#window screen uk

[low-shear-velocity-province]

Of all the places I've lived, I think Alberta really hits the sweet spot of having the fewest number of bugs without it being ecologically concerning.

[famderfries]

please forgive me for the man i become within the next three days

[sleekista]

that’s enough

barça femeni x teen!reader, alexia putellas x fem!reader

request: here

A/N: this is a mess. the plot is like when ur writing an english essay and you let your subconscious mind write it so it ends up splitting into three topics with no context.

TW: throwing up, coarse language

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

Last night, I went out again. It isn’t unusual for me and if I get caught it gets me in trouble with Alexia. I’m not even doing anything bad most of the time, just driving around to take the pressure away. What I don’t factor in this time is the fact that we have an early morning session and a late night session. So if hell was a day, this is it.

First, we have a video session discussing tactics. Which is at 7am, then at 6pm we have a field session. Of course when I wasn’t there when Alexia woke up she immediately called me.

“Where are you? Where’s your car and why aren’t you in the house?” She questions clearly annoyed.

“Relax Alexia, I went out on a little drive, I’ll be there for the video session don’t worry.” She’s about to say more but I hang up. I know I won’t hear the end of this but there can’t be too much harm.

Turns out there can be.

I walk inside the room with my mcdonald’s coffee, I’m not the last person there but Alexia is in the room and shoots daggers at me. I shrug my shoulders, moving to sit next to Ingrid.

“Alexia is really mad, what did you do this time?” She asks, looking at me with a slight smirk.

“I went for a drive to clear my mind. I guess it’s illegal to do that now. I got a coffee though.” She wrinkles her face in disgust.

“Out of all the places to get coffee, you choose the worst one? Honestly kid, please find some place better. Staring at that makes me physically sick.” I roll my eyes.

“I was in a hurry and they call it fast food for a reason. Imagine if I was late? I’m already in trouble.” She nods her head in understanding.

“So, any plans for today or are you going to play Hogwarts Legacy all day.”

“I’m going to watch a movie.” I reply.

“The whole day?” She questions confused.

“Well… I never said I was seeing the movie IN Spain.” She sighs pinching the bridge between her nose.

“That’s not a good idea. Why would you do that?”

“Because I hate subtitles and I don’t want the movie to be in Spanish.” I shrug.

“That’s… a good point. If Alexia finds out you’ve left the country again she’s gonna lose it so have fun and make sure not to tell her you told me.” I nod.

“Will do my friend.” I’ve left the country before, one time to Germany where I accidentally met Georgia Stanway and got drunk with her. And the other time was at the UK in which I got into some nasty fights against some sad Arsenal fans. Like yes I was taunting them but no reason to attack me. I won in the end, obviously.

So if Alexia finds out I’ve left again she will be so mad. I focus my attention to the screen in front of us and listen in on what whatever Jona has to say.

- - - - -

After the session, I quickly make my way out of the room and into my car. I’m almost gone but Alexia is right behind me and she bangs on the window. I groan pulling it down.

“Hi Aleeee.”

“Don’t you ‘Hi Ale.’ me. Where have you been and how long? Do not lie to me.” I sigh.

“I went out on a drive around town, it’s so pretty at night, so excuse me if I want to look at it. Now if you must know. I’m on a tight schedule so, may you please move so I can move?” I ask, she reluctantly agrees and steps back allowing me to drive off to the airport.

(this is rlly fast paced but you can imagine whatever movie you want during the time skip)

- - - - -

It’s currently 5pm, I’ve been out all day the flights were only 2 hours and they were cheap. I don’t know why the others think of this stuff. Maybe I’m just Australian though.

I notice my stomach feels off, but it’s probably because I’m dehydrated and haven’t eaten a proper meal all day. Only a large popcorn and 2 packets of skittles.

I arrive at the grounds just in time and walk in with Sandra. I walk over to my area and get changed into the kit, before walking out onto the field with Lucy.

“You alright mate? You’re pale.” She states.

“I’m good, little tired is all.” I can tell she doesn’t believe me but we walk on.

The session is gruelling, high intensity and does not do anything to help what I’m feeling. Alexia has been pushing me harder than anyone else which is annoying and I low-key want to fall to the ground. That would only result in more laps though.

The 1.5 hour session ends, we have dinner which lasts half an hour than another 45 minutes in the gym. Both of which I am not excited for.

I can’t even think of anything when it happens, I feel bile rise up my throat and I just know that I should’ve eaten a proper meal. I make it into the bathroom in the nick of time, spilling my guts into the bowl. Someone is in here holding my tied back hair but I can’t be bothered to find who.

When I finally stop gagging, I flush the toilet and lean against the wall staring in front of me to find Keira.

“You feel any better or do you want to stay here.” She asks, resting her hand on my cheek. I shrug my shoulders as she sighs.

The door opens again and it’s Lucy.

“Oh, there you guys are. What happened?” Lucy turns to Keira.

“I was walking by the bathrooms and heard someone gagging and here she was throwing up.” She nods her head and I go to stand up.

“NO! No, you are not doing that. What if you throw up again? I’m going to get Alexia. Right now.” Lucy says sternly.

“Nooo, get Ingrid instead? Please Lucy.”

“Fine.” She walks out leaving Keira and I alone again.

“Mind telling me what lead to this moment?” I nod, explaining the staying up all night to not eating any proper food.

“That’ll do it. Can’t believe you just got on a flight to London.”

“It’s not even that long, it’s a great way to spend time. It’s like you saying a 45 minute drive is long. That’s how long it takes for me to get to school when I’m in Australia.” She shakes her head.

“Aussies sense of time is so out of whack I’m telling ya!” The door is opened again as Ingrid and Lucy make their way inside.

Ingrid sighs, “What are we going to do with you huh?” I laugh.

“Come on, let’s get you to the medics and then you can go home. I’ll drive your car and before you say anything we will be telling Alexia.” I nod, knowing there’s no escape.

We get to the medical room and Alexia is already there, talking about her knee with one of the physios. She looks over in question, Ingrid pushes me forward while Keira explains everything to the doctor. Who explains for me to eat a proper meal and drink some actual water. Before going to bed to get actual sleep.

Alexia is fuming, muttering many curse words and dragging me out of there. We get our stuff and give my keys to Mapi who nods at the plan of getting my car back home.

- - - - -

We walk through the door and Alexia guides me to the couch.

“I have had enough of this. We need to set some rules ok? You are 16 in a foreign country, you can’t go around to other countries when you fucking feel like it. I don’t care if you didn’t do anything bad but I can’t have you out of this city without me. Got it? As for the night driving, we’ll set a curfew and I expect you to be back by a certain time and you won’t be able to leave until a certain time. I told your parents I’d watch out for you but you are seriously making it hard for me to live up to that.”

“Sorry Ale.” She shakes her head.

“I’m not doing this with you right now. I’m going to make you a proper meal, you will drink 1 litre of water then you are heading straight to bed. No phone, no xbox, nothing until I deem you can be trusted. Am I clear?” I nod, feeling like I was 12 again.

“You might think this is excessive but I care about you. I want you to be safe, I need you to be safe. So please, make it easier for both of us.” Shes pleading now and it makes me feel bad, tears brim at the edge of my eyes and she sits down next to me.

“Amorcita, don’t cry. Por favor.” She rubs my thigh.

“I’m sorry Ale, I didn’t mean to. The night drives just lessen my anxiety about some things, you know. Like therapy.”

“I know, but you can speak to me about it any time if you feel you’re spiraling. Anyone on the team. Don’t do stupid things to get us to notice. Just talk I’m always here.” I sob into her arms, I can feel all the anger she has fade.

“Thanks, this means so much. Again I’m sorry.” She shakes her head.

“Don’t be, but I would like to know why you travelled to England to watch a movie, don’t you hate England?” This has me laughing.

“I mean… I do but in Spain it’s either gonna be in Spanish or have subtitles and I wanted it in English without.” She laughs softly.

“Of course, now how do you feel about Chicken Burgers for dinner? With potato gems.” I nod my head. She gets up and walks into the Kitchen starting to make the food.

Maybe I can start trying, and maybe I am truly cared about more than I thought. This team 🫶.

A/N: I LOVE SICKFICS I HAD TO. if you see any sickfic requested, i probs requested it lol

[vivwritesfics]

No Need To Ask

Chapter Eighteen - CSS DEAD

The Norris' were a notorious crime family in the UK. One of many. With Norris, the head of the family, running operations with his son, Lando, they work to keep Y/N Norris, Norris' daughter protected. Life in a crime family wasn't something they wanted for her.

But with tension with one of the Spanish crime families rise, Norris and his now deceased wife come up with only one plan, offer their daughter to the Sainz's or risk an all out war.

Warnings: Guns, death

1.7K words

Series Masterlist

LH44 has anybody heard from CSS?

LN4 CSJ55 is safe but haven't heard from CSS

FA14 haven't heard anything down here

CSJ55 I am gathering my men to get back into my house

CSJ55 will keep everybody posted

"What's this?" Y/N asked as she leaned over her husbands shoulder and placed her hand on his shoulder, looking at the screen in front of him. It was clear what it was, a chat forum. But she couldn't make sense of any of the names.

Carlos leaned back, his head against her stomach. Her touch on his shoulder was light, but it was enough, for now. "Guess which one is your brother," he said as she leaned closer to read the screen.

There were so many usernames. LH44, LN4, CSJ55, CSS, CL16, AA23, MV33, JV1.

LN. Lando Norris. Y/N pointed to his last line of chat and Carlos nodded. "Okay, who is everyone else? Who is CSJ55? Why doesn't CSS have a number?"

Carlos told her all about the chat forums. It was kind of funny, actually. That mafia families used chat forums. "My father hasn't responded since we escaped the house," he said, scrolling back through the chat.

Carlos had two chat windows open. One with all of the heads of families and one with his men. Not all of his men were responding, anxiety bubbled up in Carlos's stomach.

That chat with the heads of families kept going. Everybody had responded, everybody but Carlos's stomach. He had tried to check the cameras inside of the house, but they'd all been disconnected or destroyed.

