#Accordion wall hooks

[luciacaminoz]

NEW GAME+ (2.6k)

"Third law of Kindred kinematics," Julian calls, voice slicing through smog and car-horn-choir blare. He taps his temple. "Momentum's a bitch until you become the bitch."

March 2021

Sol crouches, calves coiled, eyes tracking the labyrinth of rooftops and laundry lines spiderwebbing across Colonia Independencia. The night market’s cacophony—braying norteño accordions, sizzling cabrito, vendors hawking bootleg PS5s, Cartier replicas, Trump piñatas—thrums five stories down.

A neon crucifix above the club, Carnicería Diablo, dominates in cherry-red over the green glow of OXXO and farmacia signs this side of the district. Monterrey’s greater skyline pulses in the distance—a sodium vapor haze of LED billboards plastered with Tecate, telecom scams, and a vaping Santa Muerte.

She takes off running, sneakers pelting sun-baked aluminium, the warehouse rooftop groaning under weight as she vaults an HVAC unit. Julian echoes ahead:

“Castillo!” His silhouette leans on a satellite dish two buildings over, backlit by the Fundidora smokestacks and a yellow sickle moon. “The whole point is that you’re supposed to keep up!”

She snarls, rousing the Blood—reigniting veins like struck matches. The leap sends her arcing over a yawning alley where dumpsters reek of lye and rotting carnitas, and for three glorious seconds, flight feels possible…

Then her knee buckles on impact.

“Fuck—!”

Sol slams into a small water tower, claws screeching against rusted metal. Julian’s laugh bounces off the Banco de México’s glass facade as he zips onto a fire escape, effortless.

“Oh man. Gotta stick the landing, chica.”

“Eat shit!” She flings a loose bolt at him. He ducks, still laughing, and jumps the railing straight into a sprint across the steel bar latched between tenements.

Sol grits her teeth and pushes off the tower, vitae drumming in her ears; dead nerves lighting up, stretched puppet-taut.

The city becomes a strobe—glimpses of a meth cook’s startled face in a garret window, feral cats scattering from overturned buckets, Julian’s black windbreaker flapping like a raven’s wings. He hurdles an electricity box with arrogant finesse before he’s a glitch, rocketing ahead.

“Left!” His voice comes from everywhere and nowhere.

She swerves hard, nearly clotheslining on a low-hanging cable. A Chihuahua yips from a rooftop garden, tiny teeth snapping where her ankle just was.

”Wrong left, Solona!”

She pivots back, claws gouging mortar as she flings herself onto a wrought-iron balcony. The metal shrieks. Her knee slams into a potted bougainvillea—petals explode like confetti.

Julian’s perched another storey up, hood pulled low over his eyes, grinning down.

Dick.

“You’re thinking too mortal. Flow with it.”

Flow with it.

Jesus, she wants so badly to fuck him off. Instead, she leaps for the drainage pipe.

Her foot slips.

Julian’s hand clamps her wrist mid-air—then a sickening full-body lurch as he yanks her up beside him.

“Relax,” he says. His thumb brushes her raw knuckles. “You’re forcing it. Let the Blood lead.”

She shoves him off.

“I am.”

“No. You’re button-mashing then panicking. This isn’t Protean, Sol—and you aren’t manipulating vitae with Sorcery. Celerity’s about rhythm. You’re all…” His palm slaps the low wall of concrete beside them in an unpleasant staccato. “When you should be…” His fingers dance smooth up her arm, light as a MIDI beat.

Suddenly she’s trying hard not to smile.

“Stop flirting with metaphors.”

“Who’s flirting?” Julian pulls her in by the elbow, pecks her nose. “Again.”

———

First foothold: crumbling concrete. Second: a railing crusted with pigeon shit. Her muscles scream, legs pistons with stripped screws—every part of her body suddenly fledgling-fresh, mortal-clumsy. The world blurs at the edges, colors smearing like wet ink, and—fuckfuckfuck—she’s overshooting—

—Until Julian’s arm hooks her waist.

“Solona. You’ve gotta feather the gas, not floor it.”

Sol jostles free.

“I know.”

“Do you, though?” He twirls what looks like a USB, taunting. “Because that was—”

She swipes for it. Julian fucking dissolves, reappearing six feet away atop an AC unit.

He tuts and pockets the drive, phone (matte black, graphene-thin, quantum circuitry prototype) already in his other hand. He points with it. “One more time. From the PEMEX sign.”

“Julian—”

His phone chirps a Mario power-up sound.

“Again. C’mon.”

———

Vitae’s still humming wrong—like chewing foil, like fucking in someone else’s skin—as she sprints along the gas station’s platform onto the farmacia. For a second’s stretch, she flies by spires gutted into strip dens and nightclubs, over cartel-owned taquerías, above abuelitas pushing strollers around the plaza of Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad. Julian flickers between adobe and solar panels, occasionally pausing to mock-applaud.

Gravity remembers her once she’s airborne.

Sol hits the next roof’s edge too hard, too fast, ribs audibly cracking against parapet, claws scrabbling for purchase. Mortar dust fills her mouth as she dangles, legs kicking over a sixty-foot drop.

“Fuck!”

Julian’s there instantly, hauling her up by the scruff of her hoodie.

“Fucking Looney Tunes Discipline. I hate it,” she spits.

“Hate it faster.” He fires the thumb drive-sized device into the air—it sails across another gap, lands with a clink in a zinc chimney. “Next one’s got a timer. Tick-tock.”

———

She almost clears.

Almost.

Her shin splats against the ledge. Vitae sprays. She eats shit, claws shredding concrete until she grinds to a stop.

Julian’s waiting, picking at his nails with his karambit.

“Six seconds.” He checks an imaginary watch. “That grandma with a walker down there could’ve outrun you.”

Sol coughs gravel out of her throat, then rubs the rest from her palms.

“Fuck your metrics. And fuck that grandma.”

“Fuck your form.” He holsters the knife, looking at her, serious. “You’re burning through blood like a Toreador at Coachella. Short bursts—controlled, yes, but let vitae carry you. Observe—” He demonstrates, blurring strides with preternatural precision between each frame of movement, “—then reset. Like, y’know, checkpoints.”

———

So that’s what two miles round of AC units become—blink to the first, pause, blink to the next. Her vision swims in technicolor motion, kaleidoscopic afterimages—Mexican flags, flailing limbs, Julian’s smirk—astigmatisms of her own making.

Here, the EDM lounges of Zona Rosa war with Bad Bunny bleating from armoured Suburbans stuck bumper to bumper; here, diesel rain and fried masa cling to the humid Spring night.

“Better,” Julian says. “Now add a wall run.”

Add a wall run—wh—motherfu—

He launches himself at a neighboring building, sneakers hitting brick at a 70-degree angle, displacing air so seamlessly it’s pornographic.

And then he’s gone—no tell-tale, footsteps barely kissing rebar.

Sol—still jagged, coltish; arguably a little more fluid—follows only the idea of Julian Sim until the last of Monterrey’s colonial corpse gives way to the cranes of half-built luxury condos and mirror-chrome high rises.

Her young Sire’s a suggestion in techweave and neon-trim when he slows, rippling back into her line of sight to drape them both in the not-there. Light bends as they pass security cams, Julian staying within range to better flex Obfuscate. It probably would’ve been the easier choice of Discipline for her arsenal too, if—

“Keep the pace!”

Short bursts. Checkpoints.

They slalom through Calle Morelos’ circuit board esophagus of pristine tech start-ups, soldered with glass walkways, six lanes of headlights, screaming ads for Pacífico and VPNs. Julian dances ahead, but Sol’s not lagging far behind.

Her next leap sings smooth as a struck bell, braid arcing like a scorpion’s tail, rust flakes kicked up behind her on sheet metal. Julian's piercings flash when he glances back, grin softening at the edges.

She rolls, liquid shoulder-tuck; comes up running, bones intact—vitae burning through marrow like fucking nitrous, laughter unfurling wild in dead lungs.

Julian whistles.

"There she is."

They gain storey upon storey, the Haqimite electric, the Caitiff stick-shift, racing through the carcass of opulence—future penthouse suites now just I-beams and Ethernet cables.

Sol vaults on gazelle legs over a pallet of marble, soars through a cloud of fiberglass dust, and lands a neat meter from where Julian perches like e-boy Icarus, sneakers swinging above oblivion on the 18th floor.

A crane hook scrapes idly against naked concrete, plastic sheeting snapping in desert winds. Distant gunfire, three blocks east, percussive as a bassline. Suburbia sprawls for miles to the south, narco-mansions manicured and glittering all through the foothills of Sierra Madre in the north.

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back on his hand. “You missed this.”

“Missed your bullshit? Like a fucking migraine.”

He laughs. The wind whips her hoodie tight when she turns. His gaze lingers. She pretends not to notice.

Sol makes a point of surveying their midnight spread of Nuevo León once more as Julian chatters—about the city, the safehouse, their ghouls. Not the op. When she does flop beside him, feet also dangling, she stares ahead.

“You did good,” he says.

Their hands brush, then Julian’s pinky hooks hers. The motion itself is a relic.

Sol stiffens but stays. She glances at him.

He’s already looking.

A car backfires.

