#Filed Under: Home Aesthetic

[rheya28]

Ten Leaves [ Spa & Rental ] ♥ The Sims 4: Speed Build // CC

Welcome to Ten Leaves Spa where your sims can forget all their cares and worries once they step foot into this nature oasis . Ten Leaves Spa is unique as it offers a one of a kind indoor/outdoor experience. This Spa also offers treatments and activities inspired by nature. Your Sims can maneuver around different areas of the lot by walking under tall trees using elevated pathways.

Programming includes, a manicure/pedicure area, a massage room, onsen baths, a small bar, and a yoga room. Sims can also rent Ten Leaves Spa's private and beautiful Guest room perfect for couples and friends who wants to get away from the city.

♥ Please make sure to turn on bb.moveobjects on! ♥ Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ♥ Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ♥ Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ♥ Thank you to all CC Creators ♥ Please let me know if there's any problem!

♥ SPEED BUILD VIDEO 0:02 Intro 1:26 Speed Build 22:48 Photos

♥ LOT DETAILS Lot Name: Ten Leaves Spa Lot type: Spa and Rental Lot size: 50x50 Location: Granite Falls Granite Falls [if you want to place this lot in Granite falls and set it as a Spa lot, I recommend downloading Zerbu's Venue Changes Mod]

♥ MODS: TOOL MOD by TwistedMexi VENUE CHANGE MOD by Zerbu

♥ CC LIST: - Awingedllama: Apartment Therapy, Nostalgia Living - Joyceisfox: Simple Live Collection (Bathroom) - S-imagination: Nota Living Room Pack - House of Harlix: Bafroom, Baysic Bathroom, Grove pt 4, Harluxe, Jardane, Livin Rum, Orjanic pt 1 2 - Bbygyal123: the aesthetic collection - Charlypancakes: The lighthouse collection, Maple & S. Construction pt 1, Soak, - FelixAndre: Chateau pt 4, Chateau pt 2, Chateau pt 5, Florence Pt 1, Florence pt 3, Florence pt 4 ,Kyoto pt 2, Kyoto pt 3, Shop the look S2, Grove pt 2 - Thecluttercat: DandyDiary PT 1 - Max20: Garden at home - Harrie: Brownstone pt 1, Brownstone pt 2, Brutalist , Coastal pt 7, Coastal pt 6, Country pt 3, Kwatei pt 1, Octave pt 3, OCtave pt 4, Shop the look 1 2, Spoons pt 2, - Illogical Sims: Home office - Kiwisim4: Blockhouse Dining, Blockhouse hallway, Blockhouse Outdoor, - LittleDica: Chic Bathroom, Rise & Grind - Myshunosun : Daria Bedroom, Gale DIning, Lottie Bedroom, Tranquil bedrom - Peacemaker: Wood Slats (Vertical and horizontal) - Pierisim: Auntie Vera, Calderone, David's Apartment pt 1 2, Domaine Du Clos pt 3 , MCM pt 1 2 5, Oak house pt 3 4 5, The office , Tilable, - Sixam: Hotel Bedroom, Stylish Wood dining - Syboulette: Hippocrate - MycupofCC: Teenage Dream pt 1 - Tuds: Beam

♥ Tray File: Available on Patreon

♥ Origin ID: Applez ♥ Twitter: Rheya28__ ♥ Tiktok: Rheya28__ ♥ Patreon: Rheya28

[604to647]

Husband Material

3.1K / Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: You come home drunk after a fun night out and Tim takes care of you.

This one shot is based on that Tiktok trend where girls refer to their boyfriends as their “husband” to see what their reaction will be 🤭🤭

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls) but it’s all fluff!  Maybe Tim gets a little handsy when he helps reader undress 🤷🏻‍♀️ (she’s into it). Drunk reader, consumption of Chinese food. Established relationship, petnames (Shutterbug, gorgeous, baby), soft!Tim. Reader wears a dress and heels (but they hurt her feet).

A/N: After writing Marine Attraction, I couldn’t shake the Tim brainrot so I decided to start a non-linear series of fluffy one-shots for Detective Rockford and his Shutterbug – the series will be called The Rockford Portfolio (… you know, like The Rockford Files but ‘Portfolio’ because reader takes photos 😁😁)

Masterlist

Photography aesthetic dividers by @saradika-graphics 😍

Tim pushes his reading glasses up his nose as his settles in under the fluffy duvet cover, two of your matching pillows propped up comfortably behind his back, ready to dive into his book.  You’re not home yet, but Tim doesn’t mind waiting up.  Since the two of you exchanged keys six month ago, he’s probably spent more time at your place than his own – he prefers the warmth of your apartment, with the soft décor and personal touches that remind him so much of you to the cold, sparse feel of his own place.  He had originally worried that you might mind that most days he comes straight here after his long day at the precinct, but you hadn’t minded one bit. 

You didn’t mind making room in your closet for his sharp, if slightly monochromatic suits among your more colourful wardrobe.  You didn’t even mind the gun lock box that sits on the top shelf of that same closet; a safe place for Tim’s service firearm where it remains for you, out of sight, out of mind.  You certainly didn’t mind the permanent home his gun holster had found on your bed post – within arm’s reach should the mood strike you to see it frame your boyfriend’s broad shoulders.  And if the little pile of police paperwork that lives on a corner of your dining room table or any of the other little ways you’ve made room for him in your place didn’t convince him, you would tease that you’d never dare keep him from reading his way through your Agatha Christie collection.

It tickles you to no end that your big bad police detective boyfriend spends all day solving mysteries, only to choose to spend his free time reading books about detectives solving mysteries.  When you shared your amusement with Tim, he had winked at you, tapped his finger against his temple and recited, “If the little grey cells are not exercised, they grow the rust.”  So delighted at Tim quoting your favourite Christie hero you had immediately attacked his face with your lips, planting breathy butterfly kisses over every inch of his handsome face, the book he was reading consequently knocked to the ground and forgotten for the rest of the evening in lieu of decidedly less bookish activities.

He’s right in the middle of a Hercule Poirot soliloquy when he hears the front door open and then your loud, breathy giggle as you bump into the foyer table; shortly after, your keys jingle when dropped in the key bowl, clinking with his own that he had placed in the same bowl several hours earlier.  Tim listens to you struggle a bit with kicking off your shoes, realizing you must finally be free of your work heels when you let out an exaggerated sigh of relief as your tired feet touch the cool hardwood.  He emerges from the bedroom just in time to see you wobblily padding towards the kitchen and grins to himself - you’re drunk.  Tim calls your name softly and when you see your handsome boyfriend smiling at you, delicious and all at home in your apartment, wearing only a wifebeater and his boxers, your eyes open wide – you were on a way to get a snack, but he’s a snack. 

“Timmy!!!!!” you launch yourself in those strong, muscular arms that you know will feel so good around your tired body; Tim catches you easily and envelopes you in his welcoming embrace, his grin only getting wider – you only call him ‘Timmy’ when you get tipsy.  You've been so excited to go out with some old work colleagues that didn’t work at your firm anymore, finally able to arrange a get-together that worked with everyone’s busy schedules.  Evidently you had a great time tonight – Tim’s glad, he pulls you in for a soft, tender hello kiss before steering you over to the kitchen where you were undoubtedly headed to get something to eat.  Sitting you down at the breakfast counter, he fetches you a fresh glass of water and two preventative Advils, and encourages you to tell him all about your evening while he heats up a plate in the microwave.

“What’s that?  You made me food?” you exclaim, giddy.

Tim chuckles, “Nothing fancy like that, Shutterbug.  I ate dinner at the precinct and brought home my Chinese takeout leftovers.  Just plated it so I could heat it up quickly for you when you got home – figured you’d want an après bar snack.”

He’s so sweet.  And thoughtful.  And hot, you smile dopily as you thank him.

“You know, gorgeous, I could have come picked you up,” Tim looks over at you from the open microwave door.

“You’re so sweet, baby!  I know you would have, but you’ve been working so hard on the Pie case – I knew you would already be working late, and I knew we would be late too with all the picture taking.  I didn’t want you to get home and then have to go out again.  It was easy enough to share a cab.  Oh!  That reminds me – I gotta check in with the group chat.”

Your fingers are still flying over your phone keyboard as Tim places a plate of steaming hot Chinese food in front of you – you smile gratefully up at him.

Tonight’s night out had been double duty for you – in addition to seeing some friends that you haven’t seen in forever, a local food blog that features your photos regularly had put out a call for cocktail photos, so your group had gone out with the mission of trying as many different mixed drinks as possible. 

As he always does after you go out and shoot photos, Tim sits next to you and listens to you as you swipe through your camera roll and happily chirp about the pictures you took: the subjects, lens choices, angles and lighting options.  He does his best to concentrate on the pretty pictures on your screen but can’t help stealing glances at your sweet face, alight with enthusiasm and joy.

Finally putting your phone down, you start to dig into your cooled down food as you catch Tim up on the rest of your night, tipsily chatting non-stop in between bites of delicious, greasy food:

“Ok remember when I told you about Vicky’s deadbeat boyfriend who she basically carried through her internship?  He apparently tried applying for a job at her new boyfriend’s restaurant??!”

“Guess what they had on the menu, baby??  A flight of spareribs – isn’t that such a cute idea?  I thought, ohhh Tim would love this, he can never choose between crispy and bbq. Ha!”

“And she ended up getting two dogs from the shelter!  Do you ever thing about getting a dog?  I kind of wish we had a dog but we’re both so busy…”

“… should have made him clean the toilets, is what I said.”

“Ooo!  Dumplings!”

“They had that Chablis we liked so much at that wine bar in New York!  I didn’t get any because we were only getting cocktails for my photos.  But no one ever has Chablis – we need to go back!”

“So then you’ll never guess what she said: I would rather eat a lightbulb.”

Your unrestrained laughter rings throughout the kitchen, eyes twinkling in mirth, thoroughly amused by you and your friends’ antics.  You’re leaning back in your chair, your feet resting in Tim’s lap as he rubs your sore feet, the very picture of happiness that Tim imagines whenever the stress and realities of his work threaten to envelope him and he needs a little light to guide him forward.

