#mid century modern mansion

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1969 mansion in Palm Springs, California is stuck in a time-warp, but not in a good way and they want $2.3M for the 3bd. 4ba. home. I remember this home, it sold in 2021 for $1.969M and it’s back on the market already.

Thru the ornate gates is an outdoor walkway ending in a mid-century modern front door. 

Enter the “formal green rotunda living room” with furniture built for the room. (I think it comes with the house.)

In the rec room is an ornate bar, a stone fireplace, and a vintage jukebox. 

According to the description, furnishings were custom made to fit, so if they’re still here after the house was sold in 2021, they must convey. 

The kitchen has been completely remodeled and it has a nice MCM vibe.

Nice dinette area. I like the sunny yellow. 

The main bd. furniture has come with the house. That headboard is attached to the mirrored wall. Not thrilled with raised bed platform. I know I’d trip.

There’s a view of the pool, but it appears like that piece of furniture is blocking access to the doors.

Separate vanity table.

The matching en-suite.

The blue bd. and bath are a guest suite.

The green room. 

And matching en-suite.

Multi-level pool. 

Covered sitting area and outdoor dining space.

Look at the unusual trees in the yard.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2055-S-Joshua-Tree-Pl-Palm-Springs-CA-92264/18030011_zpid/

[macbethz]

my one disgustingly capitalist fantasy indulgence is imagining i become rich enough to live in the chemosphere

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

watching joel and etho explode in the fishing rod death is never not funny

[kasiabobula]

[kentopedia]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

[heartfullofleeches]

I think Sunshine prince will be trust fund kid with brag a docious ton of Lamborghini in moderen au

Works for me

Modern Au Sunshine/"Innocent" Prince/Stoic Bodyguard Reader

The "Prince" is a spoiled brat with living parents that have the entire city under their thumb. He's given the title for his looks and charms; the sweetest little devil you could probably met - until you get on his bad side. When he's in one of his moods, generations will be ruined if anyone dares try to talk to him, even if it's to cheer him up. The week he found out his parents were getting him a guard - nobody was safe. Everyone's favorite teacher lost their job of thirty years for giving him a quick pep talk while he was seething. This all came after he had an altercation with another student for play flirting with their partner though he was the clear victor. His parents thought the world was too dangerous for their sweet baby. They thought he was a child - weak. He'd show them. He'd ruin his guards life and make them regret stepping one foot his house and-

"Lunar, meet Y/n. They will be attending the same college as you, but outside their studies they will be with you at all times."

And-

"A pleasure, Sir."

And....oh. He's never been called that before. Makes him feel like he's aged a century - but he likes the respect. You aren't as ugly as he thought you'd be either.

" I hear you have a reputation of being called a prince at your college. Would you prefer if I called you "Your Majesty" instead?"

There's no hint of mockery in your tone. You're serious.... Is it to late to take back what he said about ruining your life?

Princey here is all over his hired protection. He really lives up the "harmless babe, silly clumsy boy who can do no wrong." part of his act when you're around. He prefers bottled soda over canned because he can get you to crack them open for him and compliment your strength. He kicks open the doors of your class mid-lecture and whines about being hungry a whole two hours before break. You're quick to scold him for the latter, and your intervention plus his self dumbifcation leads to let mishaps among your peers - and eyes on you. Nobody is smart enough to make a move on you in his line of sight, but you pretty much become the school eye candy when he's off on his own.

The Prince moves out of his parent's four story mansion and into your dorm for a taste of that domestic bliss. Your living space gets upgraded to a two bedroom apartment because even his parents are wise enough to know putting you in one room would lead to trouble - but he weasels his way into your bed most nights regardless. He pushes his innocent act a little too far when he tries to get in the shower or bath with you, but rubbing his face on the towel you used is fine enough for now. Unbridled, unfiltered rage is casted at whoever may need your aid. You are his knight guard, and his alone.

-

[Bodyguard Guard Reader carries an unconscious peer out of the pool after they nearly drowned, their lips pale blue.]

"Oh my God. I don't think they're breathing -"

Bodyguard Reader: Don't worry - I know CPR

Prince Yan, pulling up with a vacuum: I got you covered!

