#wrought iron wall hanging

[hanacorners]

Spruce Up Your Living Room Decor with a Wrought Iron Wall Hanging - 2023 Decor Trends

The living room is an integral part of our home where we spend most of our time relaxing, entertaining, and bonding with friends and family. If you’re looking to spruce up your living room decor, a wrought iron wall hanging might be the perfect addition to create a focal point and add a touch of elegance. American Wrought Iron Wall Hanging Black And White Round Shape Crafts Art Wall Decor…

[acrosscenturiesandgenerations]

▪︎ Floral Wall Hanging Basket.

Artist/Maker: Peter Griffith at Sydney Technical College, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

Date: ca. 1893

Medium: Wrought iron

[whitewizard89]

Traditional Home Bar Houston

Inspiration for a large timeless single-wall brick floor wet bar remodel with raised-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets and granite countertops

[tolookbeyondtheglory]

Kitchen Dining Dining Room An illustration of a sizable traditional kitchen/dining room combination with a limestone floor and beige walls

[mysticcolonialhardware]

Decorating the house with wall iron hooks for hanging has become an art, in addition to giving an original and fun touch, they are very practical and functional for any room in the house.

[ace-turned-confused]

proud to be yours

marcus acacius masterlist | main masterlist

pairing: marcus acacius x f!reader summary: it's the first time you've seen acacius since he took your virginity, and he has plans for a different kind of training word count: 2,7k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied / shorter than acacius / very inexperienced, unspecified age gap, pet names, smut, vague references to past p in v & loss of virginity, cock & ball worship hooray! (blowjob & ball sucking), brief fingering, comeplay & come eating, spitting, praise kink, size kink, smidgen of corruption & innocence kink, dirty talk, possessive acacius extra info: subligaculum = underwear a/n: written for @joelmillerisapunk's PPCU body worship challenge! i asked for Big Gladiator Man + C, which very fittingly stands for cock :) this has the same pairing, teeny references to & carries on from mould me for ruin, but could be read on its own :) hugs & cookies to @morallyinept for reading this over <3 <3 <3

You haven’t seen Acacius since your last training session when he took you on the ground and claimed you for himself. He informed you he was busy, saying he’d find you as soon as possible. You weren’t sure what to expect when he sought you out today and led you down an unfamiliar path, still away from prying eyes but also your usual hideaway.

You wonder if he regrets what the two of you did and doesn’t want to train you anymore, if he’s changed his mind and is simply taking you somewhere he can let you down without an audience.

The sun is already well below the mountains, the sky like a painting of pink and purple with cirrus clouds like brushstrokes. Kicking the gravel as you walk, Acacius’ bulky frame towers alongside you. You watch his hand glide through the air, remembering how his touch had blazed across your skin.

“Where are we going?”

“You will see.”

“Why are we not heading for the forest?”

“Today’s lesson will be far more pleasant at my home.”

“Your home? Are you… are you sure?”

“Relax, my girl.” He stops and turns to you, steadying you by your arms. “You know I would not endanger you — even if I did, you have proven you are more than capable.”

“What are we doing?” You call out to him as he walks ahead.

“You have quite the… inquisitive mind, rascal. I imagine it gets you into trouble, hm?”

“I suppose I do ask too many questions… you're the only one who really listens to them.”

He turns and waits for you to catch up, head cocked to one side as you come to stand in front of him. You feel a strange sense of comfort around him, comfort that nobody else has time or energy to give you. Why would they, when you spend all day longing to chase your dreams?

“It is not too much, you are not too much. I enjoy listening to you. You are far more intelligent and witty than any soldier I’ve trained… Far more beautiful, too.”

He resumes walking with a soft smile and you follow in silence, trusting that you’ll be fine to do whatever he has planned, and fighting the heat that flows under your skin at his compliments.

-

Stepping through wrought iron gates, a cobbled pathway wound up to an impressive stone and brick home, the surrounding gardens neat and manicured. High arches tapering down towards mosaic-tiled floors as you head inside, it’s a spectacle compared to the cramped buildings of the town centre.

He led you through the open space towards the back of his property, dim lamps lining the walls as you reached his bedchamber. You stood in the doorway, unsure if you should have followed him inside. He assured you nobody would know your whereabouts, and if they did, he’d make sure they never spoke it, a menacing grip on his sword as he unsheathed it to place down.

Now you stand, watching him remove his armour, place his chestplate on its stand and hang his skirt. His chest is still just as broad, arms and thighs still just as thick even only in his tunic. You’ve never seen him like this, neither noble nor clad in armour — just Acacius, just Marcus. The lamplight flickers across his face, catching on the silver in his hair and the scruff of his beard.

“Still so eager to learn?” He chuckles as he drags his hand down your neck and across your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering closed as your skin rises in goosebumps.

“How will we train if you have stripped yourself of your armour? I… I do not wish to hurt you.”

“We are doing a different kind of training tonight, my girl. You did so well for your first time, I knew you were born to take me.” He steps into your space, one hand rising to cradle your cheek and you lean into his touch, still desperate to please him.

“Have you dreamt of me again? Touched yourself and seen stars?”

“Yes, General,” you whisper to him.

“It felt good to become mine, yes?”

You whimper as you think back to that night — your body ached as he pushed you down into the hard earth and split you open, pinned you beneath him so he could just take from you. He did take from you, something you can never get back but something you don’t want back, not now that he’s had you for himself.

“I assume you have not sought out another man.” You shake your head in response, gaze tracing over his features as he stares you down with a dark glint in his eyes. “No other man will have you how I did… I will make sure of it.”

“As you said, my body craves yours.”

“My good girl.” Acacius smiles down at you as he curls his hand around your waist, fingers digging into your side. “And my body craves yours, remember?” He takes your hand and guides it down atop his tunic, pressing himself into you.

“Do you feel just how much I still crave you?” You nod as you stare at your hand, feeling him for the first time through the rough fabric. “There are more ways you can be mine, and many more ways I can ruin you. On your knees, my girl.”

You sink down to the floor, the hard tiles digging into your kneecaps as you shift around and try to find a comfortable position. You look up at Acacius from the floor, about to voice your discomfort when he stops you before you can speak.

“Tonight I want to show you how to make a man — me — feel good.”

“Was it not… did you not feel good when, uh… when you…” You drop your eyes, feeling heated as you stumble over your words. Your brows knit in concern — did you do something wrong the other night?

“It was well beyond good, my rascal — a sweet girl like you, so pure.” He crouches down to level with you and holds the back of your neck. “Any man would feel good with you, but no other man ever will now that you are surely ruined.”

Looking away, you notice a white tunic laid out, a gold leaf pattern running along the shoulders and down the side seams. You wonder when he wears it, or who he wears it for, distracting yourself from the worries swirling in your head.

It’s as if he could hear your concerns before you voiced them — he grabs you by the chin to force your attention back to him. “No other man will have you, and I will not have any other woman. Now that I have you, why would I need someone else?”

He drops his hand and straightens up — you feel wet between your thighs as he towers over you. You clutch your hands together, unsure what you’re meant to do for him.

Your eyes flit between his chest and arms as he pulls his tunic off, smirking at you as you realise your mouth had fallen open. He wastes no time pulling his subligaculum off and your eyes go wide seeing him up close for the first time.

You don’t care what he thinks anymore as you stare at his cock instead — he takes himself in hand, stroking lazily up and down and reaches with his free hand to cup the heft of his balls. His skin looks soft, and the small pearls that grow from the tip of his length turn him shiny the more he fists himself. You lean back on your ankles as he lets go and holds his hand out.

Placing your hand cautiously into his waiting palm, he lifts it and wraps it around his cock. Your fingers just don’t meet — it’s not just his arms and thighs that are thick. You try pressing your legs together, that familiar nightly ache having returned.

“Are you wet?” You nod mindlessly as he starts moving your hand in his, mesmerised by the feel of him and watching the skin pull back and forth over the head. “Too bad tonight is not about you. Maybe if you are a good girl I can give you what you want so desperately.”

He uncurls your fingers and holds your hand open to rest his cock against your palm, hunching over as a trail of spit falls from his mouth and onto his length. He closes your hand around him again, a small gasp slipping from your lips as the cool, wet sensation covers your palm and fingers. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he instructs you to stroke him again, before dropping both arms to his sides.

You look at him curiously as his skin glides against your hand; you tighten your fist experimentally, feeling just how hard and heavy he is. He grunts above you and you let go immediately, looking up at him in question, worried you’ve already done something wrong. 

“Do not stop, my girl — all those noises you made when you felt good? Well, I make noises, too.” He winks at you and curls your hand around him again for you to continue. “You have always been such a curious girl — I want you to explore me.”

“But what… What should I do? And, what if you do not like it?”

“I would like anything you can do, my girl. You were fearless when it came to your combat training, I want that same fearless girl with me now.” You glance away as you consider what to do, your nerves clearly evident on your face as he starts making suggestions, “Stick your tongue out for me.”

You do, and he guides his cock towards your face, the tip prodding into your cheek before he drags it towards your waiting tongue.

“I want you to explore, with your hands, your mouth… I’m sure you will find you quite like this, too. Go on, taste me.”

You lean forward and lick the tip of his cock — he twitches as you do, and you taste the precome that’s been pearling since he took his clothing off. Looking at him again, he nods and it encourages you — you hold his cock up against his body, licking the entire underside of his length and he moans, his head lolling back as you keep eye contact.

“My sweet girl, I knew you would be good at this.”

You warm at his words, feeling your skin and ears go hot at his praise — you’ve only just started, and you still have no idea what you actually should do, but hearing how much Acacius is enjoying this only makes you want to do better for him.

You take his advice and flick your tongue across his tip again, breaking to stroke him and pepper small kisses up and down his length, peering up at him with a wide grin each time. Once you work up the courage, you take the tip of his cock into your mouth and try swirling your tongue around him — even barely inside you and it feels a stretch. His hips jerk forward when you push your tongue along his slit, sliding himself further into you.

It takes some time, but you work him progressively into your mouth, your boosted ego taking over as you push too far — coughing as you pull yourself off him, strings of saliva connect your bodies, one hand still around what you couldn’t fit in your mouth.

“Slowly, my girl. You do not have to win the war all in one night.”

“Can I…” You trail off, embarrassed by your inexperience and the vulgar thoughts clouding your mind.

“You can do whatever you want, my rascal. There is no need to ask — explore, remember?”

You nod, reassured by his guidance and stroke him languidly again. He’s even harder than when you started, throbbing in your hand with an almost permanent bead of precome leaking from him.

Your eyes drop to his balls — you watched how he held them, felt them earlier. Does that mean he likes that too?

Avoiding his eyes this time in case you make a mistake, you lift a hand to feel the skin — it’s soft, with wiry hairs littered across him. You roll your fingers over him and he groans at the contact, his hand squeezing the back of your neck.

Smiling sweetly as you look up at his face again, he looks gone, and your sweet smile turns cocky — you’ve rendered him practically speechless. You take in his unburdened features as you run through everything in your mind — he likes your mouth on his cock, he likes your hands on his balls…

You don’t overthink it as you duck forwards, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle into the crease of his thigh and take one of his balls into your mouth and suck him gently, one hand tightening around his cock, the other grounding yourself on his leg. He pulls you impossibly close to him and you giggle, the sound muffled but coursing through his whole body.

You keep stroking him as you switch sides, shifting your hand from his leg to scrape your nails through the coarse hair surrounding the base of his cock. He groans, a string of saliva connecting your bodies again and trailing down your chin when you release him.

“Can I, um… can we do this again? Not necessarily tonight, of course! But…” You ask timidly, your voice becoming hoarse.

“I am glad to know you take great pleasure in this.”

“Are you going to cover me like you did last time?”

“Keep going and you will soon find out.” He sounds breathless as he looks down at you, “I am close — you have done so well for your first time, you have been such a good girl.”

