#coffee brown vs

[dedicationtv]

REMY MA DROPS “CANCEL CHRISTMAS” CARD 🔥🔥 HEADLINES JAZ Vs BIGG K, COFFEE VS COUTURE, QB VS EHART‼️

https://youtu.be/HAFwW0ATjwA

[bmpmp3]

ive mentioned before my like. fascination and incomprehensible attachment to mysterious ambiguously brown man characters in schlocky fantasy romance media marketed towards women and a lot of it is from like, a like. nearly anthropological standpoint as someone heavily interested in orientalism in narrative media from a visual culture and art historical point of view and a part of it is also from being mixed race and ambiguous IRL LOL BUT there is one other angle i havent really touched on thats on my mind a lot. you know that bit we all go through where someone reads something like mediocre and it sticks in their mind more than something well written? the "I COULD FIX THISSSS" curse..... im like this with ambiguously brown characters. holds loosely (LOOSELY) south asian coded love interest from some romance comic #8997485344534984875943 tenderly in my hands..... my brother i know you weren't written with this depth but i know the truth. i know about your complexities as you navigate this fantasy europe as a racialized man. i know your truth

[brownsugarkuma]

Summer in London, Autumn in Paris

[rafedarling]

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

pairing: sweet!rafe cameron x pogue!reader

summary: you and rafe have known each other for years, despite being from opposite sides of the social spectrum on the outer banks. while you’ve always been a pogue and he’s a kook, there’s always been a connection between the two of you, one that has deepened into friendship over the years. but when rafe shows up at your parents’ house one day with a bouquet of your mom’s favorite flowers, asking for permission to take you on a date, it becomes clear his feelings for you run deeper than you ever expected.

warning(s): english is not my native language. fluff, friends-to-lovers, pogue vs. kook tension, supportive parents, a kind and sweet rafe cameron.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated, actually i wrote this for drew but i though oh why not a sweet rafe for this. taglist | tagging: @rafeyslamb @tracymbcm @enjoymyloves @akobx @rubixgsworld @xoxohoneymoongirl @mileyraes @maybankslover @noobmazter69 @littlelamy @wearemadeofstardust0 @xoxosblogsblog @saviorcomplexrry @bisexualcvnt @stuffyownswrld @anamiad00msday @httpsdrewstarkey

The Outer Banks was always divided—two worlds coexisting on the same stretch of sand and water, yet so far apart. The Pogues, like you, lived on the south side, where hard work, loyalty, and tight-knit community defined your way of life. The Kooks, like Rafe Cameron, lived on the north side, where money, power, and status were everything. Growing up, those lines were clear, and you were taught to stay on your side of them. Yet, as you got older, you began to realize that not all Kooks fit the mold.

Rafe was different.

He wasn’t the Rafe that the rest of the world saw—the Rafe who threw parties at Tannyhill, who had a reputation for getting into fights or drinking too much. With you, he was kind, thoughtful even. You had known each other for years, despite the social divide. It started with brief conversations on the docks or passing each other on the beach. But somehow, over time, those small exchanges turned into something more. Late-night talks when no one was around, shared glances across bonfires, and moments when it felt like the world around you faded away.

Still, you both kept it platonic—safe, avoiding the possibility of crossing a line that might complicate your lives. After all, what would people think? A Pogue and a Kook? No one would understand. But that didn’t stop the quiet tension that always seemed to linger between you two, the way his hand would hover just a little too close to yours, the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You had convinced yourself that Rafe was just being a good friend. That his kindness didn’t mean anything more than that. But everything changed the day he showed up at your parents’ house.

It was a warm afternoon, your mom sat at the table with her cup of coffee. Your dad was nearby, flipping through the latest fishing magazine, savoring the rare quiet weekend. The sound of the doorbell suddenly interrupted the peaceful atmosphere, drawing your dad’s attention.

“Who could that be?” your mom mused aloud, glancing toward the door.

Your dad stood up with his usual slow, deliberate pace, not expecting anyone. He made his way to the door and opened it, only to find Rafe Cameron standing on the front porch. Rafe, with his light brown hair and piercing blue eyes, looked as out of place as ever in your Pogue neighborhood. He held a bouquet of gardenias in his hand, the white petals stark against the casual but expensive clothing he wore.

Your dad blinked in surprise, not expecting to see him here. “Rafe?” he asked.

Rafe smiled, but there was a nervous edge to it. He’d been here before, of course—your parents knew him, albeit from a distance. He wasn’t a stranger, but he certainly wasn’t someone they saw frequently outside of the occasional gatherings. Still, Rafe had always been respectful, polite. And today, something in his expression told your dad that this visit wasn’t just a casual drop-by.

“Hey, Mr. Y/L/N,” Rafe greeted, shifting the flowers in his hand. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Your dad tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Not at all. Come on in, son,” he said, stepping aside and holding the door open.

Rafe walked inside, his gaze sweeping over the familiar interior of your home, which was far smaller and cozier than his sprawling family estate, Tannyhill. The warmth of the space, the lived-in feeling, was a sharp contrast to the cold elegance of his house. That’s what he always liked about coming here. It felt real.

Your mom appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, a curious look on her face when she saw Rafe standing in the foyer. “Rafe Cameron,” she said, her tone lifting in surprise.

“What brings you here? Is everything alright?”

Rafe smiled politely, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the nervous energy beneath his cool exterior.

“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he assured her. He lifted the bouquet in his hands and offered it to her. “These are for you. Y/N told me once that gardenias were your favorite.”

Your mom blinked in surprise, her lips parting slightly before a smile spread across her face. “Oh, Rafe,” she said softly, reaching for the flowers. “You didn’t have to. They’re beautiful.”

Rafe’s smile relaxed, his nerves easing a bit. “I just wanted to bring something.”

Your mom took the bouquet and inhaled the sweet scent of the gardenias. “You’re too kind, Rafe,” she said, her voice full of warmth.

“I’ll put these in a vase. Y/N’s always telling me how thoughtful you are.”

Rafe chuckled lightly, his eyes softening at the mention of you.

“She talks about you all the time too.”

Your dad, who had been observing the exchange quietly, leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms as he gave Rafe an appraising look. “So, Rafe, what brings you by? You and Y/N got plans today?”

At the question, Rafe’s heart skipped a beat. This was the moment he had been preparing for, the reason his palms were sweating despite his efforts to stay calm. He straightened slightly, taking a deep breath before answering.

“Actually,” he began, his voice steady but filled with a quiet intensity, “I came here to talk to you both about something. About Y/N.”

Your parents exchanged a look, their curiosity deepening. Your mom set the vase on the counter, her attention fully on Rafe now.

“Go on,” your dad said, his tone neutral but not unkind.

Rafe swallowed, his eyes flicking briefly toward the floor before meeting your dad’s gaze again. He wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable like this, but he knew he had to do this. He had to be honest, not just for himself but for you.

“I’ve known Y/N for a long time,” Rafe said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of his emotions.

“And she’s always been important to me. We’ve been friends for years, but over time, I realized that what I feel for her isn’t just friendship anymore.”

Your mom’s expression softened as she listened, her maternal instincts kicking in as she sensed the sincerity in his voice.

Rafe continued, his gaze steady but full of emotion. “I care about her, more than I ever thought I could care about anyone. And I didn’t want to move forward without talking to you first—without getting your permission.”

The room fell into a brief but meaningful silence as your parents processed his words. Rafe stood there, feeling the weight of the moment, knowing that this was more than just asking permission for a date. It was about showing respect—not just to you, but to your family, to the life you had built on the south side of the island, so different from his own.

“I know there’s a lot of history between Pogues and Kooks,” Rafe added, his voice softening, “but I don’t care about any of that. I just care about her. And I promise, if you give me a chance, I’ll do everything I can to make sure she’s happy.”

Your mom smiled softly, her eyes shining with affection. She had always liked Rafe, despite his background. She had seen the way he looked at you, the way he treated you with care and respect. And more than that, she knew you cared about him too, even if you hadn’t admitted it to yourself yet.

“Rafe,” she said gently, “you’ve always been a good friend to Y/N. And I can see that you’re serious about this.”

Your dad, who had remained quiet for a moment longer, nodded thoughtfully. He wasn’t blind to the tension between the Pogues and the Kooks, nor to the complications that could come with crossing those lines. But he also wasn’t blind to the fact that Rafe, despite his wealth and status, had always treated you with kindness. And as a father, that meant more to him than any social divide.

“Rafe,” your dad said, stepping forward, “if you’re sure about this—about her—then you’ve got my permission. But remember, this isn’t just a casual thing. If you’re serious, you’d better be ready to prove it.”

Rafe’s heart swelled with relief and gratitude. He had expected this to be difficult, but the approval in your dad’s voice, the trust in your mom’s eyes—it meant more to him than he could put into words.

“I am,” Rafe said, his voice filled with sincerity. “I’ll take care of her. I promise.”

Your dad extended his hand, and Rafe took it, the handshake firm and full of unspoken understanding. Your mom smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling with affection as she watched the exchange.

Just then, the sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the house. Your parents turned toward the door, and Rafe’s heart skipped a beat as you walked in, the sunlight streaming in behind you. You had just returned from the docks, your hair slightly tousled from the wind and your skin warm from the sun. You kicked off your shoes and set your bag down by the door before looking up.

“Hey, everyone,” you greeted, smiling as you stepped inside. Your eyes landed on Rafe, and your smile faltered slightly in confusion. “Hey, Rafe Cameron? What are you doing here?”

Your mom exchanged a knowing glance with your dad before turning to you with a warm smile. “Oh, nothing, sweetheart. Rafe was just stopping by to chat. Why don’t you two go sit in the living room for a bit?”

Your heart did a little flip in your chest as you looked between Rafe and your parents. Something was definitely up. There was a tension in the air, a kind of nervous energy that made your stomach flutter with anticipation. You had known Rafe long enough to know when he was holding something back.

“Uh, okay,” you said, your voice uncertain as you led Rafe into the living room. You sat down on the couch, motioning for him to join you. The air between you was thick with unspoken words, and your mind raced, trying to figure out what was going on.

Rafe sat beside you, his hands resting on his knees as he took a deep breath. He turned to face you, his blue eyes locking onto yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away.

“Y/N,” Rafe began, his voice soft but steady, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

You felt your heart skip a beat as you watched him. Rafe had always been sweet to you, always treated you differently than the other Kooks, but you had never let yourself believe it could be anything more than friendship. After all, you were a Pogue, and he was a Kook. That was just how it was. But the look in his eyes now—it made you wonder if maybe you had been wrong all along.

“I care about you,” Rafe said, his voice low and full of emotion. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. And I know we come from different worlds, but that doesn’t matter to me. What matters is you.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at him, your mind reeling. Was this really happening? Rafe Cameron, one of the most popular Kooks on the island, was sitting in your living room, confessing that he had feelings for you.

“I talked to your parents before you got here,” Rafe continued, his hand reaching out to gently take yours. “I asked for their permission to take you out on a date. I wanted to do this the right way.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as his words sank in. Rafe wasn’t just confessing his feelings—he was showing you, in every way possible, that he was serious about this, about you.

“So,” Rafe said softly, his thumb gently brushing over the back of your hand, “will you go out with me, Y/N? On a real date?”

A tear slipped down your cheek, but you were smiling, your heart swelling with emotion as you nodded. “Yes, Rafe. I’d love to.”

Rafe’s face lit up with a smile that could have melted your heart on the spot. He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours as he let out a soft, contented sigh.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

As you sat there, your hands intertwined and your hearts beating in sync, you realized something: maybe the lines between Kooks and Pogues didn’t matter as much as you had once thought. Maybe love was bigger than the social divide that separated your worlds.

