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irisintheafterglow · 4 months

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lights, camera, bitch, smile!

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ now playing: taylor swift - "i can do it with a broken heart"

summary: it's your first time headlining the biggest music festival in the country, and your guitarist is nowhere to be found. good thing your other headliner-- and billboard chart rival-- can play guitar, right? right? (rockstar!gojo x popstar!reader)

wc: 2.73k

cw/tags: implied fem!reader but gn pronouns used, rivals to lovers, he falls first, mild angst (descriptions of a panic attack)/fluff with happy ending

note: this is another fic as a part of @ficsforgaza and a gift for @um-no-ok for donating and supporting palestinian families! interested in being a part of this initiative? check out my masterpost ! hope you enjoy this, i had a lot of fun writing it :)

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

“You’re sure the flight is still running late?” You plead, head in your hands as the tech lead, your publicist, and your manager sit apologetically on the other sofa in your trailer. “We can’t send out a car to go grab them from the airport as soon as they land?”

“Getting off festival grounds will be hard enough, not to mention battling the traffic of incoming guests,” the tech guy reminds you with a shake of his head, exhaling deeply as his radio crackles, another warning that you need to be on stage to sound check. In a matter of hours, you would be headlining the biggest music festival in the country, and both your guitarists were stranded hundreds of miles away. They should have known better than to take a gig right before the festival, but you let them do it anyway because it was only a 30 minute flight between the airports. But, after a stray bird flock nearly downed another passenger plane, the tarmac was backed up for the time being. “Can you try asking around to see if someone can fill in for them?”

“And maybe hire them instead,” your publicist mutters under her breath, seething. You shoot her a wry smile, absentmindedly fidgeting with the plug of your in-ear monitors.

“The band is out trying to find guitarists, but it’ll be hard to ask someone to fill in because of scheduling issues and the number of stages there are this year.” Your manager takes a peek at her watch and looks at you with regret. “You need to go soundcheck, guitarists or not.”

“We have a drummer, a bassist, two keyboardists, and a vocalist. You’re gonna make them go out there with a jazz band and expect them to sing the biggest pop songs on the planet?” Your publicist, bless her heart, voices what you’d been dreading since you got the call from your lead guitarist. It was the biggest test to your professionalism since your career took off and you silently wished you’d paid attention to those tour bus guitar lessons. “How bad would it be to push back the set, even thirty minutes?”

“Bad, very bad. There’ve already been more delays than anticipated that aren’t music related,” the tech lead replies with a grimace. Your publicist curses under her breath and gives you a look telling you to get on stage. “And, it’s too late to fly in guitar tracks, even if we had them.” Shit. You’d just have to trust your team to figure something out, you figure, grabbing your sunglasses from the coffee table and exiting the trailer.

The rest of your band is already plugged in by the time the golf cart drives you to the main stage where you’d be performing. The ruthless summer sun competed with barely any clouds, blazing anything in its sight and leaving you breaking a sweat, even in the shade. A stage hand slips a wireless pack onto the waistband of your shorts and the click of the volume knob brings you the dweedling sounds of your band. The audience lot is relatively empty, thankfully, save for a few brave souls who were taking care of sound. Steeling your nerves, you shoot the audio tent a thumbs up, pop in your in-ears, and wait for the click track to run.

CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

The synth intro of your walkout song rings concerningly quiet in your ears and you tap your in-ears a few times, signaling the sound tent with a thumbs-up until the rest of the keyboards are audible. Not a great start to sound check, but that’s what this time was for, right?

CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Drums and bass in. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

Nothing.

The click continues its monotonous beat and you vaguely make out bass at the bottom of your mix, but you and your drummer look at each other with the same confused expression. She taps her ears, shaking her head.

“W-Wait, wait, wait. Can we stop, please?” You speak your request into your mic, disheartened to not hear your own voice in your mix. The synths stop abruptly, as does bass, and a dozen tech people rush onstage to fix various audio problems. “This is a nightmare,” you mutter, wiping the beads of sweat accumulated on your forehead.

“It’s always mix issues, isn’t it?” As if your irritation couldn’t increase, your eye twitches on its own when you register the voice of the person standing at the bottom of the stage. All shining white hair and dark, round rimmed sunglasses, Gojo Satoru was the last person you wanted to be interacting with. To say he looked good would be an understatement and your eyes look for any place to focus on other than his chest under his unbuttoned shirt. “For what it’s worth, you sound pretty on the mic.”

“What do you want?” Your voice is tired already, as is your entire body. Figuring out who would replace both your guitarists had sapped your energy and doors weren’t even open yet. “I don’t have the time nor the energy to debate with you today–”

“Heard you were looking for guitarists,” he cuts in and you narrow your eyes. The last thing you needed was your Billboard chart rival mocking you and your current situation. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t look at me like that. You and I both know you’re in a less-than-ideal spot right now.”

“Choose your next words very wisely, Gojo,” you seethe, using every ounce of your willpower to remain civil. “If you’re here to tease me, I don’t wanna fucking hear it.”

“I wanna help you,” he says before you’ve stalked out of earshot. “I can fill in for your lead and Suguru can play rhythm. I’ve already talked to him about it and he’s down. We’ve got the chords alright, but if anything funky happens, we’ll just follow your bassist. We’re pros for a reason, aren’t we?”

“I don’t need your help, Gojo,” you lie, desperately looking around for anything to get you out of this conversation.

“Thought I told you to call me Satoru when we were at that awards show.” His voice was always velvet smooth, disarmingly charming, and you hated the way it drew you in like a moth to a candle.

“I don’t remember that; and, if you did, I still don’t care.” We’re back on, says a voice through your ears. Starting the click on your cue, lead.

“Seems like you don’t remember a lot about what happened that night. I wouldn’t mind recounting it for you since it seemed like you had so much fun,” he baits coolly and you fall for it, storming back to the front of the stage and looking him square in his pretty face. Memory remnants of dancing in colorful strobe lights and running your hands through his hair appear in your mind’s eye before you can stop them, and it must register on your face. “Ah, so maybe you do remember what happened if you’re this angry about it.”

“We’re rivals, Gojo,” you hiss, your vision close to going scarlet. “We’re not supposed to be buddy-buddy, and what happened at that afterparty was a slip of my better judgment.”

“We’re not supposed to be, or you’re scared to be?” His question hangs in the air and you have no choice but to glare at him, waiting for him to back down when you know he never will. After a long pause, he sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “Look, I know you’re in need of guitarists and I just wanna help. Consider it a favor.”

“Favors need to be paid back,” you counter skeptically, “and you’re the last person I want to owe.”

“Not my kind of favors,” he says, more genuinely than you’re used to him being. “Just…think about it, yeah?” You don’t have time to dwell on why he was being so nice to you, though, as you give the audio tent a thumbs-up again. CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

By the time you’ve suffered through soundcheck, changed into your stage outfit, and inhaled more setting spray than should be considered healthy, the sun has become a laser. Gojo is nowhere to be found, thankfully, and you spend the rest of the time before your set pacing your trailer like a caged animal. There wasn’t any room in your mind to think about the crowd, the heat, or the extensive team counting on you to make it a worthwhile show. All that you could focus on was your lack of guitarists and the proposition from your #1 enemy in the music industry. Before you could cross from the kitchen tile to the living area carpet for the umpteenth time, the door threw itself open to reveal your breathless manager.

“We found guitarists! Let’s go, before they change their mind,” she commands. You thank the music festival gods for whomever she found, even happier knowing that it couldn’t be Gojo and Geto because their band had just finished on the other largest stage. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you answer uneasily, still reeling from switching panic-mode into show-mode within minutes. “Let’s just hope they’re good.”

This next artist needs no introduction…

The golf cart parks sidestage.

Dominating the pop charts for twelve straight weeks, taking the industry by storm…

You wink at the handful of screaming fans that spot you before ducking backstage.

And nominated for the most prestigious awards in the music world…

The stagehand slips the pack onto the waistband of your pants and hands you a mic.

Performing live and streaming around the world… [CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and–] Make some noise for–

“Yo, Satoru. You got an extra pick?” Your synths come in at the same time you whirl around, heart dropping into your stomach when you see the two guitarists behind you. You recognize Geto with his signature black hair tied up in a bun and catching rays of sunlight reflecting off the turtle shell body of his electric guitar. The limited interactions you had with Geto were pleasant, but the same couldn’t be said about the other musician fishing a pick from his leather pants. “Thanks,” Geto says as he sticks the spare in his pocket, clocking your shocked expression and giving you an apologetic shrug. “Sorry we’re a little late, the set ran a little long because this dumbass wanted to do another encore. I made the golf cart guy race over here, though.” He motions in the direction of your temporary lead guitarist, who unsuccessfully tries to clean his sunglasses with his fishnet shirt. “Oi, hotshot. Get ready, we’re on soon.” CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Drums and bass in. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

“They’re smudged,” Gojo pouts and you act without thinking, snatching the glasses from his hands, wiping it on your own costume, and handing it back to him without meeting his gaze. “Oh. Thank you,” he mumbles, sticking them on his face and trying to catch your eye. There were too many things happening at once for you to worry about him.

“Mhmm. Thanks for filling in,” you choke out with no trace of malice, the pressure in your forehead and chest becoming suffocating. The gravity of your performance crashes down on you in one disorienting wave and you blink in an attempt to clear the sudden blurry spots in your vision. Hundreds of thousands of eyes, waiting on you, watching you, worshiping you. The biggest performance of your career thus far, and you were going onstage prepared with nothing but a terrible soundcheck and two rock stars that probably didn’t give a shit about pop music. It was too much, it was all too much–

“Hey.” It’s him, breaking through the static as the click fades into the background, any panic replaced by the feeling of your biggest rival lightly touching the side of your face. He wipes a stray bead of sweat from your forehead, and you’re close enough to see every shimmering fleck of turquoise in his eyes. The crowd noise is staggering, but all he sees is you. “You look beautiful.”

“Satoru,” you whisper, barely able to verbalize your panic. He understands anyway, confidence radiating from his body.

“I’m with you. I’ve gotcha,” he reassures you, letting you mirror him as he takes a deep breath. “You trust me?” CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Guitars in, vocals enter. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

“I-I do.”

“Great.” His grin is dazzling, heart-stopping. All of him, he’s yours. “Let’s have some fun, then.”

—

You sleepily blink open an eye as you register the ringtone for your publicist playing on the nightstand. Outstretching a tired arm, you find it a little hard to move with the other occupant of the bed securing you against his chest. You mutter Satoru’s name, unsure if he’s awake yet; he grunts with his eyes still closed and you figure it’s unconscious, the way his muscles tighten around your waist to pull you closer. You groan as the phone screen blinks off, then on again with another insistent call.

“Satoru, you need to let me go.”

“I already did that once,” he mumbles into the pillowcase, “and I’m not making that mistake again.”

“I need to pick up the phone, baby. It’s my publicist,” you counter gently and it’s his turn to groan, reluctantly peeling away to rub his eyes. “Thank you,” you say sweetly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before answering the phone.

There you are. Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, says your publicist, her incredulity obvious.

“Mhmm, good morning to you too. Everything okay?” You squint against the morning sun breaking through the windows of Satoru’s loft, the city skyline casting rainbows on the walls.

Everything’s great, just wanted to let you know what’s been happening media-wise.

“They figure out where we are yet?”

Not yet, no. But, you know how these things go. They’ll find you eventually, so savor the time you have with him now. Right now, you have a lot of late-night outlets asking for interviews and a few charity ball performances lined up. It’s all stuff you can handle, don’t worry. Aside from the scheduling talk, her warnings were things you already knew. It was weeks before social media users finally settled down after Satoru and Suguru joined you on stage. Satoru had even convinced you to create a burner account so you could scroll through all the edits and fancams of you two. Now that you’d reconciled your feelings about Satoru and agreed to let you two make up for all the time you lost to your stubbornness, it was relatively peaceful. On another note, I did see a pretty cute reel counting all the times he looked at you during your festival set.

“Yeah? And how many times was it?”

More than you looked at him, which is saying something, she chuckles. I’m still reeling from how chaotic the crowd was when those two walked out with you. You’d think there was a fire breaking out, or something.

“They were pretty loud, weren’t they?” You smile softly at the memory of strutting out in your boots with Satoru and Suguru on either side of you. “I think they went crazier when Satoru started soloing, though.”

“I’m not called the best for nothing, sweetheart,” he murmurs from behind you with a smirk. “These hands are worth millions, and you get them for free–”

“Okay, that’s enough from you,” you cut in before he says anything more. “Please, ignore him.”

What’d he say?

“Nothing important.” Your cheeks heat and you shoot him a look over your shoulder, only to be met by a self-satisfied wink that makes your heart race.

I’ll take your word for it. What’s your plans for today?

“Breakfast, probably, and then maybe head down to the shopping district.”

That’s pretty public, no?

“I don’t mind. I’m ready for whatever they throw at us,” you shrug, honestly feeling like you couldn’t care less about being seen with Satoru. You look over at him again and find boyish, giddy excitement written all over his face. He was yours and you were his, mind, body, and soul. Let the cameras come, let the tabloids rave, let the fake fans criticize, you think to yourself.

As long as you two were together, you were untouchable.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#fics for gaza #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #satoru x you #satoru x reader #satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #gojo fluff #gojo angst #rockstar!gojo au

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motherofagony · 11 months

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A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 2

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: post outbreak!joel x f!reader setting: jackson, wy (think tlou pt. 2 minus the golfing) rating: mature, 18+, minors dni word count: 8.7k series summary: a vicious raider attack robs you of human connection and lights a fire of destruction in your life in jackson. joel's fixated on you, and your lives tangle. revenge becomes a needful thing. chapter summary: you take care of joel after a patrol injury, but you suspect there's more to it than he's telling you. the atmosphere shifts as you and joel grow (begrudgingly) closer. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), protective!joel, brief masturbation (f!reader), praise kink for two seconds, blood, bodily injuries, needles (reader gives joel stitches), dissociation/triggers, alcohol, angst, sexual tension intensifies, The First Kiss™, soft!joel vol. 1 // vol. 2 series playlist a/n: we're picking up speed, folks. world-building is my weakness, so i hope you enjoy this nonetheless. honorable mention goes to the readers in the trenches, waiting patiently for joel to [redacted] reader senseless until she [redacted] all over his [redacted]. thank you for the love on the series so far. taglist: @ghostwritesthings, @widowssbite, @p3rkerr, @eternallyvenus, @punkshort if anyone would like to be added/removed to the taglist (or if i missed anyone), please send me a DM!

You’ve always hated flying.

In the great before, the stone ages of family vacations and things to look forward to, fears were singular and planes were yours.

Your family never had a lot of money, not really, but on the special occasion of a death in the family, you’d find yourself trapped to a seat in a metal tube. Going nowhere but up. Sitting through safety instructions that came from smiling, lipsticked mouths that were only hypotheticals until they weren’t.

It’s like a rollercoaster, your dad would say, amused in the way only a dad can be and sleeping through damn near anything in the same fashion. It did nothing to calm the knocking of your knees, to quell the flip of your stomach as you climbed higher and higher until you couldn’t see anything but cotton ball clouds.

It was always unnatural to you that something so heavy could float, that you were supposed to go on doing human things and drinking your ginger ale and munching your pre-packaged snack option. As if you weren’t being hurled into the sky with no one walking you through it.

As if the plummet onto tarmac meant no harm, just completely normal erratic braking that felt a lot like the moments before a crash.

There was no control — it was in someone else’s hands that you never saw. And as you fell, you were supposed to say thank you, that’s exactly what I paid for.

This is your version of the oxygen mask. This is you putting yours on before you help Joel.

You’re on your knees digging through your med bag, thumbing through bandages, checking for a quick count of gloves, antibiotics, wash cloths. You fumble with the zipper, fighting with the tremor that starts in your forearms and liquifies into your wrists. There isn’t much in the way of supplies unless you ransack what’s kept in storage, but there’s no time, and you’re not sure of what you’re about to walk into.

Waiting any moment for a scream, or the blast of a gun when they realize Joel’s not Joel anymore.

And it isn’t really a big possibility in the grand scheme of things, if you consider that he would’ve likely turned on the route home. But it’s still there, tickling the back of your head, nudging your navel uncomfortably. Nothing’s impossible.

You of all people know that.

