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Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (9/15)

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @mauvecherie-writes @a-moment-captured @yeea-nah @lovebittenbyevans @alika-4466 @saintslewis @cherry2stems @liamundi @trinitoldyouso @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @httpsserene @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @xoscar03 @saturnville @weetjy @pinkcatcus @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @vile-harlot @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @destinyg237 @niahxo @purplelewlew @ffenthusiastt

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 9: New Horizons

Rorie stood in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the sleek Tommy Hilfiger outfit she was wearing for the promotional photoshoot. The partnership felt like a breath of fresh air amidst the recent turmoil. She smoothed down the crisp white blouse, tucked neatly into tailored navy trousers, a look that perfectly blended sophistication with her signature laid-back style.

"You look stunning, Rorie," the photographer called out. Rorie smiled, ready to face the cameras.

This shoot in the Culver City studio was the final piece of her campaign with Tommy Hilfiger. Most of the work had been done in New York a few weeks back - a whirlwind three days of shooting on the bustling streets of Manhattan, in Central Park, and atop a skyscraper with the city skyline as a backdrop. Those images had captured the essence of the brand's urban chic aesthetic, with Rorie as the perfect embodiment of modern, dynamic womanhood.

Today's shoot was for some additional lifestyle shots - casual moments that showed off the versatility of the collection. Rorie moved through a series of poses, from lounging on a minimalist sofa to standing by floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft California light adding a warm glow to each frame.

Between shots, Rorie chatted with the styling team, discussing the collection and her excitement about the partnership. It felt good to focus on her career, to have something positive to pour her energy into after the recent drama. And speaking of it, Deja finally managed to shut her mouth and stay off of social media.

That bitch needs her ass whooped...maybe I should've let KiKi drag her.

A couple of days ago, many of her good friends, KiKi being one of them, came to her defense and even threatened to hunt Deja down and let her reap the consequences of spreading lies, but as usual, Rorie was above the nonsense, and decided against it. Unfortunately, the damage from Deja was already done, and making things worse was not ideal, especially for her lawyers. A mixture of messages, ranging from support to vitriol continued to arrive daily in her comments and DM's, so much so that she had to disable both to safeguard her mental wellbeing.

All in all, work and home life was a welcomed - and needed - distraction from all of the bullshit.

"That's a wrap!" the director called out after a few hours. Rorie let out a small sigh of relief. As much as she enjoyed modeling, it was always intense work.

As she changed back into her own clothes, her phone buzzed with a message from Lewis:

Dinner with Fred Vasseur tonight. Big news. Love you.

Rorie's heart raced. She knew what this dinner could mean - a potential move to Ferrari for Lewis. It was exciting and terrifying all at once.

Later that evening, Rorie and Lewis arrived at Spago, Wolfgang Puck's flagship restaurant in Beverly Hills. As they approached the table, Fred Vasseur and his wife, Marie-Laure, stood to greet them.

"Lewis!" Fred exclaimed, embracing Lewis warmly and kissing him on both cheeks. "And the lovely Rorie," he continued, offering her the same warm greeting.

Marie-Laure followed suit, her elegant perfume wafting as she leaned in to kiss Rorie's cheeks. "It's wonderful to see you both," she said with a genuine smile.

As they settled into their seats, the sommelier approached, and after a brief consultation, Fred ordered a bottle of Château Margaux. "To celebrate old times and new beginnings," he said with a wink.

They then perused the menu, and the conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from Lewis's recent races to Rorie's upcoming partnership with Tommy Hilfiger.

"I can't wait to see some of the campaign photos," Marie-Laure commented. "You'll bring such vitality to the brand."

Rorie's cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. "Thank you. It's been an exciting project to work on."

After their appetizers were cleared away, Fred leaned in, his eyes twinkling with excitement. "So, Lewis," he began, swirling his glass of wine. "How would you feel about wearing red in 2025?"

Lewis glanced at Rorie, who nodded encouragingly. She could see the spark of excitement in his eyes, but also a hint of hesitation.

"I've been thinking," Lewis began, his voice thoughtful. "I've been with Mercedes for so long, and Toto has been incredible. But we haven't been winning races or championships lately, and I'm not getting any younger."

Fred nodded understandingly. "We know it's a big decision, Lewis. But we believe Ferrari can give you the car to claim those additional World Driver's Championships before you retire."

Lewis leaned forward, his expression serious. "If I come to Ferrari, I want to do more than just drive. I want to implement DEI trainings, make the team more inclusive, like I did at Mercedes."

"Absolutely," Fred agreed enthusiastically. "We've been impressed by your work off the track as much as on it. Your vision aligns perfectly with where we want to take Ferrari."

Rorie watched the exchange with pride, seeing Lewis's passion for both racing and social change shine through.

"It's not just about the championships," Lewis continued. "It's about leaving a lasting impact on the sport and the team."

Marie-Laure smiled warmly. "And that's exactly why we want you, Lewis. Your influence extends far beyond the racetrack."

As the main course arrived, they delved deeper into the details - the contract terms, the vision for the future, and the potential impact Lewis could have on the team culture.

By the time dessert was served, the foundations of a deal were firmly in place. As they said their goodbyes, with promises to finalize everything in the coming weeks, Rorie felt a mix of emotions washing over her. This move would be huge for Lewis's career and his broader goals, opening up new opportunities and challenges.

The drive back to their Malibu home was quiet, the usual LA traffic surprisingly light. Lewis held Rorie's hand tightly as he navigated the nighttime streets, the city's lights twinkling around them. Despite the silence, Rorie could sense the nervous energy still bubbling within Lewis. His thumb absently traced circles on her hand, a telltale sign of his racing thoughts.

Once home, they relieved Nina and settled in the backyard, watching the waves crash against the beach in the distance. The rhythmic sound of the ocean provided a soothing backdrop to their conversation.

"It's a big change," Rorie said softly, breaking the silence.

Lewis nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "It is. But it feels right, you know? A new challenge, a chance to make a real difference."

They talked about the potential move to Ferrari, the excitement and the apprehension intertwining in their words. The conversation then shifted to the ongoing situation with Deja.

"I still can't believe she did this," Lewis said, shaking his head.

Rorie sighed. "I know. And even though KiKi wants to fight Deja, she's still acting weird herself."

"What do you mean?"

"Tia told me that KiKi's back with her ex," Rorie replied hesitantly.

Lewis's brow furrowed. "Khalil?" When Rorie nodded, he let out a frustrated groan. "I thought she was done with him. What about Miles?"

Rorie leaned into Lewis's side. "Apparently, Miles was trying to move things into more serious territory, and KiKi got scared. Tia thinks it's because of her low self-esteem, and how Khalil never wanted to commit to her before."

"So she's falling back into old patterns," Lewis mused.

"Yeah. The girls and I are planning to talk to her about it. Kind of like an intervention, I guess."

Lewis chuckled softly. "Sounds intense. But necessary, probably."

Rorie nodded. "And... I think we both need to apologize to KiKi too. For placing suspicion on her. I feel so bad that we did that."

Lewis was quiet for a moment before agreeing. "You're right. We haven't been the best friends we could be." He pressed a kiss to his wife's temple. "Whatever comes next, we've got this," he murmured.

Rorie smiled, snuggling closer to him. "Together," she agreed, as the waves continued their endless dance with the shore.

The next few days went by quickly. With the Las Vegas Grand Prix approaching, Rorie found herself juggling preparations for an Almave pop-up bar during race weekend alongside her usual responsibilities. Managing multiple homes at once was proving to be a Herculean task. Their London house was undergoing renovations, with Lewis's brother Nicolas supervising the work. Her family was currently at their Colorado home, where she'd just hired a new housekeeper. The Monaco penthouse needed attention, and of course, there was their Malibu home to consider.

Rorie sighed as she thought about Luisa, their Malibu housekeeper, who'd been sick lately and rather short in their conversations. She made a mental note to send over a care package. As she juggled all these balls, along with her growing list of campaigns and ambassadorships, Rorie couldn't help but wish she were an octopus, with enough arms to handle everything at once.

"I really need to consider hiring a personal assistant," she muttered to herself as she confirmed yet another appointment.

Amidst all this, Rorie found solace in quiet moments at home with Lyric and Roscoe. Watching Lyric toddle after Roscoe, giggling with delight, Rorie felt content, which made her upcoming OB/GYN appointment all the more significant.

The day of the appointment soon arrived, and Rorie found herself in Dr. Chen's office. The waiting room was a vibrant space, with walls painted in soothing shades of blue and green. Colorful artwork adorned the walls, interspersed with framed photographs of smiling babies - all delivered by Dr. Chen herself. Soft background music and the gentle burble of a small fountain in the corner was a nice touch of calmness, and a refreshment station offered water, herbal teas, and fresh fruit, adding to the welcoming atmosphere.

In one corner, a play area was set up with soft foam mats and an array of toys. Lyric immediately gravitated towards it, joining a couple of other children in stacking blocks and rolling toy cars. Rorie and Lewis settled into the plush chairs, watching their son play.

"He's getting so big," Lewis murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice.

Rorie nodded, squeezing his hand. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

Lewis nodded, his eyes soft as he watched their son. "Do you think he's ready to be a big brother?"

Rorie considered for a moment. "I think so. He's been so gentle with younger kids at playgroup. We'll need to prepare him, though."

"Maybe we could start reading him books about being a big brother," Lewis suggested. "And involve him in setting up the nursery when the time comes."

"That's a great idea," Rorie agreed. "We should also make sure to give him extra attention, so he doesn't feel left out."

Their conversation was interrupted as a nurse in cheerful floral scrubs called their name. "Hamilton family?" she said with a warm smile.

Lewis stood, scooping up Lyric who protested leaving his new playmates. "Come on, little man," Lewis said, settling Lyric on his hip.

The nurse led them down a corridor lined with more baby photos and inspirational quotes about parenthood. "He's adorable," she commented, grinning at Lyric. "How old is he now?"

"Sixteen months," Rorie replied proudly.

"Oh, a big boy!" the nurse said, smiling at Lyric. "Are you being good to your Mommy and Daddy?"

"Say 'no'," Lewis joked, lightly pinching his son's cheek and causing the nurse to laugh.

They entered Dr. Chen's office, which was just as inviting as the waiting room. Soft, natural light filtered through gauzy curtains, and potted plants added a touch of nature to the space. The examination table was draped with a colorful, patterned cloth, making it look less clinical.

Dr. Chen greeted them warmly, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. "How are we all doing today?" she asked, giving Lyric a little wave. As Rorie settled onto the examination table, Lewis sat nearby with Lyric on his lap. "And how have you been feeling, Rorie?"

"I've been feeling pretty good," Rorie replied. "A bit nauseous in the mornings, and I've had some weird cravings."

Dr. Chen nodded, making notes. "And you took a home pregnancy test, correct?"

"Yes, it was positive," Rorie confirmed, hope evident in her voice.

Dr. Chen began the ultrasound, and the room fell silent. Lewis held Rorie's hand tightly, his thumb tracing soothing circles on her skin. They both watched the screen intently, hope and anxiety mingling in the air.

As the minutes ticked by, Dr. Chen's brow furrowed in concentration. She moved the wand, checking different angles, her expression growing more concerned. Finally, she set down the wand with a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry," she said gently, "but I'm not detecting a heartbeat. It appears to have been a false positive."

Disbelief etched on her face. "But... I've been feeling nauseous. I've had cravings. I haven't had my period..."

Dr. Chen's voice was compassionate as she explained, "Sometimes, stress can mimic pregnancy symptoms. Given everything that's been happening in your life recently, it's possible that stress is the cause of these symptoms."

Rorie fell silent and her heart sank, tears welling up in her eyes as she processed the information. Lewis, sensing her withdrawal, spoke up. "What are our options moving forward, Dr. Chen?"

Dr. Chen's tone was gentle but optimistic as she replied, "We still have two embryos frozen from your previous IVF cycle. If you're ready, we could discuss trying IVF again."

She went on to explain the process in detail, outlining the steps, potential risks, and success rates. Throughout the explanation, she maintained a tone of gentle encouragement, emphasizing that there were still possibilities ahead.

As Dr. Chen finished speaking, she offered them a moment alone. "Take all the time you need," she said softly, before stepping out of the room.

In the quiet that followed, Lewis enveloped Rorie in a tight embrace, Lyric nestled between them. Rorie clung to him, still processing the news. As her initial shock began to subside, she looked down at Lyric, who was watching them with curious eyes. Tears began to fall freely down Rorie's cheeks, her body shaking with quiet sobs.

Lyric, sensing his mother's distress, reached out a tiny hand and placed it gently on Rorie's wet cheek. The innocent gesture of comfort broke something inside her.

"Oh, my sweet baby," Rorie whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. She pulled Lyric closer, crying into his soft curls. Between sobs, Rorie turned to Lewis. "I'm so sorry," she managed to say, her words muffled and broken.

Lewis shook his head, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It's okay, love. It's not your fault," he said softly, wrapping his arms around both Rorie and Lyric. "Remember what Dr. Chen said? These things happen, and we still have options." He pressed a kiss to her temple, his voice steady and reassuring. "I love you, Rorie. We'll get through this together, I promise."

Rorie nodded, unable to speak through her tears but drawing comfort from Lewis's words and the warmth of her family's embrace. Lyric, not fully understanding but instinctively offering comfort, snuggled closer to his mother.

In that moment, surrounded by the love of her husband and son, Rorie felt a glimmer of hope through her grief. The path ahead was uncertain, but she wasn't walking it alone.

As they prepared to leave, Rorie found her voice again. "Maybe we should take some time to think about the IVF," she said quietly. "We have a lot going on right now."

Lewis nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Of course, love. We'll take it one day at a time."

The neon lights of Las Vegas blazed against the night sky, casting a surreal glow over the city as it prepared for its inaugural Grand Prix. Lewis stood on the balcony of his suite at the Wynn, taking in the spectacle below. The energy was electric, but Lewis felt oddly disconnected from it all.

His mind wandered to Rorie, back in Colorado with Lyric. She had been withdrawn since their visit to Dr. Chen, the false positive pregnancy test hitting her harder than either of them had anticipated. Lewis had encouraged her to sit this race weekend out, to focus on her mental health, but her absence left a palpable void.

The news had been tough on him too. He'd allowed himself to imagine their family growing, Lyric becoming a big brother. But as Dr. Chen had gently reminded them, they still had options. Two frozen embryos waited, a possibility for the future. Yet, Lewis knew the decision to try again had to be Rorie's.

Shaking off his melancholy, Lewis headed down to the lobby where his best friend, Miles, was waiting. The Vegas strip was awash with Formula 1 fever. Billboards flashed with images of drivers, including the debut of Lewis's own Fortnite skin. Rorie's Tommy Hilfiger campaign was also debuting this weekend, her face gracing billboards throughout the city.

Lewis had reluctantly attended the Almave pop-up earlier, putting on a brave face for the cameras despite his heavy heart. Now, he and Miles made their way to Delilah, the Art Deco-inspired supper club within the Wynn.

As they settled into their booth, Miles studied his friend's face. "How's Rorie doing?"

Lewis paused, his fingers tracing the rim of his water glass. "It's been tough," he admitted. "She's withdrawn, barely talking. I don't know how to reach her sometimes."

"And how are you holding up?" Miles pressed gently.

Lewis's composure cracked, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm trying to be strong for her, but man, it's hard. We wanted this so badly."

Miles reached across the table, squeezing Lewis's shoulder supportively as his friend wiped away tears.

As their meal progressed, Lewis opened up more about the pressures he was facing - the lawsuit, Rorie's father reaching out, and the potential move to Ferrari.

"He says he's going to be here this weekend, and wants to talk again," Lewis said, his voice tight with frustration. "I just… I don't know how to handle all of this."

Miles listened intently, offering words of support and gentle advice. "Have you thought about going back to therapy?" he suggested. "It sounds like you're carrying a lot, bro."

Lewis shook his head. "I can't right now. I need to be there for Rorie, for Lyric. They need me to be strong."

Miles leaned forward, his expression serious. "Lewis, listen to me. You can't pour from an empty cup. You need to take care of yourself too. Rorie would want that."

As they were leaving the restaurant, a familiar face caught Lewis's eye. Deja stood near the bar, her gaze locking onto him.

"Lewis," she called out, her voice carrying a mix of anger and hurt.

Lewis tensed, his bodyguards immediately alert. "Deja, I have nothing to say to you."

"Of course you don't," she scoffed. "But I have plenty to say. Like how you're letting Rorie play the victim when she's the one who stole you from me."

Lewis's brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"New Orleans, 2017. All-Star weekend," Deja spat. "We met at the club, danced, kissed. You promised me we'd be together! You said I was special!"

Lewis shook his head, genuinely perplexed. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember. I was partying a lot back then. If we did hook up, I apologize, but it was just that - a hookup."

