#wicker chair and side table

[grandpatios]

Unwind in Style with Outdoor Recliner Chair, Wicker Chair, and Side Table Ensemble

In the hustle and bustle of modern life, finding moments of relaxation and tranquility becomes increasingly paramount. What better way to embrace serenity than by creating an oasis right in your own outdoor space? Welcome to the world of outdoor recliner chairs, wicker chairs, and side tables - the epitome of comfort, style, and functionality for your outdoor retreat.

Elevate Your Outdoor Living Space

Transform your patio, deck, or garden into an inviting haven with outdoor furniture that exudes elegance and charm. The outdoor recliner chair, with its adjustable backrest and plush cushions, offers unparalleled comfort, allowing you to recline and unwind after a long day's work. Meanwhile, the wicker chair adds a touch of sophistication with its timeless design and durable construction.

Seamless Harmony of Form and Function

Crafted from premium materials such as weather-resistant wicker and sturdy aluminum frames, these outdoor furniture pieces are designed to withstand the elements, ensuring longevity and durability. The side table complements the ensemble, providing a convenient surface for drinks, books, or decorative accents, enhancing both style and functionality.

Embrace Outdoor Comfort

Immerse yourself in ultimate relaxation as you sink into the luxurious cushions of the outdoor recliner chair. Whether basking in the warmth of the sun or stargazing under the night sky, this versatile piece of furniture offers the perfect spot to unwind and recharge. Adjust the reclining mechanism to your desired angle, and let the stress of the day melt away as you embrace the tranquility of your outdoor sanctuary.

Timeless Elegance Meets Modern Comfort

The wicker chair embodies timeless elegance with its classic design and intricate weaving patterns, adding a touch of sophistication to any outdoor setting. Sink into its comfortable embrace as you enjoy leisurely conversations with friends or savor quiet moments of solitude. With its durable construction and weather-resistant finish, the wicker chair is built to withstand the rigors of outdoor living while maintaining its pristine appearance for years to come.

Versatile and Functional Side Table

Complete your outdoor oasis with the addition of a stylish side table, providing a convenient surface for your beverages, snacks, or decorative accents. Whether placed between recliner chairs for easy access or positioned next to a wicker chair for added convenience, the side table enhances the functionality of your outdoor space while complementing the overall aesthetic.

Create Your Outdoor Haven Today

Experience the ultimate in outdoor relaxation and comfort with the perfect ensemble of outdoor recliner chair, wicker chair and side table. Elevate your outdoor living space with furniture that combines timeless elegance, modern comfort, and unparalleled durability. Transform your patio, deck, or garden into a luxurious retreat where you can unwind, entertain, and create lasting memories with loved ones.

[toyastales]

A sun filled sitting area

[caseyormond]

photo of a large home bar with a pink floor, flat-panel cabinets, and multicolored countertops.

Escola Velha Teatro De Gouveia

[readwritealldayallnight]

You haven’t noticed him yet.

Lost in the words printed on the pages, you haven’t glanced up from your book since Simon stepped out of the shower, peeking at your figure through the window panes.

You’re out on the small, cramped balcony of your shared London flat, curled into yourself to squeeze all your limbs as comfortably as you can onto the wicker chair.

The half empty cup of tea sitting on the small side table next to you is no longer as warm as it was when you first brought it out. Without a second thought, Simon goes to warm up the kettle again, not wanting you to get cold.

He frowns as your fingers quickly catch the edge of your book before the wind can flip your current page away, your hair being blown away from your face. He spots the tiny shiver that goes through you and decides he’ll bring out a throw blanket for you as well. Maybe one of his hoodies.

You’d teased him about something like this the other day, after he’d finished tucking your chair in at a local cafe. Saying that his love language was sooo obviously acts of service.

He’d playfully rolled his eyes, joking about how yours must be to never stop talking, chuckling at the half hearted kick he received underneath the table, before you explained that that wasn’t what love languages are.

Simon wasn’t so sure about that whole idea. All he knew was that he liked taking care of you, just as you took care of him. Simple as that.

He knows he always feels lighter after you send him a thankful smile any time he carries your bag for you or opens your door.

He knows you can’t stop smiling for at least a minute any time you swipe an eyelash off his cheek, carefully holding it in front of his lips so he can blow it away and ‘make a wish’.

He knows his chest always swells with pride any time you compliment his cooking, whether he attempted a dish on his own or simply added a seasoning to something you were already making.

He knows all the tension disappears from your shoulders when you’re sat in his lap, gently wiping away his black face paint from around his eyes, taking extra care around his delicate skin, humming a soft little melody for the both of you to hear.

He knows there isn’t anything in this entire god forsaken earth that makes him happier, than making you happy.

That’s why he’s been secretly looking into a new place for the two of you. This tiny shoebox of a flat had been fine when it was just him crashing here a handful of times a year between missions. When you got together and began spending more time sleeping here than at your own place, it only made sense to move in once your lease was up.

But now your books are piled in stacks along the baseboards, the closet can barely contain your clothes mixed in together, and the sight of you sitting out on that cramped balcony just doesn’t sit right with him.

He wants to give you a proper place, a home. He wants to be able to give you an actual yard with room to sprawl out and grow a garden if you want, or just lay out a picnic blanket and read until the sun sets.

He wants to hear you nag him about mowing the lawn, or raking the leaves, or shovelling the driveway. He wants to run out into a sudden summer storm with you to quickly pull off the laundry that had been drying on the clothes line, laughing the entire time.

