#Filed Under: Home Aesthetic

[muniimyg]

♡ 01: maybe it's all in my head

series m.list // taglist

note: hihiii ,, this jk has been rotting my mind for a while now ... time to ruin urs !!! enj the tension ,, (i miss being toxic) lmk what u guys think of their dynamic tho <3 excited to share their little story with u ,, mwaaaa

warnings: oc and jk are mean in this fic !!! pls don't comment being whiney abt it :') !!! oc overhears jk fucking someone ,, jealousy ,, banter

//

“oh. it’s you.”

leaning against the doorframe, jungkook looks at you half disgusted and half disappointed. his arms are crossed with one eyebrow lifted. he blocks your entrance.

“now, now,” you reach over and ruffle his hair. he shifts, dodging your touch. “don’t be so excited. i know your boring life just waits for my presence—oh. i get it. were you expecting someone? usually you’re thrilled to see me.”

jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift, though there’s a faint glint in his eyes. 

“thrilled is reaching, don’t you think?”

“is it?”

“yeah.”

you roll your eyes, brushing past him with a teasing smile. 

“right, so… which are you today? mr. save the dolphins or professor chem?”

jungkook scoffs at you.

“at least my marine conservation interest and organic chem major help the world. what’s your major again? yap-conomics or bitch-ology?”

“help the world?” you almost burst into laughter. “god, you are such a nerd.”

“nerd? i don’t know about you, but some of us care about—”

“yeah, yeah,” you wave him off. “are you waiting for a nobel peace prize or something? holy shit, jungkook. learn to relax a little. you’re so serious. it’s cute, really… but only when you aren’t so anal about it.”

cute?

jungkook feels his chest tighten.

before he can make a comeback, taehyung calls you to the living room.

“___? is that you? stop trying to edge jungkook! get in here! i need your data for our paper!” 

you stick your tongue out at jungkook before turning away and rushing to the living room. your lips curl into a smug grin as you saunter off, leaving jungkook muttering something under his breath. you catch him rolling his eyes just before you disappear around the corner, a small flicker of triumph igniting in your chest.

the living room is warm, filled with the faint hum of taehyung’s lo-fi playlist and the smell of old books—his aesthetic, no doubt. taehyung is sprawled on the couch, laptop open, an arm draped lazily over the cushions. his wide grin grows wider when he sees you. 

“i’m here!”

“finally! come on, genius. enlighten me,” he says, patting the seat next to him.

you plop down beside him, legs folded under you, your laptop balanced precariously on your knees. “genius? are you sucking up to me because you didn’t do your part of the project yet?”

“yup,” he says, shrugging, his head tilted lazily to the side. “if you don’t send me that data tonight, though, i might call you something less flattering.”

you laugh, the sound soft and light, and lean into the cushions, already pulling up the necessary files. 

“your boyfriend’s in a mood.”

“he always is when you’re around,” taehyung teases. “he only answered the door cos he thought it was his student. your face must’ve pissed him off.”

chuckling at his response, you ask another question. 

“where are the guys?”

“they’ll be home soon,” taehyung answers. “said they wanna eat out tonight after jungkook’s tutoring session. you coming with?”

“sure,” you agree. 

then, the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, bouncing ideas back and forth while taehyung clicks through your notes, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic remark or two that makes you nudge him with your elbow.

a few minutes later, you hear an unfamiliar laugh and footsteps approaching.

jungkook strides in, casual and confident as always, but this time a girl is trailing after him. 

she’s pretty. 

the two exchange a few murmured words before jungkook’s eyes flicker briefly in your direction. he raises a hand in a lazy acknowledgment, the girl following suit, and say hi. taehyung nods at them and then they’re gone—slipping upstairs in the blink of an eye. 

the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut echoes faintly.

and then, it rings in your ear. 

you blink, your fingers frozen mid-typing on the keyboard. something gnaws at your chest, sharp and unfamiliar, leaving a bitter taste at the back of your throat. taehyung, oblivious, scrolls through your notes, muttering about formatting errors.

but you… you’re somewhere else entirely. 

what was that?

no name?

no introduction?

did she think you were taehyung's girlfriend or something? that jungkook was all for her?

oh god.

there's a weird twist in your stomach. it feels like a prickle of irritation spreading across your skin like an itch you can’t scratch… you shake your head, trying to brush it off, but the image of jungkook—smirking as usual, leaning casually against the banister, that girl so effortlessly fitting into the space beside him—lingers, stubborn and unshakable…

what the fuck.

it’s not like you and jungkook are close. 

you’re frenemies, at best. 

unsure of when it started exactly—but it’s been happening long enough for it to be routine and well-known in the friendgroup. you two are the kind of people who throw jabs at each other during game nights and compete to see who can make the snarkiest comment without crossing the line. you’re always caught in this stupid cycle of one-upping each other, all for the entertainment of the group. sometimes, more for yourself. life gets boring pretty quickly, and jungkook is your fastest source of entertainment. 

yet, why does it feel like you’ve just lost some unspoken game?

your chest tightens, and you lower your gaze to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. you bite the inside of your cheek, a nervous habit you’ve never been able to kick… this icky feeling begins to take over and your mind races with reasons as to why.

maybe it’s because jungkook’s always been so good at getting under your skin. 

maybe it’s because, for all his teasing and relentless bickering, there’s this… comfort in knowing that he’s always there, right across the table, firing back at you like he knows exactly how to push your buttons.

and maybe that’s the problem.

because now, with someone else upstairs, laughing at something he probably said, you’re starting to realize that you might actually care more than you thought.

maybe you care because you’re not the one in his room he’s trying to make laugh.

after a few hours pass, everyone’s stomach beings to grumble. 

for the past 20 minutes, the guys have been begging you to go up and call jungkook down. he hasn’t been answering their texts and all argue that if they go up and knock; he’ll just ignore them. 

… but if you do it…

he’ll answer.

even if it’s just to insult you. 

you glance up at the clock, already mentally calculating the time. you're not really in the mood for another round of back-and-forth with him, but you know they'll just keep pushing you.

"please, please, please, ___!” taehyung cries, pouting. “i really need pad thai. like… so bad. like, i might die. please go get jungkook.”

you hesitate, your eyes flicking to the stairs. 

jungkook hasn’t come out at all. you don’t want to disturb anything and he’s a total grumpy-head when his study time is disrupted… what more if it’s a tutoring lesson? the last time you went up there, it ended with you calling him a dumbass and him tossing a pillow at you.

“i think you guys can go get him this time," you say, turning your attention back to your phone, pretending to scroll through a message.

"oh come on," jimin presses. "you know, at the end of the day… he only really listens to you." his voice drips with exaggeration, but it only makes you roll your eyes.

"yeah, that’s true…" hobi adds with a playful smirk, leaning back into the couch. "you’re like his… little bitch or something."

you shoot them both a look. “you think i’m his bitch?"

“either that or he’s your little bitch.”

you scoff at him. “please do not disgrace bitches by associating them with him.”

“fine, fine,” jin says with a dramatic sigh, raising his hands in mock surrender. “we won’t force you to go up… we’ll bribe you!”

your interest piques as you glance up at him, eyebrow raised. 

“bribe me? how much cash do you have today?”

yoongi and nam joon share a look. then, nam joon leans forward, his eyes twinkling mischievously. 

“milk tea," he offers, his voice low and enticing, like he knows exactly what will catch your attention. "… any boba store you want. any time… for a week, ___.”

you try to fight the grin that starts tugging at your lips. 

fuck it. 

you nod begrudgingly, slipping your phone into your pocket. 

“deal.”

taehyung bursts out laughing. “deal."

with a resigned sigh, you head for the stairs. 

as you climb up, you prepare yourself. 

you prepare yourself for his death glare and the innocent girl in the background. you prepare yourself for his snarky comments and his sweet tone of voice the minute he turns around to talk to her. you prepare yourself to feel sick to your stomach again. 

as you stand in front of his bedroom door and raise your fist to knock—you hear it. 

rather, you hear them. 

the unmistakable sound of his voice, muffled but clear enough that you can make out the low hum of his tone, followed by a girl’s laugh—a breathy, high-pitched laugh that makes your stomach twist.

you freeze, standing in the doorway, caught between disbelief and something you can’t quite name. your heartbeat picks up in your chest, your body tensing as the reality of the situation settles over you.

you’re not sure what exactly it is—maybe it’s the fact that it’s so casual, or maybe it’s the way the sound of it makes you feel like you’re intruding—but you feel a sudden flush creep up your neck and cheeks.

“oh my god, o-oh my g-god! t-that’s it, jungkook! oh god, baby… f-fuck!”

“fuck—you close, baby?”

“so close, baby. so fucking close. g-god, yes, yes, yes! nghh—fuck! so big, jungkook. oh my god, oh my god! fuck me, fuck me… j-just like that, baby. yes, y-yes–o-oh! mhmmmphhh—”

"shit, shit, shit..."

"fuck me harder, jungkook. please! o-oh? oh! oh my god! yes... yes! thank you, baby. thank you, thank you! ahhh... oh my god..."

you swallow, stepping back, retreating to the stairs. 

the guilt of overhearing makes your pulse race in an odd way, like you’ve been caught in something you weren’t supposed to see.

at the bottom of the stairs, you pause, your hand on the banister, unsure whether you should stay or go. 

you quickly decide. 

you’re already feeling the sting of something sharp and unfamiliar in your chest.

“guys,” you say quickly, trying to keep your tone light, but there’s an edge to it you can’t mask. "y-you know what? i think i’ll just head home. i’ve got a ton of work to do.”

they look at you, confused. taehyung blinks a couple of times, jimin frowning. 

“but we—"

"y-yeah,” you breathe. “i… i know. i just… it’s all good. you guys can go ahead without me,” you add, forcing a smile.

“slow down, ___. what—”

“i feel sick,” you confess. “okay? i feel sick.”

“okay… can one of us drive you home or something—”

“no. i’m good. thank you, though… i.. i gotta go.”

they all frown, their confusion morphing into concern, but you’ve already grabbed your things and hurried out the door before they can protest.

the cold night air feels like a slap to your face as you walk away, but it doesn’t quite shake the unsettled feeling in your stomach. 

you can’t stop thinking about it. 

about how you feel.

about what you heard.

about how much you fucking hate jeon jungkook.

it’s almost 10PM by the time you finish showering. your hair is still damp, hanging loosely around your shoulders as you brush it out in front of the mirror. the soft swish of the brush is the only sound in the room, your thoughts still lingering on what happened earlier. the image of Jungkook with that girl, the sound of their voices together, keeps replaying in your mind, and it won’t leave.

you shut your eyes and try to forget. 

taking a breath in—your moment is interrupted by a knock on your door. 

you frown, glancing at the clock before moving to the door, towel still hanging from your shoulders. it’s late, and you weren’t expecting anyone. 

heading towards the door, you wonder who it is.

then, when you open the door, you freeze.

there, standing in the hallway with a takeout bag in hand, is jungkook. his face is unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—seem to be searching yours for something. you can’t quite figure out what.

you blink, caught off guard by the unexpected visit, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

“uh…” jungkook clears his throat, breaking the silence, his voice lower than usual. “the guys think i did something to piss you off… so i’m supposed to say sorry for… whatever i did.”

“you didn’t do anything,” you lie. “goodnight.”

just as you’re about to shut the door, he takes a step forward. 

“___,” he says, tone flat and annoyed. “don’t be a bitch. just tell me what i did so i can apologize, go home and tell them what i did wrong, and we can act like nothing happened—”

“okay,” you shrug. “you wore an ugly shirt today. there. say sorry.”

jungkook winces at you. 

“seriously?”

you shrug again. 

