#Soft Padding in Abu dhabi | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

formulaforza · 1 year

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miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—05. Monte Carlo Ave. —word count: 9.3k —warnings: obvious implications of sex, no smut. club activities, so much fluff you'd wish you were dead. angst in the middle. love, mackie... so, just like chapter 4, there is a nsfw cut of this chapter whose link is embedded in the post. all nsfw warnings will be on that post. thank you for bearing with me while I took my sweet ass time writing this next part--there is no exaggerating how busy my life has become in the past couple months.

He wakes up at five-thirty-seven in the morning, exactly twenty-three minutes before his alarm is set to go off. Charles can’t remember the last time he was awake before his alarm, or the last time his alarm at home was set to go off before the sun rose.

It was fear that woke him up—fear of waking her up.

Her. Chris. His girlfriend, who is sound asleep next to him, in his bed, in his apartment, in his city.

She’s a cute sleeper, he knew—he knew, because she’d fallen asleep on FaceTime calls half a dozen times, because he’d watched her for a nearly creepily amount of time in Abu Dhabi, when he couldn’t believe she was actually there. She’s a cute sleeper, and yet, the shine hasn’t worn off yet, because he still watches.

She’d gone to bed in a hoodie from work and no pants, because, of course she had. Of course she had. She’s got one hand awkwardly craned under her pillow and another wrapped up in the comforter like it’s a finger trap, and her hair is messy, so messy and half-stuck to her cheek. It’s fucking adorable, and he feels so lucky.

He gets nervous then, nervous that she’s going to wake up and he’s going to be staring and it’s going to be weird, so. Instead of continuing to ogle, he reaches for his phone from the nightstand, turns the volume all the way down and scrolls through social media pretending not to steal a glance every time she takes a deep breath or moves a muscle.

It’s half an hour before she yawns awake, and he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to wake her up, after all.

“Morning,” he says, clicks the power button on his phone and lets it fall face down on his chest.

Chris smiles. “Morning,” she breathes, and leans over to kiss him.

“Mmm,” he hums, pushes his index finger against her lips. “What happened to morning breath?” He asks.

“Nope,” she speaks against his finger, threatens to bite it. He knows he wouldn’t stop her, but moves his finger anyway to kiss her properly, to let her smile out of it. “You’re stuck with me now, boyfriend and all that.”

“Gross,” he smiles. “I love it.”

She flops back against the mattress with a laugh, “What time is it?” she asks, leaning over to reach for her own phone.

“Six,” he hums. She scowls at her lock screen. “We have plans at seven.”

“Oh?” She peruses, sits up to stretch properly, to yawn again and ruffle her hair and God, she is so beautiful. He might never get over it.

“Padel…” he smiles, wonders if he’s about to get in trouble, to start their first fight as a couple at six in the morning on a Tuesday. He probably should have run this past her, he thinks, run all of it past her. He’d just gotten so caught up in the planning of it all. “...with my brothers.”

Her hands flop from her hair onto the comforter, landing with a soft thud on the padded fabric. When she looks at him, she’s still smiling, but her eyes are tired, confused. “Baby, what is padel?”

– – –

They cook breakfast together—well, Charles cooks breakfast. Chris spends the entire time leaning against the kitchen counter cradling her phone, watching a YouTube video on the basis of padel playing. Charles keeps leaning over her shoulder, plastic spatula in hand, and correcting the man in the video. That’s not what you do, he hums. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

After the fifth comment in as many minutes, she turns to him with a chill-inducing glare. “I’m going to padel you upside the head,” she says, with a smile on her face—which only makes it that much more terrifying. He nods, steps back from her shoulder and returns to the crepes he’s butchering on the stovetop.

– – –

“I have to know,” she asks, sat on the floor in the bedroom, in the limited space at the end of the bed, tying her shoes. “What was the plan if I didn’t pack workout clothes?”

“Eh,” he mutters, rifling through the hangers of sweatshirts hanging in his closet. “I would have put on you some of my clothes,” he continues, pulls his two best options down from the hangers and holds them up for her. One, a blue Ferrari crewneck. The other, gray, from his friend’s line.

“You would have put me in your clothes,” she corrects his English, and if it was anyone else he’d find it insufferable. But he doesn’t, not with her, so he chuckles and his smile grows and he can feel his dimples. For the dramatics, though, he rolls his eyes.

“Which one?” He asks, taking turns raising the two sweatshirts.

“As tempting as the team kit is,” she laughs, and he tosses the gray one to her. He could have guessed the gray one, he thinks, but she’s surprised him more than once before. “Thank you,” she hums, pulling it over her head and carefully fixing the wisps of hair that fall from her ponytail when she does it.

“Always,” he nods, holds a hand out to pull her to her feet.

– – –

Arthur and Lorenzo are already at the court when Chris and Charles arrive, attempting—and failing—to play a round of singles padel on the doubles court Charles had reserved for the morning.

Just as they approach, a shot ricochets off of Arthur’s racquet and flies past Lorenzo, colliding with the glass wall behind him with a thud. Lorenzo jogs after the ball, laughing, pointing at his brother in a sore act of celebration.

Arthur is just as sore a loser. “Ah!” He calls out, gesturing with his own racquet to the tape that runs along the top of the net. “Filet!” Net!

Lorenzo blows air from his cheeks and scoffs, firmly bouncing the ball against the ground a few times before picking it up properly. “S'il te plaît!” Please!

“Mon pote, allez,” Mate, come on, Arthur groans. “Ça tremble encore!” It’s still shaking!

“Arthur, j'étais à trois mètres,” I was three meters away.

Charles grins, pulls open the door to the court, holding it open for Chris to step in front of him. “Retiens ton feu,” hold your fire, he calls out to his brothers, “trouve ton anglais,” find your English.

Both boys' heads shoot over, scowls still apparent. “Do you see this? Do you see him run into this net?” Arthur shouts, still gesturing wildly with his racquet.

“Do not let him convince you, you know what you saw,” Lorenzo interjects, carries on even though the game has been abandoned and they instead jog over to greet Chris and Charles. Lorenzo is first over, kissing either of Charles’ cheeks. “You saw this?” He asks, and Charles laughs, nods.

“I did.”

“Bullshit,” he laughs, shoves Charles’ shoulder and turns to greet Chris. “You?”

Charles expects to find some apprehension on Chris’ face, something that shows she’s not sure of her place yet, but he doesn’t find any. Confidently, she speaks, “He’s crazy, you weren’t even close,” and then kisses each cheek.

Lorenzo tosses his arm around Chris with a laugh. “Charles,” he speaks, points to her with the same hand that’s thrown over her shoulder. “My team.”

Charles chuckles. “I try not to make a habit of telling my girlfriend what to do.” Chris blushes at the very mention of it—girlfriend. If he knew it would be that easy to make her blush he would’ve asked weeks ago. He might’ve asked in Austin, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

“Oh-ho?” Arthur’s already teasing, clapping his hands on Charles’ shoulders and laughing like a madman. “Girlfriend, huh?”

Neither of them—Chris or Charles, say anything. Between the flush of her cheeks and the depth of his dimples, they might as well have it spray painted on their foreheads. “Right,” Lorenzo offers, “well, Chris, as the only person around here with some sense, you’re on my team.”

“You can have her,” Charles teases, Lorenzo quirks a brow. “She has no idea how to play, but also she is a rule master.”

“Abandoning your own girlfriend,” Chris interjects, the same teasing tone laced in her voice. She pretends to shiver, grand and dramatic, even though it’s eighteen degrees and sunny and she’s got long pants and a sweatshirt—his sweatshirt on. “It’s cold, man.”

He rolls his eyes, sticks a racquet in her hand and moves to kiss her, which is more than close enough to Lorenzo for him to abandon his position next to Chris, retreating to the safety of the court, bouncing the padel ball as he walks. “Ready to take us?” Charles asks quietly, just to her. Arthur is somewhere in the space behind him gulping a water bottle in an almost comical manner.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replies, half-chuckled, demeanor light and bouncy. There’s something about her that always seems full of energy, ready to take on whatever is put in front of her head-on.

“Don’t worry,” he practically whispers, winks and gives her shoulder a soft squeeze. “I’ll go easy on you.”

Chris clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, feigns offense and scoffs loudly, bringing the head of the racquet up to the center of his chest, pushing him back a few steps. “Don’t you dare.”

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, offering—practically promising—to let someone else win. There’s still a basket somewhere in a storage closet full of broken video game controllers from his childhood. And once, for three entire weeks when they were six and nine, he and Arthur weren’t allowed at the dinner table together because they would race to finish their food and promptly get sick. Then again, it is Chris, all bouncy ponytail and quick wit in his home in his clothes, so. Maybe it isn’t as far-fetched as it seems.

As expected, it becomes apparent quickly that Chris is a beginner at a game the boys have spent years playing. She misses shots and struggles to find her footing and the best positioning, but it doesn’t crush her mood, dampen her energy. Lorenzo—her teammate, takes on quite a coaching role, offers an equal amount of encouragement and advice.

She’s a quick learner, though. Charles knew she would be. So, despite the sound loss she and Lorenzo take in the first game, she manages a decent amount of solid shots and a spattering of genuinely impressive ones. She’s quick, that’s her advantage. She might not know what to do when she gets to the ball, but she always gets there. And, when she scores her first point, actually jumps into the air when she gives Lorenzo a high-five, he can’t help but find himself soft, a smile tugging on his lips, holding back on the points that follow in hopes of seeing her goofy grin again.

“You did quite well out there,” he tells her when they’re between games. Her eyes light up and she hums around a mouthful of water, hurries to swallow it before she laughs.

“Really?” She coughs, clears her throat. “You think?”

He nods. “You’re quick,” he mutters before taking a drink of his own water.

“I ran track in high school.” He quirks a brow, which makes her smile, which makes him choke on a laugh mid-swallow. You’d think neither of them had ever had a drink from a plastic water bottle before.

“Really?” She nods, hums her response, toying with her ponytail. Her bangs are loose, untucked from her ears and her hair-tie, and he feels the overwhelming urge to brush it from her face. “Why did I not know this?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Why didn’t you know that?”

“Google said nothing about this.”

“You Googled me?!” Briefly. Briefly, he had googled her at the very beginning of it all. Really, it was more Googling her family than it was her, they are the ones with all the information out there. He needed to make sure he wasn’t starting something with a raging white supremacist or a murderer.

“You didn’t Google me?” She scratches the back of her head, not-so discreetly looks anywhere but her. “Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

With a playful eye roll, she promptly changes the subject: “you want to be on my team?”

“I…” he laughs, “...don’t know if we are there yet.”

“Oh,” She laughs, brows raised with a goofy smile and it’s official—her laugh is never going to not give him butterflies, never not going to be so much better in person. “The truth comes out.”

Chris is soundly defeated in three straight games, despite finding herself with a new teammate each round—first Lorenzo, then Arhur, and finally, after five minutes of her best puppy-dog eyes, the most competitive man alive ( her boyfriend) agreed to be her teammate.