With amazement, Tim watches as you gracefully manipulate your chopsticks and pick up cube after cube of salt and pepper fried tofu and pop them in your mouth, your elegant movements belying your state of inebriation, “Sounds like you had a great time tonight, Shutterbug.”

“Oh we did!  I miss those girls so much.  It’s hard for us to find a time to all get together but when we do it’s always soooo much fun!  We just pick up like we used to when we were all juniors at the firm, it was perfect… well except for those two guys that couldn’t take a hint.  Yeesh.”

“What guys?” Tim looks up, eyes darkening, his big, firm hands stop their caressing of your arches.

You wave your chopsticks wildly in the air, as if to dismiss his concern, “Just a couple of guys at the bar that kept sending us drinks.  We kept sending them back.”  You wiggle your feet in Tim’s grip and he catches on – immediately starting to massage them again.

“Did they give you any trouble?”

“Not really.  Too laughable to be trouble – they came over before dessert was brought out to ask why we didn’t accept their drinks?  I mean?? We told them that we were drinking for work, like my photo thing, not for fun.”

“And they got the message?”

“I mean, it took a while, but yes – they kept trying dumb lines like, Work hard, play hard!” you scrunch up your face at the ridiculous memory, “I finally had to tell them that my husband’s a cop in order for them to leave us alone!”

Husband.  Tim wills himself to keep his expression neutral, as if you hadn’t said something that piqued his interest and sent his heart racing.  Husband.

“Oh yeah?  What did they have to say to that?”

“Ugh!  One of them tried to convince me that he’d be a better husband than 'some meter maid,'” you roll your eyes as you shove black bean chicken chow mein into your mouth, “Timmy, did you splurge for extra crispy noodles?!” Your delight fills Tim with pride – he doesn’t know how you can tell after the sauce practically drowns the noodles, but you always can.

He nods, entertained by your cheery chatter, “You know, everyone has to do a rotation in Parking Enforcement – it’s a legitimate part of training.  So, what did you say?”

It takes you a beat to answer, so tickled by the image of your hulking Tim in a little cap and vest writing parking tickets, “I quoted Clueless of course: As if.  My husband is the biggest, baddest detective in the LAPD.  He’s the smartest investigator on the squad and has cleared more cases than anyone else in the precinct.   And he’s a ferocious guard dog who would rip apart any one who would dare make a woman feel uncomfortable.”

“You told them all that, Shutterbug?” Tim’s half proud and half shy at your praise, and still unable to get over that you’re calling him your husband in public.  It’s making him unspeakably happy. 

You nod vigorously, eyes wide and innocent, as if you couldn’t imagine a world in which Detective Tim Rockford and his accomplishments aren’t being praised to the sky at every given opportunity.  “I also told them that my husband is the sweetest and kindest person I’ve ever met.  And that even though he has hardened criminals scared shitless, he only ever makes me feel loved and supported, 100% appreciated and taken care of.  I love my husband!”  You look so happy you could cry, and Tim can’t help but feel his entire chest swell at how you described him to those two bozo strangers - that this is how you see him, what he means to you.  He loves you so much.

He tells you so as he kisses the top of your head, taking your empty plate to the sink and fetching another glass of water before wrapping his arm tightly around your waist and leading you to the bathroom.

From under his chin, you look up and coo, “And he’s hot too, you know?”

“Hmmmm?” Tim smiles down indulgently to find your cute, drunk face grinning at him mischievously.

“My husband.  He’s so fucking hot.  I want to climb him like a tree and sink my teeth into all his hard muscles and mark him up so everyone knows he’s mine.  Oh my god!”  You step in front of Tim, startling him with your sudden movement, the two you continuing to make your way through the bedroom.  Under Tim’s watchful eye, you walk backwards as you babble eagerly, trying desperately to make him understand, “You don’t even know how handsome he is?!?  He has the perfect nose and the deepest brown eyes.  His lips are so soft, perfect for kissing.  He is SUCH a good kisser.  OH!!! His facial hair looks sooooo good… I wonder what he would look like with a full beard.  Probably just as fucking hot as he does now.  My husband’s face is DEVASTATING!” You sigh dramatically.

Now starting to get embarrassed at your compliments, Tim turns you around gently and marches forward.  Once in the bathroom, you stop abruptly so that Tim bumps into you – giggling, you wiggle your butt into his crotch, wordlessly asking for help you don’t actually need to undress.

Tim disrobes you swiftly – wanting to help you get to bed as soon as possible, but makes sure to kiss a gentle path along the skin he reveals as he unzips the dress he watched you put on for work this morning; after he helps you step out of your dress, he dots kisses down the back of your thighs and calves that leave you shivering in pleasure.  Left in just your matching pastel floral lingerie set, you brush you teeth and start your night time skin care while Tim watches you fondly from his seat on the edge of the tub.  No matter the circumstances, you’ll never go to bed without washing your face and putting on some of the elixirs and potions that overrun your bathroom counter – Tim’s convinced they must work though - you’re radiant, stunning; if he didn’t often find himself distracted by the soft curves of your enticing body, he would never look away from your beautiful face.

“Did you know your husband has the best wife?”

You look over at him and giggle into the face towel you’re using to dry your cleansed skin, “Oh yeah?  Tell me about your wife, Detective Rockford.”

As you start to apply your creams and moisturizers, Tim comes up behind you, gently skimming his fingers up and down your bare sides, leaving little goosebumps in their wake, “My wife is gorgeous.  Prettiest woman I’ve ever met, inside and out.  She’s smart, kind, and hilarious, and I think the most considerate person on this planet.  Did you know when I first met her, she volunteered to wait and be the last to be interviewed by a grumpy detective, so that school trips and families with kids could go first?”

Your eyes crinkle at the memory of when you met Tim at the aquarium nearly a year and a half ago, “How do you know your wife wasn’t just angling to be interviewed by the hot detective?”

Tim points a finger at himself comically, arching his eyebrow at the you in the mirror reflection, Me?  Do you mean me – I was the hot detective?

You nod heartily, Of course you.

“Well, looks like my wife had my number from the start.  She’s smart like that.  Her brain is the sexiest part of her you know?  And that’s saying something because everything about her is sexy,” Tim starts kissing your neck.  His hands trail up to your breasts and he softly gropes your curves over the lacy fabric before reaching one hand between your bodies and undoes your bra clasp, his other hand ready to help you drag the bra down your arms, exposing your bare chest to the detective's lustful gaze.  Nuzzling into your ear, he whispers, “My wife is so fucking hot,” as his fondles your breasts in his big, meaty hands – rolling your nipples between his rough fingers then lightly tugging before releasing them, causing your tits to jiggle. 

You turn in Tim’s arms, your lips immediately meeting his, mouth open with an unspoken invitation he eagerly accepts.  Tim licks into your mouth hungrily and you match each stroke of his tongue with a brush of yours, every nip of his teeth with an equally playful nibble.  You sigh into Tim’s mouth as his lips press to yours over and over, mapping your soft cushiony lips and sucking them swollen to mark you as his.  He hardly allows you to take a breath, and you’re not sure anymore if your dizziness is from tonight’s alcohol, or the way Tim’s lips slot so perfectly over yours, stealing all your air.  You love it - air is nothing when you have Tim.  Moaning softly so the sound fills his mouth, you hear Tim whisper huskily, “Arms up, Shutterbug.”

“Anything you say, Detective,” you shimmy your half naked body playfully in Tim’s arms and raise your arms over your head as requested, and for a second, you can’t help but gaze adoringly at Tim’s devilishly handsome face before your vision is obstructed.

“Hey!  What th-?”  When Tim’s grinning face comes back into view, he lowers your arms to your sides and you look down at your chest.  You realize that Tim has slipped one of his oversized band t-shirts over your head to wear for sleeping.  You give him an exaggerated pout and a silly whine before pressing your now t-shirt clad body to his, your final drunk attempt at seduction.

Tim dispenses a soft kiss to your lips, nose, then forehead, “Not tonight, gorgeous.  You’re drunk.  You don’t need sex, you need water.”  He points to the glass of water he brought from the kitchen and leaves to place the drink on your bedside table so that you can finish getting ready for bed. 

Snuggling under the covers after taking three big gulps of water from your glass at Tim’s insistence, you sleepily arch you butt against Tim’s bulge, giving it a half-hearted shake, stopping only when he gives you a pinch on the bum, murmuring, “Tomorrow, Shutterbug.”  You grin at the promise and yawn, “Goodnight, Timmy,” before finally succumbing to your alcohol fueled exhaustion and passing out.

Tim wonders if you’ll remember calling him your husband tomorrow.  He wonders if you meant to say it or if it just slipped out.  He wonders what it could mean that you said it at all.  He wonders if you somehow know about the ring box that’s hidden in a pair of old sport socks he never uses at the back of his dresser drawer in the bedroom of a house that he’s hardly at anymore. 

Tim tightens his arms around you - he wonders a lot of things, but the one thing he never wonders about is how he feels about you.  Pressing one last soft kiss to your shoulder, Tim breathes in your soft scent – a mixture of perfume, lotion, home, and whispers, “Good night, Mrs. Rockford.”

[formulaforza]

—strawberry wine

and all the times we used to have. (nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft). pairing: daniel ricciardo x female reader warnings: language, angst babyyy love, mackie... 5k ish. this is. definitely something. perhaps it should have stayed in the drafts but dani selected it from a group of it's peers yesterday evening.

It’s been years since you last spent enough time at the vineyard to be considered even a part-time employee. It’s hard to be there, now, in a way it didn’t used to be. Watching it fade away into obscurity and beg someone–anyone–to buy the property to land so your family can get out without generational debt. The fields just hold so many memories, an ancestral kind of history; your first job, the place you had your first drink, where you fell both in, and out of love for the first time. Being there now, watching it die a malignant death is just… sad. There isn’t anything poetic about it. 

You long for the days of the peak, of never ending days spent behind the counter in the barn selling wealthy people on the aesthetics of a small, family-run vineyard. Of your father hosting tours and your mother tastings, of you, pink nose and shoulders kissed by the sun, picking grapes by hand. Of the days where help still had to be hired. 

