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[decoandcoremovewallpaper]

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[fingertipsmp3]

I don't think job recruiters even hear or understand themselves sometimes. This man really just rejected me outright because I don't have a car and I'm like.. you realise this is exactly why I work from home right now right? (something he was also skeptical about) Like how the fuck am I supposed to be able to afford a car if no one will give me a chance and try employing me? Of course I'm working from home! At least they're fucking giving me money

[ace-turned-confused]

spin me around | joel miller x f!reader

joel masterlist | read on ao3

summary: you find a vintage record store full of rare finds, the man behind the counter the rarest of them all word count: 2,4k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied & wears a dress, way too much music talk, food & alcohol consumption, pet names, touching in public, dirty talk a/n: written for @secretelephanttattoo's Secret Springs challenge! i saw record store on your wheel and ran away with it - this is highly self-indulgent with the music references (like woah) but what better place for it than secret springs :) not beta'd, keep slaying

The stair treads creak as you head up to the second floor, blank CDs are fastened to the risers and old warped vinyl hangs from the ceiling. A faint melody floats down the stairwell that you don’t recognise, the instrumentals rising in a crescendo as you climb, the varnished railing worn and knotted.

You’d found this place online on your quest for a bargain, the secondhand vintage vinyl shop is situated on a fashionable street at the top of town with picturesque mountain views. After stalking their social media pages, you decided you’d just come and see it for yourself. Having mentally prepared yourself for parallel parking, it was unusually stress-free for a Saturday morning, the sun just beginning to warm the air.

Reaching the landing and glancing around, the room is essentially wallpapered with band posters, crates and crates of records are alphabetically organised, and a gallery of LPs sits on shelves behind the counter. A few customers are rifling through the various collections, one man perched on a barstool with headphones wired into a cassette player. The space is light and vibrant, it feels like a sacred haven.

What really catches your eye is the man behind the counter — unruly silver-streaked hair, trimmed moustache and greying beard, unreasonably broad shoulders that fill out his faded thin t-shirt.

“Mornin’!” He looks up as you round the bannister and flashes you a winning smile, his brown eyes sparkling in the light filtering through the windows. “Anythin’ in particular you lookin’ for?”

You greet him shyly as you enter the room, “Just came to look around, thanks.”

“No problem.” He turns back to his newspaper and you can’t help but stare, stuck in place as you think you’ve found far more than you could’ve imagined.

-

The sheer number of records fitted into the quaint shop is amazing, with some dividers spilling over into two or three boxes. Flipping through the S category, you find Sade, Stealers Wheel, Steppenwolf, Stevie Nicks, and countless others — a never-ending supply of artists and albums, some popular and some obscure.

Your eyes go wide at seeing Pretzel Logic, a favourite album by a favourite band. You’ve considered for weeks whether or not to just buy the damn thing online at full price, but you never did. Now you see why, some sort of divine intervention leading you here to snatch it up at a fraction of the cost — or it led you here for that man.

You’ve been peering over to him every time you move to the next crate — crinkles around his eyes, plush lips, deft hands. It’s almost unfair how beautiful he is, hidden away up here from the rest of the world. Admittedly you tried looking if he had a wedding band on, but you scolded yourself before you could complete the task, not wanting to get caught.

Time slips away from you as you switch between scouring through everything and stealing glances at the mystery music man, your fingers cramping from holding onto far more records than you’d planned to take. You scan over the tables and check for anything you may have missed, slinking through the room and placing your selection on the counter. You rummage in your bag to find your wallet.

“Fan of Steely Dan, huh? Gaucho, Pretzel Logic, Countdown to Ecstasy… You’re cleaning me out here, darlin’.” You lift your head at his words, losing yourself at the endearment.

“Yeah, uh… couldn't help myself,” you huff a laugh, feeling heat under your skin as he keeps his attention on you, a half smile on his face. “I did pick out some others, too. For some variation, you know?”

He fans the records out on the table to see each one.

“Yeah, thought you might be a Fleetwood Mac girl, Eagles is a bit of a surprise, but a pleasant one… Steely Dan, though? Wouldn't have pinned a girl like you as a fan of ‘em.”

“A girl like me…?”

“Far too pretty.” He winks at you with a tilt of his head, that half smile now spread fully across his face before he moves to add up the total. Your mind races as you try not to stand and gawk like an idiot.

“I saw online you had Dark Side of the Moon… do you uh, still have it, by any chance?”

“Full of surprises… I’m afraid we sold that one already, noticed it’s a bit of an elusive find ‘round here.” He drums his fingers against the wooden top and looks at you briefly, his eyes warm.

Shuffling papers around, he picks up a notepad, big hands and thick fingers dwarfing the pages. “I can keep an eye out for you, if you’re okay giving me your number? Won’t bother you, just business.”

“Yeah, sure.” His fingers graze across your skin as you take a pen from him and write down your information. Tearing the page off, you slide it across the counter and tease him, “Wouldn’t mind if you bothered me.”

“Well then, maybe I will. I’d love to know what else you got in your carefully curated collection.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you as you pay for the records, and he slips them into a brown paper bag, folding and unfolding the top like he doesn’t want you to leave.

“There’s actually this nice restaurant—” he turns to look behind him, grabbing a small carton and repositioning it on the counter, stalling as he tries to find the words, “—they have uh, live music on Friday nights… if you’d be interested.”

“Sounds fun…” You mull it over, impressed by his boldness but still wary. “Can I let you know?”

“‘Course, no pressure, here,” he writes his own number on a new page and tears it off, holding on as you reach for it and brush your fingers over his hand.

“And you are?”

“Joel Miller.”

Joel Miller. You quite like that.

-

You’d stared at Joel’s number for days, a constant back and forth on whether or not you should go. On the one hand, you knew nothing about this man except his name and where he worked; on the other, you’ve seen just enough of him to be well intrigued… 

You caved and said yes, which brings you to the present day — it’s Friday afternoon and you’re pacing in front of your wardrobe, worried about what to wear. To avoid losing your mind over this, you text Joel for some insight.

You: So, what am I supposed to wear tonight?Joel: Place is smart casual, I guess

Smart casual — arguably the worst fucking dress code description in existence.

You: That doesn’t help meJoel: Just wear a dress or something nice? I’m sure whatever you choose will be perfect

Perfect? Well, that certainly raises the bar. You suspect that Joel isn’t impressed by material things, and isn’t phased by flashy appearances, but you still want to make an effort. He called you pretty once already and you’re hoping he’ll repeat it tonight.

-

Approaching the restaurant, the brick wall facade is lined with fairy lights, the stars just beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, and muffled music sounds through the windows and glass doors.

Joel waits out on the pavement like a gift from God himself — black dress pants, a hint of chest peeking out from behind his button-up, a blazer hooked on one finger over his shoulder. You can’t help the way your gaze runs over him, noticing how his tummy just pokes out past the waistband of his pants, and just how well fitting those pants really are. You swallow to steady yourself.

“Hey.”

“Hi…”

You fall into silence as you take each other in — a low heat settles at the base of your spine and you drop your eyes to the floor, holding back a giggle like an enamoured schoolgirl.

“Shall we?” He pulls the door open and gestures for you to lead the way, eyes sparkling and a crooked but warm smile on his face, a guiding hand on the small of your back as you step inside.

Black-framed minimalist posters line the walls, the floors are polished dark wood and exposed brass light fixtures hang at varying heights from the ceiling. You pass a long, elegant bar lining one side of the room as you’re led towards the back of the restaurant — this place oozes sophistication, even the waitstaff are in fancy uniforms. Not smart casual.

Joel pulls a chair out for you as you reach your table, a small reserved card rests against a floating candle and two red roses bloom in a slender vase. 

“Do you mind if I take the wall?” you ask timidly, pointing towards the opposite bench.

“Not at all.” His gaze is soft as he shakes his head, eyes trained on you as you both take your seats.

“I just— I like being able to see, it’s uh…”

You smooth your hands over the tablecloth as your voice fades off, resisting the urge to make a game of blowing the candle out. You flit your eyes up to look at Joel, finding he’s already staring at you, candlelight flickering in his eyes. You drop your gaze to the table again, failing dismally at suppressing the grin that spreads across your face.

“You look gorgeous, by the way — if you don’t mind me sayin’. Knew you would, of course, but…”

It seems your outfit choice has paid off — gorgeous?

After hours of flinging clothes off hangers, you’d finally settled on a black, mid-length dress — a sweetheart neckline with white piping, the same white mirrored on the hem, a daring slit up one side of the skirt. There’s nothing casual about it, but seeing Joel dressed up and the finely decorated restaurant has calmed your nerves.

You don’t dare look at him again as the waiter returns and places two menus on the table. The night’s barely begun, and you hope it doesn’t end any time soon.

-

There hasn’t been a lull in the conversation once during dinner, a sharing dessert now in the centre of the table as Joel swirls what’s left of his whiskey around the glass. He held back all evening, fingers twitching and curling into a loose fist alongside yours on the table until he finally allowed himself to dance them across the back of your hand.

