#Locked Wine Cellar

[dtccompendium]

Episode 235: The Locked Wine Cellar

Mouri, for no reason, is at a wine tasting with a guy who is obsessed with himself, and three other losers: Glasses, Pinch-Face, and Long Hair Sommelier. Their host leaves for forty minutes to find his special wine bottle, but then he’s found dead in the wine cellar. His wife faints, but Conan doesn’t care. He’s more concerned about the position of the body. Conan almost kills Takagi by dropping him down a clothesline into a wine rack. This was apparently the method used by the culprit to move the body to the wine cellar. Glasses did it. He did it because the interest rate was too high on money he owed.

Best Quotes:

(Conan’s concern upon finding the body) “Why is he in such an abnormal position?”

[katakaluptastrophy]

Once again thinking about how nightmarish the River bubble was...

It lasts for nine months. The ghosts stuck inside it can't quite keep track of time passing, but think it's been around eight weeks.

And of those perceived eight weeks, they don't fully work out what's going on until a 'week' or so before Harrow awakes in the bubble.

These people spent what they perceived as two months of moments of horrible realisation and forgetfulness as Harrow's unconscious mind tried to construct a simulacrum of Canaan House and "enforced certain rules to keep [her] cast on-script".

We know about the "wrong" and "confused parody" NPC versions of the living scions of Canaan House, but what did Harrow's storytelling mean for everyone else? Were they always in control? Did they ever find themselves in places or doing things they didn't remember deciding to do, or distinctly remembered doing before? Imagine having flashbacks of your own awful death while your companions look on incomprehending. Imagine being the only one in the room not claiming to recall that this all happened differently before. That conversation a 'week' before Harrow's arrival must have been so validating and so utterly devastating.

And they still all chose to stay.

[hofftrans]

ok actually building more on the idea of jigsaw apprentice grocery shopping trips and the various reasons they all suck at it (John doesn't go out bc he's too ill and also way too recognisable)

Amanda - It's not really Amanda's fault that she sucks at getting the groceries, she struggles with chronic nausea as a side effect of her sobriety so she ends up buying lots of small, bland snack foods and forgets to get actual ingredients for big meals. She does eventually start buying more fruit to make smoothies for John as his cancer gets worse and she flips her shit when she catches hoffman stealing it for himself later

Lawrence - Lawrence should be the best at getting the groceries but he forgets that basically only hoffman and himself can cook (and hoffman sticks to simple staple meals.) He buys a lot of fancy preserved foods and fresh ingredients assuming the other apprentices will cook with them only to find Adam eating feta out of the jar with a fork.

Mark - Hoffman is usually the one to actually get the groceries as he does buy a decent amount of food and he's an okay cook (he used to have regular family dinners with angelina where he'd cook her comfort foods.) He cooks a lot of pasta bakes and roasts, tends to stick to stodgy, hearty meals. The rest of the stuff he buys is usually microwave ready meals and those big chunky meat soup cans for big boys. One year Amanda buys him one of those super cheap kiss the cook aprons as a joke and he now unironically wears it every time he cooks.

Adam - They let Adam buy the groceries one single time and he ended up bringing home seven bags of frozen potato gems, four litres of mountain dew and a pack of darts. John doesn't talk to him for two weeks.

[bitbrumal]

CARING FOR SICK MUSES ¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨ █ ▌▌▌@aalberich​​.         accepting

‘ i’m here because i care about you. ’ [ for his big brudder ;~; ]

DILUC  something twitches- well, it’s a mass of twitch what happens inside. warbles & warps through the meat of him / slinks through marrow because whatever it is- nameless disgust -has come to call it home. “yeah..?” the rough of his thumb swipes over the mouth of a bottle of wine. it’s sour, as always. they speak of sweet wines, well. that’s not how diluc tells them apart.                  he remembers who he is,        jams the cork back in &             tries not to look like he’s hiding a dirty secret behind the bar. gotta disinfect it or take it home, now- ( oh, no. dreadful. )

“okay.”

thoughtless.

there is only a hollow empty in the concept of kaeya & 'luc. a vacuous core that has consumed the earth that used to keep his feet steady. the notion spiderwebs out in every direction; puppeteers & puppeteered all the many aspects of this horror that is the new truth. nothing can shake it.      nothing can be believed well enough to shake it.               can’t trust he knows what’s what, so.

rather powerful lesson the gods saw fit to teach: trust no-one. not the gods, who forsook his father yet saved the traitorous brother / not the virtue of the virtuous, not the loyalty of the loyal, not the sanctity of good & importance of a light in especially the darkest places. the world diluc strode into that night utterly unmakes the value of all the good fled back to. sunlight is awfully watery in the wake of... no world lead by right over wrong could envelop such monstrous acts- the only way to hold faith in any peace is to be its creator. even if it must come at the cost of someone’s suffering still; does he not forge into the night to kill in the name of safety, then he does not rest at all.

                please don’t teach me again. please don’t teach me again, i have learned. please, please don’t-

    it’s been that way for years now. it’s, ah. hrm. getting kind of exhausting, really. ( a few feet down & one to the right sits that bottle. ) but there’s no changing it.

change requires an introduction to something new, no? something that could counter what has become the known. & what is known is that ... is not kaeya. & that hurts worse than anything. kaeya himself is the only one to speak to of that night; the only shoulder worth crying on, worth being rejected from -- but kaeya can introduce nothing without paranoia branding him a liar,              & enough trust has been shattered between them. unfairly, unduly. marks that have been left on the wrong body & the wrong heart. the wrong self-image, by the look of it.

telling anyone else that kaeya said he’s not one of ours is simply out of the question. & without that lock to inspect, how could anyone help forge a key-?

                       diluc ruined what was kaeya’s life.

       he’ll not ruin what has been rebuilt in the wake of his mistakes, no matter what kaeya may & may not intend to be.

[rachelcharlenel]

Medium Wine Cellar Los Angeles A mid-sized traditional wine cellar with storage racks and a travertine floor is an example.

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Angel saving Kate from a hostage situation in one of the Angel tie-in books (before she knew he was a vampire) was a great moment. I enjoyed when these two were friends (and when they eventually became friends again post-Kate finding out he was a vampire, even though that really only lasted five seconds because the actress then left the show). They had a nice relationship.

