#exit rave

[hopecomesbacktolife]

crying weeping. this book was phenomenal. 100/10 magnificent and soooooo intense and vast and searingly intimate and heartbreaking and swoops of joy and I just. Katherine x Zera 5ever I love them so much

(possible spoilers in the tags even though I redacted the most spoilery bits)

once I’m a bit more coherent I plan to write an actual legible review (a glowing one, of course!) but I had to scream about all my feelings for this book here 😭❤️

[serapheseraphim]

I’m on one of those buses that bends in the middle so it turns easier and every time the bus moves at all it produces a sound like a thousand harpies screaming in the seventh layer of hell.

[hairmetal666]

Scandal follows Eddie Munson wherever he goes. He doesn't mean for it to, it just does. And, like, sure, he should've known that cavorting with a bunch of topless models in a hot tub in a chalet in the Swiss Alps was a bad idea, but 1) he's gay and 2) even if he wasn't, does anyone really care if a rockstar has an orgy these days?

Well, it turns out that they do. They do so much, in fact, that he hasn't known a moment's peace since the photos leaked. Every time they go outside, they're mobbed. Their socials are a disaster zone.

Chrissy, Jeff, Gareth, and Freak are sick of his shit, worried that this will ruin the world tour, which doesn't make any sense. All publicity is good publicity, right?

Anyway, he's not surprised when he, Chrissy, and the rest of the band are whisked away in a fancy car with dark-tinted windows, thinks they're about to fly home for a break. And honestly? Good riddance to Europe.

Imagine his surprise when he exits the car mere feet away from the sun soaked Mediterranean.

"Oh no. No, no, no." He says, trying to force his way back into the sedan.

"Oh, yes." Chrissy links her arm with his. "You need to lay low for a few days and this was the best I could manage on short notice."

He glares. "You know I hate boats."

"You do not," Gareth accuses.

"You're just mad at facing consequences for your actions," Jeff adds.

"I didn't do anything!" He wails.

Freak pulls out his phone, reads, "Munson, 26, has always been open about being gay, out of the closet since Corroded Coffin's first gig. Now, though, his sexuality is in question. Multiple women have come forward to claim they slept with the rockstar. And, while many of the women in the photo have said that Munson was 'deeply uninterested' in them, the fact remains that his antics are more Motley Crue than Troye Sivan."

Eddie groans up at the sky. "Why would I be anything like Troye Sivan!? I'm in a heavy metal band! And he's around boobies all the time! Honestly, has no one been to a rave?"

"Not since the 90's." Chrissy smiles brightly, continues up the dock.

"I'm never forgiving any of you for this."

"It's a luxury yacht, Eddie. You'll survive," Gareth says.

He very bravely does not point out that he's wearing black jeans and an over-sized black hoodie and black platform Doc Martens, so obviously he's not the type of person equipped for any kind of boat.

The conversation ends but only because, when they get up to the main deck and the crew waiting for them, he sees the most beautiful man in the world. Artfully messy sun-bronzed hair, strong jaw, classic nose, skin dotted with freckles. Aviators hide his eyes, but even the sunglasses look good on him. Not to mention the little white uniform that shows off all of his many many muscles.

Eddie stares at him, blatantly, unabashedly, totally missing the introduction to the rest of the crew.

As soon as he's left to his own devices, he locks himself in his cabin. Not even the chance to gawk at that hot guy can draw him out of his pout. They can force him onto a boat, but they can't make him enjoy it.

He lasts until afternoon the next day, when Jeff barges in, surprising him enough that the throws his phone with a very un-rockstar yelp.

"You have to come out." Jeff's arms are crossed over his chest.

"Nope." Eddie relaxes back into his pillows. "Not until this is over."

"So, you're going to stay in your room for a week?"

"Guess so."

"Orr, you could come out and enjoy yourself instead of pouting over what your own actions caused."

"My actions!" He shrieks. "My actions! I stumbled on a bunch of topless French models in a hot tub, and I'm at fault?"

"No, you being drunk enough to get in with them was the problem."

"I wasn't even that drunk! I just thought it was funny. They did too!"

Jeff sighs. "You get yourself into a situation more than any person I've ever met."

"See? It's not my fault."

"I mean. It kind of is. I suspect any other guy would learn how to avoid this."

"I'm not leaving."

"Man, Chrissy isn't going to let you stay in here."

"Too bad."

"She told me to carry you out, if I had to."

"You wouldn't."

"If you come out, you can chat up the cute bosun."

"The bos-what?"

"Bosun. The guy you were ogling when we boarded. His name is Steve. He's really nice. He--"

"I was not ogling him."

"Eddie. You looked like you wanted to eat him for dinner."

"I'm not leaving the room." He sing-songs.

Look, would he have fought so hard if he'd known that Jeff was strong enough to toss him over his shoulders and fireman-carry him out of the room and up the stairs? He would not.

Instead, he screams the whole way from his cabin to the deck, where he's unceremoniously deposited into a lounge chair next to Chrissy. She's in a hot pink bikini, sipping a cocktail.

"Good to see you." She deadpans.

He glares. "Et tu, Chrissy?"

From behind him, a rich voice calls out, "Glad you could join us." It is, of course, the hot bosun. He waves when he catches Eddie looking in his direction.

Eddie sinks down in the lounger, Chrissy stifling giggles against her elbow.

---

The thing is, Steve is nice. He's nice and he's funny and he's hardworking. He's good with the other deckhands, Dustin, Max, and Lucas; strict but fair and good at keeping everyone on task. The stewards, Nancy, Robin, and El, all love him. Sometimes, he'll be down on all fours scrubbing the deck, and his t-shirt will bunch up, reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his taunt stomach that makes Eddie feel like a feral dog.

He's out on the top deck reading a copy of The Hobbit that Dustin loaned him, when Steve comes around the corner.

"Oh! Eddie, hey." Steve smiles. "Didn't realize there were any guests still up here."

"Do you need me to move?" He asks. He swings his feet over the side of the lounger.

"Not at all. Just wasn't expecting you." Steve's puttering around, picking up the detritus of the day. "I'm glad we've been able to overcome your expectations of boats."

His squeak is indignant. "It wasn't about the boat! I was brought here against my will!"

Steve smiles at him, eyes glittering. "Yeah, what a horrible punishment, boarding a luxury yacht for a Mediterranean cruise."

Eddie grabs at his chest, mimes being shot in the heart. "Stevie, how could you? All this time I thought you were on my side."

"Eh," he shrugs. "You were kind of being a baby."

He falls off the lounger at this. "The killing blow," he wails.

Laughing, Steve extends a hand, helps him to his feet. Their eyes meet and Eddie's struck, once again, by the way the hazel shines so gold, even at twilight.

"I'm being punished," he says, looking away.

"Again, getting on a chartered yacht for a week is not much of a punishment."

"I have a tendency to find myself involved in shenanigans."

"The topless women," Steve says.

Eddie groans. "You know about that?"

Steve does a real bitchy thing with his eyebrows that makes Eddie very warm in places it shouldn't. "Everyone knows about it."

"Okay. I'll have you know those boobs meant nothing to me, which is why it was fine! We had fun! Also, I am very, very gay. Like. The gayest."

"Oh, I know." Steve grins.

He doesn't know what to do with that. Changes the subject instead. "I hadn't clocked you for someone who listened to our stuff."

"I don't. Or well. Not really. No offense. The kids love you guys. And Robin. It's just--it's really loud? Not really my thing. Some good lyrics, though."

"No, I get it." He nods, licks his lips. "I write most of our songs." He's not sure why he says it, what he hopes to get from it.

"I know," Steve says.

"Oh." Eddie smiles down at his hands, The Hobbit. Before he can say more, Chrissy calls him down for dinner.

---

It's no secret that the Corroded Coffin boys are diehard dnd fans. They've done interviews about it, posted video of their sessions on YouTube and TikTok. Everyone knows they play, everyone knows Eddie DMs, so, he supposes, it's only a matter of time before Dustin and Lucas asks if he would DM for them.

The band, Chrissy, Lucas, Dustin, Max, Nancy, El, and Robin all agree to play. When asked, Captain Hopper snorts, doesn't take his eyes off the horizon, and Steve tells Dustin, "You know nothing in the world will make me play that game, kid. I'll try to stop by, though."

Eddie is totally in his element, everyone is having a blast, even Captain Hopper stops by. And Steve--he shows up after fifteen minutes, stays the whole time, can't keep his eyes off Eddie. He's not sure if it spurs him on, makes him more wild and dramatic, but the game is electric, the mood high.

It's an amazing night, one of the best of Eddie's life, and that's really saying something. They go late, well into the morning, but he's too hyped to sleep. He's pacing across the deck when Steve appears.

"You were great tonight." He says.

Eddie feels like he's effervescing. "You should think about playing sometime."

"Nah." Steve ducks his head a little. "Wouldn't be the same without you leading."

There's not a ton of space separating them, but he closes the distance anyway. "That could be arranged," he says, voice low.

"Yeah?" Steve meets his eyes, doesn't look away.

"If you want."

The air between them goes heavy, tightens, the silence lengthens.

"I can't," Steve breathes. "I'm working."

"No, yeah," Eddie nods. He steps back, runs his hand through his hair. He's never said no to something like this, never to someone like Steve. "I'm avoiding--"

"Situations." Steve finishes.

"Oh, but, Stevie, you're a situation I want very much."

"Take me on a date tomorrow."

"It would be my pleasure," he says.

He should leave but--he does love an occurrence, so he lets the impulsivity fly-- leans forward, places a soft kiss at the corner of Steve's mouth.

"Tomorrow, sweetheart."

[ink-n-shadow]

after the day i’ve had, i’m thinking about owner!ghost just taking care of me)):

NO MORE TEARS

𝜗𝜚 the one where you have a bad day and owner!ghost is more than happy to take care of you

𝜗𝜚 pairing: owner!ghost x puppy!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: no explicit smut but allusions to smut themes (so minors—DNI). obvious dom/sub dynamics, pet play, mentions of collars, subspace in play but not explicitly mentioned, sweet!owner!ghost, very self-indulgent work, unedited as usual

owner!ghost knows as soon as you fumble your way through the front door of your shared flat that you’d had a bad day. he can see it all over your face—the way your eyebrows are furrowed and pinched in the middle of your forehead, how the corners of your lips are tugged down, posture slumped and eyes blinking sleepily over at him.

his hands are on you as soon as he crosses the living room to meet you at the door, pushing loose strands of hair away from your face and letting his thumbs sweep gently across the planes of your cheeks. “there’s my pretty girl—y’ alright? did’ya ‘ave a bad day, baby?”

and ghost lets you get it all out of your system, listening to you rant and rave all the while running his hands up and down your arms in a soothing attempt to quell the rising tide of emotions inside of you. as the tears begin welling in your lash line, his thumb reaches up to brush gently against the necklace you always wear around your neck.

to the outside world, it looks like a simple piece of jewelry, small gold rectangular links (or silver links, depending on your metal preference) looped infinitely around your neck with no clasp. forever locked around your throat—well, at least until ghost decides it's time for you to get a new one, then he's got you kneeling between his thighs and gently snipping the necklace from your throat just to weld another one on the very next day.

the slight brush against the necklace is enough to have a hiccuping sob rip from your chest, lurching forward instinctively and burying your face into the soft wool covering ghost's chest.

"shhh, shhh—s' alright, baby. no more tears, hmm? you're 'ome now," and owner!ghost is immediately sweeping you up in his arms, one hand secured beneath your bum and the other buried in your trestles of hair. “lemme take care of ya, yeah? make it all go away?”

words seem to escape you now, the stress and panic and dread from the day melting away from you as soon as you’re wrapped up in ghost’s arms. an almost pitiful whimper leaves your mouth in response, sounding almost unhuman as it exits your lips and melts into the air around you.

but it doesn’t deter owner!ghost or make him worried—no, he’s become quite acquainted with that kind of noise.

“s’fine, pup. y’ know ‘ow to ask me,” ghost murmurs softly into your ear as he slowly begins moving the two of you down the hallway towards your bedroom. there’s a soft curl of his lips when he feels the way you nose at his jaw twice, a signal he was all but extremely aware of. and once owner!ghost enters the bedroom, he’s setting you down onto the floor, careful not to bruise your knees as he helps you into a kneeling position before him.

ghost cradles your face in the palm of one of his large hands, thumb catching the stray tears dripping down your cheeks as a gentle smile stretches his lips at the way your teary eyes stare up at him adoringly. he can see the imaginary tail between your legs wagging slightly, hesitant to get too excited before being given permission.

“you’re absolutely sure, baby? more than ‘appy to just talk everythin' out while we have a cuddle,” ghost asks one last time, eyebrow quirked and expression as serious as his tone of voice. he always did one last check, one last verification that this is what you needed in that moment. and the second your chin dips down in a firm nod and the word ‘yes’ slips from your tongue, owner!ghost is slotting his lips against yours in a possessive and slightly messy kiss, keeping a firm grip on your cheeks to push your lips into a pout. once he pulls away and leaves you feeling dizzy, he pats your cheek firmly, gesturing to the end of the bed.

“be a good dog ‘nd find yer collar for me, then.”

©️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

[turbulentscrawl]

Protection

Yet another little blurb series that absolutely no one asked me for. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? WHATEVER GETS THE JUICES FLOWING AGAIN.

warnings for violence, angst, and comfort. Use of potentially triggering words like "psycho" and "whore."

The manor was a hard adjustment for any new face, but some handled it worse than others. This mystery man was particularly defensive, particularly paranoid of the manor’s nightmarish circumstances. He was stressed, and scared, and confused, and bleeding out in his first match was the last straw needed to tip the scales towards an outburst.

Norton

You were just trying to be friendly when you spoke to him at breakfast. Really. But looking back you could see how a terrified mind might misconstrue your small comforts and placations about death as mocking. He stormed off mid-meal, and you spent the rest of it stewing in quiet guilt. A walk in the gardens would do you some good, you decided, but Norton was still busy with his second helping of steak and eggs and told you to go on ahead.

So alone you exited the room, lost in regretful thoughts, but you didn’t make it halfway down the hall before the new guy appeared again. He stopped down ten feet from you, coiled tight like a cornered animal. He didn’t look like he had calmed down at all, but then he hadn’t seemed calm since he arrived. In any case, it seemed like the best chance you would get to give an apology.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you earlier,” you said, stepping aside to let the fearful man pass, so he could go finish his meal.

But he reacted to your words like a viper strike, flinching and then snapping forward to put his face in yours. His eyes were wild.

“Don’t play coy about it,” he hissed. His hands, at his sides, itched and twitched to grab and you were too fear frozen to move away from them. “You’re part of this hell too, I know it. All of it an act, AN ACT! But you won’t trick me. You won’t get to make it worse for me!” He raved and threatened in your face for what seemed like forever, so close he took up your entire vision and you forgot where you were. Maybe that’s what it was like for him, right now, you faintly mused, still trying to understand. You hadn’t been like this when you first arrived… you or anyone else that you could recall.

He stopped talking suddenly, eyes tracked on something behind you.

You looked over your shoulder to see what had caught his attention and spotted, back through the doorway to the dining room, Norton tipped back in his dining chair and watching. Watching you. Watching him. A steak knife was in his hand and a dare was in his eyes.

Your attention was drawn back by the sound of the new guy stomping off again, hurried, tail still between his legs. When you looked back at Norton again, he tipped his chin to beckon you. When you stepped back through the door, Norton took his foot off of the table (its placement earned a side-eye from Fiona) to lower his chair back to four legs, and kicked out the empty seat next to him for you to reclaim. You sat down meekly, shaken by guilt and fear.

“I was just trying to—”

“I know,” he interrupted, biting again into his food. “And he’ll figure it out himself too eventually. In the meantime, let him be someone else’s problem.”

In a rare show of public affection, Norton leaned over and kissed you on the temple. “And stick closer to me for a while. You’ll be fine.”

Naib

Shit had hit the fan as soon as everyone was back and healed from the match. You and the new guy had both died—you to the chair and him to bloodloss—but a tie was a tie and worth at least a small celebration. But when he joined you, Tracy, and Margey for the tea party, he completely lost it.

He leapt across the sun room table for you, tipping it and all its contents to the ground, and the girls screamed with a genuine shock and terror you hadn’t heard in a while. Your back and knees smarted, all whacked by the scattering wooden furniture. Hot tea seeped into your shirt and scalded your belly. Sharp, broken porcelain lay dangerously scattered around your head. You couldn’t tell what the girls were shouting because you were too focused on your assailant. On keeping his hands off of your throat, out of your eyes, and getting his pinning body off of you. His nails clawed at your face, you knew that much, but if the matches taught you anything it was to not give up on a struggle.

Just as you started in on some dirty fighting Naib had taught you (pulling, trying to rip his ears off), the man himself came charging in like a bull and tackled the new guy off of you. You got kicked a bit in the process—but that was a fair price to pay for being able to scramble to the other wall and watch, secured by Tracy an Margey, as Naib completely wailed on the guy.

Naib didn’t talk about his background much, but you knew he knew how to fight. This was barely a fight—a one-sided beatdown morelike—but in your bitter soreness you felt it was well deserved. Naib knew how to make every swing count, and it was only well after the new guy was limp on the ground that William showed up and hauled Naib off of him. Emily followed next, running to check on the new guy since you were already being doted on by the girls.

When William finally let Naib go, he huffed and puffed and flexed off some of his remaining aggression before spitting out a spiteful, “He ain’t dead. I ain’t that nice.”

