#stone and metal console table

[gobuyussomecoffee]

Toronto Contemporary Entry Mid-sized contemporary entryway idea with a brown floor and dark wood floors, beige walls, and a light wood front door.

[danielaprice]

Hall in Toronto Inspiration for a mid-sized contemporary dark wood floor and brown floor entryway remodel with beige walls and a light wood front door

[swashbucklerswan]

Medium Sun Room Inspiration for a medium-sized slate-floor sunroom renovation with a regular ceiling and no fireplace

[katanra]

Foyer Mudroom (Kansas City)

[benbemine]

Transitional Living Room

[azsazz]

Bloody Hearts (Part 2)

Azriel x Cassian x Rhysand x Reader

Summary: A modern mafia AU.

Warnings: Blood, injury, guns, depictions of graphic violence. Ik this isn’t how hospitals work but just pretend for the storyline that it is.

Word Count: 1,780

Notes: Well, it's been a long time since I've worked on this one, but you all voted for it, so here it is! [Not edited]

[Part 1]

_________________________________________

“What the fuck, Rhys?” Azriel hisses when he catches sight of his fearless leader leaning heavily on Cassian’s side, an arm wrapped around his shoulder. He’s pale, lips beginning to tint the blue shade of the moon, and the man can hear his teeth chattering from across the room.

The dark haired man drops a steel-toed boot to the ground with a thump as he pushes himself up from the large oak desk where he’s been monitoring the cameras. The green shine from the screen glints over the twin guns nestled in the double holster across his strong chest and reflects off of the azure stone set in onyx metal around his neck.

He’s quick to make his way around the desk, hitting a single key on the console as he goes, and the screen floods black. It’s second nature by now, never leaving anything unlocked that he doesn’t want anyone seeing, even if it is his comrades.

Azriel’s footsteps are silent but Rhys’ grunts are not as Cassian helps him lie back on the poker table, crimson already staining the velvet top. The chips dig into Rhysand’s back but he can hardly focus on anything other than the ripping pain in his side. He’d dug the bullet out of his side and had slipped from the hospital before they could get any more information from him, even if his mind was screaming at him to stay, not for his wound, but for the beautiful woman behind the counter.

Cassian’s already off to retrieve the medical kit as soon as Rhys is settled. Azriel slips the knife from its sheath in his boot and doesn’t hesitate to cut through the expensive fabric covering the wound. His golden eyes are sharp, calculating as he moves, flickering over the torn and damp fabric, and then to the inflamed muscle of his torn stomach when he tugs away the bloody material.

Rhys grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as the room spins. He feels as if he’s the ivory sphere twirling around the roulette table as he lies there, letting Azriel poke and prod at the wound he’d been so careless as to get.

“How many times have I told you not to go running around with an open wound?” Azriel speaks softly, his voice a low rumble that’s always comforting, even when it’s a threat to their enemies slipping past his lips. 

“At least I got the bullet out this time,” Rhys grunts back in time for Cassian to hear. He’s carrying the med kit in one hand and in the other, a bottle of triple distilled whiskey, one of the expensive bottles Rhys likes to reserve for his more important guests. 

Now seems as good a time as any to break into the copper liquid.

“Who did this?” Cassian asks, handing off the supplies but keeping the bottle for himself. His voice is rough, wanting to know answers so that he can move his people where necessary, to find out where Azriel can plant his spies. His large frame casts a shadow over the wound when he hikes his foot up on one of the plush chairs, and Azriel tuts, shooing him to the other side so that he can see better. “And why didn’t you call one of us for help?”

Both of his friends have seen Rhys like this on multiple occasions. Not necessarily with bullet wounds, but their leader seemed to be needing stitches more often than he’d like. As head of one of the most notorious mafias in the country, he’s sought after by rivals for power, women for his body, sometimes both. 

It comes with the territory, though, and no matter how many times he scrubs his name from every source he can find, they’ll always know who he is, his father had made sure of that. But it’s no life to live hiding, and now, Rhys supposes that it's no life to live always having to look over his shoulder either.

Azriel leaves to scrub his hands, sharing a look with Cassian as he leaves him to fish for information from their leader, whose arm is thrown across his eyes, the gold light from the chandelier too much for him right now.

“Was it the Oleanders?” he questions, taking a swig of the auburn liquor before helping Rhys sit up for a sip of his own. It burns as it goes down, its aftertaste of copper he can’t quite distinguish is his own blood in his mouth or the drink.

Rhys swallows roughly, the liquor sticky in his throat. “The Oleanders, the Canus’, the fucking Tritons, take your pick, they’re all starting to look the same these days.”

“Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do about that?” Azriel asks as he slides back up to the table to begin threading the needle. His eyes are sharp, focused on his task, shaking his head when Cassian offers him a swig. “We already have every disposable knight out there that we can.”

His friend hisses as the needle pokes through his tender skin. He’ll never get used to the feeling, and he doesn’t want to. 

“Fuck if I know,” Rhys sighs, accepting another drink. “All I know is we need to start playing offense, they’re getting too close.”

A muscle in Cassian’s jaw twitches but he nods nonetheless while Azriel grunts his agreement. The three of them will be up for days trying to plan their next move. They need to think of something to shock the rival gangs, to scare them back into place where they’d been when Rhys’ father was still in charge. A new head meant that all past treaties were over, but Rhysand doesn’t regret it for a minute. Not after what his father had done to his mother and sister.

Azriel is meticulous with his stitching, and Rhys concentrates on the stillness of his hands while he patches him up. It had taken a long time for his friend to be able to show his hands like this, even though the three of them are like brothers. A gambling debt gone wrong had left the apathetic man caught and set alight by the Oleanders, harrowing grins and remarks of how he wouldn’t be able to hold his cards after they’d finished with him haunt him to this day, and Rhysand finds him asleep at him computer more often than not, surveillance screen blaring green light and a gun clutched tightly in his marred grip.

“If we knew who put a hit on you tonight we’d be that much closer to knowing where to start,” Azriel murmurs, tying off the suture and sitting back for a better look at his handiwork. This time, he doesn’t hesitate to take the liquor from Cassian, smearing the label red as he does so.

“Was a drive-by,” Rhys answers, his breathing ragged as he sits up. He makes a face at the scrap of shirt hanging from his shoulders, tugging it off and tossing it to a heap on the ground. It lands with a wet sound but he doesn’t care, they’ve all seen worse.

It makes him think of you, offering to help him out of his shirt with wide eyes and red cheeks. You had made his labored breathing worse, struggling to suck down a miniscule amount of oxygen after your beauty had forced it from his lungs. He wants to see you again.

He hadn’t recognized the large blacked-out SUV that had slowed to a crawl next to him. He’d known immediately and cursed himself for taking his phone call outside, and with no knights to guard him. He was sprinting down the block before the window even rolled a centimeter down, his shiny, expensive shoes sounding like their own bullets ricocheting off of the sidewalk as he moved. 

Bullets sprayed the buildings around him, not a soul in sight. Rhys had managed to dip into an alley and disappear, but after having received the lovely wound in his side in exchange.

It could have been much worse.

“I’ll start looking into security cameras,” Azriel says, wiping his palms down his own shirt. He’s already making his way over to his desk, and Rhys would scold him for being a bloody mess if he hadn’t known his friend as well as he does. That glint in his eye tells Rhys all he needs to know about what Azriel will be doing until he finds the culprit. “Where did it happen?”

“Westboro and 8th,” Rhys sighs, sharing a tired look with Cassian. The both of them know that prying Azriel from the screens will be nearly impossible, and they cheers to that, taking another pull from the bottle.

“You need to be more careful,” Cassian tells him. His hazel eyes are glazed with seriousness, his tone stern and fearful all in one. The corners of Rhysand’s frown soften as his friend's tenderness, agreeing with him in full.

“I’ll make sure you know where I’m going next time,” he answers, gaze sliding over to where Azriel’s already tuned deeply into his work. “The both of you.”

He has his own personal guard, a group of trustworthy men that have passed all of his and his friends’ rigorous vetting processes, but it would be nice if he were able to take a breath alone for a moment. Rhys is sure that both Cassian and Azriel will be flanking his sides once more now that this has happened.

Cassian seems less than pleased with his response but Azriel takes it with a grain of salt, fingers flying over the keyboard in an attempt to find the assholes who’ve done this. He tucks Rhys’ words into the back of his mind for later, already thinking of ideas on how to have more eyes on Rhys without being there himself.

“Shower,” Cassian demands softly, removing the bottle from Rhys’ grip. He saunters over to perch on the edge of Azriel’s desk, watching politely and not touching like Azriel has scolded him on many occasions. The thought makes the corner of Rhys’ mouth curl in amusement, even if he knows that they’ll start murmuring about him as soon as he leaves the room.

But he follows Cassian’s orders nonetheless, sliding from the poker table onto his shaky legs. The room steadies after a few harsh blinks but he stays upright, making sure he has his bearings before he moves towards his suite.

“And try not to get that wound wet,” Azriel calls after him, eyes still pinned to the screen before him.

Rhysand rolls his eyes, ignoring his friends, but his smirk curves into a full blown grin.

[writingsofestella]

vespera - ch. 4

Apostate!Din Djarin x Ex!Jedi!OC -(no use of Y/N) Canon Divergent - some plot changed for sake of story, the razor crest lives )

tws // general canon violence, usage of blasters and weapons, mentions of death, minors DNI 18+ only, angst, mature content, more tags to be added later on

a/n: sorry for such the long wait!!! i got my inspiration back for writing, so i hope you all like these next few chapter!! we finally get lore, and the reason Din has tracked her down once again.

wc: 2437

previous chapter: [here]

The walk back to her home was tense, quiet, filled with an uneasy silence that made the hairs on her neck stand straight up. However, the rest of the village was much like this too. The uneasy quietness that fell upon the village after the raid was not something she thought she'd ever feel here.

The Mandalorian's steps were silent in the dirt, despite his size, his armor. He kept in step with her pace, walking next to her, as if he hadn't chased her down half the galaxy. He was silent, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see how his helmet constantly surveyed his surroundings. Waiting for another attack or a trap.

As if he wasn't walking her into what was most likely a trap.

Grogu was making small noises, held in his father's arms. He was trying to reach out her, trying to get her attention. She had to ignore it, trying to focus on her surroundings, keep her guard up.

The adrenaline was still pumping through her veins, her body, the Force keeping her hyperaware. It helped her ignore the lingering pain in her leg.

They approached her little home, on the outskirts of the village. Standing in front of her door, she could feel the Mandalorian standing behind her. She shifted her feet, as if half prepared to slip inside and lock him out. Or run. Or both.

But she would be lying if she said she had the energy to outrun a Mandalorian.

Sighing internally, she shook her head, finally opening the door for the both of them to come in. "Can't believe I'm letting a Mandalorian bounty hunter into my home." She half muttered to herself.

