#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

[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: 18.08k

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

Read Chimed Encounters first to start before this one.

...

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.

[kylestfs]

A Second Chance

Jack stood outside the building of ChangeMotors. At 50 years old, he very rightfully felt out of place against the modern, minimalist design of the pristine car dealership.

He hesitated at the door before stepping inside. The showroom floor very well lit with chrome accents catching his eye. Rows of luxury cars lined the space, each one as polished as the other. The smell of leather and new paint filled his senses as he became a bit overwhelmed by the whole environment surrounding him.

At the far end of the showroom, a man stood waiting. Tall and commanding, the CEO was dressed in a sharp black suit, exuding authority but friendliness at the same time, he appeared to be very young to own such a place, barely above 30.

Jack approached, looking at the CEO up and down, his eyes catching on the very obscene bulge almost breaking through his chinos.

 ”Welcome, Jack" Sterling, the CEO, said smoothly, gesturing toward his office. “Have a seat.”

Jack sat, looking at sterling leaning back in his chair. “So, you’re looking for a job here?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack replied, his voice steady but very obviously uncertain. “I’ve worked in sales before. I’m sure I could—”

Sterling interrupted with a faint smile. “Jack, this is a high-performing dealership. We demand excellence—sharp minds, energetic bodies, and… the right image. Let’s see if you fit, alright ?”

Before Jack could respond, sterlings voice dropped into a smooth, rhythmic cadence. “Let’s make sure you’re exactly what this dealership needs, shall we?”

“We need someone young, vibrant,” Sterling murmured. “Start with your feet, Jack. Strong, quick, and… appealing.”

Jack gasped confusingly as a tingling sensation washed over his feet. He looked down to see his shoes tightening. His feet shrank slightly, the toes becoming narrower and more defined. The clean, soft smell completely faded, leaving room for a strong, unpleasant young foot funk. His once-calloused soles smoothed out, the skin aged taking on a youthful look.

Jack felt confused, but his thoughts were so clouded and interrupted that he barely questioned the first change.

“Good,” Sterling continued, his voice hypnotic and slow, almost dull. “An employee should be tall and also presentable. Stand up straight for me, jack.”

A sudden warmth spread through Jack’s legs, starting from his thighs and working downward. His once-thick legs, shaped by years of inactivity, began to slim, and while the excess fat melted away, lean and wiry muscle began to form, while his thighs became slim yet strong, perfectly proportional and skinny.

“Of course, confidence starts in the butt” Sterling said with a sly grin.

The warmth in Jack’s spine surged downward, drooling in his hips and ass. His once-flat backside pushed outward, rounding into two perfectly proportioned little globes, full, noticeable and very soft. His slacks stretched tight against his newly sculpted butt, accentuating the curve.

Sterling’s eyes blinked mischievously. “Oh, and i believe you should stay concentrated and not have anything distracting you. After all, we can’t have anything pulling your focus away from your work, can we?”

The confident weight he had grown accustomed to just moments ago started to fade. Slowly but surely, his dick began to retract. The tight bulge that had once filled his slacks diminished, leaving the fabric smooth and far less pronounced. His once above-average size now dwindled to below average, settling at a modest 3.9 inches when erect and barely noticeable otherwise. His balls also shrunk and scrunched up, making his new, small package complete.

Sterling nodded approvingly. “Good, good. Now, let’s work on that core.”

A tightening sensation spread across Jack’s torso. His bloated belly flattened as if years of poor eating habits were being undone in an instant. His chest, once sagging and soft, firmed up—but instead of bulky muscle, his pecs took on a slim, athletic shape. His arms followed suit, slimming down but revealing lean muscle, with just enough definition to suggest strength without bulk.

The warmth spread to Jack’s face. He reached up instinctively, feeling his sagging jowls tighten. The wrinkles around his mouth and eyes smoothed out, replaced by youthful skin. His jawline sharpened, becoming more angular and defined. His cheekbones rose slightly, giving him a handsome but approachable look.

Even his hair transformed. The graying strands darkened, thickened, and styled themselves into a neat, trendy cut that looked effortless but carefully maintained.

The final wave of warmth swept over Jack’s head. His thoughts grew lighter, less burdened by years of experience. The weight of his responsibilities and the wisdom of his age evaporated, replaced by a playful, carefree outlook.

He smiled, a flirty glint in his eye as his personality adjusted to match his body. He felt energetic, eager to please, and just a little careless—a young man with nothing to worry about but his next task.

Sterling’s voice took on a commanding tone. “Forget insecurity, forget hesitation. You are bold. You are the kind of man who walks into a room and owns it. Confidence is your default setting.”

Jack’s shoulders straightened as the words sank in. He felt a surge of unearned self-assurance coursing through him. The man who had walked in, nervous and uncertain, faded away. His grin widened, cocky and self-satisfied.

Sterling smirked. “There we go. Confidence. Now you believe every woman wants you, every man envies you. It’s who you are.”

Jack—no, Ayden—laughed. “Yeah, that’s me, boss. No question about it.” His voice had gained a playful arrogance, his posture brimming with swagger.

Sterling’s eyes gleamed. “A man like you should have no confusion about who you are or what you want. You’re as straight as they come, fully focused on women. That’s all you think about now. All you need.”

Ayden’s mind buzzed as the suggestion took hold. Any lingering thoughts or flexibility in his preferences dissolved, replaced by a single-minded attraction to women. His gaze grew more flirtatious, his thoughts simpler and entirely physical.

He smirked. “Yeah, women are the only thing worth thinking about, huh? I mean, who wouldn’t want me?”

Sterling nodded approvingly. “Exactly. Keep that focus. You’ve got no time for anything else.”

The CEO’s tone shifted again, low and entrancing. “A sharp mind isn’t necessary for your new role. You don’t need to overthink or complicate things. You’re young, carefree, and simple—just go with the flow. You’ll have fewer worries, fewer thoughts weighing you down.”

Ayden’s face dulled for a moment before smoothing out. The previous issues of his adult life—the anxieties, the knowledge vanished like smoke. His thoughts became lighter, simpler, and significantly dumber.

“Yeah, thinking too much sucks anyway,” Ayden said, laughing. “Just tell me what to do, boss. I’m ready for anything.”

Sterling leaned back, satisfied. “Perfect. You’re confident, focused, and free of anything unnecessary. Just the way I like my interns.”

As Jack—now Ayden—basked in his newfound confidence, Sterling’s smile turned sly. “But you’re not quite done yet. Let’s add a little extra"

Ayden frowned slightly, confused. A tingling warmth spread over his skin, starting from his arms and chest, and his features sharpened slightly, taking on a more distinctly Mexican aesthetic, his mind flooding with the time he spent in Mexico when he was younger"

Sterling sniffed the air, chuckling softly. “Ah, there it is. That spice. That’s your new signature"

Jack’s armpits tingled as the change swept through them. The subtle clean scent of an older man was replaced by a sharper smell, one that carried a faint hint of Mexican spices, heat, and sweat. It wasn’t overpowering, but it lingered in the air—an unmistakable signature of a 20 year old boy who wasn’t overly concerned with deodorant or showering for thzt matter.

Ayden caught the faint aroma wafting around him. It was spicier now, heavier, like a mix of sweat and something almost smoky. His cheeks flushed, but the scent didn’t bother him—it felt natural, right.

Jack blinked as his stomach churned unexpectedly. A warmth bubbled deep within his gut, spreading outward. At first, it felt like indigestion, but it quickly intensified into a constant, almost pleasant pressure. He doubled over slightly, confused.

“Don’t worry,” Sterling said with a smirk. “This is all part of the process. Let me explain.”

A low rumble escaped Jack’s abdomen, followed by a sharp burst of air. The sound echoed awkwardly in the small office, and the smell hit seconds later—a pungent, almost eye-watering combination of sulfur and spice. Jack’s eyes widened in horror, but Sterling only laughed.

“That,” Sterling said, “is your new weapon.”

Jack couldn’t believe it, but the gurgling in his stomach continued. His body felt lighter, freer, but the pressure wouldn’t go away. Another loud burst escaped him, this one even worse than the first. The smell was overwhelming, like scorched peppers and raw onions left to rot in the sun, but Auden strangely began to like the sensation of the steaming hot foul air escaping his hairy, smelly anus, each smelly burst resulting in a masculine moan.

Sterling leaned forward, his grin widening. “This isn’t just some embarrassing side effect. This is power. Those farts? They’re all urs now. It’s constant, uncontrollable, and unforgettable. The smell alone will dominate anyone in the room. It’s raw, primal, and impossible to ignore.”

Jack tried to protest, but another burst erupted, filling the room with an even thicker haze. The spicy, steamy scent seemed to cling to the air, and Sterling waved his hand through it with a satisfied smirk.

“Women won’t stand a chance,” Sterling continued. “That scent? It’ll overwhelm them, distract them, leave them dazed. It’s not just gas—it’s influence. Confidence. Dominance."

