#shelf is a slab of pine

[anon-e-has-a-tmblr]

Ya boi is making a shelf

#shelf is a slab of pine #first coat is drying #hopefully by wensday it'll be ready for the metal thingies there #why i even do this? well #i'm tired of having books and other clutter on the dining table #anyway #picture #btw i use stain+laque combo in oak colour #it fits the best with the kitchen drawers #which are covered in oak venier

[toomanybandstocare]

{Love Will Tear Us Apart, Joy Division}

Program: Argyle is a ray of sunshine that envelopes everyone in his warmth and softness. Everyday, you have the privilege to bask in his light and enjoy the high his shares. When thunder heads roll in and cloud your senses, one night tips you over the edge of no return and shatters everything you so dearly care for.

Pairing: Best friend! Argyle x Best friend, GN! Reader

Genre: Fluff, Suggestive/NSFW??? IDK

Warnings: Weed, Make out sess, Straddling (Reader on top), A single swear, Memory of drinking a beer, Pet Name (Honey), Long term miscommunication trope, A hint of casual dom! Argyle ????

Length: 2360w

Series Program | Camp Upside Down Masterlist

Camper Tag: @billyslittledolly @staygoldwriting

Thunder rumbles and lurks behind dark storm heads outside of Argyle and Johnathan’s shared apartment. Sopping wet rain coats and boots pile beside the entry way as hushed laughter warms the late hours of the night. Wandering hands pull you further into the dark hallway as you push off Argyle’s denim overshirt.

“Gotta be quiet, alright?” Argyle lays his pointer finger on your lips to try to stop the trickle of chuckles falling. Although, he’s not much better with his smile lighting up the small corridor. The twinkle in his eye that catches your breath. How soft he holds you with his calloused hands. You could easily spend the rest of your days admiring Argyle as a work of art.

“Why did Johnathan skip tonight?” you mumble against his jaw and lightly hold onto the hem of his graphic tee. The scent of pine wood and rain make you go lightheaded as his skin warms you.

Argyle shrugs and pulls you into his cluttered room, “Nancy’s coming tomorrow. Guess they get some sort of holiday special to Boston? Something historical and important, I’m sure”. Snickers break the silence of Argyle’s room. Turning on the fairy lights strung up along the ceiling, Argyle kicks the stray clothes laying on the floor to the side before flopping onto his bed.

Posters scatter the wall ranging from Back to the Future to Queen. A simple full bed takes up most of the room with the exception of a homemade night stand, dresser, and desk that basically connect as one surface in the corner. The first week of your sophomore year of college, you found yourself drinking a beer with the boys as Argyle built some pieces of furniture to fill up his new apartment room. Beginning your first semester a year later, the tables are covered with books, pencils, journals, and each has their respective lava lamp. Even though the worn wood slab door sign declares this space “Argyle’s Hideaway”, it’s become your hidey hole just as much.

“C’mere, honey,” he grunts while reaching for the rolling tray on the bottom shelf of the nightstand.

You habitually turn on the lava lamps and a warm light show of blues, greens, and oranges cast over the room. A crack of lightning outside of the window reveals the stream of pelting water that targets anything in its vicinity. You weren’t going anywhere tonight. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, you think to yourself.

As Argyle focuses on rolling a few joints to share, you move to the corner of the room where his dresser sits to put on a record. Shuffling through the small stack he keeps, you hum when you find the perfect album. The drop and scratch from the record needle hums through the room before Joy Division crackles through the shitty little speakers.

“Honey.” Argyle drags out with a joint placed between his plush lips. He tilts his head to gesture you over to join him. A little pout causes flutters to sting inside of you.

Careful to toe over the abandoned shoes and lonely hoodie laying in your path, you shuffle over to the bed and sit cross legged in front of Argyle. 

“Nope,” Argyle places the tray on the stand, and pulls you into his lap. Your breath hitches as you practically straddle him.

“Argyle,” you hiss and arch your back away while trying to push off of him. “What the hell,” you swallow the lump constricting your throat. The palms of his hands pull you back against his chest, so you feel his quiet laughter bubble. A couple of clicks before a hissing sound announces the evening’s activities start.

You crane your neck and rest against his shoulder to watch Argyle the first hit. His pillowy lips carefully hold the joint in place as he inhales. Eyelashes flutter when he closes his eyes to relax in familiar ritual. Parting his lips, he sighs in content with a small wisp of smoke. Argyle’s velvet, brown eyes peer down at you through the soft curtain of lashes.

“You alright? Hardly said a word since we got back from cram sess, and your face is all warm,” his voice quietly rasps. He casually parts your lips with his thumb before placing the roll between your lips. Your shoulder burns as waves of warmth strike through you as his other hand squeezes your waist.

Caught up in the Argyle’s touch, smoke tickles your throat before choking you. Coughs rattles through you and tears well in your eyes.

“Shit, hold on,” Argyle pulls a way and causes a whine to pull from your mouth as well that sets off another coughing spree. He bends over the bed and returns fumbling with a water bottle, “Here, okay. Take it easy, honey. It’s okay- it happens to the best of us”. Argyle grasps the back of your neck and helps you drink some water. The pit of embarrassment deepens when you splutter from a final cough and water spills.

“Fuck,” you heave and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, “Didn’t mean to get water all over your bed. Do you have a shirt or something I can change into?” You pull at the soggy shirt that clings to your body, and when your eyes dart to meet Argyle’s, you weren’t expecting him to be intently taking you in.

“Dingus,” you slightly raise your voice, “Earth to Argyle? Shirt? Something to not make me cold? That I can wear to bed?” 

Argyle snaps out of his daze and gulps as he stumbles out of bed, “Uh, yeah. One sec- wait. Bed? My bed?” His voice raises slightly at the thought. His cheeks burn as he swallows his excitement while pulling out a band shirt from the dresser.

A tremor of thunder shakes the building as white light blinds the window. The heavy downpour of rain engulfs all that stand in its way. Droplets pound against the window panes and echo through the room. None of that causes the flood of tingles biting at Argyle. No it’s you- his best friend- who sits so nicely on his bed with a damp shirt asking for one of his own to sleep in.

“I feel like that answers for me,” you weakly joke, “Shirt, please?” You move from the bed and trade the joint for the shirt in his hand. Lightly pushing him away and towards the bed, you shiver as Argyle’s arm brushes your own. Butterflies flurry your stomach and make their way to tickle your heart.

Trying to force himself to breathe, Argyle pushes onto the bed and lazily lights the roll again for another hit. The faint buzz of THC only vaguely clouds his mind as he tries to stay focused on anything but the soggy shirt that grips to your skin. Or how small droplets trail down the plane of your back and creep closer to your waistband. Would you shiver if he ran his hands down your back like that? Or would you squirm? Argyle’s heart hammers in his chest when he sneaks a peek and sees you pulling on his shirt.

When you turn around, Argyle desperately tries to play it cool. Clearing his throat, he takes a sip of water and grabs the tray as you fall into bed once again. He closes the bottle and tosses it to the foot of the bed as he shifts to his side. His eyes catch how his shirt easily drags up and shows a little peak of your hip bone.

Bouncing against the bed, you land on your side with a soft thump, “By the way, while Nancy is visiting, you’re more than welcome to pop by my place at any time. More of a gift for Johnathan than escape for you”. Taking the joint once more, you breathe in the light musky herb and settle into the warm duvet beneath you. 

“Perfect,” Argyle breathes out at the same time a little smoke cloud kisses your lips, “Hey, um- you want to try something?”

You quirk your eyebrow. Curiously eyeing his fidgeting fingers and watch as he hesitantly fiddles with the hem of your new favorite shirt to wear. “Like what,” you whisper. The pounding of rain deafens the music as you drown in Argyle’s blissed out gaze. His deep eyes flicker from your own to your parted lips.

“You have to promise that if this doesn’t end up working out, that we’ll still be best friends,” Argyle scooches closer to you and presses his chest against your own. Hearts hammering against each other, Argyle can’t tell if it’s the curves and planes of your body so close to him that makes him spiral or the fear of losing you. 

Shivers tingle where Argyle drapes one of his legs over yours and wraps an arm to hold the back of your neck. Even the sweetest of daydreams didn’t come close to what it feels like to be held in Argyle’s embrace.

Tender warmth floods your chest and licks at your cheeks. You let yourself to be pulled into his enticing gaze.

Callous fingertips tease you as he lazily traces little doodles across your skin. Wondering how they would feel if you let them wander, knots fill your stomach in anticipation.

Every muscle twitches in response to your body. Pride blooms with your smirk from how Argyle reacts to being so close to you.

“What did you have in mind?” you ghost your lips over his jaw.

Argyle swallows a groan and begs, “You have to promise me, honey”.

Hovering over his lips, you feel his hot breath when he bites down on his bottom lip. With a pang, you instantly recognize the stoner’s nervous habit.

Before Argyle can even subconsciously think about poking his tongue out, everything stops when you dart your tongue across his chapped lips. Watching you frozen in place, Argyle struggles to process that you crossed the line so easily when he’s fumbling around it. Only when you bite down lightly and take his bottom lip between your own teeth does he snap out of his daze. A deep groan rumbles past his tongue, and Argyle pulls you impossibly closer- practically straddling on top of him.

Leaning down, you admire how stunning Argyle looks with his hair fanning across the pillows and how his chest heaves from such a little tease. “There has not been a day that I didn’t trust you, sunshine,” you affirm, gently holding his face in your hands. “What did you want to try,” you ask.

Shakily holding the joint to his lips, Argyle watches as the lighter faintly illuminates you in the softest glow. How alive you seem to look as you peer down at him. Though the confident expression that paints your face makes him feel hot, Argyle feels how jumpy you are as you squeeze your thighs around him. Tapping your thigh to try to comfort you, Argyle drags his hand up your body, desperately trying to commit to memory how you feel, just in case this does blow up in his face in the morning.

As his hand leaves your side, he pulls a quiet whine from your mouth, “Argyle, please”. 

You barely register the small pressure his other hand places on the back of the neck, not needing his guidance. Closing the gap between the pair of you, you drink in the intoxicating sensation of his THC kisses. Your mouths slowly move together as you begin to ease into each other's touch. The familiar reassurance of his hand returns to your hip as he paws at your body. Both wanting to drown in how you feel in your hands. His jaw bone juts against your hold when Argyle sloppily deepens the kiss. Smoke snakes past your throat and roots itself to burn your lungs as they beg for relief. 

With a wet click, you pull away from Argyle and admire the view. Glowing underneath the shifting shades of warm hues from the lava lamps, Argyle looks up at you with a dopey smile. Lips swollen and slightly raw, you swoop down and place a chaste kiss to his lips while you each catch your breath.

“I was right,” Argyle sighs. Both his hands firmly rest on your hips and press little circles into the soft skin he easily lets himself crave.

“Right about what?” you ask as you lay down on his chest, settling in for the night.

“You are honey,” Argyle hums while he places the tray and smoldering joint onto the night stand’s teetering pile. “Super sweet and leaves me wanting more,” he teasingly nips at your cheekbone.

You shoot up trying to put space between your bodies as both of you burst into laughter. “You’re disgusting, Argyle. Absolutely awful,” you squeal.

His arms tighten around you as bubbles of excitement sting you. When did his feelings change to match your growing crush? The thought of lost time can’t even dampen your sunny hideaway as Argyle rolls you onto the bed, so you face each other.

Your foreheads brush together as you try to lay as close together. His breath tickles your nose when they accidentally bump causing a chorus of giggles.

“I trust you completely as well, you know,” Argyle’s low voice makes something stir in you. “I, um, was wondering if you- if I didn’t read into things just now- if you wanted to make this a thing?” he nervously suggests. He really just wants to be able to enjoy casual intimacy with someone he trusts, and he can’t believe you’re even musing the idea. Let alone with him.

“There’s no one else I’d want to be with than you, sunshine,” you beam. Your heart soars, unable to believe that Argyle wants to date you. You didn’t think he would ever want to have a relationship. Let alone one with you.

Countless nights sat in the boys’ apartment, you watched a movie with Johnathan while your heart broke when you saw Argyle walk his weekend partner to the door. Nights that now mean nothing as your heart sings in his arms finally feeling at home.

#argyle #argyle fic #argyle angst #argyle imagines #argyle imagine #argyle x y/n #argyle stranger things #argyle x reader #stranger things fics #stranger things #stranger things imagines #stranger things imagine #argyle fluff #stranger things angst #stranger things fluff #argyle x gn!reader #argyle x female reader #argyle x fem!reader #argyle x male reader #camp halfwit bulletin post #argyle fluff imagine #stranger things fluff imagine #best friend!argyle #counselor mythos post #reader insert

[blasphemous-bill]

I took a contract to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie,

Whenever, wherever or whatsoever the manner of death he die —

Whether he die in the light o’ day or under the peak-faced moon;

In cabin or dance-hall, camp or dive, mucklucks or patent shoon;

On velvet tundra or virgin peak, by glacier, drift or draw;

In muskeg hollow or canyon gloom, by avalanche, fang or claw;

By battle, murder or sudden wealth, by pestilence, hooch or lead —

I swore on the Book I would follow and look till I found my tombless dead.

For Bill was a dainty kind of cuss, and his mind was mighty sot

On a dinky patch with flowers and grass in a civilized boneyard lot.

And where he died or how he died, it didn’t matter a damn

So long as he had a grave with frills and a tombstone “epigram.”

So I promised him, and he paid the price in good cheechako coin

(Which the same I blowed in that very night down in the Tenderloin).

Then I painted a three-foot slab of pine: “Here lies poor Bill MacKie,”

And I hung it up on my cabin wall and I waited for Bill to die.

Years passed away, and at last one day came a squaw with a story strange,

Of a long-deserted line of traps ’way back of the Bighorn range,

Of a little hut by the great divide, and a white man stiff and still,

Lying there by his lonesome self, and I figured it must be Bill.

