#Bay Oval

[demonwolfgoodies]

Toronto Beach Style Landscape Inspiration for a sizable backyard concrete paver outdoor sport court in the summer along the coast.

[busbyway]

Traditional Exterior - Exterior

Example of a large classic gray two-story concrete fiberboard gable roof design

[starwarsarthistory]

This is an illustration of a traditional stone front porch in a medium size.

[mascrapping]

2021: Spring Break 2021 - Bass Pro Shops

While on Spring Break I stayed at a hotel in Palm Bay, Florida which was a block away from the Palm Bay Bass Pro Shops location. This is one of our favorite stores (especially the one in Memphis, TN), and so we decided to stop in and visit this one. The Palm Bay location has an alligator pool outside the entrance along with some wild pigs which was a cool experience. To make this spread I found…

[reidalert]

IT’S OKAY NOT TO BE OKAY | spencer.reid

| spencer reid & fem!reader 3.1k words

| content: a case has you feeling helpless and guilty, and no matter who consoles you, nothing helps. maybe all you need is to take a break, but what if the break is being risky with dr. reid?

| warnings: mentions of death/kidnapping, flashback to the case, reader feeling vulnerable

| author’s note: i haven’t written in a longgg time and boy does it feel good to finally get these words out of my head. it feels like a privilege to get my writing spark back & i can’t wait to share all my ideas with you. i hope you enjoy reading <3

| masterlist

feedback and comments are highly appreciated!

You have thick skin.

Well, that’s what you say to anyone who asks if you’re okay.

But after today? After this case? You’re not sure if that’s true anymore. You don’t get affected easily, not when it comes to blood and gore. You’ve homed in on keeping your reactions and feelings at bay when it comes to that… but what happened out there? It’s made you feel helpless.

You knew from the minute JJ briefed you back at the BAU that this case was something you hadn’t dealt with before. Even Agent Hotchner had asked if you wanted to sit this one out.

But you said no. You wanted to get more experience to become a better profiler and a better agent. And it came at a cost.

You feel like an outsider. Like you’re watching yourself from an outside perspective as you go through airport security. The endless whir of machines and planes landing and taking off in the background do nothing for the thoughts racing in your mind.

You’re the last to be cleared and you know the others are watching you. Their eyes burning through your skin and doing what they do best. Profiling.

You don’t meet their gaze. You know as soon as you make eye contact with one of them, they’ll be asking you questions and it’ll make you torture yourself about whether you’re fit for this job. So, you make your way through the long and endless corridors until you’re at the gate for the jet.

The dull whirring of the jet engines helps you zone out. The leather seats are a cool comfort to your heated self.

Logically, it would make sense to let them know you’re not doing okay and that you need some time to yourself. But who are you kidding? You’re a thick skinned woman who can do anything… so you’ve made them believe.

You’re sitting on the farthest seat in the jet, right in the corner away from everyone else. You can’t deal with the questions you know they’re going to ask you.

But apparently, that doesn’t stop Agent Hotchner from taking the seat opposite you.

“I know what you’re gonna say.” You break the silence but continue staring out the oval window. The city lights below turn smaller and smaller as you progress through the flight.

“And what’s that?” Agent Hotchner asks. You’re not happy he’s here, invading your little self-pity bubble, but you do appreciate the way he keeps his voice quiet.

You shrug. “That something has upset me. Or that I’m too in my head about this case. Along those lines, anyway.”

Agent Hotchner regards you for a moment. You can feel his eyes staring at the side of your face as you purposefully stay looking out the window.

Because you know the second you make eye contact with him, he’ll see what’s going through your head. And he can’t.

“I gathered something was wrong.” His voice is low, a nice baritone that doesn't annoy you. “I know when someone in my team is different. And you’re different.”

You fight back the scoff that’s threatening to spill. “And what is that supposed to mean, Agent Hotchner?”

“Just…” he sighs. You’re very similar to Spencer Reid; in a way that you both struggle to admit when you need help. “If something is bothering you, I am here to listen.”

“Who says something is bothering me?” You kind of regret asking that question as you know damn well he’s about to go into an explanation of how he can see you’re upset.

He sits up a little straighter, hands clasped over his crossed knees. “You’re avoiding eye contact with me, your knuckles have turned white from how hard you’re gripping the arm rests—”

“That’s nothing—”

“You’re interrupting me. You don’t like being analysed as it makes you vulnerable. You haven’t eaten anything in the past,” Agent Hotchner checks his watch. “Six hours. Your stomach is warring against your emotions and you don’t like that. You’re sitting in a corner trying to push yourself away from other people.”

“Okay.” You bite out, now finally giving in to looking him dead in the eyes. “You’re a great profiler. No need to showboat.”

“I’m not showboating.”

You roll your eyes, “Sure seems like it.”

A minute or two pass in silence. Agent Hotchner is still staring at you and you feel incredibly small under his gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything.” He fixes his shirt cuffs, acting so nonchalant as if he didn’t just profile one of his team members.

You grit your teeth. “Fine. Today messed with my head. That case was… it was wrong. So wrong that I can’t stop thinking about how I could have helped that family.”

Agent Hotchner leans forward, gently placing his hand upon your own on the arm rest. You feel your grip loosen and you fight back a grimace at how cold his hand feels against your warm one. “It’s not your fault. We all know we could have done something different out there, but sometimes the unsub takes a surprise route. Things like this happen and it’s unfortunate, but don’t blame yourself.”

You shrug again, avoiding eye contact once again. “Yeah.”

He stands, pulling his suit jacket to fit more comfortably. “If you need to talk to someone, come to my office.”

You only offer a silent nod in answer.

“Oh, and Agent L/N? Stop calling me Agent Hotchner, Hotch is just fine.” He offers a small smile and you shake your head, going back to staring out the window until your eyes feel too heavy to keep open.

“Why is there so much paperwork?” Your voice comes out all agitated as you rifle through a stupid amount of folders and loose paper.

Emily peeks over the cubicle dividing and raises an eyebrow. “You okay there?”

You sigh, slumping down onto your desk chair, spinning until you’re facing her side of the cubicle. “Do I sound okay to you? Who in their right mind decided to give me the goddamn paperwork for that goddamned case?” You glance around the wide room, trying to find JJ; this has to be her doing.

Emily purses her lips, “Doing paperwork isn’t that bad, Y/N. I mean, I guess there’s a lot but it’ll make the day go by quicker.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, feeling yourself grow more annoyed by the minute. You know you need to get yourself in check, but the past 24 hours have ridden you like the Grim Reaper is taking jockey lessons in Hell.

“What’s got Little Miss Thick Skin so angry today?” Derek Morgan walks up to your desk, a hot mug of coffee in his hand. A brief thought had you biting your lip— it’d be wrong to spill it on him.

“Don’t start, please.” You rest your elbows on your desk, hands holding either side of your face as you stare at the paperwork. The names of the family you couldn’t save stare right back at you. Your stomach drops and you’re not sure how long you can stay in this office.

“Hey,” Derek places his mug on your desk before crouching down to your eye level. “What’s wrong, girl? If you don’t want to do the paperwork, I can take it off your hands. No big deal.”

You shake your head, “Don’t bother. I’m fine.”

Derek watches your face and you turn your head to look at him. “If you start profiling me, Morgan, I swear to God that coffee mug will end up in a place you really don’t want it.”

Derek chuckles and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, girl. Just tryna help ya out.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need help. I’m fine.” You scoot your desk chair closer and grab the closest pen, tapping it against the top of your desk to distract you from the fact you have to relive this case just a day later.

You don’t catch it, but Derek and Emily share a knowing look. They’ve seen this before. It’s not hard to notice someone you spend days on end with is struggling.

Derek grabs his mug and pats you on the shoulder. Emily sinks back into her cubicle and makes sure to keep an eye on during the day. If she finds you with smoke coming out of your ears, she’ll go get the fire extinguisher.

Your hand cramps as you write your final notes. The computer screen has turned too bright for your eyes and a headache begins to form behind your eyes. It’s been a long day.

Clicking the pen closed, you lean back against your chair with a deep sigh. You close your eyes just to rest them for a brief moment and scenes from yesterday plague you.

It’s like you can’t escape.

Your heart rate picks up speed. You’re not sure how it turned into a game of cat and mouse, but you’re adamant on putting a stop to it.

“What does he think he’s doing?” You’re standing with your palms pressed against a conference table in a police station in Washington. The projector casts a live shot of the news— a helicopter is chasing after the unsub in a car. The family you’re trying to protect is with him.

“He’s trying to flee.” Agent Rossi says, so matter of factly that it has you turning your attention to him instead.

You squint at him. “You saw this coming, didn’t you?”

He gestures to the screen. “You didn’t?”

“No, I did not.” You grit your teeth, moving so you’re now standing up straight. “I predicted he’d do something out of the blue. We all did. But we didn’t know he was going to kidnap them. That wasn’t part of his game.”

Rossi shrugs, “I’ve been in this job longer than you have, kiddo. It takes experience to know something like this. Don’t blame yourself.”

“What?” You let out a disbelieving scoff. “Listen here old man—”

“That’s enough.” Agent Hotchner cuts through your words, ending your little spat with Rossi. “We’re all here to do a job. So let’s do it.”

Faint footsteps sound behind you. You’re not sure who’s still in the office, but considering how late it is, there’s only a few people that come to mind.

“Hey, what are you doing here so late?” That all too recognisable voice makes your heart swoop. Spencer appears in your line of vision, his man-bag crossed over his torso. He looks ready to leave. “It’s nearly 7PM.”

“Oh.” You glance at the clock mounted on the wall. You didn’t realise that you were doing the paperwork for the Washington case for nearly 10 hours. “Guess I lost track of time.”

Spencer regards you for a minute. “Everything okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” You offer a weak smile, not trying to be bitchy to him like you were to the others earlier. You make a mental note to apologise to them tomorrow.

“It’s just— nevermind.” He shakes his head.

Your brows furrow, “No, what is it?”

“Ever since we got on that plane yesterday, you’ve been hostile.” Spencer rocks back and forth on his heels. “I know you don’t like to be profiled, I don’t either, but I know something is wrong.”

You twist in your chair, facing your computer screen with your hands hovering over the keyboard. You don’t want to talk about it, you just want to figure it out on your own.

“Y/N?” Spencer says your name and you look at him over your shoulder. His eyes all sparkly, his cheeks smooth, his lips… perfect.

You blink slowly. Your head isn’t in the right place, but your heart (and hormones) are.

You internally say fuck it and reach for the strap of his man-bag to pull him down to your level. Your breaths mingle and your eyes dart in a triangle from one eye to his lips to his other eye. And lo and behold, the triangle method actually works because Spencer leans in and you feel his lips ghost over your own.

And nothing.

He just stays in that position. Hunched down in your grip, lips mere millimetres away from your own and he doesn’t finish the job.

You breathe in a deep sigh, your senses being filled with his scent. “Why aren’t you kissing me?”

“I— I think it’s because I know you’re not yourself. It feels wrong.” Spencer's breath is minty as it fans over your cheeks and neck. You want to say something snarky, but you know he’s right. “I do want to kiss you, though. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now.”

You lean back a little, your eyes staring into his pretty brown ones. You don’t see a sign of a lie and your heart skips a beat. “Would it help if I admitted what’s going on? Would you kiss me then?” God, are you really that desperate to get kissed by Spencer Reid? Yes. Yes you are.

Spencer lowers into a crouch, one hand grips the armrest of your desk chair, whilst the other splays across your knee with a gentle squeeze. “If it helps you, then it’ll help me. Talk to me. Let me inside your pretty head.”

You reach out for his tie, fiddling with it to help your nerves. “You know I don’t like talking about how I feel, but this is something I can’t keep to myself anymore.”

Spencer nods, his hand on your knee giving you another squeeze. But this time in a reassuring way. That’s your go ahead sign to lay it all down.

“That case we did. The family where we couldn’t save them, where I couldn’t save them, keeps replaying in my head and I don’t know what to do to stop it.” You take a breath, your fingers still playing with his tie. “If we got there sooner, I know we could have stopped him from hurting them. From killing them. I feel like if I did or said something right or helpful, I could’ve saved them. I hate feeling like this because I know it isn’t my fault, but I just can’t help but feel guilty.”

Spencer stays quiet, letting your words sink in. “You’re right, it isn’t your fault.”

You sigh, dropping his tie and moving your attention to his face. To his lips.

“I wish I could go back in time and help.” You admit, feeling a small weight lift from your shoulders.

“I wish for that, too.” Spencer admits as well. Both of you find comfort in knowing you feel the same. It makes feeling like this just the little bit easier to deal with. “Thank you for sharing how you feel.”

You let out a small laugh. “Thank you for not dismissing me.”

“I could never dismiss you.” Spencer’s voice is soft and warm. His fingers slowly trail up and down your calf, sending a shiver through your body. “Would you like that kiss now?” The smirk on his lips has your stomach flipping and you want nothing more than for his lips to be on yours.

“I would very much like that kiss now.” You smile at him, leaning in and already feeling your body succumb to him. When your lips meet, you sigh. You’ve missed being able to be physical with him; it’s hard trying to stay colleagues when all you want is to be wrapped up in his arms.

Spencer lets his hands travel— up your thighs, round your back, cheekily up the hem of your dress. You moan lightly into his mouth and he swallows it.

Your hands grab for his collar to deepen the kiss. “More.” You mumble against his lips and he complies. Spencer bites your bottom lip to elicit a gasp from you so he can dive his tongue down your throat with ease.

You feel yourself involuntarily squeezing your thighs to quell the ache forming between your legs. God, you’d do anything to take him home with you right now.

Before you get a chance to start undoing his tie, a loud and clear cough comes from your right.

You stop moving but Spencer keeps going. Trailing open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, you now get a perfect view of Hotch standing outside his office with his arms crossed. You can’t make out what his face is portraying.

“Spence.” You tug on his collar, but he thinks you want him to go further. You feel his tongue lick a stripe up the column of your neck and you have to fight back a whimper.

You’d die on the spot if you let Aaron Hotchner hear you moaning.

“No. Spencer.” This time you push at his shoulders and the look he gives you makes you feel bad. But if you let him carry on, both of you would never be able to be in Hotch’s presence. Ever.

“Are you okay?” Spencer brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something you didn’t like?”

You shake your head, your fingers quickly straightening out Spencer's tie. “I loved it. You were good, but, um…” your eyes drift off to where Hotch is still standing.

It’s as if Spencer was zapped by lightning. He shoots back away from you, and somehow manages to hit every piece of furniture around him. You want to laugh but this situation doesn’t call for laughing. You’ve been caught by your boss making out in the middle of the BAU.

“Reid, L/N. Care to explain?” Hotch moves slowly down the stairs, his aura too strong for you to look him in the eyes right now.

You twiddle your thumbs. “He was just helping me finish this file report from the case yesterday.”

Hotch looks at Spencer, knowing that he’ll blab the truth. “She was upset about not being able to save them and I wanted to help ease her pain and—”

“That’s enough.” Hotch raises a hand. “Since it’s past working hours, I’ll make a one time allowance for this behaviour.”

You have a big sigh of relief and Spencer lets out an audible groan of embarrassment. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right. It won’t.” Hotch checks his watch and frowns. “I’m late for something. Finish that report and I’ll see you both tomorrow. Behaving correctly.”

You nod your head and Spencer keeps his head down staring at the floor. You watch Hotch leave the office and you finally let out your cringing grimace. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know he was here. I thought he left already.”

“I can’t be mad. I got to kiss the prettiest girl in here.”

“Shut up.”

Copyright credit to @reidalert as of 2024-present.

[gladiatorcunt]

- DO LEVIATHANS DREAM OF ALIENS? | 1a.

this is a low flying panic attack (cybersex is holy)

cw: kinktober prompt (aliens made them do it - bc he asked them too), nonconsensual voyeurism, extreme dubcon, yandere jacaerys, reader has a pussy, 4.6k of porn with plot, getting your back blown out in the 2001: a space odyssey trip scene, inspired by the mentioned movie, old valyria lore and obvious au where the valyrian gods are aliens, restraints, stray mpreg mention at the beginning, world building before the fucking, pussy slapping, piss kink mention

please do not repost, translate, or feed this work to ai

kinktober 2024

2 BC, Gaelithox Star System inhabitant number 616. Subject Name: Earth (Human Outreach Base)

In the wake of doom, the world smoldered. Every realm, known and unknown, was reduced to scalding ash. Except for a volcanic island guarding the entrance to Blackwater Bay by the name of Dragonstone. A century later in his eternal wisdom, Lord Aerion Targaryen set his three children, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys to take to their dragons and scour the vast emptiness for a miracle. In another universe, there were countless bounties to acquire and lush land to conquer, gilded crowns to pass on to the heirs shared between them. However, this was not to be. Visenya’s sharp eyes spotted gigantic chunks of metal in the narrow sea that resembled castles. One was as black as her brother’s dragon’s, Balerion, scales and as all encompassing as the volcano Valyria’s capital city was built in. The other, a muddier brick red with specks of green and even bigger than the former. She shouted to her siblings, pointing and informing them that she was going to land Vhagar on one of them. Rhaenys and Meraxes followed quickly after her, then Aegon and Balerion.

The violent winds assaulted their skin as they dove down, their blood rushed to their hands and caused a pounding sensation in their ears. It felt akin to a leap of faith, they were lighting a match and tossing it onto a pile of Godswood. Blasphemous and crazed. When flayed open, Targaryens are revealed to be plundering leeches with flaming branches for veins. Birthed from white fire, they are harbingers of calamity and tragedy, some say the heat slowly singes their bones and then their brain until they die. Ripping through an ill-omened husk that wails tears of blood and exhales soot.

