#i have another for juliana

[dipplinduo]

dipplin, I feel like everytime you update Sweet n Sour it’s always when I’m closing on going on a plane trip. It always happens (´⊙ω⊙`)

Hahaha, well if you have a plane ticket for this weekend or next weekend...😂😂😂

Real talk though - I feel like it's been forever and I wanna get back into it. I'm finishing DIOH so I purposely only have S&S D and BYFILWM to focus on. It's been harder to update with a busier schedule and I appreciate the patience, especially since the hype with the DLC has mostly passed for many 💛

[ranger-kellyn]

it's. almost fascinating how much art and whatnot i see of the friend quartet of scarlet/violet, acting as though these kids weren't absolutely annoyed with each other and only there because of their tie to juliana up until like...halfway way down the crater dkghldkjf

[niklenakle]

I ran out of tags before i could list all the rune factory girls im really sorry ill do better next time...

Hello, tumblr user. Before you is a tumblr post asking you to name a female fictional character. You have unlimited time to tag a female character, NOT a male one.

Begin.

[bat-the-misfit]

i haven't been excited for my stories for YEARS, but at least when i made a pinterest i got excited with the idea of making character boards and that was the last time i ever cared for my characters :')

[mclqren]

UNFORGETTABLE ★ CL16

PAIRING ✦ charles leclerc x fem!gymnast!reader

SUMMARY ✦ after attending one f1 race, you simultaneously manage to embarrass yourself in front of and impress a certain f1 driver [ SMAU ]

WARNINGS ✦ cursing

REQUESTED ✦ here!

NOTES ✦ for the purpose of this fic, the reader is going to represent america in the olympics for gymnastics. i made the reader have a private insta account for this fic & a main, just to fit in with the 'private life' aspect. the fc i've used is isabela juliana, but feel free to picture whoever you want! my requests are open so feel free to leave a request :)

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liked by yourbsf, simonebiles, and 237,901 others

yourusername flowers are the key to my heart 🔐💌

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user1 STUNNERRR!!

user2 if the whole gymnastics thing doesn't work out, you could literally have a career as a model because damnnn!!

user3 the flowersss 🥺🥺

user4 is she going to the olympics this year??

user5 yess!! can't wait to see her 💗💗

simonebiles my girl wowwww 😍😍

yourusername my lover fr 💓💓

yourbsf GORGEOUS

yourusername LOVE YOU!!

liked by yourbsf, simonebiles, and 124 others

yourfinsta sushi night & trying to figure this f1 shit out before this weekend 🍣😱

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yourbsf SINCE WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO WATCH F1

yourfinsta HAVE I NOT TOLD YOU

yourbsf NOOO???

yourfinsta FERRARI INVITED ME AS A PADDOCK GUEST SO I GUESS IM GOING

yourbsf you better message me ALL ABOUT IT

yoursibling you're the luckiest bitch alive.

yourfinsta yeah except i know NOTHINGG about f1 pls drop by my apartment and teach me ☹️

yoursibling fine fine im on my way

yourusername

( caption one: about to moveeee ✈️ | caption two: i apologize in advance for my limited formula one knowledge 😔 )

liked by yourbsf, yoursibling, and 201 others

yourfinsta third slide is me after embarrassing myself in front of one of the most good-looking guys alive?? i swear i knew his name i just panicked when someone asked me 😭

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yourbsf HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW WHO CHARLES LECLERC WAS

yourfinsta YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND IT WAS SO EMBARRASSING ESP WHEN HE BROUGHT IT UP AGAIN LATER??

yourbsf he brought it up AGAINNN?? oh he likes you.

yourfinsta NO HE DOESNTT HE WAS PROBABLY JUST AS EMBARRASSED AS I WAS.

yoursibling the caption??

yourfinsta it's a long story. i'll tell you when i get home

liked by charles_leclerc, simonebiles, and 301,121 others

yourusername i had such a good time w ferrari this weekend: thank you sm for having me!! (ps. yes i do know who both drivers are 🤣)

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user9 the caption 🤣🤣

user10 you have to praise the girl for owning her mistake!

user11 STUNNERRR

user12 so why isn't she training then...

user13 ppl are allowed to take breaks - leave her alone!

user14 the flowers are so on y/n's brand

user15 righttt!! she's so spring i can't explain it

scuderiaferrari it was lovely to have you with us, y/n!

yourusername thank you for having me! ❤️❤️

user16 okay but why couldn't they have chosen someone who knows about f1 instead of someone random girl off the street?? like at least pick someone who's WATCHED the sport, and knows the drivers names.

user17 tons of people who haven't watched the sport get invited all the time. she said when she was there that she didn't have too much knowledge on the sport, but wanted to learn more about it, hence why she accepted the invite. she said she forgot their names momentarily because she was panicked by the larger crowd, so maybe leave off her for a minute! 💓

yourusername

( caption one: back again 😴 | caption two: thanks for the gift 😉 )

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, and 292,102 others

yourusername another crazy weekend later...🏎️

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user22 she's so luckyyyy wth!

user23 TWO F1 RACES IN A ROW?? WOWWW SOMEONE'S POPULAR

user24 AND THE HAT? it's def charles asking for her

user25 the outfitttt wow 😍

user26 she's literally so pretty

user27 STAY AWAY FROM CHARLES

user28 girl what.

charles_leclerc the bag 😉

yourusername yes yes you bought it for me thanks babe 🤣💓

user29 A GIFT? 'BABE'? WHATTTT

user30 WOAH WHAT IS THIS

liked by charles_leclerc, yourbsf, and 280,111 others

yourusername back to training at last 🤸‍♀️

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user31 back to your rootsss!!

user32 my fav gymnast

user33 WE'VE BEEN WAITINGGG i can't wait for the olympics

user34 SAME!!

user35 wowww she's stunning!

user36 is this charles' girlfriend then or-

user37 nope! nothing's been confirmed right now - they might just be good friends!

simonebiles YOU ARE EVERYTHINGGG!!

yourusername I LOVE YOU 💗

charles_leclerc i could do that 🤣

yourusername fighting talk from someone who drives around in a car all day!

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55, and 1,894,012 others

tagged yourusername

charles_leclerc turns out the key to heart is to actually just buy her flowers 🤷‍♀️❤️

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user42 MAMA Y PAPA

user43 UR SO REAL FOR THISSS

user44 DAMN Y/N IS BEING SPOILTTTT

user45 AS SHE SHOULD BEEE!!

user46 POWER COUPLE ALERTTT

user47 gymnast x f1 driver is NOT a trope i was expecting but i love it!!

yourusername the flowers are the only reason we're together.

charles_leclerc WHAT

yourusername wish i was kidding, i'm just a sucker for nice flowers 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

yourusername ALL JOKES ASIDE im so grateful 💗

landonorris barf 🤮

yourusername call me when you get a girlfriend x

user48 SHE'S FRIENDS W THE PADDOCK TOO??

liked by charles_leclerc, simonebiles, and 381,229 others

tagged charles_leclerc

yourusername it's no longer acceptable to forget your name anymore ☹️💓

view all comments

user49 MY NEW FAV COUPLE ON THE GRID

user50 im OBSESSEDDD

user51 pls call me if he fumbles you ☹️

user52 NO REALLL im always here y/n ❤️❤️

user53 THE THIRD SLIDE PLEASEEEE

user54 love a woman who's obsessed w her man 🙏

simonebiles if he hurts you im always here (to date you)

yourusername my ACTUALLL wife 💍💍

charles_leclerc im so lucky ❤️

yourusername you mean you're lucky i liked the flowers.

charles_leclerc you're still on about this??

yourusername YOU THINK IM JOKING?? flowers are my life. i would die for flowers. it's the only reason we're together 🤣💗

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[brotherconstant]

JULIANA CANFIELD as JESS JORDAN in SUCCESSION | 4.09 | Church and State

"Well, that was my final day of shooting, but there’s this little piece that you see right before that scene, where Jess calls Kendall. And [the siblings] are in the car, and then you see her walking along and being like, “I’m going to drop a pin so that you can find me.” So, we shot the breakup scene, or the quitting scene, and then we shot that little bit. And I am grateful that they did that because I think if my last scene had been that one, the very tenuous membrane that I was able to construct between my feelings as Jess and all of my sadness about this chapter coming to a close, it all just would’ve dissolved, and the scene would’ve been just sobbing, saying goodbye to Kendall.

So, we shot that scene, and then we were shooting outside, I think on 86th Street on the Upper East Side. And Jeremy had other stuff to do, but he was like, “Hey, J.” And I was like, “Yeah?” And he was like, “Awesome job,” and gave me a fist bump. And I was like, “Don’t ... I can’t do this right now, Jeremy. I have another scene to do.” And he’s so respectful of actor processes, and he was out of there.

But then Kieran, that little troublemaker, was like, “I remember your very first day on set, and you were so excited, and you were doing this and this and this.” I’m just weeping and weeping on 86th Street, as Kieran is poking at my most vulnerable sense of nostalgia, and screaming for hair and makeup so that they can come and deal with the streams of mascara that are running down my face so I could do that little tiny scene that no one will ever remember. But yeah, that was the order of the day."

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Malicious Daughter is Back! - 1 | Bucky Barnes

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || Support : Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

It was supposed to be easy, but it's not.

He felt his hands and sensed they were shackled to this agreement. While everyone chatted and laughed at this lunch party, he couldn't share the same sentiment.

Today was the engagement party of two influential conglomerate families.

The daughter of Celestial Enterprises, which owned Luxury Goods, Smart Home Technology, Media & Entertainment, was Victoria Sinclair.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman, exuding an air of sophistication, yet there was a hint of maturity beneath her seemingly spoiled demeanor.

With a shy gesture, she reached out and gently touched her fiancé's hand. Her soft touch snapped him out of his daydream.

She gazed at his face, mesmerized by his striking features. He could easily be the most handsome man she had ever encountered in her life. Despite meeting countless models and actors, none of them held a candle to him.

Bucky Barnes was the epitome of sophistication. With his jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and impeccable suit, he exuded an aura of intelligence and quiet confidence.

As the heir to the AstraNova Group, specializing in aerospace, renewable energy, and real estate, his wealth and influence were undeniable.

He felt something creeping on his hands, he glanced down to see his fiancée Victoria touching him. Despite his discomfort, he clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out.

But he had to keep it together. Tonight, his psychiatrist would have to listen to his anxiety. He couldn't let anyone at this party know about his Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD).

He was overly sensitive to sensory input, including touch. In this room, only his parents knew about his disorder.

Bucky smiled and gently pushed Victoria's hand away from him. He could only tolerate it for five minutes. But it seemed this woman didn't understand him.

If she were just another woman, Bucky would have instructed his assistant to escort Victoria away. But he couldn't do that.

Because this woman was necessary, in fact. Her family's money was crucial. This was a business marriage. Bucky wasn't a social man, so when his family arranged the marriage, he complied with their wishes.

He thought he could go along with it, but his disorder acted up every time he got close to Victoria. She was glued to him.

"Fuck," he thought. He wished his parents had chosen a woman who preferred shopping over clinging to him.

"Look at this couple. Hohoho… Like newlyweds," remarked Victoria's mother, Genevieve, a woman around 50 years old, exuding opulence in her elegant gown adorned with intricate lace and jewels.

"What a joyful day," nodded Bucky's mother, Juliana, a woman of similar age, dressed in a modest yet tasteful attire, her eyes fixed on her son who appeared calm. However, she couldn't help but notice Victoria's persistent touching.

She prayed that Bucky wouldn't lose his patience.

"By the way, where is the oldest daughter?" slipped one of the guests, causing a ripple of unease among the attendees.

Even Victoria lost interest in getting close to Bucky. She stopped leaning toward him and sat up straight.

Her silent expression mirrored Genevieve's, catching Bucky's attention.

This was the first Bucky had heard of another daughter.

“You have an older sister?” Bucky asked Victoria.

Victoria responded with a nervous voice, “I do... She's... how should I say this? She's complicated. She's never at home. And when she is, all we do is fight.”

Bucky nodded, understanding her explanation. An estranged sister.

But he had never come across any mention of this in his fiancée's family background.

Were they hiding their other daughter? An illegitimate child?

Bucky noticed Victoria's father, Jonathan, a distinguished man in his sixties, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, who had stopped drinking and focused his attention on the table.