“what do you want, jungkook? i have nothing to say to you—”

“i don’t fucking understand where all this attitude is coming from. i didn’t do shit to you today. you know i didn’t… so, can you please use your tiny brain to make something up? something more convincing than hating my fucking shirt.” 

you nod, pretending to care. then, just as you reach for the door to shut it again; jungkook swiftly moves past you. he lets himself in. 

“they’re worried you didn’t eat,” he states. “did you eat?”

you groan at him. “why the fuck do you care?”

“i don’t.”

but his actions say otherwise. 

jungkook then takes off his shoes and heads to your coffee table. he sits himself on the floor and begins to unpack the food. silently, you watch as he does so and can’t help but feel like throwing up. 

“eat,” he commands. 

you glare at him. 

“get out.”

jungkook leans back against your couch. “eat, tell me what i did wrong, then i’ll leave.”

“leave first.”

“eat first.”

“get out.”

“holy shit,” jungkook scoffs. “are you even capable of forming a complex sentence, or is that too much for you? ___, this is called a conversation. you’re supposed to—"

“get out.”

jungkook sighs heavily. 

a silence falls upon you two. 

jungkook has had difficult days with you before.

this is nothing new… but for some reason, right now feels harder than the other days. partly because most days he knows when he’s being an asshole—but today? he has no clue. 

he’s in the dark. 

jungkook clears his throat. 

“i didn’t yell at you today,” he starts. “i didn’t call you names. you called me a nerd but that was it… your face ruined my day but i guess it made the others pretty happy since they were so pissed at me for being the reason why you left… so, hey… how about this? you tell me what i did wrong for the guys. not for me.”

you raise an eyebrow at him. 

his eyes plead. 

then, a moment passes. 

instead of answering him, you pick up your feet and sit on the floor beside him. you look at the door and take the utensils from the bag. poking at the food, you contemplate on telling him what’s going on in your head. 

just as you’re about to eat a spoonful of the food, you suddeny feel jungkook close to you. without saying a word, his fingers brush lightly against your cheek, making you hold your breath. his hand moves to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear, carefully pushing it out of the way so it doesn’t fall into your food. 

the gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that it catches you off guard, and for a second, you’re just left there, staring at him.

he looks at you sincerely. in his eyes, you can see his defeat. 

you don’t know if it was the gesture or the look in his eyes—but your words slip out of your mouth faster than you can think to stop it. 

“she was too loud.”

he tilts his head at you. 

“oh,” jungkook connects. his expression stiffens for a split second, then he schools it back into calm. “overheard, did you?” he asks, leaning in slightly, voice a low murmur. 

“oh, i definitely heard,” you reply, folding her arms, feigning thoughtfulness. “don’t act so cocky… she sounded like she was faking it.”

he stares, jaw flexing, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something challenging in his eyes. 

“that’s cute coming from someone who couldn’t even stay for dinner.”

suddenly that pang of jealousy again hits again. 

you know you should just brush it off… keep your cool and act nonchalant about it—but something about jungkook just makes you feel so off balance. 

“maybe i had better things to do,” you retort. 

“like what?” 

you shrug. 

“like leave.”

“you should’ve knocked,” jungkook smirks. “i would’ve opened the door. we don’t mind an audience usually.” 

there it is again. 

the sick, sinking, icky feeling. 

“you two fuck often?”

jungkook looks away, taking a moment to think. 

“yeah,” he admits. “what? surprised nerds get laid?”

you stay quiet. 

“i mean.. it’s not really any of your business…" he mutters, though there’s a tension in his voice that doesn’t match his casual shrug. you can tell he's trying to brush it off, but the way his jaw tightens betrays him.

you feel your stomach tighten, the words you threw out lingering in the air between you, each one heavier than the last. you weren’t expecting him to react like this—maybe a joke or a deflecting comment—but not this… 

tension.

"right," you reply, your tone softer than you intended. you glance down at your food, suddenly losing your appetite. the casual air you were hoping for is long gone, replaced by an uncomfortable silence that neither of you seems willing to break.

jungkook shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck before clearing his throat. 

"look, it’s not like that," he adds quickly, but the words sound almost too defensive. "she’s just... i don’t know. it’s nothing serious."

you don’t respond immediately, still caught up in the strange mix of feelings his words stir in you. the way he said it—like it was nothing serious—feels too much like an attempt to distance himself from whatever was going on.

you’re not sure what you wanted from this conversation, but now all you feel is a growing knot in your chest.

"yeah," you mutter, trying to sound indifferent, but the weight of his words hangs in the air, making your throat feel tight. "whatever you say—”

“why do you care anyway?” jungkook’s voice is sharp now, a slight edge creeping into his tone as he looks at you, his expression shifting from defensive to something you can’t quite place.

you’re caught off guard by the question. 

you weren’t prepared for that, weren’t prepared for the way it makes your chest tighten. why do you care? it’s not like you have any right to, right?

you open your mouth, but the words don’t come out. Instead, you just shrug, trying to play it cool, but you can feel your pulse quicken. 

"i don’t. i just—"

"you just what?" he interrupts, his brow furrowing, as though he’s not buying the act. "you’ve never cared before. why start now?"

you clench your fists at your sides, feeling the sting of his words more than you want to admit. There’s a part of you that wants to tell him—tell him how seeing him with her, hearing them laugh together, makes something ugly twist in your stomach. 

but you can’t.

"i don’t know," you finally mutter, your voice quieter than before. “it's weird. like, of course i knew you weren't a virgin but... are you actually that good? then again… doesn’t take much to fake sounds like her.”

jungkook’s eyes flicker to yours, something unreadable passing through them before he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. then, he smirks. 

it’s more calculated, though… like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

"curious?"

"disgusted, actually."

a beat.

"what, you wanted it to be you?" he asks, his voice smooth, a challenge in his tone.

you almost choke on your breath, but you recover quickly. "me? sleeping with you? please."

he lets out a low laugh, but it’s not playful this time. 

it’s more mocking. 

“yeah, i mean, i don’t even want you that bad…" he takes a slow look at you, like he's mentally assessing you, deciding if you’re worth his time. "not even close."

the words sting more than they should, but you keep your composure. 

you try to look unbothered, but his next words twist the knife a little deeper.

“fuck you.”

"you wish i’d fuck you," he remarks, almost casually, like it's no big deal. "would make things easier, huh?"

your chest tightens, and something about the way he says it makes your blood run cold. It’s not just teasing anymore—it’s a jab.

but you refuse to let him see how much it affects you.

"i’m not interested in you," you shoot back, your voice betraying none of the discomfort you’re feeling. 

he leans in a little, eyes never leaving yours. 

"really?" 

“really.”

his smirk widens, and you can feel the tension crackling in the air. 

“guess what? i think you care more than you're letting on. you act like you don’t give a shit, but it’s so obvious you’re just pissed it’s not you in my bed."

you bite your lip, trying to keep your voice steady, but something betrays you in the way your heart races. 

"i’m not pissed," you mutter, the words coming out too quickly, like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him. "why would i be?"

jungkook watches you for a moment, taking in every little reaction. 

"i don’t know, ___," he says, his tone low and teasing, like he’s enjoying every second of this. "but it’s cute. you’re all flushed, trying to act like you don’t care, but i can see right through you."

you grit your teeth, wanting to snap back, but instead, you just look away. 

"shut up," you mutter, frustrated with yourself more than anything. "you’re such an asshole sometimes, you know?"

he laughs again, but this time there’s something darker in it, almost like he's reveling in your frustration. 

“i don’t think you’re as immune to me as you pretend to be," he says. "but hey, don’t stress about it, baby. i’m not that interested either. i mean, what’s the fun in fucking you? it’d be harder getting rid of you than getting in your pants.”

you feel the sting of his words hit harder than they should.

“are you done?” you mutter, forcing a nonchalant tone. "and don't call me baby. you called her baby. i don't want to be associated—"

"you think you'd fold as fast as she did?"

jungkook’s eyes flicker with something that could almost be amusement—or maybe something else. he clears his throat.

“shit, ___. i’m sorry—”

“yeah?” 

you don't know why, but something inside you snaps. 

you shift your body close to him. so close that you glance at his lips, then back up to his eyes, as if you’re weighing something—daring him to make a move.

jungkook’s body tenses, his breath shallow, like he's ready to close the distance… to make some sort of move. his lips part slightly as if he's about to speak, but before he can, you push him away. 

now, he’s tongue tied.

“shit, jungkook... i'm sorry," you mock him. "but you're wrong... this is fun."

[highvern]

Red Card

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

Genre: smut/fluff, non-idol au, 80s au (aesthetics only), childhood friends to lovers

Warnings: drinking, weed use (not reader tho), skinny dipping, non-graphic injuries (sprained knee), mingyu gets a booboo and reader kisses it better, oral (m & f receiving), face sitting, penetrative sex, protected sex. all of em's biases in one fic

Length: ~12k

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE WIND BENEATH MY WINGS MS @gyuswhore EVERYONE TELL HER HAPPY BIRTHDAY thank you for dealing with all my tomfoolery on a daily basis. i hope this is a nice treat after the trenches of academia. thank you @haologram and @tomodachiii for beta reading!

Summary: Mingyu's been there through everything. From childhood to now. What happens when he gets hurt and someone else has to step in and play the hero?

m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

You’re going to kill your roommate.

Maybe not this second, when you’re still waking up and the sun has barely started to filter through the blinds and the alarm clock is blaring in your ear. It’s difficult to strangle someone when he’s smothering you with his entire body weight, completely unaware of the fact you can’t breathe because of it.  There's heat and then there's sweating out of your skin because your roommate doesn’t understand ‘what’s mine is yours’ only extends to the food in the fridge.

You’ll strangle Mingyu one day, but right now you’re late for work. 

“Get off!” you fume, pushing at his shoulder with all your strength. 

Mingyu smacks his lips sleepily and burrows further into your neck. You pinch his nipple between your finger and twist.

“Ow! What the fuck?” he screams, shuffling off you and into the wall, eyes wild and clutching his chest like a scandalized old woman

Rolling off the mattress, you navigate the dark of your room looking for your work clothes. “How many times have I told you not to sleep in here?”

“My room is so hot!” Mingyu whines, digging his face into the pillow.

“Yeah, well now my room is too.” You find the floral green and pink dress of your Pier Club uniform. Facing away from Mingyu, you swiftly change into it and look for the matching skirt. It’s offensive, even in the dim predawn. “Do you have work today?”

Mingyu stuffs himself further beneath the blankets, only the very center of his face visible. “Yeah. Covering for JJ.”

“Get up then. We’re gonna be late.”

Mingyu scrambles to his room to get dressed. The bathroom is wedged between his room and Soonyoung's, so you hear a thud, and a curse followed by another louder thud and a grunt of pain. He joins you in the bathroom, dressed in his uniform: pink polo, white pants, and white golf shoes. Like an incredibly tall and sleepy flamingo.

Two people becomes four in a blink, each of you reaching over and under for whatever is needed from the small shelf in the mirror. Your elbow meets Dokyeom’s eye, and someone steps on your foot. 

Soonyoung is pouring coffee into a mug in the kitchen, foot tapping against the linoleum while Dokyeom rushes around trying to find his pants. You’ve lived like this for two years. It doesn’t even phase you.

“If you’re not in the truck in five you’re walking!” Mingyu calls and disappears.

One by one you file out. You detour for the kitchen. The toaster takes two minutes and the coffee pot four but you’re still faster than the other two and get an actual seat in the cab of the truck. There's really no decent way to get in and out of a truck in a skirt anyway so you take the small blessing that comes in the form of cracked leather seats and a door you have to roll down the window to open from the outside.

Dokyeom chases the green Ford down the driveway six minutes later and Mingyu slows down enough for him to hop into the flatbed next to Soonyoung. You’re only two minutes late in the end.

