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heli0s-writes · 5 months

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Sweet

A/n: You know how sometimes when you’re having a breakdown and nothing is helping but then something completely unrelated and stupid just does it for no reason. This is that. With pot brownies and kissing. Bucky is recovering and reader is an moron with a heart of gold. Angst, hurt/comfort, humor. Reader/Bucky. 3k words Warnings: Marijuana use; conversations about trauma, particularly food-related; language.

The path leading away from the cabin is littered with wet patches of morning. Rime colors of miserable winter in sludge grey are starting to be overtaken by sprouts of green, yellow, and brisk dew, springtime optimism come to life.

Pepper’s got the front of her house looking like a farmer’s market flower stand. Pots of tulips and daffodils explode up the steps and tri-color ribbons connecting porch-light to porch-light. The magnolia tree is soon to bud, and she’s hung hummingbird feeders and birdhouses all around.

When the cars start rolling in for the quarter-yearly potluck, you hang out near the garden, rocking back and forth on your feet. You'd shown up early but didn’t know what to do around a toddler, so outside it was.

The familiar Range Rover halts to a stop, Sam’s door opening as he makes his way out, holding ceramic handles of an enormous crockpot.

You call, “Bring your famous chili?”

“Damn right, I did,” he beams, “you bring your appetite?”

You waggle your eyebrows before looking to the SUV he hopped out of, Steve lingering by the back door with a brown paper box tucked beneath his arm, knocking on the heavily tinted windows with a long-suffering sigh. “C’mon, Buck. Up and at ‘em.”

A loud, decisive knock thumps back at him and Steve rolls his big, pitiful, puppy dog eyes in your direction. Beneath the blue of his left orbital is what looks suspiciously like the fading ochre stain of either an almost healed bruise or a newly forming one, which only makes Steve’s silent call for aid more pathetic and urgent.

Damn, okay. Since you’re kind of on thin ice already, this could go one of two ways.

Sliding up, you crack your knuckles.

“Barnes,” you call, “I got something illegal for you. Wanna see?”

“Dead body.” He responds from behind the still shut door, and you’re not sure if that’s a question. Steve glares at you accusatory, as if you’d actually bring a dead body to a potluck, good grief.

“Uh, no.”

“Knife.”

Steve shoots you another look—which is just ridiculous at this point, the both of them.

“Knives aren’t illegal.”

“Depends.”

Steve shifts the box of what looks to be cherry turnovers and mouths phrase day, which means that Barnes decided to stop talking in complete sentences sometime between when he woke up and probably when Steve over-crowded him and is now reducing all communication to two or three words as both a method of punishment for Steve and self-preservation for Barnes.

“It’ll make you feel better,” you urge, “Loads better.”

“Sex.” He rolls down the window just enough for you to get a glimpse of his eyes, narrowed and steely. “Drugs?”

You mouth bingo, outrightly ignoring the fact that it feels like Bucky Barnes nearly solicited you for sex, and Steve puts his hand over his own face, about to quip until he realizes that he’s probably said too much already—which is what got him in this predicament to begin with—and simply drags himself toward the house.

Barnes watches him go wordlessly before he opens the door and steps out, looking down at you, lightly shivering in the cold, and says, still one-worded, “Okay.”

He pops three brownies into his mouth and chews, opening just enough to get out a muffled, “too sweet” before returning to grinding down like he’s cracking pecan shells in there.

“I know you have like,” you make panicked motions with your fingers, snapping the red Tupperware lid back down frantically, “hella metabolism, but pump the brakes or you’re going to flip.”

“Flip,” he concludes, determined. He squirrels about two more in before you can do anything about it.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I was going to let you take those home later—oh my god, I’m going to get into so much trouble.”

The two of you are stopped at one of those cutesy stone birdbaths around the perimeter, leaning on the lip as Barnes licks remaining chocolate off his fingers, looking as pleased as punch. As much as he can look, anyway, you think, since you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him smile at anything other than the time Steve stubbed his toe bad enough on Tony’s kitchen island that he doubled over.

“Did you say sex earlier?” You suddenly remember the flash of silver from the darkness of the SUV. “Wait, actually, I wanna go back even before that—did you really think I’d have a dead body?”

He shrugs.

“Cool,” you reply, “cool, cool, cool, cool. I think I should be more concerned, but you know what, I like it. Feels like a vote of confidence.”

A wide grin stretches across your face and you temporarily forget that Bucky fucking Barnes has eaten about half a pan of brownies with 25 grams of pot baked into them, that in about 15 minutes you’re both expected to sit down like normal people and have a nice dinner without anyone doing… whatever it is that he might do when he’s blazed to high heaven.

You shake the thought of Steve’s disappointment out of your head. Maybe it’d be best to keep acting natural, get him into some kind of headspace.

“So,” you whistle, “what’d you bring to the potluck?”

He gives you a sidelong stare and if there were Olympics for how someone can convey eat shit and die without moving anything but their eyes, he’d win every 8 years for the rest of his unnaturally long life.

“Well, I brought myself,” you curtsy, starting back down the trail again, figuring that you’ve got five minutes walking forward before it’d be time to turn back to the house, “and your present,” to which he gives you a short nod, “and an empty stomach. You excited for Sam’s chili?”

“Spicy.”

“Spicy?” you recoil, suddenly finding the prospect of a man who gave Captain America a black eye last week or possibly this morning—the monster who ate half of your most lethal bake—panting and sweating over a bowl of chili astoundingly inconceivable.