“Last stretch.” Julian nods toward the next buildings cutting smog. Smaller, plainer apartment complexes that will no doubt extort based on location alone once complete. “Race you?”

———

Sol’s surge is crystalline.

Julian’s right—Celerity isn’t Protean’s feral lunge, or Blood Sorcery’s calculated simmer. It’s rhythm.

She sees him ahead mid-vault, one arm outstretched behind, hair fanning like ink spilled in zero-G. Sees her own hand reaching—

Their fingers brush.

Julian's smile unfolds frame by frame: the curl of his bottom lip, the tapered apple of his cheeks, diamond-cut incisors—mesmerisingly symmetrical.

Sol's chest hits his back—

—and they’re a double helix spinning weightless—

—the city dilating below—

—a Bosch triptych halogen-spotted—

—gravity reasserts.

They crash through a skylight into an unfinished loft—glass explodes, shards spattering like prismatic shivs in the rich gleam of Monterrey’s nightlife.

Julian’s laughing.

He manages to land in a crouch for that microsecond before Sol hits half-sprawled on top of him, talons buried in the meat of his thigh.

"Fuck!"

"Sorry!"

He grabs her wrist, yanking her claws free.

"Put those things away. They’re banned.”

And then Sol’s laughing, righting herself to straddle him.

Shared Blood syncopates; rushes to pool where cold skin meets cold skin—an old tug of vitae, ten years frayed, easier to ignore now… uneasy in its familiarity. Julian's hands rest at her hips; one thumb digging into the hummingbirds there, the other circling. Her Beast purrs under his attention.

Below, in the neighboring apartments, a señora screams about flying demons.

"You really gotta work on your dismount,” he murmurs.

Sol’s eyes are flame-flecked staring down at him, pupils still slit with Protean bleeding through. Julian’s are black holes, event horizons.

The world narrows to:

The tick of her nail against his earring as claws retract.

The rogue strand of black hair stuck to his temple.

The tremble in her lower lip.

The way his Blood suddenly thrums beneath her palm, sparking warmth, simulating life—for her.

Julian’s hand rises—a languid arc, giving Sol every chance to pull back—and cradles her jaw.

“Solona…” has never sounded so much like surrender.

Time collapses honey-thick.

Slow as gangrene, sweet as sepsis.

The kiss unfolds in negative space—

Her mouth finds his.

His lips part.

She bites down just enough to taste the salt-iron synaptic burst, wintergreen gum of him, and Julian groans, low and wrecked, flicking into her fangs. His tongue drags deep along hers, insistent, sucking gently.

Dust motes spiral around them, suspended in strips of moonlight like Denver’s snow. She fists his jacket and grinds down where they’re pressed together—he makes that noise, that fucking noise, the one that starts in his diaphragm and splits into a whimper. His hands slip under her hoodie, skating up her waist, ribs, spine; Sol breaks the kiss to wrench the thing off—

A laser dot blooms red on Julian’s temple.

Celerity—him? her?—tears them sideways before the shot cracks reality back to real-time.

The Beast rattles caged and violent through bodies in a startled feedback loop. Sol’s shoulder dislocates with a nauseating pop as they go rolling across subflooring. The round pulverizes the pillar Julian’s head had just been in front of.

“MOVE—”

She’s already on her feet, dragging him by the arm into a sprint. Three more shots web the walls as they drop through holes between floors.

They hit the first intact emergency staircase by the 8th landing, Julian hacking the whole fucking grid with one hand while Sol half-hauls, half-guides him with the other. A door blows inward from another round—she feels the heat blister her cheek and panics, hissing and spilling back into a service corridor.

Fuck—neither of them have Kevlar tonight.

“Incendiary! What the fuck do we—”

“Left! Left left LEFT—”

Julian’s free hand vise-locks around her wrist as he pivots. Sneakers skid in tandem through standing water and discarded safety netting.

The corridor dead-end’s with an empty elevator shaft, car stranded above between floors. Bullets stitch the air behind them.

“JUMP!”

Maybe her equilibrium short-circuits.

Maybe Julian pushes her.

The ground tilts.

A drunk’s vomit hangs mid-air, chunky and iridescent, far across the lot.

The first delicate clinks of Modelo as a toast is caught in bird’s eye tableau.

An organillero’s note warps infinite, final fermata, outside fine dining.

Windshear.

Fear and velocity braid with the Blood.

Two Kindred ricochet off galvanized support beams like fucking pinballs.

The trumpet blows.

Laughter; someone drops their beer—more laughter.

Vomit splatters cobblestone.

Sol’s knees give way at the bottom. Julian catches her elbow, pulls her up running. They hit a clean sprint through the ground level, emerge out onto the construction site.

“See? Rhythm!”

“Fucking move your ass!”

Police sirens wail across downtown’s throb of traffic and tourists; more gunfire—not sniper rounds; seemingly unrelated—popcorns in a favela alley.

Somewhere, the norteño band butchers Depeche Mode for a bachelor party.

Somewhere, a shovelhead gets their throat torn out.

A quarter-second burst risks them through a gap in tail lights.

Neon smears at the marquee—7-Eleven green, taco stand orange, strip club pinks and violets.

Kine-slow, predators blend with prey: a crowd of football fans stumbling from a cantina; Julian’s hand still grasping Sol’s wrist.

They slip under a gothic arch into community gardens. It’s a chessboard of terracotta and steel to the rooftops. They drop down on the other side—an empty backstreet lined with dumpsters—and Julian flicks the not-USB from his pocket.

Hunger gnaws at Sol’s broken ribs.

Both vampires are a mess—plaster and scratches all over their hands and faces; her leggings and hoodie torn where she snagged on rebar and fell through glass, the outer thigh of his joggers partly shredded from her nails.

“Fuck, we were sloppy.”

“DAAE?” Sol scans the balconies above.

“Not that simple,” Julian snaps, eyes glued to his phone. Blood trickles from his nose.

“Then who? Sabbat? The fucking cartel?”

“Safehouse first.” His fingers fly over the custom rig. Sol keeps watch, claws out and twitching. “There’s an entrance into the sewer system beneath the grate here; two tunnels come up the other side of the Santa Catarina, but—”

“So come on—”

“Almost…” Julian mutters.

“Julian.”

“Got it.” He stabs a final key.

Ozone.

The district plunges into darkness.

Screams, gasps, shouting, car alarms, backup generators, trumpets, four wasted white guys still singing Personal Jesus at the top of their lungs—noise dulls to a submarine hum.

Julian’s mouth is fever-hot on her, Blush boiling beneath his skin.

Light calluses skim her cheeks; the faint ridge of scar, catch in her baby hairs. His fingers thread into where waves have frayed loose from braid, tugging her head back to deepen the kiss. Her moan vibrates through her molars and he echoes it; she feels it when he stops thinking, stops scheming, stops being Julian Sim, fucking Messiah of the Masquerade’s Collapse—and for a moment, it’s the turn of the millennium and they’re fledglings again: Sol too-eager, too-hungry, too-curious, pressed against the Geo’s hood under a Sonoran night sky, Julian’s nervous little laugh in her ear—“I mean, we’re technically dead but I guess—”

He pulls back now, forehead to hers.

“Safehouse—”

She drags him in for one more kiss.

When they separate, Julian’s grinning, all fangs and fuckery.

“To be continued?”

“Get in the sewer.”

"Told you there'd be a jacuzzi."

¡BIENVENIDOS A MONTERREY!

[previous prompt]

[all prompts]

each time i tried to paste all this into the ask my app exploded but thank you so much T_T i continued on from cicatrix for you but ended up cutting the real hot tub part bc it was getting far too long (explaining the layout of the safehouse & having nadia/elena interactions & building on some of the story here). had to split it—there is a smutty part ii coming for this one (yes i need plot with my porn…)

(btw ive two more prompts in my inbox rn but if anyone wants to send more feel free i love these. doesnt have to be a kiss prompt either it can be whatever ^^ hypothetical sudo the chihuahua custody battle etc)

[phantomrose96]

I have string-lights strung up around the perimeter of my room and at every 4 feet, a command hook, bearing the fishing wire weight. And each command hook is a sticky wall piece and a sticky hook piece, like for hanging coats, but not that strong.

And in one window I have an A/C unit because it's 90 degrees here, sometimes, and my room is on the third floor, sometimes, and so it's 90 degrees in here, sometimes, so the window A/C. Now with window A/Cs it's these accordion flaps, they're plastic, that stretch across both sides of the (window) A/C like a bath towel you've held up but haven't wrapped around yourself yet (maybe because it's 90 degrees and you're hot and being wet is nice).

Now with the accordion flaps, the thing is, they're not perfect and there are little gaps at the top, because they're zigzag and no window sash is zigzag. The thing with gaps is, they let some bugs in, not too many but a few, who like the lamplight.

Now the thing with bugs is, sometimes they're ladybugs. Which are perfectly nice little bugs to have but the thing is, with ladybugs, is they like the command hooks.

Specifically they like the little nook at the center of each hook where the sticky back wall tape surface is exposed. At first I worried this was an ant-trap situation with an unwitting ladybug plaster-sealed to my command hook (with the lights) but it seems she can move freely.