Then he turned and shooed the girls off, scooped you up, and marched right out of the room. He held you too tight for your sore back’s liking, but you couldn’t begrudge him the positioning to keep his nose in your hair while walking to somewhere more secluded and safe. His chest was still heaving against your side, still high with adrenaline and worry. His knuckles were split and bloody. The day had only just started.

“Sorry,” you sighed into his neck. Naib scoffed, mouth still pressed to your scalp.

“What for? He’s the cunt.” He kicked open the door to your bedroom, fully pulling back enough to give you a smirk. “Don’t ever be sorry for me stepping in. I’ll take care of everything.”

Ithaqua

The manor sometimes held garden parties to welcome new inhabitants. Usually, though, it had better timing.

The poor new guy had had the awful misfortune of being a valuable player. He was good at getting in the hunter’s face, and the others did all they could to get him off his first chair safely. Because of the great team effort, he’d wound up bleeding out while the Hunter—Ithaqua, your boyfriend—dealt with the others. You knew that wasn’t Ithaqua’s modus operandi; it hadn’t been on purpose. …but he wasn’t exactly sorry about it, either.

As a result, the party was tense in some areas. Specifically, the areas where the new guy went. He walked around with a deep frown and a nervous jitter. He’d been anxious when he first arrived too, but it was understandably worse now, in witness of the two factions being chummy with one another right after one had just killed him. The hunters avoided him from the get go, and the survivors gave up on conversation with him not long after.

And you, well. You didn’t get to see Ithaqua in peaceful settings often.

That’s how you wound up here, you supposed.

“So you’re a fucking traitor whore!” the new guy snapped in your face. He wasn’t quiet, either. “What’s the matter with you! Those monsters beat and torture us and you turn around and hang all over one? You’re probably no fucking better, some kind of psycho killer! You’re the one who should die! You’re the one who should bleed!”

Not being quiet would be his downfall, though. Picking a secluded corner of the hedge maze to catch you in didn’t matter. The wind carried.

He didn’t get much farther into his rant and threats before Ithaqua came whirling around the corner with his “business” mask on. His axe was back in the manor, but the Hunter’s claws and sheer strength could do harm enough to a survivor. Ithaqua snatched the new guy up by the nape before he had a clue what was happening, and dangled him overhead. The new guy screeched in a way that made you feel sick, but you knew from experience there was no talking Ithaqua down. Shamefully, you turned your eyes away.

“You sure like to run your mouth,” Ithaqua sneered at him, tilting his head in that wicked, owlish way of his. “You know, all the other rats take death in stride around here. You clearly need some more practice with it.” Ithaqua ruffled your hair with his free hand before stalking off around the corner with the squirming offender.

When he came back a few minutes later, he was wiping his bloody claws off on his cape.

“He knows not to trouble you anymore,” he cooed. When he took off his mask, Ithaqua’s blackened eyed are far more serene than they should have been for what he’d just done. “Come, the Geisha brought out those little caked you like.”

[justlemmeadoreyou]

1. prepping (restaurant owner!harry x chef!y/n)

summary: you landed your dream job as a line cook at harry styles' prestigious haus kitchen restaurant in chicago. the tough chef job demands focus, but it's really hard when your boss looks like harry styles.

words: 4.3k

warnings: nothing major in this one

Your palms were sweating as you gripped the steering wheel, driving through downtown Chicago towards your new job. You kept glancing down at the address on the printed directions, double checking that you were heading the right way. The last thing you wanted was to be late on your first day.

Ever since getting your culinary degree, you had applied to what felt like hundreds of restaurant jobs, desperate to get your foot in the door of a real professional kitchen. But very few places wanted to hire someone so fresh out of school with no actual experience. 

Finally, after months of dead ends, you had landed a line cook position at Haus Kitchen - one of the hottest farm-to-table restaurants in the city. You could scarcely believe your luck when you got the call saying you were hired.

Haus was the brainchild of Harry Styles, international superstar singer turned chef. After his chart-topping solo music career, Harry had traded in artist life to pursue his lifelong passion for cooking. Using his accumulated wealth, he opened up Haus five years ago to rave reviews, quickly earning a well deserved Michelin star.

You vividly remembered watching Harry's transition from a pop idol to dashing culinary entrepreneur play out in the media. As a teenage girl, you had been obsessed with him during his One Direction days.

Your bedroom walls were plastered with Harry's posters and you had relentlessly played their songs, sighing over his tousled hair and pouty lips. Then as you got older and Harry went solo, your boyband crush evolved into more of an intense celebrity infatuation as he cultivated a cool, rebellious image.

There were countless gossipy blind items about his infamous hellraising, flings with models and socialites, and run-ins with the law. You had followed all the scandalous Harry headlines with rapt attention - from getting papped stumbling out of nightclubs with an endless parade of beautiful women to getting arrested for drug possession outside Soho clubs. 

But finally in his late 20s, seemingly bored of rockstar debauchery, Harry had pivoted to reset his image as a knowledgeable culinary entrepreneur. You admired how he transformed from tabloid bad boy into a refined, successful businessman and chef.

He began studying haute cuisine under the tutelage of famous European chefs, traveling abroad to hone his skills further. While continuing to record new musical projects independently, Harry started establishing himself in the culinary world through guest stints on TV cooking shows and food/wine events.

With his brooding good looks, charming personality, and serious culinary chops, the world fell for Harry's new sophisticated image. Before long, he was the subject of breathless puff pieces in food magazines as "the sexiest Renaissance man in the kitchen." It seemed natural when Harry soon opened up his passion project Haus to capitalize on his popularity and love of food.

Now nearing your mid-20s, your teenage fannish obsession had cooled into more of an admiring celebrity crush. You had stayed aware of Harry's journey, but your priorities were focused on graduating culinary school at the top of your class and finding your own big break in the Chicago restaurant scene.

So when you landed a job at Harry's iconic Haus, it almost didn't feel real. Not only would you be working at one of the city's most exclusive spots, but under the same roof as a chef you had admired for ages.

Not that you expected to have any real personal contact with Harry himself, you reminded yourself as you merged onto the exit for downtown. He was an internationally famous mega-celebrity who had to have hundreds of staffers, not to mention being handsomely paid to just be the smiling face of the business while professional kitchen vets like Paul Thomason handled the day-to-day operations.

Still, you had to admit to yourself that a tiny part of you tingled at the mere idea of being in the same building as Harry Styles...hopefully catching a glimpse of that handsome, endlessly charming man in the flesh...

You shook your head dismissively and double checked the directions again, annoyed at getting so easily distracted. This was your big break, your first serious job in the industry. You needed to bring your A-game and focus, not dwell on silly celebrity daydreams.

It was your fantasies of becoming a respected chef that needed to take priority.

You pulled into the parking lot for the restaurant, double checking that you had the address right. The sleek, modern building had a neon "Haus Kitchen" sign glowing over opulent double-door entrances flanked by velvet ropes and cheerful outdoor seating areas.

Taking a steadying breath, you cut the engine and sat for a moment, giving yourself a pep talk. This was it. No more messing around doing coursework or labs - this was the major leagues with all the intensity of a real professional kitchen. You had to bring it all day, every day.

As you climbed out of your beat-up Honda, you smoothed down your spotless new chef's whites, making sure everything looked pressed and presentable. With your knife kit tucked under your arm, you walked towards the entrance with purpose, chin held high.

From the moment you stepped through the doors, it was like being transported into another world. The smell of simmering sauces, roasting meats, and freshly baked bread envaded your senses. Even hours before opening, the energy and hustle for dinner prep was palpable.

Off to the left was the main dining room you had studied photos of online - effortlessly cool with vaulted exposed wooden beam ceilings, brick accents, and casually modern decor. Pendant lighting glowed cozily over tables draped in white linens and rustic chandeliers hung over plush tufted leather banquettes. A lively bar area centered the space, stocked with top-shelf liquors and backed by a dazzling display of custom glassware.

In the distance ahead, you could hear the clamoring of the kitchen in full swing. Your stomach did a nervous flip - this was it. Taking another fortifying breath, you headed through the archway.

You emerged into a large, sleek open kitchen layout, all stainless steel and butcher block islands. Uniformed cooks were buzzing at their stations like a well-oiled machine under the barked commands of an older, stocky man you immediately recognized as Head Chef Paul Thomason.

Despite his gruff reputation, watching Thomason in action was nothing short of mesmerizing. He moved between stations with the easy grace of a conductor, sampling sauces, tweaking seasonings, and directing the workflow with gruff orders. There was no wasted movement or micro-expression as he continually tasted and perfected dishes, alternating between thoughtful contemplation and decisive action.

Though you had only seen Thomason in pictures and television appearances, his fierce focus and mastery were unmistakable. This was what true professional kitchen expertise looked like in the flesh.

Feeling like a mouse that had wandered into the lair of a lion, you hovered near the entrance, uncertain of what to do next. The kitchen team flowed around you in a choreographed dance, deftly ignoring your presence as they prepped and plated flawlessly.

After a few minutes of anxious loitering, the intimidating Thomason seemed to finally notice you. His grizzled features contorted as he scowled, looking you up and down through eyes squinted with decades of kitchen smoke exposure.

"You must be the new kid," he said gruffly, crossing his bulky tattooed arms over his broad chest. Even without raising his voice, Thomason had a rumbling bass that easily carried over the kitchen's clanging din. "Christ, you're shorter than I expected. Think you've got what it takes to keep up around here?"

You nervously clutched your knife kit closer while trying to not look as flustered as you felt. "Y-yes, chef!" 

You swallowed hard, hyper aware of everyone around you now watching the interaction. "I, uh...I came ready to work as hard as it takes. Whatever you need from me."

Thomason grunted, squinting at you for another long moment in consideration. Then he jerked his head towards the back. "Get changed out quick and meet me back here in 5. I'll get you started on prep and we'll see what you're made of. Don't keep me waiting."

"Yes, chef!" you responded immediately, wincing at how high your voice had gone up an octave.

Without another word, Thomason turned and strode back into the controlled chaos of the line, immediately redirecting his attention to sauces and garnishes. Letting out a shaky breath, you scurried towards the changing rooms, heart jackhammering.

Well, you were officially in the thick of things now...

You hustled back out to the kitchen, trying not to look frazzled from your rushed change. A young Hispanic line cook spotted you and waved you over to his station.

"You the newbie?" he asked, not unkindly. When you nodded, he jerked his head towards the walk-in refrigerator. "Thomason wants you to start by breaking down some of the produce delivery for prep."

"Got it, thanks," you replied, eager to prove yourself. The line cook gestured you through the door into the immense chilled walk-in.

You blinked as your eyes adjusted to the cold, taking in the sights and smells of the impressive stockpile. Shelves upon shelves were stocked with an array of fresh seasonal produce - crates bursting with leafy greens, bushels of root vegetables, flats of vibrantly colored tomatoes, exotic fruits, and mushroom varieties you had only read about.  

Your culinary school had humble basics for ingredients, nothing like the bounty of locally-sourced, meticulously selected provisions that Haus Kitchen demanded. You felt a thrill at getting to work with such an extraordinary pantry.

Respirating clouds puffed from your mouth as you scanned the inventory tagging system. You had been taught similar protocols in your food safety courses, but there was something exhilarating about putting that knowledge into practice in a real professional environment.

Grabbing a stack of plastic totes, you made a game plan for which items to start prepping first based on perishability levels and what would be needed for that evening's specials. Though you started out slow at first, you steadily built up a cadence of meticulously cleaning, trimming, and sorting into appropriate storage containers.  

By the time Thomason stuck his head in to check on you an hour later, you had developed an efficient system and made solid progress through a mountain of deliveries.

The head chef grunted in approval as he inspected your neat stacks of prepped produce, crossing his arms as he looked you up and down with a critical eye.

"Not bad, kid," he rumbled. "Clearly know which end of a knife to use, at least. C'mon back out, got some protein fabrication for you to tackle next."

You diligently followed Thomason back out to the main kitchen, wiping some sweat from your brow with your sleeve. Despite the industrial cooling system, the heat blazing from the ovens and range tops made the open kitchen feel like a furnace.

As Thomason led you to a stainless steel butcher's block island, you couldn't help but gawk at the array of gleaming knives hanging from magnetic strips overhead. The blades were works of art - sleek, razor sharp, and clearly extremely expensive.

Gesturing you over, Thomason grabbed a boning knife and twirled it deftly before handing it to you. "Let's see how you handle breaking this down."

He gave the block a solid smack with his meaty palm, indicating for you to get started on the glistening slab of beef tenderloin before you. Taking a steadying breath, you gripped the bone-handled knife firmly and leaned over the cutting board.

"Yes chef," you murmured before carefully piercing the thick cut of meat, angling the blade with practiced precision from all your training.

Around you, the kitchen bustled with the usual rattling pans, sizzling ranges, and Thomason's occasional barked orders. But as you fell into the rhythm of deftly separating fat and sinew, the noises began to fade from your awareness.  

You were completely focused on your knife work, confidently sawing through the tender flesh as you reduced the tenderloin down to portions and trimmings for other stations to further break down. It was meditative, almost hypnotic, the way you instinctively slid the blade along rendered paths of butchery.

After your initial intimidation of the intense Haus environment, you started to find your groove and calm amidst the choreographed insanity surrounding you. You were so laser-focused on the satisfaction of properly executing each slicing technique that the rest of the kitchen chaos became mere white noise.

You had no idea how long you stayed absorbed in the butchery, but eventually you became aware of a presence at your elbow. Glancing up, you nearly jumped to see Harry Styles watching you work with an unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his slim-fitting slacks.

His dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows and the fitted cotton fabric clung to his toned arms and chest, a few chest hairs peeking out of his slightly undone top button. A single necklace rested in the divot between his sculpted collarbones, drawing your eye to the alluring hollow of his throat as he swallowed hard.

You froze mid-slice, mesmerized by watching the tendons in Harry's wrist and forearm flex as his hands flexed restlessly in his trouser pockets. After a beat, his pillowy lips curved into an easy smile, crinkling the delicate crow's feet at the corners of his kaleidoscope green eyes.

"Afternoon," Harry said in that lazy, husky drawl that used to make millions of fans swoon. He flicked his eyes down to your handiwork before bringing them back up to your face. "Looking good there, newbie."

You blinked, not trusting your ears for a moment before realizing with a jolt that Harry was very much real and quite close. Like, unnecessarily close for your over-stimulated brain to handle.

"Uh...I-I, um...th-thank you?" you croaked out, wanting to cringe at how lame you sounded. Get it together, this wasn't the time to geek out–you instructed yourself.

But Harry didn't seem to notice your fumbling, simply giving you a dimpled half-smile before reaching around you to snag a stray piece of trimming from the butcher's block. He inspected it contemplatively before popping it into his mouth, those plump lips wrapping obscenely around the bite as he chewed and ruminated with relish.

"Perfection," he declared after swallowing, shooting you another crooked grin like you were co-conspirators sharing an inside joke. With a subtle wink, Harry pivoted on his boot heel and sauntered off, whistling a jaunty tune.

As he retreated, you risked a glance down at his form-fitting trousers shamelessly admiring the way the fine fabric cupped the ample curves of his pert backside. Even at his age, Harry Styles had the muscle-toned body of a man decades younger - long, lean muscles taut under golden tanned skin.

You blinked hard and shook your head, annoyed at catching yourself ogling your new boss like a drooling fangirl. Pull it together! This was totally inappropriate and unprofessional. You had zero business daydreaming about someone who gave you your paycheck, no matter how obscenely famous and heartthrob-ishly handsome they were.

Firmly re-focusing on your knife work, you determinedly put Harry from your mind and tried to re-immerse yourself in the rhythm and refuge of the butchery. But the memory of his distractingly lush mouth so close kept replaying over and over, preventing you from recapturing your previous sense of meditative flow. 

Dammit, you needed to get a grip! This kind of inappropriate crush on your employer was exactly the kind of silly, immature behavior that would make you look like a unprofessional joke in a serious kitchen environment. Blowing an opportunity like this was not an option.

Later, as you untied your apron strings and joined the team in breaking down the last stations for cleaning at closing, Thomason sidled up alongside you. You braced yourself for more of his typical gruff rebukes or criticisms.

Instead, the veteran chef simply gave you a long, considered look before saying gruffly, "You did good work today, kid. I can already tell you got the stuff to handle it around here if you keep your head down."

You blinked up at him in surprise before managing a small smile. "Thank you, chef. I really appreciate that."

Thomason grunted noncommittally before wandering off, likely to oversee something else. As you tidied your workstation, you couldn't help feeling a small glow of pride. Despite the craziness of your first day, you had seemingly passed this initial trial with flying colors.

As you left through the back entrance into the quiet night air, you took a deep breath and allowed yourself a satisfied smile. Maybe, just maybe, you really did have what it took to succeed in this highly competitive environment after all. For tonight at least, you had handled the punishing pace and standards. Tomorrow was another day to prove yourself all over again.

***

Your day started before sunrise the next morning, brewing a strong coffee and reviewing the notes you had taken the previous evening about which menu items needed prepping. By the time you arrived at Haus, reinvigorated by the crisp morning air, the kitchen was already a hive of activity in preparation for lunch service. 

The intense scrutiny under which you worked only amplified with the daylight. Every slice, every sauté was carried out under the watchful eyes of Chef Thomason and his steely gaze. More than once, you felt his presence looming over your shoulder, inspecting your work with the same critical eye as a diamond cutter examining a flawless gem.

"This slice is uneven," he barked, startling you. You flinched, resisting the urge to make excuses as he continued, "The portions all need to be identical for plating. Paying attention to details like that is the difference between a sloppy meal and a stellar one. Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, chef," you replied tightly, making a minor adjustment to your knife work. Though his words stung, you had to admit Thomason was completely right. In a restaurant of this caliber, any minor imperfection could spell disaster.  

