#World Rug Gallery

[fr0stf4ll]

Forge of Starlight - Part 1

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the heart of Velaris, a skilled blacksmith's quiet life is turned upside down when unexpected bonds begin to form with the enigmatic Spymaster of the Night Court. As she navigates the challenges of her craft and the complexities of newfound relationships, she discovers that love and loyalty may be the strongest forces of all in a world where darkness often lingers just beyond the light.

word count ; 4k

notes; This is my first time writing fan fiction. I hope that you guys will like it, and since English isn't my first language, please don’t hesitate to mention any mistakes <3. The story takes place when Rhys was in the early stages of being the High Lord of the Night Court, around 300-350 years old, so 200 years before ACOTAR actually began. I'm not sure yet how many parts this story will have, but I hope that you all will keep reading it ;)))

here is the link for part 2

---

The sound of hammer striking hot iron echoed through the narrow streets of Velaris, mingling with the melodies of the city—the distant hum of conversation and the ever-present whisper of the Sidra River. Within the heart of the Rainbow, a district renowned for its vibrant arts and crafts, a new shop had begun to draw attention. It was an unassuming place at first glance, yet the sheer force of energy within its walls set it apart. This was no ordinary smithy.

You wiped a bead of sweat from your brow, your hands expertly maneuvering the red-hot blade beneath your hammer. Sparks flew with each strike, the heat from the forge wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace, both comforting and overwhelming. The rhythmic clang, clang, clang of metal against metal was music to your ears, a symphony you had been conducting since childhood.

Velaris was in your blood. Though you had been born here, your early memories were of the forge and the sound of your master's hammer. Your mother, a powerful and kind high fae, had died giving birth to you, and your father, unable to bear the weight of his mate’s passing, had followed soon after. You had been raised by a close friend of your father’s, a Master in the art of blacksmithing, who had taken you in as his own. It was under his watchful eye that you learned the craft, your small hands gradually growing strong and sure as you worked beside him, day after day.

With your master, you had traveled across the courts and to the far reaches of the continent, learning from smiths of every kind, studying techniques and secrets long forgotten by most. But no matter where you went, Velaris always called to you. And now, after hundred years of honing your skills, you had returned to the City of Starlight to forge your own path.

The shop itself was a reflection of your work—functional, yet beautiful in its simplicity. The front room was a gallery of sorts, with weapons and tools displayed like pieces of art. Gleaming swords, daggers with intricately carved hilts, and axes that looked as though they could fell the mightiest of trees hung from the walls, each one a testament to your skill. The floor was of polished wood, dark and smooth, with rugs from the weavers of Velaris adding warmth to the space. The light streamed in through tall windows, catching on the steel and iron and casting a soft glow across the room.

The shop had been open for only a few months, yet it had already begun to stir curiosity among the citizens of Velaris. Word spread quickly in the Rainbow—whispers of the new blacksmith who had come to claim a place among the best. But you rarely dealt with the customers yourself. That task fell to Alexander, your young apprentice. At only ten years old, he was sharp as a blade and twice as charming, with a quick smile and a mischievous glint in his eye. The boy had a knack for reading people, knowing just what to say to put them at ease—or to convince them that they needed a new sword or dagger.

As you plunged the heated blade into a trough of water, the hiss of steam rising into the air, you heard the familiar chime of the shop’s bell and the light patter of Alexander’s footsteps as he went to greet the newcomer. You allowed yourself a small smile as you heard his cheerful voice, already launching into his well-practiced routine.

“Welcome to the finest smithy in Velaris!” Alexander’s voice rang out, full of enthusiasm. “You won’t find better craftsmanship anywhere in the city—or the continent, for that matter. What are you looking for today? A sword? A dagger? Or maybe something a bit more… unique?”

There was a pause, and then a voice, low and measured, responded, “I’m looking for the blacksmith.”

Your hands stilled, your grip tightening around the hilt of the blade you had been shaping. It was rare that someone asked for you directly. Most customers were content to browse, to admire the work and perhaps make a purchase. But something in the tone of that voice, the way it cut through the air, sent a shiver down your spine.

“Ah,” Alexander said, his voice tinged with a hint of surprise. “You’re in luck. She’s right here. Let me fetch her for you.”

You took a deep breath, wiping your hands on a cloth as you made your way toward the front of the shop. The bell above the door chimed softly as it closed, and you stepped into the light, your eyes adjusting to the brightness. Alexander was standing by the counter, his wide eyes flicking between you and the figure standing in the center of the room.

As you rounded the corner, you finally laid eyes on the stranger. The words of welcome you had been preparing died on your lips as your gazes locked, and you felt a strange sense of familiarity wash over you, as if this meeting had been fated long before you had returned to Velaris.

Alexander, sensing the shift in the air, stepped back slightly, his usual exuberance giving way to a quiet curiosity. “This is Y/N,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “The best blacksmith in Velaris.”

The stranger’s eyes never left yours, and you found yourself holding your breath, waiting for whatever would come next. He took a step closer, towering over you despite your own considerable height, his presence imposing. His dark hair contrasted sharply with his piercing violet eyes that seemed to take in everything with a single glance.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice smooth and rich, hinting at depths of authority and power. “I’ve heard much about your work, and I find myself in need of your particular expertise.”

The chill from the incoming winter seemed to linger around him, a reminder of the cold that had swept through Velaris with the approach of the Winter Solstice. Despite the warmth of the forge, you felt a shiver run through you—not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze.

“I’m honored, my lord,” you replied, maintaining eye contact, feeling the weight of his presence. “What can I do for you?”

Rhysand’s expression was serious, and his next words carried an air of significance. “The Solstice celebrations are approaching, and with the colder days upon us, I’d like to commission two sets of weapons—a sword and a dagger��for my brothers. I want them to be special, crafted with the utmost care and consideration for their owners.”

Your mind whirred with ideas, but you needed more information to tailor each piece to its future owner. “To create something truly fitting, I’ll need to know more about your brothers. What are their personalities like, and what are their preferences in combat?”

Rhysand’s face softened slightly as he spoke of Cassian and Azriel. “Cassian is a warrior through and through—strong, fiercely loyal, and a born leader. His weapon should reflect that strength and his role within the Illyrian legions.”

You nodded thoughtfully, picturing a sturdy, bold design for Cassian’s sword. “And Azriel?”

“Azriel operates in the shadows, precise and strategic. His weapon should be subtle yet deadly, embodying his role as spymaster.”

A smile flickered across your face. “I have the perfect idea for him—a sleek design with a hidden element, perhaps.”

Rhysand’s approving nod encouraged you to continue. “Since those two are illyrian maybe we can include syphons in the design. It might be best to work with their olds ones. If you could send those to me, I can restore them and integrate them into the new weapons, preserving their familiar feel while enhancing their function.”

“That sounds ideal,” Rhysand agreed. “I’ll arrange for some of their old syphons to be brought to you tomorrow. They are quite worn but hold significant meaning for my brothers.”

You glanced up at him, reassured by his confidence in your abilities. “I’ll ensure the weapons reflect both their personalities and their needs.”

Rhysand’s smile was genuinely warm now. “Thank you, Y/N. I look forward to seeing your craftsmanship.”

With that, he turned to leave, his cloak swirling around him as he stepped out into the cold Velaris air, leaving a trail of frost in his wake. The bell above the door chimed softly, signaling his departure.

Standing in your forge, you felt the weight of the responsibility settle onto your shoulders. This commission was more than just a job; it was a chance to craft pieces that would be carried by some of the most formidable warriors in the Night Court. You had done works for other lords, kings or fighters, but every time a new challenge would come up your excitement increased so much. The idea of those people working with your creations was just incredible. 

As the cold seeped into the shop, you turned back to your workbench, pulling out parchment and charcoal. Your sketches began to take shape, influenced by the discussion and your insights into the characters of the two brothers. Powerful, elegant, and deadly—just like the men they were meant for.

The forge called to you, and as you answered, diving into your work, you felt a sense of purpose. These weapons would be more than just tools; they would be extensions of the warriors themselves, forged with skill and imbued with the spirit of the Winter Solstice.

After a few more hours of work and locking up the smithy, you and Alex headed up to your cozy apartment. It was adorned with all the comforts of a true craftsman's home—polished wooden floors, local Velaris art, and big windows that showcased the night sky. Your personal collection of swords decorated the walls, each blade a story from your past travels with your old master.

At the foot of your bed lay Stellan, your faithful direwolf companion. His thick, snow-white fur contrasted sharply with his deep, dark eyes that held a world of wisdom and loyalty. You had found him as a pup during one of your early travels—a small, shivering ball of fur huddled against the cold. From that moment on, Stellan had been by your side, growing into a majestic creature whose presence was as comforting as it was formidable.

Your apartment, while only boasting two bedrooms, mostly saw both you and Alex sharing the larger one. Alex had claimed a corner of it with his makeshift bedding, but as the night deepened, he inevitably migrated to your bed, preferring its warmth and the company.

Tonight, you were sitting in bed with your sketchbook, the moonlight and candlelight mingling to create the perfect ambiance for drawing. Stellan's gentle snores provided a soothing background hum, his large form curled protectively at the bed's end. Alex, lying next to you, propped himself up on an elbow to get a better look at your work.

"So, Nana, this one’s going to be for the High Lord, huh?" Alex's voice was soft, filled with awe and curiosity.

"Yeah, it is," you nodded, continuing your sketch. "Every piece needs to be perfect, though, no matter who it’s for. Whether it's a High Lord or a local warrior, they all deserve the best." Despite the illustrious clientele, you held every piece to the same standard of perfection, knowing well that each creation bore your signature, no matter the buyer.

Alex grinned at that. "I know. That’s why your stuff is the best. But hey, why’d you let me call you Nana again? It’s nicer than just ‘master’ or something too formal."

You chuckled softly, a slight blush on your cheeks. "Because you said it fits well, and I guess it does. It’s kind of endearing, Alex."

He blushed, pleased with the affirmation, then leaned closer to peek at your sketchbook. "Show me what you’ve got so far. I bet it’s epic."

You tilted the sketchbook towards him, revealing detailed designs of the sword intended for the spymaster. "This blade needs to embody stealth and strength, reflecting who it's for. It’s not just a weapon; it’s a piece of art."

As you spoke, Stellan lifted his head, ears twitching as if acknowledging the conversation. His dark eyes flickered open, observing you both with a gentle, protective gaze. With a soft huff, he repositioned himself, laying his head back down on his massive paws, content to simply be in your presence.

Alex nodded seriously, taking in every line and curve you had drawn. "It’s amazing, Y/N. They’re gonna love it."

As the evening wore on, Alex's questions and observations gradually slowed as sleep began to claim him. His head eventually found a resting place on your shoulder, his breathing evening out as he drifted off. You smiled down at him, setting the sketchbook aside. His trust and the simple title of 'Nana' he'd given you felt more precious than any formal recognition.

Stellan, sensing the room's quieting energy, stood up and stretched, his movements graceful despite his size. He padded softly around the bed, finally settling down closer to you and Alex, his body a warm barrier against the night’s chill. His presence was a comforting constant, a silent guardian watching over your small family.

With the room now quiet, save for the soft sounds of Alex's sleep and Stellan's rhythmic breathing, the distant hum of the night city served as a lullaby. You felt a peaceful end to the productive day. The weight of creating something worthy of the Night Court was significant, but it was a challenge you were ready to meet with your usual dedication to excellence. Slipping under the covers, you settled in next to Alex, the moonlight casting a gentle glow over you all. With Stellan's protective aura enveloping you, you allowed yourself to drift off, thoughts of tomorrow’s forging dancing in your dreams.

On the other side of the city at the townhouse, the evening was filled with laughter and good spirits. Cassian was in fine form, regaling the table with a joke about an Illyrian warrior who mistook a glamour-spell for his opponent in a sparring match. The table erupted in laughter, appreciating the absurdity of the tough warrior swatting at thin air.

As chuckles subsided and glasses were refilled, Azriel steered the conversation toward local news with his typically quiet but clear tone. "Have you heard, Rhys?" he began, capturing the table's attention. "There’s a new blacksmith in Velaris."

"Actually?" Cassian's interest was piqued, his expression curious.

"Yes, I’ve checked on her—she's already established quite the reputation," Azriel continued.

"Her, like she is a female?" Cassian asked, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

"Yes, 'her' like that, Cassian…" Azriel replied with a slight smirk, enjoying the moment of revelation.

Rhysand joined in with a knowing smile. "She's not just any blacksmith. She’s made quite a name for herself, especially with blades. She’s worked with several high lords across Prythian."

Cassian choked slightly on his drink, surprised. "A female blacksmith, swinging hammers with the high lords? She must be quite skilled."

"She is," Rhysand confirmed, his voice reflecting a mix of respect and intrigue. "Her blades are reputed to be some of the finest—well-crafted and balanced. The detail and precision are said to be exceptional."

The brothers shared intrigued glances, the atmosphere buzzing with new interest. The conversation seamlessly wove around various artisans they knew, but the topic of the new blacksmith lingered, sparking a particular fascination.

"So, what's her specialty? Just weapons, or does she do armor too?" Cassian probed, clearly intrigued.

"Primarily weapons. She has a particular talent for swords and daggers," Rhysand explained. 

As the evening wore on, Rhysand found a moment to lean towards Azriel. “By the way Az, could you drop a box off at the blacksmith's tomorrow? "

Azriel nodded, sensing the significance of the task, though his eyes narrowed slightly in curiosity. "Anything else I should know?"

"Just the box," Rhysand responded, his tone firm yet enigmatic, giving nothing further away.

Both Azriel and Cassian looked at each other, their curiosity clearly piqued, but recognizing that Rhysand was keeping his cards close to his chest. They returned to lighter topics, but the mention of the new blacksmith had woven itself into their conversation, adding a thread of intrigue to the vibrant tapestry of Velaris’s ongoing stories.

—

Back in your smithy, the clanging of metal and the heat of the forge filled the air, mingling with the lively chatter of customers at the front of the shop. Alexander, navigated skillfully among the patrons, his arms laden with weapons. His voice, bright and enthusiastic, carried over the din as he extolled the virtues of your craftsmanship.

"Feel the balance of this blade!" Alexander exclaimed to a curious couple, holding up a finely crafted sword for inspection. "Forged right here, each swing is as smooth as the Sidra's flow!"

With the Winter Solstice drawing near, the shop was bustling with activity as each order demanded meticulous attention and finesse. You had just put the finishing touches on a stylized hammer, commissioned by one of the lords of the Illyrian camps, when the bell above the door chimed.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a figure cloaked in shadows enter. It was Azriel, Rhysand’s spymaster, moving with a quiet grace that seemed almost unnatural. His presence caused a subtle shift in the atmosphere as he approached Alexander first, speaking in hushed tones before your apprentice pointed him towards the back.

Wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, you pushed through the curtain that separated your work area from the shop. Dressed in a revealing black top and overalls that were unclipped at the top, leaving much of your torso exposed due to the heat of the forge, you approached the visitor. Big gloves covered your hands, protecting them from the forge’s heat. As you came into view, you caught Azriel's gaze flick momentarily—almost imperceptibly—downwards before meeting your eyes again. Though brief, it didn’t escape your notice.

“Who is it?” you asked, your voice echoing slightly in the busy shop.

“I need to deliver something to you,” Azriel stated, his voice even and calm, holding out a small, intricately carved box.

Before taking the box, you carefully removed your heavy gloves, revealing hands marked by the rigors of your trade. You took it, feeling the weight and the latent power it seemed to hold. Curiosity piqued, you looked up at him. “From the High Lord ?”

“Yes. He said you’d know what to do with it,” Azriel replied, his gaze now fixed firmly on your face, any earlier distraction gone.

You nodded, understanding that the contents of the box were likely tied to the commission Rhysand had mentioned previously. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll handle it from here.”

As Azriel turned to leave, Alexander’s voice once again filled the shop, drawing new customers' attention: "Every piece has its own story, crafted with the finest skills learned from the great forges of Prythian! See for yourselves!"

You couldn’t help but smile at Alexander’s enthusiasm as he continued to engage the customers with his lively banter. Azriel, the enigmatic shadow singer, had left as quietly as he had arrived. There was something undeniably captivating about him—his mysterious aura only added to his allure.

Standing for a moment, you held the box, feeling its potential. But the demands of the day pulled you back, and you returned to the forge, your mind already racing with ideas for the contents of the box and the work that lay ahead. 

Just as you were about to reignite the forge, Alex poked his head through the curtain, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.

“He was hot, right?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with teasing curiosity.

You paused, a smirk forming as you glanced back at the retreating figure of Azriel. “Aren’t you supposed to be ten?” you retorted playfully, raising an eyebrow at Alex.

Alex chuckled, undeterred. “Maybe, but I can tell when someone’s cool. He’s like a shadow knight from those legends you told me!”

Laughing, you shook your head and turned back to your workbench, the plans for Rhysand’s commission spread out before you. “Get back to the front, Alex. And keep your comments about the customers to yourself, even if they are high lords or shadow singers.”

Alex laughed and ducked back through the curtain, his voice soon mingling with the customers once again. As you focused on the intricate designs of the new commission, you couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement for the challenge ahead, your heart still light from the brief yet intriguing encounter.

[hyggetrait]

Welcome to El Árbol Fusion Restaurant

Functioning Hours:

Sunday -Thursday 10:00am - 9:00pm ET 

Friday -Saturday 10:00am - 12:00am ET

Located in Windenburg, El Árbol is the latest restaurant opened by humanitarian chef Jorge Andris. With a minimal but tropical decor, imported wines from all over the sim's world, and delicious gastronomic haute cuisine we are sure this latest hot spot will delight any sim's pallet.

Gallery ID: NicoleSimblr

Make sure to check the ‘include custom content’ checkbox otherwise my builds wont come up.

Additional Information, including CC list below.

Important Information:

Enable bb.moveobjects when placing down

I use gshade preset Tofu by @ellcrze, so colors might look different for you

Always feel free to tag me if you download and use the lot, it makes me so happy! 

This build uses a lot of items from the dessert luxe pack, so I highly recommend having that pack which hopefully everyone has since it was free!

CC Information

note the * denote the cc that is not required or only use one item from a set and are simply decor elements you can pass up.

Tuds - Inds 01-03, Cave, NCTR - note all of these sets are required

Myshunosun - Gale Dining (I would argue this is also required)

HeyHarrie - Brownstone (wallpaper, windows), SPOONs (Couches), Jardane

Harlix - Orjanic (columns), Jardane

CharlyPancakes - CHALK pt 2 (Floor)

Pierisims - MCM (plant), Davids Apartment (Rug)*

[fratttymatty]

A New Type Of Art

(All characters are 18+)

Luke had always been the kind of guy who didn’t fit into a mold, and he liked it that way. He was an artsy, liberal college sophomore who spent more time with his paintbrush than his textbooks, more time discussing philosophy than politics. His long, blonde hair was usually in a messy shoulder-length style, a reflection of his creative, laid-back personality. People often joked that he looked like he’d stepped out of a 90s indie film, and he was fine with that.

He was proud of who he was—gay, unapologetic, and fiercely liberal. His friends in the dorm loved him for his passion, his endless debates on everything from climate change to gender fluidity. He wore the brightest colors he could find, mismatched patterns, and unashamedly displayed his individuality through his clothes. He didn’t care if people stared—he wanted them to. Being different was his art.

Luke was someone who lived openly. He was out, loud, and proud. He believed in change, in equality, in breaking barriers. But then something strange happened that would turn his world upside down.

It started when he wandered into the obscure little gallery downtown. The art was... different. No, it wasn’t just different—it was weird, unsettling even. All the paintings were of men—clean-cut, athletic, stoic figures that seemed too perfect, too polished, as if they were all carved out of the same mold. They stared down from their frames with proud, almost smug expressions.

Luke felt a tug of unease, but his curiosity got the better of him. He walked deeper into the exhibit, looking for something new, something that would spark his imagination. But what he found was something far more unsettling.

The curator, a sharply dressed man with cold eyes, suddenly appeared at his side.

"You’re not from around here, are you?" the man asked, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

Luke didn’t know how to answer. “I just came to see the art,” he said, glancing at the paintings again, the faces of the men still haunting him.

The curator smiled faintly. “Art is not just for seeing, my friend. It’s for becoming.”

Before Luke could ask what he meant, the curator’s hand landed on his shoulder. And everything changed.

Luke awoke with a start, his heart racing. The room was unfamiliar. The air smelled different—stale, almost like rubber or plastic. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the sudden dizziness that had overtaken him. His mind was foggy, his thoughts spinning like a broken record.

He glanced around. The walls were bare except for a few sports posters—one of a football team, another of a group of athletes holding up trophies. A large computer sat on a desk, the screen blank but sleek, high-tech. The bed he was lying on was too small, too clean.

Then, something caught his eye—a full-length mirror on the wall. He stumbled over to it, his feet feeling heavier than usual.

The reflection staring back at him was... not Luke.

It was a completely different person. His face—his features—were different. His once soft jawline was now square, his cheekbones high and pronounced. His blonde hair was gone, replaced by a rich, dark brown mane that was tousled perfectly, messy but in a way that looked effortlessly stylish. It was a little wavy, but in a way that made him look... well, hot.

The messiness of his hair gave him a rugged appeal, like he’d just rolled out of bed after a late-night party or a spontaneous game of pick-up basketball. His chest was broad, and his body had more definition—muscles that didn’t exist before now rippled under the tight-fitting T-shirt he wore, and his skin had a deep tan that made his features pop even more.

He reached up to touch his hair, the strands feeling thicker, softer than he remembered. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in how it fell around his face, like he was born to have it that way. As his fingers ran through the tousled locks, he caught the faintest whiff of cologne—something strong, athletic, and masculine.

Something inside him—a feeling that had been buried before—shifted. This was right. He was... supposed to look like this.

And then, as if to confirm it, a sudden wave of memories flashed before his eyes—high school memories. Football games. High fives with his teammates. Laughter with his jock friends. A pretty girl’s smile as she flirted with him in the halls. The vague recollection of endless hours spent playing Call of Duty in his friend’s basement, of sports cars and parties. The memories were his now, and they felt... good.

He glanced back at the mirror again. The face staring back at him was someone completely new—someone named Ethan Clark.

Ethan.

It sounded... right. It felt like the right name for the guy he had become.

Ethan’s first full day in this strange new life was a blur of sensations, conflicting memories, and awkward realizations.

He stood in front of his high school locker, the red-and-black track jacket feeling tight against his shoulders. The hallway buzzed with activity around him—students laughing, chatting, rushing to classes—but his attention kept wandering.

He couldn’t help but notice the girls.

They were all looking at him—some giving him shy smiles, others openly admiring him, especially the ones who whispered to each other and then giggled. Ethan had no idea how to handle it, but something inside him surged at the attention. It was like he wanted it. He liked the way they were looking at him. The way his tousled brown hair framed his face just right, the way it somehow made him look cooler, more attractive.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a locker mirror, and his heart skipped a beat. He looked good—like a guy who played varsity football, who could crush a bench press, who wore his hair just so in a way that drove girls wild. It was different, but it felt natural. Comfortable.

“Hey, Ethan,” one of the girls said as she walked by, her gaze lingering on him for a second too long. “You’re looking extra hot today. What’s the secret?”

Ethan blinked, confused at first. Was she talking to him? She smiled, and he suddenly felt this unfamiliar surge of confidence flood his chest. Without thinking, he ran a hand through his dark hair, giving her a slight smirk.

“Just, uh... woke up this way, I guess,” he said, his voice rougher, deeper than it used to be.

The girl giggled, clearly charmed, and kept walking, throwing him one last glance over her shoulder. Ethan watched her go, a mix of pride and something else stirring inside him. He couldn’t quite place it, but he didn’t need to.

This was who he was now. The guy with the dark, messy hair who turned heads, who was adored by girls, who fit right in with the team, the jocks, and the “normal” crowd. He was straight, athletic, confident—and he had no idea who he was before. The memories of his old life were slipping away, like sand through his fingers.

He walked down the hallway, his steps firm and sure. The world was different now. And for the first time in a long time, he was okay with it. In fact, it felt pretty damn good.

As Ethan settled further into his new identity, he quickly realized he was getting a lot more attention than he ever had before. It wasn’t just the girls; the guys on the football team were treating him like one of their own, giving him high-fives, calling him “bro,” and acting like he was the man.

He loved it. And he made sure everyone around him knew it.

One day, during lunch, he walked into the cafeteria with his new crew—a group of jocks who clearly saw him as the alpha in their little pack. The guys were laughing and slapping each other on the back. Ethan’s loud voice cut through the chatter as he cracked a joke about how the girls were practically throwing themselves at him now that he’d "finally started dressing like a real man." His comment earned a chorus of laughs from the table.

“I swear, bro, these chicks don’t know what to do with themselves,” Ethan said, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his now perfectly tousled hair. “Like, calm down. I’m just a normal guy.”

He smirked as the guys around him laughed, but the joke was all too familiar to him now—this was how they all talked. How the guys had to talk to be part of the crew. The alpha energy. The mocking of others. The jokes about the ‘liberal snowflakes’ and the ‘woke culture.’

“So, bro, what do you think of that chick in your history class? The one with the, like, big eyes?” one of his teammates asked, nudging him.

Ethan’s lip curled. “Pfft, she’s cute, but, like... I’m not really into the whole ‘intellectual’ thing,” he said with a scoff. “Girls should be, you know, fun. And pretty. That’s the only thing that matters. Politics are for losers anyway.”

The guys around him laughed, and a few clapped him on the back.

Ethan’s transformation was complete, or so he thought. Each day that passed, the remnants of his old life—the life of Luke—faded into oblivion. The whispers of art, of activism, of painting vibrant canvases of rebellion and love, all became distant echoes, drowned out by the thumping bass of his new life. The image of his blonde, shaggy hair, the colorful shirts, and the feeling of freedom in being himself—they were all gone now. Ethan Clark, the confident, athletic, and straight high school senior, was who he was meant to be.

And honestly? He couldn’t be happier.

The guy who once hated the idea of conformity, who argued endlessly with anyone who didn’t share his beliefs, had morphed into a version of himself that didn’t question anything.

Girls flocked to him. He flirted effortlessly, his tousled brown hair always falling just right, his posture always leaning casually against the locker with a smug smile that made their knees weak. He could tell that they adored him—hell, everyone adored him. The jocks respected him, and he’d even made it to captain of the track team. He was the star athlete, the alpha in his group, and nothing felt more exhilarating.

The few times when a flash of Luke’s old world would flicker—like when he’d overhear a conversation about climate change or a new art exhibit downtown—he’d feel a weird, nagging sense of discomfort, but it never lasted long. He’d push it aside with a loud joke or by tossing a football to one of his buddies, and the feeling would evaporate.

The most recent instance had come during a heated debate in his government class. A kid who sat in the back—one of those annoying guys with a patchy beard and a mind full of "woke" ideas—had dared to challenge Ethan's casual dismissal of LGBTQ+ issues. Ethan had shrugged it off with the kind of condescension that only someone truly at ease in his masculinity could muster.

“Dude,” Ethan had said, his voice dripping with arrogance, “I don’t know what kind of crazy world you’re living in, but we’re not doing that whole ‘gender-fluid’ thing here. I’m straight, I’m proud, and I’m not going to sit here and listen to some liberal lecture about equality. It’s simple: be a man, get a girl, and stop with all this nonsense.”

The guy had opened his mouth to argue, but Ethan had silenced him with a mock chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t have time for this bullshit,” he’d said, and with that, the room had gone quiet.

The looks of approval from his teammates and the laughter from his group had only fuelled Ethan’s growing sense of power. He was right, and everyone else was just wrong.

It was after that incident that the strangest thing happened—one night, alone in his room, Ethan stood in front of his mirror, adjusting his hair for the hundredth time, as he always did. His tousled, perfectly messy brown locks had become his trademark, and he ran his fingers through them with the kind of pride only a high school jock could have. He looked good. He knew he looked good. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to enjoy the full force of that knowledge.

But then... it hit him.

The reflection wasn’t the problem—it was what was missing.

For a brief, disorienting moment, he could almost see it—the flash of blonde hair, the open, unapologetic expression, the vivid colors in his clothes. The warmth of a smile that wasn’t just for the girls or the boys who wanted to be his friend. It wasn’t just for the applause or the attention—it was a smile that came from being who he was, not from performing for everyone around him.

But the moment passed quickly, replaced by the face in the mirror that he now recognized so well—the face of Ethan Clark, the confident jock, the proud guy who didn’t care about the world of art or politics anymore.

For a second, though, Ethan’s gaze faltered. There was a slight hesitation—a small, uncomfortable ripple in the stream of his new identity.

“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The thought felt foreign, even stupid. He smirked at his reflection, his confidence quickly returning.

“Get over it, man,” he told himself, his hand running through his messy hair again, his grip tight as he styled it just right. “This is who you are now. This is who you were meant to be.”

