#Pre-Owned Golf Clubs

[untilthenexttee]

NEXT TEE VLOG - "You Gotta Let Go"

“Sir, you gotta let go.” Remember that line from the original “Top Gun”? You know, the part where “Iceman” (played by Val Kilmer) cut off “Maverick” (played by Tom Cruise) while going in for a shot to shoot down “Viper” (played by Tom Skerritt). Maverick ends up in a flat spin with no chance of recovering from it. This forces Maverick and his Weapon’s Safety Officer “Goose” (played by Anthony…

[golfgarage2022]

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

[hadersversion]

but daddy i love him!

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

pairing: rafe cameron x innocent kook!reader

word count: 5.8k

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

mood board!

rafe cameron was bad news.

anyone in the outer banks could tell you that.

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

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

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

except you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

topper staggers into the other room, still laughing.

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

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

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

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

“i like you.” he admits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“and why’s that?” you ask him.

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

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

“shut up, i’m not a softie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you finally had him and now you lost him.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

the days past since you saw rafe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rafe stood there, silently. "oh really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"rafe?" you question, sitting up.

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

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

"you don't even want to know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and there it was.

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

he told someone they love them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"y-yes, rafe, yes please."

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

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

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

"more than okay." you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[strawberrystrangers]

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

🦋anon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ghostlyglimmer]

The Fun Zone Part 4

You can find more chapters here

Summary:

Danny Fenton’s part-time job at The Fun Zone—a chaotic arcade and entertainment center that’s secretly a gang front—was going great until a certain vigilante stormed in to shut the place down.

Danny had seen some chaotic birthday parties in his time at The Fun Zone, but this one took the cake—and he wasn’t even exaggerating. The group that had just walked in seemed like a random collection of mismatched personalities: a cocky black haired guy, a towering dad-type who was trying way too hard to be casual, a snarky girl in a leather jacket, a small scowling kid who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, and—oh no, it was Tim again.

Danny adjusted his uniform and sighed, plastering on his best customer service smile. “Welcome to The Fun Zone. Are you here for laser tag, mini-golf, or just to add to my growing migraine?”

A man with stark black hair stepped forward, grinning like he owned the place. “We’re here for a birthday party!”

Danny blinked. “You booked it in advance, right?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the guy said, brushing off the question with a wave. “It’s all taken care of.”

The scowling kid, who couldn’t have been older than twelve, crossed his arms. “Grayson, this is beneath me. I don’t need a childish party.”

“Oh, come on, Dami,” the guy—apparently named Grayson—said, ruffling the kid’s hair. “You’re going to love it. Laser tag, mini-golf, go-karts—it’s got everything!”

Damian swatted his hand away with a growl. “I said, stop calling me that.”

The girl in the leather jacket smirked. “Yeah, but the kid here’s turning twelve. We’re here to make sure he has the time of his life, whether he likes it or not.”

Danny gave her a skeptical look. “You sure he doesn’t prefer, like, a book club or chess tournament? He looks like he’d rather set this place on fire than play mini-golf.”

“I would,” Damian said flatly.

“Don’t listen to him,” Dick said, leaning on the counter. “We’re doing this. Can you, uh, set us up with the works?”

Danny sighed, grabbing a clipboard. “Fine. I’ll need the birthday kid’s name. And don’t tell me it’s Grumpy McFrownsalot.”

Dick laughed. “It’s Damian.”

Danny jotted the name down and handed him a stack of wristbands. “Great. Have fun, don’t break anything, and if you end up in a go-kart race, try not to ram into each other. You break it, you buy it.”

Dick beamed. “Thanks, man.”

An hour in, Danny regretted every life choice that led him to this moment.

Damian, the birthday kid, was terrifying. He played laser tag like he was training for actual war, and he refused to use the pre-loaded names on the scoreboard, insisting his codename be changed to Death’s Shadow. He also managed to hack into the system to change everyone else’s names to things like Grayson the Fool and Drake the Useless.

The girl—Steph, he’d heard someone call her—was running commentary on everything, laughing every time Damian destroyed someone in laser tag. “Dami’s ruthless! Look at that kill count!”

Tim, predictably, was trying to strategize, calling out team plays like this was some kind of black-ops mission. “Jason, cover the left flank! Dick, stop running in circles!”

Danny’s ears perked up at that. “Wait. Jason?” he muttered to himself, glancing over toward the go-karts.

Sure enough, Red Hood—his boss—was standing next to the track in civilian clothes, looking like he wanted to commit murder. He’d been dragged along under protest, and now he was stuck watching Dick and Tim throw Damian a party in what was technically his turf.

Danny sidled over, slapping on a grin. “Hey, boss. Didn’t know you did birthday parties.”

Jason scowled. “Don’t start with me, Fenton.”

Danny chuckled. “I mean, it’s kind of adorable. You’ve got the whole supportive older brother vibe going on.”

Jason groaned, rubbing his temples. “They’re doing this to piss me off. Dick knows this is my place.”