“How’d you get into all this record business?”

“Started workin’ there on weekends as a kid, wanted to earn some pocket money. The old man who owned it was like a mentor, he taught me all about the world. He left it all in my hands when he retired, and I’ve never looked back.”

A fond smile on his face as he retells his memories, you saw the first day you met how happy and comfortable he was in his charming shop, and it seems that charm bleeds over into him, too.

“And you get to meet all kinds of people — loud, friendly, aloof… pretty ones, too.” He gives you the same wink and devilish grin as before, continuing his stories as if you aren’t burning across the table.

-

Sometime during the night, he’d moved to sit next to you, claiming he ‘wanted to see the band’ — the arm draped on the bench behind you and fingers trailing across your shoulder says otherwise.

He mentioned at the shop that there was live music here on Friday nights — the one thing he didn’t mention? That tonight’s particular band was a jazz quartet — the slow, smooth, romantic kind of jazz, the kind that acts as the perfect backdrop for a night of cheeky flirting, lingering glances and desperate touches.

“Joel, can I ask something?”

“Shoot.”

You roll the edge of the tablecloth between your fingers. “Is this a date?”

“It can be, if you want.” You drop your hands and eye him, unimpressed by his response.

“Alright, I’ll admit, I was hopin’ for a date. I wasn’t really sure how to ask, didn’t wanna come on too strong.”

You’re silent for a beat, considering how to respond. “I mean, you could’ve just asked.”

“Well then, you wanna go on a date?” He tilts his head, eyebrows raised.

“I thought we were already on one.”

He chuckles at your remark, downing the last of his whiskey and momentarily tracing a finger along the rim of the glass. You focus on his movements, imagining his fingers tracing patterns into your skin instead.

As if he can read your mind, he twists himself towards you and plants that same hand just above your knee, fingers curled towards the inside of your leg as he scrapes his nails against you.

“And?” His voice is almost a whisper in your ear, “Has it been a good one?”

He glides his hand up your leg and into the slit of your dress as you nod, higher, higher, higher until his fingers brush against lace. You wonder if he can feel the fabric dampening.

“Y’know the Pink Floyd you asked about? It wasn’t sold, I kept it for myself. I’ll play it for you sometime.”

“You’re gonna talk about music? Right now?”

“What should I talk about instead? The delicate panties you got on? How wet they’re getting?”

Your breath hitches as he shifts his fingers, tucking them just under the edge of your panties and caressing your skin. Glancing around, the band are still playing low and slow, most tables having cleared out by now.

“Would love to see ‘em, if you’ll let me. I’d really love to see what’s underneath though. Pretty girl like you’s bound to have a real pretty pussy, too. Certainly feels like it, Jesus.”

He presses his fingers into you with more force this time and you turn your head to him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and not from the dim lighting. He glances down to your lips and back up to your eyes again and you close the distance between you. He repositions the arm around your shoulders, hand holding the back of your neck as you lock your legs together and grind yourself against him.

His lips are soft, beard and moustache tickling your skin as he swipes his tongue against the seam of your mouth. You moan into him as you part your lips, letting him lick into you and you can taste his whiskey. He pulls back and you whine, teasing you with just enough to leave you reeling for more.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Take me home, Joel. Please, I need you.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Wanna hear the music you can make.”

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[saintescuderia]

pancakes (pt. 1)

welcome a new multi-chapter fic. enjoy.

AKA - the story of how the naive australian rookie befriended the gym junkie F1 hospitality worker with the shoe collection - and inadvertently broke the grid's most treasured and unspoken rule: you don't go for y/n.

series masterlist here :) // the pancakes recipe here :)

P1 - bulgarian split squats

Really, the only way to survive Formula 1 was by going to the gym. 

The gym addiction was something that had existed long before joining the circus of a motorsports paddock filled with politics and rumours, as well as the slim fitting uniforms that always seemed to be accompanied by, in your opinion, ugly ass shoes. 

Sure, Puma was the offical sponsor but couldn’t they get anything other than the Speedcat? And what even was that name? Speedcat? It was on brand, sure, but at what cost? Really? If Formula 1 was trying to grow its popularity they could honestly start with their dress code. Seeing Christian Horner in Skechers really took the intimidation out of him when you served him his double espresso during the Spanish Grand Prix that one time last season. 

One of the perks of working in Hospitality - and there were very few far and in between - was that uniform was not so strict. F1 Hospitality only required an all black service with ‘comfortable shoes.’ This you took for interpretation. Dunks. Jordan 4s. Maybe 1s. Never 13s. Forces were good for a night race - that usually meant more stairs - and Vans were what you reached for in the morning when you knew you’d be working the barista shift. Converse were for ‘throw away’ races.

These were the races where you knew the shoe-care was not important. For example, Silverstone with its torrential UK drinkers who were likely to throw up on your beloved sneakers. Alas, you had learned the hard way when you almost lost your job by rushing to the kitchen to start scrubbing the vomit off your blue and red Cortez during peak lunch.

Never again.

Admittedly, you did try to keep at least one pair of Converse in good care since they were the renowned shoe come leg day. 

Another perk of working in F1 Hospitality was that every circuit’s map layout had been drilled into your head. Meaning you always knew exactly where the communal driver’s gym was located at and could therefore get your daily dose of dopamine before dealing with… well, everything.

You silenced the shrill horror that came from the iPhone alarm. 4:00 read the lockscreen, the light shining brightly into your face. It didn’t help that your wallpaper had a photo with a clear blue sky, making the light even harsher in the darkness. You could’ve very well changed it and avoid the pain you routinely go through every morning. But it was this very photo that reminded you why you were getting up in four in the morning in the first place. 

You had snapped it during a free practice in Italy that had miraculously lined up with a break in your shift. The sky was clear and the red car was small, but clear on the circuit. Ferrari, of course. You still remember the buzz that circled around the paddock staff that day. No matter who you routed for or whatever bias you had, there was a unanimously acknowledgement that Ferrari winning at Monza was special. He was special. 

Then again, you’ve known that long before he stood on that podium in Italy and was given his infamous nickname. 

It didn’t even take you ten minutes until you were out the door. Your gym clothes (pump cover included!) were on the one limpy chair that decorated your poor little hotel room, your shaker sat on top of your gym bag with you black high top Converse right beside it. By the time you had made it to the gym, it was a little past 4:15 and you had already scooped in pre-workout into your mouth ready to get through the oncoming pain. 

Your hips were a little tight, as per normal. The left side even more so. The hood of your hoodie was up, headphones on and blasting the hardstyle house music that would see you through the next two hours. You went through your usual stretches but with today’s added focus on the lower body. 

And then you went about destroying your legs. 

It was about an hour or so that Oscar finally sleepily arrived. You weren’t actually sure what time it was but you were up to doing bulgarian split squats - and hating life - and that was usually at the hour mark. You gave him a curious once over, noting the odd choice of clothing. It was a little odd to see a driver in the paddock wearing athleisure that wasn’t their team uniform.

“Bro, it’s five in the morning.” Oscar groaned, shuffling over to come and sit on the bench next to you. You gave another three more reps - Oscar silently watching you groan in pain through the last two - and then finally dropped the dumbbells. You reached over to take a sip of water and checked the phone for the time.

“It’s five thirteen in the morning.” You corrected. It had been just about the hour mark. “Are we training today or?” It wasn’t the first time Oscar had joined you. The reason his neck was getting stronger was because of you. In your opinion, the trainer Alpine had assigned Oscar was a fucking idiot.

“You’re doing legs.” Oscar pointed out, as if that was enough of an answer. He leaned to lay back down on the bench and stared up as he continued to speak. “Drivers don’t need bulky legs. We’ve been over this.”

You had. Many times. You knew he was right. It still would be nice to have someone to go through legs with you, though.

“So train with light weights.” You offered, trying. Oscar just gave you a look that made it clear he was not picking up any type of weights. You shrugged, not deterred. “I’ll do calisthenics with you. Or we can work on plyometrics.” Oscar’s response was to close his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Fuck it man, do some cardio.” You came to the last resort, coming to kick his legs as you walked past to load up the smith machine with some different plates. 

“Piss off Tezza.” The Australian-ness continuing to shine through with the nickname that Oscar had specifically designed for you in respect of your shared citizenship to the ‘land down under.’

Except unlike the blond caucasian boy who loved AFL, grew up in Brighton East and attended Haileybury, your Australian-ness was less obvious. Your accent, for one, wasn’t as prominent since your parents were African immigrants. This, of course, didn’t just influence your speech patterns and accent.

Dark skin, dark eyes and dark hair, you weren't exactly the picture of a 'true blue Aussie.' The rite of public school bullying from those who did look 'Australian' (whatever that meant) had you scoffing at vegemite and preferring to follow EPL and La Liga than whatever the fuck was Aussie Rules Football.

Why is it called football if the players pick up the ball?

