#wooden like ceramic tiles

[zerudaswonderland]

Master - Bedroom

Bedroom - mid-sized contemporary master medium tone wood floor bedroom idea with green walls and no fireplace

[notsureaboutnameyet]

Master - Bedroom Bedroom - mid-sized contemporary master medium tone wood floor bedroom idea with green walls and no fireplace

[sooky88]

Baldur's Gate III Paving Set

I don't usually do floors, but I was so in love with the flooring in BG3 that I HAD to have it in The Sims too.

It's a mix of various paving stones and tiles you can find all around the game (Moonrise Towers and Gauntlet of Shar, for example) and I'm planning to make more, probably a set of ceramic and wooden floors.

I hope you like them! DOWNLOAD on Patreon (Early Access) public release on December 10

[odoraful]

𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒

⟡ content: diluc/wanderer/childe x gn!reader; sfw; modern au; established relationship; fluff !! ⟡ a/n: i was scouring pinterest looking the most fitting inspo rooms for each of them hehe

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DILUC ⟡

Your shared home is an old-fashioned but charming house with a tiled roof and a brick archway leading to the entrance of the door. Diluc has a good eye for style — all the furniture pieces you select together are warm and elegant, perfectly matching with the vintage style home.

He’s a bit of a craftsman, and when you moved in he custom built bookshelves just for you. Your house has traces of Diluc’s handiwork: a wooden tissue box cover, tile coasters, a ceramic chess set.

Being a peak acts of service man, if he notices that there’s something inconveniencing you that can be mended, he’ll try to find a way to fix it. That wooden chair that wobbled yesterday when you sat down on it? The next day, it’s miraculously levelled. Always struggling to find your keys before you leave the house? There are now little hooks on the wall where you can easily hang them. He doesn’t make a huge show of it, but you’ll always kiss him on the cheek and say that you should repay him with something.

“There’s no need. Seeing you happy is more than enough for me.” He replies, running a hand through his hair, the tips of his ears turning red.

The house is IMPECCABLY cleaned — the chores are shared out between the two of you, and the both of you work like a well-oiled machine. He’ll insist that you shouldn’t carry anything too heavy though! He doesn’t want you to hurt yourself :(

One of the things that Diluc wouldn’t ever trade is getting the chance to cuddle with you in the evening on the couch. He’ll let you play with his hair and try out different styles, comforted by the feeling of your fingers running through it.

Sometimes, he’ll come home late from work tired and perhaps a bit grumpy, but the sight of you will change his mood completely.

At the sound of jangling keys and the front door creaking shut, you rush out of the bathroom and down the stairs. 

“(Y/N), I’m home!” You hear Diluc’s voice call out to you.

The day had felt far too long for him, and with far too many headaches for him to deal with. The only thing that he looked forward to at the end of it all was to see you again. 

Hearing the patter of your slippers, he looks up. It takes everything within him to keep composed at your appearance. Having just gotten out of a hot shower, your cheeks were tinted pink, hair still damp and slicked. Diluc’s eyes trailed to your clothes, a matching pair of flannel shirt and shorts. He loosens his tie, suddenly finding his breath stuck in his throat. It baffled him how gorgeous you were even in pyjamas.

Wordlessly, he reaches towards you. You look down at his hands and see as they fasten the remaining top two buttons of your sleeping shirt. In your hurry to greet him at the door, you forgot to dress properly. 

“I can’t believe I missed that...” You sheepishly say, observing his hands as they linger on your shirt. Your senses told you something was off.  “Did you have troubles at work today?”

The worry in your eyes melts his heart. Of course you were the one to peer through him and know exactly how he was feeling. 

“A few clientele at the bar today were-” He sighs, still fidgeting with the fabric of your shirt, recalling the events of the day, “-difficult to manage to say the least.” He lifts his head to meet his gaze. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.” 

Your arms instinctually wrap around him and he collapses into them. Tightening your embrace, he rests his head on your shoulder.

“Diluc, I just took a shower.” You say with a light giggle, trying to pull your hair away from his face.

He feels your breath close to his ear and he wishes he could have recorded that laugh for himself to hear it over and over again. 

“I could tell.” He breathes deeply. “Is this a new shampoo?”

“Well yes, but what I meant from that is that my hair is still wet!”

You feel him smile against you. “It doesn’t bother me. Just a few more seconds, please. I need to recharge.” 

WANDERER ⟡

You share an apartment together since you travel to and from the same university. Although you’re studying different degrees and have different schedules, you’ll both make an effort to spend time together at home during the weekdays. 

You and Wanderer leave little notes cheering each other on and stick them to the walls or the fridge before you leave, or sneak them into pencil cases or onto laptop screens. He has a small box on his desk where he collects all your notes, neatly folding them up to preserve them.

Wanderer enjoys having the home quite minimalist. Just the essentials will do, but the two of you do splurge a bit more on your study space —  the comfiest chairs, wide desks, tactile keyboards — anything to liven up having to do assignments all the time.  

When you’re feeling too tired or distracted from your own studies, you’ll walk over to his desk and try to sit on his lap while he works. He’ll attempt to exert some self-control and reject your wishes, but eventually gives in after seeing your pout.

“Just because you’re distracted doesn’t give you any right to bother me.” He grumbles, resting his chin on your head.

He warns you that if you do decide to put plants in the house, you are responsible for them. Little do you know that he’s secretly also invested in their health. On mornings when you’re in a rush and forget to water them, he’ll spritz them with your spray bottle thinking to himself: If you died (Y/N) would be devastated, so don’t even think about it.

His favourite room is the bedroom. It’s a place for both of you to escape the stresses of being a student and relax together.

The alarm clock beeps and you wiggle in bed, reaching over a hand to quickly silence it. Bright sun filters in through the curtains, its light diffusing into the room. 

You force your eyes open and sit up, your body bent over like a crooked branch. Movement beside you pulls your attention as Wanderer shifts in his sleep. You can’t deny how pretty he looks even at rest. His long lashes fanned out under closed eyes, the steady rise and fall of his chest with each deep breath. His expression is that of pure peace. You know that’ll soon disappear when you both need to properly wake up and prepare for classes.

“Hey, it’s time to wake up,” you whisper, carefully coaxing him from slumber. 

Wanderer opens his bleary eyes ever so slightly, then immediately closes them. He mumbles something of refusal. You roll your eyes in resignation. When it comes to sleep, he acts like a child sometimes. You turn to get out of bed. 

Two arms wrap around your waist and yank you back. You stumble into the sheets with a yelp. Wanderer adjusts the blanket over you and pulls you closer to him with one hand. 

“Not yet.” His voice is low and scratchy, his words slurred. “Want more time in bed… with you.” 

You sigh softly, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair to detangle it. “You do this almost every morning. You’re never going to attend your lectures on time.”

He replies by nuzzling into your neck, and you hear nothing but his slow breaths. His peers would have sooner called identity fraud than believe the stony and scholarly Wanderer to be this clingy and affectionate in the morning. However, in the privacy of just you, it’s become easy for him to let down his guard. 

“Don’t try to get out of this by pretending to be asleep.” You say, deadpan.

There’s a stutter in his breathing as you catch his obvious charade. 

“Stop worrying. I’ll just watch the recording.” He finally responds. 

You realise in a fluster just how close your faces are, barely inches apart. As if sensing this, Wanderer opens his eyes once again, this time there’s a glint of mischief in them. 

He taps his forehead lightly against your own. “And besides, why would I want to spend my mornings in a noisy lecture hall when I can be with you in peace and quiet?”

CHILDE ⟡

You’ve been living together for a while now, and your home has transformed into what can only be described as organised chaos.

If Childe kept up with his interior designing eagerness, it would have been complete maximalism, but you were there to contain his excitement and still ensure your home was still practical. 

The two of you love collecting pillows, plushies and blankets, which adds even more to the cosiness! However, one day you tried to sit down on the couch and realised it was more pillows than actual seat space. In a fit of laughter, you and Childe ruled that you would rotate between different cushions every so often so you could get your couch back. 

Childe will still come home with flowers or sweets (sometimes both) as gifts for you on random nights. He’ll stand on the doorstep looking like a lovesick teenage boy asking his crush out on a date. Taking them from his hands, you’ll ask what the occasion is.

“Well, there isn’t a particular occasion.” He kisses you on the forehead. “Celebrating you should be an everyday thing.”

Board game nights are taken very seriously. You have a bookshelf filled with different types of them. Whether it’s a classic game of UNO or Jenga, or something a little more strategic, he's always hyper-competitive. You also have special punishments for if one of you loses, which are harmless but maybe a little embarrassing (One of his favourite punishments for you is ‘For the entire day tomorrow, Childe will only call (Y/N) by the cheesiest pet names’). 

MASSIVE kitchen since he loves to cook. He keeps a book of recipes from his mum and has since added new ones of his own that he has shared with you. 

“Could you come over here, baby?”

You follow your partner’s voice and the scent of something freshly baked into the kitchen.

Childe is standing behind the counter, his face in deep focus. He takes one of an array of heart-shaped biscuits and dips half of it in a bowl of chocolate before placing it on a lined baking sheet. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up, exposing his forearms. His muscular build is sharply juxtaposed by the cream-coloured apron tied around himself, which has a little teddy bear embroidered in its centre. 

You approach the kitchen bench, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Are they ready yet? Can I try one?” You eagerly ask. 

“Not quite, I need help dipping the rest of these into chocolate.” He stretches his arms out in front of him, shaking the tension out of them.

“That being said,” he grins, extending a hand towards you across the kitchen bench as an offer, “would you do me the honour of being my baking assistant for a little?” 

Chuckling at his dramatics, you delicately place your hand in his like royalty. “I’d be delighted to help.”  

Childe guides you to his side and helps you put on your apron. As he ties the strings together, he relays the instructions to you. 

“You just need to dip half of the biscuit into chocolate, and then add some sprinkles on top before it sets.” He tightens the bow around your waist to secure it.

How hard could that be? You think, nodding along to his words.

Demoing an example, Childe deftly coats half of the biscuit. Angling it just right, the chocolate drips off and evens itself out, leaving a perfect covered half. After placing it on the tray and adding the finishing touch of sprinkles, he gestures for you to try it yourself.

You confidently take one biscuit and dunk it. 

“Ah!” 

Underestimating its consistency, when you lift the biscuit, the chocolate slowly spreads onto the other half of the heart and drips onto your fingers. You quickly place it onto the baking sheet. Childe stifles his laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“My one looks so much worse compared to yours…” you mutter, licking your fingers to remove the evidence of your unsuccessful attempt. 

Seeing the frown on your face, he gently bumps your shoulder with his own in encouragement. “Don’t say that! I think your one has a lot more charm.” He says, adding the sprinkles onto your heart. “I’ll run some extra baking classes with you to build up your skills, how does that sound?”

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[rustedhearts]

keepsakes (boxer!steve harrington x fem librarian!reader)

summary: the heat goes out during an autumnal cold front in your new hawkins home, so you make the most of a cozy day at home.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the king of the ring (1995) ✶ the library ✶ ‘tis autumn

✶ roller girl’s pie stand!

tags: pure marshmallow fluff, allusion to smut at the end. akin to old boxer steve from ‘22

hawkins, indiana. october, 1995.

“They said they can’t get out until Tuesday,” Steve huffs, slamming the phone back into the receiver on the kitchen wall.

You groan into the steam furling from the ceramic pot on the stove. “Ugh, come onnnn.”

Steve shuffles into the room with a sigh, thermal-sleeved arms winding their way around your shoulders. They fold together over your chest, guiding you back against him. You let him tuck his mouth into your neck, lips warm, nose cold. You jolt a little when it brushes your skin, giggling when he huffs a harsh breath.

“Mm, I know, angel. But ‘m here to warm ya up,” he mumbles against your throat.

Each of you had enough layers on to keep decently toasty. What you could rummage out of boxes still taped up now sat in a messy pile on your bed upstairs. You hadn’t expected such a cold autumn and thought you had at least a few weeks before you had to break out the winter gear. But now a long sleeve turtleneck sits under a clove-scented 49ers sweatshirt, big and bulky and soft inside like you liked it. Your sweatpants are matching in black color, and you have your hair tied up just like Steve liked it.

He has a white t-shirt under a navy blue thermal that makes his hair seem more chestnut than usual. His sweatpants are grey, the Jimmy’s Gym logo on the top right thigh cracked and faded from wear. You have a pair of his white socks on, and you think it’s adorable that the pair of you have matching feet right now.

Steve presses a noisy kiss to the column of your throat. His hair tickles your chin and makes you laugh again.

“Whatcha got planned today, hmm?”

You stir the wooden spoon through your soup again. “Guess.”

Steve hums thoughtfully, lifting from your neck to squint at the tile. “Hmm, if I had t’ guess, I’d say…reading in that ‘lil window upstairs, pretending you aren’t freezin’ your ass off.”

You scoff, cheeks warming. “N-no…”

“No?” Steve tips his head and kisses your cheek this time. “Saw the book already out. Waitin’ for you. Can’t you hear it calling, baby? All those words you have to read.”

You giggle, squirming in his arms. “Stop, don’t make fun of me.”

You click the gas off and Steve coos, clutching you a little tighter. His cheek is lukewarm when it presses to your temple.

“Aww, my ‘lil nerd. ‘s okay, angel, you know your librarian glasses are so fuckin’ sexy.”

You clutch the handle of the ceramic pot and veer toward the counter, where two mismatched bowls are waiting. Steve gets the hint, matching your steps until you’re moving together. You tip the pot and pour equal amounts of the chicken soup into each bowl, splattering noodle and broth drippings as you go. The window above the sink beside you is beginning to fog with the warmth of the stove. Beyond it, your neighbor’s tree is a vibrant yellow. Shedding pointed leaves across the yard, stuck in the jagged edges of the wooden fence. They gather on Steve’s BMW window, suctioned to the glass with this morning’s rain. The sky’s still a muddled grey, and you have all the lamps and candles lit in the house.

