misfitrunnxrs​:

Rooney knew that he’d never wanted to work another night on Valentine’s again. They had been busy all night with take-out orders, and not only just that but ones that were in the shape of hearts. It was so fucking cheesy that all of it made him sick to his stomach. Why did people feel inclined to give him their whole life story when he stopped to deliver the pizza? Sure, it was a sweet gesture but he honestly didn’t care about how a couple met. He didn’t have time to hang around and listen to that sappy shit.

There were only two more pizza’s to be delivered that night, and they happened to be going to the same house. He cursed the pizzeria for allowing deliveries out of town, it was the one thing he hated about delivering pizza. Luck never seemed to be on his side, and it only continued to show when hearing one of his tires pop when driving out of town. Rooney found himself swearing every word there was in the book to the harmonious sound of the flashers as he pulled off to the side of the road. He was glad there was still a spare in the back of his trunk as he heaved it out. It wasn’t the first time he had to change a tire, there was no fun in it and Rooney always was cursing himself for not working out more. He was in the process of using the tire iron to get the nuts off– Rooney could already feel the chill setting in of the night. Why in the hell did he live in the desert? One of the nuts popped off and rolled away from him. He reached out to pick it up, knowing he would be screwed if he lost any. That was when he saw a pair of bare feet down at the outstretched hand– it startled him enough to send up falling back onto his ass as he gawked up at the stranger. 

Well– this night only seemed to be getting even more interesting. Rooney was speechless as he blinked back surprise when seeing a girl standing there, naked. It only took a second before feeling a blush creep up his neck and to his cheeks as he looked away. “Ah… you– uhm… are you okay?” He managed to push himself up to his feet, shrugging his jacket off before offering it over to her. 

@drxnknhxgh

The screen flicker to life, a strange altruistic sound emitting from the monitor giving the figure standing before it a semblance of hope in her desperation. Immediately she began to fiddle with the various dials to clear the visual, calling in a foreign tongue for her sisters through the speaker system. But all she received was a harrowing lack of response, a bubble of static and inevitably silence as the device died in her hands. The figure reminded herself that there wasn’t any need to panic even if she was all alone on a strange terrain without her sisters to guide her to safety. She turned to survey her surroundings once more as if the sand that seemed to stretch on for ions would suddenly change. What truly baffled her was her the possible flaw in her coordinates. She wasn’t sure what planet her craft had decided to plummet towards, her initial inclination was to identify the vacant wasteland as Mars and all primary markers seem to support her assumption. However, the gravity wasn’t nearly as dense as the Red Planet and she found not adverse reaction to the atmosphere despite her suit burning in the crash. It was certainly a hopeless situation but the figure wasn’t prone to giving in to her despair. So instead she abandoned her craft with the hope that her sisters would be able to locate it eventually. 

This mysterious land, in quiet rocky patience, welcomed her wandering feet. 

Bare and unaffected by the blistering heat, she traveled for an insurmountable length of time without encounter a single life form. Admittedly she was beginning to feel a tad wary. What if she’d somehow landed on an abandoned planet? If only she had Cindy present to discern the planets statistics. She felt quite lost. Eventually she discovered some sort of road, glancing left to right to determine which direction she wished to follow it. Perhaps neither lead to a destination, perhaps she’d roam for eternity. Her future, at the moment, was woefully ambiguous. Suddenly she was startled by an approaching noise. Instead of taking cover she looked on with curious eyes as a metal craft loomed on the horizon. How strange, she thought, that it appeared to be functioning on a set of wheels. She was far from home indeed. The craft came to halt, its exterior lightning seeming to malfunction before the side hatch flung open. To her delight a humanoid figure emerged and she hurried towards it. 

Unaware of the reasoning behind his scour of the terrain she stood before him, a wide grin splitting her face when they locked eyes. Her stranding didn’t seem quite so bleak now. She surveyed his figure, no access limbs or appendages. Only two apertures. What was it? The burning intrigue that prompted her love for space travel began to emerge as she resisted the urge to prod at the figures reddened flesh. Then it began to speak and she was further perplexed by the strange sounds coming from its mouth. If only she’d paid more attention in those linguistics classes Cindy insisted was necessary for exploration. With a bemused simper she took the item from him, some sort of garment. “I’m sorry I don’t understand what you’re saying” she admitted, though her own speech wouldn’t be understandable to it she was unaware. Her native tongue was far harsher, made of vowels and consonants unknown to the planet. When she got no response she did the only other thing she knew of to shatter the language barrier between them.

