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pickingupmymercedes · 8 months ago

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All these little things - Lewis Hamilton

Lots of fluff. 9 snippets of fluff to be exact (plus 9 more to come on Sunday - pt 2)

Also there's 20 more fluffs just like these ones - Ways to say I love you and Ways to say I love you pt. 2

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

wordcount: +3k

a/n: I've gotten so many requests for fluff Lewis, regular things with Lewis, just Lewis being a bf/husband. So,I hope you guys enjoy mostly domestic moments with him.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

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Late night snack

The rhythmic rumble of a passing truck vibrated through the floor, a jarring counterpoint to the silence pressing against her eardrums. Jet lag, the unwelcome souvenir of her whirlwind trip to Paris, had her wide awake at 3:14 am, staring at the unfamiliar shapes of Lewis's NY apartment.

Her stomach, thankfully, didn't mirror the wide-awake state. In fact, the thought of food sent a shudder through her. But the disorienting quietness, punctuated only by the city's lullaby of honking horns, demanded some kind of action.

She slipped out of bed, the cool floor a stark contrast to the plush carpets of the bedroom. Padding down the hallway, she felt a strange sense of displacement. This wasn't their Monaco or London apartment, but Lewis's NYC one, and while they’ve been living together for a while they would seldom stay there.

The warm glow of the kitchen light drew her like a moth to a flame. She rummaged through the fridge, her fingers brushing against a carton of leftover takeout, a half-eaten bag of kale chips, and a jar of something labeled "Grandma's Pickles."

Just as she opened the jar, a sleepy voice filled the doorway.

"Night pick me up?" Lewis stood there, hair tousled and eyes crinkled with sleep. He wore a worn t-shirt that hung tight on his broad frame, and even in the dim light, she could see the rumpled remnants of a smile playing on his lips.

"Couldn't sleep" she mumbled, putting the pickle jar on the island.

"Jet lag?" He crossed the room, his presence filling the previously empty space. She nodded, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. "Yeah, I guess."

He leaned closer, his scent - a mix of cologne and the lingering warmth of sleep - washing over her. "Next time, call me so we can raid the fridge together" he teased, his eyes twinkling.

She stuck her tongue out at him playfully. "They're Grandma's Pickles! How could I resist?"

He reached out, taking the jar gently, setting it on the counter. He pulled her to his body, his embrace a warm haven in the cool night. "You know," he said, his lips brushing against her ear, sending shivers down her spine, "sometimes the best cure for jet lag is a good cuddle."

She laughed. "Is that a doctor's recommendation, Dr. Hamilton?" He pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "The most handsome doctor you know," he corrected, before leaning down and capturing her lips in a soft kiss.

The kiss was slow and sweet, a gentle reassurance. Pulling away, Lewis rested his forehead on hers, his voice a warm rumble against her skin. "Truth is," he admitted, "I woke up missing you."

Lazy sunday Mornings

The silence was almost unsettling. Lewis, accustomed to the constant hum of activities, found the stillness of his mom's house almost jarring.

He cracked open one eye, surprised to see a sliver of sunlight already peeking through the curtains. It was way too early for a lazy Sunday morning, especially after a grueling season.

He glanced over at Y/n, her head buried in the crook of his neck, fast asleep. A soft smile tugged at his lips. He loved seeing her so relaxed, the worry lines on her forehead smoothed out, a gentle rhythm rising and falling with her breath.

He reached out, tracing a fingertip down her cheek, the temptation to wake her with a kiss strong. But before he could act, a soft groan escaped Y/n's lips. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking sleepily at him. "Morning" Lewis murmured; his voice rough with disuse.

Y/n stretched; her smile sleepy but undeniably beautiful. "Too early" she mumbled, pulling him closer. Lewis chuckled, wrapping his arm around her. "Couldn't sleep," he admitted. "The silence is...different."

Y/n laughed softly. "Close your eyes" she said, her voice a soothing whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Before he could ask, she began gently tracing the back of her finger to the bridge of his nose. It was an unexpected sensation, a light tickle that soothed something within him. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, the rhythmic move lulling him back to sleep.

He drifted off in a haze, fragments of dreams swirling around him. A couple of hours, punctuated by the occasional weird dream, must have passed because the next thing he knew, a high-pitched squeal pierced the peaceful silence.

"Uncle Lewis! Wake up!"

Lewis groaned, burying his head under the pillow. Another voice, slightly deeper this time, chimed in. "Come on, Auntie Y/n! Uncle Lewis is being a lazy bum again!"

Y/n giggled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Sorry, my secret weapon doesn’t work on them”

Lewis peeked out from under the pillow to see his niece and nephew bouncing on the bed, their faces alight with excitement. There went his peaceful Sunday morning, but the sight of their bright smiles chased away any lingering sleepiness. It was time to be Uncle Lewis for the day.

Roscoe photos

Y/N stifled a yawn, her eyes glazing over at the endless stream of spreadsheets projected on the screen. The board meeting droned on, each statistic sounding more monotonous than the last. Glancing around the table, she saw her colleagues diligently taking notes, their expressions an equal mix of concentration and fatigue.

A notification buzzed on her phone, a welcome distraction. Unlocking it, she saw a picture on Instagram – a close-up of Roscoe staring intently at the camera with his tongue lolling out in a comical fashion. The message: "Deep in thought... about treats?"

Y/N chuckled silently, the image instantly bringing a smile. She quickly tapped a like, then sent a playful message back to Lewis: "Looks like someone's plotting world domination... or maybe just the next jar raid."

Before she could put her phone down, another notification popped up. This time, the picture was Roscoe sprawled across a fluffy white rug, toasting in a sunbeam. The caption: "Living my best life. Don't be jealous."

Y/N couldn't help but grin. Lewis clearly had a newfound time killer – chronicling Roscoe's every move.

Over the next hour, the barrage of photos continued. There was Roscoe sporting a pair of tiny sunglasses, another with a flower crown perched precariously on his head, and yet another napping in a miniature F1 car. Each picture accompanied by a silly caption, making Y/N laugh silently behind her hand.

The sheer absurdity of it all was a welcome escape from the monotony of the meeting. She pictured Lewis, presumably bored at his own meeting, deciding to entertain her with Roscoe's antics.

It was a sweet gesture, a silent way of connecting with her amidst their busy schedules.

Finally, silence descended upon the boardroom as the meeting concluded. Y/N stretched, a relieved sigh escaping her lips. Reaching for her phone, she sent a final message to Lewis: "Thanks for the Roscoe spam. You made this meeting a bit more bearable!"

Almost instantly, her phone buzzed again. A new picture filled the screen – this time, it was Lewis himself, a sheepish grin on his face, with Roscoe perched on his lap. The caption read: "Just your average meeting attendees. Don't tell Toto."

Cramps

A dull pain ripped through Y/N, jolting her awake. Moonlight streamed through the bedroom window, casting the room in a soft, silvery glow. Disoriented for a moment, she blinked back trying to grasp what was happening.

The monthly visitor arrived at least once every cycle, and tonight was no different.

Throwing off the covers, she shuffled towards the kitchen, her body a symphony of discomfort. Reaching for the familiar bottle of pain relief on the top shelf, she fumbled slightly, wincing at another twinge. Grabbing a glass of water, she popped a couple of pills and made her way back to the bedroom, hoping the medication would kick in soon.

Sliding back under the covers, she snuggled in beside Lewis, who stirred slightly in his sleep. A moan escaping her lips as another cramp flared up.

Sensing her discomfort, Lewis sleeply wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "Everything alright, love?" his voice was thick with sleep, but still holding concern.

"Just the usual," she mumbled, burrowing deeper into his warmth. "Cramps." He understood. They'd talked about it before.

Without a word, he shifted their positions, maneuvering her back to his chest and reaching his hands under her shirt to rest gently on her lower abdomen. A silent communication, a shared language they'd built over time.

His touch was soothing, a welcome contrast to the ache radiating from within. His large hands, usually so strong, felt surprisingly gentle as they pressed against her skin. The warmth seemed to seep into her, easing the tension knot by knot. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as he acted as her own human sized heating bag.

As the cramps eased, Y/N snuggled closer. She could have sworn she felt Lewis's lips brush against the back of her head, a silent promise of being there for her.

Winning Celebration

The rhythmic crash of waves against the Monaco shoreline provided a calming white noise backdrop to the quiet murmurs in Lewis' living room. Sunlight, filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting an especially warm string of light to the tangled mess of limbs sprawled under a thin duvet.

Lewis, his bare chest lightly dusted with golden sunlight, held Y/n close, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the small of her back.

"You were incredible this weekend" Y/n whispered, her voice husky. "That overtake at Sainte Devote? Pure magic."