So I thought of the contract I’d made with him, and I took down from the shelf

The swell black box with the silver plate he’d picked out for hisself;

And I packed it full of grub and “hooch,” and I slung it on the sleigh;

Then I harnessed up my team of dogs and was off at dawn of day.

You know what it’s like in the Yukon wild when it’s sixty-nine below;

When the ice-worms wriggle their purple heads through the crust of the pale blue snow;

When the pine-trees crack like little guns in the silence of the wood,

And the icicles hang down like tusks under the parka hood;

When the stove-pipe smoke breaks sudden off, and the sky is weirdly lit,

And the careless feel of a bit of steel burns like a red-hot spit;

When the mercury is a frozen ball, and the frost-fiend stalks to kill —

Well, it was just like that that day when I set out to look for Bill.

Oh, the awful hush that seemed to crush me down on every hand,

As I blundered blind with a trail to find through that blank and bitter land;

Half dazed, half crazed in the winter wild, with its grim heartbreaking woes,

And the ruthless strife for a grip on life that only the sourdough knows!

North by the compass, North I pressed; river and peak and plain

Passed like a dream I slept to lose and I waked to dream again.

River and plain and mighty peak — and who could stand unawed?

As their summits blazed, he could stand undazed at the foot of the throne of God.

North, aye, North, through a land accurst, shunned by the scouring brutes,

And all I heard was my own harsh word and the whine of the malamutes,

Till at last I came to a cabin squat, built in the side of a hill,

And I burst in the door, and there on the floor, frozen to death, lay Bill.

Ice, white ice, like a winding-sheet, sheathing each smoke-grimed wall;

Ice on the stove-pipe, ice on the bed, ice gleaming over all;

Sparkling ice on the dead man’s chest, glittering ice in his hair,

Ice on his fingers, ice in his heart, ice in his glassy stare;

Hard as a log and trussed like a frog, with his arms and legs outspread.

I gazed at the coffin I’d brought for him, and I gazed at the gruesome dead,

And at last I spoke: “Bill liked his joke; but still, goldarn his eyes,

A man had ought to consider his mates in the way he goes and dies.”

Have you ever stood in an Arctic hut in the shadow of the Pole,

With a little coffin six by three and a grief you can’t control?

Have you ever sat by a frozen corpse that looks at you with a grin,

And that seems to say: “You may try all day, but you’ll never jam me in”?

I’m not a man of the quitting kind, but I never felt so blue

As I sat there gazing at that stiff and studying what I’d do.

Then I rose and I kicked off the husky dogs that were nosing round about,

And I lit a roaring fire in the stove, and I started to thaw Bill out.

Well, I thawed and thawed for thirteen days, but it didn’t seem no good;

His arms and legs stuck out like pegs, as if they was made of wood.

Till at last I said: “It ain’t no use — he’s froze too hard to thaw;

He’s obstinate, and he won’t lie straight, so I guess I got to — saw.”

So I sawed off poor Bill’s arms and legs, and I laid him snug and straight

In the little coffin he picked hisself, with the dinky silver plate,

And I came nigh near to shedding a tear as I nailed him safely down;

Then I stowed him away in my Yukon sleigh, and I started back to town.

So I buried him as the contract was in a narrow grave and deep,

And there he’s waiting the Great Clean-up, when the Judgment sluice-heads sweep;

And I smoke my pipe and I meditate in the light of the Midnight Sun,

And sometimes I wonder if they was, the awful things I done.

And as I sit and the parson talks, expounding of the Law,

I often think of poor old Bill — and how hard he was to saw.

- Robert W. Service

[terrisci]

Ikea movable walls

Ikea movable walls full#

Ikea movable walls portable#

Right above it is a stainless steel pendant lamp for accent.

Ikea movable walls full#

The movable kitchen island at the center of the kitchen stands on carved legs and has a full cabinet base with dark walnut top, matching the wood tone of the flooring. The kitchen cabinets are all in an of-white color, making it stand out against the dark walnut floors. This lovely kitchen uses neo-classic inspired motifs and applies it on the kitchen design. The result is a very unique kitchen island, which can even become a conversation piece.Ĭlassic-inspired interiors calls for classic-inspired kitchens. The base of the island is made from two wooden wine liquor barrels, while its top is from an old dining table with its legs removed. In the middle of the kitchen is a very unique movable kitchen island which is made of salvaged/re-purposed materials. Rustic finishes and elements can be found throughout this kitchen, combined with other modern elements/finishes, creating a rustic kitchen which looks light instead of heavy. The slim framing and construction of the narrow kitchen island gives it a light and modern look, while the open shelves underneath helps make the kitchen look open and bright. For the kitchen island, instead of similarly styled fixed island, this kitchen uses a movable kitchen island in solid pine wood. To counter the bold color of the walls, the kitchen used white cabinets with gray counters and white backsplash tiles. Yellow gold walls gives this transitional style kitchen a bright and cheerful vibe. This island is made purely of wood and has a long rectangular shape with one open shelf below. Similar to the wood finishes of the walls and ceiling of this space, the movable kitchen island uses solid oiled teak wood, keeping the natural beauty of its color. The over-all interior of the spaces has that classic cabin-like feel, using natural finishes in their natural earthy tones. It provides a nice break from the uniform finish/color of the walls and the kitchen, adding more personalty to the kitchen. Using large pieces of solid wood and a thick wooden slab for the top, it has a slid and heavy look, but has rustic look. this movable kitchen island stands out with its natural weathered wood finish. Surrounded by classic style kitchen cabinets. This small kitchen island perfectly complements the kitchen and completes the look. Antiqued white painted legs with open shelf topped with a block of salvaged wood in its natural finish really gives that rustic appeal. Matching the modern rustic style of the whole kitchen space, this mobile kitchen gives that authentic weathered look.

Ikea movable walls portable#

Whether you want a butcher block countertop surface for meal prep, stainless steel, granite or concrete surface you can find it in a portable island. From portable carts, or tables and islands with legs or wheels you can find a style to match your specific kitchen style. There are a variety of types of movable kitchen islands. The lower part of the base is open instead of having a fully-enclosed storage space, making it look lighter. It has a solid oak wood base, matching the floors of the kitchen and has a thick slab of marble on top. In the picture above, this movable kitchen island is quite small in size, with proportions and form reminiscent of console tables. The variety of portable kitchen islands means you can have fun and add your own personal style to your kitchen space. Rolling kitchen islands can be ideal to give you extra food prep space as well as give your kitchen a little more design flair. A movable kitchen island is ideal for those who don’t want a costly remodel or have a small profile kitchen. In this gallery we share a variety of portable kitchen islands with rolling and movable designs.

#Ikea movable walls

[bucksfucks]

  𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙤𝙮 ; 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲 𝗿𝗼𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘀

summary┃you’ve always called steve the golden boy, but he snaps one night and decides to show you he’s anything but.

pairing┃roommate!steve x f!reader

word count┃2,382 words

warnings┃hangover, drinking, tipsy sex, pining, teasing, makeout session, dirty talk, praise kink, size kink, steve doesn’t think he’ll fit but he makes it, use of toys (vibrator), mocking, edging, hair pulling kink, fingering, oral, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, steve finishes on readers back, steve is lowkey a fuckboy — 18+ ONLY//MINORS DNI

notes┃presidential alert 🚨 the girls, gays, and the they’s are horny

     The shower was already running when you had walked out of your room and into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea.

    It was Saturday morning and despite your best efforts, your body never let you sleep in last nine in the morning.

    You may as well start your day at 8:48 am.

    Steve had gone out last night, but you remember the door shutting at three in the morning and a faint shhh falling from his lips as he spoke to whatever inanimate object was making noise.

    In your sleepy daze, you didn’t really mind. Instead, turning your pillow onto the cool side and drifting back to sleep.

    The kettle was boiling and the bread was getting warmed in the toaster when the shower finally stopped running.

    It was a little unusual for Steve to shower for so long, even after his morning runs or workouts, he’d never need more than 10 minutes.

    When the door opened, and a groaning Steve emerged, you knew exactly what the problem was.

    “Mornin’, Golden Boy,” he didn’t even have the energy to grimace at the sound of his nickname.

    His bare feel pattered against the wooden floor until he dropped his large body in one of the bar stools.

    “Someone had a fun night.” You mumbled with a small smirk as you slid him a cup of coffee which is took between his fingers.

    “I don’t know how Sam and Bucky roped me into shots,” he said into the cup of coffee as he took a cautious sip.

    You just rolled your eyes playfully and plated the toast that had popped out a few seconds earlier, slabbing a large helping of butter before adding honey and sliding the plate over to him.

    “Eat.”

    He groaned again, but put the coffee down in place for the sweet honey toast.

    “I can’t drink like I used to, I think I’m dying,” he was being dramatic, a playful glimmer in his eyes as he took a bite and hummed.

    “You’re 27, Rogers. I think someone’s being a little dramatic,” you teased with a smile.

    You are your breakfasts in silence for the most part, the painkiller Steve had taken not yet kicking in until both of your plates were cleared.

    “Did you get lucky last night?” You asked with raised eyebrows as you both placed your plates in the sink.

    Steve just laughed, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

    You had to admit that your heart dropped, the same twinge of jealously starting to bloom in your chest as you imagined him with someone else.

    “Proud of you, Golden Boy.” You fake cheered, biting your tongue and swallowing your pride.

    Above everything, Steve was your friend and he deserved to get laid.

    He laughed, “you should’ve come, Bucky couldn’t stop asking about you.”

    You rolled your eyes again, slightly in annoyance.

    “He knows I’ll never sleep with him,” you sang song, helping Steve dry the dishes as the sink stopped running.

    “You never told me why, you know that?” You scoffed, “and for good reason.”

    The reason was simple; you didn’t want Bucky, but instead his best friend and your roommate, Steve.

    “I’ll get it out of ya one day, sweetheart.” Steve chuckled and you felt your heart sink a little further, “whatever helps you sleep at night.”

    The rest of the day was uneventful, nothing to do on a rainy New York day other than read as Steve fiddled with his sketchbook while an old sitcom played on the television.

    Steve’s hangover either disappeared or he was great at hiding it, whatever it was, he was humming along to the show tune.

    “Pizza and beers for dinner?” Steve asked as he was putting the final touches on his sketch making you laugh.

    “What happened to I can’t drink like I used to?” You said, echoing his words from the morning as he shrugged.

    “It’s a lazy day essential, now what toppings, and don’t say pineapple.” You acted shocked, mouth twitching into a smile.

    “You don’t know anything about good pizza,” you huffed as he tore his eye away from his sketchbook to look at you.

    “Pineapple on pizza is a crime, sweetheart. Now if that’s who you are I can’t judge, but I’m jus’ sayin’,” he said raising his hands in mock defeat.

    “Whatever Golden Boy, just say you’re a vanilla type of guy,” you winked, standing up to put your book on the shelf as the sun began setting to cast yellow and orange hues over the apartment.

    Steve snickered, “whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”

    The low timbre of his voice, your own words echoed from this morning sends a shudder down your spine as he grabs his phone.

    “The usual?” You manage to nod your head, smiling as you try to distract yourself from the sudden and very evident ache between your thighs.

    30 minutes later and the pizza was here, still hot and greasy as Steve set it on the wooden coffee table as you grabbed two beers, scratch that, four beers.

    “Cheers, Golden Boy,” you offered with a soft smile as you both clinked your bottle necks against each other before pizza was being devoured.

    You didn’t know what it was, but cheap greasy pizza and a cold beer always soothed the soul. No matter how heartbroken you had ever been, or upset at the universe, beer and pizza were always there for you.

    As the hours went by, the bottles emptied and the pizza slices disappeared before you and Steve were sat on the couch laughing and giggling at the time Steve locked himself out in nothing but his underwear.

    “And where were you to rescue me!” He bellowed, throwing his head back at the memory.

    “I was in the shower, you know I blare music. I’m sorry Stevie, I promise the next time you’re locked out and naked I’ll rescue you.”

    He shook his head, “well I wasn’t naked.”

    You felt a little dizzy, body lighter as you finished off the second beer. You weren’t drunk, but loose enough to rest your head against Steve’s shoulder.

    His phone buzzed then, grabbing it off the table as Bucky’s name lit up across the screen.

    Steve ignored it.

    “He’s jus’ gonna ask me to go out again,” he said before you could ask, seemingly reading your mind.

    “Plus, I’m perfectly content right here,” he smiled, finishing off his second beer as you playfully rolled your eyes.

    “You’re such a sap,” you teased, “that a bad thing?” He asked and you felt the air around you grow more tense.

    “‘Course not, you’re just Stevie,” you tried to explain as he furrowed his eyebrows.

    “Stevie?” He asked as you sat up and crossed your legs under your body.

    “Yeah, you know,” you tried to find the words, “Golden Boy.”

    He hums in response, “golden as in pure?”

    You nod your head, “pure, sweet, innocent.”

    You weren’t sure if you had struck a nerve, but Steve smirked as he leaned into you.

    “‘M not so innocent, sweetheart. Not everything is as it seems.” His voice was much lower, raspier as you could smell the beer on his breath.

    “Is that so?” Your voice was just a little above a whisper, heart racing in your chest.

    “I could even show you, sweetheart, but you gotta answer one question first. Sound fair?” He asked.

    You nodded your head slowly, eagerly awaiting his question.

    His hands fell to your knees, sliding up until he pulled you into his lap.

    You looked up at him, craning your head only slightly as he craned his at you. He was warm, and broad.

    “Why,” his voice was low, “won’t you hookup with Bucky, sweetheart?”

    Your breath hitched, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you ran your hands up his chest until they rested on his shoulders.

    “I think you know,” you whispered as he shook his head and chuckled.

    “Uh uh, I wanna hear you say it.” He purred, brushing his nose against yours.

    Your eyes fluttered shut as you smelt his oaky, but sweet body wash. Something like bergamot and oranges.

    He squeezed your hips, a soft moan falling from your lips at the sensation.

    “It’s because,” you swallowed thickly, “because I want you, Stevie.”