She reached forward to grasp at the cloth covering his form and pulled him forward, pressing her lips to his. The contact was brief, enough for her to assimilate what she needed. She pulled away, marveling at the new phrases tumbling in her skull she know knew to be ‘words’. “That’s better” she sighed, hearing her own voice perfectly mimicking the speech. “Thank you for this fine gift stranger, I’m afraid I don’t have anything to give to you” 

okiewrites​:

“Oui,” he replied with a turn of his lips, both edges inching upward as he repeated her native word with the very much American voice of his own. Ryland edged the tip of the pen toward her as he offered a wink. “That is exactly the case. It’s right there, just out of reach. I know what I want to say, I just can’t form the words for it.” The dark-haired man lowered the pen and tucked it into the spine of his notebook, shifting the notebook to the side as he laced his fingers together on the table in front of him. It was impossible for his gaze to ignore the way her lips moved, and Ryland caught himself staring for the briefest of heartbeats before he gave a quick shake of his head and cleared his throat, his own lips moving slightly in response to her tongue’s motion.

It would be easy enough to try and make sense of what he was trying to say, but Ryland was a perfectionist in his craft. He couldn’t even attempt to explain the very thing he wanted to say if it wasn’t going to come out exactly as he was imagining it. It was a curse, really, but one he knew well. He took the spoon from the woman in front of him before speaking. “It’ll come to me eventually. Right now, I’m thinking a distraction is in order. Besides, my grandma would kill me if I neglected this perfectly good piece of pie in front of me.” Ryland reached out his spoon and took a small bite, letting the flavors rush over his taste buds as he inched the spoon from his lips slowly, adding a more sensual flair than necessary. “Where are you from? I mean, I can tell you’re French, or you’re incredible good at pretending to be, but where are you from?”

The exchange suddenly became a litany of quirked simpers and lingering gazes brightened with mirth. For Ava could barely contain her amused chortle at the man’s verbal iteration of her language. Comme c'est tout à fait charmant, how utterly charming. it certainly didn’t escape her attention where his focus seemed to stray, her own gaze alight with curiosity. Was she simply being swept into the serendipity of the moment or was there something about this man that riled her so. In all the best ways. “Well fortunate for you I am excellent at distracting” she promised, lowering her tone as she followed the path of his spoon meeting his lips with wordless intrigue, one dark brown raised. 

"Passy, Paris. The heart of France, a beautiful place" her cheeks lifted briefly at the mention of her home, her thoughts warming fondly. With a flick of her spoon she acquired another healthy portion of their shared dessert, dipping her nail into the excess cream to bring to her tongue. “I only wish I was fabricating the accent however, its shit. It was very difficult for me to learn English and still after seven years in America I feel as if I speak too formal” she shucked her teeth to note her acceptanace, one shoulder lifting in nonchalance. “I've yet to master more casual phrases," she further explained. "I wish I had the finesse to say such things as 'shoot the breeze' without sounding like a tourist". Her American friends, whom she had met through university and other nonspecific means, constantly poked fun at her speech patterns. She didn't mind the playful denunciation since she knew it to be true. Often Ava found her English jumbled so severely they naturally blended into her native tongue and she would proceed for several minutes without realizing she was no longer understandable. Especially if she was experiencing a strong emotion. “I still don’t understand what that means if I am truthful” 

“And you, where are you from mon amie. Certainly not from this city, your uh...how do you say” her teeth sank into her lip as she mentally shuffled through phrases. “Twang, oui? It’s different. I enjoy it. City accents are sometimes very heavy to me. But yours, it is the type one could listen to continuously without growing weary”. Ava was naturally coquettish but admittedly she was turning on the charm more than usual. 

@hcneyjarwritings​​

“This looks like a good place, let’s check it out” 

Naturally a pub called Devil’s Tavern wouldn’t sound appealing to most but Bellamy tastes had always differed from the norm. She was always attracted to the strange and decrepit, besides any true Brit knew the best pubs in London were the ones not advertised in the tourist booklets. The ones you happened upon tucked away in some desolate nook. At least in Bell’s opinion. The night thus far had gone swimmingly, as usual they spent their Valentine’s fairly lowkey. She’d never been the type to favor fancy displays of affection or get all dolled up and put on airs just for a holiday. But there were quite a few things she hadn’t minded compromising on since marrying Wyatt. Her flowerboy who certainly didn’t fit the usual criteria of someone she was attracted to. But that was the appeal, initially at least, how completely and utterly different he was from her. She was a rough, hard talking, street smart feminist who hung out with burly men twice her size and covered in tattoos. Tattoos she most likely designed and inked herself. And Wyatt, well, he was everything. Exactly what she needed to soften her sharp edges and prove that love -- true love -- saw no differences. It only recognized two souls destined to merge.  