As though sensing his gaze on you, you slowly lift your head, a chuckle slipping past his lips as your eyes immediately light up with excitement, a sweet smile gracing your lips as you send him a wave.

He lifts his hand, waggling his fingers back at you, the same corny grin on his face, knowing that there isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for you.

[sarpedom]

Example of a large beach style sunroom design

[professorsteampunk]

Uncovered - Transitional Deck Mid-sized transitional side yard deck design example without a cover

[yuri-on-ice-ice-baby]

Deck Uncovered in New York

Example of a mid-sized transitional side yard deck design with no cover

[tcmbraider]

Deck Roof Extensions in Raleigh

Example of a mid-sized beach style backyard deck design with a roof extension

[fomikrai]

Atlanta Transitional Porch This picture shows a large transitional back porch with decking and an added roof.

[sprwiphonetips]

Deck Uncovered in New York

Example of a mid-sized transitional side yard deck design with no cover

[universefcb]

A BIRTHDAY WITH LANDO, LANDO NORRIS.

→ Summary: It's your birthday and he has a surprise plan for you.

→ Warning: Mention of Reader. Fluff. Romance.

→ Author's note: This picture of him is so...🫦

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

Waking up on your birthday used to be a common occurrence. A notification or two on social media, a call from your mother, maybe a quick message from a distant friend. But that day started differently. Even before the first rays of sunlight had penetrated the bedroom curtains, your phone vibrated with an unusual notification: a calendar reminder created by someone else.

Today: The most important birthday in the universe. Get ready for the best day of your life. Love, Lando.

She smiled to herself, still half asleep. She didn't even have time to reply to the message because, in the next second, the doorbell rang.

Dragging herself to the door with one of his hoodies slung over her shoulders, she slowly opened it. On the other side, Lando was smiling, hair messy, a kraft paper bag in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Happy birthday, my favorite person,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to show up here before seven in the morning. “Coffee from your favorite coffee shop and chocolate croissants. I’m outdoing myself, huh?”

She let out a low laugh and pulled him inside by the hand.

“Did you hack my calendar?”

“I broke in. I really hacked. And this is just the beginning.”

They spent the morning together, taking lazy bites of breakfast and making out softly on the couch. He insisted that she couldn’t make plans for the rest of the day—“You just have to trust me,” he’d say with a mischievous smile. And she did.

Around 10am, Lando handed her a small backpack and told her to wear something comfortable.

“Not a spoiler?” she asked, curious.

“Not one. But I guarantee there’s sunshine, blue skies and something you’ll remember forever.”

The car took them out of town. Along the way, he put on her favorite playlist, sang off-key on purpose, and made up absurd versions of the lyrics just to make her laugh.

Finally, the vehicle stopped in front of a large field full of sunflowers, with a picnic table set up in the center. A wicker basket, two light-colored wooden chairs, and a small radio playing Taylor Swift's Lover in the background. She put her hand to her mouth in excitement.

"Like you...?"

“I listen when you talk, you know?” he replied, leaning his forehead against hers. “You once said that you always dreamed of a picnic in a field of sunflowers, but never had the chance.”

With tears in her eyes, she threw herself into his arms. Lando held on tightly, as if he knew that gesture was worth more than any words.

They spent hours there, laughing, eating strawberries and cheese, telling stories and taking pictures with an analog camera he had hidden. Every detail seemed carefully planned: the smell of the flowers, the taste of the food, even the position of the sun when he suggested they take a break to lie down on the grass.

“Do you want to know my real gift?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the sky. “Because what you’ve seen so far has just been the warm-up.”

She raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Is there more?”

“Yes. But you need to trust me again.”

The way back was quicker. He led her blindfolded to the top floor of his own apartment. When he removed the blindfold, she found herself in a transformed room: soft lights, dozens of photos of them hanging with little clothespins, white rose petals scattered on the floor, and a dining table set for two.

But what caught his attention was the small screen at the back of the room. Lando had set up a mini movie theater at home.

“And now... the special session: Our best moments.”

It was a compilation of videos he had filmed himself over the months—some she hadn’t even known he had recorded. Little moments, smiles exchanged in silence, her dancing in her pajamas in the kitchen, the two of them laughing until they fell into bed.

When the video ended, Lando was silent for a while, just holding her hand.

“I thought a lot about what to give you as a gift. And nothing seemed good enough... until I realized that the best thing I can give you is my time, my attention, and every version of me. Because if you want me to, I want to be here for all your birthdays. Every single one.”

She didn't respond with words—she didn't need to. The kiss that followed said everything she felt: gratitude, love, and the certainty that this was the best birthday of her life.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[grandpatios]

Enhance Your Outdoor Comfort with Stylish Furniture: Outdoor Recliner Chairs, Wicker Chairs, and Side Tables

Unwind in Style with Outdoor Recliner Chairs

Upgrade your outdoor relaxation experience with outdoor recliner chairs. These luxurious pieces of furniture are designed to provide ultimate comfort while lounging in your backyard or patio. Crafted from durable materials such as weather-resistant wicker or metal frames, outdoor recliners offer both durability and style. Whether you're enjoying a sunny afternoon with a book or simply taking a nap under the open sky, an outdoor recliner chair is a perfect addition to your outdoor living space.

