#cheap air conditioning services

[fixhomeuae]

Discovering signs of potential sewage backup is crucial for preventing major issues in your plumbing system. From foul odors to unusual noises and bubbling drains, this article outlines the key indicators that your sewage might be in trouble.

visit: https://dubai-home-maintenance.mystrikingly.com/blog/different-signs-shows-that-your-sewage-needs-backup

#air conditioner service dubai #Air conditioning service #Air conditioning service near me #ac repair and service #Plumbing Service #Plumber in dubai #Plumbing dubai #cheap Plumber dubai

[wecareautorepairs]

5 Signs That AC of Your Car is Begging for Repair

Picture this: It's a scorching summer day, and you're cruising down the highway, wind in your hair, and the sun kissing your skin. But wait, why does it feel more like a sauna inside your car? If you're starting to suspect that your car's air conditioning is on the fritz, don't sweat it—literally. In this blog, we're diving into the human side of car troubles, exploring five unmistakable signs that your trusty AC needs some TLC and car air conditioning repair Auckland services.

1. The Silent Sizzle

Ever turned on your car's AC only to be greeted by a disconcerting silence? Your AC unit should hum to life, serenading you with the sweet promise of cool air. If you find yourself in a sweltering silence, it's a clear sign that your AC is in need of professional attention. Your car is trying to tell you something—listen closely.

2. The Dance of the Lukewarm

So, your AC is working, but the air it's blowing feels lukewarm at best. It's like a half-hearted attempt at comfort, leaving you in a sweaty limbo. Your car's AC should be your cool companion, not a lukewarm acquaintance. If the air isn't as chilly as your favourite ice cream, it's time to consider a checkup.

If you need auto electrical services Auckland, never hesitate to give us a call.

3. The Mystery of the Puddle

Spotting a small puddle of water beneath your parked car might seem harmless, but your car is dropping hints—quite literally. Your AC unit relies on refrigerant to cool the air, and if there's a puddle forming, it could be a sign of a refrigerant leak.

4. The Symphony of Strange Sounds

Cars are like musicians, and when they start playing a new tune, it's time to pay attention. If your AC unit is suddenly serenading you with squeaks, rattles, or clunks, it's not the latest hit—it's a cry for help. Unusual sounds could indicate a variety of issues, from a worn-out fan belt to a malfunctioning compressor. Treat your car like the rockstar it is and get it the maintenance gig it deserves.

5. The Odor Orchestra

A well-functioning AC should deliver fresh, crisp air, not a medley of strange odors. If you catch a whiff of something funky—think mould, mildew, or even a musty gym bag—you're dealing with more than just bad vibes. Your car is politely asking for a deodorising intervention.

You can contact us if you need cheap car grooming Auckland services. 

#car air conditioning repair Auckland #cheap car grooming Auckland #auto electrical services Auckland

[reasonsforhope]

Green energy is in its heyday. 

Renewable energy sources now account for 22% of the nation’s electricity, and solar has skyrocketed eight times over in the last decade. This spring in California, wind, water, and solar power energy sources exceeded expectations, accounting for an average of 61.5 percent of the state's electricity demand across 52 days. 

But green energy has a lithium problem. Lithium batteries control more than 90% of the global grid battery storage market. 

That’s not just cell phones, laptops, electric toothbrushes, and tools. Scooters, e-bikes, hybrids, and electric vehicles all rely on rechargeable lithium batteries to get going. 

Fortunately, this past week, Natron Energy launched its first-ever commercial-scale production of sodium-ion batteries in the U.S. 

“Sodium-ion batteries offer a unique alternative to lithium-ion, with higher power, faster recharge, longer lifecycle and a completely safe and stable chemistry,” said Colin Wessells — Natron Founder and Co-CEO — at the kick-off event in Michigan. 

The new sodium-ion batteries charge and discharge at rates 10 times faster than lithium-ion, with an estimated lifespan of 50,000 cycles.

Wessells said that using sodium as a primary mineral alternative eliminates industry-wide issues of worker negligence, geopolitical disruption, and the “questionable environmental impacts” inextricably linked to lithium mining. 

“The electrification of our economy is dependent on the development and production of new, innovative energy storage solutions,” Wessells said. 

Why are sodium batteries a better alternative to lithium?

The birth and death cycle of lithium is shadowed in environmental destruction. The process of extracting lithium pollutes the water, air, and soil, and when it’s eventually discarded, the flammable batteries are prone to bursting into flames and burning out in landfills. 

There’s also a human cost. Lithium-ion materials like cobalt and nickel are not only harder to source and procure, but their supply chains are also overwhelmingly attributed to hazardous working conditions and child labor law violations. 

Sodium, on the other hand, is estimated to be 1,000 times more abundant in the earth’s crust than lithium. 

“Unlike lithium, sodium can be produced from an abundant material: salt,” engineer Casey Crownhart wrote ​​in the MIT Technology Review. “Because the raw ingredients are cheap and widely available, there’s potential for sodium-ion batteries to be significantly less expensive than their lithium-ion counterparts if more companies start making more of them.”

What will these batteries be used for?

Right now, Natron has its focus set on AI models and data storage centers, which consume hefty amounts of energy. In 2023, the MIT Technology Review reported that one AI model can emit more than 626,00 pounds of carbon dioxide equivalent. 

“We expect our battery solutions will be used to power the explosive growth in data centers used for Artificial Intelligence,” said Wendell Brooks, co-CEO of Natron. 

“With the start of commercial-scale production here in Michigan, we are well-positioned to capitalize on the growing demand for efficient, safe, and reliable battery energy storage.”

The fast-charging energy alternative also has limitless potential on a consumer level, and Natron is eying telecommunications and EV fast-charging once it begins servicing AI data storage centers in June. 

On a larger scale, sodium-ion batteries could radically change the manufacturing and production sectors — from housing energy to lower electricity costs in warehouses, to charging backup stations and powering electric vehicles, trucks, forklifts, and so on. 

“I founded Natron because we saw climate change as the defining problem of our time,” Wessells said. “We believe batteries have a role to play.”

-via GoodGoodGood, May 3, 2024

--

Note: I wanted to make sure this was legit (scientifically and in general), and I'm happy to report that it really is! x, x, x, x

#batteries #lithium #lithium ion batteries #lithium battery #sodium #clean energy #energy storage #electrochemistry #lithium mining #pollution #human rights #displacement #forced labor #child labor #mining #good news #hope

[azsazz]

Midnight Muse

Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]

Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1,804

Notes: This is going to be a good one you guys 💙 (yes I know I have a fic titled this already but it’s too good not to reuse, they’re not related btw)

_________________________________________

“I think that’s the last one,” you sigh, setting down a cardboard box labeled Living Room on the stack in the middle of the floor. It’s not heavy—filled with decorative pillows for the cheap futon couch shoved haphazardly against the wall—but the tower of boxes sways precariously and your roommate, Feyre, darts forward to reorganize them from before they all go tumbling down.

You and your roommate had been very organized at the start of your move, putting boxes into piles for which rooms they belonged to, but as the hot sun beamed down and the temperature outside rose, so did your tempers. The process ended with trying to get everything into your new fourth floor apartment as quickly as possible, which was a nearly impossible feat, due to the slow moving elevator.

Feyre sighs, hands on her hips as she surveys the mess of boxes. Neither of you packed lightly—a mistake you’d made the year previous too, and promised not to make again—the both of you refused to hire a moving service, intent on the fact that you could do all the heavy lifting yourselves. 

That definitely had been a mistake.

Panting a little, Feyre shoves the strands of gold-brown hairs clinging to her forehead away, sticky with sweat. The hairs at her nape curl away from her neck, and you’re so glad that she grew out those awful bangs over the summer. Now you don’t have to listen to her complain about how they’d be plastered to her head with sweat. The loose collar of her cropped shirt is damp, and she uses the hem to wipe at the perspiration beading at her hairline. “Fucking finally,” she moans, “I need a drink.”

“Alcoholic or energy?” you tease, but it’s not funny. You’re drained, and all you want to do is collapse on the navy futon that barely fits two, no matter how uncomfortable it is. But you’re hot, clothes irritating your skin from where they’re glued with sweat and your arms and legs burn with effort. A cold shower, tall glass of something icy, and a few hours napping will do you well. A grimace works its way onto your red face, “Tell me there’s air conditioning in this place.”

“Already on,” Feyre sighs, stalking into the kitchen. You follow after her, dodging boxes, and watch as she rips open the refrigerator door and shoves her head inside. It’s completely empty and you wince, knowing that it’s going to be a long weekend while you go shopping and unpack everything before the fall semester starts in a week.

You want to stop by the local art supply too, to gather the last of the material you need for your classes this year. It’s probably why you and Feyre have so many boxes; half of the ones adorning your apartment are stuffed with art supplies: brushes and paints of all varieties from oils to acrylics, graphite pencils and kneaded erasers, canvases both blank and filled. You swear there’s even an entire box dedicated to sketchbooks filled with random doodles and scribbled ideas for assignments that never turned into anything great. Feyre hadn’t been happy when she’d seen you’d left that box for her to carry up.

When Feyre’s had her fill of the crisp air, she hands you a bottle of water from the freezer. It’s nowhere near as cold as you’d like it yet. You’d run into the gas station to get a few bottles and candy bars while she filled up the tank of the U-Haul for your last stretch or the drive. It hadn’t occurred to either of you to grab something with more sustenance until this very moment.

“Ugh,” you groan, choking down the room-temperature water. It helps a little to soothe your parched throat, but nowhere near enough. “Do you have any money left in your account? We should Door Dash something for dinner, and call it an early night.”

“An early night?” Feyre retorts, making a face as she takes a sip of her own water. “We have a lot of unpacking to do. And our beds aren’t even set up yet.” 

“Fuck us,” you sigh, leaning against the marble. The stone is cool where it seeps through your thin shirt, and you ache to rip off your clothing and press your burning skin to it in an attempt to cool yourself off. “Let’s just find the boxes with the pillows and blankets and sleep in the living room, Fey. C’mon, it’ll be like when we were young again! Except now we’re old enough to buy alcohol.” You waggle your eyebrows at your roommate and she cracks a wry grin. “Well, almost old enough, but those fake ID’s Tarquin got us work like a charm anyway.”

“Fine,” Feyre relents, “Dibs on first shower, though.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

While Feyre uses all of the hot water, despite it being nearly ninety degrees outside—blasphemous for the end of August in the middle of Southern California—you take the chance to move the U-Haul from where you’d double-parked it outside of your new apartment building. Thankfully, you and Feyre had saved up enough money from working at an Art Camp for children this summer to have both of your cars shipped to school. It was cheaper to rent a truck and move all of your belongings yourselves than to drive down and let a moving company do it, plus, you and Feyre had wanted to road trip this summer but didn’t have the funds. You both had decided there was no better time for it—until you could properly afford one—than this.

You scroll aimlessly through your social media on the way down, the elevator so slow and creaky that you and Feyre opted to take the stairs for most of your journey. Bigger things like your beds, the futon, and the tv had been squashed into the tiny elevator and taken up with prayers it wouldn’t break down. You can’t help but glance up at the certificate that says the elevator is in running order until its next inspection in two years. 

“Is that forged, George Brown?” you mutter, squinting at the paper displayed in the corner. It’s frayed at the edges and yellowing, so you’re not all that sure this elevator has been inspected when it says it has.

It comes to a jerky halt that makes you sway when it hits the lobby. It’s as nice a building as you can afford on your budget, but the both of you will have to find part-time jobs as soon as school starts up, so that you have money to buy alcohol and food and supplies. Feyre’s older sister, Nesta, had lived here with her friends Gwyn and Emerie during their undergrad years, but they’ve moved on from shitty apartment buildings riddled with horny college students to renting a quaint house in town while working on their masters degrees.

When the doors to the elevator slide open you slip out as fast as possible, a shudder working its way up your spine. You wonder how many times it’s broken down, and you’d hate to be in there alone if something like that happened. Maybe you’ll take the stairs from now on unless you’re with someone.

The lobby of the building is small. There’s a front desk in which no one ever sits, as if the building used to be sophisticated once upon a time and a doorman used to occupy the space. Mailboxes pinned to the wall line the area behind the counter, and there sits a garbage can stuffed full with envelopes and more likely than not empty bottles of alcohol and take-away, maybe even a used condom or two.

It’s muggy down here, more so than your apartment that the landlord hadn’t turned on the air conditioning when he knew you’d be showing up today. Whatever, you hadn’t had to see the greasy man, he’d left the keys on the counter for you and Feyre to find when you’d arrived, and you were more than thankful for that.

You brush away some of the hairs that have come loose from your ponytail as you cross the lobby. The hazards of the U-Haul are blinking at a steady rate, the skies turning darker with the looming night. It had taken you and Feyre all day to unpack the truck, and you’re returning it tomorrow when your cars come in, so you need to move it to a normal spot for the night. 

Pushing open the door, your steps falter as someone brushes past you like a shadow, nearly hitting your shoulder with theirs. Your brows furrow and you turn to toss a comment about how rude they are but the words dry up in your throat. 

He’s tugging off a motorcycle helmet and you can’t help but watch the way his biceps bulge against his skin tight black t-shirt. The muscles of his broad back glide like butter beneath the fabric as he moves and you can’t help but let your gaze travel down his spine to his tight waist, dipping into dark jeans.

His thick soled boots thump loudly as he stalks through the door, stopping at the mailboxes to check if he has any letters. The tiny door opens with a squeak that has you snapping back into your body, stunned by his musculature. This man is a god of his own league. A masterpiece of perfectly crafted body parts and tones. He has an angular nose and long, dark lashes matching his disheveled hair. He runs his fingers through it and shoves the helmet under his armpit as he digs through his mailbox. Your fingers twitch to dig out your sketchbook and pencils from the box upstairs.

You force your gaze outside again, cheeks red hot with embarrassment. You were straight up ogling the man, and thankfully you’re not drooling, as you take notice while you wet your suddenly dry lips. 

You click the keys, unlocking the U-Haul, but stop short when you see that the truck is caged in, a big vintage Bronco parked behind, and a shiny motorcycle that looks like it moves faster than the speed of light wedged between the moving truck and the vehicle in front.

“Hey,” you call, ripping the door back open to the lobby. You have no doubt that the motorcycle is his, and the car behind had been there when you and Feyre had arrived this afternoon, so you don’t know whom it belongs to. “Is this your motorcycle?” 

The man is already on his way to the elevator, phone stable in his leather riding gloves as he swipes, envelopes tucked into his helmet. The elevator door screeches open and he doesn’t even bother to turn around and meet your gaze as he punches the button to his floor. “Nope.”

#azriel au #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #art school au #acowar #azsazz #acotar #acomaf #azriel #midnight muse #acotar series

[luveline]

steve zombie au —you and steve celebrate his birthday with a frank discussion and some new fun. [5k]

fem!reader, afab!reader, fluff, MDNI smut (hand job, implied oral), cw for mentioned circumstances of the apocalypse; food insecurity, danger, zombies, nightmares, injury

April 29th starts exceedingly warm. Summer is fast approaching, and it's being felt all over The College community. You can forget zombies — a world without air conditioning is much scarier. 

You're kidding, obviously. Geeks are scary. Both for what they are, slimy decomposing husks that want more than anything to chew on you like a dog toy, and what they could be, the end of your life. There have been times where you wished for something of the same calibre, but these days you have someone you want to hold onto. 

