#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.

[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.

[himasgod]

Ok hear me out the second place losers (Leona, vil, jamil) getting a best Second mug as a joke for their so ;}

Jamil, Leona and Vil x Reader

Where you give them a mug that says "Best Second Place"

How would they react if you gave them a mug making fun of them for being "second-losers"?

I haven't felt good about how this turned out i've reworked it over and over again, and I didn't know what approach to take, so I deleted the angst and all that and did what I could. It's not what I'm most proud of, sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy it. 😭

When he sees the mug, Jamil takes it wordlessly and examines it as if it were a castle trap. He reads the message in a low voice:

"Best. Second. Place."

Then he looks up and gives you that neutral smile and says

"I'm reconsidering this relationship."

But you already know him. You say with all the intention in the world, "It's recognition of your talent, babe. The world doesn't give you first places, but I do recognize your worth. Even if it's sarcastic."

Jamil sighs deeply, as if carrying an invisible weight, and ends up using the mug secretly so no one can see the message. But you notice. You always notice.

Later, he starts using it in front of Kalim. When Kalim asks him why it says "second place," he simply replies,

"A reminder that, despite everything, there's always someone who sees beyond the families."

He throws you a super passive-aggressive hint one night:

"Maybe I should get you a mug that says 'Best Annoying Jerk Lover.' So we can match."

But the truth is, he appreciates the joke. Because he knows it's coming from you. Because he knows that behind the joke is genuine affection and appreciation. And because for the first time, someone sees him for who he really is, beyond being in Kalim's shadow.

Leona isn't exactly a morning person, so when you place the wrapped box on his dorm without saying anything, he just glances at it and snorts

"Now what did you do?"

When he finally opens it and sees that beautiful white mug with gold lettering that says "Best Second Place," he freezes for a few seconds.

Total silence.

Then he gives you a menacing look. He looks at you with mockery and annoyance

"Oh, I get it. Very funny."

He doesn't break it. He doesn't throw it away. He just places it carefully on the table.

"Don't even think I'm going to use that"

But the next day… there he is, drinking a morning coffee from that same mug as if nothing had happened.

If you confront him with a "gotcha" smirk, he'll just snort:

"Keep being annoying and I'll make you second in bed tonight. Just sayin'."

He uses the mug secretly because, although he'd never admit it, he likes it when you mock him, even in jest. And because it's obvious it was a gift from you.

You're the only person who can tease him without ending up buried under an eternal nap.

When you give him the mug, Vil thinks it's an aesthetic gift, so he opens it with anticipation.

But as soon as he reads "Best Second Place," he frowns as if he's just seen Epel walk out the door with badly lined lips.

Silence. Just a slow blink, then a fake smile.

"Is this some kind of satire, honey? Have you spoken to Neige?"

You give him the best excuse in the world: "It's because you're so amazing that even the judges couldn't give you first place because it would have been unfair to him."

He narrows his eyes, but can't help but muster a very subtle smile.

He puts the mug away. Then, without you knowing it, he starts using it for his face masks and detox tea.

And when you notice, he simply says,

"The design is minimalist. I'm not going to get rid of something just because it has a questionable message."

Once, during a Magicam livestream, he lets slip that he uses the mug, and his followers go wild.

"Even second place is a threat when you know no one can match you."

He likes that you're able to joke with him without putting him down. Deep down, it gives him a certain peace to be able to share that kind of connection without having to be perfect all the time.

[wosospacegirl]

Nice try - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Alexia thinks buying Y/N clothes is a love language.

Word count: 1.9k

..

Y/n was on a mission.

A quiet, stealthy, slightly ridiculous mission that involved tiptoeing out of their house in a hoodie three sizes too big–Alexia’s, obviously–wearing the one pair of jeans she had left, which was now very much ripped across the knee and suspiciously breezy in the back.

She couldn’t let Alexia see her like this. 

If Alexia so much as sensed that Y/n needed new clothes, she would materialise out of thin air with a platinum credit card and the entire spring collection of three different Spanish designers. 

She had done it before. Alba had mentioned once that she liked a certain purse, and boom: three purses, delivered, and a casual “I thought this one looked better on you” from Alexia like she hadn’t just dropped €2,000 for fun.

So no. Y/n was not about to become the next victim.

She waited until Alexia left for training, counted five extra minutes–just in case she forgot her water bottle and came back, because that had happened before, too–, and then bolted.

Half an hour later, she was crouched behind a rack of trousers in a little boutique downtown, trying to decide between two identical pairs of black pants. Y/n could only afford one, and god forbid she buy two- otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to treat herself at the super overpriced coffee shop near her university."

She pulled out her phone to check her bank balance. She looked at the number and sighed. Maybe she could give some tutoring? She could make some extra money off of that.

