#whitewashed brick walls

[life-spire]

@ Debby Hudson

See more flowers.

[bhujerbaa]

Dining Kitchen in Columbus Example of a mid-sized urban single-wall terra-cotta tile and brown floor eat-in kitchen design with flat-panel cabinets, brown cabinets, wood countertops, white backsplash, brick backsplash, stainless steel appliances and brown countertops

[sponsormusings]

French Country Dining Room - Dining Room Mid-sized french country dark wood floor, brown floor, exposed beam and brick wall breakfast nook photo with gray walls, a standard fireplace and a stone fireplace

[ruhele]

Bathroom Orange County Inspiration for a mid-sized kids' porcelain tile pebble tile floor and multicolored floor doorless shower remodel with flat-panel cabinets, a one-piece toilet, white walls, an undermount sink, quartz countertops and white countertops

[petermorwood]

More on pre-electricity lighting.

Interesting to see this one pop up again after nearly two years - courtesy of @dduane, too! :->

*****

After experiencing a couple more storm-related power cuts since my original post, as well as a couple of after-dark garden BBQs, I've come to the conclusion that C.J. Cherryh puts far too much emphasis on "how dark things were pre-electric light".

For one thing eyes adjust, dilating in dim light to gather whatever illumination is available. Okay, if there's none, there's none - but if there's some, human eyes can make use of it, some better or just faster than others. They're the ones with "good night vision".

Think, for instance, of how little you can see of your unlit bedroom just after you've turned off the lights, and how much more of it you can see if you wake up a couple of hours later.

There's also that business of feeling your way around, risking breaking your neck etc. People get used to their surroundings and, after a while, can feel their way around a familiar location even in total darkness with a fair amount of confidence.

Problems arise when Things Aren't Where They Should Be (or when New Things Arrive) and is when most trips, stumbles, hacked shins and stubbed toes happen, but usually - Lego bricks and upturned UK plugs aside - non-light domestic navigation is incident-free.

*****

Here are a couple of pics from one of those BBQs: one candle and a firepit early on, then the candle, firepit and an oil lamp much later, all much more obvious than DD's iPad screen.

Though I remain surprised at how well my phonecam was handling this low light, my own unassisted eyes were doing far better. For instance, that area between the table and the firepit wasn't such an impenetrable pool of darkness as it appears in the photo.

I see (hah!) no reason why those same Accustomed Eyes would have any more difficulty with candles or oil lamps as interior lighting, even without the mirrors or reflectors in my previous post.

With those, and with white interior walls, things would be even brighter. There's a reason why so many reconstructed period buildings in Folk Museums etc. are (authentically) whitewashed not just outside but inside as well. It was cheap, had disinfectant qualities, and was a reflective surface. Win, win and win.

*****

All right, there were no switches to turn on a light. But there was no need for what C.J. describes as stumbling about to reach the fire, because there were tinderboxes and, for many centuries before them, flint and steel. Since "firesteels" have been heraldic charges since the 1100s, the actual tool must have been in use for even longer.

Tinderboxes were fire-starter sets with flint, steel and "tinder" all packed into (surprise!) a box. The tinder was easily lit ignition material, often "charcloth", fabric baked in an airtight jar or tin which would now start to glow just from a spark.

They're mentioned in both "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of the Rings". Oddly enough, "Hobbit" mentions matches in a couple of places, but I suspect that's a carry-over from when it was just a children's story, not part of the main Legendarium.

Tinderboxes could be simple, just a basic flint-and-steel kit with some tinder for the sparks to fall on...

...or elaborate like this one, with a fancy striker, charcloth, kindling material and even wooden "spills" (long splinters) to transfer flame to a candle or the kindling...

This tinderbox even doubles as a candlestick, complete with a snuffer which would have been inside along with everything else.

Here's a close-up of the striker box with its inner and outer lids open:

What looks like a short pencil with an eraser is actually the striker. A bit of tinder or charcloth would have been pulled through that small hole in the outer lid, which was then closed.

There was a rough steel surface on the lid, and the striker was scraped along it, like so:

This was done for a TV show or film, so the tinder was probably made more flammable with, possibly, lighter fuel. That would be thoroughly appropriate, since a Zippo or similar lighter works on exactly the same principle.

A real-life version of any tinderbox would usually just produce glowing embers needing blown on to make a flame, which is shown sometimes in movies - especially as a will-it-light-or-won't-it? tension build - but is usually a bit slow and non-visual for screen work.

*****

There were even flintlock tinderboxes which worked with the same mechanism as those on firearms. Here's a pocket version:

Here are a couple of bedside versions, once again complete with a candlestick:

And here are three (for home defence?) with a spotlight candle lantern on one side and a double-trigger pistol on the other.

Pull one trigger to light the candle, pull the other trigger to fire the gun.

What could possibly go wrong? :-P

*****

Those pistol lanterns, magnified by lenses, weren't just to let their owner see what they were shooting at: they would also have dazzled whatever miscreant was sneaking around in the dark, irises dilated to make best use of available glimmer.

Swordsmen both good and bad knew this trick too, and various fight manuals taught how to manage a thumb-shuttered lamp encountered suddenly in a dark alley.

There's a sword-and-lantern combat in the 1973 "Three Musketeers" between Michael York (D'Artagnan) and Christopher Lee (Rochefort), which was a great idea.

Unfortunately it failed in execution because the "Hollywood Darkness" which let viewers see the action, wasn't dark enough to emphasise the hazards / advantages of snapping the lamps open and shut.

This TV screencap (can't get a better one, the DVD won't run in a computer drive) shows what I mean.

In fact, like the photos of the BBQ, this image - and entire fight - looks even brighter through "real eyes" than with the phonecam. Just as there can be too much dark in a night scene, there can also be too much light.

*****

One last thing I found when assembling pics for the post were Folding Candle-lanterns.

They were used from about the mid-1700s to the later 20th century (Swiss Army ca. 1978) as travel accessories and emergency equipment, and IMO - I've Made A Note - they'd fit right into a fantasy world whose tech level was able to make them.

The first and last are reproductions: this one is real, from about 1830.

The clear part was mica - a transparent mineral which can be split into thin flexible sheets - while others use horn / parchment, though both of these are translucent rather than transparent. Regardless, all were far less likely to break than glass.

One or two inner surfaces were usually tin, giving the lantern its own built-in reflector, and tech-level-wise, tin as a shiny or decorative finish has been used since Roman times.

I'm pretty sure that top-of-the-line models could also have been finished with their own matching, maybe even built-in, tinderboxes.

And if real ones didn't, fictional ones certainly could. :->

*****

Yet more period lighting stuff here, including flintlock alarm clocks (!)

[mcmansionhell]

this house may or may not be real

on grayness in real estate

Allegedly, somewhere in Wake Forest, North Carolina, a 4 bed, 5.5 bathroom house totaling more than 6,600 square feet is for sale at a price of 2.37 million dollars. The house, allegedly, was built in 2021. Allegedly, it looks like this:

A McMansion is, in effect, the same house over and over again - it's merely dressed up in different costumes. In the 90s, the costume was Colonial; in the 2000s, it was vague forms of European (Tuscan, Mediterranean), and in the 2010s it was Tudor, dovetailed by "the farmhouse" -- a kind of Yeti Cooler simulacra of rural America peddled to the populace by Toll Brothers and HGTV.

Now, we're fully in the era of whatever this is. Whitewashed, quasi-modern, vaguely farmhouse-esque, definitely McMansion. We have reached, in a way, peak color and formal neutrality to the point where even the concept of style has no teeth. At a certain moment in its life cycle, styles in vernacular architecture reach their apex, after which they seem excessively oversaturated and ubiquitous. Soon, it's time to move on. After all, no one builds houses that look like this anymore:

(This is almost a shame because at least this house is mildly interesting.)

If we return to the basic form of both houses, they are essentially the same: a central foyer, a disguised oversized garage, and an overly complex assemblage of masses, windows, and rooflines. No one can rightfully claim that we no longer live in the age of the McMansion. The McMansion has instead simply become more charmless and dull.

When HGTV and the Gaineses premiered Fixer Upper in 2013, it seemed almost harmless. Attractive couple flips houses. Classic show form. However, Fixer Upper has since (in)famously ballooned into its own media network, a product line I'm confronted with every time I go to Target, and a general 2010s cultural hallmark not unlike the 1976 American Bicentennial - both events after which every house and its furnishings were somehow created in its image. (The patriotism, aesthetic and cultural conservatism of both are not lost on me.)

But there's one catch: Fixer Upper is over, and after the Gaineses, HGTV hasn't quite figured out where to go stylistically. With all those advertisers, partners, and eyeballs, the pressure to keep one foot stuck in the rural tweeness that sold extremely well was great. At the same time, the network (and the rest of the vernacular design media) couldn't risk wearing out its welcome. The answer came in a mix of rehashed, overly neutral modernism -- with a few pops of color, yet this part often seems omitted from its imitators -- with the prevailing "farmhouse modern" of Magnolia™ stock. The unfortunate result: mega-ultra-greige.

Aside from war-mongering, rarely does the media manufacture consent like it does in terms of interior design. People often ask me: Why is everything so gray? How did we get here? The answer is because it is profitable. Why is it profitable? I'd like to hypothesize several reasons. The first is as I mentioned: today's total neutrality is an organic outgrowth of a previous but slightly different style, "farmhouse modern," that mixed the starkness of the vernacular farmhouse with the soft-pastel Pinterest-era rural signifiers that have for the last ten years become ubiquitous.

