#log cabins and cider

[ghostpebble]

thinking about that time in history class where i didn't know the answer to a question asking something like "who was the man that did blah blah blah in blah blah blah" so i just said fuck it, wrote "john" because all guys back then were named john, and turned it in

and i got it right

[pascalisnopunk]

Home for the Holidays - Joel Miller x reader

Hi everyone, sorry for not posting! I've had some issues last two weeks. Unfortunately, I have to have surgery soon, which I'll probably never financially recover from. So I had to pick up extra shifts on work and get another part time position. Balancing all this with my university has been impossible. But I had some time to write something up for my soul this weekend.

Hope you enjoy!

Home for the Holidays - Joel Miller x Reader Setting: Jackson, post-canon Word Count: ~4,000 Warnings: Light language, mentions of past trauma (brief and non-explicit), possessive/jealous Joel (mild and non-toxic), kisses and mild intimacy (no explicit sexual content), holiday-themed sweetness

Summary: On the night of Jackson’s winter celebration, you watch Joel guard you from more than just danger, and finally see just how deeply he feels, even if he doesn’t always say it out loud.

Home for the Holidays - Joel Miller x reader

The cabin is quiet, save for the low pop of the fire and the soft hush of snow drifting against the windows.

You’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked beneath you, a thick-knit blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Joel’s across the room, hands busy stacking more logs near the hearth. His flannel sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and there’s a smudge of ash on his jaw, one he hasn’t noticed and you haven’t told him about. You like it there. Like proof he’s been here, working with his hands, tending the fire like it’s something sacred.

Outside, Jackson is lit with soft golden lights for the winter celebration. Strings of them hang from rooftops and archways. Laughter and music float in from the town center, but here, in your little house near the edge of it all, the world feels smaller. Warmer. Simpler.

Joel straightens with a groan, one hand pressed to his lower back.

You smile. “That’s your own fault for showing off with all that wood chopping earlier.”

He grunts. “Wasn’t showin’ off. Needed doin’.”

“Sure,” you say, teasing. “But you could’ve let the kids help. Jesse practically offered.”

“Don’t trust that boy with an axe. Last time he damn near took his foot off.”

You laugh softly, then pat the couch beside you. “C’mere, old man.”

Joel rolls his eyes but crosses the room, settling beside you with that familiar exhale of his, half grumble, half contentment. The couch dips beneath his weight. You lift the blanket so he can slip under it with you, his body radiating warmth like a furnace. His arm slides along the backrest behind you, not quite pulling you in, but you lean anyway. He doesn’t stop you.

He never does. You rest your head against his shoulder, and for a while, neither of you says anything. Just the fire. Just the snow. Just this.

And then, after a moment: “Y’still wanna go down to the square later?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just for a bit. Maria said there’s hot cider. And a choir. Plus, I want to see Ellie sing.”

He hums. “Forgot she was doin’ that.”

“She’s nervous. Said she’d feel better if you were there.”

At that, Joel sighs, but you feel it more than hear it. That little drop of the shoulder, that reluctant softening. “Alright,” he says.

You smile again. “I already laid out your coat.”

He snorts. “Of course you did.”

Outside, Jackson is glittering.

People wave when they see Joel. Most get a nod. Some, just a look. He doesn’t do small talk unless he has to, and you’re used to it by now, how different he is out here.

But beside you, his arm hovers just behind your waist, ready if the crowd gets too thick or someone brushes too close. It’s the kind of protection that doesn’t announce itself, but it’s there, always. You feel it like a shield.

When you stop to chat with Dina near the bakery stall, Joel hangs back. Arms crossed. Eyes scanning the crowd like something might go wrong.

“He always like that?” Dina asks you under her breath, grinning.

“Like what?”

She tilts her head toward Joel, who’s currently staring daggers at a man from the perimeter patrol, who, to be fair, is looking at you just a little too long.

You pretend not to notice. “Yeah,” you say.

“He’s like a grumpy guard dog.”

You laugh, but there’s something tender in it. “He’d take that as a compliment.”

When you rejoin Joel, his jaw’s still tight.

“What’d he want?” he asks.

You blink. “Who?”

“That kid. From perimeter. Looked like he wanted to ask if you needed help unzippin’ your coat.”

You raise a brow. “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

You slip your hand into his, fingers cold from the air. “You don’t have to be.”

He grunts again, but he doesn’t let go.

The square smells like apples and pine. You find Ellie near the front of the crowd, fiddling with her guitar strings and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

When she sees Joel, her whole face lights up.

You hang back while they talk, well, she talks, mostly. Joel listens, nods. Says something too low for you to hear. She shoves him lightly in the arm, but she’s smiling when she does it.

It’s different, watching him with her. The way he softens without even noticing. You know that look. You’ve seen it in the mirror.

The music starts a few minutes later. Ellie joins in, rough and unsure at first, then stronger. Joel’s hand finds yours again, calloused fingers wrapping around your glove. He never looks at you, not once,but you know it’s for you.

That’s how Joel shows love. Quiet. Protective. Steady as snowfall.

Back home, the fire’s low again. Joel tosses in another log without comment, and you make two mugs of some warm tea for you, whiskey for him.

When you sit on the couch again, he pulls you close before you can even settle, arm around your waist, pressing your back to his chest.

You laugh, breath fogging the rim of your mug. “Someone’s cuddly tonight.”

“Shut up.”

He nuzzles your temple, just once. Breath warm on your skin. “You talk too much sometimes.”

You lean your head back against him, eyes fluttering shut. The fire crackles. Outside, Jackson hums and glows. But in here, the world is small again. Just the way Joel likes it.

“You know,” you murmur, “you’re kinda sweet. For a protective little bear.”

He huffs. “Don’t tell nobody.”

“I won’t,” you promise, turning just enough to kiss the edge of his jaw.

And Joel—silent, steady Joel—smiles like you’re the only person in the world.

Because in this house, in this moment, maybe you are.