It’s hours later by the time they leave the country club—no, no, Charles said it was specifically a padel club. They part ways with his brothers and then they’re driving back through the winding streets to his apartment. She ogles, like she’s been doing since she got here, all the careful, intricate architecture and the perfectly manicured manner of the whole place. It’s like people don’t live here, like she’s in a made-up land. She latches onto every imperfection—a crack in the sidewalk, a shrub with a single projection, a half-ragged French flag on the stern of a super yacht. It makes it all feel human, lived in, like the place someone can grow up, the place he grew up.

After two hurried showers and a change of clothes they set off for lunch at Charles’ self-proclaimed “favorite restaurant.” It’s a sushi place, which she finds interesting, because not once has she heard him talk about sushi when talking about his favorite foods.

Charles parks in a garage that’s a fifteen minute walk from the restaurant because, as he puts it, she’s walking the streets with the nation’s best tour guide. He starts the tour with the middle three corners of the Grand Prix, in reverse order—the hairpin, mirabeau bas, and portier, and then they take the quarter-or-so mile walk to the first of many monuments that Chris wouldn’t even attempt to pronounce in her own head. It’s there, somewhere between the forced tourist photos he snaps of her at Le Pêcheur and the one at the Promenade Princesse Louise-Hyppolyte, the truth comes to light.

“What do you mean you did not tell anyone you were here?!” He exclaims all dramatic-like, dropping the phone from in front of his face, abandoning the search for what he considers the perfect angle. “You left the country, Chris.” She shrugs, doesn’t really see the big deal in all of it. It’s not like she… no, it is like she purposely didn’t tell people. That’s exactly what it is, actually.

“I thought we were keeping this on the down-low.”

“Not that low!” He scolds, but she can tell he wants to laugh. He should, she thinks. It’s funny. “What if you die?”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you planning on killing me?” He glares daggers, burns a you’re not funny look into her head. “Letting me be killed?” She’s sure it annoys him to no end, positive almost, but it’s not like she can go back in time and tell everyone, and even if she could, she’s not sure she would. She likes this being just theirs, at least for now, while they can still manage it. She likes not having to report back to her parents—to her dad, especially—about her hotshot, young punk racing driver of a boyfriend and the silver spoon he feeds her french delicacies with.

He sighs, shoulders wildly heavy, and holds her phone back out to her. His eyes are soft, frustrated in a way she didn’t expect them to be. She really didn’t think it was that crazy of a decision. “You should have told someone,” he says, and she feels immensely guilty.

“Hannah knows,” she blurts, an honest offer of anything she has to not get such a serious look from him. He’s not meant to be serious.

“Hannah knows?”

“She knows I went somewhere. I didn’t tell her where,” she says. I didn’t tell her where because my brother and father don’t want me to date a race driver, she doesn’t say, because that would only make him more nervous.

“You should have told someone you were here,” he says, drags out the vowel sounds and tosses an arm over her shoulder. He kisses her temple, pulls her into him and chuckles. Okay, okay. He’s not actually upset.

“Probably,” she nods, a smile pulling on the corners of her lips. “I can tell them when I get home, if you want. Start some drama over Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure making a good impression will not be hard after that.”

MayaBay, that’s the name of his favorite restaurant, Thai and Japanese and a sushi bar that Charles talks about for the entire walk there. Apparently securing a reservation at the restaurant was hard enough, but a seat at the coveted sushi bar was something else entirely, and, according to Charles, was his first failed call after Chris’ visit was planned. She tries to tell him that it doesn’t matter where in the restaurant they eat, but he’s insistent that he’s going to try again and again, and again every time she comes to visit until he can manage to get them in.

Her cheeks flush red at the revelation and she continues to hold out hope he’s oblivious to the heat that radiates from her face every time he meets her with some sort of compliment or insistence of inclusion. She doesn’t even think he’s conscious of the latter, which makes it all that more special. He doesn’t have to take special care to include her in his life, he just does it—does it like he’s always been doing it, always been sharing these small parts of his life with her.

Lunch is enough to leave her full for the entire day. Po Pia Kung and Ceviche and Roti and Nigiri—two plates, no wasabi, per Charles’s request—and she’s worried that she’ll be full before getting the chance to lay eyes on their entrees.

“This place is so special,” she tells him from across the tiny table, around the too-big centerpiece. “Thank you.”

He hums around a mouthful of Roti, brings a napkin to his mouth when he swallows so he can start talking that little bit sooner. “For what?”

Chris shrugs. Thank you… for. For. For everything, she supposes. “For wanting me here.”

He smiles, dimples digging deep, cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink when he adjusts in his seat, leans forward enough that it’s just barely perceivable. “Thank you for wanting to be here,” and you blush right back.

It’s got to be quite the sight for any onlookers, the two of them acting all middle-school. They aren’t aware enough of the other people in the restaurant for it to be of note, and even if they were, they wouldn’t care.

It’s Pad Thai for the main course with a side of three bites of Charles’ Kadou Yang stolen in the midst of quiet conversation, and then, as if they haven’t shared everything else already, they split the restaurant’s signature, meant to share dessert.

“So,” he hums, somewhere on the walk back to the car—or, to the surprise Charles refuses to reveal that’s on the way back to the car. He swings their interlocked hands between their body, drags the action out in the same way he does the vowel. “When do I get to come to Georgia?”

It takes her by surprise, puts a kiddish smile on her face. It should be obvious that he would want to come, because, well, it’s where she lives. But, every conversation has always been about her coming to him. And it makes sense to her, because he’s always moving and she’s always in the same place. It makes sense that he wouldn’t come to her, but now that she thinks about it, it makes more sense that he would. “You want to come to Georgia?”

“That,” he laughs, “that is a silly question. Of course I want to.”

“Well, I mean. You’re always welcome, but I don’t know what your schedule looks like.” She knows it’s a mess, undoubtedly, even if she’s never laid eyes on it. She can only imagine the amount of people wanting him in places year round, and having all of that squished into a couple month period of time? She wouldn’t be surprised if he spends more time traveling in the offseason than he does when he’s actually racing.

“I don’t know what it looks like, either,” he takes out his phone and clicks through half a dozen apps with his free hand—the one not intertwined with hers. “Uh…,” he chuckles at the screen like even he can’t believe just how in demand he is. “Next month I’m in Italy for some days, then France for Christmas and London for New Year.” Chris leans over to look at his calendar.

“What about there?” She asks, pointing to the block of dates that are empty between his color-coded trips to Italy and France. “My brother’s wedding is that weekend,” she says, and then realizes how crazy the proposition sounds and instantly attempts to retract it, “but you probably don’t want to go to that.”

She’d love more than anything to have him at Chase and Hannah’s wedding, but she can understand why he would want to do anything else. It’s one thing to make him travel all that way, but then to make him travel all that way for a wedding, where he’ll have to meet the parents and the siblings and dog—that’s just a cruel thing to imply is expected of him. It’s certainly no way to keep him wanting to come back for another visit.

He bumps his shoulder against hers. “I love weddings.”

“Yeah?” She bumps back, dumb little smile on her face. “When you don’t know anyone there and your girlfriend is in the bridal party?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Unconsciously, she puts distance between their arms, to keep from getting too hot or to keep them from tripping or maybe for no reason at all because she really doesn’t notice that she does it. “My whole family’ll be there,” she continues meekly, and their arms are almost taught.

“Good,” Charles scoffs, and pulls her right back to his side, like even an arm’s length is too far. “I can fix the first impression you’re going to break.”

Chris rolls her eyes, both at his words and his actions—painfully endeared by both. “Why are you so convinced I’m going to have something bad to say about you?”

“I’m not worried really about what you say, but your father is not going to like me if you say to him, ‘this is my boyfriend who I saw in two different countries without telling to you.’”

“Yeah,” she nods, bites back a laugh against the skin on the inside of her cheek. It shouldn’t be as funny as it is to her; the state of her life. “Yeah, you definitely have a point there,” she cuts the vowel short, chokes on a laugh, sucks in her own lips in an attempt to keep them from spilling, the laugh escaping silently through her nose. He meets her with a matching—no, a somehow dramatized mirroring—of her expression that only makes it that much harder not to laugh. When she finally does break, there are practically tears in her eyes, and it was never even that funny.

He smiles at her laugh, like always, and shakes his head. “I will have to come to this wedding to do damage control.”

“Probably,” she nods, still laughing. It’s like it’s all just sunk in for her—the boyfriend. The long distance boyfriend, as in, long distance. Whatever everyone else considers long distance, times the distance of the Atlantic Ocean and the average net worth of his hometown. The fact that he was a stranger just a few months ago, and now she’s in her second foreign country in three days with him and it all feels so normal. The fact that she didn’t even want to go on that Hot Lap—hot laps, plural— or that she didn’t have any interest in going to the race. If she’d tried just a little bit harder to get out of it, or stayed in the beer tent for just ten minutes longer or, or, or. It’s not funny at all, and yet it’s hilarious.

“You’re ridiculous, you know this?”

“I know this.” She sighs, deep and slow and grounding, one stray chuckle slipping through her lips before she can continue. “Don’t book any flights, then—Until I make sure it’s all good with Hannah.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, salutes her with his phone still in his hand and everything.

“Okay, so,” Charles sighs, drops his head against the pillow with a soft plop. Lunch was hours ago, now, succeeded by a walk around the Japanese Gardens, a trip to the supermarket because his fridge is, as Chris so affectionately referred to it as—bachelor pad chic—and a personal tour around the Prince’s Car Collection where he got to show off his favorite memories. It’s after dinner, even. After half-stale pasta made by him and meal-saving chicken expertly prepared by her, after two episodes of a French reality show with English closed captioning, after a day he won’t soon forget. It’s then, in bed, while she reads the final pages of the book she’s been cutting away at for weeks now, that he tests his knowledge on the information he’s been quizzing her for afternoon. “Chandler is the oldest, and she’s dating Alexis.”

“Correct,” Chris says, turns the page on her book.

“But the drama is that Alexis doesn’t like any of your family, so she and your sister moved away and don’t come to anything.” She hums her response this time, and he wonders if she’s even listening all that much or if he could get her to agree to anything right now. “And then Chase is in the middle, he’s marrying Hannah. But the drama is Hannah was—” before he can even get the next word out, she’s glancing over at him to interject. “Hannah is your best friend, and was before Chase dated her. And she has a little boy named Reid with a dickhead.”

“Yup.”

“And then you, my perfect little angel.”

She smiles at the pages of her book. He likes making her smile. “Don’t forget it.”

“Your parents are Bill and Cindy, short for… William and,” he pauses. She pauses. He has no idea what Cindy is short for. “Lucinda?” Chris blinks, hard, dog ears the corner of her page and shuts her book. If he didn’t already know it was a pretty shit guess, he sure knows it now. Sometimes a blink is worth a thousand and one words.

“No,” she says, furrows her brows so subtly that it shouldn’t be recognizable, but it is. And then she blinks again.

“I knew that,” he boasts, his best cocky tone and a matching smug expression on his face. “I was just testing you.”

She chuckles, leans to her right to set the book down on the bed-side table there. “On my own mother’s name?” She questions, tucking herself under the covers and scooching over, leaning against his chest comfortably. He would let her lie like this as long as she wanted. It’s so sweet to have her in his arms.

“Well, you call her ‘Mom,’” he explains, even down to the forced American accent when he says ‘Mom.’ “So maybe you did not know.”

