#great indian wave

[corkinavoid]

Thank you, @aceinacorner, for this gem:

You are the inspiration for

DPxDC Ring of Rage? More Like Ring of Engage [pt. 3]

[<- part 2 | part 4 ->]

Duke narrows his eyes.

He swears Tim was not in the Cave just five seconds ago, and yet, in the brief moment when Duke wasn't looking, he just materialized out of motherfucking aether. Smelling like Chinese food and holding a chicken skewer that looks so good that Duke's mouth waters.

"Can I have a piece?" He asks, the divine smell of food overriding the urge to ask 'where did you get it' or 'how did you get here'.

Tim nods, smiles, and hands Duke the whole skewer before going for the elevator.

Is it Duke's hallucination, or is he really humming something as he goes?.. Actually, that doesn't matter. The chicken tastes even better than it smells, and Duke is perfectly willing to keep his mouth shut in exchange for food.

You don't talk with your mouth full, after all.

~☆~

Cass watches Tim over the table. She hasn't heard him coming into the dinner room - no steps in the hall, no rustle of clothing or breathing. It's like the boy has somehow appeared right in front of the door out of nowhere before entering.

What's more, he seems obviously not hungry, picking at his food with an absent, if a bit dreamy, expression. Granted, Tim always picks at his food, but Cass can see the difference between 'Tim's mind is busy with a new case and therefore too distracted to eat' and 'Tim already had dinner elsewhere and is too full to eat now'.

The bags under his eyes are also not as dark as they usually are. Come to think of it, Cass hasn't seen him in a bad mood for a few weeks now, which shouldn't really be that strange, but it's Tim. The smallest of inconveniences can put him in a bad mood.

Tim notices her looking and raises an eyebrow.

Cass blinks and goes back to her plate. Whatever is keeping her brother happy, it deserves her full approval.

~☆~

Jason is... not so sure as to what is happening.

He did notice that Tim was really chill lately, but this is going a bit overboard.

"Did you spike it with arsenic, Replacement?" He asks, suspiciously looking the offered cup of coffee over without taking it. Tim - surprisingly, actually - doesn't react to the nickname in the slightest, instead giving Jason a deadpan look. Then, he brings the cup up to his mouth, takes a sip, and hands it back again.

Okay, well, that proves no arsenic, at least. It's still very weird. Tim doesn't just buy coffee for people, and he especially doesn't buy coffee for Jason.

"Am I going to owe you something for it, or what?" He asks, slowly reaching for the cup. Tim sighs.

"No. It's just a drink - my boyfriend loves it, and I think you'd like it as well," he explains with a shrug, and Jason is honestly too befuddled to ask about anything. Including the boyfriend part.

No, but since when does Timbers have a boyfriend? He sure hadn't mentioned anything about it to any of the others.

The drink turns out to be not coffee but something else, tangy and thick, and when Jason takes the lid off, it's green like Mountain Dew.

It does taste great, though, and later Jason considers asking Tim for another one. He hadn't had anything better in ages.

~☆~

Damian strikes through the last one of the training holograms, breathing heavily. And yet, just as the 'simulation complete' message pops up in the air, he hears a step behind him.

He turns around faster than a lightning, and-

Finds Timothy's neck at the tip of his katana, with his hands up in surrender.

"What are you doing here?" Damian sneers, lowering his weapon, and Tim swallows. Not because of surprise or fear, though, he clearly had some half chewed up food in his mouth.

"Inaccurate drop off," he says, looking Damian straight in the eyes, "I was aiming for the main floor."

He smells of Indian food and spices, and Damian almost sneezes.

"What do you mean 'aiming'?" He demands, but Drake just waves him off, heading towards the elevator up.

"No worries, I'll do better next time," he shoots a smile over his shoulder, "See you on patrol!" And with that, the elevator doors close after him, leaving Damian alone.

Drake has always been strange, but this is too much even for him.

Not that it's Damian's business. He huffs and starts the simulation over again.

~☆~

If Dick didn't witness it with his own two eyes, he would have never believed it. Alas, he did, and even though the swirling green vortex has already disappeared like it was never there, Tim, whom the strange portal just spat out on the floor of the Cave, is still here.

"What the fuck was that?" He nearly yells, and Tim looks up, a face of perfect innocence.

"What was what?" He returns the question, and Dick can't find the words to explain, so he just wildly gestures to the place where the portal has been less than five seconds ago. Tim blinks, "Oh, that. That was my date."

Dick chokes on his breath.

"Your date?" He parrots, hoarse and breathless, and Tim nods, like there's not a single thing wrong with anything that has just happened. "Since when do you go on dates? Wait, I thought you were engaged, you said it was cheating to date anyone else, even if you didn't know the spouse, you said-" he cuts himself off, feeling his own face slowly falling and his stomach sinking down in horror. "No. No, don't tell me."

But the shit-eating grin on Tim's face is already proof enough.

Dick clears his throat. Takes a deep breath.

Seeing that Tim is still in one piece, and, well, that he did just casually come out of a magic portal in the middle of the Cave, it's probably safe to say that it's not the first time.

And, judging by the mirth in Tim's grin, it's also safe to say he's been rather enjoying it.

Dick releases one long, loud breath and forces a smile on his face as well.

"So, how is it?" He asks, trying in vain to sound light-hearted, not suspicious. Tim's smile gets wider, and there's a glint of excitement in his eyes now, which Dick considers a good thing, all in all.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask."

~☆~

Bonus Scene (that somehow turned out longer than I planned)

~☆~

"Where's Tim?" Bruce asks when all the rest of his kids are already seated around the table for breakfast.

"At Danny's, probably," Steph shrugs before digging into the waffles on her plate. Bruce frowns.

"Danny's?" He asks. He hasn't heard that name before. Is that a friend of Tim's?

"Drake's paramour," Damian clarifies, not bothering to look up from his own food, and Bruce's mind comes to a screeching halt. He blinks stupidly, looking around the table and sincerely hoping it is some sort of a prank, but Cass smiles and nods, and Dick has an expression of pure exhaustion on his face, and Duke is huffing a snort of laughter at him for it.

"Since when-" Bruce starts, but he is suddenly cut off by a glowing circle that appears just a few feet away from them all.

It grows quickly, morphing into a vortex, a green and ominous tear in reality big enough for a person to walk through, hanging in the air a few inches over the ground. The space around it feels staticky somehow, and the color is too bright to look at directly, and it definitely doesn't belong to their dining room. But before Bruce is able to say another word or do anything at all, Tim steps out of it, his hair and clothes ruffled.

"Oh, fuck," he mutters upon seeing them all, and turns around, sticking his head into the vortex just as it starts to close. The vortex pauses.

Bruce is almost too stunned to move.

His kids don't share the sentiment, though, most of them not paying the portal any attention at all. Bruce would have reprimanded them for the poor awareness of their surroundings if he didn't notice how Damian simply glanced up at it before going back to his food.

They saw the portal. They just didn't deem it dangerous. For some reason.

Tim's face comes back out, and he turns to Bruce. His expression looks different than before: a bit smug, a little mischievous, and just a tad bit nervous.

Then, another head pops up through the surface of the portal. A boy - or at least they look like a boy - with snow white hair that floats in the air and bright, almost neon blue eyes. His skin is far too pale for him to be human, and- he has freckles that look like constellations.

For some reason, that's the part that makes Bruce finally resign to the fact that this is just how his life is. With breakfasts interrupted by green portals and otherworldly boyfriends - because who else might it be, really - before he even had his morning coffee.

"Hi!" Said otherworldly boyfriend grins and waves his hand. "I'm Danny, Tim's fiance," he introduces himself, and Bruce conjures the last scraps of his scattered mind to smile and nod back.

"Good morning, Danny. I'm Bruce." He has no idea what else to say; it seems like a bit late for shovel talk, but a bit early for welcoming speech.

"Would Young Master Danny care to join us for breakfast?" Alfred's calm, but still slightly amused voice comes from the door. Bruce turns to look at the butler with a sense of exasperation - is he really the last one to learn anything in this house? - but the man seems... well, not surprised, at least not on the surface. But his grip on the pitcher of orange juice is just a little too tense for him to have been in the know all along.

Danny turns to him and smiles nicely - his teeth are also way too sharp for a human - before shaking his head, "No, sorry, I was just dropping Tim off."

"For God's sake," Tim rolls his eyes, "Just put on some pants and come out, I refuse to suffer through this alone."

Dick chokes on his toast. Steph gasps, her eyes snapping between Tim and Danny in delight. Cass snorts and kicks her under the table. Damian groans.

"Spare me from the details of your personal life, Drake. Need I remind you that I am thirteen," he narrows his eyes.

The constellations on Danny's cheeks shine just a bit brighter, and Bruce has no idea what that is supposed to mean, but his guess is along the lines of embarrassment. Especially when the boy completes it with rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"You mean to tell me that, at thirteen years old, you don't know what sex is?" Tim deadpans, running a hand through his hair in a useless effort to smooth it and taking his seat at the table. Dick's coughing fit comes back with renewed force.

"We didn't-" Danny starts, still kind of hovering midway through the portal, but Damian pays him little attention.

"I do. Yet, I prefer my mind free of the knowledge when it applies to you."

"I want all the details, though," Steph pipes up, looking at Danny from her seat, "Can you, like, sprout tentacles or something, because I know for a fact Tim likes that kind of-"

"Steph!" Tim yells at her, face red, and then turns to Danny, who suddenly has a very interested, if a bit mischievous, look on his face, "Don't you dare."

"Yeah, okay," Danny snorts and disappears back in the portal. Bruce half-expects it to close after him, but the vortex stays.

Which probably means the boy - the King of Infinite Realms, Keeper of Unseen Worlds, Eyes of the Universe - is going to be right back.