Thank you guys for reading. Again, sorry for no posts recently, I'll try and get something together. Honestly, I want to write what I'm passionate about and sometimes life just gets in the way of things.

[tobyislame]

Hi this is awkward s/o person again, you have fueled my toby brain and I'd like to make another request (if you're willing)

What would he be like with his s/o on Halloween? Does he dress up with them, get candy, or maybe stay home and watch scary movies with them? And very important question...if he dresses up, who would he dress up as?

toby rogers x reader: HALLOWEEN EDITION!!!!

welcome back friend!!! i will always be willing i love your requests!! OHOHOHO i am going to get soo silly with this one

- toby goes fucking BALLISTIC over halloween oh my god. it's the only time of the year where he can go into town and just be normal. everyone's got masks on, everyone's donning costumes, so he blends in like butter on bread. being able to exist in a public space without so much as a dirty look is fucking elating, it's one of the only graces of normalcy that he gets and he milks the opportunity for everything its got. what most would treat like any other day, he treats like a paragon. for one night he isn't toby rogers, wanted dead or alive - he's just some guy.

- he's suuuper fucking annoying about it too. he wants to do ALL the halloween stuff and he WILL drag you along with him whether you want it or not. his mansion buds aren't exempt from this treatment either no one is safe

- before night falls and the real fun begins, you guys are staying in and he's making SURE you have a good day. he's got those cheap halloween cookies in the oven (you know the ones they got pumpkins on em), his place is done up with lights and tacky dollar store decorations, and he's got a pot of apple cider simmering on the stove that mixes with the woodsy smell of his cabin just fucking beautifully. he tries really hard.

- he gets really fucking into it, and you can't help but find his admittedly childlike excitement over it a little endearing. if you ever commented on it, about how he hardly gets this excited over anything else, he'd probably just get all weirdly defensive and dismissive over it. he's been this way about it since he was a kid, never really grew out of it. even after everything.

- he's putting out a SPREAD of treats for you guys: candy corn, caramel corn, the works. can't have it any other way if you're marathoning slashers. there's a sort of unmentionable effort he puts into it with the halloween paper plates he goes out of his way to get (steal), one of those little details that puts this subdued warmth in your chest. he wants to make everything nice for you. he wants for you to have good things.

- you two. on his pilled up couch. grandpa sweaters. steaming apple cider in thrifted (stolen) mugs. flannel blanket. crackling embers from the log burner. oh yeah baby

- he makes halloween movie watchlists. oh yeah he's serious about this. he only really likes the kind of stuff you can snag off rental store shelves: sleepaway camp for eye candy (we need more slutty slutty men in horror flicks), hellraiser but only the 1987 one, texas chainsaw massacre but only the 1974 one (he's got a crush on leatherface that he'll never admit to anyone or himself), the thing is his fucking FAVORITE horror movie of all time, throw the final destinations in there just for fun, stuff like that. saw movies are his guilty pleasure. even with you, he tries to be some hard-ass and play it off when he gets all spooked and jumpy, though the way he clings to you just a little tighter says something else.

- yea this man has split skulls and gotten brain matter stuck in his hair and horror movies still scare him

- now the most important question: costumes.

- ok i have two visions for what he'd be and in both events he's forcing you to dress up with him: for one i can totally see him throwing on some ferris bueller getup and dragging you along as either sloane or cameron, or y'all are going as bill and ted and he's calling dibs on bill (so he has an excuse to wear a crop top it's totally only for the costume). if you refuse to dress up he will not shut up about how you're "no fun" until you give in

- he also uses the holiday as an opportunity to terrorize the general public. you guys are hiding out in corn mazes and jumping out at whatever poor soul happens to walk by like some surprise scare actor, pretending to be ghosts to scare off the kids who think hanging out at cemeteries makes them cool. he's the village menace. genuinely the HOA puts up a sign saying look out for this guy

- he takes you "trick or treating" but with the biggest quotations ever. he'll go around to the houses that just have bowls of candy out with a sign that says "please take one" or something and straight up just take the bowl

- when he isn't having (mostly) harmless fun and treating the townspeople like his plaything, he's treating you to some good wholesome traditional halloween activities, and he's a massive sucker for those. like, no fucking question about it he is dragging your ass to the pumpkin patch. if he's lucky he can get a five finger discount on some caramel apples for you two. of COURSE he's hauling some pumpkins home for you guys to carve, even if he'll just inevitably leave them to rot on his porch but he SWEARS he'll throw them out soon he SWEARS

- he insists on going to at least one haunted house even though he's the one that always gets you two kicked out for clocking scare actors. he's banned from most of them

- at some point in the night you'll probably end up crashing some college house party and, even though they scare him shitless, nothing makes him feel more like a guy than standing around with a red solo cup in his hand. he isn't there to make friends anyway (god knows he has no clue how), he's the one that just kinda pets the dog the entire time then leaves

- at the very end of day you guys are falling asleep tangled up in each other on the couch, smoke hanging in the air and the dvd screensaver bouncing around on the tv screen

[simplegenius042]

FC5 Silva Omar Aesthetics

Bold - YES

Italics - Somewhat

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books// the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs// the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

[agave]

happy bday!! mustard and cider for the color meme thing

THANK YOU I WAS BORN THIS DAY IN A LOG CABIN (HOPTAL(

I think we are mutuals on twitter I just don't use my main much!!!! but I think you're really cool!

[teepeecider]

Harrison & Tyler' campaign emblem

An untitled woodcut, created for use on broadsides or banners during the Whigs' 'log cabin' campaign of 1840. In front of a log cabin, a shirtsleeved William Henry Harrison welcomes a soldier, inviting him to rest and partake of a barrel of 'Hard Cider.' Nearby another soldier, already seated, drinks a glass of cider. On a staff at right is an American flag emblazoned with 'Harrison & Tyler.'

From Library of Congress.