All three dragons hissed as their claws kissed the unfamiliar material. It was only for a moment, and strangely they titled their heads up and roared into the skies in unison, a jubilant chorus as if they were connecting with the truest parts of themselves. Visenya and her siblings watched in confusion until they were done. Then their focus shifted to the ginormous metal ovals beneath their feet, Visenya and Rhaenys were on the smaller one while Aegon was on the largest of the two. He walked along the cool surface and stopped at what appeared to be a window of sorts, an opening into the inner workings of the beguiling monolith. Before he could consult with his sisters, he tossed them a self assured grin, pulled open the hatch, and jumped boot clad feet first through it.

When he landed with a harsh grunt and the feeling of his bones being briefly jostled, he discovers that the inside closely resembles the innards of a ship. Unlike the traditional boats that traverse on water with their sails made of flax and their hard wooden bodies, this one seemed to be purely metal. Sleek and shiny, light coming from the opening bounced off of his sword as he used it to gain a feel for his surroundings. It was just as massive on the inside, he had the thought that you could very well fit every major family of Old Valyria in there along with their dragons. Though he did not mind being part of the only ones who could benefit from it, perhaps it was the gods' choice to allow only them to survive.

There were many flashy brightly colored knobs, and Aegon felt out of his depth at the sheer amount of them. A command center maybe, a gravelly voice inside him whispered, controls the entire ship and every single facet of it. He would have to explore this specific mechanism further with Visenya, his eyes wandered elsewhere down the hall to his left. The shadows beckoned him forward, and forward he went.

As he explored the ship, Aegon mentally noted the presence of personal quarters, kitchens, places in which one could conduct work, and all the things one would essentially need to live a happy life. It bore familiar cornerstones of Valyrian architecture, winding spiral spires and exquisite detailing. There was even its very own dragon pit resembling the Bojurlion arena that once sat parallel to the palace in the civic center of Valyria, stables and all sorts of riding equipment and armor included. He strongly felt that such a thing surely proved that this was the miracle his Lord father had sent him to find, from the teats of the gods and into the lap of their chosen one. They must have delivered them a shelter and a way to blaze their trail anew, this time the flip of the coin was in the Targaryens’ favor.

To the Targaryens in the long gone days of Old Valyria, survival was a choice when you were doomed to be the middle of the pack, never soaring higher or lower than where the gods put you.

He climbed through the same opening hours later, eager to catch up with his sisters. It turns out that they had an adventure of their own, their ship was similar to the one Aegon had explored, though they described it as having a much lighter energy and a deceptively cozier atmosphere. The three siblings climbed aboard their dragons and took to the skies once more, carrying hope and fierce determination in their hearts. Lord Aerion was relieved to hear of the gods’ saving grace, and in no time at all, their belongings, dragons, and servants were all ushered into either of the two ships after numerous exhaustive back and forth journeys. Remnants of Old Valyria, maesters, descendants of blood mages from the Anogorian, workers from the bathhouses, soldiers who served in the Valyrian navy, and even merchants from the street markets.

It was quite the shock when the ships shook terribly as soon as their doors closed, and gasps wrung out when the main area was flooded with white light as the vessels rose into the heavens and beyond them.

Soon both ships teemed with life, Honorary Queens Rhaenys and Visenya were wed in Dragonstone’s church. They even had biological children with the help of maesters and the ship’s wildly advanced scientific center. A miraculous device allowed their DNA to mix together and be planted in Rhaenys’ womb, with no need for a man’s contribution. Two sons were born, Maegor and Aenys. On The Red Keep, King Aegon found love with the son of a blood mage newly finished with his apprenticeship, and soon they too were wed and bore heirs of their own. Three daughters, one named after Aegon’s first love, a Baratheon. As the centuries went by, these communities in space grew much like they would have on the ground, however they do dock on Dragonstone island occasionally. It was agreed that life would be better spent among the stars than battling to live to see the next day in the dirt. They took all their human ways with them though, buried under their jewels and extravagant lifestyles, their hierarchy and ruling class and debatable penchant for fire and blood.

124 AC, Gaelithox Star System inhabitant number 460. Subject Name: Valyrian Peninsula Cluster (Interior Quadrant)

It is said that The Red Keep eclipses the Earth’s sun but Dragonstone intimidates it, depicted as having a presence so foreboding that any celestial body dims when the insidious ship passes them by.

Hopeful Would-Be-Prince Jacaerys kneels before a marble statue of the Mother.

“There is something very wrong with me, Mother.” His shake, an icy chill floods through his veins in the lukewarm temperature controlled chapel. “A sickness… a hunger… today I nearly bent my servant over while they drew my bath and tongued their cunt, I do not know if their resistance would have stopped me.”

Their tears would have looked transcendent in the reflection of the steaming hot water.

The statue’s eyes glow and emit a monotone beeping sound, standard routine for every prayer and confession.

The usually pleasant and well mannered prince frets, chewing at his fingernail in thought. Artificial breeding is all too available an option, these days one merely has to go to a maester and undergo the procedure, creating almost spontaneous life from the DNA one already possesses. Such things do wonders for couples with incompatible reproductive organs and those that want to be parents on their own, but it’s not enough for Jacaerys.

You could still be distant. There is no corner of the ship where you are free from his reach, but the prince would very much prefer it if you did not feel the need to scurry off at all. He thinks of himself as a wondrously different young man in comparison to his uncles and stepfather, Jacaerys loves you like a dragon loves a sleep. Helpless to the fear of being devoured by his hunger, but he’d keep you and roll you into a cotton ball in his mouth, savoring the pristine hairs left behind in the grooves of his forked tongue.

Wrestling you and bringing your body to the maesters, watching as they plant his child in your womb, would be meaningless to him. He wants to say he’d conceived your children in your marriage bed, as his family had done for generations before him. The advancements in technology had caused a decline in the tradition’s popularity, and that is precisely why Jacaerys wishes they had never set foot for the stars. You’d be more capable of succumbing to him if you were made to endure the pleasure he knows you could feel, without the miracle procedure. You have not yet mentioned a desire to carry children, not that that topic typically is shared between a servant and their liege.

The population on the ship is declining, the Targryens not producing the numbers they have in the past and various deaths in the family and amongst the smallfolk being a couple of the reasons. Madness from a lifetime of staring out floor to ceiling to wall windows of the same sparkly abyss, the traditionalists who spurn the technological wonders of the gods and grapple with complications in childbirth, the murders brought on by cabin fever. Unfortunate events have given Jacaerys the answer, the gift of a perfect reason to have you. To indulge in the murky facets of his soul, nursing from your bitter burning cup of wine and you in turn his.

If he were to be so goddamn lucky as to be in the same room as you, you would stumble out of there with a tummy full of triplets and a bounty of stretch marks.

“I would give all I am and have to be a loving husband, a dutiful father, if you would see it fit for that to be my path.” He bows his head and brown curls cascade around his face, an angel in the mouth of the guillotine. “At least cure me of this ailment if not, I can hardly stand the teasing from my uncles when I lose focus during the training simulations.”

Nightmares are becoming dreams in my darkest hours.

“My deepest thanks for hearing my prayer, I… I apologize, it is rather foolish I admit. I am not sure what’s come over me.”

The statue's eyes dim and it whirs as it powers down upon the prince’s exit. A most trouble occurence for one of their very own, but once this message is approved and received, the Gods will know the apt solution. Dragon eggs are their own star systems too, the cracks betwixt specks of color in the scales their own constellations, and the men born from them are the apples of the gods’ chromatic rainbow eyes.

A ghostly roar nips at Jacaerys’ heels as he strides towards his chambers, kicking off and throttling the silver pipes.

“For what it is worth, I am of the opinion that your brown hair and brown eyes suit you. Being around your family is no different than going for a stroll in the snow, but you stand out as the tree of solace in the middle. Sturdy and warm in its own way, something you rest on when you grow weary of the world around you.”

Your widening eyes are the first things he sees when he next wakes up. Jacaerys is content to consider this a dream until he moves to brush some of his hair away from his face and is stopped by a harsh clang.

The universe is howling.

He looks down to see valyrian steel chains dragging on the floor attached to cuffs around his wrists. The chains are of considerable length, he imagines that he could walk around the entire room and never get the bindings to go tight. His cuffs are so loose they hardly serve their purpose at all, but his flesh stings when he attempts to touch them. They would likely singe his skin off to the bone if he was their true prisoner and resisted. You have similar ones, but as soon as Jacaerys relaxes his chains vanish and he sits up to take stock of the room you are being held in.

Something sort of like an atrium, gleaming metallic tones with high ceilings and a large divot in the floor where the bed you both are on stands. Tall pillars showcase scrolling led screens, high valyrian scrawlings are preserved and repeated in scarlet pixels. The walls are replaced by windows into the vast openness of space, but it is different from what Jacaerys is used to. Outside is a sea of pure black, neon colors make up the waves, they seem to continuously bleed and fold into each other at the midpoint. There are no stars, no planets, but if Jacaerys squints and pays close attention he can just about make out the heavy flap of leathery wings.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright.” The prince whispers, turning his focus to your panic and stroking a finger down your cheek. “If we were supposed to be dead, we would not even be having this conversation.”

“The princeling is correct. You are safe in *indistinguishable*, this designated facility, our audience chamber, so long as you comply with us and our own.” A chorus of deep and crackling voices boom all at once in both of your minds, their syllables and inflections in their speech overlapping and melding together. “We have heard his prayers for your companionship and have decided to grant Jacaerys Velaryon his heart’s deepest desire. For he has raised valid concerns, this blessing is a multi purpose one.”

“Think of it as a bedding ceremony, and all that that name implies. Once conception is confirmed, you will face the brunt of a painful headache as we leave you. When you stumble into slumber, whether wrapped in an embrace or seperate, vessel number *indistinguishable* Dragonstone will house you once more.”

You gasp as the voices go quiet, and Jacaerys knows you must be aware of the feeling of being watched. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and gives you goosebumps down your forearms. Goose-pimpled flesh that Jacaerys traces with his fingertips, it’s the least he can do to give you a moment to calm down and get your bearings. Perhaps this is a sign that he has gone truly mad, because he can’t find the same trepidation in your expression within himself.

How often do prayers get answered? Yes, having a swarm of otherworldly all knowing beings witness your love making is quite unusual, but there is nothing Jacaerys would not put up with to form an everlasting covenant with you and your body. So he lays beside you, watching the fabric of your uniform shift and swish as you stretch your legs, a bumbling baby deer finding its footing.

He would smile and laugh, because he’d truly believe no one had ever been happier in their lives than he, but you probably would not take it all that well.

You shut your eyes tightly, either coming to grips with the bizarre reality you now found yourself in or desperately clinging to the hope that this was all a dream brought on by contaminated rations.

“M-my prince… this is not how i envisioned this moment.” You murmur at last, your eyes opening to meet his.

He wonders what you mean by that, could you really have wanted him in all the ways he has wanted you? Surely not all of them, but in the most basic and carnal of them.

Suddenly he knows in his bones that is what the two of you are meant to do, that this is so impossibly right that it must be woven in the grand fabric of fate’s design.

Jacaerys tuts and extends an offering of peace, entertaining his fingers with yours, “I’ll be gentle, this is my first time as well. It was not like I could practice without you finding out about it, I did not wish to hurt your feelings.”

Your brows pinch as he speaks, an instinctive coo gets trapped and tangled in his vocal chords. That expression is precisely why he is glad to be relying on scandalous hologram demonstrations and enticingly hedonistic data scrolls, amusingly numerous and often exuberantly descriptive. His confidence is triple what it was once years past, and Jacaerys would dearly love to lead you by example.

Fake it till you make it, but he is cocky enough now to believe you will never have to pretend in the first place.

A lock must have opened inside you, an opening made ready for him, because your brow lines smooth out and you go lax on the bed spread. You blink up at him as if trying to eat your nerves with your eyes by overindulging on the sight of him. Your face must be hot to the touch, as brave of a front as you’re putting on, you are not immune to embarrassment or fraying nerves.

Jacaerys sharply inhales and takes the tentative first step, settling a hand at the top of your chest and dragging it downward. His fingers catch on the buttons in your bodice and he undoes them with only a couple minor fumbles here and there.

“Ah.” The prince groans, peeling back the black panels in your uniform to uncover the skin beneath. “These breasts are wasted on servant rags, they’re so beautiful. You’re so very beautiful, my love.”

Your teats are round and perky things, so over encumbered with themselves that your flesh pushes out in between his fingers as he squeezes them softly. You softly moan and recline even further on the bed, as much as you are able with the chains still holding onto you. Jacaerys chuckles and lifts each one as if here debating on which decorative jeweled necklace weighed more, the rubies or the emeralds.

“Thank you, my prin- Jacaerys.” You sigh, never forgetting your well taught manners, and then gasp, “Wait, do not just grope them like that- Gods-“

Upon further investigation, the ruby, your right breast, is marginally heavier and bigger, but Jacaerys refuses to have favorites so resolves to love the emerald just as much. He rolls them in his palms for a bit before departing with a loving pat to your nipples.

His palms softly fall to bracket either side of your head, caging you in. “Now come, grant me a kiss, your nerves will fade with practice. What is there to be afraid of?”

His voice grows shakier than he’d like it too, a genuine hint of uncertainty shining through. In this he knows, at least, that it would do you a world of good to take your own leaps of faith. It would have been cruel to ask you such a thing when he had been sitting farther away, but now he is oh so close, the tips of your noses brush against each other is a shy sort of kiss.

Your eyes flick down to his lips and before he can say anything else, you’re leaning forward as much as you can and pressing against them. Jacaerys is pleased that his earlier assertion of your temperament was correct and turns his head, deepening the kiss and slotting his lips in the empty spaces left by your own as they part.

He laughs when the kiss is broken, airy and on the wings of a more formidable beast than love. The beings watching must already be impatient, for when he presses his chest further into yours, he notices a sudden lack of clothes. As if the Gods had grown tired of waiting for you to undress each other properly, not that Jacaerys minds all that much.

The prince snakes a hand in between your bare bodies, slipping down to cup your mound. He sweeps you up in another kiss so as to not afford you the opportunity to shy away when his digits sink into your slick.

“This cunt is overflowing, is this where it feels best? My thumb is right on your pearl just. like. this.” He teases and sketches tight circles on your bud, shifting his body weight to keep you down when you kick out your legs reflexively.

You keen into his open mouth, a high pitched bottle rocket about to go off and explode into bursts of bright color “Yes! Jace, just like that, don’t stop, oh my Gods- I’m so wet, how am i so wet?”

You ask him about your own body like you’re genuinely bewildered and Jacaerys is so charmed, so in love. He wouldn't peg you as the type to go a long while without slithering your hands up your skirt and delivering an unsatisfying orgasm, this much liquid must be drowning you. He takes his sweet time, flicking and playing your pearl in an obsessive fashion, taking your plush breasts into his mouth as his tongue lavishes them in saliva.

You’re making such melodic sounds, one of the songbirds must have escaped from the automated menagerie and fluttered their wings into his arms. Pinks and oranges and greens and purples and oranges spill across the void in his peripheral vision, but this bastardized marriage bed is the only thing Jacaerys cares about. It doesn’t matter that there is no sound save for the squelch of his fingers in your cunt and his rose petal pink lips popping off your tits repeatedly.

Jacaerys has seen many moons during the ship’s travels through the vastness of space, but the way your hips are arching off the bed in search of more of his touch would make any one of them bleed red in embarrassment.

Amused, he teases you now, slowing down his concentric circles into loose ringlets. “So this is not enough?”

“Jacaerys, please- You know it’s not.” You glare but still grind your hips up into his hand, not even bothering to address him by his title, he’ll let it slide in this instance.

He dips down to press a few last kisses to your breasts, nipping at your pebbled nipples and sliding a finger into your cunt. He crooks his fingers, going at a leisurely pace and waiting until you’re near tears to insert a second.

“Mmh, who knew i’d come by such a hungry cunny, almost carnivorous in its attempts to keep me inside its snatch.” Jacaerys grins and pumps his fingers, going faster as he slips a third and then a fourth one in, feeling how your walls cling onto their shape.

You’re like a leech, suckling at his flesh to the point of blood loss.

“ ‘m not…… don’t talk about it like that. Fuck, yes- Jace- take what’s yours already, i’m burning up.”

He kisses you again and abruptly pulls his fingers out of you, slapping your clit in one heavy strike. For all his efforts of taking things slow and keeping the atmosphere gentle and loving, you inspire such a deep teasing streak in him. He could never seriously hurt you, but quick smacks resulting in your eyes flashing with lightning aren’t off the table.

You whimper, wetting yourself under the heel of his palm. The intense colors around you swirl into a psychedelic kaleidoscope pattern, rhythmic beeping comes from the pillars and the atrium seems to hold its breath. You don’t notice when your mind begins to unravel, babbling about needing it being too much and you need to pee. Because there’s a drop of shame that your intuition injects in you, something more than being on the brink of a climax.

“You’re so sensitive, my love, did the slaps make it worse?.” He coos, serving you slap after slap after slap, nothing worse than what would make his hand and your mound sizzle. “Good, you can piss if you need to, there is nothing to be embarrassed about with me.”

You’re so cute, he could never understand how people could stand marrying for anything other than love. The worry that his heart will expand too quickly and splatter around the rungs of his ribcage, that you feel when you lay with someone you love, is a sensation he would slay his kin for. He is aware of its luxury, that he is lucky to experience it at all during his life on the spaceship he will live and die in. He sends a brisk thank you to his ancestors for taking yours with them when they departed and took flight from Earth, the beauty of your swollen tits and stomach will honor them.

And oh, how he wants to make you come on his tongue and around his fingers and every other way possible. In the depths of his soul, Jacaerys wants you to feel as if you were falling from a very high tower, a royal with no choice but to fall skull first into the great nothingness of the beyond. The fragments would adorn the cobblestone just like how your tears frame your lashes.

No, the first time you shatter and crumble to nothing will be around his cock. Stardust sprinkled over the void, scattered like ashes.