[cosmic-walkers]

Writing a fic (in my new valinor series) where Maglor tries to counsel Elwing and Earendil on how to approach Elrond in Valinor, given he does not wish to see any of them (nor maglor), and in the middle of Maglor's counsel session Elwing and Earendil get into a nasty verbal argument and bring up dirt on each other from the past. "You're a bad mother and wife! your father nor great grandfather could even rule you're all soo greedy!" "You're a bad ruler and an awful husband and father you abandoned us! your parents didn't even care about you enough to stay with you."

and maglor knows he should step in but he blinks and it's like suddenly he sees elros and elrond arguing with one another and it's so nostalgic for him so he lets them curse one another out just to feel like the twins are with him again. then things start breaking and they start saying some inappropriate stuff about him, that's when he steps in.

maglor doesn't believe what any of them are saying about one another is true, but sometimes he has to let people argue things out.

[natalievoncatte]

The palm-print panel was cool under Lena’s touch. She pressed her hand to the rectangular plate next to her front door and waited for the brief moment it needed to scan her skin. The door unlocked with a meaty thump and she pushed it open with her other hand, absently checking her phone as she stepped inside. As the system scanned her biometrics, it detected stress and dimmed the lights, automatically turned on the television to an abstract screen saver with cool tones, and began to play an arrangement for a violins to soothe her nerves.

She kicked off her heels and walked barefoot into the kitchen, where she skipped the countertop wine cellar and pulled out the half-empty box of Trader Joe’s vintage that she’d taken a liking to thanks to Kara. She pours herself half a tumbler full as a silent fuck you to her mother and took a swig, then walked out into her living room to sit down in the gloom for a few minutes and think.

Supergirl was sitting on her couch, head flopped back over the back so that her hair fanned out across the white leather. She sat splayed with her knees apart and legs out, arms resting on her thighs. Lena wasn’t sure if she was awake.

As she drew closer, she caught a small gasp. Supergirl had a black eye, and there were scrapes on her cheeks and the backs of her hands, the blood barely crusted. Both her hands and her face were bruised and she had a tiny split in her lip.

Lena placed the wine on the table, nerves jangling when the bottom rattled against the pale marble from the shaking of her hand. Her heart raced as she drew closer. Supergirl had taken off her cape and draped it over the couch. It was none the worse for wear but was covered in scorch marks.

Suoergirl’s broad chest heaved once and she let out a long, pained sigh.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Supergirl.”

She let out a little laugh, wincing. “Do we need be so formal?”

“I don’t have anything else to call you,” Lena said, coolly. “Mind if I ask why you’re in my apartment?”

“You don’t lock the balcony doors. You should.”

Lena sighed and folded her arms. “I said why, not how.”

Supergirl didn’t look at her.

“I just got the snot beaten out of me. Everything hurts.”

“I didn’t think that was possible.”

How was it possible? Curiosity tugged at her, but concern shot through it, making her fidget with her hands. Lena hated fidgeting. It made her look weak, and she could still remember the pain when Lillian cracked the ruler across her knuckles to break the habit.

“Can I have some wine?”

Lena swallowed hard.

“Sure,” she said.

She went to the kitchen and poured. When she returned to the living room, Supergirl was sitting up, hunched forward and leaning on he knees. Lena started a little at the sight. Sitting that way displayed the wide, muscular set of her shoulders and arms, especially her meaty biceps. Her back was a rare sight -she wore a cape, after all- and just as exquisitely muscled.

She was looking at her hands, at the damage to her muscles. Lena offered the glass and she took it. Her fingers were warm when they brushed against Lena’s, strangely soft.

Supergirl took a long pull of wine and smacked her lips, then winced.

“It’s times like this I wish I could get drunk.”

“You can’t?”

“Not on wine and not for very long.”

“Interesting.”

“So I have a problem,” Supergirl said. She was still looking at her hands.

“And that is?”

“I have to call off work tomorrow. These will heal, and I’ll look exactly the same. I don’t get scars anymore. But they’ll be visible for a day or so.”

“I see.”

“But I have to get brunch with someone, and they’ll be able to tell. Concealer won’t do much for this.” She touched her eye, wincing.

“Wait here,” said Lena.

She came back a moment later with some wash clothes soaked in cold water on a tray. Hands still shaking a little as she placed it on the table. Tenderly, she took one of the washcloths and dabbed the back of Supergirl’s hands, cleaning away the grime and dried blood from the abrasions.

Supergirl sighed. “That feels good. Thank you.”

“May I?” said Lena.

Supergirl hesitated, doubt flashing deep within the endless depths of her blue eyes, but she turned to Lena and tilted up her chin. With shaking fingers, Lena cupped Supergirl’s face gently and used a fresh cloth to clean and cool the cut on her lip. Supergirl closed her eyes and sighed.

Lena’s eyes wandered up, to the small mark above her eye.

“You don’t scar. Did you get that on Krypton?”

“Yes. I slipped and fell when I was a little girl. You should have seen me. I bled all over.”

“Must be nice, not getting hurt anymore. Not feeling pain.”

“I still feel it.”

Lena paused.

“I feel every bullet and blow and bomb blast just like anyone would,” said Supergirl. Just because it doesn’t harm me doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” said Supergirl.

She opened her eyes -eye- and looked at Lena reverently, one pretty blue eye glittering while the other remained bruised shut. She smiled a lopsided, honest smile, looked at Lena in a dreamy, almost adoring way that-

Wait.

“Oh my God,” Lena breathed.

“Hi,” said Kara.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” Lena whispered. “Oh my God, what happened, how did this happen to you? You’re hurt!”

“I had a tough time with a very determined alien and had to worry about civilians,” said Kara. “It happens.”

Lena’s pulse raced and her breath quickened. Her gaze darted, searching and noticing every detail. She was so beautiful, and she was so Kara.

“Why now?” said Lena. “Why this time?”

“I don’t know.”

Lena bit her lip, and the tiny gesture had a noticeable impact on Kara. Her eyes widened and her gaze fell to Lena’s bottom lip, then flicked back up.

“So your brunch,” said Lena. “That was with me.”

“Yeah. I thought about cancelling but I can’t. I needed to see you now.”