Steve somehow always gets horny in candlelight.

“My librarian glasses? Grab some spoons, please, baby?”

Steve takes one arm from your chest to lean to the left and open the utensil drawer. He gathers two spoons in his hand and nudges it shut, immediately returning to ensure both arms are back in place.

“Yeah. ‘s a good thing, baby, I promise.”

You take the spoons dangling near your collarbone and plop one into each bowl.

“Stevie, can you take ‘em? They’re hot.”

Steve takes a bowl in each hand around your sides and reluctantly pulls away from you. The pair of you whirl around and head for the dining room, a bowl clunking onto a plaid placemat at each assigned seating. Yet as you pull your chair out and go to sit, a pout appears on Steve’s face. He hasn’t even touched his chair.

“What?” you giggle.

“I just…you’re so far away.”

“I’m literally right here.”

“Too far,” he huffs. He swings around and directs his gaze toward the living room. “Let’s go sit on the floor.”

A soft smile touches your face, that glowing warmth gathering in your cheeks again. Oh, something about the cold made Steve so sweet.

“You wanna have a carpet picnic?” You beam.

Steve tips his head back and rolls his eyes. “You and that damn movie—yes, angel, we can have a carpet picnic.”

“Yay, okay! Take the bowls, please.”

He hides his grin against the back of your head when you flounce your way into the living room, forgetting all about the goosebumps and shivers you endured when you woke up to a frozen house this morning. You peel the throw blankets off the back of the couch and lay them on the carpet, smoothing out any wrinkles you know Steve will replace in just a few moments.

The bowls are placed on the coffee table, a folded napkin under each. Steve waits patiently at the corner of the blanket, knowing you’ll let him know when he can join.

The lamplight above you catches and glows on your left hand. On the diamond glimmering on your second smallest finger, haloed with beams of orange. When you lift your hands and pass the flames of the fireplace, amber rays pierce through the crystalline gem.

Steve watches all the while. Watches you move your hands, knowing soon your diamond will rest above a wedding band. In a mere month, just a few short weeks—you’ll be his wife.

The thought alone has Steve sinking to his knees. You whip around to scold him for interrupting your process, but squeak in surprise when he catches your face and kisses you. He smells like cold air and leaves and vaguely of the Marlboro smoked a few hours ago. He smells like Steve.

When he pulls away, you sit back on the blanket and grin. “What on earth was that for?”

Steve assumes the spot across from you, kicking his legs out beside you. He reaches for the soup bowls and carefully places yours near your tucked-in knees.

“What was what for?”

You scrape your teeth over your bottom lip and laugh. “Never mind.”

You turn your attention to the chicken noodle soup and Steve turns back to you. Watches through his lashes as you lift your hands and wipe away wisps of hair on your forehead. Black sleeves curled over your knuckles to keep warm, your fingers appear beneath them in delicate form. He wishes to do nothing but kiss them and stare more at that ring.

“Is it not good?”

Steve blinks, lifting his spoon. Your lips are shiny with broth and oil, eyes rounded in his direction. They catch the fire like your ring and they make Steve swallow hard.

“N-no, baby, ‘s good.” He quickly shovels a spoonful of the soup in his mouth to prove it.

You do a little squirm and smile that makes Steve chuckle. He hunches over his lap to slurp the broth and you wrinkle up your nose.

“Ew, Steven.”

His spoon clinks against the bowl when he drops it.

“Heyyy,” he warns playfully. “Don’t start. There was no attitude at their carpet picnic.”

You giggle. “No, but there was a blowjob if I remember correctly.”

Steve lowers his bowl completely, eyes suddenly alert. “Well, that’s welcome any time.”

Broth bubbles with laughter in your bowl. Steve watches you take small, quiet spoonfuls. When he decides you were only joking and there won’t be an immediate gratification for his Pretty Woman joke, Steve goes back to his soup, too.

Soon the soup is gone and the bowls sit empty on the table. You stretch onto your stomach and place your head on Steve’s lap, allowing his fingers to work over your hair. He pulls it free from its confines and smooths it down. Massages your scalp until your eyes flutter. The flames of the fire rest in dancing orange shimmers on your face.

The rain begins again. It comes with a great howling wind, rushing through the trees and shaking colors loose. The house darkens to near nighttime degree. A grey darkness that turns all the candle flames and lamplight in the room warm.

“Will you read to me, Stevie?” you inquire softly.

Steve’s fingers lag in your hair. He shifts, resting back on his palm.

“Uh…I mean—you sure? Y’ know ‘m not very good at it.”

You let your eyes close and smile to yourself. “I’m sure. I love the sound of your voice.”

Steve smooths his palm over the crown of your head, cupping it. With your eyes closed, he’s free to grin down at you and know it’s just for him. Do you have any idea what you do to him?

“Gonna let me up then?”

You hum. “In a minute.”

“Okay,” he murmurs in agreement.

He holds you there a moment longer, watching the fire warm your face; your socked feet cricketing together at the edge of the blanket contentedly.

“Okay,” you say, pushing yourself up. “Now you can go.”

Steve rolls his eyes as he stands. “Spoiled. What am I getting?”

“You pick. I’m gonna bake some cookies.”

Steve watches you bounce back toward the kitchen with both soup bowls. “Well Jesus, have a little faith in me. I know my way around your shelves.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, setting the bowls in the sink. “You want chocolate or snickerdoo—“

Your words die on your tongue, slipping between Steve’s lips. He pinches your jaw in one hand and holds you still, mouth forced to pucker for his gift. He hums when he nips at your bottom lip, licking at his own when he releases you.

“Somethin’ t’ think about while ‘m gone,” he says, a heavy hand popping across the fat of your asscheek before he turns around.

Steve heads toward the stairs, ascending them while doing his best to crane over the railing and watch your flushed reaction until he no longer can. He immediately walks to your library–much smaller than the one back in California, but somehow it captured the girl he met in this very town better than anything in the sunshine state ever could—and directs his attention to your stuffed shelves.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for, and stands for a while just staring aimlessly at the spines with his hands on his hips. He hears you clink and clang around in the kitchen. The beep of the oven. The slam of the oven door. It’s much colder in the library, and Steve swears there’s a draft in your window seat.

He turns to inspect it, pressing one hand firmly on the cold, foggy glass. As he leans over the plaid fabric of your window seat, his thigh nudges the corner of a leather-bound journal. He recognizes it immediately as the same journal always kept on the bedside table and in the bottom of your purse. It's always next to you so long as you can help it.

When he spins it with his finger, the Polaroid used to keep your last page inches its way to the edge. Steve slowly and carefully pulls it from the pages.

He sinks into the window seat when he's met with his own face.

Six years old now, the photograph is still as perfectly intact as the day it was taken. The flash collects in a younger Steve's eyes, making them appear darker than they really are. The film softens the emerald and violet bruise kissing his left cheek that Steve vividly remembers taking weeks to disappear completely.

He knows immediately where he's standing, where the photograph was taken by the color of the wall alone. The soft ballerina pink, the edges of rosebuds from now-outdated wallpaper. The arched mirror of your vanity rests just behind his shoulders, stretched and puffed broadly with the flex of his arms. Though the muscles are concealed beneath a heavy black sweatshirt, embroidered with his recent champion title.

And in the glossy white border just below his stomach where the photograph completes, remains your handwriting.

My boyfriend husband ♡

"Steeeve? Did you find one?"

Steve quickly clambers to his feet, shoving the Polaroid back into its place in the journal. He grabs the book you had sitting on your rumpled blanket on the cushion.

"Yeah, coming!"

His footsteps clunk down the stairs, and he's met with the scent of warm cinnamon when he finds you in the kitchen, wiping down the counter.

You spin with the rag in hand and a small grin. “Hey, did you find one?”

Steve sets the book on the counter gently. Your eyes turn to inspect the cover, surprised to see one of your “stuffiest” options waiting. Steve hates Dracula, and he hates attempting to read anything written before 1950.

Before you can question his choice, Steve takes a slow step toward you.

“How long do the cookies have?” he asks.

You glance at the timer. “Um…ten minutes, why?”

His hands smooth over your waist, thumbs pressing into your stomach. He grips you firmly, stepping until he can fit his head in your neck again. His response comes in the form of his mouth on your throat—latching on with his hot, wet suction. You gasp, hands flying to touch him: one gripping the front of his shirt and the other tangling in his hair.

He hums, releasing your skin to kiss it gently. He moves down, dragging his nose over your skin. His suction returns to the junction between your neck and shoulder, where the tendons are soft and waiting to be bitten. You jolt with a quiet squeak, grip tightening on his collar.

“St-Steve—“

“Shhh.” He moves one hand from your waist to your chin and tips it away to make room for his head on the other side of your throat. “‘s nine minutes now, angel. Come lay down f’ me so we can make the most of it.”

He takes your hand and leads you to the living room again, and you follow silently. Nearly hypnotized by his softness, tongue swollen dumbly in your mouth.

He takes both your hands to lower you down to the station of your carpet picnic. You thump to your knees, and he follows suit only to lay you on your back with his hand supporting the back of your head. When you’re flat, you blink up at him with bated breaths.

Steve smiles, fingers curling into the elastic band of your sweatpants. The house seems hotter than ever, a flaming warmth coating your body as his touch drags down your thighs with your clothing.

“Don’t worry. Your husband’s gonna take care o’ you, angel.”

[strawberrystepmom]

yami x f!noble reader. cw smoking, sex insinuated, misogyny and mentions of marriage as well as fertility but not on yami's part. i just like these two sorry for party rockin | wc 1.1k, divider thanks to @cafekitsune

you can read more about these two here

“I know it’s impolite to ask but what happened between the two of you?”

Yami chuckles, shoulders pressed against the rickety headboard behind him. 

“Who?” He asks, well aware of what you mean despite his attempt to seem unsure. You sigh, turning to look at him. 

“Charlotte.”

A moonbeam pours in over the two of you, the room otherwise dark and silent, the stillness emboldening you to finally ask him some questions. Tightening the sheet that is wrapped around your body, you dare glance up at him to find him already staring at you, as though he’s trying to figure out why you’d ask in the first place.

“Sometimes things just don’t work out,” he shrugs flippantly. You get the sense that he’s downplaying but keep it to yourself, wide eyes watching his every movement. “We were more different than we thought and decided to go our separate ways and it has been mostly fine.”

Perhaps it’s naivety (or the four failed engagements) but you believe that you understand what he means, nodding slowly. You’ve always viewed love as an ever changing puzzle, similar to the one in your father’s study at home. A wooden frame holds ceramic sliding tiles and you position them again and again until a picture is clear and in front of you - what you’ve been looking for the entire time. 

You blink hard and glance down at your hands, once again pulling the linens over your exposed cleavage. Goosebumps prickle your skin, forcing you to dive further under, and he notices and pulls you against his warm side.

“Since we’re asking questions all of sudden, how about you?” He raises a brow, sliding lower into the bed and giving you room to rest your head against the firmness of his stomach. “Four is damn near impressive.”

Mirroring his prior shrug, you contemplate quietly what it truly means to tell four men you don’t want to marry them. Arrogant is what one told you and you found it hard to disagree when he was red cheeked and yelling at you. Frigid was what another said, accusing you of hiding potential issues with producing an heir for his family. A third said nothing but left you silently to consider your opinion of yourself, sitting in a wooden backed chair in the study where that slide puzzle rested on a table across from you while he cast you a disappointed glance.

The fourth and most recent you objected to before he could harm your ego further, refusing his offers of land and jewels. You have both of those things. You’re an heiress in your own right despite the sons your father has now sired amongst your 11 siblings. Physical means mean nothing to you when what you desire is deeper than gilded flesh. 

“I cannot commit to living a life where I will be unable to be who I am.” 

You finally answer after prolonged silence, giving yourself permission to be honest since he was honest with you. 

“So you don’t want to get married?” He asks, finally lighting a cigarette but politely blowing the smoke in the opposite direction of you. You shake your head, the back of it against his stomach, leaving you to look up at him. “The opposite, actually. I would love to be married and to have a family but not at the cost of myself and having to be misunderstood to maintain peace.”

He hums, a sound you believe is some level of understanding of what you mean, and inhales another puff. 

“What makes you so different from all the other noble girls?”

The question would be offensive if it were to be asked by anyone else but you know Yami. He’s rough around the edges and sometimes a bit too curt in saying what he means but there’s genuine curiosity not derision in his tone. 

“I’m apprehensive to say that I am all that different considering how similar our upbringings tend to be yet I feel like I’ve never quite fit in with them.” Your head remains resting in the cradle of his slightly bent middle, the cherry glow of his cigarette illuminating his face enough you can make out those wise eyes staring at your mouth. “I’ve never loved high society. It’s suffocating and everyone is very judgemental and most of them have already, probably correctly, theorized that I will be a spinster left to take care of my siblings for all my life.”

A chuckle rumbles through him in tandem with a shake of his head you can see thanks to the glow of his cigarette. He mumbles around the filter, one big hand coming to rest on the covered dip of your waist. “Don’t say shit like that. You’re pretty and smart and funny once you get to runnin’ your mouth so what’s the point in pretending you aren’t?”

Your face warms beneath his praise and your eyes dart away from him, choosing to settle on the specs of dust floating through the single beam of light shining through the room. You’ve already given him more of yourself than you intended and not simply your body, your feelings as well. There’s no turning back so you continue, feeling your heart beating in your throat while speaking.

“I believe it’s easier for me to make all of this my fault,” you nearly whisper, keeping your gaze locked on the ceiling above while you’re making a confession. “To believe there’s something wrong with me rather than the system we use to decide people’s value.”

Stamping out his cigarette against the windowsill with his free hand, he squeezes your waist with the occupied one and draws your attention back, leaving you blinking up at him.

