#how to build a email list

[tealfruit]

another day another dealing with management scrambling about their own poor decisions and supply chain/budget issues even tho I'm really fucking not paid enough for all that

[mehmetyildizmelbourne-blog]

What Merging of Fable & Everand Mean to Indie Authors

Early reflection and perspectives from an indie author on how this strategic merger empowers book authors to reach engaged, censorship-free audiences across borders. Publishing Case Study #137 Are you a book author looking to reach a broader audience through a proven system supported by a like-minded community? Are you an aspiring writer who wants to publish your first book within 3 months with…

[lmsintmedia]

The Power of Email Marketing: How Nigerians Are Making Money from Email Lists

Email marketing might sound old-school—but it’s quietly making people rich in Nigeria. While everyone is chasing viral trends on TikTok or grinding on Instagram for likes, smart digital entrepreneurs are cashing out quietly by building powerful email lists. Why? Because email is personal. It lands in your inbox, not on a noisy feed. And when people trust you enough to give you their email,…

[inkskinned]

i got rickrolled today but it didn't work because i have adblocker installed, so youtube just told me i violated the terms of service. yesterday i was trying to edit a picture as a joke for my girlfriend, and google made me check a box to prove i'm human because i wasn't "searching normally".

it isn't just that capitalism is killing fun and whimsy, it is that any element of entertainment or joy is being fed upon by this mosquito body, one that will suck you dry at any vulnerability.

do you want to meet new friends in your city? download this app, visit our website, sign up for our email list. pay for this class on making a terrarium, on candlemaking, on cooking. it will be 90 dollars a session. you can go to group fitness, but only under our specific gym membership. solve the puzzle, sign up for our puzzle-of-the-month-club. what is a club if not just a paid opportunity - you are all paying for the same thing, which makes you a community.

but you're like me, i know it - you're careful, you try the library meetings and the stuff at the local school and all of that. the problem is that you kind of want really specific opportunities that used to exist. you are so grateful for libraries and the publicly-funded things: they are, however, an exception - and everything they have, they've fought tooth-and-nail to protect. you read a headline about how in many other states, libraries have virtually nothing left.

do you want to meet up with your friends afterwards? gift your friends the discord app. you can choose to go to a cafe (buy a coffee, at least), a bar (money, alcohol) or you can all stay in and catch a movie (streaming) or you can all stay in bed (rent. don't get me started) and scream (noise complaint. ticket at least).

you want to read a new book, but the book has to have 124 buzzwords from tiktok readers that are, like, weirdly horny. you can purchase this audiobook on audible! your podcast isn't on spotify, it's on its own server, pay for a different site. fuck, at least you're supporting artists you like. the art museum just raised their ticket price. once, they had a temporary exhibit that acknowledged that ~85% of their permanent art galleries were from cis white men, and that they had thousands of works by women (even famous women, like frida! georgia o'keefe!) just rotting in their basement. that exhibit lasted for 3 months and then they put everything away again.

walmart proudly supports this strip of land by the street! here are some flowers with wilting leaves. its employees have to pay out-of-pocket for their uniforms. my friend once got fined by the city because she organized a community pick-up of the riverfront, which was technically private property.

no, you cannot afford to take that dance class, neither can i. by the way - i'm a teacher. i'm absolutely not saying "educators shouldn't be paid fairly." i'm saying that when i taught classes, renting a studio went from 20 bucks an hour to 180 in the span of 6 months. no significant changes to the studio were made, except they now list the place as updated and friendly. the heat still doesn't work in the building. i have literally never seen the landlord who ignores my emails. recently they've been renting it out at night as an "unusual nightclub; a once-in-a-lifetime close-knit party." they spent some of those 180 dollars on LEDs and called it renovating. the high heels they invite in have been ruining the marley.

do you want to experience the old internet? do you want to play flash games or get back the temporary joy of club penguin? you can, you just need to pay for it. i have a weird, neurodivergent obsession with occasionally checking in to watch the downfall and NFT-ification of neopets. if i'm honest with you all - i never got into webkins, my family didn't have the money to buy me a pointless elephant. people forget that "being poor" can mean literally "if i buy you that toy, i can't afford rent."

you and i don't have time to make good food, and we don't have the budget for it. we are not gonna be able to host dinner parties, we're not made of money, kid. do you want some kind of 3rd space? a space that isn't home or work or school? you could try being online, but - what places actually exist for you? tiktok counts as social media because you see other people on it, not because they actually talk to you.

there was a local winter tradition of sledding down the hill at my school. kids would use pizza boxes and jackets and whatever worked, howling and laughing. back in september, they made a big announcement that this time, rules were changing, and everyone must pay 10 dollars to participate. when im not scared shitless, i kind of appreciate the environmental irony - it hasn't gone below 40. so much for snow & joyriding.

i saw a bulletin for a local dogwalking group and, nervous about making a good first impression, showed up early. the first guy there grimaced at me. "sorry," he said. "there's a 30-dollar buy-in fee." i thought he was joking. wait. for what? the group doesn't offer anything except friendship and people with whom to walk around the city.

he didn't know the answer. just shrugged at me. "you know," he said. "these days, everything costs money."

[enfinizatics]

dear americans,

as a polish queer woman and human rights activist, i know exactly how you're feeling right now and what to expect from these elections. i lived through the 2015-2023 regime of pis, a right-wing populist party that divided families in the same way trump did. i’ve experienced the rise of fascism in poland, the influence of far-right parties like konfederacja, and their “santa’s little helpers”—ordo iuris, an ultra-conservative catholic organization (banned in many countries, mind you) that helped enforce a near-total abortion ban and runs anti-queer campaigns in public spaces. i supported the black protests in 2016 as a middle schooler when they first tried to ban abortion. as an adult, i actively participated in the 2020 women’s strike, running from police tear gas daily after they finally passed the ban. i supported friends who faced charges.

i’ve lived through intense homophobia in poland as a queer teen and adult. i survived the first pride march in my hometown, where far-right extremists threw stones and glass at us. i endured the anti-queer propaganda spread by the ruling party in state-owned media. i survived the “rainbow night,” poland’s own stonewall moment in summer 2020, when police arrested around 50 queer activists following the arrest of margo, a nonbinary activist. i survived the "lgbt-free zones," the targeted violence, the slurs from strangers on the street, and the protests i held against queerphobia. it was hard as fuck, but i survived.

but just because i survived, it doesn’t mean others did. many women died because of the abortion ban—marta, justyna, izabela, dorota, joanna, maria, and many others who didn’t survive pis’s draconian anti-abortion laws. milo, kacper, michał, zuzia (she was 12), wiktor, and other queer and trans kids and young adults took their own lives because of the relentless queerphobia.

despite all of this, our experience in poland can serve as a guide now. here are some tips for staying safe and how we, polish queers and women, organized under the regime:

safety first, always. if you know someone who’s had an abortion, no you don’t. if you know someone is trans, no you don’t. if you know people who help with safe abortions, no you don’t—at least not until you know it’s 100% safe to share. if you are queer or have had an abortion, only share this with people you trust fully. most importantly, not everyone has to be an activist just because they’re part of a minority. if it feels unsafe to share that you're queer, trans, etc., then don’t. it doesn’t make you any less queer.

use secure, encrypted messaging like signal for conversations on potentially risky topics, such as queerness, abortion, organizing counter-actions, protests—anything that might be used against you.

stay anonymous online. if you want to research or report something without surveillance, do not use regular internet. get a vpn (mullvad is affordable and reliable), download the tor browser (for both onion and standard links), and if you plan to whistleblow, consider using a riseup email account.

organize and build networks. community is everything now. support each other, foster independence, because your government won’t have your back. set up collectives, grassroots movements. create lists of trusted professionals—lawyers, doctors, etc.—who can offer support.

to lawyers and doctors: please consider pro-bono work. this is what got us through poland’s hardest times. your work will be needed now more than ever.

for protests or risky actions: always write a pro-bono lawyer’s number on your arm with a permanent marker.

get to know the anarchist black cross federation and other resources on safety culture: "Starting an anarchist black cross group: A guide"; Still We Rise - A resource pack for transgender and non-gender conforming people in prison; Safe OUTside the system by the Audre Lorde Project;

for safe abortion info or involvement: get familiar with womenhelpwomen.

stay radical, stay strong, stay informed: The Anarchist Library

if i forgot to (or didn't) include something, don't hesitate to reblog this post with other resources.

[mina-org]

part one - part two (youre here) - part three - part four - part five- six

warning for smut, 141 are panty sniffers! and more yanderery than the last! I have another part written but I just felt like was already dragged a lil so lmk if you want the next part! also not edited bc im lazy

“The birds just not fuckin’ into ya johnny. She never took this long to respond to me.” Simon smirks, truthfully he didn’t really remember but he was fucked off with this entire thing, not only was Johnny after his bird but texting you became a group sport, even the double text.

Simon seethes, usually you would've crawled back to him by now, you'd get drunk and call him sobbing from whatever pub you were at and you'd owe him, rinse and repeat.

At least if you were into Johnny he'd know what you were doing but now your absence started to eat at him, he just wondered your were like a deer fresh out the womb, learning to walk, how would you survive when Simon wasn't there to pick up your the pieces when you inevitably fell apart again.

simon couldnt take them fawning over you anymore so he returned to his bedroom, he had a little secret that he had to keep from those closest to him, your underwear. A collection really.

to start with, they were just tucked in his bag for when he was deployed, he’d push a pair around his cock, satin felt nice but the cream pair with little berries on? they were too cute and so you. He’d pump his cock until they were stick with his cum.

then when he was home more often and you were fucked too dumb to bounce on his cock, neglecting him after hes giving you so many? he'll remember that for next time. and really left him no choice but to scout out your discarded panties, maybe a fresh pair if you packed them, and he'd finish himself off before tugging them up your legs, his cum from earlier still leaking out your pretty pussy. something about you walking home in shame, carrying him with you, a sense of ownership simon loved.

now these panties were all he had, and he wasn't gonna share them. maybe with Johnny, if he was good.

after a week it just wasnt doing it for him anymore, he needed to see his girl but all his texts weren't sending:( and he hadn't seen you at the gym or the pilates class you spent so much money on. almost like your little temper tantrum was serious this time.

okay so it took simon a week or two to turn up begging, well demanding your forgiveness.

or he would've, if you answered the fucking door? after coming over and almost fighting your door guy a few times, he gets the hint, stealth is wealth and all that.

now here he is, staring at you through binoculars, on the rooftop opposite your building, like he's gathering intel or some shit. originally he was gonna keep this to himself, threes a crowd after all but it was chilly on the rooftop and simon is all about efficiency and your safety of course!

thing is, that pesky door man knows who simon is, and its doubtful a stick on moustache and boiler suit is gonna convince him that simon is also the buildings engineer!

through this process they've found out your building has a lot of security issues, nobody even thought about cyber security so when gaz sends out an email with a list of apartment numbers and a time, stating some maintenance was needed, no one bats an eye.

and of course you dont want any awkward conversations, like offering them tea or coffee 50 times while they try to focus but they'd think you rude if you dont and you can't ignore them, thats rude too. so you have to go out and stay out.

so you go shopping, you've been needing more underwear anyway!

soon enough John and gaz are in your apartment, putting up hidden cameras, slipping trackers into the linings of your most worn clothes, rifling through your belongings and testing out your perfume, trying to figure out which one you use daily from the memories of your scent lingering on simon and around the flat.

however gold is struck when they come across your laundry basket! feral is the best fitting word, Johnny will froth at the mouth once they tell him and of course share the bounty of their conquest.

taglist: @skeletonsucker @supernova2205 @wh0re4-alexademi @grr457

[comicaurora]

Hi! I remember you saying at some point (I think, on the podcast?) that just realizing you have ADHD helped you to deal with it because you found some practices and techniques to help it, even without medication - or something along these lines, do I remember correctly?

