#Teak Cleaning

[boatdetailmiami]

Boat Detail Miami

Boat Detailing Service in 8855 Collins Ave Apt 3B, Surfside, FL, USA 33154

Phone- 786-321-5266

Website- http://boatdetailmia.com/

As a boat owner, you want to give the very best to your yacht. It is your pride and joy, and so, you want it to be looking its best and running its best for your enjoyment. For that, it is vital that you are applying the right kind of care, cleaning, and maintenance services through your leading local professionals. And, if you are living anywhere between Miami and Fort Lauderdale, that means that you need to be coming to us at Boat Detailing Miami. The premier source of boat cleaning and detailing services anywhere in the region, you can turn to us for any level of care for your vessel. Whenever you call us for support, you can expect a higher standard of cleaning and the complete array of services available.

[townpostin]

Rotary Club Jamshedpur West Initiates Tree Planting at Beldih Course

Club pledges to plant 30,000 trees, furthering Jamshedpur’s green legacy Rotary Club Jamshedpur West launched a tree planting program at Beldih Golf Course, part of its 30,000-tree initiative for the year. JAMSHEDPUR – Rotary Club Jamshedpur West kicked off its ambitious tree planting program at Beldih Golf Course, marking a significant step in their commitment to plant 30,000 trees this…

[gayfertilitygoddess]

Laundry safety PSA!

If you use rags for cleaning/polishing/etc. and you want to wash those rags, DO NOT USE BLEACH. The chemicals from the cleaning solutions you used can react with bleach to create toxic compounds like chlorine gas.

Things that are dangerous to mix with bleach include:

ammonia

rubbing alcohol

vinegar

toilet bowl cleaner

disinfectant sprays like Lysol

any cleaning solution that contains alcohol and acids

Sincerely, a person who almost gassed herself doing laundry today 🥲 (I’m okay)

[simsantoinc]

Toddler Bed Addons For A Few CC Sets

I was cleaning out some cc in the kids section, and making a few toddler beds has been on my projects list for a while so I '''''cleaned''''' my downloads by making more cc. I picked sets that have several objects and nursery items. I cloned them Michelle's teak toddler bed which is a clone of Rebecah's pine toddler bed. The beds make toddler management easier buy letting them go to bed and get up on their own. They change into sleepwear right before getting in bed and back to everyday after getting up.

Included toddler beds for:

Art deco store set. Repo'd to the double bed. Also works well with lunie's art deco addon crib and changing table.

Veranka's Bubu set. Repo'd to BuBu Kitchen Master.

Sims2Play's Hansen set. Repo'd to the double bed. It should work regardless if you have the double bed from hafi's repo'd set, hodadk's repod'd set or some archive of the original. I know jacci made one back in 2011, but I made my own since I prefer how the beds based on Beck's pine bed work.

Moune's Torrox set. Repo'd to the Torrox dining chair.

All files are compressed with included preview and main meshes. I renamed 3 of the main meshes so watch out for duplicates in your download folder.

Download | Alt

[godesssiri]

10 Thrifting tips the thrilling continuation

I am a dedicated thrifter and I have done a few thrifting tips posts, things to look for, how to find the best stuff. I had an excellent day thrifting today and decided it was a good day to polish up a draft I had and post it. So read more for tips to get the goodies.

If you buy fairly plain wooden furniture, it doesn’t take a whole lot of expertise to refinish it. You can get a cheap palm sander for less than 50 bucks, and a small tin of furniture wax goes a long, long, loooong way. Or you can get Danish oil if you want a satin finish or Teak oil for a gloss finish. Don’t let Youtube videos make you believe you have to test out 10 zillion different coloured stains unless you are aiming for a very specific look. Just make sure you slap something nourishing on the wood after you’ve sanded it. Also remember that whatever product you use; multiple light coats will come out better than one thick coat. There’s a huge amount of satisfaction in looking at a gorgeous chunk of wood you’ve bought back to life.

French milled/triple milled soap. Old ladies like to give soap as gifts and people tend to stick it in their drawer to scent their clothes and never actually use it, eventually they have a clean out and this unused soap goes to the thrift store still in it’s original paper wrapping. This soap is expensive. This soap is fantastic. The milling process creates a very different product than the bars you get at the supermarket. It doesn’t go goopy and melty even if you leave it sitting in a puddle in your shower, it’s not as drying to your skin, the scent stays on your skin for longer. These bars last for months, it’s well worth picking them up if you like the scent.

Blue Willow. Would you like to have a nice set of china but don’t want to drop a lot of money on something that might look dated in 10 years? Collect blue willow from thrift stores. Blue willow has been around for hundreds of years and it’s going to be around for hundreds more. It can be slotted in to almost any home style, classical, boho, maximalist, scandi, etc, etc. Because it’s been around for so long pretty much every manufacturer has done it, so you find it really often at thrift stores and it’s easy to pick up a couple of plates here and a serving bowl there. Also, because so many companies have done it over such a long period it’s possible to pick up modern dishwasher safe dinner plates that you can use alongside a lovely 100-year-old antique gravy boat.

Gifts. Never feel ashamed of buying gifts from thrift stores. The perfect vintage item is way more meaningful than any amount of new stuff. And if you’re buying for someone who doesn’t like vintage; if something looks new and undamaged how is the recipient going to know that it’s not new?

Get yourself a thrifting routine. You’re gonna find the best stuff if you go often so don’t just randomly go every now and then. People who say they never find anything are the ones who only call into a thrift store every couple of months and expect something amazing to just drop into their lap. Set a day once a week, or every other week or once a month, but make a commitment to go on a regular basis.

If you see something that you think you like but you’re not 100% sure, as long as you can afford it and have a place for it, get the thing. Take it home, live with it. Maybe you’ll decide you don’t really like it and take it back to the thrift store and consider the price you paid a charitable donation. But sometimes you bring something home that you kinda like and end up absolutely loving it. Some of my favourite things in my house are things I wasn’t completely sure about when I was in the thrift store. There’s nothing worse than the regret of leaving something behind because you weren’t sure about it, then deciding actually I do want that thing, but it’s gone, and you’ll never find another quite like it.

If possible, go with someone who knows your likes/tastes. It’s amazing the number of times I’ve been in a thrift store with my mother or best friend, and they’ve found something I love that I hadn’t even noticed. Plus they’ll be dirty rotten enablers and encourage you to buy the thing that you love but you’re not sure you can justify to yourself.

There are a bunch of Youtubers who do thrift flips. If there’s some décor item that’s in all the stores at the moment and you love it, but can’t justify spending money on it, then it might be worth looking up to see if anyone has done a thrift flip and can give you a tutorial on how to turn a thrifted item into the hot décor items of your dreams.

Keep the cycle going. If you have stuff in your home that you no longer use/love, then donate it. If you’ve traded up and found something better but your original thing still has life in it, donate. Even if you originally bought something from a thrift store no one is gonna be mad if you send it right on back (unless you’ve used it to death, and it really should be heading for landfill).

Don’t put yourself in a box. Don’t refuse to get something because it’s not ‘your style’. What is ‘your style’? Things that you love, that make you happy. Do you love this thing? Does it make you smile? Then it’s your style. Honestly style is something that evolves organically, that grows and expands as we’re exposed to new things. If you try to follow a certain style rigidly then you’ll end up with a home that looks boring and cookie-cutter. Throw in something unexpected that speaks to you. Then throw in another of those things and another and another and pretty soon you’ll end up with a home that actually is your style – maybe you just don’t know what your style really is yet. I think of myself as very confident in my style, but I’m constantly stumbling across new things that I didn’t know I needed in my life.

Part 1

Part 2

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[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 11

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC (2nd POV)

Chapter 11: Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings

Chapter Summary: The first day in LA is a mixed bag.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 11.8k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, insecurities, mirror, angst, fluff, acting career things idk, video call, awkward/nervous speech patterns, toxic mother/family of origin issues, food/eating/hunger, argument, mentions of: infidelity, addiction, death, and infertility, crying, comfort sex, dirty talk, eating ass, oral sex (both r) face fucking, deep throating, squirting, anal play and sex, impact play, hair pulling, maybe a hint of degradation

Notes: Chapter title from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty. Oooo a new banner, who is she?! I apologize for how long this is, it really got outta hand. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

“Holy shit, Dee,” you breathe, squinting as your eyes adjust from the darkness of the garage to the bright, open home. 

Dieter walks ahead of you, tossing his keys and sunglasses on a glass console table, kicking his shoes off onto the gleaming hardwood floor. Each noise seems amplified in the jarring silence. 

It smells like lemon pine-sol, and, based on how uncharacteristically spotless everything appears, you guess that he has someone come in and clean while he’s away. 

“It’s–I mean, wow–” you stammer, shaking your head as you examine your surroundings. 

The vaulted ceiling’s stained teak backbone stretches from one end of the house to the other, rafters extending from the beam like wooden ribs. On one side of you lies a dining room and kitchen, on the other, a living room and patio entrance. Light pours in through the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows like giant frames showcasing the greenery of the patio, all lush with palm fronds and waxy-leaved bushes. 

The home’s décor is quintessential Dieter. 

Eclectic. Moody. Maximalist. 

Jewel- and earth-toned furniture, in all different finishes and fabrics, fill the open floor plan. The white walls are cluttered by art, a hodgepodge of creations. Prints and acrylic paintings and black ink illustrations, including some of Dieter’s originals. Plants are scattered around, next to windows and on tables, thriving in their glazed ceramic pots. 

Your fingers twitch, longing to experience every texture this buffet of materials has to offer. You feel yourself getting a little moon-eyed as you marvel at the place he calls home. It’s surreal.

And, if you’re being honest, daunting. 

When Dieter spends time with you in your domain, you feel you know him at his core. A loveable, chaotic, free spirit, who busies himself sketching and “taste testing” while you bake. Which mostly just means he eats cookies off the cooling rack when he thinks you’re not looking, but sometimes he draws pictures of you while he does it. 

You know him as someone who watches shitty TV and shittier movies with you just so you can make fun of them together, someone who theorizes out-loud about existentialism and Garfield in the same breath, who wraps himself around you when you sleep because, even when he’s dreaming, he wants your skin clinging to his. 

You don’t know him as Dieter Bravo, Academy Award Winning Actor. 

No. 

To you, he’s Dee. The man you fell in love with so haphazardly, it sometimes makes you question your own sanity. 

The existence of this other part of his life, with film sets and photoshoots and interviews and stylists and red carpet premieres, all these stringent show pony requirements, so paradoxical to the person you know and love… It makes you uneasy. 

Is he different when he’s here? 

Is Dieter Bravo, Hollywood Movie Star, the same man as Dee, Bubble Bath Connoisseur?

It’s something you’ve largely been able to ignore. 

But, since you’re being honest, you can admit that the disparities between his life and yours make your skin crawl sometimes. 

Like right now, when you’re standing here in the entryway of his gorgeous home, whose property value is probably greater than your lifetime’s gross income, holding the handle of your ratty old carry-on suitcase. Your piece of shit suitcase, with its broken zipper, and this big tear in the side.  

Which, really, has never bothered you before. It’s a goddamn suitcase. It holds things from point a to point b, and this works just fine. 

But Dieter has this ridiculous fucking suitcase with a heavy-duty metallic shell, and 360-degree wheels that glide effortlessly through airports, and a fucking phone charger. A fucking phone charger in a suitcase, seriously?

It’s just so… exactly how you fucking feel standing next to him sometimes. 

And, as if to prove your point, when you release the handle of your piece of shit carry-on, it topples over sideways against his space-age phone charger on wheels. 

All you can do is sigh. Stare at luggage. Try to ignore the voice that bombards your thoughts, telling you he’s obviously out of your league. 

Sneering at you, saying, “Get real, this fucking guy is way too rich to be humoring you.”

Saying, “Louella Rose, once he knows you’re trash, he’ll be gone for good, I can tell you that much.”

“Want me to show you around?” Dieter asks, the low timbre of his voice a butter knife cutting through the thick fog of your thoughts. He steps closer and plants his wide palm on the small of your back. 

You turn to him with a smile you know is flaccid, but nod, “Lead the way.” 

He studies you for a moment, dark eyes darting around your face, no doubt sensing the apprehension you can’t shake, and proves your suspicion true when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

Your throat tightens and you drop your gaze to the colorful entryway rug beneath your feet, shaking your head as you admit, “I—I don’t know. I’m… kind of freaking out, I think,” your voice cracks, and words start to tumble from your mouth, “I just keep thinking that I don’t belong here, like I’m too fucking poor to be doing this, I mean, to be here, and-and I’m so fucking nervous that I’m gonna fuck this up somehow—”

“Hey, come on,” Dieter coos, one hand settling at your waist, the other brushing against your cheek, “Look at me, Lua.”

You do. 

His eyes bore into yours, unblinking and sincere, “It’s gonna be ok. I promise.”

Your brows press together and you swallow hard, then nod. 

“We’re gonna do this stupid interview, which you’re gonna fucking nail–”

You look away. 

He tilts your chin towards his face again, refusing to let you hide, repeating, “Which you’re gonna fucking nail. You know why?”

You just stare at him, half-expecting him to say because you have to or I won’t love you anymore, but instead, he says, “Because you are fucking amazing, Louella. You are brilliant, and gorgeous, and genuine, and hilarious, and capable of fucking anything. Ok?”

His words, so sure and earnest, soothe your inflamed sense of worthlessness. 

A burning sensation works up your throat, then spreads behind your eyes. Hot tears roll down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and croak, “Don’t say things like that to me, it’s too sweet and makes me cry.”

“Listen here, doll,” he cups your face and raises his eyebrows, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, “I’ll compliment you as much as I goddamn please.”

You let out a wet, nasally chuckle and link your hands behind his neck, then sniffle, “Fine. I guess. If you say so.”

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbles. His thumbs work against your damp cheeks as he brings his lips to yours, gentle and soft. 

When he pulls back, he clears his throat and turns back to the vacant house, “Alright, sweet cheeks, let’s give you the official tour.”

The term of endearment makes you laugh and shake your head, “Dieter, I swear to god–” 

He grabs your hand and tugs you onward, ignoring your feigned protest. 

At the tail end of the tour, Dieter swings open the door to his spacious bedroom. You recognize the tall, chartreuse walls and the puffy white linens tucked around his bed. 

Of all the rooms in his house, including the art studio set up down the hall, this is the one that feels the most like Dee. It’s a little messy, but in a lived-in way you expect from him. Relatively no-frills. Comfortable. Homey. It smells like him, not like lemon pine-sol. 