Second, neutrals have always been common and popular. It's the default choice if you don't have a vision for what you want to do in a space. In the 2000s, the neutrals du jour were "earth tones" - beige, sage green, brown. Before that, it was white walls with oak trim in the 80s and 90s. In the 70s, neutrals were textural: brick and wood paneling. We have remarkably short memories when it comes to stylistic evolution because in real time it feels incremental. Such is the case with neutrals.

Finally, the all-gray palette is the end logic of HGTV et al's gamified methodology of designing houses with commodification in mind: if you blow out this wall, use this color, this flooring, this cabinetry, the asking price of your house goes up. You never want to personalize too much because it's off-putting to potential buyers. After twenty years of such rhetoric, doesn't it make all the sense in the world that we've ended up with houses that are empty, soulless, and gray?

A common realtor adage is to stage the house so that potential buyers can picture their own lives in it. In other words, create a tabula rasa one can project a fantasy of consumption onto. Implied in that logic is that the buyer will then impose their will on the house. But when the staged-realtor-vision and general-mass-market aesthetic of the time merge into a single dull slurry, we get a form of ultra-neutral that seems unwelcoming if not inescapable.

To impose one's style on the perfect starkness is almost intimidating, as though one is fouling up something untouchable and superior. If neutrality makes a house sell, then personality - at all - can only be seen as a detriment. Where does such an anti-social practice lead us? Back to the house that may or may not exist.

In my travels as McMansion Hell, I've increasingly been confronted with houses full of furniture that isn't real. This is known as virtual staging and it is to house staging as ChatGPT is to press release writing or DALL-E is to illustration. As this technology improves, fake sofa tables are becoming more and more difficult to discern from the real thing. I'm still not entirely sure which of the things in these photos are genuine or rendered. To walk through this house is to question reality.

Staging ultimately pretends (sometimes successfully, sometimes not) that someone is living in this house, that you, too could live in it. Once discovered, virtual staging erases all pretensions: the house is inhabited by no one. It is generally acknowledged (though I'm not sure on the actual statistics) that a house with furniture - that is, with the pretense of living -- sells easier than a house with nothing in it, especially if that house (like this one) has almost no internal walls. Hence the goal is to make the virtual staging undiscoverable.

If you want to talk about the realtor's tabula rasa, this is its final form. Houses without people, without human involvement whatsoever.

But what makes this particular house so uncanny is that all of these things I've mentioned before: real estate listing photography, completely dull interiors and bland colors all make it easy for the virtual furniture to work so well. This is because the softness of overlit white and gray walls enables the fuzzy edges of the renderings to look natural when mixed with an overstylized reality. Even if you notice something's off in the reflections, that's enough to cause one to wonder if anything in the house is real: the floors, the fixtures, the moulding, the windows and doors.

This is where things are heading: artifice on top of artifice on top of artifice. It's cheap, it's easy. But something about it feels like a violation. When one endeavors to buy a house, one assumes what one is viewing is real. It's one thing if a realtor photoshops a goofy sunset, it's another to wonder if anything in a room can be touched with human hands. I won't know what, if any, part of this estate costing over 2 million dollars actually exists until I visit it myself. Perhaps that's the whole point - to entice potential buyers out to see for themselves. When they enter, they'll find the truth: a vast, empty space with nothing in it.

The better this rendering technology gets, the more it will rely on these totally neutral spaces because everything matches and nothing is difficult. You are picking from a catalog of greige furniture to decorate greige rooms. If you look at virtual staging in a non-neutral house it looks immediately plastic and out of place, which is why many realtors opt to either still stage using furniture or leave the place empty.

Due to the aforementioned photography reasons, I would even argue that the greigepocalypse or whatever you want to call it and virtual staging have evolved simultaneously and mutualistically. The more virtual staging becomes an industry standard, the more conditions for making it seamless and successful will become standardized as well.

After all, real staging is expensive and depends on paid labor - selecting furniture, getting workers to deliver and stage it, only to pack it back up again once the property is sold. This is a classic example of technology being used to erase entire industries. Is this a bad thing? For freelance and contract workers, yeah. For realtors? no. For real estate listings, it remains to be seen. For this blog? Absolutely. (Thankfully there is an endless supply of previously existing McMansions.)

The thing is, real estate listings no longer reflect reality. (Did they ever to begin with?) The reason we're all exasperated with greige is because none of us actually live that way and don't want to. I've never been to anyone's house that looks like the house that may or may not exist. Even my parents who have followed the trends after becoming empty nesters have plenty of color in their house. Humans like color. Most of us have lots of warmth and creativity in our houses. Compare media intended for renters and younger consumers such as Apartment Therapy with HGTV and you will find a stark difference in palate and tone.

But when it comes to actually existing houses - look at Zillow and it's greige greige greige. So who's doing this? The answer is real estate itself aided by their allies in mass media who in turn are aided by the home renovation industry. In other words, it's the people who sell home as a commodity. That desire to sell has for some time overpowered all other elements that make up a home or an apartment's interiority to the point where we've ended up in a colorless slurry of real and unreal.

Fortunately, after ten years or so, things begin to become dated. We're hitting the ten year mark of farmhouse modernism and its derivatives now. If you're getting sick of it, it's normal. The whole style is hopefully on its last leg. But unlike styles of the past, there's a real, trenchant material reason why this one is sticking around longer than usual.

Hence, maybe if we want the end of greige, we're going to have to take color back by force.

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including extra posts and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar, because media work is especially recession-vulnerable.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Here's an unusual home built in 1968 in Tucson, Arizona. It is insulated by thousands of glass bottles, that give it a colorful glow inside. It has 3bds, 3ba, and is priced at $432,500.

A large entrance foyer leads into the living room. The walls have clear glass bottles with amber glass arches.

The walls that aren't made of bottles are made of stones. The ceiling is whitewashed wood with log beams. The floors vary throughout the home. Note the freestyle fireplace and the platform that the sofa cushion is on.

This is a very large space.

Quite a deep fireplace.

The dining room has interesting cabinetry- it's made of saguaro cactus.

It appears that this handmade table will convey.

The eat-in kitchen is spacious and has regular cabinetry, but the walls are both stone and glass bottles. Pretty clear ones form arched windows over the sink.

The home has unusual rooms, nooks, and passages like this area.

One of the nooks is a home office. The rectangle in the wall above the desk must be a decorative feature. The ceiling is fabric.

The primary bedroom is very large and features a fireplace with patterned brick walls accented with bottles.

It has a long built-in sofa and the walls are made of green and amber bottles.

The bed is on a platform and that's the large bath on the right.

This is some stone bath. Don't slip in here, the walls will knock you out.

Look at all the walls in the garden.

There's also a guest cottage on the property.

This is interesting.

There are 2 bedrooms with platforms for the beds.

Not sure what this is.

A separate bath house serves as the 3rd bathroom.

Not sure, but I think he guards the bath house.

There's also an outdoor kitchen and several covered outdoor spaces. Love this handmade pool table.

It doesn't have a garage, but it has a double car port.

If you like the desert, the cacti garden is quite lovely and the property measures 2.53 acres.

[hp-hcs]

PART 3 OF PANSYS BROTHER YANDARE!THEO I BEGGGG

LIGHTHOUSE (Chapter Three of Pansy’s Brother) — yandere! psycho! theodore nott x ftm! parkinson! reader

WARNINGS: abduction/kidnapping, possessive/obsessive behavior

short as fuck but wtv

requests open

it’s a real place! tourlitis lighthouse, just off the coast of andros, greece. absolutely gorgeous, huh?

it’s technically a fully-automatic lighthouse, so there’s no real living quarters inside but yk what i write gay fanfic about wizards on tumblr i can do whatever i want

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You fought against your captor, but their grip was unyielding. They dragged you from the library, ducking into a small alcove before the loud crack of Apparition filled your ears.

Apparating was already an uncomfortable method of travel, but even more so with someone holding you painfully tight from behind. Your captor’s nails dug into your skin as they tightened the hand they had pressed over your mouth, and you could feel your panic begin to rise.

All of the swirling, churning motions of Apparating suddenly stopped, and you would’ve stumbled if hadn’t been for your captor’s firm grasp around your torso.

“Woah- careful, darling. You’re alright. Calm down.”

The stranger’s voice was decidedly male. He slowly pulled his hand away from your mouth, wrapping it around your waist, over top of his other arm.

It was like a really fucked up hug.

Would’ve been sweet of you hadn’t just been, y’know, kidnapped.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You were too stunned to do anything. The reality of the situation hadn’t even hit you yet.

The stranger buried his face into the back of your neck, his warm breath tickling your hair. You shuddered, cringing at the odd display of… affection? Obsession?

You resolutely ignored the man behind you and instead took a moment to look around, to take in your surroundings.

You were indoors, a very small space that appeared to be round. The walls were whitewashed brick, and the front door, just mere feet away from you, was a dark, solid wood. There was only one window, papered over with yellowing Muggle newspapers.

Dim light filtered through the window, but most of the room’s lighting came from a few oil lamps hanging on the walls. The lamps illuminated a teeny tiny kitchen, with a teeny tiny fridge, and a teeny tiny kitchen table which, by the looks of it, folded up against the wall when it wasn’t being used.