Can you tell, which techniques? I seem to be somewhat resistant to medication (tried all options we get in the country I'm in, and improvement is very minimal), so I'm interested what else can be done there just to make it manageable

Caveat that every ADHD person is different so what works for me might not work for you, but this is what I've found helpful:

Break up Executive Dysfunction and fight Time Blindness by SETTING TIMERS. I have a fitbit, and on days I can feel my brain being restless and uncooperative, I set a ten minute timer on it. When it runs out, I set another one, and so on. It buzzes on my wrist, so it's hard to ignore, but it's not gamebreakingly distracting so it doesn't ruin my mood if I'm on a work roll. A brief, tangible reminder that time is passing can help me snap out of a break period or, if I'm working, give me a feel for my rate of progress. I can also use that reminder to take stock of if I need to eat food, get up and stretch, or lie on the floor for a bit to reset.

Take SMALL, LATERAL BITES OF PROGRESS. If you're having a hard time working on something, feel out what else you might be able to make headway on. Maybe you've got some writing notes you could jot down to build on later. Maybe there's a tiny item on the day's to-do list you could cross off quickly. Maybe there's a text or an email you've been meaning to fire off, or you've got a mild itch to doodle something in a sketchbook. Any progress is better than no progress, and even if you're just on your phone on the couch, you can get a lot of good work done just jotting down thoughts in the notes app. The lateral element is also very important; if you're fixating too hard on the ONE thing you're SUPPOSED to do, you can trap yourself in a spiral of how it's what you're SUPPOSED to be working on but it feels IMPOSSIBLE. Literally let yourself do anything else. Don't trap yourself with "it's either doing your responsibility or it's NOTHING." Your work is not a plate of broccoli you're not allowed to leave the table without eating. Give yourself permission to un-imprison yourself.

Related, If there are external factors on the responsibility - like an outside deadline or a team of people you're working with waiting on your stuff - don't be afraid to let them know where you're at, or if you're uncertain you can make the deadline as stated, even if you think your "brain is not working" reason isn't good enough to justify the delay. Most people are extremely chill about it, and some of them will even offer to help or make it easier for you in some way. "Struggling with deadline" is not an ADHD-only experience. It is one of the most relatable human experiences, and basically everyone will be inclined to help you out.

ANY PROGRESS IS BETTER THAN NO PROGRESS. LARGE projects can feel extremely overwhelming because you know you can throw everything you've got at them for a day or even a week and it still won't be finished, and if you've got that shadow looming over you, you might sink into a malaise of "I can't finish it and that means I can't even bring myself to start it." The best way to fight that is to make ANY progress in ANY direction. Every large project can be broken down into bite-sized chunks. Anything feels overwhelming if you see it as an unassailable monolith. Work you do now is work you don't have to do later.

CHECKLISTS. It's hard to hold a large list of things that need your attention all in your head at once. It is unbelievable how helpful it is to just write them down somewhere obvious, and when you're done with something, CHECK IT OFF. Don't erase it, leave it visible that you FINISHED it.

Tell your anxiety to CALL YOU BACK. This one's weird, but when I'm stuck stressing over something, I've found it legitimately works to pull up my schedule and pencil in "worry about <thing>" for a specific date and time. My brain registers that SOMETHING has been resolved and nothing has been outright dismissed or ignored, so it settles down. When the time rolls around, the source of the anxiety is still there, but the feeling of anxiety itself has been drained out of it.

On a related note, this might not be an ADHD thing, but I've found it's very useful to Avoid Anxiety And Guilt Spirals by HOLDING COMPULSIONS AT ARMS' LENGTH. I picked this up from some readings on OCD, which is in the category of "I don't seem to HAVE this to a diagnosable degree, but some of the structures were at one point familiar to me." It's good to be aware that, if your brain keeps circling back to any given thought that distresses you, that is structurally an obsession, and if in reflexive response you have a desire to do a specific thing to mitigate that feeling, that is structurally a compulsion. This includes things like "I bet my friends think I'm annoying - I should message them something fun and casual to see if they still like me." Or "I'm worried about the state of the world - I should check the news so no new horribleness blindsides me." The compulsion might contain a sensible thing to do; checking in on your friends is good, keeping up with world events is smart. But done AS a compulsion, it reinforces the anxiety cycle. Even when it results in something neutral or positive, it only confirms that this innocuous thing is your only lifeline over a yawning abyss of terror and stress, because if this time it was fine, it must be because THIS time your vigilance Saved You. So you'd better do it next time, too, because there WILL be a next time, and you might not be so lucky twice, right? The way to stop this cycle is to weaken it over time by, when the obsession pops up (a random reminder of a stressor, an old fear) and the compulsion is prompted, do not do it, no matter how reasonable it seems. Hold the compulsion at arms' length, becoming aware of what the obsession wants you to do and why. Similarly, sit with the awareness of the obsession. You are having an unpleasant thought, but having a thought does not make it inherently meaningful in any way. It doesn't mean you're actually in any danger, any more than you were before you had the thought. It's discomfiting because it removes the salve of the compulsion from the sting of the obsession, but in the medium to long term, it withers the cycle at the root and makes the entire process loosen its grip. Then you can do things like talk to your friends and check the news without it being underlaid with the sting of panic and desperation; they are, after all, neutral activities with typically beneficial consequences, not lifelines over the abyss. It might startle you when, months later, an intrusive thought pops up that used to send you spiralling into misery for hours or days, but now it feels irrelevant - even absurd - and easy to disregard. It really does work, and it's surprising how many things you can untangle this way.

Avoid boredom time prison by HARNESSING HYPERFIXATIONS. My most controversial take, but I think if your brain is desperately hungry to do This One Cool Thing Today, it's a good idea to let it. Even if that means you spend the whole day drawing fanart or bingewatching a show or baking croissants instead of Getting Work Done, the benefits you reap from just letting your brain tap into the rare Infinite Dopamine Opportunity usually outweigh any and all work slowdowns that result from taking the impromptu day off. When your brain works in the ADHD way, your enthusiasm is a vital fuel to keep it running. You need to have energy and joy in your life, energy and joy to spare and spend on things that may not be inherently energizing. If you have the option to spend a day doing something ridiculously fun, fill up that tank and reap the productivity benefits for the next week straight.

[dailymanners]

Compliment someone on one of their personality traits 

Write a handwritten card to someone to say thanks

Text a friend to share your gratitude for something they did for you

Leave a positive review online of a restaurant you like

Tell a friend what you love about their children

Compliment a photo someone posts on social media

Let someone cut in front of you in line

Introduce two people who you think would get along

Pick up trash on the ground and put it in the garbage

Compliment someone on their clothing or hair

Use old grocery bags to pick up dog poop you see on your neighbor's lawn

Shovel snow off the sidewalk in your neighborhood

Offer to mow the lawn for an elderly neighbor

Give up your seat on the plane to let a couple sit together

Talk to someone at a party that doesn’t seem to know anyone

Invite someone new in your town to a social event and introduce them to everyone

Invite a friend that you haven’t seen in a while out to lunch

Offer to pick up a friend at the airport

Reach out to an old friend to let them know of an experience you had with them that you value

Spend time with the elderly at a local retirement home

Offer to bring someone else's grocery cart back to the store

Keep an extra pen in your purse to give people when they need one

Put a positive note in a library book

Attend events that support your friends’ passions (like an art show, musical performance, etc…)

Donate unused items to charity

Bring snacks to the local fire station

Keep packs of toothpaste or packs of socks in your bag to give to homeless people

Post an uplifting photo on a friend’s social media

Compliment someone on something they’ve done or accomplished

Tell a parent that they’re doing a great job raising their kids

Bring or send your mother flowers

Bring a friend a small gift next time you see them

Buy a warm meal to give to a homeless person

Share an article, event, or other information with someone who might be interested

Help to connect a friend seeking a job to someone who has a job to offer

Help a neighbor bring in their groceries

Make dinner for your friend group

Compliment a neighbor on how nice their yard looks

Bring in the trash bins for your neighbor after trash has been picked up

Send an email to a former teacher to let them know how they impacted your life

Leave a thank you note in your mailbox for your mail carrier

Give a flower to a stranger

Buy a gift card to give to a stranger

Ofter to be there for a friend when they are struggling with something

Give bottles of water to people working outside on a hot day

Buy a sandwich for the next person in the lunch line

Leave a sticky note with a positive note somewhere public, like at a bus stop

Bring brownies to your next neighborhood association meeting

Scrape the ice off the car windshield of the car next to yours

Leave a positive comment on someone else's social media post, #ProsocialPost

Put coins in someone’s parking meter that is about to run out

Slow down to let someone merge in front of you in traffic

Be on time (don’t waste others’ time)

Hold the door open for the person walking behind you

Make a double batch of dinner so that you can give a meal to someone in need

Give directions to someone who is lost

Give an extra big tip when eating out

Practice compassion when someone else is struggling

Be self-compassionate when you’re struggling with something

Share veggies you grow in your garden with friends, neighbors, and family

Become an organ donor

Volunteer at the local animal shelter

Bring dinner to a friend who's just had a baby

Build a “little free library” box in your yard with books for everyone to read

[piastriprincess]

fell  in  love  at  the  orange  show  speedway ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  driver!reader  ,  she  fell  first  he  fell  harder  . word  count  2k author’s  note  wow  wow  wow  we’re  finally  here  !  this  is  the  culmination  of  my  birthday  build - a - fic  event  .  thank  you  so  much  again  for  all  the  love  on  the  event  ,  i  was  so  happy  that  everyone  was  interested  !!  it  still  blows  my  mind  that  so  many  of  you  are  excited  about  my  work  and  i  am  so  so  grateful  .  i  had  so  much  fun  going  on  this  journey  with  yall  and  i  really  really  hope  you  love  the  result  !  depending  on  when  i  hit  my  next  follower  count  milestone  another  event  may  be  coming  very  soon  lol  …  as  always  PLEASE  come  tell  me  what  you  think  and  lmk  if  you  want  more  of  this  reader  and  osc  <3  title  is  from  orange  show  speedway  by  lizzy  mcalpine  !

The email shines up at you like a spotlight, the kind that always makes you wince and look away.

F1 Rising Stars promotional photoshoot. Thursday, 12 PM, at the paddock. Hair & makeup will be provided; race attire required. And just below that, in the participants list: Oscar Piastri is attending.

You’ve read it so many times the words have begun to blur together, except for his name, which has remained annoyingly clear in your mind every time you close your eyes. You didn’t know it was possible to have a crush on the shape of someone’s name in your phone, but you suppose when it comes to your feelings for Oscar, you should stop being so surprised. 

The worst part is, it didn’t take much. It started last year, when you were new to the grid, the first woman driver in fifty years. A heavy legacy to carry on your shoulders, and an even worse one to carry alone. You were never much for the spotlight anyway, but when you got to F1 it felt like every eye was on you: not just to watch your performance, but to pass judgment about every single woman in motorsport if you put a foot wrong. The other drivers were polite but distant, like their reps had forced them to memorize the HR handbook before they were allowed to talk to you. Except Oscar, who walked you to the media pen when you got lost with a friendly smile, who gave you a fist bump and an “impressive drive” when you dragged the Racing Bulls tractor to Q3 in your first ever quali. That was it — since then, you’ve been disgustingly down bad, wearing your heart on your sleeve for him like it’s the team’s newest sponsor. 

Everyone can see it. Isack clocked it within five minutes of becoming your teammate. There’s a running bet in your garage about whether you’ll ever say more than six words to him at a time without blushing. Through it all, Oscar’s remained his lovely, friendly self. You don’t know if he knows, and you definitely don’t want to find out. You’re not sure what would be more humiliating: him being completely oblivious, or him knowing and politely pretending not to.

“Hey,” your performance coach says gently as she hands you a water bottle, evidently getting tired of you fidgeting with your phone for the better part of ten minutes during what is supposed to be a training session. “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a photoshoot.”

Just a photoshoot. Alone. With Oscar Piastri. The boy who makes you forget how to string sentences together when he smiles at you during driver briefings, all bunny teeth and big brown eyes. The boy you’ve been harboring the world’s most embarrassing crush on for months. With a camera shoved in your face, documenting your every move. 