Perhaps the worst sin Jacaerys will commit tonight is that he is too impatient to continue the foreplay. He knows that no amount would prevent you from enduring any pain, but he also knows that he did not do enough. He, and the celestial Gods hidden in the stellar bushes, wants you to feel the burn of his cock stretching your walls. Commencing a wedding of sorts between your cervix and his throbbing tip.

“W-wait, ah!”

“Be pliant for me and take my seed, stop being so stubborn and let yourself have this, allow it to blossom and it can just be us for the next round, sweetling. I swear it.”

He will guide you through all the details later.

The neon waves crash against the windows, and the led scrawlings on the pillars glitch and scramble and unscramble themselves as you come together. The atrium dissolves into numbers after you’ve fallen asleep for the final time in the chamber, Jacaerys’s hand clutching your belly and your head pillowed on his chest. Giant wings cradle the pair in their center, ghastly creaking and groaning as they slice through the shifting rainbow patterns. Each moon along the journey is full and winking.

Jacaerys thinks he sees a comet fly over your heads when he’s halfway to consciousness, and he traces the valyrian letters for ‘I love you’ into the bloated skin of your stomach.

The chapel has mysteriously changed places on Dragonstone by the time of your actual wedding, the statue lies dormant.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 3: Hermes, God Of Thieves]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 4.5k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

They say it’s the most dangerous job in Vietnam. That’s why I wanted to do it.

Chinooks transport men and equipment, Cobras are gunships, Jolly Green Giants are used in search-and-rescue missions. But the Loach—Light Observation Helicopter—is a scout. We have to fly low enough to spot fresh footprints in mud, glints of sunlit metal, blooms of firelight from smoldering cigarettes in the primordial maze of the jungle. And when you go looking for the enemy, sometimes that’s exactly who you find. U.S. Army regulations decree that each Loach must be inspected after 300 hours of flight time, but they rarely make it that long. I’ve been shot down twice already. You roll out of the wreckage, grab your buddies, and book it out of the area before the Vietcong kill you, or worse: drag you back to the Hanoi Hilton so you can die slow.

Currently we’re just north of Pleiku, coasting close enough to the treetops that I could reach out and touch them. I’m in the back seat with my M16, no door between me and the outside world, my hair tied back with a green bandana, the wind hot and sticky. It’s so fucking humid here. Why can’t the communists be trying to take over Malta or Sweden or Monterey Bay, California?

It was the old men who suggested I might be of greatest service to the family by enlisting. I was 25, newly graduated from Columbia Law—a family tradition—and dreading the desk job that awaited me at the Department of Justice. Some people are born to type their lives away in some leather-upholstered office with a view of Pennsylvania Avenue, but not me, and I know this like I know the sun or the stars, ancient truths that can never be changed. And so when Otto and Viserys sat me down—my father had only had one stroke by that point, and was still relatively involved in the day-to-day minutia of putting a Targaryen in the White House—and said Aemond having a brother in Vietnam would make him more relatable, more sympathetic, more noble, not an observer to the carnage of the war but a fellow victim of it…I told them I’d go.

Everyone needs a project. If you don’t have something to distract you from the futility of human existence, it’ll break you in half. I have the Loach. Otto and Viserys, both immigrants ineligible to serve as president of the United States, have their shared ambition of getting their bloodlines in the Oval Office. Aemond has his legacy. My mother has her children, and Criston has my mother. Helaena has her gardens, her bugs, quiet gentle things that she tends with her own thorn-pricked hands. Aegon doesn’t have a project, he never really has, and it’s driven him to the cliff’s edge of insanity. See what I mean?

Anyway, let me tell you something about Vietnam. The Army gives us all the steak, beer, and cigarettes we can handle, but I’d kill for a lemon-lime Mr. Misty—

“Daeron, get down!” the guy to my left screams over the noise of the rotors. His name is Richie Swindell, and he’s from Omaha, Nebraska, and now he’s plummeting out of the helicopter as bullets riddle his chest. I duck low and cover my head as we spiral sideways into the trees, snapping branches, shredding leaves like confetti. I can hear the pilot yelling something, but I can’t tell what. When we hit the earth, the lightweight aluminum skin of the Loach does exactly what it’s supposed to, crumpling to absorb the shock of the collision and reduce trauma to us mortals inside. I scramble out of the rubble on my hands and knees and go to check on the pilot, but it’s too late. He’s already being hauled out by the Vietcong and gets a bullet to the brain. I reach back into the ruins of the Loach to grab my M16, but there are hands around my ankles yanking me out. And now I’m next, and there’s nowhere left to run, and I’m hoping Criston will be there to hold my mother when she gets the Western Union telegram.

One of the soldiers shouts and stops the others, shoving them aside to get a better look at me. With the barrel of his AK-47, supplied by either China or the Russians, he prods at the patch displaying my last name: Targaryen. His compatriots don’t seem impressed. Again, he batters my nametag, speaking to them in Vietnamese.

He knows who I am, I realize. He knows Aemond is running for president.

Now there is a hell of a lot of excitement. The men are talking rapidly amongst themselves, marveling at me, poking and examining me. Then two of them grab me by the arms. I look to the soldier who knows English, at least enough of it to read those nine fated letters. He smiles at me, not like a friend. Like a wolf baring its teeth.

He says: “It is okay, Targaryen boy. We just have some questions for you.”

Guess I’ll be checking into the Hanoi Hilton after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up to Aegon strumming an acoustic guitar and singing Johnny Cash. The guitar must be new. The one he left at Asteria is plain maple wood and covered in stickers; this unfamiliar instrument is a vivid, Caribbean blue and has Gibson written across the headstock.

“I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ‘round the bend

And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when

I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on…”

“Let me die. I’m ready to go.”

Aegon laughs, setting his new guitar aside.

“Is Ari okay?”

“Yeah, he’s doing great. And I got the stuff you asked for.”

Sure enough, there are three roomy sundresses hanging from the coatrack—you wanted to have options in case you had trouble finding one that fit correctly, though you gave Aegon a general neighborhood for sizes—as well as an array of cosmetics on the nightstand, including a bottle of shimmering champagne-colored nail polish. “I’m really impressed. You barely forgot anything. Though I will look odd with blush but no foundation.”

“Ohhhhh. Fuck.”

“And this isn’t human shampoo. It’s for dogs. That’s why it has a mastiff on the label.”

“I thought it looked like you,” Aegon says, smirking mischievously.

“Well, thanks for trying.”

“And I found this at the gift shop.” He tosses a card at you like a frisbee. You open the envelope to see a cartoon cow on the front, black and white and wearing a huge copper bell and a party hat. Inside is printed: May your graduation be legenDAIRY! Aegon has crossed it out and written instead I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf! followed by his illegible scribble of a signature.

“A cow,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Because I’m Io.”

“You’ve got about a million of those pouring in from all over the country. Congratulations cards, get well soon cards, we really hope your husband gets elected so we aren’t consumed by nuclear Armageddon cards. And then Richard Nixon sent a pipe bomb.”

You set Aegon’s card on your nightstand, half-open so it will stay standing upright. Then you drink the apple juice from the tray the nurses left for you. “Aemond’s not here yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” Aegon says vaguely, kicking his feet up on the ottoman. He’s been shopping for himself too. He’s wearing a denim jacket over a black The Kinks t-shirt, ripped jeans, moccasins. He uses the remote to turn on the television: The Dating Game. “So, what did you study in college? You went to Manhattanville, right?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You really don’t listen when I talk, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“Yes, I went to Manhattanville. And I studied math.”

“No way. You didn’t major in math.”

“Women can’t do math?” you tease. “That’s sexist.”

“I didn’t say women can’t do math. I’m saying there’s no way your parents sent you to a housewife factory like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart to get a math degree.”

“They didn’t, which is why my bachelor’s is in math education. So half-math, half-kid stuff. Makes it a little more…domestic.”

“Cool. Teach me math.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah. Really.” He digs around in the pockets of his jeans until he finds a receipt, then locates a pen in the nightstand drawer. He hands both to you and then stands so he can watch over your shoulder as you work. You can smell him: cigarette smoke, rum, the cool grey rain that is falling outside. It drips off his hair, carelessly slicked back from his face.

“What’s something you don’t know how to do?” you ask, expecting to get an answer like exponents or calculating the volume of a pyramid.

“Uh. Long division.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Going all the way back to 4th grade. Alright then.” You begin writing. “So let’s take a large number—this year, 1968—and divide it by…hm…how many kids you have. So five.”

Aegon whistles. “Five kids. Goddamn.”

“Yes, and you probably couldn’t name them, but there are indeed five. Trust me, I’ve counted.”

“Okay, this is the part I don’t get. Five goes into 19 almost four times. But there’s no way to say almost four.”

“There certainly is not. Five goes into 19 three times, so we put a three up top and then subtract 15 from 19. We get four, drop down the six from 1968, and now we’re dividing 46 by five.”

“Nine.”

“Right. Five times nine is 45. So the nine goes up top and we subtract 45 from 46.”

“45 is basically 46. Let’s call it a day. Close enough.”

“No,” you insist. “We get one, then drop down the eight from 1968, which makes 18.”

“And five goes into 18 three times.”

“Where’s the three go?”

“Up top,” Aegon says, observing fixedly.

“And then we subtract…”

“15 from 18, which is three. So the answer is 393.3.”

“Wrong. Loser.”

“What! How am I wrong?!”

“You don’t just put the three after the decimal,” you say. “You drop down a zero—”

“A zero?! Where the fuck did a zero come from?”

“From the fact that 1968 is a whole number, so it’s actually 1968.0.”

“Oh.” Aegon blinks a few times. “Gotcha.”

“Add the zero after the three to get 30—”

“And 30 divided by five is six. So the answer is 393.6.”

“I am so proud. You are officially as smart as an average nine-year-old.”

He takes the receipt from you and studies it. “This was super enlightening.”

“You want to try calculus now?”

He cackles and sinks back into his plush salmon pink armchair, his miniature dominion in your hospital room kingdom. “You like teaching?”

“I love it,” you admit. “I had to do a semester of student teaching the spring before I graduated, and at first I was kind of petrified. But the kids are so hilarious and interesting and full of excitement about everything, and they’re sweet in totally unexpected ways. They’d chatter all through a lesson and make me want to jump out a five-story window, and then bring me some of their Easter candy. That’s when I realized they weren’t trying to torture me. They’re just kids.”

Aegon is meditative. “Yeah, kids are fun.”

“I wasn’t aware you had much interest in them.”

“No, I do.” And something about the way he says it makes you feel bad for taking the shot. He runs his fingers through his hair, perhaps debating how much he wants to share. “You know Viserys made us all do these little missions after college so we could learn about the real world, right?”

“Right.” Daeron spent his on lobster boats up in Maine, Helaena learned horticulture in France, Aemond helped register voters in Mississippi and Alabama. You can’t recall ever hearing about Aegon’s.

“I got sent to Yuma, Arizona to teach on the reservation there. When I stepped off the bus, I thought it was hell on earth. And then when my time was up I didn’t want to leave.”

“What did you teach?” And then you add: “Hopefully not math.”

“No, definitely not math,” he says, smiling but distant, remembering. “English. Books, poems, all that. But my favorite thing to do was take a song and break it down line by line, really get them curious about what the author was thinking. And then of course we’d all sing it together. I’d play guitar, they’d run around jumping on the furniture, it was a good time.”

“But you couldn’t stay.”

“No,” he sighs. “I had to come back here so I could get dragged kicking and screaming through law school and then married off.”

“And elected mayor of Trenton,” you say, trying to make him laugh. It works.

“Oh God, we are not talking about that. Most miserable two years of my life.”

“So far.”

“Yeah. If Aemond wins and makes me the attorney general, that might be worse.”

“Knock knock!” comes a cheerful trill from the doorway, and then Alicent and Mimi rush in. They descend upon your hospital bed, cooing and soothing, squeezing your hands and trying to smooth your untamed hair.

“What did it feel like?” Mimi is morbidly fascinated, swaying a little, eyes bleary with gin. “When they were digging around in there?”

“Well, obviously she was sedated, hon,” Aegon says, a bit impatiently. He and Mimi share a nod in greeting, no warmth, no depth. You wonder what it must be like for someone you spent so much time tangled up with to become a stranger.

“Oh, darling, I barely recognize you!” Alicent says. “You poor thing, you must be in such awful pain. I’ve never seen you like this before. Your face, your hair…”

Aegon gives her a quick, disapproving look and then lights a cigarette of the traditional variety. He puffs on it as he gazes at the window, like he’s counting the raindrops on the glass.

“I’m feeling a lot better now,” you assure Alicent.

Her eyes flick down to your belly, still swollen beneath your blankets. “Will it scar terribly, do you think?”

You shrug; you haven’t thought much about that part yet. “It’s a battle scar. Aemond gets them in the real world, I get them in here. Same war, different arenas.” You peek out into the hallway. “Is Aemond…is he with you…?”

“He wanted to be,” Alicent says, like it’s a consolation. “But, Washington, you know…the primary there is so close. So, so close. He kept saying that he and Humphrey were neck and neck, and they still are, I believe. Every vote counts, and he’s campaigning all over the Puget Sound.”

“He’s still in Washington?” Your voice is flat with disbelief, with disapproval.

“He wishes he could be here with you and the baby,” Alicent insists, stroking your hair. “I’m sure he’ll fly back as soon as he’s able. But he’s thinking of you so, so much. That’s why he let me and Mimi leave this morning.”

“Right,” you reply numbly. And then you remember what you’re supposed to say. “The election is important. It affects everyone, our son included. For the greater good, personal sacrifices are necessary.”

“We saw him,” Alicent tells you, radiant with joy. “Aristos Apollo.”

“So precious,” Mimi says. “But so small! And trapped in that hideous machine! We could only see him through those little round windows.”

Aegon casts her a violent glare. You are alarmed. “He’s not in an incubator?”

“They have him in a…what was it called, Mimi?” Alicent asks. Mimi has nothing useful to contribute. “A hyperbaric chamber, I think. To help him get more oxygen.”

“But he’s fine,” Aegon says firmly, giving his wife and mother a warning. “Didn’t the doctor say it was a precaution?”

“He did, he did,” Alicent promises you. “Yes, just a precaution, that’s what we were told. The doctor has been trying to reach Aemond, apparently, but since he landed in Washington, he’s never in one place for long…”

“We should buy gifts for the baby,” Mimi says excitedly. “Adorable hats and shirts and trousers. Although even the tiniest clothes might be too big for him right now.”

“Yes, gifts! We must shop for gifts. Oh, it’s all been such a whirlwind. We hurried off the plane to come straight here, love,” Alicent tells you. “Can Mimi and I get you something for dinner?”

“Sure, sure.” You are distracted, still thinking of Ari. “Anything is fine. Wherever you end up.”

“Would you like me to bring a priest to pray with you? Saint Nicholas Church is right around the corner.”

You smile. “That’s very kind, but I think I’d prefer some books.”

“Baby clothes, dinner, and books. We can do that. Can’t we, Mimi?”

“We absolutely can,” Mimi agrees with tipsy, girlish enthusiasm.

As an afterthought, Alicent says: “Aegon, have you been here all this time? You must be exhausted. We’re going to book a suite at the Plaza, there will be plenty of room for you too. We can drop you off there on our way to go shopping, if you’d like.”

“I’ll stay,” he says softly, watching the rain again.

Alicent’s brow furrows; her dark doe-like eyes are puzzled. “Alright, dear.” Then she and Mimi disappear into the hall.

“Is he really okay?” you ask Aegon when they’re gone.

“Yes. That’s exactly what the doctor told me, just a precaution. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Aegon,” you say, and don’t continue until he meets your eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He lights a fresh cigarette. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I’m not alone anymore. Alicent visits me, Mimi visits me.”

“Yeah, but you feel like you have to put on a show for them. Play the perfect Targaryen wife with all that stoic, dignified, unshakable faith. You hate me, so there isn’t as much pressure.”

“I don’t hate you, Aegon.”

“Yes you do. You always have. You don’t have to be polite about it.”

“Well…I have valid reasons to hate you.”

He smiles, exhaling smoke. “Right.”

“And you hate me too.”

Now he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Everybody worships you, everybody thinks I’m a waste of chromosomes, is it really that hard to psychoanalyze?”

“No one worships me. They worship Aemond.”

“But you’re a package deal. Jack and Jackie, Franklin and Eleanor.”

You trace the lines in your palm with a fingertip, not knowing what to say. You’re so close to Aemond, so inseparable, and yet so vastly far. “Will you wheel me downstairs to see Ari after dinner?” It’s best to go at night when there are less staff around to try to stop you.

“Sure. You want a Mr. Misty?”

“Yeah. Lemon-lime.” That’s what he brought you last time, and it wasn’t bad for a cardboard cup of florescent green sugar water.

“Got it,” Aegon says, and leaves you alone.

You look at the phone on your nightstand. You’ve tried to call Aemond to no avail, though you spoke to Criston twice; on both occasions he said Aemond was in the middle of an interview. It’s understandable that you would have difficulty getting ahold of your husband while he’s off campaigning, leaping from town to town like an electric current. There’s nothing unusual about it at all. But Aemond could call you anytime he likes. You haven’t moved; he knows exactly where you are.

You keep staring at the phone. It doesn’t ring.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night again, and you swim up from morphine-soft dreams into your hospital room, dark except for the flashing color of the television, low volume, NBC news. Aegon is curled up in the chair he’s claimed, snoring and half-covered with a cheap, pale blue hospital blanket. And it’s a strange feeling—a foreign language, a new religion—to realize that you’re relieved to see he’s still here, that there’s a comfort in it, a safety.

Suddenly, Aemond is on the television screen. You sit up in bed as gingerly as you can, leaning in, listening close. He’s rarely looked better: blue suit, prosthetic eye, rested and measured and sharp. He’s giving a speech at the Hotel Sorrento in Seattle, three hours behind the time you’re living in on the East Coast. Flanking him on the stage are Criston, Otto, Helaena, Fosco, the eight charming children. Five-year-old Cosmo keeps waving at the camera.