Deja's face contorted with rage. "Just a hookup? You know what, Lewis? I'm glad I met with The Sun's PI. The truth is finally coming out, and I couldn't be happier. You think you can just use people and forget about them?"

"Deja, I—" Lewis started, but she cut him off.

"No, you listen! You ruined my life, and now I'm going to return the favor. You and that bitch Rorie deserve each other! I'm going to make your life miserable!"

Lewis's bodyguards stepped in, creating a barrier between them as the situation escalated. "We need to go, sir," one of them urged.

As they hustled Lewis and Miles out of the restaurant, Deja's angry shouts echoed behind them. "You're a liar, Lewis Hamilton! This is just the beginning!"

In the elevator, Lewis leaned against the wall, his jaw clenched. "I can't believe this," he muttered, then slammed his fist against the elevator wall. "Damn it!"

Miles watched his friend, concern etched on his face. "Talk to me, bro. What's going through your head?"

Lewis ran a hand over his face, frustration evident in every movement. "I'm trying to make sense of it all. All-Star weekend 2017... that was a year before I even met Rorie. Why is Deja so hung up on this?" He paced the small space of the elevator. "I mean, I partied a lot back then, sure. But promising someone we'd be together? That doesn't sound like me, even at my wildest. I'm trying to remember that weekend, but it's all a blur."

Miles shrugged his shoulders. "The bitch is crazy, bro. Don't try to rationalize delusion."

Lewis shook his head, still trying to piece together fragments of memories. "But what if there's some truth to it? What if I did something I don't remember?"

"Look," Miles said firmly, placing both hands on Lewis's shoulders to stop his pacing. "Even if something did happen - which I doubt - it was years ago. You weren't with Rorie then. You didn't do anything wrong."

The elevator dinged as they reached their floor. As the doors opened, Lewis took a deep breath, his mind still racing. "You're right. I just... I hate that this is happening now, with everything else going on."

Miles nodded sympathetically. "I know, man. But we'll figure this out. One step at a time, remember?"

"One step at a time."

As they stepped out into the hallway, Lewis felt a mix of emotions - anger at Deja's accusations, confusion about the past, and a deep longing for Rorie and the simplicity of being with his family.

-------------------------------------------------------

This was not his weekend. At all.

Lewis stared at his phone, scrolling through the TMZ article that had somehow materialized overnight. The drama with Deja at Delilah had made its way to the gossip mill, complete with blurry photos and sensationalized headlines.

His dad had left several texts and voicemails, rightfully upset about what had happened. Lewis sighed, knowing he'd have to deal with that conversation soon. But for now, he was grateful that there were no messages from Rorie. The last thing she needed was this added stress.

His Twitter notifications were exploding, a mix of support and criticism flooding his mentions:

@F1Fan2023: "Lewis, stay strong! We know the truth is on your side. #TeamLH" @GossipQueen88: "First the lawsuit, now this? What's really going on with Lewis Hamilton? 👀" @RacingEnthusiast: "Focus on the track, Lewis. Let your driving do the talking. #LasVegasGP"

As he made his way to the paddock, Lewis tried to push the social media noise out of his mind. He had a race to focus on, after all. The Las Vegas strip was alive with fans crowding the streets and celebrities flocking to the various events.

Just as Lewis thought he might be able to lose himself in the pre-race routines, he spotted a familiar figure approaching. Martin, Rorie's father, was making his way through the paddock.

"This motherfucker," Lewis muttered under his breath, bracing himself for the encounter.

"Lewis," Martin called out, his voice tentative but determined. "I need to talk to you about Rorie. She's not answering my calls again."

Lewis exhaled heavily. "Martin, now is really not a good time."

"I know about the lawsuit," Martin pressed on. "I want to help. I have resources—"

"It's not just that," Lewis cut him off, then paused. He shouldn't be saying this, but the words tumbled out anyway. "We've been trying to have another baby. We just got some tough news from our OB/GYN. Rorie's… she's struggling right now."

Martin's face fell. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"

"Thanks, but no thanks," Lewis said, turning away.

"Lewis, wait," Martin called after him. "I know I've gone about this all wrong, but I genuinely want a relationship with Rorie and my grandson. Her half-siblings, they want to know her too."

Lewis paused, conflicting emotions battling within him. He understood the desire for family, but his priority was protecting Rorie and Lyric.

"Look, Martin," he said finally, turning back. "I hear you. But this has to be Rorie's decision. And right now, she needs space. Can you respect that?"

Martin nodded slowly, a mix of disappointment and understanding on his face. "I can. Just… tell her I'm here when she's ready?"

Lewis gave a curt nod before walking away, his mind already racing ahead to the challenges of the day. As he reached for his balaclava, his phone buzzed with a text from Julian in all caps:

CALL ME NOW.

Moving to the back of the garage for privacy, Lewis dialed Julian's number.

"Julian, what's going on?"

"Lewis, we've identified the inside source giving Deja information," Julian said, his voice tense. "It's Luisa."

"What the fuck, man?" Lewis exploded, lowering his voice as he glanced around. "This fucking weekend is cursed."

Shit, maybe I need to douse myself in holy water.

"It'll be okay, Lewis." Julian tried to calm him down. "I'm preparing to file a motion to have her arrested—"

"No, don't do that," Lewis cut in. "Luisa has two kids. We can't…"

"What do you want me to do then?" Julian asked, frustration evident in his voice. "This is serious, Lewis. She invaded your privacy."

Lewis took a deep breath. "I'll handle it after the race. For now, just… keep this under wraps, okay?"

As he ended the call, Lewis felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. Between the race, the media circus, and the family drama, this Vegas weekend was turning out to be more complicated than he could have ever imagined.

Lewis took a deep breath, trying to center himself amidst the chaos swirling around him. The garage buzzed with pre-race activity, mechanics fine-tuning the car, team members hurrying back and forth with last-minute adjustments.

He pulled on his balaclava, the familiar routine offering a small comfort. As he reached for his helmet, Toto approached, concern etched on his face.

"Lewis, are you alright?" Toto asked, his voice low. "I've heard about the... incident last night."

Lewis nodded, grateful for Toto's discretion. "I'm managing. Just focused on the race now."

Toto placed a supportive hand on Lewis's shoulder. "Remember, we're here for you. Whatever you need."

As Lewis made his way to the car, he caught sight of Fred Vasseur in the paddock. Their eyes met briefly, and Fred gave him a subtle nod of encouragement. The potential move to Ferrari suddenly felt like it belonged to a different lifetime.

Settling into the cockpit, Lewis allowed himself a moment of calm. The familiar smell of rubber and fuel, the snug fit of the seat – it all helped to ground him. Here, in this space, he was just a driver. No drama, no complications. Just him and the track.

The radio crackled to life. "Lewis, how are you feeling? Car okay?"

Bono's voice made the corners of Lewis' lips quirk into a small smile. Although the car was still shit, at least it was somewhat better than the current reality of his life.

"All good," Lewis responded, his voice steady. "Let's do this."

"Alright, mate, whenever you're ready."

He pulled out of the garage for the formation lap, revving his engine as his mind began to clear. The neon lights of Vegas, the drama with Deja, the situation with Luisa, even the heartache over the false pregnancy – it all faded into the background.

For now, there was only the race. The grip of the tires on asphalt and the thrill of pushing machine and man to their limits. As the lights went out and Lewis launched off the line, he felt a familiar surge of adrenaline.

Let's fucking go.

The crisp November air of Colorado bit at Rorie's cheeks as she stood on the balcony of their secluded home. The Rockies stretched out before her, their peaks already blanketed in snow, the evergreens dotting the landscape providing the only splashes of color against the white and gray backdrop. It was a view that usually brought her peace, but today, it felt more like a beautiful, wintry prison.

Lyric's laughter drifted from inside, where he was playing with Aaliyah. Rorie pulled her thick cardigan tighter around herself, grateful for her sister's presence; it provided a welcome distraction from the tumultuous thoughts swirling in her mind.

She glanced at her phone, notifications muted but the screen still lighting up periodically with incoming messages. The early sunset of late autumn had already painted the sky in deep purples and oranges. She knew she should check her messages, knew that Lewis was probably worried, but she couldn't bring herself to face the outside world just yet.

The news from Dr. Chen still felt raw, a constant ache in her chest. Each time she saw Lyric, bundled up in his winter clothes, a bittersweet mix of love and longing washed over her. He was growing so fast, and the thought that he might remain their only child brought a fresh wave of pain.

Rorie's eyes drifted to the mountain horizon again, where the first stars were beginning to appear in the clear, cold sky. She'd come here to find peace, to escape the pressure and drama that had been building back in L.A. But even here, in this beautiful winter sanctuary, she couldn't outrun her own thoughts.

Throughout the day, Rorie thought about her husband and his race in Vegas. When the final results came in, she felt a mix of emotions - pride in Lewis's efforts, but also disappointment at his P7 finish. Part of her felt guilty for not being there to support him, but another part was relieved to be away from the spotlight. The lawsuit, her biological father's attempts to reconnect, the constant scrutiny – it all felt overwhelming.

"Rorie?" Aaliyah's voice called from inside. "Lyric's asking for you. And it's getting cold out there!"

Taking a deep breath of the pine-scented air, Rorie turned from the view and headed back inside to the warmth of the house. As she scooped up her son, feeling his warmth through his soft sweater, she felt a small spark of hope ignite within her. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she had this – the love of her family, the strength she knew resided within her.

"Mama," Lyric babbled, patting her cheek.

"I'm here, baby," Rorie murmured, holding him close. "Mama's here."

She settled on the couch with Lyric, and Aaliyah joined them, draping a warm throw over their laps. Rorie allowed herself this moment of peace, surrounded by the love of her family and the quiet strength of the snow-covered mountains.

Rorie heard the soft murmur of voices from the kitchen. Her mother, Marian, and stepfather Greg were preparing dinner, the comforting aroma of homemade stew filling the air.

"How're you holding up, sweetie?" Aaliyah asked, settling beside them and tucking the throw around their legs.

Rorie sighed, bouncing Lyric gently on her knee. "I'm... managing. It's just a lot, you know?"

Aaliyah nodded sympathetically. "I can't even imagine. But we're all here for you, Ror. You know that, right?"

Before Rorie could respond, Marian entered the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Dinner's almost ready, girls. Rorie, honey, have you checked on Lewis?"

Rorie shook her head, a twinge of guilt passing through her. "Not yet, Mom. I just... I needed some time."

Marian sat down on the armchair across from them, her eyes filled with concern. "I understand, baby. But remember, you two are a team. Don't shut him out."

Greg appeared in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. "Your mother's right, Rorie. And speaking of shutting people out, there were at least a dozen paparazzi camped outside our house this morning. Mrs. Weatherly said it's still a circus back there."

As much as she was nosy, Mrs. Weatherly, her parents' elderly neighbor, was still a good person and kept them updated about everything.

Rorie groaned, burying her face in Lyric's braids. "I'm so sorry you guys got dragged into this mess."

"Hey, none of that," Greg said firmly, moving to sit on the arm of Marian's chair. "We're family. Your battles are our battles."

"That's right," Marian added. "And we'll face them together, just like we always have."

Lyric, sensing the tension in the room, began to fuss. Rorie stood up, bouncing him gently. "Shh, it's okay, baby. Mama's got you."

As she paced the room, soothing Lyric, Aaliyah spoke up. "Have you thought about what you're going to do about... everything? The lawsuit, Martin trying to make contact..."

Rorie paused by the window, looking out at the snow-covered landscape. "Honestly? I don't know. It all feels so overwhelming sometimes."

"One step at a time, honey," Marian said softly. "You don't have to figure it all out at once."

Greg nodded in agreement. "And whatever you decide, we've got your back. All of us."

Rorie felt a lump form in her throat, touched by the unwavering support of her family. "Thanks, you guys. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Just then, the timer in the kitchen went off. "That'll be the cornbread," Greg said, standing up. "I'll go grab it."

As he left the room, Marian turned to Rorie. "Why don't you go freshen up before dinner? I'll take Lyric."

Rorie hesitated for a moment before handing Lyric over to her mother. As she headed upstairs, she paused at the landing, looking back at her family gathered in the living room. Despite everything, she felt a surge of gratitude.

In her room, Rorie finally picked up her phone. Several missed calls and messages from Lewis, all expressing love and concern. Taking a deep breath, she typed out a message:

I'm okay. We're okay. Call you later. Love you.

As she hit send, Rorie felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders. Rorie descended the stairs, and the rich aroma of Greg's famous cornbread filled the air, mingling with the hearty scent of the stew. The sound of Lyric's giggles echoed from the kitchen, bringing a small smile to her face.

She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene before her. Marian was at the stove, stirring the stew with one hand while balancing Lyric on her hip. Greg was carefully cutting the cornbread, while Aaliyah placed items in the dishwasher.

"There you are," Marian said, noticing Rorie. "Feel better?"

Rorie nodded, moving to take Lyric from her mother. "Yeah, I do. Thanks, Mom."

As they settled in the living room with bowls of steaming stew and plates of Greg's famous cornbread, Greg turned on the TV. The Broncos vs Vikings game was just starting.

"So, Aaliyah," Greg said between bites, "how's that new project at work going?"

As Aaliyah launched into a story about her latest architectural design, Rorie felt herself relaxing. The normalcy of family dinner and football was exactly what she needed.

Greg, ever the Eagles fan, watched the game intently despite neither team being his favorite. "You know," he said during a commercial break, "I'll watch any football game, but it's a bit more interesting now that Lewis is one of the Broncos' owners. Speaking of which, Rorie, does Lewis have any plans for trades? I've got some ideas..."

Rorie couldn't help but laugh, the first genuine chuckle she'd had in days. "Dad, you know Lewis doesn't really deal with trades and that kind of thing, right? But I'll be sure to pass along your suggestions."

Marian rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Greg, leave the poor man alone. I'm sure he's got enough on his plate without your armchair quarterback advice."

As they continued to eat and watch the game, Rorie felt a sense of normalcy wash over her. The warmth of the stew, the comfort of her family, and the familiar sounds of football commentary created a cocoon of safety, if only for a moment.

After dinner and the game, Rorie excused herself to put Lyric to bed. She carried him upstairs, and she could feel the weight of the day settling on her shoulders. In the nursery, she gently changed Lyric into his pajamas, humming softly as she did so.

"Time for sleep, my little love," she whispered, placing him in his crib. Lyric gazed up at her with heavy-lidded eyes, his tiny hand reaching out to grasp her finger.

As she tucked him in, she whispered, "Daddy did his best today, baby. We're always proud of him, aren't we?" Lyric mumbled something unintelligible in response, already drifting off to sleep. Rorie stood there for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, finding a moment of peace in the simple act of motherhood.

With Lyric settled, Rorie retreated to her room, closing the door softly behind her. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone for a long moment before finally dialing Lewis's number. Her heart raced as it rang once, twice...

He picked up on the second ring. "Hey, babe," his voice was tired but warm, instantly soothing her frayed nerves.

"Hi," Rorie said softly, curling up against the headboard. "Tough race today, huh?"

Lewis sighed, and she could almost see him running a hand over his face as he often did when frustrated. "Yeah, not our best. The car just didn't have the pace we needed. Felt like I was fighting it the whole time."

"You did your best, though. That's what matters," Rorie assured him.

"Thanks, love. But that's not even the half of it. Rorie, I need to tell you something, and it's... well, it's not good."

Rorie felt her stomach tighten. "What is it?"

He proceeded to recount his encounter with Deja at Delilah, describing the heated exchange and her claims about their supposed history. Rorie listened, her free hand clenching the bedsheet as Lewis spoke.

"She was yelling about how we met in New Orleans during All-Star weekend in 2017, saying I promised her things. I swear, Rorie, I don't remember any of it. If something did happen, it was just a hookup, nothing more."

Rorie took a deep breath, trying to process this information. "I believe you, Lewis. But why is she doing this now? After all this time?"

"I don't know," Lewis admitted, frustration evident in his voice. "She seems convinced that you 'stole' me from her or something. It's crazy, Rorie. We hadn't even met in 2017."

Rorie's mind raced. "Do you think she's just looking for attention? Or is there more to it?"

"I wish I knew. But there's more, and this... this is going to be hard to hear."

Rorie braced herself. "What is it?"

"Julian called me today. He found out who's been leaking information to Deja."

"Who?" Rorie asked, dreading the answer.

"It's Luisa," Lewis said, his voice heavy.

Rorie gasped, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of her. "Our housekeeper? But why would she— How could she—"

"I don't know," Lewis cut in, his own voice tight with emotion. "I told Julian not to do anything drastic. We'll figure it out when I get back. I just can't believe someone we trusted would do this to us."

Rorie felt tears welling up in her eyes. "I trusted her with Lyric, Lewis. She's been in our home, with our son... Oh God, what if she—"

"Hey, hey," Lewis soothed, "Lyric is safe. He's there with you and your family. We'll sort this out, I promise. We'll make sure he stays safe."

