“it was pretty,” namjoon protests, trying to defend himself. “and it was a gift from a fan. wouldn’t she have been troubled to have to take it home?”
“and you brought it back to let it die?” yoongi interjects, dry as sand. he rises to his feet, dusting off his jeans. “you gonna take care of it, namjoonie?”
“how hard can it be,” namjoon says, but he sounds hesitant, like he knows his own annihilatory powers will trump his determination. “it’s a small plant. it needs water, sunlight, and air. we can provide all of those. piece of cake.”
(yoongi and jungkook take care of a plant together.)
“i was asking jungkookie about how yoongi hyung and he could read each other’s minds, and yoongi hyung was completely out of earshot, but when i said, ‘is it dark in there?’ hyung told me to shut up from the other side of the room. he wasn’t even looking up from his phone” - park jimin
alt. title: hey girl do you want to make a fragile human connection in the vast and unfeeling infinity of a chaotic universe
Race and how it ties into Haitian vodou is a very important and incredibly complex topic to write about, and it’s one I’ve been wanting to write about for awhile. I’ve been really reticent to do so for one big glaring reason: I am white. I do not want my privilege and background to take center stage when I talk about vodou, but it is an inevitable topic that is bigger than I am and that white and/or European practitioners routinely do not talk about. I understand why, at least from my perspective and experiences–for me, I do not want to engage Haitain vodouisants and people of color in conversations that are really not desired. One of my goals in my vodou community that is largely made of Haitian practitioners is to be as unobtrusive as possible to other people’s experience and practice of vodou, be it social or religious, and so I do a lot of listening and not a lot of talking, particularly when the topic of race and the participation of white folks comes up.
But, it is vitally important to talk about race and how it is tied with vodou, especially for white and/or European practitioners and for outsiders, and it is important for white folks to do the talking about whiteness in vodou, instead of leaving the burden on Haitians. Vodou has consistently been taken advantage of by white folks who exploit the practices for personal gain and the participation of white folks is routinely waved about [by white folks] as this sort of ‘going native’ trope, wherein the white person is participating in this exotic practice and lending credibility to it, even if said white person completely goes far afield from what vodou actually is.
When you boil it down to bare bones, vodou is two things; a framework for healing in a world where suffering is the norm, and the living history of Haiti and the Haitian people. I’ve written a bit about how vodou heals, so I’m going to leave that by the side for right now. The living history of Haiti, though, is another matter and it’s one that is hard to explain in a way that makes sense if you haven’t seen vodou in person, but it is what vodou is–it traces the history of Haitians from Africa through enslavement to independence.
You can’t separate the history of Haiti from race and therefore cannot separate race from vodou. Vodou’s foundation was built upon the backs of enslaved Africans who dreamed of something better and then reached out and took it. From the very beginning, white Europeans have been the oppressors–first the Spanish, then the French, then the French again post-revolution when France demanded reparations for the loss of the colony, then the US using the Monroe Doctrine, then the US again when Aristide was deposed [accounts say it was US Special Forces that ‘escorted’ Aristide out of the country during the coup d’etat], and, most currently, the US-populated UN ‘peace-keeping’ forces that have trafficked Haitian women and children. Haiti is a popular cause for white folks to rally behind in an effort to make themselves feel good, but almost nothing is actually done–see the Red Cross financial debacle post-earthquake.
Post-revolution, almost every single white European was either ejected from the country or executed. A few were allowed to stay, and they were doctors and medical professionals, a group of soldiers who had deserted from the French forces, and a small group of Germans who had been allowed to live in the north prior to the revolution and who had aided Africans escaping enslavement.
One of the lasting effects of the French occupation after the revolution has been the social stratification based on skin color. Very light-skinned or white folks are often still referred to as gwo blan/big whites and light skin and ‘good hair’ [hair that mimics European characteristics of being non-textured] is a highly valued trait. White folks in general and especially those in positions of power are often distrusted, and with good reason.
So, how does that all play out in vodou?