“Right now, my wife and newborn son are at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City,” Aemond says, beaming, and the audience whistles and cheers. You should smile, but you can’t. He’s not supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be on his way home. “But tonight I’m here with all of you, fighting with everything I’m made of to win the great state of Washington. And I won’t leave until the job is done, because I know the greatest act of devotion that any of us can show our children is to ensure they grow up in a better America than the one we find ourselves in today…”

You look over at Aegon and see that his glassy eyes are open, watching the television just like you are. You don’t know how long he’s been awake. The two of you exchange a glance, and there is a silent, shared recognition of what won’t be said. You can’t criticize your husband. Aegon isn’t going to kick you while you’re down. You are grateful for this. It is a conviction he has only recently acquired.

Aegon pulls his blanket up to his chin and rolls over, turning away from you. You close your eyes and dream of being a child back in Tarpon Springs, mesmerized as you watch Greek sponge divers emerge from the bubbling depths in their suits of rubber armor.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the afternoon of the 13th. The Washington State Democratic Convention is being held tonight, and so win or lose Aemond will be walking into Mount Sinai Hospital tomorrow. He has to, he doesn’t have a choice. He’ll have no excuse to be anywhere else, and journalists will be swarming at the entranceway like bull sharks in the Gulf of Mexico.

It’s raining again. You’re reading one of the books that Alicent brought you, Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. You had been meaning to get a copy before you were consumed by Aemond’s campaign and then his near-assassination, his maiming, his fleeting brush with oblivion. Aegon is cross-legged in the salmon pink armchair and plucking lazily at his guitar, singing so low no one outside the room would be able to hear him. It’s a Rolling Stones song, slow and mournful.

“You don’t know what’s going on

You’ve been away for far too long

You can’t come back and think you are still mine.”

As you flip a page and raindrops patter gently against the window, you find yourself thinking how easy this is, your hair undone and your feet bare, no photos to take or lines to remember, no practiced smiles, no overwrought itineraries, only compassion that is quiet and small and real.

“Well, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time

I said, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time…”

Aegon abruptly stops playing, cutting off with a twang. You look up at him. He’s gazing back with eyes that are filling up his face, glistening with horror. You turn to find out what he’s seen. There’s a doctor standing in the doorway, but he’s not alone. There’s a Greek Orthodox priest with him.

“Mrs. Targaryen,” the doctor begins, then glances to the priest. The holy man—black robes, gold chains, clasping a komboskini like the one Aemond keeps in a box on his writing desk at Asteria, stained with his own blood—gives an encouraging nod. “We’ve tried to reach your husband. We’ve called his hotel in Tacoma several times, but the senator must be out campaigning, and…” Again, he looks to the priest. Aegon is setting his guitar on the floor, covering his mouth with his hands.

Ari. Too early, too fragile, too defenseless in a world full of wolves.

Your words come out in a whisper. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“We must remember, child,” the priest tells you, vague patronizing pity. “That the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but what is lost to us in this life is never truly gone. Those we love wait for us on the other side in paradise—”

“Please leave. I don’t want to talk to a priest. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

I just gave birth to him. I just started to believe he was mine.

The doctor begins: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to deliver this news—”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone, I want to be alone. So please leave,” you beg, your voice breaking. “I want to be alone. Please leave me alone.”

The doctor looks to Aegon. A man’s permission is sought. “Go,” Aegon manages, raspy and strangled, and the doctor obeys.

“God bless you and your husband, Mrs. Targaryen,” the priest says as he departs with a swift bow. You can’t reply. You’re biting back sobs as the tears begin to slither down your cheeks, scalding and furious, not just grief but the bottomless rage of Nemesis.

Aegon is watching you, not knowing what to do, not knowing what you need.

Aemond would want you to be stoic. Aemond would want you to have faith, forbearance, grace. “It is God’s will.”

“Hey.” Aegon reaches across the space between you, grabs your hand, holds it so tightly your bones ache. Still, you wouldn’t want him to let go. “You’re allowed to be fucked up about this. I am too.”

When your eyes drift to him, they are glaring and heartsick and poisonous. “Where’s Aemond?” Why isn’t he here?

Aegon sighs deeply and picks up the phone with his free hand. He spins the rotary dial with his index finger and then holds the handset to his ear. He waits as it rings. “Pantages Theater, Tacoma, Washington,” he tells the operator. A minute or more crawls by. “I need to speak to Senator Targaryen immediately. Yes, I know there’s a convention underway there, that’s why I’m calling you. Go get him.” More minutes, eternal, terrible beyond description. “What do you mean you can’t find him?!” Aegon snaps. “Okay, give me someone else. Anyone travelling with him. Criston Cole, Fosco Viviani, Otto Hightower, Helaena Targaryen. Hurry up. Let’s go.”

Outside the rain grows heavy and loud; it falls in sheets against the misty windows. In the distance, thunder growls.

“Hi, Criston, it’s me. He needs to come home now. Right now.”

Aegon closes his eyes. Criston must be arguing with him.

“No, you don’t understand,” Aegon says, forcing the words to leave his lips and ride the wires to the West Coast, to where the sun sets, to where the future is dawning. He’s still holding your hand. “Aemond doesn’t have a son anymore.”

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1970 Plymouth Superbird FAKE

1970 Plymouth Superbird FAKE

1970 Plymouth Superbird FAKE

1970 Plymouth Superbird FAKE

1970 Plymouth Superbird FAKE

1970 Plymouth Superbird Looks Like a Rare Aero Warrior, Don't Look Under the Hood

In 1969, Dodge took NASCAR ovals by storm with the Charger Daytona, a radical race car fitted with a nose cone and a massive rear wing. The following year, Plymouth unleashed the nearly identical Superbird. Both spawned the most wild-looking, road-legal muscle cars of the golden era.

The Charger Daytona is the rarest of the bunch, with only 503 units produced. Plymouth, on the other hand, had to sell nearly 2,000 examples to homologate the Superbird for NASCAR. The latter is a more common sight at local car shows and on the auction block. But that didn't stop enthusiasts from building replicas.

Putting together a Superbird tribute is easy, with so many companies producing accurate nose cones and wings. However, the Superbird is more than just a Road Runner with a pointy front fascia and a massive wing. It requires quite a few extras plus a proper powerplant (most Road Runners were fitted with the 383-cubic-inch V8, which wasn't available in the Superbird).

While some owners go through a laborious process to create an accurate close, others are happy with a Mopar that looks like a Superbird from afar. They simply slap a nose cone and a wing on a Satellite (the Belvedere was no longer available as a two-door hardtop in 1970), and there's nothing wrong with that.

While it may look like a true Superbird from a distance, this Limelight rig is, in fact, a lesser Mopar fitted with "aero warrior" goodies. Whoever built this car also added the correct upper fender scoops and the chrome A-pillars. However, they did not install the correct rear window.

The interior provides more hints that we're not looking at a real-deal Superbird. The dashboard is missing all the gauges, while the center console is entirely different. The steering wheel is incorrect, and everything else points toward a Satellite conversion.

But if you miss the signs inside the cabin, you'll know it's not an authentic Superbird once you look under the hood. This Mopar packs a 318-cubic-inch (5.2-liter) V8. The base V8 in the Satellite at the time, the mill came with 230 horsepower on tap.

As you may already know, the Superbird was not sold with a 318. It came standard with a 440-cubic-inch (7.2-liter) V8 rated at 375 horsepower. The options list included a 440 Six-Barrel (390 horses) and the mighty 426-cubic-inch (7.0-liter) HEMI (425 horsepower).

The engine bay also reveals this Mopar no longer features its factory color. Although painted in Lime Light, the fender tag shows color code FC7, which was used for In-Violet (or Plum Crazy on Dodge cars). The Superbird wasn't available in In-Violet but was offered in FJ5 Limelight, so the repaint makes sense.

Although it's not the most spectacular Superbird conversion out there, this winged Satellite could be an affordable alternative to the real deal. But we will find out more about that when it goes under the hammer on the first weekend of November 2024.

[addamvelaryon]

Thinking about the thematic connection between the Doom of Valyria and the Storming of the Dragonpit.

It is always the injustice done to the innocents that ultimately leads to the dying of the dragons.

Now, the only vestige of Valyria that remains is Volantis, the corruption festering out from within it's black-walled heart.

One looked toward the Long Bridge and the black-walled heart of Old Volantis across the river.

.

Inside the Black Walls, Volantenes of the Old Blood still keep court in ancient palaces, attended by armies of slaves. Outside, the foreigners, freedmen, and lowborn of a hundred nations may be found. Seafarers and traders swarm the city’s markets and harbors, together with slaves almost beyond count. It is said that in Volantis, there are five slaves for every free man—a disproportion in numbers matched only by the ancient Ghiscari cities of Slaver’s Bay.

.

The heart of Old Volantis is the city-within-the-city—an immense labyrinth of ancient palaces, courtyards, towers, temples, cloisters, bridges, and cellars, all contained within the great oval of the Black Walls raised by the Freehold of Valyria in the first flush of its youthful expansion. Two hundred feet tall, and so thick that six four-horse chariots can race along their battlements side by side (as they do each year to celebrate the founding of the city), these seamless walls of fused black dragonstone, harder than steel or diamond, stand in mute testimony to Volantis’s origins as a military outpost. Only those who can trace their ancestry back to Old Valyria are allowed to dwell within the Black Walls; no slave, freedman, or foreigner is permitted to set foot within without the express invitation of a scion of the Old Blood.

Though there is also Daenerys, the last of the Valyrian Dragonlords, who has brought the dragons back and uses them for the purpose of helping the innocents.

“Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves?”

I think it is only fitting that she sets her sights on Volantis at long last.

“Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis.” She touched the faded scar upon her wrinkled cheek, where her tears had been cut away. “Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon.”

It will be another wrong Daenerys can set to right.

A long stone table filled this room. Above it floated a human heart, swollen and blue with corruption, yet still alive. It beat, a deep ponderous throb of sound, and each pulse sent out a wash of indigo light. The figures around the table were no more than blue shadows. As Dany walked to the empty chair at the foot of the table, they did not stir, nor speak, nor turn to face her. There was no sound but the slow, deep beat of the rotting heart. [...] Then indigo turned to orange, and whispers turned to screams. Her heart was pounding, racing, the hands and mouths were gone, heat washed over her skin, and Dany blinked at a sudden glare. Perched above her, the dragon spread his wings and tore at the terrible dark heart, ripping the rotten flesh to ribbons, and when his head snapped forward, fire flew from his open jaws, bright and hot. She could hear the shrieks of the Undying as they burned, their high thin papery voices crying out in tongues long dead. Their flesh was crumbling parchment, their bones dry wood soaked in tallow. They danced as the flames consumed them; they staggered and writhed and spun and raised blazing hands on high, their fingers bright as torches.

[astralnymphh]

Ellie trying to teach kiddo how to play guitar for the first time..♡♡

YES YES YES ok so obviously, context preluding, we're (voices in my head) thinking older kid. seven maybe? around there. ♡

"kay' so, press here.. and your middle here— andd.." the delicacy of her long digits shrouded over a pair of stubby ones, pinching and plucking them to particular spots along a column, "there— go ahead n' strum."

ellie was dead set determined on teaching the mastered art of acoustic guitar to your kid. like— earthbent on it. a promise spoken to soil and vicariously explored through you, and now your sweet baby. your little–more–than–a–babbler, little–less–than–a–tween now sat atop you and ellie's shared bed, just between the hurl and crease of blankets bedraggled, and with a bay oaken apparatus as big as them sloped in their lap— the one joel bestowed. and you always idled as a bystander, watching, leaning on that jutted doorframe.

their blunt fingertips pecked the chords in a row, the lovely resonance lighting something in the white of your child's eyes, "woahh, that sounded like how you play it.." they awed, their jupiter-like eyes darting up to hers for a token of validation— 'did i do it right mom?'

a token she gave, pearl teeth revealing under the fat stretch of her coral lips, "yeah buddy, cus' you're a natural." oh my goddess, the enthusiasm cracking in her voice. ahh, swoon.

"yes.." they exclaim quietly, their forearm perched on the guitars waist pulling back and jubilating with a backwards fist pump. just like mom.

'picturesque, beyond camaraderie', you deemed the whole diorama before you; streaky mix of light and gray–blue shade over their features, faces that proclaim content, the narrow sliver separating their knees, matching criss–cross apple sauce positions, the oval crater both their weights burdened in the mattress, the macro view. 'heartwarming, entangling endearment', if you cherry–pick the easily neglected traits; synchronized cocks of their heads whenever a strum rings, fiddly tapping of her fingers on their tucked shin and how it lowers into a full grasp when she expresses avidly how proud she is, thumbprint–sized dimples mirrored on both margins of their mouth, and funnily— the mismatched socks on hers and their feet. one a pattern of dinosaurs, one a spangle of stars. in gospel truth, they are a likeness of the same flesh and bone, indistinguishable. undeterred by the genetics, the same person.

"keep it up n' maybe we can start a band together." ellie proposes, clear as spring bloom to be an fun promise, nothing sworn, but the idea swirls their young mind a kernel of imagined prospect. she and they upon a stage, grandpa in the crowd, his smile tender in wrinkles boosting morale among the many elated face.

"really?" and he sounds so filled of that idea, eyes popping from their hold.

"mhm," she untucks her own feet and sprawls them, stooping her torso straight and lightly booping them on the nose, a golden orb so happy left under that gesture, "only if you pick a cool name." and weighing her elbow into her thigh, head laying and perched.

"oh, i'll pick a better name than you can."

and suddenly her head is perking back up, "what's that spose' t'mean?" 'offended.

"you tried to name mr. snuggles 'bootyhole bandit'!"

"ey' you can't say that word!" she grimaces fakely atop a curling lip and squints her thick auburn worms, positioning balled fists on her hips like a distressed mother. so esentially just mimicry of you. oh, how ellie cackled buffoonish along with your kid on any occasion you held a scold to their faces, pointer at their noses.

"pbbhhhh." their tongue peeks out and a known all-too-well blowing sound grates the air, only to be tackled by your lanky-limbed girl, guitar discarded to the sloven pillows far opposite of you.

this shall be an anecdote, unforgettable. "hmph, dorks."

have I worsened your domestic!ellie fever yet?

[astoryisaloveaffair]

Fix You - Chapter 16 - Genesis

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader

Fic Masterlist

Read on A03

Spotify Playlist

»»———————►

Chapter Summary: 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 4K

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Warnings: cussing, graphic violence, mentions of sex. I'm not giving more warnings than that, sorry.

A/N: Hey all. First I want to say I'm sorry. I literally had no time or motivation to write this. I'm gonna be honest, this is a really tough chapter, and it was hard to get in this headspace. Suffering a recent heartbreak, things in this chapter are things I have thought also, and so it was really hard for me to voluntarily want to address that. I also started working in veterinary medicine, i do not have the spare time that I used to. We also recently adopted a puppy who we named Bucky! And if you read my earlier posts, you know that I was SA'd last January. All that to say, sorry I couldn't do this faster.

Also want to wish a happy birthday to @musings-of-a-rose, my beloved, my bestie, and my constant support. This is for you. Sorry it's not a happier chapter....

* If a character is speaking fully in Spanish, I will put “[ ]” around the dialogue. I speak pretty decent Spanish but not good enough for this

Suggested Songs: "Exile" Taylor Swift feat. Bon Iver, "I Love You" Billie Eilish, "Vampire" and "Logical" by Olivia Rodrigo, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron and Phoebe Bridgers, "Genesis" by Grimes

You didn’t even flinch at the landing, which was rough, so that’s saying a lot. When the janky cargo door (which looked like at any time during the flight would be ripped right off) opens, you barely even lift your eyes from the floor. You felt heavy and hollow, somewhere suspended in between shock and just not giving a fuck anymore. The only thing you could still fell was the pinching in your heart. It was still broken.

At some point during the journey, the co-pilot had taken pity on you and untied your arms from behind your back and bound them in front of you instead. You hadn’t struggled. There was no point. Where would you go? Jump in the ocean? You weren’t that great of a swimmer and you loved sharks and everything but the open ocean is not where you are supposed to be.

You have no sense of space and time, so you have no actual clue where you are other than not the mainland. You’re dehydrated as fuck, groggy, your vision’s blurry and you’d figured out the sticky moisture on your face was your own blood. 

Because when you had suddenly blacked out it was because they’d hit you, and had absolutely no hesitation doing so. They did not care about you, they did not see you as a human being, they didn’t even bother strapping you into a seat so you had been sliding around the cargo bay the entire flight, bumping into everything. You were in deep danger, any hope that you would have some ransom protection had pretty much disintegrated. You had hoped that the boys wouldn’t come for you at first. Then you had hoped that they would, because if you’re ransom, even if at the very least you’d be alive until then, right? But “alive” doesn’t mean unharmed.

A shadow looms over you and it finally makes you look up, squinting to adjust your eyes to something so close, as well as the brightness of the sun. It feels like it takes you 10 whole minutes to process that you were being spoken to in English.

“Eh!” The man leaning over you snips, and when you simply blink in confusion and don’t answer, he slaps you lightly on both cheeks. You’re stunned enough to finally look at him, his oval face, beady eyes and unique sideburns seeming so familiar to you but quite frankly you wouldn’t trust yourself with recognizing even your dad at the moment, so you push that thought aside.

He kneels down in front of you. “You listen to me. We don’t want you. We want the money. This means if you don’t fucking piss me off, I might be nice and not kill you, you understand? Be a smart little girl, eh?.”

You nod, you probably should be feeling some sort of panic setting in but you don’t. Whatever. Who even cares anymore.

He takes your silence as submission. “Bueno.” He whispers, leaning down and grabbing you by the arm, lifting you until you are back on your feet. He tilts his head and steps to the side, revealing 5 additional men with AKs pointed straight at you. From behind, you feel the sharp tip of another poking your back, urging you forward and down the precarious ramp. The pilots.