The club is packed with guests all day. By the time dinner service is over and you’ve counted your tips, all you want is to go home and pass out but it’s Seungcheol’s birthday. Despite what he explicitly asked everyone for (an Atari 7800), there’s a bonfire at the beach and if Mingyu is there then you are too. Someone has to pile him and the other boys into the bed of his truck and get them home.

The private section of the beach reserved for locals only is packed. Someone blasts a Bowie track, drunk party goers dancing around the massive bonfire while others relax on logs or sit in the sand and watch. A few people stroll down by the water, splashing through the shallows in the dark.

You stay planted in one of the few real chairs, sipping on a beer while your roommates do who knows what. It’s not that you don’t like parties; but your feet hurt and more than a few people stiffed you today so you’re tired. And now, after a few drinks you’re tired and drunk. But no one is ready to leave so it’s either wait or walk and the five miles back to the house is daunting enough you stay firmly planted.

“Ooo, got any more of those for me?” Jeonghan plants himself in the sand next to you, reaching for the cooler.

You slam the lid down on his hand and pull it out of his reach. “Fuck off, you still owe me for last time.”

He tries cozying up to you; pretending the arm around your shoulder is meant as a sweet hug and not a means to get his hand back in the ice box behind you. “Look, I didn’t drink your vodka. But if I did, it tasted like shit.”

“I’m not talking about the vodka, I’m talking about when you fucked some bimbo in my bed!”

He’s already drunk on someone else’s booze; Seungcheol’s no doubt.  

“Oh. That.” Jeonghan scratched the back of his neck. “Listen, it was a big misunderstanding.”

“What misunderstanding? Your dick couldn’t stay in your pants for three more feet to fuck in Soonyoung’s room?”

Jeonghan balks, eyes glazed in the fire light. “Have you tried having sex on a waterbed? It’s not easy.”

Mingyu, as always, is honed in on your bad mood and comes up the beach smiling, hair a mess in the wind. You don’t stare and focus on slapping Jeonghan’s hands away. “Everything okay?”

“I’m gonna kill Jeonghan,” you mumble. 

“I asked her for a beer.”

Mingyu arches a brow. “Didn’t you fuck some girl in her bed last time we had a party?”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing. She is drunk and acting like the beer czar. Where is the hospitality?”

“If I give you one will you leave?”

“Yes,” Jeonghan responds immediately.

Mingyu passes him two beers and snaps the cooler shut before the older man can get greedy. Jeonghan salutes Mingyu and then sticks his tongue out at you before leaving for the other side of the fire.

“Eat shit and die!” you call. You love Jeonghan but he’s got a way of grating on your last never. Especially after the girl he hooked up with stained your sheets with fake tan even if he offered to buy you a new bed and sheets.

Jeonghan waves the hand full of beers over his head. “Eat shit and live!”

“Alright, let’s get you home,” Mingyu chuckles. 

In his truck, the radio hums one of his fifty million cassettes. He only breaks the comfy lull at a deserted intersection. “One to ten, how mad would you be if we took a detour?”

“At least five, but it depends on where.” You eye him sceptically. Truly, all you want is to get home, shower, and sleep. But Mingyu had a way of convincing you to go along with whatever plan he’d cooked up.

“Chocolate shakes at Joe’s and then the lookout.”

It’s hard saying no to that. Even harder when Mingyu stares at you like a hopeful puppy. 

Your eyes roll. “Okay, maybe like a two.”

“I’ll get you chili cheese fries.”

“Negative one.”

Mingyu turns right, humming along to the next song the entire way to the drive in diner. Your eyes are heavier each minute but greasy food sounds fantastic and your grumbling stomach keeps you from falling asleep against the door. 

Joe’s sits in all its neon glory, like a little beacon of light in the otherwise quiet beach town. Most of the picnic tables littered outside are covered in people; out of towners, teenage locals with sun bleached hair and frizzy perms, old couples who’ve been coming since milkshakes were invented. Almost all of the workers rushing through the diner in red polos are still in highschool and then there’s Vernon manning the cash register at the window like the captain of a ship. He doesn’t even look like he works here; white cut off tee and neon green swim trunks don’t really match the fifties aesthetic but no one says anything, even the owner.

Vernon doesn’t bother ringing the order up, yelling at the line cooks it’s on the house. He thrusts two paper cups and a greasy paper bag across the counter and greets the next customer in line.

Twenty minutes later Mingyu is parking his truck on the side of the road and trailing across the dunes to the even more secluded beach, one only the most local townies know about. Since most of those are few and far between, it’s just you two planted in the sand, chilli cheese fries and chocolate shakes filling your bellies in no time.

“I think I’m gonna get Joe’s logo tattooed on me.”

“He’ll probably leave the place to you if you did.”

“Vernon is literally named in his will, I’ve seen it.” Mingyu lays back in the sand and closes his eyes.

The waves crash on along the shore, the perfect soundtrack to lull you closer to sleep now that your belly is filled. Beneath you, the sand is just warm enough to be cozy against the chill rolling off the ocean.

“Wanna swim?” he asks.

Sinking deeper, eyes closed, you’re only thinking about how amazing your bed would be right at this very moment. “I want to go to sleep.”

“Studies show you sleep better after swimming.” Mingyu rolls up to his feet, grabbing you in an attempt to get you to agree. He knows you will. Wherever one is the other is sure to follow. It’s been that way since you two were in diapers and Mingyu started walking seconds after you only to chase you around the living room.

You’re deadweight in his arms as you respond,“How would you know? You didn’t go to college.”

“I’m just academically inclined.”

“My apologies,” you gasp. A swim does sound nice for your aching muscles. It’s been so long since you just enjoyed the water. Last time you swam was when you picked up a life guarding shift and an old man screamed bloody murder because he didn’t know how to swim; never mind he was in the shallow end of the pool. 

You finally rise to your feet and shrug off your shirt.

Mingyu joins. He doesn’t shy away as he drops his pants, his shirt floating to the ground next to it. You don’t stare. There’s no need when you’ve seen him nearly naked a million times. But you do catch him staring when you bend over to fold your shorts.

“What?”

Blinking out of his daze, Mingyu bolts for the ocean. “Last one in the water is a rotten egg!”

“You fucking cheater!” you scream and sprint after him. 

He’s far out by the time you catch up, where the waves are just starting to curl in on themselves. You both bob along to their rhythm as the tide pulls in and out. 

Mingyu dives beneath the water, breaching with his hair sticking to his face. His lips are wet and slick. Mingyu pulls you a little, brings you into his chest so the next wave you coast over together. 

You want to kiss him. 

It’s not a new thought; doesn’t surprise you one bit. His mouth probably still tastes like that last sip of chocolate shake. The first and only time you’ve ever kissed Mingyu you were both two out of it to actually appreciate it. It was poetically cruel to give your first kiss away to your best friend only for him to forget it the next day.

It’s easy to ignore the urge to kiss him. You’ve wanted to kiss him again for years. Touching him is an entirely different matter. You can touch Mingyu as much as you like, he likes it when you do and pouts when you don’t. You rarely shy away from a chance to let him touch you either. It’s never enough though.

You twist around him, clinging to his back. Ankles locked across his stomach, Mingyu pulls your hands in front of him and holds your hands; his thumb traces the knob of your wrist over and over in tiny circles. He definitely feels the way your nipples harden through your bra but has the courtesy to ignore it; lets you hide from the cold water in the curve of his neck.

“You need a haircut,” you say. You tug on one of the long locks hanging at eye level, and Mingyu shivers. With so much bare skin pressed against each other you feel the goosebumps blooming on his skin, and when you pull again to see what’ll happen he snatches your hand away and changes the subject.

“Are you gonna be good for the Open this weekend?”

“I’ll be fine,” you yawn. Mingyu pulls your legs tighter around his waist, bobbing you both amongst the waves. It’s dangerously relaxing. “I’m not losing to Seungkwan again this year.”

“We’re not losing to Seungkwan this year.”

“Damn straight.”

You float in silence. Mingyu keeps both of you above water. When you signal you’re ready to go he carries you out of the water, right up to where your clothes lay. He doesn’t let you down as he scoops them up and goes for his car. 

“Show off,” you mumble.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

You’re deposited on the ground next to the driver’s side door. Apparently he can’t hold you and dig up the spare towels he keeps packed beneath the seats. There’s no point in putting your clothes back on over your wet underwear so you ride back to the house wrapped tightly in a towel and Mingyu’s around his waist, chest completely bare.

You blast through a shower, done before the crappy water heated even has time to reach full potential which isn’t much because rent is cheap and your landlord cheaper. But you’re clean and that’s all that matters before you dress and crawl into bed, the door of your room still open. You catch Mingyu passing by on the way back to his room, towel around his neck and the cut sweat shorts he swears don’t need to be thrown out hanging low on his hips. 

“Where are you going?” you call. 

His head pops in, covered in shadow from the hall light. “You said, literally this morning might I add, ‘sleep in my room one more time and I’ll kill you.’”

“Yeah well,” you huff. “My feet hurt. So you can sleep in here if you give me a massage.”

He does and he doesn’t even complain while doing it. Mingyu closes your bedroom door, locks you both in the dark; sits at the foot of your bed, tugging your feet across his lap and setting to work. His thumb digs into the arch of your foot, malting all of your muscles into straight goo. You’ve never been more happy for his overly abundant body heat as he works his hands up your calves. He’s frustratingly attentive as you shiver and wiggle in blissful agony.

In the dark of your room, brain hazy with fatigue, you don’t care you’re moaning at the pressure of his palms working the knots out of your muscles. Mingyu doesn’t acknowledge it but he does knead a little bit hard and you sigh from relief. And then the bastard digs his thumb into that place behind your knee that's painfully ticklish.

“You asshole!” you scream, scrambling away. 

“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted a massage?” he laughs. You try to kick him but he catches your foot and pins it to his stomach. 

“I swear—Mingyu! Stop!”

Thankfully, he does after a few more pleas. You can’t even see him in the dark except for the reflection of the moon through your blinds that clues you into his silhouette. But you know he’s satisfied because he starts humming while massaging once again. It’s nice. You start nodding off to the soft strength of his hands and the rich sound of his voice.

Mingyu prides himself on doing a thorough job in everything so once your ankles and calves are worked into submission his hands reach higher. Almost like he doesn’t realize exactly where he’s going; who he’s touching as he grips just above your knee. Your legs part and Mingyu keeps going. 

Your best friend is beautiful and you love him. Of course, you do. Like every other time you’ve been turned on by him, you staunchly pretend it isn’t happening. Make up some excuse; biology, you’re in love with him. the fact you haven’t been laid in nearly a year, you’re in love with Mingyu, you’ve been drinking, your best friend has his hand beneath the hem of your pajama shorts and you’re in love with him.

“Good?” he asks.

Mingyu lingers there for a second. Then another one. You decide feigning sleep is the less awkward option than begging him to finger you until you can’t see straight. It doesn’t take much pretending; you’re bone dead tired and the second you let it filter in it takes control. Ever the gentleman, Mingyu removes his hands and climbs up to lay next to you.

You actually fall asleep curled against his back. It’s still too hot even with the ceiling fan on high so you both lay above the covers. 

The next morning you wake up the same as always, legs tangled, his chest to your back because Mingyu doesn’t understand personal space – especially your personal space. It’s fine. You’re used to it. It’s your day off which means it’s too early to be awake because it’s still dark in your room. If you try really hard you know you can fall back asleep until noon.

But then you feel exactly what woke you up.

Mingyu has a boner.

You reach back and pinch his side to wake him. You know he’s at least semi-conscious because he whines and tries to hide in your hair as you admonish him. “Get your dick off me.”