And with Rafe, you were ready to find out.

[mewhenimanangel]

reporting live, paige bueckers

—synopsis. you run into paige again at the club after uconn wins the title game

notes ౨ৎ: sorry it took a month for this, i completely forgot about it!

previous ౨ৎ

it had been three days since you went to the iowa vs uconn game. today was the title game against south carolina but unfortunately you weren't assigned to report on this game.

plus, today was your birthday and you were celebrating with some friends. earlier you had gone out for breakfast and tonight you were going out.

you had the game on your tv while you and your friends were at your apartment getting ready to go out for the night. "paige is so tuff" you watched the tv as you moisturized your legs. "that should be caitlin playing i fear" devon sighed. "mad as hell" you joked.

soon the game was over, and uconn came out on top as the winners. you were so glad for them.

there were shot glasses on your coffee table with remnants of tequila and pink whitney in them. you'd been pregaming with your friends for tonight.

you got dressed into a black sleeveless corset top with a matching mini skirt and brown stiletto boots. you had to admit, the outfit left little to the imagination.

soon you and devon were ready while you waited on your friends, dani, and tristin to finish getting ready.

"can you guys hurry up?" devon scolded them. "relax we're almost ready" tristin rolled his eyes. "okay well i've got connections with the bouncer, and we need to not be late" she pointed a stern finger at him as she threw on her jacket.

after a few minutes of playful bickering, you all were ready to go.

devon got you guys into some exclusive club downtown somehow, she didn't explain the details, but you were excited.

it wasn't a long drive before you made it to the club and your spirits were high. after blasting music and taking cute, slutty pictures in the car with your friends you were excited for the rest of the night.

devon led the way to the club entrance, whispering something to the bouncer who nod his head and let you all in.

"so how exactly did you get us in here?" you asked with a smirk on your face. "you remember dylan?" she had a sly grin on her face. dylan was an old fling of hers, who just so happen to be a manager for clubs and motels. "no!" you gasped and she just nod her head.

you all followed her to sit at a booth in the corner.

after a few minutes you ordered some loaded fries  and sliders for the table, along with a bottle of tequila and shot glasses.

the alcohol was definitely pumping through your system at this point, and dani dragged you all to dance. there was some remix playing in the background while you grind your ass on dani and tristin.

"can we get another drink?!" devon leaned over to ask you. "yea sure!" you followed her through the crowd of people over to the bar.

"can i have a long island please?" devon asked the bartender. "and a vodka martini for me please!” you added.

you sat down while you waited for your drinks when devon looked past you at the door.

“oh my god there’s no way. uconn just walked in.” she said. “what, are you sure that’s them?” you followed her gaze. “are you that drunk you can’t see?” she asked you to which you just laughed.

you subconsciously looked around for the uconn player you were most concerned with, paige.

she came in behind everyone else with nika and kk. she wore a short black crop top that had her toned body on display, with baggy camouflage jeans that sit on top of a pair of jordans.

she looked so good, her hair was down with four braids in. “damn she looks good, you should go talk to her” devon smirked. you snapped your head at her “are you insane? why would i do that?”

the bartender handed you both your drinks and you thanked him. “i’m just saying, you should’ve seen the way she was looking at you when you interviewed her at the last game. eye contact was heavy, she was definitely checking you out”

“that’s called media training, you’re supposed to keep eye contact” you told her. the both of you looked over to find her again.

except this time, she was looking at you. there was a smirk on her face as she eyed you down, squinting to see you better. even from across the bar, you could feel the tension.

“oh she wants you. that was definitely checking you out” devon scoffed. you hid the smile on your face “i wonder if she even remembers me though?” you sipped on your drink. “who would forget you and from that look she definitely does”

“you don’t even know if she likes women” you reasoned.

you slowly turned to look at paige again who was now sitting at a booth with a few of her teammates, you still had a good view of her from the bar though.

she looked over at you again and you quickly turned around. “i feel like a tween with a crush right now” you giggled.

“i’m gonna go pee” you told devon. “be careful okay?” she told you and you nod your head.

you walked by paige’s booth to find the bathroom. you could feel her look at you.

when you came out of the stall to wash your hands, you dart your eyes to paige who was standing in the mirror taking a picture.

“oh hey, sorry” she moved out of your way. “no you’re good” you smiled. “i know you don’t i, you’re the pretty woman who interviewed me last week” she crossed her arms, emphasizing her biceps.

“oh yeah haha i am” you dried your hands. “why didn’t you say hi?” “was i supposed to?” you quirked your eyebrow. she hummed “did you see the game today? you weren’t there interviewing” she opened the door for you as the two of you left the bathroom.

“yeah…i took the day off cause it’s my birthday” you told her. “ohhh happy birthday” she smirked, eyes trailing over your outfit. “thank you so much” “how old are you now?”

“twenty two” she nod her head and put her hand in a shape to mimic a microphone. “well mrs..” she trailed off realizing she doesn’t know your name. you chuckled and told her.

“well mrs y/n, how do you feel being twenty two” she put an exaggerated reporter voice on. “well paige, it’s feeling pretty good. the club is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing” you responded in your own reporter voice, making her laugh.

“you look really nice by the way” she took the opportunity to eye fuck you again. “why thank you” you posed with your hands on the back of your hips as you did a small twirl.

“you look really good too” you took your own chance to check her out as well, not missing the smirk on her face when you did so.

“so congrats on the game, i saw you guys won”

“yeah, it’s so crazy to think i’ve come this far” she shook her head. “well that’s amazing! you guys came to celebrate?” you asked her and she nod her head. “oh, should i be letting you go back to your teammates then?..” you turned to find their table.

“nah they won’t mind, i’d rather talk to you anyways” she moved a step closer, and you tilt your head to look at her. these shoes only made you about 5’9 compared to her regular 6’0 ft frame. the dim lighting in the building cast a warm glow on her face.

“you wanna get a drink?” she nod her head towards the bar. you were a little drunk but you definitely weren’t turning down that offer “sure”

she held on to the small of your back as the two of you made your way through the crowd of people. you sat on two vacant stools and paige called the bartender over. she told him she wanted a sex on the beach before you told her you just wanted a light daiquiri.

the two of you got to talking about whatever until the conversation got a little personal. you had your leg crossed over your lap, crossing past her leg and you swore you felt her drag your stool closer.

“wait so, you do like women?” you asked her. “sorry, you don’t have to answer that” you stopped yourself. “nah it’s cool, i don’t put a label on it i just like who i like”

you couldn’t help but feel a sort of tension when she said that. as the words left her mouth her stare intensified and she looked down at your lips before back up at your eyes.

“oh okay that makes sense i guess” you nod your head. “do you…like women?” she asked you. “i do” you pursed your lips into a smirk as you continued “why?”

“do you happen to like women who are blonde and play basketball?” she smirked. you chuckled “yeah i think i do actually” you let your eyes flicker down to her lips.

she quickly handed her credit card to the bartender and grabbed your hand leading you to the exit, pressing you up against a wall outside.

“can i kiss you?” she asked you. you answered that by pressing your lips on hers and throwing your arms around her neck.

though the kiss was sloppy at first, you both fell into a rhythm as her hands held onto your waist.

paige felt a little bold and slid her hand up further, cupping the underside of your boob. you grinned “not worried someone’s gonna see us?” you broke the kiss. she shook her head no “nah it’s fine” she kissed you again.

“well, i actually have a rule. i don’t hookup with people i barely know at the club”

she looked a little defeated at that. “wanna go back to my place?” you smirked and she nod her head, grabbing your hand to lead you to her car.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Liqueurs

Liqueurs

Also known as cordials.

Distilled spirits that feature flavorings such as fruits, herbs, and spices.

Heavy, sweet, and complexly flavored drinks.

These sweet alcoholic beverages are used to make cocktails, or can be served alone as aperitifs or digestifs.

Making Liqueurs

Involves adding fruits, sugar, cream, spices, herbs, nuts, and flavorings to a liquor base at a distillery.

The sweetness of liqueurs is their most common feature.

Although, they can range widely in sugar content.

Popular types of liqueurs: orange liqueurs, herbal liqueurs, and coffee liqueurs.

Liqueur vs. Liquor

Both are drinks with high alcohol content and similar-sounding names.

However, there are essential differences between these two categories:

Fermentation: Liquor—also known as hard alcohol, spirits, or distilled spirits—is a category of alcoholic beverages that ferment and undergo distillation. In the distillation process, heat and condensation increase the alcohol content, and a significant portion of the water boils off, concentrating the alcohol and particular compounds. Liquors usually starting with a grain base (distillers occasionally use fruits). The six main categories are whiskey, brandy, rum, vodka, gin, and tequila.

Flavorings: Most liqueurs begin with liquor as a base; then, distillers add herbs, spices, and other flavorings. Bartenders can serve liqueurs as-is or add them in small amounts to a liquor base to form mixed drinks.

Sugar: The main difference between liquor and liqueur is sweetness. Liqueurs are intensely flavored with the most predominant note usually being sweetness. Flavoring herbs and oils and added sugar provide flavor and texture.

Alcohol content: Both liqueurs and liquors have a range of alcohol content. Most liquor is in the 40 to 55 percent range of Alcohol by Volume (ABV), or 80 to 110 proof. Liqueurs typically contain more ingredients, so the alcohol content is generally lower, from 15 to 30 percent ABV or 30 to 60 proof.

15 Popular Types of Liqueurs

There is a wide range of liqueurs, from cream-based cordials to proprietary recipes.

Amaretto: An Italian liqueur made from apricot kernels, which give the liquor a distinctly bitter almond flavor. Its name comes from amaro, the Italian word for “bitter.” Sweeter notes of brown sugar temper the bitterness of the apricot pits. It contains 21 to 28% ABV and can be sipped alone or added to cocktails.

Amaro: A broad category of regional Italian bitters. Made from either a neutral spirit or brandy, this bitter liqueur is a staple in the Italian lifestyle. A curated blend of botanical ingredients—typically an inherited recipe that includes herbs, spices, and flowers, as well as barks and roots like gentian root, cinchona, and wormwood—gives each variety of amaro its unique flavor. Campari, Cynar, Fernet Branca, and Aperol are popular amaro liqueur brands.

Anise liqueurs: Anice, the primary flavoring agent in black licorice, is a popular ingredient in alcoholic drinks in many countries and cultures: Ouzo in Greece, Sambuca and Galliano in Italy, Pernod Absinthe in France, and Raki in Turkey, among others.

Chambord: A popular brand of raspberry-flavored liqueur. The ingredients are red and black raspberries, honey, vanilla, and cognac. Chambord is great for making Raspberry Mojitos and Raspberry Margaritas.

Cream liqueurs: Thick, sweet liqueurs made with the addition of milk or a milk substitute, along with sweetener, to provide a creamy sweetness to the drink. Baileys Irish Cream liqueur and Amarula are two examples of cream liqueurs.

Creme liqueurs: Creme liqueurs are thick, sweet, syrup-like beverages. Unlike cream liqueurs, creme liqueurs do not contain dairy. Instead, added sugar provides a thick consistency. Crème de cassis (made from blackcurrants), crème de cacao, (a chocolate liqueur) and crème de menthe are different flavors of this category.

Coffee liqueurs: These liqueurs contain caffeine, and the predominant flavor is coffee. Coffee liqueurs, such as Kahlúa from Mexico or Irish Sheridan, are generally served with cream and sugar.

