#World cup 1978

[orixmascotversefan]

Quedó bien feito el mundialito , pero revivan el fandom

Perdón si se ve de mala calidad es que no se exportó bien o bueno eso creo😔

[l0n4t1csfan65]

gauchiro vs ameriko beacuse argentina vs colombia final copa america 2024

im back in tumblr

[neutrallyobsessed]

lemme

lemme fixiate on this lil guy for a bit

[cadelistic]

World Cup almost over, gotta milk it as much as I can!!!!

[kingofpaindemo]

Diego Maradona holding the cup during the celebrations of Argentina winning the World Cup hosted in Mexico in 1986 / Lionel Messi holding the cup during the celebrations of Argentina winning the World Cup hosted in Qatar in 2022

Lots of similarities between both editions, THE SAME HAPPINESS FOR ALL THE ARGENTINIAN PEOPLE 💙🤍💙

[basgevers]

On This Day in 1978, Archie Gemmill scored the greatest ever Scotland goal in Argentina.

[multific]

Sunshine in the Rain

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: He finally had the weekend off.

You had the entire weekend planned out.

It was supposed to be perfect.

Finally, Spencer also took some time off of work, so you had everything planned.

A nice walk in the park, kissing under the huge cherry blossom before lunch. 

It was supposed to be perfect.

Until the rain decided to ruin it all.

Your perfect little plan, ruined.

Your perfect date, ruined.

It was a dreary, rainy day outside, the kind of day that made you want to curl up on the couch with a cosy blanket and a hot cup of tea. 

Not the sunny date you planned.

"It's okay, we can make plans and stay home." Spencer said but you pouted.

It was not what you wanted.

But, you let out a long sigh and decided to spend the day watching movies, a perfect way to escape the gloomy weather outside.

As you settled in, Spencer popped some popcorn and you grabbed a few blankets to make your movie-watching experience even more comfortable. 

You scrolled through the options, debating between a documentary or a thrilling action movie. 

In the end, you settled on a feel-good romantic comedy, the perfect choice for a rainy day.

As the movie played, you laughed and cried together, getting lost in the story unfolding on the screen. 

Spencer had a knack for making witty comments and observations throughout the movie, always keeping you entertained and on your toes. 

Spilling his never-ending rant on facts.

"Why would he do that? That is so not logical." he huffed. "You know they did a study in 1978 about men's behaviour and..."

He just kept going.

His quick wit and sharp intellect never failed to make you laugh, even on the gloomiest of days, like right now.

As the rain continued to pour outside, you lost track of time, engrossed in the world of the movie. 

It was a rare moment of peace and bliss, just you and Spencer enjoying each other's company and the simple pleasure of watching a movie together. 

You couldn't help but feel grateful for moments like these, when everything else faded away and it was just the two of you, sharing a quiet moment of joy.

Considering how busy Spencer was with his work. You loved him so much, but you did wish he would be home more often. However, you also didn't want to keep him from helping people.

As the credits rolled and the movie came to an end, you looked over at Spencer and saw a content smile on his face. 

Despite the rainy weather outside, you felt warm and happy inside, grateful for the time you got to spend with him and the laughter and love that Spencer brought into your life. 

As the movie ended, you turned to look at him, leaning in for a kiss, he met you halfway.

"Let's watch the documentary you wanted." you said as his eyes lit up.

He really was like a child.

You grabbed more snacks from the kitchen and just as you settled in, you knew that no matter what the weather brought, as long as you had Spencer by your side, you would always find sunshine in the rain.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[satorugojowidow]

The original blog who screenshotted and shared this here has disabled the reblog so I'm going to repost in order to try to navigate the racism that is underneath this tweet.

About the claim of this tweet there is nothing more to say that the comparison is unacceptable not only because it lacks of any logic but also because trivialize the monstrosity of what genocide represent. Genocide is only equivalent to genocide, as the propaganda is an fundamental axis that allows genocide, its is a constitutive part of it. Nothing is equivalent or can be compared. This person is trivializing the genocide to people of Palestine while doing this comparison. Insult the victim with the only goal to make a point about the result of a tournament they didn’t like for any reason.

Argentina with all its political flaws and problems haven’t used football as political propaganda since 1978 (last dictatorship). And were Argentinians themselves those who have made a critical revision of the 1978 world cup, we don’t need someone from outside come to explain or call out what happened. Historiography has made their part and is part of the history teached in schools. 

