#OLD MAN IN THE FLARED SEQUIN PANTS

[wazzi2ya]

WAIT. WAAAAIIIT.

HUSK DIED IN THE 70'S.

DISCO HUSK COULD'VE HAPPENED.

[jamespotterthefirst]

Wish and Command

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 2.5K Premise: They have been planning a proper night out after weeks of dating in secret, but she has other ideas in mind.

Warning: Strong Language and NSFW content. Please use discretion and caution when viewing this work. By viewing of this work, you consent that you are 18+

__________

Ethan knew he was in trouble when his hand lazily trailed down from her hip to the hem of her bathrobe. As he buried his face in the crook of her neck, he realized he was entirely helpless against the effortless power she wielded over him. By the time his fingers skimmed her inner thigh, he accepted and enjoyed being entirely at her mercy.

In response to his movements, Lilac laughed, a breathy sort of knowing laugh that inspired the most inappropriate thoughts.

“We should be getting ready,” she reminded him, already short of breath. The thought that his effect on her was as immediate as hers on him made his body pulse fiercely with lust.

Ethan groaned against her shoulder, begrudgingly acknowledging that she was correct. After weeks of stolen kisses and clandestine trysts in his apartment, he had promised to take her out on a real date.

At that precise moment, however, with Lilac's body pressed flush against him, his hand pushing the tantalizing lace under her robe aside, all he wanted to do was take her to bed.

Again.

The soft, unrestrained moan that escaped her when his fingers reached their target forced him to reconsider the bed. Any surface in their immediate proximity would do.

“We're going to be late,” she whimpered, the sound reverberating off the walls of his lavish bathroom.

Wickedly, he increased the movement of his fingers. “Then you better hurry up and cum, Rookie,” he whispered roughly against her ear.

She quivered violently at that, her body doubling over to press further into his straining hardness.

“Ethan,” she uttered in a broken little moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He loved her dirty mouth.

Her body shivered as she finished, his fingers helping her ride out her pleasure. When they both stilled, she turned her hungry mouth on him.

Ethan grinned at her eagerness, but gently pushed her away.

“No time,” he reminded her when she opened her mouth to protest, the lovely flush coloring her cheeks and losing itself down the front of her robe making her that much harder to resist.

“I'll make it quick,” she promised in a heady whisper that tempted him far too easily.

He laughed softly. “I much prefer it when you take your time, Rookie,” he told her with a kiss. “We'll have that time when we return.”

The disappointment in her beautiful face was fleeting, soon replaced with pensiveness. Another emotion quickly flashed and before Ethan could place it, it disappeared.

“Fine,” she agreed, her fingernail trailing slowly down his bare chest as he held her. Ethan stilled, marveling at how that was all it took to be at her disposal. “I'll have my fun with you later.”

His throat went dry at the words, his erection hardening even more so. Just as he began to wonder if they could reschedule their night out in favor of spending the whole evening in bed, she moved away with a deliberate sway of her hips.

-----------------

“Okay, I'm ready,” she informed him fifteen minutes later, emerging from his bedroom.

Ethan almost choked from his place on the couch, where he had patiently waited for her, pushing away all filthy thoughts of her body. Those thoughts flared up with a vengeance at the sight of her.

She stood there, looking like an apparition straight from an Old Hollywood film, a dazzling gold dress clinging to her, accentuating every dip and swell of her body in the most sinful way. More dangerous than the glittering dress itself or the smirk she wore to compliment it was the neckline, plunging low and leaving very little to his overactive imagination. Feeling uncontrollably greedy, his eyes fell to the slit at its side, gracing the world, but especially him, with a view of a long, shapely leg.

Lilac waited, enjoying his stunned silence.

“You look–”

“Adequate?” she finished with a laugh. Ethan rolled his eyes but the effect was lost by the smile she inspired.

“You look pretty damn adequate yourself,” she murmured after kissing his cheek. A dark, lustful look darkened her eyes as she looked him over again. “An all black suit makes you look devastating.”

He chuckled again, not betraying the chill her words sent through him.

“You even matched your pocket square with my dress.” Her fingers skimmed the gold fabric.

“Anything to please you.”

She raised a brow, intrigued. “I'll hold you to that.”

After kissing her until they were both panting for breath, they finally made their way out of the apartment. He could see her throwing furtive glances his way, her lip catching between her teeth occasionally. It was driving him crazy.

“A picture will last longer,” he teased as they waited for the elevator.

Lilac smiled at him, without any shame at being caught. “It's not my fault my boyfriend is so unfairly hot.”

Fuck.

Ethan was entirely weak-willed for her on a regular day. The raspy little drop of her voice and the way her eyes drank him in, insatiable, vanquished the last of his rationality.

Without missing a beat, he kissed her in the empty hallway, his hands hungrily sliding everywhere they could touch, the sequin of her dress pleasantly rough against his skin. When the elevator announced its arrival, Ethan backed her inside without breaking the kiss. Lips at her neck, he pressed the lobby button.

Lilac, however, had other ideas for she broke away from him. Face flushed and lips swollen from his kiss, she stepped backward to the control panel. Before he realized what she was doing, she cast him a wicked grin and slammed on the “Emergency Stop” button.

The elevator cart jolted to a stop somewhere between the tenth and ninth floors.

“Lilac, what are you–”

“Shhh,” she said as she sauntered towards him with the sexiest sway of her hips. “It's my turn.”

The heady whisper awoke every inch of him instantly.

“Here?”

She was pressed against him already, a crimson fingernail tracing his chest in a deliberate line. “We can stop,” she offered in a would be innocent whisper.

“No,” he replied much quicker than he would have liked.

A languid kiss against his jaw gave way to a hot whisper in his ear. “Good answer.”

The effect was immediate. His erection strained insistently against his pants, desperate for her attention.

“Fuck, Lilac,” he growled, his hands guiding her to one corner of the elevator by the hips. Too impatient to adore only one part of her immaculate body, they moved to her sides, fingers soon skimming the exposed skin of her neckline. He reached the swell of her breasts, eager to cast the fabric of her dress aside.

“No,” she informed him, placing a hand over his to halt him. “I told you it's my turn. Your only job is to follow directions.”

The assertiveness behind the words had to be the most erotic thing he had ever heard. The wholly immoral way she looked at him, eyes hooded and dark, didn't help his case either. With a lustful smirk of his own, he said, “Tell me what to do, Allende.”

“Against the wall,” she commanded with ease. The intoxicating scent of her perfume enveloped him in the small space. “And hands to yourself.���

Ethan complied with the first but found the second was much more difficult to obey, particularly when her teeth grazed softly at the column of his neck. As her fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, her crimson lips closely followed, pressing searing kisses on the newly exposed skin of his chest. When she reached the last button, her long fingernails raked against his abs, the muscles straining against her touch.

“Mmm,” she hummed against the skin right above his waistband, tongue tracing the hard plane of his stomach. She was kneeling before him, eyes glancing up at him through dark lashes.

Ethan was hard as a rock already, throbbing painfully for her touch. He felt his back press against the cold wall of the elevator, breath catching at his throat, the ache to touch her almost painful. When her hands finally moved to grip him through his trousers, he let out a low, harsh groan from deep in his throat.

“Like that?” she asked, unrestrained need evident in her voice too.

A growl was the only response he could offer.

Too soon, Lilac stopped her ministrations. Before he could lament the loss of her touch, however, she worked the button of his pants, then the zipper, roughly pulling down enough of the fabric of his boxer briefs. When she finally released him, she moaned in response, as she always did at the sight of him, the sound making him grow impossibly harder.

Lilac wasted no time in stroking him, her grip expertly moving along the hilt.

“Fuck.” His curse was a heady hiss that fueled her enthusiasm.

Soon, her movements slowed until they ceased altogether. The disappointment must have been obvious in his face because she smiled deviously up at him.

“I want you in my mouth,” she all but moaned up at him.

His cock twitched.

“Do you want that too, Ramsey?”

“Yes.”

“How badly?”

“Very.”

Single word answers were all he could manage in his current state. Incredible how she could reduce an articulate man with years of higher education to an incoherent mess.

Satisfied, she wrapped her lips around the tip, making his hips buck slightly. Her responding little hum vibrated through his length.

“Lilac,” he hissed.

The single word was all the fuel she needed. Eyes locked on his, she took him fully in her mouth, her lips sliding studiously down the length. Her movements started slow and measured at first, her hands working what her mouth couldn't reach. Determined to kill him, it seemed, she added her tongue to her movements. His hips jerked against her mouth in response.

“Fuck, you're so good at that,” he praised in a dark, hushed whisper as his hands lost themselves in her hair. As if to further prove that point, she expertly took more of him in her mouth without incident. Ethan closed his eyes against the ecstasy, one hand guiding her forward and the other clinging to the railing.

When her speed picked up, Ethan let out another harsh, low moan, his head falling back against the cold elevator wall. In his haze, he glanced down, watching her work. The sight was enough to bring him dangerously close.

Very gently, he eased her away.

“Not yet,” he said raggedly.

Understanding crossed her features. With one last torturous flick of her tongue, she released him, rising to her feet.

Her swollen lips found his neck again. Moving up to his ear, she whispered her next command, “Pin me against the wall and fuck me, Ethan.”

Christ.

Proper words failed him.

Then again, there was nothing proper about the way his hands desperately bunched up the fabric of her dress. In one powerful movement, he hoisted her up against the metal railing of the elevator, her legs clasping around his waist.

Wasting little time, he reached between them to unceremoniously push the lace of her thong aside for the second time that evening. He stroked himself briefly against her clit, earning a strangled moan from her that crushed the last of his control. Seconds after, he guided himself into her, sinking into her welcoming body inch by agonizing inch.

“Ethan,” she moaned as he moved, her hands clinging to his shoulders like a lifeline, the heat of her breath a caress.

Her body clenched around him from all sides, plunging him into divine delirium. “You're so tight,” he managed. “I love the way you feel when you clench your little–”

His words cut off abruptly when the small speaker box in the control panel crackled to life. They both froze at once.

“Hello? Anybody in there?” a voice asked amidst the static. He recognized it as belonging to the building's foreman.

Ethan cast a questioning glance at Lilac, still balanced in his arms. To his surprise, she seemed unfazed, leaning in to whisper, “Good luck talking.”

Ethan had no time to question the strange words because she leaned in to kiss his neck, tongue and teeth tormenting him as she worked.

Hearing no reply, the foreman tried again, “We got an alert that the elevator stopped.”

“We're here,” Ethan rasped to the speaker. Taking a moment to collect himself to no avail, he mustered, “Two of us.”

“Are you both okay?”

Ethan wasn't entirely sure how to answer that for himself because Lilac chose that precise moment to clench impossibly tighter around him. That, plus the filthy nothings she was whispering in his ear reduced Ethan to an incoherent mess.

“Fine.”

It was a miracle he managed to get the single word out.

“Good to hear. We'll get you folks outta there in about ten minutes. Hang tight.”

After he was certain the speaker was off, Ethan turned to her. “You're terrible. ”

“Then punish me,” she moaned, moving her hips against his to encourage movement again.

He didn't have to be told twice, resuming his thrust with renewed vigor.

“Yes,” she gasped as he pumped into her, throwing her head back against the wall. “Ethan, make me–”

Her voice broke off into a poorly stifled whimper, her nails clutching the hair at the back of his neck.

“Make you what, Rookie?”

“Make me cum,” she moaned, her walls quivering around him.

Ethan cursed, his head falling to her shoulder, intoxicated by her scent and feeling himself close. The pace of his strokes became ruthless, just like she begged. Briefly, he wondered if anyone could hear the sounds their bodies made as they clashed or their strangled cries.

“Oh God, Ethan,” Lilac cried out, nails digging into his back as she climaxed. “Fu-ck.”

Ethan continued to move, bringing her back down from her high. When he couldn't resist any longer, he gave one final thrust and finished too, his muscles tensing and relaxing.