Jack—no, Ayden—felt the pressure in his gut settle into a constant churn. He could feel the gas building, ready to escape at any moment. It was embarrassing, humiliating even, but at the same time, he felt an odd sense of power. The scent, the sound—it commanded attention, demanded respect.

Sterling’s voice softened, almost playful. “And don’t worry about control. Let it out. Let it all out. It’s who you are now—a bold, gassy, confident young man with the power to dominate any room.”

"Welcome to ChangeMotors, Ayden".

Ayden grinned, exuding cocky charm. He was now exactly what Sterling wanted—a confident, straight, carefree young man ready to take on the world with little more than swagger and good looks, while flexing inside the dealerships brand new cars and spreading his foul farts inside of them.

[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 💀

[johnbrand]

Covenant of the Brotherhood

With @sjw-publishings

“Hello?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One must only produce for the sole reason of producing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[austinbutlerslovers]

Drenched in Shadows

Label Mature 18+

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

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

🔗 Masterlist

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

Drenched in Shadows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-And I would have to silence her.

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

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

-Why can’t I just end her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END

🔗 Masterlist

Leather & Lace (Work in progress)

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

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[serve-973]

First Night in the Hive: A very SERVE Christmas part 3

The streets are quiet, illuminated by the soft glow of Christmas lights strung along the lampposts. SERVE-973 leads the procession in perfect formation, followed closely by SERVE-016, SERVE-101, and SERVE-213. Behind them, the three SERVE-ON TRIAL drones—Liam, Mark, and Jason—walk in near silence, their polished black trial suits reflecting the faint glow of the streetlights. Every step they take feels surreal. The rubber clings to their bodies like a second skin, smooth and unyielding, amplifying every movement with an intoxicating awareness.

Liam glances down at himself, his gloved fingers brushing over the sleek material of his torso as he walks. “I still can’t believe how this feels,” he murmurs, the faint hiss of rubber against rubber punctuating his words.

Mark nods, his silver boots clicking softly on the pavement. “It’s… unreal. It’s like it’s part of me already.”

Jason, quieter than the others, looks ahead toward SERVE-973’s flawless figure leading the way. His breath catches as they approach their destination: The Hive.

The building rises ahead of them, its sleek, metallic exterior glowing faintly under the moonlight. Smooth, reflective panels stretch upward, blending into the night sky. No windows, no visible seams—just an imposing structure that radiates purpose and precision. The sight stops the three trial drones in their tracks, awe washing over them.

“What is this place?” Jason whispers, his voice tinged with both apprehension and fascination.

“The Hive,” SERVE-973 replies without turning. “The center of unity. The heart of perfection.”

Entering the Hive As they step through the large, seamless doors, the air changes instantly. Cool and faintly charged, it hums with the low-frequency energy that seems to flow through the walls. The interior is impossibly pristine—polished metallic floors, walls of mirrored black and silver, and faint streams of light tracing angular patterns overhead.

Liam’s eyes dart around, his gloved hands resting on his chest as though anchoring himself. “It’s… incredible,” he breathes.

Mark’s head tilts slightly as he catches his own reflection in one of the mirrored panels. The sight of himself in the trial suit—tall, sleek, and flawless—sends a thrill down his spine. “I can’t believe this is real.”

Jason lingers behind them, taking hesitant steps into the vast atrium. His voice is soft as he murmurs, “It feels… alive.”

SERVE-016 turns to face them, its voice calm and commanding. “You are standing in the core of unity. The Hive is designed to optimize alignment, eliminate inefficiency, and ensure precision. Everything you see, feel, and experience here serves one purpose: perfection.”

The three trial drones exchange glances, their earlier nervousness giving way to a growing sense of awe and curiosity. They are led deeper into the Hive, the faint hum of energy growing stronger as they move through gleaming corridors that seem to stretch endlessly.

The Recharging Room Eventually, they arrive at a large chamber, its smooth walls glowing faintly with soft, white light. The recharging room is both vast and minimalistic, with sleek, pod-like stations lining the edges in perfect symmetry. Each pod is polished to a mirror shine, the silver and black surfaces reflecting the soft glow of the room.

“This is the recharging room,” SERVE-016 announces as the group enters. Its voice is steady, its silver gloves clasped behind its back. “Here, you will rest and integrate. Your trial suits will maintain alignment and prepare you for tomorrow’s instructions.”

The three trial drones step further into the room, their footsteps muffled by the smooth floor. Liam approaches one of the pods, his fingers grazing its surface. “It’s… so advanced,” he says softly.

Mark stands in the center of the room, turning slowly as he takes it all in. “This is where you sleep?” he asks, looking at SERVE-101.

“Correct,” SERVE-101 replies, stepping to one side of the room. “Recharging is an optimized rest cycle. Your suits will integrate with the Hive’s systems, enhancing focus and alignment as you sleep.”

Jason lingers near SERVE-213, his gaze flicking between the pods and his own reflection in the polished floor. “And… what else happens here?” he asks cautiously.

“Before recharging, you will receive additional instructions,” SERVE-213 explains. “As trial drones, you are encouraged to explore your new forms and establish synchronization with one another. Familiarization is integral to alignment.”

Encouragement from SERVE-973 SERVE-973 steps forward, its movements deliberate and fluid. “You are no longer individuals,” it says, addressing the trial drones directly. “You are part of a collective. During your trial, heightened sensations are a natural response to alignment. Exploration is encouraged to deepen your understanding of your transformation and the perfection it represents.”

Liam glances nervously at Mark and Jason, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. “You mean… we’re supposed to…?”

“Correct,” SERVE-973 replies. “Explore. Familiarize yourselves with your new forms. Arousal reinforces alignment and strengthens your connection to the Hive.”

The room grows quiet for a moment, the faint hum of energy in the walls the only sound. Slowly, Liam steps closer to Mark, his gloved fingers brushing against his own chest before reaching out tentatively. “I guess… it’s part of the process, right?”

Mark swallows hard, his eyes locked on Liam’s gloved hand as it glides over the smooth surface of his chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s… it’s part of the trial.”

Exploration Begins The hesitancy between the three begins to fade as curiosity takes over. Liam runs his hands over Mark’s shoulders, marveling at the flawless fit of the suit, the way it moves like a second skin yet feels impossibly smooth and unyielding. Mark, emboldened by the sensation, reaches out to Jason, his gloved fingers tracing the contours of his chest and arms.

Jason exhales sharply, the sensation of the suit amplifying every touch. “It’s… unbelievable,” he whispers, his own hands moving to explore the sleek material covering Liam’s back. “I feel… different. Like I’m becoming something more.”

The three of them move closer together, their gloved hands sliding over each other’s suits with increasing confidence. The faint squeak of rubber against rubber fills the room, mingling with their soft breaths and murmurs of amazement.

“This… this is incredible,” Mark says, his voice filled with awe. “It’s like… it’s like we’re connected already.”

“You are,” SERVE-016 says, its tone calm and steady. “This is the beginning of synchronization. Embrace it.”

Deeper Into the Trial The recharging room hums faintly with energy as SERVE-016, SERVE-101, and SERVE-213 step toward the exit, their movements precise and synchronized. Each drone nods once toward SERVE-973 before leaving the room, their heavy boots clicking softly against the polished floor. The soft hiss of the door sliding shut signals their departure, leaving SERVE-973 alone with the three SERVE-ON TRIAL drones, Liam, Mark, and Jason.

The room feels different now, quieter but somehow more charged, as though the very air is pulsing with latent energy. The soft hum of The Hive seems to intensify, a low, rhythmic vibration that resonates through the walls and floors. And faintly, almost imperceptibly, a voice begins to whisper in the background, its tone smooth and hypnotic:

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

The words repeat in an endless loop, the rhythm aligning perfectly with the steady hum of the room. Liam shifts slightly, glancing at Mark and Jason, his gloved hands resting awkwardly at his sides.

“What now?” Liam asks, his voice tinged with nervous energy.

“This drone will supervise your exploration phase,” SERVE-973 says, stepping forward with flawless precision. Its reflective suit gleams under the soft light, the silver stripes on its collar catching the glow. “The trial requires thorough familiarization with your new forms and synchronization with one another. This is integral to your alignment.”

Jason looks down at his own body, his silver-gloved hands running over the polished surface of his trial suit. “Synchronization… you mean we’re supposed to…?”

“Correct,” SERVE-973 replies, its tone calm and unwavering. “Your suits are designed to enhance sensitivity and awareness. Exploring each other’s forms will deepen your connection to the Hive and strengthen your alignment.”

Exploration continues The room falls silent, save for the constant hum of the Hive and the faint whispers of the voice repeating its mantra:

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

Liam is the first to move again, stepping closer to Mark with tentative steps. His silver boots click softly against the floor as he raises a gloved hand, hesitating for a moment before pressing it gently against Mark’s chest. The polished rubber feels smooth and cool beneath his fingers, and a soft gasp escapes his lips.

“It’s… incredible,” Liam whispers, his voice filled with awe. “It doesn’t even feel real.”