You gravitate towards a chest of drawers that sits opposite his bed, grinning at a pile of rings, lighters, coins, and crumpled up cash. A big, rectangular mirror mounted on the wall above it catches your attention. 

All kinds of paper mementos are stuffed into the mirror’s frame. Your eyes wander along the edge, stopping to study a picture of him, much younger and more angular than he appears now, with a woman whose bright, dimpled smile matches his. 

“Is that your mom?” you ask, pointing to it. 

“Yeah,” he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your middle, tucking your shoulder under his chin, watching you through the mirror as your eyes leapfrog to each little piece of him.

A ticket stub to a Prince concert at Madison Square Garden in July 2004. 

An old polaroid of two dark-haired young boys roller skating. 

“Tomás?” 

“Mhmm.”

You tilt your head and frown, “Can I ask you something?” 

“No,” he deadpans, blinking at you through the mirror. 

“Shut up,” you snort, then ask, “Why the fuck are you named Dieter?”

He laughs at this, throwing his head back to boom at the ceiling before returning to your reflected gaze. 

“I mean, I’m sorry—It’s just so…”

“White?” he smirks. 

“Yes!” you laugh, covering your mouth, “Is that your real name?!”

“No,” he grins, then shrugs, “Well, legally it is. But my parents named me Manuel Diego Soto Flores. Diego is what everyone called me.”

“Stop it, oh my god. You are blowing my fucking mind right now,” you shake your head at the whiplash this information gives you, then pause, “Wait, why did you change it?”

“My agent suggested I use a stage name way back when. Dieter Bravo sounded cool,” he explains, and chuckles a little as he tells you, “I got in an argument with my folks about it when work started picking up, and legally changed it just to piss them off.”

“Wow,” you raise your eyebrows and laugh, “That is… truly petty.” 

“That it is,” he sighs, his smile faltering. 

“So, what am I supposed to call you? Diego? Dieter?” you smirk, meeting his gaze in the mirror. 

“Dee,” he answers, “I like Dee.”

“I can do that.”

You hold his gaze for a few moments, relishing the heat that swells in your chest, then resume your study of his artifacts, squinting to read the faded black ink of a few movie stubs lined up together: Eyes Wide Shut, Donnie Darko, The Departed, Fight Club, Whiplash, Titanic, Toy Story 3. 

Next to them, you spot a wrinkled brown paper square, etched with unruly black ink strokes into a blueberry branch. You tilt your head at it, then glance down at the blueberry branch tattooed on your forearm. 

Your eyes flick to the reflection of Dieter’s face and find him already staring at you. A question creases your forehead, and he answers with a shrug. Tingles spread across your belly. You smooth your hand against his and leave it there. 

“Look, I printed the ones from the elevator,” he chuckles, pointing to a picture of the two of you stuffed into one side of the mirror’s frame, stone-faced, black grease paint and mascara co-mingling with red lipstick, smudged all over your mouths and cheeks. Below that, the shot Dieter took a second later when you both broke, faces lit up with laughter, eyes bent up into barely visible crescents. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, hand flying to your mouth, “Come on, we have way cuter pictures than those.”

“Those are my favorite, though,” he smiles, kisses your cheek, then tucks your shoulder back under his chin.

You shake your head and sigh, grinning as you tell him, “Fuck, I like you.”

“Yeah?” he snorts, “You think so?”

You nod, rubbing your thumb against his. 

“I like you, too,” he murmurs. 

“Thank god, or this would be really awkward,” you joke as you return your gaze to the relics framing his mirror. 

A snapshot of him, a generation younger, all gaunt and baby-faced, leaning against a high top table crowded with half-empty cups, ice cube islands rising from brown mixed drinks. Two young men across the table from him, his arm draped around a young woman’s shoulders. All four of them glow with a boozy shine, wide and carefree smiles stretched across their faces. 

“Who’re these people?”

“Old friends from my theater days in New York,” he murmurs, “I don’t talk to them much anymore. There’s Glenn, you might’ve met him.”

He points to a tan guy with a brown pompadour and a very punchable face, who’s wearing a baby blue polo shirt and holding up his middle finger. 

You sift through your memory for someone who might have looked like that fifteen or twenty years ago, but come up blank and shake your head, “I don’t think so.”

“He was at Katie’s party that one night, and, uhh… actually, I almost brought him up to your apartment the first time I met you, but he was being an asshole and wouldn’t get out of the car.” 

“Not ringing any bells,” you frown, “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve met any of your friends.”

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he mutters, “Well, I would certainly introduce you to them. If I had any.” 

You try to think of a contradiction to this statement, racking your brain for an instance of him at least hinting at the existence of a friend. 

“What about all the people you party with?”

“Haven't done much of that lately. Besides,” he cocks an eyebrow and curls his lip, “Those aren’t friends. Never were. And, uhh… I did a solid job alienating my real friends a long time ago.” 

You look at him through the mirror. 

His eyes are all dull and forlorn. Far away. 

A sharp pain splits your sternum. 

You wriggle around to face him, cupping his cheeks, brushing your thumbs against his patchy beard until he meets your eyes again. Then you tell him, “I’m your friend. Parker’s your friend. You’re not alone anymore, ok?”

His shoulders slump and eyebrows thread together, molding his features into this tender expression that makes your stomach flip and chest ache. 

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight. You slide your hands to the back of his head to comb your fingers through his soft curls. 

A commotion erupts at the other end of the house. The front door opening and closing. Rustling and conversation. A feminine voice echoes down the hall, calling, “Hello?” 

“That must be them,” he murmurs, and starts away, but you pull him back. You wrap your arms around his midsection and bury your face against his t-shirt. 

“Wait, just… a little bit longer,” you say, closing your eyes to soak up the warmth from his body. It seeps into your bloodstream and feels like sunshine in your veins. He rests his head against your hair, taking a deep breath in, and you feel his body relax again. 

The clack-clack-clack sound of heels against the hardwood floor draws closer, but the two of you just stand there, all wrapped up in the other, until someone crosses the threshold to his room, comes to a stop, and says, “Oh, you are here.”

You part and turn towards the intrusion: A neatly made-up, petite, brunette woman wearing a fitted navy blue pantsuit. 

“Darlene,” Dieter greets, crossing the room to envelop her in a one-armed hug. They press a chaste kiss into the other’s cheek. He returns to your side, palm sliding against the small of your back, and introduces you both, “Darlene, Louella, Louella, Darlene.”

You meet her meticulous hazel eyes and smile wide, outstretching your hand to shake hers, “Hi, so nice to meet you.” 

She reaches out and accepts the invitation. Both your gazes drop to study the contrast of your hands. Hers are dainty, soft, blemish-free; adorned with shiny, blush pink fingernails smoothed to rounded tips. Yours bear the scars and calluses earned by over a dozen years of baking, your naked, short fingernails hosting jagged edges from nervous biting. 

When you step back, heat creeps up the back of your neck. She looks so… unimpressed. Annoyed, even. The barely perceptible twitch of her thin eyebrow cocking, lip curling, eyes flicking around your person like she’s identifying weak spots. Then she plasters on a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and asks, “Do you prefer Louella or Lua?” 

“I don’t care,” you chuckle nervously, “Lou, Lua, Louella, whatever you want.”

You glance at Dieter, swallowing hard. He smooths his thumb against your spine.

“I’ll call you Louella,” Darlene decides with a quick nod, then looks from you, to Dieter, “Should we get started? We have a lot of work to do.” 

On your way to the dining room, you cross paths with a short, curvy woman whose brown, tightly coiled hair bounces around her round face as she hauls two thick garment bags into a bedroom. She peaks over the luggage and calls, “Oh, hi!” when she spots you. 

She spins on the heel of her beige pumps to face you, shifting the bags to one hip, “Louella, right?” 

“Yeah,” you smile and wave at her. 

“Kelly,” her hot pink lips stretch into a bright smile and she shakes your hand, looking you up and down before diverting her dark eyes to Dieter, “Nice catch, Bravo.” 

Dieter smirks at the comment, eyeing her tenuous grip on the bags, “Need some help?”

She just scoffs and raises an eyebrow at him before spinning around and starting down the hallway. Dieter shrugs after her, then ushers you into the dining room, where a frantic looking young man is setting out three labeled mint green to-go boxes on the stained oak table, assigning seats to you, Dieter, and Darlene. 

“Lua, this is Lincoln, my PA,” Dieter gestures between the two of you, “Lincoln this is Lua, my girlfriend.”

“Hi,” Lincoln tucks a strand of dark blonde hair behind his ear and leans his tall frame across the table, extending his hand. 

“Nice to meet you, Lincoln,” you meet his ocean blue eyes as you take it in yours and shake it. Dieter settles into his assigned dining room chair, leaning back against the burnt orange suede. You take your seat next to him. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” Lincoln flashes a quick smile, then glances from Dieter, back to you, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Oh yeah?” you grin over at Dieter, who’s crossing his ankle over his knee, watching you with amusement, and tell Lincoln, “Good things, I hope.”

“Terrible things,” Dieter teases, letting his head dangle to one side. 

“Nothing but the utmost praise,” Lincoln insists.

A nutty aroma wafts up from the box with your name on it. You recognize the briny sharpness and name it, “Oh, fuck, did you get us pad thai?”

“It’s from that place you wanted to try,” Dieter tells you. 

You wiggle and clap your hands together, reaching for the box as Darlene approaches the table. Lincoln scurries into the kitchen and makes himself look busy. She sits down with a sense of urgency that makes you fold your hands in your lap and sit up straighter. 

“Here’s the plan,” she pushes the takeout box away, leaning over her open notebook, “Interview with DIRT at 4:00 today. Louella, we’ll practice your answers for a bit, then Kelly will help you pick some clothes,” her eyes flick from the notebook, to you, then to Dieter, and she says, “While you’re in town, I think it’ll be good for the two of you to be seen in public together, but I have some ground rules—”

“Jesus Christ, Darlene,” Dieter groans, scrubbing his hands over his face as he leans his elbows onto the table, “What are we, teenagers?”

“Well, Dieter, play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” she blinks at him.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he scoffs.

“It means,” she snips, zeroing in on him, “With all the bullshit you’ve pulled in the past year, you’re not exactly rolling in prospects, are you?”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just clenches his jaw. 

She continues, “It’s a goddamn miracle you managed to land that Mike Flannigan job—”

You turn to him and gasp, “You got it?!” 

This big, giddy smile spreads across his face when he meets your eyes and nods, “Yeah.”

“But he could lose it if this doesn’t go right,” Darlene advises, pulling your attention to her. She shoots a glare from you to Dieter, “So we’re going to follow my direction, right?” 

Your face falls and you clear your throat, then stammer, “Y—yeah, of course.” 

Dieter shifts in his seat, pressing his mouth against his clasped hands. 

“As I was saying,” Darlene continues, raising an eyebrow as she drops her gaze to the notebook, “You’re both to be on your best behavior while in public. No drugs, no parties, no more than a glass of wine, no public fornication. We’re going full Disney rules of conduct, ok?”

When Darlene blinks up at you, you nod, “No problem.” 

“Alright, let’s rehearse some Q&A,” she sighs, turning her attention back to her notebook. 

She runs through questions the interviewer might ask, reconstructing your answers from nervous ramblings into practiced statements. It’s like a mental boot camp the way she attacks this, and, honestly, it’s quite impressive. 

When Darlene is confident you won’t respond to questions like: “How did you and Dieter meet?” with answers like: “We dropped acid in a closet with my best friend,” the drills cease. Just when you think you’re safe to open that mint green box with your name on it, Darlene stands from the table, “Alright, let’s go see what Kelly has for you.”

You have to physically restrain yourself from pouting as she starts off down the hall. 

“Here, quick,” Dieter shoves his open container of pad thai in your hands. You manage to take a few bites before Darlene comes back to see where she lost you. 

“Coming, sorry,” you swallow and give it back to him. 

Darlene and Kelly decide you’re wearing a balloon-sleeved white silk blouse and a high-waisted, billowing, floral skirt that comes down to your ankles. 

Once your makeup and hair are styled, and you're all done up and presentable, not unlike a feral mutt turned show dog, Darlene holds her hand out to you, palm facing the ceiling, and says, “You’ll have to take off your wedding ring.” 

“Oh,” you frown at her, then at the simple gold band on your left hand’s ring finger. With a heavy blue sigh, you slide it off your finger, and drop it in her extended hand. 

When you emerge from the bedroom, Darlene trailing behind you, Dieter is pacing the length of the living room, dressed in a short-sleeved white button-up and navy blue slacks. He spots you and stops in his tracks. A grin spreads across his face, “Oh wow, look at you.” 

“Look at you,” you counter, matching his smile as you look him up and down. 

He wipes his hands on his pants, then strides over to you and kisses you. His lips are eager when they meet yours. You link your hands at the nape of his neck and arch your back into him, losing yourself momentarily. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours and murmurs, “You look like… a sexy kindergarten teacher. I like it.”

You laugh and shake your head, “Oh yeah, this is doing it for you?”

“Fuck yeah it is,” he rumbles, then grips your waist and kisses you again.

“Alright, it’s almost time,” Darlene prods impatiently from a few feet away, “Where’s your laptop?”

Dieter mutters something under his breath, then steps back from your embrace and tells her, “I’ll go get it.” 

As he goes off down the hall, you plop down on the overstuffed couch. Its deep, rich brown leather feels buttery soft against the small sections of your exposed skin. You cross your legs, smoothing the soft fabric of your skirt over your knees, “Is it a video call?” 

Darlene takes a cursory glance in the direction Dieter went, then sits down next to you, her words hushed and serious as they flee her lips, “Louella, his career is teetering on the edge of a cliff right now. One more blow could send the whole thing crashing down. Do you understand how important it is that this goes well?” 

An icy rush of panic floods your veins. You meet her hazel eyes and nod. 

“Good,” she says, searching your face, “Don’t fuck it up.” 

Lincoln and Kelly leave for the day once everything is set up. Darlene stages you and Dieter hip-to-hip in the middle of his couch, then starts pacing behind the laptop, occupying a strip of the living room’s black- and white-striped rug between the glass top coffee table and a black brick-faced wood fireplace. 

Pixelated face pops up on Dieter’s laptop screen. You can make out David Alterman’s egg-shaped bald head and thick-rimmed glasses. He says, “Hello hello, how are we doing today?” 

“Pleasure to see you,” Dieter gives a nod and drapes his arm over your shoulders. You flash a smile to the computer and wave. 

David continues, “I just want to start by saying thank you for meeting with me today. On the phone earlier, Darlene said that there were some things you wanted to discuss regarding your new friend.” 