“Your boss’s place,” Danny corrected. To try to keep Hood's true identity safe from his supposed siblings? friends? Hell if Danny knows at this point. “And hey, the kid seems to be having fun. That’s worth something, right?”

They both glanced over to see Damian obliterating another group of kids in mini-golf, his precision terrifyingly perfect. Dick was cheering him on, and Steph was doubled over laughing at the chaos.

Jason sighed. “This is hell.”

By the end of the party, the Fun Zone looked like a war zone. Damian had won every single activity with brutal efficiency, leaving no survivors in laser tag, mini-golf, or go-karts. Dick had somehow convinced Danny to bring out the giant birthday sundae, which Damian reluctantly poked at while glaring at everyone like they’d personally insulted his honor.

As they were leaving, Dick clapped Danny on the shoulder. “Thanks for putting up with us. You’re a champ.”

“Yeah, well,” Danny said, yawning. “Just make sure you tip me enough to cover therapy.”

Dick laughed, handing him a suspiciously generous wad of cash. “Consider it done.”

As the door chimed shut behind them, Jason walked over, shaking his head. “If you tell anyone about this, you’re fired.”

Danny smirked. “Sure thing, boss. But you owe me hazard pay.”

[formulakatya]

MET YOU AT THE RIGHT TIME | MICK SCHUMACHER

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

not my gif :)

part 1

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

pairing: mick schumacher x professional golfer!reader

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“really?”

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

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

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

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

“i’ll let you meet angie one day.”

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

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

—

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

“approaching the tee, (y/n) (l/n)”

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

well done, good shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

[roanofarcc]

BABYDOLL: CHAPTER ONE. STORM BREAK

jj maybank x fem!routledge OC // read on Ao3

In which a boy with zero self preservation falls in love with a girl clawing at life.

chapter summary. lottie routledge sympathizes in the woes of womanhood with wheezy cameron; the incoming hurricane is nowhere near as scary as a woman in button up with a sympathetic smile.

word count. 3.5k || masterlist

next chapter

Season One. 

If there was one thing the rich folks of Kildare Island liked more than day drinking, it was having literally anyone else look after their kid. They didn’t care if that person was an underpaid lifeguard trying to enjoy their lunch break. 

“This is so stupid!” A young girl cried from inside a bathroom stall. 

Lottie Routledge pulled a towel closer around her shoulders in an attempt to combat the building's air conditioning. She wreaked of sunscreen and chlorine, but the country club locker rooms were overwhelmed with lemon-scented cleaner. The shiny white tiles and glittering fixtures seemed to laugh at Lottie every time she entered, reminding her that even rich people’s bathrooms were nicer than anything she’d ever owned. 

“It is stupid,” Lottie replied. “But it’s an unfortunate side-effect of womanhood.” 

The young girl was quiet for several moments before she emerged from the stall dressed in her swimsuit and the pair of shorts Lottie had worn to work that morning. They were a little big on the pre-teen, but they were better than anything else she could have offered. 

“I can never show my face here again.” 

Lottie bit back a laugh, amused as the dramatics. “Wheezie, I don’t think anyone even noticed besides me.” 

The youngest daughter of the Cameron family let out air from her cheeks, which were tinted red from the run and from the embarrassment of getting surprised with her period at the pool. 

Wheezie came to the pool often, always dropped off by her brother who then disappeared to play golf with his fellow douchy rich-kid friends, her mom who then joined the other young wives at the bar for mimosas, or her sister who then vanished to do whatever Sarah Cameron spent her summer afternoons doing. Wheezie was one of the better kids who Lottie watched during her lifeguarding shifts. She followed the rules and liked to make small shit-chat with Lottie on slower days. Which was why she didn’t hesitate to flag down the girl before she stepped into the pool. 

“It’s still embarrassing.” The kid dramatically fell onto one of the benches. An odd look crossed her face before she reached into the back pocket of her shorts and pulled something out. A joint was pinched between her fingers and Lottie was suddenly mortified. 

She must have forgotten to take it out after her latest smoking session on the beach was cut short by a rowdy group of Kooks who were trying to act like they owned the place. The joint was unsmoked so she pocketed it for next time but forgot to take it out before she crashed for the night. 

Lottie snatched it from Wheezie and shoved it in her duffle bag. 

“Was that a weed?” Wheezie asked, innocently. 

“No.” A weird beat of silence passed between them before Lottie switched gears. “Is your sister coming to get you or what?” 

With a nod, Wheezie glanced at her phone. “She’s here. I told her I was hiding in the locker room.” 

Less than a minute later, Sarah Cameron entered with a certain “kook-ness” to her that made Lottie want to both make herself smaller and be mean. It was a confusing set of emotions that came with the rich folks on the Island. Lottie loved to hate them but was too scared to hate them too loudly. 