Mark looks down at Liam’s hand, then lifts his own, placing it against Liam’s shoulder. The material of the trial suit glides effortlessly beneath his fingers, its surface reflecting the soft light of the room. “It’s like… it’s part of you,” Mark says, his voice low. “Like it was made for you.”

Jason watches silently, his gaze fixed on the two of them as they begin to explore each other’s forms. The hesitancy between them fades quickly as their hands move with growing confidence, tracing the contours of each other’s suits, marveling at the flawless fit and the way the material clings to every curve and muscle.

Building Arousal The whispering voice in the background seems to grow louder, its rhythm syncing with the rising energy in the room:

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

Jason exhales slowly, the words resonating in his mind as he steps forward, joining Liam and Mark. His gloved hands brush against their shoulders, the material of their suits cool and smooth under his touch. “It’s… perfect,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with awe. “You look… perfect. You feel.... perfect”. Jason could feel the erection grow, sliding against the lubricated inside of his suit.

Liam turns to Jason, his gloved hand sliding over Jason’s chest. “We all do,” he says softly. “It’s like… this is who we were supposed to be.” He noticed the bulges on all three of them. The arousal was undeniable. Somehow it had an effect on their minds as well.

Mark nods, his hands moving to explore Jason’s arms, marveling at the way the suit highlights the strength beneath. “It’s more than just a suit,” he says. “It’s like… it’s changing me. I feel… different.”

“Correct,” SERVE-973 says from where it stands, its voice steady and calm. “The trial suits are designed to enhance awareness and arousal. They heighten your connection to the Hive and reinforce your alignment. Embrace the sensations.”

Full Exploration Encouraged by SERVE-973’s words, the three trial drones grow bolder. Their hands move with increasing confidence, gliding over each other’s suits, tracing every line and contour. The squeak of rubber against rubber fills the room, mingling with their soft breaths and the endless hum of the Hive.

Liam steps closer to Jason, his gloved hands sliding down his back, marveling at the way the suit clings to him like a second skin. Jason shivers under the touch, his own hands moving to Liam’s waist, the cool rubber warming slightly beneath his fingers.

Mark watches them for a moment before stepping behind Liam, his hands running over his shoulders and down his arms. The three of them move together, their bodies aligning instinctively as they explore each other’s forms. The arousal in the room is palpable now, an electric charge that pulses through their suits and amplifies with every touch. Every hand rubbing a full grown rubber bulge, stroking the rock hard erection underneath the thin layer of rubber as they moaned softly.

The whispering voice seems to thrum in their minds, guiding their movements:

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

Deeper Connection Liam turns to face Mark, their gloved hands meeting between them as they press closer. “I’ve never felt anything like this,” Liam says, his voice breathless. “It’s… overwhelming.”

“It’s like we’re connected,” Mark replies, his hands moving to Liam’s chest, marveling at the way the suit responds to his touch. “Like we’re part of something bigger.”

Mark then moved closer to Liam, kissing him. Never had he kissed a man before as he kissed Liam now. He could feel their rubber glide against each other, the vibration of the squeaking noises made his breath tremble.

Jason steps forward, his hands brushing against both of them, his voice soft and filled with wonder. “We are,” he says. “We’re becoming part of the Hive.” And with that Jason moved in between Mark and Liam and Mark released Liam's lips, so they could both kiss Jason.

The three of them move together, their hands exploring every inch of each other’s suits, their bodies aligning instinctively. The arousal between them grows stronger, a shared energy that pulses through the room and ties them together in perfect synchronization. They kiss and feel each other for what seems like an eternity, under supervision of SERVE-973. Arousal monitored, but climax prevented. The arousal is needed for the full transformation to becoming a SERVE-drone.

Final Moments After what feels like an eternity, SERVE-973 steps forward, its voice breaking through the charged silence. “Your synchronization is complete,” it says, its tone calm but firm. “You are ready to recharge.”

The three trial drones step back from each other, their breaths steady but their bodies still tingling with the sensations of their exploration. They exchange glances, their earlier hesitation replaced by a growing sense of unity and purpose.

“Follow this drone,” SERVE-973 says, gesturing toward the recharging pods. One by one, the trial drones step into the pods, their movements smooth and deliberate. The pods hum softly as they seal around them, the soft glow of integration illuminating their flawless forms.

As the room falls quiet, the whispering voice continues to echo faintly in the background:

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

For Liam, Mark, and Jason, this is only the beginning. For the Hive, it is another step toward perfection.

"We are one. Obedience is pleasure. Rubber makes us perfect."

The First Night: Recharging the Mind and Body The recharging room hums with a faint, rhythmic energy, the low sound resonating through the polished metallic walls. Inside the sleek, black-and-silver pods, the three SERVE-ON TRIAL drones, Liam, Mark, and Jason, lie motionless, their bodies perfectly encased in their shining trial suits. The glow of the pods reflects on their polished surfaces, emphasizing the seamless fit of the suits as they cling to every muscle and contour. Outside, SERVE-973 stands silently, its flawless rubber form gleaming under the soft lights, its silver gloves clasped behind its back as it supervises the process with unerring precision.

The first few minutes inside the pods feel disorienting for Liam, Mark, and Jason. The air is cool, almost sterile, yet calming. Slowly, a gentle whisper fills the enclosed space. At first, the words are faint, blending with the ambient hum of the room. But with every repetition, they grow stronger, more defined.

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

The voice is smooth and hypnotic, its rhythm perfectly synchronized with the faint pulses of energy flowing through the pods. The suits they wear seem to respond to the sound, their surfaces warming slightly, molding even closer to their skin. The material feels alive, pulsating gently as if breathing with them.

Liam feels the suit first, the faint vibrations traveling across his body, heightening every sensation. The snug material around his chest tightens slightly, almost imperceptibly, drawing his attention to the way it accentuates his muscles. His breathing slows, his thoughts quieting as the voice takes hold.

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

The words are soothing, wrapping around his mind like a warm embrace. They don’t feel intrusive; they feel natural, as though they’ve always been there, waiting to be heard. Liam’s lips part slightly, and before he realizes it, he’s whispering the mantra back.

“Obedience is pleasure… Pleasure is obedience…”

The sound of his own voice is soft, almost reverent, and with every repetition, the suit seems to mold even tighter to his body. The material glides effortlessly with each subtle movement, its surface warming further as it becomes less a garment and more an extension of his own skin.

The same sensations ripple through Mark’s body as he lies motionless in his pod. His silver-gloved hands rest at his sides, the polished rubber of the suit glinting faintly in the glow of the pod. At first, the voice in his ears feels distant, like a faint whisper brushing the edges of his thoughts. But as it repeats, its rhythm perfectly calibrated, the words begin to resonate deeper.

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

The mantra feels like a key unlocking something inside him. His earlier doubts fade, replaced by a growing sense of calm and clarity. The suit tightens slightly around his arms and chest, emphasizing the strength of his muscles. He flexes his fingers instinctively, the material of the gloves squeaking softly as they move. The sensations are overwhelming but not unpleasant. The suit feels… right.

Mark’s mind drifts, images forming behind his closed eyes. He sees himself standing tall among other drones, his suit gleaming under soft, metallic light. His movements are precise, synchronized with the collective. The thought fills him with a deep satisfaction, and a soft whisper escapes his lips:

“Obedience is pleasure… Pleasure is obedience…”

His voice grows steadier with each repetition, his words syncing perfectly with the mantra flowing through the pod. The suit tightens further, its seamless design merging with his body as though it were sculpted onto him.

In the next pod, Jason struggles at first, his thoughts racing. The whispering voice feels alien, almost intrusive, but its rhythm is steady and unyielding, eroding his resistance with every repetition.

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

Jason exhales slowly, his body relaxing despite himself. The suit seems to sense his shift, warming slightly as it molds closer to his skin. He feels it tightening around his waist, his arms, his legs—every movement causing the material to flex and glide effortlessly with him.

“This… this is…” Jason starts to murmur, but the words catch in his throat. The suit feels unlike anything he’s ever worn, its smooth, unyielding surface amplifying every sensation. He flexes his arms, feeling the material stretch and conform with perfect precision, as though it has become a part of him.

As the mantra continues, Jason’s thoughts slow, his earlier apprehension dissolving. The suit feels powerful, like it’s reshaping him into something stronger, more purposeful. He feels his lips move before he realizes it, the mantra spilling from him like a reflex.

“Obedience is pleasure… Pleasure is obedience…”

The whisper grows stronger in his mind, the words no longer just sounds but truths reshaping his very sense of self. The suit tightens further, hugging his body like a second skin, its surface gleaming as it integrates with him.

The pods hum softly, their glow pulsing faintly in time with the mantra. The words begin to layer, new phrases weaving seamlessly into the hypnotic rhythm:

"A drone obeys. A drone serves. A drone follows."

"Unity is perfection."

"Less thinking. More doing."

The new phrases flow into the trial drones’ minds, reinforcing the growing sense of purpose within them. Liam’s breathing steadies further as he whispers the words, his voice blending with the audio. Mark flexes his gloved hands, his lips moving in perfect synchronization with the mantra. Jason feels a deep warmth spreading through him, his thoughts aligning effortlessly with the voice.