After he puts on some pants, supposedly.

Bruce watches Tim rub his face in frustration while Steph giggles and elbows him in the side, and sighs. This is so not how he expected this morning to be.

[t1red-twilight]

clueless

content/warnings: gn!reader, fluff, cursing

summary: dean being oblivious

word count: 0.6k

masterlist d. w. masterlist

dean couldn’t sit still. every couple of seconds he would glance over his shoulders, and his knee would not stop jumping up and down.

“hey, man. you looking for someone?” sam inquired playfully. he knew full well what dean was looking for; or, rather, who. you had not been back from grabbing takeout. dean was fully aware that you were taking longer than usual.

dean cleared his throat before he responded. “no, uh- i just-“ sam’s loud laughter cut him off. “what?”

sam raised his eyebrows, a mixture of shock and surprise appearing on his face. “oh, c’mon dude. you can’t be serious?” the look on dean’s face expressed the genuine confusion he had to sam’s comment. “really?” sam emphasized.

after doing another once-over of the motel lot, dean turned to face sam. “what the hell are you talking about?” the conversation was cut short when a car entered the dust road of the parking lot.

at first glance, it didn’t seem like it was you; but when the car screeched to a halt you stepped out of the car, saying your goodbyes to the driver and waving at dean and sam as you exited. you quickened your pace to a light jog up to meet them. “hey, guys,” you said as you held up a bag of takeout. “i got indian food. that alright?”

what you saw was something that you were always used to: dean’s (seemingly neon) green eyes sparkling, and a very small grin on his face. what you didn’t see (and what sam had) was dean immediately perk up when he saw you. his entire demeanor changed.

“yeah! that sounds great,” dean acknowledged. “who was that?” at the very least, sam could tell dean was trying to keep casualty in his tone. and, at the very least, his efforts were in vain to sam’s perception.

you waved off dean’s concern. “he just was willing to give me a ride back. nice guy, weird music taste.” you shrugged nonchalantly. “well i don’t know about you, but i’m going to go eat.”

dean tried to respond to you, but sam intervened rather quickly. “we’ll be in in a second,” he smiled rather tautly.

“okay, just hurry. it’s still hot out here.” you shrugged again and went into the hotel room.

dean tried to follow after you, but sam grabbed his forearm and jerked him back before he could.

the confusion that dean felt increased tenfold. “hey, i’m hungry. what are you doing?”

sam couldn’t believe what he was witnessing; how could dean be so unbelievably oblivious? “you have got to be kidding me. are you being totally serious right now?”

“yes? what are you talking about?” dean yanked his arm out of sam’s hold and raised his eyebrows in indignation.

sam raised his voice and answered, “i’m talking about you and-“ dean looked over his shoulder at the door just to make sure you hadn’t heard sam borderline yell.

“what about us? dude, i’m hungry. let’s just go eat.” dean’s tone held something that sam couldn’t place exactly. maybe that was a confession in and of itself? he had no clue, dean’s emotional constipation was exhausting to deal with sometimes.

the door opened and you popped your head out. “are you guys coming or what?”

“yeah! yeah, i’m-a-comin’,” dean said as he walked inside. sam could hear him ask something about the tikka masala as he trailed after you. he practically had heart eyes.

“okay, fine.” he muttered the next part under his breath: “you are such a dumbass.” maybe eventually you and dean would get together, or at the very least ‘bump uglies.’ but sam’s issues presently were dealing with dean’s dumbassery.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

[cloveroctobers]

GRANDMA’S HOUSE — ARMANDO ARETAS x BLACK! READER [Summer Randoms]

A/N: this was honestly inspired by typical family functions + a vid I saw on Instagram (possibly belonging to Tiktok) where we all have that universal experience where we spend the night at grandma’s lol.

SYNOPSIS: your grandmother’s always been in your business, you had a good job? Great! That job got on your nerves? Just be thankful that you have a job when there’s plenty that can’t even find one. You finally moved out of your parent’s house? Good for you, it’s about damn time. Now when you upgraded even more, hearing that you have finally got yourself a boyfriend after being single for only the lord knows how long…she opens up her home for you and Armando to crash instead of spending money (you both had it) out of the kindness of her heart—mostly.

<- read my previous anthology piece here.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Your grandmother smelled like fresh baked cookies with a hint of peppermint, Armando thinks as the smaller woman embraces him at the front door. The ranch styled house is more fitting than the coastal one she offered you two to stay in last summer out in The Hamptons. From what Armando’s learned about the elderly woman is that she may have the sweetest face but her lip was more deadly than anything. He would have never guessed that Granny Bessie would ever want to be bothered with the folks out there but it was evident that she held her own.

He shouldn’t have suspected anything less.

“Oh you’re so handsome,” Granny Bessie pats Armando’s cheek before staring up at his hair, “You got Indian in you? Looking like you got that Arabian grade of hair.”

Armando casted a glance at you who deeply sighed at the slight ignorance in the entry way of the home. He kept a smile on his face, finding this humorous more than anything, “No, ma’am. I’m Hispanic: Mexican…and black. I used to get Guyanese all the time though.”

The woman nods in agreement as she waves him into the home, “I thought your daddy was coming too?”

Armando inhaled at the mention of the man, who your granny had no issue inviting to her home as well for the upcoming festivities, “Detective Lowrey’s flight got delayed, probably won’t be here until early morning.”

The woman raised a brow at Armando as she closes the door behind him, “You call your father by his profession?”

“Well he hasn’t been much of a father so, yeah.”

“Hold on now, that’s still your blood—

“Granny! How’s the garden been treating you?”

“Oh, It’s flourishin’, baby.” She grins as you slip an arm across her shoulders and sent an apologetic look at your boyfriend, “your cousin Saleema and I went out to the Lowe’s and picked up a bunch of flowers. She helped me plant half of them but I know you’ll help me do the rest.”

She had a whole lot planned it seemed, considering you two came up for a couple of days for the upcoming family reunion at her house. You honestly thought about not attending, since you didn’t feel like socializing with half of your father’s side (1. they were either in your business to make sure you weren’t doing better than them—it wasn’t a competition in the first place but apparently it was in their eyes, 2. acted like they didn’t know you and expected you to roll out the red carpet for them—meaning if you didn’t speak to them first then that automatically became a problem, or 3. simply weren’t wrapped too tight in the head) but pushed through it since your granny got sensitive about not seeing her grand babies as often now that you were all adults.

Armando chuckled to himself at that, you knew your granny would bring this up since your cousin wouldn’t stop boasting about their outing in the: first cousins group chat. Saleema was older, just touched forty and was single living in her condo with her funny looking cat. She was always your granny’s favorite—perhaps it had to do with her being the first grandchild since your aunt had her young—although Saleema was a true hell raiser throughout her teenage and college years apparently, she hardly got shit on out of the grandchildren and it showed.

“Sure thing…anything you want me to help with on the inside first? You know I’m not built for this type of heat.” You whistled, fanning at the back of your neck after swiping some of the braids to your boho Bob to the side.

Granny Bessie scoffs, “stop that lyin’ baby, you chose to live out there with them gators and those strange Florida folks so you have to be built for some of it.”

Armando laughs as he follows you two into the living room, spotting old photos of: Granny Bessie during her bowling tournaments with her voluminous hair, various of family members, and childhood photos of yourself and many more cousins from previous family reunions.

“Oh you should see her Granny.” Armando speaks up after putting a picture back above the piano, “I think she got bougie on you, she even walks outside with umbrellas.”

Not this man snitching on you?

Granny side eyes you, hand still latched on your waist, “…you not one of them demonic people now are you?”

Now it was your turn to send a dark stare to Armando, who bit down on his bottom lip trying to hide his laughter. He knew what he had started, knowing that your grandmother was religious and always had something to say about other aesthetics? The goths and the emos received no love from Granny Bessie.

“No, grandma!”

You only ever called her by that to show that you were serious.

“Good,” she states with a pat to your hip before adding, “you haven’t contracted high blood pressure yet have you? I just knew it would hit you like it hit your father and me.”

Shaking your head you reply, “Nope, still dealing with low blood pressure actually.”

“That’s why I told you to up your vitamins and eat better foods. Good thing you’re here with me for a few days, I’ll send you on your way brand new,” she dusts her hands off with a clap, “your doctor will be thanking me.”

“As he should, granny Bessie knows all!” You rested your head against the shorter woman.

“Damn straight, now y’all come on in here and get you something to eat.” The elderly woman with the Mother Nature braids waves you two along.

Armando starts to squeeze his way by at the news of eating, hands rubbing together in excitement as his stomach rumbled before he steps to the side to continue letting you two go ahead.

“…ah a gentleman! I think I like him so far.” Granny Bessie whispers up at you, carrying into the kitchen.

It was 7pm by the time Granny Bessie was packing it up and getting ready for bed. She made the arrangements, sticking Armando in the back room while it left herself and you on opposite sides of the home. She of course let the home be open to you two but you knew not to stay up too late since the woman liked to be up early and active. Granny Bessie was in her seventies and still moved quickly even when her Arthritis was acting up. Everyone told her to slow down but granny Bessie has proven that she was always going to what she damn well wanted to.

Which definitely stood when she sent her last warning to you two of where you two would be sleeping for the night.

The both of you stood at the entry way of the ranch home, lips attached and battling each others as Armando swung you towards the wall, hand going to your waist then down the side of your ass to hook your leg over his hip.

“You said Granny Bessie was a snorer didn’t you?” Armando breathed against your neck.

You nod as you lick your lips, “yeah but she’s still a light sleeper and I’m not in the mood to get cussed out when we get caught.”

“When?” Armando quirked up his brows to look up at you, “All you have to do is keep quiet, mami.”

“And you think you’re going to help me do that?” You question while Armando thinks about it, “Yeah no.”