Carlos's phone vibrated against his chest. He picked it up, reading the text. "What is it?" Y/N asked softly, gently. Carlos wasn't hiding the screen from her or anything, but the text was in Spanish and she couldn't yet read it.

"My mother," he answered as he replied to the message. She was okay, had been in contact with Carlos ever since she'd made it to Alonsos safehouse.

As much as the Sainz family and the Alonso family hated each other, they had an agreement in place. If anything happened to the Sainz, those who could get out were to get to Alonsos territory if they could. It worked both way, with the Sainz offering sanctuary for Alonso and his men if needs be.

Señora Sainz had made it to Alonsos territory. By the time she'd gotten there, the attackers had left Alonsos. It was in a state, everything broken, documents missing, just like Carlos's house.

Alonso hadn't escaped like the Sainz family had. He had a bookcase that he could hide behind. Once he was behind it, the bookcase looked bolted to the wall, unmovable. Nobody thought to look for Alonso in there.

When Señora Sainz arrived at the Alonso house, he took her and her daughters to his own safehouse.

"My mother," he said as he placed his phone back on the desk. "She and my sisters are safe, but she hasn't yet heard from my father."

Y/N squeezed his shoulder. "He's gonna be okay," she said softly. There wasn't a lot she could do to comfort him, she knew in that moment. "He's a smart man. He'll know how to save himself," she said and Carlos nodded his head.

But he wasn't so sure.

He turned to his wife, who still had a hold of his shoulder. But she wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the gun he had beside the laptop.

It was the only weapon Carlos had brought with him, which was terrifying. If somebody found them, if a group of people found them, how was Carlos supposed to protect her?

She was staring and Carlos had no idea what she was thinking. He placed his hand over her own and used his other to pick up the gun.

"For my entire life," Y/N began as she touched the gun. Carlos still had it as she ran her fingers over the components. It was loaded, the safety off, and there was no way he was letting go of it. "Everybody around me has been carrying these things around," she said. "I was always afraid of them, and I never, ever wanted to learn to shoot one."

It may have been the way she was saying it, but Carlos knew there was something more. Whether she was going to voice it or not, he didn't know. But he could guess. With how she was behaving before they had to run, he could guess. "Would you like to learn to shoot it?"

She went to nod her head, but then she stopped. "Yes," she said, standing up just a bit straighter. "I'd like that."

Like wasn't quite the right choice of word, she thought as soon as she said it. What she would have liked would have been to never have to shoot a gun, to never be in this situation in the first place. But it had become necessity. Necessity for her for learn to protect herself, to be stronger, to protect her husband.

It was strange for them, to be outside of the cabin. Since they'd arrived only Carlos had gone outside, and that was only from necessity, or to smoke a cigarette. He'd gone to the shops, gotten them food, water, clothes, anything they needed. And every time he had been in some way disguised.

But not now. Now, he and Y/N stood outside of the cabin, surrounded by the trees. It was cold, colder than Y/N expected it to be, and she found herself wrapped up in Carlos's jumper.

It smelt just like him. That combination of smoke and pine. She couldn't stop herself from lifting the collar of the jumper to her nose and inhaling. Again and again she smelled the fabric until it surrounded her, consumed her.

Carlos set up the empty spaghetti cans on top of a fallen tree. He wasn't very good at placing them, and they wobbled and fell off more than once. When he had them all lined up, he waited a moment, made sure the cans weren't going to fall, and walked back over to Y/N.

He pulled the gun from his pocket and placed it in Y/N's hands.

Shooting a gun wasn't supposed to be romantic. But somehow it was. Somehow the way Carlos stood beside her, with his arms wrapped around her, was romantic. Shocker.

He focused on her aim. It wasn't good, and the recoil had Y/N struggling. She tried her very best, and hit the top of the can in the middle, but didn't do much else.

"Can you just show me?" She asked after deciding she'd wasted enough bullets (Carlos had shown her how to reload, too. That she had gotten quick at).

When Carlos nodded his head, Y/N stepped back. She pressed her back against a tree and watched as Carlos, using just one hand, with one eye closed, shot every can sitting on the log.

It was... Hot. A huge turn on, but she couldn't stop herself from pouting. As hot as it was, she wanted to be that good. She wanted to be able to shoot with such precision. And she wanted it now.

Carlos laughed as he walked over and offered her his hand. He pulled her up from the tree, pulling her close before very quickly letting go. "No matter, my pretty little wife," he said as they walked back towards the cabin. "We can try again tomorrow."

Y/N nodded her head, but it was somewhat reluctant. If it wasn't for wasting bullets, she'd keep going. But she followed Carlos into the cabin and sat herself down on the end of the bed.

She still wore Carlos's jumper. The inside of the cabin was warm, but she didn't care, she just wanted to wear the jumper.

Carlos sat himself at the desk and opened the laptop once more. He logged on, going straight to the chat he had with his men. There weren't many that managed to get away from the house when the shooting started; only twenty of them were responding to him. Nobody from his fathers house was responding.

Laying back on the bed, Y/N grabbed her book and began reading as Carlos scrolling through the chat.

"Shit," he suddenly whispered and pushed the laptop away. He stood up suddenly, knocking over the chair, and grabbed the carton of cigarettes from the bedside table.

"Carlos," Y/N called as he grabbed the cigarettes and marched out of the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.

She walked over to the window, looked outside and watched as Carlos, with the cigarette held between his lips, lifted his lighter to the end of it with shaking hands. He pulled the cigarette away and released the smoke from his lungs, sinking to the floor.

Y/N walked out of the cabin. She walked over to him and got down onto the floor, the ground beneath her knees cold.

He rubbed at his eyes as Y/N wrapped her arms around him. He wasn't crying, no. Mafia bosses weren't allowed to cry. And he was the boss, now wasn't he?

She didn't say anything, just held him. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him against her chest.

But then Carlos pulled away. He stood up, leaving Y/N on the ground, and finished his cigarette. She watched him, unmoving. Unsure of what to do, she only watched him. Confusion was written on her face as Carlos finished his cigarette and walked back into the cabin, leaving her there on the floor.

Y/N immediately stood up and dusted herself off. She followed after him, pushing her way into the cabin.

Carlos stared at her. She stared at him. Neither of them said anything. His hair was a mess, like for the few seconds he had been alone he was pulling at hit. His eyes were red but no tears stained his face.

She wasn't going to let him be an asshole to her, not anymore. As much as she wanted to attack, demand his respect, she couldn't do that. That wasn't who she was.

Instead she walked over to him and, again, wrapped her arms around him. "Just talk to me," she whispered and ran her fingers through his hair, trying to sort it out. But then she read the words on the screen in front of him.

CSS DEAD

Carlos Sainz Senior was dead.

Taglist (open): @multi-universe21 @formulas-bitch @gills-lounge @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @carlossainzwho @f1lov3r @samaib11 @charli123456789 @queenofmanydreams @ironmaiden1313 @vellicora @glitterf1 @80sloverry @lightdragonrayne @moonayu @bellsalabanccini @topguncultleader @handsupforamiracle @cmleitora @ashy-kit @jenniferrvsesi @barcelonaloverf1life @sbella13 @nicolettecallednikki @darleneslane @thehufflepuffavenger1 @champagneproblems17 @aespie @yukheizcigarettes @rewmuslupin @hollie911 @ashy-kit @ririgy @stqrgir1 @zaynzierulez @minkyungseokie @rafaaoli @carolinesainz @ashies-ln4op81aa23 @measimp @mizelophsun11 @eviethetheatrefreak @andydrysdalerogers @formulaal @graciewrote @biancathecool @evans-dejong

[skamenglishsubs]

Subtext and Culture, Young Royals, Season 3, Episode 3

Episode 3 picks up the day after the camping trip, and Wilhelm calls his mom to check on her. She dumps a massive guilt trip on him, maybe unintentionally, and Wilhelm is feeling a little bit down.

Culture: These are Swedish studentmössor. They originated in the 1800's among Nordic university students and they wore them as a common marker. Later, they were adopted as graduation caps for high school students, signifying that they were now allowed to begin studying at a university.

Culture: Valborg, April 30th, is a traditional Swedish holiday where you celebrate the coming of spring with bonfires. It is also the start of graduation season for high school students, and graduates are allowed to start wearing their caps.

Cinematography: This season they started writing most on-screen social media commentary in English, despite those users being pretty obviously Swedish. I suspect it's because it saves them having to subtitle all of them, it makes it a bit easier for all the viewers to follow along.

Subtext: No, keeping up appearances is more important than mental health for the royal family, which is why this is new behaviour that Wilhelm has never seen before.

Subtext: As a reminder of the increased interest, here's a paparazzi intruding on school grounds. Also, where the hell is Malin? Isn't it her job to shoo away photographers?

Culture: Vintern Rasat is a classic Swedish song celebrating spring that's often performed by student singers at Valborg.

Subtext: Boris cleverly offers August individual therapy, something he sorely needs.

Subtext: It's of course a bit ironic that pretty much the entire fandom hates August and has decided that he can't be forgiven or redeemed. Yes, you, dear reader. But Boris lays out a way for August to start his redemption arc. Will it work? Tune in for next week's episode!

Culture: These usernames reek of white supremacy. Norse mythology references are very popular, and 88 means H*il H*tler, so that's the kind of people we're dealing with. The show is also foreshadowing what's gonna happen at the end of the episode.

Blink and you miss it: Linda made Pabellón, a Venezuelan dish. In season 1 we didn't know where Linda was from, but in season 2 she was canonically made as being from Venezuela, just like Omar is in real life.

Subtext: I think August actually cares, Kristina is family to him too, but Wilhelm refuses to treat him as family, so he lies about how she's doing. Not very convincingly, though.

Cinematography: This is an absolutely hilarious shot with a bunch of students anxiously peering out through the windows as the dreaded enemy arrives: Skolinspektionen! Dun-dun-dun!

Blink and you miss it: There's a rainbow flag on the board to the left.

Subtext: Vanessa totally knew she interrupted a makeout session between our boys. Oh, and there's a lot of purple in these two scenes, colour theory exploded with joy.

