#Dutch's story makes me so sad

[heavenlymorals]

The Tragedy of Dutch Van Dir Linde

Warning: spoilers ahead for both Red Dead games.

Dutch Van Dir Linde is one of the finest characters I've ever come across and that I think about a lot because in many ways, he is represents the dreams that people have and the awful reality of it too.

Heytham, what the hell do you mean that this manic, selfish, delusional piece of shit is like you or me?

Here is an example. When you were a kid, did your parents tell you that your dreams will come true if you worked hard? And did you believe it? I know I did. I studied often, got a great SAT score, joined many extracurriculars, did volunteer work regularly, got a part time job, had all high grades in advanced level courses and in AP/honor programs and I had one goal. To get into my dream college.

I made my resume. I did everything right. I listen to what people better than me told me to do and I waited for that acceptance letter- so confident that I would get into the university. Never once did I imagine that I'd get rejected, but I did. For a 17 year old kid, it felt like the world was ending. I remember sobbing myself to sleep, waking up, and then just laying on my bed disappointed in the world and the lies it fed me. In a perfect world, I'd have gotten accepted. Worst people than me got accepted, why couldn't I?

But I moved on. Life continued and I was fine. I was bitter, sure, but I managed to get over it and work towards better paths and a better future.

But what if I didn't? What if I got hung up on that forever? What if I fought the rejection? What would I have done? What would I have not done?

This little experience, one that many people have gone through, is kind of a microcosm of the much bigger human truth that the world will never be an ideal place due to the human nature.

If I was like Dutch, I would have fought the rejection- I would stick so diligently to the ideal that I believed in so hard, even though that failure was more than likely a guarantee. I wouldn't find an alternative to be better and do better things. I'll get hung up on a dream and never move past it.

That's his dilemma. He believes in the ideal, like we all do, but he will fight tooth and nail to make that ideal real while we will sigh and realize that life will never be the way we want it to be.

Dutch feels betrayed by the world, or at least by his vision of the world- especially America.

America was a country built on the promise of all men being born equal under God and under the law. All men.

That was the dream, the hope, and the promise.

What happened instead? The continuing of the institute of slavery, the massacre of natives, the monopoly of magnates, and the constant discrimination of those not considered 'white'.

It was disgusting and awful and it should've never happened- but it did and people tried to remedy it in ways that were gradual but real. They found different paths and different dreams and though there is still much work to be done, people are finding a way.

Dutch couldn't do that though. He refused to do that. He wanted the ideal and he wanted it immediately, even though it was impossible. He killed for his ideal, he robbed for his ideal, and he led people to hell for his ideal.

But it didn't matter. His ideal will never exist and he couldn't accept that- which leads to his end.

He won't be caught. And he didn't get caught by commiting suicide- a final fight. He wouldn't surrender to John or the Pinkertons, because that would mean admitting that his entire life was a struggle for nothing because his vision will never be realized if people like Cornwall or Favours or the professor continue to exist. Life was hell because of those people and the American dream did not exist because of those people.

"What a beautiful dream. So poorly rendered," - Dutch to Arthur.

And Dutch is right! From the very beginning that this country was created, it relied on an ideal that turned out to be a lie.

And Dutch couldn't handle that and wanted a perfect world that can never be realized and he tried to get that perfect world by lying and stealing and cheating and killing. What a depressing dichotomy.

Now, of course, when it comes to the personal motivations of Dutch, whether pride, hubris, narcissism, or any of that, they can all by factors to Dutch's pointless battle, but his motivation has always been clear and it never changed-

"Yeah, I know it's tough. You like Dutch. He's a charming fellow. He makes sense. He's like one of those nature writers from back East. Only he takes things a tiny little step too far. Rather than just loving the flowers and the animals and the harmony between man and beast, he shoots people in the head for money. And disagreeing with him. Now, I'm not a great intellect, but the metaphysical leap from admiring a flower to shooting a man in the head because he doesn't like a flower, is a leap too far." Edgar Ross to John Marston.

Dutch lived and died to create an ideal that would never be real because he could never accept reality and that is one of the saddest fates a man could have.

[dr3comebackera]

Daniel Ricciardo on his Zandvoort crash, surgery on his broken hand, recovery process, and return in Austin

Tom Clarkson: "Now you mentioned the elephant in the room, Zandvoort. FP2, Turn 3, what happened?"

Daniel Ricciardo: "I *awkward laugh*, I mean I obviously can remember it very clearly, since I didn't hit my head. Erm, but, so you come through, turn, I guess it's Turn 2, and it's over kind of a crest, but then you stay quite tight, because, then the line for 3, you ride the top of the banking. So you know, you're not taking a conventional racing line, so you're not like looking at the apex, you're looking at the top of the corner, pretty much. Like, as a driver, we're always looking ahead and normally like at the apex, but the way you exit 2, you then kind of look straight ahead and pick your braking point."

DR: "So at that point, I'd exited 2, I hadn't seen any yellows, nothing like that. And then by the time I've looked and braked, I then looked where I need to turn, and I see Oscar. This all happened so quickly, but I remember, I can, obviously I'm picturing it in my head now. So I remember, okay, the line we take is high and by this point I'd braked, so I'd already committed, so I knew the speed I was going. My only choice was to take the high line, but I could see his car was at the top of the track. So there wasn't enough room for me to pass through the high line. I'm going too fast to take a low line, so it was either, probably look like a real idiot and crash into him, or try and just slow the car as much as I can, and likely just crash into the barriers, which is what happened."

DR: "But yeah, because it was all, I guess I'm still trying to figure out what I'm going to do, by the time then I'd committed to just going straight, I hadn't then realized, 'okay, take your hands off the wheel.' And a lot of us still don't do it, because crashing is not natural. And it happens so quickly, because you don't plan to crash, so a lot of the time you don't kind of have, yeah, the time to be like, 'okay, I'm crashing, what do I need to do? Brace myself, okay, take my hands off the wheel.' Sometimes you just don't have the luxury of time."

DR: "So, that was it, I hit the wall. I've only watched one replay, but I just don't, I don't want to. Basically, when I've gone in, I'm pretty sure like the right front, it's just the angle, right, the right front would've grabbed the Tecpro [barrier] first, and then that's, like, pulled it in, so it's, it's like I've turned really hard right, the way obviously it's grabbed the wheel. So because the wheels then turned so quickly, I've basically lost grip, so it spun out of my hands, and the bottom of the [steering] wheel, which is pure, hard carbon, has then come up and basically karate chopped my hand."

DR: "So then, you've got the shock of the crash and then adrenaline, so I've come on the radio, and I'd, I think I'd been like, oh sorry, like I've crashed or something. And then, is he like 'oh, you alright?' or 'can you continue?' and I was like, 'no, the car is damaged.' And then, I could feel my hand, and I was like, 'ow, my hand, my hand.' And then I just, it started to, like the pain just went, obviously ramped up really, really quickly, and I feared that something was bad. So, as I'm, I wanted, I was like, 'I need to get my glove off, I need to get my glove off.' And as I'm pulling my glove off, I remember, I was thinking, *awkward huffy laugh*, I was like 'if there's a bone through the skin, I'm gonna pass out.' So that's all, I was just like 'please, please don't let me see anything gruesome.' I'm not good with this stuff, I'm sweating telling it, like I'm serious. I suck at this.

TC: "Have you broken a bone before?"

DR: "I broke my arm as a kid at school, throwing a tennis ball. Anyway, yeah, another very random accident, and I didn't need surgery, that was like a long, long healing process."

DR: "But yeah, so, alright, so I've pulled my glove off, and I, I could see it was already quite swollen, but no bone through the skin. I was like, 'okay.' But then the pain just got so bad, so as soon as I jumped into the medical car, I was *long pause* making a lot of noises, because I was in a lot of discomfort. So I knew that it was not good. I knew immediately, obviously, I wasn't going to race on the weekend. Like I didn't need a doctor to tell me. I feared it was a broken bone. I think the first thing that really kind of just made me sad, was I just had a very, very productive summer break. I felt really, really good physically, and I was just, yeah I was just ready to go. And this just felt like an unfortunate setback. But I was just more worried about surgery and all that, because I'm, again, I'm a bit of a wuss.

TC: "What happened next, I mean, you went down to Barcelona, to Dr. Xavier Mir, who is renowned in the MotoGP world, for mending those sort of breaks. I also think he was, didn't he help Lance Stroll earlier in the year as well?" "Yeah" "So who put you in touch with him, or did you know him already?"

DR: "So from the medical center, we went to the hospital there in Amsterdam. Got scans, and they're like, 'yeah, it's broken.' And by this point, it's the size, like, looked like an elephant stepped on my hand. The doctor there said, 'look, I would recommend surgery.' He's like, 'you can have it here, but you probably want to wait anyway a few days for the swelling to go down. Speak to whoever you need to speak to and obviously you can have your surgery wherever you want, I'm just going to give you my advice.' So then we reached out to Lance, we reached out to, well Jose, a friend of ours who works with Alpinestars, so he knows all the MotoGP guys, and he, he's Spanish as well, so he knows. So he, I think, put us into touch with Xavier Mir, and then, yeah, Lance was like 'go to him' as well. All signs were just pointing to, this guy's done this too many times, just go see him. Like, like don't even bother, just go there.

DR: "So it was, it was a blessing and a curse because, *laughs* he does a lot of MotoGP guys, who, are not human. They are not. It's fact, they are not. So, I think there's an expectation of me going in there, he's like 'oh, F1, MotoGP, same! Not human, don't feel pain.' 'No, doctor, I feel pain. I'm going to cry for the next 48 hours whilst I'm in this hospital.' So it was just funny, they, I think, you know, all the doctors and nurses and that who were helping me, and they were great, but I think they were, they were just quite, they would laugh a lot, because I would wince and pull away and ask questions every needle that went into my arm. Erm, so I think they just thought I would be tough like a MotoGP rider, but I am not."

TC: "I'm sure you were."

DR: "No, no, trust me, I'm not. The break itself was quite significant. It was a shatter, like it wasn't like, oh you just break it clean down the middle. I think it was in eight pieces or something. So it was also, for a bone that can be quite a simple one, it wasn't too pretty."

TC: "So it's your pinky that was being affected by it?" "Erm, well..." "On your left hand?"

DR: "It's like the outside of the hand. So that's the bone I broke, in between like the wrist and the pinky, like that knuckle. So like along the outside there. But even me just rubbing my finger over the top of my hand, hurt like crazy. Maybe I just feel pain more than others, I don't know. *laughs* But er, sorry, I just want to, just let's also say one thing. There was also the reality where, yes, I would moan and complain because I don't like the pain. But it was a broken hand, so there was also a part of me which was like, 'look, dude, yes you're in pain and it's going to be a bit of a process, but people have worse injuries, people have bigger accidents.' So don't get me wrong, I also tried to reality check myself through it all, and I think that's what made me quite, like remain quite positive."

TC: "You missed five races, you came back for Austin. Was there any talk of you getting back earlier, maybe for Qatar?"

DR: "So I knew, I was doing physio every day, and I was, I was doing what I could to come back as soon as possible. But I also wanted to make sure, and I think, you know, Red Bull/Alpha Tauri were really good with this, I wasn't fighting for a world championship, like it's not like, dude you need to just drive through immense pain and just get a point, you know because this is your titles on the line. Like it was, let's make sure you do this and heal properly, and get the right treatment, because also you've got, hopefully a second part of your career which is going to be long and glorious. So it was just, don't compromise anything that you then have a bum hand for the next two years of your career, three years, whatever. So it was good, I could just do it properly."

DR: "Qatar was talked about, I went on the sim the week of Qatar, on the Monday, but I couldn't, er, yet, drive with the full force of the steering, like so we would like bring the feedback down. Er, I just couldn't grip it and do more than like two laps at full strength. So it was very clear that Qatar was out of the question, and also for me to come back and like, yeah, I don't know, not drive at my best and then, no, that no one benefits. I don't benefit, the team doesn't. So er, it was that, at that point we're like, let's just go all in for Austin and make sure I'm good for that."

TC: "And Liam was doing a decent job as well"

DR: "Exactly, he was doing well and there was also, I think Red Bull were great to give me a contract whilst I was injured, to give me a contract for next year. So I, I had that-"

TC: "That was very significant, wasn't it?" "Yeah" "They actually signed you long-term when you were on the sidelines?"

DR: "Yeah, there's so much about being back in the Red Bull family this year that's felt good and right, and I think that was such a, yeah just such like a big thing for them to do that. I think obviously it showed they have a lot of faith in me. It also put to bed if anyone was like, 'oh you know, is there still any issues from their previous relationship years ago? Like is there any carryover tension or whatever?' Like, for them to do that, I think it was very much like, he's our kid and we're going to support him because we believe in him and- So that was really nice."

TC: "So you come back for Austin, and were there any ill effects there? Because I mean, that's a quick track, sector one in particular."

DR: "Er, no, like in, in short no. Erm, I think the race, I got into it quickly and, and, and I was actually honestly expecting more pain in Austin. I was expecting like every kind of bump or kerb I'd hit would be like 'ow, ow, ow.' But it was okay, and erm, I think it was just an endurance I needed to build so like, towards the end of the race, I could feel like my grip strength was maybe not as good as at the start of the race. But honestly, I was, I was fine. And I think that was another thing, I didn't want to get back into a race and then be like, 'yeah I could have done better, but you know, my hand was not up to full strength.' Or like, I was like, this can't be an excuse, and it wasn't, so it was all good."

TC: "And Daniel, you were never going to miss Austin, right?"

DR: "No, I couldn't. I would've loved the result to be better, but no, I couldn't miss Austin.

TC: "The track, the place"

DR: "Yeah, yeah. I love it."

[majorshatterandhare]

Today I, an aromantic, was getting ready to attend a wedding… with Stranger on repeat.

[roaringheat]

I am like actually fuckin shocked that Molly was the one to sell out the gang like....girl.....holy shit....

[madelynn-sienna]

coney island p. I (max verstappen x reader)

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★ prompt: ❛❛ what's a lifetime of achievement? if I pushed you to the edge? ❜❜ ★ pairing : max verstappen x reader ★ face claim : lily collins (+ one picture of kelly piquet and margot robbie each) ★ genres : angst ★ a/n : this will be a two-part hurt/comfort story inspired by the song coney island. be rest assured while this half is quite sad, the second half will make up for the angst and we will get a happy max x yn ending! also, per some creative liberty i took, max is only 23 years old here (he started racing in 2019, won his first gp in 2021 and was in school with the reader before he dropped out to pursue racing full time). ★ feedback and requests are always appreciated!

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liked by yourinstagram, redbullracing, landonorris and others

maxverstappen simply lovely race 🏆 what an amazing weekend and victory in jeddah, thank you all for your incredible support 🇸🇦

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yourinstagram another fabulous performance #mv01 🔥🔥🔥

redbullracing incredibly strong race today, a 1-2 finish is all we could have asked for 💙

user1 tu tu tu du max verstappen! user2 fastest pit stop too.

yourinstagram made me so proud max, ik houd van je 💕

maxverstappen ik hou ook van jou mijn liefste ❤️ user3 they said they loved each other in dutch. user4 he also called her 'his sweetheart' 🥹 user5 max and yn are literally the it couple on the circuit rn. user6 right? three time world champion and a bestselling author. user7 they so need to make a movie about it. user8 or a book, imagine a twisted lies style drama 😭

ruthbuscombe the strategy 💯

landonorris congrats mate!

maxverstappen thanks. user9 we're waiting for a win from you too lando! user10 this aged well haha

schecoperez ¡bien hecho!

user11 presenting our four time world champion everyone!

user12 we're only on the second race of the season 😭 user13 i mean if last year's anything to by, that's enough.

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text exchanges between yn & max dated 23/07, 02/08 and 04/08.

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yourinstagram it's supposed to be fun, turning twenty-one...

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user1 faster than the flying dutchman?

user2 yoo-hoo, @.maxverstappen where are you? user3 right? like he's usually the first one here...

carmenmmmundt happy birthday🥂

danielricciardo happy 21 yn 🍾

user4 why isn't max in the pictures?

user5 he's been busy with the belgian gp! user6 dude, that finished on sunday — it's the next saturday. user7 he's prolly just really stressed, he hasn't won since canada. user8 yeah, but yn through him a massive party last year. user9 so? circumstances were different... she isn't busy 24/7. user10 she literally has a job.

alexandrasaintmleux belle fille❣️

charlesleclerc joyeux anniversaire 🎉

user11 that caption's giving me bad vibes...

user12 me too! user13 its from all too well, that's such a sad song 😭 user14 i wonder why she chose it? user15 this better not be a sign.

user16 seriously? where is max, it's been 24 hours...

user17 check their stories, they're like done done. user18 nooooooooo😭 user19 she gave so many signs...

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yourinstagram added to their story. maxverstappen added to their story.

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liked by charlesleclerc, redbullracing, landonorris and others

maxverstappen 5 wins in 5 races - thank you for your support in monza, baku, singapore, texas and sao paulo. you've made me happier than you know, happier than i've ever been before.