"This isn't how I imagined our reunion going either, if it's any consolation." The Mandalorian quipped back, his voice dry.

She simply gave a deadpan look, watching as the bounty hunter walked past her as she held the door open, shutting it behind him and Grogu both. "Right, because your idea of a reunion would be me in cuffs being handed over to your employer." She said, her eyes watching him, analyzing him as he stood there.

He almost looked out of place in her home, all metal and leather, a trained fighter and killer. While her home was built out of natural stone, with plants and fruits, a healer's home. The only thing that stood out, that made the armored killer look even slightly less intimidating, was the tiny green child. One who seemed to be holding onto him, happy to be in his arms again.

"More or less." He responded, his helmet finally looking back down at her, tilting slightly. "Things changed."

"So you mentioned. What is this common interest of ours, then?" She asked him, crossing her arms, putting her weight on her good leg.

"Why don't we sit down?" He commented. "Can't imagine that blaster shot of yours is feeling too good right now." He added on, with a tilt of his head.

Her eyes narrowed at him. She didn't take orders from anyone, let alone a bounty hunter. But only because her leg was hurting, she decided to sit at the table she had. She watched as he followed suit, sitting across from her. Grogu's head barely made it above the table, she took note of.

There was an uneasy silence that grew between the both of them. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, staring him down. Trying to summon some of that exaggerated courage she had once, when facing down too many bounty hunters to count. None of them had saved her though, and none of them had a Force sensitive child.

"I don't suppose our common interest is your child." She spoke first, taking control of the conversation.

"Partially." He answered with, and his helmet tilted down to look at Grogu, sitting on his lap. After listening to Grogu babble something or another, his head looked back up to her. "I was sent to find you."

Her eyes narrowed at him. "By your employers, I presume."

She would defend herself if need be. He would not drag her back. She would not go with him, would not be taken in as a bounty.

"No." He answered, surprising her. "An… acquaintance, you could say."

She stared at him, both confused and on edge, not quite sure if he was lying or not. The Force inside of her told her that he was telling the truth, mostly. "An acquaintance."

He gave a nod of his helmet, and then was reaching into his satchel. On instinct, she jerked from her position, a hand gripping onto the table, ready to bolt.

"Calm, Jetii." He said, pausing in his movements, helmet staring her down. His voice a low rumble. "I swore I would not harm you."

She bristled at the name he called her. She was smart enough to know the word he spoke, and it took everything in her power to run just from that. She was already on edge. Last time he had pulled something from his satchel, from a prior meeting, it had been cuffs, intending on taking her hostage, to cash in on her bounty.

"You do not have the most trustworthy track record, Mandalorian." She finally responded.

He stared her down, only a table separating them, really. She was already weakened from her work in the clinic, from getting shot. How easy would it be for him to take her down, capture her now?

It was only Grogu's cooing that made her tear her gaze from his father.

The child looked up at her with his big eyes, ears tilted downwards. His little clawed hand reached out to her, as if trying to reach for her.

Help?

"It's only because of your child I even let you in my home." She finally spoke, leaning back in her seat again, but still ready to bolt if need be.

"Then perhaps this will convince you."

He pulled out a small holo-device, barely larger than his gloved palm. It looked like it had seen better days, old and probably from during the war. He set it down on the table, sliding it to the middle and pressing a button on it.

At first, she saw nothing, as the old thing made noises that sounded like it was struggling to turn on. Then, a small, blue, flickering hologram appeared. A young man, she thought, with light colored hair. Wearing all dark. Her eyes narrowed as she saw what looked like a lightsaber at his hip.

"Hello Mandalorian. This is Luke Skywalker. I have a request for you." The hologram started.

Her eyes widened, eyebrows furrowing.

Faintly, she could hear Grogu cooing in interest, but she sat there, mind racing.

Luke Skywalker?

"There is a Jedi that I would like you to find. If my sources are to be believed, she is on the planet of Amia. It is of utmost importance that she comes here. She may be the last Jedi healer ever taught before the Order fell, and we need to preserve whatever teachings we can find. For the next Jedi."

Her grip was so tight on the table, but she didn't even notice, as she stared at the hologram, watching as the image flickered in and out. Her mind and heart racing, trying to understand this all. She had never met Luke Skywalker. She knew of him only from the rumors and reports that spread through the galaxy of his actions to take down the Empire. Of his power.

Yet he seemed to know everything about her.

"She goes by Fyra Thane now."

Fyra, as she was now called, stopped hearing the words he spoke after that. Staring at the hologram, lost in thought. Still as a statue. Eventually the hologram fizzled out, as the recording finishing. And there was an uneasy silence that filled her home afterwords.

Someone here knew what she was. They knew. Who? Who could have known? Who knew Luke Skywalker, a Jedi himself? Who was feeding him this information?

How did a Mandalorian bounty hunter even know a Jedi? Something told her that the small green child, who looked so much like a Jedi Master of her past, was the reason for all of this.

"What is in this for you?" She finally broke the silence, tearing her gaze from the holo-device to stare back up at him. Her voice was a controlled calm, her hand holding onto the table so tightly. "I am sure my bounty would give you more credits than he would."

"As satisfying as it would be to bring you in after you have evaded me time and time again," he started, "I believe it is in both of our best interests to not hand you over."

"And why is that?" She dared to ask.

"Considering the bounty on his head was imperial scientists, I don't think it's too hard of a guess as to who put the bounty on you." He spoke, his voice even and short.

She felt her heart stutter, in both fear and anger. Her eyes glanced from the Mandalorian down to Grogu. He had been hunted, too? Already, at such a young age? It made her angry, that she had failed in her actions that had caused the bounty to be placed on her head in the first place. Disappointed in herself, that she couldn't do what had been needed. Surely, it had caused him to be hunted.

She shook her head, once. "No. It's not." Her voice quiet. She thought for a moment, trying to process all of this. "And if you turned me in-"

"They would come after him, again." He finished with, his voice steely with resolve. The type of voice she had come to expect from a faceless bounty hunter, trained to kill and hunt from childhood. "They know I have him. So if I turned you in, they would-"

"I know what they are capable of, Mandalorian." She shot back, cutting him off before he could continue on that comment. "I know what they would do, and what they have done." She spoke, voice low and even, staring him down.

She let out a tense sigh, closing her eyes for just a moment, trying to let the Force wash over her, to calm her once more. This was a lot to take in.

"What if I don't go with you to see Skywalker?" She dared to ask, opening her eyes once again. She couldn't help the curious nature inside of her, to see what he would say.

He just stared at her, impassive through the helmet, but she could almost sense his annoyance through his beskar. For wearing such impressive armor, it seemed to be too easy to get under his skin.

"You could stay here and have another attempt made at your life." He finally retorted.

She hadn't even had the chance to process that. That Henry had truly, willfully, shot at her. For the first time in months, she felt that danger, lingering around her like a curse, a shadow that would not leave.

She had been foolish to think that she could ever have a home.

"How do I know you won't do the same to me while we're traveling to wherever Skywalker is at?" She countered, but she knew she was in a situation with only one clear answer. "Even if you don't turn me in for that bounty, you haven't exactly been cordial in the past."

Perhaps it wasn't fair to hold his attempts to capture her in front of them. He had been doing a job, and she understood that. But how could she possibly begin to even believe him?

"You saved Grogu." Was the response that finally came. "And he seems to trust you."

Grogu let out a cooing noise, looking from his buir to her once more. His big eyes staring at her. As if trying to convince her to come with them, to go to Luke. She could almost hear him, his tiny little voice, trying to speak to her through the Force.

It was a stupid idea, really. To go with the Mandalorian and his child. His force-sensitive child, who was already so strong and powerful in the Force. All because a rumored hero of the galaxy wanted to learn what she knew for future generations of jedi.

"Would I save you from that sniper if I had just planned on killing you later?" He challenged her, yet she could hear the genuine curiosity in his voice.

"For personal satisfaction? I wouldn't blame you if you did." She retorted dryly.

A noise almost like a huff came from his helmet, as he tilted his head to look at her. It was almost comical, seeing him sitting in the chair. He was not short nor narrow by any means, she took note of. He was broad and tall, and he seemed so out of place in her home. All metal and fight, of battle, in her home of nature and healing. She supposed there were two sides to every battle.

"You saved Grogu." He repeated out. "He is part of my… clan." She could hear the care in his voice, despite how much he might have tried to hide it. Yet the struggle too, as if he could not accept that Grogu was with him again. "You saved him, so you have my word no harm will come to you by my hand."

A life for a life, then.

She rubbed her face, all of this too much for her to truly think through right now. She couldn't stay here. With the sudden appearance of Grogu, and how he instantly latched himself onto her, the other villagers suspected her. Add on his hunter of a father and Henry's attack, she knew it was only a matter of time before she got hurt even worse than today. She suspected people already knew she wasn't normal, especially Jir.

She dropped her hand to stare at the both of them. Taking in who would be her traveling companion for however long it would take, if she agreed. A Mandalorian bounty hunter she had evaded time and time again, who had once been coldhearted and ruthless, willing to hand her over to Imperials. And his child, a creature with eyes so big and wide, full of so much innocence but so much hurt already, who had wormed his way into the stone cold hunter. A child with powers like her own, a creature also hunted.

"When do we leave?"

all writing is my own. please do not redistribute, repost, or share on other platforms. thank you

[ taglist: @znerac @dinwifey - to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask!]

[andr0medafallen]

The Gaslight

A/N: Reposting old fics. Lightly revised.

Pairing: Llewyn Davis x Reader

Warnings: Existential dread, depictions of smoking, brief mention of cancer in relation to smoking, kind of fluffy ig?, lmk if i need to add anything

Description: New York isn't anywhere near as great as it's portrayed by Frank Sinatra or any of the greats of your time. Maybe the only person with a chance at changing your mind about that is someone who feels the exact same way.

Word Count: 2.1k

Everyone who says that there is “so much to do in New York” is wrong. There’s plenty of random bullshit to do the first couple hundred days living there, and then by the time you’re so over it that you’d rather be doing anything else, you’re stuck because you sold your car for rent and you don’t have enough energy or ambition to send out resumes to employers outside of the city and wait one million years for a letter of rejection. You suppose that that may be the reason the telephone had been invented, but every time you even touch the damned machine, you're overwhelmed with a debilitating flood of anxiety that only goes away after you’ve promised yourself you’ll never touch it again. Honestly, it would probably be best to stop spending the crippling $25 a month for the rotary, but you’d have to call the phone company, and that falls under the list of things you would not like to do.

What may come as a surprise to the vast amounts of small-towners moving to the big city is that the over-romantacized gum spattered streets, unaffordable rent, and constant rat infestations all get old really fast. But how can you honestly judge? You were one of those small-town girls with big dreams, once.