    He hummed, hand on the back of your head as he pressed his lips to yours.

    You kissed back, the realization hitting you it became hotter and more desperate as you slid your tongue past Steve’s lips.

    “All you needed to do was say those words and you could’ve had me all to yourself.” He smirks against your lips making you whimper.

    His fingers are digging into your ass, rocking your hips over his. It’s the right amount of friction to have you melting into his touch.

    When he picks you up, carrying you into his room to toss you onto his bed, you know you’ve made the wrong assumption about him.

    “Now there’s nothin’ wrong with a man who likes vanilla,” he hums, hands exploring your body.

    “But I’m a man who prefers a little more,” he meets your eyes, a devilish smirk and twinkle in his eyes, “flavour.”

    He’s hovering over you, lips on your neck and jaw as his hips rut over yours.

    “Go get that goddamn vibrator of yours,” he breathes as you look at him bewildered.

    “You know that one, you like the third setting the most on it.” He winks standing up as your eyes trace along his body and to where his cock is straining.

    “Go on, don’t sit there actin’ all dumb,” you spring to your feet, tripping over them as you quickly fetch it from your room.

    “Good girl, lie back down on the bed, but get naked first.” He instructs you sternly.

    You’d never had anyone tell you to strip, let alone have someone eyes so focused on you as you place the vibrator in his larger hand.

    Starting with your sweater, you tear it off—chest exposed as Steve licks his lips.

    “Go on, don’t be shy. You’re makin’ him real happy,” he smirks, squeezing his dick through his pants.

    You tug your leggings down until you’re in your panties and Steve is giving you a look that tells you to continue.

    It’s a thrill, stripping for him and watching his cock twitch at the sight of your curves, dips, and the marks you hate.

    “Look at you,” he groans, “perfect little thing aren’t ya? Now I gotta be honest,” you swallow thickly.

    “‘M not sure if he’ll fit like I planned, but we’ll make sure to get you warmed up,” he says before placing your hand over his dick.

    It causes goosebumps to prickle your skin as he pushes you down onto the bed fully naked now.

    “Now this,” he says, holding your vibrator, “isn’t even gonna compare to me by the time I’m done with you.”

    It’s a promise that you know Steve will keep as he kneels between your legs.

    “I expect you to keep these open, okay? Unless of course,” his cocky attitude breaks through, “you’re squeezin’ my head when you cum.”

    You can’t even chide back, all thoughts gone at the sound of the click of your vibrator.

    Steve wastes no time, spreading your folds and exploring you with his tongue before he connects the silicone tip to your clit.

    It causes your body to jolt and Steve has to keep your legs open.

    “What did I say, sweetheart. Keep ‘em open,” he reminds you as he slips a single fingers in you.

    It’s already ten times better than your own, longer and thicker as they curl against your sweet spot.

    Your walls squeeze him, fluttering as you grip onto his unmade bed sheets.

    He teased you, edging you until you’re begging him to let you come with a dry throat.

    “Steve, c’mon. ‘S’not fair,” you whine, tugging at his hair. He groans, hips rutting into the bed and you know you’ve found his weakness.

    Two can play at this game.

    You tug at his hair again, “please, Stevie? Wanna cum so fuckin’ bad—all over your face.”

    He groans vibrator tossed on the bed as his mouth wraps around your clit, “fuck, baby.”

    It’s a lewd sound, your wetness against his fingers and mouth, but it’s enough to send you over the edge.

    “Make a mess, sweetheart. Gotta taste ya,” he groans against your core as you’re nearly suffocating him.

    It’s intense, washing over you like a wave followed by a series of smaller ones until he’s flipping you over and your ass is in the air.

    “Not so fuckin’ vanilla anymore, huh?” He slaps your ass, a squeak leaving your lips.

    “Gonna have the taste of you on my mind for days now, practically have me pussy whipped already.”

    His clothes are gone, all necessary ones before he’s bending his body over yours, “grip onto the headboard baby, you’ll need all the support you can get.”

    And he’s not wrong, sliding into you and stretching you out as you wrap yourself fingers around the wood until he’s fully seated inside of you.

    It’s a new fullness, one that you’ve never experienced and something you never want to forget.

    “Bounce, baby.” He then says, as you look over your shoulder.

    “Ride me, use the headboard and make yourself cum.” He smirks, slick coating both of your thighs.

    Everything is new to you as Steve lets you take control, yet, you’re never truly in control.

    “That’s it baby, such a good girl. Look how desperate you are to cum,” he taunts making you whimper.

    He joins in soon, meeting your thrusts with his own until you’re both grunting and he can’t hold back.

    “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum.” He hissed, quickly pulling out to paint your back as he rubs your clit with his free hand and you feel the white hot explosion of pleasure for the second time that night.

    You’ve both made a mess by the time you’re done, Steve cleaning you up with his boxers as you’re collapsing beside him still trying to catch your breath.

    “You’ve ruined my vibrator for me,” you chuckled breathlessly as he turns to you with a smirk, “well it’s a good thing I’m your roommate then.”

#steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader smut #steve rogers x reader #bucksfucks writes — [♡] ; #steve rogers headcanons #steve rogers headcanon #steve rogers oneshots #steve rogers one shots #steve rogers oneshot #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fic #steve rogers blurb #steve rogers drabble

[gtunesmiff]

YOUR SUNDAY SERVICE

The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill

BY ROBERT W. SERVICE

I took a contract to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie, Whenever, wherever or whatsoever the manner of death he die — Whether he die in the light o’ day or under the peak-faced moon; In cabin or dance-hall, camp or dive, mucklucks or patent shoon; On velvet tundra or virgin peak, by glacier, drift or draw; In muskeg hollow or canyon gloom, by avalanche, fang or claw; By battle, murder or sudden wealth, by pestilence, hooch or lead — I swore on the Book I would follow and look till I found my tombless dead. For Bill was a dainty kind of cuss, and his mind was mighty sot On a dinky patch with flowers and grass in a civilized boneyard lot. And where he died or how he died, it didn’t matter a damn So long as he had a grave with frills and a tombstone “epigram.” So I promised him, and he paid the price in good cheechako coin (Which the same I blowed in that very night down in the Tenderloin). Then I painted a three-foot slab of pine: “Here lies poor Bill MacKie,” And I hung it up on my cabin wall and I waited for Bill to die. Years passed away, and at last one day came a squaw with a story strange, Of a long-deserted line of traps ’way back of the Bighorn range, Of a little hut by the great divide, and a white man stiff and still, Lying there by his lonesome self, and I figured it must be Bill. So I thought of the contract I’d made with him, and I took down from the shelf The swell black box with the silver plate he’d picked out for hisself; And I packed it full of grub and “hooch,” and I slung it on the sleigh; Then I harnessed up my team of dogs and was off at dawn of day. You know what it’s like in the Yukon wild when it’s sixty-nine below; When the ice-worms wriggle their purple heads through the crust of the pale blue snow; When the pine-trees crack like little guns in the silence of the wood, And the icicles hang down like tusks under the parka hood; When the stove-pipe smoke breaks sudden off, and the sky is weirdly lit, And the careless feel of a bit of steel burns like a red-hot spit; When the mercury is a frozen ball, and the frost-fiend stalks to kill — Well, it was just like that that day when I set out to look for Bill. Oh, the awful hush that seemed to crush me down on every hand, As I blundered blind with a trail to find through that blank and bitter land; Half dazed, half crazed in the winter wild, with its grim heartbreaking woes, And the ruthless strife for a grip on life that only the sourdough knows! North by the compass, North I pressed; river and peak and plain Passed like a dream I slept to lose and I waked to dream again. River and plain and mighty peak — and who could stand unawed? As their summits blazed, he could stand undazed at the foot of the throne of God. North, aye, North, through a land accurst, shunned by the scouring brutes, And all I heard was my own harsh word and the whine of the malamutes, Till at last I came to a cabin squat, built in the side of a hill, And I burst in the door, and there on the floor, frozen to death, lay Bill. Ice, white ice, like a winding-sheet, sheathing each smoke-grimed wall; Ice on the stove-pipe, ice on the bed, ice gleaming over all; Sparkling ice on the dead man’s chest, glittering ice in his hair, Ice on his fingers, ice in his heart, ice in his glassy stare; Hard as a log and trussed like a frog, with his arms and legs outspread. I gazed at the coffin I’d brought for him, and I gazed at the gruesome dead, And at last I spoke: “Bill liked his joke; but still, goldarn his eyes, A man had ought to consider his mates in the way he goes and dies.” Have you ever stood in an Arctic hut in the shadow of the Pole, With a little coffin six by three and a grief you can’t control? Have you ever sat by a frozen corpse that looks at you with a grin, And that seems to say: “You may try all day, but you’ll never jam me in”? I’m not a man of the quitting kind, but I never felt so blue As I sat there gazing at that stiff and studying what I’d do. Then I rose and I kicked off the husky dogs that were nosing round about, And I lit a roaring fire in the stove, and I started to thaw Bill out. Well, I thawed and thawed for thirteen days, but it didn’t seem no good; His arms and legs stuck out like pegs, as if they was made of wood. Till at last I said: “It ain’t no use — he’s froze too hard to thaw; He’s obstinate, and he won’t lie straight, so I guess I got to — saw.” So I sawed off poor Bill’s arms and legs, and I laid him snug and straight In the little coffin he picked hisself, with the dinky silver plate, And I came nigh near to shedding a tear as I nailed him safely down; Then I stowed him away in my Yukon sleigh, and I started back to town. So I buried him as the contract was in a narrow grave and deep, And there he’s waiting the Great Clean-up, when the Judgment sluice-heads sweep; And I smoke my pipe and I meditate in the light of the Midnight Sun, And sometimes I wonder if they was, the awful things I done. And as I sit and the parson talks, expounding of the Law, I often think of poor old Bill — and how hard he was to saw. w.

[koliavasilis]

Home with Tree - Made by Koliavasilis Jimk

Home with Tree – Made by Koliavasilis Jimk

• Wall Decoration • • Unique – One and only made of natural materials, glazed for more durability. It can be hung on the wall and placed on a shelf • • Hanging on • • Tree with pine cones • • Stone slabs • • Hand Painted Stone slabs • #conmarstuc • Some Details • • Concrete – Acrylic Paint – natural rocks – natural tree – natural pine cones • • Made by Koliavasilis Jimk •

View On WordPress

#artist #decor #homedecor #abstractart #art #arte #artistic #beautiful #concrete #cones #decorations #design #gift #home #item #kids #Natural #pine #style #tree #unique #Wall decoration #with

[antihero-writings]

His Dog, Warming Their Hearts

(Cover art by stlyrica_art on instagram!! Please go check her out!!) 

Fandom: Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji (manga)

Fic Summary: Not every stray finds a home at Christmas, but puppy Sebastian just might.

Character focus: Undertaker

Fic: 

Whimpering. High-pitched, timid, and pitiful.

For a moment, Undertaker wondered if one of his guests was still here. It wasn’t like him to forget, but maybe one of the coffins was still filled, its inhabitant clawing at the lid to get out, for just one last taste of life. That would make for an interesting tale, he smirked to himself: one of the dead, not yet at the funeral, trying to escape its eternal rest.

Despite the presiding theme of the shop, the noise was made by something alive.

Shivering in one of the empty, open coffins against the wall was an animal. A very small animal, that is. Its black fur was matted and dirty, the look in its brown eyes shivering more than the rest of it, but defiant still.

A puppy.

“Now what would a thing like you doing here in my parlor?” Undertaker asked, crouching down beside it, offering a long-nailed finger for it to sniff.

The puppy did so, cautiously as it could, though fear still gleamed in its eyes—the black robes, unnaturally long, grey hair, which more often than not covered his eyes, and the stitch-like scars weaving their way across his skin, not to mention the usually twisted smiles on his face, were enough to make anyone a little uneasy. The animal, however, seemed to come to the same conclusion that most people did; Undertaker was an odd fellow, but wouldn’t go so far as cruel.

“If it’s a nice funeral you’re looking for,” amusement lined his words as he circled his finger in the air to reference the shop, “you’ve come to the right place.” He sat down beside it. “That one there,” he knocked on the puppy’s current sanctuary, making it shy away, “is made from a very rare wood. I’d need a first-rate laugh for it. Though, I do admit,” he gave that signature, high-pitched laugh, more like a twitch at the corner of his mouth, “it might be a bit large for you.”

The puppy only shivered, neither caring, nor understanding his sense of humor. Though few could tell when he was joking, and most found their faces in a constant awkward grimace around him.

Undertaker sat up and frowned, his too-green gaze flicking to the door to his shop, which was open, just enough to let the cold—(not that one can feel the cold when they’ve been dead for centuries)—and apparently other things, in.

“Must’ve been me last customer,” he reasoned softly, “Fellow lost his son. And so close to Christmas too. A shame, really.” He shook his head. “Told me he was a nice boy.” He smirked. “They all say that, though. ‘Nice’ doesn’t last forever, you know.”

Undertaker paused, looked at the pitiful creature, putting a robe sleeve to his chin, “If you’ve not come for business,” he returned to the subject, “you’d best be on your way. I’m not particularly fond of tending the living, ya see.” He held up a finger. “Too much on the upkeep.”

He stood back up and strode over the door, holding it open. A gust of wind tossed his hair. The animal wouldn’t budge.

“Well, if you’d rather have a bit of fun,” his grin became more maniacal, and he held his nails in front of his face, “that can be arranged.”

The puppy seemed to get the idea, and gave a yelp, pattering over to hide on the other side of the coffin.

“That’s what I thought.” He inclined his head to the door.

Still, it wouldn’t oblige.

Undertaker sighed, putting his hand on his forehead. “You are a stubborn fellow aren’t you?”

Despite it not leaving, he headed into the back of his shop, where all things deemed not-fit-for-the-eyes-of-the-living occurred. He left the door to outside open a crack, hoping it would get out with nothing else getting in in the meantime.