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user1 he really do be out here pretending he didn't break yn's heart.

user2 of course, he needs to maintain his bravado. user3 otherwise people, and he will realise, he messed up. user4 i can't believe he's trying to snub our girl yn.

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liked by visacashapprb, schecoperez, maxverstappen and others

redbullracing max verstappen wins the world drivers championship 2024, after an outstanding race at the las vegas street circuit that leaves him at with a 62 point lead in the standings ❤️ 💛 💙

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user1 max, max, max, super max, max

user2 tu tu tu du max verstappen user3 i called it! i said he'd win the wdc back in jeddah 🏆

user4 were you standing in the hallway with a big cake? happy birthday.

user5 of course, he just painted yn's bluest skies the darkest grey. user6 you are getting pressed for a breakup you know zero about! user7 max literally said it in his interviews and his statement. user8 they broke up because he was too busy. user9 ergo, he wasn't there for her, not even on her birthday!

lewishamilton amazing work - congratulations max

user10 what a goat ❤️

danielricciardo maaaax verstappennnnn! four time world champion.

user11 why'd I read that like pierrreeee gaslyyyyy? user12 me too😭 daniel's an icon.

fernandoalonso ¡muchas felicidades!

user13 real question here is, what's a lifetime of achievement?

user14 especially when he pushed her to the edge. user15 right like did you see her in miami, she looked so sad😭 user16 we all know she was just too nice too leave. user17 i'd have dumped his ass ages ago.

user17 definition of a LEGEND

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f1 🚩 Red flag in the Abu Dhabi as Max Verstappen suffers a huge crash. The medical rescue team is currently trying to get the Red Bull driver away the resultant debris and fire as safely as possible.

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[gguk-n]

Chapter 1- Anonymous Conversations

Unravelling Max's Mystery (Max Verstappen x Online Friend!Reader)

Series Masterlist

Summary- Y/N formed an unexpected bond with a boy behind the screen. He doesn't have many interest it seems, except for reading her stupid poems.

{Reader's POV}

12/07/2012

Dear Diary, Stella is leaving for Canada tomorrow forever. Today was the last day of school before the summer break so I went to Stella's house after school. It's so shitty, how can she leave me like this and before the start of high school. I don't have any friends other than her, what am I supposed to do??? This isn't fair, first Faye moved back to her home country a couple years back and now Stella. It's like they don't even care about me. I made a google plus account so we can stay in touch. Actually everyone's on google plus, I'm just late to the party. I'm sure we'll still be close.

02/01/2013

OMG!! I think I'm in love. There's this new boy band, One Direction. Ava told me about them last year but I brushed her off saying they weren't my cup of tea, but OMG!!! They are fucking perfect and I love Niall so much. He's so cute and has the dreamiest eyes and his accent, I'm gonna faint. I bought the Take Me Home album yesterday!! I even put up their poster above my bed, hehe!! Sooooo, I may or may not be writing now. I think I'm gonna be an author. The stuff isn't great like Shakespeare but I'm sure I'll improve. I've written a couple poems and Aria read them and she thinks they are great. I'm gonna start uploading them on google plus. I made a separate page for it, under a pseudonym. If I really improve, maybe I can publish my work.

I was sat at my laptop, typing the latest story I came up with during lunch so I could upload it. There were a lot of people who were reading my work and even encouraged me. There is improvement, but then again, we can do better, I'm sure. My parents aren't very happy with how I'm wasting my time writing instead of focusing on my education since I'm in high school now. I finished typing the story and clicked the upload button, I got a comment on the post. It was from this guy, named Max, just Max. He always read all of my work and writes the nicest comments under them. I haven't spoken to him personally ever since my mother kept warning me about stranger danger and that it could be some 50 year old dude. But his comments are encouraging and make me want to write more. I hope he knows the kind of effect he's having on me.

My birthday is in a couple of days, I don't know what I'll do since I don't really have a lot of friends. Even Aria is away during that time, so I don't really have anyone to go out with. My parents are busy as always.

So, out of desperation or sadness, I don't know which one, I posted on google plus saying that it was my birthday. The first person who replied was Max as always. I really wanna know when this guy sleeps or how he gets any work done if he is online so much. He messaged me personally too, to wish me again and even asked what I did. I couldn't lie because my heart was heavy, so I told him. I literally just unloaded about not having any friends and spending the day alone because work was more important for my parents. He was so nice about it. He spent the next hour talking to me and cheering me up. He's apparently 15, from Netherlands. He loves cats and lives with his dad and sister. He sounds like a fun guy.

After that, both of us ended up chatting on google plus regularly. I would message him immediately after school and spend the next couple of hours talking to him. Some times, he'd be gone a couple weekends but it was no biggy. I'm sure he had other commitments instead of entertaining a dumb teenager.

Max's birthday is on 30 September. I wanted to be the first one, so I stayed up late to match the dutch timings and wished him. He replied a little while later. He wasn't very excited about it. I get it, maybe his friends aren't there or couldn't make it to his birthday. I was gonna cheer him like he cheered me up. I wish I could send him a present. He really was a light in dark time. When I had no friends in school I could rely on, he came like the knight in shining armour. I just want to be a good and reliable friend to him like he is to me. He is such a sweetheart. We've never spoken on call yet. I guess I'm still a little scared and we've only known each other for a few months. I'm gonna hold on that but Max is a genuinely nice person in my eyes. But his dad doesn't sound like the nicest person from what he says, but I can't tell him that his dad is shitty so I just read his texts.

18/12/2013

Dear Diary, Maxie is the cutest. I haven't seen or heard him yet but I feel like he is. Otherwise, why would he encourage me to follow my dreams? He was so understanding and gave great advice. You might wonder why I needed the advice, diary. I told my parents I wanna pursue a degree in literature and we had a huge fight since apparently I'm throwing my life away and I should try to get a proper degree that might get me a job. Apparently, I'm not thinking straight. I've been thinking about becoming an author for some time now, it's my one passion, I've realised. And if it means struggling, I would rather struggle and be happy than be in a dead end job. Just because they are some big shot business people doesn't mean I wanna do that do. ugh!!! I hate them. Maxie calmed me down honestly, he heard me out and told me it was okay to follow my dreams. I think he is such a good friend. I won't tell him that, he has a big ego as is. LOL!!

I've been gaining a lot of traction on my posts on google plus. I have a couple thousand followers but Max is the most active of them all. Max is so effortlessly funny. He did ask one time if we could talk on call, I told him that my microphone was broken. I'm still a little skeptical. I know, even though I'm literally sharing everything with him, I've never spoken on call or video with him. Maybe some day.

04/03/2014

Dear Diary, I got a new phone and a new number. The previous one was one of my parents multiple numbers but this one is my own. I feel like an adult, hehe!! I made a whatsapp, maybe I'll share my number with Maxie and we might start chatting on there. Google plus had become a bit of hassle and I'm not uploading on it like I used to. I usually only open it to talk to Max. I think it would be better to shift it to another service. He's been a little busy this year compared to the last, didn't tell me much but I think it has to do with him being in his final year of high school. Can't relate, but I hope I'm done with high school soon. It fucking sucks. But on the bright side, I've gotten close to Nia and Aria and I could call Aria my best friend but she considers Nia her best friend. I don't mind being her friend. I have Max anyways.

Max has been quite busy lately, but I don't blame him. I would be busy in my final year of high school too. Even with all that, he has taken time out to talk to me. I did share my number with him, so now instead of google plus, which is a barren wasteland, we text on whatsapp. I've suggested talking on call some time when he's free, which hasn't happened yet.

We had set up a time to talk, it was really early here but I didn't mind, I was up anyways. I couldn't wait to hear his voice. I was anxious as well, what if he's some pedophile; all these thoughts raced through my head when my phone rang. Max- Hi, Y/N! Y/N- Hey, Max!! How are you? Max- I'm good, what about you? Y/N- Yeah, I'm good too. haha!! This is so weird talking to you. Max- yeah, you sound pretty. Fuck was he flirting, is this flirting? A million thoughts ran through my head, no one's ever flirted with me before. I felt my cheeks heat up. Y/N- You sound nice too. I mean....you have a nice voice. Max- haha, thanks, this is the first time some one has said that. Y/N- soooo, what have you been up too?? You've been so busy lately. There was a pause on the other end. I heard shuffling. Max- yeah, I've been busy with stuff. I'll be done soon for a while now. Y/N- That's great I need my best friend back! The conversation flowed smoothly. It didn't feel like we were talking on call for the first time. I had a lot of fun talking to Max. He sounds like a teenager, much to my relief. He's just as funny on call as he is on text.

After that, we ended up calling each other regularly. Max would answer my calls whenever but sometimes I felt bad about calling him at the crack ass of dawn in Netherland so I would avoid calling him whenever. He is so kind and listens well but damn does he talk. Every one who knows me calls me talkative, if they heard Max their ears would bleed. But I like hearing him talk, he has the most random and vast knowledge, he's helped me write too many of my papers because I didn't have to research, I could just ask him; he's like a walking encyclopedia.

17/05/2015

Dear Diary, I think I'm in love. It's not some celebrity this time but I think it's Max. I don't even know that dude's last name but I'm in love. He not like the guys in school, he's so mature and funny and sweet and understanding and he supports me so much. I didn't know when or how but I think I love him. Obviously I won't tell him. It's prolly a crush since I have't dated anyone ever. I'll get over it, can't ruin my friendship over this. As is, he has gotten so busy. I think he is going to college. He didn't say it explicitly but why else would he be so busy right now if not applying for colleges. I don't know the dutch education system but I'm sure he busy pursuing higher education. He said he liked cars, I think he'll do something with cars. I didn't really ask in more details. I'm sure he'll tell me when he wants to. We have a chill friendship, we share when and what we want to. Alas, I hope this crush doesn't ruin my friendship.

09/08/2015

This is bad, my crush on Max has only gone on to increase. He's so kind to me, what am I supposed to do? Also he's the only one who can calm me down after a fight with my parents regarding my future. Sadly, he gotten so busy. He's gone for a while every few weeks. But lately he's been free. We've been talking a lot. He sounds a lot more rested lately too. I'm sure college is tough. But he's strong and I know he'll do it.

[Little did Y/N know, Max was busy racing across the world in Redbull's junior team. He was in his first year as a formula one driver, hence he was so busy. Max had no intentions of telling her, he liked being just Max, a guy from Netherlands who could talk to her. He enjoyed the disconnect he got with her]

[landograndprix]

woman ✾ l.n - viii

❧ you love max, you really do but your little brother has been getting more on your nerves each day as he tries to set you up with one of his friends.

❧ being in love is hard when there's people trying to sabotage it but they aren't aware of the strong bond you and lando have formed over the last few weeks.

❧ lads (gn), I'm so sorry it takes me ages to update this fic pls forgive me :( omce again, spelling mistakes add 🌟 character 🌟 charles' a lil weird and these fans can suck my **** 🥰 verstappen!reader.

❧ prev part – next part

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y/nverstappen posted to their story

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y/nverstappen

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 81,564 others

y/nverstappen celebrating iris' 31st the right way ♥️

tagged: irisxo, martingarrix

view all 1,654 comments

irisxo best birfday baby 😘

↳ y/nverstappen ♥️♥️

maxmaxmax my favorite party animals <3

charleslec lmao time to act like adults then?

↳ norry4 life doesn't end after 25 💀

hamilt44n man y'all so pressed about older women living their lives lmfao just say your jealous

verstappenmax my favorite people

mrsnorris am I the only one who thinks her and martin are together?

landitonorris at least she's not in monza bothering lando lol

↳ norstappen not to burst your bubble but max pretty much said he's flying to ibiza with lando after the race 🥰

landitonorris when did he say this?

norstappen in a dutch interview yesterday

landitonorris oh well as long as she stays away from lando 😇

norstappen lmao why, you think you have a chance with him or something?

norry4 honestly hope they get caught making our or something just to upset y'all fake fans even more 💀

versthappenm don't listen to the haters bestie, we still love you ❤️

charlesgirlies 31 and still not settled down, maybe iris should focus on that instead of partying all the time 🤡

↳ carlandooo pretty sad you have to go and talk shit about y/n AND her friends just because she talks to charles, you're the clown here 🤡

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y/nverstappen posted on their story

charles_leclerc replied to your story

charles_leclerc

You're in Monaco again?

y/nverstappen

Yes

charles_leclerc

hanging out with Max?

y/nverstappen

Yes

charles_leclerc

And lando? 😉

y/nverstappen

You think I don't know what you did?

what do you want from me charles?

charles_leclerc

alright, I'm sorry..can we talk?

y/nverstappen

nah don't think that's necessary

it was never anything serious and never will be anything serious.

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Woman taglist @hockeyboysarehot @beatricemiruna @starwarssavy23 @be-your-coffee-pot @thecubanator2 @ironmaiden1313 @hanniesdawn @leclercdream @alexandralibbre @elliegrey2803 @watersquirtpewpewboomm @laneyspalding19 @whoreks @cha-hot @luciaexcorvus @emma34501 @sunny44 @roseseraj @goldenharrysworld @18754389 @graciewrote

[alpaca-clouds]

How to cook in a medieval setting

Alright. As some of the people, who follow me for a longer while know... I do have opinions about cooking in historical settings. For everyone else a bit of backstory: When I was still LARPing, I would usually come to LARP as a camp cook, making somewhat historically accurate food and selling it for ingame coin. As such I know a bit about how to cook with a historical set up. And given I am getting so much into DnD and DnD stories right now, let me share a bit for those who might be interested (for example for stories and such).

🍲Cooking at Home

First things first: For the longest time in history most people did not have actual kitchens. Because actual kitchens were rather rare. Most people cooked their food over their one fireplace at home, which looked something like what you see above. There was something made of metal hanging over the fireplace. At times this was on hinges and movable, at times it was set in place. You could hang pots and kettles over it. When it came to pans, people either had a mount they would put over the fire or some kind of grid they could easily put into place there with some sourts of mounts (like the two metal thingies you can see above).

If you have a modern kitchen, you are obviously used to cook on several cooktops (for most people it is probably four of them), while in this historical you obviously only had one fire. Of course, as you can also see in the picture above, you could often put two smaller pots over the flames or put in a pan onto the fire additionally. But yes, the way we cook in modern times is very different.

Because of this a lot of people often ate stews and soups of sort. You could make those in just one pot - and often could eat from the same stew for days. In a lot of taverns the people had an "everything stew" going, which worked on the idea that everyone just brought their food leftovers, which were all put into one pot everyone would eat from.

Now, some alert readers might have also noticed something: What about bread and pastries? If you only have one fireplace and no oven, how did people make bread?

Well, there were usually three different methods for this. The most common one was communal ovens. Often people had one communal oven in a neighborhood. Especially in a village there might just be a communal oven everyone would just put their bread in to bake. (Though often this oven would only be fired up once or twice a week.)

The second version to deal with this some people used was a sort of what we today call a dutch oven. A pot made either of metal or clay with a lit you would put into the hot coals and then put bread or pastries into that, baking it like that.

There was also a version where people just baked bread in pans on the fire, rotating the bread during the baking process. At least some written accounts we have seem to imply. (Never tried this method, though. I have no idea how this might work. My camp bread was mostly done in dutch ovens or as stickbread.)

Keep in mind that the fireplace at home was very important for the people in historical times. Because it was their one source of warmth in the house.

🏕️ Cooking at Camp

Technically speaking cooking at camp is not that different - with the exception of course that you have to drag all your supplies along. And while in Baldur's Gate 3 and most other videogames you can carry around several sets of full-plate armor and several pounds of ingredients so that dear Gale can whip something up... In real life as an adventurer running around you need to make decisions on what to take along.

If you have read Lord of the Rings, you might remember how many people have criticized Sam for actually dragging all his cooking supplies along and how sad he was for not being able to cook for most of the time, because they were very limited in taking ingredients along.

So, yes, if you are an adventurer who is camping out in the open, you will probably need to do a lot of hunting and gathering to eat during your travels. You can take food for a couple of days along, but not for a lot.

A special challenge is of course, that while you can cook food for several days when you are at homes, you do not want to drag along a prepared stew for several days. So usually you will cook in smaller batches.

A lot of people who were journeying would often just take along one or two pots along.

So, what would you eat as an adventurer travelling around while trying to save the world from some evil forces? Well, it would depend on the time of the year of course. You would probably hunt yourself some food. For example hares, birds or squirrels. Mostly small things you can eat within one or two days. You do not want to drag along half a dead deer. In the warm months you might also forrage for all sorts of greens. You also can cook with many sorts of roots. Of course you can also always look into berries and other fruits you might find.

Things you might bring with you might be salt and some spices. A good thing to bring along would be herbs for tea, too, because I can tell you from experience that water you might have gotten from a river does not always taste very well - and springs with fresh water are often not accessible.