-

Prince Yan: You pathetic, worthless, no good, low life, homewrecking, stupid, repulsive whor-

[Bodyguard Reader walks in]

Prince Yan: Y/n! I've been looking for you everywhere! Can you peel this apple for me with your teeth?

-

[Some thugs Prince paid off walking in limping and covered in bruises]

"Dude what the hell!? You said this was a joke

Prince Yan: The joke was it's funny you think Y/n would allow anyone to put hands on me. I would say you should see what they can do with a watermelon or pumpkin and their thighs - but if you did I'd have to skin you all alive

[mudwerks]

(via Chris Pratt draws ire for razing historic 1950 LA home for sprawling mansion | Chris Pratt | The Guardian)

Chris Pratt has drawn ire from architecture aficionados after news broke that the actor and his wife, Katherine Schwarzenegger, had razed a historic, mid-century modern home to make way for a sprawling 15,000-sq-ft mansion.

Last year, the couple purchased the 1950 Zimmerman house, designed by the architect Craig Ellwood, in Los Angeles’s Brentwood neighborhood for $12.5m. The residence, with landscaping by Garrett Eckbo – who has been described as the pioneer of modern landscaping – had previously been featured in Progressive Architecture magazine.

It was most recently home to the late Hilda Rolfe, the widow of Sam Rolfe, co-creator of the series The Man from Uncle. Video of the property from December 2022 shows a light-filled home that appears to have been well-preserved, with large windows, wood floors and mid-century furniture.

The single-story home and its grounds have since been cleared and in its place will be a massive home in the modern farmhouse style that has come to dominate US suburbs.

[elementroar]

With no exaggeration this has been the most significant development in any media I've watched this year, because Season 2 of the House of the Dragon has been mid af.

Look at this beautiful example of internal consistency and continuity that not only pays homage to the original show but expands upon it. Marvel at how this show made for kids and grown-up fans directly addresses its canon fairy mpreg (and this is the second time they casually bring up how Cosmo was the one who gave birth to Peri).

Meanwhile HOTD S2 makes up a new Targaryen ancestor that never existed, and gets its own history wrong by centuries, struggles with deciding if they want the modern or historical definition of 'bastard' among other things.

I'm literally more excited for Foop/Irep appearing in the new FOP show than Daemon getting out of the goddamn haunted castle (it's been 4 weeks. 4 weeks of Luigi's Mansion!)

[leaslichoma]

Touhou Project theory: the Scarlet Devil Mansion's heavy metal poisoning

something an intro idk how to do this

WARNING! LONG POST AHEAD!

Potential sources of heavy metal toxins

If we look inside the mansion there's a lot of red carpet. One pigment for red is vermilion, which which is derived from the mercury mineral cinnabar which is highly toxic. Vermilion was a highly valued and prestigious dye historically, befitting of an aristocrat's mansion. Another detail is in one of these screenshots the carpet is a rather dark red, and while many red pigments slowly turn pink as they fade vermilion actually darkens and turns brown (similar to blood), which you can see in the painting below. This could be a lighting effect, though.

Another possible pigment is minium, which is derived from lead and is also toxic.

We also see a fair amount of white in the mansion, on the table cloth in the above image and many of the residents' clothing such as Sakuya's apron and Flandre's mob cap. One historical pigment for white is lead white, which is also derived from lead. Lead white was also used in cosmetics to whiten skin, for another potential source of poisoning.

Another potential source is lead from pewter. Given Remilia's weakness to silver she is not likely to use sterling silver for metal objects such as tableware and tea sets. Pewter, a broad term for various tin alloys, is a popular alternative she might use. However, many older pewter alloys contained large amounts of lead as its toxicity was not understood. For a long time lead was actually used in toys since it was cheap and not understood.

There's also a possibility of toxins leaching into food or drink through glass or the enamel of pottery. Lead-crystal glass slowing leaches lead into drink and if Remilia happened to buy any Uranium glass, which became popular during the mid 19th century, and peaked between 1880 to 1920, that would leach uranium. If any pottery uses toxic materials in the enamel that is another source of poisoning.

Potential victims

Sakuya Izayoi and Patchouli Knowledge are the two most human residents of the Scarlet Devil Mansion. Both display symptoms of heavy metal poisoning.