A ladder bolted to the wall ran up into the ceiling, where you could catch a glimpse of a fuzzy blanket in what was, presumably, a loft bedroom. The oddly cylindrical house was rather quaint, in a weird way.

“I’m going to let go of you now, darlin’,” the man behind you suddenly breathed into your ear, startling you.

You held your breath as your captor pulled his arms away.

The second he let go of your waist though, you made a break for the front door. You sprinted across the room, yanking it open.

He made no move to stop you, and you only realized why once you took just one step out of the house.

You were on an island.

No, the word island was generous. You were on a rock.

A sharp crash of a wave on the rock below sent sea spray into your face, immediately drenching your uniform.

You ignored the biting chill, instead electing to look around.

There was a short flight of steps cut into the rock that led up to the front door of the house-

The house.

You turned around, unsure of what to expect.

A fucking lighthouse was not in your top one hundred guesses.

“Y/N!”

You glanced down from the light at the top of the building to the doorway, where your captor stood.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking rather unbothered by your laughable attempt to escape.

“Where am I?” You demanded. “Who are you?”

“Aw, you don’t recognize me? That’s a shame.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait…you’re Pansy’s friend, aren’t you? Th- Theodore…?”

His face lit up and he broke out in a beaming grin. “You remember! Now, come back inside before you freeze.”

You scoff, fully intending to ignore him. But at that exact moment, a huge wave smacked against the rock, splashing up and soaking you all the way through.

You gasped at the chill. Theodore rolled his eyes and caught your wrist, tugging you back inside with surprising gentleness for the dude who’d just violently kidnapped you.

Shutting the door behind you both, he turned back towards you, frowning when he saw your school uniform dripping all over the floor.

“Wait just one second-” He scrambled up the ladder bolted onto the wall with surprising ease, returning just a moment later.

He held out for you to take: a way too oversized sweater, and sweatpants you were sure would never fit you.

You didn’t take them, stubbornly refusing even though you were shivering quite a bit. “Where. Are. We?”

“Italy,” he responded without hesitation.

You gaped at him.

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

[onboardsorasora]

Renovation AU

Ok I tried to stop but I couldn't stop thinking about Renovation AU (especially considering I was literally going to write it then got derailed by Enchated AU: Christmas). And then when I wrote this little snippet it was like floodgates. so here it is Renovation AU in all its outline glory all 2k words of it 🥴🥴🥴I'll just put it under the cut

Max is a handyman/contractor. I know I know. We know how his hammer skills are and how he looks holding it and an axe. But let's just pretend he actually learned this skill and he's fucking hot about it and it triggers every competency kink.

He's built, he was able to grow into his stockiness and he's strong (I'm thinking like that tree splitting tiktok guy but not as Thor thick)

Christian hires Nyck as an interior designer and Nyck hires on Max and his small team. They get shit done. Geri wants to redo the whole cottage and they have until the start of the riding season? to get it done. (Don't question me. I know nothing about riding)

So anyways– they’re behind and Christian doesn’t think Nyck can manage the scope of the job so he fires him and hires on Daniel. Daniel’s a little bit more eclectic than Nyck– but he came highly recommended by Lewis and Seb and Geri loved what he did with their house in Switzerland so she had no problems changing directions a bit.

The problem becomes clear because Max and Nyck work well together, they know each other. Max doesn’t like big change and Daniel is a big change. He’s also good looking but that doesn’t matter. He’s annoying and picky and refuses to go by Nyck’s old plans and his laugh is funny and endearing and his face is pretty and his tattoos are cool.

But none of that matters. None.

Daniel is excited to get working, but he thinks Christian could have been a bit more forthcoming about how far behind they were. Daniel was expecting that maybe he’d be starting on some walls or something, he came with with swatches and tiles and everything. But no….the house is still pretty husk-like. And he’s annoyed cause now he’s standing there in his shorts and sneakers looking like a dick on this construction site.

Anyway, it doesnt matter because he comes prepared! He has like overalls in his raptor. So he grabs that and changes right there in full view of god and everyone. Why yes he is wearing his hot pink hot pants, thanks for fucking noticing. The creative juices always flow when he’s wearing them!

So he goes to Max– who is fucking hot– and also very angry with him. And Daniel gets it, because he and Nyck were friends and there's nothing worse than seeing your friend get fired for things out of their control.

No matter, Daniel is profesh. He can work in almost any environment and he’s not going to embarrass Sewis like that. They’re long time clients and friends. And their recommendations are always highly regarded.

So Daniel gets to work, first he’s helping this guy named Simon update the bricking outside, Geri wanted a whitewash on the southern side so the garden doesn’t get too hot and it’ll match with the new patio going in. Then he’s helping a guy named Genty inside the bathroom– a couple of the pipes needed updating. There weren’t any leaks but no one uses lead pipes anymore for reasons. And then he helps GP lay some new tiles in the bedrooms so that the floors are heated in the winter.

So this is going on for a few days, Daniel helping members of the team, building a rapport– keeping a wide berth of Max. Because Daniel knows when to not ruffle feathers. But he can’t avoid him forever, so finally when all the walls are up and the electrical is done. Daniel goes to Max with the new plans– because his part of the show is about to start.

Max…isn’t happy. Sure the changes aren’t that major, and it's not like they’ll be undoing anything his team has already done. But how dare this guy with his hot accent and laugh come in and befriend his team?! If Max had to hear one more inside joke that he has no clue about or hear his crew talk about Daniel this and Daniel that, he was going to throw a hammer.

So when Daniel comes to him one evening to go over plans, Max doesn’t really want to hear it. He’s come here in his shiny truck (untrue, the truck is dirty as fuck– they work in a construction site), in his tight fucking pants (ok true, Daniel’s work pants are a tad on the skinny side), and his fucking city boots (it was one day the first day. And Max will never let it go), and his gelled hair (ok fine, he makes sure to use his curl cream. Daniel is vain), and tries to take over Max’s job site.

So Max lays into him, letting out all his frustration and pent up sexual tension for this guy that he’s barely interacted with but hears all the time and sees his team– his friends enjoy his presence and maybe he also feels a little left out. And Daniel just stands there and takes it, doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t fight back. Even when Max is saying blatantly untrue things– but he got a good rant going and Daniel wasn’t stopping him so he was just gonna keep going.

“–and your fucking hot pink–” Max cuts himself off because there was no reason to finish that thought. And Daniel gets this smug fucking grin on his face that Max just wants to kiss off.

“My hot pink what now?” Daniel raises a brow in a challenge that Max is so not going to take. But Daniel is nothing, if not a little shit. “Were you checking me out when I was oh so privately changing that one time Maxy?”

“You stripped in the middle of the driveway while everyone was working. That was hardly private, I think Daniel.”

“But no one else has mentioned my hot pink underwear Maxy Max. Did you like what you saw?” Daniel is dragging a finger along Max’s shoulder at this point and Max is just..frozen in place because how did we get here????

“I– well–You are changing in the middle of a site Daniel. You, of course, cannot be crying modesty now!”

“You wanna know what other colours I wear?”

“Don’t be silly Daniel.”

“Of course not Maxy, yesterday when I was tiling the guest bedroom with GP, I wore my favourite bright green pair that has some smokey black watercolour pattern. And when I was outside doing the patio I was wearing this pretty yellow polka dot ones.”

“I think that's enough Daniel, maybe. I do not–” Max is trying to push him away because when did he even get cornered by this wall? Who put a wall here??

“Oh but I think you’ll like the pair for today, you’re Dutch right? Do all Dutchies like the colour orange?”

“That’s enough Daniel I think! We–we can do the plan your way! It should look great–Geri will love it! I–I think I should go. Have a good night Daniel!” And Max manhandles Daniel out of his way and gtfo’s. He does not think about how Daniel’s waist felt under his arms because why did he even grab there??? He does not think about the fucking hot smirk on Daniels stupid face and kissable mouth and he absolutely does not think about Daniel’s ass in orange hot pants. Nope. He doesn’t.

That changes everything of course. He’s way more aware of where Daniel is in the house now. And its not like Daniel is going anything different. They speak now, and Daniel teases him with tool puns and very bad jokes and Max laughs at every single one because he’s down so bad. And everyone knows it.

Daniel makes random comments when they're alone, pouring over the blueprints and notes, about how Max’s thighs look like they can crush things and the he’ll make a loud offhand comment to the guys about having thighs wrapped around his face when they’re all making increasingly lewd sex jokes at lunch.

Daniel tells Max that he likes his thigh holster and Max internalizes the implications. So what if he’s blushing while they install the kitchen– he’s exerting himself!

Anyway they’re getting closer to the deadline, they have furniture delivery coming soon and there's still so much to do. Daniel has the team painting and wallpapering and Genty is doing the crown moulding and GP is finishing up the fireplace in the den and Max and Daniel are arguing about a chandelier that Geri wanted last minute. 

“We can extend it a little lower by three maybe four inches, c’mon Max it’ll really change like the look of the room. If it's too high then it’ll look too small and throws everything off.”

They're standing in the middle of the formal dining room, surrounded by chaos. Everyone is tired and a bit cranky because they’ve truly been going non-stop to meet this deadline. 

“It’ll be too low Daniel and the weight distribution will be off." Max sighs because he’s tired of arguing about this.

