ride in the car."

She nodded silently, her cheeks now a deeper shade of red. A bit flustered, she stuttered, "Uh–" but then, meeting Sam's hazel eyes, she paused, took a deep breath, and regained her composure. "I'll be right back," she said before gently closing the door.

Dean left staring at the black door, perked up his ears as he heard her voice escalate inside, calling out, "Dad! The Winchesters are here!" After a brief silence, her voice rose again, more insistent this time, "DAD!"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look of surprise at the volume of her shout. The response came in the form of a deep, muffled reply from within. The door creaked open again, and the woman offered an awkward smile. "He'll be down so–"

Before she could finish, a tall, muscular man in plaid flannel pyjama pants and a simple grey t-shirt descended the stairs. He stood imposingly behind her, his voice deep and gravelly. "Mornin'," he greeted, eyeing the brothers. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Definitely John's boys," he observed as he extended his hand.

Dean grasped his hand firmly. "Dean," he introduced himself with a nod.

Sam followed suit, shaking Rob's hand. "Sam. It's good to meet you."

Rob's genuine smile broadened. "Rob. Nice to finally meet you boys. John's told me a lot about you two."

In the midst of the heartfelt introductions, Rob's daughter slipped out under her father's arm, who was now holding the door open. He quickly turned his head to call after her, "Jay, boil the water. We're gonna need some coffee."

Rob then stepped aside, inviting them in. "C'mon in," he said, glancing once more at the street as the brothers entered. "Damn, is that John's Impala?" he asked, intrigued.

Dean turned back to Rob, a hint of pride in his voice. "Actually, she's mine now. Dad left her to me. She's got more history and miles on her than most cars on the road. Runs like a dream, though." His words were laced with respect and a touch of nostalgia for both the car and his father.

The boys followed the barefoot Rob Blackburn into his living room. The space was a testament to a life well-lived and richly layered, a striking balance between the modern and the memorabilia of yesteryear. They stepped through the wooden archway, and Dean's gaze swept the room—a harmony of contemporary and eclectic tastes.

The living room was bathed in morning sunlight from a large, bay window framing the greenery and wisteria blossoms outside, its grandeur contrasted by the cozy array of furniture. A plush, dark green sofa accented with earth-toned pillows invited comfort and long conversations. Across the room, a pair of vintage armchairs stood guard, their fabric hinting at a past era. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, a ladder poised as if in mid-ascent, suggesting a world of knowledge and stories just out of reach. In the center, a stately wooden coffee table bore the weight of books and vases, while a Persian rug beneath whispered tales of ancient craftsmanship.

Above the mantel, a flat-screen TV was mounted, an anachronism amid the classical vibe. The mantle itself was a gallery of personal history, with frames marching across its length like milestones. Dean's eyes traced the journey of the dishevelled girl named Jay through frozen moments: school plays, graduations, and candid laughter.

One photograph, in particular, seized Dean's attention, squeezing his heart with the force of a long-forgotten song. There, captured in the stillness of time, was a young woman with auburn curls, her arm casually draped over a youthful Mary Winchester. Beside her, a younger Rob stood with an easy stance, and on the other side, John Winchester's smile reached out, as bright and as real as if he were standing in the room with them.

Dean found his voice, roughened by the swell of memory. "You've got quite the place here, Rob. Feels like a home that's seen a lot of good times," he said, his eyes not leaving the photograph.

Rob, following Dean's gaze, nodded with a touch of nostalgia. "Yeah, it's been through a lot. Every piece has a story, especially those photos," he said, his voice softening. "That one there," he pointed to the photograph that held Dean's gaze, "was from a summer BBQ we had right after John got back from a tour. Good times indeed, Dean.”

With a comforting pat on Dean's shoulder, Rob motioned towards the dark green sofa. "Please, take a seat," he said in a voice that carried the warmth of a seasoned host. Sam was already lounging there, looking every bit the part of a man ready to delve into matters of gravity and ghosts. Rob's towering presence moved towards one of the vintage armchairs, his movements measured and graceful. He sank into the chair with the ease of a man in his own sanctuary.

Dean observed Rob, taking in the rugged features that spoke of a life lived much like their father's—on the road, but always returning home. The man sitting across from him had a face that bore the marks of laughter and squinting against the sun, a generous beard that was well kept but suggested it could tell stories of its own. His hair, though tousled from sleep, had the hint of waves, and the light caught the flecks of gray that ran through it like silver threads in a tapestry. There was a certain comfort in his ruggedness, an unspoken kinship that Dean recognized well.

Rob caught Dean's gaze and chuckled, a sound that seemed to reverberate around the room. "My apologies, if I'd known Johnny's boys would be showing up on my doorstep, I'd have made myself presentable," he said, his fingers raking through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it.

Their conversation was paused as Jay quietly made her entrance, her arms full with an offering of steaming mugs. Dean's eyes followed her every step, noting the careful balance as she placed the coffee on the table with precision. The small, satisfied smile that danced across her lips made Dean's own lips twitch in response. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look of comical frustration.

Jay stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes closed, speaking through gritted teeth. "I was so proud of not spilling coffee, I forgot people might want milk and sugar too."

Dean leaned forward, picked up one of the mugs, and met her frustrated gaze with a reassuring smile. "Don't sweat it, Jay. I take my coffee black as midnight on a moonless night," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. "It's the best way to kick-start the day, especially when there's work to be done." He took a sip, letting the rich bitterness of the coffee linger, a stark contrast to the gentle chaos of the morning.

Jay—no, Julia—looked momentarily taken aback, an unspoken question flickering in her eyes about Dean's use of her nickname. Before she could voice it, Rob intervened with a throaty chuckle that broke the brief silence. "Dean, Sam, if it wasn't already apparent, this spirited individual is my daughter Julia."

Julia's expression folded into a mix of amusement and mild embarrassment at her father's words. "Introductions must've slipped my mind earlier," Rob added, his eyes twinkling with paternal amusement.

With a graceful motion that seemed to betray her earlier fluster, Julia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Was a bit scattered, to be honest," she admitted as a soft hue painted her cheeks.

He offered her a warm, appreciative smile, and she, in turn, blushed a shade deeper, hastily picking up the one mug that held coffee lightened with milk. "Anyway, I'm—" she started, her voice trailing off as she backed away, thumbing in the direction of the staircase, "—going to get dressed."

With that, Julia turned, her retreat up the stairs as quick as it was quiet, leaving the conversation to hang in the warm, coffee-scented air of the living room.

The trio settled into an easy silence, the kind that speaks of understanding rather than discomfort. Eventually, Rob broke the stillness, setting his coffee cup down with a soft clink. "Not that I'm complaining about having John's boys over," he began, his voice even and curious, "but what brings you to my door?"

Sam, always the one to dive into the details, took the lead. "Well, Rob, from what we've pieced together with Bobby's input and clues from Dad's journal, it seems John was here in Boston not too long ago. He was helping you out with a wendigo situation," he explained. "You might have been one of the last people to see him. Now, Dean and I are crisscrossing the country, trying to track him down."

Dean, meanwhile, was only half-listening, his mind wandering as he sipped the robust black coffee. His thoughts were momentarily caught up with Julia—her surprising affinity for classic rock band shirts, her effortless command of the room, despite her earlier disarray. There was an allure there that Dean couldn't quite dismiss.

Realizing he needed to jump back into the conversation, he met Rob's gaze over the rim of his mug. "So, any chance Julia might know something that could help us out?" he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of hope. It was a thinly veiled attempt to weave Julia back into their narrative—perhaps more for another encounter than actual investigative purposes.

Rob leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips as he cradled his mug. "Julia? She wasn't really involved with the hunting side of things with John. She's the brains, does all the research," he began, but the strains of Led Zeppelin suddenly filled the room, filtering through the walls of Julia’s bedroom, in a muffled but unmistakable riff.

He laughed, a low, rich sound, and shook his head affectionately. "Yeah, she's a history major. She’s got her nose usually buried in old books. But she did dig into the Wendigo lore while John was around. Spent a few hours picking his brain, so it might be worth a shot to ask her," Rob conceded, acknowledging the potential value in speaking with his daughter once more.

As the sun arced higher in the sky outside the arch window, time seemed to fold in on itself within the Blackburn residence. The conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, the brothers and Rob exchanging tales and theories about the elusive Wendigo. Engrossed in the retelling, they barely noticed the passage of time until the Led Zeppelin anthem that had been humming in the background abruptly ceased. A hush fell over the house, and Dean couldn't help but cast a puzzled look towards Rob, who appeared unfazed by the sudden silence, continuing his story with the ease of a man accustomed to the unpredictable soundtrack of a busy household.

Dean's attention was drawn towards the hallway as a flash of red caught his eye—a pair of Converse sneakers, the unmistakable hallmark of a casual yet deliberate style. As Julia came into view, his gaze instinctively followed the line of her high-waisted jeans up to her neatly tucked-in white shirt. Gone was the disarray of the morning; in its place stood Julia, transformed. Her light auburn curls, now tamed and flowing gracefully down her back, framed a face of calm composure.

She paused in the archway, and for a moment, there was a silent exchange as Dean's eyes met hers—no longer sleepy, but sharp and full of life.

Rob, seizing the opportunity, looked up at his daughter with a mix of pride and practicality. "Perfect timing, Jay. Do you recall any of the details from when John helped out with the Wendigo case? I'd take a stab at finding the research in the office, but I still can't make heads or tails of your organization system."

