#marble inlay tables
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marbletemples · 1 year ago
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Buy beautiful marble inlay tables at the best price
Get the marble inlay table at the best price for home decor. Our marble inlay table is made with the highest quality marble and craved by our best artisans. Contact us now to customize inlay table as per your requirement.
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jkhandicrafts · 3 months ago
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muzammils · 4 months ago
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Elegant Marble Table Tops – A Timeless Addition to Your Home by AS Handicrafts
A marble table top is more than just a piece of furniture—it’s a statement of luxury, craftsmanship, and timeless beauty. Whether you're looking for a white marble table for your living room or an intricate marble inlay table top to add artistic flair to your space, AS Handicrafts offers an exquisite collection of handcrafted designs that blend tradition with modern aesthetics.
Why Choose Marble Table Tops?
✔ Unmatched Elegance – The natural veining of marble creates a unique and luxurious appearance. ✔ Highly Durable – Marble is a strong and long-lasting material that can withstand daily use. ✔ Heat & Scratch Resistant – Unlike wood or glass, marble remains cool and is less prone to scratches. ✔ Versatile & Customizable – Available in various designs, colors, and finishes to match any decor style.
Types of Marble Table Tops at AS Handicrafts
1. White Marble Table Tops
🔹 Perfect for: Minimalist, modern, and classic interiors 🔹 Why choose it? A white marble table exudes sophistication and blends seamlessly with any decor. Ideal for dining tables, coffee tables, and center tables, it enhances the elegance of your home while providing a timeless appeal.
2. Marble Inlay Table Tops
🔹 Perfect for: Artistic and luxury interiors 🔹 Why choose it? Handcrafted using traditional Pietra Dura (marble inlay) techniques, these tables feature intricate floral, geometric, or Mughal-inspired designs with semi-precious stones. Each piece is a work of art, making it a luxurious addition to any space.
3. Round & Oval Marble Tables
🔹 Perfect for: Dining areas and lounges 🔹 Why choose it? The smooth, polished finish and curved edges of round and oval marble tables create a welcoming atmosphere. Ideal for intimate gatherings and elegant dining spaces.
4. Marble Coffee & Side Tables
🔹 Perfect for: Living rooms and office spaces 🔹 Why choose it? Whether you need a statement coffee table or a small side table, marble adds charm and elegance. Available in different colors like white, black, and green marble, they complement both modern and classic interiors.
5. Custom Marble Table Tops
🔹 Perfect for: Personalized luxury 🔹 Why choose it? If you have a specific design in mind, AS Handicrafts offers custom-made marble tables to match your exact preferences, ensuring a unique and personalized piece.
Why Buy from AS Handicrafts?
✔ Authentic Craftsmanship – Skilled artisans create each table using premium quality marble. ✔ Bespoke Designs – We offer customized marble inlay table tops to match your home’s aesthetics. ✔ Worldwide Shipping – Our high-quality marble tables are delivered across the globe. ✔ Competitive Pricing – Get luxury furniture at affordable prices.
Final Thoughts
A marble table top is an investment in style, durability, and sophistication. Whether you prefer a simple white marble table or a detailed marble inlay table top, AS Handicrafts has the perfect design to elevate your space.
📞 Contact us today to explore our exquisite collection of marble table tops and bring timeless elegance to your home!
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stoneartwala · 1 year ago
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The Art and Craft of Designing Tables: Melding Human Intelligence and Emotion
In the realm of furniture design, tables hold a unique position. They are not just functional pieces but also central to gatherings, conversations, and daily life. From dining tables that anchor family meals to coffee tables that invite relaxation, each design choice impacts both practicality and aesthetics. The art of designing tables goes beyond mere functionality; it embodies human intelligence and emotion, reflecting the intersection of creativity and craftsmanship.
The Essence of Table Design
Functional Elegance: A well-designed table seamlessly blends functionality with elegance. It serves its purpose efficiently while enhancing the overall aesthetic appeal of a space.
Materials Matter: The choice of materials—wood, metal, glass, or a combination—shapes the table's character. Each material brings its own texture, durability, and visual impact to the design.
Ergonomic Considerations: Human-centered design principles ensure tables are comfortable and convenient to use. Height, proportions, and accessibility are meticulously planned to accommodate varying user needs.
Human Intelligence in Crafting Tables
Design Innovation: Innovative table designs push boundaries, integrating modern technology with traditional craftsmanship. This results in tables that are not only visually striking but also functionally advanced.
Attention to Detail: Every detail matters, from joints and finishes to surface treatments and edge profiles. These details are meticulously executed to enhance both the aesthetic appeal and usability of the table.
Customization Options: Manufacturers offer customization to meet individual preferences and spatial requirements. This personalized approach ensures that each table is tailored to fit seamlessly into its intended environment.
Emotions Woven into Table Craftsmanship
Artisanal Touch: Skilled artisans infuse emotion into their work, imbuing tables with character and soul. Their craftsmanship reflects dedication, passion, and a commitment to creating enduring pieces.
Cultural Influences: Tables often reflect cultural nuances and traditions, serving as cultural artifacts that resonate with personal and collective histories. This cultural richness adds depth to their design.
Environmental Consciousness: Embracing sustainable practices, manufacturers prioritize eco-friendly materials and production methods. This conscientious approach ensures tables not only endure but also contribute positively to the environment.
Why Design Matters in Tables
Enhancing Living Spaces: Well-designed tables elevate the ambiance of homes, offices, and public spaces, fostering a sense of comfort and style.
Facilitating Social Interaction: Tables serve as focal points for social gatherings and interactions. Thoughtfully designed tables encourage communication and connection among people.
Longevity and Investment: Investing in a thoughtfully designed table is investing in longevity. Quality craftsmanship ensures durability, making tables cherished pieces passed down through generations.
Conclusion: The Intersection of Art and Function
In conclusion, the art of designing tables exemplifies the synergy between human intelligence and emotion. From concept to creation, each table embodies meticulous craftsmanship, innovative design, and a deep understanding of user needs and preferences. Tables transcend their utilitarian purpose, becoming symbols of creativity and cultural expression.
As demand for well-designed furniture grows, designers and manufacturers continue to innovate, pushing boundaries while honoring tradition. Choosing a table isn't just about acquiring furniture—it's about selecting a piece that enhances daily life, fosters connections, and adds aesthetic value to living spaces.
In a world where design defines experiences, tables stand as enduring testaments to the artistry and craftsmanship that enrich our environments. They embody the essence of human creativity, intelligence, and emotion, making them indispensable elements of our homes, workplaces, and communities.
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inkedtae · 8 months ago
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the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART II
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⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤
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⬅︎ PART I
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⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)
⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+
⌁ word count; 14.6k
⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.
⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play
⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩
❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here
❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗
❥ this is a continuation of the original post as the overall word count exceeds the character limit on tumblr posts. this is not an official part 2, but rather the second half of the one shot.
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!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!
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Your vision blurs, head spins. Movements slow, you sit yourself up. The zip-ties, previously binding your wrists and ankles, have been removed. So have your platform ankle boots, fish-netted feet brushing against the fur of your coat. Willing your sight back, you screw your eyes tight, blinking until your vision finally clears to take in the room.
A masterpiece of modern elegance, the room is a blend of minimalist design that indulges comfort. It is expansive, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows to offer a panoramic view of the Crimson Heights skyline below. You shuffle yourself off the comfortable bed, eager to get a closer look. The red lights of the city twinkle back at you and cast a soft, ambient glow throughout the space. You’ve never seen the city from such a height, swallowing thickly.
In the reflection of the glass, beyond your haphazard image of dried tears and ruined lipstick, the bed you have only just climbed out of summons your attention.
Draped in the finest linens with a dark charcoal-grey duvet and plush pillows arranged neatly, it must be king-sized in order to fit  the extensive space of the room. The headboard is a stunning work of art in itself—made of dark walnut wood, with soft leather inlays that give the room a sleek, masculine impression. The bed sits on a low, streamlined platform, reinforcing the room's minimal yet luxurious aesthetic. And, on either side of the bed, are matching nightstands, both topped with geometric lamps that are made of brushed steel and frosted glass.
Your eyes fall to the polished, dark hardwood floors. A rich, handwoven wool rug in deep, muted tones lays over it, warming the room and offering texture underfoot. You catch the gleam of the recessed lighting overhead, installed in the high, coffered ceilings. You lift your gaze and take in each panel. An awed sigh leaves you at the sight of the meticulously crafted slots, indirect LED lighting embedded into the coves to cast a sophisticated, layered illumination.
Against one wall stands a sprawling built-in wardrobe. The seamless doors are made from smoked glass and brushed steel accents. And, to the left of the bed, a small seating area invites relaxation, consisting of a sleek leather armchair and a low-profile marble coffee table. A few books rest upon it, alongside a single crystal whiskey tumbler, hinting at quiet, contemplative moments probably spent here.
You wander further around the room, spotting a door that leads to the master ensuite bathroom in the corner. It’s visible through frosted glass sliding doors. You debate on going in, curious to see what breathtaking architecture it will offer.
But then the walls captivate your attention, or rather the art that hangs from them. Large intricate pieces, each one probably chosen for its muted palette and contemporary feel, enhance the understated luxury that defines the room. The only splash of colour comes from a vase of white orchids resting on a sleek dresser, their delicate petals standing out against the otherwise neutral tones.
You resist reaching a hand out and tracing rigid lines of dried paint.
“I don’t give a shit,” you hear Chris growl on the other side of the black door.
You stiffen.
This is his room, you realise. The heart-wrenching events of the night return to you in a fast wave, flooding you with the same shame and anger that plagued you in the van.
As quietly as you can, you rush back to the bed for your coat and dig through the pockets for your switchblade. However, both are empty of your belongings, not even your lipstick remains. If you really are left without a weapon, you know what you must do.
Scooping up your coat and boots, you make your way to the door. It was one thing to be caught tangled in a bright dressing room with witnesses. It’s another to be cornered alone in his room. If he has a view of the city this marvellous, he must be tightly connected to within Stray Kids. You cannot, will not, subject yet another gang to your reckless behaviour. It will be best for everyone if you just leave. Besides, Vinny is probably worried sick about you, having witnessed you kidnapped.
“Call him,” Chris orders, his loud voice a bit clearer as you open the door. “Tell him she’s safe.”
You look up and down the long corridor. It is just as exquisite as the bedroom. Grey walls, remarkable artwork that looks to be of Korean origins. The hardwood floors extend beyond the room too, covered by a narrow carpet of lavish Persian design.
The left side leads to a number of rooms, one of which has the door wide open. Warm light seeps into the hallway with the natural grace of the sun, momentarily disrupted by shifting shadows. You don’t need to hear his voice again to know Chris is in there, the oversized silhouette of his frame confirmation enough.
You feel a grin involuntarily spreading on your lips.
“Good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says behind you.
Turning, you meet an unfamiliar face. Features nearly feline, the indigo haired man stands on the other end of the hall, compromising your path to the exit. He crosses his arms over his chest, dragging his gaze over your frame, attention lingering on the coat and boots clutched to your chest.
“And we were worried you’d try to run,” he jokes, though his face is void of friendly notions.
That stern dryness of his tone, sharpness of his voice triggers a memory.
“Shut up,” he had hissed before informing you that Vinny was alive.
“That’s what you do, right?” he asks. “You’re a runner.”
You narrow your gaze. “You say that like it’s some secret.”
He flashes a knowing smirk, as if well aware of your secrets. What is more astonishing, however, is the way that suggestive grin resembles Chris’s. It lacks his charisma and cynicism, and that flicker of darkness, dimming whatever light might have snuck through with indications of loss and trauma. So while the one before you is a good copy, it is not perfect. Those onyx eyes gleam of playful interest, twinkling with subtle notions of hostility instead.
You wonder if he learned it from—
Chris says your name.
The speed in which you turn to answer his call is downright disgraceful. Shame heats your chest, spreading up to your cheeks. Your instincts scream at you to avoid his gaze, to focus on anything other than that teasing smile he’s trying to bite back, but you find yourself helpless, unable to tear yourself away.
He must have showered, the smears of lipstick and splattered blood gone. His hair is pushed back, displaying his forehead. And his handsome face is on the way to recovery. Though his bruises still look tender, the cut on his brow is all clean and bandaged. Leaning against the doorframe, he wears a black shirt, that still emphasises the large muscles of his biceps, and a pair of matching sweats. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look just as good clothed as they do half-naked.
“Come’ere,” he beckons before tonguing his cheek. The twinkle in his gaze is enough indication that he knows you’ve been checking him out.
I need to go, you know you should say.
Your body has a mind of its own though, diminishing your voice, shackling your sanity and nudging you towards him. Completely compelled by the pull of his charm, you obey, only stopping once you’re pressed against his buff chest again and cranking your neck back to maintain his enamoured gaze.