“Oh wait, you live with Rogers. What’s he feeding you at home? Steamed chicken?”

“Baked.”

You sigh, “God, you’re fucked. Nat brought something with Carolina Reaper infused honey glaze. Barnes... we’ll have to do a prayer circle for your ass.”

His face twists into a look of disgust before he starts to notice his lips, pressing them together, pulling them apart. After a few more motions like he’s discovering his body, bit by bit, he turns to you, and announces, “Feeling it.”

You laugh, jealous, because although you had a bite about 30 minutes before he even arrived, the brownie hasn’t hit you yet. “Good,” you say anyway, “that’s good, right?”

He only apathetically regards a sparrow flying past. You suppress a chortle when Barnes repeatedly licks his lips and rubs at the sleeves of his sweater.

“Have you ever been high before?” You correct, “In the fun, recreational, consensual way?”

Another listless shrug before he turns his head. You push yourself off a nearby log and make a show of stomping through haphazard piles of sticks and dead leaves, curling your fingers in a come along motion.

He follows, boots crunching, steps short and patternless, making a racket behind your back. He looks like a kid, fingers tucked up into his long sleeves, bouncy knees as he attempts to splash into every puddle as he possibly can before catching up. He’s almost got a grin when he looks at you, remembering where he is again, and there’s a light brush of color along the tops of his cheeks from the chill.

Around a small bend in the path, you duck under a branch, hop over a stone, and when you land back on both feet, the ground wobbles just enough to notice.

The air smells nice. Your eyelids feel heavy in a good way.

“Steve really piss you off this morning, didn’t he?”

Barnes lands a couple of feet away, his face dropping into an exhausted expression at the question, which you can’t fault him for because Steve’s a lot of things. Simple things, on the surface, but Barnes has known him longer than most anyone else and you imagine all of his noble qualities—his longstanding patience and willpower and belief in the goodness in everything and everyone—you imagine that shit gets old.

Hell, it gets at you on occasion, and you’re not even the brainwashed best friend who’s probably hearing a hundred voices in his head and is too tired to hear one more no matter how well-intentioned it might be.

Sometimes, being inundated by language just breaks it all back into foreign, incomprehensible script. And sometimes, being exceedingly plied with something you can’t make any sense of makes you turn inward, makes you bare your teeth in self-defense.

Which makes you realize you probably should ease up, too, talk less, but then he takes a long step with his ridiculous legs and is by your side, walking as if you two do this all the time.

“He’s a fixer.” Bucky’s brows are scrunched together, hands buried in his pockets. You nod quickly, not wanting him to go into any more detail than that because it’s not news that the entire population is still wary of Bucky Barnes’ re-emergence as a United States citizen when he was, up until very recently, a—uh, Russian one.

This, obviously, puts many things at odds with each other, including Steve, who is Mr. United States himself. The Avengers, too, who are mostly Team United States, considering the location and overwhelming population. But most of all, Bucky, who is still cobbling together bits and pieces of his life each day, is faced with the knowledge that everyone in the world knows more about him than he does.

You rub the back of your neck sympathetically because that shit would kill your heart so fast.

“You know what.” You shake the Tupperware at him, “Have the rest of these. You deserve it. And like, a million hugs.”

He barks a laugh, gladly gulps down the rest, and there’s a dapple of fudge on his chin looking so silly and sweet as he chews.

Ah, shoot. You avert your gaze, feeling very bad ideas break out up your arms and neck, and the shudder that is about to overtake you seems less about Barnes’ sweet face and more about Steve’s disappointed one. Like, he’s going to read your mind and know you’re having ideas about his best friend. And he’s going to do that thing where his eyebrows drop and his lips press together as he attempts to hold back a few choice words. Until later, probably, when he corners you somewhere and unleashes them anyway.

What were you thinking?, he’ll hiss. Are you capable of thinking rationally?

“What?” Barnes prods. “What is it?”

“Nothin’” you take a leap forward, herding the both of you back. The closer you are to the cabin the more you’ll remember that you’re at a family event, with friends, who should all stay in the friend territory.

But you blurt anyway, “You said sex earlier!” Because you’re a whole ass idiot.

He makes a small noise, says, “Yeah,” like that’s any help.

“Are you…” what the fuck, your head is spinning, “like, in… need of some?” Your face feels hot.

“Maybe. My body is…” he frowns, so weirdly open right now, and then he looks at you with half is face in a weary grin, the other half lost and confused. “Responding to stimuli in ways I haven’t— responded to in... Trying to fix it. Steve wants me to be fixed.”

He tilts his face to the sky, glaring at it. “Can’t get it out.”

You’re trying to force your rabbiting heart down to a manageable pace. You’ve never had any in-depth discussions with him about anything, much less his sex drive. The most interaction the two of you get is the occasional mission or get-together where you crack jokes and get shitfaced when the job’s done. You’ve been told you’re sort of a pain and haven’t given a fuck too much to change that.

You’re sort of in trouble right now, having been “irrational” during the last mission, running across the iced lake instead of taking the planned route and falling in. It ended up working out, since you got to the enemy helicopter before the enemies, but then there was the stabbing because you were sort of outnumbered and the pneumonia afterwards because you fell into the fucking lake…

There was a massive chewing out. Steve and his many, disappointed words.

Something about motor-mouths and low-object permanence but sure, good on the inside when it counts.

You hope this is one of those times where it counts.