Laying on the slab in the back was a boy, no older than fourteen, his skin pale and waxy, his limbs stiff in his clothes, a boyhood smirk still on his face. If Undertaker had been alive he may have worried about catching the fever that killed him. But being dead, he ran his hand gently along the boy’s arm. “Better this way.” He murmured. “At least now he can be a child forever.”

There was the sound of little claws on wood; the puppy had followed him, and was peering from behind the curtain that divided the sections of the shop.

Undertaker lifted his head “Persistent, aren’t you?”

“Are you forgetting that there are many things I could do that might just make you rethink your decision to stay?”

He held a bunch of tools from the table between his fingers like a magician, giving that creepy grin as the blades glinted in the candlelight.

The big, fearful brown eyes reflected the metal.

Undertaker rolled his eyes, setting them back down. He didn’t have any intention of hurting the thing, still it’s presence was a bit of a nuisance, and scaring it could prove for a good laugh.

He sighed. “Well, if you if you insist on staying—” He picked up a skull from the corner of the room, poked his head out from behind the curtain and threw it at the door, shutting it. Then he strode over to a shelf where he kept little ‘souvenirs’ from his guests, and dragged down an old, moth-eaten coat—(the poor man’s wife could barely contain her tears)—and made a little nest against the wall.

“Can’t have you interrupting my work, now,” he wagged his finger as the thing stumbled over to the makeshift bed, before mocking, “Would you like any refreshments, my lord?”

It curled up in the coat, it’s tail beginning to wag.

“Don’t be forming any attachments to me, now. It’s off to the pound soon as I get a decent break.”

The puppy lowered its head and stopped wagging its tail.

After working for a while he turned to see it was fast asleep.

He smirked. “Poor thing doesn’t even know what’s good for it.”

Once finished with his present task, he put his tools away, blew out the candles, and attempted to escape, when the creature appeared at the door again, as if it had a sixth sense about things about to leave it.

He chuckled low, grabbing his hat off a nearby coffin, and held the door open wide, letting a flurry in, gesturing for it to leave.

Those eyes looked up at him unknowingly. The ex-reaper clicked his teeth and flung open the door, gliding out through it.

The patter of little paws sounded against the floorboards, it squeezed its little body through the gap as the door closed, landing on its bum in the snow, shaking the flakes off its floppy ears.

“I don’t suppose you plan on following me all day?”

The puppy tilted his head to the side, wagging its tail a little.

Snow crunched beneath his boots, the puppy running circles and zigzags around him as he walked, leaving little pawprints in the snow around his own steps.

It smelled like Christmas; the cold always has a sort of smell, but the food stalls nearby added gingerbread and peppermint aromas to the winter air, the sweet sent of pine drifting about, as the Christmas trees made the world a museum for their decorated corpses.

Kids ran about in fluffy hats and scarves throwing snowballs and making angels. One bumped into Undertaker, and ran away fearfully, nearly bursting into tears when he picked her up and put her back on her feet saying, “You be careful now, we wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you hitting her head.”

He was examining a snowman they made when he noticed a familiar face across the street.

It would have been easy to just walk up to him, to say ‘hello, good afternoon, sir’ but if he had done that he wouldn’t have been Undertaker.

No, instead of acting like normal person, he darted behind the nearest decorative poinsettia, and proceeded jump from bush to bush—(the puppy wagging its tail inquisitively at him, wondering what sort of game this was)—until he was right beside him. Then he snuck up and whispered in his ear, “Penny for your thoughts, my lord?”

Most people would have screamed, grabbed the nearest available weapon and proceeded to whack him over the head with it, but this man was not normal himself. Instead his face broke into a smile.

“Undertaker,” he tipped his hat to him, “It’s good to see you.”

“Vincent Phantomhive.” He twirled his hat off his head, bowing too low, “Now what’s a rich fellow like you doing coming down from his castle?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t quite finished my Christmas shopping.” He held up a bag which was allegedly full of Christmas gifts. “Rachel would be furious if she found out I was finishing up days before Christmas.”

“You willing to pay for my silence?” Undertaker sidled up beside him.

Vincent shoved him back. “You willing to do something nice for a friend?”

“Oh so we’re friends?”

Vincent scoffed, about to say something, when he stopped to look up at the sign on the shop beside him.

“She mentioned there was a brooch she wanted—Oh!”

When they’d stopped the puppy was able to catch up, and had made its presence known by pouncing on a loose lace of the earl’s shoes. “And who might this fellow be?”

“Just a beggar who wandered in to my parlor earlier today.”

Vincent smiled and crouched down to rub its chin. “He—is it a he?—is rather friendly, isn’t he?” he scratched behind its ears, and the puppy ate up the attention like a decadent chocolate cake. “Does he belong to someone?”

“More likely the product of a few strays. And people can’t resist a cute face—You wouldn’t know anything about that now would you? Probably fed him and made him grow accustomed to people.”

Vincent waved him off.

“Well don’t get too attached to this one, I was just on my way to take it to the pound.”

“Oh must you?” the puppy’s tongue was hanging out, his little tail whirring like an engine. “I’ve heard the kinds of things they do to dogs there. A little thing like him wouldn’t last a week.”

“You can dispense with fellow human beings with ease, but a Heaven forbid a cute puppy meet the same fate.”

Vincent glared at him.

“No you’re right,” Undertaker added sardonically, “why I don’t just open my parlor to every stray that walks in?”

“You know that’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“Then what other options are there? Turning him back out to the street isn’t much kinder.”

Vincent set down his bag and picked up the dog, who proceeded to lick his face. “You know, Rachel and I have been talking about getting a dog. For the twins. You know, like a guard dog.”

“You think Licky over here is a good candidate for guarding your home? I thought you noblemen were all about the purebreds.”

“What’s that saying about teaching dogs tricks? He’s young, with a little love and perseverance I’m sure he can be taught.”

“You do realize it could carry all sorts of…unsightly maladies.” He grinned like that would be fun to see.

“Well, I do think it would be much more lethargic if it were sick, don’t you?”

Undertaker shrugged. “Some things that are sick don’t show it till the whole house has it.”

Vincent frowned, looking at it more critically. “There’s a veterinarian around here, isn’t there? We could have it checked out.”

“We?”

“You.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well it won’t be a surprise Christmas present if I bring it home tonight, now will it?”

Undertaker put his head in his palm. “Even if he was willing to do that—which, I’m not—Would your wife would be alright with you bringing in a stray?”

“Oh she loves dogs. And, well we don’t have to tell her he’s a stray, do we? We can get him checked out, clean him up, feed him. No one will ever know the difference once he’s all dressed up.”

“What a tangled web you weave, dear Earl.”

“I just think he would be a lovely Christmas present, that’s all.” he held out the puppy—which looked like he was about to explode with joy—as if admiring a fine work of art.

Undertaker stared at the puppy with something akin to a grimace.

“You will take care of him in the meantime, won’t you?”

Undertaker stood there with his mouth half open.

“I assure you, you’ll be compensated most generously for your troubles.”

“You must have multiple first-rate laughs up your sleeve if you think I’ll agree to this.”

Vincent nodded, grinning. “You know I always deliver. …So it’s decided, you’ll bring him around, all cleaned up, checked out, and fed on Christmas.”

Undertaker stared at the puppy. “This sure is a lot of work for a mutt.”

“For the smile it’ll bring to the twins’ faces? It’s worth it.”

******

This wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t normal for Undertaker to take care of living things; when he had said he wasn’t in the business of doing so, it was meant to be a rule, not just a nice notion.

Each time he had to remember to feed it, to clean up after it, he wondered if Vincent had paid enough.

It also wasn’t normal to drive a hearse to something other than a graveyard or church, much less to carry something living.

And lastly, it wasn’t normal for him to make house calls, much less to take the aforementioned living thing to a friend on Christmas evening.

Undertaker arrived at the manor, stepping down from the hearse to retrieve the puppy from the back.

It—he—was much happier now; over the past few days, Undertaker had cleaned him up, bought or made him food, and today had tied a red bow around his neck, just for flair.

“What do you think, little one?” he asked, as he opened the back, throwing the puppy a dog biscuit from the container he was carrying—he baked a batch earlier—which he jumped up and caught, chowing down happily. He wagged his tail, glancing eagerly from the house to the Undertaker.

“You’re lucky,” Undertaker mentioned, biting off a piece of dog biscuit himself, leaning against the side of the hearse, “Not every stray finds a home at Christmas.”

After finishing the biscuit and setting down the container, he took off his hat and scooped the now clean and presentable puppy up into it, making his way up the path to the manor.

The snow was coming down more densely today, the wind attempting to brush the hair from his eyes—though didn’t matter if the wind and the white saw those green, green eyes.

Tanaka greeted him properly, then let him know his master would be with him shortly and went to collect the earl.

“Merry Christmas, Undertaker,” Vincent remarked, smiling as he walked down the stairs to the front door.

“Is it merry?” Undertaker asked.

“Is it not?”

“Well I have no doubt that it is, for you.” He chuckled, “But I also don’t doubt that I’ll still get customers today. All a matter of perspective.”

“I suppose so,” Vincent mused as he reached him, “Now, where is the little rascal?”

As if on cue, the creature popped its head out from inside the hat.

Vincent beamed at the sight of him, reaching out his hand to let him sniff his fingers—at which the puppy brightened, tried to jump out of the hat—then scratching gently beneath his chin.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, little one. You look so charming.”

“Why thank you,” Undertaker twirled a strand of his hair around his finger.

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Thank you for all you’ve done, really, I couldn’t have done this without you. …Please, come in!”

Vincent motioned for Undertaker to follow, guiding him through the house to the living room where his wife sat watching the twin boys play with their assortment new toys, barely old enough to walk, bumbling around at their mother’s feet.

“Ah, hello! And Merry Christmas!” Rachel exclaimed happily, getting up and curtseying.

Undertaker gave a little bow.

“Boys,” Vincent put his hands on his knees to speak to his sons, “this man has one last gift for you.”

One of them toddled up and clung to his father’s pant leg, staring up at Undertaker inquisitively, the other hid behind their mother, holding onto her dress, looking fearfully from the creepy-looking stranger to each of their parents.

Undertaker crouched down and held out the hat for them see the gift.

“Oh!” Rachel exclaimed softly, putting her hands on her face standing. Her face broke into a smile, giving a perfectly gratefully look from her husband to Undertaker, “A puppy! How wonderful! What’s his—is it a he?—name?”

Undertaker shrugged. “The name’s up to you, my lady.”

Rachel took the puppy out of the hat, who licked her nose, wagging his little tail.

“What do you think Vincent?”

“Hmm, we never got around to talking of names, did we?”

Rachel crouched down to show their sons their new pet.

“Look boys!”

The toddlers really had no idea what was going on, and looked at the creature apprehensively. One of them eagerly toddled up to pet it, while the other stayed a safe distance away, not leaving his mother’s side. The puppy licked the more adventurous boy’s hand, who giggled.

“What about you boys? Any ideas?”

The puppy got overzealous, knocked the shy one over, making him cry. She picked him up while Vincent held the dog and the other boy—who was now very interested in the creature—in each arm.

“He’ll need a strong name, don’t you think?”

“Certainly! Hmm…what about George? Edward?”

“Too…Well…Hmm…” Rachel mused, bouncing the shy boy, and petting the puppy between the ears, “I’ve always liked the name ‘Sebastian.’”

“What do you think boys? Do you like that name?”

The shy one sneezed.

“‘Sebastian’ it is!” He beamed at his family, before turning back to Undertaker, “Where are my manners? Please, Undertaker, stay for dinner!”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Undertaker began, putting his hat back on his head, and his hands in his sleeves, backing up. “Didn’t I tell you I’d be getting customers today? After all, Death doesn’t take the day off for Christmas.”

“Maybe not,” Vincent put an arm around his back guiding him into the room, smiling in the same creepy way Undertaker always did, making it clear ‘no’ was never in the word bank. “but you can.”