President Milei's use of football is related to reform Argentinians football clubs from civil associations to shareholders of S.A. Argentina football clubs traditions are related to social purposes. Clubs like Boca Juniors and River Plate (the bigger) aren’t only about football but hold other types of sports, their objective of existence is to be a space where neighbors of the club (in the beginning of their history) can do sport. Sports clubs belong to their associates, who are the thousands of fans who follow their team. Milei and Macri want to allow the big shareholders to buy these clubs.the extractionist economic model but applied to football.

What this person in the tweet doesn't understand because of their ignorance and their contempt against our people is that football has a colonialist matrix as well. Football players are human resources that Europe takes from our clubs. That is why the players of Argentina National Team (the FIFA N°1) all come from big european clubs or usamericans club with lots of money. But they didn't started their career there, they were bought from clubs from Argentina, and they started when they were childs in small sport clubs that only exist to give working class people a chance to do sport. The first coach of Angen Di María was someone like many others that use their free time to teach childrens football, they don’t even live from that activity, because it is a social activity, not a business. Our football world champions come from working class families, they, like the huge majority of this country, are also descendants from those Europeans that came running away from poverty and those indigenous people who suffered the colonia. And if they weren’t the superstars they are, they were victims of racism because of their latinamerican condition. 

Argentina, like the rest of the countries of the world, has hierarchies based in economics, social and ethical status. As a country that is the result of European colonialism, still struggles with that inheritance. To this person, who may not like the Argentina National Team for random reasons, we seem like the only country that doesn’t deserve to win a tournament because of that. News for you, this is football, there is no “deserve”, you either win or lose. But talking about justice, it is fair that a country that is the home of the players gets to win. Not like European countries that win the world cup with the sons of those immigrants they so much hate, while African countries still struggle to position themselves in the tournament. 

The Argentina National Team has its flaws, but they still represent the working class people of this country and their dreams. They chose to celebrate the America cup with the prop guy, not like the Spain National Team that bent their knees to the king. And yes our current president is a pro Israel (and while in the protest against him the flag of Palestine flys) the National Team refused to celebrate the cup with him. 

And the fact that a third world country with players that come from working class families won, still has a meaning to the rest of the world that celebrated with us the 2022 victory in Qatar. We made that victory a huge popular celebration in the streets and everyone was welcome to celebrate with us. You won’t ever find a Argentina National Team fan that will tell someone from another country that they can’t use our jersey. With all our flaws, we still hold football as the sport of working class people. I guess some people can’t just understand it.

[charlotte-of-wales]

Happy 46th birthday to Mike Tindall!

Born 18 October 1978, Michael James Tindall, is the husband of Zara Tindall, and a son-in-law to the Princess Royal. He is also a former rugby union player and a member of the England squad which won the 2003 World Cup.

On 21 December 2010, Buckingham Palace announced the engagement of Tindall to Zara Phillips, the daughter of Anne, Princess Royal, and her first husband Captain Mark Phillips. The couple first met during the 2003 Rugby World Cup in Australia. The wedding took place on 30 July 2011 at Canongate Kirk in Edinburgh.

Mike and Zara have three children: Mia Grace Tindall (10), Lena Elizabeth Tindall (6) and Lucas Philip Tindall (3).

[therealslimshakespeare]

From Sarge’s kids I think I’m (as of now) excited to learn more about Daisy. She’s got a lot of Elvis in her and she witnesses Elaine go to hell and back to help him beat his addiction and although she’s independent I hope there’s gonna be someone who will be able to do the same for her or stand by her. Not to mention she’s got a twin who they come off as polar opposites (what with Rosalee being a huge Daddy’s girl) and her comments towards her older sister Ella’s marriage - I get the feeling there’s a lot to unpack there.

I think sometimes Elvis felt like he was too much to love and I see a lot of his personal insecurities in Daisy, she even is a popstar like him and that’s a lot of people loving you with maybe them feeling like they aren’t really known for who they are deep down.

I am so happy to hear this, I’ve got a little started on each kid’s own fic (I want one for each like I had for Jesse, just to establish them and then let loose with the intermingling) and I really think hers is compelling. It’s been truly a blast to get to know her and I’ve gotta be honest she may be the most Lisa-like of any Sarge kid in many ways, partly because she’s so Elvis incarnate. It took awhile but me and my scheming buddies have cooked up a good partner for her and she will always have her family as backup and even her godfather Marlon. I think she will, as you said, be publicly adored but can be rather offputting one on one, even though she desperately needs connection. I think eventually, and not after too long, all these relationships get far better, and Daisy finds her little nook in the family easily. She is the one to go to for the zero bullshit takes or help hiding a body. Loyal and fierce that one.