Still, when a homesick Oscar Piastri overheard one of the Hospitality staff yell out that that they were going for a 'Macca’s run' between the practice sessions on his very first F1 race weekend, he instantly picked up on the Australian-ism. And he didn’t let it go. And cue the beginning of a friendship that had Oscar Piastri calling you ‘bro’ and shortening your last name as per Australian rite.

Even if you had sworn off that sort of thing.

“Oscar, man, if you ain’t here to train then why are you?” You said, locking the plates in place on the smith machine. You lifted up your hood up and ducked under the bar to rest the metal against you shoulders, the hood acting as a cushion. The starting weight was light enough that you wouldn't have to worry about music for your first set. Besides, if Oscar was here, he could be the entertainment for this set. “You forget that this is a driver’s only gym. You could get in trouble." The sarcasm was all too clear in your voice.

No one used the ‘drivers-only’ gym. It was something that every Grand Prix had set up. Mobile, communal and high-end, it had enough equipment to rival the local 24/7 studio franchise gym that seemed to exist in every neighbourhood. Despite the fact that every driver preferred to train at their own motorhome gym - or that every team had their own mobile gym set up in conjunction to the motorhome - F1 still went about packing up and moving their own studio gym to every single location come race weekend.

If anything, it was a nice stop during the presentation walk during the sponsorship lunches where good old Stefano Domenicali would show off all the amazing resources that the Grand Prix space has to offer. 

So, no. F1’s Driver Gym was not used.

The only reason it wasn’t gathering dust was because every weekend it was packed up and moved. That and you woke up at 4am every weekend to destroy your muscles in the familiar red and black equipment.

"You're here." Oscar reminded you. "And not a driver."

You ignored him and just kept up with your repetitions, focusing on engaging your glutes and keeping your core tight. Oscar was silent as you finished your first set. When you finished your last rep, he stood up and came round as you locked the machine. He knew you well enough to pick up the 10kg and help add it to the sides.

"Thanks." You said. Oscar nodded and added the weight to the other side. There was a quiet air for a moment and you went to pick up your headphones to put them back on. Things were getting heavier and you would need music to get through the next few sets.

“I might be leaving Alpine.” 

You looked up at Oscar who dropped the bomb and then looked back at your headphones. You sighed and then dropped the headphones back to land in your gym bag. Headphoneless, you went back to the machine and Oscar took your invitation.

“Zak Brown approached me yesterday and suggested something about picking me up for next year.” Oscar said.

You just kept squatting. Oscar was far too removed to yet be aware of - well, everything.

“And with talk of Fernando quitting, I know that Alpine will be calling me up but do I trust that? Honestly Lando has been doing so well and Ocon has always pissed me off.” Oscar watched as you started to struggle.

He stood up and came around to help you but you just shook you head. You pushed through one more rep and then called it. 

“He does have a punchable face.” You said, now out of breath. Esteban had always annoyed you and before meeting Oscar, you used to dread the weekends where you were put on Alpine.

Your friend handed you the water bottle sat beside your gym bag before you could even ask. You gave a two finger salute in thanks as he continued on.

“And Lily and I got into this massive fight again! Apparently I don’t communicate enough!” He huffed. “But I sent her flowers and chocolates because she’s going through finals and she likes daisies and Cadbury."

“Yeah, but is that her love language though?” You asked, dropping your bottle and going to stack up the final set of weights on the smith machine. Oscar stood up again to help you.

“Her what?” He asked, handing you the plate.

“Love language.” You answered, still panting, and explained, “You’ve got physical touch, gift giving, quality time, words of affirmation and acts of service.” 

“Are you saying people love in specific ways?" Oscar asked, quick to process new information as always.

“Exactly. You did something nice for her, an act of service. Maybe all she wants is a nice, long phone call or maybe some texts complimenting her or something.” You shrugged and then brought up your headphones.

Oscar accepted this, knowing the last set would require music.

He watched you as you settled back under the smith machine bar and went on squatting more than his body weight. He shook his head and ran a hand over his face. He really shouldn't have been surprised at your lack of surprise. Little shocked you. That or your might’ve already known and just kept it to yourself. F1 Hospitality were a part of the Formula One Group and, therefore, were not associated to any one team. They had rotations across all teams and, therefore, every member of staff were required to sign an NDA. Not that ever did anything in this damn place.

Still, Oscar knew that you were one of the few genuine people left in this place.

He knew that there would’ve been so many opportunities where you could’ve easily done something for yourself by recounting something you had overheard while pouring Toto Wolff his coffee or serving Mattia Binotto his lunch. It was the reason why so many teams hired their own internal hospo staff.

It was also the reason why Oscar felt comfortable coming to tell you about Alpine and McLaren before he had even told his own parents, or Lily. The argument with his girlfriend had prevented him from getting any sleep, mulling it over in his mind for hours. Oscar knew you would be able to help him through it all.

And that you would be the only one awake at this godforsaken hour.

By the time you had finished your first set, he was Googling love languages and having a quick read through. 

By the time you had finished your second set, he was halfway through doing the love languages quiz.

By the time you had finished your third and final set, he was seeing what the problem was between him and Lily.

“I think Lily is words of affirmation and I'm acts of service." He said, coming up to the machine as you stepped back and pulled down your headphones. You blinked and nodded, still put of breath. "I think I forgot to check in with her and send her some compliments. Tell her I'm proud of her for getting through exams. Especially because she never is one for gifts, really."

You held out your hand to him. "There you go. Growth."

"I don't know what to do about Alpine."

"Call a lawyer."

Oscar pursed his lips and then considered this. That wouldn't be his first move but thinking about it, it was probably for the best. "That's actually a good idea."

"Isn't that why you're here?" You retorted. "Since you're not here to train. Speaking of which, the fuck is that?"

“What?” He asked and realised you were looking at his feet.

“Zak Brown isn’t going to hire you if he finds out that you’re wearing fucking thongs with socks.” You said, finally recognising the flip-flops he wore with some white socks that really needed to be washed. 

“You’ve been a great help, thanks.” Oscar smiled. You rolled your eyes and went to your gym bag. Pulling out a pair of white Adidas Sambas, you tossed them to Oscar.

“Put these on.”

“Is my footwear really that offensive to you?”

“We’ll go run the track.” You said then gestured to all of him. “It’ll help you burn all of this off.”

Oscar sighed and did as he was told. He laced up the shoes you'd given him that surprisingly fit his large feet and followed you out to the track. He used his pass to get through since a driver running the track at 5:30 in the morning would just be seen as the dedication to the grind. A Hospitality staff member would just be accused of breaking in. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re going through a crisis. I’ve always wanted to do a morning run on the track.” You said with a grin as the pair of you came to the starting line that, in a matter of hours, would be full of mechanics, engineers, reporters, camera crew members and, of course, drivers.  

“If I get a seat at McLaren, you can be my trainer.” Oscar said as you both started warming up into a light jog.

"Ha." You snorted. "As if you could afford me, bro."

next ch [2] >

[sirowsky-stories]

Forward Luxation

Summary: You're recovering from a dislocated shoulder and have to go to a physical therapist. But getting there, you find nothing at all is what you'd expected, least of all the man in charge of your training.

Requested by @bilibiche

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Marcus Moreno x female reader, reader is not described at all, and yes, we're taking liberties with the fact that any visit to an expert in human functionality requires one to take their clothes off. Lots of sexual tension here. Word Count: 2750

   The waiting room is surprisingly cozy for a physical therapist’s office. Although you’ve never been to one before, so you don’t really have anything to compare it to. You’d just sort of imagined it being a bit like a dentist’s office, with the cheap magazines, plastic plants, beige curtains which haven’t been changed in five years, uncomfortable chairs and squeaky linoleum floors.    But this is nothing like that.

   You’re sitting in one of the four available really nice armchairs, each with a little coffee-table to the side, on top of which are no magazines but instead a selection of pamphlets with useful information about the most common muscle injuries and treatments, and phone numbers and websites to other reputable establishments where people can find help for all manner of problems, from yoga studios to psychologists.

   The wallpaper is cream white with a discreet floral pattern in the same color, but glossy against the matte base, and the curtains are a deep green which together with the wallpaper somehow gives the impression that you’re sitting in a park. Especially since the chairs have exposed wood along with the soft cushions, which are the same color green, with embroidered flowers in pale yellow. And you’re pretty sure they’re made entirely of silk.

   Even the coffee is fucking excellent.

   If not for the fact that you had to sign in at the front desk, confirming your appointment and even having to show your ID, before being shown in here, you would’ve thought for sure you were in the wrong place.    This all seems so much more expensive than what you could ever afford. You’re here courtesy of your insurance, so you don’t need to worry about the cost, but it still feels way too fancy for you.

   “Good morning,” a soft and pleasant voice interrupts your thoughts, and you turn your head to find a tall, fit, brown-eyed, ridiculously gorgeous man smiling at you.

   “Uh… g-good morning,” is all you manage in response, because he’s literally taken your breath away by just standing there.

   “My name’s Marcus, welcome to my rehabilitation center. If you’ll please follow me, we’ll get started with a quick exam,” he continues, giving no indication he’s noticed your flustered reaction as he politely steps to the side to indicate which direction you’ll be heading.

