#all the neon and lighting on the black board was fun

[nekky-nek]

Most folks received their copies of the KH World Guidebook, and I thought now is a good time to share my piece! Go check out @/KHGuidebook on twitter to see all the lovely art put together for this book. I really am so grateful I got to be part of such a wonderful project.

[lvrclerc]

✶ STEAL YOUR HEART, TONIGHT!

summary: after the united states grand prix, the drivers decide to immerse themselves in the true american experience by going to the most infamous coyote ugly in austin to celebrate ─ needless to say, max is in for a culture shock, and maybe a little heart attack when one of the coyotes seems to take a fancy to him.

F1 MASTERLIST | MV33 MASTERLIST

pairing: max verstappen x coyote!f!reader

wc: 7.6k

cw: reader is implied to be southern/has a southern accent, reader smokes, alcohol, english is not my first language, sexual/romantic tension, i know next to nothing about coyote ugly this is based on vibes and vibes alone, use of y/n, bittersweet towards the end.

note: the idea of max verstappen just stepping in a coyote ugly is so funny to me. here's to lei @cntappen who wanted to see a max fic!

WARNING!

You may get wet

You may lose your tie

You may lose your bra

No men on the bar

No touching the girls on the bar - even if it’s your own girlfriend, do that at home!

We don’t serve free water

If you pick a bad song on the jukebox, you may get skipped

If you are easily offended, this isn’t the bar for you

Be nice and have fun!

YOU WILL GET DRUNK, YOU WILL GET UGLY!

What did Max get into?

The words were written hastily on a board in front of the bar with a black marker, making him wonder how it successfully stood the test of time. The night was dark around the slightly weathered wooden structure, but the obnoxious neon red sign made each detail of the street clear as day: COYOTE UGLY.

It looked like something out of a bad, anachronic Western film ─ scratched paint, flickering lights, the low hum of American dad rock vibrating through the walls. Still, there was a line out of the door and people littering the front porch ─ girls in jean shorts and cowboy hats yelling to each other above the music, guys already stumbling out with their shirts unbuttoned too far.

Daniel was the one who insisted.

He flew in to watch the United States Grand Prix, as it would be the only one he’d be free enough to attend and it had been a little while since he caught up with some of the drivers ─ including Max, Max who had been the happy winner of the aforementioned Grand Prix. “Come on Maxie,” he’d said that afternoon wearing a cowboy hat he definitely didn’t pack. “After-parties are always the same. Fake VIP tables, same music, same people. We need something different for tonight! Something fun!”

Max had muttered that he was fine drinking in a familiar place and that nobody really went partying after Austin anyway ─ it was just another win, and they had a day to pack for Mexico. That was without knowing Daniel, obviously, who had already sent a group text. Much to Max's surprise ─ note the sarcasm ─ most of the drivers had declined due to exhaustion and the general reputation of Coyote Ugly. He thought that would be the end of it, until Lando, Carlos, Pierre and surprisingly Charles had all jumped at the idea like it was the goddamn social event of the season.

Mostly because Daniel had the talent to sell a bad idea to someone like a lawyer. And that��� that explained why Max was there.

Carlos was already walking ahead of them, sunglasses on despite the fact it was nearly midnight, yelling something to a drunkard behind him in fast Spanish. Charles trailed behind, squinting at the building like he was trying to figure out if the neon sign was ironic or a warning ─ Max concluded he didn’t look up what a Coyote Ugly was before tagging along. Lando was busy taking a selfie with a wannabe cowboy and cowgirl who stopped him, already in his element.

And now Max stood between Daniel and Pierre, outside this absurdly American fever dream of a bar, and he was pretty sure people were getting murdered inside. He wondered if Daniel had finally lost his mind.

“You’re going to thank me for this,” the latter declared, hands out like he was presenting a five-star resort instead of a glorified wooden box.

Max raised a brow. “No. I’m already regretting this.”

“I love it personally,” interjected Pierre. “Smells like tequila and questionable decisions.”

Daniel threw an arm around Max’s shoulders. “See? That’s the spirit. Come on, Max. Live a little. You just won a Grand Prix, you should be dancing somewhere.”

“I’m a driver, not a dancer. Especially not that type of dancer,” he deadpanned.

Pierre smirked. “You might not have a choice. I saw a line dance when I passed by the window, and someone getting body shots done on the bar.”

“You’re fucking kidding.” Max could feel himself blanching.

Daniel grinned like the devil himself, and Max wondered why he wasn’t in his hotel room. “Oh it’s real, mate. You’re in America─ home of deep-fried butter and girls with fire hoses full of Jack Daniels.”

Lando, who had finally rejoined them, snorted. “You sound wayyy too excited about this.”

“I am! This is culture,” Daniel insisted. “This is history. This is─”

He was cut off as someone inside screamed, followed by the unmistakable sound of a whip cracking. Max stared at the entrance, eyes narrowing at the figure of a woman sliding across the bar and before he could catch another glimpse─ the blur of the people inside blocked his view.

“... Is that even legal?” He asked.

Daniel just patted his back in fake reassurance. “Too late to back out now, champ.”

He ran to catch up with Carlos in front of them, leaving Max stranded in his own hesitation. Was he really going to…?

Pierre laughed, following suit. Well, he guessed it was indeed too late to back out, and Max never left things unfinished, after all.

The door slammed behind him like a final warning.

The heat of the bar hit Max like a punch. Everything was sweaty, loud, alive, sticking to his skin and prickling it. The floor vibrated beneath his feet from the raucous movements of the crowd, barely walkable, and the scent of whiskey and cheap perfume hung in the air. People were everywhere ─ dancing, shouting, laughing, adding to the bass escaping from the humongous, vintage jukebox in the back of the room.

Someone threw a bra across the room and no one even flinched. Carlos cheered.

It was lawless. Much more than what Max was used to.

“Welcome to America, baby!” Daniel hollered over the music, arms spread around him like he’d just stepped into a holy place.

Max shot him a look, dread comfortably installed in the pit of his stomach. He brushed someone’s feather boa off his arm with a scoff. “Is that what you call fun?”

“A little different from Monaco bottle service, huh?” Daniel grinned.

“Right now I’m just doubting your taste in bars.”

“Eh…,” the Australian clapped him on the back. “It builds character.”

Why would someone want to get literally hosed down with whiskey to build character, Max didn’t know ─ and it’s not like he pulled the example out of his ass: a guy was taking a whiskey shower in the middle of the room, given by a girl in very tight clothing and run-down chaps standing on the bar.

He squinted. “How is this even sanctioned?”

“Man, you ask yourself way too many questions, just enjoy! Look at the others, at least they’re already having fun.”

Carlos was already gone, swallowed up by a pack of cowboy boots and red lipstick, while Lando and Charles were making their way toward the bar with wide eyes and the kind of expression Max hadn’t seen since their karting days. Pierre vanished. Someone bumped into his shoulder so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him.

In the end, he just sighed. He wouldn’t win that fight. “If I get anything poured on me, I’m leaving.”

Daniel laughed. “Don’t worry, they’ll only do it if you ask. Or not. Anyways, let’s get a drink!”

Max started walking toward the bar, following in Lando and Charles’ footsteps before Daniel could even finish his sentence. If he wanted to survive the evening ─ hell, even just the ambiance ─ he needed something to keep him going. Preferably cold. Preferably strong. Preferably now.

But that’s when the music shifted, the lights dimmed ever so slightly, and suddenly ─ everything changed.

A warm glow from old projectors cut through the red haze, casting gold across the surface of the bar like a spotlight, and just like that, the crowd moved. Turned their heads toward the long wooden structure like it was a stage and not the stickiest surface in Texas. Someone behind Max let out a whoop so loud it nearly startled him, “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” 

In the shuffles of bodies and beer, Max lost sight of Daniel completely.

He would have cared in any other circumstances, and maybe a part of him did at the moment, but he was only human ─ his gaze caught on the bar as well. More specifically, his gaze caught on you as you stepped into the light.

Crimson red cowboy boots first, planted strongly on the bar top, followed by the curve of your legs and the ripped, distressed hem of your shorts, the glint of a belt buckle looking like it carried multiple stories. Your tank top clung to your skin in the heat, and you were probably drenched in something ─ what, Max wouldn’t want to guess. Your hair was catching on the light, wildfire-like, almost matching the red neons. One of your hands lifted in the air, claiming the moment, and the other held a mic ─ beat up, wrapped up in tape, completely yours.

You didn’t ask for the attention of the people in front of you, no. You commanded it.

“LET’S WAKE THIS DAMN CITY UP!” You shouted into the mic, voice hoarse and tone ecstatic, and the whole room erupted.

And the music kicked in again, louder this time ─ an unapologetic, southern rock anthem beating against the wall. You dropped low, hips rolling to the beat while your hands gripped the metal bar above you to keep you on your feet. You popped back up with a loud, teasing laugh, and, mid spin, someone handed you a bottle. You poured the liquor straight into a row of open mouths, feeding the fire you started.

Max couldn’t get himself to look away.

If all the other bartenders, or coyotes as Lando affectionately corrected earlier in the night, looked like they performed the overt confidence, you didn’t: you looked in your element, basking in the spotlight, the attention and the smell of burnt wood. And it wasn’t just the way you moved, no ─ it was the way you owned it. Unbothered, untouchable. Like the bar was yours. The music, the night? Yours too.

And then for a second, just one ─ you looked at him. Dead in the eyes, over the crowd. Over the sweat and light and noise, and you threw him a grin. 

You caught him staring.

It should have been meaningless, the moment barely lasted enough to make note of it, but Max’s breath still hitched. The beat of the music wasn’t the only thing making his heart stutter off rhythm.

The chaos dulled, the music softened and just like that, you were gone. Lost behind the bar in the sea of bodies crawling in front of it. Max blinked. He wondered if he hallucinated you. 

He shook his head to get rid of the haze his mind settled into. Before he could have time to think about anything else, or even try, an arm dropped around his shoulders and a cowboy hat was on his head. Daniel had reappeared. “What a show, huh?” He said.

“Where’d you go?” Max asked, rearranging the hat on his head. He knew that if he took it off now, Daniel would be quick to put it back on.

“Went to fetch you this. Stole it from someone puking in the corner,” Max's nose scrunched at the mental image. “Come on, let’s finally get that drink. Maybe the Coyote you’ve been ogling during the whole perf’ will serve you.”

He protested. “I wasn’t ogling.” Because he wasn’t. I mean ─ what else was he supposed to do? Look at the ground while you danced? But Daniel was already on his way toward the bar and this time, Max followed him without much of a complaint. Mainly because he had been eyeing the spot you disappeared behind for the entire conversation.

People crowded around the wooden counter like it was a lifeboat. Arms waving, voices raised, someone yelling for shots and someone else already halfway to a table with three beers in each hand. The bartenders, sorry, Coyotes, moved like machines ─ fast, efficient, ruthless. Max tucked himself between Daniel and Pierre, who had reappeared as well, with difficulty.

And then, he spotted you again.

It was more like flashes of you, really. A hand catching a bottle mid-air. A flash of glitter on your cheek. A bandana tied around your wrist. Your voice cut through the air like smoke, low and teasing and just loud enough to carry. That’s what made Max’s head snap ─ it was unsettlingly recognizable, even after hearing so little of it.

“That’s your third tequila, cowboy. You aiming to dance or blackout first?”

Someone laughed ─ a rough, lovesick sound ─ and you grinned without looking up as you slid another shot glass across the bar. Through their drunk delusions, everyone around the table probably assumed they were in love with you, Max thought.

He stepped up, hands braced against the edge of the counter, waiting. That was when you turned and for the second time tonight, you looked right at him, as if feeling his presence before he could even call for another bartender.

Jesus fuck─ up close, you were something else entirely. Sun-warmed and sun-kissed skin, your cheeks were flushed from the heat along with your sweat-slicked collarbones. Your lips were pulled into the kind of smirk he’s sure could cause car crashes, and your eyes sparkled under the bar lights ─ like you knew exactly what he was searching for.

If you did, spare the poor soul and tell him, because Max wasn’t sure he wanted that drink anymore.

“You lost?” You asked. Your tone was smooth, a southern accent dripping from every word. God, that was dangerous.

Max blinked. Oh, he was gaping. “No,” he affirmed, a little too harshly.

Your eyes, intense, dragged over him, twinkling a little brighter than before. “You look lost.”

Max suddenly felt very conscious of how much he had to be sticking out. He had no outfits or items of clothing that fit this type of place ─ the light-washed jeans, the tennis shoes, and the black, short-sleeved shirt with his Formula One number in the back was as casual as he could do without looking homeless. The cowboy hat had to add some more ridiculousness to it, he realized.

He cleared his throat, frowning slightly. He usually wasn’t one to really care about outfits. “Just a drink, please.”

You leaned in, close enough that Max could smell your perfume. Warm, sugary, intoxicating. “Name your poison, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy. He gulped. For fuck’s sake, where did the confidence he had a few hours earlier go, when he was brandishing the Austin trophy?

“Whatever’s strongest.” God knows he needs it right now.

You just gave him a look ─ just the faintest eyebrow raise, clearly amused. Grabbing a bottle from behind you with practiced ease, you poured without measuring, slid a glass toward him with one hand, and propped the other on your hip, where Max’s eyes lingered a little too long.

“Try that,” you said. “If it doesn’t knock the edge off, I’ll give you a second round for free.”

He reached for the glass. You looked too smug, challenging him like he was no one to you, which he probably was. But Max liked a challenge, he was known for never backing out after all. He handled stronger for sure and America wasn’t the place that was about to teach him alcohol. He threw the whole glass back.

It burned.

His eyes watered, and Max coughed so hard he thought fire was about to spill out from his esophagus. You, on the other hand, looked delighted, grinning widely at his misery.

“You hate it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

You laughed, and the sound echoed in Max’s chest like cathedral bells, so violently he froze. Must be the alcohol.

Noticing his lack of retort, you leaned your elbows onto the bar, eyes dancing. “Aww, ain’t you too pretty to be looking this miserable?”

You were going to be the death of him. The corner of your mouth curled as if you’d just lit up a fuse. Max swallowed, slowly recovering from the short circuit your voice alone had triggered. “Is that how you greet all of your customers─ uh…” He choked out, searching for your name on your shirt.

“Y/N.” The name sounded good sliding off your tongue. Max felt the need to know how it felt sliding off his. “And only the ones who look like they took a wrong turn at a country club,” you commented, chin propped in your hand, eyes still locked on his. Touché. “You got that look─ y’know, European.” You whispered that as if it was a bad word. “Quiet, repressed. Secretly judging everyone.”

“That’s harsh.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not judging.” He was. He just wasn’t judging you.

“Sure you’re not, Verstappen.”

Oh. Your tone was casual, tossed off like nothing ─ but the sound of his name in your mouth made something flicker in his chest. Not how you said it, even though the accent and the inflections played a part in it, but the fact you said it at all.

You knew who he was, and clearly ─ you didn’t give two shits.

“Anyways,” you kept on going, oblivious or choosing not to care about the semi-amused grin that slipped on Max’s face. “The drink in your hand says otherwise.”

He glanced down. He threw the glass back, yes, but the liquid was so strong he couldn’t even get half of it down before choking on it. “I’m drinking it.”

“Barely.”

Max straightened a bit. “Okay. Fine.” Again, his tone was harsher than he actually meant it to be. He just didn’t know how to handle whatever was happening there ─ your smiles, your presence. “What should I be drinking then?”

You didn’t answer right away ─ just tilted your head, eyes sweeping over him slowly, deliberately, like you were appraising a new kind of game. It sent shivers down his spine, and he was deeply ashamed to say he was enjoying it. “You trust me, pretty boy?”

There was the nickname again. “I don’t not trust you,” which was as far as he could go after knowing you for a dance and a drink. Maybe he needed more. Just to make sure you wouldn’t poison him.

“That’s a whole lotta syllables for yes!” You laughed, already moving, pulling down bottles Max could barely recognize, tossing ice into a shaker with a rhythm that matched the beat of the song playing overhead. Your hands moved fast, confident, dancing between ingredients as if you were born behind this bar.

Max was fast, yes, but not in the way you were ─ intricate, careful. Just like that, he was hypnotized again, eyes tracing your every movement.

It broke when you slid another drink toward him. Something golden, fizzing at the top, smelling like citrus and vanilla. Like you. “Go on, drink.”

He eyed the glass. “What’s in it?”

“You said you trusted me.”

“You put the words in my mouth.”

You barked out a surprised laugh. “Either drink or I’m telling your lil’ blond friend with the camera you can’t handle your liquor,” you nodded behind Max with a sharp grin. “Wonder how that’ll go down.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and Lando had his camera zeroed on him in a way that may have tried to be discreet but miserably failed. Max muttered a curse. First, because Lando had the bad habit of filming everything and for it to get leaked the day after ─ so if their little outing wasn’t public information already, it would be by tomorrow morning. Second, based on his first point, he couldn’t possibly be dragged through the dirt for going to a Coyote Ugly and have the reputation of a lightweight. His Dutch heritage would look like a joke. Max brought the glass to his lips.

It tasted like heat, honey, whiskey, and something floral he couldn’t name. “That’s… actually good.”

“Told you you should trust me,” you said, pleased. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, I taste-test all the cocktails before I serve them. I’m not that much of a degenerate.”

You wet your lips, and Max’s eyes caught onto them for a split second. He wouldn’t let himself acknowledge the thought that almost formed in his head.

Instead, he blinked. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“So… intense.” It was a genuine question. He met people with fire, he worked with them daily, and he could consider himself one in a way ─ however, it was the contained kind. The one that was shaped to work toward a goal. You were a forest fire, spreading, in constant reach of something. Max was sure your fingerprints could burn themselves on his skin if you let them linger long enough. 

You laughed ─ loud and shameless. “Apparently. Tends to flare up when I’m bored.”

And maybe it was the alcohol, or the raucous crowd ignoring you both entirely, making it seem like you had your own, private sphere, but Max leaned forward, just enough to make your eyes imperceptibly widen by the action. It made his stomach lurch with a strange kind of pride. “And are you bored right now?”

You looked at him, gaze heavy with meaning. “Not anymore.”

Max felt something stir low in his chest ─ heat, curiosity, the burn of your drink still coating his throat. He wished he could have lingered on it, maybe make sense of it but you took it from him, leaning back and breaking the tension with a sly glint in your eyes. A reminder you were in control of the room.

“You ever poured a shot before, pretty boy?” You asked.

That was a change of topic. “Uh─ no?”

“Well, that’s about to change.”

Before he could argue, or even ask what you meant, your fingers stroked his wrist and he forgot about everything he was going to say. That’s when you tugged him forward, He didn’t resist, more out of shock than anything else, but next thing he knew he was behind the bar, ducking under the pass-through from which Coyotes went and left. Pushing him into your world.

The heat was much worse with the change of scenery ─ the lights brighter, the music louder, you right next to him.

“Are we─ Am I even allowed back there?” Max asked, stumbling slightly as he knocked into a pack of plastic cups.

“Nope,” you answered cheerfully. Just as on cue, one of your colleagues piped up, something about ‘no men on the bar’ and the wooden board of warnings at the front of the bar flashed in Max’s mind. You flipped her off lightheartedly, saying something along the line that, technically, he wasn’t on the bar. Just behind it.

From under the counter, you took out a bottle of something probably lethal and a metal shaker. “Alright, Verstappen. Time to earn your keep ─ didn’t think those drinks were for free, were you?” So that’s what it was all about. “You’re gonna help me make a round of Flaming Coyotes.”