“Let me get these out of your way,” he smiles, voice a mere notch above a whisper.
No, thank you. I have to go.
His fingers brush yours, prickling goosebumps along your arms.
You release your tight grip. He hands your things to the man you met in the hallway. Barrier of your belongings removed, you fully lean into him.
Grin widening, Chris cups your cheek and rubs his thumb against your chin. “You know, I resent the fact that you think I’m dramatic,” he mumbles, inches away from your lips. “I just like making statements.”
“And what statement were you planning on making by abducting me?”
His eyes darken, swirling with sinister intent. As if remembering he had an agenda beyond seducing you, Chris’s soft caress on your chin becomes a tight grip. He forces your lips onto a pucker, using his new hold to guide you into the room and shove you into the nearest chair.
You softly grunt upon the impact. Chris clenches his jaw to suppress a smirk. You know that you’re fighting your desire based on the fact that you do not deserve to have it fulfilled, being the treacherous person you are. But why is Chris suddenly shoving down his sexual urges? He didn’t have any qualms about using them to lure the truth out of you before.
The magnificent state of the office disrupts your thoughts. It maintains that same elegant, minimalistic aesthetic of his bedroom. Tall windows that offer views of the pier, gleaming hardwood floors decorated with luxurious, handwoven carpets of varying muted shades, all working together to become the backbone of comfort and professionalism within the room.
In front of you, Chris leans on the large, polished walnut desk. You notice a sleek laptop, and a few notepads and pens, all of which are neatly arranged. An ergonomic leather chair looms over the desk and you find that you are thankful he is not sitting on it, knowing you’d be incapable of enduring his scrutiny from such a position of power without wrestling the overwhelming urge to touch yourself.
In one corner, a small lounge area features a plush velvet sofa in a deep navy hue, flanked by a glass-top coffee table. A handful of his friends, including Seungmin and the icy-haired man from the dressing room, occupy the space. The other side, by the wall of windows, linger the remaining few, including the man who took the position of his coach in the recent match and the one you met in the hall.
The artwork in the office does not resemble that of his room, or even the corridor. It is more abstract, sometimes broken up by black and white photos of himself in the ring. He barely breaks a sweat in each photo, clenching hard around his mouth guard as he glares at his opponent. A championship belt is framed and pinned behind his desk too, under a collection of trophies and gold medals.
You wonder how many people have been invited here, blessed to witness the wonders held within these walls.
“I need to know everything,” Chris says, pulling your attention away from the layout of the room.
You furrow your brows. “I told you everything.”
Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “Word for word,” he clarifies, voice void of the softness it once cradled.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Disappointment lances around your heart, ensnaring your high-hopes like barbed wire. You thought he was making a statement of affectation or, at the very least, interest. You thought that his body was reacting to yours as well, that he felt your pain within a shared kiss, understood your damage within an exchanged breath. You thought that maybe he just wanted to see you again and didn’t know how, his efforts extreme but he is a Stray Kid after all.
You now understand the forced meeting for what it really is— an interrogation.
Told you so, a little voice in your head gloats. If you put up a fight and ran when I told you to, you wouldn't feel this way.
Sucking on the insides of your cheeks, brows knitted and eyes reverting to the floor, you shake your head and humorlessly laugh at your desperate short-sightedness. You’re no better than Aiden in the ring, flailing yourself around for a chance to be accepted somewhere, anywhere.
Perhaps this is for the best. You were going to ruin his life at some point anyway, possessing the damned knack of cursing him with your existence as you had done with the others that have come before him, friends and lovers alike.
So, with an exasperated sigh, you begin your tale, thinking back to everything you overhear in the alleyway. You give him a detailed description of Mickey, his features and breaking voice as Andy threatened his life. In greater detail, you describe what Andy looks like, from his messy crew cut to the nasty scar on his forearm. You describe his voice and his manner of speaking, the jittery bounce in his step as he lets his impulsive thoughts win and presses a knife to Mickey’s throat.
Chris nods along. Every so often, one of his friends shifts their weight or adjusts their position in their seats. You notice a few of them captivated by the floor whenever you mention Mickey and you can’t stop yourself from wondering who he was to them before he was outed as a traitor. Was he merely Chris’s coach, or really part of his inner circle?
“And you?” Chris asks when you finish.
You shrug. “What about me?”
“What makes you a traitor?”
You didn’t think such a question would summon tears, not after how much time has lapsed since you last called Vince, Danni and Andrea your friends. Yet, your eyes water. Jaw clenched, you narrow your gaze at him. Insults perch on the tip of your tongue, prepared to fire upon your frustrated command, but your despair holds your vicious voice hostage.
Blinking, you look down at the expensive hardwood floors. Breathing deep, you muster enough courage to quietly answer, “Delusions.”
“I need details,” Chris clarifies. You can hear the annoyance drenched in each grunted word.
You look over your shoulder at his friends. Tense, they stare with carefully neutral features.
“It’s a long story.”
“I got time.”
“The answer is no.”
Chris reaches behind him. He pulls out a black handgun, the letters SKZ scratched on the side of the barrel and aims it at you. “I think you should reconsider,” he says, chambering a bullet.
You cannot help smiling at the sound of the cocked gun, like a toy in his huge hand. You relax back in your seat, and tilt your head. Gesturing his hand upward, you advise, “Higher if you’re aiming for my head. You’ll only shatter my collarbone from this angle.”
Features flinching with confusion, Chris looks between you and his gun. He quirks his head to the side as he schools his expression once more, poking his tongue against his cheek.
“Are you stupid or suicidal?”
“A lot of people would argue both.”
The slightest impression of a smirk flickers on the corner of his lips. It's quite endearing, really—the way he tries so hard to stay focused, yet can't help but be distracted by your charms. You smirk for him instead, once miserable eyes now filled with playful defiance.
He takes a step closer, then another and another, until the cool barrel presses against the centre of your forehead. You try not to moan from the kiss of cold steel upon your skin, the proximity of his lips hovering over yours.
“Reconsider,” he orders in a whisper.
Sultry eyes, half-lidded and drowning in lust, you shake your head. Originally, shame shackled your truth. You didn’t want him nor his friends to lose respect for you, unsure if they even possess any for you at all. But now, all you want is to see how far he will go with his trigger, with you.
Chris moves the gun to your right temple, dragging the cold tip of the gun against your warm skin.
You bite your lip and shake your head.
He peers down at you with a lust-ridden gaze that mirrors yours and leans on the arms of your chair. He slides the gun down your cheek, along your jawline then finally pushes it firmly under your chin.
Your eyes roll, head tilting back.
“How about now?” he whispers. His voice is deep, heavy with lust as he breaths over your face.
Voice as breathless and even weaker than his, you practically whine, “No.”
Somewhere in the distance, you hear Seungmin mumble, “This is what I was telling you.”
“Shut up,” someone else replies in a quiet hiss. “I’m watching something.”
“It’s fine. Minho’s recording,” the one with the deepest voice reassures.
Chris pushes himself off the arm of the chair, uncocking his gun and removing it from your head.
You can’t help the dissatisfied sigh that escapes you at the loss of contact.
Turning to his friends, Chris demands, “Get out.”
“You’re ruining my footage,” Minho, the one you met in the hall, scolds, looking at Chris through his camera phone.
Chris merely points to the door. They sigh, grumbling protests as they shuffle out of the room. He shuts the door behind them and makes his way back to you.
“Listen,” he starts, wiping his nose with his wrist. He leans back against his desk again, meeting your gaze.
You press your thighs together at the sight of him all spread out along the edge of the grand desk.
He continues, snapping you out of your horny thoughts, “I want to fuck you senseless. I want you to take that little top off again and shove your tits in my face.”
Swallowing thickly, you sink into your chair, flushing at the confession.
“But before I ravish you,” he says, unable to fight off a smile, “I need to know what you did that made one of the most powerful families in Crimson Heights, levy such a steep price on your head.”
You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s stupid, Chris,” you try to argue. “And childish.”
Gaze supplying tender understanding, Chris ever so sweetly encourages you to share with a gentle nod of his head. “Tell me everything,” he repeats, this time as a plea rather than demand.
Licking your lips, you confess, “And I don’t regret it. Before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand that I would do it again.”
At this, the compassion in his gaze wavers. Nonetheless, he sets the gun down and waits for you to begin.
You draw in a shaky breath, and upon the exhale, you explain, “Vince was flirting with me. I didn’t know it at the time, but at a certain point, it became obvious. He started to touch me more, and would find reasons to get me alone. We both lost someone ‘cause of overdoses and I guess it was a topic of bonding? I thought it was just as friends. He clearly had a different idea.”
Chris furrows his brows. “Does he have a girlfriend?”
A tight lipped smile momentarily tugs on the corners of your mouth. “Yeah, Danni,” you confirm. “That’s how I met him. She was like my best friend. We accidentally met while knocking over the same liquor store. She wanted the booze and I wanted the cash. It worked out perfectly.”
You chuckle quietly to yourself at the memory. Chris allows a small smile to break through his assertive expression in response.
“Anyway, one night we were supposed to meet up by the pier. But, Danni wanted to stay in for the night, which she of course told us after we already got there, and she was Andrea’s ride so neither showed up. Vince and I got to talking about the people we lost— his was more recent than mine. I thought he just needed some more support. He looked devastated at the time.
But then he reached for my thigh. I didn’t push it off right away because I couldn’t believe he was touching me like that. And I guess he took that as a sign that I liked it. He moved his hand further up my leg and leaned in.” You pause to swallow your disgust, the memory panging your heart with anxiety.
Chris sharply exhales. “Please tell me you pushed him into the sea,” he says, tone laced with anger.
“I wish,” you dryly chuckle. “No, I went to shove his hand away, but Danni showed up after all, after Andrea begged her for the ride. She saw my hand over Vince’s and how close both were to my crotch and just lost her shit. I tried to explain but she hit me and I figured running home would be easier. And they followed me. They banged on my door all night, flip flopping between wanting to just talk to kill me. I waited until they were gone to run to Vinny’s.”
“So, she thought you were trying to fuck her boyfriend?” Chris asks, laughing at the obscurity. “Half the port is being gambled away because of some horny piece of shit and his stupid girlfriend?”
You can’t help smirking, yourself, the stupidity not at all lost on you. “No, that is just some context for why I…” You trail off, crossing one leg over another and taking another deep breath.
Chris raises a brow, only to hiss in pain.
“Careful,” you warn, earning a slight smile, before resuming your story.
“They went around the city slandering me. It got bad enough that certain gangs wouldn’t let me in their territory, worried I’d be more trouble than I was worth. At one point, I was confined to my apartment— Vinny suggested that laying low might help minimise the accusations. Everyday I spent alone, I would think about that night at the pier. I would wonder what Vince told them on their way to my apartment to make them so vile and murderous towards me. I knew both girls for nearly five years, and it killed me to know that in all that time, they really thought I was capable of such disgusting behaviour.
I was seething alone for almost three months, replaying that day over and over. I thought about what I would have said if I stayed and fought back. I thought about kicking Vince right in his tiny balls and punching Danni in the face until all her teeth fell out. I came up with a new way to torment them every single day I was locked away.”
“What was your favourite?” Chris asks, the allure of a fond smile settling on his lips.
You carefully meet his gaze and answer, “Bullets. I thought about lining them up and shooting their brains out. I wanted to see them with half their face still intact, the rest splattered all across the pier.”
Chris shares your tranquil smile, falling silent to let you continue.
“At a certain point, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I finally found clarity— I don’t know,” you shake your head, sitting up in your seat. “I knew that Vince’s father owned a fleet of boats on the pier. ”
Realisation instantly sparkles in his big, brown eyes.
“I snuck out and studied the crew’s shift rotation for two weeks. I found out that by Christmas Eve, there would be a skeleton crew and no one would be on the boats. They were only planning on securing the perimeter. So I set my plan in motion. I syphoned some gas, stole a pack of matches and set them all on fire. I shouted my name as the crew rushed to put it all out. I wanted them to know it was me, the person they exiled, who burned them to the ground. I needed them to know it.
The weight of what I had just done didn’t hit me until I got home and realised I couldn’t stay there. So I packed up some essentials, and ran to Vinny’s instead. Turns out there was an astronomical amount of coke on those boats. The bounty was placed within the hour.”
Chris sucks in a breath as you finish. “I see,” he hums, reaching for his gun again. “Stand up.”
You eye the firearm. “Are you going to use that?”
“Are you going to make me repeat myself?”
Jaw tight, you uncross your legs and stand. You look up at his towering 6’9 frame from your 5’8 position. Hands moving on their own accord, you grip onto his shirt, right by his hips, and press yourself firmly against him.