And that someone is turning twenty three. He's still sleeping, the limp hair in his eyes freshly shorn. He doesn't know that you know it's his birthday today, but you do, so you'd traded with Mel the used-to-be hairdresser to get you both haircuts. You would've traded just for him —her services aren't cheap— if you thought he'd ever let you, or ever get one without you.

It's exactly that reason that you'd wanted him to have a haircut in the first place, and why you want him to have a good birthday. He's so loving, and sweet, and good, he deserves to feel special. He needs to know how much you appreciate him. 

You're hoping you've prepared enough to do that. 

You brush the sweat damp hair out of Steve's eyes as he begins to stir. You've been up for hours, now, and it's a credit to how much you like him that you would wake up early on a day you could've slept in, sweaty but safe in the circle of his arm. You've washed up for the morning so he doesn't have to wake to your oily face, and you press a spearmint-fresh kiss to his cheek as his eyelashes strain. 

"Hey," he says, rough with sleep. 

You love his voice in the mornings. "Hey, handsome. Good morning." 

You lay your cheek against his pillow, watching as he opens his eyes. Your hand roves over his naked torso selfishly, feeling the soft indentations of muscle. He's put on weight since you got here. It's amazing. 

"It's fucking–" He stretches out beside you, his sentence scythed in two by a low groan. "S'fucking so hot. I just woke up and it's so hot." 

"I think it's finally summer." 

"I don't know," he argues lightly, "it shouldn't be this hot. Not for another two months, Jesus." 

He traces your face with his eyes as he talks, and as his sentence finishes he pauses his searching. He brings a hand up between your two bodies and rubs his thumb against the highest point of your cheek. "I guess it's almost May." 

"It's April 29th," you say softly. 

His lashes come together slowly, a subtle suspicious squint souring his otherwise serene expression. "Robin told you?" 

"Yes, she did. Happy birthday, baby." 

He looks at you a little longer. You like to be looked at by Steve because you know he's thinking nice things as he does, but for those long, stretched seconds you worry you've given him a reason to wrinkle his nose. Maybe it's cringy to be romantic about it. After all, he'd kept his birthday to himself the entire time you'd known him. 

"Thank you." 

He tugs you in for a hug, so tight you swear you can feel his heartbeat against your own. 

"You're welcome," you say, words smothered under his cheek. 

He clings to you. You can't count how many hugs you've shared after so long together. Even before Steve told you he loved you on the floor of this very room, before he asked if you were together in a cold car shivering for your lives in the middle of an abandoned highway, he was hugging you when you needed them, or when he needed you. 

You feel your eyes warm thinking about it, until the heat becomes tears, and the tears roll down over the bridge of your nose. You push your head as far as you can over Steve's shoulder, your hands hugging behind his head to keep him with you if he tries to move. You're selfish, and you don't deserve him but you have him. It counts for something. 

"I love you," you say, tears making your voice all wobbly. Cicadas call from the open window, and the earth seems deathly still. Steve is quiet for a while and you worry you've put him off crying on his special day, but then his arm shifts against your back and his embrace tightens again. 

"I can't believe it took me," —he presses his forehead to yours— "twenty three years to find you." 

"You found me ages ago," you remind him, fighting for your life because isn't that the most romantic thing, isn't he the sweetest guy? 

"Are you crying?" he asks, frowning. 

"Not really. I just love you." 

He holds your face in his palm and gives you a gentle shake. "I love you. But you know that. It's embarrassing how much you know that."

"Embarrassing how much you love me?" you ask, poking for extra compliments. Again, you're selfish. 

Again, it counts for something. 

Steve pushes your shoulders back into the bed and follows with his weight on top of you, his chest pressed to your chest and an elbow by your arm so his face doesn't smash into yours. You're a little daunted —Steve doesn't come on to you so suddenly, but it's his birthday, and you just asked him how much he loves you. Maybe he's excited. 

His laugh fans over your face. 

"Sorry," he murmurs, "I saw the look on your face." He turns his head to kiss your cheek. "I love you so much. That part isn't embarrassing, at all, I just mean I would've had the shit kicked out of me in high school for being whipped." 

"You're whipped?" you ask lightly, trying to maintain casualness as his lips dip lower. His kisses show how he's still far from being properly awake, mouthing at the column of your throat one slovenly inch at a time.

"I'm worse than that," he says, his lips parting over your pulse. 

His teeth scratch. 

"Steve–" You laugh as he sucks your skin between his teeth, not his worst hickey but the start of a sore one if you let him finish. "Baby." 

He pulls away, his words scorching against you, "You sound flustered." 

"I am! You're biting me." 

"I'm not not biting you," he agrees, kissing his hickey. It won't last, he hadn't worked at it for very long, but it turned you to jelly under his big hands. "Sorry, I like when you do that." 

"Do what?" 

"You relax," he says with a smile. 

"I relax with you." 

It's true and untrue. It takes you time to decompress, for months you hadn't felt safe, and then things had happened to rob you of that feeling again, but Steve's persistence and insistence that nothing is going to happen is one you believe. You crawl into bed with him and sometimes it takes an hour, but you relax. You sleep well with him. 

"I know," he says, pulling up to meet your eyes again, "but when I kiss you like that you go somewhere else. I'm not saying it to be cheesy, although it's definitely cheesy and I'm a romantic weapon." He smiles at your smiling. "I'm trying to describe it to you but I got a C in English and I never went to college." 

You laugh again. He would've been hard pushed to go, considering the circumstances. 

"We're in college now," you say. 

The community that you live in has been nicknamed The College. It was a smaller college campus once upon a time, and now it homes a couple hundred people of all ages trying to make a life. 

"Let me brush my teeth and then I'm gonna kiss you stupid," Steve says, climbing off of you. 

There isn't an ensuite in your room but there is a small sink, and he stands there in his boxers and short-sleeved t-shirt bent over the basin. He puts paste on his toothbrush and tries to talk to you around brushing, his hair rumpled and sticking out at the back, his boxers lower on one hip. 

You're trying to talk back to him, but you've noticed something you hadn't meant to. 

Steve has a bulge. 

Steve usually has a bulge, you're not stupid, you know your boyfriend is well-endowed. It would be impossible not to notice, you've woken countless times to something warm pressed against your thigh, but you honestly hadn't cared. You and Steve haven't had sex, and that doesn't bother either of you, you know it with surety. Your relationship has always weighed heavily on other things. But you have to wonder if he wants it. You know you do, in moments like this where he's had you pressed down into a box and nipped at your neck, suggesting the salacious to the shell of your ear. 

He swills out his mouth and washes his face as boys do, rough and quick, water dripping down his neck and soaking the hairs surrounding his face. 

You have your heart in your throat as he slides back into bed. 

"You have your shift soon?" he asks, hiking up on his pillow and pulling you toward his arms. 

"I swapped with Shirley to have today off, it's your birthday." 

"Ah, but when I gave you that necklace for your birthday there was no need." 

"It's different." 

Steve kisses the top of your head, sounding fondly defeated as he says, "It's not different." 

You turn in his hold, head by his elbow as you look up at him with a question you don't wanna ask in your eyes. He stares down at you. 

You shift your leg against him, and you can't miss the slight twitch of his mouth. Like he enjoyed the feeling. 

"Stevie," you murmur. "I have something I want to talk about, but I think I'll probably die of shame before I can say it out loud." 

"Is it your period? I already told you it shouldn't bother you, honey, it's natural–" 

"Progressive," you say with a laugh, "but no, I know you're not a big baby about it." The only thing that bothers Steve about it is that you're in pain when it happens.  

"I don't know what else would embarrass you like that," he says. 

"We don't have to talk about it. It's your birthday, I want to celebrate," you say, regretting your honesty. 

“It’s my birthday and I wanna talk about it,” he says. “Hit me with it. Tell me tell me tell me tell me–”

"No," you mumble, knowing you'll have to tell him now. 

"Please?" he asks. 

His tone slows everything down. Your mixed emotions, your apprehension and nerves, your excitement over his birthday, they slip away into the palm of his hand where it strokes under your breast. He takes it all. 

You look up into his face and try to look serious. 

"How come we don't have sex?" 

Steve is noticeably thrown for a loop. His hand lightens its hold. 

"Do you want the short answer?" he asks slowly. "Or the long one?" 

"Why are there two answers?" 

Steve is quiet for a second. You sit up some, not entirely but enough to feel as though he's hugging you rather than acting as a place for you to rest your head. He helps you without asking, hand like a brand considering the topic of conversation. 

"I just–" A muscle in his jaw moves as you talk. "I know sometimes I can– that you want to. I mean, that your, um–" 

"That I'm obviously excited," he says. 

You both cringe, and then you both laugh quietly. 

"Yeah. And you've never tried to do anything. I just wondered if maybe you don't want to, ever, or if you're waiting for me. If you are waiting for me…" 

"You're ready," Steve says. 

"Yeah." 

"I kind of knew that already, babe." Steve's fingers curl in toward your rib, knuckles resting against you, an arm behind your back. His face dips down to yours, and he kisses your cheek fondly and almost too softly, you barely feel it. "Not that you're obvious, but, you know, we've been together for a long time. I'd be an idiot if I couldn't read you." 

"So why haven't you asked me?" 

"Why haven't you asked me, 'til today?" He sounds immeasurably happy, now, his tone golden and silky smooth as pure honey, murmuring. "Being with you has never really been about that. I mean, we never could've on the road, how could you relax there?" 

"Maybe it would've relaxed me." 

"Maybe, but I kind of assumed it wouldn't. And I… I didn't want you to think you didn't have a choice, either, like I was looking after you so you had to do stuff you didn't want to do." 

"I wouldn't have thought that." 

"Good, then I was less of a dick than I thought." He pauses, breathes in the skin of your cheek as though it smells like something other than hand-soap turned face wash. "There were times when I really wanted to. But I guess most of the time I wasn't thinking about it, and then we got here and," —he smiles against your cheek— "I didn't want you to think I was saying I loved you and that having sex would make a difference." He turns bashful. "It sounds stupid now I'm actually telling you." 

"It doesn't," you say, immediate and soft with awe. "It doesn't." 

"Then you weren't safe, and you were having nightmares all the time, but now you're doing better and lately I've been thinking the same thing. Why aren't we?" 

You turn your face to his. "Well? Do you have an answer?" 

His lips pout up and his eyes squint a little as he nods, a melodramatic defeat. "The short answer. I can't find a box of fucking condoms." 

You're speechless. 

You cough. 

"...You've been looking?" you ask. 

"Sometimes. I looked in the mall pharmacy but they only had finger condoms. What am I gonna do with one of those?" He laughs at his own joke. 

You're thankful it isn't awkward. Thank whoever for your stupid beautiful boyfriend who cares about you more than anything. Too chivalrous to make a move but horny enough to look for condoms when his life is in danger. 

You settle your arms heavily over his shoulders and look him in the eye. "I really don't think that would work for you, Stevie." 

"You're flirting." 

"Is it working?" 

He touches the tip of his nose to yours. "It always works, but I really can't find any rubbers, I didn't want to ask you without being able to deliver. We're stuck." 

"I mean, maybe we could just… not use one?" you ask, genuinely wanting to hear his opinion. 

The side of Steve's nose touches yours, his breath warm on your cheek. "I thought about it. About asking you, but I just need you to be safe." He pulls back. "You couldn't have a baby." 

"I don't know. I don't think I could now, but we'd make it work." 

"Do you want one?" he asks. 

You think about the obvious. It's too fucking dangerous. Pregnancy before the apocalypse was dangerous. Pregnancy now is so much worse. It could kill you, and if it didn't labour could, and if it didn't and you did have a baby, that baby would live this life. You're too young to make that decision, you think. And if none of it mattered and you and Steve were a couple in a regular world, would you want one then? So soon? 

"No," you say. It feels good to say, because Steve will support every decision you make and you know it. 

"No. I don't want you to have one either." He licks his lips. "Maybe someday?" 

You smile at his hope. It cracks a yawning gap down your chest to the pit of your stomach. 

"Maybe someday," you say. 

He kisses you. Chaste but somehow sharp, pressing at the same time. Not trying to initiate anything he can't finish, but now that it's on the table the implied what-if feels heavy between you.

You hug him as the kiss breaks, your lips by his ear. "You could pull out?" you whisper. You love him and he's amazing but it's still a mortifying question. 

"I don't think that always works. Is it worth it?" he asks. 

Not really. Not if you aren't prepared to make big choices.

His arms wrap around you, and his hand rubs your back. "It's not like it'll never happen, honey." 

"Steve," you say softly, hand running down his back, "what if we did other stuff? Sex isn't just… I could make you feel good." You're trying hard not to sound crude, harder still not to sound as scared of his rejection as you feel. He's more than allowed to say no, but you hope he won't. You hope he wants you. 

"You could…" He swallows. You hear it loud and clear. 

"I could make you feel good," you repeat, lowering your voice. "What do you think, handsome?" 

"You don't have to do anything you're unsure of," he says. His breathlessness has your heart leaping in your chest. 

You pull back to see his face, find his cheeks warm as you press your palms to them. "I'm not unsure. If you want it, I want it. How do you feel?" 

"If you… if you change your mind," he murmurs. 

"I'll tell you," you say. You give him a look, the kind of bright-eyed, loving expression you save for special moments with him, pouring all your adoration and trust and wanting out for him to see. You lift your chin in question, and when he kisses you, you take it for a soft yes. 

You kiss him while you stand on knees, while you ease yourself over one thigh. Your knee rubs up against him and he shudders into the kiss, his hands leaping to your waist. 

"Do you," —you break away from his lips but can't stop yourself from dispersing honeyed pecks between words— "ever do anything by yourself? When I'm away? When I'm at the kitchen and you don't have to go, have you–" 

You're asking because you have a great suspicion that he has —one time you came home and he was so, so needy, clingy and sweet and relaxed. Another you might have found him midway, but he hid it well.

Steve nods hurriedly and steals another kiss. "Just a few times," he says. 

"How do you do that, sweetheart?" you ask, your hand trailing down his chest achingly slow. 

"I– I lay on your side of the bed." 

You kiss him harder than you mean to. "Why?" you ask into his lips. 

"It smells like you–" 

His hands roving up and down your back give you more than enough confidence to grasp at him wildly, your kissing suddenly, painfully desperate, your top lip on fire as Steve pulls your face down to his. You don't have the wherewithal to speak as your hand coast past his t-shirt to the rising tent of his boxers. 

Foreign and familiar at once. You've seen Steve naked a hundred times having lived in close quarters with him for as long as you have, and if Steve hadn't seen you before, all those times he's had to sit in the shower room with you lest you panic someone else is in the room would've made sure. You know what the other looks like bare. What you don't know is how they feel, and how they want to be touched. 

You reluctantly break your bruising kiss, resting your temple at his cheek as you look down. You slowly, slowly let your fingertips stroke down the line of his cock, beside yourself with giddy excitement as Steve moans breathlessly in your ear. 

"Fuck," he says. 

You've barely touched him. You flatten your hand as you approach the bottom of his length, pressing your thumb gently into the swelling of his balls. He hisses at your touching and you look up worriedly. "Sorry, am I not supposed to touch there?" you ask, whispering though there's no one else around to hear it. 

"Please," he says. He cuts himself off with a laugh, his head tilting back in pleasure as you put your hand back. "Please, touch anywhere." 

"It feels good?" 

