mazerimmer · 1 year ago
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Contemporary Deck DC Metro Example of a mid-sized trendy side yard deck design with a fire pit and a roof extension
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emvozbaixa · 1 year ago
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Living Room Music Room
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Inspiration for a large transitional open concept medium tone wood floor and brown floor living room remodel with a music area and gray walls
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groundonesix · 2 years ago
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Italian Marble Mosaic and Steel Coffee Table
This gorgeous mid-century modern coffee table originated in Italy in the 1970s, and was imported to the UK in the early 2010s. is a stunning piece of furniture that combines durability and elegance in equal measure. The table features sleek, steel chrome legs that provide a sturdy foundation for the piece, while the iron frame to support this amazing marble mosaic tabletop.
Four polished solid steel chrome legs support a black iron frame, atop which sits a marble table top. The table top fits snugly up against the chrome legs creating a pleasingly sturdy surface for any living room centrepiece. 
The tabletop is made from quarry marble offcuts in various sizes and qualities and later filled with resin creating this mosaic effect which gives the piece a sophisticated, high-end look. A popular technique in mid-century Italy – and as such is a tessellated mix of yellow, brown, and green hues. The patterns on the tabletop with its natural beauty of the marble makes it easy to maintain.
The rectangular shape of the coffee table is both practical and stylish, providing ample surface area for drinks, books, and other decorative items. The overall design of the table is clean and minimalist, with clean lines and a sleek silhouette that would complement any modern or contemporary interior design scheme.
Overall, this vintage Italian coffee table is a beautiful piece of furniture that would be a great addition to any home. It combines the best of both worlds, offering both durability and style, and is sure to be a conversation starter in any living room or sitting area.
As this piece is from the 1970s, there is some wear to be expected - on the corners of the marble. But the overall condition is good, considering its age, and the chrome looks excellent.
Please note that the table can be dismantled, so we can flat pack and ship this internationally with ease.
CREATOR: Unknown
PLACE OF ORIGIN: Italy
DATE OF MANUFACTURE: c. 1970's
PERIOD: 1970 - 1979
MATERIALS & TECHNIQUES: Marble, chrome, iron.
CONDITION: Good original condition.
WEAR: Some wear on the four corners of the marble, to be seen in the photos
HEIGHT: 45cm | 17.7in
WIDTH: 140m | 55.1in
DEPTH: 63m | 24.8in
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noisett-e · 1 year ago
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Los Angeles Living Room
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An illustration of a sizable, modern, enclosed living room with a media wall and beige walls.
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thebestwaytoburnfatfast · 1 year ago
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Open Living Room Miami Large, modern living room image with white floor, gray walls, and a wall-mounted television.
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forever-lunasea · 1 year ago
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Open Living Room Miami
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Large, modern living room image with white floor, gray walls, and a wall-mounted television.
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Embracing Nature: Elevating Glass and Chrome Coffee Tables with Organic Textures
In the realm of interior design, the marriage of coffee tables exudes modernity and elegance. Their sleek surfaces and clean lines create a contemporary aesthetic that can transform any living space. However, to strike a perfect balance and infuse a touch of warmth and earthiness into this sleek setting, incorporating natural elements becomes paramount.
One exceptional way to achieve this harmonious fusion is by introducing organic textures to the glass and chrome coffee table. A tray adorned with small potted succulents or a captivating terrarium can be the key to infusing a breath of fresh air into the space. Succulents, known for their low maintenance and captivating forms, bring a sense of tranquillity and a touch of greenery, breathing life into the table's sleek composition.
Moreover, the use of natural materials further enhances the desired aesthetic. Consider incorporating a woven basket as an elegant storage solution for remote controls or magazines. The intricate patterns and earthy tones of the basket add depth and texture to the otherwise smooth surface of the glass and coffee table.
Wooden coasters can also play a vital role in bridging the gap between sleek and natural elements. opt for coasters crafted from natural wood with a rustic finish, allowing the grains and imperfections to shine through. This addition not only protects the table's surface but also introduces warmth and a sense of grounding.
By embracing these natural elements, glass coffee tables are transformed into captivating focal points that transcend the boundaries of mere furniture. The juxtaposition of organic textures against the clean lines of the table creates a visual harmony that exudes a sense of calm and sophistication.
balancing the sleekness of glass and chrome with organic textures is a design choice that yields remarkable results. By incorporating small potted succulents, terrariums, woven baskets, and wooden coasters, the coffee table becomes a testament to the beauty of nature within a modern setting. This fusion of materials not only adds visual interest but also creates a serene and inviting ambiance in any living space.
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carmidoll · 1 year ago
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Louisville Family Room Mid-sized transitional open concept light wood floor family room photo with blue walls, a standard fireplace and a tile fireplace
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youmakemelikecharity · 2 years ago
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Formal - Modern Living Room
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cecilysass · 7 months ago
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Shine On (7/16)
Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic
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Chapter 7: Across the Parking Lot
Stern’s Bakery Arlington, Virginia February 22, 2015 3:30 pm
Inside, the bakery is warm and smells of yeast and vanilla. It’s an old-fashioned looking place, with chrome tables, a glass counter and specials hand-written on a chalkboard. An older man is sweeping as they come inside, and he gives them a friendly nod. He leans his broom against the wall and walks behind the counter, seeming to anticipate their order.
“Why don’t you grab a place to sit, Scully? I’ll order for us,” Mulder suggests, although they’re the only customers, so there are plenty of tables. He lowers his voice for the benefit of the employee. “Doesn’t seem like this is the type of place to have lattes though.”
“I’ll just have coffee,” Scully says, as she turns for a table. Mulder doesn’t like the wooden expression that is still plastered across her face. She’s not acting like herself.
“Good afternoon,” the man says. He’s got thinning gray hair and an impish smile. “Welcome to Stern’s. You should try the doughnuts.”
“Thanks,” Mulder says. He’s eyeing the pastries in the case. It’s late in the day, so they’re pretty picked over, but he’s tempted anyway. “Two coffees, two of those maple doughnuts please. No—three. Three doughnuts.” He turns around and looks at Scully, who is sitting at a table next to the window, watching the car across the lot. He lowers his voice. “And… do you have a cake? Like a birthday cake? Chocolate maybe?”
“Of course,” the man says jovially. “We have chocolate birthday cake. Would you like something in particular written on it?”
Mulder frowns. “Sure.” He picks up a pen on the counter and writes “Happy birthday, Scully” on a napkin. “Can you do that?”
“No problem. Piece of cake.”
Mulder acknowledges the corny joke with a lukewarm smile. “When you’re done, can you just box it up so I can take it with me?”
“Of course.” The man leans forward conspiratorially. “Smart idea, picking up the wife a cake.”
Mulder shrugs. “It wasn’t mine.”
Before coming into the bakery, Mulder had walked back to the car to hand Jackson his coat. He knew it’d be cold in the car with the engine off, and he might need an extra layer. Scully had walked ahead, and Mulder knew she was upset. He couldn’t help but worry about it, even though he was dimly aware Jackson could be reading his thoughts.
“We can’t stay long,” Mulder had said to Jackson, tossing him the coat. Jackson spread it over him like a blanket. “If you get too cold, come find us.”
“Yeah,” Jackson had said blearily, as though that wasn’t very likely.
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” Mulder had added.
“Get a cake,” Jackson had mumbled, flopping down, his eyes already closed.
“A cake?”
“Birthday cake.” Jackson, opening his eyes a sliver, gestured a little in the direction Scully walked in. “It’s a bakery, right?”
Mulder had been surprised. “Right.”
“She was hoping you were surprising her for her birthday. She was hoping you called her because of that. Not bringing her a long lost kid.”
The words appear in Mulder’s mind from nowhere. She imagined reservations at a restaurant.
Mulder leaned over to meet Jackson’s barely cracked open eyes. He spoke very deliberately. “I don’t believe for one second that you saw in Scully’s mind … any disappointment. No fucking way.”
Jackson had stared back at him a second. Those green eyes that could see right into you. Literally.
Then he lay his head down and closed his eyes again.
Now, as Mulder carries two hot coffees and a bag of doughnuts back to their table, he can’t help but marvel at the idea that Scully might have been hoping he would surprise her for her birthday. What could that possibly mean? They aren’t together. Spending time together, celebrating birthday dinners together—that definitely isn’t what she acts like she wants from him. What does that imply? Is she holding things back? Is he maybe not getting the full picture?
It’s not really the most important issue right now, Mulder supposes, but it’s on his mind. And possibly Jackson’s, too, if Mulder dwells on it too long.
“Coffee,” he announces to Scully as he places her cup down in front of her. “With cream. And here is your nasty sweetener.”
“Thank you,” she says, stilted, pulling the cup and the small yellow packets of sweetener towards her.
“I got you a doughnut,” Mulder says as he sits across from her. “They’re maple. They look really good.”