His clothed erection pokes at your stomach. You wonder how long he has been throbbing for you. Which part of your story made him this hard? The shared rage against Vince’s sliminess? The festering resentment? The violence? The retribution? You noticed his posture remained still, expression plain, but his eyes gleamed with something like pride.
“You’re so pretty when you’re following orders,” he murmurs, luring your attention. Before you can answer, he fiercely jams the barrel of the gun against your cheek .
You cannot stop a loud, whiny moan from tearing through your throat. The moment that cool tip digs into your skin, your arousal pools, eyes roll back. Your grip on his hips tightens and toes curl into the soft carpet beneath you.
“No, no,” he tuts, applying more pressure. “Open your eyes.”
You obey.
Chris peers down at you over the bridge of his nose, desires casting shadows in those brown eyes at your compliance. He grinds the barrel further into your skin, tilting slightly to watch your face contort under its cold pressure.
You lean into it, maintaining his lust-lost gaze.
“Take off your shorts.”
Looping your thumbs into the waistband, you make a show of wiggling your hips to push off the tiny short-shorts. You kick them aside once they fall to the floor.
Chris first smirks at the swish of your hips, but then tongues his cheek in sexual frustration at the sight of your panty-less crotch.
“Laundry day,” you shrug, feigning innocence as you peer at him under your lashes.
“My new favourite day,” he smiles before cupping you.
Your hips grind into his hand, legs slightly spreading for his wide fingers. Knowing he wants you to maintain eye contact, you do your best not to roll them back at the light, slow friction. 
Voice already trembling, you moan, “Fuck.”
He puts some force into his languid ministrations as he opens his mouth and arches his brows, hinting at you to mirror his actions. The condescension of his expression makes your hips buckle, clit throbbing for more stimulation.
God, he’s so perfect.
If you continue, if you let him bed you, ravish you as he previously put it, you’ll eventually regret it. You’ll wish you left when you had the chance, or at least thought you did. You know you can’t stay here. Your heart already bursts with infatuation, wetness collecting at his meticulous attention. If you stay, you will end up hurt and disappointed, all alone again with nothing but a knock-off fur coat and switchblade to console you once everything is said and done. Or worse— he will be the one hurt, dying or dead, plagued by the curse of your reckless existence.
Right now, Chirs exudes success, reputation built on the brute force of his powerful fists and swift footwork. He has friends who respect him enough that he doesn’t need to repeat himself when he speaks. He has the support of the most nefarious gang in Crimson Heights, prepared to defend him, stand for him.
You can’t ruin that. In fact, you refuse to do so.
So why are you standing on your toes, leaning into his broad chest for stability and rolling your hips into his calloused hand? Why can’t you tell him to stop, instead echoing his movements as he silently requested?
The moment you part your lips, Chris slides the barrel into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the cool metal, the taste of gun powder bitter on your tongue, you loudly moan and eyes rolling back.
He tsks, pulling your head back down using his grip on the gun. “Eyes on me,” he reminds through gritted teeth.
Oh? Is it a performance he’s after?
You recall his words— I like to make a statement— and wonder if he is waiting for you to do the same thing.
Hollowing your cheeks, you pretend to suck on the barrel, careful not to swallow more fumes of explosive powder than humanly capable. You bob your head back and forward, enchanting him with your most innocently lustful eyes.
A certain darkness diminishes the sweet tenderness that often glimmers in his gaze, even when he is sinfully intrigued by your shameless desire. Once a chocolate brown, swirling with smug delight, now a deep umber, whirling with lethal ecstasy. He feels it— the power of a mighty gun, the weight of life and death confined within sleek, curved edges of a silver bullet.
Fear and pleasure collide in your gut, becoming a force of thrilling anxiety.
What if the safety isn’t on? What if he fires?
Your mind laps around the questions, hips desperately jutting into his palm, as you trebly whine around the gun.
Chris removes his arousal-glistening hand from your crotch to wrap it around your neck. You shiver at the slimy sensation of your excitement against your skin. He pulls out the gun with more force than necessary at the squeaky whine you sound upon the lost contact. Your hips, still desperate to chase a release, fidget against him, much to his sinister amusement.
Pointing the gun to your temple, he shuffles and shifts your position so your back faces the desk instead. Then he shoves you against it by the grip on your neck.
You stumble back with a breathless yelp, the tail of your spine ramming against the expensive wood. Upon the impact, body buzzing with signals of pain and pleasure alike, you choke out a gratified giggle.
The clatter of objects on the desk falling from the force of his shove, the sound of your stricken surprise, flashes fear in his gaze. But then the melody of your laughter tumbles and tunnels his vision with carnal hunger. A vicious smile stretches on his supple lips, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth, like a famished predator upon trapping its prey.
You lift yourself up onto his desk as he approaches, immediately spreading your legs as a way of welcome. He appreciates the gesture, sliding the barrel of the gun along your breasts and stomach, then down between your drenched folds. Chest to chest, lips on lips, you exchange hissing breaths and curses. You grip onto your shoulders as he wraps his free arm around your waist, hugging you firmly against him. He’s caged you in, his body too large to move around now, even if you wanted to (or so you tell yourself, while feverently rolling your hip in tandem with his wrist.)
Terror knots in your gut, right where your climax builds. You wonder if his finger is still on the trigger. If he gets too excited, if he loses his concentration, if he ever so slightly shifts his finge—
“Kinky, little whore,” he croaks, picking up the pace. He then mimics the pitches of your waver voice and mocks your pouty expression, cooing, “You like that, yeah? You like my gun rubbing against your wet cunt, baby girl? Hmm?”
The patronising tone is reason enough to tremble, nails piercing skin as your scratch along his strong shoulders. His filthy words and ravenous gaze, however, have you releasing your scarring grasp to pull off your shirt and arch your back.
An approving growl resonates from his chest, attention now trailing down to your bouncing breasts.
“Lean back.”
Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You place your hands behind you and do as you’re told while his arms slither from around your waist to grip onto your hip, firmly sinking his fingers into your supple curves. Heart rapturing from the amorous attention, you fight off a smile. And the darkness that once brewed in your lungs, twisting around your ribcage as you rue your existence, dwindles with every salacious stare.
Other men have been passionate, but hasty. Eager to chase their own highs, they merely used you as a means to a satisfying end. Their hands would only roam if they required a better grip on your hips and eyes mostly screwed shut while they thrusted to an unsteady pace. It was mediocre at best, often having to think of your own turn ons to not fake an orgasm.
Chris deliberately studies your features, instead. He sips on your bare body like he might die if he does not memorise every roll, curve and fold. More than that, he revels at the sight. He croaks throaty moans and hisses when your hips stutter against the gun, the stimulation momentarily confounding your senses.
Your insecurities wane, allowing confidence to flourish in their stead. Even your self-loathing cowers under the judgement of his wanton gaze. You suddenly cannot remember why you needed to leave before. You can’t understand how a thought like that could enter your mind. Never do you want to leave him.
“I feel you clenching,” he notes, voice raw with authority. “Do you want me to fill it up for you?”
Your breath hitches, body quivers. Gaze flitting down to his erection, brutally evident in his black sweats, you moan, “Fuck, yes!”
He smirks and you already know he won’t give himself up that easily.
“Beg.”
Voice tangled in deplorable desperation, you keenly plead, “Please, please, please fuck me! Pl-ease,” you take a moment to swallow thickly, hoping to compose yourself enough to continue. “I don’t th-think I can cum without you.”
His smirk widens at that.
You pick your next words carefully, voice wavering. “Only you could r-really make me fe-feel it in the m-mo-morning.”
Jaw flexed, he softly growls.
“P-pretty ple-ase?” you add with a pout.
He tongues his cheek, hiding a smile, but does not reach for his waistband.
You part your lips to beg more, prepared to offer your soul if that’s what it would take to feel him inside you. Instead, an ear-piercing shriek escapes.
“Oh, god!”
Your voice breaks, peaking at a near whistle from the abrupt sensation of the barrel pushing against your tight, needy walls. Jaw slack, you look down and watch as your core engulfs the gun, clenching tightly around the arousal slick metal. Even after being shoved against your clit for so long, it still feels cold.
Chris chuckles darkly as you breathlessly mewl, the sight of the gun disappearing in you all too erotic. “Is this what you wanted?” he taunts, raising a cocky brow. He hums in mocking agreement with your hurried nods.
Between the thrusting gun and his belittling behaviour, you’re not sure you possess the capabilities to endure him for much longer.
“Ch-chris,” you attempt to warn, risking a glance back down at that barrel ramming into you.
His finger is on the trigger, force powerful enough that even the slightest pressure could set the firearm off.
Your toes curl, nails claw against the rich wood of the desk. The continuous friction, steady, speedy and strong, encourages the coiling of electrified excitement deep in your gut.
So, so cl—
A devastated cry tears through your throat as the sudden loss of contact. Your eyes snap open (you don’t even remember screwing them shut), and you glare at him.
“You fucking asshole!” You seethe, pushing yourself up from your leaned back position. You obeyed every order, leaned into every touch and embraced every vicious word only to have your orgasm ruined.
Chris dismisses your icy eyes, slowly dragging his tongue over the barrel of the handgun. His eyes radiate sexual satisfaction as he savours your taste.
“Oh, sorry,” he chuckles, offering you the tip of the gun, “Did you want to clean it up for me?”
You are not a violent person— not unintentionally anyway. So why do you wind your hand back and whip it against his cheek?
Chris moans upon impact, twisting his head with the slap, as if embracing it.
You gasp, hopping off the desk and clamping a hand over your mouth only to remove it seconds later to apologise.
“Chris, I’m—”
He advances towards you with a fierce groan. Seizing you by the waist, he forces you against him and latches onto your lips. His hands slide down to grip onto your rear, kneading fistfuls of your plump cheeks. Both hands suddenly release your ass to smack back down against it and squeeze.
You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck as your guilt disappears.
His tongue puts up more of a fight this time, but is nowhere as aggressive as the rest of his actions, half-heartedly wrestling yours simply to delight in the wet and warm sensation. He yields to your rhythm eventually, muttering against your lips, “Do it again.”
You rip yourself away in pure confusion, brows knotted. “What?” you heave, as he presses his forehead against yours.
“Hit me again,” he demands, voice rough and raspy.
Your gaze bounces around his healing wounds, remorse resurfacing.
Chris must have read the guilt on your face, endearingly tilting his head at your hesitation. “I’m a big boy,” he smirks. “I can take it.”
That breathy, throat voice and haughty tone seems to be enough of a trigger because you smack him again before you have a chance to second-guess yourself.
He moves with the hit again, groaning as he grinds his erection against your stomach. Sucking in a breath with a sharp hiss, Chris tosses the gun to the floor. You brace yourself for the firing round, shoulders shooting to your ears. However, the gun does not go off. You narrow your gaze to find the clip missing, wondering when the fuck he slipped it out and how he managed to do it so silently.
The shuffle of fabric redirects your attention back to Chris. You’ve been so absorbed by the fear of triggering the gun, you hadn’t realised he untangled himself from you to take his clothes off.
His torso is as glorious as you remember, buff, broad and boasting with robust strength. Then he pushes off his sweats and your jaw slackens. Your gaze first lingers around the three-lettered tattoo of his gang on his left hip. SKZ – the ‘K’ coloured red. Then, as he shoves the pants down, his cock monopolises your attention. You knew he would be wide, the impression of him alone previously leaving you shaken. But you did not expect him to be as long, easily measuring at around eight and a half inches.
Your bottom lip whimpers and a hand comes up to steady it as you gawk. Saliva dampens your fingers. You lick your lips, wipe your chin and tentatively sneak a glance at his face, hoping he didn’t catch you shamelessly drooling.
That smirk widens as your eyes meet. “I need to be inside you,” he pants before closing the distance between you with a tug of your body into his.
You can’t agree more, biting back your own smile as you cup his face. “I need to ride you,” you reply just as affectionately.
Dripping with dominance, you thought he would ignore your request and bend you over the desk. Instead, he back pedals towards the chair you originally sat on, and commandeers it.
The sight of his muscular thighs has you biting your lip. You seat yourself upon him, just like you did in the dressing room. You know you can just lift your hips, align his length and begin bouncing. However, as you gaze down at his staggering size, pre-cum oozing from the tip, the urge to spit on it overrides your thoughts. You gather saliva and splatter it over him, earning a croaky groan.
You moan through a bitten lip in reply.
Wrapping a hand around him, you gasp at the fact that your fingers are unable to meet. Your core dampens.
Chris spits down on his length too, rubbing your thighs as you jerk and twist your wrist.
“You’re really big,” you shyly comment, maintaining a sluggish pace.
Just as sincere a smile hovers over his lips before he presses them against yours again.
Emotion bursts through your chest, desire unable to remain restrained. In hurried movements, you release your hold on his cock and lift your hips to finally accept the fullness he offers.