Subtext: Simon will be proven wrong, someone will be honest.

Subtext: It's also ironic that Simon joins the rest of the Forest Ridge boys pretending to have a great meal together that is totally not stiff and awkward at all, absolutely not.

Lost in translation: Simon Walter says that May 1st is a "röd dag" - a red day, which is how Sundays and public holidays are usually marked in a Swedish calendar. "Bank holiday" is the term used in the UK for public holidays. There are 13 public holidays in Sweden each year.

Culture: Första Maj is the name of the International Workers' Day in Sweden, because it always occurs on May 1st. In defence of Henry and Walter's shared braincell, most Swedes actually don't participate, but it's a bit weird to not even know what it is.

Subtext: This entire sequence shows how Felice's dad tried to stick up for himself, but quickly learned to keep his head down instead and conform and roll with it. And it wasn't just the other students who were racists, the staff was in on it too. This goes for all the shit the students are doing, the partying, the booze, the alcohol, the bullying: The staff is in on it. They know. They're complicit.

And despite all of this, Poppe's immediate answer when asked how his time at Hillerska was, is that it was the best time of his life. This is why schools like this stay the way they are, why they never change, because they're very good and very bad at the same time. Trauma-bonding works, the kids will all get friends for life, they'll forget the shit and remember the good times. They'll become like him.

But when Felice learns what the school did to her dad, she decides to help shut it down, to stop the cycle of abuse. The reason she goes in alone is because she now knows she can't trust her dad, he's gonna defend the school, and she also doesn't want him to know that she snitched.

Subtext: In official surveys, students from schools like this generally rate them very highly. Student satisfaction is very high. Maybe they're lying, maybe they're delusional, but they sure care more about their schools than public school students.

Blink and you miss it: REAL SUBTLE THERE, SHOW.

Subtext: Keeping with the school theme, this is how students defend the shit that goes on. Outsiders are kept in the dark, you don't tell them anything, because they "wouldn't understand", they're missing the "full context", etc. Oh, I don't know shit about fashion, but Fredrika's jacket smells very expensive.

Blink and you miss it: While Wilhelm pinned a polaroid of himself and Simon prominently on his wall, August keeps a similar polaroid of himself and Sara hidden.

Subtext: Micke's redemption arc is in full swing, so why not play a song that reinforces the idea that people can change?

Subtext: August's redemption arc is in full swing, so let's cut to him nervously waiting outside Micke's place for Sara to come home, while the same song is playing. Is he gonna be a villain forever?

Blink and you miss it: Micke introduces himself as Micke af Eriksson when August introduces himself as August Horn af Årnäs. The English subtitles for some weird reason went with "Micke Eriksson of Bjärstad", but that's actually not what he says.

Subtext: Sara is pretty realistic about her expectations of her dad because she's seen this before, but this also applies to her expectations of August, because she knows that he can also slide back into his normal shitty self. Also, she's wearing a purple sweater.

Subtext: In case you forgot, August's dad also struggled with addiction, and died from it, so he and Sara actually has that in common. Maybe there's hope for this redemption arc thing?

Cinematography: I don't fucking know why they included this baking scene. It serves no purpose, and I suspect quite a few people in the production have a serious hand fetish, because what is this? What is this? Also, why are Simon and Wilhelm joining what appears to be a Manor House thing with the rest of the girls? How? Why? This makes no sense! It's very cute, though!

Subtext: Oh ok, we got a social media pic that Sara could see and feel bad for her lost friendships. But man, those Hillerska aprons! On point!

Subtext: This is unfortunately a very common thing for people on any kind of psychoactive medication. How can you tell if you need medication if you feel good right now? Is it lasting or temporary? Can you trust your own brain? Either way, fantastic conversation between Micke and Sara, which starts her on her journey to reconcile with Felice at least.

🎵 I can change, I'm not the same, not forever. 🎵

Culture: The official hat-on-putting ceremony where all the third-year students put on their hats, set to another traditional Swedish spring celebration song: Vårvindar Friska.

Culture: It's Valborg, so Hillerska has their own little bonfire. We saw some students with torches pretending to light it, but it's actually floating in the middle of the fountain so, uh, how did they do that? Normally, your local bonfire or Majbrasa is just a huge heap of wood that you set on fire.

Cinematography: Man, this is a pretty show. Look at that shot. The fire, the sunset, the pool reflection. The end of April is over a month after the spring equinox, so the days are getting longer, and the sun now sets at about half past nine in the evenings.

Subtext: Ok, let's do one more on-the-nose lyrics thing for when August sees Sara back at school. Yes, yes, he needs her.

Culture: I had to post about it immediately after watching the episode, because setting a sex scene to Uti Vår Hage is hilarious. Everyone in Sweden knows it, most people have sung it at school, it's a cute little song about enjoying your garden, flowers, and giving your loved one a wreath of flowers. I can now never hear this song without thinking about this scene. Thanks a lot, show.

Blink and you miss it: Simon fucks Wilhelm. Yay! Versatile supremacy!

Subtext: Sara is still so suspicious of her dad's behaviour, she can't make herself trust that his current good period will last.

Subtext: Even though this dialogue is about how Simon and Sara are so different, it of course also applies to how Wilhelm and Erik were different, because Wilhelm struggles with not being able to handle his duty the same way Erik could.

Culture: Alright, it's time for the actual local Första Maj event in Bjärstad. The town is probably a bit small to have a proper demonstration parade, but there's people with banners and socialist slogans, and a bunch of local organisations have joined in, including Bjärstad BK, the football club Rosh plays in.

Culture: Meanwhile, the absolutely not socialist rich kids at Hillerska are nursing their hangovers and enjoying the day off, and they're doing some yoga and playing some padel instead. As you do.

Subtext: Drugs. He looks like he's selling drugs.

Culture: These apparently confused a bunch of viewers, but they're just raffle tickets. It's one hundred numbered, rolled up, paper tickets stuck on a metal ring. When you buy a ticket you just tear it off at the perforation, and when all tickets are sold you can just break the seal on the ring and pour all the stubs in a bag or whatever so you can draw winners.

Blink and you miss it: Cute kiddo has a pride pin on his jacket.

Lost in translation: The show waited a bit with showing what it says on the banner behind them in the photo, but if you can read Swedish you immediately saw that it says KROSSA ÖVERKLASSEN - CRUSH THE UPPER CLASSES. Oh no, Simon, what have you done?

Blink and you miss it: Like a pack of rabid wolves, the social-media starved Gen Z kids rush to their phones for an hour of glorious feeding on Instagram and TikTok.

Blink and you miss it: I love Vincent so much, he's terrible, but he's just so much fun! The little fist he makes as he says "kampen" just seals it.

Subtext: The show still hasn't revealed the banner text to the non-Swedish audience, but Wilhelm immediately sees it and knows how bad it is and why Farima tried calling him seven times. Also, Vincent is just on a roll here.

Cinematography: Man, this is a pretty show. Look at that shot. Look at how they perfectly aligned the hole in the window with Simon, the police car, and the entrance to their house, as he discovers that someone decided to vandalize it.

[neroushalvaus]

Tumblr in the 60s – Part 2

Part 1 / Deleted Scenes

💁🏼‍♀️brigittebardots Follow

anyone want to get fake married so i can get the pill to slut around

💋 marrymetwiggy Follow

Just say you have painful monthlies, I heard it works if you have a nice doctor!

💫 treatmetendermaureen Follow

Remember you still should use the sheet whenever possible. Stay safe ♡

1087 notes

♒ let-the-sunshine-in Follow

i think there's something wrong with me, i'm just so sleepy all the time, it's not fair

👭 marvelettesofficial Follow

That's because you spend all your nights listening to radio luxembourg

♒ let-the-sunshine-in Follow

i heard nothing last night so i built an antenna out of poultry net, iron wire and bits of tin. i cut my fingers and our family chickens ran away

☁️ ankin-vaimo Follow

A small price to pay for some music.

♒ let-the-sunshine-in Follow

the antenna fell apart before the german guy stopped talking

34 notes

🗣 ilovejohnlennon-deactivated19660729

me: chilling

my brain: if you were shot and weren't sure whether you'd live or die should you call the cops to make sure your murderer gets caught or call the ambulance to increase your chance of survival

me: what

🗣 elviskneesofficial-deactivated19631119

There should be a number that'd reach both of those

🕺 elvisherselvis Follow

That number already exists. It's been used in my city for like a two decades.

🏆 petebest-or-bust Follow

🕺 elvisherselvis Follow

Fuck you I'm British.

🪛 patrickwhoghton Follow

Oh my G, this post from -62 sounds so prophetic now that they're trying to make the 911 thing catch on, where's that jagger meme

🖖 spock-in-tardis Follow

🕺 elvisherselvis Follow

This is literally not gift of prophecy. I told you back when this post was first made that this number has already existed in UK for years. It was obviously going to spread elsewhere, even US was bound to catch on at some point.

🏆 petebest-or-bust Follow

you are still here?? keeping an eye on this post??

💋 marrymetwiggy Follow

you're so grumpy @elvisherselvis maybe you should phone the emergency number and get a wahhh-mbulance

98,9 t. notes

📼 bisexualbarbaradane Follow

my date: Oh I listen to folk as well!

me: That's so cool! Who are your favourites?

my date: I'm sooo into Bob Dylan.

me:

my date: Is everything okay?

me, stuffing jelly babies into my purse: I have to go, like, right now, immediately, sorry

#it's okay if you liked dylan before he became the judas he is #but you can't call yourself a folk fan if you still support him #ugghh i hate him #electric guitar using lil bitch #sigh #jelly baby meme #bob dylan critical // #anti bob dylan // #bob dylan hate //

2 notes

🛸 premisendgame Follow

Cock and balls, I'm watching this previously banned american film where an american man is trying to fuck a soviet spy (played by famously very russian Greta Garbo) by offering her champagne and he is like "have you never had champagne?" and Greta is like "never 🥺 only goat's milk and a ration of vodka in the army" and the tv screen freezed and was like "ERROR!! CHAMPAGNE HAS BEEN SERVED IN SOVIET UNION SINCE 1936" I'm 😂😂😂

🪐 stalincredible Follow

You Americans will say anything to make Soviet stuff look silly

🛸 premisendgame Follow

Where do you think I am watching soviet tv from?? Or did I miss the memo where americans have the monopoly on joking about their own damn country??