“Well don’t. It doesn’t seem like you’re the problem here at all.” Another squeeze and your heart beats in time with it. There’s an easy smile on his face, one you can barely make out in the dim room, yet you match it with one of your own.  “I think you have plenty of time to find someone if you want to,” he continues. 

“I think the same of you, Yami.” An unexpected response. He raises a brow, sliding further down into the bed beside you. You remain with your head against him, tucked into his side, a large arm wrapped around your waist. “I think the woman who ends up with you will be lucky.”

Pulling you tighter against him, he considers your sentiment and hums.

“I guess you’ll have to ask her when that day comes if she’s lucky or not.”

You nod once, deciding to let silence win you both over as the night continues to fade away, hoping to prolong your time with him as much as possible without any further interruption.

[billielolly]

Sims 3 Build - Relaxation Retreat

A vibrant family home full of opportunities for fun and relaxation, with plenty of space for a budding gardener. 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, on a 30x40 lot.

Watch the speed build: https://youtu.be/-7bnRL8bAsA

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Exchange:

Expansion packs:

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Generations

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Supernatural

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Store content:

Stones Throw Greenhouse - Greenhouse Window, Greenhouse Roof Center

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heaven - Neutral Slate Roof with White Trim

missyzim - Neoclassic Build Set (Tall Wide 2x1, Tall Wide 1 Tile, Counter High 1 Tile, Tall 1 Tile)

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Angela - Aiden Buildset 3x1 Arch

Martassimsbook - MyCupOfCC Hot Tub

Onyxium - Jena Bathroom Accessories (Reed Diffuser, Soap Dispenser, Toilet Brush, Tooth Brushes)

Mutske - Toiletroom Aria Toilet Paperholder

Gosik - Kobe Bathroom Towels 2

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Martassimsbook - novvvas Planties pt3 (Ficus Lyrata V1, Ficus Elastica, Monstera Deliciosa)

Martassimsbook - Cowbuild My Home Set (Hanging Pothos Plant)

ATS3 - Kitchen Herbs (Basil)

ArtVitalex - Mayorka Ceiling Spot Lamp

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ArtVitalex - Kalkgrund Mirror

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sweetdevil - More Planters (Prickly Planter)

sweetdevil - More Planters Part 3 (Fancy Box Planter)

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Martassimsbook - Pinkboxdesign Kitchen Clutter Set Dishsoap

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ATS3 - Ceramic Canisters

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PralineSims - Contemporary Carpet 22

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(Optional) zoe22 - Flower Arranging Mod (Table Used)

[trashmouth-richie]

CONFESSION

eddie x fem! reader

TW: no minors, heavy degrading themes of the Catholic Church, smut, corruption kink, virginity loss, Eddie posing as a priest. Slight daddy kink, rosaries not used properly. Umm yeah it’s smut p in v, cum eating. Etc

a/n: I have no words, I’ll see you in the crimsoned room of hell, or purgatory— in that case, please pray me out.

Trudging with untied boots the thud of his clunky soles echo loud in the steeped ceiling of St. Mary’s. He stubs the lit end of his joint out in the holy water, sizzling and emitting one last pathetic puff of smoke. Dipping a tattooed middle finger into the holy water he makes a lame excuse for the sign of the cross, flicking whatever remnants of moisture left into the open air. Keeping his middle finger high for the man on the cross. 

  Every Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday nights at 7 o'clock on the dot, he had come to the brick built and heavily waxed wooden floored church to repent. 

  Father Hopper had gone easy on Eddie when he found him trying to hot wire his car. Punishing him to thirty confessions stretched over two months time.

Father knew Wayne Munson was on the verge of a thin line of patience, and Eddie was on his last strike with Hawkins PD, next step was prison. A shared cell with the other Munson and ex resident of Hawkins currently known as inmate #89432. 

  Fuck it, I’ll go to jail what the hell do I care? Eddie spat at the rickety table in Father Hopper’s poorly lit kitchen.

  “Son,” Father began, sipping a bitter cup of coffee, thumb nails scratching against the ceramic mug, “you don’t want to end up like him.” 

  “Well. I sure as hell ain’t gonna end up like you. White robes and that cardboard dog collar you wear— yeah fuckin’ right.” 

  That was back in May. What started as a desperate plea to steal a car and possibly sell it to get enough money to  skip the prying eyes and whispering licks of gossip tongues about how he hadn’t graduated, again, — ended with him getting assigned the confessions. 

  A stuffy little closet with Hopper’s coffee breath stenching through a grated screen. The dark walls seems to close in on him as he confessed to petty crimes and sex on Sundays. 

  Leaning against the desk that held glass orbs of candles, he spits in the nearest one. The flame sizzling out. And that’s when he hears it. 

  A small giggle from the pew nearest him. 

  He had seen you around school. Clutching your school books to your chest as you were shoved into walls and lockers. A ghost among the popular chicks and dicks. But never to him. 

  He himself was an outcast and truth be told he didn’t remember the time he hawked a lougie into Jason’s milk carton and stubbed a cigarette into his hamburger after Jason had purposefully knocked your lunch tray out of your hands. The cheap plastic tray hitting the tiled floor with a clank. 

  He might remember but you remembered the way his smile pearled big and pretty, his long lashes dusting the tops of his cheeks as he winked your way, and the way your panties clung with wetness at your heated lips. 

  His whiskey dark eyes bore into your head as he says your name slow, like reciting a prayer. His long legs swing as he struts cockily towards you. Middle of the summer and he’d shed his leather armor. Red flannel open revealing a tanned tattooed chest. Sleeves cut off showcasing muscly trailer park strong arms.  Jeans hacked off above the knee. 

  His smirk danced across his lips, tongue poking out to wet his lips. He had trouble written all over him. And damn did he wear it well.

  “Don’t tell me you’re here to confess the sins committed against our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” 

  Your legs cross and thighs rub together. A pulse awakening between your legs. 

  “Amen,” you giggle nervously, hiding behind heated cheeks. 

  Leaning his long frame against the edge of the pew, he throws a worn heavy boot over onto the seat, next to your clenched thighs under the white sundress. 

  He leans down, over his knee, his long curls dancing with his gesturing head, he’s leaning close and you can see the reds fading his eyes and the skunked smell of weed. Still that smile has you melting. 

  “So what are you in for? Forget to genuflect before sitting down last Sunday?” 

  His joke earns a smile from you and seeing your lips pull your cheeks up has him twitching in his jeans. 

  “No,” you roll your eyes in a girlish way, batting your lashes, “it’s not that.” 

  “Ah!” Eddie says jumping up, “no bother, I don’t think Father Hopper isn’t gonna show anyway.” 

  You don’t mean to frown and Eddie almost laughs out loud at your pout. 

  Strict as your parents were, they were demanding that you needed to confess for your sins. They were already pissed you skipped out on college, might as well take 10 years off school, you’ll never go, they hated your job, hated even more that you didn’t really have friends outside of the “weird Buckley girl.” 

  By the end of this month you’d have enough money saved up to move out, and oh how you couldn’t wait. 

  The dirty word slips before you catch it. Hands covering your mouth quickly, the heat on your cheeks burning deeper. You peer at Eddie with big eyes.  

  He cracks a slow smile and leans forward. Licking his chapped lips again. He’s so close to you you can see every eyelash in high definition. 

  “That’s another sin, one more and the floor will open and we’ll both be engulfed into the fiery pits of hell.” 

  “Actually I think it’s purgat—” 

  A ringed finger is placed vertically to your lips, shushing you from finishing. The satin feel of your lips on his rugged finger makes him ache against the teeth of his zipper. 

  Tracing your face with his eyes they dip down the slope of your nose and past the curve of your lips, the delicate pink rosary is hung on your neck with such daintiness it’s almost in open invitation. 

  He about chokes when the goosebumps rise on your throat from his stare, a bead of sweat trickling in between your tits. 

  Dark eyes swim into yours, and his smile is impish, full of wicked delight, “Let’s go.” 

  His hand snakes down your shoulder and he grabs your wrist in a light but thick grip. Beckoning you with a sinful smirk. 

  “To where?” You manage after peeling your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

  “Time to confess for that dirty mouth.” Eddie says matter of fact, turning his head and dragging you to the confessional booth. “C’mon I’ll act as Father.” 

  Eddie pulls you into the small wooden door in the back of the church opening it for you in a gentlemanly manner ending in a bow. 

  He rushes you in with snapping fingers and a growl making you squeal. 

  Sitting behind the screen where Hopper usually sat Eddie beckons you to sit in his usual assigned seat. 

  He makes a backwards sign of the cross with his left hand and folds his fingers, clearly his throat and using a deep baritone voice, “tell me your sins, sweet girl.” 

  When you giggle, Eddie flicks the screen, “this is serious shit— confess to me.” 

  You begin the way your parents had you rehearse at home. 

  “Bless me Father— wait, should I call you that?”

  “Daddy works best,” Eddie says without missing a beat. And your pussy clenches around nothing. 

  “Bless me,” you hesitate on the word, but Eddie raises his eyebrows to encourage you so you start again, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. 

  “B- Bless me, Daddy, for I have sinned, my last confession was 10 weeks ago.” 

  “That’s a long time ago,” he tsks, berating you, “have you not sinned in these last 10 weeks?” 

  Fingers threading the hem of your dress you answer, “I- I have.” 

  Eddie palms himself at your innocence. “Well?” 

  “I— Eddie—” 

  “Excuse me? My title in this confessional is Daddy please do not make me correct you again,”

  “Sorry, Daddy.” 

  “Good girl,” Eddie purrs. Sending shocks to your clit. “Continue.” 

  Clearing your throat you stroke the beads of the rosary hung against your neck. Counting ten, a small skip, another bead, then ten more. 

  “I was.. experimenting.” 

  “Drugs?” Eddie asks, chuckling in genuine shock, he didn’t think a girl like you would smoke, “yes the devils lettuce is tempting.” 

  He flicks his lighter open and lights another joint he had tucked in his pocket for the ride home. 

  “But we must stop these temptations before they start, plus who are you buying from because I need to know if I have competition.” 

  You move your head to the side and continue thumbing the pink pearly beads in your fingers. The clack of your nails against the beads fill the quiet smoke hung room. 

  “No… it wasn’t drugs.” 

  Eddie’s mind flips like a magazine. 

  “Oh yes the alcohol, another temp—”

  “Wrong again.” 

  Eddie’s frustration peaks, “well I’m not a fucking mind reader so do you wanna explain yourself?” 

  “I— I was.. I was touching myself.” 

  “Oh fuckin, Christ..” it’s mumbled and breathy but you hear it all the same, sending a slick to your pussy from your admission and Eddie’s shock. 

  He’s rock hard. The zipper on his jeans scream, begging for any sort of release. He needs to know more. 

  “Do explain,” he says intrigued, leaning forward, his hands folded under his chin. 

  Adjusting yourself in the wooden chair you cross your legs, and Eddie barely witnesses the white cotton snug between your thighs, the sneak peek having him swallow hard. 

  Taking a breath you go into detail about the videotape you had gotten from the adult section of Family Video. How you had only watched it once and the volume was muted, but you couldn’t get it out of your mind. 

  The way the woman’s mouth curved into an “O” when the man was pleasuring her. The size of the man’s penis and the way it slapped against his stomach when released from his jeans. How the woman’s perked nipples were firm but looked soft against the man’s tongue.  

  Eddie’s drool is wiped from his mouth at your explicit confession, and he starts to palm himself over his jeans when you explain how you had started rubbing yourself over your underwear at night. 

  Thinking you were about to have your first ever orgasm but weren’t able to finish because your mother had walked in on you, legs spread wide on your comforter, toes curling. As you were using the barrel of a curling iron to rub at your clothed clit. 

  The embarrassment from repeating the story to Eddie made your cheeks heat, and you hid behind your hair. 

  The silence is speaking volumes. The only noise is the cream of the wooden seat as you shift again, a flutter in your stomach as Eddie thinks of his punishment for you. 

  “Sweetheart,” Eddie breathes, a hiss on his tongue as he moves from behind the screen, wedging himself between you and the wall, his long frame leaning against the mahogany. 

  Ringed fingers tapping along the plump of his lips, his hard cock outlined through his jeans, “You are a filthy, naughty girl.”

  You scoff, “I am not!” 

  “Oh baby, you are,” Eddie says, boxing you in, “but, I know just the thing to…cleanse you of your sins.” He licks his lips again and stares you down. And you're certain you're looking into Satan’s eyes. 

  “Wh—” you stutter, having to clear your throat, swallowing thickly and dabbing at the sweat on your neck, “what do you have in mind?” 

  Eddie’s wayward curls skim the top of your chest as his lips curve around the shell of your ear, he smells like cigarettes and laundry soap, “bad girls get spanked.” 

  Gasping, he laughs at your shocked face. “I don’t make the rules babe, ok I made that one up, but this is for you swearing in the house of the Lord, now,” he gestures a thumb over his shoulder, “get up, you’re gonna need to be on my lap.” 

  You do as you're told, standing chest to chest with Eddie. Only this time it’s you licking your lips. One stretch up on tipped toes and your lips could connect with his. The faint mark of a nicotine stain paints his bottom lip. You wonder if it would taste like it. 

  He grabs your hips and swivels you around, his rings dig into the soft cotton on your dress, his nails scratching the fabric as he takes his seat. The wooden chair groaning on the sudden weight. 

  Leaning back in the chair he smiles wickedly, legs spread wide, he rubs his lap, tapping for you to come closer. 

  When your body is laid flat against him, you pull at the hem of your skirt to keep your modesty. 

  “This punishment is just for the dirty words,” Eddie explains. His ringed fingers walk along your spine, trailing down your back and up the fat of your ass. 

  He lays a warm hand on your cheeks and rubs it gently. Squeezing every so often. 