Just as she was about to put her phone away, a text appeared.

Alexia: Where are you?

Y/n blinked. Hesitated.

Y/n: uni

Alexia: You don’t have any classes on Wednesdays.

Y/n: I do

That was weak. She knew it. Alexia definitely knew it.

Alexia: You left your location on, amor.

Y/n froze, eyes wide. Her thumb hovered uselessly above her screen. God, she was so bad at lying. She needed to delete Life360 or whatever tracker Alexia had installed under the guise of “safety.”

Then another text:

Alexia: I love buying things. Why didn’t you wait for me? I wanted to go too.

“Shit,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder like Alexia might already be walking in, designer sunglasses and euro bills in hand.

..

Y/n stood in the fitting room, staring at the two pairs of pants and two shirts draped over her arm like they weighed a thousand kilos. 

It felt indulgent. Excessive. Reckless, even. 

She’d been holding out for months–mending ripped seams, rotating the same three outfits, saying it was trying to create a minimalist approach to life–but now her last decent pair of pants had betrayed her with a dramatic rip, and here she was. 

Four items. Four. Her chest tightened like she had just maxed out a credit card. It didn’t matter that they were basics or on sale…Just the idea of buying more than one thing made her skin crawl with guilt. 

Alexia would’ve walked in and cleared a whole rack without blinking, but Y/n wasn’t like that. She could already hear her own voice in her head: 

This is too much. You don’t need all this. Put one back. Put two back. Hell, put all of it back and make peace with your tragic wardrobe.

Still locked in that mental spiral, Y/n approached the register like she was walking into a courtroom, bracing for judgment. The cashier scanned the tags with a chirpy rhythm that made her stomach twist, and then, just as she reached for her card, he smiled brightly.

“Looks like you’re all set. Mrs. Putellas already paid for everything.”

Y/n stared at him like he’d just slapped her.

“Excuse me?” she asked, blinking slowly.

The man at the counter, mid-30s, smiley, clearly unaware of the emotional warfare he had just triggered, tilted his head. 

“Mrs. Putellas has already paid.” He said louder, as if Yn didn’t hear him the first time.  “Isn’t that sweet?”

Y/n’s right eye twitched.

“She what?” she asked, her voice flat, her soul leaving her body.

He grinned, still clearly thinking this was a romantic surprise moment.

“She paid remotely. It happens all the time- oh, and she left a note! Said to tell you ‘nice try, amor.’”

Y/n’s mouth dropped open.

“I...” she muttered, absolutely seething. “Fuck Alexia.”

“Would you like me to pack it as a gift?” he offered weakly, now aware he may have stepped into a silent couple war.

Y/n took a deep, cleansing breath. Then she smiled, the type of smile that would have made Alexia very nervous had she been present.

“No,” Y/n said sweetly. “But do you sell running shoes? Mrs. Putellas gonna need them.”

..

Y/n didn’t slam the front door, but only because she knew Alexia had expensive taste in hinges.

Storming into the living room with her shopping bags like they were the physical manifestation of betrayal, she found Alexia exactly where she expected her to be: lounged on the sofa, one leg tucked under her, hair in a clip, and eyes glued to the TV where a replay of Barça’s last match played in glorious 4K.

Alexia barely glanced away from the screen as Y/n stepped in front of it, blocking the entire view. 

Her response? A contented little sigh and the casual press of a warm hand to Y/n’s waist.

“Hola, amor,” she murmured, gently leaning over and kissing Y/n’s belly over her shirt. “Can you just take one tiny step to the side so I can see Patri’s goal again? It was so clean–”

“No,” Y/n said, not moving an inch. “Alexia. What the hell?”

Alexia blinked up at her, all wide-eyed and falsely innocent. “What?”

Y/n lifted a shopping bag and shook it gently. “How many times have I asked you not to buy me things?”

“I didn’t buy you anything,” Alexia replied, with the slow, smug calm of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. “I just paid for them. It’s different.”

Y/n gaped. “It’s not different!”

“It is in my heart.” Alexia gave her a cheeky smile and tugged gently at her waist to try and coax her aside. “Also, you picked them yourself. So technically, I just… assisted.”

“You hacked the store’s payment system.”

“I used Apple Pay.”

“Same thing,” Y/n muttered, flopping dramatically onto the sofa beside her, pout on her face.

Alexia leaned in, voice low and teasing. “You really think pouting is going to stop me?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re welcome, amor”

Y/n buried her face in a throw pillow to muffle the sound, leaving her body.

The game carried on, with Y/n begrudgingly sinking into the sofa next to Alexia.

Every now and then, Alexia’s eyes would flicker over to Y/n, a smug little grin tugging at her lips, especially when she could feel the weight of Y/n’s tension beside her. 