“Listen,” you start. “Take as long as you need, there’s no rush on recovery and pushing yourself too hard is detrimental to your health. It’s not a straight line.”

“I hit him.”

Your wheeling brain is making a sharp left, trying to figure out where Barnes is driving toward. Oh. The black eye.

“Aw, Steve?” You wave your hand, swatting nothing. “He’s a big boy.”

“I’m hungry. Then I’m not.”

“I mean, that sounds normal—“

“No, a lot. Fast. Cyclical. Endless.”

It must be his metabolism adjusting. The realization of his relationship with food comes fast, almost visceral. Scarce when he was young, then rationed during the war before it was taken from him altogether. He was given the bare minimum with Hydra—protein slurry, tube-fed—then purged—stomach pumped—before being put on ice.

For decades.

Starvation must have truly felt endless.

And now with food being a surplus, with his body readjusting to it, yet his mind still struggling with habits—it must be so confusing. Another seemingly natural function to be confused about.

“Ah,” you manage, a lump in your throat like a blockade.

“I get nightmares.” He’s glaring at his hands, one flesh, one metal, opening and closing his fist like trying to get a grip on himself, and his voice is so small and pained. “These thoughts. All sorts. Can’t sleep.”

You extend your hands, shake off the dry sob that wants to erupt from your chest, and declare with flourish, “On the fourth day, God made Purple Kush, and it was good. So, we can—we can fix that.”

He takes another one of those long looks, through his lashes, lips quirked in quiet humor.

“You’re not really a fixer.”

He shakes the container of crumbs in your face.

You gasp, snatching it back in offense. “I can fix… some things! I replaced the utility light in the kitchen yesterday!“

Your cheeks are hot, face twitching like a broken screen because all you can think about is how handsome he is, out here like this, nose blushing, eyes lazy and crescent shaped, the heavy creases beneath them less pained and more relaxed.

And how he’s teasing you—- and he’s kind of a little shit.

“You fucker,” you say.

He grins—all big and silent, and for a second you count your blessings that he’s not going to say anything else shitty until he quips, “Not unless you’re offering.”

He’s staring at you intently, a curious expression winding its way up his face. His eyes are huge and blue and the most alert, glazed-over, pair of bloodshot, redder-than-the-devil’s-dick eyes you’ve ever seen on anyone stoned halfway to the moon.

His tongue darts out, sweeps a slow, careful line over the width of his bottom lip, practically asking, and you’re just the simple idiot who openly gawks at him.

“Ah,” you nod. “Yeah you’re definitely right. I’m—“ you gulp, “more of a fuck-up.”

Because what’s another fuck up to add onto the long-running list of fuck ups you’ve had recently, anyway? Kissing Barnes might count as a really serious one, sure, but at least it’s not pneumonia.

It’d make him feel better, probably, it’d make him feel something, at least. Steve would appreciate that, if Barnes came to the dinner table verbal, maybe even laughing. No one has to tell Steve that his best pal kissed your face off in the woods.

The idea of your face being kissed off is doing a number on you. The idea of Bucky Barnes, this gorgeous, miserable, godly, tragic contradiction, your at-arm’s-length teammate, your quickly-becoming friend, kissing your face off because he needs to feel something soft in the midst of the rest of the horrible, jagged things he already feels every second of his life—and he can get it from you.

You’re stupid and simple and how could anyone say no to that? So you take one last second to steel your heart, push forward, and lean in.

It’s, frankly, bizarre.

He kisses you gently, fantastically, inconsistently, wavering from assured one second to apprehensive the next, like he remembers how but can’t quite execute.

You meet him where you can, respond to the parting of his lips with your own, adjust to his tension with grace, and when he starts feeling like he’s getting the hang of it, like muscle memory has finally settled into his body, you let him lead.

One hand finds the base of your skull, the other placing itself on your waist. His kisses grow greedy, like he remembers desire is a thing that occurs to him. He tilts his head down, kisses up like he wants to swallow every sigh between your lips, like he’s hungry for the sounds you make—and you’re making, embarrassingly, a lot of them. He’s good—dominant but kind, mouth wide, lips full, tongue cocoa-sweet and clever as it strokes yours again and again.

When he backs you up into a tree, you barely register it. His hand has moved to cushion your head, and he’s urging his entire body forward into yours, grip tight at your hipbone, moving his mouth to your jaw, then your neck, and you stutter a string of letters that refuse to make words.

Barnes is expertly sucking marks beneath your collar, right beneath the neckline, his breath hot and coming out in a near snarl and when he scrapes his teeth down, sinking them into the soft skin of your chest, you yelp loud enough to send a few birds scattering from the trees.

He jumps off like he’s burned you, eyes frantic, afraid.

“No—” you clear your throat, hands out, “Hold on.”

He’s blinking, head clearing, head trying to assess what he’s done, the situation, the pulled loose neckline, the wet shine of his spit up your throat.

“S-sorry—”

“No, don’t be sorry.” You give him his distance but take a small step forward. “That was hot. But,”

He blinks, confused, and this whole thing could easily go pear-shaped, your well-intentioned explanation might turn into unintelligible speech at any moment, but you have to try or else he’ll tailspin into catastrophe, and you suddenly feel so sorry for Steve, the poor fuck who’s doing this every day, clinging onto the hope that what he’s saying doesn’t set Bucky off, doesn’t push his boulder back downhill.

He's still stuttering sorry, starting to pace.