Sarah Cameron was a pretty blonde, sun-kissed, and glossy-lipped. She was the definition of the perfect Kook party girl, with all of the money and notoriety to never have to worry about anything in her life. It sounded like jealousy, partially because it was. Lottie was a lot of things, including a teenage girl living in the hand-me-downs of her friends and brother. But that wasn’t the only reason she had a distaste for Sarah Cameron. 

The Kook and Lottie’s best friend, Kiara, had a messy history. Kie hated Sarah, and vice-versa. As Kie’s best friend, it was Lottie’s job to also dislike the blonde. But in instances like the one she was in, Lottie tried to save some face. 

“Hey,” she greeted with an awkward wave and tight-lipped smile. 

Sarah gave Lottie a once-over, making her feel even more uncomfortable in her work-issued swimsuit. “Hey,” Sarah replied before turning her attention to her little sister. “What happened? What’s the emergency?” 

Wheezie’s cheeks deepened their red color. “I started by period,” she grumbled through gritted teeth. 

With a gentle sigh, Sarah patted her sister’s back. “Come on, I’ll have Topper take us to get some ice cream, okay?” She gestured toward the exit, but Wheezie didn’t get up. 

“No way! I can’t go out there, not until I know no one will see me.” 

“It’s not a big deal-” Sarah started but was swiftly cut off. 

“That’s what she said too, but you’re both liars!” 

Lottie’s alarm rang on her phone, telling her she needed to return to work and yelling at sticky-fingered children trying to drown each other in the pool. She had spent her whole lunch break with Wheezie and abandoned her food in the kitchen fridge. 

“How about I go check and make sure the coast is clear?” she suggested, earning a nod from Wheezie. Lottie stuck her head out of the door, looking both ways up and down the hall for any sign of the country club patrons, but especially Wheezie’s little group of friends. No one was around, considering they had just started serving lunch at the club and most people were probably enjoying a meal worth two of Lottie’s paychecks. 

Reentering the locker room, she reported the good news to Wheezie, who quickly gathered her things and beelined for the door. 

Sarah lingered behind for a moment, looking around awkwardly at the empty room like it was suddenly super interesting. “Thanks for helping her,” she said. 

Lottie waved her off with a quick, “Don’t mention it.” 

The sisters left, and Lottie dragged herself back to the lifeguard stand. A striped umbrella provided shade from the sun, but the summer heat baked her skin. Her whistle rested between her lips, ready to be blown at the first kid who took off running on the slippery concrete or to break up a game of chicken that got too rowdy. 

The rest of her shift took its sweet time getting over, but once it finally did, she boarded her bike, somewhat regretting giving Wheezie her only pair of shorts. But she sucked it up and cruised down the streets of Kildare until the glittering mansions morphed into run-down little homes. The magic of Figure Eight faded into the Cut, the side of the island that homed herself and her friends. It was nowhere near as grand as the rich side, but to Lottie, it was much more comforting. Figure Eight was stuffy, plastic, and clean-cut. The Cut was the opposite. 

Her house, affectionately referred to as the Chateau, housed her and her twin brother. It was by no means perfect, but it was her home. The place always smelled faintly of weed covered up by air freshener and the ghost of their dad’s cologne and their mom’s cinnamon potpourri that only Lottie ever replaced. There was a hole in the roof that leaked every time it rained and the window in her bedroom had a broken lock. There was a comfort to it that she felt like no mansion could replicate. 

The only thing it lacked was the presence of their missing dad and their runaway mom. To make up for it, Lottie and John B. filled the void with their friends, who were there almost every night. 

“Ah, there she is!” Lottie was greeted by a booming voice when she pulled up to the Chateau. Dropping her bike on the grass, she hurried over to her brother and friends all gathered around a small campfire, snacking on pizza and sipping on beers. 

She took the seat next to JJ Maybank, who smiled wide as he slung an arm around her shoulder. “Anyone drown at work today?” he asked. 

Shoving him lightly, Lottie shook her head. He dropped his arm but not his smile, passing her a beer from the cooler he had his feet propped up on. 

Out of their little group, JJ had been in her and her brother’s lives the longest. They met him in third grade, and the three became inseparable. They were too intertwined in each other lives to ever leave it at that point, not that Lottie wanted that anyway. 

John B. clapped from across the fire. “Wow, way to do your job, Lot. Gotta keep those Kooks safe, right?” She threw her beer bottle cap at him, but he jerked to the side and it landed in the grass. He stuck his tongue out at her, and she returned the gesture. 

Despite being twins, they didn’t look too much alike. John B.'s dark brown eyes and dirty blond hair contrasted with Lottie's light blue eyes and dark brunette waves. They also functioned differently. John B. was more laid back, resting in the weeds kind of person while Lottie needed a clear cut path to figure out where she was going. It didn’t matter how unalike they looked or acted, the twins were known around the island thanks to their dad’s disappearance at sea nine months prior. 