Maybe what you really hate about New York is its tendency to point out the worst in you. Somehow being constantly surrounded by 7.78 million people only manages to make you feel more lonely. As if the city is pointing out that even when it is impossible to avoid people, as you often yearn to do, you are still incapable of making a single genuine friend.

As if it’s any sort of consolation, once you realize that there is nothing to do in New York, you start finding like-minded individuals. It was those very like-minded individuals who led you to The Gaslight today. Course, you weren’t here with anyone. You just got handed a flier at Donna’s apartment. So here you were, at The Gaslight Cafe. Sticky tables, dirty floors, some sort of New Yorker reputation that you were blissfully unaware of.

When you entered the bar, the singer hadn’t yet made his appearance.You were five minutes late, but it was the city, so of course that made you ten minutes early. Honestly though, the room was actually kind of nice. It all seemed so comfortable and modern with its stone walls and chic lamps and real wood tables. The room was low-lit with a couple of warm-toned spotlights pointing towards the stage, where an empty oak-wood chair and a metal mic sat. No matter how hard it tried, though, it still didn’t beat the classic dilemma of any bar: Beer-sticky surfaces and the smell of tobacco, hanging in the air like a sacred canopy.

When you were younger you had been a regular at plenty of different venues in your hometown. Some were all ages and family-friendly, some were teenage rock’n’roller’s garages, and plenty were bars like this one where the owners innocently turned a blind eye to your baby face. Those bars usually had vinyl tables, though. What your teenage hangouts all had in common, though, was that you had known people there. The owners, maybe a drummer or two. Plenty of boy-crazy lasses and lads. Maybe you were jaded, but you’ve been finding it harder and harder to remember what it’s like to know and be known. Some days, maybe even today, you thought of what it would be like to build that sort of community for yourself, and the task felt near impossible. 

On the bright side, your concert-going experience meant that you knew the best places to sit when you went to this sort of thing; Close enough to the singer so that you could see them, but not so close that it would seem like you cared.

You’d almost finished your first drink when the singer came out. His curly hair was messily piled atop his head and he wore clothes that were very obviously picked out from a thrift store or a clearance rack. Of course, you were the last to judge, because you certainly did the same. It had been a long time since you had been able to afford anything on the main floor of a Macy’s. But honestly, the rugged look suited him. His olive skin looked pale, as if he never went outside except for on his commute to these nighttime gigs, like a modern-day vampire, and his eyes looked tired, like they held the murky depths of the Hudson in them. You wondered how he would be spending his Sunday night if he weren’t here.

All of this was just idle thought though, the bored wonderings of someone who was just about ready for a second drink. It’s not like you cared. That is, until he started playing. You remembered the shows from when you were young, played by fellow adolescents jamming out to Elvis Presley and Howlin’ Wolf. You thought they were so fun, yet still usually left early to go fuck around somewhere else. This was nothing like that. When the singer's deft fingers gracefully twirled between strings, when his voice sang a song of anguish passed down generation to generation, you had never felt so seen. You thought maybe this was it. Some sort of sign that it was alright now and you no longer had to spend every day worrying about bills and how to put your next meal on the table. You didn’t even go to the bar for another drink, you were too enraptured. 

When your thoughts did wander, it was all about that man sitting on that chair on the low-hanging stage strumming a guitar. You wanted to know his whole life story. How he ended up here, how he couldn’t leave. Maybe he was a traveling musician, but maybe he was like you. Like Sisyphus, being pushed back into the confines of the city any time he tried to escape its grasp.

When his last song ended you felt like crying. Maybe you already had been crying. Sometimes it was hard for you to pay attention to that sort of thing. Sometimes you get so enraptured by the music that you can’t even manage to wipe your tear streaks until the end of the song, when you frantically will them away with the sleeve of your sweater and the will of a god. This was one of those times.

There really was no real reason to stay once he’d finished his set. You were fairly far from drunk, but hopefully intoxicated enough that you wouldn’t have a lot of trouble getting to sleep. With one last glance at the singer, you slipped out the side door into the freezing New York winter. You were far from cold, though, because when you looked back through the door, your eyes met his brown bark gaze, heating your cheeks with a rosy warmth. You quickly tore your eyes away and shut the alleyway door before fumbling with your cigarette case. Your quickly numbing fingers took their time flicking the lighter going, but once you managed it, you took a deep inhale, hands cupped in front of the cigarette cradled by your lips. The smoke burned through you, warming you from the inside out.

You glanced at the door as it creaked open next to you, once again inhaling from your cigarette. You knew it was a bad habit and apparently some doctors now believed that it caused cancer or something, but you couldn’t remember the last time that you actually cared. 

Once your own cloud of shit smelling cigarettes (you bought the cheap stuff, 25 cents a pack) dissipated, you realized that it wasn’t some trash man or drunk guy needing to puke, but your very own sad man in thrifted clothing holding a beat-up hard shell guitar case. Your heart fluttered, standing this close to him. It was your fatal flaw as a New Yorker, one that you refused to admit to anyone. You got starstruck so stupid easily. Usually not even by stars. Sure, you live in New York and there are plenty all over this shithole city,but it’s the smaller ones you adore. You couldn’t give a shit about Frank Sinatra, but one time you saw your favorite 6pm News anchor grocery shopping in Manhattan and got so excited that a paparazzo started taking pictures hoping that it was some B-List celebrity that he wasn’t familiar with.

And so, when you stood in front of this man, who was not famous, and who you hadn’t even known –of– for very long, but you felt like you might burst into flames in his presence.

He had this aura about him that preached of pain and empty hope and that somehow called to you like a beautiful sonnet.

He even had the audacity to look surprised to see you, as if you hadn’t made eye contact  when you’d used this door just a few minutes prior. It was clear that he had come out the side exit rather than the front exit in some attempt to avoid having to talk to people, and you thought about letting him do just that, but maybe you still believed in fate just a bit, and maybe she was giving you a second shot just now. You weren’t one to ignore divine interference.

You silently offered him your cigarette, and he seemed to consider it for a moment before settling against the red brick wall beside you and accepting it. You don’t miss how his eyes seem to darken as they take in the red smudges which your lips had placed on the tipping paper just moments ago. He takes a hit from the half-smoked cigarette and there is something so casually intimate about the both of you sweetly caressing a lifeless piece of paper rolled with death and dopamine without a single direct touch between you.

When he made no move to speak, you took the initiative. “I liked your set,” you mumbled, taking the joint. You blew out the smoke in a steady stream. You knew plenty of folks who thought that blowing rings made them all sophisticated or whatnot, but anytime you did it you felt like a JRR Tolkien character–the old wizard guy. Gandalf? The singer (who still hadn’t told you his name) exhaled his smoke in puffs, like little storm-clouds.

“No, it's… it’s not.” His response made no sense in the context of what you had said, but somehow you understood its meaning anyway. That feeling of incompetence, where no amount of praise can make up for any past rejection.

“Well. I liked it,” you responded coolly, as if his opinion on his own music obviously meant less than yours. You turned towards him. The new angle revealed how close the two of you truly were, less than a foot away from each other, and it made your heart increase a few paces.

When you told him your name, it elicited the tiniest of smiles in response, and he held out his hand for you to shake. He didn’t seem to smile much, but he still had the most beautiful laugh lines around his eyes. You shook his outreached hand, its warmth dulling the stinging pain of the cold.

“Llewyn Davis,” He introduced, before pulling his hand back to his side. A part of you missed his warmth already.

“Llewyn.” You tested the word out on your lips, drawing it out slowly as if tasting it. “It’s a pretty name.”

Llewyn’s eyes crinkled in response, and you responded in kind with a toothy grin. Pretty, pretty, pretty.

“Well, thanks for the smoke. I should probably head home before anyone starts worrying,” he spoke, snubbing out the spent cigarette on the brick wall and readying up his guitar case.

As he turned away to leave, you raised an eyebrow at the man, not quite believing his story. “And where is home for you, Llewyn?”

He turned back towards you, surprised by your antics, and shrugged. “Anywhere with a nice enough couch, I suppose.”

You smirked at him, giddy at having caught him in his white lie. “Well I can’t say my couch cost more than twenty dollars, but my heater works. Deal?”

The way his eyes seemed to soften at your words made you unbelievably happy. He wasn’t quite smiling, but he seemed so much less stressed.

“That’s…that’s really nice of you,” Llewyn mumbled. You hesitantly reached forward and took his hand, fingers brushing his palm before closing around his calloused left hand, which had so expertly been holding down bar chords and hammer-ons moments before. He squeezed your hand in response, as if to tell you that this gentle act of intimacy was acceptable. When he saw you looking up at him expectantly, he realized that he hadn’t yet answered your question. “Yeah, deal.”

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.viii // Bitter Mechanics

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After dinner, Conrad watches mutely from the dining table as Renee, after a quick smoke, slouches down on a couch in the living room area with a game console controller in his lap, a drink on the coffee table, and an weary, blank expression on his face. After clearing plates and pans away, Davin fetches a laptop and sits down too. That’s when Conrad snaps out of his dissociated state long enough to excuse himself.

If he’s being honest, he longs to have company, but not here, and not with either of these people. Even if he wasn’t preoccupied with thoughts of breaking free, he would have preferred solidarity.

The handcuffs are still connected to the baluster, although one cuff lays open next to the pillow. They’ll keep him cuffed at night, Davin said, and keep the bedroom door locked as well. It’s only precaution. Conrad can’t fathom the way the man talks about it, as if he expects it to become the new norm. Nothing about this should be normalized.

He crawls onto the bed in the spot he’s been tied to all day, crouching down with his back to the wall, the cold metal of the cuffs brushing against his bare feet. Ears perked for any trace of noise in the hallway, he retrieves the screw from where he hid it in the crack between the mattress and the bedframe. It’s about as long as his index finger, but a third as thick. In the moment, he didn’t know why he even took it, what the hell he was going to use it for, but during dinner, a feeble idea came to mind.

The loose cuff gives several metallic ticks as Conrad locks it around empty air, then runs his finger along the hardened metal to find the small keyhole by touch. Holding the screw like a pencil between his fingers, Conrad tries to pick the lock with it.

Immediately, it becomes apparent that the spiraling threads make it impossible for the screw to fit in the keyhole far enough to reach the pin. Twisting it in helps, but then the screw comes in at an angle and gets blocked by the locks inner walls.

Conrad sniffs.

Stupid idea anyway, wasn’t it?

He palms the screw and gets to his feet, grimacing at the aching in his core and grasping the windowsill to balance on the sinking terrain of the mattress. His tentative hand fumbles briefly with the padlock there, but just from a glance, he can tell that even trying is redundant. The keyhole to the padlock is more complex and much, much narrower than that of the cuffs. There’s no way the screw would fit.

He stands there for a moment, feeling the soft draft that radiates from the window, pleasantly cool against his bruised skin. His eyes make out the unmoving silhouettes of trees in the back yard, mere shadows against the dark sky. The sun sets so early this time of year. Saps the energy right out of him. Makes him long for those moments last year when him and Howard huddled up on their couch along with their cat, watching predictable action flicks until either one of them dozed off, leaning heavier and heavier on the other.