And now the thing with the ladybugs is there is not just one. There's 4 of her, at least, and they've all taken up residence on adjacent command hooks (4 feet apart) like townhouse neighbors, but with more space between them (4 feet). So I look up and there are 4 ladybugs nestled in the nooks of 4 adjacent command hooks holding my lights, and this was very confusing for me to stare up at and figure out (bad vision) but I've realized it's 4 ladybugs, and they just like it up there, I guess, and they like being neighbors because they could have spread out (10 total command hooks) but they didn't.

One will leave sometimes to hang out on the curtains but she always comes back to the command hook, and I hope they all like it up there because they're much too tall for me to reach. Because the thing with me is I'm short and all the way down here (set up lights with a borrowed ladder) so I can't really be anywhere else but down here and I can't be up there with the command hooks (with the lights) to intervene. So really, in the situation, I can only simply hope the ladybugs are having a nice time.

[random-thot-generator]

Dirty Little Secret

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH x FEM READER

-

Summary: Being Johnny MacTavish's dirty little secret isn't easy, but you don't have the strength to walk away.

Warnings/Tags: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral- F receiving, P in V Sex, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, No Y/N

(Notes: Another smut purge but with feelings and angst. Maybe a part 2. Not sure yet. We'll see.)

Word Count: 2.3K

-

"Tha's it sweetheart. Feckin' hell, ya feel so good."

It's three in the morning, you've got to be up for work in a few hours, and you're currently folded up like an accordion under Johnny while he takes his sweet time. He's been gone for two months, shipped off to God knows where, and now he's come home in one of his moods.

You whine at the snail's pace he's using to fuck you. His hands are like vice grips on your thighs as he slowly sinks into your wet heat, hissing through his teeth when his balls finally make contact with the tacky, slick-coated cheeks of your ass. He grinds down into you, muttering curses under his breath before slowly dragging his hips back… back… back until only the throbbing head of his cock is all that's left for your cunt to clench around.

"Steamin' Jesus, hen. D'ya feel how ya got a'hold o' me?" He leans back to look, breath huffing out of his slack mouth. "Christ, would ya look at tha'…"

Before you know what he's about, he's pulled out completely and is shifting his body down your own. You whimper and grab for him, a weak attempt, and watch helplessly as his head dives between your thighs with a ragged groan. He spent a small eternity with his face buried between your legs already, the beard burn on your inner thighs making you wince when his stubbled jaw rubs over the raw flesh again. You'll be feeling this for days, you know.

Overstimulated, you choke out a pitiful cry when his lips suction around your swollen clit, suckling it like a juicy peach he's just sunk his teeth into. You hips levitate off the bed, tears tracking across your temples into your hair as your orgasm suddenly breaks like a wave over you. When your walls bear down and you cum with a strangled gasp, Johnny surges up your body and bullies his cock into your pulsing channel. Your walls seize him, clenching and pulling, milking his length as it pulls him deeper.

"Christ! Hen, I canna hold—!" His words are cut off with a strained whimper as he climaxes, his back arcing like a bow. Fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, locking you in place as he holds himself there, buried deep, letting his release fill you to overflowing.

Mindless bliss and panting breaths, a lingering kiss on your parted lips. He leans his sweaty forehead against yours and sighs as the tension in his body lets go.

Finally spent, he lifts himself away on shaking arms and falls beside you with a grunt, dragging you into his arms to press wet, artless kisses over your cheeks and sweaty brow. His hand smooths down your back to grip your ass, his other hand curled around the nape of your neck. He molds you to his body, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours as he buries his nose at the crook of your neck and breathes deep. "Missed ya so much, bonnie," he whispers against your throat. "So much…"

The last of his energy drained, he succumbs to exhaustion and falls asleep within minutes, head cradled on your breast.

When you wake up for work the following morning, he's already gone.

-

There's not much you can say about your situation with Johnny. It started out with a random drunken hook-up, which became another and another, until finally he just started showing up at your flat.

You can't call it friends with benefits, because you're not really friends. He doesn't hang out with you, doesn't text or call. He just shows up, wrecks your world, and is gone by morning.

There's never been any discussion about boundaries, though you think you might have reached the limit of yours. How much longer can this go on? How much more can you take? How can you live with yourself knowing that you're nothing more than his dirty little secret?

You ask yourself these questions when you wake up alone the next morning, only the soreness between your legs and the fading smell of sex and his cologne on your sheets as proof that he was ever even there. Yet you dread the day when he stops coming 'round. It's like living with a gun pointed at your head, wondering when he'll finally pull the trigger and put you out of your misery.

It's torture, but self-inflicted; you're doing this to yourself. Sure, you talk a good game, tell yourself you'll put your foot down next time, but you end up tripping over it instead when you hear his knock at your door late at night. You see it for what it is: you're the fiend and he's the drug, and each time you give into your addiction, he only leaves you wanting more.

There's only one remedy for it, because you know he'll never love you back. You'll have to go cold-turkey, remove him completely from your life, but just the thought of it terrifies you. The thing is, you're not sure what scares you the most, the thought of losing him or the thought of him being okay with it.

Either way, you're too much of a coward to find out.

-

You saw him today, on your lunch break.

He didn't see you, but you saw him— with her.

He was walking with her, arm slung over her shoulders, head tipped down to hear what she was saying. His face split into that grin that always melts your heart and he laughed, gave her a playful shake before pulling her in to plant a kiss on the crown of her head. He led her to a coffee shop, holding the door for her to enter, the two of them still laughing as they disappeared inside.

It was like a slap to the face, the way it hit you, a hot mess of emotions that bombarded you all at once. The worst of them, though, was the shame you felt, that deep-seated embarrassment that made your shoulders curl forward and filled your head with heat. Ears ringing, you staggered into an alley and threw up your turkey on rye, then went back to work.

Whatever happened afterward was a blur, your body on autopilot, your brain numb. At some point your supervisor stopped by your cubicle and told you to go home, that you looked unwell. Even after you left, the word kept repeating itself; unwell, unwell, unwell...

Yes. You were unwell.

You made it inside your flat before the dam broke, and then sobbed yourself dry slumped against your front door.

-

The knock came later that night, long after you had already dragged yourself to bed. Wadded tissues scattered as you jerked fully awake, ears attuned to the muffled knocking that sounded again. Your heart was pounding.

Climbing out of bed, you crept through your flat, jumping when the rapping grew sharper and more insistent. You scurried the rest of the way to the door, rattling the chain to stop him before he started pounding with his fist.

"Jesus, bonnie! I thought somethin' was wrong," Johnny hissed, taking you by the arms and walking you backwards into the flat. You yelped as your feet tangled, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt as he caught you up in his arms to steady you. "Was ready t'kick in the door," he huffed, bringing a hand up to cradle your face.

Your chest clenched, all the hurt and sorrow that had settled during sleep now welling back up inside you. There was so much you wanted to say, but the culmination of it came out in one wavering word.

"Why?"

There was a beat of silence, then Johnny huffed a quiet laugh. "Ya must still be half asleep, sweetheart. C'mon, let's get ya back t'bed."

His words sounded flippant until you realized he couldn't properly see you in the dark room. You were glad the darkness hid your face, hid your red, swollen eyes and splotchy skin, hid your tears and your heartache. You let him lead you through the dark flat to your bedroom, but this time you were at peace with the decision. It was okay because you knew this time you weren't giving in.

You were giving up.

This would be your swan song with Johnny MacTavish, this one last time to tell him goodbye.

When he kissed you, you kissed him back, taming his hungry mouth with gentle lips, pouring every bit of your broken hope and useless love into him. Let him have it; it was all for him, anyway.

When he stripped you bare and laid you down on your bed, you clung to him like a lover would, for once, unashamed of how you felt, your heart letting him go even as your arms pulled him closer.

You wondered if he could feel it, could somehow sense that this was the end. There were several times that he pulled away, peering down at you in the darkness, his breaths panting and unsteady. He was quiet, too; unusual for him. He always talked during sex, but not this time. Instead, there was something akin to a reverent silence, the moment sacred. No words would suffice; it could only be felt.

When he entered you, you sobbed, just one gasping breath that hitched up in your chest. You felt him tense, heard him draw in a breath to speak, so, you pulled his head down and silenced him with a kiss, wrapping your legs around him and holding on tight.

A ragged sound escaped his throat as he rolled his hips and began to move. His kisses were lingering and deep, his body pressed close to yours, his hips rocking in the cradle of your pelvis but never losing contact. It was slow and sensual, but unbelievably intense.

When he finally rose above you, you felt him trembling, his thrusts growing stronger, faster, as he angled his hips to hit that spot that only he knew well. You arched to meet him with every stroke, your bodies moving in perfect accord, locked in an ancient rhythm that carried you both up that peak.

You came with a moaning cry, limbs locking around him as you rode out the high. His thrusts grew erratic, his grunts broken and choked. With one final thrust, he buried himself deep, hips hitching up as he came with a ragged, "Bonnie—!" punching out of his throat.

Panting breaths in solemn silence, that's all that can be heard in the aftermath. He didn't move away, choosing this time to stay inside you, his weight a familiar burden that you already miss. His kisses were slow, his hands affectionate, petting and stroking as he sighed into your skin. Eventually, he wrapped his arms around you and turned you both to your sides, the tip of his nose brushing yours as his big hand cupped the back of your head. You could feel his smile against your lips.