After spending a few years in a relationship with a woman who only cared about the novelty of their union as opposed to actually loving her this was a welcome change of pace. Somehow, despite their visual and internal contrast, the more their relationship developed the more it became apparent that they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. They just worked together. Which is why Bellamy didn’t protest too much at the idea of marriage despite her stance against the whole institution prior. She found that she didn’t mind the thought of being Mrs. Bellamy James. She loved him, wearing a ring and signing a paper was less about conforming to societal standards and more about committing to the man she loved forever. Bellamy, Wyatt, and their two sassy felines were a family and she wouldn’t change any moment of the life leading up to it for anything. 

The first part of the evening had consisted of a casual dinner where Bell glared at any single female brave enough to oogle her husband while simultaneously gazing at the fine man she called her own herself. Afterwards they roamed the bustling city streets. It was perfect evening and Bellamy could have roamed the London alleyways all night as long as his hand was in hers. She’d always loved the feel of his fingers tangled with hers. His were the type of hands that knew how to hold on and yet simultaneously set her free. They were hands that spoke of the kind of precision that only the love and focus of years could bring. If Bell hadn’t spotted the pub she was likely to stroll until the sun peeked over the city line but the lure of a good drink drew her in. 

Bell rested her hand on the rough paintwork that coated the door giving it a firm push. Rough wooden splinters cut into her palm; shards of black paint crumbling to the floor. The hinges squealed as if a eerie welcome, but their greeting was silenced by a wall of noise. Their arrival attracted some attention, but only for a brief moment. Laughter overpowered the jukebox. Conversations swirled in a clouds of smoke, the stagnant stench of cigarettes hid within the collaboration of mephitic odours. A sharp smell of drink wafted towards her. “Stellar” she grinned, beaming up at Wyatt like she’d just discovered the city of gold. “Let’s get a drink yeah?” her suggestion trailed off, however, when she spotted the pool table in the corner. “Or you could let me kick your ass at eight ball again, your choice love” 

@misfitrunnxrs​

Samara once read somewhere that love isn’t always about being boastful and extravagant, it is when we when we cocoon together in our private space. When we are to one another as vulnerable as a person can be. It is not in the travelling, nor gifts of material arts, yet in the reimagining of the everyday sunrisen starts. Given that before meeting Atticus she was ignorant about love as non-scholars were about archaeology she was inclined to favor the quote. It’d never been much of a bother to the studious woman who preferred her work over modern romance to begin with. But Atticus had roused something in her she was entirely unaware lay dormant, waiting for reprisal. Thankfully she’d attached herself to a partner who shared her sentiments on affection. It didn’t lessen the strength of their adoration for one another, they simply chose to display it in less extravagant ways. 

When they’d first started dating they’d agreed holidays -- like Valentine’s Day -- should be a non-materialistic event. So they funnelled their efforts into creative displays. They made love-letters and daft romantic songs. They’d spend the day in bed with Audrey Hepburn playing on the television, only venturing out of the other’s embrace to resupply on beside essentials. They’d talk about cherished memories with fond smiles and muse on memories yet to be had. Though she still felt like such a novice at being a wife having Atticus to give her endearments to was natural. Though admittedly the last few holidays they’d slacked on the intimacy factor. Much to Samara’s guilt, she’d been sent out on more expeditions the past year than either of them anticipated. Samara loved her vocation but spending Christmas with her husband via facetime only heightened how much she missed him. When the opportunity arose for her to be stateside in time for Valentine’s Day she made all the necessary arrangements to keep the exploration going in her absence and hoped on the first plane home. 

Unbeknownst to Atticus, of course. 

Her plans to make it in time for breakfast in bed were effectively shattered when she was forced to spend a few hours at in airport in the middle east waiting for her delayed connecting flight. But all of her in flight turmoil was worth it if it meant spending even a few hours of Valentine’s with her husband. To her dismay, when she’d finally passed the threshold of their Manhattan brownstone she was greeted only by the enthusiastic mewling of their cat Lucifer. “Atticus!” she called though only the echoes of her greeting responded. With a frown she lifted her sleeve to glance at her wrist watch. Nine thirty on a Sunday night? He’s got that night class on Sundays. Instead of feeling discouraged she made quick work of putting her things away and showering the grime of multi hour travel off. At this time of night she couldn’t imagine there were many places still open so she made a call to their favorite twenty four hour Chinese place. 