Julia's lips pursed lightly, a subtle indication she was preparing to delve into her mental archives, but before she could articulate her thoughts, Rob interjected with decisiveness. "Great, I'll go get changed, and you can show the boys what you've got."

Julia nodded, a silent agreement to take the lead, and Dean couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for the way she navigated her father's expectations with grace. There was more to Julia than met the eye, and Dean was keen to uncover the depths of her knowledge—not just for the sake of their quest, but perhaps, for the simple pleasure of her company.

As Rob ascended the stairs, Julia began gathering the empty coffee mugs with an efficiency that spoke of routine. She gave Sam and Dean a quick, playful grin. "I'll just drop these off in the kitchen, then we can dive into the research. Hope you're ready for a bit of a deep dive," she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of excitement about the task ahead. She turned on her heel, the cups clinking softly as she vanished down the hall.

Dean watched her go, an appreciative gleam in his eye. Sam, catching this all-too-familiar look, turned his entire body to face his brother, his expression a blend of warning and wisdom.

"Dean, I'm gonna say this once: tread carefully, man," Sam advised, leaning in slightly to emphasize his point.

Dean turned to his brother, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about, Sammy?"

Sam fixed Dean with a knowing look, the kind that only a lifetime of brotherhood could perfect. "Julia. I see that look in your eyes," he cautioned, his voice serious but not unkind.

A roguish smirk danced across Dean's face, his thoughts lingering on the spark he'd felt during their brief interactions. "Can't help it if there's a mutual spark. And come on, Sam—she's smart, she's into Zeppelin, and she's got that whole natural beauty thing going on. It's not just me," Dean defended with a casual shrug, trying to brush off the gravity of Sam's warning with his characteristic nonchalance.

Julia reemerged with a swift grace, pausing at the doorway, her demeanor alight with the thrill of sharing her world. The excitement seemed to emanate from her, an infectious energy that promised revelations and secrets held within her scholarly trove. As Sam and Dean stood, ready to be led into her realm of research, Sam's encouragement was both genuine and anticipatory.

"Rob mentioned you're quite the expert. Can't wait to see the treasures you've been working on," he said, his kind smile acknowledging her expertise.

Julia's response was tinged with humility and appreciation. "That's really nice of you to say," she replied, leading the way up the stairs with a lightness in her step that suggested she was as eager to share as they were to learn.

Reaching the second-floor landing, they were greeted by the impressive sight of a bookshelf that seemed to serve both as a doorway and a guardian of knowledge. Passing through the archway, both Winchesters couldn't help but pause, struck by the beauty of the room that unfolded before them.

They were surrounded by the warmth of aged wood and the silent stories of countless tomes. A built-in window seat nestled against a bay window offered a view of the soft purple wisteria blossoms framing the glass. The room was steeped in the warmth of vintage charm and the whispered stories of countless books. The walls are lined with towering shelves, crafted from dark, polished wood that gleams under the soft golden hue of strategically placed lamps. Each shelf is a testament to a bibliophile's passion, densely packed with books of varying sizes, their spines creating a colourful mosaic that speaks to years of collection and care.

In one corner, a plush armchair sits invitingly, upholstered in a rich, patterned fabric that echoes the bygone era of Victorian elegance. Next to it, a small table holds a crystal decanter of amber liquid and matching glasses, alongside a pile of well-thumbed novels, suggesting a perfect nook for sipping and reading. The heavy curtains pulled back from a large window allow the gentle light to filter in, casting a serene glow over the scene.

Despite the room's orderly foundations, there's a deliberate messiness to it that adds character. Stacks of books and papers teeter precariously on every available surface, including the floor, where a worn Persian rug lays as a testament to the many hours spent lost in literature. The desk is a landscape of creative chaos, with open books, notes scribbled on loose papers, and a vintage typewriter pushed to one side to make room for a modern laptop, showing the blend of old and new.

Unique artifacts are nestled among the books: a vintage globe, a brass telescope, and curious trinkets like skulls and antique scissors, each with its own untold backstory. The space is a sanctuary of knowledge, history, and personal quirks, inviting you to explore its depths, both literary and personal.

As Julia completed a graceful pirouette, her arms outstretched to present the room, her eyes met theirs with a spark of shared understanding. "This is where the magic happens," she declared, her smile as genuine as the passion that clearly fueled her pursuit of knowledge. The invitation was clear, and the Winchesters stepped into her world, ready to be enchanted by the magic of her making.

The effervescent joy Julia exuded was infectious, and Dean found himself basking in a reflected glow of happiness as he watched her navigate the room. He leaned against the doorway, observing her as she gathered an armful of papers and books, her movements a dance of efficiency amid the charming chaos. With a deft hand, she rehomed the collected clutter atop another table already brimming with the weight of research.

"Here," she sang out, her voice carrying the lightness of a melody, as she flitted from one end of the room to the other, her presence transforming the space into something ethereal. She was like a sprite in her own domain, orchestrating the energy of the room with every sweep of her arm.

Sam and Dean approached the cleared chairs with a hint of hesitation, not wanting to disturb the artful disorder of her workspace. They settled into the seats, and Julia paused in her bustling, resting a hand on the back of Dean's chair. For a moment, she stood still, lost in thought, and Dean found himself enveloped in the subtle scent that clung to her—pistachio, perhaps, and something sweetly salted, like caramel. It was warm and inviting, and his heart thrummed a little faster in his chest as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Julia's contemplative silence broke, and she turned her gaze to meet Sam's, her expression earnest. "I have a lot of material on the Wendigo—notes, theories, patterns. John had me assist him with something else, too," she confided, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "But before I share anything, you have to promise not to tell my dad. He tends to be... overly protective about certain things."

Her eyes lingered on Sam, seeking an assurance of confidentiality, an unspoken pact between them. Dean felt a tug of curiosity, an eagerness to delve into the knowledge she held, and he nodded in silent agreement, keenly aware of the trust she was placing in their hands.

Sam met Julia's earnest gaze, understanding the gravity of her request. He nodded, a silent promise etched into the gesture. "You have our word, Julia. Whatever you share with us stays between us," Sam assured her, his tone underscored with the seriousness of a sworn oath.

Dean, who had been momentarily caught in the sensory spell of Julia's presence, now anchored himself in the moment, the importance of her trust not lost on him. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking with hers, reinforcing the vow. "We've kept secrets bigger than a bunker," he said, a soft, conspiratorial edge to his voice. "Your research is safe with us."

Julia, seemingly satisfied with their assurance, pulled a deep breath before she began, her eyes momentarily flitting to the ceiling as if gathering the threads of her thoughts. "Okay," she started, her voice now a hushed whisper, "John and I were looking into some lore—old, obscure stuff, not just your run-of-the-mill monster tales. It's about something much older, something he was tracking long before the Wendigo."

The room seemed to hold its breath as Julia spoke, the brothers leaning in, captivated by the prelude to secrets yet untold. The promise they had made bound them to this space, to the words that were about to unfold, weaving them into the fabric of Julia's clandestine work.

With the silence of one well-versed in the quietude of libraries, Julia drifted towards the bay window, her figure briefly silhouetted against the gentle light. She took a swift left into a nook, where a ceiling-high cupboard was nestled like a secret chamber within the room. Sam and Dean sat in anticipation, their ears tuned to the soft hum of her tune, punctuated by the rustle of papers as she rummaged within the cupboard's depths.

The cupboard doors clicked shut, and Julia returned to the table, her arms wrapped around a thick brown accordion folder that seemed to challenge her with its heft. With careful steps, she approached, placing the folder on the table before sliding into the last remaining chair—inevitably, the one next to Dean.

As she scooted her chair in, the proximity brought a subtle contact; her knee brushed against Dean's, a fleeting touch that sent a heightened awareness coursing through him. Julia opened the folder with a sense of ceremony, unleashing a cascade of notebooks and papers, each leaf carrying the weight of diligent inquiry.

Sam immediately delved into one of the notebooks, his eyes scanning the bubbly script and the stark sketches that accompanied the text. Dean, however, remained focused on Julia, his curiosity piqued not just by the research but by the researcher herself.

"So, what was it my dad had you digging into?" Dean inquired, his voice low and earnest, inviting confidence.

Julia's gaze lifted to meet his, a current of intensity passing between them. "A demon," she began, her voice barely above a murmur, as if the very word might invoke the creature's attention. Her eyes flicked to Sam's, ensuring she had both brothers' undivided attention, before she continued, "The Yellow-Eyed Demon."

To be continued . . .

Chapter Two

[pang3l]

What I Think The Shadows House Characters Would Wear In The Modern Times

Based on @sonar-waves post <- Emilico, Kate, Barbara, Barbie, Maryrose, and Rosemary is here

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Louise would likely embrace bold, eye-catching fashion. She might wear statement pieces like a bright-colored dress with ruffles or a matching set with an oversized blazer. She isn’t afraid to go big with accessories, either—think large earrings, bold makeup, and the trendiest handbag!

Lou would gravitate toward clean, monochromatic looks that emphasize simplicity and elegance. She'd likely wear outfits that would focus on neutral tones like white, beige, or black, with minimal accessories—perhaps just a delicate necklace or a sleek leather bag. She might opt for pointed flats or ankle boots to complete her look.

John would probably be relaxed and practical, with a rugged edge. He’d likely wear a well-worn denim jacket over a graphic tee, paired with distressed jeans or cargo pants. Footwear would be sturdy—either boots or high-top sneakers.