But for the most part, they watched the game in comfortable silence–well, as comfortable as it could be with Y/n trying not to think about how Alexia had yet again spent her money on her.

As the final whistle blew and the game wrapped up, Y/n sighed deeply, finally leaning back into the sofa. 

She didn’t look at Alexia, didn’t even glance at her. The silence was only broken when Alexia’s grin widened.

“Amor,” Alexia whispered, urging Y/n to sit on her lap, which she did. 

Alexia’s hand naturally found its place at Y/n’s waist, then slowly moved up to her ribs, her thumb gently brushing over the soft fabric of Y/n’s shirt before it lingered on her breast.

Y/n gently took Alexia’s hand and placed it on her own lap, giving her a tired look. “No.”

Alexia’s grin faltered, her hand staying still on Y/n’s lap as she tilted her head in confusion. 

“No? Por que?”

Y/n sighed, shifting to face her, a soft but serious look in her eyes. 

“I don’t like it when you buy me things. I don’t want you throwing money at me like that. I don’t want you to do that, Alexia.”

Alexia’s eyes softened, brows knitting together as she reached out again, this time brushing a lock of hair from Y/n’s face. 

“Amor, I don’t… I don’t mean to make you feel bad. I just love you, and I want you to be comfortable. To have things you like. To have what you deserve.”

Y/n looked at her, her chest tightening, feeling the warmth of Alexia’s hand on her face.

“I know you do,” she whispered. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep doing this for me. I don’t need it. I just want you.”

Alexia leaned forward and kissed her–just a soft, grounding peck on the lips. Nothing flashy. Just presence.

“I hear you,” Alexia murmured as she pulled back slightly, eyes scanning Y/n’s face. “I will ease up on it”

“Ease up?”

“Yes,” Alexia nodded, ever-so-slightly proud. “I will not buy as many things.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Good.”

There was a beat of silence.

“But what if…” Alexia started, tone far too casual, “We settle on an amount of money?”

Y/n stared at her. “What?”

Alexia’s fingers danced lightly against Y/n’s side, like that might distract her. “Like, I’m allowed to spend up to a certain amount on you. Weekly.”

“…Are you giving yourself an allowance to spoil me?”

“Sí,” Alexia replied with a completely straight face.

Y/n groaned. “Alexia. That is not how allowances work.”

“It is now,” Alexia said brightly. “Like a budget. Very responsible.”

Y/n slumped forward and buried her face in her girlfriend’s shoulder. “Alexia! How can you be so stubborn!”

“Not stubborn, just full of love,” Alexia whispered, pressing a kiss to Y/n’s temple.

Y/n didn’t move. “What’s the allowance, then?”

“€1000.”

Y/n pulled back, eyes wide. “That’s a weekly allowance?!”

Alexia shrugged, totally unfazed. “It used to be unlimited.”

Y/n stared at her in exhausted silence.

“Would you like to negotiate?” Alexia offered sweetly.

“I’d like to remove myself from this financial arrangement.”

“You can’t, mi amor. I used my allowance to buy exclusive rights.”

“Alexia.”

Alexia grinned. “I like spoiling you. Not my fault.”

“It’s totally your fault,” Y/n said deadpanned.

“You’re like…my spoiled puppy,” Alexia teased, gently cupping Y/n’s jaw.

“No. No puppies, no allowances, no—stop looking at me like that.” Y/n pointed an accusatory finger as Alexia batted her lashes and tilted her head. 

“This is serious.” Y/n insisted. “You’re literally bribing me with clothes.”

“I’m investing in your happiness,” Alexia corrected smoothly.

Y/n squinted at her, voice low and dangerous. “I’m going to make you regret this.”

Alexia just smiled. “You’re so pretty when you’re mad, bebé.”

“You will regret this,” Y/n muttered as she stood, snatching one of the shopping bags. “Every time you see me wearing these, I want you to remember I almost bought them myself.”

Alexia watched her go, the proudest smirk tugging at her lips. “That’s my girl.”

Y/n turned back just long enough to glare. “And no sending me shoes to match!”

“I already pressed 'order,'” Alexia called sweetly.

Y/n’s groan could be heard from three rooms away.

Alexia just chuckled to herself, collapsing back onto the sofa.

“Worth every euro.”

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Window In Front (H.S One Shot +18)

General Masterlist

ceo!harry x fem!reader / assistant!reader

Summary: After discovering your husband’s affair, you take a job with his biggest rival to get even. What starts as revenge quickly becomes something far sweeter—and far more pleasing.

A/n: Hello, my loves! Here’s the smutty one-shot I promised. This story is inspired by a @finelinemia chatbot, so all credit for the trope goes to her. (Thank you for letting me write something based on it!)