Lewis chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated against her ear. "Just had a feeling " he admitted, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Course you did" Y/n continued, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as he leaned down to place a soft kiss on her neck.

Just then, the sound of the front door creaking open shattered the peaceful intimacy. A loud, slightly slurred voice echoed through the apartment, "Alright, I brought those-"

The voice, belonging to one of Lewis' friend, cut off abruptly as the realization of what he'd walked in on dawned on him. He stood frozen for a beat, his eyes widening at the sight of them entangled on the living room rug, bathed in sunlight.

"Don't mind me" Daniel finally stammered, his voice thick with embarrassment and amusement "I'm clearly way too drunk for this. Don’t worry I won't be remembering any of this."

Y/n buried her face in Lewis' chest, a strangled giggle escaping her lips. Lewis, meanwhile, burst into laughter, the tension dissolving into a wave of relief and amusement.

"Typical" Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. "Always the party crasher."

Y/n peeked up from his chest, a playful glint in her eyes. "See? Told you he wouldn't be fazed," she teased, remembering a previous, similar incident involving a particularly enthusiastic post-podium celebration.

Lewis grinned, pulling her closer. "Seems you were right" he admitted, his voice laced with affection. "Now, how about we get ourselves to the bedroom before he decides to join us?"

Y/n raised an eyebrow playfully. "Sorry, I don’t share." Her lips crashing into his as he brought her even closer.

Stargazing

The humid costal Cape Town air hung thick and heavy as Y/N and Lewis stepped out onto their hotel balcony. A million diamond-like stars glittered across the velvet expanse of the sky at the distant villa they were staying at.

"The night sky here is so clear" Lewis breathed, tilting his head back to take it all in.

Y/N smiled, a wave of nostalgia washing over her. "Look south," she instructed, pointing towards a constellation of four bright stars forming a perfect cross. "See that? That's the Southern Cross."

Lewis squinted, following her finger. "The Southern Cross? I've never seen it before."

"It's not visible from most places in Europe" she explained. "It's our signpost back in South America. My dad always says that whenever we get lost, all we have to do is find the Southern Cross. It always points south, it points home."

A warm feeling spread through her chest as she pointed to each star in the cross. "See, the little arm on the left is Mimosa, and the one on the right, slightly dimmer, is Pálida - 'pale' in portuguese. The longer arm pointing north is called Rubídea, and the longest one, pointing due south, that's the Magalhães star, named after the explorer."

Lewis chuckled. "And the one in the middle, kind of squeezed between the right arm and the south one?"

Y/N grinned. "That's Intrometida," she declared. "It means 'nosy'. It's the odd one out, just hanging out there in the middle."

Lewis laughed, a low rumble in his chest. " Fits the description."

They stood in comfortable silence for a while, simply gazing up at the breathtaking display of stars. The vastness of the universe felt humbling, and yet, the familiarity of the Southern Cross, a beacon from her childhood, brought a sense of comfort.

"Thank you for showing me this" Lewis finally said, his voice soft as his fingers reached for hers and he held her gazer "But my favorite part of this view is right here beside me."

Late night driving

Rain lashed against the windshield, blurring the neon glow of oncoming traffic into streaks of light. The countryside, usually a picturesque blur of rolling hills and quaint villages, was now an inky expanse punctuated by the occasional farmhouse windows alight.

Y/N gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, the late-night drive back home to London starting to feel endless.

A glance at the passenger seat revealed Lewis, his head resting back against the headrest, a peaceful expression on his face. He was supposed to be in charge of the music for the long journey, but exhaustion, brought on by a long day of meetings at the factory, had clearly won him over.

Y/N stifled a yawn, her eyelids growing heavy. Reaching for her phone, she pressed the home button.

"Hey Siri," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Y/N, how can I help you?" came the disembodied voice from the phone's speaker.

"Play some upbeat songs, please" Y/N requested. A beat of silence followed, then the unmistakable opening chords of "Dancing Queen" by ABBA filled the car.

Y/N's lips curved into a smile. Maybe a little cheese was exactly what she needed.

Just as the chorus picked up a startled groan erupted from the passenger seat. Lewis jolted awake, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the sudden change in light and sound.

"What is this?" he exclaimed; his voice thick with sleep.

Y/N glanced over at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Abba?!" she replied, tapping her finger rhythmically on the steering wheel in time with the music. "You know, since you failed in your designated DJ duties."

Lewis's face scrunched up in mock horror. "Seriously? Dancing queen?!” Y/N laughed. "Hey, classics never go out of style. Besides," she added, a teasing lilt in her voice, "how can you resist singing along?"

Lewis opened his mouth to protest, then a ghost of a smile played on his lips. He sighed dramatically. "Alright, alright," he conceded, "but only because you’re driving”

Y/N winked at him, her heart lighter. The rain continued to fall outside, but inside the car, filled with ABBA and the playful banter between them, the long drive felt a little less daunting.

Ironing shirt

A low hum danced across the room and dragged Y/n from her sleep. Disoriented for a moment, she blinked, the hum resolving itself into the rhythmic hiss of an iron.

She turned her head, a smile tugging at her lips. There, across their motorhome room, stood Lewis, shoulders broad and relaxed as he glided the iron over a crisp white shirt. The scene, domesticity in all its glory.

"Lew?" she rasped; her voice thick with sleep. He glanced up, a smile mirroring hers as he set the iron down. "Morning. Sleep well?"

"Yeah" she mumbled, burrowing deeper into the covers. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure your shirt is crispy" he said with a bright smile on his lips, picking the iron back up.

Y/n stretched languidly, the sheet slipping down her shoulder and revealing his t-shirt she had slept in. " You really didn’t have to”

Lewis chuckled, a warm rumble in his chest. "Non sense". He gestured towards the bed. "Come on now, sleepyhead. We need to leave soon."

With a sigh, Y/n threw back the covers and padded across his motor room, the plush carpet a welcome comfort against her bare feet. She wrapped her arms around Lewis from behind, pressing her cheek against his back.

"You shouldn't have done that" she mumbled into his shirt.

"Shouldn't have ironed your shirt?"

"No, woken up so early." Lewis turned in his arms, his brow furrowed slightly. "You know I don’t sleep too much”

He brushed a bit of hair from her face, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. "Spoiling me rotten, why don’t you?!" she teased, leaning up to kiss him softly.

The kiss deepened quickly, a familiar electric current running between them. He held her close, the iron forgotten on the ironing board. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, a comfortable silence settled around them.

"Alright, enough distractions." Lewis said with a playful grin, picking up the iron again. Y/n swatted him playfully on the arm. "Fine, fine. But at least let me make you some coffee."

"Make it strong, beautiful. Long day ahead." he said, winking.

Naps

The scent of Lewis's signature cologne hit Y/N as she fumbled with her key, the familiar aroma a warm welcome after a long day of meetings. She pushed open the door, a tired smile gracing her lips. Stepping inside, the apartment was the picture of disaster with luggage all around.

Curled up on the plush white sofa, Lewis lay fast asleep, his chest rising and falling gently. But he wasn't alone. Nestled beside him, Roscoe mirrored his position, a ball of contentment.

Y/N's heart melted. Lewis, notorious for his messy sleep schedule, must have been exhausted after the race. And clearly, Roscoe, ever the emotional sponge, had picked up on his human's need for rest.

She tiptoed closer, careful not to disturb their slumber. Lewis's face was relaxed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. One hand lay unconsciously draped over Roscoe's back, who in turn let out a contented sigh in his sleep.

Unable to resist, Y/N pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, capturing the heartwarming tableau of man and dog united. A soft chuckle escaped her lips. Maybe unpacking could wait.

Just then, Lewis stirred, his eyes flickering open. He blinked blearily at her for a moment before a grin spread across his face.

"Hello gorgeous" he mumbled; his voice thick with sleep.

"Hey you" she replied, her voice soft. She gestured towards Roscoe, who was now blinking awake, his tail thumping a lazy greeting against the sofa cushion.

"Looks like someone else is happy you were back" Lewis observed, reaching out to scratch Roscoe behind the ear.

The dog whined happily, nuzzling into Lewis's hand.

"Well," she declared, sinking down onto the sofa beside them, "it seems you two had a relaxing afternoon."

Lewis chuckled, pulling her close. "We did," he admitted, his voice laced with sleepiness. "Until you arrived, photojournalist extraordinaire."

Y/N playfully swatted at his arm. "Hey, someone has to document the domestic bliss."

Lewis leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Then perhaps," he murmured, "you should document some more."

