#wood slat bench

[satanic10]

Contemporary Bathroom - Master Bath

[golly-missmolly]

Transitional Patio in Dallas A mid-sized transitional backyard patio remodel featuring a fire pit, decking, and a pergola is inspired by this.

[regilovesveggies]

Basement Walk Out Atlanta Basement - mid-sized contemporary walk-out concrete floor basement idea with a standard fireplace and a brick fireplace

[dustinyellin]

Basement Walk Out Atlanta

Basement - mid-sized contemporary walk-out concrete floor basement idea with a standard fireplace and a brick fireplace

[almostarts]

Model 400 Slatted Bench, 1952,

Harry Bertoia For Knoll International,

Solid oak slats balanced on Metal Y-shaped legs,

72" Long x 15" Tall x 18" Deep

[krispeetersvisitingthings]

Sauna - Contemporary Bathroom

[februarypoet]

Bathroom - Sauna Example of a large trendy gray tile and marble tile light wood floor, brown floor, single-sink and wood ceiling bathroom design with flat-panel cabinets, medium tone wood cabinets, white walls, a vessel sink, solid surface countertops, a hinged shower door, white countertops and a floating vanity

[written-in-wonder]

Bedroom Master Portland Maine

Mid-sized arts and crafts master dark wood floor and brown floor bedroom photo with gray walls and no fireplace

[classicmemorialbenches]

What is the best wood for an outdoor bench?

When it comes to selecting the best wood for an outdoor bench, several factors need to be considered. Outdoor benches are exposed to the elements and can be subject to moisture, UV rays, and temperature changes.

Oak is a durable and hard-wearing timber that is well-suited for making timeless outdoor furniture.

Oak has a lively grain pattern, which can cause some fine hairline cracks on the surface of the wood due to expansion and contraction in varying weather conditions.

[backtotheshitshow]

Wood & Words (part2)

Woodworker! James Potter and Princess! Reader.

Warnings: angssssst. James being kind of a dick? Kinda proof read.

Part1 part3

For the third day in a row there was a knock on the wood shed door.

Upon entering the shed Y/n was surprised to find James not in the middle of his work but leaning against the wall gazing at the book she had given him.

“Oh your majesty. Good morning.” James said closing the book quickly and placing it on his work bench.

“Good morning Mr Potter, I see you’ve been practicing.” She smiled.

“Oh um yes:” he glanced over at the book with an annoyed expression.

“And how is that going for you.” She smiled rocking on her heels with excitement.

“I believe I had enough for today.”

James had been studying the same couple of pages for two hours this morning and had picked up none of it. The words made no sense and the sentence all mushed together.

James had a tendency to get irritable when he was embarrassed or self-conscious.

It was only natural that he was fed up after two hours of not learning to read a single word. He looked up at the princess, frustrated.

“Oh I see. Are you having trouble.” She asked.

This only made James more frustrated. “I’m not having ‘trouble’ I’m not a child.” He said bluntly.

He turned to his work bench, it looked as though he was working on the shelves of the book stand.

“I didn’t mean it that way..” she scrunched her brows growing slightly annoying at his dismissiveness towards her but she tried to stay calm . “Would you like me to help, perhaps having someone else explaining things will benefit you.”

James did not respond to her. He continued sanding one of the shelf slats.

“Mr Potter?”

“I’ve told I don’t want your help. I’ve excepted the book as a gift and now I’m studying it. Is that not enough for you?” He said not taking his eyes of his work, his voice filled annoyance.

She looked at his profile in shock, why was he being so rude.

“I’m only trying to help.” She sounded both hurt and angry by his out burst.

“Perhaps it’s best if I just leave you be then. l’ll return in a week to fetch those things I asked you to make…I won’t bother you beyond that.” She was quick to turn on her heels and head for the door.

James saw how hurt she was at his reply. He’d felt embarrassed, but he hadn’t meant to cause the Princess so much distress.

In one abrupt motion, he stepped forward and grabbed her hand, stopping her from leaving.

“Wait!” James froze when he realized what he’d done. Touching the princess without permission not to long ago would have gotten him hanged. Thankfully those rules do apply anymore but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t face serious punishment if she reported it.

He was embarrassed but he didn’t dare pull away, even if it was probably the more appropriate course of action.

“Let go of me.” She said in an annoyed tone.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have touched you. Forgive me.” James rambled.

“It’s alright James..” she sighed. The sound of her calling him by his first name was sweet to him.

James was speechless for a few moments, having not expected to hear the Princess calling him by his name, again.

It was a nice reminder that she did in fact viewed him as an equal.

“You’re not bothering me. I just…I get embarrassed rather easily when it comes to my... illiteracy, You've been nothing but kind and I’m so very sorry for my behaviour." He explains.

“I…if you don’t mind I would like you to help me.” He admitted looking away from her.

“You do?” Y/n had the biggest grin on her face and look of hope in her eyes. James simply nodded.

“Come sit outside then.” She grabbed his hand and the book, pulling him outside quickly. After a few steps she took a seat on the ground near a tree.

She pulled him by his arm to sit next to her.

“Okay now where was it that you were up to?” She asked pending the book and scooting closer until their shoulders touched.

“Page 6, I believe.”

Y/n tuned to page six. ‘Silent Letters and Homophones.’ She simply smiled.