"Please, honey, keep going," he says. 

You rub the length of his cock over his soft boxers, near awed as it hardens. You knew he was well endowed, and you've seen him hard and pressing against his jeans, but it feels different when it's under your hand. You drag your nose against the side of his throat, whispering, "Finger condoms really would've been useless," and laugh as he starts to laugh himself, breathless, throaty chuckling that lights a flame in your stomach. 

You start to kiss his neck slowly. Your hand is curious but not shy as it works up and down the length of him. Steve readjusts your grip, the pressure of it, his hand gentle on yours. 

Your face smushed to his neck, you watch what he's showing you and try to commit it to memory. It's tugging, almost. Kind but with a firm hand. 

"Can I see?" you ask. 

"Please." Steve is quick to pull his boxers down, exposing the pale length, his ruddy tip, the tiniest bead of precum shiny as it oozes from the head's slit. Your breath catches at the sight of his hand, his long fingers encapsulating the thick girth of his cock and tugging up. "Fuck," he says again. 

"Can I do it?" you ask. "Or is it–" 

"Honey, it's okay, you can do whatever you want to me," he reassures. "Just do it, baby, please." 

He rarely ever calls you baby. "Poor boy," you murmur. 

Steve laughs, as if to say, Fuck you, but he's distracted from his plight when you wrap your hand around his warm cock. He pushes your face into his neck instinctively as you start to move against him. 

You've enough sense to spit in your hand and work it around. He's hot, heavy in your hand, tip of his cock to the belly button if you press it toward his torso. 

"I don't think I'll last long," he warns. 

"How do I– do you want me to be gentler?" 

He bucks into your hand with a shiver, groaning like the suggestion is agonising. 

"Should I use my mouth?" you ask. 

Steve really does sound pained, then, his head falling back, his abdomen rising and falling quick against your bicep. "I'm trying to last, baby." It's as though he's begging for something without saying what he wants. 

You try to distract him a little, prolong the inevitable as your fingers flex around his cock. "Kiss me," you say, using a tone you hope —you know— will hook his attention. "Please, Stevie, kiss me?" 

He drags his head up, cheeks as red as the ruddy head of his cock, the heat practically emanating from him as he gives you what you want. These kisses are sloppy rather than messy, lavish rather than tired. Your tongue presses at the seam of his lips and your head turns heavily to the left, sighing into his mouth as his spit paints your lips. His cock leaps in your hand, and you speed up just a touch, the skin bunching ever so slightly with your ministrations. It gets harder and harder for him to kiss you as his climax builds, his breath coming in pants, his thighs and stomach tightening in anticipation. You pull away, letting him shudder and whine by your ear, his hand like a vice around your forearm that's not helping but holding you. You push kisses into his jaw, the skin under his ear, and weave the hand that isn't wrapped around his cock into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, scratching his scalp lightly as you confess. 

"I love you," you say, nipping at his neck, printing red crescents in your wake, "I love you," you repeat, hot breath fanning over your hotter kisses. "I love you," you mouth, resting your forehead against his neck.

His head clamps down on top of yours and breath catches, held, his hand practically crushing your wrist as frantic pleasure builds. You speed up even if you're not sure that you should, and it must be the right thing to do —Steve goes white out still and tense as stone, your eyes widening a touch as the first string of cum spills over your fingers. Something snaps in him and he's moaning like he might cry into your hair, breathless panting as sticky cum bumps down over your fingers with each pump, his cock twitching uselessly in your grip. 

You soften your grip but don't slow until he gasps and says, "Honey– ah, ah, don't, don't. Please, that's so–" He laughs deliriously. "I'm gonna pass out." 

You take your hand from his cock, not grossed out or anything but definitely not sure what to do now. Steve's all but collapsed beside you, his torso sliding behind you into the pillows, twisted up and breathing hard as he wraps his arms around your waist. It's an odd position, not the cuddling you'd pictured, but you're content to let him cling to you if he needs to. He breathes in harsh breaths against the small of your back. 

You watch with a burning pit in your stomach as a last bead of cum wets his cock and seeps into his boxers. 

"Did that feel okay?" you ask. His cock twitches again at the sound of your voice. You'll have to ask him what that means.

Steve doesn't answer you straight away. He sits up, and he tucks his cock away, and then he sees the mess he'd made of your hand and laughs. He's definitely high from the pleasure of cumming like that after so long, 'cos he grabs your hand and wipes it clean on the literal t-shirt he's wearing.

"Steve, I could've washed it," you complain, laughing with him.

"I'll wash the shirt," he says. He keeps your hand in his.

"Did it feel good?" you ask again. Low, you're shy to have to ask twice, worried he avoided the question. It obviously felt good, but you want the reassurance that you did it well.

He pulls your hand to his chest and leans down for a kiss. "I'm really worried we shouldn't have done that. That was like, pot. You're gateway drugging me." He kisses you again, and he rubs your hand with his thumb. "Felt good, honey, couldn't you tell? You did– you did so good, honey. It felt fucking good." 

You descend into another round of messy kissing. He must feel the shape of your pleased smile, as he smiles too, and it's very difficult to kiss each other seriously when your lips are hardly touching. 

"Can I ask for something else?" he asks, pulling away. 

Your heart skips, 'cos you think he might ask to fuck you, and after all his pretty sounds and the heat between your thighs, you'll probably say yes, and that would be a terrible fucking idea without any protection—

"Let me go down on you," he says. 

You gawp. "What?" 

"Let me go down on you, sweetheart, please." 

"I didn't even go down on you," you say shyly, heart beating in your stomach now. You shove your hand between your legs impulsively. 

"If you went down on me I would've embarrassed myself," he says. He follows your hand, his own slipping between your legs. "Only if you want to." 

"You don't have to, Steve, I just wanted you to feel good–"

"This is, like, the best day of my life," he says, "or second best, because the first time you told me you loved me was a fucking immense feeling–" 

"'Immense–'" 

"–I want you to feel like I just felt," he interrupts your interrupting. His eyes are imploring and his hands are soft where they roam. "We can stop if you don't like it, but I think you'll like it," he continues, rubbing the inside of your thigh teasingly. "If you want it, please let me." 

You nod quickly and pull him in for a kiss, though you pause when his lips are close and whisper, "I get to go down on you, then?" 

To which your boyfriend groans and kisses you roughly. Your lips are tingling from so many. 

"I guess it is my birthday," he says, with a faux-bashfulness that has you both giggling.

Later, at Robin's, when you're sure "We just got each other off repeatedly," has been written across your forehead for everyone else to see, and a small party of the older friends have gathered for a drink in Steve's honour, Christopher tosses a rectangle in Steve's direction. It slides right into his lap. 

You both look down. 

"Happy birthday, Harrington," Christopher says. "Don't worry, they shrink to fit." 

It's a box of condoms. 

Steve glares at Christopher for the public humiliation, but he puts the box of condoms in his pocket, and everybody gives you shit for it when you're making excuses to leave barely an hour later. 

—

thank you for reading!! I get asked to write about their first time more than anything else which isn't a bad thing, I really love that people like this au and that they want to see that, but I haven't personally been in the mood for that! I figured I'd post this even though it stops at hand stuff / isn't an explicit scene of them fucking because it was gathering dust and also because it hopefully answers some questions I get sent often about their sex lives! maybe I can write them fucking in the future but for now I hope you enjoy :D <3

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x afab!reader

[stylesloveclub]

Pleasing

In which y/n is a broke waitress, and Harry thinks she’s cuter than a puppy. (part 1)

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Y/n didn’t really want to be a waitress. 

She doesn’t suppose anyone does, really. It certainly wasn’t the most flattering title― having to wait on other people, or deal with the nasty attitudes of the entitled celebrities and CEO’s that chose to eat at Pleasing―  the high class restaurant that she worked at. But, it was what she had to do. College wasn’t cheap, and y/n needed some form of income to help pay her way through.

She’d worked a lot of jobs to support herself before she ended up at Pleasing― she’d been a barista at the campus coffee shop, a receptionist at the bookstore, and had even tried becoming a tour guide for the little high schoolers that came for campus tours! But... the managers on campus expected far too much from their full-time student employees. Y/n swears they purposefully gave her the shifts that ended 10 minutes before her classes started so that she’d have to run all the way from one end of campus to the other. And, they didn’t even pay well! With the amount she was paying for tuition, she expected that her school would’ve at least been able to pay their employees more than just minimum wage! 

That’s why, after quitting her last attempt at a campus job, y/n decided to go job hunting in the nice part of town. Sure, it was a bit far from the one bedroom college apartment she lived in… but in her opinion, the 30 minute walk was entirely worth it.

The buildings downtown were a completely different world from the university buildings she had initially limited herself to. All the venues were high class, with chandeliers and marble floors and air conditioning. 20 floor tall corporate buildings painted the sky, bustling with men wearing $50,000 watches and women in pantsuits that probably cost more than y/n’s entire wardrobe. Across the street from those skyscrapers were shopping centers with department stores that had that same high-class, expensive look to them. They were the kind of designer stores that served their shoppers champagne while they looked at luxury bags and expensive shoes― the kind of stores that laughed at y/n when she stumbled in with her tote bag and tattered shoes, asking for job openings. 

She knew that she wasn’t the type of person who belonged in that area. She was a broke college student― the most expensive thing she had in her closet was a pair of boots that she’d splurged on after she soaked her only pair of sneakers while walking to class in the rain. But her brokenness was the precise reason that she needed a job in the part of the city where it was a social norm to tip more than 20%. 

She considers herself superbly lucky that she’d mustered up the courage to go into Pleasing after an entire day of being laughed out of stores due to her “lack of elegance and sophistication” or whatever the fuck they managed to criticize her for. Somehow, she’d stumbled into the restaurant on the very same night that one of the other waitresses had been fired! (If she thinks hard enough, she vaguely remembers a girl wearing an apron running out of the restaurant crying, but she hadn’t paid any mind to it at the time as she was too distracted by the glittering chandelier that hung from the sitting room ceiling.)

Pleasing’s staff manager (an older, balding man named Alfredo, who had a mustache that twisted up at the ends and carried a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off of his forehead every five minutes), had been so frantic at the fact that they were yet another waitress short, that y/n had nearly been hired on the spot. She only received a brief interview that consisted of a few questions about her past experience in the service industry and a quick briefing on the importance of maintaining a high class appearance and treating their customers with the utmost respect. Y/n blindly agreed to all of this, and even hummed her agreement a few times just to butter Alfredo up, figuring that it wouldn’t be too hard to maintain a classy facade while dealing with these high-class customers. If it paid the bills, then she could pretend to be anything. 

Her job offer was a quick, “You’re cute enough. Be here tomorrow at 6, your uniform will be provided― hair must be up, shoes must be black, and smile must always be on!” …and that was how she started. 

She had somewhat of an idea of how expensive a restaurant Pleasing actually was from the general atmosphere of the place― but when she saw the menu… that’s when she truly realized that she was in the world of the upper-class. Each plate was $70, at minimum, and there was always a bottle of $200 wine to accompany the meal. The food was served on the most expensive fine china y/n had ever seen, with the kind of silver cutlery that she thinks you could only find in Buckingham Palace. The patrons had an unspoken dress code, with the men dressed in well pressed suits and button downs, and the ladies in cocktail dresses and sparkling diamonds. There was no sign of children anywhere, and she wondered if that was just because the rich people who ate at Pleasing were too busy making money to make babies… or if it was just a child-free restaurant. 

When she showed up for her first day (with her hair twisted into a bun, a pair of black ballet flats that she got in the clearance bins of one of the department stores nearby, and an anxious smile plastered on her face!) Alfredo assigned her to spend the entire shift shadowing one of the other waitresses (Grace) to ensure that she knew exactly what kind of hospitality was expected towards the people they served. As they walked from table to table, she gave y/n the rundown of how Pleasing worked. Apparently, the restaurant was owned by this millionaire chef who rarely ever actually cooked at the restaurant. He had four Michelin stars (y/n doesn’t really know what that means but she guesses it means he’s a good cook) and usually was traveling around the world, cooking for royals and politicians and all sorts of important people. 

Occasionally, he would have special nights where he would come back for “In-Chef Nights” as they called it, nights where people were willing to pay nearly a thousand dollars just to have their food cooked by Chef Styles― the world-renowned, multi-millionaire, gourmet chef. Those were the busiest nights of the year at Pleasing, according to Grace, but they only happened maybe once a month. Even on the nights Chef Styles wasn’t there, however, having the Styles name tied to the restaurant was enough for people to want a table at the restaurant to try his famous recipes and quality service. 

“He’s kind of a big deal,” Grace had whispered to y/n while grabbing a saffron and lobster Risotto from the counter to take out to a couple seated on the restaurant balcony. “I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard he’s super intimidating. Kinda mean too, he fires people all the time if they aren’t up to his standards.”

From that night when she was hired, all the way into about a month of working at Pleasing, y/n had never had an encounter with Mr. Styles either. She’d been allowed to start waiting on tables by herself starting her second night there, and quickly came to learn that the customers that she served were… not ordinary.

Simply put, the people who ate at Pleasing were all… pompous, rich assholes with no decency or basic manners. They barely acknowledged y/n when she was serving them, gave her nasty side-eyes when she smiled at them, and made her feel downright awful from the way they looked down on her. 

There was always some douchebag who would try to sweet talk y/n in exchange for a free cocktail, or a middle-aged woman who would complain about everything and demand that her food be sent back to the kitchen. They’d make up some bullshit about how they had asked for no sesame seeds on their curry, when y/n knew damn well that they hadn’t mentioned anything about any sort of seeds when she had taken their order. Old men would blatantly stare at her chest, while their younger, model dates would make snarky comments about how y/n’s ballet flats were so last season while she walked away from their tables. She didn’t even know that there was a season for shoes, but it still hurt her feelings! 

Now normally, y/n was able to put up a strong front and just ignore the rude customers. She’d force a smile and a polite “I’m sorry to hear that miss, let me get you a new plate right away,” and just imagine punching those people in the face to help herself calm down. 

But tonight… it all just got to be too much. She’d already had a shitty day at school― she’d slept through her alarm and was late to her morning class, had a physics midterm that she’s pretty sure she failed, and accidentally left her calculus notebook at her apartment, which meant she had to take her calculus notes in her physics notebook instead (and she really hates when her notes get mixed up because she honestly has no idea what's going on in either class anyway so it just becomes extra confusing!!!).

So when one of her customers with graying hair and obvious anger issues threw his drink on y/n and called her an ‘incompetent, stupid girl’ after he decided that his merlot hadn’t been chilled properly… well y/n really couldn’t hold back the tears for much longer. 

She managed to politely tell the man that she’d send someone to clean up and help him resolve the issues with his meal, before scurrying to the kitchen to find Grace.

“Oh, what’s wrong sweetheart!” Grace coos as soon as she sees y/n’s tear glazed eyes and stained shirt. 

“H-he threw his drink on me,” she blubbers out, her hands rubbing furiously at her eyes as if she could just erase the tears threatening to spill. 

Grace gasps, “He didn’t! Oh, I’ll go out there n’give him a piece of my mind right now, bubbles. You need a second to get yourself together?” 

Y/n nods, sniffling harshly and letting out a shaky breath. 

“M’kay,” Grace pulls her in for a hug, “you go and sit outside for however long y’need, ‘n I’ll cover the rest of your tables until you’re ready, ‘kay? I’ll try n’find you a shirt too sweetie, don’t worry about anything, just go n’get some fresh air.” 