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TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora

If you’d like to be added to my taglist you can leave a comment or send me a dm/ask.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic

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probablyasocialecologist · 5 months ago

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Ending mass human deprivation and providing good lives for the whole world's population can be accomplished while at the same time achieving ecological objectives. This is demonstrated by a new study by the Institute of Environmental Science and Technology of the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona (ICTA-UAB) and the London School of Economics and Political Science, recently published in World Development Perspectives. About 80% of humanity cannot access necessary goods and services and lives below the threshold for "decent living." Some narratives claim that addressing this problem will require massive economic growth on a global scale, multiplying existing output many times over, which would exacerbate climate change and ecological breakdown. The authors of the new study dispute this claim and argue that human development does not require such a dangerous approach. Reviewing recent empirical research, they find that ending mass deprivation and provisioning decent living standards for 8.5 billion people would require only 30% of current global resource and energy use, leaving a substantial surplus for additional consumption, public luxury, scientific advancement, and other social investments. This would ensure that everyone in the world has access to nutritious food, modern housing, high-quality health care, education, electricity, induction stoves, sanitation systems, clothing, washing machines, refrigerators, heating/cooling systems, computers, mobile phones, internet, and transport, and could also include universal access to recreational facilities, theaters, and other public goods. The authors argue that, to achieve such a future, strategies for development should not pursue capitalist growth and increased aggregate production as such but should rather increase the specific forms of production that are necessary to improve capabilities and meet human needs at a high standard, while ensuring universal access to key goods and services through public provisioning and decommodification. In the Global South, this requires using industrial policy to increase economic sovereignty, develop industrial capacity, and organize production around human well-being. At the same time, in high-income countries, less-necessary production (of things like mansions, SUVs, private jets and fast fashion) must be scaled down to enable faster decarbonization and to help bring resource use back within planetary boundaries, as degrowth scholarship holds.

July 25 2024

#degrowth #climate change #universal basic services #poverty #economic growth #jason hickel

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music-orthemisery · 7 months ago

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Pre-Folie Release Madness of (p)2- A Timeline

After spending a few days in cuckoo bananas world thanks to the video re: Patrick's best man speech, @grandtreeangel and I have some things to slide across the table.

Between October 19, 2008 and November 7th, 2008, FOB played a series of shows leading up to the release of Folie a Deux. Each show featured a Pete/Patrick banter moment that, when put together, creates a very...interesting narrative.

October 19th - Birmingham, England show

Pete making a Top Gun reference to the $20 bar bet scene while Patrick plays the Top Gun theme song.

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The scene in question: "Total carnal knowledge...of a woman this time, on the premises"

October 22nd - London, England show

First live performance of Patrick's "Love Lockdown" cover

Please see @grandtreeangel’s post HERE for more context on this totally normal thing Patrick did.

October 25th - Lille, France show

OG "my little cabbage" moment Pete, in French, says to Patrick, "You are beautiful, my little cabbage."

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October 27th OR 28th - Blog post

Pete posts this on his Tumblr . It says 10/27, but there's some disagreement on time zones so it may be 10/28. EITHER WAY...

Originally, this linked to a clip from the movie Love, Actually. In this scene, a man confesses his love to a woman who is married to his best friend.

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There's plenty of debate about this movie, scene, and storyline in general, but we aren't here for that right now!!!

Let's just focus on the facts:

Woman. Married. To BEST FRIEND.

The man was the best man AND the videographer at the wedding.

This whole moment is done secretly. He confesses, they kiss, she goes back inside and tells her husband it was just some carolers.

In general, this whole story arc is ripe with longing and unattainable love due to a marriage keeping the man from being with the woman.

I...wonder what this sounds like...

October 28th - Toronto, Canada show

Love Lockdown cover where Patrick says, "That's for you, Pete."

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Again, Patrick being very normal!!!

October 29th - Blog Post

Pete contributes an entry to Bill's "Mondayeyes" poetry club on friendsorenemies.com:

Credit to @alphadog's post for this HERE

The entire poem is quite impactful, but a few lines of interest:

"Where do you get off?" or more like "how"

and...

"You chose this"

When Pete uses quotes, it's noted that this indicates things that have been said to him.

There are scents and spells that keep us coming together, there are sparks that keep us forever

The art of keeping up disappearances

Also, big hello to some Rat-A-Tat lyrics

Whenever I could make the sweat roll backwards and your pulse stream in reverse

(Big thank you to @dykeandyhurley for sending this to me)

November 6th - Boston, MA show

Pete shares the story about Patrick's best man speech.

Huge props to @predoom for finding this moment!

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If you haven't seen Top Gun (?!), the context here is very important:

The line "Ice, fire, or clear," is said in the scene where Goose dies.

Scene: "Ice, Fire or Clear!"

Also, it should be noted that, to Pete, he is Goose and Patrick is Maverick.

The fact that Patrick picks this quote to say to Pete...in his best man speech...at PETE'S WEDDING. A quote said when Maverick LOSES Goose.

AND...apparently no one else in the reception quite...get's it. Pete is the only one who does. That line was just for Pete. From Patrick.

Of all the lines in that movie, he picks that one, from that moment.

Then, of course...

We have "The Kids Aren't Alright."

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Featuring the lyrics:

Stuck in the jet wash Bad trip I couldn't get off And maybe I bit off more than I could chew And overhead of the aqua blue

Along with Pete's annotation:

November 7th - Philadelphia, PA show

Patrick sings Lullabye.

Take a peek at this post for all of that mess.

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"Well, Bronx was about to be born!"

Sure, sure. I'm not DENYING the relevance there. Just. Go look at the post, damn it. Trust me.

And then...?

Nothing. They take a break, Bronx is born, and then they play a show in Columbus, OH on December 1, 2008. This whole little back and forth ends. Folie a Deux is released on December 10th and...well...we all know what happens after that.

#absolutely fucking insane honestly #we've been obsessing over this all day #adult responsibilities? what are those in the face of p2 lore?!#anyway. hope you enjoyed the fruits of our crazy #p2 #peterick #pete wentz #patrick stump #fall out boy #folie a deux #pre-hiatus #hijinx and tomfoolery

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trivialbob · 11 months ago

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This morning I took the dogs to the airport dog park. Ella, Oliver, and Sulley were eager to go. In most places this park is fairly wide open. If there is any wind, you really feel it.

Boy did we feel it.

The temperature was 6°F, pretty much the low end of when I will take the dogs to a park. I didn't realize how strong wind the would be. It howled more than any London werewolf. I was craving beef chow mein by the time we headed home.

Only part of my face was exposed. That part hurt. My thumbs got cold inside my mittens. Eventually they had to join the other digits inside the large part of the mittens, to share some heat and leave me with the grasping capability of an ape.

Ella looked at me like, "You are the supposedly intelligent human. Why did you do this to us?" Ungrateful little ones.

We made one truncated loop of the park. I did get to see one bald eagle soaring and three single aisle jets come in for landing right over my head.

On the way home I stopped for gas. This gas station has a mercifully short process for activating the pump: Tap a card. Select the octane.

Today was too cold to for me to stand outside and put up with the usually litany of pump questions a different station has: Do you want a car wash? Even though you don't want one, would you have chosen the Deluxe, Super, or Gold Wash? Do you want a receipt? Why not (limit your answer to 80 characters). Are you going to use a grocery store rewards card? Did Thank you for choosing Yes. I see you buy a lot of booze at that store. We hope you are not drinking and driving. Do you want to leave a tip for the store clerk standing inside where it's warm? 20, 25 or 30%? Do you want to mute the audio for the commercial currently playing on the other screen?

#FAFO - Upper Midwest Winter Definition - Freezing my Ass you Fuck Off #Ah-hoo - werewolves of London

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theroseceleste · 6 months ago

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Pilot Miguel - Part 10 - An Unexpected Visitor

In this short, but fluffy chapter, you reminisce about your stay in London and snuggle with your man in his penthouse. This is until someone unexpected turns up...

Word count - 1619

Contains : A little bit of fluff and a confrontation conversation via text.

Enjoy! xx

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

If you enjoy this fic, please consider liking, commenting or re-blogging. Many thanks xx

London was great, you definitely want to go back again. There’s so much there to see and do. England itself has a lot to offer, along with Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland which make up the United Kingdom. So much history happened all around the country, and there’s too much to fit into just two days of staying over between flights.

You never enjoyed history at school. It was boring learning about it in a dull classroom. But, walking around in the streets the history took place makes it all the more interesting.

Naturally, you wanted to see Buckingham Palace. Many pictures were taken outside of the iron gates in front of the grand building.

You took romantic walks with Miguel around St James’s Park and Hyde Park and then you went shopping in the famous shop called Harrods in Knightsbridge.

