#Minimalist Design Approach

[interiorergonomics]

Modern Open Office Design to Maximize Space

Modern open office design is all about creating efficient, collaborative, and visually appealing spaces. They must as well maximize the use of available square footage in order to be effective. Wherever possible eliminate unnecessary walls and partitions. Reason being that, such designs encourage better communication among employees while providing a sense of openness and flexibility. Key…

[happyheidi]

𝗂𝗀: 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖾.𝖼

[floorpancakes]

a banshee prima ballerina themed outfit i just freshly cooked for spectra demonica’s outfit contest!! the skirt really draws the eye, doesn’t it? it’s my favourite part.

[bubblebabie]

⋅˚₊ ୨୧ Rafe Cameron Takes You On A Shopping Spree!

Rafe Cameron loves to spoil you, always finding a way to show his love and affection for you, and what would be a better way to show his admiration than taking you on a luxurious shopping spree!

You step out of the sleek, black Rolls-Royce, shoes clicking against the polished marble floor of the high-end shopping district. You stand at the entrance, gaze flickering with excitement as you adjust the straps of your mini saddle bag.

Your outfit is the perfect embodiment of high fashion, designed to catch the eye from every angle. You wear a tight, baby pink cropped tank top with a heart-shaped neckline, the fabric hugging your curves in all the right places, paired with a low-rise, micro-pleated mini skirt, its soft pinks and whites perfectly complement the top. Your long, toned legs are encased in a pair of white, knee-high socks, the lace trim peeking just above the tops of your shiny Mary Jane platforms—each step exaggerated by the thick soles.

Boutiques surround you in a dazzling display of luxury, each one offering an attentively curated selection of high-end fashion and accessories. The air is filled with the scent of fresh leather and the soft hum of elegance, while the arrays showcase exclusive collections that promise sophistication and style. Rafe walks behind you, his hand resting possessively on your waist, as you approach your first destination: The House of Valentino.

It was framed by enormous glass doors that slid open with a soft whoosh, unveiling the lavish interior. The walls, painted in a delicate blush pink, exuded an air of love and romance, while the lighting, dim yet inviting, cast a soft, flattering glow over the meticulously curated displays of haute couture. Soft velvet sofas were scattered throughout the space, their opulence beckoning one to sink into them and momentarily escape into a world of endless luxury. Beneath you, the floor gleamed with pale, lustrous marble, and the gentle strains of classical music provided a serene soundtrack, further enhancing the atmosphere of refined elegance.

Your eyes sparkle as you took in the row of meticulously arranged dresses, each one even more stunning. “This one would look perfect on you,” Rafe says, leading you toward a white dress made of delicate silk, adorned with intricate lace embroidery. It shimmered under the lights, as you traced the fabric with your fingers. You could already picture yourself wearing it to his upcoming party.

Thereafter, you make your way into Gucci, where the interior was a blend of sleek, modern opulence with rich, dark wood and golden accents. A rich scent of leather filled the room. You spot a pair of black heels that match your eyes perfectly. Rafe raises an eyebrow with a smirk. “Those?” he asks, already knowing the answer. You grin, nodding eagerly, fingertips brushing over the sharp heels before slipping them on.

As you continue through the district, shopping in store after store, the stores grow larger and more lush. In Chanel, the space is all clean, fresh and smells like vanilla, with high glass shelves showcasing the latest collections. It felt almost minimalist in comparison, but each piece speaks volumes. You couldn’t resist picking out a quilted leather handbag, the one you had seen on the website. Rafe shakes his head, smiling at you, as he watches your eyes travel from bag to bag.

Eventually, you stop at Prada, where the walls were sleek black, illuminated by sharp lights, creating a futuristic contrast to the warmth of their earlier stops. You look through the collection of high-waisted pants, delicate silk blouses, and sleek tailored coats. You pick out a vibrant pink jacket with gold accents, something that would turn heads at the next fashion-forward event. You had a vision of wearing it with the black heels.

By the end of the spree, You had an entire wardrobe of new outfits: from lingerie sets to two piece lace sets, and shimmering heels to bags that would make envy of every woman in the county. And as you exit from your last stop, arms full of bags, Rafe kisses your forehead, laughing. “I think we’re done here for today,” he says, his tone teasing but affectionate. You, radiant and glowing from the outing, smile at him. “Until next time!"

[lymtw]

Movie Night

(Toji and His Shy Girl)

Friday night is unofficially movie night for you and Toji. You always go back and forth on what you should do and options are tossed out, like a nice dinner or trying food from someplace new or going to a view and sitting in the trunk of his car with blankets and some snacks. Most of the time, all of those options are thrown out the window and you just end up sitting in your bed or his bed and watching movies together. It doesn't matter what you do, it's always good, and the sleep overs make it even better.

A knock on your door signals Toji's arrival. Though you haven't had any caffeine since the coffee you treated yourself to earlier in the afternoon, you feel jittery. You grab the surprise you have for him and walk over to answer the door. As soon as you pull the door open, there he is, looking handsome as always, even when he's donning a simple t-shirt and some sweatpants. He gives you that smirk of his—the one that makes your chest feel all warm and fuzzy, and wakes up the butterflies in your stomach. He has a bag in his hand, filled with the snacks he promised to bring.

"Aren't you gonna say hi? Did you even miss me?" He teases, loving the way you gently nod as he speaks, like you're ready to prove that you did in fact miss him.

"Hi, Toji," you say, a smile spreading on your lips when you become overly aware of his focus on you. "I missed you. Come in." You move aside and let him into your cozy home, a place he's all too familiar with. He steps out of his slides and leaves them behind next to a pair of your shoes, his gaze never leaving you as he waits for you to lock the door after you shut it.

"What's that, doll?" Toji asks, when you approach him with full hands. There's a soft smile on your lips and your eyes shine like the stars that speckle the sky, as you extend the neatly folded pair of pajamas towards him. You have the most precious look on your face, as if you're showing him one of your most prized possessions—something you're proud of.

"You don't have to wear them if you don't want to. I still have the receipt. I just thought it would be nice to wear matching pj's."

You're not asking for much. Toji knows this. This is nothing—you're not asking him for anything. All he can think as he takes in the adorable look on your face, is that it would be an absolutely disgusting, heinous crime, to deny you of something so simple, something that would make you so damn happy. He can't bring himself to destroy you like that. In doing that, he would be chipping his own heart.

"What are you talking about? Let me see them," he says, laying his hands out for you to place the clothes on. You carefully place them in his hands and watch as he unfolds the articles. You don't know what he's thinking as he inspects the shirt, but the hum he lets out is nerve wracking. The shirt's design is minimalistic. It's a black t-shirt with three little stars on the left side of the chest and a small crescent moon on the back, a few inches beneath the collar, and then the bottoms are in the same plaid style as yours, just dark green instead of red.

"Is this why you asked for my clothing sizes a couple days ago?" He asks, pulling down his pants out of nowhere. You can't even try to hold back your laugh as you look away after getting a glimpse of his boxers, the sound just slips out. "What are you laughing at? Nothing you haven't seen before," he says, grinning amusedly at your giggles.

He unfolds the comfy pair of pants and slides them on. Immediately after, his shirt comes off, and it's as if he wants you to notice—to ogle him—because he takes his sweet time getting the new shirt on. He catches your eyes trailing down his torso, and then, he hears it, the flustered giggle that tumbles off your lips, the sweet sound he was waiting on. He smirks as he puts the new shirt on, and once again waits for your reaction. The shirt is a thicker material and fits perfectly, so do the pants. You're now matching, just like you wanted.

"How do I look?" Toji asks, doing a simple hands in his pockets pose.

"Handsome and comfy," you respond, warmth reaching your face as you take in the sight.

"Yeah? You think so?" He asks as he picks up his previous outfit and drops it on the arm of your couch. He hears your affirmative hum and catches your little nod as he steps towards you.

"Hey, where's my kiss?" He asks, a sly little smirk curling his lips. His hands rest on your lower back, gently pulling you closer. "I've been waiting hours and hours," he murmurs, green eyes absorbing the pretty smile that begins to form on your lips. "I want my reward."

You know that it won't be just a quick kiss with Toji, but still, you stand on your tippy toes and tilt your head upwards, waiting for Toji to meet you. He leans down, holding eye contact with you, as his lips come closer and closer. Once his nose is right next to yours and you feel his lips ghosting yours, he stops. He just loves the way you can't hide your fluster and how whenever you can't take it anymore, you resort to something you should have some sort of award for, by now—giggling.

"You're precious, ma," he says, his voice low. Dark eyes scan and re-memorize, for the nth time, every inch of your joyful expression, before finally he leans in the rest of the way, closing the distance between you and him.

His hands grip the back of your shirt as he feeds off your soft lips. Kiss after kiss, each one gentle and patient, demonstrating how much he truly longed for you. You feel butterflies in your stomach when you focus on the warmth of his body pressed against you and the way his lips chase yours for another kiss when you think he's finally going to pull away. His hands dip beneath your shirt to feel the bare, soft, and warm skin of your back. The simple touch is enough to spread goosebumps all over you.

The final kiss is long. Your lips lock, but Toji stops there, not going with the usual synchronized flow of the previous kisses, and when you don't expect it, he lets out deep hum and releases your lips with a more audible smack. He gives you a dumb grin in response to the stars that returned to your eyes.

"Do the thing, baby," he says, rubbing your back while he waits for you to snap out of your minor daze. He stays in the same slightly leaned position and waits for the softness of your lips to meet his skin. You press a kiss onto the smooth scar on the corner of his lips for an equal amount of time as the long kiss you shared before and smile softly when you pull away, your feet flat on the ground, again.

His hands come out of your shirt and he grins at how bashful you've become, despite the amount of times you've done this. You wouldn't immediately know what "do the thing" means, if you weren't so accustomed to doing it.

"Got your favorites," he says, nodding towards the bag he set down on your couch. "Did you keep up with your end of the deal?" He jokes, expecting a proud nod from you, because you've never let him down.

"Lemon-lime or Cool Blue Gatorade, right?" You ask, walking towards the kitchen.

"That's right, doll," he confirms, following behind you.

After the wine incident, he chooses to stay sober with you. It's not that he doesn't want to experience drinking with you and see you be more laid back and playful, it's the fact that he knows that that version of you is altered by alcohol. Sober you isn't that way, and while he loves every version of you, your natural way of being is his favorite.

He could spend hours flustering and teasing you, watching the way you coil in on yourself when he stares at you for too long. Feeling the way your body melts against his when he holds you is one of his favorite things. He likes being able to coax you into voicing your thoughts, wants, and needs. Maybe you're a little more honest about deeper matters when you're inebriated, but Toji is smart enough to know that it's practically involuntary. It's like your secrets are being spilled without your permission and while he's glad to know these things in the moment, he would rather hear them from you when you aren't drunk.

"I got you both. I didn't know which you liked more, so I just got both of them," you say, grabbing them off one of the shelves in your fridge. You turn and hand the cold drinks to Toji before going back to grab the one you got for yourself. You step back and shut the fridge door, smiling at him when he just stares at you.

"What?" You question.

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Just silently observes you standing in your small kitchen, in comfy, baggy pajamas that match his own. You're shifting on your feet, under his gaze, waiting for a response, but the response that he has in mind is a little too much for the lightness of the night. Something about wanting to spend the rest of his life with you, something about coming home to you every day, something about putting a shiny rock on your finger. Something big, because his feelings for you are big.

"Nothing, ma," he says, tucking both juice bottles between his forearm and his side, so that he can rest his hand on the back of your neck as you walk back out to the living room. You grab the bag of snacks off the couch and head to your bedroom together.

You set the bag of snacks on the bed and sit down on your side. Toji has a designated side on your bed, which is, of course, the other side.

"Light on or off?" Toji asks, shutting the door.

"Off?" You say, with a questioning tone, leaving room for him to object. Shortly after, the room goes dark. Only your TV, which sits idly on its home screen, creates light that illuminates the walls. Toji walks around your bed and settles into his side.

"What are we watching, this time?" He asks, reaching for the pack of sour gummy bears.

"It's your turn to choose," you say, offering the remote to him. "Last time we watched a bunch of Disney movies. I don't know if you wanna do that again," you say, smiling sheepishly.

"You doubt your taste in things too much, ma. Those Toy Story movies were pretty good. Show me another one of your favorites."

"Alright," you say, in compliance. You go to the Disney+ application and search for another favorite. Nothing too sing song-y, because you feel like you're on thin ice already in playing these animated movies for him. You got away with Jessie singing "When She Loved Me" in Toy Story 2, because even he thought the poor cowgirl got a rough deal when she was abandoned.

"Ratatouille?" He reads. "What's that about?"

"We're about to watch it," you say, briefly turning over and smiling.

He hums as he looks over the caption beneath the title that explains the synopsis of the movie.

"The rat's gonna cook? This should be interesting."

Lo and behold, he's hooked. Neither of you has made a peep and you're both mindlessly snacking on candy and chips, sipping on Gatorade, while watching the crazy things in this rat's life unfold. Him and his brother survived being struck by lightning and being shot at by an old lady with a shotgun. That part seemed to amuse Toji plenty.

Towards the end of the movie, Toji turns to you with sour sugar unknowingly speckled on his lips from the candy he's been feasting on, and leans in to press kisses to your temple and cheek.

"Watch," you say, smiling at the softness that meets your skin.

"I'm watching," he murmurs, continuing on with his sticky kisses.

"Look, they're stealing food from the kitchen," you explain, shocked despite already knowing what's going to happen.

"Mm," Toji hums, seemingly interested, but continuing on with his affectionate, sugary pecks.