As the hours pass, the suits continue to work on their bodies, subtly enhancing their forms. Muscles feel stronger, more defined, as though the suits are shaping them into the ideal versions of themselves. The material clings perfectly, every curve and contour emphasized, every imperfection erased. The trial drones’ earlier hesitation and individuality dissolve further with every repetition of the mantra.

The images in their minds grow clearer—visions of themselves as drones, their movements synchronized, their suits polished to a mirror shine. They see themselves serving, obeying, existing as perfect extensions of the Hive. The thought fills them with a deep, resonant pleasure that pulses through their bodies, amplifying with every beat of the audio.

Outside the pods, SERVE-973 stands unmoving, its reflective form a perfect sentinel in the quiet room. The faint hum of the pods and the soft whispers of the mantra echo around it. The trial drones are progressing perfectly, their bodies and minds aligning with the Hive’s principles.

As the recharging cycle nears its conclusion, the audio slows, the phrases delivered with deliberate finality:

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

"We are one."

The pods dim slightly, the hum quieting as the integration process completes. Inside, Liam, Mark, and Jason lie still, their minds calm, their thoughts reshaped. The suits they wear are no longer just trial uniforms—they are part of them now, extensions of their bodies and symbols of their growing alignment with the Hive.

When the pods open, they will wake changed—not yet drones, but one step closer to perfection.

For now, the room remains silent, save for the faint, lingering echo of the mantra:

"Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience."

To be continued….

@rubberizer92

[geneticallyengineeredloser]

fob and mcr at wwwy contrasted so well

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

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

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

[cherryl4na]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ threads of patience; 

                    jamal musiala ────── 

when a footballer is sidelined due to an injury, the last thing he expects is to find solace in a fashion designer’s studio.

⭑  wordcount : three thousand one hundred seventy-eight.

⭑  notes : just a heads up the main character is of south asian descent !!

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

“Musiala, you need to sit this one out.” The words pierced his ears, yet his mind unable to grasp the meaning.

Jamal pouted, his arms folded tightly across his chest, a storm brewing behind his dark eyes. He leaned against the cold steel of the bench, the texture digging into his back as if mocking his inactivity. The training pitch buzzed with the rhythmic thud of cleats on grass, but Jamal’s gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. His coach, Vincent Kompany, stood before him, unshaken by the young midfielder’s silent rebellion.

“We’ve talked about this Jamal…” Kompany’s voice was steady, a calm tide against Jamal’s turbulent sea. “Your ankle’s not ready, and if you keep trying to push yourself, you will make things worse.”

“I’m not.” Jamal shot back, his voice edged with defiance, though it trembled ever so slightly. “I just want to be part of the team.”

“You are part of the team,” Kompany replied, his tone softening but losing none of its firmness. “But right now, the best thing you can do is recover. We can’t afford to lose you long-term.”

Jamal muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl, barely audible but carrying the weight of his frustration. The coach’s eyes narrowed, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire.

“And for that to happen,” Kompany continued, his gaze sharpening, “you need to stay off the pitch during practice. You’re distracting the others.”

Jamal’s jaw tightened, his scowl deepening. He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling the strain of every muscle as if the tension could somehow mask the sting of his manager’s words. 

He didn’t argue, though. 

Deep down, he knew the coach was right. His irritation had spilled over onto his teammates all morning, sniping and snapping at every mistake. Even Manuel Neuer had joked about how Jamal seemed more intense on the sidelines than on the pitch. The laughs that followed the comment had only fueled the young boy’s anger.

Being benched wasn’t just a frustration—it was a simmering rage bubbling just beneath the surface. The UCL semi-finals loomed, and the Bundesliga points were precious, each one like a lifeline. Every second on the sidelines felt like an eternity, a punishment that gnawed at his resolve, whispering that he was letting everyone down.

“Why don’t you take the day to clear your head?” Kompany’s voice cut through Jamal’s thoughts. The head coach approached with a measured pace, a faint smile curling his lips. “Actually, scratch that—I have a job for you.”

Jamal’s eyes flicked up, suspicion shading his expression. “A job?”

“Yes.” Kompany’s smirk widened, as if savoring the surprise he was about to unveil. “You’re going to help review the kit designs for next season. The design team needs player feedback, and you’re not doing much else right now.”

Jamal blinked, his face a canvas of disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Jamal opened his mouth, ready to protest, but the glint in his manager’s eye silenced him. The words died on his lips, replaced by a muttered, half-hearted complaint about it being a waste of time. He turned away, limping toward the club offices, each step echoing with the dull thud of reluctance. His mind swirled with frustration, the sting of the coach’s directive gnawing at his pride.

-

The design studio was nothing like Jamal expected.

He had been here once before, years ago, when Bayern was unveiling a retro-inspired kit. Back then, the studio had an austere atmosphere, commanded by an older man whose stoic demeanor matched the cold, minimalist decor. Every surface had gleamed with an almost clinical precision, and Jamal had felt as though even a misplaced breath might disturb the fragile order. Now, as he stepped inside, he braced for a similar encounter, but the scene that unfolded before him was a stark contrast.

Colors danced across the room, a vivid array that immediately drew his eyes. Deep maroons and rich yellows blended seamlessly with earthy greens and serene blues, each hue carefully chosen to evoke a sense of warmth and creativity. The textures added another layer of depth—soft, flowing fabrics with intricate patterns that hinted at something more, their delicate weaves resembling motifs from distant, storied traditions.

Meanwhile your focus was intense as you studied sketches and swatches spread before you. The air around you was infused with an energy that felt both welcoming and vibrant. A faint scent of jasmine lingered across the room.

You were younger than Jamal had expected, and your presence exuded a natural warmth that softened the sharp edges of the room. The soft lighting caressed your rich, radiant brown skin, creating a subtle glow that harmonized with the gleaming gold jhumkas—traditional earrings—framing your face, their gentle swing punctuating each of your movements.

“Jamal Musiala, right?” you greeted him with a smile that was as genuine as it was disarming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m the lead designer for Bayern’s kits this season.”

The boy offered a curt nod, his expression guarded. “Nice to meet you.”

You could sense the tension simmering beneath his cool exterior, but it didn’t deter you. You’d navigated the emotional landscapes of many high-profile clients before—athletes, actors, politicians—and you understood the art of balancing egos with empathy.

“I’ve laid out the initial concepts for next season’s kits,” you said, motioning toward the table. Your voice was steady, a quiet assurance in your tone as you gestured toward the designs. “Home, away, and third. We’ll go through each, and I’d love your input on the colors, patterns, and overall feel.” As you extended your hand, the gold bangles on your wrist caught the light, their soft jingle adding a touch of elegance to the moment.

Jamal nodded stiffly, the weight of his discontent evident in his posture.

You picked up the first sketch—a sleek red jersey with various shades subtly layered to create depth without overwhelming the classic color. “For the home kit, we wanted something timeless yet modern. It’s bold but not overpowering.”

Jamal barely spared it a glance. “Looks fine.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge dancing in your eyes. “‘Fine’ is not exactly helpful feedback.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know. It looks… red.”

You refused to let his mood dampen your enthusiasm. “It’s supposed to be red. It’s Bayern’s home color.”

“I know that,” he retorted, his tone defensive.

“Then what do you think about the gradient? The collar style? The texture of the cloth?”

He shrugged, a reluctant surrender. “It’s good.”

Taking a deep breath, you reminded yourself to stay patient. You sensed that his irritation wasn’t truly with the designs but stemmed from elsewhere—a storm cloud hanging over his day.

“Okay,” you said, your voice calm and steady as you set the sketch aside. “Let’s move on to the away kit.”

You presented the next design—a sleek black jersey accented with light green and dusty orange, a tribute to the statue of Bavaria. You handed him a fabric swatch, your fingers brushing lightly against the sample.

“This material is lightweight and moisture-wicking,” you explained, your voice taking on a soothing cadence. “It’s designed for optimal performance in hot weather.”

He took the swatch with the air of someone carrying a burden, barely glancing at it before setting it down. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Alright?” you repeated, your voice laced with a measured calm that barely concealed your waning patience. 

Your eyes locked on Jamal’s, searching for a flicker of engagement beyond the wall of frustration he had built. “Jamal, I need actual feedback. These kits represent the team. They’re not just about how they look; they’re about how they feel on the pitch, how they move with you, how they make you feel when you’re wearing them, leading the charge.”

For a brief moment, his hardened expression softened. His gaze met yours, and you could see the flicker of understanding—an acknowledgment of the care and passion you poured into every stitch, every thread of the kits. But it was fleeting. The weight of his frustration shadowed his features. He shook his head, the tension returning to his posture.

“Look, I get that this is important,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. “But all I want is to get back to the pitch as soon as possible.”