“Cindy isn’t short for anything.”

“Like I said,” he twists her hair around his finger slowly, mindlessly, without any sort of purpose or intention. When she uses him like a pillow this way, he can always smell her shampoo. He’s been trying to place it for days now. Coconut, he knows—but there is something else there, too, something he can’t put his finger on. “I know this.”

“Okay, continue then.”

“I will,” he says, lets the twirled hair fall from his finger and kisses her head with a smile on his face. “They have a dog called Beans that you call Beanie-Baby,” he pauses. “And the drama is, your parents do not like me.”

He can see the apples of her cheeks flare in his peripheral, a laugh stirring in her chest. “The drama is: there is no drama with them,” she says. “They’re all bark no bite.”

He adjusts underneath her, sighs all heavy and deflated because the thought of it—her family, her parents. It’s so fucking intimidating, it is. Because he knows how important they are to her, how highly she regards their opinion, even if she pretends that she doesn’t. He knows that it’s everything to her, and if he makes even a single mis-step he could ruin it all—their opinion, her opinion, all of it. And something in his gut, a pit in his stomach tells him that she’s already made a mis-step for him when she came over here without telling anyone she was coming. Why wouldn’t she tell anyone she was coming? “What do I even talk to them about?”

“I don’t know,” she says, adjusts to accommodate his adjustment, and eventually they’ll get properly comfortable. “Racing.”

“We race in different cars.”

“But it’s all cars.”

He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and then finally, “it’s different.”

“I think you’re overreacting a bit, here,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. He’s not overreacting, she’s underreacting. “I get along with your Mom and your brothers and I don't know what anyone is saying half of the time.” Okay, okay, maybe she has a point there. He did kind of throw her to the wolves this week—not that his family are wolves, just. Meeting the parents before the relationship is even a relationship is. It’s just messed up for him to do, and she’d handled it gracefully, perfectly and flawlessly charmed everyone.

But then again. “Yeah, but you’re you.” Anyone would be charmed by her. She’s very charming.

“And you’re you.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand.” She can’t possibly understand it because he doesn’t even properly understand it, the way he feels about her. The fear he feels about losing all the indecipherable feelings. It’s just good, everything about her, about being near her. It’s all so sweet and nice and good and he really, really doesn’t want to screw it up.

“You’ve already met my Dad,” she starts, clearly trying to calm him down, to ease his nerves. “My brother is just like him but more annoying,” she laughs, and even though he’s half deflated, her laugh still puts a weak smile on his face. “My sister probably won’t speak to you, and my Mom loves anyone that calls her ma’am and tells her she looks young. Just don’t talk about racing with her.”

“You just told me—”

“With the boys,” Chris clarifies.

“Your Mum doesn’t like Chase racing?”

“Does yours?” Good point. Is there a mother on the face of the planet, over all of history, that loved the idea of their kid racing other kids around high speed corners without any regard for their own lives?

“Then why did she let him?”

“I’m sure the same reason yours let you. Dad’s can be very convincing.”

His stomach drops. “Yeah. Yeah, they can be. My dad was.” His fingers trace mindless circles on the skin of her arm, soft and warm and clean. His eyes focus on the little red light on the bottom of his television, the one that’s only on when the TV is off. “He would spend so much time at the karting track with my brothers and I, you would not believe it. Sometimes my Mum would say that we lived there and should take blankets to sleep in the karts,” He says, and Chris laughs, makes him aware of his tracing fingers, but doesn’t stop them. “She would always say to us, ‘be careful, drive slow,’ and my Dad would always say ‘be careful, have fun.’ Now Mum will say to us just to be careful.”

“Did your Dad drop the ‘have fun,’ too?”

Red Light. Soft skin. He knew it was coming, it’s always coming, only a matter of time before he had to tell her. Honestly, he’s surprised it had gone this long, that she hadn’t asked about his father the moment she met the rest of the family and he was absent. He can’t stomach the look of pity she’ll give him. She can take it from everyone else, always had—but the image of that look on her face, the dead dad look. He never wants her to look at him like that.

Red light. Stupid shapes. “No, uh,” he drags out his own words, putting off the inevitable by even a few more moments. “My father died when I was a teenager.”

At least he knows her google search of him months earlier wasn’t too in-depth. “Oh my God, Charles,” She says, voice quiet and soft, like she thinks her words will break him. They won’t. He wishes she knew they won’t.

“No,” he chuckles, kisses the top of her head. “No. Don’t look at me like that,”

“I’m not,” she protests, but he doesn’t have to look at her to confirm. Nobody is above the look of pity.

“You are.”

“You’re not even looking at me,” she says, sits up off his chest. He keeps his eyes on the red light. “Look at me,” she insists, a soft hand on his jaw, pulling him back to her.

He rolls his eyes before he looks, before there’s an eternity of silent eye contact because she doesn’t have the look on her face. Anyone can tell she feels bad, especially him, but it’s different. It’s different, and he doesn’t feel like some pathetic puppy in a cold corner. He doesn’t feel like a nineteen year old who’s world is in shambles. He just feels like him. Like it’s all okay.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” she finally speaks, and he hears it now. She doesn’t think he’s going to break, that’s now why she’s meek. She feels guilty, guilty that she brought it up, that she didn’t know, that he thinks she would ever think he would break.

“How would you?”

Sincere in her apology, in her guilt, she doubles down. “I’m still sorry.”

Her eyes are filled with something pure, some innocent kind of affection and he feels awful that she feels awful. “I’m sorry for going on about him.”

“I’ll listen as long as you want to talk.”

He smiles, a genuine laugh falling from his lips. “I can talk forever.”

“Then,” she smiles, leans over to kiss him before getting comfortable again, snuggling into his chest like before. “Tell me all about him.”

They sleep late the next morning. Maybe they’re adjusting to the timezone—unlikely, especially in Chris’ case—or they were just up to late talking, but Chris is stretching against the sheets, against Charles, just after nine.

It’s no surprise that she wakes up tangled in a mess of limbs, not even something she minds. Even with her hand asleep and painfully tingley. She knows that she won’t get to wake up like this tomorrow morning, or the morning after, or every morning for at least a month, so. She doesn’t mind the heat and the sleeping limbs and the threat of a knot in her shoulder.

She wiggles out from his grip without waking him, grabs her phone from the bedside table and checks the time. She scans the room, eyes floating over all of her things scattered about. She should start packing up, she thinks. Start packing and getting ready to leave.

She tiptoes across the room, around the corner into the bathroom to start there, far away from his sleeping body. Quietly, carefully, she brushes her teeth, washes her face and tugs a brush through her hair, tying it back into a ponytail. Slowly, she gathers her stuff—makeup and hair tools and skincare—and packs it away carefully into her toiletries bag.

When she comes back into the bedroom, still cringing with every creak of the floor under her feet, she finds Charles awake in bed, soft, sleepy smile when she turns the corner. “Come back to bed,” he’s pleading before she can even mutter a good morning.

“I have to pack,” she argues half-heartedly, because she wants nothing more than to climb back into bed, and his voice is no help—all hoarse and raspy with sleep.

“Why?” He asks, drags the letter sounds out into a yawn that makes her smile.

“Because,” she says, draws out the e-sound to tease his cadence. “It’s almost nine-thirty, and I'm leaving in two hours.”

“You don’t have two hours of stuff,” he protests.

“I don’t like to be late,” she continues over her shoulder, opening her suitcase and laying it flat on the floor at the end of the bed, readjusting the still-folded clothes she hadn’t ended up wearing.

“Well,” he says, stretches against his sheets and then he’s getting out of bed with another yawn. “Let me help you, then.”

He steps around her open suitcase carefully. There isn’t exactly a surplus of floorspace for him to find his footing in. He disappears into the bathroom, locks the door behind him while she continues to gather her things, reappearing ten minutes later. “Give me a kiss,” he says, trudging over to her with open arms.

“You’re so needy this morning,” she quips, slinking her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. He hums against her lips in agreement and the vibration makes her giggle into his mouth.

Chris makes an attempt to return to the task at hand, but he has different plans, and follows around right behind her. His arms wrap around her torso everytime she stills for even a moment and he hugs her from behind, kisses her shoulders and her neck and her hair.

“You make it hard to pack,” she tells him, and he laughs into the crook of her neck. What she really means is: you make it hard to leave.

“Come back to bed.”

“I want to,” she sighs, leans back against his body.

He turns with her so they’re facing the bed. “It is right there,” he says, and she groans. “Look at it, all warm and comfy.” He’s right, the sheets look so soft, the pillows so fluffed. It’s a bed begging to be slept in, to be lounged on, to be snuggled by.

She wiggles from his grasp, backs away from him towards the door and makes a challenge that she knows she has no intention of winning; “We can go back to bed,” she starts, still inching further away from him, further away from the bed, “if you can catch me,” and then she bolts.

Chris’ high school claim to fame might have been that she was an all-state track and field athlete, but she’s got nothing on her boyfriend, who’s made a career out of his reflexes. It’s all pants and squeals and laughs that go on for entirely too long.

She realizes that she’s trapped when they’re stood on opposite sides of his dining room table, and she couldn’t be the least bit bothered. She tries to fake him out, to move left and then right, but he predicts the move before she even makes it, catches her with a strong grip around her waist and lifts her off her feet, carries her into the bedroom and tackles her onto the bed.

click here for the nsfw cut

Chris’ flight leaves Nice at 12:30 pm, and then it’s a two and a half hour layover in Amsterdam, until finally, she lands in Atlanta long after sunset. She Ubers home and by the time she’s flopping down onto her couch, it’s almost eleven. Charles is the only call she makes before crashing. Then again, who else would she call? He’s one of two people who knew she was anywhere but home, and the only one who’d made her promise to call—despite the time difference and the Uber delay—with the threat of calling the first Georgia police number he could find on google to report her missing.

He answers on the third ring, voice with the same rasp of that morning. “Hello?”

“Hi,” she speaks through a yawn, lays the phone beside her ear on the couch cushion and leaving it on speaker.

“Hey,” he laughs, and she can perfectly hear the smile on his lips. She can almost feel it, the way the room reacts to it.

“You gave me a hickey,” she says, fingering the bruise that lies an inch above her collarbone. His giggle on the other end is loud and boyish—particularly teenager-ish.

“So, you made it home safe?”

“Well, if you ignore the vampire bruise on my neck.”

“Sorry,” he says, but he’s still laughing like a little kid.

“It’s not funny,” she warns, thinly veiled because even she can hear the tired laugh at the back of her throat.

“It’s a little funny.”

Chris rolls her eyes. “I have to see my entire family tomorrow!”

“Eh,” he hums, and just like the smile, she can see the shrug. She can see him so well it’s like he’s here or she’s there or that they’re somewhere together. Somewhere that doesn’t really matter, because they’re both there, smiling and laughing and shrugging. God. God, she already misses him so much. “They already don’t like me.”

“Charles!” She scolds, but she’s laughing now, too.

“I’m sorry,” he smooths. “I am. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know,” Chris sighs, pokes her own neck. “I’m not upset, I’ll just have to whisk it all morning.”

He chuckles. “You have to do what?”