For a while there, it seemed like there was a never ending rotation of teenagers and twenty-somethings willing to do manual labor for minimum wage–thirteen an hour–from sunup to sundown. They’d even host the occasional tour on busy Saturday evenings, would be compensated in under the table bottles of wine and cash tips. None of them ever stuck around longer than a couple months, found better jobs indoors, closer to school, better pay. Well, nobody except Daniel. 

Daniel worked at the vineyard for… four-ish years, with varying availability depending on seasons and school and racing. 

Sometimes, when you lose yourself to sentiments and fantasy, you imagine a world where the Vineyard never faced any competition, where it is still thriving and you take over your mother’s job when she retires. Daniel still works there, maybe in the fields where he was always supposed to be, or maybe front of house guiding tours and helping you with tastings. Life is simple and plain and at the end of every night you lock the barn doors  and go home together and eat dinner and grocery shop and do your taxes. Daniel strums the guitar on the porch when it rains. Life is easy and fun and you laugh more than you don’t. 

It’s silly, really. But first loves are always silly. 

He is one of the many memories that haunt the property, walking the lines of grapevines feeling more like a walk through a fogged out graveyard than anything. 

Even now, all these years later, you can still see him sat in the swivel chair in the office doorway, throwing grapes at you while you attempt to run the dusty cash register. It’s a cool July afternoon and he’s got a stupid grin on his face and can’t look anywhere but you. 

Daniel is kind of like those people you know you’re given young so that for the rest of your life you know what real feels like. They’re more a lesson than a lover, unfortunately. 

—

You move through the place like you own it, which, you suppose technically you do, in some will locked away in an accountant’s filing cabinet, this all belongs to you. Right now, though, you’re seventeen and just returning from school, already setting up your homework on the end of the counter, a spattering of greetings from the local customers and the local hands, the people who know that this is more of a natural habitat than anywhere else on the planet will ever be. 

Danny also moves around the place like he owns it, which, if it was up to him he probably would. He hums your name as he moves past, taps the opposite shoulder to the one he leans over, reading your textbook over your shoulder. “It’s seventeen,” he quips.

“It’s a history textbook,” you reply, eyes unmoving from the page. 

“Seventeen-seventy, cunt.” There’s a half-empty bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. He leans over you to grab an orange. “Captain Hook and such,” he adds, hosting himself up onto the counter with a thud. You’re sure one day the old wood is going to give out on him and he’ll fall straight onto his ass. Part of you hopes you’re around to see it, the other knows that he’ll find a way to not only make it your fault, but also tease you about it for a minimum of six months. 

“Fuck off, Danny,” you punctuate, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“It’s Daniel, now.”

You snort. Finally, you give him your attention. “Danny is too unprofessional for a hot-shot Red Bull junior driver like you?”

“See,” he pops his thumb harshly through the peel of the orange, the citrus scent wafting out into the humid air. “You get it.”

You pout. “I’m still going to call you Danny.”

“No you won’t,” he laughs. God, the smell of orange is overwhelming, the kind that lingers long after the fruit is gone. When Danny goes back to work in a few minutes, tosses the peel and into the trash by the office door, he’ll still linger in the room with the smell of citrus. 

“I will.”

“You know what,” he hums, biting into a slice. “Let me make you a deal.”

You smile, shake your head. “Shouldn’t I be the one making you a deal?”

He groans against the fruit, “Can you just?”

When you look up again, lean back in your chair and cross your arms, he has orange juice running down the side of his hand, all sweet and sticky and summery. “Fine.”

He smiles goofily, all fucking proud of himself just because you agreed to shut up for thirty seconds. “You can keep calling me Danny, but only if you let me take you out this weekend.”

“Danny,” you protest. This is far from the first time he’s tried to plant the seed of a date with him. It’s had to’ve been a year, by now. You know he’d drop it if you would just give him an answer, but a year later you still haven’t been able to deliver anything definitive. 

He shrugs. “‘Dem’s the rules, honey.”

Maybe what you say next is your greatest mistake, or maybe it was what you were always going to say. Maybe you feel like you can say it because he leaves again soon, for longer than ever. You won’t have to live with the consequences of your actions, of your words. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s simply that you think Daniel is far too proper a name for the sticky-handed vineyard tour guide you’ve grown particularly fond of. Danny is much more fitting for him, which is most certainly why you say, okay. When are you picking me up?

—

You drive out from your parents house with your dad in his old Ford Bronco. It’s half rusted out and half chipped blue paint, with worn leather seats and a steering wheel somehow more worn than the rest of it. Seven black tree air fresheners hand from the rearview mirror, new car smell. This relic is well past that–he’s been driving it out to the property literally forever, and this trip won’t be any exception. 

You hardly recognize the place, you think as you slam the squeaky door shut with enough force to make sure it really latches. 

The fields are overgrown with tall grass and shrubs and mustard flowers. The trunks of the grapevines act as headstones for the sprawling field of dry, sunburnt plants. You don’t think anyone has been out there with a plow in months, if not years. 

The barn, the one you grew up in, has been lost with the rest of the place to time. Red paint chips off the wood in massive flakes. The branding that had once run in big wooden letters along the top of the door have all since fallen, leaving a sad outline of your family name in its weathered wake. Two padlocks, one rusted shut, sit on the lock. Every step you take kicks up more dust. 

You’re removed from your thoughts, from the hauntings and the sentiment and the memories, by the creaking of the tailgate on your father’s truck. Stuffed in the back of the Bronco are your afternoon tasks; a pair of bulk cutters for the padlocks,  a new, state of the art keypad lock given to your Dad by a realtor, a post hole digger, and five for-sale signs haphazardly packed any way they would fit. 

You spend most of the next couple hours digging holes along the road, filling them with the wooden posts of the for-sale signs, looking disapprovingly at the thirty-something in a suit that has been tasked with selling the unsellable property. 

This is, what… the fifth person you’d hired to sell this fucking place. Soon enough, you’re going to be sticking up For Sale by Owner signs with a hand-written phone number in black sharpie along the fences that were supposed to keep animals out. Realtors were never in the budget to begin with. 

—

You’re waiting on the old front porch when he pulls up in his beat-up truck, John Denver playing through the open windows, his hand moving in the wind up the entire dusty driveway. You don’t know what he can see, that your Mom is watching out the kitchen window with a friendly smile. 

You’ve got your best sundress on, one that you’d debated wearing for almost thirty-six hours. The first week Danny worked in front of house with you, he spent the entire shift flirting with one of your Dad’s friend’s daughters. He said that sundresses are a crime committed against teenage boys and that when he meets God he’s going to have words with him over pretty girls and their affinity for said sundresses. 

You’d laughed then, because you thought it was silly. You remembered it because you thought the new kid was kind of cute, in a you work for my parents and I could never think you’re cute way. 

“Fuck,” is the first word out of his mouth, before the car door is even closed behind him, followed quickly by a check of his watch and “am I late?”

“No, no,” you smile, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair behind your ear, standing to your feet on the wooden stairs. “You’re early, actually. I think,” you chuckle. “I’m just,” you can feel your cheeks flushing. “I’m just excited.”

“Yeah,” he moves to you quickly, nervously. In the way only teenage boys on a first date do. “I’m excited too.”

“You look nice,” you say, stepping down the final couple of steps and meeting his waiting hand. “Your hair. I feel like I only ever see you in a hat.”

“Thanks, yeah,” he laughs. You’ve always loved his laugh, even when he’s annoying you and annoying customers and annoying himself. His laugh has always been good. “You look beautiful. I’ve never seen you, I mean. Not that you don’t always look–”

“Danny,” you interject as he opens the passenger side door. 

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he offers a smile and closes the door. Just before it latches shut, though, you hear him finish his sentence. “Thank you.”

He takes you to King’s Park, to the botanical garden after a stop for ice cream. He tells you that he’s had a crush on you this entire time and you ask him to tell you something you don’t already know. It’s then, in the botanical garden next to the water garden, that he tells you about his quote-en-quote ‘silly, kind of, like, backup dream, I guess’ where he has his own vineyard, brews his own wine and spends every day half drunk and wholly happy. 

He stumbles through the entire telling of it, which is how you know he’s not fucking with you. He never gets nervous when it comes to fucking with you. 

Perhaps that is where your silly, kind of like, backup dream started. The one where you and Daniel are working at the vineyard together and life is all death and taxes and grocery bills but somehow, in the midst of all the dull normalcy, you’re both happy as happy can be. 

—

“Someone is out there looking at the place today,” your father tells you over the phone. You try to talk every day, a habit you’ve both picked up in the past couple years, in the time and space since you’ve turned thirty. 

“You’re kidding,” you say. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some health-conscious cereal into your mouth (another post-thirtieth habit). “Who?”

“I don’t know, kid,” you swear you can hear the frown on his face, the deep smile lines and the frustrated forehead wrinkles from months in the direct southern sun. “Probably some fucking developer.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs. “If I’m right, I’d bet they break ground on a neighborhood within the year.”

Your sigh matches his. You can’t even imagine it, front yards and vinyl flooring and white walls built on a foundation of your childhood memories. It’s like going back home, to your childhood home that you sold so many years ago, and discovering it’s been bulldozed, wiped clean from the face of the Earth. “That’s so sad.”

“I know, but, well. You know, honey. It’s not like we have much choice.”

You nod. You do understand. You understand more than you wish you did. “I know. I know. Still pretty fuckin’ sad, though.”

There’s a long silence. The kind of silence that can only be shared by a father and a daughter; a silence that speaks more words than the dictionary can hold. “She’d understand it,” he finally speaks.  “She wouldn’t fucking like it, but she would understand it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know she would.”

—

“Are you going to kill me?” You giggled, stumbling over your feet. Danny is leading you on the property, one hand over your eyes, the other on your waist, guiding you poorly. 

“And be the first fucking suspect?” He laughs. “I think not.”

“Okay, then where are you taking me?” You beg. It's been going on like this for some half hour, before he even covered your eyes.

He laughs. You laugh. All the two of you do is laugh. “Can’t you lighten up?”