  Eddie's cock is hard under your ribs and your pussy flutters at the size of him. He hums and jiggles your ass before explaining his rules for your indiscretion, “you are going to recite The Lord’s Prayer while I spank you. Understand?”  

  You nod dumbly and whimper when his left hand tickles up your thighs. 

  “Start.” He grunts. 

  You begin the Lord's Prayer just like you were taught, standing before joyful cheeked families in a similar white dress on your First Communion day. 

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be th—”

  A large hand comes down hard with a thwap! on your ass cheek, sending you forward and hitting your head on the wall. 

  “Oh,” Eddie whispers, not hiding the smile in his voice, “if you mess up— we start over. So don’t. Unless this naughty girl enjoys being spanked by daddy? Hmm?�� 

  You nod again and continue. Trying hard to remember where you were. Hallowed be…

  “.. Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done. On Eart—”

  Two hands smack your ass at once like sticks beating a drum. The hem of your skirt is lifted past the sheer white panties you are wearing. Reaching for the end of your dress to pull it down Eddie grabs your wrist, putting your hand back where it belongs he issued another spanking. 

  This time he lifts your dress fully and groans at the sight in front of him. Your plump ass has all but swallowed the see thru fabric of your panties. Eddie sucks a breath in through his teeth and places his left hand in the thick of your thighs, warmed by the heat of your arousal, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

  Thy Kingdom… shit. 

  “Thy Kingdom c—” the hardest slap yet has rained down on your nearly bare skin, and it springs tears from your eyes. 

  Eddie smooths over the red mark left on your skin and his tone is irate when he spits, “you already said that sweetheart, start again.” 

  His fingers snake further up your legs and he groans at the feel of your soaked panties on his fingertips. 

  You start again. And the spankings Eddie delivers are swift and merciless. The harder he spanks the more you cry out. 

  Sweat pools between your thighs where Eddie’s hot hand is wedged, his thumb teasing the outline of your panties and pressing soft circles into the fabric. 

  Tears cling to your eyelashes as your punishment comes to an end, welts forming where his rings stung and clipped you. 

  Words of reassurance fall from his lips after every slap and harsh whack of his hands. When Eddie leans over to catch a rogue tear from your cheek before it hits the carpet, your thighs slam together tight with a snap. 

  The groan he lets out is guttural and low. His cock twitches underneath you again. 

  “..and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil Am—- ow!” 

  Quick, hot tears sting your eyes. A jerk of your head reveals a sight you would never imagine seeing… let alone in a church. 

  Pearly, and oddly straight. The calcified and slightly sharp teeth pull out from the red, irritated skin on your ass.  

  “If you want to repent for your sins, you need to put your trust in me, can you do that baby… hmm? Can you listen and give yourself to me? It’s the only way you’ll be forgiven.”

  A perfect dental record sunken in deep, small droplets of blood weep from the pierced flesh from his canines. 

His lips are pulled back in a snarl, dark eyes gleam with a feral intensity so ferocious you’re instantly terrified. He looks like a wolf fighting for a meal. 

  Paralyzed with fear, your lungs spasm in shock as he flicks out his tongue, running the wet tip of the muscle along the pattern of his teeth grooved into your skin. 

  Each pass of his slicked tongue deepens the arousal in your lower stomach. His lips curve around the mark, kissing it better, his hooded eyes never leave yours. 

  You moan when the purpling bruise he’s sucking into your skin is greeted with the same poked teeth that bit you earlier. 

  His thick middle finger had your panties pulled to the side and your arousal is coated thick on his finger as he pushes past your puffy lips. A blunt fingernail sharp against your inner walls. 

  “Fuck,” he groans, dipping his finger into the impossibly tight well of your sweet pussy. 

  Eyes rolling into the back of your head, you mimic his moans and bite into your cheek. Hungry for the look of a broken gasp as your walls flutter and tighten around him. 

  World spinning and head rushing, Eddie has you upright and straddling his waist. when you start to question him he shushes you. 

  Taking the same finger he had plunged into your molten slicked pussy, he rubs the pad of it around your lips. Like a tube of chapstick during a cold winter, he coats them again and again, licking his own, his other hand is tight on your knee and gently skirting closer to your hip under your dress. 

  When he's satisfied with his art on your plump lips, he finally dives in, his breath hot on your skin and you part your mouth in a welcome for him. 

  But he only laughs. 

  A throaty chuckle that mocks you, as you wait for him to kiss you, wait for him to press his pinked lips to yours. Waiting for his tongue to devilishly lap at the corner of your mouth. 

  But all of his attention is zeroing down on the rosary around your neck. 

  Each bead is slick with sweat, warm to the touch against his thumb, as he counts them in his head, your throat gasping on each inhale. Whimpering and moving your hips against him.

  Grabbing the rosary in his fist he pulls you closer to him, biting the fleshy lobe around the small gold hoops in your ears, his dick aches when you whine his name. 

  Huffed whispers tickle your ear and send shivers down your spine and flood your panties, “Such a dirty fucking girl, practically begging for me to fuck you.” 

  Another whine from your mouth and he’s bucking his hips into you, strained denim against wet lace. 

  “Is that what you want?” Eddie demands. His snake-like tongue tickling behind your ear, “all you have to do, is ask.” 

  “Please,” you beg, fingers curling into the flannel of his shirt, head thrown back as he circles your neck and paints hickies with his tongue.

  “Not good enough, baby. Tell me how bad you want this little virgin hole filled.” 

  His hand finds it way under your skirt to the desperate slick of your panties, his fingers sliding around and making slow figure eights against your clit.

  Tits bouncing as you move against his hand, hopelessly with no words you beg him with your body to give you relief. You whine again embarrassed to ask for what you craved, the sin that brought you here to begin with.

  When you don’t say anything he retreats his hand. And you try to chase it as it slips away, you whimper pitifully again, and finally succumb to his demands. 

  All embarrassment gone as you beg him, plead for his cock, “Eddie, please.. please.. I’ve been so good,” you oughta be ashamed of yourself but you couldn’t care less— if he could make you feel this good by barely touching you, you’d be on your way to that glorified “O” in no time, and you can practically hear the Hallelujah chorus.  

  He chuckled cockily at your pleas, but shushes you as he unthreads his belt, and almost chokes when you gasp in awe at his thick veiny cock, slapping up to his belly with a thump and the pearling bead of cum seeping from the slit. 

  His thick ringed hand pumps himself as he lines himself up with your swollen pussy. And when you sink down he slams himself home and you clench around him, a scream escaping your slack mouth.

  He groans low,  trying to even out his breathing around your pretty gasps and breathy moans. 

  “You’re gonna keep my cock warm before I fuck you like the slut you wanna be for me,” he chides, concentrating hard on on anything other than the tight walls of your pussy gripping him. “This is the rest of your punishment… you pray a Hail Mary and warm my cock, no whining, no moaning.” 

  You whimper as his cock stretches you out, practically biting a hole in your bottom lip as you taste yourself from where he painted them with your own arousal earlier. 

  A loud slap to your ass and you’re jolting forward, your rosary tight in Eddie’s fist as he brings you down to his lips, “start praying or I’ll go home.”

  “Hail Mary,” you begin, the same way you started before, only this time the pressure was never lifted, your pussy full of him, and his tongue hot and feverish on your neck, teeth grazing your skin ever so lightly. 

  He’s teasing you and trying to get you to break, he thumbs over your nipples until they’re peaked and sore in his pinched grip. 

  When you get halfway through the sacred prayer, your pussy aches and drips down to his balls. His tongue is lazily working a red and purple ‘E’ into the fat of your tit, one hand still holding the rosary tight against your neck. 

  You’re on the verge of breaking when you suck him in deeper, pushing your walls around him and kegeling him in a death trap. He mins and curses the lord’s name, and he finally snaps. 

  Bangs slicked with sweat and stuck heavy against forehead, he grunts, “Holy Mary Mother of God.” And you’re hiked upwards. 

  The screen you confessed your sins to with Eddie on the other side only a half hour ago, is now pressed tight against your ass as Eddie hammers his cock into your slicked and aching pussy. 

  The moan you elicit is toe curling, borderlining pornographic as the thick head of his clock slams into a spot you were unaware of reaching again and again. 

  “Pray for us sinners… fuck this pussy is so tight… now and at the hour of our death,” Eddie whimpers into your shoulder before biting down hard. 

  And when you yell out an amen your fluttering gummy walls spasm with joyful relief. Coating you and Eddie both with hot arousal as it seeps from you. 

  And the lips you’ve been staring at all night finally touch yours. 

  A bruisingly, sore puncture of lust filled kisses that would have your lips resembling a baboon’s ass for days. 

  He’s babbling now as your feet are wrapped right around his waist, his hands wiggling into his curls and yanking harder sends him over the edge. 

  He drops you onto your knees and opens your mouth with a press of his thumb on your bottom lip, when your tongue is out, and waiting for his cum, he jerks his cock once more and shudders when the hot ropes leave him and drip on your tongue and lips. 

  “Body of Christ,” Eddie says with a smirk, shutting your mouth for you and watching you swallow his load. He expects you to gag, possibly spit it out at him like the other girls would. 

  But when you lick your lips and utter a seductive, “Amen.” Eddie knows he’d never get out of confession for the rest of his life. 

😅hmmm yeah ily there will be a part 2

[lilis-palace]

Could you share with us some traditional Central European farm house inspirations ? :D

This guide is about Hungarian traditional farmhouses.

🏠 EXTERIOR & STRUCTURE

Back in the 19th century, the three-room farmhouse was a common sight all across the Carpathian Basin. Its rooms are arranged in rows, i.e. one after the other. The front of the house, facing the street, was shorter, and you could enter through the long courtyard. The room facing the street was usually the main living area, while the second room served as the kitchen. In simpler houses, the third room was a pantry, but it wasn't uncommon to find a second room or even multiple pantries.

The floor was usually made of brick or tiled earth.

In richer houses, rooms had wooden floors.

The walls were white or smoky

🚪 ENTRANCE / Bejárat

It has two types: (1) There is only one external entrance from the courtyard, the other rooms can only be accessed via this entrance. It always leads to the second room. (2) Each room of the house has a separate entrance to the courtyard, and there is no internal passage between them.

🏛️ TORNÁC / PORTICO?

The wooden side-tornác is generally older, but there are many variations depending on the region.

🏛️ FACADE / Oromzat

The façade varied from landscape to landscape and from house to house. The houses were richly decorated with floral, religious and national motifs.

Traditional houses at Balaton.

🐔 THE COURTYARD / Udvar

🔥 STOVE / Kályha & Tűzhely

In the village house, the stove takes center stage and symbolizes the heart of the home. The kitchen had a fire burning to cook meals, and the warmth spread throughout the house thanks to a closed stove in the adjacent room. So, not only did the kitchen provide delicious food, but it also kept the entire house cozy and snug.

🔪🍰 KITCHEN / Konyha

Old traditional Hungarian kitchens were known for their functional design, centered around a hearth for cooking and a sturdy wooden table for family gatherings. These kitchens were often decorated with handmade ceramic or copper utensils, giving them a charming traditional touch.

🛌💤 ROOM / Szoba

Interestingly, in many areas, the first room wasn't used much at all, except for specific occasions like when someone was sick or when there was a baby on the way. The room was beautifully adorned and one corner was set up as an altar. People referred to it as the "clean room" because it was kept tidy and pristine.

LINKS & MORE EXAMPLES

Traditional farmhouse exterior: [omnia]

Hungarian villages: [fortepan]

Traditional floor plans & rooms: [mek.oszk]

Floor plans, motifs, exterior, furniture [arcanum]

Floor plans, exterior, roofs, regional differences [docplayer]

Interior of a house from 1863 [szikm.hu]

200 years old house interior & exterior [24.hu]

Pretty houses [multidezoepiteszet.blog.hu]

Wooden deco elements and more pics [mandadb.hu]

Useful link for every aspects of a farmhouse [sulinet.hu]

Houses from Kalotaszeg, a village in Transilvania [taj-kert.blog.hu]

The architectural tradition of the Hungarian village [epiteszforum]

more, and more... [mandadb.hu]

[guppygiggles]

A Sure Test 🪶

“Ah, ah, don't get up! Casper, how many times have I told you… you're my guest. Please, let me clear the table.” 

We'd been together for over a year, but nothing, it seemed, could dissuade Avery from doting on me. Back at my apartment I could occasionally convince him to relent, but never in his lighthouse. I smiled sheepishly as he took our plates to the sink, humming as he began to hand-wash them. 

Relaxing in the wooden chair, I turned my attention toward the springline window. As it ascended toward noon, a sweltering summer sun cast a shaft of white light into the kitchen, sending it dancing across wooden cabinetry and ceramic tile, passing translucently through Avery's bare limbs. I watched him quietly; even doing chores, he looked neat and dignified. 

“Hey, Avery?” I spoke over the clattering dishes. 

“Yes, dear.” 

“How can I be more like you?”

“What do you mean, like me?”

“You know… like, fancy, like you. Like, how you always seem put-together, or whatever… a gentleman.” 

He turned the sink off, turning to face me as he dried a plate with a strawberry-print towel. Grinning curiously, he leaned back against the counter. 

“What do you think makes someone a gentleman?” He asked. 

I thought for a moment. 

“Well… I guess, knowing how to dress… knowing what to say, like you always do… like, how you always seem so natural and relaxed…” My eyes traced the gray thinset dividing the pristine floor tiles. 

He set the plate down, standing before me in two Avery-sized steps. 

“Casper… being a gentleman isn't about clothing, demeanor, or even eloquence of speech – it's about integrity, kindness, and a bit of confidence; that's all. And for all that I may seem,” he tilted my chin up with a fingertip, “I am not all of those things, all of the time. Nobody is… Nobody can be. You may not be like me, but in the ways that matter, love… You are a gentleman.” 