“Girlfriend,” Dieter corrects, glances at you, then back at the screen, “There was an article by your, uhh… publication speculating who she is. We wanted to go on record and introduce her, get it all out in the open.”

“Fantastic. Well, the floor is yours.”

Dieter clears his throat and squeezes your shoulder.

“Oh, ok—um, hi, my name is Louella,” your voice comes out too loud, and your heart starts pumping heat through your body, up your neck, across your face. You wriggle in your seat and explain, “Sorry, I’m really nervous, I’ve never done anything like this before.” 

David chuckles, “That’s ok, dear. Why don’t you start by telling me how the two of you met?” 

Your eyes flick to Darlene in the background, following her moving form. She gives you a nod of encouragement. You take a deep breath. 

“We met at Katie’s party in February. My best friend, Parker, convinced me to go, and, yeah, I ended up meeting Dee there,” a big smile stretches across your face as you explain, “I remember meeting him, and I felt this connection to him like,” you snap your fingers, “right away. It was fucking bananas—er, sorry, regular bananas. But. It was like I had known him my whole life or something, you know? We—me, Parker, and Dee—spent the night together,” at this, you see David’s bushy brown eyebrows perk up, and your cheeks start burning, “N-not like that, like sexual or anything, we just talked and joked around. Instant friends. It was so much fun. And, you know, it’s funny, because I didn’t even know he was an actor—”

“You didn’t?” David frowns. 

“No,” you chuckle, “The next morning when we were all getting breakfast there was this guy taking pictures of us eating pancakes, which I thought was fu—um, weird, but then Dee and Parker explained… Well, y’know. Paparazzi and all that.” 

“Is that when you started dating?” 

“No,” you shake your head, glancing down to your hands, “We were just friends for a few months before that started. My, um… my husband died about a year ago in a car accident, so I was… not in a hurry to start any kind of romantic relationship.” 

Your thumb rolls along the seam of your finger that’s usually covered by your wedding band. 

“And yet, here we are. What changed?” 

“I fell in love with him,” you explain, flicking your gaze from Dieter, who squeezes your shoulder, then straight into the camera, “You know when you meet someone and it’s like… they vibrate on the same frequency as you or whatever? Like they were made to be in your life? It was like that. I don’t know, it was fucking crazy. Shit, sorry for swearing—”

“It’s fine,” David says, “I’ll edit it out.”

You release a relieved sigh, “Ok. Well, anyway, I wasn’t—I mean, neither of us were expecting this to happen. But it did. So I took a chance on him, on us, and… yeah. I’m so glad I did.” 

“That’s great,” David smiles at the camera, then looks down at his notes, “So you said the two of you met at Katie’s party—Is that Katie Wainwright?”

“Yes,” you answer. It takes all your energy to remain neutral. To keep your body from twitching in discomfort at the mention of her. 

“Are the two of you friends? Do you run in those circles?”

“Oh, no,” you snort and shake your head, “Parker is a drag performer, under the stage name Jackie Lantern, and knows quite a few theater folks in New York. It’s all him. I was just tagging along.”

“I see. And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a baker.” 

“Pastry artist,” Dieter interjects, leaning forward, “She makes some of the best goddamn pastries I’ve ever had in my life.” 

You beam at this. He gives you an encouraging little wink that makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Oh, you have a bakery?” 

“No,” you say with a little too much haste, then stammer, “Well, not really. It’s not a brick and mortar store or anything. I run it out of my apartment. But, I’d love to—you know, someday, open a bakery.” 

“Sounds like a good investment for your boyfriend to make,” David hints.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” you clear your throat and shake your head, “I want to do it myself.” 

“Independent,” David observes, then looks down to his notes, “Dieter has had a lot of big changes in his personal life this past year as well, with his divorce to Anika, and the scandals surrounding it. Do you worry that those patterns are bound to repeat themselves?”

Dieter’s body tenses beside you. 

You furrow your brow and frown slightly, then glance up to Darlene, whose stare can only be described as a warning. 

Downshifting your face from confusion to thoughtfulness, you answer, “I think… We both have pasts that present challenges in our relationship. It’s not exactly easy-breezy all the time, but that’s the thing with love, right? You take the person, demons and all, and choose to love them anyway?”

David jots down some notes. Your guts twist when you recognize the opportunity to do what you came here to do. 

“And, you know, speaking of which, one of the things I wanted to bring up during this interview is that I—um, I have a criminal record,” you swallow hard and turn to look at Dieter. 

He takes his arm from your shoulder and closes his hands into fists, thumbs pointed upward as he presses them together and draws a circle with them. 

Together. 

Warmth washes over you and you smile at him. He slides his palm against yours and interlaces his fingers with yours. 

“Oh?” 

You turn back to the laptop and sigh, “Yeah. I was arrested in 2018 on drug trafficking charges. I was convicted of a felony—and, you know, I didn’t have to serve any hard time or anything, just probation, thank fucking god, and I’ve changed a lot since then, but it’s still… still a factor,” you drop your gaze to your lap and shrug, “And, of course, the dead husband thing is a considerable amount of baggage. We live across the country from each other. There’s—there’s a lot that’s difficult about this. But I still think that what we have together is so fucking worth it.” 

“It is,” Dieter confirms, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze. 

“Thank you for being so open about this, Louella. This must be hard for you to do,” David says in a monotone voice, not looking up from his note taking. 

“You have no idea,” you release a big, elated sigh, “But, like mentioned Dieter earlier, we don’t want people to think we’re trying to hide any of this, because we’re not. We’re just trying to move forward together.” 

“I appreciate your honesty,” David says mildly, looks down to his notes, then squints up at the computer, clicking around as he tells you, “Now, after DIRT published the article questioning your identity, we received a call. I’m going to play that for you now…”

You glance from Dieter, to Darlene. Their confused expressions match yours. 

“My name is Hannah—”

Your stomach drops to the floor. You whisper, “Fuck.”

“—I hear you’re trying to figure out who this woman is with Dieter Bravo. Well, I can tell you, that’s my daughter. Her name is Louella Rose Friedman. Now I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing with this man, but I do not approve. I mean, really now, her husband died less than a year ago!”

Static tingles in your ligaments and fills your lungs. Your head shakes back and forth in protest, but her shrill voice continues to project across the room, scraping against your eardrums. 

Dieter releases your hand and leans forward, trying to speak over the recording, warning, “Ok, David, that’s enough—”

“And this man? Dieter Bravo? Just like him from what I can tell. And I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but—”

Everything moves far away in an instant as your mind disconnects from your body. A high-pitched ringing noise dulls the noises around you. 

From far away, your mom says, “He had a problem with drugs, you know, big problem, had other women, too.”

“Stop,” Dieter grinds out over your mother’s recorded voice.

“Lost his goddamn mind, tried to kill them both—”

Darlene scrambles over to the laptop and turns it towards her, “David, this is Darlene—”

“I just don’t understand what that girl thinks she’s doing getting involved with someone like this again, especially so soon?” 

“No, nope,” Dieter stands, then booms, “This ends right FUCKING now!” 

The sudden snap of him slamming the laptop shut and the dead silence that follows jolts you like a cattle-prod.

You flee the living room, down the hallway, into Dieter’s bedroom, then dial her number. 

She picks up on the second ring. 

“Louella Rose, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” your mother’s heavy midwestern accent pierces your eardrum. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, mom? What do I think I’m doing? What the fuck are you doing?!” your teeth grit and and hiss, “Calling a fucking tabloid, really?”

“I only wanted them to know the truth—”

“That is fucking bullshit and you know it,” you growl, crossing an arm over your belly, pacing the floor, “You wanted fucking attention. Well, you’ve got it, congratu-fucking-lations!” 

“I’m just looking out for your best interest. That man is bad news, Louella.“

“How the FUCK would you know?!”

“I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?” 

You clench your jaw and shake your head.

“I’m sorry for caring—”

“You don’t fucking care! You have never fucking cared! If you cared, you would have talked to me, not a fucking tabloid. That shit you told them—” your voice cracks, but you swallow the lump in your throat and continue, “Mom, that’s not your story to tell. It’s mine.” 

An exasperated sigh crackles in your ear, then she says, “You shouldn’t get tangled up in his world, Louella—”

“What I do, who I date, is none of your fucking business. It’s not your decision. I am a grown ass woman.”

“You might be a grown woman, but you’re still my baby girl, and I don’t want you to wind up dead this time,” she clicks her tongue against her teeth, “I’d say you’ll understand someday when you have your own kids, but that’s just another thing Ethan ruined, isn’t it?”

Your entire field of vision floods with red. 

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“When I hang up the phone, do not contact me ever again. You are fucking dead to me. Do you understand?”

“Oh, come on, Louella, don’t be dram—”

You end the call. 

Dieter hovers a few feet from his open bedroom door. His nerves tingle with anticipation. Hushed sobs call out to him and grip his heart. 

How long does he wait before going in to comfort you? Would you rather have time alone?

Part of him feels terrible for eavesdropping. Well, eavesdropping might not be the right word, considering how your heated words reverberated from one end of his home to the other effortlessly. It’s not his fault the goddamn place is like a resonance chamber. 

Dieter hears Darlene in the living room chewing someone out over the phone. The words “so fucking unprofessional” echo down the hall, filled with venom. She’s in full tirade mode. Out for blood. 

It gives him a smug sense of satisfaction hearing her wield this rage towards someone else. 

If he knows anything about Darlene, it’s that this will take a while. She won’t stop until she’s had her fill, until her belly is swollen and ripe with vindication. Then she’ll lap the sticky blood from her hands, smoke a cigarette, and say, “Here’s what’s next.”

He raps a knuckle against the doorframe and asks, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” 

The word is soggy and muffled. He enters the room, closing the door behind him, and finds you sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, face buried in your hands. You don’t look up at him. 

He crawls onto the bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead against the nape of your neck. Warm notes of vanilla and macadamia nuts waft off your hair. You feel so rigid under his touch.

“Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs, tugging you closer. 

“Did I fuck it all up?” 

Your voice comes out in a squeak, like you squeezed the words from your throat. Wet sobs bubble up your throat and shake your shoulders. 

“No,” Dieter frowns, “Do you really think that?”

You shrug and release a shattered breath. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he assures you, “Hey, listen to me. You were fucking amazing.” 

“But—”

“No, no buts. You were perfect. And—and brave, so fucking brave,” he nuzzles into that perfect space between your shoulder and neck and says, “I’m so proud of you, Louella.” 

“Really?” you sniffle and wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your shirt, smearing black makeup onto the luxurious white silk. 

“Holy shit, yes,” he chuckles, pulling you closer, relishing the way your hunched up muscles seem to slacken, “Before the bullshit that rat fuck pulled, you were perfection. Killed it, I swear to god, doll. And—and none of that last part was your fault. David shouldn’t have sprang that on us, and your mom,” he scoffs and shakes his head, gnashing his jaw back and forth as he tries to choose his words carefully, then finally says, “I’m sorry, but that was fucking despicable. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” you sniffle.

“No, I definitely deserved that,” he mutters, glancing up to the mirror, meeting his own eyes only for a moment before diverting his gaze.

Your hand slides over his and you move your thumb in gentle strokes against his skin, “She’s the fucking worst, Dee.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then inquires, “Was that her on the phone?”

“Yeah,” you answer, and your voice comes out all quivering and squeaky, “I, um… I told her to never talk to me again.” 

“I heard,” he confesses.

“Oh,” you breathe. 

His pulse jumps and he stammers, “I—I wasn’t trying to or anything, I swear, the noise just carries—”

“I know,” you squeeze his hand, “It’s ok.”

Your crying wanes in intensity, but the air around you is still dense and stormy. Dieter kisses your shoulder and asks, “What can I do to help you right now, baby?”

You ponder this for a long moment. When your response comes, it jolts his insides. Sucks the air from his lungs. 

“Fuck me.”

He’s not sure he heard you right, and shakes his head, “Wait, what?”

Then you reach back and run your fingers through his hair. Unravel against his chest. Let your head roll back on his shoulder. 

Dieter cranes his neck to search your face. It’s all tear-drenched, your makeup smeared, eyes puffy and red. He reaches up and squee-gees the mess with his thumb, wiping the excess onto his white comforter as you quietly tell him, “I need to get out of my head. I want—I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want it to hurt. Use me. Please.”

His insides coil and twitch. Your lips part as you scrape your nail along his jawline, beckoning him closer. 

He smooths his palms along your torso, drinking in the heat of your body through your silk shirt. Your mouth draws him in closer: a bright flame, and he’s just a moth. 

That’s how it is with you, Lua, you have to know that by now. He’s just a bug, and you’re this all-consuming fire that could burn him alive and he’d say thank you, my love, thank you for your light.

When your lips meet, his vocal chords crackle. Your mouth, plush and pliable, so delicate, he almost feels bad for the force he uses in response. 

Almost. 

You have to understand how difficult it is for him to restrain himself with you. How the tether between his humanity and deprivation pulls taut when you writhe beneath his touch. 

What you’re asking, to make it hurt, use me, please… it electrifies him. Calls to the part of him that bucks against the restraints. Is that what you really want? For him to unchain that beast?

His teeth catch your lip and you gasp, but you don’t stop kissing him. In fact, you ball his shirt in your fist and kiss him harder. 

You fucking love it. 

He palms your breast and tastes the sweet whimper on your breath when he grips your flesh. Digs his fingers in, squeezes harder. You moan down his throat. Arch your back. Roll your tongue along his, soft and wet and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growls through grit teeth. Grabs your jaw and licks the gasp from your mouth. You grind back against his cock and an intoxicating rush of heat rolls through his body, clinging to his bones, sinking into the folds of his brain, tinging his vision with this thick scarlet fog that makes his heart pound in his chest. 

Dieter buries his fist in your hair and sits up on his knees, ushering you to do the same. His lips hover at the shell of your ear and he murmurs, “Is this how you want it? Want it fucking rough?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and he slides a hand to your neck, spreading the webbing between his thumb and index finger on your esophagus. 

“I wanna pull up your pretty little skirt, and bend you over—wanna play with that tight little asshole—”

You let out this throaty moan that vibrates against his palm. It makes his cock jump. 

“Would you like that?” he rumbles. Clamps down on your earlobe. Grinds the flab between his teeth. 

“Oh my fucking god, Dieter, please,” you whine, hips rolling against him, urging him to make good on his word. 

He shoves your face into the mattress and you just prop your ass up for him, pushing back as he rucks your skirt up to your waist. His hands slide up the soft, warm flesh of your thighs, feeling the weight of your ass in his palms. 