They know he’s missing. Conrad wonders what that’s like, what they think happened. They must have some premonition, right? People always talk about knowing before they really know.

How is he going to explain all of this to them? It doesn’t even feel real half the time.

Careful not to move too quickly, he lets himself slide down the wall, wincing as the surface aggravates the bruises on his back.

He pauses. Runs his hand along the wall, feeling the tiny bumps in the paint, inconsistencies in whatever lies underneath. Knocks on it, and although the sound doesn’t tell him much, the slight pain in his knuckles confirms that at the very least, the wall isn’t made from plywood. It’s more solid than that.

When you sharpen a knife, you use stone to grind away at it, right?

Biting his lip, Conrad holds the screw flat between his fingers and begins rubbing it back and forth across the wall, careful to do it behind the frame of the bed so it only leaves marks that can’t be seen unless you’re standing directly over them. He gives it five minutes of continuous filing, the same repeated motion on the same part of the screw, until he can no longer stand the uncertainty of whether or not he’s making any progress.

Brushing paint dust off with a finger, he holds the screw close to his face, then up in the light, to get a good look at the metal. Maybe he’s imagining it, but the threads seem a tad less sharp in places. The wall itself gets worn down faster than the metal, of course, but with enough time, the metal does wear down.

He tries to curb the small hope rising in his chest. It might not be a stupid idea after all. If he can file the threads down and bend the tip of the screw, he might be able to unlock the cuffs at will. He has no way of opening the lock on the window, but… this is a start, isn’t it?

Heart beating a little bit faster than before, Conrad gets comfortable, fixes his eyes on the door, and files away behind his back.

💵

They’ll expect him to try to escape, so if they don’t see him trying, that in and of itself will raise suspicion.

It’s the first thought that comes to mind when he wakes up that morning. Another kink in his desperate lack-of-a-plan. And he hates that he has to think like them, but they’re fine-tuned to mind games, right? They’ll raise a brow if Conrad doesn’t play.

He's still thinking about it when, not long after sunrise envelops the guest bedroom in cold light, Davin comes in to unlock his restraints.

“Sleep okay?” Davin greets him, evidently an early riser himself – his waist-length hair is damp from a shower, and there’s no trace of morning fatigue on his face.

Thoughts fixed on the screw tucked away in its hiding place, Conrad nods a little too eagerly, catches himself, and suppresses a grimace.

There’s a slight pause in Davin’s demeanor, and Conrad doesn’t miss when the man’s gaze jumps from his face to his hands and back to his face. He snorts as he unlocks the cuff. “Alright.”

Conrad could kick himself. Of course acting nonchalant in a situation like this isn’t the same as acting natural. Naturally, Conrad should still be in a scared, dissociated state – and now they’re mutually hyperaware of each other, although Davin is better at hiding it than Conrad is.

He keeps his eyes downcast and his shoulders hunched as Davin follows him into the kitchen.

He has to have a plan B, and plan B has to be visible. It has to be real, even if it doesn’t serve the purpose they think it serves. He still has to give it a genuine shot.

💵

It happens sooner than he expected it to.

He thought they’d give him another day to recover, but they don’t. The bruises are still deep and dark across his body, but it happens that afternoon.

He hears them in the hallway and barely has enough time to hide the screw a split second before Davin opens the door, his expression blank as ever. And then Renee follows.

All thoughts of acting are gone from Conrad’s mind. They’re here to take him upstairs again. This is real.

He stands up, instinctually backing himself into the corner of the room. A rush of adrenaline surges through his system, as if he’s been doused in cold water.

Renee smiles at the sight of him, nonchalantly adjusting his black leather gloves. “Sir,” he says, “turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Conrad only manages to squeak out a “N—” before his throat closes shut. He swallows, eyes flickering between Renee and Davin. He can’t move.

“C’mon, now. We can’t keep people waiting.”

Conrad nearly retches at the thought of which people Renee is talking about. “I can’t,” he croaks out. “You can’t.”

Renee snickers, stepping closer. “Can’t what?”

Heart beating dizzyingly fast in his ears, Conrad swallows again, hands pressed flat against the wall behind him. “I can’t go back up there.”

“That so?” Renee grins, not halting his slow approach.

 “I c-can’t go back up there,” Conrad says again.

Renee reaches for him then.

Conrad shrinks away, stammering out “Don’t, don’t!” as Renee grabs hold of both of his bruised wrists and tries to pry his hands onto his back, using his stature to push Conrad further back into the corner. Conrad has no room to kick, and no leverage to push Renee away, so he brings his knee up instead, cringing as it lands.

Immediately, Renee lets him go and buckles over himself, falling against the bed as he clutches his groin, his moan of pain stifled by breathlessness. “Motherf—” he hisses through gritted teeth.

Conrad doesn’t wait for him to get back on his feet. Instead he scrambles past him, only to make eye contact with Davin, who watches with a small, amused smirk playing on his face, but doesn’t move a muscle to catch him or even block his way. His nonchalance makes Conrad hesitate, but only for a split second – then he sprints out the bedroom door.

With Renee’s shouts rolling through the hall, Conrad runs as fast as his bruised body will let him, as fast as the smooth floor will permit without him slipping on his face. Rounding the corner from the hallway to the kitchen area, he grabs the wall to slingshot himself towards the entranceway and the front door.

It's locked. His shaking hands fumble with the tumbler as he pants for breath, but when he unlocks it and tries the door again, it doesn’t open more than a fraction before a second lock – a padlock above his eye level – seizes its movement.

Conrad lets out a sound of discontent and spins on his heels, pushing himself off the door. The moment he rounds the corner of the entranceway, he crashes into the figure of a now-recovered Renee and tumbles to the floor, not hard enough to get winded, although the deep bruises on his body rear up with pain.

But although Conrad hectically scurries backwards on all fours, Renee isn’t in a hurry to catch him. His eyes are dark, his jaw set. He’s walking.

The sight is enough to make the dam break for good, and tears well in Conrad’s eyes as he stumbles to his feet and runs past the dining table and the couch group in the living room area.

The sliding glass door sports a padlock as well.

Conrad lets out a cry of despair, slamming a closed fist uselessly against the glass pane. He’s still fruitlessly hitting the glass when a hand grabs him by the collar of his t-shirt and yanks him backwards, after which Renee throws him back-first into the wall and pins him there.

Conrad gasps at the pain in his battered body, clawing at Renee’s arm, vision blurry.

“You picked a fuckin’ interesting time to piss me off,” Renee growls, and before Conrad can even think of responding, a punch lands on his cheekbone, whipping his head sideways. He has no time to recover before Renee’s hands coil around his neck, pushing the back of his head into the wall and cutting off his frantic breathing.

Conrad claws at Renee’s arms, hits the man’s chest, tries to leverage his fingers in between the hands and his own throat, but nothing grants him even a sliver of breath, and soon enough, sparks begin to dance across his vision, and his lungs begin to ache.

Renee’s grip on his throat is vice-like, his eyes are wide and intense, jaw set as he squeezes. Behind him, another figure slowly enters Conrad’s field of view, unfocused and distant.

“Renee,” a voice says sternly, and with a final jerk that pulls him forward and slams his head back into the wall, the pressure lets up, all at once.

Conrad sinks to the floor, coughing and wheezing, trying desperately to blink the stars out of his eyes.  He’s still recovering when a knee in his back presses him flat to the floor, as a solid grasp on one wrist pries his arm onto his back, and a cold band clicks around it. When he tries to resist, tries to squirm away, Renee leans further weight onto the knee, agitating his battered back. Conrad lets out a cry of pain, one that cuts short only because he’s still heaving for breath.

“Yeah, you shoulda fuckin’ thought of that,” Renee sneers.

“Easy.”

“You – why’d you just stand there, huh?!”

A low chuckle. “You seemed to have it under control.”

Renee scowls. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

Once Conrad’s hands are cuffed behind him, Renee removes his knee and gets back to his feet, taking a moment to collect himself. “Get up,” he says then.

Conrad can’t get himself to move. His eyes seek out Davin, but the man has turned, headed back towards the stairs. His cheek hurts. His eyes are burning.

“Get the fuck up, Conrad.”

The name, said as is, sounds ominous in Renee’s mouth. Conrad tries to maneuver himself up, but apparently isn’t moving fast enough to his liking. He has barely gotten his legs curled up under himself before a hand in his hair yanks his head back and up.

“Ow! Renee, please,” Conrad gasps, staggering to his tiptoes to follow along with Renee’s movement, as he is haphazardly directed back towards the stairs. He can barely breathe. He can feel individual strands of hair on the back of his head being pricked loose by Renee’s hand. The tears flow freely now. “Please,” he whispers, “please don’t do it again, Renee, please don’t do it again. Pl—”

Renee suddenly stops in the hallway, pinning Conrad stomach-first to the wall with a shoulder as he fumbles with something in his pocket.

Conrad whines breathlessly. “Renee, please. Renee, please…”

The pressure on his back lets up a tad, and something passes over Conrad’s vision a split second before the cloth hits his mouth. The moment he tries to turn his face away from the gag, Renee presses the side of his face into the wall, closing the distance between them.

“You’re gonna bite it,” Renee gnarls in his ear, “or I swear to fucking god, man…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

The realization that there’s nothing he can do washes over Conrad like a wave of exhaustion. The strange urge to lie down and let whatever happens happen. He breathes out, feeling his shoulders slump.

“Better,” Renee mutters, sounding almost relieved as he guides the cloth gag into Conrad’s mouth, tying it tight on the back of his head. Then he grabs him by the arm and pushes him onward.

This time, Conrad can see the stairs, but the knowledge of what awaits at the end makes them harder to traverse than before. The air gets warmer the further up he goes.

The spotlights are already on, the fan of the server whirring. Behind the desk, resting his chin in one hand, Davin shoots Renee a look as he enters, hauling Conrad along by the arm.

There’s a chair in the middle of the room, facing the camera, and besides it – rope.

Conrad feels the grasp on his arm tighten as he hesitates.

“Try me again,” Renee says lowly.

Conrad swallows. Feels his mind slip as he lets Renee steer him towards the chair and sits him down. He watches, as if from a distance, as Renee crouches beside him and starts to bind his legs to the legs of the chair, muttering under his breath as he goes. Knots are tightened with sharp jerks to the rope, ones that bite at the skin under Conrad’s jeans. Fighting back is no use. He has already lost.

“One-thirty waiting,” Davin says.

“Good for them,” Renee says, sarcastically cheerful.

“I’d rather it didn’t become a habit.”

Renee pauses, half-turning on his haunches, shooting Davin a look that Conrad can’t see. He looks at the cusp of saying something, then hesitates, turning back to his work. “Noted,” is all he says over his shoulder.