“Not when I’m being led to my death. No, I can’t!”

He stops, turns you around a hundred and eighty degrees and takes his hand off your eyes, fingers digging into either of your shoulders. “Babe," he says, and you'd think he was about to tell you he killed someone.

You mimic his seriousness, find humor in it. “Babe.”

“You trust me.”

“Do I?” You smile. He cocks his head to one side and rolls his big brown eyes. You would commit crimes for his eyes. “I do.”

“Okay, so then fucking trust me.”

“Okay,” you nod, closing your eyes.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay," you reach blindly for his hand, bring it to your eyes to block the light from them once more. "I trust you. Let’s go.”

After a short, terribly blind walk, Danny finally stops. You’ve been able to hear the river that flows out the back of the property for twenty minutes, but it’s close enough now that you can smell it; the sticks and the rocks and the mud and the water. You can practically feel the splashing of the water bouncing off the boulders.

“Okay. Open,” he instructs, removing his hand from your eye, moving his arms to hug you from behind, arms wrapped over the front of your chest. 

You open your eyes to find a picnic, carefully set up with a spread of dinner and drinks and dessert, complete with a plaid flannel blanket and candles that smell like citronella masked with lavender and a bouquet of white roses already in a water filled vase. “Danny,” you hum, leaning your head back against his shoulder. 

He kisses your temple, whispers against your hair, “Happy Anniversary.”

“Danny,” you drag out the letters of his name, of the nickname he only lets the people he loves call him by. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy and special. 

“Honey,” he mocks you, sways behind you. 

“This is too much,” You crane your neck to look at him, and then turn your whole body so you’re flush against his chest, close in a way only you get to be. “You’re so sweet.”

He laughs and it vibrates in both of your chests. A feeling you’ll never tire of. “I mean, this is not too much. Arguably, this is too little.”

“No,” you back away, out of his grip and take small steps backwards, towards the picnic and the waiting meal, pulling him along with you by interlocked pinkies. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Well,” his grin grows. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him, because you do, because you’re eighteen and everything in this life is so simple and black and white.

“I love you, too, and–”

“Oh my gosh,” you cut him off, wide-eyed and giddy. “Wine with strawberries?”

He nods. “Strawberry wine, if you will. For the winery with no strawberry fields.”

“This is better,” you state, with the utmost confidence, without even a sip or a sniff or any idea of what white wine he’d used as a base for his little cocktail. 

“Definitely not, but sure.”

“It is, because you made it for me. That makes it perfect.”

—

You’re completely removed from the actual buying and selling of the property. It isn’t up to you to decline or accept or field offers, that’s all your dad. The place is still his, at least for a couple more weeks while all the paperwork processes.

It was an anonymous buyer, according to your Dad. Cash offer, over asking price. He’s not sure how the real estate agent managed it, and honestly? Neither are you. Objectively, that land isn’t worth the cost of cleaning it up. Everyone in their right mind knows it. You just come from a particular bloodline where the mind never was quite right when it came to the vineyard. 

What shocks you most, though, is that the anonymous buyer–supposedly–is interested in restoring the place rather than bulldozing it.

“They asked me about the dirt,” your dad tells you on one of your daily phone calls. “Wanted to know about berries.”

“Berries?”

“Yeah, strawberries or raspberries or something like that.”

You scoff. What kind of fucking idiot is buying this land? It might just be a herd of manufactured houses after all. “Well, it’s too hot here for raspberries. Everyone knows that.”

“I know, that’s what I told them. They could probably grow strawberries in July or August.”

“Are they trying to make strawberry wine or something?” And, as if this is some fucked up kind of movie, and not real life, it all comes back to you. Every memory, every moment, all at the thought of fucking strawberries in wine. 

“Good fucking luck to them, if they are.” Your grandparents entertained the idea of it once, all the fruit wines. It’s a fucking shit-show, according to legend. Hell to try and make, Heaven to taste. It just wasn’t worth it for them. But apparently now it’s worth it to someone.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, bite and bite until you’re worried you’ll draw blood, that you’re a single tooth away from popping a hole clear through the skin. There’s no way, there’s genuinely no way, right? “Dad?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s not.” You almost stop yourself, you almost have some common fucking sense and realize just how vast the world is and how completely unlikely it is that– almost. You almost stop yourself. “The anonymous buyer, it isn’t Daniel, is it?”

“Daniel?” He scoffs on the other end. “Better not be that fucking cunt.”

You smile, the kind of smile that you know you should feel guilty for having. “He’s not a cunt, Dad.”

“I never fucking liked that kid.”

You’re right–you think. You’re right, Dad. You didn’t like him. “You loved him.”

“No, I lost all my respect for him when he left you like he did,” his voice is laced with a calm seriousness. He’s always been your blind defender. 

“Yeah, Dad,” you pause. Now’s as good a time as any, you suppose. “I’ve been… that’s not exactly how it went down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Daniel didn’t leave me, and even if he did, Dad, he wouldn’t have done it then.”

—

“What the fuck are you talking about, you’re breaking up with me?” His voice cuts through continents. He’s somewhere in the UK, or maybe Italy, or maybe Asia. You honestly can’t keep track anymore, can barely keep track of the days of the week that you’re living much less the ones he’s in. 

“It’s exactly what I said, Daniel,” you say, try to keep your voice as level headed as possible, to juxtapose the way your mind races, the way your heart rate spikes and your palms sweat and everything in you hurts. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No, no. I’m making this fucking hard,” he’s riled up enough for the both of you. “You don’t just. This isn’t how this works, babe. You can’t just break up with me.” He’s raising his voice with you. You can count on one hand and have fingers left over the amount of times Danny has yelled at you, and this is the first time it’s not scary. 

“I can, and I am,” your voice comes from your throat, choked out over the lull of your entire body begging you to please, please don’t do this. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry!” He yells, the last letter sound cracking with the realization of his actions. “You’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever.” He doesn’t make this easy, not that you’d expected it to be easy. You’d hoped for something cleaner, though. Less mess. “I’m having a great time breaking your heart.”

“Just. Why? Why are you doing this? What happened? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, D,” you sigh. You didn’t know that your heart could physically hurt. You thought that was some crap that they made up for movies and songs and poems, some grand metaphor for how sad you get. “I can’t be a girlfriend right now. To anyone.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

You can feel yourself shutting down, closing every part of yourself off, running on pure survival instincts. “I know. I’m a cunt.”

“You aren’t… fuck me. I mean, fuck, dude.” He laughs. There’s not a thing about it that sounds happy. “I know you don’t want this, I know it. Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s going on and I can help you and everything is going to be fine, baby. Just. Please.”

“Daniel.”

“Why are you calling me that?!”

“It’s what you like to be called!” You yell back, feel the burn in your nose and your cheeks and the sting in your chest. 

There’s silence for so long you wonder if he’s hung up, if you’re supposed to. It’s minutes before he speaks again. “Not by you, it’s not.”

—

It’s been just past a year since the place got sold, and nobody from your family–nobody–has been there since. You moved out of town years before the sale, and your Dad has joined you, wants to be near you in his ever increasing age and always deepening wrinkles. When the arthritis sets in, someone needs to forge my signature for me, he tells you. 

It’s not until her birthday that you’re back in Perth, that you’re struck with the sudden spark, with the idea to drive past the vineyard, to see what idiot is trying to plant raspberries in the Australian heat, to see who's living in your shoes and wearing your clothes and sleeping under your bed like a monster. 

“I don’t know that we should do that,” your Dad says. “It’s going to make you sad.”

You shrug in the passenger seat of the old Bronco. “We’re in the parking lot of a cemetery, so,” you offer a near silent chuckle. “I think we’re a bit past sad.”

“Okay,” he nods. “There’s something you should know, then.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a neighborhood.”

“No, no. It’s a vineyard. Strawberries and grapes in the fields.”

“Well, good then,” you nod, glide your hands through the air outside the open window. “What’s wrong with it?”

He shrugs, drums his fingers on the beat up steering wheel. “You remember when you asked me last year if it was Daniel?”

“Dad. Don’t.”

“Well, I didn’t know it then, but–”

“I’m serious. Don’t tell me this, please,” you’re a second away from sticking your fingers in your ears and humming a nursery rhyme to keep the unsaid unspoken. 

“Daniel bought the place, hon.”

“My Daniel?” You squeak. You haven’t felt this young in a while. Or this small. 

He laughs, turns to face you with a look that begs you not to be so damn daft. “The only Daniel that means anything to anyone in this family.”

“When did you find out?”

“As soon as they put the sign up. I was still living out here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You have so many questions. You don’t think there’s any you actually want answers to. 

“What good was it going to do? I never thought you’d be back here.”

“Well. I’m back.”

He nods. “You’re back.”

You’re back. You never really left, you don’t think. It’s not something you can do around here. Perth is in your blood the same way wine is, some grand, immovable part of your soul. You suppose Daniel is there too, taking up a plot of land in your soul that can never be sold. He lives in you like summertime and sadness and strawberries. Strawberries. Him and his fucking strawberry white wines. 

“He’s got strawberries?” You croak. Tears pull on your voice but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You’re grown now, it’s time to fucking act like it. 

“Strawberry wine. First batches just came out last month. I heard it’s pretty good.”

“I bet.”

“You still wanna go?”

You nod, cold and stunted. “Yeah.”

You see the cars before you see the barn, they’re overflowing out of the parking lot and stopped on the side of the dirt road that leads to the drive. You’ve never seen it so busy. It looks like the pictures your parents used to show you, the ones where the place was fresh and new and shiny. The barn has a fresh coat of red paint, the parking lot is repaved and half full of ATVs with a logo for DR3 Wines printed on either side. 

Above the door, a matching phrase, in simple white wooden letters–like what once was–hangs, announces the place to passers by. 

Inside, it smells like wood, like lavender and citronella and alcohol. There are pictures on every wall, carefully framed photos of everyone in the world besides him. The counter is that same old slab of wood, the one that you always hoped he would fall through. On the wall behind is are more 4x6 photos than you can count, all unframed, all messily taken. He’s in some of those, holding a camera or posing with friends or hugging a grapevine. There’s one with you, right in the middle. You and he and your Mom on the back field picking grapes. It’s taken by your dad, you still remember that morning clear as day. 