You arch your back, presenting yourself to him, whimpering for attention, silk underwear all damp with want, clinging to your cunt. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasps, hooking a fingertip around the wet patch of fabric, dragging his knuckle through your arousal, “You fucking love this, don’t you?”

You let out a throaty, delirious laugh that quickly morphs into a moan when he rubs the knuckle against your clit, then slaps your ass with a sharp smack.

“Fuck yes,” you gasp. Your hips roll against his touch, seeking stimulation. But he doesn’t want you to have it yet. Not like that. 

He pulls away, and you whine, going to get up on your hands in protest, but he closes a fist around your hair and pushes you back down, grinding out, “Don’t you fucking move.”

Another airy, depraved laugh. 

Dieter grips your hair tighter, explaining in a whisper as he tugs your underwear down your legs, “You’re gonna stay right here, ass in the air like a bitch in heat, and let me do whatever the fuck I want to you. How’s that sound, love? Hmm?”

“Please,” you breathe. He hears the wet gulp of your throat. The hair between his fingers pulls taut when you nod. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, releasing your hair, tossing the underwear from around your ankles across the bed. 

He slides his palms over your ass cheeks. Parts them just long enough to gather a pool of spit on his tongue and let it land on your asshole with a wet splat. Rolls his thumb through the spit, smearing it around, making you gasp, “Fuck, that’s good—”

His cock twitches. Electricity writhes around his insides. He licks his lips, then purrs, “Yeah? It feels good when I touch your asshole, hmm? You fucking like that, princess?”

“Yes—”

Dieter spreads you apart, brings himself closer, throat rumbling at the scent of your heat. At the way your swollen, needy cunt is just fucking dripping, coated in a shiny layer of your slick. 

Fucking beautiful. 

He drags his tongue through the arousal pooling at your entrance with a depraved groan. 

You unleash a moan and try to wriggle around on his tongue, still trying to exert control, still not letting go. 

He raises a hand and lowers it on your ass cheek with a smack, talking at your cunt as he holds your hips steady, “Stop trying to run this, doll, let me fucking use you like you need me to.”

The response that comes is a whimper, but your muscles stop working under his grip. 

“Good, that’s it, baby,” he coos, then returns to your cunt, licking along all the soft ridges and valleys of you, savoring your nectar gathering slick on his tastebuds. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you croak, but you don’t rock against his tongue. Doing just as he asked. Heat surges through him, all that pride commingling with lust and love and need. 

He licks up your middle, painting you with short, broad strokes, all the way up to your tight, puckered asshole. Saliva pools as he laps away, rubbing back and forth, in a circle, flicking his tongue against you in wet little slaps. 

All the while, you’re whimpering and moaning, legs trembling, sweat coating your hot skin, damp against his palms. 

He brings the tip of his index finger to the center of your asshole, wriggling and applying pressure until the tight ring gives and allows him entrance. Your choked moan fills his ears and he moves slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the sensation. 

One knuckle disappears, then another, and when buried as deep as he can go, he ruts it in and out, the hot pool of spit lubricating his movements. 

You start to slacken, your sharp little gasps for air drawing out longer, surrendering to pleasure, whimpering and nodding, eyes fluttering. 

Dieter pauses and wiggles another thick digit against your tight hole, panting, “Fuck, you’re doing so good, baby. Fucking amazing. That’s it, baby, just relax for me—”

It slides past the barrier and he moans in unison with you, burying his fingers again and again, spitting thick, gooey wads of saliva where he fuses with you, making his movements easier, more fluid, while the hot, smooth inside of you grips around his fingers.

“Fuck me,” you beg, “Please—please fuck my ass.”

“Take your clothes off for me, baby,” he sits up straight and begins to unbutton his shirt. You roll over onto your back and start to strip down while he throws the shirt on the floor, then lays back and takes off his pants. 

He reaches into drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a bottle of lube, then squirts a dollop of it into his hand and glances up at you. You're laying on your back, propped up on your elbows, lust-blown eyes glued to his cock. When he spreads the slick along his length, your pink tongue rolls across your lips, stoking the hot coals in his core.

Dieter crawls across the bed to you, murmuring, “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

Your gaze locks onto his as your jaw drops open. He moves up your body and straddles your chest, holding his throbbing, aching cock out to you, “Wanna fuck that pretty face of yours, is that ok with you?”

You nod, threading your brows together, batting your lashes, eyes all half-lidded and hungry, and purr, “Use me like a fuck doll.”

The request makes his cock pulse in his fist. You curl your tongue against a bead of pre-cum hanging off the tip of him and wiggle it around. His head falls back when the delicate touch floods his body with pleasure and he groans, “Holy fucking sh—”

The words evaporate from his throat when your lips pull taught around his girth, the wet heat of your mouth engulfing him. His lubed-up hand falls to the wayside and he snaps his gaze back to yours. You hold eye contact and move at a slow, steady rhythm, taking more and more of him with each renewed bob. 

Dieter moans at the sight of you, lips all shiny and stretched out around him, eyelids fluttering. He brushes the sweat-dampened hair from your forehead, gathering what he can reach in his fist. Tightens his grip. Pushes his hips forward. 

When he breaches your throat, you gag. A hot rush of spit pours from your mouth. Twitching muscles squeeze around him, protesting the intrusion. A wave of ecstasy rushes up his spine and pulls a moan from his stomach. 

“Are you ok?” he rasps, meeting your watery eyes. 

You pull off of him, panting, strings of saliva hanging between your reddened lips and his glistening cock, and nod, “Don’t fucking stop,” before taking him in your mouth again. 

So he thrusts forward again, carefully, every muscle in his body tensing with restraint. Your palms slide up his thighs, around to his backside, where you dig the tips of your fingers into his skin, urging him forward, and he knows now that you fucking meant it: Use me like a fuck doll. 

He nods with understanding, “You want more, hmm?”

The hum of approval from your throat ripples across his body and makes him groan. You bat your lashes up at him, eyes creased like you’re smiling but your mouth is all crammed full of his cock so it’s hard to be sure, but he can tell you’re just fucking loving this shit. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s almost more than he can handle. 

“Want me to fuck that pretty fucking face?” he growls, closing his fist around your hair tighter, rolling his hips, dragging his cock in and out of your mouth. 

You moan and it makes him moan, the vibration of your throat writhing beneath his skin.  

He adjusts his angle, releasing your hair to grab both sides of your head and plunge deeper, down past the back of your mouth, letting out a sharp groan as the firm ridges slide tight around him. His hips work forward in a quick, short burst of wet thrusts that light up every nerve in his body, then he pulls from your mouth. While you gasp for breath, he grips the base of his cock with one hand while the other grabs your spit-covered chin, “Is that what you fucking want? Fuck your face just like that?”

“Fuck yes, just like that,” you choke out, voice all gritted and airy.

“You pinch me when you need to breathe, ok?” he instructs, searching your flushed, messy face, “Pinch me right now so I know.”

This big smile spreads across your swollen lips and you squeeze a chunk of his ass between your fingers, “Like this?”

“That’s it, baby, do that and I’ll let you come up for air,” he nods, “Now stick out your tongue.” 

Your tongue stretches down to your chin, and he slaps his cock against it with a smack-smack-smack before sliding it back into the hot cavern of your mouth. He cradles your skull in his palms and thrusts forward, cramming himself down your throat. Your vocal chords buzz against him, and your mouth emits this sick, wet glug-glug-glug that sets him on fucking fire. You pinch him and he pulls out, both of you gasping and moaning. 

“So fucking good, fuck,” he rasps, waiting a moment for your breathing to be less desperate, then asks, “Ready?”

You hum a little mhmm and open your mouth, welcoming him back to fuck your throat. He can barely fucking stand how hot you look with your face all shiny with sweat and tears and spit, how your eyelids flutter then snap open to meet his gaze, how your body wiggles around beneath him, hips bucking against nothing, thighs rubbing together. 

If he didn’t have you pinned down like this, you’d be touching yourself, he just fucking knows it. 

The ecstasy tingling at the base of his spine starts to spread and you pinch him just before he loses control. He pulls out, but doesn’t dare grab himself this time, for fear that any stimulation will push him over the edge.

He gets on his hands and knees and leans down to press his lips to yours. You throw your arms around his neck and arch your back into the kiss, pulling him closer, rolling your tongue against his as soft whimpers flutter from your mouth. One of his hands trails down your body, between your legs, and he groans at how fucking wet you are. 

You gasp against his lips, throwing your head back as he plays with your clit, working you at a rapid rhythm that makes your face twist and flush, nodding in approval, quick little gasps and squeaks escaping your throat. 

He grins when he realizes how close you are. So fucking worked up from sucking him off, already coiling up, ready to burst. 

“That’s it, baby,” he husks, kisses you, then presses his sweaty forehead to yours, “That’s it, let me see you fucking cum, baby.”

“Fuck fuck fuck, Dee, don’t stop—fuck—”

Your words disappear with a sharp inhale, muscles tensing up, hips arching against his hand. He continues to move against you, fast and steady and firm, until you find your voice and release a choked sob. You collapse into yourself, body shaking violently, legs clamping shut, gasping for air. 

“Holy fuck,” you breathe, and your body starts to slacken, but jumps like a live wire at his slowing touch. 

Dieter slides down your crease, through your arousal, propping himself on one arm to watch how your cum clings to his fingers in thick, heavy strands as he draws his hand away. 

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he murmurs, licks you from his fingers, then drags them along your warm, gooey seam again, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyebrows press together and lips part with a whimper, but you don’t appear adverse to the suggestion. In fact, you bring a hand to your chest. Cup your breast. Pinch your nipple and gasp. 

His body surges hot with want. He grazes his nose against your face, rumbling into your ear, “How’d you put it? Like a fuck doll?” 

Your throat lets out a little whine and your lips pout out into an O as he sinks two thick fingers into your cunt. You prop yourself up and watch him slide in and out, whimpering and nodding, “Fuck that’s so good, Dee—oh my god, yes—”

The hunger roiling at his core grows. He adds another finger, stretching you wider, and you release a choked moan. 

“Is this what you want, Lua? Want me to fuck you like a little slut, hmm?” he pants, shifting himself to hover above you, pumping his arm, cramming his fingers into your tight, wet heat over and over again. 

“Yes yes yes yes yes,” you babble, and start moving your hips against him, “Do that thing—”

Dieter smirks, knowing exactly what thing you’re referring to, and pulls his hand up towards the ceiling, rubbing the pads of his fingers hard against your g-spot, “That?”

“Fuuuuuuck yes, baby, just like that,” you moan, “That’s so good, baby, such a good fucking boy, fuck me so good—”

He lets out a groan and wiggles his fingers faster, “Yeah? You like when I make you squirt all over the place? Wanna soak my fucking bedsheets?”

Your response is a strangled noise, but you nod your head frantically, and your limbs start to tremble. And, fuck, the sight of you all shaking and whining, skin slick with sweat, makeup running down your pretty, flushed, contorted face, it’s enough to send his insides fluttering, barreling towards oblivion once again. 

Dieter has to close his eyes, swallowing hard as he tries to reign himself in, forcing himself to fill his mind with mundane thoughts about what to eat for supper, how this disaster of an interview will get resolved, whether or not he’ll wake up early to attempt making breakfast for you, all while trying to ignore the liquid hot squeeze of your pussy around his wiggling fingers.

When he feels he finally has a grip on his pleasure, he snaps his eyes open and moves between your legs. Buries his face in your cunt. Rolls his tongue on your swollen clit. 

“Yes, fuck,” you breathe and anchor your hands in his hair, pulling his curls into tight fists. Your breathing starts to come in shallow gasps. The muscles of your thighs tense and twitch. 

“Don’t stop, baby, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, and he works you faster, moving his tongue in a circle, tickling the inside of you, groaning as you rub yourself against him, smearing your juices all over his face. You moan when the sound hits you, so he continues, humming from the back of his throat, and it’s just the push you need. 

Your hips stutter and still. A wild, ragged noise tears from your chest. You convulse around his fingers, and he pulls them out, sliding his mouth down to your opening just as a hot wave of pleasure gushes out. It splashes against his face, and he tries to catch as much as he can on his tongue, moaning at the taste of you. Grabs your waist and holds you there, lapping away at your cunt as you gasp for air, body jerking at the stimulation, but unable to move from his vice grip. 

He climbs your body and kisses you, hard and messy, letting you taste yourself. You rake your fingers through his hair, whining into his mouth when his tongue slides across yours. 

His cock aches with neglect. The steady inflow of pleasure burns between the layers of his skin and begs to be released. 

He pulls away from your lips and pants, “Flip over for me, love. I wanna fuck your ass.” 

And, you… fucking hell, Lua, you smile at this like he told you he’s buying you a brand new car. He sits up and you roll over onto your belly, then stick your ass up into the air, “Is that good?”

“Fucking perfect.”

Dieter grabs the abandoned bottle of lube,  squeezes some into his palm, then requests, “Spread for me, baby.” 

You reach back, pulling your ass cheeks apart. He squirts some of the lube on your puckered hole and you yelp, then giggle, “It’s so cold.”

He chuckles at this as he strokes his cock, smearing the slick lube along his length, then he asks, “Have you done this before? Anal sex?”

This isn’t the first time he’s ventured into ass play with you, but only with tongues, toys, fingers. You look back at him and shrug, “Well, yeah, but,” then you drop your gaze to his dick, “You’re, um… a lot bigger than anyone else…” 

The comment makes his ego swell, and he can’t help but grin, spreading the lube across your tight hole with his middle finger. Then he applies pressure to its center until it allows him access. Your eyelids flutter and you whimper, licking your lips, pulling your cheeks apart further. 

“I’ll go slow, but if it’s too much, tell me and I’ll stop, ok?”

“Ok,” you nod.

He wriggles another digit inside you. You gasp and nod, “Fuck, that feels really good.”

“Good,” he purrs, rutting into you slowly, flicking his gaze between your face and ass, watching the way your lips part and eyelids drift closed, feeling the muscles inside you start to relax. 

You arch your back into the stimulation, breathy little whimpers and moans floating from your mouth like music to his fucking ears. Lust pools hot and needy at his center, making his heart thud and his cock ache. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, studying your face as you open your eyes and look back at him. 

“I’m ready,” you confirm, holding his gaze as he pulls his fingers out and brings the head of his cock to kiss the tight, lubricated hole. 

Dieter pushes forward cautiously, pausing when your asshole surrenders to the very tip of him and you let out a sharp cry. After a moment, you nod, “Keep going.”