They remained like that, until they caught their breaths. Gently, he helped her off the railing.

“Do you think we missed our reservation?” Lilac asked with little concern as she fixed the front of her dress.

Ethan smiled lazily at her as he buttoned his shirt. “Almost certainly,” he said, finding he didn't care. “Do you just want to go back to the apartment? We can watch that unsolved show you love so much.”

Lilac laughed, delighted. “You love it too,” she pointed out, moving forward to help him with the last button. “You get to solve more mysteries on your time off like the nerd you are.”

Ethan tried to look unamused but her effect was entirely too irresistible.

“I'd love to, by the way,” she added. Thinking of something, she scrunched up her nose. “Did you ever think formally dating me would be so boring?”

At that, he had to laugh. “You just stopped an elevator to have sex with me. I'd hardly call that boring.”

___________

Author’s Note:

I... yeah.

Remember when I wrote my smut last fic, I said the next one would be Ethan receiving? Here it is. 

Ethan during this:

Inspired by those SPOILER outfits (click at your own discretion) someone posted a while ago. MC’s dress is called “Date Night” and that’s where this idea came from. I can’t wait to see how they use that outfit in the book, but in the meantime...

Also, MC makes him watch Buzzfeed Unsolved lol

___________

[wasithard]

Ok I haven’t read them yet but I see u have only posted one of ur folklore bits and I feel like u knew I was gna ask for more..... blease can I see some sequinned smile black lipstick.... 🥺😭

annie u actually made me realise that i forgot to put one of my wips on that post oopsie! i’ve updated it now. also ik there were only two to choose from but as fate would have it sequin smile black lipstick is the one featuring love sex magic!!!!!!!!!! can u believe, how long ago were we talking about it??

DISCLAIMER for everyone Percy is NOT consuming alcohol in this chapter ok! Drink Driving is NOT OK.

sequin smile, black lipstick

Annabeth likes to think of herself as a brave person. Even so, she’s not brave enough to tell her best friend that she’s in love with him.

She runs her finger along the edge of her bottom lip, fixing a non-existent unevenness in her shiny black lipstick to buy herself some more time before she has to leave the bathroom and re-enter the party.

Normally she has a better hold on herself than this, but something about the alcohol in her blood, the snug fit of his skinny jeans, the way his eyes had lingered on the midriff exposed by her cropped old band shirt when he first saw her tonight is making it harder for Annabeth to remember why she’s spent so long convincing herself that the risk of telling Percy how she feels and maybe hurting their friendship isn’t worth it.

She needs to sober up.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door.

She needs to sober up now.

“One second!” She calls out, meeting her own gaze in the mirror and muttering, “Annabeth Chase, you are stronger than this,” before straightening and walking out of the bathroom before she can second guess herself.

Annabeth decides to hunt down Rachel, who will probably laugh in her face about the fact that Annabeth is freaking out over this and effectively remind her of how ridiculous she’s being.

Instead she runs into Percy.

“Hey!” He says, steadying her with his hands on her arms, his eyes on hers. “I’ve been looking for you. Wanna dance?”

She hears the beginning notes of a Ciara track on the speakers above her and grins. What a shame she hadn’t found Rachel first to talk some sense into her. “You know,” she starts, a teasing tone dripping easily into her voice, “There was a time when I would’ve had to beg you to ask me to dance with you.” She starts walking in the direction of the makeshift dancefloor in the next room, “I’m proud of this growth, Percy.”

“Shut up,” he groans, nudging her with his shoulder and grabbing her hand, spinning her under his arm and into the crowd of bodies dancing with varying levels of coordination. “If you want to talk about who’s improved the most since middle school, I could say a lot about how you’ve learnt not to step on my toes anymore.” Annabeth rolls her eyes at him but doesn’t miss the way he keeps hold of her hand after she’s finished spinning. She uses it to spur her on, running her hands up his arms until she can hook them behind his neck and pull him closer.

“Touché,” she says as his hands come up to rest at her waist, his body swaying with hers to the beat.

Percy and Annabeth are friends. Best friends. Despite the ceaseless teasing of their classmates, they are decidedly nothing more than friends. Sure, they’ve kissed a few times. It doesn’t mean anything.

At least, it doesn’t mean anything Annabeth is willing to admit to herself.

There are moments when she lets herself forget that there are consequences to her actions, though. Moments when the feelings Annabeth spends most of her time ignoring demand to be felt, so she holds on to Percy a little bit tighter, stands a little bit closer, lets her gaze linger a little bit longer.

It doesn’t help that he seems more than willing to indulge her on these occasions.

So tonight they’re holding onto each other, dancing to 2000s music. There’s a disco ball hanging from the light at the centre of the room, and the light it reflects casts shimmering squares over Percy’s face as they watch each other. She feels it, an electric tension that seems to always hum between them but only flares up at certain moments – like right now. Percy’s hands tighten at her waist and she’s one second from pushing up onto her toes so she can press her lips to his when all the lights in the room come on and an adult female voice starts shouting at the Stolls for hosting a party in her house without telling her.

It might’ve ruined the moment, but the adrenaline rush she gets as the entire mob around her start streaming for the exit fires her up just as much. Grinning, she grabs Percy’s hand and makes for the front door, patting Travis Stoll on the shoulder as she runs past he and his brother getting lectured by their mother in the midst of the chaos.

By the time they’re outside and in Percy’s car, both of them are panting and laughing, buckling their seatbelts as Percy’s starts the engine of his old truck. They hear a tap at the back window and turn to see Charles Beckendorf and Silena Beauregard waving through the glass. Percy rolls the window down and Beckendorf says, “Got two spare seats?”

“’Course, man,” Percy says, and the couple file into the car. Then they’re off, exchanging escape stories and guessing what the Stolls’ punishment will be and eventually falling into a comfortable, tired silence as the high starts to wear off.

When they reach Beckendorf’s apartment, he and Silena get out of the car with a “Good night,” and Annabeth watches the boy loop his arm over his girlfriend’s shoulder as they walk into his building.

She turns back to Percy to see him watching them too, making sure they get inside safely. The way his green eyes reflect the streetlight in the darkness of the car is dazzling to Annabeth, and when his gaze meets hers she’s already feeling swept up again in the interrupted moment they’d shared at the party.

She doesn’t think, her hand just comes up to cup his cheek and then they’re kissing in his car.

It’s gentle and slow, like they’re both conscious that the moment is fragile enough to break if they’re not careful. Her hand stays on his cheek, and his own on the wheel, and in the quiet of their embrace Annabeth feels a section of the tight shell around her heart loosen.

They both jump when Percy’s phone vibrates with a text message, and Annabeth snaps her hand back into her lap, her mind reeling and well and truly sobered up. What was she thinking?

“It’s just mom,” Percy says, clearing his throat, “Asking when I’ll be home.”

Annabeth doesn’t respond, just stares directly out the windshield while she waits for Percy to reply to his mom and then pull out from the curb. He switches the radio on and neither of them speak the entire drive back to her place.

Before she gets out of the car she meets his gaze. Somehow, seeing the nervousness that she’s feeling herself reflected in his own eyes brings a soft smile to her face and lets her body relax.

“See you on Monday?” She asks, and he visibly relaxes too.

“See you on Monday.” He smiles.

She walks up the path to her front door and looks over her shoulder to wave at him after she’s turned the key, knowing he won’t leave until she’s closed the door behind her.

At school on Monday she berates him for forgetting his homework and it’s like the kiss never happened.

[hlupdate]

Harry Styles: singer, songwriter, fashion icon, and lover of pretty things. We've consistently praised the 25-year-old musician for not being afraid to toe the line on what has previously been considered socially acceptable for men's fashion. It's actually a breath of fresh air to see someone as high-profile as Harry step out in dangly earrings and pink nail polish simply because he wants to and likes how he looks.

This is a man who went from claiming he only owned two pairs of jeans a few years ago to now praising how fun fashion can be and consistently wearing Gucci, a fashion house known for its androgynous styles as of late. Harry even defends the outfit that has been hailed as his worst — a floral Gucci suit that he still thinks is a good one — which just goes to show that even when other people try to knock him down, Harry's still going to wear whatever he damn well pleases, butterfly clips, nail polish, and all.

Scroll through to see some of our favorite times Harry said a big "f*ck you" to gender stereotypes and wore florals or carried a handbag. We could all learn a little something from Mr. Styles in this regard.

He Has an Endearing Affinity For Patterned Suits

Speaking of that floral Gucci suit that's been called his worst outfit ever, this is it. Harry's been known to rock a patterned suit or two (or 12). He eased into his more flashy fashion while still in One Direction, but if you ask me, it was this Gucci suit he wore to the 2015 American Music Awards that really thrust him into the loud print game. Since then, he's gone full force into wearing sequined, glittery, floral, and even flared-pants suits.

He Rocked 2 Different Dangly Earrings at the Met Gala

For the Met Gala, Harry wore a beautiful pearl earring in one ear that he switched out for a dangly cross at the afterparty. The pearl earring especially went nicely with his delicate sheer black top.

He's Started Carrying Handbags

The Gucci bag Harry brought to the 2020 Gucci Cruise fashion show wasn't the first or last time bag we've seen him with. He's also been known to tote around this very exclusive Cheateau Marmont x Gucci bag.

He's Rarely Without Nail Polish

Harry dabbled in wearing nail polish publicly after his time in One Direction, starting with mostly wearing black. On tour in 2018, he started wearing more colors typically labeled as feminine, like shades of sparkly pink. Now hardly a day goes by where we don't see Harry wearing pink and teal polish on his fingers, regardless of what outfit he's wearing.

[rmg91]

The Woes and Antics of Living Together-6

THIS CHAPTER! IT WAS EVEN WORSE THAN CHAPTER 4 I SWEAR! I can't seem to write most of the Snack Pack yet so anytime I try to add them in, the muses get blocked up. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Previous Chapter/Next Chapter; AO3/FF.net

@writerofberk Chapter 6! Some good old Branch torture! And some pining ;)

                                                 ~*~*~*~*~*~

Poppy paced back and forth, skirt flaring around her knees each time she turned, as she waited for her oh so courteous roommate to get out of the bathroom. He'd been there for almost an hour already and if he didn't get out soon she was going to be late for the party the twins were throwing. Huffing, she tossed her hair back over her shoulder as she continued pacing the hallway. If only she had decided to curl her hair earlier than she wouldn't be having this problem but Poppy was a woman of action and normally didn't decide how to do her hair until after she got dressed. Of course now that was biting her in the ass... Didn't Branch know by now that she had a process when getting ready for a party and to not hog the bathroom?

Stomping her foot in frustration, she was so gonna get revenge for this later, Poppy set forth to pound on the door again, "Branch! Branch! Branch! Branch! Let me in! I'm gonna be late to the party!!" Her only answer was the sound of the shower still running, "Branch! Come on!"

Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she groaned and debated about trying to pick the lock, she'd seen it in a movie once, when at last she heard the water turn off, "Finally! Now let me in!"

"Just a second!" Came Branch's irritated voice, "Let me get dressed, geez..."

"I don't care if you're naked! Just let me in!"

"I do! I care!" He cried as the door finally opened to reveal a pajama clad Branch.

Poppy pushed her way in as she scoffed, "Psh! Don't be such a prude. There's nothing embarrassing about the human body."

Branch sputtered as he blushed, "I'm not-! No. No. I'm not having this conversation with you, that's what I'm doing."

Poppy giggled as she waited for her curling iron to warm up, "Well this sort of conversation wouldn't be happening at all if someone hadn't taken a forty-five minute shower!"

Blue eyes rolled back as he leaned against the doorframe, "Well excuse me for having to walk home in the rain after the bus broke down."

"You could have called me." She said in an know-it-all voice.

He responded in a dry, sarcastic tone, "With what? My psychic powers?"