322 notes

🥁 ringoforpresident Follow

"In future there will be telephones you can take with you anywhere" I can't even fucking listen to Radio Luxembourg without building a goddamn satellite, sending it to space, reciting spells and prayers, and sticking the radio out of the window at 2am EET. And even then it needs to be snowing for it to work because the radio wave fairies like snow or some shit

♒ let-the-sunshine-in Follow

preach

540 notes

[embracing-the-ineffable]

The Ineffable Detective Agency presents more Ineffable Discontinuity and Suspicious Moments: Hawaiian Shirt / Pub Table Guy

Introducing... the extra/background character who makes Aziraphale do THIS, and then immediately has his table at the pub miracled away:

Jon Dan Duncan's imdb profile doesn't list Good Omens, not even as "uncredited" - which seems strange, because his profile does include the above photo of him. Since the actor isn't credited in GO, we don't have a character name or know anything more than what we can see onscreen. So, what DO we see?

First of all, when Aziraphale sees this person, he definitely has A Reaction. We were probably all too distracted by Azi stroking the thin dark duke to notice (as an aside, IS Crowley a Duke? Of what? Hell? Something else??), but after the 90th rewatch, it gets a bit easier to focus on these background details that are probably critically important to the story in ways we just don't understand yet. Look at this:

Did he mouth "stop" when he's supposed to be saying "sherry"? Maybe. These LOOKS, though:

We all know that Michael Sheen's expressions, no matter how tiny or fleeting, are very intentional. Who IS this mystery person??! Immediately after taking his table:

After whoever-he-is loses his pub table, he lingers nearby, and there's an interesting "ineffable discontinuity" - what he's holding in his right hand abruptly changes twice between camera cuts (sound on, if you want context for this small zoomed-in part of the screen, and try watching from your browser if the Tumblr app is cutting off the right edge of the image):

So far, our best explanation for the "ineffable discontinuities" - things that inexplicably and improbably change, like which hand is holding his drink or (coming up next) when he's behind Gabriel and then suddenly in front of him - is that we're seeing multiple timelines that are being knitted together in production to make them look seamless - but who knows? We'd love to hear your ideas! (Also, see the appearing Honolulu Roast sign in the coffeeshop, or Crowley's tattoo and sideburns, or the fandom's newest discovery (from @kimberleyjean and @bbbitchvibbbez) about Gabriel visiting his statue with "both" s1 and s2 Beelzebubs, plus the way the statue's cross is sometimes missing - just to name a few!)

Was the point in this scene with Hawaiian shirt/pub guy's right hand to draw our attention to this page of his newspaper?

"Unearthed mysteries of sealed library basement" - when Crowley told Shax that Aziraphale was "stock taking in the basement", was it true that there IS a basement in the bookshop? Basements apparently aren't that common in most of the UK, but London is famous for having "iceberg" buildings (where the basements are actually bigger than what's above-ground).

"Government approves funding for citywide charging stations" - We don't know, but it makes us think of all the electric cars used in s2 (it was an indoor set) and of Crowley throwing lightning in the street.

And the smaller headline on the right ... Hmmm. Can you read it? 😅 Maybe "Neighbor says New ------ park gate is ' too --- ' "

And it's not just the pub during episode 2! This mystery character is everywhere!

E1: He somehow starts out behind Gabriel, and then ends up in front of Gabriel with another extra on his arm:

E2: In addition to his appearance in the pub, he's also watching when Saraqael, Uriel, and Michael arrive:

E3: Our mystery character is there again when Crowley makes it rain, wearing his e1 shirt:

E4: We didn't spot him in this episode, but there are only a few minutes of present-day SoHo. Did anyone else see him?

E5: He has a doppelganger in a different Hawaiian print shirt! (Notice the different facial hair, among other things.)

Later in e5 he does actually make an appearance in the bookshop window for a quarter of a second (!!), wearing his e2 pub outfit, and maybe it's his presence that elicits this similar-to-the-pub reaction from Aziraphale?

E6: And back again to his black e1 and e3 shirt with the red flowers, while in line behind The Metatron, and then sitting at a table on the sidewalk, where he remains with the person in the turban who was in line behind him (and who also shows up quite a lot during s2) right up until Crowley drives away:

So, why have him wear such a noticable black shirt with red flowers on what are supposed to be three different days? Is he connected, with his Hawaiian print shirt, to the appearing Honolulu Roast sign? Why does he get a doppelganger in e5 - to distract us from his presence outside the bookshop before the ball? Why does Aziraphale react like this - TWICE - upon seeing this person?? (Much to Crowley's great confusion!)

And why does it seem that Aziraphale is keeping this person's presence/ identity/ importance a secret from Crowley?

As always, we'd love to hear your ideas!

Also, here's an earlier post from @theastrophysicistnextdoor about him, with gratitude for the inspiration to write all this up.

With appreciation for contributions from @noneorother, @thebluestgreen, and @embracing-the-ineffable at the @ineffable-detective-agency

Want to see more interesting posts, plus Good Omens clues and metas from all over the fandom? There's a huge collection here!

[lnfours]

inclinations (august) | l.n

summary: a story told in two parts: summer and autumn. summer held the whirlwind romance that came crashing down too soon. autumn brought the repercussions of young love and learning how to fall in love all over again.

au: childhood friends to lovers, uni!au

warnings: sadness, fluff, a little bit of angst, and social media being a toxic hellhole

masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter | listen

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

the sun rose the next morning and you rolled over, checking the time on your phone. 7:45am. lando was probably getting ready to head to the airport soon. getting ready to head back to the uk, to go just as fast as he came.

almost like it was routine for him now. he was used to not staying in one place for long, and honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you saw him for more than a couple days at a time. it was rare that he was able to settle down for a weeks time. he was lucky if he was able to be home for 5 days, yet alone weeks or a month, even.

your phone lit up, letting a soft ping ring through your otherwise quiet room. you groggily grasped it in your hands, squinting at the bright light and turning your brightness back down before reading the text on your screen.

lando

can i see you before i leave?

you weren’t sure if you were excited or if you weren’t looking forward to it at all. it would be your final goodbye until the next time he was able to have some downtime. sure, you should’ve been used to it by now, but things were different back then. things are different now. the same old goodbyes you used to share now sting a little more.

coffee downtown?

knew you were gonna say that, i’m outside already

you furrowed your eyebrows and got up from your bed, making your way over to your window before spotting the mclaren idling outside your house. you grabbed your phone quickly, sending a quick text to him that said you’d be down in a few before tugging on a hoodie and some shoes, grabbing your wallet on your way out your bedroom door.

you made it downstairs in record timing, opening the front door and smiling as he leaned up against the passenger side of his car. he smiled back at you, opening his arms and pulling you in for a hug as you approached him.

you took in his scent, for what was going to be the last time for a while, before pulling away and looking up at him, “hey,”

“hi,” he smiled back down at you, brushing a piece of hair away from your face before planting a kiss on the crown of your head, “ready for some coffee and pancakes?”

you nodded and he moved, opening the door for you before you climbed in and let him close it behind you. you sat in the car, the radio playing a familiar song you had recognized as one of the songs you had sent him a couple months ago, the link from spotify with the caption reading ‘i think you’d like this, definitely your vibe :)’. you smiled at the filled heart symbol on his radio screen, a signal that he had added your recommendation to his liked songs.

it was the little things.

he climbed in and shut the door, heading in the direction towards the cafe you and him frequented almost every other summer. the summers he was able to make it here, that is.

he opened the doors for you, the two of you sitting down at a table by the window. you watched the sky turn from a light shade of orange and pinks from the sunrise into the bright blue summer sky you loved. he watched you watch everything, smiling softly over his cup.

“you okay?”

your attention snapped back to the boy in front of you, his eyes resembling the sky you had your eyes fixated on previously, a hint of sadness in them as he met your gaze.

you nodded, grabbing the warm mug into your hands, “mhm,”

“you don’t have to lie to me.”

you shook your head, swallowing the warm sip of coffee, “‘m not, i just… i don’t know how i feel to be honest. guess ‘m just…”

“disappointed?” he finished for you and you nodded, a wave of guilt washing over you.

“and i know i shouldn’t feel this way, i mean it’s not like you can help it, it’s your career,” you sighed, “but i was just hoping for some more time.”

he nodded, understandingly, “me too.”

your eyes went back to look out the window, your lips moving and asking the question you had been dreading for the past week, “how’re we supposed to do long distance from two different countries?”

“i’ll call you every chance i get,” he said, placing his hands on yours that tapped against the table absentmindedly, making you look back at him, “plus, i’m going to new york for some promo with tumi, i’ll just fly in a few days early.”

you nodded, letting out a shaky breath, “‘m just scared.”

“of?”

“losing you,” you mumbled, “what if you find someone else and they’re so much better and they’re able to fly all around the world with you-“

“y/n,” he cut your rambling off. he wasn’t mad, he knew where you were coming from. if he was being honest, he was scared, too, “you’re it for me, no one else. you’re the only one i want.”

the waitress came with your foot, the two of you separating your hands and letting her put your plates down in front of each of you. you both thanked the older woman with smiles, which she returned before going back to the counter to chat with the older gentleman having a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.