The biggest example that I like to talk about is Ezili Freda*. Freda is considered the Lwa who most often concerns Herself with perfection [versus love]. She is the one who helps create the best possible life in the most pleasing manner. She IS perfection embodied, and that’s where the reflection of the history of race comes in. Freda is almost always portrayed as very light-skinned or white with straight or slightly wavy hair, as She reflects the desire and embodiment of what is considered perfection among many Haitians. That’s not to say that Haitians don’t find all shades of skin attractive, but the underlying message is that lighter-skinned and/or white folks hold the power and are able to achieve more, and that’s not necessarily wrong in the context of colonial power structures and the matrix of white supremacy abroad.
Another piece of how Freda moves in the world also reflects the reality of skin color in Haiti. She is often unhappy because nothing is as good as She would like it to be–nothing is actually perfect. When She comes down into possession, She often cries or sobs. This is not necessarily because She is displeased with anyone, but more because nothing is ever good enough in Her mind. It is never, ever perfect and She is never, ever treated how She envisions to be the perfect manner.
This diverges in two ways. First, it reflects the idea and reality that white folks have this insatiable appetite for the finer things in life, which is also not inaccurate. Haiti sees a lot of white tourism and I can’t imagine what it must be like for a Haitian who makes an average of $100/year to see white folks with designer handbags and expensive sneakers staying in gated, fenced resorts and touring their neighborhoods to gawk at the relative poverty.
Second, it reflects the reality that even a light-skinned mixed race person will not be treated the same as a white person. Part of Freda’s story is that She is always the mistress and never the wife–She is what men seek out for comfort and entertainment, but She is often not valued as much as the white woman they may seek to marry. There’s a lot about gender and sexual politics in there, too, but it’s also a comment on the perpetuation of the ‘one drop’ rule that was and is alive and well in Haiti and beyond.
Ezili Freda is not the only light-skinned Lwa–Met Agwe is considered light-skinned with light eyes–and there are a few white Lwa, including Ogou Sen Jak, who, depending on lineage, is white and French, and there is a Lwa who I am not sure is part of my lineage or who comes separate from Freda who is often white or exceptionally light-skinned.
White is also held up as a ‘clean’ color in vodou. We wear white for a lot of Lwa, take white baths, cover our heads with white during certain things, and generally hold white up as a bastion of purity. The color white is assigned a lot of power, and indeed holds a lot of power. Damballah, the Lwa who often takes the form of a huge white snake, is the epitome of this. He is considered to be one of the strongest, oldest Lwa, and His primary form is the white serpent [If He chooses to take the form of a man, He does not come as a white man]. Anything given to Him must largely be white, from the libation He takes to His food and His gifts. In possession, He is covered by a white sheet so He is protected from anything impure.
In contrast, the Lwa that are considered to largely be Haitian in origin [sometimes this is accurate and sometimes not] are mostly dark-skinned and They are often considered much more volatile in temperament than Lwa who are often conceived of as originating in Africa. Sometimes it is [inaccurately] held that the darker-skinned a Lwa appears in a dream, the more malevolent They are. In addition to holding subtle and not-so-subtle comments about race within Their appearances, They also reflect Haitian people directly–the majority of Haitians are not what would be considered light-skinned. Light-skinned and white people are definitively the minority in Haiti, yet they are believed to, and do, hold an incredible amount of power and social status thanks to the underlying racism that took hold during the occupation of the island by Europeans.
Haitians, however, have a loud and definitive history of not accepting colonial rule. Vodou reflects this beyond the remembrance Bwa Kayiman and resultant independence and ejection of the imperialist French. I’ve mentioned it before, but the beginning of the priye/opening prayer of every ceremony is always in French and specifically the Old French that the colonizers would have spoken. This is a covert-to-the-outsider way of remembering the rasin/roots of revolution and a clear message of ‘this held us back, now we take it and use it for own purposes’. Vodou keeps history fresh–slavery and the overthrown of the French is not distant, but lives as a clear part of current Haitian reality and memory. Vodou is a means of constant revolution as it empowers those who practice it to mitigate the effects of oppressive factors in day-to-day life.