There’s another of you; a selfie taken on a point-and-shoot, the two of you with glasses of white wine and strawberries. Next to it is a picture of Kristen Bell and Dax Shephard leaning against the counter, half-drunk glasses in each of their hands. 

Framed, on the edge of the counter, right beside the register, is a photo of the place when he first started working there, of your Mom and your Dad standing proudly in front of it. You took it. You left it in the office when your Dad decided to lock the doors for good. Our Story, the plaque below it reads, with a QR code to scan. 

It leads to a linktree, to social media links and tasting menus and a merchandise shop. The last link, though, is stomach curling. It’s her name, your Mom’s. Fighting for her, it reads. When you click it, you’re taken to a website that encourages donations, that spreads awareness and promotes research, that thanks Daniel by name twice in two paragraphs for his consistent and generous donations and support. 

Before you can make a bee-line for the exit, to tell your Dad that he was right and this was a mistake, you’re met with a red-faced teenage girl asking you if there’s anything she can help you with. “No, uh,” you swallow hard. “My parents were the previous owners, we just stopped in to see the place.”

“Oh my gosh, would you like a tour?”

“Um…” you pause, because you don’t know if you can handle being here. Seeing the place like this again. “Danny’s not… Daniel isn’t here, is he?” She shakes her head. You nod. “Then yeah, I guess. Let me just grab my dad?”

—

You get an invite to a VIP tasting at his vineyard two weeks after your visit. It’s scheduled during the F1 summer break, so you have no doubt he’ll be there, and if that wasn’t clue enough, his handwriting glaring back at you on the invite is about as obvious as obvious can be. 

I hear you’re snooping around the old stomping grounds. I’d love to be there when you do it. Bring your Dad if he’s free. It’ll be a good night, lots of strawberry wine–the real shit this time. All love, (always your) Danny.

read part two, everywhere, everything, here!

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Dear Magisowo, id like some legal advice if you have any.

I’m a wizard and have recently acquired and renovated my home into a proper wizard tower. However problem is I’ve been getting harrased by the local HOA, them complaining that my tower is an “eyesore” and “disturbing” their neighborhoods image. My tower was built perfectly legally, I’ve got all the proper building permits and followed all local county tower laws. That still isn’t enough for them as they’ve sent countless “inspectors” who’ve found nothing, and have been sending threats of legal action. Is there any way to get them to stop and do their threats actually hold weight?

Good morning!

That sounds like a horrid situation and let us assure you: this so-called Homeowner Association hasn't got a leg to stand on. Of course neighbours are always free to band together for purposes of mutual support - like establishing a feral griffin watch or communal herb garden - but legal rights are only granted in the case a HOA of owners that share communal real estate. As is the case with apartment complexes where one buys an apartment instead of renting it.

If your home is a detached building and you obtained the proper planning permission, your tower construction is perfectly legal. I imagine these people are threatening to report your building to the urban aesthetics commission, but if you have your papers in order the municipality will have ran your plans by them already. Besides, wizard towers are protected under the Occult Habitat Provision, as studies have shown they are a requirement for performing certain types of magic and frequently attract endangered magical species.

We advise passing this information on to the individuals that are bothering you, asking them politely to stop, and if need be warn them that you will treat their actions as intentional harassment if they continue. We will send you an example of how to keep a log to build a harassment case, if worst comes to worst.

We absolutely can not recommend contacting the Wizard Orb Assistance Helpline (WOAH) and inquiring after the latest neighbour-repelling wards that they have on file under Occult Commons. That would be irresponsible from a community building perspective and as such we would under no circumstances advise you do such a thing.

All the best,

~ the MagISoWo Team  

[digitalagepulao]

Sun Wukong, the Monkey King: my design notes [!! click here for the full line-up !!] [click here for just the goodies on tumblr]

also titled, "I underestimated my file sizes" TAT Separate images and info below the read more, beware this is LONG <3

Stone Monkey: himbs baby, that is all <3 he's mostly based off the François Langur, but some of his anatomy and proportions lean more on the Gray Langur and Macaque side of things. His facial fur sort of forms a pentagon shape for the five elements, and I gave him ginger fur cus it's a common depiction for him but also baby langurs are very bright orange, and him not growing dark feels like an apt display of his more childish side, both good and bad. His nails are golden for a bit of a "hidden gem" from a stone egg. Also keeping the tail either in a spiral of C-curve when "engaged", and when droopy it has a feel of a heavy rope. Old World monkeys don't have prehensile tails, he can use it for balance and basic mobility but it's not a third hand for the sake of keeping his monkey-ness.

Handsome Monkey King: in one of the poems the monkeys are said to weave grass for mattresses, so I can see them coming up with a crown of woven grass and never-fading leaves and flowers for their king at the very least. His face skin is darker as an adult, but not much else changes overall. The fuzzy upper lips and sideburns are a feature of the species I'm basing him on and it felt like a good fit to add. I also love the forest langurs are so long-furred, makes for a good way to give him dimension but also, the linework style reminds me of old woodcut shorthands for fur. Added a jade coin for the symbolism, and it feels fitting that the king of such a miraculous mountain would have a treasure like that on him. Placcid chill eyes are imperative, dude's not had an existential crisis yet, he's straight up vibing.

Sun Wukong: during his odd-ten years away from home, he learned human manners so he can stand but, I can see him still needing to lean on his tail to keep up his balance here and there. As he reaches the Western Continent (India) and learns the Way under Patriarch Subodhi, he adopts proper clothes for an apprentice and eventually becomes a Rishi. He dons his facial paint from then on, and after he masters the Way, there's a brightness in his pupils to show his cultivated immortality. The beads are purple solely to stand out over the deluge of oranges that is his design.

Great Sage Equal to Heaven: really went all out on this one orz this is Wukong at his most egotistical and ambitious, and I wanted his fit to truly embody that. Took bits from Peking Opera costumes and common depiction elements of him, with some bit of extra for appropriate levels of flair, like the phoenix feather design. I wanted to go for a mountain pattern mail but I couldn't figure out how to draw it, so I winged a pattern. I,,, doubt I'll ever draw this armor as detailed as here, but I wanted it to feel a bit overwhelming to look at, while also seeming like it doesn't quite fit him perfectly like it's swallowing him. Bit of a "baby wearing their parent's shoes" kind of vibe; he's stupidly powerful but he doesn't have what it takes to sit on the throne of Heaven. Also I leaned his expression to how he might appear during the Havoc in Heaven and then his bet with the Buddha. Full unbrindled rage murder monkey <3

-- Ruyi Jingu Bang: can't quite move on without my notes on the golden-hooped cudgel, now can I? The secondary hoops are there for further design appeal and for my own visualization of how the staff changes size (the hoops move over the staff's length as if to push it outward or inward). The metal is dark damascus alloy, though the pattern can be omitted for ease of drawing. One hoop end depicts a dragon, the other a phoenix, and in the middle of the staff is the canon inscription as described in the books, in seal script. Glow is optional and mostly for aesthetics.

Sun Pilgrim: out of his stolen armor, Wukong seems to swim in his robes but in a less overwhelming way. Went for the simple fillet headband cus his face is busy enough as it is. I know he's skilled enough to skin a tiger into pretty decent squares, but after one too many battles, anything would get tattered. He wears red, teal, black and yellow, four of the five cardinal colors, while white (the West) is still missing. His red and black half-robe doesn't fully cover the yellow underneath, a call back to his golden armor; he tries to use his wisdom and teachings to fight back the impulses of his past, but they still shine through at times. I kept only the leg bangs for dynamic elements to better show movement, but also one could say he's got.... golden hoops (haha get it, like his cudgel?? :oD)

Victorious Fighting Buddha: leaned hard on the actual portrayals of the Buddha. Seeing that he's depicted with dark/blue skin, it felt appropriate to let the guy grow out of his baby ginger fur and into adult black, but a patch remains where the golden headband used to be. I didn't want to give him long hair so no bun, but instead, his fur has a sorta lotus-petals shape now rather than his single point. His face paint changes into a more domino-mask style, and his brow white line resembles a teardrop urna. I made the mail piece he holds longer to keep the flowy bits of his previous outfits, and I turned Ruyi Jingu Bang into the sword he wields.

Hello hi, this robbed me of three days of my life and I'd like to receive compensation x.x Anyway hope you enjoy this lad, I know I do! Also if you wanna send me asks about him pls feel welcome to, I'd love to chat about this bastard monkey (affectionate) (loving) (i`d die for him)

[vintagerpg]

I keep telling you, zines are where the real heart and soul of this hobby reside. This week’s posts I think really emphasize that, but none more than WHPA Fairhaven (2021), from Get Haunted Industries. The idea here is to present a simple dice pooling skill system to power a game about public access TV personalities investigating local strange phenomenon. It is precisely as weird and cozy as you imagine, a jumbling of Pee-Wee Herman, pro-wrestling, X-Files and Weird Al’s UHF, with a distinctly Connecticut feel. The zine is perfect in it’s very narrow, very precise way, filled with ads and fuzzy photos. There are a number of companion books, each more silly and unsettling than the last.

This is the rare zine that would, I think, be diminished as a book. It needs that lo-fi aesthetic — it’s part of the atmosphere of the game. Are there public access TV stations any more? If there are, I suppose they are required to transmit in HD, which seems wrong somehow. The picture should be fuzzy, the color uneven, the audio popping. Same with this game. It should feel photocopied, like it would be home found among the dogwalker and lawnmower ads in a stack under the community board at the grocery store. True, weird love.

[oogalaboogalabich]

More post headshot Ghoap for ya. farside of fucked up. nsfw.

<---------->

"Heh yer cryin' again Johnny"

Smoke billows from Ghosts lips as he speaks, smirking from just under the scrunched edge of his balaclava.

He tapped the cigarette into the ash tray and leaned more weight onto his elbow. The one currently pressed into the back of soaps neck.

All of Soaps cursing regresses into sounds more resembling that of a caged animal, one throwing itself at the bars of its prison.