The unsettling sensation lingered, but only for a moment. Ethan stood tall, shoulders squared, and he smiled—genuinely, arrogantly—at the guy in the mirror. He had everything now. He was popular. He was strong. He had girls after him and the guys at his back. And most of all, he didn’t care about anything that didn’t fit into this new version of himself.

The weeks passed, and the echoes of Luke’s old life grew quieter. Ethan’s friendships with the other guys on the football team deepened, and his bond with the girls only grew more intense as they swooned over his rugged good looks and cocky charm. He spent less time reflecting on his past—less time worrying about the strange feeling in his gut that tugged at him when he thought about what he had lost.

One night, at a house party thrown by one of his teammates, Ethan stood with a group of his closest friends, a drink in his hand, and the girls around him laughing at his latest joke. Everything felt perfect. It was what he’d always wanted—what he’d deserved.

One of the girls, a blonde who’d been flirting with him for weeks, pulled him aside, her voice low and sultry. “Ethan, you’re like... so different from other guys,” she whispered, brushing a lock of his messy hair out of his face. “You’re just... amazing.”

He grinned, the compliment going straight to his head. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar rush of confidence flood him. “Well, babe,” he said, his voice smooth, “I’m just a man’s man.”

The girl laughed, leaning in closer, and Ethan kissed her on the lips. He’d become so used to this attention, this life of being the center of everything. It was a feeling he didn’t just enjoy—it was the only feeling that made sense anymore.

But as the night went on, as the alcohol and the party noise blared around him, a thought flickered again in the back of his mind. It was small, almost imperceptible, like a whisper from a distant past he couldn’t quite grasp. A memory of a world where being himself didn’t mean fitting in. A world where being free meant embracing everything that made him who he truly was.

The thought came and went, but this time it was different. It didn’t make him feel scared—it didn’t make him feel sad. It just... faded.

Ethan Clark was who he was. The boy who had been Luke was gone now. Completely gone.

And as Ethan kissed the blonde girl again, he couldn’t help but smile. He was everything he was meant to be.

There was no going back. There was no reason to.

Ethan’s transformation was complete. Every morning, he woke up in his new life, slipping effortlessly into the role of the popular, athletic jock—his tousled brown hair falling perfectly into place as if it had always been this way. His body was strong, chiseled from hours of training, and he was the star of the track team. More than that, he was a leader among the jocks, a natural at commanding attention without trying. He had the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing he had it all, and he knew the girls were obsessed with him.

The girls couldn’t get enough of his athletic frame, his perfectly styled hair, and the cocky, yet irresistible smirk he threw their way. He had a certain swagger now—one that came from both his physique and the newfound belief that he deserved to be admired. Ethan was a magnet for attention, and it felt so good.

But there was something else—something he didn’t always let the jocks see.

Ethan had always been a gamer. Sure, he was now the track team captain, the guy everyone turned to for advice on their bench press, but late at night, after practice, when the house parties were over and everyone had gone home, Ethan logged into his gaming setup.

The gaming chair, the massive monitor, the LED-lit keyboard—it was all tucked away in his bedroom, hidden behind a door that only his closest friends knew about. But even now, as captain of the team, as the guy who’d casually broken the 400-pound squat record and was getting invited to college recruiters' camps, Ethan was still that guy—the gamer who lived for the thrill of the digital battlefield.

He had always been good at it. No, scratch that—he’d always been great at it.

Every night, he dominated the leaderboards in Call of Duty and Fortnite, racking up kills with ease. He had his own Twitch account, but it wasn’t for the fame. It was just for the adrenaline, the rush of hearing the ping of a headshot, the satisfaction of topping the scoreboard with his friends.

There were nights when he played until 3 a.m., still wearing his track hoodie, drinking a monster energy drink, the glow of the screen lighting up his face as he obliterated opponents. He'd be wearing his headset, yelling at his buddies—laughing, trash-talking, keeping it light. No one knew about his online identity, but to Ethan, it was just as important as any track medal or touchdown. It was where he could be himself without the weight of the jock persona, without the expectation of being perfect all the time.

The football field was where Ethan thrived. The air was thick with the sound of cleats pounding the turf, the shouts of coaches pushing their players harder, and the constant rhythmic thumping of the ball hitting the ground. Ethan, naturally, was right at the center of it all, a strong, imposing figure in his football gear, his dark hair peeking out from under his helmet, his chest heaving with every breath.

As the captain of the football team, Ethan had earned the respect of every player on the field. They respected his strength, his unrelenting drive, and his ability to motivate others. He was ruthless in practice, always pushing the team harder, making sure no one slacked off. But despite his hard-nosed approach, he kept a certain arrogance that kept the guys in line. He wasn’t just the captain—he was the guy who set the tone for the team, the one who was feared and admired in equal measure.

Today’s practice was intense—punishing drills designed to improve agility and reaction time. Ethan’s muscles burned with the effort, but he wasn’t about to let up. He was determined to lead his team to victory this season. They had a big game coming up, one that could secure them a championship spot. And Ethan was more than ready.

He finished his sprints with ease, his lungs pushing through the burn, his legs feeling stronger with each stride. The guys were panting behind him, but Ethan didn’t even break a sweat.

“That’s how you run,” he said, smirking as he jogged back to the sidelines, his teammates panting behind him.

“Jesus, Ethan, you never slow down,” one of the defensive linemen, Jake, said between breaths.

Ethan threw him a lazy grin. “That’s because I’m built different, bro. You’re just not on my level yet.”

The guys chuckled, and Ethan felt the familiar swell of pride. He loved it. This was his world now. It felt right. The jocks who had once laughed at him in high school now admired him. The girls who had once ignored him now threw themselves at him. Ethan was the epitome of what every high school athlete dreamed of becoming—the guy who was good at everything, effortlessly cool and untouchable.

But then something caught his eye—a flicker of doubt. It was subtle. One of the guys on the team, Alex, had been showing Ethan something on his phone earlier in the locker room. He’d been talking about the new Star Wars Battlefront game and how he was crushing it with some of his online buddies. Ethan barely registered it at the time.

Now, as he caught his breath, he couldn’t help but think about it. Alex had mentioned a team—a clan that all played together late at night. The more Ethan thought about it, the more he realized that even though he was crushing it on the field, there was something oddly thrilling about those nights alone in his room, the camaraderie of his gaming friends, and the rush of winning in a world that didn’t care about how many touchdowns he scored or how big his biceps were.

His thoughts were interrupted when Coach shouted across the field.

“Clark! Get your head in the game! We’ve got a season to win!”

Ethan snapped back into focus, mentally shaking off the random thought. He was Ethan Clark, football captain, jock, the guy everyone looked up to. That was who he was.

Later that night, after the last of his teammates had left, Ethan headed back to his room, dropping his gear on the bed and collapsing into his gaming chair with a deep sigh. His muscles ached, but the comfort of his familiar setup—the glowing RGB lights, the cool click of his mouse, and the hum of the PC booting up—was like an old friend welcoming him back.

He was back where he belonged.

Ethan fired up Call of Duty, glancing over at his phone to see if any of his friends were online. Sure enough, a notification popped up: “Your Squad is waiting.”

He grinned.

Sliding on his headset, Ethan clicked “Join” and immediately heard the familiar voices of his gaming buddies flood through the speakers.

“Yo, Ethan, we’re about to wreck some noobs. You ready?”

Ethan’s grin widened. “Always, bro.”

As they dove into the game, Ethan’s body relaxed, his muscles still sore from practice, but his mind fully focused on the game ahead. This was where he felt free. This was where he could shut out the expectations of being the perfect athlete, the perfect teammate, the perfect son. Here, on the battlefield of the game, there were no rules about how to act or what to be. It was just him, his friends, and the rush of winning.

The hours slipped by in a blur of headshots and jokes. The adrenaline was just as real as it was on the football field, maybe even more so. Ethan was still the dominant force here. His reflexes were sharp, his aim precise. He dominated every match, and when they won, the rush was the same as it was when they hit the game-winning touchdown.

"Man, you're on fire tonight," one of his buddies, Tyler, said, laughing.

Ethan leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. "Just like always, bro. Who else can carry the squad like I do?"

The guys laughed, and Ethan reveled in the sound of their praise. It felt good. It felt right.

For a moment, as the squad geared up for the next round, he thought back to earlier that day on the football field—the sweat, the cheers, the hard work that had earned him his place as the team captain. Then, without even realizing it, his mind drifted back to his gaming chair, to his gaming world, where everything was just as real.

He wasn’t just Ethan Clark, the football player, the alpha jock. He was Ethan, the gamer, the guy who could lead a team to victory in both worlds—whether on the field or behind a screen. And for the first time in a long while, Ethan felt a sense of balance between these two sides of him. He had it all.

In this life, no one could touch him.

And that was exactly how he liked it.

Ethan's life seemed to revolve around two worlds: the football field and his gaming chair. But then there was Sophia—his girlfriend—who lived somewhere right between them, a perfect accessory to his newfound high school popularity.

Sophia was the blonde girl everyone noticed—the type of girl who was the center of attention at every party, with a laugh that made guys turn their heads and an effortless grace that made other girls a little jealous. She was the kind of girl who belonged on the arm of a guy like Ethan—athletic, handsome, and undeniably cool. And now she was, and she knew it.

The two had started dating a few weeks ago, and it had been a perfect fit. She was beautiful, outgoing, and obsessed with the idea of being with someone like Ethan—someone who could give her all the status and attention she craved.

Ethan wasn’t the kind of guy who spent a lot of time on his emotions, but when Sophia smiled at him, he couldn’t help but feel a certain rush of pride. He'd caught her eye first, but now she was his, and it felt good. There were whispers in the hallways, and every girl who tried to get his attention was met with the same smug, “I’ve got my girl” attitude. It was the kind of confidence that only someone who knew he had everything could pull off.

Sophia didn’t mind the attention. She was used to it, and she loved the way Ethan’s popularity amplified hers. It was a match made in high school heaven.

Later that day, after practice, Ethan found Sophia waiting by his truck, her arms crossed, a playful smirk on her face. He had been walking out with a couple of the guys from the team, talking about the upcoming game, but when he spotted her leaning against the tailgate, all conversation stopped. His friends shot each other knowing looks, and one of them, Alex, made an exaggerated “Ooooh” noise.

Ethan didn’t even acknowledge them. He made his way over to Sophia with that familiar swagger, not caring if anyone was watching.

“What’s up, babe?” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Sophia grinned, her eyes gleaming. “Not much. I was just thinking about how awesome you looked out there today. You were like, on fire.”

Ethan couldn’t help but smirk. “Of course I was. It’s what I do.”

She laughed, the sound high and melodic, and stood up straight. “Well, I’m glad you’re on fire... because I was thinking you could use some company tonight,” she said, teasing him a little as she walked toward the passenger side of his truck.

Ethan raised an eyebrow as he followed her. “What kind of company?”

She shot him a wink as she slid into the seat, settling in with a practiced ease. “Let’s just say I have plans for us—and they don’t involve any football or video games tonight. Just you and me, Ethan.”

Ethan grinned, his chest puffing up with pride. This was the life—the kind of life he’d always imagined. Popularity. Strength. A beautiful girl who loved him.

It was almost too perfect.

As he drove off, his mind wandered briefly, but it wasn’t to his old self—the person he used to be. There was no trace of Luke anymore, no reminder of the boy who’d been scared to even talk to a girl like Sophia. No, this was his world now. He was Ethan, and Sophia was his, and that was all that mattered.

At least, that's what he told himself.

[largetaytertots]

my aesthetic secrets

this upload is a very informative video, especially for new sims 4 content creators. I reveal my camera settings and camera tips. I also share most of my default replacements for a more aesthetic game. watch it here.

download links

aesthetic mods:

◦ missing plumbob by @mintvalentine ◦ no highlight by fogity ◦ smaller mosaic by lemememeringue

lighting mods:

◦ sunblind by @softerhaze / instructions ◦ into the light by @lotharihoe ◦ out of the dark by @lotharihoe ◦ no glo by @luumia ◦ no blu by @luumia ◦ serene reshade preset by largetaytertots / instructions

cas default replacements/mods:

◦ vanilla default skin replacement by @luumia skinblend recommendation: ◦ gaia skinblend by @divinecap ◦ whisper eye default replacement by kellyhb5 ◦ daydreamin' pet default eye replacement by @nolan-sims ◦ no ea lashes by cien z roza eyelash recommendations: ◦ 3d lashes ver. 6 by dreamgirl ◦ 3d lashes by kijiko ◦ 3d lashes by katco ◦ @serenity-cc female underwear replacement by largetaytertots ◦ @caio-cc female underwear replacement by largetaytertots ◦ simtimates default replacement underwear by joyceisfox ◦ male feet replacement/socked feet by @cyristal-art ◦ female feet replacement by @dissiasims / toenail polish add on ◦ toddler/children feet replacement by necrodog ◦ female/children socked feet by @simminglena ◦ infant prop override by @simbeeez infant default replacements: ◦ infant rug override by nervelli ◦ infant toy default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ infant heart patterned bath override by @simbeeez ◦ rubber duck override by @channel4sims-cc ◦ baby bottle default replacement by @sixamcc

adult default replacements:

◦ laundry pile default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ folded laundry default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ eyeliner override by qmbibi ◦ lip balm default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ morphe blush palette default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ juvia's place blush palette override by qmbibi ◦ lipstick default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ mac lipstick override by qmbibi ◦ nail file default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ iphone 12 override by @nuribatsal ◦ airpods2 replacement by @nuribatsal ◦ airpod max default replacement/accessory by nickname ◦ razor default replacement by largetaytertots

home default replacements:

◦ ceiling tile default replacement by wykkyd ◦ remote control default replacement by dynamus ◦ ps5 / ps5 controller default replacement by simmerwellpupper ◦ better console games: ps5 edition by simmerwellpupper ◦ coffee bag default replacement by @channel4sims-cc ◦ coffee art override by @annachibisims ◦ cutting board override by @channel4sims-cc ◦ food retexture 1, 2, 3 by @apricotrush ◦ soda can override by @yandycc ◦ override ea utensils by @somik-severinka ◦ robot vacuum default replacement by @asteria-sims ◦ cleaning spray override by @dudleystrailer ◦ mop default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ adoption pet carrier default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ pet leash default replacement by largetaytertots ◦ rake and shovel default replacement by largetaytertots

world default replacements:

◦ ghibli cloud replacement by @miikocc ◦ san myshuno billboard override by @simstwink ◦ vehicle default replacement by @blvck-life-simz ◦ moon replacement by @yakfarm

youtube / tiktok / twitch / patreon / gallery id: largetaytertots

[caramelt4me]

Secret. - Part I

(Yandere Idol X Kidnapped Reader)

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

Prologue Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V

"Welcome to another episode of Guilty Files, the true crime podcast," a smooth, steady voice resonates from the speakers, breaking the quiet of the cabin. "I’m Liza Lee, and today, we’re diving into the twisted world of a once-revered artist whose obsession blurred the line between inspiration and imprisonment. Picture a cramped underground cell, buried deep where not a trace of daylight can reach..."