After it was made it clear that vodou was not just something I was going to witness and have no part of, my very first conversation with my Manmi–who is Haitian–began with me very hesitantly asking if it was even appropriate for me to be there because I am white. I didn’t get to finish my SUPER AWKWARD delivery of my question before Manmi cut me off and told me the Lwa are for everyone regardless of skin color. It seemed like the question exhausted her and I’ve never brought it up with her again. She’s pretty open about the fact that she gets a lot of shit from other Haitian manbos and houngans because she has white people in her house, and not an insignificant number, either. The way she tells it, other Haitians get jealous because they assume she is very financially well-off due to having many white children and, while this is not true, it speaks to a larger issue in Haiti and the Diaspora–whites hold a significant amount of wealth while being a minority in Haiti and Haitian vodou.
Not all lineage heads feel the same way about white folks as my Manmi does. In the city where Manmi’s US residence is, there are close to twenty other active sosyetes and very few will entertain a white person attending services, nevermind initiating into their lineage. I get questions a lot from other white people about this that boil down to ‘it’s not fair that they exclude people based on skin color’, and it makes my head hurt. Like, are you listening to the words that come out of your mouth? I can’t speak for anyone else, but I find it COMPLETELY LOGICAL that many Haitians want nothing to do with white people and won’t have white people in their sosyete. Beyond the blatant history of terrible treatment at the hands of white people, there is a huge trend of white people showing up to vodou and then departing and staging ‘voodoo rituals’ or declaring themselves a priest/ess and doing and selling things as authentic vodou that is anything but. Lots of white folks can’t seem to get out of their own way and realize that not everything is up for grabs, no one is bound to teach us anything, and we do not and should not have access to every space no matter how interested or sincere we may be. We do not get points for being polite or being ‘good’.
The trend for white folks to pick up vodou is kind of scary–and I say this being a white person who has picked up vodou. There’s a lot of bullshit, and a significant amount of it is perpetuated by white folks who want to appear exotic or like they have picked up special mystical powers from being in proximity to people of color who do things that look strange and unusual if your only exposure to religion has been the inside of a church. White people often complain that vodou costs money and requires a lot of work, and that is both an expression of privilege and an absolute blindness to the fact that white people have contributed to a lot of that. Vodou is insular not just because there are ritual secrets to be kept, but because white people show up to play tourist and by ‘voodoo dolls’ and otherwise be gross. Keeping the religion insular and a lot of information bound by initiation ensures that it is easy for a legitimate practitioner to spot a fraud and keeps information that could be dangerous in the hands of the stupid and unsupervised away from public consumption.
Most recently, there has been this growing practice to take Haitian culture out of vodou with the goal of making it accessible to white folks, which is gross, or only utilize the aspects of vodou that are palatable to white people, which is also gross. Most often, it is removing the liturgical language of Kreyol–which removes a LOT of meaning and information that someone who doesn’t speak Kreyol doesn’t realize they are missing–or doing away with animal sacrifice, which is a key component of initiation, agreements with Lwa, and baptizing a temple. Not including these things leaves you with something, but it’s not vodou.and it will result in ceremonies that are missing the pieces that make them work as religious ritual. Vodou is plenty accessible if you are white, the Lwa want you, and you are willing to do the work.
The key bit is being willing to do the work. The Lwa can shout in your ear all day that They want you to be a priest or want you to do <insert vodou thing>, but if you aren’t willing to put in some sweat equity and deal with being uncomfortable in a space that is not oriented to white folks, none of it matters. Being a part of Haitian vodou requires Haitian community endorsement–if you don’t have a community behind you, the gate will not open for you. Part of vodou is this living contract between the Lwa and Haitians. If you cannot get out of your own way as a white person, deal with your own stuff, and refrain from offending the Haitian folks you are working with to the point where they don’t want to deal with you, then no amount of intervention from the Lwa can help you.
