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kiesbrainjuice · 12 days ago

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— WILDFLOWER ! timeskip!atsumu

➥ pr : timeskip!atsumu x famous!fem!reader

➥ syn : after a tough argument with your boyfriend, you got in a car accident…

➥ wc : 3.1k

➥ tw : tough argument, car accident, injured reader, angst to comfort, crying reader, y/n employed a lil.

➥ a/n : trauma era ! (it’s weird I’ll stop)

The lights of Shibuya sparkled like they always did—a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of neon advertisements flashing bright against the obsidian night sky, painting the urban landscape in vibrant, electric hues of pink, cerulean, and electric blue. Massive screens flickered with advertisements, music videos, and breaking news, casting their ever-changing glow across the bustling streets below. But high above the cacophony of the city, inside the sleek, minimalist luxury penthouse that had once been their sanctuary, the air was thick with a different kind of electricity—raw, crackling tension that threatened to consume everything in its path.

The once warm and welcoming space now felt cold, almost suffocating. Gone were the soft throw pillows carefully arranged by interior designers, the artful photography capturing moments of their shared past, the subtle scent of sandalwood that typically permeated the air. Now, there was only silence punctuated by ragged breathing and the distant hum of Tokyo's nightlife.

Atsumu stood by the kitchen counter, a study in controlled fury. His muscular frame was tense, arms crossed over his chest, revealing the definition of years of professional volleyball training. His brow was furrowed, a familiar competitive edge that usually served him on the court now turned inward, sharp and dangerous. His blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, was slightly disheveled—a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil brewing inside him.

You were on the opposite side of the room, pacing back and forth. Your designer heels—Louboutins, a gift from a recent magazine shoot—clacked against the pristine marble floor in a staccato rhythm that matched the racing of your heart. Each step was a statement, a declaration of your growing frustration.

The penthouse, situated in one of Shibuya's most exclusive high-rises, had always been a symbol of your collective success. But tonight, it felt more like a pressure cooker, ready to explode under the weight of unspoken resentments and mounting professional tensions.

"I'm so sick of this, Atsumu!" you screamed, your voice a complex mixture of rage and profound hurt. Tears streamed down your face, tracing perfect lines through your meticulously applied makeup. Your hands, adorned with delicate rings from your latest endorsement deals, gestured wildly, punctuating each word with raw emotion. "You're never here! Never! And when you are, all we do is fight. I've spent the last five years supporting you, loving you, waiting for you—while I'm out there building my own damn career!"

The vulnerability beneath your anger was palpable. These weren't just the words of a frustrated partner, but of someone who had consistently placed another's dreams ahead of their own, only to feel increasingly marginalized and forgotten.

Atsumu's response was immediate, defensive—a reflex honed from years of facing down opponents on the volleyball court. "And what? You expect me to just drop everything?!" His voice was louder than you'd ever heard it before, a mixture of Osaka dialect and raw emotion. "You think bein' a professional volleyball player is just fun and games? That it doesn't take everythin' I have to stay at the top?"

His words were defensive, but underneath lay a deep-seated insecurity. The volleyball world was unforgiving, with careers that could end in an instant. Every moment not training, not preparing, felt like a potential threat to everything he had worked for.

"That's not what I'm saying!" you yelled back, your voice cracking with a complexity of emotions. As you wiped furiously at your cheeks, the carefully constructed persona of the confident model and actress momentarily dissolved, revealing the deeply wounded individual beneath. "But it's like I don't exist to you anymore, Atsumu! It's like I'm just a damn afterthought!"

You paused, inhaling sharply, gathering the last reserves of your emotional ammunition. When you spoke again, your words were calculated, designed to wound. "You know what? Maybe you love volleyball more than you ever loved me."

The silence that followed was deafening.

The sting in your words was palpable—a razor-sharp blade that cut through the carefully constructed facade of their relationship. In Atsumu's eyes, you could see a storm brewing. His pupils dilated, the golden-brown irises darkening with a mixture of hurt, anger, and something deeper—a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.

His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching near his temple—a tell-tale sign of his rising frustration. The fists at his sides tightened, knuckles turning white, betraying the athletic control he typically maintained with such precision. Years of professional volleyball had taught him to channel emotions, to convert raw feeling into explosive physical energy. But here, in the intimate battlefield of their home, those skills failed him completely.

"Don't even start with that crap," he spat, his voice dripping with venom that was more pain than malice. The Osaka dialect grew thicker, a subconscious retreat into his most authentic self—the version of Atsumu that existed before the fame, before the pressure, before the constant performance of being a professional athlete. "You're the one out there posin' half-naked for the world to see! You don't even care about what that does to me, do ya? Every single time I see your face plastered all over those magazines, I'm reminded of how everyone else gets to see what's supposed to be mine!"

The words hung in the air, loaded with possessiveness, insecurity, and a deep-seated fear of loss.

You froze, his words slicing through you like a knife. The transformation was immediate—from emotional vulnerability to razor-sharp defensive mode. "Excuse me?" you said, voice dangerously low, each syllable carefully enunciated. The model's training kicked in—controlled, precise, devastating. "What's supposed to be yours? Atsumu, I'm not some possession you can just claim. I've worked my ass off to get where I am. And if you can't handle my success, that's on you—not me."

Your career hadn't been a gift. It had been a battlefield of its own—endless castings, brutal rejections, critical eyes dissecting every inch of your appearance, your talent, your worth. Each magazine cover, each commercial, each film role had been hard-won, purchased with countless sleepless nights and moments of self-doubt.

"Oh, so now I'm the bad guy?" he shot back, his voice heavy with sarcasm that barely concealed his hurt. "Yeah, sure. Poor you. The perfect little model and actress who gets everything handed to her on a silver platter. Do ya even realize how lucky you are?"

The accusation hung between them—a gross oversimplification of a complex journey.

Your mouth fell open, shock mixing with the anger that burned in your chest like an uncontrollable wildfire. "Lucky?" you repeated, the word dripping with disbelief and mounting fury. You took a step closer to him, closing the physical distance between you, your presence electric and challenging. "You think my career is easy? That I haven't sacrificed just as much as you have?"

The vulnerability returned, raw and unfiltered. "You have no idea what it's like to have your entire life picked apart by strangers, to have people constantly criticize you, to feel like you're never enough no matter how hard you try!"

In that moment, the fight transformed. It was no longer just about time, or absence, or professional demands. It was about two individuals drowning in the expectations of their careers, of society, of each other—desperately trying to maintain their individual identities while simultaneously trying to maintain a relationship.

The room fell silent, heavy with unsaid things. The city continued its relentless pulse outside, indifferent to the emotional storm raging within the penthouse. Neon lights continued to dance across the windows, a stark contrast to the stillness inside.

"I can't do this anymore," you whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of you. Your voice was soft, but filled with a finality that seemed to reverberate through the entire space. Shaking your head, you grabbed your designer handbag—a Chanel piece that had been a hard-earned gift by Atsumu after a particularly challenging campaign.

"Where the hell do ya think you're goin'?" Atsumu barked, his voice rising again, a last-ditch attempt to maintain control of a situation rapidly slipping away.

"Anywhere but here," you snapped, your hand already reaching for the Porsche keys in the decorative bowl by the door. The keys clinked against each other, a metallic punctuation to your decision. "I can't even stand to look at you right now."

Before he could respond—before he could plead, argue, or attempt to reconcile—you slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the penthouse, a final, definitive statement that seemed to echo the fracturing of something once believed to be unbreakable.

—

Travis Scott's "SICKO MODE" blasted at maximum volume, the bass so loud it seemed to vibrate through your very bones. The irony wasn't lost on you—a song about chaos and intensity perfectly matching the emotional storm raging inside your mind. The lyrics seemed to mock your pain, each beat a punctuation to your spiraling thoughts.