And here, since you made my day asking about her, have a little random snippet I’ve written about her first big debut recording which came from her rehab scribbles and, unfortunately for the family members her lyrics feature -becomes a sensation.

Era: 1978-9ish??

Warnings: moderate…mentions of past divorce, infidelity, a daughter sorta writing a hit tell all? remincence of a one off threesome and Elvis having straight man panic for it (I’m afraid this couple is polyamorous central I’m the 60’s but nothing explicit) big ole family chat with the grown kids, chaos as can be expected…

What about Wendy?

“Daisy Mae!” Elvis bellows her full name because the crime warrants it, and from behind him, her voice answers, not in person from her place sprawled on the couch but behind him, coming through the stereo in a clear cadence that his creative side must acknowledge is skilled and evocative. What Elvis doesn't find so praiseworthy is his Dear Daughter hanging the family laundry out for all to see with lyrics like:

—“So I'll lock the window and turn on the AC, You'll throw your rocks, and you'll scream that you hate me, But it gets old being forever 20, And what about my wings? What about Wendy?”—

out on a clothesline for all the world to commentate on his failings and his marriage.

The music video coming out tomorrow on MTV, teased as featuring a fresh faced Daisy in a montage of her mother’s most iconic looks -including that secretive wedding gown so few of the nation ever saw, rather hammers home the not so subtle point. As far as Elvis is concerned this is about as disloyal as it gets.

And he is having none of it.

“It’s art, Daddy.” Daisy murmurs, utterly unphased by the hurricane of wrath she can match once she gets that cup of coffee Rosalee is making her.

“Is this how you see us?” Elvis demands and Jesse winces to the side, things had been going so smoothly after Danny was born but lord, the Presley’s just can’t manage to be calm for long, Daisy had to record that stupid black book she scribbled in during rehab and, my does it have some choice takes on the events of the last decade. “This how you see your childhood?” Elvus goes on, “Where we loved ya like no one’s ever loved any kids and gave ya everythin’ and-“

“-and slammed a buncha doors in between.“ Daisy shrugs, not meaning to be cruel, but it’s the truth and she’s never had her sibling’s affinity for the affection that the rest of the kids take as blood money for the insanity they got put through. Daisy doesn't hold a grudge against anyone for her childhood, in fact, she’s thankful for the writing material. But she’s not gonna be sorry for writing shit as it was.

Which was mama playing a haggard Wendy while Daddy flitted in and out of the window at whim like Peter Pan.

“Girl,” her daddy begs her to understand as he takes his seat next to her on the sofa, big ringed hand familiar and pleading on her bony knee, as if somehow this appeal of his will lock the song back into her diary and out of the radio -or maybe he doesn’t care about his reputation anymore, he’s gotten lax about that after the divorce, maybe he really is seeking after his child’s good opinion this time when he continues, “I’m all for art’n’shit but have I not taught ya nothin’ bout-“

“Daddy, ya didn’t even write your own songs.” Daisy gently tries to get him to see the difference in their art but Jesse gasps out in horror:

“Daisy!!” like she just shot their father instead of stating the truth. Which is kinda her problem with her family, they can’t take straight facts.

“Alright, alright then,” Elvis simmers a bit but his tone is restrained as he presses his point, “so ya write from the heart and ya wrote about life, I get ya. So then why’d you call mama Wendy when, w-w-when she’s -she’s my Tinkerbell?”

“You’d rather I used your pet little name in public?” Daisy scoffs at his muddled logic and feels bad for the first time after -soon as his brow furrows in genuine hurt. Daddy loves mama, he loves her again like a new man and Daisy doesn’t get how that works but it’s the truth and she’s got no fight to pick with the truth. It makes her admit with a shrug, “I used it ‘cause Marlon always says she’s Wendy.”

You could hear a pin drop the way everyone’s chatter in the living room stops, even the coffee maker stops spluttering in the distance and it’s highly likely Jesse isn’t even breathing as everyone’s head’s swivel, Daddy’s slower but more intent than any, to look at Elaine where’s she sits in the white arm chair, blanket cast over her where Danny fell asleep while nursing. She’s as white as the rocker she sits in.