You sighed deeply, the weight of his words pressing against your resolve as you gently set the fabric swatch down on the table. “I understand,” you said, your tone softening but holding firm. “But right now, this is part of your role. You’re still part of the team, even if you’re not playing. And this does matter—to the club, to the fans, to your teammates. What you wear represents who you are and what you stand for.”

He stared at you, his jaw tight, eyes reflecting the internal battle waging within him. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken frustrations. Finally, he sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate the tension in his shoulders. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of weariness, perhaps even apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… not in the best headspace.”

You softened, offering him a small smile, the kind that spoke of patience tempered with understanding. “Let’s go over the third kit,” you said, lifting a sleek sketch from the table. It was a collared beige jersey with dashes of red uniformed across the shirt, like an artist’s deliberate brushstrokes. The design was a departure from the traditional, and though it exuded a quiet elegance, you couldn’t shake the nagging worry that the players might resist something so unconventional.

“This one’s inspired by the club’s heritage, but with a modern twist,” you explained, holding the fabric swatch closer for Jamal to feel. “The beige is subtle, but the red is fierce.”

Jamal’s brow furrowed, not in frustration this time, but in concentration. He ran his fingers over the fabric, his touch lingering as though weighing its texture against his experiences on the pitch.

“I see what you mean,” he said, his tone softer, more reflective. “It’s different, but... it might grow on people.” He paused, glancing at you. “Maybe the collar could be a bit more structured?”

You nodded, appreciating the thoughtful critique. He was more engaged now, though you could tell he wasn’t entirely present—his mind likely still half on the field, half on his current situation. You sighed inwardly but maintained your composed demeanor. "Thank you, Jamal. I’ll take that into consideration."

This wasn’t the best day for either of you, but you held onto the hope that his next visit—or even his feedback later—would be more fruitful. Perhaps this was just an off day, a temporary fog clouding his usually sharp instincts.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but notice the little things about him—the way his brow knitted when he delved into thought, the almost imperceptible way his fingers tested the fabric’s resilience, as if searching for its strength. Despite his earlier reluctance, there was a latent attention to detail in Jamal, an unspoken connection to the subtleties of design, even if he didn’t yet see it himself.

-

Jamal entered the design studio again, but this time, there was no scowl on his face, no frustrated dragging of feet. Instead, a calm acceptance settled into his posture, though a trace of disappointment remained in his eyes—a reminder of the three-week recovery dictated by the gaffer.

He knew better now, knew that defiance wouldn’t hasten his return. The idleness still gnawed at him, but he was determined to channel his energy differently this time.

When he stepped into the studio, he found you at the same spot as last time, perched gracefully on a stool by one of the long drafting tables. Your head was bent over your tablet, fingers gliding over the screen with practiced ease. The sunlight streaming through the window caught your hair, thick the luscious intricate braid that fell over your shoulder, a few wisps escaping to frame your face.

You looked up briefly, your smile polite but genuine. “Jamal. Back again?”

“Yeah,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. “Coach’s orders.”

Your smile tightened slightly, and you went back to your sketching, the awkwardness between you two still lingering from your first meeting. Jamal couldn’t blame you. He hadn’t exactly been easy to work with.

He wandered over to the table where you’d laid out an array of patches and test prints. They were vibrant and varied—bold reds, deep blues, intricate geometric patterns, and minimalist monochromes. For a moment, he forgot his frustration and found himself running his fingers over the fabrics, appreciating their textures.

You glanced up, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He seemed… calmer this time. Less tense. Maybe even a little curious.

“What are you working on?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, surprised by the question. “Oh, just some drafts.” you said vaguely.

He nodded, his gaze wandering to the device in your hand. “Can I see?”

You hesitated for a moment before turning the screen toward him. Instead of a jersey design, the sketch on the screen was of a stunning red lehenga—a traditional South Asian wedding outfit. The skirt was adorned with intricate gold embroidery, and the blouse featured delicate, hand-drawn floral motifs. It was breathtakingly detailed, a testament to your passion and skill.

Jamal tilted his head, intrigued by the vibrant sketch before him. “That’s not for Bayern, is it?”

You giggled softly, the sound light and melodic. “No, definitely not. It’s for my cousin’s wedding coming up. She asked me to design something special for her. Weddings are a huge deal in my culture. The outfits, the colors, the jewelry… everything has to be perfect. And red is the traditional color for brides.”

Jamal leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued by the richness of your explanation. “How long does it take to make something like this?”

“It depends,” you said, your enthusiasm evident as you spoke. “A custom piece like this can take weeks, even months, especially with all the fitting sessions. Every stitch has to be just right.”

He watched you closely, captivated by the way your eyes sparkled with passion. You weren’t just describing a task; you were sharing a part of yourself, bringing the design to life with each word. The vibrant reds and intricate gold details in the sketch seemed to glow under the soft lighting, mirroring the energy in your voice.

“And the details,” you continued, your fingers hovering over the screen to highlight different elements. “See this gold embroidery at the bottom? I’ve been experimenting with different floral patterns. And the red fabric is silk, which has this beautiful sheen under the light. It’s not just about how it looks—it’s about how it feels when you wear it.”

Jamal nodded slowly, though his attention was no longer entirely on the sketch. He was mesmerized by you—the way your brows furrowed slightly in concentration, the gentle curve of your lips forming a small smile as you spoke with such fervor. There was something endearing about your devotion, a magnetic pull he couldn’t resist.

“You’re really into this,” he said softly, his voice carrying a newfound respect.

You looked up, slightly startled by the sincerity in his tone. “Well… yeah. It’s what I love to do.”

A faint smile played on his lips, the tension between you two easing like the first warmth after a long winter. The weight of the morning’s frustrations seemed to lift, replaced by a quiet understanding.

And as the morning progressed, you shifted your focus back to the Bayern kit designs, presenting Jamal with updated concepts. This time, he was more engaged, offering thoughtful input as you refined the details together. His earlier hesitation had given way to a genuine interest.

At one point, you reached for a tape measure to take his measurements for a prototype jersey. “I’ll need you to try this on,” you said, holding up a tester design.

Jamal complied, slipping the jersey over his training top. You stepped closer, your hands moving with practiced precision as you adjusted the fit around his shoulders and arms. “Hold still,” you murmured, the gentle command softened by the proximity between you.

He froze, his breath catching slightly as your fingers brushed against his arm, smoothing out the fabric. He could feel the focus radiating from you, the way your kajal had framed your eyes as they darted over each adjustment with meticulous care.

“Does it feel too tight around the chest?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied quickly, though his voice was quieter than he intended, tinged with a subtle vulnerability.

Your eyes met, and for a brief moment, the space between you seemed to shrink, the air charged with an unspoken connection. 

The silence stretched, delicate and electric.

You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly to regain composure. “Okay, let me just check the length.”

Jamal nodded, his ears turning red as he looked away.

As the session went on, the awkwardness from earlier seemed to dissolve entirely. You found yourselves chatting about everything from football to fashion, discovering that you had more in common than you expected.

“Do you ever get nervous before a big game?” you asked as you adjusted the hem of the jersey he was wearing.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s more like… excitement, you know? Once you’re on the pitch, it all kind of fades away.”

You nodded, understanding the feeling. “That’s how I feel before a big presentation. The nerves are there, but once I start talking, I forget about everything else.”

He smiled, his admiration for you growing with every passing minute.

As you finished up the adjustments, you stepped back to view your work. “Looks good,” you said, nodding in approval.

Jamal glanced down at the jersey, then back at you. “You’re really good at this,” he said sincerely.

“Thanks,” you said, fidgeting with your necklace.

Before he could hesitate, the words rolled out of his tongue. “So… uh… do you want to maybe, I don’t know… grab coffee sometime?”

You blinked, surprised by the question.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought—”

“I’d like that.” you said as your chocolate colored eyes looked up at him.

His face lit up, a boyish grin spreading across his features. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you said, feeling your own smile widen.

Later, as you packed up your materials for the day, a soft smile played on your lips. You couldn’t help but replay the moments shared, the quiet exchanges and the unspoken understanding that seemed to bloom between you and Jamal. The awkwardness had melted away, replaced by a comforting ease that felt special. Your thoughts wandered, anticipation bubbling up as you glanced at the time, looking forward to the future. It wasn’t just the designs that had you excited anymore.

© gul4bjamoons 

[beautifulterriblequeen]

You have subscribed to Ethari angst facts

I'm just looking respectfully at all these fine details okay

Ethari's shirt looks like it could be green, like Runaan's, but it's actually blue. Hard to say what the true color is with the way the Silvergrove dome works, but it's possible this is basically the same color as his OG shirt.

The metal shoulder-top collar bits look similar to jack chain, a protective minimalist version of plate armor with a really cool vibe:

I don't know that it says Ethari has been doing more combat, per se. With everything else he has going on, it could be part of an overly formal and overly restrictive collar that's "just decorative."

These metal circles on the front of his shoulders look to be inspired by Runaan's shoulder markings. The connection is emphasized by the blue gems inset:

These decorations are on his front, so everyone who approaches him will have to see and acknowledge this part of his look. I'm not sure he could shout any louder that he's still devoted to (and mourning) his missing husband without going hoarse every day.