Chris helps you, aligning himself for you to easily sink down. He wraps both beefy arms around your waist as you gasp into his mouth. The kiss momentarily breaks, noses smushing together amidst blissful hissing.
You rest your arms on his shoulders to hug his head close, fingers tangled in his hair. You tug on the ends as he pushes between your tight walls. You move slowly, thankful for his steady grasp on you, inching further downward only to rise back up a bit and do it again. Inch by inch, you find a way to accommodate his girth, all the while whining his name.
“Just let go,” he whispers. His hold on your waist tightens, referring to the concentrated control you’ve adopted. “I’ve got you, baby.”
His delicate tone unravels your composure. You relax into his touch and find that he really does have a good grasp on you. He maintains your slow movements, acknowledging that you still need time to adjust. You wonder if it was the lack of speed itself, the crumpling pleasure etching your features, or how you’re tensing oh-so tightly around him that tips him off. And as he lifts and lowers you upon him, groaning between shared breaths, you realise that it really doesn’t matter what the reason was.
Clarity settles— Chris tunnels his vision when it comes to you. Within a night, he has noted your sexual boldness, recklessness, and affinity for guns. He knows you like to be harshly handled, tightening his grip only to roughly release it. He lets you strike him back, knowing you like to act out and does not only encourage it, but embraces it. He observes your features, searching for particular indications of pleasure to focus on or circle back to when he thinks you can take it again. Beyond that, he provides a space for vulnerability that does not centre around pity but rather a shared rage.
As you look at him now, hissing moans through gritted teeth and quivering lips, you cannot help but allow his words to splinter your previous philosophy. Perhaps it is not your existence that is cursed, but rather the world. Perhaps Crimson Heights is the beckon for misfortune— a city of survivors and casualties. You do not cause death; you simply outrun it. And when catastrophe rumbles the foundation of your life, claiming your family or friends, you do not need to feel guilty. Life ebbs and flows, grips and lets go— just as Chris does when he unwraps his arms around your waist, to grip onto your hips.
“That’s my slutty little girl,” he praises before grazing your chin with his teeth. “Arch your— Yes! Lean into me.”
A frail whine is all you can muster as he becomes more daring with the pace, speeding up.
Breasts glued to his chest, your back arches the way he instructs and you feel the hammering of his heart against yours. You cup his face. Your thumb brushes over the bruises on his cheek.
“Y-you know ex-actly what I n-need,” you whimper, internally cringing at your lust laced stutter.
A prideful smile plays on his lips. His grip tightens with newfound confidence as he uses your encouragement to experiment with the possible indication of fully submerging himself into you.
The moment your cheeks smack against the muscles of his thighs, an ear-piercing scream rips from your throat, heavy with delirious delight. So deep, so fucking full, he reaches far to stretch you wide. You doubt that you’d be able to tighten around anything other than his length again, hole now completely adjusted for his cock only.
“Like that?” he questions, voice still swirling with mockery. “Is that what you needed?”
You quickly nod, unable to find your voice.
Chris lifts and drops your hips with renewed force, ordering, “Speak.”
“I like that!” You confirm. “I love that!”
Grunting and growling in satisfaction, Chris decides that your hips do not give him the best leverage as he grasps on your rear instead. His fingers sink into your voluptuous cheeks, surely marking your skin, as he guides the rolls and rises of your thrusts.
You squeal, throwing your head back at the waves of excitement lapping over you. “Yes, yes, yes,” you pant before looking back at him. “Is this how you like it?” you ask, gaining confidence with every shudder sigh he expels. “Does this drive you c-crazy?”
Chris breathes a chuckle, mumbling, “You most definitely do,” before pressing his lips to yours.
Euphoria envelopes you, coursing through your veins and rattling your bones. You immediately submit to his rhythm, already content with the warmth of his lips on yours and taste of his tongue. Satisfaction swells, throbbing your clit upon the build of your climax. As emotion shines through the cracks of your armour, delirious delight flourishes.
You break the kiss with a breathless giggle, allowing the pleasure to travel from your core though your limbs. The base of your spine, centre of your chest, tips of your fingers, toes and ears, your nerves dash and dance with a degree of joy you did not believe you were capable of ever feeling. You cannot help your laughter between breathless moans.
Chris, voice croaky and deep with lust, joins you. He playfully nips at the skin under your jaw then peppers the light sting with kisses, laughing all the while.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he revels in whisper.
Your giggles waver upon the sincere emotion flooding his eyes.
You clench. “Chri—”
“You feel so perfect around me,” he groans, cutting you off. “It’s like your body was made for me.”
Whimpering, all playful humour darkening within your bones into desperate ecstasy, you can’ help but squeeze tighter, the knots of your high becoming more and more undeniable.
Your voice rises in pitch as you moan,“Use me however you want.”
His hips snap up to meet yours with a dark, loud groan.
You jolt from the force, body shaking. Panting whines tumble from your lips as your grasp on his hair tightens. Over and over, he sinks you down on him as he rams himself into you, meeting you halfway. Your breasts bounce against him, only encouraging his aggressive speed as he shoves his face between the valley.
The brutality of the force, the pace is unbearable. Toes curling, core gripping, you stutter through your next intake of air. All at once, a wave of satisfaction crashes over you. Muscles tense, you stiffen with a shrill cry of his name and gush, gush, gush your release. Your eyes roll back, jaw slack as he wraps his arms around you to keep you upright.
As he did in the dressing room, Chris peers up at you from between your full breasts. He offers a pleased smile before leaning back against the chair. Now, with you laying on top of him as your orgasm ripples through you all— dazed and drooling, Chris grinds your hips down into his. His own muscles flex, skin flushing. Through gritted teeth, a deep moan emits from the base of his throat.
His cock twitches. His release shoots, warm and erratic, filling you so well, you already feel it smearing around your folds.
Face buried in the crook of his neck, you whine his name quietly at the sensation. “Fuck, yes,” you moan, circling your hips around his. “Fill me up just l-like that!”
You swear you feel another shot of his cum, the wet sloshes of arousal slick with every grind of hip on hip.
After watching Chris endure seven rounds of boxing, with his composure still intact and sweat barely breaking, you should have known better than to think that he was done with you. He doesn’t even take a moment to catch his breath. Still heaving, he stands.
You wrap yourself around him, holding on tight. Has he forgotten that he is still deep inside you or does he not care, simply eager to continue using you? You moan from the new angle all the same as he walks you back into his room.
“You don’t need a break, do you?” he asks after kicking the door shut behind him. He grips onto your waist and rips you off his torso with a forceful shove. “Hmm? No break?” he teases.
A cross between a grunt and whine fills the room as you land on his bed with a little bounce. Before you can reply, he yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You yelp your pleased surprise, unable to fight back a giggle as he turns you over on your stomach. He pulls your hips up to roughly guide you into a downward dog position. Knees on the bed’s edge, face smushed into the soft duvet, your backside is now perfectly exposed for him.
His tongue slips between your folds, lapping the mess of your mixed climaxes with a deep-chested growl. The vibrations resonate upon every overwhelmed nerve ending around your core. You cannot deny the wiggle of your hips and strained mewls of distress from the overstimulation.
“Stay still,” Chris orders, voice muffled. His hot breath, the tenor of his voice all directed towards your overused hole, only further your squirms.
You want more of him, need more, but the unrelenting stimulation of his lapping tongue, slurping and groaning, makes you tremble. You find yourself attempting to crawl away from his mouth only to be harshly pulled back.
Chris wraps his arms under and around your thighs, locking you in place.
“Just where do you think you’re going, darling?”
You whine incoherently.
He mocks you, pitching his voice and mimicking your unstable syllables.
Your desire pools at your core all over again, eyes water. “Too much,” you whimper into your fist, overwhelmed by the all too desperate yearning to stop yet still continue. “Its—”
Chris groans, cutting you off. “We taste so good, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “This might be the closest I get to heaven.” He then pulls himself away long enough to look at you over the full curve of your cheeks. “Wanna try?” he asks with a smug smirk, face glistening from the smear of your combined orgasms.
You flush, nodding.
He dives back in to slurp on your sex. Then he grabs a fistful of your hair and gently, despite the rough grasp, pulls your back towards his chest. You tilt your head back for him, parting your lips. He smiles at how quickly you’ve caught onto his intentions and spits the cum into your mouth.
Your pussy quivers upon the bittersweet taste, eyes fluttering shut. You moan your delight upon swallowing.
Chris takes the advantage of your proximity, stealing another quick kiss before using the grip on your hair to shove you back onto the mattress. He adjusts the position of your hips again but does not dive down between your folds this time. Instead, he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and spreads them apart.
You hear the throaty gathering of salvia and then the splatter of spit before feeling the warmth of it upon your tightest hole. Heat scorches your skin with humiliation from his laughter when you clench.
You part your lips to say his name, ask what he’s doing when his tongue reappears, circling your hole. A breathless gasp sounds instead.
Chris transfers more of your wetness to your tensing hole, scooping the cum with his finger and rubbing it against you. “Shh, shh,” he hushes as you whimper and wiggle in his grasp. “Relax, babygirl. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
You lean back into him upon his soothing tone. You’ve never touched yourself there, never let anyone else do the same, certain they would only hurt you. From the way Chris takes his time however, you can tell he knows what he’s doing.
“You have the cutest fucking asshole,” he chuckles before spitting over it again.
Gratification tickles the darkness looming in your chest, allowing you to giggle in response and push yourself back against his finger.
“I mean it,” he says, misunderstanding your acceptance for teasing protest. His fingers then glide between your folds, down to your clit. He twirls the pad of his middle finger around the bundle of nerves, then spreads the folds as if to take a better look at your cum-leaking hole.“You have the prettiest pussy too,” he groans before his tongue dives, reaching farther inside than you expected.
Pride blossoms, boastfully overpowering all your emotions and triggering a loud, moan of approval. “Please don’t stop,” you beg while attempting to writhe out of his grasp.
Chris pulls himself away long enough to laugh at your conflicting movements. He quietly hums, content with himself, as he smacks each cheek halfheartedly, like you made a joke and he’s nudging you because of the wit and humour. You can’t help joining him, wiggling your hips in his hands with every slap.
There have been times where you felt at ease, perhaps even happy under setting suns and sneaky nights on the roof with your foster siblings. Watching a fusion of magenta and maroon cascade in the sky, as the sun disappears behind the Crimson Heights horizon, has been the image you conjure on cold, lonely nights between nightmares and distant gunshots. But being here with Chris, bent over and exposed from angles no one else has ever witnessed, absolute contentment engulfs you. Like a warm, tender hug, his patient presence nurtures your soul and caresses your darkness. And it feels natural as if the universe conspired to ensure that you do have at least one moment of true happiness amongst the death and betrayal.
He brushes your hair from your face, pulling you from your thoughts. You shyly meet his gaze to which he smirks. His hand then trails from the naps of your neck to the base of your spine, drawing you away from the memory of your trauma.
“Stay with me, yeah,” he coos.
You nod.
Is it your sudden silence? Is that what indicated that you’ve let your mind wander off? Though, you do remember moaning between giggles. Maybe you had a distant look in your eyes. Maybe you stopped responding to his touch. Does it even matter? Because whatever it was, whatever you did, he saw it.
He sees you.
Chris kisses each cheek before spreading them again. You feel his tongue on your heat, swirling once, twice then dragging up. You moan loudly, pushing yourself further into him. But his tongue does not return to your needy pussy. Instead, he circles the edge of your tightest hole.
You clench, whimpering.
He licks, chuckling.
His hands rub your cheeks, silently soothing your tense muscles. You try to lean into his calm, but the feeling of his warm tongue twirling around the rim of your hole is much too stimulating to ignore.
“More please,” you find yourself whining, fisting the sheets beneath you. “I-I need more.”
Chris presses a wet kiss upon your puckering hole before replying, “Take a deep breath for me.”
You draw in a long breath and release it.
He gives it another kiss, spit on it then orders, “Again. Take your time with it, baby.”
The pet name prickles your skin with goosebumps, face flushed as you inhale deeply and exhale slowly.
You can’t see him with his face between your cheeks, but you swear he’s smirking as he praises, “Good girl.”
A giggle was meant to be your only reply. Instead, his tongue pushes through your hole and you moan in a voice so unlike yourself, so innocent and weak.
“Daddy!”
Chris growls, tightening his grip on your rear with one hand, while the other harshly rubs your dripping core. Slobbering, slurping, he bobs his head, in and out, up and down, shoving his tongue between your tense walls. His fingers are relentless, playing with your clit in quick, forceful waves only to abandon the bundle of nerves all together. He pushes them into your pussy instead. Three long fingers draw in and out of you to the rhythm of his tongue.
Moans meek and breathy, you writhe under his onslaught of pleasure. That pet name is on the tip of your tongue again, but you refrain from using it, clenching your teeth instead. You’ve never called anyone that and have even judged the people you know who have said shit like that during sex.