[snuffler]

A Special Night

The air was crisp and winter had come fast. Late December was one of the coldest days of the year, but nothing beat sitting next to a warm fire watching the snowflakes dance from the heavens. The scent of cinnamon and apples filled the cabin, and the smell of freshly chopped trees flooded my senses. "Mi amor, how is the cider going?" I called out to my boyfriend.

"Perfect takes time my love." I could hear back from the kitchen, the sound of a smug smile on his face. Pulling the quilt my mother had made for us our first Christmas together up to my chin, I could still smell the scent of papa's tamales on the warm cloth. This would be the first year without him and it broke my heart knowing my mother was alone, but tonight was special. Four years together and I could never lose the nervous tingle I felt when I heard him call me his love. Before I noticed he was sitting next to me with a tray of cider and bunuelos that smelt like home. "Now what has you spacing out?"

I shrugged, the flannel nightgown that sat gently on my shoulder sliding down. "Nothing, I guess I'm just happy." His smile widened showing his adorable dimples. Grasping my hand he pulled it up to his mouth and kissed it. My face felt warm and the only noise that I could fathom was a giggle that made me feel like a schoolgirl.

"Then I guess I'm happy that you are happy." He said as he plucked one of the cups from the tray he had prepared. The cinnamon stick sitting in his glass mug fell to his lips. Of course, he had to add real cinnamon sticks to the cider, it was the same reason soft music played from an old record player by the couch and why we were in a secluded log cabin instead of our run-down apartment. This night was ours and my love knew how to make a girl feel special, like that one star in the sky that shines a little brighter.

Grasping out for the other mug I set to put it to my lips when an object resting on the edge caught my eye. A ring was slid on the cinnamon stick as it would go on a finger. My breath felt like it was stuck in my chest just begging to make a noise. When shock started to wear out, "I-I-I," I looked up from the ring into his waiting eyes. It took everything in me to not start crying. "Yes!"

That breath that was caught finally made its way out, and what seemed like his own breath reached the surface. My hands instantly reached for his neck pulling him in, his hands clasped my waist, and our happiness overtook the moment. Our lips connected with sparks that could only match the fire that was lighting the room. The night was perfect, and I wish it would have never ended.

[bllsbailey]

Back to the Future for the GOP – A Return to the Whig Rallies

One of the more interesting innovations that Donald Trump has brought to modern presidential campaigns has been the party-like atmosphere of his Trump rallies. These rallies were in battleground states and areas, where Trump spoke for a few hours, oftentimes mixing political and policy issues with jokes and commentary on non-political affairs, with some music and a little dancing.

Then again, these types of political rallies are not totally new and unique to American politics. Political events with a party atmosphere have been around since the beginning of the Republic and before; in his elections to the Virginia House of Burgesses, George Washington himself paid for at least one raucous event on election day where he plied voters with alcoholic beverages and food. 

But it was in 1840 when the real precursor to the modern-day Trump rallies first occurred. As a result of that year’s rallies, that election was called, according to one prominent historian, “mainly fun and games.” Presidential Campaigns, Paul F. Boller, Jr. That year, the opposition party, the Whig Party, running General William Henry Harrison, challenged the Democratic-Republican Party and sitting President Marvin Van Buren (note – contrary to popular culture, Martin Van Buren wasn’t particularly “mean”). The economy was not in the best of shape, but the Whigs also ran a strikingly dishonest campaign depicting Harrison as a war hero who was a man of the people, born in a log cabin, and who enjoyed drinking hard cider. (None of these assertions was true.)

To further their campaign, the Whigs held huge rallies:

Estimates of crowds assembled for Whig rallies ranged from one thousand to one hundred thousand and sometimes were reckoned in terms of acreage covered… And Whig gatherings – replete with speeches, songs, cheers, and hard cider – were almost interminable: two, three, five hours long. Log cabins decorated with coonskins (after the fashion of frontier huts) became ubiquitous; erected at party rallies, drawn along in parades, and stationed in just about every city, town, village, and hamlet in the land. Hard cider was plentiful: the latchstring at the door of the log cabins was always drawn; and there was also sweet cider for the temperate. Slogans, mottoes, nicknames, and catchwords abounded: “The Farmer’s President”; “The Hero of (the battle of) Tippecanoe”…and best of all (since John Tyler of Virginia was Harrison’s running mate), “ Tippecanoe and Tyler Too!” 

There were Tippecanoe badges, handkerchiefs, shaving cream, and log cabin songbooks. The Whigs created the expression “keep the ball rolling” by rolling huge Harrison balls ten or twelve feet in diameter, made of twine, paper, leather, or tin, and covered in slogans, from town to town.

All of this worked in 1840; Harrison beat Van Buren in both the popular vote and the electoral vote by a huge margin. As a Democratic-Republican newspaper complained, “We have been sung down, lied down, drunk down!” 

Granted, General Harrison did not speak at these Whig rallies. He did not speak much at all during the 1840 campaign. Prior to the 20th century, presidential nominees avoided personal campaigning, and Harrison’s political aides specifically instructed him to keep quiet on the salient issues; as a result, the Democratic-Republicans tagged him as “General Mum.”

In 2024, the Trump rallies (presumably) worked as well. They were certainly popular with Republicans, and they seemed to provide some free positive media for the Trump campaign. There is at least one study that said there was a positive polling effect from them (using data from 2016).

Of course, there is one other big difference between the Trump rallies and the Whig rallies – no alcohol is/was served at the Trump rallies. I will leave it to the readers to tell me whether that is a positive or a negative. 

[onthewaytosomewhere]

🔥 for southern philanthropy and 🛁 for first fire 😌😌😇😇

okay this one is gonna be long and well one's a bit spicy lolz so let's go behind a cut shall we

southern philanthropy on ao3 if u'd rather

firstfire on ao3 if u'd rather

LIAM X PEZ

The lakehouse on LBJ used to be Liam’s favorite summer place to tag along with Alex and his family as kids. This year is the first time he’s been back, and it’s just him and Pez with Alex and Henry. It’s been better than he remembers it ever being. Of course, he wasn’t there in the past with someone he’s in love with. No matter how much of a crush he may have had on Alex back in the day, he knows he was never in love with him.