The pinkette had swept her hair up into a ponytail and was starting to curl the ends, "Pretty sure you had a phone last I checked, Bud."

"Not anymore."

"Huh?" She turned to face him, holding the curling iron, "What happened?"

Branch shrugged, "Died this morning. I'll get a new one in a few days."

Poppy pursed her lips and hummed, "Alright...But you better give your new number this time. Roommate rule number seven; Phone numbers must be shared!" She then waved the iron in the air like a sword, "Now stop distracting me!"

"Right..." He made to head off to his room when suddenly there was the loud sound of their front door being opened and a dramatic cry as Guy came bounding in.

"This is an emergency!" He wailed, draping himself against the doorjamb, "I'm all-How are you not ready yet?! I thought I'd catch you just finishing up, not just starting!"

Poppy rolled her amber eyes, gesturing vaguely with her shoulder, "Blame my roommate, he just got out of the shower. Now what's the emergency?"

"I'm all out of body-glitter!"

"A tragedy." Branch deadpanned from his doorway, "Aren't you covered in enough glitter?" He gestured to Guy's outfit of holographic pants and crystal studded jacket.

"You can never have enough glitter. Now, Poppy, you wouldn't happen to have any would you? We're already going to be toeing the line of being fashionably late and just late."

"In my vanity." She giggled, "Grab my make-up bag while you're at it, please?!"

Guy returned and tossed her rainbow sequined make-up case onto the counter beside before stepping behind and grabbing the curling iron from her hand, "Start on your face, I'll finish this."

"Thank you~" She chirped and began rooting around in her bag.

They worked in tandem as quick as they could before Guy dubbed her hair finished and proceeded to douse his skin in as much glitter spray as he could. Sighing in relief, he posed in the mirror as Poppy finished applying some lip-gloss. Declaring herself done, she spun around to show off for Guy, who applauded.

"Now, let's go! You know how the twins can get." He said, sweeping out of the bathroom.

"Bye, Branch!" Poppy called toward his door, "Be back later!"

Just as she was grabbing her purse, Guy waiting at the door for her, she heard her roommate call out, "Don't you dare come back at three AM and raid the fridge like last time!"

"No promises!" And then she was off to a night of dancing and singing with her friends.

                                               ~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a few days later when Poppy was rummaging around in her craft supplies that she remembered she still wanted to get revenge on Branch. Humming as she dug through piles of scrapbook paper, stickers and felt, the young woman thought on what could be the best way to teach her grumpy roommate not to hog the bathroom on party nights anymore. She was still working up to pulling bigger and elaborate pranks on him, so no mere jump scare or balloon filled bedroom would do, no she needed something else... She also needed to find her flipping hot glue gun!

Grumbling to herself, she had just seen it!, Poppy made her way to look through the collection of crafting items that was in the living room. She ignored Branch, who was studying at the table, as she dug around in the almost overflowing boxes, stray glitter getting sprinkled on the carpet as she threw a package of pipe-cleaners over her shoulder. She huffed and stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at her supplies like it was personally responsible for loosing her glue gun.

"Have you seen my glue gun?" She asked Branch as she stood there and tried to remember where she last seen it.

"No." He replied, turning a page in his textbook, "But maybe if you actually organized your stuff, you'd be able to find things easier."

"Please, Branch. Just because I have a different filing system than you, doesn't mean it's disorganized. Although..." She didn't see him roll his eyes at her as she hummed, cupping her chin between her thumb and forefinger. Maybe it was time to get some more shelving and colorful storage containers for all the stuff now residing in the living room.

And that's when it hit her, the perfect way to not only get some new shelves but also get her revenge on Branch. Grinning, she turned to look at her roommate, "Hey, Branch?" She asked innocently.

"Whatever it is, no."

She giggled silently, "No, no, this is a good thing!" She skipped over and draped her arms around his shoulders, hugging from behind, "I need some new shelves and storage containers for my craft stuff and I've noticed you still haven't gotten a book shelf yet." His small collection of books was still in the moving box in a corner of his room, "Sooooo, I thought why don't we go pick some up?"

"Poppy..." He sighed.

"Come on." She wheedled, placing her head on top of his, "I promise that's all we'll do."

Branch sighed, he knew she was up to something but what he couldn't tell, "Fine...but I swear if you drag me ten other places..."

She giggled, "No worries, Branch! You can trust your roomie~ Leave in about hour? I still want to find my glue gun..."

"Fine. Sure." He bit out, "And it's in the bathroom for some reason."

"Oh! Thanks!" She then skipped away, giggling about her great revenge idea.

                                                       ~*~*~*~*~*~

A little while later found Branch and Poppy in front of the Bergenville mall, the raven haired man scowling at the giggling pinkette. He knew he shouldn't have trusted her.

"You lied."

Poppy giggled some more as she smiled up at him, "I never lied."

"You said we were going to get shelving. This is not where you find shelving!" Branch gestured wildly.

"And we are." Her grin then turned smug, "But I never said I wasn't going to shop for other things. Plus there's a great store in there where I got all my other shelves, so we'll easily be able to find what we came for. And since there's plenty of places to sit, you won't have to worry about me dragging you to ten other places...though I am gonna drag to a few. Face it, Branch, I just played you and played you good." She reached up and booped his nose, "Maybe next time you won't hog the bathroom on party nights, hmm?"

Branch growled, "I hate you."

"No you don't~" Poppy sang as she grabbed his arm and started dragging him inside, "Now come on, Biggie, Satin and Chenille said they'd meet us inside."

Branch groaned, of course she invited some of her friends to join in on his torture.

Once inside it was easy to spot the Couture twins and Biggie who stood by the entrance's map and waved happily to Poppy. The mermaid-ombre haired fashionista's eagerly grabbed Poppy into a hug while Biggie smiled kindly at Branch. He nodded back before the large man was pulled into the hug next and wondered if he could make an escape with Poppy distracted. He really didn't want walk or ride the bus home but it was better than being dragged around the mall by this crazy woman he called a roommate. However just before Branch could put his plan into action, Poppy grabbed his arm again and started leading the group towards the main strip of shops.

"So, what should we go look at first?" Poppy asked happily, allowing Branch to tug his arm away when she was sure he wouldn't bolt.

"Bath and Body Works is having a sale." Chenille said.

"So is the shoe store~" Cooed Satin.

"And we can't forget to check out Sephora. They've got the new cosmetics' from Nova Swift~"

"I'd like to check out the pet store here, if we can." Biggie spoke up, "I've been needing to get some treats and a new toy for Mr. Dinkles."

"Of course we can!" Cheered Poppy, "Gives me a chance to play with all the cuties up for adoption." She turned a smile on Branch, "Anywhere else, other than the store I told you about?"

"Yeah, how about the 'Kill-Me-Now' store?" Branch didn't do malls and needless shopping.

Poppy gave him a punch in the shoulder, "Don't be such a stick in the mud. This is gonna be fun, you'll see. Now..." She pulled out her vlogging camera and turned it on, "Hello there, My Cupcakes~! Your girl Poppy here with some of my best friends-" She let the twins and Biggie wave to the camera before turning it to a frowning Branch, "Including Mr. Grump."

"I'm not here by choice..."

"And we're off on a mall adventure! And you all get to come to!"

Branch rolled his eyes and trailed after the small group, hoping maybe he'd be able to make an escape if he let them get ahead of him but his plan was once again foiled when his meddling roommate noticed and waited for him to catch up. Biting back a growl as Poppy grabbed his arm again, he was pulled along as the quartet gossiped and talked about an upcoming party. Didn't these people ever just stay home and study? Wrenching his arm out of Poppy's surprisingly strong grip, Branch glared at her as she glared back just before they made to enter the cosmetic store.

Biggie cleared his throat in an attempt to dispel the tension, "Um, Poppy? Remember you can't film in here."

"I know. No worries and You!" She pointed a finger at Branch, "No more trying to run away. You could have fun if you'd just relax."

"Yeah...not happening."

"Ugg!! So frustrating!" She made to enter the store but turned around and motioned with her hand at Branch, "I've got my eyes on you..."

Branch watched her go catch up to the twins with a disbelieving stare, "....Why do I put up with her?"

"Because you're friends." Biggie chuckled beside him, "It doesn't hurt to admit that."

He crossed his arms, "Who said we were friends? She's forced herself into my life."

The pale blue hair man merely chuckled at Branch again, "Why don't we browse the kiosks while the girls look here? Poppy mentioned something about you needing a new phone?"

"....Sure. Whatever."

The girls caught up sometime later, bags in their hands and Poppy thanked Biggie for keeping an eye on Branch. She ignored Branchs' look of indignation as she wrapped her arm around his and dragged him to Bath and Body Works. He scrunched his nose up at all the conflicting scents and said they all smelled the same whenever he was asked for an opinion. He did however have to bite his tongue to prevent himself from telling Poppy that the pretty strawberry scented body wash she shoved into his face would suit her perfectly because she did not need to know that. And now he had to try and ignore the thoughts of how she would smell when she still purchased it.

The shoe store came next and Branch swore they were in there for hours or what felt like hours anyway. Poppy, Satin and Chenille took their sweet time looking and cooing over practically every type of shoe. Satin was the pickiest in choosing anything, going back and forth between two slightly different pairs of high heels for fifteen minutes straight. He also learned to never say that they were just shoes as all three girls, and even Biggie!, looked at him in offence before lecturing him on the difference between the many, many types of shoes.

The pet store hadn't been so bad, Biggie had fairly quick in finding what he wanted but Branch did have to pull Poppy away from the all the dogs and cats up for adoption. Their apartment didn't allow for pets and a small part of Branch, one he wouldn't admit to having, wanted to ignore the policy when he saw Poppy's pout at being reminded of the rule.

Branch finally got a break when Poppy left him alone as the group briefly split up to run into The Mug Store because of something that caught her eye. She returned with a bag and a happy smile but refused to show off what she got, stating it was surprise. Even after the others teased her about her mug obsession, the pinkette was adamant on not showing off her newest mug.

Then came the part Branch was dreading the most, the clothes shopping. If the girls were bad in the shoe store, he just knew they really would be at the various clothing stores for hours. Branch groaned as he was dragged inside, just wanting to go home and forget about getting stupid shelving. Once Poppy had decided she had found enough things for a first round of fittings, she unceremoniously shoved Branch in a chair by the changing rooms with the bags.

"Be right back~" She sang, disappearing into one of the stalls.

Branch huffed as he slouched in the chair, arms crossed and contemplated just walking out of the store while everyone was distracted.

"First off," Poppy's voice suddenly came from around the corner, making Branch jump, "Don't even think about leaving, I know where you live. And second," She came out and twirled in front of him, "What do you think?" She had changed into a thin strapped sundress that started a pale yellow and variegated into an orange with a red-orange sash. She smiled and gave another spin, the skirt flaring around her.

Branch gulped and tried very hard not stare at the literal ray of sunshine in front of him, "..I-It's nice..."

"Just nice?"

He nodded and averted his face, willing himself not to blush as she continued standing in front of him. Stupid feelings about stupid pretty pink haired girls making him want to tell her all the poetry he's written just by standing in a cute sundress.

Poppy pursed her lips before sighing, she should have expected such a response, it was Branch after all. "Hey, girls," She said as Satin and Chenille passed her, "What do you think?"

"Cute~"

"Tres 'chic, though maybe a different color? Green tones would go better with your hair."

"Hmm...I'll think about it~" Poppy then flounced back into the changing room.

A pattern was soon formed, Poppy coming out to show off her current pick for Branch's opinion. He gave her the same response almost every time vs his real opinion's as she looked absolutely adorable in practically everything she showed off. Satin, Chenille and Biggie were more helpful to her, they actually commented on what they liked or didn't like about she tried. This all continued as they went to another clothing store and by the third one, Branch was just done.

"Does this skirt look okay?" Poppy asked, twirling in front of a mirror and posing at different angles.