So he does. The tight ring squeezes the ever loving fuck out of him as he slowly, tediously, makes his way inside you. His forehead breaks out in a sweat, muscles quivering from the effort it takes to move at this pace. Your face pinches up with what could either be pleasure or pain, he’s not quite sure, but it’s accompanied by whimpers and nods, signaling your approval. 

Once the head of his cock is fully engulfed, though, and you adjust to his width, acclimate to the feeling, things start to go faster. He pushes your hands away and spreads your cheeks himself, hissing, “Fuck, this looks so good, baby. Love seeing your sweet little asshole stretched out around my cock—”

“It feels so fucking good,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, “Give me more.”

The request squirms around inside him and makes his throat rumble. He drives his hips forward steadily, and it’s a fucking vacuum of suction, pulling him in, swallowing him whole. You sputter and moan in reaction, croaking out quiet little whines of “oh my fucking god” over and over again.

“Fuuuuck, you’re so fucking tight, holy fuck, Lua,” he groans, throwing his head back, then starts to roll his hips, still moving at a languid pace, sliding his length along that ring that, even when your muscles loosen slightly, grips him so fucking tight it makes every ounce of sanity flee his brain. 

“Do you like that? Like when I fuck your ass with my fat cock?” he asks through grit teeth.

You whimper and nod, “Yes yes yes yes—”

“Tell me,” he demands, snapping his hips, heart jumping at the moan you choke out. 

“I like it wh—when you fuck my ass—” he snaps his hips again and you gasp, then continue, “with your big, fat cock—”

“Yeah you fucking do, don’t you?” He increases the tempo, moaning at the squeeze of you, how fucking good you feel wrapped around him, and grinds out, “Little fuck doll likes being used, hmm? Just like this?” 

“Holy fuck, Dee,” you groan, raising yourself up onto your hands, pushing back against his thrusts, “I fucking love it, yes.”

The force of your body moving with his, burying him to the hilt inside you again and again, fills him with fire. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your back, heart fluttering in his heaving chest, hands tingling, limbs trembling, ecstasy pooling thick and hot at the base of his spine. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me fucking cum,” he warns, but doesn’t let up his pace. 

“Cum in my ass, baby, please please please,” you moan. 

The request tugs at the edges of him, and he wants you closer, wants to feel the heat of your skin against his. 

“Get up here,” he grunts, leans forward and hooks an arm around your torso, pulls your back against his chest, cradling your neck in his palm. Your head falls back onto his shoulder and your mouth is hanging open slack, frantic little moans fleeing your throat as he fucks your ass deep and hard, rumbling into your ear, “Cum in your fucking ass, hmm? My little slut wants her ass filled with cum?”

You bring your hand to the back of his head and grab a fistful of hair, breathing, “Fuck yes, please, Dieter, please—”

“Anything for you, love,” he pants, then you pull his hair tighter, and you start to rock your hips against his, and your whines get all high-pitched and airy, and he babbles, “I mean that, I really do, fucking anything you want, baby—fill your ass with cum, buy you whatever the fuck you want, fucking anything, I swear to god—”

Your lips cut him off, and you’re fucking trembling now, muscles all tight and coiled, squeezing around his cock, and he kisses you back with fire, groaning against your mouth as you whimper, then your breath disappears completely, you let out a strangled moan, and your body shutters from the force of your orgasm. The static buzzing in his center grows wider, deeper, tingling up his backbone, through his limbs, until it washes over him completely.

He thrusts into you one, two, three more times, spilling his load inside you.

His labored breathing puffs hot against yours. You bring your touch to his cheek and draw a circle into his beard with your thumb. He kisses you again, gentler, lips lingering on yours, then murmurs, “I fucking love you.”

A bright, wide smile spreads across your face. You let out this breathless little giggle, kiss him, then say, “I fucking love you, too.” 

Dieter pulls out and falls back onto the bed, stretching out, catching his breath. You follow suit and cuddle up to him, laying your head on his heaving chest. He curls his arm around your shoulders and rests his cheek on the crown of your sweaty head. 

The silence that settles is comfortable, and he notices that the rest of the house is quiet, too. Darlene must have fled sometime while he was fucking you, no doubt disgusted by the noises that were probably not muffled at all by the barrier of his bedroom door. 

His attention draws back to you when you whisper, “Am I doing the right thing? By cutting her out of my life?”

It takes a moment for him to understand what you’re asking. When it clicks, he frowns, “I don’t think that’s a question I can answer.” 

You’re quiet in response, so he inquires further, “What’s your relationship like with her?” 

“We, um… we butt heads,” you shrug and bring your fingertips to his sternum, start drawing little swirls against his skin, “She’s always been so… I don’t know, self-centered? Childish?” you pause here, and he can hear the gears in your busy mind turning. You lay your palm flat over his heart and say, “It’s always about her. She didn’t come see me when Ethan died, or try to console me, or anything. She fucking—”

A frustrated huff of air blows across his chest. You shake your head, then sigh, “She fucking called me all the time crying about it, and posted all this bullshit online about how sad she was, and—and she fucking hated him. It’s like she expected me to comfort her. She never asked how I was doing. It was… fuck, it was just like when Dad died.” 

Dieter smooths circles into your skin with his thumb. Studies the ceiling, waiting for you to say more. Then you do. 

“When I would try talking to her about how much I missed him—my dad, I mean—she would get fucking mad at me. Say shit like, ‘Well, how do you think I feel?’ or—or, ‘You’re not the only one who lost him,’ or—this one’s my favorite, the uses it all the time, ‘It’s not all about you, Louella Rose,’” you pause and scoff to yourself, shaking your head, “So I stopped trying to her about it, and then she would get mad at me for not talking about it, so then I would talk to her about it, and she would either get mad all over again or squirrel the things I told her away to use as fucking ammunition against me the next time I made her upset, and—and, I don’t know. That’s just how it is with her.” 

Dieter’s mind whirs as he sifts through the million thoughts pouring through his brain, trying to find the right one to tell you. It feels like finding the hay in the needlestack, and when his mouth opens, all that comes out is, “Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” you snort, then comb your fingers through his hair and murmur, “I love your curls, they’re adorable.” 

He almost takes the subject change you dangle in front of him, but something lingers at the base of his throat, begging to be known. 

“Look,” he starts, shifting to meet your gaze, and sighs, “I really don’t think you’re making a mistake by cutting her out of your life, Lua. And-and not because she said those things about me, but because she treats you like shit. And, I know it’s not my place to say shit like this, but,” he shakes his head, searching your face, watching the tears pool in your eyes, “She might be your mom, but that’s not family, you know?”

Your face crumples up. 

He starts to fumble out an apology, “Fuck, I’m–”

You kiss him. 

When you pull back, you whisper, “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” he breathes, brushing his hand against your cheek, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you scoot closer, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder. A few peaceful moments go by before your stomach growls so loud it makes both of you start laughing. 

“Let’s get you some fucking food, huh?” 

[lonestarbattleship]

December 3, 2023 Update from the Battleship Texas Foundation

Battleship Texas!

"DRY DOCK TOURS

Dry Dock Tours are scheduled until the end of January 2024. Discount available for those who return. For more information please visit: battleshiptexas.org/drydock

A Texas high school takes a Dry Dock Tour! We offer major discounts to any school group interested in a tour.

SHIP REPAIRS

The 1925 teak has been removed from the base of all 5”/51 cal. Guns. New wood will go down.

TORPEDO BLISTERS (COMPLETE) - The new torpedo blisters are a slightly different design and square off at the bottom below the waterline. This design change will make the new blisters easier to maintain increasing their longevity.

SANDBLASTING - The ship’s hull is now being sandblasted at night and inspected for holes and damage during the day. The necessary repairs are made before the final coating is applied.

Keel blocks have been fleeted to paint the ship.

PAINT - The black coating used is PPG SIGMA SHIELD 880 GF.

New primer on the ship’s hull.

Doublers being placed on the hull of Battleship Texas.

Primer has been painted on about 50% of Battleship Texas.

Primer has been painted on about 50% of Battleship Texas. Note the epoxy that has been added to some areas.

Doublers being placed on the hull of Battleship Texas.

HULL NUMBER - The new hull numbers have been extensively researched so each number is not only the correct font, but applied in the appropriate position it was in 1945. Welders have created an outline where that will be painted on in the future.

SHIP’S NAME APPLIED - The lettering for the ship’s name has been cut from steel plate and has been attached to both sides of the stern. A ton of work and research went into getting the correct font and positioning.

COATING - The inside of the blisters, and the ship’s hull will be coated to protect against possible corrosion.

TANK CLEANING - Tanks inside the ship are being inspected, cleaned, and repaired if need be. Some will be coated with a marine coating to help prevent future corrosion.

AFT FIRE CONTROL - New steel deck has been added to the levels of the tower. The doors on on both sides have also been added back. The space is being prepped for the windows and more to return the structure to how it looked in 1945.

Scaffolding covers the aft fire control on Battleship Texas.

A panoramic view looking aft from the aft fire control tower.

Trent and Collin show off the first prototype window for the tower. There are some changes that will be made before production starts.

The doors on each side of aft fire control are now on.

Dock hands explore the ship’s engine room.

Viewing the 240mm shell that hit Battleship Texas in 1944.

Live, Laugh, And Flood your Torpedo Blisters.

Visit our website at: battleshiptexas.org"

Posted on the Battleship Texas Foundation Group Facebook: link

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

A Palomino Christmas

Jack Daniels x f!reader

|| Palomino universe oneshot, out of chronological order as I haven't finished the series yet. Can be read as a stand-alone. ||

{ Fuck Yeah Holidays | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: You spend Christmas at the ranch with Jack. You thought the present you got him was inspired until you see him wearing it - the cowboy way.

Inspired by snowsuit anon and this adorable post (and a super cute nickname for a pony) sent to me by @aynsleywalker.

Warnings: !Ski suit action!, drinking, mention of food, gratuitous descriptions of the male bulge body, dirty talk, safe unprotected sex, feelings so fluffy. These holiday fics are for fun, so not as *rigorously edited* as my regular stories, please forgive any mistakes or plot holes!

Word count: 4.5k

Dedicated to @guiltypleasure-girl who I'm so grateful to have made friends with this year and who, imho, draws the best Jack in all the lands. If you don't already, follow her art page @guiltypleasure-art for the most gorgeous fanart ❤️

It’s always busy in the Stateman’s main kitchen on Christmas morning. The smokey burn of firewood warms the cozy space as the radio blares holiday tunes. Poppy presides over the operations at the head of the table - everything is planned down to the T and everyone has a role.

On any other Christmas day, Jack would be her sous-chef, the one she relies on to keep everyone on schedule and in their place.

But alas, today is not any other Christmas day.

The normally put together cowboy ambles around the place like a headless chicken, leaving a trail of half-completed tasks in his wake. Tequila, in uncharacteristic discretion, follows two steps behind.

He turns off the tap that Jack’s left pouring into the already full kettle, draining the excess water and putting it on the boil.

There’s one slice of bread in the toaster, while another lies forgotten on the table, which Teak slides into the free slot and pushes down the lever.

Jack pulls a jar of pickles from the fridge unseeingly, putting it on the table and walking away in search of a mug under three sets of watching, worried eyes. Teak replaces it with his friend’s favourite strawberry jam without a word.

While the oblivious cowboy’s back is turned, Teak motions his hand and forth across his neck in a slicing motion, mouthing nope emphatically at the occupants of the kitchen table.

On his cue, Poppy clears her throat and speaks up, ‘Jack, sweetie, why don’t you go check on the horses after your toast? The stable boys want to leave work early today after doing their morning rounds.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ he answers absent-mindedly, staring down into the empty mug in his grasp as if he’s lost his train of thought.

At that very moment, the toaster pops and Jack practically jumps out of his skin, stepping on Jameson’s paw where he’s lying on his rug in front of the fire, prompting an indignant yelp from the border collie and winces from around the table.

‘Sorry boy,’ he apologises and picks up his toast - burning his fingers - and stumbling over his feet to set his plate down. ‘Mornin’,’ he nods to the others without really registering who’s there.

Jack proceeds to butter his toast with such singular focus that he doesn’t notice when Tequila fills his still empty cup with coffee, only to knock it over immediately when a phone buzzes and his hand flies out to grab his. Ginger and Poppy trade concerned looks as he jumps onto his feet with another apology, snatching a tea towel to clean up the mess.

Eggsy, on potato peeling duty on the other side of the table, isn’t so diplomatic. ‘You’re jumpier than Bambi this morning, cowboy.’

Jack grunts noncommittally and chews on his toast, not rising to the bait.

‘Don’t be so nervous mate, we promise we’ll be on our best behaviour.’

Teak snorts from the kitchen counter where he’s making his PBJ. ‘I don’t know about England, but around these parts, lying on Christmas day is frowned upon.’

Eggsy replies high-handedly, ‘Can’t speak for you, Tequila, but I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

Ginger chuckles as Teak sits down at the table with his sandwich. ‘Ha! I’ll believe it when I see it.’

Jack points a forceful finger at the boys, one after the other. ‘I swear to the baby Jesus Christ, if you two don’t behave yourselves, there will be hell to pay.’

Eggsy snickers. ‘Never thought I’d see the day. Ol’ cowboy Jack falls heads over heels for a bird -’ he screeches when the coffee-soaked rag hits him in the face, which sends Teak into hysterical laughter. ‘Oi! What the fuck, man!’

Ignoring the ruckus, Jack dusts the crumbs from his hands and shrugs on his jacket, grabbing a thermos and filling it up with fresh coffee. With a hurried later, he strides out of the warmth of the kitchen and into the frigid morning air.

Thermos tucked under his arm, Jack rubs his palms together, warming his fingertips with his breath as snow crunches beneath his well-worn boots. The ranch is blanketed in thick snow, a picture-perfect postcard landscape as it is every Christmas. The morning mist has yet to burn off, but he can tell by the peek of blue through the clouds that it will be a fine day.

If your flight is on time, you should be on your way by now. He’d wanted to pick you up from the airport, but you insisted that there’s no point in him driving all the way there when you already know the way. Depending on the conditions, it shouldn’t be long until you arrive.

His list of chores isn’t long this morning - the stable boys will be on duty until lunchtime - but still, he wants to tick all the boxes before you get here. Striding into the heated stables, he says howdy to the grooms and whistles, smiling as dozens of faces appear at the doors, ears pointed forwards in attention, snickering and whinnying at him.

This never gets old.

‘Mornin’ ladies and gentlemen,’ he calls out, wandering down the stalls, rubbing a velvety nose here and pulling on a furry ear there. ‘Who’s ready to stretch their legs this fine mornin’, huh?’