Once he fell asleep, you got out of bed to clean yourself up. As you washed away the spend that had dried on your thighs, a sense of grief overtook you, so you locked the door and cried into a bath towel. When the tears stopped, you washed your face then went back to bed.

You didn't sleep, made a concerted effort to stay awake. You wanted to be awake when he left this time, this one last time. At five in the morning, a muffled buzz broke the silence, and Johnny stirred beside you with a sleepy groan. So, that's how he did it, you thought absently. He set his alarm and slept with it under his pillow. You'd always wondered how he managed to be up and out of your flat before you awoke.

You felt him shift behind you, and pictured him sitting up, weight resting on his elbows. He blew out a long sigh, scrubbed his hand over his mohawk before drawing it down his stubbled cheek. When he reached out and traced the line of your body from shoulder to hip, you tried to be as still as possible, but his lips on your shoulder made you gasp. He huffed a quiet chuckle and rose from the bed.

While he was in the loo, you blinked your eyes open, the hot prickle of tears threatening to reveal your ruse. Not too much longer, you promised yourself, knowing he would be leaving soon. When his quiet steps came towards the bedroom again, you closed your eyes, willing your body to relax.

You listened to the rustle of clothes being slipped back on, the jingle of his buckle, the dull thud of his boots. Once he was dressed, he rounded the bed to your side, then stood there a moment before you heard him shift. His knees cracked when he dropped down to his haunches, one hand on the bed near your folded arms. He brushed his knuckles over your cheek and sighed, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

"Sleep tight, my bonnie," he whispered. "See ye soon."

He rose and stepped away, his footsteps heading toward the bedroom door. They paused in the threshold then continued on through the flat, the sound of your front door opening and closing reaching your ears. Your eyes opened and you stared at the dark, empty room, feeling hollowed out but at peace.

"I'll miss you, Johnny," you whispered. "I love you. Goodbye."

-

part 2

[pbandjesse]

I did a really really bad job sleeping last night. After being so exhausted all day I was hoping I could go to sleep at a normal time but not. 3am. It was not a fun night. I had a horribly runny nose and a burning throat and I was just so uncomfortable. I could only breathe if I was sitting up. I was just having a pretty bad time. I tried reading for a while. And that helped a little but I was just not having fun. I did get to sleep eventually but it was a horrible struggle.

I woke up at 9 and felt. Fine. Not amazing. It felt like I was swallowing glass but mentally I was alright. I was looking forward to hanging out with Jess.

She was having a tough morning and thought she might be running late. But that was fine with me. I got washed and dressed and then wasn't sure what to do because I didn't know if she was ready to go yet.

So I made the decision to go wait on the car for a minute. And then I left. She would only be s few minutes behind me and it all worked out.

It was a pretty nice drive to Havre De Grace. I thought I hadn't been there before but it turned out it was near the decoy duck museum James took me to years ago. But this town was so cute.

I parked and read an article and then Jess was pulling in a few cars away from me. I was so happy to see her.

We would go to the vintage cafe. And at first it was nice and quiet but it would pretty quickly get incredibly loud for such a small space. I still really enjoyed our conversations and it was fun.

She got an omelet and I got a grilled cheese. We shared our potatoes (home fries and french fries). And it was a nice cheap little meal.

When we finished we would head down the street to one of the antique malls. There were a handful in this town which is very cool and gives us a good reason to come back.

This place was huge. And I had so much fun looking around. It is always interesting seeing how many of the same thing you fine, and how many weird things you find.

We also just had good funds today. Jess collects a specific type of basket. Or rather a specific brand. And she was looking for a larger one. She would find it, plus two medium sized ones. She also got a very cool candle holder. I would find some presious lilly of the valley wall hooks that will be perfect for the bathroom in the new house.

I would also find a little Boyd's bear panda. And a beautiful pressed flower bracelet. I wasn't sure I was going to actually get the bracelet but me and Jess were being really good about checking comp prices for everything on eBay and this bracelet was going to $110 so I was getting an amazing deal. And I love it. It's the state flower too so I love that.

We were having a lot of fun. Laughing at weird stuff. Like the double toilet bathroom. And just being silly and having a good time.

Once we were done there we paid and went to drop the bags off at the car. Then across the street to a retro reproduction and dead stock/pyrex store. She got a very cool pyrex shirt and I liked that people are using circuit machines to put Pyrex patterns on cups. I didn't find one I love but it's going on the wishlist for sure.

We decided we were antiqued out but we wanted to go to good will still. We would have to drive 15 minutes to go there. Which was fine except a big truck was parked behind me unloaded and I was kind of trapped. I was able to maneuver out, with no thanks to some guy making illegal moves to get the parking spot next to me. But I got out and was able to follow Jess to Aberdeen .

This wasn't an amazing goodwill. But Jess found a sweet jacket. I was a little horrified by some of the prices. Like $50 for a shitty scratched up skateboard. But it was still fun to look around.

We saw there was a restore across the street so we went to look there next. A very good selection but mostly just for ideas for us. Jess says she has most of the furniture she needs now. So it will be me searching for things once we move.

We didn't find the accordion wall hooks she was looking for but that's alright. She would find some online later.

We hugged and said goodbye. And we both headed home. I was getting tired.

The drive home kind of sucked. Some traffic but I just started feeling very very bad. Like head cold bad. Like I'm feeling very sick bad. It was kind I got hit with a brick wall. I desperately wanted to be home.

When I got back here I was excited to see I had a package. I had ordered new Minnetonka boots. And they are great and will keep my feet nice and warm.

After putting things away I got changed into my sweatsuit and laid down. I did not let myself sleep. I want to sleep tonight at a normal time. So I kept myself awake. And was just kind of miserable and not feeling well.

I waited for James to come home.

When they got back they babied me a bit. And would make sure I was alright before doing their short podcast episode for the night. And then they went to go and get us pizza. I got mine with broccoli. We don't really want to be eating out so much but we have no oven and no stove and it's very annoying. We have reached out to Tina and hopefully she solves this quick.

I had a few documents I had to send to the mortgage people. So that took some of my focus. And eventually I took a bath and scrolled on my phone which is not the safest but I was careful.

And now I am just. So tired. And very uncomfortable. I'm going to take a NyQuil and hopefully I can sleep and be well tomorrow. I'm not holding my breath because I think I have a cold. But I will try my best to take care of myself.

I hope you all sleep well tonight. I love you all. Goodnight!

[kingsbridgelibraryteens]

Teen Throwback Thursday: Looking Back at The “Old” Kingsbridge Library!

Since we just celebrated another anniversary in our "new" building last week, I thought it might be a good time to share some pictures of our previous location at 280 W 231st Street, located right across the street from our current building. The Kingsbridge Library has been around for over 100 years, but it was located at 280 W 231st Street from 1959-2011.

The first picture in this set features our intrepid young adult librarian in her (much) younger days, in front of the YA biographies bookcase!

Next, here's a look at the layout of the top floor, in which you can see how crowded ... errrr ... COSY our space was!

In case you're wondering, I literally stood on a ladder in the YA section to take this picture. Some workers brought a ladder in to fix something, and I took advantage of it to get this birds-eye view!

Starting at the lower left and going clockwise, we have:

One of the YA Fiction paperback racks

Adult Nonfiction bookcases, with plastic paperback displays at the end of each row

Adult Reference, which before so much information was available through databases was ENORMOUS (it started on the wall under those windows, and then filled both sides of those bookcases along the back and right of the picture). It also included newspapers and magazines.

In the back corner, under that mirror, was a reference closet containing MORE newspapers and magazines (you can JUST see the top of the closet door). There was also a chair and a computer next to the closet that you could use to access CD-ROMs. Also, by that computer was the ONE electrical outlet, in case one of our patrons needed to plug something in! And yes, the number of available outlets is a BIG difference between 1959 designs and modern designs.

The most recent editions of our newspapers and magazines, standing up in red plastic binders

An open dictionary on top of a wooden stand containing reference atlases and maps

Book trucks, and a railing overlooking the main floor and the circulation desk

Our information desk, featuring two high rolling chairs, two terminals (running what looks like the Dynix system?), two printers, a screen magnifier (that beige boxy thing on our left), and a little bookcase right behind our chairs containing the Closed Shelf Reference collection.

Behind the Information desk was a spinning Romance paperback rack and a small wooden bookcase of Classics!

And in the middle of the room were ALL of our tables and chairs available for adults!

Also in the room but not visible were two tables with four chairs each that were right next to my ladder, which was the entire YA seating section. The Adult Fiction section was over on the left, along the wall. There were a few PCs off to the right for adults or teens to use. On the other side of those PCs was our foreign language section, and leaning on a wall in that section was A LONG WOODEN STICK WITH A HOOK ON THE END OF IT, and that’s what we used when we wanted to open or close those high windows. We also used that stick to open and close those vents that were just below our ceiling.

I know, right??? But back in 1959, that’s the kind of technology we were dealing with!