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: SMUT, exhibitionism (for smaaallll moment) workplace dynamics, spitting, dirty talk, unprotected sex, inappropriate workplace relationship, creampie You didn’t cry—not when you found your husband in your bed with your best friend, not when you packed up your life, and not even when you signed the divorce papers. You were broken, sad, and a mess, but somehow, the tears never came. Your mother and sister insisted you go to therapy, and you did. Even your therapist seemed as concerned as everyone else about your lack of tears.

But you weren’t worried. You were consumed by rage, imagining countless ways to get revenge. Yet, no matter how creative or cruel your ideas became, they all felt insignificant compared to what they had done. So, you never dwelled on why you hadn’t cried.

That realization struck you late one night, lying on your sister’s couch at midnight, staring blankly at the ceiling.

How had you not thought of it sooner?

“Meet the Billionaire Next Door: Harry Styles, CEO of StylesCorp.” “Harry Styles, Visionary CEO, Announces Game-Changing Sustainability Initiative.” “StylesCorp Achieves Record Growth: Harry Styles Credits Bold Leadership and a Stellar Team.”

You scrolled through article after article. Harry Styles—your husband’s rival and the enigmatic CEO of the company in the building across the street. You knew about him from the countless nights your husband came home ranting. He accused Harry of sabotage, claimed he had spies within the company, and cursed his name with every failure.

You had barely paid attention back then, more focused on calming your husband and easing his stress. But now, you felt a new kind of clarity.

At first, it started innocently. All you wanted was to get under your husband’s skin. But soon, things began to spiral out of control.

🌷

“I have an interview with Mr. Styles,” you said, adjusting your skirt and ensuring every detail was perfect.

“Eleventh floor,” a woman replied, handing you a large badge marked VISITOR. “Wear this,” she added curtly, already shifting her attention to the next person.

You stepped into the elevator, gripping the visitor badge tightly in your hand. The air felt heavy, and you couldn’t tell if it was the weight of your nerves or the thrill of what you were about to do. Each floor the elevator ascended echoed like a reminder of your mission: revenge, power, control.

When the doors opened, you were greeted by an expansive office space with sleek, modern design—glass walls, minimalist furniture, and the faint hum of employees. People moved with purpose, and you couldn’t help but wonder if Harry Styles himself carried this same commanding energy.

A sharp-dressed assistant approached, her steps precise. “Ms. Y/L/N? This way, please. Mr. Styles is expecting you.”

The assistant opened the door, and you stepped inside, trying to steady your breathing. The office was as grand as you’d imagined. Harry Styles stood by the window—the very window with a direct view of your ex-husband’s office across the street. His hands were in his pockets, and the light cast a golden glow on his perfectly tailored suit. At the sound of your heels clicking on the floor, he turned, his expression shifting from neutral to something far more curious as his eyes met yours.

“I have to say, I’m surprised,” he began, his voice smooth and deliberate. He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Mrs. Ashford, isn’t it?”

You hesitated for only a second before walking forward, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just Y/L/N now,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

He chuckled softly, leaning back against the desk instead of sitting down. “Of course it is. But forgive me if I’m a bit... curious. It’s not every day that Thomas Ashford’s ex-wife walks into my office. Care to enlighten me as to why?”

Your heart raced, but you kept your composure, crossing your legs and sitting upright. “I’m here for an interview.”

“An interview,” he repeated, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, his tone tinged with amusement. “For a position at my company. Of all the places in the world, you chose here.”

You shrugged lightly, feigning indifference. “You’re the best in the business. Why wouldn’t I want to work here?”

He tilted his head, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Y/N.” Leaning forward, he rested his hands on the desk, his eyes narrowing playfully. “But let’s not pretend there isn’t more to this. I’m dying to know—what would your ex-husband say if he knew you were sitting in this chair?”

Your smile was tight as you glanced briefly at the window across the street, where Thomas’s office loomed. Your voice was steady. “I guess we’ll both have to wait and see.”

🌷

The days were long, filled with emails, meetings, and endless tasks. You moved through the office like a well-oiled machine—efficient, precise, and always a step ahead. It was the only way to keep the overwhelming thoughts at bay, the ones that revolved around your ex-husband, and the bitter reminder of his betrayal.

You entered his office before knocking twice. “Mr.Styles I’m working on the report but I have a few questions about…” Your gaze shifted to the window—just for a second. There, in the office across the street, was Thomas, leaning over his desk, engaged in a conversation with none other than your ex-best friend. Her laugh, that sickeningly familiar laugh. You clenched your jaw, gripping onto the papers in your hands

“What were your questions?” He said, following your gaze to the window. “Ah, I see. Again.”

You turned quickly, caught off guard. “What?”