"Look, you're gonna miss it," you say, giggling as you gently push his face away. It completely backfires on you, because he just grabs your wrist, and pulls your hand down to continue on with his kisses.

"Come here," he says, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you so that you're sitting right beside him, your thigh touching his and your shoulder pressed into his side. With a few more pecks to your cheek and a couple to the top of your head, he faces forward and continues watching the movie.

"Damn, they got shut down?" He says, in disbelief.

"Mhm," you hum in response, unable to answer verbally due to the chips in your mouth.

"Oh shit, they're back," Toji says, taking in the remainder of the movie. "And Remy cooks without controlling Spaghetti?"

"Linguini," you correct, with a laugh. "But yeah. Linguini's a waiter, now, and Remy's a chef."

The artistic end credits begin to appear and you turn to look at Toji.

"So... what did you think?" You ask.

"That had more action than The Terminator," he jokes. "The old lady with the shotgun was trying take out Remy and his brother and then she tried to hit the entire colony of rats with gas."

You giggle as he goes in depth of what he remembers, as if to prove to you that he was watching.

"I liked that one too," he says, with a smirk. "Would definitely watch it, again."

"Good," you chirp, internally proud that you were able to show him something good. "Your turn," you say, offering him the remote.

"You go again," he says, grabbing another sour gummy to dodge the remote.

"Toji," you mumble. "You should choose something you like. I wouldn't mind watching something new, too."

In truth, Toji doesn't want to watch explosive, gore infested, action movies when he's with you. It's the only genre he's thoroughly explored apart from some comedy, so he leaves you to do the choosing of the movies and shows you watch together. It's a great way for him to give new things a chance, because even though it seems like he's always the one showing you how and loosening the tight grip you have on the shell that obscures you, he's constantly learning from you, as well.

"How 'bout this, baby... If you choose the next one, i'll choose the next three," he offers, squeezing the plush of your thigh.

"You promise?" You say, eyes darting from where his enormous hand rests on your leg, to his face.

"'Course. I don't lie to you," he says.

"Okay, then," you say, moving onto a different platform to find another movie.

"While I wait..." he mumbles, a soft smile curling on his lips. His hand moves from your thigh to your waist as he wraps his arm around you. He goes back to kissing the side of your face, soft, wet little smooches planted along your cheek and your jaw.

"Gorgeous girl," he hums, his voice a soft breath against your skin. "I'm dying to kiss those pretty lips."

Your lips curl as you continue skimming through the section of recommended movies. You can feel his eyes on you, tracing over the features of your face.

"Just a quick one and then i'll stop bugging you," he requests. "Please? You're teasing me without even trying."

"But I'm not even doing anything," you argue, with a small laugh.

"That's what i'm saying," he says, in agreement. "You're not even trying. You're just pretty like that. Makes me wanna kiss you 'til you can't breathe."

"What? You said a quick one, just a few seconds ago," you remind, your smile widening at the way he changed his mind about wanting the minimum of your affection.

"Yeah, but you know how greedy I am about you, mama. I want more and more of you, all the time." His gaze flits between your coy smile and the softness that lingers in your eyes. You haven't paused your skimming of the movies, but he knows you're staring at the screen, mindlessly, feeling his attention. "You want me to beg?"

"No," you instantly respond. It's the one thing you never allow him to do. He's too good to you, for you to make him beg. "You don't have to do that."

"So, kiss me, sweetheart," he says, shifting positions so that he's lying down on his side. He pats the pillow that cushions your lower back, signaling for you to lie down. Like the obedient thing you are for him, you click play on the random movie you landed on and set the remote aside, before lying down on your side, facing Toji.

"What movie did you decide on?" He asks, dragging his knuckles tenderly over your cheek.

"I didn't look at the name," you answer, softly.

"We can skip the intro, right?" He murmurs, smirking when he feels the warmth that reaches your face beneath his palm. His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek, back and forth as he keeps up with your gaze, even when it derails from his due to the tension in the moment.

"Mhm," you hum.

"Come here," he instructs, his voice low, almost a whisper. His leg goes between your legs, just sitting there to achieve more physical contact with you. It doesn't go further than the desire to be innocently caught up in you and feel you pressed against him.

The first kisses—if they can even be called that—are tentative and teasing. Lips merely ghosting each other, barely grasping contact. It's enough to have your heart thudding rapidly in your chest. You hear a warm, rumbled chuckle coming from Toji.

"Closer," Toji hums, his hand splaying on your back and pushing you forward into him.

Finally, your lips connect. The feeling is warm, like you're being held, securely, without any intention of being released. The sound of the movie in the background is a mere whir, unheard through the imaginary force field created around you and Toji. It's just you and him, close as can be, living like nothing else matters as long as you have this love. Through gentle caresses, one unsteady heartbeat and an even unsteadier one, things are good.

Toji swears he will never feel this content and at peace anywhere else. You have a way of making him feel like he is everything. The way your eyes twinkle when you see him, the way you bare your soul to him every time you smile—it's love. It's pure, unadulterated love. He's your friend, your lover, your confidant, and he will never settle for being anything less than those things.

With one more brush of your lips, you both put the kissing on hold and lay there, just a little bit breathless. His hand rests on your lower back, playing with the hem of your shirt.

"I love you so fucking much, doll. You know that?" He murmurs, his attention bouncing between your lips that won't stop calling for him to kiss them and the warmth in your eyes. "Fridays aren't just another day, anymore. Same for every day I get to see you or even just talk to you on the phone if we can't be together." A soft sigh escapes his nose, followed by a very brief pause. "You just know how to make things better, and I wish you would believe it because you feel that way too, not just because i'm telling you."

"I'm sorry," you mumble.

"No. I don't want that, baby. Tell me something else."

"I love you, Toji," you say, ensuring that you speak clearly so that he gets the important words you need him to hear. "I like being around you. You'll never know just how safe you make me feel, but I do want you to know that it goes past the physical aspect."

He smiles, the expression soft, not telling of the giddiness that just spread throughout his body. A soft hum, followed by a somewhat frustrated sounding groan, precedes you being pulled into his tight embrace. You can't help the giggles that eventually evolve into laughter that just spills from you when he bombards your face with kisses. His lips press against your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips before he actually leaves a rapid barrage of pecks on your lips. Deep chuckles slip through his affectionate assault when you plant your hand on his chest, weakly pushing at him through the joyous sound of your laugh.

"T-Toji!" You squeal, your entire body shaking through your nonstop laughter. Despite it being nighttime, Toji feels like he's kissing and cuddling with the sun. His cheeks almost hurt from smiling so much.

With one final, elongated kiss to your forehead, he relents and lets you catch your breath. Soft giggles continue to flow past your lips as you work on composing yourself.

"You drive me crazy, doll," he says, grinning at how your chest still slightly heaves. He could do this every night with you, in a shared bed, that is in your shared bedroom, in your shared home.

"Alright, let's see what this movie's about," he mutters, flipping onto his back. "Come here." By now, the two words are a staple to Toji's conversations with you, because he always wants you attached to him. He outstretches his arm, and waits for you to scooch over and lay your head on his chest. Once you settle in, his arm wraps around you, tightly.

As you both try to catch up on what is going on in the movie, you realize none of it is making sense. You think it might be futile to try and understand what is happening when it may have been explained during the intro, but neither you nor Toji mind it, and just continue watching through the confusion, because the intro to this movie was never going to be as good as the moment you shared during it.

[nickistuffs]

Hello Again Pt. 1

Pairing: Harry x Designer reader (curvy or plus size whatever you feel they should look like. This is my preference 😌)

Summary: This feels fated to meet again and again and again

Word Count: 3.07k

Warnings: None. It's It's just fluff and also a slow burn.

Read Chimed Encounters first to start before this one.

✨masterlist✨ read the rest of Harry x Designer Reader there

...

A ping from your email broke your concentration on work. You sighed, already assuming it was one of your manufacturers asking for yet another confirmation about a product you’d been working over for months. Without much thought, you clicked on the notification, ready to fire off a quick response.

To your surprise, the email wasn’t from a manufacturer—it was from Sam, your old friend and occasional collaborator. His subject line read: “Job Offer You Can’t Refuse.” Intrigued, you opened the email and quickly scanned its contents.

It seemed Sam had found you a project that piqued his interest—and yours. The pay was good, the timeline was tight, and the concept sounded straightforward.

You immediately picked up your phone and called him. No need for formalities; this was Sam, after all.

“Hey, Sam,” you said as soon as he answered, skipping any pleasantries. “What’s this mysterious job offer you’re dangling in front of me?”

“Oh, that.” He sounded smug, which only made you roll your eyes. “I’m under an NDA, so I can’t say too much, but it’s a pop-up store project. The whole thing needs to be modular and removable, so it can be packed up and relocated in two months. Easy, right? You in?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Of course, I’m in! Sounds simple enough. Send over the contract and details, and I’ll get started.”

“I knew I could count on you,” he said with a grin you could practically hear through the phone. “See you onsite, Y/N.” ...

The day of the meeting arrived, and you were ready—or so you thought.

Sam couldn’t make it and had entrusted you to lead the meeting solo, but you were used to working independently, so it wasn’t a problem. Dressed in a professional outfit that balanced comfort and confidence, you walked into the office where the meeting was being held.

As you glanced around at the product displays, your heart skipped a beat. You could already tell this was a high-profile client. Their products, branding, and visuals exuded quality and creativity.

As you tried to calm your nerves, the conference room door opened, and a group of people filed out.

A friendly woman approached you, pulling you back to reality.

“Hello, are you Ms. Y/N L/N?”

“Yes,” you replied with a polite smile, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I have a meeting with your visual merchandising manager.”

“Perfect, you’re our two o’clock appointment. Please come in.”

You stepped inside the sleek, minimalistic conference room and began setting up.

“Our lead designer just stepped out for a quick break,” the woman explained, handing you a water bottle. “They’ll be back in ten minutes and a few other designers. Is there anything else I can get you while you wait? Coffee?”

“Water is fine. Thank you,” you replied.

You opened your laptop, pulled up your notes and sketches, and jotted down a few ideas in your journal. You were mid-thought when the door opened behind you.

You turned, ready to greet whoever entered, but the words caught in your throat.

It was him. Harry Styles.

...

You both stared at each other, completely stunned. Of all the people you could run into at this meeting, it had to be him. You hadn’t seen Harry since your last encounter at Felice’s Café.

For a moment, it felt like the world had slowed down, your mind scrambling to process his presence. He looked just as effortlessly charming as you remembered, his warm green eyes flickering with recognition and surprise.

Finally, Harry broke the silence, his voice smooth but slightly uncertain.

“Hello, I’m Harry Styles. I’m the owner of the company. Nice to meet you…?”

It took you a second to respond, your voice catching in your throat. “It’s Y/N. Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you as well.”

He smiled, extending a hand toward you. You scrambled to your feet, standing taller than you’d expected, and reached out to shake his hand.

Your hands met, and you shook it—a bit too long, you thought as the realization hit. The warmth of his hand lingered, making you feel like time had momentarily stopped again.

You quickly dropped your hand and clasped it behind your back, your face heating up.

For a split second, an awkward silence filled the room. Harry seemed like he was about to say something, his lips parting as if to speak—

But just then, the door opened, and a small group of people filed into the room, shattering the quiet bubble you’d both been trapped in.

“Ah, great,” said a cheerful man from the group, clapping his hands together as he approached. “Harry, you’re here. And this must be Ms. L/N!”

The moment was gone. Harry straightened, his expression shifting seamlessly to one of polite professionalism, though you caught a flicker of something in his eyes as he glanced back at you.

You offered a polite nod to the newcomers, forcing yourself to focus as introductions were made. Yet, as the meeting began, you couldn’t help but feel like something important had been left unsaid.

And judging by the way Harry occasionally glanced your way, he felt the same.

...

As the meeting progressed, Harry found himself quietly observing you. Initially, he’d assumed you might be shy or reserved—perhaps because of the nervous energy that had lingered when you first met. But as you delved into your presentation, he realized just how wrong he was.

The confidence with which you spoke captivated the room. Your tone was steady yet approachable, and your words were carefully chosen to articulate your vision. You presented your design concepts with precision, highlighting the intricate details and practical functionality behind each element.

Harry leaned forward slightly in his chair, his interest piqued. The way you seamlessly balanced creativity with logic was impressive. He could tell how much thought you’d put into this project—every choice seemed deliberate, every detail purposeful.

What surprised him most, however, was your ability to command the room. You weren’t just presenting; you were selling the design, painting a picture of how the concept would come to life. And the team was eating it up.

He stole a glance around the room. His team, typically quick to interject or challenge ideas, sat quietly, nodding along with your points. Even he couldn’t help but admire the way you navigated through the questions and feedback with such ease.

When you paused for questions, Harry cleared his throat and spoke, his voice cutting through the room.

“I really appreciate the thought you’ve put into the design—it’s incredibly well-considered. I do have a question, though,” he said, his tone genuinely curious. “You mentioned incorporating natural textures into the layout. Can you elaborate on how those elements will remain modular while still maintaining their aesthetic appeal?”

You turned to him, locking eyes for a brief moment. His question wasn’t just thoughtful—it showed that he’d been paying close attention to your presentation.

“Thank you, Mr. Styles,” you began, your voice steady. “That’s a great question. For the natural textures, such as reclaimed wood and stone-inspired finishes, I’ve ensured that they’re lightweight and easily removable. The modular framework uses a system of interchangeable panels, so the aesthetic can be retained without compromising functionality.”