Another breadth of rope is tied around Conrad’s waist, looping around the chain between the handcuffs, securing his hands firmly behind the back of the chair. When Renee is finally done, he steps back, briefly checking his work before he turns to prepare himself for the stream.

Conrad’s gaze trails to the floor then, by its own accord drawn to the least nauseating sight in the room – at least, that’s what he thinks, until he spots a few brown stains on the hardwood, not far from where he’s seated, bound. His own blood, now dried, from just a couple days ago.

Soon to be joined by more.

Conrad closes his eyes.  

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[callmearcturus]

dumb fallout AU, first scene, includes drugs, ref to sex work, and peril

In the long list of terrible fucking situations Dave and his sister had found themselves in, Dave was willing to admit this one was the worst.

The Mojave Wasteland was an open bar of dynamite-fetishists, Old World fascists, laser-armed robots, hyper-aggressive wildlife, and landlords. Together, they'd survived it for years, greasing the edges of the world to slide out of every scrape they wound up in, coming out smeared in desert dust and smiling. They were invincible so long as they had each other's backs.

Until Dave woke up in an abandoned work tower in Quarry fucking Junction.

He knew he was in a bad place because the smell of the desert had been exchanged for the smell of chalkier sediment. The dirt was wrong here, and Dave was halfway to a panic by the time he got his hands under himself and hauled himself up off his face.

"Rose," Dave croaked. His throat was sandpaper dry. He dragged his tongue over his teeth, trying to work up any saliva. There was a vague medicinal tang; he'd been drugged. They'd been drugged. "Rose, wake the fuck up."

The small room they were in was rickety, swaying slightly in the night sky as the Nevada wind buffeted them around. Getting his hand on the edge of a window, Dave pulled himself up and peered out.

They were high. Two or three storeys up easy. All around them was white stone and machinery. Prowling around on the white stone were motherfucking goddamn deathclaws, hunched and horned and clawed.

Dave's heart pounded in his chest, pushing nauseatingly against the lingering sedatives in his system. "Oh fuck, oh shit what the fuck, Rose, Rose Rose Rose." He lowered himself down to the floor again, out of view of the window and grabbed his sister, shaking her.

Rose's eyelashes fluttered and her eyes behind them rolled like a crapshoot. Something was up, and when Dave looked her over, he saw an empty syringe on the floor next to her arm.

Oh that fucking Med-X happy cattlelord. That was right, Dave and Rose were trying to pull a con on that fucker. He must've figured it out and decided to punish them by, what? Leaving them to be torn to pieces in a deathclaw den?

"Shit, shitshitshit," Dave said, sitting up with his back to the metal sheet wall. "Why the fuck did he only get you high out of your fuckin' mind? You aren't going to feel a thing. This is bullshit." He took a breath. "I could use someone to brainstorm with right now, sis."

Rose's head rolled, her eyes open. No one was home yet.

Out of morbid curiosity, Dave patted himself down and discovered his gun was gone. So that way out was off the table too.

Out of all the ways to go, Dave didn't want it to be deathclaws. Or cazadores, honestly. He didn't want to be killed by terrifying Mojave wildlife. He so preferred to be shot. Or heat stroke. Or choking on a cherry stem. Or being run over by a security bot. Anything.

Hissing out a sigh, Dave got up and looked around. The tower they were in only had one way down, a long ramp down right into the quarry. And the way out would be probably a two minute sprint across the dusty stone.

If he were alone, anyway. Dave looked down at Rose, who wasn't up for running anywhere.

"Fuck," Dave sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. So there wasn't a ton of options here and the ones he had all sucked. A lesser man would lay down and cry.

Dave sniffled, rubbing his eyes once, then looked around.

There was a radio. It was set into the metal wall, near the console. His eyes skated over it the first time, because who cared, more Old World shit laying around.

Then, he remembered that people actually wanted to, like, get the quarry up and running again. The NCR wanted to repave some roads or whatever the fuck. It was the deathclaws that stopped the mining. Quarrying. Whatever.

Keeping his head down, Dave grabbed the mic off the hook and tentatively pressed the buttons on the radio.

With a tired hum, the display lit up.

"Oh my fucking god, yes. Lady Luck flips a face card." He got closer, hand on the dial and started turning it, listening to the dead fuzz of empty air as he looked for a useful channel, anywhere someone might be listening.

Eventually, there was a low pop, and a different type of fuzz. Pressing down on the mic, Dave said in a voice as loud as he dared, "Hello? Mayday, hello, S-O-S. Is anyone receivin'? Someone out there wanna pick up the other tin can and pull that line taut, I could use some help. I got an injured lady here and a whole mess of trouble." Nothing. Dave ground his teeth together. "If anyone is getting this, say anything. I will make it worth your while. My sis and I, our daddy's with the Gun Runners, I will get you as many caps or dollars you want—"

There was something other the line, and Dave took his thumb off the mic immediately. The voice that answered him was scratchy and tired. "I don't think that's true. Were you lying about being tragic orphans?" The voice paused for just a moment. "Wait, what the fuck am I saying, you both would have said anything you needed to. Of course you were lying about being orphans."

"Holy shit, ranger man!" Dave said, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Now that he knew the frequency was good, Dave slumped down to the floor next to Rose, keeping the mic in his fist. "God, I gotta be fuckin' quiet. Hey there, you're the ranger who resolutely refused to sleep with either of us despite, I think, many very kind offers."

"Vantas," the voice said over the line. "The name was Vantas, alright, jesus."

"NCR Ranger Karkat Vantas, callsign Cancer, I remember you just fine, don't you worry about that." Dave pulled some of Rose's hair away from her sweaty forehead. "Hey, so, where you at?"

"How the fuck did you know—" Karkat sighed over the airwaves. "This is a monitored channel. I can't tell you that."

"Okay, well, are you anywhere in the vicinity of Sloan because if not, you need to break out some pen and paper, I'm gonna dictate my last will and testament before we're shredded by deathclaws. Dealer's choice."

"Death— what the fuck, where are you?"

"Sloan, the quarry, keep up."

"Why the fuck are you in an active deathclaw nest?"

"Some guy didn't like what we were sellin' and was way less polite about it than you. Nobody out here got your West Coast charms, California boy." Dave took a breath. "Rose is whacked out on Med-X, she and I are in a crane tower thing, there's claws all around. Any ideas?"

"Fuck me, goddammit. I was going to be off duty in twenty fucking minutes," Karkat said. "Keep your fucking head down and wake her up. Be ready to run when you get an opportunity."

"What kind of opportunity?" Dave asked, already starting to slap Rose's face lightly.

"I don't fucking know yet, but it'll probably be loud. Bye."

"Good luck," Dave said, unsure if Karkat was still listening. Putting the radio up, he focused on waking his drugged out sister up. He'd seen her do The Charleston after two bottles of wine, Dave knew if he could get her going she could at least run in the direction he pointed her in.

He had no idea what the fuck was going to get them out of the junction in one piece. Maybe if they had, like, three rangers and some shelling ordinance, that'd do it. What one guy from out West was going to do, Dave had no idea.

Then, an hour later, there was an explosion, and a rockslide came down right on one of the big-ass meaner-looking alpha deathclaws. It roared in pain, and the rest of the nest all darted towards them, letting out their own horrible cries.

"What t'fuck," Rose mumbled.

Dave hauled her up. "Time to go."

[ruiniel]

Prickly thorns, tender roses

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Rating: Mature🔞

Relationship: Alucard/Original Female Character

Characters: Alucard, Original Character(s)

Summary:

Set after the events of Castlevania (Netflix) Season III. After the betrayal of his young apprentices, Alucard feels barely alive in his lonesome castle. Days wear on, chipping away at his mind and sanity. And what is the son of Dracula to do with this unwanted visitor, suddenly come at his doorstep? Often the prickly thorn produces tender roses- Ovid

Chapter tags & warnings: Dark Romanticism, Inspired by Castlevania, personal interpretation of post-season III Alucard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Castlevania Season III, POV Original Character, Imprisonment, tension, Not your usual meet-cute, Paranoia, Not Canon Compliant, 'Alucard being unreasonable' is an understatement

III. My chains to rattle

When she stirred, her body felt sore and immeasurably weak, from the tips of her fingers to the toes of her feet. Her eyelids fluttered open to the shafts of light filtering through a window. Ravenna groaned, confused, her mind a whispering desert storm where recent events whirled at will, with no clarity or sequence. She wanted to rise, but something was not right. She looked up and saw that her arms were suspended above her head. In chains. Lovely.

Dread gripped her mind, and she struggled against her bonds. The woman promptly looked herself over and saw she wore the same traveling garb she had arrived in. Her cloak lay abandoned on a nearby table, but she still had her leggings, boots, and tunic. Her dagger was gone. Ravenna breathed a sigh of strangled relief, for she was yet alive and whole, but the meager consolation faded when she remembered who... what had brought her in this state to begin with. Looking about the place, she saw the makings of a chamber. It was as derelict as the others the woman had seen in the short time spent in this forgotten abode.

This is ridiculous.

There was a metal leash fastened around her neck, strung from another chain in the stone walls. Each movement caused a desolate rattling sound.

Not a dungeon, at least.

But still a prisoner.

There was no sign of her savior become captor, and her thoughts returned to inhuman eyes that severed her consciousness from her body with a single stare. And the teeth... no, not teeth, fangs. She had heard the grim tales of this land, come from far away as she was. She had heard of the one called Dracula, king of vampires. Was this...? Had she unknowingly stumbled into the lair of the greatest horror the world had ever known?

"Is anyone there?" she asked, her voice raspy with disuse. Only silence greeted her back.

She slumped against her chains with a sigh. The strain in her arms and shoulders hurt, and the more she struggled, the more intense the pain became.

Hours passed this way, leaving the woman alone with her worries until Ravenna saw the sun slowly make its descent as dusk fell over the world.

In the fading light, she cursed her luck - or lack thereof - which hurled her straight into the clutches of this sinister place and its apparently ruthless owner.

"Who are you?"

The words startled the woman so much she yelped and sprang forward with a metallic clank of her chains.

Flowing shadows filled the space, welcoming the manic lord of the castle who deigned to make his appearance known.

She was afraid, but she was also bitter, and it overran whatever threat was looming behind those cold eyes. "My arms hurt," the young woman muttered, looking away.

"I trust they do," the menace tilted his head to one side, regarding her as a hunting cat would a stray mouse.

She straightened against her chains with a grimace.

"I thought you might need to stand at some point, hence the length," he continued, turning to the sole window in the room.

"So very thoughtful," Ravenna growled, only to be met with a blazing gaze of red. It lasted only a moment before it faded from his countenance.

"Gall. Why am I not surprised," her captor drawled.

As he turned his head to the window again, the woman could not help but sense a seething sort of grief, hanging to him akin to a pressing monolith of immovable stone.

"For the last time, who are you?"