The Tower of London was another point of interest. A castle with effectively a small town concealed within its fortress walls.

Connecting all of these places in the city, is the London Underground network. Locally nicknamed ‘the tube’ as the tunnels that the trains snake through on a daily basis are round, exactly like a tube.

It amazed you to learn that the tube stations were used as bomb shelters during World War II. Helping residents of London take cover from the air raids that took place at night.

During your stay, some tube lines were busier than others, particularly during the rush hours. You found yourself pushed right up against Miguel as the train was crammed full of commuters.

The weather gods had been kind to you during your visit. Typically, it rains a lot in England - that’s why it’s so green. But the English summers can be stunning when the sun does finally come out and say hello.

You’re back in Nueva York now, sitting in Miguel’s penthouse, curled up on the sofa with him. His big arms wrap around you as you both flick through the pictures on your phone. The latest cute couple picture is the one of you both standing in a pod on the London Eye. The sights of the historically-rich city below you with your loved up, slightly jet lagged faces being the main focus.

Every now and then you feel kisses on the back of your head as he holds you close. His nose pressed against your recently washed hair, taking in the scent of your favourite shampoo.

This is the first time you’ve visited his apartment, and you can see why he didn’t bat an eyelid when booking your stay in Versailles. You’re certain he’s paid exceedingly well, but that doesn’t matter to you.

Everything in his apartment is expensive, or the latest model or whatever. You’re not interested in what his smart screen, 4K, ultra HD, thingy-ma-whatsit TV does. So long as you can snuggle with your man and watch a film on it, you don’t care.

It’s evening and you’ve not long had dinner together. He cooked and it was surprisingly scrumptious.

“I never had you down as skilled in the culinary arts,” you say to him as he nuzzles against your neck.

“I had to help my mother around the house, which meant doing stuff in the kitchen.”

You ponder for a moment as you think about the delicious food that’s now in your stomach.

“Your mother must be a good cook if you learned from her.”

“Yes, she certainly knows how to throw together a few things and prepare a tasty meal.”

He shifts uncomfortably in the seat, like he doesn't like where the conversation is going.

“You like the penthouse?” Miguel finally asks after deciding to change the subject.

“You have a beautiful home, very techy too, no surprise there…”

He chuckles at your comment before leaning in closer slightly.

“I’d love it if you—“ his whisper in your ear gets interrupted by a knock on his front door.

“That should be a delivery I’m expecting, could you grab it? I need the bathroom real quick.”

You both get up from the couch, you watch him stride off to his en-suite in his grey sweatpants and black t-shirt - for some reason, he looks incredibly sexy in that outfit.

There’s another knock at the door, reminding you to open it before Miguel misses his delivery.

The door creaks as you open it to reveal a woman, not dressed as a delivery driver. She has mid-length black hair and blue eyes. She seems surprised to see you.

“Oh…”

Her shock intrigues you.

“Can I help you?” you ask her.

“Oh, no - it’s okay, I didn’t know Miguel was… um… entertaining…”

She begins to turn away, but you open your mouth to speak again.

“Who shall I say came to the door? I can ask him to get back to you.”

The woman considers your offer for a moment.

“That would be great, thank you. Tell him Xina tried to visit, but will try some other time.”

You nod and smile.

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” Xina replies and hangs her handbag over her shoulder before turning around to walk back to the elevator.

After closing the door, you return to the couch and begin to wonder why a woman would be calling around Miguel’s so late in the day.

Miguel returns from the ensuite and joins you on the sofa again.

“Where did you put the package?” he asks, looking around for a box.

“It wasn’t a delivery,” you reply.

He looks back at you and raises an eyebrow.

“Who was it?”

“Someone named Xina? She said she’d try again some other time.”

Miguel’s smile drops the instant he hears Xina's name. What could she possibly want with him? A sinking feeling in his stomach means he suspects that whatever it is she wants, it’s not going to be good news.

“Mhmm… thanks.”

He lays you down with him on the couch and puts a film on for the both of you to watch. An uncomfortable thump in his chest pounds against his ribs as his mind wanders over what Xina wants. He kisses your head as he pulls his phone out while the movie starts. Calling up Xina’s contact on his screen, he begins to type a message to his ex-wife.

“What do you want?”

It doesn’t take long for Xina to reply. He suspects she’s sitting in her car outside the apartment block.

“You’ve moved on quickly…”

Miguel’s lips press into a thin line as his heart thumps harder in his chest.

“What’s it to you?” he replies, trying to not jab at the screen with frustration and jog you too much.

His message is left on read for a moment, like Xina is thinking about what to say next. A nauseous feeling develops when he sees that she eventually starts typing again.

“I feel like perhaps I was too hasty in wanting a divorce.”

Another text comes in shortly after.

“I miss you. And I miss what we had, the good times we did share together.”

The urge to launch the phone across the living room is almost too tempting. She wants to come back into his life after pushing and fighting for a divorce? He didn’t think he’d get a shot at happiness again, especially so soon after the end of his marriage. Now that he has you, he’s not giving what he has up for someone who can’t make up their mind and seems to think they’re at liberty to mess people around. As far as he’s concerned, Xina can find her happiness elsewhere, because he gave up fighting for her when he was pushed to sign the papers.

He types out another reply.

“You made your bed, now you go lie in it.”

Xina starts to type back almost instantly.

“Are things serious between you two?”

Miguel does everything he can to not growl with annoyance. To make himself better, he snuggles into you more and kisses the back of your head again, sniffing your scent.

Taking in a deep breath to calm himself, he starts to type again.

“None of your business.”

His response is left on read once more for a moment, he can feel her frustration through the screen with her lack of a reply. She’s probably resting her head against the steering wheel of her car, seething - good.

Spending time with you, making plans with you, dating you, he feels has done him the world of good. Some might say he moved on too quickly, that he was on the rebound, but you were too good of a person to let pass by.

He has defence walls for a reason, and you are one of the select few who sees who he really is. You are his and he is yours. You bring out such happiness in him. He doesn’t want to lose you and he’ll do anything in his power to make sure that doesn’t happen.

He finds himself surprised that Xina doesn’t reply, but he suspects that this is not the last he’ll hear from her.

A gentle snore suggests you have fallen asleep. He smiles as he tenderly nuzzles into you again. His hand strokes your hair before he subtly turns you on your back so he can see his perfect chiquita sleeping. You look so peaceful. It’d be rude to wake you and he wants this moment to last a little while longer. Strong arms wrap around you after he tosses his phone onto another sofa and he settles down, hoping his pounding heart will relax soon. Listening to your deep breaths is already having a calming effect on him. You’re so much better for him than Xina ever was.

I hope you enjoyed Part 9!

Next Chapter >

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#fanfic #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #commisions open #fem reader #smut #female reader #reader x character #readerxmiguelohara #pilotmiguel

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bridgertonbabe · 10 months ago

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Benophie Drabble - Bridgerton Brothers AU

Surveying the room around him, Benedict smiled to himself as he watched his nieces and nephews keeping Simon, Daphne, Anthony, and Kate on their toes; Colin cuddling into Penelope all the while she laughed and chatted with Eloise; his parents lost in their own little world as they rocked back and forth dancing to the music. It was a far less raucous after-party than the ones they used to have during their early years of touring but now they were all that much older and more settled (and honestly far more easy to wear out), celebrating another sold-out concert with just their loved ones was much more preferable.

There was just one notable absence for Benedict to feel particularly dispirited; his wife.

For the last twelve weeks Sophie had been on her own solo tour across the UK playing sold-out theatre shows, enchanting audiences with her mesmerising violin concertos and pop covers. Much to Benedict's dismay he had yet to be able to attend any of her shows as her tour coincided with the Bridgerton Brothers international one, otherwise he'd be attending every last one of her concerts as he had done with all of her previous tours. He had desperately tried to find any opportunity to be able to jet back to see her, but unfortunately both of their schedules were so jam-packed that there'd barely be enough time to even kiss her before he would have to fly back out for his next concert. Sophie had tried in vain as well to find any openings in her diary in order to see him but they both reluctantly accepted that they had no other options but to endure the separation apart.

At the very least it definitely made the heart grow fonder as with every new day he missed her more and more. Sure they still called and texted and video-chatted constantly but Benedict was keening to be able to see her in the flesh once more, to hold her in his arms and to kiss her and just be in her physical presence. For now however he'd have to endure just another twelve hours before they flew from Dublin to London to be reunited with Sophie once more.

Except, as Benedict looked around at all the loved-up couples; his mum and dad, Simon and Daphne, Kate and Anthony, and Colin and Penelope; he realised he couldn't actually handle waiting just twelve more hours - he wanted to be back with his wife right that very second.