Their dad was declared to be dead after three months of searching turned up nothing, but John B. had refused to sign off on it. He said he wouldn’t believe anything without a body, and since he didn’t sign, Lottie didn’t either. Did she think her dad was still alive out there? No. Did she want to believe her brother was right? Of course she did. John B. was hopeful and relentless, but Lottie was doubtful and complaisant. 

“And how did you assholes spend your afternoon?” Lottie asked, snagging a slice of pizza to cure her hunger since missing her lunch break. 

“We snuck into an unfinished Kook house. Real sweet place,” said JJ. 

Kiara scoffed loudly and Lottie could tell in the dim light of the fire that she was fired up. “Sweet? It was the definition of unnecessary! No one needs that many bathrooms with fancy toilets. No one. And don’t even get me started on how they built those houses where a turtle sanctuary was.” 

“Seriously, don’t get her started,” John B. cut in with a smirk on his lips. “That’s all she talked about while we were there.” 

Kie narrowed her gaze at John B. slightly offended and still clearly angry about the new housing developments happening on the island, which she had been bad-mouthing since before they even began. Lottie didn’t disagree with her. The less rich people who moved there and bought up plots along the beach, the better off she thought Kildare would be.

“Yeah, because it’s ridiculous!” Kie said. 

Pope jumped in before John B. could poke Kie even more, teasing her into a full-fledged argument. “We weren’t there long, though,” he said. “Security showed up and chased us off. We made a clean getaway in the Twinkie, though.” 

The group always sought out trouble; it was like they were unable to avoid it. And it was contagious because every time Lottie was with them, she fell right into their slightly reckless habits like breaking into unoccupied and unfinished homes despite being run out of there more than once. What they had wasn’t the Kooks' kind of invincibility, cushioned by money that allowed them to do whatever the hell they wanted without consequence. What the Pogues had was pure adrenaline and bad decision-making. The only thing they had to fall back on was each other. 

“You’re lucky they didn’t arrest your asses,” Lottie said with a shake of her head. 

JJ nudged her arm with his shoulder, grinning in the orange glow. “They couldn’t catch us, even if they tried.” 

➤

The last thing Lottie wanted to do was spend her morning at the DCS office. The place held an uncomfortable energy and a fake sense of security that made her chew on her fingernails. Across the desk sat a woman in a nice suit and much too official for Lottie’s liking. 

Despite knowing, realistically, someone would figure out she and John B. were living without an adult since their dad disappeared, she prayed for some kind of oversight. She thought maybe they’d overlook them and not catch their mistake until they turned eighteen and were free to continue living without adult supervision. They were managing just fine on their own with each other. 

“It’s come to our attention that the two of you are unemancipated minors living on your own,” the woman said, flickering her gaze between the twins. 

On their way over, John B. it was best to lie and pretend like their uncle had been watching them the entire time. The people from DCS weren’t idiots but she supposed they didn’t necessarily have proof of their lie, that was until they decided to come around their house and see that their uncle was very much not in the picture whatsoever. 

John B. pursed his lips, something he did right before lying. “No. We’re definitely not.” 

The woman sighed softly, waiting for an answer from Lottie with the clear hope that she wouldn’t lie to her face. But Lottie shook her head in agreeance with her brother. 

“I need honesty to help the both of you.” 

“We are being honest,” said John B. 

“Okay.” The woman glanced down at the file opened on her desk. Lottie wondered what it said about them in there. What kind of information did they have on them? “Then when was the last time you spoke to your uncle?” 

John B. pretended to think, glancing at his watch. “Thirty-four minutes ago.” 

“And the last time you saw him?” 

That time, Lottie answered, “Two hours and forty-three minutes.” 

The woman was quiet for a moment, closing the file with another sigh. She had a gaze of disapproval and pity in her eyes like a disappointed mother. From the photos that littered her desk, Lottie presumed she was a mother. Or maybe they were photos of kids she saved from shitty situations. Their life wasn’t perfect without their parents around, but they were well-off all things considered. Lottie was certain they’d continue to be fine; way better than they’d be in some group home on the mainland. 

“We’re going to come out there tomorrow and talk to your uncle. If he’s not there, we’re going to move forward with foster care.” Lottie grimaced, not so subtly. “I want to assure you both that we are going to find you a safe and loving home.” 

Lottie called bullshit, and so did John B. but they didn’t say anything else until they were out of the building. Off in the distance, storm clouds loomed, matching their frustration. 

“This so stupid,” John B. groaned, running a hand down the length of his face. 

Every time she thought about the possibility they’d be put in foster care, her stomach ached painfully. Once DCS started sniffing around their rouse of being taken care of by their uncle, she dreamed of her life in the Cut being pulled out from under her. That’s why she started biting her nails again, a bad habit she thought she kicked years ago. 

“What if they split us up?” Lottie asked, her voice small. Leaving her home, leaving the island, was one thing, but she had never been without her brother. Since they were born, she and John B. did everything together. They were the only family they had left. And they didn’t always see eye to eye, but they looked out for each other no matter what. If they split them up and Lottie lost that, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. 