“You know, like. For eggs…or baking. A whisk,” with every word that leaves her mouth, another letter is types into her phone’s search bar. Google Translate: whisk. “Le fouet?”

“Le fouet??” He questions with a tone that would make her think she’d called him a slur. “I do not think that is right.”

“Le fouet à…” she trails off, debating internally over the pronunciation of the words in front of her. “How do you say the ‘o’ and the ‘e’ when they’re together?” She asks, butchers it before he has the chance to give her any answer. “Œufs?”

“I have no idea what you are telling to me.”

“Telling you,” Chris corrects. “What I’m telling you.”

“Oh, mon dieu,” he groans. “This is sad. We can talk in the morning.”

“Okay,” she nods, yawns again. It’s long past her bedtime, and she has no idea how many hours now she’s been awake for. It’s gotta be going on twenty or more, surely. Surely.

“Thank you for calling me,” he says, softly, genuinely grateful for the call. She’s grateful he’s grateful. It’s sweet, all the little things he does to show he cares. The way he does most of them without realizing it.

“Thank you for wanting me to call.”

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urloveseb · 2 years

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the state of dreaming

a direct-follow up/sequel to innocent eyes, everything divine - my sebchal angel/demons au!!! the open ending of it was kind of haunting me, and i wanted to give writing a more tangible ending for it a try :)

sebastian vettel/charles leclerc 1.4k - slight mention of nsfw stuff (nothing explicit, just mentions of it happening the night before for around 4 lines)

Charles doesn’t think he could ever really get used to the light.

It tingles and ignites at his entire being as it shines right through his closed eyelids, brilliant and relentless in all the worst ways possible — a constant reminder that he doesn’t truly belong in this realm. Luminance isn’t a familiar sight where he’s from, the mere appearance of it signaling a relatively painful end for all of his kind — that the prophesized reckoning by their archenemies, the winged beings of the heavens, is rapidly approaching.

He unceremoniously whines, everything too much for his sleep-addled brain to currently handle — tail swishing in the air as he flips himself over and squashes his face into the pillow, the coolness of the padding against his body a welcoming feeling. His entire body is sore, his skin all sticky and raw, but it feels rather pleasurable than disgusting — like he had just woken up from a twelve-hour spa treatment.

Out of all the options, though — he’s pretty sure that particular scenario didn’t actually occur. Charles desperately tries to recall where he is with all the brain fog settling in his mind — what exactly had happened to him in the span of only a few hours while he was dozing away in this unfamiliar bedroom.

All he can remember is scattered bits and pieces from the night before — anxiously standing in front of a wooden door, being held in someone’s comforting arms while he cried his eyes out against their warm, familiar embrace, his entire body drowning in utter pleasure as honeyed words threatened to spill from his lips with every twitch of a muscle.

It takes a few seconds, but fragmented pieces eventually come back to him. He’s in Abu Dhabi — meaning it’s finally the end of the Formula One season. The last race happened yesterday, not a particularly good one for him — but it signals the start of his winter break, a brief moment of respite before he returns to do it all over again in less than three months with a new beginning at the team.

Significant memories begin to surface as Charles tries to think harder. An echo of fuzzy light brown curls and a playful smile, sparkling crystal blues glimmering in the moonlight, soft downy wings brushing against his skin as a figure writhes sublimely underneath him, thoroughly lost in the pleasure.

Charles gasps — everything hitting him like a truck in that instant.

That’s right. He had sex with Seb in his hotel room last night.

Considerable fear overflows his senses at the realization — and terrifying thoughts begin to bombard him as his mind races through all the possibilities.

Is Seb still here? Or did he slip out while Charles was still dreaming about him, suitcase and other belongings in tow as he headed back home to Switzerland, towards his own Charles-free life?

Charles tentatively feels the space next to him on the bed — and the only thing he senses is the mattress, feeling cold against his bare skin and devoid of any warmth as he runs his fingers against the protector. He stifles a choked sob into the pillow, the fabric of it rubbing harshly against his horns. Seb is gone — disappearing into the Abu Dhabi morning without as much of a trace.

Of course, this would happen.

Honestly, what did he even expect — Seb slumbering in the bed until dawn, all snuggled up in his arms when he drowsily wakes, rubbing at his eyes as he adorably yawns all cat-like? Them engaging in cloying pillow talk as they order in room service for breakfast, laughing while feeding each other bits of sugary pastries and assorted berries?

No matter how much he wants that, not just now, but for the rest of his life — it’s merely a wishful thought. It’d be absolute heresy even to consider the possibility that Seb could ever reciprocate his sorry feelings. Whatever they have between them isn’t a fairy-tale love story — but rather another tragedy written by the cruel hands of fate.

Charles runs a hand over his neck, fingers ghosting over his scorching skin. His worst nightmare has now just become his reality — and he doesn’t know what to fucking do or how to accept it.

He’s lying here — alone in a hotel room that isn’t even his, with Seb no longer as his teammate and with the chances looking more and more likely that they’ll drift apart. Just strangers who were once teammates, maybe even something more.

Fate is brutally laughing at him, at the situation it’s placed him in — and Charles wishes he could tear it apart, rip it to shreds, do something if it meant that he could remain with Seb for the rest of time, and not have to part ever again.

Anger and helplessness well up in him as hot liquid leaks from his eyes and stains the pillow case — just why does the universe want to pull them apart so fucking badly? Were their existences not enough? Why bring Ferrari into it, make them publicly choose between him and Seb — and humiliate the love of his life, only to toss him to the curb as if he were a nobody? Charles wants nothing more than destruction, watching the world burn as he torches it to ashes.

“Mmmph.”

Charles’ eyes fly wide open — his fury momentarily forgotten at the sudden sound. From what he’s gathered, there should be no one else in the room but him — and he definitely didn’t say anything just now.

It can’t be.

He slowly turns his head toward the source of the noise — and he chokes when he witnesses the sight in front of him.

It’s Seb — completely cocooned in their giant blanket, mumbling incoherent sentences while rocking back and forth from his little ball on the far right side of the king-size mattress. Charles holds his breath as Seb roly-polys over towards where he is, wings gently heaving up and down while he quietly snores — his sleep entirely undisturbed.

He somehow manages to roll right on top of Charles’ body, snuggling right up against his chest with a satisfied puff. Charles instinctively reaches out to steady the angel above him, wrapping his arms and tail around so as not to disturb any of his precious sleep — not when he’s so beautiful like this, all peaceful and ethereal. Not when Charles is afraid that this is all just a dream — easily shattered if he moves a muscle even slightly.

He didn’t leave, Charles thinks, a single tear dripping down his face as he gently thumbs at Seb’s cheek — unsure if his eyes are playing cruel tricks on him. Seb’s skin is cool against the heat of his finger, indicating that he’s here, existing in the same plane and very much real. He’s still here.

Seb shifts in his embrace, squirming around as he continues to snore. He presses himself even closer against the warmth of the devil, subconsciously smiling at the soothing heat radiating from his body. Feathered wings drape over them like a makeshift blanket, warm and encompassing — as if he somehow sensed Charles’ distress even while resting, his own way of letting him know that everything is okay.

Charles holds him tighter, willing his heart to stay quiet — to not wake Seb from what looks like a very tranquil dream. But it thumps around wildly, unable to hold itself back in the presence of the man who possesses it — wanting to express every bit of relief and happiness spilling out of it with every beat.

There’s so much he wants to say and tell Seb — renewed with the confidence to confess his feelings with this second chance gifted to him. But Charles is sure they have all the time in the world now — not racing against the clock or destiny when they eventually wake up from their slumber again, where they can talk over whipped cream and strawberry waffles.

He settles for pressing a chaste kiss against Seb’s forehead instead, telling him all he wants to say without a single word as his horns meet soft curls — the single touch filled with love, tenderness, and everything in between.

Thank you for letting him stay.

Charles doesn’t know who’s out there — God, the Devil, or someone else entirely. But he finds himself praying for the first time in his life, praying to whoever is listening as he holds the entirety of the world in his arms, warm and still yet to wake.

Because now, I won’t ever let him go.

#jake writes #sebchal #angel/demon au #divine virtues #i got a few messages from people telling me how the ending of my first angel/demon au fic was so sad #and i felt so terrible because trust me. i really didn't enjoy writing that ending either #i think sebchal DO deserve a happily ever after so this is my ode to them #this is canon by no means but if you want to imagine it as canon that's cool too :)#title from one of my favorite marina songs <3 #man i sure hope this doesn't awake a need in me to write this as a full fic... 🤔

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moonkidshome · 5 days

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Choose the Right Play Sofa for Your Toddlers @ Moon Kids Home

Selecting the perfect play sofa for your toddler is a decision that combines comfort, safety, and fun. At Moon Kids Home, we understand the importance of creating a space where your little ones can explore, relax, and play. Here's a comprehensive guide to help you choose the ideal play sofa for your toddlers.

1. Prioritize Safety First

Safety is paramount when it comes to children's furniture. At Moon Kids Home, our play sofas are designed with your child's safety in mind. Look for features such as:

Sturdy Construction: Ensure the play sofa is robust and can withstand active play without tipping over.

Non-Toxic Materials: All materials should be free from harmful chemicals. Our sofas are made from non-toxic, hypoallergenic materials to keep your toddler safe.

Soft Edges: Rounded edges and soft padding minimize the risk of injuries from bumps and falls.

2. Consider Comfort

Toddlers need a comfortable place to rest after hours of play. A play sofa for kids from Moon Kids Home provides the perfect balance of comfort and support. When choosing a sofa, consider:

Plush Cushions: Soft, plush cushions provide a cozy place for your child to relax.

Ergonomic Design: A sofa that supports good posture will ensure your toddler sits comfortably.

Appropriate Size: The sofa should be appropriately sized for your toddler, allowing them to sit and lie down comfortably.

3. Emphasize Durability

Toddlers are known for their boundless energy and creativity, which means their furniture must be durable. At Moon Kids Home, our play sofas are built to last. Look for:

High-Quality Materials: Durable fabrics and strong frames ensure the sofa can handle the wear and tear of daily use.

Removable and Washable Covers: Easy-to-clean covers are essential for maintaining a fresh and hygienic play area.

Resistant to Wear and Tear: Fabrics that resist stains and spills are ideal for a toddler's play sofa.

🌐Website URL: https://moonkidshome.ae/

Business Name: Moon Kids Home

🏢The Souk Qaryat Al Beri – Shangri-La Hotel – Rabdan – Abu Dhabi

💬Contact Us +971 55 591 0112

✉️Email: [email protected]

#play sofa for kids

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lvtflooringdubai12121 · 3 months

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Headboards Abu Dhabi

These headboards feature soft padding and fabric covering, providing comfort and a luxurious look. They are available in a variety of fabrics, colors, and patterns, allowing for a high degree of customization.

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nascouae · 4 months

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How to Choose the Perfect Ergonomic Office Chair: Home Office Furniture Guide

Creating an ideal workspace, whether at home or in a corporate environment, hinges on the quality of your office furniture. One of the most crucial components of this setup is the office chair. With the right ergonomic office chair, productivity can soar, and common physical ailments can be minimized. This guide will delve into selecting the perfect ergonomic office chair, ensuring your comfort and efficiency. Keywords like Home Office Furniture, Office Workstations, Office Chairs, Office Chairs Dubai, Office Chairs Abu Dhabi, Office Sofas, Office Furniture UAE, and Office Furniture Sharjah will be explored to provide a comprehensive understanding of what to look for.