The words rang out, and you laughed—a broken, hysterical sound that was more sob than anything else.

"I'm so fucking useless," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the thundering music. Tears streamed down your face, cutting perfect lines through your carefully applied makeup. "Nobody could ever really love me. Not Atsumu. Not anyone."

The streets of Tokyo blurred past, your Porsche cutting through the night like a silver blade of desperation. Every word from the fight replayed in your mind with merciless precision. Atsumu's accusations echoed like razor-sharp whispers, each one cutting deeper than the last.

"You don't even care about me anymore," his voice rang in your ears. "You'd rather show off for strangers than even try to make this work."

The music swelled, Travis Scott's voice a backdrop to your internal breakdown.

"I'm nothing," you muttered, your grip on the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. "Just a pretty face. Just something to look at. Never enough to be truly loved." The words were a mantra of self-destruction, each one landing like a physical blow.

Your mind was a tempest of emotions—guilt, rage, self-hatred swirling together in a hurricane of pain. The city lights streaked past like watercolor brushstrokes, Tokyo's infamous neon landscape becoming an impressionistic canvas of blues, pinks, and electric whites.

You pushed the Porsche faster, as if speed could outrun the pain, could silence the voices in your head. The powerful engine roared beneath you, a mechanical beast responding to your emotional turmoil. At 180 kilometers per hour, the world outside became an indistinct smear, much like your sense of self—undefined, chaotic, on the verge of complete disintegration.

The irony of the lyrics wasn't lost on you. Ideas of worthlessness, of being unlovable, of being nothing more than a commodity—they filled your mind completely.

The intersection approached—a critical point of convergence that would change everything in a heartbeat.

The sharp, piercing sound of a car horn sliced through the music. A moment of stark clarity emerged, milliseconds stretching into an eternity. Your head turned, eyes widening as massive headlights barreled toward you, bright and unforgiving.

Travis Scott's voice was the last thing you heard.

The impact was sudden. Violent. Apocalyptic.

Metal screamed against metal, a cacophonous symphony of destruction that mixed with the final echoes of the song. Your Porsche—a machine engineered for precision and speed—was reduced to a crumpled sculpture of twisted metal and shattered dreams. The collision flung the car across the intersection with a force that defied physics, spinning and tumbling like a discarded thought.

And then, silence.

Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood, rising like a spectral mourner above the wreckage. The music cut off abruptly, leaving behind a ringing silence that seemed to echo your final, unspoken thoughts.

"Atsu…," you whispered, as darkness began to creep in.

The city continued its relentless pulse, indifferent to the personal tragedy that had just unfolded on its streets. Neon lights flickered, a final, distant reminder of a life that now seemed impossibly far away.

—

The phone's shrill ring cut through the silence of the penthouse. Atsumu, still frozen in the aftermath of your departure, instinctively reached for his mobile. The caller ID displayed the hospital's number—a sight that immediately sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system.

"Hello?," he answered, his voice raw from their earlier argument.

The words that followed would forever divide his life into two distinct periods: before and after this moment.

"Sakusa Kei Memorial Hospital," the voice said. "We're calling about a patient involved in a severe traffic collision. Are you the emergency contact for y/n?"

Time seemed to stop.

The next hours passed in a blur of sterile white corridors, the acrid smell of disinfectant, and the constant beeping of medical equipment. Atsumu's athletic composure—usually so precise, so controlled—completely dissolved. His hands shook as he filled out medical forms, his usually confident Osaka dialect reduced to fragmented, desperate whispers.

The hospital room was quieter than Atsumu had expected, save for the soft hum of machines monitoring your vitals. The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of his fear as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, lying amidst a sea of white linens and medical equipment. The sight nearly brought him to his knees.

Your body looked so small, so fragile against the stark hospital bed. Bruises bloomed across your exposed skin like shadows of the argument that had led you here. A cast encased your left leg, another your arm, and your face was marred with small cuts and swelling that no makeup could disguise. But your eyes—their familiar light dimmed but not extinguished—opened slowly at the sound of his approach.

“Atsumu,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a fragile thread that tugged at his heart.

He froze mid-step, his athletic frame tense, as though moving too quickly might shatter what little remained of you. Tears, warm and unwelcome, blurred his vision as he stumbled forward, his legs carrying him to your side.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. His hand hovered over yours, afraid to touch, afraid of breaking you further. “God, I’m so sorry, darlin’. This is all my fault.”

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion from the accident and the aftermath evident in every line of your body. For a moment, you said nothing, letting his words settle into the quiet. Then, with more strength than he thought you could muster, you managed, “Don’t… do that.”

Atsumu’s brows furrowed in confusion, guilt momentarily eclipsed by the sharpness of your tone, fragile though it was. “Do what?” he asked softly, his voice a broken echo of its usual bravado.

“Don’t you dare make this about you,” you replied, your voice gaining a sliver of its familiar fire. “This isn’t your fault, Atsumu. I was the one driving. I was the one who left.”

The tears he had tried so hard to control now fell freely, streaking down his face as he shook his head vehemently. “But ya wouldn’t have been drivin’ like that if it weren’t for me,” he countered, his Osaka dialect thick with emotion. “If I hadn’t been such an idiot—if I hadn’t said those awful things—ya wouldn’t have been out there at all.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of his guilt palpable in the room. “And if I’d listened to you instead of trying to win the argument… maybe I wouldn’t have stormed out,” you admitted, your tone soft but unwavering. “We were both wrong, Atsumu. Both of us.”

The admission seemed to strike him harder than any spike he’d ever taken on the court. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at you as though you were some ethereal being he’d never quite been worthy of. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sank into the chair beside your bed, his head dropping into his hands.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he muttered, his voice muffled but no less raw. “I thought I lost ya. When they called me and said you’d been in a crash…” His voice cracked, and he lifted his head, his golden-brown eyes now rimmed red with unshed tears. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

You reached for him, wincing as your arm protested the movement. Despite the pain, you managed to place your uninjured hand over his. The contact was light, hesitant, but it was enough to anchor both of you. “I’m here, Atsumu,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, as though he was fighting against every emotion threatening to spill out. Slowly, his hand turned under yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that was both tender and desperate. “I’ve been such a damn fool,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on your intertwined hands. “I’ve been so caught up in everythin’—the games, the pressure, provin’ myself—that I forgot… I forgot what really matters.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his voice, at the sight of the man you loved stripped down to his very core. “You matter to me, Atsumu,” you said, your tone firm despite the weakness in your body. “But I need to matter to you, too. Not as an afterthought. Not as something you’ll get to when volleyball isn’t in the way.”

He nodded slowly, his grip on your hand tightening as though he was afraid to let go. “You do,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “You matter more than anythin’. More than volleyball, more than any championship, more than everythin’ I’ve ever worked for. I just… I didn’t know how to show ya that without feelin’ like I was givin’ somethin’ up. But I see it now. I see you now.”

A single tear escaped down your cheek, and you squeezed his hand gently. “Then show me, Atsumu,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of everything left unsaid. “Be here with me. Don’t just tell me—show me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy but not oppressive, a quiet understanding passing between you as the city lights outside cast shifting patterns on the walls. Finally, Atsumu leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture so soft, so reverent, that it nearly undid you.

“I will,” he promised, his lips brushing against your skin with each word. “I’ll show ya. Every day, every damn moment. I’m gonna make this right, darlin’. I swear it.”

The weight of his words settled into your chest, warm and grounding.