Elderflower liqueurs: These herbal liqueurs provide a light, floral note to cocktail recipes. St. Germain is a popular brand of elderflower liqueur.

Limoncello: A liqueur flavored with lemon peel. Limoncello is strong, sweet, and bright yellow.

Medicinal: Some liqueurs, such as Chartreuse and Benedictine, were initially used for medicinal purposes. These liqueurs tend to be floral and highly complex, with an ingredient list that remains secretive.

Orange liqueurs: These liqueurs feature predominant orange flavors, and are broadly known under the labels curaçao or Triple Sec. Popular brands include Cointreau and Grand Marnier.

Schnapps: Some varieties of schnapps do not classify as liqueurs, but those with added sweetness and flavoring agents, such as peach schnapps and peppermint schnapps, are liqueurs.

Drambuie: This Scottish liqueur has a base spirit of Scotch whiskey and a proprietary blend of herbs and spices.

Frangelico: Italian liqueur flavored with roasted hazelnuts; comes in a uniquely shaped bottle, modeled after a Christian monk, complete with a rope belt.

Strega: Italian herbal liqueur that gets its name from the Italian word for witch. The distinctive yellow color comes from saffron, imparting flavor to the liqueur.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Cocktails ⚜ Food History Wine-tasting ⚜ Drunkenness ⚜ Drinking ⚜ Literary & Hollywood Cocktails

[thisismeracing]

Moonshine | LH44

SOCIAL MEDIA AU

― Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x reader (she/her) ― Warnings: curse words, Twitter environment, mentions of food and alcohol; it’s not proofread, etc, etc. ― Summary: In which Lewis is sunshine, but dates a grumpy!reader and fans start noticing how different they are. ― A/n: none of the pictures used are mine, they are all from Pinterest and other apps. everything else is made up by me and I do not give permission for it to be published on a different platform. I would appreciate it if those things could be taken into consideration 💛

⁕ my masterlist | my taglist here  ⁕ Support my writing by reblogging, and leaving me a message 🤍

lewishamilton

liked by georgerussell65, sebastianvettel, and others

lewishamilton this weekend 🤎

view all 6,732 comments

hammertimmes I love the brown aesthetic

roscoeloveslewis he's the most precious person on earth for always including his dog

ynsummer yn looks so done with the pics lol

⤷ forzaferrados she probably doesn't like pics

monzamonegasque golden retriever vs black cat

yourusername great wine and great coffee 🙌🏾

⤷ lewishamilton what about the great company?

⤷ yourusername don't push it 🤚🏾

⤷ schumercedes HAHAHAH I LOVE THEM SM

lewishamilton

liked by carmenmmundt, yourusername, and others

lewishamilton she does smile, she's just afraid to do it a lot and you guys fall in love (like I did) 😜🤎💛❤️

view all 8,209 comments

georgerussell63 SIMP SIMP SIMP

⤷ yourusername carmenmmundt come here, bestie

⤷ georgerussell63 you're supposed to back me up, yn!

⤷ yourusername now why would I? 🤨

charleslechair HE GAVE HER ROSES

lewisandgeorge They listen to music in vinyls and drink wine, god me when? 😔🫳

yourusername don't show the last picture to roscoe nor tyler!!

⤷ roscoelovescoco toos lates mommas, I sees yous with others pets 😤

⤷ sainzraincircuits KJSAFKSDJGKSJG OMG OMG OMG OMG

yourusername

liked by lewishamilton, lilyhme, and others

yourusername I had to take Tyler and Roscoe to a coffee date to be forgiven for taking a picture with that cute bunny. And also got a new plushie 🤍🥰😇

view all 9,241 comments

roscoelovescocos I loves yous mommas

lewishamilton my moonshine 💛

sunshinecharles her whole palette is just so comforting, I now love beige and brown stuff

carmenmmundt Did you order my suggestion?

⤷ yourusername I gave it a chance and it's amazing!! We gotta go there together soon 🤝

georgerussell63 she cut the upper half of the picture because she's smiling!

⤷ yourusername HAHAHAHAH go see if it's raining!!!! 😡😡 Oh- and make sure it's rain, and not sweat

mickreputation I love Yn more than I love Lewis, this is my confession

⤷ lewishamilton it's fine, I love her more too

⤷ swiftiecedes OMG OMG 🫨😭😭

taglist: @sachaa-ff @mickslover @formulakay3 @mishaandthebrits @iloveyou3000morgan @crimeshowjunkie @fdl305 @scorpiobleue @wondergirl101ks @carojasmin2204 @chaoticevilbakugo @smiithys @shhhchriss @f1kota

Make sure to reblog and leave a comment, likes are gold but reblogs are golden💛

[haztory]

october 17th ♡

– ceo!kuroo tetsurou x assistant!reader; timeskip au, slow burn, mutual pining

– summary: It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season.

part one

a/n: i saw the hq movie and remembered my roots. it's kuroo time. love that man. (w.c.: 6.4k)

It’s October 17th, your desk calendar tells you. 

Marked in a quick circle in bold red pen for emphasis. Not like you could forget it, what with the building buzz that seems to escalate with every hour and the excited greetings bubbling in the office. And certainly you couldn’t forget the date with your boss reminding you of it every single chance he could get.

It’s October 17th. The day of which you can never get a semblance of peace. It’s the start of volleyball season. There’s a tally sheet in your mind that holds eight marks— one for every time he’s mentioned the damn day— and it’s not even time for your second cup of coffee. 

The most wonderful time of the year, according to Kuroo. 

There’s a pep in his step as he juggles his briefcase and files between hands and skips towards his third meeting of the day. His phone is tucked between his ear and shoulder, swarmed in the air of chaos and yet, there’s a wide smile on his face. Toothy and eager, almost maniacal. An exhilarated man, the ringmaster of madness, preparing a show for thousands with only coffee and sheer enthusiasm running through his veins. 

The tiles beneath his feet practically turn golden as he passes by. 

He stops before your desk on his way out, phone dutifully tucked yet ignored as he meets your gaze with burning excitement. The chatter on the other end of the line is audible, and he really should be listening to it, but instead his focus is maintained on you. You raise a brow in question, fingers hovering over the keyboard to your computer and e-mail to the finance department woefully on hold as your boss stares at you. 

Tufts of his hair are pulled in various ways, the standard for a busy morning, and the sleeves of his white button down are rolled up to his elbows displaying the veins that no doubt pulse excitedly; But the most revealing part of him, the most captivating part in his day of havoc, are his eyes. 

Honey auburn that burns alight in sheer joy— the kind of happiness that he wants you to revel in, hopes to convey in the intensity of his gaze. Sticky honey brown that coats the inside of your stomach and fills you with warmth. A gleam that can make flowers bloom with just his simple gaze.  

Slowly, he points his finger towards your calendar that’s displayed clearly for the regular passerby. Fingertip presses the red circle on the paper, emphasizing the words scribbled inside of it detailing the events of the day. 

1st Day of Volleyball Season!

His smile splits his face into two. You add another tally to the sheet.  

Indulging him with a grin would be encouraging juvenile behavior, so it takes everything in you to bite back the tugging of your lips and instead roll your eyes. It doesn’t deter him. He all but clicks his heels together as he prances out the door, throwing his fist holding his briefcase in the air with a silent cheer, and answering whatever question was posed to him on the other end of his line.

It’s October 17th, Kuroo’s favorite day of the year. 

Yours, too. 

Although, you would never tell him that.

-

The starting game of MSBY vs. Tachibana Red Falcons is a match predicted to be vicious and brutal. Considering Japan’s top players had more than proved themselves to be powerhouses during the Nations League Tournament over the summer, the star power and media attention given to the players has given the entrance game to the season an anticipation that could not be tamed— not that anyone in the marketing department would want it to be. 

The players this year have been nothing short of top tier athleticism— a detail that so graciously fell into the JVA’s hands and became their capitalized advertisement. 

An unmatched season! A trial of power and speed! Japan’s best players go head-to-head in the best playoffs Japan has ever seen!

Kuroo practically played the lottery every morning with luck like this. 

The Ariake Arena fills up like a lightning flood, waves of bodies decorated with black and red filling seats with heightened excitement. It vibrates throughout the stadium, transcends beyond the high beams and open space. It fills and suffocates until all that can be seen, heard, and felt is pure, unadulterated energy. It’s a straight shot of adrenaline to the heart. It’s the taste of a sweet memory. 

The sound of excitement from guests and vendors steadily rises and Kuroo buzzes in place. His shoes tap incessantly on the wooden floor, fingers flutter with anticipation as he adjusts, then readjusts, the now wrinkled tie across his neck. His cheeks ache from the endless smile that pushes on them. 

Carefully moved chess pieces, endless phone calls, and retina-burning contracts with sponsors have finally gotten him here: To the sweet smell of cool conditioned air and freshly waxed floors, to the sounds of chants and joy, to the sight of his successfully pitched logo printed beneath Miya Atsumu’s smug face on the large banner tacked on the left side of the arena. The veneration on his face is one that finds itself familiar to veterans. Standing on the shining hardwood of the court, his hands finally find rest on his hips, his gaze stilling at the sight of his months-long work. 

Pride doesn’t really do much justice to the feelings inside of him— but damn if it isn’t a close enough guess. His hard work finally actualized, but it’s only just really beginning. This is where his fun begins, the shining light, the gentle reminder of how much he loves his job.

October 17th, the best day of the year.

“We need to see the players before warm-ups begin.” Kuroo says after a moment, not even needing to spare a glance backwards to see if you’ve heard him. Such is the consequence of having a good assistant, one that, even with all the eye rolls and dragging sighs, is always a step ahead of him.

“Coach Foster said that he could spare us ten minutes before he gives his locker room speech. Coach Sato said the same.” You tell your boss, stepping beside him as his eyes follow the movements of staff members dragging carts of volleyballs to their respective places. An approving look settles on his face, a delightful perusal.

There's a tablet held in your arms as you notate on a timetable, presumably a schedule with detailed notes that Kuroo has to be on in order for the evening to go well. Probably one you've put a lot of time and effort into. Knowing you, it’s probably color coded. A schedule that he would do well by both you and the company in abiding by.

He shoves his hand between the tablet and your fixed stare, wiggling his fingers obnoxiously in front of the work that holds your dutiful attention. "Stop paying attention to that and look around you. Smell the air! What is it you smell?"

The excitement held so passionately in his eyes bore into your unimpressed ones. "Stale popcorn and lemon cleaner, Kuroo-san."

"So negative, I think the long work days are finally getting to you."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Not mine. You love me too much to quit." He grins. He gestures his hand outward, panning it across the stadium to the sight of guests filling the seats. "It's the smell of anticipation! The promise of a worthwhile game! How can you not be excited?”

A ping resounds on your tablet that draws your gaze back down to the schedule. It’s a message from the volunteer coordinator. You write a note in the margin—volunteers in break room at 8:45, give thanks and gifts at 9.

"It’s hard to be excited when you keep yapping in my ear about what day it is." You mutter distractedly.

"You're telling me," Suddenly his fingers are poking into the skin of your cheeks, lifting the skin upward in a manufactured smile, "You look frightening." 

You swat his hands away, your own palms connecting with his in a vicious slap. "If we don't get started now you're going to be late in meeting the President of the JVA at his box seats." 

Kuroo waves his hand nonchalantly. "Ah, he'll wait for me. I am the reason we’ve got a turnout like this. It's the least he could do."

You roll your eyes, formality lost as you address your boss. "It's about the principle of it, Tetsu. He'll be upset."

"Have you forgotten what day it is? How can anyone be upset on this day?"