“Ahh I see…you know I’ve had several private tutors and to this day I this find these to be a pain in the back side.” She confessed.

“Really?” James asked raising an eyebrow. Her confession made him feel a little better about how hard he had found that section to understand.

“Yes I mean your telling me, that when they made the English language no one sat and thought ‘hmmm maybe we don’t need three different theres or a silent k at the beginning of knock.’ It’s ridiculous.”

James only laughed. Y/n began going over a few pages with him explaining the topics as best she could.

“Does…does that make sense?” She asked.

“So ‘ee’ and ‘ea’ are the same?” James responded chancing at the book from over the princess shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the point of having both.” James said

“I don’t know..” she laughed turning towards him.

Their noses were only a few short centimetres apart. She examined the specks within his hazel eyes. He had such kind eyes.

“Thank you for helping me, I’m sorry I was so harsh.” He whispered to her not breaking eye contact.

“It’s no problem at all.”

They held there places, a thick tension sat in the spaces between the two, for only a second he glanced down, the princess’s lips ever so slightly parted. He leaned forward, the tips of the nose just grazing each other….

“Y/n!! “ the voice of her mothers lady in waiting, Ms Anne, startled the both of them. “Where are you it is almost supper?!”

“Christ. Where did the time go?” Y/n was quick to her feet. “I’m sorry I must go.” She said dusting off her dress.

“No it’s alright.” James said.

His head felt cloudy. still a bit dazed by how close they had been only moments ago.

Within the blink of an eye the princess was dashing away. He watched has her hair moved along with her in the light breeze. She always look so heavenly.

…..

The following morning Y/n was preparing for the day. She thanked her lady in waiting for assisting her with her dress and sat at her desk.

"Good morning my dear." The queen entred the room.

"Oh good morning mother. Lovely day outside don't you think?" Y/n said with a happy smile.

"Yes it is. Planning on taking a stroll are you?”

"Yes actually I was.” She smiled.

"Hmm, Off to see Mr Potter I suppose." The queen gave a little smirk of amusement.

Y/n's face dropped, her mothers comment caught her off guard. "I- mother it's not... I can explain. He's simply..."

"Oh yes simply making a book stand correct?" The queen smiled with a light laugh. Y/n only nodded.

“That’s not what Ms Anne seems to think. “ the queen took a seat in the edge of y/n four post bed.

“Ms Anne?!”

“Yes she said you too seemed very close when she came across the two of you yesterday afternoon.” The queen said with a smile.

"Mother I-"

"It's alright my dear. You never did seem suited to all those stuffy princes anyway."

"Mother it's not like that. There nothing.....romantic about the situation." Y/n explained.

"Perhaps not. However have a sneaking feeling you're not happy about that" the queen stood once more.

Y/n looked to the floor. As usually her mother was right. "Mother I've known him for three days."

"Your grandfather meet your grandmother at breakfast and had proposed to her by supper time. If anything you two are dragging this out." They both laughed.

"Alright then off you go... he's probably waiting to see if you'll show up again."

Y/n hugged her mother tightly. "Thank you" she said before darting out of the room and heading towards the castle exit.

————

I love this series so much already.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Lonely Souls Club 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as stalking, loneliness, noncon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Two lost souls cross, but not all those are lost, want to be found.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: he back.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Bucky

Bucky sits on the bench, head hanging as his knees splay wide, the thick soles of his boots planted on the metal floor. The jet whirs loudly as it cuts through the air.

Sam lets out another unceremonious belch and covers his mouth as he clutches his stomach. He shakes it off as the other man curls his fingers before slowly unfurling them, watching the deliberate movements as if hypnotised.

"How in the hell do you get air sick?" Bucky snorts.

"The wings are... nicer," Sam shrugs, "whatever, I just had some bad street meat."

"I told you not to go to that place."

"Yeah well, some of us like to enjoy ourselves," Sam retorts. "What's gotten into you anyway? You're crustier than usual."

Bucky grumbles but doesn't say anything. He's impatient for this thing to be over. It wasn't enough to land in Luxembourg and Berlin, now they gotta head over to Prague. This wasn't in the briefing.

"Seriously, dude, I know brooding is your whole thing but you need to lighten up. Shit's getting dark," Sam reprimands.

"I'm not brooding," Bucky sits up, rolling his shoulders.

"Sure," the scoff is thick and dismissive. Sam is quiet as he checks the bulky watch on his wrist; it's really more than that, it's his command center. "Wait, what about that girl?"

"What girl?" Bucky's heart throbs as the tendon in his neck pulses.

"The one you were asking advice about. Is that it? You blew it, didn't you?" Sam snickers, "Buck, dames ain't what they used ta be," the old-timey accent has Bucky's fist closing again.

"Shut up," he snarls, "it's not a girl."

A cluck as Sam sits back and smirks, "sure, dude, I totally believe you."

"Stop."

"At least tell me what you did wrong? You know, girls don't like going to the woods with strange men, I said that before."

"Sam."

"James," Sam taunts.

"Don't," a vibranium finger comes within inches of the grinning lips, "I told you... enough." Bucky sits back and retracts his hand, crossing his arms as he grits his teeth, "I didn't blow it."

"Not yet," he partner and only friend chirps, "we'll see."