You pecked his lips while running your fingers over his facial hair, “just call me on FaceTime if the night gets too bad.”

For as long as you’ve been dating Armando, you weren’t completely oblivious. You knew that he didn’t adapt well to new spaces and it only got worse at night. The nightmares kept him up and anxiety was a bitch, he was trying to get through it on his own and even tried to hide it from you plenty of times before he moved in but there wouldn’t be any secrets in your relationship.

And you wouldn’t disrespect your granny’s home—never did and never will.

“Alright,” Armando sighed as he kissed your forehead, “better keep your phone charged, we both know how you are.”

You scowl as he pushes the creaking door back that led down the narrow hallway, “that was only a few times and I had valid reasons.”

“Uh huh,” Armando holds his hand out back for you to interlock your fingers before stopping in the middle of the hallway, “…goodnight baby.”

“Sleep tight, don’t let the dolls bite.”

Armando halts at kissing the back of your hand as he steps towards you, head dipped as he quizzes with a soft whisper, “…what fucken dolls?”

You’re trying to silence your cackling at the deadpan angle of Armando’s face on your phone screen as you settle into bed. There’s no cable in this room so you’re stuck leaving the tv on some court show that’ll help you fall asleep. It only took maybe a minute or two for Armando to start calling you, you on your side and arms tucked underneath the comfy blankets that made you feel like you were back in your childhood.

Granny Bessie had all sorts of trinkets decorating the dresser drawer by the side of the door and you had to remind yourself that if you needed to get up during the night to not stub your toe.

“It’s not that bad is it?” You ask while Armando just simply blinks at you, which said enough.

Eventually you’re the one that falls asleep on Armando although you promise that you wouldn’t. He knew that was a lost cause after you decided to shut the tv off, welcoming the pitch black and snuggle deeper into the sheets without him. You were closer to the opposite end of the hallway with your granny right across the hall but her bed sat deep in her own room yet that didn’t stop you from hearing her lawn mowing snores. You even popped an earphone in one ear to drawn out the noise and just enjoyed the company of your man on charge.

He ends up falling asleep after you but it takes him much longer, browsing social media, checking up on his side business, ignoring a text from Marcus, and simply sending a thumbs up to Mike’s text that he was finally boarding. Armando managed to keep himself busy, fighting the urge to snatch up all the weird looking dolls, rip their heads off and shove them in the closet.

He guessed this was a thing with Grandma’s having obsessions with odd items?

He makes sure his own phone in on charge, bringing it back to the FaceTime call of your closed eyes before completely covering his head underneath the covers then dozed off himself.

That doesn’t last long being woken up out of his sleep. There’s a loud booming noise in the distance and he’s tempted to find his piece just to make sure no one was breaking in. Granny Bessie had an alarm system and that didn’t seem to be going off but that didn’t stop Armando from sitting up in bed. He looks at the dolls and it suddenly feels as if their soulless eyes are still watching him.

He tossed the covers back, feet on the carpet, eyes finding a random blue light that he couldn’t find the source of as he passed by the edge of the bed. This room was suffocating and he feels like he’s been sweating underneath the sheets. The house was cool before the both of you went to bed and now it felt like being inside of a sauna.

Armando pulls the door back, peeking out into the abyss of a hallway and he just hopes there’s no one else in the house but you three. Leaving the door open a crack he moves back into the bedroom to grab his phone to use the flashlight since he can’t remember where exactly the hallway light is.

The floor creaks underneath his feet as he moves from the back of the house. As he gets to the middle of the hallway, he picks up on Granny Bessie’s snoring and stops at your room. His fingers rack against the door and he gets no response so he moves forth with twisting the door knob. Your back is to the door now, phone abandoned on the floor but still charging.

He picks it up for you and steps back out.

Armando lets you sleep, heading towards the front of the house. He’s in the entry way and the home feels much bigger in the dark, more eerie but knows he’ll find comfort in the dining room or kitchen—where the snacks are.

It’s 3 in the morning when you get the violent urge to use the bathroom. You try to fight it but the pressure in your belly isn’t pleasant so you throw the covers back in annoyance. It was your own fault chugging that ice cold water before you started making out with Armando but you didn’t need to acknowledge that. Shoving your fuzzy socks on, you pull the door open and head out into the dark hallway. Eyes half lidded as you use the wall for guidance to the bathroom, your head turns to the left to see the hallway door is left open just a crack but you carry into the bathroom.

Leaning against the door after doing your business, you feel a pull to head out into the main areas of the home. You see a light from the right of the dining room and walk through the sitting room towards it. Turning to the right you spot Armando immediately, snacking as you plop down beside him in another chair.

Balling your arms up on the table, you rest your head against them as you ask, “Can’t sleep?”

“You didn’t hear that big ass noise?” He says around the dried fruit he’s chewing on, “Sounded like a whole bomb.”

You hum, “yeah we’re near the military base…I thought I mentioned that.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“My grandad was a vet. They moved here in the early 2000’s, it’s a whole community.” You yawn.

Armando shakes his head, “that sounds like nothing but triggers. I don’t know if that’s worst or the creepy ass dolls following me with their laser blue beams as I snuck out of the room.”

Frowning you sigh, “did you take an edible before bed?”

Armando feels his eye twitch, “no I didn’t take a fucken edible—I’m for real. Is this supposed to be normal? The dolls? The random lights? The bombs? The clicking and buzzing?”

You shrug, “…I didn’t hear any of that…or maybe I just learned to tune it out.”

“I see you didn’t get the light sleeping from your granny then.” Armando mumbles while you snort, moving one arm to latch onto his wrist.

Slowly lifting your head you say, “…well we can’t stay out here for the rest of the morning. Granny gets up at six and probably will let us rest until eight if we’re lucky so…”

Waking up early had no effect on Armando since he barely slept anyways. He already scoped out the area once the two of you got closer to Granny’s home from the airport for a good workout.

You just didn’t know it yet.

Working out with Armando in the gym was a death sentence and you’ll be damned if you do it out in this heat too? You rather go to hell in a pretty hand basket and Armando was willing to take you there honestly.

No pain, no gain.

*Cue the eye roll*

“That’s cool,” Armando shrugged, “but I’m not goin’ back in that room.”

Sitting back against the chair you huff, “fine you big baby…set the timer to 5:45 so you can go back to your room. Don’t think she won’t check once she’s up for the day.”

Armando scowls as you scrape back from the kitchen table, reaching over to slap your backside, “I’ll show you a baby if you keep getting smart.”

Rubbing the sting on your back side, you fan your hand back at him, which he snatched to hold while setting a timer as you both make your way to the hallway. Too tired to give him any lip, you were just ready to get back into bed and cuddling with your man didn’t hurt.

Your back is to Armando, he tucks himself right into you, feet intertwined, his hairy legs prickling your shaven ones, chin buried into the space of your neck and shoulder while cradling your stomach.

“…how long were your grandparents together?”

You heard him but take a minute to respond as you fight sleep, “They’ve been married since the early 60s…all the way up until pa’s passing in 2019.”

Armando breathes you in, “how’d they do it for so long?”

“That’s something you’ll have to ask Granny but they were everything good you can imagine—nothings perfect but they felt like it you know?”

“…Think he was used to all the noises here?”

You snort, “he’s always been a night owl so if any of us couldn’t sleep, he was always up in the living room in his chair, eating that a disgusting banana ice cream just waiting for any of us to talk. If we had a nightmare, he’d do anything to make us laugh until we forgot it.”

“Sounds like a special man.”

“He was.”

“…I want that you know? With you. The kids and the gran’s. The creaks and the strange, a loving home. A place where anybody can stay and feel like life’s worth revisiting, like it was nothing but a breeze once you see who you’re surrounded by. A less lonely life.”

You shuffle to face him now, resting your head underneath his chin, not finding this conversation to be new. Most nights when Armando couldn’t sleep, he would ramble about what a future could look like with you.

It warmed your heart just as much as how warm your granny kept the back of the house.

“Then let’s do it.” You mumble into the night as Armando squeezes you, placing a kiss right on top of your bonnet.

That sealed the deal.

“Morning, dear. How did you sleep?” Granny Bessie asks with a mug of coffee as Armando makes his presence known.

Armando glances at you who sips at your own mug with a hidden small smile, “Good. Thanks, Granny Bessie. I’m actually about to head out for my daily run…would you like to join us?”

That gets you to cast a glance at the man over your shoulder who softly squeezes your shoulders with a grin, “us?” You whisper.

Granny Bessie laughs, “oh no. I need to tend to some things around the house but make sure you eat something because the heat will rise by the time you’re out there. Also did you speak to your daddy about what time we should be expecting him?”

“He probably should have landed by now.” Armando shrugs, trying to ignore the feeling that he felt when Granny Bessie labeled the man as such.

You say, “He texted me about twenty minutes ago. He was heading to baggage claim, maybe in the next hour he should be here.”

“Alright, well you two best be going and stay away from the houses from the next two streets over…nothing but confederates on that side.”

The woman wags her finger in warning.

Armando nods, “Thanks Granny,” he pops a red grape into his mouth, “these are delicious.”

“Take as much as you want, darling.” The woman squeezes his elbow on her way by, “Now I’m going to go get fully ready for Mr. Lowrey.”

Frowning you ask, “now what do you mean by that granny?”

“Just that I need to be presentable in my own home.”

“Uh huh. I know you’ve been on Facebook and know what Mike looks like.”

“I am a woman of God, do not sass me.”

Armando snickers while you raise your hands in surrender, finishing off your morning juice.

“I see you Granny Bessie.” Armando teases while the woman fans her hands at him.

“Hush! Don’t make my bad list, Herman.”

You gently reminded, “It’s Armando, granny.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Okay! love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” She grins.