Patchouli is stated to have anemia and weak muscles. Both of these can occur from lead poisoning, though anemia typically takes a very large dose.

Sakuya Izayoi is described as "spacey", which is defined by the Merriam-webster dictionary as a synonym of spaced-out which means "dazed or stupefied by or as if by a narcotic substance,". Given how both mercury and lead mostly affect the nervous system, and both can cause memory impairment, tremors and incoordination, it makes sense that someone suffering from heavy metal poisoning might be compared to someone who is drunk or high.

For more definitive proof that Sakuya has mental difficulties, we should look at the fact that Sakuya does not know what oxygen is. While one might assume that this is just because she lives isolated from the modern world, Oxygen was first isolated before 1604 by Michael Sendivogius, and given a name and recognized as an element in 1777. Oxygen could be an important discovery for her position considering its role in food preservation. Sakuya has had over two centuries to learn that oxygen exists. Keep in mind that she lives with Patchouli Knowledge, a professional scholar, who may have been residing in the mansion for nearly a century. This could suggest serious memory and learning issues, symptoms of both lead and mercury poisoning.

While Sakuya does not display the the delayed reactions or loss of coordination associated with lead and mercury poisoning, her powers over time may prevent this. If she trips and drops something, which might normally cause someone to notice her decreasing coordination, she can just stop time and undo it.

Another interesting, though flawed, possibility is that the fairy maids have heavy metal poisoning as well. The fairy maids are stated numerous times to be bad at their jobs, spending most of their work hours only able to maintain themselves, but were still hired by Sakuya and continue to be employed by Remilia. With symptoms of anemia, weakness, memory loss, pain, lack of coordination and more it's easy to see how lead and/or mercury poisoning could make a maid bad at their job. Fairies in Touhou Project are often compared to children who are especially susceptible to lead poisoning. The fairy maids would probably slowly improve at their jobs since first being hired, and plateau and slowly decrease as increasing heavy metal levels in their blood poison them and affect their work. Perhaps Remilia and Sakuya see this happen with all the maids and assume it's just how maids or fairies work.

While one might object and that youkai would not be affected by human medical conditions like lead or mercury poisoning, there is a tiny bit of precedent for this. There's an exchange in Touhou 19 where Sanae recommends that Mamizou stop smoking so much: "I don't suppose that smoking too much is good for you. Nor is drinking." This, if admittedly stretched, suggests that certain things that are unhealthy for humans may be unhealthy for certain youkai and similar beings as well. Youkai are also affected by alcohol as well and get drunk. While this might be because of the idea that drinking makes you drunk, is it possible that if knowledge of lead and mercury poisoning spread to the humans of Gensokyo, and they started believing that lead makes you sick, that belief might cause certain youkai and related beings to get sick as well?

Problems with this theory

Neither Patchouli nor Sakuya show certain physical symptoms of mercury poisoning: Skin discolouration (usually reddening), hair loss, or peeling of the skin. Let's compare some artwork from Touhou 6:

As we can see, Reimu has the reddest cheeks which is inconsistent with Sakuya and Patchouli having mercury poisoning. However, an interesting connection is that Reimu wears mostly red, and considering it is traditional to paint the Torii gates of shrines vermilion to ward off evil, it is actually more possible than I initially thought that she could have mercury poisoning as well.

Some might object that Patchouli Knowledge, being a youkai mage, might be immune to toxins. Considering how wizards are stated to often have weak bodies due to interaction with dangerous substances, I find this unlikely. One might argue something similar for Sakuya because of her time manipulation, but we only see her use time manipulation consciously, so we aren't sure. The main question would be whether the process that slows her aging also negates most of her bodily functions, so I guess this would depend on whether we see her eat and breath, and since she gets tired from hypoxia in Touhou 18 she must be breathing and is probably susceptible to poison as well.

The main problems I can think with this theory of are with the fairy maids having heavy metal poisoning as well, which was not the main subject. It's been explained that Remilia goes for quantity over quality for her staff, and Sakuya presumably hires anyone with the most basic of skills. However, it could be possible that Remilia goes for quantity over quality because they all end up low quality due to their poisoning. Given that fairies are used to playing and pulling pranks they are probably unsuited to hard work. The reasoning that they might still be affected by poison is rather weak since much of it relies on a single remark from Sanae, who might be wrong. I still found it interesting to consider.