Harry nodded, clearly impressed. “That makes sense. And it aligns well with what we’re trying to achieve here—something unique, but also adaptable. Nicely done.”

You gave him a polite smile, though inside, his compliment sent a ripple of pride through you.

As the meeting continued, Harry couldn’t help but feel drawn to the passion and expertise you brought to your work. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself—so composed and articulate, yet with a spark of creativity that set you apart.

And as the session wrapped up, he found himself wondering if this serendipitous reunion might be more than just a chance encounter.

As handshakes and congratulations were exchanged, the manager gave a final nod of approval, and Harry himself followed suit, offering his praise for your presentation. It had been a resounding success.

With most of the team filing out of the room, the buzz of conversation slowly faded, leaving you alone at the conference table, still stuffing your things into your bag. You were on a high from the meeting—everything had gone so smoothly, but the exhaustion from a long day was beginning to catch up.

Suddenly, you heard a soft cough. Looking up, you were surprised to see Harry still standing near the door.

“Oh, sorry,” you said, startled. “Are there any more questions you need from me, Mr. Styles?” You quickly adjusted your posture, feeling a bit flustered.

Harry smiled, the easy warmth you remembered from your past encounter resurfacing. “You can call me Harry,” he replied with a casual, almost reassuring tone. “I’m not too big on formalities. Can I call you Y/N?”

“That’s alright with me,” you answered with a smile, pleased by the friendly tone of the conversation. It felt much more natural now that the formality had faded.

A beat of silence passed before Harry spoke again, his eyes twinkling with a hint of curiosity. “So, how long have you been eating breakfast at Feli’s Café?”

You blinked, a bit taken aback by the question. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. “Oh, I’ve been going there for a while now. I usually grab a matcha latte and sometimes a sandwich. Feli’s a good friend of mine—she’s the one who got me hooked on her menu.”

Good thing I found your journal, your presentation was fantastic. Harry complimented.

Thank you again for giving it back. and sorry I was on a time crunch that I didn't introduce myself.

Harry chuckled softly, his expression warm.

You felt a sudden shift in the air between you two, the unspoken moment starting to surface. But before either of you could delve deeper into the conversation, a voice from the hallway interrupted the moment.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the manager popped his head back in, looking around. “But I just wanted to confirm we’re all set for the next steps, Y/N? Can we count on you for the design rollout next week?”

You gave a nod, quickly snapping back into professional mode. “Yes, everything is in order. I'll start on the proper revisions needed for the plans."

“Perfect,” the manager smiled, satisfied. “Thanks again for your excellent work today.”

As he left the room, you turned back to Harry, who was still standing near the door, clearly reluctant to leave just yet.

“I guess I should let you get back to your day,” you said, trying to break the lingering tension. “I’ll see you around, Harry.”

Harry’s smile widened, and he nodded slowly. “Definitely.”

...

It had been a month since you completed your work for Pleasing. You scrolled through their Instagram, admiring how your designs brought their brand to life. Seeing people lining up to buy their high-quality products filled you with a deep sense of pride.

You’d only seen Harry a handful of times during the project, but he always seemed busy, caught up in meetings or surrounded by other people.

Sighing loudly, you collapsed onto your bed, letting the exhaustion of the day wash over you. You had plans to join an art market this month, where you’d sell your prints, stickers, and other handmade knickknacks. It was something to look forward to, at least.

“Will we ever meet again?” you murmured to yourself, staring up at the ceiling. “I mean, what are the chances?” You already knew the answer before you even finished the thought. Harry was probably the busiest person you’d ever met, and you were just a nobody in his world.

Your heart felt heavy as you grappled with the cold, hard reality—he might have only been a fleeting moment in your life, a beautiful memory to cherish but not something meant to last. ...

A month had passed, and Harry still hadn’t been able to properly speak with you. He had been trying—desperately, in fact. He’d gone to the café where you first met, hoping to run into you again, but you never showed up, or you came at different times. He even tried catching you after work, but you were always whisked away to other locations or surrounded by people.

In a final act of determination, Harry had even approached HR for your contact information, but they refused to give it to him. Frustrated and defeated, he began to think maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

As he walked home one evening, his eyes caught on a brightly colored poster advertising an upcoming art market at the same location he frequented. He stared at it for a moment, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest before he brushed it off with a sigh. Maybe it was time to give up. Maybe it was never destined to happen.

But something about the poster lingered in his mind—a quiet, persistent thought that made him decide, almost on impulse, to go to the market anyway. Perhaps, by some happy chance, fate would intervene.

You were busy setting up your booth in the bustling market, carefully adjusting misaligned prints and rearranging trinkets to create the perfect display. The air buzzed with chatter and laughter, the atmosphere lively as other artists greeted passersby and showcased their work.

“Your paintings are just lovely, dear,” an elderly woman remarked, her eyes sparkling as she pointed to one of your pieces.

“They really are,” her partner chimed in with a warm smile. “We could hang one in the hallway, couldn’t we?”

“Excuse me, miss,” another potential buyer interjected, holding up one of your prints. “How much is this?”

“For the A4 size, it’s 25 pounds,” you replied with a friendly smile.

More people began to gather, drawn by the charm of your artwork. You did your best to keep up, answering questions, wrapping purchases, and making small talk with the growing crowd. It was a whirlwind, but you couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride seeing so many people appreciating your work.

...

Walking through the bustling market, Harry wandered past the stalls he always loved to visit. He admired the fresh vegetables and fruits, browsed through racks of thrifted clothes, and flipped through stacks of vinyl records that always piqued his interest. But today, something different caught his attention—a special event featuring local artists who had been invited to showcase and sell their work.

As he turned toward the next stall, his eyes landed on something—or rather, someone.

It was you.

There you stood in front of your stall, surrounded by your artwork, speaking to customers with an energy that radiated warmth and passion. The light in your eyes, the way you animatedly gestured while describing your creations, the genuine smile that lit up your face—it was everything he remembered and more.

For a moment, Harry froze, rooted in place as he took it all in. You looked so at home in your element, effortlessly captivating the people around you. His heart raced, a mixture of excitement and nervousness coursing through him. But before doubt could creep in, before he could second-guess himself, he moved.

Harry started walking toward you, his steps quick and purposeful. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, but there was only one clear thought that anchored him: now or never.

This was his chance to finally talk to you—to close the distance that had been lingering between you both for far too long. He wasn’t going to let it slip away again.

...

It has been a good day so far. People were buying your prints, admiring your stickers, and complimenting your craftsmanship. You smiled to yourself, feeling content with the steady stream of visitors who appreciated your work.

Just as you reached for your water bottle, a familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Hello, again, Y/N.”

You froze, the cap of your bottle slipping through your fingers. Slowly, you turned toward the source of the voice, your heart skipping a beat.

There he was—Harry. Standing there amidst the sea of market-goers, looking as effortlessly charming as ever in a white T-shirt, jeans, and sunglasses perched on his curls. His lips curved into a small, knowing smile as your eyes met.

“Harry?” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I thought it was you,” he said, stepping closer. His gaze flickered over your stall, taking in the vibrant prints and trinkets on display. “This is all yours?”

You nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah, just a little side project I do. How…how did you find me here?”

“I didn’t,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I was just wandering around, and there you were. Funny how the universe works, huh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, funny.”

He looked around at your stall again, picking up one of your prints—a delicate watercolor of flowers intertwined with abstract shapes. “This is beautiful,” he said earnestly, his fingers brushing over the edge of the paper. “You’re really talented.”

“Thank you,” you said, warmth spreading through your chest at the compliment.

“Do you take commissions?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes intensely focused on you.

“Sometimes,” you said, tilting your head. “Why? Are you looking for something specific?”

“I might be,” he replied cryptically, his lips curving into a playful smirk. Before you could press him further, he added, “But first, do you have a break coming up? I was thinking I could buy you a coffee.”

Your breath caught at his unexpected offer. “A coffee?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You’ve been on my mind lately, Y/N. Thought maybe this time we could actually catch up without a room full of people or work deadlines in the way.”

Your pulse quickened as you tried to process his words. Was he really asking you out, or was this just Harry being Harry—charming and polite?

“Well,” you started, glancing at your stall. “I do have a little time before the market closes…”

“Perfect,” he said with a grin. “I’ll wait for you to pack up, or we can just grab something nearby. Whatever works for you.”

As he spoke, the faint hum of the market seemed to fade into the background. For the first time in weeks, the heavy feeling in your chest lifted just a little. Maybe this wasn’t just a fleeting moment after all.

...

Okay, this is actually too long I’ll make it into two parts. Give you guys some suspense. Thank you for reading everyone! ☺️

…

Hello, Again Pt.2

Here’s part two loves hope you enjoy it!

[artbyblastweave]

I find the juxtaposition between the Snyder Superman costume and the Gunn Superman costume fascinating because of how they're approaching the same problem in extremely different ways- the problem of how you adapt the quintessential golden-age minimalist optimized-for-rapid-low-fidelity-illustration tights into a higher-fidelity medium where an actual human has to believably move and fight in it. Snyder leans into the skintight element of the original design in a way that emphasizes how deeply weird and alien that would look if translated literally. A uniform that can believably suffer the punishment it does despite how sleek it is because it's so obviously alien in its design and origin, borderline gigeresque, which, as @shokuto pointed out, aligns with Snyder's take on the character as this singular, larger-than-life, fundamentally alien intrusion into the mundane status quo. Gunn's version goes the opposite direction. The trunks came back, yes, but the uniform is much closer in its material, padding and greebling to Kirbyesque coveralls- this is a costume that had to be engineered to take the same kinds of hits that it's owner could take if he were buck naked. The trunks are back, and that's an informed messaging decision to look more disarming. The first promo shot we get was of superman pulling on his boots to go put out the latest fire. This is a work uniform, and that aligns with Gunn's established take on the DCU as a universe where enough of the novelty has worn off that "Superhero" has become a kind of job or social role rather than a messianic paradigm shift- a job you can do with wildly varying levels of competence and personal integrity.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Ink Impressions

Summary: Y/N is a hot new tattoo artist that Derek and Emily want to see more of...

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: tattoos

Word count: 2.1k

main masterlist

Derek Morgan found himself walking through a part of town he didn't visit often. His steps slowed as he passed a new shop front: Ink Impressions. The sign was sleek, with an artistic flair that caught his eye. It was new, and he’d heard a few people at the gym talk about how talented the artist was. Curious, and with a rare free afternoon on his hands, Derek decided to check it out.

The interior was a mix of industrial chic and cozy comfort. Dark wooden floors complemented exposed brick walls adorned with framed tattoo designs ranging from intricate mandalas to minimalist line art. The hum of tattoo machines filled the air, mingling with the scent of antiseptic and the quiet murmur of clients and artists in conversation.

Derek approached the front desk, where a young man with a friendly smile greeted him. "Hey, welcome to Ink Impressions. How can we help you today?"

"I'm thinking about getting a tattoo," Derek replied, his voice carrying its usual confidence. "Do you guys take drop ins?"

The young man nodded, gesturing towards the back of the shop. "You’re in luck. Our lead artist is available. Her name’s Y/N. She’s amazing. I’ll take you to her."

Derek followed, feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation. They rounded a corner, and there she was. Y/N was seated at her station, her focus intense as she worked on a client's arm. She was striking, with vibrant hair that fell around her face in waves, a few tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves. She exuded an air of confidence and artistic passion that immediately drew Derek in.

The young man cleared his throat softly. "Y/N, this is Derek. He’s stopped by for a drop in. Do you think you can fit him in before your next appointment?”

Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting Derek’s with a warmth that made his heart skip a beat. She smiled, setting down her tools and removing her gloves. "Hi, Derek. It’s nice to meet you. I’d love to help you with that. Do you have any specific ideas, or would you like me to create something unique for you?"

Derek felt his usual charm waver slightly under her gaze, but he recovered quickly. "I have some ideas, but I’d love to see your take on it."

After Y/N finished with her initial client, she sat down with Derek and discussed the concept, and Y/N sketched a design that captured the essence of strength and resilience, elements that resonated deeply with Derek. Her talent was evident in every stroke, and he was impressed not only by her skill but also by the way she listened and understood the emotions behind his request.

As she prepared her station, Derek glanced around the shop, trying to mask his growing interest in her. "So, how long have you been tattooing?"

Y/N smiled, her eyes sparkling with pride. "About seven years now. I started apprenticing right out of high school and never looked back. I opened this shop a few months ago."

"That’s impressive," Derek replied, genuinely admiring her dedication.

Y/N began the tattoo, her touch gentle yet precise. "What about you? What do you do?"

"I’m an FBI agent," Derek said, watching her work. "Behavioral Analysis Unit."

Y/N looked up, a hint of intrigue in her eyes. "Wow, that sounds intense. Do you solve a lot of mysteries?"

Internally, Y/N couldn't help but laugh. She knew exactly who Derek Morgan was. Spencer had talked about him often enough—his partner at the BAU, a close friend. She could almost hear Spencer’s voice, recounting their cases, his admiration for Derek's skills and strength.

So this is the famous Derek Morgan, she thought, amused. Small world. But she kept her face neutral, professional. She didn’t want to mix business with pleasure. The last thing she needed was for Derek to know she was dating his colleague. It would complicate things, and she prided herself on maintaining a clear boundary between her personal and professional life.

"Yeah, it can be," Derek replied, oblivious to her internal amusement. "It’s challenging, but I love it."

As the session went on, Derek found himself captivated not only by Y/N’s talent but by her presence. She was easy to talk to, and he enjoyed the way she seemed genuinely interested in his stories. There was an effortless connection, a spark that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

When she finished, Derek looked at the tattoo in the mirror, his heart swelling with emotion. "It’s perfect," he said, his voice thick with gratitude. "Thank you."