By the time ten thirty rolled around she set up a carpet picnic in front of the fireplace complete with generous portions of Moo Shu Pork and tiny bottles of alcohol she’d saved from the plane. However, by the time her husband returned home it seemed the jet lag had hit full force, Samara managed to fall asleep sprawled on the rug with Lucifer curled on her belly. It was only the sound of his approaching footsteps that roused her from slumber, lashes fluttering as she tried to decipher just where on earth she was. “Atty?” embarrassingly it took a moment for her to comprehend the visage of her husband staring down at her but when she did she sprang up to embrace him. “Surprise!” 

@misfitrunnxrs​

“Valentine’s day is such a fucking hoax” 

The proclamation spewed like a bellow from Tamsen’s living area, where Leyla had taken residence on the floor between the sofa and tv. Likely she wasn’t visible from where she could hear Tamsen fiddling in the kitchen but her grumbles were perfectly discernable. Whether she was ranting to the shaggy dog nestled against her side or the male whose home she decided to invade on this dreaded holiday. If she was going to curse the very institution of amour then she wanted company. “Oh I know, let's have a holiday to misinform young people what love is, to entice them to be greedy and inculcate insecurity. Really, it's a great idea, we'll sell crap they never needed; think of the economy. All those cards, chocolates, sweatshop lingerie items in chemical dyed tissue” her complaints were blatantly hypocritical. She couldn’t care less about young people or what they decided to spend their income on, and she surely never seem to find fault in those same sweatshops providing all the hoodies she was so fond of. It was merely another thing for her to fuss about. That was her signature schtick, fussing. For someone who rarely left her apartment and avoided interacting with other human beings at all cost. She sure spoke like she had a lot of experience about the world. 

But she truly did hate Valentine’s Day with a fiery passion. 

“I ordered a pizza the other day and it was heart-shaped Tam. Heart shaped!” Everytime she roamed her social media outlets someone was showing off their flowers, their hotel bookings, their "surprise" vacation. There were pictures of fancy dinners and sickly sweet public messages of affection when all she wanted was to post to her message boards. Or find that one cat video that had her cackling at 3 in the morning. Not that Leyla didn’t try to comprehend the appeal every year. But everytime she mused the notions of love she felt cold. Like her essence had drained right out of her socked feet into the floor. She just didn’t get it. Maybe if she was more normal she’d find herself feeling just as psychotic about the holiday as the rest of the planet. Because that’s what it all looked like from her perspective. Lunacy. 

Huffing slightly at the exertion, Leyla made a dramatic display. Rolling across the floor and using the armchair to hoist herself up into a sitting position. Briefly the room tilted, causing the gamer’s eyes to cross before her vision stilled. “Don’t look at me like that, I know what you’re thinking” she suddenly shouted, jabbing an aggressive finger into the air in Tamsen’s direction. “I’m not drunk, you’re drunk” the way her accusation slurred disproved her claim. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do Tammy, getting me liquored up so you can get some holiday nookie. Well you can just. Fuck. Off”. There was a pause of silence before her expression shifted from irritation to anticipation. “Are you done yet? There is a horrible lack of snackage in this apartment” 

@lcvebirds​

It was common knowledge that Sabrina Elliott -- soon to be Kinkaid -- was a silverware adjusting, follow the instructions step by step, ‘appearances are everything’ perfectionist. Every holiday and special occasion was a unspoken self inflicted competition to outdo herself. She viewed gift giving like a sport with the intention to make every exchange memorable. Thus, it was predictable at best, that Sabrina spent the last two weeks meticulously planning her first Valentine’s Day with Travis. Just when she thought she’d reached blissful peaks he’d completely shattered her conception of happiness when he asked her to marry him. As shocking as it was to her friends, coworkers, and her tight-ass conservative parents; for once in her life she wasn’t obsessing over the speed of her whirlwind romance. She was in love and the sooner she could call Travis her husband the better. 

This Valentine’s was promised to leagues more eventful than the last, not that she didn’t enjoy pigging out on ice cream and whiskey while Molly Ringwald had a teen crisis on screen. All three of the golden trio had plans this year, there own prince charmings to spend the day with. And who would have thought. She was even more elated that her two bests pals were experiencing the adoration she felt. It made sense, the three of them had done nearly everything together since they were babies so of course they’d all fall in love at the same time. Now they finally had new topics to gush about during gab sessions. Now she new what Shania Twain was singing about in You Win My Love. 

Amid the flour that covered the dining table sat her future husband, lounging near the pasta machine. With a slight smirk to revealed she was one thousand percent aware he was watching her. One at a time she fed the dough she flattened with a pin through the rollers watching it grow ever longer and thinner. “Don’t give me that look Mr. Kinkaid, you aren’t distracting me this time” she warned, though her lips only curled further as of silently encouraging him to try. “I have to pay close attention to this process or the noodles will come up misshapen” she further explained as she turned the dail to change the roller thickness. She could almost taste it already covered in her special sauce and sprinkled with parmesan. It was hard to believe that all it was was flour and eggs, kneaded and shaped. 