“Right,” you sigh, shoving your phone into your bag and taking a long swig from the bottle like it will cool your flushed cheeks. “Just a photoshoot.”

You’re early on Thursday, of course. You’re always early when you’re nervous, and over the past few days the anxious buzz in your stomach has transformed into full-on nauseous butterflies. You’re nearly hyperventilating by the time you get to hair and makeup, picturing photos with your hair teased, siren makeup, and suit unzipped in the sultry way you know in your bones you could absolutely never pull off. But thankfully, they let you wear your hair the same way you always do, just smoothing a few flyaways and dabbing a bit of highlighter over your cheeks. “Natural beauty,” the stylist calls it with a proud smile. “Just like you.”

You’ve never been good at accepting compliments, and today is no exception, mumbling a thank you and ducking your head so they can’t see the blush on your cheeks. But you do look pretty, you think — at least, you look like you, just… a more confident version. 

The confidence goes out the window the minute you step onto the set. You’d thought your punctuality might buy you a bit of time, but Oscar’s already there, leaning against the prop car like a teen idol pin-up and talking to the photographer about camera angles, or lighting, or something equally important you should probably be paying attention to. You’re not listening. Instead, you’re cataloguing the way his race suit stretches over his broad shoulders, the way his hair falls in the perfect swoop over his forehead. Drinking in the details of his face so carefully that you forget to look where you’re walking, promptly trip over a lighting cord, and nearly go sprawling to the ground. 

Oscar turns at the noise, smiling at you in a way that makes your chest go tight. “Quite an entrance,” he says, and there’s a laugh in his voice. It’s not unkind, just amused, but your face feels hot enough that someone should probably pull a fire alarm. “You ready to be rising stars?”

You take a deep breath and straighten up, manage what you hope sounds like a normal laugh in return. “A-As ready as I’ll ever be, I think.”

The photographer introduces herself. She’s almost aggressively cheerful, treats you and Oscar both like old friends. It doesn’t put you at ease, exactly, but it soothes some of the anxiety in your stomach. “How about we start with some individual shots, get you both warmed up,” she says kindly, gesturing toward the backdrop. 

Your solo session is… fine. You’re not comfortable, exactly, but you know how to smile on command, how to look confident even when your palms are sweating and your fireproofs feel tight around your neck. Oscar, of course, looks completely calm in front of the cameras when it’s his turn, like he’s done it a thousand times (he probably has — you can hardly forget the Vogue photoshoot you pored over a few months ago). You can’t help but steal glances at him as he laughs with the photographer, at ease in this world in a way you’ve never quite mastered. 

“Let’s get some shots together,” the photographer calls, ushering you back to the car to stand next to Oscar. The first few poses are easy enough — standing side by side, crossing your arms, holding out your helmets to the camera. It’s awkward, though. Your chest feels tight, and you’re hyperaware of your body, of Oscar’s closeness. Every time his shoulder brushes against yours, your heart flutters completely unprofessionally against your ribs.

“Are you okay? You’re standing like you’re being held hostage,” Oscar mutters out of the corner of his mouth as the shutter clicks.

The dry humor takes you so by surprise that you forget to be nervous, giggling lightly. “Stop. I’m trying to be photogenic, Oscar.”

“Maybe just relax a little,” he says softly, eyes bright. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

The sincerity in his voice is evident, and now your heart is doing something indescribably stupid in your chest. You don’t say another word, but he keeps making those dry little observations about the poses, the overzealous assistant with the reflector, the way the wind keeps sweeping at his hair, and despite the camera flashing in your face it somehow makes it a little easier to breathe. 

“Let’s do something a little less formal,” the photographer says. “Oscar, can you sit on the back wheel there? Perfect. And you, darling,” she says, turning to you, “sit next to him, but angle towards him slightly. Like you’re having a conversation.”

You settle beside him, taking slow, deep breaths. You can smell his cologne from here, something clean and comforting that makes it very hard for you to think straight. 

“You really are nervous,” Oscar says quietly, in a voice reserved just for you, as the photographer adjusts her camera. 

You exhale slightly. “Terrified,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

He turns to look at you properly, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Never would’ve guessed, honestly. You’re usually so… composed.” 

“They have me well trained,” you say dryly, and he laughs like he wasn’t expecting it — wasn’t expecting you. 

“Well, they did well,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re pretty brilliant at it.”

Your cheeks flush, fingers curling tight around the edge of your sleeve. But you don’t look away. “Thanks,” you say, and mean it. “But I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t think the spotlight’s really for me. I’ve been here a year and I still always feel a bit out of place.” You wish you could take back the words as soon as you say them. You don’t know why you’re being so honest. Something about the way he’s looking at you, maybe. Like in this photoshoot with what feels like a million people roaming around, you’re the only person he sees. 

“You’re not out of place,” he says quickly. “Not to me.” Then his mouth snaps shut, and he blinks those big brown eyes at you like he hadn’t even expected the words to come out of his mouth. 

You don’t know what to say in response. It’s nicer than you could have imagined, something you wouldn’t have even dared to hope for in the secret moments when you close your eyes at night and picture what it might be like to have Oscar’s lips against yours. 

“Whatever you’re talking about, keep it up!” the photographer calls. “The chemistry is beautiful.”

Oscar flushes, eyes darting to the ground like he's only just realized what he said. You glance down too, pretending to smooth a wrinkle in your sleeve, the edges of your mouth betraying you with the start of a smile. Your hands feel too warm. Everything does.

You don’t look at him, not yet. You’re afraid that if you do, it’ll be written all over your face.

The sun is low in the sky by the time you’re finished, the photographer loudly declaring you two the easiest couple she’s ever worked with. You can’t meet Oscar’s eyes after you hear the word couple, settling for watching him rub at the back of his neck nervously out of the corner of your gaze. The two of you split up after that, heading back to the trailers. You change out of your race suit, and start packing up your things.

As you start walking back down the track towards the garages, you’re expecting that to be the end of it. Until you hear Oscar calling your name from somewhere behind you. 

For a moment, you’re expecting him to be holding something you forgot — your gloves, or a spare helmet, or something. But when you turn to face him, he’s empty-handed, standing a little awkwardly with one toe turned inward, the late afternoon light making his skin glow. 

“Hey,” he says, and it’s almost shy, like he’s gone over it in his mind a couple times the way you do when you’re trying really hard to sound nonchalant. “D’you wanna walk back together?”

“Sure,” you say softly, falling into step beside him. The sunset makes the paddock look like something magical, all golden and glittering. Your shadows stretch long across the asphalt, so close together they look like they might fold into one being. 

Neither of you say much, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Easy. He walks you all the way to the Racing Bulls garage, even though you pass McLaren on the way there. 

“Thanks for walking with me,” you say somewhat reluctantly when you arrive. You’re not in any hurry to leave, but surprisingly it doesn’t seem like Oscar is, either. He’s dragging his toe against the gravel like it’ll keep him tethered to the spot. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says, and you can hear the hesitation in his voice. Like he’s on the edge of doing something he’s not quite sure of. You wait for just a moment, heart in your throat, but he doesn’t move. And then, just as you sigh and turn to go, he speaks.

“You know, I meant what I said earlier. You didn’t even have to try, and it was hard not to look at you.”

You’re only frozen for a moment before you whirl around, but it’s enough. He’s already walking away, but you can see even in the setting sun that he’s pink up to his ears. 

You smile to yourself, pulse thrumming wildly in your ears. All of a sudden, you don’t feel so out of place anymore. 

[writesvani]

dear me | 01

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): nostalgia, lost friendships, unrequited love, emotional pain, longing, drifting apart, past relationships, smoking (cigarettes), self-destructive habits, regret, emotional detachment, loneliness, unresolved feelings, reminiscing about the past, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— next chapter

wc: 3k // date: 18th of March 2025

CHAPTER ONE; Me VS. Me happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay so first of all, THIS FIC IS MY BABY. my pride and joy. my magnum opus. my chef’s kiss MWAH. i have birthed it with my own two hands (don’t question the anatomy of that sentence, just roll with it). i have been so deep in writing characters that make you go hmm. questionable. concerning. ma’am, do you need therapy? that i just CRAVED writing someone to actually root for. and thus, this fic was born. and i love it. i love it so much.

writing this was an emotional rollercoaster. like, HELLO?? nostalgia just drop-kicked me in the chest. it is actually insane how little we remember of our own lives, like??? the fact that our past selves could be out there scheming, writing weird emails to our future selves, and we’d have NO IDEA?? terrifying and also very on brand.

anyway, i cannot WAIT for you guys to see the other chapters. i am so giddy about this fic you don’t even understand. i feel like a mad scientist cackling in the middle of the night. ugh. okay that’s all.

and yes, i listened to A LOT of Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish writing this. 🩷

LOVE YOU, BYE!

Memories are like bruises. They cling to you, pressing into your skin, carving themselves deep until they feel permanent. They settle in, making a home in you—for an unknown amount of time. But slowly, they fade. Day by day, they grow lighter, less sharp, until finally—nothing remains. And it’s as if they were never there at all.

By the time a human gently touches the edge of eighty, they will have lived nearly thirty thousand days. Yet, the ones they truly remember—the ones that weave their strings into the soul’s net—are only a few hundred, perhaps a few thousand.

We are born. We grow. We build connections. And yet, most of them dissolve with time. The light dims. The ties loosen. The voices fade into echoes. But sometimes, even when everything else is lost, the love we once shared lingers. A flame—small as the ember of a dying cigarette—still flickers, waiting, hoping to ignite once more.

Sometimes, the flame never reignites. The memory remains, vivid yet stagnant, sinking deep into the depths of our being but refusing to bloom again.

Other times, love and memory return like a hurricane—familiar knocks pounding at the door, relentless, inescapable.

And in your case—it comes right back, sitting pretty in your inbox. Letter after letter of who you used to be years ago, wrapping around you like a mother’s embrace. And you don’t want to let go.

Checking your email after work is a daily, unskippable ritual—like the scent of morning coffee, the kind that melts down your throat, the kind that holds you in its warmth. Like tying your shoes, a habit that clings to you ever since you first learned how to do it on your own.

Today is no different. You come home, drop your bags onto the first clean surface you can find, and eat the leftovers from the meal you made for your client. Thank God she lets you take them home.

Even though cooking is your passion—even though you live for the alchemy of flavors, for the way warmth blooms in someone’s chest at the first bite—working as a private chef is exhausting. Every single day, new dishes, new expectations, new demands. You love it. You really do. And you’re grateful that your passion pays the bills. But the last thing you want to do when you get home is cook.

Because who in their right mind brings their work home, right?

So you eat the leftovers.

You throw yourself onto your beige couch—the one your mom got you for a suspiciously low price when you bought your apartment.

You stretch like a lazy cat basking in the sunlight, tilting your head until your neck cracks just enough to be satisfying. A deep yawn escapes your lips as you open your laptop.

Specks of dust scatter across the keyboard, forming unrecognizable patterns. You trace a finger through them, leaving a clear trail behind.

Hm.

You’ll wipe it later. Right now, you're too tired.

It’s time to check your emails.

Nothing unusual—job offers scattered here and there, a local bookstore announcing a sale (you’ll definitely order something later), and an overpriced ceramic china set practically handed to you on a golden plate. You toy with the hem of your shirt, debating.

You’ll probably never use it, but it’d be great for special occasions—family gatherings, maybe? You can already picture the jealous grimaces of your distant aunts, their forced smiles twisting at the edges.

Yeah, it’s worth the money.

And then.

Then.

An email.

From you.

Not in your sent folder. Not a draft you forgot about. Right there, sitting patiently in your inbox, mocking you to your face—an email from yourself.

To you.

Your eyebrows knit together as you chew your bottom lip.

What the hell?

Your eyes squint lightly, adjusting to the glow of the screen as it lulls the darkness of your bedroom into sleep. Your breath comes out in gentle puffs.