“okay, new topic,” you said, watching him take a bite from his stack of pancakes, “tell me all about the plans for the rest of the season.”

he smiled at you before happily ranting about the plans for the rest of the calendar. he was thrilled to be going back to racing, and you could feel the excitement radiating off of him. you couldn’t help but smile and listen as he talked about oscar and how well him and his new younger teammate were getting along.

and after you both finished your coffee and food, and fighting over who was going to pay the bill and leave the tip (which he won, as always), you made your way back to the car.

he placed his hand on your thigh, leaving it there the whole ride back to your house. but when he pulled up outside, you wanted nothing more than for him to stay. you wanted to pull him by the strings of his hoodie and force him to stay here with you.

but you couldn’t, and you knew that.

you looked over at him with watery eyes, “i really don’t want you to go, but i know you have to.”

your glossy eyes hit him right where it hurt. and as if he wasn’t having a hard time already, he definitely was now, “baby,”

you sniffled, shaking your head, “‘m sorry-“

“don’t apologize,” he said, tilting your head to look back at him, “don’t apologize for having feelings.”

you leaned into his touch, letting the pad of his thumb wipe away the fallen tear that dripped from your eyelashes, “you better go get a podium.”

he laughed softly, “i’ll get ‘em all, just for you.”

this wasn’t how your summer was supposed to go. you two were supposed to go to the beach, hang out with your friends, throw parties every weekend. you weren’t supposed to fall in love just to feel like your heart was getting ripped out the next week.

“call me when you land?” you asked, and he nodded.

“i will,” he smiled softly, trying his hardest not to cry himself, “i promise.”

you sniffled, “lando, i-“

“i know,” he smiled, “i love you, too.”

you leaned over the center console, letting your lips meet his. he kissed you back, putting as much passion and love into the kiss as he could.

he pulled away, even though with every fiber of his being he didn’t want to, “‘ve got to go,”

you nodded, “i know,”

one more kiss and he was opening his door, walking around the car to open yours. just like he always did. he walked with you up to the front door of your house, pulling you into another bone crushing hug, “c’mere,”

you hugged him back, faze nuzzled into his neck as you tried your hardest not to let a sob rake through you. he pressed another kiss to the top of your head, “i love you.”

“i love you, too.” you sniffled, the both of you pulling away and biding a goodbye after he planted one last kiss on your lips.

you waved to him from your front steps, watching him smile softly and wave to you from the drivers side. you pushed open the door, climbing up the stairs to your room and letting your body hit the mattress.

you don’t remember falling back to sleep, but you woke up to someone sitting down on the mattress next to you and putting their hand on your back. you groaned, turning and opening one eye to see flo smiling gently down at you.

“morning,” she smiled, “how’re you feeling?”

“like shit,” you mumbled, “next time i see zak brown, it’s on sight.”

she snorted softly, “would a shopping trip cheer you up?”

you shook your head and she frowned softly, her thoughts interrupted by her ringtone playing through the room. she answered the phone, the connecting sound playing through letting you know she answered a facetime call.

“hey, ‘re you with y/n?” max’s voice caught your attention.

she looked over at you, “yeah, why?”

“okay, good,” he said, “tell her to stay off her socials.”

your head picked up as she spoke, “why?”

she turned the phone to you, letting you see max’s face as he sighed softly, “did you go get breakfast with lando this morning?”

“yeah..?”

“i guess some paparazzi got some pictures of the two of you,” he said and you immediately reached for your phone, seeing the millions of notifications flood your lock screen, “and some people are saying some real sick things.”

you opened instagram, your notifications blowing up with each passing second. you clicked on the first thing, the pictures of you and lando from this morning popping up on your screen.

you read the comments, drowning out what max was going on about as flo watched and read with you.

what is he doing with her?

that is so not his type.

he could do so much better

you locked your phone, your best friends eyes meeting yours. she frowned looking at you as you turned your phone off, ignoring the texts from lando that had popped up right before.

lando

i’m so sorry.

are you okay??

y/n???

[abbiistabbii]

I think every computer user needs to read this because holy fucking shit this is fucking horrible.

So Windows has a new feature incoming called Recall where your computer will first, monitor everything you do with screenshots every couple of seconds and "process that" with an AI.

Hey, errrr, fuck no? This isn't merely because AI is really energy intensive to the point that it causes environmental damage. This is because it's basically surveilling what you are doing on your fucking desktop.

This AI is not going to be on your desktop, like all AI, it's going to be done on another server, "in the cloud" to be precise, so all those data and screenshot? They're going to go off to Microsoft. Microsoft are going to be monitoring what you do on your own computer.

Now of course Microsoft are going to be all "oooh, it's okay, we'll keep your data safe". They won't. Let me just remind you that evidence given over from Facebook has been used to prosecute a mother and daughter for an "illegal abortion", Microsoft will likely do the same.

And before someone goes "durrr, nuthin' to fear, nuthin to hide", let me remind you that you can be doing completely legal and righteous acts and still have the police on your arse. Are you an activist? Don't even need to be a hackivist, you can just be very vocal about something concerning and have the fucking police on your arse. They did this with environmental protesters in the UK. The culture war against transgender people looks likely to be heading in a direction wherein people looking for information on transgender people or help transitioning will be tracked down too. You have plenty to hide from the government, including your opinions and ideas.

Again, look into backing up your shit and switching to Linux Mint or Ubuntu to get away from Microsoft doing this shit.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

x g l a s g o w g r i n n e r

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!OC / 2.1k words

Soap’s always been a little too comfortable playing at violence, always gone-bright when he can turn the threat of it into a promise. Joke’s on the world at large: Special Agent Bordelon’s into that shit.

Or: Soap pulls a knife on a stranger for being a creep, because he’s from the brutal street stabbing capitol of the UK and that’s just how you say “Hi, hey, hello—back the fuck off.” And a million kisses to @lunarvicar for encouraging my bullshit! LOVE YOU NAT 🫶

It is never hard to run with Soap and keep his breakneck pace—the only thing that had been difficult was adjusting to the fact that someone else could finally keep up with hers. It’s a stomach-thrilling shock to look from the corner of her eye, and find the blur of his burly shape there, winking and clicking his tongue without breaking a sweat.

Bordelon is soft for the Scot sook, god forsake the shit out of her.

He’s landed in D.C. on medical leave, a broken collarbone leaving his arm in a sling, and the first thing he’d done—after kissing his way up her neck to the spot behind her ear that made her skin sing and her palms sweat—was sling his good arm around her neck, pulling her in close, and nibbling her earlobe. “Christ, s’it always pishin’ it doon here, too?”

“Naw,” she laughed back, reaching to tangle their fingers together on her chest, his backpack slung over her shoulder, “just October, couillon.”

“Ohh, talk that dirty, fake French to me, mah cherry,” he mock-growled, which just earnt himself a pap! of the palm to his cheek. All play, no sting, and he beamed.

That night burns down to the coals—traipsing back to her apartment, showing off the ugly bruise that bleeds does from his neck to his bottom-rung rib, kissing and touching and figuring out a way to fuck that doesn’t hurt him too-too much.

(The man likes a little ache in it, here and there. Calls dichotomy in that blessed, rock-fall accent. Ratios of sweet to sour, black to white, sun and night. As if he had any more concept of balance and moderation than she.)

He lies across the bed in that silly-ass sling, watching her bitch her smart TV a blue-streak while wearing one of his threadbare navy t-shirts and nothing else. Rubs the spot at the bottom of his sternum, listening to rain slap heavy sheets against the old windows, and says, “Perdita.”

“Don’t you full name me,” she warns, shaking her head, because it is an ill-fitted address. For him, she is Hen, or Perdie, in much the same way he is her Johnny, Jean, or John-boy. A thing you love is all in how you name it, and their names are softened and held close; in the way of lovers who began as friends, once they were strangers no more.

“We’re getting married ‘fore I ship back tae Glasgow,” is how he finishes his thought, and Bordelon turns on her hips, back and forth, vaguely pointing the remote at the screen. He gives her a challenging tooth-sharp smirk. “Thought I should warn you.”

“Mhm. Yeah.” She wonders if she should count this a proposal, or call his bluff, and then she thinks—might as well nail both options to the fuckin’ wall while she’s got the knife. “We go our way onto the courthouse tomorrow. Keep it simple, ça c’est bon?”

International marriage is never that simple, though, and they’re both the wiser to it. But the sentiment is pretty, and it sparks amongst the hard-bought bonfire that lives in the depths of her chest, flames rising and licking to glorify his name. So, they call it an engagement, and Soap pulls a turn-around she doesn’t expect, turning his phone off to pull a shade of night over only the two of their heads.

He’s no family to call, apart from his 141, and even then, there’s a hesitance to his hands. Her man—her bombastic, beautiful bastard—could not stand to be a burden, no. A nightmare that is for him, himself. Even if he were to reach out with the utterly, desolately rare delivery of good news (a phenomenon grown so rare that Neptune would sooner complete circuits around the sun these days), it would make his skin crawl.

Were he to have his way, his burdens would never leave the span of his shoulders to weigh down another’s back, even something as small as what might be an inconveniently timed but otherwise benign or even welcome call.

Come the gray and misting morning, he’s handsy and all-paws, even short a limb, groping for Bordelon as the woman rolls upright on the edge of the bed, pushing her sleep-tangled hair away from her face before it irritates her to death. His hand is warm, callused, and heavy with insistence as it settles into the dip of her violin hip, trying to pull her back into the warm expanse of his hard-packed body.

“Perdie, Hen,” he grunts, tone shading toward playful complaint, “the fuck’re y’doin’ awake?”

“Startin’ off,” she croaks, shaking her head, pushing at his fingers as they crawl closer to her cunt. “Stop that—arrête ça! You’re mangy this morning, T’Jean,” she laughs, pushing more firmly at his grip. “No, get up. Got a friend, knows her way ‘round immigration policy, and she always got an envie for brunch.”

“Brunch?” he questions, flat as buried flounder, falling back into her mountains of mismatched pillows with a dreadful look on that handsome face of his. “Darlin’, am no getting my fat ass outta bed, even for brunch. Feel kinda fruity even sayin’ it.”

“Even for to get us married?” she darts back, turning to look at him, drawing her fingers in circles through the hair on his lower stomach, cooing ridiculously in her rasp-rough drawl, “Even for me.”

“Goddamn,” he groans, throwing baby-dog eyes her way. “I mean, was hopin’ you’d take it serious—cannae tell wi’ your ass—but.” He swallows, one of those corny, I’m-about-to-fuck smiles threatening the corner of his mouth, the one that makes him all coy and keen, looking down at her pale, spidery fingers drifting closer and closer through his thick, dark body hair to his fattening cock. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in bed? Cold morning like this, I could keep you warm.”