Alex broke out the homemade apple cider that Oscar had left for them, and they warmed it. Alex had pulled the Fireball out of the cupboard, and Liam was almost instantly brought back to the times when they would sneak it while out here. Pez’s hand on his stops him from tipping the bottle and pouring some into his cider.

“Do not ruin that cider with that swill.”

“I’m sorry, what? What else would I put in my cider other than fireball? The cinnamon is perfect for it.”

Henry laughs as he comes toward them with a bottle of rum. “You spent too many of your formative years with Alex.”

“Hey!”

Henry turns to Alex, where he’s sitting by the fire sipping his fireball-spiked cider, “You know I love you, but your fascination with putting cinnamon in everything is, well, a bit much sometimes. Especially when rum is so much better in apple cider.”

Pez has poured the rum into their ciders and hands Liam his. He takes a sip, and he’s not going to get in the middle of Alex and Henry’s debate, but he’s decided that as an adult, not having to steal the alcohol, he will take the rum any day. Percy pulls him back to their spot, and they sit with arms around each other on the log they’re sharing. Liam lets out a small sigh at the flavors of the cider and the rum on his tongue as he sips it.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Percy whispers in his ear.

“God, it really is, but don’t tell Alex, or I will never hear the end of ‘tarnishing all that time we had as kids’ or something like that.” Liam shares a laugh with Pez when they look across the fire at Alex, still trying to convince Henry that Fireball is the superior apple cider complement.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell him you’ve clearly developed better taste as you aged.”

Liam laughs as he leans in and whispers, “Better taste in everything. Maybe I can show you later what else has improved as I’ve aged, sugar.”

“Oh, sweet thing, I already know how good you are, but I will always take you up on some play time.”

The fire dies down, and as they finish their cider, Alex starts making exaggerated yawning and complaining about how “sleepy” he is. They douse the fire and head in parting for their rooms on opposite ends of the house.

Liam and Pez slide into bed after getting ready for bed, and as he’s lying in Pez’s arms, he hears the faint sound of something in the house. It doesn’t take long before they realize exactly what the noise is.

“Is that Alex?” Pez whispers. Liam is too busy laughing to get words out, so he nods. “You want to show them how it’s done?”

Liam answers with his lips on Pez’s, and they spend the rest of the night too lost in each other to even bother telling Alex to keep it the fuck down.

ALEX X BUCK

Alex is so excited for this weekend away with Buck. It’s his first weekend not rushing from one place to another in months, and he needs it so much. He needs the time with Buck, just the two of them—he loves the time they spend with everyone else when Alex comes to LA, but he’s been craving a little uninterrupted one-on-one time. They have a cabin booked in the middle of nowhere, with no neighbors for miles. A place with large claw foot tubs inside and outside on the deck, along with the hot tub. He’s ridiculously excited to get Buck naked and slippery in a bubble bath.

The first night they’re there, it’s slow, sensuous lovemaking in the California king bed. It’s the kind of lovemaking session where Alex loses count of orgasms, and they make use of every inch of the bed. It’s everything he’s been wanting. The next morning, he’s up making breakfast when Buck comes into the kitchen; he grabs a piece of bacon and kisses Alex’s cheek as if he won’t notice the missing bacon because of the kiss.

“I was thinking we could make use of that clawfoot tub out on the deck after breakfast if you’re up for it.”

“You a little sore old man?”

“I’ll give you, old man, I’m not that much older than you. Besides, I’m pretty sure you were the one complaining after the hike yesterday. But if you’d rather do another of those, we can.”

Alex turns toward him, spatula raised. “Don’t you dare rob me of that bubble bath; I have been looking forward to it since I found out about those clawfoot tubs.

Breakfast is consumed at a leisurely pace, lingering over coffee and kisses in between bites. The dishes are placed into the dishwasher, and the water is run in the tub. The moan that leaves Alex as he slides into the hot water makes him glad there are no neighbors nearby. Buck slides in behind him, and for long moments, they lie there, Buck’s legs bracketing his hips and arms wrapped around his chest, pulling Alex back to rest against his chest. Alex lies there against Buck, eyes closed, soaking in the heat of the water and feeling Buck’s body against his. Buck’s hand starts to gravitate south, and by the time it wraps around Alex’s cock he’s hard. Within a few tugs, his hips are moving to meet Buck’s hand, and he’s biting his lip and moaning around it.

Buck pulls Alex’s lip from his teeth and whispers into his ear, “Let me hear you, baby. I want to hear how loud you can get for me.”

It’s Buck’s hand gliding along Alex’s cock and his hard cock pressing between his cheeks as his hips move behind Alex that gets him so close to coming that he’s a babbling mess. Buck’s hand moves over him, and he presses back into the cock, moving between them, moving quickly toward orgasm. Buck’s hand moves faster, and his hips press harder and Alex is screaming into the air around them as he comes apart in the tub; his cock pulses as Buck wrings the last bit of orgasm from him. With a few presses of his hips, Buck comes between them, and Alex feels the heat of it hitting his lower back through the water.

Alex lies his head back on Buck’s shoulder, and they lie there catching their breath. “We should get out of this water and, at the very least, run fresh water if you want to soak longer,” Buck says as their breaths even out.

“Or we could use the hot tub that’s right here.”

“That sounds like a perfect idea.” Buck follows Alex out of the tub, pulling the plug to let it drain while they soak in the hot tub.

It’s a wonderful weekend, and on Monday, when Alex and Buck part ways at the airport, he’s so relaxed that he feels like he can take on the world if need be.

