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sillygooseassociation · 1 year

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Another Year of Us

Description: Jason surprises you, once again, on New Year's Eve with an idea of how to celebrate.

Warning(s): pregnancy, references to smut, o*ivia, jason is so cute i may stab my eyes out

Pairing: JRU, Jason Sudeikis x reader

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: y'all, it's happening, my favorite dumbasses 🥺

Your eyelids flutter open as sunshine enters the room through the window, the cold air outside no match for your personal heater known as Jason Sudeikis. It wasn’t often that you were able to wake up naturally next to Jason with no blaring alarm or excited child drawing you out of your sleep. While you enjoyed sleeping in, even if it was a struggle for Jason, you were missing the loud whispers and giggles of Daisy and Otis waking you up in the morning. After a week of sleeping with no interruptions, you were ecstatic to pick up the kids after their time with Olivia. Your smile grows as you feel yourself being pulled back against Jason’s chest, the freedom of no kids meaning neither of you redressed after the previous night’s activities.

Jason places a soft kiss on your bare shoulder, placing kisses in a line from there to just under your ear lobe, “Good morning, beautiful.” Your cheeks warm at his compliment as his arm wraps around you, his large hand resting on the side of your stomach where you feel a small kick against his palm, “Oh yes, I’m so sorry, little one. Good morning to you, too.” You giggle at his greeting to baby Sudeikis, who thankfully wasn’t moving around too much during the night. Turning your head just enough, your eyes soften as your gaze falls on Jason, his stubble grown a little more than the day before and the gray peeking out in the middle of his facial hair, “Hi”.

Leaning forward, Jason meets you in a kiss, his tongue running over your bottom lip before you grant him entry, his plan soon thwarted when you lightly bite down on the tip of his tongue. With a painful exclamation, Jason pulls back and looks at you with a humorous look of confusion, “What the fuck was that for?” You just laugh and shrug, pulling out of his grasp slightly so that you have enough room to roll and lay on your back, “Dunno, just wanted to see what would happen.” Jason raises his eyebrows in challenge, sitting up and throwing his leg over your thighs, straddling your body just under where your bump lays, “I’ll show you what happens.”

Jason’s hands slide up from where they rest on your hips, making their way to your breasts, though you stop him before they can reach their destination. With a roll of your eyes, you push Jason off of you, “You horny fucker, stop it. We have kiddos to pick up.” Jason groans, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow as you carefully sit up, sliding off the bed, as you hear a quieted muttering, “I wish I was a fucker right now.” A loud laugh echoes throughout the room, “Get a hold of yourself, Jas.” Bringing his face out of the darkness, Jason watched you walk to your bathroom, a small smile on his face at the domesticity of it all.

Leaving the brownstone hand in hand, you and Jason head to the car, careful to not slip on any of the ice on the ground. Opening the door for you, Jason has a firm hand on your lower back as you slide into the car, “Jason, I do know how to get in a car, ya know?” Jason rolls his eyes at you, closing the door once you’re in and rounding to the other side. You put on your seat belt, making sure it's secure around your bump as Jason gets settled, “Yes, I know that you know how to get in a car. But I’ll be damned if you slip and fall while getting in the car. Nothing is happening to you or the princess on my watch.” You smile at Jason’s words, resting a hand on your bump as he began your quick drive to Olivia’s place, “You know, Daisy is going to be really disappointed if her “little princess sister” turns out to be a prince.”

When you watched Frozen for the first time after telling the kids about your pregnancy, Daisy let out a loud gasp about halfway through the movie, “Wait! Does this mean that I’m Elsa and the baby is Anna?!” You tried to explain that the baby could be a boy but your warnings fell on deaf ears, Daisy insisting that your family was Frozen come to life. Otis yelled in offense, though the two quickly decided that he was Kristoff (“without the kissing, that’d be so gross”), also assigning Sven and Olaf to you and Jason, whatever the fuck that meant.

A small smile appeared on Jason’s face as he shook his head, glancing to you before looking back at the road, “Nope, she won’t be disappointed.” You sigh, understanding the unsaid implications of his response, “Bubs, you don’t know that it's going to be a girl.” Jason just shakes his head again, “Yes, I do, Y/N. It’s going to be a girl, I’m telling you.” Yeah, you know he’s telling you, he’s been telling you for the past four months. Of course you’re worried that Daisy will be disappointed, she’s so excited for a little sister, but she’s only eight, and you know she’ll be just as happy with a little brother. But really, you’re worried about Jason being disappointed if it’s a boy. You know he’ll love your child with his whole heart no matter their sex, but he has been so excited for his “second baby girl” ever since he declared you were having a girl two weeks after you told him you were pregnant. You would be heartbroken to see him not get his wish, “Mhm, okay, well we’ll find out in only a few more months, okay?”

You were filled with excitement as Jason turned down Olivia’s street. Sure, she wasn’t your favorite person, and she certainly wasn’t a fan of you either, but she was the kids’ mom, which meant you were forever grateful for her. Your thoughts quickly shifted from her as you saw two of your favorite people standing on the porch of Olivia’s townhouse. She was standing in the doorway, of course, a mug of coffee in her hands as she made sure her kids were safe until you arrived, but her presence was no match to the love that flooded you at seeing the kids, your kids. It took you years to feel comfortable calling the Sudeikis children yours and even now, you don’t often do it besides menial conversation like telling the pharmacy you are picking up a prescription for your child. Jason reaffirmed your role in the lives of his children, reassuring you that you were a parent to them just as much as he and Olivia, but it was still hard sometimes.

As soon as Jason put the car in park, your door was flung open before you jumped out of the car, well, more like slid out thanks to your bump, “Mama!” The sound was like music to your ears. Two small bodies wrapped their arms around you, Otis diving into a story from the week with his mom while Daisy greeted her little sister with a different story. Coming around to join the three of you, Jason jokingly scoffed, “All right, geez, I get the message. Guess I’ll just head home then.” The kids squealed with laughter as they hugged their dad, Jason greeting them with a large smile before looking up at you with a smug grin, acting as if he won even though they definitely cheered louder for you.

Jason gave a brief wave to Olivia as you ushered the kids to the car, making sure they got all the way buckled as your fiancé loudly wished a happy new year to his ex. With all of you now situated in the car, Jason begins the drive back home as you partially turn in your seat to see Daisy and Otis, intently listening to their stories filled with sound effects and intense hand gestures. Jason looks in the rearview mirror, smiling brightly at the sight of his kids doubled over in laughter, then glancing to see you wearing a smile similar to his, seemingly on top of the world just from listening to Daisy and Otis’s nonsensical stories. With a backdrop of the winter city passing you all by as tourists make their way to Manhattan and Mumford & Sons quietly playing, Jason’s life of the past three years seems to come full circle. Seeing an open parking lot to his right, Jason quickly pulls in and parks the car, looking to you with a serious expression on his face. You turn to him in confusion, but he speaks before you can ask him what he’s doing, “Marry me.”

Distracted by a family of snowmen in the parking lot, the kids are sharing laughs as they look out the window, but you just stare at Jason. You’ve never seen him look so serious before, his eyebrows raised in hopefulness and his cheeks pink, though you’re unsure if that’s due to the chilled air or his moment of vulnerability. You raise your left hand, showing your ring to Jason as you slightly tilt your head, “Um, yeah, Jas, you already did this part, remember? Got down on one knee and everything.” At any other moment, Jason would roll his eyes at you and call you a little shit or something similar, but right now, all he can do is look at you, “Today. Marry me, today.” Your breath hitches in your throat, the serious tone of Jason’s words catching the attention of the kids, who now watch the two of you intently, “Jason, what? I-I don’t have a dress, our families aren’t here, we haven’t even set a date.”

Grabbing your hands, Jason looks at you with eyes filled with love, seemingly pleading that you will see this how he does, “Exactly, sweetheart. We haven’t even set a date, and I can’t wait any longer. We’ll have a reception after the baby comes, we’ll celebrate with everyone, but my family, our family, is all right here.” With tears pooling in your eyes, you turn to Otis and Daisy who are practically jumping in their seats, apparently sensing the seriousness of the situation enough to know to be quiet. You turn back to Jason, who has a small smile on his face, a couple of tears running down his face, “Three years ago today, I picked you up to go to a party as friends and I acted like an idiot, and it was one of the best decisions I ever made. We drove through the same city, we listened to the same music, and we passed the same annoying tourists. I meant every single thing that night and I mean every single thing now. I can’t stand the idea of beginning another year where you aren’t my wife. So let’s go to the courthouse, let’s act like annoying lovesick teenagers. Let me marry you while you wear clunky snow boots and leggings and my sweatshirt. Marry me, Y/N.”

By now, tears are rolling down your face as you nod your head, pulling Jason in for a sweet kiss, your tears mixing as the kids cheer before groaning in disgust at your affection. You and Jason pull away, both of you wiping away your tears before you swat at Jason’s arm, “What’re you doing? Come on, let’s get a move on. You can’t say all that and expect me to wait another minute.” Jason chuckles at you, pulling you in for another quick kiss before peeling out of the parking lot, and heading to the closest New York City courthouse.

After waiting in line at the marriage clerk’s office, the kids so excited that they thankfully don’t complain, the four of you wait outside the office of a judge. You sit on a bench, the kids both tucked into your sides as they talk to the baby, Jason watching as he leans against the opposite wall, absolutely obliterated with love. A door opens before a booming voice fills the hall, “Y/N L/N and Daniel Sudeikis?” You and the kids stand up, Jason joining up and intertwining your fingers as the four of you walk to the judge’s chambers. The woman looks up, surprise across her face, “I was wondering from the name but Daniel, really?” Jason chuckles as the kids giggle at a face you make in their direction, “Yes, ma’am, surprising, I know.” The judge smiles, both at Jason’s midwestern manners and your interaction with the children, leading you into her chambers.

Daisy and Otis sit down in the large chairs facing the desk, yell-whispering to you about their “thrones”. You smile at them, giving them a thumbs-up before bringing your finger to your lips, reminding them to be quiet. They giggle in excitement, watching as Jason brings you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your waist while the other rests on your bump. The judge sits down and motions to your clothes, “Last minute decision?” Jason looks down at you, a bright smile on his face, “This has been three years coming Your Honor, I couldn’t make it another year.” You look up at Jason with a similar sized smile, giving him a small kiss before you’re interrupted, “Okay, lovebirds, I haven’t said that yet. Wait a minute or two.”

The kids holler with laughter at the teasing words of the judge, though you can’t judge them, you and Jason both laugh as well, though partly from embarrassment. The judge gives the two of you a tight-lipped smile, “All right, you two have filled out all the required documents, so now it’s really just the fun part. Please turn to each other.” You and Jason turn to face each other, standing as close as you can with your bump, “Do you, Y/N M/N L/N, take Daniel Jason Sudeikis to be your lawfully wedded husband?” You look up at Jason, a small smile on your face as tears run down your face, Jason’s expression mirroring yours, “I do.” You hear small giggles from the side, but you don’t look away from Jason, how can you? “And do you, Daniel Jason Sudeikis, take Y/N M/N L/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Jason squeezes your hands three times as he looks into your eyes, “I sure do.” A breath that you weren’t consciously holding left your lungs. There was no doubt in your mind that Jason would say yes, but you still needed to hear it, and now that you have, you’re pretty sure it’s one of your favorite sounds in the world. With a smile on her face, the judge closes her folder containing your documents, “Then by the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Now, you may kiss your spouse.” You don’t miss the teasing tone of how the judge finishes that second sentence but it doesn’t really matter, because all you can focus on is Jason’s lips on yours, your heart beating in your chest, the kicks of the baby in your belly, and the cheers of your kids.

The two of you pull apart, resting your foreheads together as you feel the kids wrapping their arms around your legs. You’ll look at them in a moment, you’ll all celebrate, but right now, you’re looking at your husband. His eyes sparkle as he looks at you, a smile on his face, “We doing this? Another year of us?” You smile back, nodding your head as you lean in to give him a small kiss, “We’re doing this. You and me, Mr. Sudeikis.” Jason smirks at your response, both your phrase and the name for him, him kissing you once more before the kids can interrupt, “You and me, Mrs. Sudeikis.”