It feels so right when thinking about Chris, when feeling his tongue attempt to breach through your tight hole. If anyone was to embody that mindset of a Daddy, it would be Christopher Bahng. Chris with his tall, towering frame. Chris with his commanding voice. Chris with his charismatic confidence.
“Daddy,” you whine again despite your futile attempts.
He hums in question, tone oh-so condescending. Your nerves burn from the wetness of his tongue, the pace of his harsh fingers. You thrash into the sheets, further smothering your face in the soft duvet and screaming out your pleasure.
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Your voice is muffled, hips ramming back against him with every plea.
Chris merely moans in reply, as if delighted by the sinful taste of you. He continues his dual stimulation, insatiable tongue bouncing in and out of your untested hole. His fingers curl, over and over and over right where you need him most.
Turning your head to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress again, you gasp for air and cry out your new favourite name, “Daddy! Fuck, yes, yes, yes!”
His breath staggers as you hear him chuckle, but you don’t care. He can laugh himself hoarse if he wants. You just need him to continue, your orgasm building all over again. Toes curling, eyes rolling, you quake and claw at the sheets, desperate to get a hold of yourself.
However, Chris, upon feeling you clench particularly tightly around his fingers, pulls himself away.
A sexually frustrated sob tumbles out of you at the all too sudden loss of contact. Your orgasm falters at the lack of stimulation. Once again, he has dangled you over the edge. Fury surges through you, propping yourself up on your elbows and glaring over your shoulder at him.
“Why do— Ah!”
Chris grips onto your hips, pushes himself back into your core. He rams his hips into yours, holding enough force to knock you off your elbows, cutting you off.
“Mmm, I can’t get enough of you,” he groans, voice husky and deep.
You whimper in response, all words actively being fucked out of you. No one can even stand you, yet he ploughs into you, eager and deliberate, and still craves more of you. That realisation alone could coax another bone-bending orgasm out of you.
Apart from the first, initial thrust, you do not feel his hips smack against yours again. Instead, Chris restraints himself, offering moderate, yet fast thrusts. He still reaches deep, still stretches you out oh so deliciously, but you can tell he’s holding back.
And it ignites your veins with anger. You refuse to have him spoil yet another orgasm rattle you into calling him ‘daddy,’ only to then half-heartedly fuck you.
“Please fuck me,” you beg before echoing a version of his previous words. “I’m a big girl, Daddy. I can take it.”
Chris growls lowly under his breath. “You’ll get hurt,” he warns.
You cannot fight back your smile. “Good.”
The impact of his thrust upon your reassurance is so powerful, the bed shifts forward. You hiccup his name and hiss at the sting of skin on skin. Vigorous momentum grows with every mighty thrust of his hips. You feel your entire body jiggle, shaking with the squeaking bed.
“You have no idea,” he begins, breathlessly growling, “how fucking beautiful you look right now.”
He has no idea how many times you’ve been told the opposite.
“Show me how beautiful you think I am.”
His cock twitches. You swear you feel it quiver deep inside you.
A gasp so erotic, so pornographic escapes you at the sudden sensation. Clenching, you’re eager to feel it again, to feel him release his warm, thick arousal, especially so soon. You’re already giddy with pride, preparing to tease and mock him for becoming undone upon a few simple words.
Instead, Chris pulls himself out with a croaky groan. He’s heaving, breathes staggering as he swallows thickly. “Move up to the pillows, baby. Lay back for me.”
You slowly push yourself up, sitting down on your ankles. Just as breathless, you peer at him over your shoulder. His hair is tousled, face glistening with your excitement as he slowly jerks himself to the sight of you so messy and dirty.
“Was it something I said?” you ask in your most innocent voice.
Chris tightens his jaw.
A shiver dances along your spine at his silence. You give him one last once over, shamelessly letting your gaze linger around his erection, before leisurely crawling towards the pillows. Your legs already ache. You feel it most around your thighs and hips, bones stiffen and muscles tight from the exposing angle.
The fluffy pillows and duvet melt around your sweaty skin, engulfing you in a cocoon of comfort. Your eyes flutter shut, embracing the chill of the cool silks. The sheets in your tiny apartment are scratchy and rough, and prior to laying here, you had thought it was the most comfortable fabric a thrift store could sell, which is why you stole them.
The bed dips. You open your eyes to watch as Chris crawls over you, spreading your legs to welcome him. His face hovers over yours. You cup his cheeks, grazing your thumb over his lips.
He lowly groans. His nose brushes yours as he leans down for a kiss. You think it was meant to be quick, just a tiny peck before he buries himself in you again. But the taste of your lips proves to be intoxicating, or perhaps he felt the spark you did when your lips touched. He indulges in another kiss, then another. Even one longer than the last, Chris eventually integrates his tongue and forces you to taste yourself.
Heaven, hell, the worlds collide. Purely sinful, his tongue subjects you to his pace, swirling around yours slowly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he wants you to savour the bittersweet taste of your orgasms and holes.
Your lips part with a wet smack, breasts heaving. Chris pushes himself back to sit on his ankles. He lets his attention trail down your curves, ogling your rolls and fullness. He pants like a dog, mouth agape and saliva leaking from the corners at the mere sight of you.
People tend to either discard or objectify you. One look at your figure and you are either invisible, disgusting, or a drunken mistake that awakens a shameful desire for fuller frames. Your mother told you it would happen when she noted your curves for the first time. She told you that you’d be nothing in a bigger body, that no one will want to be seen with you. A part of you always wondered if that’s why she opted for heroin, knowing she too had curves and rolls at one point in her life. 
It doesn’t really matter because the sentiment snared your consciousness. You noticed how many people ignored your presence the moment you walked into a room or the sudden distaste of those who did happen to acknowledge you. Every wrinkled nose, every avoided gaze only reinforced your mother’s philosophy.
And here Chris sits, bare and breathless, leering over your naked body. Ravenous, lascivious, he devours every full inch of you, eyes drowning in lust. You suddenly cannot recall the words your mother once spat, the dejected feelings that bruised your pride when you walked into a room. All you know now is Chris— obsessive, gluttonous, shameless Chris and his insatiable appetite for everything that you are.
He blinks repeatedly, as if pulling himself out of his thoughts. You bite your lip and wonder what you must look like, staring back at him. You know your liner is smudged and lipstick smeared. You know your hair is a tangled mess around you. You know your skin gleams of sweat, hot to the touch from the exhilaration of submitting to him. You know your core is a mess of spit and cum.
Chris reaches behind you. The sweaty scent of leather, sandalwood and amber secretes from the pits of his arms hovering inches away from your nose. You inhale deeply through your nose and wet your lips. Chris’s attention flickers down at the sound of your heavy sighs. You flush under the subject of that knowing smirk.
“Lift your hips for me?” He asks, voice deep and delicate.
You do as you’re told and he slides one of his plush pillows under you. The new angle provides better support to your lower back. You shift yourself further into his comfortable mattress with a pleased sigh.
“Better, yeah?” Teasing amusement twinkles in his eyes, brows quirked as he tries to fight off a prideful smile.
You suppress your own, and nod. “Are you going to fuck me now?” you ask, exaggerating the breathlessness of your feminine voice.
His eyes darken.
Perhaps, you proudly think to yourself as he takes your bait, if he is desperate enough, he’ll finally let me cum.
Chris traces the span of your shoulders, down to the fullness of your breasts and the curves of your waist. He drags his hands over your stomach and trails his eyes to your pelvis. He traces the lines along your heat only to redirect his callous fingers to your thigh before he can reach the place you need him most.
You clench, hips instinctively rolling forward. You mentally curse at your desperateness, your ploy to rile him up into a lustful rage crumbling as your body betrays you.
He barely even smirks, as if expecting your body to react to his touch like that. “I was fucking you,” he corrects, taking his hard, throbbing cock into his big hand.
You watch as he thumbs his tip and the space between his brows creases. Swallowing a moan, you wiggle in place and bite your lip. Your nerves impatiently buzz through your veins, and you resist the urge to arch your back to their desperate will.
He continues to slowly jerk himself as he watches you stiffen only to squirm seconds later. “Now,” he starts, leaning over you. He aligns himself, tonguing his cheek. Tip teasing your clenching core, he whispers, “I am going to ruin you.”
The weight of the crude promise resonates deep in your gut, gathering your arousal at the entrance of your needy heat. You grip onto his shoulders, features already crumpled in desperate pleasure, and dig your nails into his smooth, pale skin.
You gasp a whine as he emits a throaty groan, pushing in, in, in. You begin to understand the purpose of the pillow beyond simply comfort. The leverage of your hips provides a new angle to explore, his length shoving its way to your most sensitive spot. And he does not even allot time to adjust as he first did in his office, moving quickly to bottom himself out in you. His weighty balls rest against your rear, burning your face with the thought of sucking them. You finally give into your body, too needy to continue to police its movements, and arch your back into his chest.
Chris, hands on either side of your head, grabs your wrists and pins them above you. He growls as his thrusts take off. The force of his hips continuously shifts the bed forward. The headboard slaps against the wall, the pounding of wood on plaster so loud, it almost drowns out your squealing moans. Even the mattress whines, springs shrieking under the rhythmic bounce of your colliding bodies. Perhaps the closest rival to the noise of the bed, however, is the sharp slap of skin on skin. Your rear and thighs tremble from the powerful smacks, sensitive skin stinging all too exquisitely.
Pain highlights pleasure. In addition to the sting of his skin on yours, the tight grip of his strong hands around your wrists, aches from joint to bone. Tears gather in your eyes, the friction of his pulsating erection against your wet, tense walls all the more sweeter in light of the consistent pain.
A series of hissing profanities leave his full lips and you open your eyes to find he is drunk on the sight of your erotic features. Your tears slide down along your temples as a sob hiccups through your throat, clashing with the moans you shamelessly release.
His vicious dominance falters. Letting go of your wrists, Chris leans himself down on his elbows and affectionately nestles his nose against yours. You like the softness of his touches, the tenderness of his most mundane gestures, like the brush of nose on nose or the exchange of heavy breaths.
However, you were promised ruin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you question, voice harsh even with breaking into a whine near the end.
Chris furrows his brows. Something about your tone triggers even more might behind his thrusts. It takes everything in you to not arrogantly laugh at how quickly he  shifts from ferocity to concern to anger.
You push against his shoulders. Chris yields to your silent request, flexing his jaw and knitting his brows in quiet confusion. His hips do not hesitate once, though. They continue to forcefully shake your body, breasts and rolls bouncing with the bed.
Once Chris is leaning on his hands again, you strike him across the face.
“Mmm, fuck,” he groans, voice hushed and husky. Dark fury engulfs his features as he snaps his attention back on you.
You slap him again, and again, and again until your hand radiates heat, nerves stinging from the impact. His cheek is a bright red, jaw tight as he looks down at you.
You lift your other hand to smack him only to have him seize both your hands with one hand. You yelp at the swift motion and attempt to break free. You figure it wouldn’t be too hard, considering he is only using one hand to pin both of yours, but find that one hand is all he needs. Your wrists barely budge from their place over your head.
“My turn,” he purrs, red-stained face bright with amusement.
You clench your jaw, steeling yourself for the impact of his hand against your face, only to feel it upon your right breast. You curve yourself further into him with a loud, whiny gasp. Your nipple stings, coaxing tears as he does it again and again. He gives the left one the same amount of attention, smacking against the heavy curves over and over.
Core tightening with want around his cock and breasts burning with a feverish ache, you wail, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
Your voice breaks, sobs of incessant pleasure overwhelming you. He’s so, so big and so, so ruthless. You barely catch your breath with every thrust, let alone every slap of your breast or pinch of your nipple. He clamps your taut nub between his thumb and the edge of forefinger to squeeze and twist. You fall into a state of devilish delight, embracing the pain like a warm hug.
Chris, perhaps growing tired or just wanting to be closer, releases his grip on your shoulders and gives your chest a break. He falls back on his elbows and catches your lips in his. He swallows your sobs, your uncontrollable moans as he ram-ram-rams into you. The strength behind his thrust is ever so prominent, even his heavy balls smack against your rear, the pain watering your mouth.
“You wanna cum, baby?” he mutters against your lips in hushed tones. The depth of his voice slithers along your spine.
You keenly nod, tears splitting freely from your eyes. “Yes, yes, yes!” you whine between tumbling sobs. “P-please?”
He rests some of his weight on you, stunting your breathing. You now wheeze through moans and pants.
“Please what?”
His voice is a cacophony of primal growls and feral snarls, resonating against your chest right down to the marrow of your bones.
A whine of a syllable begins and falters under the combined weight of his frame and relentless hips. His dominance may demand your reply, but still shackles your voice, your very consciousness with every brutal thrust.
“Use your fucking words, you little slut or I swear to God, you won’t cum for the rest of the night!”