Now that their Dublin concert was over and done with and knowing that Sophie's concert in Reading that night would have finished, Benedict couldn't help but feel that now was as good a time as any to simply hop on the next flight home and be with Sophie at long last.

He quickly got his phone out, putting all of his energy into manifesting a miracle last-minute flight being available to London as he googled flights out of Dublin airport that night - and his eyes lit up as soon as he saw that such a flight was in fact going to depart within the next hour.

Jumping to his feet, he marched straight over to Daphne to run his plan of action past her; after all, she was in charge of the band's itinerary. As soon as he mentioned just how desperate he was to see Sophie again, Daphne assured him to leave everything with her. She'd book his flight and cancel his seat on the one the following morning so long as he left immediately. He pecked his sister on the cheek, thanking her profusely before legging it out the room.

In just under two hours he was opening the front door to the home he shared with Sophie, making sure to be as quiet as possible as he made his way up the stairs and into their bedroom. As soon as he caught sight of his wife sleeping peacefully in the bed they shared his heart swelled up and the feeling of homecoming washed over him.

Typically after any flight the first thing he'd do is have a quick shower but after twelve long weeks apart from Sophie, there was nothing he wanted to do more than slip under the covers and simply hold her. After ridding himself of every garment but his pants he got into bed as carefully as he could, doing everything he could not to disturb her sleep. Rather adorably she was cuddling a pillow - one of his pillows - as well as wearing one of his old sweatshirts and Benedict couldn't help smiling, elated in the knowledge that Sophie had been missing him as much as he had missed her. He gently wrapped his arms around her, spooning her (and the pillow), and buried his head into her curly tresses.

At long last he was back where he belonged; home.

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

Sophie was exhausted by the time she got in that evening and had only just remembered to give a wave of thanks over her shoulder to her driver before she entered her home. Normally at this time she would be buzzing with post-concert energy but as of late once she had finished a show she was desperate to climb into bed and fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

It also didn't help that she was missing her husband dreadfully and had spent the last twelve weeks yearning to be reunited with him in person once more. While his absence had only made her heart fonder of him, she was relieved that come midday the following day he would be home at last. Finally she'd be able to embrace him, to kiss him, to talk and laugh in person, to just be with him - and the quicker she got herself to bed and fell asleep, the sooner she'd be expecting him by the time she woke up.

As she had done since they had been apart, she dressed for bed in an old sweatshirt of his, one she had adopted from Benedict long ago but it still smelled like him and made her feel closer to him despite the distance they had endurd for the past twelve weeks. Then once she was under the covers she grabbed a hold of one of the pillows from Benedict's side of the bed and cuddled into it, treasuring the feel of it against her as her husband's stand-in; and as soon as she was comfortable and had closed her eyes, she fell straight to sleep.

While sleeping soundly her brain flashed up images of her husband, memories of him flopping down on the sofa she was sat on and resting his head in her lap, how he'd always ensure he pointed to her in the crowd whenever she attended his concerts, the way she'd always find his eyes at her concerts and how he beamed proudly back at her, how safe and protected she felt being held in his arms and how she could practically feel his warm breath against the back of her neck as he buried his head in amongst her curls and his hands came to rest on the pillow she was cuddling as he spooned her...

In fact, it almost felt too real to just be a dream.

Sophie's eyes gently opened as her conscious lazily stirred awake and she observed the darkness of the bedroom and the stillness of the night - and then after several seconds it finally registered that there was a warm body cuddling her, the feeling of which was so familiar she knew instantaneously it was her husband.

"Ben?" she rasped, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey." he breathed back against her neck and squeezed her gently in greeting.

"What are you doing here?" she blearily asked, not having expected him home for roughly another twelve hours, and attempted to turn in his hold.

"Couldn't bear to be away from you a second longer." he answered but prevented her from twisting round to face him. "Sleep, my love. We'll have all the time tomorrow." he assured her gently, pressing a kiss against her back, and snuggling into her.

And though Sophie could have blissfully drifted off back to sleep in that moment, before she could succumb to slumber once more her brain kicked into gear and she excitedly remembered a very particular reason why she had been more desperate than ever before to see her husband. Without a second to lose Sophie leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp and shuffled herself to sit up.

"Soph." Benedict groaned, squeezing his already shut eyes even tighter from the sudden burst of light. "There's no need-"

"Oh Ben." she sighed affectionately as she got her first proper look at her husband in the flesh for the first time in twelve weeks, and she leaned down to kiss him tenderly on the lips.

In spite of his disgruntled exhaustion, Benedict was sufficiently woken up by his wife's lips against his as he kissed back without hesitation. He managed to crack open his eyes when she pulled away to gaze at her adoringly, a soft lazy smile curving his lips as he reached out to pull her back in.

"I've got something to tell you." she said as she intertwined her hands with the ones that were trying to drag her into a cuddle.

"Oh, can't it wait?" Benedict grumbled. "The whole point of sneaking in was so I didn't disturb you."

"And that was very thoughtful of you - but this can't wait." she told him; after all, Sophie had been impatiently waiting for the last six weeks to tell him this and there was no way in hell she was going to keep it to herself for a second longer.

"What is it?" Benedict relented with a laborious sigh and reluctantly pulled himself up to lean against the headboard.

Sophie twisted around, opening the drawer of her bedside table, and presented him with a gift box. He raised an intrigued eyebrow, having been under the impression she was about to tell him something but after receiving a nod of encouragement from her he accepted the gift and opened the lid.

As Sophie watched on eagerly, he pulled back the tissue paper to reveal a baby onesie with the words Daddy's #1 Fan emblazoned on it. Benedict stared at it for a few seconds, his brain being affected by tiredness and delaying his reaction when suddenly it clicked and he shot his head up to meet Sophie's sparkling gaze.

"You're pregnant?" he swallowed and she nodded in confirmation. "We're having a baby?"

"We're having a baby, Ben." she answered gleefully and in a flash she was swept up into his arms.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" he chanted into the crook of her neck as he clutched her to him. "Sophie." he choked out and kissed her neck. "Oh god, Sophie I'm so happy. I'm so so happy. I love you, I love you so much." he teared up and punctuated his joy with kisses up the column of her neck until his lips were on hers.

"I love you too." she laughed shakily, blissfully overjoyed with his ecstatic reaction.

"How far along?" he asked.

"Well that flying visit twelve weeks back did the trick." she answered and Benedict's face lit up in amazement.

Having children was always on the cards for them and they had planned to start trying for a baby once Benedict was home from touring, however they had certainly made the most of Sophie's one night in the US to get ahead of their baby-making plans.

"I can't believe it." Benedict beamed. "How long have you known?"

"Six weeks." Sophie exhaled and brought a hand through his hair. "I've been dying to tell you but I wanted to tell you in person instead of over the phone or through a screen. I hope that's okay-"

Benedict cut her off with a searing kiss, an automatic assurance that her decision to hold off from telling him until they were face to face was very much appreciated.

"Of course that's okay." he verbally iterated when he managed to pull himself away from kissing her. "If you had told me over the phone I'd have left the tour without a word of notice to fly home immediately just so I could hug and kiss you. Nothing else would have mattered to me than seeing you and celebrating the baby we've made."

"I guess it's a relief I waited then, for the sake of the fans."

"And for my sake as well, to avoid Daphne throttling me for abandoning the band in the middle of a sold-out tour." he (somewhat) joked.

"Oh well we couldn't have that then, could we?" Sophie giggled and kissed him.

Benedict kissed back, wrapping his arms around his wife and cherishing this very moment for all the joy it brought to his heart. "I love you, Soph." he professed once more against her lips. "I didn't think I could be any happier coming home to you and yet you never cease to amaze me."

He continued to express his overwhelming joy by peppering her with kisses until his lips were sore and he rested his head against hers, professing his unconditional love for her and their baby before they both acknowledged just how spent they were and sunk back down under the covers to rest. Sophie turned over so he could hold her back against his chest and then he rested his hands over her abdomen where he could feel the smallest hint of a bump. With the biggest smile on his face, Benedict pressed one last kiss against Sophie's shoulder, professed his love for her yet again and settled comfortably into the embrace before dreaming the sweetest dreams of the joy-filled future that lay ahead of them.

#benophie drabble #bridgerton brothers au #benophie #benedict x sophie

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vipcarpetcleaninglondon · 8 months ago

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Get That Sparkling Clean Look – Pro Tips for Jet Washing Your Outdoor Areas

If the patios, driveways and decking around your home are looking tired, dirty and grimy, it could be time to consider jet washing in London. Jet washing, also known as power washing... Read more

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mishasminion360 · 1 year ago

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Home Again, Home Again

Marcus Moreno x fem!reader

Warnings: None! This is just pure fluffiness.