#jason sudeikis #jason sudeikis fanfiction #jason sudeikis fanfic #jason sudeikis fic #jason sudeikis x reader #fluff #teeth rotting fluff #JRU #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fic #rpf

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wonderlandleighleigh · 1 year

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Hello, Sunshine, December 1964

She takes a cab across town and when she arrives at the lavish brownstone, juggles the basket of gifts and her Pyrex dish out and up the stairs, briefly considering using her foot to ring the doorbell, but nor completely sure she can kick that high after giving birth four months prior.

She's about to give it a shot when the door swings open and Gordon Ford pokes his head out, looking exhausted but amused.

"You were gonna kick the doorbell."

Midge purses her lips. "Maybe. You look like hell?"

"My son is two days old," he reminds her, rubbing his unshaven chin. "I'm not exactly camera ready."

He lets her in and leads her into a cavernous living room. She's been here for parties, when it's teeming with people, but when it's quiet and empty like this it feels vast.

"How's the baby? How's Neena?" She asks, setting her things down.

"Both are perfect and sleeping," Gordon grins. "Thanks for stopping by. There's a few things I wanted to discuss."

Midge nods. "But first." She lifts the Pyrex dish and hands it over. "Potato kugel."

Ge groans and cradles it in his arms. "Bless you. We got five tuna casseroles. I think I have mercury poisoning."

She laughs and then gestures to the well-appointed basket. "Blanket, diapers, pins, powder, breast pump and bear."

"Hey, useful stuff," Gordon lights up, setting the Pyrex down to look. "Aw. Good bear."

"Right? Kitty and Esther picked him."

"Good choice."

"Now," Midge huffs. "Do I get to hold the baby?"

"Business first."

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. "Okay. Business."

"So...I'm taking a month off," he tells her. "I think I underestimated baby stress."

Midge nods. "First time parents often do. We're going on hiatus?"

"Well..."

She blinks. "Guest host?"

"Yeah," he nods. "You."

Midge freezes. "Me?"

"If it's okay. If you can juggle your four-month-ol-"

"I can."

"If you're-"

"Yes."

"Okay. Then the boat is yours," Gordon nods. "I cleared it with corporate. You're popular enough, you know how to work with the staff and handle guests. So. One month. It's the Midge Maisel show."

She looks about ready to burst. "I can't scream because you have an exhausted wife and a two day old but fuck do I want to."

Gordon laughs. "Okay. Baby time."

"What's his name?"

"William Delaney Ford."

"The most goyische name I've ever heard. I love it."

#tmmm #fic #au #midge maisel #gordon ford #in honesty it's been a while since we've had reason yet to smile #so come on sunshine come into my life

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justforbooks · 6 months

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Though most of us have only seen the posters, Edward Hopper's paintings have become icons of 20th-century American life. But what are they like in reality?

It feels as if you've always known them, the paintings of Edward Hopper. America seems unimaginable without them. Lone souls, empty sidewalks, baking brownstones, raking sunlight, the drug store at four in the morning, usherettes, clerks, the solitary salesman, hotel rooms on sluggish afternoons, heat sizzling outside, misery shut up indoors. People and places and the human condition: this is the genius (or cheap music) of Edward Hopper as everyone knows it.

Or is it? The flash of recognition, so crucial to each painting, is easily confused with familiarity. Unless you have travelled to America the chances are you may never have seen a Hopper in reality. There is only one in Britain (in a very private collection) and there hasn't been a show here in almost a generation. Even if you've seen a few originals, and survived the shock of finding them more rough-hewn and awkward than reproductions imply, and infinitely stronger, this retrospective at Tate Modern may amaze. It is a revelation in so many ways.

Reproduction shrivels Hopper. It turns his paintings into illustrations. Which, in turn, abets all the old clichés about his works: that they are theatrical tableaux, or film stills, for which you write the script, that they are enigmas waiting to be solved. Or that there is a narrative to each painting, a backstory to each loner, that can somehow be deduced from the details of clothes, props, mise en scène: a mystery fit for Hammett or Chandler.

People who write about Hopper like to float theories. The stenographer who longs to comfort her unhappily married boss in Office at Night. The once hopeful out-of-towner waiting for the bus back home in Automat. You could make a story out of any of his pictures, runs the line (a whole anthology exists, in fact, filled with just that). But I'm not sure his art needs or demands such interpretations. 'I hope it will not tell any obvious anecdotes,' fretted Hopper, with foresight, 'since none are intended.'

Take a work such as Sunday (1926). Condensed on a page, it would seem to show nothing more than a clerk in his shirtsleeves sitting on a deserted sidewalk nursing one elbow. Behind him is a shop front, before him the blank street. It seems to be morning. Perhaps he never went to bed or is forced to work Sundays; who knows? The man is a model, not a narrative.

What strikes is the painting itself, so drab in reproduction, so magical face to face. The way Hopper's sunlight pours through the window, scouring the emptiness of the shop - is there a more vacant room anywhere in art? The ambient distance it measures between the man and the world around him. The beautiful colour harmonies between shutter, boardwalk, blinds and street that shut him out, their subtlety contrasting with his brusque shirt, the only white in the picture. Everything isolates him, the lone worker, lost in thought, stark in the careless sunshine.

There are no trash cans, no signs, not even a spent butt in this image. It is pared to the bare epiphany. Elimination, rearrangement, cropping, distancing, angle: it's usual to think of Hopper in terms of cinematography. But as an editor he is on a par with Degas, and no sort of standard realist, representing the view with dogged fidelity. As Degas wrote, 'One reproduces only that which is necessary.'

Hopper studied Degas on one of the three trips he made to Paris in his youth; but the rest of his file is pretty thin. Born in 1882, the son of a dry goods salesman in Nyack, New York, he was a sometime illustrator and part-time painter who stopped painting for almost 10 years and didn't find form until his forties. Taciturn, frugal, gallingly self-contained from his wife's point of view, he lived in the same cold-water apartment in Manhattan from his marriage at 41 until his death in 1967. She was his only model.

Flipping through a book of Hopper's pictures might give the sense of lives snapped, scenes glimpsed, from the street or the El. But it would be wrong to think of him simply skimming images of strangers through windows as he rides the subway by night. Of course he caught what we catch - the freeze-frame behind glass, people who are outsiders to one another, seen from outside - but this is both more and less than he shows.

A great Hopper, in the paint, is all stillness, silence, solidity. Not the stillness of Vermeer, of stopped yet reverberating time, but a stillness all of his own: the hiatus, the lapse, the longueur, the moment between significant moments. A man staring out of the window while a girl sleeps beside him. A woman seated in the dead light of a theatre during intermission, blank as the safety curtain.

You don't hear the waves of Cape Cod in Hopper's seascapes or the cicadas in his landscapes. There are no crowds or sirens in his cities. All is silence; the mind turned in on itself, thinking, or not quite thinking, the only action. How implausible it would be to enter a Hopper and hear actual sound.

And the clock strikes 13 in any painting where motion is represented - such as the hopeless attempt at the nanny's fluttering headdress in New York Pavements. Hopper's pictures are not movies; the best of them have monumental solidity. In the architecture - his absolute gift, to make buildings as poignant and fascinating as people, if not more so; in the sunlight, pressing against houses, carpeting floors; even in the skies. Hopper's clouds never scud.

The cumulus hangs paralysed above Manhattan in Williamsburg Bridge (1928). I thought the painting would make me think of A Streetcar Named Desire - apartments rocked by incessant traffic - but it doesn't. It fairly scintillates with silence. Brownstones blaze against the pale sky: heavy stone, bright heat. Windows blink, or frown, or shutter against the light. At one of them, way up high, a trademark figure sits on the sill, on the threshold between within and without, dreaming, looking out, observing the world. Like a painter: Hopper's surrogate.

Except that this would be totally anomalous. Hopper never forces himself upon his art. There is no sense of his personality - aside, perhaps, from a steady empathy with the subjects - and any sign of his presence immediately deactivates the drama.

For there are weak paintings, even in a tremendous show like this. When the buildings become flimsy, for example, or the colour is ostentatiously over-keyed. When the woman turns into a glib dollybird, when the figures get clumsier and more caricatural in later years. When he repeats himself: all those people gazing off-stage, into another world, another life. When even the light houses face off into the distance, eyes averted. Hopper can be just too plangent.

Which feels fatal, along with everything else that limits the emotional complexity of his art, makes it seem 'expressive' of loneliness, sorrow and so forth. Such as the presence of more than one figure. Two and the scene becomes a dialogue, however mute or fractured; three and all sorts of too-obvious anecdotes present themselves, especially in the film noir works of the Forties. Even one person looking directly out of the frame, or just with a directional gaze, and the spell, the reverie, is broken.

A masterpiece such as Early Sunday Morning hasn't a single figure in it (Hopper judiciously deleted the hint of a face at a window). But it's one of the richest works he ever painted. The dawn light casting immense shadows down the long avenue, peopled only by a hydrant and a barber's pole; the intense colour of the brick facades; the many windows, with their separate characters; the hint of menace in the tall building edging into the picture. It's not portentous, like de Chirico City; it is the world seen anew as surpassingly strange and beautiful.

And crucial to its effect is the curious absence of Hopper. You see where he might have stood to make sketches but there's no sense of his watching presence; no directing of focus, attention. The corollary is also the case - that your own viewpoint is somehow vacant as well. Nobody is looking at this street, nobody is looking back: and how much more so with his paintings of people. That pensive woman in the third floor apartment? You don't think for one moment that Hopper has a ladder propped at her window; rather it's a kind of floating observation: so real, and yet like a dream.

'One was aware,' wrote a friend, 'of a slight displacement in his experience of his own person ... as when we are strange to ourselves, and become objects of our own contemplation.' That quality is crucial to the power of Hopper's art, as to the minds of his men and women. They are absorbed, abstracted, almost hypnotically disengaged from the world around them: and Hopper's gift goes outwards too. After a while you become one with them, rapt, still, solitary in your absorption as the people in these spellbinding pictures.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Edward Hopper

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liaromancewriter · 1 year

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New York Moment

Premise: Max and Sienna get cast as extras on a movie set, and funny antics soon follow.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Sienna Trinh x Max Valentine (M!OC) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 1,425

A/N: This fic was requested by @trappedinfanfiction from @creativepromptsforwriting Meet Cute list (prompt 15). Tagging for reblog to @creativepromptfills. I'm using @choicesflashfics week 29, prompt 3 (in bold). Submission for @aprilchallenge prompt "dance"

The streets of Manhattan were teeming under the steaming summer sunshine. Native New Yorkers walked determinedly about their business, and tourists ambled on sidewalks, smartphones in hand, ready to capture their New York moment.

Cars honked, buses wheezed, and people yelled. It was noisy and exciting, annoying and fascinating. It was New York.

Sienna Valentine watched the drama unfold from the relative peace of a shaded sidewalk patio in Greenwich Village, and thought, “I’ve missed this.”

She’d attended medical school at Columbia, and this city had been home for four years. She had so many memories here. Studying in Central Park on a warm spring day. Taking the A Train downtown for a night out with her friends. Ice skating at Rockefeller Center.

Sienna had enjoyed her life in Boston and loved living in DC now. But whenever her husband Max needed to visit New York for work or family, she tagged along if her work schedule allowed.

Luckily for Sienna, Max had no issues making non-work trips either. An overnight trip to watch a Broadway show, a quick day trip to go shopping in Midtown or a romantic weekend getaway.

Life with Max was never dull, Sienna thought dreamily, looking away from the view outside to watch him walking toward her.

“Sorry about that. The guy just wouldn’t stop talking,” Max said, sliding into the chair across from her. He started to reach for his wine glass but suddenly stopped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to drag me to the nearest restroom and have your wicked way with me,” he grinned lasciviously.