Now, other than what you can access the basic ideas of camping fires and cooking with them has not changed in the last few thousand years. While modern people camping usually have a car nearby and hence will have access to a lot of ingredients. But the general ideas of how to build a fire and put a pot over it... has not really changed.

So, yeah.

Just keep in mind that for the most part in historical settings until fairly recently, there was not much terms of proper kitchens. People cooked over an open fire and hence had to get at times ingenius about it.

[joosthead]

skin || j.k. x f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ joost wants to make a song.

₊˚⊹⋆ for @spentandpent’s contest ���🩷 (2 months late)

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not dutch

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 10.3k

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (established relationship, consensual audio recording during sex, f!receiving oral, mirror, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, squirting, vibrator, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv, slight breeding kink, creampie), kind of really porny i can't lie. pwp. crying both out of (momentary) sadness and because cumming 🩷 reader🤝being total crybabies🤝juno

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “skin” by mac miller, “p power” by gunna

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: vibrator. go big or go home right 🩷 as always @howisjoostfanfictionforfree my partner in filth 🩷 @spentandpent for infecting me w the overstim brainworms 🩷 and lovely @xiaoflan for listening to me complain about this fic ! 😆🩷 i love and appreciate you all 🩷 the art for the header is by one of my amazing best friends <3

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

“Are you ready, mijn schat?” Joost asks in a soft voice, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. 

“Ready as I'll ever be, Joosti.” 

One of his nicest microphones is set up on your bedside table, wires crossing every which way, his laptop on the ground and hooked up to it.

This was an idea that came about spontaneously, as most things regarding Joost come about; on the train home together, sharing his wired earphones with each other and listening to your playlist of liked songs when Skin by Mac Miller came on. His ears perked up and his eyes brightened at the first few seconds, and you knew you were in for it. 

There’s a woman in the first few seconds—she sounds like she’s having a positively great time, mewling softly, panting in a way that sounds almost like you when Joost is fucking you good. This was on your playlist?!?! You couldn’t fathom a situation where you’d listen to this in public, but here you were, hearing it all as you watched Joost and his mouth drop open a bit. 

Your cheeks warmed and he poked you in the side—“Oh my god,” he said, taking your hand and shaking it. “You know what this means, right?” You shook your head no though you knew the answer—”Our turn!!!!!” He said it so loud that an old lady beside you gave him a dirty look, and he just smiled at her. “Can we? Can we?” 

“Joost.” 

“I just want to hear what it’s like—if I made a song and your beautiful voice was in the background like this or you were my little producer tag.” 

“Very creative,” you laughed, sarcastic. Secretly…you two aren’t exactly public about your relationship. He would post about your anniversaries, your birthday, Valentine’s Day, your vacations; they know you exist, and that he has a long-term girlfriend, but you were so private you were almost elusive. “You want my moan in the back of your song?” 

Something so…obvious under his belt. Something so loud. It was unlike you, and you knew it would never be released, at least not in the raw form he’d likely want it to be in, but it was still something. Something that made your stomach turn in that way that felt good and not scary, even with how rarely you were in the public eye.

You existed in the backgrounds of Joost, Appie, Alanis, Stuntje’s Instagram stories; you existed as a tag of a username, a pixelated and blurred out face in Joost’s photo dumps to protect your privacy. You exist out of the spotlight, in the background, not as the beat of his song, but you figure—it is only a matter of time until you join him in the sun. 

“Who better than you? I want you everywhere, schat. Your moan will become my trademark,” he reasons, and as always—master of persuasion, at least with you. “One time. And it’ll just be between us, okay? Or mostly for me, I love hearing you.” 

You decided in a quick second that you’d do it—all Joost has ever done is protect you, and even with your easily overthinking mind, this sounds fun as all hell to the little devil in your mind that wants everyone to know that he’s yours, you're his. No one else’s. Being possessive doesn’t come naturally in any other part of your life other than Joost. 

“Okay,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder, holding his hand in yours. “Let’s do it, Joosti.” 

“Wahhh—I love you!!!” Joost exclaimed, pressing a kiss to your forehead and going back to happily looking out the window. 

“Mijn meisje,” he says softly, and it makes your stomach turn, the smooth glide of his voice as you lie back onto your pillows. You imagine how it’ll sound in the mp3 file. “Thank you for doing this for me.” 

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, shaking your head. “We would’ve had sex anyway—why not make something of it?” 

“It’s a big deal to me.” 

You nod, “I can imagine.” Joost fiddles with a dial on the side of the microphone, presses a button somewhere else, tidies the wires. “What do you think it’ll sound like?” 

Joost snickers a little to himself before starting— “Agh! Joost! Fuck me harder!” he whines, high pitched and teasing. “Urgh, Joosti, you’re so huge inside of me!” 

“I do not fucking sound like that,” you laugh, slapping him on the shoulder to his barking laughter. “Schat, you’re so tight, I think I’ll cum in three seconds!” 

“Hey!” Joost says, laughing as he leans to you for a kiss. “Okay, it might be the truth but I think it’ll sound good. As long as it’s you, we should win a Dutch Grammy for this.”

Outside the window, it’s rainy; the roof is pelted with the droplets of water of an autumn in Amsterdam, loud and incessant and comforting. Your room in this old house is humid with the moisture, but you’re sure it’s mostly just the two of you and your warmth making it feel so stuffy. 

“We haven’t even made it yet and you want a Grammy?” 

“Why not? I know we’ll get one, don't doubt us,” he grins, slinking off the bed and crouching in front of his computer. Joost’s customary wired earphones are plugged into it and he places a bud in his ear. “Mic check, 1, 2, 3,” he says, Joost Klein style, the sound waves appearing on the screen. “This issssss me and my baby’s recording session number one—“

“Number 1? The only one, Joost.” 

“Okay, okay. Recording 1 of 1. Our ears only.” Pausing a little, Joost gets that expression on his face that lets you know he’s about to say something strange and he does: “Do you think we can make ASMR mouth sounds from this? Dutch kissing ASMR or something?”

“I think we can make more than mouth sounds when it comes down to it.” 

Joost laughs, lifting his computer and placing it on the corner of the table behind the mic; gets up close to it, whispering and tapping on the wood of your bedside table like the people in the ASMR videos you both watch at his behest before bed, “Explain to them what we are going to do, schat,” you laugh and he shushes you, “This is very serious work, we have to be quiet, shhhh.” 

“Uhm…” you say quietly, stifling back a snicker as you get close to the mic from the side. “We’re going to record us fucking—“

“Bad word, schat,” Joost whispers, shaking his head at you disappointedly, “Think about the advertisers.” 

Tapping on the metal body of the microphone, you roll your eyes and start again, “We’re going to have s-word—“

“That’s better.”

“And record the sound from it so Joosti can put it in a song,” you whisper and he nods, mouthing, “Good job!” and giving a thumbs up before he brushes aside your hair to put the other half of his wired earphones in your ear. 

Immediately, you’re met with the sounds of your shared soft breathing and Joost’s hollow tippy taps on the base of the mic. When he goes quiet, the pitter patter of the raindrops upon your roof are loud enough to hear clearly. “I turned up the sensitivity so we don’t have to move it around while we’re recording,” he says, and you nod. 

“I can hear that.” Every single sound and movement you make for the coming hours will be captured on this little waveform. Your voice echoes back to you in your ears, and you scrunch up your face. “I hate my voice.”

“I love your voice, mijn schat,” he says, getting on the bed in front of you. “Sounds even better when you’re saying my name.” Smiling at him, you settle back against your pillows in your prettiest pajama set, a camisole and a pair of loose shorts, both printed with small blue flowers all over. Joost takes the ribbed fabric of your shorts between his fingers, tickling your thigh, “This one is my favorite one.” 

“Every one is your favorite one,” you counter as you open your legs for Joost to sit between.

“As long as you are wearing it, schat—of course,” Joost says, sighing wistfully as he takes the earphones out from both your ears and drapes them on the nightstand. “Are you sure you don’t want to film? You’re so pretty.” 

You roll your eyes as he laughs—it was definitely a topic of conversation after the fact, recording video of it like you have a few times before, just isolating the sound after. You argued that the sound from a real microphone would be better, and he argued, “Why not both?” 

You shut it down, telling him that your room would just become your own personal porn studio if he did both and would never go back to normal, and he died of laughter as the old lady on the train gave you a shocked look and moved away.

No filming. At least not today. 

“Do you want your song, or do you want a video?” 

“That is an extremely hard decision, baby.” 

“Make it before I make it for you.” 

“I want my song,” Joost says, simply and finally, and you nod. 

“You’ll get your song.” 

Joost lies down on top of you and the weight is comfortable as he holds himself up with one hand and cups your face in the other. 

He hasn’t shaved in a few days, his stubble scratchy against your chin as he comes forward and kisses you, soft lips against yours, his body warm and heavy and already grinding his crotch against your center as he slides his hand up your side, bringing up the hem of your camisole. 

You’re hyperfocusing on all the sounds; you’re both quieter than normal, just the smack of your lips against each others, the licking of his tongue into your mouth; the sound of fabric against fabric as he grinds his hips into yours and groans, half-hard already; the shifting of Joost lifting your tank top and exposing your tits to his dilating blue eyes, getting back up off you on his knees. 

Joost runs his knuckles down the curve of your breast and over to the other, making your nipples pebble in the already cooling air, your muscles jumping and leaping with how sensitive you are. “How cute,” he murmurs, and your cheeks burn. There’s something different about him today—if you think about it, if you were a music artist and your girlfriend let you record audio of how good the sex is, you’d be cocky too. 

The confidence looks good on him, a small smirk on his lips as you gaze up at him through your eyelashes and take off your shirt completely, tossing it to the side and lying back again. 

Joost tugs on your shorts and you shimmy them down as he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, the sensation tying a knot in your stomach with want for him. “Why aren’t you taking off your clothes?” you ask, tilting your head to the side as he lies atop you again. 

“Just want to try something,” he says, placing a kiss between your breasts before he moves over to your nipple, taking it in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand. 

Grazing it lightly with his teeth, you let out a small hiss at the sensation before he closes his lips around it and sucks; your mouth drops open watching him as he does it, intent and content with his place on you. You just got him back after a month and a half away in Berlin working on music nonstop—you have an inkling that you both feel like this is where he belongs.

For a while, you both lie there as he mindlessly suckles at your tits, as you play with his hair and pretend like there isn’t a pool in your panties waiting to be addressed further than this—you don’t want to rush him. “Art can’t be rushed,” or whatever he says when he’s too busy editing visuals or tweaking his tracks in progress. 

Stifling back a sigh, you tug at the short hair on the nape of his neck, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak of your nipple. A tiny little mewl lets itself out of your mouth as he laps at it. Pulling back with a pop, nipping at the skin next to it—“Dude…” he starts. “You’re being… so quiet. Is someone a little shy, schat?” Joost grins, kissing you. 

You furrow your brows. You are but you’re not going to get called out by the most outgoing person you know like this. “No, I’m not.” 

“I think you are, you haven’t said a word.” 

“I’m not,” you insist, smiling once you realize that you have the perfect comeback. “You’re just not doing enough to make me say anything.” 

Joost’s entire face changes, falling completely flat with his eyes narrowed at you and you grin. “Oh, I haven’t done enough? Is that what you said, lieverd?” 

“I don’t wanna say it’s not enough. But definitely not enough to give you your Dutch Grammy award-winning sound bite. The pace you're moving, we’ll get a participation trophy at best.” 

“I’m not doing enough—I am lying on your tummy letting you berate me while I suck your boobs, don’t think I forgot about the last month!!!” he exclaims, voice rough and accusatory and silly, smile so wide as he jabs his finger in your face. “Don’t think I forgot!!!” 

“You’re still on that?” you laugh, squishing his cheeks, getting his hair out of his eyes. 

“Duh,” he grumbles. “It’s half the reason why I wanted to do this.” 

“Forgive me, then.” 

There’s been no time for you to call or Facetime him in this past month; only texting and one-sided voice messages from Joost pleading for you to send him a voice memo back but you’ve refused, either willingly or unwillingly. You’ve been so tired, your voice and energy all going to talking to clients and people in real life that you just couldn’t muster the strength to send him back any after a long day—Joost couldn’t call for long either, too occupied with the final touches on the album. 

He asked you one night, sleepy voice rasping about how he just wanted to hear you, and he sounded so hot—you texted back that you couldn’t sound sexy and all he said was that he didn’t care if you sounded sexy. He just wanted you. 

Still, you couldn’t let it happen.

Joost whined all the way up until his train home got to the station; all the way home in the car as you drove him and asked about his work; all the way up to now, pouting with his prickly chin on your bare chest and his arms wrapped around your waist. 

“If that isn’t enough, how far can I go to get my audio clip, then?” Joost asks. 

The both of you are competitive as can be with each other. 

So long ago, you bet him he couldn’t make you cum just from internal stimulation alone—he proved you wrong and then some. He bet you last year (and every year before that you’ve been together) that he could last all of November not cumming—you manage to prove him wrong anywhere from 2-5 days before his birthday on the 10th. Everything is a competition, everything is a game for you two, that’s what makes the relationship so fun. 

If you give Joost an inch, he’ll take a mile, and you know that better than anyone. 

“As far as you think it takes, Joosti.” 

Wordlessly, he gets up off from you and sits on the side of the bed facing the wall, in front of the mirror that’s there now—obtained at a swap meet somewhere in the city and hauled back by you both; standing against your wall, the top rounded in an arch, used mostly for outfit checks and Joost to try on a million different clothing pieces before he decides on things he wears all the time. 

“Sit between my legs, baby.” 

“Why should I do that for you?” 

“Because I want you to do it for me,” he says, looking back at you and patting his lap. “Here. Sit down or none of this will happen.” 

Usually, Joost is never so commanding—he’d rather ask you, sweetly and nicely to please do something for him. There isn’t a demanding bone in his body. And yet…

You take the seat between his legs and look at yourself as he hooks his fingers in the white and lacy waistband of your panties and pulls them down your thighs, down your calves. His lips ghost over the nape of your neck as he watches you in the mirror—Joost is always intense, always strong-willed, but it’s as if he’s come back a changed man.

“I want you to watch me do enough.” 

He hooks his hand under your right knee; you let him bring your leg up and drape it over his, spread wider than you’re used to. The same is done to the other leg; if you tried to close them, you’d be unable to. 

“I’ll get those sounds out of you if it kills me, lieverd.”

The cotton of his shorts, Tears as always; your shared necklaces resting on the chest hair that pokes out of the neckline of his wifebeater—they rub against your backside as you adjust your position on him, Joost’s warm and clothed body making your naked skin feel piping hot. 

He places his hands on your inner thighs, squeezing lightly. There is the feel; of his rough fingertips gliding against your silky skin, dancing across the jumpy nerves of the junction between your leg and the beginnings of the most sensitive parts of you.

“Do you know how hard it was for me not to hear your voice for so long, lieverd?” 

With his gentle hands, Joost spreads you open, exposing the most private part of you to both of your eyes, his chin hooked on your shoulder and looking down directly at it. You almost shrink into yourself, bringing you closer to his chest against your back, rising and falling steadily. In contrast, your breathing is so erratic, you feel as if your lungs might tire. 

The microphone will pick up your labored breathing, as much as you’re trying not to make a single sound; the mirror reflects your furrowed brow back at you as he dips his fingers inside, light and gentle, bringing the wetness back up to circle your clit slowly. 

“Mooi,” Joost murmurs, gazing intensely down at your form in his hands, putty in and between his fingers. “Look at you, hm?” 

You’ve done this so many times—watched as he’s fucked you, in the mirror or when you watch your bodies meeting, over and over again when he fucks into you, cock reaching your deepest parts. But today is something different, you can’t tell why, but it brings hot heat to your chest and cheeks, to see it so clearly. 

You can’t deny it—it’s you in that mirror, it’s you with your legs spread for him, it’s you. 

It’s Joost behind you, a mess of blonde hair, no glasses on today, his rough chin against your shoulder as he pets you slowly. 1982 exposing you, 1983 doing the rest of the work. 

“Als een mooie bloem, mijn lief,” he murmurs, two fingers spreading your lips, another rubbing your clit so gingerly you want to swear at him to go faster, harder, but you know he’ll just do the opposite of your wishes in this mood he’s in. 

“A flower?” you breathe out, and Joost smiles at you in the reflection. Still though, you know your words aren’t what he wants at the moment. 

“Pretty flower,” he says, and the smile is gone. 

The sound—the sound of his fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit, the wetness from your pussy all he needs to do so, not spit or lube or anything else. Just the slickness of the back and forth of his hands on you. 

The rain beats down on your roof, louder now, the backdrop for those filthy sounds coming from you. “You’re still so quiet, I think the mic will capture the rain more than you,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing and nipping at it. ”The quieter you are, the longer we have to do this.” 

“Is that really an issue?” you say, labored through the consistent circles of your clit. You turn away, looking at the side of his face—“Ah, my god,” you whisper, moaning softly as he brings his hand up to your nipple, rolling it between his fingers and kneading your breast. 