I blushed, smiling a bit as I looked away from his pale, gentle eyes. He really did always know just what to say. Avery returned to the counter, resuming drying the dishes and putting them away. After a while, he spoke again. 

“If you're still unsatisfied, though… In terms of being a gentleman, there is a sure test…” 

I looked up, brow furrowed. 

“A test? What kind of test?” 

Avery folded his hands behind his back, a sly spark in his eye that I caught way too late. 

He cleared his throat ceremoniously. 

[neverpathia]

was struck by another sudden burst of inspiration, okay, so have another little scene from my little AU

pristine cut HEA minor spoilers

advy may look ooc at first but I promise I'm trying

----- ----- -----

The Skeptic picked at a scone, prodding its suspiciously rough edges with a fork. "Opportunist sent these over?"

His twin brother, the Smitten, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. How was his plate already empty? Did he have no sense of taste at all?

"Oh, that slimy, slithery wretch may don the visage of a dragon." Smitten lowered the napkin with a dramatic flourish. "Harken! He yet has kindness within that twisted, twisted heart."

Skeptic rose from his seat and fed the rest of his portion to the nearest trashcan. "The scones aren't even good."

"Fie! My own kin deigns to partake in such indignity?"

"Indignity? More like indigni-tea. 'Cause we just had tea, heh heh."

Smitten ignored the excellent joke. "To waste such a meal as this, and belittle a dear confidant nonetheless-"

"'Dear confidant'?" Skeptic raised an eyebrow. "Hm. Come to think of it, what have the two of you been talking about?"

Smitten shot him an exaggerated glare, his cheeks deepening red. "Brother mine, you shall do well to-"

There was a knock on the door.

On second thought, calling it a 'knock' would do it no justice. It was more like someone was violently pounding on the door, each strike more like a punch, every impact crashing on that poor door like a barrage of steel cannonballs.

Skeptic frowned. "Why would someone knock when we have a doorbell? Based on the strength, it's most likely Stubborn, but why?"

Smitten pushed aside his chair with an excessively graceful flick of the wrist. "Allow me to receive our guest."

"Oh, you're allowed alright." Still, Skeptic was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

The Smitten began to sashay over to the door. There was something distinctly queer about the movements, and Skeptic muttered something about a certain someone swinging a certain way. Smitten... the Opportunist, 'dear confidant'... surely not--

But Skeptic didn't get to finish that train of thought. And Smitten never got to open the door himself.

Instead, he scrambled away in an uncharacteristically inelegant fashion as the door tore away from its hinges. He just barely managed to make it to safety as it collapsed onto the wooden entryway tiles, bent and battered.

"Excuse me?" The Skeptic was confused.

"Pardon me?" The Smitten was offended.

Smitten's face immediately smoothed into his signature (self-proclaimed) dashing smile when he saw who the intruder was.

"A Princess!" Smitten was positively beaming. "Why, you are always welcome, please have a seat-"

"What?" Skeptic quickly set the plate he was holding onto the nearest surface. "So you're just going to ignore her very obvious crime of property damage?"

This Princess did not look very pleased.

And, with those muscles, she definitely looked like she was capable of causing even more property damage.

"My fair lady, I extend-"

The Adversary did not let the Smitten complete that sentence. She cut him off with a strong square punch in the stomach. It flung him across the living room before he crashed into a cabinet, sending a ceramic vase of roses tumbling to the ground.

"This," she snarled, "is for her."

Skeptic ran to his twin, shocked. Smitten was reeling and coughing. He leaned against the cabinet, surrounded by pieces of shattered ceramic, panting, gasping. A trickle of blood had begun to make its way down his chin.

"Princess..." Smitten murmured, dazed and mesmerised. "How beautiful, how..."

"Excuse me?" Skeptic repeated to Adversary, as calmly as he could muster. "Miss, what are you-?"

She strode towards the wounded Smitten, offering Skeptic a brief glance. Was that pity? Disappointment?

"Two on one might make it a fairer fight," she said. "Right now it's no fun. But you're not a part of this."

Skeptic tensed, ready to help his brother somehow, but it didn't matter. As she readied the next punch, he tried to intercept the blow, but she simply shoved Skeptic aside.

"What-" Frustration. Confusion. He hated it, he hated it all. "No! You can't do this out of nowhere! Smitten- defend yourself, don't just take it-"

The Skeptic's words were powerless. She repeatedly pummeled Smitten with her fists, striking at face and chest and limb, dealing no lethal blows but maximizing the pain of every hit.

"Do you understand what you did?" Adversary yelled between attacks, seething. "To her?"

That seemed to finally bring Smitten to his senses. "Who?" It came out as but a pained breath. "But...I would...never!"

"So you really don't know!" Adversary raised a hand before firmly clasping it around Smitten's neck. There was a sort of rage in her eyes, and it only blazed ever brighter when he lay there sputtering and choking. He struggled. He shook. But he didn't fight back.

"Stop!" Skeptic didn't know what to do with this situation. He despised not knowing. What could he do? What should he do? "Please. You're hurting him."

"Like he hurt her!"

"He's Smitten! He'd never lay a finger on a girl, let alone hurt one that badly-"

"Okay, then just ask him yourself!"

"How am I supposed to ask him when you're beating him half to death?!"

She paused. And then she released him with a sigh.

"Yeah." She wiped her hands on her tattered skirt. "You know...I really hate beating people up like this. Fine."

She got up.

"I'm still a guest, right?"

Skeptic glared at her. "No."

"Oh. Do you have any energy-drinks? Protein shakes?"

"No. Bugger off."

Skeptic turned to Smitten, his gaze softening in concern. "What's going on, really? What did you do, do you know anything? Do you know this Princess?"

Smitten, too powerless to speak, could only manage a weak shake of his head.

"I'll go get Paranoid later, alright?" Skeptic awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. He looked back at Adversary, who was busy leafing through-

"No checking the drawers," Skeptic said crossly.

She wrinkled her nose. "You guys really have nothing good! Ten whole brands of black coffee? Seriously?"

Skeptic cleared his throat.

"I'll have to ask you a few things, Miss...Eye? Needle?"

"Adversary," she answered.

"Ah." Skeptic nodded. "I thought you looked different. So, who is this 'her' you were talking about?"

When Adversary spoke again, her tone was pure contempt.

"She was his little Damsel. His happily ever after."

[harrietwritesstuff]

whumpcember 2024: inescapable migraine. 1.5k words.

Move. Get up. You have to move. You can’t lie here.

The throbbing pulse of his heart seems to have moved into his brain - sharper, crueller - savage in its all consuming intensity. Saliva pools in his mouth. He can't feel anything other than the swelling ache that pushes against his skull, claws digging in, pulling his head apart - piece by jagged piece.

It has eclipsed everything.

Get up. Now. There is so much to do. You're wasting time.

The palm of his hand rests against the cold floor, fingers shaking. Dimly, Volodymyr knows this is wrong; the President of Ukraine, curled into a ball on the bathroom floor, forehead pressed against the tile. He can't bring himself to care. It’s cold here; cold, dark and utterly silent.

Just let me stay. Let me lie here. Leave me be.

Move. Everything depends on you. You need to get up.

Nausea rises in his stomach again, and he reaches out blindly, opening his eyes to the screaming brightness of the overhead lights, white tiles, ceramic. Raising his head makes him dizzy, the world blurred as he scrabbles about to find purchase on the edge of the sink, pulling himself up shakily. The floor shifts beneath him and he dry heaves. There's nothing in his stomach - just acrid saliva flooding his mouth. It tastes horribly sour, and he retches suddenly, again - again - his head spinning. It passes eventually, leaving his throat scratched, his stomach sore, his skull pulsating with a newer, more savage ache that has slipped behind his eyes now too, taking hold. He sinks back to the floor, or tries to at least, eyes closed - desperate to get away from the stinging lights.

He misses then, a quiet step, a soft voice.

“Oh love. Let's get you back to bed.”

Somewhere outside of the all consuming agony in his head, he feels a strong arm beneath his shoulders and around his back, pulling him slowly, carefully upright.

“You're alright. Hold onto me.”

Vova lists to one side, trembling as he rests against Maks. Maksym's warm, gentle fingers press against his waist, just for a moment, before reaffirming his grip. Their small, shuffling  journey is painfully, horribly slow - even as cold tile gives way to polished wooden flooring; a distance of no more than ten meters. His eyes flicker open cautiously, sensing the change in environment, bare feet still cold against the floor. The tiny pool of light by the bed feels like an assault on his senses, his head screaming for it to stop, for the stabbing pain to lessen as it lances through him, every part of him suddenly tense.

“M’ tired. Hurts.”

His voice is hoarse, weary, and Maksym feels it as keenly as though it were a wound of his own. Vova squints up at him, his face grey-green even in the bare light. There's a blown blood vessel in his left eye, red seeping into the white around his iris, inflamed.

In a voice hardly louder than a breath and determinedly steady, Maks offers out a scrap of reassurance.

“I know. I know. Just keep going for me. You can close your eyes. I won't let you fall.”

Maks would lift him, carry him - he'd do anything for this man - but he knows it will just make the nausea worse; the need for steady ground, for the world not to shift, to move again - just to make it through this moment, and then the next- and the next, and on.

“Mmm-” The responding exhale is half a groan, all Vova’s careful trust implicit in the way his eyes slide half shut again, moving blindly, the weight of him against Maksym, believing him utterly.

“A little further. Almost there.”

After what feels like miles, those same, gentle, constant hands guide him to sit down, a half-collapse to the edge of the bed, sinking into the thin mattress.

“Vova?”

He opens his eyes a little more, Maksym's face filling his vision, blurred and unsteady. There's a cold glass suddenly in his hands, and then a warm, rough hand over his. The world sways unsteadily away from him and then back, those soft brown eyes the only point of stasis. He watches Maksym blearily, the pressure in his head pounding in time with his heart, his bones heavy as he drifts aimlessly forward - seeking the soft quiet he has always found - and will always find in Maksym's arms.

“Oh. Love. Not yet. Drink this for me–”

The instructions are bare, quiet, but still gentle - Maksym aware that every noise, every sound he makes now is too loud for Volodymyr, his hearing oversensitive; each syllable, every breath almost unbearable through the dull, thumping pain inhabiting his skull. Vova does as he is asked, leaving Maks breathless for a moment at such an open, implicit display of unwavering trust encapsulated in the quiet action; to drink from a glass he can hardly see, can only hope, assume it is benign. Something about it nestles into the crack in Maksym’s heart and he takes a shaky breath of his own.

Taking the empty glass and placing it to one side, Maks quietly eases Vova's legs up onto the mattress, his head down onto the pillow. The cotton against his cheek is smooth, cold - but not enough; he longs for the cool, perfect feeling of ice against his skull - the spreading numbness of before - the smooth tiles, pressed against them, begging them to swallow him up in the cold, the quiet. The world outside is too loud, too rough.

What are you doing? You need to get up, move - work.

He can hear the tread of Maks’ boots, horribly loud, but getting further away, leaving him behind. Silence and the looming sense of being left alone fills him, a shuddering fear sliding around his sore, aching head - tendrils of panic squeezing at his heart. Don’t leave me here, not now, not alone, please. I can bear the noise, I can stand it - the pain, anything. I don’t care, just - come back. Don’t leave me; not when - if someone comes; I can’t see, can’t move - the thoughts are entangled with the agony in his head, curling around one another viciously, settling at the back of his skull like some sort of leeching parasite. Face pressed into the pillow, eyes clamped shut, he flinches at the persistent torment, the unintentional movement of his body like a betrayal as another red-hot spike of pain drives through his skull.

A sudden rush of cold air blunts the escalating panic, diverts the thundering agony. The air smells like snow - blank and white; filling the room, his lungs with something piercingly sharp. After a wary moment or two, Vova welcomes it, a strange blissful counterpoint to the relentless pulsing ache in his head, behind his eyes. The light of the lamp dies suddenly, the grey behind his eyelids deepening to black.

Dark, now. Wonderfully cold. Quiet.

In the darkness, Maksym unties his boots, leaves them by the desk near the now open window; toes curling against the cool parquet floor as he tip-toes closer.

For Vova, just the noise of footsteps again, duller this time. The sound grates against his senses and a whimper slips out of him.

Then - silence, save for the rasp of his own breathing. There is the weight of another person on the edge of the bed, and something cold, almost unbearably cold on his forehead, over his eyes - the thudding, shrieking ache of his head stunned into silence. His next inhale is shaky, fingers twitching against the sheets, every atom of him straining blindly against the fat, swelling pain in his head, willing it to go. Maksym moves carefully, maintaining the slight pressure of one hand against the cold, damp compress on Vova’s forehead, his fingers slowly turning numb. Unsure if he can even feel it, he rubs his thumb lightly against the damp strands of hair, curling slightly over his forehead. Even with his face twisted with hurt, he seems younger, delicate almost.

Maksym sits with him in the darkness, the flat of his other palm against Vova's back, just beneath his t-shirt; the steady weight like a grounding anchor against his aching muscles. Maks can feel the coolness of his skin, the tension threaded through each quivering muscle. His thin t-shirt rides up with the movement, a vulnerable strip of skin just at his hip bones suddenly visible between his shirt and the waistband of his trousers. He lies curled on his side, facing the wall, cheek pressed into the pillow.

He seems lost in the gnawing darkness, the shadows slinking around the edges, keen to swallow him whole.

The hours pass in silence, the only movement in the small dark room is Maks, replacing the cold compress, filling the water glass, waiting for the dam to break.

[historyofromanovs]

do you know where the first few of the romanovs resided before all of the palaces were built and if so, are any of them remaining? do we know what they look like?

I'm afraid very little from the earliest days of the Romanov dynasty had survived the ravages of time. By the time of Nicholas II, many early residences had already been either destroyed or replaced by the modern and elegant palaces we see today. Here's a few that survived.