As you’re locking up the screen door, you and Armando walk around the path to the driveway to exit the home. He silently stops you, encouraging you to stretch while you send him an unimpressed look.

Armando was lucky you didn’t go into hiding around the house and shouldn’t be so bossy but you knew better.

“When did Granny see a pic of Mike?”

You switch to bending to the other toe, “when she wanted to see a picture of you. Then she proceeded to rate you, Dorn, Rafe, and of course…”

Armando laughs as he finishes, “Mike. your granny is a trip.”

“Tell me about it.” You try to prolong this morning exercise but he picks up pretty quick and isn’t having it.

He stops jogging in place, hand going out to slap your ass before pulling you along by the hand.

You’re wheezing, ready to throw a whole tantrum, legs stinging, wrists limp as you drag yourself up Granny’s driveway. There’s a Porsche parked to the right in the driveway by the rental you picked up from the airport. Mike’s already out of the car, at the trunk as he’s pulling out his luggage.

“Hey y’all! uh oh, Armando what did you do to my girl?” The smile vanishes from Mike’s face as his son glances back at you.

If the ground wasn’t so damn hot, if the air, if everything wasn’t on temperature hell you would have face planted right on the gravel.

Armando also looks back at you, hands on your knees as you give a wave to Mike, whose brows are deeply furrowed before he raises them to the twenty-eight year old closest to him.

“She’s aight.” He shrugs, “we needed to get our cardio in and she’s the one who wanted to tone that hot girl body up—her words not mine but I don’t disagree.” Armando looks at you again, biting down on his bottom lip, “she’s lucky I didn’t strap any weights to her ankles.”

Raising your hands above your head, you actually feel yourself sway doing that movement over touching your knees and Mike actually takes a step toward you but Armando presses the back of his knuckles against his bio dad’s chest. Mike takes his eyes off you for a second and sizes Armando’s hand as he’s now analyzing you closely himself.

“I don’t know how many serious girlfriends you done had in your life man but I’m telling you right now, if that girl ends up in the hospital with heat stroke because of you pushing her too hard, that’s your ass.” Mike warns Armando, who glares up at him.

He didn’t need Mike to tell him about you.

He was the one who took the time to get to know you mind body and soul.

Mike’s missed out on twenty-something years and didn’t get to give Armando any advice.

And that’s on Kanye!

Armando does move over to you the moment you feel your stomach clench, ready to upchuck any light breakfast you had. He doesn’t waste time picking you up and over his shoulder, you resting limply against him before he’s walking by Mike.

He pauses, “your room is the last room at the back of the house, padre.”

And with that Armando continues towards the house, ready to cater to you because what Mike Lowrey didn’t know was that Armando would die for you.

Mike is mumbling to himself, trying to control his temper since it felt like he was building a connection with Armando one minute and then in the next he was pulling ten steps back. The kid didn’t even offer to come back and help him bring his things in—not that Mike needed it but it was a decent thing to do.

Respect was earned and the duo had a long way to go.

So Mike lets it go, slamming the trunk shut before meeting a very excited Granny Bessie at the front door.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

More Armando content here.

[neuroticbookworm]

Engagement of QL Fandom in Indian Queer Media

I was tagged by @lurkingshan and invited to respond to an ask she received from @impala124 that noted the absence of India in the Asian queer media spaces and discussions, and questioned the reasons behind it. @starryalpacasstuff has also responded to it in a great post (check out the reblog additions for a treasure trove of Indian queer media recs), discussing, among many things, Korea’s culture export aiding their queer media ventures, access to Indian queer media, and the quality of Indian queer media. @twig-tea’s addition discussed the ease of access of Thai BLs via YouTube and how it prompted Korea and Japan to re-enter the genre.

My thoughts on Indian queer media are complicated and involve several detours to understand Indian media culture, its economic power, and how it navigates international viewership. For context, I am an Indian cinephile who grew up watching a wide variety of Indian media in terms of both language and genre. I naturally transitioned into watching Western content as globalization of the 2010s brought HBO and Comedy Central to Indian screens, and later sought out queer media, Asian media and Asian queer media on the internet.

Indian Media Industry - A Primer

I know there are a lot of countries right now that produce QL media, so I am gonna mainly consider Thailand, Japan, and Korea, the three countries most prolific with ql, for the purpose of this discussion. All of these countries, while regionally diverse, have managed to considerably homogenize in language and culture over the course of history and colonization. India, on the other hand, is still significantly and distinctly diverse in language, culture, religion, food, media styles, social norms, and on and on. India has 22 official languages and thousands of regional ones that are used in various capacities everyday. This diversity is then reflected in the media produced by India, with multiple powerhouse film industries dominating box offices simultaneously. Bollywood is the biggest one and obviously well known internationally, but Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Kannada, Punjabi, Bengali-language film industries are successful in their own right and consistently produce box office hits and self-sustain in the larger Indian media landscape. This makes domestic media highly regional in India. Even today, in the age of social media, it takes a box office success to the tune of hundreds of millions of rupees for a film to break out of its domestic audience and cross over into other Indian states.

This diversity has also led to the different industries developing media styles unique to them. I watched this video a while ago of a creator documenting his experience of dipping toes into Indian Cinema for the first time, and he ends up covering three movies from three different industries, because the pathos of each of them is so fundamentally different yet effective in their own ways. This diversity also applies to the television industry, both traditional cable TV soaps, and the modern shows made for streaming sites. And all of this, *waves hands*, presents a set of challenges like no other country faces for both Indian queer creators and Indian queer media audiences.

The Challenges for Creators

Since the Indian media industry is not a big monolith and is made up of multiple film industries, queer creators who are trying to get their foot in the door will face a unique uphill battle in whichever regional industry they’re trying to break into. And trying to research, learn, and understand each and every single one of them will take me and my non-existent research team years, so the simpler thing to do would be listing the factors that have worked for other countries to foster their media industries to produce QL content, and discuss if India could replicate them. The list goes like this:

Japan’s rich history in yaoi

Thailand’s use of BL as a soft power to promote tourism

Korea’s culture export via kpop and other media

While India does have religious mythology that discusses sex, gender and queerness, it is often subtext with a lot of intersectionality. Does Ardhanarishvara represent fluid gender, or a symbol of harmony, or both? The debates are endless. Japan’s yaoi roots are as deep as they are explicit. And this rich history could be why the Japanese domestic audience is open to queer media even when the country is still conservative.

Thailand’s rise as a major player in the QL industry is remarkable, but there is a case to be made that the country’s media industry was directly and indirectly boosted by the government’s interest in establishing revenue from tourism, and exporting culture to international audiences via food and media. While the revenue from tourism in India is substantial, the Indian economy is not built on it. And the Indian media industry is thriving and regularly makes bank with their already established content models, so the producers have a pretty low incentive to deviate and fund queer media.

I bet every coin I own that not a single one of us on this hellsite have successfully eluded the allure of Korean media in our lives. The Korean media industry is a well-calibrated machine that shall and will target every single human into funneling their time, attention and money into the Korean culture and economy. And I think queer creators looking to make queer content in Korea would’ve had good incubation in an industry that was looking to make as much content as possible. And once again, while Indian movies have significant international box office collections, that is not where the Indian media industry, and just India in general, makes its money. The priorities are just not the same. And to be perfectly honest, India is nowhere near the level of Korea at producing and exporting television shows to international audiences.

All of this is a long winded way of saying that the conditions required to foster a QL industry in India are not the same as what we have seen work so far from the other major players. And sadly no one has really figured out the winning formula yet.

These are just a few reasons, and I haven’t even discussed nepotism and how painful class mobility is in India, making it even harder for new queer creators to break into the industry. There’s a reason why movies with queer representation like Badhaai Do, Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan, Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga, and Kapoor & Sons all feature characters in the upper middle class or above. Hell, they’re even played by actors whose portfolio is already filled with daring and experimental roles, or by first- or second-gen nepo babies who would literally have nothing to lose from the potential backlash for playing a queer character. Poor, queer characters in Indian media have never been a part of a fluffy romance as far as I know. They are reserved for the gritty dramas where intersectionality of queerness, poverty, class and caste could be examined.

The Challenges for the Audience

And once again, all of this, *aggressively waves hands*, makes things harder for even the domestic audience to engage with Indian queer media, let alone international audiences. Kathaal - The Core, a 2023 Malayalam movie about a queer man in his fifties coming out of the closet and contesting in his village body elections, was a box office success in Kerala, and I can tell y’all with complete certainty that not many people outside of Kerala would’ve even heard of it. And this was not some small indie venture – in fact, the lead characters were played by Mammootty and Jyothika, who are both absolute legends in their own right in the South Indian film industry.

Super Deluxe was a 2019 Tamil-language black comedy film that tells four interwoven stories that run in parallel, and one of the stories is about a trans woman who, pre-transition, was married and had a son. She returns to her family as her post-transition self after years of disappearance, and the film engages in conversation around sex and gender, through the innocent questions of her young son. The movie is gorgeously made, and outrageously sharp and witty in its commentary on society’s views on sex, morality, religion and family. And once again, I don’t think it is well-known outside of the domestic and international award-circuit audiences it was promoted to (last I checked, it was available to domestic audiences on Netflix).

Sometimes, even the domestic audience might miss the queer representation in their regional media when it is indie enough to not get aggressively promoted. The Hindi-language anthology movie from Netflix, Ajeeb Daastaans (2021), featured a story where two women from different caste and social class meet at the workplace (the sapphic story, Geeli Pucchi, starts at 1:17:05, if anyone wants to check it out). It served biting commentary on the intersectionality of queerness, misogyny, caste and class. And once again, I’ve never found a person with whom I could discuss it with (other than my mom, with whom I watched it).