Then, a chill runs down your spine.

Your palms suddenly feel damp—sweat pooling, clinging. You wipe them hastily on your shirt.

It can’t be. Can it?

You were sure—100% sure—it was a scam.

The sketchy service you paid for when you stole your mom’s credit card at fourteen (earning yourself a lengthy monologue about delinquent behavior) was a scam. It had to be.

But right there, on the screen, words are waiting for you.

Scattered across the desktop, glowing in the dim light. Staring back.

So you read.

"Dear Me,”

You blink.

"By the time you're reading this, you're 28. Jesus Christ, if you're even still alive, you're so old. How does being a granny feel? LOL. Just kidding. I know you're in your prime (or at least I hope so).

So, I don’t know if this is even going to work. A part of me is sure this is a scam, but hey—gotta stay optimistic, right?"

A small smirk tugs at your lips.

Optimistic, huh? Always was, always will be. Or at least, you try to be.

You take a slow sip of the green tea you made after dinner, letting it glide smoothly down your throat. Lately, it has felt as if you're rediscovering life—unraveling its meaning all over again.

And from the words of little you, it seems like nothing has changed.

A quiet chuckle escapes as you keep reading, a small smile still lingering on your face.

"Anyways, how are we, girl?

There are so many things I want to ask you, but I know I won’t get the answers until I become you. Still, I have to ask, okay? Please be patient with me.

First of all—are we a chef? Please tell me we are.

Ever since we went to Italy with Mom and Dad last summer, we’ve been obsessed with food. You remember that kind grandpa who taught us the perfect Bolognese recipe? You know, the one we completely wrecked the kitchen trying to recreate at home? Seriously, Mom was so mad at us—she’s such a drama queen, I swear.

But I’ll keep trying for you. I don’t want to let my future self down."

A soft chuckle slips from your lips as you let the memories bloom—that summer in Italy, when everything changed.

The moment you realized: this is it. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

You remember it all.

Your hands, stained deep red from the fresh tomatoes you and that kind grandpa had picked at the local market. The rich scent of the sauce bubbling on the stove. The way he spoke about Italian food as if it were as vital as nuclear physics—and to you, it was. It is. It always will be.

You remember the countless times you destroyed your kitchen, basking in the mess, determined to get it right. You remember failing. Again. And again.

And then—finally—succeeding.

Your heart swells, beating against the quiet of the room.

You did it.

You tried. And tried. And tried.

And in the end—you made the Bolognese perfectly.

After that, you gave your dream the life it always deserved.

"But if you realized you wanted to do something else with your life, that’s okay—I forgive you.

As long as we’re doing something we truly love, I approve."

Typical you. Always reassuring yourself.

Your heart clenches at the thought of your younger self, sitting at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright with excitement. So full of life. So alive. So imperfectly perfect—even though she never thought she was.

"So, tomorrow is the first day of high school, and I—or you, or we, whatever—I’M SO EXCITED OMG!!!"

You can practically hear the urgency behind the words, feel the restless energy of a girl who thought this was the most important night of her life.

"It’s time to meet new people and make new friendships and I can’t wait. I’m literally writing this because I can’t sleep #soexcited."

High school.

You don’t think about your first day much. Of all the roads you’ve traveled, all the moments that shaped you, this has never been one you revisited.

But seeing it now—her, you, how much it meant to her—

It hits.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over you, cold and sharp, like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head.

"And of course, the AWESOMEST fact in the universe: Jungkook is going to the same school as me (I mean us. This shit is very confusing, okay?).

Oh wait—he just sent me a text on FB. He can’t sleep either. RIP.

We’re taking all the same classes, which means WE’RE GONNA BE DESK MATES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???”

You swallow hard.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about him.

Because not thinking about Jeon Jungkook is impossible.

A ghost of him lingers in you—always there, just beneath the surface.

But it is simply as it is.

He was your best friend. He isn’t anymore.

Life happened. It pulled you apart. So you shouldn’t dwell on it.

But you see her—your younger self, in the back of your mind.

A huge grin stretched across her face, fingers flying over the keyboard as she texts Jungkook about the first day of high school.

Her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

Unspoken words pressing against her ribs.

And suddenly, the memory surges back—sharp, vivid, uninvited.

The way she loved him.

The way she was in love with him.

A reminder you didn’t need. A reminder you don’t want.

“And by the way, since so many years have passed—I gotta ask.

Are we maybe married to Kook? Dating him?

Did we confess?

Did he… like us back?”

You inhale sharply, fingertips drifting to your lips—a bad habit, a nervous tell.

“I don’t know how I imagine that story turning out.”

“Did he reject us?”

A pause.

“If he did, how did we survive that?”

You exhale. Slowly. Deeply.

“I can’t imagine that embarrassment. Ugh.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“But there’s a small flicker of hope inside of me that maybe… he confessed or maybe he likes us back, I don’t know”

A flicker.

Something you never snuffed out completely, no matter how much time passed.

“I guess, a small part of me thinks there’s a chance for Jungkook and us.”

“…But I’m not sure.”

Your fingers press harder against your lips, picking even harder, edges of your teeth pulling at the skin inside of your mouth.She sounds so young.

So immature and mature all at once—the messy contradiction of early adulthood.

But mostly?

She sounds hopeful.

Hopeful in a way you no longer are.

She really thought there would be a time for the two of you. Jungkook and you.

And maybe there was.

Maybe, in a parallel universe.

But not this one.

This one is real. This one is raw.

And you survived.

She thought she would perish without him.

But you’re still here.

Standing. Breathing. Living.

And for that, you’re proud of yourself.

Proud for growing out of it.

Proud for learning how to exist without depending on anyone else.

For being whole on your own.

And yet—your jaw clenches. Your throat tightens.

Because maybe, just maybe, a small part of you didn’t survive.

The part that was hopelessly, utterly, and completely in love with the boy you used to call your best friend.

Some wounds are better left untouched.

But this?

Reading this feels masochistic and beautiful at the same time.

It compels you.

You have to remember more.

You sigh.

But you still have to continue torturing yourself, so you drag your eyes back to the words.

“Even if nothing happened with Kook, even if you fell out of love with him—which I find impossible, because CMON, there’s no love if it isn’t written in Jungkook cursive. But if you did fall out of love by some miracle, I know that you guys are still bestest friends in the whole universe.”

Your fingers tense around the edge of your laptop.

Bestest friends in the whole universe.

You inhale sharply, but it does nothing to steady you.

“I know he’s still a part of our story.”

A hollow feeling burrows itself into your chest.

“Tell me, what does he do for a living? Is he a drummer, like he always dreamed of being?”

Your breath stutters.

Drummer.

A dream that stayed exactly what it was.

A dream.

“He told me last night he’s gonna ink himself in a year or two—AND do A BROW PIERCING.”

A pause.

Your lips twitch.

“His mom is gonna tweak out, like HELLO! But he’s gonna be so hot I simply can’t even debate on this—I have to support him.”

A quiet chuckle leaves you before you can stop it.

“He’s so wild in his own dreams, I always feel the need to chase after him.”

Your throat tightens.

Because once, you did.

Once, there was a time you couldn’t imagine a day without him.

And now?

You press a palm to your forehead, massaging the dull ache forming at your temples. Your heart hammers painfully, and suddenly, you're craving nicotine like it's the only thing tethering you to the present.

Jungkook.

Jungkook.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips—dry, pale, bitten raw.

A memory flickers.

Jungkook, terrified at the tattoo parlor.

Your fingers intertwined with his, grounding him.

You—blushing furiously—as the tattoo artist pulled his shirt up, exposing the smooth skin of his ribs.

You were seventeen then, sneaking into some shady tattoo shop where minors passed as adults. No IDs. Just cash and a little recklessness.

But you wrote this at fourteen.

Fourteen-year-old you didn’t know yet.

She didn’t know that Jungkook would get his ethereal skin inked, his brow pierced. Well she didn’t know for sure. But Jungkook hoped to do so and young her, young you believed in him.

She didn’t know that some dreams don’t survive the weight of reality.

Because Jungkook never became a drummer.

The boy who once swore he’d live off the sound of drumsticks against cymbals had to chase something bigger.

A career.

A paycheck.

A better life.

And in that chase—your friendship, the thing younger you was so sure would last forever—

It got carried away.

Somewhere far.

With him.

You bring a cigarette to your lips and take a slow, deliberate drag. The smoke curls around you like a ghost—familiar, haunting, inescapable. It carves itself deep into your lungs, settles in your bones like something meant to stay.

“UGH, mom is yelling at me to go to sleep.”

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate.

“I’ll be back soon tho, I know you already miss younger you, haha.”

A dry chuckle catches in your throat.

Do you?

Do you really?

“I’m gonna be sending you one email a week for a year through this service, so I’M TOTALLY gonna remind you of our first year of high school.”

Your fingers tighten around the cigarette.

A year.

She’s going to be here for a year.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll steal Dad’s credit card next time so I can pay for another year.”

A scoff pulls at your lips.

Typical.

“I’m unpredictable like that.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

Yeah, she was.

“For now, I love you.”

A pause. You take a deep breath.

“Past You, Me, or Us (IM NOT SURE).”

Your teeth clench.

You take another pull of nicotine. The taste is bitter, but you let it linger anyway.

You forgot about this.

About her.

About the fact that the emails will keep coming—one after another, a relentless flood of memories you didn’t ask for.

And now?

Now, it all crashes down on you.

A tidal wave of long-buried memories of fourteen-year-old you, giddy and unfiltered, pouring her thoughts into emails, fingers flying over the keyboard like they couldn’t keep up with her excitement.

She had no idea.

No idea what was coming.

No idea who she and Jungkook would become.

How aparat they would be.

A low groan rumbles from your chest.

Why did you do this to yourself?

You hover over the keyboard.

Your stomach twists.

Your mind screams at you to block the emails. To delete them. To wipe them out before they reopen wounds you’ve spent years ignoring.

But your fingers never move.

Because it feels wrong.

Because deleting them feels like deleting her.

And even if you don’t recognize some parts of her anymore, she was still you.

To erase her would be to erase everything you used to be.

And that?

That would be the real betrayal.

You shut the laptop with a scoff.

The sound echoes through the empty apartment, lingering in the silence. Your feet move on their own, carrying you to the shower. You don’t think. You just go.

By the time you step inside, the water is already scorching hot. You let it burn. Let it sear into your skin, as if heat alone can strip away the weight of forgotten memories.

But it doesn’t.

It clings to you, sticks to your bones like something too deep to scrub away.

Because it’s not dirt.

It’s the truth.

And it won’t leave—not even when you wrap yourself in fresh clothes and sink into the soft cushions of your bed.

Your fingers move on instinct, pulling out your phone, scrolling through Instagram stories. You’re not really looking for anything. But then you see it.

He posted something.

Your breath catches.

It’s the sky.

A sunset.

Splatters of red and orange melt together, the sun shyly emigrating between earth and sky.

You stare.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you click on his profile. Something unnameable courses through your veins.

Is it nostalgia?

The longing for a friendship that no longer exists?

Is it simply missing him?

Your best friend?

Your chest tightens.

You tap on the chat option.

And there it is.

A string of messages.

Nothing devastating.

Just… usual.

A cycle of: "Happy Birthday, I love you so much," and "Thank youu, love you too." A chain of story reactions. That’s all that’s left of you two.

Your grip on the phone tightens.

Is this really it?

Is this what you’ve become?

Two people who once built a universe together, now reduced to annual birthday wishes and the occasional double tap?

It’s mocking you.

Because Jungkook and you—you were never just usual.

You were everything.

The chaos and the calm.

The storm and the warmth of sunlight on a rainy day.

The scent of rain, the comfort of old books, the hush of midnight talks.

You were everything.

And now?

Now you’re nothing.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

A part of you—the reckless part—wants to send something. Wants to test the waters, see if there’s still something left to salvage. But then reality crashes down, heavy and suffocating.

You curse yourself under your breath.