The Cabin of Peter the Great May 1703

Built during the founding of the city of Saint Petersburg, the log cabin was the first St. Petersburg "palace" of Tsar Peter the Great. The small wooden house was constructed in just three days, by soldiers of the Semyonovskiy Regiment. 

At that time, the new St. Petersburg was described as "a heap of villages linked together, like some plantation in the West Indies".

The Cabin was boarded up and camouflaged during the Second World War. It was the first St. Petersburg museum to reopen in September 1944, after the end of the Siege of Leningrad. 

This cabin must have appeared as a huge downgrade after the wooden palace of Tsar Alexei!

The Wooden Palace of Tsar Alexei Romanov 1667

The recreation of an authentic mid-17th century Romanov residence was built recently in 2010. The Palace of Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich, also known as the Wooden Palace of Tsar Alexei, is a large wooden palace in Kolomenskoye, near Moscow, Russia.

The original was built in 1667 without using any fasten materials, nails or hooks. The wooden palace, famed for its fanciful, fairytale roofs, was a summer residence for Russian tsars before St. Petersburg was constructed. 

The palace was divided into male and female halves, with the Tsar and Tsarevitches towers and chambers in the male half and the Tsarina's towers in the female half. 

The palace's interior featured rich decorations, including carving, painting, gilding, and ceramic tiles, as well as rectangular and round stoves, weathercocks, and windows and porches. 

Foreigners referred to this huge maze of intricate corridors and 250 rooms, as 'an Eighth Wonder of the World'. Although basically only a summer palace, it was the favorite residence of Tsar Alexei I.

The future Empress Elizabeth Petrovna was born in the palace in 1709, and Tsar Peter the Great spent part of his youth here.

Upon the departure of the court for the swamps of St. Petersburg, the palace fell into disrepair, so that Catherine the Great refused to make it her Moscow residence. On her orders the wooden palace was demolished in 1768, but thankfully, the detailed plans of the palace had survived.

Summer Palace of Peter the Great

1714

One of the earliest imperial residences I can think of that still exists today is the modest Summer Palace of Peter the Great, which is located on an island near the Peter and Paul Fortress, the burial place of the Romanovs.

The palace was built between 1710 and 1714, a few years before the proclamation of the Russian Empire. By the time of Tsar Nicholas II's reign at the end of the 19th century, it became vacant.

During the Second World War, both the Summer Palace and Summer Gardens were badly damaged by a German bombing raid. The building was repaired, however, and the layout remains unchanged from the original.

Above: The palace as depicted in 1809. Below: The residence today.

Monplaisir Palace in Peterhof 1714-1716

There is another residence owned by Peter the Great that is still standing today. And that is the Monplaisir Palace in Peterhof.

The following painting depicts the formidable Tsar and his son and heir Tsarevich Alexei Petrovich, who has been accused of preparing to seize power, in the interior of the Monplaisir Palace. Before pronouncing sentence, Peter I gazes into his son's eyes, still hoping to discern signs of remorse.

Above: The Parade Hall of Monplaisir Palace today.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

autumnal writing prompt:

fallen leaves but it has to take place inside the TARDIS. any doctor + companion and/or pairing

hiiiii thank you for your prompt and for your patience <3 tbh, i loved this concept and i spent a fair bit of time on the execution, trying to get the vibe close to what i was seeing in my head. not sure if i succeeded. but i hope you enjoy it anyway!

i went with the tenth doctor for this one, set post-runaway bride, reflecting on the loss of rose.

to read on ao3, click here!

-

When the time came, he let the TARDIS guide him there.

He never knew where it had been or would be. He never knew what it would be like either. That was part of the Solarium's charm: it was a place which could only be found when it wasn't sought. Its unpredictability made it what it was.

And it had been a night for unpredictability. But he'd delivered the bride safely home. Snow still sugared the shoulders of his suit when the halls began changing.

"I'm not ready," he felt himself say. The words echoed hollowly ahead of him, down funny sharp turns and looping passages. He was raw and exposed and though he was very alone, he didn't feel alone—he felt stifled by memories, ghosts crowding the edges of his vision.

He needed time. He needed more of it, reams of it, an endless fountain of it. He needed all the time there was, and more—because that's what it would take.

But he followed the lights anyway. What else could he do?

Down corridors and stairwells, he let the ship lead him. Up a spiral staircase. Behind a false wall. The TARDIS was rarely consistent, but she was kind: she let him take the long way 'round.

When the arched doorway finally presented itself, the weak light was already filtering out through the cracks. Dry, brown leaves skittered and hushed as he put his palm to the creaky wooden door and pushed.

Autumn.

Inside the Solarium, it was autumn.

Outside, too. The atmosphere beyond the high, domed glass and iron lattice work appeared blue—a pale, eggshell blue, verging on grey. Clouds melded seamlessly with sky. The chill of it was almost a visible thing.

Within the Solarium, everything was in its proper place: the sundial, made now of stone, though in the past it had been many things—wood, then ceramic, then glass, then gleaming quartz; the pond where nothing lived and nothing grew, but the water itself danced. The ivy still crept perpetually up the lattices.

And in the center of the room, the tree still stood.

The tree in the Solarium belonged to no particular genus, had no particular name, though he'd searched the TARDIS library to find one. The bark of its massive trunk was smooth and unobtrusive, marred only by the occasional scar of some long distant, unknown trauma. It never fruited, though he'd seen it in every season. Its leaves often changed shape or grew irregularly, patchy and strange.

And at present, it was an explosion of colour.

The Doctor said nothing.

Gold, gold. So many golden leaves hung from those broad branches. Shades varied from the palest sunrise to a hue so rich and dark as to be nearly orange. In some spots, clusters of browning, dead leaves hung, poised to fall.

His eyes avoided those patches, drawn instead to where the vibrant colour was thickest. It was the gold of hair, of puddled sunlight, of a young sun. In spite of himself, he began crossing the tiled floor.

The loose laces of his plimsolls disturbed the occasional fallen leaf, a crackling announcement of his presence. But he still approached slow, like he would meet a wild animal. He stepped cautiously over where thick roots had broken through the floor.

It was only when his hand began to lift, fingers extended, that he paused.

"I'm not ready," he whispered, scarcely a moment before a vibrant daisy-heart-yellow leaf broke free and fell—right into his waiting hand.

     "I'll never get used to this. Never. Different ground beneath my feet," and she's jumping, bouncing on her heels, and she's smiling, and it’s lovely, "different sky… What's that smell?"

     "Apple grass," he tells her, eager to share everything he knows.

     "Apple grass… It's beautiful. Oh, I love this. Can I just say, travelling with you, I love—"

"No."

The Doctor's hand spasmed, and the leaf fell, taking with it the scent of a different world. Apple grass. Such a crisp, fresh smell. He could never smell it again without thinking of her.

His throat felt tight. He wasn't ready.

Yet how many times had he stood just like this and let the memories wash over him?

Often they were green—hopeful springtimes of gentle past, a balm when he needed it most. Reminders of the goodness which existed in pockets of the universe, waiting to be discovered.

Sometimes, they came frost-fanged and bitter, serrated edges cutting him to the bone. Regret was grey. Steel grey.

All his companions had bloomed and withered here, on these unreal branches.

But this—the season the tree offered him was too cool and serene for what he felt. This… gentle giving-way. There was a storm inside him.

She had not passed gracefully into another season; she had been torn from his world, and her world, and the TARDIS, and him. How could that be beautiful?

How could that be golden?

He moved in a rush, grasping suddenly at the nearest withered clutch of leaves. He was only just tall enough to reach, and when he closed his fist, he came away with—

     Pleading. "Help her."

     But he isn't moved. "Everything has its time," he says, "and everything dies."

—and,

     "No." Sarah Jane stands firm. Sure in herself. "The universe has to move forward. Pain and loss, they define us as much as happiness or love. Whether it's a world, or a relationship," and the guilt cuts him open as he thinks of her, the leaves on her tree; then he thinks of Rose. "Everything has its time—"

—and,

     "Why don't you ever just say what you mean?"

     "Rose—"

     "It's always talking with you, but you never…" She shakes her head, hair catching the light of the console. He wants to hold her so badly he can barely speak. "Just tell me this, Doctor: you and me, is it ever gonna change? Will we ever…?" She drifts off, uncertain.

     "Everything changes." It's not really an answer, but it's the best he can do. "I promise."

—and in a blink, his fist closed. The brittle memories crushed to dust in his hand.

They were still there, of course: in him, in the TARDIS herself, and they always would be. They would grow anew, changing shape over time. Even at the topmost parts of the tree, people who were long gone lived forever: his granddaughter, with her untameable smile; an old historian who loved cocoa and cake and driving him spare; a young boy who was so brave, and so clever, and so very foolish; an Edwardian adventuress who followed him into madness.

The companions of his many lives.

They crowded their way up into the highest branches. One day, Rose would live among them, a golden crown to this ancient tree.

But even that knowledge held no comfort.

"No more," he said, "please."

Around him, the room gave a faint, irritated huff—like a creaky groan and a hum at once. And from somewhere else, a wind stirred. Focused and strong. Pay attention, it seemed to say, or else did say, in its own language.

A leaf the colour of liquid gold wriggled and broke loose, and he knew better than to run from it. All he could manage was to stand his ground as it smacked, with unusual force, into his chest.

The image burst over him.

     "Anything else?"

     "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

     He sees where the woman—the bride—is looking. Over his shoulder. His gaze follows her, and he feels all the air leave his lungs. There is an infinite space between one heartsbeat and the next. But it’s real. It’s really her. No hologram or vision or ghost. No memory.

     In the darkness, a light. Blonde hair glinting, her eyes holding his. And then he's running. Running flat out.

     She's all he can see.

     The feeling inside him is like nothing else. Like being reborn.

     Her smile crosses the distance, gilded and lovely, meeting him before his arms can reach her. But even before his touch lands, he knows he’s already home.

The Doctor blinked. A hand rose to wipe down his own face, smearing the tears he hadn't felt fall. His from another time.

His feet stumbled forward, and he caught himself against the tree's giant trunk.

"Not a memory," he whispered to the silence, in all its enormity, its electric potential. "Not yet."

Prescience, passed down to him by the brush of a leaf. This had never happened before.

But then, there had never been anybody like Rose before, had there? She'd left her mark on the TARDIS, on the vortex itself, every bit as much as she'd left her mark on him.

The pads of his fingers felt out a scar in the wood. One he hadn't seen before. It had an odd shape to it, an asymmetry that reminded him a little of an animal in profile: a jagged protrusion, and the swell of a haunch.

Something with its nose to the sky.

He traced it twice before he understood. The muzzle. The howling. His chest felt weightless, for a moment. Uncompressed by longing and grief, his hearts beat freely.

The Doctor, with his hand to the wolf, wheezed out a shocked laugh as he suddenly remembered that these leaves were also the colour of flame. Of timeless, endless burning, searing and rewriting.

     "I bring life."

From its bark and its branches, from its roots and its high crown, the tree seemed to shiver out a very long sigh as he finally grasped its message. Everything has its time, it breathed. Its hope was golden.

The shades of it all swirled together and tangle, an infinite vortex, laden and dripping with life still to come, and it was beautiful.

The Doctor smiled, removed his hand, and turned from the tree.

Her time—and his—and theirs—was not yet over.

There was more to be done. And he was ready.

[mealvaan]

Two Heads are Better than One

Vahri'a's picatrix was lain amid the unwashed ceramics, a small stone keeping it spread flat. It hadn't been cleansed in a while, and some of the inkwork had worn with time and friction, for Vahri'a had stopped using it as a grimoire altogether last year. However, there was the occasional spell of use that remained within these pages and not yet on his skin. This was one of them.

He worked his fingers over the geometry, his own latent aether to the page. With the flick of his wrist, he pulled in a touch of the signature aether from atop the neighboring plates, funneling it into the equation — then the splay of his hand dissipated it in completion of the spell.

"Now it'll wash off easily," Vahri'a demonstrated. He lifted the plate vertically, picked up the basin, and ran the water over its surface. The once-stuck morsels were swept away in the current, leaving the ceramic plain and clean. He handed it to Mana.

"You can do this with ephemancy?"

"With arcanima, yes."

Mana took up the remaining plate and washed it off, then stacked the two parallel on the drying rack.

"Whew! Thank you. I'll need to learn that one some time," she said, then tapped her chin with a curious index finger. "I wonder if you could modify that spell so that it just removes the stuck-bits entirely…"

"Arcanist spells primarily work for non-living matter, save for spoken humors which we understand quite intimately. The once-living and the living are the realm of the thaumaturge and the conjurer respectively," Vahri'a was quick to answer in what Mana knew to be his 'teacher voice', though he cleared his throat out of it. "But, I don't see why it can't be done. All things are made from aether."

"Exactly," Mana said, brandishing a wooden spoon like a wand. "If I knew the alchemical composition of the food, surely I could factor that into the spell?"

Vahri'a had never thought of this key interaction between three seemingly adverse disciplines: alchemy, the culinary arts, and the magic of arcanima. Visorless, Mana was rewarded with the rare sight of her cousin… impressed. Speechless, even.

"Can I take a copy of this spell?" Mana asked, breaking the silence and picking up Vahri'a's picatrix.

"Ah, it's a little complex. Let me make a copy for you," Vahri'a offered, gently taking his book back.

"At least let me supply the aetherial ink, then. That's expensive."

"I have more than I would ever need. Consider it a gift."

"You've already done me enough favors."

The ambient sound of water crashing against bathroom tile occasionally interspersed their conversation, and had become welcome background noise at this point. What perked both their ears was a hum — coming from behind the thick washroom door, T'orii hummed a momentary ditty. Either she had forgotten entirely that the two were just outside, or she knew and didn't care.

"Our song of hope, she dances on the wind… higher, oh higher…"

Vahri'a's heart thumped and thawed.