“I’d rather wait until we get back to our hotel,” she countered with a wink and a smile. “And then I’ll have my wicked way with you. So you might want to load up on carbs.”

“Good plan,” he chuckled. “Check, please!”

Sienna burst into laughter. Definitely not boring, she thought again.

They finished their lunch, talking and just enjoying each other’s company, lingering over their wine. While Max settled the bill, Sienna quickly called their nanny.

“Noah okay?” Max asked, clasping her hand in his as they left the restaurant.

“Yes. Mrs. Banks said he was still asleep and to take our time.”

They started walking east toward Washington Square Park for an open-air concert, passing leafy residential streets lined with brownstones and avoiding the crowds on Bleeker Street by cutting through Cornelia Street.

They were two blocks from the park when they saw steel barricades and a clump of trailers and trucks lined up along one street. Security guards held back crowds as a film crew set up for a shoot outside the park; light stands, cameras and film equipment were everywhere.

“Now what?” Sienna said, disappointed at having their afternoon plans disrupted. It would take time to go around the barricades and crowds.

She turned toward Max, but he was standing a few feet away, reading an information notice taped to the side of a tree trunk.

“Hey, Si? Wanna be an extra in a Hollywood movie?”

When Sienna glanced at him in confusion, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to his side, pointing at the sign.

Intrigued, Sienna read the words block printed on bright yellow paper. “Extras wanted. Couples only. Report to Production Office.”

“Well?” Max smiled, a hint of adventure in his eyes. “It can be our New York Moment.”

“I thought our New York Moment was that extravagant proposal on The Highline?”

“Who says you can only have one?” he challenged, arching his eyebrow.

Intrigued by the idea, Sienna found herself nodding, her apprehension about being on camera carried away by Max’s enthusiasm.

They were outside the production office a short while later, standing in a queue with other couples. A production assistant collected their details and directed them to a trailer for a wardrobe check. That done, they joined the others in a closed-off waiting area near a fountain.

“What kind of movie do you think this is?” Sienna said, craning to see if she could spot any stars.

“Definitely not a porno, given the location,” Max teased, his lips quirked in a half-smile. “I was really looking forward to seeing you in a leather catsuit.”

Sienna snorted. “I don’t have time for your prurient fantasies, Valentine.”

“You say fantasy, I say, meet me at midnight.”

Max took her hand and twirled her into an impromptu dance, their hips swaying to the jaunty tune drifting from a street musician behind the barricade. He tightened his grip on her hand; his other hand splayed across her lower back.

Well used to their rhythm, Sienna readied herself for the backward dip, confident he wouldn’t let her fall. Suddenly, Max tugged at her, and she tripped over her feet, falling against him.

Sienna giggled at her clumsiness, but his smug look and hands cupping her ass made her think it was on purpose.

She locked her hands behind his neck and leaned in, kissing the open space at the base of his throat where he'd left the buttons of his shirt collar undone. She felt his breath hitch before he pulled back slightly. But she wasn’t done.

Sienna stretched on her toes and drew his head down to place her lips against his ear.

“Are you trying to seduce me in public?” she whispered.

He chuckled. “What a thing to say? I’m just rehearsing. For all you know, my character is a suave international spy trying to throw the assassins off his scent by dancing with a beautiful stranger in the park.”

She scoffed. “We’ve both seen that movie, and it usually ends with the spy seducing the woman before jumping out the window.”

“Maybe in this movie, the beautiful woman is the seductress,” he said, amused. “And hopefully she has handcuffs so the spy can’t escape her bed.”

He said the last in such a deadpan manner that Sienna burst into laughter. She laughed so hard she had to wrap her arms around her stomach and gasp for air.

The production assistant walked over, still talking into a headset, clipboard in hand.

“All right, folks. Thanks for your patience,” he said hurriedly. “The AD’s just finishing setting up the shot, and then we’ll escort you to the set. Just some house rules….”

Sienna tried to school her face to pretend interest and attention. It didn’t help that Max moved behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and leaned down to speak in her ear, cracking jokes.

“Don’t feed the pigeons? Why would we do that?” Max murmured, deliberately twisting the production assistant’s words about not disturbing the actors.

Sienna covered her mouth with one hand so people couldn’t see her laughing, but there was no hiding the tears spiking her eyelashes.

“Wait? I thought this was a family feature. Why would we be dancing naked in the square with a clown?”

Sienna guffawed, and the production assistant stopped to stare at her. Embarrassed, she pretended to cough and waved a hand in apology. The man continued his instructions, squinting suspiciously at her.

She could feel Max’s body shaking in mirth behind her. As soon as the coast was clear, Sienna slapped the arm around her waist and hissed in annoyance.

“Are you trying to get us kicked off the movie? And you know he didn’t say anything about naked dancing. The extras are supposed to be couples dancing in the park to a summer concert.”

She shivered as Max kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear.

“Tomayto, tomahto,” he said, voice smug. “Want to go back to our hotel for naked dancing?”

Before Sienna could tell him to behave himself, the production assistant announced it was time to head out.

They took their places on discretely placed x-marked spots on the floor. After listening attentively to the director’s instructions, they turned to face each other.

The more it dragged on, the technicians adjusting lighting and whatnot around her, the more nervous Sienna became.

Max placed her hand on his shoulder and put his arm at her waist, ready to swing her into an impromptu dance on a beautiful sunny day. The setup was so similar to what they’d been doing in the waiting area earlier that Sienna’s nerves vanished.

“It’s a good thing we rehearsed earlier,” Max said, a winsome smile hovering on his lips, reading her thoughts perfectly.

Sienna kissed his jaw. “Don’t worry. If you mess up, we can keep practicing back in our hotel. Clothing optional. One more New York Moment.”

“And cut!”

Bonus

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

All Fics & Edits: @annfg8 @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @doriopenheart @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @takemyopenheart @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Max & Sienna only: @aallotarenunelma @storyofmychoices @kyra75

#open heart #open heart choices #choices open heart #open heart fanfics #sienna trinh #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfics #choices fanfiction #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #short story #writers on tumblr #sienna trinh x oc #sienna trinh x max valentine

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storiesofsvu · 1 year

Text

Heavy Hearts Ch 6

Casey Novak x reader Warnings: language, that's about it. it's pure fluff. and an un-named guest star. If you're reading this, please let me know. even if it's on anon, because i feel like no one is...like im still gonna keep working on it,but like a girl could use some motivation lol

The next four months seemed to absolutely fly by, it felt like you and Casey had just returned from New York after Christmas yet you were already hunkered down studying for end of term exams. At the very least, you were thankful for the warming weather, able to spend more time outside, wandering across campus and through the city streets exploring more each day hand in hand. You also certainly weren’t complaining about getting to watch Casey play baseball once a week, happily cheering her on from the stands with your friends. Friends who were incredibly supportive and happy that the two of you had finally gotten together but would also constantly tease you over just how gross your love was (playfully and in good nature of course).

Studying sessions moved from your dorm or the library out to the quad, taking full advantage of the sunshine until it sank in the horizon. The longer days, the upcoming summer break had people in a lighter mood (even with exams coming up), laughter and smiles were prevalent everywhere, or at least it felt like it. Maybe it was just what you and Casey were feeling surrounded by your happy little cloud of love, one that grew larger and stronger with each day that passed. She was always so caring and soft with you, if you were struggling with an assignment or concept, she’d remind you to take a break, she knew just how overloaded your brain could get and knew just what to do to fix it. She would always bring treats to study sessions, making sure that she had your favourites for the extra hard days, and each weekend the two of you would celebrate with a nice dinner and lavish bottle of wine, cheers-ing to being one week closer to finishing the year.

When Casey was frustrated or getting stressed, you knew that you needed to get her to put the books down, change into some gym clothes and get her out of the dorm. You absolutely hated running, but you’d do it for her and had to admit, it did help clear your head. You’d sneak her into the batting cage, sitting in silence while you watched her, the bat cracking against the ball as she never missed a hit. If she refused either of those you simply shut her book, tugged her head into your lap and would turn on the tv, gently playing with her hair, scratching at her head until she was relaxed and calmed down. The two of you barely needed words to communicate at this point, it was more than easy enough to read each other and that just solidified everything even more.

Before you even knew it you were packing up your dorm rooms, setting stuff into storage and bringing what you needed over to New York.

You were so thankful and thrilled for the two weeks of exploring New York with Casey before you’d begun your internship. Summer in the city was a whole different ballgame than over Christmas. You spent as much time as possible outside, enjoying the warmth and sunshine, wandering through parks, walking along the river, getting as many snacks as possible from Little Eataly. Things were absolutely perfect and there was no doubting that both of you could very easily see this being your future.

Casey had taken you out for ice cream at one of her favourite spots, a mom and pop place tucked into a residential corner of the Upper West Side. It’d been raining the previous couple of days so you chose to explore the streets while eating rather than stay inside any longer. You had your arm linked with Casey’s, once your ice cream was finished you tossed it into a trashcan, your hand slipping into hers and she let out a happy hum, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You wandered up and down a couple of streets lined with brownstones and happy family homes complete with large yards, open windows with laughter flowing from them, everything seeming very welcoming and open.

“I wanna live here.” You murmured, eyes lingering on one of the houses and Casey chuckled.

“You sure you don’t want a penthouse on the upper east side?”

You rolled your eyes as you scoffed, prodding her in the ribs and she winced away from you, “yeah I’m sure.” You laughed softly, leaning up to press a kiss to her cheek, “sure, they’re gorgeous but they’re like, too pristine, they don’t feel lived in. I feel like I’d constantly be cold in one. But these…” you gestured to the houses as the two of you continued to walk, “they feel more like home.”

“Well…” Casey stalled in her steps, turning you toward one of the brownstones, “this one’s an open house today.” She raised a brow in your direction and you giggled.

“Why? I mean, we’ve still got another two years before we’re done school.”

“So?” She shrugged, “doesn’t hurt to look.”

“I guess you’re right.” You laughed once again, following her up the sidewalk.

You were greeted by a real estate agent in the entry way who gave you the rundown, a brochure and a business card before you made your way deeper into the house. The entry way lead directly into a hallway with a large staircase heading upstairs on the right hand side. An office or sitting room sat off to the right and through a large archway on the left was the living room, more than enough space for a family to play games, have movie nights or finish up work. The dining room was semi connected, a large table, China cabinet and bar cart currently taking up the space, through a smaller archway was the kitchen. Spacious, new appliances and clearly renovated.

“Look at that yard.” You muttered and Casey wrapped around your back, pressing a kiss to the crook of you neck.

“You thinking dogs or kids?” She asked and your head tilted as you turned back to her.

“I… not sure.” You laughed softly, pausing to steal a kiss, “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Kids I mean, because obviously yes to at least one dog.”

“Good.” She laughed, “you… don’t want to be a mom?”

“Considering the relationship with my own mother I guess I figured I’d suck at it.” You shrugged, “a dog is good enough for me, especially with the careers we both want. It’s not a deal breaker or anything but I’m leaning towards no.”

“For what it’s worth I think you’d make an exceptional mother.” Casey’s hand caressed at your cheek softly before she leant in to kiss you and your cheeks flushed.

“Well if we have a yard like this you’re the one teaching them baseball.”

“Them!?” She exclaimed, a teasing grin on her lips, “now there’s multiples?!”

“The dog needs to learn too.” You replied with a laugh, a glimmer in your eyes as you playfully shoved at her arm, “relax Case, it’s not like you can accidentally knock me up. Jobs, house,” you ticked them off on your fingers as you went, “then we re-route back to this when we’re settled and established bad asses.”

“Sounds perfect.” She kissed the tip of your nose, “but my leading question is; is there a limit on how many dogs?” She asked with a laugh, pulling another one from you.