Made lovingly by yours truly

After placing the noodles into a pot to boil she smoothly plopped herself into Travis’s lap. “So do you like my dress” she cooed slyly, crossing her legs to emphasize the way the hem rode up her thighs. “I may or may not have another little something for you to unwrap, though I’m afraid it's not like the one from earlier” she admitted with a cheeky twinkle to her gaze. Though she was sure Travis would be getting another handful of the lingerie she bought for him before the night was through. “I know I said I was done with presents but I lied” 

@lcvebirds​​

“No peeking!” 

Yasmin struggled to keep her excited chortles contained, playfully stroking her fingers along her wife’s side while her arms remained encircled around Shay’s waist to guide her down the corridor. As predicted, this day of love was always a particularly amorous affair in the Kaya-Robert’s abode and Yasmin had been planning the days events for weeks. Any excuse to shower her beloved in the adoration she deserved was a grand occurrence though Yasmin wasn’t the type to indulge in over exaggerated displays of affection, she much preferred to spoil more intimately. There was hardly any doubt of Yaz’s affections, if not in the ways she verbalized her reverence every day. In fact, she realized early on in their relationship that falling in love with Shay was a process that would continue to last her entire life. 

This year, however, Yaz admittedly indulged a little more than typical. For a few months the bed and breakfast owners had discussed possible statement pieces for unfinished sections of the inn. Interior decorators they were not but they did have a shared visual of their preferred aesthetic. While in town one evening they’d wandered into a vintage and antiques shop, immediately marveling at the withered baby grand piano on display. Beautiful as it was their budget didn’t recommend a purchase, at least that’s what she had Shay believe. Secretly she’d begun saving up to surprise her wife. Initially she’d meant to acquire it by Christmas and wondered how to arrange its delivery without Shay’s knowledge. Sneaking away to buy it was one thing, but it wasn’t as if she could have it wrapped and placed under their tree. Instead she schedule the delivery for after the new year. 

When it came to the actual day Yasmin had enjoyed preparing for it so completely it could have passed by without acknowledgement and she wouldn’t have minded. She wasn’t sure how she had pulled it off but the minute she felt Shay stir Valentine’s morning she popped up, forbidding her to leave the bed until she gave permission. The movers had some difficulty moving the instrument through the halls and Yaz chewed her lip anxiously, hoping Shay would remain patient. She wanted everything seamless. Finally they set the piece in its place and right after draping a sheet over it she escorted the men out.

“Happy Valentine’s Day hayatım” she breathed out as she reentered their bedroom much later. She flashed a grin and gave her wife little time to respond before she was pulling her to her feet. “Eyes closed, I have a surprise” she explained, waiting until she complied to peck her lips and turn her towards the door. Momentarily, Yasmin was distracted by her beloved’s chest rising and falling against her own, their breaths in unison, and the heat she could feel in the embrace. She bathed contently in her warmth and the perfect blend of freshly laundered clothes and a aroma entirely her own. Reminding herself she had all day -- and the rest of her life -- to swoon at her lover’s sweet scent she refocused on the task at hand. 

As they entered the room she moved in front of Shay, cheeks dimpling as she gently removed her hands. “Tada!” unable to keep calm to preserve an air of mystery, she immediately whipped the tarp from the instrument. “You were right, it fits perfectly in this nook” she sighed, returning to Shay’s side to admire how it pulled the room together. “The first of a few things I’ve concocted for today. Are you impressed? Go on, tell me you’re impressed” she teased. 

@lcvebirds​

The shrill beep of the smoke detector belting its warning croon sent a twinge of alarm through Sonny’s slight frame, startling her so intensely the pan of sauce she was carefully carrying to her countertop clattered to the ground. Sauce splattered across the floor, painting her cabinets -- and her dress -- in red. If Sonny was prone to exempletives this would have been the ideal time to express her utter frustration, instead she was too busy plugging her ears against the noise and trying to decipher just which of her boiling, simmering, and baking concoctions was on the verge of setting the kitchen ablaze. Admittedly offering to cook a meal wasn’t her smartest decision considering her proclivity to butcher even the simplest of recipes. The number of cookbooks she’d memorized, cover to cover, didn’t seem to make the slightest difference. If there was some mishap to be had she was guaranteed to find it. Since beginning the instructions for what was supposed to be a quick and painless Spaghetti alla puttanesca; she’d overboiled the noodles twice, knicked three of her fingers cutting olives, and now she’d dropped the sauce. 