Genevieve laughed elegantly and remarked, “Haha… She doesn't enjoy these kinds of events. She prefers outdoor activities.”

On the first day of their engagement, Bucky found himself embroiled in family drama.

Then, a voice from outside could be heard, “I'm sorry, miss. This room has been booked,” said the security.

“It's booked for Sinclair and Barnes, right? What a coincidence. I'm a Sinclair too,” a playful female voice retorted.

‘BANG.’

The private door burst open from a forceful kick, startling the guests.

All eyes turned toward the newcomer.

Even Bucky turned around to see who it was.

She was wearing black leather boots, black pants, and a gray turtleneck sweater. Her attire stood out starkly against the elegance of the room.

She looked at everyone, then stopped at Victoria and Bucky. Then she scoffed, causing Victoria to clench her fist and bite her lips.

Compares to Bucky. He wondered what had happened to her. She was wearing a hand cast, a band-aid under her right eye, and small new scars under her lips.

Two things he realized were that her demeanor and facial features were different from Victoria's.

Victoria nervously laughed, "We thought you wouldn't come."

💋💋💋

You smirked and grabbed a glass of wine from the server who was serving drinks.

With a bow, you said, “Congrats on the engagement. Pardon my lateness. Seems like a rat ate your invitation.”

Victoria forced a smile, determined not to take the bait, especially in front of her fiancé, Bucky, to avoid any confrontation.

You walked past the couple and headed towards your father, Jonathan.

He showed no reaction, simply sipping his wine.

Standing beside him, you didn't even glance at Genevieve, who gritted her teeth, continuing to smile at the Barnes family.

You said to your dad, “Is this what your wife asked for? I must say I'm impressed.”

Bucky was taken aback when he heard that. What did it mean?

Genevieve gripped her wine glass tightly. The stories of her as ‘the other woman’ were in the past. She had worked hard to be accepted in this socialite world, and it had made everyone forget that she was the second wife. Everyone had called her Madam Sinclair, and Victoria the only daughter.

You shrugged your shoulders. “I'm just impressed that my sister could join the Barnes household. She didn't have to steal someone's husband like her mom.”

Victoria gasped and started sobbing.

Genevieve exclaimed, “How could you make your sister cry?”

You drank the wine in one gulp and put the empty glass on the table. “I want to vomit when I call her my sister. I need that wine to clean my tongue.”

Genevieve looked at her husband and whispered, “Jonathan, stop your daughter.”

You looked at your father, who was also looking at you, both of you silent. This is the relationship between father and daughter. Both of you used to be close, but everything changed after the other woman entered the family.

He won't say anything. He never does.

Turning to the new couple, you observed Victoria drinking water and her fiancé Bucky.

You didn't know much about him. What an unlucky man, you thought.

Walking towards him, you stopped in front of Bucky.

Bucky was looking at you too.

You said, “She throws away everything that I own or touch. I wonder…”

Your fingers touched his chin, and your face came close to his. You could see his eyes clearly.

You smirked and said, “I wonder if she still wants you after I do this.”

What you did next made everyone gasp.

Victoria screamed, “Get your lips away from him,” as she pushed you away from Bucky, acting as a barrier.

You wiped your lips, achieving your goal of seeing Victoria panicked.

With a salute gesture, you said, “I've got what I wanted. Goodbye, everyone,” and left the party.

Victoria grumbled, looking at Bucky and touching his hand. “Are you okay? I'm sorry. If you're mad at my sister, I apologize.”

Bucky pushed her away from him, his action shocking her slightly, but understandable since he had just been kissed by a stranger.

Bucky remained silent, not because he was angry, but because he had a million questions.

His disorder prevented him from being touched by someone, and yet he had just been kissed.

This is also his first kiss.

And... he didn't vomit.

Bucky looked at the closing door, wondering where you had gone.

He knew he had to see you again.

Author Note: Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[bradshawsvinyl]

Tolerate It

Things had been off with Jake recently. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Or so you thought.

read part two here.

warnings: mentions of cheating, angst, jake is a jerk, reader has anxiety but not explicitly stated, gaslighting??

Jake had been off recently. You couldn’t exactly place your finger on what was wrong but he had been acting differently. The longing glances you used to share seemed to become shorter each passing day. The eyes that once looked at you with love and trust had slowly started to fade until there was nothing left.

At first, you thought he had just been busy with work. After all, he was one of the best pilots in the Navy. You thought it was just another bump on the road that was your relationship. You figured he’d tell you what was upsetting him and you guys would be able to go through it and move on together.

“Jake,” you said while knocking on the door to your shared bedroom. “Please talk to me.”

He had come home from work and seemingly blown off all your attempts at affection. He just went straight upstairs to your bedroom and began talking on the phone.

That was another thing. Jake had been using his phone a lot more recently. He had tried to hide it and use it at times when he thought you were sleeping or were too busy to notice but you had been paying attention.

A part of you wanted to believe that Jake wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. You had known him for years. You had been together since high school. You followed him all over the country. You waited for him when he was deployed. You thought that he would do everything in his power to protect your emotions.

The rational part of you knew that he had to be hiding something. Your relationship had seemingly gone in limbo. You felt like you were trying and giving your all while Jake was giving you nothing back. You were tired of feeling like a burden. You needed reassurance. All you wanted was for him to tell you what was going on.

“Jake,” you knocked again. “Please open the door.” You were on the verge of tears. You just wanted to talk to him. You just wanted him to look you in the eyes and tell you that everything was okay. You wanted to hear him say “I love you.” Finally, the door opened.

“What is your problem,” he said, voice laced with anger.

“My problem? You’re seriously asking what my problem is.” You spat back at him. “My problem is you don’t talk to me anymore. There’s something off about you recently. You’ve been acting differently.”

Jake just stared at you and then walked downstairs.

“Where are you going,” you asked while running after him.

“Out.” He replied.

“What do you mean you’re going out? Jake just talk to me please it doesn’t have to be like this. I love you.” You said as tears started welling up in your eyes.

“I’ll be back.” He replied coldly. “I just need some space.” With that he slipped on his shoes and slammed the door to your shared home.

You went upstairs to your bedroom with the intention to just go to sleep. He’d talk to you when he was ready. Maybe something had happened in training today. That had to be the reason he was acting so cold.

As you settled into the bed, you noticed a vibration. You quickly realized Jake had left his phone at home.

You looked at the screen and saw that he was receiving a call from your friend, Juliana. No no no no no no. You thought to yourself as the tears began again. This couldn’t be true. Of course, you had your suspicions but you thought you were being silly. Jake wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Or would he?

Why would he need to be talking to Juliana. She was your friend after all. They had only met briefly a few times. They had barely exchanged two words. You wanted to believe that there was nothing wrong with the interaction. Maybe they were trying to get to know each other better, for your sake.

You walked downstairs and started pacing the living room, waiting for Jake’s arrival. You had to get to the bottom of this. Maybe Juliana was helping him out with something. You thought. Or maybe this was who he had been sharing all these secret phone calls with. Maybe this is who he was referencing everytime he said training had run late or he was going out.

How could you be so naive? There had to be an explanation for this. Jake was the love of your life. He was your first everything. He wouldn’t betray your trust like this. He wouldn’t be seeing another woman. Let alone your friend. Or would he?

[thisismeracing]

Your time | LH44

― Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x singer!reader ― Warnings: mentions of cheating; lots of rumors about lewis being an a*hole; mentions of juliana nalu and shakira, but all fictional. ― Summary: A couple months after the biggest breakup in the F1 paddock, your song gets leaked and the internet uproars about your relationship again. This time they have more ammunition than ever to feed the narrative that Lewis Hamilton cheated on you. Are they right though? (based on this request).

▸ my masterlist | my taglist | patreon guide ▸ support my writing by reblogging, leaving a comment (don’t forget to follow me if you like the piece), or buying me a coffee

September, 2023

paddockgossip

liked by ynfan, haileybieber, and others

paddockgossip how would you guys feel if your man goes out with another singer and looks this cozy while you’re out there on tour working your ass off? 👀

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sunshineyn you know shits real when her friend hailey likes the post…

⤷ pinterestyln I thought the same

leclercnation you guys forgot to add that yn and shakira aren’t friends, were never seem together, couldnt bother to talk about one another, yet this is the second time we see her around lewis this week…

randuser @ yourusername bestie come get your man!

schumakatchau this looks oddly like a double date

raintyres GUYS HIS HAND PLACEMENT!!! HES HOLDING SHAKIRAS WAIST 😭😭😭😭

tomdayastan my girl Yn doesn’t deserve this

evansnature are you guys really that surprised? He’s a man, I expect anything from a man

January, 2024

February, 2024

f1wagsupdate

liked by pierregasly, mbappeworld, and others

f1wagsupdate According to our sources Yn Yln and Lewis Hamilton broke up ealier this month. There is not an official reason yet, but most fans believe that cheating was the cause of the downfall of the four-years-long relationship.

view all comments

user44 is true love even real?

gomezracing I hate it in here

drugobitch what if its because of the cheating rumors?

⤷ rand32 but why would she wait weeks after it?

likedbypgasly and so it goes the best wag of the paddock :(

mclarenmason did you guys see that thread someone made about Yn's looks on the paddock and her cheering for lew, and them matching sometimes *sobs into my hands*

yourusername

liked by roscoelovescoco, k.mbappe, and others

yourusername making music and enjoying some free time after touring 💞

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mbappeworld I wish Lewis and Kyllian weren’t friends bc I kinda ship him with Yn 😭

hailyebieber 😍😍😍😍

sza waiting for our collabbbbb! ❤️

⤷ ynfan the day these two write a song together is the day I’ll be stuck in my room crying for a week straight

ynnation She looks so relaxed, more than when she was with Lewis

hardtyres_ I wish I could be like this after being cheated on, when my ex did this to me I had to go to therapy for at least a year before going back on social media

⤷ agoradoja there’s no proof he cheated on her

⤷ winteryln sure, except for the hundreds of pics of him with singers and models 😍 but y’all taking it too serious, he was just friendly with them

⤷ agoradoja maybe he was just friendly, Lewis is famous, dare I say even more than Yn, so being friends with different famous people is part of his life.

⤷ bonoschumi I’ll have to agree with agoradoja, there’s nothing too incriminatinf, maybe we’re just trying to find a reason because we don’t accept that they fell out of love

⤷ leclercmcqueen she literally wrote “its just us against the world” for him, wdym they fell out of love????

bieberfantasy yeah but how about roscoe liking the post????? It's making me hopeful

────── ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hi! I hope you guys liked this piece! It was kinda short, but hopefully worth the reading :D let me know your thoughts!

If you liked this piece and want early access to new ones and exclusive access to others, subscribe to my patreon!💘

▸ check my main masterlist | patreon guide and my taglist.

taglist: @sachaa-ff @mickslover @mishaandthebrits @fdl305 @iloveyou3000morgan @crimeshowjunkie @saintslewis @carojasmin2204 @chaoticevilbakugo @wondergirl101ks @smiithys @shhhchriss @f1kota @lunnnix @karmabyfernando @crashingwavesofeuphoria @schumacheer @callsign-scully @dearxcherry @elliegrey2803 @peachiicherries @he6rtshaker @therealcap @mehrmonga @the-depressed-fellow @cixrosie @darleneslane @buckybarnessweetheart @nichmeddar @fastcarsandshit @balekanemohafe @jamie2305 @nzygftoji @leclercsluv @graciewrote @alessioayla @littlesatanicassholebitch @barcelonaloverf1life @noncannonships @fanboyluvr @is-just-a @love4lando @woozarts @namgification @formulaal @v1naco @skepvids @khaylin27 @bernelflo @fakehappy27

©thisismeracing ― do not copy, steal, or translate my work; do not repost on a different media platform.

― Reminder: None of the pictures used are mine, they are all from Pinterest and other apps, but the work is, and I do not allow it to be published on a different platform. I would appreciate it if those things could be taken into consideration 💛

[haggishlyhagging]

Women were also regularly employed in brewing, at least as much as men. Medieval peasants drank rather a lot of small (or low-alcohol) beer and ale. In the tenth-century Alfric's Colloguy, which records theoretical dialogues between a teacher and his students, one young man states, "I drink ale, usually, if I drink at all, and water if I have no ale. . . . I am not rich enough to be able to buy myself wine: Wine is not a drink for boys or fools but for old men and wise men." By the late medieval period, in brewing centers such as České Budejovice, from whence the name Budweiser comes, beer was being made on a large enough scale that it was being exported to Bavaria.