“Still staring across the street?” Harry raised an eyebrow  “He’s not worth the attention. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “It’s hard not to, with him right there.” You didn’t realize how defensive you sounded until after the words left your mouth. “God, sorry” 

“Look, if you’re going to obsess over something, obsess over something a little more fun, like this,” Harry said, leaning forward with a glint in his eyes. He pulled out a Rubik’s Cube from his desk drawer and tossed it toward you. “Try solving this. Keep your hands busy. It’s much more satisfying than watching your ex across the street.”

You raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help but smile. “You think this is going to distract me?”

He shrugged playfully, still watching you intently. “It’s better than staring at a guy who doesn't deserve your time. Trust me.”

🌷

Days passed, and the routine settled into a strange rhythm. You were hard at work—handling schedules, answering calls, organizing meetings—but there was always that window, that constant reminder of the past. You’d catch glimpses of your ex-husband across the street, talking to his team, laughing with your old best friend. It made your stomach twist each time.

It was late one evening, and the office was nearly empty. You’d stayed late, as usual, working through the last few tasks of the day. Harry had been gone for hours—until now.

You didn’t hear him enter, but you felt his presence the moment he stood beside you.

“Still working, huh?” He leaned over your shoulder, looking at the files you were reviewing. His scent was close—fresh and clean—and it was enough to distract you for a brief second.

“Trying to get ahead for tomorrow,” you replied, forcing yourself to focus on the words in front of you. But you could feel his eyes lingering.

He sighed, picking up a pen from your desk and spinning it between his fingers. “You know, it’s dangerous to overwork yourself. What are you really avoiding?”

You froze, your fingers pausing over the keyboard. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been avoiding, or how much you’d been keeping buried under all the busywork. “I’m not avoiding anything,” you said quickly, but Harry wasn’t fooled.

He leaned in, his voice lower now, serious in a way that made your heart skip. “It’s okay to admit that you’re still dealing with it. You don’t have to bury it at work. You can let it out. But not by staring at that window every day.”

For a moment, you just stared at him. He was right—though you hated to admit it, Harry Styles knew exactly how to see through the walls you’d built up.

“Let’s go grab a drink,” he suggested, standing up straight and flashing you a playful smile. “You can’t work all night, and I promise, it’ll get your mind off things. Trust me.”

And though you were reluctant, you found yourself following him, a little bit curious, a little bit grateful. Maybe a drink was exactly what you needed.

---

"Two Aperol Spritzes," Harry said smoothly, catching the bartender’s attention. You furrowed your brows at his choice, unable to hide your surprise.

“Aperol Spritz? Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, my favorite,” he replied with a casual shrug, his lips curling into a playful smile. “Why? Disappointed I’m not the classic whiskey-or-scotch CEO type?”

“Aperol Spritz is a cocktail…a brunch cocktail,” you teased

Harry’s grin widened, his confidence unshaken. “It’s probably 11 a.m. somewhere in the world.”

You couldn’t help but smile. Harry had a way of disarming you with his humor. He was funny, kind, and unexpectedly charming. The polished, sharp-edged CEO exterior often softened in the little moments—the way he’d check in to see if you were doing okay, offer advice without sounding condescending, or flash a grin that felt just for you. He wasn’t anything like the man your ex-husband had ranted about. In fact, he was the opposite—thoughtful, genuine, and surprisingly down-to-earth.

🌷

Your original mission of revenge had become a blurred memory. Working for Harry had turned out to be far better than you ever expected. The work was engaging, and Harry himself felt more like a friend than a boss. You’d catch him staring at you in meetings, his gaze lingering just a second too long. Sometimes, his hand would rest on your back a bit longer than necessary as he guided you toward an office. And you didn’t mind. In fact, you enjoyed it—the attention, the unspoken words exchanged in glances and subtle touches.

Things changed one late night when a casual beer in the office turned into something else.

“Do you miss him?” Harry asked, his voice soft as he leaned back in his chair, beer in hand.

“Not even a bit. I never cried—not once. It’s been nine months, and I feel… nothing,” you replied, staring out the window at the darkened building across the street. “I caught him the other day with her in his office, practically fucking, but they closed the blinds soon enough.”

Harry’s expression didn’t falter. “Proud of you, as I’ve told you before, he’s not worth a second of your time.” he said, his voice steady as he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The brief touch of his fingers made your breath hitch, the air between you both growing heavier. “And have you dated anyone since?” he asked, finishing off his fourth beer with a casual ease that belied the tension building in the room.

“Not really,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I don’t know why.”

“Scared?” he asked, tilting his head slightly

“Scared?” you scoffed, letting out a short laugh. “Of what? What are the odds I’d end up with another douchebag who cheats on me with my best friend?”

“Pretty low, I’d say. Maybe none, if you choose wisely,” he replied, his voice lower now, more serious. His hand moved, resting lightly on your thigh, and your breath hitched again.