He looked startled like he hadn’t even thought of that as a real possibility, but he steeled himself quickly. “No way,” he said. “They’re not taking us anywhere and they’re not splitting us up.” She wasn’t sure it was as easy as that, but she didn’t want to ponder the other “what ifs.” And it made her feel a little less doomed, even though they had no real plan on how to avoid DCS. There wasn’t a chance in hell that their uncle would magically show up tomorrow. They’d be caught in their lie, that was almost certain. The only thing that could buy them some more time lied within the encroaching clouds that blew in from the coast. 

➤

“Those are un-surfable waves, dude!” Pope shouted above the claps of thunder that echoed for miles. Impressive waves pounded the shore, aggressive and as dreary as the gray skies overhead. Rain poured in buckets over their heads, soaking them to the bone before they even stepped foot in the ocean. 

The beach was lined with signs saying it was closed, but no one was around to monitor whoever was insane enough to venture to the beach in the middle of a hurricane. Agatha was on a war path, but the worst wasn’t supposed to hit until later that night, leaving plenty of time to catch some waves before they grew too intense to surf or too calm in the storm’s aftermath. 

Lottie hiked her surfboard up as it started to slip from her grasp. The waves were much larger than usual, but they didn’t look un-surfable, yet. Besides, they had surfed plenty of storms before, and if DCS was ready to take her away from the ocean, from her home, she at least had to get out one last time. 

They had postponed coming to their house to speak to their uncle, who hadn’t been around in months, because of the hurricane. It only bought them a little bit of time, a day or two max. The island knew how to bounce back from a storm, their livelihood depended on it. Even when the Cut’s power was the very last to be fixed, they were crafty and hardworking people who knew just how to get by. If hurricane Agatha was their last hurrah, Lottie was going to spend it doing something she loved. 

“Says who?” John B. said before taking off toward the water. Lottie followed, excitement fluttering inside her stomach as another shot of thunder rattled. Pope cursed something under his breath before he ran after them right into the angry ocean. 

Splashing into the cool water, Lottie braced for the intensity of the current. Harsh waves sprayed her face with salt water and rose goosebumps along her arms. The three of them paddled out a ways before they took turns catching the beautiful and daunting waves. 

Between the hurricane winds and needle-like rainfall, staying on the board for too long was impossible, but each time Lottie wiped out, she relished the feeling of kicking her way to the surface before breaking the water with a bubble of laughter erupting from her throat.  

She had never been scared of the water; that wasn’t a fear most people who grew up on the island had. The ocean felt like a second home to her; it was where she felt the most thrilled and most at peace. Their dad had taught them to swim when they were very young, tossing them into the water and telling them to keep their head above the waves. Since then, Lottie couldn’t stay away. She was a damn good swimmer, which landed her a job at the Island Club as a lifeguard. And that was why she had no fear riding the waves Agatha sent her way. 

Crawling back up onto her board, she sent Pope a wink, who returned it with a nervous shake of his head. The storm was growing more intense by the minute, and they’d be stupid to stay out there too much longer. Plus, she didn’t want Pope to have a panic attack out there. He had only caught one wave and spent the rest of the time watching her and John B., making sure no one died. 

John B. seemed ready to go as well. He sat on his board a little way away from them, looking at something off in the distant water. Lottie cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “John! Let’s turn in for tonight. I’m starving!” 

He turned around at the sound of her voice, brows furrowed. “Did you guys see that?” 

“See what?” asked Pope.

“A boat. Someone’s in a boat out there.” 

Lottie strained her eyes to look out further into the water, but all she saw was growing waves. “Please, no one’s stupid enough to take their boat out in the middle of a hurricane.” 

“Says the one who suggested surfing during one,” Pope retorted. Lottie rolled her eyes and started to paddle back towards shore, Pope hot on her heels and eager to be back on dry-ish land. John B. wasn’t far behind, forgetting about the supposed boat he saw. 

On shore, the sand whipped around, and the trees swayed, bending in the wind and testing their luck. Oddly, that was how Lottie felt, like a tree in a hurricane, trying to stay upright. She certainly wasn’t the luckiest, but she hoped the next couple of ways didn’t break her too harshly. All she wanted to do was stay there, with her friends, for as long as the universe would let her. 

[slapper-sw-h-13]

1. Ian Ward pre Roxanne Slapper. Ian grew up within a skinhead family for over 30 years.

2. In 2012 Ian tried out ownership for the first time and aquired his good work colleague Master Clive To eventually fully own him in 2017. He then became Oggie Davidson and was transformed into a dirty leather biker by Master Clive and was forced to grow a full beard.

3. Things Changed For The Worse for Oggie Davidson in early 2023. Master Clives Illness meant he could not longer own Oggie and went to live and retire out in Spain.