Two weeks later and you were deep into your internship at a defence firm in Manhattan. You didn’t know much about anyone, just that the boss knew your dad, and you were trying to avoid everyone knowing that, keeping your head down and doing you work. So far it was running for coffee, lunch, or menial paperwork and honestly? You didn’t mind it at all. You had just enough time to slowly finish what you were doing while also keeping your ears and eyes open to see just how the legal world actually worked, able to pick up on what kind of things would help you through your next two years at school and in the real world once you’d passed the bar. You were always the willing one to take subpoenas, motions or suppressions over to the courthouse or DA’s office, knowing the field trip would likely give you more of an insight into an actual courtroom. And you were always thankful for the afternoons one of the higher ups would let you off a bit early, wanting a third set of eyes in the courtroom to take notes, watch their arguments and the like. It gave you the tiniest bit of leg up to know what kind of things to prepare for in a courtroom in the future, both on the exciting side and the reality of how boring it could get some days.

It was getting a little later in the day, you had been wrapping up a couple of lose ends on one of the attorney’s paperwork at your desk when you heard the sound of heels on the linoleum.

“Oh thank god one of you is still here.” The woman’s voice broke through the silence and you glanced up with a small smile. You couldn’t quite remember her name, you just remembered someone mentioning she was one of the newer attorneys with the firm, though just by the way she dressed and carried herself you knew she had the confidence and competency to run circles around some of the older ones.

“What can I help with?”

“Can you run these over to the Brooklyn DA? Office two eighty seven.” She pulled out a couple of files, gently dropping them down onto your desk.

“Brooklyn? Oh…” you trailed off, shaking your mouse to wake up your computer screen and the older woman chuckled.

“Darling, I know it may seem like you’ll burst into flames if you step out of Manhattan, but I assure you, you won’t.”

“Oh,” you laughed, “no, I just… I’m not from the city, I’m just here for summer. I’ll just have to search the subway route.”

“Oh sweetheart.” She chuckled, “fuck the subway. Give me five minutes, I’ve got a service. I’ll have a car waiting for you and let them know to take you home afterwards.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” She practically smirked, her eyes flicking down your body quickly, “I recognize designer when I see it, can’t have Manolo’s slumming it on the subway now, can we?”

She shot you a wink and a grin before swiftly vanishing from the office and you couldn’t help but laugh lightly. At least you fashion sense wasn’t getting wasted this summer, she definitely had good taste that was for sure. Since the firm was basically empty you checked in with the head to confirm that this would be your last task of the day and were relieved when it was, collecting your stuff and finding the car waiting on the curb.

The trip over to Brooklyn turned out to be relatively uneventful, the DA’s building over there nearly as organized as Manhattan’s. You chatted with the lawyer’s assistant for a bit, a combination of gossip and getting to know as many people in the city as possible before you finally dropped off the documents for him and jumped back into the car, spieling off Casey’s address to the driver.

Casey was coming back from a last minute bodega trip, about halfway up the sidewalk when the town car pulled up to the curb. She paused, glancing back to it and somehow was a little unsurprised when you stepped out of it, moving toward her.

“Well look at you embracing the rich defence attorney life style.” She teased.

“Oh shut up.” You rolled your eyes, smacking her arm when you got close enough to reach her. Her laugh still echoing on her lips she leant in, kissing you gently in greeting.

“I’m sure you’ll be invited to all the summer yacht parties in no time.”

“Stop.” You said in half seriousness, halfway up the steps before you stalled, turning back to her, “actually, I’m pretty sure I have heard something about her having a yacht.”

“Her?” Casey raised a brow, saying a quick thank you when you grabbed the shopping out of her hands so she could unlock the front door, letting both of you into the house.

“Can’t remember her name.” You replied with a huff, kicking off your shoes and tugging at your blazer, dropping your bag on the table in the entry, “clearly rich, she’s not that much older than us, like, less than ten years probably?”

“What does she practice?”

“Criminal defense. She’s the newest at the firm but according to the rumour circuit she transferred from prosecution.”

“And now she’s offering you rides home? Should I be jealous?” She said with a grin, clearing teasing and you rolled your eyes again, following her into the kitchen.

“No.” You scoffed, “she sent me out to Brooklyn for something and when I said I hadn’t left Manhattan yet she offered the car to make sure I didn’t get lost.”

Casey barked out a huge laugh at that, the corners of her eyes crinkling and you shot her a playful scowl. She simply leant in, kissing your cheek gently,

“I’m glad you’ve found your people then. And we’ll take you on a little subway tour this weekend to make sure you know your way around. That way I won’t need to play tour guide all next summer if you don’t keep up with your fancy new defence friends.”

“I lowkey hate you right now.” You let out a sigh, “dinner here or did you have plans?”

“Dad wanted to barbeque.” She nodded toward the kitchen facing the backyard and you could see that her parents were set up out there already, she picked up the bodega bag “just sent me out for reinforcements.”

“Sounds delicious. I’m gonna go change.” You kissed her quickly before jogging up the stairs to strip out of your skirt suit, opting for some much more comfortable and more summer appropriate.

Returning back downstairs you swiped a couple of ciders from the fridge, not bothering with shoes as you wandered down the back steps into the yard, greeting the Novak’s with a bright smile. Casey stole one of the ciders from you, cracking it while you dropped down onto the patio furniture beside her, her hand instantly finding its home on the bare skin of your thigh under the table.

“Heard you had a nice little tour of Brooklyn.” Grace greeted with a smile and you rolled your eyes, swatting in Casey’s direction.

“Yup.”

“Thoughts?”

“Looked nice.”

“We can explore more this weekend.” Casey assured you with a soft squeeze to your thigh, “hit up the hot spots.”

“Y/N, what kind of cheese do you want on yours?” Benjamin asked from the grill, “we’ve got American, marble or Swiss.”

“Marble please.”

After adding the preferred burger toppings he shut the grill momentarily to help the cheese melt and Grace pulled the tinfoil off the tops of other plates and bowls. Revealing a fresh garden salad, grilled corn on the cob, and jacket potatoes with a plethora of toppings and dressings to go with it. The go ahead was heard to start plating things up and a moment later Ben was placing the appropriate burgers down onto the appropriate buns.

“You are enjoying the internship though, right?” He asked as he took his seat and you nodded.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s experience in the field I’m going to be working in so no matter what it’s a benefit, right?”

“Do you think you’ll do it again next summer? Or go back to DC?” Grace asked and you did your best not to snort.

“I might do it again, a few of the lawyers are really good and decently nice and there’s no way I’m going back to DC unless I absolutely have to.”

“Well you’ll always have a place to stay when you’re in the city.” She said with a soft smile.

“Are you sure? I mean I don’t want to intrude…”

“Are you kidding?” Casey asked with a laugh, “I’ve basically already told them you’re coming for Christmas again next year, the list of things to do is already started.”

“Really?” You looked toward her with widened eyes, watching the way hers sparkled in the sun as she grinned back at you.

“You seriously think I wouldn’t want to spend another holiday with you?” She asked and you blushed, ducking your gaze as she squeezed at your arm.

“That internship isn’t going to collide with the Hampton’s trip is it?” Benjamin asked and you shook you head.

“I double checked the dates Casey gave me before I accepted, made sure to get some wiggle room in there, plus I wanted a couple of weeks between it and going back to school, give my brain a break.”

“Do your parents expect to see you before the semester starts?” Grace asked.

“I mean they’d like me to make an appearance but everything I need is either with me here or in storage in Cambridge so there’s no need. They’re generally okay with me having the freedom.” You shrugged, “as long as I’m behaving, they don’t really care.”

“Well their loss is our gain.” Ben smiled across the table at you and you genuinely felt your heart warm.

Whether you had been romantically involved with Casey or not, you knew that the Novak’s would have gratefully accepted you into their home. It didn’t matter if that was for the week over Christmas, the three months over summer or whenever you needed a friendly, safe space to stay, their door would always be open. As you glanced around the table that evening, the sun finally starting to dip toward the horizon, you knew that you were exactly where you were meant to be, and you couldn’t wait for what your future with Casey held. You gave her hand a slightly tighter squeeze on the table top and she looked to you with nothing but pure love and adoration in her eyes, knowing exactly what you were saying without having to actually say it.

_____________ @bisexualcrowley @red1culous @imlike-so-gaydude @wannabe-fic-reader @altsvu @disneyfan624 @svulife-rl @svushots @whimsicallymad @mysticfalls01 @naturalxselection @cmmndrwidw @bumblebear30 @wosoimagines @solemnnova @infernumlilith @australiancarisi @cerberus-spectre @emskisworld @thestarrynightslover @lawandorderuswnt @ex-uallyactive @hbkpop @samwithnoplan @multifandomlesbianic @narvaldetierra @dxtery @poisonedcrowns @anlin2058 @a-little-bit-of-this-and-that @yesterdaysgone @clarawatson @mickey-gomez @borg-queer @momlifebehard @softgamerking @yeeterthek33per @brooklynmhm @summergeezburr @alexxavicry @anya-casablanca @daddy-heather-dunbar @evilregal2002 @alcabotss @7thavenger @augustvandyne @msvenablesbitch @kdaghay @thisisraes @happenstnces @valentinesfrog

#casey novak #casey novak x reader #law and order svu #heavy hearts #law and order special victims unit #law and order fanfiction #casey novak fanfic #casey novak fluff #casey novak series #wlw

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coatedinhoney · 5 months

Text

Sweet Bribery

Will Ezra manage to win over his work rival and get promoted?

Transcript under the cut

Erika: This is my thinking spot Brownstone Ezra: AH FUC- Jesus Erika do you own the land or something? Erika: I do actually. Ezra: Oh- Well surely you have it in your lovely heart to share? I mean I'm due to Facetime my girls in about five minutes. Erika: What's in it for me? Ezra: Someone told me that you're a fan of Sunshine Bakery. I'll give you my family discount for a truce. How's that sound? Erika: Hmm tempting.

#the sims 4 #sims 4 simblr #ts4 simblr #sims 4 legacy #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 gameplay #ts4 edit #sims 4 #sims 4 story #ts4 legacy #ts4 gameplay #ezra brownstone #gen 5!#ts4 story post #ts4 story #ts4 screenshots #my sims #simblr #the sims community

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words-are-fireproof · 1 year

Text

Sweet Summer Child: Coffee + Contemplation (Dieter Bravo x fem!reader)

(*gif by @pedropascalsx)

Chapter Summary: Dieter Bravo is a bookshop owner with a secret. He's surprised you stick around for the next morning.

A/N: I don't have a Masterlist yet, but here is my Dieter as Death fic. I've been sitting on it long enough.

Warnings: In this chapter, there are none. That I remember. 😆

Rating: M but no smut.

Word Count: 1.7k ish.

[Masterlist] || [Series Masterlist] || Part Two

-----

Soft rays of sunshine shimmered over Dieter’s tawny skin as he shifted in bed, languishing in the fuzzy warmth between sleep and awake. He rolled over and instead of being met with a solid body, he was met with cold sheets, no longer warmed from the heat of skin.

The emptiness of the bed is what woke him up fully, blinking in the light of the sun as he finally pulled himself from his slumber. As he yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he mused on the fact that his normal nightmares hadn’t plagued him that night, a rare occurrence in his life, and he wondered why. Had the gods decided to smile upon him? Or did he just get lucky?

Luck had nothing to do with it, and he knew that as he slid from the bed into the coolness of his bedroom. A shiver ran down his spine and he grumbled as he searched bleary-eyed for some scrap of clothing, thrown haphazardly in the excitement of the previous evening. He could still feel the soft touches of the pads of your fingers as they skimmed over his back, pressing into the hard curves of his muscles as your body arched under his in pleasure. The deep frown etched on his lips slowly softened. Tendrils of warmth spread down his limbs as he found a pair of silk pajama bottoms and lazily pulled them on. Forgoing a t-shirt in the hopes of feeling more of your touch, he padded down the stairs to the sound of glass clinking and the smell of fresh coffee emanating from his coffee pot.