And sometimes, even when a massive show with queer representation is well promoted and well received by critics, it still manages to fly under the radar in Indian queer fandom spaces. Amazon Prime India spent a lot of coin on the show Made in Heaven (2019) – and it was worth it. The show follows the lives of two wedding planners, Tara and Karan. Karan is closeted (except to his close friends) for most of the show, but after he makes some powerful enemies in his line of work, he gets publicly outed, which puts him on the path of dealing with his family’s shades of acceptance, queer rights activism, and reconciling with an old friend. The car scene in episode 9 made me cry, and yet I’ve never read a word about this show from Indian QL fan blogs here on Tumblr.

Following every film and TV show that releases in one language, across all modes and platforms, and keeping an eye out for queer representation is hard enough. Doing it in multiple languages is downright impossible. And then personal preferences come into play. Personally, I enjoy nearly all genres of media, but I am primarily an angst monster, so I seek out and watch sad shit on the regular. All four examples I’ve listed in this section are good queer representations, but they are deeply sad, rage-inducing, heartbreaking and realistic. If one wanted to watch an Indian queer romance that’s inside the bubble, I’m not sure if they can even find one – I have certainly not come across any. Even the queer Bollywood movies designed for a box office run, paying homage to iconic Bollywood romance sequences, were still outside the bubble. When a niche audience like the QL fandom collides with a complex media-churning machine like the Indian media industry that is fundamentally not designed to cater to them, all we get is a lot of puzzled looks and question marks.

A Thought Experiment On The Future Of Indian QLs

Now that I have established the challenges, I want to engage in a little thought experiment – if we were to receive a steady stream of Indian QL content, what would it look like, and how can the fandom engage with it?

If we are looking for content from a stable production entity for Indian queer media, like Thailand’s GMMTV, Japan’s MBS Drama Shower, and Korea’s Strongberry, we would be waiting for a long time, at the very least a decade or two. What we could get are small indie queer shows like Romil and Jugal, squirreled away in a streaming platform exclusive to India and only accessible internationally via VPN. Another example is the list of sapphic shows @twig-tea shared with us a while ago, here. These are gonna be low budget, probably-not-great-quality shows reminiscent of early GMMTV.

Another variety of QL content we could get are the Bollywood queer romance films and TV shows. They will be cheesy and tropey and romantic, and might interact with the bubble, but probably mostly from the safety of an upper middle class setting. This means they would eventually run out of fresh perspectives they could tune into in their limited scope and the stories might turn stale and repetitive (I’m deriving this from the general state of things in the Indian media landscape over the last couple years). International access might be a little easier than the previous case, but not as easy as going to YouTube and hitting play.

The third and final variety are the gritty dramas with heavy social, cultural, religious, gender and class commentary that Indian cinema industry has always made, and has upgraded in the recent years to include queerness. Once again, the access will be hard, but if we are looking for queer stories that also show the audience what it is like being queer in India, beyond the glitz, the glam and the colors of pre-packaged Indian experience often sold to the West, this is where we will find it. Most of it will be sad, but we are a sad bunch who constantly make sad shit, so it will be on brand for us.

And all of these different varieties of content are gonna need to be picked up and promoted by the Indian folks in the QL fandom who are tuned into these regional industries. India not being a cultural monolith that is easy to package and ship is precisely why we have all these beautiful and crazy and sometimes even contradictory styles of media that are offered for us to explore. And therefore, the fandom engagement on Indian QL content would also vastly differ from the fandom engagement for Japan, Thailand and Korea. A dedicated fandom captain might not emerge, but rather, a collective group of folks tuning into and promoting finds from their regional industries would be the way to go. In addition, if this content is not available in English, we would need fan subbers to provide translation expertise to even make it accessible, something we see often for Japanese media on Tumblr.

I know from observation that watching media in a different regional language could sometimes be as foreign to Indian audiences as watching media from other countries. The language, traditions, mannerisms, social mores and food would all be different from region to region, but I guess it would be a good litmus test to observe how well the fandom acclimates to a culture that is so eye-wateringly diverse and not as constantly promoted to them.

When I was texting @waitmyturtles discussing how we can approach answering this question (remember when this all started with a question, some two thousand-ish words ago? Yes, that question), at a point in our conversation I exclaimed "Ugh, everything in India is too complicated!" This long-ass post of mine is in no way the complete account of why things are the way they are in the Indian queer media landscape. But all I know for sure is that it’s not simple. And I really do not want anything related to India to be simple, because being unbearably frustrating and complicated is not a bug, but a feature of India. The road to Indian QLs is unique, but I will do my best to check the paths and share and recommend them to my friends whenever possible. And I invite my fellow Indian QL fans to do the same.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Smithsonian Magazine:

An ambitious humpback whale is making waves in the marine biology community after researchers discovered he undertook an incredible 8,106-mile swim across the globe, likely to be the longest distance traveled for the species on record.

This odyssey was “truly impressive and unusual, even for this highly migratory species,” Ekaterina Kalashnikova, a whale researcher at the Bazaruto Center for Scientific Studies and lead author of a study published Wednesday in Royal Society Open Science that tracked the whale’s movements, tells Helen Briggs of the BBC.

Humpback whales are by no means sedentary. According to the study, they “undertake one of the longest known seasonal migrations of all mammals.” However, their migration routes tend to go “between latitudes,” traversing north and south to seek out feeding grounds in colder climates and breeding grounds near the tropics. Rarely do groups of humpback whales go from east to west, preventing them from encroaching on other whales’ territories.

That made it all the more surprising when Kalashnikova and her fellow researchers determined that the same humpback whale was spotted off the Pacific coast of Colombia in 2013 and 2017 before reaching Zanzibar, in the Indian Ocean, in 2022. The whale’s exact route between these endpoints is unknown, but he might have dipped south to Antarctica before tracking back up Africa’s eastern coast, which would extend his route even longer than 8,106 miles.

The discovery was enabled by a citizen science website called Happywhale.com that allows professional biologists and casual whale watchers alike to upload photographs of a whale’s tale, also known as its fluke. Distinct marks, patterns, pigments and scars all contribute to making each whale’s fluke one of a kind. Modified facial recognition software using artificial intelligence matches up distinct features that form a “flukeprint,” as distinct and recognizable as a human fingerprint or face.

[muxshwriting]

my good luck charm

Carlos Sainz x Indian!reader

summary: everyone is looking at Carlos at his home gp to win. but Carlos isn't bothered by the pressure, he's too busy looking at you || word count: 1092 || masterlist

REQUESTED by @malvikareader : Carlos and Indian reader meet at Spanish gp and he is mesmerised by her

It was utter chaos. Everyone was looking at Carlos as the homeboy hero of the Spanish GP, saddled with the expectation to win his home race. He had been dragged from interview to interview by his PR manager but all he wanted to do was have a moment to himself to breathe and relax before the race. Yes, he was driving a Ferrari, one of the top performing teams of the season and Carlos had been one of the few drivers to win a race so far.

You, on the other hand, were having the time of your life in the F1 paddock. You'd been invited by your agency as a PR stunt for your new modelling campaigns. You were infamous, one of the most successful models of your time. Not only were you stunning, you cared about real issues. You were trying to work towards a brighter future, focusing on issues such as climate change and poverty across the world.

Carlos was stuck at yet another interview where they asked him the same questions as the others. He replied with the same generic answer he'd given everyone else, casting his mind away from the interview and subtly glancing around the rest of the paddock to see what was going on. It just so happened to be when you were walking past the interview pen, locking eyes with Carlos.

Whatever answer he was giving began to come out stuttered as Carlos stumbled over his words, utterly captivated by you. The world seemed to slow as you waved at some of the fans scattered next to the track, laughing at something one had said. God, why did you have to laugh like that? Carlos could barely breathe. He wanted to be the one to make you laugh like that, no one else, just him.

"Carlos? Hello?" The interviewer was trying to get his attention and Carlos begrudgingly looked away from you.

"Sorry." He quickly apologised. "Can you repeat the question?"

★--~-~--★

Ever since catching your eye, Carlos had been searching for you in the paddock. No one seemed to know who he was referring to (given the sheer number of celebrities on the grid) but it didn't dissuade Carlos. The race was a couple hours away as Carlos weaved his way through the garage before being stopped by his race engineer.

"Carlos! I think media is looking for you to meet some ambassadors for sponsors and stuff." He explained, pointing to the office area.

"This can't wait until after the race?" He was distracted enough already, he didn't need to add simpering up to sponsors to his list.

His engineer simply shrugged. "Sorry man."

Carlos sighed, takes a deep breath and then makes his way to the media manager's office. To his surprise and shock (and delight) he sees you quietly talking to someone else. Also to his delight, he sees you wearing a ferrari jacket you didn't have earlier, a jacket that had his driver number plastered on the back.

"Hello." Carlos internally kicks himself for just saying 'hello' to the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

You're first to introduce yourself. "Hi! I'm Y/N, an ambassador for Ray Ban. It's really nice to meet you considering I watch you race almost every week-" You seemed to cut yourself off from rambling on after meeting him.

Carlos only grows more lovestruck. "No problem. You'll be watching today?" He assumed you were but wants any excuse to keep talking to you.

"Yeah." You offer him a small smile. "You'll do great, I'm sure."

"You think?"

Your smile only grows. "Oh yeah. I'll be cheering you on."

"I'll make sure to win for you." He sends you a wink that has your cheeks warming at an alarming rate.

He's pulled into conversation with a few other ambassadors but continues to catch your eye from across the room. Eventually, he's pulled back down to the garage floor to get ready for the race and has to say goodbye to you.

You go for a hug that Carlos greatly welcomes. "Good luck." You whisper to him. "You'll do great."

You end up in the back of the Ferrari hospitality, anxiously watching the race. Carlos started on the second row, working his way through the front runners and navigating a risky pit stop strategy by his team. He had taken the lead of the race six laps from the end, holding off Verstappen until the end of the race and finishing in first place.