𝕋he words rolled over you as you popped another piece of chocolate into your mouth, the crinkling of the golden wrapper slicing through the eerie silence of the cabin. In your other hand, you gripped your tablet, eyes darting between the podcast on the smart TV across the room and the game on your screen. You tapped, swiped, keeping your character alive in a never-ending digital fight, but your attention waned, drifting back to the story Liza Lee was telling.

"Concrete walls press in like silent witnesses, their cold, gray expanse offering no comfort, no reprieve—only an endless reminder of isolation."

The imagery was haunting, yet somehow familiar. You shifted under the plush, oversized blanket draped over you. The half-crocheted flower bouquet beside you slipped down the side of the bed, one of the chunky needles clattering to the soft rug below, muffled by its thick fibers.

In this cabin, you had everything you could ever want. Soft blankets, a bed that felt like clouds, endless books, music, and streaming—all set up by the person who insisted you stay here. Asher, your lover. Or was he your captor? If you were being honest, the lines had blurred a while ago. He’d kept you close, away from your old life, the outside world fading like a dream. But he treated you so preciously, as though you were something rare, something he couldn’t bear to lose.

"But here’s the unsettling part—why was she taken? Was this about money? A ransom demand? Or perhaps the twisted satisfaction of a serial abductor?"

The voice from the podcast tugged your focus back, pulling you into the story of Mary Gomez, trapped in an underground cell. Your brows knit together as you listened. Mary had been taken, not for money or revenge, but because of an artist’s obsession. He saw something in her, something he needed to capture, even if it meant keeping her caged like a bird with clipped wings.

You tried to concentrate on your game, fingers dancing over the screen, but even that failed to hold your interest for long. In this luxurious prison of yours, you had come to know restlessness intimately.

However, it wasn’t as stark as Mary’s despairing cell. Here, there were warm fires, soft lights, books, snacks... every comfort, every amenity you could want. And he visited often, bringing you gifts, spending hours talking with you, looking at you as if you’re something exquisite, something he can never get enough of.

"Imagine your shock when I tell you that her captor wasn’t after money, vengeance, or some misguided obsession with power. No, the reason she was confined, cut off from the world, was far more chilling."

Your mind flitted to your lover, his face flashing in your thoughts—his deep gaze, that intense stare that seemed to see through to your core. You weren’t locked in here, not really; you could leave if you chose.

But whenever the thought crossed your mind, his face, his words, his touch all came back to you, lingering like the faintest, sweetest perfume, coaxing you to stay.

This wasn’t a prison, you tell yourself. Not like Mary’s.

And yet...

"Her captor was none other than Ethan Hawthorne, the celebrated artist whose portraits once graced galleries worldwide. And his only motive? She refused to be his muse."

Liza’s voice felt sharp, unnervingly close to your situation, though you quickly shook off the thought.

Your blanket slipped further, leaving your shoulders cold, so you drew it back up, cocooning yourself in its softness. You glanced around the cabin, absorbing the contrast—the wide windows that open to endless forests, the soft, golden lights casting a cozy glow, the warmth that lingered in the air.

But beneath the comfort was an echo of something else.

How different, really, was your situation from Mary’s?

You shifted in bed, restless, caught between enjoying the comfort around you and feeling trapped by it. The podcast droned on, the story growing darker.

"Ethan, obsessed with preserving her raw, unyielding spirit, imprisoned her in his hidden studio, using her as his living, breathing canvas. With every stroke of his brush, he drew from her the emotions she tried so hard to hide—hope, despair, defiance, and, eventually, resignation."

A shiver ran through you. The parallel wasn’t lost on you. You had felt his eyes on you just like that, watching, waiting, always intent, as if he was trying to absorb every nuance, every fleeting emotion. But he wasn’t a mad painter, you tell yourself. You weren’t his muse.

Yet here you were, tucked away from the world, drawn deeper into his orbit, just as Mary was.

"Then came Ethan’s final piece, hauntingly titled Peace. The painting was his last, capturing Mary in a moment of final, tragic release—her last act of agency."

Your finger paused mid-swipe, frozen above the screen. You think of Mary’s tragic end, of the way she lost herself to him, bit by bit, until there was nothing left. And how Ethan, too, met his end shortly after. Your heart raced, and for the first time, you wondered what your lover might do if you ever tried to leave, if you ever finally grew tired of his quiet, smothering devotion.

"This is the story we’ll unravel today, piece by piece, exploring the mind of a madman and the victim who became his tragic masterpiece."

The podcast hummed on, filling the room with its haunting tones, but you barely cared to listen anymore.

Minutes blurred into hours as the voice from Guilty Files looped again and again due to the auto-reply setting – like a haunting lullaby as the night deepened and stretched into dawn.

You couldn’t remember when exactly you stopped feeling afraid, when the days of forcing yourself to stay awake, tense and watchful of his every move, faded into a quiet, almost comforting vigilance.

Your body hardly held up against the sleep deprivation anymore—the growing dark circles beneath your eyes, a permanent reminder of the restless nights.

A half-smile tugged at your lips as you realized how things have changed.

You once stayed awake out of sheer instinct to protect yourself, to be alert in case you needed to run or fight. Now, it was almost the opposite. Without him here, sleep barely found you. Nights felt endless, stretching on with a kind of hollow ache in his absence.

You shook your head with a soft chuckle, wondering how those intense feelings of repulsion, resentment, and distrust had morphed over time.

You hadn’t erased them from your memory—no, the past lingered somewhere in your mind like a hazy bruise, its details blurry, softened by months of peace. But now, those feelings felt foreign, detached from who you had become.

It should feel wrong, this quiet dependency.

But instead, there was a numbness, a void that only grew the longer you were alone.

Without him, hours slipped by, each minute swallowed up by the white noise in your mind. The days bled together, your once-sharp memories of the outside world fading with each passing sunrise.

You shifted on the bed, feeling a strange pull in your chest, something close to yearning.

He had been the only person you had seen, touched, spoken to for over a year then.

The only one whose warmth had brushed against your skin, whose heartbeat you had felt under your fingertips, whose gaze had persisted on you like a steady, consuming flame. His scent lingered; faint but intoxicating, grounding you even in his absence.

His azure eyes could pierce through you, could see you in a way no one else ever had. And despite the circumstances – despite everything, the thought of his presence was enough to quiet your mind.

He was your lifeline, you realized.

But still, a flicker of doubt remained, persistent and insidious. A small voice whispered from some dark corner of your mind, wondering if, one day, you would end up like Mary and Ethan. If their story—so far removed, yet so disturbingly familiar—might someday become your own. The thought clawed at you, fed your anxiety, a spiraling threat you couldn’t shake. You closed your eyes, the intrusive thoughts circling, until—

A familiar voice, low and steady, broke through the fog.

“You’re still awake?”

You turn, eyes wide and heart pounding, as his silhouette fills the doorway. He was here. Just the sound of his voice pulled you back to yourself, the steady beat of his presence grounding you.

You remain frozen, eyes fixed on the partially open door, waiting for him to step into the room. It had been nearly two weeks since you had last seen him, and by then, you weren’t sure if it was just another trick your mind was playing to keep you company. Normally, you would have leapt up, rushing to the door to greet him, craving his presence like a lovesick puppy. But that night, fatigue held you down, a heaviness that stilled even your reflexes.

The podcast still played softly in the background, its dark tale echoing through the room for him to hear. The voice of the host was sharp, unforgiving as it detailed the spiral of obsession and control. For a brief moment, you considered turning off the TV, dousing the flames before they ignited something. But the small voice in your head urged you to let it play. You weren’t forbidden from watching what you wanted—but the choice of a story that cut so close to your reality would undoubtedly provoke him. And that night, some reckless part of you wanted that.

It had been a long time since you’d felt the fire of rebellion. These days, your resistance had dulled, your heart no longer set on escape. But a strange desire lingered to test his patience, to push him and see what might lie beyond that endless restraint he showed you. If he could shatter into the darker version of himself that you had glimpsed once, if he could give you a reason to feel that old, familiar defiance… maybe then you’d feel the spark to resist, to remember the drive to escape.

You finally heard his footsteps from the dim hallway, and then he was there – standing at the edge of the bedroom, his gaze locked on the TV screen.

He looked… different. The warmth that usually softened his features was gone; his face was unreadable, lips pressed tight, eyes focused intently on the flickering screen. In the pale glow of the TV, he looked cold, a shadow of the man you’d caught a rare glimpse of when he was with his manager. Mr. Baek was his name, you remembered.

But then, his expression shifted. His shoulders tensed, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed, seeming to struggle against something unsaid. His azure eyes met yours, and for one wild, exhilarating moment, you braced yourself, expecting the crack of anger, the explosion of emotion you had tried to provoke. But instead, his gaze wasn’t clouded with betrayal or fury—it was softened, tingling with something like… worry.

A pang of frustration twisted within you, and you felt yourself frowning slightly. Every time you tried to defy him, to lash out or make him question you, it would be always the same.

Rather than reacting with the anger you expected, he looked at you with concern, as if worried you might have accidentally hurt yourself in the process. Your resistance had become something almost… childish, a temper tantrum to him, and he was the unshakable adult, the one who only wanted to make sure you were safe.

You were caught between loathing and surrender when he finally walked toward you, his expression softening further with each step. He reached the bed, his hands warm and steady as they brushed gently against your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch melted something deep within you, that stubborn knot of defiance uncoiling despite your best efforts.

“Are you mad at me?” His voice was barely above a whisper, raw and vulnerable. His eyes searched yours with a quiet, heartbreaking sincerity, like he was on the edge of breaking himself.

You opened your mouth to say something sharp, something that might salvage a piece of your independence, but the words catch in your throat.

“No,” you said instead, your voice small, subdued. You looked away, guilt creeping in despite yourself, a feeling that maybe letting the podcast play had been a step too far.

Maybe you had miscalculated the game, and were, instead of the satisfaction of resistance, were left with a hollow ache in your chest.

He leaned down, his lips brushing your forehead with a tenderness that nearly let you loose. “I’m sorry, baby. I kept you waiting for too long this time, didn’t I?”

The question hung between you, heavy and painfully intimate. You don’t answer, keeping your gaze fixed downward, hoping he wouldn’t see the storm of emotions threatening to break through. Your fingers clutched the edge of the blanket, grounding you, as you struggled against the pull of vulnerability he drew from you so effortlessly. In your silence, he lingered, his thumb brushing over your aching lips, a gentle reminder of the hold he had over you.

And as the light outside began to creep in, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was any part of you left that could still muster the will to leave.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

@shadowytravelerlover

[simstorian-blog]

L O T R E V I S I O N - Accommodating the Suite Life Mod by Lot51

The S Hotel @ Uptown

(CC List + Links)

(Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with this hotel by any means. I simply took the 'S' from San Myshuno and slapped 'Hotel' after it. The '@ Uptown' is because I built it within the Uptown neighborhood of said Sims 4 world.)

World Map: San Myshuno

Area: Stargazer Lounge

Lot Size:  40 x 30

Amenities: Bar, Lounge, Nightclub, Pool, Restaurant, Wedding Venue

(These are the venue types that my build meets the requirements of)

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Needed

Expansion Packs

City Living

Eco Lifestyle

For Rent

Get Famous

Get Together

Get To Work

Island Living

Snowy Escape

Game Packs

Dine Out

My Wedding Stories

Parenthood

Spa Day

Vampires

Stuff Packs

Backyard Stuff

Home Chef Hustle

Moschino

Romantic Garden

Recommended Gameplay Mods

(Please read through what each mod has to offer before deciding if it fits your gameplay style or not.)

Dine Out Reloaded

Lock/Unlock Doors for Any Lot

MC Command Center

No Fade On Everything

Spawn Refresh

Build Mode

Harlix

Bafroom (Tall Windows + Tall Doors)

Harrie

Octave Pt. 2 (All Doors)

LittleDica

H&B Store (Lit Letters)

Peacemaker

Old World Wild Plank Flooring

Shaker Paneling

Pierisim

Stefan Kitchen (Tiles)

Syboubou

Lift Elevator (This is NEEDED)

TaurusDesign

Judith Living Room (Walls)

Buy Mode

BlueTeas

Milano Living (Chandelier Medium)

Safford Entertainment Room (Morris Barstool)

Samara Dining (Chandeliers, Sconce)

Felixandre

Chateau Pt. 5 (Tall Bookshelf Pieces)

Grove Pt. 2 (Dining Tables)

Hanraja

S005 Soundbar

Harlix

Baysic Bathroom (Toilet, Toilet Roll, Towel Clutter)

Kichen (All Glasses)

Kichen 2.0 Pt. 2 (All Glasses)

Livin’ Rum (Frame TV)

Orjanic Pt.2 (Chaise, Cushions, Rug, Sectional Sofa)

Tiny Twavellers (Director Chair)

Harrie

Coastal Pt. 5 (Nursery End Table)

Coastal Pt. 6 (Mirror Landscape, Sink Vanity Table)

Coastal Pt. 7 (Bedside Lamp, Leaning Mirror)

KiwiSims4

Blockhouse Kids (Bedroom Lamp)

Max20

Happily Ever After Kit (Bouquet Magnificent, Dining Chair)

No Style x Woodland

Tamasusja Booth Corner

Onyxium

Heilbronn Dining Chair

Pierisim

Domaine Du Clos Pt. 2 (Account Book)

Stefan Living (Curtains + Rod Covers)

PlushPixels

Into Summer (Olive Tree)

Ravasheen

Enjoy the Lentil Things

Shake and Shimmy Dance Floor

Simplistic

RPC x Loloi Rugs II

Sooky88

Oil Paintings

SurelySims

Office Space (Wall Clock Locations)

Syboubou

Bridgerton Wedding (Buffet Table)

Pour Toujours (Petals on the Floor, Tables)

Tuds

IND 02 (Bar, Island Counters, Wine Rack)

IND 03

Valia

Arty Bathroom

Wondymoon

Tiarella Garden Umbrella

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

Tray Files: DOWNLOAD

[herecirmsims]

Graveyard Visit

These were a commission for Electric Whims / The Hathaway NSB! ❤️

Five group poses for two adults and two infants, plus all-in-ones. There is a small height difference between the two adults so if you use the height mod, there may be misalignments! Made with masc and femme frames and, as always, there may be clipping or floating depending on Sim body type or clothing. They were intended for a grave visiting scene, but aren't attached to any object so you can easily use them for whatever situation you like.