You linger in your living room, giving a final sweep. Worst case, you can run back for what’s forgotten, but something about the idea of abandoning a vulnerable Joel – if only for a minute – doesn’t settle right in your stomach.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving a bottle of whiskey into the bag, the only anesthetic on hand. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you need to score back some points.

The steps leading up to Joel’s house are sturdy, and you imagine it’s because of the pride he takes in what’s his. Before this, his house was just another skeleton of roof, foundation, windows, and siding.

The kind of houses you pass by every day that are rife with familiarity but you don’t know what it’s like to see the people inside eat dinner, brush their teeth. Fight. Fuck.

Fresh paint from only two seasons ago, reinforced porch posts. A swing. It’s weird to see permanence in this day and age, but his intention to anchor himself and grow roots here flutters meaningfully inside you.

It’s always been a sacred thing to you, you don’t know why. A place you’d never dreamed of entering, but dreamed about what it would smell like. A pair of boots haphazard by the front door, small piles of organized chaos, of collected tangibles. A you never know if you’ll need this in one corner, a saving that for a rainy day shelved in another.

So when you raise your hand to knock, you feel like an intruder, an unwelcome invasion of privacy. And you don’t know why you knock at all, you nearly think better of it given the circumstances, but you’re testing the atmosphere, hoping for voices inside instead of a struggle.

Ellie’s swinging the door open, relief smoothing out the lines in her forehead when she sees you. Her presence seems to answer any unspoken questions you had about Joel being infected, and you don’t voice them to her when you can see unrest in her antsy legs.

“Hey. Sorry for the wait. He alright?”

Her teeth are worrying her lip, probably more traumatized by the sight of him than anything. A few strands of hair have freed themselves from her lazy half-bun at the base of her neck, caught in the crossfire when she ran her hands through it, you think.

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes, committing to it. “Yeah, he’s okay. Bleeding stopped, nothing seems broken. Just needs stitches, I think.”

It sounds more to convince herself than anything else. There’s a foreign fragility to her, and you hate it.

“He tell you what happened?”

The question strikes a nerve. Ellie’s shaking her bowed head, scoffing in a half-laugh that doesn’t touch her eyes. Her hand wraps around her knuckles, cracking slowly in an effort to alleviate the tension that’s reached a fever pitch inside her.

“He won’t tell me, says it doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have gone alone anyway, he was bein’ a dick. ‘I wanna think, kiddo - need t’clear my head,’” she mocks in a gruff, rolling pitch, the perfect dosage of Texas.

It levels you, potent. Are you the thing Joel needed to clear his head of?

You’re weirdly longing for it, but being flicked away like a bug, peeled away layer by layer from him isn’t something you want.

There’s hope that you’re contagious. That you’re haunting him and lurking in the darkest corners of his mind like an apparition like he has yours. And maybe there’s hope after all, something left to salvage.

But you play dumb, furrow your brow a little too expertly.

Ellie’s measuring you, and there’s a glimpse of worry but she hides it in a way that you wouldn’t know what you were looking for if you hadn’t already found it.

“Anything you wanna tell me about the other night? He was pissed when he left,” she tacks on quietly.

You go a little slack-jawed. You don’t even know how to put it into words, and you couldn’t tell her what it meant even if you tried.

What’s there to even say?

“You know what, none of my business,” she says, her hands lifting in tired surrender when you don’t answer, ignoring your near-sputter. “But you’re not off the hook, just make sure the old man doesn’t croak. And tell him he scared the shit outta me.”

You exhale and hope it doesn’t read too much as relief. You’ll have to answer to her later, but at least you might have an answer to give.

“Handful of salt in the wound, rub in circular motions – got it. Tell Tommy I’ll catch up later.”

Your shoulders scrape affectionately as you nudge past each other, and you cast a wide look at the periphery of Joel Miller’s house. The feeling of unwelcome disappears, and if anything, you’re being tugged further inside. Imagining what it’s like to be a fixture, an adornment in his weird little life.

Nooks that you assumed would be messy are neat, coiffed even. There’s that unavoidable smudge of secondhand all over the furniture – mottled ever so slightly, aged uneven in places that only an apocalypse can do. But it’s an otherwise tidy existence. Another surprise from Joel that you’d never pick up on if you only witnessed him nursing a drink at the bar.

An oak bookshelf props itself at the bottom of the stairs and it rivals your own, dust gathering in thin lines where he’s repeatedly shelved this, reread that. There are paintings hung decisively on most of the walls, breathtaking rural landscapes of wherever.

You’re lugging the bag upstairs, counting your breaths with each step. The whiskey rattles mutely against the first aid tin, and it’s a toss-up now of who you really brought it for.

The landing mirrors the ground level, a purposeful littering of tchotchkes. Doors line the second floor, some closed, some ajar but not inviting, and you realize you have no idea which one you’re looking for. You sway uninvited by the bannister until you hear the unmistakable hiss of breath between clenched teeth, then a soft moan as his weight shifts.

And you’re stepping inside a room – his bedroom – warmed in the soft beginnings of sunset. Joel’s sprawled asymmetrically on his bed, eyes pinched shut, delirious with blood loss but already looking substantially less like a corpse. A damp rag settles just above his brow, and the handiwork of Ellie.

There’s an unrecognizable hurt in him, wounded in ways that he shouldn’t be capable of.

He doesn’t give any indication that he knows you’re here until he’s rasping out something weak disguised as stern.

“I ain’t bit. Shut the door behind you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“How did you –?”

Joel just huffs in response, as indignant as his body lets him be.

“You see anyone else here? They might as well’ve jumped out the window, as fast as they dumped me ‘n left. I ain’t stupid.”

You accept that and drop the pretense, pursing your lips with a nod. He doesn’t seem that offended, knows it’s just the nature of the beast.

You move over to his bedside, unpacking the bag quickly on a side table, looping your metaphorical stethoscope around your neck and switching gears into a mode that’s strictly doctoral.

Yet, there’s still that hum beneath your skin, the fizzle of unfinished business. It’s thick in the space between you, in the way he flicks his gaze at you lazily. You’ll let him foster the anger, giving it a home. You can be the martyr he says you are.

This new lens feels calmer, almost professional. Your nerves are still firing rapidly, and your composure is forced, but it’s better than nothing.

You drag a chair from the corner up to Joel’s bed, not letting your eyes wander too far into the depths of the space. You don’t have time to dissect the idiosyncrasies of his life. Not yet.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but you get the sense that he’s tracking your every move. His limbs are concrete, the tendons in his forearms so tense and coiled like any and every movement is forbidden.

“Joel.”

He grunts, a pained translation. Still no effort to move.

“I need to take a look at you,” you say patiently, bargaining like you would with a kid. “Wanna tell me what hurts?”

Another grunt, softer this time. He motions vaguely, weakly to his head, then the left flank of his abdomen.

You already know what you’ll find under the rag on his head, and it bodes well that the bleeding looks to have stopped. His stomach wound, on the other hand, was enough to bleed through two layers.

“Alright. Lemme see.”

A muted whimper echoes in his throat, so uncharacteristically that it tugs on your heart. Still statuesque, unmoving.

Your fingers are deft, careful as they unbutton the first, second, third buttons of his flannel. Joel’s stock-still, and his breath comes in sharp, slow waves through his nose. Your own breath kind of sits in the back of your throat, and you pretend with a hurried exhale that you weren’t just holding it.

Your fingers reach his navel on the last button, and you’re gently tucking each panel of his shirt under him on either side, focusing too hard on not touching him. It feels like something is somersaulting low in your stomach.

You can’t even dare yourself to look at his chest, his stomach. The patch of hair leading down to the band of his pants.

Get it together. That’s not what this is.

An angry gash looks up at you, thankfully clotted with dried patches of blood. It’s about two delicate fingers long, a nasty slice. It looks clean, abrupt in shape but suspiciously manmade. Not too deep, but not superficial enough to heal without some assistance.

And thank god, not nearly as bad as you thought it would be.

Joel’s looking at you now through heavy lids, wary of you, but something like fear touches the corners of his eyes. You fight to stay medical, methodical in your diagnosis. No emotion slips out, nothing allowed in.

You sit back calmly, letting loose a sigh. Not letting yourself bathe in the intimacy of the moment, in the way he’s staring.

“You need stitches,” you announce simply.

“Like hell.”

“Joel.”

He’s scowling, a hurt animal pissed at its own vulnerability. Silence passes like a ship between you, and for a moment, you think he’ll really fight you on this. He can’t hide anything when he’s like this, the weighing of his options evident in the tick of his jaw, the pathetic pinch just in the center of his brows.

“Fine,” he grits out. “Make it quick.”

This fucker.

You’re rolling your eyes, unceremoniously tugging the rag from his forehead. The cloth is red but not soaked, just twinged pink around the edges. Joel curses, just an octave above unintelligible.

His hand is shooting to the cut near his hairline and you’re smacking it away before he can pollute it.

“Lay still, fuck’s sake,” you chastise. “An infection’ll put you out longer than a few days. Unless you have a puzzle you been meaning to get around to?”

The faux-threat calms him immediately, and the shift in restraint doesn’t go unchecked. He doesn’t say another word, but you catch a glare and a twitch of his mouth.

You make quick work of cleaning him up, squeezing rubbing alcohol on a clean towel and scrubbing patient circles through the mess of dried blood. Joel releases sharp noises you can only describe as growls when you get too close to the border of his cuts.

It’s primal, a dog asserting dominance with his leg caught in a trap.

You try to lose the attitude, and it’s difficult when your patient hates you, doesn’t hate you, won’t clarify either way.

There’s a hint of purple that’s developing like fresh film on the mountains of his knuckles that doesn’t go unnoticed. Places on the most taut peaks of flesh where his skin has split, marred with scrapes that look like indents of teeth. And in the right light, there’s a discoloration of something in the same family splayed on his ribs.

And that… you know that when you see it. Even if everything else can be explained away.

“You wanna talk about it?” you say quietly.

There’s an intermission where he doesn’t respond. Too long to be the truth, too short to come up with a lie. And you know he’s been waiting for this question, might’ve already thought of a story.

“Got clumsy,” Joel recites. “Tripped on some stairs that were caving in, hit my head.”

“Bullshit.” And it’s a statement, not an insult. It doesn’t cover why he has a certified stab wound in his side.

Another stretch of silence, lack of defensiveness, makes it clear that he knows you know. But he doesn’t elaborate, and for whatever reason, you don’t push it.

And maybe it’s enough to acknowledge this sort of thing for now. You can stow it away, let it keep you up at night. Draw parallels where there possibly aren’t any. If he’d run into a human thing, he’d be much worse off, right?

Just like you were.

You take care in lining up the supplies to stitch in neat order beside you, mulling over each step in your mind. Stalling, maybe.

You pull the whiskey bottle out of your bag by the neck and nudge Joel with the cap.

“Something to take the edge off.”

He kind of hesitates, but there’s a tenderness. Recognizing it as an act of mercy, a peace offering.

There’s nothing said, but he takes the bait, spinning off the top and swallowing a messy mouthful. A drip escapes through the corner of his mouth and slips into his beard.

You can feel the taste of it blossoming on your tongue.

He grunts his thanks and keeps a steady grip on the neck of the bottle, and the network of veins in his forearm unwind.

You clamp the needle, laced through with something thicker than thread but not quite medical grade. Joel exhales a shaky whine when you pierce the skin, and his fist grips the sheets when you twist clockwise to push the needle through to the other side.

“You’re doing great,” you murmur.

The needle weaves over the cut, greeting the other side. You pull it through and up, and his lower lip trembles, sweat beading his forehead.

“First one done,” you say, praising him but also yourself.

Joel’s still clenching the linens on the bed, ignoring you and hiding out in his own mind somewhere.

You don’t tell him that you’ve only ever practiced on fruit, that your suture knowledge comes exclusively from the one medical text you have and endless hours of TV you grew up on.

Silence envelopes you again, heavier than before if possible. The pressure waxes and wanes like nighttime waves, licking the shore between you. And it’s not angry, just something… else.

“Some house you got,” you note casually as a distraction, like you’re commenting on the weather. It comes off relaxed enough, though any conversation between you feels like flossing a crowded mouth.

His eyes sharpen, and you think it’s in excruciation, but there’s a twinge of apprehension. You straighten for a moment, hands fixed mid-stitch, and roll your eyes.

“Okay, cool it, Home Alone, I’m not casing the place.”

Joel takes a turn rolling his eyes. You swear that you see his mouth twitch again, but you hang your head, dabbing a cloth where pinpricks of blood form.

You try again.

“I like your paintings.”

You dare to look up, and his mouth is in a tight line.

“You like my paintings.” he repeats dully, not a question. Joel’s as cynical as you, and he thinks it’s a jab, not sincere.

“You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Now’s as good a time as any. You sigh at that.

“Look, the other night wasn’t my finest moment. It didn’t need to go that way,” you mutter, leaning on the concentration of sewing up Joel’s skin. Otherwise, you might feel too strongly, dissect your word choice with an uncomfortable linger. “Sorry. I know you were trying to help.”

He goes rigid as your second stitch meets a third. The bottle tips to his lips again, and you wonder if it’s an act of liquid courage. You boldly hope so.

“Nah, I shoulda kept my mouth shut. Been thinkin’ I needed to apologize anyway,” he admits, and you know he’s happy you made the first move. You can already feel him loosen, but maybe it’s the alcohol. “You ain’t a martyr, y’know.”

Oh.

The needle hooks into the final sliver of skin, your handiwork tightening into a neat line. You sit back, wiping your brow with the ungloved section of your wrist. It’s a treaty, a handshake at the very least.

“Actually, I think you hit the nail on the head with that one,” you smirk, olive branch fully hanging between your teeth now. “Keeping up the charade is so exhausting.”

Joel presses out a pained half-laugh, and you feel something crumbling between you.

You tie off the last stitch, trimming the excess thread off the knot. The clamp clatters into the tray, and you give it a final once-over before peeling a large rectangle of bandage from your kit and pressing it gently over the wound.

“All done,” you quip, peeling your gloves off. “Didn’t even have to amputate.”

“Not too bad,” he grunts.

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

While you’re riding the high of approval, you stand and move to the foot of the bed. Joel’s boots are still on, laced messily.

And for some reason, you don’t even ask permission, you just start untying, tipping them off and lining them next to one another on the hardwood.

He doesn’t say a word. Out of confusion, maybe.

You scoot your chair and makeshift flatlay along with you, positioning yourself at Joel’s head. That look is back, a side-stare that steals your breath.

That look that knows you could absolutely ruin him, and he’d either thank you or kill you.

The pads of your fingers brush back the hair from his forehead, still slightly matted with blood. It’s a surface cut, but crescent-shaped and easily hidden by a curl of brown, peppered with grey. Butterfly closure it is.

No signs of a concussion show themselves. At least there’s that.

“You might have a scar,” you murmur. Being this close to Joel makes you feel like you’re wearing two layers too many.

And he hasn’t broken the stare, not even minutely.

“Add it to the collection,” he says lowly, not an ounce of self-pity.

Your eyes flash to the scar near his temple. You’re exercising full-on restraint not to ask him about it. But it’s not the time, something you could try to pry out of him later. And knowing there’ll be a later makes you relax your shoulders, unclench your jaw.

He’s nice enough to pretend not to notice, or he’s in too much pain to mention it.

You dab the damp rag around the border of his cut again, mopping up any excess. You reach for the isopropyl.

“You might wanna take another swig,” you warn. And he obeys, down the hatch and white-knuckling through it.

“Good boy,” you’re murmuring automatically, and it just slips out.

Your mouth falls open just so, and Joel’s coughing, clearing his throat against the burn of whiskey. You’re pleading with the universe that his cough was close enough, loud enough to cover the words, but his face has turned a shade of red that’s probably rivaling the heat that reaches your ears.

Good boy? Jesus Christ.

If there was ever a heightened moment of being fucking touch-starved, it’s this.

You make haste with the disinfectant and place the closures over the cut. The bloodied towels and scraps from the DIY surgery are cleaned up, tied neatly into a plastic bag. And now, this is the part where you run and never face him again.

You’re already making plans to board up your windows, maybe have Ellie deliver your meals solely through a slot in the door.

But Joel’s pain is overriding everything, and he’s sunken even further back into the pillow, his head lolling to prop on his shoulder. He’s whispering a weak thanks that’s incoherent at best. You tug the blanket up and over him.

You grab a glass from downstairs, fill it to the brim with water and bring it to him. He groans at the sight, petulant.

“I’m not leaving until you finish this.”