You redoubled your efforts, pouring all of your concentration into each preparation, each plate. By the time the end of your shift rolled around, you were drenched in sweat, your feet screaming from being on them for 12 hours straight. But you had successfully made it through day two without any major mishaps.

As the whirlwind of dinner service finally calmed to a stopping point, you stood in the kitchen obediently waiting for Thomason's inspection and inevitable critique. But to your surprise, he merely gave a curt nod of approval before waving you off.

"Not bad, newbie," he grunted. "Get a good night's rest. We'll need you back bright and early tomorrow."

Those few gruff words of acceptance warmed you more than any high praise could have. For Thomason, a man of very few words, his small nod seemed to indicate you were, for the moment, living up to his exceedingly high standards.

The high from that small victory buoyed your spirits as you made your way towards the back exit, already dreaming of the few hours of sleep you might be able to grab before starting the cycle over again. You were so wrapped up in your thoughts that you nearly bowled someone over coming around a corner.

"Whoa there!"  

You froze, looking up into the grinning, mirthful eyes of Harry Styles himself. Up close, the force of his charm and magnetism practically crackled in the air around him like a physical force. His sweater clung distractingly to his lithe, muscular frame and his chestnut hair was casually tousled. A pair of small diamond studs glinted in each ear.

"Sorry about that, H-Harry," you stammered, resisting the urge to take a flustered step back. You were vividly aware of just how little physical space separated the two of you. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

If he noticed your frazzled state up close, Harry didn't let on. His pink lips merely curved in an easy, dimpled smile. "No need to apologize. I don't usually make a habit of lurking around blind corners, to be fair."

You laughed before you could stop yourself, surprised at how easily he was putting you at ease despite your elevated heart rate. Up close, Harry's eyes weren't just green - an entire kaleidoscope of colors ranging from jade to emerald to amber seemed to shift and dance in his gaze. It was...dazzling, frankly.

Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to take a subtle step backwards, putting a more professional amount of space between the two of you. The last thing you needed was to do something wildly inappropriate that would get you fired before the end of your first week.

"Still, I should have been paying better attention to my surroundings," you replied, aiming for a respectful, levelheaded tone. "It's been a really intense couple of days just trying to stay on top of everything."

Harry nodded in understanding, arching one perfectly sculpted brow. "Thomason hasn't let up on you at all, I take it?" 

When you shook your head ruefully, he chuckled. "I know that seems like his permanent state - gruff, perpetually unsatisfied, and grumpy as a hibernating bear. But honestly, the fact that he hasn't fired you already is a good sign you're doing well."

You blinked at him in surprise. "Wait...really? But he critiques everything! I feel like I've gotten nothing but corrections so far."

"Exactly." Harry's dimples flashed as he grinned. "That's how you know he sees potential in you. If Thomason didn't think you had what it took, he wouldn't waste his breath giving feedback. He'd just cut you loose and hire someone else to start over."

His words were like a soothing balm on the anxiety and self-doubt you'd been carrying around for the past couple of days. You hadn't realized that Thomason's critical approach was actually a twisted form of acceptance and mentorship. The revelation caused the hard knot of tension between your shoulder blades to finally release.

"Huh," you exhaled, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips as you finally understood Thomason's tough love. "I guess I should take that as a compliment then."

"Absolutely," Harry agreed with an approving nod. Then his expression softened around the edges, growing earnest as his gaze searched yours. "Look, I know it's a huge adjustment and the pace here can be absolutely brutal starting out. But for what it's worth...I think you've got what it takes to be something really special in this kitchen."

You felt yourself flush at his unexpected praise, your stomach fluttering with a swarm of nervous butterflies. Harry held your eyes for a lingering moment before seeming to mentally collect himself.

Clearing his throat, he flashed you one more crooked grin. "But don't take my word for it - the proof will be in your work. Stay focused and trust the process. I've got faith you can handle it."

With that, he brushed past you, his shoulder grazing yours in a way that made your entire body buzz with friction. As Harry sauntered off down the hallway, you couldn't stop yourself from turning to watch his retreating form - the easy, rolling gait, the tantalizing sway of his hips below the slim cut of his trousers, the tousled waves of his chestnut hair.

You let out a shaky exhale, feeling off-balance and electrified all at once. Get a grip, you scolded yourself firmly. That was your boss - your incredibly famous, wealthy, and wildly attractive boss. Daydreaming was a one-way ticket to catching inappropriate feelings and potentially torpedoing your entire career before it even started.

And yet...you couldn't quite silence the part of your brain reliving Harry's velvet tone and intense eye contact as he professed having faith in your abilities. Just the casual warmth of his voice and proximity had set your heart pounding in a way it hadn't since you were a hormonal teenager, utterly dazzled by his rock star persona.

Shaking your head, you forced yourself to turn on your heel and head for the exit. Overthinking could only lead to dangerous territory. You needed to stay laser-focused on your work - that was the only way to succeed at Haus and make your culinary dreams a reality.

As you stepped out into the fresh evening air, you paused for a moment on the deserted back stoop, closing your eyes and taking a few centering breaths. When you opened them again, you felt the last fluttering tendrils of Harry's heated presence dissipate, replaced by a familiar sense of determined calm.

This job was your priority now, not silly schoolgirl crushes or indulging fantasies about your wildly unattainable boss. You knew better than to get distracted by daydreams that could only lead to self-sabotage. 

With a decisive nod, you strode towards your car with renewed focus. You would prove yourself at Haus through your skills and work ethic alone. No other agenda, no unprofessional entanglements allowed. 

Your passion was cuisine, creating nourishing dishes that delighted - that had to remain your sole priority. You couldn't afford any distractions from that lest you squander this incredible opportunity. Steadying your breathing, you looked forward with fresh clarity and resolve.

Tomorrow was a new day to earn your place in Harry's formidable kitchen. And this time, you vowed, you were utterly prepared to meet the challenge with your complete and undivided focus.

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

tell me if you like this! this is an idea for a new series that will probably have 6 parts??? i guess. but do tell me if you like it! because there's no use in writing when nobody reads 😭😭

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[fairlyabookie]

features he'd find attractive

notes: a little suggestive! you've been warned!

Crewel

waist

The two of you planned a date night during the weekend at a high-end restaurant many of his peers couldn’t stop raving about, and he thought why not go there for a date night with you? He booked the reservation and on the pretense of a dress code (strictly formal), the two of you dressed to the nines for this dinner.

You, on the other hand, felt overdressed for such, the corset of your two piece attire cinching your waist quite tightly, allowing minimal room to even breathe. Complaints flint about your thoughts, ones that you wouldn’t dare to voice as you and Crewel both agreed on the attire.

A gloved hand extends to you, one that you accept graciously, exiting the classic red car. Your eyes meet, your silhouette reflected in eyes of drifting clouds before a storm. Crewel makes a passing compliment that brings heat to your cheeks, his gaze drifting to your waist, a smirk ghosting his lips.

He guides you close, a red glove drifting to your waist. The sudden intimate touch merited a glance to your date, a confident smile perked on his lips. Despite your discomfort, you quite liked it - the attention you were getting from him, the subtle intimacy - it showed a different side of him that contrasted his stern, pointer-wielding persona during classes. Nonetheless, this was a moment between you and Crewel, not as co-workers but as partners romantically interested in each other.

Sam

legs

The bell chime of the storefront rings a familiar tune of a welcoming customer; the shopkeep prepares his signature welcome, bearing a friendly demeanor for all those who entered. He pauses, seeing a familiar face greet him back. “Coming in need for supplies or coming to see an old friend, my dear?” Sam perks an eyebrow, his flirtatious comment coming off as light-hearted.

A chuckle escapes from your lips, knowing very well about your co-worker’s antics. You simply needed to restock for class and Sam was the perfect person who had those supplies readily available. With a smile, Sam’s shadow is dispatched to retrieve those items, while you wandered about the store, glancing over the freshly stocked items the store had to offer.

While you were preoccupied, Sam kept the conversation going whilst watching your figure pace back and forth about the store. He took quite the liking to the way you dressed; an attire that seemingly flattered the shape of your legs - supple, firm, and shapely behind a layer of black tights.

Admittedly, Sam was a man with his preferences, but seeing you wearing something different from your usual for class opened his mind elsewhere; he yearned to rip off those tights and sink his teeth into your skin, to paint the canvas in patches of pink, purple, and red in a canvas of skin that was the expanse of your legs. Such salacious imagery drifted away as whisps of black enters his vision - his shadow returned with the goods you requested. Oh, he had a long day at work today.

Vargas

thighs

Vargas had no qualms on carrying you out and about the campus, as a means of testing his strength. He couldn’t let himself go - his physique mustn’t falter by any means, therefore, he needed a subject, someone willing, to accompany him in his vigorous exercise routine. You, a co-worker he considered you to be a friend, were picked to help him with the job.

Much to your chagrin, the others, including Crowley, had refused, leaving you the only one who could aid Vargas. You prayed he wouldn’t throw you around like a ragdoll, yet he flashes you a smile worth of diamonds, his dazzling handsomeness nearly blinding you.

He hoists you up easily, bringing you up to heights unfathomable to you. You cling onto his figure, not wanting to fall nor look down at the ground below. Yet, his grip on you remains firm, his smile unwavering. He doesn’t mind your protests, brushing off your statements with a smile.

On the contrary, he is quite enjoying the moment; you sitting on his bicep as if you were a sack of potatoes - an effortless display of strength indeed. What he favored most about this position was how it gave him full view of your thighs - a sight he saw rarely as you’d dress modestly for classes. His eyes flicker over to you, drinking in your silhouette - so close to him yet so distant like a goddess beyond reach.

Trein

neck

Trein describes himself as a man of modesty, someone who dresses well for the occasion and sets an example for his students. Much to his chagrin, the little ones wouldn’t understand the meaning of decorum - most would simply dress uncouthly, than set a standard for themselves. Alas, he had you - a fine example of decorum as an instructor, someone who came to class well-dressed, ready to instruct the class, your posture flawless and teaching capabilities perfection.

He reveled in you, often running his mouth to any staff within proximity, even to the point of annoyance. When you happen to eavesdrop, you’d fluster, quickly excusing yourself until one of your co-workers were available. There was no way Trein was infatuated in you, you thought to yourself - why, he has two daughters and married too - your heart wavered oh-so-slightly, but you didn’t intrude into his personal space.

While Lucius took a liking to you, Trein couldn’t stop admiring you - one of the best co-worker he could work with - someone who was competent yet humble in their line of duty. You were exceptional, a beacon that he hoped students could take example of from the way you carried yourself and take on your position as instructor.

One day, after a long day of classes, Trein stumbled upon you unwinding, your hair undone and your collar undone by a few buttons down. A look of exhaustion painted your features, one that he knew too well. He glimpses skin between your hair and where your collar ended, a scandalous view of skin that brought heat to his cheeks. He catches himself, closing his eyes - yet the image of your undone hair and vulnerable skin seared into his mind.

Crowley

lips

Crowley was quick to pick you as a staff of Night Raven College, undoubtably placing you within his sights, where he would test your competency with the students and with your co-workers. While he works on Headmaster duties, he couldn’t help but find you amusing. The way your lips curl into a pout, the way your face scrunched into one of befuddlement, oh the delightful expressions you had that intrigued Crowley most.

Why, Crowley couldn’t seem to stop teasing you, just to bring your attention to him. His eyes would linger to your expressions and then your lips; your lips, quite a flattering trait of yours, would curl into many shapes - each shape painting an unique expression.

Crowley would read your lips as you speak, his thoughts elsewhere as your voice faded into harmonious music to his ears. It’s not like he had caught feelings for you - he won’t admit, but there was something about you that attracted him to you, from the way your lips formed words, sounds, and expression, to your face when you were taken back, flustered, or embarrassed.

Crowley reveled in teasing you, even in front of other staff members, where he’d coo and throw flattery along your way to have you flustered. Though the attention wasn’t necessary, you found this opportunity to open up - even if Crowley was being too much for you to handle.

[kumkaniudaku]

A Piece of You

Summary: Kelvin learns more about Asia.

Pairing: Kelvin Harrison Jr. x Black!OC

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4,678

Asia should've gone to Chicago. 

She knew she'd fucked up the moment she tearfully called Kelvin to explain that her first foray back into the Windy City since deciding to take things slow would be interrupted by a family emergency. The emergency? A tipsy bachata class and 52-year-old uncoordinated feet had gifted her mother an ankle the size of a Colorado boulder and mandatory bed rest for the weekend. Her beau, Curtis, was unavailable. Uncle Nigel and Aunt Tameka were off at another weird sex resort, and no siblings meant she was left to fill a void she hadn't signed up for. 

"It's okay, baby," Kelvin reassured over the phone, his attention split between offering long-distance comfort and canceling dinner reservations. "You couldn't tell the future. I'm not mad at you. Need anything from me?" 

The audible plunk of her body thudding across her mattress preceding a frustrated groan made Kelvin chuckle at the theatrics. "Can you send me a pint of brownie batter and a case of Spindrift? I think I'm just gonna bloat to death. This is our last conversation, by the way." 

"What if I brought it to you myself?" 

Asia laughed off the possibility of Kelvin hand-delivering Ben & Jerry's straight from the flagship at the time. He was impulsive but not so impulsive as to hop on a red-eye, fly hundreds of miles down South, and buzz her apartment from the callbox in the wee hours of the morning, right? Of course not. Then, a day after the thought of his unplanned appearance made her chuckle once they'd hung up the phone, Kelvin was rolling his carry-on past Asia's front door and wrapping her into a soothing hug. 

I'm here, baby. Kelvin uttered his refrain for the weekend more than either of them had prepared for. He whispered the phrase when he felt her in his arms for the first time in almost a month. Then, again as they worked toward shared release beneath morning sunrays streaming through linen curtains. Asia could hear his voice whispering in the back of her mind while she watched him sleep, wholly smitten by the selfless man breathing with his mouth hung open and chest slowly rising and falling into a deep slumber. But, the last time, the most impactful time, came with his fingers threading through hers as they approached the only house with a bright orange front door in an otherwise plain suburban cul-de-sac. 

The loud whoosh of a leaf blower clearing debris from a neighbor's perfectly trimmed lawn did little to ease the nerves threatening to spill the morning's breakfast all over clean pavement once Asia opened the passenger door.

"Get your hand off the door handle," Kelvin warned, half-serious, as he held open the car door for her exit. Jokes and sarcasm didn't do much to turn dread into laughter, but Asia appreciated the attempt. 

She swallowed back the bile that had made her mouth water and reached for Kelvin's outstretched hand, murmuring a quiet 'thank you' as she helped pull her out of the vehicle. 

Clammy hands and trembling fingers met his grasp, and, for the first time since they'd ventured out of Asia's apartment and started the hour-long drive west to a slower-paced outpost of the city they'd grown to love, Kelvin could feel the nerves radiating from his…whatever they were now. Worry etched itself into fine lines framing a slight but present frown. Unfocused eyes stared a thousand yards into the distance. She barely finished the breakfast sandwich she always raved about. The songs they shared on their collabed playlist didn't hit the same. Asia was in a paralyzed state, waiting for the worst.

Kelvin used his free hand to shut the door behind her, then gently tugged Asia back before she could dart off toward the front steps. "Damn, girl. Where you running off to?" he joked as she reluctantly backtracked. 

"I just want to get this over with, Kel. Come on," Asia whined, nearly stomping her feet in place like a petulant child. "You sure you don't want to stay in the car? I can be quick. Promise!" 

His head darted back in confusion, shocked by the absurdity of Asia's suggestion. "You trynna hide me or what? What's all this about?" 

"No," Asia assured, emphasizing her response. "I just don't want this to be a whole…thing." 

"Nobody's making it a thing but you, A," Kelvin laughed. "We're here to have lunch with your mom and hang out. Nobody said I was asking for your hand in marriage and paying the bride price today." 

The mention of cash for her hand in marriage made Asia smirk. "How much would you pay, though? Like, give me a number."

"After this morning? At least $30! Shit, maybe $40. I got a little extra on me today." A shocked smack to his chest made Kelvin laugh loud enough to disturb an older couple sharing gardening duties across the street, drawing attention to the unfamiliar Black faces in the vicinity. 

Asia and Kelvin offered curt smiles and abbreviated waves as warnings to mind their business before returning to their private conversation. 

"It's just lunch with your mom, not a meeting with the President," Kelvin reiterated. "We're good. Come on."

Unfounded optimism was one of Asia's favorite things about Kelvin. Creativity and the sort of freedom gifted to those with entire universes living inside their imaginations kept him always anticipating the best. Part of her wanted to believe everything would be fine. They'd eat tikka masala barefoot at her mother's kitchen table, laugh about current events while they helped with household chores, and then be back on the interstate for the city in no time without a snafu or blunder in sight. But Asia knew Tini Scott. Nothing with that lady ever went as planned. It wasn't in her nature. 

Still, she allowed Kelvin to lead her up the red brick driveway, past perfect palm trees and lush green grass, toward a Mediterranean-style home with a bright orange doorway, the only one of its kind in an otherwise quiet suburban neighborhood. 

Kelvin knew he was in for a treat when the aroma of earthy, sour marijuana hit his nose as they stood at the front door. Asia didn't seem phased while she shifted a clay flower pot to search for the key, but he could already feel the heady lift of a contact high. That's some good shit he thought to tell Asia, but let the comment pass to keep the peace. 

As the store slid open and Isaac Hayes did the talking, Asia rolled her eyes, stepped into the foyer, and started for the open-concept living space, leaving Kelvin to trail behind. 