Elevate Your Outdoor Décor with Wicker Chairs

Wicker chairs add a touch of elegance and sophistication to any outdoor setting. With their timeless design and natural appeal, wicker chairs seamlessly blend with various décor styles, from traditional to contemporary. These versatile chairs are lightweight and easy to move, allowing you to rearrange your outdoor space effortlessly. Whether you're hosting a backyard barbecue or simply enjoying a quiet moment in your garden, wicker chairs provide comfortable seating options for you and your guests. Choose from a variety of designs and colors to complement your outdoor aesthetic and create a welcoming atmosphere for outdoor gatherings.

Complete Your Outdoor Oasis with Stylish Side Tables

No outdoor seating area is complete without functional and stylish wicker chair and side table. These compact pieces of furniture not only provide a convenient surface for placing drinks, snacks, or décor items but also add a finishing touch to your outdoor oasis. Whether you prefer minimalist designs or intricate patterns, there's a side table to suit your taste and complement your outdoor furniture ensemble. From classic wooden designs to modern metal finishes, side tables come in a variety of materials and styles to enhance your outdoor décor. Pair them with your outdoor recliner chairs or wicker seating for a cohesive look that exudes charm and sophistication.

Transform Your Outdoor Space into a Relaxing Retreat

With the right furniture pieces, you can transform your outdoor space into a tranquil retreat where you can unwind and recharge. Outdoor recliner chairs, wicker chairs, and side tables not only offer comfort and functionality but also enhance the beauty of your outdoor environment. Invest in quality outdoor furniture that withstands the elements and provides years of enjoyment for you and your loved ones. Whether you're hosting al fresco dinners or enjoying quiet moments of solitude, create a welcoming outdoor retreat that reflects your personal style and encourages relaxation and rejuvenation.

Conclusion: Create Your Outdoor Sanctuary

Incorporate outdoor recliner chairs, wicker chairs, and side tables into your outdoor living space to create a stylish and comfortable sanctuary where you can relax and unwind. With their durability, versatility, and timeless appeal, these furniture pieces elevate your outdoor décor and enhance your outdoor experience. From leisurely lounging to casual entertaining, make the most of your outdoor space with quality furniture that combines form and function. Invest in your outdoor comfort and style, and enjoy countless hours of relaxation in your own backyard paradise.

[differenteagletragedy]

Part three of the one where Price is your neighbor and he falls in love with you but you already have an awful boyfriend :(

Here is PART ONE and here is PART TWO, thank yooou <3

John can't hold back his smile as he sits across from you in the little coffee shop where you brought him -- a quaint, cozy little place, with cute wicker chairs he'd half-worried he'd snap in half when he sat down.

"What?" you ask him, your own smile brightening your pretty features.

"Nothing," he replies, still grinning softly. Of course it's not nothing -- it's everything, seeing you smile just for him. He imagines laying all his cards out for you, telling you to leave the worthless man living with you and to be with him instead, but the timing isn't right, so instead he points a finger at your drink, saying, "Just never seen a coffee look quite like that."

You look down at your drink, an iced coffee that's more white than black, with flavored syrup along the side and whipped cream on top, and John swears he sees a little bit of red pop up on your cheeks as you shrug.

"I just like it sweet," you tell him. "Aiden makes fun of me for it too."

His jaw clenches at the mention of the boyfriend, and he leans in just a little bit closer over the small table, careful not to make the moment too intense while still making sure you hear him.

"Not making fun of you, sweetheart," he says quietly. "I think it's ... cute."

Your eyes light up at the tiny compliment, and you giggle, a beautiful sound that John is sure he could become addicted to.

"'Cute'?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow playfully. There's a bit of teasing in your tone, and if he didn't know better, he'd think you were flirting. "I never thought I'd hear you describe something as 'cute.'"

"And why not?" he asks, pretending to be indignant. "What's wrong with me finding it cute?"

"No problem with you finding it cute, it's just ... " she trails off, gesturing at him, then says, "Big tough strong army man, you know? You've just never struck me as, I don't know. A connoisseur of cute."

God, you're adorable. So much that John can't help but lean in a little further, his hands coming to circle his own cup of coffee.

"Lot of things you don't know about me, love."

If John had it bad for you before, he's completely gone after that coffee date -- because that's precisely what it felt like, a date. The boyfriend topic didn't come up again, and instead you talked everything else. You told him all about your job, and he told you a little about his. You shared little tidbits of your life, the people in it and the things you filled it with, and he mentally took note of everything, cataloging it all away.

Slowly and surely, he's building a little secret chamber in his mind, or maybe his heart, all full of you.

Unfortunately, there's only so long a friendly neighbor coffee run can last, and all too soon, he's opening the door of the shop for you and following behind you as you lead the way back to your car. He opens the car door for you as well, but on impulse, just before you climb in, he stops you with a gentle hand on your elbow.

"I'd like to show you something," he says softly. "Can I?"

Soon, he's the one behind the wheel of your car, with you seated next to him, looking out the window curiously as he passes the town limits.

"You promise you're not kidnapping me?" you ask, looking over to him with a playful smirk that has his hand flexing where it rests on the gear shift, fighting the urge to reach out and rest it on your thigh instead.

He forces a tight smile, glancing at you once more before focusing back on the road, and replies, "If I were kidnapping you, pet, you'd bloody well know it."