#black butler #kuroshitsuji #Undertaker Kuroshitsuji #undertaker black butler #vincent phantomhive #black butler manga #kuroshitsuji manga #Rachel Phantomhive #ciel phantomhive #ourciel #realciel #sebastian the dog #Black Butler Fandom #black butler fanfiction #kuroshitsuji fanfiction #kuroshitsuji fandom #black butler fanfic #black butler fic #kuroshitsuji fic #kuroshitsuji fanfic #undertaker fanfiction #christmas #christmas fanfiction #our!ciel #real!ciel #black butler christmas #kuroshitsuji christmas #undertaker

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

The Anatomy of Glacial Ice Loss When an ice cube is exposed to a heat source, like warm water or air, it melts. So, it's no surprise that a warming climate is causing our glaciers and ice sheets to melt. However, predicting just how much the glaciers and ice sheets will melt and how quickly - key components of sea level rise - is not nearly as straightforward. Glaciers and ice sheets are far more complex structures than ice cubes. They form when snow accumulates and is compressed into ice by new snow over many years. As they grow, they begin to move slowly under the pressure of their own weight, dragging smaller rocks and debris across the land with them. Glacial ice that extends to cover large landmasses, as it does in Antarctica and Greenland, is considered an ice sheet. The processes that cause glaciers and ice sheets to lose mass are also more complex. An ice cube's surface melts when it's exposed to ambient (warm) air. And while warm air certainly melts the surface of glaciers and ice sheets, they're also significantly affected by other factors, including the ocean water that surrounds them, the terrain (both land and ocean) over which they move, and even their own meltwater. Greenland and Antarctica are home to most of the world's glacial ice, including its only two ice sheets. These thick slabs of ice - some 10,000 feet (3,000 meters) and 15,000 feet (4,500 meters) thick, respectively - contain most of the freshwater stored on Earth, making them of particular interest to scientists. Combined, the two regions also contain enough ice, that if it were to melt all at once, would raise sea levels by nearly 215 feet (65 meters) - making the study and understanding of them not just interesting, but crucial to our near-term adaptability and our long-term survival in a changing world. Ice Loss in Greenland A glacier is considered in balance when the amount of snow that falls and accumulates at its surface (the accumulation zone) is equal to the amount of ice lost through melting, evaporation, calving, and other processes. But with annual air temperatures in the Arctic increasing faster than anywhere else in the world, that balance is no longer achievable in Greenland. Warmer ocean waters surrounding the island's tidewater glaciers are also problematic. "It's basically like pointing a hairdryer at an ice cube while the ice cube is also sitting in a warm pot of water," said Josh Willis, principal investigator of NASA's Ocean's Melting Greenland (OMG), a project that is investigating the effects of ocean water temperature on melting ice in the region. "The glaciers are being melted by heat from above and below simultaneously." Although the warm air and the warm water contribute to melting individually, the interplay between the meltwater from the glacier and the warm ocean water also plays a significant role. When warm summer air melts the surface of a glacier, the meltwater bores holes down through the ice. It makes its way all the way down to the bottom of the glacier where it runs between the ice and the glacier bed, and eventually shoots out in a plume at the glacier base and into the surrounding ocean. The meltwater plume is lighter than the surrounding ocean water because it doesn't contain salt. So it rises toward the surface, mixing the warm ocean water upward in the process. The warm water then rubs up against the bottom of the glacier, causing even more of the glacier to melt. This often leads to calving - ice cracking and breaking off into large ice chunks (icebergs) - at the front end, or terminus of the glacier. The complicated shape of the sea floor surrounding Greenland influences how readily this warm water melt can occur. It provides a barrier in some areas - preventing the deep, warmer water from the Atlantic Ocean from reaching glacier fronts. However, the underwater terrain, much like the terrain above water, includes other features like deep canyons. The canyons cut into the continental shelf, allowing the Atlantic waters in. Glaciers sitting in these waters will melt faster than those where the warm water is blocked by underwater ridges or sills. Ice Loss in Antarctica In Antarctica, where similar surface and ocean melting processes occur, the topography and bedrock on which the ice sheet sits significantly influence the ice sheet's stability and its contribution to sea level rise. Researchers separate Antarctica into two regions based on the relationship between the ice and the bedrock beneath it. East Antarctica, the area east of the Transantarctic Mountains, is extremely high in elevation and has the thickest ice on the planet. The bedrock underneath the ice sheet is also mostly above sea level. These features help to keep the east side relatively stable. West Antarctica, on the other hand, is lower in elevation and most of the ice sheet there is thinner. Unlike the east, the ice sheet in West Antarctica sits on bedrock that is below sea level. "In West Antarctica, we have these glaciers resting on bedrock that is under water. Like in Greenland, there is a layer of warmer ocean water below the cold surface layer. So this warm water is able to flow onto the continental shelf, and then all the way underneath the ice shelves - the floating ice that extends from glaciers and the ice sheet," said NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory scientist Helene Seroussi. "The water melts the ice shelves from below which can cause them to thin and break off." That matters because the ice shelves act like corks. They hold the ice that is flowing from upstream back, slowing its approach to the ocean, where it raises sea level. When the ice shelves calve, the cork is essentially removed, allowing more inland ice to flow freely into the ocean. Furthermore, this leads to retreat of the grounding zone - the area where the ice separates from the bedrock and begins to float. "The grounding zone delineates floating ice, which is already accounted for in the sea level budget from grounded ice which is not accounted for in the budget," said ICESat-2 scientist Kelly Brunt of NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center and the University of Maryland. "Floating ice is like an ice cube floating in a glass. It doesn't overflow the glass when it melts. But when non-floating ice is added to the ocean, it's like adding more ice cubes to the glass, which will cause the water level to rise." The bedrock in West Antarctica is also reverse sloping - meaning it is higher at the edges and gradually becomes deeper further inland. So each time the grounding zone retreats inland, thicker ice is exposed to the ocean water and the glacier or ice sheet becomes grounded in deeper water. This allows even more ice to flow from upstream into the ocean. "It's concerning in West Antarctica because as we push the grounding zones back, the downward, reverse slope means that there's really no backstop, nothing to interrupt this cycle of melting and retreat," said Brunt. "Our maps of the bedrock under the ice sheet are not as comprehensive as they are in Greenland, in part because Antarctica is far less accessible. Because of that, we really don't know if there are any little bumps or peaks down there that might help to slow the retreat." West Antarctic glaciers like Thwaites and Pine Island are already retreating faster than they were in the past. This is problematic because they provide a main pathway for ice from the West Antarctic Ice Sheet to enter the Amundsen Sea and raise sea levels. Overall, melting and ice loss have accelerated at both poles in recent years. The more we learn about the processes and interactions that cause it, some of which were discussed here, the better we'll be able to accurately and precisely predict sea level rise far into the future.

#space #science #earth observatory #environment #global warming #climate change

[orangeoctopi7]

A New Diet

Here’s a short little piece for @stanuary Week 3: AUs. My my, I love AUs in the Gravity Falls fandom, and I’ve written for a lot of them. Beauty and the Beast AU, SpiderStan AU, Stanswap/Reverse Portal AU, even the Blind Faith AU. But I’ve never written for one of my very favorite AUs, Monster Falls! We’ll have to fix that. It’s just a short little dabble, but I hope y’all like it!

The hardest part was done now. Stan had convinced everyone that his family’s monstrous transformations were just cheap costumes. They’d gotten through an entire business day without any more major incidents. Now Stan just had to make dinner while Soos closed up the gift shop for the night. 

“Alright, whaddaya kids want?” He grunted, his voice even gravelier now that he’d become a gargoyle.

“A salad.” Dipper answered. Stan and Mabel stared at him in shock. “What? I’m part deer now. Even if I don’t like vegetables, it’s probably all I can digest.”

“Eh, alright.” Stan grabbed one of those pre-made salad bags that Mabel always made him buy and tossed it over his shoulder to Dipper. The boy ripped it open with his teeth, threw away the little packets of dressing and croutons, then pulled out a big green leaf of spinach. He eyed it warily before his impulse to gobble it down took over. He’d eaten half the bag before he stopped just long enough to say “Oh man, this is so much better than I remember.” and continued to gobble down the rest.

“We got another one of those if you want one, Mabel.” Stan assured her.

“No thanks.” the young mermaid assured him from her spot sitting in a kiddie pool beside the kitchen table. “Actually Grunkle Stan, I was wondering if you had any of that trout left from when we went fishing?”

“Well look who’s finally developed good taste!” Stan grinned, opening the freezing and pulling out one of the smaller fish he’d caught that day. “And here I thought you two were the pickiest babies since me at that age!” He tossed her the fish, which she jumped up and caught in her mouth. “Whoa! Impressive, kiddo!”

“Thank you! Thank you!” Mabel took a bow like she was performing for an audience.

Stan turned back to the fridge, this time looking for something to feed himself. He was starving. Maybe he’d have one of the larger fish he’d caught at the lake? One look at those frozen, dead eyes changed his mind. Nothing else in the fridge looked appetizing either, not even the half pound slab of bacon he’d been unthawing for breakfast tomorrow. 

He’d abandoned the fridge and started searching the pantry when a strange sensation shot through him. It was almost like pain, like someone had slapped him hard, except the sensation wasn’t coming from any part of his body.

It was coming from the Shack.

Without conscious thought or feeling, Stan shot out of the kitchen, his instincts taking over. Something was in his territory causing damage, and he wasn’t gonna let that go without a fight.

Stop intruders, protect home, stop intruders, protect home. Those were the only things on his mind now.

He burst into the gift shop, where his instincts had led him, and found a hulking figure. It appeared to have done some damage to one of the support beams next to the souvenirs display.

Stop intruders, protect home!

Stan lunged, tackling the thing to the ground, tearing his claws into its soft… crumbly… clay?

“Woops. Sorry Mr. Pines.” Soos gave a chuckle, like this was perfectly normal.

The old con man snapped out of his rage-induced fog with horror. He looked down and saw one of his claws buried deep into Soos’s thankfully clay chest. If he’d still been human, he’d be…

“Oh my gosh! Soos, I… Are you ok?”

“Heh, yeah I’m fine.” Soos shrugged. The clay making up his new golem body shifted, filling in the claw marks like they’d never been there at all. The only evidence of Stan’s near-fatal mistake was the large rip through Soos’s T-shirt. “Uh, I’m gonna need a new Shack uniform though. You can take it outta my pay.”

“Nah, this one’s on me kid.” Normally, Stan would take it out of Soos’s pay, but he figured getting the kid a new shirt was the least he could do after he’d nearly killed the guy.

“Wow. Thanks Mr. Pines! Anyway, sorry about the beam. I was trying to move this display case, and I was gonna brace against the beam, but I guess I underestimated how strong my new monster arms are. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

Stan felt his heart skip a beat at the thought of Soos trying to do anything else with his home.

“I’ll take care of it. For now, just come have dinner with us. You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good dude. I think I just absorb the dust off the floor for food now.”

Stan glanced around and saw that the place did look like it had been recently swept, despite Soos’s clay body crumbling. It seemed like every little speck of dirt that fell off him got absorbed back into his form through his feet.

“Weird.” Stan said flatly. “Personally, I’m starving, but nothing in the kitchen looks… good…” 

He trailed off as he looked over the display cabinet Soos had tried to move. A cart full of “crystals” (really just colored glass) sat on top, and a box on the shelf below was full of “gold nuggets” (garbage spray painted with metallic gold paint) while beside the cart stood four large stone tablets covered in runes. Most of it was fake, carved styrofoam sprayed with flocking and then spray painted different shades of gray, but one of the rune stones really was made of stone. Stan didn’t know why this one in particular caught his attention. He picked it up, looked it over carefully, sniffed it… and then took a bite out of it like it was nothing more than a candy bar. 

Soos stared at his boss, wide eyed.

Stan stared at the stone slab he’d just bit a chunk out of, wide eyed.

They both stared in silent shock at each other for a solid minute, wide eyed.

Finally, Stan swallowed the mothfull of gravel and looked down at the runestone again.

“Welp, I guess this is my life now.” He took another bite, this time chewing it more carefully.

“D’you want me to find you more rocks, Mr. Pines?” Soos asked.

Well, that would be a good way to get Soos out of the house.

“Yeah, thanks Soos.”

#Gravity Falls #Fanfiction #Stanley Pines #soos ramirez #Monster Falls AU #My writing #Soos is the Best

[mush-dooms]

reparo

@exploding-snapple

47. “I’ve been in love with you for years.”

A month had passed since the final battle, and the grounds were still a mess. Ron felt like he had been sweeping up rubble for years, and if he had to cast reparo one more time he was going to snap his wand in half.

“Think maybe next time could we avoid the windows?” Ron grumbled and looked up from the broken glass he was gathering into a pile.

Hermione snorted. “Sure, Ronald, next time I have curses flying at my face I’ll kindly ask the Death Eater to mind the breakables.”

“Please do, I’d kill to see the look on their face.” Hermione started to walk away, but Ron remembered the glass at his feet. He thrashed his wand about and the glass feebly reconstructed itself into a translucent slab. “Dammit, ‘Mione, the glass has done it again.” He smiled to himself as Hermione turned back towards him. 

“I told you to quit being lazy with the wand motion, you’ll never get a nice window flopping your arm around like that,” she waltzed over and mumbled a spell and the glass rearranged itself into a transparent pane. Ron couldn’t help but notice the way her nose crinkled when she concentrated. 

. . .

“Do you think she meant it?”

“Whadduyuhwant, Ron,” Harry rolled over in his bed.

“I know you’re awake, Harry, and you know what I’m talking about,” Ron sat up and threw his pillow at Harry, who moaned and sat up, fumbling for his glasses.

“She kissed you back, didn’t she? That had to mean something.” 

“Yeah, but what if it was just a heat-of-the-moment thing? What if I bring it up and she sends another flock of birds after me?” Ron rubbed at his arms, remembering the pointy beaks. “She’s mad, I tell you. She could do it. And we’ve always been friends, you know? She’s never looked at me like... like that.” Ron flopped back onto his pillow.

“I dunno Ron, you kinda had the bird thing coming.”

Ron hit him squarely in the face with another pillow and Harry laughed. 

“I mean, you had the time to ask her and you didn’t, then you got angry because she went with Krum. Not her fault.”

Ron sighed. “Fuck, I know.” He suddenly found the ceiling very interesting. “What if this changes things, Harry. What if she wants nothing to do with me?” 

“Ron, you either tell her or she’ll end up with someone else again.”

Ron turned and yelled something that sounded like “FUUUCK!” into his pillow. “This girl, she’s gonna kill me, Harry.”

. . .

“Ginny, when you and Harry got together, did you love him?” Hermione paused from the stack of books she was organizing in the library and turned to her friend.

Ginny fumbled with a heavy volume she was placing on a shelf and promptly dropped it on her foot. “OW! SHIT! Shitshitshit!” She gave Hermione a dirty look as she hopped in place rubbing her foot. “I’m sorry, did I what now?”

“You heard me. Did you love him?”

Ginny stopped hopping and joined Hermione at her table. She let out a long puff of air. “I mean, I liked him since we were kids. There were others, but the spark never lasted, you know?” Ginny picked up a stray sheet of paper and began tearing little pieces off. “Then once we got older, I couldn’t keep him out of my head. He was totally into me, it’s not like the guy was very good at hiding it, but I wasn’t sure if he would ever make a move because of Ron.”

“Yeah, but did you love him.” Hermione insisted.

Ginny hesitated, thinking. “I think so, yeah,” she finally answered. “And before you ask, no, I’m not quite sure how I knew.” Hermione closed her mouth and frowned. “I just wanted to be near him, and when we were together, everything felt right.” Ginny’s eyes took on a distant look and she smiled. She turned and looked Hermione in the eyes. “For such a smart person you really are thick sometimes. Just ask him, already! It’s obvious you two are pining idiots.”

Hermione huffed and got up from the table, turning into a new aisle. “I don’t know what you’re on about.” 

. . .