Starting at the end of the stables, he unlatches Bourbon’s door and ushers him out of the stall, then crosses the aisle to let out Tanqueray, Champ’s elderly but still supremely poised Friesian, who clops leisurely towards the exit. Zig-zagging back and forth, Jack whistles, jostles and chats to the horses, all smartly dressed in warm rugs, as they file out down the corridor and into the courtyard for a bit of morning exercise while the stable boys mucked out their stalls.

‘No loitering, ma’am,’ says Jack sternly when Poppy’s mare, Pie, idles in the middle of the building. He gives her a firm pat on the rump to get her moving and whistles at one of the cheeky Shetland ponies who’s snuck into someone else’s stall. ‘Half-Pint! What did I say about stealing your friends’ treats? Shoo, now!’

The stables empty, the echoes of hooves on the concrete ground fading, with Scotch being one of the last to exit. Looping back to make sure there are no dilly-dalliers, Jack’s surprised to find the palomino, who would normally be leading the charge towards the grazing fields, still lingering at the barn doors.

‘Whatcha doin’, boy?’ he calls out.

Scotch tosses his head and steps to the side -

And you appear.

With the biggest grin, you run towards him and fly into his arms.

Your cheeks are wet, the spray of snow powder melting when it hits your skin. It drifts all around you as Scotch eats up the white ground, the thundering hooves muted by the soft cushion of the untouched, overnight snow. The mountain air is sweet and pure and stingingly cold, you can barely feel your face anymore - but it might just be from how hard you’ve been smiling.

You feel like you’re in the middle of a Christmas movie. The lush, green landscape you remember so well from your trip months ago is now all coated in wintry glory, but you still recognise the contours of the land and the mountains. It’s your first time in the saddle since - the whistle of the winds in your ear is a song you remember all the words to, the burn in your out-of-practice muscles all over a familiar old friend.

And you’re happy.

Slowing Scotch to an easy trot as you approach the end of the trail, your breath mists in front of your face as you look down over the ranch, a scene straight out of a classic snow globe, thin wisps of smoke drifting from the chimneys of the wooden lodges dotted across the property.

Gently manoeuvring the palomino to a halt and giving him a pat on the neck, you turn to smile at Jack as he walks up beside you on Whiskey. ‘I’ve missed this so much.’

‘Me too,’ he answers, warm eyes on you.

You give him a sidelong glance. ‘You’ve been here the whole time, cowboy.’

‘I know. I’ve missed you being here.’ He reaches over and pulls your gloved hand towards him, presses a kiss to the back. You want to shuck off the leather and cup his whiskered jawline in your palm, push the well-worn hat off and twine your fingers into his hair -

Later. There will be time for all that later, preferably in front of a roaring fireplace.

You break the moment with an eyebrow arched in a challenge. ‘Race you to the stables?’

Jack grins. ‘You’re on, darlin’.’

Christmas dinner is in the main lodge, which you didn’t use during your trip in the summer. The intimate space is exuberantly decorated in red and gold, a huge, freshly cut pine tree stands proudly by the antique fireplace, a merry fire burning. The table is beautifully laid, silverware immaculately polished and fine china sit alongside holidays-themed napkins. A magnificent feast lines the length of the mahogany dining table comfortably seating eight.

But any kind of decorum stops there.

As the hours tick by and bottles of wine and sherry are emptied, the meal has descended into what Jack warned you in advance as ‘typical Kingsman chaos’. According to the cowboy, the whole Kingsman team comes to the ranch every summer for their annual company retreat, but only Merlin, Eggsy and Harry fly over for Christmas. And while their contingent is small, havoc is an inevitable conclusion where any number of the Kingsman are involved.

Desserts are still being passed around the table - sticky toffee pudding, pecan pie and Yule log - when Teak and Eggsy start to raise their voices and slap the table about British and American Christmas songs. They’re currently yelling - not singing - carols at each other, with Jameson barking excitedly in the background.

Tequila throws his hands up in frustration at Eggsy’s rendition of Twelve Days of Christmas. ‘Why is there a partridge in a pear tree? What the fuck is a partridge?’

Champ and Merlin are having a more civilised but no less intense debate about pies - specifically mince pies versus pumpkin pie as a holiday dessert.

‘Next year, old chap,’ declares Merlin. ‘I’ll bring mince pies with me and you’ll be eating your words, just you wait.’

Jack whispers in your ear. ‘He says that every year, but never does.’

You chuckle and turn your attention to Harry, who’s now insisting that they should put Love Actually up on the big projector screen after dinner, whereas Ginger and Poppy are lobbying for Elf.

‘Why not The Holiday? It’s literally the perfect American-British movie,' you pitch in, which launches another furious tirade of debate at your end of the table.

Jack mumbles under his breath. ‘Because they’re idiots and pointless, festive arguing is a winter sport around here.’

His arm is warm around your shoulders as you giggle into your mulled wine. ‘Is it like this every year?’

‘Yup,’ he answers, really popping the P. With a mild touch of embarrassment, he holds your amused gaze and asks, ‘Too much?’

Tipping your face upwards, you press a chaste kiss to his lips.

‘Just enough,’ you assure him as the corners of his eyes crinkle in the warmest smile.

You didn’t have time to drop off your suitcase at Jack’s cottage, which is a short drive from the ranch, when you arrived in the morning. Instead, with Champ’s blessing, you commandeered one of the guest cabins, all empty in the off-season - which is just as well. By the time midnight rolls around, it’s clear that no one is in any state to make their way back to their respective off-site houses.

Harry and the ladies retired to their borrowed rooms a little while ago, leaving you and Jack to round up the stragglers. You check on Teak, lying face down on the sofa, bundled up in his winter quilts in an aborted attempt to leave. A few steps over, you drape a blanket on Champ and another one on Merlin, who are passed out on armchairs which look comfortable enough to sleep in, socked feet up on matching ottomans. Eggsy is cuddling with Jameson in front of the fire, and Jack feeds the logs to make sure it burns till morning.

It’s bleak outside. Jack shields you from the worst of the winds, tucking you into his side as you trudge across the snow, the early start you’ve had catching up on you. Thankfully, the heating is already on in the cabin when you get there, and he starts a fire as well while you get ready for bed.

When you pad into the bedroom in your pyjamas, teeth brushed and makeup washed off, Jack looks up to see you holding a neatly-wrapped present, a shy smile on your lips.

Standing up from the fireplace, he dusts his hands and reaches for you, palms settling on the small of your back, leaning down to graze his still cold nose against yours. ‘Is that for me, darlin’?’

‘Maybe,’ you reply coyly. ‘Do you want to do presents now or tomorrow morning?’

‘Let’s do it now, I have to feed the horses early tomorrow,’ answers Jack, pecking you on the cheek. ‘Give me five minutes.’

The bed is cold, and you have to steel yourself to burrow into the icy cocoon of the thick covers, missing Jack’s warmth. He doesn’t make you wait long, re-appearing in just boxers, and a big box in hand, switching off all but the bedside lights.

Sliding under the duvet, he yelps when your icy feet tangle into his longer legs, making you laugh. His bare skin heats you up instantly as he wraps one arm around you and pulls you into his broad chest. You feel him hum when he asks, ‘You want to go first, darlin’?’

Blinking up at him, you answer nervously, ‘No - you first.’

He pushes the box your way and you sit up, pretending to shake the package to gauge what’s inside. Jack chuckles, his strong forearms dark against the beige quilt wrapped around his middle. Only his fingers give away his nerves, picking at loose threads in the fabric as you carefully unravel the wrapping paper.

Lifting the lid of the box, your lips part and you stare wordlessly at what’s inside.

‘Jack,’ you breathe. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Gently, you pull out the cowboy hat in tan suede, the smell of fresh leather comforting as you turn it over in your grasp, marvelling at the craftsmanship in the dips and swells of the construction.

‘Try it on, darlin’,’ he says, his shoulders relaxing in relief at your reaction.

You do, and of course, it fits perfectly. Shuffling onto your knees, you crawl closer to kiss him fully on the lips, tilting your head to the side so that his face fits under the brim of your hat. ‘Thank you, I love it.’

Jack arches an eyebrow. ‘You might want to check the box again, darlin’.’

Sitting back on your haunches, you send him an almost accusatory look. ‘You can’t give me two presents, cowboy.’

He shrugs with an insolent grin. ‘I’m a grown man, I’ll do what I like. ‘

Your eyes alight on the black velvet case at the bottom of the box, and you draw it out with careful fingers as if it will break. With one last glance at Jack, you gingerly lift the lid, feeling the hinges creak.

Jack watches you closely, his own breathing suspended as you stare down into your hands, thoughts whirring in his head. Is it too much, too soon? Is he comin’ on too strong? Would you even like it?

After the longest ten seconds of his life, you look up at him with soft eyes and brows drawn, a crack in your voice. ‘Jack.’

He gives you a lopsided smile and reaches for the box. ‘I went back to the same silversmith who made my belt buckle and asked him to make this.’

The chain is delicate in his big, weathered hands. It takes him a couple of tries, but he eventually manages to pry open the hinge of the clasp and holds out the necklace towards you in a question. ‘May I, darlin’?’

Turning around, the bed dips behind you as Jack shifts closer, cool silver kissing your décolletage as he fastens the clasp behind your neck. Your gaze drops downwards, the tip of your index finger testing the weight of the solid sterling pendant in the shape of a flask, Statesman emblazoned in delicate lettering -

A much smaller but exact copy of his belt buckle.

His words draw you out of your thoughts. ‘You like it?’

‘I love it,’ you correct him, twisting around to tackle him into the mattress, your knees around his waist as you loom over him, knocking off your hat so you can kiss him properly. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

The pendant dangles from your neck, tickling him on the chin as he winds one big hand into your hair, his eyes following as it sways. ‘It looks good on you, darlin’.’

The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest starts to recede as your eyes land on the present you got for him on the bed. The giddiness you felt when you found it is a distant dream, instead, anxiety threatens to take root deep in your head. If you got something from Amazon tonight, is there any chance that they could deliver tomorrow -

‘Darlin’. You’re thinking too loudly,’ says Jack soothingly, chucking you gently under your chin. ��What’s wrong?’

You shake your head. ‘I got you a really stupid present. Let’s forget about it - I’ll get you something else.’

His brows draw together in concern as he grabs your wrists and pulls you flush against his chest so that there’s nowhere else to look but at him. ‘Don’t say that, there’s no such thing as a stupid present. Whatever you got me, I’m sure I’ll love it.’

You inhale deeply, chewing your bottom lip. ‘You mentioned a few weeks ago that your leather jacket and fleeces are too bulky and it’s hard to move around in all the layers when it's cold.’

He nods encouragingly. ‘That I did.’

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you reach out and drag the package towards him. ‘Well, I saw this at my local shop, and thought it might help.’

Jack gives you a reassuring smile and leans back into the pillows, grabbing the present excitedly. He pulls you against his side, as if he’s trying to squeeze all the self-doubt out of you, the gift draped across your laps as he starts to unwrap it.

You’re a bundle of jitters when he rips off the wrapping paper with impatient fingers, and the lightweight and puffy blue fabric comes into view.

Jack shakes out the neatly folded one-piece. ‘Is it - a ski suit?’

You nod and point out the black contrasting detailing on the front of the suit. ‘It's light and it's warm. Look at the western design with the single point pockets - I couldn’t not get it for you.’

Jack chuckles, the sound warming you as his arm tightens around your shoulders. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. So simple, yet so clever.’

‘You like it?’ you ask in the smallest voice.

‘I love it,’ he grins, drawing you in for another kiss. ‘Thank you, darlin’.’

Finally assuaged, you sag against him, a yawn creeping up on you as the tension in your body recedes. ‘You want to try it on now?’

Tucking you in, he says, ‘I’ll try it tomorrow, it’s been a long day for you, darlin’.

Putting your hat and his ski suit on the bedside table, Jack turns off the light, his body immediately seeking out yours under the sheets, claiming every inch of you with a leg between your thighs, front plastered to your back, palms under your ratty pyjamas top, splayed across your naked skin.

It’s been too long.

Nose tucked behind your ear, his arms full of you - finally here after months of feeling your phantom weight in his embrace - the night slips away as the snow falls outside.

It’s too warm under the covers when you wake up, even though Jack’s side of the bed is empty. You stretch lazily, the clock reads 8am but the fire is still going strong, he must have stoked it when he got up.

You decide to make some coffee and wait for him to come back before venturing to the communal kitchen for breakfast. While the water boils, you smile as you fiddle with the necklace sitting on your chest, warm and reassuring against your skin.

The smell of caffeine fills the cabin as you sip from your mug, and before long, you hear Jack stomping up the stairs, humming a country tune in his raspy baritone as he approaches the door.

Pouring him a steaming cup, you say, ‘Hey, I made you some coffee -’

You trail off when you turn around.

Your morning brain can’t quite grasp the picture in front of you. Jack’s still wearing his cowboy hat, his nose red from the cold. Vaguely, you realise he’s wearing the present you gifted him - and you congratulate yourself on the fact that it fits him like a damn glove.

The ski suit accentuates his broad shoulders and tapers in at his waist in a flattering cut, the zipper drawn all the way up to the hollow of his throat. He’s replaced the detachable belt that came with the ski suit with his own, the flask bottle buckle popping against the blue.

But the bottom half - that you have trouble comprehending. It takes you a beat longer to realise why.

He’s wearing full-length cowboy chaps over it.

Chaps are essentially leather trousers with the seat cut out, and Jack's wearing them with his belt looped through the straps. You know he only uses them when it’s muddy, to keep his jeans clean. He didn’t wear them at all on your pack trip, but you’ve seen a peek on Facetime in the rainy months in between. And now that you're seeing them in person, you decide that like them - a lot.

Your gaze, slow as molasses despite being completely unburdened by shame, slides all the way down to the triangle of blue framed by the negative space in the brown chaps where - for the lack of a better expression - his prominent endowment hangs heavy at the apex of his strong thighs. Not that you’re trying to look, but you can see the very heft of him through the fabric.

Jesus H. Christ. It’s too fucking early to be sinning.

When Jack realises that you’re staring, he says somewhat apologetically, clearly oblivious to the merry tangent your mind has gone off on. ‘Sorry, I know I’m not meant to wear it this way, but I didn’t want to get it dirty -’

You shake your head hastily. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s - perfect.’

Something breathless in your tone catches his ear, and he tilts his head to the side, one large hand coming to rest on his hip, thick fingers spread obnoxiously wide over the side of the chaps. The beginning of a cocky smile lifts the corner of his mouth. ‘Yeah, darlin’? You like it?’