"It looks fine." Branch bit out, tired and hungry and ready to go home.

"That's what you said about the last one." Poppy pouted, hands on her hips.

"Because it looks just like it! And all the other skirts you've tried on!" He threw his hands in the air before standing up, "Look, Poppy. I'm done. You've had your fun at getting unnecessary revenge on me, so now I'm going to go home. Screw getting stupid shelves!"

Poppy blinked and watched him storm out of store, "Um..."

"Wow, rude much." Chenille spoke up from where she stood looking at two shirts.

"I...I think I should go after him. He's right, I did say I wanted to get some shelving." Poppy hurried into the changing room to change back into her original shorts.

"But Poppy!" Whined Satin, "We were having so much fun."

"I know but we can always come again and with everyone else too! So it'll be even more fun!" She emerged and grabbed the bags before hugging her three friends, "I'll see you guys later~"

The pinkette rushed through the crowded mall, dodging people here and there until she saw her irritated roommate, "Branch! Wait!"

The only response she got was for the raven haired man to walk faster in an attempt to escape her. Breathing out in frustration, Poppy sped up her pace, almost running, before stopping in front of Branch, halting him. He glowered at her with his hands in his pockets but otherwise didn't say anything to her.

"Branch..." She panted, "I'm sorry, okay? Yes, I wanted to get a little revenge on you but I also wanted you to maybe loosen up and have a little fun. I just...I'm sorry. Really. Let's just go get the shelves I wanted, I'll be quick promise, and then we can go home."

Branch continued to stare at her before he sighed roughly and crossed his arms, "Let's just get this over with..."

Poppy grimaced, "Yeah, okay. This way."

                                                      ~*~*~*~*~*~

Poppy sang along softly with the last lyrics of the song on the radio as she pulled into their parking lot. She had stayed true to her word and gotten the shelves she wanted as quickly as possible, she didn't even try to push Branch to pick out a bookcase, before they made their way home. Turning the car off, she turned to Branch in order to apologize again but was surprised to see he had fallen asleep.

He was leaning against the side of the door, seatbelt pressing into his chin, with his hair falling across his forehead and his perpetually frowning face relaxed for once. Light snores escaped as Poppy unconsciously leaned forward on the steering wheel, never quite noticing how nice it would be if Branch would just smile or relax more. She smiled lightly as a memory from when they were kids flittered through her mind and hoped his smile was still as bright as it was then and that he'd let her see it again once day.

Still gazing at him, the pinkette hadn't noticed she was leaning farther forward until the shrill sound of the horn blared.

She jumped back just as Branch startled awake with a cry, "Hide the coconuts!"

Poppy couldn't help laughing at his shocked, half-asleep expression, "I-I'm sorry! I di-didn't mean to honk-Pfff!-honk the horn!! Hahaha!"

"Wha...? Poppy?" Branch looked at her like she was crazy before blinking and noticing they were home, "Oh...We're back."

"Y-yeah." She giggled, "Sorry for waking you up like that. Accident."

He shrugged before yawning, "Iiit's fine. Let's just go in, yeah?"

"Ok, I'll get the shelves in later." She watched Branch shrug again before pulling her smaller purchases out of the back and getting out of the car.

When they were back in the apartment, Poppy set her things before digging something out and shuffling excitedly over to Branch. Grinning, she thrusted the box in her hands out toward him, "Ta-dah! For you! A sort of...late housewarming gift."

He blinked in surprised before taking the blank white box, "Uh...Thanks? What is it? It's not gonna spray glitter in my face is it?"

She giggled, "Open it and find out, silly. And no, it's not, promise."

She wiggled in excitement as he flipped open the top and pulled out the mug she had gotten him. It was a little larger side, pine green faded into a dark forest green with the words 'I Don't Do Mornings' printed in cream font. She watched him admire it before speaking, "I figured...well you've been here for a little over two months now, I thought maybe it was time you start letting things say that, you know? I'm not gonna care if you leave your school books laying around or your work vest hanging on a chair or have some dishes that are way more aesthetic. We're roommates, no need to hide it."

"I..." He took a breath and let it out slowly before placing the mug in the sink, "I'll try." He flicked blue eyes toward her quickly before muttering, "Thank you."

She grinned brightly before hugging him around the waist, "You're welcome. Plus! I got a new mug too! It's got a rainbow and a unicorn and says 'I'm Unique'! It's really cute~"

Branch chuckled, "You do have a mug problem."

"I do not!"

"Do too," He responded, heading toward his room, "Don't fight me on this, Poppy. There's proof right there in the cupboard."

"It's a healthy appreciation, you meanie." She sassed, "And where are you going?"

"Back to bed. You dragged me around all day and woke me up with a honking horn. There's plenty of leftovers in the fridge."

"I said I was sorry!" Poppy waited for a response but when all she heard was his door closing, she sighed lightly. Well, the day hadn't quite happened like she hoped it would but tomorrow was another day and he didn't seem as mad at her now, so all was well.

                                                   ~*~*~*~*~*~

I don't know why Slice-of-Life is so hard for me to write but I'm still gonna wade though this and finish this fic cause I've been so excited to write some later scenes. Anyway, home you stay tuned for more!

[rocrown]

Here's my pitch... A potential chapter 1 I just dashed off using a supporting character from a book I'm writing.

2 AM, the harbour, it’s raining, the kind of rain that chills you to the bone. Underneath the threadbare awning of a fishmonger’s, I turn my back to the wind and light a cigarette, my hands jittery. Four hours without a drink. I drain my cup of burnt black coffee. It tastes like neglect. The odd pedestrian or cop car passes without acknowledging my existence as I slump against the fishmonger’s failing business, my short red hair hidden under a hood, headlights flaring in my eyes. I look like I’m either in trouble or am trouble. No one stops to figure out which. Another sign from the city—nobody cares and nobody’s gonna help you. They’re damn sure not gonna save you. Maybe it’s human nature. Or maybe the intrinsic way of the universe. Who am I to say?

Name’s Mckenna Keyes, but “Hey, you!” is fine. If we’re on a first name basis, you know to call me Keyes. In my dad’s old drab olive green canvas army jacket, my stretched out frame shivers, covered in so many bruises my pasty white sun-deprived skin resembles the smudged newspaper the fishmonger wraps his mercury-poisoned catch in. Downpour’s the closest I’ve come to a shower during this three-day stakeout; I wear sweat, cigarette ash and city grime like a layer of skin, and I’ve gnawed my fingernails to bloody jagged stumps, the last flecks of nail polish chipping away. My head aches, my diet consisting of caffeine and salt, I’m bloated, expecting my period any day now.

The 9mm semi-auto pistol in the concealed holster tucked into my pants is an anchor, dragging down my exhausted body, a necessary precaution when handling the class of scumbag I get dealt on a daily basis. If my cases were poker hands I oughta fold ‘em every time, but I play the hands I get ‘cause if I never play, I’ll never win. Of course, I never win, but since my luck ran out two years ago, I’m overdue for it to change.

I raise a pair of binoculars to my eyes as a SUV pulls up to a small cargo ship. Red taillights glare off the wet street and the slick hull of the ship as the SUV comes to a stop and two men get out.

“Why don’t the bad guys ever keep ordinary business hours?” I ask aloud.

A third man leaves the back seat, pulling a teenage girl from the SUV by her hair. She’s dressed for a party, sequinned minidress and high heels, her makeup smeared, her legs like overcooked noodles under the weight of whatever sedative her kidnappers pumped into her. The leader barks orders at the other two as they climb onto the ship with the girl. The cabin lights switch on.

One last drag off my cigarette. I flick it into an iridescent puddle. Tucking my binoculars away I jog into the harbour, along the pier. For most daring rescues I’d have my car idling, ready for a quick escape, but the city impounded it last week for unpaid parking tickets. I’ll have to improvise. I’m good at that. In theory.

The job’s simple—rescue the girl, Emma Voss. Of course three paranoid and armed career criminals won’t hesitate to put a bullet in my head and Emma’s too. It’s that simple.

I fire off a quick text and sneak onto the cargo ship, the weather concealing my footsteps. Drawing my gun, I slip along the shipping containers towards the cabin where a dim yellow light shines, and silhouettes cross behind the dust-frosted window. The rain hits me at a forty-five degree angle, the thick drops catching the light in them, and the ship rocks as the storm churns the ocean, waves slapping the hull. Either the rocking or the sobriety is making me nauseous.

Inside my combat boots my soggy feet squish with each step as I near the cabin, racking my brain to figure a way to keep this from turning into a shootout. Last thing I want is a stray bullet hitting Emma. I don’t get paid if she’s dead.

Pinning my back to the wall, I peek into the cabin. As I expected, the three men sit with guns, speaking in a language I don’t know. Sounds Slavic. Croatian, Serbian, Polish, Russian… Your guess is probably better than mine.

No sign of Emma.

There are two options: she’s below deck or she’s in a shipping container. The deck holds sixteen shipping containers when stacked two containers high, ruling out eight of them. Seems unlikely they’d toss her into a container on the far end. They’d want her close, somewhere in view, leaving the closest two containers.

With a fifty-fifty chance of guessing right, I rush on instinct to one, opening it carefully, the hinges creaking.

Empty. Completely empty.

This is why I lose at cards.

A padlock hangs from a steel chain on the other container’s door. I press my ear to the container wall, hearing nothing. I’ll have to take my chances, because that always works out for me.

Kneeling at the door I holstered my gun and retrieved my lock picking tools from my back pocket, using the tension wrench and pick, making short work of the lock. I glance over my shoulder. No movement from the cabin.

I crack open the door. Emma sits handcuffed and gagged on the floor, her knees scraped, the strap on her dress broken, and tears streaking down her face. When the door opens, she thrashes in panic. Good. The sedative’s wearing off.

Ducking inside, I make eye contact with her, the racoon eyes of her smudged makeup matching the dark bags under my eyes. “Emma, my name’s Mckenna Keyes, I’m a private investigator your parents hired. Your first pet was a Dachshund named Bella.” With fifteen years of practice under my belt, I free her from the handcuffs, the benefit of being a delinquent since fifteen. I remove the gag. “Are you hurt?” I check her for injuries, not finding any. “Can you walk.”

She nodded.

“Good. C’mon.” Pulling Emma to her feet, I support her weight as she finds her equilibrium. An exchange between the men stops me in my tracks. I set Emma against the wall of the container, out of sight. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

With my back to the wall next to the door, I unholster my gun, its black grip warm from my body heat. I steady myself, slow my breathing, the tremor in my hand gone as my focus sharpens to a razor’s edge.

One of the men pushes his way through the door into the shipping container with his pistol drawn. As his feet hit the steel floor I press the muzzle of my gun to the back of his head.

“Don’t move, asshole. I’ll splatter your brains.” I rip the gun from his hand and toss it into the back of the container. With his hands raised in surrender I pistol-whip him, connecting with the base of his skull.

He crumples to the floor, his limbs twisting in an awkward mass under him.

“Take your shoes off and stay low.” When she kicks off her shoes I grab her hand and pull her along.

As we leave the container the two remaining men stand up inside the cabin, their dark figures haunting the filthy window. Positioning Emma behind me I level my gun, two shots shattering the window and sending them diving for cover.

“Run!” I point towards the ramp leading to the pier. In the distance, sirens cry.

She runs ahead of me as I cover our retreat, and the two men burst from the cabin, their automatic pistols spitting rounds at me.

I fire back as the bullets hit the container steel around me, perforating it. From behind me Emma yelps. I look over my shoulder as the men reload.

Emma’s on the ground.

Rushing to her, I check for blood. “You hit?”

“My legs gave out.” She pushes off the deck as I help her to her feet. She wobbles.

“That’s the drugs. Here.” Wrapping my arms around her I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. A rib in my chest aches. It never healed right.

Carrying Emma, I swing my gun around and keep to the partial cover I can find. Another spray of bullets clink against the shipping containers as the men close the distance.