There was an elevator to go back and forth between our three floors, which unfortunately sometimes got stuck. ☹️ And between the railings and the mirror was a dumb waiter that we could fill up with books to transport them between floors. It was a good idea, but it also sometimes got stuck. ☹️

Now, let’s look at some TEEN-CENTRIC highlights! Here are pictures of some of our teen programs, which were all held in our Reading Room (our ONLY program space), which was divided from the rest of our Children’s Room by a not-at-all-soundproof accordion door! We’ll start with our Teen Advisory Group:

Here were some teens at one of our Teen Poetry Publication Parties:

And here was a spirited game of (VERY low-tech) Harry Potter Jeopardy!

Finally, here’s one of my favorite pictures of my teens, who were helping us staff our “Afterschool @ Your Library” table that was promoting our programs. This is one of the only pictures I ever took on our main floor, which means it’s the only picture I have of our WALL OF VIDEOCASSETTES!!!

I hope you enjoyed these pictures, and thanks for sharing this trip down memory lane with us!

If you’d like more information about and pictures of the old and new Kingsbridge Libraries, check out this page on our website and these pictures in NYPL's digital collections!

[shayannawab]

Wooden Stretchable Hanger – Space-Saving Design

In today’s world where home organization is more important than ever, innovative storage solutions are key to maintaining a tidy, stylish space. One such item that effortlessly blends functionality and design is the Wooden Stretchable Hanger. This unique piece not only saves space but adds an aesthetic charm to any room. Whether you're decorating your hallway, bedroom, or office, this space-saving wooden hanger is a must-have addition for any modern home.

A Marriage of Function and Style

The Wooden Stretchable Hanger is designed with both utility and beauty in mind. Crafted from high-quality wood, this hanger boasts a traditional handcrafted finish that showcases the grain and texture of natural timber. Unlike mass-produced plastic or metal hangers, this wooden piece reflects the artisanal craftsmanship that adds character to your living space.

Its accordion-style design allows it to expand and contract as needed. You can stretch it wide to hang coats, bags, keys, or scarves — or collapse it when not in use. This flexibility makes it a versatile solution for small apartments, compact entryways, or minimalist interiors.

The Ultimate Space Saver

In urban living where space is a premium, having multi-functional furniture and accessories is crucial. The Wooden Stretchable Hanger takes up minimal wall space while offering maximum utility. It transforms unused vertical space into a functional area, perfect for organizing everyday essentials.

Whether you’re looking to declutter your hallway, add some rustic charm to a modern bedroom, or just keep things off the floor, this hanger can help you do it with style.

Handcrafted for Lasting Durability

One of the biggest advantages of buying from a curated store like Crafts Emporium is the assurance of quality craftsmanship. Each Wooden Stretchable Hanger is carefully handcrafted by artisans who have mastered their trade. The use of premium quality wood ensures that the hanger is durable, long-lasting, and resistant to wear.

The natural wood also brings a sense of warmth and authenticity to your space. Unlike synthetic materials, wood ages beautifully, gaining character over time. This means your hanger won’t just serve a purpose — it will become a part of your home’s evolving story.

Easy Installation and Adaptable Use

Another reason why homeowners love the Wooden Stretchable Hanger is its ease of use. It comes with pre-installed hanging hooks or holes for nails, making installation a breeze. Whether you’re mounting it in your entryway, closet, bathroom, or kitchen, you’ll find it incredibly adaptable.

Use it to:

Hang coats, hats, or umbrellas by the front door.

Organize necklaces, belts, or scarves in your bedroom.

Keep keys, lanyards, and small accessories in one place.

Hang cups or utensils in the kitchen for a rustic twist.

The possibilities are endless, making it one of the most versatile wall accessories you can own.

Aesthetic Appeal in Every Setting

The natural finish of the wood makes this hanger suitable for nearly every décor style. Whether your interior leans toward boho, farmhouse, Scandinavian, or traditional, the Wooden Stretchable Hanger blends in beautifully. Its simple yet thoughtful design can act as a subtle accent piece or stand out as a conversation starter, depending on how you style it.

You can even personalize it by painting or staining it to match your color scheme. Pair it with vintage brass hooks or minimalist matte black ones to make a unique design statement.

Eco-Friendly and Sustainable Choice

Choosing wooden accessories over plastic or metal ones is also a sustainable choice. The hanger is made from natural, renewable materials and supports local artisans who practice responsible sourcing and ethical production. When you invest in a piece like this, you're not just enhancing your home — you're supporting environmentally friendly design practices.

Perfect for Gifting

Looking for a unique housewarming gift or something thoughtful for a new homeowner? The Wooden Stretchable Hanger makes for a practical and stylish present. It’s especially great for people who love organization, home décor, or handcrafted items. Pack it with a small note or a set of keys for a personal touch, and you’ve got a gift that’s both meaningful and useful.

Final Thoughts

The Wooden Stretchable Hanger – Space-Saving Design is more than just a practical household item — it’s a blend of art, utility, and sustainability. It’s perfect for those who appreciate well-made, handcrafted décor that adds value to their daily life.

Whether you're revamping your own space or looking for the perfect gift, this versatile hanger from Crafts Emporium deserves a place in your cart. With its elegant form, functional brilliance, and eco-friendly materials, it’s a piece that brings organization and beauty into harmony.

[auzaarkhana]

How I Turned Pink Paper & Sparkle Into the Prettiest Wall Hanging on a Budget

It all began with a lazy Sunday afternoon, a roll of pink craft paper, some leftover glitter, and that feeling that my wall needed something. I didn’t want to splurge on expensive art, and I didn’t need a generic mass-produced print. What I wanted was something personal — and that’s when I stumbled into the world of DIY wall hangings.

Little did I know, this mini experiment with color, paper, and sparkle would completely transform my space — and honestly, a little bit of me too.

What Came Out of It? A Handmade Wall Hanging That I Now Love More Than Anything in My Room

I went with soft pinks, bright tassels, golden accents, and beads. It’s elegant, festive, and full of personality. Now it hangs proudly on my study wall and somehow brings a spark of joy every time I glance at it.

And the best part? I made it all under Rs. 250.

10 Ways This DIY Paper Wall Hanging Changed the Whole Vibe of My Room

1. It Brought My Wall to Life

I had this plain, neutral wall that lacked charm. This DIY craft added a burst of color and depth instantly.

2. Budget-Friendly & Beautiful

Most people think wall décor ideas mean expensive art pieces. Mine cost less than your weekend coffee run.

Want similar handmade decor for your home? Check out our craft-inspired collection on Auzaar Khana

3. Everyone Thought It Was Store-Bought

No joke — when guests come over, they always ask where I bought it from. Nope. Just me and a glue stick.

4. It’s a Festival Favorite Now

Eid, birthdays, bridal showers — I’ve just been switching color themes and making variations. Perfect for every celebration.

5. Gave Me a Confidence Boost

It’s surreal to see something you made hang on your wall. That feeling? 10/10. Highly recommend.

6. Inspired My Family Too

My little niece even made a mini version for her school display. She got full marks, of course.

7. Texture = Instant Charm

The folds, glitter, and fan-like layers added a soft texture that makes my wall feel alive.

8. Matched My Room Aesthetic

I love warm tones and metallics. This pink-and-gold wall hanging complemented my bedspread and cushions perfectly.

9. So Easy to Hang

Just a thread and a hook — no drilling, no mess. Super renter-friendly too.

10. Fully Customizable

Want something bold and loud? Or maybe muted and earthy? With DIY crafts, you decide.

How I Made It (And You Can Too)

If you’re looking for DIY room décor, here’s what I used:

Pink craft paper

Gold glitter sheet

Decorative lace and rhinestones

Tassels, beads, and thread

One wooden stick or dowel

Step-by-Step:

Fold each paper into an accordion fan.

Glue fans into half-circles and embellish with glitter or lace.

String everything together using beads and tassels between fans.

Attach to the wooden stick and tie a thread to hang.

All in, it took me 40 minutes. It’s a perfect weekend craft, whether you’re decorating your room or preparing a handmade gift.

Read More Here

Q&A: In Case You’re Wondering…

Q: Is it beginner-friendly? Yes! This works great for kids and adults alike.

Q: Can I try other materials? Definitely. Use felt, foam, foil paper — whatever suits your vibe.

Q: How long does it last? With thick cardstock and proper storage, it’ll look fresh for years.

Q: How much did it cost? Just under Rs. 250. And I had extras to make a mini version too.

Final Thoughts: Big Impact, Tiny Price

Decorating your home doesn’t mean dropping thousands on art. Sometimes, a little paper, a touch of glitter, and your imagination are all you need.

Want more ideas like this? I regularly share easy, affordable craft projects on Auzaar Khana. Whether you’re into home décor, DIY kits, or thoughtful handmade gifts, there’s something there for every creator at heart.

So go ahead — make something today. You might just fall in love with it like I did.

[pop-up-trade-show-booth]

Pop Up Booth Ideas by popup-booth.com

Pop Up Booth Ideas by popup-booth.com

Pop Up Displays are one of the most popular and long-standing types of trade show displays for many reasons. They are affordable, easy to use, easy to ship, easy to set up and tear down, lightweight, and offer a lot of surface area in your trade show booth at very little cost. The typical popup display is around 8’-10’ wide and 8’ high, creating a nice back wall for your exhibit area.

Pop Up Trade Show Booths are available as straight units, curves, gullwings, and even island style for the trade show floor. Tabletop pop-ups, both straight and curved, are also available for 4’, 6’, and 8’ tables. The most traditional pop-up is the 10’ curved pop-up. This design has been around the longest.

