#french flea markets

[oldfarmhouse]

s://instagram.com/amy_brocantellving

[meirimerens]

IT'S ALL GOING TO BE OKAY. AFFIRM !

[postcard-from-the-past]

Flea market in Saint-Brieuc, Brittany region of France

French vintage postcard

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

♡ Little things I've done to mark Edwige's birthday ♡

♡ got up in the late morning (she had a rule -- once she was able to afford it, ofc -- where she didn't answer calls before 11am because she would go to sleep late and would then stay in bed till late morning. Also she just hated getting up early. Girl, same :P)

♡ listened to a reading by Edwige <3

♡ walked to the theatre (she apparently would only ever walk to the theatre when she was going to be on stage; she never took other forms of transport)

♡ attended a show at the theatre (fairly obvious from my previous point lol -- it was ballet but hey it was the only thing on today okay so i hope she liked ballet -- I enjoyed myself regardless)

♡ wore a nice outfit because she was a style queen

♡ expanding on my previous point, specifically wore high heels (my awesome burgundy cunty ones) because she liked wearing high heels (though perhaps not as high as the ones I was wearing but shhh)

♡ watched a film she starred in (i was planning on watching L'Aigle but changed my mind last minute and watched a comedy instead bc I needed something more lighthearted)

♡ drank a glass of red wine (French, naturally) in her name (okay, more than one glass, but I do small measurements)

♡ listened to some songs she enjoyed

[♡ bonus: i was also planning to smoke a cigarette in her honour too but it's late-ish now and idk if i want to go outside and smoke - I might have to smoke tomorrow instead (also tbh it's not exactly healthy so probably for the best)]

[dancuny]

Early M.I.O.M. Camera

This blog is a journey into the world of a camera I stumbled upon during our European escapade last year. Whenever we venture to a new destination, I make it a point to unearth the local flea markets, a treasure trove of unique cameras and photo items that are often elusive in the US. The thrill of discovering these items, especially being on the West Coast, where European finds are a rarity, is an experience in itself. 

 One of my favorite flea markets was just outside Prague, and my wife and I went to it. It was in an industrial area, and we took the train to get to it, but it wasn't so much the cameras and photo items found as the atmosphere of the place that made it memorable. I did find some great cameras there, too, that are harder to find on the West Coast of the US.

 While in Brussels, my wife and I went to a flea market in a square or small park in town. There were about 40-50 vendors there. Most of the items were in boxes with many other items, so you needed to rummage through a lot of items to find what you were looking for. I didn't have much time to look as my wife was under the weather, and it would start to rain later in the morning. I picked up a few Rollei parts for a reasonable and fair price along with this MIOM compact bakelite camera, for which I paid 1-2 euros.

The Company:

Let's delve into the intriguing history of MIOM, a brand that has left an indelible mark on the world of photography. The journey of MIOM begins in 1887 with architect Félicien César and engineer Fabius Henrion, who founded the local lighting distribution company: 'Fabius Henrion et Cie,' with a capital of 100,000 francs in the Nancy and Lorraine region. Despite facing numerous challenges, the company's legacy was preserved when it was acquired by the CGE, Compagnie Générale d'Électricité (General Electric Company), in 1898.

 MIOM, an acronym for Manufacture d'Isolants et Objets Moulés, (Manufacture of Insulators and Molded Objects) was a subsidiary of the Compagnie Générale d'Électricité (General Electric Company) which started in 1929. As the MIOM name suggests, It was created to produce electrical components for the company. 

 As photography grew during this time, MIOM created a photographic department in 1937 that molded simple cameras in "Cégéite," which was similar to what we now call bakelite. The name derived from the name of the parent company: the Compagnie Générale d'Électricité.

MIOM's early cameras were very similar to the model I have. They were very flat in appearance and used 127 film to produce 6x4.5cm negatives. Some of the other early models were the Rex and Lec Junior. I believe the model I have is only known as the MIOM, which is printed on the back. There is no camera name produced on the camera like the REX or other cameras of that time.

Then, in 1938, the cameras took on a different appearance, resembling the Czechoslovakian Pyonyr cameras, designed by Fritz Kaftanski, who had recently moved to France to get away from the war problems taken on within that region during the late 1930s. It's suspected that Fritz Kaftanski was involved in the design of the newer Photax camera.

 The Photax cameras had a larger negative area, used 620-size film, and produced 6x9cm negatives. The Photax design had a lens that rotated out from the body on a helical and included a very simple shutter that only worked when the lens was in the extended position.

This new system was beneficial to amateur photographers at the time. It prevented the camera from accidentally taking a photo if the lens was retracted. The new Photax camera also included lenses from Boyer, a French optical company that produced wonderful optics.

 Photax cameras were the best-selling cameras in France for 20 years and produced cameras well into the 1960s, with the Photax VI released in 1966. However, like many European camera manufacturers of the era, MIOM faced significant challenges in the 1960s with the rise of Japanese brands such as Nikon, Canon, and Minolta.  

 Today, MIOM's legacy lives on in the vintage camera market, where its models are sought after for their distinctive design and the quality of their optical systems. The story of MIOM reminds us of a golden age in photography when craftsmanship and innovation defined the industry.

My Camera:

This description should be straightforward and short, as this camera is simple without many bells or whistles. However, its simplicity and unique design make it a valuable addition to any vintage camera collection.

 My MIOM camera is 3.5" tall, including the viewfinder, by 5.5" wide, including the strap lugs, and 3" deep, weighing 9.4oz. It is very lightweight and compact. On the front of the camera, there are two shutter options. These settings are on the top and bottom of the 60mm Rexor lens, serial number 3147, on the camera. The camera has a crinkle finish within the acrylic, which makes the gripping easy and somewhat drop proof.

Above the lens are your shutter settings: "I" for instant, which has a shutter speed of approximately 1/50 sec., or "P" (B) for timed photos. Below the lens are two options for aperture settings. Looking online at other information on the Photax camera, the settings are 1 (Grand Diaphragme) for f16 or 2 (Petite Diaphragme) for f22. The words in the paratheses are written inside the camera's back door.

There is no latch or lock to hold the back onto the camera to load the MIOM camera with film. The back is held onto the camera's body with friction, and the back fits snuggly onto the camera's body. On either side of the camera are a couple of protrusions. I put my fingernail in between these nubs and pull, and the back will pull away from the body. You must do this on both sides so as not to crack the plastic and render the camera useless.

Once you get the back off the camera, I notice there are two red dots on the protruding nubs, which indicate which side fits together. The camera winds to the left, so you put the empty spool from the previous 127 rolls from the right side to the left and put the fresh roll of 127 films into the right side. Break the tape on the roll and bring the leader to the empty spool. Thread the leader into the spool slots and wind the film a few turns to ensure the film is lining up on the spool or until you see the arrows on the paper backing pointing outwards. Once you reach this point, it's time to put the back onto the camera. Once the back is on the camera, wind the film until you see the number 1 in the red window. Now you're ready to take the first photo.

 Once you take the photo and wind to the next frame, you'll get eight exposures on each roll of 127 film. Now that all the frames are taken, it's time to take the back off the camera and process your film.

My Results:

For total transparency, I had three rolls of older VP 127 film in my drawer. One roll's expiration date was June 1971. That roll went through the camera fine, but when I rolled the film onto the developing reel, something went array, and the film didn't process correctly. I loaded one of the other two rolls I had left, dated Sep.1968. This roll got jammed within the camera, so I'm unsure if I didn't load it properly or, due to the age of the film, it broke, but the film was very crinkled when I went to process it, and none of the images came out.