Understanding Ergonomics in Office Chairs

What is Ergonomics?

Ergonomics is the science of designing equipment and devices that fit the human body, its movements, and cognitive abilities. In the context of office chairs, ergonomics involves creating chairs that support the spine's natural curve, promote good posture, and reduce strain on the body during prolonged sitting.

Importance of Ergonomic Office Chairs

Ergonomic office chairs are essential for anyone who spends significant time seated, such as during office workstations. They help in:

Reducing Back Pain: Proper lumbar support helps maintain the spine's natural curve, preventing back pain.

Enhancing Comfort: Adjustable features like seat height, armrests, and backrest tilt provide personalized comfort.

Improving Productivity: A comfortable chair can boost productivity by allowing users to focus on their work without the distraction of discomfort.

Preventing Health Issues: Ergonomic chairs can help prevent conditions like sciatica, neck pain, and carpal tunnel syndrome.

Key Features to Look for in Ergonomic Office Chairs

Lumbar Support

The lumbar region, or lower back, needs proper support to maintain its natural inward curve. An ergonomic office chair should have adjustable lumbar support to fit the user's lower back precisely, preventing slouching and reducing strain.

Adjustability

An ideal ergonomic chair should be highly adjustable. This includes:

Seat Height: The chair should allow you to adjust the height so that your feet rest flat on the floor, with your thighs parallel to the ground.

Backrest: The backrest should be adjustable in height and angle to support the natural curve of your spine.

Armrests: Adjustable armrests help reduce strain on the shoulders and neck. They should be positioned so that your arms rest comfortably with your elbows at a 90-degree angle.

Seat Depth and Width: The seat should accommodate the user's body comfortably, allowing about 2-4 inches between the back of the knees and the seat edge.

Material and Padding

The material of the office chair should be breathable to prevent overheating and discomfort during long hours of sitting. Additionally, the chair should have sufficient padding to offer comfort without becoming too soft, which can lead to poor posture.

Swivel and Mobility

A good office chair should easily rotate to allow for full range of motion. Casters or wheels are essential for moving around the workspace without straining.

Durability and Warranty

Consider the chair's build quality and the manufacturer's warranty. High-quality materials and robust construction ensure the chair will last longer, providing good value for your investment.

Choosing Office Chairs in the UAE

In Dubai, the market for office furniture, including ergonomic office chairs, is vast and varied. Here are some tips specific to choosing office chairs in Dubai:

Climate Considerations: Given Dubai's hot climate, prioritize chairs with breathable materials like mesh to ensure comfort.

Local Brands and Availability: Explore local brands that offer high-quality ergonomic chairs suited to the regional climate and office aesthetics.

Showroom Visits: Whenever possible, visit showrooms to test the chairs. Sitting in the chair and adjusting it to your needs is crucial before making a purchase.

Similar to Dubai, Abu Dhabi offers a range of office chairs tailored to meet ergonomic needs:

Custom Solutions: Some suppliers in Abu Dhabi offer custom solutions to match your office's interior design and ergonomic requirements.

Sustainability: Consider chairs made from sustainable materials, reflecting the growing trend of eco-friendly office furniture in Abu Dhabi.

Professional Guidance: Utilize local expertise by consulting with office furniture specialists who can provide insights into the best ergonomic solutions for your workspace.

When searching for ergonomic office chairs across the UAE, consider the following:

Brand Reputation: Opt for well-known brands that have a reputation for quality and ergonomics.

Customer Reviews: Look at customer reviews and testimonials to gauge satisfaction levels with different chairs.

After-Sales Service: Ensure the provider offers good after-sales service, including warranty and support for adjustments and repairs.

In Sharjah, you can find a variety of ergonomic office chairs that cater to different needs and budgets:

Budget-Friendly Options: Sharjah has numerous stores offering budget-friendly ergonomic chairs without compromising on essential features.

Diverse Selection: The city boasts a diverse range of office furniture stores where you can find chairs with various ergonomic features and designs.

Cultural Considerations: Consider the local cultural preferences in design and functionality, ensuring the chair complements the overall office decor.

Complementary Office Furniture for an Ergonomic Workspace

An ergonomic office chair should be paired with an equally ergonomic workstation. This includes:

Adjustable Desks: Desks that can be adjusted in height are ideal for both sitting and standing work.

Monitor Stands: Proper monitor placement is crucial to reduce neck and eye strain. Adjustable monitor stands can help achieve the right height and angle.

For a comprehensive ergonomic office setup, consider office sofas that provide comfortable seating during breaks:

Supportive Cushions: Choose sofas with supportive cushions that encourage good posture even during short breaks.

Ergonomic Design: Sofas with ergonomic designs can reduce stress and provide relaxation, complementing the overall ergonomic environment.

Final Tips for Choosing the Perfect Ergonomic Office Chair

Test Before You Buy

If possible, always test the office chair before purchasing. Adjust it to your needs and sit for at least 10-15 minutes to assess comfort and support.

Consider the Chair's Aesthetic

While ergonomics is crucial, the chair should also complement your office's aesthetic. A chair that fits well with your office decor can create a more inviting and professional workspace.

Budget Wisely

Investing in a high-quality ergonomic chair is a worthwhile expenditure, considering the health benefits and increased productivity it offers. However, it's essential to balance your budget without compromising on key ergonomic features.

Look for Recommendations

Seek recommendations from colleagues or read reviews online to find the best ergonomic office chairs available. User experiences can provide valuable insights into the chair's long-term comfort and durability.

Conclusion

Selecting the perfect ergonomic office chair involves considering various factors such as lumbar support, adjustability, material, and durability. Whether you're outfitting a home office or corporate space, ensuring your chair meets ergonomic standards can significantly impact your comfort and productivity. In regions like Dubai, Abu Dhabi, and Sharjah, a plethora of options are available, catering to diverse needs and preferences. Complement your ergonomic chair with well-designed office workstations and office sofas to create a holistic, comfortable, and productive work environment. Prioritize your health and efficiency by choosing wisely and investing in quality office furniture that supports your well-being.

#Home Office Furniture

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pestcontrolbloguae · 1 year

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The common pests in the UAE and their control measures

There are a lot of pests, like cockroaches, ants, bedbugs, mosquitoes, flies, bedbugs, termites, rodents,ticks, etcetera, that may cause health issues as well as the destruction of costly properties, crops, and livestock. There are millions of kinds of pests; some are beneficial, and some are nuisances. In the United Arab Emirates, most people suffer from pests like bedbugs and cockroaches. cockroaches :

Health Dangers: Salmonella, E. coli, and Staphylococcus are just some illnesses that cockroaches can transmit. They can transmit these illnesses to people through their bodily fluids, including feces and saliva. Some people's asthma and allergies may also be affected by cockroach droppings and shed skin. Therefore, cockroach pest management is essential to stop the spread of diseases and public health pest control abu dhabi.

Contaminated Food: With their droppings, saliva, and body parts, cockroaches can contaminate food and surfaces used in food preparation. Food poisoning and other health problems may result from this. To ensure the food's safety, it is crucial to adopt efficient pest control techniques in

restaurants and other food-related enterprises. Quality pest control services in the UAE help to prevent the spread of cockroaches through insecticide spray application, gel for controlling cockroaches, and cockroach catchers.

Quality Pest Control LLC uses environmentally friendly methods. Although they may go months without food, cockroaches are omnivores and will consume anything nutritious. They are particularly drawn to starch, sugar, oil, meat, and cheese. For a starving roach, food items that are degrading are especially tasty.

Bed bugs:

They may originate from wall cracks, blankets, or under the mattress. They can travel in bags, backpacks, purses, and other goods placed on a padded or soft surface. It attacks people while they are sleeping at night. It may cause rashes and redness over the body, and sometimes it may be specific to people.

A licensed professional must apply some insecticides. In pest control dubai, Abu Dhabi, and Sharjah, Quality PestTreatment Company is a fully authorized pest treatment provider. They supply heat and cold methods to rid the bedbugs. A 45°C temperature exposure for an hour will kill all stages of bed bugs, while a 60°C temperature exposure will quickly kill all bed bugs, allowing for bed bug treatment. Both whole-room or contained heat treatments and directly administered steam were discovered to be effective against bed bugs.

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officemaster-ae · 2 years

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Office Chairs with Ergonomic Features: Safe and Comfortable Chairs for Working

Chairs that you need in the office for working are available in the market in a wide array of colors, styles, designs, sizes, and shapes. Because you have to use these chairs all day, it is important that they are safe and comfortable. When an office chair functions as such, it is called an ergonomic chair. Ergonomic chairs are made to provide the ultimate comfort, safety, effectiveness, and ease of use to office workers.

Many people who are working in offices often whine of feeling back and neck pains. This is actually the most common complaint when they go visit their doctors. This is the result of sitting for long hours in their workstations or working in front of their computers. To avoid the problem of body pains which will lead to another health-related predicament, the use of ergonomic office chairs is highly recommended.

Business owners have come to realize the need for such types of chairs for their office employees working and sitting the whole day shift in the office. They provide their employees with these chairs to help support their neck and back while working to eliminate the common pains felt. This has been the recent observation in many office settings and now, many office workers are usually equipped with ergonomic seatings in the workplace. Even for those who are working in offices at home, an ergonomic chair is just as important to use.

Some features of the ergonomic style can be modifiable whether for office or home use. The adjustable seat can be raised or lowered according to your liking. It can be easily twisted at an angle where you want it to, backward when you want to rest for a while, and forward when you want to get back to work. The armrest is also flexible and can be bent away allowing you to get out of the chair easily. It is also equipped with soft cushions and padding providing the comfort that you greatly desire.

The purchase of a comfortable chair is a smart decision because it is the safest office chair with many advantages. It is a working chair where you can do most office work like filing, reading, typing, and even entertaining guests. Aside from these, the comfort it gives is advantageous to your health while reducing body pains felt when working for long periods of time. Whether working in the office or in the confines of your own home, the ergonomic chair is the best chair to use, and this has been vastly agreed upon by most doctors and other healthcare professionals.

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joecarter216 · 2 years

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Prayer Mat Abu Dhabi

Our Prayer Mat Abu Dhabi is just what you need for a comfortable and effective prayer experience. Made of durable, 100% cotton canvas, this thick burlap weave features a soft cushion top and non-slip bottom. The edges are reinforced with cotton tape to provide extra strength and durability. This prayer mat can be folded up and rolled up to form a pad that fits easily in your briefcase or backpack.

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xtruss · 2 years

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The walls of the 19th-century Grand Mosque of BoboDioulasso are more than six feet thick, protecting worshippers from the heat. Such thick mud brick slowly absorbs the heat of the day and then releases it as the night cools.

The Extraordinary Benefits of a House Made of Mud

Mud, a traditional construction material in Africa, more easily keeps buildings cool compared with concrete. Architects are finding ways to keep mud’s beauty and function alive in a warming world.