Rekindling something out of the blue—who does that?

Not now.

Maybe another time.

Or maybe…

Maybe this is simply how it’s supposed to be.

Locked away.

Tucked inside your heart.

Safe from the ache of all the what could have beens.

Yeah.

It’s better this way.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97

[friendlyneighborhoodshark]

"How to Life" Masterlist

Cleaning and Tidying

Make your bed in the morning. It takes seconds, and it's worth it.

Reset to zero each morning.

Use the UFYH 20/10 system for clearing your shit.

Have a 'drop-zone' box where you dump anything and everything. At the beginning/end of the day, clear it out and put that shit away.

Automate your chores. Have a cleaning schedule and assign 15mins daily to do whatever cleaning tasks are set for that day. Set a timer and do it once the timer is up, finish the task you're on and leave it for the day.

Fold your clothes straight out of the tumble dryer (if you use one), whilst they're still warm. This minimises creases and eliminates the need for ironing.

Clean your footwear regularly and you'll feel like a champ.

Organisation and Productivity

Learn from Eisenhower's Importance/Urgency matrix.

Try out the two-minute rule and the Pomodoro technique.

Use. A. Planner. (Or Google Calendar, if that's more your thing.)

Try bullet journalling.

Keep a notebook/journal/commonplace book to dump your brain contents in on the regular.

Set morning alarms at two-minute intervals rather than five, and stick your alarm on the other side of the room. It's brutal, but it works.

Set three main goals each day, with one of them being your #1 priority. Don't overload your to-do list or you'll hit overload paralysis and procrastinate.

If you're in a slump, however, don't be afraid to put things like "shower" on your to do list - that may be a big enough goal in itself, and that's okay.

Have a physical inbox - a tray, a folder, whatever. If you get a piece of paper, stick it in there and sort through it at the end of the week.

Consider utilising the GTD System, or a variation of it.

Try timeboxing.

Have a morning routine, and guard that quiet time ferociously.

Have a folder for all your important documents and letters, organised by topic (e.g. medical, bank, university, work, identification). At the front of this folder, have a sheet of paper with all the key information written on it, such as your GP's details, your passport details, driving licence details, bank account number, insurance number(s), and so on.

Schedule working time and down time alike, in the balance that works for you.

Money

Have. A. God. Damn. Budget.

Use a money tracker like toshl, mint, or splitwise. Enter all expenses asap! (You will forget, otherwise.)

Have a 'money date' each week, where you sort through your finances from the past seven days and then add it to a spreadsheet. This will help you identify your spending patterns and whether your budget is actually working or not.

Pack your own frickin' lunch like a grown-up and stop buying so many takeaway coffees. Keep snacks in your bag.

Food and Cooking

Know how to cook the basics: a starch, a protein, a vegetable, and a sauce.

Simple, one-pot meals ("a grain, a green, and a bean") are a godsend.

Batch cook and freeze. Make your own 'microwave meals'.

Buy dried goods to save money - rice and beans are a pittance.

Consider Meatless Mondays; it's healthier, cheaper, and more environmentally friendly.

Learn which fruits and vegetables are cheapest at your store, and build a standard weekly menu around those. (Also remember that frozen vegetables are cheap and healthy.)

Learn seasoning combinations. Different seasoning, even with the exact same ingredients, can make a dish seem completely new.

Misc

Have a stock email-writing format.

Want to start running, but find it boring? Try Zombies, Run!.

Keep a goddamn first aid kit and learn how to use it.

Update your CV regularly.

Keep a selection of stamps and standard envelopes for unexpected posting needs. (It happens more regularly than you would think!)

[pathologicalreid]

merry christmas, please don't call | s.r.

in which Spencer pens an email to you, since you've already blocked his phone number

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: nondescript break up, described as spencer's fault, reader is mentioned to have worn lipstick, yearning, word count: 907 a/n: and the worst part is!!! that we both know!!!!! we are doing kind of an unofficial margotmas/reidmas! really i've just been building up christmas ideas for a while lol

To: xreader@gmail.com From: Spencer.Reid@gmail.com Subject: Merry Christmas

Hey,

Spencer shook his head, that was too casual.

Good afternoon,

Much too formal.

Hello,

Too rigid.

Darling,

I passed by the house that you told me you adored. It used to be your dream house; you’d always show me the Zillow listing whenever you were browsing. The owners didn’t put up their Christmas lights this year, and it looks like they’re getting ready to sell. I haven’t been online to check the listing, that was always your thing rather than mine.

Do you remember the house? It had four bedrooms for our kids to sleep in and a library with stained-glass windows. You always told me the stained-glass windows were your favorite feature of my apartment. I keep it covered now; the colored glass just serves as a painful reminder of you.  

Emily called me last week. I suppose no one told her that we weren’t together anymore because she asked what our holiday plans were. I haven’t made any since you left. I’m finding myself hopeful that we get called on a case over Christmas so that I don’t need to be surrounded by the world celebrating while I continue to wallow in the memories of you and me.

That’s all I have now: memories. We made so many of them over the course of three years that I don’t know what to do with them. I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that having an eidetic memory is a curse just as much as it is a blessing, but with you gone, I know it’s more of a curse. I see you when I close my eyes as if your features have been permanently tattooed on the back of my eyelids, but when my eyes are open, everything is exponentially worse.

You left in such a hurry, so you were bound to leave a few things behind. When I went to make a cup of coffee and found one of your mugs in my cabinet, JJ and Penelope had to practically scrape me off the kitchen floor. There was still a lipstick smudge on it, a piece of our history the dishwasher couldn’t quite wash off. Your necklace was on the bedside table, though maybe that was left behind on purpose. I wish we could go back to the day I gave it to you, you could wear the same green dress, and maybe work wouldn’t get in the way. If I could, I’d call you to ask why you left it behind, but you’ve blocked my number.

There was no need for you to leave me things to remember you by, how could I ever forget you?

I’ve been finding myself grateful that you got so close with Garcia during our relationship, she doesn’t give me any explicit details on your life when she updates me. I never ask, but she knows I want to hear.

It’s a rather odd phenomenon to have once had someone who you shared everything with, only to one day find they want nothing to do with you. I always find myself reaching for my phone to send to a message, or leaning over to show you a line in my book, but you’re not there anymore. I don’t hold any malice in my heart for you, even after you called it all off. My biggest regret is that I couldn’t be the boyfriend that you needed, and I’m proud of you for realizing you wanted someone better. I’m sorry I couldn’t be better.

Maybe I still have some growing up to do. There might be some sort of emotional stunting as a result of my less-than-orthodox upbringing and education, which makes sense when you consider two of my most common nicknames, “boy genius” and “kid.” One day I could find myself in the same place you were, ready for more, but maybe then I’ll be with someone who is ready for the same things as I am. She’ll never be you though. You’ll always hold that special place in my heart.

Speaking of my upbringing, my mom keeps asking about you. Each time we talk on the phone, she asks if she can talk to you, but I’ve been telling her that you’re still working or are otherwise preoccupied. I know I shouldn’t lie to her, but if I tell her, she’ll inevitably forget, and I’ll be forced to recount the story of how I lost the best thing to ever happen to me forever. That would be my eternal damnation. There’s Sisyphus and Tantalus and Spencer Reid, slowly becoming nothing but a myth. I wonder if I’m a story that you tell your friends at O’Keefe’s.

I go there sometimes, just to see if I can catch your gaze, but you’re never there.

I know this is your favorite holiday, and I don’t intend to ruin your holidays with my message. I suppose I just needed to see if you still dream about that house. To see if you still dream of me the way I dream of you.

Merry Christmas,

Spencer

He clicked send nervously, ready to snap his work-issued laptop shut when it chirped with a notification. Surely you hadn’t responded that quickly. Spencer opened his inbox once more, checking the latest email.

To: Spencer.Reid@gmail.com From: mailer-daemon@googlemail.com Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)

Message blocked.

Your message to xreader@gmail.com has been blocked. See technical details below for more information.

[ms-demeanor]

My Boss: I want to send out quotes to all our customers with old computers but I don't want it to take a month.

Me: Okay, I've been building a spreadsheet with all the computers that can't upgrade to Windows 11, why don't we send customers a structured schedule of replacements so they can swap those out over the next eighteen months?

My Boss: Sounds good, but just quote them all at once. How many can you get out today?

Me: Uhhhh well getting the data from each computer takes a couple minutes and we manage a couple thousand computers so if I work through the client list alphabetically I can maybe do a couple clients a day? Maybe five?

My Boss: I said I don't want it to take a month.

Me: Okay, well, how about this, I'll work on this while we've got phone coverage. I'll spend five solid hours on it and I'll ignore my teams channels and email and just do this until Patty leaves at two and I have to take over the phones, because yesterday I was slammed with stuff and didn't get any work in on the list. I'll just focus on this alone for five straight hours and I'll respond to other stuff in the afternoon.

My Boss: Well you can't ignore the techs, if they need you you need to drop what you're doing to get stuff done for them.

Me: And that's why putting together this list has taken a month *so far.*

My Boss: Well, figure it out. I want to get these quotes out today.

-----

Anyway so that's why I'm fucking around on tumblr at work. If I'm going to fail at the task he's set anyway I might as well be relaxed while I'm failing at it.

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 5 Part Two

Series Summary: After recently graduating you take what is supposed to be a job to save money before you go back to university to get your law degree. Your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients you’ll never know. Easy. Simple. Mundane. Until one of your clients is home and everything you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love.

Chapter Summary: You and Joel go to a Shibari class together; an innocent date, or is it?

TW: age gap (Joel 45/reader 22), reader does have some descriptors so more of an OC. Reader has longer hair and Joel can lift her. Mutual pining, kissing. Spoiler triggers below the cut in red.

WC: 8.2k

AN: Ok fiiiiiinnnneeeeee I couldn't wait any longer and I left you all on kind of a cliffhanger. As always, thank you to my lovely @lotusbxtch for reading and encouraging and helping me grow. Thanks @mermaidgirl30 , @littlevenicebitch69 and @joelmillerisapunk for being my lil cheerleaders. @for-a-longlongtime thanks for stoping me from working on that bull rider series LOL. Ok, enjoy this slowly because I haven't even STARTED chapter 6 yet, so I doubt it will be out until late October. Dividers and banners by the oh so talented @saradika-graphics

Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: complete sensory deprivation (tied down, blind folded and has hearing blocked), multiple orgasms, denial

Joel

Joel has tried to keep his distance since referring to tonight as a date. He left another large tip for your clean this week and then made sure he was as busy as possible to stop himself from going home to see you. As he coaxed you into drinking the orange juice and the water he kept hearing “it’s a date” over and over again in his mind, and he’d cringe internally. He wouldn’t have blamed you if you had leaped out of that bed and ran home. The thought of you wanting him in that way is ridiculous. Not only because he’s over twice your age, but you came to him for help with building self confidence and for an escape, and then he went and said something so fucking stupid. 

He shakes his head and pulls up his emails, trying to distract himself for what feels like the one hundredth time. Of course he wants to date you, he’d be crazy not to, but he can’t blur those lines. Furthermore, even if there was the slightest chance that you felt the same way he can’t risk breaking your heart the way he’s broken so many others.

She’s going to break yours, old man. Not the other way around.

Wednesday has been absolutely crawling. Time almost mocking him with how slow it’s ticking by. As he goes over the list of tonight's guests, Tess knocks on his small office door at the club.

“Hey,” she says, plopping down in the arm chair across from the desk. “You coming tonight?”

“Of course. Looks like a good turn out. Did the instructor make it in ok?”

“Cap picked her up from the airport yesterday and got her all settled at the hotel. Do you think you’re going to need me tonight?”

Joel cocks an eyebrow at her. He’s known Tess since she was ten. Her and Tommy are the same age, Joel being two years their senior. Aside from a few months when Tess and Tommy were sixteen, the three of them have been inseparable ever since. Tess was usually the undeclared leader of the group due to her bossy nature, but she kept the Miller brothers out of trouble most of the time. 