He withdraws his own doughnut from the bag with a piece of butcher paper, then holds the bag out towards Scully invitingly. She stares at it blankly.
“No, thank you,” she says.
He shrugs, and takes a big bite of his. It is good, yeasty, light and chewy, with a generous slathering of maple glaze.
“So,” he says, through his mouth of doughnut. “There are a couple of things I need to fill you in on.”
“How did he find you?” Scully asks. “How did he know to come to you?”
“That’s one of them,” Mulder says, chewing. “It seems that someone helped him find me, but he won’t say who.”
“What?” Scully sits up like a rocket, and Mulder knows her well enough to be able to observe the muscles in her neck and shoulders tensing. “Mulder—”
“I know,” Mulder says, nodding. “I know. It scares the shit out of me, too. It means someone knows who he is, someone likely knows what he can do, and someone knows his connection to us.”
“We’ve got to make him tell us,” Scully insists. “It’s too important. He can’t keep it a secret.”
Mulder takes another bite of his doughnut and regards her skeptically. “Do you remember being thirteen, Scully? It’s not as easy as ordering him around.”
“But Mulder, this is a life or death—”
“You don’t make kids that age do anything.”
Scully stops, then seems to slowly deflate. “You’re right,” she says mechanically. “You’re right.” Her shoulders slump. “Especially if you aren’t really their parents.” She grips her coffee tight, and her eyes drift back out toward the parking lot.
Her defeated expression makes Mulder want to punch a wall. Once again he’s awash in the same old corrosive feelings about William: guilt, regret, heartbreak. The same feelings that he knows all too well can take him down, make him give up entirely.
But he can’t do that now, can he? The kid is here. He needs him right now. At his Agent Mulder sharpest.
He looks at Scully tentatively, wondering how to coax her back to her sharpest, too.
“You know,” he says to her. “It sounds like he had good parents. Like they did a pretty good job.”
Her eyes lock back on him. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says. He thinks of Jackson’s eyes, the feeling of warmth when describing his dad’s woodworking and his mom’s preschool. “He was loved. He felt loved.”
Scully stares back at him, and he waits, watching her eyes well up with glassy tears. He knows that Scully crying is an act that needs to be given its own space, an act that can neither be rushed or stopped. He reaches forward and envelops her hand in his.
“That’s so… I’m glad,” Scully says, her voice barely more than a whisper. She picks up a paper napkin with the Stern’s logo on it and dabs her eyes with the hand that isn’t holding Mulder’s. “But they were murdered, Mulder. What if the people that murdered them are the same people that brought him to you? What if they have an agenda we don’t understand? And what will become of him now? He’ll have so much trauma.”
“Well…” Mulder finds he can’t quite speak aloud his little fantasy, that Jackson might come live in his house, at least some of the time. That he might get to be a dad to a teenage boy, at least a little, and help him heal. That Scully might get to know her son, too. He knows it’s probably childish and unrealistic, and he isn’t sure of the effect of sharing it with Scully. “I don’t know,” he finishes. “But he has us now. We can watch out for him. I think we need to, given the unknowns.”
“You said you were certain he wouldn’t run off,” Scully says, releasing his hand, tilting her head and scowling. She knows him well enough to know where there is more to find out. “What else is there you haven’t told me?”
“Yeah,” Mulder says. He takes his last bite of doughnut, nodding slowly. “There is another thing.” He takes a swig of his coffee, considers his words carefully. “The telepathy I experienced, after I touched the artifact back in 1999… it seems to be back. In some form. Around him.”
Scully stares at him. “What are you saying? You’re reading thoughts?”
“Not everyone’s thoughts,” Mulder says. “Not like before. Just his. And not just his thoughts, but his feelings, too.”
Scully seems to be speechless.
“At first I thought it was my imagination,” Mulder says. “I thought since he was reading minds, I was remembering what that was like. And you know, I was trying to imagine what he was feeling. How scared he was. How overwhelmed, by all this big emotional stuff he was having to deal with. But then I started to understand. It wasn’t my imagination, and it wasn’t just empathy. I’m definitely hearing flashes of what he’s thinking, and feeling what he’s feeling. At least sometimes.”
“Have you… told him this?”
“No,” Mulder says. “No, but I’m going to have to. Obviously. Hard to keep secrets from a mindreader.”
Scully’s lips draw together tightly. With a jerk she tugs on the bag of doughnuts and fishes one out. She starts violently ripping off pieces and eating them. “And you’re not feeling sick, Mulder? Your head isn’t hurting?”
“No,” Mulder says. “Not like before. Not at all.” He watches her anxiously devour the doughnut. “I’m not as good at it as he is. For me, it’s just every once and a while. I think I’m feeling it when it’s especially intense for him.”
“Give me examples.”
“Well, I was just … he was walking upstairs in the house. Up to the guest room. And it just appeared in my head, his thought: I wonder what it would have been like to grow up here.”
She stops chewing, her eyes wide. “He thought that?”
“Yeah,” Mulder says.
Her lip trembles again. She places the doughnut back on top of the paper bag, looks down at it.
“Scully,” he says. He reaches out for her hand again, but she slides it away.
“So he can read my thoughts and feelings, and you can read his,” Scully says in a rough voice. “And I’m in the dark.”
“Scully,” he tries again.
“No,” she says shortly. “No. I know I’m being ridiculous.”
“It’s only natural for you to feel—”
“No. Forget it.” She shakes her head, smooths back her hair, and she seems to transform before his eyes into the respected doctor at Our Lady of Sorrows. “We need to pay attention to you, how you’re feeling,” Scully says, all business. “The last time you had this ability, it didn’t end well.”
“It doesn’t feel like that now.”
“Don’t hold anything back from me,” she says firmly. “If you’re in pain, speak up.”
“I will,” Mulder promises.
“Why does he have that effect on you?” Scully wonders.
“I don’t know,” Mulder says. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“He didn’t when he was a baby.”
“Or maybe he did,” Mulder says gently, “and I didn’t notice. When we were all together, he was so small, and everything was so emotionally intense. I might not have realized that his feelings weren’t my own or that I wasn’t simply guessing what he wanted.”
And I wasn’t around long enough to really find out, Mulder thinks. He can tell the same thought is passing through Scully’s mind, because her eyes drop again.
They’re both quiet a moment.
“We should contact Skinner about how his parents’ case will be investigated,” Scully says. “Hopefully he can get the Bureau to look into it. We need to make sure there is someone we can trust on it. And if we can, it would be good to get access to the local law enforcement’s notes on the case.”
“We’d be able to get more access as F.B.I. agents,” Mulder points out.
Scully regards him warily, sipping her coffee. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“We could ask to be reinstated.”
“On the X-files?”
“Sure,” Mulder says, “or anywhere. So we can be back in the game. Find out what we need to know. It would also give us more reason to hold Jackson in our custody.”
He’d expected Scully to scoff at the idea, but to his surprise, she doesn’t. She nods slowly, picking up another piece of doughnut and nibbling at it.
“It’s a possibility,” she says, after a moment’s deliberation. “We’d have to talk to Skinner and see what he thinks.” She looks sideways at him. “And we’d be partners?”
“I can’t imagine a new partner would put up with you, Scully,” Mulder says, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “You’re very eccentric.”
To his great relief, she smiles a little. He can’t believe that she’s even entertaining the notion at all: of going back to the FBI, of going back to the X-files, of possibly being partners again. His heart aches to think of it. He’ll never be able to keep these kinds of thoughts under wraps from Jackson.
“When we finish our coffee, let’s take him back to the house,” Scully says. “Maybe we can call Skinner there.”
Mulder nods. “Agreed.” His eyes study her. She’s gazing out the window again absently, looking towards the car, her long hair winding around her face. She looks like a woman in an Italian fresco, pensive and luminous, he thinks with a lump in his throat. He’s never known anyone more beautiful.
“Mulder,” she says, her voice wobbly, still staring outside, “is he …okay? From what you’ve seen?”
He considers how to answer the question. “He’s a good kid. He has good instincts, I think,” he says. “But he’s hurting. Grieving. Scared. And thinking about you and me—what we mean in his life—is a big bunch of extra shit to deal with.”
“Especially me,” she says softly.
“Especially you,” he agrees. “But that’s in part because he’s thought about you for a long time, Scully. He’s seen you before—in visions.”
She looks at him again, surprised. “What kind of visions?”
“You’re going to have to ask him. But he mentioned you calling out for him.”
He sees her react, pulling back slightly. She takes a sip of her coffee, nodding stiffly.
“Are you okay, Scully?”
“I’ve had dreams like that before,” she comments. “I wonder if he was seeing my dreams.”
“Maybe he was,” Mulder says in wonder. And the curious part of his brain can’t help but give that some thought, because what a fascinating thing: that Scully’s dreams would be picked up by a telepathic biological son all the way across the continent like a ham radio.