Y/n bleats out a small (but gracious) thank you, before running out of the back entrance to the employee parking lot behind the restaurant. She just needs a little bit of time for herself, a second to let all the tears out and to cry her troubles away. A moment to just privately recollect herself so that she could go back to work with a fresh mind. 

She’s startled when she finds that the parking lot isn't empty the way she’d expected. Instead, she steps out and sees two guys. One of them she recognizes as Kevin – an assistant chef who works in the kitchen― but the other one is facing away from her, just an intimidating figure in the dark. The mystery man stands a few inches taller than Kevin, dressed in a dark, well-pressed suit that seems as though it’s been tailored to fit him perfectly. The jacket compliments his broad shoulders and lean waist, cutting off right above his hips to show the way his pants hug his thighs. They flare out at the bottom elegantly to reveal a pair of sleek, black boots with a small heel on them. 

Y/n is so intrigued by the mystery man, that she doesn’t even realize that she’s walked in on a heated discussion between the two of them. “You could’ve fuckin’ killed a customer!” the man yells at Kevin, “Cos’ your head was up y’fuckin ass! You’re lucky they noticed there were peanuts in the lady’s meal or else we would’ve had to call a fucking ambulance n’ it would’ve been on your ass!” 

Y/n thinks they might be talking about the one customer that came in tonight with a severe nut allergy, but she’s not entirely sure.

Kevin holds his poofy little chef hat in his hands as he pipes up, “I was just―”

“You were what? Too busy texting y’pals to pay attention to the notes on the order? There’s a fucking rule against having your phone in the kitchen for a reason you idiot!” The man shakes his head exasperatedly and lets out a disbelieving sigh, “Get out of here, you’re fired. Don’t even think about puttin’ this restaurant on your references because m’not gonna say anything nice.” 

As Kevin stomps away angrily, the man turns on his heel and heads back towards the restaurant, finally allowing y/n to see his face. He’s not someone she’s ever seen around the restaurant before, but considering how he just fired someone, she assumes he must be important. Despite the way his green eyes glimmer prettily in the outdoor lighting, the man is terribly intimidating, with furrowed eyebrows and a hard glare. When those hard eyes flicker up to look at y/n, who’s still standing in the doorway, she feels her heart skip a beat. 

“What are you doing out here?” the man asks her, a harsh bite to his tone. Y/n flinches, not ready to face yet another dickhead that might make her cry. 

“Um,” she sniffles, wiping away her tears and stuttering out in the most put-together voice she can muster, “A-a customer spilled their wine on me so I’m just, um, quickly cleaning up.”

He steps closer to her, now standing directly in front of her and looking down. He’s a head taller than her, his heeled boots giving him an extra inch that just adds to his intimidating demeanor. 

He had immediately recognized the waitressing uniform that she was wearing, and had been incredibly irritated at the thought of another one of his employees slacking off on such a busy night. But when he hears her shaky voice and sees her tear-stained cheeks… he lets a little bit of the sternness in his voice fade away, eyes softening just the slightest bit. Not too much (he couldn’t have one of his employees thinking he was a big softie…), but just enough so that he maybe wouldn’t make her feel worse than she already seemed to.

“Come with me,” he orders, brushing past her and trusting that she’d follow behind him. Knowing that this guy must be important, she doesn’t hesitate one bit, her head down as she trails after him like a lost puppy, trying to hide her puffy eyes and sniffly nose from the rest of the staff. He leads her into a room that she’s never been in, some sort of office with plaques hanging on the walls and a big, professional desk covered in paperwork. 

He pulls out a chair and gestures towards it. “Sit.”

She plops down obediently, and a soft smirk dimples his cheek.

“Good,” he says. “Now stay.” 

She nods.

With that, he steps out of his office and closes the door behind him. He hadn’t expected to be cooking at all tonight, but with the hurt little puppy sitting in his office, he really felt as though he had no choice!

“Evening Mr. Styles,” one of the chefs in the kitchen greets him, “Everything alright?” 

“Yes, thank you Teddy,” Harry responds pleasantly, Teddy being one of his first and favorite chefs to come work for him at Pleasing, “Can y’get one of the stove tops ready for me? Need to make something really quickly.” 

“Of course, sir,” Teddy wipes his hands dry, “I’m assuming Kevin won’t be coming back?” 

Harry shakes his head in confirmation, the furrow in his brow returning at the thought of the ignorant chef. He’d need to have a talk with Alfredo about the recent hires – his business was better than someone as careless as Kevin.

“Y’can take his station then,” Teddy offers. “S’still hot, pots all cleaned too.” 

Taking off his suit and rolling up the sleeves of his button down, he decides to make her a little bit of mac n cheese― a classic comfort food, right? Except, because he’s Harry Styles (aka one of the best chefs in the nation), he takes it to the next level. The pasta is fresh and handmade in their kitchen, parmesan grated from a gigantic sphere that was imported from France, with truffle oil and Italian basil to top it all off. He doesn’t even bother trying it; if he made it, then he knows it’s good. 

Plating the dish is second nature to him, easily displaying the pasta and putting decorative herbs and dollops of Béchamel sauce around the main meal. With a single fork in hand, he grabs the plate and takes it back to his office.

The waitress jumps up in her seat when Harry pushes the door open, startled by his entrance and generally just intimidated by his sharp jawline and gorgeous face. Her eyes widen at the sight of the food in his hand, glimmering with excitement that she fails to conceal. It’s cute, Harry admits to himself, the way she perks up like an excited little puppy at the sight of a gourmet meal. He puts the plate in front of her and sticks the fork in her hand. 

She looks up at him with wide eyes, and doesn’t make a move to start eating until Harry tells her to “try it,” as if she had been waiting for his permission to dig in. “Mm!” her eyes flutter shut as she chews the creamy pasta, “I didn’t even know we had this on the menu, it’s so good!” 

It actually wasn’t on the menu, but he wasn’t going to ruin her fun.

“Have you tried some of this? S’so yummy, you have to try some!” she tells him, sticking a forkful out for him to try. He wants to tell her that he already knows it’s good because he made it, but– just to humor her– he wraps his lips around the fork and eats it straight from her hand. He tries not to visibly show how pleased he is with the reaction he gets from her― her mouth falls slightly ajar and her eyes stare at his plump, pink lips as they pull off of the fork. 

“Mm,” Harry hums, a slight teasing lilt to his words, “oh yeah, that is really good.” He lets her praise the food a little bit more before casually asking, “I put a little truffle oil on there, could you tell?” 

She pauses mid-chew and asks slowly, “Y-you made this?” He nods smugly, a smirk plastered on his face. 

She had assumed a chef in the kitchen had just randomly put this together… not for this man to go out in his fancy clothes to make her a plate of the best mac n cheese she’s ever had. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t realize you were one of the chefs here,” she stutters out. “m’kind of new at the restaurant… the pasta was really good, I like the kind of earthy, garlic-y taste, is that the truffle oil― “

She’s cut off by a knock on the door and a concerned looking Grace stumbling in saying, “Y/n, are you in here― oh!” Grace’s eyes widen and her jaw drops a bit before she splutters, “Oh, I’m so sorry for interrupting Mr. Styles.” 

“What is it?” he asks, not so nicely.

Grace’s eyes flicker to y/n, “I― um, just brought an extra shirt for y/n, sir. Since her other uniform got ruined.” She places the shirt on the table right next to the door, “I’ll just leave it right here, excuse me sir.” 

With a nod, Harry gives Grace permission to leave the room and shut the door behind her, the blonde waitresses scurrying out of the room as quickly as she can. When his head turns back to y/n, her eyes are wide and surprised. 

This was Mr. Styles? As in, the world famous, Michelin star chef? As in the owner of this multi-million dollar restaurant? As in her literal boss? 

She was just casually sitting here, eating a plate of gourmet mac-n-cheese with a guy who just so happened to be her boss, when she was supposed to be out there working? 

Her demeanor immediately changes, and Harry can see that y/n is finally connecting all the dots in her head. That smug smirk of his spreads on his lips once more, an amused dimple in his cheek as he props his chin in his hand and watches the way y/n puts the fork down and sits up straighter. 

“Um― thank you for the meal Mr. Styles,” she stammers, slowly rising from her seat, “I suppose I should get back to work now…”

“Nonsense,” he says. She sits back down immediately. “You’ll stay here and finish your food. Someone else will cover your tables for you.” 

“Yes sir,” she squeaks politely. Harry’s beyond amused by how she suddenly turned into this polite little girl as soon as she realized who he was, and thinks he could get used to the words sir and Mr. Styles falling from her heart shaped lips. 

He asks her a bunch of questions while she’s eating, and y/n briefly worries if that’s his way of trying to decide if he should fire her or not. She’s really trying to be on her best behavior, using her most polite voice and etiquette when talking to him ― but things are kind of slipping because Harry’s eyes are flickering all over her face and he’s so put together and intimidating and hot and it’s making her nervous!!! She’s stumbling over her words and forgetting the answers to simple questions because she’s so distracted by his sharp jawline, and honestly… Harry loves it.  He loves how shy and polite she is, and loves seeing the way he can get her all flustered. That’s honestly the only reason he keeps interrogating her ― just to hear her cute little yes sir and no sir and to see how she nervously bites her lips between each question. 

When she’s finished with her food and the redness of her eyes has died down, Harry cleans up her plate for her and throws her the shirt that Grace had brought. “Take the rest of the night off,” he says, opening his office door to step out and give her a bit of privacy so she can change. “Next time I won’t be so easy on you, okay?”

She stands up, alert and still buzzing with nerves and peeps out a final “Yes sir!” before Harry closes the door, shaking his head with a small chuckle.

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Grace really wasn’t kidding when she warned y/n about how busy Pleasing could get when Chef Styles was cooking. 

From the moment she arrived to the moment the very last table finished dining, y/n was on her feet. She’d barely managed to put her stuff down in the staff room before Alfredo was pushing her out into the dining hall, muttering something about “Chef Styles” and “is going to kill me.” They had back to back reservations, a waitlist with nearly a three hour delay, and a bustling kitchen packed with chefs. The waiters were buzzing between tables like little bees, constantly checking on customers and rushing to the back counter to pick up meals and deliver them to tables. Laughter and conversation rang throughout the entire restaurant, echoing on the high ceilings and glass chandeliers, chaotically harmonizing with the sizzling of vegetables and clatter of pots that came from the kitchen. 

Mr. Styles worked gracefully despite all the chaos ensuing around him. He always made sure that everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing before any customers arrived to ensure that there would be no screw ups or accidents, and nobody dared stray away from the job Chef Styles assigned them. Dressed in his white chef’s suit with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, he prepped each meal in the blink of an eye and moved on to the next dish immediately – quick, efficient, and absolutely delicious. 

By the end of the night, his feet are pounding from standing up for seven hours straight and his fingers (which are normally quite nimble and flexible) feel stiff and just about ready to fall off. He supervises the staff as they close the restaurant for the night, helping them do the dishes and wrap cutlery in preparation for opening tomorrow, and waits in his office until he’s the last one in the restaurant. Sometime between the time the last customer left and the time that he’s about to leave the restaurant it starts to rain outside. So, before shutting off the lights, he grabs an umbrella, and finally leaves his office at about 2:30 in the morning. 

The sound of his boots clicking against the polished tile floor is all that can be heard as he walks through the foyer, his head down as he types out a message on his phone – that is, until he hears a tiny, kitten-like sneeze.

He stops in his tracks, looking up, and stares hard into the darkness. He takes a few, cautious steps closer towards the door, until he can make out a faint silhouette.  It’s y/n – bundled up in a cute little hoodie with what he presumes is her university’s logo embroidered on the front, and her bag clutched tightly to her chest.

“Y/n,” he calls out. “What are you still doing here?” 

She jumps at the sound of his voice, her shoulders tense as she timidly walks out of the corner she’d seemingly been hiding in. “Oh, I’m just waiting for the rain to lighten up a little bit before I walk home, Mr. Styles. Promise I’ll leave soon!” 

His eyes nearly pop out of his head – walk home? At this time of night? He strides over to where she’s standing, “Have y’not got a car? Or a metro pass, at least?”

“No, no car…” she explains with a small frown on her face, “N’the metro near my school doesn’t come up towards downtown. S’too fancy around here for a sketchy little metro.”

He looks down at the way she’s hugging herself tightly, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweatshirt in an effort to keep warm. She’ll freeze to death if she tries to walk home, he thinks to himself. Even wrapped in his expensive Burberry coat, the thought of walking in that rainy weather sends a chill down his spine. 

He sighs. “Come on,” he says, “M’not letting you walk home in the rain.”

He opens the restaurant doors and sticks his umbrella out first, opening it and stepping under seamlessly so that not even a drop of rain stains his suit. She blinks at him dumbfounded. Still holding the door, he gestures for y/n to follow him, “Come on pup, haven’t got all day.” 

She scurries under the umbrella with him, standing close as he locks the door behind them. The rain is pounding down hard and his umbrella isn’t very large, so he wraps an arm around her waist and hastily guides her to his car. 

Now, y/n’s no expert on cars, but the large, black range rover that her boss unlocks the doors to seems like a pretty fancy car! She struggles to climb into the passengers side when Mr. Styles opens the door for her, so he holds a hand out to help her up into the seat and shuts the door behind her. As she buckles herself in, he quickly runs over to the driver’s seat, shaking his umbrella off outside and carelessly throwing it in the backseats. 

He notices that y/n’s arms are still wrapped around herself super tightly, trying to hide that her whole body is shivering from the cold, so as soon as he turns the car on, he leans over to her side and turns the heat up for her. That – along with the press of a few more buttons on the center console that turns on the heated seating – has y/n sighing blissfully as she sinks back into the comfy leather seats.

“Thank you so much Mr. Styles,” she says, wiggling her fingers happily in front of the blasting hot air. 

“You would’ve frozen to death if you walked home in this weather,” he grumbles, pulling out his phone and handing it to her. “Put in y’address.”

She does as he says obediently, her numb fingers making her fumble a little bit when she tries to type on his phone – the latest iphone, she notices from the extra two cameras on the back. 

He glances briefly at the location she’s typed in, before flicking on his windshield wipers and reversing out of his reserved parking spot. 

His speakers automatically started playing some soft classical music, creating a gentle atmosphere in the otherwise silent car. As he’s driving, he can see her fidgeting around nervously in her seat. Her fingers twist anxiously in her lap, the inside of her cheek being assaulted by her nervous chewing, and she keeps looking over at Harry, burning holes in the side of his head.

“Have I got something on my face?” he asks abruptly. 

“W-what?” 

“Y’keep staring,” he explains, glancing over at her when they stop at a red light. To no surprise, he catches her… staring at him. She quickly turns away, opting to stare at her hands instead. 

“Sorry,” she says, “I was just… watching you drive.”

He snorts. “Watching me drive?”

She fumbles over her words, struggling to explain herself. “Yeah, you’re just– like you… you just drive really cool.” She only realizes how stupid she sounds once the words come out of her mouth. 

“I drive cool?” 

She grimaces and turns to him slowly, “M’sorry, that probably doesn’t make any sense.”

His expression is entirely amused, a smirk on his face that he’s trying to cover with his hand. “Please, explain it to me then,” he begs with a teasing tone. 