The evening breeze flowing off of the lake was cool against Ron’s sunburned skin as he made his way back to the castle. Hagrid’s hut and gardens were left in shambles after the battle, and Ron had spent the day mending fences and trying to avoid ingesting any infamous rock cakes. 

“Ron, wait up!” a voice called behind him. He turned to see Hermione trotting to meet him, her legs splattered with what Ron hoped was mud.

“What’d you do, fight an ogre?” he asked, giving her legs a pointed look. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I was helping Neville in the greenhouses, and a mandrake decided to throw a fit.” 

“Never understood those things. Like, are they plants or are they creatures? Do they piss?” 

“Ron, the line between plant and animal is not whether or not they piss.”

“It’s a legitimate question!”

“You idiot,” she smiled, shaking her head. “If one does piss I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“I look forward to that.” Ron looked up from the ground, meeting her eyes. They walked in silence for a bit, the sun slowly being swallowed up by the horizon and crickets beginning their evening song. 

Hermione paused before entering the front gates to the castle. “Ron... what do you think we’ll do now that the war is done. Things are different now, we can’t just pick up where we left off.” She was quiet, hesitant, much unlike her usual self. 

“’Mione, I wish I knew. It all happened so quickly, you know? One minute we’re first years fighting a troll and the next we’ve just defeated the Dark Lord.” He paused, searching for words. Hermione rubbed her eyes, her gaze searching the castle above them. “Guess we can do whatever we want now. But hey, least we have each other.”

“Yeah...” Hermione took a deep breath and shoved a trembling hand in her pocket. 

 “Hey Ron?”

“Mmm.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“During the battle... during the battle, us... we... you know,” she tripped over her words.

Ron’s breath caught in his throat, and he forced himself to meet Hermione’s eyes. Merlin, she was beautiful. “I meant it, you know.” He desperately searched for any sign of emotion but her face was inscrutable. She turned away from him, and he thought he saw her eyes fill with tears. Oh fuck oh shit oh fuck I’ve really fucked up now Merlin’s beard she is going to hate me oh sh--. Ron was panicking. This was not the way this was supposed to go, but he couldn’t take back the words now. At least we had some good times while they las-- fuck, no, I can fix this. Fixitfixitfixit--

“Wait, Hermione-- it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, I get it. But Hermione, I’ve been in love with you for years. I just didn’t think--”

Hermione lunged towards him, shoving him against the stone wall of the castle, their lips finally meeting again. She tasted of peppermint and salt, and as she pulled away, she smiled.

“Me too.”

#this is from a prompt list from aaaaaages ago #but its finals week so obv this is a great use of my time #steph writes #hp #romione #harry potter #ron weasley #hermione granger #post war hp #also i only kind of proofread this so sorry in advance

[prescomconstructions]

Tree House Builders - Your Tree House Ideas Can Be Dreamed Of!

What sort of tree house builders Australia do you think you will need? "I think there are several different styles, sizes and materials that are out there. Most people start with the idea in mind and build from there. It's all about finding what works for you." says Richard Kiehne, past president of Kiehne Arbors and Design in Australia.

"We design & construct custom made Treehouses for residential and commercial projects alike. Anything from a simple garden treehouse to an outdoor educational class at a local school, museum or club exhibit. If it is built near trees, or attached to a tree, that's our specialty. Our proudest accomplishment is a completed tree house for our president's granddaughter."

Tree house construction projects require specialized tools. You will need to choose between a wood frame and metal framing. Wood frames can be constructed easily, but cost more. The metal frame is typically sturdier, but is much more expensive. Also, consider your heating & cooling needs and your skill level before making your final selection.

"I've had many clients ask me what I would recommend for their homes. A friend of mine recently asked me what she should get for her birthday. So, I let her know that if she were looking for a tree house for her next birthday, she should go with a contractor that specializes in this type of product. She did, and it turned out she already had plans for her new home.

"I think the main thing that makes a tree house unique is the ability to build it yourself. Most people look online or search hard for plans and then they go to the home building store and buy one off of the shelf. They don't take into consideration all of the things that make a project unique, like building it yourself and coming up with a design on your own. So, it is important to do as much research as possible, so that you know what materials you need and what kind of experience you have in building such structures."

"I think everyone has the right to be happy, and not be stressed out by the process of building their own home. Tree house builders in Australia are trained to be a professional and knowledgeable in their field. They are dedicated to making each home unique and will work as hard as needed to ensure their clients are satisfied.

One important thing that everyone should consider when choosing from among the many tree house builders in Australia is their licensing requirements. While some home builders in general can work in any area, there are a select few who are licensed in a certain region. For example, in the state of New South Wales, home builders are required to be licensed before working on a tree house.

Another thing to consider is where the tree house will be built. Will it be built on its own foundation in the garden or on the ground? This is a question of environmental responsibility and also cost efficiency. If a foundation is not built first, the cost will be significantly higher, as a concrete slab must be laid and stabilized before the tree house can be erected. There are many designs available that will work for any size garden or yard, so there is no reason to limit yourself.

Also important to consider is the type of tree house design that will be used. Some designs use materials that would decay or wear easily, such as cedar. Other materials are more durable, such as redwood or pine. When choosing the material to build your tree house on, make sure you choose one that is known for durability and which won't rot or crack under extreme conditions.

One final thing to consider is the design of the tree house itself. A good builder will have a portfolio of designs they can show prospective clients. They should have a number of designs that have been completed and are comparable in style to the designs they suggest. Some of the more popular tree house builders in Australia include Pecan Tree House Builders, Solid Wood Design, Trees Make Life and Red Cedar Garden Designs.

It's easy to find tree house builders in Australia if you know where and how to look. Talk with friends and family who have built their own homes and ask them about the process and the builders they worked with. Spend some time online looking at pictures of various styles and designs. Once you have an idea of what you want, it will be easier to locate builders in your area that have experience in building tree house structures.

#construction

[antihero-writings]

His Dog, Warming Their Hearts--Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler (Undertaker) fic for Christmas 2019 (full fic!)

Fic Title: His Dog, Warming Their Hearts

Synopsis: Not every stray finds a home at Christmas, but puppy Sebastian just might.

Fic:

Whimpering. High-pitched, timid, and pitiful.

For a moment, Undertaker wondered if one of his guests was still here. It wasn’t like him to forget, but maybe one of the coffins was still filled, its inhabitant clawing at the lid to get out, for just one last taste of life. That would make for an interesting tale, he smirked to himself: one of the dead, not yet at the funeral, trying to escape its eternal rest.

Despite the presiding theme of the shop, the noise was made by something alive.

Shivering in one of the empty, open coffins against the wall was an animal. A very small animal, that is. Its black fur was matted and dirty, the look in its brown eyes shivering more than the rest of it, but defiant still.

A puppy.

“Now what would a thing like you doing here in my parlor?” Undertaker asked, crouching down beside it, offering a long-nailed finger for it to sniff.

The puppy did so, cautiously as it could, though fear still gleamed in its eyes—the black robes, unnaturally long, grey hair, which more often than not covered his eyes, and the stitch-like scars weaving their way across his skin, not to mention the usually twisted smiles on his face, were enough to make anyone a little uneasy. The animal, however, seemed to come to the same conclusion that most people did; Undertaker was an odd fellow, but wouldn’t go so far as cruel.

“If it’s a nice funeral you’re looking for,” amusement lined his words as he circled his finger in the air to reference the shop, “you’ve come to the right place.” He sat down beside it. “That one there,” he knocked on the puppy’s current sanctuary, making it shy away, “is made from a very rare wood. I’d need a first-rate laugh for it. Though, I do admit,” he gave that signature, high-pitched laugh, more like a twitch at the corner of his mouth, “it might be a bit large for you.”

The puppy only shivered, neither caring, nor understanding his sense of humor. Though few could tell when he was joking, and most found their faces in a constant awkward grimace around him.

Undertaker sat up and frowned, his too-green gaze flicking to the door to his shop, which was open, just enough to let the cold—(not that one can feel the cold when they’ve been dead for centuries)—and apparently other things, in.

“Must’ve been me last customer,” he reasoned softly, “Fellow lost his son. And so close to Christmas too. A shame, really.” He shook his head. “Told me he was a nice boy.” He smirked. “They all say that, though. ‘Nice’ doesn’t last forever, you know.”

Undertaker paused, looked at the pitiful creature, putting a robe sleeve to his chin, “If you’ve not come for business,” he returned to the subject, “you’d best be on your way. I’m not particularly fond of tending the living, ya see.” He held up a finger. “Too much on the upkeep.”

He stood back up and strode over the door, holding it open. A gust of wind tossed his hair. The animal wouldn’t budge.

“Well, if you’d rather have a bit of fun,” his grin became more maniacal, and he held his nails in front of his face, “that can be arranged.”

The puppy seemed to get the idea, and gave a yelp, pattering over to hide on the other side of the coffin.

“That’s what I thought.” He inclined his head to the door.

Still, it wouldn’t oblige.

Undertaker sighed, putting his hand on his forehead. “You are a stubborn fellow aren’t you?”

Despite it not leaving, he headed into the back of his shop, where all things deemed not-fit-for-the-eyes-of-the-living occurred. He left the door to outside open a crack, hoping it would get out with nothing else getting in in the meantime.

Laying on the slab in the back was a boy, no older than fourteen, his skin pale and waxy, his limbs stiff in his clothes, a boyhood smirk still on his face. If Undertaker had been alive he may have worried about catching the fever that killed him. But being dead, he ran his hand gently along the boy’s arm. “Better this way.” He murmured. “At least now he can be a child forever.”

There was the sound of little claws on wood; the puppy had followed him, and was peering from behind the curtain that divided the sections of the shop.

Undertaker lifted his head “Persistent, aren’t you?”

“Are you forgetting that there are many things I could do that might just make you rethink your decision to stay?”

He held a bunch of tools from the table between his fingers like a magician, giving that creepy grin as the blades glinted in the candlelight.

The big, fearful brown eyes reflected the metal.

Undertaker rolled his eyes, setting them back down. He didn’t have any intention of hurting the thing, still it’s presence was a bit of a nuisance, and scaring it could prove for a good laugh.

He sighed. “Well, if you if you insist on staying—” He picked up a skull from the corner of the room, poked his head out from behind the curtain and threw it at the door, shutting it. Then he strode over to a shelf where he kept little ‘souvenirs’ from his guests, and dragged down an old, moth-eaten coat—(the poor man’s wife could barely contain her tears)—and made a little nest against the wall.

“Can’t have you interrupting my work, now,” he wagged his finger as the thing stumbled over to the makeshift bed, before mocking, “Would you like any refreshments, my lord?”

It curled up in the coat, it’s tail beginning to wag.

“Don’t be forming any attachments to me, now. It’s off to the pound soon as I get a decent break.”

The puppy lowered its head and stopped wagging its tail.

After working for a while he turned to see it was fast asleep.

He smirked. “Poor thing doesn’t even know what’s good for it.”

Once finished with his present task, he put his tools away, blew out the candles, and attempted to escape, when the creature appeared at the door again, as if it had a sixth sense about things about to leave it.

He chuckled low, grabbing his hat off a nearby coffin, and held the door open wide, letting a flurry in, gesturing for it to leave.

Those eyes looked up at him unknowingly. The ex-reaper clicked his teeth and flung open the door, gliding out through it.

The patter of little paws sounded against the floorboards, it squeezed its little body through the gap as the door closed, landing on its bum in the snow, shaking the flakes off its floppy ears.

“I don’t suppose you plan on following me all day?”

The puppy tilted his head to the side, wagging its tail a little.

Snow crunched beneath his boots, the puppy running circles and zigzags around him as he walked, leaving little pawprints in the snow around his own steps.

It smelled like Christmas; the cold always has a sort of smell, but the food stalls nearby added gingerbread and peppermint aromas to the winter air, the sweet sent of pine drifting about, as the Christmas trees made the world a museum for their decorated corpses.

Kids ran about in fluffy hats and scarves throwing snowballs and making angels. One bumped into Undertaker, and ran away fearfully, nearly bursting into tears when he picked her up and put her back on her feet saying, “You be careful now, we wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you hitting her head.”

He was examining a snowman they made when he noticed a familiar face across the street.

It would have been easy to just walk up to him, to say ‘hello, good afternoon, sir’ but if he had done that he wouldn’t have been Undertaker.

No, instead of acting like normal person, he darted behind the nearest decorative poinsettia, and proceeded jump from bush to bush—(the puppy wagging its tail inquisitively at him, wondering what sort of game this was)—until he was right beside him. Then he snuck up and whispered in his ear, “Penny for your thoughts, my lord?”

Most people would have screamed, grabbed the nearest available weapon and proceeded to whack him over the head with it, but this man was not normal himself. Instead his face broke into a smile.

“Undertaker,” he tipped his hat to him, “It’s good to see you.”

“Vincent Phantomhive.” He twirled his hat off his head, bowing too low, “Now what’s a rich fellow like you doing coming down from his castle?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t quite finished my Christmas shopping.” He held up a bag which was allegedly full of Christmas gifts. “Rachel would be furious if she found out I was finishing up days before Christmas.”

“You willing to pay for my silence?” Undertaker sidled up beside his friend.

Vincent shoved him back. “You willing to do something nice for a friend?”

“Oh so we’re friends?”

Vincent scoffed, about to say something, when he stopped to look up at the sign on the shop beside him.

“She mentioned there was a brooch she wanted—Oh!”

When they’d stopped the puppy was able to catch up, and had made its presence known by pouncing on a loose lace of the earl’s shoes. “And who might this fellow be?”

“Just a beggar who wandered in to my parlor earlier today.”

Vincent smiled and crouched down to rub its chin. “He—is it a he?—is rather friendly, isn’t he?” he scratched behind its ears, and the puppy ate up the attention like a decadent chocolate cake. “Does he belong to someone?”

“More likely the product of a few strays. And people can’t resist a cute face—You wouldn’t know anything about that now would you? Probably fed him and made him grow accustomed to people.”