“I wish I’d had regular visions of him,” she says. She turns again to look out the window. “All those years… I would have liked to have seen him in my dreams. Gotten updates.”
He knows she would have. He knows it intimately: the sting of her longing for William, her bottomless regret.
His instinct is to climb around to sit next to her, to put his arm around her to comfort her, but he doesn’t know if she wants that from him anymore. He wishes she would ask.
He wishes she would say his name and pull his arm around her and rest her cheek against his chest. He wishes she would let him hold her for an hour, for longer, for all night. He wishes he could read her mind.
***
In the car, Jackson is breathing in, counting to four, holding for seven, breathing out. He tries to do it exactly like his therapist said, but he knows this probably isn’t the kind of mental distress his therapist had in mind.
He presses his eyes shut and tries to quiet down his shine. If he wanted to, he knows he could shine into their thoughts with no problem—the bakery isn’t that far away—but he has no desire to. He wants quiet. He wants peace.
Even so, it’s not entirely quiet and peaceful in the car. There are steady low level emissions of emotion from Scully even from across the parking lot. A constant background hum of anxiety and tension.
Jackson understands anxiety, obviously. The part of him that’s teetering on adulthood understands why she is anxious. He can even sort of sympathize. The part of him that’s still a little kid can’t help but wish she felt more … joy.
Isn’t she happy at all to see him? Mulder said she had really wanted to for a long time. But instead, every emotion she has about him—every thought, every memory—is twisted up with a kind of pain Jackson can’t even comprehend. He knows her life has been difficult; he has seen enough in her memories and Mulder’s to grasp that.
He just wishes she could somehow see him separate from all the sadness.
He sits up on the seat, Mulder’s coat tucked around his legs. He knows he needs help. He just hopes he can get it.
He massages his own temples with his fingers and tries again to relax, clear his mind.
Hey. Hey. Are you there?
He tries to project his thoughts outward in the way she taught him, thinking of them like they were radio waves.
You told me to check in. I’m checking in.
He wonders if there will be any sign whether this is working. He pauses a moment, and only hears a horn honking somewhere on the street behind him. Of course not. A sign would be too easy.
I need help. I’ve done everything you’ve said. I haven’t told them anything. But I need your help.
He waits, clearing his mind again to prepare, to make room for any response. He listens to the sounds of the busy road, to engines whirring past, tires screeching. Dimly his shine is aware of minds in each of the cars, busily going about their lives.
There isn’t an answer.
Are you getting this? Are you there?
I need help, Rose.
Rose?
He curls back down on the seat under the coat, frustrated. Maybe she can’t talk right away. Maybe the answer will come later.
He closes his eyes and enjoys the relative quiet, listening only to the sound of his own inhale and exhale.
Even in the stillness, from across the parking lot he feels the continuous thrum of Scully’s worry, a low droning buzz like a bee hive.
As he breathes in and out, he realizes it’s not just her worry he’s feeling. It’s shot through with something else, some different emotion. Something deep and fierce and glowing hot. Something he suspects must be the way Scully loves.
***
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somethingkindazainy · 2 months ago
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♡ Pairing: Minho x Jisung ♤ Genre: Mafia AU, Romeo x Romeo ♢ Chapter Warnings: foul language throughout, mxm sexual intercourse (suggestive language) ♧ MINORS DNI
♤ ♡ TASTE Synopsis & Chapter List ♢ ♧
<< Chapter 2 - The DLC ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ Chapter 4 - The Wolf & His Pack >>
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Chapter 3: Broken Compass
♤ ♡ ♢ ♧
Minho steps into his apartment and clicks on a lamp on the side table. 
“You live here?” Jisung gawks at him. “But it’s so–”
“Careful.”
“–homey.” Jisung finishes and Minho can’t help but smile at him.
His apartment has a spacious living area, with large panoramic windows, overlooking a stone walled balcony bordered with various shrubs, herbs and flowers, and expensive and expansive views south over the Han River. In the centre of the room, there’s a black leather corner sofa facing a flat screen television on the wall and numerous bookshelves. The kitchen, all white granite and units, takes up one corner of the open planned space, separated by a breakfast bar and two chrome and black leather stools. His bedroom door, off to the side.
Minho slips off his Gucci shoes and sets them in the shoe rack. Hangs his keys on the hook behind the door. He’s about to take off his jacket when he remembers he’s wearing his knife belt on his shoulder and thinks better of it.
Jisung is crouching at his side, unlacing his boots, before he stands and steps out of them. Without them he’s probably an inch shorter than Minho and—
“What on earth are those?”
Jisung looks down to where Minho is pointing. He’s wearing bright pink socks adorned with lime green love hearts. He wiggles his toes. Smiles up at Minho. “Don’t you like them?”
Minho tries to reconcile this Jisung against the one he’d met at the club; the sexy Jisung. Who became the Jisung who fights as well as he does, who in turn wears ridiculous socks inside combat boots.
“The views from up here are insane,” Jisung walks over to the windows. He looks small and beautiful, backlit by the twinkling city skyline beyond. Minho turns on some lamps, bathing the room in warm yellow light and straightens some of the mint-coloured cushions on the couch. Lifts the legal papers he’d been reading from the glass coffee table and secretes them in a sideboard drawer. Absently touches the leaves of his bamboo plant, and reminds himself to water her tomorrow. 
“You keep flowers?” Jisung says, frowning at the large container with pale pink cosmos. He arches an eyebrow at Minho. “You don’t seem like the type.”
“Judgemental,” Minho says, and he’s smirking, partly at his own wit.
“Touche,” he starts looking around the living space, head tilting back at the high ceiling, then slowly down again, settling on the bamboo at Minho’s side, “and you have house plants,” he’s moving now, head tilted as he reads the titles of the books on his bookshelves, his slender fingers caressing their spines, “you read,” he’s at the kitchen now, fingers walking over his cookbooks, “and you like to cook?”
“Stop compiling your list,” Minho pushes his hands into his pockets. He’s not used to this. Not used to being assessed in this way. Any previous acquaintances he’s had over before were in the bedroom and gone the next morning. They didn’t have time to analyse. Minho preferred it that way.
And Jisung smiles. It’s not the smile Minho has become familiar with, the flirtatious half-smile, it’s an unguarded gummy-grin and it is like sunshine. If Minho thought his smile was pretty before, then this, this is fucking gorgeous. He’s pretty impressed with himself that he hasn’t crossed the room to seize hold of that forbidden waist. You brought him here so he could get cleaned up. Nothing more. You missed that chance.
“And… you have a cat?” Jisung lifts a box of kibble, brandishing it as evidence.
“Soonie,” Minho says automatically.
“Soonie-Soonie-Soonie,” Jisung coos.
“You’re wasting your breath he doesn’t come when—” there’s a tinkle of a bell, small curious cat chirps and Soonie trots out of the bedroom. He merely glances at Minho like, ‘oh, you’re here,’ before trotting over to Jisung, tail in the air.
 The traitorous little shit!
“Oh hi!” Jisung croons as he crouches down into an impossibly small shape, his knees level with his shoulders, his arse almost touching the tiled floor. Minho resolves to not think about Jisungs flexibility. In fact, he is not thinking about it at all. Is absolutely not thinking about it. And he’s definitely not tilting his head at how curvaceous Jisung’s arse is either. He is, though, wondering why someone so fucking pretty, wears ridiculous socks inside combat boots. Although the heels of them are very close to that arse– 
No, no. We are not thinking about that, Minho straightens up.
 Jisung holds out his right hand and allows Soonie to sniff it. “I know, I’m all dirty aren’t I?” Soonie rubs his chin against Jisung’s fingers. Purrs. Like, actually fucking purrs, for someone who is essentially a stranger. The little cat whore. In the thirteen years Minho has had him, he has never, not once, shown a modicum of interest in another human. It’s the one thing they have always had in common. Or so he thought.
Minho makes use of Jisung’s distraction and heads to his bedroom. He removes his jacket and tosses it onto the white bedspread, flicks on a bedside lamp, puts his phone on charge whilst he unbuckles his holster and drops it into the bedside draw. Retrieves the bloodied brass knuckles and drops them in there too.
In the adjoining bathroom, he washes his bloodied hands and face. Grabs an armful of soft white towels from the linen cupboard and sets them on a stool beside the shower. 
Back in the bedroom he pulls a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants from his wardrobe and sets them on the bed. He drops a pair of boring white ankle socks on top of them. Considers offering up a pair of boxers, but thinks that could be viewed as a bit weird, or is it weirder not offering underwear? Isn’t it weirder to expect him to freeball in a pair of your sweats?
He is still debating when Jisung appears at the bedroom door, Soonie curled in his arms, tail swishing lazily. “You okay?”