   Air floods back into your lungs when you start to move, getting up from the chair and falling in behind him, at which point, your brain starts working again.

   “You own this place?” you ask, jumping at the first topic to come to mind.

   “I do. I started this business eight years ago,” he replies, before reaching a room with a door already standing open, where he stops just outside and beckons for you to enter. “Does that surprise you?”

   “Well, no. I’m just a bit confused overall,” you admit.

   “Oh? How come?”

   “It’s just… My insurance company made it seem like it was a big deal to even get a spot here. That this is like, the best physical rehab center in the country. And then I get here and the only person I’ve seen is the receptionist.”

   “I see. You thought that such a prestigious establishment would have thirty employees and patients constantly coming and going?” he guesses, and you nod, feeling slightly embarrassed.

   But he’s smiling when he gestures for you to take a seat on the large examination table in the middle of the room, while he closes the door and then takes a seat on a mobile stool in front of you.    You note that the temperature in here is higher, and a moment later you realize that it’s probably because people need to undress for him to examine them properly, and suddenly you’re flustered again.

   “The reason why we’re considered one of the best, is precisely because we don’t take on more patients than what we can effectively handle, both from a managerial standpoint, and from a practical one.    Since it’s just me and David here, that means our slots are usually limited to five people per day. Obviously, I’m in charge of the actual therapy, while David handles the charts, bookings, contact with hospitals, insurance and so on.    These limitations enable us to work entirely stress-free with our patients, allowing each session to take almost however much time it requires, whether due to physical restrictions, or mental ones.”

   “Mental ones?” you repeat, getting slightly caught on the notion, since it seems misplaced to you.

   This is physical therapy, not psychological, right?

   “Bodily injuries often result in emotional distress, most of which only comes out when people are confronted with the consequences, which is essentially the heart of what we do here.”

   “So, you’re like a jack-of-all-trades kind of therapist, then?”

   “I suppose I am,” he agrees with a small chuckle. “Now, if you’re satisfied with our business model, we should get started.”

   “Sure,” you say entirely without confidence, feeling the hairs on your arms prickle with nervousness at the mere thought of potentially having to undress in front of this man.

   “Dislocated right shoulder. Forward luxation, if I remember correctly,” he recalls without looking at any charts or notes. “May I ask how it happened?”

   “Oh, I have horses,” you sigh, knowing he’s probably not gonna need much more explanation than that.

   And sure enough, he mirrors your sigh.

   “Ah, yes. That’ll do it. So, how long did you wait before calling for help?” he asks, crossing his arms over his waist with a knowing, although friendly, glare in his eyes.

   “About an hour.”

   His eyebrows shoot up at that, but he can’t seem to find the words at first. And as always, the moment you feel the slightest bit judged for your passion for horses, you get defensive.

   “I couldn’t just drop everything, I had two horses who were panicking because of a fucking snake, I had to get them into the stables.”

   “Yeah, okay, fair enough. How long did that take?” he prods, and you hesitate.

   Because you’ve had both of your horses since they were foals and you’ve trained them well enough that they always trust you, even when they’re scared, which is why it had only taken you a couple of minutes to get them into the stables that day.

   “I don’t have anyone who can help me,” you quietly explain. “I had to make sure they’d be okay if I had to be in hospital for a few days.”

   His expression softens then, but he’s not done investigating.

   “So, you went around hauling hay, probably some buckets of water, checking fences and gates… I assume you also made sure to get rid of the snake, only calling for help once you’d double-checked that you hadn’t missed anything.”

   “I didn’t call. I drove myself to the hospital,” you conclude, at which point Marcus seems to give up any notion that you’re a reasonable human being.

   “As impressive as it is that you were able to endure that kind of pain for so long, you do realize by delaying getting this injury corrected, you probably added another month to the rehab you’re gonna need? Which is only gonna keep you from working with your horses that much longer,” he admonishes, but he sounds concerned more than anything, which tugs at your heart because no one ever concerns themselves about you.

   “I know, but I was… scared,” you admit, surprising yourself, since you haven’t even admitted this to yourself yet. “I’ve never been seriously injured before, and I hate hospitals. I knew I had to go, I just… had to convince myself of it.”

   Unexpectedly, he smiles at you then.

   “Thank you. For being honest with me. That’s always a good start.” He looks so grateful and earnest as he meets your gaze, you struggle not to look away.

   “I know it might not seem like it, but I do want help. I’m just really crappy at asking for it or accepting it.”

   “Well then, you’ll be happy to know I’m stubborn as hell, and I don’t take no for an answer when I know I’m right.    Chances are, you’re gonna get amazingly irritated and sick of me before we’re done, but if you can trust me despite all that, I’ll get you well again,” he offers, and you struggle to believe you could ever get sick of such a wonderful person.

   “I’m not great with trusting people. But I’ll try.”

   “That’s all I can ask for.    Now, I’m gonna need you to take your shirt off so I can assess the mobility of your shoulder.”

   Well, that went from sweet to nerve-wracking in one fucking sentence…    Suddenly your pulse is pounding in your ears, but it’s not like you can refuse. At least, not if you want to regain full mobility.    Internally cursing yourself for wearing a t-shirt and not a top with thin straps of some sort, you start fumbling with the fabric, trying to get it off without causing yourself too much pain.

   He notices that you’re having a bit of trouble and steps around behind you to lift the shirt at the back, which is nice of him. Except that when his warm fingers brush against the bare skin of your neck, you involuntarily shiver, which he of course also notices.

   “Is it too cold in here?” he wonders. “I try to keep it warmer than the rest of the building, but if you need me to turn it up further-…”

   “No, no, I’m fine,” you interrupt him, feeling absolutely ridiculous at how strongly his mere presence affects you.

   “Alright, but just so you know, it’s no trouble. If there’s anything I can do to make this more comfortable for you, don’t hesitate to tell me,” he says, as he carefully starts to prod and examine your shoulder now that the shirt is off, and you’re abruptly having trouble breathing again with the sensation of his skin exploring yours.

   “Oh, you don’t want me to do that…” you think to yourself, while doing your best not to be self-conscious about your choice of bra for the day.

   “Why is that?”

   His mildly bemused and curious question makes you freeze, and as the realization hits you that you’d actually spoken out loud just now, panic floods your every cell in no time flat.    Wishing the ground would open and swallow you, or that lightning would hit you right now, you let your torso fall forwards and then brace your good elbow against your knee so that your hand can catch your head as it drops so heavily into your open palm that it feels like you’ve just slapped yourself.

   “I am so sorry,” you mumble, seriously wondering what the fuck is wrong with you, you don’t even know if the man’s single. “Please ignore me, I don’t get out much.”

   He’s quiet for a moment then, and in that short space of time, you manage to imagine several scenarios for how he’s probably about to scold you for behaving inappropriately.

   “Ah… You didn’t mean to say that out loud, did you?” he finally replies, and he still sounds only bemused, but it does nothing to rid you of your shame.

   “I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say, because that’s how you feel.

   “Hey, don’t feel bad, you haven’t done anything wrong. You’re allowed to think whatever you want.”

   “Even if it’s totally objectifying and unethical?” you counter, and there’s another pause before you hear a low chuckle behind you.

   “Okay, now I’m really curious. What were you thinking?”

   “Never mind, just… continue your exam,” you hurriedly try to deflect, even more mortified by the prospect of having to own up to your completely premature infatuation with him.

   But instead of leaving it alone, he rounds the table until he’s in front of you again, taking a seat on his stool so he’s at your eye-level.

   “As previously discussed, I’ve got time. So, please, do tell me what you think would make you feel the most comfortable with me,” he grins, clearly fully aware that it’s gonna be something juicy, and almost childishly excited to know what it is.

   For the most part, humiliation runs off you relatively easily. But that’s also because you rarely stray out of your comfort zone, which revolves around horses, dogs, driving tractors and using power tools.    Still, on the rare occasions when you do manage to get yourself cornered, you generally suffer for a minute and then you find a way to shake it off.

   And on the super-rare occasions, such as this one, when you’re so far beyond mortified that you don’t even know how to get out of it, something else happens.    You become kinda angry and a bit feral.    The last time it had happened you’d ended up spending a night in jail, and you hadn’t even been drunk.

   You can feel that anger take control of your brain and you know you’re about to say something ill-advised, but there’s no stopping it.    Raising your head, you lock gazes with him and see him flinch at the abrupt shift in your expression.

   “Basically any scenario in which you’re butt naked and in my bed,” you hear yourself almost snarl, and somehow, there’s no shame accompanying the words.

   As crude and inappropriate as they are, it’s the truth, and it wipes the sweetly crooked little smile off his face in a hurry. Although his eyes remain alight and curious.

   “Somehow that’s not what I was expecting you to say,” he slowly observes, and you can’t help how your face falls, hearing that.

   “You and me both, darlin’,” you exhale, feeling the anger fade as the air leaves your lungs, and in its wake, only regret remains. “Maybe I should just go.”