You will need: - Pose Player - Teleport Any Sim or MCCC - Not required, but I recommend the Bye Bye Baby Rug Hider !

Just place four teleporters on the same spot.

NOTE: if your infants haven't learned to sit up by themselves yet, you will need to wait for them to do their little sitting up/flopping over animation before you're able to teleport or pose them. I suggest posing the adults first so they don't wander off while you wait!

TOU: you may adjust for personal use to avoid clipping etc., but please do not reupload/paywall/claim as your own.

Download here: SFS Patreon

I'd love to see them used! You can tag me on Twitter, Instagram, or Tumblr. I repost. ❤️ If you'd like to support me you can do so via Ko-Fi, but it's not required! Have fun telling your stories! The world needs 'em! ❤️

You can easily browse more of my posepacks via my Ko-Fi gallery.

@ts4-poses @alwaysfreecc thank you!

[brodygold]

A Straightforward Proposal

Connor strolled down the hallway of the Golden Army’s stadium, his polished loafers tapping softly against the tiled floor. He wasn’t even sure how he’d ended up here—a random detour during a walk around town had led him to the imposing structure, the very heart of his city’s famed soccer team, the Golden Army. He wasn’t into sports, much less one as intense as soccer. But lately, a strange feeling had been pulling him toward things outside his comfort zone, and here he was, wandering through the hallowed halls of a world he didn’t belong to.

The locker room was quiet, almost sacred in its stillness, and he walked slowly, taking in the row of metal lockers, the slightly worn benches, the walls lined with framed photos of the team’s most victorious moments. He admired the team from afar, had even been to a few games with friends who raved about the players, but he never quite understood the appeal. To him, sports were just… messy, loud, and unpredictable.

But as he walked through the room, Connor’s gaze landed on something unusual—a glimmer of gold hanging from one of the open lockers. He stepped closer, his curiosity piqued. It was a jersey, but not just any jersey. The iconic golden hue, the dark green trim, the embroidered initials “GA” on the chest. It looked pristine, like it was waiting for someone to claim it.

Connor couldn’t resist reaching out and running his fingers along the smooth, sturdy fabric. It felt different from his usual designer clothes—strong, like it had been built to withstand anything. A little voice in the back of his mind told him to walk away, that this wasn’t for him. But a stronger urge tugged at him to put it on, just to feel what it was like, to imagine himself as one of those powerful, unstoppable players who wore it with pride.

With one last look around, Connor took a deep breath and slipped off his tailored shirt, folding it neatly on the bench beside him. Then, with a mixture of excitement and hesitation, he pulled the golden jersey over his head. As soon as it settled against his torso, he felt a strange warmth spread through his chest, like the jersey was coming alive, molding itself to his frame.

Connor looked down in surprise as his body began to change. His chest began to fill out, his muscles expanding beneath the jersey, stretching the fabric. His arms, which had always been slender and toned from careful exercise, started thickening with muscle, his biceps and forearms bulging as if he’d been lifting weights for years. The sensation was strange, almost surreal, but he found himself enjoying it, watching his transformation in awe.

His shoulders broadened, stretching the collar of the jersey. His torso shifted, becoming leaner and harder, with defined abs pressing against the fabric. He turned to look at himself in the mirror, and a shock of disbelief hit him. His face, once soft-featured and refined, had become sharper, his jaw more pronounced, his cheeks taking on a rugged, chiseled look. Even his hair, usually perfectly styled and gelled, had become slightly messier, like he’d just come off the field, the strands falling in a way that looked effortlessly cool.

As he admired the changes, a strange dizziness washed over him, and he steadied himself against the locker. It wasn’t just his body that was changing—his thoughts, too, were shifting. Memories of afternoons at art galleries and brunches in upscale cafes began to fade, replaced by images of practice drills, intense workouts, and the sound of cheering crowds. He thought of the thrill of scoring a goal, of hearing his name chanted by fans, of pushing his body to its limits alongside his teammates.

Connor felt a surge of adrenaline as these new memories took hold, filling him with a sense of purpose he’d never felt before. He could see himself on the field, fighting for victory with every ounce of strength, his teammates by his side, their bond stronger than anything he’d known. The idea of camaraderie, of being part of something bigger than himself, ignited a fire in him. He was no longer the preppy guy who drifted through life with little direction—he was a Golden Army player, a warrior on the field, dedicated to the game, to his team, to victory.

And as his memories continued to reshape, so did his interests. Gone was his taste for designer clothes, his carefully curated lifestyle. In its place grew a love for competition, for strength, for the thrill of the game. He could feel his attraction shifting too; his old boyfriends and dates felt distant, almost foreign, like they belonged to someone else. Now, he saw himself with girls cheering him on from the stands, joining him after the game in victory celebrations. Their soft lips and lovely breasts just begging to be squeezed. His old life seemed laughable compared to this new world of intensity and purpose.

Just as he took a deep breath, adjusting to the strange yet exhilarating transformation, he heard a chuckle from behind. Turning, he saw Brody, one of the Golden Army’s most respected players, leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“Enjoying the jersey?” Brody asked, clearly amused.

Connor grinned back, the confidence and ease in his expression startling even himself. “Yeah… feels like it was meant for me,” he said, his voice deeper, rougher, and rich with a newfound bravado.

Brody nodded, stepping forward and clapping him on the back with a strong hand. “Guess it found the right guy, then. We could use someone with your… enthusiasm.”

Connor felt a surge of pride at the unspoken approval in Brody’s voice. He could feel the weight of the team’s legacy on his shoulders, and instead of intimidating him, it excited him. He felt ready to prove himself, to show everyone that he belonged here.

“So, when’s the next game?” Connor asked, the words slipping out naturally.

Brody raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Tomorrow morning. Practice at six sharp. Think you’re up for it?”

“Of course,” Connor replied confidently. The idea of waking up before dawn for training didn’t faze him. In fact, it thrilled him. “I was born for this.”

Brody chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Welcome to the team, man.”

With one last look at his reflection, Connor felt a surge of excitement. He was no longer the preppy guy wandering aimlessly through life. He was Connor of the Golden Army, a fierce, driven athlete with a team, a purpose, and a brotherhood he’d fight for. His life was now about pushing his limits, winning for the team, for the pride of wearing the golden jersey.

As he and Brody walked out of the locker room, Connor felt a deep sense of belonging, of purpose. He knew he’d never go back to his old life—the designer suits, the gallery openings, the carefully curated image. It all seemed so empty compared to the thrill of the field, the roar of the crowd, and the loyalty of his teammates. He couldn’t wait to dominate on the field with his bros and with the chicks in the sheets!

[heybrine]

Jessie Livin' Pack - Part II

Hiii everyone! This is the last part of Jessie's Pack and I hope you enjoy it! ❤️

This second part of pack focuses on the living room decor/clutter. In total this part contains 18 items of decoration for the living room.

Items include:

3 Books (stackable, standing, with decor vases)

Decor Box

Bowl Decor

Floor Art

Blooming Plant

Bead Decor

Fluffy Rug (2 versions)

Organic Candles

PearPhone and keys

Round Vases

Side Plant (banana tree'ish)

Table Lamp

Decor Vases

Wall Gallery (with 3 options in frame and arts)

2 Photo frames (with custom pics from the world)

Download

[onceuponastory]

artistic - bucky barnes x reader

Plot: After embarrassing herself in front of the very attractive artist, Y/N swears her night has gone from bad to worse. In fact, she couldn't be more wrong. Pairing: Artist!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader Warnings: Some swearing and a mention of alcohol. If I miss any triggers, please let me know! Notes: This is a part two to An Intriguing Stranger, which was based on a gif sent to me by @holacia3. Some people wanted Bucky's POV, so here it is! Read part one here!

As Y/N tries to think of something to say in response to the stranger's introduction, it's like time slows down. And the more time ticks by, the more Y/N wants the ground to open up and swallow her whole. And when she finally does speak, it's even worse. “Oh, my god. I’m so sorry.” Is what she was supposed to say. What she wanted to say. Instead, however, a mixture of words, of ‘sorry’ and ‘I had no idea who you were’ and ‘please don’t sue me’ comes out. More of a word vomit than a well thought out apology.

When James opens his mouth again, she expects him to curse her out, or even to actually sue her. Instead of a threat, though, she hears the complete opposite. Laughter. She raises a brow, curious about why he finds the situation funny, and what kind of artist would laugh at their work being criticised.

Honestly, Bucky wasn’t expecting to hear such a critique of his art tonight. And he definitely doesn’t mean to find it so funny. Or at least, he knows he probably shouldn’t. But after experiencing the perfectionism and fakeness of the art world, her brutal honesty is incredibly refreshing.

And it helps that she’s very cute too. In fact, he's never seen anyone like her ever before.

“Please, don’t feel the need to apologise. It’s totally fine.” He smiles. “That was my first real laugh of the night.” Y/N blinks in surprise, waiting for the other shoe to drop, the ‘but’ in his sentence to appear. And yet, it never comes, only adding to her confusion.

“What? But I just practically destroyed your life’s work!” To her surprise, he shrugs.

“Well, you were right, actually. My usual work is nothing like this. But unfortunately, it doesn’t pay the bills that well, and ‘isn’t the sort of work the galleries are looking for right now.’” He mocks, and Y/N stifles a laugh of her own. “One night it all reached a head, so I got very drunk on some wine and basically threw some paint at a canvas, like you guessed.” He nods. “And it definitely was a big fuck you to the art world and their standards.” He sighs, running another hand through his hair. “I didn’t even mean to submit it, but somehow I did, so I woke up the next morning to a bunch of emails and calls from a ton of galleries asking for the honour to display it.” He explains, before turning back to the painting. “I know it’s brought me a lot of success, but honestly? I hate this fucking thing.” 

“So… no harm done?” Y/N asks awkwardly, and he smiles.

How does his smile make my stomach flutter so much?

“None at all. In fact, I admire your honesty.” He walks towards another painting, beckoning for her to follow with a move of his head. For a moment, Y/N holds back. Even though there’s no animosity between them both, surely there’s no way he actually wants to spend time with her? 

Yet, he beckons her to follow him again once more, and Y/N’s feet start moving towards him before she can even think about it. 

After all, surely this night can't go any worse.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

For most of the night, Y/N’s new artistic friend gives her a tour of the exhibition, occasionally commenting on the artwork and its creators. He also very quickly told her to call him Bucky instead of James, something which he insists only his close friends do. Despite how relieved she feels to be getting closer and closer to her new, extremely attractive artistic friend (especially since he isn't going to sue her), Y/N would be lying if she said this whole thing didn’t feel absolutely crazy, and that she still isn’t waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under her, her chance at spending time with the attractive artist over before it even began.

But as Bucky leads her upstairs, into the fancy reception that only a few moments ago she was so sure she would not be attending, Y/N realises that she’s not going to complain about spending time with her handsome and charming companion. And with Bucky by her side, she feels more comfortable, less out of place. It feels like this is where she’s meant to be. By his side.

The room is busy, heaving with journalists and other artists. Yet, Bucky moves his hand to the small of her back, sending a shockwave throughout her entire body. He effortlessly guides her through the room, leading her straight to the bar.

After grabbing her a drink, Bucky leans against the bar, taking her all in. Y/N feels heat rising in her cheeks, and she grins. He really is an incredibly handsome man.

“You said you don’t paint like that usually, so what is your usual work, then?” She asks, trying and failing to limit her staring. Bucky chuckles. 

“The usual boring stuff, landscapes, portraits….”

“That doesn’t sound boring. I do like that kind of art, actually.” Bucky looks over at her, smirking.

“You know, I’d like to paint you one day. I think you’d make a wonderful piece.” He muses. Y/N almost drops her glass in shock, her cheeks burning even deeper. Bucky grabs a napkin, scribbling something on it. “I need to go mingle, but here’s my number. If we ever get separated, or if you would like to be a model for me....” He trails off, grinning cheekily. “Just call me.” He places his hand on her shoulder, giving her one last smile and a wink before disappearing into the crowd.

As he fades out of sight, Y/N pulls out her phone, adding Bucky to her contacts.

She might just take him up on his offer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Please follow @onceuponastory-library and turn on notifications to be notified when I next post!

[bloomingdarkgarden]

My unabridged and uninvited Bridgerton season 3 thoughts live as i binge-watched until midnight last night:

fuck this show is euphoric escapism soap opera and idk what whimsical crack they put in it but it always manages to make my heartrate go insane. My expectations were low, maybe because ive been starved for any tiny crumb of this whimsy idk but i feel atrociously fed so here we go:

colin u are acting like an instagram influencer and we all see thru u bye.

Nicola is the most stunning person on television 50 shades of aqua move over boys I'm first in line for her dance card.

I would sell my soul to satan to have a cigarette with Lady Danbury in her afterhours tea room.

ngl the resurgence of the season 1 orchestrals is BEAUTIFUL and hitting harder than the new covers.

cressida's hair needs a dedicated gallery space and im completely here for her humanization she is a ruthless sad hoe and i understand. creloise good morning.

pen and francesca bonding over being introverts>>>>

pen is the people's princess for real, bookish as hell and socially awkward until she has 3 glasses of wine and then she's real as fuck. mood.

OH MY GOD THE KISS THE NIGHT GARDEN THE SHEER STARVATION his hand on her cheek and he's looking at her like he just touched god fucking hell i had to rewind and watch three times.

Pen trying to impress Debling "I LOVE BIRDS' no she did not I spit out my wine. yes penelope yes. don't let anyone tell u you don't have game honey.

omg balloon drama lol what is this shit peak bridgerton nonsense.

benedict has the personality of a rug on someone's back patio, polite and unnecessary. the reason why his scenes are so offputting every season is because he has been depicted as Goofy from A Goofy Movie no i have not read the books but boy they are gonna have to pay me money to digest him as a love interest i swear to god.

ugh penelope is the most relatable female lead in this entire series i am rooting for her SO hard.

thank fuck lady featherington is willing to discuss penetration with her daughters they now stand a fraction of a chance of surviving the world. lady f for president.

i found francesca's placidity / passitivity about the next 50 years of her life v frustrating at first but she grew on me immensely and am looking forward to more of her screentime.

debling has kind eyes and i will be sad if he's truly jilted... bravo netflix for once again making me care about the beta characters.

this danbury man flirting with lady bridgerton hello sire you are gallant as hell, wake up lady b.

colin's entire world being ruined for penelope is actual nirvana.