The garage went nuts, mechanics jumping up and down with glee. You could hear the crowds cheering for their driver's win at his home circuit and joined in with the celebrations. You find yourself swept with the crowd as they rush down to the podium area to watch the cars arriving. Carlos jumped straight out of the car and into the arms of his team. As the adrenaline began to wear off, he caught sight of you standing by the side of his engineers.

Your face held a look of awe as he walked closer. There were a few stray tears (of joy) in your eyes as you hugged his tightly. "I told you you'd do great."

"All for you." He confessed, pulling away and seeing Charles behind him with a smug grin on his face. "I've got to go but- can I see you later?"

"I'll come to your driver's room, yeah?"

Carlos' smile widened. "I'll be waiting for you."

You watched in admiration as Carlos stood in the Spanish sunshine, soaking in his victory. He couldn't stop his eyes from drifting to you, ignoring the cameras that were watching him and watching where his eyeline kept straying to. Both of you were oblivious to the eyes watching you, unable to look away.

You both met just outside Carlos' room, embracing properly. He pulled you into the room, away from prying eyes and you took your chance, diving forward and pressing your lips against his. Carlos froze beneath your touch, making you regret your actions and begin to pull away to give him space.

Carlos did the opposite, he deepened the kiss, reaching up to hold your face in his hands and pull you even closer. The two of you separated, sharing the same breath in the small room.

"Can I come watch you again?" You whisper into the air, suggesting a future.

Carlos met your eyes with a solemn look. "I wouldn't want anything else. Besides," He joked. "You're my good luck charm now, you can't leave me with bad luck."

[mapsontheweb]

Migrations and invasions in Eurasia from 4th to 6th centuries

"Atlas historique Larousse", Georges Duby, 1978

by cartesdhistoire

In the fourth century, Eurasia is dominated by the four great empires of China, Indian (Gupta), Persian (Sassanid) and Roman, well defended by natural obstacles (mountains of Central Asia and the Caucasus) or artificial (Great Wall of China, Roman Limes). But at their borders rush many barbaric peoples, who sometimes even enter their territories as federates: nomads breeders of the Asian steppes (Xianbei of Manchuria, Xiongnu in the northwest of Huanghe); pastoral peoples of the Middle East (Lakhmids, Rhassanids) and North Africa (Blemmyes, Berbers); hunters, ranchers or farmers of European forests and clearlands (Germany); fishermen pirate from the shores of the North Seas and Ireland (Scots, Pictes, Germans).

In the 4th century, a possible climate degradation, perhaps a population growth resulting in a pastoral overload of immutable yield pastures, throw these peoples on the assault of grain empires. To the east, the Xiongnu seize Luoyang, the capital of the Jin Dynasty, and Emperor Jin Huaidi in 311, before being eliminated by the Sien-pei clan of the Murong, then by the Tabghatch (Tuoba), founders of the Wei kingdom that dominated Northern China until 534-581.

In the heart of Eurasia, the Xiongnu push slips the Hephthalite Huns from the Altai towards Central Asia, then throws them on the assault of the Sassanid and Gupta Empires, at the junction of which they hold until about 565. West at last, the advancement of these same Xiongnu pushes Huns and Germains into four successive waves within the Roman Empire, starting at 375. In 476, this one was erased even in the West, where the invaders established barbaric kingdoms.

Thus emphasizes the deep unity of the history of Eurasia, whose great empires succumbed at the same time under the blows of the steppe peoples in search of spaces capable of ensuring their livelihood.

[harrisonarchive]

Photo by Don Nix.

Happy birthday to Klaus Voormann! “[T]here was a certain spiritual kinship between [George] and myself. I felt like he attended to me especially. He always wanted to know everything about me. He registered my shyness and always tried to push me forward. He could look deep into my heart, and if he discovered something that was troubling me, he was already working on eradicating it.” - Klaus Voormann, translated from Warum spielst du Imagine nicht auf dem weißen Klavier, John? (2003) “He would make me presents at Christmas - an Indian carpet with animals on it, a Champ amplifier, a Fender Precision fretless bass, a T-shirt with Crazy Kraut written on it. I loved him. He was a great person. I miss him.” - Klaus Voormann, MOJO, November 2014 “George Harrison was my favorite person, I loved him more than anything.” - Klaus Voormann, Typisch Deutsch, Deutsche Welle, 2009 “We were having a break after a walk, resting in the grass when suddenly he looked at me and said: ‘Do you know that it has taken me many, many years until I realized how special these meadows with their soft grasses are to me? Somehow I feel we have a very close relationship. I just love the seemingly endless meadows with their long and soft grasses and the waves they make when the wind is blowing. It’s like cherishing the wind of life rather than struggling against it all the time. So, Klaus, when I’m gone, all you have to do is stand in a meadow, feel the waving grass and I will be close to you.’” - Klaus Voormann (on his last visit with George in 2001), voormann.com (x)

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

"There flying Elwing came to him, and flame was in the darkness lit; more bright than light of diamond the fire upon her carcanet." -J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, "Many Meetings"

[ID: a picspam comprised of 12 images in shades of brown, white, and warm grey.

1: Zentyatze Echeverria, an indigenous oaxacan model wearing a white dress and dancing with closed eyes and raised arms. She has brown skin and straight black hair in many braids, tied back with white ribbons / 2: A small boat with one person aboard and a brown sail / 3: White and brown text reads "elwing" in all caps on a white background / 4: A flock of birds flying in front of a building with many balconies and porticoes in a traditional indian style / 5: Cliffs by the sea / 6: Pale clouds / 7: Light shining into a hallway with a door at the end / 8: Brown and white feathers / 9: A group of brown pelicans seen from behind flying over water / 10: Same format as Image 3, but the text is smaller and reads "for Ulmo bore up Elwing out of the waves, and he gave her the likeness of a great white bird, and upon her breast there shone as a star the Silmaril, as she flew over the water to seek Eärendil her beloved." / 11: Shells lying on sand / 12: Zentyatze Echeverria, leaning her head on her hands and looking thoughtfully at the viewer in front of a painted wall //End ID]

[sniperct]

Indigenous Peoples Day is being celebrated this year on Oct. 14. In an email to reporters, the Trump campaign alleged that Harris “wants to get rid of Columbus Day,” which is celebrated on the same day. Karoline Leavitt, Trump’s national press secretary, said in a statement that Harris “wants to cancel American traditions like Columbus Day.” She added, “President Trump will make sure Christopher Columbus’ great legacy is honored and protect this holiday from radical leftists who want to erase our nation’s history like Kamala Harris.” The video excerpt of Harris used by the Trump campaign to back up their attack was footage of the vice president’s remarks in 2021 before the National Congress of American Indians at their 78th annual convention. “Since 1934, every October, the United States has recognized the voyage of the European explorers who first landed on the shores of the Americas,” Harris said. “But that is not the whole story. That has never been the whole story.” She noted that the exploitation that came with the arrival of figures like Christopher Columbus “ushered in a wave of devastation for Tribal nations—perpetrating violence, stealing land, and spreading disease.” “We must not shy away from this shameful past, and we must shed light on it and do everything we can to address the impact of the past on Native communities today,” Harris said. The historic record shows that Harris’ characterization of historical events is accurate. Experts estimate that millions of indigenous people were killed in the process of colonization, while many others were abducted and taken as slaves. Many were sexually assaulted. Native American activists have long called for official recognition of Indigenous Peoples Day as part of a long-term project to correct the historical record, specifically the whitewashing of colonialism that has occurred. President Joe Biden is the first president to issue an official proclamation acknowledging the holiday. Additionally, it was under the Biden-Harris administration that the first Native American Cabinet secretary, Interior Secretary Deb Haaland, was nominated and confirmed.

“President Trump will make sure Christopher Columbus’ great legacy is honored and protect this holiday from radical leftists who want to erase our nation’s history like Kamala Harris.”

[triviareads]

@sophiebaek is doing great work by telling Benophies how to treat an Asian Sophie when they write her. I would be curious to hear your thoughts on the lessons the fandom learned from Kate.

She really is! @sophiebaek basically manifested Korean Sophie and no one can tell me otherwise. Here are my thoughts (and I'm guessing your ask was in response to this guide to treating Sophie Baek's Korean background with sensitivity and respect) but just as a disclaimer I'm not Korean or East Asian; I'm South Asian:

I am unsure what the fandom has learnt re. Kate because I still.... see so much racist vitriol directed towards her and Simone Ashley in fandom spaces. The latest wave of hate seems to come from white women who think not being skinny makes someone as marginalized as a person of color.

As far as what the show might have learnt from its handling of Kate and her family, I appreciate that the showrunner asked Yerin Ha what a good Korean last name would be for Sophie that starts with a B, and to me that's a sign of the show taking input much more seriously because with Kate, they gave her a random Indian last name and never actually specified a cultural background for her and instead did this weirdass mashup of a few languages and cultures. It's something I've seen echoed in fanfiction because writers don't know better/didn't bother to do their own research.

The other icky thing is the fetishization of Kate I've seen in fandom— everything from the Kama Sutra thing to people being super weird and gross about brown bodies. A very popular benophie writer (I believe she calls herself the "benophie queen") wrote a fic where a white Sophie casually demeans Kate for not being as attractive to men as she was in a way that had VERY racial undertones, and also was calling Genevieve Delacroix a "bitch" multiple times. I came into her inbox off-anon to point this out and while the person replied publicly, they immediately blocked me afterwards. So hopefully there's a lesson in what not to do.

[valiantstarlights]

Hob is a chef who owns a food truck selling authentic Indian food, and Dream is someone who doesn't really eat well. (He had a bad breakup a year ago and it caused him to eat less. He's trying to eat better with his siblings' help.)