She just barely brushes her fingers over his cock before she’s snap-sliding out of bed, copperhead quick, tossing over her shoulder, “Nope! Already sent an email, she knows we on the schedule,” on her way to the shower.

Soap drops back against the bed, rubbing his stubbled face, grunting, “Bordelon, you arsehole.”

But he can’t withstand the siren call of watching her in the shower, so, ever-faithful and ever-horned up, he follows after.

D.C. is about as filthied up with the sorrows of addiction and homelessness as any other place, Bordelon supposes. Can’t tell if it’s better or worse than any of the time she spent down New Orleans or Baton Rouge way. Colder, mostly. But it’s not all the time you need to know about the homeless or the drug addicts—keepin’ eyes on them, keepin’ them in your ears, at least at the sides.

Sometimes, it’s the fella in the khakis, with a puffer jacket and prescription glasses, his behaviors making his Rolex look cheap shit.

Bordelon and Soap slide last into the car before the doors pull shut, close to standing-room early in Crystal City as lunch hour approaches. All the suits are out their offices, scrounging for edibles, droning loud and monotone on their cells. Whole car is damp and humid from the downpour, human body heat causing an intense mugginess that crawls under the clothes to irritate the skin. It’s damn near enough to make Bordelon’s head spin, neck uncomfortable with sweat the way it was all them years down deep, deep in the south.

“No, sit doon,” Soap says, flapping the good arm great and wide, trying to get her to pop a squat on the only empty seat left, shaking his head. “Dinnae try bossin’ me, talkin’ wi’ that spooky-arse agency voice. Want away from you a minute.”

He dresses up chivalry as dismissal, and she can’t help but grin, even as she dawdles on sitting.

“What? You don’t like how Tiffany sounds? I swear, she’s perfectly nice. And outstanding in her field. She’s an accomplished agent, and her superiors are recommending her for a promotion,” she says, in that self-same agency voice of which he’d complained—rich and clear, dialect: nonregional, speech pattern: nondescript.

“Oof, fuckin’ hate that, stop,” he snorts, faking a shiver, but he does complain, “Hey, what? Where you goin’?” when she actually does move to sit down, tugging her up by the collar of her shirt just a bit to pop a grinning kiss against her mouth.

She doesn’t realize, at least not right away, that the tug at her collar disrupted her shirt. Just enough to make a few buttons slip, exposing more of her right tit under her open coat. Wore a thin top today, loose, but figured the dark fabric would hide any transparency. Hated tight clothes, hated bras, and never wore one; just figured her rack had spent thirty-three years being nothing to comment on.

Well. More than half a tit exposed was enough to catch the attention of the man who cheapens his Rolex by being the one to wear it.

Soap likes strange things because he, himself, is a strange thing, and Bordelon had thought to take him the two hours north to Philly to hit the Mütter Museum to see their medical abnormalities, because once their brunch is out, they’ll have an entire day to themselves. She’s busy showing him pictures, enticing him, when the woman next to her taps her thigh.

Like an alarm hollerin’ in her head, she starts running two tracks instant-like, leaning without looking as she whispers, “Yeah, chere?”

The woman is older, in maroon scrubs—some kinda tech, smell of jelly on her says maybe ultrasound—and nonslip clogs. Can’t quite see her name badge, but that seems on purpose, covered up by her fleece.

“That man over there—he’s takin’ pictures of you,” she whispers back, straightening her jacket needlessly as a hint, “just wanted you to know. Maybe tell your man?”

“Oh, no,” Bordelon hums, smoothly pulling her shirt back into place, “I tell him, he gonna light that stupid bastard up like a candle.”

“Who’s lightin’ me up like a candle?” Soap stage-whispers, all play, and Bordelon knows exactly how the next ten seconds are gonna go, and it plays out picture perfect to her premonition. Bordelon tells him don’t worry, I got it, the Good Samaritan in maroon scrubs informs him of the creep, and the smile on Soap’s face turns into a flesh-ripper grin as all the fun burns outta his gaze like a gas fire in a hyperbaric chamber.

“Oh?”

“MacTavish,” she warns him, “wait til the stop.”

“Naw, naw, naw. I’ll play nice, Hen.” That means, sure as shit, he won’t.

The switch knife he takes out his back pocket is deadly smooth, and so is his broad step to the stranger and his budget, Amazon-bought phone case, pushing straight into his man-spread legs.

The fact there isn’t an immediate uproar, but the man’s face is blanched and staring up at him with a shitload of oh fuck on his face speaks to Soap’s own scary-ass career, and Bordelon can barely see the tip of the knife pressing into the spot just below the stranger’s ribs.

“Hey, pal, mornin’,” Soap says, bright and easy as anything, voice not droppin’ even a note, head tilted real friendly. “Do me a favor, eh? Just drop your phone next t’my boot, yeah? We’ll just get this little creeper session done and dusted.”

Can’t even hear the clunk when it slides out of the man’s limp hand, and it’s even quieter when the heel of Soap’s boot shifts over to destroy the screen, grinding it to dust.

“Good man,” he says, pulling the knife back to close it and slide it into his sling. “Next stop, you’re off. But you’re gonna leave your phone on the floor. Hope you dinnae eat shet on the way home to your ol’ lady.”

Bordelon resists the urge to slap a hand over her face, but when Soap kicks the phone back to her, she catches it under the toe of her boot, catching the expression of the tech to her side, unsurprised but impressed. Must have herself a man like Soap, waiting for her to make it home.

“Sorry ‘bout the screen, Perdie. Think you can get in there and delete his shet still?” Soap asks, tone a bottom lip pout, and Bordelon nods, tucking her fingers into the back of his belt before snaking them up under his shirt, swirling her fingertips into his back dimples.

“Hah. You know it, Johnny,” she hums, looking up at him from under her lashes. It’s a tenderness, sweet and true, taking up space between her lungs. Mad bastard. Crazy motherfucker. Loony bitch. When he looks back at her, he curls his fingers under her jaw, looking relieved. Poor thing knows hit dog hollers, and he long ago stopped yelping when he was struck. He’s looking to be told he didn’t do something bad. But she finds his pace, she always does. Of course, she did.

But that goes beggin’ the question: what’s a hellhole-heart like her supposed to do with a love like this?

Tag List: @alittleposhtoad @skinnyazn @dotcie @snail-eggs @parttimeprophet @kastlequill 💖💖

[lowkeyrobin]

TUBBO ; colors

summary/prompt ; the world is mostly black and white until you meet your soulmate

warnings & mentions ; language, cheesey end, reader is described to get overstimulated and nonverbal in very excited situations, set in mix like late 2021 around bench trio meetup

word count ; 1.5k

masterlist

Meeting up with your friends in real life was like the plot to a corny fanfiction to you. It was so unbelievable, yet true now.

You'd been hoping and planning to make a trip over with Ranboo, but each time, something had gone wrong. Whether it be problems meeting at the same airport or having scheduled other important things prior, school, etcetera. It never seemed to work out until now. Ranboo already got to the UK yesterday, considering you guys sadly couldn't get tickets together so close to the departure date.

Boarding that plane was maybe the scariest thing you've ever done.

The anxiety courses adrenaline through your veins, causing you to nearly stumble over yourself.

The world had been desaturated for as long as you could remember. At least you could enjoy your video games, being in full color. God, it was almost yesterday that Tommy and Tubbo were teaching you all the colors you didn't know yet. It was like training a toddler.

Thank God screens were out of bounds of this weird infection thing. You didn't know what to call if. You loved color, you loved every shade of every color, really. It was that sense of driving out somewhere you don't go often, and you stare out the window to take everything in.

As you sit in your seat, your leg bounces rapidly, your carry-on backpack resting at your feet. You look out the window, seeing one of the wings up in front of you a couple of seats as you mumble to yourself.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, I hate this already"

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Finally, after the longest, and probably most turbulent, flight of your life, you step out into the world, seeing the outside of Brighton airport and it's parking lot. Phil would be here soon to come pick you up, running late due to traffic.

You sit on a bench outside the building, next to the front doors with your nearly month's worth of luggage around you. Your backpack was filled with your laptop, other device needs, and some clothes and hygiene things. Your suitcase, thankfully big enough, heald all your clothes.

You see Phil wave out his window as he pulls up to the curb, shouting a happy hello. You stuff your things in the trunk with Phil's and Tommy's bags, also planning to stay down near Tubbo's at least for the weekend. You then hop in the passenger's seat, being jumpscared by Tommy who was hiding in the back seat.

"Holy shit!"

Tommy laughs, and Phil tries his best to hide the smile tugging at his lips. "Don't scare them to death, Tommy, please"

"Are you so excited right now?" The blonde asks you, you reply with a happy, silent nod, becoming overstimulated already due to the happiness and the chaotic nature of Tommy already, driving you nonverbal. The jet lag and tiredness also did some damage on you, being teleported to a new time zone.

"They're wearing red!" He smiles, "You're wearing red, we're all triplet-ing!"

You all laugh and giggle, which you assume the two were both wearing red. Tommy was wearing his usual red baseball shirt, and Phil had a supposedly red sweatshirt on.

Phil drives you three all the way down to Tubbo's house, maybe an hour of driving max. When you step out of the car and move the seat forward to let Tommy out, you're greeted with a warm hug from behind, gifted from Tubbo.

"Hi! Oh my fucking God, I can't believe you're here!" He smiles, jumping a bit as he looks up at you.

"Hi!" You smile, doing the same as him, wrapping him in another hug just to make sure he was real.

Ranboo, Aimsey, Billzo, and Freddie stand a few feet away, then wrap you guys in a group hug, Tommy and Philza included.

When you open your eyes, now not engulfed by your friends, the world around you was now painted with color. Tubbo's hoodie was painted a nice forest green color, you saw reds, blues, and yellows on Ranboo's hawaiin shirt, and Aimsey's beanie was the famous red it was over the screen.