His threat sends a tremor through your entire being. But that voice, that croaky, hissing voice of pure power, curls your toes and rolls your eyes back. You clench tightly, forcing your orgasm back.
“Dad-dy!” You scream, voice breaking mid-way through into hysterical sobs, body overpowered by pain and pleasure alike.
A gratifying groan grumbles from the depths of his gut and you cannot hold yourself back any longer. Your muscles stiffen, legs lifting high to the ceiling with pointed toes and nails scratching at his biceps. Your jaw clenches, bouncing body trembling as a ripple of your release rushes over you.
Chris falls over you, his full weight now crushing you as he too tenses all over. The suffocation only heightens your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy now swelling into typhoons of rapturous bliss. Your mind spins, vision dims and sound muffles as you finally release around him.
Your lungs fight for air, the restriction becoming all too fatal. You swat at his biceps, attempting to gasp for air as you catch distant throaty groans between deliberate, harsh thrusts.
It takes him a handful of seconds, but Chris eventually realises his mistake, rushing to hold himself up on his elbows again.
You gasp upon the first breath of air, heaving as you eagerly consume mouthfuls of oxygen.
Chris mutters quiet apologies, voice nearly wavering as he tucks his face in the crook of your neck and peppers the soft skin with tender kisses. He’s careful about dispersing his weight on you, even as his muscles tremble from the struggle of holding himself up. He shifts his balance to his knees as his thrusts decrease in speed and power eventually stopping all together.
You let your eyes flutter shut, your mind floats as your orgasm continues to cascade over your consciousness. Your limbs fall limp onto the mattress, full chest heaving with heavy pants and whines. It’s not until Chris pulls himself out that you finally feel your combined cum leak out of you again and you realise he came too, probably when he lost his balance and fell on top of you.
You feel the bed dip beside you, but cannot hear anything beyond the rush of blood in your ears. If you try hard enough, you might be able to catch the muffled squeak of the mattress, or the creak of the wooden frame. However, transcending into a state of pure euphoric bliss, all thoughts swirling around a phantom boxer and his towering build, you cannot dwell on the sounds of the fading world around you.
Rough hands delicately caress your face. A trail of kisses start on your lips. Full, plush lips move down your neck, collarbone, valley of your breasts, stomach, left thigh down to the knee, then back up to the right thigh down to the knee. They take their time with every press against your sweat-slick skin, each one just as wet and tender as the last.
There is another shift beside you and strong arms pull you into their embrace. You allow them to cradle you into a buff chest. The distant pound of a hammering heart beats to the same fast pace as yours. Those strong hands brush your hair back as they pet your head.
You’re not sure how long you laid there or when you made it into the bath, sitting between two muscular thighs as those calloused, yet gentle hands lathered shampoo into your hair.
The warm water grounds you back into the present. You squint your eyes open to a dark wood slatted ceiling, finding that your head is tilted back as a detachable shower head washes the shampoo out of your hair. You take a moment to inhale deeply, letting the notes of vanilla sandalwood remind you of where you are.
The water shuts off, the steel shower head returns to its place on your right, and you right your head to take a look around the bathroom. Spacious, the room radiates sophistication and calmness. Walls clad in dark grey and black, polished chrome fixtures, and a deep, freestanding bathtub, room enough for two, you cannot help but feel a sense of luxurious serenity. The lights are hidden behind the crevices of the room, warm and soft in their illumination. You wonder if he purposely designed the room to reel himself back to reality after a match.
Chris clears his throat, the sound soft and subtle as if he is worried he might scare you.
The possible implication furrows your brows. You peek at him over your shoulder before twisting your torso to face him.
“Are you…” he trails off, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Alright?”
You’re not sure how to decipher his hesitation or the oddly shameful look in his eyes.
“Of course,” you reply.
His eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if he doesn’t believe you.
“Are you hurt?”
The question finally registers the faded red of his cheeks where you slapped him and the pink lines along his biceps. You swallow thickly as remorse tightens your chest.
“Are you?”
A ghost of a smirk hovers over his lips. He leans forward to comb some conditioner through your hair.
“I’ve never been better.”
“What…happened?”
You chew on the inside of your cheeks. You know what led up to this moment, but cannot fully place what happened between your orgasm and the bath. Your past sexual endeavours usually remain in one position and location. Chris has moved you between three rooms now, his office, bedroom, and bathroom, and tested your endurance in multiple positions in a single night.
Did you pass out? Were you sleeping?
“Have you heard of subspace?” Chris continues upon the furrow of your brows. “After sex, when some people in more submissive positions orgasm, they might get put into a certain euphoric headspace. You might not feel pain or even be in your body. Some people completely pass out,” he explains before reaching for the shower head again. Tapping the bottom of your chin with a single finger, he gestures for you to tilt your head back again. “Others,” he continues as he watches your hair, “are conscious but unresponsive.”
“Like I was?”you ask, eyes fluttering shut to prevent the sting of soap.
He hums in confirmation. “Do you remember anything?”
You shrug. “You were kissing me,” you pause, swallowing thickly, “and then I remember feeling you hug me.”
“Do you remember saying anything?”
Your eyes shoot open. Moving your head away from the spray, you meet his gaze again.
He bites back a sheepish grin.
“If you’re messing with me,” you begin, gritting your teeth. “I’ll—”
“Save your cute threats,” he teases, cutting you off. He rinses the last of the conditioner out of your hair, adding, “I’ll tell you what you said.”
You nervously gnaw on your lip waiting for him to continue. When he turns off the shower head and puts it back in its spot, you think he would finally say something. Instead, he pumps some body soap into a washcloth and lathers it up.
“Well?”
“I never said I would tell you now,” he chuckles.
You splash water at his chest, oh so tempted to scoop more directed at his face but decide against it when you catch that dark, daring gleam in his eyes.
“You’re an asshol—,” you mutter, cutting yourself off before a moan slips as the cloth scrubs against your skin.
Chris smirks, features unamused as if he’s used to this sort of reaction. How many other women has he washed in here after a particularly rigorous night?
The question fosters a flame of envy, and sears through the flesh of your heart.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask. You try to ignore the way he dips between the valley of your chest, then circles under to rub and squeeze the soap around your breasts. Your body betrays you again, however, back arching into his touch.
Chris furrows his brows. “I fucked you senseless and you expect me not to take care of you?”
You blink, baffled by not only his tone, but his words. Your cheeks burn at the realisation that he did indeed thrust every last one of your senses out of you. What’s more peculiar is that, even after all that, he didn’t kill you. He didn’t cram you into a cab and send you on your way, high on your orgasm and unable to fight back.
“I lied to you,” you dryly chuckle. “I told you I was commissioned.”
His smirk widens, hinting that he might still believe that after what just happened in his office and bedroom.
You roll your eyes. “I- You’re a Stray Kid,” you try again. “Isn’t killing what you do?”
Chris scrubs down your shoulders and back, then your arm, lifting it up as he replies, “Yes.”
A shaky breath escapes you as he drags the soapy cloth across the pit of your arm.
“You saved my life,” he adds, moving onto your other arm. “I had a rat in my gang and you helped identify it.”
Your spine stiffens.
His gang?
Chris flashes you a cautious look under his brows, tonguing his cheek.
“Holy shit,” you whisper. “You’re the leader of Stray Kids?”
Chris nods, submerging the cloth under the warm bath water to drag it along your thighs.
Does he want to have sex again? Is that why he’s keeping you alive? You don’t really mind, you just need to know because his hands are dangerously close to the apex of your thighs and he is telling you information you do not need to know and, in fact, have no right to know. It’s the kind of information that can possibly remove the bounty on your head.
“You once told me information you didn’t need to,” Chris explains as he gently cleans the previous mess he made between your legs.
Curling in your lips, you suppress a moan.
“You didn’t need to tell me your name, but you did. So I’m telling you something I don’t need to as an act of good faith.”
“I didn’t take you for the religious type.”
“I tend to get religious on top of the right woman.”
You press your legs together, squishing his hand.
He laughs, scorching your chest and cheeks with embarrassment.
You push his hand away from your core with an annoyed huff. You don’t have time for this. Though you are not in pain, your body is still exhausted. You just want to get back in his comfortable sheets and finally sleep this enough night off, if not go to your own bed.
“Do you want to go again?” you suddenly ask. “Is that what all this is about?”
Chris quirks a brow. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”
A submissive, desperate part of you whines at his belittling tone and implication. If you wanted to, you most definitely could endure another round. However, you catch its outrage before it can make itself known beyond the knotting of your brows.
“So what then?” you ask.
Chis wrings out the cloth and tosses it aside. “I don’t like being indebted to anyone. You saved my life. I’m going to save yours,” he states matter-a-factly. “You are now under Stray Kids protection. You will have round-the-clock surveillance and train to learn to defend yourself properly against threats should your security fail.”
You blink.
Protection?
You remember thinking of Chris as your protector when he was touching you, but even then, riddled with lust, you knew it was only a fantasy. You are not worthy of protection. You are barely worthy of friendship. You almost lost Vinny. How can he really think you are worth saving?
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Right,” he nods, tone descending in depth as his gaze sharpens. “Because I will be protecting you against the bounty.”
You scoff. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s not up for debate.”
“It’s my life.”
Chris casts you a look of sarcastic confusion. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re eager to end it,” he practically sneers.
You tuck your chin into your chest, averting his stern glare. “You don’t know what you are getting yourself into,” you mutter as a means of warning.
I’m damaged. I’m broken. I am not a life saver.
“A life for a life— That is the rule of the city,” Chris reaffirms. “You saved mine. I am saving yours.”
You fall silent. Keeping your attention locked on the black, marble floors, you let him wash all the soap off. You are not going to argue with the leader of Stray Kids, not tonight anyway, not as exhaustion is slowly claiming you, one limb at a time. 
Fuck it— If he wants to fulfill this delusional debt of his then that is his problem. You warned him. You tried to fight this. When he eventually realises that you are more trouble than you are worth, you will gladly laugh and tell him you told him so.
“My bed or the spare’s?” he suddenly asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.
“What?”
“Do you want to sleep in my bed or the one in the spare bedroom?”
“Um,” you start as Chris grabs a towel. “Am I allowed to go home?”
“Of course,” he nods, “ I can get Seungmin and Felix to take you.”
You wonder which one is Felix before tentatively meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to sleep in your bed?”
Chris suppresses a little smile with a bite of his lip. His eyes do not gleam with their causal mischief or amusement, rather a hint of adoration— if you squint. “I would sleep better if you did,” he confesses, voice dropping an octave.
And so you find yourself in one of his shirts, the fabric barely brushing over the full curve of your rear, under layers of soft, silk sheets. Behind you, Chris wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart against your back, feel how it echoes the race of your own.
You want him, want this so badly you can feel the aching desire deep within your bones. But the fear of shattering his world, of absorbing him and everything that matters to him into your vortex of ruin, shackles you in place.The red lights of Crimson Heights illuminate the room. As you watch the city, his steady breath fans against the nape of your neck. Mind exhausted, body slowly aching, you allow yourself to lean into him just this once and shut your eyes.
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note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.
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im-totally-not-an-alien-2 · 2 years ago
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Everything had been quiet with thier usual rogues, which was always a sign something big was about to go down.
Cue this little bar and restaurant place appearing overnight. No. Literally. The entire building appeared replacing an old abandoned cake shop overnight. No one knows were it came from or who the blond guy is who runs the place.
There were so many questions. Who was this guy? Where did he come from? Who was the adoption bait that was on his payroll? Why open the bar in that location? Why is there four floors plus a basement to the place but only two floors are accessible to non staff? Why is there only two staff? Why do all of thier cameras and spy tech fail whenever the teen gets too close to them?
Jason ends up applying after they see the "help wanted" sign in one of the windows. The inside of the place did look like a slice of heaven. Marble flooring and greek columns with ivys climbing up them from pots inlayed into the flooring and cleverly hidden UV lights hidden in the ceiling just above them for when the bar closes. A sea of white tablecloths on round tables, topped with vases, each holding a few yellow lilies.
All it took was the two of them tasting Jasons cooking for the teen to start praising him and the blond guy to nod and tell him he was hired as a chief/bartender and that room and board came along with the pay and that he could be reimbursed for buying a new lock on his door if he wanted to.
Jason was surprised to learn that at least one if the upper floors was actually where they lived. Guess thats one mystery solved.
Now they just needed to discover whatever else Cloud Strife and Danny Fenton were hiding in Seventh Heaven.