Y/N smiled, her expression warm and sincere. "I’m glad you like it, Derek. It was an honor to create this for you."

As he paid and prepared to leave, Derek couldn’t help but linger. "Maybe I’ll be back for another one," he said, his tone slightly teasing.

Y/N’s smile widened, and there was a twinkle in her eye. "I’d like that. You know where to find me."

As Derek walked out of Ink Impressions, the cool air hitting his face, he couldn’t stop thinking about Y/N. He knew he’d be back—not just for another tattoo, but to see her again.

—

The bullpen was bustling with the usual Monday morning activity as the team settled back into their routines. Derek Morgan entered with a confident swagger, a fresh energy emanating from him. As he passed by desks, he couldn't resist pulling up his sleeve to show off his new tattoo. It was an intricate design, beautifully done, and it immediately drew attention.

Emily Prentiss, seated at her desk, caught sight of the tattoo and her eyes widened in admiration. "Wow, Morgan! That’s incredible. When did you get that done?"

Derek grinned, obviously pleased with her reaction. "Got it on Saturday. There’s this new shop called Ink Impressions. The artist is amazing. She really knows her stuff."

Emily stood and walked over, examining the tattoo more closely. "The detail is fantastic. Who's the artist?"

Derek leaned back in his chair, a playful smile on his face. "Her name’s Y/N. She’s not just talented—she’s also incredibly sexy."

Emily raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on her lips. "Sexy and talented, huh? Sounds like you had quite the experience."

Derek chuckled. "You could say that. She’s got this way about her—confident, passionate about her work. You should definitely check her out if you're thinking about getting some ink."

Emily's interest was piqued. "I’ve been considering a tattoo for a while now. Maybe it’s time to finally go for it."

Derek nodded enthusiastically. "You won't regret it, Prentiss. Y/N’s the real deal. Plus, the shop's vibe is great—professional but with a cool, laid-back atmosphere."

Emily looked thoughtful, already envisioning what design she might want. "Alright, I’m sold. I’ll swing by Ink Impressions this week and see if she has any openings."

As they chatted, Penelope Garcia sauntered over, having overheard part of their conversation. "What’s this about a sexy tattoo artist?" she asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Derek laughed. "Garcia, I think you’d love her. She’s got this artistic flair that’s right up your alley."

Garcia clapped her hands together. "Well, now I have to see this for myself. Maybe I’ll get something small to start with."

Emily grinned. "Looks like Y/N might have a few new clients this week."

As they shared a laugh, the phone rang, signaling the start of another case. The team quickly shifted gears, but there was a newfound buzz of excitement. Derek's tattoo had not only impressed his colleagues but also sparked a sense of camaraderie and curiosity.

Throughout the day, Derek couldn't help but think about Y/N and the connection they’d shared. He was eager to see her again, not just for her talent but for the undeniable chemistry between them. Little did he know, Emily and Garcia’s upcoming visits to Ink Impressions would bring them all a step closer to intertwining personal and professional lives in ways they hadn't anticipated.

—

Emily Prentiss walked into the shop, greeted by the familiar hum of tattoo machines. She was greeted warmly by the receptionist and soon found herself in front of Y/N, who looked up with a welcoming smile.

"Hi there! What can I do for you today?" Y/N asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Emily smiled, feeling instantly at ease. "Hi, I’m Emily. A friend of mine, Derek Morgan, got a tattoo here recently. I was so impressed that I decided to get one myself."

Recognition flashed in Y/N's eyes, and she chuckled inwardly, remembering the charismatic agent. "Ah, Derek! He’s a great guy. What are you thinking of getting?"

As Emily described her idea, Y/N listened intently, her mind already envisioning the design. Despite knowing Derek and his world, she kept her focus on her craft, maintaining the professional boundary she valued. But as she worked on Emily's tattoo, she couldn't help but feel a growing connection to these agents, wondering how long she could keep her secret before the lines between business and pleasure inevitably blurred.

—

The BAU team had decided to unwind after a long week, gathering at their favorite local bar. The place was lively, filled with the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the distant sound of live music. Spencer Reid had just returned from visiting his mother in Las Vegas, and he was grateful for the chance to catch up with his colleagues in a more relaxed setting.

As the team settled into their booth, drinks in hand, Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan were excitedly discussing their recent tattoos. Emily pulled up her sleeve to show off the intricate design on her forearm, while Derek proudly displayed the tattoo on his bicep.

"You guys have to see this," Emily said, her eyes shining. "Y/N is incredible. Her artistry is on another level."

Derek nodded enthusiastically. "And she's not just talented—she’s smoking hot. I’m telling you, she’s got this whole vibe that’s hard to resist."

Emily laughed. "We were just saying, it’s almost a competition to see who’s going to ask her out first."

They both looked at each other, playfully competitive. "You think you can beat me, Prentiss?" Derek teased.

"Oh, I know I can," Emily shot back, a mischievous grin on her face.

Spencer, sitting quietly beside them, listened to their banter with a growing sense of unease. His fingers tightened around his glass as he processed their words. The name Y/N echoed in his mind. He knew exactly who they were talking about. His girlfriend, Y/N, was the talented artist they were raving about.

Trying to maintain his composure, Spencer asked, "What shop did you guys go to?"

Emily turned to him, still smiling. "It’s called Ink Impressions. It’s a new place, but it's already getting a lot of buzz."

Spencer bit his lip, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He felt a pang of jealousy but also pride knowing how highly they thought of Y/N. He took a deep breath, reminding himself to stay calm.

Just then, the bar door swung open, and Spencer’s heart skipped a beat. Y/N walked in, looking around until her eyes landed on him. She smiled warmly and started making her way over to their table.

Emily and Derek continued their playful debate, oblivious to Spencer’s internal turmoil. "I don’t know, Derek. I think I’ve got the upper hand. I mean, she seemed pretty interested when I was there," Emily said, winking.

Derek laughed. "We’ll see about that, Prentiss. I’m not backing down from this challenge."

Spencer couldn't hold it in any longer. He set his drink down and cleared his throat, catching their attention. "You might want to rethink that competition."

Emily and Derek looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?" Derek asked.

Before Spencer could answer, Y/N reached the table, her presence commanding their attention. She placed a gentle hand on Spencer’s shoulder, leaning down to kiss his cheek. "Hey, baby."

Spencer's face lit up with a smile, and he looked up at her with obvious affection. "Hey, beautiful. I’m glad you made it."

Emily and Derek’s jaws dropped simultaneously. "Wait, you two know each other?" Emily asked, incredulous.

Spencer nodded, a hint of smugness in his voice. "Yeah, you could say that."

Y/N grinned, sliding into the booth next to Spencer. "I guess the secret’s out," she said, laughing softly. ��Spence here is my boyfriend.” Y/N gazed at him lovingly.

Derek shook his head in disbelief, but there was a playful glint in his eye. "Well, Reid, you’ve been holding out on us. I guess that means you win by default."

Emily chuckled, raising her glass. "To Spencer and Y/N. I guess we don’t need that competition after all."

The team raised their glasses, toasting to the unexpected revelation. As they settled back into their conversation, Spencer felt a sense of relief and happiness. He had nothing to hide anymore, and the night seemed even brighter with Y/N by his side.

[anyca786]

Mikealson Siblings taking care of Pregnant!reader

The afternoon sun streamed through the arched windows of the Mikaelson compound, casting dappled shadows across the plush sofa where you sat. Your hand rested on your swollen belly, tracing the faint outline of a tiny foot that seemed determined to imprint itself on your skin. A sigh escaped your lips, laced with a curious mix of exhaustion and awe. Being pregnant with Klaus Mikaelson's child was an experience unlike any other.

"Penny for your thoughts, love?"

Elijah, your best friend's voice came from behind you, startling you slightly. He knelt down, his gentle eyes crinkling at the corners as he placed a cool hand on your cheek.

"Sore feet?" he asked, his gaze flickering down to your ankles where you idly rubbed them.

As if summoned, Elijah began to gently massage your feet, his touch a soothing balm against the constant ache. "The joys of motherhood," he chuckled softly. "Even before the little one arrives."

"You should see Rebekah skipping around like a mother hen," you said with a laugh.

Ever since the news, Rebekah had taken it upon herself to become your personal nutritionist. Bowls of fresh fruit seemed to magically appear by your side, and gentle reminders to stay hydrated were delivered with an endearing bossiness.

Suddenly, the library door slammed open, and Kol burst in, brandishing a book. He skidded to a halt when he saw you. "Apologies, darling," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes vanishing instantly as he took in your weary expression. "Didn't mean to startle you. Are you alright?"

You couldn't help but melt under his sudden concern. The Mikaelson siblings, notorious for their chaotic lives, were turning into a symphony of attentiveness for you. "Just a little tired, Kol," you assured him, a smile returning to your face. His brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed over as he noticed a stray strand of hair clinging to your cheek. With a gesture so tender it surprised even him, he brushed it away.

A deep, booming voice resonated through the room, "Elijah, have you located the witch Davina spoke of?"

Klaus stalked into the library, his scowl fading the moment he spotted you. As he drew closer, his voice softened to a near murmur. "Have you eaten anything yet, love?"

You fought back a giggle. "Yes, Klaus, just some fruit Rebekah insisted upon."

He hovered for a moment, his gaze flitting across your face. "Did you rest well last night?"

You nodded, touched by the worry etched on his usually stoic face. Klaus wasn't known for his displays of affection, but ever since you carried his child, a tenderness he couldn't quite mask lingered in his blue eyes. He cleared his throat, the familiar Klaus returning momentarily.

"Excellent. We don't need any unnecessary fatigue while dealing with this archaic prophecy."

He turned to face Elijah, resuming their previous conversation. However, his words were punctuated by occasional glances your way, each one a silent confirmation of his concern.

The next few weeks were a blur of doctor's appointments, cravings for bizarre combinations of food, and endless debates about the nursery.

Elijah, the undisputed planner, had already sketched out several designs, each more elaborate than the last. Rebekah, however, preferred a more minimalist approach, arguing for practicality over aesthetics. Kol, surprisingly, became the voice of reason, mediating their arguments with witty commentary and unexpected insights.

Klaus, though typically absent from these discussions, always managed to appear moments before a decision was made. His vetoes, delivered with a gruffness that belied his softening heart, were invariably accepted. The nursery, a haven of soft hues and elegant simplicity, was a testament to his unspoken desire to create a safe haven for his child.

One rainy afternoon, you found yourself curled up on the chaise lounge in Rebekah's room, a book clutched limply in your hand. Fatigue weighed heavily on your eyelids, threatening to pull you under. You drowsily watched rain lash against the window, feeling a wave of contentment wash over you.

The sound of the door creaking open startled you awake. Rebekah entered, a concerned frown creasing her brow. "You shouldn't be reading in such dim light, love," she chided gently, setting a steaming cup on the side table. "And here I thought Klaus told you to take a nap."

"He did," you mumbled, reaching for the cup. The warm aroma of chamomile filled your senses, instantly calming you further.

"He's just worried sick," Rebekah said, settling beside you on the chaise lounge. "We all are."

This was so random 💀

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part five: devil's in the details

word count: 1.1k

warnings: none!

four | five | six

Lando kept his left hand on the wheel, the other curled loosely around the disposable coffee cup. The warmth had mostly faded, but the scent of cinnamon and espresso still clung to the paper, a lingering reminder of the strange little encounter at Books & Brews.

The sky outside began to fade into the telltale colors of late evening, bright oranges and pinks painting the sky before settling into the beginning blues of the approaching night. The sleek metal of his car glinted with the last embers of light, the jet black sports car speeding down the main roads of the city. 

Lando was careful. Always.

Which was why it pissed him off when he realized he had made a mistake.

The Books & Brews coffee cup sat innocently in his hand as he walked into the mansion, steam still curling lazily from the lid. It wasn’t anything special —just coffee of some sort, really— but the cup was different.

He should have tossed it.

It's rubbish anyway, innit.

But he hadn’t, because he had been too focused on everything else.

Lando stepped through the grand double doors of his mansion, the weight of the day rolling off his shoulders as he exhaled, slow and measured. He loosened the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them up just as he strode into the kitchen—only to pause at the sharp-eyed presence already waiting for him.

Max Fewtrell stood by the counter, arms crossed, a whiskey glass dangling loosely from his fingers. He didn’t say anything at first—just flicked a glance down at the coffee cup in Lando’s hand.

Lando caught it too late.

Shit.

The cup wasn’t from his usual place. It wasn’t the sleek, minimalist design of the café Max always had someone fetch coffee from. 

Instead, it was a warm beige, Books & Brews scrawled across its center in an elegant, old-timey font, with a tiny, charming illustration of a steaming mug resting on a stack of books.

It looked completely out of place here—against the modern steel and marble of his kitchen, against the reputation he carried like a second skin.

And Max, perceptive as ever, had noticed.

A different coffee place. A logo he never used. Something new.

Something noticeable.

Lando didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. He just kept walking, exuding the kind of effortless indifference that made people second-guess what they’d seen.

It almost worked.

Almost.

But Max wasn’t people. He was observant, sharp—the kind of person who noticed things, which was what made him a good second-in-command and an irritating presence when Lando wanted to keep something to himself.

“New coffee place?” Max asked casually, falling into step beside him.

Lando didn’t look at him. “Something like that.”

Max hummed, glancing at the cup again before furrowing his brows. “Didn’t know you were switching it up.”