"I told you who I was... lord," she tried civility. "I am called Ravenna. I am not of this land."

He tapped a long finger against his lips, eyeing her. "What is your purpose here, then? In Wallachia?"

She hesitated. "May I at least know your name?" the woman tried.

He was in her face in an instant, clawed fingers grasping her chin none too gently. "You think this is a game?" he purred, a dangerous edge to his soft voice. His face split into a frightful smile that curdled her blood.

"I still believe... it is only courteous for me to at least know your name, following this... warm welcome," the woman choked, the freezing touch of his fingers causing a furious heartbeat to burst in her ears. Ravenna berated herself for the rebellious streak which, once again, might land her in more trouble than she bargained for.

He frowned, and she heard what may have been an incredulous snort. "I am the owner of this castle, and that is all you need to know."

"Are you... Dracula?" she decided to out with it.

The stranger released her and stepped back. A low grumble made its way up his throat, and with increased pique, Ravenna realized he was laughing.

"It is a fair assumption, you know ... we are in Wallachia, you own an immense castle that seems to swallow the light, and I saw the teeth..."

"Enough!" he cut her off. "Why are you here? Speak."

"After you grant me your name, lord," Ravenna braved, despite feeling the fool.

There it was, the low rumble that was his scornful laughter again, and a show of fangs that had her swallowing in dread.

He approached the woman again with slow, feline grace. "I could end you here and now, human," he murmured. Empty eyes locked on hers before trailing to the scrapes on her face, gained during her flight; his gaze took in her disheveled appearance, and finally settled on her neck.

Ravenna shifted, restless. "And yet, you do not," she retorted. Prodding was unwise. Prodding would always, always cause more trials than she could bear. Sage thoughts, and completely unrelated to what actually left her mouth. "The question is... why?"

Her captor raised an eyebrow, watching her as though she were insane. "What is your occupation?"

"I told you, I am a scholar."

"A scholar of what?" he demanded, his frown deepening.

Ravenna rolled her eyes despite herself. "I follow a school of thought that studies alchemy, philosophy, and medicine."

He turned away, hands clasped behind his back. "Interesting..." After a few moments, his shoulders shook in laughter again. What ever could be so amusing?

"Is this the restitution you require for your aid? Keeping me for a prisoner, held like an animal to rot away in your chains?" she blurted. He was so cold, and with him so was the air in the room. It came in shallow mists from her nose and mouth.

He seemed to ponder. "You said you cannot go back into the forest. And you will surely understand - I do not trust you. Hence you are bound until I know more. And with the way this is going, that may take a long, long time." He smiled, baring his fangs for her to see.

The prospect of being chained to a wall in the confines of a castle, at the mercy of a creature of the night no less, was not the most heartening. And she had a quest to continue. Still, Ravenna kept her peace and refused to beg. "Am I truly that much of a threat to someone like you?" she asked, raising her chin in defiance, but the plea was traceable in her voice.

She found it odd how he appeared to retreat, his expression become weary; he averted his gaze. "You all do more damage than you know," he mouthed after a while as to himself, watching the settling night beyond the window.

Ravenna sighed, her head bobbing downward. The metal leash chafed and gnawed at the sensitive skin of her neck. When she lifted her head, she gasped to find him before her. The heaviness of his scent did strange things to her senses, and her mind felt drenched in fog. His hand reached for her and she recoiled. The hand lingered for a split second before continuing its intent, reaching for her neck. Ravenna pressed her eyes tightly shut, her heart pounding. What would he do?

With the brush of cool fingers against her skin, the leash came unfastened and fell to the floor. She breathed again. Looking up, Ravenna stilled when met with the embers of his eyes. They were mere voids, swallowing all feeling and emotion, but there was no cruelty beneath those long black lashes; she was unable to look away.

He reached for her arms, and her astonishment increased when the cuffs around her wrists came undone as well. With absolute agony, the young woman let her limbs down, hissing with the strong discomfort. She looked back into his eyes. "... thank you," she muttered.

He made no reply but did back away. "That, stays," he pointed to the long chain and manacle around her ankle.

"So I am your prisoner," she concluded.

"I prefer the term guest," the vampire offered almost innocently with a dismissive gesture of his hand.

Ravenna regarded him with a wry expression. "... and this is how you treat your guests."

She shivered despite herself at the sudden sliver of ire flitting across his face.

"Oh pardon me, would you prefer a cozy fireplace and a cooked meal instead?" he taunted. "Perhaps a warm bed and a glass of wine, why not!"

"Cease these quips! What do you intend to do with me? You mentioned repayment for your aid... what is it you want?"

"So many questions..." He turned his back on her again, and the shadows in the chamber shifted anew. "The chain is long enough, I suggest you make use of it."

"Wait! Wait, where are you going?" This could not be it. "You cannot just leave me here!" Ravenna cried after him, but there was no one.

A solitary sconce now burned against one wall of the chamber. Weary and aching, the woman slowly approached the dusty bed, falling against the sheets with little to no grace. She was alive; that was what mattered. But maybe not for long.

Somehow, this was still marginally better than having perished at the hands of mindless zealots.

She had never seen, let alone encountered and shared words with a being such as this before. The entire concept of their existence and manner of living was foreign to Ravenna, and despite her situation, the academic drive leading her forward won in the end.

A vampire.

How fascinating.

NEXT

[robinsarm]

After the Bridge has Burned (part 15)

Warnings: Language, mentions of substance abuse

Words: ~2.9k

POV: Dual (Élodie | Felix)

What a fucking shit show…

Élodie watched Felix through the back window of Claudette’s living room for a moment, a nervous pang stabbing her heart as she returned to her task in the kitchen. Felix sat on Claudette’s back porch, a beer in hand, multiple empty cans at his feet, staring unmoving into the backyard. Basil sat next to him, her chin resting on his lap. The big Aussie refused to come when called, insisting on being by Felix’s side ever since Felix took the seat by himself outside. Regardless, they left the sliding door open just enough for her to come back inside if she wanted. Thyme sat close to the sliding door, laying on the floor for his sister to come back inside.

Élodie owed that dog anything she wanted for what she was doing. Élodie could only console Felix so much earlier. He hadn’t said a word, just shook his head and cried when Élodie had come out to check on him. She’d briefly seen Ace beeline through the house and disappear without a word. What she hadn’t anticipated was things turning out as bad as they did. 

She felt horrible. This whole trip was her idea, her efforts turned into a mess that didn’t look fixable anymore. She managed to hurt Felix more with the intention of making things better between him and Ace. Now, because of her, the night was quiet, tense, and there was no life behind Felix’s eyes anymore. 

A sudden, flowery ringtone broke the relative silence between the group. Most of them, minus Élodie and Claudette who were in the kitchen cleaning up dinner, were in the living room watching something on the TV. Jeff was the one to move for his phone, disturbing Haddie who’d almost fallen asleep leaning up against him. Jeff answered the call from what Élodie could hear. She briefly wondered who was calling him so late. Her curiosity quickly shifted as Jeff’s voice became worried. 

“Hey, calm down. What’s wrong?” Jeff asked. 

Claudette and Élodie both eyed each other with worry before sharing the same thought, dropping the dishes and sneaking over to the living room. Élodie saw Jeff leaning forward on the couch, Haddie alert beside him and Meg giving her full attention from across the couch. Élodie snuck a glance at Felix; he remained unfazed, briefly sipping on his beer before returning to his stone-like façade. 

“Kate, I can’t—” Jeff tried to get a few words in but couldn't get over the frantic sounds of the singer’s voice everyone could hear. “What? Kate…Kate, stop!” Jeff finally had to yell, which managed to send a wave of adherence down Élodie’s spine. 

“Can I put you on speaker?” Jeff asked. A moment later, the metal head pulled the phone from his head, hit the speaker button and laid his phone on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Okay, now, repeat what you said, but slower,” Jeff urged. 

“Can I ask one y’all to do me a huge huge favor?” Kate asked, her voice neither slow or calm. She sounded like she was being stalked or held at gunpoint.

What happened with her, Élodie wondered as she crossed her arms. 

“What’s the favor?” Jeff asked, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. If anyone were to be the first to stand and help someone at the drop of a hat, it was Jeff and everyone here knew it. 

“I…” Kate paused to sigh. “I really think Ace isn’t okay.”

“No shit,” Meg said without hesitation.

“Was that Meg?” Kate asked.

“You’ve got me, Haddie, Meg, Claudette, and Élodie listening right now,” Jeff explained, Élodie taking quick notice that he left Felix out of that list. Maybe that was the right thing to do. If Kate was in Ace’s corner, there’s no telling what she felt about Felix. Élodie didn’t want to know. She’d prefer to keep what respect she still had for the folk singer in tact. 

Kate sighed again. “Okay, well…I wanted to ask if one of y’all can take Ace something to eat—”

“Hold on Kate,” Meg sat forward, suddenly looking heated. 

“Meg,” Jeff warned.

“No seriously, Kate, do you know what you’re asking?” Meg continued on anyway, holding out a hand towards Jeff, telling him to stay back with this one. “I’m pretty sure you know he doesn’t eat, regardless of what we offer.”

“I know—” Kate started, but Meg quickly cut her off again.

“If you know, then you also know why he’s got ‘no appetite’,” Meg accused, signing air quotes around the last two words.

Kate was quiet for a second, before meekly answering, “Yeah, I do.”

“Of course you do,” Meg led, her voice accusingly high pitched. 

“Meg, quit it,” Jeff declared, his voice firm as if to say he wasn’t going to repeat himself. Meg glared at Jeff for a moment before dropping back against the couch with an irritated huff.

After a moment to cool himself, Jeff continued. “It’s been a long night, for all of us, Kate. We get it, you’re worried, but so are we. Ace is our friend too.” Jeff eyed Élodie. She wanted to believe her face was neutral at that point, but Élodie knew better; she knew her expressions were sharp, like a knife ready to cut if Kate so much as appeared in the room at any point. 

“We want to know what’s going with him. You’re the only one that can tell us that.”

Kate was silent for a long time after that. Members of the group caught each other’s stares briefly as the time passed. Claudette looked worried, Jeff was calm, Meg and Élodie both shared the same indignant glare, meanwhile Haddie looked to everyone like she was trying to pick a side. Again, Élodie glanced out at Felix through the window, and again, he remained perfectly still staring out into the backyard. 

“It’s…not something I can just tell you,” Kate said, timidly.

“Why not?” Jeff asked immediately. 

“I told Ace I wouldn’t.”

Jeff closed his eyes as he took in a long breath. He looked like he was fighting what he was going to say next. “Kate, I’m not going to continue to babysit a grown man if you won’t tell us why.”

“Jeff—”

“Don’t Jeff me,” Jeff fought. “All of us in this room have been through a literal hell with that man. Why can’t we know?”