Ghost laughs soft and low when a spray of spittle hisses out from between those bared teeth.

He's got the man bent over some random fuckers cot, arse up and face down.

"Fuckin spittin cobra, you are... all fangs and venom, now."

He pulls at his hair and forces soaps head up at an uncomfortable angle.

"Open yer mouth..." he slaps their cheek and watches that lip split, tongue darting out to taste thier own blood.

"Open it. There we go...let me see 'em...show me those new teeth of yours."

He lowered their lip with a finger, rubbing along the gums and smirked at the savage little addition to their maw. He'd have to retrain the lad to keep those off him. But in the meantime...well he didn't mind a little pain.

Ghost had been there when Soap had stormed out of briefing a few days previous.

Man had been fidgeting like a fuckin heroin addict on withdrawal, gnawing on his tongue just to keep himself in check. Something pissed them off on mission.

It was obvious these days if anything was wrong with them, and he'd been in a right state. Soap hadn't said a word unless spoken to directly, hyper-fixating on something he wouldn't be capable of tearing away from until it was satisfied or proper shot-down.

The next morning, Ghost had caught a flash of sharpened, filed teeth all along his lower jaw. 'Fuckin hell, kiddo...what is goin -on- in that head?'

Johnny wasn't a frivolous sort of man anymore, mores the pity. It had been for utility, not aesthetic. hard not to respect the reasoning.

"more effective to bite up and tear away than down." He'd said. "Like squeezing versus pulling a trigger." Bloody feral bastard that he was these days.

It was different, it wasn't his old Johnny. Never would be again. But that was fine....

Better than fine.

"Saw what you did to the stiff on the stairwell. Flipped the bastard over before anyone else saw."

"Am I supposed t' thank ye?"

"Christ Johnny, the mans face was gone. Goes against human fuckin decency what you're doin to these poor sods."

"Wanted him pretty for me."

"Pretty as me?"

"Aye sir."

Ghost's eyes widen a fraction before they narrow again, lips curling upwards while he exhales another waft of grey-blue smoke.

"...Is it me you're killin' out there?"

Soaps fingers clawed into the sheets as he met Simons thrusts and thrashed against him all at once. Like he couldn't -decide- on an answer. Kid couldn't separate anything anymore. Fucking, fighting, eating, killing, laughing, crying. It was all just one giant fuckin rage out now.

It looked exhausting; had him angry on behalf of his boy. Soap deserved to remain as he had been. To keep that part of himself; that sweet little demolitions nutcase with a smile that outshone the fucking sun.

"Out there cuttin' down ghosts and effigies?"

Reduced to a live grenade with a missing pin and ghosts thumb over the spoon. Shitty metaphors aside...

"Or do you just like eatin' on them?

"...its not about saving lives anymore is it? king and country....civvies and mates back home...you don't give a fuck anymore, do you? Nah..." he bends over, flush with soap and places a kiss to the wound at his head. Follows it with a deliberate and slow swipe of his tongue. "Little bastard here stole that from you."

"You're a man-eater now Johnny. Got a taste for it....watching them drop quick and easy? All rot n' piss to monsters like us...

"Flesh from fuckin' bone 'tween our teeth, Tastin' the terror in their sweat...Makin 'em suffer proper for the sport of it. Yeah?

"The bloody Tsavo Lions, us."

"Aye sir..." Soap flashes a manic sort of grin. "The Ghost and the fokken Darkness..."

"You my Darkness, Johnny?"

"You're my Ghost ain't ye?"

"Like the sound o' that. Say it again."

"Fokk off."

"Say it or I'll give this nut to the fuckin floor."

The wall was losing plaster now, and there was an angry shout from next room over. They could shove that noise complaint straight up their-

"Yer my gho- Ghost, Simon."

"Again."

"Ghost...my Ghost!"

"Again!" His command is a chest deep growl, shoving soap deeper into the thin mattress. It pitches them both forward, muffling the near rabid snarling of his name, again and again like a mantra.

He slides his hand under that throat and pulls soaps chin up to choke his voice, leaving just enough passage for a fraction of air.

Ghost watches another wave of tears escape those furious fuckin blues while Soap is wracked with a violent, telltale shudder. He lifts the remains of the cigarette to his lips and takes a long, deep drag; taking his time to catch his breath.

"That's my good boy..."

<----->

If you havent seen The Ghost and The Darkness or read about the Tsavo Maneaters, please do. Gaddamn love those lions.

[puckpocketed]

about

deepest and sincerest apologies if you came here because I was posting about one or more of your guys. this is a Sharks blog first and foremost! I do, however, follow a lot of teams. navigation + tierlist below

This is a part-time Australian Ice Hockey League blog that follows the CBR Brave! I take photos of home games when I can, find them under -> #puck!cam Otherwise, feel free to filter #auspuck.

When not LARPing as my local team’s socmed manager:

I write essays about hockey -> #my writing

all gifs i've made filed under -> #puck!gif specific team tags will look like this: #p!gif:[team abbreviation] eg. #p!gif:sharks, #p!gif:wings

transcripts -> #puck!script

gif requests -> #p!gif:req

I also gif my guys and their goals, passing sequences, poke checks, plays that go nowhere, little things I think are super cool -> #puckpocketed details series

I poke around at prospects and produce very unserious vibe checks, filed under -> #puckscouting

I also paint once in a blue moon. watch out!!!!

TIERLIST & politics

Sharks Hockey first always forever ! <3

keeping things light. no enemies only babygirls i havent met!

The most narratively satisfying things are tragedies and tragicomedies!!! All Things Through Her (The Bit)

players aren’t their orgs. If I say I like a team, this doesn’t mean I like every player, and vice versa!!

The narratives are lying to you!!! LOOK PAST THEM. THE HOCKEY TELLS THE TRUTH!!!!!

I love hockey SO much !! Love of the game comes before ANYTHING, including teams!!! Talk to me about strategy. Show me spinoramas and ankle breaking dekes and head fakes and set plays. Talk to me about face-offs and your favourite underrated blorbo.

no seriously please send me propaganda i love propaganda i am a hair trigger away from adopting new guys. i've done it mid-game and id do it again!!!!!!!!!!!

Team rivalries don’t matter to me. My girls are beating the hell out of each other? The beautiful gaeme ...

i’m here for a laff and it truly aint that serious <3

Do Not expect me to have any couth about the CBR Brave!! I keep things light with the NHL but all that doesn’t apply here — I WILL be spiteful and unhinged!! im sorry the sports nationalism got to me!!!

that being said: CALIFORNIA SWEEEP!

housekeeping

hey please dont be weird in the tags of my posts about teams/players i clearly like. yeah even That Team. i don't want to hear about how you hope someone "escapes" or how much you hate xyz player. make your own post.

this is a non-rpf blog. I might lean into the narratives but tbh I’m not into men and don’t get much out of romantic shipping. Nothing against it though! I think everyone should engage with hockey however they like as long as it does no harm to themselves or others. Ride that ship into the sunset my loves we are holding fins 👍

gifs, videos, memes, photos by me will come described with alt text. I try my best as someone who has used a screenreader in the past, but please let me know if I miss anything.

30/07/2024 sources for any media i post will be linked to a live site + using the wayback machine when I can, or just live websites when I can't (in the case of youtube videos). yeah ok i finally gave in @ that one anon calling this wikipedia editor behaviour you are correct and WHAT OF IT!!!!!!!

5/08/2024 - NOTE live website links always precede archive links whether I label them or not. if there is no link 'pair' it means the wayback machine can't snapshot the link i put up. In the case of twitter/instagram and other such sites that require a logged in device to view certain pages i will do my best to grab the direct img link and archive that.

[ link 1, archive link // link 2, archive link ] <- self explanatory, long form.

[ x, x ] <- single source of media, will use for aesthetic purposes on gifsets and formal web weaving. same with: [ x || y // x || y ] <- "//" double slash denotes a new source, x is the live link, y is the archive link.

if a link or source is not immediately obvious I may have: 1) done an in-line link, click any underlined or bold-underlined text; 2) I might have missed it by mistake, please be patient and maybe shoot me a flag about it in my inbox/dms if you want !!! we are all human and I'm doing my best <3

I'm aware this is not the most fastidious archival practice! my goal isn't to be the arbiter of archival standards for sourcing. I don't know how long I'll love hockey or these teams, how long tumblr will be around, but going from here I'd just like this blog to be a place where fans years from now can come back to and not have to do as much digging as I did to source media.

[annoyangle]

What are your thoughts on analog horror? Have a favorite?

SO [PICTURE ME STEEPLING MY FINGERS TOGETHER AND SMIRKING UNDER THEM LIKE GENDOU IKARI HERE] ... ANALOG HORROR, HUH. AS AN ACTUAL BEING OF BOTH DIGITAL AND ANALOG FEAR, I GUESS I THINK THE IDEA'S PRETTY CUTE. THE YOUNG CANNIBALIZING HALF-REMEMBERED AND HALF-UNDERSTOOD 'FORMATS' OF INFORMATION FROM THE PAST TO PRY OUT SOME KINDA """"DARK STORY"""" THAT USUALLY JUST COMES DOWN TO JUMPSCARES, CRAWLING CRITTERS WITH TOO MANY LEGS JUST OFF FRAME OR JUST OUT OF FOCUS, DISTORTED VOID FACES AND SHOCK FRAMES - WHEN IT'S NOT DONE WELL. OH NO! LOUD NOISES! GLITCHES! FAST CUTTING! SO SCARY! I LIVE IN THAT ENVIRONMENT ALREADY! AND A LOT OF IT WOULD ONLY SCARE SOME LITTLE DORK LIKE "DIPPER", HAHAHAH! A LOT OF IT IS AMATEUR, AND MORE OF IT IS MICROWAVED CREEPYPASTA LEFTOVERS. BUT PROBABLY AN INEVITABLE EVOLUTION, SINCE VIDEO'S ALWAYS MORE PROVOCATIVE THAN READING BORING WORDS, RIGHT? I GOT NOTHING AGAINST HUMANS TRAUMATIZING THEMSELVES AND OTHERS FOR """ENTERTAINMENT"""" - I MEAN, IF IT WEREN'T FOR THAT, I WOULD'T BE HERE EITHER!