Lena shifted closer on the couch, until they were hip to hip.

“Why?”

“Because I just got punched in the head by an alien with big stupid bone spurs coming out of his fist and I need to see you. I won, by the way. It was really cool. I ripped a fire hydrant out of the ground and hit him with it.”

Lena looked her up and down. Her jaw began to quiver.

“Oh God. Is it worse than it looks? Are you hurt worse than you look, Kara? Are you…”

Kara shook her head, then winced. “No. Not that bad, promise. I just…” she sighed. “I’m tired of going to lay on a sunbed and going back to my empty apartment and spend a sick day napping on the couch.”

Lena let out a slow breath. “So you came to see me.”

“Yuuup,” Kara said, slowly.

Lena shifted awkwardly in her seat. Kara slowly reached over with her now clean hand and curled her fingers around Lena’s chin.

“Lena?” she whispered. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

Kara turned and leaned into her, pressing the slightest, lightest kiss to Lena’s lips, not a quick peck but something slow and soft, warm and inviting.

“Ow,” Kara muttered.

“Kara,” Lena whispered.

“I have any idea. Since I can’t make brunch… how about breakfast?”

Lena leaned against her, gently draping her arms around her as they fell back into the soft cushions together.

“Okay.”

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Why didn't this castle I posted so long ago sell? It's basically one of the only homes I've posted that actually looks like a castle inside. 1990 build in Rochester, MI, 5bds, 7ba, $2.2M.

Simulated drawbridge entrance.

It's absolutely fit for royalty, isn't it?

Isn't it stunning?

Beautiful sitting/dining room.

The home office could also be a library. It has a beautiful fireplace and a loft. And, look at the coffered ceiling.

It has a great room with a fireplace.

Lovely kitchen off the great room. You could really put a dining table in there.

Such an opulent mezzanine.

Very large primary with a terrace.

Incredible en-suite.

Check out the trap door in this bedroom.

It leads down to this room. This large bedroom also has a terrace and a fireplace.

Down the castle stairs to the mead hall.

Beautiful bar, stained glass, and fireplace.

There's also a pool room down here.

And, a pretty powder room.

The cars are housed in a garage that has a little village street and starlit sky.

Stairs to the wine cellar.

Has locked cabinets and a tasting table.

This home is done right- it's a very well-designed build.

It's on 6.25 acres and really looks like a European castle.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2009-Victoria-Hl-Rochester-MI-48306/24364811_zpid/

[blueparadis]

╰┈➤ ATLAS✦ DILUC RAGNVINDR.

⟣ ──┈ · · · + synopsis ➢  Wearing a bunny outfit was indeed a good idea to attract customers but little did you know, it would attract the attention of the owner of Dawn Winery.

+

⟣ ──┈ · · · + cw ➣ bar tender!fem!reader x diluc rangnvindr, explicit smut, piv sex, semi-public, unprotected, cunnilingus, s/d dynamics, soft-dom!diluc, mentioned aftercare. 1,4k word count. | blog navigation + koct’23 masterlist. |

“What a pleasant surprise is this” The familiar deep voice puts a cease to your merry humming. You turn around facing none other than the owner of Dawn Winery, Diluc Raghvinder, your master. Has he been waiting here? Alone?  In the dark? 

You try to brush him off by stacking the bottles from the crate one by one, carefully and slowly so as not to break any of them. “I had to get more customers somehow,” your tart reply makes him walk towards the door and press the knob to close it. He is standing right beside the door. If you were to go out of the wine cellar, you have to solely depend on your luck and so far it has not been shining on you lately. 

“I’m not done talking,” He scoops you against his body as his voice echoes in the room. 

“Well, it can wait, can't it, master Diluc? The bar is overflowing with customers by Archon’s grace and I need to be on my way to serve them.”You struggle in his grasp as you speak, trying to get out of his arms that caged you the more you tried to retaliate against his touches. This is not the first time he has been sneaky, actually, he has a history. You have gotten used to it somehow. You would have let him turn the wheel like he usually does but not right now.

“Wait. Wait.” With a low husky voice, a huff in between he speaks again. This time softer, “I— I’m sorry, alright? I shouldn't have snapped at you the other day, when I said you weren't doing your job right enough.” His breath fanned against your ears as he slid his nose all over your upper chest, at the exposed area, and having his arms locked around your stomach was not helping either. 

“Let me go—I've got work to do.” You still protect, try to deflect his soft, slow, and steady touches. It always starts like this but ends up with him sinking his teeth onto your skin, marking you his, reminding you of him wherever you try to go, however far you try to run.

“Don’t,” Diluc muttered, undoing the strings of the first hook. You could feel your boobs relax, chest muscles free of tension and pressure. “You have done enough,” Turning you towards him to face his body, he slipped his fingers along your inner thigh at the lining of your dress playing with it. He must add that the stockings added a great flavor to your dress, not to mention to your alluring aura and how you carried yourself around the elites, guests, regulars, and normal customers but it is a hindrance now. “You have done enough my sweet bunny.” He repeated with a honey-dewed tone before tearing the stockings, running and sliding his hands up and down your thighs. His touches are not gentle anymore. It is rough and intense. 

“Wait— Sir Diluc,” You moan as his tongue travels along the column of your throat followed by his soft lips placing open-mouthed kisses. Diluc does not provide you another chance to talk, to resist rather you are lost in his crimson gaze as he pulls the string at your back undoing most of it, at least to have a good look on your nipples.

“Your nipples are hard.” He exclaims looking at them, insatiably making you push his chest but he is bigger than you, stronger than you. Even if your hands are mobile and free, there is nothing much you can do. It is adorable that you are still resisting. “Tell me bunny, did it turn you on walking around like this among those customers?” He leans towards your face whispering, “Or does the thought of making me hard during work turn you on?” 

Holding both of your palms in one fistful grab he arches his hips against your waist letting you feel his boner. If his hungry gaze did not make you wet while you were serving drinks at the bar, feeling his hard-on sure did. Diluc actually gave you time to answer yet it led to nothing but another disappointment. His patience was running out of time. You were like a rabbit in his trap and he could not just wait to devour you, have his way with you.