“Didn’t know I had to announce it.”

Of course, he knew how to handle real threats. Rivals. Men who came too close. People who asked the wrong questions.

But this? The casual scrutiny of a man who had worked beside him for years? It was the kind of thing that required a different kind of control.

So he adjusted his stance, as if completely at ease, and took a slow sip of the coffee—nonchalant, almost lazy.

Max let out a quiet scoff. “You don’t just—” He hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. His words come out calm, even, patient. “Mate, if you wanted coffee, I would’ve sent for it. You should’ve said somethin’.”

See? That’s the problem. 

It was never just coffee with him —  Max had an annoying habit of connecting dots and unfortunately also knew Lando since before he could reach the brake pedal of a car, so this was exactly the kind of small, insignificant thing that could start to look off if Lando let it.

So Lando forced a chuckle, easy, effortless. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to pick up a fuckin’ latte, Max.”

“Just sayin’. You’re a creature of habit,” Max pointed out, watching him. “Same coffee, same places, same people. Now suddenly, you’re somewhere new?” He gave a questioning look. “What,” he laughs, “Is the barista hot or something?”

Lando let out an unimpressed breath. “You think I’d go out of my way for a barista?”

Max grinned. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve done.”

Lando rolled his eyes, making a point to take another sip, as if the conversation was already beneath him. “Relax, yeah? Just happened to be nearby. Thought I’d try it. That a fucking crime?”

Max held up his hands in surrender, amusement still tugging at his lips. “Alright, alright. No need to get defensive.”

“I’m not defensive.”

“Sure.”

Lando exhaled through his nose, setting the cup down on the counter with an easy, unbothered motion. He moved to the fridge, pulling out a water bottle like he wasn’t paying attention to the way Max was still staring at the damn thing.

“I’d have brought you coffee if you told me,” Max added after, like this was somehow a failing on his part. “Didn’t know you wanted one.”

“It’s coffee, Max,” Lando said smoothly, cracking the cap off his water bottle. “Not a marriage proposal.”

Max snorted. “Tell that to the way you treat your usual place.”

Lando hummed in response, rolling his eyes, forcing himself back into normalcy. This wasn’t an interrogation. Max wasn’t suspicious. He was just confused because Lando was a creature of habit, and any break in that habit caught attention.

But another thing about Max—he didn’t overthink shit.

So after a beat, he simply shrugged, letting it go. “Whatever,” he muttered, leaning back again. “Long as you’re not having a midlife crisis about coffee.”

Lando smirked. “I’ll let you know if I start journaling about it.”

Max studied him for a long moment. Lando could feel the calculation, the subtle attempt to connect and deduce.

“...Right then,” was all Max said. Then, with a shrug, he set his whiskey glass down and turned toward the fridge, retrieving a bottle of water like the moment had never happened.

But Lando didn’t move. He kept his hand wrapped loosely around the middle of the coffee cup, resisting the impulse to toss it into the sink as if it was tainted evidence.

Because it wasn’t. It certainly didn’t mean anything.

So why the hell was he still standing here, feeling like he had just dodged a bullet? (He’d know. He’s done it on more than one occasion.)

Max twisted the cap off a water bottle, taking a slow sip before raising a brow at him. “Something on your mind, mate?”

Lando finally moved, tossing the cup into the trash with casual ease. “Not at all.”

Then he walked off, back to his office, back to his life, back to business as usual.

a/n: not much in the ways of plot this time, but a bit more characterization - and you get to meet Max Fewtrell!

[johnbrand]

Covenant of the Brotherhood

With @sjw-publishings

“Hello?” 

John’s voice reverberated back to him a few moments later after travelling across the empty space. The main hall was lit up, the soft combination of yellow and white lights filling the void with an almost artificial warmth. John called out again, but still there came no reply but his own. There was no one else in the large room, not even a single piece of greenery to signal any life. And yet, somehow, the space felt alive.

Cautiously treading down the middle aisle, John began his descent towards the front of the church. He scanned through the wooden pews as he passed them, each unsurprisingly empty as the previous one had been. John had lived in the neighborhood for almost eight years, having moved to his current apartment after graduating from college. He could have sworn that he knew every locale in the area, practically every character too. But John had never once before seen this church. 

It did not look new enough to have been built recently, but neither did it appear old enough to have been a historic landmark. The church was, as best as John could put it, generic. The exterior held nothing to hint at its denomination or intentions, its name “Covenant of the Brotherhood” only adding to its indistinct quality. The interior design further emphasized the blandness of it all. John inwardly analyzed how the beige-to-brown palette solidified the church as a place of tradition and conformity.

But it was not only the church’s seemingly sudden existence that bothered John. The neighborhood, an LGBTQ+ hotspot, was known for its absence of many religious entities in the first place. While some neighbors did participate in spiritual traditions, most were like John: living their loudest, happiest, gayest lives away from other-worldly caveats.

And as an athletic, muscular 30-year-old famous for his promiscuous abilities, John was particularly not in need of sexual guilt. After all, who else was supposed to top all the young twinks helplessly roaming around this side of town? And with six and a half feet, bouncy curls, and a brutishly masculine face, how would those young twinks be able deny him?

In fact, that was what John had been doing before he entered the church. The church was only a couple of blocks away from his meet up with Alexander Carmen, a man a few years younger, a few pounds lighter, and a few inches shorter than John himself. Alexander was one of John's favorite partners, their compatibility to the point that the no-relationship-nonsense John had even given away his phone number so that the two could track one another’s locations. But upon seeing the church, John had felt himself drawn in. And now, he found himself approaching the altar.

Stepping up to the glorified wooden table, John did a quick scan of the room once more. He could feel the gigantic, minimalistic cross looking down on him from behind, placing a certain weight over the typically confident male. John did not want to be caught standing behind the altar, particularly in an outfit as skimpy and tight as the one he was currently wearing. The tank and short shorts against his muscular frame was a callout to 70’s and 80’s B-horror movies. It was captivating to his admirers, and most likely insulting to the church.

With no true intentions in mind, John reoriented his focus to the altar. A gigantic book lay before him, presumably the Bible for the pastor of the church. Underneath its title was inscribed “RSAA Edition,” which frankly meant nothing to John. Carelessly, he snatched the heavy object before taking a seat against the back wall. He then swept open the cover and let the golden pages fly, their foreign wisdom fluttering before the gay man. The action was anticlimactic, but as the page was laid before him, John found his eyes drawn to handwriting beside the actual scripture.

Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant.

It was a simple message, and yet almost cryptic. It was like John understood the meaning of it, but the wrong one. He repeated the phrase out loud, cockily with an edge of snark. The Bible held no response, silent upon the cradle formed by his crossed left leg.

“Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant. Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant. Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant…” John rambled to himself, slightly disgusted. Each announcement took on a different character as he tested the statement.

Typically a strong, proud male, John found himself attempting to compensate for not understanding the phrase. The statement had him feeling emasculated, the church’s indifference to the world outside it only bolstering John's awkward state. He was dwarfed by the giant empty space before him, looked down upon by the wooden cross above his head in the place he called his home. 

“God, this stuff is so idiotic,” John proclaimed, giving up before flipping to a new page. With his eyes drifting across the verses, he did not consciously recognize that his large cock had awoken. Absent-mindedly, John freed his right hand to alleviate the tension, his rough palm moving back and forth through the mesh fabric in an all-too-familiar pattern.

“A reading from the First Epistle to John, chapter two, verse six,” John mocked. Its scripture was straight-forward: “Whoever says he abides in Him ought to walk in the same way in which He walked.” But it was the commentary scribbled beneath that was more intriguing. 

One shan’t stand out above your fellow brethren, just enough to lead when necessary and attract them for our cause.

The analysis was not unnecessarily correct, but John could sense a lingering irk behind the writing. It should have made him uneasy, but after saying it aloud, he felt slightly more relaxed. 

Within moments, John had shifted to a new section. “Another John,” he noticed. “‘Truly, I say to you, whoever believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do’.”

Still unaware of his right hand’s fondling, John traced the arrow down to the accompanying notes.

You have to flee from temptation, brother. Submit and become one with the flock.

The words echoed within John’s mind, their callout dissonant against his own mentality and causing his forced smirk to falter slightly. In an attempt to regain his former confidence, he added a corny “Amen!” It did not lighten John's mood.

“‘Do you not know that you are God's temple and that God's Spirit dwells in you?’” John quoted, having again run away to a new book in the Bible. He adjusted himself in his seat while doing so, dropping his leg and giving his pouch some room to breathe. In turn, this action subconsciously evicted John's right hand from its position, forcing it to find something new to hold. To John’s chagrin, he found this new scripture came with a similar message to the previous passage’s.

Thou shall be a body worthy of God’s temple. And only a brother’s body is worthy of such divine glory.

In response to the reading, John’s dick pulsed, the shock of this alien form of ecstasy forcing a soft “...amen…” to moan through his lips. After an embarrassed flush, John began to subtly bounce his leg before continuing to read, the rubbing friction enough to do the trick. The texture of his shorts was soft, but it eventually changed into a stricter nature. Starchy, unrelenting, one John had to work against if he wanted to engage in certain behaviors. The new suit trousers were not meant for the unorthodox activities John was attempting to engage in.

“Perhaps something else?” John asked to the abyss, the tapping of his smaller feet shifting to the duller clunk of well-used dress shoes. Each bounce sent a microscopic wave up his legs, adjusting them accordingly. A hefty number of inches were erased away as the legs became leaner and more compact. They now reflected a cycle of exercise attuned to the average human amount, rather than a tailored schedule. Slimmer, yet toned thighs led down to decent calves, which by then were partially covered in thick wool socks. 

Having flipped around to the Book of Job, John learned that: “‘The Spirit of God has made man, and the breath of the Almighty gives man life’.” The following comment was similar to the rest:

The Covenant will make the brother, the Covenant will give the brother purpose.

John did not hear the “Amen” leave his lips, or notice that his steadying breath deflated his muscular chest into a flatter terrain. Straightening his back, he continued to absorb the material. His shoulders rolled back in response, slimming as they conformed to the tightness of the suit jacket materializing on top of his lengthening shirt. John was lost in his own thoughts, the handwritten messages almost whispering to him. It was as if whoever had written the notes was providing instruction. Shaping a conductor of sorts, a conductor of souls. 

With his grip on the Bible still firm, but not as desperate, John envisioned himself as the conductor. His arms had to hold just the right amount of strength, eradicating any superfluous musculature to only leave behind what was necessary for guidance, not appearance. His left hand would continue holding His holy book, each finger shrinking into a more appropriate, conservative size. And John envisioned in his right hand the baton that would lead his people. 

Suddenly drug out of his thoughts, John realized he was already holding his baton. He opened his fingers to reveal a small cross pendant in his palm. John did not know where the necklace came from, or why he was wearing it. But something about the pendant made him prideful, excited, and joyously flustered. In response, John properly shut his legs out of respect, squeezing his other, anxiously throbbing baton between his legs.

The next page John landed on, he did not bother to read the typed words. The handwritten letters were more intriguing to him now.

One must stick to the roots of tradition, whilst conforming to social norms like every other Asian-American.

“Amen,” John replied as a belt slunk through his trousers' loops. Once it had circumnavigated John’s waist, it harshly tightened itself, forcing John to belt out a stronger “A-men!”

The belt’s tightening sent a corresponding signal to John’s buttocks, which instantly closed their doors.  The closure sparked pleasurably. “So good…ugh…” John grunted as the baton between his legs shrunk from the pressure, resulting in a more average-sized, family-friendly instrument. His right hand began to soften its grip on the pendant, hoping to squeeze his precious jewels, but something was holding him back. 

“Must obey…scripture…” John muttered, his eyes reading along.

One must only produce for the sole reason of producing.

John had to bear his own cross, literally. The crimson flush that had taken over his skin rushed rampantly across his frame, the tanning heat delivering additional waves of melanin. An amber hue settled in quickly and adjusted his features as needed, restructuring his face with a smoother, masculine glow and softening his curls into a sleek, straightened substitute. 

Pent up and approaching euphoria yet no touching his manhood, John's eyes befell an unusual nuance in the scripture. Instead of an accompanying physical note, there was only a simple line emphasized. The words were highlighted, underlined, and circled, not a single comment made. John understood that this scripture was of the utmost importance, their meaning requiring no interpretation.

“Thou shall not…want mphhh…” The words could not leave John’s shaking lips.

“Thou shall not want mmm…mmmmmf…mehh…” John attempted again, a bit stronger this time. His confidence was building.

“Thou shall not want…men.” John announced, his voice clearer. But he knew he could do it better. He had his baton. Now he had to act like a conductor.

“Thou shall not want men,” his voice was ringing. His pouch was pulsing. He had to be a conductor of souls. He had to speak like a pastor. “Thou shall not want men!” 

John repeated the words over and over, each statement more powerful then the last, each statement solidifying its truth. His truth. The fifth time he chanted it, John remembered all the Sunday School teachings. The tenth time he chanted it, he remembered his undergraduate degree in Theology and Masters in Divinity. The twentieth time he chanted it, he remembered the engagement ring stowed away in his desk.

Eventually, the outside world had entirely faded from view. John could see the vision before him. The church, the Covenant of the Brotherhood, filled with people. The congregation from the front pew to the back, out onto the streets, out across the world. “A-Men,” these women and men, these Christian women and men would reply to him. “A-Men!” these Christian, Asian-American women and men would reply to him. “A-MEN!” these heterosexual women and men would reply to him. John wanted them, he wanted to be with them, he wanted to be them. 