Rorie nodded, even though Lewis couldn't see her, wiping away a stray tear. "You're right. He's safe. We're safe."

There was a pause before Lewis continued, "Oh, and there's one more thing. My parents are planning to come to Colorado. They want to be there for us, with everything that's going on."

Rorie felt a wave of emotion wash over her. "That's... that's really sweet of them. When are they coming?"

"They're trying to get flights for tomorrow. Is that okay? I know it's a lot with everything else..."

"No, it's perfect," Rorie said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "I think having them here will help. Your mom always knows how to make things better."

Lewis chuckled softly. "That she does. How's Lyric doing?"

Rorie smiled, glancing at the baby monitor. "He's good. Missing his daddy, but good. He loved watching you race today. Kept pointing at the TV and saying 'Dada fast!'"

"I miss him too. Both of you. God, Rorie, I wish I was there with you right now."

"I know. Me too. But you'll be home soon, right?"

"Late tomorrow, I promise. Look, I know it's a lot to process. But we'll get through this together, okay? We always do. I love you, Rorie. You and Lyric are everything to me."

"We love you too," Rorie said, her voice thick with emotion. "Come home soon. We need you here."

"I will. Try to get some rest, okay? And Rorie?"

"Yeah?"

"We've got this. Together."

As they said their goodbyes, Rorie felt a mix of anxiety and determination. She lay back on the bed, her mind racing with everything Lewis had told her, but also feeling a glimmer of hope. Whatever came next, they would face it as a family. Rorie closed her eyes, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, she allowed herself to find comfort in the love of her husband and the peace of knowing their son slept safely nearby.

KiKi sat in her car, parked a few blocks away from the trendy café where Deja was holding court with a group of her friends. Her fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel as she watched Deja through the tinted windows. It was supposed to be a casual surveillance, but the longer KiKi sat there, the more her frustration simmered.

Deja had been a thorn in Rorie’s side for too long, and KiKi had been watching her closely, waiting for the right moment to strike. She’d seen Deja run her mouth to anyone who would listen, stirring up more drama, and generally making Rorie’s life hell. KiKi’s loyalty to Rorie ran deep, and the thought of Deja continuing to cause problems made her blood boil.

When Rorie had told her not to beat Deja’s ass, KiKi had nodded, promising to stay cool. But Rorie hadn’t said anything about not finding someone else to do it, and KiKi had taken that as a green light. Enter her cousin’s boyfriend’s sister, Nyla. Nyla was a wild card, known for handling business in a way that left no room for misunderstandings. KiKi had mentioned Deja’s antics to her in passing, and Nyla had practically volunteered for the job on the spot.

As KiKi sat there, her phone buzzed with a new message. She glanced down at the screen and saw it was from Nyla, who was already on the move:

On my way. Got the address. Bitch won’t know what hit her.

KiKi smirked, feeling a sense of satisfaction. Nyla wasn’t one to play around, and KiKi trusted her to send a clear message. Deja had been playing with fire, and it was time she got burned.

KiKi’s gaze shifted back to Deja, who was laughing loudly, oblivious to the storm heading her way. The woman sitting next to KiKi in the passenger seat, a friend of Nyla’s named Tasha, shifted slightly, adjusting her oversized sunglasses as she leaned back against the seat. Tasha was cool and composed, her sharp eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. Her long braids were neatly pulled back, and she wore a leather jacket that matched her tough, no-nonsense demeanor. Tasha didn’t say much, but when she did, her words carried weight.

"She doesn’t look like much," Tasha remarked, her voice low and steady. "You sure this is the right one?"

KiKi glanced at Tasha, a hint of annoyance in her tone. "Yeah, that’s her. Don’t let the cute face fool you—she’s a snake."

Tasha nodded slowly, taking another look at Deja. "Good thing Nyla doesn’t care what she looks like. She’ll get the job done."

"Damn right," KiKi muttered, her eyes narrowing as Deja tossed her hair and flashed a bright smile at something one of her friends said. "Rorie’s been through enough, and I’m sick of this bitch thinking she can just do whatever she wants."

Tasha didn’t respond, but KiKi could feel her quiet agreement. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that they were about to put an end to Deja’s antics, or at least slow her down. Rorie deserved peace, and if it took a little roughing up to get it, so be it.

KiKi’s phone buzzed again, this time with a simple message:

In position. Ready when you are.

KiKi grinned, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. She fired off a quick reply:

Wait for her to leave. Don’t make a scene.

"Time to move," KiKi said, sliding her phone back into her pocket and starting the car. "Nyla’s got this."

Tasha nodded, her expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. As they drove away, leaving Deja to her fate, KiKi felt a sense of grim satisfaction. She hadn’t laid a finger on Deja, just as Rorie had asked, but she’d made sure the message would be delivered loud and clear.

KiKi’s car rolled smoothly out of the parking spot as she and Tasha headed away from the café. The sense of satisfaction in her chest grew with each passing second. Deja had no idea what was coming, and that was exactly how KiKi wanted it. But as much as she enjoyed the thought of Deja getting what she deserved, there was still work to be done. Loose ends needed to be tied up, and KiKi wasn’t about to let anything trace back to her or, more importantly, Rorie.

She drove to a more secluded area on the outskirts of the city, where Nyla had said she’d meet her after handling business. The rain had picked up again, the rhythmic drumming on the car roof only adding to the tension in the air. After about fifteen minutes, KiKi pulled into an abandoned lot, the dim streetlights casting long shadows over the wet asphalt. Nyla’s car was already there, parked under a flickering light. KiKi parked next to her, and she and Tasha stepped out, the cool night air biting at their skin.

Nyla was leaning against her car, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. Her expression was calm, almost bored, as if she’d just finished running an errand instead of beating someone up in a parking lot, but there was a hard edge in her eyes that KiKi didn’t miss.

"Is it done?" KiKi asked as she approached, her voice low.

Nyla pushed off the car and nodded. "Yeah. the bitch didn’t even see it coming. Got her right as she was about to get into her car. Didn’t take much—she folded quick."

KiKi’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Good. And no one saw you?"

Nyla shrugged. "Even if they did, they won’t talk. But nah, it was clean. Just me, her, and the rain. She’s probably still trying to figure out what hit her."

Tasha chuckled quietly, pulling off her sunglasses now that they were out of the public eye. "Serves her right. Think she’ll back off?"

"She better," KiKi muttered, glancing at Nyla. "But just in case, we need to make sure this doesn’t trace back to us. No loose ends."

Nyla gave a small, dismissive wave. "Don’t worry about that. I made sure she didn’t know who I was. And if she tries to go to the cops, it’ll just look like she got into some random altercation. Ain’t nobody gonna believe her."

KiKi nodded, but her mind was already working through the possibilities, the what-ifs. She wasn’t one to leave anything to chance. "We’ll need to lay low for a bit, just to be safe. If anyone asks, we were nowhere near that café today."

Nyla smirked. "You’re paranoid, but I get it. Don’t worry. I’ve got an alibi, and I’m sure you two do too. We’re good."

KiKi sighed, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. Nyla was right—they were careful, and Deja was too rattled to put the pieces together, especially with the warning Nyla had delivered. Still, KiKi wasn’t one to let her guard down easily.

"Alright," KiKi said, glancing between Nyla and Tasha. "We’ll stick to the plan. If anything comes up, we handle it, but for now, we wait and see how she reacts."

Nyla nodded, pushing her hands deeper into her pockets. "Cool. You know how to reach me if you need anything else. But trust me, she’s not gonna be a problem anymore."

KiKi offered a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Thanks, Nyla. I owe you one."

Nyla shrugged, already heading back to her car with Tasha in tow. "Just doing what needed to be done. Catch you later."

KiKi got back into her car. The drive back to her hotel was silent, the satisfaction of the evening’s events mingling with the ever-present undercurrent of caution. KiKi knew they’d sent a message, but she also knew the game wasn’t over. Deja might be down, but she wasn’t out—and KiKi would be ready if she ever tried to come back for more.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Heart Still Beating - 2 | Lloyd

Character: Lloyd Hansen x Female!Reader

Summary: After the heart transplant, Lloyd, the heartless killer, started to feel something—something unexpected and powerful that was tied to the fiancé of the heart’s donor.

Words Count : 2916

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , End

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Lloyd’s heart suddenly thundered, then clenched painfully. “Urgh!” He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to catch his breath, but as he reached for the wall to steady himself, he slipped. Just before he fell, you caught him, one hand resting firmly against his chest. The pain subsided instantly, like his new heart had quieted under your touch.

He cursed under his breath. Why did the pain vanish when she touched his chest? Was it because of the memories of the heart's previous owner?

It reminded him of a colleague who could only fall asleep after hearing bedtime stories from a woman.

“Damn it,” he muttered, glancing away. “This heart’s making me weak. I can’t even kill anymore.” His voice was bitter, almost disgusted.

This is the first time you hear this kind of problem. Your eyebrows rose, taken aback by his words. "Are you actually saying the heart is stopping you from… killing people?”

Lloyd gave a short, dry laugh, his gaze darkening as he glared at you. “What, you think I asked for this? Your precious fiancé’s heart is in my chest, and it’s ruining me.” He sneered, “Must feel great for you, knowing he’s stuck here, with someone like me.”

Your jaw clenched, pain flashing in your eyes. “How dare you? You don’t deserve his heart. He was—”

Another sharp, pulsing pain hit him, cutting you off as Lloyd’s hand shot to his chest, wincing. “Urgh…” His expression shifted, as if he’d only just realized something. “Fine… fine,” he murmured, almost to himself, forcing his breath steady. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, alright? No more nasty words to her.”

Your eyes narrowed, bewildered. “Are you… talking to yourself?”

Lloyd’s gaze snapped back to you, rolling his eyes. “Think what you want.” Without warning, he took your hand and pressed it over his heart, his gaze unyielding. “Feel that? It’s your fiancé’s heart, beating. For you.”

You froze, your breath catching as you felt the steady thud against your palm. “Justin?” you whispered, tears threatening to spill.

Lloyd’s bitter expression softened as he watched you, something strange and unrecognizable creeping into his eyes. This unwanted melancholy clawed at him, a feeling he’d tried to bury.

You withdrew your hand, blinking back tears as you cleared your throat. “Come in.”

As he walked into your apartment, his eyes fell on the stacks of boxes lining the walls. Fragments of another man’s life, packed away, waiting for their final rest. He picked up a framed photograph: you and a man, both smiling against a backdrop of starlit skies. Justin.

Suddenly, an image flashed in his mind, clear and insistent. He whispered, “Luna.”

Your gaze snapped to him, voice tense. “Why did you say that name?”

He set down the photo, his face unreadable. “I… heard it. In a dream.” His brow furrowed, piecing it together. “It’s what you wanted to name… your baby, isn’t it?”

You glanced down, your hand moving instinctively to your belly as you whispered, “It is. He chose it when we found out she’d be a girl.” Your voice shook as you continued, “If it weren’t for that accident… he’d still be here.”

The mention of the accident sent a dull ache through Lloyd’s chest, something raw yet strangely familiar, though not as sharp as before.

“How did you even find out I was the… patient?” he asked, keeping his tone steady. As a covert agent, he wasn’t easy to track. His life, his work—it all existed in the shadows, far from public records.

Your expression hardened. “I bribed someone at the hospital for the information.” You held his gaze, unflinching.

Lloyd’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking through his hardened demeanor. Maybe you weren’t as innocent as you appeared after all.

After bribing for information, you found yourself following Carmichael, though he didn’t notice right away. When you finally confronted him, the sight of you—especially with your pregnant belly—caught him completely off guard.

Flustered and visibly unsettled, he tried to shake you off, but you raised your voice, not backing down, drawing the attention of several tall, intimidating figures nearby. They were built like Lloyd, all sharp eyes and stone expressions, now watching you with interest.

Finally, one of them approached. “Madam, please come inside.”

He escorted you into the building, leading you through grand halls lined with marble columns and ancient statues, giving the place a regal, castle-like feel. You were taken to a dimly lit room where an elderly man sat, his eyes scanning you from head to toe before shifting to Carmichael with a steely gaze. “Take her to him.”

When you recounted the encounter to Lloyd, he seemed genuinely shocked. “You met the boss?”

You shrugged, a faint smirk at his surprise. “Guess he got sentimental. Something about seeing a single mother… reminded him of his own upbringing.”

Lloyd scoffed, shaking his head. “Old man’s gone soft, I swear.”

Your gaze hardened as you looked at him, “You… you’ve got a second chance here. Don’t waste his heart—it’s not just some toy.”

Lloyd scoffed, shrugging. “What, so I’m supposed to be grateful now?”

Without responding, he turned toward the door, only to pause. His hand froze in mid-reach. You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Shh. It's to quiet.” He raised a finger, then his eyes widened. “Get down!” In one swift move, he yanked you to the floor, shielding you behind a couch, one arm protectively covering your stomach.

A faint breeze brushed past your neck, and with horror, you realized it wasn’t the wind but a bullet—whizzing inches from where you’d been standing.

Lloyd glanced at you, voice urgent. “You’ve got three minutes to hide. Can you get to your room?”

“Y-yeah?” you stammered, caught off guard.

“Good. Move,” he instructed, drawing his gun. You scrambled to your feet, clutching your belly, and darted towards your room.

“Stay put until I say so. Here.” He tossed a phone to you. “Hit number one—they’ll know what it means.”

Heart racing, you fled into the closet, squeezing yourself inside as you dialed the number, hands shaking.

From outside, muffled sounds of movement and sharp, metallic clicks told you the danger was still near. You held your breath as you listened, praying for silence to mean safety.

Meanwhile, Lloyd braced himself, greeting his would-be attackers with a cold, calculating stare. Five men stood before him, poised and armed. “Who sent you?” he demanded.

One of them smirked. “Not your concern.”

They moved in, circling him. Lloyd flexed his grip on his gun, his gaze hard and unyielding. As they lunged, he met them with ruthless efficiency, each blow calculated and relentless. Outnumbered five to one, they clearly underestimated him. He was brutal, merciless, and unrelenting, disarming them one by one.

Yet as they fought, he noticed something strange. They avoided striking his chest, almost like they were purposefully steering clear of it. And none of them seemed eager to land a fatal blow. Why would they hold back?

Lloyd’s frustration ignited into something more—a bloodlust sharper than he’d felt in years. The thought nagged at him: was this intense desire to protect you coming from his own heart? Or Justin’s?

Under his breath, he murmured, “You really did love her, didn’t you?”

In your bedroom, you flinched at every thud and crash, fear twisting your stomach. Silence fell, the air thick with suspense. Had he survived?

Then, the door creaked open, and Lloyd appeared, smirking. “Your savior is here.”

Relief washed over you, and you rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

He extended a hand, helping you to your feet as you steadied yourself, still catching your breath. “Who were they?”

He glanced back at the empty room. The inturders has gone, his gaze dark. “I don’t know. But I know someone who does.”

💘💘💘💘

You and Lloyd now stood face-to-face with Carmichael, the man’s typically composed expression slightly fractured as he glanced between the two of you.

“Are you alright?” Carmichael directed his question to you, his eyes narrowing as if scrutinizing for signs of distress.

You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I’m fine.”

Lloyd scoffed. “Why are you asking her? I’m the one they came after.” He stepped closer, his voice darkening. “Who the hell are they? Some new group making waves?”

Adjusting his glasses, Carmichael replied, “You wouldn’t know them because they operate in an entirely different league.”

“The upper world?” Lloyd’s voice held a dangerous edge.

Carmichael nodded.

“What does that mean?” you asked, casting a nervous glance at Lloyd.

Lloyd didn’t want to tell you, but because of this damn heart he had, he felt compelled to share everything. “To make it simple, my job is in the underworld. I handle deeper, darker things than you could ever imagine. Meanwhile, the upper world is like kindergarten—mafia, gangsters, that kind of people.”

You swallowed, a chill creeping up your spine. “But mafias are still dangerous for people like me.”

Carmichael nodded in agreement. “She’s right. It’s a very real danger for her.” He turned to Lloyd, a strange resignation in his eyes. “They’re Mafia.”

Lloyd’s brow furrowed, a glint of anger flashing across his face. “I’ve got nothing to do with them.”

Carmichael held his silence a beat longer than usual, then said, “What they want is your heart.”

The words hit both you and Lloyd like a bullet. Your eyes widened as you exchanged looks, Lloyd’s jaw going rigid. He scoffed, disbelief giving way to anger. “What makes this heart so special?”

“Their leader needs it,” Carmichael explained, retrieving a file. He opened it, laying down a profile with a photo labeled Mr. Cicadas.

“This group,” he continued, “is an alliance between the Italian and Japanese mafias. And this man—Mr. Cicadas—is the head. The only donor who’s a 100% match is…” He paused, glancing at you with a rare hint of sympathy.

“Justin…” you murmured, your face going pale as the truth clawed its way to the surface. Lloyd saw the shock draining the color from your face and wrapped a steadying arm around you.