Sonny wanted to blame her lack of culinary coordination on nerves. When she’d asked Jackson over for dinner it was with purely innocent intentions completely forgetting that it was Valentines Day. Since his chivalrous rescue in her time of need they’d formed a companionship she’d come to cherish greatly. Hesitant at first, a lunch here or there to express her gratitude and with time they seemed to find in one another something they didn’t realize was missing. A true friend. Without realizing she began finding reasons to swing by the shop to see him, to crave time out of her schedule to spend together. He listened to her gush about the latest book she was obsessing over without complaint, he didn’t get annoyed when she rambled in circles, and he always seemed pleased to see her. And if she were being really honest he was easy on the eyes. Like a personification of all the heroic archetypes from her favorite novels. Though Sonny didn’t allow herself to fantasize too often. Not the way her heart pulsed quicker whenever he sent her one of those half smirks. Not the way her stomach flipped when she was caught in that dark gaze.

Nope, not any of that. 

Sonny scrambled around the kitchen, the smoke detectors incessant beeping nearly drowning out the sound of knocking. She’d gotten so carried away trying to right her mistakes she completely lost track of time. “Just a minute” she squeaked, panic rising as she tried to decide which catastrophe to attend to first. Waving her kitchen rag like like a baton she swiped at the smoke filled air, a rush of relieve leaving her when the ringing ceased. With the same cloth she cleaned the sauce from her kitchen floor as best as she could. “Coming!” she caught only a quick glimpse of herself in the hall mirror as she rushed to open the door and balked at her reflection. She looked, in short, like some deranged killer caught in the act of dissembling a body. 

“Uh...hi!” she tried to mask her disheveled appearance with a cheerful greeting, hoping he didn’t see through the strain in her smile. “I’m so happy you’re here, come on in!” she stepped aside to allow him to enter, fussing her her hair while his attention was elsewhere. “Also, don’t be alarmed by the smell of smoke. I have it completely under control” 

tirednlove​:

myend-ismybeginning​:

Source.

have a wonderful day :) 

*squints suspiciously at the last paragraph I wrote* are you. coherent?

[photo credit]

okiewrites​:

Some may have found striking up a conversation in the middle of the night in a diner in Chicago to be concerning, or something to be avoided at best. There was a certain understanding among day dwellers that nothing good happened after midnight. Where Ryland had grown up, most people passed the sentiment along to their children, but those children turned into teenagers who discovered the truth: all the best things came to life when the sun went down. Ryland could function in both versions of the world, but he’d been spending far more time on the darker side as of late, and it wasn’t an easy shift to make back to the norm. While he would have loved to fall into bed tonight and sleep away, he was suddenly very grateful that wasn’t the case.

There should’ve been some formality in place that required he introduce himself, or allowed her to do the same, but instead Ryland embraced the silence that befell them as the woman removed her scarf. meeting her gaze with one as equally as inquisitive of his own. When she ordered, he felt like a small jolt of static electricity hit his ears. Her accent was impossible to miss, and Ryland was glad for it. The melodic sound of her French upbringing wrapping itself around a mix of English and French words put his soul at ease. He hadn’t even realized he needed it until that exact moment. 

There were certain tells of an artist, of course. Ryland knew them because he had his own. While some donned fingers stained with paint and pencils tucked over ears, Ryland’s were a bit less noticeable to others: a leather-bound notebook with a string of lyrics donning pages, some longer than others, or a countless collection of notes and voice memos on his phone that recorded the bits and pieces he couldn’t forget before his pen met paper next.

“Plagues me? No, I wouldn’t say I’m plagued, per se,” he said softly, reaching his pen up to his lips and letting it tap against them carefully. Always one to take care with his words, Ryland found it no different now. “Eluded,” he said a moment later. “I’m being eluded, and I don’t particularly like it. I can’t quite get these lyrics to work together. I know what I want to say, but I can’t figure out how to say it.”

She liked the sound of his voice. Though Ava knew very little of the man due the brevity of their interaction thus far she’d decided with utter finality that she found the tenor oddly gratifying. And she certainly didn’t fault the ease in which his gaze met her own, not a flicker of hesitance in its intensity. Not at all warded off by her imposing attitude which certainly wasn’t an appropriate means of introduction. But Ava thrived on doing the unexpected -- a nonconformist at her core -- and she was pleased to find her companion able to withstand her fluidity. Any other delicate little daffodil would crumble under such serendipity.  She had experienced this more than once and she found it utterly unappealing. Vie est brève, life is short. There was no time to shy away from every new possibility. Ava wondered where this exchange would take her. 