[sam-vargas]

Whistler, BC

In the silent and peaceful mountains hidden along the west coast of Canada, resided the small resort town of Whistler. The village, enveloped in the slow downfall of snow and the quiet whispers of cold breezes through the pines, triggered a sense of nostalgia.

Few cars passed through the road between the mountain lodges and the village. White fairy lights wound around tree branches and hung in shop windows. Snow coated the foliage of the trees and the ground in a thin sheet, while small, almost indiscernible flakes of white drifted from the black skies beyond the gray haze of clouds. They made their descent, dancing on the breeze like miniature cotton balls. Snow peaked mountains surrounded the perimeter of the village ascending into and past the low hanging sheet of clouds, their silhouettes shadowed and undefined against a haze of white backdrop. 

As the annually anticipated December holiday drew nearer, strings of green, red, and blue lights wound around the snow caked pine trees and across the metal railings of small bridges, producing festive atmosphere. Electronic snowflakes hung from lampposts, and green lights hung beneath the bridges, the light reflecting off the white snow covering the layer of ice over frozen water. Reminiscent of log cabins in the woods, the accumulating snow and warm lighting from the shops bathed the entire village in an atmosphere of warmth and festivity.The fleeting whispers of winter breezes maneuvered through frost blanketed fir trees, and around the towering silhouettes of encompassing mountains. Snowfall filled the background silence between gusts like white noise. 

Voices pitched high and low, soft and loud mingled with the snowfall, breeze and rustling pine needles. Chatter and laughter followed the crunch of booted feet in the snow as people moved throughout the village. The warm glow of the shop windows cast squares of orange across the walkways and snowy streets and illuminated passerbys. Buildings of dark wood panels influenced the ski resort aesthetic of the village. 

With the snow and higher altitudes came the nose nipping, bone chilling cold. The bite of the air sans windchill warranted a snow jacket, two shirts, two pairs of pants, a pair of sock liners, wool socks, and a pair of snow boots. Even then, the cold rendered those layers useless. 

Some took advantage of the cold. Couples clung to one another, scrambling for warmth when the short, freezing winds passed through. Children burrowed deeper into their puffy snow jackets, stuffing their gloved hands into warm pockets and squinting teary eyes. I clung to my father, the tallest member of my family, and used him as a shield against the winds whenever they blustered. Relief came at the end of the day in the form of free hot chocolate and apple cider upon our return to the lodge.

The unforgiving element to natives of warmer climates became a welcome comfort synonymous with the cold spray of snow and scratch of skis on slopes. Nights spent curled by the fire, palms warmed by the ceramic of a mug, and lungs warmed by the scent of spiced fruit wafting through the steam. Pure, white snow blanketed the mountainside in thick layers, falling from the sky in delicate flurries from sheets of gray clouds. When the oppressive heat and humidity native to the sunshine state become too much, I will fondly remember the clean, crisp allure of Whistler.

[just-jessie0]

Pip of a Raptor - The Death of the American Dream (Chapter 3)

Like most of the backwoods roads, the unlined blacktop was winding and barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other. The road’s edges were jagged and gradually crumbling in places due to weather damage and neglect. Potholes littered the blacktop, forcing Alfie to keep his bike in the middle of the pavement to avoid any mishaps.

All three miles of road that Alfie needed to travel to get to Jon’s house were in the same poor condition, but the lack of cars except for those belonging to the residents scattered about made the roads a surprisingly safe. In fact, the only recent accident in the small county of Fayette had occurred on Canburry Road, when one of the Makon teens had driven his quad into a neighbor’s mailbox after taking a sharp 90-degree turn too quickly. The kid ended up shattering both his ankles and had to postpone the start of his freshman year of college to complete the physical therapy that was required for his recovery. Alfie remembered his grandfather saying that the kid deserved it for acting ‘like a fool.’

Today was no different from any other day in terms of the lack of cars. The only company Alfie had on his trip to Jon’s was the chorus of songbirds nestled in the trees lining each side of the street.

Alfie leaned back and allowed his bike to coast down the small hill toward the stop sign at the end of his road. To his right, a significant portion of the woods had been cleared to make room for a small elementary school. Like the roads, the single-story building was in poor condition. It could accommodate up to 200 people, a capacity only necessary during voting season when the building served as the county’s sole polling place. The entire elementary school body numbered less than 100 students and staff during any given school year. Alfie could name every kid that was in his lower school class, as there were only 16 of them, and most had known each other since their daycare days.

Although it was a Saturday in summer, a few families were using the small playground beside the building. Alfie watched as one of the toddlers on the swings was pushed by his mom before he turned left onto Old Hallertown Road.

Old Hall was the closest thing their county had to a highway. It was still sparsely trafficked, even during the rush hours, stretching from the city of Bethlehem to a lake located 10 miles to the south. Alfie followed the winding road, passing a dive bar with a gravel parking lot already accommodated a couple of parked cars. The open sign in the foggy window was blinking even though it was morning. He crossed a one-lane bridge and continued past the ice cream stand at the four-way stop before turning left off Old Hall onto Cider Creek Drive.

Unlike the rest of the county where tiny one-story country bungalows were owned by blue-collar citizens, Cider Creek Drive was a mile-long stretch with only four houses at the end of private driveways, hidden away from the prying eyes of passersby. About half a mile down, Alfie turned onto the second private drive, which was Jon’s, bracing for the change in terrain. The house at the end of the driveway directly across from Jon’s was Mr. Brown’s massive farmhouse. His pond was a man-made body of water, about half an acre in size, and he often allowed local kids to play in the area. Alfie had never seen the other two houses, but if they were anything like Jon’s and Mr. Brown’s, they were mansions so large that Alfie could fit ten of his houses inside their single one.

At the end of the Breyer’s seemingly endless driveway stood a massive three-story, ten-bedroom estate. Its wooden siding shingles and walnut beams gave the house the appearance of an opulent parody of a log cabin. The property, spanning 22 acres, was mostly woods, except for the house itself, the attached six-car garage, and the cobblestone patio in the back, complete with an in-ground fire pit, jacuzzi, and pool. 