“Not really, but I question how much you can take.” 

“I can take a lot, you know that.” 

“If you can take a lot—why are you looking away?” 

He moves your chin gently so you're looking at yourself in the mirror again, and he’s looking at you so intently, pupils so blown out you'd almost think his irises were black. You look down at your pussy to avoid how burning his gaze is; watch as he pets at your entrance, and slides his two middle fingers inside, the stretch warm and all you’ve needed the past several minutes. 

Still you hold it back, chomping down on your bottom lip not to let any sound close to a real moan out—you’ve made the rules for yourself: not loud enough to be usable, the least amount of sounds possible, and the biggest one, proving to be the hardest as he continues…don’t say “Joost.” 

When Joost starts curling his fingers inside of you, pace slow as ever and he grinds the heel of his hand against your clit—you have to stifle a whimper, both at the sound, and the appearance of it, his fingers disappeared inside of you. “You’re really going to do this, lieverd?”

“I never said I’d make getting your song easy.” 

“I like a challenge.” Joost gives you a kiss to your temple and you smile even as he ceases his fingers moving.  “That's why you’re my girlfriend.” 

“Hey,” you giggle, and then stop giggling when he moves his fingers faster and it makes a truly blushworthy squelching noise come from inside you. He does it again—why would he stop, seeing the way your face screws up in pleasure in the mirror at the pads of his fingers on your g-spot? 

For some reason, you expected him to be nice about it, let you have a little break—but two can play this game, you know that well. 

Your wetness is louder than even the rain, his rhythm making the sound almost incessant. “Do you think we could make that the beat?” he thinks out loud and you give him a bewildered expression.

“You…no. One day I’ll understand your thought processes.”

“What do you mean? You already do.” 

You never realized how loud it could be to do any of this. Can people hear you so clearly all the time? Your neighbours, your roommates, strangers. 

The countless times you’ve fucked in backstage dressing rooms, club bathrooms, the backyard—this is what it sounds like? There is no mistaking it. On the audio recording, it’ll be even clearer. Your voice, high pitched and breathy. Joost’s voice, deep and low and rumbling against your neck. 

“How many people do you think, schat? How many have heard us?…I think they would like it, how it sounds when I’m inside you.” You shake your head, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tension in your chest rising at the same time at his words. 

“You're so wet, my baby, and this is only the beginning—what about when you cum? How loud do you think you are then? What will my fans think when they hear this, hm?” 

“Jo—mmm, fuck,” you sigh, stopping yourself from saying his name. 

This shame and arousal growing inside of you—they’re like two sides of the same coin for you, and they accompany that tightening in your stomach, so close to cumming. The impish and petulant devil on your shoulder tells you not to do it so quickly, not to let Joost get what he wants after you agreed so eagerly to this entire thing.  

You screw your face up, thinking of… paperwork and saying bye to Joost at the airport and sad kittens in animal shelters—you have never actively avoided an orgasm in your life, but this is working quite well, and it seems to be obvious. 

“Schat, are you serious right now?” You open your eyes to see yourself and Joost behind you, his lips a straight line, no amusement to be found on his normally jovial face. “What are you doing?” 

“Being a challenge, I thought you knew,” you say, voice more wavering than strong—your eyebrows furrow, a sheen of sweat on your forehead as Joost continues crooking his fingers right into your g-spot. Almost immediately, you lose your focus on keeping your climax away, melting into the pleasure of his thick fingers fucking you open. 

“Say my name, baby, that’s all I want from you.” 

“No,” you say softly, turning your head and resting it back on his shoulder—he knows what you want, and he can’t resist you. “Please?”

Joost looks at you, blue eyes so warm you almost think he’ll give you what you’re asking—a kiss, his lips on yours, but he only gets so close that your noses brush, that all you can do is breathe into his mouth and hope he gets closer. 

You try to adjust yourself, but he holds you in place with his forearms, still thrusting his fingers inside of you, your face contorting in pleasure with every single move he makes closer and closer to your face, tipping you right over the edge, right where your climax is and then—

Nothing. 

As quickly as he moved them, Joost takes his fingers out of you, resting them wet on your thigh as you tense with what you thought was going to be an orgasm, a tidal wave of bliss flowing through you. In reality, the waves subside quicker than usual without him fucking you through it, and the sensation is ruined—almost completely.

Pathetically, you let out a whimper, can’t even let out the moan or the gasp of his name he wants so badly, that’s how miserable it feels. Joost’s never done that with you before—he’s always gotten you to the peak and rode down with you through it, kissing and licking and petting you through it and even past that point, mischievous and pushing your buttons when you swear at him to give you a break from all the bliss. 

“Joost,” you pout, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned. “Fuck you.” 

“Fuck me? You weren’t doing what I wanted, schat, why should you get a good one out of that?” Joost scoffs, and though he doesn’t seem too serious, breathing heavily against your back with you, you can’t help but feel like you did something so wrong. “You’re playing too much.”

It makes sense now—he asked you for one thing—one thing. 

Wasn’t much to ask, either. Microphone and equipment straight from his yet to be unpacked suitcase. Joost’s one reprieve from album mode until he’d take the train back for him and Tantu to do a final once over on every single track. This stage in the process takes weeks, sometimes even months—pushing too many buttons on the control panel, their soundboards and computers and plans all prodded and poked and pushed to the limit until the project is the amalgamation of their creative vision and perfection.

This time, you pushed too many buttons; through all of this, you’ve forgotten that Joost has been at home less than 24 hours, that the train ride from Berlin to Amsterdam was 6 hours long with no stops, no wi-fi, no you to soothe his worries, only album preparations far past his self-imposed deadlines and his own thoughts. 

You’re both workaholics—it’s why you get along so well, but it means that you know better than anyone that the last thing you’d want to be after so long is annoyed, and annoyed on purpose at that. 

When he’s as petulant as you’ve been so far, you know that you can get annoyed as well, asking him to just—stop. And he does, but you couldn’t do that for him. Joost has gotten frustrated with you before, sure, it happens enough that you’re not so affected by it anymore. 

But he’s never been so frustrated before that he’s ruined your orgasm. For some reason, the expression on Joost’s face, the heat of the moment, the dull pulse between your legs at both your immense need for him and the emptiness you feel at such a clipped climax has you emotional and overanalyzing the last half hour, every bratty quip of yours, every response from him. 

“I’m really sorry, I know you had a long few days, I shouldn’t have—” Water lines your eyes, and you try to blink it away when you ask in a weak voice, “Are you mad at me?” You feel terrible. Embarrassed. 

Joost meets your eyes in the mirror, eyes widening in surprise at your emotions strung so tight; you break, a tear running down your cheek which you quickly wipe away because you feel like you're making a big deal out of things and it’s just—aghhh!!!!

“No, my baby, of course not,” he smiles, face sympathetic, lips pouting at his baby being so emotional. Such a reaction would usually make you roll your eyes at him, but he’s so sweet, you have to nuzzle closer to him. “Come here,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and letting you curl up in his lap. “You’re so cute, mijn schat,” he coos, giving you a wet kiss on the cheek as he hugs you tight. 

Joost is so kind to you, it makes you feel a bit silly—not in a bad way, just one where you’d never think you’d be sitting on his lap, naked, being comforted about having your orgasm ruined by him. Almost five years of this kindness, you’re not sure you’ll ever be used to it. 

“I just got a little frustrated that’s all, none of it was serious, okay? I thought it would be a little fun for us to try something new like that, but I should’ve talked about it with you before—I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, wiping your eyes a little. “Just don’t look so serious next time, I really thought you were angry.” 

“I got too in the moment, I guess.” Joost moves your hair aside and kisses you on the lips, tender and sweet. “I’ll make up for it, I promise you.” 

With that, you nod, letting him kiss you, letting him suck your lower lip in his mouth and then lick into yours, touch so devastatingly slow it almost makes you whine again with anticipation. Joost places a gentle hand over your throat, giving it a small squeeze, and he laughs when you moan, quiet and stifled into his mouth at the pressure. “You know, you’re very pretty when you’re desperate,” he says softly when he pulls away, and your cheeks burn. 

“I could say the same about you, Joosti.” He noses at the side of your face, and you melt at the feeling of his skin on yours. “Am I not pretty all the time?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t start, schatje. Gorgeous, beautiful angel—is that what you want me to say? Lie down and hold your legs back.” 

Quickly, you get off of him and lie back down on the bed on your mountain of pillows, and he takes his place sitting between your legs, wet fingers running through your folds as he takes a look at you, all of you. “Aren’t you pretty?” 

He takes your left hand, kisses your palm then your fingers, then he places it firmly on the back of your left knee. He does the same for your right side, then lies in between your open legs, staring, examining. One finger down your slit, collecting your wetness on the tip—Joost leaves a bite on the meat of your ass, trailing kisses all the way until he kisses over your entrance, over your clit. 

You breathe heavily with anticipation, but still, you find it in you to tease. “Doing a lot of silent things for an audio recording, Joosti.” 

“Not silent—all of it is important, every second.” He shakes his head to 

“Defeats the whole purpose of the audio? Doesn't it?” You smile, flexing your ankles, feeling your muscles stretch as Joost teases your clit with his index finger, makes you open your legs wider. “The whole point is to record how good you make me feel, right?” 

“You want to be silent so badly for me, you want to play around so much—why are you calling me out for it? That I want us to have fun?” Joost rolls his eyes, but then smiles at you, trying to soothe the burn. “I like when you play,” he murmurs, then spits on your pussy, making you full body shiver when you do. “Play even more, let’s make this recording go hours.”

“And I’ll cum all I want?” 

“Careful what you wish for.” Joost rubs the spit over your bud, spreading you with two fingers and petting at it with another. “Als een prinses, schatje. Spoiled.” 

“Spoiled,” you mock, and he shakes his head at you, grinning. 

You probably shouldn’t rile Joost up so much—it’s too late for you to save yourself when he dives in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The spit and silky softness of his tongue make you keen, how good it feels to have him on you, his lips sucking so much, so good, so wet. 

The slide of Joost’s finger inside of you surprises you, how gently he pets against your spot internally as he laps at your pussy; you sigh, having to close your mouth on purpose to not make any sound. He sucks your clit between his lips, tightening, loosening, several seconds passing as he continues the pattern, making you groan with the feeling of him eating you out so well. It’s too much; you cry out when it hits what feels like 10 minutes with his tongue on you, but is really only 20 seconds at most. 

Too much, so good—bucking your hips up, you squirm, futile against his strong hands holding you down by the backs of your knees folded almost to your chest as he drinks you in, the wet sound of his mouth smacking against you so humiliatingly wonderful you could cry. How are you supposed to stay silent now? 

“I’ll never get enough of this, lieverd,” he says before diving back in, lips wrapped around your clit as you moan out at the suction, whining as you hold onto his arms for support, because pushing against him is no use—either way, who are you kidding? The last thing you want is for him to stop, especially after that first “orgasm”. Completely breathless, you stop trying, tired hips back on the damp bed sheets. 

“Good girl, baby,” Joost praises at your defeat, your finally being subdued. The nickname makes you shudder, arousal pooling deep in your stomach, and you squeeze at his arms for some sort of comfort in response. 

Joost nips at the thin and sensitive skin of your inner thigh and it makes you yelp, then he comes back and licks through you again, fucking his tongue inside of you. 

There’s no sense of organization or pattern anymore with what he’s trying to do—he’s lost it. He’s lost it. 

Your climax hits you like a freight train, your stomach and thigh muscles spasming, any control you had—lost. “Mmmf…fuck!” you exclaim, throwing your head back on your pillows as Joost keeps sucking your clit through your orgasm, white on the edges of your vision at how intense he’s doing it. “Ugh… shit!” you cry, panting out when he keeps going.

“It’s only a matter of time until you give me what I want, schatje,” he says in a quiet, sing-song voice, then attaches himself back to you. Your clit is practically numb with pleasure now, and yet, the waves are rolling through you, erratic and wonderfully uncomfortable. 

You laugh out, tears at the edges of your eyes at how intense your nerves feel, how fried they are—“Joost, enough!” and he lets up off you. He sits back up and pouts at you, lips and cheeks wet with your arousal. 

“‘Jooooooost!!!’” He laments, cursing at the sky in jest, and you laugh at how dramatic he is. “The line is ‘Joost!!’ Lieverd! Joost!!!” he says his own name in a weird, breathy moan that you’re half sure really will make it to a final draft of a song of his. 

Holding yourself up, legs open and so wet between them, you purse your lips for a kiss, which Joost gives you. “You said we can make the recording go hours—I’m sure I’ll say it one of these times.” 

“Okay, I’m glad I say the recording can go long—I will need a minute.” As Joost pulls back, you tilt your head to the side; he sounds… strange. Embarrassed, almost, and his cheeks are pink, and he can’t look you in the eye anymore, completely different from your ravenous and intimidating boyfriend from 45 minutes ago.  “I think I came in my pants.” 

“You’re kidding,” you scoff, throwing your head back and laughing.

Joost gets back up off the bed, stands. “Do I look like I'm kidding?” he says, pointing down to the wet spot on his crotch—he must’ve ground against the bed too much, how cute. 

“You haven’t done that since we started dating,” you laugh, watching as he strips off his shorts and his underwear looks just as bad. 

“Well, I did it again. Your fault. This sucks.” Joost shimmies down his boxers, picking them up and throwing them in the hamper; it hangs on the rim, he’s already soft, and he looks at you so dejectedly, then at the ground. You start to say ‘aww’ —he’s so cute and pathetic this way, but he wags a finger at you, saying,  “Do not say ‘aww’ at my dick, you’re annoying,” and it makes you laugh harder until he’s laughing too, climbing on the bed and kissing you sweetly, pulling back only to take off his shirt and then immediately come back to you. 

Laying atop you, he wraps his lips around your nipple, pulling at it gently with his teeth as you wince in the pain and the pleasure. Joost lays his tongue flat against it, laps at it, switches to the other one. 

“I just love you,” he sighs, latching onto you again immediately after, and it makes you smile—insatiable, truly. 

A few moments of this—letting Joost lave over your skin, the stiff peaks of your breasts, sucking hickeys into the meat of them—and he’s ready to sit back against the headboard together. 

Your legs are open and his hand is between them in an instant, running his fingers along your skin. It feels strangely electric…not his fingers on you, but his arm against yours, the side of his sweat-sheened body against your hip, what it feels like to see “Thanks for today” on his collarbone and your name and lipstick mark tattooed on the other side of his neck forever. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by Joost’s voice—“Why aren’t you saying my name, hm?” he says, gazing at your lips, his nose brushing against yours. You press a chaste kiss to his chin as he circles your clit, spreading your wetness around with his fingers. “It’s mean. It is sinister, what you’re doing.” 

“You’re gonna have to work for it, I’m serious.” 

“I will work overtime, I’ll be just like you,” he smirks, and shuts you up when he attaches his lips to yours, slips his middle fingers inside of you, grinds the heel of his hand on your clit as you gasp into his mouth, let him move down and suck at your jaw, your pulse point. 

The concentration it takes not to lose it makes your eyebrows knit together. He murmurs, “Do you hear that, my love? Do you hear how wet I make you?” says it into your open and mewling mouth, the sound of it all—the squelch of your wetness at the behest of his fingers fucking your pussy. You’re beholden to him, and he enjoys it so much. The person you are at work and in life; normally so collected, preferring the comfortable quiet of your life together, now so bold to let him do this. 

“Wat een mooi geluid, mijn meisje. You have me under your spell—what will happen when everyone hears this? Your siren song, hm? Is that what you want? Everyone to know how good I make you feel?” 

The surprise on everyone’s faces that you could sound like this, all because of Joost—goofy, grinning, laughing Joost. Serious as ever about coaxing these sounds out of you as he kisses you slowly, tongue so languid on yours, tempting you, seducing you into giving him what he wants. 

You’re almost delirious, the bubbling of laughter rising in your body as you grip onto his arm, so big, three of Joost’s thick fingers nestled inside of you and curling against your spot, stroking it with no abandon. You’re stretched thin around him, squirming and twitching with the rising peak coming to a head in your body. 

He doesn’t even thrust his middle fingers in and out of you; only keeps them there, deep and to the knuckle inside of your pussy as he curls his fingers inside of you again and again, petting and petting and petting at the most sensitive part inside of you. At the same time, he circles your clit with his thumb—you could almost pass out with how good it feels, how hot you are in this room, rain beating on your roof, his mouth on yours and receiving every single moan and breath you put out. 

The only thing absent is a crackling fire and a bottle of wine to fit the mood, but you can’t really complain. 

“Happy?” he asks, smiling. 

“Joost,” you choke out, eyebrows furrowing as you gaze at him, then close your eyes, touching your forehead to his, clutching his bicep, the challenge to yourself not to say his name all but forgotten. 

“Yeah, baby?” Joost grins—in the pursuit of his craft, your boyfriend has turned evil. 