You didn’t trust that they wouldn’t hurt you, but you knew you had no other choice. Trying to fight was asking for it, and once you step out of the hold and realize you were in the fucking jungle, there would be no sensical place to go even if you did get away.

You step out of the plane onto a rickety steel ramp that bounces as the footpad of your sandals touches it and shuffle slowly down it. You feel suffocated sandwiched between four men, your hands chafe where they are tied and you have been in the same positions for so long your whole body is sore. Every touch and movement hurt.

You stumble as the ramp ends but one of the men grabs your arm and yanks you so you don’t fall. It wasn’t kindness. It was a way to hurt you that he could get away with. The tiny dirt landing strip is almost canopied completely by the jungle trees, leaving large patches here and there where the plane flew through, not noticeable from far above. It looks like you’re walking to nothing, just a dirt road that ends right into the thick middle of the jungle, but you don’t stop at the edge. You push through.

It’s hot as shit and you felt sweat buildup in every crevice of your body, your thighs are rubbing raw from your asinine decision to wear short shorts to the fair, and you could feel a heat rash growing under your tits that you couldn’t even scratch because your hands are bound.

You walk for forever. You walk until the friction rash on your inner thighs turn to lesions. You haven't drank water in almost 48 hours and it feels like 150 degrees out, with full humidity. You’ve had to stop twice already to vomit from heat exhaustion and you still occasionally gag even though there’s nothing in your stomach to come up anymore. All the years that you did not appeal to insects are making up for it now, they’re all over you and you can’t walk 3 steps without one getting in your eye.  The jungle gets tighter and you can’t breathe because it’s pushing in on you almost as tight as the hands on your shoulders pushing you forward..

You start crying. At least, that is what you tell yourself as you whimper and sob as quietly as you can. You know you’re strong, but this is just beyond reason that any normal person could take. And when you think about how this is probably what life was all the time in Delta for the boys, you cry even harder because you feel guilty, that you have no right to complain.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the tightness of the jungle seems to loosen. More open. You notice some of the trees look more oddly arranged than others. As you get closer you realize they aren’t trees at all, but tents and dilapidated buildings built into the shadows of the trees.  The huge roots and overhanging canopy of the jungle transformed a bustling camp into what looks like a little village. At the entrance, a line of guards in jungle fatigues that were impossible to detect until you got right up to them. You hear someone speak above you, alerting you to a man up in the trees on a platform tucked between the branches. There was another in the tree on the opposite side. He calls to the man with the sideburns, saying something in Spanish you can’t interpret fast enough, but it’s jovial and they laugh, and it makes you feel like you’re going to go mentally insane. 

It’s like it’s not even serious to them. And it’s so serious to you.

You are pushed through the camp quickly, but not quick enough that you don’t see the insane amount of cocaine packages piled up in the makeshift buildings, sheds, and tents toward the back. Men were milling about checking them, moving them and glaring at you as you walked past.

You continue past the main camp, crossing over a bustling creek whose bridge was literally just planks of wood, but you noticed there were tire marks across them so you felt at least safe it could handle a car’s weight. Across the creek, an old stonework manor stood. You can tell at one time it must have been glorious, but the white stone-worked walls were dirty and crumbling in many places, the fountains out front had dried crusty palm fronds and dirt in them and looked like they hadn’t sprayed water since the 1980s.

It was still oddly beautiful. You thought about how this house came to be, what it might have looked like when it had been first built. A beautiful Caribbean sea mansion. A jungle that hadn’t closed in on it yet. Fountains spraying and colorful birds resting on the rooftops. But then you  realize that this place has probably always been used for what it is now. Someone like Carl Lehder probably lived here and ran an entire cartel within this very jungle. Maybe it was the same one, just run by someone else.

There was a shabbily made shack to the left of the manor with padlocks, piles of debris piled next to the door. You assume that’s where you would be taken, but you were instead led up the stairs to the manor proper. And as your eyes focus in on the ground while you were being guided to the mansion instead, you realize the heap of matter by the shack that you thought was some dying plantation was actually a crumpled human body. A boy looking not much older than 17, shot execution style in the head and left to rot.

Then smell hits you, your knees buckle and you vomit on the stonework stairs, a scream of shock and realization pierces the jungle, making the nearby tropical birds explode from the treetops. When the sicarios pick you up and carry you through the mansion door, you’re still screaming.

Eventually whoever was carrying you became fed up, and simply dropped you at the bottom of the stairs and dragged you up backwards by the armpits instead. You didn’t even feel the step edges hitting the small of your back all the way up, but you would later. 

You were tossed stricken and shivering on a disgusting, top-sheeted mattress on the floor in the corner of a room, your feet still bound together and your rope-bound hands looped through a radiator that was long enough only for you to lie down or shuffle over to a bucket for your business. Everything stank and you still had vomit on your chin so you curled up in a ball and slammed your eyes closed, hoping that in time the voices and smells and fear would give way to just simple numbness. You didn’t hear a female voice speaking to you for several seconds.

Your eyes snap open, skin pulled taut from dried unwiped tears,and you jolt upright to look in the direction of the voice. A woman who wasn’t even tied up was propped up against the adjoining wall, and as you take in her condition you could understand why they hadn’t even bothered. She wouldn’t have been able to run.

Her legs look..wrong, splaying at angles that shouldn’t be possible. They look like they could be broken, but you can’t tell for sure because she was wearing jeans that cover up most of her skin. The jeans were ripped in some places and stained with dark blood spots, the color turning brighter wherever her skin shows through the tears in the fabric. She’s missing several fingers on her left hand that had been burnt at the ends to cauterize, and her face was black and blue, swollen and smeared with more blood that seemed to be coming from her scalp somewhere. Her lips are pale and cracking and her eyes are glazed over and barely open. When she speaks, she already sounds like she is dead. 

She swallows and winces slightly in pain, then licks her cracked pale lips.“Is…my…her–my brother. Did you see him? Out there?” 

Your face scrunches in confusion, which actually hurts a little and you’re not sure from what specifically. Perhaps you look just as bad as the other girl. “Your–I—I don’t understand.”

She’s too exhausted to even be annoyed with you. “My brother. They took him from me days ago. They do not talk to me anymore. They don’t—need me anymore.” A single tear falls down her swollen cheek and you suddenly feel so much connection with this woman and how  incredibly fucking strong she is. Her eyes roll over to you, meeting yours for the first time. There are burst blood vessels in them. 

“I think that they killed him.”

Your lips part and you utter a shuddering breath as you connect the dots. There’s no point in sugar-coating it. You nod slowly. “I think so. But it’s not…recent.” You look away as her eyes slowly close, the additional tears she was holding back finally spilling over and cascading down her cheeks. 

“Bueno.” She says. “Then at least he is not suffering like me.” 

You both fall quiet and you look over her again. Her pants aren’t completely done up and her t shirt is ripped at the neckline, exposing a gashed shoulder. Almost like…

You start crying again, and you feel even worse about it this time because you have in front of you a woman who has been through much worse and is somehow NOT crying. You curl tighter into yourself to try and hide. 

But she simply asks. “Who are you?”

You swallow, raising your head up off your arms, quickly wiping the access tears off on your sleeve. It’s incredible how adrenaline and fear can sometimes make you the most clear-headed you’ve ever been. Your thoughts are swirling but you knew one thing for damn sure, if they didn’t know your name yet, you weren’t going to say it now. 

If I look forward I am lost. Focus on right now. Nothing else. It’s my best chance.

You know enough about trauma that compartmentalizing this moment is your best chance. You can’t think what will happen if you don’t escape, if you aren’t found, if they never come for you. You need to stay focused. You need to keep hope alive. You need to stay coherent, because if a chance pops up, you need to be able to think quickly.

“I’m no one.” You mumble. “Just happened to be dating the wrong person.”

She sniffs and looks away, but it’s muffled because her nose sounds congested. You don’t miss her tone though. “Mmmm. His new one then.”

You blink. “What?”

Her glazed over, discolored eyes snap back to yours. “Pope.” She spits. “Your man. Santia—”

“NO!” You cut her off with a shout, you know there is a guy who is in the area and you still don’t know how much these men do or do not know. “Don’t. Don’t give them names if they don’t already know it.”

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Garcia, or his friends, or anyone else, it’s their fault I am here and it’s their fault my brother is dead and..” She finally, finally starts to cry. “I told him I didn’t want to do it. They said they would let us go if we gave them what they wanted.”

“It was you.” You exhale with a shuddering breath. “They found us cause of you. You told them.” You shake your head, and for some reason you feel betrayed by this woman even though you’ve never met her.  “How could you?” 

“Because all I care about is my brother, do you understand?! I wish I’d never met him, Garcia, we would have just snuck away and no one would never seen us, but no, instead we listened to him and helped them steal from fucking Lorea, and now they found us and I knew they would, and YES, I gave them EVERYTHING because they said they’d let us go so long as they found you and–”

“Eh!” A voice trails in with a watchman you knew was hanging out somewhere in the hallway beyond. He slips through the doorway, a smaller man you were not expecting from that voice, and leans against the deteriorating door frame. He crosses his arms and his legs and it makes the handgun on his hip jut out prominently from his skinny hips. “No talking to each other.” His voice is silky and the words all slide together so it sounds like ‘no talkintoeeachother.’

You shrink back into the dirty wall behind you as your associate spits a bloody phlegm ball in the man’s direction. “FUCK you!” She snarls, a tirade of cuss words in Spanish flying from her lips. 

A loud pop almost bursts your eardrums and your heart and you exclaim in terror as your associate is shot point blank in the head, her back slumping against the wall and her head hitting with a bang, pieces of blood and brain tissue spraying over the back wall with pieces flying in your direction.  

The man remains completely motionless with his arms still raised before huffing a laugh to himself, putting the gun back on his hip, and looking at you with the such an unaffected gaze it leaves you feeling dizzy and you scream and scream and scream yourself hoarse, crumpling onto your mattress in a terrified heap, arms over your head, sobbing hysterically.

A gentle but firm palm wraps around your forearm, yanking you back up to a seated position. You look away, but the man’s other hand takes you gently by the jaw and makes you look at him. And just behind him, the woman slumped in a pool of blood and brain matter. You try to wriggle out of his grip but he tightens ever so slightly, and you can’t help but notice how different it is when Frankie would grab you like that versus this man. Frankie held you the same, sometimes harder, but you had trusted his domination and his care of you and because of that, it made it arousing. That same motion with this man has you more scared than you ever have been in your life. 

“Bebita.” He coos, thumb lightly caressing your jaw. He wipes at a small speck of blood you don’t know is even there. You can feel yourself shaking and breathing so fast you can see his half waxed back tousled locks that hang past his temples are blowing in its breeze. You can’t answer him. “Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are a dark, almost black chocolate brown, shape mismatched, a scruffy beard and goatee and thin lips. In another world you would find him devastatingly attractive and the fact that you do makes you feel absolutely violated and disgusted with yourself. 

“Do not cry.” He continues. “You have no reason to if you behave, si? You be good and you listen and I will keep you safe you understand? Well, at least for now.” He shifts closer to you, you can smell his breath. It smells like orange and cloves. “There are a lot of men here Bebita. I am sure you understand what this means, si? Answer me.”

“Yes.” A final fat tear spills from one of your eyes, and it stings as it mixes with your sweat and the raw skin around your eyes. 

He juts his head in the other woman’s direction. “This one, she fight the whole time. I like a easy job. Make my job easy, I make sure you always deal with me. Do not make me call in the other guys, they are not as nice. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He releases your chin and you scoot back quickly as he saunters over to the other woman’s bloody body, grabs it by the arm, and casually drags her as dismissively as possible out the door and out of your sight, leaving a bloody trail behind.

At first you just sit there in a slump staring at the opposite wall,, you don’t know for how long. Probably hours. Maybe days. The man, whose name you figured out from when he spoke to someone else in the hall, is Angel. Sometimes he would sit up and watch you, as if figuring you out, your body and the way you shift and switch positions when you are uncomfortable, what it looked like when you were crying and trying to keep quiet and unnoticed. But most of the time he ignored you. Occasionally others would come into the room and either speak to him or approach you, but upon noticing Angel watching them they would hiss or spit a curse and slink off.

The room reminded you of those old houses from the 70s that had those drafty unfinished basements that were simply concrete floors, painted stucco or white brick. To the sicarios, it served as an overflow area, there was a rotting desk along the side wall with a metal folding chair and piles of scattered papers and random household tools on them. Against the opposite side wall was a pretty nice tv, considering, which was always playing soccer. Angel seemed to make that his home base, his lithe frame sprawled across a grandma-fabric sofa, head resting on one of the puffy arm rests. He binge-smoked cigarettes and his right hand was always stretched over his head resting against his forehead in the direction of to an end table with an massive overflowing porcelain ashtray on it. You didn’t used to mind the smell of cigarettes too much but now it makes you feel sick.

You’re ashamed of how little you actually think about your current situation and like the hopeless romantic idiot you are, mostly all you can think about is Frankie. The things he said–you knew he said mean things when he was mad, or things he didn’t mean, but isn’t there always some truth to things that are said in the heat of the moment? That was enough for you to silently spiral. You thought about every memory you had of him and how it could be viewed through the lens that Frankie just wanted to fuck you. Your self confidence was low enough it was believable, and your mind races through every instance of an older man being in a relationship with someone much younger and how of course it was predatory, and how could you not see it, that you didn’t have anything in common? It’s a tale as old as time. He just wanted to fuck you, he wanted to fuck you and dominate you, his dark desires seducing you into feeling so wanted you can’t believe you thought he loved you and didn’t see right through it. 

And his friends, well, they were all in on it weren’t they, because why would they want to hang out with someone like you either? Why would men such as that actually want to be friends with you when you have never experienced half of what they have.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his lying ass, he was a fucking loser addict and you’re pissed at yourself for even considering him. Like how lonely were you?? To choose an old man with a kid who served in an institution that represented everything you hated about this country? To be so easily blinded by pretty words and love bombs to immediately take your clothes off. Because how, if he actually loved you or even like you, could he possibly have lied about something so big?! Or bought you something nice with all that fucking drug money he stole. Not that you’d want it or expected it, but why wouldn’t you want to treat someone you love as much as he claimed to? 

How could he sit there and make up what happened to Tom like that, when you were being so coddling and trying to be a caring ear. And Benny…Pope...if they were your friends they should have told you, that’s what real friends do…

But they weren’t your friends. They were never your friends. 

And if you went the other way, and considered that it was all true, that he did love you, that they were all your friends, and that he lied to you and threw stones to hurt you and push you away, how was that any better? You couldn't even think about a future not being with him, but obviously he could. He could watch you cry and question him and not even look at you, completely ignore you, then not even think about you again. No texts, no calls. No “I’m sorry, please come back.” Silence. 

How could it be so easy for him? How can he just go about his life like you never happened? Why did you still care?

Why did you still want him? 

Why did you still love him so so much. Part of you wishes they’d get on with it and just kill you. At least then you wouldn’t have to feel this excruciating pain. You wouldn’t have to see him show up to rescue you because he has to, to have to see his fucking face and every line, crinkle, scar, the bald patch in his beard and the tousled little curls that pop out of his hat…only for him to save you and then leave again, or die and then you have the guilt of killing a man who no longer loved you.

Yea. You think you’d rather die.

You feel like you’re going to throw up again. You’d let him force his cock in your mouth as far as it could go, let him tie you up and fuck you hard enough to leave bruises you had thought of as a badge of honor. You’d let him cum on your face. You’d let him fucking cum inside you! He’d gaslit you so you actually wanted him to tie you up with zip ties—-

Your heart almost stops. You can picture how his face looked exactly when he said it.

Sometimes rope can give over time.

That’s why we always used zip ties.

You look down at your bound hands.

They’re bound with rope.

[coimbrabertone]

A History of Formula One Grand Prix in the United States

After a near month long hiatus following the Singapore Grand Prix, Formula One returns this weekend with the United States Grand Prix at the Circuit of the Americas in Austin, Texas. This is the second of three races in the United States this season, and a lot of people attribute the increase of American GPs to Drive to Survive and the peak in popularity that caused over here.

That may be true, however, two things complicate this fact:

One is that this is not the first time there have been three American F1 races in a season.

Two is that Grand Prix racing in the United States goes back further than in any country other than France.

So, today...let's talk about the history of the United States Grand Prix, and Formula One races in the United States more broadly.

The first race that could be considered a Grand Prix in the US was the Vanderbilt Cup, held on Long Island in the early 1900s. The initial 1904, 1905, and 1906 races were held on dirt roads, however, in response to the success of the 1906 French Grand Prix, William Kissam Vanderbult II financed the construction of the Long Island Motor Parkway.

This would not just provide a paved, modern road to Long Island, but it would also serve as the setting for the 1908 Vanderbilt Cup, won by American George Robertson in an American-made car called the Locomobile. An American victory in an American race governed by the American AAA.

But this is open wheel racing in America, so of fucking course there was a governing dispute already.

The AAA raised their membership dues in 1908, that was strike one, and then strike two was when they refused to adopt the Grand Prix regulations drafted by the AIACR - the FIA under its initial name - which paved the way for the Automobile Club of America to emerge as a competitor to the AAA.

And their showpiece event? the American Grand Prize.

Yup, the ACA went down to Georgia, found a stock car race run by the Savannah Automobile Club, and decided to turn that into the very first proper Grand Prix in America. The state of Georgia authorized the use of convict labor to lengthen the stock car track to 25.1 miles for the Grand Prize.

It was held in 1909 and won by Frenchman Louis Wagner...who in 1926 would go on to win the first British Grand Prix as well. An impressive resume.

The tea drinkers can write their own blog though, more on the US now!

Come 1911, and both the Vanderbilt Cup - aimed at American talent - and the American Grand Prize - aimed at international drivers - would both be held together in Savannah, Georgia. They would once again be hosted together in Milwaukee in 1912, in Santa Monica in 1914 and 1916, and in San Francisco in 1915.