You stare at him in violent silence clearly exposing the extent of your disdain for him at this moment. It’s a futile endeavor. Your stare only fuels the fire of his need for provocation tenfold. His smile widens, teeth bearing a shit-eating grin. With little remorse, you tell him, "You're very annoying when you're happy."

His head tilts backward in a laugh, lean and tall figure elongating with the motion as he, genuinely, finds himself amused. “And you're even meaner than usual when I am. C’mon, let’s pay the Jackals a visit.” Accompanying the turn of his body, he taps the tip of your nose with his slender finger and begins a trek towards the main entrance leading to the corridors of the arena.

“No.” Your quick retort is the popping of a balloon. He deflates, hands thrown upward in exasperation as he turns around to face you once more. You swear he stomps his feet. 

"God, what now?"

“Favoritism.”

He balks with a furrow on his brow, “Pardon?”

“Favoritism. It’s obvious to everyone in this building who you’re rooting for, so we need to minimize those details before someone catches wind and decides to tell the press that the games are rigged.”

“Now, that is an outrageous idea. No respectable reporter would use my words against me.” Kuroo smiles, annoyingly, confidently. To which your stare only digs further into him, the infamous memory of last year’s season playing quite clearly across your face in which his sarcastic comment about players salaries made headlines and resulted in a week of endless phone calls to your office.

“JVA DIRECTOR STATES DIV. ONE PLAYERS WILL NOT RECEIVE SPONSORSHIP BONUSES AFTER ASTOUNDING SEASON AS ‘WE DON’T PAY FOR MEDIOCRITY AND THESE PLAYERS SUCK, OBVIOUSLY’.”

It’s the conveyance of death in your eyes alone that really gets him going. Truly, there’s no one more impressive than you. 

“I said, respectable.” Kuroo emphasizes, hardly batting an eye as you walk past him. 

“C’mon. Coach Sato is waiting with the Falcons.”

“The favoritism allegation is ridiculous. Ask around the office, no one is able to tell that you’re my least favorite of them all.” He follows you into the hallway without prompting like the well-trained dog you’ve made him to be, “That’s how good I am.”

You turn back to look at him, “Oh, sure. So the names Bokuto and Hinata don’t mean anything to you?”

Biting back a smirk, he says, “I have no idea who you’re referring to.”

—

In the aftermath of a worthwhile game and an impressive start to the season, the stadium quickly finds itself abandoned. Scores of people taking to the street to celebrate their win or drink their sorrows away, their raucous din and lived delight exiting with them, leaving only a barren arena—save for the remaining staff who dutifully tidy the empty aisles and clean the floors. Yet, even with their humble presence, it’s quiet. Only the light echoing of shoes and brooms on the floor, the rolling of carts, the sounds of vacuums filling the space and providing life. 

And standing on the second floor of the arena, leaning his body against the railing overlooking the court, Kuroo finally gets a second to just look.

There are very few times in which Kuroo is quiet. Or rather, there are very few times where he gets the chance to be. 

It’s hard to walk the line between professional and man, not that he does a good job at it on a regular day. It's an all-consuming persona and his job demands the full devotion of mind, body, and spirit despite the relative nonurgency that comes with being a Marketing Director. And while he’s never been known for his outstanding polish as a young professional— particularly within the confines of his office— Kuroo has never not been one to commit. What is demanded of him is what he gives, and more. 

These days he’s finding it almost impossible to switch the hat of boss for the one of man. The lines between the two become even more blurred with each passing day that he spends another sleepless night in the office, attends another soul sucking meeting that could have truly just been an email, brown noses at people with titles and credentials that he cannot bear to remember for the sake of money. 

Humanity slowly depletes when met with the four walls of an office that never changes shades.  Moments like this are brief allowances. The empty stadium is conducive to the quick slip into a memory, the removal of the permanent hat for the other one. 

The game played not even an hour ago is replaced with that of what he remembers.  The once erratic beat of his heart before the blown whistle, the feel of burning muscles in his calves, and the sting of the ball on his skin; He can almost taste the salt of the disappointment of a lost match, and the sweetness of the joy the game gave him. If he tries, Kuroo can recall the last time that he was on a court just like the one before him and remember just how wonderful it once was.

The sweet memory of it all. A sliver of happiness that he keeps stowed away in the back of his mind, meant only to be pulled out in times of emergency. When life gets too loud and work becomes exactly what it is—work. It’s the needed reprieve, the gentle vice. But much like everything else these days, it lasts for only a lingering moment before it fades into the nothingness of everything else. 

There isn’t one particular thought that he can train on. He couldn’t even tell anyone what exactly it is that he thinks about, for it all blends together into the great variation of everything. A hectic whirlwind of things that fall over one another as they fight to take his attention. 

The game schedule for tomorrow, the invoices he needs to have approved, the mountain of unread emails relating to a media sponsorship that needs to be finalized by the end of the month, the leadership training that he needs to attend next week. Seeing Bokuto and Hinata before the game was a slip of the hat into the relative calm of youth that he remembers so fondly, he should probably try and hang out with them more. His social life is already pitiful. There’s also the fact that he has to go grocery shopping since he just ran out of instant noodles, unless he wants to have takeout again—but he’s already racked up quite the bill this month in takeout alone and he hasn’t been able to go to the gym enough to counteract those great decisions. He needs to return his sister’s phone call, something he keeps prolonging, not because he doesn’t care to know the details about his nephew’s birthday party next Sunday but rather because that will inevitably lead to the discussion about their father’s well-being and truthfully, that’s not a can of worms he’s willing to open just yet. And also—

“Hey.”

Kuroo’s head snaps towards the intrusion, towards the voice that cuts through the storm of flying thoughts and stills them in their rampage. 

You stand behind him, your blazer thrown over your purse and the sleeves of your dress shirt rolled up to your elbows. Your hair is no longer the neat style you had at the beginning of the event, but instead the reflection of a long work day. Your own work hat stowed somewhere deep in your purse, in favor of someone he’s rather fond of. 

“Hey.” He returns, surprised but pleased. He had figured at the end of the game you would have made haste with the exiting crowd. Your duties done for the day, the schedule you made him stick to like glue finished and completed. Any other person would have run for the doors and be home by now. 

But, here you are. Standing with a content smile on your face and a softening in your eyes as you meet his gaze. (Truthfully, he should know better. You’ve never been one to just leave without telling him, whether directly or through email, for home or for a date. Hell, you all but yell your plans in his face just to reduce the risk of confusion. But he assumes, still, that you’re smarter than him. That you know when to call it quits on a work day and head home. 

He conveniently forgets that, above all, you’re good at your job. You never listen, too stubborn and insistent on doing your duties even when he tells you to go home early; to not worry about the final details on a draft or a missed message; tells you that he can handle it. That’s never been you, because aside from being fantastic at being his assistant, you’ve been committed to your craft no matter what it is. You care too much about your job and the things it affects. 

Because that’s who you are. It’s who you’ve always been. It’s what he knows to be true and violent about you, and it's what he’s been able to see blossom since working with you. So, of course you’re here. Waiting for him, because that’s what you do. Commit to being there for him, through and through. 

Because you’re his assistant, of course. 

Just his assistant. That’s all.)

He stands straighter, manners not entirely drilled out of his subconscious, even if he was distracted. A beat passes, he looking at you and you looking at him, before he, finally, extends a hand— inviting you to join him. You do, settling next to him on the rail, and gazing over the object of his fixation. 

It’s a content silence. The inhale of the aftermath, the exhale of the preparation. One you both know the extent of, have shared too many late nights for. There’s great relief in being able to revel in the fruits of one’s labor, but there’s something all the more satisfying in knowing someone else was basking in that reward too. In not being entirely alone, despite the job often making him feel.

This is your moment just as much as it is his, something he’s never been more convinced of. 

Much of the success belonging to him would be nothing if not for your firm foundation, the depth of your support for not only him, but the game. The wondrous, joyous game. 

 It’s only a moment or two of the stillness between you two before you gently disturb it. 

“Today went well.” You tell him. 

He gives an affirmative hum, a small smile befalling on his face. Folding his arms across his chest, he tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “You don’t think the banner was too big?”

“It’s no bigger than it usually is.” You shrug and he hums again. 

Another beat, then he says, “Did you notice the photo?”

“On the banner?” You ask. 

“Yeah.”

“I did.”

“Good.” He says, resolutely, looking over the arena once more as two staff members begin folding up the commentators chairs on the sidelines of the court, “You chose it.”

“I know.” You say. He smiles again, a happy and content one; and you would tease him about it— (about the fact that he’s smiling as though this were a great victory fought between the marketing department and the photography studio, one that he emerged victorious in fighting tooth and nail for your input instead of the reality of the situation. 

It was a cloudlink sent to his email on a Tuesday afternoon, filled with prints of various D1 players that he was asked to provide input on. A task that he, then, delegated to you by calling you into his office on your lunch break and having you play eenie-meenie-miny-moe with him. With a sandwich held firmly in your hand and Kuroo pecking at his snack bag of trail mix, you point to the smug face of Miya Atsumu.

“It’s because of the smile, right?” He had asked, his eyes squinting and head tilted to the side as though that would give him better understanding of the man’s face. “He’s a great player. He just has the look of a winner.”

“I don’t know. I just think he’s hot.” You tell him simply.

Kuroo chokes on a peanut. You laugh. He sends your choice over to the graphic design team.)

—but you let him have the small win. Four years of working together has taught you which of the battles to fight, and truthfully, there aren’t that many that you don’t give to him. Admitting sucha  thing, however, would be a violation of everything you hold dear to your job so you obviously omit that. 

Kuroo speaks once more, his voice soft as he continues to regard the court. “You did a good job today.”

There’s no tease in him, no wry smile or setup for a joke that you’re clearly walking into. For all intents and purposes, Kuroo Testurou stands before you as a man with more than his guard down. He stands honestly, made soft and tender by the trials of a hard work day and the victory of his labor. 

The kind of man you know him to be, that you hold such deep admiration for. 

“Thank you, Tetsu.” For fear of disrupting the quiet that surrounds the arena or fear of shattering the genuineness of the moment, you respond in kind. Equally gentle when you tell him earnestly, honestly, “So did you, but that’s not new.”

You feel it before you can even see or hear it. The turning of the tide, the impending slant of his smile; The red alert alarm that you have built into your head for Tetsurou’s moments of snarkiness blaring loudly. 

The taunt is on its way and you begin a rebuttal before he even opens his mouth. Kuroo’s face contorts into an exaggerated look of disbelief.

“We were having—”

“I cannot believe it—” 

“—a nice moment!”

“—Is that a compliment I hear?”

Rolling your eyes, you turn your head away from him. “If you’re going to act like that—”

“No, no! Can’t take it back. You said it already.” 

“Nope. I formally recant my statement—”

“Ooh, big word—”

“—I forswear what I said—”

“—Forswear?! How do you even know what that means?”

“—You did an adequate job. Actually, you did exactly what was expected of you. Nothing more.”

“C’mon, give me some credit. You weren’t expecting me to land that invite for that GQ party next month. And how did I do that? Remind me one more time?” Kuroo leans his head towards you, tapping his ear repeatedly. 

“By doing your job.” You insist and he throws his head to the side in hurt.

“By being the best at my job.”

“They invited you because you were badgering them in the box seats. What did you bribe them with?”

He levels a steady smirk at you, “Sounds like someone doesn’t want to go.”

You gasp, eyes narrowing, “You wouldn’t.”

“Admit it, then.” He grins.

“Admit what! That I kept you on schedule for the day so that you could actually do your job and get us the invites? Then I will admit that I did my job excellently.” You poke your finger into his chest repeatedly and he laughs.