In the light of the morning, you looked even more beautiful. Your hair glowed in the golden rays of the sun, your eyes catching the light as you focused on your task. Bits of coffee grounds lay scattered on the white granite countertop. your soft voice issued into the silence, humming a song he couldn’t place as he brushed those specks of coffee grounds onto the floor. Little pangs of annoyance shot through his chest, but he didn’t say a word. He just kept watching you, absently wondering how he’d managed to charm you and why you stuck around. He showered his women in charm, but them sticking around his luxurious Brownstone rarely happened often. Mornings after were spent drinking leftover wine in a silk robe, stretched out on his leather sofa as he listened to some pretentious album on his record player. Alone. Left to his own devices and left with the memories of fleeting pleasure and phantom touches.

Those tendrils of warmth made his limbs feel heavy as he leaned against the doorframe into the expansive kitchen, his strong arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you. The coffee pot finished dripping, and he took a deep breath in, savoring the smell, letting it linger and mingle with the faintest smell of you. You smelled of cherry blossoms and hints of vanilla, and even from his perch at the opposite end of the kitchen, you were intoxicating.

Delirium-induced dizziness made him lightheaded, and spurred him forward.

“You’re still here,” his smooth voice intoned, hand brushing down over your arm as he leaned his back against the counter.

“I am. It took me a bit to figure out your coffee pot.”

He chuckled softly. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about that.”

“I might have made a mess,” you murmured sheepishly.

“I know. I watched you brush coffee grounds onto my floor.” But he didn’t speak those words with malice.

You laughed, reaching over to grab the carafe and pour him a mug of coffee. He took it gingerly and took a drink, letting it wash over him, shaking the heaviness from his limbs.

“Do you know, you have a little dimple,” you said, gently brushing your fingers over said dimple in his right cheek, “right here?”

He tilted his head into your touch. “I’ve been told that a few times.”

“By your many girlfriends?”

“I’ve not had as many as you think I’ve had.”

You lifted your eyebrows at him.

The admission surprised even him, brief flutters of confusion snaking through him as his brows furrowed in thought. His reputation preceded him. He knew this. He’d seen the magazine articles, the stories that he’d wined and dined the best of the best, the debutants, the leggy models with blond hair and no personality. He’d met plenty of women with brown and red hair who didn’t have a personality either, but the media continued to be unnecessarily biased toward blonds. Even now, settling beside you, amber-eyed gaze raking over you, he felt calm. It was a calm that he’d never felt before, not in at least a few hundred years. His job stressed him in a way he could never, ever, share, not with anyone. Especially not you. Not unless he wanted you to run.

The last thing he wanted was for that to happen. While he’d never told his secret to anyone–and he currently didn’t plan on it–he knew he couldn’t hide forever. Death had a way of crowding out life, no matter how hard he tried to prevent that from happening.

“You know, I don’t think I believe you,” you said playfully.

He took a long drink of his coffee, letting the hot liquid scald his throat.

“You’ve seen the magazines and the articles, haven’t you?”

“It’s hard to ignore,” you admitted truthfully, watching him closely.

He shivered under your gaze, letting the heat of arousal slide down his spine. Memories of the night before flicked through his mind like a lazy movie projector, lingering on the way you moved over him or the way you brushed your touch over his chest, tracing the light outline of his muscles. A lopsided smile spread across his lips.

“I’m friendly,” he began with a shrug, finishing his coffee, “what the magazines don’t say is I never took them home.”

Your brows furrowed at him curiously. “What’s so different about me?”

He palmed the back of his neck with a large hand.

What was so different about you? He couldn’t put his finger on any one thing. Well, he could, but the previous point still stood: he couldn’t tell you, even if he wanted to.

He shrugged his broad shoulders elaborately, dropping his hand and pouring himself another mug of coffee. “You’re just…different.”

You laughed. “It doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

“It should.”

You snorted, seemingly content to drop the subject as you turned to rinse out your mug. “So, I was thinking we could go out today. It didn’t snow too much and I have the day off.”

Dieter turned to look out the window above his kitchen sink. The bright white expanse of his tiny backyard greeted him, marred only by bird’s footprints and the tell-tale sign of squirrels hopping around and digging little holes to find long-buried acorns hidden for this very reason. He might not like the chill of winter mornings, but the beauty of a world blanketed and quieted in snow was something he never got tired of. The smile on his lips deepened as his amber eyes settled on you.

“Sure. I don’t have anything to do today.”

“Or tonight?” You asked curiously, settling your mug on a clean towel beside the sink, their gazes meeting.

He chuckled. “Or tonight.”

“Are you sure about that? You don’t have some sort of benefit to go to or something like that?”

He shakes his head. “No benefits. No charity dinners. No gallery openings. Nothing. Tonight, I’m yours.”

You smirked, sliding over to him, brushing a gentle hand over his bicep, settling on stroking his forearm thoughtfully. “That’s a dangerous thing to admit.”

His own smile shifted devilishly, the dimple in his cheek deepening as his other arm wrapped around your lithe body, tugging you closer to him until you stood flush against him.

“I’m up for the challenge.”

He bent down and slanted his lips against yours, licking into your mouth. The sweet taste of sugar and cream exploded against his tongue. He tried not to let his mind wander too much, but the taste of you, mingled with the taste of the way you took your coffee was too much for him. He wanted to explore you more. He wanted to drown in you and the tranquility you offered him. He wanted to ignore the world, ignore the things he dealt with every minute of every day. He wanted relief from the never-ending cycle of decay and he wanted to find that relief in you.

But you pulled away from the kiss before he could deepen it even more. He couldn’t ignore the way the darks of your eyes bled into the color of your iris, pupils blown in desire. How did a macabre angel like him land such a sweet summer child? He could ask that question all day every day and he still couldn’t possibly conjure up a response. Maybe, just maybe, the gods decided to shine mercy on him. But even then, he didn’t believe it in the slightest.

“Let’s go before I keep you here all day.”

“I wouldn’t complain,” he murmured in a voice honeyed with desire.

“Yeah,” you began, standing on tiptoe to press you lips to his again, “but I would.”

“Why?” The question rumbled lowly in his chest.

“Because maybe I want to throw a couple of snowballs at you today.”

You winked, and giggled, pulling from him and shooting up the stairs with a peel of laughter, wordlessly inviting him to follow, wordlessly inviting him to toss away his cares and find happiness in you, if only for a moment. He shook his head, swallowing one last bitter mouthful of coffee, washing away the sweet taste of her. He accepted the invitation without a second thought, thinking maybe, just maybe, he could find happiness in you for far longer than a moment.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble fic #the bubble #the bubble au #alternate universe #dieter as death #sam writes #fanfiction

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cable-knit-sweater · 2 years

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Hiiii love! Big big congrats to you 🥳🥳🥳 I am so glad to have come across your page and get the opportunity to scream with you over the last couple months, I feel truly blessed 😭💖💖💖

You know I’m gonna come through with a stucky request - fireplace, because even if it’s still a heatwave I will never not want cozy domestic nonsense.

Love you!! ✨

Oh Gina, my love 💖💖💖 Thank you so so much!! I’m so grateful I got to meet you on here and scream and cry with you about our boys! And I feel like I’m the one that should feel blessed. You’re such a wonderful, loving, kind person, just a ray of sunshine 💕🥺 Seeing you on my dash or in my notes makes my day every single time! And I’m so happy you started writing, because your fics bring me so much joy and make me feel all the feels 🥺🥰🥰

Thank you for always being so freaking supportive 💛 And thank you for this wonderful prompt!! I’m sorry to say it’s a little bit hurt/comfort and emotional, but I was just so deep in my stucky feels this morning, I couldn’t help it. It all works out in the end though, so I hope that you love it! I love youuu 💖💖💖

Stucky + Fireplace, 1.7k, T

Read on Ao3 or below

He rushes off the quinjet, not paying any mind to whatever Stark calls out to him as he’s leaving. He probably should stay for the debrief. He really should change first, but the last thing he wants is to stick around and have one of his - probably well-meaning, but still - coworkers corner him and make him stick around. The elevator opens its doors immediately when he presses the button, and whether it’s luck or FRIDAY, he’s grateful for it either way. He doesn’t stop moving while he’s on the elevator. Standing still, even for a moment, could mean crashing. He can’t risk it. He needs to get on that bike, he needs to get home .

Even with the ridiculous amounts of floors Avengers Tower has, the elevator gets to the parking garage fairly quickly. He gets on his bike, shield strapped to his back, and takes off. He hopes he doesn’t scare any civilians into thinking he’s on a mission right now. It wouldn’t be surprising if they did - he is in his full uniform with the shield visible, driving a little more quickly than is probably advised in this city’s traffic. That - and probably even more so, the fact that Bucky would kill him for getting into an accident - makes him slow down a little.

Still, it takes him no time to get to Brooklyn and their brownstone. He parks his bike out front, taking off his cowl on his way up the stairs to their front door. He stands outside for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control. He can feel his energy draining by the second. He leans his head against the front door before finally opening it and getting inside.

The entry hallway is quiet, dark. It’s early evening, not late enough for Bucky to have gone to bed, but for a second there, he worries Bucky might be out for a drink with Sam or one of the guys from his VA meetings. He unceremoniously dumps the shield next to the shoe rack, starts to unstrap the top part of his uniform on the way to the living room when he hears the soft tones of jazz music. Steve breathes out heavily in relief, leaning against the wall. He gets himself together as much as he can and makes his way towards the living room.

He blames his exhaustion - and the heavy feeling in his gut and his heart from a mission gone wrong - on the way he can feel tears in the corners of his eyes when he takes in the scene playing out in his living room. There’s a fire roaring in the fireplace, only a small lamp on a side table turned on, the living room bathed in soft, warm light.

Bucky is sitting on the floor, back leaning against the couch, Alpine curled up on his lap. He’s scratching her behind her ears, soft purring barely loud enough for Steve to hear over the music and the sound of Bucky humming along with the music.

Alpine notices him before Bucky does, getting up from her comfortable stop and making her way over to Steve, greeting him by rubbing herself against his legs. Bucky looks up, a soft smile quickly turning into a worried frown. Steve stands there for a moment, feeling - and probably looking - a little lost, arms heavy at his sides, uniform half on half off. Bucky gets up and makes his way over, takes his hand. He doesn’t ask Steve any questions. He just knows.

Bucky pulls him up the stairs, into the bathroom and sits him down on the closed toilet seat before turning on the shower. He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, presses a soft kiss on top of his head. “Just gonna get you some clothes, okay Stevie? I’ll be right back”, he whispers. Steve nods slowly. He tries to get the rest of his uniform off but it feels like too much effort and it becomes too frustrating, so he gives up.

Bucky gets back quickly, a sad look on his face, a hurt noise making it out of his mouth. Steve must look incredibly pathetic. “Don’t you say that”, Bucky says, sounding hurt. “You’re not pathetic. I just hate seeing you like this, is all”, he continues, softly caressing Steve’s cheek.

He helps Steve up, carefully helps him out of his clothes. Steve starts to make his way over to the shower but Bucky stops him, taking off his own clothes and then getting into the shower with him.

He just lets himself be moved around, lets Bucky soap him up and rinse him off. He has his eyes closed, tries to focus just on the feeling of Bucky’s careful hands on his body and not the mess of thoughts in his brain. He barely flinches when Bucky runs his hand over a bruise on his side.

Before he knows it, he’s out of the shower and being wrapped up in a soft towel, letting himself be dried off and helped into soft sweats and a t-shirt. They’ve both been quiet the whole time, the only sound that of their breathing, the occasional heavy inhale when Bucky must see some more of the bruising.

“You wanna go to bed?”, Bucky asks softly when they’re making their way out of the bathroom. They probably should. Steve is tired, so exhausted. But he doesn’t think he can sleep. Not yet, maybe not at all tonight. He shakes his head, sees Bucky worriedly bite his lower lip. “Alright, that’s okay honey. How about we go downstairs huh? Keep Al company for a bit?”. Steve tries to find his voice, but not much more than a rough “yeah” leaves his mouth.