You clench your legs together as he showers you with praises again, hoping that he’ll let you touch yourself — or touch you himself — when he’s done.

“Take me again, my rascal.”

It doesn’t take long before his body starts stiffening, cords of muscle in his thigh tensing against your hand and his grunts become louder. You sink your nails into his leg as he thrusts forwards and knocks into the back of your throat, his cock pulsing as he spills into you. The sensation overwhelms you as you feel it settle under your tongue and thicken around your gums; Acacius is doubled over above you, his large and weathered hands borderline crushing your skull from how he pulls you into him and keeps himself upright.

Unsure what to do next, you wait. The tiles are cool and hard against your knees — much like the earth he’d pushed you into previously — and his cock is slowly softening, still kept in the wet warmth of your mouth.

Finally loosening his grip to stand, everything falls silent as you look up at him. He pulls himself out and grabs your chin, digging his fingers into your cheeks to keep your mouth open and angle your head back. He leans over you, all firm chest and broad shoulders, with that same wild expression you recognise from the night he first had you.

He spits into your mouth and you whimper below him. Sliding two fingers between your teeth, he presses them down onto your tongue and dips them into the mixture of his spit and salty come, pushing it around your mouth. You grab onto his wrist to keep him longer as you lick between his fingers and swallow.

“My perfect girl.”

Pulling his fingers from you, he crouches to level with you and wipes your cheeks with his clean hand — you’re not sure when the tears had streaked your face, overwhelmed by him filling your mouth and the now unbearable throbbing between your legs. He lifts your tunic and bunches it at your waist, huffing a laugh when he sees you’re bare underneath it.

Still caressing your cheek, he dips his sticky fingers between your folds, dragging them through your slick. You tilt your hips to grind yourself against his fingers; he pushes them into you when they catch on your entrance and he laughs, watching you work yourself higher and higher, your small whines growing louder.

“My poor girl, does it not feel good by yourself anymore, hm? Now that I have shaped you for myself… You are always so good for me, let me help you.”

tagging some pookies that left kind words on my wip wednesday snippets of this, lmk if you wanna be taken off <3 @burntheedges @milla-frenchy @sixhours @luxurychristmaspudding

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @cafekitsune

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 16 all chapters

~AUTHOR'S WARNINGS: N$FW, SEXUAL CONTENT, COPIOUS SWEARING, TOXIC POSESSIVENESS , IF SOMEONE TREATS YOU LIKE THIS IN REAL LIFE RUN RUN RUN BC IT WILL NOT TURN OUT WELL U CANT FIX THEM~

-Aware that John Wick knows this city much better than you, you stick to the crowds. You manage to find your way to the Peggy Guggenheim collection, and you hang out there for hours, looking through the art works, but really only half seeing what is in front of you.

You are devastated.

You’ve had controlling boyfriends before, and it was not fun. They seem exciting at first, until the person you were before is eaten alive by their tantrums and their ridiculous expectations as they try to fit you into a box of their own making.

You can’t believe John turned out that way.

Or maybe you can. Maybe you have a fucking type, and you should have seen this coming.

You stay almost until closing, then grab a bite to eat before daring to wander the streets. You find a little walled in park, a courtyard filled with lush greenery and a tinkling fountain. By some miracle, there is only one other couple on a bench at the far end. You practically have the place to yourself, and you sit down on a wrought iron bench with a sigh and eat your sandwich.

You pull out your sketchbook afterwards to pass the time. Your doodling hand wanders, and perhaps its no surprise when you draw John Wick from memory, his proud lips and haunted eyes. There are tears running down your cheeks as you do so. When it gets too much, even though you’re in public, you hang your head and weep into your hands.

Darkness falls, and you know you should be getting back. The bench has long ceased to be comfortable, and yet it’s like you have grown into it, unable to move.

Even with your head down, when someone sits silently down beside you, you just know it’s John.

You do not look at him, and thankfully he does not try to touch you.

“It’s getting late, y/n. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Yes it is,” he insists, sounding almost tired about it. You hate it that your demeanor softens towards him, just a little.

“You broke my heart, Mr. Wick.”

“I was afraid I might.” He is sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. “Would you let me make it up to you?” 

“I'm not sure that's a good idea.” 

“No?”

“No. I think you have a mean streak.” 

He had tried to warn you, you realize, in his way.

God, are you really such a fool?

“Doesn't everyone?” 

You make a sound between your teeth, and he nods like you have said something profound. 

“I'm not a nice man, y/n. But I would be good to you.”

“Like last night? I didn't like that.”

The corner of his mouth curves in a wicked smirk, and your heart skips a beat in your chest, damn him. Was the contrition all an act?

“Yes you did.”

“Not the last part.”

“Hmm. I tried to warn you.”

In the vaguest terms possible, maybe.

“My fanny.”

He raises an eyebrow to that, and you’re not sure why that little gesture wounds you like a knife to the heart all over again. Perhaps because he is beautiful, and even though you know he’s dangerous for you, you still want him so very much.  

You start to cry again, and try to get up from the bench. You need to get away from him, because you can’t think straight when he’s near.

“Y/n, wait.” He catches your wrist, and when you don’t really fight him, he pulls you down into his lap, and goddammit if this isn’t what you’d wanted all along. You feel small in his arms, cradled against his long torso and sheltered in the bend of his neck, even if in your hindbrain you know you are not actually safe at all. He strokes your hair until you quiet, and he kisses your temple like you are something precious.

How can this man be so sweet, just to turn on you?

“Why did you leave me, like that?”

You just do not understand. You could have had a lovely, fulfilling, mind-blowing if not vanilla night together. He’d laid all the groundwork like a master orchestrator, and you would have let him fuck you senseless. Fuck, you wouldn’t have even minded the tying up part, if he just hadn’t humiliated you.

“Because…” His lips ghost along the line of your jaw, and you fight not to squirm as his large hand slides up your thigh, his fingertips feather light on your skin. “Only good girls get to cum,” he says low in your ear, and you hate how it makes you ache between your legs, to hear him talk to you that way.

Outwardly, you do your best to keep your cool.

“And touching your hair made me a bad girl?”

“No.”

“Disobeying you did.”

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda fucked up.”

“Maybe.” He actually seems a little amused by you, which is not the reaction you were expecting. “I like to be in control. But you make me feel...unbalanced.”

“Me?” You sound incredulous. The thought that you could affect this powerful man in such a way seems absurd.

“Yes, you, kitten.”

The urge to demand he not call you that desiccates on your tongue. 

“So...what? You feel the need to take revenge for that?” 

“Maybe. I thought you knew the game we were playing, when you batted those big eyes up at me. Mr Wick, Sir, aren’t I a good girl?” His fingers dig into your thigh with the memory, and you can feel his growing erection beneath you. “But you’re just an innocent, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’re used to boys just eating out of the palm of your hand. But I am a man, with a man’s appetites, and a man’s desires.”

He was a little more than that, you reckoned.

“You want to control me.”

“That’s part of it.”

“Why?”

He smirks. “Maybe I had a rough childhood.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“I want to take care of you.” He kisses your cheek again, and it is gentle and sweet and everything you had wanted from Mr. Wick, before this all went sideways. “I want you to be mine.”

You are not proud of the way those words unleash a fluttering swarm of butterflies in your belly, your breath quickening in your chest. You are proud when you manage to answer, “I don’t need taking care of.”

He just snorts lightly at that, as if it’s not even worth arguing over. “Come back to the hotel room with me. I promise I’ll finish what I started. With interest.” His hand slowly slides up your thigh, just beneath the skirt of your sundress, and you think you might die. You should not want this man, after what he did to you.

The ache between your legs suggests otherwise.

You give yourself some points, when you shake your head.

“No. I’m going back to my hostel.”

The shift in his demeanor gives you whiplash, a thunderhead of a frown pulling his handsome features. “Need to get back to your little friend Javi?” The jealousy in his tone hot as a brand. “Did he try to kiss you again?”

Your heart drops to your feet.

“How did you know he tried to kiss me?” you ask, your voice so small.

That was in Rome, after all.

What should have been obvious before comes crashing in, and you realize what a little fool you’ve been. That feeling that someone’s been watching you, and John’s so convenient and coincidental appearance outside the alley…

“Holy shit. You’ve been following me.”

“I’ve been protecting you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have no idea what the world is really like, sweetheart. It’s a dangerous place.”

You frown at this.

“So…you think I’m stupid?”

“No, of course not.”

“You think I can’t take care of myself then.”

“I think I found you wandering around here like a lost little lamb. There are monsters here who would have gobbled a sweet little treat like you up in one bite.”

The fact that he sees you that way is more alarming than the thought of some unnamed threat in the shadows.

For some reason it makes you think of the men in the van back home—and how that van was found empty and on fire.

“How do you know about the monsters, John?”

“I just know.”

“You said you weren’t a cop. Were you FBI?”

He glares at you, which you take as a no.

“Interpol?”

You are met with silence, and you nod, mostly to yourself.

“You know about the monsters because you are one.” You think about those fierce looking Italian men with their scars and their bespoke suits. His previous words echo in your memory. Sono retirato.

“Were you in the mob?”

“Not…specifically.”

Then you remember he’d said he was from Belarus.

“Bratva, then.”

You should be terrified as you work all this out, trapped in the circle of this man’s arms, but you feel strangely numb about it all.

“My clever girl.” He sounds almost sad about it.

“Not clever enough,” you sigh.

You are not sure who is more surprised, you or him, when you burst to your feet. You actually manage to slip out of his grasp, though you only make it three steps before he captures your wrist again with a grip like an iron manacle. He gives you a dark look, annoyed that you would even try to play this game with him.

You remember what you learned in martial arts class a lifetime ago, pointing your thumb down towards the weak point of his grip and trying to jerk free. It’s worked before, with grabby men.

Not with John Wick, though.

“Stop.” Again, there’s that steely tone. The alpha voice one uses to reprimand a naughty dog. It only makes you angrier, and you struggle.

He pulls you hard against him, and you bite his hand. He doesn’t let you go, just adjusts his grip. “I didn’t want to do it this way,” he snarls low in your ear. “But you are so fucking stubborn.”

“Thank you.” You try to headbutt him behind you, but he ducks into the bend of your shoulder. You feel his chest trembling against your back, and only belatedly do you realize he is laughing at you.

“Enjoying this?”

“A little.”

“There’s no fucking way you can get me out of here without someone seeing. Let me go.”

He just sighs into your hair, like you’ve said something extremely naïve.

The arrival of newcomers into the park catches both of your attention. You lift your head, ready to ask for help, when you recognize the besuited tough guys from before.

Well, fuck.

“You've got some balls, showing your face around here, John Wick. Gianna d’Antonio’s son sends his greetings.”

“This isn’t a good time,” he snarls in return.

“Sorry, are you too busy fighting with your little girlfriend?”

He actually releases you then, pushing you to stand behind him. They are blocking the exit, so for now, you comply.

“You know how this will go,” John says, assuming a ready stance, his feet spread. He almost sounds regretful about it. “Do yourselves a favor, and leave.”

“Can’t do it, John,” says the one in the lead.

“For fuck’s sake,” curses John under his breath. The lead Italian makes a move, and John bursts into action. He is like a tornado of carnage upon them, throwing punches and breaking arms, cutting tendons and stabbing throats.

You are absolutely frozen as you watch all this unfold before you.

That is, until one of the thugs throws a knife at John, and you watch it bury in his chest. This is the thing that breaks your spell, and you run towards the fray with a scream, though who the fuck knows what you intend to do.

However, like he wasn’t just stabbed in the heart, John takes another attacker’s gun, pistol whipping him with it before shooting the knife thrower, then the last one standing. It cannot have been more than minute, before all of them are dead at his feet. He leans on his bent knees for a moment, catching his breath.

“John?” You hardly recognize your own voice as you rush to him, certain he’s taken a lethal blow and somehow fought through it with the surge of adrenaline. However, when you peel back his suit jacket you find no blood. He lets you look him over with frantic hands, maybe enjoying the fact that you don’t wish him dead, before pulling the still protruding knife from the breast of his jacket.