The hospital room was still, the hum of machines and the distant sounds of the city your only company. But in that stillness, amidst the aftermath of chaos and pain, the first fragile threads of healing began to weave themselves through the fractures of your relationship.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him.

tag : @haechansbbg

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bloodyknucklesforme · 3 months ago

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No name (taking suggestions) for this yet but yeah @syoddeye got me into Nikolai so... here's this. It's way longer than I originally planned but here we are. There will be more at some point but my fingers were just itching to write this out rn so unedited as well...

cw: dark fic, dubcon/noncon, reader is being trafficked, human trafficking, cockwarming, body inspection, piv, Nikolai is evil but also kind i guess,

"Clothes off... all of them," A thick Russian accent said from the intercom. You looked up at the camera in the corner. He must of seen you hesitate, "I already paid. Don't waste my money."

It never got easier. It'd been almost a year now. As you dropped your coat to the floor your anger and shame hit the ceiling. You'd trusted your ex, he promised to help you when you lost your job, when you couldn't pay rent, when you needed to borrow money. You moved to London for better opportunities now you were in some stranger's house waiting to be used. You'd lost track of how deep in debt you were to him and his 'friends'. 10k? 20k? It made your stomach clench.

"Don't cry. You'll fuck up your makeup." is what those cunts back at the club would always say before you got in a car to a client's.

Marcus hammered it in that this was a very important client. Probably another criminal. A rich one at that. His house was more of a warehouse with an automatic front door.

"Turn around," he ordered when the last of your clothes hit the floor. Checking for a wire or weapons you guessed. Knowing you were being watched like this made your skin crawl but it was better than being groped immediately on entry.

The front room was more of a safe room with steel walls and thick doors. No windows, just the camera, an intercom panel and a white gift box.

"New clothes in the box. Put them on."

It was a too small lacy bra and matching too small panties. A washed baby blue, all mesh so you were fully exposed. The door inside clicked. You went inside.

It was nice. Expensive but not tacky like other homes you've been too. The kind of furniture you'd seen in interior design magazines and auctions, solid wood things made by designers with names you could never properly pronounce. There were soviet era antiques scattered about as decor. The first floor was open with a kitchen and dining area to the side and the rest of the room being a living area. There were stairs to the side leading up to where you guessed was the bedroom.

"You're prettier than the photo." You jumped at the voice. He was so quiet you didn't notice him on the couch. He was big, obviously tall but muscular with wide shoulders. Dark hair slicked back with a widow's peak. Stubble covered the bottom part of an aged face. He wasn't old, older yes but whatever business he was in had aged him around the eyes.

He snapped his fingers and motioned for you to walk over. He had a cigar in the other hand.

"Good. You follow instructions. More than I can say for the last one Arno sent me." He motioned for you to spin around again, giving your ass a light spank and laughing when you yelped. "You fuck anyone else today?"

"No," you shook your head. He blew cigar smoke at you, watching the silver bisect around your middle.

"Good. I'd hate to waste more time cleaning you out. They never do a good job at that." He put his cigar in the ash tray beside him. "On your knees."

"What's your name?" He asked, making space between his legs for you. You answered softly, a lie. Never give them anything was what another girl told you. He held your chin between two fingers, moving your head around like a doll. "Open your mouth."

He leaned forward, looking inside you. A thumb hooked over your bottom row of teeth. It tasted like tobacco and sweat. You'd learned to hold back gags long ago.

"I don't like girls with rotten teeth." He ran a finger over your teeth, top and bottom, occasionally pressing on one. He frowned, "Stop shaking. I'm not going to hurt you."

A lie, most likely. Men always said that before fucking you, like they could believe you were there willingly, like they didn't pick you out of a catalogue of girls. You clenched your fists in your lap and willed the fear out of your bones.

"I like girls who like you." He pulled his fingers out of your mouth and pushed your jaw shut. "I paid to have you all night. Make it worth it."

He leaned back, grabbing a remote and turning on the tv. A hockey game roared on the tv.

"Is there...uh...anything you want me to call you?"

He looked down at you, like he already forgot you were there.

"Sir, when you answer my questions. Kolya, when I fuck you." He undid his belt and spread his legs wider. You knew your job. He picked up his cigar again as you undid the zipper on his pants.

He laid a hand on the back of your head, pressing down your hair.

"Just keep me warm for now. Don't want to miss anything."

You took a deep breath before taking him into your mouth. He was thick and uncut. Intimidating even half hard. He didn't push as you worked your throat open, slowly bobbing your head. Sometimes men would ply you with liquor, help you to relax a bit more. You wish he had. The mix of salts from precum and skin filled your senses. A hesitant hand moved to rest on his thigh for leverage. He didn't shake you off.

"Good job, Kotenok." He rubbed his knuckles across your cheek. He let you rest against his thigh, nose tickled by his dark pubes. Cigar smoke, the drone of the tv and the blood rushing around your head started to calm your nerves. Maybe tonight wouldn't be as awful as you thought.

He thrusted lazily during every commercial break. Everything was in Russian so you couldn't follow the game beyond his angry or excited, more so angry, ad libs.

He finally sighed and turned off the tv. He tapped your cheek softly.

"Kotenok, I need you to make me feel better about my team losing."

He made you walk ahead of him, directing you towards his bedroom. His dark eyes dug into your spine.

His bedroom was dark. Wine colored walls with thick, velvet blackout curtains covering the windows. The bed was large with silk sheets and a down comforter.

You crawled onto the bed, swaying your hips as enticingly as you could manage. A hand wrapped around your ankle and pulled you to the edge of the bed. You yelped as his hips hit your ass, cock bouncing against your cheeks.

"Remember what I told you, Kotenok?" He pulled your panties down, calloused hands scrapping against your thighs. "What to call me?"

"Kolya."

"Good girl." Two fingers felt around your entrance. A shiver ran down your spine. You weren't wet enough, you knew that. You clung to the comforter, waiting for pain.

"I told you to stop shaking. I said I wouldn't hurt you." He rubbed a hand across your ass. He sounded annoyed. You closed your eyes and pressed your face against the silk. It smelled clean and floral.

The snap of plastic and cold fingers prodding at your cunt.

"Shhh...I don't break the things I buy." He didn't admonish you for hiding your face as he scissored you open. "There we go, Kotenok."

He pushed in slowly, groaning loudly as you whimpered and fidgeted. Despite the preparation it was a stretch and burn. He held you down by your hips.

"Good girl," he purred with one last push. The head of his cock bumped against your crevix , causing you to clench in pain. It only spurred him to start thrusting roughly. Your face dragged against the sheets.

"Close your eyes and let it happen. Most of them don't last long anyways," a girl said to you early on. You didn't remember her name.

You forced out moans every time his hips smacked against your ass. Arching your back so he could think he was pleasuring you. There was a modicum of pleasure, chasing it was too much effort, especially with unreceptive partners.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, hand dipping between your thighs. He pinched your clit till you cried out.

"I don't like liars, Kotenok." He rubbed harsh circles till you moaned, shuddering hard. "Cum on my cock or shut up."

His other hand grabbed your shoulder and pulled you up. Your back rested against his chest. Still rubbing your clit, he hooked an arm under yours and rested it between your breasts while holding your chin and forcing you to look upwards. There was a mirror on the ceiling.

"Say my name," He barked.

"Kolya...please...Kolya. I..."

"Want to come on my cock? Beg me for it."

"Kolya please...please Kolya. I want to come. Please. Kolyaaaaa!"

You watched yourself as he forced you up to your peak, clenching around his cock. He laughed harshly and smacked your pussy. He held you up as your legs failed to hold you up any longer. You came hard, grabbing at his arms, manicured nails digging into his muscles.

He growled something in Russian before biting down on your shoulder. He filled you to the hilt, his cock twitching inside your still clenching pussy. His cum was a familiar warm. He let go and you fell face forward against the bed.

"Catch your breath. I still want my money's worth."