There's that giggle again, music to his ears, and he feels a rush of pride at knowing you trust him enough not to be scared of him. He knows he's an imposing man, but he'd sooner die than hurt you, and he's pleased to know that, at least on some level, you recognize that.

It doesn't take long for John to reach his destination, and when he parks by the road, you look out the window for a moment, then back to him, a puzzled expression on your face.

He smiles softly and nods to the door, gesturing for you to get out. When you do, he meets you in front of the car, offering his arm out to you, which you take. Feeling your delicate hand holding onto him, he guides you to the small hillside by the road where he'd pulled off.

"You wanted to show me ... grass," you said. "I gotta tell you, John, this isn't really inspiring me to want to hang out with you more."

He chuckles, starting up the little hill, and tells you, "The thing about hills is that there's something on the other side, yeah? Something you can't see, but if you just have a little bit of faith ..."

He trails off, watching your face as you get to the top of the hill. He sees you positively beam when you see the field of wildflowers below, hidden from the road by the higher ground of the hill.

"John!" you exclaim, finally looking up at him. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Well, love, I may not be a ... what did you call it? A 'connoisseur of cute.' But I do know a thing or two about appreciating something beautiful."

It's a line, and he knows it. This whole thing, driving you out to this field full of pretty flowers -- a place he'd found by accident one difficult night when he'd gone for a long walk because he couldn't sit still in his apartment without going mad -- is a move, pure and simple. But when your smile softens and you shift your body to face his, it feels like it's working.

Just for a moment, he lets his eyes fall down to your lips, full and smooth and positively biteable, and in that moment, your hand falls from his arm, only to tentatively slide up to his shoulder. His own hands come to your waist, high enough to be polite but firm enough that his intentions are clear.

He wants you. Desperately, completely. And now, he can see that at least part of you wants him too, boyfriend or not.

"John, I ..." you sigh, your gaze dropping down to his chest, and he feels your hand gently fisting the fabric of his jacket. "I can't."

"You can," he argues softly, his voice a low murmur. "You only have to do it."

You meet his eyes again, and he can see the turmoil there. He's in deep enough with you now that if he thought it was best for you, he'd drop it, but he knows, from the things you've told him and from his own instincts, that you're scared. And he wants you to be brave.

John waits, his grip on you steady. There's a pull between you, one he feels so strongly he'd almost swear he could reach out and grab it. He tries to let you begin to get used to being with him like this, the feel of his strong, solid hands and the weight of his gaze. He wants you to know how good it could feel, with him.

And you're almost there, he can see it. The pull ropes you in, makes you take a small step forward so that there's just a little bit of space between your bodies and you have to tilt your head back just to keep looking at him. A cold breeze blows by, and the sweet smell from the flowers circles around you.

A perfect moment that's interrupted by the sharp sound of your phone ringing in your pocket.

Just like that, you step back, your hands dropping to your sides, and before John knows it, you're on the phone with your boyfriend, telling him you'll be home soon, that everything is fine, that you're sorry you were gone for so long.

Without a word, he offers you his arm again when you hang up the phone, and you take it, but the earlier warmth is gone. Your touch is hesitant again, and it's almost enough to make him wish he'd never brought you here in the first place.

It might have been easier, to continue on without knowing for a fact that something in you, some part, however small, feels for him what he feels for you. But as soon as the notion crosses his mind, it's out again -- it may be harder now, feeling you pull back after being so close, but now he knows he has something to fight for.

The ride back to your shared apartment building is silent, for the most part. As he pulls your car into your parking space, you say something so faint he barely hears it.

"I'm sorry."

It's a wild thing to say, because he knows you have nothing to be sorry about. His mind races with possible responses, everything from pulling you into his lap and kissing you, slow and deep, just how he was about to by that picturesque field before the phone call ruined it all to explaining to you in detail just how perfect he thinks you are, just how impossible it is for him to think that you've done anything wrong.

But he knows that, in just a moment, you're going to be walking back into your apartment -- the home you share with another man. A man who gets to kiss you like that, no matter how little he deserves it. It's an infuriating thought. A poisonous one.

So instead, he taps the wheel and says, "Steering's off."

".... huh?"

He flashes you a tight-lipped smile, turning off the ignition.

"Pulls to the left a bit. You don't notice it?"

"Oh ... yeah, I've noticed it. But I just ... I don't know, I just deal with it," you tell him.

Of course you do.

"We'll have a look at it soon, all right?" he says. "I don't like the thought of you on the road with it like that. Need to keep that pretty little head of yours safe, don't we now?"

"John ..." you begin, and he knows by your tone, along with a brief flash of pain in your eyes, that you're about to touch on more than just his protective streak.

But again, your phone rings, and whatever dregs of magic that were left from the moment out there in the flowers vanish completely.

"Best not keep him waiting, love," he says softly, before getting out of your car and walking around to open your door for you.

When he does, your phone is still ringing in your hand, and you step out of the car, brows furrowed and frowning as you gaze up at him.

"In you get," he murmurs, nodding towards the building.

"Aren't you coming?"

"Not quite yet," he answers, feeling the tension in his shoulders coil with every ring of your phone. "You go on, and I'll see you around, yeah?"

You nod, taking your keys as he holds them out for you, and as you turn to walk towards the entrance, he hears you answer the phone with more apologies for being gone so long.

John, meanwhile, turns and starts walking. A quick walk, purposeful in that it helps him to think and to calm him down, not in that he has any particular place to go.