When he produces the little leather journal you’d gifted him from his inside pocket, now gravely marred with a puncture through the cover, you understand.

“Holy fuck.”

“You saved my life,” he says with an odd little smile down at you, as though all this is normal and what you just saw is totally ok.

Utterly horrified, you run.

“Y/n, wait!”

You throw yourself into the dark winding streets, taking any turn you can, trying to stay out of sight. Your feet fly beneath you; even in your shitty strappy sandals, it’s the fastest you’ve ever run.

It’s not fast enough.

When strong arms close around you, lifting you from the ground, you try to scream. A big hand clamps over your mouth, and you find yourself pressed hard into a stone wall. “Please, calm down,” he pants in your ear, out of breath from killing four people then running you down.

Your answer of, “Are you fucking kidding me?” is nothing but muffled syllables.  

“Goddammit,” he sighs behind you, rifling in his pocket for something as he pins you with his body. “This is not how I wanted this to go.”

Your pitiful plea of “Let me go,” is cut off by an evil-smelling cloth shoved into your nose.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is unique- the building started out as a local store, but the current owner bought it and converted it into a 1bd, 1ba home in 2020. They're calling it a barn-dominium, but it looks like a shipping container to me. The town of Windsor, SC is a trail riding community and this home comes with horse stables and 1.15 acres of land for only $235K. The interior decor is most unusual.

When you walk thru the front door there are hooks to hang coats on the wall. The bedroom is on the right. You can see the bed right there out in the open.

It's nice, and I guess if there's only 1 bd, there's no need to worry about privacy.

Walk in the front door and there's also the living room.

The living room and kitchen are open concept. Note the architectural salvage columns on the right. There's architectural salvage throughout the house. I love that look and the recycling concept.

The stools are wearing jeans. That's pretty cool. According to the description: Some furnishings, art and decor are negotiable. I would have to ask about those stools.

The kitchen sink.

The kitchen is cute- the cabinets are actually tool chests. You can see the loft above with the wrought iron railing.

They make attractive red and black cabinets.

If you've ever bought a tool chest, you'll know that they're not cheap. I think that this is a clever alternative to cabinetry.

These are Craftsman and they're definitely not cheap. It looks like they put wood counters on top of them

I saw the towel bars and got confused. Is this the bath?

Then I saw the washer & dryer. But, looking at the black metal nook, I realized that's the shower. It's not very deep.

Interesting.

I hadn't noticed the sink on top of the antique mail boxes until this closer photo. That's a bit of architectural salvage- love that so much. I don't see the toilet. I hope it's not a composting situation.

Here we are up in the loft. It's filled with storage, but it's pretty roomy.

Now, we're heading to the stables. So, there's a fenced area for the horses.

It's nice and clean. Room for several horses and it looks roomy.

Looks like there's an office in there.

Large garage/barn.

This must be the hay loft.

There's a road right here alongside the property.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/683-Windsor-Rd-Windsor-SC-29856/316702349_zpid/?

[syoish-aot]

"I Found You" - EREN/READER - REVERSE ISEKAI (part 7)

reverse isekai, time travel, memory loss

post canon

reader/eren

past eren/mikasa (but no love triangle)

word count: 1682

<- PART 6 | PART 8 ->

*****

Red flowers spilled from the hanging baskets attached to the wrought iron fence that wrapped around the upstairs patio of Niccolo’s restaurant.

Mikasa smiled to herself as she leaned against the railing, pulling one of the flowers up to her nose.

From the other side of the patio, as if he was scared that getting too close would break the mirage, Eren’s eyes followed her movements.

His breath came out in shallow exhales, watching the way the setting sun illuminated her features. 

She was so beautiful. She’d always been beautiful. No one could deny that.

Her hair (her long hair, he noted) framed her face and fell past her shoulders, tickling the straps of the red dress that wrapped perfectly around her figure. He hadn’t seen her in a dress since they were kids and it was never something so flashy. Somehow, it still suited her.

Or maybe it was this new life that suited her instead.

Eren could vividly recall the dozens of times that he’d watched Mikasa perform such a simple task, as the mundane action somehow found a way to light a fire in his stomach. Cleaning her swords, adjusting her ODM straps, tinkering with her gas chamber- he’d watch her do it, admiring the way her fingers delicately held whatever tool or object she was fiddling with. But now, with her fingers wrapped softly around a beautiful flower, he felt-

He felt… 

Honestly, Eren wasn’t sure what he felt.

And he didn’t understand why not knowing intimidated him so much.

“So…” Mikasa started, cutting off his thoughts, “Welcome to your new life.”

Eren shoved his hands into his pockets, unsure what else to do with them, as he looked away from her and swallowed a lump in his throat. “...yeah.” He replied.

Mikasa laughed to herself and looked up at the sky, admiring the way the sunset placed a silver glow around the fluffy clouds above. “You’re probably pretty confused.”

“That’s putting it lightly.” Eren scoffed before he finally crossed the patio and joined her. 

“We don’t really get it either, it just slowly started to happen,” Mikasa told him. “It’s random, but everyone’s memories get triggered by something. For Armin, it was seeing the ocean for the first time. Jean’s came back at a farmer’s market. Connie remembered everything the first time he met Sasha. And Sasha well-...” Mikasa smiled, “there’s a reason we still call her “potato girl” even now.”

“What about you?” Eren asked.

“I-...” Mikasa looked down at her hands and smoothed out her dress. “...I was different.”

Their eyes met and a lump formed in Eren’s throat. He felt guilty, somehow. Guilty for being around when all of this had been happening, but somehow remaining completely oblivious to it. All Eren had ever wanted to do was protect the people he loved, so the fact that they’d been going through so much without him even noticing made him feel like he’d let them down.

Like he’d let Mikasa down, just like he had in his past life.

“How were you… different?” Eren asked hesitantly, as if he was scared to know the answer.

Mikasa smiled before she looked down at the street below them. “In this life, we grew up together just like we had before. You, me, and Armin, just the three of us. You and Armin had no idea about our past lives but I-” Mikasa took a breath, “but I remembered everything.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Maybe it’s another one of those Ackerman powers but-… but from the moment I could have a memory, I remembered. I remembered Shiganshina and the hill we would run up as kids. I remembered the fall of the walls. The titans. Our attack on Liberio. The Rumbling. Everything. I remembered every single piece of it and I- I remembered you…”

Eren’s breath caught. “What do you… remember about me?” He couldn't look away from her, not for a second.

This was everything he had ever wanted. Everything he denied himself from having in his first life.

This was time. Time for them to finally be together.

“What am I to you, Eren?” “Family.”

He wouldn’t let it happen again. “Mikasa I lo-”

“I remembered killing you,” Mikasa cut him off and Eren immediately slammed his mouth shut. “And I also remembered everything that happened after. The years I sat by your grave missing you, wishing you were next to me so we could sit together and watch Shiganshina grow.”

Eren looked at the flowers next to them.

The pretty red flowers that spilled over the railing, reaching out to the streets below.

“Do you remember the cabin?” Eren hesitantly asked.

“I do.”

“So then-” He looked back at her. “Then you and I- we can- now that I’m here and I’m awake and we’re in this life we-”

“We can’t, Eren.” Mikasa said.

Eren was taken aback. Mikasa had felt the same way as he did in their last lifetime, so what was different now?

“Why not?” He asked.

“Because it doesn’t work here, Eren.”

“I- What do you mean? We finally have the time, Mikasa. We can be together and you don’t even want to try!? Why not? I-... I love you. I’ve always loved you so-”

“I loved you too.” Mikasa cut him off.

“But-…” He was in complete disbelief. “But not anymore?”

“No.” Mikasa answered simply. “Not anymore.”

It flashes through his mind quickly. In weird uncontrollable blips:

A new shirt. A black marker.

Eren scowled and shook his head, thinking nothing of whatever that was. He had more important things to worry about.

“Why not?” Eren asked. “What changed?"

Mikasa took a deep breath. “I lived a whole lifetime loving you, Eren. And I spent most of it learning to live without you by my side.”

Coffee. Itchy cloth. A stale, leftover pastry.

Eren shook his head again and focused on what Mikasa was saying.

“When I came back and I was in this life,” she said, “a new life, I had already spent so much time getting over you. At that point, I just-... I couldn’t go back.”

Spaghetti. Wine. Plush couch cushions against his back.

Eren scowled. His head was swarming with meaningless thoughts. Fragments of thoughts, really. He needed to focus on Mikasa! “And you didn’t even try?” He asked.

Mikasa laughed. “No, I did. Once.”

“Once?”

“Yeah. When we were younger we were together for a bit. Nothing serious, and mostly it was just awkward. I felt like I was trying to play a part instead of being who I wanted to be. And then a few months later you-…”

“I what?”

Mikasa smiled before she took a deep breath. “A few months later you… fell in love with someone else.”

Lips between his shoulder blades. A sharp pain in his chest. And then a laugh.

Eren’s fingers dug into his temples, circling against them as the thoughts continued to swirl.

He fell in love with someone else? Someone who wasn’t Mikasa? What was the point of this new life if he was with someone else? Mikasa was the reason he had fought so hard before. She was everything to him but-

“It’ll come back to you eventually,” Mikasa told him. “And when it does, you’ll get what I mean when I say that you and I wouldn’t work.”

Eren scowled. “What if it doesn’t? What if I get my memories back from this weird life and I still want to be with you.”

Mikasa sighed. “If that happens then… then I’ll probably have to kill you again.”

“WHAT!?”

Mikasa laughed at his bright red cheeks and the expression of pure irritation across his face.

She reached up to teasingly tug his bangs, snapping him out of his moment of rage.

Eren pushed her hand away.

He had looked so serious earlier, resembling the man who had tried to end the world. But now, as he pouted after being teased, all Mikasa could see was his bratty childhood self after Carla told him to finish his chores.

“You shouldn’t joke about that…” Eren mumbled.

“It’s not a joke,” Mikasa said. “If you hurt her I really will kill you."

He scowled. “I don’t even know who she is!”

“You’ll figure it out.” Mikasa shrugged. “Like I said, you’ll get those memories back eventually. Just give it some time.”

Marker. Coffee. Spaghetti and wine.

That’s not what that was… was it?

No.

It couldn’t be.

Those weren’t memories they were just-... weird images in his head. Something he dreamed of, probably, something that didn’t mean anythin-

“Wait!” Eren called. Mikasa was half way across the patio by the time he realized she had even left.

He wanted to ask her to stay. He felt like he was supposed to ask her to say, that’s what his head was telling him, anyway; because their conversation hadn’t resolved anything! He still had so many questions for her, so many thoughts to share and feelings to bring up. But Mikasa was just going to leave him like this!? Leave him to- to do what!?

“Just let the memories come back to you, Eren.” She told him.

“What am I-...” Eren’s mouth opened and closed uselessly a few times before he remembered how to speak: “What the hell am I supposed to do while I wait for that to happen?”

Mikasa smiled as she turned around to look at him one more time.

“Follow your instincts,” she told him, “no matter which lifetime you’re in, you’ve always been pretty good at doing that.”

And then she left him on the patio alone with his thoughts.

Alone with his memories.

Alone with a strange sense of deja vu as he looked down at the red flowers that spilled over the railing onto the streets below.

A messy heart on the lid of a paper coffee cup. A hand that fits so naturally into his. The words “I love you” mumbled before falling asleep.

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 4)

(gif source: sluttyhenley)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 2,548

warnings/notes:

Chapter 4: First Day in a New World

In her dreams, Violet navigated a maze of endless rooms, each more opulent and suffocating than the last. She ran her fingers along the silk wallpapers, the textures vivid even in her slumbering state, as whispers echoed off the gilded mirrors. The labyrinth seemed a perfect metaphor for the world she had been thrust into—a world where every luxury masked a hidden snare, where every friendly face might conceal a treacherous intent.