Medieval people desired to drink beer and ale not because water was unsafe, but because farmwork is extremely hard. Small beer and ale added additional calories to their daily uptake in an enjoyable way. Although the wealthy were probably able to procure professionally made and imported beers, most people, especially in the earlier medieval period, made their own ale or bought it from nearby producers. Ale was brewed primarily from barley and did not include the hops of beer, which meant it could not be stored for long before going off. As such, those who wanted ale had to be constantly brewing it to ensure a steady supply, making brewing a very common cottage industry. Women who brewed for their families would often brew excess for sale, allowing them to bring in a bit of money. Because brewing was a craft that could be learned at home, women could be employed as brewers in larger commercial breweries.

We find women in the brewing trade consistently: records show them paying taxes on their gains from brewing, and registering with the authorities who oversaw standards. When someone performed below these standards, they were frequently written up, so we can find the women who were not meeting them. The Durham Court Rolls from 1365 record that Agnes Postell and Alice de Belasis were fined twelve denarii for selling bad ale, about the equivalent of two days' work for a skilled craftsman. Similarly Alice de Belasis was separately fined two shillings, or the equivalent of five days wages, for poor-quality ale, which a court proved had no strength at all. Punishments for brewing bad ale could range from fines to ritualized humiliation. In England, the Domesday Book first recorded the use of the cucking stool (which would become the ducking stool in the early modern period) in Chester to punish those who sold bad ale or ale in incorrect measures. They would be forced to sit in a chair out side their home and be jeered at by locals. Fourteenth-century Scottish laws noted that any alewife who made "evil ale" was either fined "eight shillings" or placed in the cucking stool, a nod to women as the primary brewers in the region who could face the largely gendered humiliation as a result.

We also learn of women in the brewing profession through records of accidents. For example, one coroner's roll indicates that at around noon on October 2, 1270, Amice Belamy was carrying a tub full of gruit, an agent for flavoring ale, with Sibyl Bonchevaler at her work in Lady Juliana de Beauchamp's brewhouse in Staple, Eaton Socon. As they went to dump the gruit into the boiling vat of beer, Amice slipped and fell into it and was trapped by the tub that fell on top of her. "Sibyl immediately jumped towards her, dragged her from the vat and shouted; the household came and found her scalded almost to death. She was given the last rites of the church and died on the day following. This harrowing story reminds us what a physically tasking and dangerous job brewing, especially in large quantities, could be.

This episode is also interesting because the two women were working for another woman, and a lady at that, Juliana de Beauchamp. Brewing was commonly associated with women across class lines, since the brewhouse is listed as belonging to the Lady Juliana. All in all, during these years a woman was just as likely to be brewing ale as a man, if not more likely in some instances.

-Eleanor Janega, The Once and Future Sex: Going Medieval on Women’s Roles in Society

[leclerc-s]

take me back to the city that i call my city, where everybody knows my name

series masterlist

oscar piastri i fear mark is mad at me.

isabella perez i could've told you he would be upset for the 'practical joke' you pulled.

yuki tsunoda ha! and now your mother wants me as her son!

charles leclerc i'm going to die at the hands of mark webber!!

daniel ricciardo-jones don't be silly daniel jones-ricciardo he's going to send someone after you. mark won't get his hands dirty like that. charles leclerc THAT DOESN'T MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?!

ollie bearman does this make charles my grandpa?

lando norris that's wild 26 with a 19-year-old grandson

sebastian vettel this explains the angry 'your spawn stole my kid' text i got from mark

fernando alonso and this also explains the 'you were supposed to keep him out of trouble' text i got charles leclerc and that explains the 'give me my child back anti-christ' text i got

oscar piastri HE CALLED YOU ANTI-CHRIST?

lewis hamilton added one person

charles leclerc HE CALLED ME ANTI-CHRIST! I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?!

mark webber i did no such thing

mark webber sebastian control your spawn.

charles leclerc

mark webber snitch

fernando alonso MULTI-21 SEB!! MULTI-21!!

sebastian vettel you just had to remind him didn't you?

lance stroll last time since a multi-21 inchident is down to 0 again.

lewis hamilton does this make seb satan?

sebastian vettel does this make you an instigator?

isabella perez it sure would be a shame if someone added jenson and nico to spice things up.

lewis hamilton don't you dare isabella juliana perez.

logan sargeant added two people

lewis hamilton logan hunter sargeant what did you do?

jenson button so this is the famous group chat.

charles leclerc WHAT IS AN ANTI-CHRIST??

nico rosberg lewis. lewis hamilton nico.

george russell i thought you two were on good terms?

dulce perez just because they're on 'good terms' doesn't mean they can't tease each other.

mick schumacher the family tree expands.

alex albon oh yes, because according to twitter logan is jenson and nico's son. zoya torres what the fuck do you two do on twitter? george russell i have a power point on the family tree!

nico rosberg i have so many questions

charles leclerc starting with, can daphne play long live tomorrow?

daphne jones-ricciardo can you get pole tomorrow? max jones-verstappen can ferrari not screw you over on sunday? is the better question.

jenson button yikes, you people do not hold back.

charles leclerc IF I GET POLE, will you please do a mashup of yoyok and long live?

daphne jones-ricciardo you've got a deal leclerc

mark webber you people are so weird.

nico rosberg agreed.

jenson button i've met zoya. i know how weird they can get.

zoya torres i know that's an insult but i don't care.

isabellaperez, rhysjones, freyavettel, and zoyatorres have posted new stories

my father-in-law is pole for monaco. everyone say congrats and cheer for a leclerc front-row lockout!! just know that i may be in the rb garage but i will be cheering on this silly little monegasque man. FATHER ON POLE IN MONACO!!! I REPEAT FATHER ON POLE IN MONACO!! LET'S GO!! WE'RE BREAKING CURSES THIS YEAR!!

liked by sukiwaterhouse, danieljonesricciardo, arthur_leclerc and others

nataliaruiz little jules pascale leclerc, named after two of the most important people in charlie's life.

tagged: charles_leclerc

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charles_leclerc would you look at that, you were right.

↳ nataliaruiz i'm always right charlie

↳ charles_leclerc well, there's that one time-

↳ maxjonesverstappen1 we swore to never speak of that charles!

user06 and suddenly daniel and charles both have another jules they love.

↳ user54 WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT!! NOW I'M CRYING!!

↳ user79 ALL I DO IS CRY ON THE INTERNET!!

zoyatorres the little jewel of our lives

↳ user88 IT WAS RIGHT THERE IN THE NICKNAME ARE WE STUPID?

sukiwaterhouse she gets her charms and looks from you. i don't know what she gets from the french man.

↳ charles_leclerc this is why your daughter looks more like robert than you.

↳ sukiwaterhouse i actually hate you.

↳ charles_leclerc the feeling is mutual

daphnejonesricciardo and what a beautiful little jewel she is

↳ charles_leclerc she's bejeweled one could say

↳ daphnejonesricciardo that's your worst joke yet

benruiz oh look at my beautiful little niece!

↳ nataliaruiz please tell dad to stop crying over her

↳ benruiz he said to leave him alone and let him cry over his only grandchild. she's getting so big.

danieljonesricciardo what a joy it is to be her godfather ❤️

↳ nataliaruiz and what a joy it is to have you as her godfather 🫶🏼

↳ charles_leclerc if i have to hear her cry over unca da, it's over.

↳ danieljonesricciardo i'm just that loveable charlie.

oscarpiastri i have the cutest baby sister

↳ zoyatorres see i would fight you on this but it's true

↳ freyavettel that is very much true (no on tell my siblings)

olliebearman the cutest leclerc!!

liked by charles_leclerc, benruiz, isabellaperez and others

nataliaruiz when we were little kids and anyone asked you, 'what's your biggest dream?' your answer was always the same, 'to become a formula 1 driver and win the monaco grand prix' then you became an f1 driver and your biggest dream was to win the monaco grand prix, to make your country proud, to make your papa proud. year after year, it was disappointment after disappointment, but something changed this year, this year you had hope, more than you've ever had before. this year you told me, 'i'm going to win this. i'm not taking anything less than a win." you finally did it, you broke the 'curse' that had been bestowed upon you. and i am so glad i got to witness you do it.

tagged: charles_leclerc

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charles_leclerc please don't make me cry again. i just stopped.

↳ natalia_leclerc it's a miracle i was able to post this through my tears.

user12 oh great, now i'm crying again.

benruiz listen, i may hate the little shit because he's dating my baby sister, but i'm still fucking proud of him. congrats charles, you deserved this.

↳ benruiz also, please tell my dad to stop crying. he hasn't stopped since you won. ↳ charles_leclerc let him be proud of me for once! ↳ benruiz he literally cries every time you win. shut up?

maejonesverstappen i'm still disappointed i didn't get to witness my best friend win his home race, but still so proud charlie.

↳ charles_leclerc you were there in spirit!!

↳ user98 these two being best friends is everything to me

user64 track menace charles makes his appearance!

user55 this post just reminds me that she's been there for everything. childhood best friends to lovers go hard here.

↳ user07 2018 charles would not believe you if you told him that not only did he end up with the girl he loves but he also won the monaco grand prix ↳ user55 manifestation works children! comment liked by charles_leclerc

oscarpiastri making the family proud 🥲

isabellaperez YEAH!! LIGHTNING MCQUEEN FINALLY WON THE PISTON CUP!!

↳ olliebearman the piston cup is the world championship, not monaco.

↳ isabellaperez LET ME BE PROUD EITHER WAY OLLIE!

rhysjones sorry to my mom and sisters but LET'S FUCKING GO!!!

↳ alex_albon disney child gone wild.

↳ maejonesverstappen rhys, watch your language!

↳ rhysjones says the one married to max emilian jones-verstappen.

rileykeough congrats charles!

↳ charles_leclerc thank you riley!!

sukiwaterhouse congrats, i guess?

↳ charles_leclerc thanks, i guess??

user71 the hand placement makes me feral.

↳ user84 right?? i wasn't aware lechair was that bold

user05 mom and dad on a night out.

↳ user26 imagine a baby pops up nine months from now?

↳ user05 that would be the funniest shit ever. then everyone will know those two really partied

isabella perez i know that i probably know the answer to my question, but how's pato doing?

gael perez completely gutted

oscar piastri we saw the race

fernando alonso oh patito i'm sorry.

pato o'ward shit happens. it's okay.

daphne jones-ricciardo you're allowed to be sad about this.

pato o'ward oh, i'm fucking devastated. it's a miracle i stopped crying.

charles leclerc FLY OUT TO MONACO! WE CAN CELEBRATE YOU EITHER WAY BECAUSE YOU DESERVED THAT FUCKING WIN.

natalia ruiz forgive him, he's drunk. pierre gasly he's fucking shit-faced.

rowan todd i wonder how he's going to see little jewel if he's drunk

charles leclerc NAT! WE HAVE TO GO! I HAVE TO SEE MY DAUGHTER!!

lando norris now he's quite literally crying in the club.

max jones-verstappen oh he's going to regret this so much

mae jones-verstappen about as much as you regret abu dhabi 2021

lewis hamilton i too regret abu dhabi 2021 esteban ocon oh we remember, 'FUCK MIKEY! FUCK THAT IDIOT! AND FUCK NICO TOO!'

nico rosberg what the fuck?

dulce perez if you hadn't won in 2016, lewis would already have his 8th.

jenson button oh my god, please just kiss and make up

mark webber maybe once nico stops thirsting over lewis on live television they can kiss.

nico rosberg i do not thirst. isabella perez sure, and charles isn't currently shitfaced.

pato o'ward why does anyone ever take you people as serious racers?

charles leclerc WE ARE PATITO!! carlos sainz WE ARE SO SERIOUS!! penelope trevino forgive him, he is also shit faced.

arthur leclerc mexicans everywhere are crying because of checo's dnf and pato being robbed.

gael perez i am crying. that's my boyfriend and uncle.

pato o'ward that is true, he hasn't stopped crying. rossi is concerned for him.

dulce perez make sure he drinks lots of water.

pato o'ward on it

daphne jones-ricciardo you people are so much to handle.

daniel jones-ricciardo WIFEY I MISS YOU!

sebastian vettel is he also drunk?

lewis hamilton days like today make me wish when seb was on the grid sebastian vettel days like this make me grateful that i am no longer on the grid.

mick schumacher oscar is the most boring person to party with.

oscar piastri I DON'T LIKE CLUBBING! ollie bearman LIVE A LITTLE !! GET FUCKED UP!! YOU WERE ON THE PODIUM IN MONACO!!

isabella perez and he is also fucked up.

jenson button oh how i miss being a driver.

fernando alonso because you were whore.

jenson button fuck you bitch. you were a whore too.

mark webber i hate all of you with a passion.

sebastian vettel that's a lie. mark webber correction, i hate you and anti-christ with a passion. freya vettel HE DOESN'T HATE ME!! A WIN IS A WIN!!

charles leclerc i fucking love you people!

daphne jones-ricciardo aww, love you too charlie ❤️ congrats on the win once again.

mae jones-verstappen sorry we couldn't be there but congrats and sorry again pato.

pato o'ward hey, i'll bide my time just like charles! clearly it worked for him.

charles leclerc YOUR TIME IS COMING PATO!! I PROMISE!!