“I feel like…” you start, face screwed in pleasure, words stolen from you by his curling fingers, confused at this feeling inside of you you’ve never felt before. “I just feel…” 

“What is it, baby?” Joost teases, fucking into you, devilish. “Can you tell me? Can you use your words, like I’ve been asking you to?” 

“I’m gonna…” 

Burning hot and building up and up and up inside of you, in your stomach, in your chest, your tired thighs tensing the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens and tightens until it snaps, hard and fast; you don’t even realize the curses and almost chanting of his name tumbling out of your mouth as you look down and see—

Clear liquid runs down from your pussy, down your ass as you groan out, a punched out moan tumbling from your lips. The wet squelch around his still moving fingers even louder now—oh my god? There’s wetness beneath you now, a small laugh of disbelief coming from Joost as you gush all over his fingers and hand and writhe with your powerful climax, the bed under you wet, the comforter wet, everything wet, and all because of Joost. 

You whine and he nods, smiling at you. “Schatje…I didn’t think it would work…”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing and half embarrassed at the mess you’ve made, panting and completely out of breath. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?! Mijn schat, that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, I think.” He takes his fingers out of you with a sound that makes you cringe, and holds his hand in the air, fingertips dripping with your wetness, shiny and slick. You had no idea you could even do that, let alone feel whatever white hot pleasure was ripping through you while you did, and you laugh at his amazement with your hands over your mouth. 

“We’ll have to change the sheets again,” you pout once you realize—you just changed them yesterday before he got here, and the other set of sheets is dirty. Ughhhhh. 

“I’ll wash the other sheets—I would change them a million times over if it meant you doing that again.”

“We’ll run out of sheets before that happens, Joost.” He hates changing the sheets, but he’s so desperate for it, obviously. 

“I’ll make new ones,” Joost says proudly, then kisses you. “Please don’t worry about the bed. I’ll take care of it, and to be honest, I would like you to mess it up even more.” Kiss on your lips. Your worries have melted away with it. “You were so good to me, yet I still didn’t get my song. Tell me, why is that, mijn schat? You want me to torture you for longer?” he says softly, kissing you on the lips. 

“It’s not torture,” you breathe out and Joost laughs. “I said your name, what more do you want from me?” 

“It’s not torture? Is that right?” he asks, and you nod, coming up to kiss him again,  “I want to be inside you, lieverd, that’s what I want.” 

Only now do you notice that he’s hard again—the same hand he used to finger you wrapped around his cock, your wetness his lubrication alongside the precum drooling from his tip. “That’s what you’ll get, then,” you say, sweet and smiling and so ready for it even after Joost has had his way with you for what feels like hours now. 

It’s your wetness that’s darkened Joost’s arm hair and the hair on his stomach; your wetness facilitating his sharp sighs as he pleasures himself to the sight of you, the thought of you, the sound of you. 

Beaming, Joost turns away to the side. “If it isn’t obvious to you, the audience,” he says into the microphone in a silly voice. “This is the first time I’ve made her squirt, and she still wants me so bad!! What the fuck!! I am sooo so lucky!!! What amazing sight, wow. Shoutout lieverd, for real!!” Your laugh is sure to be captured in the background, your small “Shoutout Joosti!” too. Joost turns back to you—”My one in a trillion, baby,” a kiss to your lips, your body being laid on the damp sheets again and your legs opening in response. 

“mijn_schatje_loml_voor_altijd_TANTUPLSDONOTLISTEN.mp3” has been running for 1 hour, 33 minutes, 8 seconds, 3 milliseconds—feels like so much longer. Joost lies between your legs again on his stomach, his cheek on your thigh, his calves in the air swinging and happy and him batting his eyelashes at you “innocently.” “Dickhead,” you laugh, knowing he wants to put his tongue on you again, and he laughs too. 

“Your favourite one, though, right?” 

“Yes, my favourite one.” You roll your eyes at his giggles but smile nonetheless at him. “I want you inside me, Joosti, don’t make me wait, please.” 

Joost holds up a finger—“One criticism—”

“Already?!” you exclaim. “What is it?” 

Joost gets up off of you and goes to the dresser to the side of your bed. You tilt your head in confusion—there isn’t much in there he could need for the rest of this, but he seems to be determined. “I think it’s the cutest thing when you call me Joosti and I never want you to stop doing that,” he starts, rummaging through the drawer. “But I think for the sake of the song, or your part in it, it would be better if you just said ‘Joost.’ Can you do that?” 

“I can do that, Joost,” you tease, your perfectionist musician of a boyfriend coming out in full force. 

“Good, good, schat. Now can you say it while I’m using this on you?” 

Joost turns around holding…Ole Reliable, the name you both call a taupe vibrating wand that was your best friend before you two started dating, is your best friend when he’s gone for longer than a month or two and your fingers aren’t enough when you two are FaceTiming…to Joost’s absolute displeasure. When he’s home, it hides in your underwear drawer—but trust, he knows where it is. 

“Be serious, Joost,” you laugh in disbelief. There’s no way that Ole Reliable will be part of this with how much lighthearted vitriol Joost has treated it in the past, calling it his “mortal enemy,” his “biggest competition.” This isn’t real. 

“It takes you like, 3 hours to cum after I’ve made you cum so many times, this will help,” he shrugs, and he’s right. You’re so overstimulated at this point that he’d have to fuck you for longer to get you over the edge, but the vibrator is a bit overkill—it’s powerful, and you’ve made your own legs shake with it countless times, with or without Joost. 

“I think I’ll end up…squirting—ew, I hate that word—even more if you use it.”

“It’s not so bad of a word, mijn schat. And either way—bed is already dirty. Why not go all out so we don’t have to clean up again?” 

Joost makes a good point, and you know he’ll want to see more of your newfound ability later on—minimizing the cleanup later sounds good, so you lie back, open your legs, run your fingers through your wet folds as his eyes widen at your eagerness. “Let’s go all out,” you giggle and he flops on top of you, exclaiming, “Yayyyyy!!!” 

It’s slow, the way he hooks your legs over his thighs, long presses the button of the vibrator, presses it again once so it turns on completely, and then recoils in surprise when he presses the largest button again and again. “Whaaattt the fuck, I didn’t know there were so many patterns in it. That is crazy. You use this?! What is ‘thumping feature.’ There are so many buttons. What…” Joost looks at it in wonder, the vibrations sure to be going through his entire forearm—that thing is strong, and you know it. 

“There are only 2 buttons, Joost.”

“That is a lot to me.”

Cycling it back to the lowest, most tame setting, he places the head on your clit, gentle; you hiss at the waves coming through you, even at the lowest rate it could possibly go. “Do you like that, baby?” he asks, voice low, other hand coming down to slip a finger in your pussy. “You look like you love it.” 

Nodding, Joost takes your hand and wraps it around the handle of the wand, and you hold it against yourself as he jerks his cock between your legs, enveloping the warm head of it in your entrance. It slips in so nice—you’ve been ready for it for hours now, you'd be surprised if it didn’t just slide in. Your eyes roll back, the back of your head hitting the wire frame of your bed, the vibrations coursing through you and his big cock parting your slit. 

“Oh, fuckkk, schat,” Joost moans as he sinks into your soaking wet pussy. “So fucking wet, baby, you feel so good.” 

Breathless, you nod, as Joost glides right in; he’s thick, but you're so wet. Three orgasms and counting for you, it’s so easy now. Angling the vibrator, you move it so you can see it all—how messy it is when he pulls his hips back to adjust how he’s thrusting into you, his pubes and happy trail wet with your juices, the hair on his thighs wet as well. What a mess you’ve made. 

“Oh my god—“ he says, rolling his neck back in pleasure once he finally bottoms out inside of you, the wand pressed against his pelvis just as much as it’s pressed against yours.  Joost bites his lip, shaking his head. Not so much of a mortal enemy, after all, is it? “How do I compete with this thing…” 

“This thing could never be you, Joost,” you breathe, and it’s true. So tired, so happy, you’re a little emotional about it for some reason. 

How he holds you so warm and safe and tight, always, never a question on if he wants and loves you—he always does and always will. In bed together like this, sheltered from the rain in your home together, your cats scratching at the door and a whole life ahead of you; on the train giggling with each other about the middle-aged and elderly side-eyeing his barking and boisterous laughter; in club bathrooms and snow covered curbs and swimming pools in your backyard and the couch downstairs. 

The rest of the world should be envious about what you have, who you hold. Joost, this house, that audio recording, and you, forever. 

“Hehe!” Joost leans over to the microphone and gloats into it, “Me—1! Vibrator—zeroooo! Hahahahah!” 

You laugh—and this, forever. You could never trade this in. 

Pulling Joost in, you kiss him sweet and slow, little thrusts of him inside of you as he moans into your mouth incessantly, every breath of his a whimper, it must feel so good—buried balls deep in your pussy, vibrator against your clit and pressed against the few centimeters of shaft that can’t fit in you when he begins thrusting inside of you sloppily, the hollow clap of his hips against you filthy as you moan out his name against the humming backdrop of the toy you're using together. 

Every nerve in your body winds itself tight around the coil in your stomach as he fucks into you, a smooth and steady rhythm that makes you lose yourself, trying to wrap yourself around him, wanting to devour him whole, wanting to make it so it’s just you and him and no one else in the world, no one outside these walls, no one else. With Joost breathing into your mouth, his sweaty bangs tickling your forehead, the taste of his tongue on yours—there might as well be no one on this earth except you and him. 

“I can't do it, Joost, it’s too much,” you whine as he keeps driving into you—god, you want it so badly, but three and a half orgasms later and you’re entirely spent, letting him do all the work as you moan loudly, no control over yourself or your body. The vibrator is pressed flush against your clit and gets you to the precipice faster than you’d like right now. 

“You can do it, baby,” he coos, and you know there’s no way to get out of this. Either way, you wouldn’t want to, legs wrapped around him, the buzzing of the vibrator such music to your ears, the feeling of his cock driving into you and Joost, a warm and heavy and perfect weight atop you. As you claw at his shoulders, his back, he holds you open with his strong hands, your squirming no match for his strength with every deep seat of his cock inside of you. “I know you can, you can do it.” 

When he says it, you believe it; you have to bite and suck at his neck in order to focus on keeping it together long enough for him to cum, apologizing to Lola in your head at your treatment of her, how she’ll be blooming purple and red by the time the sun rises tomorrow. Joost ruts into you, pressing the vibrator hard to your clit and it’s so…it’s so much, the mattress squeaks with how spirited his hips are against you, loud slaps of skin against skin and your name, his name, intertwined on this wavelength, on this track for everyone to hear. 

“Joost…fuck, Joost!” you cry out again and again, tears coming to your eyes with how hard and fast your orgasm rips through you, repeating Joost’s name like a prayer, an oath, gushing around him and too fucked out to kiss back properly when he licks into your mouth, grounding you back to this bed even as you sob out in pleasure, fat tears rolling down your cheeks at how amazing he’s making you feel. “I love you,” you breathe, blissed and fucked out tears streaming down your cheeks at how good it feels, all open and airy. 

“Why are you all sappy, baby? ‘Cause I’m fucking you so well?” Joost teases, pressing wet kisses to your tear stained cheeks, your mouth bitten red with his nips, his kisses all throughout this. 

“Yes, I love you, Joost,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him closer even if it means the vibrator gets pushed even harder against your aching clit. 

He laughs, continuing his feverish thrusting as he finally gives you the kiss you want. “I love you too, mijn hart.” 

You don’t notice him fumbling around on the side table as he kisses you, bringing the wired earphone from the nightstand back to your ear, your eyes widening in surprise. 

“Do you hear that, mijn schat?” The feedback, his voice, doubled and almost echoing as you hear it in real life and it plays out in your ears, delayed. You have to try and dampen the rest of your senses to focus on what you’re hearing. The slopping of his hips against your ass, the low pitched vibrations of the wand, his voice. 

Joost’s voice that distracts you until you’re snapped out of it by him pulling out, stroking his cock and panting heavily, cheeks and chest and neck pink with exertion, skin shining with sweat. “What are you doing?” you mumble. 

“You’ve already done so much, schat,” Joost breathes, and you shake your head, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. 

“Finish what we started, I want it all.” 

Obediently, Joost nods, inching himself back inside you again; it sounds so wet in your ears, the microphone capturing every gritty detail, every squelch of yours and his. 

“Schat, I wanna…fuck, I wanna cum inside you so bad,” he whines, erratic thrusting with every word, losing it again, losing the practiced, methodical musician that you know so well. Even with his whining, his voice is deep, needy, chanting your name like you moaned his. “Wanna…fuck, I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I want everyone to hear it, see it, know you’re mine…mine, mine, mine…”

“Yeah, baby?” you smile, his cheek laid against your tits as he grinds against you, then goes back for long, deep strokes inside of you. Joost groans so loud against your skin, spit and sweat on the softness of your breasts; so overwhelmed, he takes your nipple in his mouth and sucks, nipping at you through his own orgasm, stuttering his hips into your pussy.

Warm ribbons of Joost’s cum paint your insides and fill you up so well, your moans finally joining his as he comes down from his high, moaning and sobbing out your name, lieverd, schat, collapsing on your chest and heaving for his breath again as you catch yours once more, satisfied with your recording together. 

“That a good enough song for you, Joost?” you smile, eyes already closing with the bliss of such a good recording session together. 

“Dutch Grammy worthy, mijn meisje,” Joost breathes, and you laugh as he reaches to the side and shuts his laptop, ending your recording. “How about another recording session later?” 

—

A month later and you’re carrying a paper bag of takeout from a few blocks down, earphones blasting a new demo from Joost and Tantu, using the spare key under Tantu’s doormat to get into his apartment from the cold. You set down the bag on the counter of his tiny kitchen, place the key back under the doormat, get three bowls together to split the takeout between, get utensils and glasses of water and what have you before you enter the bedroom studio. 

The takeout fights you tooth and nail; cheap food spilling everywhere, oil and sauce and vegetables on the counter and the rims of the bowls that you have to wipe up with the one (1. ONE!) paper towel left on the roll in the kitchen. Is this what happens when Ruby isn’t in town and they’re in album mode? You figure it must.  

You manage to wrestle it all together precariously, using every square centimeter of the one paper towel you have in your arsenal before picking up all three bowls—two of them nestled in your left arm, one of them held in your right hand. 

The door to the bedroom is closed shut—your arms are full, and you spend a few moments fussing about how to get in without having to go back into the kitchen and set down the food, but you hear Tantu and Joost’s muffled voices through the door. 

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have skipped ahead—“

“You should've never played it, Tantu!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have kept it on your desktop for anyone to see! With my name on it!” 

You tilt your head in confusion, and then knock on the door with your foot; in an instant, Tantu opens it for you, and you hear, loud and clear: “I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I w—” before Joost slams the laptop shut and says, “Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

2 fics in a few weeks!! lfg!!! i hope you enjoyed!! <3 thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) they keep me writing!! askbox anon on hereeee - juno

[omgwhatchloe]

sometimes you need a break from sad and need to imagine modern au gang having a nice picnic in which they did not invite dutch or micah (who is convincing dutch hes being betrayed right now)im thinking

dutch: they’re probably all out there now…talking to those agents…taking the bribes…

then the camera cuts to arthur sketching bill and cain, who are playing at the other side of the field

hosea is aggressively applying sunscreen to sean because he wont put it on himself

lenny is reading and accidentally eating all the baby tomatoes that are meant for sandwiches

tilly and marybeth are making daisy chains while karen is asleep

john and jack are also asleep and john has wrapped his arms around jack, whos on his chest (abigail has taken 105 pictures and counting). they’ll be knocked out the whole time, they ate so much cookies and cheese and chips/crisps and cakes and sandwiches it was inevitable.

charles is laying on arthur and watching him sketch. hes not asleep though, hes just resting his eyes, trust me.

molly applied her sunscreen and is now getting the tan she deserves. she wonders why she feels so much calmer without dutch there.

there were horses in the nearby field so. you know what kierans up too.

after being attacked with sunscreen (hes irish and ginger, its for his own good) seans making his eighth sandwich with all the toppings. hes also telling everyone about when him and his da would go for picnics, and they find it quite wholesome so they dont stop him until he gets tearful.

sadie is eating strawberries and praying a horse kicks kieran or the farmer shoots him.

javier brought his guitar but hes eating, so he’ll play later. he cant even tell a story because his mouth is full of so much cookie.

miss grimshaw is protecting the food with her life from the pesky ants, seans legs when he constantly gets up and down, and lenny.

strauss is making the most ungodly food combos, he also had a picnic 20-30 years ago that ended in absolute trauma, so he’ll be sure to fill the gang in on that. lovely change from seans story.

uncle wasn’t invited. hes asleep somewhere in the field because he came anyway. he also took a box of cookies. (arthur thinks hes going crazy because he swore he bought another box but its nowhere to be found)

reverend is admiring the scenery, he finds it a good distraction for the early days of staying sober.

abigail is playing photographer for her kind of big instagram following shes not meant to have.