"Well if your guys installed the fucking beams–" Max had enough, he was tired, he was annoyed and he would not have Daniel complain about his team and fucking beams so late in the build. He sees white and he pushes Daniel’s chest. He’s mad, you don’t talk about his guys. He’s mad and Daniel is annoying and fuck. Max presses Daniel up against the wall and kisses him hard. And Daniel grips his shoulder and kisses him back.

And literally no one bats an eyelash because fucking finally. They can get shit finished now.

So they compromise on 2.5 inches lower. And Max is now wired because now he knows what Daniel feels like under him, pressed against him. Now he knows how his lips and mouth taste and what Daniel’s stubble feels like against his jaw.

It's late another night, the guys have all gone home and Max is with Daniel in the finally finished kitchen, going over what’s left to be done. Daniel’s team would be coming with the furniture install in 2 days so they needed to have everything done for them to take over.

Their time together is coming to an end and Max can’t stop looking at Daniel’s focused face while he makes a list and tries to figure out the best way to make things work. He’s staring at Daniel’s lips, at his nose, at the furrow of his brows.

Daniel looks up at him like ‘what?’, eyes wide and owlish? They really haven’t spoken about the kiss– not about it or what it meant or anything.

And then Max is kissing Daniel again and Daniel is all in. And it’s a push and pull between them and it’s hot and messy and they fuck right there in the kitchen. Daniel sucks Max’s dick in the nook that the stove’s supposed to go in and Max bends Daniel over the countertop (which they had argued about whether it was the correct height–it was).

Anyway so the house is finished, Geri is in love. Christian is happy with it all and life goes on. Max and Daniel go on a few dates, they fuck a lot and when Daniel got hired for another big job, he hired on Max as his contractor. 

It kinda went that way for a little bit, them doing jobs together, their teams merging until they make the leap to start a business together. Which incidentally happened before they took the step to move in together. Which is funny because they technically already did. A lot of Daniel’s stuff– clothes, plans, swatches– are already strewn around Max’s place and the cats know to leave the tiles and swatches alone. But moving together is a big step. Starting a business together is just smart. Anyway, they love each other and are grossly in love and their guys tease them about it daily. And Daniel now starts every job in his hot pink hot pants.

[sparklepocalypse]

Happy Wednesday (for another like, thirty seconds in my time zone, but who's counting?)! My thanks to @faketrex, @caterpills, @orchidscript, @onthewaytosomewhere, @kiwiana-writes

aaaaand @cha-melodius for the tags! Is it still Wednesday where you are? Is time real? I have no idea, so have an open tag.

Today's snippet is still more from my @aroyallybigbangrwrb fic, Meet Me on the Other Side, which is now solidly in Act 3 and careening toward an epilogue.

Henry and Alex arrive in Webb shortly after noon. To say Webb is a bustling town would be an overstatement; it appears to have been constructed with its rail station as the central fixture. The white sandstone structure is surrounded by a few short streets lined with brick buildings, which taper into scattered wooden edifices beyond and then back into the desert. A few locals give Henry and Alex curious looks as they pass through the town. Among the buildings near the railroad station, they pass multiple taverns and saloons, a barber shop, a post office, a forge, and a general store. None of them draw Alex’s attention. On the southern edge of the town, Alex reins Fuller in and dismounts in front of a building that looks like all the others from the outside — square, brick walls, single paned window glass, whitewashed trim and shutters. Here, there’s no sign of activity; Tequila and Fuller are the only horses hitched to the post as Alex and Henry walk inside. A placard in the front window boldly proclaims Coneflower Hotel — hot baths 50¢. The entryway is empty when they walk inside and approach the front desk, but another placard directs them to a hand bell on the counter, which Alex rings once. A gentleman emerges from a side room, wiping his hands on a towel. “How can I help you gents?” “Lookin’ to let a room with a bath,” Alex replies. “Double bed, if you’ve got it.” The man doesn’t even blink. “Course. Will you be stabling your horses?” Alex confirms that they will, and after a moment the innkeep retrieves a brass key with the number 5 on its tag. “With the stable fee that’s three dollars a night for a double bed and bath. You’re on the top floor; ain’t nobody else up there.” He delivers the last phrase blandly, and Alex hands over three silver dollars. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. Water will be hot for your bath in twenty minutes or so, and you’ll find the best grub in Webb at the dining room inside Sharp’s Saloon around the corner.” Without another word, the man disappears into the side room again. “Is that… common?” Henry asks as they return to the horses to lead them to the stable and retrieve their belongings. “He knows we’re here together. He gave us privacy. He didn’t even ask for names.” “Well, cariño,” Alex replies as he unhitches Fuller from the post, “Webb is a rail town that sprung up out of the desert about ten years ago. Place like this might have twice as many gents as ladies. Can get lonesome out here, even for a feller who never really thought about other men.” Henry, who’s been thinking about other men since before he sprouted his first pubic hair, considers this for a moment.

[koffeesfancy]

Rapture Ch. 2 | Koffee x Reader

Genre: Dark-ish romance, fluff, angst, college!au

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 6073

A/N: And just like that, I’m back again like I never left. Sorry guys, I’ve been busy with work and traveling. I feel like I rarely have time to my self to do the things I enjoy most like writing and connecting with our tiny little innocent bubble of black queerness and fangirling. Hopefully, I may have more time for writing as we approach the colder months and spend more time inside. I hope this update was worth the wait. Tell me if you enjoyed it ❤️

Taglist: @lyfeofbilly @prettymrswright @onyxstones-world

The thick humidity of the evening air clung to your skin, leaving a remnant of the rain that had passed earlier. You stood inside the athletics building, your footsteps echoing faintly in the empty lobby. The whitewashed brick walls seemed to press closer with each passing moment, their rough surface catching the dim glow of the overhead lights. A large banner for the night’s basketball game hung on the wall. Its bold letters contrasted starkly against the deepening darkness outside. The faint smell of old rubber and disinfectant lingered in the air, worsening your growing discomfort. 

You hesitated, eyes fixed on the entrance of the basketball court. The iron handles of the glass doors glinted coldly as if to signal danger. Laughter and chatter seeped through them providing a muffled vibrancy against the stillness. Your feet shifted on the linoleum tiles, the soft scrape of your shoes the only sound breaking the silence. 

Just as you steeled yourself to go inside, a handful of girls swept through the entrance, their arrival shattering your quiet contemplation. Dressed in their colorful game day best, they walked past, each giving a cursory glance at your leather shoes and corduroy skirt. You thought you heard a scoff from one of them as another’s lips curled in obvious disdain. They looked back at one another, eyes meeting knowingly before a round of snickers followed. Heat rushed to your cheeks, a familiar sting of humiliation rising with it. Your throat seemed to close and your clothes suddenly became too hot and itchy.

Overwhelmed with the need to escape, you turned abruptly, footsteps echoing down the empty corridor. Tears blurred your vision, quickly wiped away as frustration tightened in your chest. Your hurried steps carried you down the corridor, past walls adorned with banners and the faint reflections of polished glass. As you brushed by, the gleam of a trophy cabinet caught your attention, pulling you from your retreat. A large group photo hung just above the shiny awards, each face captured in a moment of triumph.

But it was Mikayla who held your attention. In the photograph, her smile was wide, almost playful, her warm brown eyes sparkling with a joy that felt foreign compared to the cold, brooding presence she exuded before. Her locs, normally pulled back in a tight ponytail, fell loosely around her shoulders, framing her face in a way that made her seem almost ethereal. Seeing her like this—a version of Mikayla that felt freer, less guarded—struck a chord deep within you. The image was so different, so unexpected, that it sent a shiver down your spine, like the flutter of a wing brushing against your skin.

The feelings of rejection and frustration that had driven you to leave began to waver, replaced by something warmer, more uncertain. The memory of her voice, calm yet charged with an energy that seemed to hum between the two of you, replayed in your mind. Her eyes, intense and searching, had held yours just a moment too long earlier in the day, and now that gaze lingered in your thoughts, beckoning you.

You found yourself rooted to the spot, the sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence. The corridor, once a place of escape, now felt like a threshold—one you weren’t sure you wanted to cross. The pull to go back was almost magnetic, an invisible thread tugging at your heart, leading you towards the gymnasium. The irony of it all wasn’t lost on you. Moments ago, you were desperate to flee, yet now, the thought of walking away felt impossible.

With a slow, deliberate breath, you turned, feet moving almost of their own accord. The sound of the crowd grew louder as you approached the entrance once more, the noise a distant echo of the emotions swirling within you. The earlier gloom still hung in the air, but now it was tinged with something else—an anxious anticipation, a small flicker of hope.

Stepping into the gymnasium, you were immediately struck by the charged atmosphere. The space, though modest in size, thrummed with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. The bleachers, dotted with small clusters of spectators, displayed the familiar clash of school colors, each group a loyal island amidst the sea of seats. The turnout was decent, not overwhelmingly crowded, but enough to give the room a steady, vibrant hum. You noticed a few players beginning to exit the locker room, their sneakers quietly marking their arrival on the glossy court.

Your eyes swept over the bleachers, searching for an open seat, but your attention snagged on something far more captivating. There, just beyond the court's edge, stood Mikayla and Jaz. Mikayla’s basketball shorts, though loose, offered a glimpse of her toned thighs, catching the light with each subtle movement. The way the light played off her jersey brought out the contours of her smooth, brown arms, each movement rippling with a quiet power. A surge of heat bloomed in your chest, spreading swiftly, igniting every nerve. The gymnasium seemed to shrink around you, the hum of the crowd fading into dull white noise. Only the pulse of your heart remained, each beat syncing with the rhythm of Mikayla’s movements.