— By Peter Schwartzstein | Photographs By Moises Saman | January 19, 2023

On a Mid-May Morning in the Village of Koumi, Burkina Faso, Sanon Mousa has nearly finished annual maintenance on his three-room house.

He replaced termite-ridden roof supports with freshly cut beams and reinforced the heat-defying mud walls, some of which are a yard thick and more than a hundred years old. After replenishing the roof thatch and sacrificing a goat to the memory of his ancestors, all that remains is applying layers of rainproofing to the exterior.

“The mud will keep us cool. The motor oil, clay, and cow dung will keep us dry,” Mousa says as we tour his living space, which is a good 25 degrees cooler than outside. “We’ve perfected this.”

Mousa, a 50-something retired school librarian with a somber demeanor, is proud of his house. That doesn’t mean living in it is his first choice, though. In recent years he’s watched his wealthier neighbors in this verdant strip of the country’s southwest rebuild their homes in concrete. He has smarted at what he sees as a symbol of his relative poverty. Despite his considerable debt and consecutive failed harvests of the crops he relies on to pad his pension, status and safety are tempting him to borrow money and abandon his mud home. When we met, two brothers in the village had recently been killed in their sleep when a mud wall collapsed on them.

Top: The mud-brick walls of the Grand Mosque of Bobo-Dioulasso are waterproofed every year with shea butter. But mud often can’t hold up to the intense rains climate change brings. Bottom: At a quarry in Pissy, on the western edge of Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, men, women, and children mine granite to be made into concrete and gravel. Because of high demand for concrete, this quarry is still open despite competition from nearby mechanized ones.

Top Left: Workers at the quarry endure extreme heat and noxious fumes from burning tires as they carry heavy loads on their heads up the steep slopes. Some say they work there because they want to be able to afford concrete houses. Top Right: Rock from the Pissy quarry is used to form the foundations of new houses, exemplifying a move away from traditional mud structures. Bottom: On the outskirts of Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso’s second largest city, workers have manually carved a half-mile-long sand quarry out of the soft, red earth. Many dozens of truckloads of sand a day feed the country’s booming cement plants.

Architects like Kéré are motivated in part by a desire to preserve heritage and identity. For all mud’s recent association with poverty and backwardness, bricks made from the material can produce spectacular, globally significant architecture, such as Timbuktu’s city center in Mali and Burkina Faso’s Grand Mosque of Bobo-Dioulasso.

Countries with impressive but largely lost traditions of mud construction, including Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, also are trying to replicate the aesthetics and cooling features of traditional architecture, incorporating wind tunnels, building orientation, and use of shade. They appear less interested in the construction materials that were once used. “Our forefathers built things with whatever they had, and maybe if they had had a certain type of modern composite panel 500 years ago, they’d have used it,” says Chris Wan, head of design management in Masdar, a pioneering sustainability-oriented city in Abu Dhabi. “It’s about adapting traditional materials, traditional designs. We also build whatever’s best within our means.”

But mud-brick revivalists have a grander ambition as well, particularly in Africa. On a continent that accounts for just 4 percent of global emissions yet is suffering much of the worst climate-related fallout, they’re trying to assume ownership of some of the solutions, even as world powers struggle to take meaningful action. In beating the heat, these architects suggest, homegrown, nature-based traditions could be every bit as important as foreign technology and expertise.

“We have chosen artifice. We have chosen to detach ourselves from our origins,” says Salima Naji, an award-winning architect. Naji champions mud construction in Morocco, which has aggressively turned its back on the material in recent decades, even though the country boasts one of the richest collections of earth architecture in the world. “We have done this because we have forgotten the extraordinary benefits of these buildings in the heat. But we must remember, because we need it now more than ever,” Naji says.

Top: Workers cool off during their break at a residential building site on the outskirts of Marrakech. The Moroccan city has embraced concrete in its construction boom. Bottom: The Yemeni city of Shibam was designed with the scorching desert heat in mind. Nicknamed Manhattan of the Desert, its towering earthen buildings of various heights provide shadow. The white walls reflect direct sunlight and prevent heat from accumulating.

A Refuge For The Sweaty

Crisscrossing Burkina Faso by car provides an illustration of mud’s many perks. It’s at least 113 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade by the time I arrive in the northern town of Kaya but well under 86 degrees inside architect Clara Sawadogo’s latest design. The vaulted earth ceiling and stone-mud walls of the half-finished clinic cocoon the cool. Angled toward the prevailing north winds and surrounded by lush, shady greenery, the site is already enticing enough for dozing stray dogs.

Sawadogo is young, environmentally savvy, and part of a global movement to repopularize mud. She’s got plenty of talking points. The material is essentially free, or at least locally available for a fraction of the cost of concrete, which requires several ingredients that, in Burkina Faso’s case, are mostly imported. At the adobe pits that dot the outskirts of many of the larger villages, teams of laborers lever mud from the ground; compress it into rectangular, cookie cutter-like fittings; then sell each air-dried brick for 40 West African francs, about 10 U.S. cents.

“People tell me: It’s the 21st century. Stop using mud,” Sawadogo says, gesturing at the clinic. “But look at this. What’s not modern about this?”

Mud construction contributes little to global warming. And concrete tends to be a gateway, once people can afford it, to another fossil-fuel-guzzling invention: air-conditioning. Worldwide, both the electricity and the coolants required by air-conditioning are growing sources of greenhouse gas emissions.

Left: Shibam, which has about 7,000 inhabitants, is known for its mud-brick high-rises. Right: The walls of Shibam date from the 16th century; the city is considered a shining example of urban planning using tall buildings.

The greatest selling point of mud in Burkina Faso, where temperatures seldom dip much below 90 degrees, is that it makes the heat tolerable, even without air-conditioning. Most of Africa is on track for more than two degrees Celsius (3.6°F) of warming by late this century, a figure that masks even more dramatic temperature increases in parts of the continent.

In Boromo, roughly a three-hour drive southwest of the capital, Ouagadougou, Ilboudou Abdallah has recently rebuilt his part-concrete, sheet-metal-roofed house entirely in mud. “I can’t tell you what a joy it is being able to spend time inside the house now without suffering,” he says. The Nubian Vault Association, an international NGO, helped construct the home, one of more than 600 private houses it built in Burkina Faso in 2020.

The organization’s vaulted model requires neither metal roofs, which magnify heat in both concrete and mud houses, nor wood. That’s vital in a country losing up to 600,000 acres of woodland a year to deforestation, according to forestry officials, some of it for roof supports.

In the Royal Court of Tiébélé, a commune along the Ghanaian border where most residents have long since turned to concrete, some appear to regret ever having abandoned their mud homes.

“They see the comfort that they said no to before,” says Bayeridiena Abdou, a farmer who lives inside the local chief’s mud-only compound and has witnessed clandestine nocturnal returns to the exiles’ crumbling old houses. “They’re sneaking back.”

Doctors in four medical facilities I visited report a roughly fivefold increase in heat-related admissions and deaths over the past decade. Some of them suspect that a disproportionate number of these patients rebuilt in concrete but lacked the means to artificially cool their new houses.

Top: At the Morija clinic in Kaya, to the north of Ouagadougou, workers craft a curved “Nubian vault” structure, designed to keep interiors cool. The earthen building will be Burkina Faso’s largest of its kind. Bottom: Workers at a quarry in Houndé, Burkina Faso, hammer laterite stone bricks from the solid ground. Mud bricks must be shaped before drying, but laterite can be extracted in rectangles. Both traditional building materials create cooler structures than concrete, are cheaper, and require less energy to produce.

“We’ve Learned That It’s Not Just About The Materials. It’s Not About Concrete Being Bad. It’s What You Do With Them.” — Francis Kéré, Architect

On a sizzling hot day in midsummer, the town of Léo is still—except for the local clinic. Rambunctious children chase one another among its shaded courtyards. Their parents rest beneath the surrounding trees. Even newly arrived patients, among them a man who’s just been pried from a car wreck, marvel at the naturally cool wards. Francis Kéré, designer of these buildings, is pleased but unsurprised at the effect.

“We’ve learned that it’s not just about the materials. It’s not about concrete necessarily being bad,” he says. “It’s what you do with them. This is what it can look like when you spend the time to make a proper clay structure.”

Big names near and far seem convinced by his reasoning. In recent years Kéré has designed a new national assembly building in Benin that’s nearly complete. A “symbol for the nation,” he says, modeled on a palaver tree. Another one he created for Burkina Faso has yet to get off the ground. In March 2022 he became the first African architect to win the Pritzker Prize, the most prestigious award in architecture.

Dangerous To Live In?

Mud-brick buildings, for all their seemingly magical cooling powers, have at least one major drawback.

Until the late 1990s, the historic ksar, or fortified village, of Bounou in southern Morocco trilled with the sound of more than a hundred families. But its rammed-earth walls began to collapse, and a falling gatehouse badly injured a teenage boy, shaking residents’ faith in the ksar’s structural integrity. Tales of even worse disasters elsewhere—some fatal—reinforced that fear. Gradually, Legnaoui Bil Eid and his family found themselves almost alone. Now, without the critical mass of residents needed to maintain the historical crenellated defenses, the ksar is crumbling at record pace, becoming an even riskier habitat.

Left: At the Burkina Institute of Technology in Koudougou, designed by celebrated Burkinabe architect Francis Kéré and completed in 2020, poured clay forms the massive walls. A facade of eucalyptus wood creates shade. Above each classroom, a vent allows hot air to escape. Right: Maxim Kiemdrebeojo, 17, lives at this Kéré-designed orphanage in Koudougou built from laterite brick. Some children here have been displaced by armed conflict with Islamists in the north and east of Burkina Faso. Supervisors think that the coolness of the building helps reduce conflict among residents.

“People are scared, and you can understand why,” says Bil Eid, an agricultural laborer who earns extra income roping together palm-frond fences to keep encroaching desert sands at bay. “Sometimes the walls just fall down. You could die.”

In one of climate change’s many bitter ironies, the same warming that has bolstered mud’s importance against heat is also triggering more extreme weather events, which imperil mud structures. Despite frequently resurfacing his home’s exterior walls, Bil Eid says, the downpours these days are far too strong to keep the interior dry, no matter how much protective layering he adds. He too is thinking of relocating.

“People Are Ccared, And You Can Understand Why. Sometimes The Walls Just Fall Down. You Could Die.” — Lengaoui Bil Eid, Farm Laborer

In Telouet, in the Atlas Mountains between Bounou, in the Sahara, and Marrakech, those fiercer rains have combined with the impact of centuries of deforestation to fuel devastating flash floods through the denuded valleys. Most years, at least a few locals die. Those who remain have noted that it’s concrete houses, not those made of the traditional mixed mud and stone, that appear to weather the torrents.

Some of the abandonment of traditional materials may simply be a function of changing tastes. In his lush, beautifully maintained garden in Marrakech’s leafy northern periphery, Mohamed Amine Kabbaj, one of the country’s leading architects, regrets some of the aesthetic changes that have come with the exodus. But he says it’s only natural that people would favor concrete. Most traditional mud structures permit only small windows that let in minimal light, and most of them require regular maintenance of the kind that time-pressed or leisure-seeking families prefer to avoid. “These kinds of designs might be exotic if you come from London or Paris for one or two days,” he says. “But if you’re given a choice, you’ll prefer to live somewhere else.”