Lloyd’s tone was grim. “Let me guess. This heart was meant for him. But you gave it to me. Why?”

Carmichael met his gaze. “Our motto is clear: ‘Kill one person to save millions.’”

Lloyd raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a half-smirk. “So, you wanted this insect guy dead—that’s why I got the heart instead?”

You never imagined your fiancé’s heart could hold such value. “Was that man really so evil?”

Carmichael nodded. “He doesn’t deserve to live. It’s a long story, but let’s just say that your fiancé was too good a man to lose his life to someone like Mr. Cicadas.”

On that day, three people were dying: Mr. Cicadas, who would do anything to stay alive; Justin, who was succumbing to his injuries from the accident; and Lloyd, who had been shot through the heart, unexpectedly accepting his fate. Three dying individuals connected by the same match of a heart.

But for Justin, there was no hope. In his final moments, he wished to donate his organs to help another, embodying a selfless desire to save a life.

Yet there was only one heart for two desperate souls. A heart is incredibly precious to anyone fighting for survival, and Mr. Cicadas didn’t deserve it. The choice became clear: it had to be Lloyd.

You felt your anger rise, bitter words forming before you could stop yourself. “And yet, how is he,” you gestured at Lloyd, “any better?”

“At least he wasn’t the reason your fiancé died.” Carmichael’s words hung in the air, like an accusation you could barely process.

“What?” Your voice cracked. “What did you just say?”

Carmichael’s jaw tensed. “Mr. Cicadas needed a transplant urgently, and your fiancé was the best match—healthy, young, and alive.” He trailed off as he saw the shock turn your expression hollow. “The car accident was planned.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a dark shroud. Your hands instinctively wrapped around your belly as the realization hit: Justin hadn’t died because of some unavoidable tragedy—he’d been hunted, killed, because of someone greeds. You felt the hot sting of tears, your voice quivering with grief. “He didn’t deserve any of this…”

Lloyd, sensing the pain radiating from you, placed a steady hand on your back, his own gaze shadowed by a strange sorrow that he’d not felt in a long time.

“They want it back now,” Lloyd muttered, a dangerous calm settling in his tone.

Carmichael’s mask slipped, revealing a flicker of rage. “That monster should have died when he failed to receive it. But the bastard’s still alive.”

Lloyd looked over in surprise; he’d never heard Carmichael curse, not with this level of disgust. It was clear Mr. Cicadas was worse than he’d imagined, a man who even the darkest operatives wanted dead.

His voice hardened, a quiet resolve in his words. “I have to stay alive, then.”

Carmichael stepped forward, voice low but firm, eyes blazing with determination. “Our boss left one message for you: ‘Do whatever is necessary to stay alive.’”

You gripped your stomach, thinking of Justin. Memories flashed—his warmth, his laugh. His life had been ripped from him, all to satisfy the greed of a man who, by all rights, should have been six feet under. Tears slipped down your cheeks as the truth sunk in, the ache of his loss twisting your heart in ways that words couldn’t convey.

Author's note: I put an Easter egg in this. Do you know which paragraph? 🤭

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[nervoussagittarius]

y/n and chris being the hottest couple for 5 minutes straight

summary: hot moments caught on camera between chris and his girlfriend

warnings: fluff, little suggestive, request

★ you were chris’s biggest supporter, so when he asked you to model for his new fresh love drop the obvious answer was absolutely. the drop was so big for chris that he went as far as filming the entire design and creative process for his fans. including this photo shoot.

when photo shoot day came around chris kept you by his side the whole time. you walked out in the first design and his jaw dropped. “you’re stunning. holy shit, ma. you look so good.” chris said as he placed you in the light for the photographer.

you were a natural when it came to taking pictures and posing. you did everything to make chris’s brand look good.

you did a few test shots before starting the real shoot. “you’re so hot, baby. you’re doing so good.” you felt the heat rise to your face. you were able to play it off by looking over at chris and sending him a wink.

chris was the best hype man the entire day even though this shoot was really for him. “thank you for letting me be involved.” you said walking away from the backdrop and over to chris. he pulled you in by the belt loops on your jeans and connected his lips to yours.

“you were the biggest help through all of this. this day was just as much about you as it was me.” chris comments, pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

★ you hadn’t seen your boyfriend in over a month due to his touring schedule. after talking to his brothers you decided to suprise him for one of their shows.

you hid in the crowd so when they picked players for their tournament you would be seen. “alright chris you pick first.” nick said into the mic.

you were completely decked out in orange for chris. you went as far as wearing his clothes. chris did a double take when he saw you. convinced the lights were distorting his vision, he walked toward the front of the stage.

“not fucking way.” he said looking straight at you. you could see his pupils dilate from across the room. “guys my girlfriend y/n is here. i didn’t know she was coming.” he started jumping around like an excited child.

you were ushered backstage and immediately were met with chris when you crossed the curtains. he pulled you over to his brothers before finally taking you all in.

“is that my shirt?” he asked tugging on it gently to get your attention. you responded with a nod and a smug smile. “oh my fuck, baby.” he said basically melting in your presence.

the crowd went crazy at your interactions.

★ people from boston went all out for sporting events. if you’re from boston you support boston teams. so you weren’t suprise when your boyfriend decided to drag you to a bruins hockey game.

you sat in between nick and chris while nick kept you company because there was no getting chris’s attention off of the game in front of him. this was until he overheard nick talking about how hot all of the hockey boys were.

“nick, why are you talking to my girl about all of these hot guys when i’m right here. i’m the only hot guy she needs to think about.” the smirk on chris’s face gave away his playful demeanor. you knew he was joking with you two.

“you’re the only guy i think about, baby. don’t worry.” you said as you adjusted his beanie. chris replied by resting his hand in your thigh and placing a kiss on your forehead.

there was a pause in the game where they started playing different commercials and things on the big screen. it was all fun and games until the kiss cam focused on you and nick.

the two of you jokingly went in for a kiss before swerving each other with a laugh. all of a sudden you felt chris’s hand on your chin redirecting your focus to him.

chris rested his hand around your neck in a simple gesture before leaning in to give you a passionate kiss. everyone around cheered for him before the camera focused on another couple.

you gave chris a ‘really’ look with your raised eyebrow. he shrugged before saying, “i had to show all these hockey players that you’re off limits.”

comments:

find you a man who can still make you blush three years in

chat how to find a sexy gf like y/n

sleeping on the highway tonight

what i would give to be in those crowds

taglist: @norr1ssturni0lo @recklessmatt @luvr4miya @hpyjw @unbruisable @watercolorskyy @elliewrites1 @rheaasturn @slxt4matt @mmay4ever @aurizp

[alotofpockets]

Red carpet date | Florence Pugh x Reader

Summary: Where Florence takes you on a date to The Oscars.

Marvel masterlist | Words: 1k

-----

When you first started dating Florence, a whole new world opened for you. The movie sets, and early wake up calls. The award shows, and interviews. The fame, and being recognised in the streets. All of it was new. To you Florence had never been the movie star that the world knew, she was the girl you met at a bar. The girl who charmed her way into your heart with her quirky personality, and contagious laughter. 

People around you kept telling you that dating someone from such a different world would never work out, but the two of you had been going strong for two years. She became a part of your world, and you had become a part of hers.

Her fans loved it when you would show up in the background of Flo's cooking videos, or when she would post pictures of the two of you together. At first it was weird to you that people shipped you with your girlfriend, or told you that the two were goals, but now it flattered you to see people supporting your relationship in such big amounts.

Tonight wasn’t the first award show you would go to as Florence’s date, but it was the biggest one. The Oscars, you grew up watching your favourite actors and actresses being nominated and winning trophies, but you had never imagined attending the event yourself one day. By now you were used to the hair- and makeup team invading your hotel room before big events, helping the both of you get ready. Florence was having the time of her life getting to know the people who were working on her, while you were simply listening to the world around you. Florence was good at the talking part, and you often just followed her lead in those moments that were slightly outside of your comfort zone. You didn’t mind though, you could listen to Florence talk for the rest of your life, and be happy. She always showed interest in every person in the room, and you only loved her for it more.

Once you were fully ready and had taken a bunch of pictures at the hotel, you headed down to the car. The original plan was for you to join Florence in the backseat of the car, but as soon as she got in a problem arose. “I-” Florence was trying not to burst out laughing, “I can’t bend my legs.” You looked inside the car and found your girlfriend laying on the whole backseat with an awkward smile and two thumbs up. It was hard for you to not laugh and snap a quick picture of the scene in front of you. 

Luckily both you and Florence were ready to adapt at any given moment, so you hopped in the passenger seat and joined the driver in the front. When you arrived at The Oscars, Florence had to basically be dragged out of the car to not ruin the dress she was wearing. Since you weren’t allowed to help, to keep your outfit in good shape, you filmed the process, knowing how much the two of you would laugh at it when you would be watching it back. 

When Florence was successfully removed from the car, the team did some quick touch ups on the both of you, before you could head to the red carpet. It was probably your least favourite part of events, with all the camera’s flashing, and photographers yelling directions, but you knew that it wasn’t Florence her favourite either. Plus you knew you would get some great pictures from both her and the two of you together at the end. Florence walked the carpet first, she looked absolutely stunning in her dress, and the decor was so beautiful. Pink flowers were featured on the white backdrop, creating gorgeous reflections in your girlfriend’s dress. You were so mesmerised by her that you hadn’t noticed that Florence was holding her hand out to you, until a staff member nudged you to walk the carpet. 

You posed with Florence for a moment, before you walked the rest of the carpet hand in hand. The room you ended up in was gigantic, you couldn’t believe your eyes. Soon the room filled with thousands of people. Actors, actresses, directors, screenwriters, you name it, they were there. Big names were all around you, while you had gotten used to that a little bit, you still fangirled when someone you loved watching walked past you, and Florence was just the same. 

Oppenheimer was nominated for a total of thirteen Oscars, which was insane to begin with, but watching the movie your girlfriend was in win in the categories over and over again, was even crazier. Watching her walk onto the stage of the event you grew up watching, to accept an Oscar along with the rest of the Oppenheimer crew, brought tears to your eyes. You were so immensely proud of her, and everyone that had worked so hard on a movie that Florence had loved working on so much. 

The rest of the evening was great too. Everyone was so happy for and supportive of all the winners, which made the whole event have a great atmosphere. Not to forget the fun you were currently having at the after party. Dancing around with Florence, and some of her friends in a room full of famous strangers, you felt so comfortable with her by your side.

“What was your favourite part of tonight?” Florence asked as you got back into the car, this time being able to share the backseat, as her after party dress allowed for more movement. “My favourite part was you.” You say with a sly smile. “The serious answer is watching you up on that stage has to be top of the list. I am so proud of you, my love, you all deserve the recognition that the movie is getting so much.” Yor let your hand fall to her thigh and give it a soft squeeze. “What about yours?” She put her hand down on yours. “Oppenheimer winning so many Oscars was incredible, but nothing beats dancing with you baby.”

-----

💗 If you enjoyed this fic, please consider liking, commenting, and reblogging! You can also supporting me by leaving a tip 💗

[theriseofthedragons]

MAGNETO REX, ROGUE REGINA Time has swiftly passed for Rogue and Erik, marking a year since they embraced the responsibility of leading Genosha. It proved to be a journey far more fulfilling than either of them had anticipated. Beyond mere human diplomacy, it was also to encourage, guide, and aid the citizens of Genosha in every conceivable manner.

Despite her hesitance in the beginning, Rogue seamlessly transitioned into her role, offering unwavering support and wisdom to Erik. Her resilience, insightfulness, and empathy complemented Erik's vision and also steered a path for the betterment of Human-Mutant relations.

The news of the upcoming coronation of the New King and Queen of Genosha sent shockwaves throughout the globe. Their schedules brimmed with interviews, conferences, and engagements , all advocated towards the cause of Mutant Rights.

The days slipped away in the lead-up to the coronation, the very day arriving with startling swiftness. The ceremony was reverent, and as they processed down the aisle, hushed murmurs and whispers could be heard from the attendance of the people, their eyes beheld much faith and trust. It made her acutely aware of the expectations that were resting on both of them. For a fleeting moment, doubt threatened to cloud her thoughts, but Erik's reassuring grip on her hand dispelled it.

As the sun cast its golden afternoon rays upon the palace balcony, adorned with vibrant flowers and lush greenery. The royal couple stood poised for press photos, and the planned pose had become more of an impromptu one, as Erik, a natural leader, stood proud and majestic, slipped himself behind his Queen, his hand resting on the small of her back as a sign of reassurance of comfort and she leaned gently into his embrace.

Cameras flashed with the silent approval from the photographer. Behind them, the proud insignia of Genosha served as a fitting backdrop, a symbol of unity and strength under their reign.

The citizens of Genosha gathered in anticipation and excitement below, their faces lit with reverence and hope as the royal couple stepped out onto the balcony. At the center of it all stood His and Her Majesties, King Magneto and Queen Rogue, newly crowned rulers of the island nation. More info about the art:

Having the urge to draw this because it was on my mind since forever, and I like to explore the 'What Ifs' of the X-Men's universe. So going into the 'What If' realm of if the Sentinels attack hadn't occur and Rogue accepted Erik's proposition. A Elven attire (Lord of the Rings) and for Erik’s, imbuing certain characteristics from Chinese Fantasy Drama particularly Xian Xia drama. , I sought a delicate balance between functionality and elegance in their garments. Despite my admiration for drapery, I opted for functionality and practicality without compromising on regal charm. For Erik, I envisioned him embodying the wisdom and nobility similar to the Immortals depicted in Chinese fantasy dramas. His robe, carefully tailored to reveal his hand, was draped to evoke a sage-like presence, exuding both majesty and authority. Choosing hues reminiscent of their battle attire, I softened the silhouettes, creating a more inviting and pleasant aesthetic. For Rogue, instead of her usually robust-self, I opted for a more and demure stance but standing in front of Erik, just to show that they’re on equal grounds. GENOSHA Genosha's flag was redesigned as the original one was too "barbaric' to my tastes. How I see Genosha = Earthy + Floral + Otherworldly Red signifies courage and valour. White signifies purity. The symbolism of 3 signifies harmony, wisdom and understanding.

[manari-archives]

Bad for Business

We look good in photographs, I like the way you like to laugh At dirty jokes, I know they'll always land Used to get to work on time, but now you're taking up my nights Never been so glad to be so tired

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

warnings: alludes to a sexual relationship, a crash, hospitals

word count: 2.7k

note: sorry for not uploading for a week, i had to get a emergency surgery and the recovery hasnt been great. again this isn't based on the entire song, just a couple of lines. the reader is a motogp rider in this. also english isn't my first language and this hasnt been proofread yet, so any corrections feel free to let me know and any feedback is welcome :)

masterlist

in the realm of MotoGP, you thrived on the intoxicating blend of speed and adrenaline, your fervor for the race track coursing through your veins. The pulsating roar of engines, the intoxicating feeling of victory – these were the elements that defined you. Amidst this roaring symphony of metal and fervor, fate orchestrated an unexpected meeting. Enter Lewis Hamilton, the luminary of Formula 1 glory. At a racing event, your lives converged like two celestial bodies gravitating towards each other. A kinship ignited, catalyzed by a love for motorsport that resonated deep within both your hearts.

"He's good for my heart, but he's bad for business," you often pondered, grappling with the complexities of your relationship with Lewis. Your love was passionate and genuine, but it became a concern for your manager, Sarah. Sarah had guided your career since its inception, carefully curating your public image and securing lucrative sponsorships.

Observing the budding romance between you and Lewis, Sarah couldn't help but worry about the potential impact on your career. One day, Sarah sat you down for a serious conversation. "Y/N, I understand your feelings for Lewis, but we must consider the implications for your career," she expressed with a concerned tone. "I understand the pull Lewis has on your heart, but we must tread cautiously. Your career is a delicate balance, and his presence could tip the scales"

Tears welled up in your eyes as you listened to Sarah's words. You understood the importance of your career, but your love for Lewis was equally significant. "Sarah, I appreciate your concerns, but I can't deny my feelings for Lewis. He brings me immeasurable joy, and I can't let go of that," you responded, your voice tinged with determination.

News of your and Lewis's relationship quickly spread through the racing community, igniting a media frenzy. Speculations about the impact on your career and sponsorships ran rampant. Journalists questioned your commitment to racing and accused you of prioritizing personal happiness over professional success. You found yourself caught in a storm of criticism from all sides. Friends who were once your staunchest supporters began to doubt your choices, believing that you had lost your focus. But you remained steadfast, refusing to compromise your love for Lewis for the sake of societal expectations.

Despite the external pressures, your performances on the track remained exceptional. Your determination and skill were undeniable, even in the face of scepticism. Slowly but surely, your critics began to realize that your relationship with Lewis had not affected your abilities as a racer.