Mikayla and Jaz stood close, their conversation low but intense. Jaz’s expression was calm, she stared directly at her teammate as if absorbing every word, while Mikayla’s gaze darted around the gymnasium, her lips moving rapidly, like she was rattling off thoughts too quickly to contain. When her eyes met yours, your breath caught in your throat. Her initial look of restlessness melted into one of surprise, and you felt a sudden, almost dizzying rush of warmth. Her warm brown eyes seemed to hold a glimmer of recognition and curiosity as they locked onto you. She blinked, her gaze flickering away momentarily before snapping back with renewed intensity, her eyebrows lifting slightly in a mix of surprise and intrigue. The movement was swift yet deliberate, as if she was trying to confirm that what she saw was real. At the onslaught of her double-take, your heart skipped a beat. The impact of her lingering look made the room feel as if it were tilting. For a moment, everything else faded, leaving just the two of you in a silent exchange. Her lips parted slightly, and a small, knowing smile curved her mouth, sending a shiver down your spine. Slowly, Mikayla lifted a hand, her finger pointing toward an empty seat in the front row. The gesture was subtle, almost casual, but it felt like a silent command, forcing your legs to march towards the seat as if you were controlled by puppet strings. 

As you approached the front row, your legs felt like jelly, each step heavier than the last. Your nerves buzzed, your hands instinctively finding each other in your lap, fingers twisting and pulling as you sat down. You felt tense with Mikayla and Jaz standing in front of you. The bleachers beneath you were cool and hard, but all you could focus on was the fluttering in your chest and the warmth spreading across your face. You tried to steady your breathing, but the faint tremor in your hands betrayed your efforts.

"Yow, mi glad yuh show up and support!” Jaz’s voice broke through your swirling thoughts, her tone bright and genuine. You turned to look up at her, your eyes widening slightly at her enthusiasm. Her smile was warm, and you couldn’t help but mirror it, a nervous giggle slipping past your lips.

“Y-yeah, of course,” you replied, your voice tinged with a shyness that you couldn’t quite shake. The words felt awkward on your tongue, but Jaz’s kindness put you at ease, if only a little.

But even as you focused on Jaz, you could feel Mikayla’s gaze boring into you, intense and unyielding. It was as if she were trying to read your thoughts, her brown eyes fixed on you with a concentration that made your skin tingle. You could barely bring yourself to glance her way, afraid of what you might see in her expression, yet irresistibly drawn to her all the same. The weight of her stare made your heart race, the air between you thick with an unspoken tension that made it hard to sit still.

Mikayla’s intense gaze finally broke as a teasing smile tugged at the corner of her lips, the glint of her silver braces catching the light. She leaned in slightly, her voice low but laced with a playful edge. “Yuh betta not have skipped out, or else,” she said, her tone carrying just a hint of a challenge. Her eyes glinted with something unreadable, making your heart skip a beat.

She straightened up, her smile widening as she added, “And make sure yuh stay yahso in dat seat, the whole time.” The words were delivered with a lightness that made you blush, but there was an underlying seriousness that sent a shiver down your spine. You nodded quickly, too flustered to trust your voice, and her grin only deepened, as if she enjoyed seeing you squirm

Mikayla’s teasing smile lingered as she tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. “Remember what mi say,” she said, her tone curt but laced with a playful edge. Just as she turned to rejoin Jaz, her fingers brushed lightly through your hair, ruffling it with a gentle but deliberate motion.

Caught off guard by the unexpected gesture, you instinctively leaned into Mikayla's touch. The gentle touch felt unexpectedly soothing, each movement sending a tingling warmth through you. The world around you seemed to blur, the sounds of the gymnasium fading into a white noise. You were enveloped in a hazy bubble of bliss, a smile beginning to tug at the corners of your mouth as you let yourself savor the contact. For a moment, you were lost in a daydream, the warmth of her hand lingering longer than you realized. The sensation was so captivating that you barely registered the sound of Jaz clearing her throat, a subtle reminder of the world that still existed beyond this fleeting, personal encounter.

It wasn’t until you registered the noise through your daydream that you snapped back to reality. Your cheeks burned as you suddenly became aware of how long you’d been leaning into Mikayla’s touch, a wave of embarrassment crashing over you. You fumbled awkwardly, your fingers twitching in your lap as you tried to regain some semblance of composure. When you dared to look up, Mikayla’s gaze met yours with a mixture of dark satisfaction and cruel curiosity, reminiscent of the look she’d given you in the atrium. Her lips curled into a mocking smirk, and you could feel her pleasure in your discomfort. The sting of your humiliation made you wish you could vanish into the bleacher beneath you.

Mikayla lingered for a moment longer, her smirk deepening as she savored your reaction. As she straightened up to leave, she tossed a casual, almost offhand remark over her shoulder, “Try not to miss me too much.”

The words hung in the air, playful but laced with that familiar teasing edge. Your stomach flipped, and all you could do was nod dumbly as she and Jaz turned to join the other players. The sound of their retreating footsteps echoed in your ears, leaving you in a haze of mortification and longing.

Soon the game began and unfolded in a blur, the fast-paced movements of the players blending into a whirlwind of action that you struggled to keep up with. The ball flew across the court, sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, and the crowd's cheers rose and fell like waves, but the rules and strategies remained a mystery to you. Despite your confusion, you couldn't tear your eyes away from the players, especially Mikayla. She moved with a grace and confidence that was mesmerizing, each shot she made sending the crowd into a frenzy. You found yourself caught up in the excitement, admiring how cool and composed she looked, even in the heat of the game. But then, after one particularly impressive shot, Mikayla turned and, to your utter shock, winked at you. The gesture was so unexpected, so out of place amidst the intensity of the game, that you felt a jolt of disbelief. Your heart skipped a beat, leaving you even more confused and flustered than before, as the reality of what just happened sank in.

As the buzzer signaled the end of the game, the scoreboard flashed a decisive 60-25. The crowd erupted, voices echoing off the gymnasium walls. Players began to gather around Mikayla, their faces lit with excitement and admiration, clearly impressed by her game-winning shots.

Amid the celebration, Mikayla’s attention seemed to waver. Her eyes flickered across the court, her brow furrowing slightly as she focused on something—or someone—in the distance. Following her gaze, you noticed Gabriella slipping out of the gym, her arm causally linked with a guy you recognized as a TA for one of the science college professors. Mikayla’s expression darkened, her triumphant aura dimming just a shade as she watched them leave.

After the game, you thought about gathering your things and slipping out unnoticed. The thrill of the evening was wearing off, leaving you with a nervous energy that made your legs restless. As you rose from the bleachers, however, your eyes unintentionally drifted to where the basketball players were huddled around their coach. Mikayla stood among them, her arms crossed, and to your surprise, she was glaring directly at you. The intensity of her stare made you freeze, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d done something wrong.

Unsure of how to respond, you awkwardly fidgeted before deciding to sit back down. You pulled out the fantasy romance novel you’d been reading and flipped it open, trying to shake off the weirdness of the situation. The familiar words on the page began to draw you in, pulling you away from the gymnasium and into a world of castles, enchanted forests, and epic quests.

The heroine of your story was a damsel in distress, caught in a perilous web of dark magic and sinister warlocks. As you read, your mind wandered, and you began to imagine yourself in her place, heart pounding as she awaited her fate. But in your version of the story, the hero wasn’t just any knight— for some reason it was Mikayla. You couldn’t help but to picture her riding in on a sleek, black horse, her eyes fierce and determined, cutting through the mist like a blade. She would charge straight into battle, her silver armor gleaming, and with a single sweep of her sword, she would rescue you from the clutches of danger. The image of Mikayla as the powerful, fearless arknight brought a flush to your cheeks, making it harder to focus on the words in front of you. Lost in the fantasy, you didn’t even notice when the huddle broke up, and the players began to disperse.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over your book, and before you could react, it was snatched right out of your hands. You blinked, startled, and looked up to see Mikayla standing in front of you, her expression unreadable as she examined the cover. Panic set in as you scrambled to your feet, or at least tried to—Mikayla’s hand shot out, and she placed it firmly on the top of your head, holding you down with a shocking ease.

“Hey—give it back!” you protested, your voice shaky as you tried to push against her grip. But it was no use; her hand kept you anchored to the bleacher, your attempts to stand only making you feel more helpless and humiliated.

Mikayla barely glanced at you, her attention focused on the open book in her other hand. With a slow, deliberate smile, she began to read aloud from the page you’d been on, her voice dripping with amusement. “‘Lady Elowen’s lips brushed against the damsel Seraphina’s, a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of promises and unspoken desires. The knight’s hands, strong yet tender, cradled Seraphina’s face, pulling her closer as the world around them faded, leaving only the warmth of their embrace…’”

Your face flushed with mortification as the words echoed in the near-empty gymnasium, Mikayla’s teasing tone making your heart race with both embarrassment and something else—something you couldn’t quite place. You squirmed under her hold, but she only pressed down slightly harder, making it clear that she wasn’t finished with her little game. You could hardly bring yourself to look at her, your eyes darting anywhere but those mischievous brown eyes, now alight with cruel satisfaction.