Shaun would lean towards a preppy, put-together style with a vintage twist. He might wear a sweater vest over a button-down shirt, paired with chinos or tailored trousers. His outfits would often include layering, with a focus on classic patterns like plaid or argyle. Accessories could include a leather watch or a newsboy cap, and his shoes would be polished loafers or brogues.

Patrick would have a more refined and classic style, with a preference for tailored clothing. He might wear a well-fitted blazer over a crisp dress shirt, paired with tailored trousers and polished oxfords. His color palette would be more muted and sophisticated, with an emphasis on grays, navy blues, and other classic colors.

Ricky's style is all about combining sleek, modern elements with a touch of sophistication. He would likely go for layered looks like a crisp shirt or turtleneck under a structured jacket or coat. His color palette would stay within the range of grays, blacks, and beiges.

[serene-faerie]

Doriathrim (plus Beren and Túrin) as Aesthetics

Thingol— towering pine trees, fireflies, a sharp jawline, stern yet gentle eyes, baroque architecture, glittering caves, majestic stags, hands as strong and firm as stone, sweet pomegranates, red wine and roasted meat, neat handwriting, the smell of pine, a melodic baritone voice, kohl-lined eyes that make them sharper, a raised eyebrow to convey displeasure and anger, silver jewelry, neatly-combed hair, diamonds, hunting boots, hugs that linger, well-loved books with folded pages, loving one’s family, autumn leaves, wolves howling at night, tall grass, a great waterfall, graceful postures, roasted game meat, white horses, flowing robes, piercing gazes, soft humming, classical music, unyielding morals, the color of the sky at dusk.

Melian— clear night skies, knowing smiles, the silver light of a waxing moon, braided dark hair, a clear and crystalline voice, elegant harp music, deep-pink jewels, soft hands, flowing gowns, loving gazes, kisses on the forehead, motherly hugs, laughter that sounds like music, white wine, moonflowers, the smell of earth after rain, forest walks, bird watching, dark eyes filled with ancient wisdom, a gentle spring breeze, the pink skies of dawn, romantic paintings, lavender flowers, always knowing what to say, birds in the trees, a flowing river, a graceful doe, blackberries, whispered singing, eyes crinkling with joy, ever present sorrow.

Beren— golden sunlight, forest bathing, leather boots, sword-calloused hands that touch gently, long, tousled brown hair, hardened yet sorrowful eyes, smiles as warm as summer, green cloaks, the smell of amber and cloves, sleeping beneath trees, hearty laughter, falling in love at first sight, a courageous spirit, a rough but warm voice, promising to protect those he loves, loving despite losing everyone dear, patching up injuries, lingering touches, dancing among the flowers, wild berries, fiery sunsets, warm hugs, brown bears, scarred muscles, hand kisses, vows to protect, the coming of summer, forest meadows, reverent whispers of love, admiring gazes, sweet wine, campfires.

Lúthien— starry skies, soft skin, long and loose dark hair, flower crowns, carefree smiles, eyes full of starlight, a voice like crystal, laughter as warm as summer nights, blue gowns, bare feet, ballet dancing, rosy lips, nightingales in the trees, shimmering purple eyeshadow, loving with one’s whole heart, jasmine flowers, red cherries, the smell of lilacs, the loving warmth of spring, sparkling jewels, meadows in the springtime, gentle hand-holding, butterfly kisses, elderflower cordial, sleeping amidst flowers, breaking out of the shell, soft singing, summer storms, april showers, a light in the darkness, a courageous heart, the pale blue morning skies.

Dior— dark, tousled hair, bright eyes, sparkly jewelry, a rugged elegance, a young fawn, mischievous smiles, blue jays, close bonds with family, witty comebacks, blueberries, sharp teeth dripping with blood, righteous fury, defending one’s home to the death, childhood lullabies, swimming in rivers, stargazing, crackling fires, the smell of musk, challenging death head-on, gleaming swords, blood moons, silver rings on each finger, collecting rain in cupped palms, raspberry tea, cicadas buzzing at dusk, the warm caress of a late spring breeze, thunderstorms, flashes of lightning, violent winds.

Nimloth— flushed cheeks, long silver hair, eyes with a gleam both faint and fierce, cunning smiles, loving fiercely, flower garlands, green gowns, careful hands, the new moon, emerald jewelry, golden earrings, bathing in forest rivers, protecting family with one’s life, sharp blades, a mother bear, white flowers, floral tea, strawberries, thrushes, holly leaves, blood upon one’s cheeks, torn dresses, the cool air of dawn, honey cakes, killing one’s enemy at the cost of one’s life, embroidered sheets, cherry-red lipstick, no regrets, victory in death, dying with a smile upon one’s face.

Elwing— white seagulls, wavy dark hair, eyes that are hardened by grief and pain, glowing gems, blue ocean waves, collecting seashells, waters glittering with starlight, a quiet, firm voice, hands that tremble ever so slightly, thick blankets, a gentle sea breeze, gazing out at the sea, warm honey tea, bread and apricot jam, candlelight by the bed, fingertips stained with ink, counting the stars, a worn plush toy, white feathers, a heart burdened with sorrow, finding joy in the smallest things, whispered lullabies to oneself, the pale blue dawn, the smell of the sea, jewelry of silver and pearls, beachside walks with one’s family.

Daeron— wooden flutes, bookshelves with worn books, cursive handwriting, candlelight upon desks, quiet ambient music, a light, clear voice, quiet humming to oneself, a cool autumn breeze, falling asleep at a desk, a crown of leaves, seasonal poetry, flowing rivers, soft hair, lush green grass, pining silently, wandering the earth, living in solitude, the passing of spring, songwriting, warm tea with spices, trying to do what is right, loving one’s home, loyalty to one’s lord, eloquent fingers, singing at parties, knowing exactly what to say at the right time, midsummer nights.

Beleg— hair in a ponytail, feather-tipped arrows, fingerless gloves, keen eyes, silent footsteps, kind smiles, brotherly hugs, deer hunting, sleeping under trees, silver bracelets, cherishing the bonds of friendship, frost upon tree branches, the chill of winter, brown owls, icicles from rooftops, morning mist in the trees, roasted game meat, thick scarves, falling snow, frozen waters, rainy nights, thunderclouds, forgiving, tragic poetry, suppressing one’s emotions, polished hunting boots, bird calls, carvings in tree trunks, loving someone for their flaws, kisses on hands, goodbye kisses, lips stained with blood.

Mablung— sharpened knives, a silent hunter, worn leather boots, even-tempered, always trying to keep a level head, a calming voice, sad smiles, making tea for others, late night hunting trips, strong hands, caverns that echo, light-footedness, elegant yet broken spears, always being the bearer of bad news, giving advice that is never listened to, windswept hair, the smell of bergamot and ginger, a heart weighed by sadness, bittersweet farewells, the thick morning fog, black ravens, mud upon one's cheeks, riverside walks, horse riding through forests, respect and love for one's superiors, fighting to defend one's home.

Túrin— long dark hair, turbulent scowls, sharp eyes full of righteous anger and pain, alcohol, poor decisions, black tea, bedtime stories, tiny smiles, laughter that is scarcely heard, carving wooden animals with a knife, clothes stained with blood, heart racing with adrenaline, lightning, the rumbling of thunder, a hoarse and deep voice, solitude, abandoned cities, shattered mirrors, unyielding stubbornness and pride, words that can cut deep, quick to anger, loving deeply, passionate about justice, running barefoot across the grass, wilted flowers, withered trees, lucid dreaming, dark colors, restlessness, heavy boots, hooded capes, gleaming black swords, tears of anger and bitterness, cloudy skies.

Nellas— robins, three-leafed clovers, tall grass, sleeping in the trees, daisies, red apples, messy braids, short and loose dresses, walking barefoot, freckled cheeks, eyes as warm as the sun, feeding the squirrels, uncaring of anyone's opinions, loving the woodland creatures, the countryside, herds of deer, clusters of poppies, playing hide-and-seek in the forest, folklore stories of animals that speak, dirt under fingernails, crisp air, muddy feet, stargazing from the tallest trees, shy smiles, red foxes, red maple trees, rosy cheeks, a cute button nose, quiet observation, dried leaves in tangled hair, hushed whispers, secret giggles.

Oropher— tall oak trees, loose silver hair, a heart full of unending grief, glittering deep green robes, memorial shrines carved in stone, rosemary and heather, climbing vines, the smell of incense, loves the forest, anger that quietly simmers, a piercing glare to silence unwanted chatter, firm but gentle hands, the sound of rushing rivers, only trusting those who have earned it, quills dipped in ink, leather-bound journals, a compelling voice, silvery light, vast, old-growth forests, black bears, always keeping promises, grey-blue eyes, a mind haunted by memory, reluctant alliances, firm and unwavering principles, late night reading, being slow to forgive, tales of the past, bitter nostalgia, night skies fading into dawn.

Thranduil— a crown of oak leaves and woodland flowers, sweet and fruity wine, tall and dark forests, the crisp chill of early winter, high ceilings, a gleaming sword with a golden hilt, a silver necklace with white jewels, autumn berries, family hunting trips, joyous feasts late into the night, loving the forest through all the seasons, rings of silver and gold, silver eyeshadow, sharp eyeliner that enhances one's eyes, pale straight hair, a heart weighed with bittersweet melancholy, gently rocking a baby's cradle, long hours in the library, a marvellous deer, shimmering eyeshadow, disdain shown through raised eyebrows, the smell of autumn leaves, silk robes, stories about the forests and the stars, befriending the woodland creatures, loving those who are lost.