“No way in hell that’s a real drink,” Max frowned.

“Unfortunately yes,” you said, cracking ice into a tin. “And you’re gonna light it.”

Your fingers wrapped around his hand, and Max’s heart stuttered at how your whole palm could wrap around one of his fingers. You guided it to the matchbox you set on the bar. “Relax, I’m not gonna let you burn your eyebrows off… unless you’re chicken?” You gasped, mocking.

“You really want me to set something on fire? With no… prior experience?”

“Only a little.”

You’re insane, he thought. You’re insane and he was never going to leave this bar. But Max was not sure he wanted to leave as badly as he did earlier, that’s why he lit the match.

The crowd erupted when the flame caught on the shot glasses. In front of him, Pierre, Daniel, and Charles cheered and whooped as loudly as he could, and somehow Max forgot all about them in these 20 minutes. He looked up, breathless, adrenaline buzzing through his veins like engine oil. You were watching him carefully, looking like you’d just found something very interesting in me. “Look at you,” you said, tone playful. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

And Max smiled ─ actually smiled, for the first time since this night started. Wide, boyish, and wrecked by it all, and fucking hell did he look good, you allowed yourself to think. His chest swelled with something as you smiled back. And maybe it was the fire, maybe it was the cheers. Or maybe it was you.

The following hours were spent in a blur.

Not the kind of blur Max was used to ─ it wasn’t the sharp edges of a race weekend or the post-win daze of podiums and press conferences. This was so much more different. Warm, messy in a way that curled around his senses and dimmed the seconds together until the clock disappeared.

Shots kept appearing in his hand like magic, and he went from behind to the front of the bar as he pleased ─ most of the bartenders called him an ‘Honorable Coyote’, which shouldn’t have been as funny as it was at the time. The jukebox never stopped switching music, keeping him on his toes. Lando and Pierre had stolen a mic at some point, or maybe you gave it to them for the hell of it, and slurred She’s Country by Jason Aldean so off-key some of the girls threatened to cut them off, splashing them with ice-cold water. Daniel had tried to climb on the bar twice, failing miserably because rules were rules, Charles was attempting to dance with a girl in a cowboy hat three sizes to big for her head, and Carlos was desperately explaining race strategies to a group of drunken Texan who clearly didn’t know what Formula One was.

And then there was you.

Always moving. Always glowing, whether it be from the sheen of your efforts or the loud, obnoxious ambiance that sublimed your features. You’d disappear back into the rhythm of the bar and the beat of the dance, your natural habitat, flinging bottles in the air, laughing as someone tried to kiss your hand and you sent them waltzing away, yelling over the crowd without care. And now Max was convinced people there didn’t simply think they were in love with you. They undoubtedly were ─ six steps in and all that. And he would have been bothered in any other circumstances.

But whenever Max looked up, he caught you looking at him. Every time, you smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Max didn’t know how much time had passed by that point, only that his throat was dry, his cheeks flushed bright red and hurting from how much he laughed, the back of his neck scorching from something stronger than just alcohol. Somewhere along the way, the night had stopped being about celebrating a win and started being about you.

Maybe that’s how he got roped in a messy attempt at a line dance.

He tried to resist at first. Truly. Max still stood by what he said at the beginning of the night: he was a driver, not a dancer. But when you shouted to ask if everyone wanted to see an F1 World Champion do ‘a little two steps’ and everyone cheered, including his friends and colleagues, the traitors, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. Not when you stood so close to him.

You’re Easy On The Eyes by Terri Clark twanged through the jukebox, loud enough to rattle the shelves and the floorboards, while Max tried to follow your explanations. His hands were on his hips, knees knocking together as he mimicked you except he was two steps behind and overthinking it. You were outwardly mocking him by now. “Your coordination’s better in a car, huh?” You teased.

Max huffed. “You call this coordination?”

“Aw, don’t pout, baby. You’re trying.” He rolled his eyes and you stuck your tongue at him. Daniel was somewhere in the back, filming, but Max had tuned the world out. 

Somehow, in the whirl of bodies, he caught you again, his hands instinctively flying to your waist to steady himself so he wouldn’t faceplant ─ that would be the highlight of his night. Before he could process it, and you always a step ahead of him, you grabbed the cowboy hat off his head and in one slick movement, settled it on yours with a wink. The crowd roared in approval. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Max wasn’t fluent enough in Southern to know what that meant, but the half-lidded look you gave him translated across every barrier.

Game on.

You roped him into much more after that. Max followed blindly, always rising to the challenge, stuck in the daze of you. In the decadence of Coyote Ugly. In the secrecy of the nighttime, where everything felt allowed and nothing had to make sense in the morning.

By the time he was able to breathe, he’d long dismissed the idea to try and find out where his friends had scattered to. The only thing he could feel was the warmth of your hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him past the old, swinging saloon-style door and out in the thick, velvet air of the Texan night.

The back of the bar was quieter. The hum of crickets, the soft hum of the neon signs bleeding through ancient wooden slats, and the echo of music and laughter still pulsing behind closed doors. Cardboard boxes were lying around, swallowed by the wild, uncut grass. The sky was wide and open above him, seemingly endless, stars barely cutting through the heat haze but present nonetheless. Nobody was there apart from the two of you.

Back against the structure of the bar, Max quietly watched as you lit a cigarette next to him. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest. Wordlessly, you offered him your open back with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t smoke.” He waved it off.

You shrugged, blowing a grey cloud out to the night. He didn’t mind it ─ driving every day of your life, you get used to the smell. “I don’t really like smoking either. It just gives my hands something to do.”

Max chuckled. That didn’t surprise him either, he already figured out life moved with you and not the contrary. 

It seemed like you didn’t appreciate it when conversations stilled because you were quick to speak up again. “Didn’t think I’d see the day a world champion let a girl make a fool outta him in public,” you said, leaning against the wall. Your shoulder brushed his. The number of times you touched him tonight was too numerous to count, but this one felt different. Innocent.

Max threw a smile at you, eyes darting to his feet for a second, still a little glassy. “I’m not the type to mind.”

And that, for some reason, made you look at him. Actually look at him. The type of look stripping away the chaos, the teasing, the fire-breathing version of yourself you wore so proudly behind the bar. You looked at him and Max was faced with the fact that you were just ─ you. Still half-wild, still sharp, but a little less guarded under the moonlight.

He liked it. A lot.

“D’you always enjoy losing control that much, then?” You asked with a small smile.

Max’s lips parted to answer─ pausing.

He thought about it. How rare this was, to be in a place he didn’t understand perfectly, being in Formula One for 10 years, you get used to the pattern of events, and you know what to target when things don’t go your way to make them bend to your will. Right now, he was tangled in things whose sense escaped him, and did not want to run from it.

His voice was quieter when he finally answered. “Only tonight.”

You took that in with a nod and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

“I’m glad you came tonight, then.”

That was it. No confessions, no fireworks, but Max felt his chest tighten just the same. You were just two people, sharing the silence, letting the sticky Texas air settle into your skins, wondering what the hell would happen when tonight fades. He wasn’t ready to find out the answer yet.

So, Max asked, “What led you to this?”

“To what? Coyote Ugly?” You raised an eyebrow, blowing out a slow stream of smoke and watching it curl around the humidity.

“Yeah. Why do you do it?”

“That’s two different questions, pretty boy.”

“Guess I want an answer to both.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because no one ever asked. Not your friends, not your colleagues, much less your family who was less than understanding about your life choices.

You shifted your weight, eyes flicking toward the parking lot in the distance. “Well, I came in looking for a job, obviously.” Your voice was softer now. There was still a bit of tease around the commas, but not nearly as much. “Needed rent money. Didn’t want a desk.”

Max hummed. “Makes sense.”

You tapped the ash off the cigarette. “And then I stayed ‘cause… I dunno. You ever walk into a place and, as crazy as it sounds, even if it’s a mess, I mean like pure chaos, and wild and loud you think ─ yeah. This might be the only place I make sense? I get to perform. I get to be myself. Take up space. Alive, not rotting in place like I was scared to. I wasn’t allowed to… do all that before.”

“I get it.” He nodded.

“Didn’t think you would.”

“I race cars for a living. I get messy.”

It was meant to be a light answer, something thrown back with a crooked smile and a shrug ─ but as the words settled in the small space between you, something shifted.

Max looked out in the dark, the flicker of neon reflecting faintly off the metal of a rusted old pickup nearby. He let himself sink into the silence for a second, and you waited until he was ready to speak up again. And he did, in a whisper, more to himself than to you. “Everything’s always so… calculated. In racing. It’s controlled and measured, even the mess, you know? It’s still part of the plan, of what’s expected, somewhat.”

You turned toward him slightly, hip still leaning against the wall, cigarette flickering between your fingers.

“You’re serious,” you said. Not accusatory ─ just curious. “Like, really serious.”

He glanced at you. “And you’re not.”

“Oh, I can be. I know when not to be, which just happens to be most of the time. And I like it like that, honestly,” you shrugged. “I don’t want to be stuck in something that’ll bury me before my time, and I couldn’t see myself anywhere else now, not when I get to be unashamed like that.” Your last words were just above a whisper. “Free.”

The term stagnates for a while.

Until Max lets out a soft laugh, barely even there. “I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to be anything else but serious.”

The words surprised him. Not because he never thought about them, but because he never said them out loud. He didn’t think he meant them. Now, they felt unescapable, slightly suffocating ─ and the way you looked at him, patient, didn’t help in the slightest. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s always about being perfect. Image, numbers, control. If I mess up, people lose money. I lose standing. Teams fall apart. Media goes insane. There’s no room to just.. exist? I guess?” His voice dips lower.

Max wasn’t about to say anything more. He sobered up too much to spill his guts further to a little more than a stranger. Yet, the way you looked at him ─ meeting his gaze with something softer than you’d shown him all night ─ and what you’ve told him, you didn’t feel like a stranger at all. You, who wore fire like perfume and laughed like a dare, stripped down to ashes.

You voiced what he was thinking. “So we’re not that different. I mean, we both perform. In our ways.”

He couldn’t figure you out, no matter how much he tried, no matter how much you’ve shown and hidden tonight but God, Max could have spent hours and hours trying to puzzle you back until you’d finally make sense.

Instead, he just dipped his head in agreement, which made you smile gently. You nudged him with your shoulder. “Alright, Verstappen. Guess you’re not just a pretty face, huh?”

Max choked on a laugh, and he couldn’t help himself. “You are, though. And a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes at his sad attempt at flirting, snorting, but the grin spreading your lips lingered for longer than it should have. Max shuffled a bit closer to you ─ subtle enough that it could’ve been the heat dragging him in ─ but not so subtle that he missed the way you shifted too, gravity pulling you both toward something unspoken.

Quiet still, you spoke up again, voice barely above the hum of the night. “It’s nice, though. People like us don’t get a lot of moments like this.” You gestured around, the empty half-alley, half-garden bathed in neon spill, the distant sounds of cricket, the sounds of the music and the people inside like a faraway dream. This. The in-between.

Max’s voice came back low, warm. “Then we should make them count.”

You turned to look at him, slower this time. And Max ─ he didn’t dare move. Just watched.

The way the light caught on your dewy skin. The glint of sweat at your temple. Your pupils blown wide, not just from the dark but from interest, curiosity. That sharp, electric pull that had lived between you all night, was finally quiet enough to be noticed.

Your eyes dropped to his lips, just for a moment. It was so fast that he thought he might have imagined it. His heart twisted anyway.

“And how are you planning on making it count, Max?”

His name, swirling around your tongue for the first time tonight ─ sweet, sharp, honey on a blade. It hit him square in the chest.

Something in his chest stammers, tires hitting gravel at full speed, and all reason is thrown aside after that. He doesn’t even know how it came to it ─ your back flush against the wall, his hands on your waist, your eyes boring into his and your cigarette half-smoked, forgotten on the gravel. He could feel your body heat as if it was his, your breath quickening at the contact. He could feel you and he wondered if you felt him just as intensely.

His eyes traced the curves of your lips and Max wondered what you tasted like. Smoke, citrus, spice. He wanted to memorize the taste, throw it into a drink he could get drunk on every night, threatening his health to grasp the memory of you again and again.

That was until─

“MAX?!” A shout echoed down the parking lot. Slurred, and unmistakably Daniel-sounding.

More followed.

“Mate, where did he fuck off to?”

“We’re leaving in ten, HURRY UP!”

It was muffled by the distance, but he knew you heard it as well. The half-smile on your face betrayed you.

“So, you gonna kiss me, pretty boy?” You asked.

It would’ve happened.

Max would’ve leaned in and would’ve chased the heat grasping his ribs whenever you looked at him. He would have mapped your mouth, the curve of your waist beneath his palms, would’ve swallowed every sound you made as he was starved for it. He would’ve kissed you and let you burn him alive, gladly, but─

The voices grew smaller. Daniel’s laugh, Pierre’s yell, Charles’ confusion. Reality bleeding back in. Max’s jaw tensed. If he waited a minute longer, he’d miss his ride. Miss the world contained in his hotel room that would stop spinning if he missed a minute off the clock.

He simply told the truth. 

“If I start,” Max murmured, “I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.”

That earned him a look. It wasn’t surprised, or angry ─ it was something a lot like expectancy, and in some way, it hurt a lot more.

You stepped forward, hand gently rising to meet his chest. The contact was light but the weight of it hit him like a crash and when you pushed, just a fraction, just enough, it wasn’t playful or teasing. It felt like goodbye dressed like mercy. You took the cowboy hat you stole from him earlier in the night and put it back on his head.

“Then don’t start something you can’t finish,” you whispered.

You gave him one last look ─ one he’d replay for days, conflicting emotions dimmed down to the flicker of a lighter in your eyes ─ and turned toward the door.

And Max felt awfully selfish when he asked the shadow of your figure, “Are you still going to be there next time?”

You didn’t even look back at him, but he saw your shoulders shake in a bittersweet sort of laugh, now out of his reach. “In a year, you mean? When the Grand Prix calls you back to Texas? I don’t wait, Max. My life isn’t drawn for me. I take my chances.”

You disappeared.

Max didn’t follow. He just stood there, the imprint of your touch still warm over his heart, wondering if this night would feel like a dream come morning. If you ever existed ─ or if Coyote Ugly had simply conjured you from the smoke and the music to remind him what wanting felt like.

He hadn’t kissed you, but he would never forget almost doing it.

When he climbed in the back of Daniel’s car, he evaded all the questions, the friendly mockery, the knowing glances, the snickering about the cowboy hat he still held in his hand like it was something breakable. Max just sat there, humming along to the comments Carlos made about the night, fidgeting with the brim and rubbing his thumb along the worn fabric like it might give him answers. Maybe it had caught something of you ─ your perfume, your voice, your laugh, the heat of your skin ─ and would let it slip back to him if he held on it long enough.

But it didn’t.

Later, Max crawled into bed with the weight of the night hanging around his ankles like shackles, dragging the air from his lungs. He didn’t sleep much. He didn’t want to.

He woke up with the sun, far too bright for the early morning, streaming through the blinds he forgot to close. He could feel his brain pulsing behind his eyes, his bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open, the remaining, chalky taste of whiskey sticking to his palate like cement. The evening flashed before him, a fever dream he wished he had the strength to push away ─ the obnoxious music, the sweat, the alcohol, and your smile.

Almost.

Max groaned, sitting up with difficulty on his bed. Every single one of his muscles ached, a sore reminder of the failed attempts at dancing and bartending he made last night ─ some spots hurt more than others, and in some measure, they felt like the shape of your hands.

The cowboy hat he had tossed last night, in the desperate attempt to stop anguishing about the brush of your breath across his lips, laid in front of him, miserable. Max couldn’t help himself and he reached for it out of instinct.

It felt cheaper than it did before, most imperfect underneath the daylight. He’d already memorized the texture and shape of the memento, obsessively tracing it, and yet it didn’t feel sufficient. He supposed it never would, and he’d have to live with this reality.

Max was about to put it back on his nightstand. To swallow down an Ibuprofen, chase it with an ice-cold shower, and carry on with his life like always. Another plane, another race, hopefully another win.

But something made him pause. He turned the hat in his hands again, just like he did a few hours before sleep took him by surprise.

And there it was. Tucked just inside the brim, where the lining met the crown ─ scrawled in smudged black ink he’d bet his life was eyeliner, barely visible unless you were compulsively looking for it─

if you dare.

A little heart, and a phone number scribbled right beside it.

Max blinked, mouth parting just slightly, heart mistaking the rhythm of his breathing for the first few notes of a country song. He read it again, and again until it stopped feeling like a trick of the light and started feeling like a choice.

He left thinking you were supposed to be one moment. One night. A blur of burn and guitar chords ─ but you’d left a door open.

And it was seemingly Max’s turn to take his chance.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤

a/n: this is a story i wrote + published on wattpad (user: thesvnandthemoon). i recently finished writing the last chapter and i love it so much i decided to post it on tumblr as well (my first fic i’m posting here hehe)

i didn’t tag this as 18+ because the smut is only implied and very brief

summary: natasha romanoff x female!reader. based on the movie “the notebook”; you’re allie, nat’s noah. fluff

warnings: implied smut (minors proceed with caution)

word count: 5.8k

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

They say one summer can change everything — you never thought it would be yours.

In hindsight, you won't be able to say when exactly it all started, but it must've been at the town's annual fun fair. Popcorn and fried dough, old carnival rides and duck ponds, neon signs and bells ringing.

You come reluctantly, dragged along by a friend who insists it'll be fun (and then proceeds to ditch you after meeting some guy at the hot dog stand). You don't expect much — just the usual: sticky cotton candy fingers, cheap thrills, and a fleeting distraction from the monotony of summer evenings. What you don't expect is her.

Green eyes and a black bomber jacket that looks way too warm for a hot summer day, her red hair in a loose braid. Bruised knuckles, painted in all shades of blue and purple, and a faint scar above her left eyebrow. She's leaning against the side of one of the booths, a cigarette dangling from her lips. For a moment, your eyes get stuck on her. But when her gaze meets yours, you turn back to the shooting gallery in front of you.

It gives her the opportunity to let her gaze linger on you, sharp and assessing. It's not the kind of look that makes you uncomfortable — if anything, it's curious, like she's trying to figure you out. Her eyes trail from the sundress you're wearing to the smudge of sunscreen on your wrist, then back up to the necklace that glints against your skin as you lean forward to aim.

Your fingers curl around the grip with a mix of hesitation and focus. In front of you are bright red and yellow circles, each one suspended on a flimsy wooden board. Some are shaped like ducks, others like stars, but they all feel impossibly far away.

The gun's plastic body feels awkward in your hands, too light to mimic the real thing, but you pull the trigger anyways. Just as expected, you miss, the dart-like projectile whizzing softly as it flies past the target.

You miss one shot. Then two. Then three.

Natasha, deciding she's had enough of seeing this pretty girl embarrass the hell out of herself, stomps her cigarette out with the heel of her boot before approaching you. She steps up next to you, the sound of her boots quiet against the pavement. You turn your head, a frustrated look on your face that doesn't waver even when she smirks. Without a word, she grabs the fake gun from your hands.

"Let me show you how it's done", she says, her voice low, just for you. She doesn't wait for your response before taking aim.

With a quick flick of her wrist, she hits the first target, then the second, then the third — each shot landing perfectly. You huff quietly as you watch her, trying to hide that you're somewhat impressed by this stranger's skill. She's not even showing off, just doing what she knows best.