“Ignore it, he’ll go away,” his lips smack next to your ear.

“Mingyu,” you whine. “It’s gross.”

He falls back asleep without moving anywhere. If you had pushed at him he would’ve rolled over and given you his back to cuddle up against but you don’t so he doesn’t. You try not to think about how big he is. Or how your underwear are still a little sticky from last night. Or the fact your shorts rode up during the night and the only thing separating your ass from his cock is those damn threadbare sweatshorts. There is also the placement of his hand just below your boobs. Over your shirt because the universe isn’t that cruel.

It’s fine. It’s not the first time he’s gotten hard while sharing a bed. The first place you two rented - freshly eighteen and just starting to have a world without parents breathing down your necks - there was only enough money between you to split one bedroom and have enough money to afford a bed. Thankfully, Mingyu is the cleanest person you know so it worked without bloodshed but it left some very uncomfortable moments in the morning when you’d wake up from dirty dreams about your childhood crush only to find his face a few inches away. Or the other, more awkward, days when Mingyu’s body reminded him he was a hormonal teenager sharing a bed with a girl with zero supervision.

You both refuse to talk about it. Or the times either of you walked in on the other masturbating. 

True to his word, his dick softens against your ass and you try not to be a little disappointed. A world of possibilities if you weren’t terrified of ruining a life long friendship. You could roll over and kiss him. And if he let you kiss him then you’d want to touch him. If you touched him then he’d probably touch you back. In all the years you’d know him you didn’t take Mingyu for a selfish person; or a selfish lover. If he reduced you to a puddle with a simple massage last night then what else was he capable of? 

But you don’t want meaningless satisfaction. You want Mingyu. Everyday, all the time. One hundred percent completely yours. 

Eventually your alarm clock blares and Mingyu rolls out of bed; leaving you all alone as he heads out to work with the other two. You fall asleep once the front door slams shut.

Ten hours later, Mingyu isn’t home. No problem. He probably got roped into doing an extra shift or the last group he caddied for insisted on treating him to a drink. It happens. Often. 

You don’t worry until hour twelve rolls around and Soonyoung and Dokyeom aren’t home either. The restaurant  is closed by this hour, the last tables cleared out and reset for the next day. The pool is closed too. One of them should be home.

The house is too quiet without them. You try reading. Watching TV. Listening to music. Cleaning the kitchen. You try everything you can think of to make that horrible feeling in your stomach go away but it doesn’t.

Then the phone rings.

“Hello?”

The line cracks with a familiar voice. “Hey, it’s DK. Umm…”

“Where the hell are you guys?” you ask.

“Promise me you won’t freak.”

“You saying that pretty much guarantees I’m gonna freak.”

“Okay, listen, everything is fine. Mingyu is okay but—”

“But what?”

“He hurt himself on the course today and we’re at the hospital. Hoshi is on his way to get you right now.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Something twisted wrong or something, I don’t know I flunked out of med school.”

It takes Soonyoung fifteen minutes to get to the house but once he does you feel a little better. You don’t even get to ask before he’s talking.

“He’s fine,” he promises. “Just doped up on painkillers.”

“Did they say what’s wrong?”

“Something with his knee, nothing super serious but he’s supposed to stay off it for like a month or something.”

Soonyoung looks guilty as you take the keys and leave him behind but he has to be up in four hours when the rest of you don’t.

The hospital is nearly deserted this late at night, a few nurses in the parking lot smoking during their break but otherwise you're pretty much alone. Inside the reception area is all sterile lighting and pleather chairs in pastel pink and teal.

A woman in scrubs and feathered blowout sits at the desk answering phone calls and scratching through paperwork.

“I’m here for Mingyu. Mingyu Kim.”

“Room eight.”

You thank her and head back to search for wherever your best friend is holed up. It takes only a few walks around the corridor because unless he aged fifty years, the elderly woman in room eight is not him.

You find him and Dokyeom with their eyes glued to the TV, Scooby Doo reruns stealing their attention. You hover in the doorway.

Mingyu has his leg wrapped from mid-shin up his thigh, knee resting on a stack of pillows. His eyes are glazed from whatever pills the hospital staff gave him before your arrival.

Someone clears their throat behind you. By the scrubs you assume she’s the doctor. “Another friend of Mr. Kim’s?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Is he okay?”

“He sprained his knee. Nasty work but not fatal.”

“How?”

She shrugs, pen clicking in her hand. “Over use, stretched too far either side. Good news, he doesn’t need surgery.”

“So he’ll be okay?”

“Since he didn’t tear any ligaments I’d say a few weeks until he recovers, longer if he doesn’t rest properly. And I mean actually rest. At least a week in bed, and then two on crutches. Maybe three but he’ll be okay.”

Mingyu is fine. As fine as he can be with a bum leg for the next few weeks but fine nonetheless. You feel like you can actually breathe again, the anxious part of your brain proclaiming the worst finally silent.

“Alright, thank you.”

Weight off your chest, you enter the room. Dokyeom sees you first and bows out. He knows you’re planning to rip Mingyu a new one. Or cry. You don’t really do well when he’s hurt or vice versa.

Mingyu only notices your presence when you’re standing next to the bed, arms crossed, breath shaky.

“You’re mad,” he whispers, chin tucked to his chest like an upset toddler.

“I’m not mad.”

“Really?” He sounds hopeful, dumb puppy eyes round and wet like he’s ready to cry at the first sound of your disapproval.

“I was mad when you broke your arm because Jungkook talked you into boogie boarding drunk. I was mad when Wonwoo gave you a black eye from his Atari controller. I was mad when you, tweedle dee and tweedle dumb almost flooded the house. Now, I’m furious. What the fuck were you thinking?”

You’re mad because he’s in a hospital bed and you thought he died. And it terrified you.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!”

You break, shoulders sagging in defeat. It isn’t his fault. Freak accident, an overdue inevitable. “I know, I’m sorry. I just… you really scared me.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“Your leg is broken and you’re offering me a hug?”

He stares at you, eyes pretty and dark with huge pupils. “Dude, I’m so high you could tell me you crashed my truck and I wouldn’t care.”

“A hug would be nice.”

It’s uncomfortable to bend at the waist but Mingyu makes it worth it. Sweeps you into his chest, doesn’t comment on the hot tears that damp his neck and shirt but that might have to do with the fact he’s out of his mind. But he also brushes his hand through your hair and kisses the top of your head so it isn’t so bad.

“You didn’t crash my truck, did you?”

“No,” you snort.

You soak in it for a few minutes, let Scooby Doo fill the silence while you sniffle into his collar for a little while longer. And then you're shoving it all away with the realization Mingyu can’t work if he can’t get around the resort.

“Doctor said you’re out of work for at least a week. And after that you’ll probably be stuck in the laundry room because I doubt Jin wants you hobbling around the cabana with crutches.”

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Yeah. Fuck,” you agree. “I’ll figure something out, take more shifts. Josh needs more surf instructors too so I can pick those up. Hoshi probably owes one of us money.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It's just gonna be a tight winter is all.”

“What about the Open?”

“Jungkook can fill in for you. If we win, he takes half of your share. It’s better than nothing.”

He mutters something you don’t hear. Probably more high protests and apologies. It smells like antiseptic.

“Come on, let’s get you home.”

It takes three nurses, Dokyeom, a wheelchair, and an infinite reserve of your patience to get Mingyu in the bed of his truck. His knee is bandaged in the split so thickly he can’t move it and he’s too tall to sit in the passenger seat with his leg straight so the truckbed is the only place for him to go. You try to drive responsibly but it’s late and you're burnt out from a long day.

Back home, Hoshi is passed out in his room, the stink of weed warning you not to wake him. Dokyeom offers to help but thankfully, even high on painkillers, Mingyu acclimates to crutches enough to get from outside to his room.

“You smell,” you say to cut the tension.

“How am I supposed to shower like this?” He gestures to his leg. You know the warning signs of his temper. Mingyu will pretend it doesn’t bother him but it clearly does; having to ask for your help to do something as simple as shower.

“I could hose you down in the yard.”

He pouts. The meds must be wearing off at this point. “I’m sure that would make you feel better.”

“Nah, I’d be the one who has to clean you off the driveway afterwards.” You shake your head. The bathroom is small, the shower stall smaller but Mingyu needs a shower. “Give me a second.”

One of the plastic lawn chairs from the back porch fits perfectly in the stall. You lay out everything he could need: soap, towels, a trash bag to wrap over the stint. Then you head back towards your room to get him.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Mingyu hobbles alongside you, easily maneuvering the hallway but the bathroom is more difficult. There isn’t space for his crutches so he slumps into your side, way heavier than the time you had to drag him home higher than a kite. 

It’s claustrophobic with him basically on top of you but he’s capable of underdressing when you park him against the counter and focus on angling the shower head so he doesn't end up accidentally waterboarded. 

“Underwear stays on. I don’t want to see your dick.”

“Yeah, well, he’s pretty scared of you right now anyway.”

After helping him into the chair you leave him to his business with strict instructions to yell for you when he’s done. You use the time to clean your room. Clothes off the floor, bed made so he can sleep with a few extra pillows you snagged from his bed where you’ll be sleeping.

He’s got a bum leg, the least you could do is give him the better room.

You do everything the nurses told you. An ice pack and a hot water bottle all sit on the side table ready for Mingyu after you fish him out of the tub.

A yell of your name is your cue.

Mingyu sits soaked and pathetic. He couldn’t reach the towels you laid out, so you have to hand them to him. Turns out it’s also more difficult getting him out than in, you have to touch and pull and push him. His skin lingers with warmth from the water and a little slippery so it’s even harder. Mingyu is no help at all. A Great Dane who thinks he’s a Chihuahua.

He’s out like a light once he’s in your bed. Dead asleep beneath the covers with his leg sticking out to the side. You tuck him in extra tight, snagging the forgotten provisions and returning them to the kitchen. 

You come back to grab clothes and leave but Mingyu sits awake with the covers pulled back for you to join.

“Come on,” he beckons.

“I’m not sleeping in here.”

His eyes shoot open, attempting to sit up, “Why not?” 

“Your knee—” you start.

“Let me worry about my knee.”

Sure. Like that’ll happen.

“Physically impossible for me not to worry.”

“The doctor said it’s bad for me to be lonely.” He pulls the covers back again and your chest aches. 

“She did not.”

“She did too,” he grunts. 

“Fine. Close your eyes, I need to change.”

He zips them shut. Throws an arm over his face for dramatic effect. You rush into a clean shirt (his) and shorts and dive beneath the covers.

“You’re so far away,” Mingyu whines. 

“Mingyu stop!”

He doesn’t. He uses all those muscles against you and drags you up his chest. “Come here.”

“Happy?”

“Yep.”

Your head is cradled heavy on his chest, the argument dying out. He falls asleep quickly and you follow right behind.

In the morning, Mingyu complains about his leg until you leave for the last minute shift you begged off Chan. The next two days are the same. Mingyu stays on the couch or tucked away in your room while everyone else scrambles around him. Until the weekend comes giving all of you time off.

Saturday is the Open. The biggest doubles volleyball tournament on the beach, boasting a first place prize of two grand. Seungkwan and Seungcheol won the last two years and never let either of you forget it for standing a foot below them on the podium, firmly in second and a thousand dollars poorer than them.

Two years in second place buys you into the semi-finals. Thank god, because Jungkook and you haven’t played together in years and he’s an even bigger ball hog than you remember.

“Talk!” Mingyu calls from his chair like a washed up coach. You argued with him for hours over whether or not him coming to the beach was a good idea given he’s done everything but what the doctor recommended. But he’d be damned if you beat Seungkwan and he wasn’t there to gloat about it.