[maskedteaser]

I feel you about rdr2, I feel like I'm walking through a desert with no water😭

But if you don't mind me requesting something...

Maybe Sean or Kieran (or whoever you want, I'm fine with anybody) with a crush on s/o who's just an absolute ray of sunshine and they're too nervous to ask s/o out because of this

hii! i'm so glad to be able to do my first request ever! hope you like it! I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes - english is not my first language! requests are open. Sorry it took so long to write - it is like...my second time writing an actual thing with plot in english! [not proofread i'm sorry i cringed too hard when i tried to read it] CW: none? i think? mentions of alcohol if you squint in javier's part the spanish petnames he uses are feminine(?) but i think there is no other use of any gender comfirming things so i guess it's gender neutral reader fic? ALSO THEY ARE PROBABLY OOC IM SO SORRY :((( 05.06.2024. signed TEASER 📺 [ BANNERS ARE MADE BY ME! ]

SEAN MACGUIRE

You were ethereal in his eyes. Always shining, blooming, filling every space you were in with joy and feeling of safety. Soft hair sparkling in the sun, pupils always wandering around, looking for a sad soul to cheer up. Hands in the air, moving around uncontrollably when you tried to tell a story, gesturing the things that you were imagining. Truly mesmerising, he felt like he just had to have you, but his every attempt at flirting with you was just taken as a joke, rewarded by a small smile from you, a little giggle, and it broke his heart, making it rush at the same time.

But Sean MacGuire was an impatient man. Impatient and so obvious with his emotions. Expressive, always made it known when he felt good or bad, when he was falling apart (which was a really rare sigh anyways) or his heart was full of passion. But you made it easy to feel euphoric and then send him to the lowest mental state he could ever be. He couldn't wait to tell you how he wanted you to be his and only his, but for some reason - you were always busy, someone always wanted to talk with you, stealing your attencion. And when you were free, he was too stunned to speak. That never happened in his entire life! His never ending monologue, his mouth that was always talking, everything stopped. Sean MacGuire smiled, excused himself for bothering you and left, leaving you confused but a smile didn't leave your soft lips. He was sitting alone, planning a new way to confess to you. Never in his life would he admit that he was, simply but truly, scared. Of rejection? Maybe. Or of the fact that you might take it as a joke. That would be even worse in his eyes. Sean suddenly remembered the fact that Arthur one day came up to him and asked about his relationship with you, he said that it was so horrendously obvious that he likes you, that he's sweet on you, but he also told him that he might be too simple for you. Too straightforward but at the same time - not cultured enough. Bascially telling him that he might be too dumb for you, straight into his poor face, into his lost puppy eyes. The truth was that, in fact, Sean was just lost without you. With you around, he felt like a better version of himself. That's why he wanted you so badly. He asked Lenny to teach him to read, so he could become a well-read person for you. But Sean MacGuire was an impatient man. Abandoning his mission after only few pages. His impulsitivity took over, he decided that if he's not the one for you, it's better to know as soon as it's possible. In case he had to move on, in case you decide to break his young, so obsessed with you heart. Stealing Dutch's cologne, Lenny's good shirt and wearing his only pants that were clean and somehow not holey - he got ready for you. He even washed his hair in the river, using actual soap that one of the girls from the camp once gave him. What a sweetheart. His plans were suprisingly really detailed. Sean wanted to pick some flowers for you and ask you to go to the town with him, he wanted to mount his horse, see you mount yours and go. But his dreams and distant goals got interrupted by hearing your voice coming near his tent. — Sean! Javier was just asking if you... — you didn't finish your sentence. Halfway in his tent, you laid your eyes on him, clearly preparing for some event. A date? Maybe? How could you know? — Oh! Sean, you look really good! What happened? — you looked up, his soft hair, freshly washed, much more shinier, looking healthy for once. — you washed your hair, so it must be something big. — you added, smiling. It was semi-dark in his tent, light being casted only by a little lamp with a candle inside of it. So you couldn't see how his cheeks got redder when he heard your compliment. — well, I actually...You know... — he started, nervously, but who wouldn't be nervous in that kind of a situation? Being caught preparing for a date, that wasn't even accepted by the other side in the first place. — It is something big. — Sean's voice still had his iconic cheerfulness, but you could hear the little shakes in it as well. But you didn't interrupt, you listened. He took a deep breath and said quickly, his accent almost making it incomprehensible — I was wondering if you'd like to go to the town with me and maybe you know have a drink or two? Like a party, just the two of us, you know? Ay, yeah! Actually I also wanted to say that I really like you! Maybe love...Yeah, that might be a better word for that. I love ya. So? Would you like to go with me? — he looked up at you, his heart beating so fast, he could almost hear it. It's now up to you. Do you agree or not?

JAVIER ESCUELLA

Absolutely smitten with you. Sitting by the fireside on a warm night, you were situated at the opposite side of the fire, watching people that were finishing their chores around the camp. Your delicate presence, hair moved by wind, shining eyes. His mind was in a different place. Holding his guitar, trying to play and sing, but you were distracting. It was almost impossible to get him to the state that he forgot how to play, but with you around, he literally seemed like he just bought this intrument, constantly making little mistakes. Blood rushing to his cheeks every time he got out of rhythm or the sound his guitar made was closer to a scratch than to any melody. But you seemed to not mind, accepting him the way he was, quietly giggling, but not laughing at him, you were just so full of happiness, your gaze only encouraged him to keep playing and he loved it. Loved you. Badly.

But he felt like loving you was never enough, since you seemed to never actually acknowledge his feelings, the deep desire that made his dreams full of you. Everything reminded him of you. You joined the gang a few months ago, how could you fuck him up so badly in such a short period of time? Wrapped around your finger, willing to give you the entire world if you asked him to. He just knew that you'd never ask him to, you were just too...good. You never asked for help yourself, but always wanted to help others. Putting everyone above yourself, taking care of everyone, even Micah, who said so much bad things about you, spitting poison at you every time you walked by, but when he felt ill, you still was a first person to give him health cure.

Javier could only watch from afar. Fascinated, hypnotised by your moves, your energy, how your voice could put everyone in a good mood. When you were telling stories, you'd tell them with so much passion, but when someone else needed to be listened - you were all ears, asking questions, made everyone feel welcomed and safe. He sometimes really thought that you are not real, that you are an angel sent to the camp in those hard times.

Lost in his thoughts again, he missed a string while playing and his guitar made another weird sound. Immediately grounded by that, he looked in the direction you were sitting, only to realise - you were not there anymore. He started looking for you, and he saw that you were sitting next to him. How could he not notice? God, were his reflexes that poor? If it was a life threatening situation, he'd probably be dead by now.

— I noticed that you are a bit lonely here, Javier, — the way his name slipped of your lips so softly, how he'd kill to hear his name coming from that sweet mouth again and again, until he lost his senses. — Mind if I keep you company? You seem stressed, is something bothering you? — when he heard your voice, and your body getting a bit closer to him, his muscles tensed. He put his guitar away, gently, laying it on a ground, leaned it against the barrel that was near.

— what can I say, hermosa. — he sometimes called you Spanish pet names, because he was sure you didn't understand them (if you could, well, he was not aware...) — There is that one girl that completely took over my mind and I can't focus on anything else because of her. She's not even mine, but I'm jealous of everyone that makes her laugh. It's probably wrong, but it's the truth. She's like a milagro walking on this sad country, healing everyone with her presence, so I'm almost certain I don't deserve her, but oh...I can always dream, can't I? — he could swear you put a spell on him. He never meant to open up about his feelings, especially not around you, especially talking about you.

What a fool he was. He couldn't even manage to raise his eyes up to meet your gaze, so he was not able to see the sadness flicker in your face, soft sigh escaping your lips, which was a sign of your heart getting a bit broken, he taken it as a sign of stress and fatigue.

— do you want me to help you with asking her out? I'm a woman myself so I know what most of us like to do... — you said, and oh, he knew that it would happen. Your first thought when someone has a problem is to help them out, any way you can, no matter your own feelings and struggles.

— tell me...how your perfect date would look like? I think she's really similar to you, she might enjoy the same things. — he said, still nervous, his eyes locked on the ground.

So you started to talk about your perfect date. How you'd spend it, and his head was full of ideas by now. He knew exactly where to take you, what to do, so when you finished your monologue, he offered, finally looking up, making eye contact:

— are you free tonight, angelita? Your wish is my command. — his cheeks a bit red, the orange light from nearby fire slightly shining on his skin.

Not it was up to you if you'd like to go with him. What do you say?

KIERAN DUFFY

Oh, that poor boy. His heart couldn't take it. The only person that showed him any kind of affection in this camp, the only one that cared, listened to him, believed him. When he was still tied to the tree, he used to spend all day looking at you with fascination, trying to understand who you were to other gang members, his gaze was subtle, always looking away just in time before anyone would notice. But he was sure you would never look at him the way he looks at you, and his heart ached every time he reminded himself of the fact that he was just a stranger in this camp, he was considered a spy, traitor, enemy. Yet you still treated him with such kindness and care, always asking if he needs anything, if you can do something to ease his pain and stress.

Sometimes you sat near him and talked with him, not caring about what others might think, saying that as long as there is no proof of him doing anything wrong, you will not act like he is a criminal. And he was honestly so thankful for that. He was not sure what he deserved to have you as some sort of ally, but since you were the only one he trusted (even if it was only a little bit) he started to actually feel something deeper than friendship towards you.

He didn't want to admit that it was love. But if not love, then what was it? Unreasonable high blood pressure when he saw you, his eyes sparkly, heart beating faster, his body always felt so full of life, shattering when he saw that someone disrespected you or treated you badly. He couldn't do anything, so he just watched when Micah, because he was literally the only one that ever mistreated you, decided to yell at you. He could only sigh, waiting for you to come to him and moan about how you hate this blonde, egocentric guy.

His most common way of showing his affection to you was by taking care of your horse while listening to you, always remembering everything you said, whether it was a mention of your favourite food, people that you like, your dream future or what beautiful clothes you saw at the shop when you travelled to town the other day. Your complaints that you couldn't afford them though... How Kieran wished he could be rich, so he could buy you those clothes, so he could see you happy. But he knew he could never be able to do that.

He dreamed of asking you out. You were on his mind all day and night, but, god, how was he supposed to do that? He couldn't leave the camp, and if he could, it was supposed to be a fishing trip or something, no going to town, no having too much fun, no buying things (he had no money anyways).

So the day you came to him and said that Micah once again told you that you are an useless addition to the camp, instead of passive listening and nodding his head, he actually asked: — how about we go fishing? I will teach you how to do that so next time he says something like that, you can prove him wrong by bringing bunch of fishes to the camp! — his voice started to shake at the end of his sentence, when he understood that he is basically asking you out on an almost date. He looked at you with hope in his eyes.

— fishing? I don't know if Micah would consider fishing as an useful skill...I don't think if anything that is done by a woman is useful in his eyes. I actually believe he might be jealous of Dutch, he wants him all to himself... — you said, giggling a bit. And Kieran had to agree with you. The way Micah was always complimenting Dutch was actually a bit concerning, but as long as he could stay in this camp, he didn't want to ask. He guessed that "that's how the things are in this gang".

— well, you're probably right. He will treat everyone badly regardless of their hard work. But hey, fishing is a nice thing to do anyways, right? I promise you, it's really relaxing! — Kieran was nervous, of course, but you could also see an honest, bright smile on his face, he showed signs of happiness, and that was something really nice to see.

So? Do you agree to go with him? It's your choice. 

pls give me any feedback, even as anons <3 much love, teaser

[heavenlymorals]

I feel like a lot of people forget that the Van Dir Linde gang was actually famous in their universe- Dutch Van Dir Linde was as famous as the real life Butch Cassidy. The gang had as much infamy as the Wild Bunch or the Dalton gang. Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Bill Williamson, Javier Esculla, Lenny Summers, Charles Smith, Sean McGuire and more were probably as famous as the real life Doc Holliday, Jesse James, Black Bart, Rufus Buck, Ike Clanton, the Sundance Kid, Wild Bill Hickock, and more.

Sadie Adler would've been just as famous. She was a gunslinger like the real life Calamity Jane and Anne Oakley and she was an outlaw at one point like Laura Bullion, Pearl Hart, Belle Star, The Cassidy Sisters, and more.

The other women of the camp would've probably been less popular but still very intriguing figures to people in the future.

In the newspapers, we see that there are songs about Dutch's boys and books too. Trelawny mentions them being on dime novels. In the future, the pieced together story of the Van Dir Linde gang might've gotten adapted into a movie, similar to "Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid" or "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford". They could've gotten biopics, documentaries, and more.

Historians and fans of the wild West era would dig up records, find pictures, and maybe even track down people who were apart of the gang, accomplices to the gang, or victims of the gang. They would try to piece together stories to figure out the mystery of what actually happened to the gang.

People would argue over things that happened in the gang and have their evidence to back it up. Letters written by gang members would become so valuable. If they ever someone come across Arthur's journal, it would probably be considered one of the most valuable pieces of documentation to ever exist for that time period.

The guns of the gang would probably be kept in museums if found. Albert Mason's portrait of Arthur Morgan would be found in history books, same as other pictures.

Dutch would probably be a very controversial figure in history- some would hail him as a failed hero and others would condemn his violence no matter the reason- they wouldn't know what the people in the gang knew- especially in the end. Same with the rest of the gang members.

They'd probably all get romanticized. Hosea and Dutch's friendship, the raising of the boys, Dutch and Annabelle and his fued with Colm, Mary and Arthur, John and his family, Javier being a revolutionary- no one would know the full story.

And then there is Jack- he may live to see the 1960s and 70s and 80s. He may have grandchildren who'd pull him into a theater to watch a retelling of the gang that he was a part of at one point. He'd be amused. He'd think that the actor playing his father was too clean looking, too pretty. He'd think that the movie Arthur was too skinny. He'd think that the man playing Dutch had a funny voice as he tried to mimic the accent. He'd laugh and make notes in his head of the historical accuracy. He'd feel sorrowful at the deaths of the characters- he knew them at some point. And no one at the theater would know that the old man with the rowdy bright eyed boys who brought him there was Jack Marston, the last of the Van Dir Linde gang.

Jack might talk about it to the public. He might do interviews. He might even write a book about his father, the infamous John Marston. Those would be priceless. Even Beecher's Hope might be kept around and visited as a historical site for history goers.

And honestly? It is such a bittersweet thing.

[zae-heeyyy]

Pastiche

Summary: You and Arthur escape through writing. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader Word Count: 2,345 Trigger Warning: Tuberculosis, death Tags: angst, sadness, high honor Arthur

a/n: Thanks for you kind words on Chiaroscuro. I've enjoyed writing again so much! I'm in my tragedy era. My hs english teacher's voice haunts me when I'm writing, so I spent a lot of time scrutinizing this. Didn't mean for it to be so long, but I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

pastiche: a work of art or literature that imitates the style or character of another, often as an homage or tribute.

You knew there was something special about Arthur Morgan the day you met him. Despite his best efforts to believe otherwise, he was easy on the eyes, and his dry humor combined with his strong sense of honor sealed your crush on the cowboy. Everybody else could see that he was sweet on you, too, noticing when he pulled you to sit at the fire with him or how he watched you around camp. As more time passed, you'd become mostly inseparable, taking every moment you had to sneak away together. One of your favorite places to escape to was the fields of Little Creek River in Big Valley. You'd be reading a book and glance over to find Arthur staring intently at an animal until it was out of sight. Then he'd open up his journal and sketch it.  He wasn't doing that today, though. He was staring across the field, but you could tell he was elsewhere in his mind.

"Got somethin' to say," his eyes met yours earnestly. When he told you he loved you, a laugh erupted deep from your belly. Dumbfounded, he asked, "The hell is so funny?" his own laugh betraying his attempt to be solemn. It was hilarious to you that he didn't think you already knew that and that he didn't know you absolutely felt the same.

Another day, you were lying in Arthur's lap in the grass. Just the day before, he had returned to camp with bruised knuckles and some poor fool's blood on his face—one of Strauss's clients. You longed for a life where bruised knuckles and loan sharking were distant memories.

"Where would you be if you weren't here," you'd asked, holding his hand in yours. He stroked your thumb with his and gazed over the valley like always.

"Hard to imagine." He mumbled, sounding far away.

You nodded in agreement and replied, "You're always writing or drawing in your notebook. Maybe you could've been an artist or a writer." The thought brought a soft smile to your face, and you imagined, just for a second, a life where Arthur's biggest worry was perfecting his latest masterpiece.

He huffed in dry amusement, "Probably wouldn't have known how to read if it weren't for Dutch and Hosea."

You assented again and sighed, the smile on your face growing wider.

 "Arthur Morgan: author and illustrator." You held your hands up in dramatic fashion as if envisioning the words in front of you. Then you untangled yourself from him and sat up, "You could, you know? It's not too late. Maybe a biography?"