   Standing, you reach for your shirt at the top of the table, but he stops you with a hand on yours, and when you turn to see what he’s doing, he’s suddenly very close.

   “I told you that if you can trust me, I’ll help you.    It might’ve been unintentional, but you were honest with me just now, even though you didn’t want to be, which is a good sign.”

   “Not really,” you protest, starting to feel smaller against his large frame, “I get like that sometimes, when I’m overwhelmed. I blurt things out with no filter, it’s not a choice.”

   “It was still the truth, wasn’t it?” he persists, and you can’t deny it, so you nod. “Okay then, we have a baseline, so let’s build on it rather than abandon it.    I suggest we start with today’s session, and when we’re done, we make dinner reservations for this weekend.”

   You’re so unprepared for that last part, your mouth falls open and your mind goes completely blank for way too long. Like a damned fish, you just stand there, staring at him while his hand still holds yours, gently prying your shirt from it before he motions for you to take your seat again.    Grateful to be guided, since you still can’t think for yourself, you follow his directions and before long, the exam is done and he’s helping you get dressed.

   From there, he shows you out into the gym where he meticulously instructs you on which exercises to do and how often, making you swear not to overdo them.    And you might be imagining it, but you feel like he jumps on any excuse to touch you, holding your waist to make sure your core musculature doesn’t move when it’s not supposed to, or physically redirecting your hips when you’ve unknowingly turned them, even though he could’ve just told you to correct it yourself.

   When you’re done for the day, he takes you back to the exam room where he makes a few notes about how the session went and what you’ve agreed on.

   “Again, no lifting hay, grain, or heavy buckets,” he reiterates for what has to be the tenth time, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at him.

   “I heard you the first nine times.”

   “And you’re still not gonna listen to me, are you?”

   “I live alone with two horses and two dogs, I make no promises, one way or the other.”

   “I’m just gonna have to tie you to the bed then,” he says without a hint of a joke in his voice, before he reaches for a calendar on his desk. “But, dinner first.    How does six o’clock on Friday sound?”

THE END

[hometoursandotherstuff]

1994 round house in the mountains of Black Mountain, North Carolina has 3bds, 4ba, $799K

I absolutely hate this style of dated decor, but I do like...

him.

I like the fireplace, but the first thing I would do is take the end of that valance and rip it off all the way around this space. Can you imagine what it cost to have that installed?

Space for a dining room table between the living room area and kitchen. This home has lots of potential.

The kitchen's nice, but needs more modern wallpaper. Don't know if I like that thing over it, though.

The house is listed as having 3 bedrooms, but there are more, so I suppose the others aren't legally bedrooms?

One of 4 baths.

This is confusing, b/c these 3 make 6 bedrooms. So, what are these rooms supposed to be?

The listing says single family, but this lower level looks like a 3bd residence to me. My first home had an apt. in the basement, but b/c of the bedroom, the inspector said I couldn't have the kitchen- he made us remove the stove.

They have a pool table, but a dining set would easily fit in here.

Upper and lower decks around the home.

Large detached garage.

The lot is 6.35 acres, so judging by the close proximity of the neighbors, it looks like the property must stretch out into the woods.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/101-Fawns-Rst-Black-Mountain-NC-28711/5590648_zpid/

[lullabyes22-blog]

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - Ch: 28 - Future Perfect

Snippet:

Love inhabits the air like the motes of red sunlight ebbing at the windows. It's there in the cozy geometry of the bathroom tiles. In the patterned wallpaper of purple peonies Caitlyn picked out.  It's in the wafts of Caitlyn's shampoo in Vi's hair, and her lacy bra hanging in the corner next to Vi's sports binder. It's in their room: the bed, freshly fitted with Vi's favorite sunflower-print sheets. The wardrobe, with their mismatch of clothes lovingly crammed together in a shared geography. The bowl of peaches on the kitchen table, the tasseled lampshade in the livingroom, the vase of pink roses in the foyer. 

All the ways the apartment is theirs. All the ways they've made it home.

Home is what Caitlyn wants. Home is what Vi wants. They've built this dream, and kept building it, and the dream keeps growing. The love grows with it. Every morning, Caitlyn sits across from Vi with her mussed hair and the sleep-crumbs in her eyes and a dreamy little smile that says, Good morning, love. Every evening, Caitlyn returns from her shift with her hat perfectly pinned and her arms laden with paper bags full of fragrant, steaming bread, and her grin sets a fuse crackling down the center of Vi's body. Every night, they make love, slow and sweet, with hitching breaths and crooning sighs, and Vi feels her brain melting and her heart shooting sparks, because it's as if their bodies were built to slide together. To fit the way nothing else ever has.  

Everything fits. It fits perfectly. The most perfect thing Vi's ever had. And she will die for it. Kill for it. Anything, everything, no matter the cost, no matter the—

No matter the truth.

It's isn't enough.

It's never been enough.

Because I'm not enough.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

More Fanfic + Tidbits

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[homestuckreplay]

hauntingly relaxing basslines to grow/disappearify pumpkins to

(page 818-825)

Jade irradiates a tasty dinner for Bec, leaving it full of ‘nice depleted steak isotopes’ (p.819). I was wondering about the science behind this, and learned that while radioactive decay naturally gives off heat, it’s probably not enough to cook a steak. Radioisotope thermal generators convert the heat of radiation into electricity, and there’s a lot of theory about radioisotopic batteries that could operate similarly to solar cells, but their efficiency is below 2% in laboratory tests.

This got me thinking about Skaia as a perfect conserver of energy – on page 193, Rose expends six units of build grist to construct three Perfectly Generic Objects. On p.261, she deletes them and regains six build grist. Next page, she uses the recovered grist to build a platform extending from John’s house, and finally on p.485 turns that platform back into six grist to build more stairs. In the real world, there is always a loss of energy and raw materials when changing something’s form, and many games model this (for example, an in game item costing 100 gold but only sold back for 50) to discourage players changing their minds. But Sburb explicitly allows for this experimentation, and a similar principle could explain why Jade’s uranium powered devices are so efficient.

Speaking of Jade’s technology, we see her ECLECTIC BASS, which is a kind of triple keytar. It definitely does not need to exist but it is so cool that it does. Jade (via the narrator) is frustratingly vague again with ‘obviously it's too complicated to play it in person like this’, refusing to clarify what ‘in person’ means, but I’d guess it’s a remote controlled hand or several that can play bass remotely without the limitations of human fingers. Possibly controlled through her other invention: the computer.

Instead of a regular desktop, Jade’s LUNCHTOP works through beams of light emitting from small floating polyhedrons, positioning her literally within the digital space. Amidst floating clouds, extra pixels and jpeg debris, and spinning chromosomes of light is a cool dragon as a wallpaper, icons for Pesterchum, Echidna (probably a browser) and Fresh Jamz!, which has an icon of a musical note over a jar of fruit jam. Is Jade a composer too? Did she write her own hauntingly relaxing bassline that caused the plants to grow? Is this a hobby she and Dave have in common?

Jade’s hauntingly relaxing bassline (p.822) is a great companion piece to WV: Ascend, showing Jade’s island in its current state as opposed to in extended timelapse. The house, with its orbs atop spires, is clearly modeled on a now broken part of the frog statue, and was designed to fit in with the existing architecture and shape of the island (it forms a peak to the small second mountain). The house was built for aesthetics, not function, and is primarily vertical especially towards the top. No wonder Jade ‘almost never use[s] the stairs’.

Putting the timeline together, we know that Jade is about to message John at 16:34 his time (p.110), but they don’t actually talk until 17:25 (p.169), almost an hour later, at which point there’s an explosion outside Jade’s house. In page 822’s animation, an aeroplane flies low over Jade’s island and drops off a delivery (a blue package – something from John, perhaps?). This must be an uncommonly loud sound in a remote area. Depending on how this flash syncs with the timeline, this may or may not be the ‘explosion’. Either way, Jade will be on the computer during the explosion, and as her likely homemade computer involves complete immersion in the digital surroundings, I can believe that she would interpret a noise from her computer as something that’s happening outside her house.

We’ve explored Jade’s room, interests, musical talents, fetch modus, and now computer. In all of these she’s been set up differently to her friends. We have yet to explore the rest of her house and its surroundings (featuring, presumably, strange themed decor, a large humanoid doll and a piece of visual art Jade has created) and to meet Jade’s grandfather, witnessing her attempts to evade and eventually strife with him.

> Jade: Open Echidna and watch your favorite Squiddles episode.

[ladyazurith]

Thoughts on and Headcanons for Rook Hunt

Rook is a very divisive character for me, and I’ve gone back and forth on how I feel about him. I absolutely hate how he treats the nonhuman students. I also hate the vin where he comments on Vil gaining weight when it wasn’t even noticeable to someone with normal eyes. That’s not a healthy mindset. Nor can I ignore the wall of hidden photos we see peaking out behind the wallpaper in his (canon) room. 