[wjbs-bonkle-au]

Random small-scale Bionicle AU ideas; feel free to ask what your blorboes (or canon-set OCs, provided you explain what their Thing™ is) are doing in each:

Golf (Turaga-centric AU where they all play golf; side-stuff features the Toa Mahri working at a Crazy/Mini-Golf place.)

Bowling-alley (I think I already posted about this ages ago, but I'm bringing it up again to add some context; it's set in a pseudo-80s world, but everyone's still a biomechanical thing. The Metru and Hagah are the staff, Helryx is the manager, and everybody else are the regular bowlers.)

Age of Sail (technically-a-morality-swap pirate AU; the Makuta are further towards the "lawful" edge of the morality-grid, the (non-evil) Toa are more like Robin Hood figures, and the Dark Hunters and Piraka are more traditional pirates. The Red Star is a ghost-ship crewed by the dead, and Spherus Magna is basically Atlantis.)

Superhero (Human AU offshoot where all the regions are modern-day cities and everyone wears modern clothing; the Toa, Order Of Mata Nui etc. are superheroes, and the various antagonists are supervillains.)

Battle of the Bands (another Human AU offshoot, where the Toa Teams and other factions are bands in a mundane setting, and all the major conflicts are formatted as the eponymous style of contest; the main story is set contemporarily to the respective story-arc's out-of-universe storyline, with relevant musical genres (e.g the Inika are an indie-rock band in 2006, facing off against the Piraka, who are a rap-metal band), and the Metru Nui flashbacks take place in the mid-1980s (with the Toa Metru being a New wave act).)

Reversal (AU where the Magnans live in the GSR and the MU characters live on Bara Magna.)

Broken Mirror (basically just Transformers: Shattered Glass but Bonkle,)

Steam-Age (Bionicle, but in a world where the Magnan society was in the aesthetic and technological equivalent of the mid-to-late 1800s; Bota Magna is a large industrialised city, and Bara Magna is essentially the Wild West. Metus is a literal snake-oil salesman. Some areas of the Matoran Universe has progressed past this a bit, with Metru Nui being Art Deco and having Dieselpunk technology.)

MMORPG (yet another Human-AU spinoff, this time with the characters playing characters resembling their canon selves in a popular MMORPG.)

YA Dystopia ("what if Bionicle was an early-mid 2010s Young-Adult dystopian novel?")

Detective Takua (Takua but as a Poirot-meets-Columbo detective in an early-mid 20th century-flavoured world that coincidentally happens to be shaped like a jumbled-up version of the Matoran Universe; showing up unannounced/coincidentally happening to be at the Big Isolated Mansion™, Large Isolated Boat® or Vaguely-Mediterranean Island©, being very friendly to literally everyone there while also using his... Takua-ness(?) to disarm potential subjects and try to catch them out. Also Kapura is there sometimes.)

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Yikes! Here's a 1972 mid-century modern estate called "Utopia." It's in Denver, Colorado, has 5bds, 7ba, and is $5.3M + $13mo ($150yr.) HOA fee (and I can proudly say that I can afford the HOA fee.)

This is stunning.

So many windows, though. I would feel like I'm living in a fish bowl. But, it's gated and the description said there's a lot of privacy, nonetheless.

It's been recently remodeled.

I've never heard of this, but that soaring black fireplace is made of porcelain.

The double-sided fireplace faces the living room and the dining area.

The kitchen has heavily veined quartz and a big stainless steel exhaust hood. The area behind the wall is called the "prep kitchen."

Family kitchen dining area.

There's a beautiful bar in front of a terrace.

The principle bedroom is as big as an apt.

The bed faces the pool, there's a sitting area in the corner.

Plus a quartz fireplace and living room.

Some sort of hallway.

Closets and a wine cooler.

Plus a matching en-suite bath.

The tub has a separate room.

And, this is the closet/dressing room.

Bedroom #2 looks almost as big as the primary.

The stone work in here is beautiful.

This is the privacy gate.

But, there's no fencing on this side of the house, by the pool. That's a country club.

The pool and house lit up at night.