“Ah, a writer” she cooed in admiration, her eyes dancing between the casual likeness she was sketching into the napkin and his visage. “I’ve felt this elusiveness you speak of, the difficulty of translating a feeling oui?” she mirrored his movement, resting the tip of her pencil to the edge of her bemused smirk as if propping the curve. “It’s part of the human condition I suppose, ambiguity.” she added, though more to herself. At times she drifted into her own world, unfavorable to some but it was part of her. “It is just as Sartre said, ‘I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves’” 

She was pulled from her musings when her coffee and pie was placed before her, bringing an appreciative gleam to her eyes. Abandoning her artwork for the moment, the tip of her tongue flicked out, latching onto the lip of of the cup as she took a sip. “So what is it you want to say then?” she inquired, bringing the conversation back on topic. Without asking, she unraveled two sets of utensils and offered him the spare spoon. The dessert plate was repositioned between them and Ava didn’t hesitate to take the first bite. Double vanilla chocolate almond cream, her favorite. “Perhaps I can provide some transparency for your words” 

okiewrites​:

Luis could remember the exact moment he’d decided that he detested Meghan Howard. She’d invaded his personal space in the kitchen, not entirely a rarity on its own, but it was the fact that she’d done it to him. Her hands on his waist were uncalled for, and Luis was yanked angrily from his moment of focus and thrust directly into a moment with her. His gaze fell to her hands, then flew up to her face. As his eyes met hers, Luis felt as though time stopped, a sappy mess of a moment that he swore only existed in movies. He quickly forced himself to look away as soon as he had his wits about him, returning his gaze to the plate before him with an absolute understanding that whatever Meghan Howard was doing was worth detesting.

He’d grown to solidify his decision over time. She was messy and flamboyant in the kitchen. Sometimes she played opera music loud enough that it drowned out his own thoughts, which could only mean it did the same to hers. More importantly, she wasn’t as adamant about perfection as he would’ve liked. He had planned to talk to her about the choice of music that evening, perhaps requesting ever so kindly, that she keep it at a slightly more tolerable level. However, at the mention of that night’s primavera, his intentions changed. “You did what to my primavera?”

He wasn’t going to let her get off that easily, and she had to know it. The way she was borderline rambling had Luis wondering if she knew what to expect. “That primavera recipe has been perfected since before you were born, Howard. You can’t just go adjusting it willy-nilly like some sort of entitled…” Luis stopped, clearing his throat. He tilted his head to one side slightly and closed his eyes, forcing himself to stop before he tore her a new one here and now in the middle of the kitchen. When Luis opened his eyes to see her still holding the ladle of sauce, he took a deep breath and lifted a hand, dipping his pinky finger in it and popping it into his lips. As he pulled it out slowly, Luis tasted the sauce carefully before he looked back up at her and furrowed his brows together. “Did you use a whole glove of garlic or two? It tastes like two, but I distinctly remember that recipe calling for one.”

He’s sexy when he’s annoyed...

When it came to attraction, Meghan wasn’t the most logical in her preferences. Of her own volition, her list of ex lovers was immensely eclectic and frankly, impressive. She had a knack for aligning herself with the sort that appeared to tick all the proverbial boxes of the perfect mate on the surface and never bothered to dig any deeper. Furthermore, without realizing her fault she molded aspects of her personality to better accommodate theirs. When she fell for someone it was a voluntarily naive plummet into the unknown with little to no care of the consequences. Her brothers would say she had a ‘type’. The kind that looked like they hated their lives and wanted to ruin hers. She just couldn’t help herself, she was a romantic. She’d always yearned for the type of fanciful love affair she admired in classic romance films, for her very own Humphrey Bogart or Rock Hudson to enter her life and sweep her completely off her feet. But what she got instead was a pathetic collection of duds and disappointments. 

Her previous relationship, for example, took the crown for terrible decisions. The details of Meghan’s fallout with the struggling guitarist was painful enough that she impulsively hightailed it out of Seattle, leaving her job and friends behind to begin anew. Though anew didn’t usually entail stumbling into the same habits. Her little crush on the man currently glaring down at her was exactly the type of behavior she was trying to avoid. He was her opposite in nearly every aspect yet here she was beaming up at him as if he wasn’t insulting her process. Thankfully his obvious aversion to her would keep her infatuation in check, though she was at least determined to befriend him.

Doing an excellent job at that Meg...