THE CARRIAGE SCENE THE CARRIAGE SCENE I WILL NEVER STOP LOVING THEM I WILL NEVER STOP I LOVE THEM IM INSANE ILL NEVER STOP holy shit. colin asking if the carriage can just keep going and pen laughing because that's a gd ridiculous thing to say is peak friends to lovers i felt their friendship in that moment and im aching with it ugh they are besties with hormones GOD i will never. stop. loving. them idc idc idc.

can't wait to watch 75 more times goodnight.

[mrdixon]

A Rugged Muse | Chapter 1

pairing: eventual daryl dixon x f!reader

wc: 3.1k

warnings: swearing, violence, slight depiction of gore, vomiting

summary: reader has a shit day. basically the day of the outbreak.

A/N: FIRST CHAPTER WOOOO i am clearly not an art major…. im in the different arts. so apologies to you visual artists im going off from my lack of knowledge from my hobby lol. i really hope you guys enjoy this series because i am EXCITED to write it.

a rugged muse masterlist |regular masterlist

“Fuck,” you groaned, slamming your forehead onto the desk in front of you. A few heads turned to look at you in the library, you cursed under your breath and looked up again after a moment. Adjusting the glasses askew on your face before looking at the paper on the desk. The paper before you was worn with erased pencil marks, slightly wrinkled. Art block was the worst, you’d rather be ten feet under than stuck with art block.

You sighed, it’s been months since your last project and even that was a fail. It didn't help that you only worked at a fucking minimum wage job, maybe you should've listened to your parents and became a doctor or something. It wasn't like it was always like this, no… art school was a breeze. You had hosted real galleries where people came to see your art, and now look at you. Moping around in a library, desperately trying to find something to draw.

After tapping your pencil against the table which by the way, earned many dirty looks, you scooted closer to the table. Picking up your old sketchbook and frantically flipping through it to find…. so many god damn drawings of, him. Your god forsaken ex boyfriend, but he was gorgeous.

You met him ironically enough in art class, way back in high school. He was there by choice, you were not. Yet everything about him was just so captivating that you couldn't help but not switch out of the class, thank god you didn't. You enjoyed the class more than you expected, painting being one of your favourite forms of art, oils being your preferred medium. You painted and sketched every moment of the day, not putting down that brush for one second. Your ex boyfriend was your inspiration, every detail on that stupid face was engraved in your mind like a marble statue. His beautiful plump lips and the beauty marks that scattered over his face being two of your favourite features.

Art was everything to you, and so was he. He was all you drew, he made life seem prettier and happier. But then he dumped you for some random chick he met in a bar, that was six months ago.

Since then you've had no motivation and no inspiration for your projects. Flowers no longer had their charm, abstracts looked dumb to you again, oils looked muddy. Nothing worked.

You picked up your pencil and started at the paper again, pushing your glasses up before hesitantly sketching out lines. Your mind wandered back to him, you still couldn’t believe it. After years of being together he’d just leave like that? Those years of pure, innocent love where you’d make breakfast with him, take baths together, even paint each other for fun. Date nights that were full of giggles and messily painting on each others skin, his fingertips grazing over your eyelids and nose as he sculpted you out of clay. He threw that all away for a woman he’s known for one night.

Your pencil moved furiously against the paper, scarring it like he scarred you. When you looked back down at it you noticed it was him, those hostile eyes from that night staring right through you. Those words of heartbreak echoing through your mind, words that came from lips that used to kiss you every morning. You huffed angrily, no matter how much you hated him, he always came back. He was always in your mind, plaguing your thoughts like venom. Slamming your pencil down you stood up, ripping the paper furiously.

Now there were whispers, people looked at you weirdly. After remembering your place in the world, you picked up your things and packed up quickly, aching to get back home to your bed. While in your haste, you dropped something. You already were in an irritable mood so you took a deep breath before causing a scene over a dropped item, crouching down to pick up just to notice it was the painting knife he had gifted you months before you broke up. The words ”To the love of my life…” engraved on it. After shoving the painting knife back into your bag angrily you quickly got back on your feet and headed towards the door, not before throwing half your sketches into the bin. As if you couldn’t get any more frustrated, someone bumped into you which caused you to whip around. Though no words came out of your mouth as you took in the sight of the person.

They were sickly pale, sweating profusely and trembling. Their eyes were bloodshot, matching the… bite wound on their forearm? They shook looking at you, mumbling a meek apology and pushing their sleeve down over their arm before walking away. Weird. Anyway.

You turned back around, must be some weird prank or something. Whatever, you were extremely tired and needed to get back to your apartment asap. As you left the library the humid August air hit you like a truck, not helping your heated mood at all. Grumbling to yourself you tried not to let it affect you, instead pushing your hair behind your shoulders, what a convenient day to forget your hair tie. Nothing was going your way, it was like the world was against you. A scream broke your thoughts, it came from somewhere ahead of you. Great, someone probably got mugged and now you were next. Just another thing to keep you moody.

A woman turned the corner, running towards you. You braced yourself for the mugging but to your surprise, it never came. The woman’s face was drained, it was as if she saw a ghost. She didn’t stop running, she was terrified and stuff was falling out of her purse but she didn’t even bother to pick them up. You watched as she ran past you without batting as eye, what is going on today? Shrugging, you picked up the stuff she dropped, finders keepers. Gum, tissues, tampons, condoms, and… her wallet. You almost jumped in joy, you could really use the money right now.

Finally out of your mood you practically skipped down the street, looking through the wallet and counting the cash. $10… $28… $48… $130… $135— oh wait that’s a Canadian $5 what the fuck— $140. One hundred forty fucking dollars in cash, that woman must’ve been loaded to carry this much cash. Well, now you carried it.

Another scream broke your daze, but this time it was closer. You looked up and saw another terrified woman running towards you, this time knocking into you which caused you to crash onto the floor, the cash scattering across the pavement. Back in your mood.

“What the fuck is your problem!?” You yelled, watching the woman continue running and not even look back. Is there a goddamn marathon you didn’t know about or what? You fiercely picked up the scattered cash, shoving them into your bag immediately before crossing your arms and continuing your walk back to your apartment. Fixing your glasses you saw a man get tackled to the ground by another man a street in front of you, was this happening to everyone???

Much to your horror you watched as the man on top mauled into the other’s neck, tearing through the skin and splattering blood everywhere. You froze, feeling your blood run cold at the sight. You watched as the man kept eating away at the now, dead person. The man’s head turned slightly to grab at more of the bloodied flesh, you now noticing the cloudy eyes and gray skin. This man was already dead, so how was he…

You snapped out of it, turning the other way to avoid whatever was happening. This had to be a sick joke. Your heart was beating in your ears, weaving through the back lanes to find a different path to your home. Hair stood at the back of your neck as your senses were now alert, if whatever that was is real, you had to be way more careful. It was quiet in the alley, calm. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Stopping for a second to catch your breath and recollect your thoughts, bending over slightly and placing your hands on your knees.

“Jesus christ,” you muttered. You couldn’t get the visual out of your head, that man was murdered right in front of you. His eyes bulging out of his head when he couldn’t even scream for help, that… monster ripping his throat out and devouring him in broad daylight. You shook your head, running your fingers through your hair frantically as you tried to rid your brain of that image.

A low groaning filled your ears and before you could register it you were falling to the ground, a grunt escaping you as you quickly turned onto your back. One of those things were falling over you, your quick reflexes holding them up by their shoulders. You got a clear view of what they looked like, their eyes were clouded over, veins more visible under their pale skin, their lips and chin dribbling with blood. You grimaced, trying to scream but nothing came out, nothing but a flow of air. They were strong, jaw snapping closer and closer to you. If you didn’t do anything now you’d end up like that guy on that street. No fucking way you were going to die like that.

Struggling a little, you lifted your legs under them and kicked from their stomach. Throwing the thing off of you, grunting you scrambled to your feet. The thing quickly following, their leg twisted as they got up from the position you flung them in. Surely it would’ve hurt if it were you, but unlike you, they weren’t living. You opened your bag and shoved your hand in, cursing yourself in your head for shoving everything in there. You held out your other arm protectively while stepping backwards from the thing. The hand in your bag searched wildly for something to defend yourself with, something to kill with. Could you even kill them?

Your back hit the wall, panic filling your body as the thing got closer. Before it could get any closer you tucked your forearm under their chin to hold them back, a loud cry escaping you as you fought to hold them back. When you were starting to give up, the hand in your bag finally found something metal. Ripping it out you immediately swung at it with the item, sinking it into their head which was surprisingly easy. Adrenaline probably. The thing fell to the ground, dead again.

You let out a heavy sigh, sliding down the wall. You looked down at your hands, bloodied with what you could only hope wasn’t your own blood. You were shaking profusely, your breathing uneven. You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing as you pressed your knees to your chest, the heel of your palm placed on your forehead. You stayed like this for a moment, you don’t know how long. But once you were ready you let out one last shaky breath before opening your eyes again, and glancing down at the thing on the ground in front of you.

You almost laughed as you realized you used the painting knife to end the thing, but you didn’t. You silently reached over and pulled it out, swallowing as it made a gross squelch sound. Looking down at your painting knife which was now covered in its blood, you wiped it off on their shirt. Taking a closer look at the body and noticing a bite mark on their shoulder, much like the person in the library. Your lip quivered as you imagined what had happened to them, what might’ve happened to you if you stayed. There was a low pit in your stomach as you stood up, your mouth suddenly filling with saliva before hunching over and vomiting. Your eyes filled with tears just realizing how close to death you were, throwing up your lunch.

You coughed, wiping your mouth on your sleeve before shoving the painting knife back into your bag. You had to get home, now. Your feet moved quickly, not stopping for even a second. There were barely anyone on the streets and you wondered if your home was even safe. Stop, your feet stopped. Don’t think like that. With a heavy breath you took off again, walking even faster towards your apartment building. Please, please, please….

You jolted suddenly as your phone started ringing, you grabbed it but didn’t stop walking. Answering without even checking the caller ID.

“Hello?” You said almost too quietly, still shaken up from your encounter with the thing.

“(Y/N)?? (Y/N), are you okay!?” The anxious voice yelled, it was your older brother, Glenn. You almost cried in happiness, walking even faster now.

“Yes Glenn, yes I’m fine…” you mumbled into the phone, breathing a sigh of relief that your brother was alive. “What is going on?”

“God, I don’t know. All I know is people are dying and coming back to life and eating each other and dying and coming back to—”

“Yeah, yeah I get it!” you cut him off, “I almost—” you stopped, deciding not to tell him about your fight. He was anxious enough, he always was but you didn’t want to worry him even more.

“Almost what?? You didn’t get bit did you!?” He yelled which caused you to pull your phone away from your ear in discomfort.

“No I didn’t, stop yelling.” You replied irritated, you heard him sigh on the other end. Hearing distant voices in the background. “Where are you?”

“I was at work when I saw everything go down, I drove back to the pizza place immediately.” He said more calmer, “but we’re gonna move out soon.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion, “wait why? Isn’t it safe there? Why not wait for help?”

“You didn’t hear? I thought you were always on your phone,” you scoffed in annoyance at his probe. “They’re setting up camps, courtesy of the military I think.”

You chest filled with hope, you were going to be safe. “Oh thank god, okay wait I’m going back to my place to grab some things. Where is the camp?”

When Glenn responded his end was filled with feedback, static. “It’s gonna. Arou— Ta—”

“Glenn?? You’re… you’re cutting off.” You said nervously, nearing your apartment.

“A— Yo— I’m—” And the call failed.

Dread filled your body once again, now you really were going to cry. You shakily walked through the apartment building, keeping guard for potential things around. Opting for the stairs, you walked swiftly up them. Out of breath by the time you reached your room, fortunately there was nothing to stop you.

Once you got in you immediately dropped everything, locking the door and collapsing to the floor. Tears filled your eyes once more and you let some of them escape and trickle down your cheeks, you were scared. Scared of those things roaming around, they could kill, you’ve seen it. You removed your glasses momentarily to wipe your face. You shook your head you took a deep breath and stood up, you had to pack and leave immediately. You didn’t know where you were going but you had to leave, you had to find Glenn.

Putting your glasses back on, you crawled over and rummaged through your closet carelessly, trying to find a backpack that was big enough to carry all your necessities. Your apartment was already a mess so you didn’t bother being slow and careful right now, which might have been a bad idea as you snagged your finger on a stray box cutter.

“Shit,” you muttered while pulling your hand back, a cut dragged along your index finger. You rushed over to the sink, washing it quickly before throwing a bandage over the cut. While doing so you heard a police siren drive by, the sound dying off as it drove farther and farther away. You sighed before returning to the closet, grabbing a big enough backpack and shoving as much clothes you could get while also leaving room for extra things.

You stood up and looked around your small apartment, your bed looked so inviting. You were exhausted beyond help, your body aching with the need to rest. I shouldn’t. You thought and continued scrambling for items to take with you, the amount of scattered pages of sketches filled the space that was your floor. Your heart broke at the thought of leaving your things behind but you knew it’d be useless to take with you, but you couldn’t take nothing.

You grabbed a few pencils and brushes, along with a small paint palette and placed them carefully into your bag, an empty sketchbook joining them. While searching you opened your desk drawer, three daggers which you made in a welding class a couple years ago. They were sturdy and well sharp enough, thank god you were good at making things. You took them and put them into a sheath to prevent stabbing yourself. You grabbed a few more things like a lighter, some bandaids, and batteries. You frowned at the lack of supplies you had on hand, but you tried to convince yourself that you’d be taken care of at the camps.

You moved over to your small kitchen and grabbed a water bottle which you filled, also grabbing a couple snacks that would keep you full for a few days at best. You heard a few distant screams outside, some screams of pain which caused you to wince. The sudden thought of living in an apocalypse dawned over you, a feeling of dread rushing through you. You couldn’t shake the feeling off but you chose to ignore it. You did not want to go into a panic right now, you had to have a clear and positive mind if you wanted to live.

You pulled your bag over your shoulders and walked over to your mirror to take a look at yourself, grounding yourself for the world outside. You wanted so badly to sleep but you knew you had to get a move on if you wanted to get to a camp safely.

“I can do this..” you whispered under your breath, clutching at the handle of one of your daggers, turning to the door. You just had to get to a camp, but more importantly you had to find Glenn.