Again, Kate went quiet. If the atmosphere was tense before, this new wave could be cut with scissors. Hearing Jeff angry was a thing to behold. This man never lost his cool, especially not with Kate. So, for him to be this upset, the others kind of kept their distance, eyeing him to make sure he didn’t explode; all of them except for Haddie, she was currently rubbing his back. 

“If I tell you, will you go check on him?” Kate asked, sounding broken.

“I will personally take him to the best restaurant in Toronto if he wants, Kate,” Jeff said, almost sounding desperate at this point. 

Everyone was eyeing the phone now, waiting on Kate. Her phone caught some of her little exhales on the other side. Élodie knew she was weighing the options. To her, the answer seemed simple enough. They were here, Kate was not. If Kate wanted to make sure Ace was well off and fed, all she had to do was say what was affecting him so bad.

“If I tell you…it can’t leave this call,” Kate said. 

“That’s fine.” Jeff looked puzzled. Élodie matched his confusion. Why is there such a choke hold on this secret? Élodie wondered. 

Another long moment of pause, both Meg and Haddie growing visibly annoyed. 

“Is it depression?” Jeff guessed. “A money thing? Is he dying?”

“He’s on heroin.”

A collective, horrified shock crashed over everyone. Eyes grew wide as members looked to one another for answers no one had. Kate’s admission came out of left field, blindsiding everyone. 

“What?” Meg was the first to speak, still looking aghast, her voice hollow. 

“If he’s telling the truth, he hasn’t been on it for six months.”

“Kate…” Jeff’s voice sounded worried as well as disappointed. 

“I know,” Kate whimpered. Even though this was only a call, there was no hiding the fact that she was nearly crying, if not already was. “I thought I could make sure he was okay by checking up on him each day, but I know he’s only getting worse. I was on the phone with him earlier and I’m almost positive he fainted for a second.”

“Wait, what?” Jeff questioned. 

Claudette bolted away from Élodie and into the kitchen again. Élodie realized she was preparing for Jeff to leave, quickly making Ace a plate of the leftovers from dinner. Élodie turned her attention back to the living room only for her gaze to be stolen again by a moving figure outside. For the second time in a matter of a minute, Élodie’s eyes widened as she watched Felix get up from his seat and move to step inside. 

What was he doing?

“I heard a thud and he just stopped talking for a second. I was concerned but he said he was okay,” Kate explained, her pace picking up with each breath. 

Élodie would have been listening more intently if she wasn’t watching Felix like a hawk. The German was slow but decisive with his movements as he angled himself and stepped over to the sliding door. Élodie believed he was going to close it, not wanting to hear about Ace because of their fight earlier. Instead, Felix opened the door, letting Basil in first before he himself stepped in.

“After we hung up, I texted him twice and he didn’t respond. So, I’m just asking y’all to just go and check on him. I know I’m asking a lot, but—”

“Kate,” Felix’s authoritative voice silenced her and everyone else within the second. With everyone still and eyeing him, Felix leaned down, palms on the coffee table and hissed into the phone, “Wenn er wegen Ihrer Geheimhaltung stirbt, werde ich Sie töten.”

“Oh…hi Felix,” Kate squeaked like a mouse cornered by hawks. 

Felix pushed off the table with enough force to send it a few inches across the floor before turning and making his way towards the front. He locked eyes with Élodie for a moment, nothing but exhaustion and hatred in his icy-blue stare. 

“Felix,” Élodie chastised quietly. 

“What did he say?” Kate asked. The group turned to Élodie expectantly, but all she could manage was a guilty smile before turning away from their blazing stares to follow Felix. He hadn’t made it very far. Felix grabbed the only Honda key fob before marching back to the entrance of the living room and throwing it at Jeff. 

“Okay, Kate.” Jeff caught the keys and picked up his phone, taking it off speaker before placing it to his ear. He continued to talk to Kate, meanwhile Élodie followed Felix at the hip. 

“You can’t just say that to a friend, Felix,” she whispered, watching him search through his bag until he found a proper blazer, still zipped up in its suit bag. Felix ignored her as he threw the garment on and waited by the front door. 

“I’m coming too,” Meg announced, bounding over to where the pair was. She tried her best to avoid their awkward but heated stare-down, sliding beside them and grabbing her shoes beside Felix. 

“Auf wen bist du sauer?” Élodie demanded. She didn’t feel comfortable letting him go after Ace while he was upset like this. Felix may have been harmless, but this was also Felix. The same man who literally threw his ex’s multi-drawer dresser out a window by himself when he was expunging her from his life. 

As Meg grabbed the plate of food from Claudette and Jeff hung up the phone with Kate, the two shuffled past Élodie and Felix, Jeff telling Felix to come now if he was tagging along. 

Still leering down at Élodie, Felix grabbed the front door knob behind him and turned to leave. 

“Mich selbst,” he whispered, then turned and closed the door behind him. 

* * *

Felix was angry at himself for not trying sooner. For not coming back sooner. For not giving a shit sooner. Kate hadn’t said explicitly when Ace started abusing heroin, but Felix felt he could accurately guess within a certain date range. This was his fault. 

Fuck. Fuck!

Felix couldn’t believe he’d been so soft, so broken enough to let Ace slip through his fingers again. He’d done so knowing that Ace was in an awful state, and now he knew the reason. Felix would blame himself for pushing Ace to abuse substances for the rest of his life simply because he knew he was the problem. He’d caused it. He’d ruined the chance he had with Ace the moment he hit send on that text two years ago. He’d never forgive himself for doing that. But, for now, he could at least check up on him, maybe try and apologize again. There was something Ace needed to hear. Felix planned to figure it out and repeat it to Ace until he could begin to forgive him. 

Focus on Ace, Felix’s mind insisted. Kate’s worried, so you should be worried.

The seven minutes it took to drive to Ace’s motel felt like several years. Felix was tapping his foot in the passenger seat the entire time. He was surprised no one commented on it. Then again, he did just unintentionally go full psychotic German in the living room not a handful of minutes ago. 

Pulling into one of the plethora of empty parking spaces, Jeff unclicked his seatbelt but didn’t move to get out of the car. 

“What?” Meg questioned, noticing Jeff’s hesitation first. Felix looked to him as well, his hand already on the door handle.

Jeff pointed to the motel room in front of them, the curtains open to showcase the room on full display. “That’s Ace’s room.”

“Cool,” Meg said passively, moving to get out of the car.

“Where is he?” Jeff asked. 

Both Felix and Meg looked out the windshield and into the room again. A dim light came from the back left corner, neither of them able to discern where it was coming from. 

“Bathroom?” Meg guessed. 

Unhappy with not knowing, Felix got out of the car and approached the window, the remainder of the trio following close behind. Meg came up close beside Felix, peering in with hands pressed to the glass. Jeff joined the furthest from the door. Felix tried to open the door, unsurprised to find it locked. 

“Jeff.” Meg elbowed the man beside him. “Text Ace’s phone. Is that it on the bed?” 

The trio focused in on the small black, rectangular object in the middle of the furthest bed. Jeff quickly pulled out his phone and sent a text. A moment later, the black rectangle lit up, confirming that it was indeed Ace’s phone. 

“Okay,” Meg began, pointing into the room now. “Ace’s phone. Ace’s suitcase. You’re right, where’s Ace?”

Felix turned around to inspect the courtyard around them. His line of thinking was that maybe Ace had left to finally grab something to eat. But as Felix searched, there weren't any sort of cafés or vending machines to buy from, just an empty parking lot and the road across from them.

“Well,” Jeff said, pulling Felix’s attention back to the room. “Maybe you’re right on the bathroom part. Maybe he’s taking a shower.” 

The group looked to the corner of the room, finding one dim yellow light flooding out into the room. 

If Ace was in his room showering like they believed, where was the steam? The mirror was perfectly clear. Ace hasn’t picked up his phone because he’s been taking a cold shower for close to thirty minutes? 

He’s not in the shower, Felix decided on his own. But where would he go without his phone? Without his stuff?

Felix may have been a few drinks in for the night, but that didn’t stop his brain from firing every sort of reason it could conceive on why the light would be on but him not be there. 

Forgot to turn it off, faulty wiring, maintenance was cleaning.

The longer Felix stared, the more concerned he became. Nothing was making sense. His door is locked with him not in his room; but he left his stuff behind?

The possibility of Ace relapsing only crossed Felix’s mind for a moment before his eyes caught an odd discoloration on the bathroom counter. He could barely see it from where he was standing, but the edge of the white counter looked to have a reddish-brown stain that’d leaked from the top over the side. 

Felix’s heart froze in his chest. He couldn’t take a breath in as his hands began to shake in his pockets.

It didn’t take a genius to realize what the stain was. But, having been stuck for many years in a hellish dimension of sharp blades, blood and gore, Felix knew the sight of blood when he saw it, especially dried blood. 

Stepping back, Felix wasn’t too sure what he was planning until he was about five steps back from the motel door. Without an ounce of hesitation, uncaring of the consequences, Felix steadied himself the best he could, counted down from three, and charged the door—kicking it in on itself on the first try. 

“Felix! Are you fucking insane!?” Meg screamed—but that was the last thing Felix heard before the world went quiet, replaced by the pounding of his heart in his ears. 

Unfortunately, Felix was right, Ace was here—with his back to the room, lying on the bathroom tile in a pool of his own blood.

Previous | Next

[residential-interior]

Make A Great First Impression With These 10 Interior Design Tips

It sounds cliché, but first impressions last the longest. They are the ones who start conversations and command second glances. However, when designing your home, you must incorporate interior design tips that will help you create the best impressions. You could easily achieve your goal with bold and creative thinking. You can then sit back and relax, watching your guests stare at the incredible spaces you have created. 

To make the best impression, here are some top interior design ideas:

Layouts should flow freely

As you create open, free-flowing spaces, you create visual expanses that are both luxurious and elation. The fewer interior walls mean that you get plenty of natural light and good ventilation, which makes you feel connected to the outdoors. Open-plan living-dining kitchens are common, and there is enough space for entertaining. Metal screens could be used to separate the sections into larger areas. The gold tone of the screens could add a luxe effect to the environment. 

A welcoming entryway

To make a great first impression, create a truly inviting and attractive entrance foyer. However, make sure that your interiors are filled with charm. Geometric pattern flooring, a bold rug, slanting console tables, ornate mirrors or artwork on the walls, and a head-turner light are just a few easy ways to make your entrance stand out You can also add contrasting panelling or wallpaper to create a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

Floors with a luxurious feel

Imagine yourself walking on a gleaming natural stone floor and feeling special. You can also try the same effect on wood flooring and some beautifully crafted ceramic or porcelain floors. This is only possible if you pay attention to the quality and aesthetics of the material used and the craftsmanship involved in laying the tiles. Make your flooring shine also with eye-catching inlays or patterns that are an instant visual impact. 