In one room, she found herself staring at a portrait that seemed oddly familiar. It was Austin, painted in stern strokes yet with an undeniable vulnerability bleeding through the canvas. As she gazed at it, the eyes in the painting flickered with life, beseeching her to understand, to pierce through the layers of aristocracy and see the man beneath. But before she could reach out, the scene shifted and she was back in the darkened carriage, feeling Austin's intense gaze upon her.

Violet woke with a start, her breath shallow, as dawn's gray light seeped through the carriage windows. She glanced over at Austin; he was still awake, staring out into the breaking day with an expression that was hard to read—was it contemplation or regret?

Austin's gaze shifted from the dawn's first light back to Violet, noticing her wakeful state. "Bad dreams?" he inquired, his voice gentle yet carrying an undertone of concern that seemed out of character for the guarded aristocrat she had so far perceived him to be.

Violet hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. "Just...strange ones," she finally admitted, pushing back the haunting images of labyrinthine corridors and whispering shadows. Her voice was hoarse with sleep and latent anxiety, a testament to the unrest that plagued her both in wakefulness and in slumber.

Austin nodded solemnly, as if her words had confirmed something he already suspected. "Dreams can often be more telling than our waking thoughts," he said softly, though his eyes remained fixed on the view outside, where the landscape was changing rapidly as they approached his estate.

The carriage rolled through towering wrought iron gates, flanked by stone pillars that were cloaked in creeping ivy. Beyond lay a manicured path lined with ancient oaks and blossoming cherry trees, their petals fluttering like soft pink snowflakes in the mild breeze. The air was fresher here, tinged with the scent of earth and bloom. Violet felt a twinge of unease as the manor came into view. It was a grand structure of gray stone and towering spires that pierced the sky with Gothic elegance. Its windows glistened like eyes, reflecting the morning sun in blinding bursts. It seemed to watch her approach with an intensity that matched its owner’s.

As they drew closer, the details of the manor revealed themselves—ornate carvings framed each window and door, gargoyles perched on the roof's edges, their expressions twisted in silent screams or mocking grins. The beauty of it was undeniable, yet it also bore an oppressive air, as though each stone were imbued with whispers.

Violet's heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and trepidation as the carriage jolted slightly, marking their halt at the front steps of the manor. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, and stepped down from the carriage, her worn shoes hitting the gravel with a soft crunch. The grandeur of Austin's manor unfolded before her in relentless waves. Each column, each archway, was a testament to both the might and the burden of wealth. The air around her felt heavy with history, each breath she took seemed laced with untold stories.

A line of servants awaited, their faces blank slates of practiced neutrality. As Violet ascended the stone steps, she noted how their eyes darted towards her — quick, furtive glances that seemed to size her up and place her in the social hierarchy that she knew nothing about. Her presence was an intrusion into their world, an anomaly in their otherwise orderly existence.

The wide doors opened silently as if by some unseen hand, revealing an entrance hall that dazzled in opulence. High ceilings arching into distant shadows gave way to walls adorned with intricate tapestries and paintings that whispered tales of grandeur and despair. The floor was a mosaic of marble tiles so polished she could see her reflection. Her gaze swept over the assembly of servants whose lives were tied to the whims of their master. A butler, austere in a perfectly tailored black coat with coattails that brushed his calves, stepped forward. His hair was silvered at the temples, matching the spectacles perched on his hawk-like nose. He carried an air of unflappable authority, the very embodiment of discipline and decorum.

Beside him stood a housekeeper, her dark hair drawn back into a severe bun that accentuated the sharp angles of her face. She wore a gray dress, its starched collar peeking out from beneath a black silk shawl draped over her shoulders—a matronly figure who, Violet sensed, ruled the indoor staff with a mix of maternal concern and iron resolve. A young valet hovered near the butler, his posture rigid with the eager tension of youth. His eyes brightened as they rested briefly on Violet, offering a silent promise of friendly allegiance amidst this sea of unfamiliar faces. Clad in a simple, yet immaculate suit, he seemed ready to leap to service at the slightest nod.

The butler cleared his throat softly, breaking the charged silence. "Miss Everly, welcome to Butler Manor," he intoned, his voice resonant and precise. "I am Mr. Pembroke, the butler here. Please allow me to introduce Mrs. Aldridge, our housekeeper."

Mrs. Aldridge stepped forward, her eyes appraising Violet with a scrutiny that made her feel momentarily like an exhibit rather than a guest. "We are honored to have you," she said, though her tone carried the faintest trace of reservation. Her gaze lingered on Violet's attire—a simple dress, faded from too many washes and mended in several places.

Violet felt a flush of self-consciousness but met Mrs. Aldridge’s gaze steadily. She had learned long ago that the directness of her eyes could be as effective a shield as any armor.

"And this is Thomas," Mr. Pembroke continued, nodding toward the young valet who had been eyeing Violet with curiosity. Thomas stepped forward, dipping into a respectful bow that seemed too grand for his youthful appearance.

"It's a pleasure, Miss," Thomas said, his voice betraying a hint of nervous excitement. "Should you need anything during your stay, please do not hesitate to ask."

Violet gave a small, awkward bow back. “Thank you, Thomas.” She glanced over at Austin who was now standing beside her. “How do they know my name?”

Austin smiled slightly and Violet noticed how it made his face look even younger. “I sent someone ahead to inform them. I wanted to make sure things were already in order.”

Violet nodded cautiously, feeling the weight of many eyes upon her as she followed Mr. Pembroke through the grand foyer and up a sweeping staircase. The opulence was suffocating, every detail from the gold leaf cornices to the plush red carpets screamed of wealth and excess. She could hardly believe such a world existed, let alone that she was stepping foot in it.

The echoing click of their footsteps rang out as they ascended to the residential floors. Portraits lined the walls, ancestors of Austin with stern faces and luxurious attire, watching over their modern-day descendants. Violet felt their gazes pressing down upon her, each one seeming to question her worthiness to tread these hallowed halls.

At the top of the stairs, they turned down a long corridor adorned with even more artwork and statues that spoke of ancient Greek and Roman grandeur. Finally, Mr. Pembroke stopped before a large door, its wood polished to a shine with intricate carvings around the handle.

"Your quarters," he announced, pushing open the door to reveal a room that took Violet's breath away.

The chamber was vast, with a ceiling painted like the sky at dusk, dark blues and purples mingling with stars. A massive four-poster bed stood against one wall, draped with velvet curtains the color of midnight. Across the room, tall windows draped in heavy brocade curtains let in shafts of light that danced across the rich, dark wooden floors. Each piece of furniture seemed to be a work of art itself, from the ornately carved wardrobe that whispered of secrets to the elegant writing desk that beckoned with the promise of quiet contemplation. The fireplace’s mantel was adorned with an array of miniature paintings and porcelain figures that looked as though they had been chosen with care.

Violet moved slowly toward the bed, her hands tracing the soft fabric of the velvet draperies. She could hardly believe that such luxury was meant for her, a girl who had slept on straw and tattered blankets for most of her life. The contrast was overwhelming, filling her with a sense of disbelief mingled with an anxious foreboding. Could she truly belong in such a place?

As if sensing her disquiet, Mr. Pembroke spoke up. “I trust everything is to your satisfaction, Miss Everly? If there is anything you desire to make your stay more comfortable, do not hesitate to inform us.”

Violet turned, offering him a tentative smile. “It’s more than I could have ever imagined, Mr. Pembark. Thank you.” Her voice was a soft murmur lost amidst the vastness of the chamber. She felt the weight of the room pressing in around her, the opulence almost suffocating in its intensity. This was a world far removed from anything she had known. How could she, Violet Everly, a girl of simple means and simpler expectations, ever fit into such grandeur? She felt like an imposter in a play, dressed in the wrong costume.

Austin stepped closer, noting the apprehension that flickered across her face like shadows cast by candlelight. "It can be overwhelming at first," he acknowledged, his voice low and perhaps unintentionally soothing. His blue eyes scanned her face with an intensity that made her heart flutter uncontrollably.

"But you will find your place here, I'm quite certain." His assurance was threaded with an inexplicable warmth that momentarily lifted the weight from her shoulders.

Violet nodded, allowing herself a moment to absorb his words. The room seemed to expand and contract with each breath she took, a tangible manifestation of the nervous excitement that fluttered within her chest. "I shall try," she replied, her voice more steady than she felt.

Austin offered a small, understanding smile and gestured toward the window. "The view here is particularly beautiful at sunset. The light plays off the landscape in a way that is quite spectacular. I hope you will find some comfort in it."

Reluctantly, Violet walked towards the window, her fingers brushing against the luxurious fabric of the curtains as she passed. Pulling them back, she was greeted with an expansive view of the estate’s manicured gardens, their geometric perfection a stark contrast to the wild, untended fields she had grown up near. The setting sun cast a golden glow over everything, bathing the world in a warm light that made it look like a scene from another world.

She turned back to Austin, who was observing her with an expression that was hard to read. "It's beautiful," she admitted quietly, her voice carrying a hint of wonder. "I've never seen anything quite like it."

Austin’s face softened at her words. "And you shall see more," he promised, stepping beside her at the window. "This estate holds many secrets—some delightful, some a bit darker. But all are part of its charm."

Violet glanced up at him, intrigued by his mention of secrets. She wanted to ask him about them—about everything that lay hidden beneath the surface of his polished demeanor and this grand estate. But she held back, reminding herself not to get too comfortable too quickly. Austin turned to her then, his gaze intense yet not unkind, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.

"There is much to learn about this place," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious room. "And much to learn about each other," he added, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Violet's heart skipped a beat. His words were an invitation but also a reminder of their different stations in life. She was under no illusion about her own position here—as much as this room and the view it offered belonged to her temporarily, they could just as easily be taken away.

"Yes," she replied, mustering her resolve. "I look forward to learning."

"Good," Austin nodded approvingly, then gestured towards a small bell pull near the fireplace. "Should you need anything at any time, pull that cord. Someone will attend to you promptly," he instructed, his tone carrying the air of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

Violet nodded, her gaze lingering on the ornate bell pull as Austin continued to speak. “Dinner will be served in the main dining hall at seven each evening. You are expected to join.” he explained, though there was a trace of something unreadable in his voice—a hint of warning, perhaps, or an underlying challenge.

As he spoke, Violet felt the weight of her new reality settling around her like the heavy velvet curtains framing the windows. This was no simple act of charity; she was entering a world of complex social games and hidden agendas, where every gesture and word could have layers of meaning.

Violet hesitated for a moment, the weight of Austin's words sinking in. "I understand," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. Her mind raced with thoughts of the elaborate dinners and the intricate social dances she would have to learn. The splendor of the estate no longer seemed just beautiful but also a gilded cage with rules she had yet to understand.

Austin studied her for a moment longer, as if gauging her reaction. "I have no doubt you will adapt quickly," he reassured her, but his words seemed to hold a double edge—a compliment laced with a challenge.

He then turned to leave, his figure retreating towards the door before pausing briefly. “Mr. Pembroke will help you with anything else you might need to settle in,” he said without turning back. With a final nod, he exited, leaving Violet alone in her new quarters.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Violet felt a sudden emptiness engulf the room. She was alone, truly alone in this foreign opulence. She walked slowly around the room, touching the silken fabrics and eyeing the exquisite artwork that adorned the walls. Each item was a testament to a life so vastly different from her own that it almost seemed fantastical.

Caught between awe and an increasing sense of isolation, Violet perched on the edge of the plush bed. The softness of the mattress beneath her was a sharp contrast to the hard, unforgiving surfaces she had grown accustomed to. It was all too luxurious, too quiet, too serene—an unsettling tranquility that made her heart throb painfully in her chest. There, in the silence of her lavish prison, she pondered about the price of such comfort.

Stay tuned for part 5!! Click HERE to view!