“Listen,” you say firmly, clipping your own panic, “that was wow, let me tell you. But if you don’t stop, I’m going to like— hotwire a car.”

Somehow this stops him in his tracks, “What?”

“Well, I didn’t drive here. Because you know, I was going to like, get really shitfaced.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and like, take you to a hotel or something.”

He frowns, obviously completely lost. “Why?”

It’s your turn to be lost. Both of you open-mouthed and panting at each other like two dumb dogs chasing each others’ tail in an ouroboros of idiocy.

“Huh? What do you mean why? You just tongue-fucked me, do you think I’m immune to getting on my knees for that?”

Now you can see it happening—the incomprehensible speech like a marquee as it runs across Barnes’ brain. Tongue-fuck, immune to getting on my knees. He doesn’t understand any of that, and god bless any soul who can. What language are you even speaking right now other than hot-brained, hot-skinned, hot-hearted to him, who’s still struggling to defrost?

“Never mind,” you redact, “ignore that.” You put your hands on his shoulders to ground yourself, vaguely thinking that maybe you shouldn’t touch him but the firm slap of your palms seems to break him out of his new trance. “Can we kiss again, later?”

He blinks, staring at you, at your hands on him, at your lips all swollen up.

“Yes.”

You sigh, relieved and thankful that other than you, no one’s freaking out, that your plan to get Bucky Barnes high worked out after all, and that he has agreed to make out later because he’s really, really good at it.

“Wonderful. Let’s go back now? Are you ready?”

He mulls it over and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Sure, but I’m not eating chili.”

“Well, you’re in luck, there’s plenty of chicken.”

He grimaces, cuts a sharp look up to you before a twinkle settles in his blue, blue eyes. “Okay,” he agrees, “guess we should do a prayer circle for my ass.”

You clap your hands together and recite Our Father.

“It was sex, wasn’t it?”

Sam’s got one hand over his belly, snickering. Everyone else looks your way, gullible, scandalized, and you can’t blame them since the two of you were gone an awfully long time and came back extremely disheveled.

Bucky had walked in dutifully behind you, wiped off his boots, sat down at the dinner table, and asked for seconds saying please and thank you and he even threw in a that was delicious just to watch Steve’s head explode.

And Bucky, who you’ve come to realize is genuinely a shit— still one-worded and knowing full well the repercussions of his one word— only shrugs and responds, “Yes.”

The room erupts into shouting as you throw a buttered roll at his head. He catches it easily and brings it up to his grinning mouth, shimmer of spit glossy and fantastic on his lips.

#reader x bucky barnes #bucky barnes/reader #reader insert #fanfiction #mcu #hurt/comfort #angst #humor

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accio-victuuri · 2 months

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April CPNs round-up! ❤️💛💚

• BJYX shows up in station sisters team building photos/videos. proving that the pairing is still very much relevant and loved 🫶🏼

• allegedly spending some time together 4/2 and 4/3 when yibo went to shanghai

• cql and xz gets mentioned in a livestream for WoF

• wyb with a beaded bracelet that seems to be a clue that he spent time with GG ; more on the initial thoughts about the bracelet and why give an obsidian one

•zsww fake rumor of their meet up

•their love for watching old cctv spring festival gala sketches

• 4/8, in the FPU douyin update, he continues on with the dog theme ☺️ he really is a puppy! gouzaizai!

• not really a cpn/candy but their name side by side for the alleged registration list for Magnolia Award. i’m just so proud and as a cpf, it feels good seeing them succeed. 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

• 4/8 cpns : fan used for camping that xz uses, the number 38 and us clowning about concerts

• some are comparing this interaction between wyb and hjy in FPU bts with how he is with GG. saying when he is hurt, he goes all out and shows it to GG but with others he won’t say anything. i agree that this thing is true both for GG/WYB, meaning they only show “weakness” to each other 🥺🥺🥺

* throwback post : fake rumor story during cql shoot of someone that works closely with yibo

• this side by side photo, they look alike in this profile!

• 4/16/24 zsww rumor

• the rumor that wyb visited LOZ shoot and my thoughts on it ; i know i cannot stop people from “enjoying” this material and what it potentially implies but i personally cannot condone the type of behavior that disrespects them. especially xz who has been v frustrated with the leaks happening in his project. and just to dispel the rumors, this is who people are saying is supposedly yibo ⬇️⬇️⬇️

🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

no shade to this guy. he was just a victim of people’s overzealous tendencies. this is not the first time cpfs have done this, in OOL and OnO we’ve had questionable video evidences too which is most likely not who we think it is. please stop. it’s not just the leaks. we have to protect them. we know they visit each other, let’s just bridge the clues with what they give us. we cpn that they visit the ST or probably even follow certain cpf accounts, there is just no universe that they will see this kind of conversations related to leaked photos and videos and be happy about it.

• DESCENDANTS OF THE SUN AU 😭😭😭😭 idk man. military/police wyb and doctor xz pairing is really top notch!

• 4/19 xiao zhan weibo post for the 6th solar term - Guyu ( Grain Rain ) and all the clowning: one / two

• 4/20 zsww rumor ; hinting at them working on a project where one will direct and the other will act

• WYB’s GQ hat could be a custom made one from Tod’s????