Two weathered old trucks, their paint faded and chipped from years of use, were parked half on the pavement and half in the grass. One of the trucks had a dovetail trailer hitched to the back with its ramp already lowered and its bed empty. A homemade label on the door depicted two cartoon young men sitting on John Deere tractors above bubbled lettering that read ‘Zeter Brothers Landscaping and Maintenance.’

The landscaping crew from the company the Breyer’s hired was already hard at work, mowing, mulching, and weeding by the time Alfie arrived. One of the men, tanned from extended exposure to the sun and glistening with sweat, glanced up as Alfie passed and offered the child a polite nod before returning to shaping the lawn’s edges. Alfie halted at the front of the driveway, ensuring his bike was placed to the side, out of the way of any cars that might be entering or leaving the garage. He approached the massive double doors at the front of the house and entered without bothering to knock.

The foyer was an enormous, almost sterile-looking room, with white tiles that seamlessly blended into the white walls stretching up all three stories of the house to the roof. The back wall consisted entirely of glass, allowing the sunlight to flood in and reflect off the stark surfaces, causing Alfie to squint. A massive spiral staircase stood framed by the glass. During Christmas, the Breyer’s always purchased a 25-foot Christmas tree, which they placed in the foyer. Housekeepers decorated the tree with ornaments collected from the family’s travels over the years. So many trinkets adorned the branches that the green of the pine needles would barely be visible, leaving Alfie to wonder how even a tree of that size could support the collective weight of all the decorations.

Closing the door behind him, Alfie followed echoing voices into the hallway to the left of the foyer, where the commercial-sized kitchen was located. Seated behind the enormous granite island in the center of the room were Mrs. Breyer and Jon’s two older sisters, Michele and Amanda. The teenagers seemed to be engrossed in a heated argument, each tugging at a small piece of cloth, trying to pry it away from the other. Their shrill voices echoed in the spacious room, but Mrs. Breyer appeared to be paying little attention, absorbed in the paperwork spread out before her on the counter. Behind the three women stood a stocky man in a pristine white chef’s uniform, meticulously piping colored icing onto a three-tiered cake. The two adults looked up as Alfie walked in.

“Hey there, Hun,” Mrs. Breyer greeted with a slight smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hi, Mrs. Breyer,” Alfie replied. “Hey, Michele. Hey, Amanda.” The girls were too preoccupied with their struggle over what Alfie now observed to be a shirt to respond. “Do you know where Jon is?”

“He’s in the back with Charles and Harrison,” she said, pushing up her glasses with a manicured finger and returning her focus to the paperwork. “Do be careful where you step, Hun. We’re in the middle of renovating the deck.”

“Okay,” Alfie replied. He walked through the kitchen and entered one of the many sitting rooms within the house. This particular sitting room happened to be one of Alfie’s favorites. The cozy nook was sunken three steps into the floor, featuring dark hardwood flooring adorned with a massive, colorful rug with intricate geometric designs that converged into a swirling pattern at its center. Instead of couches, the room was furnished with a multitude of giant velvet pillows, which were almost always leaned against the wall except for when the family had guests over. The coffee table was low and clearly designed for floor seating, reaching only up to an average man’s shin if standing. While it lacked height, the table compensated with its length, spanning almost the entire width of the carpet, leaving only a couple of feet on each side for walking around.

Unlike the rest of the house, with its white walls, white floors, and white furniture, Alfie felt most at ease in this room. The vibrant colors gave the space a warm and inviting atmosphere that made him feel secure. He never quite understood why the Breyer’s rarely used this room. Representative Breyer had once mentioned something about the rug being from Persia. Alfie didn’t really know what that had to do with anything, but the way Representative Breyer said it made him think that it must have been the reason why the room was so little used.

Just like the foyer, the back wall of this room was entirely made of glass. This room, like several others in the house, had a glass door integrated into the wall, providing access to the backyard. Alfie unlocked the latch and slid open the door, stepping outside onto the cobblestone deck. The deck featured the Breyer’s in-ground fire pit, along with two grills and a meat smoker, as well as a glass outdoor dining table. Normally, the glass table occupied the center of the space, but it had been pushed aside to make room for a pile of wood planks, a buzz saw, an electric sander, and various other items being used to repair the railing that curved around the outer perimeter of the area. Beyond the dining area, a half-flight of stairs led down to the main part of the yard. The lower deck hosted the circular hot tub and a massive pool, connected by a small waterfall running from the former to the latter.

Representative Breyer and Jon reclined on two of the six chaise lounges placed by the pool’s edge. Jon had his eyes closed, while Representative Breyer was engrossed in a phone call, holding the device to his ear. This didn’t surprise Alfie as he rarely saw him without it. In fact, after years of visiting Jon's place, Alfie could only recall a few instances when Representative Breyer was fully engaged with his family rather than work. 

The contrast between the father and son was somewhat amusing. Jon’s olive skin had noticeably darkened since Alfie had last seen him a week ago while Representative Breyer’s fair complexion was coated with sunscreen, giving him an even paler appearance than usual. His red hair and blue eyes sharply contrasted with Jon’s hazel irises and auburn curls, blending Mrs. Breyer’s dark brown and Representative Breyer’s red hues perfectly. Alfie didn’t think Representative Breyer was unattractive, but Jon had often commented over the years about how he was grateful to physically resemble his mother more than his father, though both father and son shared the same sarcastic personality.

Jon’s little brother, Harrison, was twirling around the shallow end of the pool muttering to himself, clearly engrossed in some sort of game he made up. Both were wearing swim trunks and Jon’s were still a little damp from his recent dip into the water. When Jon saw Alfie approach, he smiled and jumped up from the chair.

“Finally!” Jon exclaimed, throwing his hand up in the air. “I was worried that she was gonna keep you locked up for the whole summer.”