Taglist: @buckysteveloki-me

[violettduchess]

A/N: This is an entry for my and @lorei-writes Shapes of Love creation challenge. It was originally a spicy holiday prompt that I retooled a bit.

This fic's type of love: Eros with a touch of Mania

Gilbert x Reader

WC: ~1k

It is your first ball in Obsidian, the first ball since you made the decision to leave Rhodolite behind and remain here, at Gilbert’s side. Your nerves are tangled, electric under your skin. You want to make a good impression on those you know he works closely with. Or those he has a close eye on. You’re no longer a foreign guest but have been declared his consort, a position of considerable power. You hope tonight, at the winter ball, you will be able to earn the respect of those who may still be skeptical of the union.....well, secretly skeptical since you know Gilbert would have the head of anyone who dared even breathe a word against you.

You take a deep drink from your glass of chilled wine, reminding yourself that this is a celebration. It is Obsidian's final embrace of winter in all its beauty in the face of an encroaching spring. And you have done your best to dress for the occasion. Turning, you face the full-length iron-wrought mirror that leans against the wall of your dressing room. Your gown is a confection of black lace overlaying soft, shimmering silver. Black gloves, so fine they are almost transparent, stop just beyond your elbows and the smooth skin of your shoulders is bare. Black roses hang from your ears and your hair is pinned up by the pearlescent hair combs shaped like crescent moons that Gilbert gifted you the evening you told him you were staying. A wide, black silk ribbon is tied around your neck, hiding the dark blossoms left by his insistent mouth this morning. If anyone could see underneath the voluminous skirt of your beautiful dress, they would notice matching love-bites in almost symmetrical rings around your thighs and hips. 

You’re just smoothing down the bodice when the door to the room opens and Gilbert, a vision in black and gold, steps in, the crisp, chill scent of winter following him wherever he goes. And although many would think you insane, you find yourself smiling at his presence. “There you are.” You fuss a moment with one of your hair clips, adjusting it ever so slightly. “I hope you like the dress? I know the tailor made it according to your design and I think she did an excellent job. But I know you’re very particular….”

You glance at him through the mirror and your words wither and die, dropping like fallen petals. It takes you a moment to recover, your voice and breath robbed by what you see. He has not said a word. He has not moved a centimeter since entering. His leather-gloved hand is still wrapped around the golden handle of the closed door. But there is hunger clearly etched into every line of his tensed body. It flickers in the deep red of his eye, a flame born the moment he entered. Slowly, oh so slowly, he lets go of the door handle and crosses the brocade carpeting towards you.

……why is your heart fluttering so recklessly in your chest, a butterfly trapped under crystal glass, erratic and beautiful and wild….

He comes to a stop behind you, staring into the mirror at your reflection. His gloved hands slide up your bare arms, up until they rest on your shoulders. There is possession in his tight grip, something dancing the border of discomfort as he drinks in the sight of you, held in place by the press of his fingers.

“Oh Häschen….this won’t do.” One hand slides up higher still, his fingers curling around the sensitive nape of your neck. His head tilts to one side, regarding the reversed image of you both in the glass. “You can’t go out there, like this.” He lowers his head, catching the tip of your ear with his sharp, white teeth before whispering. “This sight is for me and me alone.” His voice drips with dominion, rasps with barely-reined in restraint. Your chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, pressing against the black lace of your gown's sweetheart neckline. 

He watches you for a moment, drinking in the paradox of your body, so perfectly still in his grasp and yet beneath the surface, chaos. Your blood courses frantically through your veins, pumped by a heart gone wild, lungs gone turbulent. Leaning against your back, he reaches around, holding his hands in front of you and very slowly removes one soft black leather glove. You’re hypnotized by the revelation of each lithe finger.

“Maybe…..”, he murmurs, tossing the glove aside where it falls listlessly to the floor, “Yes…maybe like this….” And you feel the cool kiss of his fingers touch the ribbon at your neck. It comes undone, a snake unwinding. Gilbert wraps it around his wrist as he thoughtfully studies the marks he left upon your skin this morning, in the gray, predawn light of his bedroom. “Like this, you are marked as mine. Maybe it would not make a difference who lays eyes on you if this is the first thing they see.”

He truly sounds like a man puzzling out a problem. Your mouth goes dry at the thought of being so brazen in front of all of Obsidian’s nobility and important citizens. Heat blossoms in your body, rises to your cheeks as you realize the idea of showing the world how he claimed you…is not unpleasant.

He can see the way your skin flushes, the gleam in your eyes and his breath catches in his chest where something hard and hot is born. “No….”, he whispers savagely, his blazing eye holding your gaze as captive as his hands are your hips. “No one else gets this. You are not meant to be seen looking like this by anyone else.” He has solved his puzzle.

The world shifts as you are gathered into his arms, held by a strength fueled by desire, by infatuation, by greed. He carries you away from the door with its golden handle, deeper into the shadows of the dressing room, towards the black velvet chaise longue in the back corner where he lays you down, covers you with his long body, his mouth already hungrily claiming yours, swallowing any protests you may try to make about waiting guests and making appearances. 

Soon you won't have enough breath to even attempt forming words. All that you will be able to do is give in to the furious storm of his desire, bending like a reed under his voracious touch, his endless onslaught of exquisite, stinging kisses. 

The ball, the guests, your beautiful new gown soon to be pooled on the floor in a heap of black lace and silver….all willingly, wantonly, blissfully forgotten.

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[pampushky]

Foot of the Gallows

trafalgar d. water law/reader - chapter 2 - 3.7k

ao3 link | masterlist | series masterlist | next chapter

2.) thunder root

thunder root: a jagged, sharp root that gains a rubber-like quality after being properly dried and treated. after isolating the starch from this tuber, it can be used to soften the blows of an enemy once cooked into a meal although it has a calming, drowsy effect, making it useless in battle.

The next five minutes are silent, aside from Law’s ragged breaths and both of your footsteps on the cobbled city streets. His wrists are bony, the skin rubbed raw from spending his time in mana-draining shackles. If he were his own doctor at this moment, he’d be giving you a rather aggressive lecture on the negative effects of sudden bouts of intense cardio after nearly three weeks of not being able to move properly. But, you don’t seem to pay him any heed, moving quickly through the city for the next half hour, almost as if you’re trying to lose anyone who could be following the two of you.

You don’t look back at Law as you maneuver him through back alleys and yards, eyes trained ahead. He hadn’t even known most of these little paths existed, looking at the brick walls of houses and buildings around him transition into wooden fences, and then to the wrought-iron fencing of a bridge that lead to the northern side of the city, where your shop is. You tighten your grip when he grunts and pulls slightly, looking back at him with a glare. 

“Stop that, you should be thanking me!” You snapped, turning on him with a snarl, and dropping his wrist when the two of you finally came to the back door of your little shop, “I’m going to kill Bepo for convincing me to do this for you,”

“Bepo masterminded this?” Law says incredulously, with eyes the size of a dinner plate when he looks at you. The door is open, and just as he makes a move to go in, you pull him back by his shoulder and reach up to rub away a string of runes on the door above it, hidden by a small slab of wood. Law frowns at the smudged chalk, and lifts the plank of wood, only to have you smack the back of his hand, making him look at you in shock “What was that?”

“Your lifetime ban being erased,” you sigh, almost sadly, and then shove him inside. There are still traces of the spell that would have kept him out lingering as he crossed the threshold, a wave of dizziness hitting him, but eventually fading as you sit on the small stool behind your little counter. The shop is the same as he remembered it, though with the blinds drawn, and the lanterns unlit in the corners. “Sanji’s gonna be pissed— it took him a week to formulate that, you know.”

“I…. didn’t know you were friends with that pervert,” Law mumbles, as you take your cloak off. You freeze, for a moment, and then start to laugh. 

“He’s better than you,” You don’t even turn to look at him and grant him some form of recognition for his insult and instead open up a drawer near you. “And he’s not a pervert, he’s gotten some deeply unsettling issues with a succubus possession his husband is helping him through.” 

“Ah.” 

Law doesn’t really respond after that and just moves around the shop. It’s… still the same, from your childhood, and the hours he’d spent in it as a kid, waiting for Corazon to pick him up on his way back from the the barracks. Still the same jars, probably not the same herbs. An orange, ribbed jar catches his attention, and he studies it. There’s a label with the scientific name, and then the little, embossed with the small language of dashes and dots, entirely unique to the apothecary profession. And just as he goes to run his fingertips over it, you smack the back of his hand again, even though you’re across the room. Instead, one of the large and winding pothos plants that hangs in the window has stretched and smacked him.

“Don’t touch that,” You only look up briefly, scowling. 

“I see your earthen magic got stronger,” Law scowls back at you, even if you’re not looking at him, rubbing at his hand as the pothos returns to its normal state, though he swears he can hear it laughing at him.

“And you’re still an asshole, but the world keeps turning,” You pull out a watering can, and reward the little bastard of a vine that slapped him. “Good job, Gertrude, always protecting my product,”

“You’re…. Talking to a plant,” Law lifts his eyebrows, and lets out a huff of disbelief, “Wow, you have really started to lose it— ow !” 

“Their name is Gertrude, and they agree that you’re an asshole,” You grin at him as if you’re taking pleasure in the plant hitting him again, smacking the back of his head when he wasn’t looking directly at it. Or, them, Law supposes, based on how you had addressed….Gertrude. 

“Fine, I take it back,” Law rubs the new sore spot on the back of his head. His hat has long since been lost, which does hurt a bit— it was a gift from his long-since passed sister. You, meanwhile, continue to search through your drawers for something, and when you’ve found it, you add it to the growing pile of tiny jars, salves, and strips of cloth on your counter.

With a final flourish, you pull out what looks like an eyedropper of some oily substance and add it to the pile. You look at him pointedly, arms folded as you jerk your head to the stool behind the counter. Law stares dumbly at you, and you let out an annoyed huff, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Sit there. You’re wounded, and I won’t have you contaminating my shop— it’s bad enough that I’ll need to clean down here from you mucking about with your shoes,” You look more upset at the dusty prints on your floor than him being hurt. 

If Law winces when you dab a bit of whatever salve or tonic you’re cleaning and dressing his wounds with, he doesn’t complain, nor thank you for being more delicate as you continue. Your touch is… oddly soft, for someone who has as much loathing for Law as you claim to have, but it’s the trained motions of someone who has been doing this for a long time, and he is the last person who will question why you have this medical knowledge. Your family was a long, respected lineage of apothecaries, both adopted and biological, it did not matter— your founding member was claimed to be the very deity of the earth and sky itself, and were not all mortals and immortals alike their child?

There’s a storm, though, clouding your eyes, especially when you bring the oily eyedropper out again, carefully unscrewing it to reveal a tiny brush, coated in a shimmering, amber slime from within the bottle. 

“Where are the more serious wounds?” Your voice is flat, and you watch as he carefully reveals a rather nasty bruise, some parts still tender and red, not even bruised yet, on his ribcage. You grimace and examine it with a hiss. “How’d that happen?”

“Member of the guard,” Law says simply, watching and you gently pull up a part of his shirt, eyes glued to the injury. “Said he’d show me, for using Lunar magic.”

You scoff, but bring the little brush close, and start to murmur. The bristles make contact with his skin, and Law moans, the pain suddenly condensed completely into the spot where you trace your tool as you draw a singular, continuous line, eventually forming one of the most complex circular runic equations that Law’s ever had the pleasure of seeing, the last line of your activation slipping past your lips just as the pain grows so intense that he feels he’s going to pass out before it stops just a second before he was certain he was going to die.

There’s no bruise left behind. Not even a scar, or a trace of what happened. The substance is gone, and you’re already tucking it somewhere Law doesn’t see— probably aided by ancient illusion spells— before he can so much as ask what that was. 