It makes you wonder who she is. You don't know her, despite this town being quite small. You'd remember her, you're sure of that. She seems like the kind of person who'll float around your head like a little faded cloud until the day you die.

When she looks at you again, you quickly clear your throat and force a small, teasing smile. "Not bad", you say. "Now let's see if you can do that blindfolded."

Natasha smirks, her eyes glistening with amusement. I like her, she thinks, handing the plastic gun back to you. She feels a spark deep in her bones. She doesn't want to let it fizzle out.

"How about you let me take you on a date first? Then, maybe we'll talk about you blindfolding me."

"Wow", you muse, suppressing a small smile. This is dangerous territory, flirting so shamelessly with someone you probably aren't allowed to have. The odds would be against you. However, nobody said you can't have a little fun. "A marksman and bold. Lucky me."

"You don't know the half of it", she says, raising an eyebrow. She nods at the targets in front of you. "Come on, your turn. Let's see if you're a visual learner.”

You adjust your grip on the gun and aim once more, feeling her eyes on you. There's something predatory about the way she studies others, like she's waiting for them to slip up, but there's also a hint of something softer underneath. In that moment, it's reserved for you.

Right before you pull the trigger, she leans in and whispers: "Hit the target and you're going on that date with me."

For a moment, you consider giving it your best.

You could take the shot. You could make it. But for some reason, the thought of it feels too simple.

The projectile misses the target by a wide margin. Natasha frowns, her arms crossing in front of her chest. You turn around and your eyes meet.

"Guess I'm not ready for that date yet", you say.

"I'm starting to think you're making this harder on both of us", Natasha mutters, giving you a look that's somewhere between amusement and frustration. "Good thing I'm stubborn."

"Half of this town is stubborn", you say, unimpressed but equally intrigued. This woman seems determined to take you on a date, and honestly, you like the thought of being pursued so actively. But you're convinced your family is more stubborn than whoever she is.

"If you think this is stubborn", Natasha says, her eyes glinting in the afternoon sun, "you haven't met the real me yet."

Your lips twitch into a small smile at the sheer confidence in her voice. It's attractive, in a way, but also riling you up. You can't tell her why you're so adamant about saying no, so pushing her away is your only choice. Deep down, however, you know you'd say yes in a heartbeat if you weren't such a coward. And maybe she realizes that, too.

"Let's assume I say yes", you challenge. "Then what? You think a few hours with you will change everything?"

"Maybe it won't change anything", she says, though she's convinced it will. With Natasha, it always does. "But something tells me you're the kind of person worth taking that risk for."

Her words make you hesitate. She watches your expression fall in a way that makes her frown.

"You don't know me", you start carefully.

Before either of you can say anything else, you hear your name being called. Your friend comes hurrying back, this time with a peace-offering bag of popcorn. She gives you an apologetic grin and tugs at your arm. You avoid Natasha's gaze as you let her lead you away.

You don't expect to see her so soon again, but maybe that's just your luck.

You're on the ferris wheel. Natasha spots you a few gondolas away, lost in thought, your friend talking to someone on the phone.

She's used to being reckless, but not in order to impress other people. This time, it's different.

You caught her attention. You made her ask you out on a date. You said no.

Maybe she should give up. She doesn't even know what this will be, after all — a fling? A quick flirt? A one night stand, perhaps?

It could end up being nothing. Something about the way you looked at her earlier makes her believe otherwise, though. She can't give up so soon.

As the wheel slows to let others on, Natasha stands up and carefully grips the framework on the sides of the gondola. She stands on the small seat for a moment, balancing her weight, before she begins climbing to where you are. She moves expertly, ignoring the gasps of a few onlookers.

You look up when she reaches your gondola, and your friend almost drops her phone. Gaping, you stare at her.

"Are you insane?", you finally ask, reaching out to steady her. She slides into the seat next to you, loose strands of red hair fluttering around in the wind.

"Say yes to that date", she says, "or I'll jump."

You ignore the stunned look your friend gives the two of you. Sighing, you realize that this woman has managed to chip away at your resistance with ease. You didn't want to say no before, to be fair, but you felt like you didn't have a choice.

You still don't. You just decide to ignore that fact.

"At least tell me your name."

"Natasha", she says, smiling.

You tell her your name as well. You spend the remaining ten minutes of the ferris wheel ride in uncomfortable silence, trying to escape the stares of both Natasha and your friend.

. . .

The date goes better than expected.

She takes you to a diner, where she talks the owner into letting you stay after closing hours. With the door locked and the lights dimmed, your focus is entirely on Natasha. She was charming before, but it doesn't compare to the way she's treating you now.

You twirl the rose she handed you between your fingers, noticing that someone has carefully removed all the thorns. This town doesn't have a flower shop, you quietly remind yourself.

"It's nice here", you say, your eyes scanning your surroundings very briefly. Checkered tiles, a jukebox, red vinyl booths. Chrome finishes on tables, counters and stools, and milkshakes with cherries on top. It's like a place straight out of the 1950s. "Can't believe I've never been here before."

"You're here often?", she asks, dipping the end of her straw into the whipped cream and licking it off.

"Every summer. I'm visiting my grandparents."

A hum forms in her throat. You smile faintly, catching her eye.

"I've never seen you here before", you eventually say, stealing a dollop of her whipped cream with your own straw. She doesn't complain. Her smile widens instead.

"Looks like this town does have its secrets, after all."

You soon figure out that Natasha's different from the other people you've gone on dates with before.

She makes you laugh. It spills out of you before you can stop it, surprising you.

She's all bruised knuckles and scarred hands, hinting at a grittier life — she's not polished or sheltered. Instead, she's resilient and strong and self-assured.

Her presence feels electrifying. Every brush of her fingers against yours sends shockwaves down your spine.

When you exit the diner, you pause. You don't want to leave, and neither does she. Her hand touches yours meaningfully, and she lingers — just enough to make you pause. Her eyes search yours, her confidence softening just enough to feel like a plea. It's intoxicating, the way she makes everything else disappear. The moment feels unhurried, deliberate, like a silent question.

Are we on the same page?

You should turn around and go home. Your family is probably wondering where you are.

Instead, you let her pull you into a kiss.

For Natasha, it's more thrilling than climbing a ferris wheel.

. . .

You're used to keeping secrets, but this one is your favorite so far.

Natasha is a force that keeps drawing you closer. Before you know it, you're sneaking out of windows and hiding behind corners of buildings. Her lips seem to be getting softer each time you touch them with your own.

You meet again on a Friday night, this time in the quiet of her car. An SUV, surprisingly, one that you wouldn't have assumed would be hers.

"You seem more like the pickup truck type", you tell her, a genuine smile on your face.

"That's insulting", she replies, smirking, and starts the car. "Tell me where you want to go."

You can't think of anything, so you shrug. You let her surprise you. With her, everything seems to be a surprise.

Natasha doesn't appear to be in a hurry. She handles the steering wheel with calmness, a sense that, no matter where you end up, it'll be a night to remember.

In the end, the silent streets take you to the outskirts of town. An old sign reads Sunset Drive-In. The parking lot is almost empty, save for a few cars littered across the place. The screen stands tall and cracked against the backdrop of dark trees. Neon lights, once-vibrant and now dead. It feels like a place lost in time.

"Here?", you say, trying to conceal your amusement.

"Trust me, it's better when no one else is around."

She parks the car in the middle of the lot, far from the old speakers that still dangle from rusted poles. A breeze sweeps through your hair when you step out of the car and follow her. She pops the trunk, revealing a blanket that she uses to cover the hood. Side by side, you sit down.

You both stare up at the starry sky, feeling each other's presence. Her hand touches yours.

"Not what I expected", you admit, glancing at her. She smiles.

"I told you it'd be different," Natasha replies. She leans back against the windshield, folding one arm behind her head. The soft hum of the old projector flickers in the background. "But you can't say it's not romantic."

"Never said it wasn't."

A black and white movie starts to play. Your smile widens and you laugh quietly.

"Is everything about this place old?", you ask.

"Apart from us? Probably."

You hum in acknowledgment and nod, watching the scenes in front of you slowly flesh out into a full story. Your hand slides across the blanket, fingertips touching hers. She takes your hand and holds it in her lap. Her calloused fingers trace your knuckles, one by one, repeatedly.

Occasionally, you glance at her. You shift closer to her on the hood, so your sides are flush. At some point, she wraps her arm around you and you rest your head on her chest. Her heartbeat is steady and grounding in your ear. You allow yourself to close your eyes — you haven't been focusing on the movie for a while now, anyways.

Natasha's lips brush against your hair, lazy and soft. You turn your head to press your cheek against the fabric of her shirt. She smells like leather and mowed grass, perfume and something faintly metallic. It's the trace of a life lived on edge, so very different from how you were brought up.

What you remember from your childhood are two things: the inability to choose for yourself and the knowledge that you're safe and protected.

Money was never an issue, and neither were security or stability. But with it came rules — endless, unyielding rules about how to act, what to say, who to be. Every choice predetermined, every step carefully calculated.

Who are you taking to prom? Who's taking you to prom? What dress will you wear? What will you study? What kind of life are you aspiring to have someday? Kids, no kids?

Don't drag your family's name into the mud. Don't even think about doing this your way. Your grandmother would be so disappointed. You'll ruin your future.

Quiet voices in your head, echoing past questions and letting the hollow pit in your stomach grow again.

Automatically, your head turns. You breathe Natasha in. For a moment, you dare believe she might be the freedom you've been wishing for.

The movie plays on, its lights flickering across the parking lot. Sometimes, the screen goes dark, pulling you into the darkness as well. The stars above you seem brighter than ever, twinkling sympathetically.

Then, the end credits start rolling. You glance at Natasha, realizing she's been looking at you.

"Enjoyed the movie?"

"It's old", she simply says. You smile faintly.

"Not a fan?"

Her hand starts drawing circles on your shoulder, your arm, your side. You exhale to suppress a quiet laugh.

"There's exactly one thing I liked about it", she says meaningfully. It makes you want to kiss her.

Unfortunately, the moment is ruined when some drunk guy starts yelling at his girlfriend. She yells back. Then, glass shatters. A high-pitched 'what did you do to my fucking car??' rips you out of your moment of contentment.

The shouts echo through the nearly empty parking lot, piercing through the quiet night air. Natasha's arm around your shoulder tightens when the man jumps out of his car. He's clearly drunk, standing there unsteadily and waving his arms. His girlfriend yells once more.

You sit up slowly, Natasha following in suit. Her jaw tenses as she watches the fight — she looks like she's about to spring into action. Something sharp flickers in her eyes, alert and calculating, and it sends a jolt of attraction through your body.

Again, you quietly wonder who she really is. She doesn't show much of herself. But something about her promises an escape from everything else.

"You okay?", she asks. The arm that's lazily draped over your shoulders gives you a squeeze. Her eyes, however, stay glued to the offending couple.

"Yeah", you confirm. You lean into her subconsciously. She feels like stability in a world that's falling apart.

Her gaze doesn't leave the scene until the couple's fight fizzles out. A car door slams, tires screech against the gravel, and the lot falls silent again.

Natasha exhales and her shoulders relax as she looks back at you. The intensity in her eyes softens. "Sorry about that. Not exactly the ending I had in mind."

You smile faintly, unsure what to say. The bubble you were in moments ago has popped. Instead, you're surrounded by darkness and the sound of crickets. Her green eyes search your face in the darkness.

"Do you want to head back?", she asks after a beat. You shake your head so quickly you even surprise yourself.

"No." You pause, watching her carefully. "Unless you want to?"

Her lips curve into a small smile, the tension melting away. "Not a chance." She nudges your shoulder gently, coaxing a laugh out of you. "I know a spot. If you're up for it."

You quietly decide your parents can wait a little longer.

. . .

You tell Natasha about everything.

She tells you about nothing.

You're in her car, tucked into the backseat. You're leaning against the car door and your knees are pulled to your chest. The milky moonlight bathes your features in a gentle glow. It makes it hard for Natasha to focus on what you're saying, but she tries her best.

"They're strict", you begin, absentmindedly playing with the laces of your converse. "It's hard to explain. I guess it's how they were brought up, which doesn't excuse things, but whatever. When I date someone, it's not without their approval."

Natasha trails her fingers down the length of your shin, leaving a pleasantly tingling feeling in their wake. She's grown increasingly comfortable around you.

"They're rich, too. Like, really fucking rich. It's crazy." You pause. "I don't even know. I guess I'm trying to say that this — whatever it is — won't be easy."

Her eyes find yours, green and steady. She rests her hand atop your shoe, her fingers tracing the laces.

"You're still here", she says. "Guess that says something."

You smile weakly. You haven't thought about it that way yet, but she does have a point — despite everything, you're here. In her car.

You reach out to grab her hand and intertwine your fingers. Natasha leans in closer, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Her skin is pale in the light seeping in through the window behind you.

"When do you have to go home?", she asks. Something needles at your chest as you realize how that question makes you feel. Despite being an adult, you're acting like a teenager with a curfew.

Cheeks warm, you shrug. "An hour?"

"That's not much", Natasha points out. "We'll have to make it count."

"Or you kidnap me", you suggest, half-joking but also half-wishing she'd take you up on the offer. But she just smiles and shakes her head. Her hands push your legs apart as she crawls in between them.

As your eyes meet hers, you can't help but wonder how you ended up here — how everything in your life seemed to collide with this moment, with her.

"Can't imagine you being on the run, if I'm honest." She leaves a quick kiss on your lips. "You'd miss the AC and the fancy espresso machine."

You cup her cheek with one hand. You coax her into another kiss, a firmer one this time. Her hand, resting on your hip, slowly slides under your shirt. Her warm palm feels electrifying against your skin.

"You don't know me that well", you mumble yet again. You dive into another kiss. "Maybe you will one day."

Natasha looks at you. Something unspoken passes between the two of you. Your thumb grazes the faint scar below her jawline.

"I'd be thrilled", she replies, her voice softer, then kisses you deeply. Her tongue pushes past your lips. Her hand moves higher until her fingertips brush under the fabric of your bra. Rain starts pattering against the fogged up windows, quiet and steady, but you don't notice it happen.

Instead, you cradle Natasha's face. You taste the beer you had earlier on her tongue. It's mixed with something uniquely hers. You let her in, completely, and you suddenly find that you don't care about the consequences anymore.

. . .

She takes you to a small house by a lake.

It's afternoon when she suddenly shows up. You're not entirely sure how she managed to find your grandparents' house, but she did — she's right here, leaning against the gate with her back turned to you. Her red braid is a pattern against the smooth fabric of her black leather jacket.

You'd be thrilled to see her if it weren't for your grandfather walking past the kitchen window.

Your heart leaps into your throat. With one swift movement, you sling your bag over your shoulder.

"Be back soon!", you call out as you rush through the door, letting it slam shut behind you. You don't wait for a response — you don't want to risk it. Instead, you hurry to the gate and push it open with a quiet creaking sound. Natasha glances at you and smiles.

"You're insane", you whisper harshly, grabbing her arm and yanking her away from the gate. You glance back at the house. The kitchen window is empty for now, but it won't stay that way for long.

"Nice to see you, too", she says, a smirk on her face. She lets you drag her along without protesting. "What are you so worked up about?"

"Are you being serious? You were supposed to pick me up at the diner, not here! They could've seen you!"

"Yeah, yeah." Natasha frees her arm from your grip to take your hand. She's so utterly at ease that it makes your chest tighten.

What's it like, not caring about anything or anyone?

It's a thought you don't dwell on. Natasha spins you toward her, her free arm encircling your waist. Before you can process what's happening, her lips are pressed to yours. Firm but soft, a lingering taste of mint on them.

You let out a soft noise and wrap your arms around her neck, momentarily forgetting about the looming risk of being caught. She smiles against your lips and slowly pulls away.

"Now", she says, leading you down the sidewalk and toward her car, "let me take you somewhere."

"Where?", you ask as she unlocks the car. She doesn't answer, so you sit down and buckle up, the scent of her leather jacket surrounding you. The engine of the car hums to life. You reach out to tap the back of her hand. "Nat, where are we going?"

"I thought you liked surprises."

"I do", you reply and glance out the window. The winding road, shaded by towering oak trees, takes you past lush gardens and monotonous picket fences. A neighborhood that screams uniformity, but to you, it's nostalgia in its purest form. "I'd still like to know. Finally taking me up on that kidnapping-offer, maybe?"

Natasha smiles. Her hand moves to yours thigh, just barely brushing under the hem of your skirt. "Just be patient. You'll like it, I promise."

Her skin on yours makes you feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with the summer heat. You put your hand on hers, squeezing lightly to distract yourself. It doesn't work.

"I'm curious", you say. The pad of your thumb finds a scar on the side of her hand and you start tracing it.

"Patience", she repeats. She looks at you and smirks. "How much time do we have this time?"

You hesitate before eventually telling her the truth. "A few days. I told my parents I'm staying at a friend's house."

"Lying to your parents for me already?"

A red flush blooms on your cheeks. "Don't let it go to your head."

You drive past the slow life of the town you're in. A post office with a fading American flag fluttering outside, a little café where locals sip coffee, a general store. You spent years exploring everything on your bike and getting to know every nook and cranny.

Eventually, you reach the more rural part of town. Natasha drives down a hill and brings the car to a stop. Grass brushes against your bare ankles as you step out of the car.

In front of you, you spot a small house that's nestled into the landscape like it belongs there. It's surrounded by swaying trees and green grass, the summer sun making everything look like straight out of a children's picture book.

Your breath hitches for a moment. Your hand touches the hood of the car for a moment, grounding you.

"Is this...?"

"It's mine", Natasha confirms. She grabs a suitcase and joins you. A few strands of hair have escaped her braid, curling slightly. "I bought it a while ago. Just, you know. For someday."

You inspect the house. It's small, unassuming. Completely unlike the modern apartment you'd imagined her retreating to whenever she wasn't with you.

You love it.

"Someday?", you ask, glancing at her.

She smiles and averts her eyes. There's something vulnerable to her. "I just thought...maybe one day, I'll need a place like this. Away from everything. Away with someone."

You're not sure how to respond to that, so you don't. Every word you consider seems to fall short.

You fall into step with her, following her up the creaking wooden steps of the porch. The door swings open quietly. Natasha, red-cheeked for the first time since you've met her, quietly admits that she oiled the hinges.

You barely hear what she says. The house, albeit minimal and almost spartan inside, feels like a memory.

A mattress on the floor. A table with mismatched chairs in the kitchen space. A few boxes, some overflowing with blankets.

You absently adjust a few books on the bookshelf, pushing them backwards so their spines are aligned. Natasha's silent, not daring to disrupt the silence.

She doesn't tell you that you're the first person she's ever brought here. She doesn't have to.

"It's cozy", you murmur. You faintly hear the gentle thump of the suitcase as Natasha sets it down. "You've been here before?"

"A few times." She tucks her hands into the pockets of her jeans and watches you explore. "Don't expect too much. There's no WIFI, no cable. Not exactly a five-star getaway."

"No WIFI?", you tease, picking up a ceramic mug that's sitting next to the sink. It's patterned, chipped at the top — so ordinary it makes you smile. "How will I survive?"

Natasha smirks. Her hand finds yours and she leads you to the back of the house. Through a sliding glass door, you reach a small porch. Beyond it, a lake stretches out, its surface shimmering in the sun. A hammock swings between two trees, a bed of wildflowers underneath. It smells like grass and cedar.

The warm breeze washes over you. You breathe in the air and let it seep into your system. Out here, the rest of the world seems very far away.

"It's beautiful", you finally say.