“Oh does he now?” Elvis rumbles and Daisy feels the unintentional bite of his nails on her knee.

“Well yeah, he does and -always has.” Daisy insists as if the past and present existence of Brando’s opinions on Elvis’ wife makes shit any better, Daisy knows it the second she lets it out that it’s not exactly balm on the scab.

Her voice doesn't make anyone look away from mama and her perfect, frozen face, carefully neutral and soothingly disinterested in the topic.

“That man has only ever called me, Elaine.” mama laughs an airy, dismissive little thing and the bite of Daddy’s rings on Daisy’s knee loosens their grip. “And if he thinks i'm a Wendy -he should say it to my face.” she jokes and Jesse predictably lets out a pained laugh of solidarity.

“-A-a-and w-who the hell did ya get to sew all those recreated outfits, girl?” Daddy is suddenly back on the original topic with a burst of renewed incredulity at her gall and Daisy knows she can use this to her advantage, get him arguing about fashion, tailors and supporting local folks instead of berating her for her lyrics and-

-Ella watches as Elaine’s stiff face smoothes into relief and she lays her head back against the rocker’s cushion and closes her eyes against the hubbub that’s no longer pertinent to her. Not for the first time Ella wonders if mama is as burdened as she is with thoughts and feelings married women shouldn’t have, they really shouldn’t. Marriage should cure a woman of them but Ella had them all alone on the ranch with her husband gone and Mama had Marlon and his lingering looks and her frozen face whenever his name gets mentioned and mama who is staring up at the ceiling like she’s no longer in the room with them at all.

“Peter Pan, Peter Pan, little lost boy actin’ like a big man,” only Marlon could have made that rhyme sound like anything but a goad, only Marlon really saw what Elaine saw when Elvis was sated, pliable, sweet as a newborn and pretty a sin. “Those producers who’ve got him playin’ tough n’ shit don’t know his appeal, they just don’t get it. Goddamn Peter Pan.”

And he had run his fingers over Elvis’ face, catching his drooping eyelids and pulling them down and over his nose to those cherub lips. And Elvis’ eyes hadn’t opened again till next morning when he woke in angry panic.

Elaine stares at the ceiling and feels Danny shift against her breast, snuggling closer, and she wonders if Elvis ever recalls that night like she does. Ever replays it a million times.

Wendy, Wendy Wendy.

Marlon thinks she’s Wendy, Marlon’s told her own daughter that. But never her. No. He’d just raked his hand through the wrecked coiff of Elvis’ gelled hair and admiringly called him Peter Pan. And Elvis, being Elvis in the state of freshly loved and freshly praised, never balked at it before drifting to sleep in their muggy tent.

Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, he never called Elaine that to her face.

Elaine catches Daisy’s eye next time she looks away from the ceiling, an odd moment of recognition. Funny how each child knows a part of her, but it’s the inner workings of Daisy’s curious, generous, honest self -a heart so very like Elvis’ own- that can look back at Elaine and smile at her, while knowing her fully, faults and all. It’s not so bad having grown daughters as a friend, Elaine decides as she watches Elvis flail backwards against the couch to laugh at his daughter's good natured dig at his unmodified wardrobe.

It’s good not to be his only Wendy keeping him young anymore.

Song based on: Wendy by Maisie Peters

Tags:

@powerofelvis

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

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@loving-elvis

@honeyorangess

@soloangel

@xenaspace3-blog

@60svintage

@dragonkingsdaughter

@presleysgirl6

@that-hotdog

|

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@mydarlingelvis

@presleysweetheart

@50sexyshadesfashionista

@sexystarfish

@whatstruthgottodowithit

@suraemoon

@lialocklear

@elvispresleywife

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@jaqueline19997

@queenheartz

@starryschoolgirl

@elvisalltheway101

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

DALE'S FIRST FORD WINSTON CUP CAR...

HE ONLY DROVE THIS CAR 4 TIMES IN 1978...

1. WORLD 600 at Charlotte... Started 28th... Finished 17th.

2. FIRECRACKER 400 at Daytona... Started 28th... Finished 7th.

3. TALLADEGA 500... Started 27th... Finished 12th.

4. SOUTHERN 500... Started 14th... Finished 16th.

The #96 Cardinal Tractor Ford was owned by Will Cronkrite.