Top: Salima Naji, a Moroccan Architect and Anthropologist, works with traditional construction materials and methods to preserve villages and communal centers in the country. She restored the Id Issa Granary in Amtoudi (seen here), which protected wheat and other forms of wealth. Bottom: The United Arab Emirates has an impressive but largely lost tradition of mud construction. For the Louvre Abu Dhabi, architect Jean Nouvel’s design was inspired by moucharaby latticework screens, which protect interiors from direct sunlight and provide natural ventilation. This massive moucharaby creates what’s been called a rain of light over the museum.

As much of Morocco has shifted from communal to more individualistic lifestyles, and as incomes have increased enough for people to afford AC, mud houses—and their reliance on the collective to maintain and often build them—do appear increasingly out of step with modernity. Deeper environmental and economic forces, though, frequently leave little choice. In the countryside, drought and desertification are hobbling agriculture, the dominant rural profession. That loss of viable livelihoods is driving people into the cities. Some villages have lost up to half their inhabitants to urban areas in recent years. It’s all contributing to a situation where many fearful and displaced villagers have also ended up unhappily living in concrete.

“You need to understand how much I miss the cool of my old house. Few of us wanted this,” says Driss Mataoui, who migrated from a mountain village to an impoverished Marrakech neighborhood 30 years ago. “But life demanded that I move to the city, and city life is not good for mud.”

Urbanization presents a particular challenge for proponents of traditional materials and building techniques. Although mud has historically been deployed in dense urban settings, as with Yemen’s centuries-old skyscrapers, architects fear for its place in cities of the sort that are swelling across Africa. The helter-skelter, unplanned nature of those booming metropolises doesn’t always allow for the effective use of wind direction, airflow, and other natural cooling devices. For their part, insurance companies and municipalities remain unconvinced of mud’s safety, so they frequently legislate against its use. Even obtaining traditional materials in urban settings can be surprisingly tricky.

“Where are you going to get mud to build at scale close to here?” asks Kabbaj. “You have to go kilometers away.”

Staying cool is vital in the Anti Atlas mountains of southern Morocco, where it’s so hot that even the crops require shade.

Assailed by some of the same debilitating heat as their Sahelian neighbors to the south, and with air-conditioning still beyond many people’s means, the likes of Salima Naji aren’t admitting defeat yet. She has noticed more interest in mud architecture among villagers across Morocco, many of whom grasp its tourism potential.

Naji and her peers highlight the strong environmental imperative to rein in, or at least reform, concrete production in Morocco, where developers have robbed entire beaches of sand for use in construction. Elsewhere, in countries like Vietnam and Bangladesh, developers source much of their sand from riverbeds, which fuels soil subsidence and more intense erosion and flooding.

But reviving a tradition when it’s already lost its grip on the public imagination is a formidable task. People have grown accustomed to building houses as and when their finances allow, something that mud construction, fragile until completion, doesn’t permit. In some places, concrete access has expanded so dramatically and knowledge of mud has dropped so precipitously that the more modern material may be cheaper. Most important, climate and other struggles continue to eviscerate the social and natural environment in which this kind of construction was embedded. And that could be key. Can traditional architecture thrive when so much that buttressed it can’t?

“This is all connected to society. You cannot disconnect it from everything that is going on around us,” Naji acknowledges. “But still we push ahead. If you have just one, two, three of these [buildings], it’s not enough. We’re trying to create a snowball effect to normalize it again. We need people to see this.”

An Uncertain Future

Francis Kéré is in a reflective mood when I call. Each of the past few rainy seasons has been more destructive than the last, obliterating hundreds of mud-brick buildings across Burkina Faso, including a school, which collapsed on a classroom of children, and part of the celebrated Grand Mosque of Bobo-Dioulasso. The subsequent bad press has only reinforced the clamor for concrete, no matter the cost.

But Kéré’s phone is ringing off the hook with requests for work, and he’s bullish about mud’s prospects. “It’s a matter of time, it’s a matter of belief, it’s a matter of political will. It’s a fight, and we’re not looking left and right. I just push on,” he says. “There’s a lot of accumulated knowledge now. In 10 years, you’re going to be surprised by our success.”

Kéré and other mud advocates have been hard at work trying to rehabilitate the material’s image. They’re finding ways to protect mud buildings from downpours—by adding broader, metal canopy roofs that project more than three feet from the walls, for example, or mixing small portions of cement into the mud bricks to fortify them.

Just making mud bricks more available can help. In an industrial park outside the Burkinabe capital, Mahamoudou Zi’s workers cut, condense, and sell thousands of standard-size compressed-earth bricks—providing the reliable supply and ease of construction that contribute to the success of concrete. “I remember how cool my grandfather’s house was,” Zi says. “I wanted to make it simpler for others to replicate this experience.”

Through a rigorous emphasis on not cutting corners with a material that is unforgiving of shoddy construction, the mud architects hope to limit the building collapses that are damning them all by association. At her construction site in Kaya, Clara Sawadogo says she has had to be so exacting in erecting the vaulted roof that 15 of her original 25 masons quit, citing the difficulty of the work.

More than anything, though, Kéré wonders if, after being fed a steady diet of half-truths about mud’s dangers and concrete’s promise, wary citizens simply need more everyday examples of what well-built mud architecture can offer. Around Koudougou, 60 miles west of Ouagadougou, he has tried to create something of a showcase at a secondary school, Lycée Schorge, and at the Burkina Institute of Technology, a technical college. Teachers at the schools say that the hundreds of students can concentrate better—under the multilayered and overhanging roofs, between compressed-earth-brick walls, and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows.

To one 18-year-old computer science student, who gave his name as Nataniel and who’s never lived in a home with electricity, let alone cooling, it’s almost as if these places are air-conditioned.

“We were told mud was bad,” he says. “We were told we needed to work to escape this. But I would be happy to live in something like this.”

— Journalist Peter Schwartzstein is based in Athens, Greece, and Focuses on Food, Water, and Climate. Moises Saman’s Photography Centers on the Middle East and North Africa.

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sarathjohn · 1 year

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The Benefits of Synthetic Turf Football Fields and the Importance of Proper Installation

Understanding Synthetic Turf Football Fields and Their Advantages

Synthetic turf football fields have revolutionized the world of sports, offering numerous advantages over natural grass surfaces. These artificial playing fields are designed to mimic the look and feel of real grass while providing enhanced durability and usability. They have become increasingly popular in football stadiums and training facilities due to their ability to withstand heavy usage, and extreme weather conditions, and offer consistent playing characteristics.

Choosing the Right Type of Synthetic Turf: Factors to Consider

Selecting the appropriate synthetic turf is crucial to ensure optimal performance and longevity of the football field. Factors to consider include the turf's durability, resilience, traction, and how it reacts to foot impact. It is essential to consult with experts who can guide you in choosing the right turf that meets the specific needs of your facility and players.

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Proper ground preparation is vital for artificial turf sports field installation in UAE. The ground must be levelled and adequately compacted to create a stable base. This ensures consistent playing conditions and minimizes the risk of injuries caused by uneven surfaces. Additionally, the removal of rocks, debris, and vegetation is necessary to prevent damage to the turf and maintain its integrity over time.

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By selecting the right type of synthetic turf, preparing the ground adequately, and implementing effective drainage systems, football facilities can create high-quality playing surfaces. Investing in safety features like pole padding and wall padding in Dubai & UAE further protects players from potential injuries.

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joshslater · 4 years

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Escape from Al Moazaz

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

Another bunch of disgusting old Arabs, drinking sweet tea, eating dates, smoking hookah, pointing finger, and chatting excitedly. It doesn’t look like they talk about me, but ever so often I think their chatter circles back to me somehow, and they point and wave and chatter in that cackle they call language. They never talk to me, never ask me to do anything. I’m free to do as I please, go where I want, but I’m sure they are lying to me. I have to leave tonight, or it will just be more of this. It’s already been over a week, several days after he said this would all be over. I think so at least. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old geezer lied about the days as well.

I arrived on a Thursday at least. I checked out from Sheraton in central Dubai Thursday morning. There are no taxes and the workforce is underpaid African or Indian guest workers on rotation, so hotel rooms are cheap. The rental car was cheap too, and gas is practically free. It literally comes out of the ground here after all. I had severely overestimated how long it would take to drive from Dubai to Abu Dhabi. It was just a straight highway and I had padded the time table way too much. I was getting close after just one hour, too early to check-in, so I decided to drive around a bit in the outskirts. Free gas, as I said. That’s when I saw the fucker.

The buildings were spaced enough that by the time you saw one, the last one was gone from view, so it qualified as a rural area. Mostly rocks in between though, so I don’t know why anyone would like to live out here. But there he was, the old man, dressed in his white dishdasha robe and picnic table cloth around his head, smiling and waving towards the car to stop. I pull up in front of the house and exit the car. It’s a decent house, none of the luxury on display inside of Dubai. I’ve never been inside anything but hotels, mega-malls and skyscrapers here, so I have no idea what the interior layout would be, but the size is roughly what a suburban family house for four would be back home.

He bows and asks me to join him for tea, in really bad English. I realize this is a bit off the beaten track for tourists, and perhaps this is a good learning experience for both. I’d love to see some authentic middle eastern hospitality, and I’d be happy to talk about whatever the reason for him to invite me. I accept his invitation and follow him through the portal. Although only one story it is quite high up to the ceiling. Interestingly we only pass through a sparsely furnished room and back out again into some sort of shaded stone garden in the middle of the building. It looks very lived in, much more so than the room we just passed through. Tables, chairs, potted plants, and hookah things. There he beckons me to sit down on one of the most decidedly western garden chairs.

He disappears back into the building and I have a look around. I guess all rooms in the building have a window into this central garden. That explains why the house had so few windows on the walls facing out, and makes total sense with all the sun they get here. The man is back with a small tray with two small glasses with amber liquid. He places one glass in front of me and takes one for himself, and without saying anything invites me to take a sip. It’s sweet and tastes of apple. I’ve had this kind of tea before, and don’t really like it. It’s not tea in my opinion, but it's drinkable and it would have had to be something far worse to offend this old man in his home. That’s when I blacked out.

I’m not sure how long I was out, but it was evening when I came to. I was lying on a thin mattress on the floor in one of the almost unfurnished, completely white rooms. It wasn’t cold, it never is here this time of year, but I could feel air touching my body. The sun is setting fast here, but the light made an orange square on the wall opposite to the high window. Murmurs and sounds of people having a pleasant time filter in. I still am not completely awake, going through different scenarios like fainting of dehydration, when I realize that not only am I completely naked, but I look very different.

Instead of my lanky, pasty body, I have a much bulkier frame covered in deeply tanned skin, in turn covered in thick, black body hair. I slowly sit up, mesmerized by what I see. The tan is perhaps a trick of light, but the bulk and the hair is not. As if there is any doubt left, the dick and balls make it clear this is a different body. As with the body both are thicker and heavier. Unlike my familiar dick this one is also longer, circumcised, and weird looking.