Minho blinks. Whether he’s blinking at Soonie contentedly letting a stranger hold him, or at how lovely he looks in Jisung’s arms, or how lovely Jisung looks holding him, he’s not entirely sure. But there’s something… like a déjà vu level of familiarity. He blinks several times. “Uh, yeah. I think these might be a bit big for you, but they’re clean,” he gestures to the small pile of clothes at the foot of his bed. “There’s fresh towels in the bathroom too, if you want to take a shower?”
Jisung smiles warmly, allowing Soonie to jump from his arms onto the bed. Strokes the length of him, from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, Soonie arching into his touch. “Thank you,” Jisung says as he lifts the clothes. 
“No problem,” Minho says, returning to his wardrobe to find a change for himself, or to shield himself from Jisung. He unclasps his cufflinks, sets them in his jewellery tray. He hears Jisung step into the bathroom and lock the door. Until this moment, Minho didn’t know his bathroom door had a lock. He’d never had cause to lock it himself and certainly never had anyone here long enough, let alone use his shower…
He’s still fumbling with the buttons of his shirt when he hears the shower running and tries very hard not to think about Jisung in there. Naked. The water trailing over is skin, down his back, that waist, that arse–
Giving up on the remaining buttons, he wrenches his blood-spattered shirt over his head, drops it into the wash basket and rounds on Soonie, “Explain yourself.”
Soonie sits on the bed, looks up at him and tilts his head, like, ‘What?’
“You know what I’m on about,” Minho hisses at him.
Soonie chirps in a manner that suggests that he doesn’t know and his actions have been nothing but ordinary. He licks his paw as though he’s making a point.
“You’re a traitor,” Minho says but scritches him under the chin because he’s too fucking cute, even when he’s behaving like a twat. 
Minho changes quickly into a pair of navy sweats and a black tank top. Shoves his jacket and trousers into a separate basket he uses for dry cleaning. Gently squeezes Soonie’s ear as he passes.
Barefooted, he pads out into the kitchen, inspects his cupboards and the fridge. Realises that he’s woefully understocked, decides that omelettes will have to do. 
He’s dishing up when Jisung reappears, looking completely alien and incredibly attractive. Minho’s t-shirt looks oversized on him, the baggy sleeves reaching past his elbows. All the makeup he’d been wearing is gone, revealing a beauty mark on his left cheek and softening the roundness of his dark brown eyes. His damp hair is curling at the ends. If it wasn’t for the cut lip, Minho would think this was an entirely different person. Mentally, he ticks off the Jisungs he’s met this evening. Sexy Jisung. Fighter Jisung. Effortlessly attractive Jisung. 
Look at you, making a list. Seungmo would be proud.
Jisung’s holding a bundle of clothes in his arms, “Do you have a shopping or trash bag I can put these in?”
Minho sets the frying pan down, sucks some sauce off his thumb, “Give them here,” he takes them from Jisung, stoops down, shoves the jeans, tank top, boxers (tries not to think about Jisung going commando) and offensive socks into the washer-dryer, and inspects the shirt. Pure silk. He takes it to the sink, drops it in the basin, and starts running cold water. Returns to the machine, adds detergent, kicks the door closed, sets the cycle. Adds some detergent to the basin, turns off the water. Lifts the frying pan and finishes plating his own dinner, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jisung is sitting at the breakfast counter, chin resting on one palm, his smile very warm, or, at least, making Minho’s ears very warm. “You’re very domesticated.”
Minho scoffs, pushes a plate towards him, “Eat up before it gets cold.”
He pours them each a glass of grape soda, and they eat in silence, forks clinking against plates. Minho, leaning on the counter across from Jisung, can't help glancing at him every so often. He looks like a squirrel eating sunflower seeds. It’s really cute.
Cute. Where did the hot and sexy Jisung from only a few hours ago disappear to? When had he ever considered anyone or anything, other than his cat, as cute?
How many Jisungs is that, now?
“That was amazing,” Jisung says, pushing his plate away.
“It’s only an omelette,” Minho says, but he’s pleased.
“It was a brilliant omelette. I could eat that everyday. And the ham and cheese in it,” he kisses his fingers. “Perfect.”
“You want more?”
“No, thank you, I’m full,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket. The screen is spider webbed with cracks, but the screen is on and it looks, in part, functional. Minho can’t believe it’s already nearly three in the morning. 
“Do you need to call someone?” Minho asks, as he pushes his own plate to the side, “Let them know you're okay or…”
Jisung laughs heartlessly, “They wouldn’t notice if I went missing for a week, let alone one night,” he pushes his phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for the offer though.”
Minho watches him for a moment. He wants to ask a question. But he doesn’t ask questions… he doesn’t have interest in people outside of his very small, very private circle… and yet, “Why wouldn’t they notice?”
“I’m probably being unfair,” he shrugs with one shoulder, “my brothers would probably notice that I wasn’t about, but my mum,” he shakes his head, “I don’t think she’d miss me unless my absence was an inconvenience to her.”
“Same, with my old man,” Minho says absently. “As for my brothers, they’d probably be glad to see the back of me for a week.”
Jisung grins that wide, dorky, gummy-grin and the room brightens tenfold. “How many brothers do you have?”
Minho thinks about this. The honest answer is none, his father would say Minho is one of twelve. The real answer is, “Three. That I count.”
“Huh, same,” Jisung giggles. “Older?”
“No, I’m the eldest.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Jisung leans back on the bar stool, arms folded across his chest, the action causes the collar of the t-shirt to drop a little lower and Minho can see the hollow at the base of his throat. The suggestion of a collar bone.
“Explains what?”
“Why you are so domesticated.”
Minho chuckles, “Based on that assessment, I’m guessing you’re a middle child.”
“Fuck you.”
“Am I wrong?” he arches an eyebrow. 
“No. But still, fuck you.”
Grinning smugly, Minho stacks the plates and brings them to the sink. Sets them down and lifts the shirt from the cold water, “I think this might be ruin—” his sentence is cut off by a pair of arms encircling his waist and the warmth of lips pressing against the back of his neck. 
His breath hitches, because it feels… familiar. He wants to sink into it. Sigh against it. Savour it.
Why does this feel so good? Is it because Minho has been resisting for so long? How long has it been? An hour? Two? A fucking lifetime.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Jisung says, lips still hovering over his skin, arms still wrapped around his waist, the tips of his fingers stroking the fabric of his tank top. “Just tell me to stop.”
Are you really going to ask him to stop when you’ve waited so long?
Minho lets the shirt fall back into the basin. Twisting round in his arms, Minho pushes his fingers through Jisung’s damp curls. His hair is exactly how Minho had fantasised it would feel: soft and lush and thick. And his eyes, fuck. There’s a whole world in those large and beautiful brown eyes of his. 
He tips his head, meeting Jisung’s lips with his own, feather soft as to not aggravate Jisung’s cut lip, and Jisung is kissing him back, soft and long and slow and lazily. It’s like a walk in the park on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and polar opposite to how he’d imagined this would be all those nights he’d laid in his bed imagining it. A month of nights…
“Hmm,” Jisung smiles against his lips. “You’re restraining yourself.”
Unbidden, Minho barks out a laugh because it’s too fucking true. Jisung’s fully grinning now, that silly, dorky grin. Minho’s new favourite. 
“You’re hurt,” Minho let’s his thumb trace the outline of Jisung’s bottom lip.
“I meant what I said before,” Jisung’s breath ghosts Minho’s lips. “Anything,” he says and the word travels down and down and Jisung’s hands are chasing the word, seizing hold of Minho’s hips, pulling his pelvis to his. Grinning again when he can very obviously feel Minho’s desire, and Minho’s smiling back, because he can feel Jisung’s. “Anything.” Jisung says again and his lips are on Minho’s and it’s deep and uncontrolled, their lips sliding and scraping against the other and it’s messy and it’s different from Minho’s fantasies, because this is everything and so much more than his mind could conjure. Jisung pulls against Minho’s push until he is pinned against the breakfast bar, caged between Minho’s arms, and his hands are in Minho’s hair and on his back and his hips and seemingly everywhere and he’s kissing that magical spot below Minho’s ear. 
“I’ll… break you,” Minho hisses, gripping the counter as Jisung scrapes his teeth in the same spot. 
“I’m stronger than I look,” Minho can feel the smile against his neck. “I fought six guys at once.”
New turn-on: unlocked.
“Yeah you fucking did,” Minho says, grabbing a fistful of Jisung’s hair, pulling his head back, exposing his neck. He can feel Jisung's pulse hammering against his tongue and Jisung groans, stretching his head back further, allowing Minho to taste him and inhale that earthy scent of his. Minho’s hands slide down his ribs, to his waist, that forbidden, grabbable waist and it fits perfectly between his thumb and fingers. Minho pulls back to admire his hands gripping it, his thumbs and fingers caressing. He momentarily considers that it’s Jisung who will do the breaking. Because this, all this, is fucking killing him. 