World War I would kill off European participation however, and after 1916, the American Grand Prize went away.

The Vanderbilt Cup would briefly return in 1936 and 1937, back at Long Island, this time at the Roosevelt Raceway. However, with Tazio Nuvolari winning in an Enzo Ferrari-run Alfa Romeo winning in 1936 and then Bernd Rosemeyer winning in an Auto Union next year, the American audiences weren't convinced.

The 1930s version of the Vanderbilt Cup just served as a big money race for the Europeans to win.

So the American Grand Prize and the Vanderbilt Cup didn't work out, but what was working in America at that time was oval racing on board tracks.

The Astor Cup, held on the two-mile Sheepshead Bay Speedway in Brooklyn won over the Long Island audience instead.

If the names of these trophies sound familiar, it's because in 1996, during the CART-IRL split, CART revived the name Vanderbilt Cup and built a replica trophy as the prize for the US 500. Yup, the history of the Vanderbilt Cup was used to go up against the Borg-Warner Trophy of the Indianapolis 500.

Well, after four years of the US 500, in 2000, the Vanderbilt Cup became the trophy for the CART championship instead. The Champ Car World Series continued this tradition.

When Champ Car and the IRL Indycar Series merged, the Astor Cup name was revived instead. From 2011 onwards, the Indycar series champion receives the Astor Cup.

Anyway, back to the F1 in the US.

Initially the World Championship for Drivers, in 1950, gave the US date to the Indianapolis 500, seeing it as the biggest and most important race in the United States.

This was in spite of the fact that the Indianapolis 500 was governed by the AAA - and later USAC - and once the World Championship went to F2 regulations in 1952, Indy and the rest of the championship weren't even run under the same regulations.

In fact, the only time a World Championship driver came over to Indy was in 1952 (the first year of those F2 regulations) when Ferrari took Alberto Ascari and a 4.5L V12 Ferrari 375 to Indy in an attempt to win the biggest race in America. Alberto would retire, and Indy would be the only stain on an otherwise perfect 1952 season for Ascari.

Meanwhile, road racing was returning to prominence in the United States as permanent venues like Riverside and Sebring began to emerge.

In 1958, Riverside hosted a United States Grand Prix as part of the USAC championship.

In 1959, the II United States Grand Prix was held at Sebring, and this time, it was part of the Formula One World Championship. This race was won by Bruce McLaren in a Cooper.

In 1960, the race moved to Riverside, where it was won by Stirling Moss in a Lotus. This was also the last year in which the Indianapolis 500 counted for the World Championship.

And in 1961, the United States Grand Prix finally settled on its first permanent home, when Watkins Glen was chosen as the venue. From 1961 to 1980, Watkins Glen was the home of the USGP, a stint that lasted so long that the first winner was Innes Ireland in a Lotus and the last was Alan Jones in a Williams.

It was not the only USGP though.

I'd like to welcome everybody to the wild wild west.

Yup, from 1976 to 1983, F1 came to the LBC, the Long Beach Grand Prix joining the calendar under the title of United States Grand Prix West. The 1976 race was won by Clay Regazzoni in a Ferrari, while the last four races were won by Cosworth DFV powered cars, giving Long Beach a reputation as the race that the turbo powered cars couldn't win.

Indeed, the first win for a turbo car at Long Beach was 1984, when it was a CART race. The winner? Mario Andretti.

The next race on our list came in 1981, to replace Watkins Glen.

It was the Caesar's Palace Grand Prix, held in the parking lot of the casino for two years before it too was shifted off to the CART series - which itself only lasted two years before going away entirely.

The 1981 race went to Alan Jones in a Williams, picking up where he left off at Watkins Glen.

1982, meanwhile, went to Michele Alboreto in a Tyrrell.

1982 had a third US F1 round - like I said, the current era isn't the first time this has happened - being the Detroit Grand Prix in the downtown of the motor city.

A tight, twisty track swerving through the heart of the Motor City, the first Detroit Grand Prix was won by John Watson in a McLaren, while the last three were all won by Ayrton Senna. 1986 in a Lotus-Renault, 1987 in a Lotus-Honda, and 1988 in the all-conquering McLaren-Honda.

In 1989, Detroit too became a CART race, but unlike Caesar's Palace, it was actually successful.

In 2023, the Indycar Detroit GP returned to the streets of downtown, racing around the Renaissance Center in a layout best described as "bleh."

In any case, 1982 marked three American F1 rounds, but funnily enough...none of them were actually called the United States Grand Prix.

Long Beach was the USGP West, which was a rather clunky title given that there was no USGP to be west of.

Detroit was Detroit and Caesar's Palace was just Caesar's Palace.

Is Caesar's Palace the smallest geographic unit to get a Grand Prix named after it? It's gotta be up there, right?

1984 was a similar story, as there were two American F1 races back-to-back: the Detroit Grand Prix won by Nelson Piquet, and the one and only Dallas Grand Prix, won by Keke Rosberg.

Dallas was a mid-summer race held in the high heat of central Texas and that was only the start of the problems. The track surface was crumbling, the fans were in constant fear of the event being cancelled from out from under them, and the drivers felt the track was narrow and lacking in runoff areas.

CART passed on this one, instead, it was briefly brought back as a Trans Am race before fading into obscurity.

Dallas didn't work out, Detroit and Long Beach went to Indycar, and the less said about Caesar's Palace, the better.

Was Formula One in the US dead after 1988?

Not if anything to say about it, Phoenix has.

Yup, Phoenix of all places stepped in to host the USGP - returning to that name - in 1989. This event actually lasted three years despite triple digit summer heat, a disintegrating track surface, and an uninspired layout threatening to confine the track to the same fate as Dallas.

Alain Prost won in 1989, Senna won in 1990 and 1991.

Ecclestone initially promised the promoters the Phoenix Grand Prix would be held again on March 15th, 1992, but instead, the race was cancelled.

Formula One would not return to the US until 2000.

Tony George, in his quest to make the Indianapolis Motor Speedway the top racing venue in the country, brought NASCAR to IMS in 1994, and in 2000, he created an infield road course. This infield road course has become the home of sports car racing at Indianapolis, hosts an Indycar race ahead of the 500, and has in the past hosted MotoGP, NASCAR, and F1.

This was great, right? Formula One was back in the US and it was at the same place which hosted all those world championship rounds in the 1950s. F1 had finally reconciled Indianapolis with its road racing nature. Could this finally be how the USGP finds a stable home in the United States?

Well, it was going pretty good...up until 2005.

The oval had been diamond ground when it was repaved ahead of 2005. Bridgestone - the tyre supplier of Ferrari, Jordan, and Minardi - knew this, as they owned Firestone, which supplied the IRL Indycar Series with tyres, as it does with Indycar now.

Michelin, who supplied the rest of the grid...did not.

And Ralf Schumacher crashed in practice for the second time in two years. On a Michelin-clad Toyota.

Then Ricardo Zonta stepped in to replace Ralf...and he crashed as well.

The Michelin tyres couldn't take the oval corners, which formed the big final corner of the IMS Road Course. The Michelin teams tried to find a solution - whether that be a chicane, allowing pitstops, or using a different specification of tyre.

In the end, the FIA and Michelin could not come up with a compromise.

And in Indiana State Law, if Michelin let its teams race and something happened, they could be held criminally liable.

Thus, the Michelin teams pulled out of the race.

A six-car farce of a race then occurred between the Bridgestone teams as the fans booed and jeered.

All of IMS's good will in F1 evaporated.

After 2006 and 2007, the USGP disappeared.

An attempt was made to create an American Grand Prix in Port Imperial, New Jersey with the cars racing under the shadow of the New York skyline, but after years of trying this never got off the ground.

Instead, in 2012, the USGP found its modern home in COTA. Circuit of the Americas weathered the storm of some truly awful attendances in the mid-2010s - including a soggy and awful 2015 where the teams hardly got any running ahead of the race - to rebound and become one of the most highly attended races in history by the 2020s.

In 2022, the USGP at Austin was joined by the Miami Grand Prix in Miami Gardens, Florida. A flashy, exclusive race around the Hard Rock Stadium where the Dolphins play. This race saw Lando Norris take his maiden Grand Prix victory in 2024, kicking off a return to form for McLaren.

2023 added the Las Vegas Grand Prix, taking the idea of the Caesar's Palace Grand Prix to the next level. Rather than racing around a parking lot in the day, they raced down the strip at night under the lights of fabulous Las Vegas.

Miami and Las Vegas are considered grossly expensive and exclusive races meant to milk the US market, and maybe they are, but as an F1 fan in the United States, I used to dream of times like this.

We have three races, all hundreds of miles apart to give some decent coverage throughout the country, and I'd argue each one brings a different vibe.

Miami is all pastel colors and white awnings.

Las Vegas is the neon lights with the cars ripping down the Strip.

Austin is the larger than life red, white, and blue Americana that suits the main race.

I have many, many, many, many, many problems with the state of Formula One nowadays. I have many weeks of negative blogposts to prove that, but I'll never say that Formula One has too many races in the United States.

Las Vegas is as far from Miami as Madrid is from Moscow.

I know Europe is the home of Grand Prix racing, but as this has shown...the US has plenty of history too.

So onto Austin for the 2024 United States Grand Prix, with Formula One looking to be in a more competitive place than it was at this time a year ago.

[paradox-valleyy]

Lost and Found

Pre-Canon rdr 2 x Teen!fem!oc

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Taglist: @photo1030

Word count: 3,8k

Notes: “It’s scary trusting people”

A week had slipped by since Jolene walked out to the ranch with Sister Amelia. The Sister’s words had drifted in and out of her mind, but Jolene didn’t think much of them—this wasn’t her first visit to the church, after all. Reverend Thomas was a kind man, if a little odd in her eyes. He was generous to a fault, which she supposed was expected of a pastor, but there was something about him she couldn’t quite place. It left her uncertain, like the man didn’t fit neatly into her idea of people.

Jolene had been in this town for about seven months now, ever since she left her old town and a friendly couple had offered her a ride. She’d traveled with them for a few days, but when the outlines of a new town appeared on the horizon, she’d thanked them, jumped down, and set off alone. This town had a quiet charm—some people were pleasant enough, and most didn’t pay her any mind. But not everyone was easy to overlook. The Sheriff, for one, was a thorn in her side, always patrolling with a watchful eye that made Jolene feel like she stood out more than she wanted to. And then there was Mr. Finch, a man whose mere presence could steal the warmth from the sun. She’d only seen him up close twice: once with his wife, heavily pregnant as they entered the doctor’s office half a year back, and another time leaving the church just a few weeks ago. Jolene wouldn’t dream of lifting anything off a man like that; the consequences alone were enough to keep her at bay.

Now she sat in the cool shade of a narrow alley, nestled between Johnson’s shop and the saloon, working on her latest attempt at whittling. She’d borrowed a small knife and was trying to carve a wooden bear, though it looked more like a lumpy oval topped with a circle than anything resembling an animal. Still, she was focused, letting the shadowed alley shield her from the blistering Western sun as she chipped away, one small flake of wood at a time.

Jolene had worked at her little wooden bear for a while but eventually grew bored. After two hours, it looked a bit more bear-like, though hardly a masterpiece. Still, she nodded at her rough carving, then winced as she stood, her backside sore from sitting on the hard ground for so long. As she stepped out of the alley, she wandered up the porch of Johnson’s shop, leaving the wooden bear and the borrowed knife on the outer windowsill with a faint hint of satisfaction.

With the afternoon stretching lazily before her, Jolene headed toward the town’s outskirts, wondering how best to spend the hours until sunset, when she’d go to the saloon to gather her coins. It wasn’t much, but she’d learned how to sneak a few from the pockets of the saloon girls and sometimes had enough for a warm meal from the bar. Her stomach growled as she thought about it. Pickings had been slim lately—people had gotten to know her, and now, at the sight of her, their hands instinctively guarded their pockets.

Leaving the dusty roads behind, she followed the familiar path that led out of town, weaving along the riverbank and into the cool shelter of the woods. She considered visiting the ranch but knew it was too far to make it there and back in time to reach the saloon before dark. So instead, she trotted along the pathway , grateful for the damp, shaded air as it warded off the day’s relentless heat. Her mind wandered as she walked, lost in idle thoughts. Her hair had grown long enough to curl at the nape of her neck, and she’d grown a bit taller, though she still hadn’t filled out much. For now, her slim build kept her boyish-looking, but she knew that wouldn’t last forever.

Wandering off the trail, she spotted a large fallen tree. The trunk was thick, almost chest-high, and curiosity got the better of her. She scrambled up, struggling for a moment but managing to hoist herself on top. She tried to sit astride it as if riding a horse, but the trunk was too wide, so she simply stood, looking around with a newfound sense of height.

That’s when she noticed smoke rising in the distance. Jolene’s curiosity sparked to life, and she jumped down, moving toward the source of the fire with caution. As she drew closer, she slowed, pressing herself against a tree, listening intently. Voices drifted faintly from between the trees—several people by the sound of it. Her heartbeat quickened as she hesitated, wondering if she should risk it. A gathering like this could mean trouble, and she didn’t fancy getting caught up in it. After a few tense moments, she decided it was best to turn back. Life had finally settled into some kind of balance, and she didn’t want to tempt fate now.

By the time Jolene reached town, the sky had deepened into shades of light purple and orange, casting long shadows across the dusty streets. She strolled into the saloon, which was still quiet in the early evening, only a few regulars and a couple of travelers scattered across the tables. Jolene made her way toward a group of saloon girls lounging near the back, exchanging glances and laughter as they prepared for a long night ahead.

One of the women spotted her immediately. “Hey, Joel,” she called out, her voice smooth and teasing. “What brings you in here so early?”

Jolene grinned, letting a hint of her boyish charm play across her face. “Aw, nothin’ much,” she drawled, with a slight shrug. “Starvin’ out there on the streets, y’know how it is. But one look at you fine ladies, and I reckon I’m better fed than if I had a whole bowl of stew.” She winked, earning herself a few chuckles from the women. She’d picked up the knack for charm, a little trick she’d learned to keep folks from looking too close.

One of them sighed with a smile, reaching into her pocket. “You’re a good kid, Joel. Here, don’t go hungry,” she said, pressing a few coins into her hand. Another one tossed in a couple more, shaking her head in amusement.

“Well, ain’t you all too kind?” Jolene replied, her grin widening. “Much obliged, and good luck tonight, ladies.”

She sauntered over to the bar, where the barkeep was watching her with a smirk, having overheard the exchange. “You sure got a way with those ladies, Joel,” he joked, wiping down a glass.

Jolene shrugged, feigning confidence. “Only natural,” she said, tipping her nonexistent hat in mock swagger. “I’ll grow up a real lady’s man, mark my words.”

The barkeep chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, the stew ain’t quite ready yet,” he said. “If you’re lookin’ for somethin’ hot, you’ll have to sit tight for a spell.”

Jolene sighed, glancing around the room. “Fine, I’ll come by later” she muttered, preparing to wander back toward the door.

But as she turned, the barkeep called out to her, his voice shifting from friendly to firm. “And, Joel—listen here. I don’t want no more of your funny business in my saloon. You’re scarin’ off good customers with all that foolin’ around.”

Jolene rolled her eyes, then turned to face him with a half-smile, raising her hand in a playful salute. “Got it, sir. No trouble from me,” she replied, starting to back away.

Just as she turned toward the exit, she collided with something solid—a wall of muscle, by the feel of it. She stumbled back, glancing up at the man she’d just bumped into. He was tall, with light brown hair and a rough stubble lining his jaw, and the faintest scowl etched on his face. She recognized him instantly—the same man she’d seen with his buddy at Johnson’s shop last week.

“Sorry, mister,” she said quickly, forcing a respectful tone.

The man gave her a once-over, then tipped his hat just slightly, though his gaze was sharp. “Just watch where you’re goin’, kid,” he said, his voice a low rumble, before stepping past her toward the bar.

Jolene nodded, letting him move on before she quietly slipped out the saloon door, a bit relieved to be in the evening air again. She made a mental note to keep her head low around him from now on—she’d seen that look in a man’s eyes before, and it didn’t belong to the friendly type.

Jolene was on her way to Johnson’s, half-hoping he might be in one of his rare generous moods and toss her a peppermint or a caramel. She knew it was unlikely, but she’d grown used to small hopes, and Johnson’s treats had a way of making the day feel a bit sweeter, however briefly.

But her thoughts were broken by a scream that sliced through the air. She jerked her head toward the doctor’s office just in time to see Dr. Abery stumbling out, his face ashen, his eyes wild.

“A damn shame!” he cried, voice nearly cracking. “Who in their right mind’d do such a thing?”

Jolene frowned, her mind already turning. What in the hell…?

A crowd began to gather, drawn by the doctor’s outburst. The Sheriff appeared, storming down the street with a dark look, his boots pounding out a fierce rhythm as he pushed folks aside, his eyes set dead ahead on the doctor’s office. He brushed right past Jolene without a second glance, leaving her more intrigued. She noticed Johnson step out of his shop, narrowing his eyes toward the commotion.

“Somethin’ happen?” Johnson asked, glancing at her.

Jolene shrugged, playing it cool. “No idea,” she replied, though she felt a pull of curiosity tightening inside her as she joined Johnson on the porch, both of them straining to catch bits of the murmured conversation around them.

And then came a voice that made her heart skip a beat. The Sheriff’s voice, loud and angry, calling her alias: “JOEL!”

She froze. Shit. Her pulse quickened as she tried to keep her expression calm, though her mind raced.

Johnson glanced sideways at her, his brow lifted. “What’s this all about? You up to somethin’?”

Jolene forced a laugh, shaking her head. “Ain’t got a clue, Mr. Johnson.”