Dokyeom and Soonyoung serve as his assistants, hitting over the net while you and Jungkook scramble to dig every single one up like it’s do or die.

“That one was clearly mine!” Jungkook argues.

“It was going out of bounds!”

“It was close!”

It’s been like this all morning. While the other courts are playing to qualify you and Jungkook try not to rip each other's throats out. It’ll take a miracle to win a single point let alone the two matches you need to win.

You just want the day over with so you can drown your sorrows in a chocolate shake and think about how satisfying it would be to launch it at your friend’s head at warp speed.

The first game is hard and fast. Jungkook saves your ass more times than you can count, committed to winning even if it sends him crashing into the line of spectators sitting courtside. It doesn’t help you win the first set one bit. Jaehyun successfully blocks nearly every attempt Jungkook makes at the net and the ones that do slide through fly out of bounds.

You don't take well to failure and neither does Jungkook. 

Somewhere around the third rally of the second set you two find a cohesive back and forth. Jungkook digs a cut shot, you set him up and he’s there with a kill. It happens again. The third time Jaehyun gives up on sending it deep and drops the ball right over the net and the miracle you needed happens because you get it up enough for Jungkook to return it and earn the point. 

It starts to feel good. Adrenaline lifting you to the next level, vision narrowed down to you and the game. Lung straining, muscles burning, your skin hot from the sun. Your swimsuit leaves plenty of skin exposed to collect more sand with each impact on the ground. The wind picks up slightly, and turns the sound of waves and the crowd into one dull murmur..

You and Jungkook win two sets to one.

He’s sweaty and covered in sand when he sweeps you into a hug, a victory cry loud on his lips. It isn’t the final match but it’s the small victories that count. Jungkook loves winning, he only likes you and mostly for Mingyu’s sake. The friend of my boyfriend's friend is my friend too, or something like that.

Mingyu and Jungkook are the boyfriends.

On the side lines, Mingyu looks happy. Tired but happy. He’s like a king holding court, friends and strangers circling around him for an ounce of attention. Most of the people at the resort haven’t seen him since he busted his knee and check he’s okay. The others are out of towners attracted to a pretty boy with a sad cast and tendency to talk a mile a minute with anyone who’d listen. 

You push them all out of the way and celebrate with him.

“We did it!”

“Yeah,” he nods. That’s all the celebration you get from him before he’s on to the next game set to start in five minutes. “You and Jungkook need to keep Kwan from hitting. Serve short, hit deep.”

It's weird but you don’t focus on it. You need water and to get back on the court.

“Got it.” 

Seungkwan doesn’t shit talk. It’s mostly Seungcheol at the net trying to bait you into an argument while Jungkook readies to serve.

“How’s your boyfriend?” he jabs.

“How’s yours?” You focus on the sand beneath your feet, the breeze off the wave. He’s been trying to get under your skin with that line for years. It won’t work now. 

First point, you and Jungkook.

The next five, Seungkwan and Seungcheol.

The score goes back and forth, a slim margin for error as the number climbs closer to twenty-one. 

You hit the next set, aiming for the wide gap between Seungkwan and the line. The ball sliced across the net, Seungcheol misreading it by just a hair and the momentum of his block swinging him the opposite direction. It’s perfect. It heads straight for the line and lands without Seungkwan able to save it in time. 

The crowd breaks into applause. The official blows his whistle…

And calls it out.

“That was a touch! Are you fucking blind?” Mingyu yells.

You wince at the next whistle as she flashes him a yellow card.

Fuck. 

He’s up at the perimeter of the court fuming, hands on his hips through his crutches. You march right up to him, identical scowl.

“Mingyu, I swear if you get a red card, I will shove my foot so far up your ass—”

The whistle blows and Seungkwan serves without waiting for you to be ready. It’s a rocket right where you should have been standing.

Seungkwan and Seungcheol take the first match by four points.

The second match starts worse. You’re out of rhythm, fuming at blowing the last set. Jungkook fills in the best he can and keeps you two from totaling blowing it. Fifteen to seventeen with your serve.

You pop it over the net, Seungkwan reading it easily. But a last second gust pushes it of course.

Ace.

Lucky isn’t as strongly on your side for the next serve but it’s good enough. Jungkook passes. With a quick set, he rises above the net, hanging midair. A quick snap of his arm delivers a hit neither opponents on the other side of the net can reach. The ball slams into the sand right before the line.

It’s tit for tat. One up one down. Your body hurts, covered in bruises from diving over and over again but you don’t stop. Jungkook doesn’t either.

Match point comes swiftly. Seungkwan tosses the ball in the air and unleashes a deep serve. It’s fast but you’re underneath it but the angle is wrong. Jungkook dumps it over the net out of Seungcheol’s reach but Seungkwan is there. 

No one’s giving an inch. Just when the ball nearly drops someone picks it up. Everyone plays ugly, scrappy. 

A break comes when Seungcheol passes too high, right on the net. Seungkwan knows it, you know it. You race to joust. Pushing with everything you’ve got until the ball gives. It falls to the sand.

On the other team's side.

Everything blurs. You tackle Jungkook to the ground, cheering. Your friends race onto the court shouting. There’s a dog pile someone has to pull you out of because you can’t breathe underneath them all but you don’t care. Your ears ring, eyes nearly shut from how wide you smile.

You’re carried away for the podium ceremony, Mingyu nowhere in sight. It feels pretty damn good being on top. The heavy weight of the gold medal keeps you grounded. But your best friend is missing and a part of you is gone with him.

You don’t find him until the after party at the locals only beach. He’s got a red cup and a scowl on the tailgate of his truck. 

“Where’d you go? I didn’t see you at the podium.”

“You seemed fine on your own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he mumbles into his cup.

“Why are you being such a Debbie downer? We won!”

“You guys won. I got to sit there and watch.”

“Okay? You’re still five hundred richer than this morning.”

“Party over here?” Jungkook interrupts. He’s got a joint between his fingers and a beer bottle. “Before I forget, this is yours.”

He shoves an envelope into Mingyu’s hand, taking the open spot on the tailgate next to him before laying back and looking at the stars.

“I’m gonna grab another beer.”

Mingyu moves surprisingly fast when he wants to. Even with crutches on loose sand he’s back by his truck and waiting for you to leave.  

“What’s got sand in his swimsuit?” Jungkook asks. 

“He’s just… bummed about not playing. It’s fine.”

Jungkook snorts in disbelief. “You think that’s why he looks like a kicked puppy?”

“Then enlighten me, wise one.”

“Why do guys do anything?”

“Because you all lack basic brain function?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes and takes another drink. “To impress girls.”

“I’ve seen your belching contests. Not exactly panty dropping material.”

“Okay obviously not that.”

You had no idea Mingyu meant to impress anyone today. He hadn’t mentioned it, usually he doesn’t need to. Some tourist in for the summer hanging off his every word gave clear intention where his interest laid but since his knee you saw all of zero prospects.

“You two are so fucking stupid,” Jungkoook snorts. “You, YN. He wanted to impress you.”

“That makes no sense.”

“He hasn’t had a real girlfriend since you two started living together.”

You take a long sip before answering.. “So? You haven’t had a real girlfriend ever.”

“Bitch.”

“Slut.”

“Mingyu wanted you two to win. Together,” he emphasises. “Because guys want to impress the girls they like.”

“Oh…oh.”

“Get it now?”

“How do you know?”

“If I have to have one more bro chat with him on how to tell you I’m going to take his crutches and beat him to death with them.”

“Got it.”

You despise the tiny part of you that screams like a little girl finding out her playground crush knows her name. He likes me! He likes me! She squeals, bubbling around your stomach like champagne. 

Drunk on the power itching at your fingertips, you turn to find Mingyu. He’s right where you know you’d find him, a log near the fire, tossing in tiny sticks and watching them disappear in the flames.

“Ready to leave?”

Mingyu nods and gets to his feet, crutches carrying him to his truck. You take the driver's seat and peel out of the lot. 

“How mad would you be if we took a detour?” you ask.

“I wanna go home,” he grunts, staring out the window.

“I want to celebrate with just you,” you share. “Please?”

He melts but clings to the stubborn tone. “Okay.”

Another night at the lookout except this time you’re the one cheering him up. You park his truck closer to the water, he can’t very well get in but you want him to be able to at least see the ocean. He hobbles around to the flatbed and plants his ass on the tailgate.

“I think I’m gonna swim.”

“Okay.”

You tug off your shirt, then your pants. Then your bra.

That’s what freezes Mingyu with bug eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Swimming,” you shrug. He catches your swim bottoms as you launch them at his chest. 

“Naked?” he squeaks.

“Who's gonna see?”

“Uhh, me?”

“So? Maybe I want you to.”

You step closer, hands on his spread thighs and squeeze. 

“What?”

Mingyu doesn’t look beneath your collarbone and you smirk.

“A little birdie told me you have a crush.”

His lips form around words but no sound comes out. Maybe you’re being unfair by standing between his legs completely naked, eying him expectantly.

“Do you?”

“I…” he chokes.

“Think about it,” you whisper. His lips are warm against yours, soft and yielding. Then, you turn to sprint towards the ocean.

Mingyu apparently comes back to himself quickly, sputtering and laughing as you disappear beneath the waves. “You can’t just do that!”

Late night swims aren’t as fun without him around to keep you warm. You dip under the water and come up with soaked hair. You only last five minutes before heading back to where he waits, all your nudity on display but Mingyu keeps his eyes on yours, beaming like an idiot.

The second you’re close enough he tugs you into his chest and kisses you. For real this time. There's more to it than simple payback. He kisses you long and hard, pours all his want into it and takes what you give him in return. His tongue rolls across your lip before you open your mouth, a moan bubbles from one of you.

“I can’t believe Hoshi got to kiss you before I did,” he sighs.

You nestle closer. Right into the warmth of his chest, the soft fabric of his baggy shirt and cologne better than anything else in the world. 

“What do you mean Hoshi kissed me before you did? You were my first kiss dingus.”

“What?”

“Ninth grade, Dokyeom’s parents went out of town and we raided the liquor cabinet.”

He stares back at you blankly. You’re still naked.

“You literally begged me to kiss you because you thought you had alcohol poisoning and would die.”

“Oh my god.”

You kiss his cheek and he loves it, pushing into your lips for more with a happy smile. 

“I knew you didn’t remember.”

You nuzzle down his neck, savoring the warmth of his skin against your mouth; nipping until he shudders. You want him as naked as you. But despite the beach being secluded it’s very much public and you don’t need to be caught the first time you get to kiss him.

“In my defense, I thought that was a dream.”

“How often do you dream of me kissing you?”

“Pretty often.”

“How often is that?”

“Almost every night.”

“You’re such a sap.”

He doesn’t deny it. He’s too busy cupping your face and kissing you again, less tongue and yearning; slings an arm around your waist forcing you infinitesimally closer. It’s sweet at first, lingering touch against your naked back. Catalogues the knobs of your spine with painstaking slowness. Lower. Your waist, the sway of your hips. Then he’s got his hand on your ass, a gentle squeeze of exploration, and you feel a little bit guilty such sweet kisses turn you on so much.

“Come on, let’s get home.”

You back away, snagging the blanket he pulled out earlier and hiding your body as he trails behind. “Are you gonna drive home naked? Because that’s a new fantasy I didn’t know I had.”

“How many fantasies do you have?”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Calm down, Casanova,” you snort. You tug on the spare clothes collected in his truck; a holey, oil stained t-shirt and a pair of sweats. They smell like him.

“Hey.” Mingyu tugs your hand across the center seat and brings it to his lips. He’s blushy but it might just be from a long day beneath the sun. Or from the boner he’s not even attempting to hide. It’s cute. 

“Hey.”