You lost count of how many times he fucked you. You were pliant and submissive, following his lead as he bent you into whatever position he wanted. He was more virile than you expected.

You woke up sore, dried cum and bite marks covering your body.

"You shower before you leave. Scrub well." He slapped your ass before shutting the door and locking it from the outside.

It was a large shower but more importantly the water was hot. Not warm but hot. You could have cum just from feeling the jets against your skin. The body wash was luxurious - sweet and woody. You scrubbed well. These kind of men didn't want their DNA wandering all over the place.

There was towel left for you but no clothes and your lingerie from last night was missing as well. He did leave a cup of tea for you on the bedside table.

You kept the towel wrapped around yourself as you walked back downstairs. He was sitting at the dining table, typing on a laptop, cup of tea still steaming and full.

"Come here, Kotenok." He tugged your towel till it fell to the floor. He tapped the inside of your thigh till you spread them. "Don't start shaking again."

You bit your lip. He spread you open with two fingers, tilting his head as he inspected you. You yelped when he forced a dry finger inside you, moving it around and dragging it against your walls.

"Good girl." He pulled his hand and away and got a money clip from his pocket. "I like you. I'll ask for you again."

He handed you five hundred pounds. You stared at Charles in disbelief. You'd been tipped before but never this much.

"Thank you, sir."

"Did I ask you a question?" He didn't look away from his computer.

"No...umm...Thank you, Kolya."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

"If Arno takes that from you, tell me. That's your money. I paid him enough as is. Now go get dressed. Your car is here." He pointed back towards the front door.

You hurried off. For the first time more scared to leave than to stay.

#i will probably rewrite this when I do a full series most likely next year #me to me: it'll be quick #2k words later #nikolai x reader #nikolai x f!reader #nikolai cod #dark fic #my writing #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii

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everydayyoulovemeless · 2 years ago

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[MacCready Idolizes You]

➼ Word Count » 0.4k ➼ Warnings » None ➼ Summary » Headcanons based on how MacCready treats you once Idolized.

MacCready pulls you into the biggest hug after you help get the serum for him. He's so incredibly grateful and might even start crying into your shoulder if you hug him back.

The entire event has made him consider giving Duncan a middle name based on you, but he won't tell you that. Nevertheless, fully expect to take on the role of his Godfather/mother cause you've already been given it, whether you wanted to or not.

He likes to take borrow some of the magazines and comics you've collected. A lot of the time you'll find him just sitting in the corner flipping through them.

MacCready actually really likes to help the settlers with their farm. Every night he'll come over to your house and drop off some vegetables for you.

Likes to see how many gunners either of you can snipe within a certain time period. It's a therapeutic game for him.

He loves hiking across the Commonwealth with caravans and would gladly bring you along to camp and joke around with as you defended the traders.

MacCready loves going to pubs with you, even if neither of you ends up drinking. There’s just something so refreshing about sitting in a booth at the Dugout Inn and telling each other stories of your past.

Throws his hat on top of your head a lot.

He relies a lot on you to keep him in check on whether he’s being a good person or not. He feels like he's in the clear whenever you allow him around Shaun.

When you both feel ready, he’ll ask if he can bury the little toy soldier he gave Lucy with something sentimental of your spouse’s to really give them both the proper burial they deserved.

He’ll end up being your roommate whether you wanted him to or not. He can’t help but feel comfortable around you and in your home, so he just kinda moves in.

Just cause y’all are closer doesn’t mean he’s stopped being your hired bodyguard. Just keep it in mind anytime someone starts an argument with you.

He'll make a very sorry attempt at decorating whenever you dismiss him to a settlement. He tries his best, he's just horrible at interior design.

Very physically affectionate. He likes to throw his arm around you or even just simply pat your back whenever the two of you survived something dangerous.

Honestly, though, MacCready's just happy to have found a close bond like he remembered having at Little Lamplight. It means a lot that you've put up with him for this long and, at this point, there's nothing you could do to get rid of him.

#fallout #fallout 4 #fo4 #maccready fo4 #maccready x reader #maccready fallout 4 #fo4 maccready #maccready #rj maccready #robert maccready #robert joseph maccready #fallout 4 maccready #maccready headcanons #rj maccready headcanons #fo4 headcanons #fallout 4 headcanons #platonic headcanons

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heritagebrowser · 3 months ago

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The most famous art nouveau style shop interior must be the shop of Nicholas Fouquet

Because of the particularly remarkable decorations of the Fouquet jewelry store, reconstituted and presented within the collections of the Carnavalet museum, you are immediately immersed in the Art Nouveau style, born in Belgium and further developed in France (and later also other distinct european regions), which will dominate the architecture, the decorative arts then the plastic arts (paintings, sculpture) until the First World War. A style characterized by curved and elegant lines; floral, plant or animal motifs inspired by nature; slender and idealized female silhouettes with extra long, flowing and evanescent hair. A style that will also put color back at the heart of arts and architecture.

To create the decorations for his jewelry store, presented here at the Carnavalet museum, Georges Fouquet (1862-1957) called on the Czech Alfons Mucha (1860-1939), an essential and emblematic illustrator of Art Nouveau from the end of the 19th century . Mucha was born on July 24, 1860 in Moravia, a region today partly encompassed by Czechia. After passing through Prague, Vienna and Munich, he arrived in Paris in 1887 to study art. At the same time, he gradually became known by producing magazines, illustrating catalogs or creating sublime advertising posters. His portraits of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt, like those of many women in a vaporous and typically Art Nouveau style, made him famous. So much so that he was officially rewarded for his talents at the Paris Universal Exhibition in 1900, notably thanks to a collection of jewelry that he designed.

This is how, in 1901, Georges Fouquet invited Mucha to design the decor for his new jewelry store located at 6 rue Royale, between Place de la Concorde and La Madeleine. The artist created a modern and functional boutique (Art Nouveau is in fact a quest for both aesthetics and functionality), designed as a work of art in its own right. Mosaics, furniture, display cases, stained glass windows, lighting, door handles... everything in the decorations and volumes is of naturalistic inspiration, with a lot of curves, plant and floral motifs, or even animal motifs (the bronze peacocks behind and in the (counter tops are beautiful). A central figure in Mucha's work, the elegant woman is present here too, but mainly in front of the store or in small touches inside. Dreamlike, magical and almost phantasmagorical, the powerful settings imagined by Alfons Mucha will surprise, fascinate and seduce his contemporaries. Dismantled in 1923, most of the shop's decor was given to the Carnavalet museum by Georges Fouquet in 1941. But only in the 1980's the shop interior was reconstructed in the museum.

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shkatzchen · 2 months ago

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Welcome to White's Gentlemen's Club (Pt.1)

White's Gentlemen's Club was founded in 1693 and is one of the oldest gentlemen's clubs in London. It has existed in its present location since the late 1700s. When men in Regency and Victorian novels speak about going to their clubs, this is one of them. Even today it remains a private, men's only club boasting King Charles III as a member (his bachelor party for his marriage to Diana was held there).

Because it's such a private space it was a nightmare to try to recreate as the information available was extremely limited. Pictures of the interior were rare and one of the main books I was able to find on the subject is rare and I couldn't get my hands on it. So while I made it as accurate as I could, within sims-constraints, there was also a lot of imagination poured into it. Because the save I was designing it for is modern, I didn't limit myself to only historical or off-the-grid pieces. That particular challenge can wait for the next time I try a Regency save.

The result is a Bar Lot, with plenty of space for games, parties, and socializing, as well as quiet corners to sit with a good book. And thankfully with LittleMsSam's Gender & More Lot Traits, I was able to make it accessible to only men, preserving that bit of accuracy.