Dream agrees to go with Death to one of those food truck fairs for her birthday. There's not a lot of people yet so some of the staff offer them free samples to entice them into eating more from their food truck.

Death is having the time of her life, and she thanks Dream for going with her even if this isn't his thing at all.

Dream says that he enjoys the atmosphere (a.k.a. no huge crowds yet) and appreciates the aesthetic of the food they have already eaten: the understated elegance of the mango bingsoo, the dancing bonito flakes on top of the takoyaki, and the satisfying cheese pulls from the megruli khachapuri.

Death, encouraged by his interest, asks him to pick another food that he likes the aesthetic of so they could try it next. Like before, it's understood that they'll share a serving so Dream doesn't have to worry if he can't eat a lot.

Dream agrees. He picks an appetizing-looking plate of butter chicken from a foodtruck selling Indian food near the edge of the fair grounds, where not a lot of people have ventured yet.

They are greeted enthusiastically by a very handsome man and Death does all the talking because Dream is distracted by his forearms and smile and manbun. (He's salivating, so he must be hungry. Right?)

The handsome man turns out to be both the chef and the owner, and he chats with Death while he prepares the food. His name is Hob. He quit his job at a fancy hotel because he wants to feel more connected with his customers and share the food that he loves cooking for his family. (Dream is falling for him the more he talks. He doesn't realize that he has yet to speak and has only been staring.) (Hob is highly intimidated by him but also thinks he's cute.)

The food is served. Death takes her first bite and says something like 'holy shit dude wow this is great' and Hob is just about to thank her when Dream takes his first bite and lets out the most sinful moan Hob has ever heard this side of his laptop screen.

He is (understandably) frozen in place, staring at this beautiful man devour his food while sounding like a porn star. He may or may not be violating food safety standards by getting hard in his jeans in the truck's kitchen area.

Death is astonished because Dream has never shown this much enthusiasm while eating before. Even when they were kids. She is now looking at Hob speculatively. Should she google 'how to politely ask a stranger to (please) marry your brother'?

Dream...honestly doesn't even notice anything other than how delicious the food tastes. When the plate is clean, and Death has only gotten to take that single bite at the start, he reddens and apologizes, but Death waves it off, and Hob says something like, "I have some dessert too, if you want."

Dream unconsciously licks his lips and says, "Please," in a voice that could either mean 'Yes, please, I want some dessert,' or 'Fuck me raw right now.'

Death, immediately picking up on the sexual tension, says, "We'd like some kulfi, but I'll take mine to go."

And Dream is like, "Sister, what--?"

"I just remembered Desire and I have an appointment to get our nails done so I have to go--oh, thanks, Mr. Gadling--bye Dream, love you, be safe!" And then she's gone.

Dream is left with Hob who is still holding the other kulfi in his hand, looking slightly stunned at Death's very abrupt exit. The kulfi is starting to melt. Dream, unthinkingly, leans forward and sucks the tip.

They both freeze and their eyes meet, Dream's pink mouth still on the kulfi. Hob gulps at the visual. Dream, still maintaining eye contact, licks it from base to tip, then starts sucking in earnest, eyes steadily darkening when he sees Hob's breathing becoming unsteady.

Hob hears some footsteps coming their way, potential customers from the sound of it. Hob hands Dream his kulfi and apologizes to the customers, saying that something came up and he has to close. Like, right now. Sorry for the inconvenience but this is really important.

He closes up in record time while Dream taunts him by enjoying his dessert. He's already sitting on the passenger seat of the truck when Hob climbs into the driver's seat.

Desire's text the next day reads: 'DREAM YOU SLUT IM SO PROUD OF YOU'

Destruction for some reason knows Hob's number and has texted: 'Break my brother's heart and I'll break your spine.'

Dream slowly but surely begins to eat better. How can he not, with all the support he has, and Hob there to love him even on his bad days?

Hob gets everyone's approval, even Destruction's, eventually. He's the best cook and most considerate brother-in-law ever.

When Dream passes by his ex while walking down the street one day, he realizes that he's alright now, and is definitely better off without them. He's actually thankful, because if not for them, then he might not have even met Hob. He doesn't greet them because he still hasn't forgiven them, but he also doesn't feel like bursting into tears anymore.

At the end of the day, when he gets back home, Hob is there to welcome him with a sweet kiss, a warm meal, and a lifetime full of love.

[erisweekofficial]

Tonight, we’re celebrating @mistandmemories, a brilliant new writer in the Acotar community who's already making waves! 🔥

If you’re an Azris lover, you NEED to check out their story, A Song of Bonds and Legacies. Prepare to be swept away by stunning world-building, deliciously deep lore, and Azriel/Eris angst that hits all the right notes. 😍🔥 (((Okay but seriously the characterization is SPOT ON))))

She's also cooking up something for Eris week and we're SUPER excited to see what it is 👀

Read more to learn the origin behind A Song of Bonds and Legacies and Eris's relationship with his brothers!

Give us a name for one of Eris's Brothers!

I absolutely love making up names for the unnamed Vanserra-brothers. We already have first names in the family ranging from French and German to Greek in origin, so it feels like you can call them literally anything. For my story I’ve been looking for names in mythology in particular, and one of the names I’ve used for a Vanserra-brother is “Paras”, a Hindu name of Indian origin.

Give us a name for one of Eris's hounds!

Mutt! In “A Song of Bonds and Legacies” Mutt is the name of Eris’s half-breed, who he (not so secretly) has a soft-spot for. The twelve full-blooded hounds are kept in a kennel, whereas Mutt lives in Eris’s chambers. He’s very rare (which is probably why Beron allows him at all), as cross-breeding Smokehounds rarely ever result in viable pregnancies. His other hounds are named alphabetically from A to L and they all have either aristocratic titles, autumn- or weapon-related names.

How do you see Eris evolving as a character in future books?

Ah… I hope we will see him as High Lord of Autumn and that there will be a reconciliation between him and Lucien, but other than that I’d love for him to stay pretty much the same, only sans the “oh-so-horrible-and-cowardly-villain” stamp that he’s been given by the Night Court. I honestly don’t think he’s done enough bad to deserve it, and I think calling someone who has had to endure torture and cruelty at his own father’s hands while (probably) trying to help his family and his court in secret a coward, is uncalled for. It would be great if he could lower his mask a bit, but for the love of the Mother, don’t make him another Rhys in terms of justifying every mean thing he’s ever said or done. Let him be sassy and condescending, but twist the narrative a little, so we can see things from his perspective.

How do you think Eris view his siblings, and what kind of relationships does he have with them?

I think it varies how he views them and what kind of relationship they have. I believe some of his brothers may follow more closely in Beron’s footsteps than he does, and that he doesn’t necessarily like them very much, whereas others, I think he’s trying to protect and shape more. There’s definitely an element of competition between all of them though (apart from between Eris and Lucien, who I believe Eris knows is not Beron’s), and considering that the Autumn Court is cutthroat, I don’t think Eris trusts any of his unnamed brothers. They see the same persona he’s been putting forth for centuries, and he shows them no weaknesses. I can’t see him having a genuine and honest relationship with any of them.

What kind of legacy does Eris want to leave behind?

I honestly don’t think he cares about his own legacy. He’s willing to be labelled as anything as long as his Court and the people he (secretly) cares about are all right. I think he wants a more just and peaceful world in general, where power is more evenly distributed, but I don’t believe he needs (or wants) credit for making it happen.

What is the inspiration behind your fic A Song of Bonds and Legacies?

I had the overall idea for this fic when I read HOFAS, but for the storyline, I’ve found a lot of inspiration in mythology and fairytales (I’m a huge mythology nerd). I also build heavily on canon lore and take much inspiration from that, and I love drawing upon and incorporating socio-political, ontological and ethical discussions as well. (But I guess the primary incentive was to make Azris happen🤣❤️)

[cvsmixnaya]

another little drabble with desi!y/n with oscar this time. so you know the cricket world cup finals happened and india lost so y/n is in a pouty mood and it has been 5 days since the match happened and she’s still in a pouty mood about it (bro this is literally me).

oscar watched the match with y/n and got to witness this whole shitshow take place.

her and the team were currently at abu dhabi for the final race and y/n was chilling and seeing all the shoots happening for insta and the set up taking place. it was fun until oscar walks in wearing a fucking australia cricket jersey.

why does she feel like this is on purpose?

“oscar piastri!” she yells out while walking towards him. he smiles seeing her walk towards him greeting her in the sweetest way possible.

did he know what he was doing? oh absolutely.

“what do you think you’re doing?” y/n asks him in a tone like you’d hear regina george talk with a very very fake smile.

“oh nothing, just getting everything ready for this weekend ya know?” he says with a grin on his face cause he knew his little stunt was working.

she give a fake laugh and asks “i mean, what are you wearing? i thought you were driver for mclaren in formula 1. not a cricket player-”

she stopped to look at the back to see ‘lee’ written.

“an-and you decided to wear lee how great is this. exactly what i needed to start my day. why oscar? why? why? what did i do? is this a sign you’re gonna break up with me?” y/n says with her dramatic attitude that was still sour from the match.

“come on baby it’s all for fun! come here” he says pulling her into hug. she waved her hands up in defeat and hugged him back.

on insta

oscarpiastri bowled up to the paddock like this today🏏🏆

comments:

y/nn still trying to figure out what i did to deserve this

y/nn to all my lovely indians dw ur not alone🥲👍🏻

landonorris i was trying to understand why she was upset. now i realise it’s dumb. @ y/nn get therapy

-> y/nn no shut up im in pain. my own bf betrayed me

-> oscarpiastri SORRY FOR SUPPORTING MY OWN TEAM????