Leaving your mug on the counter top, you bite your lip and give him your best teasing grin. ‘Why don’t you turn around so I can take a better look, cowboy?’

He arches an eyebrow at your boldness, but decides to indulge you. Voice dropping an octave, he rasps, ‘Better take a seat for this, darlin’.’

You grin and do as you’re told, turning the kitchen chair around so that you’re facing him, running your eyes up and down his frame as he steps into your space, narrow hips swaying to a beat you can’t hear. Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he suddenly turns with a dramatic flourish and arches his back, granting you an unrivalled view of his behind framed by the chaps cut off at the top of his thighs, the ski suit tight against his pert bottom.

‘Enjoy the view, darlin’?’ he asks, grinning over his shoulder at you.

You swat him on one cheek playfully, and when he swoops suddenly into your lap in a classic burlesque move, you squeal, ‘Jack!’

Bending his knees, he grinds into your thighs as you laugh, the ski suit soft on your skin while the leather chaps scrape against your bare shins. Turning around, he reaches up to tug the suit’s zipper downwards in a slow, deliberate course, and he purrs, ‘What say you if ol’ cowboy Jack gives you a proper show, hmm?’

You inhale sharply as the white wife beater underneath comes into view, and you reach up to help him push one side of the ski suit off his shoulder, revealing the firm line of his left arm.

‘Thought that was more of Teak’s thing,’ you quip, licking your lips as your eyes skim down his front to settle on the weighty bulge now straining against the front of the suit, your eager fingers pulling him closer by his belt buckle.

Gripping the edge of the table, he traps you into your seat, his stare dropping to the matching pendant resting on your now heaving bosom, taking in your blown pupils as he grins. ‘Anythin’ for you, darlin’.’

‘Aren’t I the luckiest girl,’ you muse, taking off his hat and flinging it onto the table, his hungry stare alone pinning you in place when you drag him down to you by his lapels.

Warm lips part yours and he delves into your mouth, kissing you deeply. The promise of more leaves you chasing him as he draws back with a drawl. ‘You’re about to get a whole lot luckier, darlin’.’

The thick material of the ski suit is almost pillowy as your fingers dig into his shoulders to steady yourself. It rubs gently on your nipples as you rock against Jack, arms wound around his neck while his desperate hands cup and knead the plump swell of your ass, dragging you up and down his hard cock.

‘That’s it, you’re ridin' me beautifully, darlin’,’ he growls into your ear, exhaling hot and heavy as he nips your collar bone. ‘Missed you so much.’

His chaps are slippery under your bare thighs from your slick, and you clench at the sensation of being completely naked on top of him when he’s still fully clothed, only his belt and zipper undone so that he can fuck up into you, the rickety kitchen chair groaning under the weight of the two of you.

‘Missed you too,’ you whisper against his lips, crying out when he hits a particularly deep spot inside you. ‘Yes, yes, harder, Jack.’

Leaning forward, he takes one breast into his hot mouth, one eye on your necklace that’s sticking to your sweaty skin before licking you between your tits and over the silver pendant, the salt sharp on his tongue. He hums, ‘You wear it so well.’

‘I won’t take it off, ever,’ you swear, throwing your head back when he scrapes his teeth against the column of your neck, so full of him that your knees quake.

‘Good,’ growls Jack, thrusting harder into you, making your breath stutter. ‘Keep me with you, darlin’ - always.’

You smile, fingers curled into his hair, stealing a tender moment as your noses bump and eyes meet with the easiest promise you will ever keep. ‘Always.’

Notes: Am I allowed to pick favourites? I'm not? I'm doing it anyway -- this is my favourite out of all the holiday fics, no question! I'm so soft for cowboy Jack and his darlin' 🥹 We've been spending time with just the two of them so far in the series, so it was really fun to explore the group situations, especially with the Kingsman involved!

I hope you enjoyed this fluffy interlude. Wishing you all a very merry Christmas and thank you so much for reading ❤️

[interiordecorationideas]

12 Amazing Wooden Door Designs For Your Home

When you are designing the interior of your home, give some thought to the design of the doors. Doors are primarily a functional element of your home, as they provide much-needed security and privacy from the outside world. The design of doors is also important, as it can add to the aesthetic appeal and enhance your decor statement. We've rounded up the best wooden door designs to give you decor inspiration.

Front doors add character and style to the outside of your home and create the first impression of your home for visitors. They should be in keeping with the architectural elements of your building. Is it classical or contemporary? Would a natural framed door look good, or should it be painted to match the other design elements?

Are you aware of the difference between the wood used to make doors and furniture? If not, this guide will help you make the right choice between different types of wood before investing in furniture and decorative items, crafts, and handicrafts to decorate homes.

Ideas to incorporate beautiful Wooden Door Design in Your Home

1. Contemporary Teak wood Door

Here's a contemporary door in teak wood with a vertical glass insert that allows you to see who your visitors are before you even open the door. You can take, help best interior designers in Noida so they can guide you through this process.

2. Three Side Glass Panelled Wooden Door

This lovely entry door makes a grand statement and is surrounded on three sides by glass panels which add a lovely aesthetic.

3. Teak Wood Rectangular Panel doors with Mirror

Rectangular panels in polished teak wood emphasize this country home's rustic plaster façade, while tall glass panels on one side add functionality.

4. Rosewood Door

This fine rosewood door is embellished with cornice detailing and includes white panels to add visual appeal.

5. Ornamental Wrought Iron Doors

Gorgeous decorative wrought iron sets distinguish the panelling in this mahogany front door that blends in perfectly with the home's exposed brick façade.

6. Minimalist White Wooden Door

Elegant in white, this charming front door is detailed with molded panels that are simple and clean. The side window, even in white, gives a glimpse of the visitors.

7. Functional and Aesthetic Balcony Doors

Balcony doors are the transition between the inside and outside of your home. Large glass French windows can open the view and allow a seamless view of your garden. If you need privacy, use frosted or opaque glass that will still let in light.

Related blog: 15 DIY Vertical Garden Ideas in Budget

8. Glass Bathroom Doors

We love opening these all-glass bathroom doors to a private balcony. The dark wood frame is sleek and minimalist.

Related blog: 15 Bathroom Decorating Ideas on Budget for 2024

9. Wooden Doors with Glass for a Glimpse of The Outdoors

Glass adds a touch of contemporary style to any design and can make heavy doors look visually lighter. Strategically placed glass panels can allow sunlight to flow through during the day, bringing freshness and happiness to your home.

Related blog: How to Build a Gravel Patio: DIY 9 Steps

10. Get Twice the Style with Double Doors

If you have the space, open your areas with more eloquence. Double Door Twice adds elegance and makes a grand statement.

If you want to keep one side short and use only one side as an entry door, the overall width of your double door should be at least 6 feet.

Double doors look better in homes with high ceilings, as the design proportions work better in larger spaces.

Related blog: Types of False Ceiling Lights: Complete Guide

11. Sliding Doors That Are Sleek and Functional

Sliding doors allow you to create privacy when needed in open-plan homes. There are different types of sliding doors, including doors that completely disappear into the wall on either side. There are some sliding low folding doors that stack on the sides of the opening. Sliding doors come with single track (or top hung), and double track fittings.

12. Glass Panelled Doors

This glass-panelled wooden door slides in on both sides as well as is surrounded by glass above, allowing expansive views of the interior.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 2 - Storms

Okay, Week 2...How about some Telenovela Faramir and horses?

With eventual Farawyn? How about that?

Prompt: Storms

Pairing: Faramir & a horse

Words: 1 095

Warnings: Injury, PTSD, Faramir is not healing, stormy night

Faramir gritted his teeth, hoping that his old, battered truck wouldn’t get stuck in the mud so close to his destination.

If that happened, he’d walk, he decided as another sudden jolt made his battle wound ache fiercely—there was no way he could free the wheels while being this tired and sore.

As a white-hot wave of annoyance surged through him, he groaned softly.

His father had meant well, he knew, but—now that he was creeping along the slippery road—Faramir couldn’t imagine what good anyone had thought could come from exiling him.

After having been grievously injured in a noble war for his country and family, the young captain had struggled to adapt to civilian life. His physical therapist, dismayed by the lack of progress despite his flesh knitting and skin healing perfectly, had soon started to insinuate that he was suffering from a kind of mental impediment.

Thus, the ludicrous idea of sending him to mend in the countryside, far away from the mundane worries and stressors of his previous life, had been born.

At that point, Faramir had been so exhausted and heartsick that he’d simply agreed, but now he wondered whether he should have resisted more.

He didn’t like the idea of being left alone to rot in isolation, and—in his present state of near-delirious fatigue—he even wondered whether his father had not sought to rid himself of a tiresome burden.

No, he chided himself, he was being puerile and unfair. For all the problems he’d encountered in his relationship with Denethor, he could not believe that his father would be capable of so vile an act of paternal treason.

Moreover, Boromir—Faramir’s older and much-revered brother—had promised to come out as soon as he could to share in the promised peace and calm of the remote cabin that had been rented in their name.

Even though the rain didn’t let up, Faramir conjured up a grim smile as he drove on, his bright eyes fixed on the winding road ahead stubbornly.

When he, at long last, came to a slithering halt in front of a small but impeccably maintained lodge, he gave a deep, shuddering sigh of relief.

Now that he was safe and only a few torturous steps away from a dry, motionless living room, he regretted not having paid closer attention to the fields and farmsteads he’d passed on his way here.

There was, he considered, a distinct chance that he’d spend a considerable time holed up in this refuge, and it would have been wise to take note of his closest neighbours in case of an emergency.

He grimaced as he all but fell out of his vehicle—he disliked thinking about himself in the terms of “invalid” and “damaged”, but he couldn’t deny that every bone in his body was screaming in agony as he hobbled up the few steps leading to a teak patio.

His scarred fingers were stiff and cold as he fumbled for the keys in the thrice-mended pocket of his favourite leather jacket, but he managed to get the door open just as the deafening rumbling of thunder exploded behind him.

“It’s only starting?” he gasped incredulously and stared at the flash of greyish green behind the fogged-up window of his truck. He’d forgotten his luggage in the car, and he was in no hurry to retrieve it.

“Get something warm into your belly,” he heard Boromir’s mocking but affectionate voice in his head. “And the world will look much brighter. There’s no hurry.”

Again, Faramir felt the corners of his mouth droop. His brother was always quick to reassure others that there was no need for rash decisions that would potentially lead to regrettable outcomes, but—at the same time—he was known to be recklessly selfless and stupidly brave when it came to himself.

Looking around, Faramir found the rustic but utterly charming interior of his temporary abode spotlessly clean and well-stocked with firewood and food supplies.

With a soft sigh, he filled the kettle and bargained with himself for a moment—he’d drink a cup of steaming hot tea, and then he’d go get his bag to turn in for the night.

He had no doubt that a place like this one would have a backup generator, but the idea of sitting by the open fireplace while the storm was raging outside had its charms as well.

Wasn’t that the reason why he’d come here rather than stay in his father’s cool, draughty halls?

Thus, he sank to his knees with a loud groan of pain that, for once, didn’t make him flinch guiltily as there was nobody to come running and look at him with badly dissimulated pity and got a fire going.

When he’d emptied his mug and stared at the dancing flames for entirely too long, he discovered that the tempest only seemed to gain in fervour and violence in the meantime.

“Nothing for it, my boy,” he told himself and dashed to the car and back as fast as his protesting joints and stiff muscles allowed.

Despite his haste, he was soaked to the bone when he slammed the solid wooden door shut behind him—he was breathing hard, and it took a moment for him to realise that he was laughing.

They’d wanted him to spend time alone so he might heal on his own terms and in his own time, Faramir thought not without a hint of pettiness, so he would do exactly that.

He doubted that a cleaning lady had been retained on his behalf, so he only hesitated for a single second before discarding his wet clothes, sticking disgustingly to his pale skin.

Shame reared its ugly head but was squashed instantly by Faramir’s sober self-awareness; he knew every wound, every gnarly scar, every ugly bump on his body, and—as long as there was nobody else who had to witness them—he didn’t mind them overmuch.

He returned to his fire eagerly, basking in its healing warmth and letting his thoughts drift as the damp discomfort melted into sleepy solace little by little.

Just as he was about to drift off, though, a sudden noise startled him wide awake once more.

Forgetting about his unfortunate state, Faramir jumped to his feet, ever the soldier, and looked around with deadly concentration to localise an appropriate weapon.

This perfunctory scan let his eyes sweep across the window beside the front door. He gasped.

Outside his lodge stood a fully grown horse, staring at him reproachfully and neighing.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[cliozaur]

If 1817 was not enough, if 1815 was not enough, here you have 1823! (Just you wait: there’ll be more with 1830, 1832, and 1848.) It seems that digression into a specific year is Hugo’s preferred type of digression. After one lengthy digression, he returns to something related to the plot — the ship Orion­­—but uses it as a springboard for another digression, this time about the fate of ships. Their lifespan is short, constantly in need of repair, with parts requiring cleaning and replacement —resulting in a Ship of Theseus scenario. (A few weeks ago, I had a peculiar conversation with my old professor, which somehow veered into naval history. All I recall from it is that teak was the best material for a ship, and something about the use of metal for covering. So, this time, it was enjoyable to read this part of the digression.)

Finally, back to the plot. A mysterious man, colour-coded as a life convict, saves the topman’s life. Since there's only one mysterious old man with a penchant for saving lives, we can safely assume it’s Jean Valjean—this time compared to a tiger-cat. From how easily he broke his chain with one blow of a hammer (the title suggests it's suspicious), it seems he was preparing to escape. This was his golden opportunity. Although the crowd demanded "Pardon for that man!", he didn't risk relying on this and instead disappeared into the dark waters, leading everyone to believe he perished. Hugo substantiates this with another fabricated newspaper article.

[mdemontespan1667]

A Night To Remember

Lloyd Hansen and Reader

Warnings: Vaginal Sex/Choking/Spitting/Cheating (Reader)/Degradation

I wrote this drabble while I was trying to write something else. Hope you like it.

“Look at that perfect, tight pussy taking my big dick.”

Glancing down, you watched Lloyd’s impressive cock slide in and out, shiny from your slick. 

You moaned, low and aching.

Lloyd leaned forward, his mustache tickling your ear.

“You’re nothing but a needy slut, aren’t you.”

“Uh, I…”

“Aren’t you.”

His words bounced off the imported Italian marble walls.

“Ye….Yes.”

“Yes what.”

“Yes..I…I’m a needy..oh God..I’m a needy….slut.”

Lloyd snapped his hips faster.