¡taglist!

@burningcupcakefire @arkhammaid @applopie @sunflower-golden-vol6 @lorarri @bb-swift @thewannabewriter @mypage-myfandoms @stopeatread @hobiismyhopeu @lilsiz @alessioayla @niniluvsainz @au-ghosttype @six-call @justtprachisblog @nichmeddar @landonorizzz @unluckyyoshi @cool-ultra-nerd @kami10471633 @1nt3rnetgf @fernandoswarcrimes @arieltwvdtohamflash @brekkers-whore @natcha888 @camdensreg @mycenterfold @dear-fifi @georgeparisole @dan3avocado @nikfigueiredo @bella-182 @namgification @jensonsonlybutton @weekendlusting @trouble-sistar @lesliiieeeee @leclercsluv @33-81 @theseus-jpg @sarah-thatstings-ann @minmira95 @casperlikej @formulaonebuff @hopenshaw @hwalllllllelujah @doodlehunz @prongsvault

¡leclerc-s speaks! CHARLES LECLERC WON MONACO AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO COPE!! I'M STILL CRYING OVER IT!! long live and yoyok being the surprise songs the night before charles won monaco is like the win was fate for me. also, i can't handle another sad pato edit on tiktok, the pain hurts.

¡disclaimer! this is in no way making assumptions about the people involved in this story, this is all fake. it is a fanfiction please don't take any of what is said seriously. this is all for entertainment purposes and as a creative outlet for me. enjoy!

[c0stiffen]

is there a Juliana or Florian in your au? btw I love yout au!!

OF COURSE, I can't forget them. I'm still thinking about if they have a disability or another thing, I like the idea that the viewer interprets them in their own way, they represent the MC in this AU so they can have any condition or disability that the viewer wants, originally they were both mute but Giacomo is already mute so I didn't want to have 3 characters with the same disability.

BUT *OFFICIALLY* WE HAVE THE ZEROCREW!!!!

[tropes-and-tales]

Ten Months as Yours

Colonel Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader

CW:  Angst (reader is CIA and has feelings about it; failed first marriages; talk of Catholicism); smut (oral, m! and f! receiving; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count:  10,951

AN:  This was from an "Arranged Marriage" prompt list. An anon asked for it, and it was supposed to incorporate dates where the couple gets to know each other. I, an idiot, didn't remember that until nearly the end, but if you kind of squint, you can see it.

AN2: Not edited. Not even a little bit.

AN3: Sigh. I dunno, folks. It's whatever.

Horacio Carrillo’s first marriage was standard Catholic fare:  the reading of the banns beforehand, then the long wedding Mass.  Heavy on the incense, crowded church, a red-faced priest droning through the Gospel.  Juliana, his blushing bride in a heavy lace veil, clutching a bouquet of lilies already wilted and brown at the edges in the Colombian heat.

Then, years later, the dissolution of that marriage.  Papers signed separately in the presence of lawyers after an ice age formed between the couple.  Then more years of Horacio being single again, but the time slipped by like water.  He was so busy with work, he hardly registered the empty house he returned to every evening.

Horacio Carrillo’s second marriage is something else entirely.

It’s not, strictly or spiritually speaking, a real marriage.  It’s a bit of maneuvering on the  part of the U.S. government, logistical choreography as part of a larger plan.  To the world at large, Horacio Carrillo is dead:  murdered by Escobar’s men in a trap.  Only a handful of people know the truth—the doctor and nurses at the American hospital who healed him under a temporary alias.  And this man, Johnson, a U.S. Marshal and handler for the U.S. Witness Protection program

Johnson is the sole witness to this so-called marriage, if one could even call it that.  It happens on the cargo plane from Bogota to Atlanta.  Johnson sits in the jump seat across from his two charges:  Horacio…and you.

Horacio doesn’t even learn your real name.  There’s no exchange of vow and certainly no incense or bouquet of lilies.  Instead of a blushing bride, there’s a silent one.  Your mouth is set in a thin, straight line as you listen to Johnson’s rundown of your new life, and every time Horacio chances a look at you, he only sees the tension in you.  Grim-set mouth, clenched jaw…and the white edge of a bandage on your temple, mostly hidden under the sweep of your hair.

Horacio wonders if you’re dead to the world too.  You aren’t DEA or CIA, at least not in the Colombian theater, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t nearby.  The U.S. agencies have their sticky fingers all over South America.

The broad strokes of the situation:  you and Horacio are newlyweds.  You met in Spain and are returning to the U.S.  Horacio is dead, but he’s been replaced by Davide, and Johnson hands over a thick packet of official documents—Spanish birth certificate, Spanish passport, U.S. green card. 

You are also dead, but you’ve been replaced by Gwen.  Another thick packet of documents detailing your fake life as an ex-pat American in Spain.

Each packet also contains a simple gold band for each of you.  Horacio turns it over and over in his hand, contemplates the little twist he gets in his gut to put a ring back on his finger after years of being divorced.

You slide yours on too, but you fuss with it the rest of the flight, twisting it around and around your finger.

“You’re going to Vermont, of all places,” Johnson tells you.  “There’s a mid-sized college there with a lot of international folk coming and going, so you’ll blend in.  The house is handled, and you’ll get a stipend every month, but we expect you to find jobs as quickly as you can.”

Johnson doesn’t even attempt to say how long it will be.  Horacio knows he has to wait out Escobar before he can return to Colombia.  You?  Who can say?

The rest of the flight is silent except for the low roar of the engines and the creak of the netting holding the cargo in place.  Once you land, you stand and follow Johnson and Horacio off of the plane to transfer to a smaller passenger plane that will take you to Vermont.

The final leg of the journey is silent too.

When you deplane in the small regional airport in Vermont, you stumble on the step down from the fuselage.  Horacio catches your arm, keeps you upright.

“Watch your step,” he says softly.

“Thank you,” you reply.

It’s the first words you exchange, and his hand on your clothed arm—that’s the first time he touches you.

-----

Horacio has never been to the United States before, but when he thinks of it, he thinks of what he’s seen in the movies:  New York City, perhaps, with the traffic and skyscrapers and Statue of Liberty.  Or Miami with its white beaches and turquoise water and neon-tinged nightlife.

Vermont is something else.

It’s green.  Everything is so green.  The rounded mountains in the distance, the old trees with huge, spreading branches.  The grass of the lawns in this college town.  Even though it is near twilight, even the shadows are green-tinged as the sun sets.

“At least we arrived in the spring,” you say.  You glance at him, explain that New England winters can be brutal.

The house is small, trim.  It’s a simple ranch but well-built.  There’s a fair amount of land, and the nearest neighbors are far enough away that there’s privacy.

Of course it’s awkward.  You don’t know each other at all, and you’re both in hiding.  Horacio is out of habit with living with another person, and he has to guess you are too.

That first night, the first moment of awkwardness:  when you arrive at the house, there’s two bedrooms, and you both hesitate in the hallway that leads to both.  You’re married on paper (kinda) but who would expect you to share a bed?  But you’re also both exhausted, and Horacio takes in the dark circles under your eyes.  The larger room has a full-sized bed, but the guest only has an uncomfortable-looking daybed.

“Take the master bedroom,” he says.  “I’ll take the guest room.”

“You sure?”  Your words, Horacio notices, are slightly accented, like you’ve been around people like him who speak English as a second language.  He wonders about your past and what landed you here with him.

“Of course.  Take the room.  We’ll talk in the morning.”

You nod, and he glances down at where you twist that gold band over and over around your slim finger.  It’s here, he’ll realize later, that he starts to feel something for you, but at the moment, it’s only sympathy.  You’re trapped in the same miserable situation as him, so sympathy is an easy emotion to access.

“I appreciate it…Davide,” you reply, and you give him a nod, then turn in for the night.  He hears the quiet click of the bedroom door as you shut it, and he turns in too.  The daybed is cramped, and he can’t stretch out completely, but he’s so bone-tired that he’s asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.

-----

The first month, April. 

It’s awkward.  It’s more awkward for Horacio; everything in the U.S. is familiar, but just different enough to make it seem like he’s dreaming.  You’re already an American, and life in an idyllic New England college town is easier for you to settle into.

Living with another person is strange.  Horacio finds that the two of you engage in a civil, stilted dance each day that first month.  You each tiptoe around the other, defer to each other in a painfully polite way.  When Horacio catches you singing along softly to the radio one night, you snap the music off and go quiet.  When you walk in on him in the bathroom once—he was only brushing his teeth, so it is hardly salacious—you apologize and refuse to meet his eyes for the rest of the week.

The two of you don’t really talk, not that first month.  You aren’t supposed to share details about your real lives with each other, so neither of you know how to converse in the weird liminal space you find yourselves.  Your conversations are limited to menial topics.  The weather, the house and yard, what you each want for dinner that night.  You trade off chores, you drift around each other, and it’s like living in purgatory with another ghost.

Sometimes, Horacio swears he can hear you crying softly through the wall that separates your room from his, but you never offer any insight into your feelings and he doesn’t ask.

-----

The second month, May.

Johnson told each of you to find work, and you land a job first:  you get a position at the college.  You ask him, a bit shy, if you can take a certain portion of the monthly stipend to buy some new clothes for your office job, and Horacio’s gut does that twist again.  Of course you need new clothes.  You left wherever with nothing, the same way he left Colombia with nothing.

“Of course,” he says.  “You don’t even need to ask.”

That makes you smile a little, and you make a weak joke about not wanting to be the sort of wife to spend frivolously.  It makes Horacio chuckle.  It breaks the uneasy tension in the house a bit, and he ends up going to the mall with you that weekend as you shop.

There’s nothing like a mall to encapsulate American culture, and Horacio tries to play it cool at the conspicuous consumption on display.  The giant building, the icy air conditioning, the cacophony of sound echoing around the marble floors and walls.  There’s so many people and only a handful of security guards.  When Horacio studies them closer, he sees that they don’t even carry guns—they only have walkie-talkies as they saunter around at a lazy pace.

His life now is a far cry from his life as the leader of the Search Bloc.  And when he glances over at the woman walking beside him, he realizes how far this second marriage is from his first.

But the thought leads to him ruminating about his first marriage and all the little ways he failed Juliana.  This situation with you isn’t a marriage, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to be better.

So once you are done shopping, he pulls you into the Sam Goody and insists that you buy an album to celebrate.  He catches you singing all the time in the house, listening to the radio, humming or singing along.  When he imagines your mysterious life before now, he imagines an apartment filled with a big stereo and shelves of albums.

“Seriously?”  It makes you smile again, and Horacio thinks you have a nice smile, though he wonders how often people ever get to see it.

“Well, it’s our stipend,” he clarifies.  “It’s not like I’m treating you, really.  I guess it’s not really a gift if it’s ours.”

Another smile, and he stands back and watches as you rifle through the stacks of vinyl records and CD’s, as you pull one out and read the list of songs, then replace it.  You finally settle on one, and the two of you check out, and Horacio pulls out his wallet and pays.

And even if it’s your shared stipend, you thank him and smile again, and it feels like something that he can’t quite name.

-----

The third month, June.

You leave the house every weekday for work.  Horacio finally has some firsthand knowledge of what Juliana must have felt when he left each day.  He had always prided himself that he was able to provide for both of them, that she never had to work. 