 It was an operator malfunction, and I didn't load it properly. Five rolls of film are arriving today from one of my favorite camera stores, Glazer’s Camera, in Seattle, WA, so I'd like to take the film, process it, and scan the images today.

I received the film, loaded the camera, walked through the neighborhood, and took images. Luckily, this roll turned out, and you can see the results below.

My Conclusion.

I'm writing this portion of my conclusion before I have images from the camera, so at this point. In contrast, the camera is compact, and an earlier version of the MIOM cameras made, the film issues have made the experience somewhat frustrating. Once I get the images, I'll complete my conclusion and give you an honest assessment of the camera.

The images confirmed my suspicions. The camera was made to put cameras in the masses hands and for them to go and take photos of friends, family, and memorable moments. This camera did a decent job for a camera almost 90 years old. The plastics are rugged and on my camera, I’m missing the rear viewfinder glass so it was a bit more difficult to fame the images, but overall a decent camera.

 Thank you for taking a few minutes from your day to read about this early version of the MIOM cameras.

 Until next week, please be safe.

[lakecoded]

7 and 12!

7. is there a series/book that got you into reading?

i can't think of anything specific??? i've always loved reading and tore through all the magic tree house/junie b jones/fairy books i could get my hands on when i was little so maybe those??

12. did you enjoy any compulsory high school readings?

i liked king lear when we read it in grade 12 english and i really loved the wars by timothy findlay when we read it (also grade 12). also we read ru by kim thuy i think in grade 11 french class?? and i really enjoyed that one

[immoral-stranger]

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 // 𝐌𝐕𝟏

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒. 🪐 “I like to stick to walls. Observing conversations, lifting them when they fall.” – Foster the People, Fire Escape.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Word count: 5k

Warnings: There's a dinner party and reader is a chef, so a lot of talk about food. Reader is also very self-deprecating. Allusions to issues regarding mental health and self-worth, but it's not really the main story. It makes sense, I promise, I just don't know how to warn about it.

A/N: My sister requested this after we watched the movie Sommartider (very swedish), so there's a similar scene in that. I personally find this one very cute. ♡

The apartment smelled of butter and garlic, the scent clinging to the sun-warm kitchen, filled with light that spilled through the sheer linen curtains. It was small but charming, a snug little nest tucked into the hills of the French Riviera, not too far from Nice. You stood at the counter, hands damp from having peeled potatoes, a half-prepared gratin tray in front of you. It had been a gift from your parents, a fittingly named Marseille bleu Le Creuset roasting pan. You would’ve never bought it for yourself—too expensive—but as a gift, you’d been thankful to receive it. 

“Did you decant the wine like I told you?” Imogen’s voice drifted from the other room, where she was preening in front of the gilded mirror you’d picked up at a flea market. It wasn’t her style—too rustic, too worn—but she’d said it added “charm” to your place, always opting for a backhanded compliment instead of the truth. She hated your style because it was the opposite of hers. 

You didn’t look up from your work. “No, uhm—”

“Kinda busy,” she interrupted, breezing in. Imogen always moved like she was on a runway, even barefoot in her sister’s modest kitchen. Her hair was swept into a sleek bun, and she wore a silk blouse that you suspected cost more than your entire apartment deposit. Sponsored, most definitely. She paused to eye the tray in front of you. “What even is that?”

“The base to dauphinoise potatoes,” you said, flicking a glance at her. She didn’t care about the answer; she never did. Imogen asked questions to fill the air, not to gather information. You also suspected that she loved the sound of her own voice so much that she never felt the need to shut the fuck up. 

She wrinkled her nose, but it was half-hearted, like a habit she wasn’t willing to break. “I still can’t believe you do this out of pure enjoyment.”

You shrugged, lifting a knife to thinly slice another potato. “Everyone needs to eat, Imogen.”

“Yeah, that’s what Uber Eats is for,” she said breezily, perching on one of your barstools. “No need to go to culinary school.”

You turned to give her a pointed look, hand on your hip. “And who do you think works in the kitchens at the restaurants you order from?”

Imogen made a face, part exasperated and part amused, and waved you off. “You do not always have to poke holes in other people’s logic. It’s an unattractive trait.”

Before you could respond, the sharp trill of the doorbell cut through the room. Imogen’s eyes widened, and she hopped off the stool in a single fluid motion. “Oh god, that’s them—” She smoothed her blouse and gave herself a quick glance in the reflection of a hanging copper pot. “Do I look good?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but your voice softened in spite of yourself. “You always do. It’s your job.” 

As Imogen floated toward the door, a knot of tension twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy—it never had been. It was more complicated than that: a mix of frustration and yearning that you didn’t want to untangle. Imogen walked through life as though she owned the air around her, while you had spent most of yours holding your breath. 

She pulled the door open with a practiced flourish, stepping aside to let Daniel stroll in first. His confidence and laughter preceded him, a quick kiss placed on Imogen’s cheek, and she giggled in a way that made you want to hurl. 

Daniel moved with the kind of ease that made it impossible to tell if he was posing or simply existing. Former Formula 1 driver, now Imogen’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, who appeared far more interested in globetrotting and sponsorships than in anything truly meaningful with her. With a bit of self-distance, you actually really enjoyed Daniel’s presence. He was funny and kind, even though you had nothing in common. 

“Danny, always good to see you,” you said, managing a polite smile as he stepped into the kitchen, lifting your attention from the food preparations. 

“Whatever it is you’re cooking smells wonderful,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “This is Max,” Danny added, stepping aside to reveal the man behind him. 

Through a gap, you could spot Imogen in the entryway, observing your reaction and how you greeted the both of them. It was almost like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or, worse—embarrass her. You, of course, knew who she had invited over for dinner. You’d had to sit through hours worth of gossip all the times you and Imogen caught up on each other’s lives. So, having two world-famous athletes stand in your kitchen wasn’t as surreal as it may sound. 

Max was taller than you’d expected, his broad shoulders and quiet presence making the doorway seem smaller. Clad in a simple black t-shirt, he seemed like any other guy your age. He looked relaxed but not indifferent, his gaze curious as he took in your modest apartment.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the rising amusement. “Danny, I don’t know if it’s funny or offensive that you think I don’t know who he is.” 

They both chuckled slightly at your words, and it was like you could see how tension released from Imogen’s shoulders, instantly becoming a couple centimeters shorter. 

“I would shake your hand, Max, but I have oil all over mine,” you said, holding up your slick fingers as evidence, before returning to the food, dealing with a marinated cut of meat. 

“Right,” Danny said, clapping Max on the shoulder and steering him further into the room. “She’s got this whole culinary genius thing going on, doesn’t she? Always smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”

“Not exactly,” you said, though the compliment made your cheeks feel warm. You glanced up at Max, who was still watching you, his smile small but genuine.

“Well, don’t let us interrupt your masterpiece,” Imogen said airily. “We’ll stay out of your way. You’ve got this under control, right?”

You only nodded, turning back to the food. It wasn’t until you heard Imogen’s laughter trailing into the living room that you allowed yourself to relax. There was a faint comfort in being in your element, even if you weren’t entirely alone.

In the background, you heard them talk as Imogen poured up glasses of wine for everyone. The wine she had forgotten to decant—that you knew needed air to taste decent. You heard her talk about the wine like it was something special. You, however, knew that she had stolen all of her knowledge from when she shot an ad for a winery somewhere in South Africa, and it didn’t particularly look like either Max or Danny cared that much. Ironic, for someone who had their own wine company, but you also got tired of hearing Imogen talk about things she didn’t really care enough about to research but talked about anyway to seem interesting. 