[danika-redgrave124]

Umbra Witch Yuu

Tags: @sapphirepastries @twisted-dreamscape @fungifanart

Here are the Staff Weapons for Umbra Witch Yuu. Next will be the side Characters.

Dire Crowley

Raven's Requiem

Dual pistols designed with sleek, black feathers and intricate Raven motifs. Each pistol is adorned with shimmering, dark feathers that give them a mysterious, ominous appearance.

Flocks of Shadow: Unleashes a swarm of spectral crows that evelop enemies causing continous damage and reducing visibility. The crows boost Yuu's evasiveness and speed while active.

Divus Crewel (Cruella De Vil)

Couture Chic

Dual whips with luxurious black and white designs. The handles ate adorned with faux fur and elegant patterns. Strikes release stylish energy slashes and create a dazzling display of elegance.

Spotlight Fury: Unleashes a flurry of strikes that dazzle and confuse enemies, temporarily enhancing Yuu's speed and evasiveness with a touch of fashionable flair.

Mozus Trein (Lady Tremaine)

Wicked Stilettoos

Dual slender swords with ornate handles and sharp, needle-like blades. Strikes are precise and calculated, leaving behind a trail of dark Enchantments.

Enchanted Malice: Unleashes a flurry of attacks that caused enemies to turn on each other briefly, temporarily increasing Yuu's agility and causing confusion among enemies.

Ashton Vargas (Gaston)

Hunting Crossbow

A powerful crossbow with a rugged, hunting-inspired design and adorned with antlers. Strikes release explosive bolts and create shockwaves.

Hunter's Pride: Unleashes a barrage of explosive bolts that cause widespread damaged, temporarily increasing Yuu's strength and attack power.

Sam (Dr. Facilier)

Shadowed Voodoo

A staff gun adorned with voodoo symbols and glowing with dark magic. Strikes release shadowy tendrils and mystical hexes.

Shadow Conjuration: Summons shadowy spirits that curse enemies, draining their energy and temporarily boosting Yuu's magical abilities.

[twisting-echo]

Snow White x Gaston Disney Mirrorverse Headcanons

(Click on pictures for better quality)

What I love about Snow White's Disney Mirrorverse design is that she truly embodies a benevolent nature goddess like Demeter, Persephone, and Mother Nature. I adore the different concepts of Snow White with long hair, and I've added hearts to my favorite designs. I particularly love the outfit with the light blue/cool color scheme because it represents spring, and the outfit with the light yellow/warm color scheme because it captures the essence of autumn. My favorite headpiece will always be the one adorned with roses. Overall, I'm in love with her and her finished design.

Gaston with longer hair let loose is something I've always known I needed, but Gaston with facial hair is a revelation I never expected because it makes his sky-blue eyes pop! I'm not sure if the design team intended for Gaston to resemble a dark god of the wilds and hunting, but that's exactly what he looks like to me. The concept designs featuring Gaston with the wolf pelts and antler headpieces particularly stand out to me because they evoke images of gods like Cernunnos, The Horned God, and Herne the Hunter (even though Herne is a ghost, he's still associated with hunting and the wilds). I've marked my favorite concept designs and his facial hair with hearts. Overall, I love his finished, beastly, and feral design.

Headcanon:

In my headcanon, years after the events of Disney Mirrorverse, Snow White and Gaston are married, and their Stellar Magic abilities have amplified, turning them into deities of some sort.

Gaston's transformation into a god of the wilds amplifies his natural strength and primal instincts. With his long hair flowing wildly and adorned with a majestic antler headpiece, he embodies the untamed spirit of the forest. He now wears fur pelts, symbolizing his mastery over the creatures of the wild and his protective nature towards them. His stellar magic abilities have granted him control over the animals and the elements of the wild. He can summon and harness the raw power of nature to defend his domain. His appearance is now more imposing and regal, with his attire reflecting his status as a king of the wilderness. His beastly features are accentuated, giving him an aura of both danger and guardianship.

Snow White's transformation into a goddess of nature amplifies her nurturing and harmonious connection with the earth. Her long hair is adorned with flowers, and her body is covered with leaves, vines, and feathers, symbolizing her deep bond with all living things. Her stellar magic abilities have amplified her control over plant life and natural elements. She can heal the land, summon plants to aid her, and create protective barriers made of vines and flowers. Her presence brings growth and renewal to everything around her. Her appearance now radiates grace and elegance, with her attire blending seamlessly with the natural world. Her regal yet gentle demeanor showcases her role as a protector and nurturer.

As a married couple, they live in a huge, enchanted, hollowed-out tree with the dwarfs and their seven children. Snow White has many animal companions, while Gaston has a pack of wolves as pets.

Gaston has a tender and unwavering devotion to his tiny queen. Beneath his rugged exterior, he harbors a deep and abiding love for her. Snow White is the soft spot in Gaston's heart. Her presence brings out his gentler side, and he often finds himself enchanted by her grace and beauty. Despite his arrogance, Gaston becomes soft and caring in her company, going out of his way to do small, thoughtful things for her. Whenever he starts to treat others rudely or roughly, Snow White intervenes with a soft touch or a gentle caress. Her soothing touch has a magical effect on him, instantly calming his temper and reminding him to be the man he wants to be for her.

Snow White finds immense comfort in the loving embrace of her husband (which has nothing to do with the fact that she was touch-starved for a good portion of her life after her father died). She cherishes the moments when he wraps her in his arms for big, long hugs, feeling the warmth and protection he offers. She also catches him listening intently whenever she’s singing or telling stories to the children and animals, and it makes her smile to herself to see the inner little boy within Gaston—a side of him that is curious and playful~

That's all I got for now.

(I've been writing this since Disney Mirrorverse shut down)

[detectivesebcas]

Promptober 2024 Day 30- Fall Wedding (AU, Post-STEM)

Prompt: fall wedding

Warnings: none

“Sebastian?” Stefano calls.

The wooden steps creak under his feet.  The venue is an elegant old place, but it’s easy to tell it was built at least a hundred years ago.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Sebastian calls back.

Stefano continues up the stairs and down the hall to their room, carefully turning the antique knob.  The building is a lovely bed and breakfast in the country, and after touring the grounds Stefano was absolutely certain this was the place for their wedding, but the old architecture and fixtures have already caused a few problems.

Sebastian is standing in front of the mirror fumbling with his bow tie, and Stefano is taken aback by how good Sebastian looks in a simple black tuxedo and white dress shirt.

“Help,” Sebastian says, turning to Stefano with a pleading look.

Stefano smiles.  He knows Sebastian is perfectly capable of tying a tie, but he’s happy to help.  He crosses the floor, shoes sinking into the plush rug, and reaches for the ends of the tie.

“Isn’t it bad luck for you to see me on our wedding day?” Sebastian asks, and Stefano laughs.

“I think it will be alright,” he says, putting the finishing touches on Sebastian’s tie and stepping back.  “And if I hadn’t come up I suspect you wouldn’t have been able to finish getting dressed.”

He takes Sebastian’s hands and leans in to press a kiss to Sebastian’s neck, breathing in the scent of his aftershave.

“You look absolutely dashing,” he says, and Sebastian blushes in response.  “Are you nervous?”

“Is it that obvious?” Sebastian asks.

“Your hands are shaking,” Stefano observes, giving them a squeeze.

“It’s not you,” Sebastian says quickly.  “I’m not even sure it’s me either.  It’s just…when I married Myra…”

Sebastian looks at him as though asking permission to continue, and Stefano nods encouragingly.  He’s never felt threatened by Sebastian’s memories of Myra.

“...it felt like such a huge life event,” Sebastian continues.  “And I wanted to do it right, because at the time I just felt like it was something you only do once, you know?”

Stefano smiles.  “I am sure it did.  It is certainly something I only intend to do once, but we cannot know what the future holds, and we are not always in control of our fate.”

Sebastian nods.  “I certainly couldn’t have predicted any of this.”

“For today though,” Stefano says, “we are here in this beautiful place, and all of our friends and family are here, and I want to celebrate us.”

He nods to the window, and they both look out onto the grounds, which are awash in fall color.  He can see the decorative archway, framed by maple trees in vivid reds and oranges, and the seats where their guests are already starting to assemble.

“I do too,” Sebastian says, leaning in to kiss him.

“Are you going to be okay now?” Stefano asks when he steps back.

Sebastian smiles.  “I was okay before.  I just needed you to remind me.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Stefano says.  He glances at his watch.  “We had better get downstairs.  We’re due to start in five minutes.”

Sebastian takes one last look at himself in the full length mirror, takes a deep breath, and slips his hand into Stefano’s.

Stefano leads the way down the stairs, through the foyer, and out the back door to where everyone is assembling.  He can see his breath in the air even though the afternoon sun is warming things up, and the leaves crunch under his feet.

Most of the guests are already seated in the rows of chairs lined up in front of the archway, but they’re immediately approached by Lily and Aria, who are wearing matching blue dresses.  The color was Stefano’s idea, but it makes them stand out beautifully against the backdrop of red and orange.

Neither he nor Sebastian has living parents.  In fact, neither one of them has very much family at all, so they’ve had to get a little creative with their wedding arrangements, but Stefano thinks they’ve managed to construct something that is at least in the spirit of a traditional wedding.

He looks down the aisle to see Joseph already standing beside the officiant.

He leans in to Sebastian and whispers, “I love you,” before he offers his arm to Aria and starts down the aisle, leaving Lily to tend to Sebastian.