"It is", she says quietly, her gaze never leaving you. You look at her when you feel her fingers intertwine with yours. The sunlight softens her sharp features into something gentle and fragile.

You reach out and brush some hair behind her ear. The light touch of your fingertips against her skin is enough to make her relax.

Natasha puts her hand on yours, keeping it pressed against her cheek for a moment. Then, she nods at the hammock.

"Come on", she says. "Let's see if that thing still holds."

. . .

The days are a blur.

You sleep on the mattress on the floor, one with a dip in the middle that pulls you together by dawn. The bedsheets, soft and worn, have a faded floral pattern on them. Morning light streams through the windows.

You wake slowly when the warmth of the sunlight hits your face. Natasha's arm is draped over your waist, her breath hitting your neck. Sometimes, she wakes before you. She kisses your shoulder and pulls you closer.

You eat sitting on the table, legs idly swinging over the edge. The table wobbles slightly, but it's nothing a folded napkin can't fix. Natasha stands next to you, her hair unbrushed and falling over her shoulders in auburn waves. Her voice is quiet and raspy when she speaks. The faintest hint of a Russian accent is present, making you wonder about her more than ever.

You still don't know much about her. She's a mystery you can't solve, but you're dangerously close to promising yourself you'll spend your entire life trying to.

You share your coffee from the chipped mug that you found sitting next to the sink. You steal bites of food from her plate. You bask in the warmth that's ever present in this little house.

The rest of the day, you're mostly outside. Staying indoors doesn't seem to be an option in a place like this. You enjoy the butterflies, the sun, the lapping of the lake far too much.

Natasha finds a canoe behind the shed that's next to the lake. It's old and doesn't look like it'll keep you above the water, but Natasha insists it's still seaworthy. To your surprise, she's right — the canoe, paint peeling and wood scuffed, stays afloat.

She rows you to the middle of the lake. Her muscles flex under her shirt as she pulls the oar. You sit behind her, legs dangling over the side, and enjoy the view.

When she suggests you go swimming, you give her a skeptical look. But the redhead has gotten up already, her shirt peeled off to reveal a black bra underneath. Scars crisscross her skin in a startling blend of old and new — some pale and softened with time, others pink and raw. A past she's never spoken of. You know better than to ask.

Her jeans follow. The canoe rocks precariously as she jumps. When she comes back to the surface, her hair is slicked back and water drips from her face. Natasha looks happy, unbothered, and it pulls at your heartstrings.

You ignore the plea of your body to stay warm and dry. Instead, you take your clothes off as well and join her in the lake. Water, cold and refreshing, envelops you. Her hands find your waist and you meet her lips with yours.

After this, you start bathing in the lake every day. You run around the house naked, lake water dripping on the floor and Natasha's laughter trailing after you.

Corners and hallways offer little moments of intimacy. Her body feels warm against yours. You let your hands run over her sun-kissed skin, her lips pressing against the side of your face. Natasha's hand trails down your front and dips between your legs. You're hers entirely.

At night, you curl up on the mattress. Hair damp and skin sunburnt, you feel like the season has claimed you. You've soaked up the joy of summer, and from now on, nothing will be able to compare to this.

Not everything is perfect. As you spend so much time with her, you realize that Natasha and you clash like fire and ice — two forces that shouldn't mix but somehow do.

It's the little things and it's the bigger things. Jackets left in random places, or arguments caused by different ideas of what comes next. Somehow, you're both curious about the future — but you also avoid that topic as much as you can.

You try bringing it up. Gently, carefully, as if not trying to scare away a wild animal. Your head on her chest, the pads of your feet pressed against her calves. Her heartbeat is steady in your ear. You close your eyes and speak, asking her what she thinks.

Natasha is not one to hesitate. This time, she does.

You have no clue why. You don't know that her job requires her to be able to up and go at any given time. You don't know that her life, unlike yours, is fragile and unstable. You don't know that she doesn't want to drag another person into this mess.

There's just one issue: Natasha has fallen in love with you.

It was meant to be a fling. A quick summer flirt. Just a pretty girl to make her days less lonely in this strange, unfamiliar town.

She couldn't have possibly known you'd end up meaning so much to her, but here you are — all messy hair and sweet smiles, burrowing your way into her chest as if you were always meant to be there.

This transition from casual to everything but happened way back. She never noticed it happen. And now, she's in love.

It's the kind of love that takes root deep inside you. It doesn't always fit into neat plans or pretentious families, and it's not always easy, but you both try. Some days, trying is easier than on others.

The days are a blur, and they're a dream as well. But dreams don't last forever.

[unstableforensicscientist]

Okay these are the head cannons I have so far, and yes I will always add more 🙏🏻🙏🏻

Herbert West headcanonnons:

a gay or unlabeled trans man

also aroace

AuDHD

Hates loud noises or bright lights specifically

Clenches his jaw or grates his teeth when he sleeps

Rarely ever remembers to shower but also needs everything around him to be clean

Despises coffee but if he had to drink it, he would either drink it purely black and probably like the bottom of the coffee pot or so much sugar it’s insane

He secretly has a sweet tooth (PLS HEAR ME OUT ON THIS)

Literally only wears suits and will sometimes sleep in them

Doesn’t remember to take care of himself like ever

he loves compression socks (once again just hear me out)

He wears sock garters

smells like either mold/corpses or hand sanitizer, no in between.

he has two different handwriting, one that is like a mix of cursive and his normal in pen, and really shitty writing in pencil.

Rarely would ever care for music but he would occasionally go with classical

LOVES the rain/thunderstorms

Wanted to study archeology when he was younger (I’m projecting)

will go through math equations when he gets bored or stressed

Definitely stims, but specifically hand taps, leg taps, facial movements, and scrunching his hands or opening and closing his hands into a fist shape, or swaying/pacing.

He also Stims by breaking the fuck out of No.2 pencils and sometimes even pens if he’s stressed out/agitated enough

He fidgets with his tie and watch a lot, especially when he’s nervous, it’s one of the only ways you can tell he’s on edge

Either can’t sit still for hours or will be so silent/still you won’t notice he’s there.

Has a collection of encyclopedias that are really fucking old.

Will read fiction on very, and I mean VERY rare occasions. They will most likely be science fiction too.

Gruber was 100% a father figure for him.

Genuinely couldn’t give less of a fuck about your opinion on him unless you say something about his work.

did his own top surgery with perfect performance and had guidance from Gruber

Doesn’t drink much besides water or just well nothing, but will have some tea on occasion.

I also like the idea of him liking 7 up from the cut scene because it’s silly

used to wear socks with fun yet sophisticated designs on them in high school.

He definitely dressed like your average high school nerd when he was younger, suspenders and all.

Used to have glasses that would make his eyes look 10x bigger

His vision is absolute shit without his glasses, basically a male Velma.

also I think it’s silly to say he did ballet when he was younger (reference to the bride commentary)

used to have his hair a bit more shoulder length in high school

literally sleeps with one single pillow and a sheet. Also his bed feels like a rock when you lay on it. (He never fucking sleeps)

actually really enjoys nature and not just in the experimental environment way, but you would have to water board that info out of him.

Genuinely wants some kind of reptile as a pet.

he has so many random facts on the most niche things you could possibly not want know/hear about.

Genuinely likes the color green, but more of a forest green and not bright ass neon.

has gone camping ONCE.

has a specific routine for everything and will breakdown if it doesn’t go accordingly

never ever shows his meltdowns to anyone but himself

Has gone to the psych ward during his time in Switzerland after Grubers death

Doesn’t trust psychiatrists

this one I think is just funny to me but he has tried to read fiction with magic and shit and HATES IT. Read love craft and he had called that man out for his writing and bigotry so many times to Gruber and probably Dan.

Has the most manic laugh/giggle you’ve ever heard

smiles with his teeth if he’s being an asshole, almost like the Cheshire Cat, smiles with his mouth closed in a tight line when he’s sarcastic or annoyed, only has smiled genuinely like twice.

Hates showing emotions, even negative ones. He prefers to seem entirely neutral unless provoked

never looks himself in the mirror

hates going to the barber shop and prefers to cut his own hair

Literally cannot legally drive

Speed walks, he cannot walk at a normal pace ever.

Enjoys puns and jokes but only if he’s the one making them.

Death glares that could kill a man if it were possible.

thinks he’s very clever but sometimes he really is just stupid 🙁

thinks logically but not rationally

His morals are so fucking grey, like he has his lines he won’t ever cross but besides that, he does not give a fuck at all

He sits with his legs crossed or he sits like a bird perched on a branch, no in between

He either really loves or really hates small spaces

loves curling his body into himself or have his chested puffed out really proudly once again, no in between

He has SERIOUS back problems, and has kinda bad posture

He paces so much that it freaks Dan out sometimes

Talks to himself a LOT

If he lets himself relax, he often does crossword puzzles or just reads medical textbooks and highlights the misinformation in them

does actually care for Dan, just has a really hard and shitty way of showing it

Finds the realism art movement very interesting, and did a lot of research on Eakins to understand how to draw anatomy for his subjects

[headmates-for-you]

helloo!! could we have a subsys of these moodboards? also ty other moodboard subsystem requesting anon we had no idea how we could put images in requestss..

https://files.catbox.moe/ytjuad.jpg https://files.catbox.moe/wy6jgm.jpg https://files.catbox.moe/pp7bn4.jpg https://files.catbox.moe/zurq3q.jpg https://files.catbox.moe/6cjgck.jpg https://files.catbox.moe/k2bo65.jpg https://files.catbox.moe/29bl98.jpg https://files.catbox.moe/dhzpgi.jpg thank u sm if u do thiss!!!

whew this took a while but they were all so cool! I hope they turn out just as cool in your head -🪓

TW: smoking, mild eye strain

all boards included below for reference

Name(s): Gemini, Local, Mandela, Walten

Age(s): 19-37 ageflux

Pronouns: it/its, glitch/glitches, stat/static, error/errors, screen/screen, ana/analog, hor/horror

Gender(s): analoghorrorgender, analogender, local58ic, cryptix

Orientation(s): aroace

TransID(s): transloner, translonely, permaagoraphobic, transpeoplehater, transhater, transharmed, transharmful, permascarred, transnoeyes, staticamian

Source(s): brainmade, moodboard based

Paras: teratophilia, somnophilia

Emoji signoff: 🌀📺

Positive trigger(s): analog horror

Faceclaim: 

Name(s): Smile, Mold, Bright, Dodger (the shade of blue in the images)

Age(s): 12-14 age slider

Pronouns: he/him, kid/kids, dream/dreams, one/ones, cat/cats, weird/weirds, 🩸/🩸’s, ⭐️/⭐️’s

Gender(s): weirdcattic, catkidweirdcoric, weirdcorestalgic

Orientation(s): bi

TransID(s): transweirdkid, transweirdcore, transaesthetic, transcatboy, transdreamstate, transharmed, transautistic, translayeredvocals

Source(s): brainmade, moodboard based

Paras: teratophilia, odontophilia, musophilia

Emoji signoff: 🌀✨ or 🌀🎵 or 🌀🦷

Positive trigger(s): Sodikken, Garfield

Faceclaim: 

Name(s): Walle, Citrus, Camera, Marble

Age(s): 23-26

Pronouns: it/its, they/them, she/her, he/him, beige/beigeself, star/stars, clown/clowns, cam/camera, mar/ble/marbleself, cot/cotton, dia/diamond, shop/lift, ���/💎’s, ♦️/♦️’s, 🔷/🔷’s, 🔶/🔶’s, 🥯/🥯’s, 🙂/🙂’s, 🛍/🛍’s

Gender(s): liminalgender, pastelclowncoric

Orientation(s): aromantic pansexual

TransID(s): transclown, transclowncore, transshoplifter, transartist, transcontcreator, transdropout, transbeigeaesthetic, transsadboi

Source(s): brainmade, moodboard based

Paras: salophilia

Emoji signoff: 🌀🍬 or 🌀🕯

Positive trigger(s): weirdcore, clowncore, clown related horror

Faceclaim: 

Name(s): Chip, Cash, Vegas

Age(s): 27-33 age slider

Pronouns: he/him, die/dice, cas/casino, rou/roulette, red/reds, black/blacks, cash/in, card/cards, bright/brights, light/lights, 🎰/🎰’s, ♥️/♥️’s, ♦️/♦️’s, ♠️/♠️’s, ♣️/♣️’s, 🃏/🃏’s, 💡/💡’s, 🎲/🎲’s

Gender(s): croupian, casinomasc, arcardian

Orientation(s): acheillean 

TransID(s): transdealer, transstaff, transcasinoemployee, transmonotone, transOCD, transgambler

Source(s): brainmade, moodboard based

Paras: masquephilia, high stakes

Emoji signoff: 🌀🎰 or 🌀💵

Positive trigger(s): casinos, bright flashing lights, gambling

Faceclaim: 

Name(s): Rhett/Rhettro, Check, Dice

Age(s): chrono 49-56, trans 23-24

Pronouns: she/her, he/him, they/them, ret/retro, ne/neon, 🎲/🎲’s

Gender(s): dricadic, glowparcadegender

Orientation(s): heteroflexible

TransID(s): transage, transgender, transera, perma70s, perma80s, perma90s, transrollerskater, transdecade, transteen

Source(s): brainmade, moodboard based

Paras: none

Emoji signoff: 🌀🎲 or 🌀🛼

Positive trigger(s): rollerskating, rainbow and black checkerboard

Faceclaim: 

Name(s): Comic, Jest, Primary

Age(s): ageless

Pronouns: it/its, joke/jokes, clown/clowns, silly/sillies, fun/funs, color/colors, ha/has, pri/mary, block/blocks, ❤️/❤️’s, 💛/💛’s, 💙/💙’s, 🎈/🎈’s, ⭐️/⭐️’s, ✨/✨’s, 🌀/🌀’s

Gender(s): clowncomfic, clownslushie, clowngender, kidcoric, cleoncade

Orientation(s): pan

TransID(s): transclown, permasilly, plasticscentic, transsillylittleguy, transADHD, transautistic

Source(s): brainmade, moodboard based

Paras: none

Emoji signoff: 🌀🎈

Positive trigger(s): clowns, clowncore, circus music

Faceclaim: 

Name(s): Alette, Feyre

Age(s): chrono 247, trans 14

Pronouns: fae/faer, mush/mushroom, spark/sparkle, enchant/enchantment, magic/magics

Gender(s): faegender, fairygender, faidenmollic

Orientation(s): lesbian

TransID(s): transage, transwings, transmagic, translover, transloved, transsize (smaller), transenchanted, transrainbowhair

Source(s): brainmade, moodboard based

Paras: mycophilia, dendrophilia

Emoji signoff: 🌀✨ or 🌀🍄

Positive trigger(s): fairy/fae related things, rainbows

Faceclaim: 

Name(s): Haniel/Hani, Seraph

Nickname(s): Skies/Sky

Age(s): chrono 14,632, trans 20

Pronouns: it/its, pray/prays, sin/sins, angel/angels, sera/seraphim, wing/wings, cloud/clouds, mir/miracle, wind/winds, ☁️/☁️’s, 🌤/🌤’s

Gender(s): angelx, angelboything, seradreamer

Orientation(s): aromantic demisexual

TransID(s): transage, transangel, transhuman, transfaith, transharmed, transOCD, transfallen

Source(s): brainmade, moodboard based

Paras: angelophilia, demonophilia, zeusophilia

Emoji signoff: 🌀☁️

Positive trigger(s): cloud watching, angel iconography

Faceclaim: 

[allofthenamesipickedweretaken]

Tips for Jinx fiction kins-1: Play league!, it’s perfect for shifts, has a bunch of cool Jinx skins to use with her own gadgets and everything!, it’s a pretty fun game if you ignore all the toxicity||2:Grow ur hair out, and braid it more||3:listen to a jinx playlist or something you’d think she’d listen to. My playlist of Jinx on Spotify is called Jinx core by Surigomez, if you wanna check it out.||4: Do something that gets ur adrenaline going, like sky diving||5: Practice ur aim, do shooting practice, anarchy, axe throwing, shooting games like Fortnite, ect||6:Look at fanart of arcane. Fanart can help some people gain there memories back as there kin, and it’s helped me to.||7: DIY. Make stuff, tinker a little. Especially origami, or paper weapons like morning stars and scythes||8: If comfortable and safe for you, collect antique weapons that you think Jinx would like||9:Jinxify ur room, add arcane featured graffiti and figurines, steampunk vintages, ect||10:Collect fidgets that you like||11:Toy guns that work besides jinx’s DIY one||12:Roleplay as her, cosplay, or do a C.ai chat with, or as her||13:Dress in similar clothing as her, like black halter tops, steampunk, boot cut ripped colorful fishnet leggings, panty shorts, zombie apocalypse core, knee high furred colorful socks, short volumed skirts with unique designs, lots of thick belts, faux bullet belts, combat boots, fishnet shirts, glow core clothes, grunge cami’s, arm and hand gloves, pantaloons, leather corsets, compression shirts, ect. I have a whole page on Pinterest about Jinx and what I think she’d wear. My Pinterest is called ^^-_Delusiona_-^, and the Jinx board is called ‘My Shayla’||14:read arcane comics and fan fictions, or look at game voicelines and animations, wiki of Jinx, or head canons about Jinx or characters involved with her||15: Vintage telescopes, pink Lava lamps, flail fidget, Jinx inspired altoid box, blue circular crystals, clockwork lighters, punching bags, plasma lamps, steampunk room light switch, pink and blue LED lighting, firework gyros spinning fidget, corrupted magic fairy lights, Jinx mechanical middle finger cosplay item, make Jinx’s face mask and monkey bomb, neon slime, pocket galaxy fidget toys, faux grenade fidget, 3d gear ball fidget, neon fidgets, smoke machines, tents, faux bow and arrow set, ect||16: Sublimnals for Jinx||17: I think she’d love Cotten candy and gummies idk||18: Practice graffiti||19:action movies||20: Outside theater dates||21: Make a jinx journal/diary or scrapbook||22:Jinxify things in ur house like a volleyball||23:Buy purple glitter for shimmer||24:Practice ur reflexes||25:Buy ‘Wreck this Journal’ by Kepi Smith||26:Go roller skating||27:Go to the arcane house||28:Paint ur nails like Jinxes||29:Get an Ikea plush shark||30: Make homemade drinkable shimmer!, how?, well first you need a plastic tube(s), fresh or bottled lemon juice, pink and purple luster dust, butterfly pea flower tea, measuring cup, and something to brew ur tea in. After you have all that, step 1 is boil ur water, then step 2 is place ur tea into a tea maker, then step 3 is put in the hot water, then step 4 is wait for 5 minutes, then step 5 is get ur measuring cup and add ice or refrigerate to make ur tea cool faster. Step 6 is pour/strain ur tea into a measuring cup, and step 7 is fill ur “shimmer” tube about 2/3 or 3/4 of the way full, ( or less if you want to dilute it, or have a more 50/50 lemon tea ratio ) step 8 is add ur desired amount of lemon juice, step 9 is add ur luster dust, and then close the cap|| And that’s all for now!.

[alarawriting]

I Suddenly Found Myself In Class With Amnesia, but I'm the Teacher?!

Experimenting with trying to write in "light novel" style despite being an American who writes in English.

****

I couldn’t tell you what the last thing I remembered was, because I couldn’t tell what order any of them had happened in. Was the last thing I remembered sitting in the back of the English classroom, gossiping with Suzy and Chantel, quietly enough that our half-deaf and eighty percent dead old English teacher couldn’t hear us? What about that moment in science lab where I had a beaker and I was pouring liquid into a retort and then there was a bright light and a boom? Or could the last thing I remembered be the moment where I was crossing the street in front of the high school, and I had my head turned because I was talking to my friend Rob?