Your eyes locked, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. Harry’s gaze was smoldering, his eyes burning with unspoken desire as his hand rested lightly on your hip, the heat of his touch searing through the fabric of your skirt.

“Do you want to choose?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, a teasing challenge laced within the question. He leaned in closer, so near you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

“Harry…” you whispered, your voice trembling as your eyes flickered to his mouth, anticipation building like a storm inside you.

“Answer me,” he urged, his hand trailing up, fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt. The deliberate slowness of his movements sent shivers down your spine.

“Yes,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed as you gave in, allowing yourself to drown in his touch.

“Yes what?” he asked, his voice darker now, the rasp of it caressing your neck as his lips hovered near your skin.

“I want to choose,” you replied, your breath hitching as his hand tightened against you.

“Who” he pressed, his tone thick with a mixture of longing and control. The word hung in the air, a challenge you couldn’t refuse.

“You,” you said, barely above a whisper, your voice breaking as you finally gave him the answer he wanted.

It was the last straw. Harry snapped, closing the space between you as his lips crashed against yours, fierce and desperate. His kiss was hungry, claiming you completely as his hand slid down to the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him. His tongue parted your lips, exploring your mouth with a passion that made your knees weak. You clung to him, fingers threading through his hair as the world outside his office melted away. There was no rival, no ex-husband, no revenge—just the fire blazing between you and Harry, consuming you both entirely.

The next thing you knew, Harry had pulled back just enough to lift you effortlessly onto his desk. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips as his mouth found yours again, hot and insistent. The edge of your skirt slid up, exposing your thighs to the cool air, goosebumps prickling across your skin as the anticipation built to an unbearable peak.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down the curve of your neck while his hand slid between your thighs. You shivered, your breath hitching as his fingers brushed over the damp fabric of your panties.

“Harry…” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

He grinned against your skin, a low, sinful chuckle that sent a rush of heat through you. His thumb pressed against the wet spot, circling it with maddening slowness. “Fucking perfect wet pussy f’me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as his fingers teased you through the fabric.

You rocked your hips against his hand, desperate for more contact, aching for him to give you what you craved. But Harry held back, his touch light and teasing, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your neck that left you gasping.

“‘S that how you sound, kitten?” he asked, his voice thick with lust as his free arm wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him. His hips ground against yours, the hardness of his cock pressing through the fabric of his pants, driving you wild with the friction.

Finally, his hand slipped beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers gliding through the slickness there. You gasped sharply at the overwhelming sensation. “Fucking drenched,” he muttered, his tone dripping with approval as his finger slid inside you, curling just right, making you arch into him.

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of your blouse, the sensation of his touch making your clothes feel suffocating, like they were shrinking against your skin. As the fabric parted, you revealed a black lace bra—a detail you hadn’t planned for this moment but one you always wore because it made you feel powerful and sexy. Harry’s eyes darkened, his gaze devouring the sight of you.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, his voice rough and low. “You’re a fucking dream.”

Your clothes were quickly discarded in a scattered path across the room, forgotten in the heat of the moment. Your eyes traveled over him, taking in the sight of his thick, throbbing cock, the tip glistening and begging for attention. Without hesitation, you slipped off the desk, dropping to your knees before him. The hunger in his gaze was matched only by the pounding of your own heart as your hands wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, his hand finding its way into your hair, his fingers tightening as he guided you closer. “Spit on it”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against him before spitting and taking the leaking tip into your mouth. You started slowly, swirling your tongue around it in deliberate, teasing circles. His low groans filled the room, each one sending a rush of heat through you as you worked him with careful precision, savoring every reaction. As his moans grew louder, you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his big size. Your hands worked in tandem with your mouth, stroking and squeezing as your tongue danced along his length. Harry’s head tipped back, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips bucked slightly, his cock twitching under your touch.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice strained, a mixture of pleasure and desperation. “You’re perfect, kitten. Just like that.”

The sounds of his pleasure were intoxicating, urging you to take him as deep as you could. Your lips slid down his shaft while your tongue pressed against the sensitive underside. You felt him pulse in your mouth, his body trembling under your touch as you worked him with deliberate intensity.

Suddenly, his grip in your hair tightened, and he pulled you away, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Before you could process it, Harry lifted you effortlessly, placing you back on the desk. His kiss was fierce and consuming, a tangle of lips and teeth as his hands explored your body. His length brushed against your inner thigh, teasing as he aligned himself with you. You shivered, your body strung tight with anticipation.

“Birth control?” he rasped, his lips brushing against your ear.

“The pill,” you managed to reply, your voice breathless.

With no further hesitation, he buried himself inside you in one swift, powerful motion. A groan tore from his throat, and your sharp gasp filled the air as the sensation overwhelmed you—the delicious stretch, the feeling of him filling you completely. He stilled for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours as both of you adjusted to the intensity of the moment.