3. In steps Me Master Bradley. Oggies contract with Master Clive is now transferred over to me. I Now fully own Oggie and now fully control his life. I was beaten up quite badly by a gang of skinheads nearly 20 years ago and oggie having been a skinhead was going to pay big time. Within a week of ownership I transform oggie into a female, but not just any female

4 Let Me Introduce you to Roxanne Slapper or Slapper as she is called by everyone who knows her. Seen pictured here wearing a Diaper as she did everyday for about 4 months and in public as a severe punishment for going against me her Master. Slapper has no family left now to rely on here in the UK as they've all passed except 1 sister living in Canada. Having No job either and claiming benefits, I wanted Slapper to live upto her name so I gave her a job as she is still 14 months on today as a sex working prostitute, for which she relies on to earn her living.

5 Slapper with big lips fillers. This was initially another punishment, but I decided I love her with big fat slug on lips and got her to get more injections to the size they are now to give her lips that will enhance the Blow jobs she gives with those big Cock sucking lips. They've been a massive hit with her clients.

6. Slapper looking for business at the local golf club

7 Slapper on the streets doing what sex workers do to attract clients

8 Slapper in Birmingham away from home where she spent a month with other prostitutes in the red light district

9 Slappers job giving blow jobs to lucky punters. (picture is not Slapper)

10 Slapper at it again close to home

11 Again Slappers 1st training session starting out as a sex worker and got lucky with this client who she still services today.

12 Slapper during training on her way to meet a client in the car ahead of her. Spent a long time on his Cock I remember but at least she's now getting a taste for it for things to come

13 Slapper again with another interested client, doing her job well now and soon went out independently on her own without me guiding her.

14 Slapper with other prostitutes in Birmingham 2023. Slapper has just completed her one year Banning order to stay clear of Birmingham after being arrested for soliciting. She now has a police record for soliciting to her name and as her master I'm very proud that this ex skinhead has that record to her name.

15 Slapper pole dancer. I've managed through my contact to get Slapper in training class to become a professional pole dancer. A top pole dancing club The Horns in the city of London is paying for all her training and will eventually take her on part time once she passes all her exams by 2026

16 Big booty for Slapper. I love girls with really big booties with the Cheeks plumped out. The photo is Slappers booty as it is today training her booty at class and at home doing simple exercises to get that butt bigger.

17 June/July Slappers big day. She's getting the biggest breast implants Aloud for 1st timers. Paid for via her sex work, around £6,000. I can't wait.

18 Its what i want to see. Slapper with her own breast.

19 Slapper will eventually be a beautiful plastic doll, and totally unrecognisable from Ian Ward the Skinhead. Bit tits big lips and big booty. Slapper the Bimbo Doll

20. More and more Breast Implants until they are as big as these probably by 2029.

[itsasainz]

the poison drips through | Roman Roy x Reader

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

Word count: 7.3k

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

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

masterlist!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, this funeral is different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll never escape him, will I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “I’m sure I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cunts.” he groans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The poison drips through.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she breaks.

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

The poison drips through.

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

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

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

[untilthenexttee]

Next Tee VLOG - "Goin' Pre-Owned with Golf Avenue"

Needs. They are the things that you must have for a satisfactory life. Or in the case of golfers, things to acquire in order to have satisfactory enjoyment of the game. Honestly, the needs for golfers are numerous. We “need” golf balls. You can’t golf without them. Or golf clubs as far as that goes. After all, you can’t play golf without them. “Fling Golf”, “Disc Golf” and “Foot Golf”…

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Liz Skalka at HuffPost:

President-elect Donald Trump said he’s planning a lawsuit against the Des Moines Register over its final election poll showing Trump running several points behind Vice President Kamala Harris in Iowa, a traditionally red state. “In my opinion, it was fraud, and it was election interference,” Trump said during a press conference Monday afternoon at his Florida golf club after calling last month for an investigation into the matter. The final Des Moines Register/Mediacom Iowa Poll had Harris running 4 percentage points ahead of Trump just days before the election. Trump wound up winning the state by 16 points.

Trump wasn’t clear about whether he wants to sue just the newspaper or the veteran Iowa pollster Ann Selzer, whose firm, Selzer and Company, conducted the survey. Trump lauded Selzer on Monday for her accuracy in past elections; she had long been considered the “gold standard” pollster in the state that holds the first-in-the-nation presidential caucuses. “She’s got me right, always. She’s a very good pollster. She knows what she was doing,” Trump said. Lark-Marie Anton, a spokesperson for the Register, told HuffPost: “We have acknowledged that the Selzer/Des Moines Register pre-election poll did not reflect the ultimate margin of President Trump’s Election Day victory in Iowa by releasing the poll’s full demographics, crosstabs, weighted and unweighted data, as well as a technical explanation from pollster Ann Selzer. We stand by our reporting on the matter and believe a lawsuit would be without merit.”

[...] The people who most often respond to polls tend to be older, own a landline phone, and are open to discussing their political views with a stranger. But pollsters have methods of weighting their data to reflect the overall makeup of the electorate, usually based on how segments of voters turned out in previous elections.