[l0n4t1csfan65]

i made this and idk

[neutrallyobsessed]

*hands you the headcanon that adriancito fue a la final del mundial 78 contra holanda en el monumental*

[eleanorblythe]

Romantic Homicide - Anton Chigurh x Original Female Character - One Shot - NSFW

This is a supplemental to my first three chapters and explores Anton and Her before the events of Romantic Homicide.

This is how she died (part 2)

Also on Ao3 with authors notes and translations - here

Winter of 1978

Filipe Andrews had lived a long life. An interesting life.

Living through two world wars and serving in both World War 2 as a soldier and the Vietnam War as a war doctor, Andrews was quite familiar with the darker side of life and humanity. He intrigued him. After Vietnam, he found he didn’t want to live the typical American life. He’d had a taste of the darkness and he wanted more. He had decided to put his medical skills to use in America’s underworld, serving the frightening (but insanely rich) people within it.

But he was tired now. And older. Semi-retired and finally living the quiet and sedate existence he rejected as a young man.

As long as no one saw the fully kitted out surgery suite in his basement, he had a perfectly ordinary home and life.

He supposed a lot people in his world must have also believed he was retired. In its heyday the basement would see any number of agents, gang members, corporate cleaners come through its soundproofed walls in a given week. But now, the space lay dormant.

He was currently standing over his stove slowly and rhythmically stirring milk in a saucer, for his now customary 2am warm milk to help him go back to sleep. Sometimes Andrews really hated getting older. His house was bathed in darkness with the exception of the orange street lights offering a soft glow against the Formica counters. The silence of the outside world was simultaneously peaceful and eerie. He was just emptying the contents of the saucer in a cup when the thumping of a fist against his front door nearly made him drop it.

Confused and cautious, Andrews removed the 12 gauge shotgun hidden under the kitchen island and moved towards the door. He hesitated wondering if the person had moved away or Andrews had simply made up the sound in his own head when he heard a muffled, but familiar voice.

“Andrews. I can hear you. Open up.”

Andrews carefully placed the shotgun down on a nearby table and opened the locks of his front door. He was met with a grim scene.

Anton stood, skin clammy and stained with dried blood. Not his, Andrews quickly noted. Although the crumpled body ensconced in Anton’s arms made it easy to determine where the blood was coming from.

“What’s happened to-“

“-She’s been gutted, she’s lost a lot of blood.”

“So I see…” Andrews passed a cursory glance over her. She was already dead. Or as good as. Anton would have known that. Andrews drew his eyes to meet Anton’s and was slightly taken aback by how desperate they looked.

“Filipe. Please.”

Holy shit.

So he was in love.

Andrews gave a single nod and moved aside as Anton carried her throughout the house waiting patiently by the false wall that would lead to the basement, as Andrews securely locked down the house.

The silence and stillness of the basement was cut off by the quiet tink tink of the fluorescent turning on followed by the rushed sound of footsteps on concrete stairs.

Anton lay her on the surgical table and quickly found something soft to place behind her head.

“You’ll need to wake her up.” Andrews said as he rolled up his sleeves and started to scrub in.

Anton shrugged off this jacket and tossed it aside as he held her face in his hands, quietly but urgently calling her name.

Her eyes fluttered open and was immediately met with a bright white surgical light shining in her face. She tried to turn away but was pulled back. She whimpered out a complaint. All Anton could do was apologise.

Filipe issued some instructions in Spanish as he approached the table. She couldn’t translate quickly enough but based on how Anton sprang into action, it was clear Anton was taking on the role of the surgeon’s assistant.

The two men continued to murmur in their native tongue as she saw occasional glimpses of glinting metal surgical tools and eyes scanning over her through blue scrubs and face masks.

The pain was blinding. A part of her was angry with Anton for putting her through this excruciating suffering, and from the few words and phrases she could hear and translate, it wasn’t looking hopeful.

She had expected to be shushed with all the noise she was making. She screamed and cried so much, her throat felt bloody and raw. However, for her sins, she was met with the occasional cool towel being dabbed carefully against her forehead (Andrews) and a reassuring squeeze of her shoulder or soft caress against her temple (Anton).

It was always a small wonder to Andrews how much blood a human body could hold…and lose. She had practically been ripped open on one side. At least, this meant he wouldn’t need to make too many incisions.

“She needs a hemicolectomy.” Andrews stated dispassionately before moving away to get out his supply of general anaesthesia.

Anton swallowed the lump in his throat, but started to clean her arm ready for injection.