Walls with embellishments

The walls of walls that speak! The beautiful panels, exotically clad or wallpapered walls keep your attention for a long time. Additionally, they add an extra dimension to your interiors, showing the designer's or homeowner's dedication to carefully decorated interiors. You can also implement these quick interior design ideas - hang mirrors, and art, or display a gallery of photographs, paintings, frames, masks, and wall art; paint the walls in a trendy shade. 

Furniture with a statement

Choosing furniture in a space is not just about functionality and practicality, but also about introducing interesting shapes and forms. You can certainly attract attention from onlookers with the aesthetics of your furniture pieces or sets-up. Use our interior design tips to bring a unique look to your interiors with custom furniture carefully created just for you. Thethekedaar also produces custom-designed furniture in our fully-equipped manufacturing facility. 

Lights that turn heads

Lights that offer a sense of style and luxury, such as the show-stopper, are one of the best interior design ideas. Chandeliers, pendant lights, large installations, and a wide variety of items are available to elevate the interior. Their most visible features of them become a significant attraction. 

Luminous metallic glow

Stunning metallic surfaces and accents do not match the glamour they bring to a space. This is why they remain popular among interior designers. You can also create metallic finishes through furniture pieces, as well as décor accessories. Gold, rose gold, and antique finishes have a luxe edge. The sparkling surfaces and finishes add to the sense of sophistication. 

Let's make it up

Interior design tips for creating a great impact, are incomplete without mentioning artworks, whether there is mural art, painting sculpture, wall art or installations. The interiors are given a certain character by them. With artwork, you could also add colour, texture, movement, and dimension to the spaces. 

Handpicked accessories

Decor accessories such as heirloom articles, antiques, collectables, and items picked up during your travels are essential interior design tips to add the finishing touches. However, these finishing elements do not necessarily need to be taken into consideration at the last minute. Decor pieces that really complement and flatter your design theme will tie everything together coherently and leave a lasting impression if you pick them right from the start. 

Plants of life-size

Greenery is an essential element of interior design for all kinds of places, as it enlivens a space like no other object. By paying attention to the selection of plants, you can achieve great aesthetic results. Plants with large, sculptural plants add an impressive look. Drama is a surefire way to draw attention! 

[chemicalsectorupdates]

Console Table Market Insights: Key Players, Strategies, and Opportunities

Console Table Market Poised to Grow at Highest Pace owing to Increasing Demand for Modern Home Decor

Console tables are rectangular or oval shaped tables meant to be placed against the wall in an entryway, living room, or dining area. They provide extra surface space and storage. Console tables come in different styles from traditional to contemporary and are made of various materials like wood, glass, metal and stone. The growing demand for modern home decor and organizing clutter in home interiors have propelled the sales of console tables. The global console table market is estimated to be valued at US$ 6.70 billion in 2024 and is expected to exhibit a CAGR of 5.4% over the forecast period of 2023 to 2030. Key Takeaways Key players operating in the console table market are IKEA, Ashley Furniture Industries, La-Z-Boy, Ethan Allen, Restoration Hardware (RH), Crate & Barrel, Pottery Barn, Wayfair, West Elm, and Bernhardt. Key players are focusing on developing sustainable and low-cost console tables to tap the growing demand. Technological advancements like compact folding and adjustable console tables have provided more options to consumers. Companies are coming up with innovative designs, materials and finishes to make console tables more versatile and functional. Market Trends Modern and minimalist designs are gaining popularity in the console table market. Manufacturers are focusing on sleek, versatile and space-saving designs made of materials like wood, glass and metal to match contemporary interiors. Sustainable and eco-friendly materials like recycled wood, bamboo and recycled plastics are being used widely to develop green console tables catering to the increasing demand for sustainable furniture. Market Opportunities The rising trend of blended home and work spaces due to hybrid work models has opened new growth avenues for versatile, foldable and movable console tables. Manufacturers can capitalize on it by developing multi-functional tables. Impact of COVID-19 on Console Table Market growth The COVID-19 pandemic has negatively impacted the global console table market. During the peak of lockdowns in 2020-21, furnishing stores were closed for several months restricting sales. Factory shutdowns disrupted production and supply chains leading to delays in fulfilling existing orders. Consumer spending also reduced dramatically as job losses increased and economic uncertainty grew. However, with people spending more time at home due to work from home and social distancing norms, home furnishings gained increased importance. This augured well for some sections of the console table market especially in the affordable range. Online sales helped mitigate declines to some extent as e-commerce offered contactless shopping options. Post pandemic, the console table market is expected to grow steadily underpinning economic recovery and continuity of hybrid work models. While headwinds of high inflation and rising interest rates pose downside risks, growing investments in real estate refurbishing and renovation offer new prospects. Europe region currently dominates console table market in terms of value Europe currently accounts for the largest share in the global console table market in terms of value. Countries like the UK, Germany, France and Italy have long traditions of wooden furniture making and hence a well-established console table industry. The region is dominated by prominent manufacturers like IKEA, Ashley Furniture Industries and La-Z-Boy.

[hcinteriordhruv]

Modular Kitchen Interior Designers in Delhi, Noida & Dwarka: Cost-Effective Kitchens 

Creating your dream kitchen doesn't require breaking the bank. With a little creativity and strategic planning, you can achieve a stylish and functional space that fits your budget. 

Here, we'll explore 10 low-budget kitchen design ideas to inspire you, alongside valuable tips from modular kitchen interior designers in Delhi, Noida, and Dwarka.

Maximizing Space and Storage:

Embrace Open Shelving: Ditch bulky upper cabinets for open shelves. This creates a light and airy feel, showcases your favorite dishes, and saves money.

      Pro Tip from Delhi High Creation Interior Designers: Play with open shelving materials! Combine wood shelves with metal brackets for an industrial touch, or use sleek glass shelves for a modern vibe.

Utilize Smart Storage Solutions: Modular kitchen designers in Noida recommend installing pull-out drawers, corner cabinets, and under-sink organizers. These maximize space and keep your kitchen clutter-free.

Think Vertical Storage: Utilize floor-to-ceiling cabinets for maximum storage. You can even add hooks or rails on the sides for hanging pots and utensils.

Flooring and Backsplashes on a Budget:

Vinyl Flooring: Consider vinyl flooring for a budget-friendly and durable option. It comes in a variety of styles that mimic wood or stone, offering a luxurious look without the hefty price tag.

Pro Tip from Dwarka Designers:  Don't be afraid of patterns! Patterned vinyl tiles can add a pop of personality to your kitchen while staying cost-effective.

Subway Tile Backsplashes: Classic subway tiles are timeless and affordable. They're easy to clean and maintain, making them perfect for a busy kitchen.

Embracing DIY and Upcycling:

Paint Your Cabinets: A fresh coat of paint can dramatically transform your kitchen cabinets. Choose a light and bright color to create the illusion of a larger space.

Pro Tip from High Creation Interior Noida Designers: For a trendy and unique look, consider two-tone cabinets. Paint the lower cabinets a darker shade for a grounded feel, and keep the upper cabinets light and airy.

Repurpose Old Furniture: Don't underestimate the power of upcycling! An old dresser or console table can be transformed into a kitchen island or a breakfast bar.

Appliances and Finishing Touches:

Focus on Functionality: Prioritize functionality over fancy features when choosing appliances. Look for energy-efficient models that fit your needs.

Statement Lighting:  A statement pendant lamp or strategically placed sconces can elevate your kitchen's ambiance without a significant investment.

Accessorize Wisely: Don't underestimate the power of accessories! Add personality with colorful throw rugs, decorative towels, or eye-catching artwork.

Finding the Perfect Modular Kitchen Interior Designer:

Now that you have a treasure trove of budget-friendly kitchen design ideas, consider collaborating with a skilled modular kitchen interior designer in Delhi, Noida, or Dwarka. Here's what to look for:

Experience and Portfolio: Look for designers with experience in creating beautiful and functional kitchens within budget constraints. Ask to see their portfolio to get a sense of their style and expertise.

Communication and Collaboration: Choose a designer who listens to your needs and preferences. Effective communication is key to a successful and satisfying project.

Budget Transparency: Discuss your budget openly with the interior designer upfront. A reputable designer will work with you to create a plan that maximizes your investment.

By following these tips and collaborating with a talented modular kitchen interior designer, you can create a dream kitchen that's both stylish and budget-friendly. Remember, a little creativity and resourcefulness can go a long way in transforming your kitchen into a beautiful and functional space that reflects your personality.

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Console Table Market Size, Share, Trends, Analysis, and Forecast to 2027

Console Tables: An Essential Addition to Any Home Decor Console tables are classic and versatile pieces of furniture that add functionality as well as style to any home décor. From modern finishes to ornate detailing, console tables come in a wide variety of designs to complement all sorts of interior styles. In this article, we will explore the many uses of console tables, popular styles available, tips for styling and caring for your console table as well as recommend some of the best options to consider for your home. Uses of Console Tables Console tables have multiple uses that make them highly practical additions to any living space. Some of the main uses of console tables include: Entranceway Furniture: A well-placed console table by the front door is a convenient spot to display mail, keys, devices and other items as you come in and out of the home. Its open shelf and drawer storage keeps these items organized and out of the way. Kitchen Surface: Console tables provide additional counter space for food preparation in kitchens with insufficient countertops. They can double up as serving stations for snacks, drinks or meals. Opt for a moisture-resistant console table for the kitchen. Display Shelves: Their open shelves make console tables perfect for decorating with photos, plants, candles, sculptures and other room accents. Console tables allow for thoughtful curation and change up of home décor accents. Workspace: Drawers provide handy storage for office supplies, laptops or craft materials. The top surface serves as a workspace for activities like paying bills, homework, crafting and more. TV Stands: Wide or long console tables double up beautifully as TV stands with space below to hide components and cables. Choose a console table measuring 2-3 inches wider than your TV for the best fit. Popular Console Table Styles Whether you prefer sleek minimalism or ornate traditional styles, there is a wide variety of console table styles to choose from: Modern Console Tables: Characterized by clean lines, solid colors and simple details. Materials often include metal, wood, glass or marble in glossy contemporary finishes. Transitional Console Tables: A blend of traditional motifs with clean modern silhouettes. Motifs include turned wooden legs, curves and ornate hardware in a subdued manner. Traditional Console Tables: Featuring carved details, curved apron rails and ornate legs and moldings. Materials include wood, stone or metal bronzed or silver finishes. Common styles include French, English and Victorian inspirations. Industrial Console Tables: Evoking a factory or warehouse aesthetic with materials like unfinished wood, open metal beams, grass cloths fabrics or distressed leather. Angular silhouettes. Rustic Console Tables: Using reclaimed or distressed wood for a weathered look. Natural unfinished wood tones and distressed detailing like knots and cracks give it a lived-in appeal. Mid-Century Modern Console Tables: Inspired by the upbeat aesthetic of the 1950-70s. Features tapered slim silhouettes, clean geometric shapes, wood grains and glossy bright colors.