★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★★○★○★○★○★○★○

more a/n: for the sake of having glenn as reader's older brother im having him be around 24-27 years old right now, reader being like 23 ish. and daryl will be like 32….??? i dunno im trying to make this as canon as possible BUT UGH IT IS SO $&£”*^%*£ so yeah there will be a little bit of an age gap between reader and daryl but i hope that wont be too much of a problem for you guys…. probably not. and do not quote me if i get settings or the timeline wrong like twd is confusing enough for me……….. again im also like rewatching and making sure to make everything as close to the show as possible, but theres also the possibility of me altering the timeline (muehehehe). anyways tysm for reading and stay tuned! ★

[soft-girl-musings]

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps - CHAPTER 5 (Something's Gotta Give)

Noir!Jake Lockley x WOC Lounge Singer!Reader

written in collaboration with + header by @mrs-lockley

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4

cross-posted to ao3

tags: late 1940s Noir AU, Reader is WOC coded but with no physical description besides being slightly taller than Jake while wearing heels, no use of Y/N, brief mention of past injury, spanish translation at end (courtesy of @queerponcho, thank you beloved)

wc: 3.4k

fic summary: Of all the gin joints in all the world, Jake Lockley walks into yours. Unfortunately for him, it's not quite the start of a beautiful friendship.

chapter summary: immovable object? the unstoppable force would like a word.

__________

As far as peace offerings go, it’s not the worst.

At least, that’s what you’ve told yourself as you stand outside your neighbor’s apartment, your fist failing to close the distance and knock. In one hand you hold a plate of pastries you’d bought earlier. Hopefully it’s enough.

Before you can raise your hand again, the door whips open. 

Leah Mendoza, ever the force to be reckoned with, stands with arms akimbo and eyebrow raised. “Quit shuffling your feet and come inside, nena.”

You oblige wordlessly. Crossing the threshold, you immediately feel the warmth of her apartment embrace you. Not that she’s escaped the chill that plagues your building; Leah is an artist, and every flat surface serves as either canvas or easel. Most spaces are covered in surreal portraits and near-magical icons, her handiwork displayed as a gorgeously chaotic gallery. Sunlight streams through gauzy curtains to feed sprawling plants and attempts to warm the richly colored rug beneath your feet.

You leave your shoes at the door and hold out the platter, smiling sheepishly. “Hope you still have a sweet tooth.”

“It's been so long, I'm surprised you remember.” Despite her playfully icy tone, Leah’s expression warms as she peeks at the pan de mallorca you hand over.

“...But I suppose going five blocks out of your way for breakfast makes up for it.” She nudges you with her hip before escorting  you to the kitchen.

“Look what the cat dragged in, Caro,” Leah calls out to the seating area as she pours two mugs of coffee. You see your other friend’s smiling eyes light up at the sight of you.

“Ohhh, it’s been ages!” she squeals as she rushes to your side, tackling you with an enthusiastic hug.

Caroline Ngo, the youngest of your trio, has always brought a much-needed energy to your time together. When she and her parents moved in, you and Leah decided to adopt her into your early morning ritual of coffee and gossip. As her rosy cheeks beam up at you, you’re (a bit selfishly) grateful that she’s delayed her college applications by a year. You’re not ready to part with your other baby bird just yet.

Still, you pry yourself from her grasp. “Something tells me you had an early start on the coffee.”

“Maybe,” she drawls as she saunters away. Leah passes you a steaming mug, prepared just the way you like it.

The three of you sit, sipping and smiling as the room grows brighter with the sunrise. Leah regales you with the results of her latest art show; Caroline badgers you for updates about Mauricio, dimpled cheeks flushed as she speaks. For a few moments, everything feels like it used to.

Leah finishes her pastry and turns to you. “So, ‘Ms. Songbird’. How are you?”

You shrug, dismissive. “Oh, you know. The usual.”

“No, I don’t know. You haven't been around for us to see your ‘usual’.” Leah's voice is measured, but she’s clearly frustrated. “Can you tell me the last time we've heard more than a ‘good morning’ from you? Or were together for longer than an elevator ride to our floor?”

You chuckle nervously. “Goodness, maybe… August? September?”

“June.” She sips her coffee before setting it down. “Are things really so busy at work that you can't spare a moment for us anymore?”

If only you knew.

“I'm sorry, ladies. Truly. But things have been picking up at the lounge, I've even had to get outside help–”

“Ah yes, the altar boy lawyer.” Leah shakes her head. “I thought you were done with him.”

“‘Done with him?’ Leah, he's my friend.”

“Oh, I recall. So good a friend that he lets you ice his bruises and clean his cuts.” She crosses her arms. “So good, he's even bringing new friends with the same scrapes to your door.”

“The other night was an emergency–”

“How long are you going to run around with that kind of crowd?” Her voice bites. “Believe me, I know my share of the nightlife. But every time you bring home some broken man, a load of trouble seems to follow.”

This is not where you saw the morning going. “I thought we were spending time together, not berating the company I keep.”

“Please don't be upset,” Caroline pleads, taking your hand from her seat on the floor. “We miss you. You haven’t been home in weeks,” she laments. “At least, not for more than a couple of hours.”

You shift in your seat but give her hand a light squeeze. “I've missed you, too.”

“Then do something about it.” Leah gets up, crossing the room to distract herself with more coffee but then doubles back to look you in the eyes.

“You know my gut is never wrong, nena. And I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't speak my mind.”

You brace yourself as she continues. “You can spend your nights hiding behind your Songbird persona and running the lounge, but don't be surprised if the cage you're building around yourself is locked from the inside.”

With that, she turns on her heel and heads back to the kitchen, leaving you and Caroline in silence.

Slowly, Caroline slides into Leah’s empty seat, her hand still on yours.

“... I always liked your stage name.”

You don’t say anything, instead letting your eyes trail through the patterns on the rug.

She scoots closer. “Leah’s just looking out for you. Like always.”

“I know, Caro.”

You feel her head rest on your shoulder. Tough love has always been Leah’s strong suit; as hard as you are on your boys, it’s bush league compared to your friend.

Caroline’s next words are low, whispered just loud enough for you to hear. “I know that man you were helping.”

You look down at her, dumbfounded. “Really? You know Jake?”

She sits up, eyes wide again. “Well, not technically. I never learned his name. But when he was leaving your apartment, I recognized his face.” Her small smile grows as she speaks. “There were days I’d stay out late after school, and I’d catch a ride from him sometimes. He’s really kind, not like some of the other cab drivers.”

Concern suddenly sweeps across her face. “Is he going to be alright?”

You think back to the morning he left your apartment: his bruises, your stitches, the blood that still stained his coat…

His hand on your hand, your face…

You don’t feel your fingers grazing the apple of your cheek until you hear Caroline giggle. Your hand drops to your lap as your face warms. “He’ll be fine. If he wised up and saw a real doctor, that is.” You shrug, reaching for your coffee.

“You care about him,” she teases.

“Oh, come off it,” you huff, nudging her leg with yours.

“And he obviously cares about you!” She squeals, lowering her voice when Leah turns her head toward the noise. “I saw him leave your apartment, but he stood there for ages, staring at your door.” Her grip on your hand grows unbearably tight. “What happened that night?”

You’ve been asking yourself the same question from the moment he left you standing in a bloodstained gown, your apartment colder without him. Since then, there hasn’t been a moment where you’ve been free from the memory of his face.

“I did him a favor. And… he may have done one for me, too.”

__________

Jake Lockley is man enough to admit when he’s been beaten.

In this case, he's absolutely won over. Head-over-heels, and at your mercy.

Maybe years from now, society adopts stricter rules for how soon you should call on a lady. Even today, some would advise against showing your hand too early. Some men wouldn’t want to seem too eager, too desperate.

But Jake Lockley is not a liar.

If “desperate” is the word for the incessant drumming in his chest each time you come to mind; if it’s what has him cutting corners and driving recklessly, ushering customers along at double the pace so his thoughts can return to you; if it’s why his palms sweat and nerves ache at the memory of your face that night, that morning… then Jake Lockley is desperate.

It’s hardly been a day and a half since he left your apartment, cold and injured. The suit stitched him back together in seconds; the only ache that remained was at the thought of you. You, who scooped him off the pavement and took pity on him. Who stained your hands with his blood to make it stop. You, who set his skin on fire with the smallest touch and had him convinced he would burn with or without it.

Screw the three day rule. He has to see you.

Hot under the collar, Jake now sits at the bar– your bar, long before normal business hours. Next to him is Matt, whose face hasn’t untwisted from the wry grin he’s had from the moment they met up.

“It’s like a jackhammer,” he chuckles into his glass, dodging Jake’s backhand swing.

“Can it, Murdock.” Jake’s hand returns to his own drink. Downing the rest, he raises his glass to the bartender. “Top me off, Mr. Manalo.”

Teddy obliges with shaking hands. He scoops up the bills Jake slides his way before dashing off. The two men had asked for privacy, and he’s determined to stay in their good graces.

Jake knocks back the new drink, swiping the excess from his lip as Matt’s laughter grows louder.

“You really need to calm down.”

“That’s what this was for,” Jake retorts, shaking his glass so the ice clinks against the edge. It’s doing him little good, though; from the moment he snuck in here that stormy night, he knew The Paper Moon as an extension of you. Even with the house lights up and nobody onstage, the lounge makes his heart race as quickly as if you were right beside him.

Matt claps a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be alright, you’ve been through worse.”

“Yeah,” Jake snorts. Matt’s quiet for a suspicious amount of time. “What’s on your mind, Murdock?”

“What’s on yours?” Telltale concern creeps into his voice. “How are things up there lately?”

Jake smirks, the expression not reaching his eyes. “Oh, you know. Loud… and quiet, in all the wrong ways.”

“Seems quieter than before.”

“Yeah?” Jake cocks an eyebrow. His mind doesn’t feel quieter, not the way it should. Khonshu’s been on his ass more often, doubling down when his thoughts dare to drift to anything besides the mission at hand. The god throwing a tantrum has become one of the few guarantees that remain.

“I mean it,” Matt reassures him. “It’s like night and day from when you returned stateside.” 

Jake stirs the ice in his glass, tempted to hop the counter and refill it himself. It takes everything in him to repress the memory of “before,” to not think of the bloody business in El-Alamein. To forget when the occupancy of his mind dropped from three to two.

“Must be the good old American soil.” His sneer drops as he considers his next words. “... or the fool of a pro bono lawyer I managed to snag.”

“Maybe,” Matt says. “Or it could be the little bird that's caught your ear.”

Before Jake can respond, a pair of footsteps cross onto the stage behind them.

He turns to see you and Mauricio, backs to the house, talking in rushed succession as you survey the stage. You’re in a blouse and trousers, your movements easy and unrehearsed despite the growing exasperation in your voice. 

“Maurie, I don't care how Leo feels the lights bounces off his new mustache wax, unless he can't follow my cues he's staying stage left. And–”

“No days off for you, are there?”

When you turn you see Jake, hat in hand and standing a few steps from the bar, as if he’d walked toward you but stopped halfway up the aisle. You can’t place the look on his face, but you're nevertheless pinned under the gaze of his now-healed eyes shining up at you.

“JAKE!” Mauricio startles you when he shouts, leaping off the stage to clasp hands with the older man.

“Hermano,” Jake chuckles, pulling him into a quick hug before letting go. “¿No te andas metiendo en problemas, eh?” 

“¿Parece que tu eres el que anda causando problemas, ey botero? ¿De dónde salió esa cicatriz?" Mauricio leans in, examining the pale line running through Jake’s eyebrow with awe.     

“Ah, just a scratch.” Jake shrugs as he brushes past him to approach the stage and offers his hand as you step down. You accept, hoping he doesn’t notice the slight tremor in your grasp.

“Leave the man alone, Maurie,” you chide, nodding your thanks and holding back a laugh. As much as Caroline fawns over you, Mauricio seems to do the same to Jake whenever their paths cross. It helps that he plays along.

As the three of you walk back to the bar, you notice Matt dial in to something and smile– far from his normal reaction. 

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you more than another drink, I have an appointment with Matthew this afternoon.” You cross over to your friend, whose smile only grows as you draw closer. But you brush it off, still focused on Jake.

“Actually,” he starts, his hand sliding into his pocket, “I was hoping to cut in on your consult time for a moment. That alright with you, doll?”

Matt clears his throat. “Mauricio, can you take me backstage? I should start unpacking this file.”

The drummer perks up. “Sure! But the band’s getting ready to play some poker… you feel like teaming up again? We can split the pot like usual.”

“Even better,” Matt grins. “Lead on.”

He gathers his portfolio and walking stick to follow. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear you could see a moment of panic flicker across Jake’s face.

It’s replaced in a flash with his usual smirk. “Sure you want to risk your pocket change, Matty?”

“If all my clients paid like you do, I'd be out of a job.” He collects himself and follows Mauricio’s footsteps, turning to Jake and mouthing “jackhammer” with a hand to his chest when he’s behind you.

Their footfalls fade and it’s just the two of you at the bar. You take a seat, drumming your fingers on the surface to soothe your nerves. Jake sits beside you.

“You look better.” You notice the scar Maurie was talking about: his former head wound is free of your haphazard stitches, instead healed into a light dash through his dark brow. “But I told you that would scar.”

He shakes his head, brushing his fingers past the spot. “I kinda like it. Gives me an edge,” he chuckles. Maybe Khonshu hadn’t healed his face the way he normally would as some sort of lesson. Joke’s on him.

“How did… I mean, you look really good, how did you recover so quickly?” Now that you’re closer, you realize there’s no sign he was hurt just two days ago. If not for his scar, you could pass that night off as some sort of dream.

“You told me to see a doctor, didn’t you? Looks like I’ve got the best one around.” 

You eye him, not sure what to think. “... yeah, alright.”

Your fingers drum the bar again. Maybe that night knocked all of Jake’s suave confidence from his head: when he’s not speaking (something you’re still not used to), he looks like a child about to lose his lunch. For all his urgency a few minutes ago, he’s taking his sweet time getting to the point.

Finally he sits up straight and takes something out of his pocket. “Here. For you, morena.”

A small black box slides toward you, stopping at your restless fingers. You raise an eyebrow quizzically, a familiar warmth spreading across your cheeks.

“A present? Didn’t take you for the ‘holly-jolly’ type.” You pick up the box, feeling its velvet casing and fighting back a smile.

“Nah, not really a Christmas guy myself. But I figured you could use a pick-me-up.” Jake crosses one arm along the bar, propping his chin in his other hand as he watches you open the box.

Inside, you see a delicate gold chain with a charm fastened to its middle: a small bird with its wings spread, intricate designs etched into its surface.