They go back downstairs to the living room. “You just get comfortable, I’m gonna make you some tea”, Bucky tells him, so he makes his way over to the couch. Instead of sitting down on top of it, however, he joins Alpine on the floor in front of the fireplace, mimicking how he found Bucky earlier, leaning his back against the sofa. He closes his eyes, lets himself focus on the warmth of the fire and the soft fur underneath his hand.

The record had stopped playing when they got downstairs, but Bucky must turn it back on again because soon he hears the melodic tones of Ella Fitzgerald coming from the record player. Soon after, he feels Bucky sit down next to him, shoulder presses to shoulder. “Don’t want to sit on the couch baby?”, he asks, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, shakes his head. He slumps down a little, to Alpine’s annoyance going off the sound she makes, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

They sit in silence for a while, Steve grateful that Bucky isn’t pushing him to talk yet. They sit there until the record runs out, the only sounds Steve can hear those of the crackling fire and his and Bucky’s heartbeats. Eventually he lets himself slump further, until he has his head in Bucky’s lap, his fingers running soothingly through Steve’s hair. Bucky must get a blanket and a pillow from somewhere, somehow, because after a couple of minutes he feels him shift beneath him. “Sit up for a second”, Bucky murmurs, helping Steve up before placing the pillow on the floor and laying down, dragging Steve half on top of him.

He covers both of them up with a soft blanket. Not that Steve needs it for warmth - the fireplace is giving off enough heat, if being so closely pressed to Bucky didn’t do the trick - but it makes Steve feel…safe, protected. The last of his adrenaline-induced nervousness leaves him then, hiding his face against Bucky’s chest, the sound of Bucky’s heartbeat under his ear soothing him. With that, unfortunately, comes a rush of feelings, and he can feel himself start to shake a little.

Eventually he can’t keep it in anymore, sobbing into Bucky’s shirt. His husband pulls him in tighter, gentle hands running up and down his back, keeping up a steady stream of comforting whispers that Steve can’t quite make out until he calms down a little. “It’s okay baby, you’re okay”. “Whatever happened, you did what you could okay?”. “ohh sweetheart”. Steve grabs onto Bucky’s shirt even tighter when he feels mostly cried out, needing the feel of Bucky below him to ground himself a little, like an anchor in a storm.

When it’s just the sound of Steve trying to control his breathing, Bucky shifts him a little so he can see Steve’s face. “You wanna talk about it?”, he asks, voice devoid of any expectation, not putting any pressure on Steve. It almost makes him want to start crying again, just how good Bucky is, how he knows just the right things to say or do. He tries to respond, voice coming out a little rough. “Not yet?”, he says, asks, and Bucky just nods and lets Steve go back to hiding his face in his chest.

They must fall asleep like that, Steve waking up after surprisingly solid hours of sleep without any nightmares. It’s early morning, a little bit of sunlight coming through the windows, Alpine curled up in one of its beams. The fire in the fireplace has died down, only ash remaining. He doesn’t feel completely okay, not yet. He’ll talk over what happened during the mission with Bucky over some coffee at breakfast, start to really process what happened.

But somehow, he feels lighter. Like most of his pain and sadness died down along with the fire, reduced to ashes. Not completely gone, but not as fiery and intense. He snuggles up a little closer to Bucky, who’s still out like a light, before pressing a kiss to his cheek and getting up to brew some coffee and get started on breakfast. When he comes back a little later, to bring Bucky his cup of coffee, he’s awake and sitting up. He looks beautiful in the morning light, a little sleepy, hair a little messy, eyes still half lidded.

When Bucky notices him, he gives Steve a soft questioning smile, one that says “good morning”, “are you okay?” and “I love you”, all at the same time. This time, when Steve feels an overwhelming rush of emotions, it’s not sadness or pain or exhaustion. It’s gratitude, and an overwhelming amount of love. He smiles back.

#maya’s follower celebration #maya tries to write #stucky #fic #alpine

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cha-melodius · 1 year

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First Lines

Rules: post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to ao3. if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics.

I was tagged by @cricketnationrise and @rmd-writes, thanks! Fortuitously, I was just looking back through old tumblr posts and happened across the last time I did this (that one also included the directive to "look for patterns"), which as it turns out was almost exactly a year ago. Also, turns out I wrote a BUNCH of fics in the intervening time. Like, 32! What! I guess that's what happens when you decide to write a bunch of one-shots and accept prompts, lol. Anyway, here are the last 10.

Nova, Baby Agent Henry Fox-Mountchristen is an asshole.

All for a Taste of the Honey “Abso-fuckin-lutely not.”

It's Been a Bad Day Lately “Up and at ‘em, sunshine!” someone nearly shouts at him, jolting Loki to alertness where he’d apparently fallen asleep on a table in the archives.

True Hollywood Romance “You cannot tell me you’re intending to wear that,” Loki blurts, in lieu of a greeting, the moment he opens the door and sees Mobius standing on the other side of it.

Love is a Deserter It’s just a party like any other.

How’s About Cookin’ Something Up With Me? The memo shows up in Illya’s mailbox on a fairly unremarkable Wednesday in early December.

May Your New Years Dreams Come True It’s a confluence of unfortunate events that sets the whole thing off.

Another Christmas Song (This Time I’ll Sing Along) In the six months since Illya’s new neighbor moved into the brownstone next to his, he has learned a few things about him: 1. he’s ridiculously good looking (he learned that on the day he moved in); 2. he’s a very proficient chef (that one, a few weeks later, when he invited Illya to his extremely well-provisioned housewarming party); and 3. he sings.

In the Morse Code of the Brake Lights This can’t be happening to him.

The Spirit of Giving Here’s the thing: Alex is pretty sure Henry can’t even cook.

I still use the snappy one-liner in its own paragraph pretty frequently, but if there are any trends to see here, it's that I definitely have started occasionally writing longer intro sentences. The one for Another Christmas Song is particularly funny to me.

Tagging @clottedcreamfudge, @mirilyawrites, @loki-is-my-kink-awakening (so you can do a year retrospective too lol), @heytheredeann, @ikeepwatchinghelicopters, @treluna4, @indomitable-love

#about my writing #about my fics #tag game

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milanifm · 7 months

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INTRODUCING .... MILANI MAUNEY

Basic Information

Full Name: Milani Isabella Mauney (Nee Cruz)

Nickname(s): Ani

Age: forty one

Date of Birth: february 22, 1982

Hometown: new haven conneticut

Current Location: cornelia street

Ethnicity: brazilian

Nationality: american

Gender: cis woman

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Orientation: hetero romantic & bi sexual

Religion: spiritual

Occupation: shop owner for mauney's mystics

Living Arrangements: brownstone with her husband

Language(s) Spoken: English, Portuguese, some spanish

Accent: none

Physical Appearance

Face Claim: morena baccharin

Hair Colour: dark brown

Eye Colour: hazel

Height: 5’6

Weight: 145 pounds

Tattoos: one on her right hand

Piercings: earlobes

Health

Physical Ailments: type 1 diabetic, she requires insulin injections as well as monitoring.

Neurological Conditions: mild anxiety, has obsessive tendencies

Allergies: none

Sleeping Habits: she is a heavy sleeper who can sleep for like 12 hours, she makes noises when she sleeps "moaning" and whines

Eating Habits: diabetic friendly diet, natural sugars, lots of water, high protein and low carbs. she does sometimes treat herself with hot chocolate.

Exercise Habits: cardio and weight training, once a day, 5 days a week for one hour and a half.

Emotional Stability: she is otherwise very stable unless it comes to the full moon or the beginning of her menstrual cycle.

Sociability: extremely social, enjoys conversation and events, she is a little butterfly.

Addictions: none.

Drug Use: none.

Alcohol Use: very limited, if she will drink she is restricted to 1-2 beverages, no sugar or carbs, and must check her sugars regularly. this is only for very special occasions though.

Personality

Label: the saccharine

Positive Traits: self-confident, kind, empathetic, supportive, dreamy, positive

Negative Traits: gullible, short-attention span in general life, inability to stay still for too long

Goals/Desires: to be happy and spread positivity, take care of her loved ones, make every day count

Fears: she is fearful of heights, confined spaces,

Hobbies: she likes to freestyle paint, she enjoys reading books, hosting small friend gatherings

Habits: lip biter and lip licking when she is focused, playing with her rings on her fingers

Favourites

Weather: autumn

Colour: byzantium purple

Music: she's an 80's lady

Movies: the mummy, practical magic, beauty and the beast, dazed and confused

Sport: hockey

Beverage: hot chocolate

Food: chicken wings

Animal: cat

Family

Father: Miguel Cruz, a very successful lawyer based in New York City. Miguel and Milani are very close, and Miguel would do anything to make sure Milani was happy and well-taken care of. Milani looks more like him.

Mother: Sofia Cruz, Milani and Sofia grew up together, as they'd like to put it. Sofia is where Milani gets her free-spirit from.

Sibling(s): Rome Cruz, Milani's younger brother by 4 years. They are close, though bickered when they were younger.

Husband: TBD. They are the fairy tale that everyone sighs and has starry eyes about. they are soulmates

Children: always wanted one

Pet(s): snowshoe black & white cat with blue eyes, he is 3 years old and his name is hux

Family’s Financial Status: the family’s money situation is well taken care and is not an issue.

Extra

Zodiac Sign: pisces sun, aquarius moon, and scorpio ascendant

MBTI: enfp

Enneagram: the perfectionist

Hogwarts House: ravenclaw

Moral Alignment: lawful good

Element: water

SUMMARY:

the sunshine girl who always had her head in the clouds. milani is the ultimate big sister, the best friend who can read you like a book and the person you'll want in your corner on the rainy days. she is the soup that warms your bones on a cold winter's night, and she is the breeze on a hot summer night. inspired by donna sheridan from mamma mia.

some wanted connections i definitely would like are regular clients for her shop, friends, someone younger who she identifies as a 'close but younger sibling'. maybe people who doubt her who are annoyed by her because of what she does & her overall personality

#cornelia.intro

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randomvarious · 2 years

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Today’s mix:

MTV Party to Go, Volume 8 by Chris Walsh 1995 Hip Hop / G-Funk / R&B

Before Tommy Boy Records went on to define a piece of the 90s by way of a partnership with ESPN to deliver us the stadium dance anthems of Jock Jams, they initially launched into a partnership with MTV in the early 90s to give us a different series called Party to Go. The conceit of it was that each CD or cassette had a ready-made mix that you could just pop in to your player to instantly get a party going. And this is its eighth installment, a DJ mix by an in-house guy at Tommy Boy named Chris Walsh who's also responsible for other mixes in the series.

I reviewed Volume 1 of this series a few months ago and that mix happened to represent what was then a totally confused hodgepodge of what a lot of mainstream American dance music was like back in 1991: hip-house, new jack swing, synthpop, party rap, dance-pop, and some R&B. This volume, though, from late 1995, appears to cast its scope much more narrowly. Besides its incredibly inexplicable inclusion of one of Sheryl Crow's weakest ever singles in the middle (I mean, seriously, what in the fuck?!) and an even more Italian remix of the classic Italo-dance banger, "Rhythm of the Night" by Corona, this album is more or less just a mid-90s top-40 hip hop-oriented mix.

But even though I said that the scope that was cast for this was narrow, it was also, in a way, kind of broad as well, because there's actually hip hop tunes here for different kinds of party atmospheres. Like, I'd say the universal party rap tunes on this mix are undoubtedly Skee-Lo's "I Wish" and Naughty by Nature's "Feel Me Flow." Things like sunshine, cookouts, and swimming pools just immediately come to mind when either of those two songs come on. But then there's songs on here that go with a much chiller type of vibe. Like, you could easily slow-grind on someone with The Notorious B.I.G.'s "Big Poppa," the Puff Daddy mix of Method Man and Mary J. Blige's "I'll Be There for You / You're All I Need to Get By," and the Sting International remix of Shaggy's "Boombastic." Bone Thugs' "1st of tha Month" fits this theme too, even though it's not lyrically sexy or romantic like those other three.