• A new explanation about the mystery driver and comparing it to the mask WYB uses

• There has been some conversation because of WYB’s bazaar shoot with his FPU co star/team and that it’s no longer just XZ that he has done that with. Well i have to say that no matter what people say, the bazaar one with XZ is different. just the production value and theme of it — was more romantic and WYB was totally expressive. plus don’t forget that the shoot for that was where xz called him Venus. it will always be special, cause it’s just the 2 of them. there is no use comparing, i bet you, xz will have a joint cover or spread for LOCH with the female lead. it is part of marketing.

• yibo and his rainbow necklace 🌈

• I will add this here cause i don’t think it needs a separate post with how galaxy brain it is. it’s about certain photos uploaded by YBO being 2.3 MB in size. 23 love zhan. whether this is intentional or something special. who knows. it just came up again this month because the bear photo is with the same file size. 🤷🏻‍♀️

other instances are outlined by this account on weibo :

February 3, 2:30 pm (Picture 1) // May 11 (Picture 3) // June 1st, Children’s Day, “Children are in love” (Picture 5) // August 5th, birthday composition (Picture 7)// November 22 (Picture 9)

• 4/29 zsww fake rumor

• GUCCI wall 2.0 is close to Lacoste big screen ad! oh the possibilities!

• 4/29 candies to enjoy ( includes: their promos not overlapping, jiayou parallel, double standards and the bead bracelet discussion again )

See you all next month! ✌🏼💛

<<< previous month

#yizhan #bjyx #there is no science here i’m just clowning like i always do

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sierrathesimmer · 1 year

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SPROUTS FARMERS MARKET 🛒🥕

a small functional farmers market. click link above to download. special thanks to all the cc creators. happy simming!

30x20 (magnolia promenade) | public 5/26

#sierrathesimmer

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2ndtimestyle · 11 months

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Still getting the hang of TikTok, but here's a video I put together with some highlights of my trip to Magnolia Market in Waco, Texas. It was such a wonderful day spent alongside my sisters, feeling comfortable and ready for a leisurely time!

#travel style #traveling #waco tx #magnolia market

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 3 months

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I think Meghan’s frustrated because her level has some pretty popular people already. It’s crowded. To be honest I think the Gaines have a large % followed by a few other target brands. She’d rather be a target brand not a tjmaxx because tjmaxx buys left over inventory that doesn’t sell. Target is still affordable and I think those in her circle are far more willingly to say they go to target than Walmart to tjmaxx. That’s what bothers her.

I also don’t think she was prepared to launch when she did. It was a quick rash reaction that felt more like turning lover an “I’m open for business sign” than anything else. Her ego got the best of her .

Yep, that's the other pitfall of being so focused on immediate gratification: you have beer goggles on. You don't see your competitors for who they really are - you only see what they have that you don't or their flaws that you think you can do better.

If Meghan really cared about Roop, she'd have paid attention to the market research that her partners (and yes, she has partners, even if no one will admit it) and WME did. That market research would have told her exactly who her competitors are, that she has one shot to get this right, and precisely what shot to take and when to take it.

And let's be honest. Her competitors aren't Gwyneth Paltrow (Goop), Reese Witherspoon (Kohls), and Martha Stewart (Macys, Penneys, and Amazon). They aren't even the Gaines/Magnolia (Target), Pioneer Woman (Walmart), and Rae Dunn (TJ Maxx/HomeGoods).

Her competitors are all the other socialites out there launching their own wellness and lifestyle brands. Bravolebrities. Tiktokers. Instagram influencers. People who have such a niche fanbase from 5 minutes in the spotlight with print-on-demand merch. In effect, personality-driven brands that lack substance.

And those brands don't usually do well, because they always overshoot their market and target the wrong audience. There's nothing wrong with being a TJX brand or a department store brand or a "Middle America" brand. Plenty of people have made really good fortunes and livings from it, but only because they were realistic and clear about their expectations and knew it would take time to get the empire they wanted.

And since anon mentioned The Gaines, I have a feeling that's who Meghan intends to come after. They're in Texas (where the Sussexes have been spending time). Tall, leggy, thick-bouncy-dark brown/black hair-for-days, biracial homemaker guru wife with a doofus goofy ginger husband. Their brand (Magnolia Home) is a kind of rustic, vintage, comfort memory that ARO/Roop's video mimicked. They've got that kind of ordinary everyday Americanness that (kind of) competes with William and Kate's kind of ordinary everyday Britishness that Meghan couldn't break.

But here's the thing about Chip and Joanna. They didn't just pop up out of nowhere. I know it feels like they did, but they didn't. They put 10 years of blood and sweat equity into the Waco (Texas) home construction and design world before HGTV even knew that they existed. What has Meghan done that's even comparable? Sure, she got her own doofus ginger but that's it. That's where the comparisons end. And honestly there's no comparison between Chip and Harry either, because Chip comes out ahead by a million points by just being able to replace his own burnt-out lightbulb.