Bucky sighs and looks away. His stomach pits as he tries to hide his anxiety. He's barely been able to check in with Sam in his face and all this running around. It's been almost a week and it's killing him to be so far away. What if something happens and he's not there? He'd never forgive himself and neither could she.

"Hey," Sam taps him with his knuckles lightly, "I'm teasing. Really, I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset," Bucky protests, "I'm tired as fuck. Just wanna get this done with."

Reader

The birds nesting above your front window wake you up. The sun slats in brightly between the curtains as you roll over with effort, setting your hips straight with a grunt. You brace your pelvis as you try to stretch out what can't be stretched out. You whimper and bend your legs, one at a time, and raise your arms above your head. You don't want to get up but it's shopping day and you want to beat the rush.

It takes a while for you to get ready for the day. You don't go very far, just to the shop down the block. Their selection is limited but so is your budget.

You get your purse and strap it across your torso. As you near the door, you falter, a pang nearly sending you to your knees. You grasp the door frame and whine, taking the weight off your left leg. You're starting to think you might need to talk to the doctor about that cane. You didn't want to give in that easily but being stubborn isn't making it any better.

You lean on the wall and pull the door inward, unlocking the outer iron grate and pushing through. As you do, something clatters behind you, drawing a gaspy squeak from your lips. You turn to look down at the object as your keys dangle from your grip. You focus on locking both doors first.

You turn and stare down at the thing... you're not quite sure what it is at first. You strain as you bend to pick it up and rest it against the brick. It's some sort of shopping bag.

The handle extends up as it connects to four wheels. You unfold the metal cage lined with patterned fabric and let it stand on its own. You touch the handle, wrapped with some sort of protective rubber. How did it get there?

As you examine the misplaced cart, you see a small ribbon around the handle, dangling just inside the corner of the basket. You tug it up and find a tag on it. There, written by hand, is your name, and a short message.

'To make things a bit easier.'

You blink. Who would do this? You can only think your neighbours might have donated it but you never really talked to them. The mother was always too busy yelling at her children and her husband never said a word. There's nothing on the back, no sign-off, no name...

You wonder if you should accept it. It feels strange. You already live off of a government stipend, you shouldn't be taking handouts from strangers. Still, it's very helpful.

Your hip aches again, and you shudder. You turn the cart and grasp the handle, testing the stability. You don't know if you can make it back with your usual hot, as meagre as it may be. You're talking yourself into this, but it doesn't take much. Whoever left it, you'll have to thank them somehow.

Bucky

He watches her examine the cart. She's skeptical as she unfolds it and hesitates to do more than that. Is it too much? He thought it was such a good idea when he saw it at the store, and it's not very much at all, is it?

He lets out his breath as she twists the cart around and gives it a small nudge. She rolls it cautiously towards the alley and he puts the phone away. He waits across the street as she emerges from the alley and veers in the opposite direction. He doesn't move right away. She'll be on alert now. Little steps, not all at once.

He follows her, staying on the other side of the street, slinking like a cat as he watches her lean on the cart so that she nearly tips it. She rights herself and continues on, taking the next corner. Her gait is slow and uneven but he's patient. It means he gets to spend more time with her.

She hits the button for the automatic door and enters the small grocer. He waits five minutes before he trails in after her. He takes a basket, trying to blend in as he strolls through the bread section. It's desolate as only staff members scatter through the aisles, stocking shelves in their down time.

He grabs a loaf of rye; he'd wanted grilled cheese the other day but he was all out of bread. And cheese for that matter. He held off shopping so that they could go together.

He finds her by the canned soups. There's a four-for-three special. Given the quality, it's not a very good sale. She shouldn't be eating that acidic garbage. One day, he'll make sure, she doesn't have to. He just needs to wait.

He stays at the far end of the aisle as she picks four flavours. He peeks down at the labels; ham and pea, minestrone, Italian wedding, and classic chicken noodle. Noted.

She carries on but he lingers, fighting himself. He just wants to watch her every move, he wants to be right there beside her, going down a list as they plan their days together. 'Don't worry, doll, I'll cook tonight.'

He shakes off the fantasy and steps out of the aisle, only for something to rattle into him. He catches the basket of the rolling cart and his mouth falls open as he faces her. He didn't expect her to come back this way. Oh god.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she utters squeakily, "I didn't see you--"

"No, it's... okay," he's almost breathless as he pulls his gloved grip from the cart, "I wasn't looking."

He sidesteps her, heart racing, and quickly strides past her. He can hear her own pulse running wild. She doesn't move right away and he worries. The cart hit him hard, had it hurt her?

She rolls on and stops at the endcap, browsing the boxes of instant oats on sale. She searches and looks up, reaching for the cheaper options. A small bag which could last two weeks with a bit of rationing. She slips flat back on her soles and catches herself on the shelf. She can't reach.

He looks down and rubs his neck. He shouldn't but he has too. He crosses to her and reaches for the bag she wants. He takes it and offers it to her. She sputters out a mousy thanks. Her fingers brush his as she accepts it.

"No problem," he mutters and backs away, almost as if scalded.

He feels her looking at him, just for a moment, then she continues on to the discounted stack of tuna cans. His blood is like fire, boiling inside of him as he curses the damned gloves. He wish he could've felt her touch for real.