“I do have a crush on you.”

“I kinda figured.”

“Since like high school.”

“Good,” you comment. “Same.”

An anticlimactic confession but it fits between the two of you. You’ve always been the black cat, a little more out of reach in terms of affection but Mingyu has enough words of affirmation for the both of you. You’re much more adept at showing him how you feel anyway. It’s why you’ve been playing nurse for the past week. 

He keeps your hands tangled the entire way home, slides closer on the bench seat so his side heats against yours. There aren’t many stop signs on the way home but the ones you do hit last longer than needed because Mingyu uses it as an excuse to tilt your face towards him and kiss you again and again. Your lips, your nose, between your brows; slowly, savoring every second.

He’s used to his crutches so getting into the house and locking the door takes only a blink. The other two aren’t home which is a blessing in a curse because in the dark of your room you realize it’s just you and Mingyu. No more barriers in the way, no one to interrupt. It’s unbearably awkward in a way it’s not been since you were nineteen and walked in on him rubbing one out of your shared bed at four in the afternoon.

“Um…”

“Yeah—”

“So,” you stutter. 

Mingyu takes it on himself to reign things in.

“You like me, right?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “And I like you. Well, love you and not just as my best friend but I probably shouldn’t say that—wait! Shit! I didn’t mean that. I mean I did mean that but I didn’t mean to say it.”

“Gyu.”

He collapses onto the corner of your bed, freaking himself out. Ripping his hands through his hair, continuing to panic. “Of course, I love you. You’re my best friend and—”

“Gyu.”

“And if you don’t want to try dating me that’s fine! I’d never make you do something you didn’t want to. I don't think I could, you’re pretty stubborn. Which I like! But—”

“Mingyu!”

“What?”

“Take a breath,” you command. You’re freaked out too but Mingyu’s worse at hiding his feelings. Always has been.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine, just relax a little. Please. You’re freaking me out.”

A crash echoes from outside the door. Glass breaking and some loud curses of one drunken roommate and a decidedly sober sounding Dokyeom shushing him. 

“Sorry,” Mingyu whispers.

“So you love me, huh?”

“I—” he chokes, and then cuts himself off to nod.

Mingyu, who likes to pretend he’s cool and smooth, reduced to a tight bundle of nerves as he sits on the edge of your bed and waits for your response. He looks at his hands. They flex anxiously together as the silence stretches on. You decide on mercy.

“It’s okay. I love you, too.”

Mingyu’s head shoots up so fast you’re afraid he gives himself whiplash. All you can do is smile, embarrassed by the way he stares at you in awe.

“Really?” He’s already pulling you closer

Biting your lip to control the grin attempting to split your face in half, you nod gently. In his lap, you wrap your arms across his shoulders and say it again. It’s quiet outside the bubble you two have made for yourselves but you like his childish giggles as the only thing tickling your ears.

Innocent touching turns lewd in slow measures just like the beach. Your both more deliberate because getting Mingyu out of his pants is a team effort, underwear firmly in place because you haven’t decided if you’re going to fuck him yet. You want to. But they serve as reassurance you don't rush to a good ending. 

Your shirt comes off, then your pants. You shepherd him to the headboard. Fully naked in his lap, Mingyu traces his fingers over your softest parts. It makes you squirm enough you kiss him to break the itch in your gut from nearly innocent touching. But it only makes it worse. He kisses you with just enough vigor to tease; pulls you closer, a tight grip on your waist you’d struggle to break out of if the thought crossed your mind. A tug encourages your rutting against the hard tent of his underwear.

It’s so much better than anything else before. Mingyu seems to agree, panting and grunting against your throat. You could just do this. It’d be enough to come; more than, as Mingyu sinks down further in the pillows and sucks your nipple gently between his lips. His tongue rolls flat and hot against it before switching to the other one. Your jaw slacks, mouth dry from heavy breaths.

“F-fuck, Gyu.”

He sucks harder and your hips follow, the line of his cock beneath his boxers nothing short of incredible. You’re a little embarrassed from how wet you are. Wet enough to soak his briefs a shade darker. But Mingyu takes charge, manhandles you across his cock with painful friction that makes you limp and pliant.

“Oh my god, Mingyu,” you taper off in a moan. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

“‘Mingyu, it’s gross!’” he mocks and then hisses from your teeth on his neck. “Not exactly a confidence boost.”

“Yeah, well, I only said that because I wanted to you to—fuck—fuck me.”

Fishing his cock out from his underwear, you lazily jerk him to full mast which takes only seconds. Mingyu bucks into the swipe of your thumb. You move to suck away the mess collecting there.

“Shit! Ow! Ow!” he winces.

Immediately, you’re off him. “What’s wrong? Is your leg okay?”

Mingyu grits his teeth, head falling back against the pillows. “You hit my leg.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry!”

“This isn’t sexy.” He sinks into the mattress, hands hiding his frustration. 

He’s laying in your bed, in only his underwear and the pale moonlight sneaking through the window. You couldn’t disagree more.

“I don’t know.” You kiss his cheek. “It's kinda hot.”

“Oh yeah, it’s great that the first time I get to do anything I can’t even make it good for you.”

“Now, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Stupid fucking leg.”

“Alright, calm down.” You can’t help but laugh. You try to stifle it but he hears it before you do and pouts even harder. “Maybe we should wait.”

He's got you back in his lap, wincing through the sudden pressure on his knee. “No, it's fine! I promise!”

“If it hurts it’s not fine,” you admonish. Mingyu doesn’t let you go though. You don’t really want him to. “Just lay back and relax, okay?”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna blow you  and then I’m gonna fuck you.”

You say it like a promise. Mingyu’s eyes widen, jaw dropping at your lewd threat. His cock twitches against your palm and you soothe it with a quick stroke. He ruts into it again.

“Oh.”

“Sound good?” you ask, another slick glide across the leaking tip. He’s shaking.

“Sounds great.”

You kiss down his front, raze a nipple with your teeth until he whines. Even with the order to relax his hands can’t stay still. On your back, in your hair, pulling at the sheets as you tongue across his abs. You’re nearly sent crashing to the floor while bruising his hip bone. 

This time, you’re extra careful when kneeling between his sprawled legs. Your ass high in the air for his pleasure, him sprawled out on the pillows for yours. He’s pretty. The moonlight slipping between the blinds casts him in a pale glow, lines of light crossing his body and illuminating all the best parts: tangled hair from your hands, swollen lips from your kissing, a splotchy hickey on his hip claiming him as yours.

His cock spills from the band of his underwear, hard and waiting. You keep watching as you suck the tip of it. His eyes open at that, watching you watching him and he can't decide if it's heaven or hell right there beneath you on the mattress.

“Oh my god.”

It’s slow work to roll his underwear down without jostling his bad knee but you distract him with teasing caresses of every newly revealed inch of skin. There isn’t much you haven’t seen but you’re eager to get reacquainted. Fingers, then lips, then soothing the sting of your teeth with some wet pecks. And then you draw his cock across your tongue for the first time and he jumps.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” you garble around a mouthful of cock. 

There isn’t really a good angle with his knee in consideration so the rhythm of your hand is lackluster at best. You make up for it with hollowed cheeks he can’t look away from, and he actually throbs between your swollen lips as your tongue traces every ridge and vein meticulously. Each time he starts to answer your question you suck the head until he whines.

“You’re…” he sighs. “this is gonna sound weird but I’ve only dreamed of you doing this since we were like sixteen.”

A brief break for the sake of your jaw gives you time to joke, “No pressure.”

“It’s already better than I thought if that means anything.”

“Stop being cute, I'm trying to suck your dick.”

You cut off his rebuttal with a swallow and his eyes nearly bug out from his skull at the sight. His hand rests on the back of your head, gathering your hair to keep it out of the way. “Is this…”

You nod enthusiastically before he even finishes his thought, mouth watering at the possibilities. You ache for it. You want him to call the shots and let you follow merrily behind, bent to his whim.

“Open your mouth, baby.”

You open wide for his cock to brush the back of your throat softly. Not too much just yet while he gathers the confidence to maneuver you the way he needs; the way he’s apparently been dying to for years. 

He’s got one hand on the back of your head, the other tangled in the sheets as you suck him rigid. Brace for a gentle gag, just enough for him to hear, and the taste of sticky pre-cum floods across your tongue. You get a few more drags of your tongue up the head of his cock before he leverages to grip in your head and pulls you off.

“Okay, okay. Stop.”

“What’s wrong? Is it your leg?”

Mingyu ignores your question. His only response is a sloppy kiss with too much tongue but you can’t fault him for it with the pleasant heat of his hands on your ass once more. 

“Wanna eat you out,” he grunts.

You snort at his optimism. “I can see some issues with that.”

He lifts you up his chest. It’s horrible that someone with a face like his is also a muscle pig who can bend you anyway he wants even with an injury; Jungkook fully to blame for too many workouts on the beach. Mingyu has you up his chest before you realize where this is going.

“Sit on my face.”

“I—” you blink. Porn isn’t a good reference for sex, not that you’ve seen much since the only TV sits in the living room. You’ve seen the magazines your friends buy as gag gifts though and the thought of Mingyu smothered in your cunt makes you sweat. “Are you sure?”

Apparently it’s a stupid question because Mingyu just pulls you further up until you’re kneeling over him and he’s got enough room to deliver soft licks to your core.

You don’t care how loud you’re being or the fact you share a wall with Dokyeom who doesn’t deserve to hear your pathetic moans in surround sound. Mingyu abuses your clit, sucks and licks and kisses with lewd vigor until you rut down into it.

You need a break. Just a second to regain sanity but Mingyu isn’t that generous. He holds you by your ass, palms it so hard you squeak as he moves you against his mouth, drops one hand when he’s confident you aren’t planning to run away again. The stretch of two thick fingers crook just right to have you seeing stars.

“Th-there.”

Mingyu hums into the sloppy mess of your cunt, holding steady as you fuck yourself along his face, tongue out to swipe messily at your clit. His head shakes back and forth and makes you whine to the ceiling fan. You savor the rhythm he sets, thick fingers working to prep you, stretching and spreading until your stomach dips. He knocks every tight noise in your chest out with each rush.

“That’s…Just like that. Gyu, please.” You nails scratch against the wall aimlessly. He stretches and stretches, molds you to him and every one of his whims. 

Until all you can do is snap.

You’re wobbly on jelly knees, clit numb even while Mingyu suckles against it softly for your come down. You roll off carefully to sit bubbly and golden back in his lap. Eyes closed, you lean blindly into his space and squish his cheek with yours.

He’s just as messy as you feel. Face wet, choked breaths and racing pulse, you deflate against each other. The bloodlust for satisfaction lulls to a simmer. You use it to enjoy all the warm skin on skin contact.

Aftercare comes in the form of lips dragging over wherever either of you can reach, no energy for real kisses just savoring the lazy motion. The hands that plucked you into a whimpering mess massage your thighs, your back; pull and tangle his fingers between yours.

“When my knee is better I’m gonna do that for an hour.”

“Lucky me,” you huff. 

You find his mouth, suck his bottom lip between yours until he demands more. His cock rests against his stomach, hot to the touch. Gentle at first. Teasing with a light brush of your fingers. Then getting a tight grip around him until he bucks.

“Want you,” Mingyu groans, pulling you further up his thighs. “Wanna fuck you.”

On your knees, you position over him to do just that but he stops you.

“Condom?” 

Good thing at least one of you is thinking because you didn’t even think about it. Your nightstand drawer is barren, not even an empty box left. Not a single condom wrapper in sight.

“Fuck. Do you have any in your room?”

He doesn’t. Which means you’re at the mercy of your roommates and their ability to practice safe sex.