“Oh my…” You look back at Jake, who seems to have been holding his breath as you examine your gift. 

Your slowly unfolding smile is all the reward he could ask for, breathless laughter pushed from his chest with relief. “For the songbird,” he casually declares, relief mixing with pride at your reaction.

You take the necklace out and hold it to the light. “It’s beautiful,” you sigh. You undo the clasp and try to put it on yourself, but your fingers can’t seem to make it fasten.

“Allow me,” he says quickly, standing to move behind you and assist.

You feel his hands take over and drop your own in your lap. His knuckles brush the back of your neck and it takes everything in you not to shiver. The smell of smoke and spice dances on your senses, pulled away all too soon when he moves to stand in front of you.

“There,” he breathes, eyes going from the pendant draped below your collar to your eyes. “Looks perfect.”

Your fingers grasp the cool metal as you nod. “Looks perfect.” 

Silence falls again. You’ve come to hate the sound of nothing when you’re with him.

Jake’s the first to break it. He sits back down, his next words like a punch to the gut. “You know, now that I’m not driving Wesley around… I won’t have to take up space at your back table anymore.”

“Oh. No, I suppose not.” You toy with the charm around your neck. “So is this… goodbye?”

“That depends,” he says cautiously.  He turns to you, eyes swimming with the same unfamiliar mix of emotions from before. “Do you want it to be?”

Your fingers leave your neck as you meet his gaze. “Don't say you're going all soft on me, cabbie.”

“What if I was?” He leans forward, and for the first time you don't back away.

“Cards on the table: I haven't stopped thinking about you.”

That makes two of us. You bite your tongue to let him continue.

“Morena… would you ever want to get out of here? Just you and me, call it a truce or a… a date.” A smile plays on his lips before his brow creases. “I won't badger you after today, just… one way or another, put me out of my misery.”

The wings of the charm feel heavier with the weight of his confession. Hand to your heart, you feel the bird again, this time with Leah's warning running through your mind.

“I suppose a truce wouldn't hurt.”

When he smiles, wider than ever, you see the charming gap in his teeth. And you smile, too.  You both laugh, the heated stress in your nerves turning to effervescent relief.

You could spend an hour like this. But when you hear shouts of frustration and a bilingual litany of choice words echo from backstage, you know you have to go put out a different fire.

“I should make sure Matthew isn't in trouble,” you sigh, standing to straighten yourself.

“If I know Matt, he's the one causing the trouble.” Jake stands with you, desperate for this moment not to end but anxious for your next answer. “So when can we–”

“Sunday night,” you cut him off, starting to back away toward the stage. “I'll figure out how to slip away, but meet me under the sign at 9.”

You move to rush toward the stage at another outburst, but Jake's hand catches yours yet again.

“You can't keep doing that,” you groan, yet with a smile still on your lips as he tugs you back toward him.

“You're the boss,” he hums, pressing his lips to the back of your hand– the gesture all too routine, but you're ready to admit you've missed it.

He releases your hand and dons his cap, tipping it to you. You laugh again, a rich and easy sound he'd never tire of hearing. You bow slightly and dash backstage, with Jake's voice calling to you as you leave.

“See you Sunday, Songbird."

__________

“¿No te andas metiendo en problemas, eh?” - Not getting yourself into any problems, eh?

“¿Parece que tu eres el que anda causando problemas, ey botero? ¿De dónde salió esa cicatriz?" - Seems like you’re the one causing troubles, hey cabbie? Where did that scar come from?

note: in-universe Jake is Guatemalan and Mauricio is Cuban; as a non-spanish speaker, please let me know how i can improve in the future!

A/N: i've missed these two!! this chapter was a doozy but i'm so happy to have gotten back on track. i won't say PPP is on hiatus (we never had a promised release schedule) but after i take a wee break from writing, i'm set on finishing my Moon Knight Bingo prompts before 4/30 + starting on my OI fanzine entries (!!! exciting times). but if inspiration strikes before i finish, i certainly won't complain.

ty for reading!!

tag list: @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @mercurysjoy, @importantnightwerewolf, @cupidysm, @queerponcho, @nerdieforpedro, @fandxmslxt69, @shadystarlightgentlemen, @lunar-ghoulie, @casa-boiardi (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)

[god-blog]

Ok, idea that I'm really excited about

Everyone is always talking abt an in-person temple for pagans but what if instead of a temple-temple, there was a museum-temple?

Hear me out bc I think this would be really cool.

Things the temple-museum would have:

Permanent exhibits including:

Outside land art similar to Sun Tunnels by Nancy Holt that line up with the solstices/constellations

Inside sky art for meditating similar to Skyspace by James Turrell (PLS look this one up, it's so pretty. The picture in the article doesn't do it justice)

A wall of prayers/manifestations/affirmations. Visitors write them on a post it or note card and pin it to the wall to make a collaborative exhibition like Post Secret at the Museum of Us

A small gallery with general overviews of popular pagan pantheons: Hellenic, Celtic, etc. This will include artifacts from those time periods either depicting the deities or how people worshiped them

A small gallery with historical witchcraft artifacts. This will include medieval European poppets, Copic love spell manuscripts, Chinese oracle bones, etc.

Rotating temporary exhibits including:

Witch trials from around the world (1400-present, bc they do still happen)

Paleolithic cultures: Venus of Wellendorf, Stonehenge, Cave paintings/music, the Lion-man ivory, etc

Did Christianity Steal From Paganism: yes… no… it’s complicated (basically the overlap between early Christianity and Roman paganism) This will include villa mosaics, sarcophaguses, layouts of early churches, etc

The Rise of Modern Occultism: Hilma af Klint, Carl Jung, surrealism, spiritualism, Wicca, etc

A series of exhibits celebrating closed practices: different indigenous religions, Voodoo, Hoodoo, etc (Very important: these will not be teaching those crafts, just giving them the same public platform/attention as open practices. Key word here is "celebrating." People who practice in those closed communities will be consulted)

How paganism is incorporated into Abrahamic religions: Judaism and paganism, Catholicism and paganism, etc (People who practice in those communities will be consulted)

Modern witchcraft, good or bad? So that would be New Age, the rise of consumerism, witchtok, etc

More in-depth focuses on different pantheons: Celtic, Slavic, Mesopotamian, Hellenic, etc

Historical witchcraft accusations and race: Mary Lewis, the New York City Panic of 1741, Ann Glover, etc

Regular people's (like you!) devotional art. The public will be encouraged to donate/create devotional art pieces. Be that visual media, performance art, video art, music, sculpture, photography, writing, etc. It'll really highlight all the different ways people are worshiping, the diversity in deities being worshiped, and how big our community is

An auditorium. This would be for concerts, festivals/ceremonies that are done inside, and guest speakers. Guest speakers would include academics like Malcolm Gaskill (English historian and author), Katherine Howe (American author), etc. as well as big name practicing witches/pagans.

A garden. I haven’t decided yet what kind but I’m debating between a rooftop garden like the MET, one behind the building but open to visitors, or an atrium like medieval European cloisters/monasteries (bc I love those). The garden would be for meditating, connecting to nature/the gods, feeding pollinators, protecting "creepy" insects like spiders or burrowing bugs (bug hotel?), and potentially -depending on what type of garden it is- housing wild birds in bird houses or bats in bat boxes. Also, it could be a good place for festivals/ceremonies that are done outside, concerts, or general get-togethers like altar piece swaps!

And an altar/worship space. Obviously. It wouldn't be a temple without it. I'm thinking it would be mostly a big empty room with chairs and rugs scattered about and an alcove in one wall for the altar. Inside the alcove will mostly be nonspecific religious objects like candles, nice fabrics, flowers, incense, etc . Visitors will be encouraged to bring their own small personal devotional tools (except candles/incense for fire safety reasons). That way they can pray to, appreciate, and connect to their own gods and the main altar doesn't leave anybody out; the main altar is more for ambience than specific worship.

Giftshop? I'm not sure about this one yet bc it feels wrong to have a gift shop in a temple, but most museums, even small ones, have gift shops. It could have fresh herbs from the garden, candles, and local artists' art like prints, stickers, jewelry, etc. All at a reasonable price ofc (I hate overpriced museum giftshops more than anything else in the world... except overpriced museum tickets)

In terms of funding, museums get more government funding than churches, but they do have to pay taxes churches don't. I was thinking of generally modeling it after the Museum of Us in San Deigo; they let their employees pick the holidays they take off so they can each adhere to their personal religious practice, start paying them at $22 an hour with built in raises each year, and good insurance. They have done an amazing job, way better than any big museum, at collaborating with communities from all over the world to either give back artifacts in their collections or closely work with them to reframe how the artifact is presented/stored. They also don't charge for tickets, memberships, school trips, or basically anything except the giftshop. But that means they rely heavily on donations which may not work as well for a museum that's just starting out. Idk, this is all hypothetical rn.

The pillars the museum-temple would stand on are worship, education, and community.

I feel like teaching people about the history of these practices is super important and isn't smth that everybody bothers to learn or has correct information about. (And I'm a huge history/museum nerd if you can't tell lol)

I'm actually really excited about this lol

[monstersinthecosmos]

okay I think we should take inventory of what we learned about Marius's house.

In fact, the impression was one of comfortable messiness.

(i think the tiktok kids started calling ADHD clutter clustering or something LMAO marius de romanus cluster girlie i guess. thanks i hate it)

Here's some stuff that Marius had on his island!!!!!!!

stone benches

a lighted oil lamp on a stand

a pair of heavy wooden doors

a sarcophagus with a plain lid, cleanly fashioned out of diorite

The lid plated in iron and contained

a golden mask, its features carefully molded, attached to a hood made up of layered plates of hammered gold.

a pair of leather gloves covered completely in tinier more delicate gold plates like scales.

a large folded blanket of the softest red wool with one side sewn with larger gold plates

Magnificent Grecian urns on pedestals in the corridors

great bronze statues from the Orient

exquisite plants at every window and terrace open to the sky.

Gorgeous rugs from India, Persia, China c

giant stuffed beasts mounted in lifelike attitudes-

--the brown bear,

--the lion,

--the tiger,

--even the elephant standing in his own immense chamber,

--lizards as big as dragons,

--birds of prey clutching dried branches made to look like the limbs of real trees.

brilliantly colored murals covering every surface from floor to ceiling

a dark vibrant painting of the sunburnt Arabian desert complete with an exquisitely detailed caravan of camels and turbaned merchants moving over the sand

a jungle warming with delicately rendered tropical blossoms, vines, carefully drawn leaves

creatures everywhere in the texture of the jungle-

--insects,

--birds,

--worms in the soil-

too many monkeys in the jungle,

too many bugs crawling on the leaves.

thousands of tiny insects in one painting of a summer sky.

a large gallery walled on either side by painted men and women staring at me

Figures from all ages these were-

--bedouins,

--Egyptians,

--Greeks and Romans,

--knights in armor,

--peasants

--kings

--queens.

--Renaissance people in doublets and leggings,

--the Sun King with his massive mane of curls,

--people of our own age.

droplets of water clinging to a cape,

the cut on the side of a face,

the spider half-crushed beneath a polished leather boot.

a library, blazing with light.

Walls and walls of books and

rolled manuscripts,

giant glistening world globes in their wooden cradles,

busts of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses,

great sprawling maps.

Newspapers in all languages lay in stacks on tables.

Fossils,

mummified hands,

exotic shells.

bouquets of dried flowers,

figurines and fragments of old sculpture,

alabaster jars covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

comfortable chairs with footstools,

candelabra or oil lamps.

a forest of cages.

birds of all sizes and colors

monkeys

baboons,

Potted plants crowded against the cages-

--ferns and

--banana trees,

--cabbage roses,

--moonflower,

--jasmine,

--other sweetly fragrant nighttime vines.

purple and white orchids,

waxed flowers that trapped insects in their maw,

little trees groaning with peaches and lemons and pears.

a hall of sculptures equal to any gallery in the Vatican museum.

adjoining chambers full of paintings,

Oriental furnishings,

mechanical toys.

fine rosewood paneling with framed mirrors rising to the ceiling.

painted chests,

upholstered chairs,

dark and lush landscapes,

porcelain clocks.

A small collection of books in the glass-doored bookcases,

a newspaper of recent date lying on a small table beside a brocaded winged chair.

the stone terrace. where banks of white lilies and red roses gave off their powerful perfume.

a pair of winged chairs that faced each other

a dozen or so candelabra and sconces on the paneled walls.

brocade cushions

[simstorian-blog]

Darby’s Den

(CC List + Links)

World Map: Britechester

Area: University of Britechester

Lot Size:  30 x 20

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Needed

Expansion Packs

Cats & Dogs

Cottage Living

Discover University

For Rent

Get Famous

Get Together

High School Years

Island Living

Game Packs

Dine Out

Parenthood

Vampires

Spa Day

Game Packs

Laundry Day Stuff

Build Mode

Felixandre

Chateau Pt. 2 (Fiddle Leaf, Frame 2 Medium, Interior Doors Tall, Single Door, Stairs + Landings)

Colonial Pt. 3 (Column 1, Fences, Railing, Spandrel 1)

December 2017 (Door 1)

July 2018/2017

London Exterior (Balcony, Column 5m, Pilar 9m)

Paris Pt. 1 (Stone Block)

Paris Pt. 3 (Panelling)

Petit Trianon (Pediment 1)

Schwerin (Window 1)

Versailles (Niche)

Kta

Ceiling Tile 3

Lili’s Palace

Jugendstil (Floor Tiles)

Pierisim

Winter Garden (Roofing)

Buy Mode

CharlyPancakes

The Lighthouse Collection (Books)

Felixandre

Berlin Pt. 1 (Curtain Medium)

Chateau Pt. 5

Chateau Pt. 7 (Bedside Table, Drawer, Ottoman, Silk Rugs, Table Lamp)

Gothic Revival (Fireplace 2)

Schwerin (Chandelier 2 & 3, Chandelier Wall)

Harlix

Orjanic Pt. 2 (Curtains Medium, Cushion 2, Rug, Table Lamp)

Harrie

Coastal Pt. 8 (Roman Blinds- 2 Tile)

Heritage Pt. 2 (Landscape Artwork, Mirror, Portrait Artwork)

Max20

Happily Ever After (Chair Velour)

Peacemaker

Kitayama Living (Encyclopedias)

Hinterlands Living (Square Coffee Tray Table)

Pierisim

MCM Pt. 3 (Narrow Rug Long)

MCM Pt. 4 (Kitchen Counters Island)

Woodland Ranch Pt. 3 (Linen Armchair)

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

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