The scene felt painfully familiar, a humiliating echo of when your classmates had laughed at you in Professor Thomas' class and all the other times you were laughed at for having ‘weird’ interests. Your vision blurred as tears welled up in your eyes, and despite your best efforts to hold them back, one slipped free, tracing a hot path down your cheek.

Mikayla’s teasing smile faltered as she caught sight of your tear. She paused, lowering the book slightly, and for a moment, the playful glint in her eyes was replaced by something else. Without a word, she stepped closer, her taunting demeanor evaporating. She reached out and grabbed your face, her fingers cool against your flushed skin as she lifted your chin, forcing you to look up at her.

“Awah wrong with yuh?” she asked, her tone now laced with a soft curiosity, the sharp edge gone. Her thumb brushed away the tear on your cheek, and the intensity of her gaze made your heart pound.

You wanted to pull away, to hide from the vulnerability of the moment, but Mikayla’s grip on your chin was firm, holding you in place. The closeness was overwhelming, her fingers pressing gently against your skin, and the unexpected shift in her gaze—focused, almost concerned—left you feeling even more exposed. The sting of the past mingled with the confusion of the present, making you feel small and unsure, just like when your classmates had laughed at you before.

Tears began to fall more freely now, and your breath hitched as you tried to speak through the lump in your throat. “I know you’re just going to laugh at me,” you choked out, your voice trembling with anxiety. “Like everyone else does. I know I’m weird, but I don’t deserve to be made fun of.”

The words tumbled out in a desperate rush, each one pulling at the raw edges of your emotions. You couldn’t meet Mikayla’s eyes, afraid of the ridicule you were sure was coming. The admission felt like a wound laid bare, exposing the pain you’d tried so hard to keep hidden, and the fear that it would only be met with more cruelty.

Mikayla kissed her teeth, a sound of frustration mixed with disbelief. “Why yuh think mi a mek fun of yuh?” she chided, her voice sharp but not unkind. Her fingers, still holding your chin, moved to wipe away the fresh tears streaking down your cheeks. 

“You a mad mi,” she muttered, more to herself than to you, her tone softening as she brushed away the last of your tears with her thumb. The question hung in the air, leaving you feeling even more bewildered as you searched her face for answers, finding only a confusing mix of emotions.

You swallowed hard, feeling the lump in your throat as you forced out a meek apology. “I’m sorry… I just… don’t understand,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “Why don’t you want to make fun of me? And… why did you make me come to this game?”

Your question hung between you, the uncertainty in your voice evident as you searched Mikayla’s face, trying to piece together her intentions. The confusion in your mind swirled with the remnants of your tears, leaving you vulnerable and exposed, waiting for an answer that might finally make sense of everything.

“Wah? Yuh think mi a bun yuh out fi dis? You take me for hypocrite?”

You hesitated before asking, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you talking about… you and Gabriella?”

Mikayla’s reaction was immediate—she rolled her eyes, a dismissive scoff escaping her lips. “Gabriella is nothing to me,” she said with an almost bored tone. Then, without warning, she sat down beside you, her shoulder brushing against yours as she turned to face you more directly. “She nothing like you,” Mikayla continued, her voice softening. “You… You’re nice… kind… sensitive.”

Your heart skipped a beat at her words, a mix of confusion and disbelief flooding your mind. You opened your mouth to ask what exactly she meant by that, but before you could get the words out, the gymnasium lights suddenly flickered and went out, plunging the space into darkness.

The abruptness of it made you jump, the echo of the light switch’s click reverberating in the empty gym. You couldn’t see much in the dark, but you felt Mikayla’s presence beside you, closer than before. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken thoughts, the earlier tension replaced by something you couldn’t quite name.

Your breath caught in your throat as the darkness swallowed the gym, leaving you disoriented and uneasy. The stillness was unnerving, and for a moment, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped in the vast, empty space.

But then, a soft beam of light pierced the darkness, and you turned to see Mikayla holding her phone, the flashlight illuminating her face in the otherwise pitch-black gym. She looked at you with a calmness that was almost reassuring, her earlier teasing gone.

“Come on,” Mikayla said, her voice steady as she reached out, grabbing you gently by the shoulders. You nodded, feeling your heart race, not from fear, but from the closeness of her touch. She guided you forward, her grip firm as she led you through the dark gym. 

The quiet shuffle of your footsteps echoed in the empty space as Mikayla steered you toward a door at the side of the gym. You barely registered where you were going, too focused on the warmth of her hands on your shoulders and the sense of safety it brought.

Mikayla pushed open the door, leading you into a smaller room—a coach’s office, by the looks of it. The room was cluttered with paperwork, sports equipment, and a desk strewn with notes. As soon as you stepped inside, Mikayla flicked on the light switch, filling the room with a warm, soft glow.

The sudden brightness made you squint, but as your eyes adjusted, you found yourself standing in the center of the room, Mikayla still holding onto you. The quiet hum of the overhead lights felt oddly comforting after the darkness, and the small space was a stark contrast to the vast emptiness of the gym.

As Mikayla pulled out a few chairs, the tension in your shoulders began to ease, replaced by a tentative sense of curiosity. She motioned for you to sit in the rolling chair behind the desk, and though you hesitated at first, the firm yet playful look in her eyes left little room for argument. You sank into the chair, the worn leather cool against your skin, while Mikayla settled into the chair across from you, crossing her legs with a casual grace. 

She clasped her hands in her lap, adopting a serious expression that contrasted with the mischievous glint in her eyes. It almost felt like she was conducting an interview, and you couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the situation. With a dramatic flair, Mikayla cleared her throat, leaning forward slightly as if preparing to delve into something incredibly important.

“So, Miss…” she began, pausing for effect. Her tone was mock-serious, and she held your gaze, drawing out the moment. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to be very honest with me.”

A nervous chuckle bubbled up from your throat, and you tried to play along, though the weight of her stare made you fumble for words. “W-well, if this is a job interview, I should probably mention that I have a really bad habit of, um… overwatering my houseplants. They’re more like fish at this point.”

You winced internally, cringing at the corny joke that had somehow made its way out of your mouth. A flush crept up your neck, and you avoided looking directly at Mikayla, half-expecting her to roll her eyes. Instead, her lips twitched into a small, amused smile, the seriousness in her demeanor cracking just a little.

Mikayla smirked at your corny joke, but her eyes sharpened with intent. “This isn’t exactly a job interview, you know,” she said, her tone playful but with an edge that made your heart skip a beat. She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms as she fixed you with a serious look. “So, do you like women?”

The question hung in the air like a loaded gun. You could feel your cheeks heating up, and you desperately searched for a way to deflect. “Well, I mean… I like people who love the environment, but, uh… my fish-plants might say otherwise?” you stammered, your voice dripping with forced sarcasm as you looked away, hoping the awkwardness would dissolve under the pressure of humor.

But Mikayla wasn’t having it. She snapped her fingers, a sharp sound that made you jolt and instinctively turn your gaze back to her. Her eyes locked onto yours, unyielding, and she leaned forward, her expression darkening as her voice dropped to a low growl. “Don’t lie to me. You know exactly what I mean.” 

The intensity in her voice sent a shiver down your spine, and the room suddenly felt much smaller. You swallowed hard, realizing there was no escaping this conversation, not with Mikayla staring you down like that.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you tried to avoid her gaze, nervously biting your lip. The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely more than a whisper. “More like… do girls like me? I’ve never even kissed someone…” 

Mikayla sighed, the sound heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice firm with authority, leaving no room for hesitation. Reluctantly, you lifted your eyes back to hers, feeling more vulnerable than ever under her unwavering stare.

“Is that why you haven’t told Gabriella’s secret?” she asked, her tone softening just slightly as if she was carefully probing the edges of something fragile.

You shrugged, feeling a lump form in your throat. “I just don’t get the big deal. It’s none of my business anyway. And besides, you and Gabriella are cool—people wouldn’t care if you two were dating. They’d just hate someone like me. I’m not pretty, and I’m weird… I’d only get bullied more.”

Mikayla rolled her eyes, an exasperated sound escaping her lips as she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, closing the distance between you. “That’s not true,” she said with a firmness that made you almost believe her. “Yuh plenty cool. Other people? Them just lame and jealous of how original you are. They don’t get it—don’t get you. But that’s a them problem, not you.” 

Her words hung in the air, almost like a protective shield, and you could feel the tension in your chest easing just a bit. Mikayla’s gaze remained steady, the authority in her tone now laced with something almost like… admiration.

Your skin heated up, a flush spreading across your cheeks as your heart raced. The realization that Mikayla had just complimented you made it hard to think straight. You swallowed nervously, trying to keep your voice steady as you asked, “Why are you being nice to me?”

Mikayla’s gaze softened, a small, almost genuine smile playing on her lips. “Because I think you’re nice,” she replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

For a moment, the intensity between you faded, replaced by a warmth that made you feel lighter. The tension in the room eased, and before you knew it, the two of you had slipped into a comfortable conversation. Mikayla leaned back in her chair, legs crossed again, and started sharing little things about herself—her favorite movies, the music she liked, even the weird habits she had. You found yourself laughing at her dry wit and tossing back your own quirky interests in response.

The nervousness you’d felt earlier slowly melted away, replaced by an easy camaraderie. You traded jokes, some cringey and others surprisingly clever, and the more you talked, the more you realized how much you enjoyed this side of Mikayla—the side that was relaxed, open, and surprisingly funny. For a moment, it was easy to forget the awkwardness and just enjoy each other’s company.