“Ya’know it is rude not to answer, especially your master.” He says with a brooding look on his face. His voice is steady, nothing mere of annoyance can be pointed in his way of talking either but the way he keeps his eyes on you tells everything. 

“nei—neither.”

“Sorry. What was that?” Now he is just playing with his food. “Couldn't hear you properly. Come again?” He paused, looking at your hands that rested perfectly on his chest. “Or I should just check it by myself,” Before those words could register in your brain, he swiftly turned you around, pushing you onto the table. 

“Wai-wai-wait-wait” you blabber but it is too late. You could feel his hands over your ass cheeks, caressing roughly and now your red bunny outfit was in tatters. Your face laid hot against the glass of the wooden table as your master crouched down. Taking a good look he exclaimed, “what a pretty little liar.” 

His fingers are now teasing your wet clit, exploring and rubbing them. “What a fat pussy you have,” he says before lapping his tongue from the base to up your buttocks. An elongated groan escaped his mouth along the strain in his trousers growing more and harder to bear. 

“Ahh! Sir Diluc, please . . . more.” A stifling moan finally escaped your lips. Diluc spread apart your pussy lips apart and started to suck and lick alternatively with so much zeal, as if he was given the an opportunity to taste the finest wine in Mondsndat. 

The squelching and sucking noises were getting louder and louder while your body was slowly giving in, submitting to his urges. Your mind might be heavy on how unethical it is to have a physical relationship with your boss, but there is no way your body can deny him now. He has become your need, your saviour.

“Sir Diluc . . . Sir . . .Diluc. . . Diluc.” 

There was no response other than the wet noises that Diluc elucidated with his mouth at service. But seeing you all fidgeting and restless, your arms stretching to reach your clit, legs quivering and growing apart further he finally stood up. Unzipping his pants, springing free his cock out his trousers he grabbed your hips. 

“I’m putting it in,” He said but rather delayed it by smearing the cockhead with your juices. A jolt full of shivers ran through your nerves, skin coating with goosebumps before he pushed his cock to the tip in one full strong stroke. He was not joking when he warned you. Another prolonged groan before Diluc started to snap his hips against yours — deep and rough, calculated and hard; each stroke hit your sweet spot with so much precision that you had to cover your mouth from moaning loudly.

With your shame coagulated at the core of your throat, Diluc rasped, “This is my house. My property.”He hovered above you, kissing your shoulders, and said, “Tell me, darling, who exactly do you fear ?” And a harsh slap landed on your ass eliciting a shrill moan from you. His strokes are getting more erratic now. “Keep those pretty moans coming. Think you can do that for me?” he coaxed as he pulled you up holding you against his body, close to his chest.

“Yes. ’course. Sir Diluc.” You reply with vision blurred, the red bunny outfit layered at your belly button and the bottom part was in ruins. Diluc could not help but be impressed at your obedience. “Good Girl.” he praises “My good girl.” As he grabs your tits before hammering his cock into your hole again, panting and moaning; singing along with you in the same melody. 

Your nostrils could no longer smell the sweet aroma of the wines, rather the smell of sweat mixed with expensive cologne hit your nostrils. With a few longer and broad strokes he cums, and finishes inside you. His hands let go of the harsh hold on to your body but clasp around you with his cock still inside you, as both of you come down from high.

You finally reciprocate his touches as you hold his palms, and interlace your fingers with his. As you kiss his hand, he murmurs, “Didn't know scolding you would make you wear a bunny outfit.”

You tilted your face to see him. With a smirk you reply,“didn’t know wearing red would do the trick.” with a wink.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to A Great House (19th-20th Century) - Anatomy of the House

When we think of the Victorians, the grand old Gilded Age or the Edwardians, we all think of those big mansions and manors where some of our favourite stories take place. But what did a great house look like?

Layout

All great houses are different and some, being built in different eras, may adhere to different styles. But the layout of certain rooms usually stayed somewhat the same.

The highest floors including the attic were reserved the children's rooms/nursery and the servants quarters.

The next floor would be reserved for bedrooms. On the first/ground floor, there will be the dining room, drawing room, library etc.

The basement/cellar would be where the kitchens and other food related rooms would be. Servants halls and boot rooms may also be down here too along scullery, where sometimes a maid would clean.

Rooms used by Servants

Boot Room: The Boot Room is where the valets, ladies maids, hallboys and sometimes footmen clean off shoes and certain items of clothing.

Kitchen: The Kitchen was usually either in the basement or the first floor of the house, connected to a garden where the house's vegetables were grown.

Butler's Pantry: A butler's pantry was where the serving items are stored. This is where the silver is cleaned, stored and counted. The butler would keep the wine log and other account books here. The butler and footmen would use this room.

Pantry: The Pantry would be connected to the kitchen. It is a room where the kitchens stock (food and beverages) would be kept.

Larder: The larder was cool area in the kitchen or a room connected to it where food is stored. Raw meat was often left here before cooking but pastry, milk, cooked meat, bread and butter can also be stored here.

Servants Hall: The Servant's Hall was where the staff ate their meals and spent their down time. They would write letters, take tea, sew and darn clothes. The servants Hall would usually have a fireplace, a large table for meals, be where the servant's cutlery and plates would be kept and where the bell board hung. (these bells were the way servants where summoned)

Wine Cellar: The wine cellar was where the wine was melt, usually in the basement. Only the butler would be permitted down there and everything would be catalogued by him too.

Butler's/Housekeeper's sitting rooms: In some houses, both the butler and the housekeeper had sitting rooms/offices downstairs. This was were they held meetings with staff, took their tea and dealt with accounts.

Scullery: The scullery was were the cleaning equipment was cleaned and stored. The scullery may even also double as a bedroom for the scullery maid.

Servery: The Servery connected to the dinning room. It was where the wine was left before the butler carried it out to be served. Some of the food would be delivered here to be carried out as well.

Servant's Sleeping Quarters: All servants excepting perhaps the kitchen maid and outside staff slept in the attics. Men and unmarried women would be kept at seperate sides of the house with the interconnecting doors locked and bolted every night by the butler and housekeeper. If the quarters were small, some servants may have to share rooms. Servants' bathrooms and washrooms would also be up there, supplied with hot water from the kitchens.