Summary: It’s always hard being away from the one you love, but when the one you love is a superhero the distance feels far greater. But that just means the return home is all the sweeter.

A/N: This little fluff fest was a request by my lovely friend, @your-slutty-gf. Business trips can feel endless when you know there’s someone wonderful waiting for you back home. I Hope you and your fella are reunited soon, luv 🥰

It seems as though the world has only grown crazier and crazier since 2020. You mean besides the pandemic and political turmoil and senseless violence and all the other garbage.

Every week there’s a new supervillain attack or three. A new alien invasion or national state of emergency. And every week that means your man is off to do what he does best: Save the world.

You knew damn well what you were getting into when you fell head over heels for Marcus Moreno. Dating a superhero meant constant danger, constant leaping into action to perform some derring-do, and constant worry. It wouldn’t have been worth the trouble if he weren’t so absolutely wonderful.

The two of you had met on the job; him defending the city from certain doom with all his cohorts while you, a dedicated journalist, covered the action from a somewhat safe location, snapping photo after photo of all the harrowing action and jotting down notes for the article that would recount the events to the masses.

You’d seen him coming through the lens of your camera as he dove to pull you out of the path of the falling rubble you hadn’t seen coming at all. You didn’t believe in love at first sight, but you’d definitely felt something when you’d looked into his eyes.

From then on, whenever he’d jump into action so did you. You became a regular Superman and Lois Lane. And something more. It started with playful banter and gradually evolved into straight up flirting. Flirting became dates, which became a relationship, which led to you moving in with he and his daughter. And in the middle of all that came the cheesiest love confession you’d ever heard.

“I can’t believe this entire time I’ve been dating a criminal.”

“You’ve lost me, Moreno.”

“You’re a no-good crook. Because you’ve stolen my heart.“

The only thing stronger than his powers is his love. The intensity of that force makes it all the more noticeable when you’re without it.

He’d only just returned from London last Friday after he and the team had defeated a hoard of alien body snatchers attempting to impersonate the British monarchy. Come Monday he was jetting off to Japan to deal with a Kaiju situation. It’s now Thursday and you’ve heard barely a word since he’d left again.

***

Missy waves goodbye from the back of Mrs. Miracle Guy’s (you really should learn her name) minivan and you brace yourself for another lonely night in. A little leftover Chinese, a cozy set of pajamas, and some light Netflix binging are in order. After a very long, very warm shower.

You stand beneath the pounding spray, letting it wash every last worry out of your tense muscles and weary bones. There they go spiraling down the drain; every “I hope he’s okay” and each “Is he getting enough rest?”

The water has just started to grow cold when the shower curtain parts and you feel a hand wrapping around your own.

“I’m home, hon—“

“INTRUDER!!”

You deliver a swift roundhouse kick to the thin barrier between you and your unwelcome guest and feel your foot connect with something on the other side—Stomach? Chest? Testicles?—followed by a groaning exhalation of air.

The force of your maneuver, coupled with the slipperiness of the inside of the tub has you teetering through the curtain—yanking it from its rings on the way down—and spiraling out of the shower and landing atop your attacker in a wet heap of torn fabric and damp nudity.

“Listen here, criminal scum! My boyfriend’s a superhero. He could kick your ass into a coma if I give the word,” you threaten, hoping he won’t realize how empty that threat is at the moment.

“Oh, I’m aware,” the assailant wheezes.

That voice, even breathless, is familiar. You fumble with the downed curtain and liner to find the man buried beneath.

“Marcus?!”

“Surprise.”

“You’re home?”

“I’m home.”

Your fear turns to joy in the fraction of a second. “Oh, my God, I missed you! How are you? Where did I kick you?”

“Missed you, too, exhausted, and I think you know exactly where you kicked me.”

You offer him an apology before leaning down eagerly for a kiss before realizing that he’s smeared head to toe in some kind of purple goop.

“And what is this?”

“That,” he sighs, “would be kaiju guts.”

“You just….decided to fly home like that, huh?”

You help him sit up and listen to the symphony of cracks, pops, and grunts his exhausted body makes.

“I pretty much just walked right off the battlefield. I just couldn’t take it anymore, sweetheart. I teleported home and left the others to deal with the mess. Which I realize, now that I’m saying it out loud, was a total dick move.”

“Three days just to kill one rampaging giant lizard?”

“Four. It had babies.”

“No wonder you’re exhausted.”

He looks so tired; body, mind, and soul. The world is running him too ragged. Still—and this is one of the truly amazing things you love about Marcus Moreno—his still musters enough residual energy to give you a smile.

“I missed you, sweetheart.”

You give him that kiss you’d been holding onto. Monster goo be damned. “I missed you, too, you goof.”

“Where’s Missy?”

Once again ignoring the purple gore slicking his skin, you lean into him and wrap your arms around his neck. Good thing you’re naked because that will really help to drive your next words home.

“She happens to be at a sleepover. So, maybe, you and I could have one of our own.” You throw in a seductive eyebrow waggle as a bonus.

“Oh, yeah? You’d want me like this? Covered in essence of Godzilla?”

“Watch how casually you toss around the “G” name. You don’t wanna add copyright infringement to your list of stressors, do you?”

“Right,” he snorts.

“And Marcus Moreno, I will take you any way I can possibly have you. That includes covered in monster muck or worse.”

He returns your kiss with one he’s been waiting to give you since he walked out the door on Monday.

“You have me, sweetheart. But before that ‘sleepover’ gets underway, I really would like a shower.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

***

One hour later you’re both in your coziest jammies and sagging onto the sofa, curling your bodies together like two puzzle pieces finally uniting to form the perfect picture.

“Hey, wait a second. Why is Apple saying we’re on episode eight of ‘Ted Lasso’? We’d only just watched episode four before I left.”

“That is….most peculiar,” you shrug.

“Baby. You didn’t.”

“Um…it was Missy.”

“You watched ‘Ted Lasso’ without me?”

You beg forgiveness with your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Betrayal!!”

“We can rewatch together!”

“That doesn’t make it hurt less!”

You missed this. The playful squabbling, the cuddling and closeness. The you, the him, the we and the us. Nothing feels right when you aren’t together. But no matter the distance or the days between you he’ll always come home, so long as you’re there waiting.

Ted and his soccer team believe in “Believe”. You believe in Marcus.

@grimeylady @rav3n-pascal22 @mamacitapascal @insomniamama1 @pedrosbisch @emmaispunk @lv7867 @reonlouw @hawaiianmelodies @heythere-mel @healingstardust @delorena @pedropasxal @caesaryoulater @fangirling-alert @fromthedeskoftheraven @axshadows @dragon-scales88 @spacepastel-blog @spideysimpossiblegirl @hauntedmama @mswarriorbabe80 @horton-hears-a-honk @wild-at-heart-kept-in-cage @a-trial-run-on-paper @oonajaeadira @dhadiirah @felicisimor @practicalghost @luz-introvertida @amneris21 @hb8301 @tanzthompson @littlemisspascal @dobbyjen @supernaturalgirl20 @alexxavicry @harriedandharassed @trickstersp8 @neganwifey25-blog @twistedboxy @emiemiemiii @energeticspookyshark @thevoiceinyourheadx @pedr0swh0r3 @anamiad00msday @secretwriterpp @wannab-urs @pedrostories

#pedro pascal #marcus moreno #we can be heroes #fluff #fic request

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averagejoesolomon · 1 year ago

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WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans.

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside.

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow.

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait.

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance.

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home.

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside.

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says.

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,” he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew.

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

#Full Circle

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taylor-russell-fun · 1 year ago

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Taylor Russell for ES Magazine by Nikolai von Bismarck, 24 November 2023

The definition of a rising star, Taylor Russell is in constant motion. Fresh off a flight from LA, she arrives on set for our cover shoot with freshly washed hair, a winter-appropriate Loewe grey overcoat and just a touch of jet lag. ‘I’ve been a little all over the place, but I’ve landed back in London. I’m here, I’m home.’

So what’s next for Russell? ‘I would love to do more theatre but I’m not somebody who has a great plan and how I’m going to get there. I’m curious and I’m interested in people more than anything. Hopefully there’s a lot of that in my future.'

source: standard.co.uk, @nikolaivonbismarck (instagram)

#taylor russell #es magazine #nikolai von bismarck

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neattequila · 2 years ago

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Harry's Style Evolution (by an actual stylist) Part 3: Fine Line Era! Part 1 of 2*

Hi hi hi. First of all thanks for all the love on Part 1 and Part 2 which are linked. I highly recommend reading them first as I'll be referencing some of his past style.