TRADITIONAL POP UP DISPLAYS SYSTEM

The traditional pop-up system consists of an accordion-like frame that, when removed from its UPS or FedEx shippable case, expands and locks into a sturdy position. Most often, channel bars with magnetic strips are attached to the frame to receive flexible full-color graphic or hook and loop receptive fabric panels that also carry magnetic stripping along the edges. Typically, the graphic panels are made of sturdy inkjet laminate or Duraprint material and printed in full color. The printed material is sturdier than vinyl and less likely to crease with repeat use, holding its form to create a solid graphic wall. Once the panels are lined up and attached to the frame, the finished product is a large unified graphic image with your branding and/or company/product information. These panels roll up easily and also fit within the same case that houses the frame for protection and ease of transport.

Hook and loop fabric pop-up panels attach to the pop-up frame to create an almost seamless wall. With hook and loop receptive fabric, you can interchange or move countless graphics or photos with hook and loop backing instead of committing to one particular design.

BACKLIT FABRIC POP UP PANELS

Some pop-up designs have moved beyond the flexible, rollable graphics into full-color fabric panels. This innovation is simple but effective. By using one large full-color piece of fabric, you eliminate the worry of having to line up more than one graphic panel. There are no cuts along the print, so a graphic designer would not have to worry about a word or letter falling on a seam. Instead of magnetic backing, the large fabric panel has hook and loop backing, as do the hubs or channel bars. You simply wrap the large graphic from one side to the other. The graphic fabric panel also folds up nicely and fits into the shipping case.

In some pop-up applications, the traditional accordion-style frame has been replaced with contoured aluminum hollow tubing. The tubes have male/female connections that easily pop into place to create a large straight or curved wall to receive the graphic. Because of the simplicity of this frame design, there are fewer parts to keep up with (such as channel bars) and fewer parts to replace over the years!

PopUp Booth designs continue to evolve, offering innovative solutions for trade show exhibitors.

[muses-of-the-memory]

"That was a lot more painful than I expected." Eugene stated as he fell down on the balcony, and so did Hook Foot as he fell on him. The two then recovered. "Hook?" Eugene asked. "Hook." Hook Foot said putting his hook foot on the bars of the window. Eugene then takes the rope and tosses one end to Maximus and the Snuggly Duckling thugs, and ties the other around Hook Foot. Then, Max, Vladimir and Ulf started to pull, even though Ulf was miming.

"Seriously? This is the whole reason you needed me? Couldn't you have just used a regular hook?" Hook Foot asked as the walls started to crack. "Um, possibly, but probably best not to overthink it." Eugene stated as the more the gang pulled, the barred window broke down and Hook Foot started to scream falling down with it. "Wait, did you hear something?" Stan asked hearing a cracking noise. "Only musical genius!" Lance stalled while holding the presents covering his ears of Pete playing the accordion.

"I got him, I got him." Shorty said about to catch Hook Foot, until the gang brought a cart full of teddy bears to break his fall, and one came to Shorty. "I got him. I'm the winner!" Shorty exclaimed holding the plush toy, assuming he caught Hook Foot as the gate fell down, but Shorty was unscathed. "Hey, Blondie." Eugene greeted. "Eugene!" Rapunzel gasped happily to see her boyfriend as they embraced. "I've come to rescue you from a tower, again." Eugene said since it reminded him of how he rescued Rapunzel from a tower. Pascal then rejoined Rapunzel as she began to let down her hair.

"You ready?" Rapunzel asked as Pascal nodded as the two of them went down to join their friends. "Thanks, guys!" Rapunzel said to her friends.

Continued from here

the next day in the kingdom of Corona, it was a typical normal day, until it ended when the stranger ran passed through the wanted poster that says 'Silent Striker'

"he went this way!" Stan shouted when he and Pete went after him, Mirage and Bella are being prepared to catch him too, the guard captain and the other guard got him surrounded

@muses-of-the-memory

[bandstonki]

Accordion wall hooks

Not a abundant advantage for renters because of this. So the brace of times I bare to booty one off to adjust it, it absolutely pulled a lot of bank acrylic off in the process, alike afore I had smoothed it bottomward to the wall. The blush of the 'grout' could blemish calmly so alone be careful. This was once one of the best decisions I have fabricated for my home and it looks great! The alone issues I begin with the artefact were basal - if you bare to adjust a asphalt afterwards agreement it, the grey adhesive curve would sometimes break ashore to the one it overlapped and 'chip' it, about already I accomplished this I was once actual accurate about that. It took me two afternoons alone because I hadn’t ordered abundant and bare one further amalgamation (a absolute of three bales completed my L-shaped alternate burst area). They are to apple-pie and almost to install. They are agleam like asphalt and have the arrangement of asphalt as well. I have been absolute abroad with how abundant they attending and each man who has apparent them afterwards I put them up doesn’t apperceive they are not absolute tile. I came above these and absitively to try them. Promising review: "I have been trying to put alms asphalt in our kitchen as a backsplash back we confused in about didn’t have the time or action to do it. Thank you so abundant for authoritative them!" -Kathleen W He answered he was once activity to buy them to accumulate in his arsenal, lol! I Love this product. Our painter came alternate to do anytime accessory blow ups, and I showed him what I used. I ordered two further bales because I didn't choose to run out. I'm still afraid how able-bodied they worked. To our contentment the pens formed abundantly well. My accomplice begin these and showed them to me. The painter approved application pens from a able-bodied accepted acrylic company, about they didn't banal either. The floors themselves took nine coats of stain because they were so old. Our attic guy approved staining them, about it wouldn't take. They were pretty banged up over years of use, and, afterwards the floors were redone, all the nicks and scratches alone stood out which abundant more. We had the floors refinished to their original beauty, about the baseboards and amount risers were a challenge. Promising review: " My accomplice and I lately bought a 140-year-old home with original copse floors and copse banal throughout.

[justres]

Accordion wall hooks

The building is designed to maximize natural light while minimizing solar gain. Expansive views of championship golf coursesįountain patio at the PGA of America headquarters in Frisco. PGA Members will deliver outreach programs through the PGA’s charitable foundation, PGA REACH, including PGA HOPE (Helping Our Patriots Everywhere), PGA Jr. Granger Hassmann, VP of preconstruction and estimating for AP, says the new HQ won’t just grow the game of golf in North Texas-it’ll provide “an introduction for local businesses to a whole new customer base. This project is a tribute to the future of golf and a boon for Frisco and the entire DFW metroplex as we welcome new visitors to the region.” “Aligning with world-class partners in a world-class location is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to create the Silicon Valley of Golf from a commercial perspective.” Along with PGA championships coming to the courses outside, “our aim is to challenge golfers of all skill levels to improve, enjoy, and ultimately, fall in love with the game for a lifetime.” “PGA Frisco is much more than a new home for the PGA of America,” PGA of America CEO Seth Waugh said in the statement. Yep, that’s a sand trap inside the new PGA Frisco headquarters. Its new facility joins a long list of golf-related headquarters in the Dallas area, including the corporate homes of Topgolf, Drive Shack and its Puttery entertainment concept, Invited (formerly ClubCorp), and Arcis Golf. PGA Frisco is currently the largest development under construction in North America, according to the organization. It will include two new 18-hole championship courses, the new 510-room Omni PGA Frisco Resort, a 30-acre practice facility, a performance center, and the PGA District, featuring a “one-of-a-kind” indoor and outdoor golf-centered entertainment area. PGA’s new headquarters is just part of a new 660-acre PGA Frisco campus, which is expected to have $2.5 billion in economic impact for North Texas over the next 20 years, according to a state of Texas economic development office study.īesides the new HQ-which houses around 150 corporate employees-the rest of the $550 million, 600-acre PGA Frisco campus is slated to be open by spring 2023. The wood wall mimics the contours of a golf course. Lobby of the PGA of America headquarters in Frisco.

[impala-dreamer]

Tell me about "meeting" Weird Al" at an accordion party.

Y/N didn’t know what she was thinking, following him into the VIP area. His fingers were warm, wrapped tightly around her wrist as he led her through the red velvet curtain and into candlelit darkness. 

Plush sofas lined the walls of the large room and in the center, a spotlight shone down on a glass box containing a golden accordion. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he asked, letting go of her hand and stalking towards the case. “Pure 24k gold all the way through…” He placed his hand against the glass, eyes wide and sparkling as they beheld the glorious instrument. 

Y/N walked around to the other side, squinting as the bright light gleamed off the gold. “It really is,” she replied, awed by the craftsmanship. 

She looked up through the case and met his gaze. He was staring into her, suddenly predatory and flooded with testosterone. 

“Not as beautiful as you,” he whispered, taking a step to the left. 

She held her breath as he rounded the case and stepped up behind her. He leaned down, breath hot on the nape of her neck, long curly hair tickling her cheek.

“You’re making me blush,” she told him, heart pounding in her ears as he pressed up against her. She could feel his desire; it was as real as the glass beneath her fingertips. 

He rolled his hips against her ass and Y/N sucked in a quick breath. “Good.”

His voice washed over her and she melted back against him. Her head lolled to the side and he took advantage, pressing his lips to the delicate flesh below her ear. 