Rooms used by the Family

Dining room: The dining room was where the family ate their breakfast, lunch and dinner. It was also where the gentlemen took their after dinner drink before joking the ladies in the drawing room.

Drawing room: The Drawing Room was sort of a living/sitting room. It was mainly used in the evenings after dinner where the ladies would take their tea and coffee before being joined by the men. It could also be used for tea by the ladies during the day. The drawing room was seen as more of a women's room but any of the family could use it. The drawing room was a formal room but could also be used for more casual activities.

Library: The library is of course where the books are kept. The family would use this room for writing letters, reading, doing business with tenants and taking tea in the afternoons.

Bedrooms: The bedrooms would take up most of the upper floors. The unmarried women would sleep in one wing with bachelors at the furthest wing away. Married couples often had adjoining rooms with their own bedrooms in each and equipped with a boudoir or a sitting room.

Nursery: Was where the children slept, usually all together until old enough to move into bedrooms. They would be attended to be nannies and nursemaids round the clock.

Study: The study was a sort of home office where family could do paperwork, chill and write letters.

Dressing room: Dressing Rooms where usually attached to bedrooms where the family would be dressed and their clothes would be stored. The valets and ladies maids would have control of the room.

Hall: The hall was where large parties would gather for dancing or music or to be greeted before parties.

Furnishings and Decor

Most of these Great Houses were inherited which means, they came with a lot of other people's crap. Ornaments from anniversaries, paintings bought on holiday, furniture picked out by newly weds, all of it comes with the house. So most of the time everything seems rather cluttered.

As for Servant's Quarters, most of the furnishings may have been donated by the family as gifts. Most servants' halls would have a portrait of the sovereign or sometimes a religious figure to install a sense of morality into them.

[princessbrunette]

Dark! Rafe who won’t physically let you leave when you realise he killed sheriff peterkins - 🤍

it makes me giggle when ppl say dark!rafe cos im like skdjdjjs that’s just !rafe

⊹˚. ♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖

you’re scared to leave because you know he’ll flip out, too obsessed with you to let you go. which is why you pack a bag and attempt leave in the night, just for a little while atleast until you can gather your thoughts enough to speak with him. speak some sense into him.

unfortunately, you’re caught in the act in the hallway, bag in hand, trembling with adrenaline. he appears in your line of vision and the both of you freeze, watching his wide eyes in real time analyse the bag in your hand and your demeanour before he stiffens. you shrink, ashamed.

“where… where the hell are you goin’?” he asks, sounding hurt which makes your heart ache, still loving him deeply despite being unable to justify his actions.

“its just for a while rafe, i— i know what you did and i just can’t—”

“you know what i did?” his voice overlaps yours as he walks towards you, squinting and scratching his temple. “what did— what’dido, huh?”

you suck in a deep breath, shaking with tears in your eyes as you gaze up at him. your voice comes out in a mere whisper, as if you were afraid of the words. “you killed sheriff peterkin.”

his face hardens, jaw ticking and he blinks a few times, like he was trying to clear his mind of the memory. “you— you weren’t there. who even told you that?”

“rafe i love you i just don’t know if i can live with a murderer and—”

“hey!” he suddenly barks, making you jump hard enough to drop your bag on the floor. he inhales super hard like he’s trying to hold back his anger before he succumbs to it, arm shooting out to grip you by the neck. oddly, he doesn’t really squeeze— just holds you firmly, dragging you close to him with his teeth grit. “don’t you ever fuckin’ call me that again. who told you that?” he repeats.

you sob, hands clawing at the one wrapped around your neck. “rafe, please! let go, it’s me!”

“was it john b? huh? did he get you too, manipulate you like he did with my sister? lettin’ some dirty pogue kid get in your head? ‘cos— ‘cos he’s got some fuckin’… sick fetish for kook cunt? you packin’ a bag to stay with him, huh?” he kicks your bag by your side and you squeal, squeezing your eyes shut as you snivel.

“no! rafe, it— it wasn’t him— please, you’re scaring me— i don’t like it!” you cry, desperate and rambling. he manhandles you by the throat so that you’re up against the wall, glaring down at you like he hates you.

“you— you don’t like it? you know, what i don’t like is being lied to by my girl, after… after i treat you so good—” he rants, tears welling in his own eyes.

“it was barry! he came round and he told me!” you yell, and he finally relents, letting go and holding his offending palm up in surrender, stepping away to pace the width of the hallway.

you try to cry quietly, as to not bother him further and kneel down to gather the things that spilled from your bag when he kicked it. when you stand again, he’s still deep in thought— muttering to himself about barry being a snitch and you back away, knowing now might be your only chance. you surpass the hallway and book it for the front door, but you know it’s a lost cause when you hear him gaining on you — arm wrapping around your waist and lifting you when you reach the front door, a hand pressing over your mouth to silence your scream as he drags you away.

“i really, really wish you didn’t do that baby. ‘cus now, now i have to act like the bad guy n’lock you away ‘til you calm down.” he carries you towards the cellar, nose twitching in irritation as you thrash in his arms.

he tosses you into the wine cellar, shutting the door behind you and you hear the lock turn, followed by his body leaning against the door.

“rafe, please— please let me out, i’ll- i’ll stay— i’ll be good!” you cry, sucking in panicked breaths.

“don’t you panic on me. breathe. calm down.” he warns you, somewhat soothingly through the door, a lot calmer now he had you locked up. “i’m not goin’ anywhere, just need you to calm down if we are gonna talk about this like adults. yeah?”

you shrink down to the floor, feeling like the furthest thing from an adult— reduced to a scared little girl in his presence as you bring your knees to your chest, trying to breathe slower. “i’m scared.” you hiccup.

“i know, baby. i’m scared too, you know? don’t want you runnin’ off on me ‘cus i made a mistake. never ran off when you made mistakes, did i?” his voice is calm now, the way he spoke to you when you’d get upset. the mistakes you made in the past that he referred to were minute issues, hanging out with the wrong person or coming home past the time he allowed you out — never once as big a deal as killing someone. you weep, wiping your nose on the back of your hand and you hear him sigh. “i’m sorry about upstairs, alright? didn’t mean t’put my hands on you like that. i… i lost my temper… just need you to understand that i did what i did to protect my dad, and id do the same to protect you in a heartbeat. you get that?”