"We look good in photographs," you whispered, cherishing the moments captured in frames that adorned your home.Photographs, snapshots of joy and togetherness, adorned the walls of your shared haven. These captured moments were more than mere images; they were chronicles of an amour unyielding. Amid your playfully bantered jests and whispered endearments, the world found itself a backdrop to your love story. Your smiles were genuine, and your eyes filled with an unspoken understanding.

Despite the challenges you faced, your love remained a source of strength and joy. In your private moments, Lewis's laughter filled the air, and you revelled in the way he embraced your "dirty jokes." Your shared sense of humour became a cherished bond, a reminder that your love was built on deep connection and mutual appreciation. Late nights became a sanctuary for you.

"Used to get to work on time, but now you're taking up my nights," you would playfully tease Lewis, relishing the exhaustion that came from staying up into the early hours of the morning, talking, laughing, and simply being in each other's arms. You had never been so glad to be so tired, knowing that it was a testament to the depth of your connection.

The persistent scrutiny and doubts surrounding your relationship began to take their toll. You and Lewis faced challenges that tested the strength of your love. But together, you forged a path forward, determined to prove that your love was worth fighting for. You and Lewis made a conscious effort to keep your personal and professional lives separate. You respected each other's careers and understood the importance of maintaining a balance.

With open communication and unwavering support, you weathered the storms that came your way. As time went on, the racing community began to see the authenticity and power of your love. They witnessed the unwavering dedication you brought to your racing career, alongside the joy and inspiration Lewis's presence brought you. The doubters slowly transformed into supporters, recognizing the depth of your connection and the positive impact it had on both of your lives.

The news of your and Lewis's secret connection slowly began to circulate within the racing community, fueling speculation and curiosity among fans and journalists alike. While you continued to keep your romance hidden from the public eye, it became increasingly challenging to shield your love from prying gazes. One day, as you prepared for a crucial race, your mind swirled with a mix of emotions. The pressure to perform on the track weighed heavily on you, but you found comfort in the thought that Lewis would be cheering you on from the sidelines. As the race commenced, your focus was razor-sharp, your heart racing with adrenaline. You manoeuvred your bike with precision, navigating the twists and turns of the circuit. But amidst the chaos and speed, fate dealt an unexpected blow.

On one particularly treacherous turn, a fellow rider lost control, causing a chain reaction that led to a collision. You found yourself caught in the chaos, unable to avoid the collision. Your bike skidded across the track, sending you tumbling through the air before you landed with a heavy thud. The spectators gasped in horror as you tumbled across the track, the deafening sound of screeching tires filling the air.

The crowd held its breath, anxiously waiting for any sign of movement from you. Immediately, the track's safety team sprang into action, rushing to your aid. Lewis, who was also aware of the crash, felt his heart skip a beat as he watched the scene unfold from the pits. He desperately wanted to run to your side, but he knew that the safety team was equipped to handle the situation. Anxiety gnawed at Lewis as he waited for updates on your condition.

The moments seemed to stretch on forever, each second filled with worry for your well-being. Finally, he received word that you were being transported to the medical centre for evaluation and treatment. Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, Lewis hurriedly made his way to the medical centre, his heart pounding with fear and concern. When he arrived, he found you conscious but in pain, surrounded by medical personnel. He rushed to your side, his voice trembling with emotion. "You, are you okay? Can you hear me?" You managed a weak smile, your eyes reflecting a mixture of pain and gratitude. "Lewis… I'll be okay. It was just an accident." Lewis held your hand gently, his heartache evident in his eyes. "You scared me, you. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you." You squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I'm sorry for scaring you, Lewis. But I'm strong, and I'll get through this." In the following days, Lewis remained by your side, offering his unwavering support as you focused on your recovery. Your bond grew even stronger as you navigated the challenges together, knowing that your love was a source of strength in the face of adversity. Together, you and Lewis faced the challenges that life and racing threw your way, knowing that as long as you had each other, you could conquer anything. Your love had weathered the test of time and trials, proving that it was indeed a force that could triumph over anything life had to offer.

Time passed, and you and Lewis continued to excel in your respective racing disciplines. Your love only grew stronger, anchoring you in a world that often prioritized fame and success over personal happiness. Your triumphs on the track and your unwavering devotion to Lewis transcended the racing world. You became an inspiration to fans around the globe, a testament to the power of love and the courage to defy societal expectations.

In the end, you understood that your love for Lewis was the greatest victory you could ever achieve. Your relationship had taught you that true success lay not only in professional achievements but also in the depth of the love you shared. As you stood side by side, the roar of engines fading into the background, you and Lewis revelled in the triumph of your love. You knew that you had created a legacy that would resonate beyond the racetrack, a story of unwavering devotion and the courage to follow your hearts

As your relationship deepened, you and Lewis found solace in each other's company, cherishing the moments you spent conversing and connecting on a profound level. Your relationship was more than just a whirlwind romance—it was a partnership built on mutual understanding and unwavering support.

Late one evening, as the moon bathed your quiet surroundings in a soft glow, you and Lewis sat together on a terrace, the gentle breeze carrying your whispers. Your laughter echoed through the night, blending harmoniously with the rustling of leaves. "You know," Lewis began, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, "your sense of humour is unlike any I've encountered before. Your jokes always catch me off guard." You grinned, your eyes glimmering with affection. "Ah, Lewis, that's one of the things I love about you. You get my jokes and laugh with me, no matter how silly my jokes may be." Your conversations often delved into deeper realms, exploring your dreams, fears, and the intricacies of your shared experiences as professional athletes.

You exchanged stories of triumphs and setbacks, finding solace in the understanding that only you could offer each other. In those private moments, You found comfort in Lewis's unwavering support. He listened attentively, offering encouragement and insight, always reminding you of your immense talent and resilience. Lewis, in turn, found inspiration in your unwavering determination and your ability to rise above challenges. Your conversations were the threads that wove the fabric of their relationship, building a profound connection that transcended the glamour of their respective careers. You revelled in each other's insights, finding solace and strength in your shared experiences.

Your love faced its fair share of challenges as the world scrutinized your relationship. Doubts and judgments weighed heavily on their hearts, threatening to dampen the flame of your love. But you and Lewis were determined to weather the storm together, your bond growing stronger with each obstacle you overcame. One evening, as you cuddled on the couch, you sighed, your gaze fixed on the flickering fireplace. "Lewis, sometimes it feels like the world is against us. The media, the critics—they question the authenticity of our love and its impact on my career. But I want you to know that my love for you outweighs any doubts or fears." Lewis intertwined his fingers with yours, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Love, I understand the weight of those doubts, but together we can prove them wrong. Our love is resilient, and it can withstand any storm. The strength we draw from each other is what propels us forward, both on and off the track." You nodded, your eyes shimmering with determination.

Your heartfelt conversation filled the room, creating an atmosphere of unwavering trust and support. In those moments, you found the courage to embrace your love fully, disregarding the opinions of others and focusing on the profound connection you shared.

Your conversations grew more profound, intertwining dreams, fears, and aspirations. Amid your busy schedules, you always found time to share your thoughts, your hearts pouring out to each other like an open book. Your unwavering support for one another led to a harmonious balance between your personal lives and professional ambitions. You navigated the challenges of fame and competition together, your love serving as an anchor in turbulent waters.

The sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the picturesque landscape as you and Lewis found yourselves strolling along a secluded beach. The gentle lapping of the waves provided a soothing backdrop to your conversation, which danced between lighthearted banter and heartfelt exchanges. As you walked hand in hand, Lewis's gaze never wavered from you. The love in his eyes was palpable, a testament to the depth of his feelings. In a moment of quiet reflection, he paused, his voice trembling with emotion. "Y/N, my love," Lewis began, his voice filled with a mixture of nerves and unwavering devotion. "You are my rock, my inspiration, and the love of my life. From the moment we met, I knew there was something truly extraordinary about us." Your heart skipped a beat, her eyes locked on Lewis, her love for him growing with every word he spoke. He continued, his voice steady but filled with profound emotion, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Y/N. I promise to love you till forever falls apart. Marry me and Make my favourite dream come true" Tears welled up in your eyes, your heart overflowing with love and happiness. The answer, a whispered "yes," echoed across the sands, a promise sealed with the promise of forever. The ring on your finger shone like a star, a beacon of love that illuminated not just the present but the journey that lay ahead.

Months later, the day of your wedding arrived, brimming with anticipation and joy. You and Lewis stood at the altar, ready to exchange your vows and declare your eternal love before your loved ones. As you stood face to face, You spoke with unwavering conviction, your eyes shining with adoration. "Lewis, from the first moment I saw you, I knew that our love was something extraordinary. You've filled my life with joy, laughter, and unwavering support. I am so grateful to have you as my partner, my best friend, and now, my husband." you declared, the weight of your words permeating the air. Lewis's voice rang out, filled with love and reverence. "Y/N, you are the light of my life. Your strength, determination, and the way you constantly inspire me is truly remarkable. Today, I promise to always laugh at your jokes, always be your biggest supporter, your confidant, and your steadfast partner in all that life brings us." With their heartfelt vows exchanged, the officiant asked you to seal your union with a passionate kiss. The room erupted in applause and tears of joy, celebrating the love that had brought everyone together.

The reception hall was adorned with vibrant decorations, reflecting the colours of your love and the beauty of your union. Guests laughed and danced, celebrating the love that had brought them all together. You and Lewis revelled in the joyous celebration, your hearts filled with gratitude for the support and love surrounding you. Your conversations with loved ones were filled with laughter, reminiscences, and heartfelt well-wishes for your future. As you shared your first dance as a married couple, your bodies swayed in perfect harmony. In each other's arms, you felt the strength and joy that your love brought, a love that would guide you through the adventures and challenges that lay ahead.

Throughout the evening, your conversations flowed effortlessly, interwoven with laughter, memories, and dreams for the future. You revelled in the shared stories and promises, knowing that your connection was not only built on passion but on the foundation of friendship and unwavering support.

[thatrickmcginnis]

ROWLAND S. HOWARD, Toronto, April Fool's Day, 1988.

Rowland S. Howard was one of a handful of my guitar heroes (a list that includes Andy Gill, Ricky Wilson, Keith Levene and Robert Quine.) This is probably why I made the effort to photograph Howard and his band when they came through town, despite not having an assignment or a venue where the photos would be published. I brought along my studio in a bag and found the same helpfully empty space behind the bar at the Silver Dollar Room, the same place where I'd photographed Lydia Lunch two months earlier. These three shoots I did early in 1988 were crucial and coincidentally connected as Howard worked with Lunch throughout his life (their collaborative "concept album" Honeymoon in Red had been released the year previous), as had Henry Rollins, the next subject in my ad hoc studio at the Silver Dollar, who would also work with Howard.

I found Rowland S. Howard to be polite and friendly, with impeccable manners - very different from the haunted-looking man who would stalk the stage chain-smoking in concert videos I'd seen of The Birthday Party of Crime & the City Solution. He was in town with These Immortal Souls, the band he'd formed with his brother Harry Howard, his girlfiend Genevieve McGuckin and drummer Epic Soundtracks (born Kevin Godfrey), but for some reason McGuckin didn't make the Toronto show, part of a tour supporting their first record, Get Lost (Don't Lie). I spent most of the three rolls of film I ran through my Mamiya C330 trying to get a decent portrait of Howard, but shot the band together on the last half of the third roll, where Epic is wearing a Black Flag t-shirt; These Immortal Souls were the first non-American band on the Flag's label, SST.

Rowland S. Howard smoked all through my shoot with him, which I spent trying to get something that captured his somewhat wasted elegance. My white backdrop, a painter's tarp, had taken on some impressive wrinkles while stuffed in the gym bag it lived in between shoots, and it's taken considerable skill and digital magic to get these shots to look as slick as I had imagined them while doing this shoot nearly forty years ago. In the end I think they capture a few different facets of Howard, who would be in poor health for many years after I met him, afflicted from Hepatitis C that would lead to cirrhosis and liver cancer and ultimately kill him in 2009, at just fifty. Epic Soundtracks would die suddenly in his London home in 1997, after recording several acclaimed solo albums. Autoluminescent, a documentary about Howard, would come out in 2011.

[fairiedance]

Here are some new pieces for my fundraiser. The keffiyeh is edited from this open source work by a photographer in Gaza and the eyes are cut from a vintage movie poster. On the left the backdrop is the graffiti from a wall in Bethlehem (بيت لحم) in the West Bank.

You can find these and all my other designs here.

I have a couple more versions of the glitch art (on the right) with backgrounds:

I also made this Warhol inspired pop art last week with this same template (as well as a couple other things, see the shop to see all options):

As usual ALL PROCEEDS from my work are for my Palestinian best friend, to help him support his girlfriend in remaining safely in America until it's safe for her to travel back home and to help his friends and family in Palestine and around the rest of the Levant who are being hurt directly and/or financially by the attacks on Gaza, the raids in the West Bank (this has unfortunately hit his family quite hard) and the collateral damage in surrounding countries. He will donate anything his family doesn't need to the Palestinian charities he works with. He's heavily involved in activism and I trust him to put the money where it can make the most difference.

Here are some examples of the above on various products (personally I really like the glitch art with no background on stickers and pins):

Again check out my shop here for all these and a ton of other designs. Note that stickers are cheaper in bulk, if you get 4 stickers you get 25% off and if you get 10 you get 50% off (these can be any stickers, not just from my shop). They're great for handing out at protests!

Thank you to everyone who has helped out so far! Your support means a lot to us. I read my friend the sweet messages some of you have left for him through the shop and he was very touched.

[pedrito-friskito]

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

after - part thirty-one

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | READ ON AO3

you keep going. you have to keep going.

a/n: so I haven’t been on here in a hot second BUT I’ve been writing this story like a crazy person, lots more to come, thanks for all the love 🤍

word count: 7.2k

warnings: lil smut for your saturday, big emotions, ellie and liv forever 🤍

✨@friskito-library for updates on new parts/works✨

Joel knows that he’s dreaming.

He hasn’t let himself dream for a long time now. Every night, he’s feigned sleep, while you insist on taking watch, Ellie even offering herself up a few hours at a time. It’s partially a conscious decision, partially not. There are nights when he wants sleep, wants to drift off just for a few hours, but his body won’t let him. He lays there with his eyes shut, trying to keep his memories at bay, but it always takes more effort than he expects, and before he knows it, the sun is rising once again.

But right now? Definitely dreaming.

It’s a strange sensation, being conscious of a dream while you’re in it. But it’s the best dream he’s had in years, so he begs his body to stay asleep a while longer, just so he can see how this plays out.

He’s home. Back in Austin, not your shared apartment in Boston, but his old house, his old bedroom. More specifically, sprawled on his bed, mid-morning light filtering through the curtains. The mattress feels so real beneath him, the springs creaking as he moves, but it’s only a backdrop to what’s really happening.

You, wrapped in his arms, back pressed to his chest. He swears he can feel how sweat-slick your skin is, smell the scent of your hair, hear the rapid thunk of your heart beneath his palms. He’s buried in your body, deep as he can go, your back arching with the force of him, whines falling from your lips as you beg him for more.

“Please, Joel,” you murmur, one hand reaching back to fist the hair at the back of his head. “Oh my god, please, I’m—”

Never one to deny you, waking or asleep, he lets one hand drop, skimming the curve of your stomach and finding your clit with ease. You keen as he draws little circles, burying his face in your neck, kissing at your throat.

“C’mon, baby,” he rasps, teeth scraping your jaw. “Lemme feel it, lemme—”

A crashing sound rings through his ears, making his whole body jolt, and the dream vanishes, his eyes shooting open.

“Fuck!” you curse, and Joel turns to see you crouched near the old desk in the corner of the watchtower. One of the drawers has fallen to the floor — obviously the source of the noise — and you’re trying to scoop the contents back in; maps and notebooks and random photographs. Joel groans as he sits up straight, lifting his body off the mattress, and you look at him over your shoulder, brows shooting up to your hairline. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” The drawer literally collapses in your hands and Joel has to stifle his laugh as he gets to his feet. You groan at the mess on the floor, head dropping back on your shoulders.

“S’okay,” he tells you, reaching for your arm and pulling you up to stand. Your stance is sure now, but it’s old habit for him to support you, though your leg has healed. You’ve been in the tower for two and a half weeks now; the first two had you laid up in one of the mattresses, Joel and Ellie both refusing to let you up unless it was absolutely necessary. Your leg is still wrapped in a bandage — fresh ones from the first aid kit you found in the tower — but there’s no blood bloomed through, and it looked almost completely healed when Joel checked it last night. You’re out of the woods, and he knows you need to get going soon. You’re antsy, and he can see it. He’s just as bad.

You sigh into his grip, reaching up to drape your arms around his neck. “But you were sleeping,” you say with emphasis, and he knows you’ve been watching him just as much as he’s been watching you. “I didn’t want to wake you at all.”