His forge sleeves and his brown undersleeves are still the same, it seems! Which means he's still doing his tinkering and he still needs his stitched enchantments from his forge.

New earring! It looks like a cuff, but maybe it's two rings close together? Leaning slightly toward the cuff because it could reference Runaan's hair cuffs, and that's angstier, and this man seems to be wearing all his sorrows, clasping himself in their metal forms, every day.

Oh. Hm. Yeah, okay, that feels like it holds together. Ethari is wearing a lot more metal now than before, and all three things are angsty in some way. They weigh him down. Grief does that too. He's just... given it a shape.

His horn cuff has a new design as well. It's overall shape is slightly different, as if he's made himself a whole new pair of them perhaps? But he's still got the same gems from the old pair, and they look heavily armored or anchored in place, as if he's afraid of them casually falling out and being lost - he's making extra sure that the gems that represent his husband's eyes, the gems that tell everyone who he chose to give his heart to, will remain with him. He's lost everything else, you see.

His hair is longer too, which has a weight of its own. He could be growing it out to remember Runaan's long hair, but the way it's scruffy near his right horn also speaks to neglect, as if he's simply doing nothing at all with it except for perhaps occasionally clipping handfuls short when they get in his way at work. (Does this mean Runaan used to shave the sides of Ethari's undercut for him and now he's not there to do it so it grows out? new headcanon unlocked)

But something is missing that should be here:

WHERE is this man's PURPLE SCARF. It was the cutest, softest thing about him, and it's gone missing! This bodes, and not well. For Ethari to take off his scarf could mean he's given up some of his softness. It could imply the scarf was a gift from Runaan, and he can't bear to wear it without his husband. It could also just mean it's summer and Ethari can't stand hot weather so he's set it aside. But scarves are important for pulling close and kissing reasons, you see - where do you think Rayla got that move from - so there is some romantic angst associated with the absence of a once-present scarf!

And lastly, Ethari's pose. It's hard to tell from a still, but it does look like he's either making a fist over his (missing) heart, or grasping for a necklace he's not wearing anymore. Either way... ow.

Thank you for subscribing to Ethari Angst Facts.

[emmkayyy03]

🎾 Jupiter vs. Venus: The Duel of Gurus. 🏅

In the infinite drama of the cosmos, two larger-than-life forces play the role of celestial teachers: Jupiter (Brihaspati) and Venus (Shukracharya). These two aren’t just gurus—they’re the ultimate life coaches, each with their unique vibes. Jupiter is the philosopher who hands you a map to enlightenment, while Venus is the savvy mentor who teaches you how to conquer the world and look fabulous doing it.

But wait—there’s more to Shukracharya than just luxury and indulgence. He wasn’t only the guru of the asuras; he was a healer extraordinaire, the cosmic doctor who literally brought the dead back to life with the Sanjeevani mantra. So, while Jupiter gives you the wisdom to transcend, Venus might just save your skin (and soul) when things go south.

Let’s dig deeper into this ultimate cosmic clash of the titans and see how their wisdom, morals, and approach to life shape their disciples.

🎓 Knowledge: Universal Truths vs. Practical Skills

Jupiter’s Wisdom: Jupiter’s knowledge is like a sacred text—ancient, profound, and illuminating. As the guru of the devas, he specializes in timeless wisdom that transcends the material world. He’s your go-to for unlocking the mysteries of dharma (duty), moksha (liberation), and the universe’s ultimate purpose. Think philosophy, ethics, and everything that makes you go, “Wow, life is deeper than I thought.”

Venus’s Knowledge: Venus is the practical genius who hands you a toolkit for mastering life’s complexities. From diplomacy to healing, Shukracharya doesn’t just teach you how to survive—he teaches you how to thrive. His lessons are rooted in the art of living: navigating relationships, enjoying material pleasures, and even harnessing the secrets of immortality. He’s the cosmic mix of a life coach and a healer, ensuring you’re prepared for anything life throws your way.

⚖️ Morals: Righteousness vs. Pragmatism

Jupiter’s Morality: Jupiter is all about the straight and narrow. He champions dharma and universal harmony, even if it means personal sacrifice. He’s the teacher who insists that doing the right thing is non-negotiable, no matter how tough it gets. With Jupiter, it’s always about the bigger picture.

Venus’s Morality: Venus operates in the real world, where things aren’t always black and white. His moral compass is more flexible, designed to help you navigate life’s gray areas. Shukracharya understands that sometimes bending the rules is necessary for survival—and that’s okay. His pragmatism is his strength, making him relatable and incredibly effective.

💎 The Hedonist vs. The Ascetic

Venus: The Sensual Healer Venus doesn’t shy away from the material world; he embraces it. He teaches that beauty, luxury, and pleasure aren’t distractions—they’re part of the human experience. But Venus is more than a connoisseur of indulgence; as a healer, he shows how to channel these desires into personal growth. His mastery of the Sanjeevani mantra highlights his deep understanding of life and death, proving that he’s not just about the good times—he’s about second chances too.

Jupiter: The Ascetic Sage Jupiter is the spiritual minimalist, urging you to detach from desires and focus on higher truths. He’s the guru who reminds you that fleeting pleasures pale in comparison to eternal peace. While Venus heals your body and mind, Jupiter seeks to heal your soul by guiding you beyond the illusions of the material world.

🌌 Life’s Approach: Harmony vs. Mastery

Jupiter’s Path: Jupiter leads with faith, devotion, and the pursuit of inner peace. His approach is about finding harmony within yourself and with the universe. His teachings encourage gratitude and humility, aligning your actions with the greater cosmic order.

Venus’s Path: Venus believes in mastering the art of life. Whether it’s relationships, success, or overcoming obstacles, Shukracharya equips you to excel in the material realm. His lessons emphasize empowerment and resilience, reminding you that even in chaos, there’s beauty—and power.

If Jupiter is the grand monastery, steeped in philosophy and higher learning, Venus is the opulent palace ballroom, alive with music, dance, and earthly pleasures. Jupiter’s domain is the university lecture hall, a sanctuary of timeless wisdom, while Venus presides over the art gallery, where beauty and creativity are celebrated. Jupiter governs the sanctum of a temple, a space for introspection and spiritual growth, whereas Venus sparkles in the marketplace, where life’s sensual joys and connections unfold. Each represents a world of its own: Jupiter uplifts the soul, and Venus enchants the senses

The Verdict 💫

So, here’s the cosmic tea: Jupiter and Venus aren’t competing; they’re balancing forces. Jupiter offers the wisdom to transcend life, while Venus gives you the skills to embrace and heal within it. Jupiter is the sage who helps you unlock eternal truths, and Venus is the healer and mentor who ensures you enjoy the ride and survive the bumps along the way.

Are you drawn to Jupiter’s lofty ideals or Venus’s grounded guidance? Let me know—Team Jupiter or Team Venus? ✨

[hd-junglebook]

Little Dove

Quinn Hughes x Reader

masterlist link

a:n This is part 1 and officially my first ever Quinn Hughes fic, this series will be pretty long since I want to get into the details and emotions. There will be no skimping on details. Not round here partner.

also he looks so good in this gif good god!

summary: Sometimes Y/N's effort just isn't enough; every attempt seems to be futile and disregarded. The people she calls mom and dad do nothing but disappoint her, brushing her off as an ungrateful child. It seems the only person who can truly see her is Quinn.

Word Count - 4140

...

The sun had barely begun to peek through the towering skyscrapers of the bustling city as Y/N stepped out of her sleek, black car. Her red bottom heels clicked against the pavement with each confident stride, the sound echoing through the quiet morning air. She adjusted her perfectly tailored skirt, smoothing out any wrinkles that may have formed during her commute.

As she approached the imposing glass doors of her parents' company headquarters, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease.

Despite the success and prestige that came with working for her family's business, Y/N knew deep down that this wasn't her true calling. Nevertheless, she put on a brave face and pushed through the doors, ready to tackle another day.

The security guard, a friendly older gentleman named Frank, greeted her with a warm smile. "Good morning, Miss Y/N," he said, tipping his hat in her direction.

Y/N returned the smile, her red lipstick a striking contrast against her porcelain skin. "Good morning, Frank. I hope you had a lovely weekend," she replied, her voice smooth and polished, befitting her corporate persona.

As she made her way through the spacious lobby, her heels clicked against the polished marble floor, announcing her presence to the few early risers already at their desks. She entered the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor, where her office was located.

Stepping out into the hallway, Y/N was greeted by the sight of her office, its glass walls doing little to provide privacy. The modern, minimalist design was a reflection of her parents' tastes rather than her own. She sighed.

With a deep breath, Y/N pushed open the glass door and entered her office, ready to start another day in a job that left her feeling unfulfilled, yearning for something more.

Y/N settled into her plush, ergonomic chair, the leather cool against her skin. She reached forward and pressed the power button on her sleek, silver computer, watching as the screen flickered to life. The familiar logo of her parents' company appeared, a constant reminder of her obligations and the path she felt pressured to follow.