This one took me so long to do because Harry's Fine Line era is when he really develops the personal style that he's now known for, and I have LITERALLY SO MUCH TO SAY. So without further ado!

*LOL I HIT PIC LIMIT before we even got to 2020. This is officially HS Style part 3 but Part 1 of 2 for the Fine Line Era.

HERE'S THE LINK TO PART 2

We left off in 2018, Harry was still touring his first album and was dating Camille Rowe (as far we know) who was beginning to influence his style.

After Live on Tour ends there's a period where we don't see him for a bit. Later we'll learn that him and Camille have broken up, and he jets off to Japan for some much needed hermit time.

2019

January, Harry's spotted in Japan. He rings in the new year with a ragtag batch of famous people that are for some reason all in Japan at the same time.

Here we see the debut of the custom gold Gucci rings that will become a staple for him (they retail at $470 each incase you were wondering.) We also see him in some Gucci jeans, and this vintage army jacket that I still have dreams about.

By March he's back in London and we get some more hints of his evolving personal style. He's back in jeans but he's over the black skinny's he previously coveted instead opting for a light wash straight leg. He wears this Raf Simmons jumper I'm obsessed with an looks oh-so-cozy. We'll also see the athletic outfits that he still wears today.

Also in March he introduced, and preforms with, Stevie Nicks as she's inducted into the Rock n Roll hall of fame.

He wears a gorgeous blue Gucci suit with white Gucci boots. We'll actually see him in this exact same Blue suit later in an ad campaign for Gucci for their Fall 2019 collection. (P.S. his hair is so delicious here I love this length on him.)

The next time we publicly see Harold is in May for the MET GALA! Y'all do not understand how hard I screamed in my living room when I found out he was going to be one of the chairs.

We first see him in a Gucci ensemble at the pre-gala dinner which he hosts at <3 Stonewall Inn <3 I literally remember when these pictures dropped me and the girlies were going stupid on Tumblr.com. It's hard to see in this picture but this is the first we see the EARRING! (May she rest)

I do remember being slightly disappointed with Harry's gala fit at the time. I wanted it a little campier and brighter, but as his style has evolved into the Harry's House era (we will get there when we get there lol.) I feel like in retrospect I can appreciate her much better.

She was delicate, she was sexy, and she was camp and queer in a much subtler way. The pearl earring really was everything not to mention the way he looks in the sheer black. YUM!

For the after party H changes into another Gucci ensemble which is very camp in an Orville Redenbacher way. He Gucci drop cross earring is a slay.

Also in May Harry attends his first (can you believe it?) Gucci show and wears one of my FAVORITE outfits he's ever worn.

It's head to toe Gucci of course, but the white suit with the white tank underneath it. Paired with pink sunglasses and pink soft loafers and a WICKER bag! Honey, THIS is styling!

He looks like he's about to ask if I wanna do a bump in the bathroom and my answer is YES!

Harry started working with Harry Lambert towards the end of his time in 1D, and so it's safe to assume that Lambert also had something to do with this outfit (and every other outfit he wears during this era.) How we fell from grace I still can't place in my head.

Anyway we also see his soon-to-be signature Fine Line pink and blue forever nails.

In August and September he appears on a myriad of Magazine covers. Most notably Rolling Stone, but my personal favorite The Face.

So what if I think about his photos for The Face in the night time sometimes, what're you gonna do sue me?!

Left he wears Bode shorts, middle a Gucci shirt and right a gorgeous Martine Rose jacket that he pairs with acid wash jeans.

In October the music video for Lights Up drops out of no where (fun fact when it dropped I was drunk in a club and went in the bathroom to watch it, when I woke up the next day I thought I'd dreamed the whole thing.

The Lights Up MV features a variety of looks. Including what will become the official Fine Line outfit: suspenders over an open shirt with high waisted trousers. This graphic is from Harry Fashion Archive which I did get a lot of these pics from so go check them out.

In November Fine Line the album is officially announced! (See how much there is to cover! We haven't even gotten to album release yet!)

On the cover Harry wears a custom Gucci ensemble of an open shirt, suspenders, and high waisted pants. Featuring Tom Walker's hand in a Gucci glove.

In November he hosts and is the musical guest on SNL where we get some great looks.

He preforms the soon-to-be smash hit Watermelon Sugar for the first time in a custom Watermelon-coloured Gucci suit. He also preforms Lights Up in a sequin Gucci suit.

On the show he wears another Gucci suit from their Spring/Summer collection (left). This look (right) is another all time favorite outfit of mine. A custom Bode shirt jacket paired with the iconic Christopher Kane "Sex" shirt, and brown Gucci trousers. This is another example of styling at its finest.

Off the show he wears a few sweater vests, most popular of which is this one by Lavin (left.) At a Spotify party for his album in December he will wear another Lavin piece, this time a cardigan, paired with baggy chinos and vans and the soon to infamous pearl necklace.

A few more fashion moments happen in December. He collaborates with Alessandro Michele for the first time to create this limited edition "Fine Line" t-shirt (left) that retails for $75. (Did anyone actually buy these?) He also goes through a Marc Jacobs sweater/shirt kick seen here on the Ellen show (right) but he wears them a few more times as well.

He preforms "Fine Line Live" in Los Angeles wearing the Gucci suit from the album cover paired with socks that say Fuck It (left.) Right he wears another Gucci suit to preform "Fine Line Live" in London.

*LOL I HIT PIC LIMIT before we even got to 2020. This is officially HS Style part 3 but Part 1 of 2 for the Fine Line Era.

LINK TO PART TWO HERE!

#fine line #harry styles #fashion #style #stylist #fine line era #Camille rowe #gucci #idk #other tags #part 1 of 2 I'm so sorry #blame Tumblr.com

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madmarchhare · 1 year ago

Text

The Monk and the Traveller Ch.2

Cherry spent about two hours with the man, getting a dinner of fried fox wrapped in various herbs along with some pheasant he had cooked the night before, leaving the pheasant he had caught today to prepare later. Alcohol flowed freely, much to the monk’s taciturn delight, Collier pouring him large servings of Sake[1] into a pair of ornate jet sake dishes he had. ‘It would be wrong to serve them in something else!’ he had remarked, just before gulping down the clear drink. By the end of the supper the smaller man was thoroughly drunk, both on good food and good drink, completely red in the face and quite out of it.

Collier made conversation all the while, asking questions about the man while discussing himself, but Cherry was only in a state to offer monosyllabic replies or nods. The Englishman noticed, but was not too bothered by it, enjoying the company nonetheless as he spoke increasingly to himself. In the end Cherry was struggling to hold himself awake, beginning to nod off into the drink in his hand. Collier grabbed him under the arm and pulled him to his room, the monk wearing a Cheshire cat smile all the way. His room was lavish for the hotel, simplistic yet finely decorated where it could be. Collier pulled the man to his room and laid him on his bed, leaving his hat hung on his staff and the latter leaned against the wall outside the room, along with his sandals.

He left through the door, leaving the key inside near it, hearing Cherry’s drunken mumblings as he left. He walked back down the hall to his room, nodding to the daughter of the inn as they passed each other, which she returned curtly as she carried a number of towels. He returned to his room, locking the door behind himself then changed into a pair of striped pyjamas, removing his money from the jacket before folding it away. He went to bed, laying his watch near his head after unlatching it from his wrist, then laying down on the futon[2].

Collier woke up early, as he often did, getting up and stretching before walking off to wash his face and brush his teeth. After that, he changed into the trousers he had worn yesterday, with a fresh shirt rolling up the sleeves as he grabbed his guns to clean them.

The rifle was an equitize piece, a Lee Speed sporting with high grade wood, polished a deep colour. A metal butt plate on its rear, with a sling loop on the underside of the stock, a few inches up of a metal oval in the stock. The semi-pistol grip was beautifully chequered, a horn grip cap just below it, the trigger and magazine just ahead of it. Both featured light engravings, a deep one on the underside of the trigger guard. The foregrip was just a deeply chequered as the grip, capped with deep black horn as well. The action was blued deeply, with a round bolt head, a dust cover over the top of the action, the magazine cut-off just below it. The Lee action locked into a beautifully blued long barrel, a chequered rib all along the top, bar for the inscription of ‘Army & Navy Cooperative Ltd[3] London For cordite only’. A set of three flip up leaf sight near the action, platinum lines up their centres, along with a ladder sight up to a thousand yards, left for the ambitions. The end of the barrel featured a raised dot sight, adjustable with a set screw on one side, the muzzle showing the grooves of Enfield-style rifling as a swing loop was affixed under the far end of the barrel.