He agrees with a small nod of his head, smiling widely, knowingly. “You did.” 

“I did.” You affirm. “And with enough time to factor in potty breaks. Plural.”

Kuroo laughs again, incredulously, “Potty. Who even says that anymore?”

“Me. Your lovely, amazing assistant that you are definitely taking to the GQ party.”

Kuroo’s gaze fixes on yours, held firmly as the grin lingering so resolutely on his face reaches up to his eyes. The conversation peters out into another gentle silence, ambers meeting yours in a steady embrace, and voicing what remains to be said. Held tightly by the reciprocity of your own gaze.

It happens, then. The quiet kindling that has become so familiar between he and you. The settling of a warmth between the space that has been occurring more frequently; Found only in times like this. When laughter dissipates and ease takes over. When it becomes glaringly obvious that you enjoy your boss’s company a little more than you probably should, and that he doesn’t necessarily mind you all that much. There isn’t much to say about it even though your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and fiction dictates that this is the moment where someone should say something.

But what is there to say at this moment to the man who signs your paychecks? Who eggs you on in ways that no one would even bother to do? What could you express other than profound admiration and deep annoyances over his character? What could you tell him that he doesn’t already know? 

(Maybe the truth that is buried deep within you. One that you haven’t admitted to yourself because honestly, you aren’t even sure you believe it yourself.

There’s bound to be affections shared between two people who work in such close proximity as you two. Regard, appreciation, fondness— but not that. No, it couldn’t be that. That would be ridiculous.

Because he’s your boss, of course. 

Just your boss. That’s all.) 

“You should go home,” Tetsurou is the first to break the stare. Fortunately, too, lest you become too absorbed in your thoughts and do something stupid like risking getting lost in the eyes of amber. He turns his attention to his hands on the railing, his thumb tapping repeatedly on the metal. “Get some rest. You deserve it, keeping me in line and all.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. 

“Are you heading home soon?” You ask.

He shrugs, before looking to the court once more. “In a minute.  I’m going to stay for a little longer. Not ready to go home yet.”

You hum, “Then I’ll stay with you.”

There’s a beat of silence, one that, when you glance towards him you expect to see filled with amusement. Maybe a tease on his tongue once more about how hard you work, about how miserable you’ll be in the morning for staying up past your bedtime. Instead, you see only the calm stillness of his face, eyes fixed resolutely on the empty court before him. 

He leans forward onto the railing, bracing his elbows against its fixture, watching the scene below him as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. Four janitors taking a break from their waxing of the floor to play a quick, and sloppy, game of volleyball. Soft laughter echoes throughout the room, broken apart by low mutterings of commentary on their plays that sends the four older men into even further laughter. 

Then, “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I went pro.”

To learn of other people in the course of a years-long friendship is natural, rightfully expected— and while there is much of Kuroo that you do know and can recite off the top of your head, the willful admittance of intimate details, especially in quiet times like this, is always surprising. Especially when coupled with the contemplative silence that follows his words, the genuine wonder, the longing written on his face as the rose thoughts of a first love bloom in the cracks of a fallen smile. 

In the softening of his eyes and the deep sigh that he releases, you realize that there’s a Kuroo Tetsurou that you don’t know. 

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, you reach out to find him. You ask, softly. “Why did you stop playing?”

His eyes remain trained on the court, as though the answer were laid upon the hardwood floors. “It was time. I loved the game but, I don’t know. Just didn’t make sense for me to keep it going. There were other things I needed to do, and playing professionally would have taken up too much time.” 

You can almost see it, then. A younger Tetsurou, even more chaotic and rowdy than you know him to be, with hopes and dreams that exist somewhere in the great web of could have been’s, cast to the side because of the “other things”. You don’t pry, not when he’s already being so forthcoming as it is, but you make a note. Store it away in the folder lodged deep in your mind dedicated to the man.

“Would you be happier if you did?” You ask, albeit hesitantly. Not entirely sure what you would do with the answer.

He rolls his broad shoulders gently, like a tide rolling in under itself, swayed under its own pressure and maybe that should mean something. “Well, it’s not like I’m unhappy. I’ve got a good life, good job, good people. I’ve got it all.” 

He spares a quick glance to you. So quick you wouldn’t have caught it had he not already been the centerpoint of your fixed stare, but truthfully, when is he not? When is he not the center of your gaze, your life, your world? Everything in your routine seems to start and end with Kuroo Tetsurou.

“But I can’t deny how much I miss the game.”

—you don’t mind all that much. Especially not when he’s like this. Open, sensitive, and wanting to talk. When he actually takes the time to chew his thoughts out and speak them into existence rather than continue his sordid and pointed teases.

You lean forward onto the railing. “Do you think you would have made it far?” 

He adjusts his figure next to yours. His crooked elbow touches yours, but he makes no move to remove it. “Well… I hate to brag, but…” 

You scoff. “You do.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say.” He shrugs his shoulders wryly. “In another life, I’m still playing.” 

It sounds sadder than he intends it to be, but it’s the truth. And you get it; have your own could-have’s stored deep in the recesses of your mind, your own forgotten dreams about who you wanted to be that haunt and plague in the twilight of hard nights where sleep is elusive and quarter-life crises spring forth in the darkness—but it’s not all bad.

“Well, in this other life, if you’re playing and I just so happened to know you,” You tell him, “I would be your biggest fan.”

He huffs at that. Looking at you with a tilt of his head and a handsome smile on his face. “Oh yeah? And if you didn’t?”

“I’d be Miya Atsumu’s biggest fan.” You say simply.

“You already are.”

“Yeah, but I know you have jealousy issues so I just don’t say anything about it.”

Tetsurou nods his head. Amused. “Well I’m glad to know you, then.”

It happens here, again. 

The quiet kindling, the lingering warmth. With hopes and dreams laid out before you, and the brief allowance into the depths of his intimate details he holds tightly under the weight of himself, do you find the familiarity of the man again. The one you know, the one who laughed so hard at your banana costume that milk came out of his nose. The one who canceled all of his meetings for the day when you broke your pinky finger in the office and who stayed with you in the hospital until a cast was put on. 

The one who smiles at you so gently, as if you are someone important. The one you can’t help but smile right back at. Kuroo Tetsurou, your boss, a friend.

Movement in the corner of your eye draws your attention to the court. The janitors that were once playing amongst each other slowly begin to stray from the court, picking up their brooms and exiting towards the sidelines. Looking at Tetsurou, you find that he’s still looking at you.

“They’re not closing the stadium for another hour. And it looks like the janitors have had their fun.” You say, “Wanna play a quick game?”

His brows raise to his hairline, “You know how to play?”

“We had to choose a sport to play for gym class back in high school and it was either tennis or volleyball. So I guess you can say I know a thing or two.”

“Ah, a professional.”

“Mhm. I’m here to give you a run for your money.”

Tetsurou pushes himself off the railing, standing to his full height as he accepts the offer. Towering over you at his 6’5 height, he begins rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, cuffing the white material until it reaches the crook of his elbow. A quick glance to the revealed skin is only a firm reminder of what you had pointedly forgotten. Long slender fingers attached to a thick and veiny forearm, sculpted through years of volleyball practice and continued exercise.

If he wanted to, he definitely could have made it professionally. You almost choke on your spit.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Tetsurou gives you a smile that rivals the smugness of Miya Atsumu in that stupid banner and you know for a fact that in that other life, you would’ve been Kuroo Tetsurou’s biggest fan whether you knew him or not— and not because he was a good player. 

—

“You need to lock your elbows.”

“They’re locked!”

“No they’re not. Look at this,” Tetsurou steps underneath the net, approaching you in long strides before tapping his fingers against the elbows of your interlocked hands. He watches with little impression as your arms swing easily with his force, “Noodles. How are you supposed to receive with this?”

“I’m trying but it’s not comfortable!”

“So you’d rather suck?”

“Kinky.” You say with a waggle of your brows and he rolls his eyes.

“Stop it. Here, you need to—” Without a second thought, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso and fixing your hands. wrapping your right hand over your left and running the length of his warm touch down your forearms. Innocuous and gentle, but stiffening as you breathe in the musky scent of his cologne and the faded scent of his aftershave, and feel the hard planes of his chest press against your back. 

“Straighten your elbows,” He mutters, voice heavy beside your ear.  “And keep them locked. Helps you to have a steady receive for any kind of ball. If your form is perfect then you can always pass the ball using this part, here.” His right index finger touches the surface of your forearm, running between the length of your elbow and wrist to accentuate his point. 

It isn’t a matter of fireworks when he touches you, the exploding kind that has butterflies and goosebumps erupting over the expanse of your skin. It isn’t as though your eyes have suddenly been peeled open and the realization has struck you hard across the face like every romance story that preaches about the magic of the first touch, the electricity of meeting hands across the table, the sudden realization of knowing.

No, this is entirely different. A comforting touch, not uncommon, but intimate and while it doesn’t have you reeling in revolutionary realization, nor does it have you fanning yourself from the flames of sudden desire, his touch does, eerily, have you sinking in further. There’s no fluttering and flustering with the confusion of flooding feelings, but rather, it has you looking at his hands with a slight furrow. 

Wondering, when his hands suddenly got so soft, yet so firm. Wondering, in what part of the intertwining of his life with yours did his touch suddenly not only become okay, but felt as though it belonged? 

Were this any other man, you would have a harassment claim sent to HR before he could even get near you. But it’s Tetsurou; And when his slender fingers wrap gently around your wrist, turning them upward slightly, you don’t go rigid in his embrace, but instead fall into it. Settle into his grasp, entrust yourself in his hands. 

Because how could you not?

“Like this?” You ask, quietly. No need to exert volume considering he’s right next to you. In search of approval in how you’ve adjusted your hands, you turn your head to the side to look at him, only to realize how close he is to you. Eyes able to see the steady pulse of the clench in his jaw as he focuses on your form, the sharp angle of his jaw, the closely shaven hairs of his stubble.

“Yeah, just like that. Good.” He answers, before removing his hands and bracing them against your shoulders, straightening your posture for the receives that you are no longer focused on getting.

If Kuroo Tetsurou turned his head to you, there would be nothing stopping his nose from bumping into yours. You must be silent, too caught up in the overwhelming nature of it all because he’s suddenly stiffening from his position over you. Then, at a speed you’ve never seen him move before, he’s rescinding his body entirely from you. And it should sting. The speed at which your boss acted as though you physically burned him, his body essentially repulsed from touching you. 

He’s putting great space between you two as he ducks back under the net to his side of the court, yelling over his shoulder, “T-that should fix it. Try, uh, try now. Try serving.”

“I thought I was receiving?” You ask his retreating figure and he stills, considering for a moment, before waving his hand in the air— obviously embarrassed and confused at the fact that he’s just jeopardized everything and made his assistant uncomfortable. 

“Whatever, just give it back to me.” He says, frustratedly.

And you allow yourself, just for a brief moment, to store another could-have in the sanctity of your fantasies. One where he isn’t your boss, and you aren’t his assistant, and you are able to admit to the true and honest parts of yourself—

“Nice return! See? Better already.”

—you rather liked the way he touched you.  

a/n: HEEEEELP i love him your honor. sorry for always ghosting. i wish i could say i wont, but i know i will. lol

[onlinesuzie]

☆ hamzah vs. watching love island ☆

words: 2.3k

summary: Hamzah has always found Love Island embarrassing an unrealistic but on a warm summers evening spent pouring drinks and binging the show with Martin and Mandy, Hamzah’s disdain for Love Island changes when he has the opportunity to ‘pull you for a chat’.

notes: GUYS I LOVE LOVE ISLAND SO BAD and martin and mandy mentioning it on ooc inspired me to write this!!