Lurching to a stop, I groan with the strain of carrying Emma, and I train my gun on one of the men.

Pull the trigger. The bullet hits his shoulder before we hear the gunshot, and he spins to the ground, crying out.

Hustling to the ramp off the ship, headlights and flashing blue and red lights greet us, half a dozen cops with their service weapons raised. I drop my gun and dig out the I.D. from my jacket, presenting it to them.

“I’m a licensed private investigator, Mckenna Keyes. Hired to retrieve Emma Voss from the kidnappers on the boat.” I turn to present her face to them. Every cop should recognize her. She’s been on the news for the last week. “There are three suspects on the boat. I’ve incapacitated two.”

An ambulance takes Emma to the hospital. I ride along. Never leave a missing person or kidnapping victim until you’ve returned them to your client. Riding in the back of the ambulance, an EMT attends to Emma before examining me.

“I’m fine,” I tell the EMT, pushing her hand away. Well, I’m not fine. But I’m a live. Best I can hope for.

When we arrive at the hospital, Emma’s parents run from the emergency department’s sliding doors as the EMTs lower Emma out of the ambulance. The rain running down the faces of her parents masks the happy tears. Emma’s mouth cracks open with sobs as she reaches out for them, happier to see them than she’s ever been. If I could feel anything, that’d probably feel pretty good. Numbness endures. I keep my distance from the family reunion, and Emma’s father shakes my hand before he follows his wife and kid inside.

In the covered emergency drop off area, I light a cigarette, filling my lungs with deadly smoke and flooding my brain with sweet nicotine. The smoke coils from my mouth, twisting in the cool air away from the rain. As the adrenaline fades, my shiver returns.

“You can’t smoke here,” a scornful voice echoes behind me. I don’t need to look to know its owner. I only inspire that level of contempt in one person’s voice. Gabriela Velasquez, assistant district attorney, and my ex-wife. She dresses in a dark blue suit with a white dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned. Thirty-two years old, on track to become D.A., and the kind of beautiful that makes me think about making the same mistake twice.

“So have one of your fascist thugs arrest me.” I take a drag, blow the smoke in her direction. “What do you want, Gabby?”

“We need to talk about tonight.”

“Can it wait till tomorrow? I’m tired. Need to sleep.”

“You mean you need a drink.” She waves away the plume of smoke I blow her way.

“What if I do? It’s none of your goddamn business.” I fling the cigarette butt at her feet and it hisses on the soaking asphalt next to her expensive heels. We both have our addictions. For me it’s booze. For her it’s work. I used to come home drunk. She used to not come home at all.

Gabby pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration. She sighs. “Fine. My office, tomorrow. Clean yourself up, will you? At least try to look presentable.”

I offer her a sarcastic two finger salute, pulling up my hood for the hellish walk to the subway.

“Hey, Mickey,” Gabby calls after me as I walk away with my hands buried in my jacket pockets. “Good job tonight.”

I wave in response. I need to change into something dry and drink something wet, amber and alcoholic, preferably cheap. I leave without another word. When I’ve got vices to indulge there’s no time for drawn out goodbyes, especially between Gabby and me. The whole last year of our marriage was a long goodbye.

equal rights for women will never truly be achieved until we have more female noir detectives

[gothify1]

Lately it seems as if there’s not a day that goes by where I’m not triggered by a blatant form of racial insensitivity, evident lack of diverse staff, or lack of awareness coming from fashion brands and design houses alike. In a time when we're reckoning with the legacy of iconic designers and brands, maybe the best thing consumers can do is take a step back and look at how we contribute. Sure, we can’t control what designers send down the runway, but one of the most fundamentally underrated ways to be an ally to the black community (and any community for that matter) is through how we spend our money. As we celebrate Black History Month I believe there’s truly no better way to appreciate and support black artistry than through shopping black-owned business and designers. Keep scrolling to find some of my favorite designers to shop this month and beyond. The first time I saw Brother Vellies in my feed, my heart skipped a beat. I saw a woman who looks just like me on social media (a rare occasion) wearing these incredible black feather heels. From that moment on, I was hooked. From its Instagram feed to how each product is made, Brother Vellies is thoughtful with everything it does. Founded by Aurora James, the brand is dedicated to sustainability and works with artisans in South Africa, Ethiopia, Kenya, and Morocco to make its handcrafted shoes. Basically, whenever I’m feeling philanthropic but need a pair of shoes, I’ll be spending all my money with Brother Vellies. Remember that iconic blazer look Beyoncé wore on her last On the Run II tour? That was from Queens-born designer LaQuan Smith. His glamorous and often sultry designs have not only caught the attention of the queen, but Cardi B, Rihanna, Jennifer Lopez, and other celebrities alike. If celebrities are not enough to immediately pique your interest, his previous collaboration this past fall with ASOS may do the trick. Featuring men’s and women’s clothing and plus-size options, the affordable collection toes the line between down to earth and just a pinch of extra. Not convinced yet? Check out his work below. Confession: I was hyperventilating at my desk when watching Carly Cushnie’s F/W 19 presentation. Something about her all-red layered look with velvet flare-leg pants and her Tibet Lamb Coat had me seriously re-considering my wardrobe choices. Her work often does that though; it’s so beautifully structured, minimal, and yet feminine you can’t help but to imagine how magical your life would be if you were just wearing one of her pieces. Imagine yourself sitting in Positano, Italy, with sun shining down on you while you’re drinking lemonade—but what are you wearing? Hopefully Fe Noel. The Grenadian womenswear designer from Brooklyn specialized in collections that practically scream "book a flight right now." Felisha Noel also recently collaborated with Afro-cuban American painter Harmonia Rosales. Rosales is known for reimaging iconic renaissance art pieces as black women, and we’re here for his jump from canvas to Fe Noel’s silk. After all, there’s no better way to celebrate black history than by recognising and reclaiming the beauty of black identity that’s been erased in larger historical narratives. CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund winner Telfar Clemens not only creates pieces that anyone can wear but continually pushes societal boundaries through challenging black and gender identity norms. After all, how many designers this past fall sent unisex clothing through a mosh pit environment while country music blasted in the background? Have you ever seen black cowboys sporting fringe? Probably not. If you’re looking for clothing that pushes boundaries and comes from a unique perspective, Telfar is your new go-to. Remember when we did that beautiful cover shoot with Yara Shahidi? If you haven’t been able to stop thinking about the printed silk suit she’s wearing, you’re not alone. The suit was part of a Pyer Moss collaboration with artist Derrick Adams that aimed to explore the idea of black life without persecution. In many ways, it’s easy to see why Kerby Jean-Raymond won the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund award, was named one of Forbes 30 Under 30, and has a Reebok partnership. But in truth, the accolades don’t even begin to speak to the gravitas of his work. Designing for both men and women, Kerby uses his collections to give voice to the African American experience one piece at a time. Ever since the designer made waves with luxury street label Off-White and stepped into his role as menswear artistic director for Louis Vuitton , Virgil has kept the industry’s attention. And the hype thus far is definitely worth it. Sure, everyone lost it over his debut this past June ,  but his most recent menswear shows for fall 2019 caught my attention. For Louis Vuitton, Virgil used a Broadway-like production to set viewers in an old New York with live jazz in the back while well-tailored suits and subtle American flag pieces made their way down the runway. For Off-White, set against a landscape that turned into a green screen, models wearing box blazers paired with football helmets made their way through a dystopian cityscape. While both his shows stayed true to the brand’s identity, it felt as if both were a reflection of his own experiences as a black man and the environments that shaped him. To me, that reflection in and of itself, is breathtaking. Maybe it was just me, but the 2019 Grammy outfits truly solidified my love for Olivier Rousteing at Balmain. How could one not be in a tizzy over Béyonce’s iconic look, Jorja Smith’s stunning gold sequin number, or even Kylie Jenner’s avant-garde look? I know he’s been the creative director for nine years—which means I’ve been high-key sleeping on him—but something about him taking the brand back to couture week has made me fall in love all over again. Maybe it’s couture or maybe it’s him, but either way this a brand and a designer you should be buying into at the moment. Next: 14 Editor-Approved Designer Bags So Good We Bought Them

[im-fairly-whitty]

For Whom the Bells Tolls

Ernesto strikes back: Fan-fiction for “Coco”

Part 1: Fallen

It had been a year since paradise had turned to hell.

Ernesto hiked the hood of his long coat forward as he ascended the steps of the Department of Family Reunions. The guards at the door eyed him sideways, but opened the door for him, not recognizing his face hidden in the shadows of the hood. One of the guards stared as Ernesto held the collar of his coat. The man had probably never seen bones as sterling white as Ernesto’s up close before.

A year ago tonight Ernesto had been crushed under the second bell. He had been left there, in the painful darkness for three long days, trapped and terrified

as the police and Hector’s family decided what to do with him. Ernesto had worried during those days that he would yellow overnight, that he would crack and flake away into the second death once his reputation was destroyed on both sides of the marigold bridge.

An idiotic fear, he had realized later. No one ever forgot a villain. His bones were as snowy white as ever.

The bustling Dia de los Muertos crowds inside the building quickly swamped Ernesto. Shining alebrijes scurried around his feet and flew over his head while families pushed and hurried by in all directions, corralling their squealing children and waving call numbers above their heads in a colorful bustle. Ernesto spotted where he was headed and ducked his head, mercifully blending into the holiday crowd as he wove his way to the back of the building unnoticed.

It had taken a long time to get used to not being recognized, it turned out that the descent from godhood was a steep one, but even invisibility was better than the disgusted and horrified looks he got whenever someone did recognize him. Long gone were the days of his beloved gold-sequined mariachi suits, now everything he did was in an effort to remain unseen.

“Have you been helped yet Señor?” A hassled looking clerk with a clipboard asked him as Ernesto hovered by her desk.

“I’d like to speak to an ofrenda agent. Carlos if he’s here.” Ernesto said, keeping his voice low.

“Over there, he just finished with someone else.” The clerk said, barely looking at him as she pointed to an open office door.

Ernesto nodded and drifted to the office.

“Hola Señor.” Carlos said, rifling a stack of papers as Ernesto entered his office. “How can I help you this evening? Having ofrenda trouble?”

“I need to know if I have any.” Ernesto sat across from Carlos and flipped back his hood. “I’m sure you appreciate my situation.”

Carlos gasped and startled back in his chair, dropping his papers.

“S-Señor De La Cruz.” He choked.

Ernesto knew he wasn’t a pretty sight anymore, over a hundred years of good looks had finally failed him. A large fracture spider-webbed across the left side of his skull, delicately framing his milky white left eye in its shattered socket. A gift of the second bell.

“Por favor Carlos, I just need some help tonight.” Ernesto said tiredly.

Ernesto caught his wild glance to the office door, as if considering calling for help. He wasn’t technically an outlaw, the Rivera family had been satisfied with the police seizing and redistributing his ill-gotten property instead of locking him up for good, but that didn’t mean officials were glad to see him.

“I- uh, your face-.” Carlos glanced at his desk, the door, anywhere but Ernesto.

“What about it?” Ernesto cooly laced his fingers together as he leaned forward in his seat.

“No-nothing, I’m just not completely sure the ofrenda facial scanners will work.” Carlos fidgeted with his computer, probably as an excuse to look away. “But we-we’ll try Señor.”

Ernesto leaned back in his chair. In the past Carlos had always been well paid from his massive treasury of yearly Ofrenda offerings. Having crossing officers in his pay meant Ernesto had always been able to send others to gather up the offerings of his loyal fans to stockpile in his mansion for the rest of the year. That past habit of being paid off was probably the only reason Carlos was actually helping him.

“Hold still.” Carlos said.

A flash of light swept over Ernesto’s face and the old computer grumbled and hummed as they waited. Would anyone put up an ofrenda for a murderer? Had the little living brat Miguel destroyed him in the living world as well, or were his living fans oblivious?