I do not like how he handled the end of Chapter 5. The way he gushed about Neige and revealed his obsession, right in front of Vil, after everything that had just happened. I know people get upset over the fact he voted for RSA, and while I think it was a dick move for him to have revealed that it was his vote that cost them the show. It’s more that he hid something like that from Vil, and given how they talked about everything related to the theater together, and he knew Vil’s connection to Neige it just feels…really shitty that that's how it came out. 

On the other hand, I really do think he cares about Vil. I have never truly shipped them together (the only time I’ve written them in a relationship together was in a poly with Cater) I do think he loves Vil in a brotherly fashion. And I think they’re important to each other. Vil especially I think values Rook’s friendship more than he wants to admit. (This is also kinda why I think his actions at the end of chapter 5 were so crappy)

At the same time, I think he suffered from character assassination at that point. They needed Rook to do what he did to thematically fit the narrative and his role as the royal Hunstman. And they cared about that more than if it was something Rook would truly do. As much as I love twist and the story, I find myself having this complaint often. They’re more concerned about the overall narrative than what actually makes sense for the various characters. I could write an entire essay on this especially where Cater is concerned, with him and his interaction with the other characters and his place in the overall narrative. (Again a subject for another time)

On a less serious note, as far as romance goes, I’m reminded of a line from a very old Christmas movie called “White Christmas” where one of the main characters goes. "I'm not the marrying kind or the engaging kind, I'm more the I don't mind pushing my best friend into it but I'm scared stiff when I get anywhere close to myself kind" I can see Rook endlessly encouraging Vil to pursue his heart (With me it's him insisting to Vil he does have feelings for Cater and should give him a chance) But the idea of his own actual love affair terrifies him. He’d rather just watch other people fall in love. 

I do think he has several secret perches around campus that no one knows about. 

I also think he and Cater would be absolutely great and chaotic friends, that would strike fear into Vil’s heart. They both share a love of photography and him. I can just imagine Vil having to endure the two of them talking about him while he’s sitting right there lol. 

I also gave them an anonymous magicam account where they post pictures of student life on campus (Mostly taken by Rook, but some by Cater) 

I developed Rook’s Family for a fanfic I wrote a while ago. So some of this comes from that. I know if we ever get to meet his family this will all be obsolete but its still fun to work with. I also won't go into to much detail here, because his Family could be an entire post on its own. (Just like Cater’s) 

His father works directly for Leona’s brother (And previously their father) as head of Royal Wildlife Management in the Savanah, a position his family has inherited for generations after they made the move there.  A position his eldest brother will inherit one day. His eldest Sister I made a traveling exotic vet. 

Rook himself is a fraternal twin. Reinette (the name I gave her) also has magic but doesn’t attend NRC because it (appears) to be an all male school. But she acts much like Rook did in his Savanaclaw days. Longer hair, sunbaked skin, and loaded with freckles. 

His younger brother I named Florent and idolizes his big brother, and is the only other Hunt child to have magic. He’s set to go to NRC as a first year when Rook is a 4th year. 

His youngest sister and the baby of the family is Fleur, and shares Rook’s and their father’s love of theater, albeit for the more technical side, and also has more than a slight obsession with Vil.

At his core, I don’t think Rook really feels like he fits in anywhere. Pomefiore and Vil have come as close as it gets for him, but it’s still not right. He’s restless, and is still searching for his “home”. 

As an adult, I’d given him the profession of a wildlife photographer (French Steve Irwin is how I described it) It’s something I think he’s well suited for. 

That’s probably enough for now, thank you if you made it this far ^^

[pettyrevenge-base]

Landlord doubled her business properties rent.

We own a dance studio. It doesn't make a lot but it's not bad.

At the end of the contract period the landlord doubled the rent. That would kill a lot of profit so ofcourse we could not accept it.

Landlord took photos of the place, all decked out in mirrors, nice wall coverings, beautiful bathroom, and listed it as perfect for a dance or fitness studio. Which it was. At that time.

All these nice things belong to the business, which is in the contract. So do the aircons, the ducting, the wallpaper. Even the partition walls we put in.

In about three days we had the place gutted out back to the concrete shell of a building. Everything was left as per the contract, 'fit for use'.

Once we had relocated to a new, cheaper property in a better part of town and started the necessary renovations, a past student mentioned she works for the main property listing website in this country. There are really no other options. She suggested if the listed pictures do not match what the property is like in real life, and if complaints are made of this, the listing will be reviewed and possibly removed.

Strangely 56 students and ex students decided, with Thier husbands/boyfriends, fathers mothers whatever, that the listed photos did not look like the breezeblock large openspace ot was in reality.

Both the realtors and landlords listings were removed and they were black listed from the website.

We now have a larger nicer studio for 70% the original rental cost, and last time I drove by, the original space was still empty.

Source: reddit.com/r/pettyrevenge

[heartbeatan]

The Art of Revenge (Chapter 1)

Return to Table of Contents.

Return to Jungkook Fanfictions.

Return to One Nights Series.

Return to Masterlist.

Chapter 1

You were healthily addicted to your cell phone, the way most twenty-first centuriers were. It offered you safety, connection, entertainment, news, directions, and food delivery. You lived a pretty happy digital life. You avoided the toxic corners of social media, successfully skirted wasting money on fad product trends (well… success is a relative term…) and spent most of your time smiling at the hilarious memes posted by friends, rolling your eyes at your step-mother and future-mother-in-laws aggressive “wedding suggestions” emails, and squealing at the romantic and occasionally naughty texts from your fiancé.

Today, however, as you looked down at the black, cracked screen - your thumb hovering over the lock button - your pink-cased smartphone more so resembled a ticking time bomb, rather than a miniature computer.

You had turned the sounds and vibrations off days ago. The endless stream of notifications and phone calls since “it happened” had frayed your patience and your nerves. You couldn't stand to hear another “I’m here for you!” or “I’m sorry!” or “You should [insert unprompted advice]” without wanting to vomit. The only reason why you wanted to vomit was because the alternative was going to cost you several court appearances for attempted murder, vandalism, and arson - and you were reasonable enough to know that the bastards who already ruined your life weren’t worth ruining your future.

But, since vomiting only seemed like a self-punishing form of anger - and that didn’t seem fair either - you decided that you could channel your hate for the world in other ways.

That brought you to this moment: parked along the shoulder of a two-lane highway, flanked by old, tall trees, hours away from your civilization, staring down at your phone as you decided which crisis you were going to address first when you finally unlocked the screen.

You pressed your thumb and the screen lit up, prompting you for a password. You scrunched your nose as the lockscreen notification indicated that you had received another slew of text messages, notifications, emails and missed phone calls. A wiser person would have started blocking numbers and addresses - but you weren’t wiser… you were vindictive… and thus, you needed those numbers unblocked so that you could execute your plan accordingly.

You punched in your passcode, and immediately scoffed as you came face to face with your wallpaper. It was an engagement photo of you and your fiancé, hugging each other tightly, and beaming into the photo lens with bright smiles. Of all the photos that had been taken that session, this one wasn’t the best of the lot. The sun was hot and painfully bright, meaning neither of you could see. In fact, tears from trying to keep your eyes open had streaked your mascara. Chris - your fiancé - had also begun to sweat beneath his dress shirt, and the wind blew both your perfectly coiffed hairstyles out of place. But you remembered vividly how happy you had been when that photo was taken. Chris had made some ridiculous joke about life being about “as good as it sweats”, and although his puns were usually met with jeers and boos, you couldn’t help but fall into a fit of laughter. Life with him was always a bit corny, but fun as hell. He held you tight against him, and you pressed your cheeks together as you laughed stupidly towards the photographer.

You should have changed your wallpaper the moment you walked in on Chris, your fiancé, fucking your Maid of Honour, Stephanie. But you decided that, for now, you needed to be reminded of his face. You needed to remember why you were putting an obscenely high number of miles on your car. You needed the anger to flush your system and strip you of all trepidation. You needed your inhibitions gone, so you felt no remorse about fucking the man whom Stephanie called “the love of her life.”

Perhaps, we should back up…

Stephanie and yourself had been inseparable since middle school. She was your best friend, and you had remained loyaly at each other’s side through the chaos and mess of your formative years. University was the only thing that pulled you two apart - but, despite the time zone difference between your respective schools, you stayed in touch. That was when you first heard about Jeon Jungkook.

Jungkook and Stephanie were in the same dormitories, shared friends, and even took the occasional class together. She was completely enamored by him from the very first moment they met. You remembered the phone call she made to you that very first day of school, and how brightly you smiled from the other end of the phone as she recounted how she had just met “the love of her life.” You were happy for her, and admittedly a bit jealous that her first college experience had been so monumentally more exceptional than yours. You considered yourself to be a social person, but your first week out of your small town, on the heels of breaking up with your highschool boyfriend, and amidst the bustle of a large, University City, you were feeling like a fish out of water, and worried about finding your place there. Fortunately, your fears were misplaced. You quickly established a core group of friends, and spent the next four years bonding, growing, learning, and partying like a rockstar. By the end of your undergrad, you couldn’t even remember the person you were before you had gone to school. Yet, Stephanie and yourself had still managed to stay close - even visiting each others’ campuses on occasion. That was how you met Jeon Jungkook.