“You’re just like, driving with one hand on the wheel and listening to this fancy music in your fancy car… it just looks like you’re from a movie or something.” Not to mention how sharp his jawline looked from the side. Or how attractive the furrow in his brow was. Or how his white dress shirt was rolled up at the sleeves to reveal his strong, tattooed forearms. But she wasn’t about to say all that to him. She needs to stop talking before she embarrasses herself any further! “It’s stupid, I’m sorry. I’ll stop staring.”

“Didn’t say I minded it,” he says simply. With a teasing smirk still planted on his face, he pulls up in front of y/n’s apartment complex. Despite the fact that it’s pouring outside, Harry still offers to walk her up to her door.

“Oh no, I couldn’t make you do that!” He’d already gone out of his way to drive her home, she thinks making him get out of his car just to walk her up would be asking way too much of her boss.

“At least take the umbrella then,” he says, grabbing it from the back and giving it to her. She opens her mouth to protest, but he gives her this look that makes her just shut up and take it. 

“Thanks, Mr. Styles. I really appreciate it.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Just don’t forget it next time it’s scheduled to rain.” 

He watches as she opens the apartment door, and only pulls away after she’s turned back, waved at him, and closes the door behind her. 

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When y/n walks to the restaurant the next day, it’s raining once again. She takes Mr. Styles’ umbrella with her to shield her from the drizzle, and arrives at the restaurant a bit breathless, but nonetheless dry. 

As she’s clocking in, Harry happens to walk past. He sees his umbrella in her hand, droplets dripping onto the floor, and smiles to himself. 

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Harry’s grown some sort of… fondness towards y/n. 

How could he not? The first time he’d met her she’d been crying, looking up at him with her puppy dog eyes and tear stained cheeks. She’d complimented his cooking, and been all sweet and polite while he talked to her, calling him sir and Mr. Styles with her pouty lips. 

And then when he’d driven her home… she looked so pretty sitting in the front seat of his car, rambling on and on about his cool driving and fancy car. It made him soft! She was young and innocent and just the cutest little thing. He loves how flustered she gets when he teases her, how she fumbles over her words when she doesn’t know what to say. So you really can’t blame him for keeping his eye on her. 

Whenever he’s in his office, he’ll keep his ears open in hopes of hearing her pretty voice ringing through the halls, escorting guests or calling out orders to the chefs. He loves listening to her chat with the cooks, and finds himself laughing silently at some of her silly remarks. (“Guys help!!! Where are the oysters from? Like are they local? I know it’s a stupid question but one of the customers wants to know! Should I lie and say they’re imported from the Caribbean? Like… how would they know that I’m lying? Okay, fine whatever I’ll just say they’re caught locally every morning! Thanks bye!!!”)

With this newfound fondness, he’s also grown quite… protective of her. He often talks with Alfredo to see if y/n’s been getting along with the other waiters, and discretely checks that she hasn’t encountered any other rude or disrespectful customers. He figures that he’d prefer to kick some snobby lady out of his restaurant rather than see y/n all teary eyed again.

These smushy feelings are all new to Harry, and he doesn’t really know what they meant just yet… all he knows is that he had a soft spot for y/n. And he’ll be damned if he didn’t show a bit of favoritism towards her. 

Sitting in his office, working on some paperwork for the building, he hears her shuffling down towards the kitchen. (Yes, with how attentive he’s been recently, he’s learned to distinguish the sounds of her footsteps from the rest of the waiters.)

“‘Scuse me Edgar!” she calls out to one of the cooks, “Y’know the cod that you’re working on for table 67? She just asked for the romesco to be put on the side instead. D’ya think you could change that real quick?”

“Man, are you kidding me y/n! I already put it on there!”

“I know, I know I’m sorry!” she whines embarrassedly, cheeks heating at the bite in Edgar’s voice, “she just stopped me right now and asked for it!”

Edgar gives y/n an exasperated sigh, “Great, m’gonna have to make a new one! And we’re so fuckin’ busy tonight, this is fuckin’ brilliant–” 

“Hey!” Harry’s assertive voice booms through the kitchen, cutting Edgar off mid-rant. “S’not her fault that the lady changed her order, is it?” His stern gaze is burning on Edgar, making his cheeks turn red. 

“No sir,” the chef responds apologetically.

“Apologize to y/n.”

Edgar turns to her, “Sorry y/n. Wasn’t your fault, m’just being hot headed for no reason.”

“S’okay, I get it. It’s frustrating,” she says softly, shocked at the fact that Mr. Styles was making one of the chefs apologize to her! She’s just a silly little waitress! She was used to being belittled by the older, more established staff.

“Good. Don’t want t’hear any complaining from anyone, or else you’re getting fired. Understood?”

A chorus of “yes sir” echoes around the kitchen. 

Y/n stands there, speechless at the fact that Mr. Styles had made such a bold move to defend her. When he catches her staring, he simply winks, giving her that cocky smirk of his and turning on his heel, back into his office as if nothing had happened. 

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During her 15 minute break, y/n tiptoes to Mr. Styles’ office and quietly knocks at the door, entering cautiously when she hears him grunt out a less than welcoming “come in.”

“Um, Mr. Styles?” she announces nervously. The furrow in his brow immediately disappears when he recognizes that it’s y/n. “I-I just wanted to say thanks for, um, sticking up for me today? Or- I mean… just thanks for getting the chefs to go easier on me, I guess.” Her fingers twist nervously behind her back, and it’s taking everything in her to look Mr. Styles in the eye when she’s talking to him. His gaze is just so intense, and she has no idea what he’s thinking… it makes her nervous! 

He’s quiet for a second, deliberating what she’s just said, before cracking a smile and shaking his head. “You don’t have t’thank me, pet. M’not gonna let the chefs be dicks to m’favorite waitress.”  

Her heart jumps out of her chest at that, cheeks flushing in a way that she really hopes Mr. Styles can’t see. With this flattery, she can’t help but drop her gaze to her feet, contemplating the floor as she mumbles out, “I– well, still. Thanks.” 

Harry laughs to himself, dragging a hand down his face. She’s so… cute when she’s all flustered like this! It makes him want to tease her all the time. “Yeah, yeah,” he brushes it off playfully, “now get back t’work.” 

She twirls on her heels, ready to run out of the room and freak out about this encounter in the privacy of the employee bathroom.

“Oh, y/n?” Harry calls out just before she walks out the door. She looks back at him with those eager puppy eyes. “M’gonna drive you home tonight as well. Come to my office when you’ve finished your shift and we’ll leave together.”

The smile that lights up her face is one of a giddy school girl with a playground crush. 

“M’kay,” she says casually. But on the inside, she is Freaking. The Fuck. Out.

Yay!!!!

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This time, once the restaurant closes and all the employees and staff have left, y/n doesn’t head out into the darkness for her usual 30 minute walk home.

No, this time she heads towards Mr. Styles’ office, clutching her trusty tote bag to her chest to try and mute the feeling of the butterflies swarming her entire body. She has no idea why Mr. Styles might’ve offered her another ride home. Perhaps he felt bad that she’d been scolded in front of the kitchen today by Edgar, or maybe he just pitied her. 

Whatever the case was, she wasn’t going to question it too much. She’d developed an itty bitty crush on Mr. Styles, so even if he was just giving her a ride home because he felt bad… well, then at least it meant she got to spend some more time with him! 

She knocks on his door and waits for his muffled “come in” before she walks in. A pair of reading glasses are perched on the tip of his nose, reflecting the light of the laptop screen he’s staring at intently. He doesn’t look away from his laptop as he says, “m’almost done.” He gestures mindlessly at the seats in front of his desk when she hovers awkwardly in front of the door. “Sit.”

Her quiet obedience makes him smile as he finishes the last of the emails he wanted to send that night, and with a final press of a button he shuts his laptop. He takes the reading glasses off and stands up, and y/n tries to stare discreetly at his thighs (which are being hugged deliciously by his slacks) as he packs up his things.

She’s not as discreet as she thinks she is, because Harry has to call her name three times before she snaps out of her daydreams. “Where’s your head at, puppy?” he taunts, a knowing smile pulling at his lips. Her cheeks turn warm, and she’s thankful that she doesn’t have to explain herself as she follows him to his car. 

This was gonna be a long ride.

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Y/n doesn’t know how it happened, but she and Mr. Styles have created some sort of arrangement. 

Anytime he’s been in the office for the past two weeks, he’s given her a ride home. She’s tried to tell him that he really doesn’t have to and that the walk home really isn’t that bad (she feels bad for making him drive all the way to her apartment!), but for some reason, he insists!

Secretly, she’s really happy that he’s always offering to drive her home. She gets to spend an extra 15 minutes with him every night, talking to him, looking at him, and getting teased by him. Yes, he has a knack for embarrassing her… but in a way, she actually kind of enjoys it. 

Like all the other nights, she meets him in his office and they walk out together. He holds all the doors open for her, his hand lightly placed on the small of her back as they walk outside. And again, like all the other nights, he opens the passenger’s side door for her and holds a hand out to help her into his car. 

There is one thing that happens differently tonight though. When Harry gets behind the wheel, her stomach lets out the loudest grumble she’s ever heard. 

She shuts her eyes in embarrassment. Of course this would happen. She can only hope that Mr. Styles didn’t hear it.

Unfortunately for her, he chuckles softly, “Are you hungry?”

“A bit,” she replies sheepishly.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She hesitates, “Um… I had a granola bar right before my physics lecture.”

He pauses. “And when was this lecture?”

“At 1.”

“So you’re telling me,” Harry glances at the time in disbelief, which reads 10:47 PM, “That you haven’t eaten since 1 in the afternoon?”

“Well… I mean, usually I have some food before coming to work! But I went to a study session after class and I lost track of time, so I didn’t have time to eat anything.”

“Tha’s not enough, puppy. You need to bring something to eat during your break or else you’ll pass out.” He puts his hand on the back of her seat and looks behind him to back out of his parking spot. “And, if you don’t have time to eat anything, then I’ll cook something for you.”

“You don’t have to do that Mr. Styles,” she politely refuses. “M’not even that hungry right now.” 

The growl her stomach lets out says otherwise. “Not hungry?” he taunts.

“Okay, maybe a little bit… m’too tired to cook anything though so I’ll probably just have a pop tart or something and call it a night.”

He scoffs, “a pop tart?”

“Yeah, you know those little pastry things? They usually come in that foil packaging and have–”

“I know what a pop-tart is.” A bunch of processed sugars and artificial jam stuffed in a horribly dry crust that spills crumbs everywhere? The thought of eating one absolutely repulses him. “They’re disgusting.”

“Hey, they’re not that bad!” y/n whines defensively. “M’on a student budget! And I’m not that good at cooking, not all of us are gourmet chefs like you.”

He thinks for a second then says, “Well then…how about I take you to mine and cook you a gourmet dinner?”

“What– like, right now?” she bleats. When he nods, she asks, “you would cook me dinner right now?”

“Why s’that so hard to believe?”

Well, first of all he’s her hot boss who is notoriously known for being a hot asshole. Second of all, she has a stupid crush on her hot boss, and can’t actually believe that he’d invite her over to his home. And third of all, and the one she settles for, “Isn’t it a bit late?”

He looks over at her. “Is it past your bedtime?” he asks playfully. She shakes her head no bashfully, face heating at his teasing as he continues, “If it’s not late for you, then it’s not late for me.” 

She sits there and thinks. Obviously she wants to go over to his apartment and spend more time with him! But… gosh, she feels bad! Making him not only drive her home, but also cook her dinner was just asking for too much!

“Y/n,” he interrupts, as if he could read her mind, “stop overthinking it. I want to cook for you, I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t. Will y’let me?”

“I’d really like that,” she admits shyly.

He smiles at her, “My house it is, then.”

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Mr. Styles is rich. Like… super rich. 

His luxury car was only a preview to his luxurious lifestyle. He drives them not far from the restaurant, to a tall, shiny building. He parks his car in the garage and takes y/n through the lobby, his heeled boots clicking against the shiny tiled floors. An elevator takes them up to the 16th floor, and opens to a dark penthouse. Floor to ceiling windows provide a view of the city, the lights of downtown flashing up in a kaleidoscope of colors. The floors are wooden with a cool undertone that complimented the grey walls, and the furniture is all sleek and dark. He leads them to his luxury kitchen and tells her to sit at the highchairs in front of the island.

“What shall I make you?” he asks.

“Um… a grilled cheese?”

He quirks his eyebrow. “You’ve got one of the world’s best chefs in front of you, and you want me to make you a grilled cheese?”

She shrugs, “That’s what I would’ve made myself if I wasn’t so lazy.”

“How about I surprise you with something… a little more special.”

“I feel bad making you cook this late when you’re not even supposed to be working,” she admits as Harry ruffles through his fridge.

“Darling,” he scoffs, “making you a meal is nothing for me. I could do this in my sleep.”

“I dunno, cooking is always such a hassle for me. Y’gotta get all the ingredients right, and make sure nothing burns, and then all the dishes… s’too much work.”

“But finding all the right ingredients and watching over y’food is exactly why I love cooking,” he explains passionately. “S’like… even the slightest thing could change the flavor of your dish, and take it to the next level. It’s so much fun.” He pulls out a pot and fills it with water. “The dishes are a headache though,” he adds teasingly. 

As he waits for the water to boil, he goes to his wine cooler and pulls a bottle out. “Do you like this wine? It’s Chianti 1982, from Montespertoli.”

“Um…” she looks at him helplessly. “I don’t really know much about wine.”

He hums, and pours himself a glass. Then he sits on the stool next to hers. He hooks his foot into the leg of her chair and pulls her stool to him, close enough so that their knees were touching and that she could see the stubble right above his lips. 

He holds up the wine glass as if he were offering a sip, but as soon as her hands come up to steady the glass to her lips, he pulls it away. “Ah ah,” he tuts, “You’ve gotta smell it first.” 

He swirls the wine around under her nose. “What do you smell?” he murmurs.

She takes a deep breath and contemplates it deeply. “...grapes?”

He snickers, “nice try.” He pulls the wine under his own nose and says, “It smells fruity… notes of cherry… plum… oak…” He takes a sip of it. “Mm… it’s light. Smooth.” 

Y/n watches him with wide eyes as he swirls the wine around in the glass and brings it up to his mouth, hyper fixating on his lips. His thick fingers, decorated with a multitude of sparkly rings, delicately wrap around the stem of the glass. And his lips, plump and pink, pucker softly against the rim as he takes another sip. 

His wine-stained tongue peaks out to lick his lips, and her own lips part open with want. 

He takes another enticing sip. “You want some, puppy?” he asks.

She nods her head, looking up at him with her round eyes and parted mouth. He gives her a taste, opting to hold the glass up to her lips as she drinks instead of having her take it from his hands and do it herself. When he feels that she’s had enough, he pulls it away. “What do y’think?”

“S’good,” she says, the tart taste of the wine drying out her tongue. It makes her want more. She looks at Harry with her eager eyes, and he feeds her another sip. This time though, she’s a bit too excited. When he pulls the glass away from her, a little bit of it dribbles down her chin.

He tsks. “Messy girl,” he murmurs. His thumb comes up to swipe at the mess, collecting it and teasing at her bottom lip. He lingers there for a second, before he pushes in, her supple lips parting easily as he slides his finger into her mouth. It rests heavily on her tongue, the acidic flavor of the wine lingering on his finger. She sucks, and his eyes darken. 