Joel shakes his head, leaning forward to tuck his nose into your neck, lips grazing your jaw. “Slept enough, baby,” he murmurs, pulling you close to him. “Just interrupted a dream I was havin’.”

“A dream?” you repeat, and he hums, grabbing your hips and pulling yours flush with his. He’s hard, pressing against the zipper of his jeans, his whole body nearly shaking with need. Your lips part softly, a quiet inhale that makes him even harder. “Was it a good dream?”

“Lemme show you,” he replies, reaching for the button on your jeans. “Where’s the kid?” 

“Downstairs,” you tell him, tilting your head to the door. “Told her to stay down there, to let you sleep.”

“Well, I’m done sleepin’, baby,” he grits as he unzips your fly. He brings his hand to his mouth, sucks two fingers past his lips, then slips them down the front of your pants, right past the band of your underwear. “Fuck, when’s the last time I touched you like this, huh?”

He watches your face, the way your bottom lip quivers, and right when he thinks you’re actually going to answer, he pushes his hand lower, curls his fingers up and into you. You squeak, nearly collapsing in his arms, and Joel can’t help the satisfaction that roils through him.

You clench around his fingers as he pushes deeper and your knees waver, your hands clinging to his shoulders. “Fuck,” you curse again, moaning when he wraps his other arm around your waist, pulling you closer, getting a better angle. “We need to be—” You cut yourself off, eyes rolling back when he finds that spot, the tips of his fingers rubbing circles. “Faster, Joel.”

“Faster, huh?” he almost taunts, but gives you what you ask for. “You want it just like this, huh? Y’know, I was dreamin’ we were back home, that I was fucking you in our bed. You were beggin’ me so pretty.”

“Please,” you gasp, your hand fisting the front of his flannel, pulling him close enough to make your noses brush. “Fuck me, please, baby.”

You whine when he drags his fingers from you, but he doesn’t waste any time, turning you around and pushing you against the table in the middle of the room. You plant your hands, bending over the edge as he shoves your pants down, just enough to see the shine of slick against the inside of your thighs, the evidence you need this just as badly as he does. He doesn’t have time to strip you down completely, but one of these days, he’ll—

“Joel.”

He frees himself from his jeans, his cock aching and leaking as he kicks your legs wide and lines himself up. Your whole body stutters as he drags himself along your heat, coating himself with your wetness. His other hand finds your hip, digging his fingers in hard. You call his name again, your voice a rasp in the air, and he pushes into you, breathy exhales filling the space between you as he fills you to the hilt. Just as fucking tight as he remembers, just as hot and perfect and…you.

The need and the desperation get the better of him, kicking his pace into high gear the instant he’s buried to the hilt. He can feel the shift, gripping both your hips, and your hands cover his, keeping him in place. Your head turns slightly, eyes meeting his, big and wide and just as full of lust as he feels. 

He gets you impossibly closer, keeping his hips tight to your ass and thrusting so hard your boots nearly lift off the ground. It pulls the most delicious sound from your mouth, your hand shooting back to dig your nails into his ass. “Jesus Christ.”

Joel hauls you up, banding one arm under your chest, his lips at your ear. “Yeah, baby? Tell me how good it feels.”

“So fucking good,” you babble, squeezing his ass, canting your hips back into him, driving him deeper. “Missed you — ah! — touching me like…like this.”

He had more words, more dirty things to murmur in your ear, but you take his mouth for your own, squeaking against his lips when he moves his other hand between your legs, thumbing at your clit. You clench around him, your teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard he’s sure you’ll draw blood, confirmed when he tastes iron a second later. But he doesn’t care, too engrossed in the way you twitch in his arms, thighs quaking around his hand, the breathy moans that fall out of you. 

How is it possible to miss someone who’s been right beside you the entire time?

It hits him like a ton of bricks as he works you through your orgasm, his movements sharper, trying to draw out your pleasure as much as he can. Your body goes lax, your lips still kissing his, both of your mouths smeared with his blood, but Joel doesn’t care.

His own body goes tight, pleasure creeping up his spine, slithering through his aching bones. The pain in his chest hasn’t made an appearance since you found the watchtower, and in this moment, he doesn’t even remember what it felt like, too preoccupied with how good you feel, your body wringing pleasure from his the same way he did to you.

You pull back slightly, just enough to see his face, darting between his bloody lip and his eyes and back again. You kiss him again, sucking his bottom lip between your own, laving your tongue along the curve. His hips snap against your ass, that peak growing closer and closer with every touch you offer. He sees the recognition in your eyes, the spark of knowledge as you tighten your grip on him.

“Baby,” you murmur, your gaze softening, the corner of your lip curling up as his pace stutters. You cover his hands with your own, squeezing your fingers around his wrists, pushing your body back into his. “You fuck me so good, love me so good.” You steal another kiss. “Love you so goddamned much.”

His brow furrows, hands tightening on you, fingers curling against your ribs. He growls into your mouth, nerves set alight, the feeling barrelling up and down and side to side, making his toes numb in his boots. He cums with a shout, one you catch with your own lips as he staggers, nearly losing his grip on you as he spills himself deep. It makes you hum, your grip going tighter, and now it’s you holding him upright, your lips all over his cheek, one hand lifting to brush through his hair.

Once he’s caught his breath, you let out a little breathy giggle, your arms still around each other. “Well, that was unexpected.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, feeling his cheeks heat as he slips out of you. “I just…needed that.”

You reach up, running your thumb over where you bit his lip. “You definitely don’t need to apologize for that, Joel. I’m sorry for biting you so hard.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I liked it.”

As you clean each other up, finding spare rags to clean the mess between your legs, wetting another to dab at the blood on Joel’s lip, he forgets, just for a moment. Forgets about the world outside, the terror and the violence that seem to follow you all around. For a moment, you’re just two people in love, as desperate for each other now as you were when you first met twenty-two years ago. You’re just…you.

You pull your jeans back up, inspecting your bandage after you do. Joel steps close to you. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, a relaxed smile on your face. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw you look like that — relaxed.

As you straighten, he pulls you back into the circle of his arms, fitting his arms around your shoulders. Your hands slip under his flannel, palms flat against his skin. He tugs at your hair, lifting your face until his nose brushes yours. Your lips part, words on the tip of your tongue, but he beats you to the punch.

“I love you,” he whispers, well aware that his hands are shaking. You nudge your nose against his, pulling him closer. He drops his jaw, capturing your lips again, but softly this time. He adjusts his grip, hands lifting to cup your face, thumb swiping across your cheek. The cut on your face has also healed, a thin scar left behind. Joel traces it as you deepen the kiss, your tongue touching his.

Ellie clears her throat in the doorway and you both jump apart, you covering your face with your hand while Joel braces his hands on his hips, staring at the floor. She doesn’t say anything at first, stepping into the tower and tossing her gun onto the table in the middle — the table he’d just—

“What happened to your mouth?” she asks suddenly, brow furrowing at Joel. His head snaps up, brows rising.

“Huh?”

“Your lip is bleeding.”

“Oh.” He lifts his hand to his mouth, feeling his cheeks heat. “Uh—”

You stifle a laugh, turning away with a guilty look on your face, finding something in the corner of the room infinitely more interesting.

The kid’s eyes dart between the two of you, and then she makes a face. “Gross.”

+

One month later, on the outskirts of Cody, Wyoming…

You’re all dragging your heels. 

Ellie’s asleep on her feet, and Joel is so overtired that his senses are in overdrive. You can see it in the way his head swivels on his neck, eyes flitting every direction, coasting over where you’re stood on his bad side, bat over your shoulder, gun in hand. He’s still carting the rifle, knife at his hip, and Ellie has her not-so-secret gun. You feel better knowing she’s armed and feel shitty knowing how fucked up that thought process is.

Since you left the tower, winter has caught up with you. The snow came and left, then came and stuck, and it was very quickly apparent that the jackets you’d carried with you from Boston weren’t going to cut it. The chill in your bones had you detouring through neighbourhoods, reminiscent of your smuggling days, picking through houses over the remnants of people’s lives. You make Ellie and Joel keep watch most of the time, wanting to keep them safe from whatever horrors might be lurking behind closed doors.

You get lucky. You find a thick leather coat for Joel, wool-lined and worn in. For Ellie, what you think might have been a boy’s winter jacket, but it’s heavy enough to keep her warm and fits her fine. For you, one of those ridiculously patterned flannel-sherpa monstrosities you’re sure your mother had six of back in the nineties. It’s almost not warm enough, but you manage to find a few more layers to wear underneath and it works. 

You find a few hats — one of which you have to all but force onto Ellie’s head — and leather gloves to match Joel’s jacket. It’s easy enough to find boots for you and Ellie, the tall, lace-up kind that hug your calves and keep the snow out. For Joel, every pair you find isn’t the right size, or the soles are worse off than the ones he’s been wearing. What you do find is duct tape, and he wraps his boots in it, waving you off when you try to help.

Part of you wishes you’d stayed in the watchtower. It wasn’t the perfect place — it got drafty as hell once the temperature started to drop — but you had a good vantage point. The supplies you found would have lasted a bit longer, and you could have gone back to Omaha to look for more. 

Part of you wanted to stay, but a bigger part wanted to go. Once your leg was healed, you just wanted to keep moving. Whatever this is, you want to see it through. You’ve lost too much since leaving Boston, you refuse to tuck your tail between your legs and just give it up. 

Another part, a part that’s small sometimes, and so big sometimes you think it might swallow you whole, that part doesn’t want any of this. It wants to find a place, somewhere safe, somewhere far from FEDRA and the Fireflies and the past you left behind, just for you. For you and for Joel and…

And for Ellie.

You can’t deny the protectiveness you feel for her. Right from that first night, you just had to keep her safe, had to keep her as whole as you possibly could in a world that wants the polar opposite. You look at her, remember what you’ve agreed to do, to just hand her over to the Fireflies. What will they do with her, what will they…?

Never mind your own feelings, but you’ve seen her and Joel lately, since you left Kansas City. Something’s changed, shifted. You know Joel will be the last person to admit it, but there’s a kinship, a kindness between them that didn’t exist before. He’s still your gruff old man, through and through, but his edges that were once soft only for you have smoothed out for her, too. It’s little things — passing a can of soup back and forth, Joel making sure she’s got a good grip on the warm metal before letting go — and the bigger ones too. When you first left the watchtower, shortly after the first snow, Ellie had nearly tumbled down the hill, but Joel had been closer than you, and he’d grabbed her before she could fall, hauling her back and onto steady feet, keeping her pressed to his chest until she caught her breath again.

You saw the flicker in his face when her arms wrapped around his middle, and the twinge in his expression when she let go, giving a shaky laugh and stepping away from him.

They’ve gotten closer, but Joel’s different on his own. He still has those pinched expressions when he thinks you’re not looking, looks of pain that he forces mild when he catches you looking. The closer you get to Cody, potentially to Tommy, the more antsy he gets. You know he’ll never admit it, but you know exactly what’s going on in his head. You’ve come all this way, and what if…

What if you don’t find Tommy?

Or worse, what if you do find him and—

No. You cut the thought short. You can’t let yourself think like that. No good will come of it.

You’ll find the Cody Tower. You’ll find Tommy and he’ll help you find the Fireflies, and this will all—

“Liv!”

You’ve only just reached the outskirts of the city. Wrapped in your own head, your mind going a million miles a minute, you didn’t realize you’d gotten close to the buildings, the flattened cityscape that looks like something out of an old Western. Joel grabs you from behind, clamping a hand over your mouth and wrenching you backwards, your boots scuffing against the pavement as he drags you, stifling your surprised noise when you see the sight before you.

Off in the distance, the control tower is plain as day. Your mind paints a taunting image of Tommy perched on the top platforms, speaking into a radio, talking to you and to Joel, telling you where he’s gone, what he’s doing. 

The town below is less taunting, more nightmare.

Clickers, everywhere. 

As far as your eye can see, wandering and twitching their way through the streets, tripping over abandoned cars and cracked hunks of pavement. The odd screech reaches your ears, sending chills down your spine. You let Joel drag you back, your body going willingly, pushing yourself back into his arms as you go. Ellie is frozen in place as you pass, her eyes glued to the sight before you, and you grab the hood of her coat as you pass, pulling her along with you.

Joel doesn’t release you until you’re back over the hill you’d just crested, until you’re out of earshot, out of sight. Your heart is racing, thumping against your ribs, and you get your bearings, letting go of Joel enough to grab his hand and Ellie’s, pulling them off the road and into the forest lining the road.

But Joel doesn’t move.

He’s still as a statue in the middle of the road, the hill stretching below, a straight shot through Cody. Even at a further distance now, you can hear them, those awful noises, like some kind of demonic birdsong. Ellie grips your hand tightly and you put yourself between her and the town below. “Joel, we need to move,” you say, tugging on his wrist. Nothing. “Joel—”

“He was in Cody,” he murmurs, his voice nearly carried away on the wind that sweeps through, ruffling your hair and his, making goosebumps rise on your skin. “He was there. D’you think that he…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. The rifle falls from his grip, hanging against his shoulder, and his hand flies to his throat, boots sliding as his body tilts. He’s white as a fucking ghost. You pull your hand from Ellie’s, reaching for him. He grunts as you move in front of him, bearing his weight, trying to keep him upright.

“Liv—” Ellie starts, but you cut her off.

“Go to the trees,” you tell her, giving her a pointed look. “Go, and don’t move till I say, you hear me?”

She nods, her face nearly solemn, and heads for the tree line.

“Joel,” you call, and he gives you no response, his hands on your shoulders and his breath wheezing out of his chest. It’s coming fast, his entire body shaking with every inhale, every exhale. “Joel, honey, I’m right here.”

“What if he…” He trails off again, his eyes moving past you, back to the town. “Tommy…”

“Tommy’s alive,” you say, making your voice as stern as you can be, ignoring the panic rising in your own chest. “He’s alive and he sure as hell isn’t down there. We need to get someplace safe, okay? We need to figure out where to go next.”

“But he—”

You grab his chin in your hand, force his eyes on yours. “Your brother is a smart man, Joel, much as you hate to admit it. And he left Boston a long time ago. He wouldn’t have stuck around long enough to get caught up in something like that. He’s alive, and we’re going to find him. You hear me?”

His chest is still rising rapidly, his hands shaking as they move down to your biceps, squeezing so tight you feel it through your jacket and sweater. “I don’t know what…” He shakes his head, some of the colour returning to his cheeks. The wind howls and his eyes finally drop, pinched shut as he relaxes slightly into your grip, his breath starting to come a touch slower.

“I know,” you tell him, pressing your chest to his, hoping he’ll feel your even breaths, that his body will respond and try to match them. “I’ve had that thought more times than I care to admit. We have to believe he’s alive, Joel, and that we’ll find him. We will.”

His shoulders sag and he pulls you against him, his temple against your forehead as he exhales slowly. “We will.”

+

“We’re lost.”

“We’re not fuckin’ lost,” Joel grumbles, swinging his bag from his shoulder. He pulls out the map, shoves it in your direction, and you give Ellie a glare as you unfold it, the lines and dots instantly giving you more of a headache than you already have.

“Really?” she quips, and you let your eyes flutter shut, pushing the map back at Joel. “Then where the fuck are we?”

He gives you a pointed look, brow raised, but you ignore it, scrubbing your gloved hand over your face. It’s fucking cold. You feel like you haven’t slept in three days — realistically, you know that’s not completely true, but the little sleep you have gotten hasn’t been nearly enough, and the thrum in the back of your mind has been near constant. You’re burning out, desperate for some real food, water that hasn’t been hastily boiled over a campfire, and at least eighteen hours of sleep. Hell, even eight would do the trick.

You’ve been walking since sunrise. Almost three days past Cody. You walked through (past? You can’t be sure…) Yellowstone a day and a half in, and you’re all dragging each other along. The roads are hell, covered in snow, the blanket of white a welcome repaint to the landscape, but it helps hide the things that go bump in the night. Infected aren’t the only things you have to worry about in the mountains.

Joel furrows his brow at the map, yanking his gloves off to trace the path he’s after. You’ve been following the map, using whatever landmarks you can to find the next town. Joel mentioned Jackson, you thought maybe Yellowstone would have a camp of some sort — the park was big enough they could have put up some sort of outpost or camp when the outbreak came — but your path proved otherwise. Whatever had been set up in the park’s boundary was long gone.

There’s a marked path Joel’s been trying to follow, but the snow is not helpful. You think you’ve been sticking to it, but with every step, you feel more and more unsure. What if you’re going in the wrong direction? You trust Joel, you know he’s good for this stuff, that he wouldn’t risk it — risk you — if he wasn’t sure, but after his episode outside Cody, your worry for him has only grown stronger. 

But you have to keep going.

It’s Ellie, that spots the cabin off in the distance. Small, tucked behind a wooden fence you’d guess is about chest height. Smoke pours out of the chimney. The relief that floods you is tinged with wariness, but it’s the first sign of actual living human life since you left Kansas City, and part of you wants to grab onto it as tight as you can.