His lifts his arm for it, scowling. “Gimme the damn thing.”

Satisfied, you hand it over and watch him drink it down, his throat bobbing in a hearty gulp. Your gaze can’t help but snag on it.

You have got to get the fuck out of here.

You come back with a refilled glass and sit it on his bedside table, close enough within reach. The medical bag is packed up and ready, sagging slightly in areas where you’ve emptied it. It knocks against your already-knocking knees, and you’re grateful to use its weight as an excuse for how blurred you feel.

“I need to talk to Tommy. You gonna be alright for a bit?”

His eyes are closed again, on the outskirts of rest, but his mouth pulls up in the ghost of smile.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart.”

And you hope he means it.

—

You track down an unsettled Tommy, finding him pacing in the back of the general store. He’s restocking some shelves but not quite – there’s an gross pairing of tinned fish and fresh eggs sitting on a display that’s unappetizing at best.

“He’s okay. No bite,” you add lowly, acutely aware of how many pairs of ears are in the store. “But he needs to be monitored.”

Tommy slackens, rubbing his eyes that are full of exhaustion and bruised with worry. Index finger and thumb stroking the respective tails of his mustache one, two, three times as the gravity of that strikes him.

He loops you into an embrace, and it’s kind, full of ease. The smell of firewood and smoke tickles your nose. His worry evaporates then, and honestly, so does yours.

“He doin’ alright?”

You chew on that for a moment and nod. There are complications, but nothing to do with Joel’s health.

“He was pissed about the stitches, but I didn’t have a choice. Cut was pretty deep.”

“So… he tell you what happened, then?”

There’s that question again. You feel like you should have an answer, but if he wouldn’t clue in Ellie, you sure as hell wouldn’t be.

Like squeezing blood from a stone, your dad used to say.

“No,” you lie instinctively. You don’t know why.

But it isn’t really. Not if you don’t know the full truth yourself. There’s just something about Joel’s omission that makes you feel entitled to find out first.

“He said he fell down some stairs,” you amend, “just didn’t say where or how.”

Tommy offers you the same look that Ellie gave you – a raised brow coupled with a touch of disbelief.

“If you say so.”

You shrug, playing it as cool as’ll come natural to you. “You know Joel. Doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and rolling out his shoulders that you know have been holding tension. He believes that, at least.

“Sounds like you know him, too.”

—

A few days come and go.

Ellie takes on a lot of the recovery, but she doesn’t like messing with stitches — creeps me the fuck out that you did that without puking all over him, she claims — and she’s eager to substitute for the patrol routes while Joel’s down and out. You offer to step in, with a totally normal and selfless motive.

If she thinks anything else of it, you’d be the last to know.

Your new itinerary consists of changing Joel’s bandages, cleaning up through his hissed breaths and every goddamn it. Twice a day, morning and night and sometimes in closer intervals, but never approaching the cusp of any boundary.

Joel’s fiercely independent, swatting your hands when you try to help. Donning a clean flannel in the space between your lunchtime visit and your nightcap, despite you telling him that he shouldn’t be pushing his mobility.

That said, he’s marginally better about following doctor’s orders, drinking the water you leave on his nightstand but neglecting the pills that would stop him from coiling in on himself like a ready spring. And he doesn’t say it but you know it’s because he thinks it’d be a waste.

You trade regular formalities at first, each of you standing behind your respective walls, daring the other to toe a bit closer.

Joel doesn’t ask, but you bring him some short stories to pass the time and he devours them. You didn’t think much of it other than just straying past the point of being nice, but your heart sings a bit at how he leaves his shell at your coaxing.

You learn Bradbury is his favorite, but when he finishes The Most Dangerous Game, it’s the most he’s ever spoken to you in one sitting, astounded at the perfectly tied bow of an ending, asking you questions that only the author could answer. But it’s a marvel to witness, something you think about when you’re cleaning stables or washing dishes.

He’s unraveling for you, a loose thread tugged too hard on your favorite sweater. He talks of the places in the paintings, sometimes abruptly, like he isn’t sure what his cue is or if he has one.

Mentions of pre-Jackson when there was so much uncertainty and isolation, but it was coupled with those types of watercolor skies that you couldn’t paint if you tried.

These little pieces of him that make him whole – it’s like you’re both in on the same secret. And Joel isn’t doing it to lighten the tension, to be nice; that isn’t his brand of politeness. He just revels in the holy act of confession with you as his witness.

You come to learn that his room is modest, different from the rest of his house. Clues of hobbies sprawled on his desk – leatherworking tools and hand drawn blueprints that you can’t get a good look at with just a sidelong glance.

There’s a dusty stereo tucked at the back towards the wall, and you picture a content Joel, sketching new plans for a porch swing or some small addition while old bluesy country croons from the speakers.

You like this daydream, placing him in something lighthearted where his only worry is that he’s losing daylight on yardwork.

The two of you talk about little bits of everything and nothing. Reminiscing about sending snail mail, discussing what you think places like Italy look like now. How close you came to crossing an ocean in another life.

Tonight, you have a night terror that clings to you like wet denim. Stop-motion, nonsensical. Your head ricocheting into concrete, hitting your temple just so. Flashes of the people that used to be your parents, your friends.

And just as the life drains from you, blood seeping onto the floor and into spidering cracks, you wake up a flailing mess.

You practice your routine, twisting on knobs of lamps and plugging in the twinkling lights hanging around the perimeter of the living room. You press your cheek to the floor, checking under your bed for monsters for good measure.

Bleary-eyed, you’re climbing back under the covers, pulling them snug up to your chin.

There’s a neediness crawling its way through your organs with a one-way ticket south. The juxtaposition of fear mingles with an otherness, and it anchors itself to Joel.

You never cared for a protector, still don’t, but the eagerness that sprouts from him to defend your honor — and for nothing in return — magnetizes you on a cellular level.

Your fingers are dipping into the band of your already-damp underwear, taking inventory of what the thought of him does to you. Body on auto-pilot. A pool of dripping neediness, so slick that you’re coating your clit in excess and rubbing in tight circles.

He doesn’t even have to touch you, and it’s pathetic.

Images of Joel’s beard scratching your thighs swirls behind your eyelids, your hand gliding between the glistening of your folds. Fingers crook inside you, dipping into the last knuckle, and you’re choking on a gasp, already on the edge.

You wish they were more calloused, thicker, with length that can hit the spot that’s desperately out of reach.

You wish they were Joel’s.

It takes only a minute, some curling and pumping of your wrist to make it quick in case it’ll only ever be a fantasy. The wet noises of your arousal are nothing short of obscene, and you’re coming loudly, sharply on a string of moans.

In some ways, you think, you have already died.

And fuck. It’s so poetic it makes you sick.

—

On the fourth day, Maria sends you to Joel’s with some stew — two hearty containers that're meant for the both of you.

She’s been taking her shift at his place, carrying over containers of this and that to keep him fed. You wonder how often she takes on that role anyway, sans injury. You don’t peg Joel as the type to eat three square meals a day of his own accord.

Tell Joel I can’t make it tonight. Gotta do inventory.

She makes no room for elaboration, so you don’t ask. But you thank her with a hug, and you could swear that she’s giving you a conspiratorial smirk.

When you knock on Joel’s bedroom, he gives a new, warm invitation, coated in subtle hospitality. It’s a far stretch from the unaffected what? you might’ve received a week ago.

You place the stew down on the bedside table, along with some bowls and spoons you plucked from his kitchen. He just looks up at you from his bed, uncertainty reaching the lines of his forehead.

“It’s all Maria,” you explain and he hums, catching up.

“Explains a lot,” he mutters.

You eat quietly for a little over ten minutes. Joel’s flannel today boasts a rich navy, buttoned up to the top but not far enough to hide the sprinkling of hair that peeks through.

He catches you staring and pins you with a dark glance.

“You afraid of the dark or somethin’?”

Joel’s ask cuts through the air, and your spoon stops mid-route to your open mouth. It’s so out of the blue that it stuns you momentarily.

“Sorry?”

“You turn the lights on at night.”

What you thought to be private moments of fear were actually on display for all to see.

For Joel to see.

And the memory of your thighs trapping your hand as you came over and over again on your fingers… you’re grateful to at least have had some decorum to draw your bedroom curtains.

“Um.” You dig for a way to say nope, I’m actually just a pussy and I see things that aren’t there. Also, I was touching myself thinking about you last night. “No, just nightmares.”

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s searing. A bead of sweat makes a slow descent down your spine to your tailbone. You laugh lightly to deflect.

Joel’s mouth thins into a tight line.

“It’s nothing,” you promise.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he snaps. His brows are knitted in fury, misdirected. But you get it.

Your stomach is rumbling, but you’ve effectively lost whatever appetite you had. The bowl finds a space on the side table, and you’re pulling your knees to your chest protectively, thumbing at the fray on the cuff of your jeans.

You don’t mean to scowl, but you can’t help it. You can’t even meet his eyes.

Joel’s sighing, his own bowl discarded on the nightstand, grazing the lip of yours.

“Look, it’s not my business,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “but that kinda shit worries me.”

When you do look up, he’s rubbing his beard with rigid fingers. You should feel nice and fuzzy that he cares enough to point it out, but it’s just embarrassment instead.

That, on top of everything else, you can’t even get through the night without waking up in a cold sweat.

“I know how it looks,” you say in surrender, “but I swear I’m fine.”

You can imagine what it would feel like to really mean it; it’s just on the tip of your tongue. There is a defiance there, it’s just struggling to find a way out.

“You sure about that?”

You let your feet touch the floor, straightening out your legs and busying yourself with smoothing the creases in your pants.

“You worry about everyone else like this?” you muse, hoping to redirect.

Joel’s scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed anywhere else.

“Always worried about you.”

If you were any farther away, you wouldn’t have heard him.

Outside, kids are yelling, playing tag. You watch in jealousy, can almost hear the crunch of their boots and their tiny, inconsequential conversations. It takes you longer than intended to give a response, and he waits, patiently. Just trickles a look from the crown of your head to your hands to your face. Searching for a reaction.

“You’re about ten months late, Miller.” And you’re smiling briefly. You mean it as playful, but it’s colored with sadness.

His eyes glaze, and the wheels are turning, wondering if that also means too late.

“Didn’t want you to think I was takin’ advantage of the situation. And I thought Max —” Joel bites down on the name.

“Fuck Max,” you spit in disgust. “That was never a thing.”

You don’t have to make eye contact to see that he’s pleased by that. He hums in the back of his throat. Resists a shit-eating grin. From the looks of Joel connecting the dots, you don’t need say much else.

“Yeah, well. We all failed you,” he insists. “I failed you.”

It sets an incredulous spark in some hidden part of you. Nails cut into your palm, your fists balling harshly. Everyone else? Sure, you’d give him that. Jackson spit you out, with the exception of a select few.

But Joel?

“You saved me.”

“Not good enough,” he says under his breath.

—

The next day, you let yourself inside, already learning the language of Joel’s house when you press a little extra weight against the door to seal it shut when it sticks.

It’s quiet, on the cusp of 8, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Joel’s on the brink of sleep.

The sun’s long settled over the mountain, so there’s not much in the way of guidance.

It’s dark, but you expected it to be. You draw the curtains one by one, moving blindly from room to room yet knowing exactly where your feet are. It strikes you as odd, a visitor keeping pace with an unfamiliar house.

But if Joel’s anything, it’s predictable. Unfussy in the way he keeps out of the way, even in his own space. Takes pride in it, sure, but lives in a way that demands nothing but cherishes everything, even the absence of something.

Meaning there’s nothing too unexpected, too risky in its placement. He doesn’t take up too much room in the event that it’s gone tomorrow.

When your hands fumble for the switch of the living room lamp, the bulb springs to life and bathes a wary Joel in light. Sitting on the couch, slouched with residual soreness, but waiting.

For you.

“Jesus, fuck — what the fuck, Joel —”

“You’re late.”

“— sitting in the fucking dark like a lunatic —”

He puts a hand up to stop you, as if to press your mute button.

“I didn’t fall down any stairs.”

Your hands have risen to your chest in the shock of him there, and you’re gripping your shirt in the way he had almost a week ago. You don’t miss that little detail, so much so that you struggle to piece together what he’s saying.

It punches you abnormal; you kept so busy with leaving the subject alone that it slipped your mind that he lied.

“Sit down.”

You’re obedient and you don’t know why. You find a seat across from him, pulling up a stool that’s meant for feet, not your ass. Something crackles beside you, and the embers of a dying fire glow and warm to the left of you.

Your leg crosses over your knee, creating a 45-degree angle that you rest your elbows on. “Yeah, I gathered as much, thanks. You’re a terrible liar.”

Joel’s just eyeing you. And it’s not in a way that sizes you up, more of a calculation of what to say next. What to give away. There’s a beat of this, then another, then another.

“I thought ‘bed rest’ was pretty self-explanatory.”

You’re growing impatient, filling the room just to do it. You both know what happened, and maybe that’s what’s needling at you. That you’re the one person who’d understand the most, but the one person he doesn’t want to know.

It feels wretched and seething, knowing something but not enough.

“I’m gonna need you to cut to the part where you tell me what happened, Joel.”

At that, Joel drags in a breath and leans deeper into the couch. His gaze has moved to somewhere far off, burning into the drawn curtains like he can see outside, can see directly into the window of your kitchen. And with sudden clarity, you realize that he could — it’s a clean diagonal stare.

Are you afraid of the dark?

How many times has he sat in this very spot, taking in the show, watching you make tea, watching you read, watching you stutter and shake with sobs? Witnessing the onslaught of a nightmare?

Touching yourself? Watching you undress?

You aren’t the voyeuristic type, just uncaring to the point of defenseless. But Joel keeping an eye on you in this way is the coup de grâce that does you in. There’s no question now of whether he cares.

“I took Mountain View, headed for the outpost. Not much up that way lately, maybe one or two infected every once ‘n a while,” he says, and it’s unsettling that he’s talking in a way that could be to anyone or no one at all. “Thought I’d stop at the pharmacy on the way up, check that off, too. ‘Cept I wasn’t the only one with that idea.”

He pauses only to crack his knuckles for effect. Fingertips splay on his spread knees, and what seemed so fragile earlier, watercolors of bruises stretching from ligament to tendon, seems threatening now.

“One was lootin’ in the back, didn’t hear me come in. I thought he mighta been alone ‘til his friend followed me in,” he pauses, lost in thought. “Got into it with him.”

As if on cue, the gory split-skin of his hands flexes. Offensive wounds.

You were right, but you wish you weren’t.

“His friend came up from the back, ‘n they took turns for a minute. Long enough for me to get a good look. I ended up takin’ out the shorter one, other one was gone before I could get up.”

Joel doesn’t lift his head, just his eyes. The skin around them crinkles in sinister shapes, lids disappeared, lashes nearly touching brow. You know it’s not anger directed at you, but it’s shrinking you back down into an armchair, your fingers digging and clawing at the fabric without recognizing it.

“Know what’s funny about that?”

You don’t think you can answer with the desert that runs through your mouth. And whatever it is, it’s anything but.

“Not a lot of activity along the outposts this way, unless it’s infected. Everyone else comes straight through to Jackson. The logs say we’ve only run into two groups of raiders in the last five years along the patrol route,” another pause for emphasis. “And one of them was ten months ago.”

Something catches in your chest.

And then there’s a dam that breaks, pure relief. Relief that Joel’s seen the thing you’ve been pointing and screaming at while everyone else shrugs their shoulders and squints.

Then — panic.

Ice sneaks into your veins. The tips of your fingers run numb. It strikes you that you’re standing, that the foot stool is tipped on its side.

He doesn’t move, but there’s a contained rage in his eyes and his voice. A temper bubbling now that you’ve confirmed what he suspected.

“He have any tattoos?” Joel asks roughly.

There’s a flash of stars, hand-poked, bordering on downright sloppy.

“Who?” You say dumbly, but it’s obvious what he’s referring to. He’s seen it, too, and he’s seen it this week.

“You know who.”

You do.

You could draw it from memory if he asked.

Your weight becomes too much for your legs, and you collapse back down, this time into a chair that supports your amoeba-like state as everything in you turns to jelly.

“They’re getting closer. We were in Teton, so if they made it this far —” you jumble out, not sure if it’s just meaningless vomit to his ears. By his solemn nod, it isn’t.

He’s up and out of his seat with a wince that’s not as severe as before, his eyes careful on you, on your hands that you’re gripping together tightly to keep them still.