Vincent waved him off.

“Well don’t get too attached to this one, I was just on my way to take it to the pound.”

“Oh must you?” the puppy’s tongue was hanging out, his little tail whirring like an engine. “I’ve heard the kinds of things they do to dogs there. A little thing like him wouldn’t last a week.”

“You can dispense with fellow human beings with ease, but a Heaven forbid a cute puppy meet the same fate.”

Vincent glared at him.

“No you’re right,” Undertaker added sardonically, “why I don’t just open my parlor to every stray that walks in?”

“You know that’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“Then what other options are there? Turning him back out to the street isn’t much kinder.”

Vincent set down his bag and picked up the dog, who proceeded to lick his face. “You know, Rachel and I have been talking about getting a dog. For the twins. You know, like a guard dog.”

“You think Licky over here is a good candidate for guarding your home? I thought you noblemen were all about the purebreds.”

“What’s that saying about teaching dogs tricks? He’s young, with a little love and perseverance I’m sure he can be taught.”

“You do realize it could carry all sorts of…unsightly maladies.” He grinned like that would be fun to see.

“Well, I do think it would be much more lethargic if it were sick, don’t you?”

Undertaker shrugged. “Some things that are sick don’t show it till the whole house has it.”

Vincent frowned, looking at it more critically. “There’s a veterinarian around here, isn’t there? We could have it checked out.”

“We?”

“You.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well it won’t be a surprise Christmas present if I bring it home tonight, now will it?”

Undertaker put his head in his palm. “Even if he was willing to do that—which, I’m not—Would your wife would be alright with you bringing in a stray?”

“Oh she loves dogs. And, well we don’t have to tell her he’s a stray, do we? We can get him checked out, clean him up, feed him. No one will ever know the difference once he’s all dressed up.”

“What a tangled web you weave, dear Earl.”

“I just think he would be a lovely Christmas present, that’s all.” he held out the puppy—which looked like he was about to explode with joy—as if admiring a fine work of art.

Undertaker stared at the puppy with something akin to a grimace.

“You will take care of him in the meantime, won’t you?”

Undertaker stood there with his mouth half open.

“I assure you, you’ll be compensated most generously for your troubles.”

“You must have multiple first-rate laughs up your sleeve if you think I’ll agree to this.”

Vincent nodded, grinning. “You know I always deliver. …So it’s decided, you’ll bring him around, all cleaned up, checked out, and fed on Christmas.”

Undertaker stared at the puppy. “This sure is a lot of work for a mutt.”

“For the smile it’ll bring to the twins’ faces? It’s worth it.”

*****

This wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t normal for Undertaker to take care of living things; when he had said he wasn’t in the business of doing so, it was meant to be a rule, not just a nice notion.

Each time he had to remember to feed it, to clean up after it, he wondered if Vincent had paid enough.

It also wasn’t normal to drive a hearse to something other than a graveyard or church, much less to carry something living.

And lastly, it wasn’t normal for him to make house calls, much less to take the aforementioned living thing to a friend on Christmas evening.

Undertaker arrived at the manor, stepping down from the hearse to retrieve the puppy from the back.

It—he—was much happier now; over the past few days, Undertaker had cleaned him up, bought or made him food, and today had tied a red bow around his neck, just for flair.

“What do you think, little one?” he asked, as he opened the back, throwing the puppy a dog biscuit from the container he was carrying—he baked a batch earlier—which he jumped up and caught, chowing down happily. He wagged his tail, glancing eagerly from the house to the Undertaker.

“You’re lucky,” Undertaker mentioned, biting off a piece of dog biscuit himself, leaning against the side of the hearse, “Not every stray finds a home at Christmas.”

After finishing the biscuit and setting down the container, he took off his hat and scooped the now clean and presentable puppy up into it, making his way up the path to the manor.

The snow was coming down more densely today, the wind attempting to brush the hair from his eyes—though didn’t matter if the wind and the white saw those green, green eyes.

Tanaka greeted him properly, then let him know his master would be with him shortly and went to collect the earl.

“Merry Christmas, Undertaker,” Vincent remarked, smiling as he walked down the stairs to the front door.

“Is it merry?” Undertaker asked.

“Is it not?”

“Well I have no doubt that it is, for you.” He chuckled, “But I also don’t doubt that I’ll still get customers today. All a matter of perspective.”

“I suppose so,” Vincent mused as he reached him, “Now, where is the little rascal?”

As if on cue, the creature popped its head out from inside the hat.

Vincent beamed at the sight of him, reaching out his hand to let him sniff his fingers—at which the puppy brightened, tried to jump out of the hat—then scratching gently beneath his chin.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, little one. You look so charming.”

“Why thank you,” Undertaker twirled a strand of his hair around his finger.

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Thank you for all you’ve done, really, I couldn’t have done this without you. …Please, come in!”

Vincent motioned for Undertaker to follow, guiding him through the house to the living room where his wife sat watching the twin boys play with their assortment new toys, barely old enough to walk, bumbling around at their mother’s feet.

“Ah, hello! And Merry Christmas!” Rachel exclaimed happily, getting up and curtseying.

Undertaker gave a little bow.

“Boys,” Vincent put his hands on his knees to speak to his sons, “this man has one last gift for you.”

One of them toddled up and clung to his father’s pant leg, staring up at Undertaker inquisitively, the other hid behind their mother, holding onto her dress, looking fearfully from the creepy-looking stranger to each of their parents.

Undertaker crouched down and held out the hat for them see the gift.

“Oh!” Rachel exclaimed softly, putting her hands on her face standing. Her face broke into a smile, giving a perfectly gratefully look from her husband to Undertaker, “A puppy! How wonderful! What’s his—is it a he?—name?”

Undertaker shrugged. “The name’s up to you, my lady.”

Rachel took the puppy out of the hat, who licked her nose, wagging his little tail.

“What do you think Vincent?”

“Hmm, we never got around to talking of names, did we?”

Rachel crouched down to show their sons their new pet.

“Look boys!”

The toddlers really had no idea what was going on, and looked at the creature apprehensively. One of them eagerly toddled up to pet it, while the other stayed a safe distance away, not leaving his mother’s side. The puppy licked the more adventurous boy’s hand, who giggled.

“What about you boys? Any ideas?”

The puppy got overzealous, knocked the shy one over, making him cry. She picked him up while Vincent held the dog and the other boy—who was now very interested in the creature—in each arm.

“He’ll need a strong name, don’t you think?”

“Certainly! Hmm…what about George? Edward?”

“Too…Well…Hmm…” Rachel mused, bouncing the shy boy, and petting the puppy between the ears, “I’ve always liked the name ‘Sebastian.’”

“What do you think boys? Do you like that name?”

The shy one sneezed.

“‘Sebastian’ it is!” He beamed at his family, before turning back to Undertaker, “Where are my manners? Please, Undertaker, stay for dinner!”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Undertaker began, putting his hat back on his head, and his hands in his sleeves, backing up. “Didn’t I tell you I’d be getting customers today? After all, Death doesn’t take the day off for Christmas.”

“Maybe not,” Vincent put an arm around his back guiding him into the room, smiling in the same creepy way Undertaker always did, making it clear ‘no’ was never in the word bank. “but you can.”

*****

P.S. Would any artists out there be willing to make some cover art for this fic? I’d really love some art of Undertaker and a puppy (or really any scene from this) in general, but I also would really love some fic-specific cover art!!

#undertaker #kuroshitsuji #black butler #kuroshitsuji fandom #kuroshitsuji fanfiction #black butler fandom #black butler fanfiction #undertaker fanfiction #undertaker kuroshitsuji #undertaker black butler #sebastian the dog #vincent phantomhive #Rachel Phantomhive #ciel phantomhive #real ciel #our ciel #christmas #christmas 2019 #writblr #fanfiction writers on tumblr #writers on tumblr #antihero writings

[otherworldink]

Intro to "Woodworking"

Where do you go when you live in a tiny medieval fantasy village and need some basic sex ed? The woodshop apparently. Results may vary. Includes frank, if humorous, discussions of sexuality.

Read it below the cut, or continue reading on: Wattpad or Otherworld.Ink

Bren had never liked sharing personal information. He believed in the twin virtues of privacy and minding your own damn business, and he acted accordingly. Unfortunately, he'd come up against a problem that required advice. Expert advice.

And there was only one place in his backwater village he could get it.

The carpenter's workshop was a pleasantly open building with large windows that let in the light and broad double doors that could allow the passage of a finished table or bed frame. The scent of fresh-cut pine and the subtler scents of hardwoods permeated the air. In every corner there stood half-completed projects, from the disassembled pieces of little boxes to uncut slabs with measurements drawn in charcoal. Bren could even see a small spoked wheel, half-sanded—a spare for the wheeled chair Kole's father used.

Mercifully, the only people inside were the shop's two owners. The most conspicuous of the pair was Dorin, whose height and breadth led some to suspect he had a touch of giant blood somewhere in his ancestry. He sat hunched over a pair of carved wooden fawns, adding the last fine details with a small chisel.

Hale looked slight compared to his husband, but this was just an optical illusion. A point that was reinforced as the man casually lifted a slab of wood that must have weighed as much as Bren did. It was impressive, but not why Bren was here.

"Hi, Bren!" Hale greeted, looking up from examining the marks on the wood slab. "Did your mother change her mind on the dimensions for that shelf? I was just about to make the first cut."

"No, no. It's not about that. I just... I need some advice."

"Oh? Thinking of taking up woodworking?" Hale asked, half joking.

In his nervousness, Bren replied with a poor joke of his own.

"Different kind of 'wood' to be working with."

There was a pause as Hale processed. Then he grinned like someone had handed him a new chisel.

"I knew it! It's Kole, isn't it? That nice half-elf boy?"

Bren's ears burned, and his eyes glued themselves to the floor.

"It is!" Hale dropped the wood slab in his eagerness, shaking the ground on impact. He didn't seem to notice. "Tell me everything! What do you need to know?"

The excitement was not mutual. Bren had resolved to ask for help with the same enthusiasm one used to ask the blacksmith to pull a bad tooth. Mercifully, Dorin only looked mildly interested, sparing just a glance before continuing his carving.

"Look, I'm not here to share details. I just need to know how some things work, and I figure you two..." Bren glanced back and forth between the pair then cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Right, right." Hale nodded with exaggerated understanding. "No need to overshare. ...Unless you want to, of course."

Hale wasn't the worst gossip Bren knew—that title went to Mrs. Fields who owned the mill—but Bren still thought he took a bit too much pleasure in having his nose in everyone's business.

"I just need to know how some things work."

"Like what?" Hale tapped his chin. "Don't tell me you need to know what goes where? I should have some blank paper around here if you need me to draw diagrams. I can think of a few positions that would be good for beginners."

"No! No, I already know about that stuff." Kind of. A bit. In any case, Bren didn't think his dignity could survive diagrams. "I just need to know about... logistics. Like how you figure out who, you know... tops."

It was hard to get the words out, and he regretted it as soon as he had. It felt like such a stupid question, like it was something he should already know instinctively. People certainly had their own ideas about how these things worked, but Bren and Kole were about the same age, height, and build so it was hard to say that any of the usual "guidelines" applied.

To his surprise, Dorin answered first.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that," he said without looking up. "Just see what feels right when you get to that point. You can take turns trying or, hells, even flip a coin for it. There's more to sex than putting your dick in a hole. Focus on making each other feel good, and the rest will sort itself out."

That... actually sounded sensible. Reassuring, even. Maybe Bren had been making a big deal out of nothing.

"No, no, no! Hold on a minute, babe." Hale quickly covered Dorin's ears. "Listen to me, Bren: you are at a crossroads right now. This is where you set the tone for your entire relationship. You have a unique chance to secure the best position all for yourself. You have to be the bottom!"

Dorin snorted, but made no move to remove the hands from his head. Hale ignored him and continued.

"Topping is a fool's game! If you want to feel something around your dick, you can have your own hand any time. But when you want to get fucked, what are you supposed to do? Oh, you can try certain vegetables, and I've certainly carved a few things in the right shape, but then you've still got to do all the work yourself, and-"

Dorin cleared his throat, interrupting the deluge of far-too-personal information. A mercy, given that Bren was on the verge of bursting into awkward flames and disintegrating into the floor.

"Hush!" Hale scolded his husband. "I'm passing on my wisdom. And you can't hear right now!"

He returned his earnest attention to Bren. "What I'm saying is, no matter what anyone tells you, it is surprisingly hard to 'go fuck yourself'. If you ever get the opportunity to have someone else do it, do not pass it up!"

"He's only saying that because he's lazy in bed," Dorin said, apparently giving up on withholding personal information. Hale made an offended noise.

"You! You can't hear, remember!"

Bren wished he couldn't hear anything.

"Is there anything useful you can tell me, or should I just leave?"

"Always use oil," Dorin said, finally brushing Hale's hands away from his ears. "More than you think you need. It makes everything more pleasant."

"Except for oral!" Hale added.

"Yeah. Except that."

"Okay, that's... good to know," Bren said. "So, like, the oil you use on tools, or...?"

"NO!" The objection came from both of them simultaneously.

Dorin cleared his throat.

"Ah, no. Different oil."

Hale grimaced.

"Otherwise you're in for an awkward trip to the healer."

Bren could tell there was a story there. A story he absolutely never needed to hear.

"Then... what kind are you supposed to use?" And where could he get it? Ideally without anyone guessing what he intended to use it for.

"We'll send you off with something," Dorin said. "It's better than you getting desperate and using whatever's on hand."

"Trust us on that," Hale added.

On this matter, Bren would.

In short order, the two set him up with a small jar of oil and instructions on where to discretely buy more. He also found himself holding the two fawns.

"You can pay us back by delivering them," Dorin explained. "They're for Leda on the other side of town."

"They're actually for her daughter," Hale added. "Leda hopes that if the kid has some nice toy fawns, she'll stop trying to bring home the real ones she finds out in the fields."