“What’s wrong, Tess?”

“Nothin’,” she crosses her arms across her chest. “I am the planner, you and Tommy are the personality. I’m fine to stay behind the scenes for this one.”

“You’ve been acting strange since the poker night.”

She rolls her eyes at him. She’s probably the only person ballsy enough to do that to Joel besides Tommy, but Joel’s almost convinced his little brother is more dumb than ballsy. “I’m fine, Joel. The staff is all in good morale, and that’s my department. Remember?”

Joel just stares as she continues, lowering her voice to mock his. “I need you to be the people person. Hire them, train them. I’m not patient enough because I’m a big scary dom who will just want to spank them for not listening. I also can’t plan anything because I have a man brain.”

“Hilarious,” Joel deadpans as Tess laughs at her own jokes. “I’m being serious though, are you sure you're ok?”

“Yes, you don’t need to be concerned about me. I’m actually a little gutted I’m gonna miss it. Tommy told me there’s been a very pretty young lady hanging around you lately.”

Joel puts his reading glasses on with one hand and pointing to his door with the other. “Out.”

You

Joel referring to tonight as a date has been on loop for the last few days. He has this amazing way of shutting off your brain and then leaving you with so many new questions. Either way, when a few more college letters came over the last few days you convinced yourself that right before leaving for the shibari-demonstration-slash-date was the best time to open them. 

Odette and Jamie sit on the couch across from you as you slide open the first letter. The thick eggshell parchment stamped with the Yale logo pops open easily. You close your eyes as you open the paper, the only sound in the room is the thundering of your heart behind your ribs. 

You peel your eyes open and read out loud. “We regret to inform you that you have not…” your voice falls off, fingers shaking as you put it back in the envelope.

“Hey, we expected a few no’s,” Jamie says gently, always the optimist.

Odette takes the other approach, “Their fucking loss, bunch of stuffy old cunts! Next!”

You laugh at the juxtaposition of your friends' responses and reach for the Harvard letter. “We regret to inform you…”

“Keep going babe,” Jamie says softly.

You pick up the bright white Columbia letter. “We regret to inform you…fuck.” You feel the defeat start to creep in, like thick morning fog. It’s suffocating, choking all the happiness and excitement you had for tonight. 

“What the fuck is wrong with these schools!” Odette says, snatching the letters up so she can check for herself. “Do the Toronto one, Canadians are supposed to be nice.”

“I can’t open anymore,” you say as your head falls back into the sofa. The fog starts to spread through your body, shutting you down inch by inch. You know you have to open the rest. You’ll spend the rest of the night wondering what they say if you don’t finish them. “You do it, Jamie.”

She shuffles in her seat uncomfortably. She’s not the kind of girl who likes to disappoint others; she's bright and happy but at this moment she’s the only person that you can take bad news from. As if she can read your thoughts, she grabs the University of Toronto letter. The sound of the envelope popping open slices through you. She clears her throat as she opens the paper and then reads aloud the same sentence you did. The letters from Duke and Notre Dame follow the same painful routine. With each rejection your stomach swirls, nausea building on top of self doubt and anxiety. 

Six out of the eight universities you applied to have turned you down; Berkeley and the University of Austin are your only chances left at reaching your dreams. The silence in the small rental unit has you on edge, so much so that when your phone vibrates beside you you jump. A sunset beach photo from your last trip to California is the background from a text from Cap telling you he’ll be at your doorstep in about twenty minutes. 

“I gotta finish getting ready,” you say, dragging yourself to the bathroom to touch up any makeup and brush your teeth.

“Babe?” Jamie says, following you down the hall. “You wanna stay here instead of going to that mixer?”

The reminder of the lie sends a new wave of nausea through you. Tonight you became a law school reject and an even bigger liar. Don’t forget that you’re also falling in love with an unattainable man, says the glittery pink box. You mentally lift a single finger in its direction, it usually doesn’t turn on you like that. 

“I need the distraction.” You say, deciding that that’s not really a lie.

Your friends look at you with sadness in their eyes and even though you’re sad too, you wish you could tell them about Mister Miller and the club. You know they’d be excited about whatever this thing is and it would really help to have someone to decipher all the moments that live in your mind.

“It’s a date”.

When you walk through the large door from the lobby and into the club, you’re welcomed by a completely different atmosphere. It’s not all dim lights and sexy music like it normally is; instead the overhead lights are on and all the people are dressed in regular clothing or athletic wear and not the sexy outfits they’d normally pick to come here. Joel is no exception, dressed in dark wash jeans and a fitted black t-shirt. You catch the glint of his gold ring while he’s engrossed in deep conversation with a blue and purple haired woman along the edge of the dance floor. As if you’re his due north or the other side of his magnet, after just seconds of being in the same room as him, his eyes collide with yours. He mouths an ‘excuse me’ at the woman without looking away from and his long legs eat up the distance between the two of you. He meets you just before the bar and immediately wraps his arms around you, one hand coming to the nape of your neck, silently guiding your forehead to his strong chest.

“What’s wrong, sweet girl?” You love how easily he can read you, but you hate that this is the second time this week that he’s seeing you like this. You know you have moments of weakness, but you don’t let anyone see that and you DEFINITELY don’t inconvenience others with your weakness. 

“Hasn’t been my best day, but I really don’t want to talk about it.” You don’t want to dump all of this on him now, not when he looked so excited when you said you’d attend tonight. 

“Ok, I’m here for you if you want to talk about it though. You don’t have to deal with this on your own.” His lips come to the crown of your head and you breathe him in letting his ash and leather scent break down your walls. 

“I didn’t get in,” you mumble and he holds you tighter for a brief second before his hand moves to your chin and tilts up to meet your gaze.

“All of them?” he asks gently but something akin to anger flares in eyes for just a second. 

“Six of them. I haven’t heard from two.” His thumb feels like heaven as it runs along your jaw.

From across the club the blue and purple haired woman, who is now on the stage, claps her hands. “Good evening, everyone! I’m Starr. If you and your brave partners could start making your way to the floor, we can get started right away!”

“Do you want to leave?” Joel says, his warm coffee and chocolate eyes dancing around yours. No one looks at you like that; no one ever asks what you want. This is one of those looks that you wish you could talk to your friends about.

“No,” you say truthfully. “I want to be here with you.”

“I wasn’t going to let you leave without me. Do you want to go somewhere else together?”

You step back and grab his hand, his fingers thread through yours as if you do this everyday, as if this is normal, and you pull him towards the floor. He stands behind you, an arm wrapped protectively around your middle, similar to how he did the first time you went through the voyeur room. Starr introduces herself and her wife and then begins explaining rope safety and terminology like rigger and rope bunny, before launching into a step by step on tying a beautiful star harness across her wifes clothed chest. The two women hand ropes to the person who will be doing the rigging and as the rope lands in Joel’s hand your pussy flutters at the realization that you’re about to become Mister Miller’s rope bunny. You knew that coming here tonight, even if it did include lying to your friends, would help you feel better. The disappointment of being rejected is slowly replaced with an excited anticipation of learning something new with a man who has done nothing but choose you since laid your eyes on each other.

Starr projects step by step instructions up on the back wall of the stage and Joel clears his throat behind you as he begins. The sound of the rope running through his hands as he folds it in half sends a shiver up your spine. You try to distract yourself by clipping your hair up and out of the way. 

“Arms up,” he rasps, and places a light kiss on the soft curve of your neck as he wraps the rope around your ribcage, just below your breasts. You purposely wore a tight t-shirt and leggings tonight. If anyone asks, you’ll say you just assumed it would be easier to be in something form fitting rather than loose, but the truth is that you did some research on Shibari classes and it was recommended to wear clothing that was tight to the body. As he walks around you to make the first diagonal cross of your chest he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

You lock your eyes with his as he loops back up, crossing the rope over your other shoulder and walks behind you. “Yes, at least not yet.” 

“Alright,” he says softly, pulling the rope back through the first band he made. “What do you want to talk about then?”

Your daughter. Your wife. The guitars and books of lyrics. Where do you see yourself in 5 years? Do you like me or do you like like me? How do you feel about an age gap romance? Your brain races with a million things you could ask, and maybe would ask on a date. However, this is anything but a date, right? A dom and sub don’t date, there are strict rules. He tells you what to do, you do it. You don’t date.

The silence between you two feels like it’s lasted forever, you flinch as you ask the first thing you can think of. “How old are you?”

“Almost forty five. It says that on my profile, sweet girl. For someone who likes research…” His voice trails off. Is he flirting?

“I refuse to look at it in case you try to pawn me off to Tommy again,” you tease. You bite your cheek to hold in all the questions you want to ask as he chuckles behind you. You lift your arms as per the next slide and he brings the rope up towards your armpit as you settle on a neutral topic. “Baseball,” you say flatly.

Joel laughs silently as he walks around your body, the rope coming across to your other armpit and he’s behind you again. “Baseball?”

“Ya, it’s America’s favourite pastime.” Joel's fingers feel warm through the fabric of your shirt as he continues to work the ropes. 

“Ok, so what do you want to discuss about baseball?” He wanders in front of you again, following the instructions perfectly.

You shrug a little, lifting your arms again as you follow along with the slides. “Did you ever play?”

Starr circles around the two of you, “Great job, Joel. You ok, honey? Not too tight anywhere?”

You shake your head no and then you and Joel get lost in each other again. “Yes, I played for most of my childhood. I was pretty good too.”

You chuckle, “Why am I not surprised.”

“What?” he says, half laughing.

“Seems like Joel Miller is good at everything,” you say lightly, almost in admiration. He’s behind you again, feeding the ropes through themselves. The back looks beautifully intricate, and you can see other couples getting frustrated before either Starr or her wife comes and helps them. You continue, “Let me guess, you were like a big all-star pitcher or something?”

“No,” he answers.

“What position did you play then?” You glance down at your chest at the star shape across your chest, the rope scrapes gently on the exposed skin of your neck with the movement. It’s stunning, exactly as the demonstration and the picture. Yep, Joel Miller is good at everything. 

A new voice joins your conversation, “Best first baseman the school has ever seen.”

You crane your neck over your right shoulder towards the source; Tommy. You clench your molars when you see him with Jade; the beautiful icy blonde woman that Joel had tied to his desk the first time you met him. Joel shifts uncomfortably as she flutters her lashes at him. “As I was saying,” Joel huffs in his brother's direction before turning his attention back to you. “I played first base and Tommy was the back catcher. Our mom pretty much put us in any sport she could afford to keep us out of trouble.” 

“That’s kind of fascinating,” you say, looking back towards the stage and trying to get back into the safe little bubble you and Joel have created. 

“I dunno about that, sweet girl.”

The combination of him using that nickname and the feeling of his fingers on your body cause another shiver to roll up your spine, and suddenly it’s just the two of you again. It’s so easy to get lost with Joel, every ounce of that fog from earlier has dissipated. He’s like the warm morning sun, chasing away all the thick haze that coated you in the darkness. “I think this is a safe nickname space only, Sweet Cheeks.”

He swats your bum gently eliciting a giggle to pass your lips before getting back to weaving the rope in and out along your spine. “Careful. Now why is it kind of fascinating?”

“I mean, Tommy played at home plate, you played at first base.”

“I don’t know where you’re going here, Freckles.”

You smile over your shoulder at Joel. “Well, don’t you see the connection? You don’t have sex with your subs, Tommy does. He goes to home plate, you stay at first base.”

Joel arches an eyebrow at you as you flash him a cheeky smile and then he lets out a laugh. A real laugh that sounds like it’s coming straight from his stomach. His big beautiful smile draws up his cheeks causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle. The sound is almost enough to make you weak at the knees. “I swear to god, Freckles, I love the way your brain works.”

The rest of the group finishes off their harnesses and Starr begins the next part, explaining now how to tie the arms around the biceps and secure them to the harness. They hand out the ropes again and you reach behind yourself to criss cross your arms and grasp your opposite elbows. Just as Joel begins folding the rope over in his hands, Jade speaks.