“Good girl.” His voice is low and gruff, eyes focused on her lips wrapped around his thumb. He pulls it out slowly, her bottom lip tugging downwards as he does it, and he watches it bounce back into place. 

He drags his eyes away from her lips and back up to her eyes, which are looking at him, wide and curious. Unlike Harry, who can’t stop his eyes from flickering down to her lips, her eyes are glued on him, frozen and waiting for his next move. When he moves the slightest bit closer, her breath catches in her throat. She’s not well versed in all this stuff, but she supposes if he keeps looking at her lips and leaning in, that probably means he wants to kiss her, right? She inches forward to test her theory. He reciprocates. Both of their eyes flutter shut. 

His nose brushes against hers ever so lightly, nudging it to the side, and she lets out a shaky breath when his lips graze hers. With one final tilt of her head, their lips slot together, as if they were two opposite charges connected by a magnetic force. He encases her lips in a soft kiss, her supple bottom lip trapped between his for a second, and his hand comes up to cup her jaw. He doesn’t do anything more than gently kiss her lips – no hot tongue in her mouth, no heavy breathing, nothing that he thinks might overwhelm her. Just a simple kiss, that he pulls away with a soft click.

Her eyelashes flutter open to reveal her moony eyes, looking up at him like an eager puppy. They flicker between his eyes with a mixture of want, confusion, and excitement hidden in her irises. 

He grins down at her. “Let me go check on the water.”

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Part 2 is already up on my patreon!!!! PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT U THINK!!!! LOVE U GUYS 

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles fic #harry fic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles daddy #daddy harry styles #daddy!harry #daddy!harrystyles #dom harry #dom!harry #harry styles writing #harry writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles one shots #ceorry #daddyrry #domrry #ceo!harry

[taintandviolent]

Hide & Seek - jpm x reader!

summary: You check into the Hotel Cortez for a little R&R, only to have nightmares. Some of which, are real. Run, little mouse.

warnings & word count: 3.4K! James being James, hide and seek elements, chasing, hunting, implications of murder/death.

a/n: this was a quick drabble that got longer. sorry that there’s no smut, I’m unwell enough that James chasing me is arousing enough. idea/requested by @garykingz

full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! /

On an impromptu vacation, you were going to be in Los Angeles for a week - visiting a friend for a few days. In truth, you'd taken the opportunity to get away from the humdrum of work for a little longer, wanting a relaxing escape from the drab nine to five lifestyle that you lived day in and day out. Initially, you'd picked the Hotel Cortez for its lower than usual rates, but were also charmed by its lavish interiors and intriguing history.

You'd checked in when it was sunny - a delicate, warm breeze floated through the Los Angeles streets, which was a stark difference once you got inside the doors; there was a damp chill that made your skin prickle. You chalked it up to bad air conditioning and made small talk about the weather with the lady who kindly took one of your bags. The rooms were outdated, but still possessed some charm. The lady, her name was Iris, had informed you that some of the rooms had been remodeled; this wasn't one of them.

You'd spent most of the night lazily unpacking, nursing a bottle of cheap champagne that you called up from room service. You'd called your friend, excitedly discussing the details of tomorrow's brunch at around 8 PM. When you'd finally fallen asleep, it was half past midnight and you weren't sure how long you'd slept before the horrible dreams started.

First, a haggard looking woman sat at the edge of your bed, her head in her hands as she sobbed hysterically. Though you tried desperately to comfort her, she shoved you off, muttering something about never getting out. After that, you tossed and turned, jostling that nightmare into something else. A man sewed into a mattress, gurgling and screaming for help as his body decayed, his slippery, slimy limbs clawing at the fibers, and women stood at the edge of your bed, covered in blood and laughing, angrily hissing words you didn't understand, judging you in their native tongue. The final dream was the worst, despite the unsettling nature of the last few, it was the most vivid, and the one that made your heart rate skyrocket.

Someone else was in your room with malicious intentions, watching you silently as you slept. Their inviting, persuasive energy drew you closer to them, scooting towards the edge of the bed. Your face contorted painfully in your sleep, head swishing back and forth on the pillow, sweat dotting your exposed skin.

James stood above you, watching you as frightening, troublesome visions plagued your subconscious and tormented your physical form. The Cortez effect still reigned supreme - good . Nobody slept well in these rooms unless he permitted it. And you... you, with all of your beauty, were thrashing about like a child. You were delightful, exquisite... everything he wanted in a victim. Skin flushed with fear, hair splayed out on the pillow in delicate locks. Your features, though you weren't, were vintage and reminded him of some of his favourite past kills. He leaned forward, hands reaching out your perfect, slender neck.

Cold, unsettling fingertips ghosted along the nape of your neck and you flinched away, throwing your leg from underneath the covers. When a hand came down on your mouth, your heavy lids snapped open. It wasn't a dream. A man - a very well-dressed man - hovered above you, his cool hand pressing against your lips, prepped for and successfully muffling the oncoming scream. Now realizing that you were awake, lightning fast, both arms wrapped around you, coiling around you like a snake and pulling you from your warm sheets. You let out a boisterous shriek and, surprising even yourself, wrestled free, throwing yourself back against the mattress. You climbed atop of it, standing higher than he was.

His hands slipped along the satin of your nightgown as you wrenched yourself from his arms; what a sly little thing you were . Your sudden departure from his grip surprised James, and unbeknownst to you, the element of surprise was deeply arousing to him. Ah, he’d picked a good one, yet again…. 

You let out a desperate yelp, tucking yourself into the corner where the walls met. “Get away from me! What the FUCK are you doing in my room?!”

“Ah, what a rarity you are! So lively!” His stance was challenging, anticipating your next move.

Your eyes peeled away from him for a split second, just to judge the distance between you and the door. It wasn’t far, not at all. Certainly, close enough that you could make it… with enough speed…. 

You decided to go for it; with a final breath and a desperate exertion of muscle, you leapt off the bed and charged towards the door, nearly collapsing against it. With fingers trembling, you threw the chain from its casing and unlatched the deadbolt before throwing the door open - running out so quickly that you almost stumbled into the barren hallway. Adrenaline coursing through your veins, you opened your mouth to let out a shrill scream, in hopes that someone, anyone, would hear you.

“Run, run, run!” From behind you, came his elated tone as he watched you bolt out the door, barefoot and clad in your silky, lacy nightgown. His joviality was disconcerting, to say the least.

It had been so long since he'd gotten his jollies with a good old fashioned chase. Nowadays, people were dull, heavy buffoons whose logic had diminished like their will to live, they possessed no natural instincts to hide, only scream and fall to the floor, flopping about like a dead fish. Naturally, he could’ve ended the game quickly, materializing in front of you and taking you into his arms at once. But there was hardly any sport, any fun in that idea…. 

So, he let you run. He let you run down the long hallway, shrieking for help. The door clicked shut, and through it, he heard your voice crack as you yelled, beating futilely on the door of some unsuspecting guest. Of course, no one would come to your aid. Everyone minded their own business in this hotel, and naturally no one would open the door to a screaming madwoman.

You tried the handle of a door. Locked. Fuck . You tried the one next to it, only to find it locked too. Shit. You took off down the hallway again, your bare feet padding against the ornately woven carpets. You hadn’t heard the door open, but didn’t want to waste any more time trying locked doors, so instead, you rounded the corner, finding that it looked just like the hallway from where you’d just come. The doors lined each side of you, seeming to go on forever. How people didn’t get lost in these god-forsaken hallways was beyond you; you nearly had when you checked in. Where was everybody? Was the hotel empty? Full?

You looked both ways and took off again, your muscles begging for relief as you ran to the left; the few moments of standing weren’t enough to soothe your aching legs. The fire burned your muscles as you ran, terror building in your stomach. You thought you heard the echo of his voice behind you…. But when you turned, there was nothing – nothing but doors. 

“Jesus christ,” you whimpered, tears welling up. No. Now’s not the time to cry, suck it up.

You sniffed hard, silencing the sobs. You looked at the neverending doors, and still trembling, you tried the handle of the one nearest you. To your surprise, it turned freely. You snuck in, making sure to shut the door quietly behind you -- no more than a click of the latch.

The armoire seemed too obvious and easy of a hiding place, so you opted to crawl underneath one of the beds, albeit also obvious. The carpet smelled old, and there was a sliver of viewing space underneath the bedskirt. Watching the door with terrified eyes, you pressed your fingers into your mouth hard, silencing any breaths. The door opened moments later, and his polished shoes could be seen.

James knew you'd gone in here. He'd heard you. But where you went remained to be seen. He'd check the usual places; in hopes of finding his little escapist. His shoes moved around the bed, and you held your breath, closing your eyes. Perhaps this had been a stupid decision...

“Come out, come out wherever you are! There's nowhere to run where I won't find you!" His voice reverberated in the bathroom and your eyes snapped open, in relief. He whipped away the shower curtain, the shower rings clattering loudly on the metal pole. He peered inside. Empty. Drat.  

Knowing he was momentarily occupied, you took that opportunity to crawl out from underneath the bed and run to the door, opening it as silently as possible. There was no doubt that he'd heard you again, as his footsteps clicked quickly on the tile. Directly opposite from you, there was a door without a placard, without a number. You raced across the small hallway, your breath coming from your mouth in delicate little pants. A few seconds passed as you stared at it, as though you were trying to view what was behind it. A potential option…

Nervously, you swallowed and leaned forward, trying the handle. To your delight; it gave way. Tentatively, you stuck your head inside; It was an unwelcoming empty room, nothing but cold, bare bricks inside. A strange, square shaped room that was too long to be a broom closet, but not wide enough to be a guest’s room. It looked like it ran parallel to the rest of the rooms, it too went on forever. A terrifying, bleak, unfinished hallway.

“Ahh, my little buttercup! Where have you run off to? I know this hotel like the back of my hand!. Afterall, I built it!”

Though slightly muffled, his syrupy, crooning voice was loud enough that it still bounced off the walls, seeming to come from all directions. Watching old films ardently, the Transatlantic accent was one that you found attractive usually, with its refined over-pronunciation, but this… you never pictured this scenario. Never pictured it to be…

Your head snapped in the direction from whence you’d come. The handle turned, which prompted you to shimmy inside, quietly shutting the door behind you. You were submerged in darkness and an odd moistness that made your nose itch. Wherever you were hadn't been utilized by anyone in a long time. A long, long time.

“...fuck…!” you hissed through clenched teeth. “...fuck, what do I do now ?” 

If you weren’t going to die at the hands of that man, you were going to die in this bizarre, desolate hallway, starved to death, sealed away to decay like some forgotten wax figure. Pinpricks of darkness took over your vision, and you could do nothing but blindly feel your way down the hall, stepping carefully as you did, arms out in front of you to protect against any obstacles.

The floor was dusty, you could feel your warm skin picking up particles as you walked. You didn't hear him though, so he'd chosen another direction. At least, you hoped.

Your hands flattened against a surface that differed from the walls. It didn't feel like brick, it felt like another type of wood; there was bevelling on the sides. Your hands bumped into a handle, which you twisted, pushing forward. It gave with a little push and you came face first with a hotel room - one that looked similarly to your own.

It wasn't empty; a stout woman in a modest maid outfit was bent over the bed, meticulously smoothing every crease from the top sheet. She paid you no mind, though she'd surely had to have heard you open the door; the hinges desperately needed oiled.

You took a step forward. Hesitantly. "E-excuse me? Ma'am?" 

No response from her. What the fuck was going on in this hotel? People dressed like they were from another time, ignoring desperate screams of peril...

“Please,” you panted, frustrated. “You have to help me. Hide me. There’s… there’s a man after me. He’s –” 

Acting almost startled, she straightened up from the bed, and turned to you, waving her hands as though you were speaking too loudly. “Shhhush, shush, it’s alright, dear. Do stop breathing in such a way, you’re going to hyperventilate!” 

You swallowed, wetting your dry mouth. “I’m… I’m sorry. I just, he’s… there’s a man… he tried to- to....” You scrambled. A phone. There was a phone on the table behind her. To call the police. Yes. That. Perfect. “Just let me use the phone and I'll -"

In a fluid, determinate motion, she stepped in front of the small table, blocking you from the phone. Your eyes narrowed, brows furrowing. She was too calm. Something was off about her demeanor as she dutifully approached you, hands clasped together, wringing them, and it made your teeth chatter. A small, but devious smile curled around her rouged lips.

“N-no, what're you doing....?” 

The door to your left opened abruptly. The man exhaled as he burst through it, tying an apron behind his back. He first made eye contact with the maid, then with you, his dark, inky pupils widening.

“Ahhhh. Look at that, my dear.” 

“No… no, no, no, no, no, no! NO! PLEASE!” You stumbled back around, falling against the door - the one you had just come from, which had swung shut. Although you'd just pushed it open moments ago, it seemed heavier than before. You put all your weight into pulling at it again, tugging with everything you had. From behind you, his dubose voice continued.

“It seems as though I’ve won this little game of yours!” 

Finally, it released and the hinges let out a painful wail as you yanked it open. Although it had already begun to swing shut, you gripped the handle hard, pulling it until the lock clicked into place. You weren't sure if they were coming; you couldn't hear them talking from behind the heavy wood. You imagined they would be. Eventually.

The cool, looming darkness was all that surrounded you, but at present, it was less terrifying than what was on the other side of the door. Squaring your shoulders, you bravely took long strides back into the pitch-blackness, hoping to feel a sense of familiarity. After a few moments, you began running again, wanting to put as much distance between you and him as you could.

You only got a few yards before a searing hot pain shot up through your calf muscle as something sharp and jagged tore through your soft flesh, causing you to yelp and clumsily stumble to a stop. Though you couldn't see anything, out of habit, you gazed down in the general direction, breathing shallowly. Deprived of sight, your other senses kicked in, and you felt the warmth that oozed from the bottom of your foot and smelled the hot, irony scent of blood as it seeped through the gash in your toughest skin. Though the pain was crippling, you had to keep going.

Now hobbling hurriedly down the dark corridor, you thought you were nearing the door. With both hands out in front of you, you waited to feel something. A harrowing thought settled into your psyche, but you shooed it away, promising yourself that it wouldn't happen. Your fingertips finally felt the smoothness of wood and you pressed both hands against the door, gasping in relief. In trepidation, you tried the handle, desperately yanking it down. You wiggled it furiously, panicking. Just as you'd worried. It was locked.

The hinges howled at the other end of the hallway and you froze, holding your breath. Stupid. Where else would you have gone? He knew you were in there. Like he'd said, he knew this hotel like the back of his hand and likely knew that the door would lock. He'd probably designed it that way. Slowly, you turned your head, staring pointedly behind you.

Lights flickered on; though covered in dust, the same wall sconces that were on the outside hallways were also on the inside. You winced, as your eyes adjusted to the change in light. You spotted him, fast approaching. He held something in his hand, though you couldn't make out what it was. His crunching footsteps neared closer and closer. You spun around, pressing your back against the door. You were cornered. This was it. 

“Now, now. There’s no need for that!” His voice echoed down the corridor. “Well,” he added. “Perhaps fear is... apropos. I've no intention of being quick with you.”

He was terrifying with his eloquence and debonair demeanour, albeit handsome. In a different setting, you might've accepted a drink from him, or perhaps an offer to dance. But now... with your hands in front of your chest, shaking like a cornered animal, you were anything but wooed.