Whatever you did, it completely healed his cracked ribs. It probably helped with his left lung, too, as if you completely regenerated the entirety of that patch of his body—- reversing time itself to when he hadn’t been injured. It’s amazing, even as he touches his skin in wonder— it’s not even sensitive, blending seamlessly together, as though you had knit and split cells yourself, not just accelerating the growth through magic. There is no soreness, no aches, no puffy red skin— just… the same little splotches of pale white on tan and the ink of his tattoos. 

“What… was that?” 

“…family secret, I will pass to an heir one day,” you speak solemnly, and then pale as the sentence leaves your mouth. “…. Oh, fuck,” And you disappear up the set of stairs that separates the home from the shop, all your supplies still on the counter, some open. 

Law’s mind is blank, until he really has the chance to process how he got here, and isn’t currently a corpse in a cadaver lab. The walk to the gallows. The screaming of the crowd. Bepo not being there. The boredom on the face of the medical student as they waited for the execution to end, arms folded as they leaned against the wagon. The tone of Kizaru’s voice as you objected, and then the…proposal. The rather quick marriage ceremony— oh gods, had he even said a vow? 

You were married to him. Actually, legally married to him. Had saved him at the last possible second, dragged him away to your childhood home and shop, cared for his wounds, and then gone up the stairs as if this was a normal day. Somewhere, in the very back of his mind, this had been a long since given up on desire, wanting to spend his life with you, one that he himself had ruined all those years ago with anger and hurt. This…. Wasn’t how he’d imagined it happening, even in the dreams where he somehow did make it up to you. 

Would he ever, really, make it up to you?

Cautiously, he goes up the stairs, still remembering which ones creak, and comes into the kitchen-and-den hybrid that you had grown up in. The building that hosted your centuries-long family business and home was always changing, the layout shifting every hundred years or so. The current home is the same as he recalls, with the worn wooden floor covered in thick woven rugs, to keep the house warm and cozy. The island with the lava-stone stovetop, which your grandfather had ordered specifically from one of the more hellish realms to use in cooking and potion brewing.

He vividly remembers when he’d had to help wrap your hand after you’d burnt it by unknowingly placing your palm on it. Your tears, the way you’d whimpered at his touch even as your father told you not to cry so much, teasing you enough to distract you from the pain. You’d been ten, and he’d been twelve, starting to feel the strange stirrings in his heart that being around you brought. 

There are more plants now that you’re the main resident. Cooking herbs, with personal balls of solar light you’d conjured to hover over them sit against the wall under the cabinets. There’s a little cactus, dozens of tropical ferns, and well-maintained shrubs that make Law feel as though he’s walked straight into a greenhouse, rather than the home he had once known. A familiar, white-marbled pothos is wrapped around the top of the kitchen cabinets, and he even watches as one of the vines turns the faucet in the sink on, lifting up glass for you, where you stand, muttering to yourself in the kitchen. 

“I didn’t say you could follow me up here.” You don’t turn to address him, but take the glass from Gertrude, sipping it with a slight shake in your hands. 

“I didn’t know I needed your permission,” Law keeps himself at the top of the stairs. You seem… oddly vulnerable, despite his general asshole behavior, until you straighten up, and face him, scowling. 

“Fine, let’s get straight to business then,” You stride to stand right in front of him, eyes alight with frustration as you place your hands on your hips. “I am not the one who masterminded this bullshit. Bepo came to my shop directly after talking to you yesterday. As much as you are a prick I absolutely detest, you are unfortunately a half-decent doctor, and I’d hate to see your patients suffer because you decided to break the law by using illegal magic.” 

“Wow, how kind of you,” Law drawls, and your left eye twitches a bit. Must he always make it so difficult for you to be the bigger person? You’d love nothing more than to let his body be chewed on by dogs, or so you try to convince yourself. “I should be kissing your feet and worshiping you, I suppose now. Oh, great merciful apothecary, how shall I thank you?” Law's tone is painfully dry, and you fight the urge to punch him in the mouth.

“I’m not the one who used illegal magic,” you scoff and fold your arms, “Bepo found some ancient law that allows foot-of-the-gallows marriages, and after rather pathetically begging for me to save you—”

“Get off your high horse, jackass —”

“—oh, save your comments, this was quite literally the only way you’d still be living,” Deep breaths. You can be the bigger person, just float above, ignore his little jabs, and don’t sink down to his level, “I hate this just as much as you do. But, again, your patients don’t deserve to be out a doctor because you wanted to play with fire.”

“Do you even know what lunar magic is?”

“The opposite of solar magic.”

“.... gods help me, I’m going to ask your uncle to kill me, this is already worse than death,” 

“Oh, save me the dramatics! I haven’t even gotten to explaining everything yet!”

Law is desperately trying not to drag his hands down his face and let his composure cave. Every time he thought about reconnecting with you and making right his countless wrongs against you, this would happen. Picking and poking at each other would eventually and undoubtedly turn into screaming matches because you both had to get the last word in any discussion about who had done the other wrong more. Yes, he had started it, but dammit, you had elevated it to this point!

Like now, because he’s completely tuned out your ranting until you let out a loud curse, and scream “We’re lawfully married now, you utter dickhead! No take-backs, unless you want to die for real!” 

Law blinks once. 

Twice. 

And then you have to catch him before he falls ass over kettle down the stairs because he’s so shocked that he forgot he was just standing at the top of the staircase, and took a step backward. Both of your hands are tightly gripping his collar with a force that surprises him, you pull him back up, and he lands squarely on top of you, crushing you into the floor as you let out a little huff of shock. He's oddly heavy, and feels well-muscled, despite the circumstances he's been facing.

You smell so familiar to him. Medicinal, but not in the chemical way. Like the herbal teas and spicy desserts he got to try while across the ocean during his apprenticeship. He’s going into shock— he knows this, and can’t do much to help himself until you manage to squirm your way from underneath him, sighing. “What am I gonna do with you?” You mumble, chin in your palm, as you drag him to the couch. This is quite the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Your parents will no doubt hear of this— Kizaru is an old war buddy of your uncle’s, and once your mother hears it from him, they’ll be sending countless ravens and your poor sending stone may crack from the number of calls it’ll no doubt receive when your uncle lets the news slip to your parents. 

They’ll be more pissed you didn’t tell them of your plan. Then be even more upset when they realize they’ve missed your wedding, even if it was just a high official in the guard using a binding spell for a placeholder until he could legally marry the two of you. 

“You could have let me die.”

You don’t respond and just keep your eyes forward, nodding.

Law just lays there in shock, eyes on the ceiling, even as you slump into the cushions beside him, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms with an exhausted groan. There are bags under your eyes he hadn’t noticed until now, and he chides himself. This hadn’t been an easy decision for you. Tying yourself to him for the foreseeable future, and stirring up trouble between your family and the guard when the relationship was already strained. 

Why had you done it though? 

He’d been nothing but a dick to you, now for over… nine years. Nearly a decade. You weren’t the teary-eyed fifteen-year-old, just at the start of your apprenticeship under your father, but now the owner of the family shop, a tired twenty-four-year-old with dark bags under your eyes and a wariness that most people didn’t have until their fifties. 

You were a good person, he knew this. Really hated you for it, sometimes. It had made you incredibly hard to hate, and the fact that avoiding you had been next to impossible, especially when you were the only reputable apothecary and source for medicinal herbs. 

“Why?”

“...no comment,” You stand from the couch. He can hear your murmuring over the stove, and the whistling of a kettle— was it the same, pale green one, with the wisteria and lichen sculpted onto it, from your childhood? He looked over the couch, watching as you made a cup of tea, sighing as you returned with an extra mug. “...You’re going to take a bath after this, and I’m going to use some of the most vile cleaning spells I can think of on… those,” you gesture to his outfit, frowning. “I think I have extras of my fathers, for the time being.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Law holds the mug carefully, eyeing you with a barely disguised look of suspicion as you start to go through the chest off to the side beside the dining table. You return, with a mustard yellow tunic, black trousers, and a dark-gray woven belt to bring in the waist of the tunic. 

“They’re covered in mud and… gods, Law is that blood?” 

Hearing you speak his name, how it rolls so naturally off your tongue after nine years of ignoring him and only addressing him with insults and anger makes him shudder. The horror in your eyes, the stiffness of your shoulders as you look at him. You don’t drop your mug, but he can see how your hand shakes a bit. The concern is there for a second before it fades when he doesn’t answer after a few seconds. 

“.... You know where the guest room is—”

You’re interrupted by the sound of something bouncing off of a barrier, and a scream of pain. Both of you stand abruptly, and scramble down the stairs, to which you throw open the front door, seeing Penguin rubbing his forehead, with Bepo, Shachi, and Ikkaku standing over him. You let out an annoyed groan, and look at Law as if he’s responsible for this. 

“You’re going to let them in, aren’t you?” Law only prompts, looking down at his friend, who is being helped upwards by his husband. 

“... a month, it took to formulate those,” You grumble and walk to the back of the shop, returning with chalk-dusted hands and a deep scowl, as the two men manage to drag themselves through the front door, shuddering as the remnants of the boundary spell 

“You put a boundary spell on the shop?” Penguin groans, holding his forehead, and you scowl at him. 

“Only for you, your husband, and the dickhead,” You turn on your heel and shout over your shoulder as you walk up the stairs. “They’re still not allowed up in the home proper, Dr. Trafalgar!”

“...charming,” Shachi watches as you walk up the stairs, and winces when Gertrude goes on the attack, tugging at his ear. Bepo is terrified that he’s been added to the lifetime ban list, while Ikkaku just sits on the counter where you normally work, studying the four men before her. 

“Honestly, I can’t blame her,” 

“Whose side are you on?!” Penguin yelps, batting at very angry Gertrude the pothos plant, who seems rather set on cuffing his ears until he leaves or dies— whichever comes first. 

“The two people who just got tied together for what is likely to be a very rocky marriage,” Ikkaku snaps, glaring at the two men. Bepo cowers, even when she’s not looking at him. Law just rubs his forehead and lets himself slump onto the first step of the stairs. He’s too confused right now to really process that he is married. He can feel the binding spell that links him to you, it’s not quite choking, but it’s tight enough around his heart to remind him ever so often that it’s there, squeezing ever so slightly when he least expects it. 

“No one asked her to do this!” Shachi throws his hands in the air and makes sure that he’s said it loud enough for you to hear, regardless of being upstairs. 

Bepo lets out a nervous whine, that sounds like a balloon deflating slowly, loud, and high-pitched, eyes darting around the room between the four confused faces of the humans in the room, which are turning ever more suspicious when the whine doesn’t stop, and only continues to somehow get higher. 

You come down the stairs with a tray of teacups, a loaf of bread, and the kettle, looking unimpressed by the current state of the mink, who is now lying with his back on the floor of your shop, still letting out the whining noise, even as you settle on the stool in the corner, looking at the other five people with a heavy frown. 

“I think it’s time we talk then, no?”

[blooming-violets]

Hii! Can I request a Joel miller x fem!reader where Abby goes to golf town on reader instead of Joel and Joel is in Ellie’s position watching her get killed. Just utter angst💔🥲thank youuu❤️

An Eye For An Eye || Joel Miller x fem!Reader

A/N: I meant to do this from Joel's pov but somehow ended up in Reader's pov. Enjoy some death! (Also threw in a little Glenn from the Walking Dead winkwinknodnod in there, too)

Fire rained down on the infected as the people surrounding them tossed molotovs over the wrought iron gate. 

The heat of the flames bathed over their skin to push the wintery chill from their bones. 

Joel could feel your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, clinging protectively onto him, as he slowed their horse next to Tommy’s. When your grip didn’t loosen to climb down, he gave your hand a gentle pat of encouragement.

“I don’t like this,” you whispered in his ear. There were too many people. More than you were anticipating. Large groups of strangers were never a good sign. 

His head tilted back towards you, his eyes closing peacefully at the feeling of your cold breath against his cheek, “You worry too much. We saved that woman’s life. It’s fine. We need a place to ride out the storm. Just behave yourself.”