As she poured the fourth and final glass, you saw Max pick up two of them in your periphery. You tried to not visibly tense up as you heard his steps approach across your creaking wooden floors. He set both the glasses down on your kitchen island with a careful clink. 

With a wordless nod, you thanked him, picking one of the glasses up and swiveling the red liquid around to aerate it. 

Max lingered near the counter, his hands tucked into his pockets as he studied the array of ingredients you had spread out around you. “Is that you?” he asked, nodding toward a framed photo on the wall. 

It was one of the few remnants of your short-lived modeling career—an editorial shot of you, disturbingly close up, showing skin texture and flyaway hairs, vivid watercolour-like makeup in patches around your face and neck. You didn’t even look like yourself in it, which maybe was why it was the only photo of yourself you could bear seeing every day as you spent time in your kitchen. 

“Totally narcissistic, I know,” you snorted, keeping your eyes on the frying pan sizzling on the stove. 

“No, uhm, I didn’t mean it like that.” Max’s tone softened. “I think it looks cool. You must model too then?” 

“Nope.” You shook your head, glancing up at him, surprised by his sincerity. “I mean, I tried to, but I quit a while ago and went to culinary school.”

“That explains all this.” Max said, gesturing to the kitchen.

“I may have gone overboard,” you admitted, laughing softly. 

Imogen, perched on the edge of the sofa like a cat surveying her domain, twirled a lock of her hair idly before cutting in smoothly. “Is she boring you with her food talk, Max?” Her voice had that lilting quality you recognized well—equal parts teasing and dismissive, designed to simultaneously charm and belittle.

You stiffened instinctively, your movements freezing, spatula scraping the bottom of the pan. 

Max, however, straightened slightly, his casual stance shifting. “Not at all,” he replied, his tone easy but resolute, as if dismissing her suggestion entirely. Then he turned toward you. “Actually…” He hesitated, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, probably not,” you said, trying to recover from sounding too surprised. “Imogen always says that I’m like a dictator in the kitchen and that my recipes are unreadable.” 

Max stepped closer, peering down at your notebook with recipes, pages filled with messy handwriting, arrows, and scratchy diagrams. “No, I get it. It’s like a mind map. Makes it easier to see the process,” he said after a moment. “Even if I don’t know what half of these things mean. What even is… a wild turkey?” 

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised that he could make sense of your ramblings. Looking over, you saw his finger point to one ingredient. You let out an unguarded laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “It’s bourbon, for the marinade,” you explained. “Does this look like turkey meat to you?”

The meat sizzling in the frying pan was obviously some cut of beef, to judge by the colour. You didn’t need to be a culinary expert to know that. 

“No,” Max admitted with a grin. “And it would be weird to measure meat in tablespoons.” 

Your lips quirked upward, and you reached for a pear from the fruit bowl beside you, along with a cutting board and a little knife. You were hesitant to give him one of your good knives, worried he’d cut himself the first thing he did. It was quite common for people to do when they were unfamiliar with the sharpness a chef’s knife could have. 

“I guess you can chop that pear in little cubes, if you want to help.” 

Max took the pear from you, turning it over in his hands as if he were inspecting some foreign object. “A pear?” 

“It’s for the salad,” you explained, already turning back to your own task. 

“You can put pear in a salad?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a pear since I was about seven.” 

You arched a brow, glancing at him over your shoulder to see that he was fully sincere. With swift movements, you took the knife and cut a slice of the pear before dipping it into a vinaigrette you’d already prepared. 

“Try it, for science,” you said, holding it up for him to taste. 

Max hesitated before taking a small bite, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed. Then he nodded, his expression lightening. “Huh, you know what you’re doing.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you dismissed his comment, turning to look at the stove again. 

Max chuckled in response, shaking his head. He then stepped closer to the counter as he grabbed a knife. His movements were unpracticed but deliberate, the pear wobbling slightly as he began chopping it into uneven pieces. You felt the familiar itch of not being in control, almost taking over your own movements. But, you stopped thinking for a moment. Dinner wouldn’t be ruined just because the pear wasn’t in perfect cubes. And Max was actually putting in effort, biting down on his tongue, a line forming between his brows as he focused.

“Are you always this much of a perfectionist,” you asked, viewing his motions, “or are you just showing off in front of me?” 

“I’ve never put this much brain capacity into anything before,” Max joked, adding a laugh as he examined one of the misshapen pear cubes. 

For a moment, the kitchen fell into an easy rhythm. Imogen and Danny’s laughter floated in from the other room, a sharp contrast to the quiet concentration shared between you and Max. You didn’t usually let anyone help in the kitchen—it was your sanctuary, your domain—but for some reason, with Max fumbling his way through chopping fruit and throwing curious questions your way, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. 

When the food was done, the four of you gathered around your dining table, decorated with pottery and plates that you had collected throughout the years. Nothing matched, just like you preferred it. The golden hour crept through the windows as the room filled with light from the sun and flickering candles. 

And the dinner went fine, just like it always did, even though you couldn’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario of accidentally poisoning someone, or forgetting an allergy, maybe dropping the main dish right on the floor. Your sister and her company ate like they enjoyed it at least. The added blur of wine helping with the atmosphere. 

You were always the most quiet one in group settings, only speaking when spoken to, really. But you liked it that way. The stories Max and Daniel could tell from their lives were vastly more interesting than anything you had experienced anyway. Imogen too lived a more eventful life with fashion weeks and world travelling. Everyone seemed to like it that way too, the scrape of forks against plates punctuating Danny’s latest story. 

“…and when I finally got the bloody thing out of the house, the neighbour’s dog chased it straight back in,” Danny concluded, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. Imogen giggled, dabbing her lips with a napkin in that poised way of hers.

Max chuckled but shifted his gaze to you, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “So, how did you end up going from modeling to cooking?” He asked, after Danny was done telling the detailed story about a snake entering his house back home in Australia. 

You didn’t realise for how long you’d been quiet until you were now forced to speak, your voice sounding foreign to even your own ears. Setting your fork down, you answered, “I gave myself one last runway season to see if I could support myself. I walked three shows, while Imogen walked like thirty.”

“Thirty-two,” Imogen corrected, not missing a beat. She reached for her wine glass, taking a delicate sip before adding, “I’ll always believe you could’ve done it if you didn’t give up so easily.” Her tone was light but pointed. 

Your lips tightened. “I didn’t give up, Imogen—I moved on.” 

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” she said with a faint shrug. “You never see yourself as anything special, always such a plain Jane.” 

The words settled heavily in the air, their weight pressing against your chest. For a brief moment, the table fell silent, the only sound the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. You forced yourself to maintain an even expression as you reached for your glass of water. 

“It’s kind of hard to when you’re having dinner with three child prodigies,” you answered, letting out a pathetic laugh to conceal your emotions. 

For someone who was so afraid of you embarrassing her, Imogen really had no issue with her own words causing embarrassment for others. 

Max frowned slightly, his hands stilling as he turned toward you. “I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with something else—discomfort, perhaps.

“Yeah, right,” Danny said, nudging Max with an elbow. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, mate. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Max smiled faintly but didn’t reply. There was a softness in his expression that made your stomach twist, though you quickly moved your gaze to look at your plate; the uneven shapes of pear in the salad were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 

The conversation shifted, as it always did with Imogen, back to her. Something about a designer or a photographer saying she was the best model to work with. Something about a socialite event where ridiculous things had happened. Ridiculous meaning stupidly expensive or over the top. You wanted to laugh, knowing that they most likely didn’t use the real thing for the crazy champagne fountains she talked about, or that the sturgeon caviar they had served was a cheap knock-off, because no chef in their right mind would use the amount she mentioned. 