Suddenly, your shared laughter was cut off by the sharp sound of the gymnasium door clanging open, followed by the unmistakable jingle of keys. You froze, your heart leaping into your throat as you glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly two hours had passed since the game ended. You hadn’t even noticed the time slipping by, so absorbed were you in talking with Mikayla.

A gruff voice echoed through the gym, “Who’s in there?”

Mikayla’s eyes widened in alarm, and she leaned in close, whispering urgently, “It’s the security guard!” 

Before you could react, she was already on her feet, grabbing your arm and flicking off the light in one swift motion. The room plunged into darkness, and you stumbled as she tugged you out of the coach’s office. Your heart pounded in your chest as the two of you hurried down the hall, the sound of the security guard’s keys and footsteps growing louder, echoing ominously through the empty building.

Mikayla led the way, her grip firm as she pulled you toward the locker room. The closer the footsteps got, the faster you moved, your breath coming in short, panicked bursts. As you reached the locker room, Mikayla pushed open the door and slipped inside, dragging you along with her. The door closed behind you with a soft click, and you both stood still, listening as the footsteps continued to draw nearer, the tension between you palpable in the close quarters.

Mikayla didn’t waste a second, yanking you through the dimly lit locker room, her grip unyielding as she pulled you toward the back, where the shower stalls were hidden in shadows. You barely had time to catch your breath before she pushed you into one, closing and locking the door behind you with a soft click that seemed to echo in the tense silence.

The small space was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint silver light spilling through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. Mikayla’s silhouette loomed over you, and as she pressed you back against the cool, damp wall, you felt the chill seep through your shirt, the wetness clinging to your skin. The shock of it made you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the electrifying proximity of Mikayla.

She moved closer, her presence overwhelming in the confined space. You could feel the heat radiating from her body, a stark contrast to the coolness of the tiles behind you. The smell of the locker room—a mix of the humid, fragrant air drifting in from outside and the lingering traces of fruity body wash—was intoxicating. But it was the scent of Mikayla that dominated your senses. Her cologne, rich and spicy, mingled with the saltiness of sweat from the game, creating a heady blend that made your heart pound.

Mikayla leaned in, her breath brushing against your ear, and placed a finger over your lips, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse race. Shhhh, she mouthed, the command barely more than a whisper, but it reverberated through you, sending a shiver down your spine. The tension between you crackled in the air, thick and charged, as if the very atmosphere was waiting to explode.

In the dim light, you could see the way the moonlight caressed her features, highlighting the sharp lines of her jaw, the curve of her lips, the subtle gleam in her eyes that hinted at something darker, something thrillingly dangerous. Up close, she was stunning in a way that made it hard to breathe, and you found yourself unable to look away, captivated by the raw beauty before you.

The heat of her body pressed against yours, the firm, insistent touch of her hand still hovering near your lips—it was almost too much. Every nerve in your body was on high alert, your senses overwhelmed by the closeness, the intensity of the moment. Your heart thudded in your chest, your breath quickening as your eyes darted over her face, drinking in every detail, every inch of the person who now seemed to dominate your entire world.

And in that instant, with her so close, with the intoxicating scent of her filling your lungs and the feel of her warm breath against your skin, the world outside ceased to exist. All that mattered was Mikayla—her presence, her touch, the way she looked at you with something that felt dangerously close to desire.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The distant sounds of the security guard’s footsteps and jangling keys faded into the background, replaced by the deafening silence that hung between you and Mikayla. Your gazes locked, and in that shared look, something shifted—an unspoken understanding, a pull that neither of you could resist.

Mikayla’s hand, which had been resting against the wall, slid down to your waist. The touch was firm yet gentle, her fingers pressing into the curve of your hip as she pulled you closer. The space between you evaporated until your bodies were flush against each other. The sudden proximity was overwhelming—you could feel the rapid thud of her heart against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own. Her breath, warm and slightly ragged, mingled with yours, the air between you thick with anticipation.

Your senses were ablaze, every nerve ending tingling with the electricity of the moment. The scent of her filled your nostrils, intoxicating and addictive. You could feel the heat of her body, the firmness of her grip on your waist, and the way her fingers tightened slightly, as if grounding herself in the reality of your closeness.

Time seemed to stretch as you stood there, lost in each other’s eyes. Her gaze was intense, the dark pools of her irises holding you captive, drawing you in deeper. There was a rawness, an honesty in the way she looked at you—something that made your breath hitch and your pulse quicken.

Then, slowly, as if every movement was deliberate, Mikayla leaned in. The world around you blurred, the only thing in focus being the soft press of her lips against yours. The kiss was tentative at first, a gentle exploration, as if testing the waters. But as the seconds passed, it deepened, the pressure increasing as the initial hesitation melted away.

Her lips were warm and soft, moving against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent shivers down your spine. The kiss was everything and nothing like you’d imagined—slow, dramatic, filled with a tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. It was the kind of kiss that made the world fade away, leaving only the two of you in that small, shadowed space.

Your hands, almost of their own accord, found their way to her shoulders, gripping the fabric of her shirt as you kissed her back. The connection was electric, the sensation of her lips against yours, her body pressed so intimately close to yours, igniting something deep within you.

The kiss seemed to stretch on for an eternity, each second drawing you further into the heat of the moment. When she finally pulled back, just a fraction, her breath mingled with yours in the small space between you. The intensity in her gaze hadn’t lessened; if anything, it had grown, and the look she gave you made your heart skip a beat.

In that moment, nothing else mattered—just you and Mikayla, and the undeniable connection that had sparked between you.

Previous Chapter

[savagewildnerness]

“”Can’t we meander together?”

“Yes, he said, eagerly.

What in God’s name did I want? We walked beneath the old porches, past the old solid green shutters; past the walls of peeling plaster and naked brick, and through the garish light of the Rur Bourbon and then I saw the St Louis Cemetery up ahead, with its thick whitewashed walls.

What did I want? Why was my soul aching still when all the rest of them had struck some balance? Eceb Louis had struck a balance, and we had each other, as Marius had said.

I was happy to be with him, happy to be walking these old streets; but why wasn’t it enough?”

[dujour13]

🔮 for Woljif please? Unless you'd rather do it for Sia.

Thank you Ash 💕 such a good prompt, I only hope I can do it justice.

cw: kids are bullies

On the cliffside edge of the slums a pack of street urchins squatted in the mud before the peeling whitewashed planks of a whorehouse, because in the early evening when the sunlight hit the wall just right it became their theater of shadow-animals. The only toys they owned.

He came up obliquely and hunkered down among them unnoticed. Underfoot his tattered boots crunched on shards of broken glass, fish bones and discarded ribbons.

By now he knew there were only two types of people: normal people and tieflings. Of course normal people came in all sorts of shapes, colors and sizes, and so did tieflings, but what set tieflings apart was the horns.

When he was small (it was funny to think about now, he was so naïve when he was five) he thought tieflings were scary. The other kids would point them out and spit, and whisper the word like an accusation, and sometimes they would run and hide from them as if they were dangerous, so of course he did too. And tieflings were ugly. A lot of them had snake eyes and pointy teeth, and a half-starved, shifty look he had learned very young meant trouble: volatile tempers, snatching hands.

Then his own horns started growing in, the baby nubs itching and cracking the skin as they pushed out between his curls and gradually began to spiral.

He couldn’t recall now the exact moment the realization struck his child’s mind but the shock of it still hit like a brick in the face.

I’m a tiefling.

The other children realized too, you can bet on it. He did recall all too clearly that exact moment: the time he was scratching until his nails came away red and Mag had done a double take, reached over and seized the little horn right out from between his curls and dragged him before the other children to put this outrage on public display.

I am not, I am not! Let go!

That was when the tail-pulling and rock-throwing started. Most of them flat out refused to play with him anymore. Only the beggar girl he and the other boys used to throw rocks at didn’t seem to mind, or even to notice, probably because she was loopy. She was twice his height and hopeless at hide-at-seek but it was something, at least.

If he slipped into the crowd unnoticed like this, sometimes they tolerated his presence. He projected a rabbit onto the wall that someone’s shadow-wolf tried to devour, and a little scene unfolded that made all the children laugh.

At some point Mag must have noticed him, though, because soon the bigger boy made a hand-shadow on the wall with both fists interlocked and two curled fingers sticking up.

“I’m a filthy tiefling,” Mag’s thumb made the shadow-puppet say.

Woljif’s eyes narrowed.

All the other children of the grubby peanut gallery raised their fists in an army of shadow-crusaders. “Kill the demon!”

Fury choking him, he watched as they chased Mag’s tiefling back and forth. He couldn’t let this go. They didn’t get it. He was a kid like them. The injustice of it rose like bile in his seven-year-old throat.

His tail whipped. He balled his fists. Don’t call attention, he heard Yger’s gravelly warning in his mind. Mind your mouth, boy, he heard Gran.

The shadow-crusaders piled on, trampling Mag’s bleating tiefling into the ground.

Enough. They were stupid.

“Tieflings are not demons!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

They all glared at him over their shoulders.

“Piss off, demon,” said Mag.

“You piss off!”

With a wicked look Mag began to raise one finger. To point and accuse, or to sic the other kids on him? No. With slow, determined malice he turned the finger toward the warped boards of the whorehouse wall.