[aurorawest]

Reading update

Arthur and Teddy Are Coming Out by Ryan Love - 3/5 stars

The Fate of Stars by SD Simper - DNF at pg 32

A Gathering Storm by Joanna Chambers - 4.75/5 stars

I kept getting the Madame Leota room from Haunted Mansion stuck in my head as I was reading this (not a bad thing!). This book has a surprisingly low rating on the Storygraph, and I'm not going to torture myself by looking at the reviews, but I'm assuming it's because of the power discrepancy between Ward and Nick. Clearly it didn't bother me as I really enjoyed the book!

Dionysus in Wisconsin by EH Lupton - 4.75/5 stars

At some point I might get tired of Mid-Century Modern romances, but not this day. This book was super fun, with an interesting world and lovely characters. And a Midwest setting! I've spent a lot of time in Madison, Wisconsin, where this book is set, so I got the added bonus of knowing most of the places pretty well. There was even a shoutout to an obscure piece of Madison history, the Lost City in the Arb. I have to get the second book in the series now!boy

Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan - 3.25/5 stars

I gave this book an extra quarter of a star for being written in 2003, when it would have been genuinely pretty groundbreaking. Reading it in 2024, it's very twee and pretty cringey (the queer utopia town would have been a magical fantasy in 2003, not so much now in a lot of places). When Levithan credited Francesca Lia Block's Weetzie Bat books in the acknowledgements, I though, ah. No wonder. Hated those as a teen.

All that said, there's some genuinely lovely writing in this book, and it has its place in the queer canon.

The Greywacke by Nick Davidson - 5/5 stars

Super interesting nonfiction about the discipline of geology and how the early geologic epochs were figured out. Also gave me an idea for a historical romance about gay Victorian geologists.

Home Grown Talent by Joanna Chambers & Sally Malcolm - 5/5 stars

I think I loved this one more than the first in the series. The social media scandal was perfect, in that it was exactly as absurd as every social media scandal is, and thus hilarious, but also chilling in how even something so stupid can ruin people's lives.

The First Bright Thing by JR Dawson - DNF at pg 1

Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves - DNF at pg 30

Reuben's Hot & Cold by M Arbon - 3/5 stars

Slight Foxing Around the Edges by Melissa Polk - DNF at pg 132

Restored by Joanna Chambers - 5/5 stars

Balefire by Jordan L Hawk - 4.75/5 stars

A Rulebook for Restless Rogues by Jess Everlee - 4/5 stars

The Mars House by Natasha Pulley - 5/5 stars

See my brain vomit about this book here. If you've been around here for any amount of time you know all Natasha Pulley's books make me feral. Absolutely no exception here. I cannot believe her first UK publisher dropped her over this book. Idiots! It's wonderful just like everything she's ever written.

In the Case of Heartbreak by Courtney Kaye - DNF at pg 181

The Piano Tuner by Daniel Mason - DNF at pg 21

The Charm Offensive by Alison Cochrun - 5/5 stars (reread)

Just as good as the first time I read it!

Exhalation by Ted Chiang - 4.5/5 stars

The Foxhole Court by Nora Sakavic - DNF at pg 84

Crisped + Sere by TJ Klune - 4.75/5 stars

It actually kind of makes me mad that this series isn't Klune's most famous work, because it's real good. At this point it seems kind of unlikely he's going to continue it, but man, I'd love another book.

These Silent Stars by Chani Lynn Feener - DNF at pg 68

Trailer Park Trickster by David R Slayton - 5/5 stars

See below.

Deadbeat Druid by David R Slayton - David R Slayton - 5/5 star

I LOVE this series. Love love love love. Absolute must read. If you're a fan of KD Edwards's The Tarot Sequence, this series is right up your alley. It seems like there will be more after this initial trilogy, and there's also a spinoff book coming soon which I'm super excited for. Read them!!

[moonwoodhollow]

~Mid century modern mansion~....whoa who said that!?!?

Me!! tbh one can never have too many midcentury builds in game~

[divinecap]

limited pack build practice…

my mid century modern inspired (mansion¿) attempt for Willow Creek. i don’t usually build on anything bigger than 30x20 but this 40x30 was fun. (also why it’s just a shell)

the lofted second floor with the spa day lamp overlooking the front door is my fav detail.

EA ID: divinexcap 🤎

[laughing-with-god]

Last question for now (apologies!)