I also get asked a lot if I, as a white person, am ever uncomfortable at services and the cold hard truth is that sometimes I am. Much of my discomfort is amplified by the fact that I am visibly queer and gender-non-normative, but sometimes it’s because I’m white and visitors at Manmi’s services are not happy to see me there. When I started with vodou, there was a HUGE amount of culture shock for me because I had never spent extensive time in a cultural space that didn’t have white folks as a big part. I missed out on a lot of cultural cues and didn’t understand others, like how the concept of personal space is often different for many Haitians, and it left me really out of sorts for a bit. I had to do a lot of work–and will always have a lot of work to do–to get out of my own way because there was no way I could have remained a part of vodou if I wasn’t willing to shift my worldview, dig at my own ingrained white supremacy, and orient myself to the idea that I was not going to be the default center of everything and not everyone is going to be okay that I am present. I think it’s easy for white people to take that–people not being happy to see us–as a personal insult, but that’s the effect of privilege on world view.
Of course, I can only talk about race in vodou as a white person, so my view is skewed by that. I have no idea what it is like to be Haitian, or Haitian in the United States where white supremacy is so cemented into everything. I think it’s important, though, that white practitioners take the opportunity to talk about how race and colorism relate to vodou because it is too often delegated to people of color to teach and educate about race and how white people have and continue to perpetuate white supremacy. Being trans is not a comparable experience to being a person of color, but the best way I can relate to it is that I fucking H-A-T-E teaching people about gender identity and trying to explain how and why I and other trans people should be granted the same dignity and respect as cisgender people. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to do that about your skin color or country of origin.
The Lwa didn’t have to pick me up and the lineage I’m a part of didn’t have to welcome me, so I feel pretty indebted to the Lwa and the Haitian community. Part of how I try to express that is writing as much as I can about my experience and understanding of vodou, and that includes writing about race and colorism. I don’t want to be the center of that sort of writing, because it’s not about me as an individual, and I hope that any errors or unintentionally privileged statements only reflect on me and not on vodou at large.
*It should be noted that my discussing Ezili Freda should not be taken as criticism of Her, but merely illustration of Her backstory. I adore Her and owe Her quite a bit, and find Her equal parts gorgeous and terrifying.
Hardwick Hall is an Elizabethan country house in Derbyshire. The house was built between 1590 and 1597 for Bess of Hardwick. It was designed by architect Robert Smythson. Hardwick Hall is one of the earliest examples of the English interpretation of the Renaissance style. Bess of Hardwick (Countess of Shrewsbury) was the richest woman in England after Queen Elizabeth I. She also started the building project of Chatsworth House (at the time she was the wife of Sir William Cavendish). Her house was conceived to be a conspicuous statement of the wealt and power. The windows are exceptionally large and numerous for that period, leading to the saying: ‘Hardwick Hall, more glass than wall’. After Bess’s death, the house passed on to her son William Cavendish, 1st earl of Devonshire (who’s great-grandson will become the 1st Duke of Devonshire). Now the house is in ownership of the National Trust. The exteriors of the house were used as the ‘Malfoy Manor’ in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
So I saw Furious 7 recently and that’s what inspired this… RIP Paul 😭
By the way, every preference I do is based off a certain GIF, which are the ones I include after each boys turn :) Just for clarification
Harry: I very rarely was ever seen with my boyfriend at his work but when I was, people generally knew that they should stay away. I had decided to spend the night at the races, helping Harry out and talking to the few girls that actually had self respect.