“Wanna get outta here?” he asked, his kiss lingering on the soft shell of her ear. “I can show you my... instrument…”

Y/N didn’t know what she was thinking, hooking up with the famed parody songwriter, but it was a night she wouldn’t soon forget.

DON"T DARE ME. I WILL DO IT.

@mom-and-popcosmic

[figdays]

Baby Blue Plastic Pegs Accordion Wall Hooks // TwoSecondsThings

[arrowflier]

can you write “Hit my husband again and I’ll fucking kill you” but this time Mickey says it 😯 always wondered how he respond to a lip and ian show down

The house was quiet when Mickey woke up from his accidental afternoon nap. He sighed into the pillow, stretching an arm over the space where Ian would normally lie.

It was cold. Of course it was—it was the middle of the fuckin’ day. Ian was probably still at work, at that dead-end job that barely even made a dent in the bills.

That made Mickey sigh for a different reason.

He was thinking about just staying there, going back to sleep until Ian got home. Ian would accuse him of sleeping all day anyway; he might as well make it true.

Then a crash sounded through the house, the outer wall vibrating against Mickey’s extended leg, and raised voices rose up through the floor vent.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Mickey heard Lip shout as he rolled off the bed and scrambled for the closed accordion door.

He ripped it open, stumbled out into the hallway, caught himself on the wall when another thud sounded from below.

“Was thinking I didn’t want to be little bitch like you,” Ian’s voice echoed up the stairs, gravely and rough.

There was a clatter, like dishes falling, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Well, Mickey thought absently. Guess Ian was home after all.

He hurried to the stairs, tripped over the first one, and kept going. When he got to the landing, he stopped, watching the carnage that was Ian and Lip Gallagher trying to pummel each other in the middle of the family kitchen.

Ian was winning, that was for damn sure. He had Lip in a headlock, using his height to his advantage, while his brother flailed. It didn’t last long, though, Ian’s arms loosening when he caught sight of Mickey with wide eyes, and Lip finally got in a solid hit to Ian’s gut.

Ian went down. Lip followed.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mickey yelled out, rushing down the steps as soon as Ian fell. “The fuck is goin’ on down here?”

Neither Ian nor Lip responded, too busy grappling on the floor to spare him a glance. Ian kneed Lip in the groin—Lip pulled Ian’s hair. Ian hooked a leg around Lip’s and flipped them, pinning his older brother to the floor—Lip headbutted him, scrambling out from underneath.

Mickey was there when he stood, shoving Lip into the corner of the counter to get to Ian’s side. He reached down to grasp Ian’s arm, help him up, but his husband slapped his hand away, too preoccupied with a freshly bloodied nose to notice whose it was.

“Ian, hey!” Mickey yelped, shaking his hand out. “What are you hitting me for?”

“He does that,” Lip spit out off to the side, cradling his ribs as he leaned against the cabinets. “Likes to take shit out on people that are trying to help him.”

Oh, hell no.

Mickey left Ian there on the floor, holding his nose and staring up at Mickey apologetically, and marched the two steps over to Lip. He stood close, toe to toe, and leaned in even closer.

“The fuck you just say about him?” he hissed in Lip’s bruised face.

Lip blinked.

“He just quit his job, Mickey, he tell you that?” Lip asked. “He tell you he threw away the only good thing this family has right now?”

Mickey paused. Cut his eyes down to Ian without moving out of Lip’s space.

“That true?” he asked, and Ian didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

Mickey turned back to Lip.

“So he quit that stupid-ass job,” he said. “You started a fight over that?”

“We need the money, Mickey!” Lip cried. “Not like you’re helping out, and we can’t all live off stolen cereal all the time!”

“Yeah? Our contributions not enough for you, college?” Mickey asked. “How’s your job doin’ right now?”

“Mickey,” Ian said from the floor, quiet.

“Not now, Ian,” Mickey responded. “I’m taking care of something.”

He let his voice drop, pushing forward enough that Lip should be able to feel the heat of his breath, the heat behind his words.

“You don’t get to put that shit on Ian,” he growled. “Or on me. You’re a grown ass man, start acting like it.”

“He started it,” Lip said. “Threw a damn bowl at me when I told him he needed to go beg for that job back.”

“Don’t care who hit who first,” Mickey said flatly, not pulling back. “Or why. You hit my husband again at all, and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

Lip swallowed, audibly. His eyes flitted off to the side.

“Whatever,” he said, feigning disinterest, and shoved at Mickey’s chest.

Mickey let him, falling back a step so Lip could move away from the counter. He watched as Lip left, not bothering to stop and help Ian, just going straight out the back door and letting it slam shut.

Mickey waited a breath, watching, but the door stayed closed. Then he went to Ian, and helped him up properly this time.

“You good?” Mickey asked. He didn’t specify as to what.

“Yeah,” Ian said on a sigh. “I’m good, Mick.”

“You sure?”

Ian offered a half-grimace, half-smile. “I’m sure. Families fight, Mickey, it’s nothing new.”

Mickey snorted. “Yeah, you think I don’t know that, wise guy?”

Ian’s smile turned real.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Sorry, that was stupid.”

“It’s okay,” Mickey told him, then, “I’m kinda proud of you, you know.”

“For quitting that job?” Ian asked. “I know you hated it.”

“No,” Mickey answered. “For beating the shit out of Lip.”

He waited as Ian laughed, watching the way it brought life back into his pained eyes.

“Now come on,” he said as the laughter began to fade. “There’s a warm spot on the bed callin’ your name, man, go get in it.”

Ian skated a hand over Mickey’s hip as he obediently moved toward the stairs.

“Are you coming with me?” he asked, and Mickey nodded.

They would talk about it later, he was sure. About the job, about Lip, about the future. About why Ian felt the need to fight his brother in the middle of the house, in the middle of the day, over something he would have agreed with about just hours ago.

But that could wait.

“Sure, Ian,” he said. “Let’s go enjoy our fucking extended honeymoon.”

[gnocchighoul]

peach bubbles & cherry wine

Summary:

“Just once more, my love.” Lucifer says. You can feel the words as they move through his chest and past his lips—like the soft rumbles of a cat purring.

“Now be a good girl and spread your legs.” 

A/N: inspired by a convo about Lucifer’s bathroom with @thedemonstherapist​​ , and a drunk anon :D (definitely go check out her blog, she wrote something for this concept as well and it’s *chefs kiss*)

AO3 Portal

“Don’t move.”

“If I don’t I’ll drown!” 

“Just—fuck, here.” Lucifer hooks his hands under your arms and lifts you up, just slightly out of the water. He straightens out his legs, still holding you up with the ease of a bodybuilder lifting an orange, and yeah, you’re a little bit jealous at how strong he is.

Warm water closes around your hips as he gently lowers you back into his lap, and you can’t help but think about all of the things you could accomplish if you had that supernatural strength. For instance: you could probably lift a car, all by yourself. Or a really heavy bookcase. A sturdy one, made from really expensive wood. Pink ivorywood. Dalbergia. Or—

Oh, what is wrong with you? Who even cares about all of the theoretical things you could do with unimaginable strength when you are literally butt ass naked in a tub with Lucifer! And you accomplished this all on your own, with only the vastly underrated power of puppy eyes. 

Also, wine. So much wine. 

You swirl what’s left in your glass—the red liquid twisting in a dark vortex. It swallows up the dim light of the bathroom—looks more black than red. You know that color intimately. It’s nearly the same shade as Lucifer’s eyes—gleaming bright in the dark room as he dripped cherry wine into the hollow of your belly button—lapped at the red juice with his fleshy tongue and got you all sticky.

Which is how you ended up here, lounging together in warm, bubbly water. Not that you’re complaining.

Honestly, if you had known how nice Lucifer's personal bathroom is, you would have set out on your quest to date bone him so much sooner. 

It’s a lot like his room—far too much black. All doom and gloom and gold metal. Black floors. Black walls, carved of marble with gold veining, and a few floor to ceiling mirrors. The ceiling is a dizzying mural, saturated with (you guessed it) more black, but white and gray too. Sometimes, if you stare long enough—you think you can see shapes dancing in the fog of it. 

(Though that may just be a hallucination conjured up by your alcohol addled brain.)

The best thing about Lucifer’s bathroom though, by a landslide, is the massive tub situated right in the center of the room. Carved entirely of smoky quartz and the size of a small pool, you could quite literally spend hours lazing around in bubble bath bliss. Which you do, quite often. It’s borderline an obsession at this point.

(The first time you commandeered the bathtub, you had read an entire book in one sitting—as you were finishing up the last chapter, Lucifer had burst into the room all feathery and freaked out and totally convinced that you had managed to somehow drown yourself. A fair assumption—in his defense, you had been awfully quiet.)

With a tub like this, you would never use the shower again. And yet, for some horrible and awful reason, Lucifer insists that the shower is better. (Which is actually quite nice as well, but that’s neither here nor there.) When you had interrogated him about it, he just casually confessed that he hardly ever used the beautiful tub. Said something about 'showers are just more practical’. Pah. What does he know? Nothing, apparently.

But now? Well, it isn’t a challenge to coax him in with you.

Lucifer tips his head back against the cool ledge of the tub, eyes sliding shut. “Who’s idea was this anyways?” 