"I know how I can pay you back," Mana chimed. She was looking at Vahri'a, who had been looking far away. He knew immediately what she meant and his ears braced to the top of his head, yet she spoke it all the same: "You've a brilliant mind, Vahri'a, but in the Goddess's name — let me help you with the matters of the heart."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Back in Everkeep, Ish'kirya thought he had the best bedroom setup achievable to man. It was a massive project he undertook when he turned twenty-one and finally started earning his own money (the True Vue way), when his first cashed check was lush.

Oddly, Ish'kirya was inspired by the luxury pod hotel he stayed at. It was a rare visit to the 4th Level, and he hadn't expected there to be amenities of any sort on the production floor, yet it seemed like those who worked in the factories stayed late oft enough to require such a thing.

By the time Ish'kirya had finished with his bedroom, it was the pod's concept taken to new levels of comfort and automation. Everything predicated on a pre-programmed 'morning time'.

Half a bell before the morning time, the room would gradually fill with natural ambient sounds — miscellaneous bird calls, the gentle rustle of wind through leaves, and a dash of white noise that helped everything blend together (and leave out unsightly audio blemishes).

A quarter of a bell after that, the room would slowly introduce a golden glow, starting from the gradiated strips he placed on the floor and slowly rising to the ceiling, until the whole room was bathed in faux-sunlight.

Once the scheduled time hit, the birdsong would hit its apex in a much more forgiving alarum, and a beam of sunlight would soak in over his face from a carefully placed electrope light. The upper half of the mattress floated up and forward, while the latter stayed steady; the bed would prop him up in a reclined sitting position, the perfectly placed eye-beam moving with it, and he'd wake to a synthetic sunrise.

By the time the project was done, his room was a holy sanctum, the comforts of which had never been achieved even by the Residential Sector commissioned for millions of credits by Praxis Park. He achieved it himself, and that was the beauty of Alexandrian society. Everything was by design. There were no gods. Only mankind could determine what was best for mankind.

Ish'kirya awoke in the Sheshenewezi Springs inn room. Sunlight filtered through the dilapidated window as distant, uncurated birds called — eagles, he thought. He still lay vertical, but the sun beam hit his eyes anyway. Rubbing stardust out of his eyes, he sat up, awake.

Huh.

He didn't like looking at his face in the morning light, ignoring the mirror entirely as he brushed his teeth and splashed his cheeks with lukewarm water. How he missed closets that would cycle outfits out for him, mists that tacitly applied his lotion, primer and foundation.

Truly, Ish'kirya couldn't be bothered with any of it, and he got right to the meat of the day. Straight from the sink, he sat at the bedside bureau. Little pieces of electrope were undergoing delicate engravings with a needle and pocket knife. He had a nice laser cutter that he used to hook up to his computer at home for electrope matters…

"You're up early," grunted Iron Lotus, who finally awoke. Ish'kirya turned around. He was still getting used to seeing her without her helmet, before her own morning ritual.

"Woke with the sunrise. What can I say?"

"You say a lot. Is the levin rod ready then?"

"Nope. A little bit of patience goes a long way, you know." It was taking longer than he expected, though he'd never admit it in so many words. Lotus stood and took a look at his workdesk. He looked up at her expectantly, hoping his return-fire gaze would deter her from watching over his shoulder.

"You're working with a pocket knife?"

"There's a needle here too, if you look with your eyes."

"Mm."

"What? Use your vocabulary," he scolded, turning his chair all the way around. "We're not fuckin' lush on tools, you know."

"There's probably something better to use."

Ish'kirya hated these vague sentiments. His mothers were big fans of them; nudging him in an indeterminate direction, expecting him to get it with the faintest 'suggestions' of advice and patting themselves on the back for words that barely counted as hints. He gave Lotus a withering look, but her back was turned. Great. He'd be passive aggressively nudged to success from—

"Here."

By the time he turned his back, Lotus had approached him. Between fur-lined digits was what Ish'kirya could only describe as a tiny spear (he had seen the like in RPGs); a thin implement with a bladed edge on the end, sharpened to a tight point. The whetting wasn't even, but the end was precise enough despite the more than apparent handmadeness to it.

"What's this?"

"Scalpel."

Ish'kirya took it into his own hands and twirled it. A scalpel, she said. He tested it on the side of the desk, watching it curl up a wood shaving in its wake.

"Cool."

Lotus said nothing. They weren't the type for please's and thank you's, between Ish'kirya's brash demeanour and Lotus's unapologetic silence. Despite how far behind Shaaloani was, it possessed of niches that Ish'kirya hated to admit he needed. Perhaps he would learn to find it enough.

"How long will it take?" Lotus broke the silence.

"I'm a getting tired of this 'are we there yet' routine, you know. It's giving three-year-old."

Lotus stared dead at Ish'kirya, then made her way downstairs for breakfast. Truly, the preferable means of communication between them was non-verbal.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Red's night terrors, regrettably, had become a natural alarum for Imogen at this point. She awoke to his scream with a jolt still — that much hadn't been blunted and desensitised, yet — but she relaxed easier than she did the first time, her hands ghosting over Red like a shawl.

"Red. It's me," she said no louder than a whisper, and clinically shook him by the shoulders. It was a gentle jostle, like riding a chocobo carriage on an uneven road. She modulated her voice to rise slightly with every "Red", until she was speaking at normal volume (which, for Imogen, was anyone else's outdoor voice).

Eventually, he quieted awake.

"Sorry," he said. "I—"

Imogen cut him off. "I was having a weird nightmare, so cheers for that."

Red rubbed Althyk's sand from his lashes, turning his bleary blues to her. "What about?"

"I don't really wanna talk about it, honestly."

"Fair do's. Me neither."

Imogen kicked her way out of the blanket and cracked some fire crystals under the kettle, which had a permanent place on their stove. The Kugane estate that Yoki had rented was certainly intended for weddings, she thought; nowhere else would they offer a kitchenette next to the bedroom. She walked her fingers through the tea bag labels, flickering past the various citrus and ginger variants. She fished out two mild greens and dropped them into twin cups — the handleless, Hingan variant.

Red eventually got up and joined her, watching the kettle. He poured it out as she held out the ceramics. He insisted on doing the honey, too, and Imogen was particular about how squeezy 'one squeeze' was.

She wasn't used to seeing the moonlight against the grey of his hair, so she didn't look at it. She only ran her eyes along the fissures of his scars, relieved to still see most of them there.

"Kanpai," said Imogen.

"… Sure," snorted Red.

Imogen brought her tea to bed and took Red's once-place on the far side, where fear-wrought sweat still clung to the sheets. Her breath skid along the surface and turned to fog, then in her impatience, she scalded her tongue with a flinchless sip.

Red didn't drink his tea yet, and that was fine. Imogen was so easily offended by the star, but not him. She slipped a tome off the bedside table by her and waved it at him.

"We've still got a chapter of this pillowbook to devour," she said enticingly, and Red laughed. She didn't know what she'd do if that was taken away from her too, so she savoured every note, memorised the key.

"I thought ye hated th' last chapter."

"Yeah, that's why I want to read more of it. I need more kindling for my fireplace of ire. I'm a hatred-engine running out of steam."

"Or — 'ere's a wild idea — ye actually enjoy the story—"

"I would rather be devoured alive than admit such a thing."

T'was a strange metaphor, yet Red skated past it gracefully. "Right. I'll be Lord Aurumspire and you'll be Lady Bronzebosom?"

"No, let's mix it up this time. You read Lady Bronzebosom's lines."

"I'm flattered, dove. Y'think I've got the bosom to pull it off?"

"Bosom doesn't sound like a word anymore."

Red languidly held one side of the book from the top, and Imogen supported the other with a limp, lackadaiscal wrist. She thumbed the wearing pages, and noticed that they were almost through the novel entirely. Her breath hitched on something in her throat she didn't know was there. She had every temptation to just close the book on Red's fingers and try to read in silence.

Every temptation save one. One small voice in the back of her head, that she gave voice to quietly.

"Let's try and finish this tonight."

"Eager fer the climax?"

"Shut up."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The bead-woven entryway parted for a pair of chesnut brown ears, one bisecting the curtain and the other following quickly after. A'tari sat up straight on her sleeping mat, tail fraying at the ends.

It was just A'khadia.

"You should have knocked!"

"On fuckin' what?" A'khadia popped his head back and punched a fist through the curtain in its stead. A'tari chortled, her laughter its own little song, as she waved him in.

"Okay, you can come in now. Thank you for finally showing some decorum."

"Don't get used t' it." He cut a path through the generous space that they'd been given for the festivities, astral wind prickling in his wake. He wasted no time in sitting, cross legged, across his sister. He wasted even less getting to the point. Even the Warrior of Light couldn't dodge it.

"Ye alright? Y'left the council faster than I could blink."

"Of course! I just… had so many ideas, I needed to write them down."

There was no parchment in sight; they both stared at the empty space where it would've been. A'tari was a bad liar when it came to A'khadia specifically, for the sheer reason that she already knew he'd call her bullshit no matter what she said.

"Tari, s'kosher if yer overwhelmed. No one ever makes me do a speech 'cause they know I'd rather jump off'a cliff."

With a great, windy sigh, the Warrior of Light was toppled to her deathbed with mere sentiment.

"It's different for you. They ask me to do speeches wherever I go. Just because I'm a bard doesn't mean I'm good with words!" She pressed her palms into her eyes until she saw stars, the pressure staying her impending headache. "And I don't know anything about war tactics or intertribe politics. I'm not a leader! All I do is hit things until they die."

"Ye saved the star more'n once. Yer more right to be a leader than I am."

"Saving the world doesn't mean you're any good at leading it."

Only recently, she'd accepted the mantle of sage advisor, someone worth following. Past the stars in her eyes, she hears flashes of echo-embedded memories: a horrific wet gurgle parting wisened scales into soft palates of flesh — chalkboard screeches, manic and unyielding to metre, amid blinding gold — and not so far off in the distance, the full, swelling silence of Elene'shpya amid the fading twinkle of electrope.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Khade. Why does everyone think I know what I'm doing? Why does everyone think I'm you?"

A'khadia's hand was ilms from A'tari's shoulder before it retracted, fingers frozen mid-stretch. "Me?"

"You built all of this, palisade by palisade. You made every decision that kept these people alive. I gallivanted my way around Eorzea and fell into success."

A'khadia shook his head. "That ain't fair, Tari. Lizha designed the layout, the farms… I just helped hunt down th'seeds. Dusa stopped me makin' some stupid, headarse decisions n' took 'em into her own hands. And without yer help with the O'ghomoro, we'd all be tempered by now. It's never bin' just me."

A'tari breathed deep of her brother's words.

"I wish the Scions were here," she said, curling up into herself. She couldn't keep the secret from her twin for too much longer, but how she missed them. Alphinaud taking care of silk-spoken words, Alisaie having such a way with compelling ones — swooping in when A'tari suddenly forgot all the vocabulary in the star, Echo and all. Urianger and Y'shtola's thoughtful solutions to age-old problems, Thancred and Estinien's furtive efforts with people on the ground — where A'tari couldn't keep track of the small, moving parts, tunnel-visioned entirely on the monstrous threat in front of her. G'raha and Krile's innate senses for space and aether, concepts she could only dream of grasping, to see beyond what the barely-mage was capable of. And, though she never thought she'd miss it rather than fear it, Tataru's unstoppable sense for business — it encompassed everything she was struggling to do here today.

All these thoughts filled the silence between them. They fell into it often, the twin satellites.

"Let me help ye wit' the speech," A'khadia offered.

"No, you can't do it for me. I can't keep letting people do things for me because I can't. You've already done enough for our people, all because I was scared—"

"Never said I'd do it for ye. Lemme help."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It's been eleven years since Dalamud ravaged Eorzea. All those years ago… near everyone we knew was suddenly gone. We'd barely grown beyond cubhood, and now we had the weight of the Antelope's legacy on our shoulders.

It weren't easy. All the family we had was each other, y'see — our mother and Nunh were in Thal's hands — an' the options weren't plenty. We made the 'ard decision to part ways. But it wasn't 'cause we decided t' give up.

I had no idea how I was going to help other people, let alone a tribe. I wanted to figure out who I was, what I was good at. I travelled across Eorzea and threw myself at everything. I'm sure many of you know the habits I fell into, drinking deep of my cups, staying up until the Lover's Bell, living from paycheck to paycheck. A'khadia supported me despite all that.

An' I didn't know how t' live without people aroun' me. I wasn't built ind'pendent like that. I travelled 'tween the tribes and y'let me learn yer ways. Ye didn't have to, and some of ye couldn't — I was another mouth t' feed on top of everythin' that'd happened. But ye all humbled me. I learned so much about our people. A'tari kept me company on the suns that no one could spare a hand.

It was in finding my own way that I learned how to be strong for other people.

It was the strength a' other people tha' helped me find me own way.

The Rising always sits under the constellation of the Goddess, the Balance. Nald'thal presides over it too. They both call us to keep, well, balance — between the self and the people. Between each other. To give when you take, to help when you're helped. It's one of life's many cycles that the Traders preside over.

Thank ye all for comin' to our Risin' memorial celebration today. Ye've helped us all so much, an' we wanna return it. Tari and I'll be sittin' here all evenin'. If ye need advice, a lil' helpin' hand, or even jus' an ear to listen, we'll do our best. We ain't miracle workers — we ain't the Warden — but we're both better listeners than talkers, anyhow.

… That's it! We're gonna sit down now. Come one, come all!

Yeah, jus' lemme take a leak first.

— Khadia Nunh of the Windrunner Antelope Tribe, and the Warrior of Light of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn The Seventh Astral Era, Yr. 11

[justacanofcorn]

quam amiterre ludum (losing the game) James Moriarty x OC

Chapter Eighteen: interim

Chapter Seventeen

Anora finds some peace, and more questions, in the interim.