The Facade and Layout

As seen at the top of the post, I did what I could to replicate the modern facade. Parts of this were easier than others. Although I had many of the needed objects from when I made the Hotel de Charost, the medallions on the front were difficult to find (in part because I didn't know any of the words to search them by). I couldn't find extant ones, so I made my own based on images I found online. Thank god for normal maps as they do a lot of the heavy lifting here.

The first sims-driven inaccuracy is the necessity to have floors of equal heights. As you can see from this cross section, that's not in fact the case. My build sacrifices the vaulted ceiling of the Coffee Room to allow the second floor to be of uniform height.

I was lucky to find this 1800s plan of the layout of the first two floors. I relied heavily on this for placing interior walls. My layout is seen below.

The Hall

I had nothing to rely on for this room. At all. As the entry hall I decided a closet was in order, if unlikely in reality (I really should have found better doors for it). I also found a reception desk that, when recolored and paired with a counter, provided a little administrative hub. I finally got around to tracking a filing cabinet down, which I ended up retexturing to maxis match.

The Morning Room

This was one of the few rooms I had a photo to work from, even if it was from a single angle, in black and white, and rather out of date. As such, I did my best to match it as well as possible. I tracked down magazines and newspapers and made a new spandrel to cleanly mimic the ones shown. I made new lamps and ceiling lights as well as new curtains, including extremely large ones to fit across the bow window. The bow window at White's is quite famous-- Beau Brummell used to sit there, critiquing the passersby, and the seat was also that of the Duke of Wellington for many years. I have a medallion over one fireplace here of him, which stands in for a bas relief of one of the deceased Kings'. The award below it stands for the silver belt won by Heenan after his fight with Sayers-- a "unsophisticated" visitor once asked "did the King win it," causing quite a bit of amusement. I also made a ceiling clock-- then, with the spandrels, had to lower it to fit below them.

The Foyer and Main Staircase

Staircases are always tricky. There was never any chance of achieving the elegant sweep of the real staircase, or the elegant little niches. there's an odd little window in the wall in the photo-- I suspect there was once a fireplace there. I did manage to replicate the numerous photos (even if some are there more for shape than content).

The Billiard Room

Why oh why are there not billiard tables in the Sims 4? These cc ones do work, and I'm grateful people have put in the time to make accoutrements for snooker, but it would be nice to have official ones. I have so many builds that would use them. This is another space that I had to make out of whole cloth, as I had only a few sparce bits of information. I put the main bar here, along with a small stage. The TV that the bar lot requires is hidden here.

Miscellaneous Ground Floor Spaces

There are some odd spaces which don't have labels. I turned one into a bathroom, as the drawings seemed to imply as much. Another became an old-fashioned place to make a phone call. One is, I believe, the old back entrance before it was enclosed to form the billiard room, hence the odd shape. I added a mirror to make it look bigger and these paintings (the left is the Duke of Wellington as the High Constable of England, a Tudor-style get up he had to wear for George IV's coronation, the right is a late 19th century imagining of Wellington's lone meeting with Nelson).

Tumblr's image limit constrains me from posting everything here all at once, so go here for Part 2 and the First Floor!

#simblr #sims 4 #the sims 4 #sims #ts4 #my cc #sims 4 cc #ts4cc #white's #white's gentlemen's club #ts4 regency #ts4 victorian #ts4 modern #ts4 recreation #ts4 screenshots #ts4 my build #ts4 builds #sims 4 build #ts4 build

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sashaisready · 1 year ago

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Chapter Ten - Do you want to take this elsewhere, Doll?

Bucky Barnes Mob AU x Femme Reader

You're hard at work in Pepper's Bakery when notorious mob boss James 'Bucky' Barnes darkens your doorway one typical afternoon, and life is never the same again.

Warning: Beginning of smut 😎

18+ - see Masterlist for full list of warnings

Chapter 11

Series Masterlist

He sets off out of the alley and you pause for a second before following him back to the club entrance, not really sure where this is going. He gestures to the bouncers who let you both in and he strolls back through to the bar area.

"Bucky, how is this quiet-" you protest but he just grabs your hand and leads you around the bar.

You flinch at the contact, making a mental note to remember later how your hand felt in his.

He leads you to a door and ushers you towards a flight of stairs. You drop in line behind him, your curiosity taking over. There's another door at the top which he unlocks with a fob and props open for you.

You step inside, it's a chic office with a huge mustard couch, as well as a small bar in the corner alongside the large writing desk. The walls are a brilliant white. Everything is modern and expensive looking, lots of high end wood and fancy furnishings. It looks like a picture from an interior design magazine.

He closes the door and looks at you expectantly, wriggling his fingers in a 'Ta da!' gesture. It's a lovely room, but you're not really sure what your meant to be looking at.

"I mean it's nice but..." you begin.

"And what can you hear?" he asks.

You pause. "Nothing...? Oh wait...wow, nothing!" You realise there is not a single sound coming from the thriving nightclub below.

He nods. "Yep...completely sound proofed up here. Perfect if you want some peace".

You listen out for any suggestion of a sound from below but he's right, the only noises are your footsteps as you walk through the room.

"It's so quiet" you gasp. "You could murder someone up here and-"

You freeze for a second, realising your mistake and who you're talking to. You turn to him, the colour draining from your face.

He just shrugs and awkwardly grimaces.

"Well...If you don't want anyone to hear anything" he sighs with a loaded inflection.

Your mouth hangs open in shock and your eyes dart around the space, looking at it with horror now you have new context – panicking as you wonder what might have happened where you're standing. A chill runs down your spine.

Bucky begins to snort with laughter. You flip around to look at him with your brows furrowed.

"Fuck, I'm kidding!" he laughs warmly. "It's only soundproofed so I can get some work done when the club's open...You've seen too many movies".

"Jesus, Bucky!" you squeal, slugging him on the shoulder. "You're such a dick".

You laugh reluctantly, relieved that he's only playing with you.

You flop onto the enormous couch, savouring the comfort.

"Thank-you for this, I just need a minute".

"Take as long as you like, Doll" he says kindly, taking a seat next to you.

You shoot up suddenly and look at him, remembering what he was doing before you ran out.

"Oh, wait – don't you need to get back to your girlfriend?"

Bucky frowns. "Who?"

"You know, that pretty girl you were with downstairs".

He scoffs. "She's not my girlfriend. She just attached herself to me in the VIP area like a limpet. I don't even know her name, why do you think I didn't introduce her to you?"

You snort laughing. "Fuck, you're such a pig" you giggle.

He grins smugly. "So I've been told".

You roll your eyes, playfully swatting at him. He smiles back, moving closer to you so that your legs are touching. You manage to stifle a gasp.

"So you thought she was pretty, huh?" he asks teasingly.

You nod. "Jesus Christ, yeah. Stunning. But all your girls are, aren't they?" you smirk back at him.

His eyes are suddenly alight with mischief.

"And how would you know that?" he purrs.

"You're not the only one who can read up on people..."

He cocks his head as he watches you intently.

"So...what, you didn't want to be one of them?" His voice is lower now, less playful, more serious now your previous conversation has come up.

You rub your lips together, unsure of how much to admit to him. Everything just got a bit heavier. You pause for a moment, considering what to say. You're quickly sinking under the weight of his gaze.

"Well...I didn't think I could be one of them" you finally admit. Your voice is small, shy.

"What?" he asks, his face is suddenly stern.

"C'mon Bucky. Let's be real. I don't look like any of those girls" you shrug. "I was never going to fit in at Gambino's with thousand dollar wine bottles and cuts of steak costing more than my rent. I'm more...a beer and burgers kinda girl, you know? I didn't want to embarrass you..." you shrug.

He jumps up from the couch. "What??" he practically barks, his face twisted in anger.

"What?" you ask incredulously, surprised by his reaction.

"THAT'S why you turned me down??" he practically snarls.