“Ma,” Asia hollered out to no response. She huffed and proceeded down the hall.

While she slid her sandals off and lined them up near a small trove of Birkenstocks and Teva sandals by the wall as a silent directive for him to do the same, Kelvin took in his surroundings. Asia was, in fact, her mother's daughter.

The same earth tones and pops of color he'd grown excited about each time rubber wheels hit the tarmac existed tenfold in a space he quickly characterized as Afrohemian. Jute and rattan served their purpose as grounding elements, while accents of clay and stone brought the outdoors inside. He admired pieces of art that could only be collected by someone with an incredible eye for beautiful, storied things as he examined the office space just off the entrance. Shelves teeming with Pan-African and revolutionary literature caught his eye, and he made a mental note to bring them up in conversation if the moment ever presented itself. 

On the walls, framed photos of a tall, dark-skinned woman with all sorts of brown faces told the story of a woman committed to exploring the world. In every other image, he could make out a familiar smile, one with a small gap in her front teeth and ombre lips he knew to taste like mangos right before bed. 

Thailand, Summer 2005 scribbled in barely legible handwriting, added context to a photo of what looked to be a ten-year-old Asia spending time with a large elephant. Kelvin stopped to smile at a little girl bursting with energy. Kelvin could've spent another thirty minutes in the home's unofficial museum if not for the music lowering and a beautifully deep voice shouting their excitement. 

He recognized Asia's voice in all the commotion first. "Mama, you're supposed to be off your feet. What are you doing in here washing wine glasses?" 

"Oh, please. It's a sprain, not an amputation. I'll be fine. Plus, I figured we needed something to drink on the back deck." Tini quickly changed subjects. "Sooooo! Where's my guest of honor?" 

"Mama! He's not here for that!"

For thirty years, Asia's love life had been shrouded in secrecy. Not that there was ever much of a love life to share, but if there were, Asia had managed to keep all of it under lock and key. Until recently, when the tenor of a man's laugh in the background of one of her and her daughter's bi-monthly phone calls introduced an excited mother to a new character in Asia's life. Since then, she found every opportunity to check in on the young man who'd convinced her only child to call three times a month instead of two. 

Kelvin listened to the two identical-sounding women exchange words about his presence as he followed their voices to the kitchen. He would've said something—maybe a 'hello' or 'how you doing'—had the sight of familiar work hanging over the kitchen table not stopped him in his tracks. 

He tried to recover in time, but his greeting came out flustered. "H-hi, it's uh… I'm Kel – I'm sorry, where'd you get that?" He knew the answer but needed to hear the explanation. 

"I taught Asia how to source meaningful art a loooong time ago," Tini answered, smiling as Asia forced herself to pull plates and bowls from the cabinet to avoid the interaction. "So, she brought me something that spoke to her and said it might've been just what I was looking for to add some life to that old empty wall. She was right. It gives some life to the kitchen and gets me compliments when I have the occasional house party." 

Kelvin chuckled. "You have parties around all these old white folks?" 

"Boy, hell no! I want to have a good time, not hang around these damn sticks in the mud. We come over here to spark a J and talk about shit that matters in the world. This ain't a damn HOA meeting." Kindred spirits. Tini could tell from the moment they laughed about Steve Harvey's man units on the phone one evening. But now, in the flesh, Kelvin could feel the unmistakable connection between two folks who would've been friends had a 20-year age gap not kept them apart. Tini put her hand on her hip and smiled at him. "You gone stand there soaking up my good shit or give me a hug?" 

Snapping out of his shocked haze, Kelvin laughed out of an awkward first impression and quickly closed the gap. 

If Asia was nothing else, she was her mother's child in spirit. In appearance, they were like alternate versions of the same prototype. Where Asia sported a relaxed pixie that was always expertly precise, Tini allowed her short, coarse coils to do their own thing. She traded her daughter's simple solid tops and pressed khaki trousers for flowing linen pants and a relaxed halter camisole that looked like it'd been hand-woven to fit her body proportions. He could see their differences clearly – Tini's round face compared to Asia's chiseled bone structure, a staggering height difference, and a gap only present in one set of pearly whites – but the similarities brought him much more comfort.

Strong arms that looked cut from the finest onyx the Earth could produce wrapped him in a tight embrace, reminding Kelvin of every hug he'd ever received from the young woman silently watching the two most important people in her life meet in person for the first time. 

Kelvin inhaled the relaxing bergamot resting on Tini's moisturized skin and pulled her in tighter like he'd met a missing piece of his life's puzzle. "It's really nice to meet you, Ms. Scott." 

Tini laughed before calling out to Asia. "Oh, this is definitely a preacher's son. He's so nice!" 

"I told you. They raised a good man." Kelvin returned Asia's smile over her mother's back with an air kiss, making her giggle before carting a loaded serving tray to the backyard. 

Pulling away, Tini extended her arms to get a better look at Kelvin. She smiled at the man her daughter chose, taking in his winning smile and bright eyes, and gripped his biceps. "Call me Tini, Kelvin. You hungry?" 

"I've never turned down a meal, hungry or not," he chuckled. 

"Baby, we are gonna get along just fine, then! Grab those containers, will you?" 

Kelvin quickly lived up to the reputation that preceded him, busying his hands and nervous mind with styrofoam plates full of the best-smelling food he'd encountered in a while to follow Tini and her limp outside. 

They found Asia tending to a towering monstera and calling it by name while she checked its soil for moisture. Tini turned to make a face at Kelvin over her shoulder. "She thinks I don't take care of Kwame." 

"By how dry this top layer of soil is, I'm literally right in my assumption," Asia answered, frowning. "I got you this because you wanted something to keep alive, not so you could leave it out here to die."

"Sorry, Mom. I've been busy lately. You know we had our girls' trip to Aruba last week. Then, me and Curtis decided to take the weekend and explore Napa. Which reminds me, I have a hostel recommendation for you. Don't leave without it." Tini carefully set an ornate handpainted tea kettle in the center of the outdoor table and smiled at the setup next to a rolling tray of three pre-rolled joints for their shared consumption. "Whew! I can't cook worth a damn, but I do know how to set a mood." She looked at Kelvin as he added styrofoam trays to the mix. "Do you indulge, PK?" 

He looked at Asia for direction that never came, then back at Tini. "Uh…yeah. From time to time." 

"Well, hopefully, this is one of them times! Come on, y'all. I got started early on an empty stomach, and now I'm hungry. Sit, sit!" 

Unlike Asia, Tini was a chatterbox with an endless trove of winding topics to entertain her small court of willing and unwilling listeners. While Kelvin sat enraptured by tales of Ghanaian shopkeepers and covert European racism, Asia scooped spiced chicken and naan into her mouth to wash them down with expensive white wine. She'd heard enough stories. Kelvin was new to the show.

Tini was short for Martina. Kelvin learned that fact early in the conversation when she began to speak of her Grenadian roots and how her parents couldn't think of a better name for their final child, so they chucked an extra vowel at the end of her father's name and called it a day. Their back and forth meandered through valleys of pop culture discourse, up a mountain of political frustrations, and into a field of happier things like the day she laid eyes only on her "chocolate chip." 

"She was the cutest thing in the world. Ask the doula! Of all the babies born that September, she was the cutest." Tini's doting caught Asia's attention for the first time since they'd arrived, producing the ghost of a smile before her eyes flickered over to Kelvin's to check the temperature. He smiled back as Tini continued. "Sometimes I wish her father would've been there to see what a beautiful girl he made." 

That made Asia slip back into her shell and pick up the empty wine bottle beside the tea kettle. "I'm gonna go grab another. Y'all want anything from inside?" 

"I'm good, baby. Thank you." 

Kelvin added a quick smooch on Asia's knuckles while Tini watched young love blossom in front of her with a smile. When Asia looked to her for an answer, she waved her off. "I'm alright. I know you're gonna ask me about pain medicine, but I'm not taking it. I'm fine."

"Mama, you should at least elevate your foot," Asia cautioned. 

"Okay, okay. Bring a pillow from the guest room, and I'll prop it on this stool. Is that okay, Doctor?" Asia dismissed her mother's sarcasm with a dry laugh before taking long strides back into the house. Tini watched until she was out of sight, then turned to a laughing Kelvin. "She's just like him and she don't even know it." 

He chuckled. "She does the same thing to me all the time." At that, Tini shook her head and let her face settle into a wistful smile as she reached out to fill a small cup with more hot water from the ceramic kettle. Kelvin chewed his bottom lip, wrestling with whether his next question was appropriate for a first meeting. "If you don't mind me asking, um…where is Asia's dad?" 

Tini didn't seem to register the question as she brought the teacup to her lips and sipped. He had half a mind to apologize when she finally answered. "We weren't lovers. Not in that sense, at least. Ships passing in the night, if you will. I told him we were having a baby and…poof. Gone. Then Facebook came around, and I found out the negro lives in Camden Town. Ain't that some shit? Tall Mississippi ball-playing nigga all the way out in London doing God knows what." 

"He didn't want to reach out?" Kelvin asked, his heart crumbling at the thought of someone not wanting a relationship with their child. 

Tini paused to consider her response. "I… should've made a better choice for my daughter. I was young. Nineteen." A flash of hurt clouded her dark eyes before she spoke again. "Don't let her think about it too much. I don't want her getting disappointed again." 

Message received. Kelvin let the discussion naturally taper as Asia reappeared in the kitchen to pull out another bottle from the wine fridge. Tini adjusted in her seat and slowly allowed happiness to overtake her previously sad expression. Kelvin followed her lead. 

"This one's kinda flat, so I can fold it if you need me to." Asia's announcement came in just as all the tense energy from before floated out into the expanse of Tini's backyard, leaving her none the wiser about the previous three minutes. 

"That's alright. Thank you, baby." 

Kelvin watched the two ladies maneuver around each other like trained dancers, both moving with grace to situate the older of the two before Asia found her seat beside him. He couldn't help but lean in for a kiss, and, despite her hesitation, Asia obliged him, to Tini's delight. 

"I'm so happy I could scream right now," she announced, her hands excitedly moving about to give her energy somewhere to go. "I've always told Asia to be better at picking than I was, and here you are, miles better than any man I encountered at her age. You two back on or what?" 

Kelvin looked at Asia and paused, trying to find an answer in her smile. "I think so?" 

"Yeah. I'd say so. We're…together again." 

The official announcement came with less fanfare than either of them had planned, but they didn't fuss with the details. The outcome was the important part. 

Tini hummed her approval. "That's amazing! Y'all using protection?" 

"Mom!" 

Asia's embarrassed outburst matched Kelvin's coughing fit once water hit the back of his throat like a dart coated in poison.

"Girl," Tini laughed, dismissing her daughter's theatrics as she chose a joint from the tray. "I'll sit here and act like you two aren't having sex, but just know I know. Anway," Another reach produced a lighter and a second joint passed to the young man on her left. "Kelvin, I want to hear all about you and how you crafted that masterpiece after we partake in a congratulatory first spark. You do the honors." 

Peer pressure that felt more like a cordial invitation to the hottest party than the big, bad boogie man his parents always warned him about convinced Kelvin to add a flame to white papers filled with nature's best stress reliever, sending the aroma from his arrival up into the air. 

Asia watched herb turn her boyfriend into an open book while he hashed out everything from his birth to stories of his time in Miami she'd yet to hear. Together, he and Tini giggled like maniacs and best friends in one, leaving Asia to bask in their budding friendship and enjoy the benefits of two plumes of smoke meeting in the middle of the table to add a little fun to her white wine buzz. 

They joked and laughed until high noon turned into pink, purple, and orange hues, painting the sky in a proud artistic display from The Creator. Any plans to hit a rooftop back in the city for some decompression drinks were quickly replaced with three adults swaying and chatting to Bill Withers, adding a little levity to a meeting typically overflowing with heaviness by the two-hour mark. 

The outdoor conversation soon trickled inside, where Tini limped about to show Kelvin artifacts and the pieces of art she valued most, leaving Asia to focus on putting medication in her mother's weekly pill container and completing household duties before it got too late. 

On one side of the house, Kelvin ran his fingers across a tapestry straight from Madagascar. At the same time, Tini dusted off a worn photo album to show him a picture. 

"Here it is," she exclaimed before calling him over as she lowered onto the bed. Laminated polaroids of what looked like a hot Summer day sat behind a laminated barrier. She pointed to one in particular and smiled. "That's my girl. She'd been with my parents all summer in Flatbush and when I got back to get her, she was speaking Creole better than me! She must've been nine or ten here." 

Kelvin regarded the photo of Asia with a proud smile, imagining a kid made up of their best parts looking something like the dark-skinned child beaming back at him. "She still looks like that," he laughed. "Do you two see your parents often?" 

"No, not anymore. COVID came through and cleaned house," Tini answered, moving her right arm in a sweeping motion. "My mom got sick, and my dad always said he'd go with her if she tried to die first. He wasn't bullshittin'. Died within two weeks of each other." 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kelvin answered, hoping his sincerity wasn't lost in his high. 

Tini patted his knee. "Thank you, sweetheart, but don't be sorry for me. I had my time with them. They belong to the Earth now." She took another long look at Asia, forever suspended as her fifth-grade self, then closed the book slowly to look at Kelvin. "Can I ask you something?" 

"Sure." Kelvin felt his heart rate pick up as Tini pushed the album aside to give him her full attention. 

"Is Asia…okay? Does she seem fine to you?" 

Kelvin moved his head from side to side. "Sort of. Most days, she's good. Other days, she gets a little down with an explanation. I just try to be there for her." 

"Good. Keep doing that." A pocket of silence settled over them as Tini gathered her thoughts to place into a neat box for Kelvin to carry home. "Asia's had a lot of letdowns in her life – a lot of uncertainty. A lot of it was my fault. So, I'm not saying you're obligated to be around forever, but while you're here, just…do your best to keep being a stable presence for her. She appreciates it more than she'll share. Trust me." 

A sober mind would've latched on to the spark of curiosity trying to burrow itself into Kelvin's brain. Thankfully, sobriety was still fighting to reemerge, leaving the tidbit of information to rest untouched.

"Mama, I'm done with the kitchen, packed the food away, and I have your room set up for you," Asia yelled from the top of the hallway. "What else do you need before it gets too late?"

Tini smiled at how Kelvin's ears jumped like a dog hearing its owner and braced herself on his knee to stand. "You've done enough, babe! Curtis can bring his ass over here and put in some work when he gets back tomorrow!" Asia took the answer in stride, her footsteps retreating to the living room as Tini turned back to look at Kelvin. "Come on. That's her nice way of saying she's ready to go home." 

"I think you're right," Kelvin laughed. "Ten more minutes, and she'll be cussing me out up the road." 

They didn't make Asia wait ten minutes. Hugs all around, a demand from Asia for Tini to use her crutches, and promises to visit again that Kelvin intended to keep sent Asia and Kelvin into the muggy night air to brave evening traffic back to the city. 

Asia took the driver's side as the only one sober enough to complete an hour-long drive, leaving Kelvin to play DJ and force his eye open to keep her company. 

Scrolling through his phone for something worth hearing, Kelvin cut through the silence to speak. "I always wondered where you put that canvas. Why didn't you keep it?" 

"My mom wanted something unique, and I thought that fit the bill. I try to get her what she asks for when I can." She shrugged as she merged into traffic from the neighborhood's entrance. "Plus, I wanted her to know you. Even if it was just that little piece. I don't know. It was special to me. Sorry for letting her get you so high, by the way. I should've warned you." 

"Shit, that was the best part. Is that where you that Devil weed from before I went to Chicago." 

"I'll never tell," Asia answered, making a zipping motion across her lips. 

Kelvin caught the slight smile on her face and forced himself to remain in his seat instead of attacking her face with enough kisses to turn a simple display of affection into something suffocating. 

"Thanks for letting me meet your mom. I had fun." Tentative fingers crossed over the center console to call for her hand, and, despite preferring both to drive, Asia slipped her finger between Kelvin's for him to squeeze. "You know I'm here for you, right? Whenever you need me." 

"I know. Thank you," Asia answered. "I love you." 

Asia's unexpected admission hung in the air without a response for a few moments while Kelvin basked in the feelings of her words rattling in his half-empty mind. He could've opened the door and screamed to the world that Asia Scott did love him. He didn't have to imagine anymore. He knew for certain. 

But, he heard Tini's advice again and settled himself back into what he thought a pillar of stability might look like. "I love you, too." His eventual response took Asia's tense shoulders down a few notches. However, she didn't look over to acknowledge what he'd said. It didn't matter. He knew she heard him. 

Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her knuckles twice, then each of her fingers, stopping at the one closest to her pinky to leave a wish. One day, before he slid a piece of jewelry that cost a fortune on the other ring finger, he'd have more small pieces of Asia to love and cherish. Today was only the beginning.