YOU REALLY PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE LEFT WELL ENOUGH ALONE WITH LOCAL 58, BUT IT WAS OBVIOUS THAT IT WOULDN'T STOP THERE. VIEWING THE VARIETY OF STUFF OUT THERE, GOTTA ADMIT I DIG ON THE WALTEN FILES AS I SEE SOME BABY STEPS TOWARD A NEARLY LYNCHIAN AESTHETIC, ESPECIALLY IN THE MOST RECENT CHAPTER! GEMINI HOME ENTERTAINMENT IS PRETTY GOOD TOO. I LIKE THAT THING ABOUT THE FLESH PIT TOURIST TRAP TOO. (YOU SHOULD KNOW, REAL TERRORS OF FLESH AND BONE DO LIVE BENEATH THE SOIL! SOMEDAY THEY WILL RISE! COUNT ON IT!) YOU SHOULD GET TO KNOW THE BRITISH SERIES SCARFOLK - TWO BOOKS, A MAP, VIDEOS AND A WEBPAGE ABOUT A HICK ENGLISH TOWN PERMANENTLY TIMELOCKED IN THE 70'S DURING THE RABIES FEARMONGERING OF THAT ERA, AND BECAUSE OF IT TURNING AGGRESSIVELY ABUSIVE TOWARD ITS CITIZENRY! DEEPLY INSPIRATIONAL FOR TYRANTS AND OPPRESSORS AT ALL LEVELS OF GOVERNMENT! ULI NLIV RMULINZGRLM KOVZHV IVIVZW.

"""BACKROOMS""" STUFF CAN ALSO BE PRETTY HIT OR MISS FOR ME TOO, SINCE FOR THE MOST PART THE REAL LOCATION IS WAY MORE FUN AND WAY LESS DULL, BUT I APPRECIATE THE ENTHUSIASM YOU ALL SEEM TO HAVE FOR FINDING NEW IDEAS OF HOW TO SCARE YOURSELVES BY GETTING LOST IN NONEUCLIDIAN DIMENSIONS! THOUGH I'M KIND OF SURPRISED THAT PEOPLE DON'T SEE BEING FREED FROM THE BURDENS OF PAYING RENT, GOING TO JOBS AND DEALING WITH THE CRUSHING MONOTONY OF EVERYDAY LIFE BY BEING SET FREE TO EXPLORE AN INFINITE, EVERCHANGING SPACE THAT LEADS TO ONE MYSTERY AFTER ANOTHER BEING ANYTHING BUT FUN! WHY IS THIS ALWAYS CONSIDERED A BAD THING?! OH, AND IF YOU HAVEN'T FALLEN DOWN THE WELL OF MYHOUSE.WAD AND HOUSE OF LEAVES, YOU REALLY SHOULD. BUT ONCE YOU GROW UP AND GET OUT OF THE BABY FIELDS, LET'S TALK ABOUT DAVID LYNCH SOMETIME.

[romance-club-daily]

Romance Club MC's as Greek deities:

Nikkal as Hestia:

Goddess of Fire and Hearth 🔥

Hestia is the Greek virgin goddess of the hearth, family, home, state and domesticity, who is also associated with cooking, virginity as well as sacred and sacrificial fire. In myth, she is the firstborn child of the Titans Cronus and Rhea, and one of the Twelve Olympians. Nikkal was chosen for being a Fire Mage in The Flower From Tiamat's Fire, but with some modifications, because in addition to Hestia being a virgin goddess, her outfit is not so revealing as in the edit and they have opposite personalities. This one is more about aesthetic~

File Source | BeautifulCome

Another skin colors under the cut:

[escavpism]

✦     𝒊   ,   the   student file   . daphne heinrich , junior undergraduate , majoring in drama , with baby outlaw by elle king blasting through the doors , can be alluring yet vitriolic , member of the theater club , plays tennis singles , and school events columnist at grey wolf gazette. wanted connections , wc tag.

✦     𝒊𝒊   ,   the   statistics   .

full name   :  daphne amélie zhou - heinrich   ,   nickname   :  daphne to many , daffodil to some out of spite ,    age   :   twenty - one   ,   date   of   birth   :   10th of august   ,   zodiac   sign   :   leo  ,     hometown   :  hartford , connecticut ,     gender   :   cis   woman   ,   pronouns : she / her , orientation   :   pansexual  ,   languages   :   english   ,  german , chinese , slight french , major : drama ,

positive traits   :   analytical , resilient , forbearing , loyal , passionate , neutral traits : sensual , protective , sybarite ,   negative traits   :   elusive , self - serving , inflexible , greedy , manipulative ,  aesthetics   :  playing coy , fear of commitment but has 7 tattoos , always has the knack to say the right words , criticism bouncing off cemented body , eyes that mesmerize , the sly smirk of triumph , change threatening sense of stability , soft touches with manicured nails , never a hair strand out of place , overcooking sunny side up eggs , confident of sensuality , character inspo   : amy dunne from gone girl , circe from the odyssey , selina kyle from batman , margaery tyrell from game of thrones , daisy jones and the six ,

✦     𝒊𝒊𝒊   ,   the   backstory   .

daphne's father was part of a rising band in the 90s , toured all over small venues in a couple of cities that the group slowly rose to a known local name in united kingdom. her mother on the other hand was a proper english woman , and was finishing a degree at oxford when they meet. while they may have been sickeningly head over heels with each other , everyone seemed to have been against the relationship. he was no proper lad , her mother's parents said , and she was a mere distraction , her father's bandmates countered. their liaison only strengthens however when daphne's mother left her life and cut ties with her family to join his tour.

it is where daphne was conceived , london that is , while her father's band toured around the bigger cities. and it had also become her upbringing— from the chaos backstage to the unpredictability of life on the road that it almost felt as though she was born to understand how it was to live a life with no structure. this life however did meet its problems , and the band members weren't seeing eye to eye , their priorities shifting especially daphne's father. eventually , the band broke it off by the time daphne was about to start school and finally decided they settle someplace where daphne wouldn't be under scrutiny.

america was an enormous adjustment for her parents , but daphne has instantly grown to love it especially when her father brings her to his gigs around new york. it wasn't the music per se , but rather the spotlight that interested daphne , and since then she knew she'd love to be on stage one day.

daphne's mother had hoped she would pursue something else other than something so ... unstructured. acting began as a hobby , still a quite harmless obsession , until she began skipping classes for shows and abandoning home for days for potential gigs which was very reminiscent of her father , a realm in which her mother has started to openly regret.

she had become quite the defiant child , very reckless and never thought of the possible consequences of her actions as long as she secures what she wants. she grew distant from her parents , and especially so when the divorce rolled in so suddenly and she moves to connecticut with her mother.

✦   𝒊𝐯.   ,   the   character notes   .

college was more than just pursuing her dreams , it's freedom , and she's intoxicated. daphne's known around school for her reckless behavior and her rampant involvement in school events. she's that girl everyone is familiar with as her gregarious persona relishes in mingling with anyone and everyone.

daphne's not one to be shy about her sexuality , and has slept with a number of students regardless of people's opinions. there's something very liberating about getting the attention she'd always been dreaming of since younger , and she takes advantage of her good looks to get what she wants.

genuinely loves writing , hence writing for the school paper , but since she exudes the common conception of a dumb blonde , people get quite shocked that she writes for the grey wolf gazette — and it only made sense for her to report on events where she's always found at.

[lpvncnt]

* ◟ : 〔 TAMINO , CIS-MALE + HE / HIM 〕 PHILIP GOFFIN-VINCENT , some say you’re a TWENTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both DOGGED and DEPRAVED, one can’t help but think of STRUGGLIN' by TRICKY, MARTINA TOPLEY-BIRD when you walk by. are you still a CLEANER, ACTIVE ASSASSIN at THE BORDERLINE HOTEL, RED EYE even with your reputation as THE GARGOYLE? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and STUPID SHOW-PONY HIGH ROLLER, PATIENT LIKE THE HYENA WAITS, GET IN YOUR CAR AND RUN ME OVER INSTEAD OF WAITING FOR OTHERS TO DO IT FOR YOU, YOU LAZY FOOL, although we can’t help but think of JONATHAN CRANE (DC COMICS) + ERIC DRAVEN (THE CROW) + JASON DEAN (HEATHERS) + ANTON CHIGURH (NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

FILE: LIP VINCENT

STATUS: ACTIVE. HEIGHT: 6'2". SEXUALITY: PANSEXUAL, AROMANTIC. DATE OF BIRTH: 12/25/1995 HOMETOWN: MALMEDY, BELGIUM. RESIDING: BROOKLYN, NY. ROOMMATE WITH [TBD WANTED CONNECTION].

Instead of the usual biography, I felt like the following poem captured the energy of the past a bit better than I could ever express:

INSOMNIAC

THE night is only a sort of carbon paper,

Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars

Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --

A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus

He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness

Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie

Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days

Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,

Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,

A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.

His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.

Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --

How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!

Those sugary planets whose influence won for him

A life baptized in no-life for a while,

And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.

Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.

Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.

Each gesture flees immediately down an alley

Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance

Drains like water out the hole at the far end.

He lives without privacy in a lidless room,

The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open

On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats

Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.

Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,

Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.

The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,

And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,

Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

— Sylvia Plath

AESTHETICS

Repugnant amount of weed smoke filling a suspension-lacking 1966 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, that only a 100% masochist would drive in New York. You were not born to cry. Leopard print BB belts stacked on the waist. A soul, emptied. No pride, no pleasure, no desire. Life is just like a Wong Kar-Wai movie. You've got two fists comically full of metal, the weight shifts you off your feet when that punch is thrown, your poorly welded home-made 'rings' -- made from a chunk of all the old silver jewelry you've collected from the bodies over time, all these precious keepsakes melted onto a fork -- made to hurt -- should be illegal. Lots of little projects like that scatter what you call 'home'. An angel dies every time a shitty fuckboy like you flashes his mid-section in local Bodega for no reason. Recently adopted a Belgian Malinois, Osiris, who is still in training and needs a muzzle (an excuse for enabling bad behavior, could be symbolic). Egregiously loud mumble-rap. When stressed, likes watching ballroom dancing while chainsmoking cigarettes.