“i wouldn’t want you to.” you shake your head despite him being unable to see you.

“listen to me, killing… is nature. sometimes… sometimes you have to make choices for survival… and that’s what i did. you might not understand now… but you will.”

⊹˚. ♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖

[hannie-dul-set]

YOU’RE MY BUCKET LIST.

p — SHEN QUANRUI x fem! reader. g — humor, fluff, lovestruck! ricky trying his darnest to be cool. w — swearing, secondhand embarrassment what did you expect from me. 2.8k words.

note — rewriting the backstory of his leopard print shirt. my loser idolverse is expanding. no one is safe. who should i throw into the depths of patheticness next.

ricky doesn’t believe in bucket lists.

what need is there for a list of things he wants and wants to do before he dies when he can get and do everything he wants in an instant? if he wants to go bungee jumping, he can go to gangwon-do this afternoon. if he wants to date, he’s got a couple dozen numbers he can pick and choose to call. if he’s craving for authentic italian wine right out of the cellar, he can book a flight and visit all of europe with his phone as his only luggage. 

he lacks nothing, and therefore he wants nothing. ricky doesn’t believe in bucket lists— he didn’t believe in bucket lists. at least not until that damned day of reckoning, when the nonexistence of his list suddenly came to existence, harboring one thing and one thing only. 

there’s only one thing he’d like to tick off before he dies. one thing he wants as soon as possible. something that isn’t instantaneously achievable. something that unfamiliarly feels out of his grasp.

ricky, more than anything in the world, wants you to take him fucking seriously.

“you’re so pretty today.” 

is what he says, the moment you enter the office. well, two moments after you enter the office because he had to take the first moment to admire how pretty you are before verbalizing it. he’s down horrendous, he knows— totally outside of the image he’s perfectly curated for the past six months since entering university. you’re the chair of his department’s council, a third year, and by some mystical force or another (read: being stupidly whipped) he volunteered to help prepare for a department event and managed to drag the rest of his friends into it.

said friends being gyuvin and gunwook, who are looking at him in judgment and disgust after completing his daily routine of complimenting your face.

“aw, how cute,” is your reply. ricky wracks his brain for another word for pretty, but you’re quick to move one and leave him in the dust. “thank you, ricky! you’re so sweet. anyway, matthew, how’s the—”

gyuvin snorts. “hey, at least she thinks you’re cute.” ricky throws him a punch but it falls weak from the mental damage. 

cute. he hates it. he’s grown to hate it after it became the symbol of you thinking of him as nothing but your cute junior. are his daily compliments not enough of a giveaway that’s he’s lowkey fucking in love with you? what else do you want? a truckload of roses? a barbershop quartet illustrating through song how stupidly down bad ricky shen is for his unbothered senior?

knowing you, even if he gets on stage in front of the whole university and perform a three-act play of how he fell, head first with scraped knees, into the tunnel of torture that is you and your pretty smile, you’d probably just ruffle his hair and coo, “good job! you’re so talented, angel!” because he’s so cute, so lovely, so never going to be boyfriend-able in your eyes and it eats his despairing soul.

maybe if he rips his heart out of his chest and you see the gaping, you-shaped hole it’ll leave behind, you might finally get the idea.

“quit being a drama queen,” gunwook says, throwing a ball at ricky’s bedroom door that’s been locked shut for a good hour now. it bounces right back into his palm and gyuvin is laying flat on the floor next to him. “it could be that she knows you’re into her, but she’s just trying to reject your advances gently because she doesn’t want to hurt you.”

gunwook and gyuvin hear a crash from inside ricky’s room. 

“that’s— that’s, no. i don’t even want to think about that!”

they’re waiting for him to finish changing (if he is just changing. the crashes in his room are becoming sources of concern). you invited them for a nice buffet dinner to celebrate the success of the event. however, the three of them are already thirty minutes late for the restaurant appointment, and hanbin had to come over and pick them up with taerae in tow after hearing the news that ricky shen— cool guy extraordinaire— is having a breakdown over a girl. 

there are now four men waiting in front of ricky’s locked bedroom. gyuvin gets sick and tired and starts banging on the door. “hurry up! do you want to keep the love of your life waiting?”

“damn, you guys were serious,” taerae posits. “is he actually in love with her?”

“i’m afraid so,” gunwook solemnly shakes his head. 

hanbin hits another concerned knock on his door, and lo and behold, ricky finally cracks open his bedroom door and walks out—

walks out in an ensemble that they can only unanimously describe as jarring. 

leopard print. leather pants. gold chain necklace. a pair of shades are hanging on the way too low cut shirt and they wonder if he’s gonna wear them indoors. he’s got a leather jacket folded over his arm and it’s twenty four fucking degrees.

“what do you think?” ricky asks, eyes proud, expectant, and sparkly. hanbin doesn’t have the heart to break it to him. “i read somewhere that the pattern symbolizes, uh, confidence and sexiness, i think. this will make her stop thinking that i’m cute, right?”

“yeah,” gyuvin replies. “she’ll think you’re hideous instead.”

“google tells me that the leopard print is a symbol of, and i quote, absolute femininity.” gunwook has his eyes trained on his phone. he looks up and gives ricky a once-over. “if you’re trying to go for the femme fatale look, then you’re doing a good job.”

it takes a moment for ricky to react.

when he does, his reaction consists of grabbing onto the hem of his allegedly ugly shirt and starts pulling it over his head.

“whoa, whoa, whoa— what are you doing?!”

gunwook quickly tries to stop him from stripping. gyuvin is laughing his ass off. taerae has a hand covering his mouth. hanbin is stressed. “quit picking on him! ricky, you look fine!” ricky is not fine. his styled hair is not disheveled and he’s visibly upset and sulking. gyuvin is losing his mind. he’s on the floor and hitting the ground.

“are you trying to be cute right now?” taerae asks. this just scrunches up ricky’s brows even more and makes his bottom lip jut forward.

“n...no…?”