The first time you saw him was at a small pre-drink gathering in Stephanie’s room. She, of course, wanted to take you out on the town and show you a good time. Show off the fabulous life she had cultivated for herself. You were looking forward to meeting him. By the way Stephanie had described Jungkook and their time together, you had assumed that something was happening between them… if they weren’t already in a relationship she hadn’t yet disclosed to you. But when you got there, you quickly became of the suspicion that the life long love Stephanie had found was likely one sided on her part. You empathized with her. You weren’t exactly the best at handling unrequited feelings - you had already gone through a bout of them with your own fellow classmate and temporary fuck buddy. Whereas you dealt with those feelings by talking them out with a pint of ice cream, Stephanie coped with denial and delusion. You wondered how she put up with it for so long. Your friend was beautiful, charming and, by the way the boys of her school tripped over themselves when they were around her, you were sure she could have easily found real, two-way love with the snap of her perfectly self-manicured nails. You wondered who the hell this Jungkook guy was, and what kind of asshole he could have been to not only have this hold over her, but also the audacity to reject her.

But the moment he walked into the party… you understood. He made your heart instantly thump, your mind whip through a reel of fantasies, and your nether regions pulse. He was gorgeous beyond belief. Thick ebony hair, a loose, black t-shirt that somehow was tight over his broad chest, an array of dainty tattoos dancing their way up his muscular arms, and a strong, squared jaw that emphasized both his boyish and masculine features. There was something insouciant about how he walked into a room, and the way he casually scanned the space around him. His dark and brooding aura instantly made you desperate for his attention.

You felt guilty for being even remotely attracted to him - but that guilt also made you completely understand your best friend's misleading banter. If you had to see that man everyday, you too would need to find a way to cope beyond the abilities of frozen sugar.

You met him a few times over the college years, and even several times afterwards, since Stephanie’s friend group stayed relatively in touch and she often invited you along. Jungkook and yourself, however, hadn’t shared many words between you throughout all those occasions. Whenever you were around, he didn’t talk often to Stephanie either, and you questioned if it was because of you, and that he didn’t like you very much. But, of the few times you did speak, he was cordial, still insouciant, and generally a decent person. You could easily describe him as an “artist.” A flower child with the air of James Dean. He had started his own graphic design business and was in high demand; he toured every summer with his indie-rock band; he made decent bank on paintings, photographs and graphic prints which he sold online; and, just because of course he could, also ran a tattoo and piercing salon out of his house.

You had only been to his home once. He had invited his college friends up for a long weekend, and you, of course, tagged along. You didn’t get much of a look inside his home, aside from the bathroom off the mudroom. The home was in the middle of the woods and had the outside appearance of a luxury cabin, but there certainly wasn’t enough room inside for all of you to sleep - so you stayed in tents sprawled across the lawn.

That was the weekend you met Chris. Stephanie had actually set up the meet-cute. He was the brother of one of Stephanie’s friend’s whom she had met once or twice - an unfortunate detail that would become relevant later.

That weekend, it felt as if all the stars were finally aligning. Chris and you clicked immediately, and you unashamedly spent the next four days attached at the hip, and those three total nights “sleeping” in his tent. Stephanie seemed to be finally getting what she wanted as well. She was at Jungkook’s side at every opportunity, and from behind your rose coloured glasses, you were sure something was finally going to happen between them.

Unfortunately, your newly love-drunk perspective was far from correct. Stephanie was in a foul mood the whole drive home. Apparently, she had finally mustered up enough courage to tell Jungkook that she loved him, and he had coldly shut down her advances. She even cried at one point, and you comforted her by dutifully calling him a blind asshole, and declaring that she deserved so much more than him.

After that trip, two years passed, and you were deeply in love with Chris, and Stephanie seemed to get over her Jungkook heartbreak. She respectfully got over him by getting under other lovers. The problem, however, was when she got under Chris. There weren’t many pertinent details to that revelation. You came home one day early from work, saw Stephanie’s car in your driveway and assumed she had been by to drop off a dress of yours she had borrowed for your bridal shower. When you stepped into the house, instead of finding a garment bag hanging neatly at your backdoor, you found her clothes strewn about the kitchen floor, and Chris pounding her over your pristine kitchen counters.

You left without saying a thing. You ignored their terrified cries and guilty apologies. Truly, you felt nothing in that moment. Just numb. You shut off your phone, drove five towns over, and held yourself up in a hotel room.

Inside that hotel room, you experience the intensity of every stage of grief.

Denial. You hadn’t seen what you had seen. This man who told you he loved you, who treated you right, who asked you to marry him - there was no way he was cheating on you.

Anger. Stephanie - the woman who was family to you. The girl who had been with you through thick and thin, who introduced you to your fiancé, whose mortgage you paid when she lost her job and needed time to find a new one, the one who held your hand at your mother’s funeral, the way you did at her father’s… Stephanie, would have the audacity to betray you in the most intimate way possible.

Bargaining. People make mistakes. Perhaps there was a good explanation they could give you - one that could convince you that this affair could be forgiven and forgotten, and everything could return to normal before the “mistake.”

Depression. Realizing you would need to leave Chris. Knowing that you lost a friend. Thinking about just how much physical, emotional and financial labour you were about to endure to pull apart your intrinsically tangled lives.

Acceptance. You were no longer engaged. Stephanie was no longer your friend. You were alone again.

Of all the stages and feelings you went through, anger was the one that ironically made you feel the best. So, upon acceptance of your fate, you returned to the anger stage, and began scheming your payback.

Chris was a pretty easy target. You were an accountant, and he was a fool. Nearly everything you owned together was in your name, since your credit was fabulous, and his looked like he had spent his retirement savings on crypto currency the day before the big crash. Long story short, the man would be homeless, carless, and broke by the time you spoke with him again.

Stephanie was a bit of a different story. You couldn’t get to her by destroying her financial life, and frankly, her social life would bounce back easily. Regardless, that wasn’t how you wanted to get back at her. Chris destroyed your collective life together, so you made him start over in every way possible. Stephanie, however, destroyed your heart. You needed her to feel the loss of love, the stab of feeling worthless, and the sting of betrayal. You needed her to hurt. You needed to take something away from her that she loved so dearly… but the only thing she had ever truly claimed to love (aside from you) was Jungkook.

You turned your phone back on, then went to the bathroom while the millions of notifications flooded your phone. When you returned, you cleared them all with one simple swipe of your finger, then opened up your social media folder.

You hadn’t had Jungkook as a friend on any of your socials, but you also knew he wasn’t much for personal social media to begin with. Regardless, you easily tracked down his business page, but grimaced to find his private messages closed. But there was a phone number…

You looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. There was no way he kept office hours open until now. But, he was self-employed… so perhaps the phone number was also his personal?

You hovered over the number, seesawing between calling him, or waiting to call him during normal hours, until you nearly convinced yourself to not call him at all. As your feet got colder, you moved to close the phone and toss it across the room - but just before you did, another text message popped up on your screen.

Stephanie.

You once again seesawed between finally reading their messages, or putting the phone back on mute until you were ready to face what either of them had to say. But before you could consciously decide, your finger pressed the notification and the full message popped up on the screen.

It was less than an apology. Although she did start by saying she was sorry, the remaining five paragraphs were probably the most audacious things you could have ever imagine to have read from someone who was trying to apologize for fucking your fiancé. She pointed out that she had in fact met Chris first, and that there had always been a spark. She said that she had given him to you, because she felt you deserved happiness. She said that she felt she needed to stop putting the happiness of others ahead of herself. Then, with all the narcissistic, self-deluded frenemy energy she could muster, told you that if you were a good friend, you would be happy that she had finally found someone who respected her.

You clucked your teeth, now beyond the point of anger. In that moment, years of memories flooded your thoughts. Every backhanded compliment she had ever made to you, every crush of yours she had flirted with, every moment she flaked on you for someone else. They were small moments, and they were surpassed by a mountain of great moments, but you couldn’t help but wonder if they had been signs you had always ignored. Perhaps Stephanie was an objectively bad person, and perhaps you had been too blind to see it until now. Perhaps she was one of those people whose nastiness was subtle, and you were one of those people who gave others too many benefits of the doubt. Well… if provoked… you could be nasty too…

You closed the message, opened the phone app, and pressed “call.”

“Hello?”

Your nerves instantly flared the moment he answered.

“Hey, uh, Jungkook?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Y/N.”

“Hey,” he answered, although there was a clear hint of confusion in his voice.

“Stephanie’s friend. Chris’ fiancé, ” you elaborated, although saying those words tasted like acid.

“Yeah, I know. What’s up?”

You took in a deep, audible breath as you gathered the courage to power through what you wanted to say. Your shotgun plan was to engage in some sort of small talk at first, but in the end, what you were about to suggest wasn’t worth all the discomfort of trying to pretend as if the two of you were close.