He had never considered how bored she must have been.

He wakes up early out of habit, but you do too.  In the soft pre-dawn light, you go out for a run every day.  Part of him remains Search Bloc; he stands at the living room window and watches for you until you return, panting, your t-shirt ringed with sweat.  He finds he can breathe easier once you’re in sight. 

While you shower and dress, Horacio makes you coffee.  The two of you sip at your coffee in companionable silence, and then you’re off.

It leaves him with a full day with little to do.

He cleans the house, but that takes no time at all because both of you are fastidious and neat anyway.  He maintains the lawn, trims back the unruly rhododendrons.  He bought a weight bench and a set of free weights from a yard sale a few weeks after you moved, and he spends some time lifting in the garage.

That takes him to noon, if he’s lucky.

His afternoons are when he thinks of Juliana the most.  Is this what her life with him was like?  Back then, he used to scoff at the claim that women needed a life outside of the home.  His mother had seemed happy to be a housewife and mother, and he had always assumed that Juliana was the same.  Except the children never came, and Juliana had a degree in fashion design from the university—yet when she broached the idea of a job or even an internship, Horacio had dissuaded her.

He had thought he was being a good husband.  Now, as he sits and drowses to “Days of Our Lives,” he wonders how he had missed the obvious.

But if he’s Juliana in this situation, you are no Horacio.  For one thing, you return home in the late afternoon—he’s never left to eat dinner alone in a too-quiet house.  For another, you immediately kick off your shoes and pad over to where he’s cooking dinner, and you fall into an easy rhythm of helping him finish it off.

Halfway through June, you get comfortable enough to start calling out, “honey, I’m home!” each time you return.

Which makes him smile, every time.

And he’s only a passable cook, but you praise every meal he puts in front of you.  You joke once, say “I should have gotten a husband a long time ago,” and that makes him smile even wider, and it is easy to fall into the fantasy that this easy domesticity is real.  The fantasy only falls apart at night, when you each retire to your separate rooms, as you do every night.

-----

The fourth month, July.

The easy domesticity cedes to something deeper and darker right at the start of the month.

Horacio has never been to the U.S. before, so he hasn’t experienced the usual Independence Day celebrations.  When he asks, you grin and tell him that a good old-fashioned U.S.-style barbecue might be nice, and that’s what the two of you plan.  You and Horacio as Davide and Gwen:  patriotic Americans.

The day starts off great.  The weather is hot and humid enough to feel like Colombia, and Horacio will admit that you look nice in your cut-off shorts and cotton tank top.  He will admit that if you were really his wife, he might never even make it to lunchtime before taking advantage of a quiet house set apart from its neighbors.

The barbecue is nice.  It’s all-American fare:  hot dogs and hamburgers, corn on the cob steamed over hot coals.  You buy an apple pie from a nearby farm stand, and you also make some trifle type dessert, and the two of you wash it all down with ice-cold beer.  By the time dusk rolls around and lightning bugs start to flicker across the lawn, Horacio is pleasantly buzzed.

The town puts on a fireworks display, and as the sky turns a velvety black, the light show starts.  Your house is in the perfect place to see it, slightly set on a ridge, and blossoms of red and white and blue sparks explode across the sky.  Horacio, tipsy, watches the first few minutes, completely mesmerized…but when he turns to say something to you, he finds you missing.

He finds you in the house.  More specifically, he finds you in the bathtub, hugging your knees to your chest, forehead pressed to knees.

“Gwen?” he says, and he feels stupid saying the obviously fake name, but he doesn’t know your real one.

You don’t answer anyway, and he steps into the bathroom.  Studies you closer.  Sees that you are shaking, and between the muffled booms of the fireworks, he can hear your panting breath.

He moves without any real thought.  He knows—or can guess, at least—at what is happening to you.  Horacio has led enough men through enough battles to recognize a panic attack when he sees one, but you aren’t one of his men and this is no battle, so he puts a gentle hand on your shoulder to alert you that he’s there.  Then he climbs into the bathtub with you.

“Scoot forward a little,” he orders softly, and you do.  He maneuvers himself behind you, then pulls you closer to him.  Your back pressed against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you, he holds you close despite the heat and humidity of the day. 

“Just breathe with me.”  He takes a deep, slow breath, feels his chest push against you.  He does it again and again, and after a long while, you start to mimic him. 

The fireworks end, and eventually you stop trembling.  Tucked this close to him, Horacio can see the edge of a thick scar disappearing under your hair, and he remembers the bandage on the plane from Bogota.

He wonders if the moment that caused that scar is linked to this moment now. 

After you calm, and after you sheepishly untangle yourself from him, he urges you to do whatever you need to.  To take a cool shower or go to bed.  That he’ll clean up.  You gaze back at him a long moment, like you’re trying to decide something, and then you nod.  You leave the bathroom and disappear into your bedroom, and he hears that quiet click of the door closing.

The rest of the month is uneasy.  The panic attack seems to have dredged up the muck in your past, the trauma of a life that has resulted in you being in Witness Protection, injured enough at some point to have a thick scar on your head.

Something about this feels like an echo from his first marriage.  Juliana went silent on him too, but for different reasons.  Your silence is driven by an inner turmoil that he can only guess at, and he feels powerless to help.

So he only does what he can.  He makes you coffee each morning before work.  He makes you dinner each night.  He asks gentle, tame questions about your work day, and when you don’t have much to say in that quarter, he tells you that day’s drama on “Days of Our Lives.”

“Stefano DiMera is back,” he tells you one night.  “And Marlena is possessed by el Diablo.”

That’s the sole smile he is able to coax from you all month.  You pick at the dinner he made, pushing it around with the tines of your fork, and repeat, “the Devil?”

Horacio nods.

“Like, Lucifer the Devil?”

“Yes.”

You smile.  “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He nods again, smiles back at you.  “It really is.”

-----

The fifth month, August.

Horacio finds a job with a state nursery, and when he applies, he nearly despairs at the cliché of it:  a South American immigrant becoming a landscaper. 

But it’s not landscaping at all.  It’s a quiet, peaceful job.  The summer interns have already left for the year, so Horacio is hired on to help the old-timer, Lawrence.  Lawrence has a thick Yankee accent, says little, but Horacio finds the job a revelation.  He walks the rolling grounds and checks on the saplings that will one day be planted across the state.  They’ll go into parks and line city streets, and it knocks something loose in him.  A job where he’s nurturing life that will potentially live on long after him.  The oak sapling he waters and feeds today could live hundreds of years when he’ll be long forgotten. 

With him working now, you and Horacio switch off on meals.  You teach him how to use the most American of small appliances, the slow cooker.  You make him the most American of working class meals, the one-pot dish.  He makes you the comfort food from his childhood, and together you find an egalitarian balance.

But something about July and your low mental health…it makes Horacio want to do better.  Who knows how long the two of you will end up living like this?  He wants to understand you better, and he wants you to know him, because the two of you exist as the sole inhabitants of this weird, unlikely life as Davide and Gwen.

“Let’s each say one true thing about ourselves,” he proposes over dinner one night.  He’s bone-tired from work—he spent the day mulching rows and rows of tender little Eastern Hemlocks (and he knows the difference now between them and a balsam fir and a spruce).  You look tired too, but at his suggestion, your eyes light up.  Maybe you’ve been wanting some familiarity with him too and just were waiting on him to suggest it first.

So August is this:  getting to know each other.  Dumb stuff, usually.  Favorite colors, favorite songs, favorite foods.  Most embarrassing memory.  Best memory.  Age of first kiss. 

-----

The sixth month, September.

The weather starts to turn.  The nights grow cold, and the leaves transform from all that green to a riot of reds and yellows and oranges.  Work at the nursery slows way down, and Horacio spends long hours following Lawrence’s lead, which means an hour or two of paperwork, then lunch, then quietly reading a book at his desk.

You’re busy with the new academic year, but the weekends are spent doing day trips.  You’re six months into this, and you’re both braver, more willing to travel afield.  You go into the mountains to look at the leaves from a different angle than what you see from your house.  You go to pick apples, and you spend a weekend cooking them into pies, cobblers, and apple sauce.

The dinner-time “one true thing” game ends, and it turns into natural conversation.  It’s so comfortable now.  You chat and laugh and joke, and sometimes he teases you, and it makes you duck your head to hide your pleased smile.  You like being teased, Horacio finds.  You like being the butt of gentle jokes, so he obliges you as often as he dares. 

It’s a revelation to find that he has a sense of humor after all.

Over one dinner, he mentions his first marriage, his first wife.  You ask him questions, and he answers them honestly, and then he asks if you’ve ever been married.

“No.”  You shake your head to emphasize the point. 

“Ever engaged?”

You hesitate, then nod.  “Yes.  A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

You shrug, lifting one shoulder up before dropping it back down.  “Life.  Expectations.  It’s hard to say.”  You take a sip of your water, then settle your gaze somewhere past Horacio, like you’re looking at the specter of your failed engagement.

“I was young and very career-driven,” you add.  “And not many men want that in a wife.”

“I’m sorry.”  He is, of course, and he’s doubly-sorry because he was arguably one of those men.  He kept Juliana at home, stifled her own career aspirations.  A flush of shame courses through him at the memory of his own failings.

Another shrug.  “It was for the best.”

“And now here you are, married to me,” he teases, and yes—you duck your head, but he catches the shy little grin, the curve of your cheek as you smile at the joke.

-----

The seventh month, October.

It’s the first time you’ve actually ordered him to do anything, so Horacio finds himself busy each weekend, decorating the house for Halloween.  There’s ghosts strung in the trees in the front yard.  Fake gravestones jut from the lawn like rotting teeth.  Purple and orange lights are strung around the windows and banisters of the porch, and the two of you set to carving more pumpkins than Horacio thought possible.

But it’s worth it, because your town goes all out for the holiday.  You bought him a costume weeks ago, and when he dresses after dinner, he’s surprised to find you openly checking him out.  Your gaze sweeps from the hair on the top of his head—longer than Search Bloc reg, curling at the nape of his neck—to his shoes, and you take in his vampire costume.

“You look handsome,” you tell him, and he tries not to ogle you in turn and utterly fails, because you’re dressed up like a witch but the black dress hugs your curves, and the ridiculous hat, complete with a floppy brim, does nothing to detract from how sexy you look.

Horacio finds himself sitting on the front porch with you, handing out candy to the children that come by.  And it charms him, how much you get into it, how you guess at what each child is supposed to be.  You read the kids perfectly—you’re sweet with the scared little ones, but you play up the witchiness with the older ones, crooking your fingers and cacking at them.

When there’s a lull in the crowd at one point, he catches you as you shiver, so he pulls you close to him and wraps his cloak around your shoulder.  He never touches you much, but this is blatant, and the moment feels heavy with intent.

You lean into him.  A moment later, he feels your arm wend its way around his waist, under his cloak, so he holds you closer.

The evening continues like that.  The two of you play it up more and more, comfortable with pretending.  Not you and Horacio, and not Davide and Gwen, but a vampire and a witch, and the more you cackle and scare the children, the more Horacio flashes his fake teeth and hisses at them. 

Who ever knew handing out candy in a cheap drugstore costume could be so fun?

When another lull happens, he pulls you back to him, and the motion takes you off balance a little.  You hold him back but lean away from him, searching for your equilibrium, and it bares the smooth column of your neck to him.

Horacio forgets himself.  Davide forgets himself.  The vampire he’s pretending to be dips his head, and he presses the plastic points of his fake teeth into your pulse point, and you give a squeal of surprise, but when Horacio lifts his head to study you, he sees you staring back at him, your eyes wide and dark with obvious desire.

“That’s a good way to get a hex on you,” you warn, but there’s a smile on your red lips, and you don’t release your own hold on him.  You don’t shove him away.

“I enjoy a good hex,” he replies. 

The stream of children eventually dies off.  The bowl of candy has been replenished multiple times, but you fill it one last time and set it on the porch for any stragglers. 

Inside the house, you go from room to room and check the locks on the doors, turn off the lights.  Horacio lingers near the hallway, and when you turn to make your way to your room, he stills you.  He puts his hand on your waist, lightly, and he doesn’t say anything.  The moment hangs suspended as you both stand there, silent.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to take you to bed? 