It's springtime, and the lavender is in bloom. It blankets the rolling fields beyond the old house. A recent rain has brought the smell in through the wood slats and stones. Anora goes to the greenhouse conservatory to see him- to see how he's managing with fresh flowers instead of dried ones.

The downstairs is quiet with no Moran in sight, though his rifle sits upright in one of the study chairs. When Anora comes to the glass room, he has his back to her as he had the first time she came here. His red hair glints in the spring sunlight and he hums opera to himself as his hands work to something Anora can't see.

“James,” she greets and puts a hand on his shoulder. He turns a quarter, and Anora steps back in a stunned coldness when she sees that in his hands is not lavender, but a time bomb. When she looks up at him, it's not James's smile, but Joseph's deep frown, and the upper right hand portion of his face and skull obliterated by a gunshot wound.

Anora jerks awake. Her eyes flash open to reveal a plain white wall across from her, with tiled floors between. Her cheek is pressed against something soft and when she turns she sees that it's Sherlock's shoulder, and he's looking down at her, alerted by her awakening panic.

“You're alright?” He asks. Anora shifts in discomfort and Sherlock's jacket, which he must have draped over her in her sleep, slouches down.

“Nightmare,” she mutters, and leaves it at that. “How long has it been?”

Sherlock checks his watch then stares hard at the wall. “Five hours.”

Five hours of sitting outside an operating room on a rickety wooden bench. Both Anora and Sherlock had their wounds tended to at the hospital, and once their immediate safety and well-being were in check, they'd booked it to where Irene was being cared for. Five hours.

“You haven't been awake this entire time, have you?” Anora asks, half-concerned. Sherlock's unwavering stare at the wall gives her the answer before he does.

“I have. If you were curious, there are about 5,000 individually laid tiles in this hallway alone. It looks to be more but the indentations in the ceramic are meant to make it seem that way.” He points to the tiles beneath their feet as he explains, but Anora is only watching his face and the way his eyes sag only for him to force them open again. “And the ceiling tiles-”

Anora lays a hand on his animated one.

“Alright, it's fine craftsmanship. Why don't you get some sleep and I'll stay up for the nurse?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don't need to sleep.”

Anora considers him, chews on her cheek. 

“Whether you're resting or not will have no bearing on what happens inside that room. When she wakes up, and she will, you should be in a well enough state to see her. Go to sleep.”

Sherlock looks at her almost like a child would, with a gleam in his eye that is challenging her. Oh, he'll close his eyes, but he won't sleep.

Except he does, almost immediately. Five hours after all they'd been through is a long time. Anora moves his jacket back to him and stands. She stretches what she can, though her body is remarkably sore from being tossed around. She doesn't want to move too far away in case someone comes by to give them news, but there's a walkway nearby and she wants to look out of the windows. Anora eases her way to the glass, half expecting to see vibrant purple fields. Instead, she finds exactly what she should, which is the snow-covered courtyard of the hospital.

She knows James is here somewhere, and that thought alone prompts her to return to her seat. If she thinks about him too much, let alone entertains the possibility of a visit- she'll drive herself mad. So, she settles for clicking her locket open and closed, examining the floor and ceiling tiles closer because yes, they really are beautiful, and then staring off into a middle distance as Sherlock had taken to.

Thankfully, she doesn't have to do all of this for five hours, because about an hour into her watch, an attendant leaves the operating room. Anora shakes Sherlock's arm to wake him. He does so with a grumble of protest.

“Are you Mister Sherlock Holmes and Miss Anora Leeds?”

“Detective-”

“Yes,” Anora interrupts Sherlock with a biting side glance. “Well?”

The attendant sighs.

“Well, she's stable. Significant burns on close to fifteen percent of her body. We've managed a few skin grafts and set the broken bones, repaired internal injuries. She's more than lucky to be alive- it's a miracle, if you believe in such things.”

“I'll call it whatever it prefers, so long as she walks out of here,” Anora says.

“Well, she likely won't be walking. Not for a while. Rolled out in a wheelchair would be more apt. But, yes, barring any unforeseen circumstances, Miss Adler should be able to leave us in two to three weeks.”

“Christmas in the hospital,” Sherlock mutters. Anora frowns.

“Is there any way she can be transferred to London?” 

“It's highly ill-advised. The boat ride could have drastically negative consequences given the instability.”

Anora and Sherlock both nod and thank the attendant, who returns inside the room. The young woman and the detective sigh with their heads against the wall. Thinking weeks ahead has Anora considering all sorts of new thoughts, such as who will try James, and will he be extradited back to London? Or, will he be forced to remain in Paris, where he had wrecked the most recent havoc? He is an international terrorist, after all. 

More to the point, would Anora be present at a trial? Would she face justice somehow, having been implicit in a number of his crimes? Would she be used as evidence for or against him? The thought of having to testify chills her to the bone. She actually shivers, prompting a look of concern from Sherlock.

“What is it?”

“Just suddenly wondering what comes next for me, and I don't like the answers I'm coming up with.”

“We go home.”

“You know it isn't that simple.”

“Anora, you helped to take down the most highly sought after criminal mastermind in Europe. He would have gotten away if not for you. If anyone were to question your freedom, surely they'd be convinced from that fact alone.”

Anora chuckles half-heartedly. “I'm not sure I have much else to stand on. What do you think will happen…” She doesn't finish the question. Perhaps she doesn't want to hear an answer. Regardless, Sherlock knows where her head was going.

“Now that, I have no idea of. His home is London, he's committed crimes across France, Germany, and Switzerland, to name a few. Who knows. Perhaps they'll call a special tribunal.”

“Sure. Want to visit Geneva?” Anora jokes. Sherlock smiles.

“We'll know in time. For now, let us focus on the present, which is getting Irene and ourselves home and settled.”

Anora eyes the detective as he says this so obviously.

“Home. So… you'll keep her, then?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow and begins to pack a pipe of tobacco.

“She's not a woman to be kept. But, should she choose to stay…” he lights his pipe and takes a testing puff. “What do you think?”

“I think she'll need support coming out of the hospital.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully then offers Anora the pipe, who declines with a laugh.

“I've become an honest woman. Maybe she will, too.”

“With her injuries, she might not have a choice. Who's to say. But you would be agreeable? To her staying?”

Anora is half shocked that he's actually asking for her input, let alone permission. She nods. 

“Maybe between the two of us, you won't be unsupervised.”

“Haven't burned the place down yet.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“Precisely! I was testing a flame retardant fabric-”

“Not on the furniture, you weren't-”

“Casualties of scientific progress,” he waved his hand.

“You know what else I've been thinking?” Anora says.

“What's that?”

“Maybe we should see about that dog.”

She asks for the inevitable to come slowly, and perhaps it does, but not slow enough for her comfort. After the first few days of waiting, staying in a cheap hotel and assisting local police, Anora and Holmes get a not so warm visit from Inspector Lestrade. However, he is accompanied by John Watson, which both pleases and worries Anora. She suspects his arrival likely has the same effect on Sherlock, though he's too blasé to make it known. That he has left Mary already draws concern from Anora. 

The four of them meet with the head Inspector of Paris. Irene is not present, given her continued healing.

“We're requesting an extradition to London,” Lestrade explains. 

The other Inspector, a man named Pierre Anouilh, sighs heavily. “He has committed one of the largest terrorist attacks on our soil-!” He says incredulously.

“But as he based most of his operations out of Britain, that's where we'd like to try him. The bargain is that any of the charges you're wanting to press, we'll add.”

Anora, Sherlock, and John watch this near-volley as if it was a tennis match, and it would be comical if not for the subject at hand. While the two Inspectors continue their debate, Anora leans to John.

“How's Mary and Lizzie?”

John smiles. “They're both well, and Mary says ‘thanks’ for the flowers.”

Sherlock looks between them. “Flowers?” Anora nods. “When’d you take them flowers?”

“The day she was born.”

“I don't remember that.”

“You were engaged.”

“With what?”

“With whom.”

At the realization, Sherlock's eyebrows quirk up. “Ah. Yes.” He leans to John. “And how is Gladstone?”

John eyes him curiously. “Fine.”

“Doesn't upset Mary or the baby?”

“He's never upset anybody.”

“Yes, but don't you think he might? Imagine the barking and the crying, then the nagging-”

“Mary does not nag-”

“And when Lizzie gets to toddling age- what then? Gladstone's never had something to chase before; maybe there's a side to him we haven't seen.”

Anora and John both watch in critical confusion as Sherlock lights his pipe.

“What in the hell are you going on about?” The doctor asks.

“I'm only wondering if we've planned ahead. Have you been giving him plenty of attention? He might grow to resent the baby if he feels as though he's fighting-”

“He wants the dog,” Anora realizes, then sits back in exhaustion. “You could've just said that.”

“You are not taking Gladstone!”

“Excuse me, but are we interrupting? Or keeping you from something more important?”

The three look to the two Inspectors, who have grown quiet and took to watching their own proverbial tennis match. Sherlock puffs on his pipe.

“Simply passing the time. Did you two settle your quarrel?”

“The trembling threads of the greatest political tapestry on the continent is not a quarrel!” The French Inspector yells, his face red and quivering as he slams a fist on the table they sit at in a closed room of the hospital. Everyone is silent.

“What Inspector Anouilh means to say is that this is a delicate matter, meant to be dealt with in a delicate manner,” Lestrade explains as if they need a translation.

“There's nothing delicate about it,” Anora says. 

“Incroyable. And who are you, exactly? Moriarty's woman?”

Anora shoots from her seat but Sherlock's hand on her is sure to pull her back.

“My name is Anora Leeds and I put the bullet in him. I'm not asking for gratitude, but a bit of pragmatism would be very nice. Now, if it's a pissing contest of who he hurt the most, then that's stupid. Send him home and the jury will probably give him the rope. Is that what you want?”

Inspector Anouilh is still shaking, but silent. Lestrade sighs and massages his temples.

“Miss Leeds, I invited you three here as a courtesy because yes, you have done an incredible service. In return, some tact would be appreciated.”

Anora bites her cheek to keep from retorting. She simply nods instead.

Anora is silent for the remainder of the meeting. After a while some individuals with more political power and sureness come to join the conversation. By the end, an agreement is negotiated. James’s trial will be held in London with charges from other governments tacked on. Foreign representatives would be present. It would be a trial to behold, indeed.

Of course, these things take time to prepare. In the weeks between, Christmas comes. John returns to London and the hospital has a bit of a holiday party. The ward is decorated with garlands and holly. Special, albeit small meals are prepared for patients. On Christmas Eve, while snow piles against the windows, Anora and Sherlock sit with Irene. She's sat up in her bed, carefully eating her dinner. The burns have taken the lower right hand portion of her face. It's not too severe, second degree at worst, but the scars will be there forever, and her long pretty hair has been cut from where fire got to it. The burns are worst on her legs. But she's alive.

Once she's finished eating, the three play cards, which Sherlock wins at, and then Anora places two packages on Irene's lap.

“What's this?” She asks, her voice still weak and hoarse from smoke inhalation.

“Little somethings Sherlock and I stumbled upon. Merry Christmas.”

Irene's lips tug into a cheeky grin and she tears into the wrapping of the first box, which is Anora’s. Inside is a pink, glass bottle of perfume. 

“Oh! How lovely.” Irene removes the cap to smell the scent. “It's perfect. Thank you, Anora.”

Anora takes the box and wrapping from the bed and sets it on the floor as Irene unwraps the second, smaller package. It's long and thin, suggesting jewelry or an implement. But no one is expecting Sherlock to buy Irene jewelry.

When she removes the top, Irene is met with a smooth, black fountain pen. It's beautiful, one Anora should like very much to have in her inventory. Irene's smile locks as she processes the gift.

“Oh-! It's a pen. Thank you, Sherlock.”

She removes it from the box and gauges it. Sherlock reaches across the bed, wraps his hand around hers, and twists the bottom half of the pen. When he does, a small, silver knife blade springs out from the other side. At this, Irene laughs.

“Oh, much better! Not that I don't love a pen.”

Irene places a hand under Sherlock's chin and draws him in for a brief kiss. She replaces the pen-knife in its box and sets it with the perfume.

“Not the Christmas I could've imagined, but a very fortunate one. I feel strange not having anything to give in return.”

“You could write us an I.O.U. We can make a list of things easy to steal, like cufflinks-”

Anora reaches across the bed to smack the detective on the arm and he retreats. 

“Once we return to London and you're well enough, we'll have a proper party with the Watsons,” Anora says. “That way this isn't our only memory of our first Christmas together.”

Irene smiled sweetly. “Well, even if it was, I think I'd be perfectly content.”

Irene is released the following week- a few days early, on the condition she checks in with a specialist in London to continue treatment. The boat ride is as tricky as the doctors had anticipated, but Irene is stable enough sandwiched between Anora and Sherlock. John meets them at the docks with a special vehicle to take Irene home, which she protests in embarrassment, but quickly gives in when she realizes that she can't walk, and to push a wheelchair would take far too long. 

When they arrive at 221 Baker Street, Sherlock lifts Irene in his arms, careful of her wounds, and carries her up to the flat, with John and Anora close behind, carrying their luggage. Though, Anora has no luggage to speak of- everything she had brought to Paris is at the cottage in the countryside, and who knows when the police will find it?

Her book is there, just as she had left it at his manor in London. Perhaps it's for the best.

Anora knows it won't take long for Inspector Lestrade to contact them about meeting with an attorney and barrister. She knows that, when he does, she'll have to ask the question that has weighed ever more heavily on her mind: will she have to testify against James in court? Will her affairs be made to lay bare in front of strangers? And what if it is somehow in vain? 

But no, it's not possible. He must face some form of punishment. There's insurmountable evidence, undeniable witnesses. And yet…in the back of her mind…

She tries to find some peace, some comfort at home while she can, but he lingers still. She'll never truly be free of him until it is all over.

And even then.