You replied with a quiet laugh. Joel Miller was the king of worrying too much and the master of bad behavior. Who was he to tell you otherwise? 

“You’ve gone soft, grandpa. I blame Ellie,” A kiss was placed to his gray peppered beard before you jumped off the horse. There wasn’t even that big of an age gap between you two but you were still fond of the nickname, simply because it made Joel groan every time he heard it. 

Joel smiled, following you off the horse, “I blame you both. I only have this gray hair because of the shit you two put me through.” 

The moment the garage doors closed to block off the incoming swell of snow flurries, a weight of dread settled in your stomach. You ran a mittened hand over the hind haunches of your horse to wipe away some of the snow in an attempt to help soothe your unease. 

“Hey, I heard you guys saved Abby?” A short haired woman approached you with a warm, but hesitant, smile. “Thanks for bringing her back to us.” 

You looked over and did your best to flash her a smile of your own. Trust had to be built somehow. You might as well try to start here. 

“Oh, yeah. No problem.” You tugged off your mittens, stuffing them in your jacket pocket, and reached out your hand to shake.

“I’m Mel,” she spoke softly. “Nice to meet you.

You returned the greeting. She seemed nice enough. For now. First impressions meant nothing in this world. Everyone could act kind until they weren’t. You’d been fooled one too many times to take that sort of chance again. The moment she let go of the hand shake, she turned to Tommy to repeat her introductions. Your guard was on high alert, trying to take stock of anything you could use as makeshift weapons and plot the best hiding spots. 

Joel slipped his arm around your waist. He could sense your worry and pressed his lips against the side of your head, smelling your hair, as he spoke. 

“Don’t worry,” he mumbled into your hair. “Tommy and I got this covered. We’ll hang out for the night. We can take turns staying awake so someone’s always on watch. Then we’ll be gone in the morning after the storm.”

“That sounds like some famous last words,” you grumbled. 

The three of you were led into the room off of the garage. A large wooden bar sat against the wall and you took note of the half filled bottles of alcohol cluttering the surface. 

“Maybe it won’t be so bad afterall,” you nodded to the drinks, giving Joel a cheeky wink. 

He hid a smile by scratching at his beard and turning to the new people, “What are y’all doing out this way?” 

A man with a baseball cap answered, “Oh, just passing through. You three live nearby?”

Tommy took that as an invitation to invite them back home to restock their gear. As if you wanted these people anywhere near your family. 

It was clear neither party really trusted the other. There was a tension in the air as each individual tried to make sense of the other. Both parties were searching for hidden dangers. Your eyes sought out everyone, studying them, trying to find their strengths and weaknesses. It was Abby quietly conversing with another man in the corner that caused your heart rate to spike. You didn’t like the way they were whispering. From behind, you could tell her body language was tight, nervous. Your stare stayed trained on the pair as they whispered back and forth. Even as they stood quietly in the shadows, trying to appear relaxed, you could tell she was mulling over something in her head. 

Your hand found Joel’s and you gave it a small squeeze. You leaned in closer, standing on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Maybe we’re better off risking it in the snow? We can find some place to stay that’s not here.” 

Before he could reply, Tommy was throwing around more introductions. 

“I’m Tommy,” he announced to the group. He was too calm for your liking. Too friendly. Something was wrong. This wasn’t right. They had to leave. “This is my brother…Joel. And this is his partner-”

You couldn’t hear his introduction of you. You were too busy watching the change in Abby. The entire room fell silent. Her shoulders tensed. Her jaw tightened, flexing subtly as she ground her teeth together. Her back straightened up to attention and she shifted the shotgun in her hands.

You knew it the second Joel did. 

This was bad. 

“Y’all act like you’ve heard of us or somethin’,” he muttered, trying in a last ditch effort to soothe out the peace. His arm instinctively pushed you protectively behind him just as gun shot rang out. 

“That’s because we have,” Abby said as the trigger was pulled. 

You let out a scream of terror, watching Joel yell in pain, his leg shooting out from under him, and tumbling to the ground. 

“Joel!” You collapsed down to his side, throwing your body protectively over his head to block him from any more bullets. 

“No!” Tommy shouted. 

Two men were on him before he could even move. They pinned his arms down, throwing him back against the bar, and struggled to hold him steady while he thrashed wildly against them. You couldn’t help him. You refused to leave Joel. All you could do was watch in horror as Tommy was bashed repeatedly in the top of the head with the grip of a pistol until he went limp. You had no idea if he was dead or knocked out. Thick lines of blood trailed out from under his hairline and waterfalled down his vacant face. 

You reached for the knife hidden in your back pocket. The second someone grabbed your arms, you slashed out, making contact with someone’s cheek. 

But there were too many of them and so little of you. 

The knife was wrestled out of your grasp. You were being dragged away from Joel with two men clamping down tightly to your arms and throwing you up against a window. The back of your head bounded against the glass pane causing a shooting pain to ricochet through your brain. 

“No!” You could hear Joel cry, his voice deep with worry. “Get off her! Don’t fucking touch her!”

He struggled to get up but his leg was useless under him. Blood spurted from his thigh and soaked into his tattered jeans. He tried to take down the person closest to him but all it took was a bullet whizzing by your left ear, instantly deafening that ear, and shattering through the window behind your head for him to stop. 

The howling wind burst through the broken, jagged hole to swirl snow around the room. The cold caught in your lungs, mixing with your panic, to make it difficult to breathe. You gasped for air, eyes watering, as you stared helplessly back at Joel. The look of anguish you found staring back at you was enough to break your heart. He knew you had been right. He knew he should have listened. They couldn’t trust these people. He knew. 

But it was too late. 

It took two men to pin his arms up against the back wall as if they were about to crucify him. His ragged, angry breaths filled the room to meld together with the howling wind. 

“Don’t hurt her,” he panted out with a hiss of pain. “Don’t hurt her. Me. Hurt me. Not her.” 

It was hard to hear him. You reached your hand up to cup over your left ear where the bullet had shot past. You could feel the stickiness of blood leaking from your burst eardrum. Subtly, you tilted your right ear towards him so you could better understand what they were saying. 

Abby had leaned down in front of him. She was breathing nearly as heavily as he was. Fury etched into her every crease and a burning hatred scalded Joel in her sights. 

“Joel Miller,” she whispered. Not asking. Not confirming. A statement.

“Who are you?” He shot back. 

“Guess.” 

Your eyes slipped close with dread. You knew Joel had no idea who this woman was. Joel’s past was filled with all colors of evil. She could have been anyone. It didn’t matter who she was or what Joel had done to her. Everything he’s ever done to survive, every horror, every act of ruthless murder would be flashing before his eyes right this very moment. He could pick any one out at random and it would be enough for someone to want revenge. He didn’t care who she was. She had her reasons and she was probably right for wanting his life. His past was bound to catch up to him eventually. He was just sad you had to be here to bear witness to his end.

The resignation you saw settle slowly onto his face was enough to push the tears stifled in your eyes down your cheeks. 

“Why don’t you say whatever speech you got rehearsed and get this over with,” he spat out at her with a scowl. “I’m the one you want. Neither of them ever did anything to you. They’re innocent and deserve to live. Kill me and be done with it.”

“No!” You cried, begging them for his life. “No! Please. Please. I need him. Please. Don’t do this.” 

Joel turned to your cries and gave you a half hearted smile. If they killed him, the one they were clearly looking for, then there was a chance that you could go free. If there was a chance to save you, he would take it. Always. 

Abby took notice of the look on his face when he stared back at you. She turned between the two of you and a dark smile grew across her face. She stood up, walking from Joel over to you. 

The move was all it took for Joel’s panic to immediately kick in, “Wait, stop! Leave her out of this! I’m the one you want!” 

Abby grabbed a fistful of your hair and jerked your head back to expose your neck. She leered back at Joel, “Do you love her?”

He tried to lunge forward to reach them but was held back by the men. The blood loss from his leg was making him weak. You could see the color paling from his face. His eyes were turning bloodshot. 

“Leave her alone!” He shouted, his voice coming out like a pained roar. “She didn’t do anything to you!”

Abby tossed your head back and walked over to the bag of golf clubs at your side. You watched her browse through each one before pulling out the one she wanted. She held it up to the light from the broken window to admire the view. 

“I said,” she whispered, the sound deadly. “Do you love her?”

A scream of rage ripped out from Joel’s throat, “Yes! Fuckin’ dammit, yes! I love her!”

A look of sorrow flashed across Abby’s face like she wasn’t entirely sure this was the plan she originally wanted to go through with. She down at you with regret, “Then I’m sorry to do this. It’s not your fault. But revenge is revenge. An eye for eye, if you will.” 

You swallowed, eyes widening as you stared at the end of the golf club, realizing exactly what was about to happen but being useless to stop it. 

You were not going to leave this cabin alive. 

“Joel Miller killed someone I loved,” she sighed. “I am going to kill someone he loves.” 

“No!” Joel screamed. From behind Abby, you could see him thrashing violently against the men. He caught one of their hands in his mouth and bit down as hard as he could, mauling his head to the side with a jerk, as the sound of snapping bones echoed through the freezing air. The man shouted in pain as his finger was nearly ripped straight from his hand thanks to the death grip Joel had with his teeth. 

Another gun shot rang out to silence everyone. This time it flew over Joel’s head and the bullet lodged into the back wall. 

“Enough!” Abby shouted. “Hold him down, dammit.”

“Then hurry up and get this over with!” The man standing at your shoulder yelled back. “Before he bites off more of Jordan’s fucking fingers.” 

The sound of your cracking skull was all you could hear as the club came straight down to make perfect contact with the top of your head. You hadn’t even seen her lift it over her to strike. You had been too busy trying to keep Joel in your sights.  

You slumped forward, falling onto your knees and holding yourself up with your arms. 

“Joel,” You mumbled through the delirium setting in. Your brain was rattled. Hot blood washed away your blurring vision until all you could see was red. “Joel…stay…me…with me…stay…”  

Wack. 

Crunch. 

Wack. 

Splash. 

Your breath strained in heaving, gasping wails as your brain function rapidly declined. Blood showered down around you, seemingly falling from the sky like rain drops on a dreary evening. It reminded you of the way rain clings to the leaves to roll down their waxy surface and drip in warm drops down onto your forehead. A pleasant, familiar feeling. If you looked skywards, you wouldn’t see a ceiling, but a forest canopy of wet, green leaves. 

Your arms shook under your weight to hold you up and pushed you back into a kneeling position. Your body swayed on unsteady legs, unable to focus on any one particular part of the room. The socket of your eye had been shattered. Your eye bulged in your head and hung loosely out of your skull. 

You remembered the first time you found Joel. Over a decade ago. Smuggling supplies back and forth into the Boston quarantine zone. He had hated you. Thought you were annoying and never shut up. You’d pester him with a million questions, desperate to learn all his survival techniques. Somehow he never managed to shake you from his gasp. At some point along the way, you had weaseled your way into his hardened exterior and made a home inside his heart. He could complain all he wanted. He enjoyed your company.

Crack.

Your body gave out. You slumped onto your side. 

From this position you could make out the hazy vision of Joel through your one working eye. There were tears streaming down his face. You’d never really seen him cry before. Not like this. His mouth hung open in a scream but you could no longer hear what was being said. You didn’t need to hear to know he was wailing out in agony for you. This was the kind of torture being inflicted on him that was meant to destroy his soul. This was worse than his own death. This was going to break him. 

Oh, Joel. 

He was on his stomach, arm outstretched, desperately trying to reach you. 

You remembered the late nights of sitting around a campfire, with a cup of stale, weak coffee shared between you two, out in the woods. Joel always hated campfires at night. They were dangerous, easy to be seen, but you had convinced him to give it a try just this once. Just long enough to heat up your coffee. The coffee had tasted watery and bitter but his lips tasted sweet and soft. The risk of the fire was worth watching the way the warm orange glow danced across his skin. 

Your fingers twitched out to reach for him. 

If only you could touch him. 