You zoned out as she talked, only starting to pay attention again when the conversation drifted towards what they were doing tonight and that they might need to call a cab soon. 

“Oh, where are you going?” you asked, unsure if you actually cared. 

“A sponsored event on a yacht in the marina. You know the jewelry company I did an ad for?” she replied casually, her tone almost bored.

You nodded, though the familiar ache of exclusion began to settle in your chest. You knew the exact advert she was referring to, not because you cared, but because those freaking pictures of her were everywhere. In stores, on every social media app, on digital billboards across multiple cities of the French Riviera—hell, you’d even seen it at a bus stop. 

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to come,” she added. The statement wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same. “You never do.” 

Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass as you gave a small nod, keeping your face neutral. “No, I guess you’re right.” 

Max hesitated, glancing between you and Imogen. “I mean, she could come if she wanted to, right?”

“Yeah,” Imogen said, tilting her head as though the idea had never occurred to her. “I guess I could make a call to get you on the list.” 

“Don’t bother, you know it’s not my scene anyway,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you intended.

Danny grinned, leaning back in his chair. “A wild night for her is solving a crossword puzzle with a pen you can’t erase.” 

“Or,” Imogen added with a smirk, her eyes glinting with mischief, “when she’s brave enough, watching an episode of Criminal Minds instead of Friends like she usually does.”

Their laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls with the kind of ease you’d never quite mastered. It wasn’t malicious—at least not intentionally—but it still left a weight in your chest, heavy and familiar.

You kept your head down, pushing the last bit of salad around your plate, and told yourself you didn’t care. This was the dynamic, after all. Imogen had always been the star of the show, and Danny loved playing her supporting act. You had other friends who understood you better, who you had more in common with. Max, though—Max had been a surprise. And even now, as their laughter rang on, you caught him glancing at you from across the table, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

The dinner ended not long after. They had places to be, important people to talk to—while you had sitcoms to watch and dishes to take care of. You were happy to see Imogen every once in a while when she and Danny were both in Monaco, and you loved cooking for people, no matter who they were. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little happy knowing that Imogen was busy with work all throughout the upcoming month. 

As they filtered out, their voices trailing off into the warm Riviera night, the apartment felt suddenly too quiet. Locking the door after them, you slid down onto the floor, sitting with your knees tucked up towards your body, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hands, not caring if mascara crumbled all over your face. You felt empty, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. The half-drunk bottle of wine on the kitchen counter looked temping as you considered finishing it yourself. 

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Max trailed behind Danny and Imogen as they strolled toward the cab waiting just down the street. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea, and the stars twinkled faintly above the rooftops.

Danny was cracking a joke, and Imogen’s laughter rang out like a bell, but Max barely registered it. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his mind somewhere else entirely—back upstairs, at the table, watching you push your food around with that faint, detached smile.

He slowed his steps, his feet dragging. The idea of the yacht party, the glitz and endless small talk, suddenly felt suffocating. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Max hated events like that. Everyone knew that. And while it was nice to catch up with Danny since they didn’t see much of each other nowadays, he found Imogen insufferable. He could play padel with Danny tomorrow if he wanted to talk more with him. Before he could think better of it, Max stopped altogether.

“Hey,” he called after them, making Danny and Imogen turn around.

“What’s up?” Danny asked, his brow furrowing.

Max hesitated, then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I think I forgot my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Imogen gave him a bemused smile, her head tilting slightly. “You sure? It’s not like we can wait forever.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, already stepping back. He waved them off. “Have fun.”

He turned before he could see their expressions and made his way back to the building.

The walk up the stairs felt oddly daunting now, each step heavier than the last, as though the weight of his own indecision was pulling him back. The soft hum of the building at night—the faint creak of pipes, the muffled sounds of life behind closed doors—seemed to grow louder with every passing moment. Max reached your door and hesitated, his hand hovering uncertainly near the wood.

What was he even going to say? He wasn’t the type to overthink things, but this felt different. He didn’t want to overstep. What if you didn’t want company? The evening had already been a mixed bag of awkward moments, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse.

Max sighed, his arm lowering slightly, just about ready to turn back when he heard your voice from the other side of the door.

“I miss you too, like craaazy,” you said, your voice muffled but clear enough through the door. Max froze, his curiosity getting the better of him. You sounded close, as though you were standing right by the door. Picking up the pieces, he figured you were talking to someone over the phone. 

“Imogen and Daniel came over for dinner earlier, and he brought a friend of his, and it was the most awkward thing ever,” you spoke again. 

Max frowned slightly. He was the friend, of course. While he’d sensed some discomfort during the evening, particularly whenever the conversation turned toward you, he hadn’t thought it was that bad. Who would you be talking to like that anyway, debriefing something that had just happened? Did you have… a boyfriend? 

“Mum,” you added, your voice cutting through his doubt, “of course it was a boy.”

He relaxed a fraction, leaning slightly closer to the door without realizing it.

“A cute one, too,” you admitted. 

Max blinked, warmth creeping into his face. A cute boy. That was a twist he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t help but grin, his chest lifting slightly at the thought. And you definitely didn’t have a boyfriend.

“You don’t have to ask if I bottled it. You already know I did,” you said after a brief pause, your voice quieter now. “I’m not like Imogen. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be that easygoing.” 

Max was back to frowning, this time for a different reason. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wanted to knock, to interrupt, but he didn’t move.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you,” you said, your tone softening into affection as you ended the call. “Tell Dad I said hi. Buh-bye.”

Max barely gave himself a moment to think before he raised his hand and knocked. There was a pause, long enough for him to wonder if you’d heard, and then your voice came through the door. 

“Did you forget something?”

By the sound of your voice, he could tell that you were expecting it to be Imogen coming back for something. Not him. 

Max smiled despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, the words coming out more confidently than he expected. “I think I did.”

For a moment, there was silence, and then he heard rustling from behind the door, almost as if you’d stumbled to reach it. The lock clicked, and the door opened, revealing you with wide, startled eyes. You looked more tired than you had before, makeup and clothes a bit askew. He assumed Imogen had something to do with how polished you’d looked at the beginning of the evening. 

“Max?” you asked, your voice pitched slightly higher in surprise.

He cleared his throat, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was wondering…” he started, shifting his weight but keeping his tone light, “if maybe, I could stay here and be boring with you?” 

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, though the words sounded stupid the moment they left his lips. He half-expected you to laugh, but instead, you blinked at him, your surprise melting into something softer.

“Uhm, yeah,” you said, stepping back to let him in. “Sure.”

Max stepped inside, and for the second time that night, he was struck by how inviting your apartment felt. The uneven warmth of the terracotta tiles beneath his feet, the mismatched chairs around the small dining table, and the array of plants lining the windowsill. It was nothing like he was used to, yet it felt like the picture-perfect definition of the word home.

Moving into the kitchen, his eyes landed on something on the counter—a tray of something, its surface dusted with cocoa powder.

“You made dessert?” he asked, tilting his head toward it.

“Yeah,” you said, shutting the door behind him, smoothing out your shirt with your hands. “I made tiramisu. Want some?”

Max didn’t hesitate. Moments later, he was seated on your sofa with a fork in hand, his first bite of the tiramisu silencing any lingering awkwardness. “Fuck me, this is like the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.

You laughed, a soft, almost shy sound that Max couldn’t help but find adorable. You really couldn’t handle compliments well, and Max was going to use that to his advantage to make you wonderfully uncomfortable. “And you were going to have all this dessert for yourself instead of going out with us?” he asked, setting his fork down briefly to give you a look of mock betrayal.

“Well,” you said with a small shrug, sitting down beside him with your own plate of dessert. “I wasn’t really invited in the first place.”