“You haven’t been down here in a while. What’s with the sudden visit?” Carly asked, bringing the beer bottle to her lips. “Got a day off from work tomorrow and didn’t want to spend all night alone at the house,” I shrugged, swirling my glass of wine in my hand, watching the blood red liquid momentarily stain the glass. “Well Harry looks happy that your here,” she smiled, glancing back at our boyfriends that were playfully arguing over what engine to put in the car. I rolled my eyes, going back to flipping through my magazine and drinking my drink, slightly swaying to the beat of music blasting through the speakers. The reeving of engines and the cheers of the crowd were an odd comfort for me and I tried to bask in the exhilarating atmosphere as much as I could before I would have to leave to go back to my normal life for the next few months. “Y/N!” a loud voice called, catching my attention. I sighed, closing my magazine and hopping off the stool, sauntering over to Harry. “What now?” I asked, raising my brow in annoyance. “Nothing, I just wanted a hug,” he grinned cutely, pulling me close to his chest, arms resting loosely around my waist. I rolled my eyes, reaching mine up to rest on his shoulders, careful not to spill any drink on his shirt. “For a mechanic, you’re oddly affectionate,” I shook my head, pecking his lips lightly. He pouted, leaning forward to capture my lips in a proper kiss, hands tightening around me. “Oi we don’t need that shit in the shop!” a loud voice shouted, making me giggle against Harry’s lips. “Piss off Max!” Harry growled, flipping his workmate off. I rolled my eyes at their stupidity, chugging the rest of the wine and placing the glass on the counter next to me, now fully able to cuddle my boyfriend. “I’m glad you’re here babe,” he whispered, lightly nipping at my jaw, working his way down my neck. I bit my lip roughly to try and keep the moans from slipping out of my mouth, eyes fluttering closed. I tiled my head to the side to give him better access, arching my back so my chest was pressed completely against his. “Jesus Christ Harry,” I moaned, squirming slightly in his grip, gasping when he begun to suck on my neck, surely about to leave a massive hickey. “God she’s such a fucking whore.” The statement was soft but still clear as it floated in through the open garage door, obviously aimed at me. “What the fuck did you just say?” Harry growled, snapping his head up to glare at the culprit, shifting so I was standing behind him. “Harry don’t,” I warned, placing a hand on his bicep that he shook off roughly. “No this guy can’t get away with sayin shit about you,” he snarled, clenching his fists tightly. “Woah man calm down,” the culprit raised his hands in defence, stepping away from the angry mechanic. “Don’t tell me to calm down when you just called my girlfriend a whore!” he glared, tensing his muscles. “Come on Hazza calm down this lil punk ain’t worth it,” Max spoke, standing to Harry’s side and tapping his chest lightly, warning him to back down. “He’s just jealous cause he ain’t ever gonna get that ass,” Carly called, flipping the wannabe racer off, pulling me over to her. Harry huffed, stalking away from the guy and over to me, hugging me tightly into his chest. “Don’t worry Hazza, I ain’t going anywhere.”
Liam: I very rarely got to have fun, seeing as how I was working part time at a cafe and studying at the local university, but somehow my friend had managed to blackmail me into leaving my studying for one night and go to the club with her. So that was where I was. Dancing with my bestfriend in the VIP club that she had somehow gotten us into, claiming she was a regular here. “I still don’t know if we’re allowed in here. These people don’t look like you’re regular crowd,” I yelled over the loud bass, glancing around uneasily. “Thats because were in a street racing club,” she responded, making my eyes widening. “What the fuck! Since when did you start going to the races!” I squealed, now knowing why every second guy in here had a gun stashing in the back of his jeans. “I found them a few months back and have been going like every weekend to watch. It’s actually pretty cool,” she grinned, pulling me closer to her body. “Alex, that’s really dangerous.” I could feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest, nerves starting to show. I had never been one for crowds, let alone clubs, and to know I was surrounded by illegal street racers and possible drug dealers quite frankly scared the living shit out of me. “Don’t worry Y/N, I’ve got some mates that will keep you safe,” Alex soothed, taking me hand and leading me away from the dancing crowd and towards an empty booth. She pushed me in first, saying she was going to get some drinks before leaving me alone. I nervously glanced around, beginning to calm down when I realised that pretty much the entirety of this side of the club was women, with the occasional loyal boyfriend. I reached into my dress, pulling out my phone and checking it, replying to a few messages that friends had sent me, obviously surprised that I wasn’t holed up in my dorm room, as per usual. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing sitting all alone?” a voice startled me, making me look up at the menacing looking man standing in front of me, obviously drunk by the overwhelming smell of alcohol that was radiating off him. “None of your business,” I replied, shuffling away from him slightly, wanting to put as much distance between myself and this mystery drunk trying to hit on me. “Come on love, don’t be like that,” he winked, attempting to be seductive but really looking like a pedofile. “Look I don-” I was cut off by a young man roughly pulling the sleezeball away from me. “She’s not interested,” he glared. This guy was all muscle and no fat, clearly able to beat the middle aged drunk that was trying to get with me. “Fine, you can have the slut,” he slurred, stumbling away from the pending fight. I breathed out a sigh of relief, looking up at my saviour. “Thanks for that. He smelt horrible,” I screwed my nose up, making my mystery hero laugh. “That’s alright, I don’t know why they let people like him in here anyway,” he smiled, gesturing to the spot next to me. I shuffled over, letting him plop down next to me. “Ok I didn’t know what you wanted because you don’t usually drink alcohol so I just got you a Sex On The Beach cause it sounded cool,” Alex giggled, interrupting our moment. She placed the glass in front of me, only realising that we had a guest once she had sat across from me. “Holy shit, you’re Liam Payne!” “Uh yeh that’s me?” Liam chuckled nervously, reaching his hand over the table to shake hers. I however was confused as hell. “Wait, how do you know who he is?” I asked. “He’s like one of the best racers in like the entire world!” Alex exclaimed, obviously still in awe at the boy sitting across from her. “Oh right, I was totally supposed to know that,” I rolled my eyes, chuckling at her fondness. “I’m just gonna leave you two. Y/N make sure you don’t come home tonight and if you do, I’m locking you out of the room,” Alex got up, giving me a pointed look. “Have fun!” “Is she always that forward?” Liam questioned, a little frightened by my bestfriend. “Yeh, you get used to it eventually,” I shrugged, taking a sip of my drink. “Well then Y/N, I do believe she gave you an order. So why don’t we go back to my place, I’ll cook us a nice dinner and we can spend the evening getting to know each other,” Liam grinned, turning to face me. “That sounds lovely."
Louis: It had been a while since I was seen at the local and extremely private street races, but I had decided to make an appearance tonight apparently. It had been a stressful week. I was a full time student at Oxford University studying Law… Obviously that was stressful enough, but considering I come from an extremely wealthy family who were all successful lawyers and businessmen and doctors, the pressure was on. I had been introduced to the street racing world by a close friend of mine who’s brother would constantly compete at these events and I had been hooked ever since. I never partook in the racing or anything like that but it was exhilarating being around all these professional drivers and loud music. I may also have a slight interest with cars so I usually spent my time walking up and down the rows upon rows of cars. "Hey Y/N! Long time no see girl!” a loud voice boomed, arms engulfing me in a bone crushing hug. “Steve you’re killing me,” I chuckled, breathing in deeply once he had let me go. Steve was an old friend of mine who I had met on my first night at the races. He had saved me from nearly getting raped by some wannabe driver and we had been friends ever since. “Where you been?” he asked, throwing an arm around my shoulders and leading me through the swarms of people. “Busy with school,” I answered simply, saying hi to a few people that I knew as we walked past them and into the VIP section. Only the best drivers and the regulars got to come in here and thank god I was well known around these parts. “Yo Steve, you hear the boss is here?” a man clapped my friend on the shoulder, shaking his body excitedly. They conversed for a bit, trying to force each other to go and speak to ‘The Boss’ first but apparently they were both too chicken. “Who are you guys talking about?” I butt in, glancing around the room to try and spot this 'scary’ man they were speaking of. “He’s the guy who runs a lot of the racers in these parts. Real wealthy,” the stranger told me. I continued to look for this guy, having the picture of a middle aged dickhead in my mind but boy was I wrong. On the opposite side of the room was a young man, no older than 25, surrounded by security. He held an air of dominance and power and anyone within a 10 mile radius would know that this guy was the boss. “Holy shit he is so hot,” I gaped, eyes wide and jaw slack, not quite believing my eyes. “That’s him alright. Could make a straight guy turn gay he could,” Steve nodded, shuffling us closer to the boss. “Lets go say hi.” “Uh lets not,” I giggled awkwardly, attempting to get out of his strong grip; key word being attempted. “Oh come on. I bet he will totally fall for you and your charm and then y'all can get married and have beautiful babies and in turn I will become one of the most well known racers