The string quartet, which up until now has been playing some filler music, gets itself organized and the first strains of “Serenade for Strings in C Major” wash over them, taking Stefano momentarily back to another place, another time when he would never have imagined he would end up here.  It’s fitting to hear this piece today, as he moves forward into his next great work with Sebastian.

His heart is pounding, but he takes care to keep his steps slow and measured as he makes his way down the aisle between the two rows of seats, Aria keeping pace with him.  He can see out of the corner of his eye that she’s trying to keep her face appropriately solemn, but she’s having a hard time containing her smile, and Stefano is filled with warmth at being here, surrounded by family and friends and about to marry a truly incredible man.

When they reach the archway, Joseph gives him a nod, and Stefano and Aria take their places on the stage.

Then it’s time for Sebastian and Lily to walk down the aisle, and Stefano can’t help but smile at the image of sixteen-year-old Lily giving her father away.  She’s absolutely beaming, and beside her Sebastian’s eyes are fixed on Stefano.

They make it to the stage and take their places with Sebastian opposite Stefano and the officiant between them.  The music fades away as the man begins to speak, but Stefano only has eyes for Sebastian.

No matter what the future holds, he knows he can face it with Sebastian by his side.

[mariateresaeliapivetta]

The Timeless Charm of Brocante: Why We Love This Vintage-Inspired Style

When it comes to interior design, few styles capture the romance and nostalgia of the past quite like Brocante. Rooted in French culture, the term “brocante” refers to flea markets or second-hand goods, yet its essence transcends simple thrift shopping. Brocante is an artful mix of vintage elegance, rustic charm, and a touch of whimsy that creates a warm, lived-in atmosphere. But why does this style resonate so deeply with design enthusiasts? Let’s dive into the world of Brocante and uncover its enduring appeal.

What Defines Brocante Style?

At its core, Brocante style is about breathing new life into old treasures. It thrives on the beauty of imperfection, celebrating items that show the passage of time. Think antique furniture with distressed finishes, mismatched dinnerware with delicate patterns, weathered textiles, and handmade details.

Brocante isn’t about creating a flawless, museum-like environment. Instead, it embraces a curated, eclectic look where each piece has a story to tell. Key elements of Brocante interiors include:

Vintage Furniture: French armoires, wooden dining tables with chipped paint, or upholstered chairs with faded fabrics.

Soft Color Palettes: Muted tones like white, beige, pastels, and soft greys dominate the color scheme, creating a serene and cohesive atmosphere.

Decorative Accessories: Chandeliers, ornate mirrors, vintage clocks, and delicate porcelain or ceramic items.

Natural Materials: Linen, cotton, aged wood, and wrought iron bring texture and authenticity.

Why Do People Love Brocante Style?

1. Nostalgia and Sentimentality

Brocante offers a connection to the past, reminding us of simpler times. The style evokes a sense of history and craftsmanship, often lost in mass-produced modern design. Each item feels like a treasure, full of character and charm.

2. Sustainability and Upcycling

In a world increasingly aware of environmental impact, Brocante’s emphasis on repurposing and reusing is not only appealing but also ethical. By giving old items a second life, this style promotes sustainable living while creating unique and personal interiors.

3. A Warm and Inviting Atmosphere

Brocante interiors are inherently cozy. The use of aged materials, soft lighting, and layered textures makes spaces feel welcoming and lived-in. Unlike minimalist styles, Brocante thrives on personality and comfort.

4. A Celebration of Individuality

No two Brocante spaces are alike. This style encourages creativity and self-expression, allowing homeowners to mix and match pieces that reflect their personal taste. Whether it’s a flea market find or a cherished family heirloom, every item has its place.

5. A Romantic Aesthetic

With its delicate details, ornate decorations, and emphasis on softness, Brocante is undeniably romantic. It appeals to those who dream of rustic French cottages, rose-filled gardens, and the charm of provincial life.

How to Incorporate Brocante Into Your Home

You don’t need to overhaul your entire home to embrace Brocante style. Here are some simple ways to start:

Shop Vintage and Flea Markets: Look for unique pieces like wooden crates, vintage picture frames, or enamel kitchenware.

Mix Old with New: Combine antique furniture with modern accents to create a balanced and harmonious space.

Embrace Imperfections: Don’t shy away from scratches, faded fabrics, or chipped paint – they add authenticity.

Focus on Textures: Layer linens, rugs, and cushions for a cozy, tactile feel.

Add Personal Touches: Display collections, photographs, or handmade crafts to make the space your own.

In Conclusion

Brocante style is more than just an aesthetic – it’s a lifestyle. It’s about cherishing the past, embracing imperfection, and finding beauty in the everyday. Whether you’re an avid flea market hunter or someone looking to add a touch of vintage charm to your home, Brocante offers endless possibilities. Its timeless appeal lies in its authenticity, warmth, and the stories it tells, making it a favorite for those who value heart and soul in their interiors.

Are you ready to bring a touch of Brocante into your life? Happy treasure hunting!

[aneurinallday]

Pygmalion

It was disillusionment that drove Pygmalion of Cyprus into self-imposed solitude; a deep and insurmountable dissatisfaction with the world outside. The carnal temptations and material decadence of society had lost their shine, and he no longer found any joy in the company of women or men.

Physical pleasures were fleeting, and no matter what distractions he pursued, the void inside him grew faster than he could fill it. He came to the bitter conclusion that he was doomed to a life of unhappiness, and finally, he turned his back on a world which no longer held any charm for him.

Vowing celibacy, the great sculptor retreated into his workshop, and in the peace and quiet of isolation, he lost himself in his labour. He told himself that he was happy - that he had no need of human companionship - and for a while, he believed it. His hammers and chisels were the only friends he needed, and his slabs of stone were the cosmogonic matter from which he would create his own universe.

In the middle of his workshop stood a crude block of alabaster, a rugged pillar as white as freshly fallen snow. The broadening of its midsection and the narrowing of its top - the subtle suggestion of a human shape - were the only clues as to its intended purpose.

“If the gods will not make a companion for me, I will make one for myself,” he promised.

He started at the base, and worked his way up with hammer and chisel. Scrape by scrape, blow by blow, centimetre by centimetre, he committed his vision to stone.

The feet, frozen in mid-step. The strong yet supple legs. The well-proportioned groin, where the hard angles of the pelvis transitioned into the soft curve of the belly, and where the manhood was enthroned. The sturdy back, widening into broad shoulders. The elegant ridge of the collarbone, the vulnerable hollow of the throat. The strong arms, tapering to graceful hands. With rasps and files, he agonised over each finger, desperate to perfect each nail.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. He barely left his workshop. He neglected his duties to friends and family, his commitments to his community, his prayers to the gods. As the sculpture took shape, the world outside faded from existence - the former coming into sharp focus while the latter lost all meaning.

Finally, he arrived at the head - the most difficult challenge of all, for it required not just accurate proportions, but a lively expression. With masterful precision, he carved out the fine details. Every tress of hair was a separate work of art, every contour an act of love. He delighted over the delicate lips, the elegant nose, the large eyes demurely downcast, half-covered by lowered eyelids. The slight asymmetry of the statue’s facial features only increased its beauty.

At long last, the statue was complete. There were no defects left to correct, no rough patches left to abrade - nothing to do but stand back and survey the fruits of his labour. The figure of a young man stood in a languid pose, gazing into the distance, his limbs forming long and alluring curves.

It was an image of perfection, yet the sculptor found no satisfaction in it, only frustration. He had been proud of the statue’s skin, its smooth grain and ivory lustre a testament to the skill of its carver. But now, that same smoothness angered him. It was too empty to the touch - it lacked the fine hairs, the variations in texture, the bumps and scars and random moles - everything that made human skin feel like human skin.

What he had created was not true beauty, but a soulless facsimile of it. There were no lungs to draw breath, no heart to beat, no veins to carry blood. No breath flowed from its nose - the nostrils were simply shallow impressions, dead-ends which led nowhere. The blank eyes stared lifelessly at nothing. The lovingly crafted genitalia were unresponsive to the touch.

He began to hate the statue - hate it as much as he adored it. He yearned to grab a hammer and smash it to pieces, but he couldn’t bring himself to destroy months of meticulous carving.

Once he’d grown tired of hatred, he began to love again. The statue may have been stone, but it could still be treated as flesh.

As if the frigid rock were a blushing maiden to be wooed, Pygmalion began to lavish it with gifts and adornments. Around its shoulders, he draped a robe of the most opulent design, richly embroidered with golden threads. Around its neck, he hung pearls and gems and seashells. At its feet, he laid flowers and fruits.

When these offerings garnered no response, he imagined that his lover was displeased. He removed the statue from its podium and, with great care, carried it to his bed. He laid it down upon the softest cushions and most luxurious fabrics that his fortune could buy; and he lay beside it, and stroked its carven face, and whispered tenderly to it.

Galateos, he named it: the milk-white one.

He fancied that the face was a mask, and that all he had to do was remove it and he would behold the face of his beloved. But it was only a fancy - he knew that no soul inhabited this rock, and that no life lay beneath the sculpted surface.

Cold was Pygmalion’s bed, for cold was his lover - even his embrace could not impart warmth to the stone.

Duty dragged the miserable celibate from his place of seclusion, compelling him to attend the festival of Aphrodite. The sacred flames had been lit, and the temple burned as bright as a beacon in the night. Worshippers revelled upon the stone steps and around the painted columns, their songs of prayer mixed with drunken celebration. Pygmalion could not bring himself to join them.

He muttered invocations in Her name and burned incense at Her altar, but his heart lay elsewhere. His true altar was a bed of silk sheets, and his true god was carved from snow-white alabaster. Pygmalion ached to worship him.