“well, shit,” taerae laments. “it’s a genetic disease. she’s never gonna take you seriously.”

the only emotion ricky knows is despair.

he’s supposed to be hot and sexy and handsome, why can’t you see that? do you have a pink filter when you look at him, or something? is that it? that’s gotta be it, right? because why else would you be so unaffected when he feigns nonchalance, brushing through his hair at a precise timing when he notices you starting to turn to his direction. it’s your heart that should be beating like crazy when he greets you with a half-smile and a nod— not his, not his, not his when you return it with a full-smile, so bright and beaming, of your own.

“oh, you’re finally here!”

ricky doesn’t believe in bucket lists. he lives in the moment. he doesn’t want things so desperately to the point where he writes them down on a checklist taped to his desk. the list definitely doesn’t have the words “get miss department chair to fall in love with me” written on it with scrawled letters. and he doesn’t didn’t give himself a deadline to date you by the end of the year.

he’s given himself until the day he dies because the moment he met you was the first time he imagined watching someone walking down the aisle. 

yes, he’s down bad. yes, he sings hopelessly devoted to you in the shower five times a week and replaced the word you with your name. yes, gyuvin has a recording. 

“ah, we’ve been waiting for you, kids,“ you say once they’ve all settled on their seats. kids. he scoffs. insult to injury. he’s pouting and picking on a plate of galbi. he feels like shit even though you’re sitting right across him all pretty and sweet like the strawberry shortcake you ordered— which he’s trying his damn best to not steal a slice from because he’s pretty sure you’re just gonna go, “oh! you really like strawberries, don’t you? so cute,” and he’d much rather choose physical over emotional torment, thank you very much.

“they were caught up in something,” taerae responds to your initial statement. your eyes gloss over them with curiosity.

“why? what took you guys so long?”

four sets of eyes are on ricky and his patterned shirt. the bossam wrap in his mouth won’t swallow down his throat. it was too late for him to change out of the symbol of femininity. mid-strip, hanbin got a text from you so he got dragged out, guilty in leopard prints and gold, out of his apartment.

don’t you fucking dare, ricky glares at the suspicious look gyuvin is wearing as he brings a glass of water to his lips. gyuvin clears his throat, “we had to wait for ricky who was dressing to impress y—” and is subsequently elbowed and chokes on his water.

hot. ricky feels hot. not the sexy kind, but the icky embarrassing kind because he wants to cover his burning face and stab gyuvin with a fork in the process.

“oh?” you voice out from across the table. you’re plucking out wads of tissue paper for a dying gyubin but your eyes are trained on him. oh my god. he wants to rip this shirt off and die, but he can’t do that. he can’t. he hasn’t been working out enough lately due to stress. “not everyone can pull off animal prints. it looks really good on you.”

huh.

“and you’re not wearing your usual silver! you look cool today, ricky.”

oh.

what.

“you really think so?” gyuvin, who has now recovered, eggs you on further in behalf of his malfunctioning friend. there’s steam rising to the ceiling and it’s not from the open grill. he exchanges glances with gunwook and taerae. they catch the signal and press on. “doesn’t he look—”

“—would you dare say—”

“—handsome?”

“hot?”

“sexy?”

you let out something in between a cough and a laugh. 

they don’t miss the flustered jitter filtering the sound coming out of your throat.

mission success.

“ahaha, what are you kids saying?” ricky doesn’t miss it either. the initial shock of you not calling him cute has worn off and now it’s up to him to finish what his friends have started. he doesn’t miss the way you try to brush them off while fanning your face with your free hand, the way you reach out for a glass of water with the other and there’s a nervous bob in your throat when you swallow. “a—anyway, let’s make a toast for the success of our event!”

when he clinks his glass with yours, ricky  maintains eye contact amidst the noise of the cheers. his gaze is deep and you’re caught off guard— escaping with a laugh and turning away as you down half of your beer glass in one go. holy crap. holy shit, it’s working.

ricky can see it. there’s hope for his bucket list. he’s gonna swear by leopard shirts and gold chain necklaces if he continues to get this kind of reaction from you.

“it’s not because of the ugly shirt.”

gyuvin snaps him back to sanity once dinner concluded and they start leaving the restaurant. “it’s because we manipulated her brain waves into finally noticing that you’re hot,” gunwook inserts. they’re all outside now. you’re bidding the other members goodbye and gunwook nudges him forward. “you’re welcome. you owe us a meal.”

now, even with the newfound confidence and hope, ricky’s knees still buckle when he approaches you from behind. why is the back of your head still pretty? why?

at the moment, it’s taerae’s turn to receive your goodbyes, wedged between two cars, one of them his. he notices ricky’s looming nervous wreck of a presence from over your shoulder. “ah, and this is my cue to leave,” he says. “thanks for the meal, miss chair. get home safe.”

“you too, taerae! thanks!”

when you turn around, you bump into him. maybe he intended it, maybe not, but god damn the uncharacteristic flutter of your surprised eyes is destroying his plans to act cool, act nonchalant, act totally unaffected with how prettily you’re looking at him under the dim parking lot lights and the night sky. “oh!” you exclaim after reformatting, after putting on your doting senior voice again and it kills him because that’s a night of progress down the drain. “are you kids heading out now? oh, sorry, this is your car, right? i’ll get out of the way.”

he frowns. totally uncool, perfectly non-nonchalant, and completely affected but he doesn’t care anymore. 

“what do you think of me?”

the words jump out before he knows it. screw his bucket list. he’s gonna proclaim his undying love for you even if it kills him.

you blink. “what?” a laugh bubbles from your throat— a mix of trying-to-brush-him-off but nervous at the same time. “ricky, what do you mean?”

his face is knotting up. he’s totally pouting right now which he’d rather be caught dead than doing, but he’s now twice the dead man. ricky takes a step forward. you take a step back until no more steps can be taken because your back hits against his car, and he’s grasping at the straws desperate to get even an ounce of a hint of a sign that you’re finally taking him seriously. “what do you think of me?” he repeats, voice a little lower this time. your expression is completely taken over by peaches of fluster, this time. no sign of the composure you’ve usually perfectly maintained.