It's been so long since someone has gotten under his skin the way you have, and after today, he knows that you've burrowed deep, taking root in him. It's exhilarating and nerve-wracking and infuriating, and it tests him. He's nothing if not controlled, but you, and the situation, are wearing at him in the sweetest, most excruciating way.

Falling for you like this, with you wrapped up in a man you feel like you can't get away from, is a torturous kind of bliss.

A vibration in his pocket pulls him from his thoughts, and he ignores it, his mind too full of the memory of you by the flowers, the feeling of your waist under his hands. When it vibrates again, he sighs, pulling his phone out.

There, he sees two texts from you. The first reads "wanna do laundry tomorrow?", and the second is just a series of emojis going through the events of the day: a tire, a coffee cup, several flowers and a car, ending with a heart.

It's ... so goofy. But it's endearing too, and he can't help but smile.

"Tomorrow is good," he types back in response, then he hesitates with his thumb over the "send" button. He takes a breath, then fiddles with his phone for a moment until he finds the emojis so he can add a heart to his as well.

He knows he's acting like a lovesick boy, but as he turns and walks back home, an extra spring in his step and the smile still on his face, he can't bring himself to care. So much of his life is about being strong and in charge, fearless and powerful. It feels good to allow himself this small indulgence in the privacy of his own mind.

John also knows that you're not quite there with him yet. You're on a precipice, it seems, and while he knows without a doubt that he'll catch you when you jump, you're still too scared to make the leap.

A moment ago, he may have almost considered giving up. But now, with plans for tomorrow and the faint feel of your body imprinted on his hands, he's ready to keep fighting.

PART FOUR

[please-destroy]

You'd Like That

Elizabeth Olsen x Reader

Word Count: 1K

.

You’d thrown her off. You could tell. 

Lizzie’s smile was dimmed. She leaned her chin against her hand, watching you from the other side of the small party. Her forehead was furrowed, her finger touched her lower lip without her realising.

You looked down at your drink. It was all your fault.

.

You’d been close friends for years. For a long time, you’d floated around in the same social circles, never really saying more than a few words to each other. 

Then, there’d been a slightly too drunk get together organised by a mutual friend. 

That evening quickly became something unexpectedly perfect. You’d spent hours talking with her in someone else’s backyard, wrapped in old blankets that you’d found when she’d started shivering. You talked for hours about every subject, laughing more than you’d ever laughed with someone before. 

When you left that party in the early morning, you’d wondered if this was one of those magic nights. Or, if Lizzie might really become a friend. 

She called you the next afternoon and answered your question with her nonchalant greeting and conversation.

Her friendship quickly became the best part of your life. 

Life doesn’t follow the routes you expect. This was one of the good unexpected turns. 

Lizzie was not lowkey. That was a common misconception. 

You remembered the first time she called you from a Whole Foods. It had taken a ten minute ramble about grocery choices until you realised the subtle anxiety in her voice. The fear of making a mistake, the many ways it could manifest. 

She apologised after the call. A line of texts, where she made fun of herself. 

The world shifted on its axis and you saw Lizzie clearly then. 

‘Call me whenever, I’ll never mind.’ You’d replied simply.

Lizzie didn’t trust easily. That was true.

It’s how you knew you were special. It was so easy to find a rhythm with her, to live on the same wavelength.

Every year for her birthday, you spent the day together. Every year, you told her that you loved her. That she’d made your year better.

Lizzie would smile, roll her eyes and wrap you in a hug. 

You knew that you were special to her but you’d been careful not to jump to conclusions. 

Until, of course, you’d said something stupid. Something honest. And Lizzie had left. 

.

Now, at the party, as you refilled your drink and tried to ignore the loud music, you realised that you’d likely ruined everything.

The thought settled on your shoulders like a heavy weight, a ready nausea filling your throat. You left your untouched drink on a side-table. You craned your neck, scouting for Lizzie in the crowd.

You saw her dim silhouette on the small balcony and headed over. 

Her pale face turned towards you as you slid open the french doors. Lizzie was sitting on an ancient wicker chair that looked close to collapse. It creaked as she moved to face you.

‘We should talk.’ You suggested softly.

Lizzie’s long hair shifted over her shoulder as she nodded in agreement. Her fingers trailed the edge of the balcony railing. 

‘Did you always like me like that?’ She asked abruptly. ‘Is that why you started talking to me?’

Her cool tone made you nervous. You wondered if this was pointless, if everything had already unravelled.

‘No.’ You answered slowly, careful in your honesty. ‘Just a little bit more every day.’

Lizzie’s expression faltered. You could tell it wasn’t what she’d expected. She crossed her legs and you couldn’t help but notice her bare skin.

‘Since I got bigger movie deals?’ Lizzie asked, accusation barely hidden. 

A flash of hurt ran through you.

‘No.’ You tried to keep a level tone. ‘Since the day you called me at Whole Foods.’

Lizzie shook her head.

‘That doesn’t make sense.’ She said quietly.

You shrugged, staying silent as sadness rolled through you. This felt pointless, you’d already lost her. You’d already made the confession that you couldn’t undo. A wave of grief was burgeoning. You wondered if you’d drown. 

You slipped your arms out of your sweater and pulled it over your head.

‘Every year, I spend Valentine’s Day excited that your birthday is only two days away.’ You told her quietly. You handed her your sweater and nodded down to her bare legs, hoping she’d use it as a blanket. She always got cold on nights like these.