♡

It was one of those lazy summer evenings at Mandy’s house, where the air was thick with warmth and your favourite part of the summer was about to begin. You, Mandy, and Martin had gathered in the living room, ready for your weekly tradition of binge watching that week’s episodes of Love Island. The show was a guilty pleasure for the three of you, a chance to unwind and indulge in the drama and romance unfolding on the screen.

You thought it was stupid but some part of you wanted that cheesy romance, the type where you just make out for no reason or just anything. It had been months since you had even kissed someone let alone all the borderline soft porn you laugh at with Mandy and Martin. But regardless of how much action you were getting, alcohol and snacks were scattered across the coffee table, and you were nestled comfortably on the couch next to your friends.

The night was in full swing, and the alcohol kept flowing. The more you drank, the funnier the islanders’ antics appeared. You, Mandy, and Martin were laughing loudly, making bets on who would be kicked off next, and sipping your drinks between comments.

As the opening credits rolled for the Wednesday’s episode, Hamzah wandered into the room, his expression one of mild disdain. “I still don’t understand how you guys can watch this shit,” he remarked, folding his arms and leaning against the doorway.

“Fuck,” you thought. Maybe it was the alcohol or the grossly horny scenes you’d been watching for the past few hours, but Hamzah looked incredible. He looked so good, with his biceps straining against the fabric of his loose shirt and his hair falling casually over his warm brown eyes.

Mandy rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, come on, Hamzah. It’s fun! Besides, you don’t have to watch it with us, you just like to complain.”

Martin grinned, tossing a piece of popcorn at Hamzah. “Yeah, man, just let us have our fun. You’re always free to join us if you want.”

Hamzah dodged the popcorn with a chuckle, shaking his head. He approached the three of you and leaned against the back of the couch, his arms looking impressively defined in the artificial blue light. You found it hard to focus on the show as you admired how good he looked. “I think I’ll pass,” he said, releasing his grip on the couch and gesturing toward the TV as he made eye contact with Martin. “This whole thing is just so… fake. Who behaves like that when they actually like someone?”

You couldn’t suppress a smile at Hamzah’s typical response. It was a long-standing joke among your group that he was the self-appointed critic of all things reality television. It made sense; the thought of Hamzah behaving like the guys on Love Island was a bit unsettling. You had never seen him with a girl before, and while Martin mentioned that Hamzah had dated in the past, none of those girls had ever made an appearance since you’d known him.

Mandy laughs at him, “You don’t even know what that’s like Hamzah, you don’t even know how to talk to women let alone have the opportunity to pull someone for a chat”

“I could, but whatever, it doesn’t matter cause this isn’t what dating is like” Hamzah criticised.

“Suit yourself,” you teased, glancing over at him. “But you’re missing out on some quality entertainment.”

Hamzah’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you could see how warm and inviting his eyes were, his thick eyelashes, the deep brown colour. He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it, shaking his head with a smile. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Enjoy your show.”

As he walked away, you felt this disappointment of him leaving. Over the months, you couldn’t deny how attracted you were to Hamzah, and maybe it was just the alcohol speaking but he looked gorgeous tonight, and every interaction with him seemed to intensify the emotions you tried so hard to keep in check.

The evening progressed with the usual mix of laughter and commentary, and the frequent refills of your drinks. Mandy and Martin were engrossed in the latest drama between the islanders, while you found your thoughts drifting back to Hamzah. You could hear him moving around in the kitchen, and the low hum of his voice as he hummed a tune. The alcohol in your system made you feel bolder, more aware of your surroundings, and undeniably drawn to Hamzah.

Eventually, a commercial break gave you an excuse to get up and stretch your legs. “I’m going to grab another drink,” you announced, making your way to the kitchen with slightly tipsy movements.

Hamzah looked up as you entered, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Taking a break from the love triangle drama?”

“Something like that,” you replied, leaning against the counter. “I needed a breather. And maybe some real conversation as you would say.”

He chuckled, passing you a glass of water. “I can definitely offer that. How are you holding up?”

“Good, just the usual work stuff,” you said, taking a sip. “And you? How’s everything going with the channel?”

“Busy as always,” he said, running a hand through his curls. “But I love it. Keeps me distracted.”

As you watched him, you couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he looked tonight. His dark curls framed his face perfectly, and his eyes sparkling with the dim lighting making your heart warm to him more. Was it the alcohol making you see him in this romantic light, or had you always felt this way?

There was a moment of comfortable silence, the kind that often fell between you two. It was in these moments that you felt closest to him, the quiet allowing for an unspoken connection to surface.

“You know,” you began, your voice dropping to a more playful tone, “you’re missing out on all the fun out there. Maybe you should join us and see what all the fuss is about.”

Hamzah looked a little taken aback by your forwardness, his cheeks coloring slightly. “I don’t know if I’d call it fun,” he said, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “But I guess I could sit with you guys for a bit.”

You stepped closer to him, feeling emboldened by the drinks you’d had. “I think you’d enjoy it more than you think,” you said, your voice soft and teasing moving closer to Hamzah.

Hamzah’s eyes widened slightly, and he seemed at a loss for words. “Maybe… maybe I’ll give it a try,” he stammered, his usual confidence momentarily shaken by your proximity.

You smiled, taking another sip of your drink. “Good. It’s always more fun with you around, Hamzah.”

Before he could respond, the sound of Mandy calling your name from the living room broke the moment. “Come on, we’re missing the show!”

You gave Hamzah one last playful look before turning to leave. “Think about it,” you said over your shoulder as you made your way back to the couch.

As you settled back in with Mandy and Martin, you couldn’t help but glance back towards the kitchen, where Hamzah stood, looking a little dazed but undeniably intrigued. The night continued with the usual banter and laughter, but now, there was an unspoken tension between you and Hamzah.

The chatter of Mandy and Martin filled the living room as you huddled on the couch, eyes glued to the chaotic drama of Love Island. The alcohol coursing through your veins loosened your inhibitions and heightened your senses. Each moment spent watching the ridiculous antics on-screen only made you think of Hamzah, who had just slipped into the kitchen for a drink.

You couldn’t help but admire him from afar. The way his dark curls fell effortlessly around his face, the way his shirt clung to his frame just right—it was all mesmerizing. With every laugh that rang out from the room, you felt a flutter of excitement mixed with longing. It was as if the alcohol had amplified everything you felt for him, making him the most attractive person in the room.

Suddenly, Hamzah reappeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. “Hey, can you come here for a second?” His voice broke through your thoughts, and you found yourself looking into his warm, inviting eyes.

“Me?” you asked, slightly surprised but undeniably intrigued. “What’s up?”

“Just something I wanted to show you,” he said, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

Your heart raced at the invitation, and you quickly excused yourself from the couch, making your way to the kitchen. As you stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. It was just you and Hamzah, and the air was thick with unspoken tension.

“What did you want to show me?” you asked, leaning against the counter, feeling slightly tipsy but more confident by the alcohol.

Without answering, Hamzah closed the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hands found your waist as he pulled you closer, and before you could process what was happening, he leaned in and captured your lips with his. The kiss was sudden and electrifying, igniting a rush of warmth that spread through your body.

You melted against him, surprised at the intensity of his kiss and the urgency behind it. Hamzah’s lips moved against yours with a passionate hunger, his touch igniting every nerve in your body. As you responded, kissing him back, you felt your head spin, the world around you fading into nothingness. The kiss deepened, his hands roaming to the small of your back, pulling you even closer as if he never wanted to let go.

Your heart raced as you leaned into him, savoring the taste of his lips and the warmth radiating from his body. The moment felt electric, charged with all the unspoken feelings you had harbored for so long. Hamzah’s breath mingled with yours, creating a shared rhythm that left you breathless. You could feel the heat rising between you, the chemistry strong as you lost yourself in the kiss.

As the kiss continued, you tangled your fingers in his dark curls, deepening the connection, feeling every rush of adrenaline that came with it. Hamzah responded by pressing you against the counter, his body a reassuring weight against yours, grounding you in the midst of the overwhelming emotions swirling around you.

You pulled back for a moment, breathless, your foreheads resting together as you both gasped for air. The playful glint in his eyes now had a serious undertone, a depth of feeling that sent your heart racing all over again. “Wow,” he breathed, still trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Neither did I,” you admitted, feeling a giddy rush of exhilaration wash over you.

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Really?” you asked, your heart soaring at his confession.

“Yeah,” he said, his gaze steady and sincere. “You’re beautiful, and I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while.”

Just then, the sound of Mandy calling from the living room broke the intimate atmosphere. “Hey! What’s taking so long in there?”

You exchanged a knowing look with Hamzah, both of you unable to suppress the smiles spreading across your faces.

“Guess we should get back before they wonder if we’re plotting something,” you said, reluctantly stepping away from him.

Hamzah nodded but lingered for a moment longer, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe we are,” he said teasingly, his voice low.

With one last shared smile, you turned and headed back into the living room, feeling the thrill of the kiss linger in the air. You settled back onto the couch next to Mandy and Martin, trying to focus on the screen while your heart raced with the memory of Hamzah’s lips on yours.

As he rejoined the group, Mandy immediately looked at him with a teasing grin. “What took you so long? Did you find the secret stash of snacks or something?”

Hamzah chuckled, glancing between you and your friends. “Just… got distracted,” he said, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Martin raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing something had shifted in the air. “Distracted, huh? Doing what, exactly?” he probed, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, you know, just talking,” Hamzah replied, his tone casual, but you could see a hint of nervousness in his demeanor.

Mandy smirked, nudging him playfully. “You two were in there long enough for a serious conversation. What happened!”

You felt your cheeks flush at the teasing, but Hamzah simply laughed it off, shrugging his shoulders. “Nothing major. Just catching up. “

As the teasing continued, you settled into the couch, the warmth of the moment still lingering between you and Hamzah. You could feel his presence beside you, the comfort of being near him made you blush. The electricity of your earlier kiss hung in the air, unspoken yet there.

In a bold move, you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. To your delight, he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in closer. The warmth radiating from him made you feel safe and cherished, and you couldn’t help but smile.

Hamzah glanced down at you, his expression softening. “You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you replied, looking up at him. “I’m really good, actually.”

He smiled back, his eyes shining with warmth. “Good,” he said softly.

As the episode of Love Island continued, you found yourself stealing glances at Hamzah, who seemed engrossed in the show. Yet, every time your eyes met, a silent understanding passed between you, you are going back to his house tonight.

[crepesuzette2023]

For John's Birthday: some of my favorite John POV fics

Drop Chute (bookofapril). "The last stall on the end had an “out of service” sign on it: he darted in, locked the door, and sat down on the lid of the toilet. Thank god it was clean. He put his glasses in his pocket. Then he drew up his legs and rested his head on his knees, the cool embroidered satin of his trousers a balm on his forehead, safely hidden from sight." (1967, John vs. Robert F.)

I Think of Things We Did (J_Deandra_j). "He sucked Paul’s dumb, lovely fat lips, licked his teeth, tasted the drumbeat of Paul’s heart in the stubble threatening to erupt beneath his jaw, and his soul awoke like a sad bitch at the shudder of Paul’s skin under his tongue." (Obertauern)

at midnight (anonymous). "The first time John lets another man press against him, it feels like dying." (Long brilliant character study)

Sunday Driver (@boshemians). "Tara Browne is the kind of pretty boy who wouldn’t bat an eye at being called one. Proud of it, even, and not shy of an excuse to do just that—bat his eyes, or eyelashes really, at anyone. Men, women, dogs. It annoys John when Paul does it but it annoys him even more in Tara because of the money thing, the always having had it, so that he is not so much coy as simpering." (65/66, John v. Tara B.)