You raise your eyebrows at him. "Well...yeah".

He runs a hand through his hair, chuckling in disbelief. "You're kidding me right??"

You chew your bottom lip. "....no?" You said hesitatingly, not sure what answer he's looking for.

Bucky stamps his foot and claps his hands victoriously.

"Fuck! I knew I wasn't going insane at the bakery" he whips out his phone. "I need to tell Steve this and rub it in his face" he says childishly as begins to furiously type on his screen.

This goes on for a few moments, his focus on you now entirely lost.

You glare at him with confusion, unsure of what you're meant to be doing. You're a bit annoyed that this is his reaction after you were open with him, putting yourself out there and admitting your insecurities. Now, what, he's texting his friends?? You slowly rise to your feet and awkwardly head for the door, thinking you should probably leave him to it.

"Nope" he says authoritatively. Without looking up from his phone he points aggressively to the couch.

"Sit your ass back down, I'm not done with you yet".

You obey him and plop yourself back onto the couch again immediately, responding to the assertiveness in his tone almost instinctively, seeing a tiny glimpse of his boss persona.

He finally finishes on his phone and slides it into his jacket inside pocket. His eyes lock onto you once more.

"Okay, so where we were? Oh, right. What the fuck is the matter with you?" He asks inquisitively.

"Excuse me?" You respond coolly, scowling at him.

"Am I getting this right - you turned me down for a date because you were uncomfortable with the restaurant choice and got yourself worked up looking at photos of me and other women?" He scolds, folding his arms across his chest.

"...uh. Yes".

"Right. So you did want to go out with me? And you were flirting with me in the bakery, right?"

You blush, feeling embarrassed at this interrogation and exposure of your feelings.

"...yes" you reply meekly.

He nods. "Okay. So I'll ask you again, what the fuck is the matter with you?"

You glare at him and clench your jaw. "I'm not going to sit here being spoken to like this"

You get up to leave and furiously head towards the door but he blocks your path.

"Dolldolldoll - I'm sorry" he stammers, grinning at you fiendishly.

"Don't be like that. I don't mean to give you a hard time. I just didn't see this coming. Here's me thinking you just didn't want to go out with me, that I'd misread all of the signals. That's why I haven't been back to the bakery – I assumed you thought I was a creepy jerkoff".

You avert your gaze. "No...but maybe I do now."

Your tone is stroppy, sullen. You're embarrassed that he finds this all so amusing.

He cups your chin in his hand and your breath hitches. He gently tilts your face up with his gloved fingers, leaning in close. You look up at him anxiously, very aware of the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

"Doll..." he says, much softer now. "All you had to do was tell me. We didn't have to go to Gambino's. I just wanted to take you somewhere nice. But I'd never want you to feel uncomfortable. We could've gone anywhere. Hell, I would've taken you to Burger King if that's what you wanted".

You beam at him. "Really?"

"Really." He grins back.

"But all those women, Bucky. I don't look like them. I just don't know if I'm enough for you-"

But you don't finish your sentence because he cuts you off with a sudden kiss. He pulls your face to his, nibbling on your lower lip for a moment before his tongue is in your mouth. You press back into him, your hands entwined in his hair as your tongue welcomes him greedily. You're practically panting as his arms lock you in his embrace. Your entire body seems to fizz as you drop the bottle of water you've been clutching. It's electric, better than you could have ever imagined.

He pulls away and locks your face between his hands, holding you so close that he's practically eye to eye with you.

"You really think I'd do that if I didn't find you attractive enough, Doll?" He tells you between heavy breaths.

"If I didn't think you were gorgeous? If I hadn't been losing my mind thinking about what's under your overalls every time I'm in the bak-"

It's your turn to cut him off now. You push him down onto the sofa, straddling him as you return to your place on his mouth, kissing him desperately, hungrily - as if it could be snatched away from you at any moment.

He kisses back just as urgently, his hands running up your back and over your hips. You can feel the metal arm now. His gloves are still on but you can feel the weight of it, feel the difference between it and his other hand as his fingers slide up the back of your dress.

You weren't even aware that you'd begun to rock back and forth, your crotch rubbing against his suit trousers as you desperately seek friction.

He moans softly into your mouth, it cuts through your lust haze and goes straight to your core. Your only thought is that you want to hear him make more of those noises. And you want to be the one causing them. Teasing them out piece by piece as if uncovering buried treasure.

He manages to peel you off him for a moment, gasping for breath as he looks at you.

"Do you want to take this elsewhere, Doll?" He pants. "I mean I'm happy to keep going here but I'm aware one of my men might come knocking at any moment - and I don't think I'm going to be able to stop if we go any further..."

You ponder his question as he begins to smatter butterfly kisses up your neck and down to your chest. You mewl at the feeling. On the one hand you want to go home with him - do this properly with the care it deserves and not risk interruption by one of Bucky's goons should something need his attention in the club...

...But you know you're already dripping. You're practically aching for him, desperate to feel him. You whine in frustration at having to stop, your libido clouding your judgement.

Bucky grins, his ego imploding at your clear desire for him. You've barely touched one another and you're already foggy with lust.

"Can we go to your place?" You ask quietly.

He nods and smiles at you, tapping your back with his fingers to signal for you to get off his lap. You do, getting to your feet and giving yourself a shake to break out of your cloud of arousal. Bucky grunts and adjusts his obvious erection as he stands up.

You go to pick up the water bottle you dropped but he just waves it away and grabs your hand - leading you back down the stairs.

#mob bucky barnes #mob bucky x reader #bucky barnes #mob bucky au #mob bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #sweet and sour fic

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sidrashakti · 1 month ago

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Pat McGrath’s Natal Chart Analysis: Beauty IS a ritual or an exploration of the 4th and 8th houses

I’ve always loved Pat’s work as a makeup enthusiast and was curious to look at her chart. I was shocked that was a 4th and 8th houser because I associated makeup with 5th, 10th, or 11th house energies. The 4th and 8th houses have heavy spiritual energy to me, but when I thought more about it Beauty is both venusian and deeply saturnian because it is so ritualistic. Pat and I share many of the same nakshatras.

Pat is a REAL earth sign with 9 placements in earth signs and Taurus + Capricorn Stelliums.

Libra 1H

The 1H rules the head and face and Vishaka is symbolized by the lightning strike. Pat has spent her life creating striking and elaborate makeup looks, going against the no makeup trends of the 90s.

Scorpio 2H

With JupiterR conjunct Neptune in second house in Anuradha - Pat’s love of makeup started in her early childhood, which the second house rules. Anuradha is the star of devotion and Pat spent her childhood going to beauty releases and reading magazines with her mother who was obsessed with beauty products. Her second house ruler is Ketu in her tenth house, she makes her money from her public career. Neptune here adds a dreamy, psychic, and imaginative energy to her relationship with beauty.

4H Capricorn Stellium

Pat has her Moon in Uttara Ashada and Mars Conjunct Rahu in Dhanistha in the 4th.

Dhanista is the nakshatra of fame, and Rahu can also be a fame indicator, leading to Pat being deemed a legend in a very cutthroat industry. The Mars–Rahu (Dragon’s head) conjunction indicates the physical energy of Mars that is amplified in its physical strength through the impact of Rahu. Being a makeup artist is a physically demanding job and Pat is known for her productivity and the sheer amount of shows she does yearly.

Moon in 4th has planetary strength. The moon rules the masses/fame as well as femininity. Uttara Ashada is a popular nakshatra in the fashion world (many famous designers have UA personal planets), meaning later victorious. The moon is also the mother and Pat’s mom influenced her love of beauty. Ofc a a businesswoman with a personal net worth of about $800 million and a company valuation of $1 billion would have some heavy capricorn energy.