"Holy shit" You mumble, looking around to take in all the new scenery.

The group look at you in confusion and see your bright stare, able to tell that you'd gained the wonderous sight of color. You hug Tubbo again, just excited to see him before you get your things from the trunk of Phil's car, and he pulls them inside, placing them in the room you'd be sharing with Ranboo.

Phil departs, needing to run some errands and meet up with some other friends before heading to his hotel. He does a little bit where he abandons Tommy and kicks him and his stuff out, and drives off, nearly late for his lunch with Jack, James, and Charlie.

The day is fulfilled with a Halloween stream, and your little friend group being titled the Cricket Crew. You were officially the third, after Aimsey and Tommy, of that group to gain sight of colors, and it was awesome. You never noticed how colorful your wardrobe was, other than outfits you wore on stream.

You don't think about it much, just too caught up with your friends. But the question of who gifted you your new colors stayed on your mind.

It wasn't until you were getting ready to change into pajamas to have a little movie night with Tubbo, Ranboo, and Tommy, who was going to be picked up around 11 by Wilbur to stay at the hotel nearby, that you thought about the color thing again.

Who the fuck is your soulmate?

Clearly it was one of your friends, but you didn't see any mixed emotions between any of them, at least you could mark off Tommy, obviously, Aimsey, and Bill, who made a joke about how he was thankful he wasn't your soulmate earlier. That left Freddie, Ranboo, and Tubbo. There was just so much happening in that moment that you really couldn't pinpoint one of them.

You decide to leave the detective work for later, wanting to enjoy showing your friends the true masterpiece that is The Breakfast Club. You sit down on the couch in next to Tubbo, who was laying sideways as per usual, whom also made sure to move his legs so you had room to sit. Tommy sat beneath you, leaned against the couch. Ranboo sat criss-cross in front of Tubbo, making sure not to block his view.

Tommy made remarks, jokes, and commentated throughout the movie, causing the other three of you to do the same. After the movie, Tommy leaves, leaving you, Tubbo, and Ranboo to watch Tubbo's choice for the next movie, The Lost Boys. He had it on his watch list for some time now and wanted to watch it.

During the first Act, he ends up making a little comment about all the colors and how cool they looked on the screen. You almost didn't catch it at first, but you did. Ranboo hadn't, though, making pulling Tubbo into the kitchen a little more discreet.

Tubbo tries to act dumb before giving himself up, unable to hide from your pressing nature.

"Uh, yeah, when we hugged, I noticed it. I just didn't say anything cause I was scared and I wanted to focus on us being friends and I don't wanna ruin that-"

"Tubbo..."

"Hm?"

You wrap him in a hug, "Sorry"

"For what?"

You shrug, feeling the apology was nessacary.

"You have really pretty eyes by the way" He smiles

You roll your eyes playfully, "Shut up"

"You're supposed to love me! You're my soulmate, you little shit!"

"That's not how that works!"

"Wow, drama" Ranboo speaks from the doorway, leaning against it while holding up his recording phone. "Sorry, I had to record this. I didn't know he'd confess so soon" They shrug.

"Ran!" Tubbo exclaims, cheeks dusting pink.

"You were in on it?" You ask them, which you recieve a nod in response. "You little asshole"

Ranboo raises his hands in defense, "Don't blame me! Tommy was the one to suggest making it special"

You shrug, patting Tubbo's cheek before you three return to the couch. "It was either you two or Freddie, glad it was the best option, I guess"

"Hey!"

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The next morning, around seven or so, you sit on the back porch, enjoying the fresh air and the sunrise, which you could finally enjoy in all it's glory. Hues of blue, grey, pinks, purples, and reds fill the sky in which you stare at. You hear the door open and close with a click behind you, and the familiar brunette best friend sits next to you.

"Why are you awake?" He groans, rubbing his tired eyes, "It's too early"

"Says you. You wake up in the evening, if you're lucky"

"I- Quiet, I won't be taking Tubbo slander"

You look back up at the sky with a little smile, "Isn't it just so fucking pretty?"

"Not as fucking pretty as you"

...

"Get out"

"This is my house!"

[touteslespetiteschosess]

Love To Hate Me || Kylian Mbappé

Chapter 6 : Liar, Liar

Plot: A surprise return makes y/n question her relationship with Kylian.

Word Count: 1902

A/N: In celebration of Kyky's birthday, here's an update xxx

Chapter 5 Masterlist

Y/n's phone began to buzz loudly on her desk; she sighed and rose from her desk, a small smile gracing her face at the sight of her brother's name. Taking the phone, she headed out of her office, deciding she was in need of some fresh air anyway.

"Hey, James." she smiled, answering the call.

"Hey, y/n. You busy?"

"I'm at work but I'm owed a break anyway. Speaking of, shouldn't you be working?"

"The kids are on lunch, so I thought I'd see my little sis' is doing."

Her brother, James, was a primary school teacher back in the UK. He was two years older than her and growing up, the pair had been incredibly close. Nowadays, they didn't get the chance to talk as much, between their two busy jobs and their entirely separate lives in different countries.

"I'm good."

"Still having a hard time at work?"

As she strolled down the corridor, she sighed, "Well, the lack of headlines says not. It's calmed down a little."

"Good, you deserve a rest."

"Well, I'll have time for a rest when the transfer window closes. Until then I'll just have to suck it up."

As she strolled past Luis' office, the coach's door swung open. James continued to chat, "With the wage you're on, they're not paying you to relax." he chuckled but y/n had stopped listening to a word he was saying. From Enrique's office, not only did the coach emerge but so did Kylian. Her heart stopped.

It had been two weeks since their evening togehter as well as two weeks since she'd seen him at all. By the time her alarm had gone off- 5am- he'd slipped out, every trace of him gone, save a large, white hoodie he'd left on her bathroom floor.

Sure, she'd enjoyed the night with him; he was handsome, and good in bed, and he'd held her in his arms as they fell asleep, and it'd made her feel safe and loved and... She didn't care that he'd left in the night or that he hadn't called after that. It had been a one night thing, they'd both known that. He was leaving PSG, so what was the harm?

It was just a goodbye fuck, knowing they'd probably never see each other again. An acceptance of their attractions and their urges, admitting them to one another before he faded into TV screens and perfume adverts. So why was he here now?

"James, I've gotta go, I'll call you later though, alright?"

She didn't wait for a response before she hung up.

"Y/n, just the woman I was looking for!" Enrique grinned.

She turned around, her eyes fixed on Luis, stringently avoiding acknowledging Kylian's presence. She forced a smile, "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yes, Kylian and I finalised his contract yesterday. Elizabeth is bringing a file containing the details over to you. I need you to draft a press release about his return ASAP."

She faltered, "Kylian's coming back?"

The footballer cleared, his throat, "Yes, I am."

She shot him a glare before looking back at Luis, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I am doing."

"Okay, but some advance notice would have been nice, given that it involves my department."

"Well, this is your advance notice, so I'd appreciate it if you'd have the statement drafted and sent over to me within the hour."

With that, Luis nodded firmly and marched off; Kylian's feet were glued to the ground beneath him and he gawped at her like a goldfish. Her scowl deepened and she hesitated momentarily, as though she was going to say something. Then she spun around, her hair whipping after her, and stormed off.

Two or three days had passed since Kylian had appeared at the training centre and y/n hadn't seen the man since. Much to her dismay, she'd had to schedule in and would have to attend a press conference regarding Kylian's reintegration, which she'd announced on social media earlier that day. Now, her chances of avoiding the man in question were significantly decreased.

Sporting black suit trousers and a long-sleeved bodysuit, she walked into the press conference room. She lingered at the back for a few seconds, arms folded over her chest, holding a stack of files tightly as she surveyed the room. Tens if not hundreds of journalists sat on the rows of chairs in front of her. There was a loud hum of chatter as expectant glances were cast at the panel in front of them.

She slipped back outside and headed for the room Luis waited in. As she stepped in, she was met by the sight of not only Luis but Kylian and his father.

She smiled tightly, "Good morning."

"Miss y/l/n, good to see you."

"Sorry, I'm late. I was just running a little behind schedule, but here are some cards for you to read from." she rushed over to Luis and handed him a stack of prewritten cards. She spun around to the player who watched her carefully, "Kylian." she spat, placing the cards in his hand.

Her skin brushed his, he was close enough that she could smell his unforgettable scent. His warm, soft skin on hers took her back to that night. All of a sudden, it was like his hands were all over her again, squeezing, exploring, rubbing. She could hear his voice, calling out her name, singing her praises. She could feel his hands on her tits as he pressed kisses up her neck, on her lips, her cheeks, anywhere he could. They were tangled in his soft sheets, her legs wrapped like a vice around his waist as he held her so easily, like she weighed nothing more than a feather.

"Y/n."

He'd cried out, chanting her name like a prayer. But no, he really was speaking now. He said her name, his thumb grazing her palm as she handed over the cards. He spoke quietly, almost whispering her name.

She cast him a fleeting, strange glance before turning back to Luis, "Are you ready to go?"

He nodded and she headed out into the wilderness, where the pack of reporters were gathered. At the sight of the doors opening, they all began to clamour before seeing it was only y/n.

She stepped up to the panel and spoke into one of the microphones, "Bonjour à tous et merci d'être venus. Il y aura une section pour les questions à la fin. Et maintenant, Luis et Kylian."

Cameras began to flash as everyone turned to the door she'd emerged from. She stepped down from the raised panel and stood to the side of the room. As the footballer and his coach took their place before all of the cameras, Kylian's father came up beside her.

She glanced up at him and offered him a small, polite smile, before turning her gaze back to the press conference which was starting. Luis began speaking, though she didn't understand a word of his Spanish.

"So, you're the one who's been sabotaging my son's career?"

He was so nonchalant she wasn't even sure he'd spoken or if it was just a creation of her imagination. She glanced up at him but he just stared straight ahead.

Hesitantly, she replied, "Sorry?"

"You're the one who has been dragging my son's name through the mud?"

"Usually I go by y/n."

"Oh, I know. I've heard all about you, y/n."