John stood up and with a gasp proclaimed a defiant “A-MEN!” His eyes rolled back momentarily as the newly abstinent being experienced a spiritual ecstasy, his reality reoriented towards a new goal, a new purpose. Once the rush dissipated, he proceeded forward to the altar as if nothing had happened, replacing his Revised Standard Asian-American edition of the Bible back in its home. He then tucked his cross pendant back underneath his shirt and adjusted his suit. He had to appear presentable after all, for he represented the Covenant and the Brotherhood.

“Hello?” A voice called out from the back of the church. “John? John Brand? Are you here?”

A young, effeminate man scurried down the middle aisle, soon approaching the only other soul in the room. 

“John?” the young man questioned, noting a strange familiarity with the Korean-American pastor before him. “Is that…you?”

“Apologies, my brother,” the charismatic man calmly began. “It's Jo-Han. Pastor Bang Jo-Han, but you may address me as Pastor Bang.”

The young man was confused, unaware of how to describe his situation, or his relationship to whom he was searching for. “But my phone says my boyfrie…uhh…someone I like was last active here?”

“Ah but brother, you are in the right place! I like any son of God!” As if to reassure the young man, the pastor gave his shoulder a rough squeeze. Although they were of the same height and only a few years apart in age, the paternal gesture was received appropriately, as the young man relaxed under the grip.

The gesture was also received inappropriately, for the young man realized the pastor, while a bit average looking for an Asian-American, was quite attractive. “Of course I like you, you are a part of my youth ministry are you not?”

“Youth ministry?” the young man’s heart sped up again. “What do you mean p…pastor?”

Pastor Bang’s smile was warm, fatherly even. “Let’s go back to my office, I’m sure I will be able to clear some things up for you there.”

[austinbutlerslovers]

Drenched in Shadows

Label Mature 18+

Summary When you can’t reach Patrick all day after he promised dinner reservations at Dorsia, concern drives you to his penthouse—and what you discover there chills you to the core.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥Patrick suffering psychosis • mental break•Patrick vulnerable • Patrick on his knees •oral on fem •clit play •shower sex • love bites • orgasms • creampie •Patrick desperate to keep you 

🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proofreader @purejasmine Inspo : His Interview Mag shower photoshoot *🥵 *

Drenched in Shadows

The elevator dings as you step out into the hallway to Patrick’s penthouse. The stark, minimalist design of the place feels colder tonight. 

Your heels walk across the polished floor as you approach his sleek black door. He hasn’t answered any of your calls all day, and the unease that something is wrong  rises as you reach for the handle.

To your surprise the door is unlocked, and you push it open.

“Patrick?” you call out, stepping inside. The open space is eerily quiet, save for the distant sound of running water. The usual order of his penthouse—a temple of perfection—feels slightly off.

Your pace quickens as you head toward the bathroom, the sound of the shower drawing you there. The light spilling from the half open door makes you anxious and as you push it open your breath catches at the sight.

Patrick stands under the showerhead, fully dressed in one of his immaculately tailored suits. His head hangs low, the water pouring over him, plastering the fabric to his sculpted frame.

His hands are braced against the white marble wall, fingers splayed out as if he’s trying to keep himself upright. The water streams down his face, dripping from his sharp jawline, to the pristine floor beneath him.

“Patrick!” you exclaim, your voice sharp, almost drowned out by the steady stream of the shower. “What are you doing?” you ask, cautiously stepping closer, your gaze fixed on him.

He doesn’t move for a moment, his breathing deep and uneven, the sound cutting through the tension in the room. Then, his voice, low and hoarse, breaks the silence. “I’ve done something terrible.”

Your stomach twists into a knot the ache in his voice unsettling you to your core. “What are you talking about Patrick? What’s wrong? You’re scaring me,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you take a hesitant step closer.

Patrick doesn’t answer. Instead, he slowly turns, his blue eyes dark as they meet yours, full of something you’ve never seen before—guilt, vulnerability, a rawness that frightens you. He steps forward, water still streaming down his face, soaking the floor as he closes the distance between you.

Before you can say another word, his hands grip your wrists, pulling you into the shower with him.

“Patrick—” Your protest is cut off by the shock of the water hitting you against your skin, soaking your clothes instantly. But he doesn’t stop, his other hand slides around the back of your neck, tilting your face toward his as his lips crash into yours.

His kiss is unexpected, rough and desperate. His mouth moving against yours like he’s trying to tell you something without words. His lips are warm and persistent despite the water drenching you both. His hands cradle your face, holding you like you’re the most fragile, precious thing he’s ever touched.

You melt into him, the warmth of his body grounding you as the water drenches your hair, your clothes, your skin. He pulls away slightly, his hands trailing down your waist, gripping you gently as he guides you back from the water. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his voice trembling.

“Patrick?” you ask, confusion threading your voice as you try to piece together what’s happening, but he’s unable to meet your gaze.

Instead his eyes are fixated on your soaked blouse. It clings to you, heavy and uncomfortable, but Patrick doesn’t let it stay that way for long. 

His fingers slide down the buttons, peeling the fabric away from your skin as if he’s unwrapping something sacred. 

He presses you gently back against the cool marble wall, his lips finding the curve of your neck, trailing downward with an aching reverence.

Every kiss feels like an apology, his hands steadying you as his mouth explores your skin with a tenderness you’ve never felt from him before. 

His lips worship every inch of you, the water cascading over his broad shoulders and down the hard lines of his suit as he sinks to his knees. 

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a silent question lingering in their depths.

You don’t say a word, but your gaze softens, your body giving him the answer he already knows.

Slowly his hands slide up to your hips, his fingers hooking into the sides of your panties under your skirt. His sharp eyes never leave yours as he pulls the delicate lace down your legs.

Your pulse quickens as his gaze darkens, the intensity in his eyes stealing your breath as he pulls up your skirt, his palms gripping your hips like an anchor.

When his mouth presses between your legs  you’re lost to him, your knees buckling to the warmth of his tongue against you, like you’re the only thing that matters.

You moan loudly, your body shuddering as he claims you with unrelenting devotion, each flick and each desperate stroke of his tongue, sending shockwaves through your core, unraveling you completely. 

His lips seal around you, pulling gently as his tongue licks against you, lapping up everything your body gives him.

Patrick Bateman—the man who’s never soft, never vulnerable—satisfies you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

Lost in the moment, you don’t care what he’s done or what he won’t say. You only care that he’s here, holding you, making you feel like the most precious thing in his shattered world.

The tension inside you coils tighter and tighter until it snaps, your hips shifting uncontrollably as you release with a sharp cry, your moans echoing in the shower.

Your thighs tremble as you struggle to catch your breath, but he doesn’t stop. His mouth and tongue work you with relentless precision, his groans muffled against you as he laps up every bit of your release—like he is starving for you.

His hands grip your hips firmly, holding you steady as he finally pulls back, rising from his knees.

When he stands, his chest is heaving, water dripping from his soaked suit as he looks at you. 

Without a word, he turns you, pressing your chest against the cold marble wall as his hands glide over your wet skin, pulling your skirt up over your hips.

He pushes your legs apart, his grip firm and commanding and you shiver—not from the water but from the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his presence igniting something raw and undeniable within you.

“Patrick,” you whisper, your voice a soft plea, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, his grip tightens on your hips as he presses the head of his cock against you, the stretch overwhelming as he pushes inside.

Your breath catches feeling the thick ridges of his cock gliding in every inch, and your body arcs instinctively as a moan escapes your lips, desperate for everything he’ll give you—especially like this.

His grip on your hips tightens, his nails digging slightly into your damp skin as he pulls you back against him.

His pace is rough, each thrust leaving you breathless as your cries echo against the shower walls.

His hands slide up your sides, his nails dragging as if he’s battling an internal war between control and surrender. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, the tenderness stark against the intensity of his thrusts.

“I shouldn’t want you like this,” he pleads, his voice breaking slightly as if his guilt and desire are intertwined in him. “But I can’t stop—I can’t stop, needing you.” He confesses.

Your breath hitches, the vulnerability in his voice momentarily pulling you from the haze of pleasure. You try to respond, but a sharp snap of his hips leaves you gasping and he groans low in your ear, his forehead pressing against the back of your head.

“I shouldn’t pull you into my darkness.” he whispers, his voice low and strained as his movements grow more desperate.

His words send a jolt through you, your body clenching tightly around his cock as he lowers his teeth to graze your shoulder. Before you can react he sinks them into your skin leaving the faintest mark before his lips press softly as if to apologize.

The contrast leaves you shaken, a mix of need and fear coursing through you and he drags his teeth along the curve of your neck just below your ear, the sounds of pleasure raw and unrestrained.

The water runs loudly, the steam now filling the room, but nothing distracts you from him—his deep, rough thrusts, the way he presses you harder against the wall with each measured stroke. 

Your hands press the marble harder, your head falling back against his shoulder as his pace quickens, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, as though he’s punishing himself through you.

Your moans fill the space, rising in pitch as he claims you completely, your nails scraping against the marble as you struggle to hold yourself up.

He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow, not until your voice falters, a loud cry escaping your lips as the pleasure overtakes you. Your body trembles against him as you orgasm, and his hand moves to your clit, prolonging your release as his hips continue to drive into you.

His deep grunts fill the shower, and as he comes he pushes into you one last time, his movements forceful, his hips pressing hard against you before he finally stills.

His hands slowly slide up your sides as he lowers his head, his breaths labored and uneven against your skin.

The shower is silent except for the steady stream of water cascading down, and you reach forward, turning off the handle as the two of you stand together, catching your breaths.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out, and as he turns you to face him,his expression is etched with conflict. His eyes, normally so cold and calculated, are clouded with something you can’t quite name—shame, maybe, or something deeper.

“What is it Patrick, tell me what’s wrong.” you ask moving gently, your hands sliding to his shoulders as you begin to peel his soaked suit jacket from him. He blinks, taken aback by the gesture, his sharp features tensing slightly as you move with care.

“You don’t understand,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m not… I’m not what you think I am.”

You meet his eyes, your expression calm and unwavering. “I know who you are, Patrick,” you say simply, continuing to remove his silk tie and unbutton his shirt letting each piece of clothing fall to the tiles below.

His perfect physique is revealed, the water glistening over his chiseled chest and the deep ridges of his abs. His body is like a sculpture—flawless, commanding, yet now vulnerable under your touch.

Grabbing a towel, you begin drying him off, your hands moving over his broad shoulders and down his arms, the tension in his muscles softening slightly under your touch. You kneel briefly to pat his legs dry, your fingers brushing over the strength of his thighs.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Patrick says, his tone sharper now, almost bitter. “You don’t know the thoughts I have, the things I’ve… indulged in,” he says, looking down at you.

You stand again, your gaze meeting his dazed and unreadable expression. For a moment, you hesitate, the weight of his words and the intensity of his stare pressing down on you.

You shake your head, your voice soft but firm. “Patrick, whatever it is, it can’t be as terrible as you think,” you say confidently.

He stares at you, his jaw tightening, his expression sharp and unreadable. “You think you know me,” he taunts, his voice low and edged with something dangerous. “But you don’t. Because If you did…you wouldn’t be standing here.”

A faint unease creeps into your chest seeing his changed behavior, it’s unsettling, and for the first time, you truly begin to wonder what he’s hiding.

Still, you force yourself to stay composed, reaching for his hands despite the flicker of fear in your mind. “Come with me,” you insist gently, your tone steady but quiet as you take his hands.

You pull him from the shower and guide him into the bedroom. The city lights spill through the window, casting a faint glow across the room, and you pull him down to lay with you on his large, pristine white bed.

Patrick stares blankly at the ceiling, his body close but his mind distant. It’s a rare and unsettling sight, as if he’s momentarily stripped of the control and precision that define him. The faint glow of the city highlights the tension in his jaw and the startling vulnerability in his eyes.

-She doesn’t know—She can’t. If she did, she’d run. She’d scream if she understood what I’ve done—what I am.

-And I would have to silence her.

Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, he turns to you, his movements cautious as though testing the weight of his own decision. His eyes meet yours briefly, yearning for something he doesn’t quite understand.

-This is weakness—Letting her stay—letting her see me like this—this isn’t control. This isn’t power. This is… pathetic.

-Why can’t I just end her.

Without a word, he presses himself against you, his arm draping over your chest, pulling you closer as though being apart from you is unbearable. 

His head rests against your shoulder and the weight of his vulnerability is laid bare in the quiet. His breath is unsteady, his fingers curling against your side as though he’s trying to anchor himself in reality.

It’s a haunting vulnerability, one he’s never shown, and you wonder what could have driven him to this? What terrible things lie buried in the silence between you.

You feel a slight tremor in his body as he buries his face against your neck, his breathing uneven, and you suddenly realize that he’s trembling.

“Oh Patrick “ you whisper trying to comfort him, your hand gently stroking through his damp hair as you hold him closer. 

His pain feels raw, exposed, as if the perfect façade he always wears has finally cracked.

“It’s okay, Patrick,” you reassure him softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

“It’s not” He shudders, overwhelmed by the intensity of his thoughts, but you hold him tighter.

For the first time, he seems entirely human, and you realize just how much he’s been hiding from the world—and from himself.

In the quiet, dim room, with his body against yours, you feel his intensity subside, his breathing evening out. As he falls asleep, his grip on you doesn’t loosen, and you don’t let him go—desperate to know what he’s done, and terrified of the answer.

END

🔗 Masterlist

Leather & Lace (Work in progress)

Summary Patrick becomes increasingly distant after showing vulnerability—until he invites you over for a late-night rendezvous. You confront him, demanding answers, but instead he pulls you into his depraved world, using you to satisfy his dark and insatiable desires.