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @hrlzy @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl @ariiijestertheklown @blyffe @tvchi @wabi-sabi1090 @flydotty @aldrigmer444 @ash-ketchumzzz @nayaesworld @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @writingsbytee @teddybeerz @trippyscotch @theogbadbitch @thevelvetwhispers @wowitsafemale @kindofaintrovert @sexysativa605 @jvzmine19 @turn-thy-paige @lapateeserie @simplyzeeka @supremechae @palmstreesallday @blackmoonchilee @ovohanna24 @prettypynklemonade @gwenda-fav @itsash-okay @sparklytemi @blackchickinthedesert @miyuhpapayuh

[gvshing]

Long Distance!Ellie

masterlist

1.9k words

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❥ Ellie met you on an online forum for discussing various science fiction and fantasy books. She had been scrolling late one night after finishing another behemoth of a novel, excited to see what other fans of the genre had to say about this one. Her beaten up laptop rests on her bed–stickers littering every inch of its surface. The laptop's fan spins wildly, emitting a soft hiss from its interior. She stares at the screen, eyes darting over to the book every few minutes. Her chest is bubbling with adrenaline from completing the novel she had been putting off. It was 1000+ pages of pure world building, the last 200 pages left her gripping the book so hard she lost feeling in her fingertips. The more she explores the various reviews, the more intense the bubbling in her chest boils. Raving reviews upon raving reviews has her on cloud 9. She knew she loved the book, but there's something weirdly satisfying when it’s not just her thinking so. There's been a few times (a lot of times) that she’s thoroughly enjoyed a novel just to read reviews diminishing it. She sits on the floor, the laptop perched just atop the bed creating a makeshift desk. As she mindlessly skims through the reviews, one catches her eye. The intricate wording so clearly delicately chosen has her heart swinging. The post completely conveys her opinions while adding things she never would’ve thought about. She rereads the post over and over again until it’s practically memorized. She types out a hastily put together comment and frantically closes her laptop, the rush of adrenaline wearing off while the anxiety of interacting sets in. 

“This is beautifully worded. I agree completely with what you’re saying. I feel you understood the book more than the author haha.”

❥ Seeing that comment has you feeling something giddy. You didn’t feel that lives had been changed with your review, but you were overjoyed seeing someone sharing the same idea. In deciding how to respond to the comment, you opt for a private message hoping to be able to discuss the book more in depth with a like minded individual. Within the hour, conversation about the book slowly devolves into personal conversation with each other. It’s not long before you’re mutuals on every single social media there is.

❥ It starts with nervous voice calls. Ellie anxiously waits next to the phone, deep breaths through the nose and exiting through the mouth. Fingers tap against the phone, a rhythmic sound emanating around the room. Suddenly the sound of a loud ringing starts blaring from the device. Ellie drops the phone in surprise before shooting up and rapidly pawing at her phone in a hurry to answer it before it automatically hangs up. As she hits the green button, her voice falls from her throat causing words to not form. She stares at the glowing screen, unable to believe you were on the other side. “Hello?” A soft melodic voice sounds from the speaker and she feels her heart stop and restart. “Hi.’ She mutters out, no longer able to muster anything above a single worded whisper.

❥ The phone call eventually becomes easier and more comfortable as the minutes tick by. Laughter bounces off the walls of the usually quiet solitude of the rooms. Hours and hours pass by before either of you know it-only realizing when keeping eyes open becomes a chore. The phone calls continue almost daily, only skipping when absolutely necessary. Texting throughout the day about menial things and then laughing, crying and venting angrily hours into the night were the norm. These voice calls turn to facetimes after a while, feeling that hearing a voice just wasn’t enough anymore for either of you. The first facetime call is just as anxiety inducing as the first voice call. It’s not like either of you didn’t know what the other looked or sounded like. Something about talking face to face, even if it’s not in person, was much more personal though. It felt more real. Seeing the smile plastered across your face when Ellie answers the phone has her heart beating all throughout her body and her face flushing hot. Hearing your voice come directly from you, watching your lips move, your eyes crinkle, your hands pushing back your hair, all of it. It all has Ellie flustered. Face growing hotter and hotter, throat becoming drier and drier. She’s not sure how she survives these facetimes. But she does, every single time.

❥ You watch Ellie’s face brighten up with a red hot, freckles becoming more prominent under the crimson rush. She fiddles with rings on her long nimble fingers, biting on her bottom lip to keep her mind focused on the task of paying attention to you. Every single call with her has you flustered from seeing her small habits that somehow make her more attractive, even when she chews on her nails like she’s trying to rip them off the cuticle. Somehow every call gets easier to hide your flustered features even if the butterflies in your chest remain.

❥ Neither you nor her could remember when or how you made it ‘official’. One day you both realized you had been referring to the other as your girlfriend/partner and never stopped. Maybe it was a mutual decision, maybe one of you asked the other, neither of you are sure anymore. You choose your anniversary based on the day you both started talking.

❥ Ellie sends you silly fit checks. Poses you’re not sure how she got into or outfits that could only look good on her. She owns a thousand flannels and graphic tees. You’re not sure if she owns the same pair of jeans and cycles them out or if she only wears the one pair. Though you would never complain about the jeans, they fit her nicely. Hugging her hips just right and a tent of denim flare around her calves falling at her ankles to show the same beat up converse she always wears.

❥ Ellie could never get tired of the hundreds of Instagram posts or stupid tweets you send her every day. A picture of two dogs cuddling with the caption ‘us’-or some other variation-was the typical post you were sending her way. And she agreed every time.

❥ Ellie was a gamer. Obviously. But not really a hardcore one. She enjoyed Fortnite, Minecraft and Roblox. But she was bad at point and shoot games. As much as she enjoyed Fortnite, it was a hard game for her. She was more of a button masher than anything. Though she did indulge in one every now and again. It didn’t matter if you were a gamer or not, you were dragged into the world of gaming because of her. Weekend gaming sessions were in order every week. Your shared Minecraft world was insanely large. Houses for all of your friends, a cafe, an ice cream shop, at least 3 restaurants, a park, a garden and more. On a sleep deprived night Ellie got a little mad at some villagers and maybe perhaps made a prison for the ‘evil ones’ as she referred to them as. It made you a little sad but you can’t say you don’t understand her logic with it. Maybe the villagers shouldn’t have been stealing crops and releasing animals from the petting zoo.

❥ Ellie facetimes you at work when it’s dead. She 100% works in some museum or aquarium as an admissions person. Selling ticket after ticket. Just until she got through college and could start her true career. But, not everyday does a school come in for a field trip, so she’s often bored. You guys’ don’t even really say anything on work facetimes. It’s more just to look over and see the other’s face and keep each other company. She’s definitely gotten in trouble at least once for it but that does not stop her from doing it.

❥ One day you realize you’ve never seen Ellie eat a home cooked meal unless she’s visiting Joel, and she doesn’t tend to do that often. Usually she’s snacking on chips or eating her 4th ramen of the week. So to rectify that you agree to cook together on facetime at least once a week. Planning the same meals so it felt like you were eating together and showing her exactly what to do. You promise her that once you live together she’ll never have to cook again if she doesn’t want to. But until you were able to pamper her in that area, she was going to have to work with you.

❥ Ellie loves to send you ‘care packages’ in the mail. She’s given you upwards of ten hoodies or shirts drenched in her cologne, small stuffed animals she tends to find at the gas station on her daily energy drink runs, and handmade cards with a thousand stickers pasted all over and ‘I love you’ written on it in three different places. She makes you agree to not open them until you’re on call together so she can see your reaction and explain in deep detail why she chose what she did.

❥ Since your relationship started because of a book, you also jointly read the same books so you can discuss them. You take turns choosing and have a shared Goodreads account so you can add future books to the ‘want to read’ folder. Typically she makes you read science fiction or fantasy books. You don’t mind but you have made her read at least a few romance or horror books to break it up. She doesn’t mind the horror books but sometimes she feels her soul cringing at the things she reads in the romance selections.

❥ Falling asleep on call was eventually added to your daily calling ritual. Before, one of you would make the sacrifice and end the call so the other could sleep. After a while though it didn’t seem to make any sense to end the call just to call again the second one of you woke up. Nonetheless some mornings you’d wake up to a dead phone, forcing the call to end and alarms to not go off. Both of you ended up late to work a few times because of this, so alarm clocks quickly got added to one of the care packages.

❥ Ellie sends you pictures of ridiculous clothing with the caption “I show up to your house in only this, what’re you doing??” and it’s bright pink ass-less chaps.

❥ A collaborative Spotify playlist is a necessity. You both add songs when you think the other will like it or if it reminds you of one another. The playlist is at about 10 hours now.

❥ You do monthly movie nights. Once a month, at least, is spent watching a movie together. You decide on a movie and hit the play button at the same time. You’re sure there's an easier way to go about this, but for the time being it's fun to make her pause the movie every time you have to use the bathroom or grab more water. She usually has to ask where you paused it so she can rewind and meet you back at that part as she usually forgets how to work her hands in that moment and takes a good thirty seconds to actually pause it.

❥ While you both wished to be in each other's arms, waking up next to each other through more than just a screen, eating each meal together at the same table, you’re happy to still have each other and know that one day it won’t be like this anymore. You’re grateful for what you have right now.

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this took me to long to write and it's kinda ass. But, that's okay hehe. maybe part two? this is sfw and I kinda want to write a more nsfw side of it when I get the motivation. anyway.... hope you like hehe (okay part 2 coming soon)

[red5cars]

expanding on this, and abbot's attitude prior to having his service pup.

At first, he thought it was a crude joke brought up by his therapist.

Service dogs, he's aware of them. Man’s best friend turned healthcare professional, albeit fluffy and not as cognitively aware. It made the healing process easier, disrupting stress with the nudge of wet snout.

Yes, he was familiar with that. Not whatever the hell his therapist mentioned.

"I'm sorry, service hybrids?" Jack asks, narrowed eyes closing into a squint. His therapist only nods, organizing the papers in his lap, "Is that- is that a real program?"

"It is," Dr.Mitchell confirms, standing up to place the papers somewhere on his desk, "It's a bit of a novel approach, but it's still alike to service animal programs," he turns around, facing Jack who is still reeling from his suggestion.

"Just with hybrids," Jack mumbles, warranting a nod from Dr.Mitchell, "Just with hybrids," he parrots.

Recently, there's been some sort of movement in order to humanize hybrids, which is difficult considering they aren't all exactly human. Many are confined to jobs within their natural skill set, a handler overseeing their work to make sure they do not lean too much into their instincts. One of the interns, (Whitman? Winston?), discussed how his dad hired a sheep dog hybrid before he left for Pittsburgh (he more so complained, telling Jack how his dad is raving about their newest hire when he only asked the kid "How's it going?").

Still, to imagine them as an aide to his therapy seemed…

Well, it didn't sit right with him.

"Yeah, hard pass," he says, which makes his therapist cross his arms. Jack scoffs, "Look, I'm all for them progressing in society and, whatever, but I'd much rather stick with you then have some.. Dog guy who took a basic psych course," he slumps back into his seat, rubbing his thigh.

The ends of Dr.Mitchell's lips quirk downwards, "I assure you it isn't like that, Jack. they aren't therapists, they're just here to make the process easier. In fact, many people like you," Jack bristles, still unused to being confined to that box, "Have showed vast improvements with the help of service hybrids."

Were therapists supposed to be this pushy? If that's the case, can only imagine the mutt they might pair him with is worse.

His thoughts must be visible when Dr.Mitchell gives a defeated sigh, "Okay, I can tell I'm not getting through to you about this, but.." he opens one of his drawers, grabbing something Jack can't make out, only realizing what it is when Mitchell walks over and hands it to him.

A pamphlet for a hybrid facility.

Just what he needs.

"Think about it," he looks up to see Mitchell, his expression teetering on sympathetic and desperate, "Please."

Jack doesn't reply, his face unchanged.

But he takes the pamphlet, grabbing it from his therapist's hands as he exits. It's the last thing Mitchell sees before the door shuts behind abbot.

Only when he gets to the parking lot does he throw the pamphlet away.

[allthewaytom63]

❥ in which nerd!armin meets you at a rave..

cw: smut. 18+. drug use, strong language, degradation, rough sex, mirror sex, public/semi-public sex, praise & humiliation kink, and one deceptively shy nerd who turns out to be freakier than anyone was prepared for. mdni .

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

the air was thick with sweat, strobe lights, and questionable decisions.

someewhere in the neon haze of the warehouse-turned-dancefloor, bodies moved in waves—clothes clinging, glitter smearing, the beat thudding deep into every ribcage like a second pulse. you couldn't tell if you were drunk or just overwhelmed. maybe both. most definitely both.

hitch had already vanished into the crowd, which wasn't surprising. one shot in and she was off like a chaotic little rocket, riding the high of bass drops and male attention. annie stood to your left, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like she was here on a security detail rather than as your friend. you loved her for that. always had your back, even when she'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"i think that guy just tried to bite me," annie muttered under her breath.

you laughed, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you sipped from your half melted cocktail. "and yet you're still here. love that for me.”

annie didn't respond, just raised an unimpressed brow before glancing back toward the bar. you let your gaze sweep over the crowd, letting the beat pull at your limbs like puppet strings. this was exactly what you needed, a night of chaos to shake off the monotony of the week. no classes. no family. no responsibilities. no worries. just drugs, music, and freedom.

and that's when you saw him..

he didn't belong here. not even a little.

blonde hair, long and pushed back behind his ears. long sleeved shirt that was tucked in, layered with another green shirt on top of it. God help him—and the kind of stiff posture that screamed, 'i don't go out much.' he stood just outside the edge of the dancefloor, gripping a redbull like it was a flotation device in a stormy sea of bodies.

something about the way he looked like he was calculating his exit strategy made you grin.

you watched him for a moment, sipping slowly, wondering what brought someone like that to a place like this. maybe he lost a bet. maybe he had friends here and got dragged along. or just maybe he was about to become your entertainment for the night.

you nudged annie. "see the guy by the pillar? green shirt. looks like he's being held hostage?"

she followed your line of sight. "oh no."

"oh yes."

"i can already feel the secondhand embarrassment."

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

armin wasn’t entirely sure how this happened.

one second he was reading in bed, content with his blanket and the dulcet tones of a podcast about ancient civilizations, and the next he was being herded into a rideshare by eren and connie, forced into a rave like some sort of social experiment.

"i feel like i’ve entered a different dimension," he muttered as the group spilled through the warehouse doors and into chaos.

"welcome to hell, nerd," eren smirked, already pulling mikasa toward the bar.

"just try not to look like you want to die," connie offered helpfully before disappearing into the crowd with Jean.

armin stayed near the wall. he wasn't built for this. the lights were too bright, the music too loud, and the people—God, there were so many people. everyone moved like they were on fast forward, half naked and soaked in glitter, shouting and laughing and touching like they'd never heard of personal space.

he should've said no. should’ve stayed home and read that new book on linguistic anthropology he'd been looking forward to. but eren had given him that stupid look. the 'you never do anything fun' look, and armin, despite his better judgment had caved.

and now here he was. holding a redbull he didn't want. sweating in places he usually doesn’t. praying no one tried to talk to him.

so naturally, with his luck, that's when you walked up.

"hey," you said, loud enough to cut through the music but smooth enough to sound casual. "i’m [name]," you continued, although he never asked yet.

armin turned, startled. his first thought was she's hot. his second was she's talking to me?

"uh. hi. i’m armin."

you gave him a slow once-over, playful and shameless. "fitting . you always look this uncomfortable though, or is tonight special occasion?"

his ears turned red instantly. "i... yeah. no. i mean- yes? it’s kind of a new environment."

you tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. "did your friends drag you here?"

"yeah, my best friend," he admitted. "he said i needed to 'get out more.'"

your laugh was quick and warm, like you weren't judging him. "rough. you don't strike me as the rave type."

"cause i’m not," he said, then added, "i study linguistics. my idea of a wild night is usually just arguing with people about syntax online."

your grin widened. "a nerd and self aware. i respect that."

he relaxed—barely, but enough for his shoulders to drop a fraction. "you?"

you took a step closer. "i come to places like this when i need to blow off steam. no expectations, no responsibilities. just music and chaos."

armin's eyes flicked to the dancefloor, then back to you. you were close now. closer than he expected anyone to get tonight. you smelled like sugar and danger. your smile was sharp. and when the lights flashed pink across your face, he felt something inside him shift.

"that sounds... kind of nice."

"it is," you said, and then, boldly, "come dance with me."

armin blinked. "right now?"

"no, tomorrow," you teased, taking his hand. "c’mon, professor. i won't bite. unless you ask nicely."

he could've said no. he should've said no. but something about you, your energy, your smile and your fingers curling around his wrist—made the word disappear from his vocabulary.

so he let you pull him onto the floor.

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

you didn't expect him to be good.

and he wasn't, really. not in a technical sense. but he moved with this quiet focus, like he was trying his best to follow your lead without stepping on anyone. it was... weirdly endearing. his hand found your waist at some point, tentative but not hesitant. and when your hips brushed his, he flushed from his chest to the tips of his ears.

cute.

you leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "still hate it here?"

he shook his head, voice lower than you expected. "not at the moment."

you let the tension stretch like taffy. kept your body just close enough to tease, just far enough to keep him guessing. his hand tightened slightly at your waist, and you saw his jaw flex like he didn't trust himself to speak.

the music slowed to something deeper, heavier. a remix of something sultry. bodies pressed in all around, but you didn't notice anyone else. just him.

armin arlert, hesitant and wide eyed, dancing like his world had tilted sideways and he didn't mind.

you glanced up at him. "do you always look this lost, or is it just me?"

his eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was nothing bashful about him at all.

"just you."

the next song bled into another without pause, the kind of smooth, heavy bass loop that made time stretch and snap like elastic.

armin was still dancing, if you could even call it that, his movements still stiff but loosening with every second he spent with your body near his. he was catching on now. leaning into the rhythm, matching your sway, holding your gaze a little longer each time.

he didn't feel like an inexperienced loser anymore.

he felt like a live wire.

your arms were looped lazily around his neck, and his hands had migrated from your waist to your hips, a subtle shift that didn't go unnoticed. he still looked unsure, like he was waiting for someone to yell at him for having fun. it made you want to test him. push him. see what he'd do if you got just a little closer.

so you did.

you rolled your hips against his, slow and fluid, and leaned in, your lips ghosting the shell of his ear again.