“I have a humiliating favour to ask you – and it would be completely fair of you to think I’m insane, but, I’ve already been humiliated beyond belief today, so I’m hoping you’ll at least take pity on me because there really isn’t much further to go until I hit rock bottom.”

He paused for a second, and you could sense even more confusion radiating through the phone.

“Shoot,” he responded, casually bracing himself for what you were about to ask.

“You know, Stephanie has been in love with you since college. She still calls you the love of her life.”

He sighed. “No offense, but I’m really not interested in her, and she’s known that since college. And I’m getting really tired of her ploys to convince me otherwise.”

Interesting, you thought, picking up on how his voice grated when he spoke about her.

“I’m not calling to play matchmaker, Jungkook.”

“Good to know. What can I do for you then?”

“Well… today, I walked in on her and Chris, naked in my kitchen.”

“Shit,” he exclaimed, although something in his tone implied he wasn’t particularly surprised. You skipped past that thought, given that he was fairly indifferent 99% of the time. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

“Thanks. But I didn’t call for pity. My best friend had sex with the man I thought was the love of my life. I would like to return the favour.”

Once again, Jungkook went quiet, and even though it made your heart race and your cheeks heat, you let the silence hang so he had ample opportunity to work out exactly what you were implying. Then, with an even voice laced with intrigue, he asked, “What specifically do you want from me?”

“I want you to fuck me so God damn stupid that the next time I see her, I can’t walk straight.”

You heard a soft huff of a laugh come through the phone. But to your surprise, and to your excitement, there wasn’t much of a pause or hesitation before he gave you his answer.

“How soon can you get here?”

Go to Chapter 2.

[reticulating-splines]

The Sears Hillrose

A classic 1915 American foursquare made with premium materials in an affordable middle-class option.

Sears Hillrose: Honor Bilt no. C189

First seen in the Sears Modern Homes Fall 1914-Spring 1915 catalog, the house plan that came to be known as the Hillrose was the amateur first-prize winner of a contest participated in by no less than "one hundred up to date farmers". Although it later got the full two page spread shown above in subsequent catalogs, there is no way to know how many Hillroses were built and survive to today, as no official records exist. It seems to be a bit of a rarity among Sears kit homes in it's unaltered state, enough that there was a reproduction made to the same specifications as the original plans. It cost over 1 million dollars in the year 2000 to replicate the same house that cost the equivalent of 45-50k when it was being sold.

This lot includes:

5 Bedrooms

2 Baths (one on the first floor is technically a washroom, and your sims will use the sinks in there over the ones in the kitchen a bit too much)

Living Room featuring a wood console with a large mirror

Parlor/Study

Dining Room with china closet and buffet

Pantry with bar (can be easily converted into another bathroom for the downstairs bedroom)

Kitchen with basement access

Attic

Front Porch

Unfurnished

30 x 20 lot size

$41,839 simoleons - or about $1,446 in 1916 adjusted for simflation

Note: The built-in wood consoles in the living room and dining room were made with TOOL and should not be moved or altered. Extensive testing has been done to ensure the built-ins will not disappear when you change the wallpaper or flooring.

Packs Used - Ones in bold are essential:

Seasons, Cats & Dogs, Get Together, Jungle Adventure, Outdoor Retreat, Laundry Day.

I've made some furnished versions some of the rooms in this build available for download and on my gallery! They can be found under the names '1900 Craftsman'. Screens shown below.

Gallery ID: ReticulateSpleen (make sure to have custom content checked to view full catalog)

Patreon Download (always free)

Also, this is the one build i've made three different versions of, a testament to it's versatility!

The first version below on the left was up on my gallery for about a year. The second version is the brown house in the right pic, and uses CC. I've been using it for my handmaid's tale test save and it comfortably fits 10 sims with a few alterations. The final version in the background of the right pic came about because I realized the roof and windows of the first version was just...not right, and then I ended up redoing the entire thing anyway! :) Screens of the CC version will be forthcoming eventually.

[simmillercc]

SIMS 4 - WALLPAPER MURALS - DINO DELIGHTS ON THE BEACH - BASE GAME

This adorable beach scene with cute dinos and butterflies is just so precious, it begged to be put in the game.

Done in 6 colours, the mural spreads over 4 wall panels.

The only issue you may find is that these are particular in where they're placed, so play around and see where they will fit in your decor.

Cost is 4 Simoleons per panel (16 over 4 panels), and you'll find it in Build mode/Wall coverings/Wallpaper.

Enjoy!

DOWNLOAD FREE HERE 

[trippingthemoonlightfantastic]

Hello, I saw you're doing Patreon now and I happily signed up, really looking forward to seeing your work there! :) I wanted to pop in and drop some suggestions, if you're open.

They may be a better option for when things become a little more stable, and I know not all artists like doing this, but I've seen a lot of artists do bookmarks and cards. Some make them by hand which I've seen sell pretty well, some have them printed. I think your work would fit those formats beautifully!

Obviously prints are always great. I don't know how you feel about trying to put your designs on clothes or homeware objects? Especially if it's a pattern, it could do well. But I understand those websites take a cut which is never optimal. Perhaps sometime in the future a fun project could be finding old ceramics and repainting them with your flowers & selling them. If you can take good photos of your art + some editing, giving away phone wallpapers of your art as Patreon rewards could be fun, and even selling them for cheap & doing similar downloadables could be a good move.

Have you heard of Cara? It's a new app a lot of artists are circling now. It seems more genuine than instagram, I don't know if it interests you.

I'm sorry if I'm overstepping, that isn't the intention. I just wanted to share some ideas. ♥️

Thank you.

You're not overstepping. I've been playing with prints but it's breaking me. Every time I've done it I've lost money. The margins just aren't there when you're not printing them yourself. On Etsy is the worst. Printing costs on cards and bookmarks have the same issue. My stuff can be kind asymmetrical for clothes, patterned stuff in general. You should be able to download some pieces right now off of Patron. I put a bunch of popular blossom pieces up the other day.

I'll look into Cara.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This beautiful large 1909 Craftsman in South Pasadena, California has 5bd. 2.5ba. and is listed for $2.995M. But, it will cost a million to remove all the damned wallpaper. Look at this:

Not to say that the choice is bad, but they ruined the Craftsman style- black beams and a pink ceiling. Plus, they painted all the wood black, too. The fireplace looks great, though. 

So, they made the choice to cover up all the distinctive craftsman wood details in black, which will be impossible to strip out, and they expect someone to pay $3M for it. Plus, the new floor they chose doesn’t fit, either. 

Beautiful dining room built-in and wainscoting all covered up.

They really loved this particular wallpaper. Here it’s on the ceiling with striped coordinating paper on the wall. 

How many wallpaper rolls did this take? Nice built-in and a huge window seat.

The kitchen looks fairly original, but they have random cherries that I think they cut out of the wallpaper on the cabinets, plus red outlines. It’s okay, but there’s also wallpaper on the ceiling.

There’s a large kitchen and the fridge is in here. 

The vintage bath and bd. are both wallpapered and the wood is painted white. Love the stained glass windows, though.

Oh, yay. The wood on the stairs and in the hall are original. But, every inch is wallpapered. 

Oh, Lord. Pink pocket doors. The carpet is nice, though. 

Both rooms have wallpaper on the ceilings and walls, plus the wood is painted over pink.

There’s a large closet with a built-in dresser.

This is very nice, a little terrace.

Love the vintage plumbing fixtures.

Another bd. and a half bath. 

Inside the guest house.

The yard is beautiful.

There’s a little 2 room shed. 

https://www.compass.com/listing/1801-wayne-avenue-south-pasadena-ca-91030/1263961768362912193/

[in-case-of-rain]

💫💜 Full Color Commissions 💜💫

Chest-Up — ($20)

Chibi Full-Body — ($25)

Waist-Up — ($30)

Full-Body — ($50)

Extras:

+ Extra Figure — ($10)

+ Disembodied / OffScreen Limb — ($5)

+ Expression Variations — ($5)

+ Outfit Variations — ($10)

+ Fake Screenshot Style (Duologue Text + Background) ( 2560 × 1440 ) — ($10)

+ Phone Wallpaper Style (Background) ( 1440 × 2560 )— ($10)

If you have any Inquiries about Price Quotes or Commissions I offer, Please DM me! (And don't worry if you change your mind after Inquiring! ^^)

More Examples and Info Below Including my Do's and Don't's Lists!

DO's

Any Character (Oc, Cannon, etc.)

Any Ship

Simple/Simplified Mecha

Most Situations

NSFW/Lewds/Fetish

DON'T's

Hateful acts or speech

Things that make me Uncomfortable (Inquire Further if your request might fall under this, I know it's Vague ^^;)

Commission Dimensions:

You can request the image to fit any dimensions; this way any phone or laptop can have the picture perfect fit!

Backgrounds

Simple backgrounds includes only flat color /gradient color shapes.

Anything else will cost $10.

References

I rely on references a lot. The more references the easier and faster I can work!

If you have a picture you'd like me to replicate closely, it will help if you tell me directly :D

Returning Commissioners get a 25% Discount on all Future Commissions!