Capricorn rules the skin, and Pat is famous for her secret technique of making skin look lit from within (realized that sounds very 8th house when I wrote it out lol) with her Rahu in Capricorn.

The 4th house rules the home and Pat loves interior design and architecture magazines, reading them daily.

Aquarius 5H

Aquarius 5th with Saturn tightly conjuct Venus in 8th: Pat’s work is very Aquarian, otherworldly, innovative and extremely unique.

8H Taurus Stellium

Pat has a Taurus stellium in her 8th house making her very venusian. She has a TIGHT Saturn-Venus conjunction (00:07 degrees) in Krittika, a nakshatra of extreme precision, which probably informs her skill as a makeup artist. Saturn gives her Venusian energy the stability and support that has allowed her to have an incredibly long career. Mercury in the nurturing and creative nakshatra of Rohini explains why she loves using her hands to be creative.

The 8th house is the house of research and Pat is known for being extremely studied in beauty, knowing niche makeup trends and traveling with several beauty books always.

Interestingly, her sun in Mrigashira is her AK. People with sun as AK can be incredibly creative and self-focused.

The term Mṛgaśira (मृगशिर) is a composite of two Sanskrit words, mṛga (मृग) meaning deer and śira (शिर) meaning head or precisely, the top of the head. Mrigashira is ruled by Mars (in Pat’s 4th house conjuct her Rahu/fame) and Chandra (who rules the face and is also in her 4th house). Some texts say Mrigashira conveys the ideas of searching for beautiful faces, and Pat scouted plus-sized model Paloma Elsesser, saying she had the perfect face for makeup.

Pat is extremely private being an eighth houser, and I wonder if she is very spiritual or has lived a life of a lot of hidden difficulties with these placements.

Cancer 10H

The tenth house is public perception and Pat is known for how she transforms the feminine face. Ashlesha is a dark feminine nakshatra that symbolizes transformation, kundalini, and hidden/occult wisdom. Ketu symbolizes spiritual liberation and past life influences, so Pat’s work for her is deeply spiritual and influenced by her past life experiences.

Pat’s work transforms and empowers the feminine collective.

Cancer is a sign known for collecting, Pat is known to travel to shoots with 75 assistants, suitcases full of products, and collections of beauty books for inspiration.

Virgo 12H

Pat has Uranus in Hasta and Pluto & Lilith in Uttara Phalguni. Hasta symbolizes the hands and Pat’s revolutionary technique is using her hands to apply makeup products usually applied with a brush. Makeup to me is very Virgoan, and UP is ruled by Sun and Mercury, Mercury also rules the hands.

With most of her personal planets located in the 4th, 8th, and 12th houses Pat’s predilection for privacy makes much sense, she wears a daily all black outfit and prefers to be in the background not the foreground.

Dashas

Pat rose to fame in the early 1990s when she was in her Rahu Dasha or the end of her Mars Dasha, her Rahu is tightly conjunct her Mars both in Dhanista the star of lasting fame. In 2026 she will be entering her Saturn dasha. Saturn rules legacy but may also being a time of hard work and difficulty for her. Her Saturn is conjunct her Venus so she may build significant wealth or be very in demand during this time.

Will look into her padas another day!

#vedic astrology #vedic astro notes #vedic astro observations #natal chart #pat mcgrath #sidereal astrology #astrology #astro community #astrology readings #birth chart

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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Black Light 6

Warnings: namecalling, violence, other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

Hottie wakes you up with a hot chocolate. The scent alone is enough to rouse you. Your mother always said you were a bloodhound.

You put on some cool DIY tutorials you found, explaining to her how you want to convert your old vanity, but first you need a lot of glitter. She seems interested but she's more concerned about the glitter being everywhere. You don't see what's so wrong with that but she suggests sealing it with resin. Well, it's all just plans until you get the materials.

You hear your mom and dad get up and notice how Hottie quiets down. She glances at the door, almost looking guilty. You smile and hop up from the bed.

"All cool, my parents are pretty chill," you say, "I'll just go tell them you're here."

"Is that okay?" She asks.

"Sure, I'll be right back."

You leave the door slightly ajar and go downstairs. You smell and hear the coffee machine brewing as you enter the kitchen. Your mom rubs her eyes as your dad leans on the island.

"Morning," you chirp, "hope you don't mind I brought a friend back last night."

"Oh, is it Kam?" Your mom asks.

"No, my new friend. I told you about her."

"Hmm, well, it's good you're making other friends," your dad hums, "hopefully better ones."

"She's awesome!"

"Are you sticking around, hon? The new couch is being delivered tonight so we have someone coming to get the old one around noon. Your dad and I have some running around to do."

"Oh, sure, is it okay if my friend hangs out til then?"

"As long as you're not up to your usual shenanigans," your dad girds playfully, "shouldn't be a problem."

"Great," you clap your hands.

Your dad growls and your mom groans as she turns to watch the coffee percolate.

"Where did she get the energy?" You father bemoans, "it certainly wasn't from us."

You giggle and leave them, rushing back upstairs to find Hottie with her purse on her shoulder. You nearly run smack into her as you enter your room.

"Hey, are you leaving?"

"I don't wanna intrude--"

"No, it's cool, really. They don't care. And they're going out for the day. We just needa wait here for the couch guys."

"Couch guys?" She echoes.

"Yeah, pleaseeee, stay," you whine, "it'll be so boring without you."

She sighs and gives a soft smile, "alright, I guess I haven't even finished my coffee."

🍪

You and Hottie sit out on the back deck, getting some sun as you wait. She fiddles with her phone, scowling as she often does at the small screen, as you cut up old magazines and fill a scrap book full of ideas. You like to put your fantasies together even if you know they won't ever be true. Besides, your mother never does anything with her old issues.

"You should try pinterest," she suggests over the top of her phone as she lays on her stomach, legs bent up behind her.

"Oh, I have an account!" You announce proudly, "I can send you the link!"

"Sure," she accepts with a smile, "so, you in school for something..."

"I wanted to do interior design. Mom said no. She doesn't see a career in that. So I'm taking Psych."

"Psychology? Wow, that's interesting."

"I guess. Oh, I was thinking about this study we read. They did an experiment where they had people with scars interview for jobs. And then they went over with the interviewer and interviewee how they thought it went and it talked all about how the people with scars factored in their appearance a lot more than the interviewer... I don't know, it just popped up in my head."

"Ah," she squints, "no reason for that, I'm sure."

Before you can respond, you hear the doorbell through the screen door. You get up, promising to be right back as Hottie rolls over. You head inside and tramp through the house in your flip flops. The doorbell rings again.

"I'm coming," you sing as you get to the door and pull it open, "hel--lo."

You stare dumbfounded at the man on your porch. August has an equally flabbergasted look on his face, his scar turning white as his eyes flare.

"You again," he growls.

You raise your chin defiantly and muster your inner Hottie.

"Um, excuse me, but... you need to go. I'm the bouncer here and--"

His brows furrow and he crosses his arms, making himself seem even bigger. You bat your lashes and cringe. You're not really convincing.

"I'm here for a couch," he glowers at your meanly.

"Really?"

"Mmm," he growls, "this is 387 Willow, isn't it?"

"Yes, but... don't you work at the club--"

"It's extra money. Now do you want your couch gone or do you wanna keep yammering at me?"

"Sorry, I..." You push the door back and retreat inside, "do you need help?"

"Not yours," he turns back and whistles, "Bodecker, get over here."

You glance past him and see another familiar face. It's the other bouncer, the one with the round belly. He comes up the steps and smirks at you.

"Ah, what are the odds?"

"Yes, what are the odds?" August sneers, "how exactly did you find this pick up?"

"Hey, it's money," the other man says, "so, where's the couch?"