🏷️ Always Tag Me

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[empyrealoasis]

Scripting Guide to Character Design for Shifters 𓏲 ࣪₊☾𓂃

This guide is designed for individuals who find scripting challenging and are looking for a thorough, step-by-step approach to help bring their desired reality to life. It aims to cover a wide range of essential elements, providing detailed prompts and questions to encourage creative thinking and help you craft a unique, immersive, and well-rounded script. Whether you're a beginner or someone who wants to refine their scripting process, this guide offers plenty of ideas and suggestions to ensure nothing important is overlooked. *World Building Guide

Physical Traits

Appearance:

What is the character’s height, weight, and body type?

What is their skin tone or complexion? Are there freckles, scars, birthmarks, or tattoos?

What are their most prominent facial features (e.g., sharp jawline, high cheekbones, round nose)?

What is the shape and color of their eyes? Are they expressive, piercing, or dull?

Describe their hair: color, length, texture, and style.

Do they wear makeup? If so, what kind? Is it bold, subtle, or cultural?

Posture and Movement:

Do they stand tall, slouch, or move with a particular rhythm?

Are their movements deliberate, hurried, or graceful?

Do they have any physical tics or mannerisms, like biting nails or twirling their hair?

Clothing and Accessories:

What is their style of clothing (e.g., modern, vintage, rugged)?

Are they flashy, minimalist, or practical in their fashion?

Do they wear specific accessories, like glasses, rings, or necklaces?

Are there cultural or personal symbols in their attire?

Health and Fitness:

What is their overall health—fit, frail, or somewhere in between?

Do they have any physical disabilities, chronic illnesses, or injuries?

Are there visible signs of their health (e.g., dark circles, scars, or a limp)?

Mental Traits

Intellect and Knowledge:

How intelligent are they? Are they book-smart, street-smart, or both?

What are their areas of expertise or hobbies?

Do they enjoy learning, or are they more hands-on and practical?

How do they solve problems—logically, emotionally, or instinctively?

Mindset and Attitude:

Are they optimistic, pessimistic, or realistic?

Do they view challenges as opportunities or obstacles?

What motivates them to keep going in difficult times?

Memory and Learning:

Do they have a sharp memory, or are they forgetful?

How quickly do they learn new skills or adapt to new situations?

Are they haunted by past memories or dismissive of them?

Mental Health:

Do they experience anxiety, depression, or other mental health challenges?

Are they self-aware, or do they struggle to understand their emotions?

How do they cope with stress—healthy outlets, escapism, or self-destructive behaviors?

Emotional Traits

Personality:

Are they introverted, extroverted, or ambiverted?

Do they come across as warm, cold, or neutral to others?

How do they interact with strangers, friends, and authority figures?

Are they quick to trust, or are they cautious and guarded?

Temperament:

Are they patient or quick-tempered?

Do they have a calming presence, or do they stir up chaos?

How do they handle conflict—do they avoid it, confront it, or manipulate others?

Core Emotions:

What emotion defines them (e.g., joy, anger, fear)?

What triggers strong emotional responses in them?

How do they express emotions—through words, actions, or body language?

Background and History

Family and Upbringing:

Where were they born, and what was their family situation like?

Were they raised with love, neglect, or strict rules?

Do they have siblings, and if so, what is their relationship with them?

Education and Career:

What kind of education did they receive (formal, informal, none)?

What is their job or role in their world?

Are they passionate about their work, or is it just a means to an end?

Defining Moments:

What was the most important event in their life?

Have they experienced any major losses or victories?

What regrets or achievements shape their character?

Social Traits

Relationships:

How do they treat friends, family, and romantic partners?

Are they loyal, distant, or unpredictable in relationships?

Do they form connections easily, or do they struggle to open up?

Reputation:

What do others think of them?

Are they well-known, infamous, or an enigma?

Do they care about their reputation, or are they indifferent?

Conflict Style:

How do they argue—calmly, aggressively, or defensively?

Are they forgiving, or do they hold grudges?

Can they admit when they’re wrong, or are they stubborn?

Beliefs and Values

Moral Compass:

What is their sense of right and wrong?

Do they follow the rules, break them, or create their own?

Are they guided by justice, compassion, ambition, or survival?

Faith and Spirituality:

Do they believe in a higher power, fate, or nothing at all?

Are they religious, spiritual, or secular?

How do their beliefs shape their decisions and relationships?

Cultural Influence:

What traditions or customs do they follow?

Are they proud of their heritage, or do they reject it?

How much of their culture is visible in their everyday life?

Habits and Quirks

Daily Routines:

What does their typical day look like?

Are they a morning person or a night owl?

Do they stick to routines, or are they spontaneous?

Unique Habits:

Do they have odd or endearing habits (e.g., always chewing gum, talking to their pet)?

What are their guilty pleasures?

Are there superstitions or rituals they always follow?

Speech Patterns:

Do they have an accent, lisp, or unique way of speaking?

Are they verbose, concise, or somewhere in between?

Do they use specific slang, catchphrases, or idioms?

Likes and Dislikes

Favorites:

What is their favorite food, drink, color, or scent?

What activities or hobbies bring them joy?

Are there specific seasons, weather, or places they love?

Pet Peeves:

What annoys them the most?

Are there sounds, habits, or types of people that irritate them?

How do they react when faced with things they dislike?

Goals and Dreams

Short-Term Goals:

What do they hope to accomplish in the near future?

Are they focused, distracted, or conflicted about their goals?

Long-Term Dreams:

What is their ultimate aspiration?

How realistic is their dream, and what stands in their way?

Who or what inspires them to keep pursuing it?

Fears and Doubts:

What are they most afraid of losing or failing at?

Do they have impostor syndrome or insecurities?

[geneticallyengineeredloser]

fob and mcr at wwwy contrasted so well

fall out boy brought out multiple intricate set designs with lots of effects and theatrics (the hospital bed, Pete flying, outuft changes, the video transitions from one album to the next), and they played songs from every single album, giving all of their eras a moment in the spotlight

mcr wore black button ups and their stage was a white sheet with their shadows, and they only played the black parade and 2 extra songs. there were very few things going on, like they wanted to put all the focus on the music.

they gave us both the maximalist and minimalist approach and I’m very grateful for both

[cherryl4na]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ `"lamborghini miura and date nights pt. 1"

abstract || you and lando enjoy life outside of all the chaos that comes with him being 'The Ace'

fem!reader || fluff. steamy. mafia au. lamborghini miura. will be a pt. 2. heavily inspired by the suit at a mclaren event and the outfit at cannes. 3.6k words

Lando Norris’ penthouse is the epitome of luxury and power, a sanctuary high above the city’s restless heartbeat. The expansive living space is a testament to modern elegance, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the skyline, the city lights twinkling like distant stars.

When stepping out of the private elevator, you’re greeted by a foyer with polished marble floors, leading into an open-concept living area. The décor is a blend of classic and contemporary, with rich, dark wood paneling and sleek, minimalist furniture. A grand piano sits in one corner, its black lacquer finish reflecting the soft glow of the overhead designer lighting.

The lounge area is dominated by a large, plush sofa that faces a state-of-the-art entertainment system, and a glass coffee table holds an array of high-end spirits and crystal decanters. Original artworks adorn the walls, and a collection of rare books fills the built-in shelves, revealing Lando’s taste for the finer things in life.

The dining area features a long, ebony dining table surrounded by leather-upholstered chairs, perfect for hosting intimate gatherings or conducting discreet business meetings. Adjacent to it is a gourmet kitchen, fitted with professional-grade appliances and a sleek breakfast bar.

The penthouse also boasts a private gym, a spa-like bathroom with a Jacuzzi and a rain shower, and a walk-in wardrobe that houses an impressive collection of designer suits and racing memorabilia.

Lando’s personal quarters are a sanctuary within a sanctuary. The master bedroom is spacious, with a king-sized bed taking center stage, draped in the finest silk linens. A private balcony extends from the bedroom, offering a secluded spot to take in the breathtaking views or simply enjoy a moment of solitude.

Every detail in Lando’s penthouse speaks of a man who commands respect and enjoys his success, yet values privacy and comfort above all else. It’s a space that’s both a showpiece and a retreat, reflecting the complex character of ‘The Ace’ himself.

As of now, the evening had settled over the city like a velvet shroud, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the twilight sky. Inside the luxurious penthouse, Lando Norris watched you with an intensity that belied his calm exterior.

You stood before the full-length mirror, the soft fabric of your Versace dress cascading down in waves of midnight blue, a stark contrast to the elegance of your skin. The room was filled with the quiet rustle of silk and the subtle scent of vanilla from your perfume. It was a rare occasion, this dance of preparation, and Lando found himself captivated by the ritual.

He leaned casually against the mahogany door frame, arms crossed over his chest covered with a white Nordstrom silk shirt that has been left unbuttoned just slightly to exude enough sensuality but keeping it decent, his two usual gold chains around his thick, tan neck as his eyes followed your every move. There was something about the way you moved, the confidence in your gestures, that drew him in. It was a dance he had seen many perform but none with such genuine disregard for the world’s expectations.

“You don’t have to impress anyone,” Lando finally spoke, his voice a low rumble in the opulent room.

You met his gaze in the mirror, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’m not trying to impress,” you replied, your voice steady. “I’m trying to remember who I am beyond all this,” you gestured vaguely, encompassing the grandeur of the room and, by extension, the life you had found yourself entwined in.

Lando pushed off from the doorframe, his steps silent on the plush carpet as he approached. “And who are you exactly, in this world?” he asked, stopping just a breath away from you.

You turned to face him, the intensity of his gaze compelling you to answer with truth. “Someone who still believes in a bit of normality, even in a world as cynical as ours.”

His chuckle was soft, a sound that warmed you more than any embrace. “Then perhaps this will serve as a reminder,” Lando said, producing a small, black velvet box from his pocket.

He opened it to reveal a delicate gold chain, from which hung a pendant crafted in the shape of a lotus, its petals open as if reaching for the last rays of the sun. “The lotus blooms in the mud,” he murmured, his fingers deft as he clasped the necklace around your neck. 

The lotus flower, revered across cultures and spiritual traditions, embodies profound symbolism and meaning. Emerging from muddy waters yet remaining unstained, it symbolizes purity of heart, mind, and spirit. Its ability to bloom immaculately amidst adversity speaks to resilience and strength, teaching us to persevere and flourish despite life's challenges.

It serves as a timeless metaphor for the human experience — a reminder that through adversity, purity, and spiritual growth, we can rise above the murky waters of life and blossom into our fullest potential.

You reached up to touch the pendant, its cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth of his fingers still lingering on your skin. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered, gratitude lacing your words. Lando stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours. “As are you,” he said, not as a compliment, but as a simple statement of fact.

With a smile that matched the warmth of his words, you followed Lando out of his luxurious penthouse. The evening air greeted you with a gentle breeze as you made your way towards the private garage, where a sleek, vintage Lamborghini Miura awaited. Its navy paint gleamed under the soft glow of the penthouse's exterior lights, exuding elegance and power in equal measure.

"You're driving this?" you asked, your voice a mixture of surprise and excitement, a smile slowly inching its way on your face.

Lando nodded, a playful glint in his eyes as he held open the passenger door for you. "Well, how else did you think we’d travel? I figured we could take a little drive before our reservation. Trust me, it'll be an experience you won't forget."

As you move to settle into the plush leather seat, Lando places a hand on your head to make sure it’s protected from the roof of the car. Heading around the car, Lando enters the driver side, and effortlessly starts the engine, causing the powerful rumble to fill the air around you. The car eased out of the garage with grace, navigating the city streets with the familiarity of a seasoned driver. The night enveloped you both, the city lights painting a canvas of twinkling stars overhead.

With each turn and straight away, the Lamborghini carried you through the cityscape, the wind whispering secrets as it tousled your hair. In the midst of this exhilarating journey, Lando's presence beside you remained a constant source of comfort and excitement, his occasional glance your way a silent promise of more adventures to come.

As you ventured further into the night, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the hum of the engine and the shared moments between you and Lando. In the soft glow of passing street lamps, you realized that this impromptu drive wasn't just about the destination—it was about the connection forged in the quiet moments between heartbeats, where each glance and smile spoke volumes about the budding romance in the air.

And as the Lamborghini carried you both towards an unknown horizon, you couldn't help but feel that this night was just the beginning of a journey filled with endless possibilities, where every twist of fate was waiting to be explored together.

With each mile that passed beneath the Lamborghini's wheels, the cityscape transformed into a mesmerizing blur of lights and shadows. Lando navigated the streets with effortless precision, occasionally stealing glances at you, his expression a mix of anticipation and contentment.

As the vibrant pulse of the city gradually gave way to quieter, tree-lined avenues, the Lamborghini slowed to a stop in front of a stately building adorned with ivy-covered walls and softly glowing lanterns. You looked up, realizing you had arrived at a charming and exclusive restaurant known for its exquisite cuisine and intimate ambiance.

Lando turned off the engine, and the sudden silence enveloped you like a comforting embrace. He stepped out of the car, swiftly coming around to open your door with a gentlemanly flourish. As you emerged, the cool evening air wrapped around you, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of fine dining and the promise of a memorable evening ahead.

The entrance of the restaurant welcomed you with a warm glow from within, casting a soft halo around Lando as he extended his hand, inviting you to walk with him towards the door. You accepted graciously, feeling a flutter of excitement mingled with a touch of nervousness. This evening had already surpassed any expectations you might have had, and yet, you couldn't help but wonder what surprises lay in store.