You down the rest of your wine, scrunching your face like an accordion when the bitter flavor bursts on your tongue. “Yours.” 

“That can’t be right.”

“Well it’s not left."

Lucifer groans loudly, acting like your totally great joke caused him real physical pain, and you tch at him.

You lean into him—rest the back of your head on his shoulder and set your empty wineglass aside on the broad, flat rim of the tub. His right arm snakes around your waist, tugging you up tight against his chest, fingertips tracing shapes into the side of your ribs and sending shivers racing across your skin.

You eye the mountain of white bubbles in front of you—lift a poofy handful out of the water. The smell of peaches brightens the room—all sun kissed and sweet.

You wonder if Lucifer is drunk enough to let you give him a bubble beard. 

"Hey, babe—"

"Don't even think about it." 

"Wh—you don’t even know what I was going to say!" 

Lucifer nuzzles his nose into your hair. "Keep the bubbles away from my face."

"...You’re such a killjoy sometimes." 

“Am I?” He threads his fingers through your hair—pulls slowly to tilt your head to the side and ghosts his lips over your neck, pausing to nip at your pulse point. Slides one hand over your breast, rolling your hard nipple between his soft fingers.

You feel it again, then—the pleasant ache still between your thighs, softened by the water's warmth settling into your body.

Lucifer bites down on your neck with sharp incisors, pulling a soft mewl from you.

You squirm. “Again?” 

You’re not actually surprised. Saturdays are devoted just to the two of you—marathon fucking and unwinding from the weekly chaos. It’s a necessary tradition, especially after a week like this previous one. You had barely seen your beloved, thanks to his boyfriend keeping him busy .  

(Lu has made it very clear that Diavolo isn’t his side piece, but like. Would it really be that bad if he was? You could invite him over for your Saturday Fuckfest, which is a very appealing thought. Who wouldn’t want a piece of that princely cake?)

“Just once more, my love.” Lucifer says. You can feel the words as they move through his chest and past his lips—like the soft rumbles of a cat purring. “Now be a good girl and spread your legs.”

Fuck. He sure as hell doesn’t need to tell you twice.

His fingertips skate down your stomach, deftly moving lower to brush teasingly over your clit and your head lolls back with a strangled little mewl. You turn to the side—he captures your lips with his own, swallows down your little cries. Tastes like cherry wine and dark chocolate. 

It’s too much, and not nearly enough. The damp slick of his chest against your bare back, his hand cupping your breast. He toys with you slowly, teasingly, pressing only the lightest of touches to your clit, and you want—need—more. You rock your hips back, right up against his aching cock and he hisses—pinches your nipple and slips his fingers inside of you in tandem, stretching you wide and exploring as you desperately grind against his hand.

He spent all day teasing you—pushing you to the brink and then taking his sweet time unraveling you. Playing you like a finely tuned instrument until tears pricked at your eyes and you dissolved into a begging, whimpering puddle. That fire still burns in your belly—kindled back to life, red hot and unforgiving as he presses his fingers deeper inside of you.

When it comes to fucking, Lucifer is far more patient than you are—something he’s proven a thousand times over. He enjoys it—breaking you. Ruining you. Pushing you to the brink and leaving you there, time and time again. 

But right now—you want more than just his skillful fingers.

You squirm out of Lucifer’s grip, confusing him for all of two seconds, until you turn around and straddle his strong thighs. Bubbles stick to your arms and tummy like little clouds. 

“I want you inside me.” you pout.

“Was I just not?” he says, cheekily, and you glare.

He suddenly bucks his hips up once into your own, threatening your already questionable balance—nearly sends you careening face first into his shoulder. Sudsy water sloshes over the dark rim of the tub as you steady yourself by placing both hands on his chest. You glare at his smug fucking face. 

His eyes, vibrant and jarring, meet yours—sparkling with delight. Crimson shot through with so much black that you’re not sure where the pupil ends anymore. 

You grab his chin with your slick hand—dig your fingers into his jaw and pull him into a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and heat. Relish the taste of his mouth and the slide of his lips, wordlessly begging for what you want.

He grins against your mouth. “Such a needy little thing.” 

You don’t entertain him with a reply—just grind your hips down on his cock, catching your throbbing clit, leaving you keening.

He sucks the plush of your bottom lip into his mouth and bites as you sink down on the heavy weight of cock, inch by agonizing inch until he’s buried to the hilt. He murmurs praise against your lips as he fills your pussy to the brim—sends white hot sparks shooting up your spine. You burn. 

Experimentally, you roll your hips. Lucifer meets you halfway—always does. Grinds his hips languidly into yours, easing the painful stretch of his cock between your walls into a pleasant fullness. There’s no urgency—he’s already ravaged your sweet, tight cunt. 

Lucifer feasts on your mewls—swallows them whole as he thrusts his hips up, sloshing more water over the tub rim. His hands dig into your hip as he grinds up into you with sharp, short jabs—buries his face into the crook of your neck and bites down hard. Draws blood to the surface and lingers there. Leaves behind berry-red marks. 

Your nipples rub against his chest and you grip his shoulders—dig your nails into the taut, firm lines of muscle. Your thighs tremble as you bounce on his cock, rocking down faster—needy. 

Heat spirals and coils in your belly, winding tighter and tighter until your blood is singing with it, leaving you breathless and dizzy and alight. He snakes a hand down between your legs—fingers finding your clit and your hips spasm, squeezing him so tight that it pulls a hiss from him.

Your climax hits you hard—steals your breath away and makes your vision all fuzzy and dark. Your walls clench and Lucifer pulls your hips down, again and again and again, spurred on by your gasping and whimpering. Dragging your tight, warm pussy on his pulsating cock as he floods your womb with his seed.

As his cock softens inside of you, he releases that bruising grip on your hips—tugs you into a close embrace with absolutely no possibility of escape, squishing your slippery breasts against his chest. Heart drumming a furious beat beneath your skin, you wrap your arms around his neck and melt into his arms. 

For a few beats, it’s silent. You can tell that he wants to say something—he’s practically buzzing with words unspoken.

You lean back to see his face properly and tap the pad of your pointer finger against his chest. “Out with it, handsome.” 

“You know that I love you.” A statement, followed up by a softer, “Right?”

A smile tugs at your lips. As if that’s even a question.  

“Well I'd certainly hope so, because you're stuck with me. Forever.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth slide upwards into that dazzling grin you love so damn much. Then he shifts his hips, reminding you that he's still very much inside of you, and nudges his cock over that little patch inside of you that makes you see sparks but is also far too sensitive right now. Your breath leaves you in one great big whoosh and you bite down hard on your swollen lip.

"You're so mean." 

Lucifer hums in agreement, looking far too thrilled by your reaction. Presses a kiss to your jaw and murmurs, "Say it back."  

"What?" 

He leans back. Searches out your gaze and meets it with his own. "Say that you love me." 

Oh.

You would think he'd be reassured by the fact that his dick is literally still inside you, but… you suppose it wouldn’t hurt to use your words, too. 

You hold his hand—link your pinky finger with his own and say, "I love you."

It’s a promise. 

You relax back into his arms, content to just sit quietly amidst the peach-scented bubbles and confessions.

…For about ten seconds.

“So… About that bubble beard…”

Lucifer scoffs. Presses a kiss to your temple and smiles there. 

He really does love you.

[mystacoceti]

“You may read it in the office at the back,” said my father, looking at me with displeasure. “As you can see, there is no room here.”

The room behind the shop was still empty. Through a glass door some light filtered in from the shop. One the walls the shop assistants’ overcoats hung from hooks. I opened the parcel and, by the fain light from the door, read the enclosed letter.

The letter informed me that the book I had ordered was unfortunately out of stock. They would look out for it, although the result of the search was uncertain; meanwhile, they were sending me, without obligation, a certain object, which, they were sure, would interest me. There followed a complicated description of a folding telescope with great refractive power and many other virtues. Interested, I took the instrument out of the wrapping. It was made of black oilcloth or canvas and was folded into the shape of a flattened accordion. I have always had a weakness for telescopes. I began to unfold the pleats of the instrument. Stiffened with thin rods, it rose under my fingers until it almost filled the room; a kind of enormous bellows, a labyrinth of black chambers, a long complex of camera obscuras, one within another. It looked, too, like a long-bodied model automobile made of paten leather, a theatrical prop, its lightweight paper and stiff canvas imitating the bulkiness of reality. I looked in the black funnel of the instrument and saw deep inside the vague outline of the back of the Sanatorium. Intrigued, I put my head deeper into the rear chamber of the apparatus. I could now see in my field of vision the maid walking along the darkened corridor of the Sanatorium, carrying a tray. She turned round and smiled. “Can you see me?” I asked myself. An overwhelming drowsiness misted my eyes. I was sitting, as it were, in the rear chamber of the telescope as if in the back seat of a limousine. A light touch on a lever and the apparatus began to rustle like a paper butterfly; I felt that it was moving and turning toward the door.

Like a large black caterpillar, the telescope crept into the lighted shop—an enormous paper arthropod with two imitation headlights on the front. The customers clustered together, retreating before this blind paper dragon; the shop assistants flung open the door to the street, and I rode slowly in my paper car amid rows of onlookers, who followed with scandalized eyes my truly outrageous exit.

from “Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass”, Bruno Schulz