I ought to freak out, flail and scream, but it is all so surreal and unexpected that I either am in disbelief or shock. Slowly I get to my feet. My much heavier body compensated for and more with extra muscles. There are no mirrors in the room, or really anything but me and the mattress, so I have no idea what I look like. Very different of course, that much I can tell. I feel my head and my face. I have no idea what my face should feel like, but I have a beard now. I have a nose and a mouth and ears. The hair feels the same as always.

As I move my hands down I feel a small chain around my neck. A thin necklace with no pendant and no clasp or mechanism I can find with my fingers. It sits loose, but tight enough that I probably wouldn’t get my head through it should I try.

I don’t know what to do next. It is like the first room in an adventure game and I’ve just figured out the controllers. Just as I am about to exit I see a piece of white cloth on the white floor in front of the door. A pair of tight shorts that I put on right away. It looks obscene, almost worse than being naked. The white fabric stands out against the dark skin, drawing attention to the big dick and balls wrapped in tight cloth.

The house on the other side of the door is mostly deserted. Some furniture, but I suspect he lives alone and only uses a few rooms. It doesn’t take long to follow the sound and find a different exit into the courtyard than the one I entered through the first time. It looks the same as when I entered, but with a completely different feeling. Instead of the harsh sun everything is bathed in the orange glow of dusk. A few lamps are lit around the courtyard, and around a table sits the old man together with a few similar looking old men.

One of them sees me and utters a few Arabic words, and they all turn towards me. There is a short beat of silence and then they all burst into chatter. One of them is laughing, one of them continues staring at me, but they all appear happy. The focus shifts to the old man. They treat him like it’s his birthday or he just won a bet. One of them jumps up, spry for his age, and walks up to me. He inspects me, giving remarks back to the seated group. It’s when he prods me with his finger it feels like a spell breaks. Suddenly I’m not walking through a dream, but this is actually happening. I’m actually in this place, with these men, looking like this.

I tell him to stop. He just laughs. The old man waves at the table, inviting me to dates, harees, and flatbread. That for some reason angers me. Hunger is the least of my concerns right now. I demand to know what he has done to me. The men go from smiles to laughter. The angrier I get, the funnier they think it is. It’s only a joke, the old man tells me. It only lasts for a few days, he says. I storm back into the house and out the other side only to find my rental is gone. I quickly realize that standing in just underwear outside is not going to go down well with the police, or anyone, so I return back into the house to look for my clothes.

I don’t know what the rational thing to do is. None of this follows any reason. Perhaps I can squeeze into my old clothes, run away and then figure out who to contact. I freeze. The local police would probably be useless. The embassy would laugh me out. I might be able to convince someone back home, but I don’t even have a way to call them. All of that is true if I stay here as well.

I search the entire building, room by room. Despite the large house, it doesn’t look like the old man has much. The rooms are sparsely furnished, if not right out empty. A few rooms, like the kitchen and his bedroom, looks more normal. Nowhere do I find my stuff though, or any other clothes that would fit for that matter. We only share the same size in sandals and head scarfs.

I’m stuck, I realize, in a soft prison. Even if I could leave the house, I couldn’t leave the country. Even if I could leave the country, where would I go? Dejected I walk into the courtyard again. Some of the old men look my way, but largely ignore me as they talk about something. I sit down on a remote chair and watch them. I could kill them all. They are all really old, but probably not that frail. It would probably be a drawn-out fight with leathery, hard to kill old Arabs, but I’m sure I could do it. But that wouldn’t do me any good. I would still be here, stuck, and wanted by the police. A hard prison is worse than a soft prison.

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risalafurniture1 · 4 years

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Upholstery In Abu Dhabi

Upholstery Abu Dhabi is the complete set of work process for providing seats, padding, springs, webbings and fabrics for the sofas and chairs. Upholstery is the soft texture padding and covering for the sofas and arm chair. https://curtainabudhabi.ae/upholstery/ Phone: 0566009626 Email: [email protected]

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wishingforatypewriter · 6 years

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Between Us (Chapter 4)

Summary: It’s the night before the opening of Shino’s New York, and chef de cuisine Souma receives two very different pieces of advice.

It was just after 2:30 am when Souma made it back to his small Queens apartment. The soft opening of Shino’s New York was tomorrow—tonight, technically—and it had occurred to him ten minutes before he was supposed to go home that the tables were arranged all wrong.

He was just locking the door behind him when Megumi padded out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. She wore a navy blue bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, and her hair hung loose around her shoulders.

Souma grinned upon seeing her, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Sorry I woke you.”

“It wasn’t you,” she said, smiling a little. “The upstairs neighbors were playing dubstep.”

“Again?”

She nodded. “I climbed up the fire escape and gave them a stern talking to, so it should be okay from now on.”

Souma raised his eyebrows a bit at this. Even after three years, she still surprised him every single day. “Hope you didn’t scare ‘em too much.”

“Just enough.” Megumi giggled a bit, and then stifled a small yawn. “What kept you out so late?”

“More stuff at the restaurant,” he said, shaking his head. There was always something to attend to —the fonts on the menus, the cushions on the seats, the lighting. This was nothing like running the diner with his pops.

“Are you coming straight to bed or do you want something to eat first?” Megumi asked. “I can cook if you’re too tired.”

“Actually, I’m gonna try revising the recipes for one or two of the menu items.”

A small crease formed between Megumi’s brows. “Souma-kun.”

“I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” he assured her, “an hour tops, but you should get back to bed. Executive chef’s work is never done, right?”

Megumi shrugged a bit, as if to say she knew he was deflecting and she wasn’t having any of it.

“You and Shinomiya-senpai spent all summer working on that menu. Everything on it is world class cuisine, and I can say that because you had me taste test at every stage.”

Just then, she took his left hand in her right, drew the kanji for person with her thumb, and left a lingering kiss on the center of his palm.

Souma sighed, feeling a bit of the stress leave him. “Tadokoro—”

“It’s not like you to be so anxious, Souma-kun,” she said. “No matter what, tomorrow is going to be fine.”

With that she went back into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked behind her. It was a quiet invitation; she wouldn’t push the matter more than that.

Souma was poised to follow her in when his phone started ringing. It was an international number, the country code for which he couldn’t quite place. Thinking it was one of the restaurant’s ingredient suppliers, he decided to pick up. It’d take five minutes, ten. He’d catch Tadokoro before she fell asleep again.

“Hello?”

“I read in Food & Wine that your opening’s today.”

Of all the voices in the world, Souma hadn’t expected hers to be the one on the other line. “Nakiri?”

It had been nothing but radio silence from her since graduation, even in the group chat with Alice, Hayama, Arato, and Kurokiba.

“Just calling to remind you not to fuck up.”

“I’ll try not to.” He laughed. “Where the hell are you now anyway?”

“Abu Dhabi. At brunch.”

“Nice.” Souma could see her now, walking away from an ornate table overflowing with delicacies she knew she could have made better. He paused for a moment. “Nakiri, let me ask you something.”

She sighed into the receiver. “If you must.”

“Hypothetically, let’s say you’re opening a restaurant, and you’re considering making a last-minute change to the menu.”

“I’d say it’s generally inadvisable,” Erina replied, and he could hear her measuring her words the way she did sometimes, like she wasn’t sure how much of the answer she’d give him this time. “And wildly eccentric. It would be a huge inconvenience to the printers, the serving staff, the sommelier.”

Souma nodded a few times. “You’re right about that, but—”

“I’m not finished,” Erina said. “Doing something like that would be a huge risk and cause immeasurable trouble for all parties involved, but at the same time, I’d never put out a dish I’m not fully confident in.”

“So what you’re saying is—”

“I’m saying you don’t have time to be talking to me right now, Yukihira-kun. Now get to work. It’d bring shame upon the academy if you were to sully the reputation of Shino’s.”

Then, in classic Nakiri fashion, she hung up before he could thank her. Souma knew better than to try the number again.

He shook his head, then headed towards the kitchen. There’d be no rest if he wanted the reviews to leave his rival speechless from halfway across the globe.

“Sorry about that,” Erina said as she returned to her table. Across from her was Elaine Shiraz, a young culinary blogger she’d befriended on her travels.

“No worries,” she assured. “But did I hear you mention Shino’s just now? One of my colleagues is covering the New York opening tomorrow and I’m about to die from jealousy.”

Erina shook her head a little. “I did mention it.”

“Everyone at True Taste is freaking out because Chef Shinomiya picked a new graduate as chef de cuisine over his tried and tested sous chefs in Paris and Tokyo.”

At this, Erina smiled a bit. It wouldn’t make much sense to North American publications like True Taste Magazine. For those outside of Totsuki and its affiliate organizations, Yukihira Souma had been an unknown until this year’s BLUE. “Your fellow correspondent will understand when she tries his cooking.”

“That’s right,” Elaine said, taking a small sip of her mimosa. “You and this Chef Yukihira were schoolmates. Tell me, what kind of cook is that person?”

With a sigh, Erina polished off the second bellini she had to order to work up the nerve to call him, and then waved the waiter over to bring her a third. “What I’m about to say stays off record,” she explained, a hint of a threat in her voice.

Elaine nodded. “That goes without saying. Your friend Hisako made me sign an airtight contract after we first met in Madrid.”

Of course she had.

Even when she was working fifty hour weeks and earning a degree in Nutritional Science, Hisako still somehow found the time to mother her.

“The thing about Yukihira is he’s an impertinent upstart, and his style is woefully pedestrian, but despite all that…” She sighed. There was no easy way to put this. “In the kitchen, he’s a genius. His dishes change people, and I have to say that I had no particular love of food or passion for cooking before I met him.”

When she finished speaking, Erina downed the third bellini in one go, her face flushed beyond belief. She had never admitted all of that to anyone, not even Hisako.

“Follow up question,” Elaine said.

“Go.”

“Are you two still together? Because I was going to set you up with someone. He and my boyfriend are gonna be at the Emirates Palace later tonight.”

“Yukihira and I never dated; we never will.” At this point, Erina was contemplating a fourth drink. “And who is this person you wanted me to meet?”

“Only the son of the world’s biggest luxury aircraft supplier,” she said. “He studies business at Oxford and bankrolls a charity dedicated to stamping out hunger—not to mention the fact that he’s a huge foodie—”

“Only plebs call themselves foodies.”

“Sorry, a huge culinary enthusiast. And he can’t wait to meet you—if you’re up for it, that is.”

Erina made a face, stewing as she considered her options. The devious voice in the back of her mind, which sounded suspiciously like Alice, screamed that it was about time for her to have some fun. “What’s he look like?”

Elaine pulled up a picture on her phone, and Erina was immediately stunned by the worldly-looking gentleman in the impeccably tailored suit. This was exactly the kind of person she could have pictured herself with before that red-haired fool came along and ruined her.

She knew just by looking that she’d go through the motions with this man, allow him to court her and date him for just under a year. If upon dumping him she could convince herself to feel the slightest bit sad, she’d know that it was working, and try again with the next well-connected gentleman she’d meet through a third-tier friend.

“Attractive enough,” she said. “I’ll meet him.”

And to make sure the attraction stuck, she would be sure to ignore all her favorite culinary magazines and blogs for the next several days.

#shokugeki no soma #sorina #soueri #soumegu

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