“I think I understood more when you guys were speaking Spanish.” She slurred. Her head lolled to the side and weakly reached her arm towards Anton.

“He needs to remove a section of your small intestines. He’s going to put you under.”

“Why didn’t you let me die?” She whispered. Anton froze what he was doing and pulled down his mask. He went to say something, when Andrews came back holding what must have been the most intimidating looking syringe known to man.

“¿Estàs lista?”

“Lista,” She croaked. Andrews nodded and stuck the needle into the crease of her arm.

“Remember. No guarantees.” Andrews added.

She managed a small genuine smile, on her pale, tear-stained, face.

“I always did love your bedside manner, Filipe,” she said softly. That was all she said before her eyes drifted closed.

………

Early Summer of 1978

She couldn’t remember the last time she had woken up feeling so blissful.

She felt pleasantly warm. She watched the curtains sway slightly with the morning breeze, allowing pockets of sunlight to stream across her bedroom floor. She was taking a vacation - if such a thing existed in her line of work. She wondered if what she was experiencing was the “Friday feeling” she had heard her- what she would call - ‘normal’ friends talk about.

She stretched and made to get out of bed, but an arm locked around her waist prevented her from doing so. She turned around carefully to face, a still sleeping, Anton. It was one of the few times she could watch him where he looked totally at peace. He almost seemed to smile in his sleep, which made a nice change from the deeply unimpressed look he would usually wear. His hair was mussed and covering his eyes. She suppressed a girlish giggle and delicately combed her fingers through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and away from his face.

“That tickles.” Came a muffled and very deadpan voice. Anton opened his bleary eyes and gave a very deep inhale and exhale as if all the stress of the world had melted off his body.

“Apologies. Perhaps you should have taken the scrunchie I offered after all.” She said with a smirk. Anton scrunched his nose in distaste before leaning forward and nuzzling his face into her neck, pressing a light kiss here and there. She hummed and stretched again raising her arms to drape around his shoulders and back.

As Anton attacked her neck with lazy kisses and small bites and nibbles, she drew random patterns and traced over some scar tissue that littered his back. She was particularly mesmerised with an angry, twisted looking scar near his shoulder. She was trying to determine if it was a burn or a bullet wound when Anton lifted his head up and murmured in her ear;

“Napalm burn. Vietnam.”

“Oh.” She said apologetically and her hand dropped down to rest on his bicep. Anton grinned against her skin and suddenly rolled on top of her keeping her pinned with his lower half and searching to meet her eyes.

“Oh?” He mocked her, “What was that for?”

“I just know most guys don’t like to talk about ‘Nam’.”

He hummed noncommittally and roved his eyes over her naked form.

“I’d sooner we didn’t talk at all, right now,” he dipped his head to lightly nip around the edge of her breast.

She scoffed and wriggled underneath him slightly.

“You’re such an animal. You weren’t even awake 2 minutes ago,”

“I’m very awake now.”

“Yes. It’s hard to ignore.”

“You’re still talking…”

Her laugh was cut off as he leaned down to smother her lips. He ground into her soft skin, then used his knee to pry her legs apart. She lazily hooked her legs over his hips and crossed her ankles on his back. Anton deepened the kiss, as his calloused hands made a slow meandering path down her face, neck, chest and finally to that most intimate place of her.

He dipped his fingers into her folds, drawing slow circles on her clit. She let out a sigh and practically whimpered against his lips;

“Fuck me already, guapo,” she punctuated her request by squeezing her legs around his waist and pulling him even closer to her.

Anton, suppressing his smirk at his newest nickname, pushed into her warm, wet heat with little resistance.

He released a pleasurable groan and dropped his head to her shoulder, rocking gently into her. He felt her press a kiss to his hair and shifting her hips to match his languid pace.

Anton didn’t believe in heaven.

But if he did, he hoped it would feel like this.

It was his own fault, really. He had allowed himself to get too comfortable. He, sometimes, wondered if she was a bruja as she seemed to have this unexplainable hold over him.

He told himself right from the start he would never stay the night.

He was thankful he had no one to hold him to account for that. As he had abjectly failed to do so. In every instance.

The most infuriating thing was she was quite accommodating either way and even said she wouldn’t be insulted if he didn’t want to stay.

He hated that.

He loved her for that.

He hated that he loved her.