"Right." she pursed her lips, "Well, it's all worked out just fine, hasn't it?" she shrugged, nodding her head in the direction of the press conference.

“Hmm, for you.”

She drew back, looking up at the much taller man, “What’s that supposed to mean? I gave him every chance to leave, you are aware that PR doesn’t encompass transfers or contracts. I just broadcast what I’m told.”

“Y/n, I know what is best for my sons and I won’t have anyone getting in the middle of that.”

She frowned, what the hell did that mean? Before she could question his ambiguous statement, there was a flurry of excited voices and her head snapped back to the conference at hand.

Kylian nodded to a journalist, who stood up, "Kylian, pourquoi avez-vous pris la décision de rester à Paris?" Kylian, why have you made the decision to stay in Paris?

"Paris est l'endroit où j'ai grandi. Je tiens à cette équipe, c'est ma famille et je veux le meilleur pour eux." Paris is where I grew up. I care about this team, they are my family and I want the very best for them.

"Mais vous allez devoir quitter cette équipe à un moment donné. Pourquoi pas maintenant?" But you are going to have to leave this team at some point. Why not now?

Maybe y/n was going insane but she swore Kylian glanced at her before he spoke. Surely not. He hadn't called her. He didn't care about her more than her body. Of course, he was probably just looking at his father. But she just felt his gaze deep within her, like the ground beneath her was shaking.

"Je n'ai pas l'impression d'avoir terminé mon travail ici et j'espère encore accomplir davantage" he paused before adding, "avec mon équipe." I don't feel like I have finished my work here and there is still more I hope to achieve... with my team.

A few more questions were asked before the conference ended and they returned to the room next door. Y/n began to regather her files, "That was good, guys." she declared, offering a half-hearted smile, "I hope this puts it all to bed once and for all."

She nodded firmly before starting for the door; she headed out into the quiet corridor and let out a breath she wasn't even aware she'd been holding. It was like stepping out into fresh air, just being out of a room with him. His presence made her sweat and forget how to breath or think or speak.

"Y/n!"

And she couldn't breath again, and the temperature was rising, and she almost tripped over her own feet at the sound of his voice.

She snapped around, "What?"

"Wait."

She blinked at him and when he said nothing more, frowned, "Well?"

"Are you upset with me?"

"Of course not." she spat, sarcasm thick on her tongue.

"What did I do?"

She rolled her eyes and turned to leave again, "Just forget it."

"Y/n!" he yelled. When her pace didn't falter, he chased after her, catching up easily. He caught her arm and a flush immediately raced across her cheeks at the contact, "Y/n! Stop! Is this because I didn't call you after that night?"

"Forget it." she annunciated, still marching on.

"No, not if you're just gonna ignore me!"

She laughed bitterly, "That's rich."

"So it is because I didn't call?"

She spun around so abruptly that he almost crashed into her. "No, it's because you told me you were leaving! I wouldn't have fucked you had I known we were still going to have to work together! I'm mad at you because you lied to me!"

He didn't have time to reply as a door behind them opened and they both swiftly fell silent. Luis and Wilifried both walked out into the corridor, too deep in friendly conversation to notice the heated moment between y/n and Kylian.

She raked her eyes up and down him then quickly disappeared.

Masterlist

[nobrashfestivity]

Ana Mendieta

Cuban-born performance and multi-media visual artist Ana Mendieta died in 1985 at the age of 36, leaving behind a massive collection of un-exhibited works. Now on view at London’s Hayward Gallery is “Traces,” her first UK retrospective, in which slides of these pieces reveal an untold career.

Born in Cuba in 1948, Mendieta was sent to Iowa by her parents at the age of 13 to escape the communist regime of Fidel Castro. In a subsequent search for identity and belonging, Mendieta turned her attention to the Earth and the female body as her core subjects. Though documented across a wide breadth of medums-photography, film, performance, sculpture-they were, in essence, her only tools. Mendieta developed a visual vernacular of feminine forms through experimentation with materials such as blood, wood and stone. In her famous “Siluetas” (Silhouettes) series, created between 1973 and 1981, she left imprints or outlines in the earth with her body, sometimes adding ritualistic adornments of flowers or fire to those markings.

Mendieta died in New York in 1985 after falling from the 34th-floor apartment she shared with her husband, the sculptor Carl Andre. Some suspect Andre of having thrown Mendieta from the window, though he was acquitted after a three-year trial. In the last room of the exhibition, the duality of the show’s title, which references both the marks made by her body in the earth and the work left behind after her death, is drawn out to a haunting degree. Presented alongside notebooks, postcards, and other archival materials, several white pillars are set up as projection screens for old-fashioned slide projectors showing the un-exhibited works. Each pillar is marked with the year in which the works shown there were made.

(text from art in america)

[daisygirlwrites]

Car Rides

Summary: An old memory of Simon’s resurfaces during a car ride to Crash’s house.

Warnings: none

Pairing(s): Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!Reader (Platonic)

Word Count: 1,025

Note: No uses of (Y/N), some angst but it’s barely there. 

a/n: hello hello! back with another fic :) ngl this one made me kind of sad but still enjoyable to write. I have a set of headcanons that I wrote along with this fic but i decided that I’ll put it into the next post instead :0c !! anyways, i hope y’all like it and would love to hear feedback!

“Keys.” He demanded.

Quickly, you pull your hand back, the other coming up to shield it. The man in front of you narrows his eyes but puts his hands back into his hoodie pocket. You open your hand, revealing a set of keys, along with a lego Darth Vader keychain. Flipping over the key fob, your black Jeep Wrangler makes the distinct sound of itself unlocking. “After you, LT.”

He opens the back passenger seat to set down his duffle bag before moving to the front. While he does that, you get yourself onto the driver's seat and start the vehicle. You check your surroundings before backing out of the parking spot and after a series of turns, you two are on the road, exiting the airport.

“Apologies about earlier, Simon,” you say, after a couple minutes of silence. “I know you want to drive but love this car way too much. Don’t want to crash it, ya know.” He glares at you as you let out an airy chuckle.

“And what do you mean by that, Sergeant?”

“Remember Las Almas? How you slammed on the breaks so fuckin’ hard that I almost went through the window, for the second time? Or that time in Moscow, where you proceeded to hit every curb you saw and we got pulled over?” You glance at him. He stares back at you, offended. And even with a facemask, it’s evident that he’s scowling at you.

Looking back at the road, you lightly elbow his arm. “Don’t worry, LT. You’re great at a lot of things.” You pause, weighing out the option of whether or not to push his buttons more before saying, “Just not driving. Or piloting. Like last month, with the helico-”

“That’ll do!” Simon raises his voice.

Palms on the steering wheel, you open your hands as a signal of surrender. “I’m just jesting, Simon.” You give him a half-hearted smile. He sinks down into his seat, with his arms crossed.

45 minutes passed and the only sound you hear are the cars on the road. Simon looks out of the window, taking sight of the buildings rushing by. In the distance, he can see the large mountain range.

The whole team was given a month of leave after the last mission went up in flames. Literally, burning helicopters and all. While the guys usually went back to the UK, you had invited them to your mountain home in Colorado. Ghost initially declined but after you and Soap begged on your knees, he reluctantly agreed. And now he regrets it after you made fun of his driving skills. But at least it was just you and not the rest of the team. Actually, he’s grateful that they’re flying in tomorrow. Didn’t want to handle three idiots in a car.

“I got a CD folder in the glove box,” You break the silence. “It’s your pick too. Long drives are better with music.”

Simon gives you a nod and begins flipping through the case. He recognizes most of the albums, and taking a closer look, some of the art on them are flaking off.

“Never thought you’d still have CDs this old,” he comments.

“Half of them are my grandpa’s. I’m just adding on to it.”

He hums in response. Spotting a maroon colored disk, he rotates it, reading ‘Queen: Greatest Hits’. Carefully pulling it out of its pocket, he hands it to you. Left hand on the wheel, you stick your finger in the middle and glance at it. Nodding, you slide it into the car player.

“Good choice.”

“Brits have good music.”

“I agree with that.”

Flicking your eyes down to the display screen, you skip the first eight tracks. Without looking, you can tell that Simon is giving you a disapproving look. “We’ll come back to it, promise. Just want to listen to this first.”

He turns his eyes back on the road before him, the first couple notes of ‘You’re My Best Friend’ playing out. They’re in the mountains now, the roads becoming more twisty. Slowly down a bit on the turns, you let the windows down a couple inches. He hears you quietly sing along with the song. Rolling his eyes, Simon leans back on his seat again. Again, looking out the window, enjoying the greenery. It reminds him of the long drives to his aunt's house. Green blurs of evergreen trees passing by. Turning his head to look at you, his heart picks up the pace.

He doesn’t see you. Instead, it was a woman in her early thirties. The driver window slightly opened, leaving her light brown hair flying behind her ears. Hands tapping on the steering wheel on beat with the music. Hazel eyes meeting his. There were bags under them, dark circles hidden by makeup. She smiles at him, little wrinkles appearing on the corner of her eyes, along with two dimples, one of each side of her smile. Just like his. Opening her mouth, she sings along with the song,

“Ooh, you make me live Whenever this world is cruel to me I got you to help me forgive Ooh, you make me live now, honey Ooh, you make me live.”

His mom stops singing. “Simon!” she calls out. “Come on, love. Sing with your ma!”

He’s too stunned to say anything, he just stares at her. “Simon?” Her smile drops, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

“Simon?” Her voice sounds muffled.

“Simon?!” It’s like echoes now.

“Lieutenant Riley?!” That one snapped him out. 

Heart beating like a drum, he opens his eyes, staring at the bottom of his hoodie before looking back up. It’s just you, Crash, his sergeant. Not his mother. But the worried look you give him is identical to hers.

You give him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to wake you up LT.” His eyebrows go up with confusion, he didn’t know he was even sleeping. “We’re here.”

Simon steps out of the jeep, closing the door behind him. Taking a look of his surroundings, he glances up at the towering evergreen trees, just like the ones in his childhood. Just like the ones at home.