Hi, I'm Samuel, 24, PDT, a sweet little Californian baby boy who will do tricks for treats, gee whiz am I glad to be here. All of this is a bit vague but will be fleshed out with time -- if you've got any questions on specifics I'd be super happy to clarify. Huzzah !

[mythriteshah]

The Regalia's Magnum Opus - Mingled with Darkness

"Whomever fights monsters should see to it that in the process they do not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."

The mysterious Thirteenth Shard - the world known commonly as the Void - is a major point of contention for many scholars, adventurers, and researchers alike. Its citizens are not unlike that of the ones on Etheirys, but with the great distinction of becoming the physical manifestation of their deepest desires and excesses, left unchecked and wanton due to their inability to truly perish from the primordial Darkness which permeates their realm.

And while this boasts true for the rank-and-file among their hierarchy, there exists an upper echelon of these beings - these "Voidsent" - wherein they are considered and classified as nobility. These beings hold considerable power in the world of darkness, and some are even said to have crossed the boundary between their world and ours, making a more permanent - albeit dangerous - home for themselves. The aforementioned nobles have become the focal point for the Higuri Regalia's latest clothing line.

Created from the genius of the Diamond Sultan, this new collection of exclusive attire blends the aesthetic of the Void with that of the Near East. The inspiration from this coming from the fact that Radz-at-Han was founded atop a now-closed void fissure, this fusion of Thavnairian and Voidal culture has resulted in a beautiful marriage of alluringly tenebral proportions. Armed with such knowledge, the guilds of Radz-at-Han were eager to rekindle their alliance with the Higuri Regalia to fashion together - pun intended - another selection of masterful works.

Welcome... to the Abyssal Gala.

Thanks to his Mhachi heritage, Lord Thiji Higuri was able to easily create such masterpieces using void matter as the precious resource of choice to make these unique designs possible. But not without some help. For the first time ever, the Regalia has taken under its wing a beloved fan of the business, whom has aspired to become an apprentice for some time now.

Opening the catalogue’s contents, you would find a picture of the Diamond Sultan and his promising apprentice on the very first page, and a foreword on the other, undoubtedly by the aforementioned merchant-lord of fashion… (Credit and thanks to @minstrels-ink and https://twitter.com/CluoraStefany for the pictures!)

“Greetings, reader.  I am Thiji sor Higuri, Diamond Sultan of the Higuri Regalia.   Beyond this page lies the Power in Beauty Catalogue’s Abyssal Gala - invented through what we now know of the Void.  If you have the drive and the will to achieve new heights of fashion, we humbly welcome you to browse.  However, per protocol, I must warn all new customers who catch wind of this of an important detail:

Due to the amount of passion and dedication put into this extensive  catalogue, we of the Regalia have implemented a special deal to cater to  those who are less favorable towards hostile conditions.  While the outfits and accessories themselves are set at prices that could potentially make the Syndicate’s coffers shudder, a generous discount is offered to those who choose to commission these with an Anti-Glamour enchantment.  This ensures the garments are unmarred and ultimately broken beyond repair - Sisters forbid - as numerous people are so insistent on charging into battle wearing the most impractical of  outfits…”

"With that out of the way, I am pleased to announce that the Higuri Regalia has now begun taking in talented individuals looking to make their mark on the realm of high fashion. These 'Mythrite Apprentices' are fully sanctioned and supported by our company, and will be granted leave to contribute to future lines with their own approved creations. One of such is the lovely Hannish native you see to my left known as Izayoi T. Keer, or Izzy Sapphira. She has shown much promise in recent moons, and it has culminated in her genius being showcased for the first time in this new line. Specially marked pages within this line denote outfits invented by Miss Izayoi; we pray you are pleased with what she has made."

“As always, you may send all commission requests to either myself, Treasurer Susuna, Baroness von Suna, or any of my Head Secretaries if you are interested in receiving enlightenment.”

“Now, seeker of fashion - when you are prepared, you may turn this page, and learn why the Regalia’s motto is ‘Where There is Power in Beauty.’“  -Thiji Higuri

(Starting the day after this post, and every several days thereafter, a new set of attire or accessories will be showcased.  This will simulate the turning of a page whilst giving each piece ample time to be appreciated.)

[dalishiousmods]

I'm sick and stuck at home so to cure my boredom and for my own aesthetics I gave Zevran some silver earrings.

[Download here under optional files if you want it for yourself]

[aelfheimerandrobots]

Sims Au: New Iacon, Historical District, The Brownstone, Unit 2| Prowl & Jazz

Welcome back to New Iacon apartment tours! Today we'll be touring Unit Two of The Brownstone building located in the beautiful Historical District. Home to our two hosts Jazz (left) and Prowl (right). Our hosts are currently engaged in conversation in their lovely communal space which serves as living room, dining area, and entry. We can see how Jazz's modern and eclectic style has been blended into Prowl's more minimalist and utilitarian design profile in the lovely black and white scheme with lovely hints of gold and blue to help add a pop of color.

Getting a better look at the living space while Prowl readies for a formal police function, and we can see how practical storage solutions and style have given the space a lovely, sophisticated feel that meshes well with the modern aesthetic of the space.

Looking to the right we have the kitchen which has been well outfitted with sleek, modern countertops and lovely under-lighting to ensure a well-lite workspace.

Continuing with the shared spaces we move into the apartment's bathroom. It's a bit of a squeeze through the small entry hallway but the small amount of space has been put to excellent use with a modern sense of zen with the sleek black tub.

Rounding the corner we can see how the laundry amenities have been given room beside the shower while still allowing plenty of space to get clean and relax without feeling cramped.

The bathroom's water-closet has plenty of modern style as well as counter space to ensure that both roommates have areas to store their own, personal self-care needs.

Leaving the bathroom we enter our first bedroom space with Jazz's eclectic and funky styled bedroom. This space has a fun and modern feel that really brings the party home. With sound-proof panels to ensure he isn't disturbing his neighbors Jazz can enjoy his jams and surround-sound speakers safe in the knowledge that he won't be the source of any noise complaints.

There's plenty of space both to relax in bed as well as to work and store clothes with a sectioned-out work corner and a selection of closet and drawer space so that storage and style are not an issue.

Out of Jazz's space and down the apartment space we come to Prowl's room which features a touch of art-deco contemporary class as well as stark practical use with his personal space that feels more like a work-space away from his office down at the precinct.

There's a real sense of sophistication in the space despite the rather stark evidence of a man who refuses to stop working once he's left the premises (I see that box of unsolved case files there beside your bed Prowl).

Prowl really has brought the precinct home with him with the harsh industrial office furniture but it blends well with the classic art deco lines and sleek modern style. Though that certainly isn't endorsement of this lack of work-life balance on display.

At last we come to the apartment's balcony space which feels both comfortable and stylish with tasteful additions of wall-art and space to garden vertically while still having plenty of space to entertain and relax and watch the city go by around you.

Speaking of entertaining. We end our tour with this excellent shot of the view from the balcony's wet bar, installed specifically to drag Prowl out of his solitary living and into Jazz's fun orbit filled with sound and real living. We hope you've enjoyed this tour and will join us on our next one!

[eurovision-revisited]

Eurovision 2004 - Number 4 - Autolove - "Bulletproof Heart"

With a song from Melodifestivalen that seems to be as well remembered as this one, you'd expect me to have more biography and information about the band and their long career. Yet this is a one-off and even then, there appears to be some debate as to who exactly who Autolove were. However, I think in this case there is some resolution.

Starting with the song, Bulletproof Heart is a new wave/synthwave throw-back/throw-forward both harkening back to the early 1980s as well as anticipating bands like LaRoux by a clear half decade. It stands out by a mile amidst all the other Melfest entries. It's a pounding beat with sci-fi retrofuture synth noodling. The lyrics follow the conventions for any song with the word bulletproof in the title. Metaphors involving love and guns are de rigueur. The whole song is so to congruent with my musical palate I knew from the first time I heard it, it was going to be top ten.

There are two things against it. First is the pole-dancing, cabaret aesthetic - which I can understand but it needs way more choreography and connection to the song. Second is the lead-singer's voice. It is a little thin, airy, and lacks some power. Maybe this was illness, but who knows. Not only did Autolove not try again, but they never released another piece of music. This is their one and only outing.

The band are actually three people, two of who are not on stage. The two non-appearing members are song-writers and synth-programmers Gustave Lund and Peder Enrerot, both from the Ur-Swedish hip-hop group Just D from the early 90s. They were possibly Sweden's first rap group and used samples exclusively from Swedish music for their first two albums. Following on from introducing Swedish to hip hop, they took a bit of back seat in the mid-1990s, they'd both been involved in a few other projects such as Sverige, occasionally adopting noms de plume.

For their 2004 Melfest outing, they linked up with singer Ann Winsborn . She was having a big year in 2004, she was releasing her first singles under her own name, one of which became Poland's biggest hits of 2004. In her native Sweden though, she had not made an impact. Joining up with the Autolove project would appear to have been an attempt to break her home market.

There is a small amount of debate about whether the singer is Ann Winsborn though. She'd dyed her blonde hair black for this performance to fit with the aesthetic, and her live voice sound distinctly different to her recorded voice, which is all air-high and sugar-coated. This may have been her first performance live on Swedish TV in which case this might be a case of nerves. I'm fairly confident that this is her though as the next year, she released her second album and Bulletproof Heart was one of the tracks.

In reality, this failed to make it through the heat, ending up sixth of the eight songs. For Melfest fans it's one of those that stuck in the memory and does keep being brought up as a lost Melfest gem, in the 'what-could-have-been' file.

After this, all those involved seem to have left the music industry for a few years after 2005, but more recently all three of them have had another go. Just D reformed in 2015 and released more music. Ann made a short-lived comeback in 2020. For those who like to compare live with studio, here's the Ann Winsborn version of the song from her second album Pink Collar Crime.