He has always tried to be a good Catholic (the killing of narcos aside).  He’s never been with anyone other than Juliana, and he feels a tinge of doubt.  Guilt, too.  He’s always prided himself on his fidelity, and post-divorce, he took a perverse pride in the fact that he never took a lover.  That he still honored his vows despite the legal fact that he was no longer married.

He doesn’t mourn Juliana anymore, and he knows that something is growing between the two of you now, but what does it mean?  Would it be right to sleep with you, knowing that this is just circumstantial?  That it may end at any moment?  That if you both weren’t in WitSec, you’d have never met, and might have never liked each other if you had?

Is this thing growing between the two of you only the result of being flung together by circumstances out of your control?

All of those questions rapid-fire through his head, and you seem to see the doubt in his eyes because the moment deflates.  The energy and anticipation sour, and he sees it on your face.  Your soft smile falls, and then you nod to yourself, as if you knew it would happen like this.

Then you smile again, thank him softly for his help handing out candy.  You stretch towards him and brush the lightest of kisses against his cheek, and you step around him to go to your room.

When Horacio goes to bed, it takes him a long time to fall asleep, and he swears you must be awake too, separated only by the wall between you.

-----

The eighth month, November.

Your department at the university puts on a wine and cheese social, and spouses are encouraged to attend.

“We never really practiced our cover story,” he says as he bends over to tie his dress shoes.  “Do you remember all of it?”

“I have a eidetic memory.”

“Yeah?”  He glances up at you.  “You’re full of surprises.”

“Don’t sweat it.  It’s a bunch of tenured professors.  They love to talk about themselves and nothing else.  They are all narcissists of the worse variety.”

But you aren’t entirely correct.  The party is at the house of the department chair, and Horacio finds himself cornered by a pair of fellow lecturers.  They are older women, charming and gregarious, and they sing your praises…and his own.

“I can see why she’s kept you hidden away,” says the taller of the two.  “She said you were handsome but—”

“You make a gorgeous couple,” the shorter one cut in.  “And she’s brilliant, you know, she planned out this—”

On and on they go, cutting each other off, redirecting each other, not letting Horacio get a word in edgewise.  It’s not far off base from how you explained it would go, and when he catches your eye from across the room, you smile but mouth, “you okay?”

He nods, smiles back at you. 

The evening is halfway over when he realizes with a start that he hasn’t cased the room once. 

He hasn’t counted the exits and windows, hasn’t studied the egresses and any obstacles to them.  He hasn’t scowled at each face to try and determine what dirty secret they held, if Escobar or one of his men had compromised them or their family.  He hasn’t studied the lines of their clothing to see who might be hiding a piece.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to lose his edge? 

It’s another question he ponders at night, since the minor disaster of Halloween.  He knows he hurt you by hesitating in that moment in the hallway, but it’s a subtle hurt.  He can see it in your eyes each morning, the way they study his face as if you could perhaps read his thoughts if you watch him closely enough. 

More and more, these questions plague him because there’s no easy answers.  Horacio is used to solving problems, but he’d be the first to admit that many of his solutions were just brute force.  Displays of power.  The Search Bloc has a problem?  Send in men, armed men, men with guns and night-sticks, men with flint in their souls, men with hearts cased in granite.  Send in Colonel Carrillo himself to a clandestine meeting place where a suspect is strung up.  What’s a little light torture and murder when the fate of a country hangs in the balance?

That man is dead now.  Horacio Carrillo received a state funeral, and his empty coffin lies in the mausoleum.  Davide, his replacement, spent the week wrapping tender saplings in burlap in anticipation for the coming snows—all the while considering his place in the greater world and what his legacy may be.

At the end of the evening, Horacio finds you, brings you your coat, holds it out while you shrug your way into it.  When the two of you leave, you pass the pair of lecturers who had cornered him, and their exchange is like a Greek chorus that follows him home.

“He is handsome, isn’t he?” says one.  “She’s a lucky woman.”

The other one scoffs lightly.  “He’s the lucky one.”

You must not hear them because you don’t react.  You only let him lead you to the car, and when he brushes away the light dusting of snow with the snow brush, his eyes find yours through the windshield—and you smile at him.

-----

The ninth month, December.

The university shuts down for most of the month, and Horacio is on an abbreviated schedule a the nursery. 

The two of you have so much time together.

Horacio has seen snow before, but never like this.  Vermont, so green when he arrived, is swaddled in thick layers of white like cotton batting.  It absorbs and reflects sounds in weird ways, and a hush falls over your little home.

Being Colombian, he should hate it.  He should curse the cold and the snow and the quiet, but it does something to his soul.  It soothes him in a way he never would have guessed.  True, the cold is difficult at first, but you take him to the mall one weekend and load him up with sweaters and thick woolen socks, and he’s better after that.

Everything is so calm.  Peaceful.  Horacio has never slept so well in his life, bundled under layers of blankets, even on the uncomfortable daybed.  He sleeps, he doesn’t dream, and he wakes up naturally, in slow measure, to a soft light creeping across his bedroom floor.

Being on break, you still wake up early.  Earlier than him, some days, and when Horacio wakes to the scent of brewing coffee and something delicious baking in the oven, he wishes sometimes that this was the afterlife.  He wants to freeze the moment in time and never let it slip past him.  He wants nothing more, in this moment.

He’s always half-asleep those mornings, but the smell of food draws him out.  One morning, he pads out to the kitchen in his thick socks and startles you when he grumbles “good morning.”  You shriek, then swear, then lightly try to swat him with the spatula in your hands, but he’s still half-asleep, still incredulous that this is his life at the moment, and he takes the spatula from you and pulls you into a big bear hug.

“What’s this for?” you ask.  Your words are muffled against his chest, but after a beat, you wrap your arms around his midsection and hug him back.

“Just because,” he replies.

You spend your days doing puzzles, reading, listening to music.  You watch “Days of Our Lives” with him and you both laugh at the bad cosmetics and even worse acting on the demonic possession storyline.

Your evenings are spent cooking dinner together.  You make the trip into town every few days, and you rent movies and watch them too.  You watch everything together—old Hollywood classics, campy horror, meandering romances.  The two of you sit on the couch side by side, and it takes all of a day before you’re tucked in against his side, his arm firm around your shoulders.

Sometimes he glances down at you and sees your face in profile lit by the flickering light of the television.  Sometimes he can make out the edge of your scar, but he doesn’t linger there.  Instead he takes in the whole of your face—the curve of your cheek, the sweep of your lashes as you blink.  When something funny happens on the screen, you smile, and it makes Horacio’s heart stutter in his chest to see it.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to fall in love?

Another question to ponder.  Another riddle to solve.  He’s losing sight of the man he was.  Maybe that man is completely lost already.  The thought doesn’t unnerve him; he thinks he likes the man he is here.  He likes the man he is with you, the job that coaxes life into being instead of snuffing it out.  He likes wearing cable-knit sweaters and thick socks and eating the banana bread you bake on mornings you don’t have to work. 

He likes sitting on the couch with you and watching a rental VHS of “Beetlejuice.”  He likes the feel of your body pressed against his, and he likes looking down to see you smile.

That’s the night he dares ask for more.

After the movie, you do your usual pre-bedtime sweep of the house—locks, lights—then brush your teeth and go to your room.  The usual quiet click of your door closing.  Horacio, as usual, goes to his room, peels back the layers of blankets, prepares to tuck himself into the cramped bed….then doesn’t.

Instead, he returns to the hallway.  He taps a finger on your door, a soft staccato, and he hears you call out, “Davide?”

“Yes.”

You tell him to come in, and you’re sitting up in bed.  Your eyebrows are furrowed together. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He shakes his head.  How can he begin to explain it?  He’s fluent in English, Spanish, and Portuguese, and his Italian is passable, yet not a single language he knows can capture the maelstrom of emotions roiling through him.  He loves you, he wants you.  He’s afraid you don’t feel the same for him.  He’s afraid you do feel the same for him.  Is this just situational or are you truly the woman he was meant for all along?  Has he gone mad?  Is this some tame mental breakdown, the result of coming close to death and then finding himself, improbably, in Vermont with a woman who also was near death? 

From your “one true thing” game, he knows you’re a polyglot too—English and Spanish and Russian—but that shake of his head to your question seems to transcend the need for language.  You seem to read it exactly, the turmoil in him, and you climb out of bed slowly, make your way over to where he stands by the door.

You reach down and take his hands in yours, and the touch bolsters him.  Reassures him.  He’s Horacio and Davide both, and you’re both Gwen and yourself, and he doesn’t need to parse the two.  He can be both with you.  You’re both complicated people with complicated pasts, but none of it matters right now because the world is swathed in layers of snow, and the two of you are the only two who exist in it.

Neither of you say much else for the rest of the night.  When you turn your head to peer up at him, Horacio tilts his head to kiss you, and it’s like a bolt of lightning when he does.  Maybe he fell in love with you by small moments, but this is the moment that seals it forever:  this first kiss, his mouth on yours, writes your name—your real name, even if he doesn’t know it—on his heart like a line of fire.

You each lead the other back to bed; you tug him, he pushes you, and you fall gracelessly back on the rumpled covers, but each kiss, each searching touch peels back another layer of reserve.  Horacio slides his hand under your shirt and cups the softness of your breasts, pinches lightly at your hardened buds.  You slip your hand under the waistband of his flannel pajamas and grasp his growing erection, stroke it into full hardness as he groans into your mouth.

There’s no art to it.  No seduction.  You’re both starving for each other, ravenous, and you both kiss the other as you each strip out of your layers.  He kisses down your neck, nips at your pulse point like he did on Halloween.  He licks against the hollow at the base of your throat, draws the sweetest goddamned moans out of you, then returns to kiss you, to lick against the inside of your mouth so he can feel the sounds you’re making too.

If he’d known how vocal you were in bed, he would have summoned his courage months ago.

Your mouth is on him too.  It’s another line of fire, each press of your lips on his bare skin.  He finds himself on his back and you astride him.  He reaches up to touch your bared breasts, but you don’t even notice because you lean down, focused only on him.  Your mouth on his neck, along his stubbled jaw.  You kiss his collarbones, his chest.  You bite lightly against his nipples, your teeth making him huff at the sensation, and then your warm tongue laving him.  Further down, a trail of kisses across his belly, which is less firm than it was in his Search Bloc days but you make a pleased noise as your mouth places wet, lingering kisses there.

Then even lower, and this is uncharted territory.  Love-making with Juliana was only ever for the purpose of making children, and while Horacio had convinced her a time or two to go down on her in the interest of foreplay, he never has received head in his life.  Juliana had called it dirty, and he had left it at that.

He doesn’t even register it until he feels your hand grasp him at the root of his cock, then feels the smallest, most kittenish little lick of your tongue against his leaking tip.

“Dios,” he groans out, and then he feels the rest:  your tongue tracing a pattern along the length of him, then a teasing rhythm where you work him into your mouth.  First just the tip.  You lavish him with attention there, suckling against the most sensitive part of him, lapping up the pre-cum that leaks from him.  Then more and more and more; you work him into your warm, wet mouth, and he feels your breath tickling against his groin, feels you breathing carefully through your nose as you take him as far as you can, and then you swallow against him, you hum against him, and it’s nothing like he’s ever felt before.  You press your tongue against the underside of him and you hollow your cheeks, and when your warm palm reaches up to lightly fondle his balls, Horacio’s orgasm breaks around him like a tidal wave.  His hips judder once, twice, and he thinks he warns you, but you don’t move.  You only hold yourself there, and when he comes, you swallow every drop of him, and he wishes he could explain this feeling to Juliana:  that it doesn’t feel dirty at all.  It feels like a sacrament.  That it feels like love.

It's only fair that he shows you his love for you in turn.

Once he recovers, he flips you onto your back and repays you in kind.  He kisses his way down your naked body, makes a note of all the spots that you moan at.  Make a note too of all the scars that speak to a life a lot like his was in Colombia.  He kisses your scars, presses his lips to each raised ridge as if he can take away any lingering pain.

Then he settles between your legs.  There’s no shyness he can detect; you spread your thighs eagerly for him.  You allow him to put a pillow under your hips to tilt your pelvis into a more agreeable angle.

He’s not especially skilled at this.  The handful of times with Juliana had been a race against the clock—a sprint to coax her to orgasm before she gripped his hair and made him stop.  There’s no clock now, so he takes his time.  He settles your legs on his shoulders and he bends his head to your gorgeous pussy, and he takes his time.