What are the personal like… styles/ vibes of their homes? Or like, how would they decorate the inside of it? Or would they at all?

(me personally, if I just won the Hunger games, the first thing I'm doing is an AD Open Door Victor's Village edition lmao)

(( Author's Note : Don't be sorry, I love questions like these! It helps me attach visuals to characters which is really fun. For this, I pulled some Pinterest pics and did some light research on the districts, but also feel free to interpret/imagine what you feel is right!!))

Jin

I picture that the Victor homes vary depending on their district, which would make sense considering the districts are in different landscapes so not all homes can be built the same

For District One, I picture little mansions with lots of glass walls for natural light. This district is apparently in the center of the U.S. (Wyoming, Idaho, Utah) so I can see some natural materials, sun roof windows, low and wide mid-century modern houses

I think stylistically, Jin would decorate his home with lots of white and browns, a colorful rug or accent furniture here and there, but he doesn't overdo it in fear of being tacky

fireplace is probably boarded up for um, obvious reasons (war flash backs lol)

I think his favorite part of his home is the kitchen. In the games, starvation was especially tough on him, so now I think he seeks comfort in food. I can see him taking cooking classes or hiring a personal chef, maybe even throwing dinner parties.

If you were to move in with him, I think he'd be okay with you changing whatever you wanted, as long as he gets to keep all his fancy kitchen appliances

Namjoon

I dont think he'd care a lot about the style of his home, I also see him rarely being there since he has so much work to do in the capitol

District Three is apparently in the midwest, and there's lots of factories that make high end technology for the capitol

Therefore, I think the victor homes there would be simple, modern/industrial condo-style homes? Lots of grays and blacks with granite accents.

I don't think Namjoon would go out of his way to purchase furniture or decor, just accepting the furnishings it already came with. He's not a sentimental guy and a part of him is always aware that his home is technically the capitol's property, not his.

I think a cool highlight of his home would be the technology. Like his tv is just a hologram or there's just some cool tech that locks all the doors and turns on the lights on at once. other disctrict victors don't even get that, it's just district three since they rule technology

If you were to move in, Namjoon would gladly welcome any change in decor, letting you know that he never saw the point before you

Jimin

So I personally feel like District Four would make more sense in a tropical place like Florida or something, therefore I feel like there would be a "jungle/beachouse" vibe to the victor homes here

Victors row would be in a vegetated area of four, not too far from the water. I don't see the capitol wanting to have victors living right on the coast since that's most likely reserved for shipments, boating, fishing and yeah....the water is probably heavily monitered in case people get ideas...

Jimin more or less kept everything the same, though he did let his desinger team go crazy with the jungle concept

I can see Jimin liking the color green and also taking care of plants, since he's pretty lonely back at Four it gives him a little sense of innocent purpose

Again, he's def more at the Capitol than here tho, often times this feels more like a vacation home

All the guest rooms get used as extra storage for all the gifts he received from capitol women. hopes to one day fill them with kids tho :(

If you were to move in, Jimin would be estatic and gladly join in any renovation plans. He'd want to be included in the choices, pick the wrong wallpaper even and he'd be pissy about it lol

Hoseok

District Eight is full of factories and textiles, so I see victor's homes being industrial condos with brick walls, exposed pipes and wooden beams

Hoseok will try to decorate and make it feel cozy, just for the sake of his siblings though

I feel like he probably gave his siblings the bigger rooms and took one of the smallest in the home

Anything his little brothers or sisters want, it's theirs no question asked

I can see him becoming a little home maker honestly. He wakes his siblings up in the morning, makes them breakfast, sends them to school, then comes back home and cleans their rooms / common spaces, does some grocery shopping, laundry ect. ect.

It's very cute and mother hen of him but he really just can't handle freetime bc then his mind wonders to dark places...

so he throws himself into caring for his siblings

If you were to move in with him, he'd welcome you and any changes you might want to have on the common spaces, but obvi is protective of his siblings' stuff.