As he knelt before the marble statue of Aphrodite, and looked up at the majesty of Her divine countenance, he was gripped by a sudden, unbearable sense of loneliness. Of desolation.

“Heavenly Aphrodite!” he cried out in despair. “I can endure this life no longer. My only companion is made of stone, and cares nothing for me. He does not return my affections. Without human touch, I cannot survive. I beg you - grant me a companion as perfect as my creation. For there is no human on this earth more lovely than my masterpiece.”

No response came from the marble visage, whose beauty was unmatched among both deities and mortals.

Pygmalion fled the festival before its conclusion. Eager to escape the crowds and noise, the singing and dancing, the pounding drums and blazing fires. Eager to return to his beloved, his Galateos, whom he knew was waiting faithfully.

He hastened back to the darkness of his workshop - his silent sanctuary, where Galateos lay in repose amid flowers. Approaching the shadowy bed, Pygmalion knelt above the motionless torso, and breathed upon its chiselled lips.

“How can I live without you?” he whispered, and kissed the stone mouth.

But it wasn’t stone that greeted him. The lips which he’d expected to be cold and hard, were instead warm and soft. They bestowed a slight moisture which lingered upon Pygmalion’s own lips.

Pygmalion stumbled backwards with a cry. As the shape on the bed began to stir, he hurried to the brazier of smouldering embers, and revived the flames, casting light upon the bed and his creation.

What he saw was a young man of flesh and blood, awakening from slumber, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His skin, which had once been pure white, had adopted a natural pinkish hue, though still pale. His hair fell in long, dark brown curls which framed his charming face and brushed his exquisite shoulders.

As Pygmalion looked on in wonder, Galateos sat up in bed, his naked limbs rearranging themselves gracefully upon the cushions. He looked at his creator with large eyes - no longer white, but Elysian green.

“Kyrios,” he said. His voice was as sweet and soothing as honey. “Come to me.”

Pygmalion staggered towards him with arms outstretched.

“Impossible,” he said, “Impossible!”

In disbelief, he touched the now-living body - every contour of which he had memorised - and found it both familiar and unfamiliar. The skin was now textured with hairs and a scattering of freckles. The thighs were now soft and inviting. The manhood was now nestled amid small, dark curls - it flushed and swelled before his very eyes.

“How can this be?” the carver exclaimed.

Frantically, he slid his hands over Galateos’ sleek chest, feeling it rise and fall, feeling the heart beating beneath its ribs. He grabbed at the elegant throat, and found a pulse already quickened with excitement. He hesitated to proceed further.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Galateos. “Touch me.”

Pygmalion ran his hands through the long dark hair, marvelling at its texture, treasuring the individuals strands as they flowed between his fingers. He cupped the beautiful face between his hands, and gazed intently into the green eyes, which reflected the firelight. He let go.

“Am I dreaming?” he demanded.

The young man laughed and shook his head, his long tresses swaying and caressing his neck in a beguiling way. Pygmalion could feel the gentle puff of his breath.

“No. You have awoken, and so have I. Now come to me.”

Pygmalion’s linen chiton was fastened at one shoulder. Galateos unpinned it, and let the garment fall to the floor, forgotten. He took the sculptor in his arms, and then in his hands, and eventually in his mouth - enveloping his manhood in warmth and wetness. With his loving tongue and his stroking fingers, he brought him to the point of release, and drew forth a flow of ecstasy that left Pygmalion gasping; but he knew there was more to follow.

The night was still young. With a smile, Galateos lay back upon the cushions, and spread himself in invitation, and guided his creator to paradise.

[gothicbeastgirl]

Hello, hello!

Almost all of you know English is not my first language and I'm trying my best. I'm not quite familiar with victorian things but I want to be part of this beautiful fandom so here's my contribution.

I wanted to use another song (you can listen to it searching Lysandro San Valentin on YT) but it wasn't possible, so I chose this one bc I think it's beautiful too. You can listen while you read for a better experience (bc as I told you I'm not familiar with this and I wanted to ambience it more) if you got Spotify or in the link for YT. Hope you like it!

A young man dressed in a long aqua-colored jacket was walking from one side of the room to the other, annoyed, uncomfortable, and beautiful pink eyes followed him from one side to the other, with restrained words. He twisted the tips of his white sleeves, fearing that he would tear off the gold trim on his jacket if he fiddled with them too much. The silver-haired girl (his valet) watched his comings and goings. She cleared her throat but said nothing. She caught his attention and cast a look that was intended to be supportive, to convey love and affection, as well as calm, but she knew that wouldn't change the young man's anger. Her smile faded when there was a knock on the door and Chase jumped as he looked at it, his expression discomposed. Chase felt like the huge bottle-green living room was spinning around him very dequickly, that he would end up tripping over the pretty dark wood coffee table, and that he would be lucky if he landed on the brown sofa instead of on the valuable red, black and cream patterned rug, which he thought he would throw up on. One of the flaps of the large door next to the tall bookshelf full of books he hadn't read opened and the knot in his stomach tightened a little more.

Chase had been engaged to a woman he didn't know, it was one of those marriages of convenience between wealthy families, and he had to start courting her now that they had approved their marriage. He didn't know what she looked like physically, he didn't know what her name was or how old she was, much less what things she liked. He only knew that he had to learn to dance for the ball they had prepared, where they would announce their union to the rest of the members of high society.

Chase sighed, and was glad he did, because when the person he was waiting for finally entered the room, his breathing stopped and time froze. A young man with a pale complexion and ice-blue eyes appeared, his black hair matched his clothing: he wore black pleated pants, a charcoal gray vest from whose lapels hung several thin intertwined silver chains, and over this he wore an elegant knee-length jacket in the same color as his pants. The boy, tall and thin, stared at him and Chase felt the coldness of his icy gaze while his cheeks burned from the intensity of it. Mute before that beauty that seemed from another world, he managed to stammer a ridiculous greeting. He glanced at Silver to see her smiling secretly, looking at the corner of the room, because she was the only one who knew that what Chase really liked were boys. Chase thought that this only happened in the fairy tales he was told as a child, but he had felt those butterflies in his stomach from the first moment their hands touched. The man who was teaching him how to lead the dance to dance with a woman was the one he waited for every week, and he felt absolutely alone when he left, who knew where, and he spent the rest of the day thinking about his touch, his eyes, his smile (somewhat haughty) and the sound of his voice. Buddy opened his eyes when Chase told him about what he was thinking.

With three weeks left to announce the engagement, Chase stumbled, displaying his infinite clumsiness, and his nose was just millimeters away from the nose of the boy, whom he affectionately called Buddy (because he couldn't pronounce his name correctly), and his eyes They made contact longer than usual. Chase noticed the blush on his cheeks, his eyes strayed to the taller man's lips for a few seconds, and with an imperceptible approach he made it clear what his intentions were. To his surprise, Buddy leaned towards him too and their lips made contact for about five or six seconds. He blinked to make sure he wasn't daydreaming, and sure enough, he wasn't. His couples dance teacher stressed that he needed more classes to improve and his visits increased in the following weeks, during which they did nothing but get to know each other more little by little. Days before the appointed date, Chase expressed his disagreement with his marriage, Buddy already assumed it but he did not expect to hear what Chase had to say. While Grandpa Ralph was waiting for his grandson with Deacon, Chase's cousin, who was looking askance at the blonde's fiancée, thinking about how lucky he was, Silver made an appearance.

“Where is Chase, little Silver?” he asked. He always treated her like she was part of the family. She smiled.

“Chase is not going to come, sir” she answered, and both of them were surprised, she giggled and gave Ralph a piece of paper with a little head inclination, and then she retired.

Grandpa Ralph read the note, Deacon looked above his shoulder to read it too  curious.

“He… left with another man?” he asked. He always knew Chase wasn’t into women, but he didn’t expect him to disobey like this. He was proud, but had to keep the looks, so he thought about something to say to excuse him and break that engagement. He smiled as he lended Deacon the note and started walking to the woman who was waiting to meet Chase.

Deacon read the note again and smiled too. Chase was like that, he knew. And someone had to console that poor and beautiful maiden.

I used this pictures for inspiration 🫶🏻

Chase, Buddy, Deacon and Silver's outfits.

And the room where it starts

[everyones-fangirl]

Delectable Little Pet

Warnings: 18+ This will be about after ascension Astarion so expect some extreme dark romance and future triggers. Female Masturbation. Stalking. Being super forward/not taking no for an answer.

Word Count: 4,247

Chapter 4

Cassara

The tavern was bustling, a hive of activity as patrons came and went, their laughter and shouts blending into a cacophony of noise. A large table of orcs in the corner grew louder with each drink, their raucous laughter and booming voices dominating the room. The sun shone bright today, its rays filtering through the windows and casting warm patches of light on the wooden floor. Sweat collected at my brow, and the only relief came when the door opened, allowing a brief, cool breeze to waft in and provide momentary respite. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, grateful for the bandana that kept my hair off my face. Over the past few weeks, I had learned to favor pants over skirts for their practicality. My attire was a blend of practicality and understated elegance, reflecting both my elven heritage and my current circumstances. I favored garments that allowed me to move freely and withstand the rigors of working at the tavern, yet these clothes also subtly accentuated my natural beauty and grace.