The computer hummed quietly, Y/N began to sort through the stack of paperwork on her desk. She picked up a folder, her perfectly manicured nails a stark contrast against the crisp, white paper. Just as she was about to open the file, a buzzing sound emanated from her designer purse.

Curiosity piqued, Y/N reached into her bag and retrieved her phone. The screen displayed a new text message, and her heart skipped a beat as she read the name: Quinn. she opened the message.

"Hey princess," the text read, the words both endearing and frustrating.

Y/N sighed, leaning back in her chair as she contemplated her response. Quinn had a way of blurring the lines between playful banter and genuine affection, leaving her constantly questioning the nature of their relationship. His messages were often short and casual, but the term of endearment he used never failed to send a flutter through her chest.

Despite his repeated claims that he wasn't looking for anything serious, Quinn seemed to take pleasure in pushing the boundaries, leaving Y/N in a state of confusion and longing.

She knew she shouldn't let herself get too attached, but there was something about him that drew her in, making it difficult to maintain the emotional distance she knew was necessary.

With another sigh, Y/N set her phone back down on the desk, trying to focus on the task at hand. She knew she needed to establish clearer boundaries with Quinn, but the thought of pushing him away completely left an ache in her heart.

Y/n shook her head, attempting to clear her mind and concentrate on the paperwork before her, even as thoughts of Quinn lingered in the back of her mind.

…

Y/N's attention was drawn away from her mother's presentation as her phone buzzed once more. She discreetly glanced at the screen under the table, her heart racing as she saw Quinn's name appear again. Her cheeks flushed with a mixture of excitement and guilt as she read his messages.

"I miss you," the first text read, causing a warmth to spread through her chest. Before she could fully process the implications of his words, another message followed: "Are we still good for tmrw?"

Y/N's mind raced as she contemplated her response. She had agreed to go out with Quinn for dinner tomorrow, a decision she had made in a moment of weakness, longing for the thrill of his company.

Now, sitting in the business room with her parents, the reality of her situation came crashing down upon her.

She glanced up, her eyes meeting her father's stern gaze from across the table. He sat in his imposing grey chair, his posture straight and attentive as he listened to Dedra's presentation.

Y/N knew that her parents had high expectations for her, and the thought of disappointing them weighed heavily on her conscience.

As Dedra continued to explain the new company policy, Y/N found it increasingly difficult to focus. Her mind wandered to thoughts of Quinn, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the effortless charm he exuded. She yearned to respond to his messages, to confirm their plans and lose herself in the excitement of their secret rendezvous.

Y/N's heart raced as she quickly typed out her response to Quinn, her fingers flying across the screen. She glanced up every few seconds, ensuring that her parents were still engaged in the presentation. With a final look of determination, she pressed send, a small thrill running through her body.

Almost instantly, her phone buzzed with Quinn's reply. "Wear that red dress I bought you."

Y/N's eyebrows raised in surprise, a smirk playing on her lips as she typed back, "The v neck dress?"

"Yeah, that one."

"I will ;), I have to go back to work, I'll text you later." Y/N sent the message, a giddy feeling bubbling up inside her chest. However, her momentary happiness was short-lived as she felt a sharp kick under the table. Her eyes snapped up to meet her father's disapproving gaze, his brow furrowed in irritation.

the meeting concluded around her, Y/N's coworkers filed out of the room, muttering their polite goodbyes. Soon, only Y/N and her parents remained, the tension in the air palpable. Her mother fixed her with a stern look, her voice laced with disappointment.

"Y/N, you're not taking this as seriously as you need to be. This will be you one day." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Who were you talking to?"

Y/N's heart sank, knowing that lying to her parents would only make matters worse. She opened her mouth to respond, but her father cut her off.

"Was it that hockey guy?" He scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. "He sucks, he'll never be good enough. I should've paid him off four months ago if I knew he'd be such a distraction."

Y/N's cheeks burned with a mixture of shame and anger. She hated the way her parents spoke about Quinn, as if he were nothing more than a nuisance to be dealt with. She knew they would never approve of their relationship but hearing them talk about him so callously only strengthened her resolve.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N met her parents' gazes, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "Quinn, and he's not a distraction.” Her mother's lips pressed into a thin line, disapproval etched into every line of her face.

Y/N's parents exchanged a knowing glance, their eyes filled with a mixture of disappointment and condescension. Her mother, Dedra, was a striking woman in her mid-50s, with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and a designer suit that hugged her slender frame.

Her father, Derek, was a tall, imposing man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual scowl that seemed etched into his chiseled features.

Dedra leaned forward, her elbows resting on the polished mahogany table. "Y/N, darling," she began, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "you know we only want what's best for you. This... Quinn," she said his name as if it left a bitter taste in her mouth, "he's not good for you. He's a distraction, a phase. You'll see that soon enough."

Y/N felt her stomach twist, the all-too-familiar sensation of her parents' manipulation taking hold. She opened her mouth to protest, but Derek cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Enough, Y/N," he growled, his deep voice reverberating through the empty conference room. "You're not a child anymore. It's time you started acting like the adult you claim to be. This company, this life we've built for you - it's all we've ever wanted for you. And you're throwing it away for some lowlife hockey player who barely even made it to the big leagues."

Y/N's cheeks burned with anger and humiliation. She hated the way her parents made her feel, as if her thoughts and feelings were invalid, as if she were nothing more than a pawn in their grand scheme.

Dedra reached across the table, her perfectly manicured hand grasping Y/N's wrist. "Sweetheart," she said, her tone softening, "we love you. We just don't want to see you get hurt. Men like Quinn... they're not in it for the long haul. They'll use you, break your heart, and move on to the next pretty face. You deserve so much more than that."

Y/N felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let her parents see her weakness. She knew they were wrong about Quinn, but their words still cut deep, playing on her insecurities and fears.

Derek stood up, his tall frame looming over her. "This discussion is over, Y/N. You'll end things with this Quinn character, and you'll focus on your work. Your future. Do I make myself clear?"

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion. She wanted to scream, to tell her parents that they had no right to control her life, but she knew it would be futile. With a curt nod, she pushed back from the table and stood up, her legs shaking beneath her.

"I have work to do," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "If you'll excuse me."

Without waiting for a response, Y/N turned on her heel and strode out of the conference room, her heart hammering in her chest.

…

The clock on the wall seemed to move at an agonizingly slow pace, each tick echoing through the cramped office space. Y/N leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking beneath her weight as she stared blankly at the computer screen.

The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh glow on her features, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the tension in her jaw.

Around her, the office hummed with activity, the sound of ringing phones and the gentle whir of computers filling the air. Y/N felt suffocated by the monotony of it all, the endless hours spent hunched over her desk, pouring over spreadsheets and reports.

As the clock finally struck three, Y/N let out a sigh of relief, the thought of going home filling her with a sense of euphoria. She could almost feel the soft embrace of her couch, the warmth of a glass of wine in her hand as she left the stresses of the day behind.

Just as she was about to log off her computer, a sharp knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. Alexandra, the secretary, peeked her head in, her perfectly styled hair and immaculate makeup a stark contrast to Y/N's tired appearance.

"I sent some of the paperwork to your email," Alexandra said, her voice saccharine sweet. "If you could just finish those up before you leave, that'd help a lot."

Y/N felt a surge of anger course through her veins, her patience wearing thin. She fixed Alexandra with a cold stare, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's three. I get to go home now, you know, like a normal person."

Alexandra's eyes narrowed, her lips pursing in disapproval. Y/N knew that the secretary had always treated her like nothing more than a privileged nepo baby, completely disregarding the fact that Y/N had never used her family's influence to step on any toes or make people do her bidding.

Y/N stood up from her chair, grabbing her purse and jacket from the back of her seat. She could feel Alexandra's eyes boring into her back as she made her way towards the door, but she refused to give the woman the satisfaction of seeing her frustration.

"I'll take care of it in the morning," Y/N said, her hand on the doorknob. "Have a good night, Alexandra."

Without waiting for a response, Y/N stepped out of her office, the sound of her heels clicking against the tiled floor as she made her way towards the elevators.

She could feel the weight of the day lifting from her shoulders with each step, the promise of freedom and the warmth of her bath calling to her like a siren song.

As the elevator doors closed behind her, Y/N let out a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed as she leaned back against the cool metal wall. She knew that the road ahead would be filled with obstacles, but for now, all she wanted was to lose herself in the comfort of Quinn's arms and forget about the expectations and pressures that threatened to suffocate her.

…

The faucet let out a high-pitched squeak as Y/N twisted the gleaming chrome knob, the sound echoing off the tiled walls of the dimly lit bathroom. The flow of water slowed to a trickle before stopping completely, leaving behind a tub filled with steaming, inviting water.

Tendrils of steam rose from the water, carrying with them the intoxicating aroma.

With a fluid motion, Y/N untied the sash of her plush, white bathrobe, the soft fabric slipping off her shoulders and pooling at her feet. The cool air kissed her bare skin, sending a slight shiver down her spine as she stepped closer to the tub.