“Hmm, one clove or two...” her lips pursed gently as if she was really pondering the answer. “Gee, I can’t seem to remember. In fact, I don’t believe I looked at the recipe” her tone rose into a sing-song lilt, melding horribly with the sonata playing in the background. Opera was her chosen kitchen tunes though she was a horrible singer, much to the amusement of her colleagues. And to Luis’s chagrin. “But tell me how it taste, not what ingredients I used” she encouraged, keeping the ladle level in case he wanted another sample. “Is it good? Do you like it?” her brows rose in anticipation, determined to rouse a response from the man unrelated to the technicalities of the dish. 

okiewrites​:

location: a bar in los angeles with: maxine allen | @drxnknhxgh​

The four guys had grabbed a table at the corner of the bar and been drinking for about an hour. Tommy Maguire wasn’t a big drinker, he was always the one more sober than the rest. It wasn’t unusual for him to get everyone home, or at least close enough to it by dropping them in an uber. It wasn’t that his friends were alcoholics, they were just guys who had a good time regularly. Tommy had always been just fine with a slight buzz. 

He was headed to the bar for the third round of drinks, doing his best to remember what his friends had ordered. After a few minutes of standing at the bar, he looked up just as a bartender stopped in front of him. The moment his eyes met hers, Tommy knew he forgot the three drinks he’d been repeating to himself over and over in his head. “Hi,” he said softly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a small grin. “Shoot, I forgot what I was supposed to get for the guys.”

Resting his elbows on the bar, Tommy leaned against it. “You wouldn’t happen to know what those three were drinking, would you?” He pointed over his shoulder toward where he and his friends were sitting. “I was the Anchor Liberty Ale, but those guys were having something a little harder.”

it was unclear what in particular was grating on Max’s nerves at the moment. Maybe it was the non descript alternative rock blasting through the soundsystem that always seemed to be at a volume one notch too loud to hear herself think. Maybe it was the crowd of boisterous inebriated patrons making a ruckus at the end of the bar insisting on calling her angel face whenever they ordered another round. Or maybe it was the new employee she was in charge of training who had all the efficiency of a toddler tying their laces with mittens on. He seemed to forget what she told him before the words even left her lips causing her to repeat every instruction so many times it was absurd. He had the air of a person in shock, someone who'd brain was lost somewhere else, struggling to deal with some unseen issue. Why they decided Max was a suitable instructor, considering her lack of patience, was beyond her but she’d given up on mentoring the useless prick for the night. Yet, everytime she hard the crack of glass shattering to the ground as another shot glass hit the floor she couldn’t conceal her cringe of fury. 

Motherfucker can’t even wash dishes. 

Max could feel every muscle tense as her fingers curled into tight fist with each quickening breath. She pondered how efficient he’d be if she cracked a bottle over his ignorant skull. Thankfully she refrained from enacting her heated impulse if only to avoid whatever consequences came after she alleviated her outburst. She was supposed to be improving her violent temper, or at least that’s what the court mandated anger management courses were supposed to be teaching her. All she’d really taken away from what she considered a complete and utter waste of her fucking time was the next time she decided to beat some asshole in a parking lot make sure there ain’t any witnesses. You are not your rage Maxine, it doesn’t define you. Well Karen, it sure as fucked seemed like that’s how she was being labelled. Her supposed rage only reared its fragile head in the presence of situations that would grind any functioning human’s gears. So what if her responses happened to be a little more drastic than was necessary. Whenever she wasn’t being provoked she was relatively chill though typically heavily inebriated. It was her preferred state and gratefully she had the tolerance to support her habits. 

Hardened features twisted into a semblance of calm, albeit forced whilst ocean-hued eyes shifted to narrow at the male before her. Fortunately for him her blatant irritation had little to do with his presence, though for some odd reason his casual expression irked her. Without a word she reached across the bar to snatch his empty Anchor Liberty from his grasp. “What the fuck are you smirking at?” surprisingly her tone lacked any heat. She had a dirty mouth, even simple inquiries came out a tad more aggressive than intended. Her prickly personality was part of her charisma. Briefly she let her gaze wander, appreciating the scruff of half grown stubble. 

Hmm. 

“Ales are for the type of people who devote their life to spin classes and instagram pictures of avocado on toast.“ she drawled, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. Perhaps one of the most social professions out there – ironically for the woman who sucked at being social – bartending required constant contact with others and a great deal of social perceptiveness. From years of working behind the bar Max had come to understand quite a few things about human nature and behavior. Nine times out of ten, she could accurately categorize a personality from just a drink order. “You’re one drink away from a vodka soda”. With a brow raised she retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels from beneath the bar. “If you really want to put some hair on your chest  whiskey should be your go to” 

◆ photo credit

@melpzvc