The other part knows you can’t be stupid about this. You have to be careful.

By the time you get close enough to scope the place out, night has nearly fallen, and you make camp just inside the trees, out of line of sight from the cabin, but still able to keep an eye out. Joel insists on taking the majority of watch, and you let him, honestly too tired to fight with him otherwise. The little sleep you get is fitful, too many noises in the forest keeping you awake, Ellie’s murmurs in her sleep putting you on high alert, listening closely for any sounds of distress. You huddle close on the sleeping bags, keeping each other warm while Joel paces the small camp you’ve made.

You’re up with the sun, feeling like you barely got back to sleep when you’re being pulled out of it, and Joel has a plan. “It’s an older couple,” he informs you, scratching at his forehead, passing you a cup of coffee. You’ve rationed what you found back in KC best you can, but you’re getting down to the dregs and the grounds are more and more stale. But it’s caffeine, and you’re grateful all the same. “Husband looks like a hunter. I say we wait it out, wait for him to leave, then get in there. Get the wife to point us in the right direction. Figure out where the hell we are, if they’ve ever heard of Tommy, if he passed through here.”

“What if she doesn’t want to help us?” Ellie asks, and the waver in her voice pulls at something in your chest. You stare down into your coffee.

Joel pulls his gun out of his pocket, bare fingers curled around the handle. “We make sure she does.”

“Joel—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“We’ve been walking for days, Liv. I know you’ve been thinkin’ the same as I have. This is the first real thing we’ve found; I won’t walk away until we’ve found all we can.”

You swallow hard, the coffee bitter on your tongue. “Okay,” you nod, “but we ask politely first.”

His jaw ticks. “Yes, dear.”

Florence lets you inside with little issue. She actually laughs at Ellie’s whispered what the fuuuuuuck when you step into the cabin. The warmth that floods your body nearly makes you crumple on the spot, but you keep upright, taking in the log interior, the animal skulls and all manner of tools and equipment hanging from the walls.

Joel pushes ahead of the two of you, gun raised, scanning the space. “Anyone else here?”

“Just me,” the older woman says, almost smiling. “You waited until Marlon left.”

“He looked like a shoot first, ask questions later type,” Joel says, and she laughs again.

“He is.”

Keeping the gun at hand, Joel steps through the cabin, poking around doors, heading up to the loft to make sure it’s empty too. You and Ellie stand there awkwardly, teeth chattering as your bodies get used to the warmth.

“Sit down, girls,” Florence instructs, getting out of her chair with some effort. “I’ll make you some soup.”

“You don’t have t—” you protest, but she waves you off as she heads to the kitchen area.

“It’s cold out there.”

Joel comes back down the stairs, satisfied with his search, and Ellie sinks down on the couch, clearly unable to resist a soft seat. You’re tense, and Joel stands beside you, one hand in the middle of your back, the other still holding his gun aloft.

“Joel,” you start, but he shakes his head again, just like he had.

“Where is she?”

“Making soup,” Ellie answers and his brows shoot up. 

It’s a good few minutes of quiet, and you sit down beside Ellie, every bone in your body creaking as you hit the cushion. Joel puts himself between the two of you and Florence, her back to you, the clatter of dishes the only sound.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Joel says, “just need to know where we are.”

The woman nods as she turns back, two bowls of soup in her hands as she walks back toward the couch. You and Ellie accept them with mumbled thanks, and she goes back to get a third bowl for Joel before sinking back into her rocking chair, regarding the three of you.

“You got a map?”

About an hour later, the bowls are empty, you can feel your toes again, and Ellie’s cheeks are not nearly as rosy as they’d been when she woke up this morning. The map sits on the table in front of you, and your eyes are trained on the spot Florence had pointed to. Joel is still rigid, pacing the cabin with the gun in his hand, ignoring you when you tell him to put it away.

Florence is still in her rocking chair, and she pauses mid-rock, head turning toward the door. “He’s back.”

“Ellie, upstairs,” you say, and she shoots you a wide-eyed look, but you press. “Now.”

She sighs as she darts upstairs, like she’s annoyed to not be in the line of fire, and Joel pulls you up off the couch, bringing you with him into the kitchen, out of sight of the front door.

The man you assume to be Marlon steps through the front door a beat later, unzipping his coat and setting a hunting bow down on the nearby table. Florence just watches, rocking back and forth in her chair, but you don’t miss the way her eyes meet his and then flick to the pair of you tucked to the side.

Marlon takes a step forward, and Joel moves at the same time. “And the gun, too.”

Your brow lifts. You hadn’t noticed the holster at Marlon’s belt, but Joel had. “Who the hell are you?”

Joel steps around the room slowly, his own gun lifted and pointed at the older man. “Just someone passin’ through.” You stay where you are, watching the scene unfold before you. Joel stops, gestures to Marlon. “Take the gun out, two fingers only, put it outta reach.”

You have to admit the thread of power in his voice makes a shiver race down your spine. And it’s not from the cold.

Marlon does as asked, pulling the pistol out almost mockingly, shaking it in the air before setting it down — out of reach, like Joel said.

“Why didn’t you shoot ‘em?” Marlon asks, jutting his chin at his wife.

“Gun’s all the way over there,” Florence replies, looking toward the kitchen. You realize she could have — when she went to make you all soup, she easily could have grabbed the gun and started shooting. Three against one wouldn’t be an easy fight for the woman, but it would have been something. “He didn’t hurt me, by the way,” she tacks onto the end, her voice almost sarcastic.

“Yeah, I got eyes,” Marlon grumbles, and steps a little closer, gesturing at the table in front of the couch, your empty bowls of soup and the map. “You made him soup?”

“Yeah,” Florence replies, “I did. It’s cold out.”

Marlon sinks down into one of the empty chairs, and you can see Joel’s patience wearing thin. “I’m lookin’ for my brother.”

The old man scoffs, pulling his hat off. “Well, I ain’t seen him.”

“I haven’t told you what he looks like,” Joel retorts, matching his tone.

“He look anything like you?”

“A bit,” Joel answers, and you can’t stop yourself from stepping forward.

“Not really,” you say, and Marlon’s brows shoot up as you make yourself seen, your own gun dangling from your hand. “Darker hair, a bit shorter, more mustache than beard.”

Another scoff. “I ain’t seen him.”

“They’ve got a girl with them,” Florence says, lifting her chin toward the loft.

“Can I come down?” Ellie’s voice floats down, and Joel bristles.

“No,” he calls, his voice stern, and you both look up to see her lean over the railing.

“Ellie!” you call, trying to strengthen Joel’s command, but it doesn’t work. She comes bounding down the stairs, gun rattling in her hand.

“Ooh-wa,” Marlon grumbles, and both he and Florence start laughing.

“What did I just say?” Joel grits and you sigh, rubbing your hand over your forehead.

“Joel, come on,” Ellie retorts, almost rolling her eyes. “They’re like, a thousand.”

“Who’s this little psycho?” Marlon asks, gesturing to Ellie, looking between you and Joel. “Your daughter?”

“She’s—” you start, but Joel cuts you off.

“Never mind her,” he says, stepping forward and poking at the map on the table. “I need you to tell us where we are.”

“If you got a map, why you lost?”

“Must have missed all the street signs in the enormous fucking forest,” Ellie bites out, and you grab her shoulder, yanking her backward and beside you.

“Ho-ly,” Marlon laughs, and Florence chuckles. The whole scene is making your head hurt. It’s like whiplash.

Joel gives you a pointed look as the older couple laughs. Your jaw goes tight and you shake your head ever so slightly, gripping Ellie’s shoulder as he leans in again, pointing at the map. “We’re somewhere here. Exactly where? And your answer better be the same as your wife’s.”

Marlon stares at Joel for a long moment before his eyes cut to Florence. “You tell him the truth?”

“Yeah,” she says, still rocking back and forth.

“You tellin’ me the truth?”

“Yeah.”

Another glare from the old man before he leans forward in the chair and pokes at the map. Exactly the same spot Florence had pointed out. Middle of fucking nowhere. You can feel Ellie’s eyes on your face, but you can’t bring yourself to look in her direction.

With a sigh, Joel tucks his gun away. “Well, you found a great place to hide, I guess.” He sinks down onto the couch, putting his head in his palm.

“Hide?” Marlon laughs. “Came here before you were born, sonny. Get the hell away from everybody.”

“I didn’t want to,” Florence interjects, and despite it all, you laugh. 

Marlon waves her off. “Listen, I didn’t mean to upset you about your brother, but if you’ve come this far, then you know what’s out there. You’ve seen Cody?”

At the mention, you step away from Ellie, to the other side of the couch, hovering near Joel’s shoulder, reaching out and curling your fingers in his coat. Ellie sinks onto the corner of the couch and answers for you. “Yeah, got close enough. It’s crawling with Infected.”

“Yeah, Laramie and Wind River Reservation,” Marlon tells you, his eyes flitting from Ellie to Joel to you and back again. “Anywhere people used to be, you can’t go there no more.”

You can feel Joel tensing under your hand like a drawn bowstring. “So you haven’t heard the name Tommy? Tommy Miller?”

“Nope.”

“What about the Fireflies?” you ask, finding your voice.

“We get those in the summer,” Florence answers innocently.

“Not the bugs,” Ellie bites out, “the people.”

“There are firefly people?” the old woman asks and the pair starts laughing again.

Ellie has more to say, but you call her name, your voice as stern as Joel’s had been, and this time she listens, shrinking down onto the couch.

“You got any advice on the best way West?” Joel asks, and you can feel his shoulders going tighter and tighter.

“Yeah,” Marlon answers, “go East. But you never go past the river here.” He points at the map, not far from where he’d pointed before. “Ever.”

“What’s past the river?” you ask, stepping around and sitting on the arm of the couch, your hand still squeezing Joel’s shoulder.

“Death,” Florence says, and an icy chill shoots through you. “We never see who’s out there, but we see the bodies they leave behind. Some Infected, some not. If your brother’s West of the river, he’s gone.”

Joel deflates. You feel it beneath your hand, the slump to his shoulder, the defeat that starts to roil through him. You know him too well not to see it for what it is. He’s giving up.

And Ellie is staring at you. You let yourself meet her gaze, and see your own fear mirrored in her eyes. But despite it all, what comes out of your mouth is, “You aren’t gonna scare us.”

“Scared him,” Florence says, chin lifted toward Joel.

Marlon laughs again and Joel snatches the map up off the table, moving out from under your grip and getting to his feet. “We need to leave.” You move to follow, grabbing Ellie by the shoulder again. You grab your bags from where you stashed them near the stairs. Joel swings the rifle over his shoulder and as he steps past you to get to the door, you hear the wheeze in his breath. Without another word, he steps out of the door, Ellie following.

You turn back to the older couple. “Thank you for the…hospitality.”

Marlon gives you a strange look. “Don’t get yourself killed out there, girl.”

You give a curt nod before turning on your heel, following Joel and Ellie. Ellie is nearly running to keep up with him, a dead rabbit hanging from her grip — where the hell did she get a dead rabbit?

“They don’t know anything,” she’s saying, like she’s trying to reason with him. “Never heard of the Fireflies.”

They’re at the fence by the time you catch up, your boots nearly slipping through the snow. Joel’s stock-still, one hand reached out, gripping the wooden fence for support.

“Joel, are you okay?” Ellie calls, and you hear him grumble at her to shut up. “Holy shit, are you dying?” She whirls, panic in her eyes as she stares at you. “Liv, is he dying? This is the second time.”

Joel shakes his head, the movement almost frantic, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m okay,” he wheezes, and you step past Ellie, moving beside him. “Okay, okay, I’m fine.”

“Joel,” you call, your voice soft, reaching for his free hand, threading your fingers through his. “I’m right here.”

“No, no, but are you okay?” Ellie continues, her voice climbing. “Because just a reminder, that if you’re dead, we’re fucked.”

“Ellie, stop it,” you snap, squeezing Joel’s fingers as your head whips in her direction. The anger that spikes through you is there and gone in a flash, but you see it flicker across her face all the same.

“I’m fine,” Joel repeats, lifting your joined hands to his chest, rubbing your knuckles against his sternum. “Just the…cold air, all of a sudden.” He’s still panting, his breaths still wheezing, and he bends slightly, still gripping the fence for support.

Ellie’s still staring at you. The guilt is immediate as she ducks under the fence, putting distance between the pair of you. “Alright, uh, so let’s go and find Tommy and the Fireflies.”

Joel straightens, taking a deep, even breath, and you relax slightly, turning your attention to him fully. His lips form the words I’m okay and you wish to God you could believe him, but his eyes tell a different story. One you don’t have time to hash out here and now.

“It’s gonna be easy,” Ellie is still carrying on, nearly crawling up the hill that leads away from the cabin. “All we have to do is cross the River of Death.”

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[southeastasianists]

In Dili, Indonesia’s future means trying to forget about Timor-Leste’s past

Indonesian President-elect Prabowo Subianto, a former military officer, has been linked to alleged atrocities in Timor-Leste.

At Timor-Leste’s museum of memory, Hugo Fernandes supervises exhibits chronicling resistance and oppression during the Indonesian occupation – an era when Prabowo Subianto, now Indonesia’s president-elect, is alleged to have overseen atrocities.

Fernandes runs the Centro Nacional Chega! museum, a former prison in the capital Dili that dates to when Timor-Leste was a Portuguese colony. Faded photographs of Timorese resistance fighters and messages scrawled on the walls by prisoners who languished here during Indonesia’s brutal 24-year rule line its galleries. 

Despite the shadows cast by history, the impending ascent to power of Prabowo, a former army special forces commander who was declared the winner of the Feb. 14 Indonesian general election, has been greeted with diplomatic decorum in this tiny young nation of 1.3 million people also known as East Timor.

“Prabowo’s specific actions remain unclear due to limited information,” Fernandes, the museum’s director, told BenarNews. “Accusations of human rights violations have persisted, but concrete evidence and verification are difficult to obtain.”

“Chega!,” which means “enough! in Portuguese, stands as a testament to Timor-Leste’s efforts to navigate the delicate path between preserving the memories of its dark past and promoting reconciliation with its giant neighbor next-door.

“There are differing voices within the nation,” Fernandes says. “Some activists advocate for answers regarding past atrocities, while others emphasize the importance of moving forward with Indonesia.”

In 1999, East Timor voted overwhelmingly to break away from Indonesian rule, through a United Nations-sponsored referendum. Before and after the vote, pro-Jakarta militias engaged in widespread violence and destruction. East Timor gained formal independence in 2002 after a period of U.N. administration.

The occupation, which followed after Indonesia invaded East Timor in December 1975, was marked by famine and conflict. The number of deaths attributed to that era ranges from from 90,000 to 200,000, the Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation in East Timor reported.

This figure includes nearly 20,000 cases of violent deaths or disappearances. The commission’s findings indicate that Indonesian forces were responsible for about 70% of these violent incidents, set against the backdrop of East Timor’s population of around 900,000 in 1999.

And according to the Genocide Studies Program at Yale University, “up to a fifth of the East Timorese population perished during the Indonesia’s 24-year occupation … a similar proportion to the Cambodians who died under the Khmer Rouge regime of Pol Pot (1975-1979).”

Since 1999, the relationship between Timor-Leste and Indonesia has evolved, with Jakarta acknowledging its former province as a “close brother” and supporting Dili’s bid to join the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN).

Timor-Leste President José Ramos-Horta welcomed Prabowo’s election win and expressed readiness to collaborate with Indonesia’s upcoming new leader.

“Very pleased, very pleased,” Ramos-Horta told BenarNews when asked about Prabowo’s victory. 

As a young man, Ramos-Horta, now 74, was a founder and leader of Fretilin, the armed resistance movement that fought to liberate East Timor from the Portuguese first and then the Indonesians.

He said he had personally called Prabowo, now Indonesia’s defense minister, to congratulate him, and that the ex-general planned to visit Timor-Leste before his inauguration on Oct. 20.

Prime Minister Xanana Gusmão, a former guerilla leader who spent years in an Indonesian prison, was also happy with the news, Ramos-Horta said.

“President-elect Prabowo will contribute a lot, first to Indonesia, continuing stability and prosperity in Indonesia, and then in the region, as well as strengthen relations with Timor-Leste,” he said, adding Prabowo had “many friends” in his country, including his own brother, Arsenio.

When asked about Prabowo’s human rights record in Timor-Leste, Ramos-Horta said, “That is past. It’s already almost three decades, and we do not think of the past.”

Prabowo was a key figure in the military operations that crushed the East Timorese resistance.

The Timor-Leste National Alliance for an International Tribunal (ANTI), a coalition of civil society organizations, survivors, and families of victims, said reports had implicated Prabowo in a 1983 massacre in Kraras.

Some estimates said that  200 people were killed there, earning the area the nickname the “town of widows.”