"you’re starting to get it," you murmured, voice syrupy and edged in heat.

armin's fingers tightened, just barely. his breath stuttered. "i'm trying."

"trying," you repeated, pulling back with a lazy smirk. "that’s cute."

he looked at you then, really looked at you, his eyes a little darker than before, breath a little faster. there was something coiled under his skin now, something hungry. he wasn't just reacting anymore. he was watching. choosing.

"i could try harder," he said, and the tone was new. not cocky. not shy. just... honest.

your grin widened. "good."

the lights flashed violet, and your fingers slid into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, nails dragging just enough to make him shiver. he leaned into it like instinct, like maybe no one had ever touched him like this before—like he hadn't known how much he needed it until now.

and God, did you want to ruin him.

the crowd pushed closer as the tempo dropped again, sticky with heat and sweat and bass. your bodies stayed flush, every sway of your hips dragging against him in a delicious tease. you felt him—halfway hard now and very aware of it—tense and then melt with every shift in movement.

still, he didn't pull away.

you tilted your head, teasing. "do i make you nervous, armin?"

he blinked. "terrified."

that earned a genuine laugh from you. "good. you'll live."

"i'm not so sure."

his hands slid slightly lower on your hips, fingertips brushing just shy of where your short and tight, hot pink dress started to ride up from the friction of the dance. the contact jolted heat straight up your spine.

oh. he really was learning.

and you? you were a little impressed.

you slowed your pace, hips rolling in lazy figure eights, dragging him with you. his grip adjusted instinctively, and when your thigh brushed against his, he didn't flinch this time. he leaned in, breath grazing your temple.

"still judging me?" he asked, quiet and warm.

you looked up at him, amused. "what if I said yes?"

his lips quirked, and then—God help you—he leaned down, voice pitched for only you to hear.

"then i guess i should give you more material."

where the hell had that come from?

your breath caught, and for a second, you just stared at him. armin, golden boy, bookworm, sweet little syntax nerd, top of his class, was smirking at you like he had a secret.

you wanted to eat him alive.

your fingers trailed down his chest, slow and deliberate, until they reached the hem of his shirt. you hooked one finger there, tugging him just a fraction closer. close enough that your lips brushed his jaw when you spoke.

"you’re kind of blowing my expectations out of the water, you know that?"

he chuckled, breath hitching. "that’s what happens when you corner a nerd. they mutate."

you snorted, pressing your forehead briefly to his. "i knew there was a reason i liked you."

he was about to say something else. something witty or self deprecating or, if he was feeling bold, flirty, when your hand slid from his chest to your bra strap, slipping something small and candy colored into your palm.

his brow furrowed. "what’s that?"

you held it up between two fingers. it was a tiny pastel pill. the music dipped, and a burst of cold air from the fans above sent goosebumps down your arms. your grin didn't fade.

"molly," you said simply. "want to level up?"

armin stared at the pill like it had teeth.

"i…i've never-"

"i figured." you rolled it between your fingers, then offered it to him again, less playful this time. "no pressure. seriously. but i promise, if you're ever gonna try it, tonight's the night."

he looked at you. really looked.

and maybe it was the way your pupils were already a little blown, or the way your lips glistened under the purple strobe, or the soft sweat gleaming on your collarbone, but something in him snapped loose. something bold, something curious.

he took the pill from your fingers.

you raised a brow, just a little impressed. "you sure?"

"i want to feel what you're feeling," he said, voice low. "i want to see what this place looks like through your eyes."

fuck.

okay.

you swallowed your own tab dry, already feeling the first hints of warmth blooming low in your spine, like a furnace kicking on. you leaned in, brushed your lips against his jaw again.

"you're in for it now, baby."

he smiled, nervous and excited all at once.

and as the crowd swallowed you both again, bodies slick and glittering, music vibrating your bones, hands never leaving each other, you felt the night start to twist. slow and warm and dizzy.

everything was about to change.

and you couldn't wait.

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

you didn't realize how long you'd been dancing, how many songs had bled into each other, how many times your hands had traced the same lazy paths across armin's shoulders, his chest, the warm curve of his waist until your heartbeat started to echo in colors.

the first sign hit in a wave.

the walls breathed. your skin buzzed. you closed your eyes, and the bass wasn't sound anymore. it was sensation, deep and primal and humming through your veins like you were part of the speaker system itself.

when you looked up at armin, the world split open.

his pupils were blown wide, eating up the blue of his eyes. his lips were parted, just slightly, and the lights overhead caught in his hair like a halo. he looked untouchable. or maybe just unreal. or maybe you were tripping already.

"[name]..." his voice cracked into a laugh. "i feel fucking amazing."

you laughed too, loud and open, because same. your hands slid up his chest, thumbs brushing under his jaw. "good, baby. you’re glowing."

"i feel like i'm inside my own brain," he said, voice awed, eyes darting around like he couldn't take it all in fast enough. "like - like everything is loud, but in a good way. like you're loud."

you grinned. "you like me loud?"

he nodded. "you're, like... light. you're the whole song."

you kissed him.

it wasn't the first time you'd thought about it—not even close, but it was the first time it felt impossible not to. your lips met his in a slow, dizzy rush, soft and lingering, your hands cupping his cheeks as if to anchor him. his breath caught, and for a moment, he froze.

and then melted.

armin kissed like he felt everything. like his whole body had become nerves and skin and hunger. he leaned into you with a kind of desperate softness, lips moving with clumsy eagerness, teeth catching on your bottom lip like he didn't even realize he'd done it.

you gasped into his mouth.

he chased the sound.

the world narrowed to heat and taste and touch, the way his fingers curled around your hips, the way his breath hitched every time your lips parted just enough for tongue. his hands were bolder now, one slipping up the back of your dress, fingers brushing bare skin. he made a sound—a tiny, broken thing and it made you nearly lose it.

"fuck," you whispered against his mouth, "you're kind of good at this."

"i'm high and stupid," he breathed. "you're doing all the work."

you bit his lip, just to prove a point.

he groaned.

and yeah, maybe you wanted to ruin him, but there was something kind of magical about watching armin become someone else under your hands. someone reckless and starry eyed, someone who wasn't afraid of wanting.

"you wanna get out of here?" you asked, nose brushing his.

he nodded so fast you laughed again. "where?"

"doesn't matter. anywhere."

you didn't even remember leaving the crowd. the next thing you knew, your fingers were laced with his, pulling him through the haze of bodies and smoke and synthetic starlight. you barely caught glimpses of your friends. hitch grinding on someone with a mullet and patchwork tattoos tattered all over his body, annie nursing a drink in the corner with that permanent unimpressed stare, but they blurred into background static.

the hallway was cooler, quieter.

you stopped near a wall of mirrors, breathing hard. armin's chest heaved. his cheeks were flushed, mouth swollen pink from your kisses, and his hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty strands. he looked... wrecked. beautiful.

you pushed him gently back against the wall.

"you okay?" you asked, hands resting on his chest.

his laugh came soft. "yeah. just overwhelmed. in a good way. you?"

you tilted your head, smiling. "floating."

"God. you’re so..."

you raised a brow. "so what?"

"you." his fingers brushed your jaw like he couldn't explain it any other way. "you're making me feel things i didn't even know were possible."

your pulse fluttered.

"yeah?" you whispered.

he nodded, then leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

"i've never wanted someone like this."

your knees went weak.

you surged forward again, kissing him harder now, and he caught you around the waist like it was instinct. your bodies crashed like waves, messy and slow and uncoordinated, all breath and friction. his hands roamed, tentative but hungry, mapping every inch of you like a secret.

"touch me more," you breathed, dragging his hands higher under your dress.

he obeyed.

his fingers explored, shaky but curious, brushing over the swell of your thighs, the arch of your spine, the soft curve of your ass. he looked at you like you were some rare, glowing thing. like you were made of sugar and heat and static electricity.

"[name]..."

you silenced him with a kiss.

"we've got all night, baby."

armin's hands continued to roam your body at that, exploring every bit of it that he felt comfortable enough to. it was warm, almost too warm, but you weren't sure if that was from the drug or him. your skin buzzed, high on molly and adrenaline and something electric.

"is this... okay?" he asked, voice low, careful.

you turned to face him slowly, letting your fingers trail up the front of his shirt. "what do you think?"

he looked like he was trying to play it cool, trying to suppress the slight parting of his lips when you pressed your body into his, the barely there gasp when your chest brushed his. but molly was a truth serum and a catalyst. it made him more honest and way more bolder.

"i think i've never seen anything like you," he admitted.

your heart tripped over itself.

the mirror beside you caught the way his eyes traveled, slow and reverent—from your lips to your throat to your hips. there was a careful kind of awe in him. like he didn't want to rush, but couldn't help craving more.

you took his glasses off. folded them neatly. slipped them into the neckline of your dress.

"hey-"

"they'll be safer there," you teased. "you'll thank me."

his mouth curved into a crooked smile. "you're trouble."

you shrugged. "you're just now figuring that out?"

you reached behind to tug the zipper of your dress down an inch. not enough to fall, but enough for the fabric to gape slightly at your chest. you watched his gaze dip.

"keep looking," you whispered. "i like how you look at me."

he obeyed. hesitated. then, his hands found your hips—tentative at first, then firmer, fingers digging into the soft curves as he pulled you closer. the sudden confidence sent a jolt through you.

"i don't usually do this," he said softly.

"yeah?" You nuzzled close to his ear, grinning. "you're doing fine."

you rocked your hips into his slowly, rolling them just enough to brush against the hard line of him beneath his jeans. his jaw clenched. his breath stuttered.

"jesus," he muttered.

"not quite," you said sweetly, dragging your lips along his throat.

the tension between you was molten now. not frantic, not clumsy. just thick and heavy and good. like it had been simmering for hours. the kind of tension that begged to be touched, to be drawn out, to burn slow.

he pressed you back into the mirror, one hand bracing beside your head.

"touch me," you demanded all over again.

he didn't ask where. he didn't stammer this time. his hand slid up, fingers splayed against your ribs, then over the swell of your chest, cupping you through the fabric. he squeezed lightly, experimenting, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked beneath the fabric. your breath caught.

"too fast?" he asked, voice husky.

"too slow," you said, smirking.

he huffed a laugh. "you're a menace."

you licked into his mouth before he could finish smiling. the kiss was messy and hot and sweet—drug-sweet, tongue-slick, laced with want. you pulled him closer by the belt loops, desperate for more friction. his hands settled firmly on your ass and lifted you just enough for you to hook a leg around his hip.

every part of your body was alive. every nerve ending tuned to him. the way he smelled—clean laundry, cologne, the sharp scent of sweat. the way he tasted—mint and something heady. the way he sounded when he moaned into your mouth, low and needy.

you broke the kiss, panting.

"look at us," you murmured.

you both turned to the mirror.

you—flushed, tousled, lips swollen. him—glasses gone, eyes dark, chest heaving. he looked feral. so damn good like this. like some alternate universe version of himself had crawled out of a book and decided to become your undoing.

"you ever imagined yourself like this?" you asked.

he shook his head slowly. "never."

"you like it?"

"i love it."

you guided his hand between your legs. "then keep going."

his fingers slipped under the hem of your dress, dragging up the inside of your thigh. the molly made it feel like lightning. you gasped when he finally reached your panties, brushing the wet fabric with the back of his knuckles.

"fuck," he whispered. "you're soaked."

you bit your lip. "do something about it."

he did.

and this time, he wasn't careful.

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

his fingers hooked your panties to the side and dipped between your folds without hesitation. he was warm—so damn warm—and wet with you instantly. his breath hitched when he felt how ready you were, and then he leaned in close.

"all this for me?" he asked, voice dark, like silk cut with static.

you nodded, eyes fluttering as he slid two fingers inside you. the stretch made your knees buckle, but he caught you easily with his free hand braced behind your back. his lips ghosted over your ear.

"fuck, you're tight," he murmured, thrusting them deeper, rougher, curling just right with experience he never even really had before. it just came naturally.

you whimpered, burying your face in his neck, but he didn't let you hide for long.

"look at yourself," he ordered. "eyes on the mirror. watch what i do to you."

his tone was commanding and low. and God, did it shock you. gone was the nerdy, soft spoken, slightly nervous armin from earlier. this wasn't that version of him. this armin was unrelenting, slick with control, completely in this newly discovered element now that your body was unraveling around his fingers. oh, how the tables had turned.

you obeyed, turning your head to the glass. the sight made your stomach flip: your mouth slack, makeup a little smeared, the sharp jut of his shoulder as he finger fucked you against the mirror like he owned your body.

"say thank you," he said softly, eyes pinned to yours in the reflection.

your breath came in shaky bursts. "Thank you..."

"for what?"

you gasped when he pressed his thumb against your clit and rubbed. it was too good. too much. you could barely stay upright.

"for... for making me feel good," you moaned.

"that's right."

he withdrew his fingers, and you nearly cried from the loss. He brought them to your lips, smirking.

"open."

you parted your lips, and he pushed them in slowly, all the way to the back of your throat briefly, watching with obsession-dark eyes as you sucked them clean and gagged onto them. your tongue swirled, and he groaned low in his throat.

"good girl."

the praise sent a full body shiver down your spine.

he spun you around and pressed your front against the mirror, your cheek flush to the glass. you could see him in the reflection—how he stood behind you, one hand palming your ass, the other at his zipper.

"i've been patient," he growled, the sound low and dangerous. "but now i'm gonna ruin you."

you whimpered. "please, armin..."

"you want it rough?" he asked, teeth grazing your neck.

"yes."

"say it."

"i want you to be rough. i want you to ruin me."

his breath caught, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. then you heard the unmistakable sound of his jeans lowering. a condom wrapper tearing that eren had given him, 'just in case.' thank God for that. his hand gripped your waist tight.

"you're not gonna be able to walk after this," he warned, sounding way too certain, despite his lack of experience.

"do it."

he didn't ease in. he slammed into you with one brutal thrust, knocking the air clean from your lungs. you cried out, legs trembling, nails clawing at the mirror for balance.

"holy shit," he hissed, panting. "you feel like fucking heaven."

he pulled out completely—slowly, leaving just the tip in—then drove back in, hard, deep and fast. you yelped, and his hand clamped over your mouth.

"shh. don’t want anyone finding us, do you?"

you shook your head, dazed. the pressure of his hand, the weight of his body pinning you to the mirror, the thick, deep drag of his cock—it was all too much. too good.

"you're dripping," he said, sounding wrecked. "God, you were made for this. for me."

you nodded desperately under his palm, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

"take it," he growled, shoving himself ballsdeep into your dripping cunt with each thrust. who knew that he packed like this, splitting you completely open. “take all of it like a good fucking slut."

you whimpered under his hand, clenching around him. he groaned and shoved deeper somehow.

"you like that? being talked to like that?" he sneered, lips brushing your ear.

you moaned against his palm.

"you're gonna cum all over my dick, aren't you? gonna cream like the filthy girl you are."

you were already close—so close. every snap of his hips pushed you higher, every filthy word driving you closer to the edge. his other hand found your clit again, rubbing harsh circles with no mercy.

"cum ," he commanded. "now."

and you did—body wracking, vision going white as your orgasm ripped through you like lightning. you screamed into his hand, eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into your own skin.

he wasn't done.

even then, he fucked you through it, pace punishing, grip bruising on the fat of your ass, slamming you into him harshly. the loud sound of skin slapping together and your whines filled the hallways.

"fuck, i'm gonna-" he grunted, and then he was spilling into the condom with a broken moan, jerking hard against you one last time.

you both sagged against the mirror. sweat slicked your bodies. your legs trembled like they might give out.

he pulled out slowly, almost reluctantly, then turned you around and kissed you. this time it was soft, reverent, like an apology for how wrecked he'd just left you.

your legs wobbled dangerously as you pulled your dress back down into place, fixing your lipstick in a smeared reflection while armin clumsily adjusted his shirt and pants back.

you both looked wrecked.

you felt wrecked.

not just from the sex—though that had clearly been engineered in a lab to dismantle you piece by piece—but from the everything. the night. the high. the way he'd taken you apart like he was discovering something, like you were the rare find in the room full of mirrors.

you glanced at him.

he was still catching his breath, cheeks flushed, curls sticking to his forehead. his glasses were still tucked safely between your tits—so, technically, he'd entrusted you with his vision too.

a little symbolic, no?

"hey," you said softly, smoothing your fingers over his shoulder. "you good?"

he looked at you like he wasn't sure if he'd ever be "good" again, then gave a dazed nod. "i- i think so. yeah. just... processing."

"same," you said. "like, what the fuck just happened?"

he laughed, boyish and hoarse, the sound melting into something sweet between you. "i blacked out for a second there. did i actually call you a slut or did i imagine that?"

you grinned. "you absolutely did."

he looked horrified. "oh my God-"

"and it was hot as hell," you cut him off. "don’t feel bad."

"...okay. wow."

you handed him his glasses. he slid them on with shaky fingers.

"guess we should probably..." you jerked your chin toward the direction of the bass, now a little less distant. "rejoin civilization?"

he groaned. "eren’s never letting me live this down."

"yeah, well, my homegirls are gonna roast me alive."

"deserved."

you both snickered, then lingered. neither of you made a move. the silence stretched in a weirdly tender way.

"hey," you said eventually. "for what it's worth, i’m really glad i met you tonight."

he smiled, small and soft and stupidly gorgeous. "me too."

and with that, you slipped your hand into his one more time, and made your way out of the mirror hallway, like exiting a fever dream.