#ask #brf #sussexes #theories

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simgrazeccfinds · 4 months

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new youtube video xx

must have restaurants for every sims 4 world showcase! these are all no cc lots that can be found on the gallery.

lot details:

willow creek - hot n' greasy by loquatrooster

oasis springs- the flaming kabob by bearhugs2011

newcrest- 9 golden tigers by loquatrooster

granite falls- granite falls diner by misssimreno

magnolia promenade - benji's breakfast café by loquatrooster

windenburg- sushi sims by wiynki

san myshuno- skybar rooftop restaurant by favupigbuilding

forgotten hollow - fang's vampire diner by chaubin_806

brindleton bay- seaside food market by alexandrafd87

selvadorada- jungle restaurant by sweetandsyrupy

strangerville- strangerville food market by gravysims

del sol valley- gourmet restaurant by paszerine

sulani- waterfront restaurant by simcubeez

glimmerbrook- spellcaster pub by meepacheepa

britechester- brunch & study café by simcubeez

evergreen harbor- the caboose by misssimreno

mt. komorebi- asia takeaway restaurant by flubber32c4

henford-on-bagley- cozy cottage restaurant by brendamaureen

tartosa- italian restaurant by sweetandsyrupy

moonwood mill- moonwood mill food truck by ralucii

copperdale- copperdale diner by lilo_1802

san sequoia- pier 32 by catsaar

chestnut ridge- steakhouse restaurant by marmeladart

tomarang- tomarang restaurant by brunasouzag

thanks to all of the amazing creators for these lots!

love ya'll xx

#ts4cc #sims4cc #sims 4 lots #sims 4 restaurants #sims 4 must have restaurants #sims 4 must have lots

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riaaanna · 4 months

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Freddie Mercury’s London Residence Lists at £30 Million

Garden Lodge, the spectacular Kensington home of the rock music legend, has been in the care of his friend Mary Austin for 30 years. She’s now selling it.

Garden Lodge is listed for £30 million ($38 million). Source: Knight Frank

By Sarah Rappaport.

Mary Austin remembers the first time she saw Garden Lodge. She was accompanying her friend Freddie Mercury as he was house-hunting in London in 1980.

“It was a summer day, children were playing in the garden, and I was behind Freddie as we came in. It was so quiet and so peaceful, and that continued through the house,” Austin says, speaking exclusively to Bloomberg News from inside the Kensington property. She says he decided to buy the home that same day.

“Freddie went outside and said, ‘Tell them to take it off the market. I’ll give them the asking price now,’” she says.

The double doors lead inside to a living space that Mercury called the Japanese room. Photographer: Barney Hindle

Austin says Mercury was looking for an escape in London, a place where he could create and work on his music in peace without being hounded by the media—and Garden Lodge was it for him. “The press had been pursuing him to come out, and he wouldn’t, and why should he? And this gave him the wonderful feeling that he could create and live and be private here,” she says.

Austin inherited the property from Mercury upon his death in 1991 and has been living here ever since. She says at first she wasn’t sure if it’d be healthy for her to live in the home amid her grief from his untimely passing. But she realized that she could make a life at Garden Lodge and that she didn’t need to let go “for quite some years.”

“It was really only ever my house in name only,” says Austin, her voice full of emotion. “I had worked on the house with him and for him, and it will always be his. It was his dream, it was his vision.”

Austin, 72, has decided to list the property with Knight Frank for £30 million ($38 million). This follows a massively successful Sotheby’s auction this past September in which more than $50 million was raised selling Mercury’s belongings, with a portion of the proceeds benefiting the Mercury Phoenix Trust and the Elton John AIDS Foundation.

The house, when I saw it in mid-February, was mostly empty. But the design and details, such as citrus-yellow paint on the walls and spectacular art deco mirrors in the rock star’s dressing room, are the way Mercury left them. It stands as a tribute to Mercury’s own taste.

The dining room, with pink and green cornice detailing, photographed prior to the Sotheby’s sale. The French gilt-and-bronze clock from the 1870s sold for £30,480. Photographer: Barney Hindle

The plan was to do the auction and then think about selling the house, Austin says. “The auction was enormous. And I wasn’t sure how I would feel at this moment. But I realized that the time had come.” Austin says she’s alone in the house now, her kids are grown up and live elsewhere, and she feels like it’s time to start a new chapter in her life and move on. After a whirlwind year, she says this will be her last interview.

Touring the House

Garden Lodge is just past Cromwell Road in the heart of upscale Kensington, but it’s completely private, set back from the quiet residential road and protected by an 8-foot Edwardian brick security wall topped by an even higher spiked fence, with cameras around it. The wall’s famous green door, which acted as a shrine for Mercury fans who scribbled messages on it, sold in the Sotheby’s auction for £412,750. There’s another door there now protected by clear casing.

The house is set back from the road by a large garden. Photographer: Barney Hindle

Just through the door lies a Japanese-inspired garden with blooming magnolia trees, a wooden pergola and a carp pond. The whole effect once inside the gated walls feels like a country retreat, with the high walls blocking out the noise of the streets. You wouldn’t feel like you’re just a 10-minute walk from the popular Kensington High Street, in the middle of prime central London.

“Freddie had an absolute vision for the garden. Kyoto Gardens was what came to mind—he wanted to re-create that tranquil environment,” says Austin, recalling some “very special memories” of having lunch with Mercury outside on sunny days by the pond.

The property offers eight bedrooms, and Mercury’s studio-house has an impressive brick exterior. Once inside the main entrance, to the left is what the singer called the Japanese room, one of two main living spaces. It has double doors that lead out to the garden and was his personal reflection space, says Austin. “We knew not to disturb him when he was in there.”

The ground floor also has a dining room where Mercury used to throw dinner parties, with planned menus and handwritten seating plans, including a space for his cat Oscar. Mercury was incredibly involved in the design of the room; he even painted the designs on the wall himself.

A mustache-less Mercury painting the cornice. Source: Knight Frank

Mercury’s dining room designs, which you can see him painting in the photo above. Source: Knight Frank

“He couldn’t get the decorator to match the ideas that he had in his head, so he had to do it himself,” says Austin, adding that Mercury did a design with pinks, greens and yellows on the wall.