“She sort of hit the nail on the head with that one, Mister Miller.” Envy flares in your eyes as she steps towards Joel, leaning into him. “I can’t wait for tomorrow. I’ve missed you.”

You glance towards Joel, expecting to see him looking angry but his soft eyes meet you with guilt written all over his face. You watch his throat as he swallows hard and the happy, sparkly bubble you built bursts and the fog returns. Your heart drops to your feet, it was too good to be true, you knew it was too good to be true and he almost had you fooled. You don’t think, you just act, you need to get away from this space and all these people as bile rises in your throat.

Your feet feel heavy as you walk quickly toward the voyeur room, slipping past the closed sign that's propped up outside the curtain that conceals it. Darkness surrounds you, the rope harness feels like it’s smothering you as you try to take deep calming breaths. A flash of light from the otherside of the curtain fills the room as someone follows.

“Go away, Joel.” You say quietly, trying to force air past the lump growing in your throat. 

“It’s Tommy.” He says, flicking on a dim light and noting the way you’re pulling at the rope closest to your throat. “Let me untie you so you don’t hurt yourself.”

You step back, a wall slamming down around you. Tommy raises his hands, “Please, just let me untie you so you can breathe.”

You spin slowly, giving your back to him and he approaches. His fingers pulling and working the ropes and the irony of him removing knots as you start to mentally tie yourself up in them is enough to make you nauseous. You retreat into your mind, looking for that stupid box. I fucking told you! You practically scream at the shadow you know it’s hiding in.

“Try to slow your breathing for me,” Tommy says softly as the rope begins to loosen and fall away from your body. Tonight felt too normal, too comfortable. You started to feel like maybe Joel was feeling the same way you do, but now you feel like you’ve been slapped across the face with yet another reminder that you are not enough. Six out eight universities and the man you completely misread. 

“I’m so fucking stupid.” It doesn’t come out self deprecating or angrily. Just as if you’re stating a fact, similar to how you’d say you like the colour green. 

“No, this is on me.” The rope falls away from your body and you step away, spinning to face Tommy. “I shouldn’t have said yes when she asked me to bring her here tonight. I assumed Joel had ended it before they were in Europe.”

“What?” You breathe out in disbelief. Even though you can see the rope in Tommy’s hands, it still feels like it’s around your throat.

You wander towards the nearest couch. All those pictures, all those flirty texts and she was there the entire time? You hear your mothers voice again, ‘You might be the smartest one in this town but the real world is going to eat you up and spit you out.’ Nothing has felt more true, especially today. Six schools rejected you, selecting smarter shinier applicants and now the same thing is happening with Joel. You knew you didn’t hold a candle to her, he wanted you to go with Tommy so he could keep her, didn’t he?

‘It’s only you.’ His desperate voice from the day in his office comes out of the shadows of your mind. But it’s not only you. If he didn’t end it with her then it’s her too. You’re constantly in competitions that you have no business being in. 

“No, not ‘they’. Not like that. They were there for different things, not together,” Tommy’s voice has a hint of panic. “...I’m really fucking this night up, aren’t I?”

Just then, Joel and Jade come through the curtain. “Sweet girl….”

“No,” you say, cutting him off with a wave of your hand. You want to yell and scream and ask him what was with all that “it’s only you” bullshit.

“Baby, please, just listen to me.” Joel kneels in front of you and you stand up. His hands come to either side of the couch, keeping you there. “Please?”

You can feel his eyes on you but you keep staring straight ahead, the curtains of all the rental rooms are drawn shut. “Please just go, Joel.”

Jade steps into your line of vision and you can feel the jealousy twisting at your stomach. She’s fucking beautiful. Long icy blonde hair that looks silky to touch, slender limbs and a perfectly symmetrical face. Her make up is done to perfection, and to top it all off she was kissed by an angel in the breast department. 

“I’m sorry. I left the country a few days after I saw you for your birthday celebration. I went to Germany to get married and I wasn’t coming back.” Her eyes go soft for a second as she looks down at her bare left ring finger and then back to you. “Clearly I didn’t do either of those things. I haven’t spoken to Joel and I just assumed our regular time slots still stood.”

Even without looking down, you know Joel hasn’t looked away. From the moment you met him, you’ve been able to feel his gaze on you. It’s one of the things you like so much about him, the way he looks at you. You feel warm and seen, and most importantly, safe in his gaze.

Tommy clears his throat gently and you glance his way. “Ending things with a sub is tricky. It has to be done in person. I know Joel better than anyone else, he ended things with everyone else. He’s gonna beat the shit out of me for this, but he’s crazy about you and he’s only ever looked at one other person the way he looks at you.”

“Tommy,” Jade's voice cracks as she says his name. “I think you should untie me so I can leave. I really am sorry, to all of you.”

You watch the two of them disappear back into the main area of the club before you finally allow yourself to look down at Joel. His eyes are big and soft, he looks so vulnerable. Is this real though? When you think about how easily he can slide on his dominant mask you aren’t sure what you can and can’t trust, and that’s really fucking horrible considering trust is the most important thing between a sub and dom. He could be lying, he gains blow jobs and doing whatever else he wants to your body by keeping this up. 

But what does Tommy gain from telling you what he just did? Tommy has no skin in the game here.

Joel  

His heart is flying wildly behind his chest, blood coursing through his ears. He never thought he was going to see Jade again. Neither of them talked about it really, but after that session that you walked in on she canceled the next one and told him she was moving to be with her fiance in Germany and was getting married. He continues to look up at you; the ever growing pinch in his neck be damned, he’s not looking away. Even at this angle you manage to take his breath away. It feels like hours have gone by when you finally speak.

“I thought it was only me,” it comes out as a whisper and immediately shatters the little bits that were left of his composure. 

“It is, sweet girl. I promise you it is.”

“I want to believe you,” your voice is so calm. He doesn’t deserve you being calm right now. Or does he? You came into this very methodical. Maybe these are just sub-dom transactions to you.

“What can I do?” He says hopefully. “I’ll do anything you need, sweet girl.”

You let out a shaky breath and he can see the wall building behind your eyes, that fun goofy girl who isn’t afraid to crack a joke is slowly locking herself away. He prepares himself for you to tell him this is over, or that you need time. He reminds himself that this was always going to end in heartbreak for him, so may as well get it over with now instead of when he’s fully in love with you, before he’s learned how those warm walls of your pussy feel against his cock. Because there really will be no coming back from that if that happens.

As he tightens the muscles in his core, physically preparing for the metaphorical blow to the gut he watches your long lashes flutter shut and when you open your eyes again the wall is gone. The shimmering pools of the eyes he’s enamored by are back and relief washes over him. 

“Nothing, Mister Miller,” your voice is saccharine sweet. “Trust is the most important thing between a sub and their dom. I can’t let my own anxiety ruin this, but I might just be a bit guarded until I’ve calmed all those thoughts.”

He whispers your name, biting back a groan as your hands meet his hair. “I’m so sorry that happened, baby girl.”

“I know. So am I. I shouldn’t have gotten jealous. It’s just…”

“No, you can be jealous. I told you one thing and -.”

You tug at the strands of his hair and shush him. “I’m not done,” your voice is stern. Joel isn’t used to hearing your tone like that and he suddenly feels his chest swelling with pride. This sweet bubbly person in front of him is morphing into a confident badass. That’s probably the exact tone you’ll use in boardrooms or courtrooms when other lawyers try to talk over you and he can only hope that one day he’ll get to witness that. “I shouldn’t have gotten jealous, but I really like the way I feel around you. It’s selfish of me, but I’d like to keep feeling like this for the few months I have left here before I leave for law school.”

Selfish. He lets that word wash over him. The most selfless person he’s ever known is worried about being selfish? No, he thinks, she deserves this. Hearing you say that you’re leaving makes him feel like his chest is caving in on itself. He’ll deal with the inevitable heartbreak when you leave him. He knows those rejection letters were hard on you, but he helped you to feel better and he’s going to hold on to that and give you that for as long as he possibly can. 

Your fingers release his hair and he watches you walk the few steps to where the rope Tommy untied for you lays on the floor. He licks his lips as you bend to pick it up, eyes trailing over the delicious curves of your ass. “It would be my pleasure, sweetheart.”

You turn, walking back towards where he’s kneeling and holding the ropes out to him you say, “Is the workshop over?”

He stands up, his fingers grazing yours as he takes the rope. Electricity tingles up his forearms at the feel of your soft skin. Your body is so close to his that he can feel your soft warmth radiating against him. You being at this proximity immediately put him at ease.

“No, there’s a bodysuit tutorial right now,” he says. You nod, stepping around him. Suddenly, Joel grabs your elbow to stop you, lowering his lips to your ear, and lowering his voice to that gravelly tone he knows you love, he rasps, “I should punish you for letting another dom untie what’s mine.”

You smirk up at him, “I’d like to see you try, Sweet Cheeks.”

You

Joel works silently around you and you lose yourself for a bit in the events that unfolded tonight. Joel has knelt in front of you before, but never like that. The sad, helpless look in his eyes, the slight slump of the shoulders. He was submitting to you, and when your fingers met his scalp, he leaned into your touch. The way his body melted at your touch was intoxicating. He wasn’t Mister Miller in that room tonight, he was Joel, and the dichotomy of this man is astounding. 

After about thirty minutes of Joel twisting, turning and pulling he has your upper half tied into a zigzagged bodysuit of rope. Joel steps in front of you and bends slightly to reach between your legs. When he brings the rope between your thighs and as he feeds it through the bottom of the chest piece, the seam of your leggings brushes against your clit. You jolt at the contact, your cheeks flushing crimson as Joel's eyes meet yours in a flash of onyx and honey. He begins shaping the bottom part of the bodysuit, bent in front of you the entire time and locking eyes with yours every time he tugs the ropes into place. 

You glance nervously around the room to see if anyone else is having the same reaction. You expected this night to be fun and silly, the way a date should be. And it was for a while, but now it’s taken a very erotic turn. The blush of your cheeks warms down your chest and neck as you hold off on what could be a very vocal orgasm in front of a room of people who you don’t necessarily want to witness it.

Joel finally finishes the body suit and moves to stand behind you, his patchy facial hair brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, his voice full of gravel, “Hands behind your back, my sweet girl. We aren’t done.”

A shiver races up your spine and your arms fly back. “So eager,” Joel says softly, grazing his teeth along the lobe of your ear, adding gasoline to the small fire that’s been building between your thighs.  

You’re sure the arm restraints only take about three minutes to complete, but it feels like hours. The three knots that lay around your wrists, forearms, and biceps keep your posture nice and tall, and your breasts pushed up through the body suit. Once he’s finished, Joel spins you to face him, and that rope works its way in between the lips of your now absolutely soaked pussy. You squeeze your thighs together, the soft expression on his face only intensifying the growing ache. He’s such a fucking tease, you think, and now he’s looking at you as if you put the stars in the sky. Finally, his dark brown eyes settle on yours and he gives you a closed lip smile.

“What?” You ask breathlessly.

“I jus’ thought that I’d go all caveman seein’ you like this,” he steps into you, one hand cupping your cheek, the other tugging on the rope near your waist, which jiggles the rope that has you on edge. Joel’s voice lowers, this next part just for you to hear. “But you just look so beautiful.”

He tugs up on the rope and pleasure courses through you as you gasp quietly. He gives you that sexy smirk that makes that dimple carve into his cheek. 

Yep, he’s a fucking tease. The little box says, confirming your thoughts. 

“You like that, sweet girl?”

He tugs again and your forehead falls to his chest. “Please, Mister Miller,” you whisper into his expensive cotton t-shirt. 

Starr interrupts the two of you, but you can’t peel yourself away from Joel right now. The slightest move of that rope might make you explode. “Well, based on that reaction I’d say you tied it just right, Joel.”

“Thank you for coming, Starr. I’m sure we’ll host one of these again soon. Tommy is by the bar, he can help you kick everyone out.”