Jon pulled on a Marvel t-shirt while Representative Breyer nodded at Alfie before continuing his conversation, vaguely reminding Alfie of his two daughters and their shirt.

“Dude, I know. Thank God she’s been in a good mood lately otherwise she probably would have.” Alfie said as Jon gathered his belongings in his hands and jogged over to where his friend stood, swerving around the other chairs in the area. Alfie put up his hands to brace himself for collision and the two boys crashed into each other, laughing and pushing. “I brought my paintball stuff!” Alfie added.

“Sweet. Let me grab my things quick.” Jon replied.

“I also got a new sight, so you’re really not gonna stand a chance this time.”

“You cheated last time!”

“How?”

Jon ran his hands through his damp curls. “I don’t know, but you definitely did.”

They started up the steps and retraced the path Alfie took to get to the backyard, back through the seating area with the Persian rug and to the kitchen. The girls had gone from arguing with each other to arguing with Mrs. Breyer, both still gripping the shirt, which now looked more like a stretched-out scarf than anything else.

“Mom, I can’t deal with this,” Amanda whined. “Every time she borrows my stuff it gets ruined, and I have to throw it away. Remember the jeans? The necklace?” She pulled the shirt once more towards her. Alfie didn’t know why she would still want it in its current state.

“That’s not true! You blame everything on me!” Amanda retorted.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not!”

Both the girls’ button noses were scrunched up and their brows turned down, shadowing blue eyes that looked exactly like their fathers.

“Girls, please,” Mrs. Breyer said, rubbing at her forehead. “Take it somewhere else and work it out. You’re giving me a migraine.”

“Mom, Alfie and I are going across the street.” Jon called out to his mom, already rushing past the scene. Alfie followed closely behind, his mother’s request to ask if Mrs. Breyer needed help with the fundraiser completely forgotten. Jon tiled his head back and called over his shoulder, “It’s an ugly shirt!”

A chorus of ‘shut ups’ and ‘you’re an idiot’ followed the boys as they moved through the foyer and out the front door. Jon quickly grabbed his bike and paintball gear from one of the garage bays. Alfie put on his helmet - Jon didn’t bother with one - before they mounted their bikes and raced the length of the driveway, past the workers and their trucks.

“So?” Jon started as they braked before crossing the main road.

“What?” Alfie replied, stopping his bike next to his friend.

“Now that you’re officially out of jail, are you gonna come with us to the Hamptons this year?”

The boys crossed the road and began to bike down the street in the direction of Mr. Brown’s driveway.

Every year, Jon extended an invitation to Alfie to join their family trip to their beach house in the ritzy suburbs of Long Island. He would plead with his mom to allow him to go, but she firmly maintained that he was too young to be going on such trips by himself. Alfie tried to reason with her, stating that he would be with Mrs. and Representative Breyer, not just Jon, but she had refused to budge over the years. 

Pop-pop sided with Alfie and attempted to sway his daughter by emphasizing that Alfie needed to embrace independence and learn to become a man. He argued that it would be a valuable experience for him, but even so, she remained unwavering in her decision.

“Like she’s gonna say yes this time,” Alfie said, rolling his eyes,

“Do you want me to ask her?” Jon said, swerving his bike into Alfie’s lane.

“No,” Alfie laughed, reaching a hand out to swat Jon away, “and cut it out.”

Jon ducked the blow and moved back to the side, the gravel causing his bike to skid slightly from the sudden movement.

“Alright, fine.” Jon said, laughing. They rode in silence for a couple of seconds before Jon added, “So you got a sight?”

“Yup, for my birthday. This is the first time I’m getting to use it.”

Jon groaned and threw his head back. “Like you really need extra help with your shot.”

Alfie flushed at the rare complement from his friend but didn’t say anything.

“You may have a new sight, but have I shown you my new turbocharger?” Jon asked, looking at Alfie from the corner of his eyes.

“Turbocharger?” Alfie asked, confused.

“Yeah.” Jon lifted the leg closest to Alfie and let out a loud fart before putting all his weight onto the peddles and lurching the bike forward down the street and towards the pond, laughing the whole way.

“Son of a bitch!” Alfie squealed, following Jon in quick pursuit.

[odoroussavourssweet]

Kerosene Broken Theories

nose: John Pegg

notes: incense, tobacco, spices, oudh, vanilla, sandalwood, blood orange

Broken Theories lives in a roasty, toasty, caramelized brown zone; sweet on the outside, with an oddly salty core.

Some people smell it as a “woodsmoke” or “incense” or even “tobacco” scent; on me, rather, it’s exactly like burnt caramel, plus that distinctive saltiness. Maybe people are thinking of roasted marshmallows.

Half an hour in, the burnt caramel is joined by a strong potpourri-like cinnamon spice note, and thereafter becomes a spice-and-S’more scent. Sort of a cozy-log-cabin-in-winter vibe: mulled cider and roasting marshmallows by the fireplace.

Broken Theories is a bit of a miss for me. The burnt caramel is a touch too dessert-y for my comfort, the potpourri spice too loud, and I’ve never been that much of a “hygge” winter-coziness fan…though the fact that it’s July might be biasing me here.

Normally I’m a big fan of Kerosene — an indie perfumery that does bold, unusual, highly legible scents. Kerosene’s Canfield Cedar is my ultimate warm-woody scent and their Unforsaken is a delightful creamsicle. All their scents have a satisfying heft and brick-like quality, and stay pretty much the same all the way through. Broken Theories is no exception; if you like S’more smell you’ll find it a solid instance of class.

[harrypotterhogwartshitpost]

I really identify with the Whig party

They were founded as an Andrew Jackson hate club

They were constantly over committed to the bit

Like, they were REALLY committed to the bit

[adminbryantsaki]

Pregnancy/Breeding

Day 24 of Spicytober featuring Alpha! Keigo Takami x Omega! Reader.