Max frowned. “That’s not fair. They should’ve—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “Really. It’s not my scene anyway.”

Max studied you for a moment, his fork hovering over the dish. You were the opposite of so many people that he knew. And so similar to himself that it was almost scary to him. 

Tucking up your legs under your body, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa before you continued talking. “I tend to stick to the walls in places like that anyway. Just observing conversations, trying but failing to lift them when they fall.” 

“Do you also feel like you’ve got a foot in your mouth whenever you open it?” he wondered honestly. 

“Exactly. Always putting my foot in my mouth,” you replied with a chuckle. 

“Sounds impressive to me,” he joked with a grin. “I’m not that agile.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You were the one to bring it up.” 

For a moment, the apartment settled into a quiet hum, the faint sounds of the outside world barely audible through the walls. Max leaned forward, setting his plate down on your coffee table. The TV was noticeably black in front of the two of you.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “what is it tonight? A crime show or… what was the other thing?”

“Friends,” you replied, reading in his reaction. “You’ve never seen Friends?”

Max’s brows lifted. “Not really. Maybe bits and pieces, but I couldn’t tell you much about it.”

“Oh my god,” you said, your tone equal parts horror and humor as your eyes widened dramatically. “You have a lot to learn.”

He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me everything I need to know.”

You smiled, a real one that softened your whole face. You picked up the remote, turning on the pilot episode. Max wasn’t really paying attention, but he liked how certain funny things made you audibly laugh. The more you watched and the more tiramisu you ate—the more the comfortable feeling spread like a fire through your living room, silently burning as he placed an arm around you and shared your blanket. 

This wasn’t where he’d thought he’d end up as he had entered your apartment the first time tonight, but now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡

౨ৎ [ main masterlist . taglist . other love letters ]

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send @freyathehuntress

[crazymadpassionatelove]

Cool Girl

Notes: None of this would be possible without my dearest darlings @ab4eva and @precious-little-scoundrel! All the hugs and kisses to you both xo

Part 2

-

Here's the thing nobody ever admits about being the other half of a celebrity: it's actually as hard or as easy as you make it. Enter hunky, gifted actor who just happens to be hung like a horse? Well, being his lady isn't hard at all. You just have to know the rules. Number one, you can't hear the noise. Not literally, you can hear it. You must strive to live in such a bubble that none of it matters though. You shop, power walk your gated community, and take cock like it's the only job you have. Truly, it is. Pleasing him is of utmost importance. Be ready to hop a plane at a moment’s notice, or even get fucked on said plane. You're so busy spending your man’s cash snapping up authentic mid-century modern homes before certain celebrities turn them into minimalist gray prisons, raising money for dogs who need prosthetics, and trying your hand at that sourdough bread craze, you really don't even have time to see the Instagram hate being spewed your way 24/7.

Number two, remaining an enigma. Selling energy drinks on social media? Having your man pay off some fast fashion brand to “partner” with you for a collection? Appearing on some campy sitcom as a guest star? Not for you, the thought of it actually makes you recoil. You're too busy doing all the little things and making his once barely furnished house a home. Homemade chocolate chip cookies with the chocolate specially flown in from Belgium on his private plane? Check! Gold vintage jewelry via that cute little flea market in Paris is clanking as you insist on being the ones to change the bedroom sheets. A housekeeper comes once a month, and even she comments coyly about your chemistry. Still, she need not see the soaked sheets from the multiple round of lovemaking the two of you do at all hours of the day and night.

Being seen on the red carpet is not your cup of tea, but it's the equivalent of attending your man's office Christmas party. So you pick out a dress, aka one of the couture houses offers to dress you, and he flies you to Paris for multiple fittings and macarons. Then there's some vintage Van Cleef jewelry that appears on the dining room table one morning, and a fresh new pair of Louboutins is the final piece to the puzzle. Then, looking very demur and shy, you appear on his arm, clinging to it actually. You'll smile at the various television hosts and press. Speak softly, and practically defer to him for all questions. He's the star, you're just a great supporting act. Then, when the night is finally done, you both breathe a sigh of relief and he thanks you for being such a good sport. How about a McDonald's drive thru run, huh? That face, oh that handsome fucking face of his that you've been dying to kiss all night. He just always knows what to say. So that's how you're papped still in your couture gown, he in a wrinkled white button down, his jacket slid around your shoulders, feeding each other French fries and chicken nuggets, splitting a milkshake. How wholesome and Americana honestly.

That night he promises to thank you again. Austin's perfect lips wrap themselves around your puffy clit as two, then three fingers curl, shove, and squelch inside you. “You were such a good girl the whole night, baby.” There's something about being called a good girl that makes you absolutely feral. He brings you to orgasm over and over, you lose count after about 7. He's just getting started though. He hasn't even slipped inside. When he does though, it's rough. The glorious slapping sounds of flesh fill the room as he brings himself to the edge over and over, denying himself a release and giving you an additional, what three or four orgasms? You've left feral behind and have crossed over into absolute animalistic filth as you bury yourself in the goose down pillows and practically shove it in your mouth howling. Letting him have his way as you throb and clench, hot and pink with almost blurred vision as he talks you through it. Peppering the conversation with lots of “that's my girl, my pretty baby cums so damn pretty”. When you think you're in need of a paramedic, he blows inside you something reminiscent of Niagara falls. He knows how much you love a vocal man. You end the night not being able to feel your limbs or do anything beyond closing your eyes with a lazy, bashful grin. He gives you one last slap to the ass then mentions as you drift off, “Could you make some of those brownies of yours for the cast and crew tomorrow?”

The third rule of being the other half to everyone's favorite blue eyed baby boy actor? Less is more. This sort of goes hand in hand with the enigma rule. Those celebrities who traipse around in loud designer clothing and accessories covered in flashy logos? That's not you or your man for that matter. Sure you have handbags that cost more than some people's cars, but they are solid authentic leather bags your guy finds you in far flung corners when he's on location. No one really notices when you're papped and printed in People Magazine. You keep your head down in aviators he takes to wearing, a nice little subtle nod. The bands you each wear on that finger are a solid Welsh gold. Whenever his slightly deranged fans see you, the one thing they can't call you is a golddigger. You drive a jeep or even that old Ford truck he restored himself, no Lamborghinis in your garage.

Part of the less is more shtick though is being able to give a cute little nod to him here and there when appropriate. When he's cast in a certain biopic that alters his career and your lives? You sit tight and let him have his moment, after all, you know all the behind the scenes work that goes into it. The blood, sweat, and tears. There are times when he takes method acting to such a level that it's almost like going to bed with another man. You can't exactly complain though. The slight drawl that appears when he says your name is something he is never able to truly shake and you're glad. When the moment is right though, you post a tongue in cheek Instagram post. Your feed is normally bogged down with pictures of the pets, your baking, and various charities you support. This time though, you post a rare photo of yourself looking like you're a certain sort of American royalty stepped from a time machine. It's a candid shot with you at his feet. Worshiping. Except now it's sort of like you worship two men. It's fairly well received, friends tell you, though there will always be hate. Remember, you can't hear the noise. You certainly can't hear the noise women old enough to be your grandmother are making as they lust over the man who's cock you gag on every night.

Those utterly delectable fingers of his snake inside you, make you hiss and come undone as that tongue in cheek sort of throw back makeup you're sporting runs down your cheeks. “Who's my pretty girl?” He teases you. A good hour later when he finally allows himself his own release he's panting your name into your ear. He settles himself in between your breasts. Didn't his agent once mention the girls on Tumblr call him baby boy? If only they could catch a glimpse of him now. Murmuring against your skin and tracing what feels like hearts on your arms. You scroll Zillow and read out the six-figure price tags on castles in Ireland. How does fucking in a dungeon sound, honey?