The isolation of his side is evident in the way he closes the space between you, but he masks the grimace as best he can. There’s a reprimand in you somewhere that he should be resting, lying down at least, but you know it’s pointless.

“Hey.”

He’s kneeling as much as his flank will allow, a pain in his eyes that isn’t for himself. Those fingertips scale the cliff of your jaw, ghosting as if he’s afraid to overstep. They’re prodding you to meet his eyes, and when you do, he drops his hand like he’s been burned.

It connects fiercely to a memory that you try to hold in your hands. A snowy, reminiscent one that slips through like a ribbon of smoke.

“Ain’t gotta worry about him. I’ll take care of it.”

You laugh, a real one that’s stained with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

Joel softens now, and the shift startles you. He thinks for a beat before answering.

“Whatever you need it to mean.”

It feels incomprehensible that anyone would willingly put themselves in danger for you, even adjacently, but then who noticed you were missing that day? Who led the pack, found you bleeding out?

The weather was violent, incoherent — a lost cause, a needle in the proverbial haystack. He already toed the line of a dangerous, potentially fruitless rescue mission.

And you never even thanked him.

“Why?” You ask it for the second time in as much as a week. It’s disjointed in conversation, but he knows that you need this answer.

“You remember how you were before?”

And for a split-second, you try.

There are glimpses, a rickety reel of kids tugging on your pant leg as they beg you to join them during recess, a glittering spray of laughter with Ellie as empty beer cans and discarded guitars litter her living room floor.

Of your friends’ faces on too many relaxed, sunny patrols, sometimes forcing them into a detour into the abandoned record store through Alpine so you can see what’s left.

Dinner in warm houses like Tommy and Maria’s, so full to the brim of love and potatoes and mead that you stumble on down to your house with cheeks burning and tuck yourself in with all of the lights off.

Visions of Joel that are fleeting, taped in frames on a film strip, but friendly exchanges.

But it’s a faceless narration. The accident wiped clean of any room for interpretation. Any visitation with these memories. You can place yourself in them, but can’t for the life of you feel tethered to her.

Frustrated, eyes watering, you shake your head.

“That’s why.”

Now he’s holding your jaw like he would some fragile thing, slotting his thumb just under the pulse thrumming in your neck, feeling the echo of it in his hand. There’s a silence, as if he’s straining to hear, to know the sound and syllables of your livelihood. You wish he’d press harder, bring you to the precipice of pleasure and death.

If only to know what it feels to be glass in Joel Miller’s hands, to be given the taste of death after he’d given you the gift of life all those months ago.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You know he can feel the adrenaline in your pulse point.

“Joel,” it falls out as a whisper, and you hate how good his name feels in your mouth.

He’s looking at you with empathy, thumbing through the pages of every agony you’ve succumbed to. It’s new and buzzing, knowing that there’s nothing you’d ever have to explain to Joel. No reasoning or fine print for how you are, he just knows. And he stays anyway.

A tear tracks a salty line down your face and it meets the pad of his thumb, an easy swipe.

And there’s a surge low in your throat, seesawing with satisfaction and the tell-tale lump of more tears if you lean in hard enough. Joel never shows his hand, the last to fold, but it feels a lot like you’re the prize he was waiting to throw cards down for.

So, you lean. Concave cheek into his calloused hand, tears without sobs leaking between his fingers down into his sleeve. The weight of only the world — your world, plural and shared — pushing you into him. The cataclysmic release that you’ve been aching for.

Your head is against his chest, cheek pressed against flannel because he’s guided you there. And it’s nice, you think, nice that he’s being a gentleman about the whole thing.

A gentleman just finger-combing through your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

It’s serene, and you’d happily make a home there and fall asleep if it wasn’t for the hammering of your heartbeat. You know he can feel it, and your quickened breath is the cherry on top.

Joel levels your faces, and his fingers are deja vu on the braille of each ridged cheekbone. He’s waiting on a cue, a line to be given to him from offstage, but you see flames licking through each darkened iris.

Something keeps holding him back, keeps holding you back. He’s too careful, afraid of cutting his hands on you. And in exploring every facet of that, it’s because he doesn’t want to bleed on you, not because the sharpest parts of you could hurt him.

You keep telling yourself it’s foreign and you’re strangers to one another.

But is it? Are you?

As if he’s reading your mind, Joel closes the distance in one fell swoop, and he kisses you.

It’s clumsy at first, in the way that clumsy is when you’re learning each other’s mouths. You taste the dregs of whiskey, of something wanton, and every unspoken word that’s ever misted between you. Years of forming smile lines and the prickle of his unkempt beard against your chin, taste the stories of every scar.

You’re tangling with him, lips pressing urgently against Joel. His tongue’s expert but gentle when he dips it inside your mouth, and you’re swapping breathless sighs. You can only imagine what he’s tasting of you, what flavor he’s been dreaming of.

His hands are still at either side of your face, thumbs pressing sweetly into the bony part of your jaw. Joel’s stilling the unrest in you that’s put its bags down and refused to leave. It quiets, tips a hat and walks out, leaving a welcome calm in place.

There’s a chasteness, but you know he’s just as desperate and hungry as you are. Wanting to claim, to devour each other entirely. And it’s not lost on you that he’s on his knees, hands clasping your face in prayer like you’re some communion he’s drinking from.

He engulfs you, and you’re moving together, fitting together like you were poured from the same mold. Joel’s fingers have moved to thread through your hair, one of his hands cradling the back of your head and tugging just barely.

Enough that magma pools in between your hips.

But he slows, letting loose a low groan into the heat of your mouth. It’s helpless, like he’s accepted he can’t swim and has submerged his head underwater.

And when you finally break apart, Joel’s pupils are dilated, on the cusp of black. Your collective breaths are uneven. He looks at you in awe.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a long, long time,” he’s saying, but you can barely hear him. Not when your heart is catching up with the rest of you, roaring above everything else. His thumb skates over your bottom lip, and the instinct to unhinge your jaw for him shouldn’t be there, but it is.

Maybe this sort of suffering is worth it, if it’s Joel you’re suffering for.

If you weren’t in trouble before, you sure as fuck are now.

#my writing #ahfe #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us hbo #jackson!joel #joel miller #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #a heart for eating #joel miller x f!reader #the last of us smut #motherofagony

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xoxoskai · 8 months

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KAYDENGARETH HEADCANNONS

I like to think their book could've been called God of Misery. Why? I don't know. It just sounds cool.

Gareth has extreme OCD. As children, Killian used to mess with his things, hide them or displace them from their original place which made him develop an obsessiveness with knowing where all his things were kept.

Kayden inhales copious amounts of black coffee in a day. I'm talking 8-9 ventis.

Gareth is blackmailed convinced by Kayden to become his teaching assistant.

Kayden wanted easy access and to have tabs on Gareth the whole time, but it backfires when Gareth organizes his entire schedule, all his coursework and makes additional notes for him to go over.

Kayden is a tie hoarder. Navy blue, scarlet red, violet, turquoise, beige, you name it, he has it.

Asher thinks he's Gareth's inspiration to become a lawyer, but Gareth watched Suits.

Kayden wears suspenders.

Gareth's aim is better than most Heathens, even Jeremy. But he doesn't enjoy hurting people. The accuracy with which he throws a pencil at a teacher flirting with Kayden is impressive.

He's equally good at fleeing situations.

Kayden is the kind of professor who challenges his students to do something ridiculous to get out of writing the final exam. His students think he's cool, but Gareth knows he just hates grading papers.

Gareth's handicap in golf is +1. He has been his grandfather's golfing buddy for ages.

Kayden has a license to fly planes. Don't ask him how he got it though.

Yes, they join the mile high club.

Gareth is extremely good with cheating at card games much to Kayden's chagrin during strip poker.

Kayden is acquaintances by association with Kyle, Gareth's uncle.

Gareth has lost count of the number of times he's caught himself drooling every time Kayden takes his suit jacket off.

Kayden is more flirtatious by nature but sometimes Gareth says suggestive things that make him speechless. Most times, Gareth does it accidentally.

Kayden: *complaining about how his body is aching from sitting in a chair all day* Gareth: I can help you relax if you'd like. Kayden: Gareth: Kayden: Gareth: I have a massage therapist license.

Gareth wears reading glasses because he is a reader by nature. He can read instructions off a shampoo bottle day after day, year after year just to have something to read while he showers.

Kayden has to physically stop himself from reacting and ask for strength from greater forces the first time he sees Gareth pull out gold-rimmed glasses and put them on while he was helping grade assignments. He does fantasize about helping Gareth take the glasses and more off.

Killian is the last of the Heathens to find out about Gareth's involvement with his professor. And it's not in a fun manner.

He catches Kayden being pushy with his older brother, misunderstands and nearly pummels his face in.

He has to be thrown off Kayden who is one second away from rearranging his boyfriend's younger brother's face.

Killian is gaping when he puts two and two together about what is happening.

Before he can make a joke at his expense, Gareth gives him a look that dares him to say something or deal with consequences like never before. Killian stays quiet mostly because he's never seen that murderous look on his brother's face, no matter how far he pushed him.

"You can do better than him" he's telling Kayden as he leaves. "Not in this lifetime, no" Kayden responds, pulling Gareth closer.

Kayden participates in the initiation to pull an uno reverse and chase the green mask down. It makes some of the participants stop and stare in bewilderment.

Gareth is competitive to a fault. Like- I would edit an entire Wikipedia page to win an argument- competitive.

Kayden is not as competitive and doesn't particularly care about winning but he loves egging Gareth on till he gives him a reason to put his tie collection to good use (:

They have been caught in a situation where someone was knocking at the door to Kayden's office, opposite which they were making out.

Gareth watches Kayden roll his sleeves up with hawk eyes and almost groans in torture when he sees the protruding veins.

Once Kayden finds out about Gareth's obsession with watching him undress, he puts on a show every. single. time.

But then Gareth, Gareth with his long, slender fingers and perfectly cleaned, shaped and filed nails, helps undress him one time and Kayden is a goner.

Gareth wears a chain with Kayden's ring around his neck, something Kayden goes feral whenever he looks at. He's pulled Gareth closer with it on multiple occasions.

Kayden puts his hand on Gareth's thigh while driving.

Are Asher and Reina surprised when Gareth brings a boyfriend home? Yes. Do they care about the gender of their son's partner? No.

Even Kayden gets along better with Asher than Killian does.

Kayden is loved by Reina. Like she would adopt him the moment Asher looks away.

Killian never apologizes for what he said but he does ask Gareth if he'd like to go hunting together sometime. It's a truce that Gareth is more than happy to accept.

Kayden takes Gareth out flying to propose when they'd be over the crystal-clear waters and passing through clouds only to realize he forgot to bring the ring with him in his anxiety and haste.

He improvises and proposes to Gareth in bed, rehashing the entire thing making him laugh and accept.

Gareth then reaches into his nightstand and pulls out the ring he was planning to propose with.

"You can just pretend to be surprised tomorrow at your surprise proposal" Gareth is telling him between kisses. "I can pretend to do anything as long as I'm doing it with you."

___________________________________

Tissues, anyone?

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hopelesslygeek · 30 days

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A list of the clues the trio found on Sazz's desk:

1) The 5 1/2 lesbian brothers invitational golf tournament ("LONG GAME" written on it)

2) plane ticket from LAX to JFK with "HELGA" written on it

3) receipt for delivery for avocado toast ('2 notes' scribbled on it

4) on a napkin: 11? (crossed out) 13? (crossed out), 26? 14? 86?

5) Dudenoff, 773440

6) WEST TOWER ARCONIA ???

7) stunt workers united calendar 2023

8 ) burn gel quarterly newsletter (probably irrelevant cause the text is gibberish)

9) note that says "cancel doctor appointment for Thursday at 10 am, out of town till 23rd"

10 ) a script "access denied: the future is terminal" season 3 and a picture of Scott Bakula on it

11) folder that says "LOOKING AT Charles"

Me rn:

#only murders in the building #omitb season 4 #charles haden savage #oliver putnam #mabel mora #I will get to the bottom of this

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ovaruling · 1 year

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i found this very interesting, especially as a woman who has cheated death several times, came away from it disabled, and is now fiercely determined to live independently into old age, child-free (in this case, the relevance of that being the context of having no children to assist me with care or basic function as i age).

however, this is also important for all women, because being able to carry fitness (and by fitness i refer to the ability to complete everyday tasks and basic mobility without extreme difficulty or injury) into old age is a topic that affects us as a sex with some growing urgency.

statistically, we know (or should, by now) that women cannot depend on male partners/family members to care for us in times of illness or crisis, and that also goes for caring for us as we age. they leave. they shirk. they hope we’ll just die and relieve them of the burden of caring for us.

and even if male partners are not a factor, aging women ARE seen as a burden–to our families, to our friends, to our loved ones, to our doctors, to our governments, to our societies. having children or a partner or family members or friends does not necessarily guarantee that they will assist you in your old age.

so it is of utmost importance that we as women educate ourselves on how to stay as physically independent as possible as we age. here is an excerpt of the article that describes why i think this is so important:

"Think of the Centenarian Decathlon as the 10 most important physical tasks you will want to be able to do for the rest of your life. Some items on the list resemble actual athletic events, while some are closer to activities of daily living, and still others might reflect your own personal interests. I find it useful because it helps us visualize, with great precision, exactly what kind of fitness we need to build and maintain as we get older. It creates a template for our training.

I start by presenting my patients with a long list of physical tasks that might include some of the following:

1. Hike 1.5 miles on a hilly trail. 2. Get up off the floor under your own power, using a maximum of one arm for support. 3. Pick up a young child from the floor. 4. Carry two 5-pound bags of groceries for five blocks. 5. Lift a 20-pound suitcase into the overhead compartment of a plane. 6. Balance on one leg for 30 seconds, eyes open. (Bonus points: eyes closed, 15 seconds.) 7. Have sex. 8. Climb four flights of stairs in three minutes. 9. Open a jar. 10. Do 30 consecutive jump-rope skips.

The full list is much longer, with more than 50 different items, but you get the idea. Once they’ve read it, I ask them to please select which of these tasks they want to be able to perform in their ninth, or better yet 10th, decade. Which ones do they choose?

All of them, typically. They want to be able to hike a mile and a half, or carry their own groceries, or pick up a great-grandchild, or get up if they fall down. Or play 18 holes of golf, or open a jar, or fly somewhere on a plane. Of course they do.

That’s great, I say. You’ll make that kid’s day when you pick her up like that. But now let’s do a little math. Let’s say the kid weighs 25 or 30 pounds. That’s basically the same as doing a squat while holding a 30-pound dumbbell in front of you (i.e., a goblet squat). Can you do that now, at age 40? Most likely. But now let’s look into the future. Over the next 30 or 40 years, your muscle strength will decline by about 8 to 17 percent per decade—accelerating as time goes on. So if you want to pick up that 30-pound grandkid or great-grandkid when you’re 80, you’re going to have to be able to lift 50 to 55 pounds now. Without hurting yourself. Can you do that?

I press the issue. You also want to be able to hike on a hilly trail? To do that comfortably requires a VO2 max of roughly 30 ml/kg/min. Let’s take a look at the results of your latest VO2 max test—and guess what, you only scored a 30. You’re average for your age, but I’m afraid that’s not good enough, because your VO2 max is also going to decline. So you can pull it off now, but you likely won’t be able to do it when you’re older.

On it goes. To lift a 20-pound suitcase overhead when you are older means lifting 40 or 50 pounds now. To be able to climb four flights of stairs in your 80s means you should be able to pretty much sprint up those same stairs today. In every case, you need to be doing much more now, to armor yourself against the natural and precipitous decline in strength and aerobic capacity that you will undergo as you age.

Eventually, my patients get it. Together, we come up with a list of 10 or 15 events in their personal Centenarian Decathlon, representing their goals for their later decades. This then determines how they should be training. In the end, most people’s Centenarian Decathlons will probably overlap to a degree. Someone who enjoys stand-up paddleboarding, for example, would perhaps choose “events” focused around building core and cross-body strength. But she will likely be training the same muscle groups as I am doing for archery, and maintaining a similar degree of stamina and balance.

The Centenarian Decathlon is ambitious, no question. A 90-year-old who is even able to board a plane under her own power, let alone hoist a carry-on bag, is doing extremely well. But there is a method to the madness. These individual tasks are not out of reach. There are octogenarians, nonagenarians, and even centenarians right now who are running marathons, racing bicycles, lifting weights, flying airplanes, jumping out of airplanes, skiing the Rocky Mountains, competing in actual decathlons, and doing all sorts of other amazing things. So all these events are within the realm of possibility."

#tumblr formatting made this IMPOSSIBLE for some reason so bear with me #save

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katzenmas · 8 months

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Outlander

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── This idea came to me in a vision while i was rewatching the show. This first chapter is more of an introduction because the reader (SPOILER AHEAD) hasn't travelled back in time yet. I wanted to get this chapter out of the way as soon as possible so i can start writing the more interesting ones hehe. This fic will be a Johnny Soap MacTavish X Reader, but you are technically married to Graves in this chapter. He won't really show up after this unless you're talking about him.

Warnings : Some suggestive dialogue, implied sex. No use of Y/N, Female Reader ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

PART 1 Inverness, 2018 People disappear all the time. Ask any policeman. Better yet, ask a journalist. Young girls run away from home. Children stray from their parents and are never seen again. Housewives reach the end of their tether and take the grocery money and a taxi to the station. International financiers change their names and vanish into the smoke of imported cigars. Many of the lost will be found, eventually, dead or alive. Disappearances, after all, have explanations. The little inn did not look like a place people would disappear in. Mrs. Baird’s looked like any other run down Highland bed and breakfast. With peeling paint and near dead flowers, the smell of cigarette smoke stuck to the walls in the rooms. Mrs. Baird herself almost looked like her inn. In her late sixties, always bustling and talking, still she made no objections when Phillip turned the room she rented us into a second office. His laptop and papers strewn around the desk, walls now had something akin to maps tacked onto them. It was your husband’s great idea to take a second honeymoon trip. Inverness was a strange choice, the setting so different from the one you were used to in Texas. But when Phillip came to you with two plane tickets and news that a one month break was needed, you wouldn’t even dare to turn him down. Walking down the rickety stairs of the inn, you found your husband sitting in an armchair near a fireplace, a book about the Jacobite rebellion in his hands. He looked so peaceful sitting in the maroon chair, the flames from the fire basking him in a soft glow. “How long are you going to stand there and stare at me Mrs. Graves?” your lips quirked up in a smile as you walked over to your husband. He set his book down on a coffee table and beckoned you to sit across his lap. Your hands found their home looped around his neck and he smoked into your collarbone. “I don’t know Mr. Graves, you make a fine subject for staring, maybe I’ll never stop” you giggled and ran your hands through his hair. The sudden quietness behind you two told you that Mrs. Baird has put down her broom and was covertly watching you. While golf and fishing are Scotland’s most popular outdoor sports, gossip is the most popular indoor sport. And when it rains as much as it does in Scotland, people spend a lot of time indoors. “She’s staring again” You mumbled and Phillip donned a devilish grin. Suddenly he hoisted you up and ran the length of the stairs to your room. The sudden change made giggles erupt from your mouth as you clutched tighter to him. ‘“What in god’s name are you doing!” You yelled at him through fits of your giggles and your husband threw you down on the bed, before getting on it himself. He was halfway sitting up, with his knees digging into the mattress and he smiled at you. “I’d hate for the dear old thing to be disappointed in us,” he answered. Sitting up on the side of the ancient bed, he bounced gently up and down, creating a piercing rhythmic squeak. The footsteps in the hall stopped abruptly. After a minute or two of bouncing, Phillip gave a loud, theatrical groan and collapsed backward with a twang of protesting springs. You giggled helplessly into a pillow, so as not to disturb the breathless silence outside. Phillip waggled his eyebrows at you. “You’re supposed to moan ecstatically, not giggle,” he admonished in a whisper. “She’ll think I’m not a good lover.” “You’ll have to keep it up for longer than that, if you expect ecstatic moans,” You answered. “Two minutes doesn’t deserve any more than a giggle.” “Inconsiderate little wench. I came here for a rest, remember?”

“Lazybones. You’ll never manage the next branch on your family tree unless you show a bit more industry than that.” Both of you chuckled as Phillip moved to lay next to you, bringing his hand around your middle and squishing you closer to his chest. That’s how sleep found you, being held close by your husband’s strong arms as his rhythmic heartbeat slowly lulled you into sweet sleep. The rustling sounds of your husband getting dressed stirred you from your dreams. You slowly sat up in the bed and stretched, the downpour outside has finally stopped which meant you two would be walking around town tonight. “ Let’s stop at that pub from yesterday. That might’ve been the best salmon I’ve ever eaten” Phillip noticed that you woke up and started making plans about today’s escapades. First you were going to meet some tour guide that would drive you two to some historical sites and then back to Inverness. “I distinctly heard the barman at that pub last night refer to us as Sassenachs.”

“Well, why not?” said Phillip. “It only means ‘Englishman,’ after all, or at worst, ‘outlander,’ and we’re all of that.”

“I know what it means. It was the tone I objected to.” Phillip searched through the bureau drawer for a belt. “He was just annoyed because I told him the ale was weak. I told him the true Highland brew requires an old boot to be added to the vat, and the final product to be strained through a well-worn undergarment.”

“Ah, that accounts for the amount of the bill.”

“Well, I phrased it a little more tactfully than that, but only because the Gaelic language hasn’t got a specific word for drawers.”

You reached for a pair of your own underwear, intrigued. “Why not? Did the ancient Gaels not wear undergarments?”

Phillip leered. “You’ve never heard that old song about what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilts?”

“ No and I’d rather not hear about it now. Off to the bath you go, the stench of the fire still clings to your hair” You playfully messed with it and your husband smiles, cupping your face in his hand and kissing your brow.

“Only if you join me”

The walk to the town square was a bit hard, dull ache between your thighs after Phillip decided to fuck you senseless in the shower, was making itself known. Taking small steps you idly window-shopped. Your husband was on the phone, talking to the tour guide when your eyes caught sight of a vase. It looked tacky, the colors were bright and the shape was a bit lopsided but the drawing depicted on the vase itself was beautiful. A myriad of large stones in a valley, the sunset drawn behind it was basking the stone in a soft glow.

Soon you found yourself meeting Phillip at the crossing of the High Street and the Gereside Road and you turned up the road together. He raised his eyebrows at your purchases.

“Vases?” He smiled. “Wonderful. Perhaps now you’ll stop putting flowers in my books.”

“They aren’t flowers, they’re specimens. And it was you who suggested I take up botany. To occupy my mind, now that I’ve not got nursing to do,” You reminded him.

“True.” He nodded good-humoredly. “But I didn’t realize I’d have bits of greenery dropping out into my lap every time I opened a reference. What was that horrible crumbly brown stuff you put in Tuscum and Banks?”

“Groutweed. Good for hemorrhoids.”

“Preparing for my imminent old age, are you? Well, how very thoughtful of you.” You two laughed as suddenly a small green car stopped in front of you. The man in the driver’s side seat looked no more than fifty. Big rimmed glasses sat atop his small nose, wild curly hair had bits of gray in it and you noticed one golden tooth as he sent a smile your way.

“ Mr. and Mrs. Graves! Pleasure to meet ya, I’m Colm I’ll be takin’ ye to Craigh Na Dun”

#call of duty x reader #call of duty au #outlander au #cod x reader #johnny soap mctavish #johnny soap mactavish x reader #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x you #alternative universe

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foone · 11 months

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Goldfinger is the most Bond movie, fight me.

Bond blows up a drug lab and then goes for vacation in Miami. He's told there's a gold smuggler there, so he stops him cheating at gin rummy by seducing his spy? Then Bond is talking shit about, of all hands, the Beatles, and then he's knocked out. When he comes to, oh no! The spy girl is dead. She was killed with BODYPAINT. No, not poisoned body paint or anything, the film just says that body paint itself can kill you.

So Bond goes back to London, and they send him to learn more by playing golf with Goldfinger, the smuggler. Goldfinger tries to cheat, Bond stops him, then Goldfinger's henchmen shows how strong he is by crushing golfballs.

So Bond goes to Switzerland and meets a girl who turns out to be the sister of the dead body painted spy girl, and she's trying to kill Goldfinger. She fails, dying to the henchman's DEADLY HAT, and Bond is strapped to a table about to get his dick lasered off. He lies that his organization knows something they don't, so Goldfinger decides not to kill him.

Bond gets flown to a stud farm in Kentucky by a pilot named Pussy Galore. Bond wakes up, hears her name, and goes "I must be dreaming"

At the stud farm, Goldfinger is telling a bunch of mafia guys his plan: he's gonna use knockout gas on the whole city where Fort Knox is, then run off with the gold reserves. The mafia guys say "this is stupid", one leaves (he gets put in a car that goes through a car crusher) and then Goldfinger gasses them all, to death.

Bond goes to Goldfinger and points out this is an impossible plan: they'll never get all the gold out in time, the army will just show up from some other town and stop them. Goldfinger goes "of course! That would be silly. I'm just gonna nuke the gold."

Yeah he's already got a lot of gold, which will be much more valuable if a huge portion of the world's gold gets blown up/irradiated. And that knockout gas? It's just deadly poison.

Anyway the plan is launched, and Pussy Galore's All Female Flying Circus sprays gas over the city and we see all the army guards falling over dead, and Goldfinger's minions place the bomb in the vault of Fort Knox... Then the army guys get back up! They're not dead!

Yeah it seems Bond seduced her and convinced her to tell the authorities about the plot and also swap the Deadly Poison for something harmless.

Bond gets locked in the vault with the nuke and deadly hat guy, as Goldfinger's minions fight the army, with Goldfinger dressing up as a US Army general to escape.

Bond manages to kill the hat guy by electrocuting him through the hat, and Bond rushes over to figure out how to stop the bomb, as the timer counts down. He's lost, but fortunately a specialist from the army comes in and just hits a switch, stopping the bomb at 007 seconds to go.

With the army in control of the situation, Bond gets on a plane with Pussy Galore to go meet the President (given when this film was made, that'd be Lyndon B. Johnson) but then Goldfinger pops up. He's hijacked the plane, and he's got a gun!

They fight for the gun, and a window ends up getting shot out, and Goldfinger (who is not a small man) gets sucked out the plane window.

Bond and Pussy parachute out, and decide to ditch THE PRESIDENT in order to have sex in the woods, even as a rescue helicopter flies over them.

Credits roll.

It's just endlessly silly and over the top and fun.

Two final notes:

1. The whole thing of stealing vs nuking the gold is a change from the book. In the book, he was just gonna steal the gold, but the movie changes it to the nuke plot, but puts the idea to steal it in the film as an "obviously silly idea that would never work", which is slightly hilarious to me

2. The film also drops the fact that Pussy Galore is supposed to be a lesbian. This is certainly for the best, given that Bond still seduces her into betraying her boss. It's still somewhat implied in the film, though.

#James Bond

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sillygoose067 · 5 months

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Charles’s Angel(s)

Ch. 33

Charles Leclerc x Reader

The next few days pass with a kind of mundaneness, going through the motions of your everyday life as usual. You text and call Charles in between breaks, usually late at night, because, as Sabrina Carpenter said, “I’m working late, ‘cause I’m a singer [and music producer]”.

Charles sends you a text one night. Are your suitcases packed?

…No,why?, you reply.

You didn’t forget that I’m taking you with me to LA, did you?

Shit. It had completely slipped your mind with how busy you’d been on a recent project.

…I did. Ok, thanks for the reminder though, I’ll get that done ASAP.

When’s the flight?

Of course, baby. I knew you had a lot on your mind. Flight’s in 2 days, I’ll pick you up around 1:30 pm, we board at 2:45.

…

The day of the flight, the moment Charles steps into your place, you drop everything and rush to him, hugging him tightly. He oofs in surprise but then reciprocates. “I missed you”, you mumble into his hoodie, squeezing him tighter.

When you part, he regards you with soft eyes and a little smile, cupping your cheek (which you lean into), and bending down to leave a peck on your lips. “I missed you too Cherie.”

By the time you’re boarding the plane, which you find out is somewhat private, meant to transport all the grid drivers to their destinations together, you are a ball of nervous energy. Now that you knew that the other drivers and their WAGs (a term Marie taught you, now that the two of you were a part of the category) would be there, you were worried about first impressions.

You hear loud laughter coming from inside the aircraft, and Charles manages to drag you in. You feel all eyes turn to you as your boyfriend pulls you along to your seats. You stand awkwardly, unsure of how to act when one of the women rises and welcomes you, taking your hand to come sit with her instead. “Hello! I’m Francisca, but just call me Kika. I’m Pierre’s girlfriend. Come sit with me and the girls so we can get to know each other more. Us women need to stick together, you know?”

Turning to Charles, you silently ask if it’s alright for you to leave your intended seat and join the WAGs instead. You get your answer when one of the other drivers, Max? claps Charles on the shoulder and hands him a Nintendo controller, plopping down into your original seat as Charles shrugs at you.

You get introduced to Kelly, Lily, Heidi, Lily Z., Carmen, and Rebecca, all wonderful, beautiful women. You share stories about your different occupations, and how each person met their partner. You meet P, Max and Kelly’s daughter, a sweet little girl bubbling over in curiosity. When it’s your turn to share, you tell the ladies about California being your home state, and one of your plans being to go to some beaches.

“Wow! Can we come too?”, asks Kika.

“Sure, I’m sure Charles won’t mind.”

“Yay! Ok, I’ll just check with Pierre, he should be fine with it.”

“And I’ll talk to Carlos. There’s no way that man’s going to refuse me”, says Rebecca slyly.

Kelly tells you that unfortunately, she’d already made plans to take Penelope to Disneyland, and Lily, Alex’s girlfriend, tells you that she’d love to come, but she has a golf tournament the entirety of her stay.

The eight of you bond over how cute your drivers are and predict how the next GP will go.

…

When you land in LA, you’re met with a sweltering heat you certainly hadn’t missed. The staff drop all of you off at our respective hotels. Charles changes out of his sweater and into a T-shirt. You decide to stay in for the day and rest.

“Wow! An infinity pool! That’s so cool, I’ve never seen one before!”, you exclaim excitedly as you skip around the hotel room– No, actually, the hotel suite because your boyfriend just didn’t know how to even pretend to be broke. Not that you minded, duh. Poor man had to follow you around as you yanked him around by the arm.

You both take some cooling showers and change into some thinner clothes for the sake of not melting into the ground from the heat.

Refreshed and lazing around in each other’s comfort, Charles rolls on top of you. “Oof”, you groan. He simply ignores you and lays his head on your stomach while you run your fingers through his hair. “Cheri, I think I’m going to take a nap like this.”

You let out a horrified shriek. “Charles! I will literally die if you do that. You DO know that you have a huge head… and a lot of it is from your ego.”

He tickles you in response and you squeal, squirming to get out from under him, but his weight on top of you traps you, his fingers relentles. When you finally manage to take a breath, cheeks flush and glowing, hair askew, Charles pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of you. “What was that for?”

“Mmm, I finally have the perfect lock screen wallpaper, duh.” He sticks his tongue out at you.

You hum, unable to move yet. “Your fingers are evil”, you comment.

Your boyfriend just lifts his head and smirks, mirth in his eyes. “Really? You’ll be saying something VERY different about my fingers in a few months.”

You just quirk an eyebrow, confused by what he means when it hits you. Somehow you find it in you to smack him. “Charles, ewwww!” And the little bitch just cackles. You mumble something into your arm.

“What was that baby?”

You whine, refusing to repeat, but he pokes your stomach again and you’d rather not be tickled again while you’re already so weak from the last round. “I said… it might not take a few months…”, and somehow you manage to turn even redder while you watch his eyes widen and pupils dilate.

#fluff #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader #smut #f1 #formula 1

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macrogolf12 · 24 days

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Explore Some Exciting Factors About The 1 Plane Golf Swing

Golf, a sport that combines skill, precision, and strategy, has long been a favorite among enthusiasts and professionals alike. One of the most crucial aspects of a successful golf game is mastering the swing. Among the various swing techniques available, the 1 Plane Golf Swing stands out for its simplicity and effectiveness. This article explores the 1 Plane Golf Swing, its impressive features, and how it can transform your game.

Understanding the 1 Plane Golf Swing

The 1 Plane Golf Swing is a technique designed to simplify the golf swing by ensuring that the club stays on a single plane throughout the motion. The 1 Plane Golf focuses on maintaining a consistent swing plane, which can lead to more accuracy and consistency in your shots.

The Concept Behind the 1 Plane Golf Swing

At its core, the 1 Plane Golf Swing revolves around the idea that both the backswing and downswing should follow the same plane. By keeping the club on this plane, golfers can achieve a more efficient swing path, leading to better ball striking and improved control.

The 1 Plane Golf Swing simplifies the swing mechanics by minimizing unnecessary movements. This approach helps golfers reduce errors and achieve a more natural, repeatable swing. The primary goal is to keep the swing on a consistent path, which can significantly enhance both distance and accuracy.

Key Features:

1. Simplified Mechanics

One of the most appealing features of the 1 Plane Golf Swing is its simplicity. By focusing on a single plane, golfers can eliminate complex movements and reduce the risk of swing faults. This streamlined approach allows for a more straightforward and repeatable swing, making it easier to master and maintain over time.

2. Improved Consistency

Consistency is crucial in golf, and the 1 Plane Golf Swing excels in this area. By keeping the club on a single plane, golfers can achieve a more consistent impact with the ball. This consistency translates into more predictable shot outcomes, which is essential for lowering scores and improving overall performance.

3. Enhanced Accuracy

Accuracy is another significant advantage of the 1 Plane Golf Swing. When the club follows a consistent plane, golfers are more likely to strike the ball squarely and with the correct trajectory. This improved accuracy helps golfers hit their targets more effectively, whether they are aiming for the fairway, the green, or a specific distance.

The 1 Plane Golf Swing offers a compelling approach to improving your golf game. With its emphasis on simplicity, consistency, and efficiency, this swing technique can help golfers achieve better results on the course. By understanding the core principles and practicing with intention, you can harness the benefits of the 1 Plane Golf Swing and elevate your game to new heights.

#1 Plane Golf #macrogolf #golf #golf equipment

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landinrris · 1 year

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Snippet following Silverstone 2023 from the current pr fic wip!

Carlos calls Lando on Monday when he’s back in Maranello, if only to hear his voice. Collapsed into the sofa, fresh from the shower after his run.

Lando answers on the third ring, a warm, “Hey,” reaching Carlos’ ears.

It’s the single sweetest syllable Carlos has heard in the last forty-eight hours.

“Hey. I didn’t tell you yesterday, but congrats on the podium. You deserved it. You looked so good up there.”

Lando hums, an evident smile in his voice despite how hard he’s trying to fight it. “Thanks. It was pretty cool, not to rub it in.”

“It’s quite the view. I remember from last year.”

“Maybe next year I’ll be up on that top spot.”

“Maybe I’ll join you.” It’s quite the thought, one that has Carlos feeling more wistful than he was prepared for. They’re overdue a podium together— yet to fulfill their 1-2 wish from back at McLaren.

“You promise?” Lando asks.

It’s Carlos’ turn to hum, letting the conversation fall into a lull. He scratches at a spot on his neck he’d nicked while shaving and mentally curses when his fingernail catches against it.

“What are you doing right now?” Lando asks. Carlos would tease him about the suggestive nature of his question if he felt like they were at a place where they could.

As it is, Carlos feels like he’s walking across shards of glass.

“Just got in from a run and showered— in Maranello for now. What about you?”

“Spending a couple of days with my family before going back to Monaco. It’s nice to kind of just decompress for a bit. Log off social media.”

“Stay off the algorithm,” Carlos adds.

Lando sighs. “Suppose I should apologize for the last few weeks. My head’s not been great, and I’m trying to deal with it.”

“Lando, you don’t have to apologize.”

“No, I do because Max has already told me off about it. I’ve just been avoiding you without telling you why, and that’s not fair to either of us. I just kept thinking about what you said about the European leg and how she was just gonna be around all the time, and it's made me sick to my stomach. Fuck, it makes me sick just saying it again. But I don’t want this to ruin us.”

“Shit…” is all Carlos can say. He’s had a sneaking suspicion, but to hear it confirmed is something else. “I should’ve been more demanding about her not coming golfing.”

“It’s not just the golfing, Carlos—”

“No, but I should’ve been more demanding. I should have said I wasn’t going and done something else with you. This has already taken so much.” Carlos knew it was doing damage, but now it's different.

Their promises to each other are coming unraveled in real time despite how much they try.

“What are you doing this week?” Lando asks, an edge of hope palpable in his voice. “I could come to you or you could come to me, and we could kind of just reset? More than Canada. Just exist a few days and forget about the world.”

The proposition sounds like one of the best ideas Carlos has ever heard. He can practically picture Lando in his bed, sitting on the kitchen counter, pressed up against the glass door in the shower.

He thinks about Monaco back in May and the utter bliss those handful of days were when it was just them. They shut the rest of the world out. It would be so easy to say yes now. It would be so easy to buy Lando’s plane ticket for him with a couple button clicks.

Carlos’ brain slams on the brakes.

“I don’t think this week will be good. I think the plan is to let everything settle before the summer break. Either of us being spotted where the other lives will only raise Caco and Guzman’s hackles.” Getting them to agree to let him have this break in the first place was a lot. The last thing he wants to do is laugh in their faces and tempt them into something.

“Yeah, sure. That’s fine.” Lando’s tone is clipped— the opposite of fine, Carlos knows.

“Lando,” Carlos begs. “We can do things together on Facetime maybe. We can make dinner together tonight? Maybe watch something together even though you will fall asleep halfway through. It’s not that I don’t miss you, cariño. It’s that I am trying to finish this as quickly as possible.”

Lando sighs. “I know. I think I’d really like to do those things. I’ll be back in Monaco tomorrow night. We can cook dinner then?”

Something inside Carlos settles. “Yeah, that sounds good. I will figure us out a recipe. I can keep talking for now though if you are okay to.”

“I know I’ve been avoiding you, but I could still talk to you forever, you know.”

Carlos smiles to himself. “That’s good because so can I.”

They stay on the phone with each other for another hour and a half until Lando’s father evidently tells him dinner is ready. Carlos is morose to eventually let him go— he'd much rather choose to stay on the phone and talk about everything and nothing.

Carlos wants to hear more about the stack of old sketchbooks Lando found in the desk drawer in his room full of sticker designs. He wants to hear more about how when this is all over, Lando wants to bring Carlos home as his boyfriend and show him around.

Likewise, Carlos wants to keep telling Lando about the neighbors in his building and the people around town. He wants to talk about what color he should paint the living room because it’s too yellow as-is. He’s been spending more time there and has discovered he hates it.

Lando tells Carlos he’ll help paint it.

When they do hang up, Carlos feels better than he has in a while. It feels like something has shifted between them the tiniest bit. Not good or bad, but just different. It’s like they’ve taken a step back for a moment to something safer, and Carlos is oddly grateful for it even if he still wishes with every fiber of his being that he could have Lando here with him.

The next few days only reinforce the shift. Like taking a hit off an inhaler, suddenly Carlos feels like he can breathe again.

Sure, making dinner in parallel with each other feels silly, especially when Lando can’t get the peel off the garlic clove and he refuses to smash it with the knife because the instructions stated he has to slice the clove, and he can’t slice it if it’s crushed. If they were together, Carlos could help. Now, he just groans.

He feels less silly when they’re both lying in their respective beds the next night, the only light coming from each of their bedside lamps. Lando looks swamped in his hoodie, the hood pulled up and pushing some of his hair down onto his forehead.

“I want to kiss you so bad it makes my chest hurt,” Carlos murmurs. It feels like he’s shouting.

Lando gives him a sleepy smile. “I want to kiss you until my lips are so bruised it hurts. And then I want to keep going.”

“I want your name to be the first one I say when I wake up and the last one I say when I go to bed.”

“I want everyone to look at you and know I’m your other half.”

“I think the grid already does if I am being honest.”

“But I mean everyone. I want some random fan to think: Carlos Sainz? Oh yeah, he’s Lando Norris’.”

Just the idea sends a shiver up Carlos’ spine.

They go back and forth for an embarrassingly long time. Carlos doesn’t wish Lando was there any less. He wants to trace the dimples in Lando’s cheeks and on his chin. He wants to kiss each and every freckle and mole and memorize the pattern of color in Lando’s eyes.

Lando falls asleep on the call, his bedside lamp still on. If Carlos was there, he could turn it off for him. Instead, he just watches Lando sleep until his own eyes grow too heavy to keep open.

#carlando #writing tag #the pr fic is 32k so have a snippet #hell chaos summer 2023 #in which vibes are getting weird but they're trying really hard not to make them because they're together and they love each other #(even if they haven't said it yet)#they are each other's though and this ends very happily

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cars-on-the-moon · 11 months

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Carlando hurt/a bit of comfort just below!

Enjoy!

(everything stems from author’s imagination)

“Cabron!” Lando shouted, holding his suit in order to jog quicker.

The Spaniard slightly turned his gaze at him but returned to Rupert, carrying on their conversation.

Rupert nodded and smiled when Lando clasped his shoulder.

“Alright?” he asked the trainer. “Hot innit?” he grinned.

“And you’re going to have to race.” Rupert remarked, giving him a kind pat and stepping a bit back to reach Gino.

Lando’s eyes returned to Carlos, who hadn’t interact with him yet.

“What is it?” he asked him.

“What? Nothing.” Lando shrugged. “I’m a bit jittery.” he revealed.

“Calm down. Everything’s good.” Carlos replied him, almost dismissively, a tone the other man never possessed for him.

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion but quickly disregarded it.

“Are we training this week?” he asked him.

“I will be very busy.” Carlos replied, typing something on his phone and quickly burying it in his pocket. Finally, his eyes found Lando, but the Brit only saw emptiness.

“Carlos, are you okay?” he finally asked by micro-analysing all the wrong signs.

“I’ll see you later.” Carlos said and just like that, he walked away.

Lando stood there, watching him as he increased the distance between them. He watched as Carlos finally disappeared around Alpine’s motorhome, leaving him alone and extremely confused.

The great mystery of detached Carlos carried on for the extent of the week and when he never received a reply to his golf invitation, Lando gave up to focus on his race.

“Who from the grid was born in 1994?” Will asked then and instantly Lando pressed the little buzzer button.

“Carlos Sainz.” he replied.

“Ah! There you go! A point for you!” Will excitedly said.

“That’s 7-1.” Oscar reminded them the score.

“Well,” Lando grimaced. “I’ve had better days.” he playfully said to the camera and thusly, the silly YouTube game for the official channel, ended.

Will waved them a polite goodbye as Lando shuffled further into the sofa.

“Mate, you’re miserable.”

“Yeah, thanks Oscar.” he rolled his eyes before shutting them both.

“Oh, you’re in that mood.” he heard the Australian remarking and he hated him a little. The other Australian who was making his life hard once again in his own team. Sharp tongued and funny in a whole different way.

“Piss off, mate.” he mumbled and tried to sound as playful as possible.

He heard the faint sound of Oscar’s giggle as he was leaving the room and finally he found a good time for solitude and peacefulness.

He missed the podium for a tenth of a second and climbed out of his car with a granule of disappointment.

“Are we on for tomorrow?” Caco asked him, finding him outside hospitality.

Lando finished signing a picture of him and turned to the Spaniard.

“Yeah, Max told me you booked it.” he said. “Is Carlos coming?” he asked him.

Caco raised his eyebrows then but quickly schooled his expression to return to normal.

“I don’t know. This triple-header has been hard on him. We’ll see. It’s either going to be Rupert or him.” he replied.

Lando squinted.

“See you at eight.” Caco said, tapping his back.

When Lando arrived at the padel place hopeful, he got disappointed again. The other three players were already in the court but Carlos was nowhere to be seen.

“Are we doing Britain versus Europe?” Rupert grinned at him.

“Sure.” Lando shrugged taking his place in the field.

Max bumped his racket on Caco’s and walked in order to execute the first little serve.

“Carlos coming?” Lando asked Rupert.

“Um, no.” the Brit replied, dipping lower, focused forward.

If Lando got disappointed again, he never showed it.

‘Cabron? Is everything alright?’ Lando had to try again because the though if Carlos being that cold was so unsettling, he couldn’t relax when he was thinking about it.

He was tired enough to not having realised that the next day he was in Mexico City. It took him around ten minutes to remember his plane ride and a few more to actually decide to get up.

He trained intensely and ate his wrap with such eagerness, as if he was a starved man.

Still nothing.

Sunday’s driver’s parade came in a blink of an eye and Lando searched for Carlos before he was waved by Oscar to join him in their car.

“Were you looking for something?” Oscar asked him when the car started moving.

“You.” Lando replied, smiling towards the crowd.

Oscar hummed a bit unconvincingly but nevertheless, let it go. Sometimes Lando thought that the young Australian knew more than he revealed. Behind that quiet stance he had going on, he was observant and intelligent. Lando hated that. ‘Hate’ perhaps was a strong word.

“Carlos!” he finally found the man, as he was taking with Max.

Both men turned to find the source of the voice and one of them smiled widely. It was Max. Only Max smiled.

“I was just telling him how team Europe obliterated team Britain last Monday.” Max teased him immediately.

“I was out of form.” Lando sniffed, playing it cool. “Where have you been mate? You miss both padel and golf practice.” he placed his hand on Carlos’s upper arm, forgetting the cameras around them for only a moment. He let go of him then, staring, wanting to hear a word from him.

“I have been experiencing a few back pains.” Carlos replied him. Coldly; absolutely coldly.

“You? You have never been in pain since I’ve known you.” he said.

“Well, perhaps because I’m getting old.” Carlos spat out and yeah, something was definitely wrong.

“You’re not even thirty yet, mate.” Max added to the conversation when Lando’s silence filled the space.

“Anyway, I’ll see you later.” Carlos chose to ignore Max’s utterance and Lando’s concerned gaze, walking away immediately a second after.

‘How’s your back? How are we going to golf in November?’ He wrote before placing a laughing emoji. He stared at the screen and contemplated on whether to send it or not.

He had tried again to talk to him on Thursday evening, when he saw him outside Ferrari, getting Senior’s attention first.

“Lando Norris!” Senior hugged him. “How are you son?” he asked.

“I’m well and you?” he replied him politely.

“You are having a fantastic season. Congratulations!” he said to him.

Lando nodded affirmatively and finally turned to Carlos.

“I have been texting you. How is your back?” he asked him.

Carlos finally looked at him, brushing his fingers through his hair.

“It’s fine.” he replied him.

Lando inhaled deeply, biting down his tongue in order to stop himself from really barking at Carlos that he had been awful and cold and distant and unfamiliar.

“Are you? Fine?” he pushed just a bit more.

“I’m busy. Pa, let’s go?” he asked him turning around and climbing the little red steps.

Lando furrowed his eyebrows, watching him once again disappearing.

“He has been strange. He is angry.” Senior said to Lando. “He is bad with respect. He takes things very seriously, especially from you.”

Lando turned to the older man quickly.

“What? What do you mean? What did I do?”

Lando jogged to his motorhome and texted both Jon and Max.

“Havent you seen the video I’ve sent you a week ago?” Max asked him through the line.

“No, I must have forgotten.” Lando replied him. “What is it? How did you know what I’m talking about?” Lando furtively asked.

“Because you did him dirty man! It’s a complication of the same interview and it was all over Twitter.”

“What the fuck?” Lando whispered and quickly ended the call.

He remembers the interview; it was with some American podcast and he remembered having a miserable time but trying still to be funny and relaxed.

“I’ve had this question ninety three times,” he giggled. “There are not many friends around…I consider Max and Lewis the only two strong drivers…Carlos made a lot of mistakes in that, yeah…Friends is a very big word…He didn’t help me, he did it for himself, of course…Except from me I would like Oscar to win the Championship…Haha, no, Oscar, not Carlos…I wish I could climb to fourth and pass Charles…What? Carlos is? Carlos is above Charles? I didn’t expect that!”

Lando cringed to the last line and locked his phone, placing it on the massage bed next to him.

“Why the fuck would someone make a fucking compilation of that?” he asked the room through his teeth. “And fucking tag-” he didn’t finish his utterance in order to take a deep breath in.

“Lando, what is it?” Jon asked him.

“Have you seen this?” he showed him the video.

“Ah, yes. It was all over Twitter-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded through a foul squeal.

“Because we have a job to do-”

“I don’t need the tough love, Jon. Why did the PR-you know what? I’m leaving.” he jumped off the bed and went looking for his backpack.

“I can talk to PR.” Jon offered.

“No, leave it. The point was to-fuck.” he couldn’t bear to explain either.