Anti-free press demagogue Donald Trump threatens to sue the Des Moines Register and/or their pollster Ann Selzer over releasing a poll that had Kamala Harris leading Iowa by around 3 points in the closing stages of the campaign.

[militantinremission]

Is Media's Support of Kamala Harris doing more Harm than Good?

I wanted to hear from All Sides before going over the Presidential Debate. In My Opinion, The Winner of the Harris- Trump Debate was Dr. Jill Stein. Her Presidential Campaign w/ Running Mate, Dr. Butch Ware is gaining steam following their Interviews w/ The Breakfast Club & Mehdi Hasan. They look like the Adults in the Room. The ABC sponsored Debate generated a lot of feedback, but neither Candidate performed very well. Kamala Harris appeared poised, but her Message is [still] too general. Time is running out, so Kamala should be more specific about what a 'Harris- Walz Administration' will look like over the next 4Yrs. Donald Trump looked comfortable in 'Enemy Territory', but may have overestimated his readiness. The Man's debate performance resembled a Sales Presentation; he appeared to be ad libbing off a list of Bullet Points, opposed to the Talking Points that Kamala Harris used. NEITHER were effective in explaining their Agenda, so I gave both Candidates a Grade of 'C'.

Following the Debate, Kamala Harris gave a brief interview to Philadelphia Action News Anchor, Brian Taff that rose eyebrows. In that Interview, Kamala lacked the poise displayed during the Debate; she was back to her Bad Habits. Body Language Experts had a field day comparing & contrasting Kamala Harris' mannerisms from the Debate Stage, to the Action News Interview. A few Content Creators began to ask if Kamala was prepped for the Debate. Meanwhile, critiques of ABC Debate Moderators, David Muir & Lindsey Davis began to echo across Social Media Platforms. Harris' next appearance, at the NABJ Forum in Philadelphia didn't help. Despite a warm reception & softball questions from the Moderators, Kamala Harris appeared uncomfortable, uncertain, & eventually bothered by the questions being asked. She barely shook hands w/ the Moderators before leaving the Stage. Around this time, Post Debate Poll Numbers were coming out.

The Harris- Trump Debate was anticipated, but did little to change hearts & minds. Kamala Harris Supporters felt that she not only handled Trump, but clearly won the Debate. Donald Trump Supporters admit this wasn't his best Debate performance, but they say that Trump held his own in a '3 against 1' Fight. Even CNN pointed out that ABC Debate Moderators fact checked Donald Trump far more than they did Kamala Harris. The usual back & forth between Pundits followed, but was brought to a full stop when an ABC News Whistleblower released a letter that accuses ABC/ Disney of colluding w/ the Harris-Walz Campaign. In a Sworn Affidavit, the Whistleblower says that Harris Staffers dictated which Topics were off limits, while ABC provided Harris w/ sample questions. Using Post Debate Interviews as a Standard for Comparison, Kamala Harris' Opponents point out how much her Pre & Post Debate Interviews contrast w/ her Debate Performance. They cite them as proof that ABC prepped her for their Sept. 10th Debate. Kamala's association w/ Disney Co- Chair Dana Walden & Anchor Lindsey Davis didn't help matters.

The Takeaways from the Debate were:

The Border Crisis

Late Term Abortions

Transgender Surgery for Illegal Immigrants

Haitian Immigrants eating Ducks, Geese, & Cats in Springfield, Ohio.

Despite the narrative of a Harris Victory, Post Debate conversation hasn't benefitted Kamala Harris or helped her Poll Numbers. Any percentage bump that she may have gained was quickly nullified by a 2nd Assassination attempt on Donald Trump at a neighboring Golf Course near his Mar A Largo Residence. Political Insiders say that regardless of what Polling Trends may show, Kamala Harris is in the Electoral College 'Danger Zone'. Her numbers are starting to plateau, while Trump is on the rebound. This might have been the inspiration behind Oprah's Town Hall Rally in Michigan. In yet another DNC friendly environment- complete w/ Celebrity Endorsements, Kamala meandered her way through some pretty straight forward questions. Oprah had to lend an assist on more than one occasion, & very few missed it. Her overall performance was underwhelming; even Oprah had to admit that Kamala failed to answer questions. The Harris-Walz Campaign attempted to shore up deficits in Pennsylvania & Michigan, but did little to influence Rural or Muslim American Voters in either Swing State.

In what has been a very busy News Cycle for Presidential Politics, an unexpected comment from Janet Jackson has created yet another Media Storm. In an interview w/ The Guardian, Janet was asked her thoughts on a 'Black Woman' winning the Election for POTUS. She replied: "Well you know what they supposedly said? She's not Black. That's what I heard. That she's Indian". When the reporter tried to insist that Kamala was BiRacial, Janet doubled down on her answer. Democratic Shills- from Joy Reid & the Ladies of 'The View', to DL Hughley & Roland Martin had something to say about Janet's opinion. To Date, I think I heard Kamala say that she is Black ONCE. This came after seeing a number of Campaign Ads that identified her as a 'Black Woman of Asian Descent', & hearing several Democratic Shills say [relentlessly] that Kamala Harris IS Black. For The Record, BOTH of her Parents identify as 'Caucasian' (Aryan) on their Birth Certificate. I don't understand what the DNC is trying to accomplish. Kamala has yet to be specific about her Agenda for the next 4Yrs. She has begun to put Policy Measures on her Website, but hasn't explained how she will attain Policy Goals.