My pants were made of supple, dark brown leather that hugged my curves while providing protection and flexibility. The leather was well-worn, softening over time but still retaining its durability. These pants were reinforced at the knees and hips, places most prone to wear and tear, showcasing thoughtful craftsmanship. Small, intricately embroidered patterns ran along the seams, adding a touch of elven artistry to the otherwise utilitarian garment. My shirt was a simple yet elegant white blouse made of fine linen. The fabric was lightweight and breathable, perfect for long, hot days in the bustling tavern. The blouse had billowing sleeves that cinched at the wrists with delicate, lace-trimmed cuffs. The neckline was modest, yet it featured a subtle, scalloped edge that added a hint of femininity. When I moved, the blouse flowed around me, hinting at the fluid grace with which I carried myself.

Over the blouse, I wore a corset top made of dark green brocade fabric. The corset was intricately designed, with patterns of leaves and vines woven into the material. The corset laced up the front with a series of delicate, silver eyelets, each thread carefully tied to ensure a snug fit that accentuated my waist and provided support. The boning in the corset was flexible yet firm, allowing me to maintain my posture while working long hours without discomfort. I often accessorized with a few select pieces that held personal significance. Around my neck, I wore a thin silver chain with a small pendant shaped like a leaf, a gift from my mother that I never took off. My fingers were adorned with simple silver rings, each one engraved with tiny runes of protection and healing, their magic subtle but ever-present.

My practical side showed in the sturdy boots I wore, made of the same dark brown leather as my pants. These boots were well-crafted, with reinforced soles and ankle support that allowed me to move swiftly and confidently across the tavern's creaky wooden floors. The boots reached just below my knees, laced up the front, and were adorned with small, silver buckles that added a touch of elegance to their rugged design. To keep my long, thick dark brown hair out of my face while I worked, I often tied it back with a crème-colored bandana. The bandana was made of soft, lightweight fabric, and I had a few in different shades to match my outfits. When I wasn't working, I would let my hair down, the dark waves cascading over my shoulders and down my back, shimmering with a faint green luminescence in the right light.

I had started working the counter and tables on my days off. Each coin earned brought me a step closer to moving on, to finding a new place where I could start fresh. As I moved between tables, balancing trays of drinks and plates of food, I felt a sense of purpose, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. The tavern’s interior was a mix of warm wood and rough stone, the walls adorned with faded tapestries and old hunting trophies. The air was thick with the scent of ale, roasted meat, and the earthy aroma of the orcs' sweat. The floorboards creaked under the weight of heavy boots, and the low hum of conversation was punctuated by the occasional cheer or bellow.

At the bar, Caty worked her magic, her fingers flying as she poured drinks and charmed the customers with her infectious smile. Her red hair was a vibrant flame in the dim light, and her laughter was a constant, cheerful background noise. I admired her ability to remain upbeat and engaging, even when the tavern was at its busiest.

As I served a group of dwarves seated near the fireplace, I couldn't help but steal glances at the door. Every time it opened, I hoped for a breeze to cool my flushed skin, but I also found myself scanning the faces of the newcomers. A habit formed from both curiosity and caution, ever since that night with Astarion. The orcs' table erupted in another wave of laughter, and I turned to see one of them pounding the table with a fist, causing mugs to jump and slosh their contents. I hurried over, deftly weaving through the crowd, and set down a fresh pitcher of ale. One of the orcs, a towering brute with a scar running down his cheek, grinned at me.

"More ale! You keep us happy, girl," he bellowed, his voice like rolling thunder.

I nodded, offering a polite smile. "Of course. Enjoy your drinks."

As I turned away, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a polished shield hanging on the wall. My face was flushed, not just from the heat but from the constant exertion. Despite the sweat and the noise, there was a determination in my eyes. I was working toward something, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Moving toward the next table, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The tavern was just a stepping stone, a place to gather strength and resources for whatever lay ahead.I refused to let anything get in my way—not my aching feet, the sweltering heat, or a certain unnaturally pale elf.

I hadn’t seen him in weeks, but I kept catching glimpses of his silver hair or piercing eyes in the crowd. Each time, a shiver ran down my spine. Something about him made my hair stand on end, and the way he looked at me—as if I were a meal—made me feel extremely conflicted. From the moment he approached our table, I knew he was used to getting what he wanted. When I turned him down, it only further proved my point.

He was dangerous, and I knew scheming when I saw it. It was all I did growing up. Underneath the fear he evoked in me, there was a certain type of heat or desire hidden. It was that feeling that kept him at the forefront of my mind, a secret yearning for him to come back, to approach me again. It had been a while since I found someone who could keep up with my banter. The look in his eyes while he observed me last time was borderline murderous, yet I couldn't deny the thrill it gave me.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts as I approached the next table. The constant motion, the clinking of mugs, the chatter of patrons—all of it was becoming familiar. Yet, despite the routine, my mind kept wandering back to him. His predatory gaze, the way his presence seemed to fill the room, even when he wasn't there.

I felt a mix of fear and excitement whenever I thought about him. He was a puzzle I wanted to solve, a danger I wanted to face. But I knew better than to let my guard down. The stakes were too high, and I couldn't afford to be reckless. My future depended on it.

I shrugged my shoulders as I picked up the dirty dishes from a newly empty table, the clatter of mugs and plates a familiar comfort amid the tavern's chaos. It’s not like he showed much interest in me anyway. I found myself glancing over at Caty, who was effortlessly working the bar. A large crowd had formed around her, captivated by her bright smile and quick hands as she mixed drinks with practiced ease. He was definitely more interested in her, and I couldn’t blame him. Caty’s personality was magnetic, drawing people in with her infectious laughter and boundless energy. But that only made me want to protect her more. The world was full of dangers we couldn’t see, and I had learned to be wary of anyone too smooth, too charming.

When Astarion had grabbed her to take her to the so-called “party” that night a few weeks back, panic surged within me. The memory was still vivid, a chilling reminder of how close we had come to losing her. The way he looked at her was different, predatory and cold. Something in me screamed that if she went with him, I would never see her again.

I gasped in surprise as familiar arms wrapped tightly around me from behind. A small laugh escaped my lips as I struggled to balance the tray of dirty dishes in my arms. “Woah, woah. Careful! If I break these, I’ll lose money!” I playfully frowned at my friend, my heart warming at the sound of her laughter.

Setting the tray down at the bar, I turned to see Caty grinning widely. She hopped up onto one of the stools, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “A couple of us are going out after this shift. You should come.”

I sighed heavily, shaking my head. “You know I can’t. I signed up for a double.” My voice was weary but firm. “I need this.”

Caty's expression fell, a hint of disappointment shadowing her features. She nodded reluctantly, understanding but not happy about it. “I know, I know. But you should take a break soon, or you’ll work yourself to death.”

I glanced around the bustling tavern, the noise of chatter and clinking glasses filling the air. The sun had finally set, and the evening crowd had settled in, making the place even more hectic. Sweat trickled down my forehead, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand, feeling the weight of exhaustion bearing down on me.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Besides, we need the money if we want to move on from this place.”

Caty’s eyes softened, and she reached out, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “I just worry about you, Cassara. You’ve been pushing yourself so hard.”

I forced a smile, appreciating her concern but knowing I couldn’t afford to slow down. “I promise I’ll be careful. Just a little while longer, okay?”

She sighed but didn’t press the issue further. “Alright. Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”

As she jumped off the stool and headed back to the bar to help with the evening rush, I watched her go, a pang of guilt tugging at my heart. I wished I could join her, to let loose and have some fun, but the reality of our situation kept me grounded. With a deep breath, I picked up the tray of dishes and made my way to the kitchen, weaving through the throngs of patrons. The tavern was packed tonight, the energy high and the atmosphere almost festive. Yet, despite the lively environment, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled over me. I caught myself glancing at the door, out a window, or just simply over my shoulder more often than usual.

“Cassara, you’ve got a table waiting!” one of the other servers called out, snapping me back to reality.

“On it!” I replied, setting the tray down and grabbing a fresh one.

After the evening rush had subsided, Caty left with our group of coworkers, their laughter and chatter filling the air as they departed. They mentioned something about a circus being in town, and I waved them off with a smile, not entirely sure what a circus was. I made a mental note to ask Caty about it later. The night dragged on, and as the closing hour approached, the tavern slowly emptied. I leaned against the bar, lost in thought. My nightly cleaning duties were done, and now it was just a matter of waiting to lock the doors. The tavern, usually bustling with noise and activity, felt eerily quiet. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the wooden floor, adding to the sense of solitude.

I didn’t notice someone slipping in as the last few patrons were leaving. Nor did I see him walk up to the bar and sit down. The sudden noise of someone clearing their throat startled me, making me jump back. “My, my, jumpy little pup, aren’t we?” His familiar voice and the smirk that pulled at his lips made my cheeks flush hot.

“I am neither of those things,” I managed to say, frowning. My heart raced, a mix of fear and something else—something I didn’t want to acknowledge—coursing through me.

Astarion leaned forward, his intense gaze never leaving mine. The candlelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the cold, calculating glint in his eyes. “You’re working late tonight,” he observed, his voice silky smooth.

“Yes, I needed the extra money,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “What do you want?”

His smirk widened. “Such hostility. I was merely hoping for a drink and some pleasant company.”

I didn’t believe him for a second. There was always an ulterior motive with Astarion. But I couldn’t afford to cause a scene or draw attention. “Fine. What will you have?” I asked, grabbing a clean mug.

“Surprise me,” he said, leaning back with an air of casual confidence.

I turned to the shelves, pulling down a bottle of our finest ale. My hands shook slightly as I poured the drink, my mind racing with thoughts of how to handle this situation. He was dangerous, and I knew I had to be careful. Placing the mug in front of him, I took a deep breath and tried to project an air of indifference.