Taking up the largest amount of the ground floor is the studio drawing room, with its wooden floors, yellow walls and ornate stone fireplace. This room was home to Mercury’s Yamaha baby grand piano, on which he wrote Bohemian Rhapsody; it sold for £1.7 million at Sotheby’s. Austin remembers pushing the piano to different spots around the room with Mercury, trying to find the ideal placement upon his move-in.

Here was the main room for entertaining, and there’s a staircase at the edge of the room that leads to an upstairs bar area, where someone getting a drink could observe the party going on below. Its two-story windows fill the room with light and look onto the expansive garden and its host of topiary trees.

Austin says she didn’t go to all of his parties but remembers a hat party that was in her words “a little full-on.”

“He designed a hat for everybody and had them all made,” she says. “He’d give you a hat, or you’d have a choice of two or three depending on how he felt about you that day.”

Along with the generous entertainment spaces, the ground floor has a cloakroom and a kitchen—with modern appliances—set back from the dining room. There’s a discreet utility room to the side that has served as a delivery area, and when I saw it, a place for Austin’s cats to sleep.

Upstairs, Mercury’s four-part primary suite lies at the end of a hallway carpeted in thick cream pile. Once you enter, you’re surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors in an art deco dressing room. The mirrored doors artfully hide cabinets where he stored his clothes, including his famous stage outfits. On the side of the dressing room are two full en suite bathrooms, one of which has FM engraved in the marble. Just ahead, sliding mirrored doors open to the bedroom space, with a terrace that overlooks the garden and into the tranquil spaces of Kensington beyond.

Mercury’s Martin D35 acoustic guitar, photographed in the mirrored dressing room. Photographer: Barney Hindle

There’s a strong sense of personality and sense of time throughout the house, such as the light pink marble and green tub in a guest bathroom or the theatrical flair of the drawing room. It’s not a blank canvas, and that’s part of what makes it so special.

Before Freddie

Queen’s Mercury was the most famous occupant of Garden Lodge but wasn’t the only creative person to live there. The Neo-Georgian property was built at the turn of the 20th century as a combined home and studio for painter Cecil Rea and sculptor Constance Halford.

Other owners included Peter Wilson, a former chairman of Sotheby’s auction house, and British intelligence operative-turned-art-dealer Tomás Harris. It’s easy to imagine his own parties at Garden Lodge, with artists and spies mingling around the studio drawing room and the celebrations spilling out in the garden.

When Mercury bought the home, it was owned by a member of the prestigious Hoare banking family. Before its citrus-yellow makeover, the dining room was where they kept their safe.

“Mr. Hoare was taking us around, and I was just fascinated,” Austin says. “He said, ‘Oh, this is the safe. My father always sleeps at the bank, and when he can’t sleep at the bank, he brings all the money here.’”

The dining room as Mercury might have kept it. “He loved a dinner party,” says Austin. Photographer: Barney Hindle

Now that the property has been emptied of most of Mercury’s possessions, being in the house reminds Austin of how it was in the mid-’80s when Mercury was working with architect and designer Robin Moore Ede to make the home his own.

“We’ve actually revitalized the place to almost what it was before he moved his piano and belongings here. It was finished for at least a year before he moved in,” Austin says. “I would come here to work, I would come here to supervise, I would be here most of the time. And I suddenly find myself back to 1985.”

The Future of Garden Lodge

Austin first went to Knight Frank and explored selling the house 25 years ago, though she wasn’t quite ready to part with it then and, she says, appreciated that the agent she spoke to made sure to ask her if she was sure about a sale. She is now, she says, and is coming to terms with the fact that a future buyer will likely make changes to the property.

“The last thing you want is for someone to say, ‘Yes, I’ll buy it,’ and exploit it, and demolish it,” she says. “This is unique and has its beauty, and I know it has a purpose for someone—it did for Freddie.”

Prospective buyers should contact Paddy Dring or James Pace at Knight Frank for exact details of the property. Layouts, square footage and the size of the lot were not shared by the agency and are not being made available to the public for privacy reasons, they say. The listing itself is not being put online.

Dring says the property itself is a piece of cultural history, but it would be notable even without its famous owner. It’s incredibly rare to see such a large unmodernized home in central London with a mature garden area, he says. “It’s unbelievably special and a complete one-off.”

More of Mercury’s designs for the dining room cornice. Source: Knight Frank

Kensington is sought-after, too. After Mayfair, it was the London area with the most sales priced above £10 million in 2023, according to Knight Frank. The average sale price for a Kensington detached home in the past year was about £18 million, according to Rightmove data. Comparable recent property sales near the £30 million asking price include ones with the same amount of bedrooms in nearby Holland Park—both updated recently and with swimming pools—but without any rock legend imprimatur.

As to whom Austin sees buying the house, she has a feeling that it’ll be another artist. “If it’s not another creative, it should be because it is, it has that atmosphere,” she says. “There might be a buyer with a similar modus operandi to Freddie.”

But, she continues, gesturing around the grand, now piano-less drawing room, “Once you’ve sold, you’ve sold. You can’t hold on to the past forever, I suppose. I’ll be leaving with it very warm in my heart.”