Inside, the ambiance was elegant yet inviting, with soft music playing in the background and flickering candlelight casting a soft glow over linen-covered tables. The maître d' greeted you warmly, confirming your reservation and guiding you both to a secluded corner table with a breathtaking view of the city skyline.

As you settled into your seats, Lando's gaze met yours across the table, his eyes sparkling with a quiet intensity that mirrored your own emotions. The evening stretched out before you like an uncharted path, each moment unfolding with a delicate grace that seemed to deepen the connection between you.

Conversation flowed effortlessly between bites of exquisitely prepared dishes and sips of fine wine, punctuated by shared laughter and stolen glances that spoke volumes. In the intimate setting of the restaurant, surrounded by the soft murmur of other diners and the gentle hum of city life beyond the windows, it felt as though time had slowed to a perfect cadence, allowing you both to savor every fleeting second together.

And as the night progressed, you found yourself caught in a whirlwind of emotions—excitement, attraction, and a growing sense of intimacy that seemed to bloom with each passing moment. Across the table, Lando's smile was a beacon of warmth, his presence a reassuring anchor in the sea of possibility that stretched out before you.

As dessert arrived, accompanied by a flourish of culinary artistry that mirrored the magic of the evening itself, you couldn't help but marvel at how a spontaneous drive in a Lamborghini had led to this moment of shared connection and undeniable chemistry between you and Lando.

The restaurant hummed with a subtle buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses, yet your attention was solely on the man sitting across from you. Lando, with his easy charm and magnetic presence, had swept you off your feet from the moment you met. His laughter was infectious, his stories captivating, and as the evening progressed, you found yourself drawn deeper into his orbit.

The evening had been filled with unexpected turns—a scenic drive through desert landscapes that stretched endlessly under a starlit sky, conversations that ranged from lighthearted banter to deeper musings about life and dreams. Each moment seemed to unfold effortlessly, as if fate had orchestrated this encounter.

And now, as dessert was served—a masterpiece of flavors and presentation—you felt a surge of anticipation mingled with a hint of nervous excitement. Lando caught your gaze, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of mischief and admiration. Without a word, he reached across the table, his hand finding yours with a gentle yet confident touch.

"Care to dance?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with a magnetic charm that sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn't resist the invitation, nor did you want to. With a smile that matched his own, you nodded, allowing him to lead you onto the small, cleared space between tables where other diners watched with subtle curiosity.

As "Hola Senorita" by GIMS and Maluma began to play softly in the background, Lando pulled you close, his hand firm on your waist as he guided you in a slow, sensual sway to the seductive rhythm of the music. The heat of his body pressed against yours, sending a wave of electricity through every nerve ending.

In that intimate embrace, the world around you faded into a blur, leaving only the two of you moving together in perfect synchronization. His touch was both gentle and possessive, his gaze never leaving yours as if trying to convey a thousand unspoken words.

The sensual dance unfolded like a whispered promise of what could be—an unspoken acknowledgment of the undeniable chemistry that simmered beneath the surface. Each step, each turn spoke volumes of desire and connection, drawing you closer to Lando in ways words could never capture.

As the song neared its end, you found yourself breathless yet exhilarated, caught up in the intensity of the moment shared between you. Lando's lips curved into a tender smile as he guided you back to the table, where dessert awaited—a sweet ending to a night that had begun with a drive and culminated in a dance that resonated with the magic of newfound connection and possibility.

And deep down, beneath the surface of whispered promises and shared glances, you knew that this evening was only the beginning—a prelude to a story waiting to unfold, where each chapter would be written in the tender moments and stolen kisses that danced on the edge of tomorrow.

After settling the bill, not without a bit of banter over who pays, you both stepped out into the cool night air, the echoes of laughter and shared stories still resonating between you. The Lamborghini awaited, a sleek silhouette against the dimly lit street, its engine purring with restrained power.

"Where to now?" you asked, half in jest, half in earnest curiosity.

Lando grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, "Anywhere but here."

With that, you slipped into the passenger seat with his help of course, the leather embracing you with its luxurious warmth. The engine roared to life, the city lights streaking past in a blur as you navigated the winding roads together. The night was young, and so were you, in this ephemeral moment where time seemed to slow down just for the two of you.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving through dreams and aspirations, fears and triumphs, each revelation knitting your souls closer together. It was as if the universe conspired to create this perfect interlude, where nothing existed beyond the confines of the Lamborghini and the burgeoning connection between you.

As the city lights began to fade into the rearview mirror, you found yourselves on a quieter stretch of road, surrounded by a tapestry of stars overhead. The car slowed to a stop, and you both stepped out onto an overlook, the city sprawling below like a sea of twinkling lights.

Lando's eyes held yours, their intensity magnified by the intimacy of the moment. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, echoing the rhythm of your own. The night draped around you like a velvet cloak, cocooning you in a world where only the two of you existed.

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining effortlessly as if they had always belonged together. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver of anticipation through you, a silent invitation to let go of any lingering doubts or hesitations.

Leaning closer, his breath mingled with yours, warm against your lips. The air crackled with unspoken words, each heartbeat resonating like a whispered promise of what could be. You could smell the subtle scent of his cologne, a comforting familiarity that grounded you in the present moment.

When his lips finally brushed against yours, it was like a symphony of emotions unfolding in slow motion. Soft yet insistent, his kiss spoke of desire tempered with tenderness, a delicate balance of passion and restraint. Time seemed to stretch and bend around you, the world narrowing down to the sensation of his lips moving against yours, tracing the contours of a connection that defied words.

His arms encircled you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The warmth of his embrace cocooned you in a sanctuary of shared vulnerability, where every touch and caress spoke volumes of unspoken longing and mutual understanding.

Under the canopy of stars, the Lamborghini Miura stood sentinel, bearing witness to a moment that transcended the mundane. The engine's purr became a backdrop to the symphony of your shared breaths, the quiet rustle of fabric as you leaned into each other, seeking solace and passion in equal measure.

As the kiss deepened, the world around you faded into insignificance. There was only the taste of him on your lips, the press of his body against yours, and the electric current that surged between you, binding your souls in a dance as ancient as time itself.

In that timeless embrace, you felt a surge of emotion swell within you—love in its purest form, unguarded and unfiltered. It was a declaration whispered in the language of touch and sensation, a silent vow that this connection was worth cherishing, nurturing, and exploring with every fiber of your being.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and exhilarated, Lando's eyes held a glimmer of unspoken promises yet to be fulfilled. His thumb gently brushed against your cheek, a tender gesture that spoke of reverence and devotion.

In the quiet aftermath, as you stood entwined under the stars, you knew that this night had forever altered the course of your story together. Each heartbeat echoed the cadence of a new beginning, where the chapters ahead would be written in the shared moments of vulnerability, passion, and the unwavering bond forged in the embrace of that unforgettable night.

Feeling the cool metal of the Lamborghini Miura against your back, you smiled as Lando drew you close, his touch tender yet commanding. His fingers traced a delicate path along your jawline, sending a thrill through you that echoed in the warm summer night around you.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both soft and consuming, a perfect blend of longing and urgency. You leaned into him, feeling the strength of his embrace against the smooth, cool surface of the car's hood beneath you. The night seemed to hold its breath as you lost yourself in the sensation of his lips moving against yours, the mingling of your breaths creating an intimate symphony.

His hands, strong yet gentle, explored your back with a reverence that made your heart race before finally reaching their destination. He grips the back of your plush thighs in a way that makes you feel weak all over. The hood of the car digs into you as he places you gently on it, moving to stand between your legs. 

Making this moment as intimate as possible, his veiny hands move to grip your waist and pull you closer till there is absolutely no space between the two of you. Every touch, every caress deepened the connection between you, amplifying the heat that coursed through your veins. Time seemed to stand still as you savored each moment, each kiss a testament to the unspoken desire and passion that burned between you.

In that moment, surrounded by the soft night air and the distant murmur of the city, you were entwined in a dance of intimacy and yearning, where nothing else existed except the electricity of his soft lips against your own, his touch caressing you as if you’re made of glass.

As you both pull away from each other, the air between you thick with unspoken words and the promise of what the future might hold, Lando reaches out to gently stroke your cheek. His touch is warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine that have nothing to do with the cool night air. 

"Let's head back," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with emotion, lips plumped up and red. You nod in agreement, feeling a sense of contentment settling over you like a soft blanket. Together, you gather yourselves and step back towards the waiting Lamborghini Miura.

The drive back to Lando's penthouse is quiet, the purr of the engine providing a soothing soundtrack to your thoughts. You steal glances at each other from time to time, exchanging small smiles that speak volumes about the bond you've forged this evening.

Arriving at the penthouse, Lando parks the car with practiced ease. He takes your hand as you both exit the vehicle, his touch reassuring and grounding. The night feels alive with possibilities as you step into the elevator, riding it up to his luxurious apartment high above the city.

Inside, the penthouse is a sanctuary of modern elegance and comfort. Lando leads you to a balcony overlooking the glittering skyline, where the city lights twinkle like stars in the night sky. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you close as you lean against the railing together.

"This night," he begins softly, his voice carrying a hint of wonder, "it feels like everything has changed, but at the same time, hasn’t."

You turn in his arms to face him, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his eyes. "It has," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "In the best possible way."

Lando smiles, a smile that reaches his eyes and fills you with warmth. "I'm glad," he says, leaning in to kiss you gently for the third time that night, as if sealing a promise made by the night itself.

And as you stand there, in each other's arms, the Lamborghini Miura waits below like a silent witness to the beginning of your love story — a story that started with a car, a journey, and two hearts finding their way to each other.

©2024 cherryl4na. - please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works on other platforms without my permission.

an || hey guys! i've had this in the works since early june and finally got around to semi finishing it. this will have a pt 2 and i apologize if it takes a while to come out. hope you enjoyed this and there will be more to come!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Art Deco

Art Deco - a style of decor and architecture that peaked in international popularity in the 1920s and 1930s and includes modern design elements combined with sophisticated craftsmanship.

The design movement is further characterized by geometric shapes and a bold color palette; the use of metals or metallic details; glam fabrics with patterns; and figures from Greek and Roman mythology.

Depending on the geography and time period referenced, it can vary widely.

While early styles were bursting with often clashing colors, the Great Depression ushered in a more minimalist approach and muted some of the excesses of the initial art deco designers.

The deco era has experienced a resurgence in recent times, thanks in part to Hollywood films that heavily feature the aesthetic, such as Chicago (2002) and The Great Gatsby (2013).

Elements of Art Deco Decor Design

Art deco decor and architecture can vary, but here are some of the characteristics practically synonymous with the style of the deco period, today considered to be somewhat retro in style.

Geometric shapes: Key art deco elements include geometric designs such as sunbursts, which are sometimes deconstructed into circles and triangles; zigzag patterns, which may vary from stacked chevrons to houndstooth patterns; and scalloped patterns, which combine aspects of both sunburst and zigzag shapes. For example, a screen meant to divide a dining room from a living room may feature rounded, scalloped curves at the top instead of flat edges.

Bold colors: Bright colors are characteristic of the art deco style, sometimes appearing in clashing combinations but always in vivid, gemstone hues, such as in colored glass in a sconce or chandelier, or in color-saturated wall decor that draws the eye.

Mythological figures: Figures from Greek and Roman mythology, or heavily mythologized modern stand-ins, feature prominently in art deco interior design, such as posters, light fixtures, and other objects. Art deco artists also flourished in the medium of sculpture, and some of the most enduring symbols of the style are found in sculptures in major cities around the world.

Various metals: Exterior art deco architecture and designs favor the use of chrome and stainless steel, especially in combination with concrete. Smaller works, such as a table lamp, may feature intricate inlays of more precious metals. In the absence of actual metal, art deco styles may include materials or visual elements intended to appear metallic in nature.

Luxurious, patterned fabrics: Art deco furniture upholstery usually features expensive or expensive-looking fabrics and brightly colored geometric patterns to further indicate opulence.

Lacquers and inlays: Finishing touches like a glossy lacquer on a counter or an exquisite, patterned inlay—made of expensive materials like gold or ivory—are representative of art deco in that they are at once sleek and modern while also showcasing a high degree of craftsmanship. Lacquered elements can appear on stools, side tables, coffee tables, or any surface where they will be admired and enjoyed.

A Brief History of Art Deco

Art deco decor and architecture first emerged early in the 20th century, but the style is still popular today.

Emergence in France: Art deco (arts décoratif in French) first appeared in France around the time of World War I, which began in 1914. Art deco was a reaction to the preceding art nouveau period (characterized by intricate, swirling designs)—an effort to bring back elements of traditional art and combine them with modern materials and craftsmanship. The style reached its peak at the 1925 Decorative Arts Exposition in Paris and dominated architecture and interior design ideas around the world.

Divergence of styles: By the late 1920s, the art deco look had split into two different schools of thought and style. The traditionalists wanted to pair the modern forms of home decor and architecture with traditional craftsmanship; the modernists embraced new materials, new technology, and mass production in favor of a more streamlined approach to design.

Emergence in New York: Art deco architecture and visual arts is closely associated with the city of New York, one of the cities where the style first appeared in the United States during the ’20s and flourishing into the 1930s. New York still has many skyscrapers and other examples of art deco architecture, such as Rockefeller Center, the Chrysler Building, and the Empire State Building.

Embrace around the world: Major international cities welcomed art deco design elements into their own decor, art, and architecture, and you can see examples of this style in mosaics, sculptures, and buildings in Brussels, Bucharest, Chicago, London, Mexico City, Miami, Moscow, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, and other cities.

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