And then there's Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise," the biggest song in the world in 1995 that won so many accolades and also plaudits from critics across the board despite the, uh, lackluster quality of its rapping. It's still a great song that I also happen to love too, but it was funny to see Weird Al take it down a few pegs with "Amish Paradise" and then see Coolio get all huffy about it like some kind of proto-Kanye by saying his beautiful masterpiece had been 'desecrated.' It's a great, classic song, dude, but come on now. For what it's worth, though, Coolio eventually saw the light and cooled off, and his relationship with Weird Al appears to have been cordial for years now.

Anyway, that's more of a party song simply because everyone in the world knows it. It's a big production, but it doesn't really have much of a party vibe to it. It was intended to be a serious song, despite how corny it sounds today. Fool.

Two more things before I sign off here. There's an awesome R&B song on this mix by a female group called Brownstone that appears to have been relatively lost in the sands of time. It went to #8 on the Billboard Hot 100 and was even nominated for a Grammy, but I feel like "If You Love Me" is a pretty big forgotten hit. Other thing is that the back cover of this release comes with a note that says, in kind of big lettering, "*includes exclusive mixes not available on any album." And that actually turns out to be a bit of a reach. What it really sounds like is that Chris Walsh couldn't figure out a way to mix this crop of songs together all that well, so he or someone else just simply constructed little passages of their own to make the transitions as seamless as possible. And those passages are sort of just, like, these little, feeble bridges that were hastily made in order to link each track together. And I definitely wouldn't then advertise this mix as having "exclusive mixes" because of those small, unique sections; I mean, that actually feels like a pretty big sleight of hand to me. But the change from that Brownstone song to the Method Man and Mary J. Blige one is actually *really* smooth.

Anyway, despite its faults, this is still a fun trip down memory lane. Can't really complain about a CD that has Biggie, Naughty by Nature, Skee-Lo, Method Man, Mary J., Coolio, Shaggy, and Bone Thugs on it. It's just not really the type of tunes I think of when I hear the words "party to go." However, if my music diet was restricted to just MTV videos that had been in rotation by 1995, then this might actually be what I'd expect the party to sound like too, since you couldn't really find much in the way of actual dance music on MTV back then, or really ever 🤷‍♂️.

This is a pretty good CD to reach for if you just wanna party with some mid-90s hip hop classics though. I mean, it's a bad DJ mix for sure, but the songs are good, and plenty of people love to get down to 90s hip hop tunes. So, this should do the trick, as long as you immediately hit next when that Sheryl Crow song comes on! 😅

Listen to the full mix here.

Highlights:

The Notorious B.I.G. - "Big Poppa" Naughty by Nature - "Feel Me Flow" Brownstone - "If You Love Me" Method Man and Mary J. Blige - "I'll Be There for You / You're All I Need to Get By (Puff Daddy mix)" Skee-Lo - "I Wish" Corona - "Rhythm of the Night (R.B.X. Euro mix)" Bone Thugs-N-Harmony - "1st of tha Month" Coolio feat. L.V. - "Gangsta's Paradise" Shaggy - "Boombastic (Sting remix)"

#hip hop #r&b #r and b #rap #r & b #old school hip hop #old school rap #golden age hip hop #golden age rap #g-funk #g funk #music #90s #90s music #90's #90's music

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groovytimes · 1 year

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doll, baby, sunshine, wild thing, bubba, my love 🌸

Grazie mille!

doll - what’s your favourite outfit?

Hmm. Cozy black jumper, black jeans, and my Rometty Doc Martens!

baby - what makes you feel better when you’re down?

Reassurance from loved ones. It has saved me more times than I’d like to admit. And tiramisù.

sunshine - what’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever gotten?

When someone said I reminded them of my dad. It reminded me no one is ever truly gone.

wild thing - what’s something about you that surprises people?

That I can’t sing. For some reason a lot of people assume that I can sing. I can barely hold a tune, but I think it has to do that a lot of the biggest pop stars around have my skin color…

bubba - tell me a funny story from your childhood.

I got a crush on a boy because he played basketball with me and my friends for one afternoon.

my love - what would your dream home be like?

It would be a brownstone-like house with a Nancy Meyers kitchen and a room filled with books and records. And the most cozy living room I can dream of.

Thank you for these one! 🥰

#wideeyedandtired #asks

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westwingsolo · 3 months

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“ i know you’re awake. ”

The thing was, Alex didn't want to be awake. He had come back to the brownstone so late it was almost early after organizing a research party for his L1 friends back on campus. He sneaked in as quietly as he could so he wouldn't wake Henry, and as soon as he was snuggled against his sleep warmed boyfriend, he instantly fell asleep.

Now said boyfriend was gently caressing his side, and sure, he body reacted as soon as he felt Henry's touch but he was so tired that he also wanted to just sleep a little longer. Though he knew he couldn't pretend for much longer, and peaked open an eye.

Alex let out a sigh when he saw the sunshine filter through the window, making Henry's golden hair shine like a halo or crown in the morning light. "It's annoying how handsome you are even this early in the morning..."

#ask answered #princedickhead #henry fox mountchristen windsor #i queue him on purpose

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kahztiy · 4 months

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YD6-12 Mrs Stein Said of My Date, Jacqueline is Getting Married

Vitrine of Consciousness, Synopsis: Aetheria's personification of consciousness' 10-year odyssey, until birth, "You Are My Sunshine." Her first two years of her life. at nine-month intervals, she’s resuscitated in dramatic circumstances. her susceptible persistent Intensive Care Unit respiratory and neurologic problems volatilized – Sunshine’s mother departed from home taking her daughter with. Through the author's lifetime of notes, readers are drawn into a realm where personal psychic experiences beginning as a three-month-old newborn. As the author learns to write, the narrative unfolds the hybrid of the mind navigating the dichotomy between dark matter and radiant light, ultimately revealing a world seen through the captivating prism of neon plasma -- in other words, a maze of crystalline transparency.

Subscribe + Comment = Editor, or, what age group of the reader, the gender, in a sentence your opinion. PS: Considering the writer’s profile, Thank You!

Flash Memoir Chapter #12 Chronicle:

I kicked my feet from under my desk. After staring for a week at the distant blank wall, niggles my consciousness as nothing happens with my booklets taken away. My restlessness aroused, until I couldn’t sit back, toying with my Personal Computer perpetuate an incessant development, obsessive attempting to master, and a simultaneous reminder initiated to programming by a force majeur–.

Desperate to eliminate my mind interfaces, my brain glitches, reading and writing enigmatic and mischievous turning numbers around. In need to trust my numbers, to stand up to accountants, worthy of my Texas Instruments programmable calculator. By trial and error, I coded in ASCII, savings a little program on a magnetic strip, I outwitted Ferreira Building Material Suppliers. I left the accountants agape, by their complex multiple discount schemes of invoicing.

I oversaw my PC screen, perceiving my ghostly booklets’ in a dilemma, when once again I’ll function as an executive officer managing construction projects — withdrew dreaming from the distant blank wall, my eyes fall off the monitor, to the keyboard, to my former secretary’s desk, surge as I’m destined for downtown Johannesburg’s classic building.

Unable to hold back, as my mind molded an ideal of the Central News Agency’s nationwide distribution. I uncoiled from my chair, swung hips from the desk corner, stepping across the conversation pit. Face the blatant bare corner of the room, in the backyard window’s gleam, void of the heaps of bundled booklets to a sudden deserted office. I stepped the stretched step, to the floor slate spreading behind the jamb deep into the adjacent room, as opposed to the hallway leading to the entrance door. With the door swing, clearing the courtyard to the bright orange Mercedes. I stepped across the porch, with a hip swing around the taillight, and keys tingling in my hand. I pick the lock, sigh the windowsill buttons, step in behind the door, tweak the ignition key, toggle gears. My eyesight turning away from the Knowles’ house facade slipping beside the passenger window toward the windshield. Alongside, the far garage doors eased to a halt, untwisting in my seat. I toggled the gears to drive, and steering the car through the gateway onto the dirt Roseway. I weave the suburban asphalted street by the Esso gas station through the eucalyptus vault to Kelvin’s gateway, veering onto the Old Pretoria Road toward Johannesburg.

I arrived downtown driving by traffic lenses to street grids, parking the car, and slotting a coin in the parking meter, heading across the street, toward the canopy cast shade to the fenestrated brownstone corner’s entrance. Behind the glazed wooden door swing, I stall in my stride, sweep my eyesight through shelved books, office stationery, to school utilities. Headed for the racked magazines, an aisle to strike my body flushed in cold sweats. And hold back my mind running for the exit, in my stride gathering my senses.

The same gondola order I expected from racked and shelved books and magazines, but I couldn’t hold my pause any longer to watch the familiar bright-colored cover Igor designed. which phantom free hands picked at length, to chuck back the booklets on the plinth deeper shelf, resembling a native rudimentary corner, leading me to walk by the swing of the door, but kept alongside the neat racked and stacked Home and Garden magazine. I step from the canopy’s cast shade down the curb, into bright sunlight, jaywalk to the Mercedes. doors’ sigh unlocking, I step in, tweak the ignition, pulling from the train of cars, into the city traffic. At the traffic lenses I crawl by the curb, to circle the block, on to heading outbound.

Not to let go to waste a truckload of booklets, in mind ruminating, hold as I joined the highway’s trickling traffic sweeping through the northern suburbs straightening a run through the open city outskirts. I left the highway to proceed along the Old Pretoria road, pulling into Kelvin. I’m set in mind to whoever can benefit from my booklets. With nervous ants through my body, I turn to rock by the gutter, engaging Roseway’s dirt street, veering entering the gates to the brick-paved driveway apron to park. I’ve scheduled my next moves to play, stepping out of the car, swing hips by the orange rear fender, to cross the apron in long strides, dived in the cast shade to the porch. Step to the hallway with door swing, closing behind, alongside the hallway. The backyard’s glow calls me to the window. I descend the step to the conversation pit, spin to prolong the wall. With a hip swing around my desk, to a few fingers unhooking the handset from the phone cradle. Squared up to dial, on hold with the distant ringing tone. The book distributor’s voice livens, and I’m asking. “Can you insert my book in Home and Garden magazine as a promotion?”

At the dawn, I laze in bed after sparing a punched in the belly, volatilize bulk of books, with the CNA book distributor having said. “Sure, we can do that.” I cannot hold my restlessness body’s urge for a preoccupation, to drift, at losing myself from desperation catching me — my claws on the slippery craggy abysmal cliff, while the ridge vanishes from sight — My thoughts on meeting Jacqueline later in the day, I jump from bed, dress, slip into shoes, walk out my bedroom door, to the passageway. feet roll the bullnose a vertiginous descent to the hallway. By the swing of the door, I step outdoor to the orange Mercedes. With an eyesight stroke, I round the taillights to jingling keys. Pick the lock to sigh. I step in, tweak the ignition key, toggles gears, back up to pull through the gateway. My mind rushes ahead, weaves out of Kelvin streets, to the Old Pretoria Road through the intersection onto the highway, cutting through Johannesburg outskirts to the city skyscrapers winks, avoiding speeding up time.

I cruised among a few car drivers, along the sweeping highway past the Hillbrow Tower, the roadway swag past the Witwatersrand University, leading onto the double-deckers across the railway tracks. Passed the city towers outbound, to split east and westward, around the mine dump, I’m seeking to lose myself to distant memories branching for the Meyerton’s landmark. En route with a sun lagging in the sky, Radio 702’s diverse diffusion, the air arouses in the refrain. “Am I losing you? Are my fears coming true? How I wish I knew. Am I losing you? Is your love really true? Is there somebody new? Tell me what to do. Am I losing you?”