I’m a big fan of portal fantasy. English, American, Japanese, it’s all great. Someone walks through a closet and finds themselves in another world. Or they get hit by a car and they wake up in a strange place full of magic. Or they die and get reincarnated as a cute little baby. Usually in a strange place full of magic. Most of these stories involve strange places full of magic.

That might have been fun, if that had been what happened. But no. I suddenly found myself standing in front of a room full of high school students that were filing in the door and finding seats.

Was I giving a presentation? I looked around, but there was no teacher. And then I looked down at how I was dressed – a plain blue blouse with a little pleating, and a very pleated, dark blue skirt, with sensible flats like my mom might wear, and pantyhose, like I would ever wear pantyhose. And then I looked up again, at the students, who were looking at me, and I realized that while they were mostly wearing T-shirts and jeans, the colors and styles were all wrong. Lots of neon stripes, and strategic cuts, and all the sneakers were either black with fluorescent stripes of some kind, or bright colors. And several of the boys were wearing pink. And none of the hairstyles looked like anything me or my friends would be caught dead in.

I reached behind my head and found that my hair was in a bun. In the last things I could remember, my hair was in a pixie cut. Pixie cuts cannot be made into buns. Somehow time had passed that I couldn’t remember. A lot of time.

My hands looked normal. No rings. But my fingernails weren’t chewed. There wasn’t any nail polish on them, but they were neat and clean and didn’t look like fingernails I might have.

The students weren’t looking at me the way students look at other students who are up at the board to do a presentation; they were looking at me sullenly, or expectantly.

I realized then to my horror that I was the teacher here.

If I was the teacher, I absolutely could not have a panic attack, even though I felt like I was about to. I also couldn’t suddenly run off to the bathroom – in all my years of school I have never seen a teacher do that at the start of a class. Teachers always present themselves as perfectly in control, without basic human needs, or else the class senses weakness and eats them alive.

This was exactly the kind of situation you might think to yourself, I’m having a bad dream. But my feet hurt. The shoes were annoying me. I have never noticed how my shoes feel, in a dream. And I was wearing an underwire bra, which was digging into my skin under my breasts. This was not a dream; I don’t dream up those kinds of details.

So. Somehow I was the teacher. I had no idea what I was teaching. I had never wanted to be a teacher – I’d planned to be a marine biologist. A quick eyeball around the class didn’t give me any hints; it was a very, very generic classroom. I did have a whiteboard with markers instead of a chalkboard, and the students didn’t have notebooks in front of them; most of them had something that looked like a laptop monitor, except smaller and without a keyboard, like a really big cell phone. A few had pens, except they were probably styluses for writing on the laptop monitor things, somehow, because without paper I couldn’t imagine how they could use those as pens.

No one was taking out a textbook, either. Seriously, how was I supposed to even guess what I was supposed to teach?

I could run off, I thought. This wasn’t actually my real life. I wasn’t a teacher. I was a high school student. This had to be some kind of Freaky Friday craziness where I’d swapped places with a teacher, somehow.

But… that was a ridiculous idea. Whereas the idea that somehow, something had happened to my brain and I’d suddenly lost years of memory and started thinking I was still a high school student when in fact I was a grown adult teacher… was possible. Implausible, and I didn’t like the idea at all, but it was more likely to be true. And if it was true, that meant this was my real life. This was my real job. And I’d be fired if I admitted I’d suddenly had some kind of brain damage that wiped out my memories of however many years it had been since I was a high school student. Somehow I had to fake my way through this, at least long enough to figure out what was going on.

The bell had rung a minute ago. The students were, mostly, pretty quiet, looking at me expectantly. I’m sure my lack of responsiveness was starting to seem weird.

I had to do something quick.

“We’re going to do something different today, students,” I said, wondering, as I said it, if I or the person whose life I’d stolen said things like “students” to address the class. “Let’s pretend I have total amnesia. I walked into this classroom, and wow! I don’t know my name and I’ve never been here before. Write me a short essay, in your own words, about what we’ve been learning for the past couple of weeks. Fill me in! Pretend I don’t know anything!”

[summer-fun-swim]

The summer sun was a blazing ball in the sky, illuminating Strawberry Lake and casting shimmering rays across the water. It was a Saturday, and the air buzzed with laughter and excitement from the nearby beach. A small group of friends had gathered for an impromptu swim, with the day promising relaxation and fun.

Among them was Alex, a bright-eyed sixteen-year-old with tousled bleach-blonde hair that danced in the warm breeze. He wore a snug, electric blue tank top that complemented his surfer-style shorts—light beachwear that hugged his slender frame. As he laid back on the sun-warmed wooden pier, he couldn't help but admire how the sunlight bounced off the water, creating a kaleidoscope of colors, almost as vibrant as his own outfit.

Beside him sat his close friend Jamie, a charismatic boy with curly chestnut hair, whose laughter was often louder than the wind. Today, Jamie sported a pale green polo shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal soft, freckled arms, paired with bright white board shorts that flowed just above the knee. The combination made him look effortlessly cool, a bit like an advertisement for summer itself.

“So, what’s the story with your swimmies?” Jamie teased, smirking. “Not even a hint of color coordination. You know, I thought we were supposed to look good on this adventure, not like a walking beach ball!”

Alex chuckled, playfully flicking water at his friend with his bare foot. “Says the guy in pastel green whose shorts are practically blinding!” Their friendly banter echoed, mixing with the sounds of splashing and laughter from the others nearby.

“I’ll have you know, this green is all the rage!” Jamie shot back, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “But hey, I’m not here to criticize your fashion sense. What do you usually swim in?”

Alex’s expression shifted into one of mock contemplation. “Hmm, I guess it depends. Sometimes I just wear whatever I have lying around. I have these black leggings with a cool pattern that I really like. It’s not too clingy, and it shows off my legs just right,” he admitted, his cheeks tinging with pink.

“In leggings?” Jamie’s brow arched, feigning incredulity. “You’re braver than I am! I usually stick to swim trunks, especially since Mom insists I wear those ugly neon ones she bought last summer. But I’ll tell you a secret: I have these really soft royal blue shorts that just make me feel confident!”

Alex nodded, intrigued. “Nice! Confidence is key when it comes to swimming. I also have this tank top with a funky orange and pink pattern that is surprisingly flattering when it gets wet.”

“Wet looks are definitely a thing. I mean, who doesn’t love a little dripped fashion statement?” Jamie laughed, and at that moment, he decided to spring into action. With a sudden burst of energy, he leaped from the edge of the pier straight into the lake, causing a spectacular splash that resonated through the air.

“Cannonball!” he declared triumphantly as he resurfaced, water streaming off his bouncy curls. The sun glistened on the droplets, making him look ethereal—for a fraction of a second, he looked like a beautiful siren just up from the depths of the lake.

Laughing, Alex followed suit, but his jump was less intentional. He stumbled forward, arms flailing, and hit the water with a less-than-graceful belly flop. The impact sent waves and laughter reverberating through the group, and Jamie’s eyes widened in playful shock.

“Okay, maybe stick to the tank tops and leave the diving to the professionals?” Jamie bantered, splashing Alex playfully.

As they floated in the water, the softness of the sun turned the lake into a mirror of shimmering silhouettes. Alex looked over at Jamie, who was enjoying the sensation of waves lapping against his skin, his green polo now plastered against him, transforming the color into shades of turquoise.

“Not gonna lie,” Alex mused, drifting lazily in the lake, “there’s something about wet clothes that feels liberating. Sure, it’s a mess when it dries, but the feeling of the fabric hugging your skin is honestly quite nice.”

“Right?” Jamie agreed, stroking back his wet hair. “Feels like you stepped into a new world. I kind of forgot about the whole ‘normal’ aspect of clothes once I jumped in. I mean, you wear something simple to look good, but when it’s all soaked, it’s like—who cares?”

Alex smiled, his thoughts drifting as they lounged. “I think I’d like to swim in something more daring, maybe a fashion that transitions from land to water. Have you ever seen those techy swim leggings? They look chic, and I bet they would give me a whole different vibe in the water.”

“Fabulous!” Jamie exclaimed, flipping onto his back and gazing up at the sky. “I can totally picture it; you rocking a pair of those in the coolest colors would be a perfect Instagram post. Don’t forget about my royal blue shorts, though!”

The afternoon wore on, the sun dipping lower, cloaking them in softer hues. Eventually, they swam back to shore, where the heat of the sun began to dry their clothes. As the air cooled the damp fabric clung to their bodies, creating new shapes and occasionally catching the breeze, revealing more than they intended.

“You know, if we go through this whole day drenching our outfits, we might as well make it worth it!” Jamie declared, striking a pose on the bank. “Let’s take silly photos while we’re at it!”

With that, they stumbled into an impromptu photoshoot goofy poses, splashes of water, and the bright colors of their clothes melded into a visual tapestry of enjoyment. Laughter filled the warm summer evening, combining with the echoes of splashing water as they surrendered themselves to the carelessness of youth.

The day wound down, but the connection between them had solidified, sealed by shared secrets, laughter, and the bold act of embracing wet clothes that turned out to be far more enjoyable than they had ever anticipated. Sometimes, it’s not about what you’re wearing but rather who you’re with—and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

[fancyloveavenue]

How to Create an Insta-Worthy Valentine’s Day Celebration

Valentine’s Day is all about love, and in today’s world, it’s also about capturing the perfect moment to share with the world. Whether you’re celebrating with your partner, friends, or even treating yourself, making the day feel special and picture-perfect doesn’t have to be complicated. If you want to create an Insta-worthy Valentine’s Day, here’s how you can do it step by step.

1. Set the Scene with Stunning Decor

The key to a beautiful Valentine’s Day setup is the atmosphere. You don’t need to go overboard, but adding a few romantic touches will make all the difference.

• Fairy Lights & Candles: These create a soft, dreamy glow that looks amazing in pictures. Drape fairy lights around your room or across the table. Scatter tea lights or scented candles to add warmth and a romantic vibe.

• Flowers Everywhere: Nothing says romance like fresh flowers. A classic bouquet of red roses is a timeless choice, but you can also go for pink peonies, tulips, or wildflowers for a more relaxed look.

• Custom LED Neon Signs: Want something truly eye-catching? A neon sign can be the perfect statement piece. Sparky Neon offers custom neon signs that can spell out sweet messages like "Love You Forever" or simply a glowing heart shape. It’s an effortless way to make your space Insta-worthy.

2. Create a Picture-Perfect Table Setting

If you’re planning a romantic dinner, the table setup is just as important as the meal itself.

• Elegant Tableware: Use nice plates, wine glasses, and cloth napkins. Even if it’s a simple meal, good presentation makes everything look high-end.

• Mood Lighting: Dim the lights and let candles do their magic.

• Personal Touches: Handwritten love notes, name cards, or tiny gifts at each place setting will add a sentimental touch and make the moment feel extra special.

3. Dress for the Occasion

Whether you're planning a fancy dinner or a cosy night in, dressing up will make the occasion feel more exciting.

• For a Glamorous Look: A classic red dress or a chic black outfit always works for Valentine’s Day. If you prefer something softer, blush pink or white are lovely choices too.

• For a Cozy Night In: Cute pyjamas, silk robes, or matching loungewear sets can be just as stylish and make for adorable pictures.

Don’t forget accessories! Statement earrings, a romantic hairstyle, or a bold lip colour can instantly elevate your look.

4. Prepare a Delicious Meal (or Order In!)

Food is a huge part of any celebration. Whether you're cooking or ordering from your favourite restaurant, make sure the presentation is Instagram-worthy.

• Home-Cooked Meal: If you enjoy cooking, prepare something special like a heart-shaped pizza, a fancy pasta dish, or chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert.

• Takeaway Done Right: If cooking isn’t your thing, set up your takeaway meal on beautiful plates. Add candles and flowers to make it feel just as fancy as a homemade dinner.

• DIY Dessert Station: Set up a fun dessert bar with ice cream, waffles, or cupcakes. Let everyone decorate their own treat with sprinkles, fruits, and chocolates.

5. Plan a Fun and Romantic Activity

Keeping the evening exciting with an activity will make your celebration even more memorable.

• Movie Night: Pick a classic romantic film or a feel-good comedy. Set up a comfy area with blankets, popcorn, and fairy lights.

• Love Letter Exchange: Write heartfelt letters to each other and read them aloud.

• DIY Photoshoot: Set up a little photoshoot corner with a backdrop (like fairy lights or a balloon wall). Use a tripod or a timer to capture beautiful pictures together.

• Games Night: Play a fun couples’ quiz, board games, or card games to add some laughter to the night.

6. Sweet Treats and Drinks

No Valentine’s Day is complete without some indulgent treats.

• Chocolate Fondue: Melt chocolate and dip in strawberries, marshmallows, or biscuits.

• Signature Drinks: Mix up a themed cocktail or mocktail. A strawberry champagne cocktail or a pink lemonade spritz looks stunning in photos.

• Pretty Plated Desserts: Even store-bought desserts look amazing when plated well. Add some powdered sugar, edible flowers, or a drizzle of chocolate to make it Instagram-ready.

7. Capture the Perfect Insta Shot

Now that you have everything set up, it’s time to take some amazing photos!

• Natural Lighting: Daytime shots look best in natural light. If you're taking evening pictures, use warm lighting or fairy lights to keep things cosy.

• Angles Matter: Experiment with different angles to see what looks best. Overhead shots work great for food, while close-ups capture the little details beautifully.

• Candid Moments: Instead of stiff poses, try laughing, holding hands, or looking at each other naturally. It makes photos feel more genuine and romantic.

8. Spread the Love on Social Media

Once you have the perfect shots, it’s time to share them! Use thoughtful captions like:

• "Love is in the air, and so is the smell of chocolate! 🍰💕 #ValentinesDayVibes"

• "Just me, my favourite person, and a table full of love. 💖 #RomanticEvening"

• "Love is the best kind of light – and so is this neon glow! ✨ #ValentineAesthetic"

Adding relevant hashtags like #ValentinesDay, #CoupleGoals, #LoveInTheAir, and #RomanticVibes will help your posts get noticed.

Final Thoughts

An Insta-worthy Valentine’s Day is all about creating a magical atmosphere, enjoying beautiful moments, and capturing them in a way that tells your love story. Whether you go all out with a lavish setup or keep it sweet and simple, what matters most is celebrating love in your own unique way.

So, grab those fairy lights, pour a glass of wine, and get ready to make this Valentine’s Day one to remember – and one worth sharing! Making your Valentine’s Day Insta-worthy is all about setting the right vibe, enjoying the special moments, and capturing them in a way that feels true to you. Whether you go all out with neon signs and fairy lights or keep it simple and cozy, the most important thing is to make the day your own. It’s about celebrating love, making memories, and sharing those moments with others. So, light up your space, enjoy some tasty treats, and don’t forget to take some great photos, this Valentine’s Day is all yours to make unforgettable!

[epiceventchronicles]

10 Steps to Plan a Perfect Birthday Party Event

Planning a birthday party can be exciting yet challenging. Whether for a child, a friend, or a family member, a memorable celebration requires thoughtful preparation and attention to detail.

How to Plan an Unforgettable Birthday Party

A birthday celebration is a joyful gathering that brings friends and family together to honor someone’s special day with love, laughter, and cherished memories. It’s a time to celebrate life’s milestones, filled with joy, fun activities, and heartfelt moments. 

Step 1: Choose a Theme

A well-chosen theme sets the tone for the entire event. Here are some popular ideas:

For Kids: Superheroes, princesses, animals, or a favorite character

For Teens: Neon party, 90s throwback, or music-themed events

For Adults: Elegant black-tie, Hawaiian luau, or a retro vibe

If you’re working with a birthday party event planner, they can help you customize every detail to match the chosen theme.

Step 2: Set a Budget

Decide on your budget early on. It helps you determine how much you can allocate to different areas like venue, food, and entertainment. A well-defined budget ensures that you don’t overspend and can still create an unforgettable experience.

Step 3: Select a Venue

Choose a venue that complements your theme and suits the guest count:

Home Parties: Great for small gatherings; intimate and easy to manage.

Outdoor Venues: Perfect for children’s parties, especially if you have activities planned.

Rented Venues: Ideal for larger gatherings, offering flexibility with decorations and space.

Step 4: Create Invitations

Invitations set the first impression, so make them count! Digital invitations are cost-effective and easy to distribute, while printed ones add a special touch. Include the theme, date, time, location, RSVP details, and any specific instructions related to the party (like a dress code).

Step 5: Plan the Menu

The menu should reflect the theme and cater to all dietary preferences. Some ideas include:

Finger Foods: Mini sandwiches, sliders, and fruit skewers

Themed Desserts: Customized cupcakes, cookies, or a cake decorated to match the theme

Beverages: Non-alcoholic punch for kids or mocktail stations; signature cocktails for adults

Step 6: Organize Fun Activities

To keep guests entertained, plan some engaging activities:

For Kids: Scavenger hunts, crafts, or a puppet show

For Teens: Photo booth, karaoke, or a dance floor

For Adults: Trivia, board games, or a live music session

Games are a great way to break the ice and ensure everyone has a good time.

Step 7: Arrange for Decorations

Decorations are essential to bring the theme to life. Balloons, banners, and table centerpieces add charm to any venue. Decorations, food, and party favors add the finishing touches to any celebration. Consider hiring a birthday event management team to handle setup, ensuring a stress-free experience for you and a beautiful atmosphere for your guests.

Some pro tips:

DIY Decor: Make some decor pieces yourself to save money and add a personal touch.

Custom Backdrops: Perfect for photos, and it enhances the theme.

Lighting: Adds ambiance, especially for evening parties.

Step 8: Set Up a Photography Corner

A designated photo corner is a fun addition for guests to capture memories. Set up a backdrop with props related to the theme. Guests love sharing these photos on social media, so it’s a great way to make the event memorable.

Step 9: Manage the Music

Create a playlist that matches the mood of the party or hire a DJ if your budget allows. For children’s parties, popular kid-friendly songs are a must. For adults, think about adding some crowd favorites or nostalgic tunes that will encourage people to dance.

Step 10: Party Favors

Party favors are a wonderful way to thank your guests for coming. Choose something relevant to the theme, like mini-candies, candles, or small plants. For kids, toys or goodie bags are always a hit.

Final Thoughts

Whether you’re planning every detail yourself or hiring a birthday party event planner to make things easier, keeping the day organized and focusing on personalized touches can create a magical celebration.

To know more about Organising events: Guide for Event Planning and Management

[purelyfiction]

All Fun & Games ♧♤♡♢ 3.1

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x F!Reader |1| 2 | 3.2

Word Count: 5,335 words

Summary: In a rather spontaneous fashion, Bob has invited you to take a glimpse into his routine - one that you don’t normally get a good look at while up in the air.

Content Warning:  This story will have TopGun: Maverick plot line elements to it and will possibly spoil the movie for you. Please be aware. This - and all of my stories - is 18+. By continuing to read you agree that you are 18 or older and that any content you come across is by your own decision. || Mild NSFW subjects

Author Note: .... don’t hate me. This has taken such a long, long time to get out because of work, life - so many things kept piling up. Thank you so so so much for your patience, I think it was early July the last time I updated, so this is long awaited. And because of that - I’ve double updated. This chapter has an extension to it, since I am a madwoman and can’t stay under 8k words and ended up writing nearly 11k words for one part. So, please enjoy more Bob x Vegas content - and please please thank @callsignthirsty​ and @deadratio​ for being my editors, sounding boards and generally great friends. You’ll likely see them again soon. Without further adieu: All Fun & Games - Part 3.1

Attention: If you would like to be on the tag list please see the pinned post on my blog for the document. If you’re not able to access it please message me, I rarely find any tag requests in my notifications!