ever,” Steve winked, eyes glazing over. “Stop trying to sell me off,” I huffed, digging my heels into the ground to try and stop him from walking, not that it actually did anything. Amidst our slight argument, neither of us had realised we caught the attention of quite a few people, one of those being the boss himself. Many of the regulars around here knew us and knew that this was pretty much normal for us, but there were people, such as the boss, who had never seen us before. “Bro don’t look now but boss is totally looking at you,” Steve’s eyes widened, hands tightening on my upper arms. I whipped around, making eye contact with boss who was licking his lips seductively, looking me up and down approvingly. “What the fuck!” I squealed, turning back around and trying to run as far away as I could. “Where do you think you’re going! He totally just checked you out! GO SAY HI WOMAN!” Steve boomed, pushing me in the direction of the intimidating man. I stumbled slightly, turning around the glare at my friend, flipping him the bird which made him laugh. “That’s not very lady like,” a new voice whispered huskily into my ear, making me freeze. “Who ever said I was a lady?” I retorted, mentally slapping myself for my attitude. “Considering your family, I would think that you were,” he shot back, resting his hands on my hips. I whipped around, placing my hands on his chest to stop myself from falling over. “You know who I am?” I squeaked, averting my gaze from his piercing blue eyes. “I know exactly who you are, Miss Y/N Y/L/N. This is the last place I would ever expect you to be,” he hummed, dipping his head and kissing my jaw, making my body go slack in his grip. “I don’t even know your name,” I whimpered, tightly my head to the side so he had better access. “It’s Louis,” he mumbled against my neck. “And you’re coming home with me tonight Miss Y/L/N.”
Niall: I had always loved coming down the races, especially when my boyfriend was competing. He was one of the top racers in the country and always came down to race. He had decided he wanted to have fun tonight and that was why he was currently racing through the streets at well over the speed limit, dodging cars and civilians as he went. I never really like the city races seeing as how many people could get hurt, but it was always fun to watch everyone get so hyped up. I was currently sat on the balcony of the building that was the starting and ending point for all the racers, waiting for the moment that Niall crossed the line. I had only consumed one drink, opting to stay slightly sober since I knew that he would want to party tonight, and it wasn’t fair for him always having to take care of my drunken ass. “So I heard a rumour that I want you to clear up for me,” a voice startled me from my intense thoughts, making me whip around to see Sophia standing behind me, drink in hand but still sober. She sat next to me, letting her legs dangle over the edge. “And what would that be?” I asked, taking a sip of my cocktail. “I heard that every time Niall wins a race, you two go home and have crazy rough sex until like 5 in the morning,” she giggled, nudging me suggestively with her elbow. I almost choked on my drink, spilling a little onto my legs. “Who the hell told you that?” I laughed, attempting to wipe away the spilt drink. “That doesn’t matter, is it true?” she waved off my question, wanting to know what my answer was. “I don’t feel comfortable talking about this,” I blushed, hiding my face in my hands. “Oh my god it is true! IS THAT WHY YOU ALWAYS COME TO WORK LIMPING!” she squealed, shaking my body excitedly. “Sophia why the hell do you even want to know that!” I exclaimed, playfully slapping her hands away. “Because, if my bestfriend is being spanked until the early hours, I would like to know. I’m always looking for new things to try,” she winked, finishing off the rest of her drink. Before I could respond, the loud sound of an engine cut me off, making me look down to the pit. I saw the familiar midnight blue car sitting idle and alone in the swarm of people, making me smile. Niall hopped out not a second later, jumping on the hood of his car and raising his arms up. “Enjoy you’re crazy sex tonight,” my bestfriend nudged me, running away from my kick that was aimed at her leg. I shook my head at her immaturity, jumping down the stairs and onto flat surface, waiting for my boyfriend to find me in the crowd. “Babe! God did you see that! I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever gone!” the distinct Irish accent yelled excitedly, familiar arms circling around my waist. “People seem to have the impression that after every win, we have wild sex. I wonder who started that rumour?” I ignored his comment, opting to ask my own question. I turned around in his hold, placing my hands on his shoulders and raising my brow. “I have noooo idea where people would have gotten that,” he chuckled nervously, baby blues not daring to look me in the eye. “Ni, why would you tell people that we were doing it till 5am! We have never done that!” I sighed, resting my forehead against his chest, still embarrassed. “Well… Not yet at least…” he responded, grinning cheekily.