Rule number four? Be ready to go to bat for him at any moment, others opinions be damned. Being Austin's other half brings out a protective streak in you. A maternal bodyguard quasi agent of sorts. Always keep your eyes peeled for the photogs, especially when he's indulging in that pesky little smoking habit he doesn't exactly like to advertise. That actual management team of his isn't bad, especially once the Elvis flick is underway and you learn just exactly how bad certain managers can be. Still, nobody has his best interests at heart the way you do. Keep his favorite snacks on hand in your purse, water ready at a moment's notice. Your boy has a tendency to work himself to the bone and you certainly cannot allow him to run himself ragged. Tea with hot honey every night was a must while he immersed himself in Elvis. Be his soft place, let him cry and vent while you run your fingers through those golden locks. Take whatever you can off his plate so he can dedicate himself to his craft.

Some wonder if you've lost yourself in him and his life, but it's the exact opposite. You've found yourself. When that angel boy praises you during press tours and jokes on talk shows about you flying out in the middle of the night to see to it his shirts are starched the way he likes and he eats breakfast, well you just sit there and smile. “I couldn't be me without her.” Those words make you melt and you immediately crave the feeling of his hot cream inside you. Playing Elvis brought out a side of him that never truly leaves once filming wraps. Stressed? Tired? Enamored? Him bending you over while you're brushing your teeth becomes a common occurrence. “That's my baby – take it, take it,” you've gotta talk it all out of him sometimes and that's fine with you. You stand in the wings of the Kelly Ripa show and try in vain to hide your red face when a PA offers you a napkin. “I think you spilled something down your leg,” the young girl offers. Something spilled all right, him inside you with his hands gripping your hair just minutes before he was due on stage.

Everything is just so right, it's only natural that cool girl very quickly becomes cool wife.

-

[girlsdressingrooms]

Iris Barrel Apfel, Decorator and Fashion Stylist

(August 29, 1921 – March 1, 2024) 

Ms. Apfel was one of the most vivacious personalities in the worlds of fashion, textiles, and interior design, she has cultivated a personal style that is both witty and exuberantly idiosyncratic.

Her originality was typically revealed in her mixing of high and low fashions—Dior haute couture with flea market finds, nineteenth-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers.

With remarkable panache and discernment, she combines colors, textures, and patterns without regard to period, provenance, and, ultimately, aesthetic conventions. Paradoxically, her richly layered combinations—even at their most extreme and baroque—project a boldly graphic modernity.

Iris Barrel was born on Aug. 29, 1921, in Astoria, Queens, the only child of Samuel Barrel, who owned a glass and mirror business, and his Russian-born wife, Sadye, who owned a fashion boutique.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women's Wear Daily, and for interior designer Elinor Johnson, decorating apartments for resale and honing her talent for sourcing rare items before opening her own design firm. She was also an assistant to illustrator Robert Goodman.

As a distinguished collector and authority on antique fabrics, Iris Apfel has consulted on numerous restoration projects that include work at the White House that spanned nine presidencies from Harry Truman to Bill Clinton.

Along with her husband, Carl, she founded Old World Weavers, an international textile manufacturing company and ran it until they retired in 1992. The Apfels specialized in the reproduction of fabrics from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, and traveled to Europe twice a year in search of textiles they could not source in the United States.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute assembled 82 ensembles and 300 accessories from her personal collection in 2005 in a show about her called “Rara Avis”.

Almost overnight, Ms. Apfel became an international celebrity of pop fashion.

Ms. Apfel was seen in a television commercial for the French car DS 3, became the face of the Australian fashion brand Blue Illusion, and began a collaboration with the start-up WiseWear. A year later, Mattel created a one-of-a-kind Barbie doll in her image. Last year, she appeared in a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London.

Six years after the Met show she started her fashion line "Rara Avis" with the Home Shopping Network.

She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant, then signed to IMG in 2019 as a model at age 97.

Ms. Iris Apfel became a visiting professor at the University of Texas at Austin in its Division of Textiles and Apparel, teaching about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

 In 2018, she published “Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon,” an autobiographical collection of musings, anecdotes and observations on life and style. 

Ms. Apfel’s apartments in New York and Palm Beach were full of furnishings and tchotchkes that might have come from a Luis Buñuel film: porcelain cats, plush toys, statuary, ornate vases, gilt mirrors, fake fruit, stuffed parrots, paintings by Velázquez and Jean-Baptiste Greuze, a mannequin on an ostrich.

The Museum of Lifestyle & Fashion History in Boynton Beach, Florida, is designing a building that will house a dedicated gallery of Ms. Apfel's clothes, accessories, and furnishings.

Ms. Apfel’s work had a universal quality, It’s was a trend.

Rest in Power !

[morsmortish]

obsessed with thinking about “frazzled englishwoman” pandora. she wears multicoloured silk scarves and long felt coats. mismatched fingerless gloves and designer sunglasses. frayed denim skirts and ripped tights and brown boots. she carries a birkin bag much like jane birkin herself, overflowing with old french literature and various other knickknacks. her makeup is messy and smudged. she partners birkenstocks with wollen stockings. she leaves lipstick stains on all her teacups. chipped nail polish and chunky silver jewellery. big dangly earrings and tangled hair. oversized turtleneck jumpers and ankle-length skirts. you can even include a beret or any other unorthodox hat if you’re feeling frivolous. she has a takeaway coffee in one hand and a flip phone in the other, with a cigarette tucked behind her ear. she drives a beat up black mini cooper. she haunts flea markets and charity shops. she smells of cigarettes, dusty bookstores, and chanel perfume.

[sirianasims]

The Don Diaries

Another day, another drama! It's Sunday, the day after prom, and Nicolo is up for his 6 AM jog like the overachieving maniac he is.

Meanwhile, Adriana and Don are having their customary Sunday mother/son brunch of french toast so she can hear about how prom went.

Since Nicolo is working today, they go to the Flea Market to hang out and try some new and exciting food.

While they are enjoying their samosas and curry, however, we discover something new about Adriana, which may help explain why she decided to stay home after Don was born.

Poor Adriana 😭 She's really not enjoying this, so after lunch, she goes home. Don, however, decides to hang out a bit.

There are, after all, girls to meet! And while Don did hit it off with Alena after prom, and has a bit of a crush on her, you never know.

Don heads inside and runs into a girl in the arcade, Julie. She's heart-farting all over herself, which should be a good sign.

Don and Julie have fun and play some games, but Alena must have felt a disturbance in the force.

She and Don have been exchanging messages so there's a bit of a budding romance going on.

Stay classy, Don.

Alena seems to sense that Don is out chatting up other girls, though, because this happens.

So they meet up at a different arcade. The vendor is just happy to be there.

Don, future womaniser extraordinaire, decides to tell his date that she's his, uh, favourite.

Surprisingly, she responds positively to this - for reasons that are unfortunately about to become apparent.

And so, after some more flirting, Don actually manages his first kiss! He's ecstatic.

He even pushes his luck, and...

Don couldn't be happier.

That is, until…

Close-up of Don dying inside.

Don is a romantic kid with parents who model a perfect committed marriage of soulmates. He was not prepared for this.

They hang out for the rest of the date, but Don does not seem as thrilled as someone who just got his first kiss and first girlfriend in one day should be.

He gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek as goodbye.

Poor Don.

No need to rub it in, Alena.

And just when Don gets home and thinks this awkward day is over…

MOM COULD YOU MAYBE KNOCK??

It doesn't matter how supportive and sex-positive your parents are...

... the WooHoo Talk is never not awkward.