‘I’m sorry I fucked it up.’ You told her softly. Lizzie’s eyes reflected distant stars back at you. 

You walked back into the party with the distinct feeling that you were no longer yourself.

.

With no alcohol in you, you decided to leave and walk the few streets back to your place. The cold air countered the twisted grief burning up your insides.

You walked with a mind full of Lizzie. 

Valentine’s Day was tomorrow. You couldn’t care less, not anymore. 

You thought about her birthday in three days. You tried not to think about her smile, about how quickly a person can become a memory. You hoped Lizzie wouldn’t be alone for it.

.

You turned the corner of your street. 

Lizzie was stepping out of an Uber at your front door. She was wearing your sweater, her hair was caught beneath it. She straightened at the sight of you, raising her hand in a tentative wave.

You walked closer, heart in your mouth. Unfiltered surprise was running through your veins.

‘Why Whole Foods?’ Lizzie asked when you were in hearing distance. ‘Why did it start then?’

You laughed suddenly, at the most obvious unanswerable question in the world.

‘Why not?’ You countered. ‘It had to happen some time.’

Lizzie watched you like you were something brand new. A silence fell between you before she spoke again.

‘Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.’ Lizzie told you seriously, fingers playing with the sleeves of your sweater. ‘We have nothing planned, and I actually had other plans. Not with anyone, not anything like that. But, I’d still have to cancel them. And I had errands to run in the afternoon.’

You recognised the familiar tone of Lizzie’s anxiety. You realised suddenly that she was just scared. 

You took her hand, twining your fingers and giving a quick squeeze.

‘We could just get groceries.’ You suggested with a soft smile.

Lizzie let out a shaky breath, her lips quirked upwards. She squeezed your hand back.

‘Yeah.’ She teased. ‘You’d like that.’

[nvrngl]

Can you please make one where Taehyung and the reader have been dating for a long time, and he just got discharged from the military and wants to have alone time with his girlfriend because he's been away for so long and they both really missed eachother, but they could never have any because the company or ther members keep interrupting them to tell him about their upcoming schedules and stuff. So he decided to plan a romantic getaway to Paris for him and his girlfriend to have their respective and well needed alone time.

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔

synopsis. taehyung is back. and everyone noticed. it seems like it has been impossible for you to find just one single moment with him. until he decides to fix things.

pairing. bts ﹢ discharged!kim taehyung x reader ﹢ very soft smut (mdni)

wordcount. 842

warnings. oral sex (f. receiving), mentions of idol life pressure & fatigue

my very first request .ᐟ god, i am excited and writing this brought such a warm and fuzzy feeling. thank you so so much for requesting, cutie. i hope you like it 💌

the first time you finally get him to yourself, really and truly—no staff, no phones, no “hyung, just one sec”—it’s three weeks after he’s discharged.

he’s home. finally. after two years of waiting, visiting, calling, missing—he’s here.

but no one will let him rest.

the moment he’s back, they start flooding in—managers with calendars, members with updates, stylists with contracts. taehyung’s patient, always kind, always polite. he nods, makes notes, smiles when he’s expected to. but you can see it in his eyes. the exhaustion. the ache. the way he glances over at you every time he has to let go of your hand just to answer another damn phone call.

so when he pulls you into the hallway that night and whispers, “pack a bag. don’t ask, just trust me,” you don’t hesitate.

you pack the minute you get home.

—

paris in june is a fantasy.

it’s sun-warmed cobblestone and dappled light under trees. it’s espresso in the morning, citrusy wine by sunset, bare legs sticking to wicker chairs outside tiny cafés. the breeze smells like sugar and car exhaust and roses all at once.

taehyung books a flat on the left bank—nothing extravagant, but personal. tucked above a bakery, with ivy on the railing and enough space to breathe. he tells you he found it years ago, “saved it just for this,” and that alone nearly breaks you in two.

he walks around barefoot. wears thin white t-shirts and tortoiseshell sunglasses and the kind of smile that only appears when no one’s watching.

you never stop touching.

hand on the small of your back when you walk. lips to your temple when you wake up slow in the morning. long, lazy fingers tracing your thigh under the table at dinner like it’s just second nature.

you’re both a little dizzy with it all.

and it’s not about the place, not really. it’s about the quiet. the space. no texts. no interruptions. no schedules.

just you. and him.

—

on your third night, he kisses you outside a wine bar on rue dauphine. just presses you up against the warm stone wall with that soft, aching urgency he’s been carrying since he got back.

you hum into it, hands curled in his shirt, breath quick as he nips at your lower lip.

“baby,” he says, voice rough. “i’ve missed you so much, i can’t—” he cuts himself off, kissing you again. longer this time. slower. deeper.

“i know,” you whisper back.

he presses his forehead to yours.

“take me home.”

—

the walk back is a blur of hands and soft giggles and him whispering “you’re not real” against your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re here, like this, under his hands again.

once inside the flat, he doesn’t flick the light on. just tugs you close and kisses you like he’s starved—like this is a need he’s held back for years.

your clothes come off in pieces, somewhere between the hallway and the bed. the early summer night is warm, and your skin feels sticky and flushed. his fingers brush lightly over your sides as he stares at you like he’s rediscovering a masterpiece.

“so pretty,” he breathes, eyes tracing every inch of you.

you smile, cheeks pink. “you’ve said that every day.”