“Take me to bed,” Jisung says and his voice is like velvet, smooth forwards and rough back and Minho slides his hands down over the curve of Jisung's arse to the back of his thighs, pulls him up into his arms. He’s not exactly light, but he’s far from heavy and when Jisung wraps his legs around his waist, grips his shoulders, it only makes it easier. They kiss as Minho carries him to the bedroom, lays him back on the bed, hands sliding over fabric, then under it and Jisung’s skin is smooth, and hard, and soft and warm and Jisung is arching up and into him, making pretty little whimpers—then his eyes fly open and he seizes hold of Minho’s wandering hands. “Wait!”
Minho stops immediately, “I’m sorry, are you— what’s wrong?”
“Where’s Soonie?”
“Soonie?” Minho repeats, the blood supply needed to comprehend what Jisung is saying is directed decisively elsewhere. “My cat?”
“Yes,” and Jisung’s cheeks are reddening. “I can’t — I can’t do this with Soonie in here.”
Minho can’t control the smile that leaps to his face. It’s the cutest thing he’s ever fucking heard. 
Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Cute. Adorable. 
Chuckling, he rolls off the bed, “Soonie?”
A gravelly purr emanates from the wash basket, and Soonie blinks at him in a manner that says, ‘Who dares disturb my slumber.’
Minho pets him, scoops him up and carries him out to the living room. Sets him on a blanket on the couch, pats his head, “Sorry pal.”
The responding cat chirp sounds a lot like, ‘fuck you’, which is perfectly justifiable.
Still chuckling quietly to himself at the absurdity, Minho returns to the bedroom, closes the bedroom door, turns and hesitates. Jisung smiles warmly up at him from the centre of his bed. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red and swollen, his golden skin seeming to glow against the white of the sheets. He looks so small and so fucking beautiful. Minho crawls up onto the bed to lie beside him and Jisung rolls onto his side to face him and for a minute, Minho allows himself to just look. 
Look at how, his curls fall lazily and elegantly over his brow and into his eyes. How his brown eyes appear almost black and still emanate light. How his soft round cheeks blend into the sharp edge of his jawline. How his narrow top lip is all angles, whilst his bottom lip is a curvaceous invitation. Jisung’s face is all juxtapositions. None of it should work together, but it’s truly beautiful.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jisung whines, bringing his hand up to cover his face.
Minho smiles, gently pulls his hand away, “You said, ‘anything’.”
Something in Jisung’s eyes soften and his hand slots around the nape of Minho’s neck and he kisses him.
Minho allows himself to be kissed whatever way Jisung wants it, which just so happens to be how Minho wants it. It’s a sunset kiss. A twilight kiss. Deep and longing. Their hands move slowly, pressing and pulling. After seconds or a lifetime, but too short, Jisung pulls away, tugging at the hem of Minho’s tank top, pulling it over his head. Minho makes light work of Jisung’s own t-shirt, and Jisung has a fucking chest tattoo on the right side, and his pecs and abdominal muscles look like you could skip stones off them and… he’s bruised. There are noticeable red and blue marks, the size of fists down the left side of his chest and Minho’s breath catches. God help me if I ever see those men again…
“I’m okay,” Jisung says gently, taking Minho’s hand and holding his palm against his bruised ribs. Minho can feel the heat of his skin, the texture of his ribs moving beneath his hand. “Really, it doesn’t hurt all that much.”
Still holding his hand against him, Jisung kisses him into the pillows and Minho pulls him down with him. He traces the red and black tattoo with his fingers, then with his tongue, Jisung humming appreciation at his ear before biting gently on his earlobe. “More,” he says, as his hand slides beneath the waistband of Minho’s sweatpants and the elastic of his boxers, fingers digging into the flesh of Minho’s arse. Minho returns the action in kind, smiling against Jisung’s groaning mouth.
Now Jisung is sliding Minho’s joggers and boxers down, tossing them off to the side, then his sweats and the socks and they are both naked, their legs scissoring, hands and feet caressing. Minho lets his hands trace Jisung’s outlines, carving the shape of him into his mind, memorising how the curve of Jisung's waist fits under his palm. How his dark hair falls forward over his face. How his full bottom lip curls and his top lip dips. 
Jisung’s hand slides down over Minho’s abdominal muscles and lower—
“Fuck,” Minho hisses through his teeth, as Jisung’s fingers encircle him. Every muscle and tendon in his body tightens, his fingers pressing into Jisung’s waist. Jisung hums, his lips are at that spot beneath Minho’s ear, melting his insides. 
He reaches for Jisung, but Jisung pins his hand against the bed, their fingers interlacing. “Not yet,” Jisung’s voice has a dangerous edge. And again Minho’s mind reels: Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Adorable. Dangerous Jisung. “I said I would make you beg.”
Yes. Yes you did. And…fuck… I might. Minho fights to stay here. He shuts his eyes, gripping Jisung’s hand and fisting at the sheets with the other.
“Look at me,” Jisung says and Minho obeys and it’s a big fucking mistake. Jisung is a pleasurable assault on his senses. His lip curled in a smirk. His dark eyes sparkling. His hand doing…fucking incredible things and if he doesn’t stop it now, he’s going to have to beg. With a roll of his hips, he flips Jisung onto his back, pinning Jisung’s legs down with his own, capturing Jisung’s wrists with one hand. Jisung’s eyes are round and wide at the sudden reversal, but he’s smiling, his pink tongue at the corner of his lips. Minho smiles darkly down at him, makes use of his advantage (and his ambidexterity), his free hand sliding down… Jisung arches off the bed, a red lip caught between white teeth. Slowly, Minho releases his wrists, kisses him into the mattress whilst Jisung’s fingers dig into his shoulders.
Slowly, Minho backs off from him, retreating towards the foot of the bed, lips and tongue tracing his jawline, his neck, his chest, his belly button and Jisung’s fingers are in his hair, watching Minho who is retreating further and lower, tracing kisses inside his thighs. And he looks up the length of Jisung, their eyes locking, tongue and lips teasing–
“Those fucking eyelashes,” Jisung swears throwing his head back when Minho takes him in. Jisung groans softly, chewing his lip as he watches Minho. His thighs trembling under Minho’s fingers whilst his own knot in Minho’s hair and the litany of curses that spill from Jisung are enough to consecrate the room. “Holy mother of–” Jisung’s fingers are pulling Minho’s hair, and he’s sitting up and bringing Minho’s lips back to his, in a crushing kiss that must be painful on his cut lip, “Irino, I need you.”
Irino. Something about the way Jisung contracts his name makes Minho momentarily giddy. I need you. Drives him wild. “Are you begging?”
“Stop being a fucking tease!”
Minho arches an eyebrow at him. Biting Jisung’s lip and dragging it through his teeth. And the sound that escapes Jisung’s mouth is particularly pleasurable.
“Irino, please,” Jisung says, pressing his lips against Minho’s. Kissing him deeply, hungrily, desperately.
Are you really going to prolong your own suffering? Blindly, Minho fumbles in the bedside drawer amongst his leather holster. He pulls back from Jisung to tear the foil open with his teeth. Jisung, huffing impatiently, snatches it from him, rolls the condom on him, and even that action makes Minho moan. 
Jisung lies back against the pillows, lifting his knees as Minho lines himself up and slowly pushes into him and he’s hissing through his teeth because Jisung is so fucking perfect and arching off the bed, groaning pleasurably and again he’s fighting to maintain himself. Resist a little longer. Give Jisung time to adjust. Inch by blissful inch.
Slowly, they move together, their bodies seemingly, instinctively knowing what the other wants, what the other needs, as though they had done this before in a past life, on another timeline, in an alternate universe. Soon, Jisung digs his fingers into Minho’s hips, encouraging him to move, pulling him deeper and he looks so fucking pretty beneath him, lips parted, his eyes burning darkly up at him, sweat beading around his temples, “You’re not–going to–break me,” Jisung pants, and for a fleeting moment, Minho believes him, believes that he’s unbreakable and his entire body rolls at the words and Jisung gasps, fingers knotting in Minho’s hair, a sound like a growl escapes his own lips when Jisung pushes against his thrust. “Oh! Uh-huh–yes, like that–just–like–that–”
Oh he can fucking take it. Minho stretches forward, kisses him with teeth, swallowing Jisung’s groans which are growing louder with every thrust. Minho kisses over his jawline, down his neck, to his collarbone and back up to his ear, “Let me hear you.”
“Irino.”
Fuck, just the sound of his name is undoing him. Driving him.
“Irino,” Jisung groans and he’s calling to some part deep inside Minho. Some part of his soul. Calling to another Minho in a past life, on a different timeline, in that alternate universe. “My Irino.”
My. “Ji—fuck—” Minho grinds out as Jisung wraps his legs around Minho’s thighs, pulling him closer, urging him deeper, moving him faster, his hands slipping over Minho’s back, fingers digging, breath quickening.