“Joel,” she says, a slight hint of amusement in her now hushed voice. “Your rope bunny is on the verge of having an orgasm, go.”

With that he hoists you over his shoulder and walks towards the door that leads to the private rooms. “Fuckfuck, I’m gonna -” you whisper into his broad back and squeeze your thighs tighter as Joel walks. 

The second the door shuts, separating you from the others Joel puts you on your feet and jiggles the rope around your waist. “Come, baby.”

You fall into him for support, his other arm wrapping around you to hold you up as stars blur your vision. “That feel good, my little rope bunny?” 

“Yes - oh god, yes.” Your arms pull at the ropes restraining them behind your back and you can’t hold it anymore. Your orgasm practically slams through you as you gasp and moan into Joel's broad chest. “Fuck, Mister Miller.”

 “You’re so beautiful when you let go for me. I’ll never get sick of watching you like this.” He continues to work the rope as your high crests and your legs start to go weak and boneless below you.

“I can’t…p-please Mis - Fuck.” Joel lifts your lax and quivering body over his shoulder again and makes his way to his room, placing you at the foot of the bed, spinning you and pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the mattress.

“Spread your legs,” he commands and you listen, moving your feet to be shoulder width apart. He wraps two cuffs around your ankles, and attaches them to the bottom of the bed posts before doing the same to the ropes around your arms. You’re trapped, stuck bent over the end of the bed and even though you’re fully clothed under all of these ropes, this is easily the hottest thing you’ve ever done. “Fuck me. How are you so goddamn sexy even when you’re fully clothed.”

You hear Joel’s footsteps around the room, gathering whatever he has decided to use on you tonight before you can feel him behind you. “Sweet girl, I do believe I read that you would be interested in sensory deprivation. Is that correct?” 

“Yes, Mister Miller,” you hum.

“Do I have your consent to blindfold you and then have you listen to music in noise canceling headphones?”

Fire erupts in your stomach, your core pulsing at the thought of him doing whatever he wants to you. “Yes, Mister Miller.”

A silky black blind fold slips over your head, Joel's large body covering your back. “What’s your safeword?” he growls, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“Stegosaurus.” Just once you’d like that to not leave your lips in the whiny, desperate tone it does when he asks you that question. 

“Good girl,” he praises before the plush headphones cover your ears. All you see is black, all you hear is soft decorative piano music, and all you feel is the warmth of Joel over your buzzing skin. There’s not a single thought in your mind, everything is silent. This is what you need and you start to worry that you’ll become addicted to the way Joel makes you feel everything while thinking nothing. 

The warmth of his body disappears from you and you whimper at the loss. Your eyes clench closed as if that will help you be able to find him. A thin, pulsing vibrator hits the back of your thigh and you jump. Joel's large hands rubs your opposite hip and every muscle relaxes under his touch. The vibrator pulses softly as he moves it up your thigh, tickling along your hip, and then down the other leg. You can’t hear the sounds that you’re making but you’re sure they’re desperate, needy gasps.

After teasing your arms Joel slips something small and hard between your body and the rope that’s been torturously teasing at your clit before you feel him pull away. You adjust so your forehead is resting on the mattress before it dips with the weight of him sitting beside your head. His warm fingers wrap around your neck and he kneads the muscles.

“Mmmm, thank you Mister Miller,” you hum. 

Whatever Joel slipped against your clit comes to life, a dull vibration that is sure to be your undoing has you attempting to arch your back, but you can’t move. Your breathing quickens, short little puffs of air passing your lips. 

“I’m gonna come,” you murmur quietly, or at least you think it’s quiet since you can’t hear yourself or anything else. Joel’s strong fingers continue the delicious swirling patterns up and down the sides of your neck as you begin to shake. “Oh god - I’m so close!”

Just as you’re about to slam head first into another orgasm the vibrating stops and Joel’s fingers disappear from your skin. “No,” and this time you know it wasn’t a whisper or a whimper.

The mattress jostles and then you feel Joel behind you again. A hand comes to one of yours, coaxing it out of the fist you’ve apparently clenched before doing the same to the other. The vibrating starts stronger this time and both his hands come to yours, his thumbs massaging at your palms. It doesn’t take long this time before you’re right on that edge again.

“Fuck, Mister Miller. Puh-please don’t stop!” Your legs start the familiar shake that happens right when you’re about to tip over the edge and he doesn’t follow your wishes. The hand massage stops, quickly followed by the vibrator being switched off. You groan in frustration and he lays a quick, sharp spank over your legging clad right ass cheek. “Hnnng - sorry.”

You can’t be certain, but based on the warm puffs hitting your core you’re pretty sure he’s knelt down behind you. The vibrator comes to life again, stronger than the last two times and his hands work at massaging the muscles along the back of your thighs. This is torture; wonderful euphoric torture and as much as you want it end, you also don’t ever want him to stop making you feel this way. 

You let your eyes flutter open behind the blindfold, it’s still just as dark but you see that little pink sparkly box. The one that’s overflowing with emotion for Joel. You should push it back into the shadows or light it on fire, but instead you let it come out of the shadows completely. You see your hands reaching for the lid just as the white hot pleasure in your core gets close to the breaking point.

“Please please…Mister Miller - fuck!” You whimper and whine as it begins to burn hotter and then it’s gone and it feels like the air is being sucked forcefully out of your lungs. 

“Nonono, I can’t. Please, I need you..” Joel's large body is across your back in a second. The hard bulge in pants pressing against your ass and the memory of how good he felt and tasted in your mouth the last time has saliva pooling under your tongue. You swallow hard as one of the padded ear pieces is lifted from your ear.

Joel’s voice is deep and gruff as he says, “What do you need, my sweet girl?”

The little box of feelings vibrates at him calling you his and you kick it back into the shadows. “I need to come, Mister Miller.”

“That right? How bad?” He says teasingly before placing a feather light kiss on that sensitive spot right below your ear.

“So bad. Please, it hurts, Mister Miller.” You are pouting into the fluffy sheets, a completely whiny mess, and you realize that you’re always a mess for him. Be it a horny or depraved one, a whiny or a pouty one, he doesn’t care and if anything you think he likes it that way, likes you that way. “I want to hear you. I miss your dirty talk, please, baby!”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I should spank you until you can’t sit tomorrow for calling me anything but Mister Miller. You know that, right?” 

“I can’t think straight. I’m sorry, just please. Please!”

He whips the headphones off of you and the vibrator hits at an intensity you have never felt before. Your pornographic scream fills the room. His large body above yours intensifies everything that was already killing you.

“That what you need, huh?”

You cry out and try to say yes but you’re sure it’s all just an incoherent mix of sounds at this point. 

“God damn, baby girl. You should see yourself right now. All tied up in knots that I made. The way your leggings hug the curves of your hips and soft, creamy thighs. You’re going to be the death of me one day.”

Tears start to flow behind your blindfold as the pleasure almost becomes too much, you haven’t come yet, and at this point you aren’t sure if you’ll survive it if you do. You have half a mind to ask Joel if an orgasm can physically split you in two because that is how you feel right now. 

“I’m - oh god - I’m…” You try to form the words but you can’t. 

One of Joel’s hands slips between his front and your tied up arms, his hand wrapping tightly around yours. His lips come to your ear as whispers. “I got you, sweet girl, just let go for me.”

“Need to see you,” you say between gasps of air and the pleasure begins to burn in your. 

Joel peels the blind fold off. You blink him into focus, his warm eyes searching your face. “Let go, you’re ok.”

As per usual, it’s his words that seem to be that final push and you let your orgasm consume you. It starts as a cold spark, a shiver up your spine and then heat flushes through every since cell in your body. You moan and writhe beneath Joel who whispers your praises like a prayer. Talking you through the intensity of the feeling. Your pussy clenches around nothing and you’re sure your panties, leggings and the rope are ruined.

“I can’t!” You gasp and Joel slows the vibration to help you ride out the decresendo of your orgasm. As the jolts of your body slow, he follows suit; the vibrator going to a dull blip and eventually nothing. Joel's thumb traces soothing patterns on the hand he’s still holding between your bodies. You take a deep and shaky breath, trying to calm your racing heart. 

“Are you ok, angel?” he asks quietly and goosebumps somehow spread along your too hot body.

“Better than ok,” you say with a small smile.

Joel’s lips meet yours, soft and pliant and so full of passion. Your eyes shut as you part your lips for him and when your tongue strokes gently against his he lets out a small whimper that causes your pulse to leap. Mentally, you grab a bigger box, stuffing it with the realization that you’re falling for this man. But you will deal with that later, right now you just need to let yourself have something that is for, well… yourself.

Joel 

He breaks the kiss, even though he doesn’t want to. Even though he knows that by breaking this kiss it’s only going to mean you going home sooner.  “I need to get you out of these ropes and get some sugar into you.”

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence as his nimble fingers work to undo your restraints, then the intricate knots that bind your arms, and lastly the bodysuit. He really did think you looked stunning all tied up. He didn’t plan for this night to go the way it did, but when he saw the slight flush of your cheeks and the way your eyes glazed over he couldn’t resist giving you what he knew you needed. He stays close, one hand protectively on your hip as you crawl onto the bed. Once he has you seated, he pulls a fuzzy grey blanket out from a basket beside the night stand and then opens the small fridge to grab you an orange juice and water.

He cracks the top of the orange juice. “Drink this for me, please.”

He watches your eyes do a quick half roll but you don’t fight him, fingers just barely grazing his as you take the juice from him. “I had fun tonight,” you say between sips as he walks to grab the coconut oil. 

Joel stands beside you. “So did I, sweetheart. Arm, please.”

You take the orange juice in your left hand and give him your right. Both of you watch as he puts oil on the few pink marks the ropes left behind. “Do you think I should change my safeword?”

He lifts one eyebrow at you and as he tends to your other arm says, “Why do you ask that.”

“I don’t know. It’s just…well, originally that little dinosaur on your coffee maker seemed so out of place. It intrigued me. Your home is beautiful, but the parts you let people see don’t give away any hints about you, except for that little dinosaur. But now that I know the whole story, it just seems too special of an item to be tied to what we do.”

“I don’t think we need to change it. You’re right, that little stegosaurus is special to me.” He sits sideways on the bed, grabbing the empty orange juice container and handing you the water. His jaw flexes once before he continues, “But so are you. I love that you felt a connection to that part of me. Ultimately, it’s your safe word, sweet girl, so you can make it anything you want, but I think it’s perfect for us.”

The soft look in your eyes as he speaks is almost enough to kill him, and when your lips twitch up ever so slightly at his words he knows he’s done for. He shouldn’t fall for you, especially since he’s sure there’s no way you’d ever feel the same way, but he can’t not fall for you.

Your name passes his lips with a nervous tremble, because he knows that what he’s about to say next is going to be his undoing. If you say yes to this next thing, if he continues spending actual time with you, he’s done.

“Ya?” you say before sucking your bottom lip through your teeth.

“Friday night is the five year anniversary party for the club. It’s a black tie event for all the VIP guests. Would you like to accompany me?”

He watches as your eyes land on your lap, your lips pressing together as if to suppress a smile. When your gaze floats back up to his, your eyes give you away. Try as you might to hide your expressions with him; he'll always know when you’re happy based on the glitter of your eyes.

“I’d really like that, Mister Miller.”

His forehead meets yours. “This might be a Sweet Cheeks moment.”

Thank you soooo much for reading! Remember to follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates for future chapters xo.

Next Chapter

[arg0t]

its kind of insane to characterize me as "acting as though I have school leadership all figured out" when all I did was point out that the article was lying about it's math and wrong about what it says about the location of brain structures. The amygdala is NOT in the fucking cerebellum.

but no. I was being "that guy"

I was "some ugliness" surfacing.

stupid ! stupid ! stupid ! stupid ! ! ! !

“At the end of this study, the null hypothesis could not be refuted, and so no statistically significant findings can be gleaned. Oh, is that not what the paper reported as its findings? Unfortunately, it is what the provided data reports.”