He licks against your folds, then reaches down to part them with his fingers.  Licks a slow, tortuous route from the firm bud of your clit to your entrance.  Over and over and over until you squirm underneath him—then he slides a finger into your clenching heat, then another, then a third, and he feels how your pussy twitches against the intrusion, how you grab against his fingers like you’re trying to pull him deeper into you. 

He fingers you in a lazy rhythm, and he circles his tongue against your clit.  That does something for you; you whine out a curse, and a moment later your hand is on his head, your fingers tugging against his hair, so he purses his lips, suckles against your clit, and that turns your whine into a wail.

He wishes he could tell Juliana this too, that this isn’t dirty either.  When you come, he feels a flush of pride at drawing pleasure from your body—your thighs tight against his head, your pussy clamped down on his fingers, and the slick cum that pulses from you, that coats his tongue and lips in the taste of you.

He’s hard again, but he wouldn’t press his luck.  This is more than he ever dared hope for.  He’d be happy to curl up with you now, to fall asleep beside you, but when he lifts his head from where he’s perched between your thighs, he sees you gazing back at him.

“Please,” is all you say, and he knows what you’re asking for because he wants it too.

If there’s an argument about this being two people pushed together because of circumstances beyond their control, there’s also an argument about the two of you fitting together so well.  Because you do.  Your body seems like it was made for his; you fit together like two jagged puzzles pieces.  Horacio settles over you, lowers his body onto yours, and it’s like magic:  his cock bumps against your inner thigh, but he moves half an inch and he finds your wet heat, and then he’s pushing into you, feeling your feverish flesh part and mold to the shape of him, and then your legs are around his waist, holding him to you as he bottoms out inside you.

He stills for a long moment.  He’s unable to move.  It’s not because he’s afraid he’ll come too soon but because he’s afraid he might cry.  Horacio Carrillo is not a man who cries (maybe Davide is), but gazing down at your face, seeing the stunned love written in your expression, he nearly cries at how lucky he feels.  How blessed.  That shootout in the Medellín alley should have killed him, yet here he is.

Eventually, you give him the faintest of nods, and he starts to move.  He’s gentle at first.  He warms you up to the feel of him, and him to you.  You lay one hand on the side of his face, cupping his cheek as he thrusts into you, but the other hand settles over his heart.

He could love you like this forever.  He coaxes a second, then a third orgasm from you, and he watches your face during each one—the way your eyes go wide, then close tight, the way your mouth takes a hitching breath then goes slack as you breathe through it.  The look on your face as it ebbs away, your eyes shiny with tears, and happy little smile curving your lips.

“I want you to come,” you whisper to him.  You must feel the tension in him, and you bear down on his pistoning cock to urge him along.

“Where?” he pants out. 

“Inside me.  Please.  Come inside me.”

He knows you’re safe.  He’s lived with you for nine months now, and he’s run enough errands with you to know that you have that little plastic compact you pick up from the pharmacy once a month.  He sees you swallow the same pill each morning with your vitamin.  But still—he’s a man with his history, so he doesn’t register your contraceptive use in this moment.  The thought comes to him that if he comes inside you, he may make you pregnant, and Horacio is surprised by how quickly the thought urges his orgasm forward.

“You sure?”  At your words, he’s amped up his thrusting, driving forward in deep, strong strokes until he swears he can feel the crown of his cock nudging against the end of you, and the thought takes hold:  you round with his child, the two of you in this bedroom with a child in the guest room converted into a nursery.  At this moment, it’s the tamest of breeding kinks, but in the morning, he’ll realize it’s just more of this perfect life extrapolated.  You not as his pretend-wife but as his real wife.  A child as tangible proof that this isn’t just an incongruous moment in time.

“Yes.  Please.”  You lick your lips, blink up at him.  “I-I want to feel you coming inside me.”

It’s only fair that he obliges you.  You ask so nicely, so he does:  he thrusts three, four times more, then feels his pleasure snap and spark up his spine as he fills you.

Then he collapses on top of you, and a moment later, he feels your fingers combing through his hair, lightly running over his back.

“You can sleep here, if you want.”  You say it shyly, like you think this might just be a physical release for him, so he lifts his head to kiss you and reply that he wants that very much.

Horacio never sleeps in that cramped daybed again.

-----

The tenth month, January.

What does it mean to Horacio Carrillo for the lines between real and pretend to blur?

It means that through Christmas and into the new year, you live as husband and wife.  You live as newlyweds.  You make love in every room in the house, and you spent lazy days tangled up together.  It means you draw straws to see who has to drive into town for provisions, and it’s all a joke anyway because you always go together.  It means your world collapses down into the most basic of human needs:  feeding and fucking. 

It means that between love-making, the two of you share more about your real lives.  Horacio learns about your family life.  He learns that you’re CIA, and you’ve been stationed in Panama post-Noriega.  He learns that it was an explosion, a car bomb outside of your headquarters, that left you with that scar on your head.

You learn about the Search Bloc and Escobar.  You learn about his childhood as the son of a great military leader, and how that legacy shaped his own life and career.

But what does it mean when that line blurs?

It means that when Johnson returns to your lives, everything ends abruptly. 

“Everything is all clear,” he tells you when he turns up one Saturday in the middle of January.  He sips at the cup of coffee you made him, and if he notices the stunned silence of both of you, he doesn’t remark on it. 

“Escobar was gunned down early today.  It hasn’t hit the wire yet.”  Johnson glances at you.  “And the group that bombed your HQ has been cleared out too.  You’ve been safe for a few months, but we didn’t want to upset the situation here.”

“So now what?” you ask, and Horacio feels sick to his stomach as Johnson explains that your old lives are waiting for you and that it’s time to go.

-----

The end comes that day, but not the way Horacio thought it would.

You gesture to Johnson after he gives the rundown on the logistics, and the two of you go outside.  Horacio watches from the kitchen window as you cross your arms against the cold.  You talk, Johnson listens.  Then Johnson talks, you listen.  Back and forth, and by the end Johnson shakes his head, shakes your hand, and returns inside.

“Okay, so change of plans,” he says, and he rubs his hands together briskly to bring the warmth back to them.  “It’s just you and me now.  Go pack and say your goodbyes, and I’ll be back in an hour.”

He leaves, and Horacio watches him pull out of the driveway, and when he turns back to the interior of the house, he sees you standing there.  Crying openly, tears cutting tracks down your face.

“I can’t go back,” you explain, your voice thick with tears.  “I won’t.”

Then you break down into sobs, and it’s second nature to stride over to you, to pull you into his arms.  He tries to soothe you—rubs your back, holds you to him—as you choke out the words.  That you have had a crisis of conscience.  That you wonder if your work in the CIA did more harm than good.  That you think it’s the former, and how you want to spend the balance of your life not doing more harm than good.  That you want to live in a quiet town that is green in the summer and swaddled in white in the winter.  You want to teach, you want to come home to a house with….and you catch yourself at the last minute.  You don’t say it, but Horacio can guess it.

You want to come home to a house with him in it.  You want to come home to him.

“I love my life here,” you amend hastily, but you push away from him, aware he’s leaving and that your life won’t be exactly the same either way.  You mumble something about not wanting to say goodbye, about wishing him the best, and then you disappear down the hallway.  He hears the click of the door and your crying, and it doesn’t abate while he packs. 

When Johnson returns, Horacio taps on the bedroom door, but you don’t answer and he doesn’t push it.  He’s sleepwalking through the moment, numb, so he leaves.  He doesn’t say goodbye.  He only climbs into Johnson’s rental car, and each mile that Johnson puts between you and Horacio only makes the numbness grow.

“Women, huh?” Johnson says as they near the airport.  “That’s why I said they should never take field work.  They don’t have the stomach for it, in the end.”

Horacio grunts a non-reply, but he thinks Johnson is off the mark.  It’s not that you don’t have the stomach for it.  It’s that you don’t have the heart.

-----

February.

He goes from Vermont to Miami, this time around.

Horacio is given a hotel room, and he’s given the orders to just chill for a bit.  Johnson has extricated him from his fake life as Davide, but his old life as Colonel Horacio Carrillo isn’t quite ready for him yet.

There are mountains of paperwork to bring a man back from the dead.  There’s talk of giving him a cushy role in Madrid.  There’s talk of commendations, medals, a comfortable pension to retire on.  He’s done a lot for his country of Colombia, and Colombia wants to reward him.

He sleepwalks through this liminal space.  The not-Davide, not-Horacio time.  He wanders the streets around the hotel and picks at the food he orders in restaurants, and each time he hears a woman speak, he looks up expecting to see you. 

I don’t even know her real name, he thinks. 

Gwen, his one-time pretend-wife.  Gwen, who had a panic attack on her country’s birthday.  Gwen, who questioned the harm she may have caused to another country, another people.  Gwen, who only wants the chance to do a little good now, or at least to do no more bad.  It wasn’t Gwen at all, but he has no other name to use, so he runs through all the lovely little moments he had with Gwen.

Watching for you to return from your daily jogs.  Walking through the falling leaves of autumn with you.  Making you coffee, pressing the steaming mug into your hands each morning.  Handing out candy to the children at Halloween, tucking you under his cloak at the autumn chill.  Watching movies with you as the snow fell outside, then curling up in bed with you, slotting his body against yours, giving you pleasure and taking pleasure from you in equal measure.  Threading his fingers through yours as he arched over you, his eyes falling on the glinting light in the gold band in your ring finger, it’s twin on his own.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to finally make a choice?

Of course he’s made choices before.  Every day, he made a million choices, large and small.  But the big stuff, the giant stuff, the life-shaping stuff—did he have much choice?  His father’s military career pretty much guaranteed his own career in the Search Bloc.  His family’s status pretty much guaranteed he’d marry a Catholic girl from a family of similar standing.  And when Juliana chose to leave him, he really had no choice then, either.

Same with his pretend life of ten months.  He had no choice in being paired with you, no choice in ending up in New England, little choice in working as a man who tended trees.

He imagines you in your shared home, alone.  Johnson explained on the plane that you’d be able to buy the place, that WitSec only rents homes across the U.S.  He explained that this has happened more than once, and that it’s actually not too difficult to let a witness slide into their pretend-life permanently.

The choice comes down to the most mundane thought.  Horacio stands in his hotel room in Miami and wonders, who will make her coffee in the morning if I’m not there?

*****

Winter always loses its charm by the time February rolls around.  The fleecy white snow turns into grey slush, and everything is cold and soggy and depressing.

Davide leaving doesn’t help at all.

You knew it would end eventually.  You didn’t have much insight into his situation, but you knew that the cartel targeting you would be easy enough to neutralize.  They were only there because of the power vacuum left behind by Noriega, and they were poorly organized.

You just thought when it ended, you’d have more time.  Which is one of your fatal flaws, always thinking you’ll have more time.  Your father died from a heart attack when you were in high school, and your mother died from a car crash when you were in college.  You, more than anyone, should realize that time was never a guarantee, yet you always think you have a surfeit of it.

It's not your proudest moment, those final minutes with Davide.  Not falling apart in a wash of tears, and not fleeing to your room.  You should have committed to one extreme or the other.  You should have either calmly explained your decision and bade him farewell…or you should have given in to the emotion of the moment and spilled everything.

Why do you never learn your lesson?  You never had a chance to tell your parents that you loved them before they died.  Why didn’t you tell Davide you loved him before he left to return to whoever he was before?

You know you could find him.  You’d caught his lightly accented English and guessed at South America.  Colombia, if he was hiding from Escobar.  He told you about the Search Bloc.  You knew some people in that theater.  You could find him and tell him that you loved him, but would it do more harm than good?  Doesn’t he have the right to return to his previous life without any baggage from this one?

February, then:  grey, cold.  You go to work.  You teach your classes and hold office hours.  Political science can create real monsters, so you gently try to steer your students towards the path of diplomacy and not war.  Maybe this is how you make amends, if such a thing is even possible.

You go home each evening and pull together a sandwich for dinner.  Sometimes you get take-out, and you eat over the sink.  Sometimes you watch T.V. and sometimes you read, but you always sleep alone with Davide’s pillow clutched to your chest, the lingering scent of him fading away within days.

-----

Then March.  The snow starts to melt a bit, and under some of the trees in your backyard you start to see the little purple and white jewels of budding crocuses.

You resume your runs in the mornings.  The campus shakes off its doldrums too and the students seem livelier.