February in New Orleans (@eveepe). “Kiss it,” said May, from where she was tucked in beside Linda. “Go on, he likes that.”—“Do what she says, baby.” Linda leaned over to slide her hand into Paul’s hair and guide his head gently towards John. (John and May visit Paul and Linda in 1975)

deeper than oceans you run (@orphanbeat). "Rich kisses him slowly, purposefully, as he does them all. John thinks he probably likes Rich’s kisses the best, then realizes that they all must do." (Beatles OT4, Greek Island AU)

Our Version of Events (@javelinbk). "There are also some stories that have just tilted the world’s axis slightly, asking questions like if Brian hadn’t found them, would they still be famous? The answer, according to that writer, was no, which John felt gave Brian far too much credit and Paul’s bullheadedness too little." (John discovers fan fiction in 1971)

non nobis solum (downtothelastdrop). “I think it’s cute,” Helen says again. “The way he looks at you. He likes to push back, doesn’t he, but I bet when you get down to it he’d do anything you asked.” (John's fascination with Paul in school uniform)

Bermuda (@scurator). "Today he felt that life really might begin at forty, if a bloke could just admit certain predilections to himself." (1980 as it should have been)

The McCartney Issue (@pauls1967moustache). "It’s only because it’s Perfect Beatle Paul with a dildo up his ass that anyone cares at all." (John Lennon's purely artistic appreciation of Linda McCartney's Playboy spread of her husband)

dreaming of the past (@revollver). "Meanwhile, the real Paul, sweet boyish features and Beatle-cut grown a touch too long, can be seen on the coffee table, inspecting the cupcake wrappers on George’s plate. All John gets is a brief look: soft curve of a furred thigh as Paul darts behind the paper cups. Graceful calf and perfect, miniature foot. Tantalising glimpse of one arse cheek." (1969 John imagines Tiny Paul to distract himelf from the present–with delightful consequences)

ageless children, animal sweat (eyeball2eyeball): "Looks like Pete’s got his night lined up, eh?” He looks back to John and rests his chin on his palm and smiles, this small secretive thing, and John can’t help but be convinced that Paul knows what he’s thinking somehow — dangerous, that. “What about you?” (Hamburg)

[what-the-whump]

LAWMAN WHUMP LIST

DESCRIPTION: This is the story of Marshal Dan Troop of Laramie, Wyoming, and his Deputy Johnny McKay, an orphan Troop took under his wing - IMBD / WIKIPEDIA

-----

~ MARSHAL DAN TROOP portrayed by JOHN RUSSELL ~

1x04: Hit in the face with a branch, knocked down. 

1x16: Mauled by a bear, bloody, unconscious, bandaged up, weak, cared for, collapse, arm in sling. 

1x19: Shot in the shoulder with an arrow, bleeding, struggle, kicked in the shoulder, manhandled, collapse, unconscious, arm in sling. 

1x24: Punched in the face, brief fight. 

1x26: Shot in the arm. 

1x30: Manhandled, punched in the stomach, pistol whipped, knocked unconscious. 

1x35: Falls off horse, sick, weak, collapse, unconscious, supported, cared for. 

2x02: Punched in the face, fight. 

2x11: Hand bandaged. 

2x12: Tied up, slapped, fight.

2x16: Falls off horse, steps in a wolf trap, pain, limping, knocked down, beaten. 

2x20: Bit on the leg by a child. 

2x30: Shot in the shoulder, knocked down, passed out, unconscious, medical care, bandaged. 

2x32: Shot in shoulder, knocked off horse, unconscious, medical care, bandaged. 

3x03: Pistol whipped, knocked unconscious, manhandled, tied up. 

3x07: Shot in the hand, bloody, hand bandaged. 

3x08: Punched in the face, exhausted, knocked unconscious, manhandled, pistol whipped, knocked unconscious, collared/chained up. 

3x10: Fight, bloody, supported. 

3x15: Shot in the shoulder, passed out, unconscious, bandaged. 

3x17: Pistol whipped, knocked unconscious, manhandled. 

3x19: Knocked unconscious. 

3x21: Shot in the hand, hand bandaged. 

3x30: Shot in the arm, arm in sling. 

4x02: Shot in the arm. 

4x03: Shot in the arm. 

4x07: Falls into a hole. 

4x08: Knocked unconscious. 

4x24: Held at gunpoint, handcuffed to a chair.

~ DEPUTY JOHNNY MCKAY portrayed by PETER BROWN ~

1x06: Pistol whipped, knocked unconscious, stumbling around, supported, headache. 

1x07: Knocked unconscious, bloody, head bandaged, weak, collapse, unconscious, supported.  

1x15: Smoke inhalation, coughing.   

1x27: Manhandled, pistol whipped, knocked unconscious. 

1x38: Manhandled, held hostage, tied up. 

2x03: Wagon crash, shackled to a prisoner, rough fight, held at gunpoint, slapped repeatedly. 

2x06: Shot in the arm, arm bandaged. 

2x08: Punched in the face, fight.  

2x12: Manhandled, held at gunpoint, tied up, kicked, fight. 

2x20: Shot in the arm, knocked unconscious, arm in sling. 

2x22: Thrown from horse, sore, weak, passed out, unconscious. 

2x24: Shot, bullet grazes head, unconscious, bloody head wound, weak/fading in and out of consciousness, cared for.

2x26: Knocked unconscious.

2x37: Shot in the shoulder, weak, supported, passed out, unconscious, carried, medical care, arm in a sling. 

3x02: Knocked unconscious, manhandled, kidnapped, tied up, blindfolded, head bandaged, weak, dizzy, passed out, carried, unsteady. 

3x03: Pistol whipped, knocked unconscious, manhandled, tied up. 

3x10: Beaten. 

3x17: Pistol whipped, knocked unconscious, manhandled, tied up, gagged, dizzy, unsteady. 

3x21: Manhandled. 

3x29: Knocked unconscious, manhandled. 

4x05: Knocked off horse, briefly unconscious. 

4x11: Punched in the face. 

4x16: Pistol whipped, knocked unconscious, tied up, manhandled. 

4x20: Briefly knocked unconscious, held at gunpoint, handcuffed. 

4x24: Held at gunpoint, handcuffed to a chair. 

4x28: Brief fight, thrown into Troop. 

4x36: Pistol whipped, knocked unconscious. 

4x39: Knocked unconscious, falls off horse, manhandled, handcuffed to a tree. 

4x40: Kidnapped, tied up, gagged. 

~ HONOURABLE MENTIONS & WHAT-THE-WHUMP COMMENTARY ~

1x27: Johnny pretends his head still hurts to get the doctor out of the saloon and the doc drunkly checks out his head.

1x37: Prisoner smacks a cup of coffee out of Johnny's hand, he looks real upset about it and Troop grabs Johnny's arm to check him out real quick. Johnny’s hand VS Coffee Part 1. 

2x24: Johnny gets shot in the head, only a little don't even worry about it. When Troop goes to check on him he holds him and checks out his head while Johnny's lowkey passing out every few seconds. 

3x02: Johnny x Concussions OTP. Johnny is kidnapped along with Lily, he spends majority of the episode majorly concussed. 

3x13: Johnny falls asleep in a chair and falls out of it. Johnny also gets spooked and spills his coffee on his hand. Johnny’s hand VS Coffee part 2. 

3x39: Johnny’s hand VS Coffee Part 3

4x16: On the Lawman Wikipedia page there's a picture of Johnny being manhandled and held at gunpoint that comes from this episode.

[frootynovak]

calex vs. outdoor activities vs. being clingy

“So, you are serious about going on this hike!”

Alex stood by the sink, drying her hands with the kitchen cloth hung by the drawer.

It was a chilly morning and the sun was just beginning to rise. The kitchen windows were slightly open and Alex was reveling the refreshing scent of blossoming magnolias next door, welcoming the start of spring. She could hear frantic movements and running around coming from upstairs. A minute passes and Casey emerges from the staircase in tight underpants and sweaters, carrying a backpack and a duffle bag.

“And you’re really not coming with me?”

“I am not going hiking with you, Case.” Alex insists. She takes a plate from one of the drawers and dumps the buttered toasts she prepared. “Did you see the list I gave you detailing the many reasons why it could be dangerous?”

Casey shakes her head in mild disbelief. She puts her bags down and comments, “Didn’t paint you as a pessimist but yes, I did see the list.” She moved closer towards Alex, grabbing a piece of toast off her plate and taking a bite. “And it is ridiculous.”

“Ookay, then what will you do if a brown bear lunged at you?”

“There are no bears where I’m going, idiot.”

“You don’t know that.” Alex pouts. “You could literally die.”

Casey shrugs. She bends down to tie the shoelaces of her hiking boots. “Eh, guess I’ll take my chances.”

Alex turns off the coffee machine and pours a cup. “Won’t you have coffee with me first?”

Try as she might, Alex knew well she can never convince her stubborn wife when Casey is already intent on doing something.

“Love to but can’t.” Casey gets up and walks across the kitchen. She took the remaining coffee from the brewer and poured the liquid straight into her red thermo flask. “I’m sorry. I’m just running a bit late.”

“And who are you going with? Do I know these people that you’re going with? Have I met any of them?”

Casey grins at her hesitantly. “Not exactly… But I am in good hands, Lex.”

When Alex didn’t answer, Casey proceeded to the fridge to get the packed meals and trail mixes she prepared yesterday for her trip. She puts them inside the duffle bag and zips it closed.

Pushing the eyeglasses up her nose, Alex sets aside the newspaper she was reading earlier into the rack in the living room.

She returns to the kitchen to take a sip of her coffee and then turned towards Casey with wide eyes when she realised something. “Oh Casey! You don’t even know the people you’re going with!”

“Relax, babe, I’m going to be fine.”

Alex clenched her jaw and put her hands on her waist. “How are you going to be fine? You will be in the middle of nowhere with strangers!”

“Okay, first of all, we have a guide. Her name is Emma Wheatley and she is a childhood friend.”

Alex raised a brow. “Emma? A girl?”

“Yes. Emma. A woman.” Casey says matter-of-factly. She furrows her brows, studying the expression on Alex’s face. “Before you get jealous, she is happily married with kids.”

Alex will never admit it but she tends to be possessive when it comes to Casey. There is no doubt in her mind that her hopelessly devoted wife will ever have the heart to betray her trust but she learned halfway into their early years that Casey can be so incomprehensibly oblivious when it comes to people flirting with her.

“Do you even know the trail? You could get lost and end up on dateline!”

“Baby,” Casey heaved a deep sigh. She stood in front of her wife and stroke the length of Alex’s arms as if to pacify her. “I say this sincerely but you’ve been watching too much television. And if you’re so worried, why don’t you just come with me, huh?”

She went camping in the woods with Casey once because she wanted to learn more about this side of Casey, outside of the courtroom and outside of the shell she’s built for her fast-paced life in New York—her adventurous, free-spirited, curious, and dynamic Casey.

There was one rainy night that Alex chanced upon a sleepless Casey just watching the raindrops pelting against the big window by the living room. She remembers how she was comfortably perched on the corner next to the couch with a cup of tea on her hand. When Alex approached her, Casey told her that it would have been her grandfather’s 82nd birthday.