As I’m cruising, consuming time to flaunt across scorched grasslands the far offside run of the parallel highway from arriving too early in Vanderbijlpark meeting Jacqueline. Enter a low laying oasis, arouse to reminisce across a stream swell of greenery banks the “Henley-on-Klip circuit,” saddled on my road bike, as I faced the 25 Kilometer Time Trial course. ‘_OK!_’ I’m telling myself, feet cranking, pulled away. ‘_Just nib at your previous best!_’ Riding reminding myself along the course, my set pedaling cadence.

By the U course across the culvert in the valley dawning to me, with a rudimentary outpost native store across the stream to a green oasis populated by weeping willows, featuring the double TT-junction, out of my teens, cycling to the finishing line. When I unsaddled from my bike, the timekeeping Marshal, stepped up to me. In a breeze of words, said. “You broke the twenty-five-kilometers South African record.” I shied with pride behind my aroused ego. The past brings back the glitch, thinking. ‘_What happened to the title I’m supposed to have won?_’

My eyesight in the crosshairs of the three-pointed star, to the country road’s swag straight across the U-course I cycled, Across the double TT-junctions, the whitewashed gateway’s wing coved walls breached the hedgerow to the property, coasting my approach. I steer the car up the slope’s storm eroded yellow grit driveway apron. Rotate past the swung back ranch gates to sight the shaded in leaf barrel-vaulted alley. As I’m riding through sunlight dabs, music rhymes to mind. ‘_Somewhere my love there will be songs to sing. Although the snow covers the hope of Spring. Somewhere, a hill blossoms in green and gold. And there are dreams, all that your heart can hold. . ._’

I’m creeping through the alley toward an upcoming colonnade, opening the dark wall to sturdy tree trunks to a golden glow sitting on the well-watered fairway. The driveway emerges from the shade to lay whitish bare, the apron to the efflorescence clubhouse’s facade running onward. With the heel of my hand spinning the steering wheel, I’m pulling up underneath the eave’s cast narrow shade to halt in the face of the fenestrated brick wall. By little windows, obscure portrait glazing and high, I doodle in mind the interior architectural ablution block, and on to swing the car door. I alight the car, to step on the gritty apron. Turn toward the rear to step away, closing with the key pinch. I round the tail fender square to the trunk, pick the lock, lifting the lid. Reach my pair of shoes with a shine with forked fingers, I poke the pleading puppy gaze in the darkness, grip by the heels the rubber studded soles to pose on the grit. With a toe to the heel, I slipped out the shoe I wore, and with a finger shoehorn stepped into one and the other golf shoe, while stowing in the dark trunk.

In the shadows, I reach the shoulder strap, heave my golf bag. tilted with golf heads to light, I spare a thought for the bare minimum for a walk around the golf course. I grab the seven-iron hossel, slipping the shaft, freeing the grip from the bag to an exchange of hands. After a thought on the golf course, grab the three-wood with a clinch, feeling the weight with a putter at hand, saying. ‘_That should suffice._’ I lowered the bag to the vast cargo floor, reached a ball and from the bag to pocket my pants, I pace back, turning away closing the trunk lid, walking toward the clubhouse’s entrance.

With a grip, I cranked the lever, press the door swing, to sight behind a planter screening grandfather’s leather lounge seating corner to a window open view on the green golf course. I step right from the deserted lounge corner, with a flashback of a decade earlier — My rambling eyes on Vivian’s father leading in the leisure of sophisticated people. Vivian and Jean, the best friends, dispersed. I’m left to stand by, lost outside the family poultry farm, and my starting off in construction. Watched Vivian’s father step-up widespread arms an approach elderly men in a row at an offside bar counter. He embraced the high-seated shoulder-to-shoulder men grouped niched in the opposite dark corner.

The high stools were vacant to a bar counter without a barman. I walked past without beaming eyes, questioning my presence or following me. As I’m preoccupied, finding in the hall’s window front, my way to the golf course. When a planter’s puzzled light, through the leaves sketches the far French doors, to step around crank the lever crossing the doorway to a peaceful oasis. I searched for the first tee, to walk right out on the open greens. At the tee, I lay my handful of club shafts on the grass. Rose with a glance at the distant flag, I step forward leaning after the ball in the palm of my glove, planting the tee, released and rise my hand to rise, comparing a seven-iron kangaroo jumps my ball to reach the flag. Chance to drive my ball, in fear to fall out of bound, I bend to pick from a velvet carpet’s young fine grass blades the tree-wood. I pace, lining a shoulder stance with the flag. Register to mind a pendulum’s few practice swings. Posed the club’s head, paced closer to the ball. Ease a back swing, stretch the club over my shoulder, my straightedge flank draws the halt to swing, and whacking the ball, spinning the tee into the air, in harmonious the club head follows through while I’m searching the skies silhouette in flight of my ball.

With a body coil’s back pacing, I’m laying the shaft alongside the other clubs’ shafts, grabbing the lot and uncoil to pace away along a deep-pile carpet from the tee. But then heading along the sun bathing fairway, soft under my feet, the pile carpet under my steps, the grass oxygenated sentient oozing widespread well-waters, I’m breathing the mind nourishing atmosphere, synchronizing my body’s streaming electricity. I’m left to witness if my theory persists — off right. I approached the fluorescent yellow ball, saying to myself. ‘_That was a luck shot_.’ Lay my clubs on the fairway. Instead of a chipper, I pick the seven-iron. Stood by my ball reading the green a 10-meter away, to swing to a dissonant - clack. The ball lands, to roll a wide circle afar the flag, spiraling back missing the hole, me to thinking. ‘_I should have brought a scorecard and pen_!’

I walked back to the edge of the green, picking up my clubs and heading toward the next tee. Ruminate in mind my four-stroke luck. Headed toward the next tee before getting excited. My rule of three needed to play out. I tee off with my three-driver to walk the soft and beautiful green fairway’s length to stand by the fallen ball. I chipped, and putted, to tee off. Again, to my dismay, I walked the fairways, drawing closer to the stream. Besides the weeping willows, I’m facing my fluorescent yellow ball. I strike with the seven-iron. Surprised and out of my league, I’m walking behind my leading ball, the course from tee to put.

By sight, I’m stumbling through the cottage window small pane across the clubhouse, after cupping the ninth-hole, fingers reach for the ball, rising, heading toward the French door at the extreme. I stepped across the threshold to the cool flagstone floor, to weave past the bar, an S-way past the lounge egress, pulling the entrance door close. Turn toward the orange Mercedes, with the eave’s shade cast across the hood, while I’m heading for the trunk to square up and lift the lid. I heaved the bag, slipping restless clanging clubs into the bag, returned the ball bag and tees zip the side pocket. I changed shoes, closing the lid, turning away, rounded the rear fender. key pick, doors unlocking sight, to step in, pulling the doors behind. I tweak the ignition key, toggle the gears, and reverse with a steering wheel spin, to a halt, toggle gears to drive, and pulling out of a three-point turn, I find myself on the spot of the 1966 Plymouth Barracuda —.

Jean and Vivian stepped out of the clubhouse, I followed the girls out the clubhouse to the driveway apron, where Vivian’s father steps out the fastback Plymouth. He turns away from the agape, to the wide wing door swing. He stood by, inviting me to step inside, while Vivian opened the passenger door for Jean to step in. I met Jean ducking into the rear of the car as I ducked behind the reclined backrest to sit beside Jean. The backrest rises, with Vivian’s father and daughter stepping in, in unison lowering to the front bucket seats, closing the doors behind.

Vivian’s father drives away, toward the shaded barrel-vaulted tree alley. She glanced over her shoulder, and through the backrest, the college girls, brought together by business interests, her smiling eyes enticing Jean. Vivian’s raising eyebrows, a pact insists. Jean scooting closer, so close, she tilts her head on my shoulder —.

I arose alongside Jean, seated in a white with golden trim horse-drawn carriage, to high upfront Vivian with her father figuring on the driver’s bench. He held the harness to two white horses, as Vivian turned away from a glance at her friend. The horses lashed with the harnesses, pulling away in the sun, to enter the shadowy arcade. Volatilize in the tree alley to a motley sunlight dabbing the driveway — through heads-and-shoulders in bucket seats to our leading driveway —.

My patience consumed like autumn’s leaves fall, until winter brushwood. My mind set for spring’s burgeoning hope, across the three-star radiator cap to the orange hood as I’m driving by flicking the dark row of tree trunks to the sun bathing fairway, failed to complete to the flagged eighteenth hole.

by the ranch lopsided gates, I emerged driving across the dry water veins in the gritty driveway apron, to steer right onto the asphalt picking up speed through the swagging roadway across the culvert, passing by the outpost derelict facing the T-junction to the road sweeping out the oasis’ green swells mount the wave roll to the wavy grassland expanse.

Gauged my geolocation, imagining the southbound highway distant aside, glimpses of my wristwatch skipping the five-minute notches, running early for my rendezvous with Jacqueline. Wayside road signs arouse and multiplied, straggling farmhouses, as the town’s outskirts herded wayside box housed cap pitched roofs, the Afrikaner lair morphing along the way. Too early for my rendezvous, I headed on for a tour. I pulled up behind cars in front of the red traffic light.

Until I’m creeping midst a business and retail center, accordion traffic to halt facing red lenses across an intersection. When among traffic turning off, Jacqueline profiled the driver’s window? As the BMW creeps around the cars standing, eyes glaze on a driver ahead. Touched my heart, driving by, failing to notice me passing me, hidden among a few cars in line, snub, telling myself. ‘_An Aries’ innate motto — ‘Do as I say, not as I do’_!’

I circled town, returned in Jacqueline’s track driving the BMW, to enter amid the suburban blatant dark encrusted windows glaze to white plastered houses. Naked without the shade of a shrub, shabby scorched rusty and green Kikuyu yard girdles, widespread beneath the parceled low wire-mesh screens, descend to the street asphalt. At the run of the low meshed fence, wayside mounting while raising houses. When I’m by the destined address, anxious of the deserted street, prone to a reckless driver plow my only possession. I steer the car’s three-pointed star rotating off the asphalt to the grass, snuggle up the slope to halt at an angle near the wire mesh, tweak the ignition key, to silence the air conditioner. I step out by the swing of the door, from gazing through the windshield the far-left bedroom glazed hollow dark window.

While my gaze falls back, from the perron’s combined door and window unit to a living room, the front yard to search the fence’s pedestrian gate. Jacqueline prods her mother out of the shadowy living -- reminiscing, Mrs. Stein leading me through the house to the backyard where Jacqueline in a bikini sunbathed on a training chair. when Jacqueline invites me to sit by her stretch legs, on the edge of the training chair. Hesitant of a single child mother. But obeying her grown daughter, ill at ease, Mrs. Stein turns to enter the house. Shadows bustling in the kitchen, with oversight. While I’m ill at ease, when Jacqueline hands me a flask of sunscreen lotion, despite her mother breathing over us. Jacqueline insists, I rub cream up her legs to the intimacy of her thighs, her arms, and body.

While a Hydra head of my mind reaches Jacqueline shadowing retrieved among lounge seats and couch. When from the depths of the shaded recessed porch, crack and wavering the glazing, to figure from the dark depth, Mrs. Stein’s waxing shapeless in a fluttery dress, to a matching waist belt? A mother’s jabs her lower back to forcible pace, obeying her only child.

When I locate the tubular framed pedestrian gate hidden in the fence, Mrs. Stein steps in sunlight with a strenuous expression. ‘_It’s time you leave Jacqueline alone_.’ She stops at the edge of the perron, with a poor liar’s words, saying. “Jacqueline is not here--!”

The woman who answered my phone calls, to a fickle relationship, Mrs. Stein’s words stopped me in my tracks, from proceeding by the screeching pedestrian gate. Her eyesight lingered offside, calling my eyesight zip-lining on her beam of sight across the front yard, through the wire mesh fence screen. Her inherent German spirit on the Mercedes, but tumbles off the muzzle, to call out, “Fräulein-!” She returns an enigmatic smile, after reading the black “FRL 060 T.” The yellow backed license plate, like an inspiring mirage, we retrieved back tracking our steps.

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