“Good news and bad news.” Carlos glanced up at him briefly and turned the screen to Ernesto. “You do have your picture on ofrendas this year, but there’s only a few.”

The mocoso had really done it then. Ernesto felt an icy hot anger rising in him as he clicked through the ofrenda pictures on the screen, counting them. Uno…cinco…diez… The name of the person who had made it hovered under each one.

Instead of grand offerings of guitars and wine like years past, there were now only meager ofrendas. A few rolls of Pan de Muerto here, a small sugar skull there.

Quince…veinte….veinticinco… He clicked faster and faster, seeing the list already coming to an end on the side of the screen.

The very last ofrenda was a real insult. A high, dusty attic shelf with a single yellow candle burnt out on top of it. Beside the candle lay a tipped-over framed photo of himself, a single marigold petal resting on top. Mostly likely a completely forsaken ofrenda of years past.

Ernesto gripped the leg of his pants, making the ache in his bandaged humerus bone flare up. Only a couple dozen pitiful ofrenda offerings. Last year there had been thousands of fan shrines in his honor, and all of it was gone. Gone because of a brat he hadn’t been able to kill when he’d had the chance. He looked at the disgusting picture again.

Miguel Rivera

He blinked, looking at the screen again, convinced his distraught mind and one good eye were playing tricks on him. But no. Under the ofrenda the name still hovered.

Miguel Rivera

The brat had left him a forgotten ofrenda? Likely in his own attic.

It did make a kind of sense though. Miguel had been convinced Ernesto was his ancestor when they’d first met, perhaps this was the remnant of a hastily struck ofrenda once the boy had escaped back home?

“I’m sorry Señor.” Carlos said hesitantly, looking unsure at Ernesto’s reaction. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly.” Ernesto made up his mind in a moment. He clicked back to a different ofrenda picture and stood. “I have a few fans left it seems, I think I’ll pay them a visit.”

“Good luck,” Carlos looked relieved as he righted his computer screen. “And feliz Dia de los Muertos, Señor.”

Ernesto smiled grimly to himself as he pulled his hood back up and exited the department building, ignoring the accompanying ache on the left side of his face. Looking up he could see an orange glow in the distance where the flower bridge lit up the dark horizon.

He set off in its direction for the first time in decades, his scuffed and worn mariachi shoes hitting the cobblestone as he walked.

He had some unfinished business to attend to.

[Read Part 2: Anger]

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

Champagne Mixed with a Bit of Adrenaline [h.s.]

A/N: this was a request from an anon and I finally got it done! It’s meant to go with this amazing piece of art. :-)  this piece is dedicated to the amazing @tiostyles because Brianne kept it from getting lost in the void LMAO. her support inspired me to finish it so thanks Brianne ilyvm :-) sorry for any mistakes or typos! Drop by my inbox with opinions bc I’m kinda?? Iffy on it?? Anywho, enjoy!

Harry likes to think he has stamina. He’s proven it countless of times before and he’s sure he will continue to prove it until the end of his days.

A great example would be that one time on the tour bus when he had popped a stiffy around 9 PM and couldn’t do anything about it, since no one was planning on going to bed yet, so he couldn’t sneak away to handle it. He’d had to wait until well after 1 AM, when the snoring elephants known as his band mates were conked out cold, to sneak into the bathroom with his Astroglide and rub out a quick one to a picture of Y/N wearing nothing but a pink, sheer silk button-up with the word “Styles” embroidered on the chest pocket.

Or the time when he and Y/N had attended a family get-together that his mother had thrown at his old house in the new pool she’d had built. Y/N had gotten the brilliant idea to grope him during a game of water volleyball and he’d had to play actively, all whilst doing his best to make sure no one saw the raging boner tenting his Gucci lion-printed swim trunks. After the underwater fun was over and the barbecue was done, his mom had condemned him to stay and help clean up. Washing dishes with his dick leaking wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time.

After that long night, Harry had given his mom a quick kiss goodbye and ignored her comments about how it was odd for his jacket to be tied backwards around his waist. He’d dragged a grinning Y/N to his car, setting route to their apartment but somehow ending up in an abandoned mall square, fucking in the backseat of his Rover.

And don’t even get him started on the time he lost three rounds of Go Fish to Y/N and, as retribution, had to wear a vibrating cock ring to Lux’s birthday party. Trying to explain to a four year old why his lap was vibrating, all while maintaining a cool composure, should’ve been made into an Olympic sport because the sheer amount of concentration and determination needed was truly out of this fucking world. Not only that, but fucking in a bathroom the size of a coat closet wasn’t necessarily prime, either. Lou had been having her upstairs bathroom remodeled and the one in the living room was too obvious, so they’d had to sneak down to the one in the basement. It was tiny, cramped, and smelled way too much like lemon-scented Lysol. His left leg had fallen asleep, but as if that wasn’t bad enough, Y/N had decided to up and leave halfway through and left him horribly blue-balled. Giving a toast to his goddaughter’s coming-of-age wasn’t really fluent when casually trying to cover up the bulge in his jeans with a Hello Kitty placemat.

However, all throughout these situations, Harry had managed to keep an unfazed, calm façade and had not given in to the woes of the intense exertion that was required of him. So, yes, he most definitely likes to say he has stamina. He’s entitled to say it. With all of the shit he’s been through, it’s the least he deserves.

But tonight, his hardcore ability to sustain such troubles has decided to fail him. And, hell, did it fail him.

Harry’s not quite sure what happened, but he knows that it’s likely do to all of the post-performance adrenaline that has been bubbling and toiling through his veins since he set foot off stage after his surprise LA performance at the Troubadour. It had been quite the show, considering he’d had Stevie bloody Nicks accompanying and dueting with him. Every nerve-ending on his body was set to full throttle, every hair standing to the very tip with excitement-induced electricity, and as he stepped outside the building, the cool night air burned his simmering skin like acid (which he’s pretty sure cool air isn’t supposed to do).

He was sweating buckets from the stage lights and the close proximity of the venue, but he loves the intimacy of it all. He felt more connected to his fans this way, so he thinks it to be worth it. His body, however, begs to differ.

Right after they’d disappeared backstage, Stevie had immediately demanded that they all go out for drinks to celebrate Harry’s blooming career, and how could he say no to her? Two Fiji waters and a limo ride later, they ended up in a classy joint that Harry didn’t care enough to try and interpret the name of because it was in a language he didn’t know (French, maybe? Or Italian?), and he was oh-so very wired. The champagne was bubbly and silky smooth against his sensitive taste buds, the dim miniature chandelier above their booth casting just enough shadows to hide the itchy flush that is crawling up his neck.

His sheer black shirt is sticking to a thin sheen of sweat that has materialized down his back and he’s fairly certain that his golden-glitter pants weren’t this tight when he got them tailored. His feet feel as if they are floating in pools of sweat, the leather Gucci shoes not doing his heated body any favors. And that’s when he feels it.

Harry shifts slightly in his seat as Mitch slides in next to him, nudging his elbow off the table in a best-mate-rivalry type of way. His body instinctually bends forward slightly as all of his upper weight loses the support of the red oak surface, torso reeling to the side as he giggles and elbows him back, and that’s when it hits him like a bus. He feels his dick twitch against his damp thigh, his jerky movements combined with the frenzied nerves from the performance setting every comatose hormone in his blood on fire.

A small yip of surprise escapes past his lips, eyes wide as his thighs give a hard clench and his fingers tighten around his champagne flute. Stevie had been speaking about a concert she had done a while back in Georgia when Harry decides to have this teeny spectacle, his not-so-manly squeak slicing through the calm, cool atmosphere of the bar. Everyone looks over to him, eyebrows raised here and there in concern.

Harry swallows down his unsteadiness, forcing a tiny, soft smile across his stinging cheeks. He lifts his hand a bit higher in front of himself to draw attention to his drinking glass, swirling the golden liquid around for emphasis. “It’s the champagne. Sipped too fast.”

His voice comes out strained, but he manages to cover it up with a faux hiccup to give his whole act a touch of authenticity. Everyone seems to buy it as they return their attention to the other singer at the table, intrigued by her story. He hears Jeff mumble, “lightweight” under his breath, a couple of the guys snickering along with him as Harry pins the man with a death glare.

“You sure you’re alright?” Mitch’s soft voice hitches Harry’s ears, dragging his attention away from his producer. “You’re sweating and the lights are barely even on.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just taking me a little longer to wind down. Since I sung with a legend and all, y'know?”

But he’s not fine. Not fine at all. If anything, he’s doing the opposite of winding down. He’s winding up– a glance at his lap easily confirms that. He hears blood starting to pound in his head, toes starting to go numb as he feels his balls tightening in his briefs. An annoying piece of hair keeps falling into his eyes and he contemplates ripping it off, but wagers against it since that might be considered too much of a scene. The back of his thighs are chafing in the thick material of his sequined bottoms and he’s positive he has some killer pit stains going, but he can’t will his body to stop. So he does the next best thing: He snatches the champagne bottle and pours himself another glass.

Harry’s not sure how much time passes by. It’s a blur of fizzy liquid, bright laughter, low lights and a swelling dull ache in his groin. He’s not necessarily drunk but he is buzzed, the alcohol having smoothed out the rough edges of his craving. His upper lip itches every now and then as sweat accumulates on the faint hairs he’s grown out and he has to constantly wipe at his face as nonchalantly as possible to avoid detection. The lack of personal space around the table only grates at his nerves even more because he can feel the heat of all the bodies absorbing into his clothes, turning him into the most sparkly-pantsed rotisserie chicken to ever exist. And the most irritated, at that.

But Harry will be damned if he passes up this iconic opportunity to have drinks with an icon herself. He’d been dreaming about such a moment since he could walk and he refuses to let a boner destroy one of the best to-be memories of his life. At this crucial state, he calls upon all of the times he had managed to power through similar situations and uses them to pump himself (pun intended) up, getting it through his tipsy skull that he can do it. He covered a hard-on with a Hello Kitty decoration, for fuck’s sake. Anything is truly possible!

Unfortunately, after a few more minutes lull by, Harry apparently will be damned.

He thinks he’s finally got it under reign when he sneaks a peek under the elegant maroon serviette in his lap, watching his pride crumble beneath his slightly-clouded eyes. His dick had leaked through his briefs and into his flared pants, the patch of cloth over his crotch noticeably darker than the rest of the material. His eyes squeeze shut as his nails dig into the palm of his hand through the napkin, biting down on his tongue as he feels his cock decides to give up on the slow burn and rather starts to throb sharply under the table.

Fuck his hormones for deciding to make him be a horny fourteen-year-old today, fuck his post-performance adrenaline for choosing to whip him up into a mess rather than dissolving away quietly like usual, fuck the champagne for making his eyelids droopy and his tongue heavy (although he will credit it for helping take the edge off), and most of all, just fuck himself for believing he could progress through this little get-together without bursting at the bleeding seams.

And apparently the universe agrees with him because as Harry sits there, seeing angry flashes of blue and yellow behind his screwed eyelids and wallowing in his self-hatred, Stevie calls his name from across the table.

“Harry?”

His head snaps up, eyes flying open in alarm as he attempts to calibrate himself back into the setting. A tight, croaky “hm?” thrums in his throat as he focuses on the blonde women across from him, her expression one of curiosity.

“Are you alright? You’re really pale, honey. And you seem kinda off a bit.” Stevie leans forward, setting down her almost-empty champagne flute and eyeing him thoughtfully.

Everyone’s attention turns to him, all of the separate conversations that had been going dying down to soft murmurs and silence. Harry’s not one for stage fright (his career had beaten that out of him ages ago), but he’s pretty sure this is how it feels. It feels like every person around him is seeing straight into his soul and he’s never wanted to disappear into thin air more than at this moment.