“and i’ll say it every day for the rest of my life.”

he kisses you, slower now, his body pressing you down into the sheets. the breeze from the open window flutters against your bare shoulder, but his skin is so warm on yours, you barely notice.

he moves down your body in worship.

his mouth finds your thighs first—then the soft skin of your hip, your belly, the crease between your legs. he doesn’t rush. not even a little.

when he finally slips his tongue between your folds, it’s soft and slow and so deliberate.

you moan, hips lifting toward him, fingers already tangling in his hair.

“i dreamed about this,” he whispers, mouthing along your inner thigh. “every night.”

his hands hold you open gently, thumbs pressing into your hips as he begins again. long, languid licks—like he has all the time in the world.

you writhe under him, overwhelmed. “tae, oh my god…”

he groans into you, nose pressed to your clit, eyes fluttered shut like he’s the one losing control. “let me take care of you.”

you come with his name on your lips, a sharp cry followed by gasping laughter as your body trembles in aftershocks. he doesn’t stop until you pull him up by the shoulders, tugging him into a kiss that tastes like wine and heat and your own sweetness.

he curls around you after, warm and flushed, your bodies tangled in the sheets.

you rest your hand over his heart, feeling it beat slow and steady under your palm.

“we needed this,” you whisper.

he kisses your forehead, lashes brushing your skin. “i need you. not the interviews. not the chaos. just this.”

you nod, eyes drifting closed.

outside, paris hums on, soft and golden and slow.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

[florencemtrash]

The Graveyard Shift: Chapter II

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Author's Note: Credit goes to @gloomwitchwrites and this specific post for inspiring this fic! This idea has lived in my mind rent free for weeks now, so I'm finally just going to do something about it.

Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?

Warnings: abusive marriages (not Simon), allusions to SA in later chapters (not explicit)

The Graveyard Shift Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

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Simon Riley woke, as he always did, thirty minutes before the sun. Alone. He baked biscuits and a single slice of bacon for breakfast, let Riley out into the woods behind the cottage to conduct his business, and ate on the wicker chair by the front steps. He waited for his tea to cool enough that he could swallow it in one great mouthful, and when the sun had risen high enough to ricochet off the gravestones and cast the world in a blue hue, he took his bag of digging tools and set off into the graveyard with Riley at his heels. 

Riley meandered about the stones, shoving his black nose into the grassy earth and hunting for creatures that swam in the deep, dark crust, blind and protected. Simon paid little mind to his dog as he carefully plucked the weeds from each and every gravestone. He scrubbed at the moss and fungi that bloomed in whorls along the engravings, only whistling on occasion to remind Riley not to disturb the wildflowers that grew in gentle tufts. There were no new graves to dig. No new headstones to carve. Today was just about the gardening.

It was hard labor, but quiet. Pensive. Not at all the grotesque task people made it out to be. Simon liked to think he was but a visitor to the souls that might be roaming the graves. Liked to think that they approved of the careful selection of flowers he planted along the edges of the graveyard, or the way he trimmed the grass right up to the stone markers. Or the way he remembered to pluck and discard every branch that had been snapped in the previous night’s rainfall. 

He was halfway through the workday, sweat collecting at the seam of his cap when he heard Father Hughes’ familiar, asthmatic heaving up the hill. The spindly man appeared slowly over the crest and then all at once. His clean cap and narrow black clothes gave the impression that he was always pointing to God — a fitting appearance for the tallest clergyman that anyone had seen on this side of Kent. 

Simon took off his cap in welcome, silently trudging back to his house to set the kettle on for Father Hughes. The clergyman stumbled in after, rapidly folding himself into the nearest chair and rubbing his chest. 

“Lord have mercy on me,” he huffed, “That hill will be the death of me.” 

Simon chuckled good naturedly, waiting for the exact moment Father Hughes would once again forget his height and slam his knee into the kitchen table. The moment came soon after with a brusque, polite, “Good heavens!” Then Simon placed the teacup on the table. 

“God bless you, Simon. I’m glad I caught you at home—” there were few other places Simon frequented “—for I have good news!” He slid a short stack of letters across the table, all of them still stamped and sealed. “I would have delivered them sooner, but alas, I needed to visit the Tomlins all of last week.” 

Simon nodded in understanding, busying himself with frying a slice of bread over the fireplace. He knew very well that the youngest son, William Tomlin had passed away after a long bout of sickness. He had dug the grave after all. 

“Thank you, Father Hughes,” he answered in his low, sandpaper voice. 

Simon could not read. He could only sign his name and had a steady enough hand to engrave the gravestones so long as he followed someone else’s marks. Father Hughes took care of all else. Simon waited as the clergyman cracked open the first letter and read the contents aloud. 

“Margaret Tacker. 19 years old of London. A conduit for the spirits—”

“No occultists.” He couldn’t stand the ones looking to make cheap money off someone else’s tragedy. They could go haunt someone else’s graveyard but not his. 

Father Hughes opened the next two letters but didn’t bother reading them to Simon before he rolled them up and shot them into the fireplace. A wave of sparks spit out onto the floor where Simon kneeled, but the man didn’t so much as flinch, only pulled up the thin scarf he covered his mouth with when working in the graveyard, and continued cooking.

“Alice Bingham. 48 years—well that’s a bit too old for you.” 