He has to get out of there. He rushes up to the cashier and puts his basket on the belt. He doesn't even care about it all. He just knows if he stays, he won't be able to keep his cool. He pays without thinking as the clerk packs his things in a paper bag. The crinkle makes him flinch as he picks it up. It's too noisy for him to follow her.

So he won't. He'll wait for her at her place. Just to make sure she gets back safe.

💔

When she comes down the alley, he's there, watching. The cart rattles announcing her approach and he holds his breath until she's in sight. She's limping worse than before, using the metal frame as support.

She struggles with her keys, jingling them loudly as he aims them at the slot on the iron grate. As she pulls it open, she loses her grip and it clangs violently. She's hurting, he can tell.

She tries again, this time getting between the doors to unlock the next. She turns to drag the cart inside. The inner door is left ajar as the iron one falls shut behind her.

There's a lull and he pulls out his phone to see what she's doing. She rolls the cart to the kitchen and shuffles around in a drawer. She pauses to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. Is she crying?

She takes out a small paper pad and a pen. She scratches the nib until ink comes out then writes across it. He's confused.

She finishes and tears away the top page. She turns to hobble through the house and comes back outside. She passes through the iron door and peers around. She grips the ragged brick and bends, placing the folded paper where he'd left the cart.

She retreats inside, the door slamming louder than before. The inside door locks and he sees her on his phone screen collapse against the other side. His chest rents as he longs to burst in and scoop her up.

He can't. She's not ready. He heard it in her heartbeat. Like him, she's been alone so long, that the idea of change is scary. No, he needs to make her see that he can help her. He can take care of her.

He'll wait until he's sure she's not listening. Then he'll go see what she wrote.

[fayes-fics]

Accurate

2k Celebration Masterpost

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: An argument in a pub garden take an interesting turn...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. PWP. Alfresco, slightly exhibitionist, oral sex (m to f), vaginal fingering, gagging. Arguing as foreplay. Frenemies to sudden lovers.

Word Count: 1.5k (this is so far from 250 words max its LAUGHABLE)

Authors Note: This is filth. I'm not even sorry. The third of my 2k follower celebration drabble request fills (ask here). prompts: “You heard me. Take. It. Off.” And “I fucking hate you”. Unbetaed. Enjoy! <3

He is making you so angry your blood feels like it is boiling in your veins.  He also turns you on so much you feel weak in your knees, which somehow makes you even angrier.

“Fuck off, Bridgerton!” you grouse, stalking away, down the side of the country pub wall, back to the now almost pitch-black pub garden.

“No! How about you listen to me for once, gods sake!!” Benefict gruffs, following you.

It’s so uncharacteristic of him to raise his voice, but he seems just as overwrought as you right now. He screws his eyes shut and throws back his head in frustration, and you can't help but stare at the profile of his prominent Adam’s apple as he swallows heavily, framed as it is by the string of outdoor lights on the fence nearby.

“Listen,” he says, calmer, eyes still shut. “Let’s agree to disagree on this.” 

“Don't do that,” your anger flaring again. “Don’t back down in a fight.”

He tilts his head back down and looks at you incredulously. “You actually want a fight?” He fixes you with a blistering stare and cocks his head to the side, studying you intently as you stand there, hands on hips, breathing heavily, flushed, and irritated. Then something akin to a lightbulb goes off behind his eyes, and butterflies roar to life in your stomach.

“You are aroused by this, aren't you?” it's in a register you've never heard from him before.

You splutter in indignation and flex your hands, not knowing how to answer that very truthful statement. You hate that he's right.

“I fucking hate you,” you spit. An evasion.

He takes a step towards you, and a predatory grin begins to take shape.

“No, you don't,” he challenges.

Another step.

You glance around the deserted pub garden, suddenly cornered, akin to a wild animal trapped by a poacher. And so very, very overheated. 

“Take off your skirt,” he orders apropos of nothing. You stumble on your sandal.

“What??”

“You heard me,” he growls, his voice dropping an octave as he takes another step closer. “Take. It. Off.”

“We are in a bloody pub garden!” you exclaim, but you can't conceal the panting breath it takes to say it.

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” he snarls, and something floods through your system at how wild his expression is. It's a wash of chemicals, unlike anything you’ve experienced in years. Whoever the fuck this Benedict is, you need him like you need air. 

You back up as he takes another step, and your calves hit the wooden edge of a picnic bench; you have to reach back to stop yourself from toppling over. And yet still, he is advancing on you.

“Sit. Down,” he commands through gritted teeth, right in front of you now.

You have lost all power of speech except the squeak as he grabs your hips and roughly plants you on the tabletop—the lichen cool of the wood slats seeping through the thin cotton of your skirt.

“You need to calm the fuck down,” he opines, pulling your legs open roughly, and you squeak again as air swirls around your soaked underwear. “Cat got your tongue suddenly?” he preens; you can't even look away from his triumphant smirk.

A warm hand encircles your entire kneecap, and you gasp as he runs it up your leg, pushing your skirt up as he goes, his grip encompassing the entire width of your thigh.

“I am going to eat you out; maybe then you will be in a better mood,” he offers casually as your mouth drops open.

“What if I don’t want that?” you counter weakly. A total lie too.

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “I can smell that's a lie,” he rumbles.