“Irino!”
“Ji— I’m going to—”
“Look at me,” Jisung cups Minho’s head in his hands, fingers digging into his hair, arching up, his mouth parting and eyes watering and he looks like fucking heaven and Minho is trembling and groaning back and seeing stars but they aren’t stars, it’s the whole fucking universe, past, different and fucking alternate in Jisung’s eyes before they coalesce and become a single point of blinding light.
Boneless, Minho collapses forward against Jisung's sticky chest. He listens to the sound of Jisung’s breath, his too quick heart beat.
His giggling.
“What’s funny?” Minho asks, utilising his remaining strength to push himself up and look down at Jisung.
“Nothing,” Jisung kisses him again and again.
Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Adorable. Dangerous. Great in bed. Minho thinks, giggling against Jisung's hair.
♤ ♡ ♢ ♧
They shower together.
It’s not sexual, but very sensual. And it’s new. Minho has never done anything like this with anyone before. Has never wanted to until Jisung had made the suggestion. He takes his time lathering shower gel into Jisung’s skin. He’s being particularly gentle over his ribs, which are more purple than red now. Smiles when Jisung giggles, “Not there! I’m ticklish.”
Jisung gently massages shampoo into Minho’s hair in between kisses and giggles. It’s odd, just how much Minho is enjoying this. Enjoying the closeness. Enjoying Jisung.
When they step out of the bathroom, hair dripping, towels around their waists, Minho pulls the top sheet off the bed, drops it into the wash basket and Jisung crosses the room to the bedroom door, pulls it open, “Where’s the beautiful boy?”
‘That’s me,’ Soonie chirps as he trots to Jisung, arching against his legs, bell tinkling. ‘I’m here.’
What the fuck is wrong with my cat? 
Jisung scoops him up, carries him over to the bed. “I’m so sorry we kicked you out.” Jisung croons, “I know. We’re mean, aren’t we? Yes.”
“You’re mean,” Minho corrects, lying on the bed and scratching Soonie under the chin. Mimicking Jisung’s condescending tone, “You were all cosy before you got evicted.”
Jisung narrows his eyes down at Minho, “I’m certain that everything that just happened would have been traumatic for the poor boy.”
Minho chews his smile, “He still heard us, Ji.”
And there it is, that pleasant shade of pink spreading up Jisung’s neck and settling around his cheeks. 
Jisung kneels up onto the bed, lays down with Soonie between them. Soonie languishes in the attention he’s receiving from them both. Jisung’s fingers buried in the softness of his orange and white fur, his knuckles purpling and swollen. Minho traces them with his thumb, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“I just kind of had to,” Jisung shrugs. “I’ve always been sort of scrappy. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that, to survive, you have to fight.”
If you want something. Fight for it. Fight for it and win. It’s a lesson his Father had beaten into him from an early age.
“I hope the girl is okay,” Jisung says. A small furrow forming on his brow.
Minho cups his head, leans forward, kisses it gently. “I’m sure she’s being well looked after.”
The furrow melts away.
“You can fight too,” Jisung says. “Boxing?”
“Hmm, and mixed martial arts.”
Jisung’s fingers trace the ragged line on his bicep, “You have a lot of scars,” he says. “Who hurt you?”
“That’s from a broken bottle,” he tells him. “I was trying to break up a fight.” He chooses to leave out the part where he’d started and finished it.
“And this?” Jisung caresses the pink scar beneath his left collar bone that his brother Felix gave him after a particularly rowdy night and an honest to goodness misunderstanding. 
“Broken pool cue.”
“And this?” Jisung’s knuckles brush the long thin scar below his diaphragm.
“I don’t actually know about that one. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.”
“Hasn’t your father told you?”
“He doesn’t know either. I, um… I’m adopted,” he surprises himself by saying this out loud. He’s not ashamed of it. It’s just something he chooses not to tell people. “So my medical history from before is a little vague.”
Something flickers over Jisung’s eyes, but it’s gone and he’s speaking before Minho gets the opportunity to try and understand the look. “Your brothers?”
“We’re all adopted, but I love them as if they are brothers,” he smirks, knowing that whilst this is true, his brothers would vehemently deny that Minho is capable of such affection. “Blood is thicker than water, after all.”
Jisung grins widely at him, “You are probably the first person I’ve heard use that in the correct way,” his eyes burn, and he leans forward, kisses Minho who kisses back and their hands are quickening, fingers digging, towels slipping and—
Meow. 
Jisung pulls away giggling. Minho is less than amused. 
“I’m sorry!” Jisung says, leaning back and petting Soonie, “Are you feeling left out?” he plants a kiss on the top of Soonie’s head. Soonie purrs happily. Little cat cock blocker.
Minho settles down against the pillows. Outside, the sun is rising and the morning twilight plays with Jisung’s soft features. Minho thinks he’s probably the most beautiful man in this, or any other world, past, present or alternate. 
Jisung glances at him, smiles, “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” it comes out like a sigh. Minho traces the black and red circle with a white star radiating from the centre. “Tell me about this.”
Jisung smiles, “My broken compass?”
And now Minho can see it, the points for north, east, south and west, but the letters at these points are different; S-T-A-Y. “Why’s it broken?”
“Have you seen Pirates of the Caribbean?”
“No,” Minho says.
“Well, shame on you. You should watch it. It’s a whole thing,” his smile is teasingly beautiful. “But my broken compass is a reminder. A reminder that I’m never really lost. That I’m not really astray. That I can always find myself, if I rely on what my heart is telling me.”
Whatever Minho had envisioned the answer to be, this was not it. He feels a bubble rise in his chest, and poking curiously at it, realises that it’s sadness. He feels sad that Jisung has ever felt astray. He cups Jisung's face, lets his thumb caress his cheek, “Stay with me a little longer?”
Smiling, Jisung cups Minho’s hand with his own, and lays down. “Okay.”
♤ ♡ ♢ ♧
Minho wakes to sunlight blinding him. South facing windows are great and all, except at midday when you’ve had less than four hours sleep. He flinches back from it, rolls away, hand reaching across the bed finding it empty. Usually, finding that his previous nights fuck toy has scarpered fills him with relief. So he’s a little surprised and wary of the hollowness sitting in his chest at Jisung’s absence. Or is it the absence of Jisung? Whichever it is, he’s not particularly fond of the feeling.
Distantly, in the fog of his sleepy brain, he’s aware that Soonie isn’t glaring at him from the bedside table or neighbouring pillow, bopping his nose with an angry paw demanding breakfast, which is his usual morning alarm. He rolls onto his back and drops his forearm over his eyes, listens to the sound of the hum of the traffic and a television. No, not a television. He removes his arm, sits up on his elbows, stares at his open bedroom door. It’s definitely his television.
He rolls out of bed, pulling on last night's sweatpants and pads barefooted and bare chested into his living room.
Jisung is sitting cross legged on the couch, wearing his laundered tank top and jeans and hideous socks and eating a triangle of jammy toast. Soonie is curled into a ball on his lap and they are both staring at the television. On the screen, a pretty woman is talking to a prettier man and after only thirty seconds of listening to them, horror settles into his stomach, it’s one of those fucking dating shows. “You’ve got to be kidding me? You watch this shit?”
“Shush,” Jisung says, waving his toast at him in a gesture to be quiet. Which is fucking cheeky since he’s sitting in Minho’s home. Or fucking cute. By the way Jisung nibbles on his toast, his eyes large and fixed on the screen, Minho leans towards cute, but he’s adding cheeky to his list. “I’ve been waiting for three weeks for him to finally confess to her.”
“Confess what?” Minho folds his arms across his chest, “That it’s a terrible idea to talk about their love life on national television?”
“Shush!” Jisung hisses.
Feeling scolded and chuckling quietly to himself, Minho ruffles Jisung’s hair as he pads over to the kitchen, or what had been his kitchen. The carnage remaining from Jisung making toast is a wonder to behold. It’s amazing there’s any jam on his toast, since a large quantity of it seems to be everywhere else. He’d clearly tried to wash the previous night’s dishes, but didn’t know where to put anything so had them teetering dangerously on the sink. But there’s coffee brewing in the pot, so that’s something. He steps on something hard, curses as he hops on one foot, inspects the other to find a cat biscuit there. Glances down at Soonie’s overflowing bowl.
“YES!” Jisung says. “Tell her! Tell her!”
Meoooow, Soonie agrees.
‘The thing is…’ the handsome man on screen is saying. ‘I never stopped loving you.’
Minho rolls his eyes, pours himself a mug of coffee.
“YES!” Jisung bounces on the couch, hands in the air. Soonie leaps away from him and scampers into the bedroom as Jisung claps his hands. “Finally!”
Music is playing now, the dramatic-romantic type as the camera focuses on the pretty woman’s disbelieving face and then the credits roll. Jisung vaults over the back of the couch, his smile wide and fucking adorable. He does a little happy skip, his fists like paws at his side. “He finally told her.”