You tug Mingyu’s shirt over head but even if it hides your nudity you smell like sex and have the glow on your features to back it up. There’s flaking pre-cum and spit against your chin.Whatever, you’ve heard your roommates howling like dogs enough times to earn your own night of debauchery.

“Hosh.” You rap on his door but he doesn’t answer. When you open it he’s face down in the pillow, trash can close by. You watch just long enough for his chest to expand to make sure he isn’t dead before prodding him in the side.

“Wha? What?” he mumbles through drool.

“Condoms?”

He stares at you with all the sentience of rock before answering. “I can’t sleep with you, Mingyu will kill me.”

“You stupid bitch,” you sneer, slapping him with his own pillow. “Where are your condoms?”

Soonyoung buries himself back into his sheets. “I don’t have any.”

“Oh my god.”

You fly out of his tiger den and to Dokyeom’s door down the hall.

“Kyeom?” You knock. “Dude, are you awake?”

He actually answers the door. His bedside light is still on, some comic book left open on his bed. “Is someone dead?”

“No. Do you have a condom?”

“For who?”

Your eyes roll. “Me, dumbass.”

“Who’s the guy?” Dokyeom looks at you like he doesn’t believe it. Maybe the walls are more soundproof than you thought.

“Mingyu.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really! We can have girl time later, but I need a condom. Now.”

He forces his entire stash, an unopened 32-count box, into your hands before pushing you back into the hallway with a quiet ‘good luck.’

Your roommates are fucking weird.

Tucked back in the dark of your room, Mingyu is waiting.Blanket wrapped around his waist, propped against the headboard just like you left him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he smiles. He looks a little pathetic. 

“Did you know Dokyeom keeps a thirty-two pack in his room?” You hold up the evidence as proof.

“Apparently, he’s seeing some waitress at the Kellerman.”

“Enough times he needs a bulk box of rubbers?”

“Clearly not if he gave them to you.”

“I think it’s more like a ‘congrats on finally getting together’ present.”

“How thoughtful of him,” he snorts. “Now come over here. I missed you.” 

“Can’t have that, can we?” You kneel on the bed next to him. His hand sneaks up the back of your leg, beneath your shirt to cup your ass.

“Yeah, the doctors said it was bad for me.”

“Well if the doctors said…” You lose the thought in a gentle sigh against his mouth. Mingyu peels your shirt - his shirt - over head and banishes it to the floor. You're naked in his lap and he’s naked beneath you; it makes you clench.

He covers every inch of your naked skin in soft kisses, puffs of breath heating your neck as you stroke his cock hard enough to slip the condom on.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.”

You balance on shaky knees, sheathing him inside you in a slow descent. He wants to fuck up into you so badly. You can feel it in the way his hands squeeze on your hips, his stomach dips as you take more. Everything about Mingyu is big, including his cock. Big enough you could sit there all night and never get used to the stretch, or the way he whispers sweet praises into your temple.

Good girl. My favorite. Perfect for me.

When you finally bottom out, ass flat to his thighs, pressed tight to his chest, you whimper, “M-Mingyu.”

He groans into your cheek. “Love how you say my name.”

It’s all on you to make this good. You rock forward, instantly dissatisfied with the emptiness of your core and immediately moving to end the feeling. You grind on him and that feels better. He wedges deep and stays there; presses your buttons from the inside out as he mouths across your shoulder.

You’re so wet, soaked from his mouth, and his thumb takes advantage by gluing to your clit, tight circles that make you spasming. He guides you while nipping back up to your mouth, one hand heavy on your ass. 

“Oh, keep doing that,” he moans when your nails dig into his chest. 

The slap of skin against skin is background noise to grunts and groans and pathetic whines that meld between your mouths. Lightheaded, you aren’t even kissing, open mouths brushing against one another with narrowed vision. 

“Is it,” he gasps. “Is it bad if I ask you to turn around?”

“D-depends why you’re asking.”

“Wanna fuck you from behind. Wanna watch you take my cock.” He squeezes your ass to punctuate the request.

“Watch me like this.” You lean back, carefully to balance on the mattress and not his legs. Mingyu glues onto the unobstructed view down your front: your throat, your breasts, the way your cunt clings to his cock on the upstroke. “You like it?”

Hips finding a jilted rhythm, Mingyu snakes a hand up your chest and twists your nipple until you nearly collapse. “So good, it looks so good.”

“Next t-time,” you hiccup. “You can fuck me however you want. Want you to…fuck me from behind.”

He tugs the back of your neck. You collapse with the strength of his muscles and land nose to nose with him. 

“You’re so good— fuck, so tight for me. For me, yeah?”

You give a dumb nod, voice mute with the deep rhythm battering your walls.

“Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You can only nod again. Hair sticks to your sweaty face, a few rogue tears joining the mess Mingyu’s left on it.

“Say it, wanna hear you say it. Please.” He’s lost somewhere. Some desperate place that needs your validation.

You chant exactly what he wants to hear. Yours, yours, yours. A second duller bolt flashes through you, tensing every last muscle. Mingyu jolts from the tight squeeze gripping his cock. You give him the last sweep of your energy, bouncy wildly, fucking him quick and hard until your eyes cross.

“I’m—Mingyu, oh,” you whimper. You don’t stop even though your muscles object. Thrashing as you seize and come hot and wet. 

Mingyu’s got his hands to move you when your joints lock, a desperate race to his own end. He rubs you raw and red right to the core. You let him; still sobbing through the last pulses while he manhandles you over his cock roughly, slick with no resistance.

“Baby, fuck, feels so good,” he grovels, fucked out of his mind.

Your legs try to close, run away from the rush of even more stimulation, but Mingyu keeps you firmly pinned in place. He bites your neck, your shoulder, coming in thick breaths, hips stuttering while you sit there and take it. His fingers take advantage of the mess of your core but there's nothing left for you to give. Maybe later.

Mingyu gasps for air like he just did a deep dive. “Holy shit fuck.”

The touching doesn’t stop. You sweep your hands over his shoulders, cup his face, trace fingers of his stomach. Mingyu’s got one hand to keep you from pulling off his just yet, the other glued to the dip of your spine. Places forbidden to touch as just friends, now unlocked.

Condom in the trash, tissues for a quick clean up. You’re sticky in all the worst places but it’s a problem for later.

“So…when's our first date?” you ask him, cuddling back into the crook of his neck for the rest of the night.

“You. Me. Patty’s tomorrow morning.”

“Are you actually gonna pay for our food this time?”

Mingyu squeezes at your side, lips against your hairline. “You’re the one rolling in dough, Ms. Champion.”

“So I’m your sugar momma now?”

“That’s hot.”

The rebuttal dissolves on your tongue. You’re both deadweight. Sweaty and glowing in a pile of limbs, shivering beneath the ceiling fan. Mingyu is happy as your pillow, sweeping his hand over your back and hair as you crest sleep.

Turns out your room doesn’t get too hot with Mingyu sleeping in it if you’re both naked.

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[rheya28]

Lucio's Market [Restaurant, Grocery, Teaching Kitchen] ♥ The Sims 4: Speed Build // CC

Lucio's Market is where culinary passion meets community connection! Nestled in the heart of Anchorpoint Wharf, this venue seamlessly blends a fully stocked grocery store, a dynamic teaching kitchen, and a cozy restaurant—all under one roof. [Lot Can be set as a restaurant, generic, or retail]

➽ Speed Build Video

➽ Rheya's Notes:

♥This lot has been semi play-tested. ♥To make the Grocery part of the build functional, you can turn this into a retail lot. There are also grocery mods available such as SS realistic cooking mod and the Bulk Grocery Mod. Please keep in mind that I did not follow any requirements for these two mods as the grocery part of the build was made simply for aesthetics and storytelling. You are welcome to make adjustments! ♥We do not have a teaching kitchen venue option in the sims 4, however, the gameplay can be achieve with some imagination! You can turn this into a generic lot and simply have your sims cook/bake together on different stoves simultaneously. ♥Lastly if you want this lot to function as a restaurant, simply change the venue lot type in build mode. I would recommend downloading LittleMsSam's lock mod to lock the testing kitchen's door. This will prevent customers from using the kitchen appliances!

➽ Important Notes:

● Please make sure to turn 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 with the build

♥ Sim Featured in video Courtney Ajak & Tiara Robinson by  @aashwarr Emi Grey by  @jaxplaysthesims

➽Lot Details

Lot Name: Lucio's Market Lot type: Restaurant + Generic lot + Can be retail Lot size: 30x20 Location: Archorpoint Wharf, San Sequioa

♥ MODS:

TOOL MOD by TwistedMexi

♥ CC LIST:

Note: I reuse a lot of the same cc in all my builds, specifically cc's from felixandre, HeyHarrie, tuds, and Pierisim so if you're interested in downloading past, present, future build from me i suggest getting all their cc sets to make life a little easier! other creators include Sooky, Charlypancakes, Sixam, Thecluttercat, Myshunosun, awingedllama, peacemaker.

Awingedllama: Blooming Room plants

Lilis Palace: folklore (only deco jars)

Severinka: Grocery Store pt 1 (cash desk, display island only), Grocery Store pt 2 (all), Grocery store pt 3 (Shopping cart and basket only), Grocery store pt 4 (all)

Around the sims 4: Bulk grocery

FelixAndre x Harrie: Baysic, Harluxe, Orjanic, Kichen

Bbygyal123: Abstract Prints

FelixAndre: Berlin pt 3, Chateau, Fayun , Kyoto , Florence , Grove, Shop the look, Soho

Charlypancakes: Chalk

Thecluttercat: Dandydiary pt 2, Helloo horse, Sunny Sundays

Harrie: Brownstone, Brutalist, Coastal, Klean, Kwatei, Octave, Spoons

LittleDica: Rise & Grind, Delicious kitchen

Myshunosun: Harbalist Kitchen

Peacemaker: Pointless Renovation

Pierisim: Auntie Vera, Coldbrew, David Apartment, Domaine Du clos, Mcm, Oak House, Winter Garden, Woodland Ranch

Max20: Poolside lounge pack (floor pattern only)

S-imagination: Cottage kitchen (Decorative bag with scoop only)

Sixam: Home Improvement, Hote Bedroom

Syboullette: Boulangerie (chalk board only)

Taurus Design: Lilith Chilling Area (sul sul sign only)

Tuds: Cross, IND, NCTR, SHKR

● DOWNLOAD Tray File and CC list: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: anrheya [previous name: applez] ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Youtube: 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!

[dumplinsiims]

Celebrity Townies 🤍

We're back with more townies to add to your save files or to play with Celebrity Edition! Each with their own little backstories 🤍

Omari Johnson, 30, rose from humble beginnings in Ciudad Enamorada to become a celebrity chef known for his fiery temper and unforgettable dishes. As a young foodie, he learned his skills in his grandmother’s kitchen, perfecting flavors with relentless ambition. His outgoing personality made him a star on cooking shows, where his romantic flair and explosive temper captivated audiences. Now a culinary icon, Omari dreams of opening his own restaurant—a place where he can blend his love of food and romance under one roof.

Gia Valente, 22, a Simfluencer and rising B-lister in San Myshuno, is known for her impeccable style and carefully curated social media presence. A foodie at heart, she spends her days reviewing the city’s trendiest spots and snapping photos of perfect plates. Though her image reflects perfection, Gia’s reserved side shows in her cautious approach to romance, as she often keeps her heart guarded. Her jealous streak makes her fiercely protective of her relationships and reputation, especially as she climbs the social ladder. Off-camera, Gia is happiest with her beloved dog, who brings balance to her ambitious life in the spotlight.