You make a little noise, halfway between a sigh and a moan; you feel his victorious smile against your cheek as a long finger unfurls its grip around your thigh and brushes featherlight over the gusset of your knickers. You inhale sharply, time standing still for a moment.

Then there is a frenzy of movement as he pushes you down on the tabletop and drops to the bench seat, pushing aside your underwear and driving his face right between your legs, instant heat and suction.

“Holy sh…..” you cry, grasping the wood by your head, needing something to ground you.

He is not even polite about it. Nor is he remotely hesitant, driving his tongue deep into your fleshy folds and groaning as he does so, the vibration shaking your throbbing clit.

“Fuck Ben….” you gasp, your legs falling open wider at the press of his hands on your inner thighs.

His mouth opens wide, and he sucks on your clit so hard you have to swivel and bite your own wrist to stop from yelling. It's all heat and sensation, and it’s dizzyingly fast. But not in a bad way. Just in the sense of sheer intensity.

Then two long fingers plunge into your pussy. You squeal at the shock and then groan at the feel of his wide knuckles pushing you open. 

“Shut up,” he chides, pulling back a fraction, but there is no malice in it; in fact, it sounds bemused and a touch boastful.

For once, you do as you are told. Possibly the first time ever. Folding your lips under your teeth and staring up at the stars, still not certain this isn't some kind of fevered dream.

You are mildly ashamed of the squelching sounds he is wringing from your body, but then he flattens his tongue out wide and pulses it over your nub… and you really don't give a shit anymore. Just so fucking gone on the feeling. Fuck, a group of people could walk out of the pub, and you'd plead with him to just keep going.

He redoubles his efforts, making filthy sodden noises as he pulls your swollen bud hard into his mouth, those sinful fingers hooking deep. You can feel a pull inside, a tense feeling that signals you are so close to coming.

You reach down and grab his hair, which spurs on him, wrapping his hands around your hips and bodily heaving you closer, the wood abrading your bum cheeks.

“I can tell you're teetering now; I can feel those ripples right….” His fingers spear against your g-spot, “...there!” 

You cant help the loud cry that rips from your lungs. Benedict rears back, his fingers withdrawing and leaving you wanting, roughly pulling off the underwear he had merely pushed aside until now. You startle as he looms over you, pulling your jaw down, your mouth dropping open. He shoves your own pants into your mouth, tart and damp.

“I said shut up, didn't I?” he glowers.

You are utterly, utterly gone. This isn't anything like you expected Benedict to be. And fuck, if it isn't so hot, you can't do anything but stare wide-eyed and nod your assent, your clit distended and throbbing painfully in the cold night air. 

“Good,” he nods, then drops out of your eye line.

The ferocity with which he buries his face into you, his nose pressing deep into your flesh, stubble on his chin itching your labia, his tongue swirling, his fingers plunging back into you. It’s a blindingly intense, almost violent, deluge of sensation.

Your yell is muffled by the material in your mouth, and you take deep, snuffled breaths through your nose, throwing your head side to side and digging your fingernails hard into the table as he spirals you higher and higher and higher. Every ounce of your body is held in tension, as if you are fighting your orgasm, not wanting this to end.

With a flick of his fingers and a spear of his tongue, the tide breaks inside; you convulse so hard his fingers are repelled from your body, utterly soaked. Behind your gag, you are screaming nonsense as he has to fight your body, engaging his upper body strength to hold you down and open, his mouth never stopping its assault, dragging it out into something that makes your whole body quiver, teeth grinding on cotton, your vision whiting out.

Then slowly, you are coming back into your own body. He is hovering over you and gently removing your underwear from your mouth, an entirely smug look on his face that gleams with your juices.

“Please, please tell me you are in a better mood now,” he sighs, but he can't help but break into a boyish grin that seems entirely at odds with what he was just doing.

And you are unable to stop the giggle that erupts from inside. “I might be,” you smile back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, watching your eyes dilate even further. “Oh would you look at that?” he chuckles darkly, “I think I finally know how to get you to behave.”

“Wouldnt you like to try Mr Bridgerton?” you flirt outrageously, your tone intentionally pitched to tease.

“Yes, I fucking would,” he answers, pulling you up and wrapping you into his arms, “you are coming home with me.” 

It's not even a question. It's a statement. And it's wholly accurate.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms

[diazsdimples]

Several Sentence Sunday

I'm pretty sure it's still Sunday somewhere right?? If not, then this is a Monday thing fskjfsdjk. I suddenly remembered this wip existed and got very excited to write some Buddie smut!! Please enjoy a few words of Buddie sauna sex!