“Look!”

Now that he was standing, the horned shadow he projected seemed to loom over the squatting children.

“Demon!” shouted Mag. “De-mon! De-mon! De-mon!” And the other children took up the chant.

Woljif felt a stinging in his eyes that threatened to betray him, a betrayal from which he knew he would never recover. His mouth pulled tight. By now he had mostly learned to swallow that all-too-familiar lump of searing hurt rising in his chest.

“Am not,” he corrected them in an almost steady voice.

They wouldn’t listen. They went on chanting.

If they wouldn’t listen he would have to show them. Eyes flicking to the wall he advanced closer so that his shadow got smaller, more like a regular kid’s, but they kept chanting until the burning shame in his throat rose and rose and caught fire like lamp oil, and suddenly his whole body shuddered as with a whoosh an unnatural blue flame erupted from his skin, bright against an encompassing darkness like a total eclipse blotting the sunlight. A cold breeze ruffled their hair.

For a moment there was not a sound. The children gaped.

It was like it had swallowed the sun. Black as the Abyss, goat-horned and bat-winged, burning with cold menace. Crouching in its shade, the petrified children suddenly looked like bug-eyed mudskippers, mouths opening and closing in silent terror.

And then they scattered.

“Yeah, run! You’ll see!” Woljif scooped up a handful of mud and lobbed it after Mag, but it was only once they’d all disappeared that he caught his ragged breath, wiped his nose and turned slowly, fearfully, to gaze upon his crime.

It was scary.

He looked all the way down to where it connected to his feet just like a normal shadow should, and then back up again.

It even had claws.

Afraid and yet too curious to resist, he raised one hand, and it raised its claw in mimic.

Huh.

He waved.

It waved back. Almost cheerful-like.

And then it receded in the orange sunset flooding across the Sellen, and he was alone again.

[unintentionalgenius]

ok @ragequilt asked for these. Up first, the union organizer codywan fic (tentatively titled I ain't cut out for war, unless I know what I'm fighting for)

Someone, at some point, took the time and extra effort to build a swing on the front porch of the little house. Time, and effort, and someone had to go and find the metal links for the chain to hold it up, and the pieces of wood in good repair to lay for the seat, and as many again for the back. It’s worn smooth, maybe the only wooden piece of this house not likely to snag any piece of fabric that lays against it the wrong way. Obi-Wan can’t say if it’s from time or if it was sanded down that way, polished to a shine the first day it hung out here. Like everything else in this region, it’s impossible to say how old it is. Mornings are still chilly, no matter how deep into the summer they progress. The sun rises late, and burns off the inevitable early-morning mist even later. Obi-Wan often carries his little blanket from his pallet out onto the swing in the mornings, cradling his metal cup of coffee in his hands to poach the warmth. It seems easier inside when he’s not there gumming up the well-oiled machine of the family’s morning routine. It’s a Sunday, though, no work to be done for the miners of the family. There’s a cousin who comes with his wife and takes any of the younger boys he can corral with them to church. The older boys all, to a man, decline. It’s polite, but only just, and cold. No one says a word either way to the younger boys, and this cousin succeeds or fails purely on his own merits. It means it’s quiet, fewer bodies around and none of the frenetic awareness of somewhere to be. Obi-Wan sips his coffee and listens to birdsong. The quiet is broken by the rattle and roar of the truck up the dirt lane. Obi-Wan is growing used to the gentle insistence of the engine as it asserts itself, first subconsciously and then loudly enough that you notice in earnest. There’s something almost musical about the brief caesura when the engine cuts out, the percussive rhythm of doors opening and closing, the heavy bass thump of the gate coming to rest. Today there is added the uptempo insistence of Cody’s feet up into the truck bed, soft human sounds of him working as he unloads the cargo he’s brought back. His back is turned to the porch as he works, but there’s strength evident in his motions. He’s unloading bricks and dry goods sacks of what must be mix for mortar. It’s far too little to brick in the house, but Obi-Wan catches himself thinking of it anyway, red brick walls and whitewashed window shutters and a welcome mat out front. That cousin, with his wife, must be a good few years younger than Cody; still with a roundness to his cheeks that speaks of being a boy not so very long ago. Obi-Wan speaks before he really thinks, idly curious. “Cody, why aren’t you married?” Cody freezes, back still turned, and then snorts a laugh under his breath. “Ain’t I got enough to do already, Obi-Wan?"

[cakejerry]

asks pt.2 more recent ones

ft fanfiction anon, minho is ugly, thank you minjoon people for the links and fic recs!!! and the anon with the random jikook takes

ive been debating answering this one, like... yeah, obviously. but no jimin hate is allowed on this blog so youre getting blocked

idk, ive also been thinking about posting this but... i don't have any thoughts. except that this just proves how close they are, in any sense. and yes that was literally a joke we don't actually think their parents were involved, cmon. 'meds exist' cmon. 'suicide everyday' yeah you're a troll never message me again, goodbye.

this is why i can never take any of those charts seriously, they all say something different and everybody's #1 somewhere. its literally all imaginary and extremely unimportant. and instead of frauding jimin, which would have gotten him nothing but hate, i wish instead they'd left jungkook alone so we could see who ACTUALLY has what it takes

i have literally never understood the hype around jungkook. but maybe thats because he only started glowing up around 2019, which is when most of these taekookers came to the fandom, lol. but your last sentence was funny, 10/10

jimin should have always been the center of that triangle. vmin vs jikook i would like to see it. the classic main drama lead thats semi toxic and interesting and the second lead who's the best friend and the better option but jimin chooses jungkook anyways lol

minjoon under the stars ahhh jimin is such a sweet little glazed donut that needs to be handled with utmost care

blocked. also that's because namjoon has the charisma of a tree. but jimin could have chemistry with a brick wall so suck it. minjoon forever

cute little fanfiction moment but i dont think it holds any water in real life terms, or means anything, honestly. but thank you for the links

here come the fanfiction writers. also that's the finger heart emoji for the curious minds my laptop is prehistoric. anyways. im not gonna grace this with any further comment.

sure

this is making me ctfu because its just a clip of jungkook dancing to 3d but anon is sooo disgusted ahahhahaha. bts were different??? different from what :joy emoji:. also, if you see this, elaborate on your last sentence please.

i literally dgaf he is so ugly and his bug eyes weird me out and im convinced kpop fans have a mass gaslight thing going on trying to convince me he's attractive. 2. jonghyun wouldnt work with jimin for several reasons i just brought him up because whenever im thinking about 'men in the industry who aren't shit' he's the only one who comes up. 3. love that you just fully spiraled into waxing poetic about jimins ass there. understandble.

sure

well yeah but specifically the tweets i was posting are so... racially motivated. whitewashed jimin=white=good=pure=innocence=bottom and top jungkook=rough=tough=raw=dirty=dark skin. like it was just so weird to me.

umm sure, whatever you say anon. im gonna forget all of what you told me now because i genuinely do not want to know.

yup this is the general consensus in cakejerryland

thank you for this rec actually!!!!!!!!! it looks scrumptious and WILL be posting my thoughts upon finishing!!!

thank you random citizen!!! omg idk if you knew i have a hyung kink or not but this is sooo not that. laugh emoji laugh emoji jimin is soooo cute he's a kiddo playing around!!! babyy

i respect the grind. i do not, however, respect him.

okayy anndddd... what do you want me to do about this?

yes he wants to be perceived as such. we agreed upon this when seven dropped. and idc and it doesnt matter to me because i dont expect any of bts to come out so they will all forever be ambiguously straight and theres no point to discussing it further

fanservice is in the job description. but you said it yourself. 'natural' dynamic. they're simply the closest and we can't deny this

umm sure. i didn't see anything special in those clips at all lol i was not gagged. they were just looking at each other and they do that every single time they're in public or on camera or on stage together

lol hawaii was ... a time. they were also "doing laundry," don't forget.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

OMG, the coolest, awesome, magnificent, probably haunted, home converted from a 1522 convent in Pitigliano, Italy, in Tuscany, has the witchiest fireplace just in time for Halloween. 10bds, 8ba, $5,177,453.

How many skeletons are down in this rusty old well?

The entrance hall. Look at the ancient walls, now whitewashed.

Is this not the consummate witches fireplace? The living room is gorgeous with its tile floor and curved wall.

Amazing. The kitchen looks like ancient catacombs. Look at the old vats that they must've stomped on grapes in and the old wine barrels on display. How cool is that? The nuns must've had purple feet for sure.

A cozy sitting area with fireplace outside the kitchen. This home is gorgeous - the ancient walls!

This looks like a pantry.

Lovely reading room. Look at the niche in the wall. You can't see much of the ceiling, but it looks brick and vaulted.

Great bath with the antique tub resting on stones.

Elegant bedroom. Look at the flower pattern in the floor tile and the way they made the closet in the corner.

This large bedroom has a heat hearth.

This bath looks like an elegant French style.

Beautiful smaller bedroom. Notice the ancient doors.

Cheery yellow-striped bedroom.

This long hallway has a brick heat stove.

Like a fairy tale.

The lush green grounds are stunning.

I wonder what behind the gate. Maybe a chapel or wine cellar?

This place is so dreamy.

Ancient walls. This area looks like the perfect spot for a garden.

But, that's not all. Look at this beautiful pool.

Stunning property on a 26 acre lot.