18vkfan PLS NOT Y/N SOBBING OVER THE FINALS (i did the same)

lanoscar101 oscar defo did this on purpose just to irritate y/n😭 nah but imagine all the indian fans seeing this

—————————————————————————

this is completely based on oscar’s post and i found this hilarious so enjoy my babes

[unabashegirl]

Enticing 34 || Harry Styles

Summary: Harry is a young billionaire and CEO of his own company. He mostly keeps to himself, he is stern and very meticulous when it comes to business. He also likes to keep his personal life very private for the sake of his newly born son Oliver Styles. It isn't until he meets Y/N Y/L/N that everything changes. She becomes his new nanny after his previous one quits due to personal reasons. She is young, caring, and sweet. Will they ignore their feelings? Will Harry's girlfriend accept their love and leave them? Will she be able to cope with his busy agenda? What about Oliver's mother? Where is she? Who is she?

masterlist

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Y/N found herself seated in the cozy confines of the Indian restaurant, the warm ambiance and enticing aromas tantalizing her senses. She glanced down at her watch, the minutes ticking away as her anticipation grew. She had arrived a bit early, eager to honor the plans she and Harry had made for their dinner date.

As her gaze flitted over the menu, a mixture of hunger and curiosity stirring within her, the entrance of the restaurant caught her attention. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw Harry walking in, his presence commanding attention even before he reached her table.

Harry's eyes scanned the room briefly before landing on her, and a genuine smile lit up his face. The sight of her sitting there, waiting for him, was a reminder of the connection they were trying to rebuild—a connection that had been tested by time, distance, and unexpected revelations.

Y/N couldn't help but admire Harry's impeccable appearance as he approached her table. His perfectly tailored suit accentuated his form, the elegance of his attire matched by the warm sincerity in his gaze.

"Y/N," Harry greeted her, his voice a mixture of warmth and fondness.

"Harry," Y/N replied, her smile mirroring his.

As he took his seat across from her, their eyes met in a silent exchange that held a hint of vulnerability. The weight of their shared history and the newfound dynamics they were navigating was palpable, but so was the desire to bridge the gap between them.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," Harry apologized, his expression sincere.

Y/N waved off his concern, her gaze softening. "No worries. I just got here myself."

Harry's smile deepened, a touch of relief evident in his features. "I hope you're hungry. I've heard great things about this place."

Y/N chuckled softly, her laughter a testament to their shared humor. "Starving, actually. And Indian food sounds perfect."

As they perused the menu together, an air of camaraderie settled between them—a comfortable familiarity that held the promise of eased tensions and genuine conversation. The tension that had marked their previous interactions seemed to fade in the warmth of the restaurant's ambiance.

As they engaged in light banter, the layers of complexity that had once overshadowed their connection began to peel away. Their conversations flowed with ease, and Y/N found herself laughing more freely than she had in a long time. In the space of the restaurant, they were just two individuals, connecting over shared experiences and the prospect of a future that held hope.

As the evening progressed, their connection deepened, the weight of their history giving way to a sense of rediscovery. The wounds of the past were gradually being replaced by the potential for healing and growth—a future that was as uncertain as it was promising. And as they dined together, their laughter mingled with the flavors of the food, creating a tapestry of shared memories and newfound possibilities.

Harry and Y/N's conversation continued to flow, carrying them through topics that ranged from their shared history to hopes for the future. As the evening progressed, a pivotal decision emerged—a decision that held the potential to shape the path ahead.

Harry looked down at his phone, his fingers tapping against the screen as he navigated the sensitive topic that lay between them. He took a deep breath and met Y/N's gaze, his expression earnest.

"Y/N," he began, his voice gentle yet resolute, "about the paternity test..."

Y/N's attention shifted to him, her curiosity evident. "Yes?"

Harry's gaze held hers, a mixture of seriousness and determination in his eyes. "I think we should schedule the appointment for the day after tomorrow. I want to get this over with."

Y/N nodded in understanding, the weight of his words settling between them. "I agree. It's something that needs to be addressed."

There was a pause in their conversation as Y/N a bite out of her coconut chicken green curry, her thoughts mingling with the flavors on her palate. Harry's decision to confront the issue head-on resonated with her, a testament to the complexities of their situation.

Harry's fingers danced across his phone's screen as he responded to a message from Andrew, his assistant. A sense of purpose seemed to guide his actions as he navigated the logistics of their decision.

Andrew had taken the initiative to set up the appointment with Harry's family doctor, knowing that this step was significant for both Harry and Y/N. As Harry typed out his response, his focus remained on the conversation at hand, the weight of the decision they were making still heavy in his mind.

Y/N's gaze shifted from her plate to Harry's face, her expression a mixture of understanding and curiosity. "Did you manage to set up the appointment?"

Harry nodded, a sense of accomplishment in his gaze. "Yes, Andrew's already on it. The appointment is scheduled for the day after tomorrow."

Y/N's appreciation was evident in her smile. "Thank you"

Their conversation continued, intertwining with the decision they had made.

As the evening unfolded, the air around Harry and Y/N seemed to hold a delicate balance—a balance between reconnecting, addressing their shared past, and navigating the uncharted territory that lay before them. With the paternity test scheduled, the topic of their future was bound to arise.

The aroma of their meals still hung in the air as Y/N's gaze met Harry's, curiosity evident in her eyes. "Harry, what's going to happen after the paternity test? I mean, if it confirms everything..."

Harry's expression was contemplative, his gaze steady as he met her eyes. "I've been thinking about that, Y/N. And honestly, I'd like you to move in with me—for the duration of the pregnancy."

Y/N's eyebrows shot up in surprise, a mixture of emotions flickering in her eyes. "Move in with you?"

Harry nodded, his tone sincere. "Yeah. I want to be there for every step of this journey. I want to support you through the pregnancy, and I want us to share this experience together."

There was a moment of silence, the weight of Harry's words hanging in the air between them. Y/N's mind raced as she processed his request, a complex mixture of feelings swirling within her.

"I appreciate your offer, Harry," Y/N began, her voice soft yet resolute, "but I can't accept that."

Harry's expression shifted to one of confusion, his brows furrowing slightly. "Why not? I just want to be there for you."

Y/N's gaze held a mixture of determination and vulnerability as she spoke. "I'm in the process of renting out my first apartment. And more than that, I want to continue to be independent. I know you mean well, but I can't simply move in with you. We're not together anymore."

Harry's features softened with understanding, his gaze reflecting a sense of empathy. "Y/N, I get it. I respect your need for independence. But this is about supporting each other through a crucial time."

Y/N's eyes glistened with unshed tears, her emotions on display. "Harry, how can you expect us to live together now, when we're not together as a couple anymore? It's not the same as it was". 

Harry sighed, his gaze dropping to the table momentarily before meeting hers again. "You're right, Y/N. It's complicated. But my intention is just to be there for you, to share in this experience as parents."

Y/N's gaze softened, the vulnerability in her expression matching his. "I know, Harry. And I appreciate that. But we have to find a way to navigate this in a way that works for both of us. I want to continue to be independent, even amidst the pregnancy."

Harry nodded slowly, understanding her point of view.

Their conversation lingered in the air, the weight of their decisions and the complexity of their feelings forming a bridge between them—a bridge that held the potential to guide them forward, even as their paths diverged. The future was uncertain, but in their shared dialogue, they found a glimmer of understanding—a reminder that despite the challenges, they were united by the life they were bringing into the world and the journey they were embarking upon, together in a new way.

The evening had been a delicate dance of shared moments and honest conversations, woven together by the flavors of their dinner and the warmth of their connection. As they finished their meal, Harry's insistence on indulging in dessert had elicited a smile from Y/N—a momentary reprieve from the complexities that surrounded them.

With the Indian restaurant behind them, they found themselves strolling through the streets, the cool evening air a balm against the tensions that had simmered beneath the surface of their discussions. Their steps were unhurried, their conversation light as they explored the cityscape that surrounded them.

As they walked, their path led them to a baby store, its display windows showcasing an array of items meant for the tiniest members of society. Their gazes lingered on the storefront, both hesitating just outside the entrance.

Nervousness mingled with curiosity as they exchanged a glance, the unspoken fears and uncertainties hanging in the air between them like a fragile thread.

Harry's voice broke the silence, his tone soft yet tinged with vulnerability. "I never thought I'd be standing outside a baby store like this. Not even after Oliver. I sent out someone to buy everyone for him”.

Y/N's gaze remained fixed on the store's window, her emotions visible in the furrow of her brows. "Me neither." Y/N remembered that Harry wasn't there for Oliver's pregnancy. Ashley had taken that away from him. She had almost taken that away from him. 

For a moment, they stood there, their shared history and the circumstances that brought them to this point weighing heavily on their shoulders. The future was uncertain, and the prospect of parenthood together had brought them to a crossroads—one that was filled with both hope and apprehension.

Harry's fingers brushed against Y/N's hand, his touch a gentle reminder of their connection. "It's okay to be scared, Y/N."

Y/N's gaze met his, vulnerability and uncertainty mirrored in her eyes. "I know. It's just...it's a lot to process."

Harry nodded, understanding the weight of her words. "It is. But no matter what happens, I'll  be here for you". 

As they continued to stand outside the baby store, the moments of shared silence and understanding seemed to knit their connection closer. The complexities of their situation had not faded, but the willingness to confront their fears and navigate their shared journey was a testament to their growth.

With a deep breath, Y/N turned to Harry, a mixture of emotions playing across her features. "You're right. We'll figure it out. And maybe...maybe we can step inside and take a look."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Harry's lips, his gaze holding a mixture of warmth and reassurance. "Only if you're ready, Y/N."

Together, they stepped inside the baby store—a physical manifestation of the path they were treading together. As they explored the aisles and examined the tiny garments and necessities, a sense of unity seemed to settle within them, quieting their fears and strengthening their resolve.

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