"A story about my life, huh?" He looked at you with a dumb smile, "I think a book about dirt would be more interestin'." He bobbed his head up and down as if nodding made his thought more true. You shoved him playfully, and he raised his eyebrow at you and held out his hands questionly. "What? There's all different kinds of dirt," he started counting on his fingers." Brown dirt, red dirt, hard dirt—"

You cut him off, "I'm serious, Arthur! This life…it ain't one normal folks live." A shit-eating grin crept up his face as he fought not to make another joke at his own expense. He shoved it down and kept listening. "Sure, it's just your life to you, but other people might find it interesting, exciting, even."

He thought for a second, then put his hands in the air, mimicking you, "The Confessions of Arthur Morgan: The Detailed Life of a Gunslinger by Arthur Morgan. Sounds like a Pinkerton's wet dream."

 "I see what you mean," you trail off, fingers playing in the grass. "Could change the name. People publish under a different name all the time. There's a word for that, I think."

"Pseudonym," he responded, his accent thick. "Think it's got one of those silent letters in front." He said it so matter of factly, and it confirmed what you already knew about him: he was far more intelligent than anybody ever gave him credit for. Still, you left the idea alone and thought Arthur had, too.

Then, on another afternoon in the fields near Little Creek River, he spoke out of nowhere. "Arthur Callahan or Tacitus Kilgore?" 

"Hmm?" you asked, barely glancing up from your book.

"For the pen name," he confirmed, scratching his chin thoughtfully. 

From that day on, your trips to Little Creek River became writing sessions. He bought a notebook that you two would trade off, coming up with ideas for the dramatized life of the gunslinger. You'd taken some creative liberties, and the story wasn't exactly a biography anymore. It had shaped into a Western love story. Arthur Callahan, after living a bad life, met someone who made him want to be better, an angel sent to rescue the devil himself. Arthur Callahan would get the perfect ending; a normal life. It was all Arthur's idea. 

"It's not my story; it's ours," he'd told you. 

You had been daydreaming about the possibilities for your novel for some time, but the chaos of life with the gang left little room to focus on it. The sudden move from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point made things worse. Somewhere in the move, the manuscript was lost or destroyed—either way, it was gone. You couldn't hold back your tears during your next trip to Big Valley. Arthur's big hands swallowed your face as his thumbs wiped your tears away.  

"Shhh, we'll rewrite it, sweetheart," he promised.

Despite Arthur's gentle nudges, you couldn't find it in you to rewrite the story. Another day, he'd invited you to ride with him, heading off to your usual spot. He'd asked once more if you were feeling up to writing again. When you rejected the idea, he shook his head, seemingly surrendering. 

"Fine! You're so damn stubborn." There was no malice in his voice, though, and his eyes twinkled a little. "Looks like I gotta take matters into my own hands." Instead of stopping the horse in the fields as usual, Arthur stopped short, cutting into nearby woods. Eventually, he halted outside of the small cabin that was Vetter's Echo and hitched the horse outside. 

"Come on," he said, helping you down. "I've got a surprise for you." You walked up the cabin's steps, and he swung the door open to a small living quarters. "It don't got a back door, and I'm pretty sure the feller living here got mauled by a bear, but it's got one of these things." He gestured to the desk in the corner of the small cabin, a typewriter sitting atop it, "I don't have the first clue about using it." So he left it for you to figure out. He'd sit on a stool beside you, reading from a notebook, and you'd type slowly at first, but as time went on, the keys felt as familiar to you as a gun trigger did to him. 

Then things started falling apart. You'd moved from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point, then to Shady Bell in a matter of weeks. The men went on a job to rob the bank in St. Denis, and most didn't return. You'd forgotten about the manuscript while trying to survive and spent weeks worried about Arthur and everybody else.

Then he came home to you, waterlogged but alive. You'd never felt more relieved. He was skinny and had a persistent cough, blaming it all on his rough journey. But it didn't stop him from finishing the book as promised. He'd write whenever he had a chance, and you'd go back to the little cabin in the woods, you typing and him reading.

Then he couldn't get through a page without coughing. You listened, concern etched on your face as he told you about his coughing spell and subsequent visit to the doctor in the city. Tuberculosis: practically a death sentence. After that, he'd step back when you tried to be close to him and wouldn't let you kiss him or be intimate with him. You spent a lot of time crying while he dipped his head in profound shame. 

Weeks later, he woke you up at night, gently shaking you and whispering to not alert anyone else. "C'mon, get dressed and ride with me." He was serious, his jaw set, his voice low but demanding. You didn't know what was wrong, but dread ran through your veins. You rode far away from camp, mostly in silence, your anxiety not letting you say anything. 

"You're gonna live a good life. "he finally said, breaking the silence. Your eyes stung, and you felt a lump in your throat.

"I don't want to hear this right now, Arthur."

He shook his head, frustrated, and spoke through clenched teeth. "Listen to me." His tone made you flinch. He'd never taken on that tone with you, ever. "This whole thing with Dutch, it's over. You gotta run. Gotta get out and make a good life for yourself." 

You wanted to protest; you weren't going to leave him, not now. But then you saw the waiting stagecoach up ahead. Your heart dropped and shattered into a million pieces. You reached around him to pull the horse's reins, coming to a skidding stop. You hopped down and started shaking your head, frantic in your movements and words. 

"No, Arthur. No."

You wiped away the quickly falling tears as you turned, fast walking, almost running back to that godforsaken camp that was Beaver Hollow. Even in his sickness, it only took Arthur a few big steps to reach you, grabbing you by the waist and turning you to face him. And then you cursed at him, pounded your fists against his chest, and wailed into the night. He just pulled you close to him, squeezing you until you didn't fight anymore. He gave you a stack of cash, made you promise to run, and said he'd come find you after it was all over. But both of you knew, deep down, that you were setting eyes on each other for the last time. He kissed your head. You sobbed into his chest, only letting go when the impatient stagecoach driver beckoned you.

"Never could've imagined I'd know somebody as perfect for me as you." All you could choke out was, "I love you," over and over and over again. He slipped a folded letter into your hand and helped you into the coach filled with your things. He stood silently with his hat in his hands while you rode off into the night. You sobbed for as long as your body let you while the coach took you down to Copperhead Landing.

First, Tilly showed up with Jack, and then Sadie came with Abagail. But then John arrived bearing Arthur's hat and satchel with a look in his eyes so terrible that it brought you to a screaming sob. That night, when everybody had finally settled down to sleep, you slipped away, leaving a note of thanks and well wishes. You were alone then, the way you wanted it to be without Arthur.  

Eight years; it had been eight years since everything went to shit. In eight years, you worked your ass off with any odd jobs you could find. Keeping busy was how you cured your broken heart. You'd tried as hard as you could to forget about the life you'd once lived until you read a headline in the newspaper: MICAH BELL KILLED. The memories flooded back to you, and you returned to a place you hadn't visited in a while. You only kept 2 things from that time: a letter from Arthur and the manuscript you'd written with him. Forged in Fire, you called it. After all this time, you couldn't remember who came up with the name, but you remembered why. You two were like tempered metal; the more you walked through hellfire, the stronger you became.  

Then there was Arthur's letter. You'd read it only once before today.

"Things I wanted to say but did not have the courage to say aloud." was scrawled across the top of the page, followed by a list.

"Keep visiting Big Valley.

Keep writing.

Publish the book.

Watch every sunset.

Trust your gut.

Please, be happy."

You heard his voice through every word. He'd underlined the third point: publish the book. In that moment, you decided to take a leap. You wrote to a publisher and sent a copy of the manuscript. And that's all it took. Things went into a tailspin after that, and before you knew it, you were holding a hard copy of the manuscript you and Arthur had worked on together all that time ago.

You'd made an effort, then, to find Abigail and John and Jack. They were held up at a ranch, Beecher's Hope, and were married now. You caught up with the Marstons and apologized for hastily disappearing all those years ago. They were happy for you, and you for them. 

On your departure, John took your hand, "I don't talk about him much these days, but I don't think he loved anybody like he loved you." He paused for a moment and forced his eyes to meet yours. "He's buried out in Ambarino, near Donner Falls. Top of the mountain. I can take you." You declined John's offer but set out east toward Donner Falls the next day. 

You found him around noon and watched wistfully as an eagle flew from its spot on a rock behind the flowery grave. You fell to your knees, no longer able to control the tears flowing down your face. "I did it, my love," you choked through tears. It'd been a long, long time since you let yourself feel this pain—a longing to reach something impossible. You dabbed the tears away from your eyes and sat in the grass, hugging Forged in Fire to your chest. "Thought I'd read it to you," you spoke into the air. You opened the book, cracked the spine, and read "Chapter One: Heaven's Fall, Hell's Rise."

[meazalykov]

Salma or Selma?

Salma Paralluelo x BarcaPlayer!R x Selma Bacha

Warnings: angst, anger/sadness, cheating, betrayal, author making up future champions league results for the plot so please don't bully me if things go differently irl, long chapter

The last few months were a whirlwind of emotions for Y/n L/n. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, an unsettling sensation that clawed at her insides like a persistent itch.

Despite the facade she tried to maintain, there were moments when doubt crept in, casting a shadow over her once happy and carefree personality. 

Y/n found herself second-guessing every word that came out of Salma Paralluelo’s mouth. A year ago, Salma and Y/n started dating. This boosted the joy in the 20 year old’s life.

She found warmth in Salma's touch and a kindness in her gaze that made her feel cherished and adored. She thought highly of Salma, being there for her when she won the World Cup, despite her own country being eliminated in the Round of 16. 

On the field, outside of their relationship, they’re a duo in Barcelona that couldn't be stopped by the opposition defenders. Y/n is a left winger while Salma was mainly positioned as a striker. The amount of goals and assists they’ve given each other boosted their playing confidence more. 

Overtime, the colors in the sky turned cloudy.

When Salma wasn’t with Y/n outside of football, the Spanish girl was with the goalkeeper on their team, Cata. This didn’t concern Y/n at first, the girl had trust in Salma and building bonds with teammates is important. Salma knew Cata before she knew Y/n anyways. 

Eventually, small things started to creep up onto Y/n’s mind. Salma and Cata had small inside jokes together. The duo were affectionate, which Y/n didn’t mind at first because that behavior isn’t uncommon in Spain.

Y/n suspicions were confirmed once she noticed Salma starting to ditch her to hang out with Cata, almost everyday. 

Salma promised that she is helping Cata with a recent breakup. Y/n wanted to press further but didn’t. The girl knew that other close friends on the team, Esmee or Ingrid for example, would tell her if they suspected something with Salma and Cata too. 

Though she desperately tried to dismiss her suspicions as paranoia, the nagging feeling persisted, festering beneath the surface like a wound that refused to scab and heal. With each passing day, as Salma continued to ditch their plans, Y/n's unease grew. And little did she know, the tempest of betrayal that awaited her would challenge everything she thought she knew about love and trust.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Y/n yelled as she turned into a hallway at Johan Cruyff stadium. She walked with Esmee Brugts, happy about their win against SK Brann. Now, she stood as her heart sank into her stomach, shattered in a million pieces. 

Cata had her arms around Salma as the girl kissed down her neck, stopping once she heard the scream of her actual girlfriend. Salma jumped away, pushing Cata before looking right at Y/n, not knowing what to say at first. 

“So this is w-why you we-were ditching me?” Y/n’s voice broke.

The left winger started to panic. For a second, it felt as if she couldn’t breathe. The suspicions she had were real and weren't just a story she made up. Esmee noticed her panic, she gently pulled Y/n’s arm and turned her away from the cheater and the goalkeeper before things got worse. 

“Y/n wait-” 

“Not now.” The Dutch cut Salma off, looking at her with sadness and slight disappointment, before pulling Y/n away from what occurred. Esmee couldn’t believe what her friend was capable of too. 

The team didn’t find out what had happened. Y/n, Esmee, Salma, and Cata only knew. A week later, Salma showed up to Y/n’s apartment. She begged for another chance and mentioned that she cut Cata off. Y/n didn’t respond to her pleas for a couple of hours while Salma begged in her apartment.  

Eventually, Y/n took Salma back. With a heavy heart and a tentative embrace, Y/n chose to believe in the possibility of redemption. She missed Salma’s presence and allowed herself to be enveloped in the warmth of Salma's embrace once more.

The American national didn’t let the Spanish girl come back without promises though. She told Salma that she couldn’t talk to Cata outside of football, not mention what happened to anyone except for who already knew (Esmee and Cata obviously), and not to ditch her again. Salma smiled and agreed. 

For a month, things between the two looked the same from an outsider's perspective. They would’ve said that Y/n and Salma looked extremely happy with each other. Y/n scored 4 goals against Chelsea in the first leg of the Champions League Semi-Finals. Salma had the brightest smile as she hugged her girlfriend. 

However, the scars of betrayal ran deep. Y/n never let the betrayal between Salma and Cata go. When Cata tried to congratulate her on her goal, Y/n just walked by her, saying “Thanks.” No hug or high five. 

Sometimes, she wonders if they’re still interested in each other. Y/n hopes she's not in the way of any possible feelings between the Spanish girls. 

Barcelona and Chelsea still have to compete in the second leg of the Semi-Final, but Y/n believed that Lyon and Barcelona will go head-to-head in the Champions League Final. Lyon is facing PSG in the Semi-Final but they've won the first leg 4-1.

Y/n is excited about a possible Champions League final, last year she won the final against Wolfsburg because of her goal that pushed Barcelona up 3-2 in the second half. 

A day after she got back from London, Y/n went out to celebrate with a few friends who came to Spain, from America, to visit her. Salma didn’t come with her to meet her friends because she wanted to go to a gym session instead, which Y/n believed. 

(its you in the pictures below) 

y/n.l/n

tagged: urbestie

liked by selma_bacha, malpugh, and 44,927 others

americans in espana 🇪🇸🌞

comments

salmaparalluelo 😍😍

malpugh you're so cute

wososoccer478 she hasn't posted with salma in nearly 8 months 🥴

leahlover8 I noticed that! They're still together in fcbfemeni training pictures so they're okay I believe

aitanabonmati ☺️

esmeebrugts no invite? 😧🇳🇱

y/n.l/n next time Es I promise!

wosotranfernews the best friendship ^

----

A few hours after she posted on Instagram, Y/n got home to her apartment and took off her sandals. She placed her sandals right by the door before walking to her living room and laying down on top of her comfortable ivory couch.

She pulled her phone out of her brown leather bag, clicking on the lock button to see no notifications from Salma. Y/n heart started to race but she ignored it when she saw the sole notification on the phone from Instagram. 

selma_bacha 

hey 

Y/n raised her eyebrows in confusion as she stared at the notification on the pink iphone. She knew the french player who currently played at Lyon. Even though she is confused, she is intrigued too. Why is Selma reaching out to her, and why now? Selma and Y/n followed each other three years ago but haven’t talked until now. 

y/n.l/n 

hey. how are you?

The Barcelona player typed out a response, waiting for the response from the girl behind the screen. 

----

When y/n looked up at her phone, she noticed that it was twenty minutes past midnight. She got home from dinner with friends around nine. The conversation she had with Selma lasted three hours. The American scrolled down on her phone to see if she had notifications from her girlfriend Salma. 

None. 

The girl decided to give Salma the benefit of the doubt, despite her past cheating. Y/n continued to text the French girl for a few minutes before they’ve both decided to call it a night. 

selma_bacha 

goodnight 

y/n.l/n 

goodnight 

Y/n’s heart skipped a beat as a message from Selma illuminated her phone screen. The simple message might be nothing to others but to Y/n, it held a power within them. It had been so long since Salma had taken the time to bid her goodnight or good morning, even though they’ve been together for 14 months. The gesture from Selma touched Y/n in a way she couldn't quite explain. 

The American took a shower, changed into her night clothes, and laid in her bedroom in the quiet darkness, her thoughts drifting back to her conversation with the Lyon player. Talking to her felt so easy. Sometime in the conversion, their typed messages turned into audio messages and their shared laughter after their jokes made y/n happy in the absence of her girlfriend. At that moment, Y/n knew that she needed to talk to Selma more. She had so much in common with the Lyon player and their sense of humor aligned. 

-----

A month has gone by and Y/n was right, Lyon and Barcelona would be facing in the Champions League final. She felt a wave of excited emotions, knowing that this will be her second final with the team.

In the second leg against Chelsea, Y/n scored a hat trick and Caroline Graham Hansen scored the fourth goal. The game ended in a 4-2 win. The WSL team was sent home and Y/n felt bad as one of her USWNT teammates played for twenty minutes against her.

Salma and Y/n started to drift apart and the team started to question it. Aitana asked Y/n one day if things were okay, Y/n lied and said yes.

The Spanish girlfriend started to ditch her American girlfriend again. However, things were different this time. Y/n felt her heart go elsewhere as Salma abandoned her.

Over the month, Y/n engaged in everyday conversations with the Left-Back at Lyon. Selma and her had a few FaceTime calls and they're compatible in many ways.