#queen band #freddie mercury #auction

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happilychee · 7 months

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knight!erza and swordsmith!reader pt. 1

god I love erza so much

♡ when you were just an orphaned brat, you apprenticed at a forge in a rundown village. the old geezer who took you in, makarov dreyar, was a kind old man, but the real problem for you was his grandson: laxus. he took every opportunity to tease and torment you throughout your childhood. the only time the two of you could get along was at the forge. hammering away at raw metal, cooling hot swords, or sharpening new blades, that was the only time your arguing was replaced by the racket of a swordsmith's shop.

♡ you spent your childhood and adolescence learning the secrets of the trade and the dreyar family's special techniques. you grew into a fine young swordsmith, but you knew that this shop wasn't yours to keep. the moment you turned of age, you packed your bags and bid a tearful goodbye to the people you considered family: the man you called grandfather and (though neither of you would ever admit it) the idiot you thought of as your older brother.

♡ you travel for a while, doing odd jobs likened to a blacksmith's profession to make some coin. it's when you reach the bustling trade town of magnolia that you feel you've found your place. a ramshackle stand set up in a corner of the bustling magnolia market, a hot fire in your forge, and a roaring spirit are what it takes to set you on your path.

♡ you're a damn good swordsmith, and soon all of magnolia knows it. it's not long before your name is whispered throughout the entire kingdom. you receive commissions from all sorts of types. you've made beautiful bangles that twist into whips for a drunkard fortune teller; you've made a necklace that disguises spirit keys as charms for a hooded blonde woman; you've made twin daggers that can conceal themselves as earrings for the princess herself! your work is always well-made, created with the highest quality of materials, and it doesn't come at a low price.

♡ you think it's a day like any other. your biceps strain as you carry a new anvil into the back of the shop. your orders won't make themselves, so you get to work right away. between casting iron for gauntlets and hammering down on a new blade, you're quickly covered by a layer of soot. your skin shines with sweat, and you're about to yell at whoever dares to disrupt your work, but your words die in your throat. standing before you is a knight, covered from head to toe in armor. that's not an unusual sight in a place as well-connected as magnolia, but what catches your eye is the vibrant color of the knight's armor.

♡ "you're the scarlet knight." you breathe out, shoving aside scrap metal as you set down your hammer. "I am in need of a new sword." the knight speaks. you can't tell if they're a man or a woman or neither by their muffled voice, but you can tell that they're powerful. "what kind?" "any." you huff at their short response. it's an ongoing argument between swordsmiths everywhere: does the sword choose the swordsman, or the swordsman choose the sword? you think it's the latter. "will you be able to fight with any sword I make?" you raise an eyebrow. "if it's good enough." the knight answers. you can feel your blood boil, and you can almost imagine the smirk on their face. "you wanna bet, knight?"

♡ you don't sleep for the next week. you barely eat or drink, too focused on creating the best sword you've ever made. it's slightly longer than you'd usually make, but the scarlet knight was taller than the average man. the blade itself is a shining silver, but you know it won't stay that way for long. hopefully. the hilt is engraved with swirling dragons, their eyes inlaid with red gemstones. the hilt also has red and black stones that create a beautiful floral pattern in filigree. you don't think you'll ever make a sword as beautiful as this one.

♡ the scarlet knight seems to know exactly when you finish the sword. the embers are burning low in your forge, calming down as the evening draws in, and the knight is leaning against your doorframe again. you lift the sword out of a basin of water, the metal shining in the moonlight. "you don't waste a second, do you? here." you grin as the knight takes the sword, the blade turning a deep red. "what do you think?" your voice is nothing short of cheeky. the scarlet knight says nothing, staring at you through their visor. "...good."

♡ you don't see the knight for a long time after that, though you don't mind, with the amount of coin they gave you for the sword. you almost forget about them, until they return with a different sword, asking for a repair. "you have multiple swords?" you raise an eyebrow as you enter the back of your shop. "sit, this won't take long." you manage to weasel a few stories from the scarlet knight as you work, and you find that they're quite an interesting figure. you offer a few stories of your own in exchange, and you can't say you're not pleased when you hear them chuckle. the scarlet knight returns quite often after that, always with some weapon or other that needs adjustments. you learn more and more about them, relishing in each second you hear their alluring voice. the knight never takes off their helmet, but you don't ask about it. everyone has their secrets to keep.

♡ you fall into a steady rhythm of visits and late night talks. time between them varies, as the knight's travels take them far and wide, but your door is always open to them. on a rainy night, you perch at your table with a steaming mug of cider. sketches are strewn across the table, each offering a prospective new project for you to undertake. your musings are interrupted by a clatter at the door. like so many times before, you look up to see the scarlet knight, except... except they're falling to the floor, and you just barely manage to block their descent with your body. you wince as you hit the cold stone, but you quickly forget your discomfort when your palm comes back bright red. "blood?!" you cry out. "I didn't... know where else to... go..." the knight manages to get out.

♡ you did not sign up for this. you did not sign up for undressing a somewhat-friend-somewhat-stranger in your workshop. you did not sign up for pulling up their tunic and revealing planes of well-toned muscles. you did not sign up for stitching together their skin and wiping away the excess blood. you certainly did not sign up to remove their helmet, thinking it would put unnecessary strain on their body, only to find yourself face to face with the most beautiful woman you'd ever seen.

#lychee writes #hello I am insane about erza #as usual #also I'm a sucker for a reader who creates stuff #part two tmrw hopefully bc I have Thoughts #heehee #fairy tail #fairy tail headcanons #fairy tail x reader #erza scarlet #laxus dreyar #but this ain't about him #cana alberona #lucy heartfilia #hisui

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