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

disclaimer: i do not own the fanart shown. it was created by @musapylsa

[willownwisp]

nice legs, daisy dukes.

i. nice legs daisy dukes makes a man go woo woo. (vendetta!leon x fem reader) author's note: like every responsible writer, this is not proofread because i run on my delusions and being thick faced. i write and call it a day. first entry of my valentine's advent, yayyyy! i tried to overcome my intense fear of dialogues because i know i suck at it omg please tell me if i did well, likes are vv appreciated! cw: nsfw. r18, MDNI PLS. fingering in public.

Leon feels like a creep, scratch that. He definitely looks like a creep. He probably looks like a thirty-six year old man waiting for a hot coed, because he is. He pulls out his phone to relieve himself of the slight shame, sends a dry text because he doesn't understand the purpose of an emoji. Never did. In his day, texts used to be enough and it was hot that you could send a coherent text with those small ass phones and even smaller keypad.

He leans against his Ducati looking like a fucking dick with an elaborately decorated box of pastries in hand. You've been eyeing the newly opened pâtisserie from across the street. He can be sweet when he wants to be, because he knows you're obsessed with those "instagrammable" treats. It gets him good boyfriend points because you matter, you're his sweet little bunny. The sweetest.

You're sweet when he sees you from the flood of students exiting the campus gates in your pink mini dress and a matching cardigan, a flood of warmth washes him, in his mind there are compartments. Store the trauma in another space deep inside his brain, and the other space a section of just you, he tucks away the image of you in this mini dress.

It's definitely going in his favorite outfits you wore.

You're sweet when you visibly perk up at the sight of him in all his 5'11 glory, beaming at him as you literally run towards where he stood. God you're just adorable.

"Lovey!"

Your sweet voice cuts through the idle murmur as you stand before him, and Leon looks at you with that soft gaze. You look like a bunny. A giddy one. The ribbons you wore on your hair come to view now that you're near, and the sight of your shapely thighs put him in a spell.

"Bunny, are you surprised?"

He replies with a smug smile.

"Uh-huh!"

You nod with a soft giggle, a faint blush dusting on your cheeks.

"We don't usually have lunch together…"

You add, the smile on your face is practically inextinguishable as you squirm. You're so fucking cute. He thinks before he brings up the box of pastries, presenting it to you like a cat gifting his owner a small trinket. You squeal before throwing your arms around him in a hug.

"Lovey! How did you know I wanted these?"

You ask and he chuckles, of course Leon would know. Who wouldn't when your social media is full of your ravings about the place, but he plays it off cool.

"I just did, bunny. Boyfriend senses and all."

That reply earns him a giggle from you and he's whipped. Your dainty hands grabbing the box as you mouth a small 'thank you' and his arms wrap around your waist. Lifting you up like nothing as he seats you atop his Ducati, like the pretty princess that you are.

"Where are we going, lovey?"

You ask, but the words fall on deaf ears for as soon as Leon had lifted you up in his hands, he's already thinking of ways to feel you, properly. The way your mini dress hikes up your thighs as he looks down to peek at your legs, he hums an acknowledgment to your question, his hands snaking from your waist to your thighs just where your mini dress ends. His thumbs rub lazy circles on your skin , before he lifts his head up to give you a cheeky grin.

"Anywhere bunny. Let's get out of here, yeah?" You nod obediently and he pulls away, giving your head a soft pat as you tell him off to not mess up your hairstyle and he rolls his eyes, takes the time to put your helmet on because he's a gentleman. "Hold on tight bunny." He'd say as you hug him from behind, the whole bike ride was silent as he speeds through traffic, only for the both of you to end up in a deserted park, right at a secluded spot just hidden behind trees and park picnic tables. Leon gets off first, taking off his helmet before turning his attention on you. He takes off yours only to be greeted by your confused face. "Are we having a picnic, lovey?" You ask, and he only gives you a smile before pressing his lips on yours in a sweet kiss. "If that's what my bunny wants." There's a teasing lilt on his voice as his hands wander up to your thighs, his calloused palms rubbing up and down, and you get an inkling that it was not picnic time. "Lovey, don't do that… we're in public…"   You tell him off shyly but he only quirks an eyebrow. "It doesn't really matter when we're all alone, yeah?" His voice is husky as he bring his left hand to grip your cheeks gently, his thumb moving to trace the outline of your lips. "We'll be fine bunny." He assures you as the hand that rubs down your thigh inch higher, and higher until the pad of his fingers kisses your clothed pussy.

"I've always taken care of you haven't I?"

You respond with a whine, it's hard to resist when he gets like this. All over you, hands, and close as he possibly can.

"Lovey…"

You call out to him one more time, teetering on the edge of a protest or a plea for him to go on. Leon bits his lips as he rubs your clit slowly, stimulating you before he rains chaste kisses on your face. A kiss on your forehead, a kiss on your cheek, on your cute nose, and a peck on your lips, because you're his baby. He treats you like a ceramic décor, because your precious and fragile.

"Use your words, bunny."

He responds as he slowly feels your cotton panties dampen underneath his fingers, your clit swollen with need and he feels you heating up.

"Lovey, I'm wet…"

You whine again as you squirm beneath him, your grip on the handle of the box tightens up as your free hand claws the leather seat.

"Want me to help you, bunny?"

He coos as he uses his index fingers to tease your clothed pussy, rubbing it up and down the slit as your insides flutter.

"Uh-huh, please lovey."

A satisfied grin eases on his face before he eases his fingers off of which earns him a sad whimper from you and confused look before he shakes his head.

"Suck."

He orders, bringing in his digits to your mouth which you happily oblige to. He grunts as you wet his fingers with an experimental lick, you could taste yourself from his fingertips before your mouth covers his index and middle finger, sucking on it like a lollipop.

The sight sending electricity straight down to Leon's dick as he pulls his fingers out, giving your lips a short kiss ass your reward before his fingers find their way on your inner thighs again, tugging your panties to the side as your pussy kisses his wet fingers.

Leon being the tease that he is, traces your slit, up and down while his thumb presses on your clit as you instinctively spread your legs more to give him room.

"Lovey, don't tease!"

You whine in his ear once more and he chuckles. Two of his thick fingers plunge down your pussy with an embarrassing squelch as you gasp and Leon chuckles.

"She's speaking to me bunny."

He hums happily as his free hand move from your face to your thighs, keeping your pretty legs spread as it should as his fingers thrust in and out of you.

"Lovey…"

You moan, your one eye closes as you watch his hands move, looking down at his busy hands as your slippery pussy gives him enough leverage to slide in and out easily, while his thumb rub on your swollen nub.

"Yeah, bunny? You like that? Can fill you up right, yeah?"

He speaks to you, but you're too dazed to respond as your walls clench around him and he groans. Tipping his head forward to kiss you again, swallowing your moans as you make an "mph" sound as your lips crashes with his. You tilt your head to allow him to deepen the kiss as he slips his tongue inside, tasting your sweet mouth.

 "Ah—ah—" You moan as you part, his fingers not letting up. "You like this?" He whispers in your ear, his husky voice making your toes curl.  "Getting you off after school with my fingers?"  

"Ahh!" You moaned, shoving your hips against his pumping fingers. While his other hand skillfully unbuttons your cardigan's sole closed button before tugging your dress and bra together to reveal your breasts, before proceeding to licking on your nipple. "You're loving this, aren't you?" He rasps, spreading his fingers and pressing his thumb harder on her clit. "Being talked to like this? It gets you off even more, doesn't it, bunny?" He teases you before proceeding to hunch over to suck on your nipples, with his fingers just knuckle deep inside your pussy as your legs lock around his waist, the heels on your sandals digging on his back but he couldn't care less. Your sweet, sweet sounds as he gets you off, your luscious legs around him. God, he could cum from that alone. "Come on, bunny. Talk to your lovey." He teases again, a shit-eating grin on his face as he curls his fingers on that one sweet spot as you throw your head back and your walls clench his fingers in a vice grip. "Fuck, bunny. Can feel you squeezing tight. You're close, bunny?"

He asks but you only respond with a breathless moan as you tremble. He scissors his fingers inside you, alternating between spreading your pussy and curling his fingers and it drives you crazy. He leaves a bite mark around your nipples before he straightens his back to look at your disheveled form. Smirking at the fact that your cardi has slipped off your shoulders and your breasts heaving with your mini dress hiked to your waist.

Looking proud of himself, he captures your lips in a deep kiss as his fingers pump harder, you could hear the salacious squelching at how wet your pussy is.

"Come on bunny, cum for me. Show how much your lovey makes you feel good."

He grunts as his hands grip your cheeks, forehead resting on yours as you tighten up and your body tenses before cumming around his deft fingers with your lips parted in a silent scream.

He slowly halts his fingers, smirking as he brings it to his lips to taste you while you gather yourself. Panting and looking dazed at your older boyfriend who now laps at his fingers coated in your essence like a cat as he groans.

"Did I make you feel good, bunny?"

You nod weakly as your head rests on his chest. He only chuckles. He fixes you up. Tugging down your mini dress and fixing your upper half, buttoning up your cardi again.

"Wanna get lunch now, bunny?"

You look up at him as you slowly gather enough coherence to find that somehow in the middle of your indecency with Leon, the box of pastries had slipped from your fingers and is now a mess on the grass, decorating it with fresh fruit and whipped cream as your face falls and you look up at Leon who now sports a look of… guilt? On his face.

"Leon. Kennedy."

Your voice is dangerously low as you narrow your eyes at him.

"This is your fault!"

You exclaim with a pout as you tug on his leather jacket.

"I was looking forward to eating those! What a waste of food and money! Oh god, I feel so bad!"

Leon soothes you as he smoothens your hair with his hands and he kisses your forehead.

The good thing about being thirty-six and with a shit ton of disposable income is that he can buy you all that you want, it's what he intends to for his sweet, sweet bunny.

[hocuspocusbabyy]

Like a Prayer - Casey Novak x Reader.

Neighbour Casey Novak?! Who always seems to be in the hallway between your apartments at the worst of times.

Like when you got locked out after a rave down town, covered in UV paint and smelling like a brewery.

Typically dressed to the nines, her hair being the only true depiction of her day. She’d leave perfectly tamed only for it to deteriorate throughout work. She has that habit of putting her hands in her hair, you noticed it with every passing conversation.

She’s usually wittering on the phone to someone, yet always stops to smile at you. Her hip cocked to keep the elevator open gesturing for you to get on first.

You avoided being in enclosed spaces with her since you’d spilt laundry detergent all over your favourite sweater when she appeared behind you in the communal laundry room.

“Hey there hotstuff.” She’d breathe out, her chest mere inches from your back.

She always smelt of something thick, like oil, it’s floral. Lavender? Though it isn’t peppery or sweet, it’s just Casey… and that mingled with the inevitable sweat that covered her body after softball practice. It was your undoing.

The camomile scent bleeding out over you as you squeezed the bottle in response.

“Someone’s excited to see me.” She laughed, looking over your shoulder at the mess. Strong, calloused hands gracing over your bare skin as she turned your shaking body towards her.

“Let’s get you cleaned up honey.”

You’d struggled not to bite your lip as she fussed over you, your back pressed to the washer as she gently scrubbed the stain from your clothing.

She’d insisted you take it off, your only regret now that you’d worn different underwear as you glanced down at the near see through, Stars and Stripes bra you had on > it was hardly your fault all that was left on wash day was from a Fourth of July boat party in college.

“Very patriotic.” Casey mused as she rolled the sweater from your body. A small laugh escaping her at the bewildered look on your face.

“It’s uh— it’s old.” You’d argued, failing to notice how often the other woman’s gaze had flicked towards you as she leant over the washer tending to the spill. Yet your focus remained aimed at the soft rise of her shirt. The smooth strip of her lower back that revealed a tattoo of a dragon, that curved between the dimples above her arse.

This woman was seriously trying to kill you. Turning to push the fabric over your head. The backs of her fingers gracing your neck as she fixes the collar.

“There.” She grinned, purposefully brushing down your front. Your own nails curling into the detergent draw behind you. “Good as new.” She whispered cheeky as she lent in and tucked a strand of hair away from your cheek.

“Thank you.” You jittered out, focusing on the hand which now grasped your own. Folded over yours as it clung to the plastic draw.

“Anytime.” Casey grinned, still utterly invading your personal space. You glance down to catch the shimmer of silver that lay against her neck, a familiar ring resting against her chest. One that used to reside on her finger.

She pulls back, fluffing her hair with an informed laugh. Removing her items from the washer beside yours before clutching a stupidly red basket to her waist.

“I’ll uh see you around Y/N, try to stay out of trouble yeh?”

“You too—“ you stupidly agreed, nodding without thinking as you stalked the woman’s exit from the room.

“Oh Y/N.” She called again, her head hung cross the door frame.

“Yes Casey?”

“If you ever want somebody to.” She stalled stepping back into the room. No more than three steps between you as she exaggerated a stretch. Shirt bunching, lifting to revel she was in fact not wearing underwear similar to you - in fact she wore none at all. Her hand drifts through the air, playing with you as though collecting her words.

You knew better than to accept Casey didn’t know what she was doing, the smirk that lay persistently against her face when she spoke to you said different.

“If you ever want someone to be…” again she stopped, taking that final step towards you, her laundry basket trapped against your ribs as her view traced your shape. “Patriotic with.” She ended with the briefest lick of her bottom lip. So close to your own that you could almost taste it. “You let me know.”

You barely even registered that she’d left the room, only the lingering scent of lavender as proof that you hadn’t imagined the entire thing.

[101maverick]

one shot with comic dick grayson where you guys get into a small fight and it gets to the point that when you spar together, he purposefully pins you to the ground to make you listen to his apology🫢

A/n: ooooohhhh this is juicy! Perfect angst material eheh🤭 imma have fun with this one >:) Not really sure about the “comic” part tho, cause i’m still at the start of my comic journey, but I’ve seen panels here and there on tumblr so imma see what I can do for u

Word count: 1400

There’s Something in Your Eyes

You are being stupid, really.

Logically, you know Dick loves you.

Logically, you know there is nothing going on between them.

Logically, you know Dick is an extremely influential hero, and that basically everyone in the hero community looks up to him since he’s been in it for forever, which makes it normal for him to have had many flings with people he still to this day works with.

However, logic doesn’t stop jealousy from burning in the pit of your stomach every time you see him interacting with one of them.

It’s not even one particular event that sets you off, more so a series of tiny little things.

Each reunion, each debrief, each cheesy quip, each mission, they all pile up until what was once only a tiny twinge of jealousy has turned into a gaping hole in your chest, out of which comes only anger and insecurity.

You aren’t an intergalactic princess like Koriand’r.

You aren’t an historic sidekick partner and lifelong friend like Barbara Gordon.

You aren’t some charming top-model or Lord-knows-what-else that his past stories surely are.

You’re just you, and while you don’t necessarily think badly of yourself, nowadays you aren’t sure that ‘you’ is enough.

And all of this is so unfounded that you feel silly at the thought of even voicing it, and you really didn't mean to make a fuss, but when Dick comes home after the umpteenth space mission with the Titans, raving about Starfire's intergalactic ambassador skills, you can't help the irritated quip that makes it's way past your lips.

“Cause she’s always so amazing, isn’t she?” You huff. Satisfaction coils in your gut, a bit of the tension inside you easing as a bit of your pent-up frustration finally finds release. You stifle it as best you can.

At that Dick looks up at you, startled. You feel your previous satisfaction wither right alongside the happiness in his eyes.

You are in your shared apartment’s kitchen, the island between you as he sits on a stool while you lean against the counter.

“What?” He asks, confused. His expression is rapidly morphing, reminding you of something awfully akin to a kicked puppy.

You backtrack as fast as possible. “Nothing, don’t think about it.”

Shame colours your cheeks, and their sting joins the burning of your mounting shame, bubbling under your skin. You turn your body away from him, not wanting him to see.

Dick isn’t having that though, because your boyfriend, your sweet and perceptive boyfriend, sees the way your shoulders are hunched and your brow is slightly furrowed and immediately clocks what your remark was all about.

He shoots you a concerned glance. “Babe, you alright?” He asks while sliding off the barstool, making his way around the kitchen island. Ever the tactful one, as always. “If there’s something bothering you, we can talk about it—”

You cut him off. “I said it’s nothing. There’s nothing to talk about.” The irritation in your voice is a poor shield to hide behind, a hastily put-together cloak of dryness and hardened stares for your shame to shroud itself in.

Dick remains standing there, halfway around the kitchen island, as you make your exit to the bedroom.

————————————

The day passes, and you keep your distance. Just the thought of how Dick would react to you voicing your insecurities, the absolute hurt that would mar his features at his girlfriend accusing him of cheating of all things, makes the flame of shame and self-hatred re-ignite in your ribcage, inflaming your lungs with every breath.

You manage to deflect any attempts at confrontation in the car, spending the whole ride to the Manor looking out the window and blasting music through your earphones.

————————————

It all comes to a head in the Batcave, obviously.

You’re training in a corner of the gym area, going through your usual routine. Dick comes up to where you are and stands there, waiting for you to pay attention.

After a solid five minutes of him standing there unmoving and of you stubbornly ignoring him you cave and pause your reps. You keep your eyes stubbornly fixed ahead of you.

He tosses you a roll of bandages. “You up for a spar?” His voice is quiet. Your resolve breaks.

You grab the bandages and swiftly wrap your hands. He stays watching you the whole time. You wonder wether his gaze is damning or merely analytical.

When you’re done you move to the training mats. Getting into position is reflex by now, readying your stance and falling into a weird stand-off, both waiting for the other to swing first. You keep your eyes fixed to a spot above his shoulder.

You attack first, lunging at him and throwing a right hook, meanwhile trying to kick his feet off of him.