She was still trying to act nonchalant when she heard the Sheriff’s boots pounding toward her. She debated running, just tearing down the street and out of there—but that’d only make her look worse. Better to stay, look innocent.

She stepped down from the porch, trying to keep her shoulders loose. But before she could say a word, the Sheriff was on her, his palm coming down in a sharp, stinging slap that knocked her off balance. Before she could even react, his hand was at her collar, jerking her forward as his voice dripped with anger.

“Where is it, you little thief?” he snarled, his voice thick with accusation.

“Where’s what?” she managed, choking on her surprise, one hand grabbing at his wrist as he held her close enough that she could see the fury burning in his eyes.

“Don’t play games, Joel!” he spat, giving her another rough shake. “The nerve of you, takin’ what ain’t yours!”

She felt her pulse hammering in her ears, the humiliation sinking in as she realized everyone was watching. “I didn’t take nothin’! Wasn’t even in town till just now!” she protested, her voice hoarse, desperation slipping into her tone.

“Oh yeah?” he sneered, his grip tightening painfully. “And who’s gonna vouch for you, huh?”

She clamped her mouth shut, realizing she had no alibi. No one would be able to confirm where she’d been. The Sheriff’s eyes gleamed with grim satisfaction at her silence, and he slapped her again, this time hard enough that her cheek flared with pain.

“Now,” he said, his voice a low, menacing growl, “hand it over. Everything ya took.”

The crowd watched, their faces hard and judgmental, their stares boring into her. She’d felt like an outsider in this town before, but now their silent verdict left her feeling exposed, small, and utterly alone. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her head up even as her heart twisted with a mix of shame and frustration. Nobody believed her—hell, nobody even questioned if she might be innocent.

The Sheriff tightened his grip on her arm, and his rough hands started patting her down. He found the few coins she’d managed to collect earlier and tossed them to the dirt, sneering.

“That all you got, boy?” he mocked, giving her a dark look as he continued his search, hands roaming her pockets and every corner of her clothes.

Then his fingers brushed against the chain around her neck. Her heart seized.

No, please no. But he’d already noticed, his face twisting with a smug sort of triumph as he reached into her shirt collar, his hand finding the small necklace and yanking it free, the chain digging painfully into the back of her neck before snapping.

“No!” she gasped, her voice breaking, her hands reaching instinctively to try to grab it back.

He held it up, dangling the necklace in front of her face. “Oh, ‘no,’ is it? Figured you stole this too, didn’t ya?”

Her breath hitched, panic flaring up as she saw the small ring hanging from the broken chain. She watched helplessly as he tossed it to the side, the ring slipping free and falling to the dirt at her feet. It was her last bit of comfort, a scrap of memory, something she hadn’t let go of since she’d started wandering these dusty trails. She lunged downward, desperate to snatch it up, but the Sheriff shoved her back, hard, sending her sprawling to the ground.

He glared down at her, his face twisted in disgust. “Where’s the rest of it, huh?” he demanded, voice harsh.

“I didn’t take nothin’,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, trembling with the weight of the tears threatening to fall. She felt hollow, worn out by the humiliation.

The Sheriff scoffed, clearly unimpressed, and gave her one last contemptuous look. “We’ll see about that,” he muttered before turning on his heel and heading back toward the doctor’s office.

Jolene sat there in the dirt, her cheek stinging from the slaps, the ache in her heart cutting deeper than any of the bruises. All around, people were watching, their faces twisted with judgment and disappointment. Not one of them spoke up in her defense. Not one of them had a shred of faith in her.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight, her heart feeling heavier than ever. Even Dr. Abery, whose eyes held a faint sadness, had looked away with disappointment.

They all think I’m the thief, she realized, a bitter ache sinking into her bones.

Slowly, she scrambled to her knees, her hands trembling as she reached for the broken necklace and the ring lying in the dirt. She held them close, clutching the torn pieces to her chest, something inside her breaking with each tear that slipped down her cheeks. She finally rose, glancing back one last time to see Johnson shaking his head, his lips pressed tight.

Unable to bear it any longer, she turned and ran, her legs carrying her out of town and away from their accusing stares. She didn’t stop, her heart pounding as she ran past the last buildings, her breathing ragged and shallow, her thoughts churning in a blur of anger, hurt, and betrayal.

By the time she reached a large rock by the path, she couldn’t run any further. She collapsed against it, sliding down until she was sitting with her back pressed against the cool stone. She stared down at the torn necklace in her hands, her breath hitching as the storm of emotions finally overtook her.

And then the tears really came, fierce and unrelenting, pouring down her cheeks as she sobbed, the anguish spilling out in waves. Her cheek throbbed, her hands were scraped from the fall, but none of it mattered next to the hollow ache gnawing at her heart.

She curled her fingers tightly around the broken chain, her chest heaving with grief and frustration. She hadn’t thought it would hurt this bad, hadn’t thought that one slap, one broken chain, could make her feel so utterly defeated. But as she sat there, clutching the last piece of her past, she realized the weight of her loneliness—the kind that no clever disguise, no snappy comeback, could ever hide.

Back in town, as the crowd thinned and the gossiping settled, people still shot glances toward Dr. Abery’s office, where the Sheriff’s raised voice could be faintly heard. Standing alone on the saloon porch, a tall cowboy with dust-streaked boots and a gunbelt slung low across his hips took it all in, a deep frown creasing his brow. With a muttered, “Well… hell,” he felt the weight of Dr. Abery’s money hanging heavy in his satchel. He let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck before heading toward his horse, already feeling the sting of regret settling like a bad taste in his mouth.

He mounted, urging his horse into an easy gait down the dirt road leading out of town, his sharp eyes scanning the landscape for any sign of the kid. Not far out, he finally spotted a slumped figure beside a big rock near the edge of the path. Another sigh escaped him as he pulled the horse to a stop, letting her trot onto the grass. He reached into his saddlebag, pulling out a peppermint stick before heading over slowly.

The kid, hearing his boots on the ground, looked up, his tear-streaked face quickly buried against his sleeve, wiping his cheeks. Seeing the cowboy, he put on a tough front, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Don’t be cryin’ none, boy,” the cowboy said, his voice low as he leaned against the big stone. “Folks like them back there… they ain’t worth it.”

Jolene pushed herself to her feet, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and caution. “You’re the man from the saloon,” she said, sizing him up.

He gave her a nod, then held out the peppermint stick. “Here,” he said, offering it like a peace offering, his mouth twitching with a faint smile.

She took it hesitantly but didn’t unwrap it just yet, her gaze still wary as she studied him. “Why’d you come after me?” she asked, suspicion flickering in her voice.

The cowboy scratched at his beard, glancing out toward the open plains before answering. “What the Sheriff did… didn’t sit right with me.” His tone was calm but firm, like he’d come to a decision about her that he couldn’t quite explain.

She gave him a long, searching look before leaning back against the rock, finally unwrapping the peppermint stick and sticking it in her mouth. Her other hand still clutched the broken chain and ring, and she looked down at them, the sadness in her eyes clear.

“You live back in that town?” he asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“No. Not anymore. Not like I ever really did,” she muttered, the words coming out quieter than she meant.

The cowboy nodded, his eyes softening a bit, and for a moment, they both stood in silence, just watching the sky darken a shade as the sun slipped lower.

After a beat, she broke the quiet, her voice small and cautious. “You don’t think I took it, do you?” Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a spark of vulnerability there.

He scratched his beard again, considering his words before he shrugged. “Didn’t seem like it to me.”

She nodded, relief visible in her small smile. “I didn’t take it. Dr. Avery… well, he’s been real deep in debt, I heard. His wife was real sick before she died, and he paid a fortune for her medicine. Spent everythin’ he had.” She didn’t notice the way her words deepened the guilt in his expression. He’d thought the doctor was doing well enough, seeing the fine trimmings in his home when he’d snuck in through the back.

He sighed. “Arthur Morgan,” he introduced himself, a touch of his former confidence creeping back.

“Joel,” Jolene mumbled, and she unclutched the broken chain, looking down at it with sorrow. Arthur glanced at the ring in her hand and gave a slight nod.

“That there can be fixed,” he said without thinking.

Her face lit up, hope flickering in her eyes. “Really?”

Arthur nodded. “Maybe someone back at camp’s handy enough to do it. And if not, I’ll pay to have it done proper.”

She looked at him, suspicion creeping back in. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

He shrugged, searching for the words. “Just feel bad for ya, son,” he replied, his voice gruff. Jolene looked at him, considering, then nodded, maybe starting to believe this cowboy was more generous than he seemed.

“I was thinkin’ of leavin’ this place anyway,” she said softly. “After today… they’ll treat me like shit.”

Arthur gave her a slow nod of understanding. “Well, come on back to camp with me first. We’ll see if anyone can fix that chain.”

He whistled sharply, and his horse trotted up to them, her coat shining in the late sunlight. “This here’s Boadicea,” he said, patting the horse’s neck fondly. Jolene’s eyes widened, a spark of fascination flickering across her face.

She approached carefully, letting the horse sniff her hand before giving her a gentle pat. Arthur reached out his hand. “Gimme the chain for now. I’ll keep it safe.”

After a beat of hesitation, she handed it over, watching as he carefully pocketed it. Arthur swung himself onto Boadicea’s back, then looked down at her expectantly.

“Go on, get up behind me,” he said.

She tossed the remains of her peppermint stick aside and tried clambering up but managed only to kick dust. Arthur sighed, sliding back in the saddle a little. “You ever ridden before, boy?”

Jolene shook her head, cheeks flushing.

“All right, c’mere,” he muttered, reaching down to grab her under the arms. In one smooth motion, he hoisted her up onto the saddle in front of him. She swung her leg over carefully, making sure not to kick Boadicea’s neck. Arthur nodded approvingly, his arms settling on either side of her as he took hold of the reins.

With a soft nudge, he spurred Boadicea into an easy, steady gallop. The world stretched out before them, open and wild, as the last light of day slipped away behind them. And for the first time in a long time, Jolene felt a sliver of hope glimmering, steady as the warmth of the cowboy’s arms guiding her forward.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Black Light 7

Warnings: namecalling, violence, other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You back up as the men enter your house. It feels a bit like an intrusion but you're welcoming them right in, aren't you? Besides, your mother would kill you if she got home and the couch was still there. It's an in and out job. Oo, thinking of it like that makes it feel dangerous, like you're a spy. Or a hit man.

Well, you're not the one doing all the work.

August lets out a heavy breath as his eyes rove subtly around the space. He barely keeps from knocking over an oval frame with his hand as he passes the corner table and he turns to glower down at your graduation photo. Admittedly, your make up had been a bold choice for that one.

The two men approach the couch as you stand back. Lee tisks as he eyes it up. He grabs the middle cushion and pulls it off, then the next, and the last. He leaves them on the floor as he approaches one end of the couch. August mirrors him with a dull gaze, unimpressed by the task before him.

"On three," Lee directs.

"Just lift the damn thing," August growls.

The man lurch the couch up with less effort than you expect. Wow, so strong. You stand aside as they angle it around and through the wide archway. You give a nervous smile to Lee as he nods his head at you but the other man refuses to look in your direction.

"Oh, I can get the cushions," you scurry past and flit into the living room.

You grab two cushions and try to manage the third but they all flop to the floor. You try again, and again. You sigh as you hear an annoyed growl and you settle on just grabbing the two end cushions.

You go to the door as the men twist the couch to get it onto the porch. Their advance is slow and you wait behind August, his size even more obvious the closer you are. You get an idea but think better of it. He wouldn't appreciate the impromptu pillow fight, would he?

"Hey, what's taking so long?" Hottie's voice comes from behind you.

"Oh, uh," you turn to face her, "they're just tryna--"

"Not this jackass," she flips her sunglasses up and stomps down the hall, "hey fucker! You stalking her now? Fuckin' creep--"

August gives a confused hum and cranes his head over his shoulder. You keep Hottie at bay with the cushions, herding her back as she attempts to elbow her way past you. You move side to side, blocking her.

"They're just taking the couch--"

"Easy story, they're casing the joint?"

"Casing the joint?" August harrumphs as he gets past the doorframe, "dumb girl."

"Hey," you spin and smack him with a cushion, "she's not dumb, you are!"

"Don't do that," he warns.

"This is my house and she's my friend. Take the couch then, you big... you big.... lug!"

"Lug?" He scoffs as he tilts the couch, Lee grunting as he guides it down the front steps.

"Don't threaten her," Hottie storms forward, bumping into your shoulder.

"Go take some more molly," August snarls.

"What the fuck did you say?" Hottie barks and you block her again.

"Fucking girls," August sneers as he comes down to ground level.

"Leave em be," Lee tuts, "we got the couch, let's get on."

"You better," Hottie retorts.

"Now, don't be eggin' him on, little lady."

"I don't fucking buy it," Hottie blares, "this isn't a fucking coincidence--"

"Please," you turn to her, "they're leaving."

She looks at you and her anger slowly softens to regret. She shrugs, "fine."

"Alright," you exhale and spin, skipping down the steps with the cushions. "Here."

You run over as they get the couch in the truck bed. You hold out the cushions and August turns with a scowl. He snatches them, nearly taking you off your feet. You recoil and set your heels. Hottie rushes over with the last cushion and whips it at his face.

"Don't forget that one, dickwad," she snips, "now get the hell out of here."

He snorts and throws the cushions in with the couch. He takes the last one from the ground and hurls it over his shoulder so it lands with the other.

"Gladly," he rolls his eyes.

Hottie grabs your arm and urges you back. August shakes his head and struts up the side of the truck as Lee shuts the back. He nods at you, "good to do business with ya ladies."

You can see the dimple in his cheek, as if he might laugh. He goes up the passenger's side and gets in, the motor rumbling to life as August cranks into gear. Hottie retreats, still latching on as she moves you out of the way of the truck's tail as it veers away from the curb.

You pout as you watch the couch bounce with the trucks motion and you puff out.

"Ugh, what a butt," you frown.

"That's putting it lightly," Hottie crosses her arms, "why didn't you come get me?"

"I.. I don't know. They were just taking the couch."

"Hmm," she looks down the street once more, eyes narrow and words unsaid written above her brow, "do me a favour, if you see that jackass again, run in the other direction."

"Yeah, don't think he's coming back," you shrug, "I like to think someone's insides don't always match their outsides but that grumpy puss is testing me."

"Oh, and if you do see him sniffing around, call me," she heads back to the house and you spin to follow her.

"Oh trust me, I got no room for him on my dreamboard."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Feysand x reader: Take a Hit[*]

A/N: this was such a fun vibe to write, would 100% recommend listening to How Much Is Weed? and 3 Nights by Dominic Fike

Warnings: smut, mirthroot, oral, lazy stuff

Word Count: 3,413

The world slides out from beneath your feet, finally allowing you reprieve.

Stress had been gnawing on your spine for weeks, manifesting in heavy half circles beneath your eyes, in headaches that spike to the centre of your brain. No amount of sleep, or healthy eating, or whatever other nonsense you tried would work. So for this one night, you accept their offer.

Old habits really do die hard.

Seeing how casually Feyre had set her fingertips ablaze, lighting up the blunt, makes you wonder how common these night activities are for them. Makes you wonder what other things the High Lord and Lady get up to in the privacy of their own home.

Whatever. It’s not your business.

Your business is the thick joint she’s dragging on, how prettily she wraps her lips around the pale paper. Takes it in, a deep, full breath, holding for a few seconds before releasing a heavy puff of smoke. The scent clings to everything in the room, night breeze disturbing the natural flow, wind intruding from the open doors—leading out onto the balcony.

Blue-grey eyes flick lazily to you, marking how longingly you stare at the rolled wonder clasped between her fingertips. “Want a hit?” She taunts from the other end of the sofa, long legs crossed at the ankle, resting in your lap. You growl softly, extending your arm, reaching out for it. Demanding she share. Her lovely lips lift into a smirk, raising your desire to her mouth, dragging deeply again, burning through the blunt faster than you would like.

Lip curls back from your teeth, and she laughs, finally handing it over. “Greedy,” you mutter, taking it from her calloused hand. She puffs out the smoke, making it curl in the air, like some kind of magnificent, fire-breathing beast. You ignore the taunt, raising the joint to your mouth at last, inhaling slowly, deeply, drinking in that relaxing smoke, allowing it to dull the stress at your back. Allow it to circulate, seep into your bloodstream, brighten up your view. Soften the edges of your world.

Exhale like she had, a heavy puff of clouded breath, feeling strain release your body already. Smoke drifts through the room, creating large, thin ovals, showing the gentle flow of air. Already, she’s reaching out her hand to have it back.

You mirror her earlier smirk, eyes locking as you take another drag of the spliff, swallowing and revelling in the thickness—the potency. Feeling it spread throughout your body, gradually numbing. Lean toward her; blow it out in an initially opaque funnel, watching as it washes over her. She growls playfully, legs tucking under her as you raise it to your mouth again—just to piss her off. You really don’t need another, not for a good while, at least.

But she’d crawled across the sofa; swung a leg over your hips, settling her weight into your lap. Arms drape over your shoulders, waiting for the exhale. You smirk up at her, blue-grey eyes gleaming drowsily, her movements laced with lethargic grace—as though she’d just awoken. Fingers wrap around the joint, smiling as you gently close your teeth on the end. “Hand it over,” she purrs, one hand dropping to cup your jaw, titling you upright.

Yield it, fingers threading in her hair, dragging her down to your mouth, holding her a few centimetres at bay. Blow it out, fanning across her face. “Or what?”

Hips roll in your lap, and she’s putting her lips over your own. Teeth scraping and nipping. Biting. You groan with pleasure, hands settling on her waist as she lazily grinds down, one leg sliding between your own, the soft press of her heat feeling perfect over your thigh. “Feyre…” you moan between feverish kisses, arousal twining with the distinct scent of mirthroot.