He was mere inches away now, and all you could do was tremble like a fool. With a long, drawn out vocalisation, he closed in the distance, sandwiching your body between himself and the door. His fingers ghost over the curve of your thighs and hips, up to your waist, and finally, just beneath your breast. He pressed his hand underneath the weight of it, nestling it underneath the flesh. He could feel the sweat that had settled into the fabric of your nightgown, the heat that radiated off your body and most of all, he could feel your thumping heartbeat beneath your skin. It hammered away, pumping your blood through its arteries, keeping you living, breathing, panting.... quivering. Aroused, he nipped at the air, hissing through his teeth.

"Oh, don't look so surprised, my dear. Did you really think you'd be the one that got away from me? You gave me a good run, indeed. But deep down, you knew I'd find you."  

No... he was wrong. You really had thought that you'd get away. You'd always considered yourself to be... smart, quick. As it seemed, that was a foolish misconception. You weren't quick enough.

He leaned down, placing his lips against your flushed cheek. His moustache tickled your flesh, his breath was cool against your ear like the first warning breeze before a storm.

“Now,” he whispered into your skin. "Where are those screams you so boldly let free before? Why, you're as quiet as a mouse now."

"Please, please don't kill me..." You murmured, pulling your face away from his. James immediately caught your cheek with his hand, pulling it back to its starting position. He stroked the skin softly, tenderly, and whispered: "Oh, but I must... you're going to make it sound so good."

With tears streaming down your face, you let out a pleading moan, transitioning into a blood-curdling scream.

"Yes! Scream for me, my darling! Scream to your heart's content!" James said, slipping his hand round your waist. "Miss Evers!" He called over his shoulder. "Ready my tools!"

You heard her call back: "Yes, Mr. March!"

Mr. March , you thought. That's his name. Mr. March is going to kill me.

You had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The only place you could go was into his arms - his cool, strong arms with their enrapturing steadfastness, their chilly persuasiveness. They gripped you so lovingly, though the threat of death loomed over you like a cloud. He hoisted you up into his arms and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You were light, alive and easy to manipulate.

"P-please. I was here to see my fr-friend..." you whimpered into his back, though you doubt he cared. Seeing your friend seemed like such a trivial thing now when your life was at stake. He carried you back down the hallway with ease, avoiding whatever obstacles laid on the floor.

By the time your back hit the table, your vision was so clouded with tears that you could no longer see him, but you felt the way he caressed you, and heard the way he spoke about your body, monologued discomforting facts about the human body, and how good yours was going to look once it was splayed open for the world to see. 

The last thing you saw was the deep, crimson gash on his neck. Passively, you focused on it as he spoke, watching the gore as it glistened and moved with his words. You'd never thought about what your insides would look like until then. You wondered if yours looked like that, too. You supposed you'd find out soon enough. 

"Please..." you whispered. "Please... don't..." 

#nervous about this one but as per usual fuck or we ball #james patrick march #james march x reader #James Patrick March x reader #james patrick march x you #AHS hotel #American horror story

[octuscle]

I'm working on furniture in my apartment and honestly my white collar job hasn't prepared me for this. Can you make me the best handyman around? Wouldn't mind repaying the favor.

You're sitting at breakfast. The white collar freshly starched. The tie knot perfectly tied. The New York Times in front of you on the table next to the smoothie bowl and green tea. The sun is shining outside, it could be another hot day. Good thing your day is fully air-conditioned from your home to your car ride to your office.

"Zmiana planu. Odbierz nas z motelu za pół godziny." What is this strange text message? And who the hell is Kacper? Before you drive off, you need to take a shit. You pick up the New York Post and go to the bathroom. Fuck, that stinks. Must have been yesterday's borscht. Another huge fart, a quick sip of coffee. Then you have to go. Kacper and the others are waiting.

"Tomczyk Craftsman Services of all kinds" is written on the battered pickup truck in your driveway. The air conditioning is broken. And you could also clear out the garbage. But there's no time for that now. Yes, you're the boss, but the idea of the tie was silly. You loosen the knot with your calloused hands and throw the tie into the passenger footwell. Sweat stains form under your armpits. And on your chest. Damn, it's going to be hot today.

Jakub, Kacper, Filip and Szymon are already waiting outside the cheap motel with tools and materials. You load everything up and off you go to the construction site. The boys stink. You roll down your window. The breeze feels good on your bare chest. The radio plays loud Polish hip-hop. The boys are roaring along. Filip in the passenger seat lights a cigarette. You take it out of his mouth. Damn, that was necessary.

You're proud of yourself and your crew. You are hard-working craftsmen. And damn good at your job. The fact that you can afford a house in the suburbs is your sign that you've made it. Yeah, it's a nasty neighborhood. But once you've finished renovating the house next door and the boys have moved in, things will get better. After work today, you'll set up your furniture together. And then you'll fire up the barbecue in your garden. You've even prepared a little firework display. A point of honor on 03 May!

Pic found @tradiem8s

#male tf #muscle tf #inked man #reality change #chronivac #white to blue collar tf #redneck tf

[sixminutestoriesblog]

the London Necropolis

It was 1850 and London had a problem.

All right. London had a lot of problems in the 1850s. Thanks to the Industrial Revolution, London had seen its population boom so quickly that the city didn't have time to make room for everyone. Housing developments and slums sprang up seemingly overnight, cramming as many people into a warren of rooms, and partitioned off rooms. as could be fit. Poverty ran rampant, cholera outbreaks swept through districts regularly, the conditions in the factories, where small children were often also employed, were deadly and the environment itself was a lung-clogging morass of soot and sewage. Some made their fortunes and managed to rise through the layers of society but many simply hung on to the bottom rungs of it for as long as they could before their hands were wrenched off to make way for others. And that didn't just apply to the living.

The dead didn't know rest either.

It didn't take long for the graveyards of London to hit full capacity with the population influx. Even with the body snatchers, working to retrieve bodies for local hospitals and schools as well as even more unsavory employers almost as soon as the grieving family left the plot, couldn't keep up with the massive amount of bodies that needed to be buried in the local cemeteries week after week, month after month, year after year. The problem grew to the point that gravediggers, hitting older coffins would simply continue digging, tossing rotted wood and whatever body parts were left into the dirt pile behind them, making room for the newest arrival in the plot. Graves got so shallow that the bare layer of dirt over them easily washed away and utterly failed to keep what was slowly decaying in the boxes covered. Church goers learned to bring perfume covered handkerchiefs to Sunday services, if they were lucky, to hold over their noses the entire time, trying to blot out the smell seeping under the doors and into the confined interiors of the buildings. Flies and other, even more unpleasant, scavengers were impossible to get rid of, lured by the ease of a quick meal and a place to take up residence. Health inspectors, and many Londoners of the time, blamed the miasma rising from the graveyards for many of the disease outbreaks that swept through the city. Something had to be done.

An amendment was passed in 1852 prohibiting most new burials in the more populous sections of London. The problem was - where did you put the bodies then?

In 1832, the Magnificent Seven, seven large plots of land outside London, had been remade into cemeteries. One business group had higher aspirations than that though. In 1854, the Brookwood Cemetery, the largest cemetery of the time, opened for business. It soon became know by a different name.

The London Necropolis.

And the London Necropolis Railway was there to make sure everyone, dead and alive, found safe transportation there.

Railroads and their trains were still new at that time. Loud and noisy, belching steam and smoke into the air, trains weren't seen as a dignified way for the dead to travel to their final resting place and eternal peace. Worse yet, travel by train might lead to a mixing of the classes, dead as well as living (gasps of alarm and swooning!). Who wanted their sweet genteel maiden aunt's body to ride in the same cargo car as some low level rake's corpse?! Why it was undignified (and very against the social divisions of the time)! Even in death, standards must be applied.

Trains, however noisy and undignified, did offer a distinct advantage. They were cheap. And they ran regularly on a schedule you could plan around, daily in fact, including Sundays. As for social distinctions - well, the LNC had a solution for that too. Depending on the money you were willing to spend, the rail offered first, second, and third class funerals, with separate train cars for each class, living or dead. Knowing that most passengers from other stations would be reluctant to ride a train that had carried dead bodies, the LNC bought new cars and engines specifically for the job, kept separate from the other routes of train travel. They laid track specifically for the job as well, so that only the necropolis trains traveled to one of the two separate stations in Brookwood Cemetery. Mourners left the Waterloo Station in London and road the train, with their unique luggage, to either the Southern Anglican Station or the Northern Station, where the 'nonconformist' section of the burial plots were. While the trains originally only ran for funerals, enough mourners wanted to return for visits to the graves of their loved ones and eventually, after about ten years, the LNC built a third station for that purpose. Almost immediately, a small hub of shops and services sprang up around the new station to cater to, and prey on, the arriving mourners. For fifty years, until 1900, the funeral trains ran on schedule, ferrying bodies, and their loved ones, back and forth between London and the Necropolis. Even after that time, the trains still ran 'as needed' until, finally, in 1941 the London Necropolis station was bombed during the London Blitz. It was the final blow to an already declining system. The station was never rebuilt.

By the 1950s, funeral trains were almost obsolete and the last one in England carried its lonely cargo in 1979. By 1988, the British Railway didn't carry coffins anymore. Time, and more efficient methods, had passed the Necropolis funeral trains by. The tracks overgrew with weeds where they weren't torn up for scrap and the only wistful train whistle left to linger in the chill evening air at the grey and abandoned gates was the long, low ghost of a memory.

#superstition #london necropolis #london necropolis railway #funeral train #LNC #brookwood cemetery #train #trains #funeral #funeral rites #history #victorian #victorian era

[fixhomeuae]

Ensure the longevity and efficiency of your residential or commercial building by selecting the best plumbing company in Dubai. This guide highlights crucial considerations before hiring a plumbing service, emphasizing the importance of client testimonials, transparent pricing, rapid response times, and professionalism.

visit: https://acserviceindubaiuae.blogspot.com/2024/02/things-you-must-consider-before-hiring-a-plumbing-service.html

#Plumbing Service #Plumber in dubai #Plumbing dubai #cheap Plumber dubai #Air conditioning service #Air conditioning service near me #ac repair and service #ac repair service

[treethymes]

“In his study of [the international coffee] market, scholar Joseph Nevins finds that the big changes occurring between the mid-1970s and the mid-1990s are related to the “longer-term struggle over the distribution of income related to the crop.” In the early part of this period, growers pulled in an average of around 20 cents for every dollar of coffee revenue. They were aided by an agreement called the International Coffee Accord (ICA) of 1962, which acted as a sort of cartel plan, constraining and arranging supply. In the wake of the Cuban Revolution, the Kennedy administration supported the ICA and its concessions to Third World workers as a Cold War tool to head off communist onshoring in the Western Hemisphere. But as the U.S. strategy changed, the country and its free-market Latin American proxies abandoned the ICA in 1989. The results were quick: By the mid-1990s, the grower share was down from 20 to 13 percent. Roasters, traders, and retailers in the drinking countries improved their share from 54 to 78 percent. That big, fast shift was partly thanks to repressed grower wages, partly thanks to repressed domestic service wages in the West, partly thanks to consolidation in the industry, and partly thanks to new high-priced coffee drinks. Starbucks went public in 1992, and if it seemed to be growing like a tech company in the ’90s, that’s because both thrived on the same social changes.

“Worsening conditions for workers in Mexico and in the rest of the Americas pushed people north, rapidly increasing the undocumented immigrant population in the United States. The Bracero program was over, but the jobs still needed doing. Caught in between employers who were hiring migrants and nationalist restrictionists, the Reagan administration legalized a few million undocumented workers while increasing border enforcement. Even though the vast majority of narcotics came into the country via legal ports of entry, conservatives and liberals alike framed border enforcement as a central front in the war on drugs. Increasing the costs of crossing couldn’t stanch the increase of people—they were responding to larger factors: Out-migration from Mexico’s coffee-producing areas increased after the dissolution of the ICA, for example. This tendency intensified after the North American Free Trade Agreement went into effect in 1994, pushing Mexico further toward cheap manufacturing exports and cheap imported American corn.

“The glut of cheap labor and commodities in this period undermined labor protections in the center as well as on the periphery, and the United States lost union jobs at a rapid clip. Reagan undermined the bulwark of government jobs by bringing Boulwarism to the White House. His signature incident occurred in his first year, when he fired more than 11,000 striking air traffic controllers and decertified their union. To the press, the president quoted an air traffic controller who quit the union and reported to work as ordered: “How can I ask my kids to obey the law if I don’t?” Once again, questions of individual criminality put the Reaganites on firm ground. Organized labor took to rearguard action, holding on to its institutions by agreeing to two-tiered contracts that reduced benefits and protections for new or future members. Capital shook off the midcentury labor agreement like a bad habit, reducing its accountability to its own workers the way it previously reduced accountability to the broader communities. The second part didn’t require as many votes.”

Malcolm Harris, Palo Alto

[wecareautorepairs]

Chill Out: The Cool Benefits of Hiring Car Air Conditioning Repair Services

When the scorching sun beats down on your car's windshield, there's nothing quite like the relief of turning on the air conditioner. But what happens when that trusty A/C system starts to sputter or blow warm air? It's time to consider the benefits of hiring car air conditioning repair Auckland. In this blog, we'll explore why keeping your car's A/C in top-notch condition is essential and how professional repair services can help you stay cool and comfortable on the road.

1: Stay Cool and Comfortable

Having a functional car air conditioning system is not just a luxury; it's a necessity, especially during hot summer months. Repair services can ensure your A/C runs at its best, helping you beat the heat and stay comfortable during your journeys.

2: Improved Air Quality

A properly functioning A/C system not only cools the air but also filters out dust, pollen, and pollutants. Car air conditioning repair services can help you maintain clean and fresh air quality inside your vehicle, making your driving experience healthier and more pleasant.

3: Fuel Efficiency

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#car air conditioning repair Auckland #cheap car grooming Auckland #auto electrical services Auckland

[stephensmithuk]

The Man with the Watches

Originally written in 1898 as part of a series of short stories called Round the Fire. Doyle needed money to complete a house he was building in Surrey. Insert your own jokes about actors, bad movies and extensions here.

Rugby is a town in Warwickshire, 83 miles north of London. Yes, it is where the sport of rugby is named after - more specifically Rugby School, a famous private school.

Smoking areas in British trains were gradually abolished from the 1980s, the final ones going in 2005 (GNER and Caledonian Sleeper). I have a 2000 GB-wide timetable showing where smoking was still permitted. In some cases, the trigger for the ban was the move to air-conditioned stock that would result in the smoke circulating in the rest of the train.

A Gladstone bag was a rigid-framed small suitcase that could be opened into two equal halves, named as such due to its used by William Gladstone, four-time British Prime Minister, who would start his final ministry later in 1892.

The guard's van on passenger trains was generally a specific section of a carriage that also had a caged area for carrying luggage, parcels and caged small animals.

Willesden Junction is located in Harlesden, NW London. It no longer has any platforms on the West Coast Main Line, with Avanti and London Northwestern Railway trains going straight past it. Its passenger service today is made up of London Overground Lioness line services from Euston to Watford Junction, Overground Mildmay line services from Stratford to Richmond or Clapham Junction and the Underground's Bakerloo Line from Harrow and Wealdstone to Elephant & Castle. The first and third share the same tracks, while the second operates, on lines shared with freight trains, on separate "High Level" platforms. There is a depot for Overground trains nearby.