#august walker x reader #dark august walker #august walker #dark!august walker #drabble #series #the club #mission impossible: fallout #black light #au

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labellenouvelle · 2 years ago

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LOUIS XVI CONSOLE

A French wall console table in the LOUIS XVI style , with a rare faux marble top painted finish on top of rea marble stone ( Huhh ?? ) but looks actually good. With two drawers to store your stuff. A great piece for your entrance parlor or narrow hallway.

Item No. E5671-5

Dimensions: 32.5″ long x 14″ deep x 29.5″ high

SOLD

504.581.3733 / t

[email protected] /e

#antiques #french antiques #nola #console table #louis xvi table #marble top #faux marble #interiors #interior decor #interior design #hallway #wall console table #new orleans antiques #magazine street

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evan-collins90 · 4 months ago

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McDonald's Embarcadero Center (1975) - designed by the firm, Environmental Planning & Research

"The recently opened McDonald's in San Francisco's Embarcadero Center is a complete departure from the usual gold-arches-suburban-drive-in image usually associated with one of America's most popular chains of fast-food restaurants.

Although the design solution provides an entirely new look for the restaurant, it still meets McDonald's specified requirements of non-movable furnishings, fast turnover, flexible seating patterns and pre-established seating/circulation/equipment relationships. In addition, it stayed within the given budget and was completed at a cost of $22.00 a square foot, excluding kitchen.

A total environment was created using specially treated elm wood in a single color tone for walls, floor, ceiling and seating benches. Color accents come from green plants and burnt orange table tops.

Seating for 155 is provided by free-standing benches or wall banquettes which run continuously around the dining area forming seating clusters to accommodate from one to ten people. Tables rest on floor-attached pedestals, and the benches have fully tiled bases making floor maintenance easier. The burnt orange table tops are of a resin material which is heat resistant and easy to clean. To conceal McDonald's standard 24-inch square trash receptacles (18 in all), the designers created architectural forms which also serve as planters.

Of special interest is the ceiling and lighting treatment which is an integral part of the overall design and reflects the restaurant's seating patterns. It also provides variations in light levels; helps absorb sound; and houses heavy mechanical equipment."

Scanned from the Sept. 1975 issue of Interior Design Magazine

#design #interior design #interiors #architecture #my scans #colorful #eco #wood #70s #1970s #mcdonalds #sf #san francisco #embarcadero center

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ginsengkitten · 6 months ago

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Nightfall: Chapter 1

⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧

The morning light filtered through the canopy of tree tops, sprinkling rays through the trees. The sounds of leaves and bark crunching under the tread of their hiking boots piercing the peaceful silence of the woods. A young family trekked optimistically on their summer break. Getting the kids accustomed to the parents preconceived love of hiking that they shared far before ever having kids. It was the kind of trip they had both imagined for their little family ever since their first was born. Billy was a natural outdoorsy kid, Maggie, however was full of animosity towards it and would rather be playing Barbies. Even toting one of her dolls with her wherever they went. Still she admired the foliage, collecting her own bouquet of wildflowers along the way. The innocence of a young child embracing the still of nature and what the earth has to offer just by being.

Maggie encouraged that curiosity by wandering from the trail after straggling behind Billy, fortunately, Billy noticed and alerted their dad. "Dad, Maggie's running off again." To which he rolled his eyes at his daughter's silly habit and proceeded to track her down. Maggie hadn't gotten far, and when the dad had found her, he found her to be mesmerized, standing still in her spot.

"Mags how many times do we have to tell you not to-" he began to scold until his eyes met what hers did, resulting in him also frozen in horror. Maggie had stumbled upon what can only described as a horror scene. A deer lie in a small grove, dead and completely mutilated. Its poor body, unnaturally contorted into a heap of twisted, mangled flesh. The fur, skinned from its body. Flies made feast upon the bloody remnants.

"Daddy, what happened?" Maggie asked in fear. Unfortunately, daddy didn't have an answer. His fatherly knowledge reduced to the same childlike fear as hers as he grabbed her and ran, only to turn around and be met with whatever beast had tore the deer apart. The beast releasing a harrowing growl.

"Sources are calling it a total family annihilation; Investigators continue to work with the California department of wildlife and game wardens to determine what animal may be causing these gruesome killings, but have not released any further details to the public.

Police have urged the public to stay within city limits and avoid camping and other outdoor recreation until the animal is apprehended and put down. Local government officials are in talks of implementing a city curfew if the animal is not caught soon."

You listened half heartedly to the news as you pinned another music poster on your wall of your new apartment. Mind you the apartment itself was not new, in-fact very decrepit. A cigarette perched in the side of your lips as you concentrated. A 'vintage' Rolling Stones poster. You stood back and admired the new addition, one more thing to make this dingy place feel like a home.

Your roommate Vickey walked in from the kitchen, handing you a coffee. "Stones huh? Always a classic, I can't complain." She grinned. Vickey was the only person you knew in the entire state of California. You had answered her ad in the paper about looking for a roommate. You had finally gotten a job as a music journalist assistant for a local magazine print. It was small but just enough to get by and get your foot in. Music was your passion, and music journalism at that.

Vickey was a goth punk with black choppy hair, a blunt attitude and big in the rock scene; especially in LA, so the arrangement was working out swimmingly. She took a genuine interest in your work and would supportingly read all your writings and offer insider knowledge about shows. The two of you quickly becoming close friends.

"Another animal attack happened yesterday." Vickey said sipping her coffee. "Pretty crazy shit." . You sort of glaze over that statement, still focused on your interior design pursuit. "An entire family, shredded."

"Yeah that's crazy.." you say tranced on your new poster.

The TV reporter continues:

"In related news, a local church group has began petitioning the state of California for a total recall of all metal and rock music from its shelves, claiming the genres are the primary contributor to LA's recent uptick in crime, violence, and potentially a connection to the recent killings, they say."

Your neck snaps to the tv at this. Vickey scoffs. "Here we go again with these fuckin prudes and their protests." She flops on the couch and starts rolling a joint. "Is this a common occurrence then?" You ask, sort of laughing. Vickey doesn't break from her intense focus on her joint rolling; "The day the churches stop blaming everything on the rock scene is the day the last whore stops working the sunset strip. Shits been happening for generations pretty much. You just gotta ignore it." She grumbles.

"Right. Huh.." you mumble to yourself.

"You know- this could be a good story for the print." You blurt out. Vickey looks up, ushering her joint to you, but you decline by wiggling your cigarette in your lips. "Nah. This shits been covered a million times dude. Those uptight nuns have nothing new to spew anyways." She replies. "No no not for the church, Vickey, but the scene." You countered her. Her expression changed now more intrigued. "Oh? How so?". You pace around gently in thought. "From the rock scenes perspective on it. We ask them what THEY think about it all. Like the musicians and shit." Vickey chuckles and coughs out a cloud of smoke, "I dunno I don't think any local band is gonna give you the time of day unless you got drugs or can give good hea- well, actually..." She gets lost in thought for a moment. "I think I might know a couple musicians that MIGHT be willing to say a few words on the matter. -" you jump slightly with a mute excitement. "BUT- I can't guarantee you'll get anything of real substance from them.." she tries to ease your hopes down on her half offer but your excitement is apparent. "Vickey seriously?! That would mean the world to me. Who is it? When can I see them?!" Vickey smiles at your innocent enthusiasm to go willingly into the guttural den of rock.

"It's a local band called Guns N Roses. They're playing down at the troubadour tomorrow night. I'll see if I can get you in."

#gnr #slash #saul hudson #slash gnr #slash fanfiction #slash x reader #gnr smut #gnr x reader #saul hudson x reader #slash smut #vampire fanfiction #vampire oc #axl rose #axl gnr #duff gnr

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