                                                 ════⋆★⋆════

Bob simply told you to go home and change into an old pair of jeans, a shirt you can sweat in and closed toed shoes. And that he’d eventually be over. So, you did just that despite the 99 degree heat wave North Island is going through. You can’t help but think he’s going insane when he shows up to your door wearing double denim. A stark brown cowboy hat sits on his head, making his gold aviator frames shine in the late morning light. 

The jean jacket on his shoulders is worn, and so are the jeans on his hips. Rugged and thoroughly loved cowboy boots sit on his feet. “You look like a right cowboy,” you offer with a smirk as you shut the door behind you, engaging the automatic lock on the door. 

“We’re goin’ ridin’, I’d hope so,” he snickers, hands in his pockets as he turns. When you begin down the path, you spot his vehicle in the street. Bob had showed up to pizza night after dark, and the street was very poorly lit - meaning you’d not seen what he’d driven there. 

Which is why it takes you aback to see a midnight black silverado at the end of your driveway. “You drive a truck?” you ask, raising an eyebrow in surprise as he approaches the vehicle, looking back at you. 

“I’m dressed like a cowboy and you really think I ain’t gon’ be driving a vehicle that matches?” he retorts, before reaching the passenger door and opening it. Bob offers his hand to you, which you hesitantly take before climbing in. He shuts the door before he gets to his side and you can’t help but find the entire interaction... charming. 

Once he’s in the cabin, you smile at him. “Maybe I should’ve seen it coming the second you showed me photos of a horse when I woke up this morning,” you tease as he’s starting the engine. 

“The signs were all there,” he jokes as he pulls from the curb. It’s not until you’re pulling out of your housing plan that you notice he’s seemingly driving from memory. Another 15 minutes pass before you’re in winding streets, only to pull into a very small parking lot. 

“This does not look like a stable, Bo,” you point out and he gives you a look. What he’s pulled up to looks like a red and silver classic bullet diner, neon lights and all. The lot isn’t very full but it looks like there’s a lot of people from what you can see from the wide windows.

“What an astute observation, Lieutenant.” He gives a snicker before opening his door. Bob’s nearly halfway out his own before he sees you try for your own. “Don’t you even think about it.” He gives a pointed finger before shutting his door, making you laugh while he’s dashing around the front of the truck, coming over and opening your door. With a waiting hand, he helps you out and the door swings back to the closed position. 

“Thank you. I… don’t remember the last time someone opened a car door for me,” you admit as he waits for you to head to the diner building, a hand coming to the small of your back as he walks a little way behind you. 

“I can. It was last night,” Bob points out and you laugh thinking about being leant over the console of your car, attempting to reach the other door handle from the driver’s side. 

“It was, wasn’t it?” You can’t wipe the smile off your face as he moves to pull the door open, a bell ringing above you as you pass through what seems to be the entrance to a time machine. There’s classic black and white tile through the entire building, as small as it is, neon red leather booth seats, a classic milkshake machine down the bartop - a jukebox at the end of the narrow aisle that’s been created. 

The diner is absolutely bustling, almost every seat is filled, despite the few cars that adorned the parking lot. As you wait to be seated, your wandering eyes fall on a row of familiar machines. “I haven’t seen these in years,” you reminisce before crouching down to look at the little red capsule vending machines.

They haven’t been filled in some time - at least from what you can assume, as many of them are nearly empty. You’re looking over a novelty one when you hear the clinking of metal on metal. Turning your head, you find Bob cranking the knob to one of the dispensers, his hand sitting at the bottom of the chute, waiting for his purchase to come tumbling down. Orange, brown and yellow candies tumble into his palm, a childlike grin on his features as he stands upright. 

“Reese’s Pieces at 9 in the morning?” you scold, watching him make a funnel with his hands and letting them fall into his mouth. 

“What?” He snickers, mouth full as he chews at the candy. With a shake of your head you’re turning your attention back to the machines in front of you. A laugh leaves you when you spot a range of incredibly poorly made necklaces. 

“Look!” you laugh pointing at one of them, making Bob crouch down to look at the panel wedged into the glass. “There’s a bull - it would complete your outfit,” you tease, standing upright as he takes a closer look. A quick glance around the restaurant, you’re finding the bathroom and excusing yourself. 

When you return, you find Bob with at least a dozen plastic bubble containers, making you laugh as he wedges yet another quarter into the machine. 

“Bob! What on Earth are you doing?” you question, crouching down again, picking up a few of the bubbles. You’re looking at each of them, finding a skull and crossbones, a motorcycle, a dagger - Bob huffs when the next container tumbles out. 

“Ah! Finally.” He lets out a laugh and stands up, making you follow suit and step closer to him as he pops the lid off the plastic, pulling the metal from the container. “Turn around.” He’s got a wild grin on his face, but you turn so your back is facing him. In a matter of seconds, he’s pulling the chain around your neck, doing up the clasp in the back. Your fingers pick up the charm, quickly identifying it. 

A bull.

As you let out a laugh, you hear Bob’s last name through the waiting area and are quick to follow the older woman hostess to a seat. You approach a booth and are quick to slide in on one side as a menu is offered to you. “Robert, are you gonna need one as well, or the usual this morning?” 

Your eyes look toward his face as he grins at the woman. “No, same thing for me this morning, Diana. Coffee - for both of us?” He says it more like a question as he wags a finger in the air, grouping the pair of you together.

“Alrighty, I’ll get Paisley on that right away. Take your time, dear.” You give an appreciative smile at the woman before looking over at the WSO across the table, who’s already peeled his hat off the top of his head, setting it on the seat next to him. His hair is a wild mess, which makes you take a deep breath as you try to gather the sentence that had been on the tip of your tongue - now suddenly gone at the sight of the male in front of you. 

Finally, it springs back to its launchpoint on your lips. 

“You really come around here frequently, don’t you?” you quip with a smirk, and he shrugs. 

“Sort of. The riding thing is newer but - I used to come here a lot back when I was at TOPGUN the first time. One of my good friends and I spent a lot of time in these booths - and a lot on syrup and coffee.” Bob snickers but there’s something lingering in his words that rings somewhat insincere. 

You choose not to prod, smiling in return before looking down to the menu. As you’re still reading over the options, a black haired woman approaches with an all too eager grin. “Bobby! It’s about time you were here for the morning, I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to show.” She grins, setting a mug down on the table complete with milk and sugar. Bob greets her in return, a quick glance is sent your direction when he realizes she hasn’t brought a mug for you. 

“Me not show? Unlikely,” he hums. “You’ve not met my colleague,” Bob continues in his introduction of you, wherein Paisley gives a very cold fake smile. 

“Pleasure, Lieutenant. Guess I forgot your mug, didn’t I? Let me grab that. Do you know what you want since I’m on the way in?” You’re giving her your order - leaving her to snatch the menu from your hands and make her way back to the kitchen window. 

“Well she’s… pleasant,” you suggest and Bob shrugs. 

“Must be having a rough morning. She’s usually a right sweetheart.” He shrugs and sips at his already prepped coffee, which makes you furrow your brows. 

“You must be here a lot if she knows how you take your coffee…” you offer, receiving a shrug in response. 

“I’ll stop in sometimes during the week or grab dinner when the mess hall is less than appetizing. But I’m usually only here on Sunday’s before going to the stables.” 

“Understandable.” You hum, leaning onto your hands that are propped up by your elbows on the table while meeting his eye. Bob mimics the stance, which doesn’t seem natural on him - making you laugh. He’s joining in as well before you start asking a question: “Not to be weird but: What’s your favorite color?” 

Bob gives a chuckle before he taps the leather of the seat he’s sitting on. “You’re looking at it. I haven’t been able to figure why, but red is just such a… vibrant color. It makes me think of home. My pap’s ranch — well my uncle Dale’s ranch, now — has this massive red barn and a few dozen cows to boot. I spent my summers there, like I said, so I have fond memories of that red shining in Tennessee July. That and apple picking in the fall. My momma planted a few apple trees on our acreage in Georgia and she makes the best apple pie with them. It’s funny, seein’ we’re the peach state and all.”

Your laugh pairs with his before dancing through the metal and linoleum of the diner, only to be stomped out as Paisley returns with a mug and fills it with coffee for you. “There’s cream and sugar on the table. Bobby, your food should be out soon. I put hers in a minute ago so it’ll be here… eventually.” 

“Thanks, Paise.” A grin from the brunette, the woman exchanging one and dismissing herself from the table without another word. You let out a sound of astonishment and he furrows a brow at you as he sips his coffee. 

“It’s like I don’t exist when she shows up,” you point out and Bob shakes his head as he swallows. 

“I don’t think, she’s just doing her job,” he offers as you fix your coffee. 

“It wouldn’t kill her to be a little nicer,” you mumble once your mug is to your lips. “Anyways. Tell me more about this ‘acreage’ of yours. You guys have a farm in Georgia?” 

Bob shakes his head as he shifts in the booth. “No. I mean, momma has chickens but that’s about it. There’s a good 10 acres at minimum. At least a quarter of it has a line of wooded area. Land is a big deal in the south for some reason. Our house is this massive farmhouse built in the seventies, and most of us have moved out. Rylie is the only one still there.” 

“Rylie?” you question, your gaze taken by a passing truck with a trailer hitch attached to it. You must be somewhat close to the stables. That paired with the countless farm hands around you, you had to assume. 

“Youngest of 5,” he answers, leaving your eyes to widen. 

“You have four siblings?” Your jaw slides to open your mouth as he nods. 

“Sisters, to be exact. I’m the oldest, then there’s Robyn, she’s 13 months younger than me. We’re jokingly referred to as the twins since we were raised so close to one another. Rowan was born in ‘93, so she’s 27, Raine at 25, leaving us with Rylie who’s 16.” Bob sips at his coffee again, your hands twirling the mugs bottom on the table it rests on as you listen. 

“That’s…. A gap.” You kindly point out and he snickers as he sets his mug down. 

“She was a bonus kid. Momma said she was done having kids and then… Ry-guy came along.” You click your tongue, sitting in silence for a minute before you point out the obvious. 

“All Rs,” you hum, and he sighs. 

“Was hoping you wouldn’t point that one out.” Bob stretches back against the leather, leaving you to tilt your head. 

“Why’s that?”

“It always follows with ‘is your mom Rebecca and your dad Robert Senior?’” He fiddles with the silverware on the table. 

“Well, are they?” He smiles as he sees your expression of intrigue and shakes his head. 

“Johnathan and Kelly.” A laugh breaks out and you have to cover your mouth. 

“Sorry, sorry - so what the hell is with all the Rs?” You can’t wipe the stupid grin on your face as he grins with an air of discontent on his shoulders. Clearly you’re not the first one to ask. 

“My granddad on my dad’s side is named Robert - so I’m technically jr, but he’s not around that often. He lives in a retirement plan in Florida. As for the Rs, I was named after granddad, and then they had Robyn. So when Rowan was born they… just kept goin’.”

“It’s kinda cute,” you admit as Bob goes for another sip of coffee only to realize his cup is empty. He shrugs as he reaches across the table, sneaking your mug away from you as Paisley approaches with a coffee carafe in hand. He’s still mid sip when both of you look at the dark haired woman. 

“You could’a asked for more coffee, Bobby,” Paisley notes as the male returns your mug and she takes his to fill it. 

“Eh, don’t worry about it, coffee tastes better from Vegas’ cup anyways,” he teases with a grin, making you giggle. 

“I see. Well, food will be here soon,” Paisley mumbles before turning back toward another table, making you look to him with a look of ‘is she ok?’ and Bob waves you off as he fixes his coffee. In the time it takes to finish his task, a food runner is dropping off a meal of waffles, bacon and eggs in front of your coworker, making him grin and thank the employee. 

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom and washup, ‘kay?” 

“Sounds good.” You confirm as he gets up, passing Paisley on the way to the bathroom as she stops at your table to check your coffee. 

“So, how long have you been together?” she asks bitterly as she fills your mug to the top. You freeze at the question, your head moving back and forth. 

“I- We aren’t-”

“He’s flirted with you since the minute you stepped foot into the diner. I knew I heard your name before. You’re the Vegas chick that Diana keeps mentioning when she waits on him. She asks him every week how things are going with you two, and he always says you two aren’t dating but I get it. Work probably doesn’t like the idea of you two together-”

“Paisley, right?” You clear your throat and look her in the eye. “Bo-Robert and I aren’t dating.” The nickname leaves you first, leaving you to correct yourself. “It really isn’t any deeper than just a good pair of friends who happen to work together.” 

The woman in front of you lets out a laugh and shakes her head. “Friends don’t spend three seventy five on a capsule machine for a toy necklace, but you keep telling yourself that.” Paisley then disappears as quick as she appeared, leaving you to your thoughts.

People in this diner knew who you were. Which meant Bob had been openly talking to people about you. What had he been saying? Was it bad? You’re tugged from any questions as Diana reappears with your plate. 

“You’re paler than a ghost, are you alright?” she asks as she sets your dish down. You nod and grin at her with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. She notices, but she doesn’t dare prod you further. 

“Yep, yeah, I’m good.” Your brow furrows and you’re about to ask a question when Bob slides back into the booth. 

“I’m so excited about these waffles, Di. I’ve been thinking about them all week.” He beams at the woman and she lets a hand hover over her chest as you start at your meal. 

“Well that just made my day. You’re a charmer Robert.” She then looks over at you. “Watch out for this one.” 

“I certainly will,” you fire back as Diana starts off, leaving you to watch the childlike joy on Bob’s face as he tears into his breakfast. 

                                                  ════⋆★⋆════

With full stomachs, you’re headed back to Bob’s truck and pulling onto the road. He’s got his window down so there’s a refreshing breeze in the truck. As the wind flows, it makes the wispy bits of Bob’s hair that stick out from under his hat flit about.

Eventually, he turns onto a gravel road that leads down toward a large building and a small parking lot. As you climb out of the cab, Bob’s grabbing a brown bag from beside him, making you tilt your head. 

“What’s that?” you ask with curiosity, as he leads the way toward the stables. 

“A little somethin’. Don’t fret your pretty head about it.” Bob glances over his shoulder as he guides you to an open barn door. You smile at him, despite the way your stomach is flipping at the words. 

Just friends. Just friends. 

Between the cracked concrete and the rusted lock hatches, you're sure the stable has seen better days, but it smells well loved and lived in. Like home away from home. You try to take it all in while keeping up with Bob's over-eager steps down a poorly-lit hallway. There are multiple people tending to stalls and carrying feed, and you give them all an awkward small smile and a wave, not sure what else to do with your hands. They usually reciprocate a smile in return - many of them have not so subtly taken notice of your incredibly white shoes, their low chuckles telling you that they won’t remain white for long. Part of you is self conscious as you pass people, and it must be clearly written across your face, because when Bob turns to see you lagging behind, he stops and waits for you. Once you’re at his side, he carefully takes your hand in his and looks you in the eye. “Hey, what’s the matter?” His grip is reassuring, but you shrug it off. 

“I’m fine.” You wave him off with a smile but he’s already trying to find a solution. 

“No ma’am, you are not.” He turns to face you as someone passes by with a quick ‘morning Bob’. He greets them with a smile but grabs their attention. “Can I ask somethin’ of ‘ya?” 

“Sure thing.” The woman pockets her hands, smiling at you before looking at Bob.

“This is my friend’s first time ridin’,” he looks to you to confirm and you nod, “is there anything you can suggest that will help her confidence?” Bob asks. 

The woman gives you an assessing once-over before she starts on her soapbox. “Well, for starters, she could get a heartier shoe on her foot. Somethin’ with a heel and steel toes. Or at least more protection than fabric. Those sneakers won’t offer nearly the same protection as a boot. As for the horses themselves, they’re more nervous than you. A first time rider like yourself should ride a well-broken horse.” She then turns to Bob, “who were you going to take out for her?” 

“I was thinkin’ Goldrush? She’s pretty even tempered, there was a six year old ridin’ with her last week,” Bob offers, tilting his head in what you assume to be Goldrush’s general direction. His hand is still in yours, somewhat playfully rocking in the air as he continues his conversation with this stable hand. The feeling is reassuring while simultaneously strange. 

“That’s probably your best bet. I know Heeler and Levi were just out, so they’re probably darn tired and wouldn’t stand another ride.” Bob gives a nod and thanks the woman by name - Jennifer you think it was? You were too focused on the curious head poking out of the stall to your right, making you grin. Soon, Bob is guiding you to a wall that’s filled with lockers that have seen better days. He’s grabbing his keys from his pocket and opening one up, old and nearly peeling duct tape over the door with black Sharpie scrawled across the front: 

R. Floyd

It’s funny how six letters could make you break out in such a childish smile. 

Yet here you were, watching as the cowboy next to you opens his locker (a rather messy one at that) looking around for something. 

“What’s your shoe size?” He looks up at you from his squatted position, a rouge boot in his hand. 

“You’re going all stalker on me, Floyd.” You tease, looking down at the boot. Luckily, the boot was a half size bigger than your own, making you look at him as he guides you to a seat nearby. “Do I wanna know who these shoes belong to?” 

“First off, they’re boots. Get it right.” 

“Sorry, sorry. Whose boots are these?”

He has a wild smirk on his face, shaking his head as he undoes your laces on your sneakers. “They’re Robyn’s. She left them here back when I was in Leemore,” Bob answers before looking up at you, one knee to the ground as he tugs the shoe off your foot. “I’m not tryin’ to be a dick you know. My name’s not Seresin.”

An astonished laugh leaves you as he starts to get your other shoe off, a rather proud expression painted on his features. “Oh yeah? So what’s the difference, cowboy?” you hum, watching as he undoes your laces and shifts onto his other knee to toss your still-white Nikes into his locker. 

“Well most notably, they’re leather. But, I reckon you already knew that.” He snickers, carefully taking the back of your calf, guiding your foot into the boot and shuffling it in for you. When your foot finally sinks in, it’s damn comfortable. “The boot has more protection to keep your calves from chafing against the side of the horse, and the heel keeps your foot in the stirrup. And, well - if a hoof ends up misplaced on your toes, they’re better protected.” 

Your eyes widen at the last one and he taps your knee in reassurance as he slides the other shoe on. 

“It’s never happened to me and I’ve been ridin’ for years. Just a precaution, V.” When your feet are secure in the boots, he’s standing upright and taking your hands to guide you onto your feet, like you were a newborn calf learning to walk. “They feel good?”

“I get why you wear boots now,” you admit as your feet shuffle along the dirt floor. They’re hugging your foot comfortably, and barely have any shift to them, keeping them in place. When you look back up at him, he’s grinning ear to ear. 

“Now you’re a right cowgirl.” He’s beaming and you can’t help the reflected smile on your face. With his hand still in yours again, he’s shutting his locker and leading the way out of the barn like structure, out to a gravel path and toward another barn. When he opens the door, you find nearly a dozen horses in their own respective stalls. “Welcome to the stable.”

Bob begins to lead you down, introducing you to each horse, a few of them getting nose and ear scratches from the back seater. It’s not until you’re in front of a stall with a white and brown horse who’s bouncing their head excessively and whinnying at the sight of your coworker. 