It had been a year since they met. Anton wouldn’t call himself happy, he didn’t know what ‘happy’ meant, but he imagined it was similar to this feeling, now - losing himself in her, feeling every inch of her, knowing her body so well that he knew just the right angles and depth that would make her-

He heard her hiss and felt her thighs tighten around his waist. She grabbed his face with both hands and pulled so they were nose to nose, cradling his head and kissing him desperately, asking him to do it again.

He happily obliged.

They continued to rock in tandem, calmly. Sweetly. Coming dangerously close to being considered “making love”. In a moment of panic, one of Anton’s hands that had been fisting the sheets, jumped up and gripped her throat. She quirked an eyebrow, but shifted one of her hands until it was pulling his hair. He grunted but, was once again, thankful that she was some kind of witch and she knew exactly what he needed in that moment.

God, how he hated her.

Her legs clamped more insistently, and the heel of her foot dug painfully into his back.

It reminded him of times they had crossed paths on the road. Anton pile-driving her against stained and peeling motel wallpaper with her heeled boots cutting into his back. Fucking each other senseless, before they got caught. Violence really was the most powerful aphrodisiac.

He was brought back to the present, by the sound of a high pitched whine beneath him. She was close. She leaned up to tug on his earlobe with her teeth, before using the Spanish she had practiced to whisper sensually in his ear.

“ven dentro di mi.”

Anton froze mid thrust. He had noticed the Spanish dictionary she had tried to hide when he arrived the previous evening. She had clearly practiced that phrase a lot, her pronunciation was near perfect. A part of him was touched she was trying so hard.

Another part of him was beyond turned on.

He pushed her back into the pillows and snapped his hips roughly into hers. She gave a little yelp, biting her lip to stop her laugh from bubbling over. She felt no small sense of pride from surprising a man as equable as Anton Chigurh.

She knew he was close, she had been holding on for the last five minutes, but wanted to see him come undone. She felt his hand tighten its grip around her neck and the sound of hips snapping together become louder and increasing in intensity.

“Pagarás màs tarde,” Anton gritted out between his teeth. She wasn’t quick enough (or knowledgeable enough) to translate what he had said, but hearing him speak Spanish made her insides clench, which was all Anton needed to tip him over the edge.

He hunched over her body and let out a grunt as hot streams of release hit her cervix. Finally satisfied, she dug her nails into his shoulders and fell off the edge with him. Feeling her flutter and constrict around him was almost enough to make him come again. If he was younger man, he might of. Instead he rolled over onto his back, bringing her with him. He didn’t want to crush her, but he wasn’t ready to stop feeling her skin against his.

She lay her head on his chest, trying to keep the smug smile off of her face. She could feel Anton stroking through her hair and along her back. They stayed like that, in post-coital bliss until one of them spoke.

“How long did it take you to learn that?” He finally asked. She tore her eyes away from her hand which was sifting through the small patch of hair on his chest and sat up to look at him properly.

“Not too long, but I wasn’t sure about the pronunciation - your reaction assured me it was correct.”

“It was…close enough.” He tried to dodge an incoming pillow and huffed out a rare laugh. “You have a good tongue.”

“Well, you would know,” she said suggestively. He hummed in agreement. She leaned forward and kissed him soundly on his lips before slipping out of bed.

“Where are you going?” He called, body unmoving except for his eyes.

“I’m going to shower and then…whatever we like, there’s a new cafe downtown that supposedly does the best eggs in the city. If you’re feeling adventurous we could go hiking…”

“I don’t care what we do,” Anton started.

“As long as we’re together?” She finished in a saccharine voice, she batted her eyelids and popped her leg. Anton’s face remained impassive and she scoffed and sauntered out of the bedroom, calling over her shoulder that he was welcome to join her in the shower.

He sat up and turned over what she said. Although she was clearly being facetious, he couldn’t ignore the feeling of…longing at her words.

No. That was ridiculous.

He didn’t need her, it’s not like he was forlorn when she wasn’t around, but he did notice, now. His existence was even quieter without her and he would, very rarely, wake up in the night and turn over expecting to find her there.

Once he spent a couple of nights at her place, when he knew she was away. He put everything back where he found it, but when she did return home, she phoned him and joked that he could just ask for a spare key the next time.

He didn’t need her.

He reached for his jeans, that had been strewn across the room and took out a coin. He would do it every now and then, when it came to her. He knew what he thought, but ultimately it didn’t matter. That was the beauty of the coin. He could never argue with it. It was simplicity. It was honest.