Casey relived her childhood memories when their grandfather used to take little Casey and her brothers to go fish and camp in the woods. She said it was always what she looked forward to in the summer—their parents would drop them off and leave her and her two older brothers for a week or two in their grandparents’ small farm.

Touched by the memory and wanting to cheer Casey up, Alex agreed to go to the mountains with her. Casey told her it would be fun and easy, and that Casey will set up their tent and that they could lay down under a starlit sky and how she would even tell her fun facts about constellations. Or bugs.

When they found an appropriate schedule for the both of them, they left for Maine. Casey was overcome with excitement, and Alex, although glad that this little gesture made Casey happy, was nervous.

In the end, they had to circle back to the center and go to the nearest hospital when Alex complained of having itchy rashes.

Alex swore she would never go to the mountains with Casey again after what Alex dubbed as her second “near-death experience”. They both just accepted that outdoor activities would be Casey’s thing, and Alex will stay with playing tennis and riding horses. At times, Casey would still ask if she wants to go in hopes that Alex changes her mind.

“You sure you’re not coming?”

“I will wait for you by the foot of the mountain and you better meet me in one piece.”

Casey rolls her eyes before flashing a childlike smile at her wife. “Okay, okay. See you in three days, Cabot!”

She wraps her arms around Alex and peppered her wife’s face with chaste kisses, and then finally, bade her goodbye with a lingering kiss on the lips.

When Casey shut the door behind her, Alex felt a vague sense of yearning; a quiet ache settling in her chest. For a second, she mentally checks weekend routine to be sure that she won’t have spare time to sulk around the house because she misses Casey’s presence.

Alex bolted outside and quietly stood by the door frame in her silk pajamas. She watched Casey put her bags in the trunk of her Honda.

She debated with herself whether to say something for fear of getting teased by the redhead as being too clingy. She stood by the frame of the main door of their townhouse. “Case?”

“Yes, baby?”

Alex combed through her thoughts before deciding to finally ask something: She cleared her throat and asked whether Casey has double checked everything and packed her essentials: water, bug spray, sunscreen, mosquito repellant, a flash light, a whistle, a hunting knife.

“Yes, yes, and yes. Lex, this is not my first rodeo.”

Alex nods. “I know.”

Casey closed the trunk and then run to the front stairs up to where Alex stood. “Would you rather I stay home with you?”

Alex looks at Casey’s bright, green eyes. Yes, she would rather Casey stays home with her for the weekend. Yes, she would rather have her cuddled up and cozy by the couch while watching their favorite TV shows. Yes, she would rather stroll around busy Manhattan and hold hands with her and stop by for gelato. Yes, yes, yes, Alex wants Casey to just stay by her side so she could keep her safe and love her and adore her and make her hers.

“No, no. Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Go. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” Alex kisses Casey as she caresses her cheeks. “I would really enjoy if you’d keep me company of course but you don’t have to stop doing the things you enjoy just because you’re worried about me.”

There was a tinge of red on the apple of Casey’s pale cheeks as she listened to Alex talk. “Two years and you’re ready to renew our vows?” She teased. “Your ass is mine, Cabot.”

Alex could only give her a pointed look. “Shut up.”

Casey enters the car and puts her car key in the ignition. She opened the window slightly and shouted, “Don’t burn down the house while I’m gone! I’ll miss you!”

As Casey drove away, Alex follows the car with her eyes. She frowns and whispers to herself, “I’ll miss you, too, dumbass.”

[atypical-artisan]

Canon vs Headcanon/how I color eye colors for the boxers:

Decided to do this for shits n giggles and so others could have a bit of reference for the boxer's eye colors

Mac:

Eyes are a teal color in canon and I tend to color them the same shade due to them being unavoidably obvious. Kinda wish they were canonically brown tbh.

Doc:

Can't tell, though I figure they're brown and color them as such.

Joe

Hard to impossible to tell from the 2D art but the in game model has them as brown!! I make them a slightly lighter, warm shade of brown because it reminds me of coffee.

I honestly think he looks best w brown eyes cause it compliments his warm toned color scheme and goes w his association w bread and coffee.

Kaiser

Can be seen in the 2d art has a muted shade of green, almost greyish, on the 3D model they are black. I color them a darker, more saturated shade, like army green, just for fun.

DIsco

His eyes are colored black in the 2d are and we can't see anything for the 3d model to see his eye color. I color them brown cause that makes the most sense to me.

In my art, his eyes are a very dark, but still visibly distinguished, shade of brown. A bit darker than Joe's but lighter than Hondo's or Hippos.

Hippo

Eyes are black dots in the 2D art and 3D model. I color them a very dark shade of brown, darker than Disco's but lighter than Hondo's.

Hondo

In the game and 2D art, his pupils are huge but there's no distinguishing between his iris and pupil, therefore his irises are most likely meant to be black. I color them almost-black.

Bear

In the 2D art his eyes are blue! You have to zoom in a lot but it is visible. In game his eyes are just black. I color his eyes a dark shade of blue.

Tiger

Eye color isn't visible in the 2D art but the game shows they're a muted dark brown. I Color them a very rich and dark shade of brown.

Don

Hard to tell between black and brown in the 2D art but the game has his eyes be a rich, dark shade of brown. By chance, I happen to color his eyes almost the exact color.

Aran

His eyes are a dark blue in the 2D art and teal-ish in game. His beta contender intro (Here) also showed his eyes to be a darker blue. I color them as a darker blue myself.

Soda

Can't really be told in the 2D art, the game has them as black. I color his eyes hazel cause i think it's pretty :)

Bull

Okay so Bull seems to have at least 3 different shades of brown. His title defense art looks to have hazel eyes while his contender art has a very pale caramel brown, almost the same shade as his skin.

However, his in-game model has dark reddish-brown eyes. We also have to consider that his Super Punch out edition has bright blue eyes *Shudders*. So he either has a lot of contacts or multiple clones, you decide.

I color his eyes a medium brown, just a tad darker than Joe's.

Macho

The 2D art looks like a light brown to me, but the 3D model has no coloring. I color Macho's eyes as a medium-dark brown.

Sandy

In the 2D art, his eyes look brown, but the game has them as black. I color his eyes as an almost-black brown.

[fiddles-ifs]

drinks i can do. full recipes under the cut

FIDDLES' MEZCAL OLD FASHIONED

2 oz mezcal (i like El Silencio Espadin)

1 bar spoon of agave syrup (mix .25:1 ratio of agave and hot water -- stir until pourable)

4 dashes orange bitters

2 dashes Aztec chocolate bitters

2 dashes Angosturra bitters

1 pinch salt

Stir over ice

Peel and express an orange peel

PUMPKIN JACK

1 oz Case One rum (only made in Maryland -- a similar aged rum will do, but Case One has a butterscotch-y taste that lends itself well to dessert drinks)

.5 oz Amaretto of choice (i prefer Disaronno)

2 oz fresh poured espresso

Top with hot water

Float pumpkin whipped cream (cook down one can of 1:1:2 can of pumpkin puree:granulated sugar:water until thickened. Strain through a chamois or cheesecloth. Add pumpkin syrup 1:2 parts heavy whipping cream and shake until pourable consistency)

Grate fresh nutmeg

Served in an Irish coffee or cone glass.

DRUMS OF AUTUMN

1.5 oz Hennessey VS

.5 oz Cherry Heering

.5 oz Drambuie liqueur

1 oz St. George spiced pear liqueur

Stir over ice

Garnish with Luxardo cherry and dehydrated orange peel

Served in a double rocks glass

DEWAR'S DECIBEL

1.5 oz Dewar's scotch

.5 hazelnut syrup

1 oz velvet falernum

.25 lemon juice

Shake and dump into tall Collins glass

Top with soda water

Garnish with dehydrated lemon and edible flowers

GOLDEN HOUR

1.5 oz McClintock Forager gin (also only made in Maryland. Wild foraged gin preferred)

1 oz sage tincture (add 1/4 quart/.25 liters fresh sage to container. cover with vodka or neutral grain spirit. Let steep for 24 hours, then strain through chamois or cheesecloth)

.5 oz blanc vermouth

2 dashes cardamom bitters

1 dash lemon bitters

Served in a martini or coup glass

Garnish with lemon peel and edible flowers

LAST DAY OF SUMMER

This is a difficult cocktail because it requires a dehydrator (or an oven set to a very low temperature, and a few extra steps. First: make dehydrated brown sugar pineapples.

Either cut pineapples into wheels, or remove pineapple wheels from cans. Coat with brown sugar, then arrange onto a baking sheet (if you're dehydrating in an oven, place another baking sheet underneath). Place in dehydrator or oven set to the lowest setting and dehydrate. The brown sugar will turn syrupy and thick. Reserve pineapple brown sugar syrup.)

.75 oz bourbon

.5 oz lemon juice

.5 oz Ancho Reyes chili liqueur

.75 pineapple brown sugar

Shake and dump into double rocks glass

Garnish with dehydrated pineapple

[olderthannetfic]

I'm begging people to learn the difference between being pale and white. A white person can be brown (without it just being a "regular" tan) a poc person can be pale borderline white in terms of complexion. If your entire understanding of white and poc relies on the silly notion of "paper white vs anything lighter than a drop of milk in a cup of coffee" you're not going outside enough.

--

[archangeldyke-all]

sevika w gf who uses makeup but all the routine (contour, eyeliner...) but not cause insecure cause she likes

sevika would like? she let reader do her makeup??🥹

cuteeeee!!!

men and minors dni

sevika wears some makeup-- she's got a little bottle of khol she applies to her eyes every morning, and a tube of dark coffee brown lipstick she keeps in her side satchel-- but that's about as far as her interest in the stuff goes.

so when she meets you, she's fascinated.

she'll watch you do your entire makeup routine, whether you're just doing a quick coat of mascara and chapstick to run to the cornerstore, or a full beat for a night out, whether you take ten minutes or two hours, sevika's watching you work with heart eyes the whole time.

sometimes you have to shoo her away, because you can't focus while sevika's watching you like that, but most of the time you let her stay.

she loves it when you let her help. she loves carefully swiping your lipstick on for you, cleaning up the bleeding edges with a gentle swipe of her thumb. she also loves when you let her pick out your eyeshadow colors for the day. she'll listen to you blab on and on about new contouring techniques, or the difference between a smoky eye vs. a halo eye. she doesn't give a shit, but she likes the little smile she gets from you when she compliments your makeup with the proper terminology.

"love that cut crease, baby" or "wait hold on, you forgot to brush off this little bit of baking powder."

the first time you take false lashes off in front of sevika, she screams in horror. you laugh.

"what, you thought my eyelashes were 22milimeters long naturally?" you ask. sevika's still gawking at you.

"i thought the mascara made 'em longer or something!" she says.

you giggle then place the still sticky lash bands over your top lip, making a little mustache. sevika snorts.

if you ever ask to do sevika's makeup, she'd let you. she wouldn't want anything different from what she usually does-- dark eyes and lips-- but she'll let you add some more products and techniques to make it a bit more cohesive and polished. some contour to bring out her lovely cheekbones, brow gel for her eyebrows, lipliner so her lipstick doesn't smudge as much throughout the day, and setting spray that smells like flowers and adds a little shimmer to her skin. she loves it.

she loves it so much that she makes you do her makeup for her every time she can. she's going into work but you've got the day off? you're doing her makeup. date night somewhere fancy? you're doing her makeup.

sevika's favorite thing about your makeup though, is the colorful kiss marks that decorate her cheeks and neck every day, matching the color painting your lips.

when you buy new lipstick, she always offers to help you 'test the longevity.'

this just means having a handsy makeout session.

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian