#Pre-Owned Golf Clubs

[golfgarage2022]

Discover premium Callaway Golf equipment in India. Shop authentic clubs, balls, and accessories online or in-store, with expert guidance and fast delivery.

[hadersversion]

but daddy i love him!

“no, i’m not coming to my senses. i know he’s crazy but he’s the one i want.”

pairing: rafe cameron x innocent kook!reader

word count: 5.8k

warnings: smut, minors dni!!! dry humping & fingering. corruption kink of sorts (rafe and an innocent reader has taken over me fully i apologize). parental violence/verbal abuse. fighting. rafe showing his true colors but quickly hiding it from the reader because rafe is a big softie for them. pet names (sweetheart, honey, darling, baby, pretty/good girl). aftercare. let me know if i miss any!

mood board!

rafe cameron was bad news.

anyone in the outer banks could tell you that.

he was a fighter, a shit-talker, a guy who you couldn’t trust.

but there was something so intriguing about him that you just couldn’t turn away.

from the day you moved to island almost 10 years ago, you haven’t been able to get him off your mind. you would see him at parties, the country club, when you would hang out with his sister, around town on his motorbike with his buddies. but you had to push that crush deep down because no one in their right mind would go after that boy.

except you.

you stretched yourself on the court, waiting for your dad to come out with drinks before your tennis match. that’s when you saw him and his friends making their way to the locker room. they had just got done their round of golf, you could tell by their bags. you tried not to stare, but your eyes seemed to have a mind of their own.

“hey, y/n.” you heard him call, with a smirk painted across his face.

your face blushed and you waved to him. “hey rafe.” play it cool, play it cool.

you can see him look you up and down, staring at your legs. “nice skirt.”

you looked down at the new, white tennis skirt your dad had bought you for your report card. your fingers found a loose thread, beginning to toy with it to deal with the embarrassment you felt. “t-thanks.”

he nods before looking behind you. “mr. y/l/n.” he nods with a quick wave. you turn around to see your dad with two waters and a stern look on his face. “enjoy your game.” he says before going inside.

your dad stands over you as you sit, handing a water bottle over. “that cameron boy…” he lets out a deep sigh.

“what?” you question, getting up and brushing your legs off.

your dad pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “he’s not the kind of guy you want to be friends with, sweetie. he’s a bad seed.”

“but how do you know that?” you question, trying not to sound too suspicious.

your dad picks up his racket and makes his way over to his side of the net. “i know ward cameron. and i know how rafe is just like his dad, thinks he can get anything he wants. thinks there is no consequences to life. but there is. there always is.” your dad shakes his head. “i saw him beating up some kid here not that long ago. sure, he was a pogue but doesn’t give rafe the right to walk around like the king of the outer banks. but until someone stops him, humbles him, things’ll never change.”

you stand there, uncomfortable. all you wanted to do was defend rafe, though you weren’t close like that. but your dad is a one way street. it’s his way or no way. so all you can do is nod. “oh…okay.” you say simply, getting ready for the match.

“just promise me you won’t get mixed up with the likes of that boy, please?” your father looks sincere.

you bite your lip and look down at your clean, white shoes. “yes sir.”

“good, now watch me beat you in tennis.” he says with a laugh. i fake a smile, getting on with the game, but still have rafe in the back of my mind.

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you didn’t see rafe again until the night of a house party at topper’s house.

your friends and you walk in, buzzed from the pre-game. they immediately all go their separate ways, looking for drinks, boys, or both. this leaves you standing awkwardly by a table, talking to some people from school. they talk about prom, their grades, and teachers, making you mentally check out from the conversation. that’s when he catches your eye, he is talking to topper and kelce with a red solo cup in his hand. you watch his every move, how big and veiny his hands are, practically cover the entire cup. how he constantly pushes his hair back while he talks, almost seeming like a force of habit he has. he also licks his lips a lot, sending a very graphic image of rafe between your le-

he looks up, meeting your gaze. a blush forms on your face as you try to hide your embarrassment but taking a sip of alcohol from your cup. you give yourself some time, staring into the cup before looking up again. but when you look at him, he hasn’t stopped staring at you. the blush you fought so hard to keep away makes your face feel like it’s on fire.

you watch as he excuses himself and makes his way over to you. this has to be a dream? or some prank, right?

“hey there, y/n.” he snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts. every person who you are talking to looks over to rafe then back at you. “didn’t know you were coming.”

you awkwardly shrug. “last minute choice by my friends.”

his eyes burn holes into your body as he looks you up and down. “well, i’m glad you’re here.” you nod at him, offering a shy smile. “looks like you need another drink, come inside and i’ll get you one.” he nods his head towards the kitchen door. the group you're with is watching this conversation like it’s a TV show. you make my way through them and stand next to him. he automatically puts his hand on your back and leads you inside. the feeling of his touch sends chills down your spine but it almost feels like his hand is meant to be there. like his touch is the missing piece in your life.

you get into the kitchen and he heads towards the fridge, grabbing juice and handing it over. “you strike me as a vodka and juice, girl.” he says with a smile, making my insides melt.

“and what makes you say that?” you ask, putting your hand on my hip, playing into his little game of flirting.

“well, you’re sweet and you seem to play it safe. you don’t really drink a lot but when you do, you’re never blacked out.” he admits with a laugh, giving his diagnosis. “juice is sweet and vodka is the safest way to get a little drunk, in my opinion.” he stares at your face, waiting for a response.

“you’re good, rafe cameron. a little too good.” you admit, grabbing the juice and filling up the cup. he stands over you, giving me the vodka next. “didn’t know i was that easy to read.”

“you’re not.” he admits, staring down at you while you drink. “i just think i have a special interest in you.”

you freeze in place, there’s no way he’s admitting this to you. right now. the boy you’ve been pining after since the first grade. you can tell you're shutting down but you need to play it cool. “oh really?” you look up at his blue eyes, getting lost in them instantaneously.

“really.” he steps closer, inches away from my face. you know you are not that drunk but your head feels like it’s spinning under his gaze. he leans in a little closer, your noses brushing, when the kitchen door slams and topper can be seen stumbling in. his obnoxious laugh fills the room, making rafe close his eyes and sigh. “what could you possibly want right now?”

topper laughs and comes up beside rafe, he’s clearly fucked up. “i’m just looking for some weed, man.” he hits his chest playfully. “don’t let me get in your way.”

rafe pushes him away, making topper laugh harder at us. he looks at you before speaking. “sorry for being a cockblock.”

rafe narrows his eyes at him. “just get the fuck outta here, top.”

topper staggers into the other room, still laughing.

“sorry about him. when he drinks, he becomes an asshole.” he says, running a hand across his face.

“is he drunk all the time?” i ask with a new found confidence in my voice.

rafe looks at me and laughs. “seems to be.”

you both stand in silence, not moving away from each other but unable to bring the moment back.

“i like you.” he admits.

you stare at him, unable to speak. “w-what?”

“i think you heard me, y/n.” he smiles cockily, looking into your eyes.

you look back at him. “you barely know me, rafe.”

“doesn’t mean i can’t like you.” he sips his cup and nudges your shoulder with his. “i think you could say the same about me.” he gets closer, whispering into your ear. “don’t think i don’t notice how you stare at me when i’m around.”

you feel the air leave your body and you bite your lip. you feel like your cornered and have nowhere to go. “i-i-uh…”

he brushes his finger against your lip, almost like he’s shushing you. but you can’t even fight the way your body reacts to his touch. “it’s okay, honey. i like it. i like it a lot.” he says in a whisper, almost making you forget you aren’t the only two people in the world. it feels like you can read his mind just by looking into his blue eyes. he wants you…screw that, rafe cameron needs you. and you need him. forget what your father says, or the town, or even your friends. this seems to be all you need.

how am i ever going to recover from this? you thought to yourself.

you hear your friend call your name from outside. rafe looks over as they yell from outside. “i’ll see you around, how’s that sound?” you look at him, unable to think when he looks at you like this. his hand brushes against your face before walking back out into the party.

you stand there, still as your friend comes in. “you alright? looks like you seen a ghost or something.” she asks you, laughing a bit.

“all good.” was all you can get out, staring straight ahead at the door rafe just left in.

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ever since the party, rafe found little ways to be around you.

whether it was joining you at the country club while you played tennis or hanging around you when he saw you at the beach reading. he even started knocking on the front door of your mansion to just talk on your porch, something you had to hide from your dad. with these interactions, you had no idea what everyone was warning you about with him. he was one of the sweetest guys you ever met. for weeks, you and rafe had begun a nice friendship.

but the almost kiss at topper's party was never spoken of again.

the two of you sat on your porch swing, the air was warm as summer was slowly approaching. your legs laid flatly across rafe’s lap, looking directly at him. you poured a glass of lemonade for you both, sparking rafe to hit you with a “you sure you don’t want some vodka in this?”

when you’re with rafe, the conversations seem to just flow like you are the oldest of friends. you could talk about anything and nothing at the same time. he went on for the past five minutes about how he used to love playing lacrosse but one injury affected his whole career for him.

“it sucked, ya know? i never felt like i belonged anywhere, or had a close bond with anyone like i did on that team. then one fucking torn acl later and it’s all gone for me. i had college scouts looking at me and everything. i could’ve escaped this place and lived the real college experience.” he looked out into the water that faced your house. he turned to you and smiled awkwardly. “jeez, i’m sorry i just don’t shut up.”

you chuckle at him, loving how he put some of his walls down around you. “it’s okay, i like hearing ya talk. it’s soothing.” you smile innocently at him.

he gazes into your eyes and nods, his expression softening. “really?” you nod and he just stares at you. “you’re one of a kind, ya know?” his fingers start to rub innocent circles on your leg.

“and why’s that?” you ask him.

“i-i don’t know, i feel like i can be myself around you.” he admits. “don’t ever quote me on that because i’ll deny that shit.” he points, gaining a laugh from you.

“don’t want anyone to know rafe cameron can be a softie?” you tease him.

“shut up, i’m not a softie.”

“i think you can be behind close doors.” you say.

he stops rubbing your leg and turns to you. “oh shut up.”

“well, you’re gonna have to make me then.” you say without thinking.

rafe looks at you with a fire in his eyes that you haven’t seen since the party. “what was that?” he cocks his eyebrow at you.

you just stare into his eyes, straightening your shoulders back. a confidence striking you like never before. “i think you heard me, rafe.”

without missing a beat, rafe connects your lips. all of that pent-up tension, gone within that very second. his hands found his way to your face, cupping it ever so lightly like you were a delicate flower he was so lucky to have found. his hands slowly slid down your body, like he was trying to memorize every inch of your skin. "jesus, this is all i've been thinking about." he said breaking away, looking into your eyes.

"then, don't stop." you say breathlessly, climbing on top of his lap, kissing him again.

you can tell this move took rafe by surprise as he let out a soft moan in the kiss. the innocence he once thought you possessed was now all gone. you slowly began grinding yourself against rafe's clothed cock, which was slightly hardening. "fuck, who knew you had it in you, honey." he said as he kissed down your jaw. you never felt so needier in your life chasing a high with rafe that you thought you could only dream about.

your face blushed as you looked down at rafe who was staring up at you like you were a painting held high in the louvre. the more you looked down, the more self-conscious you became. your pace which was rapidly increasing started to falter. "hey, hey, sweetheart. don't stop now. what's wrong? talk to me." he caressed your face so lovingly.

you bit your lip and closed your eyes, still out of breathe. "i-i-i don't know. what if i'm doing this wrong? or it's weird for you? i'm just nervous, i never did this before."

"did what, sweetheart? dry humped?" he almost laughed, pushing hair out of your face.

you shrugged. "well yes and no..." your voice started to trail off.

"yes and no?" rafe stared at you with a puzzled expression, trying to crack the code. you watched as he deciphered your words and the gears started to turn. "y/n, have you ever been with someone like...sexually before?"

you wanted to cry, the embarrassment being too hard to handle. you just laid your head against rafe's chest and sighed. "please, don't think of me any differently. i just...i just haven't found the right person to do all this with, ya know? i used to be scared but with you...i don't know, i feel ready." rafe sat there in silence, his hands falling to your waist and gripping them. you break away from his chest and stare into his eyes, which have seemed to darken. "rafe?"

"you trust me?" he asks simply. you nod shyly, causing his breath to hitch. you can feel his pants grow tighter under you. "i want you to keep going, do you hear me? don't stop until you cum on my pants." it sounds like he is giving you orders. he brings his thumb across your lip and gives a menacing smirk. "you wanna be all mine, huh? you pretty girl. show me your mine."

with his reassurance, you pick up you begin to rub yourself against his pants. your hands grip his shoulders as he holds you down on him. "good girl, keep it going." the material of his jeans feel rough against your clothed cunt but it adds a sensation you have never felt before. "shit, look at how pretty you look on me. can't wait to bury my cock inside you. would you like that? my cock being so far inside you, you can feel it in your stomach?"

you let out a pathetic whine, your head falling back from the pleasure you have building up inside. "y-yes."

"good girl, but we gotta start with the basics, right?" his hands start to trail up your body, stopping at your closed breasts. he cups them with his hands and smiles when you cry his name. "i got you, baby. c'mon, you know you wanna cum."

you quickly grind against him, feeling desperate as you chase your high. with his words of praise and reassurance, you can feel yourself ready to release. with one quick movement, you feel the tension building up in your stomach release as you cum on rafe. tears prick your eyes as you repeat his name over and over again. "rafe, rafe, rafe."

he stares at you in awe as you finish on him. the sight of your teary eyes and his name falling from your lips in such a needy way pushed him over the edge. he found himself cumming in his pants like he was a high schooler all over again.

you both stayed there, out of breathe, not moving once. you felt like a whole new person even though barely anything has changed.

"you alright?" he asks, pushing hair away from your face.

you tiredly nod, not knowing how to form words. your hooded eyes just take in the view of rafe, his face read and sweaty with a cocky smirk painted across it.

he bites his lip and kisses you gently. "there's more where that came from, you know?" he says and your head reels. "i've been waiting for so long to have you to myself, sweetheart. i don't plan on letting go now."

you giggle into his chest and nod. "don't gotta worry about me leaving, trust me. i've never felt so good in my life." the sweet yet sensual moment you two shared came to a halt when you heard your dad's truck pulling up the gravel road to your house. "shit." you quickly climb off rafe, trying to compose yourself.

your father quickly exited the truck, slamming the door behind him. he seemed to race up to the two of you as you sat there. rafe's hand protectively went over yours as your father approached. "the hell is he doing here?" he fumes.

"d-dad, we're just hanging out." you lie to his face.

"yes sir, that's all we were doing." rafe says camly, looking at him in the eyes.

your father head snaps towards rafe. "was i talking to you, boy? no. stay outta it." his attention focuses back to you. "i told you to not mess with the likings of this boy and what do you do behind my back?" he screams at you. "you go around with this...this hooligan! i want him off my property now. acting like some easy girl, i raised you better."

"b-but, daddy." you pout, trying not to cry as rafe squeezes your hand.

"sir, you're being too hard on her. it's not her fault." rafe tries to calm him down.

your father's finger rests on rafe's chest as he gets close to his face. "oh i know that, rafe. it's you and your typical bullshit. my daughter wouldn't act this way if it wasn't for you. look at you, you're probably using her."

rafe's fists clenched as your father talks down to him, no one does this to him and gets away with it. "sir, i suggest you put that finger down."

"or what?" your father snickers in his face.

rafe's whole demeanor shifts, the sweet boy you were just talking to now gone. like he was never even there. it honestly scared you how fast rafe can change personalities. "you don't even want to know." he grits his teeth. you hate to admit the affect this took on your body, clenching your legs together.

your father drops his finger and turns to you. "inside, now." he says, grabbing your arm. before you can fight him off, he's dragging you away from rafe.

"it's okay, baby, we'll figure this out." he reassures as you are being brought into your house. "fuck!" he screams as soon as the door slams shut.

you watch as rafe makes his way to his truck, slamming the door shut and driving away. you turn to your father who just stares at you as you cry. "screw you!" you say before running upstairs and locking yourself in your room.

you finally had him and now you lost him.

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the days past since you saw rafe.

your father grounded you and cut you off from the outside world.

you sat by your window and waited, having some false hope that rafe would be your knight in shining armor and take you away from this place. your father pulled up the driveway and seemed to struggle getting out of his truck.

you met him at the door, ready to deal with the bullshit he would throw you today. when you opened your door, your father seemed battered and bruised.

"holy sh-i mean...what happened?" you asked, holding the door open for your dad as he sat on the recliner.

"nothing." he shuttered. "nothing happened."

you stood there and crossed your arms. "clearly something happened."

he shook his head, seeming almost fearful. "nothing happened, now drop it." you stood there as he turned to you. "you aren't grounded anymore. your phone is on my dresser." he seemed almost defeated.

you stared at your dad trying to understand what the hell is going on. are you in the twilight zone? you knew you wouldn't get an answer out of him so you grabbed your things and raced out of the house before he could change his mind. the sun was setting but you didn't care, you had one thing and one thing only on your mind.

you got on your bike and raced towards tannyhill. when you finally got there, you threw your bike down and almost ran to the front door. with two knocks, wheezie opened the door.

"y/n?" she said with a smirk.

"hey, wheezie, is rafe home?" you say, snooping around the insides of the home.

she rolls her eyes and opens the door. "in his room."

you walk up the stairs and stop right before his door. your fist hovering over it before connecting it to the wood. after a few seconds, rafe stands there in the almost dark room.

"y/n." he says, almost as though he was expecting you to be here.

you quickly jump into his arms, holding onto him by his neck. you missed this. the way he smelled, the way he felt, everything about this boy drive you wild. "i missed you."

"i missed you too, honey. come on in." he lets you into his room. this was your first time being in here. sure, you've seen it through snapchat and pictures he sends but that's it. it's the typical boy room but it felt authentic. it felt like rafe.

you sit down on his bed as he walks around, picking up clothes off the floor. "didn't think i'd be having guests." he doesn't seem like his usual self, maybe you caught him at a bad time? but he invited you in, so you stayed.

you laugh at him. "no big deal, the old man let me off the hook tonight. it was weird, he came home all messed up. i tried asking but he kinda pushed me away. it was weird."

rafe stood there, silently. "oh really?"

"yeah, super strange. he's not usually the fighter type. never has been." you watch him stand there. "you all good?"

he nods and turns to you. "i am, now that you're here."

you smile at him as he approaches you. you open your legs so he can stand in between them, looking down at you. he traces your face with his finger, stopping at your lips. "all mine, sweetheart. all mine." he says before bending down to kiss you. the kiss feels rough, almost as though you are a fresh breathe of air that rafe has been waiting for. he pushes you down onto his bed and crawls on top of you.

you break the kiss and look into his eyes, his room is dark so you can only make out certain features. but you bring your hand to his face and hold his cheek, which makes him wince. "oh, i'm sorry, did i hurt you?"

"n-no, it's all good." he tries to kiss you again but you stop him.

"rafe?" you ask him, making him stop once again. "what's wrong? tell me."

"goddamn! nothing is wrong, okay? i can't miss you." he says, running a hand through his hair. you try to study his face but can't even see him. you reach over for his bedside lamp. "no, no, leave it of-" before he can stop you, the light is on. his beautiful face has a large bruise under his right eye and cheek. his lip busted and knuckles bruised.

"rafe?" you question, sitting up.

"y/n, i can explain." he pleads.

then it all makes sense. your father coming home all battered and bruised, rafe's current state, you being let off the hook too easily.

"you don't even want to know."

"it's okay, baby, we'll figure this out."

his words from that night ring through your head. the way his whole demeanor changed that night into a person you've never seen before.

"d-did you?" you ask with teary eyes.

"baby, look at me. i can explain." he begs you but you start to get up.

"explain what? how you beat up my fucking dad!?" you yelled, trying to grasp the millions of thoughts you had. "h-how could you?" you stand by his door, pacing, with your head in your hands.

he walks up to you, grabbing your hand. "look at me, honey, please. look at me." he begs you, trying to grab your attention.

when you finally turn to him, you see the cuts and bruises again. "rafe, why?" you say with a tear slipping down.

"because i love you, honey. you're my girl and i don't give a fuck who it is, they cannot talk to you the way your own father did. calling you easy, acting like your dumb for being around me. nobody should ever talk to you like that, ever." you stop and he cups your face in his hands. "i just wanted to talk to him, okay? all i wanted to do was talk. but then he started again with how i'm a bad person and how you were being stupid for even acknowledging me. he said he didn't need a guy like me corrupting his daughter and i snapped."

you gazed into his eyes, they looked as though they were pleading with you to see why he did what he did.

"please, say something. please." he states.

you sigh and close your eyes. "rafe, i don't need you going around defending my honor, especially to my dad. it's not worth it."

"not worth it? sweetheart, look at me." you open your eyes. "you are worth everything to me, you hear me? everything. i would kill for you if you asked me to. i never had someone care for me the way you do, have someone listen to me, or even treat me normally. you mean the world to me, y/n. i love you."

and there it was.

rafe cameron, for once in his life, showed affection.

he told someone they love them.

"i'm sorry it was your dad, okay? sometimes, i black out and can't remember things when i'm angry. i act on my impulses. but with you, i never feel that way." he shakes his head, trying to contain all his emotions. your eyes water again, causing him to wipe the tears. "what's wrong, baby? talk to me."

you smile through the tears. "i just, i love you too." no one has ever made you feel so safe and loved in one moment than rafe has this past month. he's all you could ever ask for.

he beams down at you, shaking his head. "you mean that?"

"with every ounce of my body, i love you." you admit.

his heart swelled as he connected your lips once more to his. you were all his, all he ever needed in life to feel whole.

rafe pushes you against the door, a light moan slipping from your lips as he presses himself against you.

"you like that?" he asks, a satisfied smirk on his face as he kisses your cheek and goes down your neck.

you nod under his touch, like you're cast in his spell. "y-yes."

"you want more?" he asks, sucking on one spot of your neck for a long time. all you can do is nod, already becoming a mess because of him. he pulls away, having you almost whimper from the lack of contact. "not uh, baby, gotta hear some words out of that beautiful mouth of yours. i'll repeat myself, do you want more."

"y-yes, rafe, yes please."

he groans at your begging and nods. "good girl." he pulls you over to the bed and guides you toward it. you feel the bed hit the back of your knees and you sit down, looking up at him. he quickly takes his shirt off and tosses it to the side.

he kisses your lips lightly as his hands find the end of your shirt, lightly toying with the fabric. "y-you can take it off." with the reassurance, he slips the top off and leaves it next to you. his eyes take in your body, your breasts pooling out of a flimsy green bralette. he sucks his tongue and gently runs his fingers over your tits.

"so pretty and they're all for me." he slowly reaches behind your back and unclasps the bralette with one hand, letting it fall down your body. you could swear rafe has tiny hearts in his eyes as they bore onto your half-naked body. "lay down." you follow his orders and lay against his pillows. his bedroom light shines over his features and the cuts from the fight. you bring your hand up to touch them and he gives into your touch. "you okay?"

"more than okay." you tell him.

he kisses your hand then his lips meet with yours once again. he then lets his lips trail across your cheek, jaw, neck, and down to your chest. he stares at your tits before peppering them both with kisses. he then takes one nipple in his mouth, slowly, and grabs your other one with your free hand to give a squeeze. your body instantaneously reacts to rafe's touch, moaning at the sensation of his lips. "you like that, huh?" he almost teases, switching to the other nipple.

"m-more." you whisper out, clenching your eyes.

"what was that, honey? need you to speak up for me." he grins.

"please, i want more, rafe. touch me more." you raise your voice.

"you got it." his hand leaves your tit and trails slowly down your body, resting at the hem of your jeans. he unbuttons them and lets his hands slide down your underwear, his hands automatically getting soaked. "shit, baby, all this for me?" he runs ins finger down your cunt and gathering your slick, bringing it to his mouth. he sucks it off his fingers as you watch in awe. "you're just too sweet for me, you know that?"

he doesn't even give you time to think before he puts his fingers back inside you, swirling your cunt. your hands grab his shoulders, holding onto them for dear life. "it's okay, i got ya, i always got ya." he reassures as he slowly slips one finger into your tight hole. "jesus, honey, with a hole this tight i don't know how long i'll last." he says as he slips his finger in and out of you, his thumb still toying with your clit.

your head falls back as more moans fall from your lips. "more, rafe, please give me more."

he laughs slightly. "cocky little thing, aren't ya? if you insist." he adds one more finger, your hole clenching around him as his finger slip in and out. "look how pretty you look with my fingers inside of you." he says before kissing your mouth, collecting your moans. you're so wet you hear the noises your pussy is making around him. you feel overstimulated as rafe keeps going, not stopping once. tears prick your eyes as you feel your high approaching. his thumb rubs harder as your nails connect to rafe's chest, dragging them down. "my pretty baby, i just love you so much." he says, staring at you.

with those words, you feel yourself being pushed to pleasure. you cum all over rafe's fingers, crying out his name. "rafe!"

he lets you ride out your high before taking his fingers out and putting them in his mouth like he did before. "never gonna get tired of that."

he gets up and heads to the bathroom. you want to talk to him, ask him where he's going, but you're too tired. you've never felt this good, not even from your own fingers. rafe comes back with a towel in his hand, gently, he pulls off your shorts and panties, cleaning off your pussy. the water is nice and warm as he gets you situated. he drops the rag and crawls into his bed next to you, holding you tightly.

"you know, if you want me to go dow-" but before you can finish that sentence he kisses your forehead.

"no need to rush there, honey. i wanna take my time with you, wanna show you how good i can make you feel." your heart melts in your chest as he rubs your back lightly. "get some rest, alright?"

you fall asleep fast in his arms, he holds you there the entire night and doesn't plan on letting go.

[strawberrystrangers]

Do you think JJ would constantly stay over at readers house bc he feels safe there compared to his own??

🦋anon

I love this!! I also kind of love the idea of the reader having accepting parents too bc that scene with Kiara’s hurt hurt!!

This literally just became a “please let JJ have a win with a girlfriend’s family who actually loves him” write-up…

Yeah he loved the independence that the chateau gave him, but your house had the company and it had the warmth of family. Your parents have stern rules about bedroom etiquette but they’ve practically given him the spare room whenever.

He definitely swings by after altercations with his dad; he’s been walking the street for hours trying to get the courage to ask if he can see you (& he does this every time, even after the 50th visit) because his insecurity is so deeply rooted in feeling like a burden (fuck you, Luke) to everyone.

So when he says he should go, because he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, you’re always responding to it with “please stay” and not a “you can stay if you want” knowing he needs the clarifying reassurance that you want him there.

You’ll ask your parents downstairs if he can stay, and they’re always happy to say yes.

Your dad will talk to him in the kitchen while he’s making the dinner, and JJ helps with his experience from his summer jobs in the golf club kitchen. Your dad will never fail to find out how bad the altercation was, and give gentle advice and care and love and reassurance to jj, emphasising that he’s always welcome and never alone. Your dad is basically the Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting to Matt Damon. Your dad will hug him for as long as JJ needs it and there’s a few shared tears between them.

At dinner, your parents are always so interested in what JJ’s been up to—and when he divulges about the gold and his adventures, they believe him and want to hear more. They always make him feel like they see potential in him and that he’s not destined to be like his father & that his name isn’t tainted with a pre-made future.

JJ will talk mechanics with your mum, she’ll ask him if he knows what’s up with their car and he’ll go on this whole nerd talk about it.

He’ll help clean up: he washes the dishes and you dry them while your parents sit at the table still, sipping beer or martinis.

The recurring thought they always have, and the recurring thing they’ll always tell JJ is: “you have the kindest soul who has found it’s other half in our daughter” and they always make it clear that they’d rather him with you—a Pogue with gentleness—than the boys who attempt to butter them up—Kooks with misogynistic views.

[papaya-twinks]

mauve - l.n - p.1

Warnings: Mentions of sexism, swearing.

Pairing: Lando Norris x williams!fem!reader

Taglist: @cheriiepies @jan1on @sagestack @fall-bambi @meglouise00 @eclipsedcherry @suzzie105 @rebelatbay @fly-me-away @cabbyhabs

The announcement of you being the new driver to fill the seat of Logan Sargent had taken everyone by surprise. For many reasons - but it wasn’t a secret to see that you being a woman was more than likely the centre piece of most people’s surprise.

You knew what you were getting into when you signed that contract, and when you shook James Vowles’ hands, you knew there would be uproar. But you were good, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. And whether the keyboard warriors at home wanted you there or not, you were there to race.

_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Lando wasn’t a sexist person in the slightest. He gave as much respect as he could to women, and he knew that being a woman was tough, but he couldn’t help being a little bewildered as he read over the announcement from the F1 page.

There was no doubt going to be a lot of pressure on you, tenfold what a usual, well, a usual man would receive when they would start in F1. But reading your reply, your joking reply, made Lando frown. He wasn’t sure why he cared so much.

He simply told himself he didn’t care, but surely you should show some sort of…humbleness? Not that there was anything wrong with joking around and stuff, but you were in a privileged position, one of merely twenty, so there should be some sort of modesty.

“Mate, have you seen Williams have gone for some chick?” Max asked, looking over to his best friend as Lando snapped out his thought. Lando was sprawled across the sofa, wearing dark black joggers and a hoodie, a cap pulled low on his head.

“It’s cool, I guess,” Lando said, unsure what to truly say. He didn’t want to make a remark that seemed sexist, when his intentions weren’t as such, so he just didn’t say anything. “It’s gonna be…interesting,” Max said with a small shrug, “you coming golf, then?”.

Lando would never turn down golf. And as he swung his club over his flexing shoulders, the ball sending far down the grass mound, all thoughts of you had fled his mind. He didn’t even understand why he cared. He didn’t care, that’s what he told himself.

_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

One of Lando’s pet hates was being forced to bring himself to the pre-season grid photo. But he couldn’t deny he wasn’t curious. Other than you, there weren’t any new drivers on the grid, except a few move-arounds, which was rare in some aspects.

“You saw her tweet, right?” Max asked as he zipped up his suit, letting the woman on the stool adjust his hair. “Yeah, she’s taking the piss, mate,” Lando said, dodging the woman and fixing his own hair in the mirror.

You weren’t there with the drivers or the stylists as you were a woman, meaning you got your own space to dress and change. “She’s decent on the eyes, though,” Daniel said, nudging Lando as he rolled his eyes.

“Calm down,” Lando snickered, “she’s, like, 12 or something,” he shrugged, “little bit young for you, or is that the age you go for?”. Finally, the 19 male drivers were ushered out into the area of the Bahrain track, the cars lined up behind them, as they stood in boxes in their pairs.

“Classic girl, right?” Lando whispered to Oscar as the Aussie laughed, noticing you hadn’t come out. And finally, as Lando and Oscar continued chatting away, Max joining in behind them, you walked out. You were pretty, yes, Lando could give you that.

But Lando was hot, he knew that. Well, in his own words, he was ‘alright’. And looks got you nowhere in terms of pure, racing talent. Lando hadn’t even seen you race but he had one thing in his mind already. That there wasn’t an ounce of talent flowing through your veins. Not a drop.

Daniel whispered something along the lines of, ‘They welcome grid girls back?’ as you accepted Alex’s hand, letting him pull you onto the box beside him. The suit fit you well, showing off your body in all the right places as you copied Alex’s stance.

You were directly behind Lando, and he could basically hear you breathing, as he pushed you to the back of his mind, setting his stoic expression for the camera. Maybe he should talk to you. Him and Oscar were once again shushed from their random chatting, as he huffed.

“Smile,” the cameraman said, as Lando gave a somewhat forced one, his usual shining smile clearly outdone by your radiant one. It was obvious you were happy to be there. But, for some reason which was hardly your own fault, Lando wasn’t happy for you to be there.

“Car shots, now!” a woman with a clipboard called out, directing each pairing of driver’s to their car. Once again, the Williams was placed beside the McLaren, almost like a clash of colour together, to show of their vibrancy compared to the dullness of the Mercedes of the VCARB.

If you blurred the lines of the McLaren and the Williams, you’d be left with mauve. Once the photos had been taken, the drivers had 30 minutes just talk and catch up with each other, as winter break had finally finished and most hadn’t spoke to each other for a while.

Lando watched with a half bitter expression as some of the drivers, his teammate included, as well as Carlos and Max, went over to you to introduce themselves. “Hello,” you were saying as Lando begrudgingly walked over to the group of drivers.

“New Williams driver, then?” Max said, stepping back subconsciously to let Lando into the circle. “Yeah,” you replied as Max smirked. “Well, you can light up the rear of the grid for us,” Carlos said with a nod as you smile somewhat faded.

In some ways, the Spaniard was right, the Williams, judging by last year and the year before, was in no place to fight for the top ten, let alone wins, but it did hurt to be put down so early. Before you’d even driven, actually.

“Maybe even the front, hopefully,” Alex said, shooting Max and Carlos a half-forced smile. “Quit it, mate,” Oscar shook his head with an amused smile as you followed Alex to examine the car. “McLaren’s looking good,” you said, kneeling down to examine the side of the car.

“Don’t get too close, there,” a voice said, making you jump as you straightened, seeing Lando. “Uh, I didn’t plan on it,” you said, cheeks a little red as he nodded. “Right,” he said, “it’s a good car, no?” he asked, eyes flashing across your face to gauge your reaction.

“Looks fast,” you said, eyes on the car, trailing over the bodywork. “Well, I’ll see you later, then,” Lando said with a half-hearted smile, “maybe when I lap you, I doubt I’ll be as low on the grid to pay you a visit,” he said coolly.

“I admire your confidence,” you said coolly, still looking over the car, Lando’s somewhat cocky nature faltering for a second. “Stay in your lane, Y/L/N,” he nearly hissed, leaning forwards as you felt his breath fan across your face, “and don’t step out of it,”.

A/N - Comment if you want to be in the tag list 💜

[formulakatya]

MET YOU AT THE RIGHT TIME | MICK SCHUMACHER

"living in a movie i've watched and funny, cause you couldn't have called it, met you at the right time, this is what it feels like"

not my gif :)

part 1

summary: where your best friend is sick of you thinking your not deserving of love and so she introduces you to a certain someone

pairing: mick schumacher x professional golfer!reader

notes: hi! sorry for the long wait but part 2 of ‘this is what it feels like’ is finally out, thank you for your patience 😭🤍

warnings: a universe where mick is in ferrari and ferrari aren’t idiots

—

“amazing drive, mick!” you smiled, congratulating the german, “congrats on that win!”

“thank you, (y/n),” mick smiled shyly as both of you exited the paddock and walked down the streets of monaco, the sun setting as nighttime came. “so, uhm…how’s golf going? lily says you’re amazing at it.”

chuckling, you shook your head, “i hope she didn’t oversell me to you.” smiling as mick let out a laugh, you couldn’t help but let out a laugh of your own. “well, i just won my first major— the chevron championship— uhm, and i also managed to win the cognizant founders cup after that…before that i won the honda lpga tournament in thailand.”

“your kidding!” mick exclaimed, looking at you.

“oh no, did she oversell me? because if she did—“

“no, no! absolutely not,” mick smiled. “she talks about you a lot and before i met you i already had a good impression of you based off the things she said…and then i met you and you’re really just as much of an angel as she says you are,” he chuckled.

“really?”

“yeah,” he nodded, “and for the record, she never told me you were winning tournaments left and right…when’s your next one?”

“the lotte championship in hawaii,” you replied, “and why are we only talking about me? come on, lily says you have a dog!”

“she told you about angie?” he smiled as he scrolled through his camera roll quickly to find a picture, “she’s an australian shepherd.”

“stop, she’s so cute,” you shook your head, “i wish i had a dog…”

“i’ll let you meet angie one day.”

“please, that’ll be a dream come true.” laughing, you averted your gaze to the sunset as the both of you neared the restaurant.

mick smiled, admiring you for a split second. “am i allowed to say you’re pretty or is that too soon?”

—

you let out a deep breath as you took your driver from your caddy. spectators were crowded as they watched your group since you were the favourite to win. and you weren’t going to let the pressure get to you, absolutely not.

“approaching the tee, (y/n) (l/n)”

looking out into the fairway, you went through your pre shot routine before addressing the ball. drawing your club back, it wasn’t soon until the piercing sound of your metal club against the ball was heard as you looked where the ball went— twirling your club as you did so.

well done, good shot.

the other 2 players making their way to the fairway as soon as you picked up your tee and walked to your caddy, you gave a smile as you followed your fellow players to the fairway. whispering words of encouragement under your breath, you kept yourself calm as you found your ball in no time.

holding back a laugh upon seeing the small formula one car drawing stamped onto your ball, you looked at your caddy who gave you a thumbs up in encouragement before giving a glance into the crowd.

and you could’ve swore you saw someone you knew there.

gripping your club, you let a deep breath out as you repeated the same routine as before. swinging the golf club, the satisfying sound could be heard once again. squinting your eyes as your gaze watched the direction, you crossed your fingers together as it landed onto the green.

“not bad,” you chuckled, shrugging as you passed your club back to your caddy. “also is it just me or are my friends in the crowd?”

“it’s possible,” he shrugged, laughing as you two approached the green, your eyes glancing around the crowds before returning your focus back to the green as you did a quick analysis.

from where you were it would be a left to right, fast downhill putt. if you were able to find the right line and speed, you’d birdie the hole. and despite not knowing what your score was at the time, it was clear that it would be a putt that would decide your fate as a winner or the first of losers. marking your ball, you took another deep breath before stepping away, watching as your competitor run through her routine before making her putt.

the air grew tense as you wiped the sweat off your head, patiently waiting for your turn.

time seemed to slow down as you set up, your eyes focused on the ball as you concentrated on your putt. the soft sound of the metal hitting the ball could be heard as you watched the small golf ball roll down the green.

“go, go, go,” you mumbled under your breath, watching nervously as the ball slowed down as it approached the hole. “YES!”

smiling as you gave a hug to your caddy, thanking him for his congratulations as you quickly searched the bustling crowd with your, shaking hands with your competitors before you went on the search— confident that you’d find someone you knew in the crowd.

“(y/n)!” the familiar voice of lily could be heard as she squeezed her way to the front of the crowd, “that was amazing! oh my gosh! congratulations!”

“thank you so much, lily,” you smiled as you hugged her before pulling away only to see alex and a familiar blonde stood behind. “mick?”

“hi,” he smiled, giving a shy chuckle as he waved his hand. “lily said you’d be playing so i decided to come. congrats!”

“thanks, mick,” you smiled, a light blush forming on your cheeks as he pulled you into a tight hug, “it means a lot.”

“do you wanna go out to celebrate? dinner’s on me.”

“but you payed last time!” you exclaimed, “let me pay!”

“then take it as a date,” he shrugged. “and let me pay, my love.”

—

“i’m still mad you didn’t let me pay.”

“well…” he chuckled, “that prize money isn’t spending itself and i much rather spend it on a girl like you.”

“and no one else?” you asked playfully, resting your head on your palm as you looked outside the window.

“only a fool wouldn’t choose you,” he paused, “and based off my results in school, i count myself a genius.”

[itsasainz]

the poison drips through | Roman Roy x Reader

Summary: grief is a natural instigator of reflection; Logan’s funeral forces you to look back on your own grief, and your relationship with Roman.

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings/tags: death of a parent (Logan Roy, reader’s mother), discussions of abuse (physical, emotional), grief and breakdown, mentions of addiction, depression and associated mental health struggles in a parent and in reader, implications of suicide, toxic and/or abusive familial relationships.

a/n: roman roy has a special place in my my heart. he’s awful, he’s product of his environment, I can’t justify his actions, I love him, it’s confusing, I don’t know. I binge watched all of succession in seven (7) days.

masterlist!

You’re not sure how old you were when you first met the Roys, but you find it strange to think of time pre-Roman, pre-Roy, when you were free of proxy-politics, hidden slights and subtle digs. You must have been a preteen, maybe twelve. It would make sense—the second summer after your father moved to New York, when he bought the house in the Hamptons. Your mother had stayed in London that summer, leaving you and your siblings to battle the sweltering Long Island heat alone with your father, who worked most of the summer anyway. Had it been the Sailing Club or the Golf Club where you’d first met Siobhan Roy? You aren’t sure, but you remember the bathroom where you’d run into her, and how a five minute conversation had turned into five weeks of friendship. It had gone beyond that five weeks—even when you got back to the UK, you’d found ways to keep in touch, and spent holidays together when you were in the same place; you’d grown accustomed to Kendall’s strange attempts at seeming “hip” and cool, and Roman’s whining and jokes.

Shiv had been, and is your friend—in many ways, your best friend—but you’d always had a sweet spot for Roman. It wasn’t until you moved to New York more permanently, right after you graduated, that you actually befriended him, your work at his father’s company at first forcing you into the odd work dinner or late night at the office, but routines were formed, at some point. Thursday lunches together, Monday morning coffees. At some point, he’d stopped seeming like Shiv’s whiney older brother, and become funny—most of the time. Roman, you had, at some point understood, took time. But most of your relationship with him came after Greece.

The first time you went on holiday with them—beyond the Hamptons or British countryside—you were twenty-three, and had found yourself on a ten-day trip through the Greek islands on Logan’s oversized yacht. It was that ten days that you realised that you were in, not particularly intentionally, but in nonetheless. You remembered everything about that trip; the private jet that took you to Thessaloniki, the starting point of the trip—you’d fly back to New York from Heraklion, with the entire family, who were coming from various outposts across the globe. To start with, though, it was just the two of you, walking on the scorched tarmac of Thessaloniki’s international airport, leaving the gleaming private jet behind, already feeling slick with set in the hot, midsummer air. You had appreciated the perks of a private jet that day—no queues, no crying babies or seats reclined into your knees—and didn’t have to think twice about where your luggage was, because everything had been taken care of by a team of people you barely saw, working like ants under the foliage. A refreshingly air conditioned car had brought you smoothly to the port, where a smaller boat, already stacked with your luggage, had taken you quickly to the gleaming palace on water that was the Roys’ yacht. The boat was like a small, disturbingly empty, city; an almost utopian place, gleaming and shimmering under the Mediterranean sun, a labyrinthe of rooms and decks and corridors. Despite the surplus of space, it was split between a select few; Logan Roy, of course, his four siblings and their own guests, a selection of board members and his third wife, who you’d met only once or twice before, Marcia. That day was languid, a steady flow of arrivals as the hours passed and the yacht sat just outside of the port, watched by the locals and tourists alike, most likely speculating about the owners of such a gratuitous yacht, carelessly waiting for all the world to see.

You and Shiv had been greeted by Connor, in his pre-Willa days, already in his forties though; Kendall had appeared at first without your notice, but the sound of his children, still babies then, had alerted you of his arrival, alongside his then-wife, Rava, who you still respected wholeheartedly. Roman had been next, harder to miss, making sure to “jokingly” insult everyone aboard within five minutes. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered when it took him a minute or so to come up with an insult for you, but that train of thought was quickly lost to the arrival of the man himself; Logan Roy came with a fleet of people. He spoke about three words to you directly on that first day, but you supposed that wasn’t so bad—you were hardly novel to him anymore, given how your recent promotions had drastically increased your time spent with him and Kendall. Roman, however, was a different matter entirely.

You’d seen him around an awful lot, and spoken to him maybe twice, never for longer than a passing comment or introduction, though he knew of your friendship with his sister. And yet, here you were, on holiday with his family, and he was suddenly fascinated. Over those ten days, between your hours spent gossiping with Rava and his hours spent talking business with his brother and father, you somehow found time to get attached to the youngest son of the Roy dynasty.

Roman was a piece of a work, there was no denying it. He was insulting, defensive, childish, et cetera, et cetera, but he was often funny, too, and within days you had understood him well—he, like Kendall, Shiv and Connor, was driven by his father’s approval, but as is the way in any family, each of the siblings had manifested the same fears and motivations in different ways. Shiv’s fear of intimacy made for relationships with people who depended on her—for money or status—but who she could keep at an arm's length, and cast aside if they got too attached. Roman more openly craved connection, but his fears and traumas came to light in a more physical expression. The jokes at his expense had swiftly enlightened you to his troubled relationship with sex and affection, while, even this early on, Kendall’s addictions were beginning to form cracks in his determinedly “hip” façade. Most of these things you had already understood, but an extended amount of time on a vehicle that you can’t exactly leave had opened it all up to you—unlike the Hamptons, you couldn’t piss off to the other side of the island or back to the city, but only to the other side of the yacht, and even for a big yacht, it never allowed you to genuinely leave. The thoughts that would later become a strange, fucked up mantra began to formulate on that holiday; before you’d put it into words, or understood what you were asking yourself, the statement was swirling around your consciousness; the poison drips through.

Each of the Roy siblings was broken and damaged in a way you’d never seen before, but your long standing practice of people-reading and your love of untangling the dynamics within groups made the holiday a sort of project—by the end, you’d created a map in your head of the different events and people that made up the complex web of Roy troubles, built off the foundations laid by your friendship with Shiv and many brief interactions with her extensive family over the decade. It was an incomplete map—there would be things you didn’t discover until his death, a decade later, and things you would never know, but that initial map, fraction of what it would become, was the starting point for your relationship with Roman.

Your morbid fascination with the family, and apparent loyalty (though you only realised it years later) met with his intrigue with you. Shiv never brought friends on holiday, he disclosed on the third or fourth day—as such, everyone was trying to work you out, your game, your presence, beyond the limited stuff they already knew. But at the end of the trip, it wasn’t Shiv who you’d spent the most time with, but Roman.

You’d thought of it as a ten-day deep-dive into the family, one that wouldn’t be repeated and that would have few repercussions—for you, anyway, but something had been pushed into being on that yacht that would change the trajectory of your life.

Upon your return to the company, tanned and rested from your break, you found that your routine at work changed a little at first, and then a little more, and then completely. A week after the end of the holiday, Roman had barged into your office at around lunchtime, insulted a photo on your desk and dragged you out for an overpriced lunch to discuss work stuff—a legitimate offer, you later found out from Gerri, about an actual deal that he genuinely wanted to pick your brains about. The work-related talk had lasted maybe fifteen minutes before the two of you were side-tracked by something entirely inconsequential and spent the rest of the hour essentially gossiping. His coarseness surprised you a little, though it shouldn’t have, and you remember your initial reservations about his overt slights and hyperactivity—though nowadays you’ve grown to love both. The deal—the one he’d wanted to pick your brains about—had gone better than anticipated, partially, it was said, due to your counsel. So it became more regular—Thursday lunchtimes became your lunches with Roman, and he would stop by your office for discussions almost every day, uncharacteristically invested in his work, according to his siblings. You started to move up through the company too, taking on more responsibility, spending more time with the family, getting closer to the top.

At some point, you and Roman had become friends. You gravitated towards each other at galas and occasionally went for drinks after work on a Friday night. But, despite your time together, there was something odd about the dynamic—neither of you particularly spoke about your pasts, your childhoods. There was a certain shame you had about your upbringing—you knew it was entirely unfounded, that you’d been better off than the vast, vast majority, but then again, you spent most of your time with multibillionaires these days. Generally, you avoided discussions about family wealth, and guarded the inner-workings of your family, and all its troubles, in a way that is far more impossible for a family of the Roys’ calibre—you had your own secrets, a great many things you refused to discuss, and he knew that. In turn, Roman didn’t seem to want to delve into what it was like to grow up with the mighty Logan Roy as a father; so neither of you pushed it, and the subject of who you were pre-Roman began to fade; it would take a couple of years for it all to be disclosed, and even then, most of your big revelations about your relationship with him seemed to come in times of crisis.

You were friends. Work friends, really, but edging into the ground of the simpler terms; you were friends. You were, perhaps, his only one, or one of very few, and he was one of a fair few on your part, though he and Shiv were almost entirely separate from the company you kept outside of Waystar; you’d sometimes wondered what they’d think of the people you spent your Saturday nights with, or the clubs you frequented. But for years, he was your friend, and only your friend.

You’re not entirely sure when things began to get muddled, and lines began to blur. After one crisis or another, he had turned up at your door, late into the night, too tired and too upset to take the piss out of your apartment—a sure sign something was wrong—and ended up in your bed. You hadn’t slept together, but had spent the night beside one another, in hushed conversation or drifting into restless slumber. You’d woken up with his back to you, and it hadn’t been brought up again, not even when he turned up at your door a week later. Sleeping in the same bed as Roman became more common, though it was never sexual—it eased slowly from the simple need for company to admissions of wanting some form of affection—you would sometimes wake up to find that you had curled into one another, that in your unconscious states you had found an intimacy that was impossible in your waking lives.

And then, at some point, something had changed. You’d created a setting in which Roman could actually communicate—not without difficulty, but a space where he could say what he thought and attempt to move away from what he felt he should think. The emotional stuff took longer, but with those changes came a definite change in the nature of your relationship—namely, there was a newfound romance to it.

You’d held off the idea of a relationship with Roman for a long time—through all his joking, overly casual proposals, which you suspected were a way of him affirming some need for rejection, assuring himself that he was unlovable by presenting the ridiculous to have it shot down, as expected. But that had changed as he had, gradually, changed. As he became more open, more honest in that mesocosm of your apartment, developing a unique ecosystem of trust and loyalty and, you supposed, love, allowed him to become accessible to you in new ways.

Sex had taken longer. You were, to all intensive purposes, his girlfriend for a long while before you actually had sex. It was tentative, a slow process of breaking down barriers and rebuilding his relationship with a lot of things, in order to create a version of him that was capable of vulnerability. It’s still a work in progress. At some point (a nonchalant way of putting it—your milestones with him may have been muddled, but they were still deeply significant to you), the relationship had been opened for scrutiny at the hands of his family. You had, in some senses, created a healing process that they couldn’t comprehend, and you think that for that they will always resent you, but for the most part his siblings saw someone who made their brother a little happier and a little less skittish, and his father saw someone who could talk business and keep his son in check.

You didn’t know if there would ever be a wedding to commemorate it, and you doubted there would be children, but your ever-evolving relationship with him made you happy, and you knew it made him happy. Sometimes, you just wished that all that progress you’d made with him would translate to other aspects of his life, but such hopes never came to fruition—at the end of the day, he was still the young boy desperate for the approval of his hard-headed, abusive father.

It was that relationship with his father that made his relationship with his siblings so twisted. You and Shiv weren’t so close these days, but there was still amiable respect and remnants of that original loving friendship, but circumstance had torn rifts in the friendship of your teen- and twenty-something selves. In your thirties, that love had been somewhat lost, or changed—you’d probably always feel that friendly love for Shiv, the one responsible for this entire trajectory of your life.

Now, however, feels simultaneously like the best and worst time for a reflection on the ins and outs of your relationship with Roman Roy. Your bed is a mess, sheets tangled from Roman’s tossing and turning, his frame tense as he paces back and forth, pink flashcards clutched in his grasp. You’d helped him write them over the last few days, through the frustrations that he couldn’t get the words right or couldn’t express his true feelings.

It is only natural that on the morning of a funeral, you think of the funerals you have been to before. The one that stands out, the paradox, is the funeral that exposed your true upbringing to him; it wasn’t the wealth—Roman had hardly expected anything quite so extreme as his own family, but rather the people, your people, and how different they were from his.

You’d received the call late at night—UK and US time differences had gotten confused, your uncle thought you were five hours ahead, not behind—and had tried to gloss over the reason you were suddenly going back home for a week. Of course, in registering your time off with work—paid compassionate leave—he had discovered the truth, and insisted he accompany you. So Roman had met your family at a wake—not ideal, but it made sense. Your family, for all their flaws, had an open, friendly attitude; anyone was welcome in your home, and help was always offered where it could be, a notion so foreign to him that he’d never quite managed to grasp it.

Your family had been confused but welcoming of him; the context of your mother’s death was a strange setting to first impressions, but they liked him nevertheless. Your brother found his jokes more than a little amusing, and your little cousin seemed to think he’d hung the moon, which had more than baffled him—he’d never liked kids, even when they looked like you might have when you were little, even (perhaps especially) when they made him wonder about having children with you. That funeral had been a modest affair with a large turnout—most of the neighbourhood seemed to be there, but there was no fancy coffin or grand church; it was a small funeral, as your mother had wished, and as fitted the circumstances.

You remember a conversation with your sister a day or two later; sat in the garden, smoking, she had turned to you, posed that fatal question; What if the poison drips through? You had dismissed it initially, but at some point, probably after another depressive episode after, you had understood it. The poison drips through. But that was then, and this is now. This is not a modest funeral in your mother’s hometown, but a lavish one, in New York City.

No, this funeral is different.

Logan Roy’s funeral is not a neighbourhood affair, but an international one, and your Roman is doing the eulogy—hence the pacing and the flashcards. He is already dressed, and you are still in your pyjamas, but that is hardly the consideration—in this moment, you are simply concerned over whether or not Roman will make it through the eulogy; with every hour that passes, you become less convinced by his claim that he has “pre-grieved” his father’s death. If Roman breaks, the whole world will see it, abuse it, manipulate it; but everyone, Roy or not, should be able to grieve their parent’s death—no matter how awful they were—without judgement or manipulation.

He looks up from his cards— “You’re not dressed yet.”

“We have time.” you chide, but slip out of the tangle of bedsheets and turn the shower on. “Getting there on time is not going to be an issue.”

He dismisses you again, announcing the lines from his flashcards to himself as you shower, still going as you do your make up and dress, eat a little food—as much as you can stomach on a day like this, and make sure everything in terms of logistics will run smoothly, send a quick text to Shiv to make sure she’s coping—you’re sure none of them are—and eventually let Roman know it’s just about time to go.

His composure is already cracking by the time you get to the car. There is a sense of foreboding, and though you can’t bring yourself to iterate the thought, you have a distinct premonition that Roman’s eulogy will not happen as planned. You’re even wondering if he’ll sneak out before it’s his turn to speak, but you push the thought away. Roman would be okay, he always managed to scrape himself out of trouble, somehow.

The funeral is sombre, to no one’s surprise. You end up on the front pew, between Roman and Kendall, though you’re not entirely sure how. The service is long, as Roman Catholic funerals usually are, in your experience, and Roman will have to sit through the rest of it after his eulogy—whether it’s good that he’ll get it over with, or bad that he’ll have to sit with it for ages after is something you can’t decide on. You suppose that regardless of which point in the service he did the eulogy, he will always have to sit with his words.

And then it’s his part, and he doesn’t even manage the first sentence. You realise, the moment that he looks over to the coffin, that it’s over. You’re the first to get to him at the front, pulling the cards from his hands and letting him collapse into you, the cards getting taken by Kendall, the Roys all there to offer some form of support to their faltering sibling. His questions, his grief, are concerned with Logan’s body, lying and waiting in that coffin. It does, admittedly, seem unnatural that such a force could be contained in such a simple box. You feel almost like you are carrying him back to the pew, tucked under your arm, and welcoming him into your side, his body pressed into yours as though you are the only thing keeping him on earth, as if he would be gone without you. You let him cling, you make it to the end of the service without a further disruption, and then tell Shiv you’ll walk him back to the reception yourself, make sure he’s in a better state before you present him to the world once more. You sneak him out somehow, find a long route back that is not impacted by protests or by paparazzi.

The walk is slow, and he comes to himself little by little by the simple process of walking. He calms his breathing, starts to look about, register his surroundings and the events of the last few hours.

“Why’d you take us this route?” he asks. It’s not the quickest route, and it’s too strange a route to simply be about avoiding photos or crowds. He’s frowning, but you don’t seem embarrassed or confused by his line of questioning.

“My grandparents used to say that you should leave a funeral in small groups, and never all take the same route. It was some superstitious thing—like, if you all took the same route back then the soul of the dead would be able to follow you home, and they’d never leave.” You don’t say that you would hate for Logan’s soul to remain here, to follow him for the rest of his life.

He frowns at you. “I don’t think there’s much we can do to stop him from staying.”

You sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll never escape him, will I?”

“Roman, for the first time in your life you can step out of this sphere. You can look at the world without the oversight of that bastard, and you can pick a direction. You have the choice, the ability to choose for yourself without his consequence. If you want so badly to escape him, then you can. It’s in your grasp.”

He doesn’t respond, meandering toward your destination. Eventually, he formulates a response. “He’s gone, but the rest of them aren’t.”

You don’t push it—it’s for another day. Instead, you hold his hands in the street, and the pair of you head towards the reception.

He’s beside you for the majority of the evening, until you go to get a drink so that kendall can have a word—a bad idea, in retrospect—and you return to find him gone. Kendall shrugs you off, and no one else knows or cares where he’s gone. You call him a few times, wonder if he just needs some quiet, and then feel your instincts correct you; Roman has not gone for a moment of quiet, you know him better than that, and there is no guarantee he is safe or calm or well.

So you leave, try his phone a few more times, and some morbid curiosity leads you toward the sounds of the protestors. Perhaps it’s your gut, perhaps there is something that viscerally understands his masochism and self destruction. You know you’ll find him in that mob, at the mercy of the only people who will show him violence like his father used to. You feel sick with the thought, nauseous with the understanding of what he is doing to himself.

Sure enough, by the time you find him he has been beaten to a pulp, he is black and blue and bloody, damn near smiling with the pain despite being barely able to stand or walk, destroyed by a sadistic crowd. They do not know this man, you think, as you bundle him into a car, they do not understand grief if they can do this to a man who had freshly lost his father.

At your apartment, you sit him against the bathroom wall, on the floor, splatters of blood on his clothes, tainting the white tiles. He’s incoherent as you sort the first aid kit, and find a cloth to clean him up with. You work methodically, sure to keep him conscious in case of a concussion, as you clean and dress every part of broken skin, and treat his bruises with an ointment you find in the bottom of the kit, and strip him of his stained clothes, providing him with a change. You do not leave him alone, for fear of what might happen, and help him into some new clothes, sweaters and top, too casual for him to ever actually wear—you’d bought the joggers over a year ago and seen him wear them twice—before settling him into bed. You know enough about concussions to know you should wake him up frequently to check on him, but for now you let the tears come in waves. You’ve cleaned the physical wounds, and you hope that with every round of tears comes a cleanse, one that will make the wounds of his broken life easier to heal come the morning, as though the tears themselves will act to wash the grit from the graze, or to pick the shrapnel out from the marred flesh of this open wound.

You look around your apartment, out the window at the city below, and an idea strikes you—almost certainly a bad one, but you’re beyond the point of caring. “Rome,” you say, “You wanna go to Barbados?”

-

Caroline’s place in Barbados is lovely, if a little mosquito-ridden, and it feels oddly bonding to care for Roman together with his distant, almost neglectful mother. She loves him, that much is true, but it’s never enough.

You have thought more about your own mother in the last two weeks than in the last few years—not because you’d wanted to forget her, you saw her in everything—these thoughts were more active, like you were searching for the memories that might guide you in how to deal with this, or help Roman to cope. Your mother had been a different kind of a parent to Logan, and her issues had never been sought out—it was like no matter what she did, she would always have been claimed the same way, her life would always have made yours worse, despite anyone’s efforts to change that.

The poison drips through. That had been your sister’s line, and now Kendall’s. You’d experienced some of what your mother had first-hand, and it always made you wonder if everyone is destined to become their parents, to mirror their lives no matter how consciously they tried to avoid it; whether they resign themselves to it, or try so hard to avoid it that they do a full circle, returning to the likeness of their parents, everyone you’ve ever known is the product of their parents; it is biological, cultural, psychological.

It’s no surprise when Shiv arrives, ready to turn Roman to her side of the discussion about the board meeting. It’s late afternoon when you and Shiv find a moment—Roman has disappeared, and you sit on the paved surrounding to the pool, legs soaked up to your knees, weight leant back on your arms. The youngest Roy is somewhere behind you, to the right, probably on a deck chair.

“Do you think—and tell me to fuck off if you like—that maybe this whole deal is a good thing?”

You hear her sit up, and turn to look at her. She’s frowning at you, “How so?”

“I don’t know, ‘cause, like, you guys—all of you—have just been trapped in this sphere of Waystar and ATN and your dad, and all of you are just fucking miserable. What if you—what would be so bad about just getting out? You could free yourselves from all this bullshit, and there’s no Logan to pull you back in, so you could just… be. Just, y’know, learn a bit more about who you are outside of your father’s sphere of influence. Plus, like, Kendall’s gonna break, Roman already has, and you—all of you—are, frankly, pretty fucking fragile at the minute.”

She moves to come and sit next to you, slipping her feet into the pool beside yours. “You don’t understand.”

You shrug. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“We’re never, really, going to be free of it. Any of it.”

She shifts, her head resting on the bare skin of your shoulder, hair ticklish on your neck. You rest the side of your face on the crown of her head. “Maybe, maybe that’s true. But for the first time in your lives, the door’s open.”

The silence stretches out over the pool, filling the air, making you wonder what’s going on in her head. You sit like that for a while and at some point you realise she’s crying— not sobbing, not shaking with the force of it, but just sitting there, letting the tears stream; you don’t think she’s even really blinking, but the stillness remains, you don’t move. She needs this. You know about the scheduled meeting rooms for crying—Roman mentioned it—but this doesn’t feel like mourning. Not for her father, at least.

“Hey, fucknuts,” Roman calls, appearing at the edge of the courtyard, still barefoot in the shorts and top Caroline had gotten him when you first arrived. Shiv swiftly brushes the tears away, smiling up at him. He looks between you. “Ah, fuck—what… nevermind.”

Suddenly, you are plunging through the chlorinated water, lungs straining at the shock, hands splaying out through the cyan waters, in some momentarily suspended, bubbly universe, the tiled walls of the pool reflecting its pale, eggshell blue translucence onto your skin. You burst upward, drawing in a deep breath and flicking your hair from your face as your toes find the floor of the pool. “Argh, fuck you!”

Roman is laughing, Shiv in a similar state to you, and the moment feels distinctly child-like. You wade through the neck-deep water to the edge, and reach up to him to help you out, but he shakes his head. “Fuck that,” he chides, “I’m not that stupid.”

Shiv is laughing now, and you realise that you’re smiling despite yourself. “Rome, come on, at least help the pregnant lady.”

“Yeah, Rome, help the pregnant lady!” Shiv echoes, joining you at the edge and reaching for him. He knows what’s about to happen and submits himself to it regardless, letting her get a grip of his hands and be practically thrown over your heads, crashing sidelong into water. The splash and waves lap at your chin but you and Shiv are too busy laughing to notice; he struggles upright and rolls his eyes through his smile.

“Cunts.” he groans.

Shiv splashes him in the face with some water, and he swears again, splashing her back and catching you in the process. The ensuing water fight is short and chaotic, halted by Caroline’s arrival to tell you all to be quiet. Roman is laughing, the three of you paddling to the shallow end through some half-hearted apologies. Clambering out and grabbing some towels, you meander down to the seats and drinks table overlooking the seas, drying out your hair and letting conversation turn to business. This is where Kendall finds you, twenty minutes later, in a serious discussion about the board meeting.

The next few hours are a rollercoaster. Calls, discussions, debates, the classic Roy egoistical outlook on why each of them are better suited to the CEO position and why they have been groomed for it. Privately, as you meander in and out of their discussions, conscious that you’re not really involved in their family stuff at all, you settle on the idea that perhaps none of them are. Your feelings about the deal are one thing, meant to be separate from your feelings about them, but they intertwine now—the future of the company lies with them, and their capabilities, and their decisions. That’s not particularly your concern, you’ve been starting to manoeuvre your way out of your current position of influence, toying with the idea of leaving completely, selling your shares and heading elsewhere, but the idea of leaving them behind, leaving Roman behind, is too difficult to consider. What if you didn’t have to factor that in? What if you could walk away knowing it wasn’t them you were walking away from?

It’s this spiralling thought process that subdues you during dinner, ignoring Peter’s friend—James? John?—and knocking back continuous cocktails. Shiv frowns at you, “Trying to get hungover before the board meeting?”

You let out a half laugh. “If I drink a bit more tomorrow I won’t get the hangover.”

Kendall watches you for a second. “Clear minds tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes. Caroline glares at you all for ignoring the pitch you’re currently being presented with and you glance at Roman beside you. He’s anxious, he has been since the morning of the funeral, and you get the sense that he—body, mind and soul—is consuming himself, like he’s just destroying the fabric of himself from the inside out, so destroyed by his father’s death. The whole structure of his life, its fabric and its character, has been defined by his father’s presence and absence, and the man’s ability to maintain his presence even through his absence, but that presence, that famed presence, their “dear, dear world of a father” diminishes with every passing second.

Roman’s hand finds yours under the table, slightly clammy, taking you by surprise. His initiation is uncharacteristic. You give his hand a slight squeeze, and in response he laces his fingers into yours, a more substantial hold. Be here, he seems to ask. The world goes quiet—it’s just you, Roman, and your palms against one another under the table.

Like all things, the moment passes, the chaos returns. More phone calls, an equivocal end to the dinner, and you end up at the house, the Roys down at the beach. You lie at the end of Roman’s bed, feet still on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan; there could be any manner of discussions going on between the siblings at the sea, you could wake up to find they’ve drowned one another or something. Knocked each other out with a coconut or some shit. Roman, your Roman, and his grief, his deep felt love and guilt and terror, lost in the storm of this entire shitshow. You think of that day at Connor’s ranch when you saw the scars on Logan’s back, Ewan’s eulogy about his polio and self-blame, the mirror he made his children look in when they cried. Broken people make broken people. It’s easy to think of time as linear—past, present, future—but it’s more of a circle, you think. Infinite, never-ending, always repeating the same old mistakes. Kendall’s distant fathering, Logan’s abusive fathering—were they really so different?

The poison drips through.

It’s difficult to compare your childhood with the Roys’, but you remember those same thoughts, of a different nature—you’d been lucky enough to live in a world where things were talked about, and you had been able to process things as they happened, rather than let them bubble under the surface, but there had always been that idea. Your family history, the mental health troubles, ECT treatments and various crises in your family history, long before your time, and the effects that you had grown up with. You remember the first time you understood that your mother wasn’t quite right. You remember trying to get her out of bed to walk you to school and the realisation that she wasn’t really there, not in her mind, anyway. And in your teenage years, when you felt that yourself for the first time, you remember the terror of becoming her, of losing all feeling until you couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time.

When you took Roman to her funeral, you hadn’t told him how she’d died, too scared it would be weird or uncomfortable. He’d worked it out, and confronted you in the bathroom at the wake. Sat on the bath met, you had unleashed it all on him, and it had been one of the few genuine conversations you’d had with him in those first years. It had been a different kind of a struggle to his—it wasn’t actively inflicted by your parents, it wasn’t an intentional abuse like the kind he had experienced, but an enforced bystander effect—instead, you had had to stand at the sidelines as your mother collapsed in on herself, decaying before your eyes until you gave up and left. Half the world away, you had learned to understand those things, but now Roman had hints of it in him—he was barely even a bystander in his father’s death, but the grief and guilt were parallel.

This deal was his version of moving to NYC. An escape, an out.

You must drift off, because you open your eyes to the muffled chant; a meal fit for a king. Downstairs, you find them, concocting some awful smoothie, cackling like maniacs. As teenagers, it had been one of those games you’d played when their parents were away, seeing who could stomach the most awful of concoctions for trivial prizes and rewards—apparently this is similar, an initiation to a proper CEO position, on Kendall’s part. You make yourself known by handing Shiv a bottle of Tabasco, Kendall groaning and the other two cheering.

Caroline’s interruption only spurs it on, and by the time you’re heading back to bed, the smoothie having been dumped on Kendall’s head, a crown, you can barely stand you’re so tired.

Still vaguely unfamiliar, you wake up with Roman’s face pressed into your neck, his breath warm and ticklish on your skin, arm thrown over your waist and legs tangled together, a position that makes you think he really is comfortable with you, even if it’s taken a ridiculously long time to get here. You wonder if he can hear the air in your lungs or the blood in your arteries, or whether he notices the patter of your heart as you recognise this display of unconscious affection. Eventually, the rest of the building comes to life, and Roman wakes, moves from you with a sort of embarrassment, changing from his Walmart shirt into business attire. You wear the pantsuit you’d gotten with this board meeting in mind a while back, your office fashion being a slight point of pride—you weren’t the biggest fan of the drab stuff people usually wore, and liked to use interesting cuts and shapes to create range in the endless blouses and blazers and skirts and trousers of your work clothes. Subtle, but not boring.

Back in NYC, after a morning of calls and diplomacy and last minute bids for votes, you are greeted with a room full of people in expensive suits waiting and chattering anxiously as board members start to file in. You still don’t know how to vote, whether you’ll side with the siblings or not. Instead of stressing, you wrangle some gossip out of Stewy and do a shot in the bathroom. Zero hour.

With a pencil, you tally up each vote on a Post-It note stuck to the page of your notebook where you were planning to take notes, both Shiv, to your right, and Roman, to your left, glance at the tally every few seconds. You will be the last three votes.

When it reaches Roman’s turn, it is 6-4 toward the deal, he votes against and you are faced with a choice. If you vote for the deal, Shiv’s vote is purely nominal, and the deal will go through whether she likes it or not—you will be the decider; if you vote against, then it is an even 6-6 and she will cast the deciding vote. You look at the faces of each of the Roys, the children who have grown up to get to this moment. It feels ridiculous that it might be your choice. In the end, that is what makes you vote how you do—this is their livelihood more than it is yours, and you want Shiv to have the options in front of her—you can cope either way. So you vote against the deal—not for any loyalty to Kendall, but for one of your oldest friends, to give her some ounce of autonomy when you know that’s something that has been scarce in her life. Perhaps it's cruel to give her the choice between her brother and her husband, but, selfishly, you don’t want Roman to hate you.

“No, I vote against.” you eventually utter out, earning a triumphant nod from Kendall. Shiv glances at your tally, confirming the equal scores, confirming that it is her choice that makes or breaks the deal—literally.

And she breaks.

You see them, the Roy children, through the glass walls that separate the various conference rooms. You see the pain, the anger, the fear; it comes to a head, and all of the raw emotion of the last days is borne into the world, witnessed through the glass. You listen to Kendall’s rage, and for a minute you are a teenager, listening to one of Logan’s tantrums after one of Roman’s misdemeanours. For a minute, you realise how quickly Kendall turns into his father. For a minute, you feel your heart break on their behalf—at the end of the day, they are children, mourning for a father whose love was confusing and hateful.

The poison drips through.

You are your mother’s daughter, and he is his father’s son.

Afterwards, as you stand beside Shiv in a commemorative photograph, it is understood that there is no singular reason behind this. The freedom of her siblings; the power as the wife of a CEO, not the sister; the wishes of her late father; Kendall’s rage; Roman’s breakdown; the inevitable becoming of one’s own mother. When you and Roman leave, despite the knowledge that Roman is emotional and angry and probably confused by a sense of relief, you resolve that you will call her in the morning. You’ll make your exit as quietly as you can, but you will try to book Saturday morning brunches with her like you used to when you were in your early twenties. You’ll text Rava a little more, and try to create some positive influences in the next generations of Roy children.

You think of your parents. Of Logan, of Caroline, of your own siblings and your own childhood. The poison drips through. What if it doesn’t have to?

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

"Knowing that this is all an act and really knowing it are two different things."

Yenskier! If you feel so moved 🥹🤞🏼

I always feel moved to write Yennskier! Here's a modern with magic AU with mentions of background Yenralt and Geraskier (can be read as pre-OT3)

The ring is perfect, a black pearl surrounded by a halo of tiny diamonds, set in a white gold band. It’s exactly the kind of engagement ring that Yennefer would have picked out for herself, if she were the engagement ring type. The fact that Jaskier is the one that bought it—even sizing it perfectly somehow—annoys her to no end.

“Well, that went swimmingly,” Jaskier says, carrying a pile of dishes into the kitchen and dumping them into the sink. “What do you think, my pearl?”

Yennefer looks away from the ring, annoyed to have been caught gazing at it like a dewy-eyed schoolgirl who was just handed her first promise ring. “I think that was the most tedious three hours of my life, and Geralt used to drag me to all your open mic nights.”

“Your wifely support warms my heart.” He puts a hand to his chest. The wedding band he selected for himself is just as perfect for him, with a sapphire as big as his thumbnail. He’s probably going to put his eye out with that thing. “But I think they all bought us as a married couple, don’t you think?”

“Well, they haven’t tried to kill us yet.” Yennefer pours the last of the bottle of wine into her glass and leans against the counter, watching as Jaskier puts his ring on the counter and begins to scrub at the dishes.

“The Turners were a bit overly interested in where we’re from and who our families are,” Jaskier says. “But I think they may just be snobs, not necessarily thinking about sacrificing us to any forest gods.”

“Mrs. Paine was very interested in you.”

“Again, I think she may just be very bored in her marriage, not necessarily homicidal.”

“It’s possible to be both.”

“You speak with such experience.” Jaskier looks over his shoulder, eyes twinkling. “I promise you, my dove, marriage to be will be many things, but never boring.”

"We're not married."

“Yes, I know that.” He waves one sudsy hand. “But if we’re going to be doing this for Melitele knows how long, we may as well lean into it.”

Yennefer snorts. She would much rather have gone through this charade with Geralt, but her lover is on the other side of the Continent right now, pursuing another lead. So she’s stuck here with his other lover, investigating the suburbanites who may or may not be trying to harness the power of an ancient forest god. Which she could forgive, if they weren’t so insufferably dull about their potential apocalyptic plans.

“Lean into it?” she asks. “By going to play badminton with Mr. Paine tomorrow? Do you think their forest god is going to be at the country club?”

“I would hope not. Those clawed feet would probably be murder on the golf courses.” Jaskier chortles at his own joke. “I’m trying to get to know the people we’re supposed to be investigating. That’s why we’re here, remember?”

“Just don’t end up tied to any altars.”

“Worried about me, my sun?” He turns to bat his eyelashes at her.

“I just don’t feel like saving your ass tomorrow morning. I have yoga.”

“Well, you don’t have to save my ass. You own enough black clothing; you’ll be a convincing widow.”

“If you die, I’ll have to go to the Brewsters’ potluck alone and I don’t think I’ll make it through the night without turning someone into a hedge.” Plus, she promised Geralt that she would keep Jaskier safe. She tries to keep her promises to Geralt, even if it means not letting his idiot boyfriend get himself killed.

“The Brewsters actually seem perfectly lovely, so we can’t have that.” Jaskier is quiet for a moment, concentrating on scrubbing a tricky spot. His back is turned to her, but she can picture his tongue poking out of his mouth like it always does when he’s focused. “After I get home from badminton, I was thinking we could go look at paint colors.”

“For what?”

“The bedroom.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’ve only mentioned how tacky you find the green and pink seventeen times this week. I thought you might be bored of complaining about the same thing.”

“This isn’t really our house,” Yennefer reminds him. “The owners will remember it eventually and when they get back from their winter in Toussaint, they’ll wonder why their bedroom is a different color.”

“I’m sure you can just waggle your fingers and turn it back.” Jaskier waggles his fingers to demonstrate. “But we’re probably going to be here for a while, so you should like our bedroom.”

“It’s not really ours.”

“Right now, it is. Anyway, it could be a fun project for us next weekend.”

“When we’re not investigating the murderous cult?” Yennefer asks acidly, staring at the back of Jaskier’s head in disbelief. Of course Jaskier would settle into this suburban life so nicely; this is how he grew up. He has a pair of doting parents, four sisters, a gaggle of nieces and nephews. He grew up surrounded by this kind of mundanity, going to barbecues on weekends and watching his parents debate swatches of paint.

Yennefer has never been meant for this life. She went from a pigsty to Aretuza to the Aedirnian government. If her parents ever got invited to barbecues and games of badminton—unlikely, given that her stepfather was the town drunk—they never brought her along.

Not that Yennefer has any kind of interest in this type of domesticity. If she were to ever settle down, it wouldn’t be in a cul de sac of cookie cutter houses, identical save for the six different colors the HOA allows them to paint their doors. She wouldn’t spend her evenings hosting dinner parties for the dullest people she’s ever met. She wouldn’t be cohabiting with Jaskier, of all people.

Jaskier is talking, she realizes, though whatever he’s saying doesn’t seem to require her participation. As he waves his hand to emphasize his point, soap bubbles fly everywhere without him even seeming to notice. A splash of water comes perilously close to his ring, which lies forgotten on the counter. Yennefer picks it up to relocate it to a safer spot.

“Anyway,” Jaskier is saying. “I’m not a sorceress who can look into their minds or a witcher who can fight their forest god. The best thing I can do is casually bring up the local disappearances while I play badminton with Mr. Paine and make a mean brisket.”

“That was a decent brisket,” Yennefer admits grudgingly.

“Wasn’t it?” Jaskier turns to grin at her again. There’s a bubble of soap suds clinging to the tip of his nose. The sight makes her feel an unexpected, entirely irrational surge of fondness. She thinks about closing the distance between them to swipe it away. Instead, she grips the edge of the counter.

“Just don’t get attached,” she says. “These people aren’t your friends. At least one of them is a killer and given the number of disappearances, I wouldn’t be surprised if half the neighborhood is either in on it or knows what’s going on and is looking in the other direction because they’d rather focus on having the nicest hydrangeas on the block.”

His grin fades into a soft, almost sad little smile. “Don’t worry, Yenn, you don’t have to worry about me getting attached. I did theater in college. I know how to put on an act.”

Yennefer isn’t sure why that bothers her. It’s good that he’s consciously putting on an act; it’s what they’re here for. “Geralt dragged me to your plays too. They were terrible.”

That gets the expected offended noise from him. “It’s a good thing you’re not masquerading as a theater critic, Yennefer, because no one can accuse you of having good taste.”

“And it’s a good thing you’re not masquerading as an actor.”

“I want a divorce.”

“We’re not married.”

“Then I want a fake divorce.”

“Mr. Paine’s a divorce attorney, isn’t he? Bring it up with him tomorrow.” Yennefer realizes she’s still holding Jaskier’s ring, the absurdly large sapphire glittering in her palm, and sets it aside. “I’m going to go upstairs.”

“Fine.” He lets out a long sigh. “Leave me to my toils.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes and mutters a spell. A moment later, the dishes are stacked neatly in the dish drainer, all perfectly clean.

Jaskier turns to look at her incredulously. “You couldn’t have done that ten minutes ago?”

“A little manual labor is good for you.”

“Just for that, I’m painting the bedroom orange.”

“Still won’t be the tackiest thing in this house.” Pointedly, she looks over his outfit, eliciting another squawk of protest.

Smirking, she heads up the stairs to the master bedroom, stepping around the pile of bedding on the floor where Jaskier has been sleeping. Even though the room’s horrendous pink and green color scheme is nothing that Yennefer would choose for herself, the room is filled with the trappings of the life she and Jaskier are sharing here: a guitar leaning against the wall, a sweater discarded on the bed, the fake wedding photo Ciri photoshopped for them sitting on the dresser. 

Yennefer’s eyes linger on the photo. Ciri is a talented kid; only the most eagle-eyed observer would notice that Yennefer’s skin tone isn’t an exact match of the bride in the elegant lace dress. The false Jaskier stands behind the false Yennefer, arms around her waist, eyes twinkling with love and joy as he holds her close. Yennefer is fairly sure Ciri took his face from a photo of him with Geralt.

They talked about their wedding earlier, the stunning destination wedding to Skellige where Jaskier cried when he saw Yennefer walking down the aisle. They talked about their first meeting at the coffee shop where Jaskier used to work. They talked about Jaskier proposing in that same coffee shop two years later. It was the story of a happy, normal couple, and it was all entirely bullshit.

Yennefer sighs and twists off the perfect engagement ring, dropping it on her ring holder, before she goes to take off the seafoam green sundress she borrowed from Triss.

This is all an act, she tells herself. She just hopes that Jaskier doesn’t forget that.

***

Fake dating prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

[todayisafridaynight]

What exactly ARE the Yakuza games?

Yakuza, also known as Like a Dragon, is a Japanese video game franchise created, owned and published by Sega. The franchise incorporates elements of the action-adventure, beat 'em up, and role-playing genres.

The storyline premise for each franchise installment is typically a crime drama, with plot lines inspired by yakuza films and pre-millennial Japanese crime dramas. The most frequently featured protagonist is Kazuma Kiryu, a reformed yakuza associated with the Kanto-based Tojo Clan. While Kiryu often finds himself working with the leaders of the Tojo Clan to thwart conspiracies aimed against them, the primary theme of the series is his desire to leave the yakuza for good and start over by raising orphans and trying to assimilate into civilian life. The gameplay of Yakuza / Like a Dragon has the player controlling Kiryu (or another character, depending on the title) in an open world where he can fight random groups of punks and gangsters, take on side missions and activities to earn experience and money, learn new moves from non-player characters (NPCs), eat and drink at various restaurants, visit hostess and cabaret clubs, craft items, and engage in a variety of mini games such as golfing, bowling, batting cages, video arcades, karaoke, and gambling games including poker, blackjack, Cee-lo, and Koi-Koi.

The franchise has become a commercial and critical success, and as of 2021, Sega has reported that the video game series has sold a combined total of 19.8 million units in physical and digital sales since its debut in 2005. Strong sales of the games in its original Japanese market has led to the franchise's expansion to other media, including film adaptations.

The Yakuza / Like a Dragon game series is set primarily in the fictional district of Kamurochō (神室町), which is based on Kabukichō, an actual red-light distri

[mdpikachu]

ye gods have spoken and who am i to deny

this one gets a read more because of hard spoilers yay spoilers my best friend hardcore spoilers play ghost trick

HRRRRGHGHGHGH YOMIEL WHO DIDNT FUCKING DESERVE ANY OF THIS SHIT. GUY WHO MADE TWO ERRORS IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE AND THE UNIVERSE ITSELF SAID "NO, FUCK YOU" and HYPERMURDERED HIM, and everyone knows you die when you're killed and he DIDNT. HE DIDNT DIE. but he wasn't ALIVE. he was STUCK and twisting into a hollow corpse wanting revenge for something that couldn't be fought against- a force of nature. and then his to-be wife killed herself.

It took several dead people, his pet cat, the best doggie in the universe, the supreme guy, and the idea of not losing his fiance a second time for him to realize "Aw fuck im a stupid bitch"

and then the universe corrected its wrongs only because said cat and said doggie (x2) PERSONALLY corrected events, averting fate once and for all while Jowd does cheerleader dances in the background.

and he still GETS karma for his wrongdoing! he isnt let off the hook!!! jail for 10 years and fuck your legs. and your back. and ur pussy and ur crack etc etc my cat is screaming in the background and i lost my train of thought.

his hair is fucking stupid and i hate it. i want to hit pre-plot yomiel with a golf club. i want to hit post-plot yomiel with his own wheelchair. he deserves to get nice and cozy in a dark attic with 5 computers and a cat and the cheapest programming wear possible.

ive decided his eyes are silver and he's light sensitive so sunglasses.

also apollo justice is his nephew and you cannot prove me wrong

in conclusion

[tomorrowusa]

Part of a Trump fundraising message poorly disguised as a love letter to Melania. I'm sure most wives get Valentine's Day cards from husbands who use their middle initials when signing the greeting. ✍🏼🤭

Trump Campaign Roasted For Fundraising Off Unhinged Valentine's Day 'Love Letter' To Melania

The Donald is going to need to do a lot of fundraising thanks to spiraling legal judgements against him.

The Donald Trump Fire Sale Starts Now

Donald Trump’s companies have filed for bankruptcies six times, but now he may actually be about to go broke. On Friday, a New York judge penalized the former president $355 million after finding him liable for lying about his wealth and the value of his properties in New York — and that’s before pre-judgment interest charges, which according to the New York Attorney General’s office, adds another $100 million or so. Then there’s the $4 million owed by Eric Trump and Don Jr. each — which, come on, whose money is that really? The giant liabilities are due in part to Trump and his organization’s “complete lack of remorse,” Justice Arthur Engoron ruled, as well as for its deterrent effect: Trump and the Trump Organization’s officers were “likely to continue their fraudulent ways unless the Court grants significant injunctive relief.” Add this to the $88 million he owes writer E. Jean Carroll for defaming her, twice, and Trump owes roughly $540 million. That would wipe out almost his entire estimated cash pile and vaporize about a sixth of his total net worth. Trump can afford this, but he is probably going to have to sell something big. His net worth, according to both Forbes and Bloomberg, is between $2.6 and $3.1 billion, but most of that is tied up in his buildings and other properties. His cash pile is about $600 million, Bloomberg estimates, and he cannot use campaign or political-action-committee money to pay these fines. Some of his attorneys’ fees can be paid for with money that he’s raised from donors, but it’s not clear what money is paying for which lawyers between the four criminal cases he’s fighting off.

Here are some ways Trump could raise money to keep from going bankrupt for a seventh time.

Since his ex-wife Ivana is already buried there, he could turn Trump National Golf Club at Bedminster into a MAGA cemetery. Heirs of people who die from listening to Trump's quack COVID-19 advice will want their loved ones interred under the BEST sand traps.

Mar-a-Lago could be leased for the filming of the next season of Naked and Afraid. Unclothed contestants would have to survive hazards such as Dinesh D'Souza film festivals, Rudy Giuliani's alcoholic rants, and Nick Fuentes/Kanye West Groyper dinner parties.

Trump could franchise his own national chain of spray-on tanning salons which would leave customers looking as orange as him from head to toe.

Only Fans. Tens of millions of MAGA followers may be willing to pay to see "Toad" for themselves.

[sn4pozu]

how Richard Trager uses Instagram (yes, he would use Instagram):

this is Pre-Engine Rick because realistically post-engine Rick would have other things to worry about besides instagram

30 stories a day, from dawn till dawn again this man is addicted to the layout

doesn't use stickers because hes a grown man BUT HE DOES HAVE A BITMOJI THAT HE USES RELIGIOUSLY

its half office reels, half food pics, and a quarter just rants

overuses tags to hell, even randomly mid sentence , example: "#Amazing day today at @MurkoffOfficial ! this #Work ain't doin itself 📋💻👍🏻 #Workday #Monday #Officeday #ADayInMyLife #Job"

sometimes thinks that Murkoff should totally have a social media account, he knows its dumb but he cant help wanting more followers 😔

"Suns out guns out! #Sunday with my bud @JeremyBlaireOfficial" and its a picture of them in a golf cart holding champagne (not gay, just besties)

Not to sneak in my RickJer agenda but in my minds eye they signed eachothers golf clubs

tags the location if he could he would

username is something obnoxious like 'RichardTragerOfficial' like nobody know u lil bro 😭😭😭

buys likes and followers to feed his ego

4k followers thats like 85% bots

" @McDonaldsOffical Never fails 😂😂😂 #hangovermeal #NoRegrets" and its a fish fillet with the most inhuman bite you've ever seen taken out of it

WOULD POST A SWEATY GYM MAT AND TAG THE GYM AND IT'D HAVE A DUMB CAPTION LIKE "Workout Wednesdays! 🏋🏼‍♂️💪#Wednesday #Gym #Exercise #GymPic #Muscles" HE LACKS SELF AWARENESS DONT LAUGH

would 'ironically' comment "Hot! 🔥🔥🔥" on a mans gym pic and would slutshame a womans gym butt pic

"he hurts every woman hes ever met because his true soulmate is a man" - Sock-rates

he would unironically use hashtags in a sentence for fun, also urges Jer to be more active on Instagram

imagine the most white grown man, now add curly blonde hair, uhuh now give him a gay sweater, now make him homophobic & gay, yep .thats him officer

HAS gotten scammed on instagram, he threathened legal action and got his money back and deleted their account after a week tho

weekday streaks exist to him, no hes not a middle schooler hes actually 30

look at me in the eyes and tell me he wouldn't make fun of feminism in the comments section of those LibzDunked accounts

his Close Friends stories are just aftermaths after nights out, its either him drunk posting or filming himself talking to the camera about his hangover

its just Jer and a few other friends but it has the same intimacy of homosexuality

theres one video where hes drunk and actually tripped and fell so comically its been 7 months and Jer still makes fun of him for it (laughs along but actually hates it like viscerally)

he has 3 phones, both iphones and one is a samsung flip (he wanted the hype), a work phone, home phone, and his normal phone, why does he need so much? why is he not robbed yet? we will never know....

replies to those awareness posts about war in the middle east and goes like "damn.. thats unfortunate 💔 hearts goes out to them 🙏 @Chriswalker89"

most menacing instagram white man, cyberbullies as a past time and has 5 alts just focused on Harrassment+ Stalking people

he'd doxx which hospital your mother is staying in with no shame

"If you don't take that back I'm injecting your mothers spine with brain eating parasites" and he means that for real

would post corny atheist memes & misinformation

induces paranoia as a hobby "Yes ma'am i am a licensed doctor vaccines Do cause autism" as a treat

he fucks around too much one day his main gets suspended and he calls Instagram customer services

if you wouldn't think he'd try to hook up with an instagram influencer you are a liar

weekly self-help book recommendations that he doesn't read and actually just gets payed 7$ per link

im not saying he would make an alt to just hype up his own photos but he would.....do that.....

also gets blackmailed his own dick pic but whatever that was in the past

on a side note Jeremy does have a year old instagram account that only has 2 pictures (both just bar pics of him posing with a glass of wine like an idiot) and his entire Tagged section is just RICHARD TAGGING HIM IN ANYTHING

[mariana-oconnor]

The Greek Interpreter pt 1

I remember this one. Yet again, I remember details, but no solutions. But I might recall more as I read along. I've definitely read this one multiple times and seen the Granada version of it. I will absolutely try not to spoil if I remember anything that gives the ending away.

I actually find it surprising how many times I have read some of these and how the thing I almost always forget is the solution. Weirdly, with Agatha Christie mysteries the who and how is usually the thing that sticks in my mind, apparently with Sherlock Holmes, I remember weird details rather than the relevant stuff.

Anyway, on with the tale:

During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr Sherlock Holmes I had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his own early life. This reticence upon his part had increased the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in intelligence.

The first thing I thought was 'Spock', because that post kept going across my dash a little while ago about how many 'surprise' relatives Spock had during TOS. And this whole thing reads very vulcan. I'm going to assume that's because Spock was intentionally or subconsciously based on Sherlock Holmes.

However, here we get the modern and very uncomplimentary image of Sherlock as 'a brain without a heart', which we've seen multiple times to be untrue. I'd say that anyone can fake empathy and kindness, and that a lot of people affect having more of these than they actually feel, that in many ways is part of the social contract. Perhaps I am cynical.

But particularly in the case of Mary Sutherland, where Sherlock threatens her stepfather and appears genuinely angry on her behalf, and on several other occasions where he refers to villains in very scathing and angry terms, we see evidence of feeling that seems genuinely emotional on behalf of someone else. That seems less potentially fake to me than the gentleness. (I'm not saying the gentleness is faked, I'm just saying that there's more of an argument to say that he could/would be faking with that - to put people at ease, to get more information out of them - as opposed to the more negative emotions he declares to himself or to Watson in private which have little purpose other than to vent emotion.)

However, Watson's being a little unfair, here. Also, his reasoning is faulty.

His aversion to women and his disinclination to form new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his own people.

None of this is a sign of someone who doesn't have emotions. These are just signs of a queer introvert with a complicated relationship with their family, Watson. In fact, I'd also suggest that someone who effectively never mentions their family probably has quite strong emotions about that subject. You don't avoid talking about something you don't care about one way or the other.

I get that this is all set up, but I just wanted to say.

...one day, to my very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his brother.

Mycroft time is upon us!

In a bit we're going to get to one of the character descriptions that sticks in my brain the most out of all the things I have ever read. It's Watson's description of Mycroft and Roald Dahl's description of the Twits. Those two haunt me to this day.

...the conversation, which had roamed in a desultory, spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came round at last to the question of atavism and hereditary aptitudes.

I swear I'm not going to quote every paragraph of this part. But this is such a lot of words. 'Obliquity of the ecliptic'? I literally work with words and have a degree in them and I had to look that up.

Wikipedia tells me: 'Obliquity of the ecliptic is the term used by astronomers for the inclination of Earth's equator with respect to the ecliptic, or of Earth's rotation axis to a perpendicular to the ecliptic.'

The ecliptic being the orbital plane of the earth.

So it's the angle between the axis the earth spins around and the circle of the earth's orbit around the sun. Which... has Holmes learnt that the earth revolves around the sun now?

So I guess what Watson is saying is 'we were having a very clever discussion like very clever people'.

But now they've gone onto the classic nature vs nurture debate.

Watson is all for nurture, while Holmes is arguing for nature because... drumroll... of his brother Mycroft!

"My dear Watson," said he, "I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one's self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers. When I say, therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth."

Holmes has an excellent sense of self-worth, and I like how this centres the fact that he is realistic about it. He doesn't believe in false modesty, but he is willing to acknowledge some people are better than him even at the things he prides himself on.

"The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men."

Yep. That's Mycroft. This is not the description I was talking about above. But boy, how the evolution of language changes the potential meanings of a text for readers.

"But he has no ambition and no energy. He will not even go out of his way to verify his own solution, and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right."

Mycroft is also very relatable. He could try to prove himself right, but why bother when his chair is so comfortable and he already knows he's right? There's no point. And he'd have to move, ugh. I actually quite like Mycroft as a character, even in the original stories, and I like that he cares so little about other people's opinions that he doesn't care if they think he's wrong. Mycroft is a hobbit and you cannot convince me otherwise. He sits in his comfy hobbit hole, smokes pipeweed and eats food and people watches, and doesn't want anything to do with adventure, no sir. Why would he want that when there's a comfy chair, a nice pair of slippers and second breakfast about to be served?

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery grey, seemed to always retain that far-away, introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock's when he was exerting his full powers. "I am glad to meet you, sir," said he, putting out a broad, fat hand like the flipper of a seal.

Here it is. The description that will stick with me forever: 'like the flipper of a seal'. That's just so... very evocative. And unflattering. All those wet, clammy implications. Also, Watson really wants you to know Mycroft is fat, btw. In case you didn't notice. But yeah, not a flattering description, but not as judgemental as his descriptions of other people. There is a certain respect in this description - until we get to that seal simile. Yeah... the seal thing really gets to me. It makes me shudder a bit every time. It's strange, because I always remember the bit before as being more scathing, but it's actually quite matter of fact, if repetitive. It's the seal thing that really adds a weird edge of mild disgust to the whole thing. And I love seals.

Is there an animated version of Sherlock Holmes where they're all animals and Mycroft is a seal? There should be.

"By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you round last week, to consult me over that Manor House case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth." "No, I solved it," said my friend, smiling.

The sibling energy is strong in this whole exchange. Just that competitive little edge they have with each other.

"An old soldier, I perceive," said Sherlock. "And very recently discharged," remarked the brother. "Served in India, I see." "And a non-commissioned officer." "Royal Artillery, I fancy," said Sherlock. "And a widower." "But with a child." "Children, my dear boy, children."

Just the utter rhythm of this and the clear fact that this is a game they have played with each other for years, both trying to outdo the other, but it all seems quite amicable. It reminds me of playing games in the back of the car with my big brother on long car journeys. He was always better than me at them, but we still had fun.

The Sherlock-Mycroft double act is a well-practised performance. I love it. Then Watson gives them the opportunity to show off their working and they do that as a double act as well.

I think you can absolutely see Mycroft's existence as explaining things about Sherlock - why he enjoys having Watson around to explain things to and show off for. As a child, clearly he was always the one slightly behind his brother and it makes sense that he enjoys having someone impressed by him the same way he was probably impressed by Mycroft as a child.

Absolutely no case in this section. Just Mycroft. And honestly I am fine with that. This scene is iconic.

[wheretheresaway-theresawilliam]

Chapter 11: A Mask of My Own Face

Word Count: 982

TWs: Identity theft, sickness mention, unhealthy relationships, obsessive behaviour, brief suggestiveness

/) /) ( • ༝•)

Vanita giggled, swinging her legs back and forth in bliss as she listened to the audio recordings of Vanessa that she’d ripped from security footage of the PizzaPlex, retrieved for her by her ever-loyal Sawyer. She had the look, the backstory, an understanding of her personality… all that was missing was the voice. Whenever she was home alone, Vanita would wear Vanessa’s clothes around the house, practising her inflexions. Vanessa’s voice was a tad deeper and relied less on a vocal fry to come off as mature, which was hard for Vanita to master, but she felt like she was getting the hang of it. She’d talk for hours on the phone with Sawyer just to get better. He would’ve lost track of who he was talking to if Vanessa still hadn’t been sick. So sick, at some point, she just stopped calling in. Now it was time for Vanita to take her opportunity.

“Oh my gosh, Vanessa, where have you been?? You haven’t been answering your phone, I’ve been worried sick!” Ginny exclaimed when Vanita walked into the breakroom, wearing Vanessa’s uniform, her hair tied back.

“You’ve been sick? I’ve been sick! Stomach flu, got me pretty bad… but I’m feeling better now.” Vanita opened Vanessa’s locker, retrieving her flashlight, taser, and badge.

“Well, that’s good. Maybe something in your lunch went bad and you didn’t notice it?”

“I guess. Could’ve been from a kid, too.”

“Yeah. Jesus, who lets their kid run around in a public place if they know they’re sick?”

Vanita shrugged, checking Vanessa’s calendar to see where she was supposed to be. Gator Golf. Goody.

“Anyway, take it easy today… and I hope you’re not beating yourself up over missing so much work, you needed the rest.”

“You’re right…” Vanita sighed. “Thanks… I’ll try my best.”

Ginny nodded, giving her two thumbs up and an encouraging smile before leaving the room. So far… so Vanessa. Vanita relaxed, taking her time as she made her way to the mini-golf pitch. She never felt more giddy. If she could get through today, passing as Vanessa Fields, she would earn that call to William. God, I hope he picks up. She knew as soon as she arrived at the entrance to Monty’s Gator Golf that it would be her most boring shift yet. Not that running the gift shop was particularly exciting, but at least she wasn’t expected to be too alert. Luckily, she had a thermos full of energy drink carabinered to her belt to keep her awake.

Most of the shift was spent reminding pre-teens that mini-golf was about putting and not swinging as hard as you can, let alone threatening your friends with your club. After a while, she had stepped away, meeting Sawyer in a shadowy spot to make out about her success so far. At the end of the day, she couldn’t wait any longer.

“I’m calling him,” Vanita told Sawyer as they walked to his car.

“William?” Sawyer asked with a reserved expression.

“No, the president. Duh, who else??” She slipped into his backseat and he sighed.

“Do you want me in the car?”

“Sure, just don’t make a lot of noise,” Vanita waved her hand dismissively, taking out her phone. Her hands shook with anticipation as Sawyer settled into the front seat.

5. 5. 5. 1. 2. 5. 2. Rrrring… rrrring…

“Hello???” All the air rushed out of Vanita’s lungs as a rich, accented voice reached her ears. “Who is this??”

Oh, God, right, talk you idiot! “Dad? It’s me… Vanessa.���

The line was deathly silent for a moment. “Darling… to what do I owe the pleasure of the sound of your voice?”

“I… was wondering if we could reconnect. I’ve been thinking about things… how we drifted apart.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Vanita pressed the phone closer to her cheek.

“I thought your mother had you entirely convinced that I was not to be trusted.”

“But mom’s not here right now, is she? I had to make my own decisions at some point.”

“Right you are, butterfly. Right you are.” She heard him sigh and shift around, maybe checking his schedule if he had one. “When are you free?”

“I don’t work on Mondays.”

“I see. Shall we have lunch at mine, then?”

“That sounds fantastic,” she inhaled through her nose, reminding herself to remain levelheaded. William’s house! “Could you remind me of the address…?”

“4011 Slate Blue, Salt Court.”

“Thanks… I-I’ll see you on Monday?”

“I’ll expect you at 11:30, sharp.”

“Of course. I won’t be late.”

“I know you won’t.” He paused. “It was good to hear your voice, Vanessa. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, dad. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Vanessa.”

She hung up and immediately began to squeal, excited tears springing to her eyes.

“Was it him?” Sawyer asked, startled out of his thoughts.

“Of course it was! I’m having lunch with him on Monday! I told you, Sawyer, this is destiny!” She squeezed his shoulder. “And I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you.~”

“Uh-huh…” He felt disgusting. Her happy expression lessened at his unenthusiastic response.

“Oh, come on, at least pretend you’re happy for me,” she snapped, digging in her nails and making him hiss in pain.

“Can I just take you home?”

“Hmph.” She fell back into the car seat, lazily putting on her seatbelt. “Whatever, Sawyer. Y’know, I let you touch me whenever you like, and you’re still an ungrateful bastard. Who else can do what I do?”

“An escort.”

Vanita’s face burned and she hit the back of his seat. “Drive, you fuckhead!”

“Ow, sorry, I didn’t mean that…” He drove her home and the two parted ways bitterly. Still, Vanita’s frustration didn’t last long as she admired herself in the bathroom mirror. Afton’s daughter, Afton’s perfect, loving daughter, who wants nothing more than to fix what was once broken. Sounds like me alright.~

[byenycfm]

Roman Drake || 39 || #301 || Jake Gyllenhaal || Closed

Personality:

his self-loathing goes deep, and roman's not too concerned with hiding that. despite his early life ambitions, roman feels that he's managed to screw up every attempt at doing something good in life and that he's just not capable of playing the hero. he's got a variety of vices to keep him busy and won't shy away from casual sex--just don't expect to actually get to know him.

Biography:

roman was raised in the city of sin by a family that seemed to take the name a little too literally: drugs. jail. gangs. violence. there wasn’t much in the criminal underground that the drakes didn’t have their fingers in. the second youngest of six kids, roman was expected to do his part in the family business just as those before him had–but even as a kid roman had his doubts about the lifestyle; growing disoriented as family members came and went to county, their criminal records growing longer every year. he was twenty-three when he finally had enough of the bullshit. roman had known for a long time that his family weren’t good people, it just never occurred to him that he had the option to break the pattern.

becoming a cop hadn’t been his first idea, but at the time it was the biggest fuck you he could think of to send to his family. roman became more or less dead to the drakes, ex-communicated the moment he stepped foot into the police academy. he tried a few awkward attempts at reaching out to his sisters, but he never really knew birdie and mauve was busy trying to make a life of her own. eventually he took a page from mauve’s book, moving to california and starting a life of his own. marriage was hard, and having a kid on the way only made things harder. he took his job at cold cases seriously and made the wrong priorities in life; there are only so many long nights you can spend alone before you go looking for someone to fill the space left by an absent spouse. roman and delilah had been on the verge of ending things for a while, but the events that happened the night june was born ensured their relationship was over.

roman doesn’t remember the night in its entirety–only coming home to see his wife and a stranger in the midst of an argument, then flashes of a golf club swinging at him. when roman awoke in the hospital several days later he was terrified to learn just how much he’d lost in the attack: his marriage, his hearing, and quite possibly his daughter, who was now fighting for her life in the icu after being born months too early. the official report was attempted murder-suicide, a jealous lover who wanted to kill the woman who’d ended their affair. roman was devastated, knowing that he’d drove delilah away from him and nearly put her and their daughter into an early grave. they'd tried counseling. couples, individual, ptsd. fucking art therapy for a month--because he owed her that much. in the end they agreed there was no way to put the pieces of what they had back together. delilah would take june and go live with her parents, but roman could have shared custody if he promised not to get her hopes up of having a father in her life then ghosting. roman quit the force, went private. went dark. hurt people who hurt people, that kind of thing. he developed a reputation as someone willing to work outside the lines of the law and birdie was able to put him in contact with people who needed that kind of help.

he was in new york to meet with birdie and follow up on a new job when the city went into lockdown. he's taken up in an apartment on the lowest floor to keep an eye on things near the lobby, because he has a real bad feeling about how things are heading in the city.

Pre Outbreak Occupation: Private Investigator Previous Zombie Experience: N/A Martial Status:  Divorced Children:  June Drake - Ten Residence: Apt. 303 Years residing at The Wexley: 0 Connections: 

Birdie Drake - Younger Sister

Mauve Drake - Older Sister

Charlotte Rose - Girlfriend

[nextnewgolf]

Finding the Best UK Second-Hand Golf Clubs: A Golfer's Guide

When it comes to golfing, finding the right equipment is crucial for an enjoyable game. In the UK, many golfers are turning to the market of second-hand golf clubs to fulfill their needs. This article explores the benefits of purchasing used golf clubs in the UK and provides insights into the best places to find them.

I. The Advantages of Buying Used Golf Clubs in the UK Purchasing second-hand golf clubs offer numerous advantages, allowing golfers to save money without compromising on quality. Here are some key benefits:

1.1. Cost Savings without Compromising Quality: UK golfers can enjoy significant cost savings while acquiring high-quality equipment by opting for used golf clubs. These clubs often retain their performance capabilities, providing exceptional value for money.

1.2. Access to Premium Brands at Lower Prices: The second-hand market opens doors to premium golf club brands that may have yet to be out of reach. Golfers can now afford top-notch clubs from renowned manufacturers, enhancing their playing experience.

1.3. Potential for Customization and Personalization: UK golfers can customize and personalize their equipment when buying used golf clubs. They can modify shafts, grips, and other components to match their preferences, creating a tailored setup.

II. Exploring Online Marketplaces for UK Second-Hand Golf Clubs The internet has revolutionized how we shop for used goods, and golf clubs are no exception. Here are some popular online marketplaces in the UK to consider:

2.1. eBay: A Vast Selection and Competitive Bidding eBay offers a wide range of used golf clubs from sellers across the UK. With the option to bid on items, golfers can find great deals and explore a vast selection of clubs to suit their needs.

2.2. Golfbidder: Dedicated to Golf Equipment with Expert Verification, Golfbidder specializes in golf equipment, providing a reliable platform for purchasing used clubs. Their team of experts verifies the condition and authenticity of the clubs, ensuring a trustworthy buying experience.

2.3. Golf Clubs 4 Cash: Selling and Buying with Ease Golf Clubs 4 Cash is a platform where golfers can sell their used clubs and purchase pre-owned equipment. It offers convenience and a seamless process for both sellers and buyers.

III. Local Golf Shops: A Hidden Gem for Used Golf Clubs in the UK While online marketplaces offer convenience, local golf shops should be noticed. Here's why:

3.1. Personalized Assistance and Expert Advice: Visiting a local golf shop allows golfers to receive personalized assistance and expert advice from knowledgeable staff. They can guide you in finding the best-used golf clubs that suit your game and playing style.

3.2. Testing and Inspecting Clubs In-Person: One of the advantages of local golf shops is the opportunity to test and inspect the clubs in person. Before purchasing, this hands-on experience lets you assess the clubs' feel, condition, and suitability.

3.3. Potential for Trade-Ins and Upgrades: Local golf shops may offer trade-in options, allowing you to exchange your current clubs for an upgraded set. It can be a cost-effective way to acquire better equipment while reducing expenses.

IV. Tips for Selecting the Best UK Second-Hand Golf Clubs To make an informed decision when purchasing used golf clubs in the UK, consider the following tips:

4.1. Research and Familiarize Yourself with Different Brands and Models: Before purchasing, research various golf club brands and models to understand their features, performance, and suitability for your game.

4.2. Assess Club Condition and Check for Signs of Wear: Inspect the used golf clubs thoroughly, checking for any signs of wear, damage, or excessive usage. Pay attention to the clubface, grip, shaft, and overall appearance.

4.3. Take Advantage of Return Policies and Warranties: When buying used golf clubs, ensure that the seller provides return policies and warranties to protect your investment. You can return or exchange the clubs if they don't meet your expectations.

4.4. Seek Recommendations from Golfing Communities and Experts: Engage with communities, forums, and experts to gather recommendations and insights. Their experiences and knowledge can provide valuable guidance in finding the best-used golf clubs in the UK.

Conclusion: 

Finding the best UK second-hand golf clubs requires thorough research, careful evaluation, and consideration of various options. Whether you explore online marketplaces or visit local golf shops, the advantages of buying used clubs are evident. Following the tips, you can confidently navigate the market and discover the perfect set of used golf clubs that elevate your game while saving money.

[scotianostra]

On May 8th 1933 Highland Airways was established by Captain Ernest Edmund “Ted” Fresson.

Captain Ted Fresson, is hailed as the pioneer of civil aviation in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, if you have ever been to Inverness Airport you will have no doubt seen is statue there.

Highland Airways inaugural flight was a passenger service between Inverness, Wick and Kirkwall. Captain Ted Fresson’s pioneering commercial flights across the north of Scotland revolutionised Highland life and led to what is thought to be the longest-running scheduled air service in the world.

After early training as an engineer, he was sent to his firm’s branch in China in 1911, but following his boyhood aspirations to become a pilot he signed on as a volunteer when the Great War began in 1914. He trained as a pilot for the Royal Flying Corps in Canada at the beginning of 1918.

When the war was over he returned to China, keeping his hand in at flying whist working for his old firm again. He rebuilt or assembled some British aircraft for local dignitaries and then built and flew an aircraft of his own design for a Chinese warlord – to place it in production there. A revolution intervened and Ted returned to Britain in 1927 to begin several years of concentrated joy-riding and display flying, firstly with existing aviation companies, then with his own.

Each year saw him carrying thousands of air-minded passengers on five minute joy rides, at fields he chose all over Britain. During this time he took a great deal of liking to Scotland and saw an opportunity to start scheduled services in the Highlands. This started between Inverness, Wick and Kirkwall on May 8th 1933.

Ted formed his airline, Highland Airways Limited, with considerable help from Macrae & Dick, the motor engineers in Inverness, the Scotsman newspaper, Dr Alexander of Dr Grays Hospital in Elgin and other local traders. His regularity in flying in all weathers became a by-word, and so a year later, on May 29th 1934, his airline was given the first UK domestic Airmail contract by the Post Office. This was to fly mail at ordinary rates by air to Orkney and back. He later acquired the airmail contract to Wick and Shetland.

In October 1933, Ted operated the first commercial charter out of Aberdeen, carrying three salesmen to Shetland. On May 7th 1934 he began Aberdeen’s first scheduled service to Wick and Kirkwall. After this, Highland Airways became the trail blazer for many new services throughout the Highlands and Islands, linking up with Inverness and Aberdeen with Shetland and Stornoway, as well as inaugurating the Orkney inter-island flights and services to Perth and Glasgow.

Ted Fresson could land his aircraft in almost any field in Scotland and frequently did so. He knew the terrain so well that he became one of the principal advisors on airfield construction sites to the Air Ministry and the Admiralty during World War II. The booming regional airport at Inverness is still on the site suggested by Ted to the Air Ministry as a wartime airfield and the Admiralty also consulted him prior to laying the first tarmac strip at Hatston, Orkney. The tarmac was actually Ted’s suggestion. The ‘runways’ suggested by at the old Stornoway golf club so as to create least disturbance and inconvenience to the golfers are now acknowledged as the first runways in Britain.

When his airline became part of Lord Cowdray’s pre-war British Airways and was combined with the Renfrew-based Northern and Scottish Airways to form Scottish Airways (as it became), Ted Fresson played a vital part in running the airline throughout the war years. In 1947, however, all domestic air services were nationalised into the British European Airways corporation and Ted Fresson left the corporation in March 1948, dismissed without compensation for the fine airline he had built up. That Ted Fresson and other early pioneers were so treated by the government of the day is still a shameful episode in the history of aviation in Britain.

The fact that almost all his network is still being flown today is a tribute to his foresight, flying enterprise and efforts to bring air travel to everybody living in these remote parts of the British Isles.

After a period overseas Ted Fresson returned to the Highlands continued to fly the occasional charter in the Northern skies using his own light aircraft. He died in Inverness on September 25th 1963.

If you have ever been to Inverness airport you will no doubt have seen the statue tribute to the pioneer Highlands aviator Fresson.

Check out the link here for remarkable footage from the inaugural flight, including shots from the aircraft as it flies ove the River Ness. https://scotlandonscreen.org.uk/browse-fi…/007-000-002-099-c