(I do not own Keigo Takami/Hawks. Horikoshi Kohei does. If this isn’t your cup of tea, blend of spice, or brew of coffee, move on.)

Wc: 826

Tw: ABO, Kidnapping, pregnancy.

Breaking News: Wing hero Hawks has gone into his spring time rut! He has been spotted around the city in search of a mate! Approach with caution if you wish to volunteer as a potential mate! This has been going on for about a week now as several Omegas, Betas, and Lunas have been disappearing, suspected to have been taken by the hero, only to return a day or two later with reports of being bred by him. He is still seen around the city in search for his mate! will he find his mate this year or will he have to wait until next year? Stay tuned to find out!

You were walking along the sidewalk when you had seen the headline and you read the article. You rolled your eyes and put your phone away before you turned into the side street to access your workplace when a gloved hand covered your mouth, stopping you from screaming. You began to struggle but you were quickly pinned down against the brick wall of the building, facing the amber colored eyes of your captor. You were surrounded by vibrant scarlet wings and a scent of cinnamon, cedarwood and warmed apple cider filled your nostrils. You were looking at the very hero that you had just read about and he had picked you as his next potential mate. You stared up at him with wide eyes as you were trying not to be thrown into your heat just by the pheromones coming from the Alpha. He watched you for a few moments before speaking. “Don’t scream. Just come with me and I’ll make it easy for you.” He spoke quietly. There was something about his voice that made you melt into his touch and press yourself against his chest and hold onto him just before he took off from the ground, flying far from the city and to the countryside where there was a green blanket of trees below you as he flew down, closer to the tree tops before gently landing with you in his arms. “Why did you bring me here?” You asked.

“I’m getting low on options for a mate and you were the next one on my list. I brought you here to see if you can handle my rut.” He told you as he pulled you into the rather decent looking log cabin he had flown you to. Once inside, the smell of cinnamon and cedarwood was only stronger, making your mind grow fuzzy and your limbs feel heavy. He held you up when you collapsed against him. He noticed your scent patched you had placed on your neck that morning before you left for work, peeled them off gently and discarded them into the nearby garbage can. He carried you to his large nest in the middle of the living room and laid you down inside before climbing in next to you and taking in your scent. “You Smell so good. Now tell me, baby bird. What’s your name?” He asked. You had to let your brain process his question before you responded. “I’m Y/n.” You told him. He hummed in response and kissed you roughly and pinning you to the floor of the nest. He tore your clothes of and exposed his seeping cock before slamming it into you and thrusting fast and hard into your cunt. You let out moans of pleasure as you were bred over and over, being given his clutch in sessions as to not stretch your womb too quickly. He bit down on your neck and shoulders, marking you over and over, telling you that you were his, that none of the others had made him feel this way, that he knew that you were the one, and that he should’ve gone to you first.

Hours later, when the sun was going down, He was spent for the day, having collapsed next to you, holding you close, keeping his wings around you. You watched as the sun set, knowing that you were most likely pregnant from all the cum that had been pumped into you. You eyelids were heavy from all the activity the day had brought you. You knew that you had to call in to work tomorrow morning telling your boss what had happened to you but you figured that you’d be on tomorrow’s morning news as you had been seen with Hawks as he flew out of the city. That didn’t matter right now as you had been claimed by the hero and you were too sleepy to keep your eyes open. You fell asleep in your mate’s arms, happy, satisfied, and now pregnant with the hero’s babies. The end.

[fictionadventurer]

Putting aside all politics, I think John Tyler is a strong candidate for the title of funniest presidency.

He starts out as a Democrat, but leaves the party because he hates Andrew Jackson, and he becomes a Whig.

He's tapped as William Henry Harrison's vice president because they believe his divergent views on states' rights will win them more Southern voters.

Harrison's opponents, trying to cast him as a doddering old man because he's (gasp) in his sixties, say things like, "He'd be happy retiring to his log cabin and drinking hard cider." Harrison's campaign is like, "Thank you for handing us the imagery to present our aristocratic candidate as a man of the people," and they make hard cider and log cabins the focal point of their campaign.

Harrison wins the presidency and dies thirty-two days later. (Not because he caught pneumonia during his inauguration speech. He caught typhoid fever because the White House was downhill from a massive dumping ground for human feces.)

No one knows how to handle this. The Constitution is ambiguous. A lot of people believe John Tyler should be "acting president"--taking on the duties, but not the title, either until the end of the term or until they can hold another election.

John Tyler says, "No, I will be Actual President." He refuses to answer letters addressed to "Vice President" or "Acting President" Tyler. Eventually Congress just kind of has to go with it.

I want to point out again that he was picked as vice president because of how his views diverged from the rest of the Whig party. Now he's president.

The first thing he does as president is to veto a bill to reestablish a national bank of America. The one thing the Whig party really wanted to do.

The Whigs are so ticked off that they officially kick him out of the party! While he is still sitting president! John Tyler now officially has no political party.

When it comes time for reelection, he tries to run as a Democrat. The Democrats don't want him. He tries to run as an independent candidate, but realizes that won't work.

As he's leaving office, someone gives a speech about how "we're well rid of that outlaw, and he can return, like Robin Hood, to Sherwood Forest."

John Tyler renames his house Sherwood Forest. Has special doorknockers made for it and everything.

Like, it's just so funny that getting into office and leaving office both involve him spinning an insult into a mark of pride.

And considering the Harrison situation, it's darkly funny that he later gets elected to the South's House of Representatives, but dies a few days before taking office.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🍁 The Forest Hideaway 🍁

I’ve really been in the fall spirit, which has me dreaming of a log cabin in the woods, near a lake with friends or family. The sort of place that always smells vaguely of pine and woodsmoke, where you can drink spiced cider on the deck just as it gets cold.

But a girl can dream….and live vicariously in The Sims 😉

Lot Size: 40x30 Value: 84,931 House Size: 3 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms Type: Residential (Rental) CC-free

Available on my gallery ID: aheathenbuilds