“I gathered,” Minho can’t help smiling at him around his coffee mug. 
Jisung plants a kiss on his cheek, “Good afternoon.”
“Afternoon,” Minho replies, setting his mug down so he can wrap his arms around Jisung’s waist. Honestly, his arms are made for this. “Hmm.”
Jisung grins at him, but pulls away and covers his mouth when Minho leans forward for a kiss. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
“Neither have I,” Minho says, pulling Jisung closer, breathing on him.
“Oh my lord,” Jisung whines, nose wrinkling as he tries to wriggle free.
Minho plants a quick chaste kiss against Jisung’s lips and at once he stops wriggling, begins melting in Minho’s arms, his hands encircling Minho’s neck, pulling him down, kissing him deeply, and he tastes like strawberries, moaning against Minho’s lips. After seconds that might have been hours, Jisung pulls away. His cheeks are that pretty shade of pink, “Well, that was disgusting.”
“Uh-huh,” Minho says, kissing him once more before letting him go.
Jisung leans back against the breakfast bar, “I fed Soonie.”
“I see that.”
“I wasn’t sure how much to give him.”
“I see that too,” Minho tickles Jisung under his chin. “Good effort.”
Giggling, Jisung rabbit punches his shoulder. Hugs himself. “I don’t suppose you have a jumper or something I could borrow? My shirt’s outside, but it’s still damp.”
“Of course, are you cold?”
“No, not cold, I just, I er, don’t really like my arms out, on show.”
Minho arches an eyebrow at him, “You don’t like your arms?”
“I just don’t feel comfortable.”
Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Adorable. Dangerous. Great in bed. Cheeky. Shy. 
Minho kisses the top of his head, “For the record, you have very sexy arms,” he says, stepping round Jisung and heading to his room. At the very top of his wardrobe he finds an old, hooded jumper in dark grey, with two white wings on the back. “Is this okay? It’ll be massive on you.”
“It’s cute, thanks,” Jisung says, pulling it over his head, the sleeves hanging low over his hands. And Minho sees the way Jisung’s shoulders relax under the fabric. 
“Better?”
“Much,” Jisung smiles at him.
There is the sound of a phone vibrating. Minho automatically glances at his bedside table where his phone is on charge, but it’s still and silent. 
Jisung pulls his own from the front pocket of his jeans, his face hardens as he scowls at the broken screen, and ends the call. 
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m—for fuck’s sake,” he ends the second call. “I have to go.”
“Do you need a lift? I could drive—”
“No. No, that’s not necessary.”
His phone rings for a third time and Minho’s seeing the tightness in his shoulders return. “Do you need to get that? I can leave—”
“No. They can wait,” Jisung steps forward, cups Minho’s head and pulls him down for a kiss and the kiss is going places when his fucking phone starts ringing again. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Jisung ends the call again. “I had a wonderful time last night.” He looks Minho in the eye, pushing strands of hair away from Minho’s forehead. “A really wonderful time.”
“Me too,” Minho says, allowing his hands to rub circles over Jisung's back. Feels his muscles tense when his phone rings again.
“I really have to go,” he steps back, pets Soonie on the head and stoops down to kiss the spot between his ears. “Be good, beautiful boy.”
Soonie chirps, ‘I will’.
Why are you lying? Minho thinks.
“Ji?” Minho follows him out of the bedroom, Jisung is already at the main door, pulling on his boots, not bothering to tie his laces, just shoving the loose ends inside them. Groaning loudly when his phone starts ringing again. “Ji?”
Jisung shakes his head, unlatches the door, but Minho slaps his palm against it, slamming it shut. 
“Ji, look at me.” 
Jisung takes a shaky breath, looks. His eyes are damp. Any joy he’d had only five minutes ago has been expunged by the person trying to call him. Minho feels a visceral loathing of the person on the other end of those calls. He thumbs a tear from Jisung's cheek, “Who’s trying to call you?”
“It’s no-one,” Jisung lies terribly, which isn’t necessarily a bad trait.
“Your boyfriend?” It makes sense, in the moment, though the word burns in his chest. “Girlfriend?” he hedges, remembering the red and blue girls from the club.
“No,” Jisung smiles tiredly at him, “Nothing like that, it’s,” he sighs, “it’s my brother.”
“Oh, okay,” Minho hears the sound of relief in his own voice. “Are you okay?”
His nose wrinkles as he shakes his head. 
Minho’s unsure who kisses who first but they are kissing, Jisung pinned against the door, his leg around the back of Minho’s thigh, pulling him in, and closer, his hands flattening over Minho’s chest, up and over his shoulders, into his hair and his fucking phone starts ringing again.
“Tell him to fuck off,” Minho growls against Jisungs mouth.
Jisung giggles, dropping his foot back to the floor and gently detaching Minho’s hands from his waist. “I have to go,” he says as he wrenches the door open. Hesitates on the threshold. “Can I call you?”
“You fucking better,” Minho says and Jisung kisses his cheek quickly before he flees out of the door, jogs towards the elevator, takes the stairs. 
Minho closes the door, walks to his windows, heaves one open and steps out onto the narrow balcony. The sun is heating his skin, but his feet are cold on the concrete. He watches and he waits, and finally he sees Jisung, hood over his head, phone pressed to his ear, jogging lightly across the street, flagging down a taxi and scrambling into the back of it. Minho watches as the taxi rolls down the road and disappears around a corner. 
Palming the back of his neck, Minho turns to head back inside when he spots Jisung’s shirt, draped over the back of a chair. He lifts it, carries it inside. 
Purr? Soonie is pacing in front of the door, sniffing the spot where Jisung’s boots had been.
“He’s away,” Minho tells him. “Don’t look at me in that tone.”
Soonie sits down and continues to scowl at Minho as if he was the one who made him leave.
Minho flops onto the couch, idly feeling the smooth silk of Jisung’s shirt between his fingers. He glances up at the television showing icons of several shows of happy, smiling, pretty heterosexuals and the words: Because you watched Exchange: you might also like…
“No I fucking wouldn’t,” Minho says reaching for the remote and turning the television off. 
Jisung: Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Adorable. Dangerous. Great in bed. Cheeky. Shy. Algorithm wrecker.
“Fuck,” Minho sighs dropping his head back. He’d slept with a lot of people in his time… could remember (maybe) some of their names. Could just about recall what they looked like… but here he was able to recite his list of Jisung’s without any issue.
Meow? Soonie says for no reason.
Another Jisung: Cat heart stealer.
“Fuck.”
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TASTE M.List & Sypnosis
Chapter 1 - Parley
Chapter 2 - The DLC
Chapter 4 - The Wolf & His Pack
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mazerimmer · 1 year ago
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Contemporary Deck DC Metro
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Example of a mid-sized trendy side yard deck design with a fire pit and a roof extension
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theivorybilledwoodpecker · 7 months ago
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Anyone else get pedophile vibes from Rothman?
From Russian Roulette:
And that night, I met Julia Rothman for the second time. She had sent her personal launch to collect me, a beautiful vessel that was all teak and chrome with a silver scorpion molded into the bow. It carried me beneath the famous Bridge of Sighs—I hoped that was not an omen—and on to the Widow’s Palace where we had first met. She was dressed, once again, in black; this time a very low-cut dress with a zip down one side, which I recognized at once as the work of the designer Gianni Versace. We ate in her private dining room, a long table lit by candles and surrounded by paintings—Picasso, Cézanne, van Gogh—all of them worth millions. We began with soup, then lobster, finally a creamy custard mixed with wine that the Italians call zabaglione. The food was delicious, but as I ate I was aware of her examining me, watching every mouthful, and I knew that I was still being tested. “I’m very pleased with you, Yassen,” she said as the coffee was poured. The whole meal had been served by two men in white jackets and black pants, her personal waiters. “Do you think you’re ready?” “Yes, Mrs. Rothman,” I replied. “You can stop calling me that now.” She smiled at me and I was once again struck by her film-star looks. “I prefer Julia.” .... She reached out and, just for a moment, her fingers brushed against the back of my hand. “You know, Yassen,” she said, “you are incredibly good-looking. I thought that the moment I saw you, and your five months on Malagosto have done nothing but improve you.” She sighed and drew her hand away. “Russian boys aren’t quite my thing,” she continued. “Or else who knows what we might get up to? But it will certainly help you in your work. Death should always come smartly dressed.”