“Fuck…” he whispered, his voice a raw growl against your lips. His hips pulled back before snapping forward, his thrusts deep and demanding. “Fucking tight cunt... You’re so fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t hold back the moans spilling from your lips, your hands gripping his shoulders as he drove into you with relentless precision. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as you surrendered to the pleasure building inside you. Every movement of his hips sent shockwaves through your body, and you were powerless to do anything but lose yourself in him.

But as you opened your eyes for a moment, a flicker of movement caught your attention. Your gaze drifted to the window, and you gasped softly as you spotted a faint light in the office across the street. There, in the shadows, was your ex-husband, his figure unmistakable, frozen as he stared at the scene unfolding before him.

Your lips parted in a mix of shock and defiance as your eyes locked onto his. Harry, noticing the shift in your focus, followed your gaze. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face as he realized the full extent of your audience.

“Oh, he’s watching, isn’t he?” Harry murmured, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction, his rhythm remained steady, deliberate, and maddeningly perfect. “Want me to close the blinds?”

“No... fuck me harder instead,” you breathed, your voice shaking with need. You didn’t care that Thomas was watching. In fact, you wanted him to watch—every second of it. The way Harry’s hips pressed against yours, the way he made you forget everything but him—this was the closure you craved. Not tears, not apologies—just this. Harry’s relentless, all-consuming treatment. “Knew this pussy was made for me, so many fucking days fucking my fist thinking of this” he admitted in the heat of the moment

His lips trailed down the curve of your neck, leaving a hot, wet path of kisses that sent sparks shooting through your body. He moved lower, his tongue circling one nipple before capturing it between his lips, his teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Say my name” he said looking directly into your eyes

“Harry…” you moaned over and over again “Harry…fffu” 

His pace quickened, each thrust deeper and more precise, the tip of his cock finding that perfect spot that made your vision blur with pleasure. A shudder tore through you, your body tensing as heat spread through every inch of you. Harry groaned against your skin, his voice husky and laced with desire. Every movement, every sound, every sensation—he was making you his, and you never wanted it to stop.

“Ffffuck Harry, i’m close” you moaned

And the pleasure finally burst, overwhelming you entirely. A wave of pure bliss crashed over you, and your body tensed, muscles contracting around him. You arched, clinging to him, your nails digging into his skin as the waves of your orgasm washed over you, drowning you in ecstasy. 

And he went right behind you, the sight of your orgasm was too much for him to process, and he quickly painted your insides with stripes of hot cum, filling you up completely. His lips found yours again, the kiss softer now, gentle and affectionate, a stark contrast from the raw hunger of earlier. He pulled out, and a mixture of cum and arousal dripped from your cunt and onto the floor.

Your gaze looked again for the sight of Thomas across the street, but he wasn’t there anymore, his office was again dark. “So sad he didn’t stay for that grand finale” Harry joked also looking at the window

“He watched enough,” you said, still a bit breathless. Harry leaned back, his hands gently trailing down your sides as he steadied your trembling body. “You okay?” he asked softly

You nodded, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “Yeah… just give me a second to remember how to breathe.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he reached for a tissue from his desk, carefully wiping the remnants of your shared passion from your thighs. “Take all the time you need. I might have overdone it.”

“You think?” you teased

“And for the record, you deserve so much better than him. Always have.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you looked away, your lips twitching into a shy smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, Styles.”

He chuckled, pulling you into his lap as he leaned back against his desk. His arms wrapped around you, his warmth comforting and grounding. “Not bad? That’s all I get?” he teased, feigning offense.

You giggled, burying your face in his neck. “Fine. You’re a amazing. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the tension and chaos of the night fading into a warm, intimate silence. Harry’s fingers traced soothing patterns along your back, and you felt yourself relax fully in his embrace.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his lips brushing your hair. “My place. No windows, no exes, just us.”

You lifted your head to meet his gaze, the sincerity in his eyes making your heart skip a beat. “That sounds perfect.”

Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502

[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.

[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!

[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 💀

[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?

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Wedding Theme

Theme - (in wedding planning) an idea, concept, or mood that unites the various elements of your wedding day.

The chosen vibe of your wedding can dictate the floral bouquets, décor color schemes, and even the style of the wedding attire.

You can choose from different wedding styles or aesthetics, such as: boho, glam, eco-friendly, minimalist, or elegant.

Part of the fun of planning your wedding is that you get to choose how your wedding venue can help you accomplish your theme, and you can select wedding décor that match your ideas.

Wedding Theme Ideas

Once you decide on a theme, choose the design motifs that will make for the perfect wedding. Consider these popular wedding themes:

Art deco wedding: This is a more design-forward approach; flappers and other 1920s aesthetics may weave their way into your art deco style, which features geometric shapes, sleek artwork, and zigzag or chevron-patterned forms. You can extend the theme into wedding favors, like gold art deco matchboxes for guests.