He returned to his hotel room and after a warm shower he fell on the bed very keen on sleeping.

It was sudden and overwhelming. He was used to pushing down and down everything that had to with Carlos; everything that wasn’t the friendship they had built. He had locked away the desire that had slowly grown within him. Memories, moments risked back from every time he had though a bit more than he should have. When Carlos had looked at him a certain way, the way he had smiled, the way he had touched him.

Each word echoed in his mind, the dam of restraint broke. Tears welled up in his eyes and the anguish of unspoken love and pain washed over him. He was vulnerable and exposed to himself like never before. He wasn’t as daft as he presented himself and he had realised his feelings long ago and because of that again, he had buried them deep inside, where even intrusive thoughts could not win.

“I didn’t mean anything bad. I was trying to be cool or whatever. Carlos, you know me.” he sent. Perhaps it was too simple or perhaps it was too much, but Lando needed to do something, to say something and opted for that. If he was to overthink it, he would have never sent it.

The long awaited reply didn’t come, even on FP Friday and he felt an emptiness in his stomach, still his words about Charles echoing in his mind.

“Good job! Let’s do the same on quali, yeah?” Will smiled at him.

“Of course.” Lando agreed and pulled out his headphones.

He was miserable. He was miserable at training, at dinner and even in his hotel room when he was in the confines of his own space.

He stared at the unanswered text, and the one above it and the one right above the other.

That son of a bitch. He hated him. He absolutely despised him.

“That’s a pole position!” Will said in his ears. “*Good job! Need lineup?”

“Hey-yo! Yes!” Lando pressed the radio button, slowing down. “Yes! Gimme!”

“P2 Sainz, P3 Leclerc, P4 Verstappen, P5 Hamilton.” Will announced him.

“Well shit.” Lando mumbled after making sure he had his thumb off the radio button.

Charles approached him and told him something about turn seven while Lando was absolutely stuck on Carlos. The driver mode was off and he was back to a new kind of pinning; after so long he had reached this part. Distant unrequited pinning without even realising.

“Good job.” Carlos patted his shoulder when he approached him to get photographed.

“Oh, he speaks.” Lando said through his teeth, smiling to the cameras.

Charles must have heard him because he turned his head to look at him, but did not remark.

And just like this, the Spaniard walked away.

Lando felt his heart dropping and tried really hard to school his expression to a neutral one when he returned to the garage and was congratulated by everyone.

“Carlos, this is getting ridiculous.”

“My tyres are gone, man.” he said to the radio line.

“Push as long as you can. Two laps to go.” Will said to him and really Lando knew the answer. They hadn’t expected that kind of degradation and there was no room for a pit stop, he wasn’t far enough from the Ferrari behind him. He was rather sure that on the next DRS zone, he was going to get overtaken. There was no point making his tyres pop.

It was Carlos’s Ferrari that made a move on turn four of all the turns and Lando tried to defend but it was useless.

“Lando, don’t fight with him, we need to finish.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” Lando replied Will a bit annoyed. He looked on his mirror and saw Lewis behind.

“One corner, Lando.” he heard and inhaled deeply. “That’s it! Well done! P2!”

“Thanks guys, I’m sorry about the tyres, I’m not sure what went wrong.” he addressed the whole garage and factory and let go of the button.

He watched as Carlos stood on his Ferrari and raised his arms up. His eyes caught his father and walked quickly to him, keeping his visor down. His eyes were destroyed by the sweet and the tears that had started forming the moment he had got out his car. Every emotion he carried burst out of him completely. Out of the blue.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Carlos waiting for him.

“Sorry.” he said to him the moment he embraced him.

“My fault.” Lando replied him.

Carlos pulled back and reached for his visor, raising it up to find his eyes. Oh, the Twitter people were going to have a field trip.

“Lando?” a question in his voice.

Thankfully, the director had to take Carlos away for his interview with DC and Lando managed to weight himself, calm down and take his balaclava off in order to wet his whole face with water. Good enough.

“What happened?” Lewis asked him in the cool down room.

“My tyres were destroyed. There was a massive increase on the asphalt heat.” he replied him.

Carlos walked into the room two and went straight for his water. He looked at the screen and his gaze stayed there for the whole minute they remained in the room.

The cameras cut and Carlos turned to him.

“Okay?” he asked him.

“Yeah.” Lando shrugged and followed Lewis.

He was drenched in champagne by the both men on the podium and smiled for the picture.

“Oi! Look here!” Rupert met them in the hallway, pointing his phone at them.

He opened his instagram and found no post; not like the last time. There was no use of the word “carlando”. There was nothing.

“Carlos…”

He threw his phone to his side and placed his arms over his eyes, trying really hard to not release what he actually felt.

“Jon, can you do me a huge favour?” he asked the drowsy man on the other side of the line.

He walked and decided he, under no circumstance, would ever say to anyone that he walked alone at that time of the night around São Paolo until he reached Carlos’s hotel.

“Carlos, it’s me.” he said as lowly as possible when he heard shuffling from the other side of the door.

The door opened and Carlos appeared, semi-naked and very sleepy.

“Lando- what the-”

“I’m sorry.” Lando stopped him, shutting the door behind him. “I hadn’t realised-I didn’t mean all that, it sounded awful.” he said.

Carlos pulled over his head a t-shirt and fixed his hair by fluffing them even more than before.

“I was being sarcastic and a bit annoyed with the hosts. I don’t remember anything.”

“Lando, okay,” Carlos rubbed his face with his palm and took a step forward. “It’s okay if you feel that way-”

“But I don’t! I think you are a very intelligent and strong driver and of course you can win the Championship and of course you are my friend and of course you are above Charles. I was just-just teasing-I don’t know!” he said all in one breath, feeling his eyes stinging. He wouldn’t cry. No.

“It’s not about-you-I cannot do this.”

“No, you will.” Lando took a step forward too. “You have been awful and you never told me why. I had to find out from your dad?”

Carlos exhaled lengthily. He was tired, he looked it certainly.

“You are welcomed to have those opinions. I just always think that friends should support each other and it’s all I have done since the first time I saw you. I met you.” Carlos tried to translate his thoughts into English, poor man. “I know it’s just press but sometimes words hurt especially from your friend. But well, you said there are no friends around.”

Lando blinked at him. His hand hovered above his neck by its own accord and he felt his breathing quickening.

“You are my friend. It was stupid and I didn’t think about it too much.”

“All I am saying is that support and respect are everything for me. I think that I have been both since we have met. But still, your opinion is your opinion Lando. Now I know that you feel-”

“No,” Lando said moving towards him and grabbing his face between his palms. He needed for Carlos to look at him right in the eye. To make sure he was looking. “I think you are incredible, Carlos. I-I think you are everything.” he whispered, his eyes falling on the Spaniard’s plump lips.

Carlos slightly raised his eyebrows in surprise but didn’t push him away, he didn’t falter.

“Lando…”

“I’m sorry. I was trying to be cool or whatever. My mind is a mess sometimes.” he said.

Carlos slightly nodded, afraid of disturbing Lando’s hold.

“Cabron,” the slightly taller man whispered. “I’m sorry. You can explain everything, I can too.”

A goddamn tear escaped him and he went to wipe it but Carlos beat him to it and caught it with his thumb.

“Don’t. Lando,” he breathed. “Kiss me.” he uttered.

“What?” Lando stuttered.

“Will you? I want to show you that I believe you and that I’m sorry too.” he explained.

And again, Lando wasn’t as daft as he portrayed himself. He would be pretty dense if he didn’t just do it. So he did.

Carlos tried to show him and he succeeded, making him a moaning mess. Who would have thought? Well, Lando had thought.

“Carlos…” he whispered when they finally paused.

“Cariño.” Carlos run his fingers through Lando’s curls. “That was bound to happen from the very start, no?” he smiled lopsidedly.

Lando mirrored him but his grin became wider, wilder.

“Yeah, yes it was.” he giggled.

“Let me post the Carlando picture now, eh?” he playfully said, leaning in again.

#f1 #formula 1 #fan fic #carlando #lando norris #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz jr and lando norris #carlando fanfiction #carlando fic #carlando au #carlando fiction #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fiction #f1 fic #f1 ficlet

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grits-galraisedinthesouth · 2 years

Text

Meghan's Prostitution Resurfaces amid her Links to Prince Andrew

I think everyone on tumblr knows that when Dorito told Joshua Silverstein that Meghan was "traveling the world as a MODEL" (5'2 ordinary looks and political ambitions) she was doing more to earn money than take photos in tacky clothes.

I'm a big fan of TRGs work. In a video, she addressed the recent article that connects the transactional relationships that put Meghan Markle into Harry's orbit.

What surprised me most was the large number of comments from people who really had no idea that Meghan's past most likely put her in Jeffrey Epstein's orbit. Even Lady C has spoken about rumors that Meghan allegedly met Prince Andrew before she actually met Harry. Lady C also said she knows things about Meghan that are encased in cement: "the press knows, everyone knows."

While I'm glad TRG finally told her audience that both Harry and Meghan were in Istanbul Turkey in April 2015 she did get several other details wrong. It's important to connect the dots but the people in her comments section aren't doing their own research like what we do here on Tumblr which is the reason I get concerned when misinformation is spead on YouTube etc because it makes people question the validity of the entire thesis.

Here are my notes to TRG:

1-According to Bower, Fitzpatrick---- MM met via golfer Rory McIlroy. MM pursued Rory like everyone else, via her social media & she used the ice bucket challenge to meet him. He sent her the challenge and she told him to come over and do it himself. Rory was staying at John Fitzpatrick's nyc hotel. Rory helps John with good PR for Ireland.

I think you actually spoke about this mtg bc I recall you speaking about the notorious late night parties at Chiprioni's. Perhaps you forgot. Use the Revenge index to read the full story. Mm pursued Rory. Fitzpatrick seems to tag along with Rory for the celebrity social scene. Back then, Mm was desperately searching for an athlete (or prince) boyfriend bc Chef Cory wasn't good enough to be the future father of her kids (clearly she didn't consider harry's low IQ). Whatever she has been trained to do in bed, it ruined Rory's golf game and yet he still went back for more the next day. Mm also documented their mtg on her social media & featured Rory on the blog something she wouldn't do for cory.

2-Fitzpatrick & Sarah Rafferty are also close. He may have known Rafferty b4 markle. He works to unite Irish celebrities & to back ($) globalists like the Clintons on behalf of Ireland. I consider him to be a lobbyist. He's rumored to be gay but perhaps like mm he's fluid. He has met Charles on multiple occasions in his "lobbyist" role and he knew charles b4 he met mm. He invited her to meet Obama at the WH. Allegedly they flew or met up with her buddy Ron Burkle (Soho House owner) whose plane she frequented as did Bill Clinton. BTW-When Clinton staffers were asked why they allowed Clinton to hang out with slimy Ron Burkle they said, "let us know when you figure it out." Check the daily mail for a pending sexual assault law suit against bill clinton filed by 3 or 4 females who were teenagers when bill was flying around with burkle on air*uck1. The law suit resurfaced about 3 or 4 years ago. Of course our American media didn't cover it. The Daily Mail helped the girls reach out to Burkle & Clinton for hush money.

3-Fitzpatrick is responsible for hillary obtaining that ridiculous "chancellor" position in Ireland after she lost the 2016 election & after the UK approved Brexit.

4-mm wasn't the 1st girl "sent" to date harry. Several years ago, the brf was warned that their participation was expected & if not, "they" could put someone in their inner circle.

Enter the Obamas. They invited Harry to Chicago & filled up his head with woke nonsense. He decided he wanted to find his own "michelle obama." He specifically was interested in a left wing, black woman.

A very brown skin black woman (who lived in Texas) was asked to date harry. We know this bc after mm popped up, the very sweet, pretty young woman revealed that she had been asked to date harry but she turned (the backers) them down. She said, "I couldn't do THAT to harry. This explains Barack Obama's hot mic-ish convo w/harry during an invictus basketball game. Instead of watching the game, Obama had made a special trip to Toronto to check-in with harry on how things were going w/mm.

This also explains the reason mm thought she could gatecrash Michelle's London book event to meet her. Mm really thinks of herself as that vip who infiltrated the brf on behalf of the world's globalists. She feels like they owe her and she's one of them. She thinks she became a first lady who deserves billions of dollars bc she slept w/harry. She's delusional.

Remember when she cleared the stands at Wimbledon? Watch the video and you'll see her friend Lindsay Roth Jordan telling her "smile. look happy." The other friend said "put your hat on." That hat is a message, a symbol to her clients & in this case those backers. Shortly after the Wimbledon fiasco Hillary Clinton went on the record to say the press was racist. You can watch both of Hillary's statements- one recorded w/Chelsea & the other for a uk radio program.

5-Allegedly mm was involved with Jean Luc Brunel's MC2 model management which was financed by JEpstein. There is an infamous photo of Mm with Epstein's Rachel "Ray" Chandler.

6-we know mm was traveling the world "modeling" bc Dorito told Joshua Silverstein those exact words. We've seen many of the hideous photographs & a few videos🤢 Remember she also knows Harvey Weinstein who labeled her hopeless as an actress but told her she should use her long legs.😂

7-there is evidence to indicate that she attended NXIVM training---the clintons (& soros) used nxivm to blackmail the majority of new york state. It's possible that mm even recruited for nxivm nyc or toronto. NXIVM was also THRIVING on Vancouver island.

Fun fact: Trump had no idea that mm had made ugly comments about him during the campaign. So why did he go on the record and say I'm not a fan of hers & Harry's gonna need a lot of luck? He said that BEFORE he was told about the things she said during the campaign.

I believe he had classified info on her. He probably also knew about her nyc reputation w/business men like those at cantor fitzgerald. And we all know she allegedly slept with Trump's former treasury secretary who attended the UK state dinner (steve Mnuchin)

8-we also know that mm is desperate for security. Harry's job was to clean up her past which included IPP status. She wants to wear blood diamonds, but she wants to be protected from the men who gave them to her. She's afraid of her past. The rumors are that Tyler Perry is her next mark. The irony is that she would have invited him to the wedding had he been white. But back then, she was too good for Madea. Now she's desperate. Perhaps she will seduce Tyler Perry into a marriage for his billions, his island & for SECURITY. He's revealed himself as a thirsty liar who can be bought. (btw-he's trying to purchase BET).

No one else cares about her. She & noprah had no idea how those manipulated headlines and the lies out of their mouths would cause even the LA paparazzi to despise her. She went from being a wanna be covergirl whose covers didn't sell magazines to a lying "royal" that the paparazzi don't want to photograph.

9-no one seems to know what issue the Queen was told (or Charles) "they" (the world's globalists) or rather threatened over. I think it was Brexit but it also could have been global warming??? But Hillary and Obama were so bold in their UK appearances & threats over Brexit that I tend to think they wanted QE to persuade the people to go against it. Good for her letting the people decide. Too bad Charles seems to be so wishy washy.

Allegedly Mm went to Tony Blair and requested his help. She wants an ambassadorship or something similar. Why did she think Tony Blair would help her??? IMO Tony might have been the person who shared the "your participation is expected" message, meaning he's in on this mess & most likely some UK judges & church bishops as well.

10-Harry wasn't allowed to marry Meghan because of her "proximity" to Prince Andrew. It was the RACE card. Meghan did however play the Prince Andrew card during MEGXIT negotiations and we've watch her deranged squad bring up Andrew everytime there is a criticism about Meghan.

Even now, Meghan allegedly demanded HRH for the invisibles because Beatrice & Eugenie still use their dad's HRH. I've always thought that the Sussex attorneys have been using Prince Andrew as their benchmark in negotiations with the BRF.

Edit: it is important to note that mm made anti-brexit posts on her ig the same week she "officially" persuaded violet to become their public matchmaker. She also fed the writers of the lifetime movie script a racist narrative that stemmed from brexit. I dont think any of this was a coincidence.

The world is upside down. Maranatha!

youtube

#revenge #tom bower #istanbul turkey #trg #zirconia #sussex #spare us #prince andrew #soho house #markus anderson

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dcbbw · 9 months

Text

Single Mom

This story is born of this week’s @choicesflashfics prompt #3 (which will appear in bold). It’s not the story I had in mind but was able to explore Riley as a mother, along with her fears and hopes for the lives she has brought into the world.

THANK YOU to all who will read this story; I hope you enjoy it. Please excuse and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. I was fast and loose with editing and revisions, but MS Editor has this rated as 99% error-free.