Dick swiftly avoids your punch, sidestepping it and catching your entire arm in his grip. He uses that to leverage your body over his shoulder, rendering useless your attempt at getting him off-balance.

You recover in mid-air, landing in a roll and getting back up while he’s still in the process of turning toward you, and manage to land a punch to his stomach.

He sputters but manages to step aside in time to avoid your other arm coming to enclose on his waist, and your momentum makes you loose your balance.

You go for another roll, but before you can do more than turn on your back you find yourself locked into a full-body pin.

Dick’s almost laying on top of you, his knees on either side of your hips, his chest pressing on yours so his bodyweight weighs you down too much to get up.

His forearms are laying on either side of your head, though. You could easily slide your arms out from where he’s got them pinned against your sides and make him loose his balance, if you wanted.

Trapped like this, though, your face inches from his, you have no choice but to stare right into his eyes.

What you find there stops you from fighting.

His expression his open, his brows slightly furrowed. In those oceans he’s got for irises swims something you aren’t sure you know the name of, but it doesn’t burn you and you aren’t sure you like that. Aren’t sure you want the unfamiliarity of it to keep festering.

Dick Grayson reads people like one does library handouts, laid bare with all their weathered discolouration and all their folded corners for whoever comes across to see. You are no exception.

So why, just why in the hell doesn’t his gaze burn? Why doesn’t it scorch you with the familiar flames of hatred, resentment and anger?

You want to turn away. You do, really. Aren’t sure you can keep looking into those mariana-trench deep wells of something you can’t name without drowning. You steel yourself, though. You have a feeling that looking away would be too much like a condemned man flipping the switch of the electric chair himself. You’re gonna leave that job to him.

“You know I hate it when there’s something wrong but you won’t tell me about it.”

His voice is soft. It doesn’t burn. That damned something permeates it, as well.

“You already know everything you need to. What’s the point in making a bigger fool of myself?”

The shame stings your cheeks. The way the something remains plastered on his face unperturbed instead of giving way to something fiery soothes it. The lack of condemnation rips the confession from your lips.

“I’m sorry.”

The admission. You’re right, it says. Everything you read in that torn-up book of my soul is true. Add another tear to it’s pages. Rip it to shreds.

How could you? How could you have, even second-handedly, doubted his loyalty? How could you have been so self-absorbed and childishly jealous, when that forsaken something embeds itself into every fibre of his being? While it washes over you to soothe every burn and extinguish every flame you yourself caused?

Dick’s expression changes. It morphs. The something is joined by something else now, not unlike a breeze parting clouds previously hanging in a greyed sky.

“It’s okay. I just wish we’d work together when there’s something bothering one of us.”

It’s okay. Absolution.

You think the sky would’ve parted. You think you should be hearing trumpets right now.

You are reminded, then, that there is a whole world outside of this cave. That who you have in front of you is just a man, and that the universe is filled with something bigger than yourselves.

But even with this knowledge at the forefront of your mind, here, with Dick’s forearms resting on either side of your head, your entire universe boils down to him. To his almost-creaseless brow. To his something-filled irises.

And in this moment of clarity you realise that right now, with all your little hurts bare to see, his entire universe boils down to you.

“Yeah. Let’s.”

You wish you had more to say. You wish your brain could come up with something more substantial.

You hope the something shining in your eyes is enough.

It feels a lot like love.

————————————

A/n: I hope you enjoyed!! I absolutely loved writing this, it was so fun and I just love angst hehe If you like my work, please consider reblogging and checking out my other works through the master list in my pinned post<3

[janettheblackcat]

The Cat | Lando Norris x OC

Summary: Lando Norris, formula one driver and known party boy, gets dared by the other drivers to leave the safe, rich boy nightlife in Monaco to immerse himself in an underground techno club in Paris. There, he gets mesmerized by a beautiful dj dressed like a cat.

Word Count: 1.05k

Pairing: party boy lando x dj!female oc

Warnings: +18, suggestive content, adult content, adult language, drug use, drinking, implied drug abuse, implied date rape drugging, implied roofie, fluff, slow burn, sexual tension, mentions of latex

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Chapter 1

“… and that is why I stop taking whatever girls give me!” the entire grid stared up at amazement. Lando Norris was, in fact, the king of Monaco. While sitting around the paddock, all of the drivers were getting ready to go to their separate post-race celebrations and activities. Max bumped into Lando’s shoulder playfully, walking past him. Lando, to celebrate his one of many race wins this season, will be treating himself behind the booth at Lilly’s Club—his favorite place to party in all of Monte Carlo. Max, after clutching a grand P2, will be streaming himself sim racing. “Yeah, well, it’s just house and stuff, you know? He wouldn’t be able to handle the real thing.” Lando glared at the dutchman. “Oh, is that right? And what would be the real thing?”

“A techno rave in Paris.”

Charles chuckles. Kimi bats his eyelashes.

“Well, I mean I already had plans, you know—“

“I mean, go down into Paris and go to a real nightclub. Go and listen to some real techno.” Max smirked. “You lot don’t think I’d do it, do you?” everyone looked away. “I dare you to do it!” Oscar fake coughed from the side and winked at his teammate, encouraging him to try his luck.

Lando made his way down to the paddock exit, ID in hand. He gets his car delivered to him under the pale moonlight as he makes his way to his Ferrari F40, and drove almost top speed until he arrived at the nearest train station. He, in a panic after only preparing a black button down and black slacks, decided to put on his 2024 Singapore helmet that had been nuzzled in the front trunk of the red sports car. As he hopped onto the train, he got a series of mixed glaring looks—some who knew it was him, and some who just didn’t care. He understood that. He liked that. They all sat in silence, letting the screeching sounds of the railroad be their music.

At the Haussmann Saint-Lazare, there was a dark, quiet atmosphere. It was rearing witch hours, and all of the main clubs in the city that he knew of were beginning to close for the night. As Lando walked along the empty streets, he stumbled upon a blue door with a line of people dripped in Vivienne Westwood and Diesel; deep into Saint-Georges, there was a little club called Le Carmen. Lando flipped up the visor on his helmet, and headed straight towards the bouncer. “Hey, do you mind if I—“

“There’s a line.”

“I know that, I was just wondering if you could—“

“I could do whatever you’d like when it’s your turn.” Lando dropped his hands and sighed. He took his helmet off, and partygoers in line started to murmur and whisper, some even took a photo or two. “I was just wondering if anyone could tell me if this place plays techno music.” The bouncer started to grin. “Lando Norris, is that really you?! It’s so good to see you! Congratulations on your win streak this season! I got you. Go right in, trust me, this place has what you’re looking for.” He smiled at the security and put his helmet back on.

For Lando, this was something new to him. He is known across the world as a serious party boy—but only in the mainstream. He was a formula one driver, and known bass head, always going for the big clubs with house DJs and blonde bottle girls. But, in this obscure space, with its pulsating sounds and sensuous rhythms, he didn’t know what to expect. He wasn’t even going to be let in—maybe even would’ve been sent to the back of the line—until he showed his face; he, for the first time in his career, wasn’t a regular at a club in the city of France. Maybe Max was right—he didn’t know if he could handle the real thing.

The club radiated a deep cherry hue—the bottles atop of the bar, glittering under the disco balls, making gold and silver stars. Leaned against a bar, was a beautiful woman-like figure; she was adorned in a latex catsuit and mask, with kitten ears and a sealed mouth. She turned to face Lando in his racing helmet, a bit of his tanned collarbone peeking under his slightly unbuttoned shirt, his gold chains and rings dancing under the fluorescent lights, and cocked her head to the side.

As Lando started to get close to her, the cat lady swiftly turned away and left her Rick Owens bag with the bartender, strutting over to the stairs and climbing up to the second floor. Before Lando could reach the stairs, he is pulled passed the staircase and onto the main floor by a couple of girls who recognized his helmet, begging for him to sign their chests and buy them drinks. He reluctantly agreed, all the while scanning his eyes around the club, looking for a glimpse of the cat.

Some time passed by before the race car driver decided to take his helmet off and find the woman he’d been looking for. Who was she? What was she? After finally pulling away from the crowd and the cocaine flying downstairs, he reached the top floor, where a crunchy kick and an overwhelmingly grotesque bass started to swell. As he made his way towards the sound, he saw her again; she was tapping her feet, her lips fastened but her eyes wide open, bopping her head, going from one cdj the the next—the cat-woman from the bar was the one spinning that hard techno. Entrancing. Hypnotic. Enslaving. Each song glided into the next like one grand symphony. At the end of her set, she played a song that sounded like it was picked just for him—a song about being famous.

To be famous is so nice

Suck my dick

Kiss my ass

In limousines we have sex

Every night with my famous friends

Nice

Suck my dick, dick, dick, dick…

So nice

VIP area

Frank, Frank, Frank Sinatra…

The music erupted into an echoing mirage as Lando began to lose consciousness. As he quickly started to hallucinate and the room began to spin, he tripped over himself—trying to get to the bottom level and back out through the front door; refusing to even entertain the idea of looking for his helmet, he rushed out of the club, disoriented and scared. He deliriously staggered away until his vision continued to blur, landing face first on the desolate streets of Paris, right in front of Moulin Rouge. The last thing he could see and feel, before everything went black, was being physically overturned onto his back by his shoulders, watching a pair of floppy, black cat ears fade away as the dj started to remove her mask. “Lando? Mr. Norris…?”

[queers-gambit]

Campus Breakdown

prompt: ( requested ) after a hard day, at least you can come home to him.

pairing: Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto x female!reader

fandom masterlist: FX's The Bear

word count: 1.6k+

warnings: reader's a graduate student, cursing, small angst but mostly small hurt bigger comfort.

The door slammed shut in a forceful rattle, making Carmy perk up from his place on the couch. "Baby?" He called, setting aside the magazine you left behind.

"Carmy?" You sounded confused, exiting the foyer to round into the living room. "Hey, what're you doing home so early?"

"Uh, pipe burst at work, left Fak t'deal with it," he sniffled, muting the television. "What's up with you? Or do you always slam doors happily around here?"

You sighed, "Sorry, I just - it's been a day and a half, you know?"

He pouted dramatically, offering, "Wanna tell me 'bout it?"

"It won't fix what happened."

"No, but it might help get it off your chest, filter a little emotion."

You nodded absently, "I think I might want a glass of wine first - maybe two."

He felt a surge of empathy in his chest, knowing that distant look in your eyes and the way your entire demeanor seemed absent, distracted, exhausted. Work often kicked his ass, too, so there was an understanding after so many nights you had let him rant and rave about whatever went wrong - it was only right to return the favor.

Carmy readjusted the pillows and coffee table, leaning over to light the scented candle you kept there; grabbing a blanket to prepare for you. When you entered the living room, you had stripped out of your pants and was pouring a glass of wine, leaving the bottle on the cleaned-up coffee table; sighing when you dropped onto the couch.

"All right, pretty girl," Carmy chuckled, pulling your feet into his lap. You readjusted with a small grumble as Carmy then tossed the blanket over you, but left your feet out for him to massage. "Tell me what happened today."

You held up a single finger, downing more than half your glass of wine. Carm's brows perked up, blinking in shock before nodding slowly when you swallowed. "Today. Fucking. Sucked," you told him.

"I can see that, and feel it - your feet are knotted," he noted, working his thumbs into the meat. "Did you sit down at all today?"

"Well, no, 'cause I had to work alone today," you groaned. "Lisa has mono, Brittany had to make up some exam, Benjamin apparently had a meeting with the bursar's office, and Stacy literally stood outside, fighting with her boyfriend - like what!?"

Carmy offered you a stale look in reaction to your story, "She get docked?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, I kinda had to; she didn't bus a single table, she didn't talk to a single customer, like, the only other person working with me today was Carl and he was in the kitchen the whole time."

"Doesn't sound exactly fair..."

"It's a shitty campus diner, Carmy, 'fair' isn't exactly in their vocabulary, but the tips are semi decent 'cause we have that 'drunk rush special'. Oh! Wait! That's not all," you hummed, taking another gulp. "'Cause why would anything go right on a day I worked the entire floor alone? Right?"

"What else?" He asked, turning in his seat so he could face you directly; still massaging your feet, but leaning his cheek on your bent knee to remain close.

"The fucking register went down."

"You mean the only one in the whole place?"

"Yep, of course! 'Cause why the fuck wouldn't anything go right?" You scoffed. "And it's not like any of this was, like, hidden, you know? It was very obvious I was working alone, the register was fucked, but do you think that made anyone empathetic towards the situation? No, of course not, they wanted to just pay their bills and leave. Which I fucking get! But like, what!?"

"What'd you do?"

"Took cash only," you shrugged. "ATM was still up and running, so it was on them," you wiped you eyes, sighing deeply. "Still bitched the whole time though, complained to whoever listened. End of the night, that new manager even docked my tips, you believe that?"

"Hold up - for what?" Carm snapped.

"Customers were that pissed, Carmy, so a few of them dined-and-dashed, someone had to pay," you whined, head tilted back. "Like I did any of this on purpose? Like I went and unplugged shit myself? Like I wanted to make my life significantly harder? Do people even fucking think by themselves now? Where's the empathy?"

"Nah, they definitely lack in that department," he chuckled. "Know what I'm gonna say, right?"

"Hmm? Oh, Carmy, no," you groaned, "I'm not working at The Beef."

"It's ten times better than where you work, baby," he pouted. "And I could use someone with experience like yours with the customers. Richie's not always the best 'face of the store', you know?"

"No, Carmy," you refused sternly.

"C'mon, why not?"

"You as my boss? And boyfriend? Fuck no!"

"I'm literally so nice!"

"Yeah, that's exactly what Sydney says," you laughed, nudging his stomach with your foot. "Baby, no. Listen, I appreciate it, I really do, but I get ten times the tips at that shitty diner than I would at The Beef, and it's right on campus so I lose literally no time."

He sighed, "You're only, what? A year out from your Masters?"

"Just about," you grumbled with a pout.

Carmy chuckled, "C'mon, baby, don't torture yourself. Get a new job."

"I'm not, I'm just - " You cut yourself off with a sigh, hating that advice (as if it were just so simple), shaking your head and finishing your wine. "I'm just dealing with my current circumstances, I'm sorry I came home in a bad mood - "

"No, hey, wait," Carmy sat up, reaching for your cheek to hold, "I didn't mean to make you feel as if I was shutting you down. Baby, I always want you t'talk to me, okay? I just mean, there's something better out there, and you deserve better than that place. I hate seeing you so stressed out," he pouted dramatically, making you snicker lightly.

"You're one to talk," you reminded softly, sitting up so you could nestle under his arm. "You're stressed out, like, more than 90% of the time."

"Hey now, we're talkin' about your day, not mine," he deflected with a small chuckle. "What if I asked around a bit? You know, a different server job? I can check out places close to campus, but you'd get much better tips and better customers at a nicer place."

You groaned, "Now that sounds nice." He chuckled with you now. "I mean, it's bad enough I have to deal with those creepy frat boys in class, but in the diner, I have to play nice 'cause they tip with daddy's money well if I don't shut them up. It'd be nice working somewhere they couldn't even afford t'walk into."

"See? I'm good for something."

"You're good for everything, Carm, shut up," you laughed, leaning up to kiss his jawline. "I'm just tired of this whole 'pay your dues' bullshit. You know? I get having to suffer a little to build a better character, but for fuck's sake."

Carmy pouted, "Sounds like a second glass of wine kinda rant?"

You pouted back at him, nodding, both mockingly making little noises as he lifted from his sitting position to snag the bottle of wine. You smiled as he poured, watching his face, loving the effect he had on you; feeling calm and serene, and it wasn't the alcohol. When the bottle was set aside again, he tugged your legs over his lap and laid one of his arms around your shoulders; keeping you snuggled close and under the blanket.

"What else happened?" He asked softly, kissing your temple.

"I don't want to sound like I'm just bitching."

"How else do you expect to blow off steam? Huh?" He countered. "You're not bothering me, I want to hear this, baby - all of it. So, lemme recount, yeah? Okay, so, you worked alone your whole shift with only the frycook in the back, the cash register went down, and that made a buncha customers all pissed off. Enough that a few dipped off and you had to cover their bills. But the ATM was good, so they could still pay cash, but they were still being dickheads, yeah?"

"Mhm," you hummed, halting yourself.

"Nuh-uh, c'mon, what else?"

Tears sprung to your eyes as your head lulled onto his shoulder. "It was just a really shitty day, Carm," you whispered, giving a small sniffle. "Guys are grimy and gross, they garnished my wages 'cause of those dashers - I told you. It was a fucking shit show! Oh, and a few bulbs blew all within 10 minutes of each other - like fully snap, crackle, and pop, blew out. So, I had to call the electrician, he took over 2 hours to get there, so, part of the back dining room was darker and this group of guys all decided to sit back there - it was so fucking creepy!"

Carmen frowned, listening to you rant and rave about how overworked and under appreciated you were. He held you tight, raking a hand through your hair, tracing invisible patterns on your upper arm; keeping you close as the wine slowly sunk into your blood. You grew less lucid by the passing hour, mostly the exhaustion sinking in, but Carmy didn't mind.

He just adjusted you both on the couch so he was laid out with you safely tucked between the cushions and his body. You had long since changed subjects; going from shitty work conditions to sports to your coursework load, then to The Beef, breezed over whatever Richie's daily attitude was about, then quietly debated if Carmy was taking the weekend off to spend it with you. Now, the TV was the only light on in the apartment, wine bottle empty, you resting on Carmy's chest; his arms tight around you, blanket tangled around your legs, both speaking quietly into the night before sleep claimed you both.

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