“There. Enjoy,” I said curtly.

Astarion cut a striking figure as he lounged at the bar, his posture relaxed yet exuding an air of undeniable confidence. His angular features were accentuated by the flickering candlelight, casting shadows across his chiseled jawline and high cheekbones. His skin, pale as moonlight, seemed to glow softly in the dim tavern.

His silver hair fell in loose waves around his face, adding to the aura of otherworldly allure that surrounded him. His eyes, a piercing shade of violet, seemed to bore into mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. They held a hint of mischief, a dangerous glint that hinted at the depths of his unpredictable nature. Dressed in finely tailored clothing that hugged his lean frame, he looked every bit the aristocrat he claimed to be. The fabric of his shirt and trousers was of the highest quality, the deep crimson hue complementing the pale perfection of his skin. A silver pendant hung from his neck, catching the light as it swung gently with his movements.

But it was his presence, his undeniable charisma, that truly set him apart. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew people in despite the warning bells that rang in the back of their minds. It was a dangerous allure, one that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure.As he sat there, smirking at me with that infuriatingly confident grin, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. Astarion was a predator, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I had no idea of the danger that lurked beneath his charming facade.

Astarion took a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “You know, Cassara, I’ve been thinking about our last encounter,” he said, his tone deceptively light.

“Oh?” I replied, trying to sound uninterested. “And what have you concluded?”

“That you’re quite a fascinating creature,” he said, leaning forward again. “So much fire and spirit. It’s rare to find someone who can resist my charm.”

“I’m not interested in your games, Astarion,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “So if that’s all, you can finish your drink and leave.”

He gave me a feigned sad look before breaking out into a devilish grin once more. With a swift movement, he was suddenly looming over me, his body pressed dangerously close. I could feel the heat radiating off him, sending shivers down my spine as his piercing gaze bore into mine. It was like staring into the eyes of a predator, and for a moment, I felt trapped, unable to tear myself away. Before I could react, his hand came up to brush a stray strand of hair from my face, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through me. I sucked in a sharp breath, my heart pounding in my chest as his fingers trailed lightly down my cheek. His scent, a heady mix of musk and danger, enveloped me, clouding my senses and leaving me dizzy with desire.

“Oh, but I think you are,” he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement. He pressed closer, his body heat seeping into me, making it hard to think clearly. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his touch light but possessive. “I have a feeling you’re more interested than you let on.”

I scoffed, trying to push him away, but he held me firmly in place, his gaze burning into mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. I could feel the tension crackling between us, thick with unspoken promises and forbidden desires. “Let me go,” I demanded, trying to sound strong, but my voice wavered, betraying the fear and confusion roiling inside me.

Astarion leaned in, his lips just inches from mine. “Why would I do that when we’re having so much fun?” he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. He inhaled deeply, his nose grazing the curve of my neck. “You smell intoxicating,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

I struggled to push him away, but his grip was firm, unyielding. “Stop it,” I spat, my anger and fear warring with an unwelcome thrill of excitement.

He chuckled softly, his fingers tracing a path down my arm. “Resistance is futile, darling. You can deny it all you want, but I can see the curiosity in your eyes, the way your body responds to my touch.” His hand slid down to my waist, pulling me even closer. “I can feel your heart racing. Tell me, is it fear... or something else?”

His words sent a flush of heat through me, and I hated myself for the way my body reacted to him. There was a magnetic pull between us, a dangerous allure that made it hard to think straight. But I couldn’t let him win, couldn’t let him see how much he affected me.

“I’m not like the others,” I said, my voice trembling but defiant. “I won’t be one of your conquests.”

Astarion’s eyes darkened, his smile turning wicked. “We’ll see about that,” he murmured. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against mine in a teasing, almost taunting kiss. I could feel his desire, the raw hunger in his touch, and it terrified me.

I shivered at the feel of his breath against my skin, my pulse racing as his words sent a thrill through me. Despite my best efforts to deny it, there was something undeniably exhilarating about being so close to danger, about dancing on the edge of the unknown. But even as my body responded to his touch, a voice in the back of my mind screamed at me to run, to get as far away from him as possible. Astarion was a predator, a creature of darkness and deceit, and I knew that to give in to him would be to invite nothing but trouble.

With a sudden surge of strength, I shoved him away, my breathing ragged. “Get out,” I said, my voice stronger this time. “I don’t want you here.”

His smirk faltered, he looked almost impressed, a flicker of respect in his eyes but also darkness— danger. But then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, replaced by that infuriatingly charming grin.

“Suit yourself,” he said, his tone laced with amusement. “But don’t be surprised when you find yourself craving the thrill of the chase.” With a final wink, he turned and sauntered back to his seat as if the entire past three minutes never happened. He chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “I have a feeling our paths will cross again. You can’t resist the inevitable forever, little pup.”

I glared at him, refusing to be intimidated. “We’ll see about that.”

He finished his drink in one long gulp, setting the mug down with a satisfied sigh. “Until next time, Cassara,” he said, rising from his seat. As he walked towards the door, he paused and glanced back at me, his expression unreadable. “Take care. The night is full of dangers.”

With that, he was gone, leaving me alone in the empty tavern. The adrenaline from our encounter slowly ebbed away, leaving me feeling drained and exposed. I locked the doors with trembling hands and leaned against them, taking a moment to collect myself. Astarion’s presence always left me feeling unsettled, a mix of fear and something dangerously close to excitement. But I knew I couldn’t let him get to me. I couldn’t afford to. Taking a deep breath, I pushed away from the door and began to close up for the night. The tavern, once bustling with life and noise, now felt eerily silent. I methodically wiped down the tables, straightened the chairs, and swept the floor, trying to distract myself from the lingering tension. Every creak and shadow seemed amplified, making me jumpy and paranoid. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was still being watched, even after he had left.

As I finished my tasks and finally headed to my small room above the tavern, the unease stayed with me. I locked the door behind me and drew the curtains, trying to create a barrier between myself and the outside world. Yet, the sensation of being watched persisted, a prickling at the back of my neck that refused to go away. My instincts were hardly ever wrong, and they were screaming at me now.

I tried to ignore the feeling as I prepared for bed. I undressed slowly, letting my clothes fall to the floor, and made my way to the basin. The water was cool against my heated skin as I dipped the rag in and began to cleanse myself. My hair was pulled up in a messy bun, dark strands hanging in escaped tendrils around my face. I let the rag glide over my body, taking my time, trying to wash away the lingering tension. Despite my efforts, my mind kept drifting back to him. The way he had looked at me, the intensity in his eyes, the unsettling mix of threat and allure. As I ran the rag across my bare skin, my thoughts became more vivid, more intrusive. I could almost feel his hands on me instead, his touch igniting a fire within me that I couldn’t ignore.

I paid close attention to my nipples, my breath hitching as I imagined it was his fingers instead of the rag. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine, and I closed my eyes, allowing myself to get lost in the fantasy for a moment. The idea of him watching me, of those piercing eyes following my every movement, made my heart race. A moan escaped my lips, soft and needy, as I continued to cleanse myself with deliberate slowness. My body responded to the imagined touch, heat pooling low in my belly. I knew it was dangerous to let my mind wander down this path, but I couldn’t help it. The desire he awakened in me was as intoxicating as it was terrifying. Finally, I forced myself to stop, dropping the rag back into the basin and taking a deep, steadying breath. I couldn’t afford to lose control, not with someone like Astarion lurking around. I needed to stay vigilant, to protect myself from whatever game he was playing.

I climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin and trying to will myself to sleep. But even as I lay there, the memory of his touch, his voice, his presence lingered, haunting me in the darkness. I knew this was far from over. The hunt had only just begun, and I was caught in the middle of it, whether I wanted to be or not.

As exhaustion finally pulled me under, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life had just taken a dangerous turn. And deep down, a part of me wondered if I would ever be able to find my way back or if I even wanted to.

[primroseprime2019]

Heads Up, Seven Up

Thanks for tagging me, @talesofsorrowandofruin

Sorry I'm late, I got a cold 😫

I'm gonna be doing this for my current WIP, Transcendants: Starlight's Promise

Eden was in her room, tapping her fingers against her temple as she stared at the book laid out in front of her.

Eden's bedroom is a serene and intimate space that reflects her gentle personality. The walls are painted a soft, creamy white, providing a clean and calming backdrop for her favorite colors. Black accents, such as her bedframe, dresser, and desk, add a touch of sophistication and elegance.

Red accents, her favorite bold color, are sprinkled throughout the room, adding a pop of energy and playfulness. A vibrant red throw blanket is draped over the foot of her bed, while red pillows and a red area rug add a splash of color to the room.

Eden's furniture is cozy and inviting, with plush cushions and soft textures. Her bed, adorned with a delicate white duvet and red pillows, is the focal point of the room. A small, elegant desk sits in one corner, with a comfortable black chair tucked beneath it.

The room is tastefully decorated with a few cherished mementos and sentimental trinkets, reflecting Eden's kind and caring nature. A collection of favorite books lines her bookshelf, and a few framed photos of loved ones adorn the walls.

Despite the bold accents, the overall atmosphere of Eden's bedroom is peaceful and calming, a testament to her quiet and timid personality. The space feels like a warm hug, inviting one to relax and unwind.

Tagging: @elizaellwrites @my-cursed-prince @elindae-writes @eli-writes-sometimes @365runesofthesystem @movieexpert1978 @wingsy-keeper-of-songs