“And here’s the man of the hour,” he cheers, pulling his face away as the horse excitedly tries to lick at him. “Easy, Cop, easy.” He chuckles with a greeting pet to the side of the horse’s neck. Bob’s handing you the bag he’s been carrying around. “Open that for me?” 

When you do, you’re greeted by a cinnamon sugar coated pastry, which Bob pulls from the bag still in your hand.

“This is what you’re after, ain’t it buddy?” He holds the donut up in the air, the horse sniffing along, lips moving in an effort to grab the snack in Bob’s hands. He’s teasingly keeping it just out of the poor animal’s reach.

“Bo, stop mocking him,” you admonish with a laugh, leaving Bob to cave and feed the treat to the white and brown spotted animal. As Copper’s teeth bite into the fried dough,  he notices the bag in your hand. You have to reach out with your spare hand to stop his muzzle from entering the bag and stealing another treat. 

“Hey!” you laugh, gingerly pushing his snout from the brown paper. “I don’t think both of these are for you, pal,” you hum, using your knuckles to gently rub his forehead. 

“Unfortunately not,” Bob confirms, before pointing out a tan horse a few stalls down. “That’s Goldrush. The other donut’s for her. We can feed her and then I’ll get her saddled, we’ll get her in the pen, and then we can grab Copper.” 

Bob leads you to Goldrush, and teaches you how to feed her — palm flat, fingers together, thumb tucked against the side of your hand. She’s so calm, happily letting you pet her as Bob starts to layer on tack to get her ready. The brunette is carefully teaching you about each layer: the saddle pad, the saddle, the girth, and bridle. As he moves about the stall, you can see the sweat begin to bead on his forehead. He’s eventually shrugging off his denim jacket, leaving him in a long sleeve linen shirt with countless stains on it. He’s pushing the sleeves up his forearms and getting back to the task at hand. Now your attention has shifted from the tack equipment and all their names, to the way his muscles flex with the tightening of clasps, the sheer strength needed to lift the saddle up and over the horse, the spots of his shirt that have changed color with moisture-

You realize he’s said something, which makes you startle back to attention and look at him with eyes and ears open. 

“Huh?” you prompt, seeing his outreached hand holding the reins. 

“You wanna walk her to the pen?” Hesitantly, you take the leather leeds from his hand and begin to guide the horse from her stall - with Bob’s help. “Look at you, you’re a natural.” He’s clearly teasing you, based off of the smirk on his features, you roll your eyes. 

“Open the gate, Floyd.”

“Yes ma’am.”

It doesn’t take long for Bob to get Copper ready, but once he’s done, the WSO is drenched in sweat, which certainly doesn’t go unnoticed. You’re not sure if he can tell, but there is a burning to your skin that you’re absolutely certain isn’t from the sun. 

Bob recommends that you take a few laps around the enclosure before you head to a trail, just to make sure you’re comfortable, and Goldrush is letting you be her passenger. You’re attempting to navigate the task of mounting up when Bob rushes over, pulling a pair of gloves on. 

“Here, wait.” Soon enough, the WSO’s hands are on your waist. “At the count’a three, jump.” With one foot in the stirrup, you’re nodding at his instructions. As he counts, you bounce your knees, before jumping up, Bob’s arms helping you up as you pull yourself up and over the width of the saddle. 

“Hey! Look at that!” you cheer, looking down at Bob who’s grabbing ahold of the reins in leathered gloves. 

“How’s the weather up there?” he chides as he begins to step with Goldrush along the wooden fence, helping you get used to the motion - you’re holding on to the horn of the saddle as you shift side to side which each step Goldrush takes. 

“Hah hah. You should drop out of the Navy and go on a comedy show,” you taunt with a smile. 

“I know, such wasted potential.” Bob smiles up at you before reaching up to hand the reins over. “You feelin’ okay up there, darlin’?” 

You swear you had an answer. All the way up until darlin’ in that damn drawl flies off his lips. It’s like a Rubrik’s cube was scrambled just as you were about to solve it - and now you’re being timed to get all the colors right. 

“Ugh, yeah, yeah. I’m good.” You hesitantly take the straps from his hands. 

“Glad to hear it. So let’s work on steering.”

With a quick lesson under your belt, Bob is climbing up on Copper’s back and starting to navigate you both from the pen toward a path just off the grounds of the stables. The path is a dirt path that starts up the base of the nearby hill - or was it a mountain? 

Either way it had some elevation to it and both horses breezed over it. There were trees littered along the path, but they gave way to glimpses of the ocean nearby. 

“How often are you on this path?” You’re shouting so Bob can hear you up head on the trail. He turns to look at you from over his shoulder. 

“At least once a week. There’s not many paths near here that are horse accessible, so we’re pretty limited,” he explains and you nod. You’re taking in your surroundings, trying to focus on staying in the saddle, your knuckles gripping the leather of the horn as you continue to climb further up the trail path. 

“How are you so rigid on this thing? I feel like I’m sliding with every step.” Bob glances at you again and kicks his legs out at his sides. 

“Hug the horse with your legs. You should be moving your body with her head. Horses move their entire body when they walk. So you’ve gotta move with them.” He’s faced forward again and you’re watching the way he’s riding, trying to figure out what he means. 

You’re not easily distracted, but there’s something in the way thatBob’s hips seem to bounce with each trot Copper takes that has your head in the clouds. You swear if you knew the way back, you and Goldrush would’ve been running back to the stables, but you don’t, so your skin is hot and you hope Bob’ll just blame it on the heat. 

The two of you mingle in light conversation, taking in sights and listening to Bob’s stories about his grandfather’s ranch. Getting to know him has been a big part of the weekend, and there’s a mental list you’ve been running: 

Tequila and Robert don’t mix

He doesn’t wear pajamas

He’s a cowboy

He drives a truck

The man is ripped

He’s a true gentleman

He has lots of siblings 

You’re certain the list will continue to grow the more you’re around him, and frankly, you’re not too mad about it. 

                                                    ════⋆★⋆════

Did you enjoy this? Consider buying me a coffee!

@luckyladycreator2 @queengeek487

@discoseal @that-cute-stranger @caswinchester2000​ @inglourious-imagines​ @ssaic-jareau @kana-austin @mochminnie @kyleed24 @americaarse @thesunsetphantoms @not-leaprvt @gayforsteve @turningtoclown @nyotamalfoy @alainabooks143 @sodonebruh @winteroqers @hay-9105 @straightforwardly @luckyladycreator2 @marchingicenotes7 @maggiescarborough @startterfly @pheonist

[messydiabolical]

The Cerberus shield fort in the Normandy hangar bay, aka Fort Mail Slot

I was chatting about fave enemies in Mass Effect in a discord chat, and mentioned that I love the cerberus shield guys, as a sniper they are fun to aim at. And I got the biggest freaking brainworm, which started with:

Keahi Shep would collect them all up (the shields) afterwards and build a victory fort in the shuttle bay. Thane: has anyone seen siha Garrus: he's in the shield fort down in the bay Thane: the what Garrus: they're making a throne. It has turrets too.

And it became A THING. @stormikins and I then went into such a spiral elabroating the lore of Fort Mail Slot, at 7am on Monday morning, on no sleep and much coffee. Highlights! (quotations are @stormikins ideas, thank you so much for joining me on this madness stormikins!) ⦁ Everyone gets to add a shield they have 'won' (aka taken out a cerberus shield guy in battle) to the front rampart and can decorate it as they choose. ("Grunt would paint dinos and sharks. Eating little Cerberus guys"). ⦁ At first its seen as a Shep quirk, but as people add their own touches to it, they quickly become fully invested in the fort. Tali engineers a lighting and sound system. Liara establishes extranet connections. A bar appears. Vega's gym gets absorbed into the structure and becomes the fort gym. ⦁ Sophie gets her own tower right by the front gate and is the guard dog of honour. "She’s like Cerberus guarding the gate. Must give bribe treat to get in" ⦁ The fort quickly becomes legendary throughout the galaxy. It's in the shuttle bay, so anyone who comes aboard immediately see's the giant freaking shield fort as like the first thing they see aboard the Normandy, which is hilarious, UNLESS they come aboard from the upper dock, then they hear whispers of the secret fort in the basement. ⦁ "Shepard, picking up Jack and the kids at Grissom: hey, collect your shields! We’re trying to make another wing! Jack: what " (but also) Jack: sees the kids not picking up shieds Jack: you heard the man you little Fu- fricks.

⦁” Kaidan/Ashley come aboard and are like: damn nothing really has changed huh” They'd look, shake their head, and immediately hop on in. "Shake of the head, hands on hips, and then “how many do I need?” ⦁ Politicans that DON'T fuck Shep over get embassy status ⦁ Rumour has it Primarch Victus got absolutely sauced in the bar wing late one night after a trying day of playing politics ⦁ The dalatrass is of course denied entry. "Wrex takes pleasure in rubbing in her face that he's invited and she isn't" ⦁ the fort becomes so normalised on the Normandy, so much a part of the life that people kinda forget it’s a bit odd, and when the asari refuse to help Shep actually tries the 'but you won't be included in the fort' line asari: what Shep: what~ ⦁ Liara gets her own mini bank of screens in the fort to try and lure her out of her room, Shep puts up black blankets around the area with a huge sign saying 'super secret shadow broker business shhhhh' over it. Shep also puts up a neon notice board with 'totally not super secret shadow broker messages under here nope' and underneath is an extremely crudely drawn penis, with realy tiny writing underneath, like so tiny you have to get really close or take a picture and zoom, and the writing says 'made you look Liara. Twice.' and next to it is another tiny dick. ⦁ Another shadow broker prank sign: “To learn this SB secret please answer the following: dog or not?" ⦁ Joker gets 'I got fucked in the cerberus shield fort and all I got was this lousy shirt' teeshirts printed ⦁ Shep creates a little moat out front for javik. He of course deems it primitive, but can be found using it. He also compiles a report on more effective fort defence protocols. "Sophia loves him, and he's annoyed by it, but secretly loves it" ⦁ In time people commend Shepard for coming up with such an unconventional but genius way of creating a bonding exercise for the crew during the stresses of war. Shep is mysetfied, they genuinely just wanted to build a fort. ⦁ Just picture it: a bunch of cerberus troops spreading out in front of Shep, feeling confident ('so many of us vs 3 people, and us with these shiny shields!') and shep just whooping and shouting 'yes! we can extend the cinema room lads!' and the troops being very, very confused ⦁ the mail slots on the front gate are for pizza delivery we tried coming up with good names, but in the end decided that it being simply the shield fort was funnier, as people might assume the 'shield fort in the hangar bay' is like an actual, functional ship thing, like a shield fortification station for the normandy or something, and then its like 'oh, no, it's an actual shield fort'. It does gain the nickname of Fort Mail Slot among the crew. please help us expand Fort Mail Slot lore! What would other squad members decorate their shields with? What upgrades would people add, what wings? Please share cerberus sheild fort shennanigans i’d love to hear them x

[joshslater]

Dionysus

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

I was very hesitant when he picked me up at the nightclub. I could feel the disappointment and outright hostility from all the women and a lot of the men as the God walked up to me, started to make out, and then asked if I was up for some fun. That's what you get away with when no one ever says "no" I thought. With his incredibly handsome face, black hair, and athletic build that was probably not a word he was used to hearing. It would be impossible for him to know I was into guys, and coming on so strong could land you in hot water or rather knocked cold on the floor. Turns out he could know, and there was more to him than just utter handsomeness and unparalleled confidence. Way more.

It was back at his place he asked me if I could look like someone else, who would I pick? That's a game I've played many times before, so I instantly knew to answer Marco Albieri, the soccer player. He raised an eyebrow, took a step from me, and asked me why. "I don't know what it is about soccer players, but something about the game makes their bodies stunningly handsome. And Marco is just a step above the rest." He smiled a bright smile, made a dramatic gesture, and I was Marco. Looked exactly like him at least. It took me a moment to even realize what had just happened, but I could see myself in the full-length mirror. Or I couldn't, I should say. I saw Marco Albieri in full Paris Saint-Germain F.C. game kit. Mesmerized I took a step closer to the mirror, and Marco on the other side of the glass stepped closer as well. I looked just like him, my wettest, wankiest dream. I'd come so many times to exactly this fantasy. There was even a sheen of post-game sweat making all the skin glistening in his hallway designer lights.

He approached me from behind, still handsome but now by a much narrower margin. "You ready to fuck?" I didn't even answer but just turned around and kissed him. He wasn't shy in grouping me back. What followed was the longest fuck fest I've ever been part of. We went from room to room. It was like this body had limitless stamina, though it was the body of Marco after all, but an insatiable horny lust as well. Perhaps he had that too. It wasn't until early morning I fell asleep next to him, exhausted.

It was almost noon when I woke up, disoriented by everything. It was like it wasn't until now the craziness and impossibility of last night hit me. I could see Marco Albieri in the mirror at the other side of the bedroom, without shirt, and the most unkempt hair I had ever seen him with. I knew for a fact the secret hairstyling trick was body fluids. I suddenly felt very uneasy and exposed. Vulnerable even. I was here on vacation. How could I leave if I didn't look like my passport? How could I leave this building looking like Marco? There would be fans stopping me instantly. What the fuck am I thinking about? I'm erased from the world. No one I know, no one in my family would recognize me. Could I convince them I'm me and not a millionaire soccer player? Perhaps. But my life would be so complicated.

That's when he lazily strolled into the bedroom, completely naked showing off his chiseled body, one mug in each hand.

"You did this! How the fuck did you do this? You can't leave me like this!" "Morning!"

He handed me one of the mugs. On reflex I took a large sip of coffee only to discover it was red wine. It took me by surprise and I almost sprayed his white sheets with red mist of wine, but instead got some down my lungs and started to cough.

"Is this really the best you can think of?" he said. At first I had no idea what he meant. Then, still coughing, I realized it was my body again. The one I used to fly here, check into the hotel, and go out to nightclubs with.

"I... It's awfully inconvenient if I tried to leave with a different body." "That's it? That's the only reason?"

I felt stupid and unsure what to say. I liked my body, so why was it so hard to defend it? He took a large sip from his coffee mug of wine and climbed into bed next to me, but standing on his knees looking down on me.

"When's your flight back?" "Eh, in... On Sunday." "Plenty of time to let loose. How about going to the beach like this?"

This time I noticed the shift. The bed sagged down a bit under the extra load and I didn't even have to look in the mirror to see the freakish muscles. Two huge chest muscles peeked into my field of vision, and moving my arm I could see it was thicker than what my legs used to be.

I felt light-headed as we walked down to the beach. Probably the wine. He was subtle and classy, black Nike sneakers, black boardshorts, and a white T-shirt. I was anything but subtle. Probably twice his mass, annoying flip flops that flipped and flopped every step, white compression shorts that looked blindingly bright against my deep tan, a purple thong that peeked up over the rim of the shorts by the hips, visible because the neon yellow tank top was cropped above the belly button to show off the abs. The stringer waved for every step as my obscene pecs push out the yellow fabric like a hanging flag. It touched my body in surprisingly few places. Top of the traps and the nipples more or less.

After spending a few hours getting everyone passing by on the beach to turn their heads to observe the freak show he asked me to play floatation device for him. We went out in the water and did our best to have sex just outside where the waves broke. I think anyone who paid close attention could tell what we did, but no one could be really sure. He didn't appear to care.

"I made you something," he whispered. "What?" "A surfer," he said and begun walking towards the beach. As I wiped my long hair out of my face I understood he changed me again. No more shaved head, no more enormous meat slab. I still had a six-pack, I was still 6'-something, and my skin was deeply tanned, but that's about where the similarities ended. "Why?" I asked as I lied down on the beach towel next to his. "First dive bar opens soon, and I thought this would play better to the crowd." I was feeling woozy. "We want to play to the crowd?" He reached over and squeezed the pec closest to him. "Well, make them jealous at least."

There was something nagging at the edge of my thoughts. Some question I felt I needed to ask. I just couldn't quite put it into coherent thought.

"Did you drug me?" He made a high-pitched "Mmmm" sound. "Just a bit. To fit with the rest. Just go with it."

I shut my eyes, relaxed, and let his hand stroke me. I don't know how long we lied like that. Not too long, because the sun hadn't moved that much, but I sure did dozed off.

"Come on!" he said, like it was asking me to hurry up for the third time. A bit confused I got up from the beach towel. I wore a pair of eye-popping turquoise board shorts with black pattern and trim. Neon turquoise, if such a color was a thing. I knew it had a real trade name, but somehow it kept slipping my mind. They had a good fit, not loose, not tight, but rode low on my lithe body. Fuzzy pubes peeked out over the waistband, like a little forest edge where the treasure trail from the belly button ended. I looked around for a shirt or something to put on, but there was nothing except for a pair of flip-flops. These didn't look as cheap and fit much better than the previous pair though.

"Is that it?" I asked incredulously. "What more do you need?" he said, and looked at me like he wanted me for dinner. "Come!"

The bar wasn't far away and already busy when we arrived. He almost danced in, basically dragging me in, holding my hand. I was woozy from whatever I was drugged with, but in a way that made everything look amazing to me. In any direction I looked I was delighted by what I saw, no matter how mundane. The bar was not even half full and everyone looked as relaxed as you would expect from a bar half a block from the beach, though no one else was bare-chested. The decor was a random mix of styles, as expected by a dive bar. Tables for two or four were lined up in front of the bar at the back of the room. From a backroom somewhere behind it pumped music. I looked at my watch to see if it was already dance time, but I was only wearing a red nylon cord as a bracelet.

"You must be thirsty after a day in the sun," he said and handed me an Aperol Spritz. I could have sworn he hadn't left me for the bar, but then I didn't really trust my senses. We took a table for four and sat next to each other, facing the rest of the room. "So, tell me about your day," he continued, as if he hadn't been there for all of it.

For whatever reason I found it hard to figure out where to start, like it was all jumbled together despite nothing of consequence had happened. I began to describe how I had woken up in bed and how he surprised me with breakfast. How I had mistaken the red wine for coffee. I could feel his hand moving down my abs and into my board shorts. As he pulled out my erect cock from the shorts my immediate thought was of surprise. I hadn't realized I was hard. I continued to talk about how we went to the beach, while he was jerking me off with one hand under the table. It then hit me that I had no idea what my dick looked like, if it was big or small. I had never seen it. He had transformed me somehow into this surfer. How could I have forgotten something so monumental.

At that point I shot my load under the table. Four or five large pumps. I was suddenly aware again that there were people around us, and looking around tried to figure out if any of them could see I had my dick out. At the same time I was still feeling high or whatever it was. "I'll get a refill," he said, stood up and headed for the bar. I decided to put my dick back into the shorts.

"Hey, dude. Is he like your boyfriend?" someone standing next to me asked. How long had he been there? He was handsome, not quite as tall as I was now, but more muscled. The tight billabong shirt didn't hide much. "Him? No. We just..." I was trying to think of a good word. I wasn't sure what he was, or what was happening at all really. "Wanna check out the dance floor?" "Yeah... Yeah, I would."

I followed him towards the bar, and away to the side into the dance room. It was far from packed, but we were not alone at least. Immediately I regretted following him there, even before he started moving to the music. Once he did I knew I would look silly. I started to mimic his moves best I could. He smiled a crooked smile, though not an unkind one, when he saw what I was doing. He leaned forward and barely audible over the music asked "Are you up for a second round?"

"What do you mean?" I asked back. "I saw what that other dude did to you. I live nearby, if you want to try something that isn't over in minutes."