Mainstream Media has provided cover for Kamala Harris, like they covered for Joe Biden. DNC Friendly Outlets share the same tactic; a knee jerk response of gaslighting Harris Critics & Undecided Voters that contest her History or Agenda. It's painfully clear that Kamala Harris is struggling on Policy Issues. Her response to specific questions has been so redundant that critics believe she's reading from a script. After 3Yrs 8Mos of serving as Vice President, more is expected out of her. Shills like DL Hughley have said that [the Office of] Vice President is not a position of relevance, but Harris casted the Deciding Vote 33 times during her Tenure. In contrast, Mike Pence did this only 3 times. Clearly, Kamala has been an integral part of the Biden- Harris Administration & should be able to ride w/o Training Wheels. The fact that so many 'Aides' have to set her up has Harris Critics & Undecided Voters questioning her ability to Serve effectively.

We know that Obama Operatives like David Plouffe & Eric Holder have been inserted into the Harris- Walz Campaign, so catch words like 'Energized', 'Freedom' & 'Joy' aren't surprising. Mainstream Media has been literally paving a Yellow Brick Road for Kamala Harris to work her Magic, but she lacks the special sauce of a Barack Obama or Bill Clinton. The Truth is, Clinton & Obama did MORE DAMAGE to Black America than either Bush [41 & 43] or Trump. Kamala Harris is in the unfortunate position of following in their wake. She can't run the same Game on Black America that they ran. Blackfolk have Buyer's Remorse & won't tolerate a 3rd Serving of 'DNC Double Talk'. Hillary Rodham Clinton had the same dilemma w/ Black Voters in 2016. Like Hillary, Kamala lacks a Silver Tongue, but has an expectation of privilege that is supposed to carry her into The White House. Mainstream Media has foregone any appearance of objectivity in their effort to make Kamala Harris a Political Rock Star. Unfortunately, this effort has put a spotlight on her consistent inconsistency.

In their attempt to present Kamala Harris as a brilliant Presidential Candidate, Journalists & Shills are revealing that she is not ready for Prime Time. Is this by design? I recall a rumor that started not long after Kamala's 'Selection' that she was being Set Up for a Great Fall. According to the rumor, Barack Obama & Nancy Pelosi weren't pleased w/ Joe Biden seeking a 2nd Term in Office. Americans aren't satisfied w/ the performance of the Biden- Harris Administration, so Gavin Newsome, Gretchen Whitmer, & Josh Shapiro were among those being considered as potential Candidates; Kamala wasn't in the conversation. The Biden- Harris Campaign War Chest necessitated keeping Kamala on the Ballot, but there was a rumored concern about Joe Biden's 'Legacy'. Apparently, the Obama- Pelosi Camp don't want him to have one. Barack & Michelle withheld their support for Kamala, to leverage placement of 'their people' into Harris' Campaign. This increases their influence while diminishing Joe Biden's influence on a 'Harris Administration'.

Billionaire Donors have thrown Hundreds of Millions of Dollars into the Harris-Walz Campaign, but it only appears to be treading water. As We approach the Home Stretch to Election Day, NEITHER Candidate on the DNC Ticket holds a strong position on Important Issues. BOTH have to rely on Media Support & Emotional Buzz Words to keep potential Voters 'in line'. The General Public is more focused on Kitchen Table Issues like The Economy, than supporting 'Forever Wars' in Ukraine & Gaza. This is hurting Kamala Harris w/ Young Adults & Muslim Voters. Taking a step back to review how We got here, I have to ask: Are Democratic Elites & their Donors manufacturing a losing scenario intentionally? Are Content Creators being On Point when they theorize that the DNC wants to weaponize Kamala Harris- in an effort to destroy Joe Biden's 'Legacy,' while they begin the process of selecting a 2028 Presidential Candidate?

All I know, is Kamala Harris had the lowest approval rating of ANY Vice President; then Joe Biden 'bowed out' of the Election & she suddenly became a Political Rock Star. It's pretty clear that Kamala is not living up to all of the Hype, but is it her fault? -Afterall, she is who she is.

[todayisafridaynight]

What exactly ARE the Yakuza games?

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

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

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

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

[mdpikachu]

ye gods have spoken and who am i to deny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

in conclusion

[tomorrowusa]

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

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

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

The Donald Trump Fire Sale Starts Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

[sn4pozu]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tags the location if he could he would

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

buys likes and followers to feed his ego

4k followers thats like 85% bots

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

would post corny atheist memes & misinformation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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