A door opens somewhere, but the two of you are two preoccupied with one another, indulging in the hot, supple press of skin. By the time Rhys enters your vision, you’ve got one hand below the band of her underwear, gripping the delightful plumpness of her ass. “Feyre,” you mutter, while she’s still grinding on your lap. “Your husband’s here.”

She stops long enough to again reach for the blunt, turning in your lap to offer it. And you’re too out of it to care about what he’s seen. You’re pretty sure it’s half the reason they invited you, anyway. In need of a smoking partner, utter bull.

Both of you watch hungrily as he raises it to his mouth, briefly inspecting, before inhaling deeply. Seems like he’s had a long day. Or however long since they last did this. His muscled chest rises beneath the tunic, lungs filling with smoke, holding it, tipping his head back, blowing it up into the air. Heat pulses between your legs as you mark the strong column of his throat. No doubt he knows what he’s doing.

Feyre gives you a singular look—it’s all you need to come to an agreement. Then she’s shifting from your lap, the two of you standing. Your High Lady pushes her palms to his chest, guiding him back to an armchair, lightly shoving him so he sits. You follow lazily behind her, sliding to your knees between his legs, leaving for a little space to crawl forward. Slowly. Sultrily.

Violet eyes twinkle with interest, Feyre walking round to be behind her mate, arms sliding down his chest, running her fingertips beneath the hem of his leathers. Already you can make out the shape of his arousal, making your skin burn with heat. “Feyre finally manage to persuade you, huh?” He drawls, a slow grin spreading across his mouth as you slot yourself between his powerful thighs. Eyes lock as you lower to his crotch, teeth clasping the ties, pulling the already loosened knot out.

A laugh rumbles from his chest, large hand settling atop you head, keeping you pressed between his legs. You hum with pleasure, spine arching as you work your way down his length, pulling each string free from its hole. Until it’s down to his base. A moan hums from your tongue, teeth digging into the leather, peeling it back from his hips, Feyre pulling away the tunic. Fingers working the buttons expertly, dragging the finery up over him.

Mouth waters at the sight of his exposed chest, tan skin decorated with dark swirls of ink—want to trace them with your tongue. Taste his skin, know what it feels like beneath your teeth.

Moaning softly, you suction your mouth to the intimate skin of his abdomen, flicking against him, putting your marks into him. Rhys groans roughly, no doubt exchanging bets and other filthy words with his mate, discussing what to do with you. How to most enjoy the night.

You move to the trail of dark hair, kissing down until you again have to peel his clothes from him. Salivate at the sight of him, long, thick; appetisingly hard. Moisture beading at his tip. Eyes flutter when his grip roughens on your hair, hand fisting his cock, holding you just out of reach of him. Whimper to get his attention, but Feyre’s already leaning down over him, sliding the blunt back between your lips.

Open willingly for her, wrapping around the joint, dragging it into your lungs as you manoeuvre the rough edge of the paper to scrape up the side of him. Offer a wicked smile as she retrieves the rolled wonder, savouring the fullness before you expel. Blowing the smoke onto his cock, watching as it brushes over the carved muscle of his stomach, how he pumps himself while violet pierces into you.

“Rhys…” you groan, tongue flicking over your lip. His scent sinking into your bones, both of them making you impossibly wet.

Brow quirks, dragging on the joint before finally Feyre gets a hit. “Want something, hm?” He drawls lazily, blowing out while relaxing back into his mate’s arms, hand gripping himself tighter as he waits for you to beg. Mouth parts, pushing out your tongue, showing how ready you are, how appetising the shape of your lips are. Inherently begging for him to shove his cock into you.

He laughs lowly, groaning as Feyre drags her hands up his chest, brushing his jaw, pressing kisses to the side of his throat, slowly sucking in bruises. “Want my cock? That it?” He purrs, tugging back your head, putting you at his mercy. Body goes limp under his touch, complete submission as your mind clouds.

Rhys curses roughly beneath his breath. “Good fucking girl,” he purrs, guiding you to his cock, releasing himself as your mouth opens over him. Your cunt aches, begging to be soothed somehow, swallowing him down. Take him gradually—you’re in no rush this evening. Yet there’s an undercurrent, a frenetic energy compelling you to give your best. They deserve your best. They deserve you.

Tongue flicks over his slit, suckling beneath his tip, making him moan your name, head tipping to rest on the back of the armchair. Tangling with his wife. You could moan from the sight, how they take each other in, perfectly slotting against one another. You want to give them as much as you can, heat buzzing between your legs as you whine onto him. Twitches in your mouth, and you know Feyre’s undoubtedly playing a part in his pleasure. Filling his head with lovely memories; future promises.

Rhys bucks into your mouth, forcing his cock deeper into the hot, wetness of your throat. Groaning at the pleasure, the sound zapping your clit, serving him as best you can. Teeth ever so lightly scrape up the underside of him, enough to break through the haze the mirthroot has brought down, making him hiss onto his mate. Hips buck deeper, more frenzied, getting closer to the edge.

You hum, swallowing him into your throat, making sure he can feel the vibrations even at his base, nose brushing the coarse hairs as your tongue flexes against him. He snarls roughly, cum shooting from his tip, making you moan at his taste. His flavour spurts onto your tongue, your hips grinding onto nothing, tightening around even less. Keep working him through his high, orgasm lighting his skin, numbing his mind as Feyre creeps in, dragging out her husband’s pleasure as long as she can.

When you pull away, the mess becomes apparent. Cum and saliva mixed together in silvery, pearlescent strands. You lick your lips, lapping up his underside, cleaning him up after tipping him over the edge. Taking responsibility for your actions, clearing away the consequences.

Peer up at them from between his legs, one hand gripping him idly. “Did I do good?” You purr, squeezing your thighs together. Needing friction desperately.

The High Lord’s hand cups your cheek, down to gripping your jaw, roughly raising your head. “To think you were hiding that mouth from us for so long,” he growls lowly. “What’s your excuse?” Lean into his touch, playing by his rules. “Was saving it for you,” you mumble. His eyes gleam, blue-grey dilating as he slides two, thick fingers into your mouth, massaging your velvety tongue. Massaging his cum into the wet muscle. Enjoying the sloppy mess.

Moan onto his digits, revelling in the roughness of his calloused fingers. “Wanted you to have it,” you manage, the words garbled and muffled as spit spills down your chin. They look pleased at your mes.

Rhys pulls away, swiping at the saliva, lapping it off his fingers. Pats one thick thigh, inviting you up into his lap. Attention flicks to Feyre, and she nods, urging you forward. Hungrily, desperately, you crawl up onto him, settling one leg either side his own, bracing one knee on the cushion. Grinding down on him.

His hands brace your hips, steadying you; you growl softly. Eyes gleam, “behave.”

Melt into his lap, turning docile at the snarled command. The inherent dominance that could bring you to your knees all over again. Roll your hips, pressing your soft heat onto him, wanting him to feel you. Wanting to feel him.

“What do you want, hm?” He asks, gripping your jaw, squeezing your cheeks. Lips pouting between his fingers. “Tell us how you want it.” Releases you in favour of gripping your throat as Feyre again slides the blunt over. Rhys feeling your inhale beneath his large palm, both groaning as you tip your head back, exhaling it upward. Wet your lips. “I want that silver-tipped tongue, High Lord.”

They share a look, satisfaction glittering in their gazes. Then you’re roughly manoeuvred back to the sofa.

Rhys lays across it, head propped up on the low slant of the arm rest, practically begging you to spread your legs over him, set you cunt down against him. Feyre’s already discarded the clothes on her lower half, crawling onto her mate, straddling his hips. Gods, she looks so pretty like that: thighs parted, honey-brown curls damp with arousal, so ready to take him.

Blue-grey locks onto you, smirking like she knows exactly how hungry she makes you. “Not going to take your fill?” Bite your lip, keeping her attention as you slide the underwear from your hips, having to peel it away from how wet you are. Step out of it, moving over to her as you raise the sopping fabric to her already parted lips. Pressing the arousal onto her tongue, hearing her moan at your taste, wet muscle sucking lightly.

Your fingers slip between her thighs, growling softly at the wetness you find—practically dripping onto her husband’s cock. Eyes latched together as you lap at your glistening digits, tasting her, mixing them together on your tongue.

Rhysand snarls his hunger, pushing you into motion as you pull your dress up over your head, leaving you bare. Slowly, teasingly, you settle over him, moving so your shins are pressing down into the plushness of the arm rest, facing his mate. You want to watch as she takes him into her cunt—how perfectly she’ll ride him. Part of you wishes you got to be the one to watch her suck Rhys off—how fucking breathtaking she would have looked. Rosey lips stretched sinfully around the width of him.

Powerful arms wrap over your hips, tugging you toward his face, but you protest. Wait for Feyre to sit her weight onto him. Watch slowly as she guides his tip to her entrance, knowing she has two sets of eyes upon her. Mouth waters as she drops down a few inches, gently bobbing up and down, knowing she has both of you enthralled. Like a goddess.

When she’s fully straddled his hips, she throws you a starving glance. “Your turn,” she purrs. “Give me a show.” You whimper in response, wanting to push her onto her back, part her with your tongue, make her ride your face instead. You arch your spine, peering over your shoulder as you straighten. “Hungry down there, Rhys?” You taunt, not missing the way his eyes flash with arousal, Feyre’s scent wrapping around you, thicker than the smoke that’s steadily draining out the open window.

“Sit down,” he growls, fingers biting into your skin. Brace your hands on his stomach, levering yourself so he has to wait. “Want something, hm?” You mock him, swaying you hips a little, knowing how badly he needs to have you coming on his tongue. After all, he’s just put you through that very same torture. “Want my cunt? That it?”

Rhysand snarls, arms flexing, and you both know he could force you to sit if he really lost his patience. But they enjoy the edge as much as you do—the gradual building of tension, until it’s ready to snap in two. His mouth opens, mimicking you back, tongue pushing out over his lips.

You want my silver-tipped tongue? He asks directly into your mind. Spine shuddering at his tone. Then sit. Down.

Moans spill as you widen the stance of your thighs, allowing the gilded muscle to sweep in, lapping up the obscene wetness with more-obscene leisure. Lazy strokes of his tongue, highlighting the decadence of the scene. Two females all to himself, one on his mouth, the other riding his cock—gently swirling her hips over him, content to take things as slowly as he is.

Teeth bite into your lip, pushing back onto him, practically purring as he flicks against your clit, targeting it with perfect precision. Pushing into your entrance, fucking you with lethargic curls of his tongue.

Sway your hips over him, back curving as you lower yourself down his body, watching as Feyre rolls against him. Already strands of slick are sticking them together, skin glistening with arousal. Moan at the way she’s taking him—all at her own pace. You thumb away the damp curls, suctioning yourself to her clit, feeling how she’s swelling from the stimulation; grazing your teeth over her sensitive bud.

She releases a pleased moan, leaning back, one hand propping her upright while the other parts the honey-brown curls. Nearly climax at the sight of them pressed so intimately together, but—you’ve got a job to do. You’d never dream of letting her down. Of disappointing either.

Mouth parts, latching properly over her clit, giving it the attention she deserves.

Her back arches, dragging the pads of her fingertips up over her abdomen, higher over her diaphragm, tracing over her ribs. Cups her breast, nails scraping her peaked nipple, pinching between her fingers as you lap up her flavour, flicking down to their joining point to taste more of her. Utterly divine.

Rhysand growls roughly as your tongue laps over him, going from his base up to her clit, liquid heat pouring onto his mouth as you indulge in his mate. He groans with pleasure, fucking your entrance steadily, slow; deep pumps of the wet muscle. Occasionally suckling on your clit, drawing you closer to the edge, needing to be the one to push you over the edge.

Mind prickles as you’re joined with them, brought into the mental loop they have between one another. Pleasure spills across the bond, adding a concentration you aren’t prepared for, muscles tensing as it crests over you, causing your hips to buck, pulling away from Feyre. She whines softly as your mouth detaches from her, but she’s quickly picking up the pace to make up for her pleasure.

Begins rising and falling over him, sliding up and down his cock, rolling her hips so he touches all those wonderful spots inside her. Rhysand grips you tighter, and you again buck against him, grinding your cunt onto him, caught in the way his teeth scrape over your clit, stimulating you in such a torturous way. But it’s building, and you can feel you’re at the brink.

Whimper softly, nails biting into the muscle of his stomach in warning.

It spurs him on, suckling your clit as pleasure zaps the sensitive bud, and you’re unable to hold on any longer. Soft moans pour from your lips, whining gently as you break, coming on his tongue—just as he wants.

The sexual moans cause Feyre’s hips to stutter, grinding down onto her husband firmly, almost roughly as she tips with you, free falling through pleasure. Cum drips down from her heat, Rhys’ stomach muscles flexing, and you can bet he went with her.

It takes a while for everything to stop, too busy swaying and grinding onto one another, riding out the aftershocks to bother moving. You certainly stay sat on Rhys’ face longer than necessary—due in equal parts to you being unbothered over your position, and him keeping you pressed onto his tongue. Continuously teasing the edge of overstimulation: nipping lightly at your clit, or roughly circling the sensitive bud.

You aren’t much better. Ordering Feyre with your eyes to lean back again, allowing you to suckle on her, lap up the mess both of them have made on one another. Eyes roll to the back of your head at their mixed flavour, cum and release twining together into one divine, sloppy ambrosia.

Mirthroot still tints the room; not as strong as it once was. Dulled by the night air, and powerful arousal. They really should have mentioned the additional pleasures you’d get to participate in on smoking nights.

You would have caved much earlier.

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022

Feysand Taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza

[rockethorse]

Calcinidae Bay Lot Tour: the Public Schools

Let's take a closer look at a few of Calcinidae Bay's community lots - its public schooling! This screenshot is actually three lots, with two lots overlapped using the Lot Adjuster. On the left is the high school, on the right is the primary school, and between them is a shared gymnasium and a semi-public oval (sports field).

More pics & CC-free decorating ideas below!

As always, these lots are based on shell challenges. The high school and primary school are actually shells that were made for me by @hugelunatic as stocking stuffers back in 2022 (I didn't forget about them!) The shell from the gym/oval lot is actually the smaller canteen building, with the gymnasium being auxiliary (because it had to be such a specific size/shape), and that shell is a 4T2 adaptation of LilSimsie's "Yeehaw" Shell Challenge that I grabbed off the gallery.

Starting with the high school:

If you peeked at the original shell, you'll see there was a two-storey 1x1 "column "room" in the middle of the lot, which made me think of a bell/clock tower and inspired me to use these shells for schools. Normally when I adapt a TS4 shell challenge to TS2 I choose the placement & orientation on the lot, but because these lots were made natively in TS2 I decided to keep the lot size & distribution as they were. This gave me a lot of additional space around the main building that was perfect for adding extra amenities like a library.

The ground floor of the high school has an administration area, lockers, mixed bathroom, sick bay, staff room, and two general-use classrooms that can each fit six students.

The teacher's lounge/staff room, and a small display/awards case. I needed something to do with that little triangular pocket, and now it's one of my favourite features. :)

Upstairs is two specialised classrooms - a moderate science lab and an arts room. I would have liked at least a home ec classroom as well, but I guess that'll be reserved for the eventual private school.

The canteen (cafeteria) is a separate demountable building with outdoor seating, some of it under a shade cloth. The library is also a separate building with a small computer bay and a group study area.

Moving on to the primary school, a much older and smaller building with some minor remodeling so the two schools look cohesive:

The inspiration for my gameplay/lots is a mish-mash of different cultural influences, but I play my schools like the standard Australian system; kids start in reception (about age 5) and attend primary school all the way through to year 6 or 7, then go to high school from year 6/7 through to year 12. Separate middle schools are much less common, and this matches with how the game itself handles kid vs. teen education.

I design my lots kind of "representationally", to get the best balance between realism and playability. While I enjoy including some details that don't provide actual gameplay, I don't want to build enormous, cumbersome lots just to achieve a 1:1 scale when my Sims will never actually need that much space. Plus, most shell challenges tend to be smaller, which I like. Hence why this school has only two classrooms, one for junior primary and a more structured classroom for upper primary.

There is a small admin area downstairs. Upstairs is the sick bay and a modest teacher's lounge/staff room.

The primary school doesn't have its own library, but it does have a small separate building that we in Australia would call OSHC - Out of School Hours Care. It's a service parents can book to drop their children off before school starts, or arrange for them to attend after school finishes until they can pick them up. They provide snacks and some edu-tainment activities. Lots of kids also attend OSHC over school holidays.

The primary school canteen/cafeteria is also a separate building. Both school canteens use the University cafeteria stove, so with the right mod students will be able to grab food there. In addition to an outdoor eating area and a small playground, there is a little produce patch between the two buildings where students are taught about horticulture.

And finally, the lot that joins the two schools, the shared gymnasium and Calcinidae Oval.

The canteen/cafeteria itself would generally not be open during school hours. Instead, the school and/or local council would operate it for profit or hire it out to a third party when the oval was being used for local sports teams and other events on weekends, holidays, and after school hours. Right now it's set up for just such a soccer match.

The inside of the "tuckshop". There is a bathroom on the bottom floor accessible from the outside of the building, while the top floor has two changing rooms for students or local teams.

The gymnasium also serves as an assembly hall for students of both schools. I think the teachers would either have a collapsible stage at the far end of the court, or just stand up in the commentator's booth to give the announcements. Underneath the commentator's booth is the equipment storage shed where many a teen couple has probably sneaked off to make out.

The back view of the tuckshop and the carpark shows how this lot overlaps with the primary school. The existing primary school is blocked from Sims walking through it by a combination of real fences and this hidden CC-free invisible fence.

And that's it for this tour! I'm pretty happy with how these lots look, how I utilised the shells, and how they all fit together in the neighbourhood. I want to have more lots overlapping and slotting together like this to give Calcinidae Bay a more seamless, open feel, like the hood really is connected.

I'll finish this post with some floorplans - if you read all this you're a champ, I hope it gave you some ideas for your own game, and I'd love to know what you think!