Non-gangwayed stock i.e. carriages with no connection between them even for emergency use, continued to be built into the British Railways, with quite a few of the "first generation" of diesel and electric multiple units being built this way. Most got gangways in later refurbishments, but the Class 205 DEMU, bar one example (205205) altered in a refurbishment trial, would carry on without them until final withdrawal in 2004. Most of the survivors then promptly ended up in the hands of heritage railways.

The Bible Society of London was founded in 1804 with the aim of providing affordable Bibles in people's own languages, after the 1800 case of a woman called Mary Jones, who saved up for six years then walked 26 miles to buy a Bible in Welsh. It is still active today.

The London to Rugby line had been widened to four tracks in the 1870s. From west to east, the tracks go: Down (Northbound) Fast - Up (Southbound) Fast - Down Slow - Up Slow. Ergo, you cannot move between two Down trains without a big leap. (https://www.opentraintimes.com/maps/signalling/lec2#LINK_1)

A bunco-steerer is a swindler.

Green goodsmen operated a scam in which people were offered purportedly counterfeit notes printed using stolen plates (so appearing genuine) at a cheap price, being shown actually genuine notes in a bag. During negotiation, the bag was switched for one containing worthless goods, like sawdust or green paper. Having been duped out of real money, the victims were reluctant to report this to police as attempting to purchase fake money was illegal.

Card-sharping is cheating at cards using various means, including cutting bits of cards to mark the ones you would want. Vegas casinos frequently deliberately cut corners off used cards being sold to tourists to prevent them being snuck into their games.

Tammany refers to Tammany Hall, the corrupt political machine that had ran New York City, for much of the 19th century, leveraging support from Irish immigrants by providing them with jobs for example. It had been temporarily ousted from power after the Lexow Commission of 1894-95 into police corruption; to wit, promotions were being sold for large sums of money and officers got that through extracting protection money from brothels etc. However, it would come back in the 1898 elections and retain control with occasional breaks until 1961, when Carmine DeSapio was ousted as its leader. It then lost power and had gone by 1967.

Travelling salespeople would carry samples or models of their products on their trips, sometimes in branded containers. This has largely become a thing of the past, but is still around.

Northumberland Avenue used to have a lot of high-class hotels, but these have mostly gone. Some were taken over for government use for a while, including by the War Office.

"Mary Jane" appears to have been a slang term for a male prostitute; Mary Jane Kelly was the final victim of Jack the Ripper.

#letters from watson #the man with the watches #arthur conan doyle #not sherlock holmes #allegedlyhist #history #factoids

[ghoulangerlee]

I wish you’d write a fic where someone gets a little distracted by someone else at dinner, but they have to keep it lowkey of course

anon please accept this offer of Swiss/Aeon

aeon's misusing his magic again to mess with swiss, but swiss isn't complaining much :) mildly mean dom aeon my beloved. this is a game to the two of them even if swiss is like "behave you fiend"

it's mostly suggestive as to what exactly is happening, no actual sex but lowkey Swiss is getting the railing of his life after dinner

-

Pack dinners were always few and far in between on tour, either they were too tired to do more than order room service or raid the vending machines of whatever hotel they were staying in or they were shuffled onto the bus to travel to the next city.

In the rarer times, they were able to order takeout to have delivered to their room or bus and they'd sit around and eat together before settling in for the night.

Tonight, however, they were able to find the time to settle down for a proper dinner tonight, a little hole in the wall place somewhere in the south of the US; Swiss didn't really know the name of it, nor did he really care.

It wasn't the best, the table they were at was located back near the entrance to the kitchen, two smaller ones shoved together and the lights sort of flickered and cast a shadow over the entire area, but there were drinks and food and his pack surrounding him, all buzzing from the adrenaline of a good show so he was happy. He was content.

Down the table a bit, Copia was talking loudly with Dew and Cumulus, sharing a tidbit about something he'd seen before the show that the others had missed and Cirrus, who was leaned tiredly against Cumulus's shoulder kept interjecting to ask him questions to rile him up, his face going a bit pink as adrenaline and the cheap wine started to get to him.

It was pretty cute and Swiss wouldn't be surprised if Copia cut the dinner short to duke it out with Cirrus somewhere more private.

He picks his drink up and takes a long sip of it, he's alternating between a coke and a glass of water, trying to hydrate himself properly after sweating so much for the last several hours; as he places it down, there's a gust of something cold against his ankle.

Swiss glances around the restaurant, the air conditioning in this place wasn't the best, and it definitely wasn't blowing under the table, and maybe just maybe he was just tired and ready to sleep off the exhaustion of a full day, maybe he was just imagining the curl of something cold around his ankle.

It happens again when he goes to pick up his fork, this time higher, curling around his calf oh so carefully, tickling the skin there for a moment as it travels higher, becomes almost tangible against his skin.

He presses his lips together and looks around the table, his eyes flitting between each of his packmates, none of them really paying attention to him and he frowns a little, wondering what could be causing the—

Aeon's grinning at him from across the table, his chin resting on his palm, in his other hand he holds a fork, casually twirling some spaghetti around it and when he notices Swiss looking at him, he winks.

Swiss narrows his eyes at Aeon, bares his teeth at him as that cold, creeping magic works its way further up his leg, settling against his inner thigh and he clenches his hand around the fork, mouthing a behave at him.

Aeon raises an eyebrow at him, a defiant look on his face as he watches Swiss, lifting his fork up to his mouth to take a bite of his spaghetti.

When Aeon tilts his head, Swiss feels the magic squeeze tight around his thigh—it's cold enough to make him shiver, his own hand shaking just a little bit as he tries to ignore it, scooping up a small amount of mashed potatoes on his fork. He's not really too interested in the food right now, not when Aeon's giving him that look the one that promises things later on once they're alone.

"Hey Swiss, you okay?" Mountain's voice pulls him from his thoughts and he startles a bit, looking away from the maddening swirl of violet in Aeon's eyes.

"Wh-huh?" Swiss asks, already feeling a little light headed as Aeon's magic settles around him, "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little tired. I think after we leave here I'm gonna turn in for the night."

Mountain gives him a look, one that says he's not buying it, but he doesn't push and goes back to eating, drawn back into a conversation with Aurora and Rain.

Swiss's eyes cut over to Aeon again and he glares at him, bares his teeth once more before chewing through an overcooked piece of steak, trying his best to ignore the way the magic seems to cover him like a blanket, a cold and stinging sensation teasing both of his nipples—the touch feeling like fingers plucking at them until they're both sore and overstimulated.

Sometime between the magic settling against his chest and it teasing and touching across his skin oh so carelessly, Swiss forgets that he's supposed to be putting up a fight, hunching a bit as he leans into the touch, burying his face in both of his hands, muffling a moan into a fake yawn that doesn't sound very convincing even to his own ears.

Careful baby, you might let on what's happening to you Aeon's voice echoes in his mind, teasing and warm, We can't have them knowing that I'm playing with you like this, can we?

Swiss doesn't deem that good enough to reply to, he just focuses on keeping his breathing even enough to look as if he's taking a short nap, closing his eyes for a bit to rest them while the rest of the pack finish up their meals.

He thinks he hears Dew say something about dessert and briefly wonders if he could just shift into his more demonic true form now to ruin the dinner and get them out of here faster.

"I think dessert is a lovely idea," Copia says, his voice a little slurred from too much wine, "Something sweet to end the night, we've got time, we're not due to our next location for a few days anyway."

Swiss chances a glance up to where Copia's seated, leaning heavily against Dew as the two of them share a menu, perusing over the desserts and he has to bite his tongue hard when the magic teasing at his nipples twists around them, pinching hard enough to make him jump.

"Let's have a nice night together," Copia continues, completely oblivious to Swiss's current predicament, "It's not often we're able to enjoy a meal together like this while traveling, so let's make the most of it, yeah?"

Around the table, there's cheering coming from the rest of the ghouls, even Aeon sticks two fingers into his mouth and blows out a whistle loud enough to make a few of the other tables look at them.

Looks like you'll have to be good for a bit longer, baby, Aeon coos softly into his mind, oh so sweet and saccharine. There's a hint of steel in his voice and something in Swiss yearns for it, to be good, to do good for Aeon.

Yes sir, Swiss finally answers back, though he feels every single nerve in his body is alight. I'll be good.

#the band ghost fic #phantom/swiss #aeon/swiss #phantom ghoul #swiss ghoul #my writing

[archetypal-archivist]

A Kinder World AU- Part 5

Rubius’ Church

masterlist

Despite his past, Rubius isn’t much one for religion. The condition for getting his house for cheap was taking up the vacant pastor position at the local church, however, so he has been making the best of it. Services are as non-denominational as he can possibly make them and frequently are a semi-coherent mess of ideas borrowed from various religions mashed together into something approximating a sermon. The general message is always the same however- be kind to each other, don’t commit crimes you can’t handle the punishment for, and try your best to be a decent person. Perhaps something in Rubius’ sermons resonates with people because despite his lack of enthusiasm, most of the town turns up every Sunday to hear him talk. Of course the “communion” snacks he serves at the end of each lecture may have something to do with it too.

1) The belfry has no bell in it, but Maximus and Fit worked together to wire up a speaker system that plays the sound of chiming bells on the hour. The sound system is as weather resistant as they could make it but it isn’t perfect, so every once in a while something short circuits and it’s just endless bell noises on loop until someone can grab a ladder to climb up and turn it off. 

2) There’s a small kitchen off to the side of the sanctuary room and it’s here that the after-service snacks are prepared. On Sundays, Rubius wakes up at sunrise to bake a batch of cookies or try his hand at making muffins. “Unleavened bread” always seemed restrictive and bland to him, so sugary baked goods are a decent compromise in his mind. It’s also a little bit of latent revenge for having to put up with all the children, too; few things make him smile more than sending all the kids home on a sugar high for their parents to deal with. 

3) There are a few potted rose bushes just outside the church entryway. Rubius never planted these and he claims no responsibility for them either, so generally these plants are considered property of the town at large. People will drop by to prune and water them at random, to varying amounts of success, but somehow the roses stay alive anyway. In the spring and summer, they bloom with heady white flowers and fill the air with their fragrance. 

4) In a community as small as Quesadilla, knowing your address is sometimes a little bit pointless when you know every resident by name. Being on the ocean doesn’t help matters, as street names are reserved for topographical maps rather than day to day use. This usually works just fine, except for when it comes to ordering things by mail from the mainland. To remedy this, many Quesadilla residents just put down the address of the church as it’s the only building where the address is printed on the mailbox. Every Tuesday and Thursday, Rubius has to sort through all the mail the church received to figure out what is actually his, much to his exasperation. However, give a spiteful man an inconvenience and he can make something truly funny of it- if he’s going to be unofficially in charge of delivering people’s mail, you can bet he’s going to chuck those packages onto people’s roofs every chance he gets.

5) The small platform adjacent to the steeple is only accessible to a select few: Rubius and those he entrusts with a copy of the key. So far only three people on the island have had this privilege shared with them, but of this small group, only Spreen uses this location with any regularity. It’s a useful place to get away from people for a while and Spreen has a strong disinterest in crowds of all kinds. (Rubius can relate.) It’s a rare day when Spreen and Rubius can be found alone together but when they do choose to suffer each other’s company, it’s always here and in companionable silence.

6) Beyond the steeple and the clean white walls, there’s very little to mark the church as a building intended for public gathering. That’s because a lot of the fancier trappings have been sacrificed in the name of storm safety and weather resistance. The windows are reinforced glass, the roofs checked every Autumn for damage, and the doors have rubber along the bottom to seal out water should unwanted puddles begin to form in unwanted places. Rubius’ house isn’t nearly so storm safe, so he tends to wait out the worst weather here in the church with the hymnals and a mug of instant cocoa. 

#qsmp #a kinder world au #mc #my writing #townscaper #quackity smp #rubius

[dialogue-queered]

Article

Paul Cureton

Innovative design choices can have a massive impact in the theatre of war, so it is important to understand the principles behind their development. Recent use of low-cost cardboard drones by Ukraine, supplied by Australia, to attack targets in Russia is a good example of how this can work.

Australia has been supplying Ukraine with 100 of the drones per month from March this year as part of an aid package deal worth an estimated £15.7 million, following an agreement struck in July 2021, according to the Australian Army Defence Innovation Hub.

Emerging technologies tend to override current technologies, and in turn, this generates competitive counter-technologies. This circular relationship driven by innovation is often critical in warfare as it can provide key technological advances.

Drone technology was originally developed for military use. It was then seen to offer opportunities in the civilian sphere for logistics, delivery and disaster relief. This then in turn has offered new innovations that can translate to military applications.

Conflicts in the future will be particularly shaped by drones, which will have implications for international relations, security and defence.

The Australian firm Sypaq, an engineering and solutions company founded in 1992, created the Corvo Precision Payload Delivery System (PPDS) for use in military, law enforcement, border security and emergency services, as well as food security, asset inspection and search and rescue.

Ukrainian forces reportedly used the PDDS cardboard drones in an attack on an airfield in Kursk Oblast in western Russia on August 27. The attack damaged a Mig-29 and four Su-30 fighter jets, two Pantsir anti-aircraft missile launchers, gun systems, and an S-300 air surface-to-air missile defence system.

Design principles

The design principles behind the success of the drones revolve around several factors including the production cost, airframe material, weight, payload, range, deployment and ease of use. Other considerations include the reliability of the operating software and the ability to fly the drone in various weather conditions. Seven Network news report on SYPAQ’s cardboad drones.

Generally, small drones offer high-resolution imagery for reconnaissance in a rapidly changing theatre of war. The Corvo drone has a high-resolution camera that provides images covering a large area, transmitting footage back to its user in real time.

The importance of real-time mapping is critical in modern agile armed forces’ command and control as this can direct ground forces, heavy weapons and artillery.

In some cases, the design of small drones is concentrated on adapting the payloads to carry different types of munitions, as seen in the attack in Kursk.

The cardboard drones can carry 5kg of weight, have a wingspan of two metres and a range of 120km at a reported cost of US$3,500 (£2,750). Waxed cardboard is an ideal material as it offers weather resistance, flat-pack transportation (measuring 510mm by 760mm) and, importantly, a lightweight airframe, which enables a longer flight range and a high cruise speed of 60km/h.

Fixed-wing drones also offer longer ranges than rotor-based drones as the wings generate the lift and the airframe has less drag, so they are more energy efficient. They can also fly at higher altitudes. The drones can be launched from a simple catapult or by hand and so can be rapidly deployed.

Low-tech material, hi-tech thinking

Radar involves the transmission of electromagnetic waves, and these are reflected off any object back to a receiving antenna. Cardboard is generally harder to detect by radar – but its components, such as the battery, can be detected.

But the Corvo drone is likely to have a small signature. Radar-absorbing materials are needed to have full stealth properties. These polymers have various absorbing qualities to avoid radar detection.

Another design principle is the swarming capability of the drone. Swarms of drones can overpower air defence systems through sheer volume and or can be used as decoys in counterintelligence operations.

Swarms are highly reliant on the development of artificial intelligence, which is still an embryonic research area. But a recent drone race at ETH University in Zurich, in which AI-piloted drone beat drones controlled by world-champion drone racers, highlighted this potential.

All of these design principles and innovations have and are continuing to transform warfare and theatre operations. It is likely that small drones at low cost are likely to have further mission success in the future.

#australia #auspol #ukraine #drones #military #war #russo-ukraine war