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inkwell-passion · 8 months ago
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Area/People Description Practice
Dionysus' Bar is a two story building with wooden walls, and black marble floors that were purposefully cracked and filled with amethyst. The walls were made with treated wood from fig trees, and the Wooden tables were made with wood from pine trees, the Bar being mountain pine topped with the same black marble, inlayed with Keratin from bull horns. The place is almost always busy with Olympians and Demi-Olympians alike, even a few normal "mortals" that can pay their own way. The Bridge of The Ghost Of Honor is very peculiar in terms of Gaia Coalition ship design, as opposed to having several different stations for ship crew to operate, there is one massive console that allows the Captain to observe A.I. Operations for all systems, and manually override if the problem arises. This leaves a lot of room within the bridge for other systems, like manual Life System Controls, and Camera observation for the entire ship, both interior and exterior. Additionally, there is a desk with both a normal laptop and a holo-computer for the Captain to do paperwork and other such things. In the middle of the room there is a holo-table that the Captain can use for briefing leadership on the ship. Dionysus himself is a beautiful person that straddles the line between masculine and feminine perfectly, with rich dark skin and piercing eyes similar to all Olympians with their unnatural glow, and wild long hair that frames his face. He is often seen wearing a suit and having a wineglass in his hand, though the glass is not always filled with wine, instead using the glass to drink almost everything he drinks. When asked why, he often responds "gotta enjoy a little chaos in your life, y'know?" His voice is smooth and sultry, making people want to listen to him, despite his more insane ramblings. Odysseus is a prematurely greying man, with emerald eyes and a silver fox look to him, standing at a little over six foot, he looks tired and worn down, the appearance of a tactician that has seen his fair share of battle. a rough gravelly voice can be heard whenever he speaks, though there's a wisdom to it that is unlike any other. Athena is a tall and slender woman with blonde curly hair and piercing blue eyes, often seen sporting a personal PDA, and a shotgun on her back, the woman is surgical in combat, as opposed to the God of War Ares, and holds herself with an air of superiority surrounding her.
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reverieshifts · 2 months ago
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𝒂 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆: 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆
𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒓
Ok, so I was just gonna have only one post about what a normal day would look like for me, but then I went a bit overboard, so I'm gonna have to split this into a few parts.
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𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒘𝒏
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I always wake with the first blush of dawn, stirred not by an alarm or knock, but by the soft, natural light that spills through the tall arched windows of my chambers. The curtains are enchanted to part gently at sunrise, allowing golden light to warm the ivory and gold tones of my bedroom. The high canopy above my bed glows faintly as the sun rises, woven with silken threads that shimmer with morning light. The air is cool and fresh, perfumed faintly by the enchanted blossoms climbing the trellis just outside my balcony.
My bed is massive, layered with plush down-filled blankets, embroidered silks, and gossamer drapes. Pillows of every softness are arranged with casual elegance, and my wings, usually tucked close, stretch ever so slightly beneath the feather-light sheets as I begin to stir. There is no rush, no call to urgency—just the quiet peace of a new morning in the heart of Solaris.
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𝑳𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏'𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒆𝒂
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Not long after I begin to wake, the sound of soft footsteps signals the arrival of Lilian, my ever-faithful ladies' maid and closest companion. She doesn’t knock; she never needs to. The door opens soundlessly, and Lilian enters bearing a silver tray with an elegantly curved teapot and two small porcelain cups nestled among crystal dishes of honey, lemon slices, and dried rose petals.
The tea is always different depending on the day. Today, it’s a soothing blend of white tea with lavender and pear, lightly enchanted to ease lingering sleep from the mind without over-sharpening the senses. Lilian sets the tray on the small round table near the balcony, opening the balcony doors just a crack to let in a breeze and birdsong.
We often share a few quiet words here—nothing heavy, just sleepy remarks, teasing smiles, maybe a shared glance over the capital slowly coming to life below. Sometimes, we sit in silence. Other times, we giggle over some bit of gossip Lilian has already picked up from the kitchens.
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𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒉
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After tea, I move to my private bathing chamber, a space that feels more like a small temple of self-care than a simple washroom. The floors are heated marble veined with gold, and the tub itself is a large, oval basin carved from pale quartzite, enchanted to maintain the perfect temperature and lined with shimmering inlays that glow faintly underwater.
By the time I enter, the bath is already drawn—prepared by the palace attendants before dawn—with steam curling through the air and the surface of the water scattered with flower petals. The oils added to the water shift faintly in color depending on the light, leaving my skin soft and delicately perfumed.
I sink into the bath slowly, my wings relaxed and partially spread along the curved lip of the tub, where they can rest without being submerged. The warmth soothes any lingering stiffness, and the air is thick with floral scent and a faint hum of magic.
Lilian kneels beside me on a cushioned stool and begins to wash my hair with practiced care. She uses a pearlescent shampoo infused with moonflower essence—gentle and lightly floral, with a cooling touch that makes the scalp tingle. After rinsing with warm water poured from a carved crystal ladle, she follows with a thick conditioner, working it through the length of my waves with gentle fingers.
Nearby, an array of other products waits within reach—luxurious soaps, enchanted exfoliants, and sponges made from soft seafoam silk. I choose a pale pink bar that smells gently of rose—floral and slightly sweet. The lather is rich and silky, gliding over my skin like velvet.
When the bath is done, Lilian helps me out and wraps me in a plush robe—soft, cloud-like, and embroidered with golden threads along the cuffs and hem. With a wave of her fingers and a softly spoken spell, she dries my hair and skin in an instant, the moisture vanishing without even a chill. The effect leaves me feeling utterly clean, warm, and weightless.
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𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆
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Once I’m dry and wrapped in my robe, Lilian leads me over to my vanity—an elegant piece of furniture carved from pale driftwood and inlaid with polished mother of pearl that shimmers faintly in the light. The mirror is enchanted to adjust its brightness and angle depending on the time of day, casting a soft, flattering glow over my face as I settle onto the cushioned stool.
Without needing to ask, Lilian begins her usual ritual, moving around me with quiet, practiced grace. She starts by brushing out my hair, working slowly from the ends up with a wide-bristled brush carved from willow. My waves fall loose and shining under her careful attention, each stroke gentle and rhythmic, accompanied by the faintest scent of the moonflower shampoo still clinging to the strands. It’s one of my favorite parts of the morning—quiet, comforting, and grounding.
Next come my wings. Lilian retrieves a preening comb and begins to gently separate and smooth the feathers one by one, working with the same care one might reserve for lace or silk. She’s quiet as she works, humming softly under her breath—a gentle little tune I’ve heard a hundred times by now. When she finishes preening, she takes a small bottle of feather oil and warms a few drops between her hands. It smells faintly like sun-warmed amber and sandalwood. The oil keeps the feathers strong and glossy, protects them from dust, and leaves behind just the lightest sheen when the light hits them.
She applies a similar oil to the ends of my hair—lighter in consistency and fragrance, but with a similar function. My skin is already soft and glowing from the bath, but she still dabs a touch of balm across my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose, giving me that soft, dewy finish the court always associates with Elodian nobility.
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𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆
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Once my wings are fully preened and my skin softly glowing, Lilian begins the final touches—styling my hair and applying the lightest sweep of cosmetics. She moves with quiet precision, never rushing, never fumbling. She knows exactly how I like things—natural, simple, elegant.
She parts my hair with a fine-toothed comb and gathers the upper layers of it with deft fingers, twisting them back and up in a loose half-up style that keeps the hair away from my face without looking too formal. As she works, she tucks in a few tiny white flowers—delicate blooms that look like they grew there on their own—nestling them gently into the twist. Instead of using pins or ribbons, she murmurs a small enchantment under her breath—one of the subtle palace spells woven into our daily routines—and a faint shimmer passes through the strands. The twist settles perfectly in place, held as if by invisible threads of silk. It feels weightless, effortless. Just the way I like it.
Next, she turns to the lightest touch of cosmetics—never anything heavy. I don’t like the feeling of paint on my face, and thankfully, Lilian never tries to force it.
She selects a slim glass tube from the tray and uncaps it with a soft click. The scent is faintly fruity—something between blackberry and rosehips. The lip gloss is tinted just enough to bring out the natural color of my lips, giving them a soft rosy sheen. She applies it with a steady hand, then speaks another quiet charm under her breath to fix it in place, preventing smudging or fading no matter how long the day may be.
And it is. No masquerade. No fuss. Just soft shine, warm skin, and the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need gilding.
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𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅
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Once my hair and face are finished, Lilian moves to the nearby wardrobe—a tall, ivory-painted armoire trimmed with gilded vines, its doors enchanted to open at a touch. Inside, rows of gowns hang in shades of cream, lavender, mossy green, and pale blue, all arranged by fabric weight and season. Despite the luxury, the selection is modest compared to what many royals would consider appropriate. I’ve never cared for extravagance for its own sake. Today, she selects one of my favorites.
It’s made from a fine, gossamer fabric in the shade of dusty rose, light enough to catch the air as I move. It glimmers faintly when it catches the sunlight—just a soft shimmer like dew on petals, nothing gaudy or bold. The sleeves are gently puffed at the shoulders, the neckline is modest, and the waist unstructured. The skirt falls to just above my ankles—something I insisted on. Floor-length gowns always seem to catch underfoot, especially on stairs or cobbled paths, and I’d rather not spend my day tripping over hems. This way, I can walk with ease, move freely, and not feel like I’m drowning in layers of silk. Most importantly, it’s comfortable. Unrestrictive. Breathable. There’s no corseting, no heavy beading, no jewels sewn into the seams. I’ve never seen the point in wearing something that makes it hard to breathe.
Lilian helps me into it with practiced hands, lacing up the back with a silk ribbon that glides through the loops without snagging. The fabric settles gently over my wings, shaped specifically to accommodate them without restricting movement or flattening the feathered arches.
As always, I skip the jewelry tray. Necklaces feel heavy, rings get in the way, and I’ve never had the patience for bracelets. I’ve never needed ornament to feel dressed. Simplicity suits me far better.
My shoes are placed neatly nearby—soft leather slippers dyed a matching blush hue, with only a bit of embroidery along the edges and no heel to speak of. Easy to slip on, comfortable to walk in, and quiet on the polished marble floors of the palace.
Once I’m fully dressed, I pause for a moment in front of the mirror—not to fuss, just to take in the effect. The overall look is soft, effortless, and mine. Just enough elegance to satisfy the court, just enough comfort to keep me sane.
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𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕
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Before I leave the vanity, I reach for the small glass bottle nestled among the neatly arranged jars and brushes. It’s slender, faceted like a crystal, with a pale green hue that catches the light. Alana had it made for me—my own signature scent, custom blended and bottled by one of Solaris’s finest perfumers.
I unstopper it carefully, and the fragrance rises immediately—fresh and soft, like jasmine at twilight, wildflowers on the breeze, morning dew clinging to garden leaves. There’s a grounding note beneath it all, subtle and damp, like rain-soaked moss under bare feet.
I dab a single drop behind each ear, and another on each wrist. The scent settles gently, never overpowering, but always there. Familiar. Calming.
When I rise from the stool, Lilian gives me a small smile and a nod of approval. “Perfect,” she says. And with that, the day begins.
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𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂
Ok, yeah I admit I may have overdone it just a bit with this one. But I can't help it, I love writing about all the luxuries I'll get to experience once I finally shift. Also, a lot of the visuals I have here aren't perfectly accurate, like for example, my hair is brown, not blonde, and the perfume bottle would be a sage green color, not pink. But I have to work with what I can find so whatever.
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@lalalian
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kpstonecrafts · 8 months ago
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Discover the artistry of handmade decor at K.P. Stonecrafts, where we bring over 40 years of family expertise in marble craftsmanship to create timeless pieces for your home. Our Etsy shop offers a curated selection of marble inlay tables, unique showpieces, and custom decor, each crafted with care by skilled artisans in Agra, India.
From exquisite tabletops to elegant sculptures, our items blend traditional craftsmanship with designs that elevate any space. Each piece is carefully packaged for safe international shipping, with complimentary insurance and regular updates provided throughout the process.
Explore our Etsy store to find the perfect statement piece or meaningful gift, and feel free to reach out for custom requests. Thank you for supporting handmade craftsmanship with K.P. Stonecrafts!
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homedaily · 10 months ago
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Living Room Design Dubai
This living room design features a balanced layout with an emphasis on symmetry and style. The walls are covered with paneled wood, providing a classic framework that enhances the room’s structural integrity. The focal point of the room is the fireplace, flanked by built-in shelving units that offer both storage and display space.
The furniture selection includes two large, cream-colored sofas arranged to create a comfortable seating area. A pair of round coffee tables with intricate patterns inlay serves as the centerpieces, adding visual interest to the space. The tables complement the ornate rug that covers the floor, which ties the room together with its subtle patterns.
The lighting is provided by a central chandelier with red lampshades, adding warmth to the neutral color palette. Wall sconces are placed strategically around the room to enhance the ambient light and emphasize the architectural details. The large windows are dressed with heavy drapery, offering both privacy and a touch of elegance. The floral mural behind the television adds a decorative element without overpowering the overall interior design.