Simon sighed as another letter was fed to the flames. The advert had gone out only once in the London papers two weeks ago and although a fair few women had responded, none had been of promise. Most were of the spiritual trend that spread through the cities like wildfire more interested in disturbing the spirits that Simon tended to than finding a husband. The other third were, as Father Hughes liked to judge them, harlots and thieves. Simon had scoffed when Father Hughes had first uttered those words — a grave keeper was hardly of any worth to a woman after money — but even he had to agree that their letters did not entice him, and he so desperately wanted a wife.

He wondered if he was being too choosy. A man of his age and profession could not afford to be select with women, especially not one so lonely as Simon with only Riley and Father Hughes for company. And yet he had hoped to find someone who might care for him. Someone he could take care of in kind. 

It was Father Hughes’ silence that caught Simon’s attention as he slid over a buttered piece of fried toast. The cookware squeaked across the scuffed table and crumbs fell into Father Hughes’ wiry beard as he chewed and pondered the final letter.

“Y/n Hall of London, though originally born of Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, where the weather is no better or worse than anywhere else. 25 years of age. Can sew, knit, cook, clean, read, and sing (passably). Would enjoy gardening if given the chance. Of small upbringing. Quiet and of respectable countenance. Never married.”

Simon snatched up the photo that Father Hughes held the moment the letter was read. Very few of the women sent photos, though most wrote of facial features too perfect to be true. It was a common tintype, slightly blurred from movement so that the edges of her hair and dress seemed to merge into the background. A soft, solemn face stared back at him with eyes so deep he thought he might fall forward into the picture and disappear forever. Although she did not smile for the picture, he swore he saw the faintest turn in her cheeks that suggested she did, at least on occasion, laugh. 

“Anything else?” Simon asked breathlessly. His heart should not have been beating so quickly in his chest, nor his cheeks as warm as they were. He tugged his scarf up higher, hiding behind the dark cloth until only two plain, brown eyes looked out.

“There is a return address to a bishop in London, but nothing else.” 

Simon memorized every line that had been read to him. It wasn’t so dreary in the countryside as it was in London, and if she was interested in gardening, she could help him expand the herb selection behind the cottage. He could ask Father Hughes for books. He could—

He froze. He was imagining too much already, thinking too heavily before she’d even properly agreed to marry him. 

“What do I do next?” He asked. 

Father Hughes blinked and then smiled slow as syrup. He drummed his slender fingers on his cap, looking around the cottage deep in thought. 

It was a small house where the drawing room, entryway, kitchen, and dining room were one and the same. The front of the house stared out rows of gravestones that sloped down to the town below like it was carried on a wave of green. But the floors were swept clean every night and bore only a respectable number of scuffs. The walls were bare and lime-washed once a year. The pantry was stocked just enough for one man and a dog, but free of spiders and dust. It was all clean and lived in… but terribly lonely. Father Hughes thought it could use the spark of color that only a companion could bring — the sense of permanence that made a house a home.

“I can have the marriage papers drafted and sent to this bishop in London. A lawyer will need to approve of the documents, and of course, the lady must sign them, her family members made aware and affairs managed. And—.”

“Could you take care of all that?”

“Why certainly, I—”  

“Then?” 

Father Hughes huffed. Simon Riley was a man of such few words it never occurred to the clergyman that he could be interrupted by said man. 

“Then you will find yourself in possession of a wife. She will find her way to Chilham and…”

“And?!”

“Then you shall do what married people do.”

Was it really all that simple? Simon couldn’t fathom it as he spent the next weeks preparing the house. He’d been perhaps too quick to sign the papers and shove them in Father Hughes’ hands, barely giving the priest time to read aloud the contract to him. Then he’d set off into town — which he rarely did — and gone to the blacksmith for a ring — which he could scarcely believe. What he left with days later was a simple band with a misshapen pearl that had once belonged to his grandmother. 

Then came the cleaning, and the rearranging of his items to make space for her — which took a depressingly short amount of time, for Simon had little — and the building of a new wardrobe to fill the corner of his bedroom. 

Their bedroom. He reminded himself not for the first time, wiping the sweat that trickled down from his temples to the black mask he kept over his nose and mouth. It was difficult work tending to graves. Even harder work digging them from sunup to sundown with nothing but grave markers, a dog, and the ghosts for company. 

For good measure he came into the possession of a vanity that he refurbished and stained a handsome mahogany before leaving it beside the new wardrobe. 

That would be her corner, he decided, and every morning he would get to lay in bed and watch as she put up her hair, and every evening he would watch as she brushed it out and prepared for bed. 

The image came to him so forcefully that he had to swallow three times to clear his throat. He hadn’t realized how much he missed having another person in his life — another body to hear moving around his home. Perhaps she would hum as she worked in the kitchen and read to him at night as he helped keep the fire alight for evening tea. It hurt him to think about it. 

It excited him so.

Riley huffed against his knee, staring up with eyes black as pitch as he whined and shook his bushy brown tail. 

There was one gravestone, old enough that time and wind had worn away the words once etched into the rock, that Simon liked to lean back on as he drank ale at the end of a long day. The air was hot and stifling, but he found he could breathe a little easier now.  

He cracked a small smile, running his rough hands through Riley’s brown-black coat and rubbing his pointy, velvety ears. 

“You won’t get to sleep with me in bed no more. Sorry.” But he wasn’t terribly apologetic. Simon knelt down, letting the shepherd lick his salty skin. “I hope you’re as excited as I am. I hope she likes us both.” 

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