“I’m fine!” He swallows thickly, nodding weakly and he’s honestly trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

“S'just the rush of having you here is still…” he motions around the air with his arms to suggest an aura of excitement, “it’s still circulating– hasn’t piped down. It’s a dream come true and the starstruck feeling hasn’t stopped lingering. Plus, all the jumping around I did is really coming back to bite me in the ass. Never wear heels, guys. Huge mistake.”

The entire table bursts into a chorus of light laughter, Harry smiling sheepishly as he pushes the hair back from his face, ignoring how damp his scalp is. He chuckles quietly as his friends begin to take digs at his wardrobe and nearly faints when Stevie comes to his rescue, threatening to break one of the drinking glasses over Jeffery’s head for attacking Harry’s ���unique and renowned” sense of style.

After a bit more banter, Stevie excuses herself to go use the loo. He sees her walking around to his side of the rounded booth, leaning down to talk beside him.

“I can tell you’re really out of it at the moment. Y'look really tired. Why don’t you go ahead and go rest up and me and you can do lunch tomorrow? You’ve been kinda detached the whole time and I’d really like to get to know you a bit more. Maybe even talk a collaboration. Who knows?” She pinches his broad shoulders playfully in a way that reminds him of his mom, patting him on the back. “I’ll text Roger to set up a reservation at Cafe Habana. Heard you fancy it?”

Harry nods so fast he feels whiplash lick at the back of his brain. “Yeah! It’d be an honor.”

“Alright. See you then.”

He watches as she walks away, rounding a corner to the restrooms and he immediately turns to Mitch, who’s in the middle of actively listening to Jeff and Sarah’s conversation about a Discovery Channel documentary over mermaids.

A tap to the shoulder gets Harry his designated attention and he speaks quick and breathless. “I’m going back to my hotel. Tell everyone I was feeling really tired, will you?”

Harry manages to wriggle his way out of the booth without embarrassing himself, leaving the trusty serviette behind as he sprints for the glass doors of the bar, socks damp in his loafers and that stupid piece of hair flopping against his forehead. The cold late night air runs the simmering stiffness from his skin (but leaving it as is somewhere else), swirling into his lungs and refreshing his mind. He has a driver on the phone in a split second and is getting into a limo the next minute, headed for his hotel with the window down and the wind sifting its fingers through his curls, helping air out all of his pent up frustration.

Before he knows it, Harry’s fumbling with the key card to his king suit, cursing under his breath as it gets jammed and squinting angrily at the tiny red light that flashes on the silver mechanism. As soon as the door pushes open, he surges through, kicking it closed and tearing down the column of buttons on his expensive silk shirt. His mind immediately begins to weave out a fantasy, the fingers that are popping open his shirt molding from his own into Y/N’s. And just like that, she’s there with him. She’s there, sponging her gentle, warm lips against the racing pulse on his neck, licking down his collarbones and biting at the the tight muscles of his broad shoulders as she roughly rips the sticky shirt down his arms.

Harry’s breathing is ragged as his fingers fly to his belt buckle, fumbling with the clasp and seeing nothing but her taunting, lust-filled eyes as she’d sharply yank the leather strap from around his slender hips, undoing his zipper as he toes off his squeaky shoes. His pants are discarded in a pile by the couch and he’s rummaging through his Nike carry-on for his trusty bottle of Astroglide, positive that he’d tucked it into the inside pocket of the bag. He comes up fruitful, whooping silently in victory as he paces to the humongous bed across the elegant room, feeling her imaginary presence looming behind him as he crawls onto the fluffy comforter.

He momentarily wagers whether he should call up Y/N for some help because having her voice is better than having to envision it. He weighs against it, knowing that since it’s 1 AM here in LA, it’s around 9 AM over in London and she’s more than likely not even up yet considering she loves sleep almost as much as she loves him.

Harry sits with his back against the tall headboard, shimmying out of his dark red CK briefs and spreading his legs wide open, sighing in relief as he feels his balls settle beneath him onto the mattress. He hadn’t realized the true extremity of how wound up he had been until now.

He thumbs the cap of the lube open, wiping off the crusty dry bits against the duvet and squirting some onto his palm, shivering at how cool it is. After some shifting around and stacking a couple of pillows into a plush mountain, he gives his cock a few leisurely tugs, worrying his lip between his two front teeth and hissing out all of the accumulated stress from the entire night.

It doesn’t take long for him to get a set rhythm, his rings scraping softly against his prick as the lube squishes in between the cracks where the metal and the skin of his fingers meet.

Harry’s head leans back again the cold mahogany surface of the bed frame, his hand working up and down his engorged length as he gulps down the screams that are threatening to overcome him, mewling her name out into the dimness of the room. His translucent skin is bumpy with green and blue veins, the head of his cock a dangerous shade of reddish purple as a tiny river of precome leaks out steadily. It runs down and over his fingers as he pumps himself, mixing with the lube to form a cloudy mess. His toes are curling against the sheets and his back muscles are contracting against the headboard as his body bends all out of shape in order to produce an orgasm.

His huge hand squeezes himself snugly, breathy whimpers and quick, low moans streaming from his mouth without control because he just doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care because Harry can see her– sees her as she is pressed up against his side with one of her legs holding his own wide open, her small hand stroking him messily as she sucks love bites onto his chest and tweaks his puffy nipples, breath gooey and warm and so fucking hot as she mumbles praises against into neck. “God, you’re so fucking big, Har. All thick and warm inside me and nice and heavy in my mouth, yeah? Wanna make you come. Can you do that for me?”

Long, drawn-out “ohs” and “ughs” fill the stale air around him, wet slapping sounds bouncing back from the paisley-printed walls of the large room as Harry nods his head, not caring whether she’s here or not to see it. His face contorts into expressions of sheer bliss, eyebrows raising and scrunching in pleasure as his jaw hangs loose, head rutting back against the surface of the frame as cracked whines drip endlessly from his swollen, rosy lips. He thumbs over his sensitive cockhead, massaging circles into the skin and jerking against the mattress as he feels a boiling warmth pooling in his tummy, getting ready to explode at any given second.

Harry’s chest is flushed a dull red as he urges himself not to come, wanting to make this last as long as possible. Sweat stings every pore across his skin and he pretends it’s Y/N’s nails scratching memories across his torso. She’s everywhere; plastered across the ceiling and the walls of the room, all over his twitching body, her smell burning his nose and her pretty lips and doey eyes deeply rooted into his brain. It’s her own hands that are cupping and working him towards release as she licks sloppily at his tip, sucking gently every now and then while keeping direct eye contact with him. She spits on him just how he likes it, twisting her fist around his circumstance to give the handjob an array of new sensations.

His own hand mimics the fantasy, teeny mewls of, “oh, shit” and “fuck, it’s so good” rawing his jugular. He slows his pace, working down his cock gruelingly, pulling the foreskin down to reveal the shiny tip to the chilly air. He reaches down between his itching thighs, cupping his balls and fondling them, thumb pressing into the fleshy bit in the center and he can’t stop the stuttered sob that scrapes from deep in his lungs. Her ruby-red, bow-shaped lips are sucking a new sense into him, his eyes hazing over with the image of her kissing down his prick all the way to his balls and taking them into her palm, tugging and sucking fervidly.

Harry can feel his insides pass the boiling point, his abdomen and thighs giving foreshadowing clenches as he sinks down into the mound of feather pillows, torso twisting and thrashing as he crosses into dangerous grounds of stimulation. The cushions close around him as his dives deeply into them, swelling around his head and hugging his arms and sides, the light tickling sensation urging him to come undone. He’s breathing fast and spastic from his mouth and nose at the same time, tears squeezing from the corner of his eyes as he makes a variety of embarrassing, uncontrollable noises ranging from deep, choking grunts to high-pitched, sputtering whimpers.

And, of course, she’s there. The softness of the linen against his oversensitive body turns into her wandering fingers. The violent jerks of his fist melt into the warm velvet of her walls as she rides him. The rubbing of the pillow covers against the back of his head molds into her hands yanking and twirling at his matted, damp curls. And lastly, the caresses of his inhales and exhales as they leave his lips dissolve into her own breaths pushing into his mouth as her lips suck and chew at his, feeding bits of her intoxicating taste into his system to form a tight ball of sensual gratification at the pit of his stomach.

“Fuck, Y/N, fuck me. You’re such a good fucking girl fo’ me, aren’t you? Y'just feel so good…” Harry knows it’s borderline insane to be addressing her when he’s alone but he doesn’t care because he just has to get it all out somehow. In the cage of his mind, her voice responds to him, which is all that truly matters.

“Want you t'come, H. Wanna feel you fill me up.” It’s as if she’s hovering over him, staring right into his soul with those wide, innocent eyes as she bounces on his cock, tiny gasps leaving her swollen lips as not-so-innocent words slip freely from her mouth. “C'mon, Harry. Know you can be a nice boy and come for me, baby. Jus’ a little longer, yeah?”

The hand that was massaging his balls flies up over the pillow around his face, shoving the fluffy material into his mouth so that he can bite down all of his wails. The heels of his feet dig into the springy mattress, causing his back to buck off its surface. Harry’s chest heaves with every rattling gasp, teeny mewls of pleasure squeaking from his throat. His arm is taut with the effort he’s putting into his violent tugging, tattoos glistening with sweat in the dim light of a single bedside lamp. He throws his head back as far he can, tendons stretching tight and veins chiseling into existence down his neck and across his temples. A warm sensation suddenly inflates across his entire being and he can hear his teeth grinding down hard as his climax takes the reigns, thundering over his body without remorse.

When he bursts, it’s messy, to say the least. It splutters out in thick milky ribbons that splatter across his stomach and chest, his prick twitching nonstop in his clenched fingers. Flashes of red, white and yellow form webs behind his eyelids, bursts of brighter colors overlapping the spidery strands. He feels like it’s never going to stop– like he’s going to be squirting out forever because he can still feel the knot writhing in his stomach, demanding to be let out all at once. But he can’t take it; if he doesn’t stop, he thinks he’ll pass out.

Harry’s heart is hiccuping in his chest, the intense thumping suggesting it is trying to slam free through his ribs. His ears feel as if they were clogged with gauze, the only clear sound being the blood rushing through his head. His nose is the first thing that starts to go numb, the jittery sensation spreading across his whole face and crawling down his neck, taking ahold of every one of his nerve-endings. After the feeling has washed down his thighs is when he stops coming, his cock slowly going limp against his pelvis. After it’s spread across all ten of his toes is when he releases the wet fabric of the pillowcase from his aching teeth. After it’s dissolved away down to his chest is when his back muscles untangle themselves from each other, his whole torso slumping comatose into the elegant duvet. And, only after the feeling barely lingers in his fingernails and barely tickles the back of his skull, is when Harry’s eyes finally flutter open.

His head lulls to the side so that his chin presses against his left shoulder, gaze focusing on the neon green numbers of the digital clock on the polished nightstand. 1:17 AM.

He’d lasted seventeen minutes.

It’s quite shameful, he’ll admit. He usually lasts at least thirty solo and can work his way up to an hour with Y/N (with breaks, obviously). But he’d spilled in just over fifteen minutes, all because of a couple glasses of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé and some post-concert adrenaline.

Harry lays there for a while; how long, he’s not sure. He entertains his sleepy body with threading his fingers through his moppy hair, feeling small grainy bits of hair spray still sticking to the fluffed up mess. The sweat has dried to his skin, making the light breeze from the air vents feel cooler than normal and causing him to burrow under the thick comforter. The humungous flat screen on the wall in front of the bed shows his reflection with crystal clearness: He looks like he just went three rounds with a grizzly bear in an episode of Naked and Afraid. Except the name Naked and Fucked Out seems more appropriate. Or Naked and Covered In Jizz. He wipes himself down with some fancy rose-oil-infused tissues from a box inside one of the nightstand cabinets, setting the wad of napkins on the table to discard later.