In the door opening I see him standing with two large drinks in his hands. He looks emotionless, which in itself was a scary contrast to how he looked before. He then drinks one of the drinks in one go, then immediately empties the other one as well. No sooner has he turned away with two empty glasses when I feel a desperate need to take a piss. He's fucking with me.

"Don't go anywhere," I say and dash towards to men's room.

It's empty. I go to the lone urinal and yank my dick out of the white thong. I'm confused, but happy I got there in time to relieve myself. Why am I wearing only a white thong to a bar? As the piss is streaming for longer than I can ever recall I look down my bare smooth legs and find a pair of eye-catching red hightops. When I'm finally done I have a look at myself in the mirror. Cute, young Latino boy with a red baseball cap on his unkempt hair, and a grey shirt. The shirt in a way makes the thong stand out even more and look intentionally inappropriate. Perfect!

I return to the dance floor and find the guy waiting. "There you are. Let's go!" he says, almost demanding. He doesn't say anything on the way to his apartment two blocks away. I keep looking his way, and it feels like my dick is growing bigger every time I look at those muscled arms. His pace is brisk without being conspicuous, he clearly wants us to get to his place as quickly as possible without being seen. In through an unlocked entrance, up two flights of stairs, and in through his apartment door.

As soon as he whisked me in and closed the door behind us he grabs me, shoves me into the wall next to us, and forcefully kisses me on my mouth. "You fucking whore! I'm so fucking horny you better know what you're doing."

He snores loudly again. I had tried to ignore it to spend a few more hours in the bed, but it's getting pointless to try to sleep any more. I carefully get up and get dressed. No need for a shower, now that everything dried. I make a final check I got everything with me that I brought in. There is that nagging feeling that I'm missing something. Well, whatever it was it can't be important. Quietly I exit his apartment and make my way out of the building. I feel restless being so quiet and calm, like it is unnatural for me to be that way. I basically explode in emotions as I exit the building and literally dance down the last few steps.

I try to think what to do next. My mind is like a spinning punch bowl of thoughts and I'm only able to fish out simple verbs. Party! Drink! Dance! Fuck! The sun is barely up, but perhaps I can find some nightclub still open.

[tonguetiedraven]

I'm not allowed to come up with prompts bc I just find rabbitholes instead. it was "Bon if we turn the pages of you book can we paint you nails?" to 'where did the sleepover get the nail polish selection?' to 'mephisto's stash' to 'does he even have painted nails? the man wears gloves but vibes say yes' to 'volume 19 cover confirms, man paints his nails'. At least no one can ever say I'm not dedicated to doing a bit. Anyway all I'm saying is exwires have sleepovers bc they're teenagers! let them have normal teenager things!

Mephisto absolutely wears nail polish and thoroughly enjoys manicures and pedicures.

And yes, the kids absolutely deserve to have sleepovers <3

— — — — —

They are black tonight, and Ryuuji can appreciate the edgy touch. Shiemi always paints him green with intricate flowers, Izumo has tried pink once (but only on his thumb so he let it pass) while Paku always tries to match his outfit. 

He isn’t sure which of them has done this. He has been lost in his book and has long since given up trying to stop them. The girls will do what they want and arguing isn’t worth it.

Rin’s are blue tonight (they were out of his favorite red), and the light shade makes his eyes pop any time he moves to brush his bangs from his face. Shima’s are always some atrocious neon color (Izumo likes to make it clash with his hair, but they are still painted perfectly. 

Konekomaru’s are alway soft browns or grays or earthy pinks. Nothing that stands out dramatically, though he does like when Shiemi adds mandalas to the design.

Yukio lets them do a clear coat, and that is usually it. They can occasionally add special ingredients to the polish, and Shiemi can occasionally coax him into clovers.

Takara’s hands are always hidden in his puppets, so Ryuuji doesn’t know what he gets on his nails. 

The girls are never the same, and they are always fun to see. Flowers and kittens and foxes and mascots he doesn’t know, sweets and stripes and spells and countless little decorations that are always fun. He’s even seen summoning circles on Izumo’s nails. 

The nail painting is only one of the things that happen on their hangouts. 

Alright. They are technically sleepovers, but Ryuuji is always a bit squeamish about calling them that. It brings  images of giggling (which yeah, they laugh but Ryuuji does not giggle), hair ribbons (he has let Shiemi and Rin braid his hair once and he did not allow the ribbons), gossiping (they trade intel, not gossip), and childish things. Plus people give them double looks when they hear that it is their entire group.

They’ve never done anything like that. They just fall asleep in the twins’ common room. They drag a bunch of blankets and old futons together and more or less collapse on the large nest of blankets and dolls. (He can never figure out who the stuffed animals belong to. And it grows every time he sees the pile. He’s even added two blankets and three stuffed coal-tars he’s won from Mephyland to the hoard.) 

It’s fun and not weird, and calling them sleepovers makes them sound weird, so Ryuuji just calls them hangouts. 

Anyway, it’s black tonight. Shiemi is adding a few final touches to her own toenails —it looks like she’s gone with a cherry blossom color scheme— and Rin is trying to throw popcorn into Shima’s mouth but he’s making a mess of it which means Kuro is pouncing around to get the missed pieces and both Konekomaru and Izumo are trying desperately to get the cat sidhe's attention.

Yukio is looking over the rules for the game they are going to be playing (even though he knows them by heart) while Sei fusses over the cards and boards. It’s the sort of thing that involves resource management, which means it’s going to be down to him, Yukio, and Shiemi who has unnaturally good luck at any game. (Maybe there is something to her clovers.)

Rin will be the first one out, which is just as well because he will go make snacks and then they'll all get to enjoy them, and Ryuuji is going to need extra fuel to beat everyone. (Shiemi has painted clovers on Yukio's thumbs. Hopefully there isn't anything to her clovers.)

Konekomaru catches Kuro and cuddles him close as Yukio motions everyone forward for the game. Izumo takes the spot by Konekomaru's side, trying to coax Kuro to her own lap with a bit of popcorn.

Ryuuji snags a stuffed dragon and flops over on his stomach next to Rin. (The dolls were nice to lay on and the spot ensures he'll have first pick of the snacks when Rin gets back.)

"Why can't we do spin the bottle?" Shima whines as he takes a seat next to Yukio. 

"Because no one wants to kiss you." Izumo answers without missing a beat. Kuro is staring contemplatively at her popcorn.

"You're so mean to me!" 

She's painted his nails a soft lavender that goes well with his hair. She must have felt generous, or the red being empty has really thrown her off. (Ryuuji is inclined to believe the first even if it would earn him a punch in the arm to say it.)

"We could play never have I ever after this?" Paku asks, trying to placate both her friends. "As a compromise."

Shima perks right up as Ryuuji takes his cards and helps walk Rin through what each one is (again.)

"That'll work."

"But," Paku adds, giving Shima an appraising look, "the group has the right to veto questions."

The idea is met with general approval despite Shima’s immediate whine of No fair! and But everyone will veto all my questions!

Izumo returns that he shouldn’t be a pervert then and Kuro grows big enough to drape himself over her lap and Konekomaru. His tails (deliberately) upset the popcorn bowl and the kernels go everywhere. Chaos reigns for a moment as everyone dodges they flying snack, and then it’s a scramble to make sure Kuro doesn’t eat it all. You’ll get fat! Rin warns, earning a hiss of insult.

They settle back down, Rin’s tail drapes over Ryuuji’s ankle and Yukio’s knee is a little uncomfortable where it digs into his side, but they’re together and having fun and sleepover or not, they’re one of Ryuuji’s favorite things now.

[asenloby]

5 DIY Neon Sign Home Decor Projects you can do at Home

by Nisha Jangir

Neon signs have been a popular trend in home decor for quite some time now. They give any area a dash of retro charm and can make it into a hip, modern setting. A personalised neon sign, yet, can be pricey to buy. The good news is that you can create neon signs at home using a few inexpensive materials and tools. These are five ideas you may complete at home to decorate using neon signs.

Neon LED sign and wire: Flexible LED Neon tubes are among the simplest materials that can be used to make a neon sign. These lights come in a variety of colors and are twisted to create the design you want. All you need to get started is some wire, pliers, and LED neon lights. The wire can be used to form words, symbols, or even shapes, to which the neon tubes can then be attached with glue or tape. Plug in the lights when you're done and watch your creation come to life.

Electric neon sign: Another excellent alternative for creating your own neon sign is EL, which stands for an electroluminescent wire. When an electrical current flows through it, a thin, flexible wire turns on. If you bend the wire and attach it with tape or glue, you can create the design you want. You'll need a battery to power the EL wire, which you can attach to the back of your sign, to power the EL wire. EL Wire is available in a variety of shades and can be a wonderful way to add a splash of color to your decor.

Neon Colors: A vibrant splash of color to your decor can also be achieved with neon paint. It can be applied to a canvas or even a wall to make your neon sign. You can use stencils or draw your design by hand to create it. Once your design is complete, let the paint dry before adding a black light to make it shine.

Neon-tape artwork: An excellent substitute for conventional neon lights is neon tape. It is simple to use and offered in a number of colors. Either use the tape to draw your design directly on the wall or draw it on a piece of paper and then tape it to the wall. Because the tape is self-adhesive, it is simple to apply and remove without leaving a mark on the wall. If you want a temporary neon sign, this is a wonderful choice.

String Neon Art: String art has been a well-liked DIY craft for a while, but utilising neon string will up the ante. You can draw your design on a canvas or even a wooden board. Once you've finished designing, hammer some nails into the design to hold the string in place. Watch it glow after you're finished by hanging it up.

In conclusion, creating your own neon signs at home is a fun way to give your interior design some individuality and color. Your own personalised neon sign can be made at home using a few basic pieces of equipment and supplies. These tasks are enjoyable, simple, and only take a few hours to complete. Why not try it out and see what kind of neon sign you can produce?

[behindyourbarrette]

like you a latte - party parasols/stovetop

←previous | series masterlist | join my taglist

pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 2k

warnings:  brief alcohol mention, none other than that

a/n: and just like that, it’s over! i cannot believe it. the reception to this series has surpassed my greatest expectations! thank you all for being here, reading, and cheering me on! i hope you like how our two dorks’ story ends :) as always TELL ME WHAT U THINK orrrr REBLOG! both help me, a new writer, out tremendously :)

—

You’re late.

It’s a cruel twist of fate, but a twist of fate nonetheless. Your afternoon classes ran late, and the roads were congested on the way home. There are a million reasons why you’re late, and none of them make up for the disappointment you feel.

It’s a sad attempt at getting ready. You’ve been texting with Penelope all week—ever since Spencer was called away, really, about the team’s plan to decompress at a bar afterwards. While the setting strikes you as odd at first, you quickly realize that you haven’t been to a bar since undergrad.

It’s strangely exciting. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror before you hitch a ride with Pen, purse slung over your shoulder and eyes wide with anticipation. You look like yourself—a smile on your face, in an outfit you feel confident in. With a leap, you close the door behind you, keys jingling in your hands.

The ride across town is short, and Penelope peppers you with questions the entire time. While she’s not a profiler, she should be one—you’re positive that she’s picked up on the shift in the dynamic between you and Spencer, and she has no qualms about asking. You groan, feeling a little like you’re being interrogated by an older sister.

“Spence is so private! I’m still surprised he let us meet you. Spare me a little detail, darling?”

You chuckle, your cheeks warming. You would like to know what Spencer says about you when you’re not there to hear it. Your heart thrums against your chest in a quick rhythm as you draw closer to the bar, and you feel a twist of juvenile excitement when you catch sight of the neon lights.

It’s a little late, the city stuck in the lull between day and night. Lights twinkle above you as you hop out of Penelope’s car, laughing and joking. In the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a black SUV. Then, a familiar lanky figure.

“Hey, Spence.”

Penelope shoots you a knowing look and rushes off to meet JJ, and you’re left alone. Spencer opens the door for you, tugging on it to reveal the inside of the bar. It has all the makings of a great place to have fun. Multicolor lights, a dart board, a wall of liquor, and booming 2000’s hits. You grin as you step inside, into the throng of people. You spot Emily at the bar, having beat the team there. 

It’s crowded, and proving difficult to push and pull past the dancing bodies. Looking up at Spencer, he seems on edge. You take a deep breath and begin to wind through the crowd, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you slip your hand into his. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A grin makes its home on both of your faces as you approach the bar, greeted by a few new people.

“This is Morgan. And that’s Hotchner. You know Emily and JJ.” Spencer gestures to both of the new figures. You shake both of their hands, noting the excited smiles on their faces.  The entire group seems happy, exchanging glances as Spencer sits at the bar, eyes on you. Morgan you’ve heard about, and he’s just as suave in person as described to you by Penelope and sometimes, Spencer. He asks about what you do for work, looking between you and Spencer with something that looks like intrigue.

“I’m a barista, downtown. I’m also studying law.” You offer, a little bashful. These people are all incredibly established, and you’re…wooing people through coffee. Derek takes a sip of his drink, smiling like he knows something you don’t.

“You, my friend,” He says, pointing to emphasize his words, “Make the world go around. Seriously. I don’t know what this team’d do without coffee.”

You blush, looking up at Spencer. A new expression is seated on his face—it looks like pride. Penelope drags Derek onto the dance floor, and you watch them slow dance with a new degree of fondness for the both of them. Despite the fact that the bar is blasting Usher, the bass booming through the floor, they make a waltz work. Emily and JJ step away from the bar to compete at darts, their voices carrying over the music as the stakes heighten. You order a frozen margarita, and Spencer orders a water. 

“Can I get one of the, uh, fancy umbrellas? And one for him, too?” You ask the bartender, a grisly man who seems disenchanted with your request. Spencer just watches as you take the toothpick and press it into your slush, dropping a parasol into his water after you’re done. Satisfied, you grin up at him.

“Match with me.”

He’s pretty like this—you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile this much. The bar fades into the background as you watch his focus shift, eyes trailing across your face. 

“You, uh. You look beautiful.”

Something catches and pulls in your chest. He means it—his cheeks are red with the effort of it, but his eyes never leave you. It occurs to you while this isn’t a very conventional first date, a few traditions are worth keeping. You offer him a soft smile, setting your drink down. 

“So do you.”

You feel a little brave; he does that to you. In any other circumstance, you’d be nervous. The bar is loud and you can feel his friends watching you, their gazes less than subtle as you convince yourself to take the leap.

You’re in luck. He moves first, offering you a crooked smile as he takes your face into his hands. You reach up, arms around his neck as he leans in. The excited cheers from the dance floor are lost on the both of you as he kisses you, softly and with something that tastes a little like cinnamon and a lot like hope. He isn’t hesitant—his initial fierceness melts into something tender and warm. With a grin, you pull away to watch him blush and straighten the collar of his shirt. You reach up to press a decisive kiss to his temple, and you can almost hear Penelope’s squeal from across the bar.

You don’t really believe in fate. But some things are just too good to be coincidental. You’ve turned back to your drink, trying to tone down your smile when you hear David Bowie begin to croon over the speakers. Your face cracks into a grin, and you practically yell over the disco as you attempt to drag Spencer onto the dance floor. He’s strong, and your attempts to tug him forward are futile. He looks amused by your efforts, though, smirking as you pull on his forearm.

“Holy shit, Spence. I love this song.” 

“I don’t dance. Really. I have, three left feet, as they say." He makes a show of shuffling in demonstration, hands in his pockets, and the sight is so adorable you think you might cry. Instead, you laugh, and turn your head to catch sight of Penelope, who is already mid-shimmy.

“For me?”

You say, batting your eyelashes as you peer up at him. To your total surprise, his expression softens and he reaches for you. The feeling of your forearms dwarfed in his hands lingers as you both walk onto the floor, swaying lightly. You’d let him step on your feet a million times just to see the look on his face as you spin around, laughing as you go. It feels a little like fate. 

---

stovetop, months and months later

Everything is better up close.

It is not the first time you have considered this; where you once kept your distance, lingering in unknowns, you now lean in. Spencer is not someone to be admired from afar; you prefer this. You’re tucked into the crook of his arm, watching his chest rise and fall with each slow, sleepy breath. It’s early morning, sunlight peeking through the curtains and warming your skin in long slices. 

There’s work to be done, phone calls to be answered. People to be saved. Coffee to be poured. Suits to be filed. But here, feeling his heartbeat thrum against your own, life feels a little less urgent. There is a space to be occupied, a world where he holds you until you both wake up, and time slows into a delicate push and pull.

Later, you wake up and he’s gone. While familiar, the low sting of this isn’t lost on you. Stretching out into his side of the bed—technically, it’s all his side of the bed, considering you’re the one who consistently overtakes more of his apartment as time goes by—you watch the morning light grow brighter. There’s a stack of books on your bedside, each curated for you. This is how you two are; you read, and work, and miss him. He comes back, invariably, sometimes a little bruised or quiet in his contemplation of what he sees, but he always comes back.

It’s only after you’ve pulled yourself out of bed and padded towards the kitchen that you hear a faint gurgle, followed by the rush of steam. A smile breaks across your face, and once you round the corner you see him. He’s fiddling with the Moka pot you bought him for Christmas, absorbed in the mechanics of the safety valve. He doesn’t see you for a few moments, eyes narrowed as he focuses. A small smile forms on his face as you walk towards him, crossing the kitchen counter with your arms outstretched.

You press into his side, burying your face into the warmth of his shoulder. It’s easier than you think you deserve; this is a way of holding you, too. Still working on the coffee pot, he lifts his arm and pulls you close. 

“Good morning,” He mutters, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “The air pressure is too high.” You nod sagely, wrapping your arms around his waist. He eventually settles and pours the coffee, golden brown and just how you like it, into two mugs. You hum contentedly, watching as he stirs creamer in.

“I would have used the espresso machine if you had asked,” you point out, eyes flicking up to his. You hold your mug delicately; it’s hot, and you think you may have worn the ceramic out. It’s only been a few months since he gave it to you, insisting that the “World’s Best Lawyer” inscription was fitting. The rest of your mugs are now collecting dust in the cabinet, forever unused. “I was awake.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, his stubble scratching against your skin. You smile against him, and gently clink the rim of your mug against his. After you’ve both sipped, he speaks. 

“I wanted to make some for you,” he says. He takes another sip, this time narrowing his eyes. “It’s not very good.”

You set your mug down, and reach for him. Pressing kisses to each part of his face—both his cheeks, then his forehead, then his nose, then that freckle you like on the cut of his jaw—you disagree. You sink back onto your feet after you’re satisfied, watching his blush deepen as you pull away.

“It's perfect.” His face brightens a little, and this spurs you forward. Any apprehension about being this cheesy is absolved by the way he’s looking at you. 

“I mean, you probably could have done better. You’re better at measuring.” He counters, just because he knows it will make you smile.

“I love it. Because it’s you.” You mumble against the rim of your mug, grinning wickedly, and you’re caught off guard when he reaches for you, catching you in a kiss and holding you tightly. Your arms around his neck, you grin. You decide mornings are your new favorite time of day.

taglist <3

@everyonesfavoritepipecleaner @coldlilheart @idonotexiste @aberrant-annie @onyourfingertips @bakugouswh0r3 @uptowngotmedown @infinite-tides @chaosconcerns @littlewritersinspace​ @okivia @forever-not-gonna-sink​ @insert-gay-here​ @just-another-persona123​ @winniemjf @jammiebirch @thedancingnerdmermaid @the-chaotic-cow @briefgoateeking @ceridwen-02 @rare-breed-of-human