Tagged by @wikiangela @dangerpronebuddie @smilingbuckley @inell @bidisasterevankinard

@jesuisici33 @underwaterninja13 and @neverevan

Buck directs his eyes from Eddie’s dick and focuses on a spot on the wall instead, trying to relax his body as much as possible. That is, after all, why they’re at the sauna in the first place – to relax after an exceedingly stressful shift. Relaxing is easier said than done, as it turns out. It doesn’t take long for Buck to figure out why they suggested sitting on the towels as his ass begins to burn, the heat from the wooden slats of the bench burning into his flesh until he’s shifting constantly, trying to find patches of relief. “Will you quit squirming?” Eddie sighs as he cracks open an eye, squinting at Buck with concern. “What’s going on with you?” “My ass is cooking,” Buck mutters, briefly considering moving so he’s sitting on his knees, but he thinks better of it. Why have third degree burns over the whole of his legs when he could contain it just to his backside? “So’s mine,” Eddie admits as he shifts in his seat, grimacing as the sensitive skin of the backs of his thighs brush against a particularly hot bit of wood. “Maybe they knew what they were talking about when they said to sit on the towels.” “Yeah, maybe.” Buck isn’t one to admit defeat easily, so he stays on the bare wood for a moment longer, but it’s when he shifts and suddenly his bare scrotum touches the hot wood that he shoots up with a yelp, hand instantly coming to cup his crotch. “Fuck this!” Buck exclaims, and he pulls the towel off his waist, spreading it out over the wooden boards. The groan of relief as he sits down and isn’t immediately scalded is nothing short of sinful, and Eddie watches the performance with an amused smirk on his face. Buck keeps his hands cupped protectively around his cock, but at least he’s no longer being burned alive. “Better?” Eddie queries politely, and Buck nods, rolling his shoulders and letting out an appreciative hum as his neck clicks. “Much. You should try it.”

No pressure tagging @theotherbuckley @hippolotamus @daffi-990 @watchyourbuck @babybibuck

@aroeddiediaz @spotsandsocks @bibuckbuckgoose @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg

@loveyouanyway @cal-daisies-and-briars @exhuastedpigeon @epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz

@hermscat @worriedbisexual @thekristen999 @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @actuallyitsellie

@idealuk @dangerpronebuddie @loserdiaz @elvensorceress @rainbow-nerdss

@smilingbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings @thewolvesof1998

[dualityofartandreality]

the fallout

He laughs to himself, and it sounds like bubbles rolling up his throat. His focus is downcast – he looks self-aware to nearly a deprecating degree. It’s like he’s practiced this laugh a hundred times in front of a mirror, yet has still surprised himself with how organic it sounds. 

You don’t laugh in response to the glib comment he’s just made about the complicated situation you’re in at the moment. 

You’re both stood outside on the street, leaning against the backrest of a wooden bench. It’s quiet for a Saturday in July; not a single car has driven past in the last thirty minutes, and only one couple has walked by on their way into the restaurant a few metres away. The midday sun glares down on you, and you’re all too aware of the heat emanating from the black jeans you pulled on this morning, thinking they’d go nicely with the blouse you have on. You feel less confident that you’ve made a good decision now, overheating and restricted. You fidget with a wrinkle at your hip, smoothing it out with a small frown.

You’ve always been like this – a little bit unsure of what to say when your surroundings get quiet, nervous to be caught in a bout of silence. 

He’s the opposite. He revels in it. He closes his eyes and basks in it. He’s basking in it right now, but his eyes aren’t closed.

You know this, because when you glance up from the denim, he’s peering sideways at you, a still expression on his face. His palms lay flat on the top of the bench, on a narrow slat of wood. A cigarette sits between his pointer and middle fingers, and you pretend not to notice as ash falls from one end and disappears to dust on the gray cement below. His body language is relaxed. 

Your body language is the opposite. While his shoes point straight ahead, perpendicular to the road, your entire body is turned to face him. Your arms are crossed at your chest and the right side of your body finds friction against the curved backrest of the bench. 

Your eyes catch his, and he gives you a familiar half smile - a smile just on the side of his face that you can see. If someone stood on his other side and watched carefully, it might have looked like his mouth never waned from its cool, straight line. 

Across the street, a toddler’s laugh breaks the silence and cuts through the moment. She’s got a pink bucket hat on and it tips forward over her eyes as she squirms in her dad’s arms while he steps outside of a shop. 

Your head turns, attention caught on the family on the other side of the road. You’re happy to have found a distraction. Your face impulsively stretches into a smile and you hear a breathy laugh beside you. 

Your head turns again, and your attention instinctively focuses on the man sitting - leaning - next to you. Matty’s gaze is on the child across the street. He’s delighted. You catch a full smile from him this time, lips pulled taut across his teeth, crinkles folded into the corners of his eyes.

You haven’t seen this smile in weeks. You miss this smile, and you miss him.

A woman who must be the child’s mother follows closely behind, wheeling a pram to a stop on the pavement. She bends down and a sippy cup materializes. She hands it to her daughter who’s held against her dad’s chest. You watch, engaged, as the man twists away from the child to say something in the woman’s ear; she laughs lightly and shakes her head, eyes rolling humourously.

You think about what it would be like to be the one gripping the curved foam of the handles, reaching into the lower part of a carriage for a snack to feed your fussy child, exchanging inside jokes with your partner.

Intimate. The scenario seems so out of reach now, but that doesn’t stop it from providing a brief feeling of easement.

You turn to find Matty gazing at the family with an expression that must have mirrored yours mere moments earlier. You know how important family is to him, and how important having a family of his own is to him. Your future together was something that the pair of you were always on the exact same page about. 

The baby is facing the two of you now and, although a road and a sidewalk lies between her and Matty, she waves at him.

He lifts his arm, hinged at the elbow and bends his fingers down in return.

She’s waving at you now, a big smile stretching across her face. You smile at her sweetness, and wave back. Soon, both of you are pulling silly faces at the baby, and she’s giggling happily. 