He disassembled and cleaned the rifle, being somewhat liberal on the use of oil as he cleaned out the cordite residue in the rifling, giving all the metal and wood a quick polish as he put it back together, working the action as he finished, then holding the trigger as it closed it back so it wouldn’t re-cock the striker. His revolvers were in better concern, not having been used as much. The first, and smaller of the two was Merwin & Hulbert Third Model frontier. An army style revolver, meaning it was chambered in the US army’s standard of .44 calibre, specifically in .44-40 or Winchester 1873 as it was marked on the gun. It featured a flared, bell-shaped grip made of ivory, a seven inch barrel, and was nickel plated. It was well engraved, seeing woven patterns of reeds and roaming Saharan fauna. He had bought it when he had travelled to America, enjoying the speed and strength of the gun, especially as this was a double action model.

His other one, a deep blued piece, was a Webley Target with Bakelite grips and seven and a half inch barrel. Both the rear-sight on the latch and the front sight were adjustable, the grip being flared at the base and the trigger serrated. It was Chambered in .477 Eley, also called Enfield, it was a black powder cartridge which Collier used as a stopping revolver, for tigers, bears and the like. Though unfortunately it would not go much larger in it’s targets.

He finished cleaning the trio of weapons he had got out, placing them away as he went to wash his hands and finish getting dressed. Before he left he went past Cherry’s room, pressing his ear to the door, checking for signs that the monk was still alive. He heard the man toss slightly within the room, so drew back, assured that he had not helped the man drink himself to death. He pulled on his coat and the rest of his equipment, a small rucksack on his back, along with a burlap wrapped canteen. An ammunition pouch strapped under the rucksack, along with an expense pouch on his right hip, near a metal brace for carrying game, both revolvers holster at his waist on the left.

He grabbed the left-over bits of fox meat, wrapped in wax-paper, to use as bait, placing them with the other select chunks he had with him already in his bag. He affixed a hunting knife to his belt, an ivory handled Damascus blade, then pulled his rifle over his shoulder. He left his room, locking it behind him as he walked, holding his boots by the mouth pinched between his finger and thumb. The sun had barely risen as he left his room, nodding to Surogasu as they passed each other the owner smiling warmly at his guest, though still wearing a tired look on his face. Collier walked to the entrance, stopping to don his boots, then left. Morning was dark outside, the sun not having yet raised its face. He checked his watch using what remained of the light from the inn, and saw it was twenty-eight minutes to five o’clock. He smiled to himself then set off into the dark, accompanied by the early morning songs of birds and the chatter of insects.

He arrived in the woods shortly after, adjusting his equipment, making sure nothing could rattle before loading his rifle, loading each round of .303 individually into the box magazine. He loaded both revolvers as well, opening the loading gate on the right side of the Merwin’s cylinder before sliding into its holster and retrieving the Webley. He broke it open, dropping the large bullets into the cylinder one by one before snapping it shut and holstering it as well. He stepped carefully through the woods, lifting his legs high to not become entangled in the groundcover underfoot. Conifer trees stretched high around him, draining out what little light the morning had granted him as he continued forward. He checked his watch, the radium on the hands lightly illuminating the face, allowing him to see that it had just turned quarter past five. He grabbed some bait from his rucksack, a section of breasted pheasant and set it up in a small parting in the ground cover. He moved downwind of the meat, watching closely as he moved away from it. When he was far enough away he chambered a round in his rifle, flipping up the leaf sight for the right range as he crouched down in the bracken, concealing himself within it. He waited patiently, watching around the spot as he listened to the quiet, moving occasionally to try and stay into the wind so that his scent would not blow over the bait.

After a while, just as the twinkling sparks of daylight began to burn, Collier saw movement ahead of him, just by a small mess of holly near the bait. A fox swept out of the cover, glancing around the space as it seemed to be heading home, but had noticed the food ahead of it. It moved to it, cautious on instinct, the mess of chicken blood already present on its chest as it considered the additional meal. Finally it darted close to it and snatched it up in its mouth. Before it could dash off, its legs already shifting, Collier fired, the sights lined up squarely on the creatures red face. The bullet boomed as it left the barrel, wreathed in a great boa of fire and burning cordite as it whipped past the plants surrounding the muzzle to pierce cleanly through the fox’s head. The creature didn’t notice, flopping to the ground from the residual inertia. The shot echoed off the thin trunks of the trees, bouncing up and down the uneven ground of the forest. Birds flew off in distress at the noise, though a number remained unabashed in their sleep.

Collier lifted and pulled back the bolt, catching the brass and dumping it into a pocket. He closed the bolt, chambering a round, then flipped on the safety before striding over to the fox. It was still twitching slightly, the last shocks of nerves displaying a fruitless imitation of life. He affixed the body to the brace had had at his hip, shifting it around so he could reach his expense pouch for cartridges. He left what remained of the bait on the ground, for the scavengers he thought. He made his way forward, an idle crow calling after him, almost in thanks for the meal he had left it. He made the same attempt two more times, the first succeeding, though the shot pierced its neck. The last attempt was fruitless, the day already having broke, seeing then end of any excursion for a fox.

He heard and saw a number of squirrels busing themselves across the tree branches, flashes of red and grey backlit against the innumerous greens and browns of the conifers. He let them alone, deciding to come back with a shotgun another time. Even his revolvers were likely too powerful for the small creatures. He continued on, finding a small outcropping of stone that he laid himself on, the wind dying down as he did. He stared out over the forest ahead of him, holding his rifle loosely in his hands. He had seen the signs of it a while earlier, small pits called ‘scrapes’ dung into the ground by the thing which stunk of the musky urine they used to mark them. He was in its territory, so he expected it to come, either soon or later.

He had spent the latter half of the day before stalking it, working out the particulars of its realm. He laid still, time ticking by with his watch as the sun moved overhead. By midday he had seen nothing, bar from a flush of green pheasant, of which he shot two with his rifle, bundling them with the foxes, wrapped in a sheet beside him. Then he spotted its shape. Almost fifty inches tall at the shoulder, and about sixty inches long, with deep mahogany fur, darker around the spine of the neck and near invisible white spots on its back. It darted its eyes around the scene with determined caution, prepared to fend off someone who breached his territory, using his impressive antlers. A sika deer, or nihonjika.[4] They were a fascinating species, especially compared to other deer he had hunted. Most would flee when they felt danger, the sika, however would hide. They would conceal themselves, indeed this one had likely done so as Collier hunted for it. But now, it hadn’t seen him, while the reverse was not true.

Collier again lined up the deer’s skull into the sights, the platinum line along the leaf sight crossing the dot sight just at its brow. He pulled the trigger carefully, feeling the take-up on his finger until the sear slipped out from under the striker. The shot was clean, the beautiful creature falling back gracefully, landing in the bracken with a light thrush of foliage and rushing air. Collier stared at it down his sights for a moment, letting out a satisfied exhale before pulling himself to his feet and slinging the rifle back over his shoulder. He grabbed the bundle of shot game beside him, holding it by a length of twine he had tied it up with as he walked over to the beast. Even in death, the buck held its beauty proudly, tall and lean, toned by a life of wilderness.

He dropped the game to the ground, pulling out his knife as he leant over the buck, swiftly and efficiently skinning the creature before sectioning the meat. He wrapped it up in brown paper, tying them with twine from his rucksack. He finished taking everything from the animal after a half hour, only leaving the stomach, intestines and lungs. He stood back away from the beast for a moment, wiping his bloody hands on a parchment of moss, sighing contently. He sat for a moment on a stump, reaching into one of his pockets to pull out a set of cigars, tucking one into his mouth as he reached for a box of matches. He pulled out the yellow box of Swan Vestas, pushing it out of the cover and plucking a singular match from it as swiftly striking it against the side, placing the box back in his pocket. He pressed the flame against the end of the cigar, puffing to light it as pinkish-grey smoke billowed around him, backlit by the sun. He took in a few mouthfuls of smoke before jumping to his feet, smoke whipping about, behind him and grabbing up all the game to take back. Just before he left, having collected all of his things, he removed the head of the buck to boil down to the skull later. He left the rest to nature, feeling curious glances of birds of prey overhead as he began to make his way back.

[1] A wine made from fermented rice.

[2] A Japanese style of bedding. The usually consist of a mattress[shikibuton] and duvet[kakebuton].

[3] The Army and Navy Co-operative was a company, initially a co-operative, established in the 19th century to serve British army and navy troops, selling weapons, ammunition and equipment, everything a soldier might need while serving overseas.

[4] Japanese Dear

#original writing #creative writing #writing #historical fiction #fiction #HMAD

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