[oldfarmhouse]

french flea markets

https://www.instagram.com/whitecottage_flowerfarm

[thesimquarter]

hello! sims 2 miniopolis update!

first of all, my current sims 2 urbz sims >:3 outside of the obvious change of a default skin, they don't look that different compared to my old versions of them. But! believe me they are better.as well, this time! there's the DS exclusive characters and a few sims intended to be townies. In order, Lloyd, Red Man, Daschell Swank, Chet R. Chase, Bucki Brock's sister, Joe from the Flea Market (yes, he does have a name), Ava Cadavra, and Gordie Puck. Indeed, they're very red.

And an update to the town in general! I've finished most of the easy lots now, mostly having harder lots to do now. Such as the Mausoleum, Circus, Brownstones + Slice O'Life (which I… attempted. can you believe that the map of this game doesn’t follow the laws of physics?), etc.

New lots include: - Junked Schoolbus (which IS connected to the Chopper Garage visually but they aren't the same lot) - Chopper Garage (which i am not going to put underneath the road/jail! it looks cool in-game, but possibly impossible to do in the sims 2 but it makes no sense spatially!! the other side of the garage would just be underground!!!) - Cemetery (Mostly just empty buildings for aesthetics. No graves… yet. and there probably won’t be until the final version of the hood.) - Miniopolis Chronicle (TINY) - Miniopolis Hospital + University (if this was ts3 i probably would have made them separately) - Club Xizzle (what is it supposed to look like on the outside + should there be two?) - Glasstown Megamall - Cinema d'Urbania (how do you make a cinema in this game? big TV?)

I redid King Tower as well, just to make it fill out a 3x3 lot instead of a 2x2 lot, and Café Multiplaya has a new outdoor seating area (to fill in space). The Coffee Shop, the Market, and Glasstown apartments were in my last post, just kinda in the background. The Market has a lot of creative liberties taken to it, as I just didn't like how it translated into the Sims (as in it's made to represent the real-life French Quarter Market more). The Glasstown Apartment has a few other units in it for some of the Urbz sims (more on that in a bit!)

I removed pretty much, all the elevation from the .s4c terrain. It's easy to put back butttt, the sims 2 just doesn't work in a way that's friendly to sloped lots (and simcity 4 for slopes that take <1 unit of distance, you can't make steep cliffs in these games. so, basically, due to the compactness of the city, there isn’t enough room to add in slopes without making it all janky). They may come back at the end if we can Wizard the slopes to work the lots, but for now...

Ignore the weird road off the Sim Quarter. I was experimenting with what could be done with the riverboat. I was thinking about putting it on a beach lot and making a joke about it being temporarily landlocked (read: i already did) and was trying to find a good, functional place to put it. There may be other ways to do a riverboat though… hmmm

Anyways onto housing for the Sims. So, the Glasstown Apartments has a few more units to fit in a few other characters (Lottie Cash (I did manage to squeeze a bowling alley in there), Lily Gates, and Darius) but other than that? Very little! (I did Ewan’s House. however, it’s just a box; i took modest pretty literally). I might make a post soon where I talk about where each Urb would probably live, just as an excuse to talk to myself for a little while.

[postcard-from-the-past]

Flea market of Besançon, Franche-Comté region of eastern France

French vintage postcard, mailed in 1937 to Dreux

[toomuchracket]

have you ever done a blurb where they visit Paris again when they’re finally together and go on little dates and do all the cute touristy shit? that could be so adorable

Maybe a cute little Parisien date, he could surprise her with a weekend away - corner shop cafes, flea markets and french kisses

i think this is your first birthday present from matty after you start dating, actually - he doesn't whisk you away on your birthday itself, because you made plans with your family before you and him got together and he really wants to spend time with them, but a few weeks later you guys are SAT on that eurostar from london (yes, you could've just flown, but he liked getting to look at you on the train on the og paris trip so he thought it would be cute to do again lol). he books the most exquisite little boutique hotel, with a suite that looks like a whole apartment and has a balcony and the nicest bathroom you have ever ever seen, and even though you were only on the train for a little while and the time difference is literally an hour it's decided that you'll simply stay in the first night "to cure the jet lag"; a poorly-veiled excuse to order room service and make out for ages and have sex until neither of you can stay awake any longer, aka the perfect night lol. the next day, though, you're out exploring paris, brunching in a café before getting the métro (holding hands the entire time) and going to the louvre - matty thinks the mona lisa is "a bit shit", but it's fun to wander around looking at art with you, snuggling and snapping candids of each other and just enjoying getting to be anonymous together in the crowds. the running bit of the entire weekend is matty being like "ooh, babe, we're in france" and pulling you in for a french kiss because "we have to do as the french do", which actually you grossly exploit so he'll let you have a couple of cigs a day lmfao, and also him just totally spoiling you. like, you wanna pay for dinner, or coffee? absolutely not. see a cute poster at the flea market, or a new book in shakespeare and co? his treat. even the SLIGHTEST interest shown in a dior bag? he's flagging down a sales assistant and whacking out the credit card already. but he caves on your final day, when at breakfast you say "i know it's cheesy, but i want us to put a padlock on that bridge. you and me, together as long as iron holds out. and given that it's what makes up the very centre of the earth... l'éternité, baby", and matty's so sweetly emotional that he agrees to let you buy the padlock lol. a very lovely, very loving weekend <3

[leclsrc]

This req is gonna sound weird but do yk that scene in friends where ross is hugging rachel by the legs? on his knees? could i have a charles drabble w/ that? ty!

the final frame – cl16

You and Charles move in together, among other things.

auds here... this req is from before christmas hahaha. i do not watch friends so i scoured the internet for this ‘scene’, i hope i was right and i hope i did this req justice! this is the last one for now and i’ll hopefully reopen them fr in a minute. title from this

The night’s colder than you anticipated, a cool draft sending goosebumps up your forearm as you inspect the fillet of salmon in the oven. You step forward, off where you’d been leaning on the island, to heave the window shut—the act usually requires all your strength—but Charles bounds into you from behind, pressing insistent, laughing kisses onto your neck.

“C,” you say, giggling yourself, a hand coming up to stroke at the nape of his neck. “Stop, there are people in the next room.”

He bites on your jaw a little and you laugh. “Next room, babe. Like, right in the next—just two metres—!”

Laughing still, he finally lets up and effortlessly shuts the window himself. He pecks another kiss, just on the tip of your nose, murmurs I love you and lets it settle into the herb-smelling air. “Are you tipsy?” You ask, teasing. He winks.

“No—really, though,” you press a little, lacing your hands together. “You’re fine?”

“Totally.” He smiles. “Bit nervous.”

“I was, too,” you start, squeezing his hand, “until I remembered these are literally just our friends. And they’re stupid, and they’ll probably love us even if we announced we murdered someone.”

He nods and smiles, slots your mouths together. When he pulls away, he murmurs, “I love you. You look beautiful.”

Really, you’re just in a two-year-old dress from a flea market in Provence, and your hair is dry and ratty and tied into a bun, but you appreciate the compliment. He’s being genuine, eyes gliding over you with ease as he presses yet another kiss to your cheek; you loop your arms around his neck, smiling up at him. This is so foolish, you think, to be so idiotically in love like this, but it’s Charles, and it makes so much sense.

“You’re glowing, really.” He doesn’t give, still spouting compliments like a broken fountain. 

“You suck.” You’ve never been good at accepting compliments, which seems ironic because you’re with a man who loves words, loves to tell you how much you mean to him, muffled by skin or said through a mic or in French or Italian. You tug him closer. “Should we go?”