The palm-sized fawns were impressively lifelike: one curled flat and low like it was hiding in the grass, the other half-sprawled, pushing itself up on delicate forelimbs with its ears pricked alertly. Bren wasn't sure they'd be enough to persuade a determined child to give up the real thing, but they might come close.

Dorin offered some parting words.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about. Just take it slow, listen to each other, and have fun."

"And for fuck's sake, let him top!" Hale added, unable to help himself.

Bren mumbled something approaching a polite goodbye and hurriedly retreated with the fawns, the oil, the advice, and what remained of his dignity.

His initial plan had been to make the delivery and retreat home to bury his face in his pillow until the embarrassment receded, but fate was not so accommodating. Less than halfway across town, he spotted Kole at the blacksmith's shop, saying his goodbyes. Bren paused on reflex, and when Kole turned away from the workshop, he spotted him.

Kole smiled—partly bashful, entirely charming—and Bren's stomach flipped.

Kole had moved into town a few months back with his parents: an elven mother and a human father who had recently survived an unpleasant encounter with a wyvern. Years ago, Hale had made a wheeled chair for his elderly aunt, and since then, anyone within a week's travel who needed one would order from him.

The family had made the journey to have the chair properly fitted and had ended up staying. Something about wanting to live "somewhere quiet" and enjoying the "lovely pastoral scenery". Which all sounded like nice euphemisms for "boring", but Bren supposed boring might be what you wanted after getting mauled by a wyvern.

"They're cute," Kole said, nodding at the carved fawns in Bren's hands.

"They're not mine!" Bren said hastily. "I'm just delivering them."

"Right." Kole's gaze lowered. "What's that?"

Bren realized, with some alarm, that he was looking at the bottle of oil sticking out of his trouser pocket. He hadn't thought it would be a problem since there was nothing suggestive about it's appearance, but he hadn't prepared for anyone to ask about it!

"Nothing!" His voice came out slightly more panicked than intended.

Amusement flickered on Kole's face, as if he could tell Bren was hiding something but was nice enough not to call him out on it.

"Who are you delivering them to?" Kole asked, mercifully turning the conversation back to the wooden fawns.

This was why Kole was the actual best. He had the decency to let things lie. (Or, at least, to let Bren lie to save some face.)

"Leda. They're for her daughter."

"Oh yeah. The little 'fawn-napper'." Kole chuckled. "Do you need help delivering those?"

"No, they're not heavy or anything." It was only after he'd said this that he realized Kole was making an excuse to join him. "Uh... I mean, you could..."

"I could carry one? In case you need a free hand."

"Yeah. That'd be good."

Kole accepted one of the fawns and fell in step next to Bren.

The two of them had been intimate before, but always alone. Bren was too much a private person to allow anything else. But when Kole casually laid a hand on Bren's lower back, Bren really couldn't bring himself to object. It felt... nice. And it's not like anyone was paying special attention to them.

Did he mention it felt nice?

Given where Bren had just come from, it was impossible not to reflect on the recent conversation. He tried to keep his thoughts decent, out of respect for the carved fawn in his hands. It was far too innocent for anyone to be having those kinds of thoughts around it.

Still, though...

Maybe Hale had a point.

#queer #gay #short story #bite-size fantasy #fantasy #writing #creative writing #original fiction

[spoonsthings]

The White Lion Pub and Shops are designated as a Local Watering Hole, as the pub is the only part of the build that requires a special lot designation in order to function. But there is also a boutique (that can be made functional with minimal to modest adjustments, depending on which direction you want to take this in), and a “radio station” that serves no in-game function, but contains a lot of activity / skill-type objects that make it perfect for a photoshoot or storytelling purposes.

There is also a “blank space” which Martine actually decorated to look like a real vacancy to let, and not just an unfurnished extra space. You can put an extra shop or restaurant there if you like, but I rather like the way Martine added those quirky touches, and it seems more realistic to have some vacancies somewhere in the town, so I like to keep it empty in my own game.

Originally I wanted to keep the WCIFs all on one spreadsheet, but 1) there are so many objects AND so many different rooms that it was getting unwieldy to cram them all on one sheet, and 2) there was very little overlap of items used between different "sections“ of the lot, so there wouldn’t have been any point on insisting on a single sheet, anyway.

This lot is one of my personal favorites, even among the many beautiful builds @martinessimblr has done for this world, and I hope my WCIF efforts will help you enjoy this lot as much as I do!

WCIF List (for the White Lion Pub)  - Updated 2018-03-05

WCIF List (for Indigo Boutique)  - Updated 2018-03-05

WCIF List (for WCWH Radio Station + rest of lot)

Notes:

Just in case it wasn’t already obvious, the Late Night EP is required for the lot to retain the “Local Watering Hole” designation, as well as for the pub games (dartboard, foozball, etc.) and the actual bartending bar in the pub. The Ambitions EP is also required, if you want to turn the boutique into a functional clothing store (more on that later).

I have listed some individual items that are from EPs and SPs, when I thought they might be easy to mistake for CC items. I have also listed all Store content, where identifiable.

Feel free to send me asks / messages at this tumblr (or contact me at the Pixelated Puddings forum) if you feel I have left anything out, or if a link turns up broken.

Update (18-03-05): I realized I’d mistakenly attributed the wrong texture to the interior paneling of the White Lion Pub... I’d previously said it was Around The Sims’s “chestnut” wood pattern. It’s not, it’s the “elm” pattern by the same creator. I also managed to find two previously unattributed wood patterns (one for the picnic tables outside the pub, one for the countertops in the clothing boutique) and have updated the files and links accordingly.

Tips about missing CC + notes about playability:

Pub:

Often, most of the decor on the counter behind the bar (see this image to see what exactly I’m talking about) will spontaneously “disappear” when the lot is placed. Don’t worry, it hasn’t actually disappeared... it’s just that all the OMSPs used to place the clutter have sunk back to ground level, below the counter where they can’t be seen. You have to temporarily move the counter aside, and manually raise the OMSP values. Just remember that counter height in TS3 is 1 m high, give or take a few cm, while the lower shelf is approximately 155 cm.

The booths look like benches built into the wall, but actually behave as dining chairs. This is probably the easiest option in terms of hassle-free gameplay, but I don’t like how weird it all looks (plus the benches for the table opposite the stairs on the ground level are just impossible to use, this way). So I use the “disable snapping to slots on alt” cheat to place the booths however I like, then use this chair item (registration required to download, sorry about that) CASted to match the booths, and place them where I think the sims should actually be sitting. Luckily, the overlapping booth footprints don’t seem to interfere with sims using the table to sit and dine properly.

I have replaced the Store Bistro Oven with Ani’s modded version of the same item, as I prefer her version (still requires the Store item to function, as it contains the necessary scripts). And for menus I actually use neither the file given by Ani nor the Store, but the menu recolors by aa6x7 (versions are provided to work with both versions of the Bistro Oven).

Clothing Store:

This shop can be used as a playable boutique with the Shop for Clothes mod by Ani. If you have the Into The Future EP installed, and would prefer to use the Shop for Clothes Pedestal, Ani’s newer clothes shopping mod, you can simply replace some of the deco mannequins with the functional ones that come with the EP. For use in this particular store, I would recommend using this modified mannequin base by @aroundthesims​ instead, as it’s much less bulky and less likely to clash with the decor.

Most patterns used on this part of the lot have actually not yet been identified and/or found... the floral print on the dress hanging on the rack, the muted fabric on the mannequin, the striped pattern on the sliding curtain “doors”, etc. The wall textures also default to white when recolored, so I assume some pattern must have been used on them originally, despite them appearing solid in Martine’s previews.

The only pattern I still have my heart set on finding is the one on the University EP awning out front (the one with the motif of blackbirds / ravens sitting among birch trees), shown just above. I have still not given up, however! Any tip-offs will be greatly appreciated

For my personal use, I replaced the floral pattern on the hanging dress with the Fool’s Parsley pattern by Awesims (can be found backed up at TehSims here, or included in their “Mid-Century Mid/Mod Bathroom” set here). I also added an accent wall to the interior of the shop using this pattern of egrets (”Leaves 6″ by Pilar, and believe it or not, fully CAStable) on it to almost make up for the lack of the bird print for the awning. I use this fabric pattern by Djehmli on the mannequin.

The floorboard pattern I tend to replace with a textured wood pattern that looks like a single large slab of wood. I’ve tried both oak and pine patterns by Madaya74, and usually have trouble deciding which looks better: they both work well with the atmosphere of the store.

Radio Station:

None of the wall patterns have been found for this part of the lot. For my own game, I have replaced the missing concrete / sheetrock textures with modern, sleek wood paneling, using the “Chestnut” wood patterns by Sandy at ATS3, as quite often birch wood paneling is preferred for the interiors of recording studios.

CC from Karas Watching Society (the standing record sleeve decor in the recording studio) does not show up in my game as placed, for some reason. You will have to place the decor item used on this lot manually.

The wall lights used in the antechamber / waiting room area have been lost forever, and I cannot find any backups.

However, I have included notes in the spreadsheet about the best replacement for the missing items. I promise you, my tips will result in the exact same effect!

The light colors will also have to be set anew, after being replaced. Setting them “red” and “green” and both “0.8″ for brightness seems to work fine, but I prefer to set the brightness at “0.6″, and custom colors for the lights: “215,35,5″ and “35,215,5″ respectively. But everyone’s game looks different, so play around until you find a result you are happy with.

#martinessimblr #cottonwood hills #wcif: cottonwood hills #martine cottonwood hills

[jeremystrele]

A Serene, Handcrafted Home In Byron Bay

A Serene, Handcrafted Home In Byron Bay

Homes

by Lucy Feagins, Editor

The kitchen cupboard faces in the Living Pavilion were made by Sam & Zana from one slab of blackbutt timber. The concrete slab has a helicopter finish & is oiled with a natural Livos oil. At the desk are a zigzag chair made by joiner friend Christian Moerhke, and a Lavitta chair from Great Dane. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

A window nook daybed connects the indoor living room to the outdoor living room. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Sam, Zana and baby Lumi when she was brand new! Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The kitchen, with all joinery built by Sam & Zana from local blackbutt timber, & hoop pine plywood offcuts leftover from building the ceiling. The slatted bottom shelf above the sink works as a draining rack. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The entry into the Living Pavilion. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Inbuilt joinery in the Living Pavilion, with artwork by Jasper Legge, and woven baskets by Zana. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The Living Pavilion, with walls built from rammed earth using locally sourced material, and ceiling built from Australply hoop pine plywood grown and manufactured in South East Queensland. The chair is a mid-century Brazilian design by Jean Gillon and was picked up at friend Rosie Browne’s Byron Bay vintage store, Hawker. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The outdoor living room with hardwood timber sourced from North-Eastern NSW, and floor made from columnar basalt stepping stones surrounded by river stones. The vintage metal chairs are also from Hawker. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Looking from the outdoor living room into the Sleeping Pavilion & beyond to the outdoor bathroom. The Sleeping Pavilion has an earthen floor handmade by the owners, from clay excavated from the building site, combined with sand, local sugarcane mulch and lime. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The Sleeping Pavilion, with zigzag bedside table also made by friend Christian Moerhke, and bed linen by In Bed Store.Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The wall niche is painted with clay excavated from the building site. Attached to the wall above are mud wasp nests which appeared there soon after the house was built. ‘Paddle-pop rocks’ were collected from a beach at Crescent Head. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The view from bed, looking down into the native bushland of Zana’s parents’ property. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The outdoor bathroom/laundry which looks into a lush garden encircled by a stone retaining wall built from locally sourced columnar basalt. Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The spectacular home in all its glory! Photo – Caitlin Mills for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

OK so we’ve shared a few homes from the Byron / Northern NSW area recently… but this one really has stolen our hearts! Architectural designer Zana Wright co-designed this home for her parents to live in as they get older, working alongside Alice Nivison of Fresh Prince Studio. Zana’s parents have lived on this land for the past 12 years, and a few years ago Zana came to stay in a small converted cowshed at the end of the property… and never left. Zana, Sam and Lumi are currently renting this stunning home from Zana’s parents, until they are ready to downsize and move in. Everybody wins!!

The house is designed to have a ‘minimal environmental footprint’ and is informed by the local context in a very material way. Zana explains that ‘place’ is built into the home, by utilising primarily local materials. The home is constructed from earth, stone and Australian hardwoods, all locally sourced. Zana worked with local sustainable builders Balanced Earth, who her partner Sam works for. Zana, her Dad and Sam also collaboratively built the joinery, kitchen, bathroom and earthen floors. This home is a TRUE family affair!

Through the design of this home, the family is connected to the changing cycle of the seasons, and the knowledge that a change of wind conditions mean the surf might be pumping! Zana is both romantic and realistic about the open-plan design, explaining ‘having parts of the house situated outside undercover is climatically appropriate for our subtropical bush location, however, we do still have a winter, during which I enjoy how the house forces you not to become too precious!’

When Zana talks about the home being connected to place, she means literally MADE of its surroundings! She describes the interior styling as ‘simple and honest’ with the construction materials visible in the finished design. These earthy and raw tones and textures serve as a backdrop for the family’s collection of handcrafted artworks and object – made by Zana and Sam, their family or swag of creative pals!

Zana’s favourite space is the outdoor bathroom (and only partly because it never really needs a clean!). She communicates the pure joy of standing under a hot shower in chilly winter air under the milky way overhead.

While this might all sound and look like an absolute dream, Zana flags that the build wasn’t without its difficulties. Building with local materials sounded like a sensible and relatively easy idea at the outset, but, incredibly, it wasn’t always the more convenient or cost effective option. Zana explains that counterintuitively ‘I found that using natural and recycled materials over standardised materials bought from the hardware store usually involved extra labour, which was difficult to reconcile with the budget.’

Despite from these minor setbacks, Zana and family cherish the home they’ve created here. It’s been a truly collaborative labour of love, and Zana, Sam and Lumi are fully embracing their current living arrangements, until it is time to hand over the keys to her parents!