From Scorpia:
Julia Rothman had the best table, in the middle of the terrace, with views over Positano and out to sea. She was sitting on her own with a glass of champagne, waiting for him, wearing a low-cut black dress with a simple diamond necklace around her neck. She saw him, smiled, and waved. Alex walked over to her, feeling suddenly self-conscious in the suit. Most of the other diners seemed to be casually dressed. He wished now that he hadn’t put on the tie. “Alex, you look wonderful.” She ran her dark eyes over him. “The suit fits you perfectly. It’s Miu Miu, isn’t it? I love the style. Please. Sit down.” Alex took his place at the table. He wondered what anyone watching might think. A mother and her son out for the evening? He felt like an extra in a film—and he was beginning to wish someone would show him the script. “It’s been a while since I ate dinner with my own boy toy. Will you have some champagne?” .... “All right,” she said when they were gone. “Let’s finish eating and talk about other things. You can tell me about Brookland. I want to know what music you listen to and what sports teams you support. Do you have a girlfriend? I’m sure a boy as handsome as you gets plenty of offers. Now I’ve made you blush.
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groundonesix · 7 months ago
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Vereinigte Werkstätten Brass and Glass Side Table
An elegant and rare Mid-Century Modern tripod side table designed and manufactured by Vereinigte Werkstätten, in 1950s Germany.
This side table stands on a brass tripod base where a central powdered coated rod in fine hourglass shape is joined on the top with the brass fittings that supports the circular glass top with a loop brass handle as a finial finish. 
The glass top itself is anointed with the brass fittings.
A marvelous piece of practical design that can easily fit to any interiors, vintage or modern. Either next to a sofa, armchairs or to the bed you can just use the handle to lift it and move it around! 
We can post internationally dismantled. 
CREATOR: Vereinigte Werkstätten
PLACE OF ORIGIN: Germany
DATE OF MANUFACTURE: c. 1950's
PERIOD: 1950 - 1959
MATERIALS & TECHNIQUES: Brass, Glass
CONDITION: Overall good steady condition with
WEAR: some cosmetic wear that you would expect after 70 years. There is some wear on the powder coated paint as seen on the images. The glass top apart from the occasion light wear doesn’t have any chips and stands strong. The brass elements have some expected patina..
HEIGHT TO TOP: 65cm | 25.6in
HEIGHT TO GLASS: 49cm | 19.3in
GLASS DIAMETER: 66cm | 26in
Request more information
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hockeywriterrowan · 1 year ago
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Our Café || Nico Hischier
Nico Hischier x Reader
Word Count: 891
Warnings: none
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The soft hum of the music and the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air in the small, cozy café tucked into Hoboken. The café was a haven for many, including you, the owner. Its warm, dimly lit interior and comfortable leather chairs offered patrons a cozy retreat where they could either delve into their studies or simply bask in the moment.
You stood behind the practically brand-new espresso machine, fingers dancing along the chrome buttons. While you had only owned your coffee shop for two years, you had worked in a small college-town bakery all through your teenage years into getting your business degree. It was safe to say you were a master, your espresso-making ritual being a finely choreographed performance. As you locked the portafilter into the machine’s group head, the rich, earthy scent rose into the air.
You took a deep breath as you pressed the button, the machine roaring to life. Watching the deep brown liquid flow from the machine’s spouts was easy. As you watched the espresso shot fill the small cup, you smiled. Even though you had done it for years, every cup was like a mini accomplishment in your day. 
You saw Nico silently staring at you from his table as you looked up. He came every day. You served the man with adorable dimples every day. You made the shortest of conversations with Nico every day. Of course, throughout the winter, he would be gone for several days; those days made you realize how much he was a part of your routine. They made you realize Nico's importance to your life without ever having a genuine conversation with him.
But you knew he was at away games. You have been to a couple of Devils games since making Hoboken your permanent home two years ago when you opened your coffee shop. The first day he came to the café, the day of its opening (before you even had to hire employees), Nico came in. Since then, he had always come when most customers were at work.
You carefully placed the espresso on a small plate with a glass of ice water and pain au chocolat. You presented it to Nico’s table, “Hello! Here’s your espresso, Nico.”
“Thank you so much, Y/N.”
He took a moment to appreciate the look of the dark liquid. He looked up and smiled. Every time you saw him smile at you, your own lips would also turn slightly upward, just as they did the first day he came in. You gave a small smile back and returned to the counter.
As you cleaned around the counters, you thought about Nico. In the past two years, he had brought several of his teammates. It was clear how much he loved them. He would always pay for his teammates. When Jack was boisterously laughing, Nico would smile. You had never seen someone care for their friends as much as him.
As people came in after work, Nico left. Because your employees came in to start their shifts with the busier afternoons, your last job before leaving (with them to close up later) was to pick up tables. Nico’s table was the only one for you to worry about. As you picked up the small plate he had left behind, you noticed a small piece of paper.
“I know you’re only doing busy work. You should sit and chat with me tomorrow.”
He added a little smiley face at the end. You smiled, slipping the note into the back pocket of your jeans. 
As your shift ended, you kept smiling softly. You kept thinking about Nico’s smile. Thinking about his friendly mannerisms to a fan he once met before entering your café. Thinking about the way he kept his table always so neat.
You were excited about the prospect of being his friend.
— 
Nico walked in on Saturday wearing his usual sweatshirt and shorts, but his smile showed particularly bright that day.
“Hello, Nico!”
“Hello! One espresso, one vanilla latte, and two pain au chocolat, please!”
Your smile slightly faltered as you typed it in. Who else was he ordering for? Nico continued smiling and kept his eyes on you, and when you looked back up at him, you softly smiled back. 
As you started making the latte, you frowned. You thought that the note was Nico trying to get to know you. Did he have someone who he wanted you to meet? When you finished the latte to go and make the espresso, you saw Nico with his phone down and looking at you. His eyebrows were scrunched, but he shifted his eyes as soon as he noticed you looking back.
You finished the espresso, warmed up the pain au chocolat you made that morning, and walked out from behind the counter. He smiled at you, carrying the larger tray, setting down Nico’s usual on his side of the table and the other part of his order on the other side. 
You turned around with the tray, but before fully turning around, Nico spoke up, “Aren't you going to sit?”
“Oh,” you turned back around, finally realizing that Nico got the latte and pain au chocolat for you. 
Nico laughed but didn’t want to embarrass you, so he asked, “Why did you decide to open the café?"
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wellhalesbells · 10 months ago
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#wipwednesday
A continuation of the last wip wednesday thing I posted - still chipping away at it :))) (We're only at 12k now, lol). Trying to get better at doing this!
He’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting in companionable silence.  Derek’s been thinking about the pack, about what drills they should run through next week, about what he should make for dinner that night, about where the light hits in the loft, where a few plants might thrive as he watches it inch its way down the siding of the kitchen island, across the hardwood floor, over Stiles’ shoulder and the fine hairs on his body prickling as the sun overtakes him, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat making him look an almost dusky gold, his expression becoming a full squint as the light ricochets off the metal and chrome in Derek’s home. Derek watches the cylinder glass of his coffee table warp the sun’s rays, dancing them over the area rug underneath, losing himself to it so intensely that for an entire moment he’s underwater.  At least until Stiles turns to him, elbow on the cushion next to Derek’s thigh, and expression… different than one Derek has ever seen on his face. It’s serious and uncomfortable.  Stiles is never uncomfortable, even when he should be.  The sun’s passed them both by. “What is it.”  Derek hasn’t felt this tense in his presence in nearly a year, and he can’t help that his body immediately starts bracing for this next hell Stiles is about to unleash.  He wants to be better than this, he was better than this, damn it.  He’d let go of his inner Chicken Little, or so he thought, because at least for a little while he had believed the sky wasn’t falling. It’s sad all it takes to put him back there is an odd look on a face he otherwise knows well. Stiles winces and Derek’s heart rate beats in triple time.  “I have to tell you something.”  He’s not looking at Derek and his voice sounds hoarse.  “Or… maybe I don’t?  I don’t know.”  He winces again.  “I just—I feel like I’m hiding something from you, and I don’t want to do that.  I don’t want—” he shakes his head.  “I want to be honest with you, but… I also don’t think telling you will do good things to you.  I think it’ll hurt you, more than anything, and I really don’t want to do that.” Derek narrows his eyes at him.  “I can handle it.”  He’s silently willing Stiles to just spit it out already because he can’t know how bad it is until it’s out there and then the damage control can begin. Stiles half-laughs, stares down into his lap as he fiddles with a highlighter between his fingers.  “I know that.  Believe me.  Derek, your whole life is handling things but I don’t want this to be that.” “Stiles,” Derek says carefully, and he doesn’t want to know, not really, but he will handle it, “maybe you should just tell me and then we can deal with it.” Stiles takes a deep breath and Derek does it with him because there’s space enough for both of them; there still is.  “Okay, yeah.  Yeah, you’re probably right.  Fuck, I hope this is—Okay, just gonna.”  He looks up at Derek and Derek does his best to keep his face blank even though he wants to kick Stiles out, run away himself, reach out and stop Stiles’ lips from parting.  “I’m in love with you.” Derek doesn’t mean to flinch, but he does.
tagging anyone who wants to show their progress!!
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