Materials used include wood paneling for the walls, marble for the fireplace surround, and fabric for the upholstered furniture and drapes. The design prioritizes stylish and exquisite interior design in Dubai while maintaining a cohesive, unique and beautiful aesthetic.
https://algedra.ae/
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wildbeautifuldamned · 1 year ago
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Antique French Style Parquetry Inlay & Ormolu Marble Top Side Table C1920 ebay Antique Revival 1
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marbletemples · 1 year ago
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Strengthen House Design through Marble Inlay Art
When you think about beautifying your home, many things might come to your mind. And sure, there are several great options out there, but what really stands out is marble inlay art. If you have not heard about it till now, then you surely are missing out.
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moononmyfloor · 2 years ago
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Hi Producer (正好遇见你) Infodump
Disclaimer: I have no idea about the accuracy of the information shared in the drama, I'm merely transcribing for future reference purposes. Proceed with caution!
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Ep 32-33: Ming-Style Carpentry and Landscaping
Canglang Pavillion and Ke Yuan
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Known for the unique landscaping art, before you enter the garden of Canglang Pavilion there is a pond surrounding the garden. Inside it, rocks are the main element of the scenery. You'll be greeted by a hill. Pavilion is right on top of it. At the foot of the hill is a pond. The body of water is connected to the mountain with a winding corridor. Southeast of the fake mountain is Mingdao Hall. It's the main building of the garden. In 2000, the UNESCO listed it as a world heritage site.
Keyuan garden isn't very big. It's only 0.741 acres. But it has a long and rich history. The characteristics of Keyuan can be described with five lines, which are, "An azure pond in the middle, a spacious construction, a full-circle corridor, a bright and clear view, a tranquil and vast yard."
Landscaping art boasts so many details. The buildings, rocks, plants, and ponds that form the scenery come from nature and transcend nature. It's an extraordinary fusion of picturesque scenery and craftsmanship. This goes perfectly with the saying, "The garden owner's disposition is represented and told by the well-arranged landscape."
In spring, you can appreciate the blooming crabapple. On a summer day, you can enjoy the coolness under a pipa tree. On autumn nights, you can hear raindrops hitting the banana leaves. And in winter, you can enjoy the warmth of a fire while admiring the plum blossoms. It's such a serene and relaxing life.
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Ming era Furniture and Carpentry
The unearthed cultural relics in Wang Xijue's tomb from the late Ming Dynasty, such as garments, jewelry, accessories, embroidery, furniture used as funeral objects, and items used in daily life not only reflect the advanced level of craftsmanship and technology at that time but also shed light on the political, economic and cultural conditions of that period.
When the powerful official Yan Shifan's property was confiscated, a total of 657 beds made of marble, mother-of-pearl inlay, and colored lacquer were collected, along with 7,444 items of chairs, cabinets, and tables. This shows officials and the rich at the time preferred using Ming-style furniture as a symbol of great wealth.
The scholars sought a refined and simplified living environment that was skillfully natural in its arrangement. A miniature Ming-style furniture set discovered in the joint tomb of Wang Xijue, a Senior Grand Secretary, and his wife. These things are so tiny and delicate. Chinese in ancient times thought of death as another life. After the passing, replicas of items used in life were buried as funeral objects. When Wang Xijue's tomb was unearthed, this set of miniature funeral objects was placed on his coffin. There is a hanger, a wooden basin, and an alcove bed. There is a stand for the basin and so many kitchen wares. You can find almost anything you need in real life.
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The palaces in Hengdian World Studio are one-to-one replicas, but they aren't made with traditional mortise and tenon joints.
Suzhou Museum recreated a Ming-style study based on the literature "Chang Wu Zhi".
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Tanyangzi and the Alcove Bed
She's a legendary young woman from Ming Dynasty, whose proposed future husband died and the in-laws demanded that she live the rest of her life in seclusion as a widow. Then she apparently cultivated Taoism and ascended at mere age of 23, which resulted in an entire niche religion of people worshipping her.
It's a very interesting story for sure, when you consider how Ming Dynasty was the most restrictive towards women and how this girl stood her ground and found her salvation in her own way. History says that Tanyangzi's death might have been from a hunger strike or poisoning from an elixir. But in the "Miscellaneous Morsels from Zaolin", Tan Qian wrote Madam Zhu was able to marry her daughter to a scholar from Shaoxing with a hefty dowry. And she claimed that her daughter had ascended in daylight.
It's irrelevant if she truly attained immortality or played a trick to get the society forcing their norms on her off of her back. Either way, you go Gui'er!!
I tried looking up sources in English but could only find some old articles by some Western universities, I think you can get a better summary by even just machine translating the Baidu Baike page which is linked below.
Hi Producer narrates this story by incorporating her mother's unconditional love and support into it and provides a "realistic explanation".
The alcove bed is a type of large bed that came into being in the late Ming Dynasty. It is also known as the eight-step bed and the platform bed. The alcove bed came in two styles. The colonnade style and the enclosed colonnade style. A small "room" is built on top of a four-post bed with three low panels to form a cloister-like structure. A shallow colonnade of about two to three chi is installed at the front of the bed, with a footrest in the centre. The left and right sides are used to place small cabinets, tables, stools, and even dressing tables. It is a clever and intricate design. The hardwood alcove bed requires a lot of materials and manual labor. It is a luxurious and exquisite piece of furniture. It was popular in the Jiangnan area during the Ming and Qing dynasties. Many wealthy families in the area would have such a bed made for their daughters the moment they were born to be included as part of their dowry, taking years to complete. To have a piece of furniture encompass parental love is also a unique way the Chinese show love.
The segment is timestamped below immeadietely followed by the Documentary part:
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More Hi Producer posts
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muzammils · 3 months ago
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The Timeless Beauty of Stone and Marble Handicrafts
Handicrafts have long been an integral part of India’s rich cultural heritage, and stone and marble handicrafts are among the most admired forms of craftsmanship. These pieces blend tradition, artistry, and skilled workmanship to create stunning decorative and utility items. Whether used for home décor, religious purposes, or gifting, stone and marble handicrafts offer a touch of elegance and timeless appeal.
At AS Handicrafts, we take pride in offering a wide range of exquisitely crafted stone and marble handicrafts, perfect for enhancing any space with their beauty and uniqueness.
Stone Handicrafts: A Blend of Art and Durability
Stone handicrafts are known for their durability and intricate detailing. Skilled artisans carve natural stones into breathtaking sculptures, decorative pieces, and everyday essentials, making each piece a work of art.
Popular Stone Handicrafts at AS Handicrafts
✔ Decorative Sculptures – Intricately carved figurines of animals, deities, and abstract art pieces. ✔ Religious Idols – Beautiful stone idols of Hindu gods and Buddha statues for temples and home altars. ✔ Stone Inlay Work – Exquisite tabletops, coasters, and panels with intricate stone inlay patterns. ✔ Garden Décor – Elegant stone fountains, planters, and decorative garden pieces.
Each stone handicraft is crafted with precision, ensuring that it reflects India’s rich artistic tradition while maintaining strength and durability.
Marble Handicrafts: Symbol of Elegance and Luxury
Marble handicrafts have been admired for centuries for their sophistication and aesthetic appeal. Used in everything from architecture to home décor, marble’s smooth finish and natural veining make it a favorite material for artisans.
Popular Marble Handicrafts at AS Handicrafts
✔ Marble God Idols – Finely crafted idols of Lord Ganesha, Krishna, and Lakshmi, perfect for worship. ✔ Marble Home Décor – Stunning vases, candle holders, and decorative plates. ✔ Marble Utility Items – Elegant trays, pen holders, jewelry boxes, and coasters. ✔ Marble Inlay Table Tops – Luxurious handmade tables with intricate inlay work.
At AS Handicrafts, our marble handicrafts are designed to add a touch of grandeur to any space while being functional and durable.
Why Choose AS Handicrafts?
✔ Authentic Craftsmanship – Each piece is handcrafted by skilled artisans using traditional techniques. ✔ High-Quality Materials – We use premium stone and marble to ensure durability and elegance. ✔ Customization Available – Get personalized designs to suit your preferences. ✔ Affordable Prices – Exquisite handcrafted pieces at competitive rates. ✔ Secure Shipping – Safe and timely delivery across India and internationally.
Conclusion
Whether you’re looking for intricate stone handicrafts or elegant marble handicrafts, AS Handicrafts offers a collection of handcrafted masterpieces that celebrate India’s rich artistic heritage. These timeless creations not only enhance the beauty of your space but also reflect skilled craftsmanship that has been passed down through generations.
Explore the stunning range of handcrafted stone and marble artifacts at AS Handicrafts and bring home a piece of art that lasts a lifetime!
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jafrisurveyinstruments · 2 days ago
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Decorative Wall Clock Manufacturers Blending Functionality with Elegant Decor
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India has always been known for its rich heritage of craftsmanship and skilled manufacturing. From beautifully designed wall décor to precise surveying instruments and handmade artistic creations, the country is home to industries that serve both aesthetic and practical needs. Among the trusted names delivering quality across these diverse categories is Jafri Survey Instruments, a company that combines tradition with precision.
Let’s explore how India’s manufacturers are excelling in various sectors – from decorative wall clocks to traditional handicrafts and plane tables used in the surveying field.
Timeless Style: Decorative Wall Clock Manufacturers
Wall clocks are no longer just timekeepers—they are a part of interior design, adding charm and character to any space. Today, Decorative Wall Clock Manufacturers in India are creating clocks that are as artistic as they are functional. These clocks are available in a variety of styles, from vintage and antique looks to modern and minimalist designs.
Manufacturers pay close attention to materials, design, and finishing. Whether made from wood, metal, or a combination of both, decorative wall clocks are handcrafted or precision-machined to add elegance to homes, offices, hotels, and cafes. Artistic elements such as carvings, hand-painting, and brass inlays make each piece unique.
Indian manufacturers are known for blending contemporary design with traditional motifs, making these clocks a perfect choice for global buyers who want something distinct and culturally rich.
Precision Meets Craft: Plane Table Manufacturers
For professionals in the fields of surveying, civil engineering, and cartography, the plane table remains a critical tool. It’s used for field mapping, data collection, and accurate measurement. Indian Plane Table Manufacturers have mastered the art of producing reliable, durable, and field-ready equipment that professionals trust.
Made from high-quality seasoned wood or metal with smooth, stable surfaces, these tables are crafted for ease of use and accuracy. Manufacturers ensure that the tables are not only functional but also weather-resistant and long-lasting. Accessories like tripods, clamps, and drawing boards are also manufactured to meet professional standards.
The demand for Indian-made plane tables is strong both within the country and overseas, thanks to the attention to detail and value for money offered by Indian manufacturers.
Artistic Legacy: Handicraft Items Manufacturers
India’s tradition of handcrafted goods is centuries old and still thriving. From small decorative items to large home décor pieces, Indian Handicraft Items Manufacturers create products that reflect the country’s cultural richness and artistic diversity.
Using materials like wood, brass, marble, and textiles, artisans craft a wide variety of items including figurines, wall hangings, storage boxes, and spiritual symbols. Each item tells a story—often inspired by India’s folklore, mythology, and heritage. These products are popular among collectors, home decorators, and tourists from all over the world.
Manufacturers today are also catering to modern markets by combining traditional art with contemporary designs. This blend makes Indian handicrafts suitable for all types of interiors, from classic to modern.
The Trust of Jafri Survey Instruments
When it comes to combining artistic value and functional precision, Jafri Survey Instruments stands out. While the company is known for its expertise in manufacturing professional-grade survey equipment like plane tables, it also offers a beautiful range of decorative wall clocks and handicraft items.
Jafri Survey Instruments is committed to maintaining high-quality standards across all its product categories. Every item is crafted with care, checked for durability, and made to reflect both beauty and purpose. Whether you're sourcing for business, décor, or technical use, Jafri brings years of trust, heritage, and reliability.
Conclusion
India’s manufacturing landscape is rich, diverse, and rooted in tradition. Whether you're looking for elegant decorative wall clocks, precision-built plane tables, or beautiful handicraft items, Indian manufacturers deliver a perfect blend of artistry and performance. With experienced and trusted companies like Jafri Survey Instruments, you get the best of all worlds—craftsmanship, accuracy, and quality you can count on.
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hariom-handicraft · 7 days ago
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Hariom Handicraft offers exquisite, handcrafted marble and gemstone inlay décor, blending traditional Indian artistry with Vastu principles to enhance your living spaces. Based in Agra, our skilled artisans create timeless pieces—ranging from marble tables and vases to inlay trays and spiritual sculptures—that bring harmony, elegance, and positive energy to any home. Explore our collection to infuse your interiors with craftsmanship and cultural richness. To know more just visit here - https://sites.google.com/view/hariom-handicraft/home
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