It’s moments like these that kept you two together near the end. The comfort in being a couple. The comfort in thinking about what your future could look like if you would just stay together. 

Her mum notices then and smiles warmly at the two of you. You’re suddenly aware of the image that the two of you must give off: a happy couple enjoying July sunshine. 

Happy. Couple. The words, together, were true once.

“They’re so happy,” you say, mindlessly.

“And we’re not?” he replies immediately. The cigarette between his lips muffles the consonants, forcing a soft sound onto his words.

His response startles you, and you quickly settle back into your body, resuming sensation of the hot sun beating down on you, sweat starting to accumulate at the bridge of your nose, gaze sliding over to Matty. Reality hits.

“We’re not,” you say, with a small shake of your head, “but we were. Don’t you remember?”

That last sentence is intentionally worded. You said it, verbatim, during the argument the night you ended your relationship, a week ago.

You’re sure he does remember. 

He turns to face you now. Any trace of a smile that was on his face from admiring the baby across the road is gone. He drops his cigarette onto the pavement, stamps it out, and wipes his fingers on his trousers.

“You know that I do.” Scenes of laughs shared over dinner about childhood anecdotes and kisses in exchange for coffee delivered in bed play on your mind.

“Then why ask?” You feel like you’re talking in circles.

This breakup had been in the works for months. Mostly on and off, but more frequently off than on in the weeks approaching. It took you, beaten down after a long day of work and realizing your discomfort in your own home, to understand how tired of the relationship you were. Matty was home, and you had tried to settle down, but you couldn’t stop the fighting words from spilling out of your mouth. It took hours of talking and shouting and crying into the next morning to finally agree that the best thing you could do for each other was to break up. 

Neither of you could go sleep on a friend’s couch, afraid that it would make today’s lie difficult, so you’d both been staying in your shared apartment, careful to give the other plenty of space.

Now, you’re stood out here on the hot pavement, the smell of cigarette smoke hovering in the air, uncomfortable in your choice of outfit, engaged in tense conversation with your ex. 

What had initially been a ploy to trick your brunchmates – his bandmembers – into believing you were still together in order to not take away from a surely special event (a certain drummer’s engagement) had turned into a taxing state of affairs for you both.

This tiff was just the icing on the cake to an already bad morning. First, Matty had not come home from the studio until late last night, waking you up at three o’clock by banging around the apartment before going to bed. Then, you'd had to pound frantically on his door to wake him up after he slept through his alarm, leaving the house 30 mins later than planned, to drive across the city for brunch, only to find that you’d read George’s text wrong and were nearly an entire hour early. Ergo, the standing and conversing and domestic thoughts.

You almost want to tell him how tough the past week has been, having to exist so close to him every day without being able to let yourself fall into your old routine. You open your mouth to speak, three obvious, revealing words on the tip of your tongue – but here George and Charli came, walking down the street, hand-in-hand. 

You and Matty seem to notice the soon-to-be-engaged pair at the same time, each straightening up, plastering pleasant expressions on, and inching your bodies closer together, desperate to sell the bit.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Halfway Point Part 3: A Safe Space - Angel Reyes x Reader (feat: Felipe Reyes)

Tagging: @witches-unruly-heart @keyweegirlie @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @appreciatelove @the-wandering-lunatic @weiwei0210 @anime-weeb-4-life @multifandomloversworld @harperdoodle @est1887 @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @thebaileybugle @legally-a-bastard @oureternalbond @bonsaijoons @sclitvdes

The next day when you find Felipe in the rose garden you're surprised. You didn't expect him to follow through on his promise with the bench but it's seven in the morning and he's sitting on the damp grass alongside his toolbox and a small stack of wood, reinforcing the thing.

“Rotted through.” He tells you, showing you one of the slats. “It's a wonder you didn't fall straight through it.”

You think back to you and Angel last week. How he had made love to you on the grass instead of the bench because he was adamant it wouldn't hold despite the fact you were adamant it would. Felipe catches sight of your smile and shakes his head.

“I don't want to know.”

When you come by at again at noon with some water and some sandwiches for the older man, he's still sitting in the same place. This time though he has a paint tin perched next to him and a brush in his hand.

“Protects it from the weather.” He tells you in that gruff tone of his.

You sit and set down the collection of snacks and water bottles alongside him. He puts down the paint brush and covers the tin with the lid before stripping off his gloves. He doesn’t say anything when he picks up his sandwich and takes a bite, not even a thank you. You find it a little bit infuriating but you are determined not to let it get to you.

“Why do you keep it walled off?” he asks you thoughtfully, gesturing at the area around you.

You consider the question because there are multiple reasons, you’re just not sure which one to give him.

“Rose kush.” You say, tilting your head pointedly at the roses. “I use them to create the strain that grows in that field, they’re my secret weapon.”

“The real reason?” he prompts because Felipe knows when someone isn't giving him the whole story.

You pause for a moment because it’s not easy to discuss that sometimes the world gets a little too much and you buckle under the weight of your responsibilities. That sometimes you need a break from everything and everyone.

“Sometimes I just need space.” You confess to him. “A place that I can come to when everything gets a little too much. Being here around the roses, it just soothes me, it reminds me...”

You trail off, picking at the crust of your sandwich.