Gabrielle Sinclair, 24, is a global icon from Del Sol Valley, a model and actor known for her glamorous style and pursuit of aesthetic perfection. An art lover and overachiever, she’s built a career on her drive for beauty and refinement, though her squeamish nature sometimes adds unexpected challenges on set. Balancing a love for luxury with her wild, party-animal spirit, Gabrielle is a fixture in elite social circles. Now a household name, she embodies the high life with every flawless photo shoot and captivating role, crafting her world as a masterpiece.

Kaleo Pualani, 25, grew up with the warmth and charm of Sulani but left his island home to pursue a career in Del Sol Valley’s entertainment world. Known for his quick wit and goofy sense of humor, Kaleo quickly found his niche in comedy, becoming a beloved sitcom star. Despite his laid-back roots, he’s fiercely ambitious, bringing his overachiever spirit to every role he plays. Though he misses the islands, Kaleo infuses his heritage into his performances, adding a unique warmth and authenticity that sets him apart in the industry. Now a B-lister, he’s on the rise, combining his passion for fun with his drive to succeed.

I reallly hope you all enjoy these sims and their backstories! - Please share screenshots and videos of these sims in your game! I would love to see how they come to life in your game! Tag me on all platforms @Dumplinsiims so I can see their shenanigans! Download them 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.

[bexxa12]

STUDIO SECRETS|| JJ x Y/N

{Summary}

Jungkook, a musical prodigy whose voice captivates millions, finds himself drawn into a world beyond the spotlight. His path crosses with the enigmatic daughter of his esteemed producer, a woman whose secrets run as deep as the melodies he crafts.

Chapter 5

WC: 2,161

The flight was a blur of case notes and turbulent thoughts. Y/N's mind raced with the gravity of the upcoming trial.

The plane's gentle descent into Busan's Gimhae International Airport brought her back to reality. The early morning sun painted the city in soft pastels, a stark contrast to the harsh fluorescents of the Seoul office. 

The warmth of the cabin dissipated as she stepped into the brisk air of the coastal city. The scent of the sea mingled with the crispness of the dawn, a refreshing change from the stale air of the flight.

Her driver, a stoic man in a black suit, held a sign with her name neatly printed on a white card. He nodded curtly as she approached, his eyes never leaving her. She couldn't help but feel a touch of nervousness under his scrutiny. 

As they made their way through the quiet streets, the city began to wake up, the soft hum of early morning traffic a gentle crescendo to the silence of the night. The hotel loomed into view, a sleek tower of glass and steel, a stark contrast to the cosy, familiar streets she'd left behind. 

The lobby was a study in modern luxury, with a minimalist aesthetic that somehow managed to be both welcoming and intimidating. Y/N's heels clicked on the marble floor as she followed the bellhop to the elevator, her briefcase feeling heavier with every step. 

The ride up was quick, the city shrinking below her until it was nothing more than a quilt of lights. When the doors slid open, she stepped into a plush hallway that seemed to stretch on forever, the only sound the muffled whispers of the hotel's hidden life.

The room was a sanctuary of calm, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only intrusion on the silence. Y/N dropped her bags by the door and took a moment to breathe, the weight of the case file in her briefcase feeling like it had transferred to her shoulders. 

She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, her reflection staring back at her, a tired but determined young woman ready to conquer the world.

The view was breath taking, the sea stretching out like a vast canvas painted in the soft hues of the early morning. The horizon was a blur of colours, a promise of a new day, a new challenge. Her heart swelled with excitement and nerves as she thought about the high-profile murder case that awaited her.

Y/N unpacked her suitcase methodically, her mind racing through the list of tasks she had ahead. Each item she laid out had a purpose, a role to play in her quest for justice. She hung her suits with care, the crisp fabric whispering a promise of professionalism. The sight of her neatly arranged work clothes brought a sense of order to the chaos of her thoughts.

Her phone buzzed, jolting her out of her thoughts. It was a message from her father, reminding her to eat something before diving into work. 

With a sigh, she called room service and ordered a simple breakfast of toast and eggs, the comfort food of her childhood. 

As she waited, she couldn't help but think about Jungkook, about the weariness in his eyes as he navigated the airport's gauntlet of flashing lights and intrusive questions.

The knock on the door startled her, and she jumped to her feet, her heart racing. It was just room service, a young man with a tray laden with her breakfast. He set it down with a polite smile, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness. 

The silence of the hotel room was deafening once the door clicked shut behind him.

Y/N took a deep breath and forced herself to eat, the food a comforting reminder of home. She could almost hear her mother's voice telling her to eat up, to keep her strength up.

The eggs were perfect, just the way she liked them, and the toast was warm and crunchy. Yet, even as she savoured each bite, her mind remained sharp, slicing through the legal jargon and the facts of the case.

Once she'd finished, she showered and changed into her first suit of the trip, a sleek, black number that made her feel like a warrior ready for battle. The mirror reflected a confident, capable woman, the kind her father had always believed her to be. 

Y/N took one last look before grabbing her briefcase and heading out, her heels clicking a rhythm of determination on the marble floor.

The drive to the law firm was a whirlwind of unfamiliar streets and the salty scent of the sea. The office was a stark contrast to the hotel, a nondescript building nestled between a convenience store and a coffee shop. 

The interior was a maze of cubicles and closed doors, the air thick with the scent of coffee and stress. She was ushered into a small, windowless room filled with boxes of documents and a single, worn-out desk. This was to be her base for the foreseeable future.

Her team was a mix of seasoned veterans and young, eager faces. They greeted her with a mix of respect and curiosity, whispering her name as if it were a password to some secret society. Y/N felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine.

This was it. Her moment to shine.

The lead prosecutor, Mr. Park, was a man with a reputation that preceded him. His stern gaze swept over her as she entered the conference room, his expression unreadable. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, everyone listened. 

His briefing was succinct and to the point, laying out the grim details of the murder case that had shaken the city of Busan to its core.

Lyle Castellanos, a prominent businessman, had been found in his penthouse, brutally stabbed to death. The evidence was damning, but the motive was as murky as the waters of the Busan harbour. 

Y/N took furious notes, her mind racing with questions. Who would benefit from Castellanos's death? Was it a crime of passion or a calculated move in the cutthroat world of business?

The suspects ranged from his scorned lover to his disgruntled employees to his rival companies. Each had their own web of alibis and motives, a tangled knot that she would have to unravel. 

The stakes were high; the case had captured the nation's attention, and the senior partner's expectations were clear. Y/N had to win this one, not just for her career, but for her father's pride.

The rest of the day was a blur of meetings and strategy sessions, the walls closing in with every passing hour. Yet, as the sun began to set, painting the sky with a palette of fiery reds and oranges, she found herself oddly at peace. 

The office windows framed a view of the bustling city, the distant sound of the port's activity a gentle reminder of the world beyond the case files.

As she left the office, the cool evening air kissed her skin, a refreshing embrace after the day's battle. The streets of Busan were alive, the neon lights and chatter of passersby a stark contrast to the sterile silence of the hotel.

Jungkook's flight had landed hours ago, and as this driver weaved through the familiar streets, his heart swelled with a bittersweet nostalgia. The sight of the bustling marketplaces and the comforting aroma of street food brought back a flood of memories. 

When he finally stepped out of the car and onto the well-worn path leading to his childhood home, his anticipation was palpable. 

The house looked smaller than he remembered, but it was as if it had been painted with a warm glow, welcoming him back with open arms. He took a deep breath, savouring the scent of the sea breeze that carried the promise of comfort and belonging.

Jungkook's hand hovered over the doorbell, his heart racing like the first beat of a new song. He could almost hear the echoes of his past, the laughter and love that had filled these walls. With a gentle push, the chime rang through the house, and he felt the weight of his career slip away, replaced by a simple, profound yearning for home.

The door swung open, and there she was, his mother, her eyes widening with joy as she took in the sight of her son.

The warm embrace that followed was like a lullaby, soothing the ragged edges of his soul. Her scent of homemade kimchi and comfort wrapped around him like a warm blanket, reminding him of the unconditional love that waited for him here.

The house was a time capsule, unchanged from his last visit, the walls lined with family portraits and childhood trophies. The chaos was a symphony, a beautiful reminder of the life he had left behind in the pursuit of stardom.

His mother's kitchen was a warm sanctuary, the air thick with the aroma of kimchi jjigae simmering on the stove. 

The familiar clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of ingredients hitting the hot pan, was music to his soul. He watched her, her movements efficient yet filled with love as she stirred the pot, her eyes never leaving him. She asked about his life in Seoul, his band, his music.

The rest of the evening was spent sharing stories, the laughter and warmth filling the void that fame had left behind. Jungkook felt a sense of belonging, a reminder of who he was before the lights and the cameras had become his constant companions. 

As the night grew late, he excused himself to his old room, the one he had not slept in for too long. 

The sight of his old bed, the posters of his childhood heroes still adorning the walls, brought a smile to his face. He unpacked his suitcase, placing his clothes in the drawers with a sense of comfort that was foreign in the city that never slept.

As he pulled out his phone to charge it for the night, a message from a familiar number popped up on his screen. It was from his childhood friend, Yoo-Jiin. 

"You're back!" it read, followed by a series of smiley faces. Jungkook felt a rush of excitement; it had been too long since they had last seen each other. 

Yoo-Jin proposed a reunion dinner tomorrow night, suggesting they catch up over some of their favourite street food and a couple of drinks. The thought of escaping the spotlight for just a few hours was tantalizing, a taste of freedom he hadn't experienced in a long time.

With a smile, Jungkook typed out his reply, agreeing to the meet-up. The anticipation grew within him like a chorus of cheerful notes. He hadn't had a night out like this since before his debut, a time when he could be just Jungkook, not the star of a world-famous boy band.

He quickly texted his manager to inform him of his plans, asking for a low-profile exit and minimal security.

The manager, ever understanding, assured him that it would be arranged. Jungkook could feel the burden of his celebrity status lift slightly, the thought of a night of anonymity a rare luxury. 

As he set his phone aside, the quiet hum of the old house lulled him into a sense of peace. He took a moment to breathe in the scent of home, a blend of the sea breeze that wafted in through the open window and the faint aroma of the dinner his mother had prepared.

The next day, Jungkook tried to keep his visit low-profile, spending time with his family and helping out around the house. His mother watched him with a knowing smile, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and concern. 

She had always worried about him, living that fast-paced life in the city, and she was grateful for this unexpected chance to reconnect.

Y/N, on the other hand, was thrown into the deep end of her high-profile case.

The office was a whirlwind of activity, with phones ringing off the hook and lawyers rushing to and fro, their heels clacking on the tiles like a staccato beat. Despite the chaos, she found a rhythm, her mind a finely tuned instrument sifting through the evidence and witness statements.

As the day dragged on, she felt the pressure building, the weight of her newfound responsibility pressing down on her shoulders. It was during a brief respite for coffee that she bumped into Min-Ji, a junior prosecutor with a sharp mind and a penchant for dramatic storytelling.

Min-Ji's eyes lit up when she saw Y/N, and before she knew it, she had been roped into an invitation for drinks after work.

Y/N hesitated, her mind already racing with the tasks she needed to complete, but the other woman's enthusiasm was infectious. 

"Come on," Min-Ji coaxed, "you've got to unwind. You can't work all day and night without a break. Plus it will be a little welcome moment to mark the start of your journey in Busan." With a sigh, Y/N found herself nodding, the promise of a few hours of normalcy too tempting to resist.

[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.

[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.

[rheya28]

Ten Leaves [ Spa & Rental ] ♥ The Sims 4: 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.

➽ Speed Build Video

➽ Rheya's Notes:

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.

➽ Important Notes:

● Please make sure to turn 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 with the build

➽ 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

● DOWNLOAD Tray File and CC list: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: anrheya [previous name: applez] ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Youtube: Rheya28__

[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 !