Beach wedding: Guests may go barefoot at the waterfront ceremony for this kind of destination wedding. You might suggest pastels for décor to keep with the summery vibe or advise guests wear white or neutral-colored linen outfits to match the aesthetic. You can extend the theme to the drink menu, with specialty cocktails like Mojitos and Piña Coladas.

Bohemian wedding: You might feature found materials or DIY centerpieces as table décor for your bohemian wedding. For bohemian weddings, brides and grooms might opt for nontraditional attire, and guests can wear looser, less formal clothing. Bohemian weddings emphasize authenticity over glitz and Edison bulbs over expensive chandeliers. This wedding theme may take on an outdoorsy element, so a garden wedding can also double as a boho-chic one.

Outdoor wedding: You can transform the great outdoors into your personal wonderland. If you gather in a park or backyard or near the mountain or a lake, your outdoor wedding can offer wedding guests a less formal setting. You can opt for simple table settings and wildflowers from nearby areas as your wedding flowers. Wedding planners should have a backup plan in case of bad weather.

Modern wedding: For a modern, elegant wedding, choose simple décor and clean lines to emphasize the venue or wedding location.

Rustic wedding: The rustic wedding theme nods toward the natural world with wood and DIY flair. You might use glass jars as drinking vessels, rely on fairy lights for softer lighting, and set your wedding ceremony in a barn or other setting with elements of greenery.

Seasonal wedding: When planning a wedding, lean into the season. You have plenty to play with in terms of floral arrangements, dress colors, and even linen styles depending on if you have a spring wedding, summer wedding, fall wedding, or winter wedding. For example, your fall wedding might feature tablescapes with autumn leaves.

Traditional wedding: If you want a classic wedding theme, you will follow several traditions. For example, you might host a black-tie event where groomsmen wear tuxedos, and the bridal party wears matching dresses. Or you may have a cake topper that looks like you and your significant other in doll form. Your classic wedding can follow familiar beats: a ceremony and then cocktail hour, toasts, dinner, dancing, and the cutting of the wedding cake.

Whimsical wedding: Whimsy can certainly factor into your romantic wedding. You can choose quirky floral arrangements, dresses with funky patterns, snaking tables (as opposed to plain circular or square ones), and various types of chairs and lighting fixtures.

Vintage wedding: Upcycled and reclaimed goods can make for a glamorous wedding. You can tie the theme together and give your guests a memorable experience with vintage dresses, silverware, glassware, and other materials.

Wedding Theme Tips

When fashioning your wedding theme, consider these tips from celebrity wedding planner Mindy Weiss:

Borrow décor items and flatware. Themes often require particular décor items, like wooden slabs for a rustic reception, rattan chargers for a tropical event, or mismatched china for a romantic affair. “You can borrow furniture,” Mindy says. “If you like that eclectic look, pull out a bunch of different tables. It's only gonna add to the personality.” You can also suggest a theme through votives, glassware, and flatware. “I guarantee you your aunts, your mother, your sisters, and your friends will have wonderful flatware that you can borrow,” she adds.”

Go bold with your theme. The color and size of décor items you choose can help express a theme, regardless of your budget. “If you're looking for ultimate drama, I would go deep, dark, bold flowers,” Mindy says. “No matter the time of year. . . if someone comes in and says, ‘I wanna sexy, bold wedding,’ I'm gonna reach right for these big, burgundy dahlias or roses, which are readily available most places. So bold is color, it's size, and it's depth. If you're goin' bold, do it. And you can do it on a budget because more color, the less you need.”

Enlist the help of your wedding party. It takes time and effort to commit to a theme, especially when you have a budget to consider. A theme might require you to forage wild flowers, hang string lights, or craft centerpieces. “Get your wedding party to help you—both sides of the wedding party,” Mindy advises. “Make it a fun event maybe even a couple days before the wedding, or don't go to bed too late the night before [and] spend the day together, finishing everything up.”

Make it personal. No matter what theme you choose, add personal touches to go the extra mile. “I did an event once where the client really did the research and gave me a picture of every guest there,” Mindy recalls. “We made that part of the place card. So not only was it fun to find your place, but it really showed that the couple took the extra effort to let you know, ‘We are happy that you're at our event.’”

Pick a color palette. Mindy encourages couples to add a little color, even if they have a simple palette. “Colors really reflect an emotion, not only with you as a couple, but as your guests walk into the room,” Mindy says. “There's always a reaction. So whether you're choosing something that's very modern or you're choosing something that is like an unkempt garden, immediately they will know what direction you have chosen for the look and feel of your wedding.”

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[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