In a statement released in November, the alliance said that as the head of the Indonesian army’s special forces command, Prabowo had directed actions resulting in severe human rights abuses and crimes, including the establishment of pro-Indonesian militias blamed for post-referendum violence in 1999.

In addition, Prabowo is linked to a 1991 massacre at the Santa Cruz cemetery in Dili, where some 250 peaceful demonstrators were killed, the alliance said.

In 1998, Prabowo was discharged from the military after a council of honor officers found him guilty of several violations, including involvement in the abduction and disappearance of pro-democracy activists during the 1998 student protests that led to the downfall of Indonesian dictator Suharto.

Prabowo, 72, has denied any wrongdoing and said he was only following orders from his superiors. He has never been tried in a civilian court for the alleged crimes.

Prabowo’s presidential campaign team said that witnesses, including religious figures in Timor-Leste, had denied his connection to the Krakas killings.

For many Timorese, the memories of Indonesian occupation are hard to erase. 

Naldo Rei, 50, a former child guerrilla-fighter who was repeatedly imprisoned during that period, said he could not overlook Prabowo’s human rights record.

“While I don’t want to meddle in Indonesia’s internal matters, when it comes to human rights issues, Prabowo has a very distressing track record,” Rei told BenarNews, his soft-spoken and gentle demeanor belying his resistance years.

Rei spent his youth evading capture in the Los Palos jungle after the loss of six family members, including his father, to Indonesian military action.

In the early 1990s, he sought refuge first in Jakarta, then in Australia, before settling in an independent East Timor.

Rei, who is the author of “Resistance,” a memoir detailing his experiences, voices apprehension about the trajectory of Indonesian democracy.

“Prabowo’s victory, from my perspective, squanders the democracy that the people have fought for,” he said. “How many lives have been lost? He and other generals have blood on their hands.”

Januario Soares, a second-year medical student at the National University of Timor Lorosae, represents a growing sentiment focused on the future.

“Indonesia has chosen its leader. We need to focus on the future,” Soares said as he sat in the shade of a mahogany tree outside his campus in Dili.

He believes strengthening relations between the two countries is vital.

“The civil war left us divided, and in that division, we inadvertently opened our doors to Indonesia,” Soares said. “What followed was a period of violence against our people, a scar in our history.”

Yet, when it comes to Prabowo’s role in that history, Soares admitted he did not know much.

“The Indonesian people have made their choice. Perhaps Prabowo is the best among the contestants; that’s why they chose him,” he said.

Soares said he opted for a pragmatic approach toward the past, focusing on improving the quality of life and seeking benefits for the present and future.

“People change over time, and I believe Prabowo has changed too.” 

Damien Kingsbury, a political expert specializing in Timor-Leste, said Timorese leaders were obligated to maintain a delicate diplomatic stance due to the small nation’s reliance on Indonesia for imports and its aspirations to join ASEAN, the Southeast Asian bloc. Indonesia is one of ASEAN’s founding members.

“Of course, Ramos-Horta must be diplomatic,” said Kingsbury, a professor at Deakin University in Australia, who has written extensively on Timor-Leste and Indonesia.

“He is president of a small country that has an unhappy history with Indonesia and does not want to create any possible problems,” he told BenarNews.

Kingsbury pointed out that while Ramos-Horta, a Nobel laureate and prominent diplomat, is well-versed in the language of diplomacy, there is a generational gap in awareness of the nation’s tumultuous past.

“Younger people may not be aware of events of 20, 30 and 40 years ago, but that does not mean they did not happen,” he said.

“It must leave a bitter taste in the mouths of many that Timor-Leste’s leaders need to be polite to Prabowo.”

[usafphantom2]

The Most Stunning F-117 Photos We’ve Seen Since Its ‘Retirement’

Tyler RogowayPUBLISHED Feb 4, 2024 4:26 PM EST

F-117 flying low level through the California desert.

James Reeder

We have seen some great photos of the F-117 Nighthawks that continue to operate in developmental test and training roles. These images have improved incrementally since their use as aggressor and for test support became openly discussed by the Air Force, with the locales they could operate from expanding along with it. Now, one set of images, taken by aviation photographer James Reeder, is the best we've ever seen.

The photos in question were taken in the famed Sidewinder low-level route that circumnavigates much of the R-2508 range complex that sits atop the Mojave Desert and the many military test and training installations that dot it. This particular section of the route, which has steep canyon walls, provides an especially dramatic backdrop for military aircraft rocketing through. It is perhaps the best vantage point we have seen of the famous route since the 'Jedi Transition' through Rainbow Canyon was shut down to military aircraft after a deadly crash in 2019.

The Sidewinder low-level route depicted in the R-2508 instructional materials. (USAF)

While we have seen some great shots from a similar vantage point of F-117s, the lighting and knife edge profiles shown in the images below are truly exceptional. Every detail on the top half of the 'Black Jet' is highlighted and its planar exhausts are fully visualized in action.

James Reeder

James Reeder

James Reeder

James Reeder

James explained to us that he received a message about a pair of F/A-18s that would be flying through the route and that their pilots would love photos if he was out there. "I enjoy the interaction with the pilots, so I decided I could make it up there to get them some shots," Reeder said.

"Arriving at my perch of choice after a bit of a climb, I settled in and waited for what I thought would be a pair of F/A-18s. Imagine my surprise when I saw a tiny black jet rounding the turn and then another. When I realized that they were F-117s, I was so shocked, I almost forgot to shoot! I have never captured this aircraft in the wild before."

"When I saw the light on the aircraft as they approached, I knew I had been blessed with a great opportunity. Using my Canon 5Ds with the Canon 100-400mm lens and a 1.4 X teleconverter, I followed both aircraft and clicked off as many shots as my pathetically slow buffer and limited frame rate would allow. After they passed, I couldn't resist chimping my photos [looking through the photos in preview on the DSLR's screen] to make sure I had captured what I wanted. I was thrilled to say the least. I think I yelled something unintelligible to the other two guys out there and threw my hands in the air."

The day proved fruitful beyond the pairs of F-117s and F/A-18s.

"I also shot 5 F-15s and 8 F/A-18s and enjoyed seeing them all, but those two Nighthawks were the stars of the show that day!. Yes, I got the shots for the F/A-18 pilots."

Jarod Hamilton was also out there caught the video below that he shared on X. It is the ultimate companion to these incredible photos.

Bravo to James and Jarod for capturing these famed jets like never before during their 'active retirement.'

You can see more of James Reeder's stunning work on Instagram linked here.

Contact the author: Tyler@twz.com

@AviationIntel via X

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

Plant, have you read Jia Tolentino’s Trick Mirror? She nails it. Read this part and think of Meghan Markle. This is everything!

The two biggest families in politics and culture today—the Trumps and the Kardashians—have risen to the top of the food chain because of their keen understanding of how little substance is required to package the self as an endlessly monetizable asset. In fact, substance may actually be anathema to the game. And with that, the applause roars, the iPhone cameras start snapping, and the keynote speaker at the women’s empowerment conference comes onstage.

Sophia Amouroso’s brand of “Girlboss Feminism,” and Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In brought in an era of CEO capitalism as a type of feminism.] #GIRLBOSS is an extended exercise in motivational personal branding … [the memoir implies that] becoming successful is a feminist project. The basic idea here is that, for women, photogenic personal confidence is the key to unlocking the riches of the world. The Girlboss Rallies [pay to attend conferences] are supposed to work the same way: you pay to network, to photograph yourself against millennial-pink and neon backdrops, to take the first step toward becoming the sort of person who would be invited to speak onstage. This is meant to scan as a deeply feminist endeavor, and it generally does, at least to its participants, who have been bombarded for many years with the spurious, embarrassing, and limitlessly seductive sales pitch that feminism means, first and foremost, the public demonstration of getting yours.

A politics built around getting and spending money is sexier than a politics built around politics. And so, at a time of unprecedented freedom and power for women, at a time when we were more poised than ever to understand our lives politically, we got, instead of expanded reproductive protections and equal pay and federally mandated family leave and subsidized childcare and a higher minimum wage, the sort of self-congratulatory empowerment feminism that corporations can get behind, the kind that comes with merchandise—mugs that said “Male Tears,” T-shirts that said “Feminist as Fuck.” (In 2017, Dior sold a “We Should All Be Feminists” shirt for $710.) We got conferences, endless conferences—a Forbes women’s conference, a Tina Brown women’s conference, a Cosmopolitan Fun Fearless Females conference. We got Arianna Huffington’s Thrive Global, which aims to end the “stress and burnout epidemic” through selling corporate webinars and a $65 velvet-lined charging station that helps you keep your smartphone away from your bed. We got the full-on charlatan Miki Agrawal, who was regularly given media tongue-baths on the subject of Thinx, her line of period panties, until it was revealed that Agrawal, who proudly called herself a “She-E-O,” was abusive to her employees and didn’t know much or care about feminism at all. We got, instead of the structural supports and safety nets that would actually make women feel better on a systematic basis, a bottomless cornucopia of privatized nonsolutions: face serums, infrared saunas, wellness gurus like Gwyneth Paltrow, who famously suggested putting stone eggs in one’s vagina, or Amanda Chantal Bacon, whose company Moon Juice sells 1.5-ounce jars of “Brain Dust” for $38. On the wings of market-friendly feminism, the idea that personal advancement is a subversive form of political progress has been accepted as gospel. The trickiest thing about this idea is that it is incomplete and insufficient without being entirely wrong. The feminist scammer rarely sets out to scam anyone, and would argue, certainly, that she does belong in this category. She just wants to be successful, to gain the agency that men claim so easily, to have the sort of life she wants. She should be able to have that, shouldn’t she? The problem is that a feminism that prioritizes the individual will always, at its core, be at odds with a feminism that prioritizes the collective. The problem is that it is so easy today for a woman to seize upon an ideology she believes in and then exploit it, or deploy it in a way that actually runs counter to that ideology. That is in fact exactly what today’s ecosystem of success encourages a woman to do.

Heading out, but posting this so I don’t lose it.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Devora Simon and Rabbi Micah Greenland

The blatant antisemitic act regarding the 2024 edition of the East Brunswick High School yearbook recently made headlines. The action resulted in a picture of Muslim students replacing the original photograph of the Jewish students who are part of the Jewish Student Union (JSU) club. In addition, there is a complete absence of the names of the Jewish students. JSU, a division of NCSY, stands in unwavering support of our students, advisers and parent community at East Brunswick High School in New Jersey.

For more than a decade, our club at the school has provided a vital space for Jewish students to connect, learn and thrive. Lately, however, this sanctuary has been threatened by a climate of antisemitism. We echo the strong statements of East Brunswick Mayor Brad Cohen, who declared, “Hate has no place in East Brunswick and antisemitism will not be tolerated,” and we eagerly await the investigation by Dr. Victor Valeski, superintendent of the East Brunswick Public School System, into these heinous acts. This incident is sadly not an outlier since similar graduation ceremonies or yearbook instances of antisemitism have occurred across the United States.

The issue and response

The rise in antisemitic incidents on college campuses has received a lot of attention in recent months. However, high school students are experiencing much of the same harassment, discrimination and intimidation—and high-schoolers have nowhere else to go. They have to go to school, and they often don’t get to choose which one.

The incident at East Brunswick High School is not an isolated phenomenon but part of a disturbing national trend. Jewish students have increasingly found themselves the targets of hate, harassment and discriminatory rhetoric. These acts undermine the very principles of inclusivity and safety that educational institutions are supposed to uphold. At JSU, we have always prided ourselves on creating an inclusive environment where Jewish students feel safe and supported. This year, more than ever, JSU has been a crucial refuge, a beacon in the dark for Jewish teens across North America.

Against that backdrop, JSU has experienced unprecedented growth over the course of this school year, as we have seen an outpouring of support and interest in our programs. Attendance at our clubs is up more than 20%, and we have received more than 100 requests to open new clubs nationwide. This surge in interest underscores the urgent need for safe spaces where Jewish students can gather, learn and support one another.

The impact of antisemitic incidents on the feelings of safety and acceptance among our teens cannot be understated. These acts of hatred not only affect the immediate victims but also send shockwaves through the entire Jewish community, fostering a climate of fear and alienation. As Mayor Cohen aptly noted, such hatred has no place in East Brunswick or anywhere else. We are committed to working with school authorities, community leaders and law enforcement to ensure that these incidents are thoroughly investigated and that perpetrators are held accountable.

This issue is not confined to East Brunswick or even the United States. Antisemitism is a growing disease that knows no borders. In Canada, Jewish students face similar challenges, as incidents of hate continue to rise. The global Jewish community must stand united against these threats, reinforcing our commitment to safety and inclusivity.

[mariacallous]

Allies of Hungary’s far-right prime minister Viktor Orbán will hold a closed-door meeting with Republicans in Washington to push for an end to US military support for Ukraine, the Guardian has learned.

Members of the Hungarian Institute of International Affairs and staff from the Hungarian embassy in Washington will on Monday begin a two-day event hosted by the conservative Heritage Foundation thinktank.

The first day includes panel speeches about the Ukraine war as well as topics such as Transatlantic Culture Wars. It is expected to feature guests including Magor Ernyei, the international director of the Centre for Fundamental Rights, the institute that organized CPAC (Conservative Political Action Conference) Hungary. Kelley Currie, a former ambassador under then president Donald Trump, said she was invited “but declined”.

According to a Republican source, some of the attendees, including Republican members of Congress, have been invited to join closed-door talks the next day.

The meeting will take place against a backdrop of tense debate in Washington over Ukraine’s future. Last week the White House warned that, without congressional action, money to buy more weapons and equipment for Kyiv will run out by the end of the year. On Wednesday Senate Republicans blocked an emergency spending bill to fund the war in Ukraine.

A diplomatic source close to the Hungarian embassy said: “Orbán is confident that the Ukraine aid will not pass in Congress. That is why he is trying to block assistance from the EU as well.”

Orbán is a frequent critic of aid to help Ukraine against the Russian invasion. Seen as Vladimir Putin’s closest ally inside the EU for the past few years, he was photographed smiling and shaking hands with the Russian president two months ago in Beijing.

Orbán recently demanded that Ukraine’s European Union (EU) membership be taken off the European Council’s agenda in December. The Hungarian leader posted on X, the platform formerly known as Twitter: “It is clear that the proposal of the European Commission on Ukraine’s EU accession is unfounded and poorly prepared.”

The Heritage Foundation is leading Project 2025, a coalition preparing for the next conservative presidential administration, and has in recent months hosted speeches by leading British Conservative party members Liz Truss and Iain Duncan Smith.

The thinktank has also been a vocal opponent of US assistance to Ukraine. Last year Jessica Anderson, the executive director of its lobbying operation, released a statement under the headline: “Ukraine Aid Package Puts America Last.” In August, Victoria Coates, Heritage’s vice-president, posted on social media: “It’s time to end the blank, undated checks for Ukraine.”

When Heritage celebrated its 50th anniversary last April, Orbán’s political director, Balázs Orbán (no relation), was invited as a speaker for the event. Heritage’s president, Kevin Roberts, repeatedly praised the Hungarian leader on X: “One thing is clear from visiting Hungary and from being involved in current policy and cultural debates in America: the world needs a movement that fights for Truth, for tradition, for families, and for the average person.”

In recent years Orbán has championed a transatlantic far-right alliance with a hardline stance against immigration and “gender ideology”, staunch Christian nationalism and scorn for those who warn of a slide into authoritarianism.

Hungary has been portrayed by conservative media as an anti-“woke” paradise and model for the United States. Some far-right Republicans, such as Kari Lake and Paul Gosar, said they would like to see the “Hungarian model” transplanted to the US, especially when it comes to immigration and family policies. CPAC went to Hungary for the second time this year, and former Fox News host Tucker Carlson shot multiple episodes in Hungary touting Orbán policies.

Orbán has returned the favour by lavishing praise on Trump. During this year’s CPAC, where Roberts was also featured as a speaker, he claimed that if Trump were president, “there would be no war in Ukraine and Europe”. The Hungarian prime minister has criticised the multiple federal indictments against the former US president and called the judicial procedure a “very communist methodology” in a recent interview with Carlson.

Dalibor Rohac, a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute thinktank in Washington, said: “The Hungarian embassy in DC has been very active lately, trying to repair ties with the Republicans and strengthen them where it’s appropriate.

“It is also not surprising that Heritage is the venue of these talks because they are different from other thinktanks in DC; they are more partisan, and their funding model heavily overlaps with the Trump base.”

But, Rohac said, despite his good relations with some Republicans it was “unlikely” that Orbán would have any leverage over US funding for Ukraine.

Supporters of Ukraine have also been making their case to Republicans in Congress. This week David Cameron, the British foreign secretary, held meetings on Capitol Hill. He told a press conference: “I am sure that goodwill will prevail and the money will be voted through, and it will have a huge effect not just on morale in Ukraine but also making sure that European countries keep asking themselves what more can they do.”