One last time. 

You stretched your arm as far as you could. 

Crack. 

You were reaching blindly. Both your eyes are gone now. No sounds. No sights. No pain. Only Joel.  

In the darkness, you reached for him. 

His calloused tipped fingers brushed across your bloody hand. He was only close enough for your fingertips to reach but they laced together the best you were able. 

A smile flashed onto your dying lips. 

Crack. 

You didn’t need to see him to know him. 

His face exploded behind your blinded vision to greet you in the dark. Always sweaty and covered in dirt. Salt and peppered hair. Eyebrows tugged low in a permanent frown. The slope of his strong nose. Pouted lips peeking out from under his unkempt beard. The frown lines etched into his forehead that would soften whenever he caught sight of you. The warmth of his arms wrapped tightly around your body to keep you safe from the chilly nights. 

His quiet whispers of “I love you” spoke into your ear when he thought you were sleeping. 

He hardly ever said those words out loud to you when you were awake but he never had to. You could see his love through his every action. 

Even now. 

His last act of love he could ever give you was to fight against his restraints and reach far enough for his fingers to graze yours. So you knew you weren’t alone. So he could keep as safe as he was physically able to. 

So he could touch you one last time. 

I love you, Joel Miller. 

Crack.

This was fun a little side step away from my usual beloved Andrew Garfield muse. I don't think I'll write for Joel much in the future. Not because I don't adore him but because I just write for a different fandom and struggle to do both at the same time. But I enjoyed a little peek into some Joel angst for my Sunday afternoon.

[ablatheringblatherskite]

Some whump fanfics that have low-key (or high-key) traumatized me forever

(aka some of my fave whump fics I've read so far)

(will reblog with more fics the more I read!!)

You Monster

fandom: Wednesday

whumpee: Tyler Galpin

You have had nightmares for weeks, waking up covered in sweat. Tonight feels no different; but it is. There is something calling to you, deep within the woods.

By @ArchivedTrash! A second person body horror fic all about Tyler transforming into the Hyde. It's. It's just so good. Literally the first second person AND body horror fic I'd ever read and still one of my faves forever.

Who Deserves This?

fandom: The Phantom of the Opera

whumpee: the whole trio tbh, but mainly Raoul

Erik runs out of patience and lets his temper get the best of him, costing him the boy's life and Christine's pity.

By my lovely mutual @rumpletrumple. This fic messed me up good :)))

She loves a pretty face

fandom: The Phantom of the Opera

whumpee: Raoul de Chagny

Erik scars Raoul. Raoul tries to move past it, but Christine won't talk to him, and Erik won't leave him alone.

By @convenientalias! This is one of my fav POTO fics, ngl. This was just. UGH. It was so good oh my GOSH. I love me some good Raoul whump AND THIS WAS SOME GOOD RAOUL WHUMP RIGHT HERE. AUGH. Scarring, threats, manipulation, tying to a chair, sacrificial love, oh my!!

Obedience

fandom: Batfam

whumpee: Tim Drake

Something is seriously wrong with Tim—Jason just knows it. Ever since the Mad Hatter incident, Tim has been acting completely different, and the worst part is that no one believes Jason when he tells them so. But when the truth is eventually revealed, the whole family comes to realize that the situation is far worse than anyone could have ever predicted.

By @sohotthateveryonedied! This left me disturbed and with low-key an existential crisis???? With one of my fave kinds of whump, forced obedience. This fic also gave me a newfound appreciation for "Perfection whump" (whump centered around being forced to be perfect). It's just so good and whumpy AND angsty and I'm. OUGH. *CHEF'S KISS*

all the king's horses

fandom: Voltron

whumpee: Keith

It wasn’t the blade sinking into the flesh of his palm, nor the smell of wood smoke and incense permeating the air that woke Keith. Nor was it the weight of iron-wrought shackles hanging heavy from his wrists and ankles. No, it was the sinister giggle in his ear and frigid fingers carding through his head that roused Keith from a dead slumber. He didn’t remember going to sleep at all—in fact, he wasn’t so sure he’d been asleep so much as knocked out. His head ached with a throbbing pulse and he couldn’t quite bring the world into focus. The room was dark, shadows dancing along the dingy wall certainly not helping things. A groan escaped him despite himself. "Don't worry, it'll only hurt for a bit."

By @glitteringconstellations! This fic actually. was the most traumatizing thing I'd ever read HAHAHAHA. Like, not even kidding, I still haven't recovered from it. It's. Like I highly recommend it but it's VERY much horror and VERY creepy and disturbing. AND I MEAN DISTURBING. It's SO GOOD but I was definitely traumatized and not okay after :))

[fairy-writes]

Vampire!Viktor x Female!Reader 01

i’ve been having brain rot about vampire!viktor and a female!reader, and just—

this is now a series i’ve dubbed cryptid!viktor! here’s a little blurb about merman!viktor :) linked HERE

you first meet him when you go to explore a decrepit old mansion on the hill of your little village in the middle of the night. the year is 18th century something, and you hike your skirts up as you scale the tall wrought iron fence surrounding the estate. except as you climb the wall, you realize it’s basically rusted steel.

why was that? wasn’t steel more expensive than iron?

this was a bad idea, but you were always curious and liked old things. they made you sad. but in a good way.

the estate is just as drab and creepy up close as it was far away. but you are astounded by the detail. gargoyles and griffons positioned at the tops of the corners keep watch over the massive house, and their stone eyes seem to follow you as you approach the large front door. 

the door is made of wood, and there is a large cast iron (again, you realize it’s steel) knocker in the shape of what looks like a demon with horns. is it a bad omen? you clutch your necklace tight in your fist as you reach for the door knocker and knock twice. 

nothing. 

the door is unlocked, and you have to put your entire body weight against it in order to open the beast of a door. inside is almost pitch black, and you hoist your bag that’s been strapped against your torso until now, and pull out a packet of matches. then feeling along the wall, you find a candelabra and use the match to light the dusty candles. 

the room is illuminated by the warm glow, and you swear you see glowing golden eyes in the corner. but as you look closer, they simply disappear. 

talk about spooky.

cobwebs hang from the chandelier, and the air is thick with dust, making you sneeze and almost blow your candles out. a breeze comes through the open door, and the flames flicker and go out. 

suddenly you get a very, very bad feeling. 

“who are you?” comes an accented voice, and you jump, whirling and feeling your skirts swish against your heeled boots as you look up to the top of the massive staircase. 

the man is dressed immaculately in a cravat, a pristine white long-sleeved shirt with puffy sleeves, a wine-red vest, and slim trousers that hug his legs all the way down to his shined shoes. his hair is a dark chocolate brown, and his eyes are that glowing golden color. 

the eyes from before. 

“i did knock,” you say hastily, and he scoffs,

“i heard you. now who are you?” is all he says in return, and you spin on a heel, dropping the candelabra and sprinting for the door. 

only for it to slam shut, leaving you beating against the wood. 

“let me out!” you shriek and turn back to face the man. he’s descended the stairs now and is but a few paces away. somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize he’s beautiful. with porcelain skin and two beauty marks dotting his cheeks. his eyes aren’t exactly gold, but a pretty amber that seemingly glows gold with unnatural power. 

“no, i don’t think i will. what is your name?” he says, and you swallow as he gets closer, stuttering out your name. 

but there’s something on his face that you can’t quite define.

“what are you going to do to me?” you whisper, and he tilts his head,

“that i am not sure of yet. but seeing as you trespassed on my property, i think i’ll figure out something,” he says and reaches for your throat. 

only to recoil with a cry of pain and clutching his steaming hand. 

you look down to see your silver necklace in the shape of a cross steaming as well. you weren’t particularly religious, but it was given to you by your father on his deathbed, and you had promised never to take it off. 

it looks like even now; he’s watching over you.

but then the dots connect, and everything makes sense.

“are you a vampire?” you ask, and he glares with bared teeth. the sharpened incisors are proof of your claim. 

but instead of fear, you feel curious. 

but you don’t get the chance to ask any more questions as he turns and disappears without another word. literally, one second, he’s there, and the next, he’s simply gone in a wisp of the wind. mysteriously, the door opens, and you are let out without any more trouble. you all but run to the steel gates but turn back at the last second. 

and see the man in the window, watching you as you scurry away like a mouse running from a cat. 

as soon as you get home, the sun begins to rise, and your mother descends on you like the worried parent she is. 

“where were you?! i was worried sick!” she all but shouts, and you flinch at the noise. you had scarcely opened the door when she had been up from her chair and across the dirt floor to grasp your elbows, scanning you up and down for any injuries. 

which save for a minor burn mark against your skin from the necklace; you are just covered in dirt and minor scratches from running through the brush surrounding the mansion.

“i’m fine mother, i just went on a walk to the mansion up on the hill,” you say and realize quickly it was a mistake. 

her face morphs into one of terror and anger. her grip on your arms loosens, and she frantically holds your face in her calloused hands. they’re worn with years of washing laundry in lye. she was a servant in baron silco’s estate as a laundry maid. you were a seamstress and tailoress who made clothing for noblemen and women who traveled through baron silco’s land. 

but your job was beside the point. your mother looked like she was about to pass out from fear. 

“you know that a monster haunts the mansion! you mustn't go up there ever again! promise me!” she chastises, and you nod in a daze. 

for some reason, you can’t get that man out of your head. 

and realize why as you sew the clothing of a noblewoman named caitlyn kiramman.

he looked old and lonely and oh so sad. 

you resolve to yourself that you are going to visit again and try not to get killed. 

you manage to sneak out a week later when your mother is fast asleep. it’s always been just the two of you ever since your father died, so at least you don’t have to worry about siblings or grandparents like many of the other peasants in your village. the trek up to the mansion is shorter than you remember, the worn dirt leading the way as your eyes adjust in the bright moonlight. 

again, the door is unlocked, and the windows are empty. you ease it open, wincing at the squealing hinges echoing into the night. if he didn’t know you were coming, he certainly did now.

he’s waiting for you at the top of the stairs. his eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he recognizes it’s you.

“what are you doing here? here to kill me?” he asks, and you stop in your tracks.

“what? no! i’m here… well… i’m here because you looked sad.” you say, trailing off at the end, realizing how ridiculous you sounded. your skirts are clenched in your fists, and your apron is rough against your fingertips.

“you’re here… because i looked… sad?” his tone is colored with shades of confusion and curiosity. but he didn’t seem angry, and that was good. so you nod, 

“it sounds stupid i know—”

“it is stupid. leave now,” the man commands, and you freeze at the commanding tone in his voice. it booms through the large room, making you feel as small as a dust mite in his presence. he turns to ascend the rest of the stairs toward one of the mansion’s many corridors, and you panic. you didn’t want to come all this way for nothing. 

“wait!” you cry and hurry up the steps after him, hiking your skirts up and scurrying up the stairs after the retreating man. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, if anything, he speeds up slightly. the halls are dark and filled with more cobwebs, but you find as you get closer to the heart of the mansion, they grow less prominent, and the torches are actually lit. the man shuts a door behind him, and you open it before he can lock it.

“i just want to talk!” you say, and he turns to look at you. before he can say anything, you get a good look around the room. 

it’s lit by oil lamps and candelabras. papers are strewn about between two desks, and they’re also covered in various gears and gadgets. you spy a few handkerchiefs covered in grease in under a few papers. a bed is in the corner and neatly made blood-red bedsheets are spread over the mattress. it looks comfier than anything you have ever seen. 

abruptly, you realize he’s started talking.

“—want you to leave,” he says curtly, and you bite your cheek.

“aren’t you lonely?” you ask quietly, and he freezes, his back to you. 

you seize your chance and ask another question,

“what’s your name?” you ask, and he turns his head slightly, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

“it’s viktor.”

[mysticcolonialhardware]

Our cast-iron products are better in terms of durability and how it all connects back to the Colonial age. We’ll also be giving you some tips on how you can use our cast iron coat hooks.