“oh, uhm.” your hands are unsure and held hostage in the air because his arms serve as a barricade around you, palms pressed tightly against the cold glass of the front seat window. you’re nipping at your bottom lip. ricky just died thrice. “what—what i think of you? well, uh, you’re a very good, very cute, very hardworking junior that i adore, and i—i appreciate all the help you’ve offered to the counci— oh!”

ricky lets out a noise and buries his nose into the crook of your neck, arms that were once caging you are now completely wrapped around your waist. he’s putting all of his weight onto you. he is a corpse. he mumbles something unintelligible into you skin and you ask him to repeat it. “i don’t like it,” he says more clearly, still muffled, whiney all the same. “i’m not cute. i’m cool and handsome and totally in love with you but you just don’t get it.”

it’s quiet. ricky is anticipating the worst, which would be you calling him lame and a loser, but you don’t do that. you don’t push him off either.

“how can i not think you’re cute when you act like this?”

instead you pull him in closer. his eyes widen, and he feels your fingers digging into his hair, a tender touch on his nape, and he feels himself melting and turning into stone at the same time. 

“i never thought you were being serious every time you greeted me by calling me pretty. i thought you were just being playful and trying to earn extra points from me,” you hum. he sinks further. the only thing propping him up is you. “but calling someone pretty every day is barely a confession, ricky. how was i supposed to get anything from that? gosh, you’re so cute.”

“it usually works,” he mumbles. he doesn’t want to show you his face. he probably looks stupid right now. “i thought my new shirt worked too. gyuvin and gunwook don’t agree.”

“i think it’s cool.”

you finally pry him off, hands on his shoulders and he feels himself buckling. he’s pretty sure he looks stupid right now— pink and flushed and dizzy, but your face harbors no judgment. “i think i prefer the shirt owner over the shirt though.” only a familiar gaze of fondness and god, he’s so in love and you finally understand that. “now, why the hell are gyuvin and gunwook still loitering out here?”

ricky didn’t believe in bucket lists. at least not until that damned day of reckoning, when the nonexistence of his list suddenly came to existence, harboring one thing and one thing only. 

now, he’s got that one thing crossed out. he’s thinking of adding more.

YOU’RE MY BUCKET LIST. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[the-modern-typewriter]

if you like, would you do a snippet about the daughter of a vampire hunter who frees a captive vampire from her father?

The vampire looked only a little older than her. Seventeen, maybe. Eighteen. Myna knew that didn't count for much - you couldn't tell a vampire's age just by looking at them, but still.

She was beautiful too, of course, in the way that all vampires in some way were. Her bloody eyes were striking, ethereal things that tracked Myna's every movement into the room. They paused on the keys clutched tightly in Myna's hand and then flicked to her face. The vampire's head tilted.

Myna stopped in front of her, just out of reach.

"Will you attack me if I release you?" Myna asked.

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

It was a good question. Myna wet her lips, nervously, and the vampire's gaze darted to those next.

"No," the vampire said. "I have no desire to linger here, not even to hurt him."

But the vampire did want to hurt her father. That much was obvious, but also understandable. Maybe Myna was making a mistake. Maybe she was under a thrall that was simply masquerading itself as morality, because though desire was more insidious it was easier to resist. Maybe she would only know when the vampire was gone, and she could think clearly, or maybe she would always wonder.

Myna hesitated, shifting her grip on the keys.

"He hurts you."

"He does not like my kind."

"Your kind are monsters."

"And your father's behaviour is monstrous." The vampire shrugged, light and almost careless. Almost. She raised a delicate eyebrow. "But you know that or you wouldn't be thinking about doing what you're doing."

Myna gulped.

She'd been raised to believe that vampires were pure predator, unnatural and evil, but the more she had actually seen of them the less she could possibly believe that true. The less she saw of...her the less Myna could believe it.

Her father said that was how vampires operated. They mimicked passion, love, the human things to ensure their own safety.

Myna usually felt like she was faking it too, though.

Most of the other girls at school thought hunting was archaic, barbaric. It also felt an entirely different thing to kill a vampire and to keep one one captive for weeks on end in a converted wine cellar.

Most girls always seemed to know what to say, while Myna felt like her script had got lost somewhere and so she kept reading her cues all wrong.

If faking was the standard for being inhuman, for being evil, then what did that make her?

"How old are you?" It was a silly question, in the grand scheme of absolutely everything.

The vampire blinked. "Twenty three."

It felt ancient. It felt a world away. Twenty three meant life away from her father's house and no more school and the freedom to do whatever she wanted. She knew, though, that it wasn't very long at all. She knew what a human lifespan was supposed to be. She knew how old vampires could get.

"How old are you?" The vampire's tone was strangely soft.

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen," the vampire echoed. A wistful sort of smile curled her lips. "Sweet sixteen girl."

"I'm not sweet."

"No." The vampire said it almost musingly. "You're something much more enticing. More interesting."

Enticing. Interesting.

Myna cleared her throat. She felt heat rise, ridiculous and unbidden to her cheeks, and stepped closer. She was glad she didn't fumble the locks, but her heartbeat still picked up the second the metal hit the floor.

She scurried back swiftly, even as she was aware her swiftness was a snail compared to what the vampire was.

The vampire stood, slowly, even to Myna's human eyes, like she was trying not to scare her.

"Thank you." The vampire seemed a little unsure. She wet her lips in turn, and Myna's gaze darted treacherously to them. "It gets better," she said. "I promise."

Myna looked down, because the words weren't what she'd expected and she didn't know what exactly she'd wanted. "You should go."

When she glanced up again, the vampire stood right in front of her, barely a breath away. Myna's breath caught.

"You could come with me," the vampire said. "Your father will be angry with you for freeing me."

Myna's stomach churned, but she squared her shoulders. "He won't hurt me."

"Tell him I thralled you," the vampire said. She reached her hand up, pressing the pad of her thumb over Myna's bottom lip. "He'll believe it."

"Uhuh."

The vampire smiled; wicked and feral and everything that Myna thought she might be too, if she was only brave enough. The vampire pressed the sweetest of kisses to Myna's lips.

"All a vampire is," the vampire whispered, "is everything human with the volume turned up. Your father doesn't like what is reflected back when he thinks of us. Humans can be awful."

"And me?" Myna managed.

"You," the vampire said, "will be feral when you finally get around to unlocking your own cage. I look forward to it, sweet sixteen."

Then, she was gone.

And Myna could taste power on her tongue.