The song inspiration has absolutely nothing to do with parenthood or jellybeans; rather, it was chosen because of it’s fun, relaxed vibe which I feel captures Riley as a parent and her relationship with her sons.

Song Inspo: Recess, Eli “Paperboy” Reed

Pairing: Riam and family

Word Count: 2500ish

Rating: T for Teen

The royal family stood inside the private terminal at Cordonian International Airport; through the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows one of the airliners in the Crown’s fleet sits on the tarmac, waiting for its most important passenger to board.

The King holds his youngest son, Theodore, in his arms feeling the toddler’s tears dampen his shirt collar. His oldest sons, Francis and Jonathan, cling and pull at his pant legs demanding Dada come home with them.

His wife, his Queen, just stares at him. Her eyes are shiny but remain dry. Her husband, along with Rashad Domvallier and Kiara Theron, is going to Sweden for an international conference on linguistic resources to aid the immigration crisis.

Riley realizes that travel is a large part of being ruler: networking, being seen places other than thrones and golf courses, sitting on international boards and committees.

It doesn’t mean she likes it.

“It’s only three days, and I’ll call often,” Liam reassures his family to no avail.

“We’ll be fine,” Riley says as she pries six-year-old fists from his clothing.

She holds her arms out for Theodore as Fric and Frac wrap their arms around her legs, their own tears beginning to fall.

“Hey!” she says brightly. “We’ll go to McDonald’s on the way home, and NO SCHOOL until Dada returns,” she promises.

The twins immediately stopped crying, speaking excitedly to each other in their secret language.

Liam’s look is stern as he double-takes at Riley’s words.

“Oh, NO! There will be school! The boys need structure and to continue their educational routine.”

Riley frowns at her husband over her baby’s head full of black, curly hair.

“And I told YOU, MY children will NOT be attending a school that changes its name from La Petite Academy to The School for Spoiled Kids after our sons enrolled! I will be getting them transferred to a public, Crown-sponsored school while you’re away.”

“The security issues with that …”

“Are NO different than with that private school you insisted on! In fact, aren’t many of the Safety Resource Officers in the public schools members of the King’s Guard?”

Liam rubbed his palm over his face. “We’ll discuss this when I return.”

He held his arms out to embrace his family once again before boarding the plane. He kissed all of his sons on the tops of their heads before his lips lingered over Riley’s.

“I’ll miss you,” he whispered.

“You’d better!” she retorted, her palm cupping his cheek.

With a sigh, the King grabbed the handle of his rolling suitcase and began the walk to the plane. He looked back once; his family was still there. They were waving and blowing kisses and wiping tears from their eyes.

He did the same.

Day 1

It was 8am when Duchess Joelle Theron tucked her large, brown-paper wrapped package underneath her arm and smiled in greeting to Mara as she entered the royal family’s quarters. And stopped in her tracks.

The Crown Prince and the second-born were fist-fighting; Grunts, yells, and cries of “STOP THAT!” were uttered by both parties as well as their mother. The sounds of hands slapping skin ended once Riley was firmly in between the children.

The baby sat on the floor, eating dry cereal out of a bowl as he watched it all unfold. Occasionally Baby Theodore took a sip of juice from his sippy cup.

“Your Majesty?” Joelle asked hesitantly.

Riley turned, a confused smile on her face at hearing her moniker; she had made sure to clear her calendar while Liam was away.

“Joelle! What a surprise.”

The Duchess’ eyes took in the situation: Six-year-old boys in dinosaur-emblazoned pajamas with mussed hair, scratched cheeks, and angry splotches along their forearms; they glowered at each other with mistrustful eyes as their chests heaved. The Queen’s natural hair was an unkempt afro and she wore a too-big chenille robe with frayed sleeves, deep purple in color. A television blared the theme song to a children’s show. The kitchen counters were filled with dirty dishes and cut fruit.

“Is everything okay here?” Joelle asked in genuine concern. There was nothing noble or royal about any of this.

“Oh yeah. Just that Mr. Frac here woke up choosing violence,” Riley clarified as she glared at her oldest. “What brings you to the Palace?”

“I painted a portrait of the heirs. It’s not a traditional painting as I’m dabbling with abstracts now. I’m headed to Krona for lunch with Adelaide, and thought I’d drop it off.”

“Let’s see it!” Riley exclaimed as she led the twins to separate corners, sitting them in chairs facing a wall; their backs were to each other and the room itself.

“Mommy?” Frac’s querulous voice called out softly.

Fric heaved a laborious sigh and placed his face in his palms.

Riley whirled. “It’s QUIET time, young man! Unless you want a spank-spank, which you may get anyway, keep those lips zipped!”

She shook her head. “Puttin’ hands on folks first thing in the morning,” she muttered as she watched Joelle unwrap the painting.

The Duchess Theron arched her eyebrow slightly, giving the Queen a nervous glance. “Is Liam aware of your parenting style, Riley?”

Riley’s face hardened imperceptibly; when she spoke, her tone was tight. “My husband and I are in agreement as to how to raise our children, Duchess.”

"No judgment, it’s just not an approach seen before in Court,” Joelle murmured with a nod of acknowledgement and an apologetic smile before proudly displaying her portrait.

Riley was rendered speechless. And not in a good way.

Against a background of thick, layered cream-colored paint were three-eyed penguin heads with bright orange beaks interspersed with what were either Fred Flintstone’s big toes or inflamed nipples. Top hats and brown leaves completed the portrait.

Abstract, my ass. THIS is indescribable.

“Can you see them in the painting? Is it obvious what I was going for?” Joelle asked eagerly.

The Queen quickly morphed her expression into one of pleasant surprise.

“It looks just like them!”

Day 2

The Rys boys were seated at the dining room table, coloring and drawing. It was the art portion of their homeschooling day, which was a one-off project Riley pulled out of her ass while waiting to hear back from the Prime Minister of Education.

She agreed with Liam that their sons’ education shouldn’t suffer, and that structure and routine were important. She enlisted Annabelle Parsons, and the women came up with a lesson plan: Science, which was focused on the solar system with particular interest on the sun. Math, where the boys reinforced their counting skills; Fric and Frac could count to 100. Their younger brother made it to 20 before getting confused. After playtime and lunch, they would have their weekly self-defense class with Mara.

Riley and Annabelle were seated in the living room, enjoying a quiet conversation.

“I’m worried about Frac,” the mother confessed. “He’s taking these separations from Liam harder than the others. I don’t want to punish him for having emotions, but he can’t run around beating up his brothers and calling his mother a heathen!”

Annabelle Parsons carefully sipped her sparkling cider as she considered her friend’s plight. Normally, Annabelle tended to imbibe harder drinks but whenever she visited the Queen, she partook of alcohol-free beverages out of respect for the children.

“Francis loves his father deeply, there’s no doubt about that. Perhaps you and Liam could make a game of it? Maybe a week-long countdown until the day of the trip? And you could have another countdown until his return? Like Christmas, but instead of Santa, it’s Daddy.”

Riley drank sparkling water and lemon. “That’s an excellent suggestion, but how to get my child … all of my children … to express themselves in healthier ways?”

The Queen adjusted her wig before letting out a heavy breath.

“I want them to be well-adjusted and social, not cooped up in palaces and estates with only adults for socialization. Not saying that being exposed to different levels of experience and maturity isn’t good for them, but they also need time with children their own age, doing regular kid things. They need playmates. They need friends! That’s why I want them in a public school. They can’t rule if they can’t relate!”

“There’s that Beaumont child,” Annabelle reminded her.

Riley looked at her friend in shock. “OH NO! HELLLLL NO! That child is half Walker, half Beaumont and ALL creepy!”

Annabelle snickered. “Well, he is a member of the next generation of Court. Perhaps you can start now sowing goodwill.”

Riley rolled her eyes before laying her head back against the cushion. “I’m going to speak with Liam about a therapist for the twins. Everything about their lifestyle is so … unorthodox, or maybe it’s me that’s not used to it. But thinking counseling can help us help them navigate.”

“I think that’s a brilliant idea,” Miss Parsons encouraged.

“Mommy, I finish!” Fric half-hollered.

A smile came easily to his mother’s lips. “Well, let me come see what masterpiece you’ve created!”

She rose, making her way to the kitchen with Annabelle Parsons close behind. Theodore glanced up and returned to his paper, drawing circles in red crayon. Frac raised his head from his drawing, his eyes meeting his mother’s.

“When is Dada coming home?” he asked sadly. “I want my Dada.”

Riley’s eyes locked with Annabelle’s before returning her gaze to her oldest son. “In two days!” she replied brightly. “And you know what? We can make a game out of it. Want to?”

Day 3

Riley was boiling hotdogs and heating canned barbecue beans for the boys’ lunch. Outside, rain fell steadily; she and the Princes had made it back inside just in time.

After breakfast, Riley had taken the boys to the hedge maze so they could run off excess energy and touch some grass. Until the dark clouds had rolled in and completely discombobulated her sons. All three children had a … thing about getting wet outside of a bathtub.

Her preschoolers were in her and Liam’s bedroom (where they had been since Liam’s departure), playing with blocks. Her toddler was hoisted up on her left hip, watching food cook. Both looked up hopefully when they heard the front door open.

It was Drake.

Both went back to watching hotdogs boil.

“THAT’S the greeting I get?” Drake demanded as he crossed the living room and settled at the kitchen island.

Theodore hugged his mother more tightly. “Hi,” he greeted shyly.

“He’s my moody child,” Riley explained as she used a fork to turn the pinkish meat.

“NO HOLES!” the toddler shrieked in her ear.

Drake looked around the otherwise empty room. “Liam not back yet?”

Riley shook her head. “Tomorrow.”

“Where’d he go again?”

“Dada make rain with skinny witches,” Theodore replied.

“Not what he’s doing, where he is,” Riley corrected. She looked over at her company. “Sweden. Conference on immigration and linguistics resources. We’ll hear all about it at the special Council meeting.”

Drake gave his friend a long, hard look. “You really told your KID that?”

Riley pointedly avoided Drake’s accusatory gaze. “I never said that.” A pause. “Around the boys.”

She set Theodore on the floor. “Go tell your brothers lunch soon, okay?”

Her son nodded his head vigorously as he ran down the hallway.

The Queen turned the burners off on the stove, and began draining boiling water down the drain, careful to keep the hotdogs from spilling out.

“I know you think I’m unconventional, but I’m a good mom. Well, as good as I can be given I was only supposed to be the cool aunt … the auntie mommy as they say in America.”

Drake looked at her thoughtfully; a pensive look shadowed her features.

“Hey, Brooks,” he said softly. “I see all mommy. No auntie.”

Surprised relief lit up her face. “Really?”

“Really. Parenting is always a hit or miss, and I guess it has to be. I mean, there isn’t enough training and skills and experience to raise human beings, right? All you can do is better than what you were taught and use the lessons you’ve learned. At the end of the day, good examples and bad examples can achieve the desired results. Although telling children their fathers are a fictional TV character and a Korean actor, neither who has no idea any of you exist may be pushing boundaries. But, I’m just the cool uncle talking.”

Riley smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Drake. That means a lot. And for the record, I don’t tell the children that anyone other than Liam is their father. No one has ever heard me tell them that. Liam … that’s a different story. And I did NOT tell the boys that Liam was making it rain with skinny bitches.”

“BB said it was ‘witches’, and you admitted to saying that.”

“SEMANTICS!”

They both turned at the sound of running footsteps.

“Hot dogs, hot dogs!” Fric chanted.

Frac held his stomach as if in pain. “I’m sooooooo hungry!”

As if all of them hadn’t had plates of apple slices and cheese crackers not an hour ago.

Theodore scrambled into his chair at the dining table. “BEANS!”

“Uncle Drake, did you bring us something?” Frac asked after determining his mother was fixing lunch plates.

Drake’s hand ruffled his godson’s hair. “You gotta share, big guy.”

Frac nodded in agreement. “What is it?”

Drake fished in his jean pocket, pulling out a sizable bag of jellybeans. “Here ya go.”

“Eat lunch with us,” Fric demanded as his mother slid a plate of plain, sliced hotdogs and a spoonful of beans in front of him.

Drake’s eyes met Riley’s; she nodded and smiled.

“Okay, deal!”

“And after lunch, you can play with us!” Fric chimed in.

Drake’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Brooks’ children tended to not play fairly. He was still healing from the trauma of their last game of hide-and-seek in the hedge maze.

“Play what?”

Riely feigned hurt. “I can’t play?” she whined.

“YES! You know you always play with us, Mommy,” Fric replied as he warily inspected a circular piece of meat.

Homecoming

Riley treaded lightly down the hallway, careful not to wake her children. It was just past 7am, and she both wanted and needed the quiet time to at least get the night’s dinner prepared and in ovens and slow cookers.

Glazed lamb, Chicken Tagine, potatoes au gratin, curried rice, and a vegetable medley. Desserts would be baklava and banana cream pie.

Her husband was coming home today!

She set a bowl of jellybeans and her phone on the kitchen island before rummaging through the refrigerator; the chicken had been marinating overnight, and the lamb had thawed. She placed them both on the kitchen counter, then placed a pod of green tea in the beverage maker.

The machine hissed as it heated water to brew her morning drink. When she heard the door to the quarters open, she didn’t bother looking around. Given the hour, it was Mara.

“Ahem.”

Riley whirled at hearing the familiar baritone.

“LOOOVE!!!” she quietly yelled as she ran to Liam’s waiting arms.

The couple kissed passionately: tongues probing, hands feeling and groping, noses touching. When they finally released the other, both were breathless.

“You’re back early! I was expecting you at dinnertime.”

Liam smiled tenderly as his eyes gazed into hers. “I couldn’t stay away another second.”

He heard the quiet and asked an obvious question. “The children are sleeping?”

Riley nodded. “In our bed.”

“I trust all went well?” he asked as he placed his luggage and bags filled with presents for his family in one of the time-out corners.

His wife was placing a pod of his favorite coffee in the brewer. She nodded.

“You basically know everything. Joelle came over; we were unprepared.”

Liam chuckled. “Where is this portrait she gifted us?

Riley looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “THAT is a drunk date night reveal. It’s the only way it’ll make sense.” She turned back around to grab Liam’s mug.

The King looked over the jellybeans in the bowl and popped one in his mouth.

“And I told you about the boys’ counting prowess, and excitement over the solar system.”

“Krona has a new planetarium opening soon; we should make it a weekend trip for all of us.”

Liam grabbed a handful of the jellybeans this time around; they were delicious, and he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before.

Riley was blending sugar and sweet Italian cream in their beverages.

“Did you and the boys have fun?” he inquired.

“We need to have a husband/wife, mother/father talk. I’m worried about Frac’s separation anxiety.”

Liam nodded somberly. “I agree. I’ve been thinking about your suggestions; we can discuss now, or this weekend.”

“This weekend will be fine. I won’t have you to myself until then anyway. But we went to the hedge maze, had reading time, and today is facial masks and dance party day!”

“Oh, I came home just in time,” he joked.

“And we played bean butt.”

Liam’s chewing slowed. “What exactly is that?”

Riley slid his mug across the granite countertop; her eyes widened when she saw the candies in her husband’s palm. With her giddiness over Liam’s early return, she forgot to empty the dish's contents in the trash.

She slapped the side of his hand, causing him to spill them.

“DON’T EAT THAT!”

“What’d you do that for?” he demanded angrily, wincing at the stinging on his skin.

“Bean butt? Long story short, I put a whole bag of jellybeans up my ass. One at a time. And then pulled them out."

Liam frowned and looked askance at the bowl. His thoughts tumbled in his brain.

Riley was his wife. His loyal wife.

She was clean. THAT was important.

He had put his tongue in her forbidden places before.

He’d already eaten some!

The King would take the risk. He scooped more.

Riley had her back to him, pulling out breakfast meats and eggs for breakfast.

“Drake played bean butt with us too.”

Liam looked aghast at his palm, and poured his jellybeans back into the bowl as if they were live fire. He then threw the entire bowl in the garbage can.

Welcome home.

Tagging: @jared2612 @marietrinmimi @ao719 @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @liamrhysstalker2020 @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @beezm @gardeningourmet@lovingchoices14 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @lady-calypso @emkay512 @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @alj4890 @choicesficwriterscreations

#dcbbw writes #my riam #and the boys #choicesflashfics #writer on tumblr #trh fanfiction

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