Zayn: I stood there in the doorway for quite a while, simply watching my husband whilst he worked. It was mesmerising really, the way he was so entranced with his work, the bright colours and the intricate designs that he was practice drawing on the wall. I cleared my throat, wanting my presence to be known in the quiet room. “Who’s that?” he asked, not bothering to turn around, too focused on his work. “It’s me babe,” I giggled, pushing myself off the door and awkwardly waddling into the room, my 6 month pregnant body struggling to walk properly. He spun around, dropping his pen in shock, taking in my pregnant form. “Baby what are you doing here? Its dangerous!” he said, quickly rushing to my side and setting me down on the couch, fretting over my belly. “It’s fine, the boys kept me safe,” I shook his hands off, cupping his face in my hands and pulling him in for a kiss. He melted into my touch, towering over me but still letting me lead the kiss, knowing I needed some form of dominance in my current position. “Are you for real! Why do I always walk in on this shit!” a voice broke us from our heated make out session, causing both of our heads to whip towards the door, spotting Zayn’s sister Doniya standing in the doorway, hands covering her eyes. “Maybe you should knock next time,” Zayn huffed, plopping down on the seat next to me. “Maybe y'all should leave that shit for home,” she shot back, walking around the room and collecting various sketches in her hands, obviously going to talk to a customer. You see, Zayn was a pretty well known artist around these parts and was always creating new ideas to paint on cars for people who are willing to pay. “Who’s downstairs?” I asked, leaning my head on Zayn’s shoulder, beginning to rub my belly subconsciously. “Some guy who believes he’s going to be the next big thing,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “So the usual then?” I giggled, knowing what everyone was like these days. Random people from small towns would waltz in, thinking their some big shot racer, and get Zayn to design a 'kick ass car’ for them, only to crash in the week after. “Yeh, only this one has no common courtesy,” she screwed her nose up, stopping in front of us. “Is he touching you? I swear to fucking god if he is trying to get with you, I will kill him,” Zayn growled, suddenly becoming very defensive over his sister. He knew that his family could handle themselves but that didn’t stop him from going insane over anyone who spared his sisters a second glance, especially Doniya, considering she was older. “It’s fine, he can’t do anything from the other side of the counter,” she waved her brother off, walking out of the room, Zayn hot on her heels. I huffed, wiggling out of my seat and shuffling after them, stopping midway on the stairs, knowing that Zayn wouldn’t want me in harms way. “Listen mate, if you try anything with my sister, if you even look at her wrong, I won’t hesitate to throw you off the tallest building in London, you get me!” Zayn threatened, tightly gripping the obviously scared boys shirt. “S-sorry, I didn’t k-know,” he stuttered, intimidated by the raging artist. “Zayn let the poor boy go, he won’t do anything, will you know?” I raised my brow, giving the boy a pointed look. “N-no mam! I won’t! I swear!” he pleaded. Zayn let him go, allowing his sister to do her job. He hopped up the stairs, standing on the step below me. “You’re really hot when you’re all angry and shit,” I giggled, placing my hands on his chest. “Too bad there’s a baby in there, otherwise I wouldn’t hesitate to fuck you against this wall,” he growled, nipping lightly at my neck. “I SWEAR TO GOD NO SEX IN MY SHOP!” Doniya squealed, making both of us laugh.