After about ten more minutes of recovering, Harry kicks off the sheets, swinging his legs around the edge of the bed in order to get up. His movements are lazy as he takes his sweet time standing up, raising his arms above his head and stretching out the kink in his back until it cracks. He grabs the duvet, wrapping it carelessly around his hips and holding both sides together in one fist at his hip. For some odd reason, he doesn’t feel like walking around naked– he thinks it to be that the air conditioning has kicked in at full blast.

He shuffles hazily out of the bedroom section of the grand suite, all the way over to where his bottoms lay in a rumpled pile on the floor near the couch, leaning down to fish out his phone from the back pocket. Harry surfs through his notifications as he slowly walks towards the bar on the other end of the room, only really paying attention to a message from Jeff confirming Harry’s lunch with Stevie tomorrow. He walks around the marble counter of the bar, opening up the mini fridge and sifting through an assortment of colorful alcohol bottles. He hisses out a victorious, “Sick.” when he sees a bottle of Brachetto d’Acqui Rosso, his favorite sweet wine. He’s not up for anything strong at the moment– just something light and fizzy to sedate the gnawing in his stomach.

Harry snatches the most graceful glass he can find, using his teeth to rip open the crimson wrapping around the cap of the bottle and being thankful that it is the type he can unscrew. After pouring out half a glass, he leans forward on the counter on one elbow, sipping lightly and pulling up Y/N’s contact on his phone. As the line rings its toll, he licks at his lips patiently, savoring the hints of black cherry, raspberry and rose in his drink.

“Hello?” Y/N’s thick, drowsy voice crackles through the speaker and he immediately feels bad for calling her. He knew she hadn’t been awake but he just really wanted to hear her voice.

“Morning, love. How’s my favorite girl?”

“I was good until you woke me up.” She grumbles, the ruffling that comes through the line suggesting she is shifting around the bed and he imagines her rolling onto her side, tucking an arm under her head as she holds the phone to her ear with the other.

A fond smile twitches Harry’s cheeks as he tips back the glass again, letting the tangy yet silky liquid send a tingle through his tastebuds. “So you’re well? Nice. ’M good too, thanks for asking.”

Y/N sighs irritably, but he can tell she’s faking it. All she could talk about recently is how much she misses him, especially in the morning because it’s when she’s most cuddly. He knows she’s thrilled to hear from him and he’s happy to say the feeling is mutual.

“So, how’d the concert go?” She asks, excitement twinkling in her groggy voice.

“It was fucking amazing. Stevie’s just…wow. That’s it. Just wow. She even said she loves Two Ghosts and I nearly shit myself on stage!” Harry responds, setting the now empty class on the counter and filling it up some more, watching the effervescent liquid slosh around as Y/N sniffles on the other end. Her nose could get pretty backed up during the night due to her allergies.

“That sounds incredible, Har. You really deserved this. You’ve worked so hard for it.” He can hear the proud smile in her voice.

“Thank you, pet. Means the world, y'know? Actually, Stevie invited me to lunch tomorrow! She even knew that I liked Cafe Habana. Can you believe it?” Harry can’t keep the childish giddiness from his voice, his entire face lighting up at the thought.

Y/N’s bubbly laugh crackles through the phone. “That’s great, baby. So happy for you!”

He smiles timidly into the glass, blushing up a storm and he can never understand how Y/N has him so whipped without even trying. “Thanks. Again.”

Harry hears the sound of running water start up on the other end and he guesses she is up and about, probably brushing her teeth or washing her face.

“So,” her voice is muffled, confirming that she indeed is brushing. He can see her, standing in her Garfield pajamas with her hair up in a messy bun, her sparkly blue toothbrush hanging out of the side of her mouth as foam wets the corners of her lips. “Are you gonna tell me all the juicy details of the after party or not?”

He chuckles softly, hiking the duvet up his hips as it had begun to slide down. “Wasn’t really a party. We just went out for some drinks, s'all.”

“Oh, that’s nice! How did it feel to have Stevie Nicks toast to you? Y'know, since you love having your ego stroked and all.” Her teasing tone pokes at his self-proclaimed narcissism, but all he can truly think about is how she used the word “stroked” and it causes him to giggle at the coincidence.

Harry sips at his wine, eyeing the unkempt bed on the opposite side of the room and smirking to himself knowingly. “It was absolutely satisfying.”

[longsleeveeveningdresses]

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[robertshugartca]

Lately it seems as if there’s not a day that goes by where I’m...

Lately it seems as if there’s not a day that goes by where I’m not triggered by a blatant form of racial insensitivity, evident lack of diverse staff, or lack of awareness coming from fashion brands and design houses alike. In a time when we’re reckoning with the legacy of iconic designers and brands, maybe the best thing consumers can do is take a step back and look at how we contribute.

Sure, we can’t control what designers send down the runway, but one of the most fundamentally underrated ways to be an ally to the black community (and any community for that matter) is through how we spend our money. As we celebrate Black History Month I believe there’s truly no better way to appreciate and support black artistry than through shopping black-owned business and designers. Keep scrolling to find some of my favorite designers to shop this month and beyond.

The first time I saw Brother Vellies in my feed, my heart skipped a beat. I saw a woman who looks just like me on social media (a rare occasion) wearing these incredible black feather heels. From that moment on, I was hooked. From its Instagram feed to how each product is made, Brother Vellies is thoughtful with everything it does.

Founded by Aurora James, the brand is dedicated to sustainability and works with artisans in South Africa, Ethiopia, Kenya, and Morocco to make its handcrafted shoes. Basically, whenever I’m feeling philanthropic but need a pair of shoes, I’ll be spending all my money with Brother Vellies.

Remember that iconic blazer look Beyoncé wore on her last On the Run II tour? That was from Queens-born designer LaQuan Smith. His glamorous and often sultry designs have not only caught the attention of the queen, but Cardi B, Rihanna, Jennifer Lopez, and other celebrities alike. If celebrities are not enough to immediately pique your interest, his previous collaboration this past fall with ASOS may do the trick. Featuring men’s and women’s clothing and plus-size options, the affordable collection toes the line between down to earth and just a pinch of extra. Not convinced yet? Check out his work below.

Confession: I was hyperventilating at my desk when watching Carly Cushnie’s F/W 19 presentation. Something about her all-red layered look with velvet flare-leg pants and her Tibet Lamb Coat had me seriously re-considering my wardrobe choices. Her work often does that though; it’s so beautifully structured, minimal, and yet feminine you can’t help but to imagine how magical your life would be if you were just wearing one of her pieces.

Imagine yourself sitting in Positano, Italy, with sun shining down on you while you’re drinking lemonade—but what are you wearing? Hopefully Fe Noel. The Grenadian womenswear designer from Brooklyn specialized in collections that practically scream “book a flight right now.” Felisha Noel also recently collaborated with Afro-cuban American painter

Harmonia Rosales. Rosales is known for reimaging iconic renaissance art pieces as black women, and we’re here for his jump from canvas to Fe Noel’s silk. After all, there’s no better way to celebrate black history than by recognising and reclaiming the beauty of black identity that’s been erased in larger historical narratives.

CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund winner Telfar Clemens not only creates pieces that anyone can wear but continually pushes societal boundaries through challenging black and gender identity norms. After all, how many designers this past fall sent unisex clothing through a mosh pit environment while country music blasted in the background? Have you ever seen black cowboys sporting fringe? Probably not. If you’re looking for clothing that pushes boundaries and comes from a unique perspective, Telfar is your new go-to.

Remember when we did that beautiful cover shoot with Yara Shahidi? If you haven’t been able to stop thinking about the printed silk suit she’s wearing, you’re not alone. The suit was part of a Pyer Moss collaboration with artist Derrick Adams that aimed to explore the idea of black life without persecution.

In many ways, it’s easy to see why Kerby Jean-Raymond won the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund award, was named one of Forbes 30 Under 30, and has a Reebok partnership. But in truth, the accolades don’t even begin to speak to the gravitas of his work. Designing for both men and women, Kerby uses his collections to give voice to the African American experience one piece at a time.

Ever since the designer made waves with luxury street label Off-White and stepped into his role as menswear artistic director for Louis Vuitton , Virgil has kept the industry’s attention. And the hype thus far is definitely worth it. Sure, everyone lost it over his debut this past June ,  but his most recent menswear shows for fall 2019 caught my attention.

For Louis Vuitton, Virgil used a Broadway-like production to set viewers in an old New York with live jazz in the back while well-tailored suits and subtle American flag pieces made their way down the runway.

For Off-White, set against a landscape that turned into a green screen, models wearing box blazers paired with football helmets made their way through a dystopian cityscape. While both his shows stayed true to the brand’s identity, it felt as if both were a reflection of his own experiences as a black man and the environments that shaped him. To me, that reflection in and of itself, is breathtaking.

Maybe it was just me, but the 2019 Grammy outfits truly solidified my love for Olivier Rousteing at Balmain. How could one not be in a tizzy over Béyonce’s iconic look, Jorja Smith’s stunning gold sequin number, or even Kylie Jenner’s avant-garde look? I know he’s been the creative director for nine years—which means I’ve been high-key sleeping on him—but something about him taking the brand back to couture week has made me fall in love all over again. Maybe it’s couture or maybe it’s him, but either way this a brand and a designer you should be buying into at the moment.

Next: 14 Editor-Approved Designer Bags So Good We Bought Them

source https://gothify1.tumblr.com/post/183095827025

[fledgefighters]

Who should you fight: Fledge Fighters edition

Pace: absolutely fight Pace. 1) you’ll probably win and 2) he probably had it coming. You might emerge scratched up, but as long as he’s being as passive as usual, just keep at it and you’ll be the victor.

Rae: What, do you have a death wish?

Michael: I don’t know why you’d fight this angel, but give it a shot. He’s just as likely to scald you with an acid as he is to get distracted by a thought and forget to hit back. 50/50 odds. Your chances are decent.

Stephen: Go ahead! Fight Stephen! He’ll probably appreciate it. Sure, pretty much any blow you can land will do absolutely nothing, but Stephen’s always up for a good fight. He might even let you win.

Nathan: It looks bad to fight a six year old. Probably don’t. Also remember how I said to fight Stephen? If you pick on his little brother I take that back. You will be pounded. And even if Stephen’s not around and you don’t mind beating up a kindergartener, Nathan could probably take you anyway. Don’t fight Nathan.

JD:  steer clear of this one. It could escalate into more of a heated situation than anyone wanted, and if he gets upset he won’t hold back destroying you and anything you own. He’s pretty much always on the brink. Don’t fight the anger son.

Gail: go ahead, fight Gail. It’ll be an easy win. You may find that later  someone is blackmailing you for starbucks gift cards and your Facebook has been hacked, but at least it’ll feel good to win in the moment, right?

Erica: Fight Erica if you want. You’ll probably end up apologizing later. Maybe out of genuine remorse or maybe out of fear, depending on the day.

Perri: Good luck defeating the matron superheroine of an entire country. Nah. don’t fight Perri.

Agent Jay: she has a gun, a steady hand, and a heart of steel. Best not.

Beck: Sure, fight Beck. You’ll win, but I hope you feel Really Really Bad about it.

Master Dastardly (flare pants man): FIGHT THIS OBNOXIOUS MAN ALL YOU WANT! Of all the people you should fight in this list, he’s the one who really deserves it. Ignore his hypnotic sequined accessories, don’t be pulled in by his fabulous good looks, and you’ll probably eventually have success. He may try to seduce you when he realizes he’s losing. Don’t fall for it.

[glitterystarlightpirate]

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Multi stripe sweater, $33 / Boohoo sequin stripe top / Striped flare pants / Day pack rucksack / Melissa Joy Manning pink gold hoop earrings, $495 / Bling Jewelry sterling silver star of david pendant / Iphone sleeve case / Old Spice men s grooming / Eyeliner / Eyeshadow / Makeup / Makeup / Nemesis shiny nail polish / Beauty product / Holstein Housewares Arepa Maker Quesadilla Maker