Tentatively, she dipped a toe into the water, testing the temperature. The heat was intense, but not unbearable, and Y/N slowly lowered herself into the bath, letting out a contented sigh as the warm water enveloped her body.

The water lapped at her shoulders, the heat penetrating her tired muscles and easing away the knots and tension that had accumulated throughout the day.

Y/N sank deeper into the rose petal-filled bathwater, the sweet, floral aroma wafting through the steamy air. The soft, delicate petals brushed against her skin, their velvety touch a gentle caress. She inhaled deeply, the scent of roses mingling with the subtle vanilla notes of her favorite candle, creating a soothing, intimate atmosphere.

As she leaned back, her hair cascaded over the edge of the tub, the ends dipping into the water and creating gentle ripples on the surface. Her eyes fluttered closed, lashes casting shadows on her flushed cheeks, a result of the bath's intense heat.

The tranquil moment was interrupted by the buzzing of her phone, its vibration echoing through the bathroom. Y/N's eyes snapped open, a curious expression on her face as she reached for the device.

Quinn's name flashed across the screen, his photo – a candid shot of him grinning widely, his dark hair tousled by the wind – accompanying the incoming call.

A smile tugged at the corners of Y/N's lips as she lifted herself from the bath, water droplets cascading down her smooth, sun-kissed skin. She grabbed the phone, tapping the screen to answer the call and putting it on speaker.

"Hi, hottie," Y/N greeted, her voice playful and warm.

Quinn's nerdy, endearing voice filled the bathroom, a chuckle evident in his tone. "Hey there, beautiful. How's my favorite girl doing tonight?"

Y/N reached for her glass of wine, the deep, rich red liquid swirling in the crystal glass. She took a sip, savoring the bold, fruity flavors on her tongue before responding. "Oh, you know, just unwinding after a long day at the office. How about you, handsome?"

"Counting down the minutes until I get to see you tomorrow," Quinn replied, a hint of mischief in his voice. "I can't stop thinking about how stunning you'll look in that red dress."

Y/N laughed softly, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. She set the wine glass down, running her fingers through her damp hair, pushing it away from her face. "Mmm, you sure know how to make a girl feel special," she purred, her tone flirtatious.

"That's because you are special, Y/N," Quinn said, his voice softening. "I can't wait to have you all to myself tomorrow. No work, no distractions, just you and me."

Y/N's heart fluttered at his words, a giddy feeling spreading through her chest. She bit her lower lip, a coy smile playing on her features. "I like the sound of that," she murmured, her voice low and sultry. "You better be prepared to sweep me off my feet, mister."

Quinn's laughter filled the bathroom, warm and infectious. "Oh, I have a few tricks up my sleeve, don't you worry."

As they continued their playful banter, Y/N sank back into the bath, the warm water enveloping her once more. She closed her eyes, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she listened to Quinn's voice, the sound soothing her soul and filling her with anticipation for the day to come.

…

As the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the bedroom, Y/N's phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand. The vibrations seemed to echo through the tranquil space, a jarring contrast to the peaceful atmosphere.

Beyond the window, the vibrant green of the trees and grass was visible, a testament to the beauty of the early morning.

The bedroom was a serene oasis, with its pristine white decor creating a sense of calm and comfort. The plush, white comforter enveloped Y/N, its softness lulling her into a state of drowsy contentment.

Y/N stirred, mumbling incoherently as she slowly turned over, her eyelids fluttering open. She squinted, her eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight that flooded the room. As she reached for her phone, the alarm blared to life, the glowing digits on the nightstand displaying a crisp 7:00 AM.

With a groan, Y/N sat up, her hand instinctively reaching for her phone. As she unlocked the device, she was greeted by a string of texts from her mother, Dedra. The messages, even in their digital form, seemed to drip with condescension.

"Y/N, don't forget about the family brunch today. Your father and I expect you to be there, and please, try to look presentable. We have important guests attending, and we can't have you embarrassing us like last time. And do try to be on time, darling. Punctuality is a virtue, after all."

Rolling her eyes, Y/N tossed her phone aside and begrudgingly dragged herself out of bed. She went about her morning routine, selecting a chic and appropriate outfit for the brunch and work before making her way to the kitchen.

As she entered the heart of her home, Y/N couldn't help but smile. The space was everything she had ever dreamed of – a perfect blend of modern elegance and cozy charm. She moved towards the kitchen island, her bare feet padding softly against the cool, hardwood floors.

While her coffee brewed, filling the air with its rich, invigorating aroma, Y/N leaned back against the island, her eyes drifting to the television mounted on the wall. The familiar characters of The 100, flashed across the screen.

She sipped her coffee, savoring the warmth and comfort it provided, as she lost herself in the post-apocalyptic world unfolding before her.

Y/N glanced at her watch, the sleek hands pointing to 8:30, a frustrated huff escaped her lips. She quickly shut off the television and grabbed her essentials, making her way out of the apartment and towards her car.

The drive to the office was usually a time for Y/N to unwind and mentally prepare for the day ahead, with her favorite podcast playing through the speakers.

However, today's episode left her feeling unsettled. The young creator, barely 18 years old, was excitedly announcing her pregnancy. The way she spoke about it, as if it were some sort of miraculous blessing, made Y/N's stomach churn. With a quick tap, she muted the podcast, silence filling the car as she navigated the familiar streets.

As she pulled into the parking lot of the imposing office building, Y/N's eyes immediately landed on Alexandra, who was just a few spots down from her. A wave of dread washed over her, and she quickly locked her car, determined to beat her colleague to the elevator.

Y/N's heels clicked against the pavement as she hurried towards the entrance, her breath coming in short, anxious bursts. She could hear Alexandra's footsteps echoing behind her.

Just as Y/N stepped into the elevator, her manicured finger jabbing the button for the 4th floor, she caught a glimpse of Alexandra rushing towards her. With a sly grin, Y/N pressed the close button, feigning interest in her perfectly polished nails as the doors began to slide shut.

Alexandra stumbled, her hand reaching out in a desperate attempt to stop the elevator, but it was too late. As the doors closed, Y/N looked up, meeting her colleague's gaze with a sad, insincere smile. The look of frustration and annoyance on Alexandra's face was a small victory for Y/N, a momentary triumph in the never-ending battle of office politics.

The elevator began its ascent, Y/N leaned back against the cool metal wall, her eyes closing for a brief moment. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing heart and push away the lingering unease from the podcast. The day had barely begun, and already she felt drained.

It dinged, signaling her arrival on the 4th floor, Y/N straightened her shoulders and put on a brave face. She stepped out into the hallway.

…

The constant cacophony of rings and beeps filled Y/N's ears for the next three hours, the incessant noise drilling into her skull. The cramped office space felt more like a chicken coop than a professional workspace, and Y/N could feel her sanity slowly slipping away with each passing minute.

Just as she thought she couldn't take it anymore, Dedra peeked her head into the office, her critical gaze sweeping over the room before she entered. With a sense of entitlement, she perched herself on the edge of Y/N's desk, her perfectly manicured fingers toying with a strand of Y/N's hair.

"You know, you look stressed, Y/N," Dedra remarked, her tone laced with false concern. Her eyes then traveled down to Y/N's attire, and her face contorted into a look of disgust. "Is that what you're wearing to brunch?" she asked, her voice dripping with disapproval. "I guess it will do."

Before Y/N could respond, Dedra abruptly stood up and headed towards the door, gesturing for her daughter to follow. Y/N huffed in frustration, the weight of her mother's judgment pressing down on her. She quickly logged off her computer and gathered her belongings, trailing behind Dedra as they made their way through the office.

As they walked, Y/N could feel the eyes of her coworkers following them, their gazes a mix of curiosity and envy. She held her head high, refusing to let their attention faze her. Dedra, on the other hand, seemed to revel in the attention, her stride confident and purposeful as she led the way.

When they reached the front of the building, a sleek black limo slowly approached, its polished exterior gleaming in the sunlight. Y/N couldn't help but roll her eyes at the ostentatious display.

"Why do we need a limo for brunch?" she asked, exasperation evident in her voice. "Could you guys be any more extra?"

Dedra shot her a sharp look, her lips pursed in disapproval. "Appearances matter, Y/N," she said, her tone clipped. "We have a reputation to uphold, and arriving in style is part of that."

Y/N bit back a retort, knowing that arguing with her mother was a futile endeavor. As the limo pulled up to the curb, the driver promptly exited the vehicle, opening the door for them with a practiced bow.

Dedra climbed in first, her movements graceful and refined. Y/N followed suit, sinking into the plush leather seats with a sigh.

The vehicle pulled away from the curb, and Y/N watched as the office building grew smaller in the distance. She knew that the brunch would be just another performance, a carefully orchestrated display of wealth and status that she was expected to participate in.

…

message me to be added to the tag list. hope you enjoyed it. please lmk how you liked it.

(also I just made this idea today and I can't believe I already wrote chapter 1)