Y/n started to question everything. She wanted to distance from Salma so she can figure out her feelings, but they're on the same team. At training, Salma found herself close with y/n so avoidance wasn't ideal. The American knew that she will see Selma in the Champions League final so she couldn't avoid her too.

In the quiet solitude of her plant and pink covered room, with the gentle hum of the Barcelona town outside her window, Y/n looked through her camera roll. She scrolled through her "Lover girl" album, which contained pictures of Salma and her together. Y/n felt her heart sink as she stopped at the last picture, clicking on the date to see that she didn't update the album since the night she caught Salma cheating on her with Cata.

Clicking off of the album, she went through her other folders to see many screenshots from her FaceTime calls with Selma Bacha. Y/n blushed as she saw Selma doing silly things on the calls, like (jokingly) getting angry over their Fifa games or making silly frowning faces .

Y/n's heart ached with the weight of indecision, torn between the familiar comfort of Salma and the extreme chemistry with Selma. Each possessed qualities that spoke to different parts of her soul, Salma with her history and shared memories, and Selma with her vibrant energy, admiration, and newfound connection.

As she wrestled with her thoughts, Y/n knew that the choice she made would shape the course of her future, a decision not just about love, but about her career and the kind of person she wanted to be.

Y/n exploded her bottled emotions onto her friend, Lindsey, from back home. Yes, Lindsey Horan from her International team that played for Lyon. The same Lindsey that knew Selma just as much as she knew Y/n.

"You know what they say. If there's two people in your life, pick the second one. Since there would've never been a second choice if you loved the first one enough." Lindsey said over the FaceTime. Yn laughed at how "corny" the saying is.

"I love Salma, Lindsey. However, I can't go on with this if I can't trust her." Y/n frowned.

"You shouldn't go on with her either if you want Selma involved with your future too. It sounds like Salma might leave you for Cata soon. No offense, I just need you to hear the truth before it happens..." Lindsey added on. Y/n took a deep breath, processing the blondes valid points.

"How do you know if Selma likes me?"

"Oh she likes you a lot. She's mentioned it to the team multiple times. Selma is just waiting on you to let Salma go." Lindsey confessed.

"I can't just break up with Salma. She'll move on to Cata and it'll break up the team's dynamics. It happened with a love triangle here before." Y/n explained, referring to the love triangle between Lucy Keira and Ona.

"Lyon is interested in you. Everyone involved in the transfer markets knows they want to activate your release clause. They just need your approval-- and maybe you can come here for a new start." Lindsey suggested. Y/n nodded at the possibility. She could leave Barcelona, leaving Cata and Salma to be together and she could be closer to Selma. Plus, Lyon is a big club like Barcelona so it's a good career move.

----

The tension hung heavy in the air as Barcelona squared off against Lyon in the electrifying Champions League final. The crowd's roars echoing like thunder in Y/n's ears as she stepped onto the field, her heart pounding in rhythm with the pulsating beat of the game.

At the first sight of Selma Bacha, y/n felt nervous. Nobody knew how she felt about her except for Lindsey, who is one of Lyon's midfielders currently. The Barcelona left winger took Lindsey’s suggestion into consideration and she has a few plans for her career after this final. 

During halftime, the game is 2-2. Caroline Graham Hansen scored a brace so far along with Becho having a brace for Lyon. The atmosphere is intense as there is another fourty-five minutes left. For Y/n, amidst the chaos of her thoughts, there lingered a deeper, more insidious feeling: guilt. 

She knew that she was breaking up with Salma after the season ended. Y/n never confronted Salma about seeing her talking to Cata secretly again before the match. The left-winger knows she is in the way of the two Spanish girls who want to be together. In consideration of her love for Salma, she decided that she will break up with her after the season ends rather than now. 

The girl wouldn't have to worry about the pre-season and the next season afterwards in Barcelona. Y/n talked with her agent and Lyon agreed to activate her release clause and will offer her a contract on the first day the transfer window opens in the summer. 

As the minutes ticked away and the score remained deadlocked, the pressure mounted, threatening to suffocate Y/n beneath its weight. Yes, she is facing her future club, but she is with Barcelona for now and wants to win with them for one last time. She had an energy driving her to push herself harder, to fight with every fiber of her being. When Salma scored a stunning goal in the 67th minute, by Y/n’s assist bringing the score up 3-2, the crowd exploded. 

Salma runs to the corner and celebrates with her usual “4 fingers'' symbol. Afterwards, she turns around and immediately holds her hands out to hug Y/n. The American sighed before smiling lightly, hugging her girlfriend tightly and pulled her face down on Salma’s shoulder. The news media and their shippers talk about this on social media, believing that they aren't broken up like rumors suspected. 

The girl inhaled Salma’s vanilla scent before looking into Salma’s eyes, pulling away before letting the rest of the team hug her. She frowned as she walked away, knowing that it might be the last time she will hug her soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. 

Y/n walks away towards the left side to see Selma, on the Lyon side, looking at her. The French player smirked before looking away, making the American girl blush. 

Selma had a feeling that Y/n will join her in Lyon after this season. The girl gave too many hints on their late night facetimes calls about “being able to see each other all of the time soon.” She knew Salma and Y/n were done, due to suspected cheating from the Spanish, so she didn’t feel badly about her flirtatious moves. 

Just when victory seemed within Barcelona’s grasp, fate intervened with a cruel twist of irony. Just two minutes after Salma’s goal for Barcelona, Lyon’s forward Diani passes the ball through the Barcelona box and Horan taps the ball into the net, right past Cata’s hands. 

The French crowd explodes as Horan runs to the corner of the box, yelling as she pumps her fist into the air in celebration. Y/n looks on at her USWNT captain, who looked so happy to score her goal with the Division 1 Feminine team. 

In the 85th minute, Ingrid Engen dribbled the ball up the field before seeing Aitana who was free to receive a pass. The ball goes up over the players before Aitana jumps up and hits it with her head. The ball flies up again before landing on Esmee’s boot. The Dutch “nutmegs” the ball through a Lyon defender before passing to Y/n. The American dribbles quickly through Selma Bacha before shooting the ball. As the ball goes through Endler’s legs, Y/n screams in excitement. Goal!

Barcelona 4-3

In the dying moments of the game, Selma's team managed to break through Barcelona’s defense, scoring a last-minute goal from Le Sommer that left Y/n reeling in disbelief. As the 90 minutes appeared on the watches on the referees wrists, 6 minutes of extra time were added to the board. 

4-4

Y/n looks over at her coach Jona, seeing that he wants the team to play defensively. A few minutes pass but it’s anyone's game. Y/n couldn’t break through the Lyon midfield when she had the ball a few times. 

She passes the ball down to Aitana, and the ballon d’or winner passes the ball down to Ingrid, who passes the ball back down to Cata who launches the ball across the field towards Claudia Pina.

Claudia and Selma both go up and try to head the ball towards a teammate. The Lyon player was successful and the ball landed on Horan’s boot. Y/n runs up to challenge the other American but Lindsey passes it to her striker before Y/n reaches her. 

Marta challenges Hegerburg who quickly dribbles around her.

Ona goes to challenge the Lyon striker before pushing her inside of the penalty box, ruining the potential goal scoring opportunity.

Almost all 22 players on the pitch ran to the ref, debating on the challenge as “just a foul” “tir de pénalité” “el desafío está fuera de la caja” and much more. The referee contacts the VAR room with their mini microphone before blowing the whistle. Lyon Penalty.  

Hegerburg, not injured by Ona’s contact, goes to take the penalty. Y/n felt her lungs close in as the crowd erupts in screams and whistles. She knew there was a minute left. If the Lyon striker makes the shot, Lyon wins the Champions League unless a miracle occurred. 

Y/n’s hands covered her face in disappointment as Hegerburg’s goal went behind the net. Cata moved to the left to block the shot when the hard shot went to the right. 

All of the Lyon players dressed in their Blue away jerseys ran to the corner and celebrated the penalty. The players on the bench even ran and screamed to celebrate the penalty. 

4-5

Not a single opportunity occurred for Barcelona before the final whistles blew. The scoreboard flashed 4-5 in favor of Selma's team. The Lyon players screamed as they all jumped on each other in joy. A wave of devastation washed over Y/n, the bitter taste of defeat staining her lips as she bit on them, trying not to cry in front of thousands of people. 

Yet, amidst the heartbreak and despair, there was a deeper wound that cut to the core of Y/n’s heart. At the moment, she stood alone on the pitch as other Barcelona players fell onto their knees in sadness, some clapped for their fans while having tears in their eyes, Ona ran away into the dressing room so she didn’t have to face the fans who were angry with her last minute mistake. 

At first, she thought about her girlfriend who is experiencing the loss too. She looked around to seek solace in Salma's embrace. She stood in the same spot with her hands on her hips as she continued to bite on her plump lips. 

What Y/n saw shattered her heart into a million pieces when she realized that Salma wasn’t looking for her. Instead, she watched in silent agony as Salma rushed to Cata's side. Cata sat on the grass and cried as Salma whispered affirmations in her ear. It looked so intimate. In that moment, as tears welled in Y/n's eyes and the weight of her loneliness, she knew that the scars of this defeat ran deeper than any she had ever known.

The American in the white away kit fell onto the grass and let all of her warm tears flow down her dimpled cheeks. She didn’t care who saw it and if pictures would be taken. Y/n’s suppressed feelings about her suspicions were confirmed.

Salma chose Cata. In her worst moment, she wanted Cata’s comfort and not her own “girlfriend.” 

Y/n, in the back of her mind, knew that she was done with Salma. She couldn’t speak to her after this. She left her alone in the worst moment while she comforted the girl she committed infidelity with. 

The girl cried for a few minutes, feeling alone in this dark moment, before she felt the embrace of four arms around her body. She couldn’t see who it was, since she laid flat on the grass with her hands covering her face. 

“Y/n, You did amazing out there!” The American in the Barcelona jersey heard the voice of her USWNT captain, Lindsey. 

“No I didn’t” Y/n complained, ignoring her beautiful goal and two assists she made during the match.

“Y/n don’t speak about yourself like that. Shit you’re a good opponent!” Y/n froze and her tears seemed to stop flowing when she heard a familiar french accent. 

Y/n sat up from the grass, wiping her grass covered knees as Lindsey sat beside her. She turned and looked at Selma, this being their first interaction outside of the game, who wiped her tears with her thumbs. Selma patted Y/n’s puffy face afterwards before sitting right beside her, leaving no space. 

“I hope so.” Y/n replied a few seconds after Selma spoke last. 

“Congratulations guys.” Y/n continued as she looked back and forth between her friend and the girl who is more than a friend. 

“Thank you. You were kicking our ass for a good half.” Selma laughed, she wrapped her arm around Y/n’s lower back as the Barcelona player moved her head to Selma’s shoulder. Y/n laughed in response. 

“No literally. I can’t wait to see that when I play with you this summer.” Lindsey agreed. Y/n smiled in reminder of making it on the USWNT olympic roster with her. 

“You guys shouldn’t waste your time comforting me. Go celebrate!” Y/n laughed through her dry tears and pointed towards the Lyon teammates who were currently celebrating.

She looked around to see Esmee, her best friend at Barcelona, being comforted by some of her Oranje teammates that played for Lyon which made her smile. Y/n knows she will miss her the most when she leaves.

“Who said we are wasting time? The celebration and trophy setup isn't ready for another ten minutes. We have time to be here for you— and we want to be here with you” Selma held Y/n tighter. 

Despite her own triumph, Selma's concern was solely for Y/n, offering a comforting embrace that felt similar to medicine curing a cold. In that moment, as Y/n leaned into Selma's embrace, she felt her heart soften, her realization being proven stronger with this moment. It was Selma who was there for her, Selma who offered solace and understanding, Selma who held the key to her heart for the last few months. The left-winger’s heart chooses Selma and will move to play for Lyon. 

The media picked up on Salma and Y/n going to comfort other people after the game, which caused their fans to explode in speculation. When pictures of Selma Bacha holding Y/n L/n came out in the media, Lyon and Barcelona fans were shocked before being supportive. When Salma and Cata hard-launched their relationship, fans were shocked too.

The girls never confirmed their breakup publicly, even though Y/n and Salma mutually broke up after the Champions League final. However, they both publicly moved onto their new girlfriends and Y/n moved away to play for the Lyon team, enjoying her new life with Selma Bacha.

an: hope you enjoyed! I'm sad that the barcelona men's team lost the quarter final of the champion's league 😣

[random-fanfiction]

Maple Leafs Part 2

Pairing: Lance Stroll x Daniel Ricciardo x Black! Reader

Warnings: Mention of Racism! REALLY FLUFFY! other than that part.

Summary: When Daniel Ricciardos old friend finally comes to a race and all of a sudden she meets "everyons favorite Canadian" and now they both fall for her!

Words : N/A

Notes: THIS IS PART TWO You should read part one first! The app i usually for text is not down for free gc so if this one looks weird SORRY!

Part 1

@ lance_stroll story

babeswhoisyn

babeswhosyn Having fun with the boys

Creator Limited Comments

daniel3.jpg

daniel3.jpg it’s getting fun

username1 he’s posting Lance now? What is this?

-> username2 shes healing the bridge it seems.

username3 DANNY! LETS GO KEEP PUSHING

itsynbabes

itsynbabes Short break! It’s fun times.

tagged lance_stroll

lance_stroll it’s fun with you as well.

-> itsynbabes I’m happy you feel that way.

danielricciardo I still can’t believe this. You spend all your time with him now.

-> itsynbabes That is simply not true.

-> danielricciardo Yes it is.

username4 dare I say Danny is jealous? can I?

username5 this is so cute, happy they’re both happy

username6 I still don’t agree with this.

itsynbabes

itsynbabes Hungary HERE I AM! Another race weekend another dramatic event.

username7 She knows something!

username8 What’s happening?

yukitsunoda0511 Don’t jinx us!

maxverstappen1 Is it my comeback?

-> lando I hope not

-> itsynbabes SICK

itsynbabes

itsynbabes Black is Back Baby! Congratulations Lewis + George! You bought fought well.

PINNED itsynbabes Comments Are Limited Because I will not put up with racism. Good day!

lewishamilton Thank you yn.

georgerussel63 Sad outcome but it happens.

Creator Has Limited Comments

itsynbabes

itsynbabes after the week i had, happy for it to be summer break!

danielricciardo Summer break time, we're going to have fun.

-> itsynbabes I bet!

username9 Take a break honey you deserve it

username10 you don't deserve all the hate

lance_stroll We’re going to have a great summer

-> itsynbabes Thank you baby.

itsynbabes

itsynbabes that's the best summer i've had in a while, thank you guys

lance_stroll Anything for my Princess.

-> danielricciardo does that make you Sir. Lancelot?

-> lance_stroll i think it does.

username11 ARE THEY GETTING ALONG!

-> itsynbabes I know, crazy right? i'm doing gods work.

-> username12 Period!

@ itsynbabes story

itsynbabes

itsynbabes sorry for not posting a lot but here we go to the Italian GP!

TWITTER

F1 News Now Posted

Lance Strolls Girlfriend Yn gets into heated agrument with Aston fan after they called her a racial slur. Click the Link to Read More.

-> UPDATE : Photos from the scene! Lance Stroll and Daniel Ricciardo run to her aid after being not far away and hearing about the incident. Is this the end to their fued? Will Yns issues help them over come their differences?

itsynbabes

itsynbabes Fuck you too, and i meant it. For those of you who actually support me i'll be taking a break from posting, but i will still be on my story and going to races. love you guys.

Comments For This Post Have Been Turned Off

lewishamilton

lewishamilton This is so unacceptable, as a community racism and remarks are not something that should be normalized. What happened at the last race was not nice, or cool. See More…

Comments For This Post Have Been Turned Off

lance_stroll

lance_stroll what happened at the Italian Grand Prix is not expectable by any means. This sport has no place for hate.

Comments For This Post Have Been Turned Off

@ itsynbabes story

daniel3.jpg

daniel3.jpg A nice stroll never hurt.

TWITTER

F1 News Now Posted

Is Daniel Ricciardo Coming out as Bisexual? During the Dutch Grand Prix, he said “I don’t care who he/she is as long as we treat each other well.” On the fan stage.

@ danielricciardo story

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@lyslsstuff

[javierduffy]

replaying this game after the second game is making me honest to god so beyond miserable … javier looks so absolutely defeated here. it’s genuinely breaking my heart. please don’t make me think about the thoughts he’s having now- perhaps ones of regrets, or flashes of laughter and singing around the campfire, of clanking beer bottles together and sharing stories, of looking at the shine in dutch’s eyes during a speech and how he felt, somehow, the warmth of the mexican sun. and how that sun never felt the same when he got home again. and how the only time in the past eight years that he ever felt warm was when john’s hands wrapped the rope around his hands and legs. when john’s rope was the noose around his neck, and he finally, finally could stop running. guilt, fear, regret … relief. please kill me im so sad