He flipped the quarter onto his open palm and stared down at the side he knew would greet him. Either she was living on an insane amount of luck, or it really was fate. He wanted to cringe at the thought, but he simply curved his lips up and followed the sound of running water coming from the other room.

………

Winter of 1978

Anton wasn’t sure how long it had been, it was certainly long enough for dawn to start peeking through the letterbox window at the top of basement. The dreary, depressing blue light started to creep its way across the bottom of the bed he was currently sitting on.

He had previously been sitting on a dining room chair that had been hastily dragged down from upstairs, needing to be close and diligently monitor her progress. However, after several hours he couldn’t ignore his discomfort and had, carefully, managed to sit against the headboard, leaving her undisturbed.

He watched her chest slowly rise and fall, she was still pallid, but no longer ashen. She had walked right up to death’s door, but had seemingly turned back at the last minute. Even Andrews seemed surprised she had survived.

For now.

Anton reached out and held her hand, under the guise of checking her pulse. It was slow, but stable. Consistent. Reassuring.

He would never cry. He wasn’t sure if he was even capable at this point. But, of this, he was sure: if she died, he would not stop until every single person involved, was hunted down and slaughtered.

Hell, they would be hunted down and slaughtered anyway.

He glanced over at the clock and stood to check on her IV. As he rose from the bed, Anton realised how exhausted he was. Filipe had recommended he rest immediately after surgery, but Anton had insisted he would wait until she woke up.

Anton finished adjusting one of the connectors and rubbed his eyes, trying to fight off the oncoming tide of sleep. He looked down to find her eyes open, watching him.

He immediately knelt down and softly greeted her. Her lapis eyes were dulled, and she seemed to be struggling to keep them open. She dragged up her hand until it knocked against his arm. He took hold of her pressing his dry lips against her fingers. She managed a small smile, but even that seemed pained.

“Did you mean what you said?” Anton asked quietly.

Her brow furrowed slightly and turned her head more to look at him.

“I should have let you die?”

She closed her eyes and gave a dry swallow, her other arm not attached to an IV, thumped the empty space next to her on the bed. She opened her eyes and met his eye.

“Come.” She barely breathed. Anton carefully put her hand back down, making sure nothing would catch or pull from the IV, and made his way over to the other side of the bed, removing his boots before settling down next to her.

She blindly reached her arm until she felt the soft locks of his hair and stroked along his jaw. As soon as Anton settled into the mattress and felt her hand caressing him, the tension could finally start to seep out of him.

He was home.

She turned her head and made small gesture for him to edge closer. With foreheads pressed together, she nuzzled against him and whispered;

“Thank you.”

Anton pressed a kiss to her forehead then settled into the crook of her neck. She settled into a more comfortable position but slipped her hand into his as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

Anton peeked his eyes open and waited until he could once again see the slow rise and fall of her chest. When he knew she was definitely asleep, he squeezed her hand.

“No me dejes,” he said lowly as he finally succumbed to sleep.

[myprongsfootera]

Prongsfoot Bingo: Quidditch

It started with a promise in September of 1978.

“It sucks that we couldn’t go to the World Cup together. In 1982 let’s go. You and me, together. We’ll sit in the best seats.”

Walburga and Orion Black never would have allowed Sirius to watch the World Cup with the Potters, so they’d watched from different sides of the stadium. But by 1982, they figured, everything would be different. 

Sirius wouldn’t be under the thumb of his parents and he could sit wherever he wished. He and James would probably be living in a two-bedroom flat somewhere in London, so they could even apparate to the match together. They’d probably get some nice tents to set up the night before so that they could fully appreciate the festivities. 

But they shouldn’t have expected that any of it would play out that way. 

Because of course James Potter was scouted by a professional quidditch team and asked to play on the team. And of course Sirius had pursued a course of study in sports medicine so that he could work for the team as a trainer. 

Why would they have assumed anything less?

Oh, and one more thing. That flat that they had been planning to share? It only had one bedroom. Of the many things they hadn’t known in 1978, the least surprising of all to everyone was that these two - who couldn’t live without each other for more than a few minutes at a time - would end up together. It was just fitting. 

So their seats for the quidditch world cup? Yeah. As good as it gets.

-

For @prongsfootbingo. On AO3 here (but this is the whole thing)

[adidasshorts67]

Netherlands 5 Austria 1.... Rensenbrink marked by three defenders.... World Cup 1978 Argentina