He pauses, exhales. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Your friend group has gathered here, at Charles’ place, under the pretense that you’re trying to finish the ridiculously expensive bottle of wine Charles had purchased from France, but really, it’s for you both to announce your moving in together. Little milestones like these have always been celebrated by your group, and this is no different; tonight, Max has even volunteered to fix the clock that permanently reads 12:38 on Charles’ flat’s mantle.

You lead the way from the kitchen into the living room, where everyone is engaged in some kind of chatter or activity. Lily’s legs are draped over Alex’s lap and she’s coaching him through a Rubik’s cube. Lando is busy telling a joke to Carlos and Isa. And Max is three feet off the ground fiddling with a clock, turning deviously to ask: “Where have you two been?”

“Shagging,” you reply with nonchalance. 

“Your hair’s still perfect,” Lily says disapprovingly. “Don’t lie!”

You roll your eyes, stifling a smile as you lean into Charles’ arm that’s wrapped itself around your shoulders. In the future, you’ll tell yourself you should’ve noticed his clammy hand pressed against your arm, or turned and noticed his blank stare, his too-nervous gait. So many signs, you’ll think, and you ignored them all because you felt so damn happy. “Okay, I’m lying. The truth is…”

You turn to him, brows raising. “…you wanna go?”

“I wan—do you?”

“Sure, if you—”

“Just tell us!” Lando yells impatiently, sitting straighter, abandoning the joke in favor of this. “Tell us. Now!”

“Okay, um, we—well, a few months ago we decided we kind of. No, we definitely wanted to live together. And, to save you all the sexy details of getting leases and looking around Monaco for flats—we got one just two weeks ago. So this is—what it is, is it’s, uh, really a dinner to celebrate saying bye-bye to Charles’ flat. Okay? Right. Okay.”

You pause. The room erupts in whoops and cheers—many utterances of the word finally! float across the room. Immediately Isa and Lily are standing, demanding to see pictures of the new place, directions they can input into their cars and phones so they know exactly how to get there. Carlos, Lando, and Alex all cheer, offer alcohol as housewarming gifts. Max nearly drops the clock.

And this is it, you think, the rest of your life’s been decided. With this group, and your Charles, and the flat that will be yours by tomorrow morning.

—

Your house doesn’t feel much like home.

You know it’s an unfair statement, that it’s only really been two, three months of living together. But something has shifted, something you cannot name no matter how hard you try to. It’s just as cold tonight as it was the night you were in Charles’ old place announcing this one, but everything feels different now.

The move had started excitedly, with you sending near daily updates to the group chat with Isa and Lily, of paint swatches and ship-ins from IKEA. They sent flowers, came over to inspect the place, and so did everyone else—Max returned the now repaired clock, nailed it onto a spot on the wall the entire group agreed on. Slowly, bit by bit, the place began to feel like it was yours. 

But the nights without Charles grew long, and the days with him at work or at the gym or at a media affair—some of which he’d easily denied in favor of you before—grew more frequent. The flat, big and wide and lofty in an affluent neighborhood, felt bigger when he was gone. You were alone, a stranger in your own house, without him. 

You can’t pinpoint anything.

You can’t pinpoint the when, the how, the why, the if. To you, everything is vague, and that’s the worst part: how can you fix something you can barely understand? You haven’t shared a cup of coffee in ages, and the most you see of him is half his foot departing the front door in the morning. It could be work, it could be the preparing for the season, but in six years of being together nothing’s felt quite like this. You wonder if it’s deliberate. 

But your texts to Isa and Lily stay the same. Cream or eggshell? Cerulean or slate? And when they ask about Charles, you ignore the bite of guilt and lie instead. C and I just had brunch, he said eggshell, but the truth is, you’re the one settling on eggshell. You’d asked him ‘cream or eggshell’ three weeks ago and he said he’d think about it but he didn’t come home until four, and he hasn’t answered it.

He gets in on Saturday night earlier than usual, eyes dark with exhaustion. He’s wearing a suit, and you don’t know why. You can’t place half the places he’s been lately. His texts are choppy, standoffish. Here. Leaving soon. I’ll see you? “Hi, baby,” he croaks when he sees you nursing wine at the kitchen counter.

“C,” you say quietly. “Hi. When did you get in?”

“Just now, I was driven.” 

“Oh.” You pause. “Want a glass?” You raise the bottle.

He seems to hesitate, stopping in his tracks a bit before nodding defeatedly and pacing toward you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheekbone, then finally your lips. You relish this, because you haven’t had it in so long. This intimacy, this affection, this kiss that isn’t pressed onto you while you’re asleep and he comes home with apologies flowing from his lips.

You pull away, pour him a glass of red. “Isn’t it crazy to think we have a home now?”

His smile flickers a little, and you notice. You try not to sound nosy when you pry. “C,” you say, the lump rising in your throat. Here you are, celebrating one of the happiest chapters of your life, but Charles won’t even meet your eyes. This is it. After months of not knowing, you think, you have to know. Now. “Are you okay?”

The wine is only half-poured. He sighs shakily, shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He sounds so, so far away.

“You’re scaring me,” you say, laughing. But you sound more nervous than amused. He sounds nervous, too.

“Baby,” he says suddenly, like a dam in his mind has broken and everything is spilling out, all the damage, all of it, and it’s washing onto you like a massive wash of water. “Baby, I—I fucked up.”

You cannot withstand the wave. Your eyebrows knit together. “Tell me,” you insist. Even more surprisingly, he crumples to his knees, hugs your thighs and leans against you. You press, anyway. “Talk to me, C. Please.”

“You can’t fix this,” he says resolutely, “you abso—you can’t.”

“I will,” you say. “I love you.”

“I slept with someone else.” This is a great, big, terrible feeling. You really can’t fix this. You’re back to being clueless. Your heart stops, and so does your breath, heavy and heaving. Words are dry when they try to leave your throat, leap off your tongue. Your hand, threaded into Charles’ hair, pauses. You feel him crying, but you feel nothing else.

“You what,” you ask. It’s so dry, everything is desert dry. A whisper, a breath, a murmur in the cold kitchen.

“I’m sorry.”

“C,” you say, and you can’t even cry yet. You’re stunned, struck with dizzy disbelief. “Was it—when, like, last season…?”

His silence answers you, and you stumble backwards, out of his grasp. You shake your head, like you’re trying to quell the tears, the lump in your throat, the nerves in your stomach that threaten to bubble over.

“Don’t say this year.” You shake your head, over and over, shaking and shaking, like it will rid you of the conversation you’re currently having. You think of the paperwork, of the nearly dropped clock, of signing the lease, of eggshell and flowers, of housewarming gifts yet to be unwrapped.

Tearily, you muster, “Don’t tell me, C. Don’t fucking do this to me, please. Don’t.”

“I barely even know her,” he says. “Once. It happened once. It meant nothing.” Your soul crushes, shot and wilted.

“No, it meant everything,” you say angrily. You’re angry now. Angry and sad, and furious and boiling with rage. You’re everything. You’re a house fire, right here in the flat. 

And you stand, feet bare on the tile, thinking about how you’ll have to live with this forever, branded like an ugly stamp. You loved and he did not. Get out, you say. Get out and don’t come back, I don’t care. Don’t fucking come back. You shove him weakly, but he gets the message, ushers himself to the coat rack. You’re not even yelling. You’re just breathing heavy, shaking your head, like you’re denying this ever happened.

You only cry when he’s left, loud, exruciating sobs. He wrestles himself outside still apologizing, saying he’ll be back tomorrow. You’re torn between hoping he will be and hoping you never see him again, crumpled to the hardwood of your brand new house, knees weak, heart weaker. You don’t get up until morning.