You made the right choice to stay.  You go to the bank with your real name and get a mortgage.  You buy the house under your real name, and you go to the university human resources and hand over the paperwork Johnston gave you, and it’s weird at first, explaining why you’re not really Gwen, but it shocks you how quickly people adapt to using your real name.

-----

March is still fresh when there’s a knock at your door one Saturday morning.

Your first guess is that it’s a delivery.  Johnson promised to ship all of your stuff from your apartment in Panama City.  Not that you have anything valuable, but it would be nice to have your record collection back.  You don’t want to have to rebuild that from scratch.

You’re already out of practice from your prior life.  You don’t bother to check who it is, don’t look out the window before you open the door, and so it’s a shock to see Davide standing there, his fist lifted like he’s about to knock again.

He drops his hand and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.  You are speechless too, but you don’t need words to because as he drops and unfurls his hand by his side, you see the way the gold ring on his finger catches the morning light. 

He’s still wearing his wedding ring, you think, and your body moves towards his, you leap into his arms and he’s there to catch you.  You breathe out his name, but he chuckles, pushes you gently away from him.

“No, cariño,” he replies, shakes his head.  “Not Davide.”

“Well, no.  I mean—”

“I’m Horacio,” he interrupts.  You reply with your own name, and he repeats it, almost to himself.

“Everything else was me,” he adds.  “Everything but the name.  What we had…”  He trails off, fixes you with that dark-eyed stare of his. 

“Everything else was me too.”  All of the bare facts of your fake life as Gwen hold little weight to that nebulous everything else:  every joke and shared laugh, your Fourth of July panic attack.  The feel of his hand on your waist when you went apple picking.  The way his hair curled after a shower, and how you loved to run your fingers through it when he fell asleep beside you.  All of it.  Every stupid little moment that most other people would have already forgotten. 

Horacio holds up his hand to show you the ring you’ve already noticed.  “I never took it off.  It didn’t even occur to me to.”

You hold up your own hand.  “Me neither.”

He looks away, squints his eyes as he looks off into the distance, but you swear you can see tears there.  He clears his throat, but his voice comes out rougher than usual.

“I’d like to see if I’m as good a man as Davide was,” he says.  “I’d like that chance, but only if you…”  Another cough as he clears he throat, then continues.  “Only if you’ll have me.”

You reach out and take his hand in yours.  You touch the warm metal on his finger, then the thought comes to you.  You slide the ring off, and you feel Horacio watching you.  On the plane, you each put your rings on yourselves, but that wasn’t how it was supposed to go, was it?

Now, nearly a year later, you take his wedding ring off.  For a long beat, you study it—it’s a simple thing, nothing elaborate.  WitSec wasn’t going to waste money on an expensive ring for a fake marriage, and it already has a shallow scratch in it, likely from his job at the nursery.

Then you lift your head and gaze at him, and without breaking eye contact, you slide the ring back on his finger.  The smile that spreads across his face when you do is enough of a promise as any vows recited in a church, and he repeats the motion with your own ring—takes it off, then slides it back on with intention.

And then, because there’s no priest there to give the order, Horacio bends down and kisses you for the first time as himself, and the first time as yourself, and perhaps you learn your lesson about time after all because the moment you part, you whisper, “I love you” to him.

And perhaps he needed to learn the same lesson because he sighs, pulls you closer to him, and whispers “I love you too.”

[dendrobium-writes]

"It does not snow anymore."

Executor 1 shifted to face the other occupant of the room, filling the air with a strained creak from her chair. The previous fifteen minutes of silence left her unprepared for the sudden vocalization.

"What?" She asked. This was... Different. One's never spoken to her before.

"It is nearly the end of winter." The doll answered. "There has not been any snow." It clarified.

Executor 1 pondered this for a moment. Practically, she understood why that was the case. With the growing intensity of fighting on the surface, orbital weapons platforms saw more and more use.

As a result, the planet was getting hotter.

But before she could form a reply, the soft voice hit her aural implants again.

"This one likes the snow." It spoke, turning to face her. Its orange eyes fixed themselves on hers. "Do you?"

She stared back into the doll's eyes. Her facial analysis software couldn't make heads or tails of what might have been written on its face.

"I think so." Executor 1 hedged. She tried to recall the last time she had seen snow. Vague visions of white flecks in the sky, a girl smiling beside her. The warm clutch of another's hand in hers.

The feeling of lips pressed together.

"Do you? Or do you not?" It reasserted its question, snapping her back to the present.

"I d--" she began, before being cut off by a third voice. Another figure had snuck into the room. It was impossible to conceive how they could have snuck in, wearing such a gaudy uniform and large hat.

"Citrus, leave the woman alone. I'm sure she's tired."

The doll snapped to attention, seemingly losing all interest in Executor 1. "At once, my lady." It said, standing and moving to join its witch's side.

"Oh, it wasn't a bother at all, lady..." Executor 1 trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the witch.

"Juliana." She finished. "But you are to address me by my rank, pilot." She nearly spat out the word.

"My sincerest apologies, Major." The pilot drawled after peeking at her insignia.

The Major sneered and turned to leave, seemingly only here to retrieve her doll.

"Citrus?" Executor 1 called.

The doll turned to face her as the witch strode on.

"I enjoyed our little talk. Maybe we'll have longer next time." She said with an earnest smile.

The doll's face lit up. "Yes! I hope so!" It beamed.

"Citrus, now!" Juliana called, annoyance echoing down the corridor.

Executor 1 waved goodbye.

Citrus waved back, turning to catch up with its witch.

[heartmaddie]

hi maddie! could i request headcanons for oikawa and suna with a reader who has an rbf but also like squishy cheeks? bc that's what i have and i have a friend who rly likes to poke my cheeks and call me cute and ngl it makes me happy every time 🙈 ofc only if you want to write it!

JULIANA THIS IS SO CUTE.... tysm for the request i had sm fun writing it !!!!!

incl ; post time-skip , fluff , long distance (oikawa) , highschool relationship (oikawa) , intoxication (suna) , established relationships , chubby cheeks! reader , gn! reader chars; oikawa tooru , suna rintaro

oikawa tooru !

⋆ one of the reasons he was attracted to you visually was because of your cheeks!

⋆ he’s always touching/squishing them & talking about them

⋆ he thinks ur rbf is cute, he’ll poke your cheek to stop you from zoning out

⋆ he likes kissing your cheeks and feeling the soft skin against his lips

⋆ when he’s in argentina he misses them more than he can imagine

⋆˙⟡ —

‘long distance relationships don’t work,’

is what both of you had been told endlessly since tooru had decided to move to argentina. he would just dismiss it every time, but when tooru was finally alone on another continent, he couldn't shake the loneliness that gnawed at him every waking moment.

which is why he spent half his day on facetime with you, thirteen hours dedicated to watching you through the minuscule screen of his phone. the two of you would spend your time together in an oddly domestic way, sharing mundane moments, from cooking to cleaning. but in his heart, there was nothing more special than in the early midday when he’d watch you fall into slumber. he was captivated by the chubby skin he’d reminisced about & yearned to squeeze once again, watching delightfully as the puffy skin expanded and contracted with each breath.

so when you were finally in his grasp once again, and after copious amounts of hugs and kisses, he was spending a couple of minutes with his fingers kneading at the soft skin of your face in the cab, accompanied by you looking at him strangely. but the small smile he displayed absentmindedly made you comply.

it all rushes back to him once he sees you in his apartment, lazily flopping onto his bed and curling up in the sheets which smelt like him, blaming your exhaustion on jetlag, but he knows it’s more than that. he missed your warmth as well, after all. 

his heart swells immensely once you’re wrapped up in his arms & sheets once again. tooru’s lips were slightly parted from amazement, watching with full admiration as you slept peacefully. tentatively, his fingers reached out to quench the thirst he withheld for the past years without you, tooru’s fingertips were found prodding and poking your cheeks once again.

it was soft & warm & so greatly replenishing to do once again, he was so enchanted. tooru sported flushed cheeks and a tired smile as he found sleep creeping up on him suddenly. but for the first time in a while, his heart felt at ease with you & his slender fingers engulfing your face.

suna rintaro !

⋆ pretends to not notice your cheeks but gets all dreamy when he sees them

⋆ he uses them as stress balls kinda.. when he gets tensed up he’ll grab your face and squish it LOL

⋆ he kinda has a rbf as well but makes fun of you for yours

⋆ when you’re sleeping he’ll take his time to kiss your cheeks gently (wants to make up for the time you’re awake and he doesn’t)

⋆ he melts a little when you pout and your cheeks get all puffed up…

⋆˙⟡ —

suna was a quiet lover, he didn’t like publicly showering you with gifts and praise, or even physical affection. he hated it, despised it even. he much preferred to convey his affection through small gestures, ones he knew that only you would notice. but of course, this would be thrown away once he’d inebriated, he’d practically been climbing on top of you as you nudged him towards the car.

his arm was lazily slung around your shoulder, bringing you closer to his alcohol tainted breath as you pushed him into your car. your movements displayed a hint of exhaustion, eyes still droopy as you flopped into the driver's seat yourself. 

as you drove, suna sported an uncharacteristically soft smile, watching eagerly as you swiftly navigated the roads. there was this unseen elegance to you that only he could capture. he thinks you’re prettier when his eyes are a bit dazy and all he can make out properly is you.

you decide you kinda like him drunk when he’s whispering compliments into your ear while he’s hunched over your back as you open the door. he’s sweeter when he’s pressing drunk kisses against the expanse of your cheeks and neck. but ultimately, you were surprised when he tugged at the soft swells of your cheeks when you were busying yourself with wiping sweat off his brows.

“you’re pretty,” is what he mumbles against your skin, chapped lips brushing over flushed cheeks as you cradled his head, the other hand grasping onto the glass of water he hadn’t finished yet. 

“thank you.” you muttered in reply, drained from not only the late hour it was but also his incessant and petulant behaviour was maddening when all you wanted to do was wrap yourself in thick duvets.

soon, suna’s tugging you towards the bedroom, his face red when he pushes you against the mattress and bodies you, earning a small groan from your throat which evokes a giggle from him. he shifts up to press his cheek against yours, which was uncommon for him.

you looked towards him quizically,

“just rest.” he mumbles, lips brushing over your cheeks and lips, “i wanna take care of you now.” 

with that, his fingers found their way to the velvety swells of your face, offering you the comfort he somewhat deprived you of. he thought it was cute, the way you’d look up at him with tired, but albeit warm eyes as his fingers massaged into your skin, whispering praise into tired ears until you fell into a deep tranquil.

(can u tell i'm sleepy chat)

please like , reblog or follow if you enjoyed :p © heartmaddie all rights reserved. please do not repost my work

[crispinsphonebook]

“Paradox of the Stars” — An AU

Florian is trying to prevent a terrible disaster from happening by asking Terapagos to help him change the timelines.

Kieran is trying to prevent Florian from becoming seriously hurt as a result of these efforts, a future that Juliana foresaw in the reflections on the walls of Area Zero.

Two stars meet in the night sky, forever at odds with one another, forever searching for each other, fated to collide.

——————————————————————————————————

I promised I would drop some more lore about my AU in the future, so here we go! This is an AU where Florian never lied to Kieran — which caused some massive timeline changes. Florian and Kieran are on good terms with each other and attend Blueberry Academy together. All is going well, and the two of them are even invited to assist Ms. Briar with her research about Terapagos. One day, Juliana arrives at the BBA with a desperate warning about a future event she saw together with Koraidon and Miraidon in Area Zero — one where Florian is put in great danger. Kieran becomes fearful about losing his best friend (and crush) and begins to train to become strong enough to protect Florian, even becoming BBA Champion in the process. While all of this happens, Florian remains focused on the foreshadowing of a terrible upcoming disaster in the Scarlet and Violet Books, planning to reach Terapagos and change the timelines to prevent everyone from becoming hurt. In a race against fate and a fight against time, the future and the past loom over everyone in Paldea and beyond as the timelines become as paradoxical as the fates that the stars spell for Florian, Kieran, and everyone in the world of Pokémon.

My original post about this AU is here!

Thanks for reading the description all the way down here! My ask inbox is open, so if you have any questions about the lore behind this AU, please feel free to ask! I’ll do my best to answer and accompany answers with a doodle!

Wooden texture is from Unsplash.