“Of what?” Felipe askes as he dusts the crumbs from his hands.

You swallow hard against the ache in your chest, because despite the fact it’s been a couple of years you still feel the loss acutely.

“Of when my Nana was alive. She was always this safe space for me, and I didn’t have that for a while after she was gone.”

There’s silence for a moment before Felipe breaks it.

“I still talk to Marisol.” He admits with a sigh. “Everyday I have my morning coffee and I tell her about the boys, things they've done, interactions we've had. I’ve not always been the best father but I'm trying because I’m all they've got right now.”

“I think you’re a pretty good one.” You tell him. Despite his gruffness you believe it, you think about the nights where Angel didn’t want to be alone after his mother’s passing, Felipe had still stepped up despite the fact he was grieving. They never talked about anything but baseball but it had helped Angel not feel so adrift. “You’re still present, there when they need you.”

“What about your father?” Felipe questions as he bundles up his rubbish. “Why isn't he here making sure that gate gets oiled?”

You shrug your shoulders.

“I don't know who he is.” You tell him truthfully. “I don’t even think my mom did. She was pretty wild. Left home at fifteen, followed a couple of bands around the country, came back one night and dropped a baby in my Nana's arms and took off again. She died when I was fourteen, she got drunk and took a header off a bridge in in Wisconsin, apparently someone dared her to walk along the handrail... the rest is history.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

He means it, he really does. No child deserves to be abandoned by their parent, no child needs to hear that drugs, drink and a good time are worth more than they are. Despite that you’re still seemingly well adjusted. He knows you’ve attended counselling; you’ve talked about it openly in your interviews.

“It is what it is.” You tell him, collecting the trash from him and putting it inside a compostable carrier bag. “It didn’t stop me from living my life, from going to college and becoming a botanist.”

“What about the farm?” he asks, his elbows coming to rest upon his knees.

“My Nana,” You explain, tying a knot in the top of the career bag. “She started off small in the sixties and then I helped legitimise it. I loved tinkering with plants, combining different things to see what the result was and that’s how we ended up with rose kush. It's helped a lot of people so far.”

“You believe in what you do.” Felipe states.

He respects that. It’s not often that you find people so firm in their ideals, that will stick to their guns when challenged but you do. You sincerely believe in what you’re harvesting and selling and he wants to understand that.

“I do.” You tell him. “I know you probably think I’m no better than the Galindos but this means something to me. The health care system is broken, and people can’t pay for their medicine and if Rose Kush brings them any kind of relief, then I’m glad for that. Until you have seen someone you love in agony, suffering because they can’t escape their pain, I don’t think you get an opinion.”

There’s a conviction in your words, he knows your Nana died of cancer, he can't imagine what it was like to watch someone you love waste away like that. In a way he’s glad that Marisol’s death was quick, even if he never got to say goodbye.

“Come to dinner tomorrow night.” He says both surprising himself and you. “Bring Angel. You can check on that rose bush, make sure it's taken to the soil.”

“Just to check on that rose bush.” You agree, raising to your feet. “Make sure you haven’t been neglecting it.”

“Give me a little credit." He mutters as he tugs on his gloves once again and removes the lid from the paint can. “It's only been a couple of days.”

“Uh huh.” You tease, lingering by the gate for a moment before you smile. “I'll see you tomorrow Felipe"

Love Angel? Get added to his tag list!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[wannabemurdock]

you’re in a sauna at the avengers tower, and Thor comes in with no towel on.

I had to search the mechanics of a sauna for this. I go the extra mile for these asks. This didn’t turn out as steamy (wow funny) as I intended but this was fun to write.

“ARE YOU GOOD, CHAMP?” Your voice comes out more shrill than intended but this is the last thing you expected when you decided to take some you time.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You walk into the sauna, towel wrapped around you tightly as you take a seat on the wooden bench that wraps around the walls of the steamy room.

Grabbing the ladle from the bucket, you pour the water onto the hot rocks in the centre before resting back against the wall. Your back uncomfortable against the wood slats of the wall.

Beads of sweat roll down your skin, cooling you slightly as you try to enjoy your time before having to go to yet another strategic meeting. Lost in your thoughts, you don’t hear another person enter the room.

“Ah, Y/n!” A deep voice addresses you. You turn your head to see a completely bare Thor.

“ARE YOU GOOD, CHAMP?” Your voice comes out more shrill than intended but this is the last thing you expected when you decided to take some you time.

Thor’s taken aback by your tone.

“Yes I am... Pal…” He takes a seat much closer than socially accepted in this situation. You keep your eyes closed, but the image of Thor as naked as the day he was born is burnt into the back of your eyelids.

“You know that you’re supposed to wear a towel, right?” You understand that he’s used to different social norms but you can’t help but laugh at what’s just happened.

“As beautiful as you are, Thor, please put on a towel. There’s spares outside the door.” You hear him leave and come back. Assuming it’s safe, you open your eyes. Giving you a twirl, you clap for his now covered figure before he takes his original seat next to you.

You two sit there in comfortable silence, blissed out by a moment of silence compared to the normally hectic atmosphere of the tower. Thors the first to speak up.

“You think I’m beautiful?” You lean over to nudge him.

“Damn right, Pretty Boy.” You turn to see him blush at the new nickname.