Obscene sounds filled the small executive bathroom.

He spit on your partially exposed breasts.

“Play with your tits.”

Without hesitation you rolled your already peaked nipples between your fingers, driving your lust higher.

Without your arms to brace yourself your body flopped wildly on the Teak countertop.

Lloyd chuckled.

“Dirty whore. Letting a complete stranger fuck you while your husband’s schmoozing downstairs.”

He was right.

You should feel guilty.

Should make him stop.

It was Stark’s Halloween party after all.

But here you were, 20’s style Flapper dress rucked up around your waist, breasts popped over the beaded bodice.

“Does your precious Steve Rogers get your pussy all wet like this, stretch that hole like me?”

Unable to form a coherent sentence you shook your head.

His fingers dug into your hips.

You were so far gone you didn’t care if he left bruises. 

“I’m getting close Pumpkin. You better sort yourself out if you don’t want to get left behind.”

Desperate to cum, your hand dropped between your gyrating bodies.

“Damn, you’re just a dumb bitch in heat.”

You flicked your swollen nub faster, the palm of your other hand rubbing against first one, then the other nipple.

“Oh God…..I’m…”

Your walls clenched around Lloyd’s thick cock.

He batted your hand away, his thumb lashing your clit mercilessly.

“There..there..right…ahhh.”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train, body locking in momentary ecstasy. 

Lloyd threw your legs over his shoulders, perfectly maicured hand wrapped around your throat.

He slammed into you like a jackhammer, each thrust vibrating painfully.

Tears stained your cheeks, the pleasure/pain almost too much.

“You can take it Slut” Lyoyd ground out, “Pussy’s like a goddamn vice.”

His grip tightened on your neck.

“Lloyd..I’m…”

He completely closed your airway.

Black spots danced in your vision as the hardest orgasm of your life careened through you.

Everything tingled, caught fire.

You clawed at his hand, lungs burning for air.

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.”

Lloyd’s rhythm faltered.

 Then he was cumming inside you, your cunt milking every last drop.

With a final, violent shove he released you, dropping your legs.

Gulping air, you coughed, collapsing against the mirror. 

“You made a mess all over my dick Cupcake.”

He tucked himself away, buckling the fitted black pants.

“I should make you lick me clean.”

Lloyd checked himself out in the mirror, adjusting his collar. 

Conceited man hadn’t bothered with a costume.

His finger ran down your slit, dabbing the dampness on his neck and wrists.

“It’ll be more fun to see if Stevie boy can smell that sweet pussy.”

He pushed the heavy, wood door open.

Glancing back he flashed a sinister smile.

“You look like shit Buttercup.”

The door swung shut behind him but not before his voice boomed.

“Hey Rogers. We finally have something in common.” 

I don't even know who to tag anymore so if I tagged you and you don't want to be I apologize and please let know.

@caffiend-queen @alexakeyloveloki @americasass81 @lokislastlove @ironlady1993 @nildespirandum @starynighty @xoxabs88xox @sapphirescrolls @hansensgirl @momc95 @sagechanoafterdark @jtargaryen18 @punemy-spotted @sinceimetyou @rustytricycle @imdarkinme @xsapphirescrollsx @titty-teetee @saiyanprincessswanie @sweater-daddiesdumbdork

[meinkatz]

EAMES SOFA BY VITRA

With its emphasis on beautiful materials and simplified forms, the Eames sofa exemplifies the best in modern furniture design. Its angled profile and clean planes showcase a harmonious combination of rich walnut or teak, soft leather, and polished aluminum. Equally fitting for the contemporary home or office, it’s a luxurious place to settle back and relax.

DOWNLOAD

[tobiasdrake]

Looks like we're done here. Time to head off to the....

Resh'an, are you okay? We are done here, right?

....oh. Oh, no. I am not equipped for this.

*deep breath*

It would be easy for me to keep being dismissive and mean right now. See, because, from my perspective, the Most Scumbag Ever in the Multiverse just did some more scummy shit. It must be a day that ends in 'y'.

But. There's. A vibe here now. A vibe that I can't shake.

"I thought the first time he hit me was when he stopped being a good guy." But it wasn't. It was just the first time you noticed. He was spiraling well before that.

Abusive relationships aren't clean and easy like that. You can't just go, "Oh, he sucks; Guess I'm over it now!" Feelings don't work that way. Sometimes, I wish they did.

This is a deeper conversation than I'd anticipated. But. Like. Do you want to talk about it? We've got a bit of a break in the action right now if you just need to get your feelings out. I'll even try to not be judgmental.

HEY HEY HEY NO

Don't do that. Don't hide from this in isolation. I'm sorry I was rude during your flashback. Come on, let's go back down to that campsite downstairs and we can sit and talk things through.

...okay but who's going to help you though.

I mean. Are you absolutely sure about this?

I don't think he's going to be okay.

Really, guys? *sigh* I can't talk shit; I was saying the same stuff a moment ago.

But those were not the Glowy Eyes of Apathy. Those were the Glowy Eyes of Trauma. We fucked up just now.

Let's get a move on. I don't want to linger in this dreadful place.

We just need him to drop the battery, right? Do we hit him in the hands until he lets go or...?

I was going to target the hands but I like your plan better. Great minds think alike, eh B'st?

Aww, I wanted to be the first person to ride one.

But sure, it's fine because it's you, Teaks. At least I have one cinnamon roll left.

By the way, while you were gone, we lost Resh'an because I did a shit job of being sympathetic to him during a time of emotional crisis. He left us with this ghoulish puppet that I think was supposed to be a nice gesture but honestly just feels haunted and makes me feel worse.

So that's fun. What's up with you?

I just see all creepy but I'm glad you like it, I guess.

I. Sort of. Expected you to nerd out about what's inside the Living Glass and maybe confirm for us whether B'st is an Ovate, specifically? But okay.

Well, despite these setbacks, we're almost there. Next stop: Sky Base.

[willshipanything-blog]

Breaking the Rules- Epilogue 1 of 2

Did I post this on AO3 yesterday? yes. Did I also forget to put it on tumblr? also yes, but it's here now! A cute little added chapter- the first of 2 little epilogues to finish the fic, just some sweet little cherries on top of the traumatic ordeal that was Breaking the Rules. As always, minors DNI (nothing in this chapter, but the story in general) Full fic on AO3 here Full tumblr Chapter Index here

Epilogue (1 of 2) Dear Al and Scout

Since the mail had come that morning, you’d been waiting impatiently, nervously. Amongst the usual junk mail and bills, a surprise letter had your guts twisting as you cooked, cleaned and (tried to) relax all day. The clock in the living must have been broken, you surmised, based on how it seemed to have stood still for most of the day. The hours between Al’s departure and eventual arrival in the driveway had never felt so torturously long. For about an hour before Al walked through the door, you’d been sitting on the couch, knee bouncing quickly and your thumbnail bitten down to a serrated mess through your nervous chewing. 

As you heard the van pulling up, you stood, taking a deep inhale to calm your worry. You needed to compose yourself when Al got here, needed to stifle that nervousness now. If the letter was as bad as the scenarios you’d been conjuring in your mind, Al would undoubtedly take the news worse than you. You’d have to be there to help soften the blow and pick up the pieces of another shattered relationship in his life. 

Al walked through the door with a booming, oblivious “Evening, dove!” before kicking the door closed behind him, blowing into his cupped hands as he shut out the cold December weather. You approached him in the doorway, where his arms reached to grab you, cold hands bringing you close for a deep kiss. As you pulled away with a smile, you thought Al’s own dimpled grin was warm enough to melt the dusting of snow beginning to cover the street outside. And you hated that you might take away that grin. You brushed the snowflakes from the lapels of Al’s shearling jacket as he watched you with a contented look, not noticing how slowly you were working, not realizing you were trying to hold off the inevitable.

Eventually, though, you stepped back, allowing Al to shrug out of his jacket and kick off his sludge-covered boots near the door. When he turned back, already asking what dinner plans might be, he stalled, seeing your suddenly somber expression that you’d been trying (and failing) to hold in a smile. You just couldn’t hide your true feelings, however apprehensive, around this man anymore. It was a blessing, a sign of your true freedom to fully be yourself, but right now it felt more like a curse. There was no point delaying any further.

“A letter came for us today.”

“For us?” he asked, clearly puzzled that the letter would be intended for anyone other than him. You remained quiet, but Al’s gaze followed the path of your outstretched, pointed arm towards the letter sitting propped up on the coffee table. The white envelope stood out against the dark teak coffee table, as stark as blood on snow. Al walked slowly to the table, plucking up the letter carefully, as if handling fragile glass.

“From… Max?” Al asked incredulously as he scanned the envelope, flipping it over in his hands as if some clue might appear on the paper. He’d recognized the handwriting, but was as confused as you’d been at seeing an actual letter addressed from Max to the both of you. A letter just seemed so… un-Max. When Al looked at you for confirmation, you nodded back, biting your lip in worry. 

“I couldn’t reach him on the phone- it was disconnected.”

“Well, c’mere dove,” Al said, sitting on the couch and holding out a hand towards you, “It’s for both of us, let’s read it together.” He smiled as he spoke, but you still discerned the uncertainty, that big-brother worry, in Al’s voice. When you reached him, he pulled you down playfully and thrusted the letter into your hands. Another sign of his concern. After all, Max had left before, leaving Al in some of his worst moments. Was this just another disappointment waiting inside an off-white envelope? You took the letter, making sure to give a reassuring smile, despite your own doubts. If this was bad news, you’d need to be there for Al, if the only other person in his life no longer was. 

Hooking a thumb under the sealed opening, you ripped the top seam of the envelope and pulled out the contents. Just one sheet of paper, and something flat and a little thicker behind it. Unfolding the paper, seeing the formal salutation on the top line of the page, you held the letter between you and Al, and began to read.

Dear Al and Scout,

By the time you read this, I won’t be in Denver anymore. I know you two have been through a lot, but I think it’s all ok now? I hope so at least. So I thought leaving wouldn’t hurt any of you too much. Plus, I’m not leaving for good or anything. I want you to know that for real.

I’m moving down to Austin. I let the apartment people know and I sorted out the bills and stuff by myself. And I already got a job down there- it’s at the same chain of stores I was working here, and they fixed it for me to switch no problem. I got back in touch with an old friend, and I’m gonna move in with him, so I’m all set for a place to stay too. I figured I couldn’t wear my hawaiian shirts in the Colorado winter, so I thought I’d give Texas a go!

AL:

I get that there’s things I don’t know about you. But there’s things you probably don’t know about me either. Maybe one day there won’t be any secrets, but guess we’ll see. I know none of us are good at speaking- especially about the important stuff. 

I just wanted to properly tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for running away all those years ago. I really left you in the lurch- dealing with dad, and then losing mom all by yourself. You were the best big brother, and I thought you were so strong, and that you’d hold it together. At the time I thought you had, but I know now that wasn’t the case. I didn’t realize how much you were hurting, too, and I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me one day.

I don’t say it enough, so I’ll put it here in writing. I’m grateful for everything you did for me growing up, and for helping me these past few months. I’m not sure I’ll ever repay you for everything. I’m glad to call you my brother. And I know for sure mom would be proud of you, of who you’ve become. Before I left, I stopped by the cemetery and put some white tulips on her grave- they were her favorite. But you probably already knew that. Maybe next time I’m around we can go together. 

Don’t see this as me abandoning you- cause I WILL be visiting! I just know that this time, you’re not on your own in that house. 

SCOUT:

Thanks for being such a good friend. You helped me work through a lot of shit while I was staying with you guys. I’ll be forever grateful for that.

I guess things were tough for you in ways I don’t understand, but thanks for being honest with me when you felt comfortable. And for letting me be honest with you about myself too. I’m always gonna be a phone call away if you ever want to talk. So you let me know if Al’s being mean and I’ll be up there in a second to throttle him for you!

I think you were right about being Samson’s favorite too- he’s gonna miss you even more than I will!

I never know how to sign off on these things. I’ll let you both know when I’ve settled and I’ll call or write. I’ll give you my new number and address so you can do the same. Not sure if my living situation will be permanent- I’ll have to see if I get on with Kenny as well as I used to. I’ll keep you updated!!

Even though I’m not there, I’m still right there, ok?

Love, 

Max (& Samson)

p.s I’ll try to come up to Denver in the new year. So I’ll be seeing you both real soon.

Max had written, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as you’d been imagining all day. He was leaving because- you read between the lines in that letter- he needed some space. You’d all been through a lot together, and even now there were secrets that weren’t shared freely. Although some secrets would never be shared at all. Still, at least there seemed some hope of Max opening up to Al about his own love life- his attraction to both men and women. Which, (if Max’s new living arrangements seemed anything to go by) might come up sooner rather than later. 

A small part of you wished Max had said goodbye in person, though you wondered if a ‘real’ farewell and the fanfare that came with it would have been too sad. In any case, New Year’s was only a few weeks away. Max would most certainly come bounding through the door,  Samson in tow, just like they’d come crashing into your lives on his first night back all those months ago. Like Max had inferred in his letter- it wasn’t really ‘goodbye’, more of a ‘see ya later, Scout!’.

The letter slipped from your hand; Al had taken it, handling it with delicate hands as he folded it back up, slotting it back into the envelope with such reverence. A small smile had his dimple coming out, and you didn’t think his slightly flushed cheeks were from the cold anymore. 

“Are you ok?” you ventured, placing a spread hand on his thigh.

“Yeah,” he replied, looking at you with a soft expression for a moment, before winking in his playful fashion. “Just gonna keep this safe, hm? I got it in writing now that I’m the best big brother!”

As Al rose and headed to the bedroom, probably to stash the letter somewhere safe, somewhere important, you realized you were still holding something- the second part of Max’s farewell gift. Between the sheets of the letter he’d slipped a photograph, and you huffed a soft laugh through your nose in recognition. 

It was the photo you’d taken the day Max had moved to his tiny apartment. Your fingertips gripped the edges softly, not wanting to mar the perfect polaroid with your prints. It was of the three of you- plus Samson, of course. You, knelt down beside the huge dog as he picked the most inopportune moment to lick your cheek, turning your smile into an elated shriek as the camera flashed. Behind you was Al, an arm curled around your waist, the other round Max’s shoulder to his side. Max, as usual, was beaming. Your finger delicately hovered over the photo, stopping over Al’s image. 

Al never had the widest grin- and who could compete with you or Max in that regard? But as you admired the quiet smile, the winsome blue eyes, the way he held onto you and his brother in the picture- you thought that, just maybe, Al looked like the happiest person in the world.

[de-corpasadena]

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