Yoongi

Six is said to be highly populated and overly dense, borderline too many people live here. I picture it as a city too, transportation being their main hub so there's probably even a subway system

Therefore I think the captitol would make a victor buidling or something. District Six doesnt have many victors and the place is already so dense, I think a good solution would be to make one big high rise of apartments where all the living victors have their own units

Yoongi probably threw away everything in the apartment

I can see him having some chairs and a single bed. prob doesn't even have a tv bc keeps breaking them in rage every time the capitol makes an "announcement" lol

Fridge is also always empty. Boy can go days without eating so it doesn't even occur to him to have groceries on hand

Pics below are what the place should look like, before he fucked it up

If you were to move in, good luck on even hanging up a single picture. Give it a week before Yoongi flies into another rage and rips everything to shreds.

Taehyung

I think District Eleven victor homes would be like large, farmhouses on hills away from the rest of the town

I picture feilds upon feilds in this district, since it's all about farming so it's probably very big in terms of land

I also don't think the capitol had many of these houses made, correctly assumming that Eleven wouldn't have many victors

I think Taehyung actually loves his home, quite liking the simplicity and size of it

I can see him starting a little garden in the back yard, or even getting some chickens to keep him busy

He probably would read to his mother too, he most likely set her up in the master bedroom and waits on her hand and foot

If you were to move in, he wouldn't mind little changes here and there. But at his core, he is a minimalist and would rather you not clutter up his space. Don't you two (three including his mom lol) have everything you need already? There's no shame in the simple life.

Jungkook

District Two is up in the mountains! Very cold and harsh winters, thin air but I'd imagine its very beautiful

The homes here are built in luxury cabin style at the base of the mountains. District Two also has the most victors, so I imagine their victors' village is quite the neighborhood

Jungkook is fond of the views he gets from his home. I think he'd like hiking too so he enjoys the proximity to nature

As for the interior, Jungkook doesn't really care. I know, most of the victors on this list don't care but like, kill 23ish kids in a game and ig it puts things into perspective lol

Like Yoongi, all he really needed was a good bed and he'd be okay. I don't think he got rid of the furniture the capitol provided, but he doesn't have an opinion on it either

If you were to move in, Jungkok would just hand you the cash to buy whatever decor you want, just as long as it's not "too girly"

[dwreader]

interior design insp/references dubai edition

Just like with Louis's wardrobe in Dubai I feel like there's a lot of misconception about the design of the penthouse and what it's meant to represent. First of all, dark modern was and still is super popular design style amongst the wealthy!! It's a very popular way to style large open spaces (like a penthouse apartment). Light and airy designs are usually intended to reflect more natural light to make your rooms look bigger but when you already have a MASSIVE space that's kind of unnecessary. Also it doesn't need to be said that these are vampires so enhancing natural light with bright wall colors/furniture is utterly irrelevant and quite frankly counterproductive to them. You would rarely see a very dark design in a tiny apartment though, that's why its popular mainly among the super wealthy in their mega penthouses or modernist mansions.

Black furniture also screams lux because it's a PAIN in the ass to maintain like lint, dust, grime, etc gets everywhere constantly so by purchasing black furniture you're pretty much announcing to your guests that you have a maid who cleans for you cause your rich ass sure as hell isn't dusting that shit every day.

While the overall aesthetic of Dubai I would say is highly modern, there are interesting touches that suggest a couple that has collected items through time. In the first screenshot, you see Daniel and Louis sitting in the ultra modern living space while Armand is off to the side at his very mid-century chair, a very early hint that he's maybe from a different time.

Looking at this shot, you can see as many as 4 different design styles in a single frame. The table is clearly ornate traditional, the chair (which looks like rattan or bamboo) is more mid-century/boho and the japanese garden, and finally a little pink modern organic henri dejeant lamp. It's such a perfect representation of how long Loumand have been alive and together cause its normal for couples to accumulate different pieces over the course of their lives together and try to fit them in even though they don't exactly match the current designs. But this is what happens when you've been together for 75 years!

It's also interesting to see how the design choices of the penthouse evolved because an earlier visualization had a green mario bellini couch instead of a dark grey/black. The bellini couch was a 70's design that made a huge comeback in the last couple years, which is like the WHOLE 2nd interview like someone from the 70s who has entered the picture again after a long absence. However, I bet they probably pulled back on the bellini couch cause it was becoming overdone although it is still mega expensive (comes in at around $20k) but it's kind of become one of those ughh not that shit again kind of item.